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"The Story of our Lines from Year io Year." — SniKusi-itiiiB. 





asr33"w SEiaiES. 

FbQM Ma y 3, 1873, to October 25, 1873. 
Ltcluding Na.iil Io No. 256. 

LONDON; , .::..; . ■- .; ' 




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nt Haeic 

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Dmlds. Song! of (he 

I>Dblln Life in tba I«t OeDlnir . 

DiKrblai of lADcsater utd Oorn- 

JiinuY of Folpsm 

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E laLB-STOKE. Tlrtoea of the 
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The FffUetr (" The DIH, 


Fittleth Ueglniaat .- 
Fltly-ascoDd BeglmeDt 
Pleh Chumi . . . 
FruiM, Old C'oort Lite . 
PnuHia. The Sbrtna of S 

FrBDce, Tbe ObBervMloiu of 
■leiuCboeft . 4, 

Frencb l^iiluUon. Tbe 
FueniBB d'Onoro. The Buttle 
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OIUIAN Legends . 

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Leiier- Writer. Courlss 
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er Oold. A ^liol Story . 11, 43 

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Valley o( Flower... . . 




SATUBDAT, MAT 3, 1873. 



Thebe came on a andden a great quiet 

'er Dorraclengh ; the quiet of death. 

There was no longer any doubt, all the 
country round, as to the &ct that the old 
bikronet was dead. Richard Uarston had 
placed at all the gates noticea to the effect 
that the timeral would not take place for a 
week, at Boonest ; that no day had yet been 
Sied far it, and that early notice shonld be 

The slight faea that bad prevailed within 
doora, for the greater part of a day, had 
DOW qaite snbeided ; and, quiet as it always 
was, Oorraciengh was now more silent and 
Btirless than ever. 

I conld venture now to extend my walks 

lywhere abont the place, withont a risk 
of meeting any stranger. 

If there is a melanoboly there is also' 
something snblime and consistory in the 
character of the scenery that enrronnds it. 
Brery one has felt the influence of lofty 
moDiitBina near. This region is all bean- 
tifiil; but the yeiy spirit of solitnde and 
graodear ia orer it. 

I was just consulting with my maid 
>bant some simple prOYidonal mourning, 
for which I was ^x>ut to despatch her to 
the town, when onr conference was arrested 
by &e appearance of Richard Mareton be- 
fore the window. 

I bad on my walking-dress, for I thought 
it Dot impossible he might arrive earUer 
than he had the day before. 

I told my maid to come again, l^-and- 
bye i and I went out to meet him. 

Well, we are now walking on the wild 
pstt, ^Qg the steep side of the cleugh, 

towards the lake. What kind of oonversa^ 
tion is this going to be P His voice and 
manner are very gentle ; but he looks pale 
and stem, like a man going into a battle. 
The signs are very shght, bat dreadful. 
Ob 1 that the next halShonr were over ! 
What am I abont to hear ? 

We walked on for a time in silence. 

The first thing he said, was : 

" Ton are to stay here, at Dorraclengh ; 

Su must not go ; but I'm afraid you will 
vexed with me." 

Then came abont twenty steps, we were 
walking slowly, and not a word was spoken 
during that time. 

He began again : 

" Though after all it need not make any 
real difference. There is no will, Ethel ; 
the vicar can tell you that ; he had the key, 
and has made search — no will ; and you ar& 
left nnprovided for ; but that shan t effect 
you. I am heir-at-law, and nearest- of- kin. 
You know what that means. Eveiytbing 
he possessed, land or mone^, comes to me. 
But— I've put my foot in it ; it is too late 
re^tting. I can't many." 

There was a silence ; ht 
my face. 

" There I the murder's out. I knew you 
would be awfully vexed. So am I ; misera- 
ble ; but I can't. That is, perhaps, for many 

There was another silence. I conld no 
more have spoken than I could, by an 
effort of my will, have lifted the mountain 
at the other side of the lake, from its fonn- 

Perhaps he misinterpreted my silence. 

" I ought to have been more frank with 
you, Ethel ; I blame myself very much, I 
assure yon. Can't yon^ guess? Well, I 
was an awful fool ; I'll tell you everything. 
I feel that I ought to have done so, long 


% silence ; he was looking in 

ploy S. 1878.] 


[Coddnatsd bj 

ago ; but you know, one can't always make 
up one's mind to be qnite<i-ank,.and ±ell a 
patnful story. I am nwnied. in am «vfl 
hour, I mmried. a womam m eveif wi^ un- 
edited to me ; pity me. In a transitory 
illoeitm, I «acri&eed my life— and what is 
dearer — my love. I have not ao much as 
eeen ber for years, and I am told she is 
■not likely to live long. In the mean 
time, I am yours only — jon» entirely 
and irrevocably, your own. I ean offer 
yon saiely hsra, and happineaa, my own 
bonndleeB derotion and adoration, an asy- 
Inm here, sod all ^e antbority and ri^bts 
of a wHe; Bthd— de aiart. — yon <Mai't faaire 

I looked np in Mb &ce, scareS — a sndden 
look, qoite onezpected. I saw a canning, 
solfiab face gloaiting down on me, witb a 
gross, oODfident, wicked simper. 

I'bkt odioaB kEY smile lemisbed, bis ^e 
abrank ; be looked deteoted or disBODoert«d 
for a moment ; bnt be rallied, 

" I say, I look on myself, in Hie Bigbi 
of Heaven, as married to yon. Yon bave 
pledged yonrself to me by every *ow that 
can tie woman to man ; you bave swora that 
no obstacle sbaU keep ns apart; tint oath 
was not without a meaning, and yon knew 
it wasn't ; and by Heaven yon shan't break 
my heart ft>r nothing. Come, Ethel, be a 
girl of sense; don't yon Bee wo are con- 
trolled by fate P Look at the oircnmstanoeB ; 
whore'e the good in qnarrelling witb me P 
Don't yoD see ihe position I'm placed in P 
Don't yon seo that I am able aid Buions 
to do everything for you P Conld a girl 
in jour aituation do a better or a wiser 
thing than unite ber interests with mine, 
indissolubly ? For God's Bate, where's 
the nae of making me desperate P What 
do JOB want to drive me to? Why 
should you insist on making me your 
euomyp How do you think it's all to 
end ?" 

Could I have dreamed that he could 
ever have looked at me with-rach a eonbte- 
nanoe, and spoken to me in SDcfa a tone ? 
I felt myself growing colder and colder ; I 
could not move my eyes from him. His 
image seemed to swim before me; his 
harah tones grew conftised. My bands 
wore to my tonplee, I conld not speak, 
my answer waa one piteous soream, 

I found myself hniTying along the wild 
path, towards tbo hoose, without hardly 
a clear recoUection, without one clear 

I don't know whether bo tried to de- 
tniu me, or began to follow me. 

Iiaemember, at the hall-door, from liabit, 
going up ft step or two, in great esoiteatMit 
— we act so joatfiy mechanically ; a kind Of 
iioTTor seiaed me mt, sight of toe li^-open 
door. I tamed and turned dcmat tiw 

it -was not until I had -reached "Qw 
George and Dragon, at the sleepiest bonr, 
Indrily, of the tranquil little town of OoldsB 
Friars, Hmt i ooa^ a first effeotual effoct 
to oaUoot n^ fliengbti. 

I was simply a fngitive. To rotam io 
Dorracleugb, where Bicbnd Ifaratan was 
now viaater, waa out of tbe qneation. T 
-was in a^aiad ^ sase^ «U ill news fts cer- 
tain. It never entered my mind that he 
had intended to decdve me, witb respect 
to Sir Harm's will. 

I walked up to Mr. Tnndnill, the host of 
the George and Dragon, whom I saw at the 
inn-door, and having heard his brief but 
geniUne condolences, only half understand- 
ing whart; be was saying, I ordered a 
carriage to bring aie to the isilway sta- 
tion, and wb^ I was waitnig I wrote a 
note in t^ quiet litl^ voom, witb a win- 
dow looking BOrosB the lake, to the good 

Mr. Tumbnil was one (rf '^oee heavy, 
comfortable persons who are wiUing to take 
everybody's bnainees and reasons for 
granted. He therefore bored me with no 
surmises as to the reasons of my soliteiy 
ezcnrsion at bo oddly ciiossn a time. 

I think, now, that my wiser course 
wonld bave been to go .to the vioar, and 
explaining, generally, my objections to re- 
maining at Dorracleogh, to have asked 
frankly lor permiesion to place myself 
under his care until the arrival of Mr. 

There were fifty other things I ought to 
have tliongbt of, -uiongh I only wonder, a 
sidering the state in which my mind was 
the moment, Hhub I waa able to write as 
coherently as I did to ttie vicar. I had my 
purse with me, containing fifty pounds, 
which poor Sir Harry bad given me jnst 
before be left Dorracleagh. With just 
this, which I had fortunately brought 
down witb me to the drawing-rocrm, for 
tbo purpose of giviug my maid a bank-note 
to take to the town to pay for my intended 
purchases, I was starting on my journey to 
London. Without luggage, or servant, , 
or companion, or plan of any kind, inspired 
by the one instinct, to get as rapidly as 
possible out of sight and reach of Dorra^ 
cle^gh, audio earn my bread by my own 

Chu-Iu pieBsnx.] 


{Kaj », I3T3J 3 


Too are to anppoae my jonmey safely 
ended in London. The first thing I did 
afler Becnring lodgings, and making some 
few purchases, was to go to the house where 
my great friend, Sir Harrj Bokestoue, had 
died. But Hr. Blount, I found, had left 
London for Oolden Friars, only a few hoars 
before my arriTal. 

Another disappointment awaited me at 
Ur'. Forrester's chamhers. He whs out of 
towQ, taking his holiday. 

I began now to experienoe the oonse- 
quences of my precipiiation ; it was too late, 
however, to reflect, and if the plunge was 
to be made, perha^ the sooner it was made 
the better. 

I wrote to the vicar to give him my ad> . 
dress, also to Mr. Blount, telling him the 
course I had resolved on. I at oDOe resolved 
to look for a situation as goventess to very 
young children. I &amed an advertise- 
ment with a great deal of oaro, which I 
published in tiie Times ; but no ssAisfiictory 
reeult followed, and two or ihiee days 
passed in Jilce manner. 

After paying for my journey and my 
Iioadon purohases, there remained to me, 
of my fifty pounds, about thirty-two. My 
Gituatitm was not sp Iright^l as it might 
have been. But with the strictest economy 
a limited time must see my store ex- 
hausted ; and no one who has not been in 
such a situation can fancy the ever-recur- 
ring panic of counting, day after day, the 
diminishing chances between you and 
the chasm to whose edge you are slowly 

A few days brought me a letter from 
tho good vicar. There occurred in it a 
passage which finally quieted the faint 
stro^le of hope now and then reviving. 
Hesaid, "I observe by. your letter that you 
are alr^idy apprised of the disappointing 
result of my search for the will of the late 
Sir Harry Bokestoue. He had informed 
several persons of the spot where, in the 
event of his executing one, which he 
always, I am told, treated as veiy doubtful, 
it woold bo Ibund. He had placed the 
kej of the safe along with some other 
things at hifideparture, out without alluding 
to bis wilt. At the request of Mr. Marston 
I opened the safe, and the result was, I 

Tet to say, that no will was found." 
wae now, then, in dread earnest to 
lay my account with a life of agitation and 
At last & promising answer to my ad- 
it did reach me. It said, " The 

Countess of Riltingdon will be in town till 
this day week, and will be happy to see 
L Y D X, whose advertisement appears in 
the Times of this morning, if possible, to- 
day before two." The house was in Bel- 
grave-squflre. It was now near twelve. I 
called immediately with a note, to say I 
would call at a quarter to two, and at that 
h^our precisely I returned. 

It was plain that this was but a fiying 
visit of the patrician owners of the honae. 

Some luggage, still in its sbiny black 
casings, was in the hall ; the lamps hung 
in bags ; carpets had disappeared ; curtains 
were pinned t^ and servants seemed 
scanty, and more fussy than in the organised 
discipline of a household. 

I told the servant that I had called in 
consequence -of a note from Iiodj Billing- 
don, and be conducted me forthwith np the 
stairg. We passed on the way a young 
lady coming down, whom I conjectured to 
be on the same errand as myself. Wo ex- 
changed stolen looks as we passed, each, I 
dare say, conjecturing the other's chances. 

" Her ladyship will soe you presently," 
he said, opening a door. 

I entered, and whom should I see wait- 
ing in the room in a chair, in her hat, with 
ber parasol in her hand, but Laura Grey* 


And each in -a moment was locked in 
the other's embrace. 

With tears, with trembling laughter, and 
more kisses than I can remember, we 
signalised our meeting. 

" How wonderful that I should have mot 
yon here, Laura!" said I; though what 
was the special wonder in meeting her 
there more than anywhere else, i could not 
easily have defined. " You most tell mo, 
darling, if you are looking to come to Lady 
Eiillingdon, for if you are, I would not for 
the world think of it." 

Laura laughed very merrily at this. 

"Why, Ethel, what are you dreaming 
of P I'm Lady KilKngdon !" 

Sometimes a mistake seizes upon us 
with an unaccountable obstinacy. Laura's 
claiming to be Lady Billingdon seemed to 
me simply a jest of Uiat poor kind which 
relies entirely on incongruity without so 
much colour of possibility as to make it 

I laughed, faintly enough, with Laura, 
from mere politeness, wondering when this 
poor joke would cease to amase her, and 
the more she -looked in mj &cb, the more 



beartil; she laughed, and tbe more melao- 
choly became my endeavonr to accompany 

" What can I do to cooTinco yon, 
darling P" she exclaimed at length, half 

She got np and toached the bell. I 
began to be a little pnzzled. The eerrant 
appeared, and ahe asked : 

"Is his lordehip at home?" 

"I'll inquire, my lady," he answered, 
and retired. 

This'indeed was demonstration ; I conld 
be incrednlons no longer. We kissed again 
and again, and were once more langhing 
and gabbling together, wh€n the servant 
retnmed witii, "Please, my lady, his lord- 
ship went oat half an honr ago." 

" I'm so sorry," she said, tnming to me, 
" bnt he'll be back Tory soon, I'm snre. I 
want so much to introdnce him ; I think 
yon'U like him." 

Luncheon soon intermpted as ; and when 
that little interval was over, she took me 
to the same qniet room, and we talked 
and mntnall^ qnestioned, and got ont each 
the whole history of the other. 

There wna only one little child of this 
marriage that seemed in eveiy way, bnt 
that, so happy — a dangbter. Their second, 
a son, had died. This pretty little creatare 
we had with na for a time, and then it went 
cut with its nnrse for a drive, and we, over 
onr afternoon tea, resnnied onr confessions 
and inquiries. Lanra had nearly as mnch 
to tell as I. In tho midst of oar talk Lord 
Billingdon came in. I knew whom I was 
to meet. I was therefore not surprised 
when the very man whom I had seen 
faint and bleeding in the wood of Plas 
Tlwd, whom lUchard MarstOn had shot, 
and whom I had seen but once since at 
Lady Mardykea's ball, stood before me. In 
a moment we were old friends. 

He remained with ns for abont t«n 
minutes, talked kindly and pleasantly, and 
drank his cap of tea. 

Theee recollections in my present sitna- 
tion were agitating. The image of Richard 
Marston bad reappeared in the •■ sinister 
shadow in which it bad been early pre- 
sented to me by the friends who warned 
me BO kindly but in vain. 

In a little time we talked on as before, 
and everything she told me added to the 
gloom and horror in which Marston was 
now sbronded in my sorrowfiil imagina- 

As soon as the first delighted surprise of 
meeting Inura bad & little subsided, my 

fears retnmed, and all I had to dread fi-om 
the active malice of Richard Marstoa 
vaguely gathered on my stormy horizon 



Tbey are in groups in 
shed, or hall, or Saloon of the Lost Foot- 
steps ; gesticulating, whisperiag, declaim- 
ing, twitching one another by the button, 
snuffing, smoking. Ton might gather a 
complete exhibition of the spectacles of all 
nations from thetr sagacious noses. The 
Sabot carries a stent stick ; the Lorgnon 
a thin umbrella that would be at home 
in St. James's-street. The notables among 
tbe Lorgnons are old - fashioned' men ; 
some are battened to the throat in coats 
of military cut that cover honourable 
scars ; some are robust and slonching, 
and their voices recal tbe speaking- 
tnunpet and tbe qnarter-deck. A stil*, 
nimble dandy of seventy ; a gandin 
who has just laid down bis cue at the 
Jockey Club to spare an' hour or two for 
the benefit of hia country; burly pro* 
vincials — the heavy, deep-toned Norman 
and the little, fiery, squeeJdng Marseillafs, 
more than flavonral with garlic. Dapper, 
assured, generally coorted gentlemen of 
tbe press; some with mocHng lips uid 
taaguing eyes, who consider the regenera- 
tion of the country the very best loke in 
the world, and have pinned an epithet or 
an anecdote upon eveiy depnty; others 
solemn, bald, and with their brows knit, 
as becomes men who are the governors of 
the governors of Prance, Pepper these 
groups with loungers, spice them with the 
jests of the lookers-6n, and serve the whole 
as tho parliamentary macedoine that may 
be tasted any morning at the Versailles 
railway station (Rive Droite) abont half- 
past one o'clock. 

The reader may think that I speak 
lightly of a very solemn matter ; but, pray, 
how am I to be serious when th^e is 
bardlr a grave fkce to be seen? When 
first I was drawn away &om tbe gudgeon 
of my beloved Seine, I looked abroad 
never daring to smile. I crept throngb 
Belleville with mj palma upon my pockets. 
"When I woke in me morning, I listened 
for tbe gnus. When I went ont I was re- 
Ueved to see the shops open. And could 
anything, pray, be more natural ? Every 
night my evening papers told 


uhir'M l>feluflB.| 



surprisiiig vivDcily and v&riety of expres- 
sion and metaphbr — that I was living upon 
a Tolcano. 

Bnt I ebook off my fears by degrees, 
and can now langh with the londeet, even 
v/hen I am told that the Damocles sword is 
GQgpanded, merely by one of the silver hairs 
of the head of the most eminent of enunent 
men, over the neck of that moat nufortn- 
nate of modem ladiee — France. I have 
learned to say a clever thing abont the 
cannon's monUi. A chassepot has no more 
eignificance for me than those straw tabes 
our English visitors nse for their American 
Urinks. I think I am lighter-hearted than 
Uonsieor Ollivier was in the laughing honrs 
of 1670 i uid therefore I am in a better cofi- 
dition than ever for making my observa- 
tioDG on the diaroal crises throagh which 
my adored country paeaes, langhing all 
the way. 

We have an express to Tersailles. Ima- 
gioe the Left and Left Centre, the Right and 
Kigbt Centre, with a score of joumalists, 
shaken in a bag like, loto nambers, and 
thrown into boxes, each box containing 
eight individuals. . This is the train of the 
Wiseacres of Prance. This is the serpent 
that winds swiftly through the sour vine- 
yards of Soresnes to the tribnne planted in 
Louis the Fourteenth's bonbonniere of a 
theab«, and hniies its &ngs in the bosom 
«f la belle France! Of the serpent the 
journalists are the rattle — the amusing 

Who dares to say that pure oomedy is 
dead in France p Is it possible to inu^ne 
a more charming theatre, a more distin- 
gniahed audience, a more efGcient com- 
pany? And the national theatre in the 
palace which has been called by a barbarous 
EagUshmsn, I think one Gibbon by name, 
"a huge heap of littleness," has, in the 
matter of music, the advantage of a bell 
over the Theatre Franpais. 

The audience are shown to their places 
by the politest of ushers. It is what 
managers call a paper house always, tiie 
orders being distributed by 1;he performers ; 
which, by ttie way, surprises me, because 
I think the eminent manager might effect 
a large addition to his budget by letting 
his boxes. 

The performance has begun, the bell 
has tinkled. The question is, shall it be 
Yive l& France, or Vive la Repnblique? 

It is true that we have a F^ident of a 
Republic; that the country of our adora- 
tion is France ; and that yonder tribune is 
the spot from which the glorioas nation is 

to be governed. Within tiiese gilded walls 
is gathered the representative wisdom of 
the land which is the centre of civilisation. 
The land has just been freod, and the 
Wiseacres have given three times throe in 
celebration of the grtbt event. Left and 
Left Centre, Right and Right Centre, have 
cheered with one accord. But now the 
Lorgnons and the Sabots appear on t)ic 
scene. The farce opena quietly, " Vive la 
France" observes Lorgnon ; " Vive la Bc- 
pnblique" responds Sabot, accompanying 
his reply with a long threatening growl. In 
a moment, there is a mighty movement 
through the theatre; and then the play 
proceeds for an entire hour. 

If an Englishman could imagine a free 
fight, without the exchange of a eingte 
actual blow ; jeers and counter jeers j fiats 
to the right, and fists to the left ; yells and 
counter yells; insulting epithets, plentiful 
as bon-bons at a Roman camivai; with 
Monsieur Grivy for central figure, brandish- 
ing a bell &om a high desk, and patriotically 
going through a pantomime of beseeching, 
imploring, protesting and threatening ; he 
would first obtain an idea of what is called 
a sad epiaode in the gorgeous theatre of 
the Bourbons. 

Personalities are as copious in the As- 
sembly as in the contemporary chronicles 
of its doings. At a word &om the 
Right the Left bounds &om the benches 
as though spears had been suddenly driven 
tbrougl^ them. 

Has Monsieur Pelletan, or has he cct, 
called the President a third horse to draw 
the state coach over the hiQ ? Has Monsieur 
de Kerdrel tried to overturn Monsieur 
Thiers ? The two questions furnish the 
material of an excellent petite com^die. 
Monsieur de Kerdrel opens with an indig- 
nant denial, his solUoquy being interrupted 
with a confounding noise peculiar to the 
Versailles theatre, called brouhaha. Far 
from desiring to overturn the eminent 
statesman, he is proud of the esteem Mon- 
sieur Thiers has for him. But Monsieur 
Pelletan did say Monsieur Thiers was a 
third horse to pull them over the steeps 
of a Republic. 

The Left indulge in more brouhaha. 
The eyes of the Sabots flash lightning; 
their throats provide the thunder ; and m 
the storm Monsieur Pelletan bounds to the 
tribune. He has not called the President a 
third horse. He has; he hasn't; he has ! 
Monsieur Pelletan goes further — all Mon- 
sieur de Eerdrel's friends, all the .Bigth, 
have constantly tried to trip up the Pre- 

■ — o" 

6 [M»ya,18T8.) 


[CoDdacMd by 

sident Then ensnee a briak sparring- 
match between the two deputies, the Left 
and Right acting as backers — and the 
President lookit^ on hopelesaly. It is 
cnrioQS sight; bnt what good it can do 
France, I was forced to admit to Madame 
Chose, I conld vot see. I left them, hght- 
ing over Monsieur Thiers ; Monsienr Thiers 
looking aa &esh aa a girl the while, and 
keeping a merry Winkle in his eve. As 
well he might, for he saw that neither the 
LorgDons nor Uie Sabots conld more a peg 
withont him. 

Bnthoreieaoomedy witli serionaiotereet 
in it. MonBienr Latonr, by way of a mg- 
gestive opening scene, affirms that dnring 
tixB war, when Monsieur Laconrwas in offio 
he sent back a certain report to the prefect i 
the Rhone, with this marginal not^ " Shoot 
me all these fellows 1" With a superb 
air Iiacour cries, " Prove it. Where's the 
report?" Latonr is of the Lorgnone ; La- 
cour of the Sabots. Latonr in a solemn 
soldierly manner rieas to a hushed audieaoe, 
and after baring warmly vindicated' the 
oondnct of the troopa he commanded in 
the war, prodaces the taslimony of the 
general who was ordered to " shoot me 
all those fellowB." The Lorgnons are de- 
lighted — the Sabots in eonstemation- La- 
tour adds emphatically that his men fought 

" Tes, yes, they were not Repablicanc 
cries a Lorgnon. 

The comedy begins. Nobody can say 
that it is wanting in movement. Mon- 
sieur Lan^is, p^c as death, mshes at the 
throat of the daring Lor^^on, and is fol- 
lowed by an admiral of fiie fleet — by half 
the Sabots, in fact. There is not the 
smalleet mistake about there being 
thorough brouhaha this time. It is a 
band-to-hand struggle — not for tlie ai^u- 
ments, bat the coat-collars of opponents. 
The unfortunate Lorgnon, who has insulted 
the Republicans, is snrcoanded by his 
party like a standard-bearer on a battle- 
field. ' -Parliamentary language ! I assure 
you I had not the courage to repeat to 
Madame Chose all I heard from the lips of 
the wise men we have elected to revive the 
grandeur of France; especially as, while 
I related to her the Latonr-Lacour inci- 
dent, she was doing me the hononr of 
mending the tail of my coat which had 
been torn in the excitement and rush 
which followed t^e actnal fight. 

So Engliah muffin-boy, wending his way 
thron^h the foggy streets of Soho, rings 
more in bis' round than Monsieur Qrevy 

did in the Latour-Lacour mel^. Even 
when the oEFending Lor^on retracted, the 
Sabots rolled threatening murmurs at him. 
Then came the tnm of Monsieur Laoonr, 
author of the marginal note. He out and 
thrust about him with a will — conveying by 
his air and words the conviction that at any 
ra6a he wae the man who might have 
writtcai with the point of his official sword, 
" Shoot ma all thesefellows." Albert Jiil- 
laud observed of him that he knew how to 
use the slang dictionary, uid In adc^t the 
manners of the Bailee ', thathie coarse cyni- 
cism and shameless .retorts made even the 
Left ashamed of their mtui. It seemed 
so. While the Loi^ons shmgged their 
Blumlders, laughed, protested, and mur- 
mured, the Sabots were quiet as mice. Then 
Laoour turned upon the Mobiles of Latonr^ 
Mid said they were drunkmi f^ows who 
wouldn't fight ; who passed their time in 
revolting orgies under the smiling approval 
of their superior officers. By way of 
peroration Laconr denied- tihe marginal 
note; tmd on descending &om the tribaned 
he was received into three brace of arms 
&om the Left. 

I beheve tiiat in the English House of 
Commons members do not often hug 
one another in token of approval ; and tbab 
the groatesti orator who ever breathed 
would never provoke a kiss from the chief 
of his party; but I find that a very httle 
bit of oratory carries a man hterally into 
the arms of his party at Versailles. 

The Latonr-'lAconr comedy ended, after 
an i^iroar. about Monsieur Labour's Mobiles, 
and a paasage of yelling at Monsienr Jules 
Favre, in a general dance oub of all 'the 
characters ; in which, hy-tiie-way, my coat- 
tail suffered, in a manner I have already 
had the hononr of describing. 

I wonder whether it was a good day's 
work for France P I confess that, as I 
travelled back to Parie, I became some- 
what bewildered ; for on the platform I . 
heard one gentleman threaten to pull the 
nose of another who had called him a 
Bepublioan. And yet the walls of the 
mairies, my taz-papera, and tho little baJik- 
notes in my pocket, tell me I am one of a 
repubhc ! 

I begin to think, with Madame Chose, 
thaj] I had better return to my gudgeon. 
She has observed to me that &t any rate 
I spoiled fewer clothes as a fisherman 
than I do aa a politician. My coat-tail 
will be shaken befiire me for many a long 
day to come. Wonien never forget ; and 
their logic is inexorable. 



Hb risea at tiiree miDiiteB to fire, and not 
at fife, as iliat inTentor of facts and clufibn- 
nier of old idea^ HippolTte PatatraB, tells 
ns onca a week in tbe Gnignol. Yety &e- 
qoendy he Ixglitly rabs his ejee. Somo- 
iimflft he raises himBelf upon one preai- 
deDtial elbow ; jesterday it waA his left 
elbow. Then he hghtly diawB Hs hands 
throogh the mlreT toilet whioh is destined 
to go down to posterity with tiis onrl upon 
the first Napoleon's for^iead, and the tips 
of Napoleon the Third's motntache. Then, 
jAadug hia fingers before the element 
month, he yawns. Sy this time tiie olook 
is cm the stroke of fire ; by tliis time he is 
on his l^a, his lamp i& trimmed, and the 
aSaiia of Bnrope ace nnder yNtf. While 
they are naoring slowly ahead,, he prepares 
hi) oofiee. The aagaoity wilii which the 
boiling water is ponred npoa the special 
Mocha; the leaimed glauoaa wfaieb fall 
upon the biggin ; the thoroi^^h knowing- 
ness with which the cofiee>ciip is handled ; 
bespeak the remaj4able man. 

The fiagramt Aimes om-l obont tlie snowy 
head that IS bent OTsr masses of state papers. 
Tho snn has not winked yot on the hoFm)n ; 
hot the deetihies of Prance are well in hand, 
it is a toaching si^it, that shotdd. soften 
the hearts of Ins ronghest and fioco^t 
Of^onente, to see this l^va old man not 
waiting fbr the saniise to work £or bis 
conatsy. I cannot say — I read so many 
papers — whether he is right or wrong; 
Ki&ab or nnselfisb; an intrignsrorafiai^ 
honest politunan ; bat he is a hero, by tbs 
bsiden which he bears npon his gallant 
shoulders. I love him for his work ; the 

Cdigions store of knowledge which he 
pnt by ; the vast fields of pnblio affiurs 
he has trotted over; for hia bonnding spirits, 
and valiant lescdTes under diffionltios; snd,, 
if I may never call myself of hie party, I 
ahall never &il in touching my hat to him 
as one of hia personal admirers — prond that 
be is my conntrymsn. 

He baa got tlirODgh a monntain of labonr 
when the Pink of Politeness arrives at six 
o'dock. The Pink is his old friend ; the 
oalaona] letter-writer, the nniversal ^h>1o- 
gist ; the great man of the ante-ofaamber, 
who lives with his back bent. Together 
the two prodigions toilers make diort work 
of despatches, letters, petitions, drafts of 
bills, invitations, arrangements for diplo- 
matio receptkns, prefectoral appeals and 
tmobles ;. and are i-eady to go into affairs of 
state generally, with the conned, as soon 

as the ministers please after break&st. Not 
a moment is lost. Over the morning cirtlet 
a diverting gossip on the treaty with Eng- 
land ; with the omelette, the settlement of 
the fntnre franchise of France ; and, while 
the coSee is bein^ served, an ambassador 
is removed from China to Washington. A 
ministeriaJ council is aa easy-way of passing 
the time, from breakfast till the meeting of 
the Assembly. To be enre the parliamenfarj 
storm of yesterday has to be disoussed, and 
a line of ministerial action decided npon 
to be snre tjiere bsk some tronbleaome in 
terpellationa ahead that mast be met 
Lyons is simmering and Uarseilies is bcril- 
ing over, and there is annneasy movement 
in the dangerons stratum of Paiis ; bnt the 
President smiles and works, and works and 
mniles throngh it all ; and doffing his sonff-- 
brown ooat (as mnoh a p'art of him as the 
grey capote was part of the immort^ Little 
Corporal), trots away on the arm of hia 
stalwart offic^r-in-waiting— to the tribnne. 

It is a great day. The boxesarefilled with 
ambaeaaoDTs, generals, prefeote, and fine 
ladies. The manager's box oont^s the 
manager's wife and a princess or two. The 
□sfaers have had a bad time of it. The de- 
puties have been pestered for a week past 
for orders Ibr this extraordinary representa- 
tion of — rfiall I say legerdelangue ? Aa 
uninitiated man might imagine he ws^ at 
a court ceremonial, and that in a moment 
tbe national aic would vibrato through 
the theatre, and Cieear would enter, wth 
Cnsar'a peerless wife glittering with jewels. 
The ladies in tbe most fantastic dresses, 
and in tbe highest spirits, occupy the 
front row of t£e boxes. Is the fiirceur 
Yivier going to play fentastio tricks on 
his horn from the table in the tribune, or 
is Levassor about to present us with his 
delight&l caricatore of the Englishman on 
his travels P I felt inclined to look out for 
a bill of the play; and bc$;sn wondering 
where they coald have put the band. 
But I was brought to myself, and to the 
solemnity of the occasion, when I saw 
a toft of snowy hair making itself higher 
than the rest of the crowd before me. 
There was a finttor, a msUing, and a 
nervous coughing through the theatre as 
the little performer at length stood out 
from tbe throng, and appeared bright as the 
morn, in the trxbnne. 

A bright, fresh, sharply cut face, roofed 
with stiff white hairj a keen, quickly 
moving eye seen throngh a portentous 
pair of spectacles ; a rigid military froek>- 
ooat buttoned to the throat, and the head 

8 [KiJ- », 1K3J 



settled in an aqiple collar ; and all on the 
smallest conceivable scale. It is greatness 
in a nntabell. And these people — repre- 
sentatives of dynasties and l^dera of armies 
— are hanging breathless upon the words 
of the little man, who is arranging his glass 
of water, nnfolding his handkerchief, and 
twitching his spectacles to a jost balance 
npon his nose. The destiny of my country 
is the piece that is upon the playbill to- 
day ; and the whole responsibility of the 
Krformanc^ rests npon these tiny shonlders. 
order to get through with it the speaker 
mnst command profoond silence. Yon feel 
anch tenderness towards him as yon have 
for a child, and hnsh the people aoont yon. 
He waits till the last coagh has snbsided, 
and then a shrill, piping voice which startles 
yon proceeds from the little figure. The 
pitch' is high, the tones are piercing. 
Every word is hewd at the back of every 

And such words ! They were big with 
the fate of France. As the wonderful 
little man rolled them ont, I thought of the 
conjurer who fills a theatre with. flowers ont 
of his hat. People were charmed. The 
flowers fell to the right and to the left with 
strict impartiality. The Bight jeered, the 
Left applauded, the Centres made a con- 
fused noise. And still the voice piped 
away bravely — steady through the storm 
as B boatswain's whistle. I nad travelled 
all the w^ to Versailles in order to ascer- 
tain the form of government under which 
I was living, having been utterly confused 
on the subject hy the Tattoo, and the views 
of Monsieur Hippolyte in the Gcdgnol. 
The Tattoo informed me that I was living 
under a republic that was as firm as the 
Bock of GibrallAr, and that all other forms 
of government were henceforth impossible, 
which was cheering when I reflectof] on the 
number of stable governments that had 
successively compelled me to put up my 
shop shutters and hide my till m the cellar. 
The Quignol assured me that I was not 
only npon a volcano, but that the taasel of 
my nightcap was banging over the edge 
of the crater; that the Bepublio was a 
rickety thing bolstered up by a company 
of foola and knaves, and that a repubUc 
had about as good a chance of enduring in 
France, bb a &rrier would have of pursuing 
his business in a powder magazine. 

The wonderful orator piped away for 
two hours. I lost not a single syllable, for 
the facets of his glittering sentences are of 
fenltless .edge. Now I settled myself com- 
fortably in my seat, believing that I was 

the citizen of an incorruptible and ua- 
assailable republic ; and now, again, I was 
cast npon a sea of doubt, in a cockle-sbell 
called the Pact. The Lorgnons were not 
at the pains of conceahng their disgust ; 
nor were they nice as to the forms in which 
they conveyed their displeasure to the 
leading performer in the most remark* 
able comedy I, an old playgoer, have ever 
heard. On the other hand the Sabots 
roared ont their pleasure when the piping 
voice told them that they enjoyed the re- 
public of their dreams, and it only remained 
with them to make its waits of adamant, 
and ite temple of porphyry. Four or five 
times daring those two tumultuous hours I 
was shifled from a republic to a monarchy, 
and back again. All this time I admired, 
with my whole heart and mind, the white 
head from which the mighty confusion of 
oracular dicta was proceeding. The tears 
came to my eyes when the old man's 
trembling voice passed over the mis- 
fortunes of onr country. Tea, I laughed 
and I cried, for it was a noble comedy, but 
what had I to carry back to Madame Chose ? 
I was compelled to confess to her that I 
was Ignite as wise when I left the St. Lazare 
station as when I returned to it. 

" Bless me. Chose," she said to me, when 
I bad explained to her all I had seen and 
beard, in very warm language— for my 
heart had been stirred — "bless me, how 
can you put yourself in such a heat about 
such a trifle P Twenty times daring dinner 
you have asked me what yonr pocket-idol- 
was president of. '.President,, my dear — 
of wiat?' said yon over your soap, then 
again over the most delicious capon Ana- 
stasia has ever cooked for ns. I thought 
I should have a little peace over the arti- 
chokes, for yon are generally silent when 
joa are eating a favonrite dish ; but no, 
with the artichoke in your hand, yoa re- 
peated yonr stupid question, ' President of 
what F' I don't know, and I don't care, 
Monsieur Chose." 

But Madame Chose is not quite so 
irrational a being as it is her pleasure, 
now and then, to affect to be. I took occa- 
sion to draw her attention to the surpris- 
ing activity of the President. All good 
women have a respect for hard work ; and 
when I sketobed onr brave littls veteran 
writing, speaking, giving audiences, hold- 
ing councils, paying visits of ceremony, 
travelling to Paris and back again for an 
interview, conducting the reconstruction of 
his house, disposing of mountains of letters, 
bowing, smibng, contriving fresh lively 

ObailM DMaiu.) 


salliea fot the dinner in the evening, and 
all from, before the peep of day till his honr 
of siests comes late in the aft«moon, and 
then waking np for , a fresh bont of work 
in the shape of incessant receptions of offi- 
cial perHODB to midnight ; when, I aaj, I 
sketched all this to Madame Choee, I elicited 
from her the acknowledgment that the little 
Juan wa« a very great one. 

" If he -wonlda't make things as dear as 
they are," Madame Chose oontinned, "I 
BhoQld give him my vote, if I had one. 
Bat Ineyer go to tlie grocer's, without find- 
ing a son put npon fiiis, or two sons clapped 
upon that. I have it — he must be presi- 
dent of the grocers. They will never desert 
tum. They share tbe plunder between 
them. He pots two sons on tbe hectolitre, 
which enables them to pnt a son on tbe 
litre. That's yonr regime, Monsienr Chone. 
Ai; the rognes. ' President of what ?' say 
yon ; ' of tbe grocers,' say I." 

I begged Madame Chose to observe that 
Hberty was a jewel worth paying a sab- 
atantial price 'for. I have seen madame, 
since I had the hononr of taking her on 
onr bridal walk throngh tbe Bois de 
Bonlogne, in, I may say, a thoroogh 
paanon at least three of four times ; bnt 
never since the onlncky day when I gave 
the fish I had oanght to her cousin, 
Madame Jnlie, for a fritnre, have I ex- 
perienced sncb a storm as that which bnrst 
over my devoted head when I mentioned 
the sacred word, liberty. 

"Tod, too, Monsienr Chose," she cried. 
"I thought ihat you. who have been in 
bttsineBfl twenty-two years, wonld have had 
more sense. Don't ask ijie men, for tbey 
are idiote, what they think of yonr liberty ; 
ask their wives who bnv the bread and 
vegetables. Ge and ask the poor creatures 
who stay at home to make the pot-an- 
ka, while yon gentlemen talk politics and 
play at dominoes at the caSk, what liberty 
dirowa into the saucepan ; what it takes 
out of tbe cupboard ; what wages it pays 
and what trade it drives P Messrs.- Liberty, 
Equality, Fraternity, and Company, what a 
Bweet firm of bankers they wonld make ! 
I wouldn't tmst them with change for a 
fnnc. I was not aware yon were so far 
gone, Monsienr Chose. I had better send 
yonr niKht-cap to be dyed red. Blood-red, 
do TOn hear, Monsienr Chose P" 

Bear ! The words ring upon my tym- 
panoiu still. I fell into my arm-chair 
when my wife bad bounced oat of tbe 
room, and unfolded the last edition of tho 
Tattoo (which differs little from the first 

save in four or five lines of additional mis- 
information printed in capitals), reserving, 
the Gnignol for a sofler moment. I had 
jnetread that Henry the Fifth was a moral 
cretin, when the door was swiftly opened, 
and my wife, thrusting in her head, cried, 
" Who b ong ht tbe petroleum ? Citizon 
Liberty." With that she slammed the door. 

Shrugging my shoulders, I resumed my 
reading. I had reached the interesting 
point of the leadiog aiiiole, where the 
candid reader was pressed to admit that 
the younger branch of the Bourbons was 
rotten and worthless, when a stream of 
cold air told me the door was again open. 

Madame Chose, who by this time bad 
disembarrassed herself of some of her hair 
(of which, I am bound to say, she has a 
collection that does hononr to her taste and 
judgment) for the night, was before me. 

" Who," she asked, passionately, under 
her breath, " who lit the petroleum ? 
Citizen Equahty." I trembled under her 
fierceness, and was relieved when she shnt 
tbe door, and, to my delight, bolted it. 

"Sow should I have a peaceful hour. I 
would study carefully the statements of the 
Tattoo and Gnignol, and endeavour to 
settle in my mind, before I went to bed, 
my knotty question— president of what P 
I bad dismissed one dynasty thoroughly, 
and was deep in the wickedness of the 
second, when I heard a band upon the bolt 
of my wife's bedchamber. She was still 
stirring. I faced ronnd to meet the gale. 
The door flew open with such force that 
the Tattoo was blown from my knees to 
the ground. Madame was in cnrl-papers 
that trembled npon her bead. 

" Who danced ronnd the fire ?" she 
hissed at me. " Citizen Fraternity. Ton 
are on a pretty road. Monsieur Chose." 
And, with a profonnd bow, she bade me 
good-night, doubly locking the door this 

I, who thought everything was as easy 
as bonjonr, when I heard that smihng pre- 
sident ! Bat, president of what P StiU ask- 
ing myself this question (for the Gnignol, 
answering the Tattoo, vowed there was 
no republic in oxisfence) I fell asleep. 


How many men died in that winter of 
the terrible war P How many hectares of 
snow were stained with blood ? The poor 
children were carried bv scores to the 
cemeteries. They could hardly open the 
Common Grave fast enough. Widows were 
weeping in every honse. Death stood in 




ibe ante-ctiamber of every home. Thei« 
veie no fives. There vas no gas in the 
streets. And hoar bj hour the boosning 
guns Btrnok terror tbrough the be&rte of 
pale mothers aad fami^ed children. In 
the veiy house which, now shdters Die, a 
shell craehed throng the roof cue mora- 
ioff, fit the peep of dW, and k^d outright 
a fath^ and a ohild, ii«ving a, mad mother 
ae the sole asrvivor of one of the most 
hoBonrable and modest hoas^olds 1 hftve 
ever lotted vfoa. I cannot ihmk of tbose 
107 hoars I have spent getting onr little 
ratitms of meitt withoat a ahnddef, even 
now when we have nearly bought tiie 
enemy out of our ooantry. How many 
times did I {taoe ib^ind coffins— big and 
little— in that winter? UoMt FaroaBae, 
Fere la Chaise^ Uontmartre seemed to me 
to be tfarcateBod with a glnt of hamui 
remains. And then those interminable 
prooassions of the unbolaaoe people ; the 
river boata laden with wonnded men, with 
the dark blood showing through their 
bandages ! My hair whitened in that dread 
winter time; and many months paased 
after tite strile was -ended befora Ten- 
nerre conld persuade me to throw my 
line onoe more into the Seine. Forr J 
was in both sieges ; in the siege of Pans 
by &e Qermane, and the siege of Paris 
by the Frent^. Xhe flrst was bad enough, 
Heaven knows, when the childiieii w^ 
dying like fiies in antomn, and we were 
eating the food from the 'sewers, and 
we conld see the inevitable end approaob- 
ing, tbroogh the squabbles and incompe* 
tent^ of the men who had seized upon ibe 
reins of government on the morrow of 
Sedan, jnst aa a thief gets your parse in 
the tnmolt of a crowd. It was Utter io 
watch the Germans passing under Napo- 
leon's Trinmphal Arch, %aS to look npon 
them smoking their bie pipes in the Champs 
Elys^es. I wept, I know, for one, like a 
child ; and Uadame Chose (who was never 
so amiable as she appeared tbroogh that 
wint^) made me a good bonillon to com- 
fort me. 

The food came in. Those good English 
sent as immotuie stores which onr Inca- 
pables had not the sagacity to distribute 
equitably over the lean population. But 
the sight of milk, and butter, and fresh 
meat; the taste of good bread onoe more'; 
the twi/ikUng of a few lights along the 
Boulevards ; the huge relief to the mind 
when there was silence in the night, and 
we knew that the dreadfnl bloodshed wae 
finished for a time — for our time at least, I 
may say-^all this was a joy that went very 

far in repayment of Hib angaish we 
ParifiiaoB had sufiered. But Hie joy was 
brief — a fla^ of Ji^t in a tunnel ; just 
Iveathing time in 'tlie tortnre-ofaambtH-. 

In the seocmd siege the screws were 
tightened to their last twist ; the wedges 
were drii^ hone in the stocking; the 
sewers ovepflowed the sbreets. He who 
was my servant yesterday was my master 
to<-day. Furies streamed oat of e^lars sod 
garrets, and tot^ arms, and screamed re- 
pablioui slang; etuck Phrygian -caps upon 
beadfi that had sevw felt the comb ; and, 
between their hags' teeth, called for bleed ! 
Uy beaoti&l Fans was doomed this time. 
The enemy bad left arms w the hsatds ci 
the mob ; the mob was led by lettered 
ruffiana, scapegraces, prodig^ sons re- 
dneed to rags, and vain stnittii^ theorists 
who would botaniae apoB their mother's 
gvave, or practise vivisectios on their own 
children. These hatcAil aad cowardly 
egotists put t^ieir heek upon immortal 
csmvases ; tred out the richest leaves of 
litres' lauiid. The walla flamed with their 
ignoble dserees. The; were ready to com- 
mand tlie ehmbs in iJae ptiblic gardens to 
grow roots upwards, with their flowers in 
the acai. They had a right, which they 
made for the occasion, to-enter every man's 
honae, and commEutd (be keys of his strong 
beK. ThOT turned the sacristy into a 
tavern, wnere they caroused on stolen 

It was a brave game, danced to all the 
airs in Liberty's r^ertoire, hj Freedom's 
worst enemies, Uen went abroad into the 
next street with fear aad tmnbling. A 
wcod from any angry maa oould take away 
the liberty of his neighbour. Only the 
rogue waa qnite safe. For this we bad 
escaped &om the hands of the Pmssiamr ! 
They had spared onr beantiful dty, to look 
on, while our own hands should destroy it. 

Shall I ever cease to thii^ of that morn- 
ing of humiliation in my life when a picket 
of hang-dog fellows thrust open jny door, 
and demanded the arms they know to be 
in my posseesian}' Madame Chose was 
ihUing on her knees to them, w4ieii I 
dragged her aside, and begged her to re- 
member who and what she waa, and who 
and what those men were. Whereupon 
two seised my wrists ; but witih a desperate 
twist I freed myself, and drove them back 
with that lo<^ of the honest man under 
which every rogne quails. And then, 
under our eyes, they tnrned out every cup- 
board, opened every box, searohed the beds, 
and found — not even a pop-gon. I was 
too old a connoisseur in revolntiona to keep 



[M«-»,iai».] 11 

ame in sif honae. With an ineoleDt 
"Qood dajr, oitoyeime" to mj wife, and a 
partiojr oath fbr the reader's bamble ser- 
■not, Uiey went out, warning me ttiot if it 
shcidd be praved that I bad a lady 'i pistol 
in nf jKHMWBRVtr, it would go l^rd witb 

IliTedinra^ and terror. Tbennarmed 
law<afaidiiig citizeuB were nuder the do- 
nunioa of an armed rabble, tbe said rabble 
dnly installed in all tbepnbLlc offices, issning 
detzeee, and giving to wholesale pillage the 
authority of law. The reign of topsy-tnrvy 
was b^im in downright earnest, and eveiy 
night I expected to find the cook in the 
best bed, and jaj wi& tbonkfol for the 
mercy that left her one of the attice. Bnt 
neither -tongue, nor pen, nor pencil conld 
realise the mSbring we endnred daring that 
second sif^ that olosed in flames. 

When it wBA happHy ended, and the 
TersaiUaiB were masters of Paris, I said to 
Uadame Chose — Who, I mnst confeea, had 
home herself bravely tbronghont, with the 
fliceptian of the little inoident I have de- 
scribed — " Let US thank Heaven that onr 
lives and onr goonis have been spared. It 
was tbrongb aJl our frivolities as a nation, 
throngh the dandyism of onr officers, and 
the vanity and extra vaganoe of onr women ; 
throQgh that lightness and love of pleasure 
which have drawn us from the serious 
business of life and made ns merely the 
ploasore-caterers of the world, that we in- 
coired a ahame for either cheek — defeat 
and dvil war. For the rest of our lives 
should be sober aud aerions citiaeas." 

" Yob are rij^t. Chose," my wife i 
Bwered. " I have done with finery for the 
KBtof niy life." 

How loany seasons have passed over onr 
heads since ui^ were shooting men by the 
acore under l£e Pont de la Concorde ? 
Vben was the ^t man tied to a stake 
before a firing party on the plain of Sa- 


I and Tonnerte were talking on the 
gloomy subject not many cvemngs ago, 
while waiting ibr Hadame Choae to return 
&r dinner. When, at length, she appeared, 
she eccnsed herself, saying she had been 
detained over a very advantageous pur- 
chase. Indeed, she wontd have onr opinion 
on it before she served the soup. Poor 
Tonnerre, who had been growling for his 
dinner, was conuielled to say that he would 
not approacli the table till he had seen the 
new garment. 

" It is the very latest thing in novelties," 
oried Madame Chose to us from the bed- 
room. Then she appeared in a new polo- 

naise, wliich undoubtedly became ber, as 
she well knew. 

" Snperb," oried Tramerre. " But what 
a curious tint I never saw that brown 

Madame Chose langbed in her most be- 
witobing manner aa she replied : "DTot scan 
iit beScae i why yonVe eaten it. It's the 
latest fnshion ; the last tint, and nothing 

«lse will be worn this snnimer." 

"What do til ey call it, madame?" tbe 
gallant soldier asked, holding the comer of 
the garment critically between his thumb 
and forefingo:. 

"Coulenr pain>de-si^ge — siege- bread- 
cblonr !" said tnj wife, looking in the glass 
the while. 

I was very angry. 

" Lon, with M bud*, at tea.' 
nie OhriitDiM Mm Amaa down 
Ob tbe beullaiuli tbtC Iroirn o'oi the lutrboar <ricl% 
On ths cotMgM, thick on the long qiuy aidf. 
On theroobof thsbiMjIovn. 
" Lett, with nil hand*, at m«." 
Til* draaA mtd* mmad like ■ mil, 
Tilt long ottba wait*, aDdthadaUi of the bulla, 
Bine like death- bed diivaa, or Cunera! knells, 
bthe paiuea of tbe gale. 
Never a home to poor, 
But it brightas* for siwd Tule4>d«. 
Never a heart too ua or Ion lone. 
But the holj Chmtmai mirth 'tirill on. 

idIt Chiutmi 

Whsre tbe aea-ooal fire leapa, 

On tbe Iilienian'* qiuetJuarlb, 

Hw Tnle log Uel, for hie band to beare. 

When be hulas to bi* bride on Chriatmae Sre, 

In tbe fliuh of his strengtii and mirth. 

Eigb on the little eholf 

1^ tall Yale eandls itandi, 

For t3u ibip u due, ere the ChriitmH nigkl^ 

And it wait), to bo dulf eet alight 

B7 the coming faCber'a hande. 

XoDg baa the widov ipared 

Her pittance for vaimth aid bread. 

Ihat bar sailoT bo;, oben he hane ratOBl* 

Ma; jo;, that hor Gre eo brighll; buni^ 

Her board ii to ampl j fpread. 

The iharp reef moanj aod monni. 

Tlie foam on the sand Uei hoar; 

The " Ka-dog" fiickan aeioas the Aj, 

The north wind vhiatlea, ihrill and high, 

'Mid MiB breakers' ominoui roar. 

Out 00 the great pier-bead, 

Tbe grej-baired aailon stand, 

Wbifs (be blaok etouds pile a«7 in tbe weal. 

And the inraj llias free Etom the billowa' crest. 

Ere the; daih on the hollow sand. 

Merer a wil to be seen, 

On the l™g grim toMiog swell, 

OdI; driltiag mrdtage of caaraa and isar. 

fbat sweep with the ware) o'er the harbour bar. 

Their terriblr) tale to tell. 

Did a liiion of Chnstmaa paia 

Before the drowntog eyee, 

When 'mid not of rigginjt and cnah of aUt, 

The braie ship, smots b<r tbe mixhtt blaal. 

Went dawn 'neath the lilileia skiiia? 

,12 m"»B.i8M.] 


So Chnitmu joj I vMii, 
On ths rock-bound coatt id*; be- 
Pat tcik«n uid enitom of Tuls >«>J< 
Tniile vidom and orphuu itmp and pnT 
7ot the " liauda, lort out at aea.^' 




Thebe have been several regiments nnm- 
bered the Seventy-first. In 1758, when 
the secoDd battalions of fifteen in&ntry 
regiments were formed into distinct corps, 
the second battalion of the Thirty-second 
Foot became the Seventy-first regiment, 
which was disbanded at the peace in 1?63. 
The Eighty-first regiment of Fnsiliers then 
became the Seventj-first, and was sent to 
(nrriaon our coast forts. In 1775, another 
Seventy-first regiment (three hnndred and 
forty strong), was raised, for service in 
America, by Major-Oeneral tbe Hononrable 
Simon Fraser, of Lovat, whose forfeited 
estates had jnst been restored. At the 
general peace of 1783 the second Seventy- 
first was disbanded. In 1786, the Seventy- 
third, raised by John, Lord Macteod, in 
1777, was finally numbered as the Seventy- 
first regiment, and still fioorisbes, strong 
and stnrdy as the Scotch thistle on its 

The first battalion of Lord Macleod's re- 
giment of Highlanders, embodied at Elgin 
m 1778, embarked for India in 1779, the 
second battalion being sent to help defend 
Gibraltar against the Spaniards. The first 
battalion had its work cnt ont for it. Hyder 
Ali had passed the Ghants, and burst like a 
delngc over the Carnatio. The Nizam of 
the Deccan and the wild Mahrattas had 
joined his standard ; the French had 
promised Hyder aid; and his son Tippoo's 
horsemen were already threatening Madras. 
Against Hyder's countless and fanatic force 
Sir Hector Mnnro had hastily gathered 
together four thousand men, all Hindoos, 
with the eiception of the eight hundred 
men of the Seventy- third. The cavalry con- 
sisted of only sixty dragoons, the artillen' 
of thirty field-pieces and howitzers, with 
four battering twenty-fonr- pounders. Hy- 
der Ali, who was cngnged in besieging 
Arcot, the capital of the Camatjc, de- 
tached Tippoo with twenty-four thousand 
men and twelve guns, to intercept Lieute- 
nant-Colonel Baillie, who was marching 
to join Munro. The latter officer at once 
despatched Lientenant - Colonel Flelcber, 
with one thousand men, to rainforce Bnillie. 
The fl&nk companies of the Seventy-third 
formed part of this force^the grenadier 

company commanded by Lieutenant the 
Honourable John Lindsay, the light com- 
pany hj Captain David Baird. On the 
6th of September, 1780, Btullie was at^ 
tacked by Tippoo at Ferambaukam, and on 
the 9th was joined by Fletcher's detach- 
ment. In a small jungle Uie enemy sud- 
denly opened fire from three batteries, 
and fifty-seven pieces of cannon poured 
death on Baillie's small band. Tippoo's 
men, everywhere repelled, fell back before 
the square that contuned in its centre 
the sick, the baggage, and the ammu- 
nition. After three hours' stubborn fights 
ing, Tippoo ordered Colonel Lally to draw 
off his men, and place the cavalry to 
cover the retreat ; at that instant two 
ammunition wagons exploded, laid open 
one entire face of Baillie's column, rendered 
the artillery useless, and threw the whole 
info disorder. The Sepoys refused to rallj', 
the camp-followers fled. Hyder saw bis 
opportnnity, and sprang like a tiger on the 
enemy he bad hitherto dreaded. Squadron 
after squadron of the Mysore horse dashed 
upon UB, bodies of infootry poured in 
volleys of musketrr; still the English 
(now scarcely four nnndred men) formed 
square on a sand-hill, and repelled thir- 
teen charges. The Sepoy havildars joined 
the Seventy- third, and the officers with 
their swords, and the soldiers with their 
bayonets, fought to the last. The wounded 
were trodden down by the horses and ele- 
phants while stiU straggling to raise them- 
selves and prepare for the charge. Colonel 
Baillie, anxious to save the few survivors, 
at last held up a flag of tmce, but no 
sooner had bis troops laid down their arms 
than the enemy rushed forward, and 
slashed and stabbed the disarmed, the 
wounded, and the sick. A few were saved 
by the generoos interposition of tbe French 
officers. In this fight the Seventy-third 
fiank companies were almost annihilated. 
Captain Baird received seven wounds. 
Lieutenant Lindsay nine, and botb were 
made prisoners. Captain Melvile, of the 
Seventy- third, had his left arm broken, and 
his right arm cut through with a sabre; 
he was also speared in the back, and lay 
for two days exposed to a burning son, 
two nights in danger of being torn to pieces 
by tigers. Eighty-two tank and file were 
killed, and oidy twenty-three men of the 
Seventy-third escaped nnwounded. Hyder 
received the prisoners in his tent with bar- 
baric insolence. 

" Toor son vrill inform yon," said Colonel 
Baillie sternly, " that yon owe the victoir 
to onr disaster rather than to our defeat.' 



(ISx3»,lKt.i 13 

Hyder aogrilf ordered the prisoners from 
Wb presence, aad they remained in cap- 
tivity three years and a half, Captain 
Baird being chained by the leg to another 
prisoner. Baird was not remaStable for the 
snavilj of Tiia temper, and his old mother's 
fiist remark, when she heard of her son's 
esptiTity, was : 

"Eh, I pity the chiel wha's chained to 
our Darie !" 

Only two men of the Seventy-tiiird 
escaped, and they were found in the jungle 
de^erately wonnded. 

ui 1781, the Seventy-third again met 
their old enemy. The regiment was now 
commanded by Colonel James Crawford. 
Again we were a handfol of men &cing 
conntless hosts. Hyder had twenty-five 
battalions of foot, some fifty thousand 
horse, aboviB one hundred tboneand match- 
lock-men, and forty-seven pieces of cannon, 
while Sir Eyre Coote commanded a poor 
eight tboneand men, the Seventy - ttiird 
being again the oniy British regiment. 
The advance was across a plain, beyond 
which the enemy was dravm np, protected 
by front and flanking redonbts, and danger- 
ons batteries. Just after the repulse of 
the enemy's cavalry, "an Bneliah officer 
discovered a road cat through the saud- 
hiUfl the night before by Hyder, by which 
the Mysore cav^ry wae to be let loose on 
the English flank. Sir Eyre Coote at once 
made use of this road, and turned Hyder's 
position. During the eight bonre' fighting, 
the Seventy-third led all the attacks on the 
right of the firet line. General Coote par- 
ticnlarly noticed that wherever the fire was 
ODusually hot, one of the pipers of the 
Seventy-third blew np his pimochs fiercer 
s&d louder than nsnal. Tliis so pleased 
the graieral, that he cried out : 

"Well done, my brave fellow, yon shall 
have a pair of silver pipes when tne battle 
is over." 

He afterwards presented the regiment 
with a pair of silver pipes, value one hun- 
dred pagodas (nearly fifty pounds). The 
British lost in the subsequent battle of 
Conjeveram four hnudrMl killed and 
wounded, but few of these were Europeans. 
Mftjor-Qeneral Stnart and Colonel Brown 
each lost a leg, both carried away by the 
same shot. On the battle-field (the scene 
of the deieat of Baillie) the Seventy-third 
were afiected to find relics of their friends. 
Spatterdashes marked with welt-remem- 
bered names, feathers, clubs of hair, known 
by the ties, scattered clothes, and helmets 
and skulls bearing the marks of blows, 
roused the men to vengeance. 

In 1783, tmder General Stuart's com- 
mand, the Seventy-third joined in the attack 
on Cuddalore. There were to have been 
three aimnltaneons attacks, but the noise 
of the signal guns being drowned by the 
enemy's cannonade, the attacks were not 
simultaneous, and fiiiled. While the enemy 
puraned our men. Lieutenant- Colonel Cath- 
cart and lieutenant- Colonel Stnart, with 
the precious remains of the Seventy- third, 
slipped into the redoubt the enemy had left 
in the eagerness of pursuit. In the night the 
enemy retired. In this attack the Seventy- 
third tost Captains Mackenzie and the 
Honourable James Lindsay, one of five sons 
whom the Earl of Balcanas had in the 
army, seven lieutonanta, nine sergeants, and 
one hundred and eighty-seven rank and 
file. In this campaign the regiment also lost 
Corporal Mackay, son of Robert Doune, the 
bard. When the men were drooping in a 
long march, the corporal used to revive them 
by singing the Gtelio poems of his father. 

While the first battalion had been thus 
hotly employed in India, the second bat- 
talion had greatly distinguished itself 
by aiding in the gallant d^ence of Gib- 
raltar. Colonel Drinkwater, in his valuable 
historr of the siege, partioularly mentions a 
rematKable escape of a man of the Seventy- 
third. During the first tremendous attack 
of the Spaniards, when the old rock was 
the target of more than one hnndred guns, 
a shell fell in an embrasure opposite the 
King's Lines bomb-proof, killed one of 
the Seventy-third and wounded another. 
Donaldson, the second man, had his skull ' 
fractured, his left arm broken in two places, 
one of his tegs shattered, half his right 
hand carried away, and his whole body 
bruised and blackened with gunpowder. 
The sm^eons scarcely knew where to b^n 
on him. That evening, however, he was 
trepanned, and a few days afterwards his 
leg was amputated and his fractures were 
dressed. The man's constitution was good; 
he rallied, and in eleven weeks his cure was 
efiected, and he had become entitled to hie 
munificent pension of ninepence a day. 

In 1791, the Seventy-third, now the 
Seventy-first, that had won a name in 
Indian warfitre, again took a foremost part 
against our untiring enemy Tippoo, and 
led the invasion of the Mysore country. 
At the storming of Bangalore, Lieutenant 
James Duncan, of the Seventy-first, led the 
grenadiers and light company of bis regi- 
ment up the breach. The grenadiers were 
commanded by Captain Lindsay, the light 
company by Captaih Robertson, the son of 
the Scottish historian. The men trusted 

14 pi*i t. lenj 



enticely to ibeir bayonets, and earned 
{daoe with fiying coloors. 

On their march towardflTippoo'acaintal, 
Serin gapat&m, fiank oompanies of the 
Seventr-firet were sent to capture the liiH 
fort of Mandjdroog, and Lientenont Junes 
Duncan and lieutenant Kennett Mackenzie 
carried both breaches, and secured 
gat£s oi the inner waU without the loss of 
a man. Many of the e&emy were dashed 
to pieces over the precipices in attempting 
to "w^" Savendroog, a liill fortreB^, 
sniToni^ed by almost inacc^aible rocka, 
was >Jbo taken witbotit the hwB of a single 
soldier. In Jannary, 1792,' the Seventy- 
first came in sight of Tippoo's eapital. The 
E^pment formed Dart of tlie ooBttal diviaicm 
of the three oolnmna c^ attack. The com- 
mander-in-chief, deneral the Earl Com- 
wallia, was at their head. It all but 
ended the war at the fixBt rash. Forcing 
throngh the enemy's fiist line, the Eng- 
lish suddenly fbnnd themselves at the 
foot of th« ^laeia of the foit of Senaga- 
patam. Captain Lindsay instantly collected 
bis grenadiero on the glacis, and all hat 
SDOoeeded in pushing into the body of the 
place. Joined by more of the light com- 
panies he forced a way down to the faniona 
lilai Bangh, or Garden of Pearls, repelling 
several iurioos attacks with the ifoayouet. 
He then took post in a redoubt, and held 
it till the morning. The next day be forced 
a way across the rirer to the island, and 
attacked and carried the soltan'i redoabt. 
Captain Hugh Sibbald, of the Sereoty-first, 
was IdUed after repallisg r^>eatod despe- 
rate attacks of the enemy. The same even- 
ing the Seventy-first and some coast Sepoys 
repelled three thousand of the enen^'s 
liorae who attacked the island. The regi- 
ment lost, in theee operations, two officers 
and one hundred xtLok and file, but the 
enemy at the same time, from the united 
oohunns, had twenty thousand killed and 
woondad, and left behind twenty pieces of 
Gannon. At night, on the 8th of Fehraaiy, 
the Seveaty-firsl^ commanded by Major 
Daltympla, csoBsed a branch of the Cavery, 
attacked Tippoo's cavalry camp, and slew 
qr dispM^ed the whole. The result wae a 
speedy treaty and the aturender of Tippoo's 
two sons to the British general. In 1 794, 
the sons were restored to Tippoo, on which 
he iu^antly made a treaty with the French, 
thttn at war with us. In May, 1799, 6ering- 
apalam wae ebtniaed and Tippoo slain. 

In L796, the Seventy.first helped to 
conquer Oeylon &om the Dutch. In 1806, 
this aotrve regiment assisted in the oon- 
queat cf the Cape of Good Hope, and in the 

battle of Blue Mounts the Seventy-first 
helped to decide . the day. Th^ were 
sharers in (he defeat at Bnenos Ayres, and 
lost their colours tiiere (afterwards re- 
covered), thanks to a laah and mcompetent 

One of the most daehing exploits of tba 
Peninsalar war was achieved by the greua- 
dief company of the Seventy - first at 
Yimiera. Captain Alexander Forbes, who 
was ordered to the support of some Brilash 
artillny, saw a &voarable moment fiur a 
swoop, dashed down at a French battery 
immediately in froiit, and carried ofi' four 
guns and a howitzer. In this affair the 
grenadier company had two lieoten&nta 
and thirteen rank and file wouuded, and 
two men killed. The French maJle a 
tremendous -efibrt with cavalry and in- 
fautry te maptnre the guns, but in vain. 
On this day George Clark, one of the 
pipers of the Seventy-first, being wounded 
and unable to join in the advance, sat down, 
tucked his bagpipes uader his arm, arranged 
his chanter, and struck up a fiivounte 
Scotch regimental air, to the great delig^ 
of his oommdes. 

ITie Seventy-Brat emboa-ked firom Cork 
for the Peninsula June the 27th, 1808, and 
arrived in Portugal August the 1st, losing 
four men, ^lo died of thirst in the first 
day's march. They were soon in the tbick 
of it,andsn&red dreadftiUyfrom the starva- 
tion and fatigoes of the terrible retreat to 
Coruuna. Hungry and shoeless, the poop 
fellows had to tran^, fighting, over bajren 
wastes of moontam snow, till many a 
brave fellow lay down to die in' despair. 
Their march over the snow could be tracked 
by the blood from ib& men's wounded feat^ 
and, to add to the& miseiy, the soldiers 
were forced, in turns, to drag the baggage. 
The men eyed each other with looks that 
seemed to say, " If you were dead I would 
have your shoes." ■"Near Villa Franca," 
says one of the Seventy-first, " numy came 
up to the army dreadtnlly cut and wounded 
by the French cavalry, who rode through 
the long lines of these lame, defenceless 
wretches, slashing amongst thorn as a 
schoolboy does amongst thistles. Some of 
them, faint and bleeding, were forced to 
pass along the line as a warning to others. 
Cruel warning ! Could the urgenqy of the 
occasion justly it P There wae something 
in the appearance of these poor, emaciated, 
lacerated wretclios that sickened ipe to 
look upon. Many around mo said..'par 
commanders are worse thau the fVoqoh. 
Will they not even let us die in peace, if 
they cannot help os ?' " Tct in the midst 


Oiriu DldUDs.] 

at thia torpor and de^>air the 
£rst men wonld etill roiue at the fire of 
gttR, &ce the Freoob, and form with ihe 
other stragglere. 

In May, 1810, mx oompaiiies of the 
SeTaotj-firet eiabarked in two Srigatee 
&)m JJoU to retnro to the war. On Ooto- 
ker the 14tk of that year the regiment hod 
a tnm at Ihe Frsnoh, and distinKoiBhed 
themselves at Bahral de Monte ^graco. 
folonel Cadogan oalled to the men as they 
jaarcbed oat: 

" My lodo, this iB the £rat time I have 
«ver been in with yoa ; show me mhat, yon 
Ban do^DOw or aever." 

Ths Seronty-fiist replied with « lend 
«heer, asd pnnhed formtrd. Driven baok 
to GaJlowa Hill, they were attacked the 
atxi monaag. " Dming the night," sa^s 
ttne of (he Sevnriy-firBt, who wae pKsent, 
"we FeoeiTed orders to cover the bnglee 
and tartaiB of our bonnets with Uaok 
«n^ lEhich had been, served to as daring 
&B day, and to pot on our great-ooats. 
Neit morning the Ft«neh, seeing as thus, 
thoDght w« had vetircd, and leEb only Forto- 
gneee to guard the heights. With dread- 
fnl ahoats theyleapedover tbatwall before 
which tiiej had panasd when it -was guarded 
1^ British. We were scaroe able to with- 
stand their iarj. To retreat was im- 
possible, all b^iind being ploughed luid, 
rendered deep by the rain. There was 
■ot a moment to heaitate. To it we fell 
peU-tneil, French and Britid mixed tc- 
getber. It was a taifd of strength in 
«in{^ -oombat ; every man bad bia oppo- 
nent i many had two. I got one ap to the 
nil on the point of my b^on^ He waa 
oabntt ; I wonld have ^Mj«d him, bnt he 
would not spare himself. He osreed aad 
d^ad me, nor oeaeed to attack my life 
utd he fell, pierced 1^ my bayonet ; his 
b-eatfa died away in a cnrse ta^ menaoe. 
lUs -was the woric of a laameat ; I wae 
eomp^ed to this ^teemity. I was agua 
attacked, bat my antagonist fell, pieroed 
1^ a sandom shot. We -aoaa forced them 
to ndire over the wall, onrsing their mis- 
t^e. At this mament I stood gasping for 
breaUi ; sot a shoe on my feet ; my bonnet 
had fallen to the ffronnd. Unmindful of 
my otnation, I followed the enemy over 
tM wall. We purened them abont a mile, 
and then fell baok to the scene of our 
■tni^e. It was coTered with dead and 
wounded ; bonnets and shoes were trunpled 
uid stack in the mad. I recovered a pair 
of shoes ; whether they had been miue or 
not I oannot tell. They were good. He/re 
I first gat any plander. A French soldier 

PhT >,iim 16 

lHy upoo the ground dead ; he had fallen 
backwarde; his hat had fallen off Hb 
bead, which was kept ap by Us knapsat^. 
I strock the hat with my Se&b, ajad felt it 
rattle ; eeized it in a monunt^ and fooud 
in the lining a gold 'watoh a»d silver 
crncifiz. I lupt them, as I had as good a 
right to them as any othw ; yet they were 
act valnable in mv eettmatien.. At this 
time our life wae held I:^ so iBioertain a 
teauie, and my oomfarts were so aoanty, 
that I woald have gdvea tJie watoh wil- 
lingly for a good meid and a dty shirt." 

In. this battle, one u£ the Sev»a^-&«t, 
named Sae, a native of Fwsk>j, and tite 
eldest man io Hm Dement, not foeiog so 
active in i^soending ^^ wall as the Test, 
oboee ooniogeensly to stand im gsoond 
alone; the fii«t enemy that a^quDached 
he shot 4ead, the nest he bayoneted, 
a third shared the' same kke, and the 
anoieat faeiv thm cooly efilected iaa re- 
treat. Anotiwr man, while dating over 
the wall, receiyed no fewer than a dooen 
ballets tbFOBgh his great-coat ^nd-cuiteen 
without Baff^og a angle wound in any 
part of his body. Bat a tlard poor fellow 
did not escape so w^ ; he had, for se- - 
cority'a sake, oonningly palled as many 
stones oat of the wall as would admit the 
moKle of bis moaket. While be wae in a 
croaching attitnde, preparing to keep ap 
an inoeasant fire on the enemy troia bis 
loophole, a ball ataae from them, and, by a 
remarkaUe aocideittv ontored the ^>ertare 
and his eye at 4ihe same instwat, laying 
faim dead on tlie spot. 

At Fnentes d'Onoro Hba meat had had no 
bread for two dsys, cmd were weary wllb a 
long miHvh, yet iitiey fought like heroes. 
Colonel Gadogan pat himself at tli«ar head, 
saying: "My lads, you have had no pro- 
vieioa these two days ; tlhere is plenty in 
the hollow in frcait ; let ns down ajid di- 
vide it." "We advanoed," saya an eye- 
witness, " as qnick as we ooald mn, and 
met the light oowpaniee retreating as fast 
aa they ooald. We ocmidnued to advance 
at doable qoiok Ume, oar firdo<^ at the 
trail, oar bonneta in oar hands. They 
called to as, ' Seventy-first, yon will eome 
baok quicker than yon advance.' We aoon 
oame fall in &ont of the enemy. The 
colonel cries, .' Here is food, my lads, cnt 
away.' Thrice we waved our bonnets, and 
thrice we cheered, brought onr firelock to 
the charge, and feroed the French back 
through the town." 

In thia action the Frendi shouted, and 
oame raging to the very points of the 
bayonets ; bnt the Sevsnty-firstf aiter oar 

16 [H»j >^ iwa.] 



first haazR, were eileiit as denth, and all 
that could be heard wns theofficerB Bayinp, 
in on under tone, " Steady, lade, steady. ' 
The Serenty-firat parsaed the French a 
mile out of the town, trampling over the 
dead and ivonnded, were then forced back 
by the cavalry, yet still kept the town in 
spite of the ntmoat efforts of the enemy. 
The SevOTity-first lost a great number of 
men, and thesoldierwhoeejoumal we Have 

a noted, Bays, "Often was I obliged during 
le cavalry charges to stand with a foot 
on each side of a wounded comrade, who 
wrong my eonl with prayers I could not 
answer, and pierced my heart with his cries 
to be lifted ont of the way of the cavalry. 
While my heart bled for them I have 
shaken them mdely off. Many of the men 
this day fired one hundred and seven 
rounds of ball cartridge, till their shoulders 
were black as coala. When the wounded 
had been brought in, many of whom had 
lain bleeding a day and a night, the French 
brought down their bauds on a level piece 
of gronnd near the Seventy-first, and the 
men danced and played football till snnset. 
The next day the French picked out five 
regiments of grenadiers to storm the town." 
"About half- past nine o'clock," says 
the author of a Journal of a Soldier of 
the Beventy-firat, '.'a great gnu from 
the French line, which was answered by 
one from ours, was the signal to en- 
gage. Down the French came, shouting 
as usual. We kept them at bay, in spite 
of their cries and fonnidable looks. How 
different their appearance from ours. Their 
hate set ronnd with feathers, their beards 
long and black, gave them a fierce look ; 
their stature was superior to dure. Most 
of us were young. We looked like boya^ 
they like savages. Bnt we had the tme 
spirit in ns. We foiled them in every 
attempt to take the town, until abont 
eleven o'clock, when we were overpowered 
and forced through the streets, contesting 
every inch. A French dragoon, who was 
dealing death aronnd, forced his way up to 
near where I stood. Every moment I ex- 
pected to be cat down. Uy piece was 
empty, there was not a moment to lose. I 
got a stab at him beneath the ribs, upwards. 
He gave a back stroke before he fell, and 
Qut the stock of my musket in two. Thus 
I stood unarmed. I soon got another fire- 
look, and fell to work again." In these 
affiurs the Seventy-first lost fonr ofiicerB 
(two taken prisoners) and torn hnndred 
men killed and wounded. Fuentos was, 
indeed, a day of glory and- a day of sorrow 
to the Seventy-first. 

In a skimiieh at Alba Tormes, when the 
Seventy-first were lining a wall, and the 
French were in great strength in front, a 
brave lad, letting his hat, fall of cartridges, 
fidl over, laid his musket against the w&U, 
vaulted over to the enemy's side, recovered 
his hat, and throagh a tremendous fire 
leaped back Uke a deer, unburti " Though 
not, as a rule, disposed to plunder, the 
Seventy - first, when hard pushed, were 
no great respecters of persons, and at Alba 
Tormes the temptation was too strong to 
resist," says the soldier in his jounial. 
" There was a mill on the river-side, near 
the bridge, wherein a number of our men 
were helping themselves to flour daring 
the time the others were fording. Onr 
colonel rode down and forced them oat, 
throwing a handlul of fiour on each 
man as he passed out of the mill. When 
we were drawn up on the height, he 
rode along the column, looking tor the 
millers, as we called them. At this 
moment a hen pat her bead out of his 
coat-pocket, and looked first to one side 
and then to another. We began to langh ; 
we could not restrain ourselves. He looked 
amazed and furious, then around. At 
length the major rode up to him, and re- 
quested him to kill the fowl outright and 
put it into his pocket. The colonel in his 
turn laughed, and the millers were no 
longer looked after." 

At Vittoria the Seventy-first fought fa- 
riously, and suffered hearily. " The firing 
was now very heavy," says asoldier who was 
present. "Our rear had not engaged before 
word came for the doctor to assist Colonel 
Cadc^an, who was wounded. Immediately 
we charged up the hill, the piper playing 
Hey, Johnny Cope. The French had pos- 
session of the top, but we soon forced them 
back, and drew up in column on the height, 
sending out four companies to our left to 
skirmish. The remainder moved on to the 
As we advanced, driving 
before us, a French officer, a pretty 

very harsh. ' Down with him !' cried on© 
near me, and down he fell, pierced by 
more than one ball. Scarce were we upon 
the height when a beavy oolnmn, dressed 
in great-coats, with white covers on their 
hate, exactly resembling the Spanish, gave 
us a volley, which put as to the right-about 
at double quick time down the hill, the 
French close behind, through the whins. 
The fonr companies got the word the 
French were on them. They likewise 
thought them Spaniards, until they got a 


Cluirlea Diokou,] 


[M.y»,l»J3.] 17 

Tolle; that killed or wounded almost every 
one of them. We retired, covered by the 
Fiftieth, who gave the porsniiiK colnmn a 
volley which checked their apeed." 

And what a price this aplecdid regiment, 
the Seventy-first, paid for their victory! 
Seven handred men out of one thomiand 
were left on the field. The Scotch soldiers 
hong theip beads, and were silent that night 
round the camp fires on the heights above 
Vittoria, and there were tears in many an 
eye when the pipers played : 

\Tb J did 1 1«T« mj Jeumia, m; dkddj'i cot Uid a'l 
To mtadei from mj canntrr— iweet Caledonia P 
At the battle of Orthes, M'Rae, a brave 
piper of the Seventy-firet, was killed. A 
comrade of his, who wrote Ticiseitades in 
the Life of a Scottish Soldier, says of this 
wild fighter : " M'Bae, onr heroic mnsi- 
cian, fell to rise no more. This strange 
being was &F from possessing the ordinary 
coobiess of Scotchmen. Althongh his pro- 
fession absolved him from intermixing with 
the combatants, yet, on hearing the noise 
of an engagement, he seemed to be seized 
with an irresistible fury, catching np a 
pole or a firelock, and mshing into the 
thickest of the fight, dealing blows with 
the greatest force and efficiency, Bnt fate 
ont short his career at Aire ; ho had there 
even exceeded his former valorons exploite, 
having levelled many a foe with the aid of 
his trusty pole ; bnt jnst as he was poising 
it on high to inanre a weighty blow npon a 
French soldier's skall, the man anticipated 
him, by firing the shot which stretched him 
lifeless in the dnst. Certainly it may be 
nid of the donghty M'Bae that ' swords he 
soiled at, weapons laughed to scorn.' " 

At Waterloo the Seventy-first plucked 
their lost and largest botagh of lanrel. No 
regiment fought with more ardour and 
coolness. Charged time after time by 
cninseiers and lancers, the Seventy-first 
ihrerfr them off as a bnll tosses dogs. The 
tDminif moment of the battle is thus de- 
Bcribed by one of the Seventy-first them- 
•elves. A soldier of the Seventy-first eays : 
" The artillery had been tearing away since 
daybreak, in different parts of the line. 
Abont twelve o'clock, we received orders 
to fall in for attack. We then marched 
«p to onr position, where we lay on 
the face of a brae, covering a brigade 
rfguns. We were so overcome by the 
fatigue of the two days' march, that 
Bcarce had we leun down, nntil many of as 
fell asleep. I slept sotuid for some time, 
while the cannon-balls, plunging in amongst 
B^ killed a great many. I was suddenly 
. awakened ; a ball stmck the ground a little 

below me, tamed me heels over head, 
broke my mnsket in pieces, and Hllod a lad 
at my side. I was stnnned and coufueed, 
and knew not whether I was wonnded or 
not. I felt a nombnees in my arm for 
some time. We lay thus about on hour and 
a half tmder a dread&l fire, which cost aa 
abont sixty men, while we had never fired 
a shot. The balls were falUng thick amongst 
ns. The young man I lately spoke of, lost 
his legs by a shot at this time. They 
were cut very close, he soon bled to death, 
' Tom,' said he, ' do not tell my mother how 
I died ; if she saw me it would break hei 
heart ; good-bye. God bless my parents,' 
bis lips qnivered, and he died." Abont 
two P.M., the French lancers came down 
huzzaing, to chaige the brigade of gun^, 
behind which stood the Seventy - first. 
In a moment the men blocked into a equaro. 
The general cried, " Seventy-first, I have 
often heard of yonr bravery. I hope it 
will not be less to-day than usual. " Tho 
lancers were soon pat to the right-about. 
After throwing off several more charges the 
Seventy-first moved on in column, then 
formed line, charged, and drove back the 
enemy. Just then a dashing squadron 
bore down forionsly through tne roar and 
smoke upon the Seventy-first. " We had 
scarce time to form," says a soldier pro- 
sent. " The square was only complete in 
" t, when they were upon tho points 
ir bayonets. Many of our men were 
of place. There was a good deal of 
jostling for a minute or two, and a good deal 
of laughing. Our quarter-master lost his 
bonnet in riding into the square, snatched it 
up, put it on back foremost, and wore it 
thns all day. Not a moment had we to 
regard our dress. A French general lay 
dead in the square; he had a number of 
ornaments upon his breast. Our men fell 
to plucking them off, pushing each other as 
they passed, and snatching at them. We 
stood in square for some time, whilst the 
Thirteenth Dragoons and a squadron of 
French dragoons were engaged. The 
Thirteenth Dragoons i:«tiring to the rear of 
our column, we gave the French a volley, 
which pnt them to the right-about, then the 
Thirteenth at them again. They did this 
for some time, we cheermg the Thirteenth, 
and feeling eveiy blow they received. 
When a Frenchnuui fell wc shouted, and 
when one of the Thirteenth we groaned. 
We wished to join them, bnt were forced to 
stand in square. The whole army retired 
to the heights in the rear, the French 
closely pursuing to onr formation, where 
we stood, four deep, for a considerable time. 

18 [MAjs,im.-i 



As we fell back, a shot out tke straps of- tiie 
knapsack of one near me; it fell, and wos 
rolling away; lie np, saying, ' I 
am not going to looe yon in that way, yon 
are ^ I hftTo in the wori^,' tied it on the 
best manner lie could, and morclied on." 

At that moment Lord Wellington, rode 
np, and entered tbe Seventy- first's Bqnare, 
which was expecting OKraixj. The whole 
army received tbe thrilling ord^ to ad- 
vance. It was attack now, not defence, 
and after a brief and bloody straggle the 
French gave way, and Waterloo waa won. 

The Seventy-firat has since t&tingni^ed 
itaelC in the Crimean war and in the lodiaa 
mntiny, where mapy a Paody^ fell before 
their bayonets. 


Is Upper Heaee thcr^ is a chain of 
monntains called the Vogeleberg, which is 
at once notable for the abandance of 
popular legends, remembered to this day 
bj the peasantry, and for the ch^acter of 
the legends themselves. Rarely is more 
popblitf mythology, dating immediatelj 
from heathenism, to be foond than in a 
small collection of Hessian folk-lore made 
by Herr Bindewald, an antiquary habitu- 
ated, from childhood npwards, to the 
Vogelsberg and its nei^hboorhood, and re- 
joicing in tbe fact that in this, his favonrite 
district, people still " say and sing." One 
great feature in tbe few legends which we 
give here, is their purely non-historical 
character. When, as in. the legends of the 
KiffhJiuser,* we find a veritable emperor 
sleeping for ages in some subterranean 
chamber, we may bo perfectly sure that 
the historical element is an intmder, and 
tliat neither Frederic nor Otho are entitled 
to the strange dignities that have been 
tlirust npon them. History does not breed 
myth, but myth ve^ frequently condenses 
itself into a sort of history, or accommo- 
dates itself thereto ; that is to say, people 
often have a knack of slipping a noted his- 
torical personage into the place of some 
forgotten deity, who himself was only tbe 
incarnation of some natural phenomenon. 
A notorions illustration of tbe doctrine 
here proponnded is to be fonnd in the 
Btorjr of William Tell, wliich, even now, is 
publicly accepted as a record of fiicta by 
nearly all who have not especially studied 
the subject. Tell, if he ever existed, which 
is extremely doubtful, must have floarishod 

"SaeAlJ.zaBYuBKo1IHD,^'«wHerie^rDl.Tii. p, lU*. 

in ibe beginning of the fourteenth century, 
during the reign of Albert the First, of 
Aoetna; but in the Edda of Seemnndns, 
which is written in the eleventh century, 
and contxuna the teaditions of ages preoed* 
ing, we find our patriotic friend in tfae 
Bhap« of a Norse prince, who lived nobody 
knows where, and performed tbe apple 
feat exactly in the Swiss fashion. Nfl>y, to- 
WM^ the end of the fifteenth century, Tell 
tm^is up again with the new name, Hem- 
ming Wulfen von Wavelsflet, a leader of 
the Bo>cidled Bitmarsohen, who lived near 
the month of the Elbe, and valiantly de- 
fended their privileges against Christian, 
King of Denmark. In this revived drama, 
while Wnlibn von Waveldet represented 
Tell, tiie pact of Gtesster wtis ~Bnetained by 
King Christian, but the "min incident re- 
maiiied onaltei-ed. The fact is, the stoir 
-belcoiged to the old Norse mythology, and 
aa it rolled down the oonrse of time, it 

e' iked up Tell and Wnlfen in its passage, 
the prodnotaon of the following legends, 
the kiMwledge of which is dmived from 
oral tnuiliti<m, no snch opHstion took 
place. The Wild Hunt«man is the god 
Odin, whonLtha early ChristianB converted 
into a sort of fiend ; the White Lady is the 
being, really benefioent, who, in Qerman 
mythology, is- called sometimes Hilda or 
Holle, aometames Ferabta or Bertha. 

The Wild Huntsman, whose appearance, 
wjth a pack of skeleton hounds, is regarded 
as an evil omen by the bullet-tbunders in 
Der Freischiits, is a personage very ^miliar 
to the peasHits of Hesse. In the 'olden 
time it was believed he made a point, to- 
wards the end of every autnmn, of deeoend- 
Ing, after vespers, from the Vogelsberg into 
the valley below, his path being always de- 
noted by a fiery streak along the sky, and 
his paesage being accompanied by a mingled 
sound of creaking wheels, cracked wbips^ 
and clanging trumpets, with which was 
mingled a combination of the (Afferent 
voices proper to every' variety of man, 
bird, and beast. The neighbouring forest 
at the stone time became so thoroughly 
lighted that every leaf was vifflble. lake 
ordinary mortals, the Wild Huntsman was, 
however, subject to accidents. Once, as 
be was riding along with more than usual 
speed, one of the wheels came off his 
chariot, and fell to the ground with a noise 
like a dap of thunder. 

The Wild Hnntsman is lees frequently 
seen than heard. One night a peasant, 
coming to a cross-road on his way home, 
heard the neighing of a horse, sometimes 
behind, Bometinies before him. Presently 


ra.] 19 

he heard likewise the noise of an Approach- 
ing carriage, bat tboDgtt there was a bright 
moonlight, nothisff nas to be seen. At 
last the whole invisible train raebed paet 
him witii Bnch a "close shaTO," that, for 
the moment, he f^cied himself mn over. 
Fortanatdy he had soffered no injary, be- 
pnd a teirible fHght, and when, on reach- 
ing home, be told the story to his grand- 
fiitner, he was Bomcrwhat mortified to per- 
ceive that he had cansed no sensation. 

"Ab," Biud tbegoodoldman,''no donbt 
JOB have mot the Wild Hanteman ; that's 
jnat his way." Familiarity had bred con- 

Shepherds, it has been obsM-ved, have 
riuuper eyes fbr spectres thMi any otber 
dUs of iiie community. On the eve of one 
Advont Snniby, in the vicinity of the 
Vogeleberg, an old shepherd was sleeping 
in his hot. A terrific storm arose, and a 
voice eamethnndering from the neigh boor- 
ing forest, " ^epberd, shepherd, show me 
the way." Opening hiedoor, tlie shepherd 
perceived a man with an enormons dog 
walking npamd down Hie skirts of tlfe 
fi»vet. ' 

"Whence do yon comeP" he asked. 

" yonder," was the r^ly. 
"Where does this lead ?" 

"To the Wetteraus." 

The oonversatioB woald probabbr have 
poceeded Anther, had not the shepherd's 
di^ crept between his master's legs, and 
■ttered a dismal howl. Knowing that 
lAereghoste are conoemed dogs are sharper 
e*^ than shepherds, the old man re-entered 
Ue hot, and closed the door. Bat he still 
heard the call, " Shepherd, shepherd I" till 
it &ded away in the distance. 

Near Uerlan, a town at the western foot 
of Die Togelsherg, is a forest called the 
Linnee, in whioh the manifestations of the 
Wild Hnntsman's visitations are excep- 
tiimally coospicnoos. There, on themorn- 
img ai^r one of his nenal ridee, the hares 
mit he bad taken were found hanging from 
fte Biuiimts of the trees. On one parti> 
ednr pathway throngh the forest a. more 
frofitaole discovery might be made on the 
Mate day. Fcom a partacnlar tree bang a 
h^e pair of trank-hose, and some of the 
pMsen-by heard a voioe crying, "Brnah 
me down ! brash me down !" He who 
«teyied t^is command, and, when his task 
was done, pnt his hand into one of the 
packets, was sore to -find an old silver 
doD^ tk nncommon weight — neither more 
aor less. No awkward compact was im- 
plied in the acceptance of the coin, nor did 
It taring ibo owner into disrepute with his 

neighbours, the dollars being considered a 
fair payment for a job honestly done. Nay, 
only persons bom on a Incky day were able 
to perform the required service. Less 
fortunate wights, who heard tbe call, were 
compelled to remain staring at the hose, 
and conid not pnrsne their jonmey till these 
had vanished. 

To a giri of Michelbach, a place in tbe 
same district, the Wild Hnntaman conde- 
scended to show himself in a remarkable 
manner, not at night, but at noon. She 
was on her way to a field, where, by her 
fother's order, she was to cnt the com, and 
SBddenly heard the nsnal sonnd of whips 
and horses, but, whereas tbe darkness "was 
^ways exchanged for light during the 
nocturnal chases, light was on this occasion 
termed iuto darkness. The whole hunt 
then became visible. A flock of ravens, 
notoriously the birds of Odin, led tbe way, 
then followed twelve white hoonds, and 
among them was the veritable Wild 
Enntsman, dad in green, mounted on a 
tall horse, and— without a head. 

Sometimes tbe Wild Hnutsman was fond 
of playing off practical jokes on the simple 
Hessians. He was in the habit of passing 
a certain house, and had became so familiar 
that on one occasion tbe poor children who 
resided there, and had nothing but dry bread 
to eat, asked him on his passage to fling 
to them a piece of cheese. An enormous 
lump of the desired article fell down bo- 
fore them, but it appealed so fproibly to 
their noses that it never found its way to 
their months. Another trick, much more 
maUcions than droll, was played on a girl 
who Was tending cattle near a wood. A 
tall huntsman suddenly stood before her, 
and asked her if she had seen bis white 
goose. On hearing her answer in the ne- 
gative, he snatched up a calf as readily 
as if it had weighed only a couple of ounces, 
sprang into the forest, and, after a short 
interval, returned with the calf entirely 
stripped of its hair. " There is a white 
goose for you," he said, and immediately 

It is a cnriona fnct that the Wild Hunts- 
man is associated in the minds of the 
Hessian peasants with the Assyrian 
monarch, Nimrod. This " mighty banter," 
whom.we have always been tanght to regard 
aa a mcraclo of impiety and presumption, 
was, according to the Hessian legend, 
lying upon bis deatb-bed, when ho was 
accosted by the Deity, who asked him 
whether he would go tw heaven or continue 
his fevonrite pursuit of hunting. Without 
hesitation, he chose the latter alternative. 

(M«y 3. 1878.) 



and he and his companions were doomed to 
a perpetual hnnt, witboat repose. 

White Ladies, of a kind very different 
from the one associated with, the royal 
house of Hohenzollern, likewife abound in 
the region of the Vogelsbei^. On the 
Griinberg, a moantoin at the western ex- 
tremity of the chain, stands an ancient 
convent, which has been converted into a 
castle, and become the habitual residence 
of local magistrates. The nnmarried 
sister of one of these had sat ap till 
nearly midnight abont the time of Advent, 
when the door of her room slowly opened 
and twelve beantifol mcudena entered, who, 
forming* circle, sang the most lovely chorus 
ever heard by hnman ears. The yoong 
woman ecarody knew whether to be pleased 
or terrified. At last she exclaimed, '' This 
is a visit indeed!" At these words the 
twelve strangers vanished, but the soand 
of their voices without waa audible for a 
few moments afterwards. The notion that 
White Ladies are not happy, is illustrated 
by a legend connected with an old castle, of 
which no trace at present remains. After 
midnight, however, it reappears in all its 
pristine magnificence, and with its windows 
brightly illuminated, as though for the cele- 
bration of a feast. On sncE occasions the 
young lady of the castle is sometimes 
visible. She is very beantiftil, and wears a 
snow-white dress, but she never speaks, 
and always seems to bo lamenting her past 
glory and praying for fatnre salvation. 

The belief that a salvation, only to be 
acquired under the most exceptional cir- 
cumstances, is the cause alike of hope and 
sorrow in a White Lady, is more developed 
in a tradition respecting an old shepherd 
of Liederbach, who was encountered by one 
of those strange beings. She implored him 
to work ont her salvation, and on his inquir- 
ing how this was to be effected, she desired 
him to bring bis little boy to the sa 
spot, at the same hour, on the foUowi 
morning. If she gave the child three 
kisses, she said the corse that laid heavily 
upon her would be removed, and that she 
would reward the shepherd with the keys of 
the Uiirchberg, a meuntain near the town 
of Iiensel, thus making him master of all 
the treasures which in the olden time had 
been buried by the Grey Friars. 

The offer was too tempting, and pn the 
following morning the shepherd was ac- 
companied by his little boy. At about 
eleven o'clodc the lady made her appear- 
ance and snatohed up the child. But her 
style of beauty was not at all to the taste 
of the little fellow, who, alarmed by her 

marble- white face and extremely large 
eyes, screamed so lustily that his father 
felt himself bound to tear him from her 
. by main force. Enraged at this dis- 
appointment of her dearest nopes, the lady 
flnng the bundle of iron keys with so much 
force at the shepherd, that his arm remained 
braised for the remainder of his life. She 
declared in a mournful voice that she 
must now wander withoat repose until a 
sprig of hazel that grew upon the Miirch- 
berg h^d become a big tree, and a cradle 
had been fashioned from its wood. The 
first child rocked in that cradle could 
procure her salvation. She then vanished, 
id the shepherd never saw her afterwards. 

is noteworthy that in these legends the 
approach of noon seems to be as &vourable 
to the appearance of spectres as the ap- 
proach of midnight. 

The conditions by which the salvation of 
White Ladies ia to he effected' seems al- 
together arbitrary. The story b told of a 
foundling, nicknamed the " Bettelkaspar," 
who had been brought np in the vUlage 
Sichenhausen, and was accustomed for years 
to tend cattle on the Altenberg, an old 
mountain in the neighbourhood ; but there 
is a peculiarity in this mountain that bad 
entirely escaped his notice ; namely, a deep 
hole on the summit. If any one ilea down 
and places his ear there, or stamps upon 
the ground, he will plainly perceive from 
that sound that he is over a deep hollow. 

One evening, while the Bettelkaspar was 
sitting near iho orifice eating his dry 
bread, a grey little man, with a pleasant 
expression of coui^enanoe, suddenly stood 
before him. He was very small, very old, 
and his beard was white aa snow. 

" Ton are the very man I want," ex- 
claimed the dwarf, " for you have neither 
fether, mother, nor home, and nobody 
knows rightly who yon are. Through this 
fortunate circumstance yon are in a condi- 
tion to effect the rescue of two beautiful 
maidens, who are^U-bonnd inthismonn* 
ttun. Come to-morr»w, at noon, wiih 
your cattle, withont telling anybody what 
yon have heard. The young ladies will 
then make their appearance, and yon have 
nothing more to do but to carry their 
bundles and to soar with them through the 
air te Mount Sinai, where the keys of the 
Altenberg are kept, which you will receive 
aa your reward. The maidens will be freed 
from the curse, and you will open a sub- 
terranean door, and find a great store of 
casks, some filled with choicest wines, 
others filled with the purest gold.'' 

The Bettelkaspar so &r kept hisword, that 


[lUy !, 18T3.J 21 

be told his wii^ notHng that )iad happened, 
ttoo^ he ordered her to get his break- 
&Gt read; somewhat earlier than Qeaal, 
aad set off for the Altenberg. Precisely 
atnooD, the little man was again before 
bim, accompanied this time hj the two 
maidens, whom he treated with the greatest 
reverence. They were very tall, and their 
featares were extremely regular, but their 
feces were nncommonly pale'. Not only 
were their garments white, bnt they had 
Tftite kerchiefs on their heads, and wore 
white shoes. Their bandies lay at their feet. 

The dwarf told the Bettelkaspar to pat 
the handles on his back with all possible 
speed, as "something" might otherwise 
come, ^hich wonld carry off the whole 
party. However, all things considered, 
there was no great danger. 

A sodden misgiving came over the cow< 
herd, and he stood motionless, reflecting 
that the wind, instead of wafting him 
safely to the end of his jonmey, might 
possibly drop hint into the water. Jost 
as he was abont to give verbal expression 
to his ihooghts, the-yonng ladies stftrtled 
him with a piercing shriek, and, looking 
behind him, he saw a tall, black, horrible- 
looking man, who breathed fire ont of his 
month. He now shonted in his turn, 
oherenpon all that was beantifiil, and all 
tbat was ngly, vanished in a twinkling, 
and he found himself ^one with his hnmc 
of diy bread and his cattle. The fright 
prov^ too much for him, and he was dead 
and baried before the following spring. 

One legend of the district treate, indeed, 
of A White Lady who hannts the Bilatein, 
a monntain near Lanterboch, and who is 
said to have been the daughter of a king, 
who mnrdered her &ther, because he 
wonld not consent to her marriage with a 
man of low degree. lake the others she 
implores all who come near her to work 
out her salvation. Bnt generally, it will be 
seen, the Whit« Lady is essentially a bene- 
ficent being, whose misery arises, not from 
any crime committed dnrihg a mortal life, 
bat from that false position in which a 
heathen deity mnet be placed after the 
conversion of a people to Christianity. 
In modem times toe peraonal existence of 
pagBUgodBis, of conrse, ntterly disbelieved; 
but it was not so in earlier ages. Saint 
Angnstin and other &thers of tiie Chnrch, 
far from wholly rgeoting the Greek and 
Roman mythology as a tissne of mere 
fables, maint^ned that the false deities 
were actual demons, who soagfat to divert 
the mind of man from the trath. The. 
same view frequently appears in popular 

legends, and we may refer particularly to 
Lndwig Teich's beanttfal story of the 
Faithful Eckbart, according to which the 
Goddess Venns reigns in a mountain, 
led afler her, as a foe to Christianity. 
In the Hessian legends given above, the 
revered Odin has become a hateful spectre, 
the amiable Bertha a helpless mourner, 
vainly sighing for redemption. 



Miss Corihna Nagle was now in London, 
having gone np to seek her fortune, like so 
' roes and heroines before her. It 
might be pronounced that she was fairly 
capable of working her way, having so 
readily cast off those who loved her, or that 
she was constituted of much too stem stufl* 
to excite sympathy or interest. Yet this 
wonld be nnfoir judgment. She had a 
certain stoical coldness, bat, above all, a 
vast store of pride, and, as we have seen, 
she shrank from the mortifications that bad 
attended her. She might, indeed, have 
tolerated the effects of those that had 
passed, bat her father's strange temper, 
and ourions insensibility to delicacy, where 
money or interest was concerned, made the 
fature a source of peril for her. She had, 
therefore, cast off^l shrinking or timidity, 
and was in London, at homble lodgings, 
determined to work for her bread. 

Almost at starting she was to feel the 
mortification, the despondency which at- 
tends that operation. The great opera 
bonse manager was somehow a different 
being in bis own kingdom to what he was 
in a conntiT town. Here he became at 
once more bard and praciicfil, and more 
"diffionlt," Evervthing was to be "by- 
and-bye." By-and-bye, when she had ac- 
quired practice and sloll, be wonld see what 
could he done. This " by-and-bye" meant, 
of course, two or three years. At that time 
there was a chance that she might be en- 
rolled in his tronpe, say, as Uademoiselle 
Corinne, or, as her father had so often 
dreamed of, the Signora Naglioni, coming 
on in white, as a white-robed " recipient" of 
the confidences of the leading lady of the 
opera. This was not a brilliant prospect, 
bat Corinna was not discouraged. 

She secored a sort of home in one of the 
interminable little new streets in Pimlico 
with an elderly lady, to whom she had been 
I recommended, and there began her serious 


as tirijs, 


studies. She then began to look out for 
papils. Look for pnpila ! the most hope- 
iesB and diBCOuraging task in the world ; 
for the most hopeless and diacooraging 
being in the world is the wiatfnl creatnre, 
male or female, who wants to teaoh French, 
German, tho piano, the Tiolin, or the guitar, 
or to form the human Toice. Tins operation 
has the air of a benefaction, and of a obari- 
table work, bnt it ie, in truth, a charity 
intended for the teachor, a wishing, not so 
moch to teach, as to be snpportod. The 
appeal mna not so much " Do let me teach 
yon!" bnt "Support me!" In fact, the 
nnmber of woald-be teachers runs nearer 
the nnmber of those capable of being tangbt 
than wonld be snpposed. Up this stony 
acclivity, however, the lovely Corinna detei"- 
mined to toO. She went through the re> 
gutar course, first patting herself into the 
hands of one of those nsefnl merchants 
who sapply tenors and sopranos, players, 
teachers, actors, postnrera, oi^an-grinders, 
even, at the shortest notice, and, alas ! in 
platoons. It is amazing what an amount 
of finished talent is kept iu stock by these 
people — the graceful singers, the interest- 
ing foreigners, who will warble a French 
romance m a drawing-room with a dramatic 
charm that wonld delight the most exacting 
connoisBenr. There was, besides, the great 
musical firm who &rmed out troupes of 
singing men and women, to scour the 
oonnt^, and who sent artists out to even* 
log p^iea, either to sing or play. This 
patrona^ Corinna secured through the 
good offices of the opera director, who, 
though unwilling to pledge his own re- 
sources, was not insensible to the charms 
of so handsome a creature, and really 
exerted his great infiuence for her in these 
less important directions. 

Thna, thcai, the lovely Corinna set forth 
on ber toilsome and painfiil course, ready 
to go through any drudgeiy. It waa a 
joyful boar when she learned that she was 
to attend at "Mrs. George Longpride's," 
wife to the eminent banker, and who had 
a p al atial mansion at Kensington. This 
gentleman had everything on the most 
magnificent scale, and gave everythiog in 
"style," as it is called. He had no 
tasto for mnsio, beyond recognising some 
famihar air like Anld Lang Syne, a teat 
which represents a vast amonnt of popular 
musical knowledge, and hired bis mnsio as 
be hired his shrubs and waiters for the 
night, " ordering them" at a moaio-shop. 

It was a noble house, with marble stair- 
case, cooservatoiy, rich furnitOEe, and pio- 
torea, all bought by contract. Gilding was 

daubed on profusely in every direction, 
everything w&s gaudy and magnificent. In 
the large drawing- rooms long rows of ohairs 
had b«n set out, while in the inner r " 
a platform had been erected, where w 
held, in confinement as it were, and railed 
off round an imposing piano-forte, the band 
of ladies and gentlemen who were to contri- 
bute to the entertainment of the evening. 
Here waa Signer Gentili, the fashionable 
professor who taught singing to the young 
ladiea of the house at a guinea a leRSon, and 
who had been intrusted with the lucrative 
■^ob" of oontrftcting with tbe performers. 
Re had secured tbe gentlemai^y and in- 
teresting young French baritone, who sang 
so tenderly bis little musical "anecdotes" 
in four verses, abont a dying child, or 
abandoned mamnuiB, or soldiers on the 
field of battle taking a last look at pictures 
under their nnifbrm. This artist bad only 
jnst put out OD tbe great London musical 
ocean in bis little akifC, and the chance of 
obtaining a stray passenger or two was 
extended to him, as a favour, by the 
mnaib-master. liiere was foand here, 
too, a tenth - rat« soprano lady, who 
by courtesy belonged to the ranks of 
great opera bouse, and was only called ( 
for her services on tbe ofT nights in t1 
provinces, bnt who assomed all the loily airs 
of a prima donua, and gave ground for tho 
host s boast, often repeated during the night 
to bis guests, of " having tbe opera singers." 
There was also a violin performer, and 
an Italian bullet-beaded mnger who gave 
volubly what ajrpesred to be comic songs, 
but which were only classical " boffo" 
performances. Finally, there was a stately 
girl of great beauty and dignity who at- 
tracted all eyes as she sat there ajwrt 
almost, and who waa set down in the bills 
as Miss Corinna Nagle. The prima donna, 
a portly, bold, well-painted lady,, snifi'ed 
at her somewhat disdainfully, though the 
languishing French baritone and Signor 
Qentili paid her marked attention. It must 
be said that this was not the homage that 
was extended to the general performance, 
for overy song seemed to be ^le signal for 
a univ^sal buzz. There was a room be- 
yond tbe second drawing-room &om whence 
there was no conTenient seeing or hearing, 
and 4iere a lat^ portion of the company 
hivouaoked, more than content with thdr 
seclusion, and utterly nnooDScious that at 
certain intervals bursts of chattering and 
genteel laughter were home in upon tbe 
general audience, to the interruption of tbe 
music. In vain tho hostess, vritb smilce 
and some alarm, timorously deprecated tho 


[»Uy i. 1S7S.) 

noise ; it died away tar a few moments, only 
to Bwell again presently in greater force. 

There was a wiry, grey-haired little 
geiitleoian Bitting in Uie front row, who 
liitened with scmpnlons attention to erery 
{uece, about whom, at the dose of ettch per- 
iormance the host would hover, eagerly aek- 
iug hie opinion. This was one Mr. Dodd, 
Tbo had formerly been a City merobant, 
and was known for hie musical tastes, bis 
"diarmiag parties," bis intimacy with 
the great ladies who robbed sfaont the 
vast opera atages in agonies of mnsical 
emotion, and who oame to his hoase in en- 
joy those choice dlimexs wbioh he was 
selebntted for giving. From the first he 
had been attract«d by Corinna, by ber look 
aid ftttitDde, And still more afbsr it bad 
come to her tarn to «ittg. 

Sbe bad cboseti her old sutg from 
Oipbena. Sbe felt no nerroaanoss. Her 
rich, inll, noble voice floated across tbe Ta* 
cant &oe3, entered tbe rttenat ears wbioh 
ffere turned to her.^ There was no very 
profonnd imprewicm to be produced on 
inch JiEtonera; bat there was a ronnd, 
pathetic tope that Tibrated as it went to the 
bearteof-tboae who bad any taste, and made 
Uiem vibrate. The young men, opes-col- 
lued Adonises, could, however, prononnce 
ciitioally oa what was within their pro- 
vince, mmely,' ber beauty and attmotions ; 
and a bnrst of genteel applause sainted her 
IS she retired, baving snng her song. 

A few momente later, Mr. Dodd was be- 
side her, speaking to tbe conductor : 

" My dear Gentili, introduce me to this 
TOQQg lady. Charmed, delighted. Miss 
Hsgle. Bnt I want to ask yon a qiKetion 
■boat that song. Who -taught yon to sing 
it in that way ? Surely you could never 
hoK met nay old friend Dongbty." 

"Tes," said Oorinna, simply, "it was 
Mr, Doughty who tanght me." 

"How aingnlar," said the other, stMi- 
ing. "I knew bis style. I was.wonder- 
ng all tbe time you weve singing. Good 
^raciohs ! I must talk to yon abont this. 
Jnat allow me to ait down by you, for really 
this is curious." As soon as be bad sat 
down, he said : " So you are the young 
lady P Don't Rtart. I heard all about it. No 
offence, I Rasnreyon." Corinna was draw- 
ing herself up -mih dignity. " The fact is, 
I am one of Doughty's oldest friends, and 
am too well otr, and Uke him too mndi, to 
grudge him his good fortune." 

"fiD one could grudge bim that," said 
Corinea. " He is the most generous and 
noble of men. He is very, very ill, as I 
suppose you have heard." 

" Yes. But when I say I don't grudge 
bim his mont^, I do take some merit for 
magnanimity ; as there are some people 
who wonld never forgive being cut out by 
a friend. Tbe testator assured me, only a 
month before his death, that be had made 
fab will, and left me everytbiug that he 
had. To be sure, friend Doughty saw a 
good deal of him in tiie interval, and I sup- 
pose made his bay when the sun sbone, 
that is, when be oonld." 

"No snoh ideas were in bis bead, you 
may depend on it," said Corinna, with 
some little escitement. " I saw bim tbe 
night he received the news, and no one 
could be more nnconcenied. ' Ydd are quite 
nuBtfJcen, I can assure yon." 

" Perhaps so," said uie patron ; "audi 
admire you for taking his part Forgive 
me if I say I know the whole, at least nil 
bnt the laMar part of H. For to say tbe 
truth, after all that I beard, I am a little 
Bnrprised to find you here. Don't bo 
angry," he added, hastily. "I ask no 
questions. I wish to be yonr friend." 

" I am not angry, indeed," aaid Corinna, 
"and I believe youwi^ to be tbe friend of 
(«e who bBB no friends. Wiiy should you 
not aak qoeBtaons P - 1 am wiling to answer 
them. I think I understand what yon 
mean. After all you had beard of what 
bad gone on down there, you are astonished 
to faid me heve. Well, 1 have come to 
fight tbe batUe of life alone. X have left 
that town and my family too, because it 
bad foeoome nnendnrable. I was perae- 
Doted, harassed, wounded to the quick; 
turned into a scheming adventuress, 
whether I would or no." 

" Bat Doughty would have ahielded you; 
indeed, would have given bis life lor you. 
1 hope yon have not treated bim unkindly 
— or made bim a sacrifice." 

Corinna looked down on the ground. 
" It was unendurable," she repeated. 

" If be has bad the misfortune to oifend 
yon," said Mr. Dodd, warmly, " I know 
that it was unintentional. I presume tliiit 
the matter is all over now, so I may speak 
freely. If he seemed to have done any- 
thing that hurt yon or seemed nnkiud, I 
know that be was not to blame." 

" He do anything unkind P Never ! At 
this moment I would be by his side, not 
here in tbis strange plaoe — if ! dared, I 
let myself seem heaHJess, selfish, ungrate- 
ful, ob, so ungratefol ! — that is punish- 
ment enough. But no one can understand 
the position in which I was placed. It 
may bo the fault of my own wretched tem- 
peramenfr— my own eensHivMiess, But"— 




here she pnuGed for a moment, then added 
more coldly, " this will all Bonnd Btrange to 
yoD, bat I forgot for the moment." 

"-Not in the least atruige," said he, with 
much interest ; " and I can nnderatand the 
whole now. All this does yon hononr. 
Scruples of this kind, however, may be 
carried too far. As yon have det«rmiiicd 
on following this career, we most only help 
yon as mnch as we can. I am a person of 
some power in the musical world, and can 
do a good deal. I see ^ou have wisely 
chosen a more mondane piece in the second 
part. That will go more home to this com- 
pany. It is a lovely and gracefol piece, 
that jewel-BODg of Gonnod's." 

He went back to his place, leaving 
Corinna not a little pnzzled, and yet 
pleased, by bis sympathy. Brighter hopes, 
too, came before her. Bnt here was her 
turn approaching, and she had to get ready 
for the performance. 

Every musician knows this dainty piece 
and its piquant graces, its dancing mea- 
sure, and when Corinna b^n people at 
once began to pay attention. Her delicious 
warbling at once rivetted attention; her 
attractive presence added to the charm; 
the buzz was gradually hnshed. People 
whispered, but it was only to express their 
delight, or ask about her. When she had 
coudnded there was applause that might 
be called a "bnret," oonsidering the fa- 
shionable character of the audience. 

Then followed introduction. The host 
had to come np with many a " Miss Nagle, 
Lady Mantower wishes to be introduced 
to yon"—" Miss Nagle, Lord Leader has 
asked me to introduce him — great ama- 
tenr, I assure you." . 

These noble persou^es came up simper- 
ing and bending, and proposed her singing 
at their party, or giving lessons to their 

Before the evening closed, Mr. Dodd 
vras beside her again, and with mnch satis- 
fhction. " Ton will do. Ton are on tbe 
high road to success." 

Corinna fblt a thrill, a whirl, all through 
that delightful night; for enccess, and a 
crescendo success, that grows and swells 
even within the space of a few hours, is 
always deUghtfoL The flowers, the lights, 
the pleased foces, the soft woris of con- 
gratnlatiou and compliment from persons 
who wished to recommend themselves — 
these made the whole seem like an agree- 

able dream. She felt happy and tri- 
umphant, for her resolution to be inde- 
pendent now seemed likely to be justified. 
The whole, too, had a softening efTect on 
her ; she even thought of one now &r 
away, and lying sick, and who would be 
glad to hear of her triumph. 

The party was now breaking; up for 
supper down-stairs. The musimans have 
generally to take each other, the Ian- 
gnisbing baritone ofiering his arm to the 
stout soprano. The young lord, who sang 
and played the violin in the ranks of " the 
Uacallum Minstrels," ofibred his arm to take 
Corinna down, and was not without disap- 
pointed competitors. He told her he was 
enchanted, and that everybody was en- 
chanted, and that she must sing at the next 
concert of the Macallum Minstrels. " She 
was jnst the thing for them," he added. 

They had reached the hall, and were 
taming into the supper-room, when a 
servant came fbrward with one of those 
amber-cotonred envelopes which so often 
cause excitement, and are opened with 
eagerness, no matter how funiliar we may 
be with their reception. 

" A telegram, miss," he said ; " Bent on 
'ere from your house." 

" Qood gracious, Miss Nagle," said the 
musical young lord. "I hope there's no-* 
thing vrrong. 'Pou my word should be so 

In much trepidation Corinna hnrried 
into iixe cloak-room, and read: 
"P>om To 

Willum Gardioar, CMimts Baglc^ 

Brickbrd. London. 

" They have seised on poor Dooghty, and 
are goinv to take him away to-morrow, 
and put him in a mad-house. They have 
had me arrested to get me out of the way. 
There is no one to save him. Come down 
at once, like a brave, honest girl, and I 
believe that you can defeat them all." 

" No bad news,,! hope," said the musical 
lord again. " Shoald be so sorry. 'Pon 
my word I reaUy should." 

" I must go home at once," said Corinna, 
^tated. " Wonld you get me my things ? 
Good night ! Thank yon." 


fij ths Authtn of " Hobsoi*! Chdicb," Ik. 

Tit Right of TtatuUiiiag ArlietttfTim Ali thk Ye*!! Rodsd i* rtt*ned bg tit Jaliort. 

VpoNiatdMUwOaa^M, W*IIIoctODBl,8msd. MbM tj O. WBItnra, BgnTon Bobm, Dnk* BL, LIdcoId'i Idd FIbMl 



Ladiu'b long talk with me cleared up 
her story. 

Sfae was the only dat^hter of Mr. Grey, 
of HalstoD Manor, of whom I had often 
heard. He bad died in possession of a 
great estate, and of shares in the Great 
Centzal Bank worth two hnndred thonsand 
poTindB. Within a few w«ekB after his 
death the bank failed, and the estate was 
drawn intothe raia. Of her brother there 
is no need to apeak, for he died only a year 
after, and has no connexion with my story. 

Lanra Grey would have been a suitable, 
and even a princely matoh for a man of 
rank and fortnne, had' it not been for 
this sndden and total reverse. Old Lord 
RiUingdon — TiscQnnt BJUingdon, his son, 
had w<ni his own st«p in the peerage by 
bnlHant service — had wished to marry his 
Bon to the yonng lady. No formal over- 
tnrea had been made; bnt Lord Rilling- 
don's honse, Korthcot Hall, was near, and 
the yoong people were permitted to im- 
prove their acqaaintance into intimacy, 
and so &n nnavowed attachment was 
formed. The crash came, and Lord BiU 
lingdon withdrew his bod, Mr. Jennings, 
&om the perilous neighbourhood. 

A year elapsed before the exact state of 
Ur. Grey's affairs was ascertained. Daring 
that time Richard Marston, who had seen 
and admired Lanra Grey, whose brother 
was an intinmto friend of his, came to the 
neighbonrhood and endeavonred to in- 
sinnate himself into her good giacea. He 
had Boon learned her rained circna stances, 
and fonnded the crnellest hopes npon this 
melancholy knowledge. 

To forward his plans he had conveyed 
scandalons falsehoods to Mr. Jennings with 
the object of patting an end to his rivalry. 
These he had refased to believe ; bat there 
were others no less caloalat«d to excite his 
jei^nsy, and to ahenate his affection. He 
hod shown the effect of this latter inflnenoe 
by a momentary coldness, which roused 
I^tora Grey's fiery spirit ; for gentle as she 
was, she was proud. 

She bad written to toll Hr. Jennings 
that all was over between lihem, and that 
she would never see him more. He had 
replied in a lettor, which did not reach her 
till long after, in terms the most passionate 
and agonising, vowing that he held himself 
affianced to her while he lived, and woald 
never many any one bnt her. 

In this state of things Miss Qrey had 
come to us, t«solved to support herself by 
her own exertions. 

Lord RiUingdon, having reason to sns- 

EMst his son's continued attachment to 
aara Grey, and having leuned acci- 
dentally that there was a lady of that 
name residing at Malory, made a visit to 
GardyllioD. He was the old gentleman in 
the chocolate- coloured coat, who had met 
as as we retu^ed from church, and held 
a conversation with her, under the trees, 
on the Mill-road. 

His object was to exact a promise that 
she would hold no communication with his 
son for the future. His tone was insolent, 
dictatorial, and in the highest degree irri- 
tating. 8he repelled his insinuations with 
spirit, and peremptorily refused to make 
uiy reply wnatever to demands nrged in a 
temper so arrogant and iosnlUag. 

The result was that he parted from her 
highly incenaed, and without having carried 
his point, leaving my dear sister and myself 
in 11 fever of curiosity. 


26 (W to. 1R7U 


Richud Rokestone Marston -maa the 
only near relKtioo of Sir Harry Bokwton*. 
He hiul iai]en ander tite baronei'« jaat a»d 
high iiRp!e«6«re. After » coarw of wiH 
&i^ wid{«d eztrftTagance lie had fianlly 
nnned inms^ in the opinion of Sir Harry, 
bj ecnamittiBg a fraud, whicfa, ndood, 
'Moald never bare coma to ligbt bad it sot 
heea for a combinatioa of uulncty chances. 

Iq cortBeqneuce of thu ida anno t«lnsed 
to see him ; bat at Mr. SlenBt's mteroeG- 
Kon af^reed to ^ow him a small annaal 
sum, on the strict condition that he waa to 
leave Englaiid. It was when ftotnaHy an 
hja iray to London, which, tot a reMon of 
bis own, he chose to reach through Kistol, 
that he bad so nearly lost his life in the 
disaster of the Conway Castje. 

Here was the first contact of my glory 
with bis. 

His short stay at UtUory was Bignalised 
by his then tmaocouotafalo suit to me, and 
by his DotliEdon with Mr. Jenmngs, who 
bad come down there on some very vagne 
I information ^at lAsra Grey waa in the 
oeighboQihood. He bad eucoeeded in 
meettug her, and inrenewing their engage^ 
meat, and at last in persuading her to con- 
sent to a secret marriage, wbioh at first 
involved the angnish of a long sepamtion, 
during which a dangerous illness threatened 
the life of ber husband. 

I »ai hurrying through thia eEpIaoatiol), 
bot I must relate a few more evente tad 
circninatancea, which throw a light upon 
some of the passages in the history I have 
been giving you of my life. 

Why did Richard Marston oooceive the 
fixed parpose of marrying a girl, of whom 
be knew raongh to be aware that she was 
without that which prudence would have 
insisted on as a first ncceesily in his cir- 
cnmetancoe — ^money P 

Well, it turned out to bave been by no 
means so imprudent a plan, I learned 
from Mr. Blount the particulars that ex- 
plained it. 

Mr, Blount^ who took an interest in him, 
and bad always cherbbed a belief that be 
was reclaimable, told him repeatedly that 
Sir Barry had often said that he woald 
take one of Mabel Ware's dangbtere for 
bis heiress. This threat he had secretly 
laughed at, knowing the hostility that sub- 
sisted between the families. He was, how- 
ever, startled at last. Mr. Blount bad 
showed him a letter m which Sir Harry 
distinctly stated that he had made up his 
mind to leave everything 1* possessed to 
me. Tliis he showed him for the purpnae 

«f iSKlncing a patiooi aaioKvaia to ieg»in 
bis lost ^soe in the old man's regard. It 
efibctnally alanned Kicbard Maivton ; and 
Qie idea of disnraing th»t vrgent dang«r, 
asd restoring himself to Us lost positieoi 
by this stroke of strategy, ocoormd to him, 
and ittstaady bore frnit in action. • 

After his retnim, and admissivn ae la 
inmate at Homacleugh, the dangn' ap- 
peared stiH lOon urgent, and bis oppor- 
tmnlam w*re endless. 

He had succeeded,' as I have iald jtm, in 
binding me by an Angagemeitt. ui ihat 
pomiioa he was safe, no matter what turned 
xep. He had, facrwevflr, now made bis elec- 
tion ; and how omellf, you already know. 

Did he, according to his low standard, 
lore me P I believe, so for as was consistent 
with his nature, he did. Hewae fhrions at 
my having escaped him, and would have 
pursued and no doubt discovered me, had 
he been free to leave Dorraclengh. 

His alleged marriage was, I believe, a 
fiction. .Mr. Blount thought that he bad, 
perhaps, formed some schemes for a mar- 
riage of ambition, in fevonr of which I was 
tn nave been put aside. If so, however, I 
do not thinkthat he would have purchased 
the enjoyment of ench ambition, at the 
prioO'O'f lodDg me, at ouoe and for ever. I 
dare say you will laugh at the simplicity 
of a woman's vanity, who in suoh a case 
could suppose such a thing. I do suppose 
it, notwithstanding. I am sure that so £ir 
as Irifl nature was capable of love, he did 
love me. With the sad evidences of this 
my faith, I will not weary you. Let those 
THJn concloBions rest where they are, deep 
in my heari 

The important post which Lord Rilling- 
don bad filled, in one cf onr grestcet de- 
pendenciffl, and the skill, courage, and 
wisdom with which be had directed affairs 
during a very critical period, had opened 
a way for him to still higher things. He 
and Laura were going out in about' six 
months to India; and she and he insisted 
that I should accompany them as their 
guest. Toodeltghtfol thia would have been 
under happier circumstances; buttheeense 
of dependence, however disguised, is dread- 
ful. Wo are so constmcted that it is for 
an average mind more painfnl to share in 
idle dependence the stalled ox of a friend, 
than to work for one's own dinner of 

They were going to Brighton, and I 
consented to make them a visit there of 
three or four weeks ; after that I was to 
resume my search for a "sitnation," Laura 


(ifcricMwsj 27 

aiireaiei me at lesst to accept the caro of 
iker littie child ; bat thie, too, I resolutely 
dedioed. At first Bight yon will chai^ me 
with folly ; bat if yon, being of my eex, will 
{^BCe yonreelf for a momeoli in my sitna- 
tioii, yon will understand why I reiased. I 
fidt Utat I sbonld have been wcvse than 
BwleBB. Iduua wonld never have watched 
me, M a good mother woald like to watcb 
ihs perean in charge of her only child. She 
would have been embarraBsed, and nnhappy, 
ud I should have been oonscionB of being in 
the way. Two otiier drcnmstancos need ei- 
idanatdon. Lanra told me, long after, that 
she had received a farewell letter froa Mr. 
Oarmel, who told her that he had written 
to warn me, bat with much precantion, 
U Sir Horry had a strong antipathy to 
peMonB<rf his profesBion, of a d^iger which 
be was not then permitted to define. 
Mocsienr Droqville, whom Mr. Maratoo 
had courted, and sought to draw into re- 
latiom with him, had received a letter 
from that young man, steiting that he had 
made np his mind to leave America by the 
next Bhrp, and eetabHsfa hteoself once more 
at Dormclengh. It was Mr. Oarmel, liieD, 
who bad written the note that pnzzled me 
m mnch, and conveyed it, by another hand, 
to the post-office of Cardyllion. 

MoiiEienr Droqville had no confidence in 
Kidiard Mareton. He had been informed, 
Mnde, of the exact nature of Bir Harry's 
win, and a provision that made hie bequest 
toimvoid, in case I should -embrace the 
Soman Catholic faith. 

It is to that provision in the draft-will 
of Sir Harry KokcGtone, and to the impolicy 
fS vaj action while Lady Lorrimer's death 
wu K) rtcent, and my indignation so hot, 
l^t Droqville had resolved that, for a time, 
tt least, the attempt to gain me to the 
Chnrch of Rome should not be renewed. 

Ihave now ended my neceeaary chapter 
^ eiplanotion, and my story again goes on 


A BOLEiDi low-Toioed fofls was going on 
. ffl the old house at Dorraclengh ; prepara- 
liois and consnitatafins were ai'oot ; a great 
dral was not being done, but there were 
ttie whispering and restlessness of expocta- 
tim, and the few grisly arrangements for 
the TGccption of the coffined gnest. 

Old Mrs^ Shackleton, the housekeeper, 
trept about the rooms, her handkerchief 
DOW and then to her eyes; and the house- 
naid-in-oliief, with her attendant women, 
were gliding about. 

Sir Harry had, years before, left a letter 
in Mr. Blount's hands that there might be 
no delay in searching for a will directing 
all that conoemcd his funeral. . 

The coffin was to bo placed in the great 
hall of the bonse, according to ancient 
custom, on treesels, under the broad span 
of the chimney. He was to be followed to 
the grave by his tenastry, and such of the 
gsdtry, bis neighbours, as might please to 
attend. There was to be an ample repast 
for all comers, consisting of aa much "meat 
and drink of the best as they conld con- 
sume ;" what remained was to be distributed 
among the poor in the ev^iing. 

He was to be laid in the family vault 
adjoining the church of Golden Friars ; a 
etooe with the family anus, and a short 
inscription, " but no flatteries," was to be 
set np in the church, on the south wall 
next the vault, and near the other family 
monuments, and it was to mention that ho 
died unmanied, and wob the last of the oH 
name of Bakestone, of Dorraoleugh. 

The funeral was to prooeed to Glolden 
Frioni, not ty the " mere road," but, aa 
in the cue of other family funerals, fjrom 
Dorraoleugh to Golden Friars, by the old 
high road. . 

If he should die at home, at Dorraclengh, 
but not otherwise, he was to be " waked" 
iu the same manner bb hia lather and his 
grand&fcher were. 

There were other directions, presents to 
the aezton and parish clerk, and details 
that would weary yon. 

At about twelve o'cJook the hearse ar- 
rived, and, two or tiiree minutes after, Mr. 
Blount drove up in a chaise. 

The almost gigantic coffin woa carried 
up the steps, and placed under the broad 
canopy assigned to it at the upper end of 
the hall. 

Mr. Blount, having given a few direc- 
tions, inquired for Mr. Marston, and found 
that gentleman in the drawing-room. 

He came forward; he did not intend it, 
but there was something in the gracious 
and stately melancholy of his reception, 
which seemed to indicate not only tho 
chief-mourner, but the master of the house. 

"Altered ci rcumstan cea — o great change , " 
Baid Mr. Maraton, taking his Iiand. "Many 
will feel hia death deeply. He was to me, 
I have said it a thousand times, the best 
friend that ever man had." 

" Yea, yea, sir ; he did show wonderful 
patience and forbearance with yon, con- 
sidering l^s temper, which was proud and 
fiery, yon know ; poor gentleman, poor Sir 


28 IM«T 10, )«?8.] 


Hany; but grandly generons, mr, grandly 

" It is a consolation to me, having lost a 
fiiend and, I may say, a father, who wae, 
in patience, forbearance, and generoBity, all 
yon describe, and all yon know, that we 
were lately, thanks, my good &iend, m^nly 
to yonr kind offices, upon the happiest 
terms. Ue used to talk to me abont that 
&rm ; he took snch an interest in it->rsit 
down, pray — won't yon have some sherry 
and a biscnit ? — and Booh a growing interest 

" I think he really was coming gradnally 
not to think qnite so ill of yon as he did, ' 
said good Mr. Blount. "No sherry, no 
biscnit, thank yon. I know, sir, that nnder 
great and sndden temptation a man may 
do the thing he onght not to have done, 
and repent fitim his beart afterwards, and 
from very horror of his one great lapse, 
may walk, all the rest of his lue, sot only 
more discreetly, bat more safely than a 
man who has never slipped at all. Bnt 
Sir Harry was sensitive EOia fieiy. He had 
tbonght that yon were to represent the old 
honse, and perhi^ to bear the name after 
bis death, and conld not bear ttiat both 
shonid be stnired by, if I may be allowed 
the expression, a shabby crime." 

" Oncefor all, Mr. Bionnt, yon'U be good 
enongh to remember that snob langnage 
is o&nsive and intolerable," interrupted 
Richard Marston, firmly and sha^ly. 
"My nncle had a right to lectnre me on 
the subject — yon can have none." 

" Except as a friend," said Mr. Bionnt. 
" I ahall, however, for the fntnre, observe 
yonr wishes npon that sabject. Yon got 
my letter abont the fnneral, I see ?" 

" Yes, they are doing everything exactly 
as yon said," said Maivton, recovering his 

" Here is the letter," said Mr. Bionnt. 
"You sbonld run yonr eye over it." 

" Ha ! It is dated a long time ago," said 
Mr. Marston. " It waa no sndden presenti- 
ment, then. How well he looked when 1 
was leaving this I" 

" We are always astonished when death 
gives no warning," said Mr. Bionnt; "it 
hardly ever does to the person moat inte- 
rested. Doctors, friends, they themselves, 
are all in a conspiracy to conceal the thief 
who has got into the bedroom. It matters 
Tety little that the survivors have had 

Marston shook his head and shm^ed. 

" Some day I must learn prudence^" said 

"Let it be the tme prudence," said Mr. 
Bionnt. " It is a short foresight that sees 
no further than the boundary of this life." 

Mr, Marston opened the letter, and the 
old gentleman left bim to see after the 

Some one at Golden Friars, I think it 
was the vicar, sent me the conntry paper, 
with a whole oolumii in monming, with 
a deep, black edge, giving a full aoconnt 
of the funeral of Sir Harry Rokestone, of 
Dorraclengh. The ancient family whose 
name he boro, was now extinct. I saw in 
the list the names of connty people who 
had come in their carriages more than 
twenty miles to attend the limeral, and 
people who had come by rail hundreds of 
miles. It was a great oonnty gathering 
that followed tiie last of the Rokeetonea, 
of Dorraclengh, to the grave. 

" That's the spral of the in£del, my 
bther ; and he who bandied it waa a 
brave man, nnbeliever though he was. 
God has put mnch bravery in the hearts 
of the Baenrmani (heathens) ; bnt we faavo 
beaten &em, after all 1" 

8o speaks, with a gleam of stem ^sA- 
sure in his clear grey eye, a stalwart Rns* 
siau grenadier, whose close-cropped hair is 
just beginning to tnni grey. Emerging 
from the great mosqne of Tadikent (now 
turned into a powder-magaeine by the 
practical oonqnerors), I find the veteran 
munching bis "ration bread in the shadow 
of a projecting gateway. The aumis- 
takably Bokhariote yat^han in his bdt 
provokes my curiosity, which he is evi- 
dently nothing loth to gratifv. 

" We have beaten them, ' be repeats, 
twisting his huge red moustache ; " bni 
we'll have to do it all over again some day. 
These fellows are like onr wolves in winter 
—never quiet till their skins are htmg ap 
behind the stove. They've got to go ont 
some day, anyhow; for it's not to be 
borne that all the btwt bits of God's earth 
should be in the hands of unbelieving 

" Yon took this ystaghan in battle, then, 
I suppose P" interpolate I- 

" That did I, father, and a hard battle it 
was. They teU me Umt the story of it has 
gone abroad even to the West ; bnt, per- 
haps, yon haven't heard it." 

" And if I have, a good story's always 

a*rlH Dlakeiu.] 


worth bearing twice; eo I'll just tell 7011 
what we'U do. We'll etep across into 
thftt kabak (tarem) on the other side of 
tiie etreet, and 70a ahall waeh the dnst oat 
of yoar moatb, and tell me all ahout it," 

Honest Dmitri's small eyes twinkle ap- 
poriDgly, and he follows me across the 
street -rnih alacrity. A taO. measure of 
Bqnor ie epeedil; set before him, and sitting 
fcwn in the shadow of the doorway, he 
polls off his cap, croBSes himself devontly, 
and prepareB to enjoy himself. The re- 
moTu of the oap afaows me a lon^, dark- 
red Gcar across fus forehead, stan&kg out 
stioDgly npon the son-bnmed skin. 

"H^o, brother! the nnbelieyera have 
left yon a remembrance, I see. Did yon 
get that in the~ battle yon were talking 

" Just so, master ; and from this ver; 
yataghan that I have been' showing yon. 
The Basnrraani can fait hard when they 
hke, I can tell yon ; and if this Khiva 
expedition tliat everybody's talking abont 
hwB, really comes off, we shall find onr 
porridge hot for na— that we shall ! Bnt 
we'll beat them all the same, please God !" 

" Well, bnt abont this battle of yours ?" 

" Ah, to be sure ! WqU, yon see, in the 
jear '67 it was settled to take Samarcand 
at any price, and Oeneral Kau&iann was 
«ar leader. Bnt what a march we had of 
You've seen something of the mud on 
yonr way here, I take it— well, that was 
wt how we had it all the way to the 
^nran-Taa ridge. Plnmp yon go into 
die dirt np to yoor knees, and get all 
iHmy and sticky, like a fiy in a pot of 
niilk; then comes a stream, and yon get 
ever it anyhow, keeping only yonr mnsket 
and ammunition dry. Then into a lot of 
tbom-buahes, that stick into yon like 
bajooets; and then more dirt afler that, 
till yon're jnst tike a newly-tarred boot. 
Ob, bthers of the world I what work we 
did have of it!" 

Dmitri breaks off for a moment to drown 
the horrible recoUection in a tremendous 
■wig of raw sprit; while the landlord, 
foreseeing that the yam will require a good 
deal of moistening, nods bis head approv- 

" After we got over the Kouran-Tau," 
continoes my extempore Othello, " we 
oamo out upon the steppe, and there the 
KToand was hard and rocky, and we had 
better walking of it ; hut as for the heat, 
(diew ! AU miy we'd be baking like loaves 
in an oven ; and then the sun would set all 
ce, as if somebody had blown him out. 

and it wonld turn cold all in a minute, and 
down wonld come the dew, and we would 
all be shivering and shaking like a dog 
shut oat on a winter night ; and then after 
that the heat again. We didn't much like 
it, I can tell yon ; bnt what's to be done ? 
When a thing is to be it will be. Besides, 
oar oolonel was one of the right sort, that 
he was. llany a time wonld he get off his 
horse, and march. three or four verst£ along 
with the oolumn,jaat to show that he didn't 
want to be bettor off than the rest of ns ; 
and when he saw a man beginning to tire, 
and to drag his feet after him, ne wonld 
call oat cheerily, ' Keep np, my lad ; think 
what yonr lass at home would say, if she 
saw her man the first to fell out.' And 
that would go through na Lka a sap of 
vodka, and we'd go forward as briskly as 
if we had only just started. 

"At last we got to Khodjeut; a sweet 
tittle place it is, nestled in its forest like a, 
baby among the standing oom in harvest 
time, and its mosques ghttering over the 
river like cavalry helmets, and there we 
halted a day to rest. It was there we got 
word that the heathen had come out to meet 
OS, and at that we rejoiced greatly, and said 
we would give them Adjar* over again. 
Bnt the spiteful beasts hadn't the civility 
to stand ont and give ns a fair chance at 
'em ; all they did was to hang abont us, 
<mtting off our stra^lers, and tiying to 
draw ns out in pursuit, that they might fell 
upon ns scattered-— tiie cowardlv, sneaking, 
accursed sons of dogs." (Here Dmitri, 
wanning with his subject, branches off 
into a B'''™g of corses worthy of Ernal- 
phns and uldipns Goloneus.) "Bat onr 
father, the general, was too old a wolf to 
be caught in that trap ; he kept as well 
together, and gave the heathen dogs no 
chance. All they could -do was to hover 
about us as we inarched, just as the crows 
used to do round me when I went plough- 
ing at home, and perhaps one of them 
wonld ride past at full gallop within ea^y 
rifle range, and take a flying shot in pass- 
ing. But our Cossacks knew that game 
as well the^ did, and gave 'em pepper to 
their soup tiU they had enough. Once or 
twice they tried to surprise ns by night, 
but onr genial always slept with his eyes 
open, and so ' the acjihe came npon a 
stene't eveiT time they tried it, and after 
a bit they thought it bettor to leave us 
alone. Here, landlord, another half-pint." 

■ Abalt1eguiiadb;QsD«nlBoii»iionkiiii 1B6S. 
t A KuHua proTub, SDnretiog lo our phrue of 
' catchiog a TuMi." 

30 [M»T 


Dmitri's narrative is again intennpted 
for a few seconds, the landlord Enrreying 
him meanwhile with an air of ^therlj 
admiration . 

" Now, I should t«ll yon," he 

pany was one Nikolai Petrovitch Haeloff, 
from the town of Khralinsk, on the Volga, 
Snch a merry fellow as he was ! alwaja 
laughing and joking, and telling fnnny 
stories ; and with his tales, and his songs, 
and bis jokes, he kept as all as meny aa 
boys at a camiTal. Bnt the morning after 
we got to Onraa-Tonbeh, which is abont 
half-way from Khodjent to Sam&rcsnd, I 
noticed that Eolia (Nikolai), instead of 
. looking bright and jolly as he generally 
did, was aa dnmpiah as a peasant who hf^ 
joat been drawn for the conscription — and 
well be might! I>td yaa ever have a 
dream, master p" 

His voice sinks to a wbispet at the qoes- 
tion ; and a sndden look of solemnity, al- 
most amounting to awe, dadcens his jovial 

"A dream, eh?" answer I, laughing ; 
"why, I'm always having them. I had a 
very queer one last night, lifier snj^ing on 
mntton- pilaff and ^reen tea." 

" Ah I I don't mean that Bt/rb ; this was 
qnite a diSereut thing. Listen, and yon 
shall bear^ I had expected to find EoUa 
jollier than ever, for onr general had jnst 
2^>t word thai the TmbeUevers w 
cammed with a great army in front of 
Samarosnd, meaning to 6^t ; and we were 
all rejoicing' ut it; bat when I looked into 
Kolia's face, it stmck upon me like a chill. 

" ' Why, brother,' said I, ' what's wrong 
with yon ? It's just the time to be jolly, 
when we're going to square accounts with 
the anbelievers; and here yon're lookii^ 
as if yoa'd met the Domovoi' (the Bassian 

" ' Heetya (Dmitri) my lad,' says he, 
' take this UtUe cross of mine, and swear 
upon it that you'll give it with your own 
bands to my &tber, Petr Ivanitch MaslofT, 
at Khvahnsk. Tou will return to Holy 
Euseia some day ; but aa for me, it is fated 
that E should leave my bonea here— I have 
had a dream.' 

" At that word, master, I felt ccJder than 
ever, for I knew that Kolia was a ' ztiac- 
harr' (fortune-teller), and that his dream 
could not he. I said nothing, and he 
went on : 

" ' I dreamed that we were lying on the 
bank of a swollen river, beyond which were 
steep hills ; and on those hills lay the army 

of the unbelievers ; and in the middle of 
all there rose up one big rock, like the face 
of a man. And suddenly, like a rising 
mist, came the figure of my patron saint, 
Saint Nicholas, right up to where we two 
lay; and he stooped down and tonched yon 
on the forehead — ^bot drew back hia haiKt 
directly aa if he had made a mistake, aud 
laid it on my neck ; and it was cold as ice. 
Then he disappeared ; and as I awoke, I 
heard a Btrain of music jnst like a Panik- 
heeda (faneml hymn).' 

" Jnst then came the signal to &I1 in, and 
we had no more talk till the evening be- 
fore the battle. We had been marching all 
day over a great plain ovra^rown with 
wooding, bat just uioat sunset we came 
out' upon the bank of the Zar-Affshan, and 
saw what was in store for us. The river 
was in full flood, running like the Volga 
after a spring thaw, and above it the 
heights of Tchepan-Atin rose up like a 
wall, steep and dark against the sky, and, 
scattered all over the slope, like sugar on 
an Easter cake, were helmets, and Epeax- 
headB, and gnn-barrels, and embroidered 
dresses, and all the array oS the heathen 
hoet, and their guns were pointed right 
down upon the river, all read; to pepper 
US if we tried to cross. I was just looking 
up at them when I felt a hand on my arm, 
and beard Nikolai's voice saying, ' Look ; 
do yon remember ?' 

" I looked, and it was as if some one had 
struck me on the (ace, for there, as he had 
seen them in his dream, were the steep 
hiUs, and the swollen river, and the array 
of Ihe heathen army, and the big rock, lik6 
a man's face, and ail! Thmi I set my 
teeth hard, for I knew that he must die ; 
bnt he just took off his little cross, av.d 
gave it me, saying only, ' Bemember your 
promise.' We gripped each other's hands, 
and said nothing more. 

" The next morning, in the grey of the 
early da,wn, we mustered for the assault^ 
-for the general had token a good look at 
their position, and had decided to try it on 
the right, who^ the ridge was not so steep. 
My regiment was to l^d, and the colonel 
stepped to the front, and said, in his old 
cheery way, looking as jolly as if he were 
just going to dinner, ' My lads, oar father 
the general has ordere'd us to carry that- 
position, and so, of course^, we can do it. 
Forward !' 

" The next moment we were breast-deep 

the river, holding our pieces over our 

ads. The minute we leaped in the 

batteries opened upon us, and all over the 

ObIh DiEkatu.1 


[Mw lOi liTR] 31 

bilU it \ree Basb, bang, flAah, ban^, like a 
tbondcrstorm, and tbo nat«r sptaskmg and 
fbuning nnder the efaot, as if nnder hail ; 
bnt God blinded the eyes of the idolalors, 
GO that ohIt a iew of na got hit. We 
Btrog^ed throDgh, and charged ap the 
heights ; and, to look at ns and tbem, jon'd 
lave thonght the; had only to open their 
moaihs and bwiJIow us whde. Bnt th« 
heatben have not the strong heart of the 
tne belierera; aad when they saw as 
comijtg light at them, as if we were snre of 
winning, tiieir coniage fiuled then. The 
vhole araof hn^o np all of a audden, aa 
the ice on the Vdga Iweaka np in rorine, 
ud tb^ threw down their arms and fled. 
Some of them stood to it, thoagh, in the 
Ibremost batterj ; and among them waa a 
tsll fellow in a gay drees, who mast hare 
been a diief. Then I said to myself 'I'll 
loll that man I' and I nm tight at him. 
He gare me a slash with bia yataghan (this 
one Uial'sininy behnow), andcat tfaroagh 
my cap into my forehead ; but my bayonet 
went right tbrongh him, vp to the very 
shaitk. We both fell down together, and 
Lifaonght the game was done. 

" When I awoke again, all wai qniei, and 
I £ti^(gered to n^ feat, and bound np mj 
hart with a sti-ip of the Bokhartote's dress. 
He Wits dead and stiff, and i inmed him 
gently over on bis face, and prayed that his 
aonl might find merey, for he was a brave 
aan. Bnt when I tnmed to go there lay 
poor Nikolai, ttxik dead, with his neck 
hslf cnt throorii by a award-stroke, just as 
the dream bad said. I have his tittle cross 
Btil]" (he held it ont to me in his broad 
hud, brown and bard as a trencher), " and 
if I ever get back to Holy Rassia I'll give 
it to bis father at Ehralinsk, thongh I 
■bould walk barefoot all the way. 

" So there, master, is yonr story ; and if 
JOQ don't believe if, why, here's the very 
tear in my forehead etill, jost where the 
aint touched it. There now t" 


Ait stibject connected with the sea must 
he a matter of interest to England, who 
owea BO mnch of ber wealth, power, and 
utiooal character to her maritime pnr- 

Bat although England has now, for a 
long time, been the acknowledged mistress 
of %he Gea, yet she was late in coming to 
the front; other nations there are who, in 
p«t agea, were her superiors in naval power. 

but the greatness that they then enjoyed 
will bear no comparison with her present 
world-wide sopremacy. 

Holland, Spain, Genoa, and Venice, have 
aD had their day; they have been givafc 
traders and great sea-warriors, and not 
only, for the time, ruled there in action, 
bnt have, especially the three last, contri- 
buted a great deal io the theory and prin- 
ciples of maritime law, W compiling and 
pablishing sea codes whicb are monuments 
of praotiral common sense and equitable 

The oinect of this paper is to give a 
very brief historical sketch of one or two 
of these, and then to draw the attoition of 
the reader, a bttle more in detail, to the 
provisions of one, the ntost important of 
them, the celebrated Consolado dri Mar of 

In the very earliest times law seems to 
have ended with the sea-aluHv, jnst as in 
the cigbtetoth century it ended with the 
HigUhud line. Gentlemen, therefore, who 
were bold enough to venture on the sea, 
vere ocmsidered to have emancipated them- 
selvee from all law except what their own 
will or interest might sn^est. 

Thus we are told in the third book of 
the Odyssey, that when Telwnachns arrives 
at PyloB ^ sea, after he has shared the 
banquet of the Pylians, Kestor aaka bim 
whether bo is voyaging with any fised 
object, or merely roving over the sea as a 
pirate bmt on indiscrinunate mischief, and 
there is not the sHghteet bint thai bis reply 
would in any degree aiicot the kind of wel- 
come accorded to him. 

That a hospitable reception sfaontd be 
given to a rover may seem strange, thongh 
the coontrymen of Drake, Frobisber, and 
Hawkins can hardly feel much surprise at 
the existence and recognition of a trade 
that was followed with very little disgnise 
even in the days of good Queen Bess. 
By degrees, however, as time went on, 
the valne of lawful trading was recognised 
as a means of gain even more successful 
than piracy, and the necessity for some, at 
any rate elementary maritime laws, became 

The Khodiana are the earliest sea lawyers 
rf whose legal labours any result bas come 
down to ns. They traded chiefly to the 
ports of the Mediterranean, though their 
commercial enterprise led them into the 
Adriatic, and even into the Black Sea, 

Their code of sea laws waa compiled 
with great judgment, and its intrinsic value 
may be estimated from two fiacts; first, 

[>I«y 10, ISIJ.] 


[CoDdaiUed by 

that it was adopted by the Romans after 
tlic failure of their naval ezpedition io the 
first Pnmic war; and, second, that one 
particnlar statute, the Lex Rbodia de jactio, 
nas inserted hj the Empwor Jnstinian in 
the Digest, &c., remains an anthorit? in 
coses ot jettison, and is appealed to by 
modem lawyers even at the present time. 

It is remarkable that Borne, the great 
lawgiver to the world, so far as the laJad is 
concerned, yet contributed nothing to the 
law of the sea, but contented herself with 
adopting the laws of the Bbodians. The 
reason, donbtless, b that the Romans in 
their hearts despised and actnally discon- 
raged commerce and trade, and even pro- 
hibited it to the equestrian order. Witness 
the &monB law brought in by the Consol 
Flaminius, and mentioned by Livy, for- 
bidding any senator to possess a ship ca- 
pable of carrying more than a certain very 
limited catvo of corn. The value and dig- 
nity of -a ship of war was recognised ; hot 
almost the only idea the Romans bad of a 
merchant ship was to bring com from the 
£ast, for the hnge and sometimes starving 
pMinlation of the dfy. 

The Rhodian laws, therefore, maintained 
tbeir place as the great sea code of the 
ancients, appealed to by every maritime 
nation in qnestions concerning the sea. 

Many cironmstances prevented the de-' 
velopment of commerce till long after the 
Christian era, and it was not nntil the 
twelfth century that any need seems to 
have been felt for a recognised body of 
laws, especially applicable to maritime 

The first of these seems to have been 
that known by the title of the Laws of 
Oleron, said to have been compiled by order 
of Leonora, Dnchess of Qoienne, abont the 
year 1192. Some anthorities, more parti- 
cularly Selden, have claimed for her son 
Bicbard Cesar de Lion this honour; but 
the Spanish historian, Capmany, energeti- 
cally contests this claim, thongh fae is com- 
pelled to admit that Richard did introdnce 
them into England, and even made upon 
them some emendations of his own, which 
may have given rise to the opinion that he 
was their original author. 

Next, in 1280, came the celebrated Con- 
aolado del Mar of Barcelona. 

About the some time, or rather later, 
that is in or "near the year 128&, ihere was 
recognised by the noruiem nations a code 
of sea laws, known as the Ordinances which 
the Merchants and Captains of Ships 
formed ancient); in the magnificent city 

of Wisboy. The city of Wisbny, in the 
island of Qothlandia, in the Baltic, was at 
this date a great trading centre for the 
north, and the code of sea laws there pro- 
mulgated took the same place amongst the 
nations of the north, as did the Consolado 
del Mar amongst those of the south. 

One other body of sea laws must be men- 
tioned before recarring to that one with 
which this paper is especially ooncemed. 

In 1252, the cities of Lubec, Dantzio, 
Brunswick, and Cologne, gave a beginning 
to the celebrated coniederacy of the Hanse 
Towns. At that time the great cities were 
the chief pioneers of consBtntional b'berty 
'and commercial enterprise, and they early 
found that in order to assert their own ia* 
dependence, and to carry ont snccessfally 
their trading ventures, they must combine 
to compel something like &.ir terms &om. 
their feudal snaeraina ; since these were 
wont to make trade impossible by their 
absurd restrictions, or onprofitable by their 
uninst exactions. 

With this object, therefore, the famous' 
Hanseado League was initiatod by the 
towns just mentioned, and the scheme was 
so snccessiiil and popular, that the aUied 
dties soon numbered seventy or eighty in 
all parts of Enrope, from Novgorod in 
Muscovy, to Antwerp in Flanders. With 
a view to still greater security the cities 
of the league put themselves nnder the 
Grand Master of the Teutonic Order, and 
so great was the power and enccess of 
this formidable confederalaon, that even 
sovereigns sought the dignity of directors 
of the Hanse. 

Towards the end of the fourteenth cen- 
tury, when the league was at the zenith 
of its power, it actnally declared war with 
Waldemar, King of Denmark, and in 1420 
against Hent^ the Fifth of England, and 
sent against Imn a fleet of forty ships, cany- 
ing twelve thousand men, besides seamen. 

This proof of the strength and courage 
of the league aroused the fear and hate 
of the sovereigns in whose dominions the 
Hanse Towns were situated, who therefore 
required every merchant amongst , their 
subjects to witbdraw &om the confedera- 
tion. By this means this great combiuation 
was, by degrees, reduced to those cities 

Golc^ne, Dantzic, Brunswick, Hamburg, 
and Rostock. 

Lnbeo was oonsidered the seat of the 
Hanse, and in that city were promulgated 
those s^ laws wbJcb the extensive shipping 

Chtrlu MclienL] 


(iUriHi8M.i 33 

of the associated citiea rendered aeceaaary, 
bat wbich must be refoBed the merit of abso- 
Inte originality, Bince many of their 
yisions were certainly taken from the Book 
of the Consolado del Mar. 

It may aeem BomeWhat stronge that in 
tbis ennmemtion of these early compilers 
of maritime laws, the name of Engird is 
lardly mentioned, ezc^t in connexion with 
the claim made for Richard the First to 
be the author of the Laws of Oleron. Yet 
it was not that she was without a navy, 
or had not begun to assert herself in 
her own nelgbboorhood, for Lingard tells 
ns that Edward the I'faird made it hi^ 
boast that his predecessors had always 
possessed tbe seas between England and 
Fiance ; and in tbe parliamentary rolls of 
this king's reign, the Commons declare in 
qaaint B'orman French that, "La navie 
«stait si noble et ei plentjnonse, qne tons 
les pays tonoient Notre Seignenr pour le 
Hot de la toier." 

It may bo that the difficulty or impos'- 
ability of very distant navigation, combined 
with a state of incessant hostility with 
France, compelled England to confine her 
attention to the Channel and the sea in 
herown immediate neighbourhood, More- 
over, her trade was not very extensiye, for 
llie spirit of commercial enterprise bad not 
then been aroused within her, and what 
ttwie there was, even down to the time of 
Queen Elizabeth, was chiefly carried on by 
the merchantB of the Hanse. The necessity 
therefore for maritime legislation, felt I^ 
eome of the continental nations, seems to 
hare touched her Tery little indeed. 

At this time the genial waters of the 
Mediterranean sea offered to the numerous 
population of its extended coast» oppor- 
tonitiea of navigation and trade far beyond 
vhat could then be found elsewhere in the 
world. Natnre, therefore, nnited with his- 
tonoA tradition and natural capacity in 
derobping in them a spirit of mercantile 
ud maritime enterprise. Thus, the three 
great maritime powers of the time of which 
we are speaking, were a couple of Italian 
republics, and a small Spaniah kingdom, 
EKnoa, Venice, and Arragon. 

Of these it might have been doubted 
for a time which should be called the 
fiwt, Genoa and Venice being so nearly 
matclted, so enterprising and so determined. 
Bot the Queen of the Adriatic remained 
queen of the sea after almost a century 6f 
eonflict. Foreightyyearsaflerl263,anhis- 
torian remarks, the internecine struggle be- 
tween the two republics convulsed southern 

Enrope. Between 1264 and 1272 they 
fought no fewer than five most sangninary 
pitched naval battles, besldea innnmerabla 
lesSer encountere. At last, however, tlio 
bloody struggle at Chiozaa left both com- 
pletely exhausted in men, ships, and money. 
Venice rose rapidly from tbe effects of 
the war, for she bad been tho victor, but 
Genoa never regained her fbrmer proud 

Throughout these contests for supremacy 
at sea, we meet the names Catalans and 
Arragonese, mostly as allied with Venice, 
and greatly promoting her ultimate suc- 
cess. These people constituted the third 
great naval power of that period, and as 
it is with the naval code constructed by 
them that this paper is chiefly concerned, 
we will glance for a moment at their posi- 

Catalonia, with a Mediterranean sea- 
board of about one hundred and eighty 
miles, had contained two celebrated mari- 
time cities ; the one, Tarragona, founded 
by the Phceaicians, and destroyed by the 
Moors about 710, A.D., the other, Bar- 
celona, founded, B.C. 235,' by Hannibal's 
father, Hammilcar Barca, the Cartha- 
ginian, and the great emporium of trade 
at the time of which we are speak- 
ing. It had a ruler of its own, certainly, 
from A.D. 870. A sovereign connt of Bar- 
celona, who governed Catalonia, and the 
twelfth descendant of this early potentate, 
in the year 1187, united, by marriage, the 
kingdom of Arragon to his own dominions. 
OatalauB and Arragonese, therefore, 'during 
the ware of Genoa and Venice in the thir- 
teenth and fourteenth centuries, were alike 
the subjects of the kings of Am^n. Ma- 
jorca and its sister islands he had also 
acquired in a very questionable manner, 
whilst Valentia had been taken from the 
Moors by a king of Arragon in 1239. 

These constituted his home dominions, 
whilst the constant presence, and the 
prowess of his well - ap3>ointed fleets in 
the Mediterranean, gave him, for a time, 
thepoasession of Sicily. 

Tiaa being the state of these powers, it 
was natural that they should early feel the 
want of some settled code of maritime laws 
to decide disputes that would inevitably 
arise in the course of the veiy considerable 
foreign-trade that they carried on, extending 
to the Bosphorus, and even to the stormy 
waters of the Black Sea, and, of course, in- 
eluding the nearer porta of the Mediter- 
ranean and Adriatic. 

In consequence of this want the Book of 


[CmdiuMd by 

the Consolado del Mai of Bftrcelooa was 
drawn up, and became the text-book of sea 
law for the maritime nations of southern 

This code, admirably adapted for its pur- 
pose, and suitable for its time, at onco 
comprehensive and minute, dealing with 
large and important mercantile questions, 
and also with the smallest details, even as 
to the food of the seamen, was not con- 
stpucted upon abstract principles, but was 
to a very lai^e extent case-made law, 

A century before its compilation conrtB 
had been established in several of the great 
seaports, such as Genoa, Venice, and 
Barcelona itself) whose duty and priTilege 
it was to settle disputes which arose iu 
course of trade. These courts were called 
consulates of the sea ; and decided, in an 
cquitnble manner, all cases brought before 
them. They were composed of two or 
three consuls, and a judge of ^)peals with 
two assessors, all of whom, judge, consuls, 
and assessors, were taken from tixe mer- 
chant class. Professional lawyers were not 
enoonraged ; in none of these courts were 
they necessary, and in some they were ab-' 
solntely prohibited. 

The formalities to be observed at the 
election of the judges are thus described 
in the Book of tJie Consolado del Uar of 
Barcelona, referring to the customs of 
Valentia. " It is ttie cnstom every year, 
on the day of the birth of our LoM, and 
at tlie hour of vespers, for all worthy navi- 
gators, masters of ships, muiaers, &o., or 
a goodly number of them, to meet together 
in our city of Valentia, and then to elect, 
not by lot, but by choice, two good men of 
the art of the sea, and not of any other 
business or art whatsoever, to be their con- 
Bols, and a third, of the same profession, to 
act as judge." 

Each court had its ofBcial seal ; tiiat of 
Barcelona was ordered to be round with a 
shield upon it: "whereof two parts shall 
bear the royal t^rms of Arragon, and one 
part certun waves of the sea." 

It was from the decisions of the court of 
the importtuit and influential city of Barce> 
lona that the Consolado del Mar was com- 

Ferbaps of all the mercantile cities ^ of 
Europe, none gave itself up more com- 
pletely to commerce than did this. Ford, 
m his account of it, says, " It divided with 
Italy the enriching oommorce of the East, 
and trade was never held to bo a degrada- 
tion, as among the Caatihans ; accordingly 
heraldic decotations ore much less frequent 

on tiae honses; the merchant's mark- was 
preferred to the armorial charge." The 
body of laws compiled from the maritime 
court of so business-loving a city is 'as 
practical and far-seeing as might be ex- 
pected ; but it is more, it is also extremely 
feir, treating the rights of all parties, 
owners, merchants, and oommon sailors, 
with the utmost justice and impartiality. 
Indeed, the legal position of a simple sea- 
man of tJiose days was, judging from the 
laws directly affecting him, much prefer- 
able to what it sometimes is at present, 
when a merchant captain may be, almoet 
with impunity, an intolerable tyrant 

From some of the provisions in the book 
before ds we learn that ships were built 
and owned in shares of sixty-fourth parts, 
a plan which we seem to have adopted 
from them, for at the present time we hold 
a ship to be technically composed of sizty- 
fonr sixty-fourths. 

One person called the patron, who was 
usually the chief owner, seems to have had 
the general management and responsibility 
both of the building of the ship and of her 
trading when built. He arranged the 
freights with the merchants, he chartered 
the ship if she were on hire, be engaged 
and paid the crew ; he, in short, had the 
geoeral responsible government and direc- 
tion of the ship, and all belonging to her. 
But he did not necessarily navigate her ; 
that was the wM-k of the sailing-master; 
yet the patron, whrai at sea, conld-draw tbe 
same pay and rations as the sailing-master 
if he took on active part in the navigation. 
Every one in the ship, including the sailors, 
had a right, aocording to his rank, to a 
space for a small parcel of private goods, 
with which to trade on his own account, 
and the most minoto regulations are made 
as to tbe proportion these shares are to 
contribute in case of any having to be 
sacriflced for the safety of the ship. 

Amongst the regulations as to ahiji^ng 
goods, and tbe responsibility of the patron 
lOT tiieir secori^, is one very dugnlar pro- 
vision. If any goods have been injured 
by rats during the voyage, the patron diall 
he compelled to pay their value if he had 
sailed without any cat« on board. But if 
he had been cazvful to provide cats, and 
these had died on the voyage, and it could 
be shown that the rata had done the mis- 
chief afler the disappearance of their 
natural enemies, .the patron shall be held 
free of reeponsibiUtj. On the other hand, 
if he had called at any port where oats 
were to be had, after Hie death of his own 

CImla Dlekeiiii.} 


[Mot io, isra.] 

stock, and had not proonred any, then the 
damage done to the goods fell on him. 
The patroQ had authority to inflict punish- 
ment upon all on txiard, in Bome ca^es even 
capital ; hat under very strict and Balntary 
regalations, which, while they gave him 
all the power neceBeary for the government 
of the ship, yet prevented him &om Tising 
it in an arbitrary or tynamical manlier. 

There ia provided what migh* be called 
a sort of sanctoary, to which a Bailor may 
rnn, and where he may defend himself if 
attacked, even by the patron ; the provision 
is as follows : " If any patron shall nse 
insulting langn^e to one of his men, and 
shall msh npon him to attack him, the 
taiTcr shall flee away towards the prow 
of the ship, ont of the reach of the patron, 
and if' he follows him, the sailor must 
pass across the chain, and if the patron 
still follows and attacks hi^n there, the 
aulor shall call npon tiie rest of the crew 
to witness that the patron has passed the 
chain, and he nay tlien defend himself." 
The chain was drawn across the extreme 
forward part of the deck apparently for the 
very purpose here described. To ns, who 
are aocastomed to consider a sea captain 
uk ahsolnte despot on board his ship, this 
seems a most strange enactment; bat it 
would appear tiiat the seamen who manned 
these ahipe vrere a superior class of men, 
who every one of them had a venture in 
tikeship, and who probably were citizens of 
Barcdona or Venice, as Uie case might be. 

Yet, as has been said, power to inflict se- 
voe ptmishment was not denied to patrons 
of ships when it was necessary. Don 
Pedro the Third, of Arragon, promnlgated 
eertain decrees in the city of Barcelona in 
the year 1343, one of which ordered any 
CTOSB-bowmaD who should cut tlie cable of 
the ship, turn the helm, or go on shore 
withont leave, to be hanged by ihe neck ; 
and another condemned any sailor or cross- 
bowman who, after agreeing to serve in 
(iie ship, shall fly either from fear of armed 
mm, or of the enemy, or of bad weather, 
to the same pnnisfanent. 

Again, in the caee of the pilot, of course 
kmoet important person, it is enacted that 
if lie undertaken to direct the ship's course 
to any place, the agreement having been 
ntered in tlie ship's book, and if, when 
the ship arrives ofi' the coast, the pilot is 
found to be ignorant of it, he is to lose his 
head instantly (oncoutiDeiite) without any 
lentission or grace whatsoever. But this 
sentence must be approved by the whole 
ship's ccmpany, who are to he summoned, 

merchants and seam^i, and to decide by a 


The patron most hold this council, says 
the law, " because he might have ill will 
at the pilot, or might wish to succeed to 
his forfeited goods; moreover, some patrons 
know not the prow of the ship from the 
poop, nor what the sea is, and, therefore, 
are not fit to jndge." A paasage which 
shows that the patron was not always a 

Every agreement or contract, concerning 
the ship, crew, or cargo, had to be entered 
in the Khip's book or protocol, which was 
under the chai^ of a special officer, called 
the clerk or scribe. This book appears to 
have been very oomprehensive in its cha- 
racter; it contained the ship's articles, 
signed by every one on board, the contracts 
for freight, the log, the account for ship's 
stores and men's wages — in fjftct every- 
thing that required to be reduced to 

The clerk who kept this book, a highly 
responsible of&cer, seems to have united the 
duties of supercargo, ship's husband, and 
purser in his own person He was required 
to swear to the patron that he wonld keep 
the book honestly, never sleep on shore 
without taking with him the keys of the 
ship's chest in which it was kept, and never 
leave it open when on board. If he failed 
in any of these particulars he was liable to 
lose his right hand. So jealously was this 
ofBce watched that no patron could appoint- 
a relation to it without consent of the mer- 
chants and co-owners, and no person who 
had ever' been convicted of dishonesty 
could be appointed under any circumstances 

Very seaisible and carefol provision is 
made concemiug the food of the sailors. 
The patron was bound to find flesh for 
thent on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, 
and Bonp or poltege, literally spoon-meat, 
on other days. Wine was provided three 
days in the morning, and three days in the 
evening, evidently none was to be served out 
on Friday; every evening the seamen had 
a light supper of onions, cheese, sardines, 
or other fish, in addition to their bread 
Wine was apparently considered necessary 
for health, for if it were veiy expensive 
the patron was bound to provide raisins 
or figs, of which, to make a palatable 
liquid in its place. Double rations were 
to be served out on all solemn feasts of the 

The duties of the mate or sailing-mastOT 
T^ere discharged by a -person called tlie 


" contramaestro." He etowed the cargo, 
navigated tUe ship, and generally dis- 
charged the duties of executive officer. 
But if in the course of the voyage he 
showed himself incompetent, he might be 
disrated and sent heforo the mast, and any 
sailor on board capable of doing the work 
oonld be pnt in his place. The saUing- 
master might not take the ship into or oat 
of harbonr withont conBent of the mer- 
chantfl, who, apparently, generally accom- 

Cnied their goods, bnt when clear of port 
navigated the ship to the beat of bis 
knowledge and skiB. 

The wages of the sailors constitnted then, 
as they do now, a debt npon the ship, which 
v,-as pledged for them, in the Utngaage of 
the code, to the last nail. Whether the 
voyage was sncceeafnl or not, whether the 
patron bad money or not, the seamen's 
wages most he paid ; if he bad no money 
the patron must borrow, and if he could 
not obtain it by borrowing, he must eell 
cargo to the amount necessary, and finally, 
if there was no other resonrce left, the ship 
itself mnst ho sold that the wages of the 
sailors might be paid. Part of the w^es 
appears to have been payable before leaving 
port ; for when the cargo was on board, 
the sailors could demand from the patron 
money with which to bay their own ven- 
ture, who was, "moreover, bonnd to allow 
the crew, six days in which to do so, one- 
third only of them being permitted to be 
on shore for this purpose at the same 

A ship was clearly in those days a sort 
of republic, in which each person on hoard 
had a stake, and in the government of 
which he consequently had a voice. Yet 
discipline was very strictly mwntained, 
especially when at sea. A sailor who was 
insubordinate lost all his pay and his ven- 
ture, and could be torned out of the ship 
even at a foreigu port. 

One curions law, certunly not veiy con- 
ducive to cleanliness, prohibited the sailing- 
master, so long as in health, and any of the 
B^ors, from taking off their clothes after 
the ship had sailed. And any sailor who 
did so was to be dncked overboard at the 
end of a rope. Flogging was administered 
for one offence only, the favourite punish- 
ment being docking, from which it might 
be concluded that the sailors of the south 
had a strong antipathy to water. 

Sentries were posted immediately after 
the ship had begun her voyage, who were 
also apparently look-out men; any of these 
who slept on duty was to lose his wine 

and his snpper rations. But if such look- 
out man or sentry slept on duty while 
in an enemy's waters, he wae, if a common 
sailor, to he flogged by the whole ship's 
company, or to be dncked in the water 
three times. If he were a superior sailor he 
might not he flogged, and he received his 
ducking by bncketfuls, which were thrown 
over him, a formidable punishment when 
we remember that no sailor might take off 
his clothes, and that they mus^ therefore, 
be allowed to dry on his person. 

From one of the laws we learn that the 
merchants of Barcelona had no scruple 
abont trading with the Moors, however 
they might hate their religion ; for it is 
provided that if a patron Aoald sell the 
ship in an infidel oonutry, he was bound to 
hire and provision a coaster, or small ship, 
in which the sailors might return to a Chris- 
tian land. 

A sailor who fell sick, after signing the 
ship's book, received half his pay, if hjs 
sickness prevented him from mining the 
■voyage with the ship ; and if he were so ill 
that he had to be put on shore after the 
voyage had h^nn, the patron was com- 

fielled to payhim his whole wages, even if he 
ound it necessary to sell some of the goods 
on board to procure the money. 

Careful rules are laid down for avoiding 
collision in bringing the ship to an anchor 
in a harbour or roadstead, and for deter- 
mining on whom the liabiUty for damages 
should fall in the event of injury being done 
by one ship to another. Vesseb were also 
bound to assist one another in distress; 
and punishment is appointed to sailors who 
shall refaae to go in the boats to render such 
assistance, on the order of the patron or 
saihng- master. One of the duties of the 
seamen was to pnt the merchants on shore, 
and the law bade them h6 ready to wade 
in the performance of that duty, if ne- 

One part of the book of the Consolado is 
taken up with rules as to insurance, which 
show an acquaintance with that important 
subject qnite remarkable in a work of so 
eaarlv a date. Underwriters, however, seem 
to have been cautious, for no insurance 
could be effected on a ship going beyond 
the Straits of CKbraltar, or to the coast of 
Barbary. In the matter of honesty human 
nature was then very much what it is now, 
for it seems to have been necessary to 
guard against the insuring of ships which 
the persons trying to insure knew to be 
already lost. 

Rules are laid down with regard to 

Ohu'ci SAniem.} 


pi»j l^ 1873,1 37 

convoy, by which the patron may secnre 
himself from responeibiUty, if he and the 
merchants differ as to the need for fhal 
expensive protection- It is cnrions to ob- 
eerve that we have borrowed certainly one 
term from those early Spanish traders : 
the persons whose special work it was to 
stow the cat^o, which was not the duty of 
thesailora, were called "estibadorea;" theae 
game persons, a well-known and highly- 
paid class at Hie present time, retain their 
original Catalan designation, only shghtly 
altered to stevedores. 

From the description that baa been given 
of this remarkable body of laws, it vnW be 
ESen that nothing has been overlooked, 
and the reader is at a loss whether most 
to admire the aonnd policy and commercial 
knowledge shown in the rules regulating 
Bneh large and important questions as con- 
tract, insnranco, average, and others of a 
similar natnre ; or those smaller, but equally 
aecessaty, rules which define and determine 
the relatiTe rights and duties, and provido 
for the comfort of all on board that com- 
plex polity, a merchant ship of the Middle 

A few words ou^ht perhaps to be added 
an the subject of the actnal book itself con- 
taining the sea code, which has just been 

The Oonsoladc del Mar was written in 
the Catalan dialect. This being a language 
very little known beyond its native country, 
haa caused most foreign attempts to repro- 
duce the book to be somewhat tmtmst- 
worthy. Venice produced four separate 
editions of it in the course of the sixteenth 
century, one of which, a neat little vellum 
quarto, has been occasionally referred to 
throughout the foregoingpoges. Thisedition 
is not, however, available for very general 
use, as the Venetian editor appears to have 
had a very imperfect knowledge of the 
Catalan language, and as, moreover, he heiS 
tranBlat«d it, not into classical Italian, but 
has largely introduced his own Venetian. 
On this account, as he states in his pre&ce, 
and being very desirous that the Consolado 
should be better kno'wn, the Spanish his- 
torian, Capmauy, produced, in 1792, at 
Usdrid, a beautiful quarto edition, pab- 
liahed at the expense of the Boyal Junta 
and Commercial Consnlate of Barcelona. 
A native of Catalonia, and therefore 
thoroi^hly acquainted both with the qnaint 
old language of his country, and also with 
the polished Castilian of Spain, he was 
peculiarly well fitted for the task which he 
has so admii«bty diechat^ed. This edition, 

admitted to be the highest authority on the 
Eubjeot, has been chiefly used in the prepa- 
ration of this paper. 

This Terdurout rock ie rngrmt u of old ,' 

The Durbls Fsjcbe ninde, 
Wtiite gleuninv thrani'h the grran. >o (till, 10 co 
With timlHi tRBKB fiilling fold on fold. 

And Ughtl; Uded baods ; 
Drooped over bj tlu p«Mionflow«r that trsili, 
Aa than it tniJ«d in that far diitant jear. 

Hujh 1 U7 hMtt ■wsllsth. DwIiBg, doit thou kaa-w 

Eoir ottea in m^ drcuoi, 
This botky lunat of ttune Iiu riasn w, 
The Fifetae ahiiiinK lik« a tliinK of laaw, 

At then ■!» eoldlj glekois ; 
With lipa no UogeriDS euD-n; leenu to fliub. 
With ihjlj lowered gUnoB thit oirar lifU { 
Thoagb the ilill weat i* all > roaj blush, 

Aa daj to datkn«ia diifta. 

Fiithleu F ah, naj I Tbo pagiioD-bloaran Hea 

Still near mj biuigeiiDg heart ; 
TbraUHb all the ihadoTa two loie-lighted ejaa, 
Blue a> ITope'i own, like uatar atus would riae ; 

But Te war* long aput, 
Iion|r, long I Aad Toiceleaa diitanea daj b; daj, 
Btrclched sadtier and mon ailentlT betwesD, 
And ghoMl; doubtiogg haunt the lone); waj. 

Though memorr'e gladea are green. 

And what ii earthlj lore ! The pre? of tbui 

Whoea aoundlaea tbot-falli litj ; 

A heirteUMt drireD forth hj bithleaa fear*, 

ilrfbj (mllM, or arerwom bj teara. 

" T nmij aaj 

Beiuileirby smile*, or 

How daradl .1 
n Ughtad ii 
r boon so tew and ni 

He lor*-Sre lighted in 

Lojal I knev tbee; but how mach of loTo 

Liies through the ejei alonel 
Honour ma; bold the heart, bit shall not moTa 
Ila ilackeacid chord* to music Though I strove 

To bold thee *U mine own. 
What wore thy truth without the tCDdemeis, 
That is (o truth aa fVagranee to the tdh P 

I fHTsd to find thee (tstue-oold, aad Id 1 

Hie pasaion-flawar jet bloonu. 
Ho marble nuidea greets me ; lida of snow 
Tell sunny orbs wi£ (uob a fluna sglow 

Aa lighl«D* throogh the glooms 
Of sonow-iuTkaBed yean. Ob, heart of gold, 
That ausb auay Sndi droasleaa, spirit fine, 
LoTe-loial through long lonelinesa. Behold, 

The mom o( life la thine I 
My Psyohe, pure aa yonder pulselen atone, 

Xet paadon-fluabed uid warm. 
My apring-faosd girl-lore, now to summer grown, 
Soul-sweet, heart-faithful, fond, and all miae own. 

What spirit doth inform 
Thy winsome womanhood P Tbe statue'* gTBC«, 
The blOBBDm'a glory, mingle in thy doweii 
For thou art f-i- """— P- ' '— - 

The statue atanda, a shaft of sunset lights 

II* chill unchangiDg brow. 
So gleamed it tbrougk ihe dream* of many nightl, 
But fooliah fear-bom fancie*, fond affrighU, 

All, all are banialied n'>w 1 



Still >t m; breul ths pBusinn-flnwcT lin. 
But DOIT twn happj hrarie a^uiut it brat. 
U7 TMe-fliuhsl I'Bfche. lift tlune (onl-Ut CTH, 
And let OUT ipiriu meat I 



We are on th« summit of an 
on the right bank of the Tiber, in the gar- 
den of a Ti]la approached by a straggling 
avenne of ilex and cypress. 

The word " gaa^en" snggesta to our in- 
sular ears something bright and tnm, and 
carefally tended. On the southern side of 
theAIpa, however, it seldom means this. In 
tbe gronnds of this old yilla, it meena an 
irregular space, sloping here, rising there; 
intersected by paths covered with coarse 
pebbly sand ; and full of ilex and cypress 
■ trees growing np from plots of grass vividly 
green at this season of the year, and abun- 
dantly dott^ with daisies. There are a 
fen flowers scattered capriciously amidst 
the undergrowth of green, anccnlont- 
looking plants which thrive in the shadow 
of the ilex. A subtle odour of violets is 
in the air. Birds chirp and flutter with a 
soft whirr of little wings. Above is the 
spring sunshine, and an unfathomable depth 
of stainless bine. Out of the fretted lights 
and shadows beneath the gnarled old trees 
we step on to an open terrace, and look 
down on Rome and the Gampagna. 

Oh the beauty, and the wonder, and the 
sadness — the ineffable sadness — of all the 
vanished centuries which seem to linger 
above tbe scene, like disembodied spirits 
which have done with mortal life, and yet 
hover, earth-bound, round their ancient 
dwelling-place ! And the beanty ! Yes, 
for the varied hills before us are steeped in 
depths of colour, are rich with an infinite 
play of light and shade, are crowned by 
wreaths of fleecy snow melting into wreaths 
of fleecy clouds above them. They are 
piled np in one place like gigantic ocean 
waves which have suddenly stayed their 
rolling course, and hang poised and mo- 
tionless, intensely, darkly blue, with crests 
of fonm. Tonder is the towering peak of 
Soracte (the modem Sant' Oreste) sharp 
and stem. Shining whitely on the lower 
slopes of the blue hills are Tivoli, Fius- 
cati, Albano. Southward, the range sinks 
softly down, and melts into tho va^t ex- 
panse of the Campagna, purple on the dis- 
tant horizon, and, nearer at hand, lovely with 
numberless tints of green, from dark ohve to. 
the tender hue of springing wheat, through 
which old Tiber winds his silent way. 

And for the wonder of the scene, there 
is Rome at our feet ! Rome, with her 
crumbling grandeors, among which ' 
know the petulant new hfe fliat fills her 
streets is now coursing heedlessly. Fast 
the Fomm and the Coliseum, as under 
the shadow of St. Peter's dome, carriages 
flash by with shining panels, and a glitter 
of silver, and a vision of gay head-gear and 
&ir foreign faces. In the long line cf the 
Coreo we know that crowds troop np 
and down, and stare at the Parisian gew- 
gaws .behind clear sheets of glass, and 
bow, and grin, and sneer, and chatter. In 
Trastevere the brown-tinted children shout 
and play. The tinman hammers at his 
wares. The carpenter and the marliJe-cutter 
are at work with saw and chisel ; and the 
bricklayer — carrying just such small cnbea 
of baked clay as his remote fore&thers 
bnilt with — mounts his ladder leisurely, 
and pauses, with southern nonchalance, to 
consider where he shall deposit his by no 
means heavy load. 

We know all this; and we know, too, 
somewhat of the things which History 
and Art are dumbly preaching to ns from 
the stones of the Eternal City. But yet, 
looking down from this Bununit of Monte 
Mario, it is — shall I confess it ? — sot the 
greatness, but the littleness, of Rome, 
which oppresses my spirit. The aspect of 
nature is too vast, toa impressive, too 
mighty, for even Rome to vie with it here. 

What is this aistress of the world that 
we gaze upon ? 

A handful of pebbles, white, brown, and 
cream- Qolonred, flung down upon a limit- 
less plain, stretching in monrnfal majesty 
to the limitless see^ The wilderness flows 
up to her very gates like a flood, and see 
threatening to efface her. Her prend dome 
which covers such wealth, and pomp, and 
beauty, stands like a sen^nel apon the 
edge of the mystical Campagna. The 
mountains and the plain are greater than 
the greatness of the cif^. They remain, 
awful in their enduring beauty, whilst 
palacer and temple, and Fomm crumble 
slowly into dust. Cgasar and Brutus; soldier 
and slave ; poet, orator, pondff, and artisan ; 
hordes of homau creatures from north, 
south, east, and west, bringing tribute or 
terror ; victors or Tanqnished — have passed 
in strange procession within view of yonder 
blue pe^ of Soracte, and marched from 
eternity to eternity across the purple plain 
of the Campagna. 

Hark ! Do you not hear martial muaio P 
See, &r beneath us on the dusty road, 


wliicli sbowB from, bence scarcely broader 
than my hand, there winds aloog a stream 
of ant-UIce specks. The breeze carries to 
4mT ears the blare of their tmmpets, and the 
pulse of their dntms. They are eoldiers 
of the army of Italy, sabjects of the king 
who reigns at the Oe^IoI. Their tnoBic is 
echoed back from the walla of the Vatican 
where dwells that vioer^^it of Heaven, 
whose dominion nrbi et orl^ has at length 
come, to an end, even as commonwealth 
and empire have c«ased in the old days 
brfore him. March on, under tie bine 
brightness of the Roman sky, oh, ye fight- 
ing men of to-day ! March on— whither ? 
Unspeakable is the beanty, unspeakable 
the melancholy of the monntains, and the 
j poetic plain, and the ineffable lights and 
' shadows. Rome hams and stira, lives and 
safiers in the midst. The sonl feels strange 
yearnings— a strange sadness that ia not 
all pain, an ecstasy of admiration ihat is 
not all pleasore. Down in the streete of 
tie city, she will presently thrill at the con- 
tact of linmanity. She, too, wiU' feel the 
iofloence of the vivid, though traiisient, 
present, and live her fragment of mortal 
i life in Borne, and awake to its wonders ; to 
it« greatness, its eqaolor, wealth, beanty, 
and decay. Bnt here, and now, ^e longs 
with a vagoe longing as for the wings of a 
dove. She melts with a vagoe pity for the 
myriads who have played ont their brief 
pwtnpon this atately theatre of the worid, 
and whose place knows them no longer. 

Chirp ! chirp ! sings a little bird in the 
toanches. The leaves of the ilex la^mble a 
little in the breeae, and the cypress sways 
slowly, bending its taper summit vrith a 
graceful motion, A dark-eyed child steals 
ap and thmsts a bonch of odorous -violets 
into my hand. The soft wind mfflee them 
too, and carries their delidons breath away 
upon its wings. Fainter and fainter the 
aonnd of dmm and tmmpet seems to flicker 
in the distanoe like a dying flame, now 
bigh, now low. The son is sinking west- 
wu-d, glorions in dondless effulgence. Soon 
the Wief southern twilight fills the sky ; a 
■ea of melted pearl, with a pale cresoent 
moon and one attendant star saihng 
Btlverly throngh it« depths. Tiny wings 
flutter restlessly, and then are still, among 
tiie dense dark foliage. The great moou- 
taina grow sombre, and the plain glimmers 
ghostJy and grey. Tonder glides some- 
thing that looks like the phantom of some 
claasie Roman shrouded in TolaminouB 
white drapery. No; it is a wreath of 
mist, the iat^ breath of the Campagna, the 

deadly malaria in a visible form, crawling 
stealthily towards the streets of Rome. 
The night is &Uisg. Let us go down. 

IN AN oionBiTff: 

Jebk ! Bang ! With a clatter of hoofs 
on the stone pavement, ae the horses slip 
back on their hanncbeB, we suddenly pnLl 
up. There are six persons in the omnibns, 
which is constmcted to hold twelve, so that 
we have ample room and verge enottgh. 
Of the six, one is English, one ia an im- 
piegato^a clerk in one or other of the 
government ofBcea — one is a priest (N.B. 
I have not yet been in a Roman omnibns 
without finding at least one priest among 
the passengers), two are popolane, women 
of the people, and the sixth is a little old 
citizeness Wonging to the circle just above 
these in the social scale; as ia denoted by 
her bonnet, and a pair of kid gkivee with 
the tips of the fingers cut off, which adorn 
her bauds. The popolane wear nothing on 
their heads save a mass of greasy black 
plaits. In the case of the younger woman 
these appear to be made of hair growing 
on her own head. In the case of the elder — a 
fot, lemon>cojoured person, who might pass 
for a Japanese duenna, if th^ be such 
tilings as duennas in Japan — the plaits 
seem to have been growing, at some antc- 
oedent period, on a horse's tail. Chignons 
and false hair are by no means confined to 
thearistocratio classes. Both these women 
are enveloped to the chin in common shawls, 
which allow nothing more to he eecn of 
thdr attire than about half a yard of cotton- 
print skirt, reaching to the ankle. Of the 
ankle itself and the foot, there ia nothing 
complimentary to be said. They look 
rather as if they had been'turned ont of 
wood with a clamsy lathe, and supplied 
cheap. The priest is dignified, though 
dirty, in his voluminous black cloak and 
shovel bat. The Bomanimpiegato is rather 
epmce, with a dassling vose-ptnk necktie. 
Of yonr humble servant the Englishman, 
there is no need to say a word of descrip- 
tion, inasmuch as you hare bnt to look out 
of yonr vrindow to see a doeen like him. 

Especially is it not worth while to waste 
time in descriUng him, because we began 
with a jerk, and a bang, and a sadden 
pulling up, the explanation of which yon 
are waiting for all this time. But paziensa ! 
That is our watchword, our motto, onr 
open and shut sesame. Yon mnst not be 
in a hnrry, good reader. Nobody else is so 

We all sit still and look at eaoh other, 

40 [UkjiD.ieioj 


[CondncM b; 

or at the oppodto side of the street for 
miuate or so, and tlieii Eome one aelcs what 
ia the matter. No one can say. At least, 
no one does e&y ; so there ensues another, 
briefer pause, during which the English- 
man with the reatleSB energy of his nation, 
and the impiegato — who is evidently a 
rather lively fellow — crane 'their necks out 
of their respective windows to look ahead 
and see the canse of our sudden stoppage. 

It is a Bomaro that has fallen down in 
the middle of the street. A eomaro is a 
donkey, And this special donkey is heavily 
laden with sacks fnll of charcoal hanging 
on either side of him. The street ia very 
narrow, and thickly frequented, and the 
prostrate somaro impedes the whole traffic. 
There he lies, poor beast, reposing on his 
side on one heap of sacks, whilst the op- 
posite heap sticks up mountain onsly. His 
master contemplates him with a coun- 
tenance whose expression is obscured by a 
thick layer of charcoal dnst all over it. 
Oar condnctOF leaves his post on the step 
of the omnibas, and goes np with folded 
arms to contemplate the donkey, too. 
Some shoemakers, who occupy a dark 
little shop under a beetle-browed archway, 
come to tbeir door, last in hand, and also, 
look Bteadfastly at the donkey. Mean- 
while the donkey lies there very quietly, 
and betrays not the remotest intention of 
attempting to get np again. He has broken 
no bones, nor does he even seem to be 
hurt in any way. But there he lies with 
the ^ of finding a recumbent position a 
decided improvement on a standing oue^ 
and with a world of mild obstinacy ex- 
pressed in every hair of his ssgaciouB face, 
and every line of his poor lean body. 

I must testify, to the honour of my 
Roman fellow- passengers, that they one 
and all express pity for the Inckless animal. 
The women are very bottj for him. The 
impiegato observes that he has probably 
come a long way that morning heavily 
laden, and without a breakiast; and adds, 
shrugging his ahonlders— sympathetially, 
not unfeeliDgJy — " Gii si vede ch' h mezzo 
aflamato, povero dlavolo !" " You can see 
he's half-starved, poor devil 1" 

Another panse, during which a volunteer 
comes forwud and ghea a tug at the old 
piece of rope which serves our acmaro 
for a bridle, apparently with the expecta- 
tion of thus inducing bim ta get on his 
feet. Kot at all ! The somaro merely 
winks slowly, and flicks his tail about in 
the dust. Now bounds upon the sceue a 
littlo street boy, whooping that peculiar 

whoop' which is the universal language of 
street-boys, so far as 1 have observed the 
species. But even be soon desists from^ 
any active demonstration. He leaves off 
yelling, and stands to contemplate the 
donkey with the rest. A gentle melan- 
choly is stealing over us all. I believe 
the omnibus horses have taken this oppor- 
tuniiy to indulge in a nap. I know the 
priest has. The two popolane whisper in 
a subdued voice of their private affairs. 
Nobody seems to think of getting out. 
Nobody seems to think of going on. The 
Englishman begins to speculate on the 

Siossibility of flnding his way to his inn on 
bot, through a labyrinth of hack streets, 
inasmuch as there appears to be no pro- 
spect of the omnibus proceeding on its 
journey for an indefinite time to come. 

All at once, with a loud rattle and clatter 
reverberated from the walls of the lofty 
old houses, drives up another omnibus 
behind us, and necessarily comes to a 
stand-still in our rear. To the surprise 
of the Englishman, but apparently without 
making much impression on any one else, 
the driver of omnibas number two launches, 
from the high vantage-gronnd of his box, 
a volley of scornful reproaches at the con- 
ductor of omnibus number one ; our 
omnibas, "Now, then," he cries — to 
translate his modem Latin into barbarifui 
vemaoular — " what are you up to P What 
are you doing there, you parcel of blessed 
fools ? Why don't you help ? Yon, there," 
leaning down and throwing his sonorous 
syllables point-blank at the head of our 
conductor, " you, why don't yon go and 
help to pick np the donkey ? Are we to 
be here all day F" 

A fiery spirit, this! A most extraor- 
dinarily impatient and eager spirit. He 
actually wants to get on I There must be 
some strain of olassio Roman blood in the 
fellow. He is as haughty, as trenchant, as 
angry, and as ready to command all and 
sundry, as if he could boast of an unbroken 
descent from Coriolanus himself. Our 
conductor, however, is not destitute of 
dignity. When Coriolanus repeats dis- 
dainfully, " Now then, stoo-pid, why don't 
you go and help to pick np the donkey P" 
he merely ejaculates, with a languid half- 
turn of the head, and a superb arching of 
the eyebrows, '■ lo !" " What, I !" It is 
more eloquent than a longer speech. 
Meanwhile, such is the power of character, 
the energetic objurgations of Coriolanus 
have stimulated the charcoal man to some- 
tbiug like exertion. After some vigorous 


73.1 41 

tugs at the rope bridle, and one or two 
resonnding thwacks with a cudgel on the 
somaro's uiming flank — neither of whicb 
applications prodncethe least effect on the 
nnfortnnate bmte' — the donkey's oaster 
hits on tho bright expedient of unloading 

" Of course !" says Hie impi^ato, 
smiling sarcastically. " That is the only 
way. He oonld never get up with that 
load on hie back. That is what should 
have been done before." One rather won- 
ders why the impiegato has refi^ned &om 
si^gesting this obviona course before. Bat 
no doabt he has his reasons. When aboat 
half the sacks have been removed, the 
poor donkey struggles to his feet, and is 
led away beneath an archway; and down 
a narrow, gloomy lane, banging his head, 
and st^gering along on Eis thin weak 
lege, an affecting spectacle of unmerited 

Onr horses are startled from their doze 
by a sharp crack of the whip, and on we 
go again, rattling and clattering over the 
stony streets. Coriolanns follows in our 
wake mately triomphont, and having gained 
his point, deigns to cast neither word nor 
gUnce npon us more. The popolane get 
oat at a street comer, and sloutdi leisurely 
away, wrapped iu their shawls. The im- 
piegato presentiy leaves ns with a flourish- 
ing salnte to the foreigner. Lastly, the 
priest alights near to a ohurch, and stalks 
up the steps of it. 

He ia succeeded hy a railway porter with 
ft bnndle on his knee. And after the porter 
enter three stont shop-keepers, who re- 
luctantly throw away their half-oonsnmed 
cigars ; for smoking is not allowed in the 
Roman omnibuses, " by order of thp mnni- 
cipalitj," as is attested by a ticket hung up 
near the door. 

Presently, in passing the chnrch of St. 
Ignatios Loyola, we find onrselves in the 
midst of a dense crowd, and gradnally de- 
crease OUT pace, ontil we come to a full stop. 
The door of the chnrch ia open, and we 
have a glimpse of crimson damask, and of 
a blazing firmament of lighted tapers. A 
nomcroas congregation is pouring from the 
chnrch, and a still more nomerons body of 
spectotors fills the ' street ontside to see 
them pass. One ol the Lent sermons 
preached by the Jesnits, and addressed 
ohiefly to the noble dames of Rome, has 
just come to an end. The railway porter, 
a burly, broad-feced fellow with bamt^ 
sienna coloured bands, begins a mono- 

" Ha ! Here's a crowd to be sure ! Per 
bacco I There are more people outside the 
chnrch thnn in, certainly ; but still, what a 
lot are ponring out of uie doors. Well, it 
ia wonderful. What do they come for ? 
In the old days the churches were mostly 
empty. The folks wouldn't go to chnrch, 
not they. And now that we ve put down 
the priests, these geeso flock to mass end 
vespers by the hundred. I believe they do 
it out of spite 1 Some folks are never con- 
tented. When the priests were uppermost, 
they wouldn't go to church. And now — 
just look ! Per dio ! Tes ; I believe they 
do it out of spite." 

Onr conductor, standing on his step, and 
within easy conversation si reach of the pas- 
sengers inside the vehicle, suggests with a 
tolerant air of giving the devil his duo, that 
perhaps some people may go to church out 
of devotion. The railway porter neither 
boks at, nor directly addr^ses him, but 
continues soliloquising like a man in a 
play; throwing his speech well at the 
audience, but yet not appearing conscious 
of their presence. 

" Che devozione !" says he, aa though 
the phrase had arisen apoutaneously in his 
own mind, and were not the sn^estion of 
an outsider. " Devotion, indeed— pooh ! 
This is devotion," slapping his pockets ; 
"make money, that's the tbing I A good 
supper and a flask of good wine, that's de< 
votion. Talk of devotion, indeed — che !" 

Until the end of our jonmey our friend 
continues to pour out a volume stream of 
words strongly flavoured with ^arlio, and 
all of the same illogical and inscrutable 
character. His eloquence is quite inde- 
pendent of coherence or iutelligibihty. 
What it tends to — if he knows — he is un- 
able to convey to his hearers. But, like 
some orators of neater pretensions, he is 
quite satisfied witn sound, if sense be want- 
ing, and rambles on fluently, only stopping 
occasionally to chuckle and gnu at some 
witticism of so subtle a character as to 
escape the appreciation of everybody save 
himself. But hie great point, the phrase 
on which he. piques himself, aud repeats 
about thrice in every sentence, is, " They go 
ont of spite." 

" Don't tell me," says he, wagging his 
broad fece and bull throat from side to 
side J " when the priests were uppermost, 
do yon think the folks would nock to 
chnrch ? Nosaignore ! But' now, only 
look ! Per bacco ! They do it out of 
spite, and nothing else !" 

He is still harping on this rhetorical 

12 [Moj 10 


trionipli, when the onmibos reaches its 
journey's end. Saddeuly descending from 
biB roBtrnm, and associating; with his 
brother mortal s on common groimd, he 
tucks his handle onder his arm, looks 
round on bis fellow •passengers with a grin 
of good hnmoor, tonches bis cap to them, 
nods familiarly to the condnctor, and dives 
into a little wine shop ; while the rest of ns 
take onr difierent ways across the hnge 
space where the foontaina of St. Peter's 
are spaikling ia the sun. 



All Brickfco^J, aa may be concmv«d, 
was in commotion at the news that was 
now spread abont. It was known that 
Mr. Dooghty's relations bad at last felt it 
their duty to interfere, and that tbe " nn- 
fortonate gentleman " was at that moment 
in restraint, or at least carefully watched 
in his own houEs. There was much asto- 
nishment, and mooh more moralising over 
this sad news. 

The greatest wealth, it would be said, 
was not exempt from drarwbacks. No 
matter how bleaaings might be distri- 
buted, there was still a general level to 
which most things were reduced. Still, 
there was a great deal of aympatby, tat he 
was a charitable, gentle.tempered man, who 
had done good and won popularity; and 
there waa a certain class of business. men 
who, by a sort of instinct, arrived at the 
true conclusion, namely, that it waa a ens- 
picious-looking affair, and that there was 
some plotting at the bottom. These 
matters were talked of a great deal, and as 
Will Giardiner was not very restrained in 
his speech, and his wife said everywhere 
that the proceedings taken bad been at the 
inetigation of " the Dukes," it was not snr- 
prising that rumonrs shonld have begun 
to swell, and that mnch indignation 
should be expressed. The whole posi- 
tion of affairs indeed offraed the strangest 
contrast to the state of things when onr 
characters were first introduced to the 
reader. An amiable virtuoso, wbom no- 
bodjr thought anything of — a hnmble 
music-master and his daughter timorously 
trying to make their way — some polite 
average ladies and gentlemen of society 
clustering round. Now, the amiable vir- 
tuoso had become the victim of a con- 

spiracy ; the mnaic-master's daughter had 
become a heroine, and been driven out on 
the world, and the average ladies and gen- 
tlemen have changed into fiercely contend- 
ing parties, carrying out their ends with* 
out Bcrople or remorse. 

Two of the conspirators met on tha 
evening of that day — when i^ had grown 
dark ; for such points the great lady now 
found herself considering. - She made her 
way to the ofBoe of Mr. Birkensbaw. She 
was admitted in a seorefc and confidential 

" It was im^^ent not to have settled 
the matter to-day, and have done with it," 
said Mr. Birkenshaw ; " the thing will get 
abont in the town, and be talked of." 

" Let it," said Lady Dnke, stiffly. 
" They are welcome to talk. We, tiie rela- 
tions, are acting in his interest." 

" So doubt," said the other, with • a 
deferential look ; " but I still think it was 
onwisft That Gardiner will be sure to 
get himself released — be has plenty of 
fiends, and he will give a great deal of 

"■ Ton seem to me to misunderstand the 
^riwle matter," said Lady Duke, in her 
hanghtieet manner. " Sy your way of 
talking, it would seem that there was some 
plot on foot. We are only acting in the 
regular way." 

Mr. Birkenshaw again looked at her, 
and shook his head. 

"No; you are under a mistake. Dis- 
abuse year mind of that at once, Lady 
Ehike. If it were all regular, we shonld 
have no tronble. Neither would you have 
Come to me. But these views are beside 
the matter ; the point is, having got so fkr 
snccessfiilEy, to finish off the whole on to- 
morrow. Ton shonld not have opposed 
me to-day at the house. By this moment 
be would have been safe, and under re- 
straint, and undergoing the treatment 
proper for him." 

Be spoke these words decidedly, if not 
sternly, and Lady Dnke felt a little awed, 
as if in the presence of some disagreeable 
and maeiterful personage. She did not con- 
tradict him, and after some further dis- 
course of the same confidential kind, went 
her way, not without some misgivings. 


It waa late in the evening, abont the 
time when Brickford bad neariy finished 
its dinner, and the lamps were lighted in 
the streets, that Corinna arrived. She 
did Dot go to bei- fittber's boose in the 


pi»y 10, lajs.] 43 

Oescent, bnt went etrnight to Mr. 
Donghty's. It was, indeed, a different 
Corinna to. tlte 'one that had left it such a 
sliOTi time before. Bhe had gone away a 
heroine, and -retarned one ; but it was now 
a different kind of beroine. Tbe first was 
til Edf-sacrifioe, a sense tiwt imparted a 
certain coldness, or the sternness of daty; 
tbe second a glowing, eager, impalBiTe 
giri, with fire aad heroism in her eyes. 

" I can have no scmples now," she said 
to berself again and again. " And, indeed, 
I allowed them to prey on me too long. 
Let them say wbat they will now. I am 
railed on to act. I should be the most 
DDgratefnl ftnd nngenercFUS of cTeatnres, as 
indeed he ntost Icag since have tbongbt 

She felt a sort of elation at this casting 
amy the bonds which had Testrained her 
solcmg. HerpIanwBS — and she felt a secret 
confidence that her strength in a good canse 
wvnld oTercome all that could be opposed 
to her, no matter bow snperioF in force — her 
pisn was to rescne this generons friend 
aan his oppressors, set him free, and then 
return to tba life of drndgcry she had laid 
oni for bffivelf. Certainly ^e might seem 
a cnrions, inccHnprehensible being, as in- 
deed she often appeared to herself. 

Hr. Donghty was in his room on this 
night. Notwithstanding the onrioos events 
of the day he was in good spirits, erer and 
uion smiling to himself and walking aboat 
withasortof exnltation. The guardians who 
were officifiUy in cba^^ were close at hand, 
thongh Doctor Spooner did not venture to 
^ow himself. Perhaps he felt that he 
amid not longer carry ont the fiction of its 
" all being for his own good" and " in the 
interest c^. the patient.' Ho had thrown 
off the mask, and felt that ihe only thing 
remaining 'was to corryont the bold scheme 
be had contrived, fearlessly, to the end. It 
was a gloomy house at that time, that 
seemed oppressed with a sense of gnilt and 

" This," said Mr. Dongbty, as he paced 
toandfro, "has made the scales fall from my 
^es. Now, indeed, the world and human 
natare have been revealed to me wilh a ven- 
geance. I that used to think everybody 
M amiable and well-intentioned! — here am 
I now assailed, persecnted, and hnuted by 
ante set of conspirators. And she, too! 
For no fonlt of mine, bat because I dared to 
like and to love her, do I find myself de- 
ferted ! She has fled from m« as if I were 
infected. I should DOt mind being deceived 
in the rest, but to be deceived in her ! It 

serves me right, though. > What business 
had a middle-aged man with love oradmira- 
tionP That is only for the young. Whensbo 
bears the new revelation — which she will 
of course — this feeling will become con- 
tempt, it will be an insult that an elderly 
i^llow, with nothing to compensate for his 
blemishes, should have dared to — but what 
am I saying— rl do her injustice. I know 
I do ! What was there in me, a poor 
foolish reclnse, that should have attracted 
her. However, it was a pleasant dream 
while it lasted, though I would that I had 
not dreamed it, tor it has left mp cold, un- 
happy, and deserted. I must now only go 
ba^ to my mnsio and my fiddles, and try 
and get such comfbrt as I can ont of them. 
Ah, mine is to be a weary life nntothe end I 
But it serree me right." 

And bis head drooped upon bis bands. 
The room was half darkened, the twilight . 
was deuKrting — ^he sat there in shadows. A 
gentle hand touched his shoulder, but he 
was not conscious of it. It tonched him 
again, and then with a weary, though not 
sn^rised air, he raised his head. 

He started up almost with a cry. She, 
tbe divine Gorinna, stood before him with 
the sweetest and most encouraging eapres- 
Mon: He gazed and wondered. He thonght 
it was a vision, and that his long weary 
dream was still going on. For a moment 
he could not speak, but remained gazing nt 
what seemed a beautiful apparition, After 
the long weary time that had gone by, the 
sickness, the imprisonment, he felt now 
like a captive whom scmie sweet angel bad 
ccHue to visit. 

"You have come to mo! I knew you 
would. I thought BO all along," he said 
at last in a low voice. " Oh, if you knew 
how I bftvB thought of you ! How good, 
bow noble, how generons of you to think 
<ft poor deserted me." 

Somehow he did not seem to believe that 
this was any chance visit; he seemed by a 
sort of iuBpiratioB to have reached at the 
truth. He knew that she had come back 
to him to shield or to save him. 

" I came," she said, "the instant that I 
beard. A kind friend let me know. Ife.'^r 
that yon have thonght me very unkind 
and very cruel, but if you were to know 
the reason, you would not think so hardly 
of me. All this I will tell you later, bnt 
now all I wish to show yon is, that there is 
one friend who feels for yon, and would do 
anything in the world to save you from 
your cruel persecutors." 

Mr. Doughty was looking at her with 

U [M>7 


nnspeakable gratittide, and almost adora- 
tion- All he could do was to I'epeat several 

" And joa h&ve come to me ! And what 
injustice I have done yon. I thought I 
bad offended yon — made you my enemy 
by my foolieb admiration, and driven yon 
away — forced yon to enter on a bard- 
working, toilsome life." 

Corinna coloured a little, her eyes were 
cast down. She answered : 

" I fear if we speak of offending — but all 
that is past now. We must save you from 
tbeso wretches — ^I shall do it, if all the 
rest are wanting." 

" Ton !" he said, witb a curious look. 
" But have yoa thought of the difficulties P 
What can yon do P They are aJl against 
me, every one. lam helpless here." 

"No matter. I have instinct within 
which tells me I shall find means and 
strength. The; will not dare to opposeme. 
I have confidence and I shall save you." 

"Bat have vou thought," he went on 
slowly, and stiU gazing at ber with that 
look of earnest adnuraljon — "have yon 
tbonght of another danger, not for me, but 
for yourself P— what the cruel tona^ee of 
•these people may do, how they will be busy 
with your name again ? — making you suffer 
the old torture once more, just as they 
drove you from this place before P Tou 
must be saved from that." 

"I have not thought of that," eud Co- 
rinna. " Rather I am prepared to accept 
the worst as some penance or expiation. 
For I disdain to be carrying on any hypo- 
critical pretences any longer, or to be im- 
posing on your noble nature. I did not 
suffer from such things ; I despised them 
too much for that. But there was another 
reason for this absurd Beneitiveness." 

Mr. Doughty was following her every 
word. With that sort of gentle chivalry 
which was his nature, he was determined 
to anticipate any confeBsion that might 
hurt her pride, even at the risk of a new 
mortiScation for himself. 

"Ton thought," he said, hesitatingly, 
" tiiat your motives would be misconceived 
-—by me, I mean ; that your father's posi- 
tion, your own, mine—the 'great mil- 
lionaire,' as they called me-~ezcluded 
everything from the matter but self-inte- 
rest. Tours was too lofty a nature to en- 
dure the Buspif ion of being made a mere 
instrument for securing money and for- 
tune. And so yon left Vbm place, and went 
out into the world. I did not see this 
then, as I ought to have done j but what 

you hare done to-night has revealed it all 
to me." 

She looted at him gratefully. 

" This is the true solution," he went on, 
rather hurriedly ; "for love or liking was 
of course a childish absurdity, "ton had 
given your heart to the young, as jon 
should have done, or," he added, nervoudy, 
" you would have done had you found a 
heart worthy of you. As for myself^ there 
was nothing but absurdity in the idea of a 
cold autonm love like mine, which I had the 
presumption to think of offering to you." 

Corinna looked at him with honeai, 
beaming eyes. " As you have spokea so 
generously and openly, I shall do the same. 
Why should I let you have such an idea, 
or think so meanly of me. No ; of your 
love, the love of a noble, generous man, I 
should have been proud; I should have 
welcomed it as an honour. I was, indeed, 
caught for a time by the apparent devotion 
of another, but I soon saw how I had been 
led away. Th^e was no real worth there. 
When I found that I had allowed myself 
to be so deceived, when I could so lightly 
have thought of giving my heart to the 
first that offered, I determined that I would 
not offer yon the mere d^ris of such affec- 
tion as I hod to give; I felt that yon 
might come at last to despise mo, and mas 
it was that I appeared to make such a re- 
turn to aO your landness. There is my whole 
confession, which I feel confusion in mak- 
ing to yon. And I will tell you this 
farther : had yon, indeed, been a poor matt, 
it would have been my pride to show you 
how much I felt the honour you had done 
me in thinking of one so unworthy of you 
as I am." 

A sort of light seemed to spread over the 
listener's &ce, a sort of exultation. 

"Tou do not mean this, surely p" he 
scud. " These are merely words of oom- 
fort addressed to the poor invalid. Hovr 
am I to venture to tell you P And you 
must leom to-morrow, if not sooner. And 
then yoTi may fiincy yourself bound hy 
those words. Oh, Corinna ! what will yoa 
do when you hear what I have to tell 
you P" 

She looked at him in astonishment, but 
said, gently : 

" Let me hear it at once." 

" It was you, recollect," he went on, 
with a sort of pleading manner, " that said 
it. But you may not have thought what 
you were saying. Nor mnst yon for a 
second think yourself bound by it. But oh, 
Corinna," he added, with an effort, "here 


Ctiu-lM Stekeut.] 


[H»J 10, 187B.1 45 

is the trutb. I am the poor mnu sncli as 
yoa describe. The weftltb that I wae 
audited 'with has passed from me to 
anotber, and I am the poor) lonely, musical 
reclnse that yoo first saw mo !" 

He did not dare (o look at her face for a 
few moments, then raised his own donbt- 
Mly. She was smiling at him. He read 
in those holy eyes t^t all his troubles 
were ended. 


The following morning was the brightest 
that Brickford had seen for many a day. 
There was some litUe flatter among the 
characters who have Ggared in this histo^, 
eepecuUly in the members of the Dnke 
confederacy, who witnessed the approach 
of the momentons hoar that was to see the 
crowning stroke of tbeir operations. 

It was an early bonr when a carriage 
drove np to the door of Mr. Donghty^s 
house, and when 'i/Le. Birkenshaw and 
Doctor Spooner bunied oat of it. Their 
ill-omened attendants were already wuting, 
near the door, and met tbem as they came 
np. Kow tbe stroke was to fall ; and some 
good people passing, who knew " tbat poor 
Doughty," lamentM tbe sadden toppling 
over of a fine iDt«llect, a catestropbe, bow- 
ever, which was unhappily but too common, 
and -was too often found to follow on a 
sudden access of wealth. 

Ur. Donghty was in his room, waiting 
the guests Uiat be expected. Who would 
have known him now — restored, bright, 
^onng — even as was the transformed Faust 
in Uoosieur Qoonod's opera P That night 
bad brought him back his health — at least 
he thought no more of his sickness or 
his pains. Hope, joy, and even exalta- 
tion, were on the face of that middle-aged 

The visiters entered with a bnrried and 
determined manner, as tbongh anticipating 
a disagreeable task, bnt were not a little 
oonfonnded at tbe spectacle of tiie beam- 
ing, weU-dressed, and even gay personage 
that had taken iher ^lace of tbe gfoom;^ and 
almost hypochondriacal invalid tiiey' had 
quitted the day before. The cordiality and 
good humour with which he welcomed tbem 
was no less embarrassing. Doctor Spooner, 
however, b^an at once. 

"Mr. Dongbty," be said, "I must ask 
YOU to come with me for a short joumejr. 
I am authorised to do it, and hope yon will 
not make any opposition, for it is for your 

Mr. Doughty smiled and boned with en- 

joyment, as though he were laying himself 
out for a pleasant scene in a comedy. 

" I know all that," he answered, gaily. 
It is yoar dnty, with other honourable 
motives, that prompts you. That, of 

That, of coarse," said Doctor Spooner, 
uneasily. " And we had better not lose 
any time, which, for you, is no doubt 
highly precious." 

"Ah ! visitors, I see," be s^d, from the 
window. "Come to say good-bye te me 
before 1 go." 
Doctor Spooneranswered rather roughly: 
"We can have no more deWs. No 
persons can be admitted here. I will not 
allow any such scenes as we had yester- 
day. See, Mr. Birkenshaw, that no one 
be admitted." 

Surely," said the other, mildly, " yon 
would not deny me this small favour. It 
may be long before I have such a chance 
again. Ton are not going to be harsh to 
me on such an occasion." 

There was a curiously irodioal tone in 
all Mr. Donghty's words, that was making 
them more and more distrustful each mo- 

We have had trifling enough," said the 
doctor, " and can't allow any more." 

"I fear yon are too late," said Mr. 
Doughty. " Hereare the visitors. What, 
William Oardiner ! Why, I tbonght they 
had secnred you. And my old friend 
Dodd oome down to see me, at snob a 
critical time ! Well, this is kindness 1" 

It was, indeed. Will Gardiner, with his 
open, beaming face mantling with smiles 
and good humour. 

" My dear, dear Doughty," he said, rush- 
ing to bis friend, " this is more of yonr 
kindness. Oh, these rascals are here, are 

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Doughty, 
angrily. " Ton must not speak to these 
gentlemen in tbat style. They are only 
doing their duty, and are to take me away 
in a few momento— that is, if they will 
think it worth their while, now that Mr. 
Dodd has come." 

That gentleman advanced, smiling. 

"My poor Doughty," he said, "in what 
a way to find you ! I received your tele- 
gram," he went on, "and the amazing 
news it contained. Why, it is a romance. 
I saw Miss Nagle this morning, and she is 
coming here." 

" Look here, gentlemen," said Doctor 
Spooner, with a sort of dogged fury in his 
eyes. " There is some understanding here 

4C [Mny 10, 1878.] 


amoDg you all. And I suppose joa hafe 
planned all tlii|. But, let me tell yon, we 
are not to be pnt off from carrying out onr 
purpose. "Wo are aathoiieed to do so by 
tlte proper parties, and are acting legally. 
I wnm yon, I bare assistance here, and 
■will tolerate no interferonoe," 

" No one shall interfere, my good Doctor 
Spooner," said Mr. Doughty. " Ton may 
depend on me. I shall go with yon, never 
fear — that ia, if yon will take me." 

"And these varions parties," said Mr. 
Dodd, " if I might ask, who are they ?" 

" The relatione, sir. Lady Pake and 
her husband. They will be here ia a mo- 
ment ; I have sent for them. Never yon 
fear ; we know what we are about," 

" Then I think she ooght to be present. 
Wo might wait a moment for her. There 
can be so harm, especially as oar friend 
here shows Gnch willing dispositions." 

They did wait, moodily and gloomily, for 
a few minutes. Doctor Spooner and his 
fjiend retired into the window. Will Gar- 
diner looting at the two coofederates with 
ii ^Ticked hostility that made ihem oncom* 
for table. 

Mr. Dodd had just time to say to his 
friend, " Why, this is the noblest and most 
generona act in the world. But can yon 

be seriona — surely yon know " wnon 

the door opened, and Lady Dnke entered 
excitedly. She started as she saw the 
room crowded, bnt instantly recovered her- 
self, and then said with great promptitade 
and decision : 

" Lose not a moment, Doctor Spooner, 
I anthoriae all, and am responsible. I wish 
everybody to be present now, as they 
insist on intmding here. The certificate is 
duly signed, and T am the nearest relation. 
There is an indelicacy in all this confusion 
and interference, but I am not accountable. 
Who is this gentleman P" 

"An old friend of Mr. Doughty's, 

" It will not do, sir," said the lady, "if 
he gathered all the old ii-icnda he had in 
tlic world; they shall not be allowed to 

"The lady is quite right," said Mr. 
Doughty. "And I thiuk it is time this 
rather unpleasant scene should end. I am 
quite ready to go." 

" There, yon hear," said Doctor Spooner ; 
" and I will ask all the visitors to retire." 

" Tes, my dear kind friends, do go," said 
Mr. Doughty, " and let me get ready for 
this unosna) journey. In fact, I am quite 
ready. My tniDgs can be packed later. In 

fact, what shall I want with things in the 
palace I am going to visit ?" 

" Yon hear," said Lady Duke, in a low 
voice, " Ton hear those words — ' a 
palace P' " 

"This exciteDttent," added the doctor, 
" may have tfae worst conseqnences, ajid 
increase our difficulties materially, I entreat 
yon, gentlemen, go." 

"I must just say one word," said Mr. 
Doughty, "as I may nothaveso favourable 
an opportunity hereafter, and my words 
will not naturallv have the same effect. 
Lady Duke and Mr.Spoonerwillnotolgoct, 
I am sure. It is as to the property wEiich 
I am supposed to bo possessed of." 

The doctor and Ladv Pake looked in- 
telligently at their neighbonrs. 

" Supposed to be possessed o^" he re- 
peated, " I have no anxieties on that 
Boore to disturb me, ' Some time ago I had 
prepared a wilt leaving the whole, with the 
exception of a few legaciee, to a person 
for whcmi I had the ^^ateet regard. That 
will I destroyed, and it is just as well that 
I did, for I was disposing of what I had 
really no title to." 

Again intelligent looks on tlie part of 
Lady Onke and her allies. 

"Beally what I am going to tell seems 
like a bit of romanoe ; bnt yon will under- 
stand it all in a few nunnentfi. My watcbfnl 
friends here, Doctor Spooner and others, 
will reooUeot that they often found me 
searching through those trunks, and ex- 
amining the papers they contained. The 
trntli is, I not long ago found a memo- 
randum allnding to a document which 
made quite a different disposition of the 
property as having been made, and I felt 
it my duty to search for it, which I did 
with great pains. I was rewarded for my 

Lady Dnke was beginning to torn pale. 
Doctor Spooner and his ally began to 
breathe hard. 

" I was rewarded, I say, though some 
might think it was an odd sort of reward, 
I found," he went on slowly, " this paper, 
which is a WiLt., a will of much later date 
than the document which made me be con- 
sidered snch a lucky man. There stands 
the real legatee, Mr. Dodd, the old friend 
of the testator. It is all bis !" 

A cry broke from Lady Duke. A furious 
burst of rage from Doctor Spooner. 

"Now," continued Mr. Doughty, plv 
cidly, and rising from his chair, " having 
made my little disclosure, I am ready to go 
with you; will yon take me F" 



".] 47 


A BORi of stupor settled on the oon- 

Mr. Dodd inspected tbe document thftt 
una handed to lum, vifh dne gravity, &nd 

. "Ah! I had expected this, and, to say the 
troth, wae a little aatonished when I heard 
tliat another had been chosen. I am Bony 
lor yon, Donghty." 

" I ftm not," said Mr. Doughty, smiliag ; 
" the lose of Uus, as yarn, most kdow, may 
BiTe me from some inconreniences which 
tbeee good people irere medTtating for me. 
loberty cannot be too dearly parohaaed. 
However, if they insist on it, I snppose I 
mist go." 

He stilt seemed to delight in keeping np 
the ocMoiedy of the mtoatiop. 

"They have been at a vast deal of 
bonble, attending and watching me. Lady 
Duke, here, has beea like a sister of charity. 
They are so concerned for my state that 
they have bronght their people, and car- 
riage, and everything. So, perhaps, we 
o«^t not to detain tiiem." 

Lady Dnke was looking at him darkly. 

" This is all very pleasant for yoo, and 
yon think yon have bronriit tliis trickery 
verw happUy to an end, Asyonsajijostly, 
we ha*e acted in your interest, and watched, 
and taken care of yon. We are therefore 
ivepared, in yonr interests," she added, 
sneerisgly, " still to look after yon. And, 
as all is ready for yonr removal, I am still 
willing to onder^ke yonr removal to a 
place where yon will be dniy cared for. 
Give tbe lovper instmctions, Doctor 
Spooner, and see that ihey are carried 

Spite, rage, and disappointment were 
contending witii each ot^er in her face. 
But her agent only shook his head, as who 
shoald say, " the game is np." 

"What," said Mr. Dodd, smiling, "my 
poor friend, who was known, and is known, 
03 the shrewdest and most sensible of men, 
thongh nnder a very qniet and simple ex- 
terior, to be made ont astray in hb intel- 
lects ! Ton made a sad mistake, madam, 
when yon and yonr fiiends selected him 
for a riotim — pitched on the wrong man 
entirely. But this is trifling. Yon may 
send away those people of yonrs that I 
saw below at the door. And this disinte- 
rested doctor and his friend may retire 
irom yonr honse, Donghty p" 

Mr. Donghty, still pleasant over the 
matter, answered : 

-" Well, I am not going to force my com- 

piwiy oa them. Bot really, after this 
eagerness of weeks, and the^eneral anxiety 
aboot, it is a little mortifying to find 
myself reduced to the -position of a 
mere cypher. I am afraid that nobody will 
care abont me now, or what becomes of 

The two men retirod, bnt Lady Dnke 
held her gronnd. This prond lady was 
determined not to slink ont in company 
wif^ ber defeated eanissaries, bnt wonld hold 
her gronnd until some more creditable way 
of retiring offered. She tmated to the 
cfaanoes of events. Bot there vras more 
mortification in store for her. 

Mr. Donghty had gone several times to 
the window with some anxiety. 

"I am glad yon are remaining. Lady 
Dnke," he said, "aslehonld wish yon to 
be present when I have to make a little . 
annonncement rather intares&ig to myself 
and one other person." 
' " I have no inteoest in the matter," said 
the lady, haoghtily. 

" What, all gone within a fewminntesP" 
inqnired Mr. Donghty, good-hnmooredly. 
" Don't say that, for consistency's sake. 
Ah, here tbeyoome." 

" Ify goodness gracions I" said a familiar 
voice. " My poor fellow, bow they have 
been treating you." It was Mr. Kagle who 
had entered. " And so all the fortune's 
gone to another. This gentleman, I snp- 
pose." And Mr. Nagle looked at the new 
inheritor with a cnrions questioning look, 
as thongh trying to discover whether any 
mnsical tastes inrked within, whether he 
was married or single, or any way enited 
to prosper and fnrther the Nagle fortunes. 
" WeJl, it ca^'t be helped. By the way, 
here's Ooriunn coming np the stairs. She 
would come and see her old friend." 

Lady Dnke started. AH her enemies 
were gathering to oon&ont her. And here 
was the worst mortification of all, that this 
girl shonld arrive at snch a moment to soe 
her defeat. For Corinna she always enter- 
tained a special dblike, that began with 
that httle soene where she had intermptcd 
the composition of the postera. In presence 
of the lofty character of Corinna she always 
felt inferior. The girl, too, showed no awe 
of the woman. 

There stood the enchanting Corinna, 
the music-master's daughter, in the door- 
way, looking round on them all with an 
expressible air of dignity and nobility. She 
seemed to be Corinna Victris — the heroine 
who had won the victory through all the 
little vicissitudes of the story. Her gentle 



gaze reeted without hostility even qn Lady 

Mr. Donghty, no longer Old Don^hty, 
BO bright and happy wae his fooe, advanced 
to meet her, and taking her hand led her 
into the room. 

"At last," he said, "my tronblea and 
trials have come to an end. Yet all through 
I have had thia guiding star. Trne, I have 
lost all my wealth, bnt I have ibnnd this 
CompeosatioD and consolation, which I 
dared not have looked for had I kept my 
riches. As it now stoads there is no con- 
nexion between the loss and tha gain ; bat 
I can s^ this," he added, looking on the 
face of Corinna, " had I believed t£at Hob 
sacrifice was necessair, as the price for 
jonr afiection, I should have paid it cheer- 

Mr. Nade yn^a listening with wonder ii 
his &ce. He said nothing, bnt it could be 
seen plainly Uiat he thought this to be a 
foohsh, weaJc, and injndicioiia view. How- 
ever, he " washed his handa of the matter." 

Corinna'a eyes wandered round the room 
to the iaoea of all present, then rested on 
Mr. Doaghty's. 

" Henceforth my hfe is yonrs," she said. 
" Long before this," she added, " it would 
have been yours had the world hue al- 
lowed it. It is my pride and joy to let this 
be known." 

"A splendid gift," said Lady Doke, 
soominlly. "Too bring quite a dowry to 
the husband you are so prond of." 

" liady Duke speaks with great ac- 
curaCT,' said Mr. Dodd. "Miss Corinna 
does bring with her a veiy snfGoient dowry. 
I am a rich man myself, and am inde- 
pendent of any sach windfalls as these. 
My old Mend has re^ed to take back 
even a portion of what ill luck has deprived 
him of. Bat he cannot prevent me giving 
a portion to the young lady who has <dioaen 
to be his partner. When I return to town, 
I shall setde half of what has come to me 
on her. And much good may it do her," 
added the old amateur very warmly. 

The clond of doubt and bewilderment 
which for many weeks had hung over Mr. 
Nagle's &ce was now miraculously cleared 
away. He became of asnddenagfun the old 
&miliar Nagle, prond and hopeful, such as 
he was seen at the commeaoement of this 


Ths rest the ingenious reader will readily 
supply. He can easily call up the image 
of the enchantiug Corinna, stately and 
magnificent, hving in town, happy, loving, 
and a queen of song, admired and loved by 
her husband. Neither was she ashamed of, 
nor did she disclaim, or banish into rural 
districts with an allowance, that " odd 
fether" of hers. She rather lent all her 
exertions to get him on. Thus aided he 
has found his way into fashionable circles, 
and really hopes in time to put down 
that pushing, "squeaking" Tympano who 
t«aches the duchesses. A ra<rr spectacle 
it is to see the veteran sit down to the in- 
stmment at some private parly, and give 
the Death of Nelson after the &^hion of the 
" late imperishable Braham." Fashionable 
people, however, receive this performance, 
the grotesque smilings, secret oonferenoes 
with the keys, Ik., with much amusement. 
Not in such company is fonnd the great 
Lady Duke, about whoso &mily and their 
fate one significant word was but too oftco 
ottered in polite circles when inquiries were 
made about it, namely, "smadied." She 
long hved in France, at Dinan, where the 
general naturally took high social position. 
Their son travelled a"boQt with his regiment, 
and was married, having been " taken in" by 
a faded young lady, an attorney's daughter 
at Chatham, a far worse match than the 
enchanting Corinna. That image often 
comes back on him in his uncomfortable life. 

The last word shall deal ^vith that heroine, 
who was more and mora admired and 
followed, and by none more than by her 
husband, formerly famiharly known as Old 
Donghty, bnt now called t>y that irreverent 
appellation no longer. With him, and with 
many pleasures, her life goes on in a charm- 
ing round. She wants nothing; has all 
that money and music can famish; and 
having once chosen musio in preference to 
money, shall never again " be put to her 
eleotion" between " Notes ob Gold." 


Nut mek irln.lM DoamienMa 


B J the Aulhoi of " Hoetos's Choicb," Ac 

Tie Right of Trenalating Artiekifnm All ihb Ysak Rouhd i* ruentd bg the Aatkori. 

i6, W6kiiisiDnav,ainuia, Prtnied Bi 

n BoDH, Uuks St, Uncola' 

iiuFWdt. •■ 


50 |M»y 



me tlint child now appears not myeoif bnt 
(mother; his character and conduct mat- 
ters in which I have no concern. At least, 
I feel myself at liberty tfl diacnss, and, if 
need be^ conilemn them in the plainest 
terms. It may be, however, that our 
disunion is less ab3olnt« than it seems 
to be, or than I am myself fully conscious 
of. As^ appears alien to its own youth ; 
dissimilar and distinct in aspect as in every 
other way. Yet the time when the twain 
part<?d company, when the child ceased 
And the man began, is so hard to fix, that 
doubt upon the question becomes unavoid- 
able. Some subtle imperceptible filaments 
linking thom together may ever remain: 
a leaven of the child affecting the man, or 
some embryonic element of age possessing 
influence even in extreme youth. 

At least, if I resemble in nothing else 
the boy Btndying the whitewashed fresco, 
I am like him in that I am now studying, 
with much of his desire, to comprehend 
and int«rpret a large, confused, and par- 
tially tost or hidden picture. I mean the 
past. I desire to render it intelligible if 
I can, and to relate concerning it. Just 
now all seems vague and vast, remote 
and incoherent. The sun may pre- 
Kontly break forth, however, and .al^te, 
if not wholly dispel, the ol«cnri(y. Or, 
possibly, fancy may assist me when fact 
falls short. It ia indispensable, indeed, in 
such a cas^ that conjectnre should now 
and then be permitted, when more worthy 
evidence is not forthcoming. In a story, 
or what purports to bo a story, it is not to 
be Bnpposed that all the witnesses are 
npon oath, or that all the circumstances 
stated are capable of being fommlly and 
l^ally proved. 

So much by way of prologue. 


1 WAS Cbilde Roland, and Overbnry Hall 
was my Dark Tower. 

Not that I was a very knightly person : 
1 slim, swarthy, undersized boy of some 
en or twelve years, perhaps. Not that it 
was a particularly romautic-looking place; 
a stiff, sqaare, stone building, with sham 
battlements and numberless windows, of 
tlic Manchester wareboase or county infir- 
mary order of architecture, built in George 
the Third's reign after the total destruction 
by fire of the old hall — a real hall which 
Inigo Jones had designed. Dot I was of 
the age and the humour to be fascinated by 
it; and, accordingly, it fascinated me. 

A child with a lively fitith in &ys, 
giants, enchanted caatles, and other of the 
established poaseadons of fable, readily 
fiuds stimulanti to hia belief, easily feeds 
his appetite for the mystic and marveltone. 
He is in his own eyes a knight-errant, his 
hazel switch a falchion, his infantile attire 
a suit of burnished mail ; deeds of chivalric 
prowess are to him matters of most easy 
accomplishment. Fiercely lashing a bed of 
stinging uetiJes, he believes himself the van- 
quisher of a mighty Faynim host. He in- 
vents his adventures, and counts himself a 
hero on the score of supposititious achieve- 
menta. Perhaps it is not children only 
who do this, however. 

And there was something to be said for 
Overbury Hall. Ita existence waa a sort 
of secret. Thongh you climbed the highest 
eminence of the neighbourhood — Beacon 
Mount for instance— you could cateh no 
glimpse of the hall, not even of ite chimney- 
tops. Bnt if you stele up a very dark 
twisting avenue ; the moss on the roadway 
deadeniEg the sound of your footfalls, the 
crowded gnarled boughs above stooping 
down to knock yonr cap off, or pluck 
yon by the hair, the ahruDberies whisper* 
ing wickedly together as yon passed, taunt* 
ing, threatening you, hissing out your 
name even ; if you had nerve te accomplish 
thus much, yon came suddenly upon the 
great house as though by magic. It barred 
yonr progrees and confronted yon in the 
most massiveandimposing fashion. Thougb 
yon had sallied forth on purpose to find it, 
and would have gone home disappointed 
if you had &iled in your qnest^ it was quite 
a shock when yon did find it, even thongb 
yon had come upon it in the same way a 
score of times before. 

It not only lay in the hollow of the 
park, enwrapped and buried by huge and 
thickly congregated trees; but it was also 
dead, stone dead. Its eyes— by which I 
mean its windows— were fast closed and 
boarded up. No breath of life, in the 
shape of smoke, ever issued from its chim- 
neys. Birds built their nesta in eveiy 
nook of its fa9ade ; rabbits frisked about 
its front door-steps, as though they were 
dancing on its gravestone. Lord Over- 
bnry had long been absent from England. 
His estates, heavily encnmbered, were said 
io be vested iu trustees for the benefit of 
his creditors. Meantime, the hall was 
tenantless. It was certainly a most corpse- 
like place, monldy and mildewed, with 
thick green slime upon its walls and an 
odorous atmosphere about it as from a 

CbiriM Dlcteai.J 


[M»yH,18T9.1 51 

wv]j opened Eepalchrc. A lake vashed 
one side of it, a slanditig pool, black and 
sdgj.that never seemed to catch glimpses 
ofblae sky or reflections of heaven'fl light. 
Sombre trees bent over it as ihoDgh medi- 
UtiDg snicide, and beneath, in tJie dark 
shadoBs of their bongliB, reptiles croaked, 
add water-rats plunged, and wild fowl, 
nistliog ain(?iig the rushes, uttered strange 
tries of warning or of suffering, awful to 
Itslen to. 

Xominally, the hall wne under the charge 
of old Tliacker, a superannuated gardener, 
;ind his wife, nho received a small stipend 
mst sufficient to keep them ont of the 
Onion, in retnrn for the services they ren- 
dered, or were enpposed to render. They 
lired in one of the park lodges, a qnarter 
of a mile or so from the great bouse. I 
don't think they ever went any nearer to 
il, or indeed troubled themselves at all 
sbont it, Mrs. Thacker was always busy, 
eiiber in boiling cabbages, or in hanging 
out ragged clothes to dry upon the tunible- 
JoKn palings of the park. Old Thacker, 
when ho wasn't staring at his pig — bis 
"ptg," he called it — was invariably borry- 
ingtoorfrom the Barley Mow pnblio-house, 
"op street," Porrington. I shonid have 
faid tliat he was either hurrying thither, or 
li.IteriDg back ; in the latter case, his nose, 
wliich was of a bnlbons pattern, was nsually 
Terj red, and the flavour of strong liqnora 
much affected his exhalations. 

Apart from the fascinations I have de- 
fcribed, Overbttry Hall had other charms 
for me, I had clearly no business within 
ite boundaries, and it was situate at a dis- 
lante of some three miles from my home. 
In visiting it, therefore, a jonmey and 
tlie commissioii of. a trespass were in- 
Tolvcd; enhancing the attractive venture- 
someucsB of approaching the Dark Tower 
at all. 

One morning I had stolen unharmed np 
1» mysterions avenue and fonnd myself 
close upon the great building ; it lay across 
iijpath like a recumbent giant of granite. 
-Ml was still, save that the leaves were mnt- 
itring as ever, clouds of rooks were sailing 
ST3J overhead, cawing discordantly as they 
liarkened the sky, and some wild creature 
"J steps had disturbed was making its way 
^'th a furtive mstle through the long rank 
pass; otherwise, all seemed as nsnal. I 
"ras quite alone, and the Dark Tower was 
within a few paces of me. 

Suddenly I perceived a certain change 
in the aspect of the dead hall. It was not 
much, yet it was sometbiag; and, nndei; 

aUtbe circnmBtaiices of the case, something 
remarkable, decidedly. One of the many 
eyes of the corpse had opened I From a 
window on the gronnd floor the shutters 
had been removed. It was black, whereas 
all the others were white, or wbity-brown. 
Clearly, in my character of Childe Boland, 
I was bound to see what this change por- 

I was, as I have said, of low stature, and 
the window was some few feet from the 
ground. Still, it was easy, by moonting on 
the projecting ridge of rusticated stone 
that marked the base of the honse, and 
grasping the window-sill, to draw myself 
up to the desired elevation. A pansc, 
perhaps of longer duration than was quite 
worthy of a valiant knight-errant, for re- 
flection and the summoning of sufficient 
breath and nerve, and then — I had climbed 
to the window and was looking in. 

For some moments, flattening my nose 
against the cold glass, I conld distinguish 
nothing but the reflection of my own face, 
and oven that was not very clear. Stay, 
wasit my own face, laskedmyself ? Surely 
it was larger, redder, older, fatter. I hadn t 
such staring black , blood-shot eyes, bo 
spongy-looking a nose, such a grinning 
moQtli. If I was looking in, some other 
person was looking out, and but a window 
pane hindered the absolute contact of our 
features ! 

Then came a shout and a burst of noisy 
laughter. The window was flung up, and 
before I had time to descend and escape, I 
fonnd myself seized by the collar of my 
jacket and drawn headlong into one of the 
lower rooms of Overbury Hall. I was 
roughly treated, but I was not hurt. A 
strong pair of arms held me aloft swinging 
in the air for ,a few seconds, and then I 
was dropped on the floor. I came down 
on my feet with a sound of hob- nailed boots 
clattering on bare boards. I staggered a 
little, but I didn't fall. 

" Don't be frightened," said a hoarse 
rough voice. 

" I'm not frightened." It was not 
strictly true ; but of course a Childe Bo- 
land could not confess to the sensation of 

Then the air of the room seemed full of 
laughter again ; of laughter and tobacco 
smoke. I began to laugh myself and to 
coogb, for tbo smoke was dense and pun- 

I was a child ; but I knew that mirth 
was a sort of gnarantee of safety, or at any 
rate of immunity from punishment. 

[Mmj 17, II 



The room iras Bmall, and barely fur- 
nished. A fire bnmt in ibe grate, and on 
the hob a little brass kettle was steamiiig. 
A bottle and a tnmbler stood on the table, 
and soon I perceived tbat, in additioQ to 
the tobacco amoke, the fragrance of hot 
rum-and-water pervaded the air of the 

I fotmd mjself in the presence of a 
man, rather nntidilj' than Bhabbilj dressed. 
He wore a awallow-tailed, claret- colonred 
coat, with basket battoos, a figured blae 
satin waistcoat, and drab bvnsers bnttoned 
at the ankle. His &illed shirt was fastened 
by a brooch, and a white cravat was loosely 
twisted round his neck. . But he had the 
tambled appearance of a man who had sle^t 
in his cloUies. He wore rings upon lua 
fingers, bnt his hands were ao dingy and 
hairy that th^ looked like the paws of 
some animal His wristbands were creased 
and soiled into a pattern of dirty circles. 

As to his &ce, I conld only think of it 
in relation to an old engraving I knew o( 
hanging in one of the attics at home, 
and representing a satyr bending over the 
sleeping form of a nymph. 

The man had jast the look of that satyr ; 
the protruding lower jaw, the thick lips, 
the broad, crooked, depressied nose, the low 
corrugated forehead, the strong lines mn- 
iiing from the nostrils towards the corners 
of the month; there were even tufts of 
linir that stood erect npon his temples, 
and did duty for horns. I conld not help 
glancing towards hia lower limbs, half ez- 

Siccting to find him possessed of the crooked 
egs of his kind. It was with some dis- 
appointment that my eyes lighted upon his 
di-ab trousers. _ I , consoled myself with re- 
flecting that they might nevertheless encase 
goat^like legs. 

"Where do yon come fromP" he de- 
manded, closing one of hia eyes, as though 
hocould in that way see me better; I was 
GO small. But the action imparted a most 
Katjr-like expression of winking to his face. 
His bristling eyebrows lowered, but his 
mouth was still laughing. 

" Prom the Down Farm," I answered. 

" The Down Farm ? ■ Out beyond Pui^ 
rington ? Why, that's Hugh Orme's land, 

" And he fiuios that water meadow in 
the vfJley, don't he ? and the arable and 
mature stretching out bevond towards the 
hteepleborongh road ? To be sure he does. 
I remember now. Are yon his son ?" 

"No, he''s my unde." 

" Tour uncle, eh ? And eo you come 
here bird's-nesting, or snaring rabbits, or 
what not ?" 

" I didn't mean to do any harm," I said, 
not quite in a Childe Boland tone. 

"Well, I don't know that there's much 
harm done," he observed, with a gmfi* 

" Here, have a drink." He held out a 
steaming tumbler (o me. I tasted its con- 

"Do yon like it?" 

"Not much," I answered, coning. 
" It's too fiery." Then fearing lest I had 
given ofience by my frankness of speech, I 
added, " I dare say I should like it better 
it I was bigger." 

He laughed very mnch at this, and I 
laughed too with a vague notion that my 
remark was more funny or clever tJian it 
really seemed to me to be. And then I 
thought the satyr's laughing a good sign, 
and that it behoved me as mnch as possible 
to encooiage bis mirth. 

" Ton're quite a young shaver," he said, 
presently. " Take a pinch of snuff." And 
he held ont a large gold box to me. 

I took a pinch, terribly a&aid, however, 
that he designed to snap the lid suddenly, 
and catch my fingers. Bnt he didn't do 
that. Of course I sneeEod very mnch. 
And the more I sneezed the more the satyr 

" What's your name?" he asked. 

" Duke," I said. 

I had been christened Marmadnke, bnt 
from a general feeling that it was incon- 
venientfy lengthy for the ordinaiy pur- 
poses of life, the name had been cut' down 
to one syllable. " Doke" had about it a 
certain savour of the peer^e, and, there- 
fore, in my position, of false ' pretence, 
which was distasteful to me. Still I pre- 
ferred it to Harmadnke, which had en- 
tailed upon me various disadvantages, in- 
cluding personal conflicts with such of the 
village boys as thought it humorous to ' 
accost me as " Marmalade" — a liberiy I 
had felt bonnd to resent. Painful results, 
in the way of a braised &ce and ^trased 
knuckles, had ensued ; but I endured them 
patiently enough, and even with a sort of 
pleasure, as evidences of my valour and 
victory. I must own tiiat my correction 
of my satirists and contemners would have 
been less complete if our head carter, Jim 
Truckle, had not, whip in hand, come to 
my aid at a critical moment of the proceed- 

Charleg Dlekeni.) 


[Mm it, 187J.1 

" Dote, eh ?" repeated the satjr. " A 
recent creation, evidently." 

I knerr beforehand that be woald make 
a joke about it. Everybody did. Bat 1 
coald not join in his laugh this time. I 
felt that it vras too much at my expense. 
And to tell the truth I did not clearly 
comprehend his joke. 

"Bat Dnke what?" he asked presently. 
" Ton're Dake of Something or Somebody, 
I suppose ?" ■ 

" Dnke Nightingale," I said. 

" Nightingale, eh P" and be nibbed his 
dirty hand across * his low red forehead, 
wim a look as thongh he were trying to 
recollect something. He' did not speak 
^ain for some minntcs. Then he suddenly 
inquired, " Mother living? At the Down 
FannP HoghOrme's sister?" 

I answered 'all these qaestions in the 

" To be sure," he said ; and then he 
grew silent and thoughtful t^in. " What, 
were yon bom in these parts ?" he began 
to qaestion me anew, after a long pause. 

" Yea," I said. 

" So &r aa yon know, I suppose, you 
mean. Ever been to London P" 

" Never." 

He stared at me very hard indeed. 
" Nightbgale !" be muttered, musingly. 
Then he drained his glass, and proceeded 
to mix himself another, pouring hot water 
from the little kettle on the hob. " I sup- 
pose you won't smoke a pipe with me p" 
he asked. 

I said that if be had no objection I 
thought I would very much rather not. 

He filled and lighted his own pipe, and 
won enveloped himself in a thick cloud of 
Huoke, through which, however, I conld 
perceive his bloodshot, protruding, black 
eyes still staring at me. 

" Do you go to school P" be next in- 

" No. Mother teaches me. And Mr. 
Bygrave, the curate. He comes over to 
the &rni twice a week from Pnrrington. 
I get my lessons and exercises done ready 
for him when he comes." 

" And to-day yon're playing truant ?" 

" No, to-day isn't one of his days." 

" So, Bygrave's the curate, is he ? 
^^t's became of old Gascoifrne, then ? 
Dead?" * 

Mr. Gascoigne was our rector. I ex- 
plained that he was still living, bnt was 
now very old and infirm, and had, of late, 
been asnsted by a curate, Mr. Bygrave. 
But the satyr did not seem to be listening 

tome. He was muttering "Nightingale!" 
over and over again. 

Suddenly he rose, and opened a door 
opposite to the fireplace. It led into a lai^o 
dark, oak-panelled room. I learned after- 
wards that it was the library of the hall. 

" Come here," said the satyr, and I 
followed him into the room. I could see 
nothing at first, but he ' unfastened the 
shutters of one of the windows and allowed 
a broad shaft of dusty light to dart through 
tJie clouded panes. 

There was a large, faded, ragged Turkey 
carpet upon the floor, a heavy carved table 
with athick napof dust and fluff upon itssar- 
face in the centre, and standing straggling 

Jxt from each other, as thongh declining 
intercourse or association, a few high- 
backed chairs cohered with worn velvet of 
a dim green hue. I perceived no books 
anywhere, and the Airniture seemed very 
scanty in proportion to the vast size of the 
room. ' I could scarcely see to its further 
end, it was so distant and the light so feeble ; 
but the whole aspect of the place was dis> 
mantled and neglected. ' 

" Look at that," said the satyr, and^ho 
pointed to a picture ina broad, gold'framo 
that hung above the mantelpiece of ycllnw 
marble, on the front of which was carved 
in bold relief the coat-of-arms, supportbrs, 
and legend of the house of Ovcrbnry. 

The picture, clearly a portrait, repre- 
sented atall, slender gentleman attired'.in. 
robes of crimson velvet trimmed' with 
ermine. He wore white silk stockings, aiid 
a heavy chMn,of gold hung round' his 
neck ; he was leaning agaLnst a richly 
draped table upon which were many books 
and scrolls of paper, and'a'highly orniite 
inkstand, well supplied with' feathery-look- 
ing pens. One white hand rested upon 
the table, the other — very taper as to the 
fingers, and theae adorned with filbert- 
shaped nails — gathered together the folds of 
his robe as thongh the better to exhibit the 
slim symmetry of his legs. He was of palo 
compleiion, with brown hair clustering in 
curia low down upon his forehead. His 
eyes wore a bright surprised look, and his 
red lips were curved into a most aminble 
smile. Behind him there was a fluted 
column, with flapping cnrtains in some 
way suspended from its capital by gilded 
cords and tassels. In the extreme distance 
was painted a dim landscape backed by 
purple hills, over.which lowered lurid clouds 
veW billowy in form. 

' I looked at this picture for some time; 
it was to me an impressive work, and the 


54 [M»j 


gcDtleman it portrayed seemed Bomehow 
to have fixed Lis gleainitig eyes npon me ; 
as I moved hia glance followed me ; he erea 
appeared to raise himself on tip-toe the 
better to view me. The satyr, I noticed — 
he had broaght his smoking tumbler with 
him, and was holding it with both hands, 
as thongh to warm them — did not look al 
the picture at all ; all the time I was look- 
ing at it he was looking intently at me. 

"Well, what do you think of it?" he 
asked, at length. 

" Very grand," 1 said. " The moat 
beautiful picture I ever saw." To tell the 
truth I had seon very feir pictures I merely 
desired to convey my great and genuine 
admiration of the work, and I coold find 
no other way of expressing myself. 

" Do you think it'a like?" 

" Like who ?" I inquired, innocently. 

" Why, like me," said the satyr, with a 
noisy langh. 

" No," I answered, with a start ; for it 
had never onco occurred to me that the 
picture was meant to be a portrait of him. 

" Not a bit ?" 

" No ; not a bit." 

" Why, what's wrong about it ? Why 
isn't it like P Gome, let's have your opi- 

" Well," I said with an efi'ort — yet as lie 
pre.ssed me I felt compelled to speak — " I 
think it's too good-looking." 

He roared with laughter at this, and 
cried again and again, " Too good-looking, 
eh ! That's your opiniou is it r Too good- 
looking, ch ?" 

I thought, perhaps, I had been candid 
overmuch. " I don't say that you're not 
good-looking, you know,' I observed. 

" But do you tliink it, you young Jesuit, 
you P Honestly y" 

" Well, no, honestly, I don't." For I 
was brought to hay ; bnt he only langheij. 
He was a wonderful satyr for laoghing. 

" It was meant for me, however. I sat 
for it. Years ago though, now ; and a lot 
of money was paid for it. A chap np in 
London painted it." 

He looked at me curiously as he spoke, 
and seemed to wait for me to answer. I 
simply said, " Oh, did he !" not having 
abj other kind of observation ready. 

" But as yon say, it's not a bit like, and 
the man that painted it wasa fool." I had 
not said that, Dy-the-bye, nor anything like 
it. I greatly admired the picture, although 
not as a portrait of the satyr, certainly, " It's 
better looking, although it's a white-&ced, 
sickly, simpering idiot all the same. Let's 

see whether a glasa of hot grog will bring 
any colour into his face." 

As he Spoke he flung the contents of 
his tumbler at the picture. There was s 
smoking wet patch upon the canvas ; the 
gentleman still smiled and looked at me, 
although he seemed to be shedding very 
hot and copious tears. 

" It's improved him, by the Lord," cried 
the satyr. "He's so far like me, then. Bcal 
navy rum, hot, does him good. Como 
away, shaver ; this room's enough to give 
one the horrors." 

As I followed him out I took one parting- 
glance at the picture. Then for Uie first 
time I saw, or thought I saw, that the 
gentleman's features bore some faint re- 
semblance to the satyr's; but they were 
so mnch more refined, the &ce so much 
more smooth of surface and delicate of 
colour, that the likeness, I decided, could 
never have been averj striking one. How-- 
evor, the satyr, young, and slim, and clean, 
if he had ever been so, might have looked 
something as that picture looked. Except 
the smile. I held it impossible that the 
satyr could ever have smiled like that. 
He could only laugh — he could never havo 
done anything else — and exhibit to the 
utmost advantage his abundant supply of 
large, yellow, tnsky-looking teeth. 

" Well, shaver, you've seen something, 
and now I'm going to have a nap, anii 
you'd better cut home. What time do you 

" At two o'clock." 

" Ah, then you'll ba late unless yon raa 
all the way. Shake hands." 

I shook hands with him. Thero was 
a chink of money about our perform- 
ance of the operation. Three sovereigns 
were slid from his palm into mine. 

"For me?" I said; "oh, thank you, 
sir." I was newly saying sat^. 

" For you, and don t spend it all in rum 
or tobacco, or such hke. A little snuff, as 
yon seem fond of it, I wouldn't so much 
object to. But be a good boy and mind yonr 
books, and always tell the truth and try 
and be a comfort to your uncle and mother, 
and generally behave yourself properly, and 
do all that sort of thing. It'a so long since 
I've said anything of that kind that I'm 
not quite sure of the correct text ; but I'm 
pretty sure it comes near to what I was 
saying. It was gabbled over to me often 
enongh when I was your age, and perhaps 
it's been gabbled over to a good many 
more in the same case, and I dare say a deal 
of good it's done the lot of u^. Don't be 

(AuiH Dlckeu.] 


[Mm iJ. 1978J 55 

a prig, or » sneak, or a fool, if yon can help 
it Learn your Chnrch CatecliiBni and tako 
a few leeaonB in boxing, if yon get a 
cbance. They always come in handy at 
BOme time or another. Snare a few rabbits 
now and then if yoa like, or fish in the 
lake, only don't fall into it, beoanee there's 
not many hero to pnll yon oat, . And now, 
God bless you ; cut your Inckj." 

Tberenpon he lifted me np, and rather 
threw me ODt of the window than helped 
me to climb ont in my own way. I alighted 
on my feet, however, and as I hnnied down 
Ihe dark arenno I conld hear his lond, 
banfa langb soondiug after me, and echoing 
among the dense pluitationa on either side 


thr futieth (" thb diett half 


Wht certain regiments, formed of caanal 
collections of men of varions ages, na- 
tionalities, and districts, ehonld from the 
very first enrolment acquire a special name 
for obstinate courage, tenacious bravery, and 
almost reckless eagerness for the onslaught, 
it ia difficnlfc to say. The original stock, 
depend npon it, was good, and the officers 
ffbo first moulded the now material excellent 
Botdiers. Tbe standard once raised to a 
certain height, the pride of the regiment 
a to keep np that standard ; the tongh jobs 
«re given tbe corps to achieve ; the poste of 
boQoor awarded it ; it is let slip at the most 
critical moments ; in a word, ita career soon 
commences, and the path of gloir, red 
with brave men's blood, bnt hoed with 
erer-green lanrela, lies before it. 

The nicknames of regiments afford a sub- 
ject of great interest, and there are often 
qoaint and memorable stories about how 
Ihey acquired them. The gallant Fiftieth 
derives its sobriquet, however, rather from 
an accident in dress than from any of its 
nnmerons exploits. It was called the 
Dirty Half Hundred in the Peninsula &om 
tbe sombre black cuffs and collars of tbe 
regimentals, or, as some writers on these 
nbjccts assert, from the badly fixed black 
dye working off upon the men's faces when 
they wiped them with their cuffs during 
the sweat of battle. Tbe regiment, after 
its return irom Abercromby's expedition 
to Egypt, was for some time called the 
BHnd Half Hnudred, as nearly all the 
men snffered from opthalmia, and this is 
rtill ratber a sore subject with the famoas 
Half Hundred. 

As tbe Dirty Half Hundred the regi- 
ment wilt flourish, we hope, for ever. 
Whenerer tbe Springers (Sixty - sixth) ; 
the Pot Hooks (Seventy - seventh) ; the 
Old Fogs (Eighty-seventh); the Old Fivc- 
and-Thrcepenniea (Fifty-tbird) i tbe Lace- 
demonians (Forty - sixth) ; the Orange 
Lilies (Thirty-fifth) ; tbe .Saucy Greens 
(Thirty-sixth); the Green Linnets (Thirty- 
ninth); the Light Bobs (Forty-third); the 
Two Fours (Forty-fourth) ; the Old Stub- 
boms (Forty.fifth) ; the Die Hards (Fiftv- 
seventh) ; the Steel Backs (Fifty-eighth) ; 
and the Saucy Sixth, are called to the 
battle, the Dirty Half Hundred will never 
be slow to follow. 

The services of the Fiftieth in Egypt, 
and against Junot at Vimiera, we have no 
room to here recapitulate; bnt we will 
start with them from Cornana, where they 
covered themselves with glory. Lord Wil- 
liam Bentinck's brigade (Fourth, Fiftieth, 
and Forty-second regiments), on the right 
of the Bntisb line, fell in on the morning 
of January the 16tb, 1809. Just before 
the advance, the wife of an Irish soldier of 
the Eightieth, with a baby in her arms, was 
sent in by Marshal Sonlt. She bad lain in 
on tbe march, and been kindly attended by 
the French doctors. The marshal sent hiij 
compliments by her, and that he sbouM 
soon wait on the Fiftieth. The ensigns 
of the Fiftieth, Moore and Stewart, un- 
furling the colours by order of the brave 
Major Napier, who, in allusion to Sonlt's 
message, said, with generous enthusiasm, 
" Open the colours that tboy may see 
the Fiftieth;" and the men remained 
with ordered arms loaded, as quietly 
as in a barrack-yard, awaiting the at- 
tack. One shot from the French battery 
catered the earth at the very toes of the 
right centre company. The men drew 
away in a semicircle, the captain then 
called " Dress," and tbo men dressed up 
to the yet twirling shot. At this moment 
the French bgbt infanti'y approached 
briskly, and wounded some of the Fiftieth, 
who were standing like a wall near tbe en- 
campment ; the whole brigade then re- 
ceived the word " Forward," and advanced 
firing and charging with the bayonet, 
Tho Fiftieth pursued iho. French light 
troops, meeting the enemy's heavy columns 
in the village of Elrina, which stood in the 
valley between tbe two armies. A severe 
struggle then ensued, the dead and wounded 
of the English and French falling on each 
other, so close was the fighting. Hero 
Major Stanhope, of the Fiftieth, fell dead, 


56 ri'». 


(Conducted br 

and the two ensigns, Moore and Stnart, 
were mortally 'wonnded, so, also, was Lieu- 
tenant Wilson, who had been in extra- 
ordinary spirits all the moroing, and had 
dressed himself daintily in a new Gait of 
regimentals " to meet Master Sonlt," as he 
playfally expressed it. 

When the Fiftieth regiment rushed down 
from their camp in pursuit — says Captain 
Macarthy, of the Fiftieth — an officer, 
seeing the church on an eminence over the 
turn of the road, and supposing it to con- 
tain a body of the enemy in acnbDsh, and 
beholding, also, the French rapidly filhng 
the lane close by, considered it necessary to 
oppose tbem, and prevent the probability of 
their taming their fire on the rear of the 
Fiftieth regiment when the latter had 
pnssed. He, therefore, extending his arms, 
stopped several of his men, and having 
arranged them at the corner of the charch, 
himself entered ibo building, which, how- 
ever, was empty ; but the priest's boose, 
between the church and the ^e, was 
full of French soldiers. The officer came 
out, ran round, and rejoined bis men, who, 
being screened by the angle of the chnrch, 
kept up a brisk fire upon the enemy in the 
lane, and several times cleared the open- 
ing. A French officer, rather below the 
middle stature, stick in hand, exerted him- 
self most gallantly to supply the gap; on 
which his men laid their firelocks, and 
killed two, and wounded three of this little 
band ; but fortunately the British officer 
had picked np a dragoon carbine on the 
road near Coranna, which he retained as 
" a friend in need." This he had pre- 
viously loaded with two small buttons 
from the collar of his regimental coat, and 
having been supplied with fVench car- 
tridges iu the church, he was able to assist 
his men by discharging his carbine many 
times in defence oT bis post ; and the 
French officer at the gap, seeming resolved 
to force his way at the head of his mcu, the 
dragoon carbine, rested against the comer 
of the chnrch, insured an aim which for 
ever, checked bis prioress, and his men 
drew back. " The defenders of the church," 
with their officer, immediately made a 
dash at the priest's honse, the enemy — up- 
wards of twenty — within it, rushed out; 
but not being able to reach the gap, turned 
suddenly round, and instead of cutting off 
the church paxty, fled into the bouse, 
shut the door, and fired at random out 
of the windows, which affijrded the church 
party an opportunity of retiring from their 
hazivdons attempt. 

Before the Fiftieth advanced, while 
standing under the cannonade, the balls at 
first went about » foot or two over tbeir 
heads, and the ipen stooped, or, as it is called 
by soldiers, ducked. Standing in front, 
Napier said, laughing, " Don't duck, the 
ball has passed before you hoar the whiz." 
The ducking, however, was continued 
by all but one little fellow, who stood 
erect, and Napier said to him aloud, "Toa 
are a little fellow, but the tallest man in 
the Fiftieth to-day for all that; come to 
me alter the battle, wad you shall be a 
sergeant." Every one heard Napier, yet, 
strange to say, no one afterwards knew 
who the soldier was, nor could his namo 
he learned. It is supposed he fell, and the 
agitation of the moment had made others 
forget or not notice him. 

Even a closer view of the doings of the 
Fiftieth in this battle is given us by Sir 
Charles Napier in an extraordinary graphic 
piece of autobiography. As a fragment of 
a soldier's life, it stands unrivalled. 

Speaking of a temporary check of tfae 
Fiftieth, Napier says : " This misery shook 
us all a good deal, and made me so wild 
as to cry and stamp with rage, feeling a 
sort of despair at seeing the soldiers not 
come on. I sent Turner, Harrison, and 
Patterson, the three ofiGcers with me, to 
bring them on, and they found Stanhope 
animating the men, but not knowing wlut 
to do, and calling out ' Good Ood, where is 
Napier ?' When Turner told him I was in 
front, and raging for them to come on for 
an attack on the battery, be gave a shout, 
and called on the men to follow him, b^t 
ere taking a dozen strides cried out, ' Oh, 
my God !' and fell dead, shot through the 
heart. Turner and a sergeant, who had 
been also sent back, then returned to me, 
saying they could not get a man to follow 
thom up the lane. Hearing this, I got on 
the wall, waving my sword and my hat at 
the same time, and calling out to the men 
behind among the rocks; but the fire was 
so load, none heard me, though the lane 
was scarcely a hundred yards long. No 
fire was drawn upon me bv this, for a 
French captain afterwards told me he and 
others prevented their men firing at me; 
he did not know, nor was he told by me, 
who it was, bat he said, ' Instead of firing 
at him, I longed to run forwards and em- 
brace that brave officer.' My own com- 
panions called out to jump down or I should 
be killed ; I thought so too, bnt was so mad 
as to caro little what happened to me." 

Soon after Napier was taken prisoner, 



ISTl] '5? 

entangled in one of tbe deep lanes. " The 
Frenchmen," he sajB, " had halted, bat now 
ran on to ns, and joat as my spring and 
ehoat was made the wonnded leg failed, and 
I felt a stab in the back ; it gave me no pain, 
bnt felt cold, and threw me on my face. 
Torning to rise,' I saw the man who had 
stabbed me making a second thrnst, where- 
npon, letting go my Babre, I canght his 
. bayonet by the socket, tnraed the thmst, 
and, raisiog myself by the exertion, grasped 
' bis firelock with both hands, thus, in mortal 
Btrnggle, regaining my 'feet. Hia com- 
panions had now come np, and I heard the 
dying cries of the foar men with me, who 
were aJl bayoneted instantly. We had been 
attacked from behind - by men not before 
seen, as we stood with onr backs to a door- 
way, ont of which most have mshed several 
men, for we were all stabbed in an instant, 
before the twoparties coming np the road 
reached ns. They did so, however, jast as 
my etm^le with the man who had wonnded 
me was b^nn. That was a contest for 
life, and, being the strongest, I forced him 
between myself and his comrades, who 
appeared to be the men whose lives I had 
saved when they pretended to be dead on 
our advance throngh the Tillage. They 
atmck me with theirmnskets clubbed, and 
bruised me mnch, wherenpon, seeing no 
help Dear, and being overpowered by nnm- 
bere, and in great pain ^m my wonnded 
leg, I called out * Je me rend !' remember- 
ing the expression correctly from an old 
story of a fat officer, whose name, being 
James, called ont 'Jemmy Ronnd.' Find- 
ing tbey had no disposition to spare me, I 
k^it hold of the mnsket, ' vigoronsly de- 
fending myself with the body of the little 
Italian who bad first wounded me, bat soon 
grew fiiint, or rather tired. At that mo- 
ment a ttdl dark man came np, seized the 
end of the musket with bis left hand, 
whirled bis brass-hilted sabre ronnd, and 
stmck me a powerful blow on the head, 
which was bare, for my cocked-hat had 
&]len off. g 

" Expecting the blow wonld finish me, I 
had stooped my head in hopes it might 
fall on my back, or at least ou the thickest 
part of the head and not on the left temple. 
So &r I succeeded, for it fell exactly on 
the top, catting into the bone, bat not 
through it. Fire sparkled from my eyes ; I 
fell on my knees, blinded, yet withont quite 
losing my senses, and holding still on to 
tile'' musket, ftecovering in a moment, 
I regained mv logs, and saw a fiorid, hand- 
some young French drummer holding the 

arm of the dark ItAlinn, who was in the 
act of repeating his blow. We had not 
proceeded far up the Old lano, when we 
met a soldier of the Fiflieth walking down 
at a rapid pace ; he instantly halted, re- 
covered his arms and cooked his 'piece, 
looking fiercely at ns to make ont what it 
,was. My recollection is that he levelled at 
a man, and I threw up his musket, call- 
ing out, ' For God'a sake don't fire, I am a 
prisoner, badly wounded, and can't help 
you. Surrender.' 'For why should I 
surrender?' he cried aloud, with the deepest 
of all Irish brogues. 'Because there are 
at least twenty men upon you.' There 
were five or six with ns at the time. 
' Well, if I must surrender — there !' said 
he, dashing down his firelock across their 
legs and making them jnmp. ' There's my 
firelock for yez.' Then coming close np he 
threw his arm round me, and giving 0-ni- 
bert a push that sent him and one or two 
more against the wall, shouted out, ' Stand 
*way, ye bloody spalpeens, I'll carry him 
myself, bad luck to the whole of yez.' 

"My expectation was to see them fall upon 
him, but this John Hennessy was a strong 
and fierce man, and moreover looked bigger 
than he was, for he stood apon the higher 
groand. Apparently they thought him an 
awkward fellow to deal with j he seemed 
willing to go with me, and they let him 
have his own way." 

The Fiftieth had already expended 
seventy rounds of ammunition, and col- 
lected all th^ could &om their fallen com- 
lades and the enemy, and being too far 
advanced to receive a further supply, were 
obliged to retire to a terrace above the 
church, facing outwards parallel to tho 
lane. Here they kept the French at bay, 
sustained a heavy fire, and prepared to 
hold their own with the bayonet, not a 
single cartridge being left. They knelt 
for some time, till many of the men were 
shot through the head, then lay down, 
anxiously waiting for ammnnition. To- 
wards dusk the Guards advanced, baited 
on some land above the Fiftieth, and called 
out that tbey were come to relieve them. 
Tho Rifles were all this time sharply en- 
gaged in front. The Fiftieth in this brave 
straggle lost foar officers, while five were 
severely wounded. The loss of rank and 
file was very severe. 

To prevent a recurrence of events de- 
scribed in former articles, we propose to 
concentrate oar reader's attention chiefly 
on two or three of the exploits of the 
Fiftieth, rather than glance bricdy over all. 

58 (M.jn.iBf3.] 


[Conducled bj 

At the siege of Badajoz, one of the most 
gallant leaders of the storming party was 
Captain Wncarthy, of the Fiftieth. To this 
gallant volnnteer was intrusted the manage- 
ment of the scaling ladders at the storm- 
ing of the castle. The hilarity of the 
officers and soldiers beforehand was re- 
markable ; the officers and men packing 
np their portraanteana and packs to leave 
safe in the encampment for tlicir retnm ; 
the men langhing and fixing the best flints 
in tUeir mnskets, and all forming in colnmn 
eager for the assaolt at eight p.m. Picton 
at last pulled, out hie watch, and said to 
the Third Division : 

" It is time, gentlemen, to go. Some 
pereons are of opinion that the attack on 
the castle will not succeed, bnt I will for- 
feit mj life if it does not." 

Macartby was chosen by Major Bnrgoyne 
to lead the party, and on one occasion when 
he fancied he had missed his way, Picton 
declared he was blind, and drawing his 
sword, swore he would cut him down. But 
all went well, and Picton was appeased when 
he reached the first parallel, where the 
division had to enter the trench. " Down 
with the palings !" And the men rocked 
and tore down the palisades in the fosse, 
and the division poured in. " tfp with the 
ladders !" was the nest cry, and seizing the 
ladders they pulled and pushed them up 
the mound. With difficulty five ladders 
were placed against the mound, which was 
swept by round shot, broken shells, and 
bundles of cartridges. At that moment 
four ladders with troops broke rear the 
upper ends, and fell. From the remaining 
ladder a private soldier, attempting to 
get over the wall, was shot in the head as 
he looked over the parapet, but the next 
instant another sprang over, Macarthy 
at once cried out, " Huzza ! there is one 
over — follow him." More ladders were 
then placed, and Macarthy cheered the 
men, to encourage the Fourth and Light 
Divisions at th'e other breaches. Macarthy 
had just rearranged the ladders, when 
his light thigh was fractured by a ball, 
and he fell on a man who had dropped 
by his side. Macarthy then requested 
a field officer to desiie some of his men 
to carry him out of the stream of fire. 
A soldier camo up and took him up on 
his back, but was obliged to drop him 
in even a more exposed place. A bngler, 
just then as he mounted the 'wall, sounded 
the " Advance !" and was kiUed in the act 
of cheering on his comrades. 

" I remained," says Macarthy, " where 

the soldiers were obliged to drop me, 
the base of the mound, amidst expiring 
brother sufferers. During the night the 
moans, prayers, cries, and exclamationa 
of the wounded fully expressed the de- 
grees of their agonies in the varieties of 
sentences and cadence of tone, from the 
highest pitch in the treble to the lowest 
note in bass. Some of the wounded 
were, nndoubtedly, raving mad, violecty, 
vociferating dreadful imprecations and de- 
nunciations ; others calling inceesantlj 
'Water, water!' 'Bearers! bearers!' some 
singing ; many shouting the numbers of 
their regiments (as ' Oh, Forty-fifth !' ' Oh, 
Seventy.fonrth !' ' Oh, Seventy-seventh !') 
to attract their comrades to their aid. 
Many of the fallen heroes received addi- 
tion^ wounds during the night. One 
man sat on my left side rockug to and 
Iro, with his hands across his stomach ; 
in the morning he was dead, stretched on 
his back, and bleeding out of three wounds 
in his head, from shots he subsequently 
received there ; his head rested heavily on 
my hand, which I had not the power to 
withdraw. . . While here an officer of the 
Eighty-third regiment, without his bat, 
came staggering behind me, and, on ap- 
proaching, inquired how I was hurt, said 
he waa wounded in the head, and that he 
wonld stay by me for mutual consolation, 
and sat down ; but as my spasms were 
extremely severe, and regular as the pulse, 
I had no interval for conversation. He 
left me, and placed himself with his back 
against the palisades, near the opening o 
which the enemy's fbotg continued to 
rattle. I saw him in the same position a 
daybreak, but knew not if he was alive o 
dead. Two other men, w4iom I requested 
to remove me, were also obliged to set me 
down, unfortnnatelj at the base of the 
mound, with my fractured limb placed 
upwards on the bank, so tliat I could only 
support myself by placing my bands 
behind to prop me in a sitting position, ia 
which I remained immovable till late in 
the afternoon of the next day, amongst 
numerous brother suflerers." 

Almarez is another crimson word bla- 
zoned on the banners of the Fiftieth. 
This, too, in which the whole regiment 
joined, was a most gallant enterprise. 
AJmarez was an important fort half-way 
between BadajoE and Madrid. Its Fort Na- 
polconwa^ strongly fortified with a double 
ditch, armed with eighteen twenty-four 
ponndera, and connected by a floating 
bridge with a battery of six guns on i ' 

Chulei DhkMii.] 



[Hmr II, I8TI.J i 

opposite side of the river. The garrison 
was nomeroas, the stores plentiful, and they 
were in fnQ commnnication with the great 
arsenal at Seville. 

Lieatenant - General Sv Rowland Hill 
issued orders for his first brigade to storm 
Fort Napoleon on the 18th of May, 1812. 
The second brigade was to make a false 
attack on the front of the castle, which is 
situated on the peak of a sugar-loaf monn- 
tain, at the side of a pass on the main 
road from Tmxillo. The first brigade 
(Fiftieth, Seventy-first, and Ninety-second 
regiments) worked ronnd the valley by 
the base of the roonntains, throngh wind- 
ing sheep-walks in the bmshwood, which 
were considered impassable. The march 
was so tedions that the Fiftieth regiment 
and the left wing of the Seventy-first were 
not able to reach the fort till six a.m. on 
the Idtb, when the snn was in foil shine. 
They therefore lay down in ambnsh not to 
be seen from the battlements. Lientenant- 
Colonel Stewart of the Fiftieth, in com- 
mand of the brigade, then obtained leave 
to make a msh at Fort Napoleon without 
firing a shot. The men were especially 
ordered to not even load their mnsketa till 
they were nnder the walls, and not to 
waste time in giving more " than a few 
inches of bayonet," as a compliment in 
passing, to any Frenchman. 

The soldiers ran on in three divisions, 
and advanced thmngh a sweeping and 
tremendoas fire, preceded by the men 
bearing the ladders. The bearers of one 
ladder were nil stmck down, bnt the 
ladder was at once canght np and carried 
on by their oomrades. The ladders proved 
rather short, and e:(posed the escaladers 
to a lapid fire while scrambling over the 
parapet. Captain Candler, of the Fiftieth, 
leading his company first np the ladder, was 
pierced by several balls, and fell dead inside 
the fort. The Fiftieth, growing impatient at 
the crowded ladders, crawled np by breaks 
in the wall, and palled np their eager com- 
rades, who had laid down in the inner 
ditch, till all were gathered, and then 
dashed forward gallantly, led by Colonel 
Stewart. In vain the French twenty-fonr 
ponnders ponred in showers of grape 
and ronnd-shot ; the enemy had soon to 
fly from the fort to the bridge that led lo 
the opposite batteiy, cntting the bridge 
as they fled, thns leaving their friends help- 
less in the rotagh hands of the Fiftieth. 
The deserted French, forced back ^ain 
into the fort, were bayoneted chiefiy in the 
gateway, where the fighting was farions. 

In half an honr the Fiftieth and their 
allies had taken Fort Napoleon and its 
garrison of three thonsand resolate men. 
The governor, forions at the English 
snocegs, became almost mad, refused to 
snrrender his sword, and flourishing it in 
defiance, attempted to strike an officer of 
the Fiftieth, npon which an angry sergeant 
wounded the governor with bis pike, to the 
great regret of the English officers. The 
wonaded man died dnring hie removal to 
Merida. In the fort was a French artillery 
officer's wife, dressed half like a man in a 
pelisse, travelling cap, and Turkish trousers. 
She was protected, and restored to her hus- 
band by Captain Stapleton of the Fiftieth. 
Fort Napoleon was by this daring exploit en- 
tirely destroyed, and the important pass of 
Almares thrown open. The Fiftieth lost in 
this fine achievement one officer and twenty- 
six rank and file killed, one captain, three 
lieutenants, three ensigns, five sei^eants, 
and eighty-seven rank and file wounded. 

In the Sikh war the Fiftieth won great 
honour. . At Moodkee, twenty-two milea 
from Ferozepore, the Fiftieth first tried their 
bayonets on the Sikhs, whoattacked onr ad- 
vanced guard vigorously, but were repulsed, 
and driven back throe miles, with the loss 
of many a turban, and aerventeen pieces of 
cannon. The British troops then pushed on 
to Ferozepore, and joined Sir John Littler. 
The united forces now advanced somewhat 
rashly on the Sikh entrenchments, which 
were garnished with one hundred and eight 
gnns, mora than forty of them of battering 
calibre. The Sikh camp was a parallelo- 
gram, enclosing the village of Ferozeehah, 
the shorter sides looking towards the Sut- 
Icj and Moodkee, the longer towards Fe- 
rozepore and the open country. This last 
face we attacked. It was a dead flat, covered 
here and there with thick jungle, and 
dotted with sandy hillocks. The English 
had sixteen thousand seven hundred moa 
present, and sixty-nine guns, the Sikhs 
from forty - eight thonaand to sixty 
thousand men. Sir Hugh Gough lod the 
right wing, and Sir Henry Hardiuge the 
left. The line advanced, with the artillery 
in the centre, throngh a tremendous fire, 
which onr lighter artillery conid check, 
bnt not silence. In the face of this the 
Fiftieth and their colleagoes carried the bat- 
teries, bnt were unable to defhat the Sikh 
infaniiTy, althongh Sir H. Smith captared 
part of the position, and even the Third 
Light Dragoons charged and took some 
batteries. Nightfiill lett the Sikhs still mas- 
ters of half the groat fortified quadrangle, 

60 ; [M»y iJ. ICT.] 


and there oar troops bivouacked, inteiropted 
by firing, and eAansted; by fighting aud 
thirst.. H&nyofithe Sikhe, clad in chain 
armour, and wrapped, np in their quilted 
ragilus, "which' a bayonet would scarcely 
penetrate,May. abont.'the .tents and guns, 
shamming d^d, and in' many cases sprang 
np, cat down the sleeping English, and re- 
took thecannon. The Sepoys, a&aid of the 
Sil^hs, fought badly. In the night a heavy 
'frnnhad to be captnred, and whenever moon- 
■light discovered onr position, the enemy's 
.fire reopened, diamoonting our pieces, and 
blowing Tip onr tnmbrels. In the morn- 
ing; however, the English awoke fresh, aud 
.soon settled the affair. Ferozeshah was 
taken, and the camp tnmed. Two boors 
after . Tej Singh came from Ferozepore, 
with a new- army, and made two desperate 
efforts to regain tjio position. It was time 
to win, for the gun atomonitjon was en- 
tirely expended, and onr cavalry waa ex- 
hausted. Luckily for na, Tej Singh had 
enough of it firat, and abiuidoned the field. 
We had taken seven^-tiree pieces of Sikh 
cannon, and were at last Tictorions. 

The battle of Aliwai was a great field-day 
for the Fiftieth, and seldom have English 
bayonets had harder wofk to pierce Oriental 
coats of mail. In January, 1846, Sir Henry 
Smith, then near Hnrrekee, marched to 

1'oin Colonel Godby, who was somewhat 
lemmed in by the Sikhs near Loodianah. 
Colonel Wheeler's brigade, consisting of the 
Fiftieth, Forty-seventh, and Forty-sixth re- 
giments, joined birn on the 25th of Jannary, 
and afl«r a few days' rest, a united attack 
was planned for the 28th. The Sikh force 
consisted of twenty-fonr thousand men and 
sixty-eight guns, many of them ofEcered 
by French artillerymen. Sir H. Smith led 
twelve thousand men, and thirty-two guns. 
The hostile Sikhs held a veiy strong posi- 
tion, their rear resting on the river, their 
flanks well entrenched. The heart of their 
position was the village of Yilleewnll, and 
another post, almost eqaally important nas 
the village of AUnal, which, gave its name 
to the battle in which it suffered so severely. 
The enemy, nothing loth, hurried forward 
to meet os on a ridge of which Aliwai was 
the centre. Our in&ntry columns deployed 
into line upon opeo burd grass-land, good 
for fighting. Sir H. Smith then, to pre- 
vent being ontflaaked bv the enemy, broke 
into open columns, and wheeled into line. 
The line advanced, with the coolness 
and precision of soldiers on a field-day. 
One hubdred and fifty yards fnrther, at 
ten 1.11., the Sikhs op^ied fire fiercely. 

Sir H. Smith halted the men under fire, 
and then resolved at once to csjry the vil- 
lage of Aliwai, and to throw hia forces on 
the Sikh left and centre. 

The village was carried at a msh, and 
the enemy's cavalry thrown back on their 
infantry. In the mean time Brigadier 
Wheeler, with the Fiftieth Foot, the Forty- 
eighth Native Infantry, and the Simoor 
battalions, was charging and carrying guns, 
again joioing his line, and moving on 
for fresh work with the most gallant cool- 
ness. The enemy, forced back on the left 
and centre, then endeavoured to cover the 
passage of the river, and occupied the 
village of Bhoondee till onr lancers 
broke up tlie Sikh squares, and the Fifty- 
third carried the village at the point of the 
bayonet. The Sikh t^tillery rallied under 
the high banks of a nullah, hut were again 
driven out, and exposed to the fire of 
twelve of our guns at only five hundred 
yards' distance. Our troops were now 
gradually pressing in towaras the ford, to 
which the Sikhs were converging. The 
Sikhs, hemmed in, threw themselves in 
disordered masses into the ford and boats. 
Car twelve-inch howitzers played on the 
boats, and a great slaughter ensued. The 
Sikhs lost sixty - seven cannon, and forty 
swivel camel guns; their camp baggage, 
and vast stores o£ powder, shot, shell, and 
grain. In this great victory tbo Fiilieth lost 
one officer ana nine men, and ten officers 
and fifty-nine men were wonnded. In his 
despatoh. Sir H. Smith especially eult^ised 
the conduct of lieutenant-Colonel Byan, 
of the Fiftieth. 

At Sobraon, our crowning victoir, the 
Fiftieth hotly joined in attacking the Sikh's 
triple line of breastworks, flanked by re- 
doubts on both sides the Sutlej, bristling 
with artillery, aud manned by thirty-two 
regular regimenfa of infantry ; thirty thou- 
sand Sikhs protected the bndgo at Hnrre- 
kee. So hot was the fire of the Khalsa 
troops, that at first it seemed impossible to 
storm such a camp; the Sikhs contested the 
captured place in fierce conflict sword in 
hand. Our cavalry then rode into the en- 
trenchments. Gradually the Sikh fire slack- 
ened, and the enormous army loosened and 
rolled down towards the Sutlej bridge, 
perishing by hundreds under our fire. Lieu- 
tenant (^imea, of. the Fiftieth, waa killed 
in this battle, which ended the war. Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel Banbury, who fought at 
Sobraon, says that near the swivel wall 
pieces, the Sikhs had dug oblong holes, in 
which fifty men could be concealed te at- 


Cii«yiT. imj 61 

tack the taken of the batteries unawares. 
The order waa given to search all such 
botes, and bayonet the mmateB. 

At Ahpa and Inkennann the soldiere 'trith 
the hlne &ciDgB distin^iuBhed themselrea 
■mong the braveet. la 1864 and 1865, 
the Fiftieth had a rongh life of it in New 
Zealand against the rebellions and ia- 
natical natiTes. They were at the assault 
uid captore of Ruigiawhea, Febraary, 

1864, and the gallant repulse of the crafty 
enemy's attack: at Nnknmam, January, 

1865. They were at the action of Eakara- 
mea, and helped to open the road to Tara- 
naki. They also aided in the capture of 
the Pntahi Pah. At Nnknmam, the natives 
Lad been told by the prophets that they 
were invnlnerable, and- they fought well. 
One daring Maori seized a soldier of the 
Piftaeth, and tried to drag hhn off bodily ; 
hat the native was sabred by one of our 
cavalry. The Fiftieth had some twenty men 
iTonnded. The natave attack was made 
under coyer of the amoke of some somb in 
front of the camp, which General Cameron 
had fired to prevent £urpriae. Two of the 
Maori divisions attacked the English camp, 
while tie third pushed forward to attack tho 
tents. They were at last entirely routed. 

A DMiMltxaB eaae o'er ma 
Odct, on ft dim ipriag dsj ; 

IPuIl dark lud leigatd the *ln(<r, 

Wilh cloud, ind mat, and glooi 

Ut (pirit lo 

Made I 

d npiaing. 

I orared tbe cheerrul ghiniiiE 

Wlua itt*.rj doud* uuraU. 
I Htw a gleam ou heathar, 

Btnj througlk a rifted olond ; 
The muaeg iwapt together, 

The viiuU ipoke furca and load. 
The milt upon (he moudlain 

Dropped down in hapeleu rain ; 
Ftll in a bitter fountain 

Orer the grieriiig plain. 


To City men the idea of silence being con- 
nected, in an^ way, with the City may ap- 
pear in the highest degree ridicnions. They 
are so used to a perpetual excitement from 
the tame they enter it to the time thoy 
leave it; they are so infected with the 
everlasting bustle, the eternal jingle .of 
money, and the unceasing roar of the wor- 
ahippers of the Qolden Calf, that qniot to 

them would mean panic, and silence bank- 
ruptcy. City men never experience silence 
in the City. Its silence has been broken 
long before they arrive at their ofBcea in the 
morning, and its hum continues long after 
they have left in the evening. The great 
cauldron of commerce is bubbling even 
before Ihey commence tieir daily work, 
and it continnes to simmer long after they 
have reached their mansions at South Ken- 
sington and BayBwater, or their suburban 
vil^ at Hampstead, Highgate, .Lewisbam, 
Oamberwell, and .Denmark Hill, or their 
river -side retreats, anywhere you please 
between Putney and Windsor. They know 
nothing whatever of the silence of the City. 
This kdowledge is only given to night 

Ealicemem, to wakofu^ octogenarian Uty 
ousek'eeperB, to bank' watchmen, and to 
housebreakers. On second thoughts, per- 
haps the latter class know little' of it ', they 
seldom go anywhere unless there is busi- 
ness to be done, and although they know 
that there are plenty of cribs worth crack- 
ing in the City, the whole place is so watched 
that it renders their be-crackment a matter 
of considerable dif&unlty as well as danger. 
The present writer, whoisneitfaeranight 
policeman, nor a wakeful octc^fenarian City 
housekeeper, nor a bank watehman, nor a 
honscbreaker, recently went for a tour in 
the silent City. He had not been to the 
&ncy ball at tbe Mansion House ; neither 
had he been banqueting with the Moat 
Worshipful Company of Serene Stevedores; 
nor had he been dining with the captain 
of the guard at the Bank of England ; nor 
was he on his way back &om the Ouards' 
mess at the Tower ; nor had he arrived at 
some unreasonable hour by a tidal train at 
London Bridge. He had done none of these 
things, and yet there he was — no matter 
why — standing in front of the official resi- 
dence of the Lord Mayor, j nat at that period 
when silence is beginning to steal over the 
City like a mist, and settle down on it like 
a dense fog — a fog which seems to muffle 
every voice, put india-rubber tires round 
all the wheels, tie up every knocker with 
white kid, shoe every horse with felt, and 
every passer-by with Ameiican goloshes. ■ 
I find I am particularly fortunate in the 
evening. I have selected. There is no great 
civic festival going on, my meditations will 
not be broken by the clatter of a hundred 
carriages, the . vapid conversations of ' a 
myriad of.powdered footmen, and the flash 
of lights innumerable. A competitive ex- 
amination in clock striking has just been 
held by the various steeples in tJie neigh- 

[M»7 1', IWBJ 


bonrhood. Every one has strnck twelve 
accordmg to itB own time and its own tune ; 
each in its tnm striveB to impress npon the 
silence that its own is the only right way 
of striking, and that it b the only regnlar 
and well-behaved clock in the neighbour- 
hood. Sach an impressive way have all the 
chimes of doing this, that when a disgrace- 
fiiHy laggard clock, St. Tympana m-by-the- 
Sideboard, rings oat twelve with qnemlons 
distinctness, at least a quarter of an honr 
late, one is firmly convinced that it mast 
be the steadiest and most accnrate time- 
keeper in the City of London. 

Xonr first thonght, whilst standing npon 
the kerb-stone of what is, in its normal con- 
dition, the bnsiest centre of London, is — 
what can possibly have become oE all the 
omnibuses P Do they all sleep oat of town 
as well as the City merchants and City 
clerks P Where, ^^d, are all the news- 
paper boys? Where are the disrepntable, 
dirty, ragged "prisoner's friends" who 
always hang abont the pavement when the 
conrt is sitting at the Mansion Hoose ?" Is 
anybody left in that mysterions cell nnder 
the dock, from which the prisoner emerges 
like a jack-in-the-box, and to which he 
retires, also hke a jack-in-the-box, when 
the chief magistrate pnte the lid down with 
a sentence of six months' hard labonr P Is 
any one there, and if so, what is he think- 
ing abont P Is h^ determining, in his own 
mind, to tnm over a new leaf, and so one 
day to become Lord Mayor of London ? 
The clocks are commencing another com- 
petitive examination, and St. Tympannm- 
by-the- Sideboard, which, by the way, does 
not shine at all ift striking the qnarters, is 
being run hard by St. Thomas Tiddlerins, 
and we have no time for idle specnlation ; 
80 take my arm, gentle reader, and let ns 
cross the road. In the daytime we wonld 
not venture to do this unless we had pre- 
viously insured onr lives heavily in the 
Accidental, but now we could roll about 
the road, or play a game of hopscotch in it, 
if we forgot our dignity in the darkness and 
stillness of the night. Let na coast round 
the Bank, and dance gaily over the heaps 
of treasure that are buried beneath our 
feet. I wonder it has never occurred to 
some of those enei^etic people who are 
always pulhng up the roadway nnder the 
excuse of gas, water, or paving, to make 
a secret burrow under the Bank, hoist up 
treasure in buckets of mod, and carry 
it uway in mud-carts, till the Governor 
and Company of the Bank of England 
awakened some fine morning and found 
themselves bnlhonless. I protest I should 

like to wander about the interior of the 
Bank — with no burglarious intention let 
it be distinctly understood — and see the 
Temple of the Golden Calf in its silence, 
when its high priests were asleep- 1 
should like to wander through the Three 
per Cent office when all the books were 
closed, when the brisk young clerks who 
are so particular about signatures were 
asleep, and when the imbecile old ladies, 
with money in the funds, were dreaming 
of the perils they had gone through in 
being knocked abont from beadle to clerk, 
and from clerk to beadle, in the pursuit 
of dividend ; to see the Parlour with all Uie 
chairs tonautless, the entrances beadleless, 
and the Botanda silent as the grave. Are 
there any clerks left in charge all night ? 
If so, I take it for granted that they sleep 
upon mattresses of dividend warrants, and 
lay their heads npon pillows of crisp bank- 
notes. Possibly the wraith of Mr. Matthew 
Marshall, accompanied by a ghostly Bearer, 
rises now and then to haunt these unfor- 
tunate watchers with demands impossible 
to be satisfied. Who shall say? It is 
certain that few things look more inscmt- 
able and adamantine, and none less sym- 
pathetic, than the outer walls of the Bank 
of England in the dead of night. 

Let us glance at the Grocers' Hall as 
we go by — which looks like a well- 
pndowed Dissenters' chapel in the dim 
light, and as if eicellent dinners and 
superb wines had never been consumed 
within its precincts — and turn down Loth- 
bury. There is not a soul stirring be- 
sides ourselves, and the stock-bi-okers' 
cab-stand in Bartholomew - lane is nute- 
nanted. We turn np Capel-court : there 
is no bellowing of bulls, nor growliog of 
bears now; our footsteps re-echo with 
Bnch stertling distinctness that we turn 
round sharply, thinkiug we are being fol- 
lowed, and that there are other prowlers 
about besides ourselves. The flags them- 
selves look BO innocent of specnlaiion nnd 
jobbery, so fiill of good intentions, that they 
might serve as paving- stones to that 
quarter, to which the descent, according 
to classical authority, is so easy. As for 
the portals of the Stock Exchange itself, 
they appear to be closed so tightly that 
yon wonder how it will bo possible for 
them to be opened again at the proper time 
to-morrow morning. "The House," in- 
deed, looks so serious, bo dignified, Bo 
severely respectable, that it might be the 
Tomb of the Stocks, the sepulchre of 
shares, a mausoleum for bnbble companies. 
One can hardly realise the fact that in 


chum VkkttaJ 



a dozen bonra 

everlas tangly o: 

time these doors will be 
^ _ the swing ; that a roaring, 
frantic, anxious crowd will be tearing np 
and down the worn steps ; and that what- 
ever there may be within the walla of onp 
mansolentii mil bo galvanised into feverish 
and irantic life. As we turn to leave this 
dismal conrt we hear a speciea of Gre- 
gorian channt being dismally crooned, on a 
fenrth-rate concertina, somewhere ap on the 
top floor. What is the meaning of this ? 
Is there an asylnm for demented jobbers 
in this qoarter, or is it the " sweet little 
chemb who sits up aloft and keeps watch 
o'er the life of poor Stock," who 13 giving 
this melancholy performance F 

We take our way to the Royal Ex- 
change, for we wonid fain see what goes on 
here at the witching hour of night. Do 
the merchants of long ago troop down here 
after twelve o'clock and whisper spectral 
qttotations,andconclndephantom bargains? 
Does the ghost of Sir Thomas Gresham 
pcrambnlata the French, American, Spa- 
nish, Fortngnese, German, Greek, and 
Dutch walks, attended by sprites in the 
form of gigantic grasehoppers frisking and 
chirmping gleefuUy ? We pass in at the 
principal entrance. We notice the doorway 
to Lloyd's closed hard and fost, as if Lloyd 
were dead, and all the nnderwriters had 
gone ont of town to attend his funeral, or 
as if Mr. Flimsoll's agitation had made 
the insurance of ships illegal, and Lloyd 
— who, by the way, is, or was, Lloyd ?— 
has closed his eetabliahment in despair. 
We peer through the omate icon gate at the 
entrance to the quadrangle. The whole 
place is dark and deserted. There is not 
even a beadle to break the monotony of the 
Tiew ; we can jnst catch a glimpse of the 
lights in front of the Mansion Honae vrink- 
ing and glittering through the western gate 
on the other side. A cold blast comes 
whirling through the elaborate gates; it 
chills us — we walk briskly away across 
Comhill and enter Change-alley. We 
patise beneath (be shadow of Gairaway'e, 
and think how the neighbourhood mnBt 
be bannted with the uneasy spirits of the 
mad dabblers in the South Sea Bubble. 
There is a light in the windows of a bank- 
ing-house giving on the alley. What is 
going on ? Are fraudulent directors cook- 
ing accounts, or is it merely a staff of hard- 
workedclerkB"onthehaIanceF" It is neither 
the one nor the other. It is simply some 
men whitewashing the interior of the office. 
You see time is so precious in the City 
that they cannot afford to sacrifice even a 
moment for cleanliness and bi-'antification. 

Hence bankers are compelled to do their 
iTork by day, and their washing by night. 
The whitewashcrs do not seem to like their 
job: theyaredepressed; they do notwhistle 
blithely, and slap the ceihng merrily after 
the nsnai fashion of healthy whitewliBhers. 
They do their work stealthily, as if white- 
waahmg were a capital offence, and they 
were afraid of being discovered every 
moment. We jump np and tap playfully 
at the window : the whitewasher starte 
and peers anxiously in the direction of the 
noise ; he looks scared, and no doubt 
thinks be has seen the ghost of Mr. Secre- 
tary Craggs, Sir John Blnnt, or any one 
of the wild speculators who flourished a 
century and a half ago. Out into Lom- 
bard-street — Lombard- street, dark, sad, 
and silent. There are no anxious crowds 
jostling one another, no doors continually 
on the swing, like popular gin-shops in a 
low neighbourhood, as happy mortals 
plunge wildly in to drink of the Factolean 
fount; no rustle of bank-notes, no anri- 
ferons jingle of sovereigns, no pleasant 
song with the refrain of " Owlyeravit" 
This happy hnntiag-gronnd of Thomas 
Tiddler might just as well be the Great 
Desert of Sahara, for all the use it would 
be to me at the preseikt moment if I wanted 
to get a cheque cashed. Why should bank- 
ing operations be confined to the honra be- 
tween nine A.u. and four p.m., and why 
should not bankers have a clerk for noc- 
tnrnal duty, on the principle of the inn- 
keepers, who have a porter up all night P 
Supposing I were to ring tne bell and 
present a properly signed cheque, at one 
of these banks, is it likely that some 
ancient housekeeper would come down with 
a weird cloak thrown over her night- 
dress, and give me the change F I think it 
is far more likely that the night watchman 
wonld awake suddenly from bis slnmber, 
and that I should find myself without delay 
in charge of the nearest poKceman. 

The silence increases. We can hear dis- 
tinctly 'the measured tread of the police- 
man at the other end of the street, and we 
foel compelled to speak in whispers, in 
order that he may not overhear our con- 
versation. There is no one about, there 
are no roysterers and no revellers ; the 
thunder of late trains has entirely died 
away, and, the thunder of early ones has 
not commenced. In the whole length of 
Fenchurch -street we encounter but onu 
person, and he is a stalwart Irish geutle- 
man /who has charge of some works in con- 
nexion with pulling np the roadway, or 
illuminating an ancient lantern, or keeping 


64 (HulT.lgTIJ 


■ a very black catty pipe in full blast, ire can- 
not tell exactly which, ilincing- lane, gayest 
and most varied of the many retreats of 

■ commerce, is the most deserted and dismal 
qnarter we ' have yet visited, and we 
ehadder as we see onr faces reflected in 
ghostly fashion in the vast plate glasses of 
the office windows, as we pass by. The 
most cnrions part is that there is no 
sign, no vestige of the vast business con- 
dacted here, remaining. Who wonld ever 
dream of the sales of every description 
that are going on in this lane daily? Of 
rice, of sugar, of pepper, of notmegs, of 
cinnamon, of tea, of coffee, of indigo, of 
hides, of ginger, of logwood, of shellac, of 
gam benjamin, of myiabolams, of nntgalls, 
and ft hnndred other articles of which par- 
ticnlars are given in catalognes which look 
like serious play-bills mn to seed. Not a 
sign of any of these things is to be seen. 
"We can gaze right into some of the offices, 
and see that tbey seem to be swept and 
cleared, as if they were going to be let 
to-tnorrow morning. The dismal passage 
by the Commercial Sale Rooms looks more 
dismal than ever, ^ we gaze through the 
iron gate and note the one lamp Stfnlly 
flickering in what appears to be the en- 
trance to some third-rate baths. We drift 
into Mark-lane, and find there the silence 
to be even more intense ; we can distinctly 
hear the tick of a clock within a hoase as 
we pass by. We gaze through the win- 
dows of the Com Exchange : it looks like 
a bankrupt railway station, about to be 
converted into a literary icstitntion. The 
stands seem as if they were going to be 
transformed into reading-desks and news- 
paper slopes, and there is not ao much as a 
grain of com to be seen anywhere on the 
premises. We become objects of suspicion 
to a policeman, who evidently thinks we 
want to break into the Com Exchange: 
we move on, and descend a somewhat 
steep and tortuous lane, and find ourselves 
in Thames-street. Here we are in a region 
of cellar-flaps, which groan dismally or 
wheeze asthmatically, in different keys, 
as we pass over them. We tnm our faces 
westward and pass the Custom House, it 
looks as if the freest of free trade had 
been established ; as if all duties, inwards 
and outwards, were entirely abolished, and 
the whole building converted into one vast 
creche for poor children, in which all the 
inmates went to bed at seven o'clock. 
There are no lights to be seen except in a 
couple of windows on the top floor. Who 
is this burning the midnight gas, I wonder ? 
Is it a sorveyoisgeueral, an inspector- 

general, a comptioller of accounts, a land- 
ing waiter, a searchei', or a jerqner ? I have 
rather an idea that it must be a jerqner. 
I have not, of course, the least notion what 
a jerqner is ; except that he must be some- 
thing very mysterious, and, I should opine, 
more likely than any one else to cany 
on his operations at two in the morning. 
We meet a dilapidated chiffonier, who is 
grubbing about amongst the rubbish heaps, 
and ho is evidently very much scared at 
finding two tolerably respectable-looking 
individuals on his own ground so early in 
the morning. We pass through Billings- 
gate Market, but we are too early, there is 
no one astir yet ; but the bright light 
glimmering in the upper windows of a 
certain famous hostelry, close to the river, 
indicates that in an hour's time the place 
will be bnsy enough. In Darkhouse-lano 
we meet an individnal, something be- 
tween a decayed merman and a pinchbeck 
Diogenes, who is carrying a lantern, and 
talking to himseir, and under the church of 
St. Magnus we meet a misanthropic sca- 
venger who is talking to his horses some- 
thing about " Hully whoop." These are 
the only persons we encounter. And yet, 
in a little while, this thoroagbfkre will he 
crammed with wi^ions, porter will jostle 
porter, and each vie with the other in 
the depth and variety of his ot^urgations. 
There will be shonting and screaming; 
there will be a loading and unloading of 
merchandise ; warehouse doors will be 
thrown open; shops will display their 
wares, and the whirr and whis of the 
crane will be heard without ceasing. And 

cathedral town. There are noisome odours 
sA of decomposed fish, of decayed fruit, 
and of bilge water. There is an irritating 
dust containing splinters of straw, whitm 
our friend the scavenger has distributed in 
the ardour of his occupation. Let Us go 
up the steps on to London Bridge, and seo 
if we can get a breath of fresh air. 

Up the dirty, greasy, disreputable steps 
we pi»A our way gingerly. There we find 
one or two poor creatures, one or two poor 
women in rags, sleeping so soundly, en- 
joying a few bonrs' fitful oblivion, only to 
wake up and find life more wretched than 
ever. Tread softly, hush your voice ; do 
not let na take away the small scrap of 
comfort that oblivion alone can give. The 
bridge is almost deserted, for the scavengers 
have finished their work ; there are no 
vehicles on it, so yon have every chance of 
crossing without aeeing the proverbial 


ClUrlat Dlr:t:slu.] 




grey horse. There is a policeman on one 
side of the way and a young lady in a red 
shawl on the other, and ono or two shape- 
less masses — it is hard to say to which sex 
they belong — cronch on the stone seats 
here and ttiere. Wo find a seat that ia 
antenanted, and we lean over the parapet, 
and gaze down-stream at the lights wink- 
ing in the dark night, and glittering in 
the black river as it imrries to the sea. 
Far away down the Pool can we trace 
tbem ; down past the Tower, throngh the 
groves of maets and the tangle of cord- 
age, past the forest of Dockdom, the pio- 
tnreeqae shores of Wapping, and as far as 
Limehoosa can we see the tiny glitter of 
lunps, like fallen stars in the distance. 
Here and there we notice a red or a 
green light, marking the situation of some 
pier or station ; there are no bnsy boats 
abont, iio fnssy penny steamers to break 
the ceaseless swirl of tho dark river as it 
hurries away from the silent City. There 
is nothing to check the monotonons rash 
of its onward course. Stay, what is that 
black my sterions boat that is hovering about, 
and shattering the long lines of lampt- 
reflections. Ia it the police boat ? Or 
ia it the craft of some aqnatic bni^lar ? 
What is that they are towing astern? 
They break the silence of the night by 
shonting. There ia some sign of life on 
board the Hall steamer at Fresh Wharf; 
there is a clanking of chains, and a feint 
sUam issniag from her funnel ; a heavy 
waggon has jnst lumbered over the bridge 
ia ttie direction of the Borongb Market, and 
a coQpte of cabs have clattered along in the 
opposite direction; there are sonnds as of 
^e sbanting of carriages, and bumping of 
tnm-tablea in the Cannon-street Station. 
The spell is broken. Hero comes an empty 
hansom. Let us jomp into it, and drive 
home, for in a little whilo the City will be 
DO longer silent, but will wake np to that 
feverish anxiety of speculation, to the ever- 
lasting fighting and straggling for so mack 
pec cent, to trade, to barter, to profit and 
lo loss, which will last as long as Commerce 
lives, and nntil Enterprise retires from 


At a moment when the School of Cookery 
is likely to become one of the most popular 
schools in England, it may not be unwise to 
^iscertain the rise and origin of that peculiar 
theory of plain food which exercises an un- 
qoestioned supremacy over the aSections 

of Englishmen. It is worthy of remark 
that in this country the example of the 
more elevated ranks, so omnipotent in other 
qnestions of &shion, has entirely failed to 
iofluence the rank and file of Englishmen 
on the one great subject of cookery. The 
coarse food of our Saxon ancestors has not 
only sorvived the shock of the Norman 
conquest, but has, in spite of continental 
innovations, gained perceptible ground 
over "kickshaws" and "messes" during 
the last two centuries. 

Plain roast and boiled have fonght their 
way np in the world, and tlie food of the 
people finds favour in the sight of those 
whose ample means command the resonrcea 
of an elaborate cuisine. This is tho more 
remarkable, as the Normans introduced 
into this country a system of cookery, of a 
very high order, and it appears strange 
to the antiquarian that tne traditions 
of the Norman school should have becoise 
completely obscnred during the last centnry 
— a period of heavy coarse eating, and bard 
drinking, in all classee of socie^. Com- 
pared with the banquets of the thirteenth 
and fourteenth centuries, the repasts of the 
last centnry sink into insignificance. At 
the tables of the- early Norman kiu^ pro- 
fuse quantity was exhibited, and, despite 
the occasional nse of coarse material, the 
excellence of the cookery throws into the 
shade the puny efibrte of later epochs. 

The monasteries were not only the de- 
positories of what little learning had sur- 
vived the irruption of the barbarians, but 
served also as culinary libraries. A spirit of 
magnificent hospitality was maintained, and 
many instances sao given of the generous 
profasion exhibited by great ecclesiastics. 
When B^ph, Abbot of Canterbury, was in- 
stalled in 1309, sis thonsand persons were 
entertained, and the dishes served up on 
that occasion amounted to three thousand. 
Robert Winchelsey, Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, provided daily victuals for five thou- 
sand poor people, and immense crowds of 
the sick and infirm, who were unable to 
attend athisgate, wore supplied with neces- 
saries at their own houses. With the sym- 
pathetic feeling of true " bons vivants" the 
churchmen of the day did not forget their 
own repasts, and the m^nitnde and por- 
tentous length of these entertainments gave 
rise to the following anecdote : 

" An Italian, having a sute here in Eng- 
lande to the archbishoppe of Torke, that 
then was, and commynge to Yorke, when 
one of the prebendaries there brake his 
breade, as they terme it, and thereupon 
made a solemne longe diner, the which 

6G rii»y 


perhaps began at eleven and continned 
veil uigli till fowcr in the afternoone, at 
the whiche diner this bishoppe was. It 
fortuned that as they were sette the Italian 
knockt at the gate, onto whom the porter, 
perceiving his errand, answered that my 
lord bishoppe was at diner. The Italian 
departed and returned betwixte twelve and 
one ; the porter answered, they were yet 
at dincT. He came again at two of the 
clock ; the porter told hym they had not 
half dined. Ho came at three a clocke, 
nnto whom the porter in a heat answered 
never a worde, bat chnrlishlie did shntte 
the gates upon hym. Wherenpon others 
told the Italian that ther was do speaking 
with my lord almoste all that daie for the 
solemne diner sake. The gentilman Italian, 
wonderyng mnch at aoch a long dtting, 
and greatly greved becanse he conld not 
then t^peake with the archbyshoppe's grace, 
departed straight towards London ; and 
leavying the dispatch of his matters with 
a dere trends of his, toke his joomey to- 
wards Italie. Three yerea after, it hap- 
pened that an Englishman came to< Rome, 
with whom this Italian by channce fallying 
acqaainted, asked hym if he knewe the 
arcbblshoppe of Yorke. The Englishman 
said, he knewe hym right well. ' I praje 
yon tell me,' qnoth the Italian, 'hath that 
archbishoppo yet dined ?'" 

In the days of chivalry it was a costly 
bnsines^ to ask a few friends to dinner. 
They were not content to eat and drink at 
the citpense of the host, but fnlly expected 
— it the banquet partook of a ceremonial 
character — to carry away something more 
negotiable than a headache or ,an indiges- 
tion. They looked forward with a keen 
financial appetite to gitls of silver vessels, 
fklcons, coals of mail, goodly horses, 
" certain gemmes, hy cnrions art sette in 
gold ; of purple and cloth-of-gold for men's 
apparell." Imagine a dinner-party of the 
present day at which cnps and covers, 
weight - cariying hunters, bracelets and 
bangles ehonld b* distributed between the 
courses, and from which no guest should 
be permitted to depart nntil he had 
accepted sufficient cloth to makte him a new 
suit T Ancient banquets were Hot only ex- 
pensive bntcnmbrons. Many inconvenient 
ceremonies contribnled to lengthen the 
hours conscerated to gastronomy.' Certain 
dishes were brought in by a regnlar pro- 
cession, the boar's head bv a deputation of 
domestics, and the peacock by a contingent 
of fair damea. The peacock was styled 
"the food of loTers and the meat of lords." 

It was roasted and served up whole, covered 
after dressing with the skin and feathers, the 
comb entire, and the tail spread. Sometimes 
the noble bird was covered with gold leaf 
instead of its feathers, but the prevailing 
taste appears to have been in favour of the 
peacock in full plumage. This triumph of 
culinary decoration was achieved in this 

"At a feest« roiall pecokkes shall be 
dight on this manner. Take and flea off 
the skynne with the fednrs, tayle and 
nekke, and the bed thereon ; then take the 
skyn with all the fedors, and lay hit on a 
table abrode ; and strawe thereon gronnden 
comyn; then lake the pecokke and roste 
hym, and endore hym with rawe zolkes of 
egges ; and when he is rested, take hym of, 
and let hym coole awhile, and lake and 
sowe hym in his skyn, and gilde his combe, 
and so serve hym forthe with the last 

Edward the Third dispensed a romantic 
hospitality, wherein eating and drinking, 
tournaments and love-malnng, were agree- 
ably mingled ; but it was nnder the reign 
of bis immediate successor, Richard the 
Second, that the mBgnificent prodigality of 
rojal entertainments rose to its greiitest 
height. The cost of these banquets was 
enormous, and the salaries of the cooks 
— if they Were ever paid — must have 
greatly helped to lighten the royal coflers. 
Two thousand cooks and three hundred 
servitors were required to dress food for, 
and wait upon, the ten thousand visitors 
who daily attended the court. To famish 
food for this almost incredible number of 
gneste, twenty-eight oxen, three hundred 
sheep, myriads of fowls, and immense quan- 
tities of game, were immolated daily. 

Richard the Second was not only a mag- 
niticent host, but a true epicure, and it was 
during his reign that the celebrated Forme 
of Cury was compiled by his master cooks, 
A.D. 1390. This cnrions vellum roll contained 
one hundred and ninety-six formula for 
the concoction of the dishes most in favour 
towards the close of the fourteenth century. 
Apparently the master cooks were not the 
sole authors of this curious work, .as it was 
compiled by " assent and avysement of 
maislers of phisik and of philosophie," 
who dwelt in the court of King Richanl. 
" First it teehith a man for to make com- 
mune pottages, and commune meetis for 
liowshold as they shold be mado, craftly 
and holsomly. Aftirward it teehith for to 
make curious potages, and meetes, and 
BOtiltees for aile maner of states, both byo 


andlowe," The roll is preceded by a table 
of contents to " teche a man withonte 
taryyng to fynd what meete that hjm lust 
for to have." 

The endnring qoalities of certain popnli 
French dishes is clearly demonstrated by 
the Forme of Cury. Onr Gallic neighbonra 
hare proved 4iie conservative nature of 
their instincts by retaining even nato this 
day their fondness for oabbage-soap. The 
ancient recipe etanda thus : 

" Cabochea (cabbages) in potage.— Take 
caboches and quarter hem, and seeth bem 
in gode broth with oynonns y mynced and 
the wbyte of lekes y slyt and corve (cut) 
smale and do thereto sa&onn and salt and 
&rce it with powder donoe (allspice)." 

Barring the saffron — a pestilent ingre- 
dient of medieval cookery — this recipe 
differs but little from those now in nso. 

Rabbits and chickens were treated in tltis 

" Connjnges (rabbits) in gravey- — Take 
coonyiiges, smite hem to pecys. Farboile 
hem, and drawe hem wiUi a gode broth, 
with almandes blanched and brayed. Do 
(pat) thereinne sngar and powdor gynger 
and boyle it, and the fleesh therewith. 
Floer it with sngar, and with powder 
gynger, and serve forth." 

Babbits were also converted into a dish 

" Egnrdonce (aigre-donx, sonr-sweet). — 
Take connynges or kydde, and smyte hem 
on pecys rawe, and frye bem in white 
grece. Take ray sons of corrance (cnr> 
rants), and frye bem, take oynonns, par- 
boile hem, and hewe hem snutle, and fiye 
hem ; take red wyne, sngar vrith powdor 
of pepor, of gynger of canel (cinnamon), 
salt and cast thereto, and let it seeth with 
a gode qnantite of white grece, and serve 
it forth." 

This dish was probably called sour-sweet 
from there being no trace of anything soar 
in its composition. Most of the recipes 
in the Forme of Cmy recommend the use 
of sngar and ginger, where those condi- 
ments wonld be enppressed by Monsieur 

Hoche-pot, or hotch-potch, had also its 
medisev&l representative : 

" Geea in hoggepot. — Take gees and 
amyte bem on pecys. Cast hem in a pot -, 
do thereto half wyne and half water ; and 
do thereto a gode qnantite of oynonns 
and erbest (herbs). Set it over the fyre, 
and cover it fast. Make a layer (mix- 
tnre) of brede and blode, and lay it there- 
with. Do thereto powdor fort (a mix- 

The digestive organs of our ancestors 
wero probably equaJ to the task imposed 
npon ibeia by stewed goose — apparently a 
powerfiil dish — bat many of the prepara- 
tioos recommended by King Bichanl'a cook 
are exceedingly delicate, as, for instance, 
" blank-mang," a very different dish to the 
opaqae kind of jelly now served nnder the 
name of blano-mange : 

" Blank-mang. — Take capons and seeth 
hem, thenne take hem np. Take almandes 
blanched. Giynd hem, and alay (mix) hem 
up with the same broth. Cast the Oiylk in 
a pot. Waissbe rys and do thereto, and let 
it seeth. Thanne take brawne of caponns, 
teere it small and do thereto. Take white 
greece, sugar, and salt, and cast thereinne. 
Lat it seeth. Then messe it forth and 
florish (garnish) it with aneys in confyt 
rede, other whyte (aniseed confectioned, 
red or white), and with almandes fryed in 
oyle, and serve it forth." 

Dishes of this nature explain the enor- 
mous consumption of raw material in 
mcdiceval kitchens, and also throw & light 
npon the canse of the impeouniosily of the 
Plantagenet kiogs. It is worthy of note 
that the confection of "pur^" of vege- 
tables was not anknown in the days of Wat 
Tyler. " Peerey of peson" is simply Nor- 
man English for a puree do pois, or green 
pea soup, a dish not nnknown to the ban- 
quets of today. The Crusades had added 
to sances of Western Europe that known 

" Sawse Sarzyne (Saracen sauce). — Take 
heppes (hips) and make hem clene. Take 
almandes blanched. Fry hem in oyle, and 
bray hem in a mortar with beppea. Drawe 
it up with rede wyne, and do thereinne 
sugar ynowhg (enough) with powder fort, 
Lat it be stondyng (stiff), and alay it with 
floer of rys, and color it with alkenet, and 
messe it forth, and florish (garnish) it with 
pomegamet. ■ If thou wilt, in flesslie day, 
seeth capons, and take the brawn and teso 
bem smal and do put thereto, and mako 
the lico (liqnor) of this broth." 

Cooks of Chaucer's day took small ac- 
coont of capons. They constantly recom- 
mend the student to take capons and 
"smyte hem in pccyf," or " hewe hem in 
gobbets," or tease them small or bray them 
in a mortar. Almonds also appear to enter 
largely into the composition of the best 
dishes. Almonds must have cost a startling 
price in the fourteenth century, when tran- 
sit was necessarily slow, diihcnlt, and dan- 

68 [Mayll, leJS,] 



gerons. Ifcny of the disliea of " fysshe" 
irere highly elaboi^ted. Among others we 
find a recipe for making salmon into a kind 
of thick soup or puree, with almonds, milk, 
and rice-flonr. Chysanne was a fish Bt«w 
scientifically prepared. Lanmpreys were 
served in what was then called galyntyne 
— a hot preparation very different &om the 
galantine of modem days. The strict ob- 
servation of fast days accounts for the large 
space devoted to fish cookery, and for the 
strange fishes, snoh as conger, sturgeon, 
and porpoise, set down in the list of de- 
licacies. The authors of King Richard's 
cookery-book knew well how to dress 
" oysters in gravey," to make mnssel-brofch, 
and to make "cawdel" — a sort of thick 
sonp— of these shell-fish. They also give 
sundry redpea formakingwhiteand brown 
sauces for capons, and recommend the 
roasted and pounded livers of the fowl for 
making "sawse noyre," snrely an excellent 
plan. We also discover that rissoles and 
cronstades were not nnknown to these 
artists, who give the following recipe for : 

" Daryols. — Take creme of cowe, mylke 
of almandes. Do thereto ayren (eggs) 
with sngar, safronn, and salt. Meddle it 
yfere (mix it thoroughly). Do it in a 
coffyn of two ynche depe, bake it wel, and 
Berre it forth." 

It is remarkable that throughout the 
Forme of Cury we find it impossible to 
discover the stigbtest trace of plain food. 
When anything is to be boiled we are told 
to " seeth it in a gode broth," or a court 
bouillon made of wine and water. Boast- 
ing is only spoken of aa a preliminary to 
some operation of a more complicated de- 
ecriptLon,and broils arenot mentioned. Meat 
roasted and boOed was apparently left to 
"those of the meaner sort," for so far as 
we can discover the great lords contented 
themselves with stews, hashes, and made 
dishes generally. 

X onrions roll, which bears the date of 
1381, differs but slightly in style of cookery, 
but mnch in spelling, from the Forme of 
Cury. This is evidently the work of a 
philosopher, for the author declares that 
" cookery is the best raedicina" The Eng- 
lish of this artist is, however, so peonliar, 
that we shall only extract one recipe, that 
for making furmenty, still a favourite 
Easter dish in the'weatem counties. It 
will be observed that "nym" in 1381 
signified simply "take," and had not 
yet acquired its later meaning " steal." 
Shakespeare clearly applies the word to 
Falstafi's follower in the latter signification. 

" For to make furmsnty. — Nym clene 
wete (wheat), and bray it in a mortar well, 
that the holys (hulls) gon -al of and seyt 
(seeth) yt til yt breste and nym yt up and 
lat yb kele (cool) and nym fayre aeach 
broth and svrete mylke of almandye or swcte 
mylke of kyne and temper yt al. And 
nym the yolkys of eyryn (eggs). 'Boyle it 
a lityl and set yt adon (down) and messe 
it forthe wyth lat venyson and fresche 

The mention of fresh mutton may pro- 
voke a smile, nntil wp recollect that, during 
the Middle Ages, both sheep and oxen were 
slaughtered in the antumn and salted for 
the winter. Stall-feeding was almost on- 
known, and there is no doubt that the 
great mass of the population - lived upon 
salted meat, that is to say when they got any 
meat at all. In the days of cattle-lifting, it 
was doubtless a great comfort to the owner 
of lands and beeves to get as many of the 
latter as passible salted, and safely stowed 
before theapproach of winter. 

Even at this early date the art of lard- 
ing was well known, and is recommended 
for " cranys and herons, pecokys and par- 
trigchis." In the account of the great 
feast at the enthronisation of the " reve- 
rende father in God George Nevell Arch- 
bishop of York fmd Ghauncelonr of Eng- 
lande, in the VI yere of the raigne of Kyng 
£!dwarde the fourth" we find curious evi- 
dence of the favour in which strange edibles 
were then held. Among the goodly pro- 
vision made for the banquet we find enu- 
merated iu addition to one thousand sheep, 
one hundred and four oxen, three hundred 
and four " veales" and a like number of 
" porkes," four hundred swans, six wild 
bulls, one hundred and four peacocks, two 
hundred and four cranes, a like number ot 
bitterns, four hundred herons, a thousand 
egrets, one hundred curlews, and twelve 
" porposes and scales." 

At this sublime feast the " Earle ot 
Warwicke" officiated as steward, and the 
guests were placed at Various tables ac- 
cording to rank. It does not appear, how- 
ever, that on this great occasion the bills of 
fare graduated in like proportion as was 
done at the enthronisation feast of WilUam 
Warham in 1504 

At all theae ceremonial banquets a most 
important place was filled by " sotiltees." 
These were curious devices mainly in sugar 
and pastry, and adorned either with the ]j 
arms of the host, or with allegorical groups 
more or less germane to the matter in band. 
The lengthy description of these "sotiltees" 


(lUj IT. IMSJ 

leave do doubt as to the eldU of the ancient 
confectioners, who expended mnch time and 
skill in 'the boildiDg; of these nin^nlar 

' That the art of cookery should have de- 
clined rapidly in England after the Elisa- 
bethan period appears sin^iilar, bat it is 
rain to seek in the records of later banqnets 
for the magnificence that distingniahed 
those of an earlier date. Dropping down 
to the period of the Revolntion 'we find that 
coane food had almost entirely supplanted 
the delicate dishes of the medisTOl cooks, 
and abont the reign of the king who was 
pmzled by an apple dnmpUng'th'e ealinary 
artsaiik,Bs might have been expected, to 
the bw(st depths of degradation. Perhaps 
this decadence was due in great measure to 
the coarse tastes of the . Qeorges, of whom 
thefirst liked stale oysters, and tiie last, in 
spite of hia pretended refinement, was a 
gross feeder, who preferred a shoulder of 
mnttoQ and onion sance-to the loftiest in- 
spirations of his chef.' It would, howerer, 
be QD&ir notto' admit, that the epteodid 
quality of English meat and Tegetables has 
had mnch to do with the national indiffe- 
rence to refined cookeir. The raw ma- 
terial is 80 good in itself that it is almost 
imposuble'tp spoil it. Hence has arisen a 
barbaroQS indinerence to the culinary art 
which is often. denonnced in this country 
u a mere device 'for making bad food 
pahitable. r : Forei^ travel, however, is 
gndnally producmg a reaction in our 
national cuisine, and the establishment of 
a School, of ' Cookery at Sooth Kensi 
will probably do much to introdnc 
only economy but elegance to the tables 
of England: 



The faneral waa over ; but the old honse 
cf Dorracleogh was not quiet again till the 
sight fell, and the last tenant had swal- 
bved his last draught of beer, and mounted 
U)d rode away, throngh the mist, to his 
distant farm over the fells. 

The moon shone peacefally over more 
and fell, and on the time-wom church of 
Golden Friars, and through the window, 
ra to the grey flags, that lie over Sir Harry 
Bokestone. Never did she keep sereuer 
watch over the first night of a mortal'B sleep 
in his last narrow bed. 

Richard Marston saw this pure light. 

and musing, looked from the window. It 
shone, he thought, over his wide estate. 
Beyond the mero, all hnt Glnsted, for majiy 
a mile, was his own. At this side, away in 
the direction of distant Haworth, a broad 
prindpaUty of moss and heath, with scat- 
tered stretches of thin arable and pastnre, 
ran side 1^ side with the Mardykea estate, 
magoiflcent in vastness, if not in rental- 

His dreams were not of feudal hospi- 
tality and the hearty old-world life. His 
thonghta were fitr away from lonely Dor- 
laclengh. Ambition built his castles in the 
air ; but they were nothing very noble. 
He would subscribe to election funds, place 
bis county influence at the disposal of the 
minister; spend money on getting and 
keeping a seat; be found in his plaxx 
whenever a critical vote was impending; 
and by force of this, and of his county 
position, and the old name — for he wonid 
take ihe name of Rokestone, in spite of his 
^mcle's awkward direction about his epi- 
taph, and no one conld question his re- 
lationship— hy dint of alltnis, with, I dare 
say, the influence of a rich marriage, he 
hoped to get on, not from place to place, 
but what would answer his purpose as well, 
from title to title. First to revive the baro- 
netage, and then, after some fifteen or 
twenty jearB more of faithful service, to 
become Baron Kokestone, of Donaclengh. 

It waa not remorse, then, that kept tho 
usurper's ^es wide open that night. His 
conscience had no more life in it than the 
window-stone. It troubled him with no com- 
punction. There was at hia heart, on' the 
contrary, a vindictive elation at having de- 
feated, with BO mnch simplicity, the will of 
his uncle. 

Bright rose the sun next moraii^ over 
Dorracleugh, a sun of good omen. Richard 
Marston had appointwl three o'clock, as 
tho most convenient hour for all members 
of the conference, for a meetii^ and a 
formality, A mere formality, in truth, it 
was, a searoh for the vrill of Sir Harry 
Bokestone. Mr. Blount had slept at Dorra- 
cleugh. Mr. Jarlcot, a short, plump man^ 
of five-and.fifty, with a grave face and a 
boUet head, covered with short, lank, black 
hair, accompanied by his confidential man, 
Mr. Spmght, arrived in hia gig, just as 
the punctual clock of Dorracleugh struck 

Very soon after the old vicar 'rode up, 
on his peaceable pony, and came into the 
drawing-room, where the little party were 
assembled, with sad, kind face, and gentle, 
old-&8bioned ceremony, with a little pow- 



deriDg of duet in the wiiaklea of Lis clerical 

It vras 'witli & sense of pleasant satire 
that Richard ^larston had observed old 
Lemnel Blonnt ever eince he had been sa- 
snred that the expected will was not forth- 
coming. Those holy men, how they love 
an annuity. Not that tbey like money, of 
conree; that's Mammon; but becanse it 
lifts them above eaitbly cares, and gives 
them the power of relieving the wants of 
their fellow- christiaoB. How slyly the old 
gentleman had managed it ! How thought- 
fal his appointing himself guardian to the 
young lady ; what endless opportunities 
his powers over the settlements would pre- 
sent of making .handsome terms for him- 
self with an intending bridegroom ! 

On arriving, in fall confidence that the 
will was safe in its iron repository, Chris- 
tian coold not have looked more comfort- 
able when he enjoyed his famous prospeot 
from the Delectable Monntains. But when 
it tnmed out that the will was nowhere to 
be fonnd, the same Christian, trudging on 
up the hill of difficulty in his old " burthened 
fasLioQ," could not have looked more hang- 
dog and overpowered than he. 

His low spirits, bia sighs and ejacula- 
tions, had amnsed Richard Marston ex- 

Mr. Blonnt, having, as I said, heard that 
the vicar had searched the " safe," and that 
Mr. Spaight, accompanied by Mr. Marston 
and the honaekeeper, had searched all the 
drawers, desks, boxes, presses, and other 
locked-up places in the honse, in vain, for 
any paper having even a resemblance to a 
will, said, " It is but a form ; but aa you 
propose it, be it so." 

And now this form was to be complied 

Mr. Marston told the servant to send 
Mrs. Shackleton with the keys, 

Mr. Marston led the way, and the fonr 
other gentlemen followed, attended by the 

There was not much talking ; a clatter 
of feet on nncarpeted floors, the tiny jingle 
of small keys, opening of doors, and clap- 
ping of lids, and now and then Mrs. 
Shackleton's liard treble was heard in an- 
swer to an interrogatory. 

This went on for more than twenty 
minutes np-stitirs, and then the exploring 
party came down again, Richard Marston 
talking to the vicar, Mr. Blount to Mr. 
Spai,';ht, and Mr. Jarlcot, the attorney, 
listeumg to Mrs. Shackleton, the house* 

Richard Marston led the party to Sir 
Harry's room. 

The carpet was still on the floor, the 
cortains hanging still, in gloomy folds, to 
the ground. Sir Harry's hat and stick lay 
on the small roond table, where he had 
carelessly thrown them when be came in 
from his last walk about Dorraclengh, his 
slippers lay on the hearth-rng before his 
easy-chair, his pipe was on the mantel- 

The party stood in this long and rather 
gloomy room in straggling disarray, stitl 

" There's Fixie^" said old Mr. Spugfat, 
who bad been a bit of a sportsman, and 
loved coursing in his youth, as he stopped 
before a portmt of a greyhonnd. " Sir 
Harry's dog; fine dog, Pixie, won the cap 
twice on Doppleton Lea thirty-two years 
ago." But this was a mnrmnred medita- 
tion, for he was a stud man of business 
now, and his liking for dogs and horses 
was incongmons, and no one in the room 
heard him. Mr. Jaj'lcot's voice recalled 

" Mr. Marston was speaking to yon, Mr. 

"Oh! I was just saying I think nothing 
could have been more carefnl," said Mr. 
Marston, " than the search yon made up- 
stairs, in presence of me and Mrs. Shackle- 
ton, on Thursday last ?" 

"No, sir; certainly nothing; it oonld 
not possibly have escaped ns," answered 
Mr. Spaight. 

" And that is your opinion also f" asked 
Mr. Jarlcot of Richard Marston, 

" Clearly," he answered. 

" I'll make a note of that if you allow 
me," said Mr. Jarlcot; and he made an 
entry, with Mr. Marston's ooncnrrence, in 
his pocket-book. 

"And now about this," B«d Mr. Jarl- 
cot, with a clumsy bow to Mr. Marston, 
and touching the door of the safe with bia 
open band. 

"Ton have got the key, sir?" said 
Marston to th^good vicar with silver hair, 
who stood meekly by, distrait and melan- 
choly, an effigy of saintly contemplation. 

" Oh, yes," said the vicar, wakening up. 
" Yes ; the key, bnt — but, you know, 
there's nothing there." 

He moved the key v^uely about as he 
looked from one to the other, as if inviting 
any one who pleased to ti^. 

" I think, sir, perhaps it will be aa well 
if yon will kindly open it yourself" said 


CtariH ncteaiLl 



" Yes, surely ; I Buppose so ; with all 

I m; heart," said the vicar. 

The door of the safe opened easily, and 
diiplaycd the black iron void, into which 

II all looked. 

Of course no one was surprised. But Mr. 
Blount shook bis head, liiled up his hands, 
BDil groaned audibly, " I am very sorry." 

Mr. Marston affected not to hear him. 

"I THiHK," said Mr. Jarlcot, " it will be 
desirable that I Rhonld take a note of any 
iDfonnatdon which Mr. Mai-aton and the 
ricar may be 80 good as to supply with re- 
spect to the former search in the same 
place. I think, sir," he continuE^, address- 
i ing the vicar, " yon mentioned that the de- 
ceased Sir Harry Bokeetone placed that 
tey in your charge on the evening of his 
departure from this house for London ?" 
"So it was, sir," said the vicar. 
"Was it out of yonr possession for any 
, time?" 

i; "For abont three quarters of an honr. 
II I handed it Mr. Maraton on his way to this 
' Iionso; but as I was making a sick call 
I near this, I started not many minutes after 
\i he left me, and on the way it struck me 
|i (hat I might as well have back the key. 
I I arrived here, I believe, almost as soon as 
be, ani he qait« agreed with tue that I had 

il hetter get the key beck again into " 

"Into yonr own custody," interposed 
'j ilarston. " Xon may recollect that it was 
|! 1 who suggested it the ntoment yon came." 
I "And the key was not out of yonr pos- 
' session, Mr. Marston, daring the interval "" 

said Mr. Jarlcot. 
!; "Not for one moment," answered 
:: Richard Marston, promptly. 
I "And yon did not, I think yon t 
|! tioned, open that safe?" 
I " Certainly not. I made no nse what- 
I ever of that key at any time. I never saw 
Ij ihflt safe open nntil the vicar opened it 
1^ mj presence, and we both saw that it con- 
|: tained nothing; so did Mrs. Shackleton. 
■j And, I think, we can all — I know I can, to 
j my part — depose, on oath, to the state- 
j menta we have made." 
; Mr. Jarlcot raised his eyebrows so- 
: iemnly, slowly shook his head, and, having 
j: replaced hia note-book in his pocket, drew 
■1 along breath in, through his rounded lips, 
vith a Eonnd that almost amounted to a 

"Nothing can be more distinct; it 
amonnts to demonstration," be said, rais- 


ing his h'tad, pntting hia hands into his 
tronsers-pocketfi, and looking slowly round 
the cornice. " Haven't you something to 
say?" he added, laying his hand gently on 
Mr. Blonnt's nrm, and then turning a step 
or two Hway, and Marston, who could not 
comprehend what he fancied to be an 
almost affected disappointment at the 
failnre to discover a will, thought he saw 
his eyes wander, when he thought no one 
was looking, carionsly to the grate and the 
hobs ; perhaps in search, as he suspected, 
of paper ashes. 

" I am deeply sorry," exclaimed Mr. 
Blonnt, throwing himself into a chair in 
nndisgnised despondency. "The will, as it 
was drafted,would have provided splendidly 
for Mies Kthel Ware, and left you, Mr. 
Marston, an annuity of two thousand five 
hundred a year, and a sum of five thousand 
pounds. For two or three years I had 
been urging him to oiecnte it ; it is evi- 
dent he never did. He has destroyed the 
draft, instead of executing it. That hope 
is quite gone — totally." Mr. Blonnt stood 
up and said, laying his hand upon hia fore- 
head, " I am grieved ; I am shocked ; I am 
profoundly grieved." 

Mr. Marston was •strongly tempted to 
tell Mr. Blount what he thought of him. 
Jarlcot and he, no doubt, understood one 
another, and bad intended making a nice 
thing of it. 

He conld not smile, or even sneer, just 
then, but Mr. Maraton fixed on Lemuel 
Blount a sidelong look of the sternest con- 

" There is, then," said Mr. Blount, col- 
lecting himself, " no will." 

" That seems pretty clear," a^d ih. 
Marston, with, in spite of himself, a cold 
scorn in his tone. " I think so ; and I 
rather fancy you think so too." 

" Kxcept this," continued Mr. Blount, 
producing a paper from his pocket, at 
which he had been fumbling. " Mr. Jarl- 
cot will hand you a copy. I urged him, 
God knows how earnestly, to revoke it. It 
was made at the period of his greatest dis- 
pleasure with yon; it leaves everything to 
Miss Ethel Ware, and gives you, I grieve 
(o say, an annuity of but four hundred 
a year. It appoints me guardian to the 

J-oung lady, in the same terms that the 
atter will wonld have done, and leaves 
me, beside, an annuity of five hundred a 
year, half of which I shall, if yon don't ob- 
ject, make over to you." 

"Oh! oh! ft will? That's all right," 
said Marston, trying to smile with lips that 


[Mi7 IT, int.] 

had prrown white. " I, of course, yon — wt 
all wish nothing bnt what is right and fair.' 

Mr. Jarlcot handed him a new neatly- 
folded pap«r, endoreed " Copy of the will of 
the late Sir Harry Bokeetone, Baronet." 
Richard Marston took it with a hand that 
trembled — a hand that had not ofUn 
trembled before. 

" Then, I suppose, Mr, Blonut, yon will 
look in on me, by-and-bye, to arrange about 
the steps to be taken about proving it," 
said Mr. Jarlcot. 

"It's all right, I dare say," said Mr. 
MarstoD, Tt^ely, looking from man to 
man uncertainly. *'I eip^ted a will, of 
coarse; I don't suppose I have a friend 
among yon, gentlemen, why ahonld I ? I 
am sure I have some enemiea. I don't 
know what coontiy attorneys and nincom- 
poops, and Golden Friars' bnmpkins may 
think of it, but I know what the world will 
think, that I'm swindled by a d — d con* 
spii'acy, and that that old man, who's in 
his grave, has behaved like a villain." 

" Oh, Mr. Marston, yonr dead tincle," 
said the good vio^, lifting his hand in de- 
precation, wifJi gentle hoiror. " Yon 
wouldn't, yon can't." 

" What the devil is^it to you, sir P" cried 
Marston, with a look as if he could have 
struck him. " I say it's all influence, 
and juggling; I'm not snch a simpleton. 
No one expected, of course, that oppor- 
tnnities like those should not have been im- 
proved. The thing's transparent. I wish 
yon joy, Mr, Blount, of your five hundred 
a year, and you, Mr. Jarlcot, of yonr ap- 
proaching management of the estates and 
the money ; if you fancy a will like that, 
turning his own nephew adrift on the 
world in &vonr of Methodists and at- 
torneys, and a girl ho never saw till the 
other day, is to pass nnchallengcd, you're 
very much mistaken ; it's just the thing 
that always happens when an old man like 
that dies ; there's a will of course — every 
one nndcrstanda it. I'll have you all where 
you won't like." 

Mrs. Shockleton, with her mouth parsed, 
lier nose high in air, and her brows knit 
over a vivid pair of eyes, was the only 
of the group who seemed readf to 

in reply ; Mr, Blount looked simply shocked 
and confounded ; the vicar maintained 
his bewildered and appealing stare ; Mr. 
Spaigbffl eyebrows were elevated above 
h^ spectacles, and his mouth opened, as he 
leaned forward his long nose; Mr. Jarl- 
cot's brow looked thunderous and a httle 
flushed ; all were staring for some seconds 
in silence on Mr. Marston, whose con- 
cluding sentences had risen almost to a 
shriek, with a laugh mnning through it. 

" I think, Mr. Marston, ' said Jarloot, 
after a coople of eflbrts, " you would do 
well to — to consider a little the bearing i 
of yonr language ; I don't think yon can I 
quite see its force." I 

" I wish yon could ; I mean it ; and yon 
shall feel it too. You shall bear of me 
sooner than yon all think, I'm not a fellow 
to be pigeoned so simply," 

Witb these words, he walked into the 
hall, and a few moments after they heard 
the door shut with a violent clang, 

A solemn silence reigned in the room for 
a little time ; these peaceable people seemed 
stunned by the explosion. 

"Evasit, empit," murmured the vicar, 
sadly, raising his hands, and shaking bis 
head. " How very painfnl !" 

'" £ don't wonder. I make great allow- 
ances," said Mr. Blonnt, "I have been 
very unhappy myself, ever since it was 
ascertained that he had not executed the 
new will. I am a&aid the yonng man 
will never consent to accept a part of my 
annuity — he is so spirited." 

"Don't be uneasy on that point," said 
Mr. Jarlcot ; " if you lodge it, he'll draw 
it; not — bnt I Uiink — you might do- 
bettor — with yonr money." 

There was something in the tone, un- 
definable, tiiat prompted a dark curiosity, 

Mr. Blount tamed on him a qnick look 
of inquiry. Mr. Jarloot lowered his eyes, 
and turned them then to the window, and 
remarked that the summer was making a 
long stay this year. 

Mr, Blount looked down and slowly 
mbbed his forehead, thinking, and sighed 
deeply, and he said, " It's a wonderful 
world, this ; may the Lord have mercy on 
ufl all," 

29« SiffU <^ Trantlaihg Jrliela/ron All thb Year Round w reierved bg tie Auliort. 

in St, BtnoO. Prtnicil By U. Whitiks, E 




I HCBRIBD home, mnnrng nearly all the 
way. I avoided Patrington, t&king the 
ehorter cut tfarongh the meadows, over 
the hatehes, and bo, round bj the mill, on 
(o the open down. 

I was thoroughly content. I had been 
the hero, at last, of a real adyenf^are. True, 
it had not involved thftt peril of life or 
limb which ordinarily should attend the 
eiperiencea of knights errant. Bnt some- 
thuig had come of my visits to the Dark 
Tower. I had seen a satyr. 

How that I had quitted him, and knew 
nijself to be none the worse, bnt, indeed, 
eomewhot the better, for having seen him, 
I rather regretted that he had not been a 
giant, or even a mysterions dwar^ addicted 
to etrange gestures and wild apeechea, his 
eoloDT a bright yeUow, perhaps, if choice 
were permitted in that respect. Still a 
ntyr was somBthing. I was well inclined 
iowards satyrs. They were not very in- 
telligent perhapo. And I had some scorn 
io particnlar for that one of whom .^sop 
related, who was so angry with his entcr- 
tiiner, the cottager, for breathing on his 
Sngers to warm them, and blowing on his 
porridge to cool it. A satyr who could 
not distinguish between these two pro- 
cesses muet cert^uly have been rather 
Etnpid. But altogether satyrB, what with 
their delight in dangling bunches of grapes 
before them, in wearing wreaths of vine- 
leaves for raiment, in playing on their pan- 
pipes, and dancing and leapiug in the air, 
theinevitablereanlt,probably, of their being 
endowed with goat legs, presented many 
interesting characteristics. My satyr had 

eschewed Tine- leaves, and adopted civilised 
costume ; he had produced no grapes, bnt 
he had consnmed much rum -and- water ; 
he had not played on the pipes, althongh 
he had smoked one. Still, as things went, 
there was much to admire about him. Ho 
had shown me a fine picture, his snuff still 
set me sneezing at intervals, and he had 
given me three sovereigns. Such conduct 
might be nnusnal with satyrs, but other- 
wise it conldnot boaaid to be objectionable. 
On the whole, I greatly approved tny satyr. 
The Down Farm, our house — I say 
"ours" simply becaase I was permitted to 
live in it many years, and to view it as my 
home — was an old red-roofed, red-faced 
building, that could claim little admiration 
on the score of its looks. It was two- 
storied, of irregular design, crowned with 
towering stacks of chimneys, and boasting 
a large snn-dial above its roomy, worm- 
eaten wooden porch. But what with drab 
and orange lichen patches, a partial tapestry 
of ivy, and a coating here and there of 
bright green velvet moss ; to say nothing of 
luxuriant creepers that tried hard to con- 
ceal its harsh outlines by flourishing about 
their graceful arms, and proffering flowers 
and foliage in unexpected places ; the 
Down Farm House had some title to he 
considered picturesque. It stood alone — 
there was no otiier habitation nearer than 
two miles — built in a hollow of Purrington 
Down, the shoulders of which sheltered it 
somewhat from the flerce and chill blasts 
that often swept over Steopleborongh plain. 
A neat garden, with a smooth elastic carpet 
of lawn, standard rose-trees, laure! shrub- 
beries, and trim, firm gravel paths, fronted 
the house. The farm-yard, stables, out- 
buildings, and offices were in the rear, and 
these were backed by a noble old bam, its 
timbers a kind of dun purple in hue, with 


?4 [«8r !*, isJ*-) 



(V thickly- thatched roof, grey and rnsty 
from lapse of time aiul long «spo«are to 
son and min. Flocks o£ pigeoM irere for 
ever hovmng about this building, holding 
mysterioug btrd-parliameitts or congresses 
— occasionally, indeed, Eomething very like 
priae-fights~>-iii its neighbourhood, and re- 
lieving its sober tints with a pleasant 
freckle of dazzling white. And yellow 
rotund barley or wheat, ricks osaaQy flanked 
the farm-house, standmg sentry there ia a 
stolid and corpulent way, aa though i^i ward 
off intruders and to avoucli its dignity- 

The Down Farm was the property of my 
uncle, Hugh Orme ; his own freehold, as i' 
had been his father's, and his grandfather' 
before him. £ut his land waa light in 
quality, and, aa farms were accounted in oni 

{lort of the country, of limited extent. H( 
lad secured a loase, therefore, of many ad- 
joining acres, incloding certain rich water 
meadows on the marge of tbe Parr, the little 
river, a branch of tho Bumble, which twists 
and glitters, like a silver chi^ on a lady's 
neck, abont the dips and crevices of Steeple- 
borongh plain. He was thus both a landed 
proprietor and a tenant farmer upon the 
estate of Lord Overbury. Bnt inasmnch 
OS the strength of a thing is determined by 
its weakest part, so bis social position — a 
matter strictly viewed in our county — was 
ruled to be Inat of a tenant former. It 
was well understood that he was not to be 
classed among onr landowners and gentry. 
This was of tbe less consequence, seeing 
that " gentlefolks" did not abound with us. 
Lord Overbuy, the great man of our dis- 
trict, was, as 1 bare already stated, an ab- 
sentee. Other magnatee of tbe county, 
such as the Englefields, the Tenplemorea, 
and the Bockburys of Hurlstone Castle, 
lived miles and miles away from Pnrring- 
ton. Moreover, the matter was of the very 
slightest concern to my uncle, an unam- 
bitious man, of simple tastes and habits, 
leading a very homely sort of life, devoted 
to his oarm, and rarely cros^g the borders 
of his ^^j^b. 

HughV Orme was a bachelor. He was 
now perH^ps between fifty and sixty, and 
it was prAsnmed that he would not enter 
the marrieo] state. He waa said to be rich, 
bat on that\iiead he had never spoken a 
word in myXhearing. He was reserved, 
sparing of spj^ch, and somowhat ungra- 
cious of mannem bub he was much respected 
by tbe whole com nti^-sideasarigbt- minded 
neighbourly man,-, aod an authority, in an 
old-fashioned way,*, npon all agricnltnml 

qMCtiona. He was one of tbe cbnrcb- 
wardens of Purrington. The whitewWLh- 
ing of tie freso^ however, had been long 
before has tiaie. I am not evre tbat he 
would not hare appmved of it, bat, at any 
rate, be must be absolved of a^ Mnrnr at- 
tending its accomplishment. 

With my uncle, presiding over kis faooae- 
hold, lived bis sist«r, Mrs. Ni^itingale, 
my mother. I was her only child. Of my 
father I knew nothing, but that he had 
died shortly after my birt^ and that his 
widow and infant son had thereupon be- 
come the charge of lis brother-in-law, 
Hugh Orme. 

There are few things the very yonng 
estimate more erroneously than the age 
and Btature of the elders about them. I 
am now conscious that I bebeved all the 
mature friends and acquaintances of my 
early life to be much older, and a gre«t deal 
taller, than they really were. The eyea of 
childhood are in the nature of magnifying 
glasses ; its point of view is on a very low 
level, I long tbonght my uncle to be of 
patriarchal age, his height ci^ossal. Our 
cook, whose name was Eom, and who was, 
no doubt, a robust and portly woman, I held 
to be an elderly person of moat marvellous 
bulk. Andmyfirst impreesionofmymother 
suggests to me a lady of advanced years 
and towering figure. I am new satisfied 
that I nas much mistaken about this 
subject. At the time of which I am nar- 
rating my mother must have been still 
yonng, and she was scarcely above middle 
height. Sbe held herself upri^t, however, 
and her hair was even then very grey, hav- 
ing been originally of that deep blal^ kac 
which so rajudly and prematnrelj blanches- 
She bad well-defined brows, and laige, 
luminous dark eyes ; her features were 
handsome and regnlar, if her espreesion 
was fixed and st^n. She spoke in deep, 
firm tones, with a pecuhar distinctness and 
deliberation of att^ance. Her manner was 
dignified and composed oven to severity. 
She was usually dressed in black, her cap 
of white lace or fine muslin, gathered and 
fastened under her chin, as the matronly 
fashion then was. A certain majesty, wholly 
natnral and uuafiected, usually attended 
her movements. 

I entered tbe bouse by the back wav, 
through the kitchen, as, indeed, most people 
did, the &ont door being seldom need, ex- 
cept on solemn occasions of rare occnr- 
«. Moreover, the shortest way in was 
certainly through the kitchen. 

I knew at once that I was late, for I ibond 


Eem — to this day I don't know whether 
that was her christian or her surname, I 
never knew her addressed or referred to but 
nmply as Eem — liftiog a steaming padding 
from a pot on the kitchen fire. There was 
a pleasant smell of vet doth and hot 

" Apple, isn't it, Kern ?" I asked. 

" Yes, Master Duke, bnt yoa're main late. 
I thong^t yon were lost. And what a beat 
yon'vo mn yonraelf into. I kept the dinner 
back five minntes. Mora I dnran't do, for 
tbe master vrtts terrible sharp with me, and 
tite matton was spiling. Uo in, m; dear, 
before oU'b qnito cold." 

Eem kissed me, as she was fond of 
doing, rasping me latiier with her rongh 
hot &ce, a scorched crimson in colonr &om 
her incessant bending over the glowing 
fire. We were fiwt friends, Kem and I; 
and I did not so mach object to her careeaes, 
except that they betrayed too pnngently her 
orcrweening appetite for onions. I wished 
that she conld hare Idssed me less, or 
abstained more from that potent v^etable. 

" Where have yon been straying, Dnke ? 
and how late yon are," said my mother, as 
I entered the parbar. " And you're quite 
out of breath with rtuming. No, don't speak 
now. I see yon've sometlung to tell ns- Bnt 
well hear it by-and-bye. Eat yonr dinner 
first. It'syonr own fanlt that it's cold." 

liy nncle said nothing. He bnsied faim- 
•elf with carving the leg of mntton for me. 

I may say that as a child I rarely nnder- 
went formal scolding or panishment. I vras 
made sensible of my misdeeds by being 
mbjectod to a sort of silent and nnt^mpe- 
thetic treatment. Moreover, the eyes of 
my mother and ancle seemed to be fixed 
npon me, something after a mesmeriser's 
bshion, for honrsand honrs together. 

I don't think that they were folly 
conscions of this condnct of theirs, or had 
adopted and systematised it with afore- 
thonght. But people leading as they did 
(eclnded lives in a remote country place, 
ue apt to acquire the mminating habits 
of the cattle in their fields. When my 
uncle, bolding his peace, watched me per- 
sutently with an air of intense inquiry 
Uid meditation, I cannot fancy that I 

thonghts than I eQgage( 
of one of his sleek oxen reclining in the 
water meadow, and staring with benignant 
vacan^ at the surronnding landscape. 
Both seemed to be gazing and studying 
ewnestly ; bnt probably no real intention 
or intelligence animated tbeir occupation. 

As I ate my dinner in silence, my uncle, 
watching me, leant back in his chair, and, as 
his way was, stirred his finger round and 
round the interior of bis circular snnff-boi, 
as though be were performing upon some 
mute utd diminutive tambourine. My 
mother also closely regarded me, her thin 
mittened hands folded before her upon the 

The withholding of sympathy is a real 
punishment to a child ; in such wise his 
natural loquacity is suppressed, and be is 
denied the privil^e of bartering his own 
small thoughts for the more valuable mental 
wares of his elder neigbbonrs. A child is 
a most social creature, much dependent 
for his welfare and happiness npon com- 
mnnion with the world aronnd him. 

I had retnmed home, bent npon setting 
forth at full length my adventure at the 
great house. Bnt gradually my intention 
waned and relaxed. The difficulties of my 
narrative became more and more apparent 
te me ; its charms for others less manifest. 
To begin wiUi, I had to confess dereliction 
of dnty in straying so &r as the hall, and 
in entering the park. 

My story, when the time camo at last 
for telling it, was therefore much more 
brief and ineffective titan I bad originally 
desgned it to be. It simply amounted to 
this : I had met a gentleman who had taken 
me into the great house and shown me a 
picture. I did not describe him as a satyr, 
and I withheld all mention of the mm-and- 
water, the pinch of snuff, and the three 
sovereigns he had given me. It had 
suddenly occurred to mo that my receipt 
of these might be judged improper or un- 
lawful in some way; or they might be taken 
from me, and stored in a money-box, for 
my behoof upon some Aiture and &r- 
distant occasion ; a possible plan of which 
I by no means approved. A moneybox 
ont of one's own control always seemed 
to me no better or safer than somebody 

" Ton were committing a trespass, and 
liable to punishment," said my undc, very 
soon after my recital bad commenced. 

This did not onconrage me to extend it. 
Indeed, I brought it to a close as speedily 
as I could, conscions that there was very 
little in it, and that even from my own 
point of view, its interest had undergone 
grave abatement 

" Yon should not wander so far from 
the farm, Duke," said my mother, simply. 
"You oulyover-fatigneyouraelf Andyon 
should try and be pnnotual at meal times." 

76 (U.y 


So my adventure, as a story, seemed to 
be rather a failure. And yet I felt tliat I 
had moved the cariosity of my auditors 
more than they cared to confess, or than 
they desired mo to perceive. I ca,ught 
tliem interchanging significant glances at 
one point of my relation. My mother 
once started and seemed aboab to speak 
with some eagerness, thoagh she checked 
herself immediately, and tamed to look 
oat of the window. I noticed my ancle's 
eyebrows lift and twitch ; I knew be was 
surprised at something I bad said. Still 
they Bhrank from questioning me, or urg- 
ing me to narrate with more particnlarity. 
Their attitnde was one of listening, with a 
patient indifference that was rather affected 
than real. 

There was a panse when I bad finished. 
It was as though an opportnuity was given 
me to continne or to amplify if I felt bo 
inclined. But I was not incited to go on 
by interrogation or ezpresdona of interest. 

" Ton had better prn)are yoor Greek 
Delectus for Mr. Bygiave, said my mother, 
presently. " He comes to-morrow." 

I quitted the room, not to study my 
Delectos, however. I hastened np-stairs 
to the attic, and ^zamined the old en- 
graving I have mentioned. It was blotched 
with yellow damp-stains and r^ged at tho 
edges. I read the name, " N. Poussin," 
in the lefUband comer. The chief figure 
was certainly very like mv satyr — ^wonder- 
fully like. The more I looked at it the 
more convinced I was of that. 

As I descended I heard my ancle's foot- 
step. He was passing from the kitchen 
to the parlour, I cotdd hear him say to 
my mother : 

" It's true enough. Lord Overbnry ar- 
rived at the hall last night. Reuben met 
him on the London road. He waa walking 
—probably from Dripford." 

" What can he want here f" asked my 

" What, indeed !" s^d my uncle. 

And he closed the parlour door. I coold 
bear no more. 

Hud they doubted my story? It had 
received unexpected confirmation at any 
rate. Reuben was my uncle's head shep- 

But a thing I had ner^ thought about 
waa now revealed to me. My satyr was 
Lord Overbury. I might have been sure 
of it, of course ; the picture he had exhi- 
bited to me portrayed him in his robes 
aa a peer. H^ could be none other than 
Lord Overbury. But then I was such a 

child. I bad thought a nobleman mast be 
noble-looking; and certainly my satyr waa 
anything but that. Childish imagination 
has its limits. I could believe myself 
Childe Roland, or any other personage of 
equal chivalric fame ; but I bad a difficulty 
in crediting that my satyr — with his dirty 
face, his crumpled dress, his tobacco and 
rum-aud-water— was really a peer of the 
realm. Tet such seemed clearly to be the 


I FOUND I could unfold to Kem what I 
could not relate to my mother and my uncle. 
A certain lack of judgment is pet^ps in- 
dispensable in a cnild^ confiduit. More- 
over, it waa no part of Kern's duly to cen- 
sure or admonish me. She had but to 
listen, and bear with me afi'ectionatelj, as 
she never failed to do. 

My childhood was of a lonely kind, in 
that I was without companions of my own 
age. There were, of course, the farm-bojs 
in my uncle's employ ; Josh and Jabei, the 
under - carters ; David and Tobias, the 
plongbboys, and others, with whom I occa- 
sion^y a£3ociated, and from whom my 
speech caught a Pnrrington tone and ac- 
cent — to say nothing of forms of eipres- 
sions— it long retained. But I had no 
close friends, sach asa child usually makes, 
comrades of his own standing, whose sporls 
he shares, whose sympathies quicken and 
support him, and from communion with 
whom bis ideas expand and his character 
forms and develops. I had passed through 
a sickly infancy, falling into one violent 
illness f^ter another, until my survival 
came to be considered generally rather as 
a matter for marvelling than coi^ratnls- 
tion. According to the opinion, medical 
and otherwise, of oui- neighbourhood, I 
ought to have died many times over, and 
it was a kind of cbotve brought against me 
that I had persistent^ disappoint^ ezpeo- 
tation in this respect, besides inQicting in- 
finite trouble upon my only living parent 
It was held that the weakly life of a pnny 
boy, with no distinct mission in the world 
to fill, and with little to commend him to 
favour in the way of looks or endowment^ 
waa scarcely worth all the distress and 
discussion it had occasioned. That my 
early death would have stayed all concern 
about my life was a kind of platitude that 
met with hearty acceptance and currency 
in tho parish of Pnrrington. "That hoy 
of Mra. Nightingale's has been took with 
scarlet fever now," the neighboora ha* 


been heard to say of me, recarding me 
as qaite an incorrigible offender. '■ It's 
bat six monttiH gouc be bad the hooping- 
congh. What mil he bo up to next, I 
wonder? The boy will break his mother's 
heart anre-Iy," tbey went on. " And she 
sncb an excellent woman, too ! Bnt there, 
there's children as seem, to come into the 
world merely to be a worry to their ptirents. 
Maybe, however, ho won't get over this 
attack." Bnt I did. 

There was in those days ko school any- 
where near Pnmngton, so that, even had 
my health permitted, I conld not have been 
sent from home for edncational purpose, 
except to a distance that in itself consti- 
tnted a fatal objection to such a measure. 
The majority of my Pnrrington friends 
were 8tay-at.home people, who took pride 
in the fact that they had rarely strayed 
beyond the bonndaries of their parish. A 
desire to travel was viewed as symptomatic 
of an ill-regulated and discontented mind. 
A visit to Steepleborongh, seven miles off, 
on market-days, was held to be as mnch as 
any reasonable man sbonld achievo in the 
way of roving from his hearth. That there 
was safe^ in the neighbourhood, and peril 
onlside its limits, was a very prevalent 
opinion. My mother was my first, and for 
some years my only, teacher. I fear my 
«arly edncation taxed severely her store of 
learning. She spared herself no jiains, 
however, and even mastered the mdiments 
of Latin, the better to impart them to me. 
Hy onde lent some assistance, bnt only 
in an intermittent way. His own acquire- 
ments were limited, and had waned much 
ondcr the action of time. Nor did he lay 
much stress, I found, upon the advantages 
of education — " book-learning," as he 
termed it. When, at last, my mother found 
herself unequal to further instruction, and 
proposed my transfer to the caro of Mr. 
Bygrave, the curate, my nncle, I remember, 
did not express very cordial approval of 
the plan. He did not oppose it, however. 
His manner to my mother had always 
abont it an air of tender deference and 
consideration, in which I now see much to 
admire. He sought to comply with her 
wishes, simply bccanse they were her 
wishes, and quite apart from his own views 
as to their worth. 

In Eem, over tho kitchen fire — not that 
it was cold, bnt there being a fire, it 
seemed compliance with a law of nature to 
approach it — I found an eager and sym- 
pathetic listener. I rehearsed my adven- 
tare from £rst to last at great length ; 

not, perhaps, withont that heightening of 
colour and general embellishment wliich 
are almost inevitable in a detailed story. I 
set forth all I had said to tho satyr, alt ho 
had said to mc, and all I had said &iler 
that. I frankly described him as a satyr, 
which mnch bewildered Kern, who was 
withont information as to that species. 
For her enlight«Dment I exhibited the en- 
graving after Ponssin. 

" I nope he had more clothes on, that's 
all," said Kem, simply. 

I calmed her mind upon that head. But 
she begged me to remove the engraving 
from the kitchen, alleging that the sight of 
it affected her with that grave discomfort 
known commonly as " a turn." 

" Bot why did you tell him that yon 
was Pnrrington-bom, dear P" she inter- 

" Well, it was tme, wasn't it, Kem?" 

" No, dear. Ton came here, qnite as a 
infant, with yonr ma, in a po-ahay. I re- 
member it welL I wasn't cook here then. 
But I did field-work for the master. My 
father was head mower, and I helped news 
and thens in the kitchen. Pnrrington-bom 
you're not, though where born I can't 

This was qnite new to me. And I thought 
it, at the time, rather an nncomfurtable 
and reproachfol circumstance that I was 
not " Pnrrington-bom," like the people 
about me. 

" Ton couldn't help it, you know, dear," 
said Kem, with a soothing air. " One 
can't choose one's birthplace. It's as it 
may be, always. And it's never a thing 
to fret abont, or to cast at any one. I'm 
Pnrrington-bom myself, and so was father 
before me. Bnt mother wasn't. She came 
from Dripford ; was cook many years at the 
rectory there. And she was as nice and 
tidy a woman as need be, was mother. So 
yon see, dear, it don't hardly matter where 
one's bom, so long as one's English. And 
you are that, dear, and no mistake." 

Still I could see that she rather pitied 
me, as, indeed, I pitied myself, for not 
having been bom in Pnrrington parish. 

" Kem," said I, after musing awhile, 
" did yon over see my father ?" 

" No, dear, never." 

" And you never heard of him P" 

" No, dear; only that he was dead and 
gone, poor soul, before you was brought 
here ; and never knew the brave little man 
hia son would grow up to be." 

Tliereapon ^e administered one of her 
heartiest and most odorous kisses. 


78 [M.I M, im.] 


" I wonder whether he was Pnrrington- 
bom, Kern." 

Bat she couldn't telt me. She thought 
not. Mine waa not a name known in those 
partB, she said. We were both silent and 
even sad for some minntes, as though pon- 
dering this serioas matter. 
' " Now, dew," Kem said at length, " go 
on telling me abont the slater," for so she 
prefeiTed to call my Mend of the Dark 

I resumed my narratiTe. 

" And who do yon think the sa^ vas, 
Kem ?" I asked, as I concjoded. 

"Who, dear P" 

" Why, Lord OTerbnry." 

" Never." 

" Bnt I'm snre— that is, I'm almoet sure 
it was, Kem." 

" But yon said he was a slater." 

I now perceived the inconvenience of the 
romantic aspect I had imparted to my 
recital. And the repntation I had already 
acquired as a teller of strange and in- 
teresting stories stood mnch in my way. 
I had been in the habit of describing to 
Kem all I had read in books, or chanced to 
hear of the marvellons and adventnroos. 
Often for her entertainment I bad en- 
hanced my discourse by liberal dmnghts 
npon my imagination. In retnm she had 
no results of reading to oommnnicate, for 
her education was deficient: she read with 
difficnlty, and in the way of writing conid 
do little more than accomplish her mark; 
nor was her fancy of a ready or fecnnd 
natnre ; bnt ehe had a store of village 
lore and nursery legends with which to 
entertain me. I heard her always with 
interest ; and she in her tnm was a moat 
devoted listener. Generally I fonnd ber 
appetite for stories only equalled by ber 
powers of belief and digestion. She had, 
so to say, swallowed, without a Bcmple, 
all the wonders of the Arabian Nights. 
Suddenly she refused to credit my adven- 
ture at the Dark Tower. The mention of 
Lord Overbnry's name seemed to her clear 
proof of the fWsity of my story. 

" I thongbt yon were making it up all 
ontofyonr own head, dear," she said, with 
a sigh, implying that in snch case she 
would not have withheld her feith. The 
introdnction of his lordship she clearly 
viewed as an inartistic and unallowable 
blending of fact with fiction. 

" But it was Lord Overbnry, Kem," I 
ni^ed. "And, see, this is wlwt he gave 
me." Thereupon I exhibited the three 

She was very relnctant to touch them. 
" Take care they ain't fairy money, snch as 
yon was telling me of the other night, that 
turns to dead leaves in the night." 

It was with difBcnlty I persnaded her to 
try their soundness. Bnt at last she rang 
tbem npon the kitchen dresser, and even 
tested wem by denting their snr&ces with 
her sharp white teeth. 

" It seems good money, certainly," she 
said. And thereupon she tendered me the 
genuine, if commonplace, connsel to take 
care of the coins — not to let them bum a 
hole in mj pocket, and not to spend them 
all at once. 

" It's like a lord, giving that money," 
Kem mused ; bnt still her &ith 'wss not 

"Did yon ever see Lord Overbnry, 
Kem P" I inquired. 

" Yes, dear ; bnt not of late years." 

"What was he hke?" But her de- 
scriptive powers failed her. She refused 
to allow, however, that he in the least re- 
sembled my account of him, or the fignre 
by Ponssin. 

"No, dear; he wasn't a slater ; nothing 
like that. Not that I pretend to know 
much of the matter. I was never one for 
staring at the gentlefolks as some do. 
There^ somo as will gape and gaze at their 
betters, as though they was no more than 
pigs in a pound. But I have seen his 
lordship, and I bear in mind what folks 
said of him." 

"What did they say, Kem ?" 

"Well, dear, folks will say most any- 
thing. It isn't for me to be judging my 
betters. But the word went that he was a 
bad man, though, as far as I could leant, 
he did worse harm to himself than toothers. 
Gentlefolks will be gentlefolks, and their 
ways isn't our ways, and perhaps what 
would be wicked in poor people isn't of so 
much account if you're rich. Not bnt what 
they said he was poor ; though how that 
could be, and he owning the great house 
and so much land hereabouts — real good 
honest land, as every one knows — is more 
thanlcansay. And of course his being poor 
didn't mean his going to jail or the work- 
house, as woald happen with me and encb 
like. But there was talk of his horse-rac- 
ing, and gambling, and that ; of bis drink- 
ing ways — though for that matter there's a 
many that blamed him that wonid be glad 
enough, for certain, to drink as much as 
him, and more, if they had the chance, and 
the money. For there's folks about hero 
that's terrible set upon drinking, to be sure. 


[lUrHim.) 79 

Ton could no more trast them with a 
gtHon of ate than a cat with cream. But 
at one time they was all in a ohann" (that 
b,dltaUcinglond) "abonthiBlordahipand 
his wickedneBB. I beard many a tale of 
him, bnt I've most fot^t 'em alt now. 
And perhaps sncfa things is best forgot. 
It's certain snre he was no better than he 
ihontd be. Bnt it's hard to be reckoning 
bU the bad ways of a mas, and keeping no 
Kore of bis good. Sometbing I da mind, 
tboDgh, abont a young woman of these 

ptrte, as 'twas said " 

She stopped soddenly, feeling that there 
was a certain unfitness about the natore of 
the matter she was abont to disoloae. Or 
more probably because she perceived tbat 
we were no longer alone. A third pei-son 
had Altered the kitchen. 



"HoNSiEDB Chose," said my wife to meg 
"with yonr politics and principies, yoar 
regimes and conetitntions, and uie rest of 
joor revolntioiiary baggage, I know my 
Paris no longer. Will yon be good enongh 
to tdl me the name of the Etreet in which 
I live?" 

"My deaT creature," I replied with 
studied politeness, "I believe weinhabittho 
Hoe dee Francs-Bourgeois. " 

"We did yesterday," madame retorted, 
u ehe tossed her ^oves upon the table ; 
"bnt have the goodness, Monsieur Chose, 
to step to the comer and inquire for yonr- 

I obeyed. I have lived all my life in the 
ManoB, and have seen few changes in it. 
IV quiet business life of the place has 
hardly been mffled by the political storms 
Ihat have swept over onr devoted city. 
yhej changed the Rne St. Louis years ago 
into the Roe Tnrenne, and we monmed 
i>ver it. Bat I never imagined, in my 
''ildest dreams, that any set of men wonld 
be desperate enongh to lay their hands 
upon the Rne des Francs-Bonrgeois. Tet 
it is doomed ; although the deeecratioa has 
not been yet accompfished. While I stood 
at the corner gazing at the old familiar 
words that I conld onoe read — ah, mo ! 
—without spectacles, Patin, the grocer, 
stepped np and said : 

"It is decided. We shall live hence- 
fiwUi, Uonsieur Chose, in the Rue Pipe-cn- 


" Tes, yes ! It is voted by the council 
— the representative conndl. It is hard 
to bear, Honaienr Chose, bnt principles 
must be respected." 

" Principles !" I cried. " It is in&mous." 

Bnt Uonsienr Patin laid his hand npon 
my shoulder, and bade me observe that the 
council had been elected by the people. 
And then he said: "The fault lies not 
with the voters who returned the council 
which to-day dooms yon and me to sleep 
in the Rue Pipe-en-Bois, but with the citi- 
zens who did not Tote." 

The observatien of Monsieur Patin was 
jnst, and I relnmed home ashamed of my- 
self for having wasted ray right as a 
manicipal elector. I fbnnd Captain Ton- 
nerre having a brisk conversation with my 
wife. As I entered, they both tnmed upon 
me, and cried with one voice, " Well, well, 
where do yon live now ?" 

Captain Tonnerre was not to be calmed. 

" My dear Chose, it seems that we have 
been living under the most extraordinary 
errors. Yon and I are fools ; bnt there is 
this consolation, we ar^ part of a mighty 
company. I had an idea that Napoleon 
was the great captain of his age ; that his 
nephew freed Italy on the battle-field of 
Solfenno; that Isly, and Magenta, and 
Sebastopol were IVench victories ; that 
Bayard vras a pnre Christian knight, of 
whom France was proud ; that Henri 
Quatre wBS a hero dear to the Gauls ; 
that, in short, we had deeds of valonr and 
men of courage enough to glorify the 
streets of Paris and London rolled into 
one. Confess, Chose, that you were vain 
enough to cherish this patriotic idea under 
your flannel waietcuat." 

"I confess it, and," I added with em- 
phasis, and, I hope, with dignity, " I main- 

" Nonsense, Monsieur Chose. As a poli* 
tidan you know better. We are just going 
to begin the proper history of France. I 
have lived all my life (when not fighting 
for my country) on the Isle St, Louis ; to- 
morrow I shall he an inbabitant of the Isle 
St. Adolphe, and my shortest way to it 
will be by the Boulevard Gavroche. They 
are scmpiug St. Louis, the third and 
fourth Henrys, and fearless Bayard, and 
the man of Austerlitz, and the roan of 
Sotferino, and Saiut-Amand of the Alma, 
ay, and Macmahon (while he lives) from 
the walla. The Abbatuccis, who, from 
father to eon.'havo died on the field of 
honour — so says my military history— have 
not a name good enough to figaro upon a 


80 [Haj ■it. 1879.] 


[CoDdDClsd b] 

blind alley. The Empress Josf>pliiDe is a 
myth; the beautiful Hortonse a crazy 
poet's dream. Too thought our army was 
covered with glory, and that its glittering 
legions had, within the memory of men 
still living, swept triumphantly through 
Europe. What vanity, MotiBieur Chose ! 
French knights have yet their spnra to win. 
The XapoleoD legend ia as unsubstantial 
as that of the Wandering Jew. Five 
years ago you used to say that it com- 
manded the respect of the world. What 
nonsense ! They are pulling it from the 
walls like an old playbill, and the soldiers 
are looking on ! This is surely enough to 
prove to you that yon have wasted two- 
thirds of your life in the bewildering dark- 
ness of error. Do you hear me, Monsienr 
Chose ?" 

" It is a bumiliatingresalt of the elective 
principle, I admit," was my answer. 

" Elective idiotcy !" was Madame Chose's 

" Elective principle !" Tonnerre retorted. 
The old soldier who had fought with the 
pcra Bogeand, and had ended his active 
career before the Mamelon, shook with 
emotion. "Tour elective principle and 
your equality are pretty ! Your savans 
have a grand debate whether they shaU call 
a certain prince monseigneur, while yonr 
deputies banish another across the frontier, 
Wliilo one pretender gives a banquet to the 
forty Immortals intbeheartof Paris, another 
is not allowed to travel through the country. 
You talk about republican simplicity, and 
the extravagance of tbe fallen dynasty 
and the couturieres tell yon that never ii 
the gayest of the ' twenty years of cor 
ruption' did a dress cost much more than 
half one of the present fashion. You 
even have two suppers to a ball. Thi 
streets are unsafe. They seize your news 
papers— three at a time. We soldiers are 
insulted in the streets. Every unfortunate 
ofGccr is a traitor. ' Capitulard !' cries the 
gnmin at the heels of troopers who fought 
at Magenta. 'Traitor!' is the sound that 
falls upon the ears of every officer who has 
bccti nnfortnnate. In tne old days the 
vanquished warrior was treated with 
chivalrous respect; to-day yon stone him." 

" What will they do to-morrow ? Pcr- 
baps Monsieur Chose can tell ns." Madame 
Chose made this observation with marked 

I protested, being ronsed by her sarcasm 
in the presence of Tonnerre, that I had no 
B.itisfactory explanation to offer. 

" Then, my friend Chose," Tonnerre said, 

still panting with excitement, and sopping 
his heated brows with his bandkerchie^ 
" permit me to ask yon, what becomes of 
all this study of the politics of your time ? 
Ton read the papers all round, even to the 
Polisson Illnstre — a charming print; and 
when we are threatened with the re- 
christening of Paris from Passy to Vin- 
cennes, you haven't a word of comfort or 
explanation to givens. On whatpriuciple, 
let me ask yon — since principle is yonr 
strong point — on what shadow of a principle 
is tho Rue Marie- Antoinette to be called 
the Rue Antoinette ?" Tho old soldier 
folded his arms, and paused for a reply. 

" I don't pretend to be the key of the 
position, my good Tonnerre," I observed. 
" As well ask me to explain why a 
journalist the other day likened the Obelisk 
of Luxor to a parfait an cafe ; or why, a 
few years ago, they copied itasa stripe for 
the gandins' trousers. But surely you can 
understand that there are men of base and 
vain minds, who delight in degrading 
everything that has gone before them, and 
would blot out Raphael's Virgin to make a 
canvas for their own portrait. They want 
the deluge before them and behind them. 
Tho logical conseqnence of the rebaptism 
of Paris ia the repainting of the historical 
portraits in the Louvre. Thero are ad- 
mirable canvasses there, upon which Ber- 
gcret, and Pyat, and the rest of the Im- 
mortals of the gutter, might be limned 
Let ns be logical." 

" There he is again with his logic," cried 
my wife: I am sore chiefly to please 

" Let Chose develop hia idea, madame," 
the brave soldier interposed, 

" Let us, I was observing, when Madame 
Chose interrupted me, ' be logical.' " Here 
I bowed with impreSMve gravity to my 
wife, who shrugged her shoaJders. " Why 
end at the street corners ? Why not take 
down our shop eigns, and tnm the Belle 
Jardiniere into the Belle Petroleuse, tbe 
Deui Magots into the Deux Hugos, the 
Grand CondS into the Grande Incendie ? 
When they have rebaptiscd our sti-eets and 
shops, and transformed the city, until the 
reign of Rochefort and Termersch is 
marked upon every lamp-post, why, pray, 
should not they rebaptise us ?" 

Madame Chose started to her feet, and 
with a comprehensive curtesy, swept out 
of the room. The bare idea was too mnch 
for her. But I continued ; " If they 
may scratch our history out of our public 
monuments, use the flags we have taken 

Cbuin Dtstuu.] 


t I97S.) 81 

from the enemy as repabliean pocket-hand- 
kerctiiefs, and haul down onr trophies, they 
msj surely t«ar pages ont of cnr school 
histories, and teach the yonng idea to look 
upon Wagram and Anstflriitz, Sebastepol 
aod Solferino, as myths that beguiled 
Frenchmen in the infancy at the nation." 

I had reached this point of my observa- 
tioiia when y/e were intermpted by a smart 
rap at the door. Monsienr Fatin stood be- 
fore OS. The poor man was breathless. 

While we begged him to tell as the news, 
we implored him to be calm, and take his 

" It's carried by a majority of ten, Paris 
is DO longer Paris !" 

"The man's raving mad!" shonted Ton- 
nerre. " Explain yourself, air. These are 
not times for jesting." 

"Alas, there is no jest in me, mon capi- 
twne," Patin now said, in tones of pro- 
found melancholy. " They have carried it, 
I tell jon. My next-door neighbour baa 
come from the sitting. Paris is Paris no 

"Is it Bagdad?" I asked, really pro- 
voked by Patin's procrastiimtion. 

"No, no. They had changed the streets, 
tie avenaes, the squares, the places, bat 
that was not enongh." 

Tonnerre growled some fearful oaths, and 
ironld have seized Patiu by the throat had 
he ddayed his revelation another moment. 

"What hare the rascals changed nowP" 
he roared. 

" Paris ! For the fntnre, the city is to 
be called — Belleville ! And the Seine b 
to be the Bievre !" 

"The very gndgeoa will die with shame," 
said my wife, who had re-entered the room, 
attracted by the loud voicea. 


"A BET of unmly boys at play ; that is 
my opinion. Chose, and none of yonr fine 
phrases will move me from it." 

I had, in an impmdent moment, con- 
Knted to take Hadame Chose to be pre- 
KDt at a debate in the National Assembly. 
ITliile we were on the way to "VereaillcB, I 
repented, for I saw that she was bent npon 
presenting all she saw to her iriends in a 
diverting light ; and that eho was arming 
bereelf with a fresh weapon against me — 
vhich was not necessair. We assisted at 
a debate in the conrse of which there were 
two or three warm incidents ; bat these, 
or, more properly speaking, the reasons 
for these, passed almost nnnoticed by the 
severe critio who is my permanent censor. 

It was as TCc came through the corridors 
of the palace, and just as we were passing 
a comer ronghly canvassed off for the 
OfGcial Joamal, that madame put down 
the wise men of her country as so many 
unruly echooi-boys. She pointed with her 
parasol to the canvas partition, and added, 
con temp tnoBsly : 

" There is dn propre !" 

It was very dirty, more like a gipsy's 
stabling than the bead-qnarters of the par- 
liamentary staff of the OfGcial JoaiTial of 
Franco. It smoto villanonsly npon the 
practised eye of one who prides herself 
on her order and love of cleanliness. I 
endeavoured to keep tho subject at a dis- 
tance by su^esting to my wife that an ice 
would probably refresh her before taking 
train for Paris. She accepted the ice, bot 
she declined to adjourn the expression of 
her opinion on the afternoon to which, as 
she kindly said, I had "doomed" her. I 
had played many tricks npon her know- 
ingly and unwittingly, bnt never had she 
been disturbed, and dr^ged away to Ver- 
sailles, and stuffed in a scut not big enough 
for a chUd ten years old, on so shallow a 
pretext as this. 

"I shall have some news to tell of to- 
day, Monsieur Chose. Yes, some news to 
tell about — a half-empty theatre ; a scnlp- 
tiiro corridor treated like a high-road ; a set 
of shabby fellows lounging about, where 
splendid officials were intended to bo ; a 
scramble up dark stairs to boxes that wore 
clean once npon a time. Ton say the 
deputies were elated by the prospect of 
breaking up to-morrow for the Easter holi- 
days; bat is that any reason why they 
should behavo like bears ? For my part, I 
think they would do vastly well under a 
tent in the Court of Honour, instead of 
being allowed to turn a place built for the 
amusement of kings int« a fool's paradise, 
where every one wants to hear himself 
speak. I remember a time. Monsieur 
Chose, when yon would have been ashamed 
to let yonr vrife drive np to the gates of the 
palaceinatnmble-down onmibns. To-day I 
was j olted almost to death, and was ready to 
drop when, after all that ridiculous cere- 
mony, I was shown to the avant-scencs to 
see a littlo of tho modelling of tho destinies 
of France." 

In this way Madame Chose entertained 
me all the way back to Paris, whero we 
expected Captain Tonnerre to dino with us. 

"Beware how'you touch npon the As- 
sembly," I said to tho captain wliilo we 
took our absinthe, and madame changed 



{CondDctid b; 

her toilette. " 3!ie ia furious, and I am 
very aorrj I took her. It lias destroyed 
the little confidence she had in our legis- 
lators. I shall snffer for it." 

The captain smiled, and ^as gallant 
enongh to Bay that madame was a woman 
of eitraordtnary perceptive powers. I 
take it there is nobody who enjoys the ex- 
traordinary powers of a lady less than that 
lady's husband. I implored my friend to 
eoconrage the comments of Madame Chose 
as little as politeness would permit. But 
my precaution was in vain. The spirit of 
Madame Chose bad been, as the captain 
observed, profoundly stirred, and not even 
the president himself would have kept her 
silent. I was put aside, and madame ad- 
dressed herself exclusively to Tonnerre. 

" When I had got over my vciation at 
being dragged so far to see so little, I 
passed my opera-glass over boxes and pit. 
By the way, there ought to be a gallery for 
Monsieur Oambetta's clients. WeU, your 
Katioual Assembly looked very like a half- 
deserted theatre. They have not taken 
the trouble to remove the proaoenium. 
There are the big angels holding a pro- 
digiona crown over the flenr de lys — 
above the heada of the Left and Right 
Centres — ^jnst as they did iu the days of 
the Grand Monarch. The stage is a stage 
still, with the footlights removed ; I pre- 
sume to keep the way clear when the 
Badicals want to rush at the throat of a 
plain-speaking rural. The tribune faces 
the audience, and above the tribune ap- 
pear7 the president, jnst as the parson sita 
above the clerk. The background is a 
common red drop-scene. Even the en- 
trances are, ns you see them, upon the 
stage. Monsieur Thiers, with the rest 
of the savionrs of France, aits on the 
first pit bench fronting thetribune; Isnp- 
pose, so that they may not lose a word of 
the bad language that is prepared for them. 
Every minute I expected to see a chorus 
or a file of retainers come on, or even a 
corps de ballet, to relieve the comedy. 
For nobody was listening to the speaker, 
who had perched himself in the tribune, 
with a file of papers, and was, I snppose, 
nnfolding the contents of them in a voice 
that just rose now and then beyond the 
general conversation. The pit was half 
empty, bnt the men who were there were 
lounging, chattering, reading, or writing, 
as though they were not in the least de- 
gree concerned in the subject the person 
in the tribune was talking about, except that 
now and then some'word brought Uie en- 

tire company into action. I heard the 
word barricade fall from a speaker's lips. 
Then the crowd in the pit on the left all 
roared together ; a little forest of fists was 
raised towards the tribune ; the speaker 
folded his anna defiantly; the crowd on 
the right applauded as though Fatti had 
just made her appearance ; and above all, 
the shooting and clapping of hands, the 
president rang a bell. It was like the main 
avenue of a &ir on a Snnday. A dmm 
would have completed the illusion. The 
remembrance of it ^ves me a headache. 
Fetch me my salts, Chose." 

The bbUs having nnfortonatety revived 
my wife, she began to laugh heartily, say- 
ing that the entire scene was the vety 
drollest thing in the world. " Ton mnst 
know," she continued, still addressing Ton- 
nerre, "that every possible precaution is 
taken, lest, in the noise and confusion, 
some of the golden words spoken by the 
person in the tribune sbonld be lost to 
posterity. They are obliged to plant a 
shorthand writer on the right and left of 
the speaker ; yes, at his two elbows, and 
there, poor fellows, they stand with their 
books in their hands, writing away as hard 
as they can go, till two more come to re- 
lieve them. Chose said they were relieved 
so frequently, because they must have time 
to write out their notes ; bnt I know better 
— it is to prevent them from going mad 
nnder the torrent of nonsense that is ponred 
into their devoted earb. 

" Ton cannot imagine, monsieur, the 
games the depnties carried on. I never 
heard such rude interruptions. Manners ! 
When the crowd on the left was agitated, 
tlie uproar was deafening, and every man 
seemed ready to make short work of his 
neighbour. But the president rang them 
down, appealed to them like naughty 
children, and, while a grenp of men were 
shaking hands with, and hnggiog, the 
person who had jnst finished his glass of 
water, and left the tribune, another can- 
didate for the inattention of the Assembly 
went up the steps. It was quite like a 
drama. As the new performer took his 
place, a lacqney came on from the opposito 
side of the stage, carrying a tumbler of 
water upon a plate, which he deposited 
near the hand of the honourable opponent 
of the man who was being hugged. 

" Then the play went forward another 
scene. The same shouting, talking, clap- 
ping of hands, rude remarks, and walking 
about. Papers strewn, like bilb of the 
play, all over the pit ; people yawnin^f in 



[M«yM.l»jij 83 

ilie iKixea; men clambcriDg over seats; 
and the veiy largest collection of bald 
heads I ever Baw under one roof. I sbonld 
say that a reception at the Institnte conld 
not mnster such a show." 

"Aod pTS7," Tonneire here Tentnred to 
aek, " iTbat was the eubject of debate to- 
day P" 

"UonBienr Tonnerre," my wife replied, 
in a most charming; yoice, "is that a 
seriong qaestion ? Do j^on think there 
ven twenty people in the theatre who 
distinctly nnderetood the snkject in hand ?" 

I bad resolved to bear no part whatever 
in the conversation; bnt this was too mnch 

" It is too bad, madame, to ext^gerate 
tbat which is, nnfortonately, only too 
indicrons when soberly described. The 

"Uonaiear Chose, the captain asked me 
tbe qaestion. Permit me to answer it. 
Ton will have opportanities enough for re- 
flections on the ideas of a foolish woman at 
jou caT^. I have so doobt I appear atro- 
cioDBly stupid to yonr majestic nnder- 
standing. " 

I bowed, and left the field open. 

"Monsiear," my wife went on, address- 
Jug herself to Tonnerre, "I hope I am 
not very mnch more stnpid than the 
arerage of human creatores; bnt I do 
declare to yon that beyond a vagne notion 
tint some money was to be given to Paris, 
and that it was in conseqnenoe of the 
"ar, I conld make ont nothing. Some 
caid the idea was in&moas, that it was a 
preminm to mffianism, and others were 
TeiT magnificent indeed abont noble Paris, 
and were very angry that the pittance 
of n few millions was not qnadrapled. 
If the Right are correct, the Left are 
fools, and something very much worse; and 
if the Left have reason on their side, the 
R^ht are both immoral and incompetent. 
The copper and the kettle were both black, 
and were bamping against one another all 
the time I was at Versailles. That's my 
nperience, and I can only wonder what 
(he foreigners in the diplomatic box thought 
of the sooty warfare. Monsieur Chose will 
tcU yon that it was mi^nificent, when one 
gentleman, having said that France was 
^U great and glorious (which we all 
know), swallowed a whole tnmbler of 
(»ld water, and resigned himself to the 
embraces of his friends. I thought, like a 
foolish housewife that I am, some of tbat 
*'ater might have been used to wash away 
the dirt that hod been flying abont For, 

after all. Monsieur Tonnerre, haven't we 
bad enough of this abase P Isn't it time 
to cease from attributing the lowest mo- 
tives to political opponents P Becanse yoa 
don't approve the principle on which your 
friend levies taxes, do you think it quite 
fair or honourable to accuse him of fiUing 
bis pockets from the till P" 

Tonnerre made a profound bow, while he 

" Yon are quite right, madame. Our 
army has snfiered as mnch from the slander 
of mends as from the guns of the foe. 
Yoa must have remarked a grave &ce, 
well-known and well-loved, in a box by the 

" The marshal! He looked sad and worn 
while the uproar went on." 

" Do yon think he boa not suffered under 
this hail of calumnies, more than tongue 
can tell ?" 

"Yes, yes," Madame Chose answered, 
enthusiastically i "I am sure of it. And 
not a woman in all the theatre who did 
not rejoice to see that he was loddng on." 

" Yon are really a dan^rous person," I 
observed seriously to Madame Chose ; 
" and I beg you will change the conversa- 
tion, Tonnerre, yon owe me a revenge — at 
dominoes. Let us play." 


DnwpiBTiiM-bnDeli dnggtd with al intend gM. 

Bright bUck ejM tunxd npirard ■bina; 

lilie B ehann, th* iriiM 
Dram thj diuk bnin dipped with ootl*, 

Almoat meJU tbe p«uU 
In that rm; littb mouth or thins I 

All tan dimplsd Gogsn, now, 

StnTmi for tha baugh, 

Gnup and iinuh. with Bctj tbint, 

Tha diuter tUI it bunt, 
Showaring wina on upward faoe and brov I 

Somairbat itill too higb t« imt, 

Bwin^i tha bleading Irait ; 
Thou miut lift thy lip up— lo— 

Eiing to it and grow, 
Ai a kid doth, poiaed on tip-loa foot. 

Cniihed in both hinda. through th; lip^ 

EiquititaW dnpa, 
From the raTiihad loop of rina, 

Swaalar than tha beijurflalen aipi. 

Wha« tha gold-sirt baa aucki atill 

. Uara th]t Inacioua will I 
Still on tbina nnirearied lip 

CtMclaH nactar drip, 
Qnandung tbint tbat ij naguapchabb I 



lixj BO dull whits vinlet binuh 

Tbj line-bruich ind bcecli ; 
Bat for «Tcr bu>f thou h 

On thr tipmMt bM, 
And for «Ter droop thj bunoh in teach 1 



This redoubtable regiment, that has bo 
long fought to protect the right, was first en- 
rolled to defend the ■wrong. In 1678, when 
the unwise Act was isened for establish- 
ing episcopacy in Presbyterian Scotland, 
and in 1679, when the still more tyrannical 
Act, forbidding prayer-meetings in the open 
air, was passed, the brave and pions people 
of Scotland began here and there to rise 
in arms. In 1678, two troops of Scotch 
dr^oons were raised to carry ont these 
Acts, and from these troops the present 
Scots Greys are descended. The first troop 
was commanded by Lieutenant-General 
Thomas Dalziel, an old Cavalier officer 
who had fought for the Czar against the 
Tartars ; the second by Lord Charles Mar- 
ray, second son of John, first Marqnis of 
Atholc, and afterwards the Earl of Dnn- 
moro ; of a third troop, levied a few months 
later, Lord Francis Stnart, one of the Life 
Guards, and grandson of the Earl of Both- 
well, a gentleman not unknown to as, 
thanks to the pages of Old Mortality, was 
the commander. 

The murder on Magas Moor of Arch- 
bishop Sharp excited the rough soldiery to 
cruel reprisals. They fired into groups of 
praying men, and shot, arrested, and 
tortured many preachers and leaders of the 
poor wandering folk. Foremost among 
the persecutors, and the most untiring, the 
most pitiless, was Captain Robert Graham 
— the Claverhonse — the Bonny Dundee of 
Scott's beet ballad. With no religion, no 
compassion bimself, he trod the poor fugi- 
tives under his horse's feet. At Uromclog 
the Covenanters at last turned npon him ; 
he lost thirty men in a sharp skirmish, 
and had a horse killed beneath him. The 
next day the elated Covenanters attacked 
Glasgow, bnt were repulsed. The battle 
of Bothwell Brig soon followed, where the 
wild jonng Duke of Monmonth led on the 
Scotch Dragoons, a^ few English horse from 
the Border, and the Earl of Mar's regiment 
of foot. They were faced by four thou- 
sand grim and "sour Covenanters." While 
preaching and wrangling the Covenanters 
were attacked by Captain Stuart's Scotch 
Dr^oons. Tho three hundred stubborn 
Eippen and Galloway saints who held the 

bridge, commanded by Hackston of Ba- 
thillet, fought till their last cartridge waa 
gone, and then gloomily fell back. The 
key of the Covenanters' position was lost for 
over. The foot guards soon cleared the 
bridge ; the army passing across, opened 
what was then considered a heavy can- . 
nonade, and at the same time the Scotch { 
Dragoons went to work with their swords 
on the insurgents' flanks. The game was 
hopeless. Tho Covenanter horsemen fled. 
One thousand two hundred foot surrendered 
without striking a blow, and the renwuder 
ran back to their morasses. Then came the 
legal butchery of those crnel and perse- 
cuticgtimes; two preachers and fiveleaders 
were hang, and three hundred honest men 
transported to the plantations. In many 
a Scotch home, in the year 1679, a Rachel 
mourned for her children, and refused 
to be comforted. Again, in 1680, the 
Sooteh Dra^oona were employed in more 
of this hateful service. In a hot fight at 
Ayr Moss, in the shire of Ayr, twenty 
Covenanters, including a preacher, were 
skin; and Hackston of Rathillet, one 
of the murderers of Archbishop Sharp, and 
a leader at Bothwell Brig, was taken. Tlio 
dragoons lost several men and horses, and 
Lieutenant Crichton was severely wounded. 
Hackston and three of his comrades wcro 
soon afterwards hung at Edinburgh. 

In 1681, Charles the Second ordered 
three additional troops of dragoons to bo 
raised, and the six troops were incorporated 
into the Royal Regiment of Scots Dragoons, 
Lieutenant- General Dalziel, the coarse and 
eccentric old bearded Cavalier, being ap- 
pointed colonel i while a second regiment 
was intrusted to the uascrnpuloua Cla- 
verhonse. The Scots Dragoons at this 
time wore back and breast pieces, and a 
pot helmet. They had swords, and carried 
carbines and horse- pistols, fourteen inches 
long in the barrel. Twelve soldiers of each 
troop and the non-commissioned officers 
bore halberds, the other soldiers matchlocks 
and bayonets, "or great knife," as it is 
called in a warrant of 1672. In 1687, the 
dragoons were ordered to carry snap-b^nse 
muskets, with bright barrels, three feetfonr 
inches long, cartouch - boxes, bayonets, 
grenade pouches, buckets, and hammer 

After much shooting of poor conscien- 
tious pea.sants, who would not disown by 
oatli fill plots against the king, the Royal 
Scots had at last once more armed enemies 
to meet who were worthy of their steel. 
In 1685, James tho Second ascended tho 

Chuin DIOtBH.] 




throDe, and Scotland again bnrBt into a 
flame. Tbo proscribed Earl of Argyll 
landed teom Holland with three hnndnid 
meo, and a rebellion began. Near Dum- 
barton the earl and the king's forces 
joined issne. The rebels were Bheltered 
bj a email enclosnre, and the Scots 
Dragoons (at that time trained to fight 
on horse or foot) dismounted, and scaled 
the defences. The rebels took post in a 
TTood,. held it till night, and then dis- 
persed. The Royal Scots lost several men 
IB this brief struggle. Captain Clelland 
Vis liilled, and Sir Adam Blair, his 
BBccessor, shot through the neck. Sir 
William Wallace, of Craigie, -was also 
BOTerely wounded. The Duke of Argyll 
was captnred the some day, and soon after- 
wards beheaded at Edinburgh, On their 
way to join the royal troops who over- 
threw the Duke of Monmouth at Sedge- 
moor, the Royal Scots heard of the battle, 
and retnmed to tlteir old position. On the 
death of Lientenant-General D.ilziel, King 
James conferred the colonelcy of the Royal 
Scots on Lieutenants Colonel Lord Charles 
Murray, soon after created Earl of Dun- 
raore. In 1688, tho young regiment was 
Bent to ravage the lands of Macdonald, of 
Keppoch, who had killed some of the Mac- 
kintoshes ■who favoured James. They 
bamt the Macdonalds' houses and corn 
from Lammas to the 10th of September, 
and were then marched from Inverlochy to 
the English border, a tramp of two hun- 
dred miles, to resist the Prince of Orange's 
tnTasion, and Claverhonse was created Vis- 
connt of Dundee, 

At this time tiie privates of the Boyal 
Scots received one shilling and sixpence a 
day, and the cornets five shillings. In 
Dondee's rebellion a lieutenant- colonel and 
several captains of the Royal Scots were 
arrested for sending intelligence to the 
rebels. After this the Royal Scots, however, 
remained faithful, and were active against 
the fierce and agile Highlanders, dispers- 
ing the Macleans, who had attacked the 
ImtA of Grant, and joinii^ in the battle 
of Killiecrankie, where Dondee fell in the 
moment of victory. The Royal Scots 
ilao aided largely in the well-executed 
mrprise of the HighlnnderB' camp near 
Balloch Castle, in Strathspey, where some 
fonr hundred Highlanders were shot and 
cut down. The Royal Scots, wo are glad 
to say, had no share in the cruel massacre 
of Glencoe, 

Fresh enemies now awaited tho Royal 
Scots, In 1604, King William sent them 

over to Flanders. In 1695, they helped to 
cover the siege of Namur, and were also 
employed in observing Marshal Villoroy's 
movements. They returned to England at 
the peace of Ryswick in 1697. In 1702, 
the Royal Scots were sent to Holland to 
join in the war of Accession. In this year 
tho regiment was first caOed the " Grey Dra- 

e>ons," and it is supposed that WiUiam's 
ntch Life Guards having been mounted 
on grey horses (i la Wouvermans), when 
the Dutch left England the ting mounted 
tho Boyal Scots in a simitar manner. The 
Life Guards already affected black horses, 
and the French had the custom of distiu- 
gnishing their corps-d'^lite by the colour 
of their horses. In Marlborough's battles 
those grey horses were now to strike terror 
among the French. In 1702, tho Soots 
Greys were in Spanish Gnelderland, and 
covered the sieges of Venloo, Rnremonde, 
and Stevenswacrk, one squadron serving 
as a guard to Marlborough himself. On 
his way to Holland, escorted by a squadron 
of Greys, Marlborongh and General Co- 
horn were captured on the Maese by a 
French partisan leader, and only escaped 
by an attendant slipping a French pass 
into Marlborough's hand, he having dis- 
dained any such safeguard. In 1703, the 
Scots Greys distinguished themselves by 
defeating a French detachment, which had 
captured a quantity of English specie, re- 
covering the spoil. 

In 1 704, Lord John Hay, son of the Mar- 
quis of Tweeddale, was appointed colonel 
of the Scots Greys. This year Marlborough 
crossed tho Bhine and Moselle, and pnshed 
on to the Danube, to assist tho Emperor 
Leopold, then threatened by the French 
and Bavarians, who had broken through the 
Black Forest. At Schellenberg the Scots 
Greys attacked the heights, and, serving 
as infantry in the attack of the trenches, 
helped to drive the French across the 
Danube. The regiment here lost Captain 
Douglas and seven meu, and nineteen 
others were wounded. 

At Ramilies (1706) the Scots Greys 
covered themselves with glory. When 
Churchill and Hordannt's regiments de- 
scended from the heights of Foultz, and 
drove the French into a morass, where they 
sank or were butchered, the Scots Greys at- 
tacked the enemy's left, routed the French 
cavalry, and cut several squadrons to pieces. 
They then spurred into the village of 
Antreglize, and sabred all the infantry 
they met. Emet^ing from Antreglize, 
flushed, with victory, they broke into the 

86 (M«yM.l«T!J 


Frenob Begimeat^ da Hoi, which at once 
BDrrendered, snd gave np ite colonre and 
arms to the riders of the grey faorsea. In 
a Dutch acconnt of this battle it is stated 
that one regiment of our dragoons took 
sixteen or seventeen colonra and standards. 
It is probable that this regiment was the 
Scots Greys. 

One of the private soldiers of the Scots 
Greys, ivonnded at the battle of Bamilies, 
proved to be a woman. Her name was Mrs. 
Christian Bavies, and her life and adven- 
tnres were afterwards pnhljslied in a small 
octavo Tolnme. She states she was a native 
of Ireland, and that, her hnsband having 
entered the army, she pnt on men's clothes 
and went in qnest of him ; bnt not meeting 
with him, she enlisted in a regiment of foot, 
and in 1702 in the Scots Greys, served in the 
campaign of that and the following year, 
and in 1704 was wounded in the leg at 
Scbellenberg. After the battle of Blen- 
heim, when escorting French prisoners to- 
wards Holland, she met with her husband, 
who was then a private soldier in the First 
Royal Foot She made herself known t» 
Lim, and from this time passed as his 
brother, nntil after the battle of Bamilies, 
where she was wonnded by a shell, and her 
sex discovered by the surgeons. " No soonei 
had they made this discovery," she ob- 
serves in her narrative, "bnt they ac- 
qnainted Brigadier Preston that his pretty 
dragoon (for so I was always called) was a 
woman. The news spread far and near, and 
reaching my Lord John Hay's ears, he 
came to see me, as did my former comrades ; 
and my lord called for my hnsband. He 
gave hua a fnll and satisfactory account of 
onr first acquaintance, marriage, and situa- 
tion, with the manner of his having entered 
the service, and my resolntion to go in 
search of him. My lord seemed very well 
entertained with my history, and ordered 
that my pay should be continned while under 
care. When his lordship heard that I was 
well enough recovered to go abroad, he 
generously sent me a parcel of linen. 
Brigadier Preston made me a present of 
a handsome silk gown ; every one of our 
officers contributed to the furnishing me 
with what was requisite for the dress ot 
my sex, and dismissed me the service with 
a handsome oompUment." 

The Greys had plenty of fighting at the 
French fortified camp of Malplaqnot, in 
1709. They and the Boyal Irish had to 
charge the French household cavalry three 
times, before they would give way. The 
Duke of Marlborough was especiaJIy pleased 

with these bull-dog charges, and personally 
thanked them. The Greys lost about thirty 
officers and men killed and wounded. 

In 1742, George the Second reviewed 
the Scots Greys on Kew Green. " Fine, 
hardy fellows, that want no seasoning," 
says the Champion of June the 24th of 
that year. Theywere all bound to Flanders 
to help towards making up the sixteen 
thousand British troops contributed by 
George to assist the House of Austria 
against the Bavarians, French, and Prus> 
Bians. On the 16th of June, 1748, the 
French crossed the Maine, and attacked us 
at Dettingen. Through a thunderstorm of 
French cannon came volleys of musketry 
and fierce chaises of cavalry. The Greys 
at first merely supported the infantry, 
which George the Second himself led on, 
but, soon eager for more fighting, Lien- 
tenant James Campbell led his grey horses 
against a line of steel-clad cuirassiers, who 
soon broke and fled to the rear of their 
own hues. The Grevs then dashed upon 
the celebrated French household cavalry, 
broke them too, and captured a white stan- 
dard, a trophy that had hitherto never been 
seen in Westminster or Guildhall. George 
the Second, delighted at the overthrow of 
such troops, the flower of the French army, 
at the close of the battle nominated Colonel 
Campbell a Knight of the Bath. The stan- 
dard captured by the Greys was of white 
damask, finely embroidered with gold and 
silver, a thunderlxilt in the middle, upon 
a blue and white ground, and bearing the 
motto, " Sensere gigantes." The Greys 
had fought with such swiftness and spirit 
that only a lieutenant and a few troopers 
were wounded, and four horses killed. 

In 1758, George the Second changed the 
dress of the Boyal North British Dragoons. 
The new coats were scarlet, double- 
breasted, and lined with blue, with slit 
sleeves, tamed up with blue ; buttons of 
white metal, and white worsted aignillettes 
on the right shoulder. The waistcoat and 
breeches were blue, with bine cloth grena- 
dier caps, having on the front the thistle 
within the circle of Saint Andrew, with 
the motto, " Nemo me impuno lacessit." Oa 
the red flaps was the white horse of Hanover, 
vrith the motto, " Ne aspera torrent," over 
it. The hoots were of jerked leather, the 
cloaks scarlet, with bine collars and lin- 
ings. The officers were distinguished by 
silver-lace embroideries, and crimson silk 
sashes, worn across the left shoulder. The 



CkniM DIdant.] 



nis.) 87 

At Waterloo the Greys particolarly dis- 
lingoifihed themselves, carrying off one of 
the special trophies of the battle. 

"When we ffot dear throngh the Higl- 
landere," says James Armour, of Glasgow, 
a roQgh'rider of the Scota Greys, "we 
were soon on the charge, and a short one 
Jtvas. A cross-road being in onr way, we 
loaped the firet hedge gallantly, traversed 
Aeroad, and had to leap over another hedge. 
At this time the smoke from the firing on 
both sides made it bo dark that we conid not 
see digtioctly. We had not charged many 
jardfl till we came to a colnmn. Aa yet 
we bad stnck pretty well together, although 
a great nninb^ had fallen about the cross- 
roads. In a very short time we were down 
upon the ccdnmn, making pret^ clean 
work of them. Numbers bv this time had 
dropped off, still we pnehed forward, and 
veiy soon came npon another oolnms, who 
cried ont ' PriBonersI' threw down their 
anoB, stripped themselves of their belts, in 
accordanco with the French discipline, and 
lao like hares towards the rear. We 
pBshed on still, and soon came up to an- 
other cotnmn, some of whom went down 
on their knees, calling oat 'Qnarter' in 
tones of supplication. Now, then, we got 
among the gnns, which had so terribly an- 
noyed na, and paid back the annoyance in 
alaaghter soch as never before was wit- 
nessed; artillerymen were cot down and 
lan through, horses were hongfaed, hamees 
was cat, and all rendered naeless. Some 
who were good jadges of snch work," adds 
Annonr, by way of parenthesis, " reckoned 
WB had made a very good job of it. I was 
engaged amongst six or seven guns, all 
brus, where almost all the artillerymen 
were cat down, and most, if not all, of the 
horses honghed. While at work amongst 
tliese gnus, no thought hadwebnt that we 
should have nothing to do when we were 
done hut to retrace onr steps. I own I waa 
mnch surprised when wo began to return 
wbenoe we came to behold great numbers 
■rftbe cuiraEsiers and lancers pushing across 
betwixt as and our own forces. They were 
tho first troops of this kind I had ever be- 
held in my life, and now they were forming 
up to cut offourretreat. Nothing daunted, 
we faced them manfully. We had none 
b> command us now. Lieutenant-Colonel 
Hamilton had been killed, and many of the 
officers killed and wounded. But every 
man did what he could. Conquer or die ! 
was the word. When the regiment re- 
turned from this charge the troop to which 
I beloQgod did not master above one or 


two sonnd men, nnwonnded, belonging to 
the front rank. Indeed, the whole troop 
did not muster above a dozen ; there were 
upwards of twenty of the front rank killed, 
and the others wounded." 

Sach was the hot haste of the Greva 
to throw themselves iuto the thick of the 
battle, that one of the Greys, in ro> 
counting to Sheriff Alison, the historian 
of Europe, the story of their charge, states 
he is ajraid that in many instances they 
rode over the Highlandei's, who gallantly 
rctort«d, however, the shout of " Scotland 
fijrever!" and, although occasionally i 
monstrating with the horsemen, in cannie 
Scotch, " I didna think ye wud hae used 
'me sae," clung in most instances to the 
stirrups of the Greys, and were carried 
farther into the fight. 

Laurie, one of the Scota Greys, from 
Ayrebire, had eighteen sword and sabre 
wounds, the greater number of which were 
inflicted by the French after he was on t' 
ground, dismounted. A few days previous 
to the battle he had had accounts of his 
father's death, by which he became pos- 
sessed of twelve thousand pounds. He 
says that he saved his life in the end 
only by calling out in French, as the 
enemy were charging over him, " Oh, 
mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! Hes amis ! mes 
amis!" By whioh contrivance he was 
taken for one of thar own men. Colonel 
Cheney, of the Greys, on whom the co: 
mand of that regiment devolved on t 
18th of June, in conseqnenoe of the death of 
Colonel Hamilton, and the wounds of other 
officers, had five horses killed under him. 
Yet, almost by miracle, he himself escaped 
without a wound. 

The capture of the French eagles is thus 
related by brave Sergeant Ewart himself: 

"The enemy," says the hero, "began 
forming their line of battle aboat nine in 
the. morning of the 18th. We did not 
commence 1^ ten. I think it was about 
eleven when we were ready to receive 
them. They began upon onr right with 
the most tremendous firing that ever was 
heard, and I can assnre you they got it as 
hot aa they gave it. Then it came down to 
the left, where they were received by our 
brave Highlanders. No men could ever 
behave better. Our brigade of cavalry 
covered them. Owing to a oolnmn of 
foreign troops giving way, oar brigade wi 
forced to advance to the support of ot 
brave follows, which we certainly did i 
style. We chained through two of their 
columns, each about five thousand; " 



was in tbe first cbarge I took the engle 
from the enemy ; he and I had a hard con- 
test for it ; he thrual for my groin ; I 
Einied it ofi*, and cnt him throngb the 
ead i aiter which I was attacked by one 
of their lancers, who threw hia lance at 
me, but missed Ms mark, by my throwing 
it off with my sword by my right side. 
Then I cnt nim irom the chin npwards, 
which went throngh hia teeth. Next I 
was attacked by a foot soldier, who, after 
firing at me, charged me with his bayonet, 
but he Tery soon lost the combat, for I 
puried it, and cnt him down through the 
head ; so that finished the contest for tbe 
eagle, after which I proceeded to follow my 
comrades, eagle and all, but was stopped 
by the general saying to me, ' Ton brave 
fellow, teke that to the rear. Yon have 
done enough until yon get quit of it' — 
which I was obliged to do, bat with great 
relnctance. I retired to a height, and 
stood there for upwards of an hoar, which 
gave a general view of the field ; but I 
cannot express the horrors I beheld ; the 
bodies of my bravo comrades were lying 
so thick upon the field that it was scarcely 

feasible to pass, and horses innnmerable- 
took the eagle into Brussels amidst the 
acclamations of thonsands of the spectators 
who saw it." The eagles taken belonged to 
the Forty-fifth and One Hnndred-and- fifth 
regiments, and were superbly gilt and 
ornamented with gold fringe. That of the 
Forty-fifth was inscribed with tbe names 
of Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, Eyiau, 
Friedland, &c., being the battles in which 
this regiment — called the Invincibles — bad 
signalised itself. The other was a present 
&om tbe Kmpress Louise to the One 
Hundred - and - fifth regiment. One was 
much de&ced with blood and dirt, as if it 
had been stm^led for, and the eagle was 
also broken off from the pole, as if from the 
cat of a sabre ; but it was, nevertheless, 
preserved. Tbe eagles taken had only 
been given to the respective regiments at 
the Champ de Uai. On the 1st of June they 
had there glittered over the heads of the 
Parisians amid cries of "Vive I'Erope- 

Viscount Tanderfosse, in a letter to Sir 
John Sinclair, especially praised the Scots 
Greys for their humanity to the French 
prisoners. The royal permission was given 
after Waterloo for the bodge of an eagle to 
he displayed on the gnidons of the Scots 
Greys, and the wori Waterloo on the 

frenadier corps. The brave winner of the 
rench standard. Sergeant Ewart, was re- 
warded in 1816 hy an enaigucy in the 

Third Royal Veteran Battalion. At the 
peace the regiment was reduced to five hun- 
dred and forty-fonr officers and soldiers, and 
three hundred and thirty-three troop horses. 

Never, perhnpg, snys Alison, speaking of 
the .Heavy Brigade at Waterloo, had a 
chaise of an equal body of horse achieved 
greater success ; for besides destroying two 
columns five thousand strong, and taking 
three thousand prisoners, we have the 
authority of the great military historian of 
Napoleon for the fact, that they carried, cut 
the traces, and rendered useless for the 
remainder of the day, no fewer than forty 
pieces of cannon. 

In the battle of Balaklava, the Scots 
Greys displayed, as is well known, a heroism 
against overwhelming numbers worthy of 
old Rome. It will be remembered that 
the object of the stealthy Russian attack on 
the memorablo 25th of October, 1854, was 
to seize our outer line of defence, the camp 
of the Ninety-third Highlanders, as well 
as the Turkish camp, near Kadikoi, begin- 
ning with the work on Canrobert's Hill. 
This Russian surprise began by the ad- 
vance of General Gribb^ at five a.m. The 
vast herd of Rn.<sian cavalry our six hun- 
dred dragoons had to wedge their way 
into, Mr. Kinglake computes as at least two 
thousand. Lord Baglan had ordered Lucan 
to advance, and Lucan had ordered Scar- 
lett, who commanded the Heavy Brigade. 
In the first line rode those old comrades 
and friends, the Inniskillings, with the 
Greys on their left. From desire to ease 
the men, helmet-plumes, shoulder-scales, 
stocks, and gauntlets had been laid aside. 
The four horsemen who led the chai^ 
were General Scarlett, Alexander Elliot, 
his aide-de-camp, behind them the general's 
orderly, Shegog, and a trumpeter. Taking 
advantage of tiie Russian cavaliy halting, 
and eager to strike his blow, Scarlett 
sounded at once the charge, shontiiig, 
"Come on," to the Greys, as with awaveof 
his sword he dashed in among the Rossian 
troopers far ahead of his men. Elliot, cnt- 
tiug down a Russian officer, sprang in 
also, followed by Shegog, and the trnm- 
peter. The Greys, spreading almost into 
single line in their advauoe, were received 
witb a dropping carbine fire, one bullet 
disabling Colonel GrifBth, who commanded 
them. Besides Major Clarke, who led tbe 
first squadron, the officers who charged 
with the Greys were these : Captain Wil- 
liams with the second squadron ; Manlay, 
Hunter, Buchanan, and Sutherland the 
fonr troop leaders of the regiment ; the 
adjutant was Lieutenant Miller ; the serre- 


files were Boyd, Nngent, and Lenox Pren- 
dei^t. " And to these," says Kinglake, 
"Uioogli he did not then hold the Qoeen's 
oommission, add the name of John Wilson, 
now a comet, and the acting adjutant of 
the re^ment, for ho took a leading part 
in Ihe fight." 

Major Clarke, now really the leader of 
tiie light sqnadron of the Greya, lost his 
leor-skio, and ix>de into the Russian ranl.s 
bsfe-licaded. The Scots Greys, says an 
eye-witness, "gave a low eager fierce 
moan," the Inniskillings went in ivith a 
rq'oidng cheer. The Russians, nnable to 
fall back, etrnggled in vain with the 
enemies they had imbedded. In some open 
spaces, says Kinglake, ten or twelve 
Russians would fall out of their ranks, nud 
try to overwhelm two or three Greys or 
Inniskillinga, who seemed lost in the crowd 
of jostling horsemen. Our men hewed and 
sltahed with their swords, and with their 
bridle hands tried to tear the Russians from 
their saddles. In many cases the eworda 
of the Greys rebounded from the thick 
coarse grey coats of the Russian horsemen. 
The Russians nearest the Greys seemed 
teencounter them with distrust and hope- 
JmsDeas, for their assailants were taller and 
reached farther, and seemed contemptn- 
onsly eertain of victory. General Scarlett 
received five slight wounds, and had his 
helmet cloven through. Elliot was pierced 
in the forehead, had his face divided by 
a sbsh, and received a sabre wound in 
the skoJl. He had altogether fourteen 
sabre cuts. Clarke, who led the squadron 
hare-headed, rode delnged with blood from 
a wound in the head, of which he was 
himself long nnconscious. Many of thi 
Greys cut qnit« through the column, an( 
then hewed their way back. In the midst 
of this entangliug straggle the loniskillings 
came plump on the Russians' left front. 
Then the Royal and Fifth Dragoon Guards, 
seeing the Greya lapped in by the enemy's 
right wing, broke in also to their aid. 
Aieiander Miller, the acting adjutant of 
the Greys, famous for his tremendous voice 
roared out of the midst of the melee thi 
words, " Rally — the Greys. Face me.' 
Comet Frendergast also, and Clarke, joined 
m this endeavour. Another charge of 
Hunt's Eqnadron of Inniskillings shook thi 
great crowd of Russians, and soon the 
columns wavered, trembled, shook, and fled. 

In this desperate combat the heavy 
dr£^00U8 lost seventy - eight killed and 
Wounded ; the Russians suffered heavily. 
When Sir Colin Campbell galloped np soon 
after in advance of the Ninety-third High- 

landers, he uncovered to the Greys, and 

Greys ! gallant Greys ! I am sixty-one 
years old, and if I were young again, I 
sbonld be proud to be in yoor nuiks. ' 

A Frencn general officer present declared 
he had never seen anything so glorious as 
the defeat of the enormous nombers of 
Russian cavalry- 

" The Russians," says Mr. Bnssell, when 
describing this gallant affair, " advanced 
down the hill at a slow canter, which 
they changed to a trot, and at last 
merely halted. Their first line was at least 
nearly double the length of onrs — it was 
three times as deep. Behind them was a 
similar line, equally strong and oompact. 
They evidently despised their insignificant- 
looking enemy, but their time was come. 
The trumpets I'ang out again through tlie 
valley, and the Greys and Inniskilliners 
went right at the centre of the Russian 
cavalry. The space between them was 
ily a few hundred yards ; it was scarce 
ongh to let the horses 'gather way,' 
ir had the men quite space sufficient lor 
the full play of their sword-arms. The 
Russian line brings forward each wing as 
our cavalry advance, and threatens to an- 
nihilate them as they pass on. Turning a 
httle to their left, so as to meet .the Rus- 
sian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer 
that thrills every heart. The wild shout 
of the Inniskilliners rises through the air 
at the same instant. As lightning flashes 
through a clond, the Greys and Innis- 
killiners pierced tbrongb the dark masses 
of Russians. The shock was but for a 
moment. There was a clash of steel and a 
light play of sword-blades in the air, and 
then the Greys and the red-coats dis- 
appear in the midst of the broken and 
quivering columns. In another moment 
wo see them emerging and dashing on with 
dimiirished numbers, and broken order, 
against the second line, which is advancing 
agamst them as fast as it can to retrieve the 
fortune of the charge. It was a terrible 
moment. ' God help them ! They are 
lost!' was tho ezclamation of more than 
one man, and the thought of many. With 
unabated fire the noble hearts dashed at 
their enemy. It was a fight of heroes. 
The first line of Russians, which had been 
smashed utterly by our chaise, and liad 
fled off at one flank and towards the centre, 
were coming back to swallow up our handful 
of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage 
Inniskilliner and Scot were winning their 
desperate way right through the enemy's 
squadrons, and already grey horses and red 

90 (iiwsiisij.) 


[Condueted bj 

coats had appeared right at the rear of the 
secoad ma,Bs, when, with irresistible force, 
like one bolt from a bow, the First Royals, 
the Fourth Draeoon G-aards, and the Fifth 
Dragoon Guarcb, mshed at the remnants 
of the first line of the enemy, went throagh 
it aa thoogh it were made of pasteboard, 
and, dafihing on the second body of 
RoBsiaiis aa thej vere still disordered by 
. the terrible assault of the Oreys and their 
companions, pnt them to utter rout. This 
Bossian hcrse, in lees than five miuntes 
after it met our dragoons, was flying; with 
all its speed before a force certainly not 
half its strength," 

Among the Soots Gtotb who were re- 
cipients of the Victoria Cross, we find two 
of the heroes of Balaklava, whose services 
are thna recorded : 

Sergeant-Major John GrieTe, in the heavy 
caTaby charge at Balaklava, saved the Ufe 
of an officer who was surrounded hy Rus- 
sian cavaliy, by his gallant conduct in 
riding up to his rescue and cutting off the 
head of one enemy and disabling and dis- 
persing the others. 

Sergeant Henry Bamage, at the battle 
of Balaklava, galloped out to the assistance 
of private M'Pherson of the same regi- 
ment, on perceiving him snrrounded hy 
seven Russians, and by hia gallantry dis- 
persed the enemy and saved his comrade's 
life. On the same day, when the Heavy 
Brigade was rallying and the enemy retir- 
ing, finding his horse would not leave the 
ranks, ho dismounted, and brought in a 
prisoner from the Russian lines. On the 
same day, when the Heavy Brigade was 
covering the retreat of the light cavalry, he 
lifted from his horse private Gardiner, who 
was disabled from a severe fracture of.the 
leg by a round shot. Sergeant Btunage 
then carried him to the rear from under 
a very heavy cross fire, thereby saving bis 
life, the spot where he must inevitably 
have fallen having been immediately after- 
wards crossed by the Russian cavalry. 

As long as a r^ment can furnish heroes 
like this, who can deny it the right to bear 
on its banners the motto of the Scote 
Greys, " Second to none" P 


Fob one great garden, there are a good 
many little ones ; and for one garden with nu- 
merous greenhouses, there are numbers of 
gardens withnoneatsill. Having no green- 
honae, most an amatenr therefore altogether 
renonnco the culture of plants which re- 

quire more or less of shelter and pecahar 
treatment ? By no means, if I may ven- 
ture to say so. Even if compelled to live 
in a stall which served us for garden, and 
greenhouse, and all, we may cot onr gar- 
ment according to our cloth, that is, may 
suit our plants to onr available acoommodi^ 
tion. Is not the Solanam Psendo-Capsi- 
cum also called Granger des Savetiers, or 
the Cobblers' Orange-tree P Certainly, I 
should like to have orchids, palms, and 
tree-ferns — just aa I should like ten thou- 
sand a year. Not having that, and con- 
sequently not being called upon to choose 
between conflicting systems of flues and 
boilers, I contrive somehow to raise with- 
out them a few choice things, both green 
and gay. 

One day, the postman delivers a small 
parcel from Brittany, which contains a little 
square green turf cut out of the living aod 
on that weather-beaten coast. Inspecting 
the turf, I find its surface mainly composed 
of miniature laurel- leaves, less than an inch 
in length. Great jubilation. The very 
thing I want! I have here the smallest fern 
that has hitherto turned up, Ophioglossnm 
lusitanicum, the Dwarf or Portuguese Ad- 
der's Tongue j which ia no more confined 
to Portugal than the Tunbridge FOm Fem, 
Hymenopbyllnm tunbridgense, ia to Tun- 
bridge Wells. A smaller, O. minimum, is 
reported from New Zealand ; but we may 
safely consider it as merely a dwarf race 
of a species naturally diminutive — as tho 
Shetland pony of the Adder's Tongues. 

An earthen pan, madeof flower-pot clay, 
two and a half inches deep and eightinches 
in diameter, is tho parterre in which my 
specimen ia planted, surrounding it with 
congenial earth, and leaving the turf intact 
and entire. The friend who found aud 
sends it, writes, " Febmary 20, I dug the 
Ophiogloasum with my knife out of a turfy 
heath, as you may see, and send it in the 
state I found it. Tou must toko good 
care not to distnrbit, bnt tolcave it eiaclly 
aait is, giving theusnal cultural attentions 
and planting it in heath-mould if you can 
get it. In a fi>rtnigbt or a month, it will 
disappear. But don't be alarmed; in 
October it will come up again, and pro- 
duce its fruit — the little mock adaer's 
tongues which give the plant its name— i" 
November or December, Tou will doubt- 
less be able to keep it alive for two or 
three years. When you lose it I will send 
you more. During summer, the Oph'"- 
glossnm will be replaced by a darling I't*'" 
plant, Trichonema colnmna, whoso linear 
leaves have already sprouted from the turf. 



PUtm.«ji.i 91 

The Dwarf Adder's Tongue is a BritiBh 
mbject, Bolely throngli its cerliScato of 
hirth in Gnemsej. It probably might be 
feuid in the west of Engl&nd and in Ireland, 
if botaniatB would bat time their trips be- 
tween the months of October and March. 
This and the Common Adder's Tongna dis- 
riay the pecidiarity of having their yonng 
aohA folded straight, or doubled in two, 
inttead of being rolled round like a bisbop' 
orooer, aa in other ferns. 

In Brittany, this pigmy grows sometimes 
on the stony seaside hillocks which are 
formed at the baas of schistons cliffs, mixed 
np with grasses, the Ternal squill, and Ixia 
bolbicodinm ; sometimeB on sandy heathn, 
where it otlen attains the enormous di- 
menaionB of fonr inches high. These 
iuHocks are dry in sununer (when the plant 
dissppean to take its repose) ; but in 
winter, incessant rain, or nearly so, mnst 
render those slopes exceedingly wet. We 
Dtty therefore presnme that abundant 
mtrature will belp it to prosper in captivity. 
Bntsome of tiiese little fellows are better 
tempered than ve might expect, and put 
np with occasional neglect without resent- 
ii>K it by committing suicide. 

Nerertheless, it cannot stand fWjst, 
which infallibly kills it. This year, fiwm 
wme unknown cause, it ha^ not been 
liberal with its fimctification ; but being a 
pmnniul, we hope it will make up for it 
this time twetremonth. Its Breton as- 
Mcdate, a charming little Irid, the aforesaid 
Trichonema colamna, is one of the daintiest 
spring plants possible — not a show thing ; 
Wnt forcing itself upon yonr notice, either 
I7 iteown pretentiousness or through the in- 
lervention of an exhibiting gardener. Like 
En, it is one of those modest beauties 

Tlxl sanld be wooed, ukd oat aniau|rht be *od, 

Bot obnou, wit obtruin, but, ntind, 

Tfas mors d««inble. 

Kor does it gratify the eyesight only. 
TheBreton children seek it out through a 
1«B ideal and more childish motive. They 
at its bnlbs, which are by no means bad. 

Amongst these wild gatherings from the 
diff and the rock, there will often spring 
op plants with a historical, almost a ro- 
nantic interest. What boy who has re- 
Teljed in the perusal of Cook's voyages 
doea not remember Scurvy-grass ? Amidst 
collected ferns a true scurvy-grass, Coch- 
Wia, has sprouted with me from nnsns- 
pected seed, and I fondly watch the de- 
Telopment of its peltate leaves, " round as 
my shield." The substitute for acarvy- 
gwss which Cook employed, at Porster's 
foeommendation, to cure his scorbatic 

Bailors, was probably Lepidium pisci- 
dinm, a native of madreporic islands. 
Another Lepidium, L. oleraceum, grows o: 
the sands of Hew Zealand, where it re- 
places the water-crees. Cook's plant, with 
little donbt, may be referred to this same 
genus. Our common garden cress is also 
a Lepidium, and we may remember that 
Sir Edward Parry, during his Arctic ex- 
plorations, grew it on the flnesof his cabin, 
as one of tho best specifics for his invalid 
sailors — probably the most northerly point 
at which horticulture has ever been prao- 

If any apology were needed for the 
mention of these homely and unpretending 
herbs, I would simply qnote Sir Thomas 
Uore : " For me, there is manie a plant 
I entertayn in my garden and paddock 
which the fastidious would cast forthe. 
like to teache my children the uses 
common things — to know, for instance, the 
uses of the flowers and weeds that grow 
in our fields and hedges. Uanie a poor 
knave's pottage wonlde be improved, if be 
were skilled in the properties of the Bur- 
dock and Purple Orchis. The roots of 
wild Succory and Water Arrow-head 
migbte agreeablie change his Leaten diet, 
and Glass-wort afford him a pickle for his 
monthfol of salt-meat. Then, thero aro 
Cresses and Wood-sorrel to his broakfest, 

id Salep for his hot evening mess. How- 
beit, I am a schoolboy pitting in presence 
of his master, for here is John Clement at 
my elbow, who is the best botanist and 
herbalist of us all." 

desideratum, namely Eriscanlon 
aeptangnlare, has not in this way played 
jack-in-tbe-boz, starting up when least ex- 
pected, and I begin to fear never will. It 
is some consolation to know that I am no 
poorer than not a few grand Botanic 
Gardens. Once upon a time it grew at 
Killarney, but the assiduities of collectors 
may have ex terminated it. Why they 
should so mtblcsfily have hunted it down 

incomprehensible, unless for its rarity. 

is a poor, pany, paltry-looking plant, to 
which few amateurs would give garden or 
I room. Its interest is purely botaui- 
becaase it represents, all by itself, 
without a single near relation, a &mi1y 
•hich is nninerons and abundant in 
America, and especially in Australia. One 
would like to see, in a living state, a little 
bit of a plant, which, even in a dried and 
mnmmified condition, has its value as an 
aid to reflection. Why should it linger 
here, like the last rose of summer, quite 
alone, while all the rest of its botanical 



companions are long since emigrated and 

Who does not admire the forced Mosa- 
rose, potted in antamn, kept Bnug all 
tvintcr, and warmed into flowering in April 
or May ? How delicately tender the green 
of its leaves ! How sweet the odonr, how 
perfect the form of ita expanding bloom ! 
There has been no worm i' the bud (unless 
with the gardener's connivance and com- 
plicity) to feed on its damask cheek. Its 
very thorns tempt you to bo pricked by 

There are ferns, as hardy ont-doora as 
the moss-rose, which well repay a similar 
sheltered and stimulant treatment. Take 
one, a Korth American stnuiger, Onoclea 
sensibilis, arrived in 1699 — long enongh to 
make itself at home — and its beanty will 
indnco yoa to experiment with more. 
Naturally forward and precociona, it wil- 
lingly yields to yonr kind persuasion. The 
form of its fronds is strange and original ; 
their hne is at the same time bright and 
tender, and the veins are traced by a 
shining satin-thrcad, which ia sadly dimmed 
by exposure to weather. These charming 
fronds are decidnous ; and, like the wise 
and wealthy man, rising early, they retire 
early to rest, Bnt when the plant has 
completed its decorative duties in-doors, 
yon can tnm it oat (in the shade) in the 
open ground, and it will be the better 
rather than the worse for the change. 
What may sound strange, it is a roving 
plant, not making a perennial, stationary 
crown (like the Hate Fern and so many 
others), bat constantly creeping about and 
ehiftiug its place, sometimes appearing 
where you least expect it. Supposing it 
advance three inches a year, how many 
years wonld it take to get from America t<} 
Europe, if it could find a North-East 

There was a capital leader in the Gar- 
dener's Chronicle of January the 26th, 
aboat the roots of plants liking " to feel 
the pot," The horticultarist is generally 
satisfied as to tho future of a plant — or at 
least for some tinie to come — when assured 
that tho roots have reached the sides of the 
pot. If this should be the case with any 
" miffy" or troublesome grower, the a 
tenance of the cultivator gives un 
takable proof of the value ho attaches to 
soch a condition. The Onoclea's propensity 
to feeling the pot amounts to a passion ; it 
lays hold of it, bags it, overlaps it, as if it 
feared the pot should escape from its 
brace. Nor is it alone in this curious 
bahit : the Haresfoot and Maidenhair ferns 

do tho same. Why the Onoclea should be 
called sensibilis, I have yet to learn. In- 
qnirinfj once of a high authority, the high 
thority not daring to confess, " Wo do 
it know," replied that its fronds, when 
oat, withered with sensitive rapidity. I 
am nnable, however, after growing it 
several years, to discover that it is at all 
more sensitive, in that or any other respect, 
than other members of its order. 

Stmthioptcris germanica makes quite a 
grand plant, either for the pot or the open 
ground. Its title means the German 
Ostrich-plume Fern, because its fronds, in 
their development, tako the form of such 
plumes in different degrees of drooping 
and erectness ; only, instead of composing 
a flat bunch or bouquet, like the Prince of 
Wales's traditional feathers, they make, 
when completely opened, an elegant greea 
vase, of imposing dimensions in old-esta- 
bliahcd plants, and exceedingly pretty in 
even qnite young ones. These are the 
sterile fronds ; that is, those which bear 
no spores. Later in the season, tJie fertile 
or spore-bearing, stiff, stalky fronds start 
np from the middle of the vase, soon after 
which the others lose their freshness and 
begin to decay, the plant being strictly 

The Struthiopteris may bo highly re- 
commended to all who have not yet made 
its acquaintance. It is a perennial of the 
easiest culture, requiring only sufficient 
pot-room, regular watering, and shade. It 
does not itself wander about, like the 
Onoclea; but it sends forth its progeny to 
seek their fortunes, at the extremities of 
tough underground roots or suckers, in the 
most extraordinary manner, regardless, in 
pure wantonness and defiance, of whatever 
it may meet in its way. Sometimes it will 
direct its course right through a tuft of 
another species of fern. In a pot, in its 
strU{^les to got away, it will throw out tho 
earth, like a mole, ia early Bpriug. The 
less the mother plant wastes her strength 
in this curious production of runners year 
after year, the more stately and magni- 
ficent she becomes. But it is uot easy to 
prevent her doing so, if she has taken to 
tho habit. Advance two feet per annum, 
in how many centuries, or geological epochs, 
will the German. Ostrich-plume Fern, start- 
ing from Berlin, accomplish ita invasion of 
the Bois de Boulogne ? 

Stm-thi-op-te-ris Germanica 1 Lovers 
of graceful form, please copy. Hard names 
are to be avoided when it is possible ; when 
it is not, we must make a virtue of ncces- 
sitv. and train our months to 



fbe polysyllables as smoothly as teeth and' 
tongno Tvill permit. But ia strnthiop tenia 
more difficult than chryeantheranm, which 
lias long since been a household word ? 
For those who know Greek, the latter is a 
golden flower; for thoao who do not, also 
a white, crimson, or pink one ; bat no one 
forgets ohrysanthemnm, even if he cnrtails 
it into zantbnm. Besides, allowance may 
be claimed for domestic Latin and Greek, 
when we see advertised, in staring ca- 

Stals, snch things as a new Campannia 
edinm — not the only campanula assailed 
by bad lango^e. Invited by a lady to go 
and see her Pirramy Doll (althongh still 
young, she was past her doll-hood), I 
obeyed, to have my cnriosity satisfied by a 
well-grown plant of Campanala pyrami- 
dalis. Others will talk of their Japonicas, 
as if the only japonicas were camellias. 
Bat soar critics win only carp at this. IJet 
him who never wrote dog-latin, or nttered 
a felse quantity, find the first fenlt. With 
tbe ever-increasing hosts of plants, it is 
impoGsibletoBticktotheTemacnlar. Crack- 
jaw names mnat not complain if they snfier 
in return an occasional fractnre. 

Here fesHonable, and better known in 
Wardian cases on drawing-room tables, is 
fbe Tnnbridge Kim Fern, Hymenophyllnm 
tonbridgense. I keep it under a bell-glass, 
(sold for covering wieese), looking like a 
patch of green seaweed growing in air. 
It is, in reality, an amphibious plant ; 
and an extra-moiet atmospbero being in- 
dispensable to its health, that of living- 
rooms is, of course, too dry. We can 
bence understand that the Tnnbridge Film 
Fern is certainly a difficult plant to retain ; 
bnt the difficnlty, perhaps, b ez^gerated. 
When it is apparently dead, we should 
not be in too great a hurry to complete its 
interment. fifonths after its supposed 
decease, if kept in favourable conditions 
(in a warm moist atmosphere under a bell- 
glass), it will slyly renew its filmy fronds. 
This proves a certain tenacity of life ; for in 
Brittany, where it Inznriates, it is accus- 
tomed to soils and sites constantly safn- 
ratcd with ever-renewed, not stagnant, 
moisture. Its fronds frequently even serve 
as conduits to the water which drips down 
the face of rocks. 

The above-mentioned are ferns in their 
normal and natoral state; bat many of 
them put on whimsical disguises under 
which their best friends would hardly re- 
c<^ise them. The change is often magical. 
Thus, the Lady Fern transforms herself 
into a tuft oE curled parsley (Atyrium 
Filix fajmioa, var. crispnm), or a bunch of 

green feathers (plnmosnm), or a knotted 
eat^o'-nine- tails (Frizellite). I have one of 
the which now and then throws off the 
mask by producing tmo Lady Fern fronds, 
partially or wholly. All these merit a hearty 
welcome as pets. Under kind and judicious 
treatment, the older they grow the more 
beautiful and attractive they become. They 
are ably catalogued by Mr. Robert Sim, of 
Foot's Cray, Kent, a skilful cultivator of their 
tribe, and the portraits of the most rcmai-k- 
ablo are given in Moore's Nature-printed 
British Ferns. 

But note; The varieties described in 
such catalogues are not, as some may sup- 
pose, proofs of the power of what Art can 
do, even in so natural a &mi1y as Ferns. 
Art, I believe has done nothing in origi- 
nating, or, as the French would say, 
creating, those varieties. Their pretended 
origin from hybridisation may be regarded 
at least as questionable. They have been 
found wild (many of them have been named 
after their finder — Polysticbum angulare 
vor. Kitsonie was found at Torquay by 
Miss Kitson, in 1856), or have accidentally 
and unaccountably appeared in cultivated 
ferneries. All that art, that is, horticultural 
skill, has done, is to search for, nurse, and 
propagate them, mostly by division of the 
crown or the rhizoma; but it is curious 
that not a few of them come true to their 
variety (not their species) from spores, 
provingthetendency of oi^anic peculiarities 
to be hereditarily transmitted. There are 
nnrserymon, both at home and abroad, who 
are especially Buccessfhl in multiplying 
fern varieties in this way. And they are 
an important item in horticultural com- 
merce. Striking forms are so much the 
fashion and so much sought afler, that the 
discovery of any new and original variation 
from the specific type, will obtain an ofier 
of money for it, or — which is the same — 
of plants in exchange. About a thousand 
species of foreign ferns are grown in the 
various gardens of this country. These 
may be regarded as about one-third of all 
the species known to botanists. Now, in 
all ^ese three thousand species, and 
throughout the wide world, only three truly 
annual ferns are known ; and I have the 
one of them, which claims to be Uritish, 
by territorial rather than geographical 
right. It might easily however become 
naturalised and obtain a settlement in the 
course of time. All three are curious in 
their ways. 

One, Ceratopteris thaliotroides, besides 
being annual, is also the only individual of 
its order really entitled to bo called a water 

94 ii&r»*.i87»j 


(Couliietad b; 

fern. Severnl species, as Lastrea The- 
Ijpteris, the Female Bncklcr Fern, and 
Osmnnda regalis, the Rojal or Flowering 
Fern, though natives of the marsh, will 
grow and even flonrish in places that may 
be called dry. Bat the Ceratopteris, 
widely dispersed Uirooghoat the tropics, 
always grows in wet, often flooded, spota. 
Its sterile, viviparous fronds float on or 
below the snrface of the water, as may be 
eeea in the Victoria tanks at Kew. Bnt, 
being annnal, to keep it, care must be taken 
to preserve its spores. In spring, they 
shonld be sown in a shallow pan of loamy 
soil made wet like mnd, and kept in that 
state. When the plants are of sufficient 
size, the pan may cither be filled with 
water, or be plunged in a tank to the depth 
of an inch. But in spite of its attmcUve 
singnlarity, the hot-honse caltare required 
to make it prosper prevents its becoming 
everybody's fern. 

The other two annnals are Gymnogram' 
mas. One of them, Q. chcerophylla, also a 
hothouse plant, with delicate fronds from 
two to six inches long, grows freely enough. 
Its spores vegetate abondant^, often as a 
hothouse weed. The other, G. leptophylla, 
the Small' leaved Gynmogram, of the same 
diminutive statnre which I possess, or 
oagbt to — for at this moment it is still 
in its invisible state — is more chary of its 
presence. Nevertheless, it can be coaxed 
into showing itself, when the proper time 
arrives for it to appear. 

Had Sir Thomas Browne cnlttrated this 
pretty little plant, it would have removed 
some of hig botanical doubts: "Whether 
all plants have seed, were more easily deter- 
minable, if we conld conclude oonceming 
hartstongue, fern, the capillaries, lunaria, 
and some others. But whether those little 
dosty particles, upon the lower side of the 
leaves, be seeds and seminal parts; or 
rather, as it is commonly conceived, excre- 
mental separations; we have not as yet 
been able to determine by any germination 
or univocal production from them when 
they have been sowed on purpose; bnt 
having sei the roots of hartstongue in a 
garden, a year or two afW, there came np 
three or four of the same plants, about two 
yards disliiuce tram the first. Thus much 
we observe, that they seem to renew yearly, 
and come not fiilly out till the plant be in 
its vigour; and by the help of magnifying 
glasses, we And these dnsty atoms to be 
round at flrst, and fally representing seeds, 
out of which at hut proceeds little mites 
almost invisible; so that such as are old 
stand onen. as beinir emotied of some bodies 

formerly inclnded ; which, though dis- 
cernible ia haiistongne, in more noto- 
riously discoverable in some diflerences of 
brake or fern." 

There is no way fas propagate this fern 
except by seed- Mr. John Smith, ex- 
curator of the E!ew Botanic Gardens, ad- 
vises that when its fronds decay in 
autumn, the pot shonld be covered with 
a piece of glass, and pat in a diy place 
until the proper season arrives in spring, 
when the application of moisture will cause 
the latent spores to vegetate. The annual 
Gymnogramma (sometimes called Qram- 
mitis) ordinarily makes its appearance in 
early spring. It likes a shady spot, but, 
at the same time, a warm aspect, then snc- 
ceoding with very little care and becoming 
almost a weed in congenial situations. It 
is admitted as British, because it thrives in 
Jersey, where any light sandy soil seems 
to suit it. Mr. Ward presented Mr. Moore 
with a portion richly furnished with spoi'cs. 
Scattered on the wirfaoe of a flower-pot 
filled with sandy loam, this earth yielded an 
abundant crop of plants. 

But the earth in which any favonrite 
ferns have grown, or which has accom- 
panied them when received, shonld always 
be scrnpnloasly preserved; becaaae there 
are always hopes that it will prodnce fresb 
plants. The spores of ferns often take 
several years to germinate, and we should 
never despair of their showing themselves, 
if we only give them a fiur chance of 
doing so. 

The fact is a valnable hint for Mr. Cook's 
next party round iho world. Set foot on 
any lit tie- trodden land, grasp a single 
handful of earth, and you know not what 
yon may bring away with yon — a rongh 
diamond, a fossil Kme of an early pro- 
genitor, proofs of inexhaustible alluvial fer- 
tility, specks of gold suggestive of nuggets 
close by, traces of coal-fields to enrich 
future colonies, or unseen spores of some 
beautiful fern which, after lining the 
pocket of the lucky nurseryman .in whose 
establishment it " original^" descends in 
price till it is obtainable by humble ad- 
mirers like the present writer. 



Two or three notices, which, Mr. Jarl- 
oot said, would not coat five pounds, wer6 
served on behalf of Mr. S^i-ston, and, 
with these, the &int echo of hia thonders 


Eobsided. There was, in fact, no material 
for litigation. 

"The notioea," Mr. Jarlcot said, " came 
from Marshall and Wbitaker, the solicitors 
who had years before anbmitted the cases 
tor him, npon his nncle's title, and npoa 
the qaestion of hie own position as neai«st 
of kin and heir-at-law. He was verj care- 
Mj advised ae to bow exactly he shonid 
Eland in the event of his nnde'e dying in- 

I was stnnned whea I heard of my enor- 
mona fortune, invtdving, as it did, his ruin. 
I wonld at once have taken meaBnres to 
deal as f^neroasly with him as the other 
nil], of which I then knew no more than 
tbat Sir Harry muGt have contemplated, 
at (toe timp, the possibility at least of eign- 

When I left Golden Friara I did so with 
an nnidtersble resolation never to see 
Bicbard Marston again. But this 
compatible witb the Bpirit of my intention 
to provide more snitably for him. 1 took 
Mr. Blonnt into oonneil ; but I was disap- 
pointed. The win had been made daring 
my tather'a lifetime, ^d in evident' appre- 
boision of his inSoaoce over me, and de- 
prived me of the power of making any 
charge npon the property, whetlier Iwid or 
money. I conld do nothing bnt make 
him a yearly present of a part of my 
income, aad even that was embarrassed 
by many ingeniona conditions and 

It was aboat this time that a tetter 
reached me from Bidiard Maraton, the most 
Hzttaordinary docnment I bad ever read ; 
a mad letter in parts, and wicked ; a letter, 
also, full of penitence and self- upbraiding. 
" I am a fiend. I have been all cmelty and 
falsehood, you all mercy and trnth," it said. 
" I have heard of your noble wishes ; I 
know how vain they arc. Yon can do no- 
thing that I would accept. I am well 
enough. Think no more of the wretch, 
have found, too Ute, I cannot live without 
jou. Ton shall hear of me no mo 
ioT^ye me." 

There are parts of this strange letter 
that I never nnderstood, that may bear 
many interpretations. 

Wben Mr. Blonnt spoke of him he never 
gave me his condnsions, and it was always 
in the sad form, " let us hope ;" he nevei 
said exactly what be suspected. Hr. Jarl- 
cot plainly had but one opinion of him, 
and chat the worst. 

I agreed, I think, with neither. I re- 
lied on instinct, which no one can analyse 
or define; the wild inspiration of nature 

Gaddest, and often the truest guide. 
Let me not condemn, then, lest I be con- 

The good here are not without wicked- 
ea, nor the wicked without good. With 
death begins the pniifying. Each charac- 
ter will be sifted as wheat. The eternal 
jndge will reduce each, by the irresistible 
chemistry of his power and truth, to its 
basis, £jr neither hell nor heaven can re- 
ive a mixed character. 
I did hear of Richard Marston again 
ice more ; it was about five months later, 
when the news of bis death by fever, at 
Marseilles, reached Ur. Blonnt. 

Since then my life hae b^en a retrospect. 
Two years I passed in India with my be- 
loved friend Laora. But my melancholy 
grew deeper ; the shadows lengthened ; 
and an irrepressiblB yearning to revisit 
Golden Friars and Malory seised me. I 
retomed to England. 

I am posBeased of fortnce. I thank God 
for its immunities ; 1 well know how great 
they are. For its pleasures, I have long 
ceased to care. To the poor, I try to make 
it useful ; and I am quite oonsdous that 
in this there is no merit. I have no plea- 
sure in money. I think I have none in 
flattery. I need deny myself notbing, and 
yet be in the ^es of those who measure 
charity arithmetically a princely Christian 
benefactress. I wish I were quite sure of 
having ever givffli a cup of cold water in 
the spirit that my Maker commends. 

A few weeks after my return, Mr. Blount 
showed me a letter. The signature startled 
me. It was from Monsieur Droqville, and 
a very short one. It was dueflv npon some 
trifling business, and it said, near the 

" Ton sometimee see Miss Ware, I be- 
lieve; she will be sorry to hear that her 
old Mend, Mr. Carmel, died last summer 
at his missionary post in South America. 
A truer soldier oif Christ never fell in the 
field of his labours. Beqniesoat !" 

There was a tremble at my heart, and a 
swelling. I held the sentence before my 
eyes till th^ fiUed with tears. 

My faithful, noble friend! At tny side 
in every trouble. The one of all mortals 
I have met who strove with his whole 
heart to win me, according to his lights, to 
God. May He receive and for ever bless 
you for it, patient, gentle Edwin Carmel. 
His griefs are over. To me there seems 
an angelic light aronnd him ; the pale en- 
thusiast in the robe of bia purity stands 
saint-like before me. I remember all your 
tender care. I better understand, too, the 



wide difierences tbat Beparata ns, 
than in my careless girlhood ; bat these do 
not dismay me. I know that " in my 
father's honse are many mansions," and I 
hope that when the clonds that darken 
this life are paEsed, I may yet meet and 
thank and bless yon, my noble-hearted 
friend, where, in one love and Ugbt^ the 
redeemed eheH walk for evermore, 

At Golden Friars I lived again for a 
abort time. Bnttbe associationB of Dom- 
clengh were too new and harrowing. I 
left that place to the care of good Mr. 
Blonnt, who loves it better than any other. 
He pays mo two or three visits every year 
at Malory, and advisee me in all matters 
ofbosiness. . 

I do not affect the airs of an ancborita. 
Bat my life is, most people would thbik, 
intolerably monotonons and lonely. To 
me it is not only endnrable, bnt the sweetest 
that, in my peculiar state of mind, I conld 
have chosen. 

With the flight of my years, and the 
slow approach of the honr when dnst will 
retnm to dust, the love of solitnde steals 
on me, and no regrets for the days I have 
lost, as my friends insist, and no yearnings 
for a retom to an insincwe and tawdry 
world, have ever tronbled me. In girl- 
hood I contracted my love of this simply 
raral soUtade, and my premature expe- 
rience of all that is disappointing and de- 
plorable in life confirms it. Bat the spell 
of ite power is in its recollections. It is a 
place, unlike Dorraclengb, sanny and cbeer- 
fal, as well as beautiful, and this tones (he 
melancholy of its visions, and prevents 
their sadness from becoming overpower- 

I wonder how many people are living, 
like me, altogether in the past, and in 
' I with 

visionary i 


Bichard Marston, does a waking honr 
ever pass withont, at some moment, re- 
calling your image? I do not mistake 
yon i I have used no meafinred langpoage 
in describing yon, I know yon for the 
evil, &8cinating, ret^Iess man you were. 

Such a man as, had I never seen yon, and 
only known the snm of his character, I 
ought to havo hated. A man who, being 
such aa he was, meditated against me a 
measarelesB wrong. I look into my heart, 
is there vengeance there against yon? Is 
there judgment? Is there even aliena- 

Oh ! how. is it that reason, justice, 
virtue, all cannot move yon from a secret 
place in my inmost heart ? Can any man 
who has once been an idol, snch as yoa 
were, over perish utterly in that myste- 
rious shrine — a woman's heart ? In soli- 
tary hoars, as I, unseen, look along the sea, 
my cheeks are wet with tears; in the 
wide silence of the night my londy sobs 
are heard. Is my grief for you mere mad- 
□esB ? Why is it Uiat man so differs from 
man ? Why does he often so diifer fr«m 
the nobler creature he might have been, 
and sometimes almost was ? Over an image 
partly dreamed and partly real, shivered 
utterly, but still in memory visible, I pour 
ont the vainest of all sorrows. 

In the wonderfiil woricing that subdues 
all things to itself — in all the changes of 

Kirit, or the spaces of eternity, is tbere^ 
all there never be, from the first Suture, 
evolved the nobler thing that might have 
been ? I care for no other. I can love no 
other ; and were I to live and keep my 
yoath through eternity, I think I never 
conld be interested Or won again. Soli- 
tude has become dear to me, because he is 
in it. Am I giving this infinite true love 
in vain ? I comfort myself with one vague 
hope. I cannot thiuK that natnre is so 
cynical. Does the loved phantom repre- 
sent nothing? And is the fidelity that 
natnre claims, but an infatnation and a 


Kov Madf, price 6*. Sd., bound in gnen cloth, 


To be bad of kU Boolnellsn. 

2%e S^Ai ofTraMlttting Atiiclet/rim An the YsiB Rodsd i* ruened bg the Jxtiori. 

FablUhed at Ue OOii^ tt, WelUngtoB St., Stniid. PrtnieS bj C. Wsmics, Sennron UonM, Dnk* Si. UdcqIb'i inB Fl 

SATURDAY, MAY 31, 1873. 



This iraa Reuben Heck, Uie shepberd, 
txnnmoalj called Reabe, a tall, ungainly, 
gip^-IookiDg man, with a hooked noBe, 
hawk's eree, and a thick frUl of iron-gr^ 
beard biding the lower part of his tanned, 
ireotfaer-battered face. He was ronnd- 
shonldered, and slonched as he moved, his 
kneee mnch bent, and hie enormous feet 
tamed ont quite in excess eren of the 
&;Aion prescribed by dandng-masters. In 
onr district Reub^was known on this ao- 
connt aa a " deaw-Jiitter," or dew-beater, 
it being alleged of bim that hia extended 
toea bmshed the dew off tho grass inordi- 
nately as he went along. 

With a heavy, labonriog, clumping tread 
Benbe entered the kitchen. He was nn> 
derstood to be an admirer of Kern's; in- 
deed, the general opinion went that the 
twain had been " keeping company" for 
many yearn. It bad never seemed to me, 
howerer, that they were on pardcnlarly 
tender terms with each other, or that their 
ooortship made any kind of progress. 
Kem was usually' very sharp and abmpt 
in ber manner of addressing him, although 
■he may thus have been applying Tin^ar, 
as a certain Carthaginian general is said 
to have done before her, for its softening 
properties. Benbe appeared to be usually 
either in a grinning mood— in which case 
he waa speechless — or in a state of intense 
gloom and repining, when his observations 
were engrossed by his troubles and re- 
Gponaibilitiea as a shepherd, and he conid 
ooly talk about tbe lambs and ewes (to be 
pronounced " yoes") andsr his care, espe- 
cially in relation to tbe flocks of a rival 

herdsman, one Oarge, employed on an ad- 
joining {&tm. Between Beabe and Garge 
there existed the bitterest antagonism and 
enmity, arising from the more or less " for- 
rard" condition of their fleecy charges. 
To think that Buchinnocentcroatnres should 
. be the direful spring of so mnch wrath and 
malevolence ! I don't remember ever hav- 
ing seen Benbe perfectly content and at 
ease but once; it was when Qarge'a sheep 
were suflering most severely &om foot-rot, 

Benbe's speech possessed, to quite an in* 
fectiouB ertent, the characteristics of our 
country dialect. Conversing with him, 
one caught, as of necessity, soniething of 
his drawl and twang, and took up with 
his queer words and curious phrases. It 
was so with me, I know ; and I observed 
that £em adopted a mnch broader and 
more provinci^ laoga^^ when she ad< 
dressed Reuben than she usually employed 
in speaking to myself or to others. But 
perhaps this may be a sort of involuntary 
compliment commonly paid to those nttor> 
ing speech of peculiar quality. I have 
certainly known many of my compatriots 
talk broken Gnghsh to a foreigner indif- 
ferently acquainted with oar tongue, by 
way of meeting him half-way, and deaceud- 
ing to his inferior level of information. 

Benbe spoke in a gruff tone, swaying 
his head &om side to side aa though he 
were jerking his words out, giving them a 
final shake with his teeth before dropping 
them, like a terrier disposing of a rat. 
This had the effect of adding a redundant 
syllable to many of the words he nttereil. 
"Terrible" thus became " terri - able," 
" surely" " shu-er-ly," and so on. 

" There," said Rcnbe, " I be most aveard 
to look measter i' tho face ; the lamh<) be 
doing that terrible bad, I be all i' a mu^le. 
The weather bloomy too, and no &ult to 


98 £M.y 

U 1W3.] 


find with narra one. I dnnno how 'tis. 
Another of they chilver iamba gona defti 
As nice aod Bprack a looking lamb ash«art 
conld wish. Things has got in a caddlin^ 
way aomchows. And that Garge'll go 
grinaing and gnping about, and Eaying as 
'tis my Tanlt. Never had soch bad Inck 
with ^sheepavore— never. Cusnation !" 
(Tliis expletive, of obacnre origin, was a 
fevoorit* of Renbe's). " 'Tis amoast enow 
to break a mnn'a hairt. I be aveard bow 
to go anighat the void, leEt I shonld 
see anither stark Iamb. 'Tis main hard 
npon a man — bo 'tis. I be right down 
mammered (bewildered), that's what I be." 

" Coom, Renbe," interjected Kem, piti- 
fnlly, "hev a dubbin o' drenk" (mng of 

" Benbe," I said, to tnm hia thongbte 
from, his professional grieranceB, and to ob- 
tain coofirnoation of my story, " didat see 
Ziord Overbnry yeat«migbt ?" 

" I see an vast enow," replied Beabe, 
bis voice rambling in bis mug. " He was 
cootning along London toad — from Drip- 
ford moaet like, whwe tho coach stops. I 
conldu't think who 'twoa at virat; yet I 
knowed an. by sight, thoagh I conldn't call 
an by's neame." He Bet down his >nng 
empty, nibbing the back of bia red-brown 
huid over his lips. 

" Toa'd Boen an bevore, Benbe f " 

"Ay, times, Measter Duke. Yet I 
conldn't, directly>minnte, get it into my 
yead who 'twas. There; I had the lamlta 
on my moind, and was thinking abont a 
hep o' things. Bnt I come npon nim close 
anont the vinrt milestone oat o' Parring- 

" How was he dressed ?" 

" There ; I dnnno as I took pnrtickler 
notice, Meaeter Doke. Bnt a' had a vrill 
to's shirt, and a brooch or znmmat stuck 
in's craw (breast). 'Well, shepherd,' a' 
aays — and then I knowed an. 'Twaa his 
lordahip, snre as snre. ' Whose sheep be 
theeanm ?' a' says — for 'twas anigbst the 
void. * MeastCT Orme's,' I aays, and I made 
my obedience to nn ; bnt I conldn't think 
to call an ' my lord,' as I ahoald ha' done, 
he'd come npon me so andden-qnick. ' A 
vine vlock, shepherd,' a' says. ' Ees,' I 
aays, for it weren't for I to be fcellun nn 
how poor they'd been doing. 'And are 
those the chilvers oat yonder p' a' axes. 
'Ees,' 1 says. 'Bide where you ore,' a' 
says, and a' nps and looks at 'em. And 
then he gie I half a crown, ' t« git drank 
with,' a' says, and then he langhs and shnts 
his eye, and looks at I agun. I was 

certadn snre it was bis lordship arter that. 
Twas jist his way I'd seen times aviwe." 

" Now, Km, yon see," I aaid to her. 

" And af went to the great hgnaa P" abe 
inquired of Rentw. 

" A' did. Leastways I see na go tfaitber- 
warda. 'Twasn't fit I should follow on, so 
when a'd done talking I hiked off. Bnt I 
asod old Thacker, this morning, and a' 
says bis lord^p caiae there last ni^t. 
Bat wbai vnv, or how long to atay, a' conldn't 
tell me. 'Tis main drouthy talking," 6b- 
Eerved Beabe in conclusion. 

Kem supplied him with some more beer. 
He was regaled also with what be called a 
"crim," meaning a crumb, of bread^Mid- 

" Isn't Lord Overbnry a bad man, 
Benbe F" I asked preseatly. "Ha-ven't 
you heard tell so ?" 

"Surely," he answered. "But it isn't 
for I to be saying so. He gie I half a 
crown. I wish there was a many such bad 
men aboot. 

I was inclined to agree with Beobe. 
Hia lordship bad given me three sovereigns. 
I found a new pleasure in keeping my 
band in my pocket. The money was most 
mnncal. It chinked with a delightful 
sound, tar above the common jingling of 
silver or copper coins. My experience, 
thitherto, had been limited to the inferior 
metala. Lord Ovetbnry's wsa the first 
gold I ever possessed. Certainly bis lord- 
^ip conld not be so bad as people rumoured. 

" Bnt yon know, Eeube," said Kem, " he 
was terrible wild and wicked." 

"Maybe," observed Beube. "He threw 
away hia monOT, I've been told. Perhapa 
that's what rich volks most comes into the 
world TOr. Happen there's a poor man to 
catch it, I don't see there's much to vind 
vault wi' their chucking their money abont. 
It's like barley sowing, it seems to me. 
Sow it in the vurrows and it will come up 
a credit to you. But some vails outside ; 
and the birds gets it, or it rots and turns to 
naught. There'a alius waste any ways. 
For horse-racing and jockeys and that, I 
don't say. The poor man don't gain by 

"How can yon talk, so, Beobe," in- 
terrupted Kem, " and you setting up fbr a 
tidy steady man, and a chapel-goer." 

"Well, there," aaid Benbe, " I go to 
chapel moat-in-deal (ordinarily), when the 
shcep'll let me. Bnt they're amoast too 
much for a man. I can't listen to the 



Ilisy 31,1813.] 

minifiier for thinking of things going woag 
i'the void ; voot-ro6, or econring, or dead 
lambs, or what not I can't sleep o' nights, 
let alone aaying my prayere. Garge is a 
church-goer. I seen nn times and times 
going over the down, carrying's prayer- 
book, though Iknows a' can't read an. Oh, 
lie'sachnrch-goer. Bnt there's some volke 
as has no conscience. I doan't aay as a' 
liasn't got a tidy looking Iamb orao amang 
bij Tlock, A' knows how to cosset 'em up 
vor show. And there's Tools aboot as 
hasn't got eyes to seo a Trhole vlock at 
MCe. They'll look at one or two, maybe, 
and take Oarge's word Tor the rest. Sut 
tbere; there's sheep in his void as I'd be 
sbaioed to o'wn. If mine were so despcrd 
bad as some of 'issen I'd take and drown 
mjeelfin sheep-pond, that's what I'd do. 
Oh, Gai^e is a church- goer, certain snre." 

"Ton needn't be so main scrow (crosfl) 
»bont it, Renbe," said Kem. "Garge' 
ebnrch-going won't harm nn, nor's Tlock 
neither. I'm acharch.-goer, Meastar Dnke' 
n cbnrch-goer. ' We're all chaicb-gaera 
in this honse. Not that I'd aay a word 
against the Metbodys. My own mother 
na one on 'em. And I've known a many 
nuiiLtidy volks Metbodys." 

"Drattle Garge, that's all I ses," ob- 
■Mred Renbe, by way of a final deliverance 
against his rival. After which, the 
W perhaps gradnally instilling comfort 
thnragk hiin, be fell into a grinning silence 
as he SQTTeyed. Kem. Bnt his mnte conrt- 
eiiip seemed to have, as nsnal, bnt an irri- 
tating effect npon its object. The more be 
grinned at Kem, the mor« she appeared 
to frown upon trim. She preferred him, I 
think, in hia splenetic nioods, when he was 
manndering abont his tronbles with his 
flock, or inveighing against Garge, holding 
^m, perhaps, in tl^ condition, to be more 
likeasane creature. Irememberher once 
observing that she iiked a man who knew 
bow to " downai^"— the word signi^ng to 
contradict or argne after a very peremp- 
*oiy and downright manner. 

"Thee bist terrible dommell (stupid), 
Renbe," I heard her say as I qnitted the 
kitchen. I concliided that her admirer's 
grinning wag becoming noendntable. 

I had to con my lessons for the morrow. 
A little room had been allotted me for the 
purposes of stndy. It was at the side of 
the house, and looked on to a pathway lead- 
ing to the fiirm-yard. Here were stored 
^ch books as the Down Farm possessed. 
Some were old treasnres that had long besn 
in the keeping of the Orme fiunily ; ser- 

mons preached in Steeploborongh Cathedral 
by long-departed bishops, dtons, canons, 
and prebends; works on farming, acconnt- 
books, cookery - books, and manuscript 
volnmea full of all sorts of precioos recipes 
for the cure and comfort of human and 
animal kind. Others had been purchased, 
I understood, by my uncle at cheap sales 
in the neighbourhood, with a view to my 
mother's enterlaiaraent during the long 
winter evenings. He bad bought them by 
the score probably, with the very slightest 
heed to their contcnto. His own reading 
was confined to the county paper, an 
organ of True Bine opinions, fiercely ex- 
pressed, but more valued for its local news, 
its readers caring little about politics in 
that their minds had long been quite con- 
clusively made up on that b^. My 
mother had rarely looked into the volumes, 
I think ; she read but little ; her sight had 
failed in regard to near objects, thongh 
onriously powerful as to things at a distance. 
But she valued my uncle's gift, or, at least, 
the kindness that bad prompted it ; always 
dusting the books herself rather than per- 
mit them to fall into ruder hands, providing 
neat covers for those more ornamentally 
bonnd, and remedying with paste or needle 
and thread such as were in a decayed con- 
dition, or had suffered from hara usage. 
Certain of them she was wont to lay upon 
the table upon Sunday afternoons as ap- 
propriate literary food ; Hervey's Medita- 
tions, Blair, Fordyce, Doctor Young's 
Night Thoughts, Sturm's Reflections, and 
a few other such works. It was a mere 
form, for nobody ever read them; still 
it was a form which, begun as a duty, was 
persisted in, rather as a matter of habit 
than for any clearer reason, except that 
departure &om it would somehow recal 
and revive its origin, and seem n^ect of 

Much of the small library I pronounced 
detestably " dry ;" still it contained volnmes 
that were to me thoroughly delightful. I 
think their existence was known only to my- 
self. Records of travel and adventure, vene- 
rable romances, odd, old-world magazines, 
and collections of fairy tales. One of these 
last I remember containedinitaninscriptlon 

&ded ink, " To little Charlotte Augusta, 

her birthday." No more than that. I 
often wondered as to this mysterious 
maiden. Did she live still P I a^ed my- 
selE She was dead, probably, poor child, 

how conld her book have come into my 
bands ? Dead as a child, at any rate, 
even if she survived as a woman. Had she 

100 tM*y H. IWI] 


[CondDCiM br 

read it with the fond appetite and admiro- 
tiou I experienced ? I should never know. 
Bat the book's best stories, I noticed, bore 
the most finger-marica and dog'i 
Beading these pages I felt I was following 
the footsteps down most pleasant patbti, 
with vaeoe childish tenderness, of the un- 
known httle Charlotte Angnsta. 

I recollect mj distress at finding the 
story of Connt Fathom incomplete — cer- 
tain Tolnmes were missing. In later years 
I have thought it quite as well that this 
waa 80. Bnt the pnrity of a child's natnre 
deodorises his riding. The armoar of 
innocence affords very Gnre and stannch 

It was a homely little room enongb, yet 
comfortable withal. Over the mantel- 

Siece there bang a mirror — in which I 
elighted to view myself transformed by 
its convexity into a pantomimic creatnre 
with a colossal head and diminutive ex- 
tremities — snrmottnted by peacock's fea- 
thera, a fox's brnsh and di; btuches of 
wheat and barley ears of phenomenal sise 
and beanty. At the window — on (he aill 
of which stood nsnally a yellow jug fnll of 
flowers — my mother was accnstomed to 
pay the labonrers on Saturday evenings, 
relieving my nncle, on the score of her 
BOperior readiness in arithmetic, of this 
portion of his &miin0 daties. The men 
came in tnm to receive their wages, and 
with them oftentimes some cheering little 
present for the sick wife or the ailing 
child in the cottage home. Ky mother's 
desk rested on a side table. The shelves 
of booka were ranged opposite ^e fire- 

I sat down to my lessons. Bot I waa 
too fresh from the interesting converse of 
the Idtcben ; my morning's adventnre in 
the Dark Tower still occapied me. I lived 
in a small and confined world ; its mole- 
hills were very mountains to me. My 
Latin exercise distressed me much. There 
was something wrong with the dictionary; 
it did not contain half the words I wantedj 
id then I wae in trouble about my pens ; 

Those were the days of grey goose 
quills. Steel had not yet been appliM to 
writing purposes ; or at any rate the in- 
vention had not come into use down onr 
way. In vain I strove with a blunt pocket- 
knife and most imperfect art to better mj 
pens. They grew worae; rough-edged 
stunted object^ with niba of unequid 

pattern and length— like wooden-legged 
men — I could do nothing with them. I 
grew hot over my Latin exercise; dis- 
satiRfied and enraged with it, myself, the 
world about me, and the natnre of things 

I looked round for help. "Hy mother's 
desk ! It contained pens, 1 knew — bright, 
clean, transparent qnilla of perfect form 
and finish. For she took pride in her pen- 
manship, producing a firm large hand, a 
little formal in character, perhaps, but still 
shapely and most legible. But the desk 
was usually fast locked. The thing was 
worth trying, however — my stress being so 

The desk was unlocked, by some strango 
chance. I raised the lid. I could not at 
first light on what I Bought. When I 
perceived the pena my eyes fell also upon 
an object that waa new to me — a some- 
thing of oval form enclosed in a case of 
soiled wash-leather. Of courso I pro- 

It waa a miniature set ii 
of gold — or what looked like gold— witK a 
ring at the top, through which ran a feded 
blue ribbon. It was the portrait of a 
young man, attired after a bygone fashion, 
m a braided brown coat vrith a fur collar. 
He had large dark eyes and refined sym- 
metrical features. He wore his hair combed 
down his forehead nearly to his eyebrows, 
and a high full white cravat awatbing his 

The drawing seemed rather tinted than 
fiilly coloured; or perha^a the pigments 
had dimmed by lapse of tune. There was 
blue sky at the back, and the face was 
highly finished with that delicate stippling 
which miniature painters much affected in 
times past. But the dress and accessories 
were only sketchily treated, the pale yellow 
of the ivory ground being left apparent 
towards the edges of the picture. 

The light was waning, and I moved to 
the window to view the portrait to moro 
advant^e. Suddenly a hand came be- 
tween me and the %ht, and closed over 
the miniature. 

"Duke!" said a voice. I knew the 
voice as Iknew the hand to be my mother's. 
She gently took the portrait from me befbro 
I had half done with contemplating it. 


"I HBitn no harm, mother. I was 
searching for a pen ; I knew you had some 
in your deek. Then I saw this picture. I 
couldn't help looking at it. But I was 

Ckuln DJckeni.] 


[M.jJi.isTaL] 101 

not going to take it aw&j. I intended to 
pot it back. Indeed I did." 

"It's wrong to pry, Dnke. Bnt I am 
to blame ; I ahoold have locked my desk." 
Then she added after a panse : " Ton may 
look at the picture if jon will, Duke;" 
and Bfae replaced it in mj hands. 

She was not angry with me ; yet there 
was a certain pained look in her face ; and 
I noticed that she was vety maoh agitated. 
And thongh there were no tears in her 
ef BB, there were, if I may say so, tears in 
her qnivering lips, in the increased pale- 
ness of her cheeks, in her low plaintive 
Toic«. I had never before seen her so 
much moved ; and the sight impressed me 
with a sort of vagae awe. 

Again I looked at tlie picture; lint I 
thought of it now less than of her. Her 
band rested npon my shoulder as she stood 
beliind me ; I coold feel that she was still 
trembling violently, that her breathing was 
Teiy tronbled; I almost foncied t£at I 
conld hear the quick throbbing of her 

"Ton like it, DnkeP" she asked pre- 

"I Ibink it's a beantifal picture." 

" It's a portrait of yonr &ther, Dnke," 
she said, faiatly. 

I knew not what to say. The picture 
ioterested me, bnt not deeply. I felt dis> 
KtisGed with myself that I could not share, 
conld not folly comprehend, the excitement 
it seemed to kindle in her. I was coq- 
ceraed in that she seemed distressed; 
li penitent, because her evident snffering had 
been broaght abont by my thoughtless- 
sess; still her sorrow, her emotion, was not 

And the fact that the pictnre represented 
my father did not affect me as I had a 
land of suspicion it shoald have done ; as 
indeed, at the time, I could have wished it 
to do. I was surprised, bnt not otherwise 
etirred. Certainly I felt no sudden leap- 
ing of the heart; no awakening of new 
I affection ; no passionate thrill of yearning. 
I Interest to the' extent of cnriosity; but 
' nothing much better or higher than that. 
Even to myself this seemed like callous- 
ness, heartlessnesB ; and, in a way, shocked 
me. My father was nothing to me ; that 
was the plain truth. His portrait was to 
me little more than the portrait of a 
rtranger. But then it ia to be said for me 
that I had never seen him that I conld 
wmember ; that I, in truth, knew nothing 
of him. His name was never men- 
wned ; Irom my mother and uncle I had 

scarcely knew 

never once heard even the most distant 
reference to him. It had been as thongh 
he had never existed. He had died and 
leit no trace. My home had not been his. 
And certainly I had not been taught, as 
other fatherless children often are, to 
cherish and reverence the memory of the 
departed one; to set store npon some 
words he had spoken, or some deeds that 
he had done. But for this pictare, acci- 
dentally discovered, he was not even as a 
shadow to me. 

" My fether," I repeated, mechanically. 

" Tour &ther, Duke." 

" And he's dead." 
what I said. 

" Dead." Her voice seemed a broken 
wailing echo of mine. 

I returned the portrait. She replaced it 
in her desk. Then she said, with an 
effort 1 " I intended to show it yon ; bnt 
not yet ; when you were older ; when yon 

conld better understand Bnt there's 

no harm done, dear. It shall be yours 
some day — soon, perhaps ; and all I have 
in the world besides. That's httle enough, 
Heaven knows. Indeed, what have I in 
the world bnt you, Duke, my poor boy ? 
But — ^you shall have the pictnre — for your 
own — to keep always ; only not yet. And 
don't speak of it again, dear. Let this be 
a secret between us, Dnke— a close secret, 
not to be mentioned ^ain by either of us. 
Try and forget that you have ever seen the 
picture ; that yon have ever seen me thus." 

Her arms were round my neck, and her 
tears were now &lling fast. What conld I 
say or do to comfort her p I conld find no 
words to express my sympathy, imperfect 
as it was, because of my condition of 
wonderment and surprise. 

Presently she gprew more composed. 

"How your forehead boms, my boy," 
she said, as she kissed me, "Are yonr 
lessons very hard to-day P Let me see if 
I can help you. See, here are pens. Now, 
which book are yon upon ? The Latin ex- 
ercise? Is it rettlly so very difficult? 
Gome, two heads are better than one. Let 
us try and puzzle it out between us." 

She sat down beside me, and took pos- 
session of the dictionary. It was marvel- 
lous how rapidly her light, deft fingers 
turned over its leaves ; how obedient it 
became to her, revealing mysteries I had 
vainly been labouring to penetrate ; yield- 
ing up its treasnres promptly upon her 
faintest bidding, although, bnt for a few 
moments before, it had been striving its 
utmost to baffle and bewilder me. Yet I 

102 [ll»i SI, 1878.) 


knew that her learning on the snbject was 
not in advance of my own. I had been 
handed over to Mr. Bygrave, indeed, be- 
cause I was supposed to have outgrown 
her powers of jnBtrnction. She eeemed to 
me Uke the good fyiry in the nnreery story, 
who at a word imparts order and method 
to the tangled skeins of many-colonred 
silk. Her mt^c was simply kindness and 
intelligence. But she left mo particularly 
well-prepared to enoonnter my preceptor 
on the morrow. 

Gradually she resumed her accustomed 
EoLiiety, and even gravity of demeanour. 
For usually alie had seemed to despise de- 
monstrations of feeling as thongh site held 
such to be evidences of weakness and folly ; 
priding herself, I think, npon her oonrag« 
to endure silently, and to suppress emo- 
tional displays. I oould not remember 
that I had ever seen her shed tears before. 
I felt almost ae though I had once again 
been stricken with severe illness, for at 
such times I Lad learned to recognise her 
deep and earnest affection forme, shown in 
her ceaseless watching by my sick cot, her 
devout solicitude for my recovery and wel- 
fare. I fear I had always viewed her toils 
and anxieties in this respect with the 
wonted thonglitless ingratitude of infancy, 
»nd especially of invalid infancy. The 
sick child is ever as a despot, imposing 
taxes, and inflicting hardships with the 
very sligbtost regard for the convenience 
or the feelings of those he rules over. 
Their care, and labour, and allegiance he 
claims as his lawful dues, nor deems it 
worth while in any way to acknowledge 
tiieir prompt payment. Certainly she had 
not lacked aflection for me then, when my 
need of it was most nrgent. And if she 
seemed, or if I ever fancied that she 
seemed, to love me less when I was well 
and strong, it was perhaps because then 
I bad BO mnch the less occasion for her 

Now, I was not ill ; I was even growing 
quit« hearty and robust, and yet she had 
been betrayed into a curious exhibition of 
emotion and tendemeas. It was very 
strange to me, and set me pondering 
much. Conld it be only becanse she had 
found me with my father's portrait in my 
hands P That father of whom she never 
spoke to me — or, so fer as I was aware, to 
others ; of whose life and story I knew 
nothing; concerning whom a reserve and 
a silence, that were surely strange, had 
always been studionsly maintwned ? There 
was more in it than that. I felt that there 

must be. But should I ever know how 
much more P 

I slept bnt ill that night. The adven- 
tures of the day had been of a most un- 
wonted kind. They jrossessed me, and 
excited me. I turned and turned rest- 
lessly in my bed, and heard the kitchen 
clock chiming honrs that it was a dissipation 
even to think of; they seemed so viciously 
alien to my usual way of life. Had I evet 
been awake before at two o'clock in the 
morning? I asked myself. Only perhaps 
when I was too mndi depressed by severe 
sickness to keep acoount at all of the 
flight of time. let I heard two strike, 
and even three ; enjoying the sound some- 
what as a new experience. There was ft 
sort of manliness, I thought, in being 
awake so late, or so early, in defiance of afl 
social prescription, although I was pained, 
too, by it, for my head was feverish, my 
bonea ached, and I needed and courted 
sleep. How silent all was ! I could evert 
hear the movements of an nneasy horse in 
the farm stable, two hundred ywds or so 
from the house, rattling bis halter, or kick- 
ing against the side of his box. Wa^ it 
the old grey, I mused, or the chestnut ? 
And why was he SO restless ? Did horses 
ever suffer from the nightmare ? Absurd. 

There wag this remarkable fact about 
the events of the day. They bad brought 
me into the presence of two pictnres. 
These impressed me the more, no doubt, 
in that, at my age, I had seen so very few 
pictures, as I have already stated. But 
apart from this, they were in themselves 
notable wc^ks, while the manner of my 
seeing them had been sufficiently strange. 
The one a tall canvas, that towered above 
me some feet; the other, a mere scrap of 
ivory that I conld close in my hand. Lord 
Overbury in bis robes as a peer, the Bise of 
life ; my dead father in a fur-trimmed, old- 
&shioned coat. A miniature portrait. How 
different! And yet — was it mere &ncy P 
— did not some subtle tie exist between 
them ? or was this their association simply 
in my childish mind, due to the circnm- 
st&nce that I had seen both on the game 
day, the one but a few hours after the 
other P 

I was half dreaming. Bnt this I know : 
the pictnres somehow beciune curiously 
blended and oonfused together. They 
changed places, and changed back again 
like shuffled cards. Now it was L^rd 
Overbury's feoe on the ivory; now tdj 
father surveyed me from the elevated po- 
sitdou over the library mantelpiece in the 



[»urn,i»7ij 103 

great houae. They were diatmct pMsone 
sorely ; imlike in feature, air, and expree- 
am, and yet there were momente wben I 
coold not Bep&rate ihem — when all was 
bhrred, and not two portraite, bnt only 
one existed, and this of some stnnge man 
1 knew nothing o^ altbongh by qnaint 
jerks nnd twitiSiefi, as it were, he bore a 
reiemblanoe of a sort now to Lcn^ Over- 
bory, now to my Ib^er. Then, on a 
sodden, the pictures paired again; the 
luge canvas was on the wall, the ivory was 
in my hand. Bnt this Batisfaotory con- 
dition of things was not lasting. Even 
nhiJe I looked at them the canvas di- 
mini^ed aad descended fin>m its place; 
the ivory expanded and escaped frinn my 
grasp. It was most perplexing. For 
greater certainty, it heisme naoeesary to 
Mvck tiie XAtiu dictionary — at least tfaie 
seemed to bo the advice of the old grey 
cari-horse, ^hose long, wise-looking &oe, 
with a tnft of mane hanging low npon his 
Core)i«ad, had suddenly appeared at the 
foot of my coQcb. My mother tnmed over 
the leavee for me — how qnickly ; tiie mst- 
ling of the pag« seemed quite to shake the 
room, and ■ 

"Why, Dnke, do yon know what time it 

I was awake. It was broad daylight. 
Uj mother was standing by my bedside, 
W hand gently resting on my shonlder. 
I had overslept myself, and had been 
dreaming, that was certain. 

"And the pictures," I nmrmnred, " and 
the old cart-horse P" 

"It's late, Doke. How feverish yonr 
hand is. Are yon ill, my boy ?" 

Ko, I wae well enongh ; bnt I needed a 
moment's p&nse ; I had so abruptly been 
Rutnnoned from the land of dreams. 
Things aboat me had not yet completely 
asmmed their erery-day gnise. Their out- 
hoes were blnrred ; their shapes were not 
fet clearly defined. Familiar objects were 
still strange to me, not yet wholly released 
from the miste and magic in waich night 
and fancy had enwrapped them. 

Yes, sure enough, I was in my 'own 
little bedroom overlooldiig the garden. My 
mother had opened the easement, and the 
morning ail was rushing in, fresh from 
conising over the downs, laden with the 
'ngTU)ce of the heather and a thousand 
flowers. And life was in full stir out of 
•Wrs. The &rm-yard was broad awake 
•ml bnsy. The pigeons were fluttering 
*nd cooing about; the cocks wer© crowing 
stridently, intent upon the whole world 

hearing them; the hens, with maternal 
"dmcis" of pride and jealoosy, were call- 
ing their broods about them, or proclaiming 
with excess of triumph, as thongh it were 
an entirely unprecedented effort on their 
part, that they bad once again acoom- 
ptished the feat of laying eggs. Insects 
hnmmed in the snuehine, and a butterfly 
hovered about the window-sill. The air 
was full of noises : the lowing of cattle, 
the clamour of pigs, and the whinnying of 
the farm horses, as they champed tbeir bits 
or jingled their harness, or beat the ground 
with ibetT hoofs. 

"Then, the pictures " I murmured 

again, mbbing my drowsy eyes. 

"My boy, yon ve been dreaming," siud 
my mother, as she kiseed me. " Make 
haste and dress yourself or the breek&st 
will be all gone." 


Wheh facts bare repeatedly been proved 
to exist, it is in vain to deny them for the 
reason that we cuinot oomprahend their 
causes. We cannot understand how the 
Earth, merely because she is a magnet her- 
self, should be able to compel other mag- 
netic bodies to execrate her word of com> 
mand, and present arms to her by drawing 
themselves np into the attitude of atten- 
tion, with ^es straight directed to her 
magnetic p(ues, with more than military 
obedience, whenever they are free to do so. 
Hor can we conceive why a steel needle 
shonld, and a wooden skewer should not, 
be a magnetic body. Nevertheless, nobody 
now questions the faot that the t»mpRss 
points approximately north and sonth wiUi 
soch unMling certitude and obstinacy, as 
to be snrely depended on to guide the sailor 
across the ronghest, darkest, least familiar 
seas. ThefiujtisindiBpnlable; theinfluence 
which oanses it slips through our intetleo- 
toal grasp ; butinflnence of some sort there 
assuredly must be. The same of fescina- 
tion — the strange atiraotion, repnlsion, or 
mastery, which some living creatures exert 
on others. 

As there are rays emitted by the son 
which, though invisible, are potent in pro- 
moting heat, chemical action, vegetable 
growth, and perhaps even animal life, so 
may there be more influences at work in 
heaven and earth than are dreamt of as 
yet in our infant philosophy. !Not that we 
oaght to underrate the present degree of 
advancement of hnman knowledge; for, 


104 pi«r".iiJ>J 


nhen wo think of it, tlie wonder is, not 
that we know so little, but that we know 
so mnch and so accnratel;, and have ac- 
qnired that amount of knowledge in so 
brief an interval of time. All which, instead 
of being a disconragement, shonld make 
the belief tlmt there are mjBteriea yet to 
be unravelled a spnr to forther investiga- 
tion. Clearly, there are all-important pro* 
blems which the human intellect can never 
hope to solve ; bat no mortal, I think, has 
liitberto proved his oompetenceto draw the 
line between the fathomable and Uie nn- 
fathomable depths of science- We may, in 
the end, sncc^d in knowing more than the 
most Bangoine amongst ns now dares hope 
to know. 

Little or nothine do we know abont many 
influences to whidi we feel ourselves daily 
subject. We find names, nevertheless, for 
their effects; snch as hypochondria, the 
Epleen, nervonsnesB, low spirite, dislike, 
aversion, impending change of the moon or 
the weather, infatuation, fascination. That 
one living creature does influence another in 
tJie various ways of attraction, repulsion, and 
command, without any exertion of physical 
force, is too old a world-belief and too 
frequent an occurrence, to be open to a 
denial. The first propounders of animal 
magnetism obtained a hearing and made 
their way in consequence of the general 
conviction that there was some truth — 
however small a fraction — mixed up with 
their &lsehoods and their trickery. The 
table-turners, spirit-rappers, mediums, and 
somnambulists, continued that suspected 
line of business, with even a smaller grain 
of truth combined with a still larger dose 
of imposture and charlatanism. We cannot 
but hold them doubly gnilty; guilty of 
knavery and deceit, and guilty of pntting 
an extinguisher on a difficult and delicate 
branch of inquiry. They have checked, for 
a time, the investigation of several cniions 
and interesting topics — the investigator 
fearing to have forced upon him the title 
of visionary, from one set of people, and of 
impostor from another. 

It may be assumed, then, that there is 
such a thing, or influence, or phenomenon, 
as fascination, which we mnst admit, though 
we cannot account for it. A belief in it 
may be traced to early ages and through 
far-distant regions of the earth. The word 
itself is Latin, slk-htly modified in spelling 
from the Greek 0amavia, baskania, whi(£ 
connects it vrith the idea of envy, detrac- 
tion, dispan^ment, and slander, making 
it fiiB^ination for malevolent pnrposes, an 

influence analogous to the evil eye. It 
bears ont this sense when applied to the 
fascination exercised by snakes, whose vic- 
tims fall an easy prey through their in- 
ability to resist the power. 

Medusa fascinated all who beheld her, in 
the same way as the boa or the cobra di 
cajtello. 8he had been exceeding beau- 
tiful, with the finest head of hair in tbe 
world. To avenge a desecration of her 
temple (in which poor Medusa was the 
unwilling victim) the goddess Uinerva 
changed her hur into snakes, and made 
her aspect so terrible as to transform all 
who looked on her into stone. 

The most ancient authors lisve spoken 
of the basilisk (the regulus, or little king 
of serpents, commonly called the cockar- 
trice) B8 a serpent which had tJie power of 
striking its victim dead by a single glance. 
Others have pretended that it could not 
exercise this &culty, unless it first per- 
ceived the object of its vengeance before 
it was perceived by it. Either case is onlj 

disconraed seriously " Of the Basilisk," as 
he did of many other curious things. 

" According to the doctrine of the an- 
cients, men still affirm that it killeth at a 
distance, that it poisoneth by the eye, and 
by priority of vision. Now, that dele- 
terious it may be at some distance, and 
destructive without corporal contaction, 
what uncertunty soever there be in the 
effect, there is no high improbability in the 
relation. For if plagues or pestilential 
atoms have been conveyed in the air from 
different regions ~if men at a distance have 
infected each other — if the shadows of 
some trees be noxious — if torpedos deliver 
their opium at a distance, and stapily be- 
yond themselves, we cannot reasonably 
deny that (beside our gross and reetruned 
poisons requiring contiguity unto tiieii- 
actions) there may proceed, firem subtdler 
seeds, more agile emanations, which con- 
temn those laws, and invade at distance 

" That this venenation ahooteth from the 
Cye, and that thli way a basilisk may em- 
poison — although thus much be not agreed 
upon by authors, some impoting it unto 
the breath, others unto the bite — it is not 
a thing impossible. For eyes receive offen- 
sive impressions from their objects, and 
may have influences destructive to each 
other. Thus is fascination made ont; and 
thus also it is not imposeiblo that the 
visible rays of their eyes carry forth the 

■ IMetu.] 


pUyJl. 18W.] 105 

BobtileGt portion of their poiaon, which in- 
fecteth first the brain, and is from thence 
commnnic&ted unto the heart. Bat that 
tbis destractioQ shonld be the effect of the 
first beholder, or depend on priority of 
aapectioD, is a point not easily to be granted, 
and very hardly to be made oat npon the 
prindples of Aristotle, Alhazen, Vitello, 
and otbere." 

A similar vnlgar and common error, 
" tbat a wolf, first seeing a man, begets a 
dambness in him," long existed through- 
ont the small civilised world of antiquity. 
When any one became hoarae, the Fren&h, 
quite recently, said, " II a vn le lonp," " he 
has seen the wolf." " Snch a story as the 
basilisk is that of the wolf, concerning 
priority of vision, that a man becomes 
boarse or dumb, if a wolf have the advan- 
tage first to eye him. And this is in plain 
langoAge affirmed by Pliny ; so is ib made 
out w^t is delivered by Theocritns, and 
riter him by Virgil, The groand, or occa- 
nonal original hereof, waa probably the 
amazement and sndden silence the nnex- 
pected appearance of wolves doth often pat 
Qpon travellers ; not by a supposed vaponr, 
or venomons emanation, bat a vehement 
fear, which uatontlly prodaceth obmate&- 
cence, and sometimes irrevocable silence." 

The power of fascination takes snndry 
ibapes, and is attributed to diverse ganses. 
An old writer tells us, " la the Molnccos 
are aerpenta thiriiy feet long, which eat a 
certain herb, then get npon trees by the 
banks of the sea or rivers, and vomit np 
Hie herbs; to which the fish gather, and 
are intoxicated; which makes them float 
on the water and become the serpent's 
prey." The same compiler records that, 
" Id Mftni'lif there are serpents of a great 
length, that hang by the tail on trees, 
dnw men and beasts with the force of 
their breath ; and the only way to prevent 
it is to beat the air betwixt them and the 
•erpent; they are called ibitin." 

Snheeqnimt natnmlists have admitted 
Uie existence of some mysterioos agency 
with a hesitating sort of half-belief, not 
denying the effect bnt doabttng the canse. 
It was for a long time taken for granted 
that the rattlesnaJte had the power of tor- 
pifying by its breath (which is one thing), 
and of fascinating (which ia another), that 
13, of forcing its prey, by its glaaoe alone, 
to precipitate themselves into its month. 
This, however, is softened down by Cuvier 
into the idea, that the rattlesnake is en- 
abled to seize its victims only in conse- 
qoence of the irregnlar movements whioh 

the fear of its aspect canses them to make. 
Bnt that the mere sight of a reptile shontd 
paralyse any other creature with terror, 
almost decides the point at isene. Whe- 
ther by the fear which they inspire, or by 
a sort of magnetic or magic power, the 
feet remains that serpents can stupefy and 
fhscinate the prey which they are desirous 
to obtain. 

There are travellers who clench the nail 
by assuring us that squirrels, on being 
fikedly regarded from below by a serpent 
on the ground, hissing and darting its 
fwked tongue as it watches their move- 
meats, are constrained to fall from the 
summits of trees into the hnn?ry reptile's 
mouth. Credible eye-witnesses nave beheld 
things of the kind not much less astound- 
ing. In the steppes of America, there are 
serpents, the durissns and the boiquira, 
who m-QSt possess some charm by which 
their prey is fiaroed into their months. 
Hares, rata, frogs, and other reptiles, as 
soon as they catch sight of their foe, seem 
petrified with terror, and far from attempt- 
ing to fiy, will precipitate themselves npon 
the fete which awaits them. Even at a 
sufficient distance for escape, they are pa- 
ralysed by the threatened danger, and de- 
prived of all their fitcnlties in a mannw 
that appears, if not snpemataral, at least 

Once, in the fens of Cambridgeshire, I 
canght a common snake, Golnb^ natrix, 
the serpent that swims, in the act of swal- 
lowing a fnll-siaed yellow frog. At my ap- 
proaoh, it retreated back a little way and 
closed its jaws, but showed no intention of 
going without its dinner in consequence of 
the ill-timed intermptiou. The &og con- 
tinued motionless, in its usual squatting 
position on the ground, Eis if it were sitting 
for its portrait. Except for its rapid and 
violent panting, yon would have said it 
was leniung itself to the performance with 
as maoh nonchalance as one acrobat helps 
the execntion of his brother acrobat's tricks. 
An abrasion of the akin, which had drawn 
blood, on one of the frog's sides, denoted 
that iJie paaaa^ down the tJiroat promised 
toberatheratightfit; otherwise, no wonnd 
or injury was visible. On pushing the frog 
with my walking-stick, he leapt into the 
water and swam away, apparently more 
afraid of me than of his intending appro- 
priator. The snake glided off in another 
direction. I had not time to wait and see 
whether the p^, thus disunited, came to- 
gether again to renew their intimacy and 
complete the happy despatch. 

106 [M«yM.Iinj 



In some pEurta of Koropo an attrackiTe 
power is imhesitatingly attnbated to 
seTeml species of snakes. A person of 
edncation assnred the Abbd Bonnsterre 
(aathor of Tableau dee Trois B«^es, 1790), 
tbat be had seen a wren tJins fascinated 
bj a collared aoake. The reptile, open- 
mouthed, kept hia eyes fixed on the bird, 
which made vain efforts to escape. Bnt, 
detained hj some magio infiuence, it could 
only ntter faint cries of alarm and ^ef. 
At last, irresistibly drawn on, it mshed of 
its own accord into the serpent's month. 

Sudden fright, it maybe said, benumbed 
the bird's facnltiea, paralysed its more- 
ments, and choked its ntteranoe. Fear, 
which will break a man's legs, may render 
a wren's wings powerless. Bnt that fear 
should drive it into its enemy's jaws is 
utterly inconceivable — unless an account 
be taken of that unknown something which 
Linnffius called magical attractioa, and 
which we can conceive lo be similar to the 
temptation, felt by not a few, to throw 
themselves over a precipice or jump from. 
the top of a cathedral tower. 

Monsieur B. Saint-Marc (of L'TUnstra- 
tion, Journal Universel) found himself in 
a green oasis at the foot of Mont Ventonx 
(a mountain whose distant and hazy ma- 
jesty strikes the visitor to Avignon), on a 
Bultiiy day, without a breath of wind, when 
heat was visibly flickering over the surfoce 
of the soil. His ear caught strange cries 
from a little bird, one of the sedge- warUers, 
which was curiously fluttering in the air, 
a few yards above the ground. With out- 
spread tail, bristling feathers, and beating 
wings, it seemed to be struggling in vain 
lo escape &om some terrible danger. As 
if held, like a boy's kite in a gale, by an 
invisible thread, it diuted to and fro in all 
directions ; bnt the unseen thread retained 
it firmly, and dragged it closer and closer 
to the ground. 

Glancing foom it perpendicularly down- 
wards, Monsieur Saint-Marc saw peeping 
above some thistles, a small trifuignlar, 
flattened head, whose eyes, darting singular 
glances, steadily followed and inaatcred the 
movements and efforts of the bird, doubt- 
less lascinat«d by those horrid eyes. The 
jaws were making ready to unhinge them- 
selves and open wide to entomb the poor 
viotim. It was a fell-sized yellow-green 
common snake, standing, with the help of 
the thistles, erect on its- tail. The bird's 
cries, grown weaker, mora harried, and 
more plaintive, showed that its strength 
was at last exhausted. In another instant, 

it would have been buried quick in a living 

Opportunities of witnessing sudi a " feed- 
ing time" are rare. Bnt Monsieur Saint- 
Marc had not t^e heart to let the &tal 
catastrophe arrive and allow the hideoFUS 
animal to feast on a Uving fellow- creature. 
He threw a big stone at the fascinator. 
The snake drew back and ceased to show 
himself. The charm waa broken. 

The bird darted straight away, describing 
a long parabola, and fell to the ground at 
fifty paces distance, where it IcMtt exactly 
like a fish taken out of water. I on would 
have thought it was in a coAvnlsive fit. 
But it soon recovered, stood firmly on its 
legs, shook its ruffled plumage into tidy 
slMpe, made two or three skipa above t^e 
grass, and finally flew away, disappearing 
behind a group of loity trees. 

Monsieur Saint-Miuv then tried to dis- 
lodge the sn^e from the bnunbte-buBh into 
which it had retreated, without much caring 
to sncceed. He detests the whole (amilf 
of limbless beasts, yiHh cloven tongues and 
lidless eyes, who advance bv winding, who 
can walk on the tips of tlteir tails, who 
coil themselves up into nothing, and then 
dart forward witti the force of a spring, 
whose muscles are as hard and as stxoog 
as steel, and which live after t^e brute is 
chopped up into bits. Bnt the inctdent 
left him aom^Jetely convinced of the snake's 
astounding influence. At the same tame, 
he makes no attempt to give any physio- 
logical explanation of the fact, or to say 
what this Snid, this m^uetiiuu, this irre- 
sistible allurement can p<»sibly be. 

Nor is fascination more easy to define 
than to explain. There is a mixture of fetu-, 
which VTgea the victim to flee, and of at- 
tractioa (apparently dependent on the eye) 
compelling him to remain and oven to ad- 
vance to meet destruction. " But in truth," 
says the Abb^ Bonnaterre, "is it more 
surprising to see a serpent attract a bird 
into its mouth, than to see a loadstcme draw 
towards it a piece of iron P" 

Bnt &8cination is notconflnsd to snakes. 
By what charm an honourable member 
catches the Speaker's eye and enforces at- 
tention, it might not be parliamentary to in- 
quire, but we know that the Ancient Marine 
possessed a spell from which his auditor 
could not escape until he had told how he 
shot the albatross. 

As there is fitecination by terror, despair, 
and what may be called repulsive attrac- 
tion, so is there fascination by attractive 
attraction, love, luud the inspiration of de- 

Cniriei Dlakaiu.] 


rated attachment. A man thus (ascuiated 
wiJl min himaelf, di^race himself, sacrifice 
bia life, for the object who exeroiBes this 
all-powerfal influence. That object, in hia 
eyes, is withottt ft fittUt; or rather those 
faults are regarded as beantiea, distinctire 
marks of nunsnal merit. The charm which 
enthrals bim is Hka the enn shine of the 
south, gilding hovels, covering fbnl places 
with deepest shade, and giving putrid mists 
the semblance of radiant halos. 

Titania. is enamoored of Ball;^ Bottom 
vith the ass's head. When the self-satis- 
fied weaver brays ont a song, the Qneen of 
the Fairies exclaims : 

Wbtl uigel wiliM ma from my SoirsTj bed t 

I prtT thee, gentls mortal, ring igiin : 

IJiie eu ia much eiiBnioar'd o? thy nate. 

So iimioe sje enthralled to tbr ihtpe; 

And thy fair nrtue'i force peHoree doth mora ma, 

On the StM Tier, to my, to imear, I lora &a». 

The fascinator in hnmsn form — the 
Latins sometinieB wrote it " foscinatrix" — 
poGKsaes, in common with the boa, the 
power of engnlfiing anything withont 
making wry faces, and then, at the first 
epportnnity, asking for more. Micbclet 
says that a Camellia — meaning a Dame 
ux Camellias — will swallow more than a 
whale. Not a few prowl abont the dry 
wildernesses (the ttursty places) of the 
worid, seeking whom they may devoor. 
When their prey is fairly canght, mastered, 
ud either assimilated in totality or meta- 
morphosed into an inexhaustible milch- 
eow, we may wonder at the phenomenon 
and pity the poor victim, bnt it is simply 
a fact in natural history. The anaconda 
has fascinated the sprightly yenng bock, 
and made a meal, or a provisicai fisr life, oat 
of him. What matters that to jon F The 
ii>4ke mnst live. She only employs the 
means wherewith nature has gifted her. 

Sven in &scinatiou by attraction there 
will be differencee. One man will love his 
love with an A, because she is an angel in 
disposition ; another with a B, because she 
is simply a beauty, and much mn after; 
her possession flatters his vanity. A third 
will love with a G some not-pretty maiden, 
but who, nevertheless, is courteons, weU- 
bred, and winning; whilst a fourth will 
pick amongst the D's, and become the slave, 
or the Van Amboj^h, of a diabolical lady- 
Icre. For your she-devil termagant will 
have her admirers in men who are over- 
peppery or over-dull themselves, especially 
ii&e fiery hook be baited, as it often is, with 
beauty, devemess, and wealth. 

1 my time heard lioni roar P 
And da you teU me of a woman'B (oneue p 
Say, that aha rail ; why, then I'll tell her plua. 
She (ini^ at sweetly u ■ niehtjngale. 
If aha do bid ma n<^ I'll gire har thank^ 
Aa though die bid ma itay by hei a week ; 
If ihe deny to wad, I'll cnra the day 
When I shall aak the banns, and whan be married i 
Bat here aha eomei ; and now, Fetruehia, apeak. 

It is only poetical justice and &ir reta- 
liation that the tribe of Ophidians who 
exert this magic power should themselves 
be subject to a similar influence — their 
own weapons turned against themselves. 
Of snake-charmers and their ways thers 
is no space to speak here now. lliere are 
men who can exercise a like power over 
rats they have caught; bat, unlike the case 
with snakes, it appears that they must 
catch them first. Bnt snakes seem to be 
coming into fashion. A tame snake, re- 
turning from a visit, was one of tha articles 
sent by post last year. 

The most charmiug snake-charmfir is 
Mrs. M., whom an inquirer, " not very 
much afraid of snakes," has been kindly 
allowed to interview, Mr. M., who re- 
ceived the visitor, after remarks upon the 
weather, produced out of a cupboard a lai^ 
boa constrictor, a python, and several small 
snakes, which at ouce made themselves at 
home on the writing-table among pens, ink, 
and books. Interviewer was a good deal 
startled when the two lai^ snakes coiled 
round and round Mr. M., and began to 
notice himself with their bright eyes and 
forked tongues. Mr. M. then went to 
call Mrs. M., leaving hita alone with 
the boa deposited on an arm-chfur. He 
felt queer when the animal began gra- 
dually to come near him, to improve their 
tete-a-tete, but was soon relieved by the 
entrance of his hosts, followed by two 
little children, charming and charmers 
also. The lady and the children went at 
once to the boa, and, calling it by the most 
endearing names, allowed it to twine itself 
most gracefully round about them. This boa 
constrictor, as thick round as a small tree^ 
twined playfully round the lady's waist 
and neck, forming a kind of turhan round 
her head, and expecting to be petted and 
made much of like a kitten. The children 
and over ^ain took its head in their 
bands, and kissed its mouth, pushing aside 
its forked tongue in doing so. " Every one 
to his taste," as the old man said when he 
kissed his cow. The animal seemed much 

E leased, bnt kept continually turning its 
ead towards interviewer, until he allowed 
it for a moment to nestle its head ap hia 

108 Iir«T»i.iB;jj 


sleeve. TMBSplendidaerpentconedallronnd 
Mrs. M. while she moved abont the room 
and when ehe stood up to ponr out coBce. 
He eeemed to adjust hie weight so nicely, 
and every coil with its beantifol markingB 
waa relieved by the lady's black velvet 

About a year ago Mr. and Mrs. M. were 
away for six weeks, and left the boa in 
chai^ of a keeper at the Zoo. The poor 
reptile moped, slept, and refascd to be 
comforted ; bat when hia roaster and min- 
treSB appeared, he sprang npon them with 
delight, coiling himself ronnd them, and 
showing every symptom of intense delight. 
The children are devoted to their " darling 
Cleo," as they call the snake, and smiled 
when interviewer asked if they were ever 
frightened of iL 

Interviewer's conclusion. It is mere 
prejudice, when snakes are not venomous, 
to abhor them as we do. They are intel- 
ligent and harmless, perfectly clean, with 
no sort of smeil, make no kmd of noise, 
and move abont fer more gracefully than 
lap-dogs or other pets. These sceroed very 
obedient^ and remained in their cupboard 
when told to do so. 

( that wkB thi 

MtstiC*!. odonrs erHp 
Tbroui^h sludowi weird ud dim blue dutincM, 
Odoun tfae hoi dsj kaowa not. aucb ti iteep 

Tha wearied miih in pure dtlici 

When DODD" ^ "■ ' 

Hath itillad tt , _ 

TVfaieh dnwna the aoft lo« ■! 
uxorda of life. 

Stillsfaa tnd lilniee li* 
tike Toiceleu benediciioat otbi' all ; 
There floala no cloud between ua and the iky, 
To itaj one ilar Elaneaj (ilrerj awift the; bll, 
'Waio ererj aUr an e;e 

' intcbl„ ., , 

tu ta night f 

How atirleaa itaitd the beea — 
Creep eloter lovr, the hour ia all our own— 
And jet beneath the afaj'glad aileneea, 
The awift apiing quickcBLD); atiii. And I aloiw, 

1 know that. M wilh tbeee, 
Thongb tilence robea (hee like the night-huihed »ir. 
The loTe-Sre in thy hsart ia quiekeniDg uaftware. 

And hark ! a gaddea triil 
From forth the eirclini; duik, a tremuloui low 
Beginniag of aweet aousd. that, tluiueh it fill 
Hw tti fi& quick delinht. jtt filtetE lo 

Tbs huih lo celm, ao alill, 
One d»*Du that Feue, loug brooding, veieeleH loop. 
With Joj'a reaiatleu rapture tbhUeth into aoog. 

WhoM long w»n not with aileoee, but aceoida 
Witb quiet ud fur aolilude. How bright 
Thia nlier-miit moon flooded ! Hut no woida 

To apeak aeiene delight f 
l»Te, let jon warMar'a clear and rhangefu! long 
Voice that rapt joy that diea to lileuoe on thj tongoe. 

What eaticj of heart 

Thrilla in thow mellow fludnga ; what upriie 
earth- apumiug pawion leemi to atirt, 
ioged, on raeb ■lift flutloring trill that 
To iRile Ihe heaiena t Some part 
m jearniog pulaea thioueh the beats 

Of that ebullient eong, which atill thine heart rej 
Baj iweet, ia it not ao t 
ibj paaaioD, fenent aa th; lore, 

Now aiW 


Ij aoTt and low 
itling doTO — 

tbj geatle tc__ — ^ „ 

The bright and joyoui fla< 
Of thv loTe quickened Ufa. ahall it not be 
Iljpedby yon rapturoua aongaler'a variant melodyf 

The elamoroua grey lurroonda. 
Dim, dnik. eoft-atietching, ailent, home of dreams. 
But lift thine tjet ; through all the aiure bound* 
Of heaven the ilar-hoata rain iiradiantgteama. 

ipt fron 
Forelatts of what £u peace ii 

LoreW art thon, and love, 
Shy lore and ailent, haunla tfcee at ita home. 
The atill rapt paiaion brooding like a dove 
At the hidden heart of life. My darlisf, eonwl 

Arise aweet, let oa move 
Forth in the moon-gleam that thine eyea may tell 
Sonl iecieta that thy pure lipa guard ao aweetly welt 1 

Hatino pretty clearly ascertained that 
even when it is in thorough working order 
— probably about the middle of June— 
the Vienna Exhibition will be neither more 
nor less than a huge bazaar, difiering 
scarcely one whit from ita predecessors, 
save that the classification of ita contents 
baa not been attempted, and that its out- 
ward aspect is anything but attractive, I 
thought I would run away from th.e 
Kaiserstadt for a little change of scene. 
The man with a cynical mind, and a free 
ticket, can doubtless get great enjoyment 
out of the (Mmtemplation of the melancholy 
aspect of the visitors who have paid several 
florins to see empty crates, or glass caaes 
half filled with anoh wares as are to ba 
beheld for nothing in the shop- windows ; 
but even this pleasure palls after a time, 
and one really pities the wretched Viennese, 
who begin openly to express their fears 
that they have been far too sanguine in 
their andcipations in regard to tbetr show, 
and who dread that the heavy commercial 
failures which have recently occorred 
amongst the speculators on the Bonrse, 
will be supplemented by fiir heavier and 
wider-spread ruin, which, in dne course, 
must overtake those who have looked to 
the success of the £xhibition to recoup 
them the vast outlay which they have in- 
carred. It wonld be pleasant, moreover. 
to get rid, for a time, of the perpetual 

" THE BEAUTIFDL BLUE DAKUBB." vs»n,im.] 109 

have no occaflion to stir from bis cabin, on 
the vbHU of which hang the m^nn and the 
wine- list, duly priced ; uie neatest and moat 
atteDtive of waitera will attend hia call ; 
and vhen he arrives at the end of the 
Toy^e, he will not merely feel that he has 
passed throngh some eiqniaite scenery, 
and made progress on his way to tho 
bonndary of western civilisation, bnt will 
be tempted toexclaim, with Sidney Smith'i 

Cbarin DlcteDi.] 

enlonrage of etiqnotte, to rob shoalders 
with peasanla instead of princes, and to 
rest one's eyes on shabby woollen capotes 
ineteadof dazzlingnniforms. Tbeonlyqaes- 
tion is where to go. The compliment, or the 
reproach, of being a Bohemian, has boen so 
often addresBed to me, that I have half a 
mind to go to Prague, juet to see what my 
otpilal is like ; bat then I am assured that, 
if I desire perfect change and novelty, I 
Bhonld go to Pestb, which is on the extreme 
cooGnes of civilisation, where I shall find a 
people bold, frank, and open-hearted, snb- 
missive to Pate, bat not servile to their 
conquerors, and in mind, manners, and 
appearance, exactly the reverse of the 
haaghty, imperious Austriane. Pesth, then, 
let it be, by all means ! When Monsieur de 
Muntalembert wanted a " bath of liberty," 
he took it in England ; I will take mine in 
Hnngary water. 

Too can travel &om Vienna to Pesth 
by eleamer or train, but shonld yon choose 
the latter, yon wiU be nnable to talk of 
jonr "voyage on the Danube" on yonr 
relnm home, and thereby miss a chance of 
digtingQiBhing yourself in society. More- 
over, the ronte by water is far more 
t^recable. The steamer in which the 
l^er portion of the voyage is performed 
(she lies aome little distance down stream, 
aad yon are taken off to her in a small 
tn^ or lannch) is most commodions, re- 
minding those who have travelled in Ame- 
lica of Qie Fall Biver or the Hudson boats, 
and the cuisine, wines, and general table 
STTangementa are ignite eqnal to those in 
the firet hotels in Vienna. There is a hnr- 
ricsne-deck for promenade, and a lai^ 
general saloon, in which a table-d'bOte 
dinner is served at one p.m. ; and there are 
>ome half-dozen private cabins, holding 
foor persons, where yon can be supplied 
with yonr selection from a liberal m&nu, at 
whatever time yon wish. 

I would earnestly advise those who, 
reckoning on the occasionally enthusiastic 
Murray (an adventnrons traveller, but a 
poor gourmet), have looked forward to the 
enjoyment of choice dishes at the Vienna 
restaurants, and have come away sad at 
heart and sick at stomach &om the watery 
naps, the Sa.bhj fish, the greasy entries, the 
WDodeny meats, and the flanncl-blankety 
tnehlspeisen, to takea mn down the Dannbe, 
if it were only for the sake of the break- 
fast and dinner which will be so well served 
to Aem on their transit. Such a traveller 
will be above the inflnence of weather, or 
the quality of hia fellow-travellers ; he will 


" Fate cannot harm me ; I have 

dmed to-day !' 

There are, however, those to whom fino 
weather is a necessary ingredient of a plea- 
sant trip, and they would have &iled to 
have admired the aspect of affairs. Tho 
rain which was falling in torrents when wo 
left Franz-Josefs Qnai, and while we re- 
mained on the tug, subfrided into a thin, 
vaponiy, drizzling Scotch mist by tho 
time we reached the larger steamer, and 
thongh it sometimes cleared away from 
immediately above ns, and we had a half- 
hour's interview wit^ the sun, who came to 
ua now faint with glimmer, now fierce with 
rays, there were always ominom clouds in 
the horizon, and the opportunities for deck 
promenadine were rare. Not that this 
matters mndi during the earlier portion of 
the voyage, for, for miles below Vienna, the 
banks of the Dannbe are as those of the 
Thames in Essex, a dead level of dreariness, 
or rather— for in every landscape abroad 
there is some element not to be fonnd in 
tmy English scene — reminiscent of the 
Rhine between Diisseldorf and Emmerich. 
There was no use in disturbing oneself to 
catch fieeting glimpses of snch scenery; it 
was bettor to he back smoking one's cigar 
and listening to the one enthusiastic member 
of the party, who, with oneeye looking out 
through the blurred cabin-window, and the 
o&er on his Murray, volunteered informa- 
tion to the rest, 
" I say, by Jove, here's Loban !" 
" Who'a he ?" asks a voice through a 
tobacco fog, 

" He, nonsense ! island, you know. Na- 
poleon hid behind it — not Louis, yon know, 
the old swell — pounced out on the Austriaus 
and gave them an awful hammering at 
Wagiam I And, I say, here's Schwachat." 
" How do you spell him ?" 
" S-oh-w — oh, bother, never mind !" 
" Oh, I don't mind, but what did he do ? 
What was his little game P" 

" At this place the celebrated John 
Sobieaki had his interview with the hlm- 
peror Leopold, perhaps one of the most de- 
praved monarch^^— " 




" All, sbnt Dp abont Sobieeki and the 
depntT^ monarais. GaD the Kellner and 
let m have a bottle of Gnrnpoldslcirchner 
and a syphon of soda." 

Erer and anon the steamer, home along 
at a swinging pace hy the swift cnrrent of 
the river (which by the way is nowhere 
that I have seen the "beantiinl Une 
Dannbe" of the ballad, but rather a brown 
and muddy stream), stops to take np pas- 
sengers at the landing-stage of some litUe 
Tillage. We get along with infinitely less 
fuss and shooting than is to be found any- 
where ont of England, and there to greet ns 
stands the agent of the steam- boat company, 
radiant in gold-laced cap, and the porters^ 
most of whom wear sleeved - waistcoats, 
flower- embroidered, soberer versions of the 
well-lcnown theatrical garment appropriated 
to the virtnoDB peasant who " doms" the 
sqnire for exaggerated flirtation with his 
danghter. The intendedvoyagers are penned 
away behind a huge barrier at the &r end of 
the platform, and when the signal is given for 
their release they rnsh hesdlong forward, 
and with mnch chattering and ehonting they 
make for the narrow gangway. Sombre- 
clad people for the most part, poor and 
hardly* worked, the women in rough home- 
span clothes, and frequency barefoot, 
carrying on their backs hnge baskets filled 
with garden produce, or lime, or coal — for 
in Aostria and Hungary the women are 
the beasts of burden — Uie men in greasy 
woollen garments, hnge coats reachmg to 
their heels, and flap bats, or close-fitting 
sknll-caps, all stained, and £rowsy, and 
filthy. Here and there some one of abetter, 
bnt not a cleaner class, a Jew in a loug 
clinging gaberdine, so worn and mbbed, 
and grease-soaked, as to look as if it had 
been originally made of watered silk instead 
of dingy cloth, or a man of some authority, 
receiving haughtily the salutation of the 
packet-^^nt and sweeping along in his 
fur-embroidered cloak, and his Astracan 
sknll-cap. These people are hurried along 
by the boatmen to toe fore part of the 
steamer where they huddle together nn- 
demeath the dripping canvas awning, and 
nianage to keep up their spirits in what 
is, under the circomstances, a highly 
creditable manner. They drink a little, 
and they fiddle a little, and they sing a 
little, and they smoke a good deal, and 
altogether seem much happier, thongh 
mnch damper, than the more distiognished 
company in the saloon, of whom the only 
happy members areayoung couple engaged 
in a qniet flirtation, and an old gentleman 

who had just defeated the waiter in single 
combat, and reduced the amount of bis 
dinner bill by twopence. 

It is something to know that we are actu- 
ally in Hungary, but the scenery continnes 
mnch of the same chaiacter. On either side 
lie huge tracts of marsh land, fringed here 
and there with stunted pollards, and bear- 
ing apparently great crops of long lunk 
grass. Then the foreground nndolates a 
little more and a small chain of bills rises 
against the horison, and the quality of vege- 
tation changes. It is now gracing land, 
the glass richer and not so rank, and spread- 
ing over it, browsing, resting, or madly 
galloping about without apparent cause, 
we find here a huge drove of long-homed 
oxen, then an immense number of small wiry 
horses. Moored in a row on either side of 
the river, so as to catch as much as pos- 
sible of the current, we come on a double 
line of barges, one of every two beings 
fitted as a water-mill, while the otlier serves 
OB the miller's residence. Near the towns 
some of these millers have tried to orna- 
ment their barges, dusky and funereal aa 
that which bore King Arthur from St. 
Bedivere's straining gaze, by the addition 
of a little flag, or a small bunch of greenery. 
But in most cases no such attempt has been 
made, and the " dark round of the dripping 
wheel" stands out against the shapeless 
bulk which supports ii 

The Dannbe is oElen compared to tlie 
Rhine, and, as I have said, even in the 
flat uninteresting shores common to por- 
tions of both rivers, there is a resemblance. 
Below Cologne, however, and indeed, now- 
a-days, below Bonn, the Old Father, as the 
Pmssiana love to call him, is but little 
known to English travellers, and, conse- 
qnently, it wiirprobably not be until they 
arrive at Tbeben that they will bo reminded 
of their Rhenish experiences. At Tbeben 
there is the regulation rock and the regu- 
lation ruin, the " castled crag " dnly 
" frowning," and all the rest of the business, 
on a targe scale. There is a legend, too — be- 
trothed couple, stem parent, blighted beings, 
lover's leap— all yon can want i and thoogb 
there are now and again long intervals of 
the Purfieet pattern, there are some bits of 
surpassing grandeur, bi^er, sterner, better 
than anything the Brhine can prodnce. 
This qniet, dull-looking town, nesthng 
under the high cliff and creeping down to 
the water's edge, is Presburg, associated 
probably in the British mind with biscuits, 
but having even a higher claim to &me. 
For in the Scbloss, which once crowned the 


[U.ySI,miJ 111 

oliff) and whereof the four Trails forming 
the square outer abell still remaiD, Maria 
Theresa made her heart-pi ercing appeal to 
the Magyar nobles, reoeiving as reply the 
grer-memoable declaration, empbasUed 
with drawft and heaven-pointed blades, 
" Moriamnr pro rege nostro, Maria The- 
n«a!" (We will die for oar king, Maria 
Theresa !) Presbnrg is now such a sleepy 
place one wonders it oonld ever have 
eadnred so mnoh escitemeait. A couple of 
old womoQ we tmloading a bai^ at the 
whar$ the cracked bell of the chorch, 
which is adorned with a short spire grow- 
ing out of a gQt^enthroned cnpola, tinkles 
tuntly, a creaking cart drawn by a pair of 
uaes, and irith a young donkey rnnning 
looae alongside, crawla np the street ; and 
iB [Jd man, with a feather broom in his 
bmd, throws open one of the windows of a 
kth-honse, and gazes listlessly after as as 
we steam airay. 

The river is now so intersected with 
Irag narrow islands, so broken into difTo- 
reat channels, so drained off into divers 
onllets, themselves the size of tolerable 
rivnlets, that we find it difGcnlt to tell 
wheUier we are beJBg borne along on the 
main stream, or what conrse we shaU 
pnnna when we have ronnded the next 
headland. This pnzzling navigation reacbee 
its height at Szomy, where, after having 
dqxislted some passengers, we steam right 
across the breadth of the stream (hitherto 
■nnspected, as fully half of it is shnt away 
at this point behind a thickly wooded 
islaod), and find ourselves in front of the 
eetebroted fortress of Komom, the garrison 
of which, in 1819, nnder General Klapka, 
made snoh a gallant and successful resist- 
ance to the AustrianB, who were commanded, 
by the way, by that Marshal Haynaa who 
afterwards, while in London, paid a visit to 
Barclay and Perkins's brewery- Komom is 
said to be impregnable ; it has never yet 
iMcn taken, and if they ouly retain on the 
etahlisbmeiit thetwo trumpeters who were 
pnctising against each other in the oonrt- 
jard daring the ten minutes thai the 
atumer stopped there, I will guarantee it 
as impervious to any assault, unless under- 
taken by an army of deaf mates. Probably 
tin most " effective" view on the voyage, 
that which would most delight the artist^ 
is the first glimpse of Gran, scattered here 
and there over the rising country. Its huge 
tathedrai - crowned cliff, its poplar -lined 
avettues leading to the river, and the grand 
chain of purple hills forming the back- 
gionad of the scene. The excellent Bce- 

deker, following Flaellen'a line ofturga- 
meot in the Mooedon and Monmouth 
matter, compares the Gran Cathedral with 
SL Peter's, on the principle, I sappose, that 
each has a dome and a portico. Neverthe- 
less, the Gran Cathedral is very fine both 
in its site and its architecture. The river, 
taking a sweep here, remains at an enor- 
mous width until our goal is gtuned. Only 
one more romantic spot, the ruins of the 
Castle of Wiesengrad is passed, then the 
banks on either side become flatter. The 
mills and rafts (k« here QDmerous, so are 
the tag-boats, each conveying a fleet of 
barges against the stream, . each officered 
by beantifol bein^ in geld-laoed caps, 
which they poll ofi" in salute to oar officers 
who return the compUmeiris unbd finally 
the helmsmen in each let go their wheels 
thai their greetings may be eourteously in- 
terchanged. Now two or three tall ohimneys, 
a huge rortresB-covered mountain inthecUs- 
tanoe, on its side a complete town of white- 
&ced hooses, immediately opposite to it a 
quay lined with large and handsome palaoes. 
The steamer passes under a fee-simile of 
the Hammersmith suspension- bridge (the 
two were bmlt by the same engineer), and 
makes for its wharf, and five minutes 
aflerwards we step ashore and ent«r the 
capital of Magyusund. 


At midnight, on the ere of Saint John, 
so the story goes, a w^rd prooesston of 
gaunt fiery-^ed hounds, with blood be- 
sprinkled sides, sweeps through the long 
dark lanes about Dartmoor, until at a blast 
from their black master's horn they sink 
into the earth. These are the Wish, Telk, 
Yell, or Heath-honnds, supposed by some to 
be the spirits of nnbaptised children. Often 
heard by night-walkers, the dt^s of dark- 
ness are occasionally seen, careering across 
the moors in hot puienit of some lost spirit, 
doomed for earthly sin to be hunted for 
ever by the demon pack. 

Still u Uw tnTaller pnnaa bii Ion* mj. 

In honor ti night o'a the «uta, 
Ba hau« Bit Tr^Hgle «ith Arieka rmik away. 
He bean the Blink Hunl«r punuing hia praj. 

And ibiinki at fail hugle'i dread bloat. 

Sometimes the qaarry is the spirit of a 
heaotifnl woman in the shape of a hare. 
Once it was that of Sir Francis Drake, 
driving a hearse drawn by headless steeds, 
on which occasion the dogs too left their 
heads behind tham. Although spirits are 

112 Ill«y»l,18Tl.) 



their ordinary game, tlie ghostly hoandB 
now and again hunt less shadowy prey- 
One windy night, a poor herdsman, hnny- 
ing home acxoaa the moore, with a three- 
mile tramp befure him, heard alar off the 
horrid baying of the devil's pack. Fear 
gave new rigonr to his weary legs, bat 
nearer and nearer came the sonnd of the 
hnnter's holloa and the yelping of his 
honnds. Casting a scared glajice behiad, 
the herdsman beheld a tall, homed, tailed, 
black figure bearing a long hanting-pole 
in his clawed hand. The gronnd was black 
with dogs snorting fire. So place of re- 
fage was nigh, and the nnlacl^ wayfarer, 
giving himself np for lost, already felt the 
mngs of the dandy-dogs in his fiesh. Just 
as the pack, snre of their victim, mshed 
open-monthed towards him, the herdsmao, 
inspired by a sndden thought, dropped on 
his knees, and piuyed as he never prayed 
before. Tbehonnds, stayed as if by magto, 
stood at bay, as though confronted l^-a 
foe, howling most dismally. Suddenly the 
Black Hnnter shon ted, "Bo shrove!" the 
ancient vemacalar for " the boy praya," 
and he and his dandy-dogs vanished on the 
instant^ to the rehef of the herdsman. 

Dandy-dog seems an odd synonym for 
hell-honnd, bat there is meaning in it. 
Dando, a priest attached to the old prioiy 
chnrch of St. Qermans, was a priest of the 
Tack order ; free with indulgences, easy at 
confessional, and as ardent a lover cf manly 
exercises as a modem athlete. He was a 
mighty hnnter in the land, who wonld 
never ware wheat or anything else. As 
he grew older his love of hnntang grew 
stronger ; he was ever in the sadSe, and 
neither he nor his hounds kept sabbath. 
One Sunday, after a splendid ran on the 
Earth lands, Dando, having emptied even 
flask at his command withoat allaying hia 
thirst, swore he must have more iMnk, 
telling his men if they conld not get any 
on earth, to go to hell for it! Aa he 
uttered the profane pan, a well-dressed 
gentleman, pressing forward, preferred his 
flask and oade Uie priest drink deep. 
Dando drank with a will, andaa he returned 
the flask, asked, " Do the gods drink such 
nectar p" " Devils do," was the response. 
" I wish I were one then," exclaimed the 
rash man. In a moment, the stranger 
seized him by the neck, flnng him in front 
of him, and spurring hia jet-black steed, 
^Iloped down the hill, the honnds follow- 
mg close at his heela ; a general leap in 
the Lynke, a splash, a blaze, a boiling of 
thewat«rs,andall werelosttosight. Dando 
was never seen again, bnt his dogs may 

still be heard in fnll cry eariy on Sunday 
mornings. In St. Teath the dandy-dogs 
are called Cheney's hounds, after a dead 
squire, in whom Uie ruling passion was so 
strong, that thongh he has been hnried 
many a year, he still hnnta the conutry 
with a spectral pack, aa regularly as he 
was wont to hunt it in the flesh, with iogi 
of earthly mould. 

When the stormy winds do blow amoog 
his mountains, the Welsh peaaant listena 
for the cry of the Cron Annwn — big black 
hounds with eyes and teeth of fire, accord- 
ing to hia account; but those who should 
know better describe the dogs of AoDira 
as canine beauties, boasting clear, glosfff, 
white coats and rod ears — " a mystiotl 
transformation of the Druids with their 
white robes and red tiaras." Black or 
white, their mission is to hant the spirits 
of the dead, and let the world know by 
their howling that some nan of evil deeds 
has nearly run his race here, and will booh 
be running one in air at which they will 
asaiat TheWelahDmidioal doga are akin 
to the "Gabriel'a Hounds" of Stafford- 
shire and Yorkshire, " doomed, with their 
impious lord, to chase the flying hart for 
ever" through the realms of air. "I, too, 
once," sings a Sheffield poet: 
At midnight duk, 

The sky-yelpers being, in fact, simply in- 
nocent wild geese bound on their annual 
excursion beyond seas. " Ton will hear 
them coming," says Captain Hawker, " like 
a pack of honnds in fnll cry." 

The wild-goose theory, however, feils to 
explain the existence of hell-hounds like 
that through which the Aylesbury miUc- 
dealer came to grief. This ill-nsed indi- 
vidnal, going one summer night to milk 
his cows in the field, found the gap in tie 
hedge threugh which he was accnstomed 
to pass filled by a black creature, resolving 
itself, upon nearer view, into a great dog, 
endentlv bent upon disputing his right of 
vray. The animal looked so well able to 
do so, that, declining the challenge, the 
milkman left him master of the position, 
and sought a less dangerous path. Thencit 
night it was the same, and the neit, 
and the next; the brute was never off 
guard. The milkman did not care to try 
conclusions with his tormentor, not being 
of Smallbones's opinion that if the dog was 
one of the devil's impa it was hia dnty as 

CbMtai Dlckem.) 


tB.J»l,lSTl.l 113 

a Christiait to oppoBe him, although there 
was no "if" in the dog-hannted Eoan's 
mind. One evening, happening to have a 
friend with him, the man of milk plncked 
np his coomge, and determined, dog or no 
dog, not to be barred from his short cut, 
wjthont a tnssle for it. He foand the foe 
waiting, looking uglier, bigger, fiercer than 
ever; bnt down went his pails, npwenthia 
yoke — to descend, deaving the air, and 
the air only. The dog vaniahed, leaving bis 
assailant stretched senseless on the ground ; 
not dead, indeed, but worse than dead. He 
had lost the use of his limbs aud his 
tongue, and never walked or talked after- 

The ancient Castle of Peel, in the lale of 
Man, was once hannted by a spectre spaniel 
of most unspaniel-like dimensions, which, 
being of a sociable tnm, used to oome into 
the gnard-room with the lights and keep 
the soldiers there company. His presence 
did them no harm, for, so long as his black 
body, or semblance of a body, was in front 
of the fire, his companions were careful to 
keep their conversation clean, and let their 
favouriteoathsremainnnaired. Accustomed 
as they grew to their ghostly visitor, not one 
bad sufficient confidence in his good inten- 
tions to remain alone with bim ; and as the 
Ifanthe Dog came out of the passage lead- 
ing from the gnard-room to the captain's 
quarters, about the time when the castle 
keys were taken to the officer in command, 
a comrade always went with Qte man to 
whom that duty fell. One night, asoldier, 
rendered bold by an eitra glass or two, 
swore he would carry in the keys by him- 
self, and if the creature followed him, 
would see whether he wore dog or devil. 
Deaf to all remonstrance, the pot-vahant 
fellow snatched up the keys and went on 
his errand. By-and-bye, a terriUe noise 
greeted the horrified ears of the expectant 
listeners, bnt none were biave enough to 
dare the dangers of the passage. At last, 
the soldier returned, sober enongh now, 
and all waited impatiently for an explana- 
tion of the mystorions uproar. Tbcy waii^d 
in vain. The man was stricken dumb, and 
in three days died " in agonies more than 
is common to a nat&ral death." 

Some yeare ago— we would be more pre- 
cise if we conld — a Dorsetshire former 
tackled a dog-fiend to more profitable 
purpose. This lucky man lived within a 
mile or so of Lyme B^is, and coming 
home one evening, was abont, according to 
his custom, to take bis seat in the chim- 
ney corner, when he becanie aware that 
the opposite seat was occupied by a strange 

black dog, Beemingly quite at home there. 
He did not disturb his new acquaintance, 
and the dc^ became a regular nightly 
visitor, and as he ate nothing, drank 
nothing, and interfered with nobody, the 
farmer was deaf to all inhospitable sug- 
gestions. This, however, was attributed 
by his advisers to cowardice rather than 
kindliness, and t^ey lost no opportunities 
of hinting as much ; until one night, afler a 
drinking bout, made savage by the " chaff " 
of his friends, he went home resolved to 
f^ve his black lodger notice to quit. As 
usual, l^e intruder, all unconscious of his 
host's altered sentiments, lay coiled np by 
the fireside. The &rmer seized the poker, 
but the object of his wrath was off the 
seat ere he could strike. Away went dog, 
and away went man, racing np-stairs and 
through passages. The dog, inaking good 
use of his start, reached the top of the house 
first, mfihed into an attic, paused a mo- 
ment for a spring, and vanished through 
the root. As he disappeared, his baffied 
porener aimed a desjperate blow at him, 
resulting in a down&ll of plaster and 
something beside i for when the farmer 
cleared the dust from his eyes, he saw at 
his feet a small oaken box, which being 
<^ned was found to be full of gold and 
silver money bearing the effigy of King 
Charles the First. Having thus honour- 
al>ly paid for the temporary accommodation 
vouchsafed to him, the mysterious dog nevei- 
£axed the farmer's patience again. He did 
not, like his Manx brother, vanish al- 
together from human ken, but still prowled 
ronnd the farm at night. He was on Ate same 
beat some sixteen years back, for a woman, 
described as a sober-minded, intelligent, 
jadieious mab>m, going through a lane in 
the neighbourhood, saw a fiery-eyed, shaggy 
black d<^, as big as a young calf. As it 
passed by her it made the air cold and daak, 
and then, growing l)igger and bigger as it 
went, became as high as the trees by the 
wayside, till, swelling into a large cloud, it 
disappeared in the air. This awful appa- 
rition was only visible to the aforesaid in- 
telligent woman ; her husband, trudging 
^ong by her side, seeing nothing but a fog 
coming np from the sea. 

In Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, a dog- 
fiend known as Shuck haunts lonely church- 
yards for some inscrutable purpose. Lan- 
cashire lads call a like creature Trash and 
Shriker, giving it the first name in imita- 
tion of the noise it makes in traveling-— a 
noise resembling titat made by a heavily- 
shod walker on a miry road, and the second 
in imitation of the pecnliar shrill yell with 

114 nuyn,iwi-i 



which it warns the bearer of theapproach- 
iDg death of BOine near relative or dear 
fiieDd. Further norti it goee by thename 
of Bari^est. One Billy B. made Bargeet's 
acquaintance as he walked home &onl 
Grassington one moonlight night. Billy 
was in the happy oondition of BamB'e im- 
mortal brewer of a peck o* rnant, not " fon" 
bat JDst "a wee drappie in his e'e," and, 
therefore, not easily frightened. Ab he 
was poshing down a dark lane, aomething 
brosbed fay him ; be heard the clanking of 
chains, bat seeing nothing he knew it wae 
^e Bargest, and hurried on towards the 
bridge, thinking there to part company, as 
the demon d<^ was supposed to be nnable to 
croBs mnniag water. To Billy's aetonish- 
ment and dismay, be beard the " bmsh, 
bmsb, bmsh," with its clanking acoompani- 
mentjjast ahead of him when he had passed 
over the bridge, and as the moon peeped 
from behind a clond, caught a glimpse of 
a blaek taiL Billy quickened his steps, and 
was soon home. " When I gat to t' door," 
said he, " there war a grit thing like a 
sheep, bnt it was larger, ligging across t' 
threshold of t' door, and it war woolly like, 
and says T, ' Git np,' bnt it wonldn't git np. 
Then saysl, ' Stir tbysel',' and it wouldn't 
stir iteel'; and I grewTaliant, and I raised 
t' stick to baste it wi', and then it Iniked 
at me ! and sich oies they did glower, and 
war as big as saroera, and like a cmelled 
ball. First there war a red ring, then a 
bine one, then a white one, and the rings 
grew less and less, till they oame to a dot. 
Now I war none feer'd on t, thongh it 
grinned at me fearfully, and I kept on say. 
mg ' Git np,' and ' Stir tbyael',' and t' wife 
heerd as how I war at t' dore, and she came 
to oppeu it, and then the thing gat up, and 
walked off, for it war mare ireet'd o' t' wife 
tlian it war o' tn6; and I told t' wife, and 
she said it war Bargest ; bat I never seed it 

A writer in the Book of Days says the 
black dog is still a dreaded bogy in Hert- 
fordshire. Some three miles from Tring, a 
poor old woman, suspected of being a witch, 
was, in 1751, killed by the water test A 
chimney-sweep, who was ^e principal per- 
petrator of the deed, was banged and 
gibbeted near the place where the murder 
was committed. While the gibbet stood, 
and long after it bad disappeared, the spot 
was faaantcd by a black dog. It was seen 
by the Tillage schoolmaster not many years 
ago. "I was returning home," said he, 
"lateat night in a gig with the person who 
was driving. When we came near the 
spot^ where a portion of the gibbet had 

lately stood, we saw on the hank of the 
roadside, along which a narrow brook or 
ditch runs, a gleam of fire as large a man's 
hat. ' What's that ?' I ejclaimed. 'Hist,' 
said my companion, all in a tremble, and, 
suddenly pulling in bis horse, made a dead 
stop. I tlien saw an immmise black dog 
lying on Uieroad jost in front of our hone, 
which iqtpeared trembling with fright 
The dog was the strangest-looking creaton 
I ever bdield. He was as big as a New- 
foondland, bnt very gaont, shaggy, with 
long ears and tail, eyes like balls of fiie, 
and large long teeth, for he opened his 
month, and seemed to grin at us. He 
looked more like a fiend than a dc^, 
and I trembled as mncb as my com- 
panion. In a few minntes the dog disap- 
peared, seeming to vanish like a shadow, 
or to sink into the earth, and we drove on 
over the spot where he had lain." A 
similar apparition much tronhled tlie mind 
of a Cornish blacksmith some twoyeare 
since, by persisting in keeping nightly 
watch outside a honse wherein lay a Eict 
man, with whom the blacksmith sat up o 
nights. Following tho advice of a white 
witch, the blacksmith charged a gnu with 
broken fbnrponny pieces, and took fincJi 
good aim at the beast, that he blew it 
whence it came, for not aa animal atom 
was to be fonnd in the morning, and the 
creature was never seen more. 

A rarer species of spectral honnd is that 
animated by the sonl of some man oi' 
woman condemned to the performance of 
everlasting penance in canine gnise, in ex- 
piation of wickedness wroagl^ when they 
walked the eartli in hnmaa shape. The 
Hound's Pool, at Dean's Prior, Devon, 
takes its name from its being haunted by a 
hapless creature of the kind. Once upon a 
time, a man named Enowles, fiunoDs for 
his skill as a weaver, dwelt in tiie hamlet 
of Dean Combe. After a long, hard-work- 
ing life, he died, and was bnried ; hut the 
morning after his body had been laid m 
the chnrchyard, he was sitting, as nsosl, 
at the loom. Not knowing what to do in 
such a case, his son set off to the vicarsge, 
and told his strange tale there. Equal to Lh^ 
occasion, the vicar hutried to the house, and 
ordered the spirit to come down to him, 
which, after a little demur, it did, to rfr 
oeive in its fiice a handful of chnrcliyMd 
mould, and became instantly changed into 
black hound. Still obedient to tho p^ 
-jn's command, the phantom dog follows" 
him into the wood, nntil they reached a 
pool beneath a waterfall. Taking np a 
nutshell with a hole in it, the vicar *»">■ 



riiw»i,i»iM 115 

"Take this ehell, and 'when thon shalt 
have dipped ont the pool, ihon maj'st 
rest — not before !" and at mid-day or mid- 
mght, those who have eyes to see Bmch nn- 
earthly sprites may behold the transformed 
weaver at bis hopeless task. What jioor 
Koowles had done to merit go merciless a 
Eenl«nce tradition does not ronchsafe to say. 
We are left equally in the dark as to 
why a similar frightfiil example was made 
of Lady Howard, a Devonshire beauty of 
the days of James the First, nnlesB the 
SuA of her having had fonr hnsbands justi- 
fied bet being tranafonned into a dog, 
doomed to run between midnight and 
cockcrow, from the gateway of Fitzford to 
Okehampton Park, retuTuing whence she 
Etarted with a single blade o{ grass in her 
month, and repeating the jonmey night 
after night, nntil there was not a blade of 
grass left for her to glean, when the world 
and her work would end together. A lady 
told Urs. Bniy she had seen the bound 
start on her nightly trip, and Mrs. Bray 
did not donbt it, for her fether-in-law 
rented Fitzford, and kept a pack of hounds 
tfaere, and she divined her informant had 
seen a honnd slip away from the kennel at 
the midnight hour. The legend has not yet 
ontUved belief. The grass still grows in 
Okehamptoa Park, and promises to find 
the lady-hound in employment foe many a 
year to oome. 

In Six 
chapter 1. love ! 
I HiVE resided for many years in Sicily, 

and have become welt acquainted with its 

therefore vouch for the 
tmth of the following narrative. 

Tommaso, or, as he was commonly called, 
Uaeo Mari, farmed a small bit of land in 
the neighboorhood of Mela, forty leagues 
seaward from Patemo, the ancient Hybla. 
On this land was a gloomy-looking tene- 
ment, half tower, half farm-honse, called 
Torre Mela. The Mari had lived there for 
Bii hundred years A Mari had always 
lived on the forre Arsa lands, since the 
Lords of the Burnt Tower owned them. 
This is not unusual in Italy. For eight 
hundred years the B,icasoli name is con- 
nected with every page of Tuscan history, 
and on the lands belonging to the Ricasoli 
are families who have dwelt there as con- 
tadini (peasanta) for eight hundred years. 

The Mari were not, however, contadini. 
The land and the old house were their own. 

Two sides of the old bouse were broken 
into irregnlar slits by a few narrow, nn- 
gtazed, barred windows, the other two were 
close against the rock. 

Maso Mari was a grave, tall, silent Sici- 
lian, with an almost Spanish dignity of 
mien. He never used a word where a ges- 
ture might serve the purpose, nor a gesture 
if a look was likely to be nnderatood. Be 
had no reason, however, for being so serious 
and taciturn. ' He was the husband of the 
handsomest, tfae most industrious, the 
sweetest^-tompered woman in Bioily, and 
the father of tlie prettiest girl in the whole 
district. He had fonr healthy younger 
children, and was universally respected. 
There was a gap of four years between 
Luoia the eldest girl, and Biomira the next; 
then come Menica and two boys. The 
youngest of these was a laaghing, rosy- 
cheeked moi%el, not a twelvemonth old. 

It is dif&ault to explain why one child 
is preferred before another, but whatever 
might be the oaiHe, Lucia was Maeo's 
dariing. He absolut^y doted on her. Per- 
haps it was because she had a certain 
fswn-hke, delicate beauty, qnite diSerout 
from her robuster, more healthily developed 
brothers and sisters. 

Rosa, Maso's wife, was &ir (the golden 
fairness of southern climes), her hair was a 
bright anbum, and her figure was grandly 
proportioned and ample. Her face wore the 
calm serenity, and her eyes had the loving 
depth which seem ever to belong to our 
ideal of maternity. Lucia was palo as a 
primrose, with timid dusky eyes of chang- 
ing coloor, and a fragile, graceful figure 
slight as the tendril of a vine. Lucia was 
sixteen, and when mother and daughter 
were seen together, they might have been 
mistaken for Ceres and Proserpine, tread- 
ing once more the enchanted fields of 

The most indulgent fathers are, how- 
ever, invariably h(u«h on one snbject. A 
danghter's lover is always a bSte noire to 
her &tber. Beside all the natural fears 
common to both parents, in such a case, 
there surges in a father's heart a doubt, 
bom of the knowledge which man has of 
man, whether the masculine creature to 
whom his g^rl is about to give herself is 
worthy of the boon. 

"Rosa," said Maso one sultry Sunday 
evening, as he smoked his pipe under the 
vine-adorned porch of their home, while 
she was busy with her household duties 
within, " did you notice the man who offered 
holy water to Lncia at the door of our 
chapel this morning ?" 


110 pi*jn,im.] 


" Ko ; who was it P" and Rosa oame out 
snd stood beside him for a moment, quite 
enrprised at so long an address from her 
usnally silent husband. 

But Uaso had relapsed into his habitual 
taciturnity, and after a pause, finding he 
said no more, Bosa retamed to her work. 

Bat the nnauswered question remained 
like a sting in Maso's mind, and as he 
went to his work on Monday morning 
(Maso wasawood-carrer as well aa farmer) 
it returned again and again to him. Lucia 
had blushed as her fingers touched those 
of the man who had offered her the holy 
water .... and the man was Antonio 

Antonio, or Tonino, as he was usnaltv 
called, was a profligate, idle fellow, with 
no ostensible means of livelihood. His 
uncle was a silk-weaver at Messina, who 
had property at Torre Mela, and came to 
receive his rents and make purchases in 
raw eilk twice a year, Tonino was always 
absent during these visits, and rumours 
were afloat that he had twice joined a band of 
brigands, but though feared and suspected, 
no actual proofs had been brought against 

In person he was sleek, handsome, aud 
powerful. His eyes were dark and fine, 
with at times a velvety so^ess in their 
expression, which made him irresistible to 
the maidens of Torre Mela. 

Maso had never spoken to him in bis 
life, and it was a marvel to the tender 
&ther how his darling could have become 
acquainted with the rascal. 

He thought of all this on the Monday 
morning as he went to his work. At this 
time he was employed in repairing the 
screen of the old village church of Torre 
Mela. The village consisted of one street, 
long and steep, and sloping upwards to the 
church. In a large open loggia (balcony) 
on the right hand of the street, Maso saw a 
group of girls laughing, and talking, and 
working. It was the house of the village 
dressmaJcer, and these girls were her pnpd^ 
and apprentices. Among those assembled 
this morning in the loggia, was Lucia. She 
smiled when she saw her father, and made 
the usual Italian gesture of salute. This 
salute consists in mising the hand, with 
the palm turned inwards and bending all 
the fingers several times with a quick mo- 
tion towards it. Maso nodded to her and 
passed on. In a minute or two he looked 
back. What dark head was that wliich had 
joBt raised itself from a stooping posture 
in the window of the next house to Gem- 
ma's (the dressmaker's), a window which 

looked right on the lo^a? He remem. 
bered, with a sudden flash of memory, that 
that house belonged to the elder Togheri. 
and that Tonino lived in it in his ulcIb's 

Maso understood it all now. For the 
last few weeks Lucia had risen to go to 
her work with unusual alacrity, and had 
of^ returned home late. And this vu 
the reason I He ground his teeth His 
own little darling, his Lucia, had listened 
to the rascal. He must be very firm with 
her, and forbid her even to look at Tonioo 
again. He would forfeit the money he had 

Eid to Oemma for her teaching, and would 
ep her at homo with her mother. 

As he walked on, he gave another glance ; 
all the bright heads of bnuded hair were 
bent over their work, but beneath the great 
terra>cotta vases of balsam flowers he saw a 
mEtscnline figure stiU sbaoding at an open 
window, and talking earnestly. Maso ooold 
not suppress an exclamation which was 
very like a curse. 

What was to be done ? Maso was a slow 
man. Thought and action were separated 
by a wide interval with him, and be coald 
not make up his mmd at once. 

At the summit of the village street waa 
a flight of stfips, which led to a grassy 
platform, on which the church was rwsed 
still higher, by a break-neck stone stair- 

By the time Maso entered the church be 
made up his mind to speak to Bosa that 
very night, aud to insist that Lnria should 
remain at homo for the nest few weeks at 
least. He crossed himself as he passed in 
front of the high altar, and putting down 
his basket of tools, commenced his work. 

But the fine olive-wood carving he iras 
repairing was too comphcated and artisttc 
a work to be executed mechanically, and 
the screen did not progress this morning- 
He hod to ronse himself several times from 
a kind of waking dream, and relapsed 
again to sit open-eyed and motionless, his 
thoughts busy with Lucia, 

How inexorable was time. It se^ed 
but yesterday she was a toddling child, 
smiling at her mother's breast, or springing 
from her arms to'hia, and now she was a 
girl, with all a girl's loveliness. AU tliat 
world of emotions and desires which sepa- 
rate a child from a parent was now at work 
in her heart. He ground his teeth again 
and almost called out, so sharp was the 

While he was thus sitting idle and ab- 
sorbed in thonght, a shadow fell on tbo 
basement of the church, and the village 



ii.mi.] 117 

priest, who had been watcbing bim for a 
minnt« or two from the door of the eacrisfy, 
came forward and spoke to him. 

" Well, Maso, what are yon frowmng at, 
this BQmmer morning ?" 

" Oh ! reverend issimo, pardon me, I did 
not Bee you." 

" I have only come in this moment." 

" What a anltry day." 

" Tea, it is lumsnally hot." 

" Scirocco worse than ever this year ; 
vine disease ; grain koocked to pieces by 
wind and rain ; a bad year, a bad year, 
mattered Maso. 

" Maso!" and the good- ha monred- look- 
ing priest stared at him in nnfeigned asto- 

" What will become of tis ? heavier taxes, 
poorer harveBta ; conscription ; the country 
la cnrsed."' 

** Yes, the old state of tbings was better 
if yon all had had the good sense to believe 

" I wish " and here Maso gave a 

groan, and stopped short. 

" Yet you were one of the most forward 
at the time to pat np the tricolour flag and 
cry Viva Garibaldi — mbre's the pity ; well, 
grambling only makes one thirsty, and 
these new-bngted constitntions and govem- 
mente will not do mnch to alter the Regno 
in my time. Two steps forward and one 
and a half backwards, like Lilla's mnle ; 
and what with the brigands and the de- 
serters, who will not bo made soldiers 
against their will, and those who will not 
pay taxes on all they eat and drink, and 
are clothed with . . . . ah, ah ! there 
is tronble onongb before them to make 
them wish a thousand times a day they 
liad never touched this prickly pear of a 

The garralona old man pansed to draw 
breath, and became aware that hie auditor 
was inattentive. 

" What ails you, Kaso mio ; yon have 
something on your mind — are not the chil> 
dren well ?" 

" Yes, please your reverence." 

" Rosa? Lucia?" 

The start Maso gave at the last name 
fold the priest that the cause of Maso's 
clonded brow was Lncia. 

" Is not Lucia well ? — she is always very 

" She is quite well, at least I hope so," 
and Haso crossed himself. The Sicilian 
or Neapolitan has always a superstitions 
fear that to pronounce any ono well, is 
flying in the fece of Providence, and will 
immediately bring down some misfortune 

on the person who has been presumptuously 
declared " welL" 

Well, she's a pretty ragazzina. I al- 
ways feared she would slip through your 
Cngers, she looks so fragile, and Rosa told 
me, the German medico at Messina, to 
whom you took her when she was twelve 
years old, said that there was something 
wrong about her lungs, or the formation 
of her heart ; that any grief would kill her 
at once, like a flower beaten down by the 
wind. I am glad she is stronger now. 
Ohim&l that was four years ^o— how time 
passes ; how these young things shoot up 
like the stalks of the Gran Tnrco, to-day so 
high, to-morrow as taU as one's shoulder. 
Have yon any sposo for her P" 

Maso looked blankly at the priest at first, 
and then tnmed fkim him. Tins acceptance 
by another of the &ct that Lucia bad at- 
tained the age in which love and lovers 
and marri^ewere recognised as inevitable. 
Was galling in the extreme to him. 

" For my part," continued the priest, 
somewhat jocularly, "I have had ray eyes 
open lately, and I think that scamp Tonino 
is " 

This was too much, Maso started up 
with an oath, and the delicate annnnciation 
lily he was carving broke off and fell at 
his feet. Alan ! was it an omen p He re- 
membered it afterwards. 

"Tdl me, Don Luigi," he exclaimed, 
" tell me, if yon know anything about it. 
Tonino is a miscreant, a blackguard, and 
I would kill him rather than he should even 
think of Lucia." 

" Pet, pet, my son, not so fest or so loud j 
think where you are; he is all you say, 
but ho has a way girls like. Lucia is not 
the first — they lie his soft words and 
bright eyee." 

" He has no mestiere, no occupation, not 
a grano he can call his own ; besides it is 
said he belongs f» Crocchio's band " 

" Be quiet, Maso; a lond voice and an 
oath never did any good yet. I will help 
yon to prevent this. It would be a scandal 
if the gentlest l&mb in my flock should be 
the portion of that black-hearted vaga- 
bond" — he crossed himself. " It is not be- 
coming, however, to the habit I wear to 
speak thus. One word from me to the 
syndic would settle his business." 

" I do not wish him to be denounced," 
said Maso, gravely. 

" A word to Tonino from me or from 
yon, just a hint that the soldiers are on his 
track, would send him away for months, 
during which your pretty Lucia would find 
a better busbuid." 

118 [M.7M,18JS.: 



MoBO shook his head, and took up his 
vork. The priest took another long pinch 
of annff, and Uaso mminated in his bovine 
w^. He was stiffering like an animal 
enfiers, withont the least notion how to 
better his condition, bat impatient^ despe- 
rately impatient, against it. 

■The two methods the priest spoke of 
were eqnally objectionahle to him. All 
lay-Italiana have a rooted horror of justice 
and tnbnnals, and all the paraphernalia of 
law. The old hatred against spies and 
informers, which preyailed nnder despotic 
governments, ia as fierce and nnreasoning 
as ever in their hearts. 

" Well, my son, shall I warn him to go, 
or shall I speak to the syndic ? His appear- 
anoea and diBappearanceB, the accurate in- 
formation which the hands of Crocchio aod 
of Satanicohio possess of all the doings of 
the possedenti of Torre Mela, have aronsed 
great snspicion against him — a word wonld 
be enongh." 

" He mnst go, bnt do not deuonnce 

As he nttered the last two words " de- 
nounce him," the leather curtain which 
hang before the door of the chapel moved, 
and a iace looked in. 

The priest and Maso iaced the altar and 
did not see the intruder. It wss Tonino. 
He dropped the cnrtain ^;ain, and his face 
was livid as he nttered the words, " Will 
he dare to denonnce me when he hears 
Lucia loves me." 


Mabo went home at sonaet. He avoided 
the street where he bad been hart by the 
eight of Imcia and Tonino, and made a 
detoar by the fields. He wished to see 
Rosa before he spoke to Lucia. In all the 
business of life she was his oracle. He 
would touch his forehead and say, " Uy 
wife has the Ivuns. I always do as she 
tells me : she knows all about it. I take 
pensiero about nothing bat the fields and 
orchard, and my carpenter's work. Women 
cannot understand mose." He adjusted the 
scale of masculine superiority by this pro- 
viso, bat in all else he was implicitly obe- 
dient to Rosa. It was a burning breathless 
evening, and the motionless com stood in 
long yellow carves down the elope firom 
the village to his house. The vines were 
as nsnal festooned from tree to tree^ but 
the leaves looked wilted and discoloared, 
and the grates were diseased, the bees 
were silent, the cicale dumb, and as he 
walked along, there seemed in outward 


added unconsciously to his own gloom. He 
knew how destructively fatal to the harvest 
were those aouth-west storms so common 
to Italy at this season, and he had a feeling 
that the doomed landscape before him bore 
a resemblance to his own impending fate. 

He made baste, for he was impatient to 
get to Rosa. Two words wonld tell her 
what he suspected; what he feared. She 
understood him thoroughly, she compre- 
hended his very silences, and above all she 
wonld not be afraid to speak to Lucia, u 
he acknowledged to himself he was. He 
knew his own weakness. He would be too 
yielding or too angry. As he walked on 
his attention was roused by a voice singing 
the end of that fevonrite song of the soat^ 
Santa Lucia ! He looked, and some way 
in advance, but considerably below the 
height on which he stood, he saw the lithe 
form of Tonino Voghera. Beside him ww 

They must have entered the road by a 

'-jHith from the village. 

lovers — ah ! could he doubt it now 
'alked on in advance. Lucia's head was 
drooping, and her step was veiy slow. 
Toniuo bent fondly over her as he walked. 
He was evidently triumphant. Sometimes 
he whistled, sometimes he sang. 

Maso gazed at them for a minute or two 
in a dazed, speechless way, and then he 
trod down the path and soon overtook the 
loitering pair. 

Lncia turned round at the voice. She 
saw her &ther close to her, with a &ce 
convulsed with anger. She gave a faint 
cry. He took her t^d with an impetnons 
grasp aa if he was snatching bar from 
the fire. 

" Come home to your mother." 

Tofiino was startled for one moment, bnt 
only for one. 

" Is it you, Maso ? Ton m^ early— bnt 
as yon are here let us all walk together. 

" Which is your way P" 

" I was going to see you." 

" You need not." He set him aside anil 
placed himself between Toniuo and his 
daughter. Lucia trembled from head to 
foot, and shrank away from her father. 
Tonino paused. 

"Go i" said Maso in a thundering voice, 
and he moved on rapidly, still clutching 
his daughter. 

Tonino strode after him, " What do you 
mean ?" he said with an oath. " Who are 
you, to bid me go or stay ? If it were not 
that I loved Lucia, you should topont yonr 


[Mar 31, 18 



I ehall not go, I tell yon." 

The veins etood ont on Maso'a forehead 
like cords. His lips were pale with rage. 
He looked as dangerooa as &n infariated 
boil goaded by the arrows of the picadores. 

"Why shonld I not walk with your 
dw^fer? Why ahonld I not love her?" 
And he folded Lis arms and made a step 
fonrard, and passing in front of them, stood 
in the path. 

Whh a cry of tairor Lacia iell on her 

"Were it not that I love her, and that 
»he is your child, I would till you where 
j<n stand, traitor and spy that yon are" — 
lie drew a Icnife bam hia belt — "yon who 
plot with prieets, damn them, to denounce 
better men than yourself." 

A torrent of abase fell from Tonino's 
lipa. He was flnent and fonl-monthed, 
■oereas Maao's indignation well-nigh 
choked him. He was habitually silent, hat 
excess of rage made him abaolntely dnmb. 

"Go," he repeated with coavtilBed lips 
sod a chokinf; voice. 

Suddenly, partly from impudent bravado, 
partly from the irresistible force of her 
attraction for hitn, Tonino turned to Lnoia. 

" Choose between ns," he said. " I love 
jon, I ask yon' to be my wife — and yonr 
&tlier insdlts me, reviles me, as if I were a 
male&ctor, a thief, a brigand." 

"No, no," sobbed Lncia. 

"Brigand," gasped Maao," yon have said 
ii I need not denonnce yon, for yon are 
BDgpected already ; the soldjers are on your 

At the word "soldiers," Tonino started 
and tnrned pale. He stepped aside uid 
itammered, " Liar, yon slander me, because 
before her my hands are tied. Addio, 
Locia, anima mia, we shall meet again." 
And before |JiIaso coald prevent him, ho 
pressed her passionately to his heart, and 
then, before another word was spoken, he 
ttmck into a foot-path which skirted the 
read in a direction opposite the village, and 
was ont of sight in a moment.- 

Maso stared after him. He had used the 
words at random, in his &enzy of rage, 
bat Tonino's prompt retreat had joatified 
bis worst sospioions. 

He raised Lucia to her feet. She was 
crying convnlsiydy. He put her hand in 
hia tenderly and they walked on in sileaco. 
When they reached the house, Bosa was 
standing a little in advance of the thres- 
hold, looking ont for them, shading her 
eyes with one hand while she held on the 
other arm her baby, a strong, healthy, 

brown, half-naked infant, with bnsy fingers 
and chubby fists, playingwith his mother's 
hair. The other boy, a child about two 
years, was dragging at her skirt. 

So she stood waiting for Maso and Lucia, 
as she had stood hundreds of times before, 
but as, alas ! she was never to stand ^ain 1 

Something in the Gt«p of both, and in 
the attil;nde of Locia, seemed to strike her 
with surprise. She made a step forward 
as if to meet them, and then retreated, and 
tnming into the kitchen began preparing 
the simple meal. Something was wrong 
she was snre, and she conld hear bad news 
better on her own hearth. 

When they entered, she saw that Lucia's 
cheeks were stained and her eyes swelled 
with tears. 

" Whatisit, mysonl? Maso, whatisthe 
matter P" 

Maso looked very unhappy, and as Lucia 
felt her mother's cool cheek pressed to hers, 
and her tender arms round her, sha sobbed 

" There, there," said Boea, soothingly, 
"you are tired. Lucia, go and cool those 
hot cheeks, my child." She released the 
girl from her embmoe and began busying 
herself with the other children ; Lucia went 
up to her own little room, Maso sat down 
at the table, leaning his head on bia hand, 
while BoBo, taking the baby ^aia in her 
arms, gave him his soup and attended to 

Lucia did not return, but her mother 
waited patiently to hear what had hap- 
pened, till her loved ernes <^ose to tell bor. 
Whatever it was, they were with her. It 
coald not therefore be any unendurable 

She put the children to bed. The little 
boys sbpt with her ; the little girls who 
were older, slept in a windowless closet 
opening out of her room. 

A tiny chamber on the landing-place was 
Lucia's, It was used partly as a store- 
rooni ; strings of yellow maize bung from 
the raftora; a barrel of oil stood up in a 
corner, and on it were paper trays of figs 
cut open and left to dry. A vine grew 
outside the window, and ahnost masked the 
narrow aperture, for it was nothing niore. 
It had neither panes nor bUnds nor shut- 
ters. The green luiariance of the vine 
shaded it in summer, and in winter the sun 
streamed into it without stint or hindrance. 
Beside it^ near enough for Lucia's own 
bands to deck it daily with fresh flowers, 
and to light the taper which hung before 
it, was a shrine, with a rudely carved Ma. 
donna and child. 



On the narrow pallet-bed in tbis room 
Laoia was stretched in a teavy sleep. The 
moonlight came in patches throngK the 
vine-leaves outside. Rosa, after she had 
left her other dai-linga, went to look after 
Lncia. She was pleased that the girl had 
so soon forgotten her grief^ whatever it 
was. She went to the window. The 
little shrine had no light before it. She 
groped her way baok to the bed ; Lucia's 
faoe was in shadow. Her mother tonched 
the hand that looked like a white flower 
in the moonlight. It was hnmiug. Her 
breathing was very fast and somewhat op- 
pressed. Rosa sighed, and left her without 
disturbing her. 

" Maso, tell me what has happened i" 

" Where ia LudaP" 

« Asleep." 

He looked relieved. " Rosa, that villain 
Tonino loves Lucia." 

" Tonino Tt^heraP" 


" Santiseima! Is he not suspected of 
having joined Crocchio P" 

" ^a." 

" Twice he was missing at the time of 
the conscription ; each time he went to the 
mountains. ' 

" Tea." 

" I heard from Henoia that his name ia 
on the suspected list at the prefettnra P" 

*' Yes." 

** And Lnci a ■ " 

" Qod forgive her I I think she is not 
averne to him. She walked home with 
him." And Uaso pat his hands to his head 
in despair. 

" Poor Maso," said Rosa, putting her 
arm round his neck, " you must not he so 
wretched. Lncia is bo obedient, she will 
not listen to him if we tell her not to do so." 

"Who knows P" 

" I know my girl," said Rosa, with 
gentle dignity; " but you were not angry 
wiUi her, poor lamb, were youP" 

" No." 

" She is so delicate, yon know. I always 
remember what the medico, to whom we 
took her after she had that fever, said i he 
told me she must never be agitated, for 
there was sometiiing wrong about her 

" My God, Rosa, I did not say one harsh 
word to her, but I tell you I would rather 
see her in her grave Uian bis wife." 

" Madonna santissima ! I should think 

" You said she was asleep," said Maso, 

" Yes, yon had better not disturb her." 

" I must see her." 

" Do not wake her, only just look in," 

They went together to Lucia's room. 
Rosa held the light while Maso entered 
softly, 'and benduig towards the bed lis- 
tened to Lucia's breathing. She had not 
moved. The moonlight fell on the outlines 
of the soft girlish form; one pretty shoulder 
gleamed bare and white in tnc moonbeams, 
bnt the face was in deep shadow. Who 
but parents can sound the depths of fond 
parental feeling with which these two mur- 
mured blessings on their darling before 
they turned to leave her. 

Maso did not dose his eyes that night. 
Rosa slept quietly beside him. The mid 
that slept on her bosom gave one or two 
inarticulate cries, and the mother's hand 
hnsbed it mechanically. Once Maso sat up 
in bed, for be &ncied he heard a flatter as 
if a bird bad passed throngh the room, and 
between his half-closed eyeUds he oonld 
have sworn he had seat a light flash 
through, but, as he started np and roused 
himself, the room was quite dark, for the 
moon had set. 

The first twitter of the birds awoke the 
haby, and as the daylight dawned, both 
husband and wife were np. - 

" Oo and see Lncia," said.Etosa. " Tell 
ber if she is tired she need not go to 
Qemma'a this momii^." 

She went on attending to the baby, and 
was bogging it and pressing its cbnbby 
little cheeks against her own, when a ter- 
rible cry resounded through the stillness of 

Lncia, Lucia!" called ont a voice, so 
harsh and hollow that her blood seemed 
to freeze in her veins at the sound, it 
was so unearthly and so awful. As soon 
as her trembliog limbe could support her, 
for she had been as if paralysed vi^ 
terror at the moment, she followed the 

The golden dawn was shining in ^'"|'*f 
room. Maso was thrown across the bed 
senseless. On the pillow was a white still 
face, with sweet half-open eyes, bat those 
eyes would wake no moro ! Lucia was 

Tit S^U ^ Trinuia4iiig Jrtielu/nm Au. tBx Tbik Kouxd i« ntervti bg tht J^lkort, 



tJ{QlfsE MOLD'V0Rj)S ' 

SATUKDAT, JUHE 7, 1873. 



FtntsraQTON opinion was unfaTonroble to 
the plan that had been adopted for my 
education. It was viewed as absurd and 
even somewhat presamptaons. It was oeiv 
tainly unprecedented. " What be neigh- 
boTiT Onne thinking abont?" Mr. Jobling, 
of the Home Farm, had been heard to 
inquire. " Is he going to raake a pasBOn 
of his newy? Where be the good of 
hiring PasBon Bygrave to stnfT his head 
wi' lAtton and Greek and aanh like ? He'll 
min the boy. Better by half tako and 
send nn ont to scare the craws or learn to do 
?anunnt nseM. Ho good won't come on't. 
I'd learned to plon ' 
to handle a prong 
fimn, long avore I was hia age. Besides, 
who wants a passon coming in and oat of 
a iarm-hoose day artcr day, like an old 
woman ? It's quite ridic'loos. I'm sur- 
prised at neighbour Orme. But, thero, 'tis 
no use talking aboot it, I snppose. Ho 
seems main bent on it. But I'm none so 
terrible fond of passons myself; except on 
Sundays of course." 

Sentimente of this kind were so generally 
expressed that I could not help hearing 
ttiem. And I, too, was inclined to think 
that the education Mr. Bygrave waa en- 
gaged to impart was in ihe nature of a 
vain and valaeless thing. Why should I 
be taught so much more than my neigh- 
bours? It seemed to me rather foolish, 
and, what was even worse, feminine, to bo 
ingtmcted in acoomphahments they had 
never felt the lack of. It was like learning 
to sew or to hem ; nseful arts in their way, 
no doubt, but unworthy of a male creature's 

acquiring. Happily, Mr. Bygrave did hia 
duty, so far as he could, as my iustmctor. 

To the yoang child education is much as 
medicine; evenifhebelieve in the draught's 
power to benefit him, yet he knows that its 
taste is disagreeable. Or if be begins to 
quaff it eagerly, his appetite soon fa^. He 
does not yet appreciate the pleasures of 
duty ; wiedom is wearioess, and ignorance 
still bliasfal to him. He finds it hard to 
love the preceptor, who plucks him from 
idle delights, tethers him to school-books, 
and expects him to enjoy the change. 

I fear I did not do Mr. Bygrave justice. 
Decidedly I did not love him. There was, 
indeed,, a certain lack of sympathy between 
us. He was not, I think, intentionally un- 
kind or impatient, but he was unable to 
take account of my childishness. He seemed 
to fancy that my small weak legs could keep 
pace with liis long strides, as we trod to- 
gether the highways of wisdom. He knew 
BO much himself that ho could not credit 
the ignorance of others. He often taxed 
me with trying to be stupid, which cer- 
tainly would have been a supererogatory 
e&brt on my part. And my boyish inability 
to value duly tho treasures of classical lite- 
rature, he estimated as something amazing 
in its grossness and inanity. 

If the authors of the remote past were 
to me but unappetising food, they were as 
meat and drink to Mr. Bygrave. The very 
thoQght of them always seemed to bring 
him new support and enjoyment. He 
lingered fondly over long quotations from 
them, smacking his lips after hia utterances, 
as though the flavour of fine old wine had 
rejoiced his palate. He could deliver pro- 
digious speeches from Qreekplaya, as eaaily 
as I could pour out beer. He was, indeed, 
in love with tho dead, and espocially with 
the dead ]angu^e8,<aad appeared to have 

122 [JoubT, IKS.) 


no heart or Lope for the living world of 
to-day. I remember the almost painhl 
Bstonishment it oocaaioned mc when I onoe, 
1^ mere chance, dieoovered that he — bo wise 
a m&n — had never raad the Yicarof Wake- 
field, and was entn^y niuDformed as to the 
wofIeb of Smollett. He plainly intimated 
that be despisod Encb prodnctiona. It often 
occnned to me, after thJe, that Mr. By- 
grave had been bom Bome two tfaonaiwd 
jesn too late. How be would have en- 
joyed, I thoDp:ht, the society of the ancient 
poets and biatorians ! As to the opinion 
they wonld have entertained of bim looold 
never qnite make tip my mind. I decided, 
however, that he wonld not have looked 
well in a toga. 

Hs was a tall, gaunt, long-necked, 
narrow-cbested man, with ronnd ahoiildera, 
and thin, nnstable lege. He bad a habit 
of yawning frequently, stretching his limbs 
nutil hia mnscles cracked noisily like dry 
branches in a gale of wind, and opening 
wide his laij^ mouth to close it agaiu with 
a cra^. He wore always a hungry look, 
insomuch that my mother was wont to insist 
that he suBTered from insufficiency of food,' 
and invariably provided him with subatan- 
ttal refreshment on hia visits to the Down 
Farm Hoiise. His health did not appear 
to be infirm, although hia complexioii was 
pallid and his frame attenuated ; be bad a 
loud harsh voice and a barking method of 
speech. I often likened myself to one of 
Beabe's Iambs driven into classical folds or 
paatnres by the barking of my tutor — act- 
ing as a abeep-dog for the occasion. 

Mr. Bygrave was respected at Purring- 
ton, because, time out of mind, it had been 
the way at Puirington to respect the clergy. 
It was true that be only filled our pulpit 
and reading'desk in consequence of the 
extreme incapaoily of our rector, old Mr. 
Oascoigne ; and that he did not reside at 
the parsonage, but occupied apartmente 
over the wheelwright's, " up-street," Pur- 
rington — it being, by the way, a firm convic- 
tion of my mother's that the wheelwright'l 
premises were qnite nuworthy of Mr. By- 
grave's tenancy, and that Mrs. Monday, the 
wheelwright's wife, in the way of providing 
and cooking for a gentleman, and generally 
in looking after bis comfort^ was but " a 
poor creature." Still, by reason of bia 
officiating in Mr. Gascoigne's place, and of 
his being in his own right a clergyman, 
Mr. Bygrave waa generally viewed with 
deference and regard throughout the parish ; 
it being always understood, however, that 
bo was not to be likened to the lector, 

but was alto^otber a priest of inferior tank, 
if not, indeed, of a distinct species. In his 
younger days Mr. dascoigne had been noted 
for his akSl in field-sporte, aiid filmed as a 
huntsman and a shot. He iarmed his own 
glebe, and his bowfing was a tiung of 
which elderly cricketers of *e PnrringtOT 
Club — an institution he had origioirt^ 
and for some time mainly auppori.ed— fltill 
spok« with eeUmnanB. Mr. Bygrave me 
whoQj wiUioot gifts of this kind ; he knew 
nothing of farming; be coold ■teith*' ride 
nor sboot ; and althoogb he hod upon re- 
quest kept the score dsriag the annual 
cricket match between Pnrringtim uid 
Bulborongh, bo bad not been intrusUd 
with that office a second time; his in- 
effioianoy was too glaring. That he wm 
competent, however, to perfona indis- 
pensable clerical duties in the way of 
marrying, christening, and burying the 
parishioners, could not be disputed ; nor 
was muoh fiinlt found with the sermons be 
was accustomed to deliver on Suudaj^af!^ 
noons tkroughout the year. Purrington 
did not criticise sermons ; viewing them as 
wholaaome performances which were rather 
to be endured, bke surgical operations, 
than eojoyed, or indeed understood. It 
was thought, however, that they did good 
upon the whole ; although tbia estiniation 
of (hem regarded them somewhat in the 
bght of the incantations of a wizard of 
good oharaoter. It must be aud that Mr. 
Bygrave's disooaraea were not pBrha[» very 
weU calculated for a rural congr^abon. 
One special effort of his, however, in the 
course of which be ventured upon certain 
Hebrew quotations'of considerable length, 
won particular fivvour from hia auditors. 
It waa freely observed in the churchward 
after service that Mr. Battersby, tba Ticar 
of Bulborongh, the adjoining parish, eonld 
never have oome up to that achievement 
And that Mr. Bygrave, although a much 
younger man, possessed "a zight more 

Mr. Bygrave's position waa not perhaps 
a very happy one. His means were very 
limited, and ho was wholly without any- 
thing like oougenial companionship. iDBuca 
Bode^ as Purrington could fumiah, be wM 
certainly not seen to advantage. Not that 
he was shy or apparently ill at ease ; but he 
waa without power of speech, upon mattes 
that did not interest him, and was uu^'e 
to sympathiae, or to affect sympathy with the 
Bubjeota thatformed the staple of Purrington 
oonvorse. What were to him the condition 
of the OK^is, the prices of barley, of sheep, or 

Cliu4«a Dteknu] 


[jQi»r. !<:*) 123 

of iTool? Even the stateof the weather was 
as nothing to him. He never seemed to 
knon if the san were shining or not, 'the 
wind blowing, or tke rsin falling. I had 
■eea him on most bitter days, leisorelj 
crossing the down, stadying as he went 
the pocket Horace he ^wa^b carried with 
bim. Yet he was not perhaps to be pitied. 
He w&s bappy after bis own way. His 
atadie« were very dear to him, if they 
IsoDght little tangible profit to bim or ia 
ittj one ebe. And he performed bis dnty 
&Jrly to ihe parishioners ; although htvuu 
chained with reading from the Greek Testa- 
ment, ia lien of the authorised version, to 
old Betty Heek, the ebepherd's mother, 
daring her long confinement to her bed 
with rheumatism, aathna, and other oom- 
dunt«. Still Bettv had alleged that Mr. 
Bf grave's reading bad done Iter " a power 
of good," althongb a« a matter of oboiee 
she admitted her preference tm the viaita 
of old Mr. Oaeooigne. 

To Mr. Bygi&ve I foel that I owe mmb, 
and that acknowledgmeDt ofiny oUigntions 
has been too long delayed. He compelled 
my acqnaiutance with a course of lite- 
ratnre, concerning which I should have re- 
iBained witbont infonoation bat for his 
M>oiiT and painstaking. It was no fonlt 
of his that I was bnt an idle and indif- 
ferent pnpi], even thon^ aomcAhing might 
be said re^rding his defects as a jr«- 
eeptor o( extreme youth. Bnt I am snre 
ihat he did bis beet ; Z wish I could tbink 
the same of my own endeavours. 

Onr lesBona conchided, I often walked 
hack with Mr. Bygrave part of the way to 
the Tillage. Not that my society was any 
booD to him. But I was charged to carry 
certain little gifts of farm prodnoe be- 
stowed upon him by my motbei^-strong 
in ber faith that the cnrate incnired tbe 
perils of starvation from the reckless inca- 
paci^ and improvidence of bis landlady, 
the whechrright's wife. She bad been m 
times long past, it appeared, a servant at 
the Down Fartn, and bad undergone snm- 
mary dismissal for ontTageons neglect of 

There was not nsnally mnch conversa- 
tioQ between Mr. Bygrave and myself 
doling these walks of onrs. His notion of 
apleAsant topic wonld have related to the 
canjngatioii of some Greek verb of a dis- 
tressingly inegnlar pattern, existing only 
for the confasion and tortnre of yonthfol 
stndente. But I held ihat snch matters 
werQ qnite nnsiLited to discnssion ont of 
school hours. For some time I walked 

silent beside him, carrying a basket of eggs 
with rather a boyish Innging to upset them, 
or to aacortftin how fer the bosket conld be 
tilted withont danger to its contents. Pre- 
sently I addressed kim npon a snbjeot that 
still mnch occnpied me. 

" Mr. Bygrave," I said, " did yon ever 
see Lord Overbnry ?" 

It was some time before be seemed to 
nnderstand me. He bad to descend, as it 
were, from lofty regions of thought to my 
lowly level. 

" Overbnry, Overbnry," he mnnnnred; 
" I seem to have heard the name." 

Of course he had beard the name. Why, 
nearly the whole of Parriogton parish be- 
longed to Lord Overbnry. Snrely every- 
body had heard the name. 

" Overbniy, Overbnry P Ah, I remem- 
ber. No, I never saw him. It was before 
my time, some years. Bnt I heard of it at 
the nniversity. It was a di^racefnl a&Ur, 
I believe. Bnt I never knew the parti- 
culars, nor wished to know them. He ranly 
avoided expulsion by taking his name oif 
the books. So ended his academical career 
— nnhappy man !" 

What was I to make of this P Of what 
was he talking P 

" I mean Lord Overbnry," I explained. 

" / mean' Lord Overbnry," he said. 
" No, I never saw him. Nor should I care 
to see him." 

" He's gone to the great honsc — -tbe 

" Has he ? I don't know that bis move- 
ments need concern yon or me." 

And he favoured me with a Latin quo- 
tation, which I did not qnite foUow. 

Thereupon we parted, for we had arrived 
near the wheelwright's. I handed over the 
eggs, none of them broken, and turned 
towards home again. 

Then I bethonght me that I was no 
great distance from the Dark Tower. What 
if I were to steal up the gloomy avenue 
once more, and look about meP Snrely 
no great harm would be done. 

I had no plan in view. I was only 
moved by a vague and idle curiosity. I 
did not look for another adventure, nor to 
see the satyr again. I rather hoped not 
to see him ; or I should not so much have 
minded seeing him provided he did not 
see me. I could not count upon bis mood 
being so favourable as when we had met 
before. And be might reasonably object 
to my visiting him again so soon. It bore 
a prying look, as I felt. 

I crept furtively up the avenue, startling 


124 (Juos 7, 1B7».] 


a clDster of rabbits that I came upon sud- 
denly; but hardly startling them more 
than they startled me. All vaa wondcr- 
falty still otherwiBO. 

Soon I was close to the great house. I 
left the path and hid myself in the shmb- 
iterj, peering through a tungle of branches. 

The Dark Tower was dead again. The 
window of the room I had previonaly 
entered was now like all the other win* 
dowB ; the shntters were &Ht closed. It was 
as thongh my adventure had never been. 
The house had resamed its old aspect of 
emptiness, neglect, dreariness, death. 

I tnmed to depart, for there was nothing 
to indace me to stay, when I heard a foot- 
step close beside me on the moss-coated 
gravel walk. Old Tbacker confronted me. 

I knew old Thacker of coarse, and mther 
feared liim. He was rough of speech and 
manner, and hie temper was spmetimes 
violent. I had learned to estimate his con- 
dition of mind by the colour of his nose, 
which hoisted, as it were, storm signals 
when there was peril in approaching him. 
A crimson hne proclaimed some oheerfnl- 
ness of disposition ; but when his nose was 
of a deep purple, then he was certainly to 
be dreaded ; at such times he waa cajMble 
of anything. At least that was my con- 
viction. In the present instance his most 
prominent feature wore a rosy glow that 
bespoke the dawn of intoxication. It was, 
BO to speak, in the sonset of ebriety that 
the deeper tones lowered upon his &£e and 
manifested his descent into wrathful gloom. 
He might safely be addressed, therefore. 

" I hope you're well, Mr. Thacker," I 
said in my politest way. 

" Thaukee, I be tarblJsh middlin'," he 
answered ; meaning me to trnderstand that 
his health was in a tolerable state. As he 
spoke he rattled the contents of a flower- 
pot he carried under his arm, and furnished 
a sort of Castanet accompaniment to his 
speech. The flower-pot was fall of snails. 
I had never before seen any evidence of 
his indast^ as a gardener. " Where bist 
ga-ing?" he demanded. 

" His lordship said I might fish in tbe 

" Fish ? There's narra fish Uiere, bnf 
an old jack as bigas me a'most. He's eat 
up all the rest. He'd eat yon if yon was 
to fall in. He'd eat hisself 1 do think if 
a' could only catch hold of a's tail. Tain't 
no morsel of use fishing there, lad. So 
you caoght sight of 'a lordship, eh f" 

" Yes," I said, " I saw him." 

" Well, he be gone agen, now." 

" Gone ?" 

" Eee ; what a' come vor, there, I dnnno ; 
nor why a's gone, nor where. 'Tis no nae 
asking, nor thinking. Tain't no biacesB oi 
mine, I suppose. Nor no cue's else's, most 
like. A* comes and a' goes just when s's 

"nd to," 

Tou've known him a many years, Mr. 
Thacker ?" 

Ever since a' was a clytenish (pale) 
chit of a child. And I knew a's vather 
avore nn. Times was different then. But 
'tis no use talking. If Farmer Orme's gat 
a few taters he ooald spare me, there, I'd be 
grateful. Mine be nnoommoD poorisb, 
Bomehows, to be sure. We be ail ia a 
caddie. Theold ooman'sbad withaoongih. 

took a chill and it pitched, I'm think- 
ing. I be getting these snails for her." 
" Snails?" 

Ees ; bile 'em in barley water, drink 

up hot, and they'll cure most any 
mortal thing." 

With this I left old Thacker. I bad 
rarely found him in so uniaUe and com- 
municative a mood. 


It seemed clear that I had seen the last 
of Lord Overbnry, and that my adveutures 
at the Dark Tower had come to a eame- 
what tame and prosaic conclusion. Itvas 
disappointing, certainly. 

As, returned home, I entered tJie kit- 
chen, I was surprised by the spectacle of a 
strange figure seated comfortably beside 
the fire. Faces one had not seen many 
times before were rare at Pnrringlop, 
rarer still at the Down Farm, and in such 
wise to be considered with fixed attention, 
even with a measure of awe. And the feoe 
and figure before me were not only new 
to me, but presented characteristics tbat 
verged on eccentricity. 

I turned to Eem for an ezplanatioii. I 
did not speak, but I was conscious that my 
open eyes and mouth and starUed attitade 
had all the effect of intense interrogatian. ^^ 

" An accident," said Eem. "The " 

she hesitated, I know, as to how she shonH 
describe the stranger ; " gentleman" seemeo 
not wholly appropriate ; she ^t upon a 
pleasant compromise : " The good man has 
hurt himself.'" 

" That sounds suicidal," he interposed, 
" Rather I have been hurt bv a plough- 
share, I am told, left upon the down. I 
had missed my way. Night had fetlen. 
Tour roads here are somewhat indistinct. 
Sheep tracks they might almost be called. 
Kot being a sheep I was nnlamiltar nith 
them, and their nfttnm. I have heard a 

■ DtgkeDi.] 


7. isin-i 125 

phrase as to the cnttaDg of sticks applied 
to the moToments of man's lower limbs. I 
did not tliink how literally it might refer 
to my own legs; let me bo correct — to 
one of them. I -vm cot on the ebin. — a 
lender part ae yon may be aware — by what, 
I va given to onderetand, was a plongh- 

" It was that gawney Joah Hed^s aa 
lefi nn there, I'll warnd (warrant)," said 

" Anyhow it wounded my ahin ; not 
GBTWely, perhaps, but sufficiently," con- 
tinned the stranger. "I fell. I think I 
Junted. I remained npon. the down throngh- 
out the night. In point of fact my lodging 
was itpoQ the cold gronnd ; I will add, and 
damp. I have known snugger and l^s 
draughty abodes. The bosom of Hoth^ 
Earth is a trifle defident in natoral warmth. 
1 was fonnd by some labouring folks — tillecs 
of the BoilP happy peasantry? jnst so. 
THuij brongbt me here. I liaro recetTed 
tindly attention and sncoonr. Sncb is my 
brief story. Yon will, I am snre, onder all 
the peculiar circumstances of the case, ex- 
Cdse my rising." 

I then pen:^ved that his left foot was 
bait, resting upon the kitchen fender. He 
W been bathing bis wound, which looked 
nther an ugly one. 

"Year mother," he said, half inquiringly, 
but he did not wait for an answer; "jnst 
(0,1 had judged as much — has kindly gone 
in searon of some further medioamenta — 
what is called ' poor man's plaster,' Itmder- 
Btand. A very appropriate remedy. For 
I hBt« disguise ; lam not rich, for from it. 
Thus aided, I don't doubt that I shall do 
very well." He bowed to me as he lifted 
to his hps a tumbler of hot brandy^and- 

There was a certtuu oddness abont his 
air and speech that Btrnok me mnch. He 
m perfectly graTO, and yet there was a 
tnapioion of comicality underlying all he 
said and did. Upon my entrance he seemed 
to have discerned in me a sympathetic 
loditor, and had addressed to me all his 
observations, and kept his eyes fixed upon 
Die. He had a deep fruity kind of voice, and 
spoke with a deliberation that was almost 
laboured, as though he prided himself npon 
the distinctness of his articniation. And as 
he spoke he moved hia eyebrows actively, 
sod waved bis hand to and fro in tbe air. 
He seemed to gather &om my looks replies 
to Hs inqniries, nodding his head ap- 
provingly, and at intervals permitting a 
dignified smile to flit across his lips. Ho 
tad a large, roand. fleshy fece without 

whiskers ; hia hair, dark, cnrly, and profuse, 
was piled up high above his head, falling 
npon his brow like a ptnme. As I noted 
this he made a circular movement with his 
arm and passed his fingers through his 
locks, carelessly lifting them to a CTeater 
elevation. He smiled at me as he did this, 
and, I think intentionally, displayed a ring 
he wore upon bis little finger. If the stone 
set in the ring was genuine, I judged that 
it must have been, from its exceeding size, 
of enormous -value; but I knew little of 
jewellery; such opinions as I entertained 
npon the subject were derived mainly 
from tbe histories of Aladdin and Sinbad. 

I fear that I stared at tbe stranger with 
Hide persistency ; bis aspect somehow fae- 
cioated me ; I found a difficulty in avert- 
ing my eyes from him. Hot that this 
seemed in the least to annoy or ofiend 
him. I decided, indeed, that he was 
rather gratified than not by my gaze. He 
expanded bis chest, and leant back majes> 
tic^y in bis chair with au air of exhibit- 
ing his proportions to the ntmost advan- 
tage, and justifying m^ admiration of him, 
or at least my curiosity concerning him. 
Snddenly it stmck me that be resembled 
portraits I bad seen somewhere — probably 
on market-days in Steepleborongh shop- 
windows — of King George the Fonrtn, 
attired in the clothes of private life. 

He was scarcely so large in the girth, 
however, as bis majesty— judgino from bis 
effigies — although he was of nill habit, 
and even corpulent; nor was his costume 
comparable in point of qnality and fashion 
to the dress of the king. His fluSy white 
beaver hat, bent and battered about the 
rim, and disfigured by many weather stains 
and creases, stood beside him npon the 
kitchen-table. He wore a blue dress-coat 
of swalbw-tul patt«m, rather white about 
the seams, and buttoning with some diffi- 
culty, owing to its being a trifle too small 
for him; some of its bright buttons had 
evidently yielded to the severe tension 
they had been subjected to, and altogether 
disappeared ; here and there, especially 
high up on his chest, their places bad been 
supplied by pins. A rasty black silk ker- 
chief was wound round his neck. His legs 
were cased in nankeen pantaloons, tight at 
the ankle, but bulgiug freely, from long use, 
at tho knees. A soiled green ribbon with 
a copper seal and watch-key — at least, I 
was convinced that they were not gold — 
depended from his fob. Dingy stockioes 
and very thin shoos — that had not recently 
undergone blacking, and certainly needed 
repair — completed bis attiro. Beneath his 

126 (J>iii«».j 


chair there rested a Bmall bundle tied up 
in a faded cotton hasdkercbief knotted at 
the cornert), and attached to a roagh walk- 
ing-stick, which looked a^ thoagh it had 
been drawn from a hurdle. 

I felt that I had been etaring at the 
Btranger qitite long enough ; etill I could 
not depart from his presence. I had never 
before seen such a mui, or anch a method 
of drese. Bat I now changed m^ position, 
and for awhile studied tie movements of 
Kem aiid the condition of the kitchen fire. 
Every now and then, however, I indulged 
in a furtive glance at the stranger. When 
I did so, I fonnd him still looking at me. 
Onr eyes met. It was certainly awkward. 
And then mj cariosity was newly stimn- 
httod. He had produced from his pocket 
a pair of scissors and a scrap of paper. 
And, while still looking at me, he was 
snipping at this paper, holding it up to the 
Ught, then snipping it again, after fnrther 
gate at me. He waa a most extraordinary 
man. He had already been too mnch for 
Kem. She was striclKu dumb, and, as she 
wildly pared potatoes, her face wore almost 
an insane expression. 

" I call tJi^ a fair portrait," said the 
stranger, and he held up a black shade of 
myself, placed against a white card for its 
better exhibition. He had been cutting 
out my silhonette. Eem was roused from 
apathy, and as soon as her amazement 
permitted her speech, she pronounced the 
|)ortrait perfect, said she sboalii have known 
it anywhere, and evidently formed forth- 
with a mora favonrable opinion of onr 
visitor than she had previously entertained. 
I felt that the black shade reseonbled me, 
thongh I was bnt indifferently acquainted 
with the conformation of my own profile. 
Still it exhibited a boy with a blant nose, 
a sharp chin, a mass of thick untidy hair, 
and a patch of white to represent my collar. 
It was clearly my likeness. 

"You're an artist, nr," I said, diffidently. 

" I may oall myself an artist," he an- 
swered, with a grand yet not unkindly air. 
" I really think I may. Kot that this 
trifling is really to be called art. Yon like 
thetrille? — keep it, my young friend. Keep 
it, my friend, in memory of me. A touch 
of gum or paste will m^e it adhere to the 
card. Stick it up over your mantelshelf. 
Tell your friends, should they inquire, that 
it is the work and the gift of Fane Manle- 
vorer. A trific, yet of worth in its way. 
I've known worse portraits execatad by 
artists of greater pretence. But i am in 
the habit of speaking modesUy — if at all — 
<rf my own merits." 

I was deeply gratified ; I tendered him 
warm if incoherent thanks, which he re- 
ceived with bland and smiling deprecation. 
I was even emboldened, boy-like, to in- 
trade further npon his generosity, and 
begged further demonstration of his artistic 

" Now do Kern's likeness; please, do," 
I pleaded. . His kindness had banished my 

" I'm ashamed of you. Master Doke," 
said Kem, the naturu crimson of faw hce 
deepening greatly. She objected to being 
portrayed. She had even some anptr- 
stitious apprehension, I think, that evil 
would come of it. She covered her fece 
with her apron. 

But the strangei^-Mr. Fane Mauleverer 
as he had announced his name— with an 
amused expression, snipped a fresh Bcrap 
of paper, and not in the least deterred bj 
her movements and objection, achieved a 
silhouette of Kem. I thought it wonder- 
fully like — much better than my own, in- 
deed, of which, peibaps, I was not so good 
a judge. Hot ci^ strings and frills were 
beyond praise. 

" By fecial desire," said Mr. Manleverer, 
exhibiting his work, " of the yoang gentle 
man whose name I gather to be Dake, a 
portrait of the exemplary lady whom I 
have heard designated Kem — a curions 
appellation ; but no matter. Here is Fsne 
Mauleverer's tribute to tie personal adTan- 
lages of Mistress Kem." 

My mother ent«red the kitchen. She 
was mnch distressed at the mischance that 
had befallen Mr. Manlererer. She vaa 
atwut to apply her healing Mts to his 
woond; the matrons of her lime were 
practised in domestic medicine, and she 
had long been consulted upon all accidents 
happening npon the larm. But Mr. Man- 
leverer, with exceeding pditeneas, declined 
her aid. Ho could not permit, he »id> 
tJiat she shonld attend npon him. And he 
called her " My dear madam." His maa- 
ner struck me as quite courtly. 

" No, no," he said, " I am not the Che- 
valier Bayard." It occurred to me that ho 
did not resemble greatly my idea of that 
chivalric personage. " And my wound is 
but slight, and not received in comha*- 
but ignobly, by wandering from my p^'''' 
and tumbling over a"^ useful, if graceless, 
agricultural appliance. A atrip or two of 
plaster — so" — as he spoko he wanned the 
plaster at the fire, and then appUed it to 
his hurt — " and then, I am myself again. I 
may limp for a day or two. But what 
matter P I can yet proceed upon my way- 

ClBria Dtatieiu.; 


[jBnBi.isni 127 

" Toa were going to " 

" To Lockport. I bad left Dripford in 
the morning. My tronks, I may mentioD," 
here Mr. Manlererer looked very grftve and 
cleared bia throat, " Lave been eent on b&- 
fore me. I was told that Lockport was a 
walk of some twelve miles." 

" Across the down." 

** Tme. Across the down. B^t a stranger 
to thcBB parts — I wafl never before, indeed, 
in this delightfully open comitry — I missed 
my road. It was not surprising, perhaps. 
Sor conid I obtain directions. One meets 
bnt few people hereabouts ; haHtatione are 
ecuce, and eign-posts are not freqneiit 
when once tbe highway has been qnitted. 
Bnt now, rested and refreshed — thanks to 
joor kind hoapitalify — and my trifling in- 
jury seen to, I think I may safely proceed. 

Eb rose, and took his flnffy white hat 
from Uie table. 

" It were best for yon to remain," said 
my mother. " A night'a rest, Mr. " 



Maoleverer — Pane Maaleverer," he 
nid, bowing over hia hat which he pressed 
again at his chest 

" We have a room at yonr service, Mr. 
Haoleyerer. AJI shall be done ibr yonr com- 
fort It is not right that yon should set 
forth BO soon. — night will soon come on — 
ud yoar hart is too seriona for yon to think 
of walking so great a diataoce," 

" Madam, yon overpower me. Bnt — let 
me disclose myself. Yon may entertain 
mistiiken notions in regard to me. I am 
an actor, madam. Kothing more. A poor 
player on my way to Lockport, having an 
engagement there during the race<week. 
I have trod the boards of Covent Garden. 
Bat I am now, at yonr service, a stroll- 
ing player — -that is the world's description, 
of me. I am content to accept it as snffi- 
ciently accurate. " 



TsERB is an old military tradition that 
the Finh won from the French the fea- 
tbera which they now wear, and that 
^ey dyed their Cbps red by dipping tliem 
ia the blood of their enemies. The true 
>tory, however, >e this. The "Old Bold 
Fifth" had tbe distinction of wearing a 
white plume in the cap, when the similar 
omameat in the other regiments of the 
serrioe was a red and white tuft. This 
Woaiable distinction was given to them 
for their conduct at Morne Fortune, in the 
island of St. Lucia, where they took irom 

the French grenadiers white feathers in 
sufficient numbers to equip every man in the 
regiment. This distinction was subsequently 
confirmed hy authority, and continned as 
a distinctive decoration until 1B29, when 
a general order caused the white feather 
to be worn by the whole army. By a 
letter from Sir H. Taylor, adjutant-ge- 
neral, dated July, 1829, the commander- 
in-chief, referring to the newly - issued 
order, by which the special distinction was 
lost to the regiment, states that, "As an 
equivalent, the Fifth shall in fixture wear 
a feather half red and half white, the red 
uppermost, instead of the plain white 
feather wotu by the rest of the army, as a 
peculiar mark of hononr." 

The Fifth Raiment of Foot (or North- 
umberland Fusiliers) originated in a body 
of disbanded Irish soldiers, who, on the 
peaoe with Holland, in 167i, were allowed 
to enter the Dutsh service. It had been 
intended to raise ten thousand men, and 
place them under the chief command of 
the Prinoe of Orange. Sir Walter Vane 
was to have been their leader, bnt be 
being killed at the battle of Seneffe, the 
command was handed over to Sir Wil- 
liam Ballandyno, who was shot the same 
Cr at the siege of Grave, in North Bra- 
t. Colonel John Fenwiok then took 
up the dead man's sword, and led on 
the "Irish" regiment to many Dutch 
victories. A* t^e great but nnsucccsa- 
ful siege of 3&eetricht, which was de- 
fended by Monsienr Calvo, a brave Cato- 
lonian, and eight thousand men, the 
English brigade distinguished themselves 
by repelling several hot sallies, and cap- 
turing, after two bloody assanlte, the 
Danpbin Bastion, for which the Prince of 
Orange complimented the Irish corps, and 
rewarded the men with a special present 
of a fat ox and six sheep to each regiment. 
In this siege, raised at last by Marshal 
Schomberg and a French army, the Eng- 
lish brigade had nearly half its officers and 
men killed or wounded. 

At the defeat of the Prinoe of Orange 
at-Mont-Gassel in 1677, the Irish bri- 
gade behaved with its usual indomitable 
spirit. In 1678, under the command of 
tbe E^I of OsBory, the regiment fought 
in the Netherlands, and is particulariy 
mentioned on one occasion as encamp- 
ing near Waterloo ; while at tbe battle of 
St Denis, the Briti^ brigade was chosen 
to lead the attack on- the French. The 
jegiment lost on this occasion about a dozen 
officers, eighty men killed, and one hun- 
dred wounded. The peace of Nimeguen 



soon folloTred, and for a timo the bmre 
brigade lioDg np their poaderoaa mnskets. 

On the accession of James the Second, 
the rebellions in Scotland and England 
compelled the retnm of the English, and 
Irish regiments. Thej arrived too late to 
be nsefnl at Sedgemoor, and aailed back at 
once to Holland, from vrhence, in 1687, they 
refnsed ftgain to retnm at the king's com- 
mand. The prince then bestowed the 
colonelcy of the subsequent Fifth on Lien- 
tenant-Colonel Thomas Tollemache. Gap- 
tain Bernardi, of this regiment^ was after- 
wards implicated in a plot to aaeasainate 
King WilUam; and, though never tried, 
was cmelly detained in prison hy that 
nsnally jnst king for thirty years. 

When the Prince of Orange started for 
the English throne in 1688, Tollemache's 
regiment was the flower of Uie five thou- 
sand five hundred men who left Holland, 
and it at once obtained rank as Fifth Be- 
giment of Foot in the British line. They 
were soon bnsy in Ireland, fought at the 
Boyne and the siege of Athlone, and cut 
to pieces many troublesome packs of Bap- 
pareea. At Athlone the grenadier company 
of the Fifth, under Major-General Mackay, 
waded breast high through the Shannon, 
the . reserve following by planks laid over 
the broTcen arches of a elone bridge. The 
regiment afterwards joined actively in the 
siege of Limerick, and the conquest of that 
place terminated the war in Ireland. 

It is a noteworthy fact that in 1 694, during 
William's wars in Flanders, the Fifth were 
again encamped near Waterloo, and they 
also helped to protect Ghent and Brages, 
in 1696, from the French. In Qneen 
Anne's wars th^ also had hard work cot 
ont for them. In the war of the Spanish 
Bnccession they foaght a good deal in 
Portugal ; and at Campo Mayor, when the 
Portognese cavalry fled, and three of our 
regiments, advancing too for unsupported, 
were 'surrounded and taken prisoners, the 
Fifth and two other regiments made a 
stubborn stand, killing nearly a thousand 
Spaniards and efiecting a brave and glori- 
ons retreat with a loss of'only one hundred 
and fifty men killed and wounded. After 
this Portuguese campaign, the Fifth (five 
hnitdred strong) west to garrison Gib- 
raltar, and remuned there fifteen years. 
In 1726, they helped vigorously to defend 
the tough old rock against the Spaniards. 

In 1728, the Fifth proceeded to Ireland, 
whcrc)treinained,wiui but a short interval, 
for more than twenty years. In 1755 it loft 
Ireland, and in 1768 waa sent to eRect a, 
liiniling on the coast of France, when jt 

helped to bum the shipping and magfizines 
at St. Malo. In Augost of the same year it 
helped to destroy the fort of Cherbourg, and 
to capture and destroy one bnndred and 
eighty-five cannon, and, the month afier, it 
was sent to land in Brittany and destroy 

In 1760, the Fifth fought under the Dnke 
of Bronswiok in Hesse Cassel. In 17G1, 
as part of the Uarqnis of Granby's corps, 
the Fifth defended the heights of Kirch- 
Denkem, and helped to take prisoners the 
whole Bongo regiment, with its caimDD 
and colours. When Prince Frederick sur- 
prised the French camp at Groebenstein, 
the Fifth attacked Starville, who had 
thrown bis division into the woods of 
Wilhebnsthal, to cover the French re- 
treat. The Fifth wormed through the 
woods, firing &om tree to tree, while tbe 
Marquis of Granby attacked the Frenoli 
rear to prevent the retreat. The Fifth 
took mora dian twice its own number 
prisoners, and finally helped to capture 
the whole French division, exoept two 
battalions- An officer of the Fifth, who 
went np to take the French colours fi«m 
the standard-bearer, was shot dead by a 
French sergeant, who stood near ; bnt tbe 
man was instantly killed, and the colonrs 
quickly seized. The Fifth earned so macli 
credit for this dashing exploit, that the men 
were allowed for the fntore to wear French 
fusilier caps, instead of the hat then used 
by the regiments of the line; and in 1836, 
William the Fourth allowed the H^ment 
to bear the word " Wilhelmsthal" on &ar 
colours and appointments. 

From 1764 to 1774 the regiment re- 
mained in Ireland, where, from the clean- 
ness and trimness of the men, the soldiers 
of tbe Fightang Fifth became known as "tbe 
Shiners." Early in 1767, orders of men* 
were instituted in this regiment with great 
sucoess, as they served to insure good noa- 
commissioned ofBcers, and to rouse tbe 
ambition of the privates. The first (eeveo 
years' good conduct) earned a gilt modal, 
bearing on one aide the badge ot the regi; 
ment, " S^nt George and the Dngoo, 
with the regimental motto, " Quo Fata vo- 
cant," and on the reverse, "V^i Po"*- 
merit;" the second medal (fourteen y«i« 
merit) was of silver ; the third, also silTer 
(twenty-one years), bore the name of the 
wearer. Those who gained the twenty-one 
years' medal had an oval badge of tne 
colour of the facings (green) on the rig 
breast, surrounded with gold and siiy^ 
wreaths, and inscribed in the centre ""■ 
the word " merit," in gold letters. 


The Fifth, in 1771 and 1772. served in 
Ireland against the wild bands of White- 
bo;rs, Hearts of Steel, and Hearts of Oak, 
■ ' 1 1774 went to pat down the so>called 
rebellion in America. Tiiey fired the first 
ebot of the nnfortanate war at Lezington. 
vhere tbey came on some armed American 
militiamen, and were nearly snrronnded at 
Concord, where they had destroyed some 
milibuy Btores collected there by the so- 
called rebels. In the attack on Bunker's 
Hai, near Boston, the Fifth had hot work 
fiir a Jane day. With three days' provision 
on their bocE. cartonch-bos, &c., weigh- 
ing one hnndred and twenty-five ponnds, 
Uuiy toiled through grass reaching to their 
knees, between walls and fences, in the face 
of a hot fire, and eventually got posses- 
tioD of the enemy's works on the hUl near 
Cbarlestown. The Fifth also joined in the 
ndnction of Long Island, Uie battle of 
White Plains, the oaptnre of Fort Wash- 
ington, the rednction of New Jersey, and 
a fight at QermantowD, where they rescued 
the Fortieth regiment firom an American 

£i the expedition against the French 
West Indian Islands in 1778, the Fifth 
took part. It was at St. Lncia, aa we have 
already Been, that the regiment won its 
white plnmes, helping to repulse three de- 
lennined rashes of seven thonsand French 
Knt to save the island. The French lost 
four hundred killed, and eleven hundred 
woonded, while the English lost only 
eighteen men, and one hnndred and thirty 
voDoded — a disparity that seema almost 

In 1787, the regiment embarked for 
Canada, and in 1796 was employed against 
Uieinsargenfc Canadians at Point Levi, and 
erossed l£e St. Lawrence on the ice. In 
1797, the officers and sergeants retamed to 
England, and re-formed the regiment hj 
itcmiting in Lincolnshire. A kindly feel- 
ing was from that time established between 
the Fifth and Lincolnshire people, that still 
brings many recmitfl annually to the regi- 
ment &om that county. 

After serving in the Dnke of York's re- 
mukable campaign in Holland in 1799, 
(he Fifth went for two years to Gibraltar, 
retoming at the peace of Amiens. In 1806, 
the ref^ment had its share of tihe mortifying 
defeat at Baenos Ayres — a defeat whi(£ 
the Fifth did its best to prevent. After 
entering tJie treacheroos town onr soldiers 
fonnd themselves in a hive of riflemen. 

" However, cheered by hope," writes one 
of the Fifth, "we assembled in a yard, 
nhere onr brave major proposed an attack 

on a place of no less importance thnn the 
market- eqnare, but which, by the assidnity 
of the enemy, had been iranaformed into a 
speoies of citadel. Our gallant and highr 
spirited officers folly coincided with the 
major's views. We had a sergeant with 
OS, George Qolland, who, I verily believe, 
wonld have sabred the first man showing 
symptoms of what he never felt — fear. 
Snch vraa onr enthnsiastic confidence in 
onr leader, that when, sword in hand, ho 
exclaimed, ' Now, my brave fellows, death 
or victory,' onwurd we went, and on tam- 
ing the first angle to the left, found onr- 
selves in the street leading to the market- 
place. Here we were exposed to a galling 
fire, which, thongh it thinned the numbers 
of onr little band, did not impede onr pro- 
gress nor damp onr ardoor till we came to 
the square at the end of the street. Here 
a close, compact, and well-connected fire, 
wounding several of onr officers and men, 
among whom was our noble major, com- 
pelled us to retreat ; and it was tortnnato 
that we were able to ofiect it. ... . We. 
however, managed to bring our wounded to 
a church, converted into a hospital, where 
they were put under the care of medical 
officers, protected by a sergeant's guard, 
of whom, by turn of daty, I made one. 
Sei^eant Prior, of Captain Clarke's com- 
pany, and Corporal Byron, were the non- 
commissioned offiocrs. Soon aftor the 
regiment was gone, some of the twelve 
men left on guard went into a wine store 
close by, and two of them, from want of 
food and excitement, soon became intoxi- 
cated, and on attempting to cross the street 
to return to as were shot dead. To pre- 
vent a similar disaetor the sergeant directed 
a sentry to be placed at the door of the 
wine honse ; and he, too, soon shared tho 
fate of bis comrades from the fire of a con- 
cealed enemy. The sergeant then took his 
station there ; in a few seconds he also was 
a corpse. Night approaching, Byron and 
the rest of us began to think that our post 
was not tenabla We shuddered at tho 
idea of leaving the wounded, and came to 
the resolution that one of us should en- 
deavour to find the regiment and procure 
assistance. It was a dangerous adventure ; 
we cast lots ; and the chance fell upon me. 
With piece loaded and bayonet fixed I 
ventnred down the street, cleared it, and 
with but one interruption sncceeded in 
making my way ontil ' Who comes there' 
aanonnced that immediate danger was 
over. I found Colonel Davie, with whom 
were Majors King and Watt, and most of 
the officers, and explained to them my 

130 pons 7.1878.] 



Tnifision. The colonel replied, ' It is too 
lute; the guard ia disposeid of; join yonr 
company.' I did BO, and to my ntter a»- 
tonishmect learned the iesne of the day's 
adventure, namely, that the light brigade, 
with Colonel Crawford, were prisonera ; 
this inclnded onr light, or Captain O. B. 
Way's company ; Captain Hamilton had 
lost a leg." 

The nniform of the r^ment in 1804, 
was a long-tailed coat, white pantaloons, 
and Heseian boots; -with hair tied and 
powdered, and a cocked hat. This was the 
dresB of the officers, to which that of the 
ataff-sei^eantfi bore an affinity in the hat and 
fiilver-laced coate. The dress of the men 
vrhen on fatigue was perfectly white, except 
thdr stocks, qnenes, and shoes ; bnt when 
they were dressed for parade, their coats 
were fixig-laced, with facings of gosling 
green, white breeches with gaitera, the hair 
being tied, and well whitened with flonr ! 

In the snmmer of 1808, the first battalion, 
nnder the command of Lientenant-polonel 
John Mackenzie, sailed for Portugal to join 
the army of Lieutenant- General Wellesley. 
It climbed the rocks of Eoleia, gallantly 
fonght at Yimiera, and shared in the dis- 
astroQs retreat of Comnna. A sergeant of 
the Fifth, who was present at Roleia, has 
left a pleasant pictnre cf the gallant clamber 
npto the French. "Onr staff offioers," he 
says, " soon discovered certain chasms or 
openings made, it shonJd seem, by the nuns, 
np which we were led. Aa soon as we 
began the ascent, Coltmel Uat^enzie, who 
was riding on a noble grey, dismoanted, 
tnmed the animal adrift, and, sword in 
hand, condncted ns onwards until we 
gained the summit of the first hill, the 
enemy playing npoD ns all the time. 
Having gained the crest, we mshed on 
them in a charge ; whoever oppoBed ns fell 
by the ball or bayonet. We then pro- 
ceeded towards another hill, where the 
enemy had formed again ; bnt aa onr route 
lay through vineyards, we were annoyed 
bya destmctive fire." 

At Vimiera a cnrions artifice was re- 
sorted to by the Fifth to get into the battle. 
" Our situation," says one of the Fifth, 
" was on the slope of an eminence ; we saw 
OUT people promptly advance against the 
enemy's masses, which were formed in 
column, and with which they boldly at- 
tempted to break the British linee. The 
attempt was vain, although they were ably 
assisted by their ordnance and howitzers, 
from the latter of which we saw the balls 
rise high in the air, and after describing 

many segments of a circle, generally fall 
between onr people who were advancing 
and ourselves. Dense smoke soon after 
enveloped the belligerents. It was then 
we found our situation irksome, many of 
our officers, too high-spirited to be thus 
shnt out of the glowing scrae, actually lefl 
us, and ran into the battle. Those who 
remained contrived a stheme for the chance 
of following them. We heard our bngles 
sound the charge ; we heard, or &ncied we 
heard, the enemy's fire growing stronger, 
when from the right of us idlers arose the 
cry, " The colonel is shot!" His lady hear- 
ing this rushed through every restraint 
down the hill, which was an excuse Ebr many 
of our men to follow in protection. A few 
pieces pointed at them from our pickets, 
frustrated this mse de gnerre, for happily it 
was only a mse to get into the mfilee, the 
colonel not being even wounded. Towards 
the end of the day, the 'scene of action 
having receded, we were directed to -ad- 
vance, when, coming up with the regiment, 
we had the pleasure of seeing the enemy 
in full and unequivocal retreat." 

An eye-witness of the bravery of the 
Fifth at Salamanca says, " The light bri- 
gade — the light inbntiy companies of each 
division' — were soon entering into a defile 
in our front, at about a mile distant. 
These were, followed by some cavalry. 
Firing sdon oommenoed. The troops stood 
to their arms; th^ advanced; we were 
soon within range, when each particular 
regiment, as its flask became uncovered, 
deployed into line, and advanced to the 
attack. A few minutes before this, Ser- 
g«ant« Taylor, Stock, Benson, Bernard, 
Green, Watson, and myself were ordered 
to the centre, where we fonnd Ensign 
Jamea 6. Hamilton and another, who bore 
the colours. The shook of the onset had 
passed over, the men expeditionsly firing, 
and gradually gaining ground. We were 
going up an ascent on whose crest masses 
of the enemy were stationed ; their fire 
seemed capable of sweeping everything 
before it; still -we advani^; the fire 'be- 
came stronger — there w&B a ^nse — a 
hesitation. Here I blush; bnt I should 
blush more if I were guilty of a falsehood. 
Truth compels me to say, therefore, that we 
retired before this overwhelming fire, but 
slowly, in good order, not &r ; not a hundred 
paces. Sergeants Stock and Taylor were 
already killed, wben General Pakenham 
approached, and very good-naturedly said, 
'Re-form,' and in about a moment *Ad- 
, vance,' adding, 'There they are, my lads. 



»i,isi»j 131 

JDst Jell them feel the temper of your bayo- 
nats.' We advanced, every one making ap 
luB mind for miachieL Proceeding rather 
slowly at first, the regiment of dragoons, 
which had retired with ns, again accom- 
panying ns, at last ire bpoaght oar faeces 
U) the (rail, the fire still as brisk m before, 
wben the bngles along the line sonnded the 
chatge. Forward we rushed ; the scene was 
soon closed, and awfal was the retribution 
n exacted for our former repulse. . . Just 
titer, EosigQ Hamilton was wounded ; we 
had lost Sergeant Watson and another ; 
so to prevent the colours &lling, the officers 
being woonded at nearly the same instant. 
Sergeant Green and myself had the honour 
of bearing both colours for upwards of an 
b>mr, a circnmstancs which served as a 
pfeteit for throwing away my pike, a uacless 
piece of military fumitnre. We continued 
to gain ground on the enemy until we 
urired at the creat o£ » hill crowned by 
onr own artillery, which was acting against 
that of the en«ny on an opposite ridge^ a 
ralley b«ng between them. On arriving 

on which the enemy's gnns were planted. 
This required - oelerity of movement ; we 
nn down our hill exposed to the enemy's 
6n, as well as for part of the distance to 
that of car own. Complete success crowned 
our efibrtfli the enemy, routed, left their 
gaaa, when the line, an extensive one, oom- 
poaed of several regiments, halted. Kight 
advancing, Uttle nwre than a desnltory fire 
was maiat»ned, and soon after, it being 
kaowu thitb some of the oonunissanat had 
•nived close in the rear, I was ordered to 
take a sergeant of the company, and draw 
spirits for the regimMit. I went, the ad- 
jotuit accompanying me, when, having 
staved in the head, I was so completely 
overpowered with Uurst, Uiat I drank very 
M»ly a pint of rum withoot feeling its 
stength. Betuming to my station in the 
teotre, I learnt the result of this well- 
fooght battle." 

In the Indian campaign, the Fifth fnlly 
ttned tfae blazon of " Lnoknow" that still 
adorns their flag. In the full head of an 
Indian summer th^ faoed the matchlock 
Gie of bbe white-capped Sepoys, and the 
aabras of tike rebel sowars; tutd many a 
bbod-stained " budmash " fell by their 
fierce bayonets. The records of the Tio- 
toria Cross contain the names of several 
heroes of the Fifth, as the following ex- 
tracts prove : 

" Fifth Eegitnent. — Sergeant Bobert 

Grant. For conspicnous devotion at Alnm- 
bagh, on the 24th of September, 1857, in 
proceeding under a heavy and galling fire 
to save the life of Private E. Deveney, 
whose leg had been shot away, and even- 
tually carrying him safe into camp with the 
assistance of the late Lieutenant Browne 
and some comrades. — Private Peter 
M'Hanns- A party, on the 26th of Sep- 
tember, 1857, was shut up and besieged 
in a house in the city of Luoknow by the 
rebel Sepoys. Private M'Manus kept out- 
side the house till he himself was wounded, 
and, under cover of a pillar, kept firing at 
the Sepoys, and prevented their rushing on 
the house. He also, in conjunction with 
Private John Ryan, rushed into the street 
and took Oap^n Arnold, of the First 
Uadras Fusiliers, out of a dhooly, and 
brought him into the house in spite of a 
heavy fire, in which that officer was again 
wounded. — Private Patrick M'Hale. For 
conspicnons bravery at Lncknow on the 
2nd of October, 1857, when he was the first 
man at the captnie of one of the guns at 
the Cawnpore battery ; and again, on the 
22nd of December, IB57, when, by a bold 
rash, he was the first to take possession of 
one of the enemy's gnns, which bad sent 
several rounds through his company, 
wliioh was skirmishing up to it. On every 
occasion of attack, Private M'Hale was the 
first to meet the foe, amongst whom he 
caused such consternation by the boldness 
of his rush, as to leave little work for those 
who followed in bis support. By his ha- 
bitual Mtolnefis and danng, and sostaiaed 
bravery in action, hie name became a 
honaehold word for gallantry among im 

Host tttie Bngliah soldiers are ready t» 
go wb^« the trumpet calls, "Qno Fata 
vocant;" but the Fates, as we have pret^ 
clearly shown, have called few regimenta 
to hotter places than the Fifth, and few 
regimente have obeyed the call with more 
joyous alacrity. 

Oklt k pett gTwa mMdaw, with >n aid oak- tree in lb» 

Wbare tbs brunblpa vera tint to ripen, tfas tftntM 
KM Gnt to Bedge ; 

Onlj sbioid brown river that avcpt belWMn wfflaw 

Wbare the' turf tengled the bindneed Cur tkat gtaaed 

tha undj baulu. 
Juat the meadair, and the liTar, and a line that jcined 

gold gliatened, bj forget-n*- 

- S^^ 




Willi the purple hillt for sbKkgro'"'^ ""^ * '•''' '^' 

Till the bright kwn air uound it witL Iha melodj 

Irillod ind nng. 
It ii thirty weirj jetn »jo. Tluougli nunj s lovelj 

Through tuuiy > bir uul itoried htunt mj tired itepi 

r from life ud iti Icuoni I Cum, a lup- 

u b«iutT nud 

jo; uid reaC 

I koav the gcent of the Ubij, cnuhed 'nettb u sager 

I kaoir tha note of the tkiluk u it Mued from iU 

loirl; b*d, 
t ■« (ha o*k-tree'i might; boughi, I luar (he willowa 

I aee the blue forga(-ma-uoU that freir b; (ha carthern 

Fannea hais biled and hope* luTe fled, and the prita 

but mocki the (trife, 
Death and Sonov with huir handj hare altered the 

But ubir andfreahaawbmdoiinitapatli tb«reail(ai 

footilep aprUDfc. 
Is Uia meadow beuda the broad brown atreuii I loved 



Hills, donkeys, plenty to eat and drint, 
and a *whole Snnday to enjoy them in ! 
Here be jnateriala for a cocktiey hoiiday, 
or I have never been within Eonnd of Bow 
bells ! Bnt — there are bills and hills, 
donkeys and donkeys, food and food ; one 
must discrinunate. 

Dear old Hampstead, I am not going to 
say, a word against thee. Let those who 
have no eyes to see, and no sonl to enjoy 
the wonderfal view from Hampstead Hill 
when the sommer enn is setting; and who 
have no fibre of sympathy with the holiday. 
making toilers and moilers who tmdge ont, 
men, women, and children, to gratify their 
intensely English longing for a glimpse of 
mrality — let such fine folks, I say, tnm np 
their hononrahle noses at the hnmble enjoy- 
ments of the Londoner's familiar 'Amstead 
'Eath, and search in their foreign gnide- 
books for leave to admire " by authority." 
Not of snch am I, nor would I be. Par 
be it from me to disparage thee, oh, tbon 
donkey-traversed Arabia Felix of my child- 
hood 1 But still, as I began by observing, 
there are hilb and hills, and one must dis- 

The holiday resort which we are to visit 
on this bright Snnday at the end of March, 
is a little townlet on a spnr of the Alban 
Monntains, and the great city which it looks 
at from its terraces and windows, is called 

To begin at the beginoing — which is " a 


good plain way," as the old-feshioned 
cookety-books say — we start from the 
Romao railway station close by ths hoge 
pile of mins known as the Baths of Diocle- 
tian, at half-pest seven o'clock on a de- 
" lions spi-ing morning. 

Our fellow-travellers are not very nn- 
meroos. The hour is too early for 
the majority of citizen holiday-makers. 
There are several parties of sportemeo 
armed with guns for the slaughter of smaQ 
birds, and attended by a dc^ in a leash, 
usually of a currish aspect. There are five 
or six shop-boys in a chattering gronp, 
dressed like the wax figures in a cheap 
clothier's window, and assuming great airs 
of fashion and dandyism. There are a few 
officers in uniform, a prieet or two, and 
some peasant women with empty haeketa. 
These latter have, doubtless, been selling 
garden produce in the capital, and are la- 
turning to their homes to pass the festa 

In J 

Borne moat things have a character 
of their own. We live and move on a mete 
crust of nineteenth century, bat imme- 
diately beneath it lies the solid fonndati<ai 
of some two thousand and odd y^rs ago. 
And one has but te scratch the soil a veiy 
little, to scrape sway everx veatige of " to- 
day," and come to the abiding traces of the 
ancient Latins. Nay, in many places their 
works stilt tower by Uiehead and shonlden 
above the soil ; although Time toils cease- 
lessty to heap the earth over them, aod 
bury them where tliey stand. The Btesm- 
horse jtuffs and clatters along through ■ 
breach in the city wall, past the ruins oft 
great temple, said to have been defeated 
to Minerva Medica (or as a modem Bomui 
might style the divinity. Madonna dells 
Salute, Our Lady of Healing), pset the 
tall arches of hoary aqueducts, i»flt monnoi 
of immemorial antiqui^, and crnmbhng 
tombs, which have survived for so many 
centuries the memory of their baildorsana 
occnpants. The grass is brightiy gi^^" 
witli the fresh life of the early y»^ 
White daisies cluster, by thoosands sw 
hundreds of thousands, over the meadows of 
the Campagna. Sheep are granng peaW" 
fully, and do not tnm their gentle, siUy 
heads as the train whirls noisily past them. 
Some great huge-horned oxen Ee '^'^ 
with their dove-coloured sides half bnneo 
in the herbage, and their jaws "n"™^ 
with slow and regular motion as they chew 
the end and stare at us contemplative 7- 
Birds are twittering and piping cheerfniiy. 
restless and swift of wing. Oot yonder lu 


T,is7aj 133 . 

the distance rise the Ehadowy bine monn- 
taios, whither 'we are epeeding f^ong the 
iron way. 

A jonmey of little oTet- half an hoar 
hAnga ns to the station of Frascati, 
vhich is sbont a mile from the town, and 
three or foar hundred feet below it. All 
iroond QS are dusky olives, and yonng 
rinefl, and peach-trees in full bloom. How 
exqniritely the vivid delicate colour of the 
peach-bloBaom contTa.Bts with the chocolate- 
brown of the ploughed earth, the purplish 
tint of the still leafless branches, and the 
green-grey of the olives ! But there is no 
time now to Btop and contemplate the 
beanties of nature. A crowd of men and 
boja driving a great variety of vehicles, 
and saddled donkeys, make competing oSers 
for thehonour of conveying ns to jSiificati. 
We jump into a high gig drawn by a short, 
Git, black pony; the driver perches himself 
partly on our knees, and partly on the 
outer edge of the little vehicle, and off wo 
jingle np the paved road among the olive 

Frascati has a large open piazza, and an 
igly big cathedral — built at the beginning 
of the eighteenth century, and a good 
specimen of the tastelessness of the period 
— an inn, a fountain, some tolerable private 
houses, taid a labyrinth of evil-smelling 
tnck slnma. And of course there is the in- 
(liEpenBable caf^ with tables and benches in 
front of the door, and spindly oleanders in 
tubs. The piazza is fall. Men stand, and 
lounge, and smoke, and chat, or remain with 
their hands in their pockets, simply enjoying 
bits literal si^ficance the dolcefarniente. 
The churcb is full, chiefly of women and 
children; the trattoria (eating-house) is 
Wl ; worst of all, the inn is fttlT 

"Beds? Koaaignore! not a bed vacant 
in the house ! But we will find yon 
qnarters in a private dwelhng, and yon 
an eat in the hotel, Non dubiti, don't be 
>&aid, yonTl do very well." 

We do find an apartment in the honse 
of the hairdresEer (I apologise to the other 
capiHaiT arKsts, if there be any other in 
frascati, bat truly I believe onr host waa 
fKe hairdresser), where we deposit our 
travdling-bags, and then proceed to har- 
gwn for donkeys and a guide to convoy ua 
to the nghts in the immediato neighbour- 
hood, villas there are to be seen, and a 
great Jesuit monastery and school, and 
Mwveall, Tnsculnm! Tusculum the ancient, 
mined, fortress- city, and the villa, so-called, 
of Cicero, scene of the TuscuW dieputa- 

This is a cockney e: 
not going to be learned, and instructive, 
and goide-bookiBh. But let us bo never so 
humdmm, and of the city citified, the fact 
remuns that we are treading on classic 
ground, and cannot make a step without 
arousing some echoes of the wonderful and 
mighty past. 

Nevertheless, our Roman Hampstead has 
its banalite's and vulgarities. You are 
told to visit this villa, and that villa, and to 
admire their painted ceilings, and water- 
works, and marbles, and views. These 
latter are, in truth, superb ; being nnspoil- 
able by any combination of money and bad 
taste. Bat of the rest, the less said the 
better. The Aldobrandini Villa, the most 
celebrated of these, is finely situated, and 
has some noble treea in its grounds, and an 
abundance of clear delicious water. The 
beantj of the water is, however, greatly 
marred by the hideous artificial cascade 
down which it is made to ponr, in the 
centre of what the guide-books call " a fine 
hemicycle with two wings." The " hemi- 
cycle" is a crescent- shaped stone arcade, of 
aboat as much architectural beauty as the 
arcade yclept of Lowther in the Strand. 
Once upon a time the water was made to 
turn an organ, and perform other fantastic 
tricks; but fortunately the works have 
&llen ont of repair, and we are spared 
having to waste our time on that spectacle. 
This it is, thongh, and such as this, that 
our guide chiefly insists on our admiring ; 
after the manner of guides everywhere, 

But I beg you particularly not to run 
away with the idea suggested by that last 
phrase, that our guide was an ordinary 
guide. In some respecla, no doubt, he 
ahared tho usual characteristics of his 
tribe; but his grand speciality and charm 
consisted in an amount of jealons and 
defiant self-sufficiency which I have never 
seen equalled. There are several cate- 
gories of persons who are popularly sup- 
posed to be specially autocratic, and whose 
Ipse dixit assumes an air of infallible au- 
thority ; of such are French cooks, Scotch 
gardeners, and schoolmasteis generally. 
But compared with our Frascatian cice- 
rone — pooh, pooh, these all dwindle into 
modest insignificance. Onr man's conceit 
reaches the border-land of sanity. 

" Ou la vanitS va-t-elle se nicher?' 
Lookatthepoorold fellow. He is miserably 
clad, not too abundantly fed, ignorant with 
the dense and stolid igiioranco of a Roman 
peasant born within view of St, Peter's 

134 pDoe 7. 187D.J 


more than half a century ago. Autl yet his 
feith in hia own wisdom and acqnirements 
is evidently all-safficing to him. He has got 
himaelf np for Sunday in a singnlar manner. 
He has treated himself as if he were a frag- 
ment of ancient aiatnaiy, and consisted 
entirely of torso, his head and extremities 
being ignored altogether. Hia face would 
be ^most the dirtiest object I have ever 
seen, were it not that his hat is dirtier. 
Bnt aronnd his throat is a, white shirt- 
collar, a glimpse of clean linen is affiirded 
by his widely open -waistcoat, and his coat 
has been brnshed on the shontders, and 
down to a little below the waist. Beyond 
these points no effort at embellishment has 
been made, either in an upward or down- 
ward direction. His boots look as if they 
were constivcted of sun-dried mnd, like an 
Irish cabin ; and his hands appear to have 
been recently used as spades in the cnltiva- 
tion of some rich soil. 

Early in the proceedings hie wrathfnl 
Bnspiciona are ezoited by Uie production 
frem the pocket of one of onr {»rty of the 
well-known red guide-book bo familiar in 
the hands of travelling Englishmen. Our 
cicerone eyes it aekanoe^ He evidently 
considers Unrray as his natural enemy. 
" H'm," he grunts out, with bis bright 
black eyes fixed scomfnlly on the red 
volume, " Ah, ecco t Tbe guide-book. 
Well, I have told yon what there is to see 
here, haven't I ? Ha! The book. Tea; 
oh ves. To be sure. I know it" Then 
with a sndden change of manner, niising 
his voice to a tragic pitch, " I know more 
than tho book 1 I know mora tiian the 
travellers 1 1 I know more than anybodv ! ! ! 
What, I have been cicerone here for forty 
years — mora than forty years — and I don't 
know better than the liot^ P Che ! There 
is the Campagna, there is Borne, there is 
the Tilla Bnffinella, Mondragone, Canml- 
doli, Mont' Oreste, the railway, Tivoli, 
Monte Porzio," rattling out the names in 
a breathless jumble, and turning round 
as on a pivot, with outstretched arm, and 
pointing finger, " don't I know them P 
Are they in the book ? WeD, didn't 
I tell you beforehand P Che ! I know 
better tban the book. I know better than 
anybody !" 

Thronghout the excursion we have to be 
on the watch lest bis susceptibilities should 
take alarm at onr appearing to know any- 
thing before he tells it to ns. On his first 
introduction to ns by his master, tho owner 
of the donkeys, he slapped hia breast, and 
annonnced that he spoke " aU languages. " 

" Inglese, francese, italiaqo— tutte le lin.- 

" Ah !" exclaimed oue of our party, of 
a sceptical tarn of mind, addressing him 
in Italian, " not much English I £uicy, 

" I speak English, yes ; bat" — with a 
cunning twinkle in his eyes as he rapidly 
" took stock" of ua to assure himself of our 
nationality, lest he should tumble into the 
pitfall ofvaunting his knowledge of French 
to French pec^le-— " but — French I speak 
excellently — exoellently ! Oi^ tntt« 1« 
lingne !" 

Notwithstanding onr friend's unlimited 
lingual acqairementA, we find it most con- 
venient to carry on our communications 
with him in Italian : which language, he 
informs ns condeacendingly, he will talk 
with ua since we speak it well. The 
inference, of course, being that had onr 
Italian been a shade or two more harbaroos, 
he would have declined to aUow us to con- 
verse in it, but would have made use of 
one or other of " all the other langnages" 
which he knows. 

On we go at a gentle pace, mounting 
the hin, between sweet^smdUng hedges of 
thickly -bloaaomed. laurel, cydamen, and 
"Hay just bursting into leaf. Wild 
flowers of many kinds cluster in the grass 
beneath the hedge-rows, and the violet! 
embalm the air with their delicious odour. 
Owing to tho number of evergreens— 
laurd, bay, ohve, ilex, and stone-pine — tbs 
landscape is not leafless, although the 
deciduous trees are only badding as yet> 
Presently we pass the iron gate lea^g 
to a convent of Franciscan fnars, and w« 
meet a Capnehin in bis brown serge garb 
coming down the hill. He is a handsome^ 
middle-aged man, with a black beard »nd 
a bright eye. He gives us pleasant greet* 
ing, but observes smihngly on seeing that 
one of our number is on foo^ " Aba I 
You want yet another little donkey. Yea ; 
there is a somarello too few !" I explain 
that our friend walks well, and prefers to 
walk. " Aha !" ones the tnar again, this 
time with a pnssled, incredulous loolc 
" He prefers to walk, does he ?" And 
goes on bis way down toward Frasc&td, 
doubtless adding one more eccentric and 
incomprehensible Englishman to the list of 
those whom he has seen pass his convent 
gates on their way to Tusculnm. To walk 
when one might ride ! The thing is not 
oonceivable by an Italian mind of that 

Onr guide avails himself of this oppoK 


T.iaiaj 135 

tnnily to display lus knowledge. " Ud 
cappaccino," e&ja he in aa expl&natory 
msnner looking atler the friar's retreating 
figore. " A moak. They ore FnwicisoRns 
ID that coDveut. Oh, I koov the monks ! 
I know everything. Ha! There were 
pictures the re " 

" Tes, ft sketch by Qnido," puts in the 
sceptic, impmdently intermptiiig. 

The gnide ponrs ont the rest of hia seu- 
tance in a rnsh, and giTOB a defiant snort 
■t the end of it. 

"Un Gnido, nn Ginlio Romano, nn* 
Paolo Brilli" (Panl Brill); "they've all 
been carried away, away to Rome. Nothing 
to see there now. I know better than the 
book. H'mph !" 

Prince Ijncien Bnonapvrte at one time 
occupied the Tilla Rnffinella, which lies on 
OUT way, and haa left there a cockitey re- 
mtnJBcence of hia taste, the mention of 
which oDght not to be omitted from this 
Eketch of a coclmey hohday. There ia in 
the groonds of the villa a gentle slope 
whidi the prince christened Pamassne, and 
OD which — to show that it was Pamassns — 
he planted in box the names of various cele- 
brated aathore, ancient and modem. Onr 
old nuuk stops tJie donkeys at this point, 
throws himself into an attitude, and ex- 
clums in a sonoroos voice, " Efco il Per- 
uuo!" Wliich delicions paraphrase of 
" il Pamaaao" would have been somewhat 
mystifying to ns, had we not gleaned some 
information abont it beforehand from the 
pages of the despised Marray. A little 
beyond " II Pemaso" standa by the way- 
side a weatber-beaten, black-nosed, plaster 
ttit on a cncked pedestal. To this 
work of art the cicerone calls onr atten- 
tmi in passing, with the annonncemeut, 
"ApoUo Belvedere!" And adds after an 
instant, with a sort of careless candour, 
" Copia I" {a copy). Lest we shonld 
be misled into thinking that we saw be- 
fore ns the veritable world-renowned an- 

■■ - — th» |<nd of tha ■onriDC bow, 
Tike (od of lifs, aod poeij, and lifht. 

Now we emerge on to a high, open down, 
coretfid with iragrant tnrf. There is a 
flock of sheep on one hand, and on tiie other 
— wbea^ the grannd breaks away rather 
predpitonsly — some goats are scrambling 
among fragments of rook, and grazing on 
the yonog shoots of the bnehee. A little 
further and we come upon massive snb- 
straetores, huge rained walls of brickwork, 
and vaulted chambers half buried in the 
earth. This is the so-called Yilla of Cicero. 

Let t 

not vex onr sonls with debating 
learned pros and cons as to the date and 
history of these venerable fonndationa. It 
is enough to know that the great Roman 
once dwelt upon this spot, and that bis 
eyes looked ont upon the self-same scene 
vrhioh lies beneath oar own. And what a 
scene to contemplate from Uie study win- 
dows of "learned leisure !" 

It is even better seen, however, from the 
Buperior height of the citadel of Tuscolom 
above it. The Campagna, stretching away 
with purple shadows and pale green lights, 
until it IB bounded yonder by the ^ver 
line of sea flashing beneath the sunshine ; 
Rome in the midst, with the great dome of 
St. Peter's looming black aod shadow-like 
above her roofs and streets. On either 
hand the delicately undulating Une of hills, 
every peak of which has an Instorio nam«^ 
and in whose dimpled valleys nestle tovrns, 
that had had centuries of &me in soi^ and 
stoiy whilst yet the mightj Anglo-Saxon 
laoe was not. At onr feet Fraecati among 
her velvet-tufted pine groves. Nearer at 
hand the remains of a classic theatre, with 
its rows of semicircQlar seats for the spec- 
tators still perfect, and a green carpet, not 
of btuza, but of gross, upon its stege. 
Above all a pile of massive hewn stones, 
sole remnants of the once strong fortress of 
Tnscnlnm, sarmonnted by a cross of iron 
that looks across the vast plain towards its 
brother on St. Peter's dome, and dominates 
the heathen ruins as that dominates Rome 
living and dead. At the base of the pile a 
colony of triply odorous violets flourishes 
amidst the spring herbage. So that the 
violets be but sheltered froRi the fierceness 
of the sun, the shape of the shadow that 
falls on them matten nothing. It is a 
wondrous scene, aod we gaze and gaze 
in a dream of delight, and awako almost 
with a start to turn away reluctantly and 
porsne a downward course towarda the 

But before we quit Tnscnlam, let ns re- 
cord the culminating point, the highest 
height of absurdity— or sublimity, there is 
bnt a step, you know, from the one to the 
other — which our cicwone that day 

There was a lady in our party. She had 
hitherto been baskmg in the &vour of the 
Erudite one, partly because she understood 
Italian well, and partly because, with the 
wiliness of her sex, she feigned an abject 
ignorance which hia words alone bad power 
to dissipate. Bat she was doomed to ex- 
perience a check. The great creatare who 

136 [JnneT.lBTlJ 



acted as onr gnlde knew no paltering 
weakness, and spared neither sex nor age 
in hia wrath. Said the hidj, looking 
pleasantly upon the patient and sagacions 
beast that had carried her so well, and 
had stopped with cnrioas accuracy at all 
the regnlation points of view — said the 
lady, " How well the donkey knows 

" Won Tavesse mat detto !" as the Italian 
hath it. Wonld that she had never utt-ered 
those imprudent words. For, with a stem, 
nay, almost ferocions countenance, the 
Emdite tnmed npon her, and exclaimed in 
a tone of bitter derision, " He know hi: 
way ? No, I — 'tis I who know the way 
I know better than he does. He knows 
nothing. I know better than the book, 
better than the donkey, better than any- 
body !" 

If the reader bo incrednlons of theliteral 
accaracT of the above, lot him go to 
Ftascati some fiue Snnday, take the Emdite 
one as his gpiide, and praise the donkey. 
He will see. 

On retnming to the little town, we 
fonnd a throng of holiday-makers in fall 
force. Alatertrainfrom Etome had brought 
oat a number of the townsfolk and their 
Ikmilies. There were foreigners, too, of the 
non-Gne classes; artists dwelling within 
the territory of Bohemia, tradespeople, 
hnmble tonrists. There were many Ger- 
mans who ate and drank with surprising 
enei^, and talked at the fnll pitch of their 
not Tery dnlcet voices with an energy 
more surprising still, filling the inn and 
the cafd with what a diadainM old Roman 
near me called " Una bat^ria dija!" A 
battery of ja'a! 

We enjoyed oar black coffee and cigars 
after dinner in company with two native 
gentlemen who were engrossed in. a game 
of draughts. They played on &b board 
belonging to the caT^, which waa go dirty 
and worn as f» render it literally very 
difficult to discern the while checkers from 
the black. But the players were intent 
on their game, and were snrronnded by a 
groan of interested spectators. As I 
watched them bending over the board, 
their handsome, classic faces — not too 
clean, but that did not affect the oatline — 
and their heads shaped like hundreds of 
those of the antique Soman busts, falling 
away at the back, that is, and making an 
almost straight line from the nape to the 
crown, I conld not help thinking that the 
Eubstitntion of a little drapery for their 
stiff modem coats would convert the whole 

gronp into one which might figore on a 
bas-relief of the best classic period without 
any apparent anachronism. 

And the adjuncts of the scene were not 
exclusively nineteenth century. By this 
time the bnlk of visitors whom one might 
denominate genencally (pace Cowper) as 
il Signor Giovanni Gilpino e famiglia, had 
returned citywards. The stars were 
twinkling overhead. The same moimtains 
which Virgil and Augustus looked at 
were keeping solemn watch and ward upon 
the horizon. The ca{4 with its open nn- 
glazed windows, and marble tables and 
rude benches, and ita pots of the Oriental- 
looking oleander by the door, presented 
nothing out of harmony with the bygone 
Latin world. Nothing, at loast, which 
was visible by the soft, dim starlight mixed 
with pale raya from an oil-lamp, which 
alone illnmtued the space of paved piazxa 
where we eat. It was yet early when we 
went to bed, having to rise betimes the 
next morning. But the night was &(t ad- 
vanced before we slept. Every Italian city 
of any note has a distmctiva epithet attached 
to it. There is Geneva la Snperba, Vo- 
nezia la Bella, Firenze la Gentile, Padova 
la Dotta, and so forth. If a stranger and 
a barbarian from beyond the Alps might 
presume to offer a special affis to the name 
of the Roman Hampstead, he would sug- 
gest that it be henceforth known as Frascati 
the Flea-bitten ! 


The courtesies of letter-writing in the 
various countries of Europe differ almost 
as much as their languages. Bnffon it was 
who first said that me style is tho man. He 
might have added that the style proclaimed 
the nation. Perhaps of all the nations of 
Europe the English are the etiffest and 
most formal in their correspondence, more 
especially with those to whom they are 
personally unknown, and who are their 
inferiors in rank or social position. If a 
gentleman or lady, when absent from home, 
bos occasion to write a letter of insti^ctions 
to a male or female servant, the style is 
studiously dry and laconic as a telegram ; 
and contains no word of compliment or 
courtesy. When Jones writes to Brown, 
whom he has never seen, he addresses him 
'Sir," and subscribes himself "Tour 
obedient hnmble servant ;" though he 
is neither obedient nor humble, and wonld 
be offended if you really considered him 


Umw 7. IBIS.] 137 

to be 60. When Brown writes to Ro- 
binson, with whom he is on more or 
less friendly terms, the word "Sir" is 
foo Etifi* for intimacy, aad he addresses 
hini as '*Dear air," or "My dear sir," 
or " Dear Hobinson," or " My dear Robin- 
son ;" and Babscribes himself " Tonrs very 
tmly," or " Tonrs very sincerely," or 
"Yoars faithfally," or " Tonrs very futh- 
fnlly," When love-letters are in question 
the style warms, and the "dears," and the 
"darlings," and the " devotedlies," and the 
"itSectionateliea," come into play. With 
these I shall not presume to meddle. They 
are of the tender follies of the best period 
of human life, and not to be tnmed into 
ridicnle either. by the hard head or the hard 
heart, unless in & law court in a case of 
breach of promise. It is with the ordinary 
£tj1o of address only that I presnme to 
troflt, than which noUiing more formal and 
Qiimeaning can well be imagined. Take 
for instance the title of esquire, which 
means a shield-bearer. There are no shields 
in our days except in the theatres, conao- 
i^ocntly, there are no shield-bearers. The 
title, oven when it was a reality, and signi- 
fied a true thing, meant no more thai a 
neophyte in the profession of arms, and 
a Eervant to a superior, who was called a 
cheralier, a knight, a rider, or a horseman. 
Everybody with a decent coat upon his 
back among the Anglo-Saxon, or more 

Epoperly the Celto-Saxon races in Great 
'Htain^and America, considers himself 
entitled to be called a shield-bearer, and 
shoold the highly respectable John Brown 
(esquire) be addressed as Mr. John Brown, 
he comes to the oonclosion before he opens 
the peccant epistle that it was either de- 
spatched by somebody who meajit to insult 
him, or by a plaguy attorney dunning him 
for a debt. 

In this respeot the French are more 
sensible. They have no esqnires at all, 
and Monsieor is as high a title as they 
nsually bestow. The eldest son of the old 
kings of the Bonrbon line was Monsieur 
par excellence — the Monsieur who took 
precedence over all other Messieurs whatso- 
ever. They have, however, a for greater 
rariety of epistolary phraseology than the 
finglish, and subscribe their letters after 
a Eishion, which to an Englishman seems 
remarkably roundabout, cumbrous, and 
ailected. If they begin with the " Dear 
sir" — '-Cher monsienr" — they end with 
the Inmbering phrase, "Rccevez, monsieur, 
I'aEsarance dc la haute consideration avec 
laquelle j'ai I'honnenr d'etre votre tr^ 

homble et tr^a ob^issant servitenr." " Re- 
ceive, sir, the assurance of the high 
consideratioa with which I have the 
honour to be, yonr very obedient humble 
servant." The term of human life 
ought to extend to at least a hundred 
and fifly years, if people who write many 
letters are to append sach perorations as 
this, or others equally wire-drawn, which 
the French deUght to employ. The 
Germans are even more pnnctilions, and it 
requires long study of their language and 
long acquaintance with the people to be 
able to decide whether a man is simply to 
be called " Mein Herr" (sir) or " Hoch-ge- 
boren er Herr" (high-bom sir), or "Hoch 
und wohl geboren er Herr" (high and well- 
bom sir), or " Edel-geboren er Herr" (nobly- 
born sir), or " Hoch wohl und Edel-ge- 
boren er Herr" (or high, well, and nobly- 
bom air), or, worse or best of all, " Durch 
lauchtigste!" (most serene). And as in 
English pal-lance the strictly grammatical 
and poetical " thou," the proper pronoun 
to be employed when addressing a single 
individual, has been superseded by the 
plural "you," which means several in- 
dividuals, 80 in German the "thou" and 
the "yoa" have both been supersede*!, and 
a single person is designatea " they," as 
in the phrase " Wie befinden sie eich P 
" How do they find themselves?" instead 
of "How do you do?" The courteoos 
Italians designate every mual and superior' 
as "Tour grace" or "Tour excellency," 
and speak to every one as "she" or "her." 
"I will visit you," is rendered "I will 
visit her," the feminine pronoun doing 
daty for the feminine nouns, Grace and Ex- 
cellency, which are atw^s understood, 
though not always expressed. 

In bosiness letters the Italians never use 
ihe words Caro signore, or Dearsir, as the 
English do, but address iheircorrespondent 
as " Fregiatissimo signore," or " Stimalas- 
simo signore," Most esteemed sir, varying 
the style of address by such epithets as " Ho- 
nourable," " IllufltriooB," " Most gentle," 
" Most noble." If you addressed your 
tailor or bootmaker by letter, neither would 
be snrprised, or offended, or snspidons 
of a jcMce, if you wrote on tlie envelope 
" lUnstrisaimo signore," Most illustrious 
sir, and sighed yourself " Vostro devo- 
tissimo," Tour most devoted. These are 
the usual forms employed by the bulk of 
the people, by tradesmen, artisans, clerks, 
milliners, servants, and others, and a s^er- 
vaut-girl would not think well of any lover 
who dad not address her as " lUnatrissima 


fJone ?, IBTS.) 


Bignora." The following letter, translated 
Terbatim, was addressed, after a qaarrel 
at a driakiog bont, by one angry dispu- 
tant to another, whom lie challenged to a 

Most Estebmed Sih, — Permit me to in- 
form you that yon are a pig. Tea, my 
beloved one. It is my intention in a short 
time to spoil yonr beauty, either by sword 
or pistol. The choice shall be left to yon, 
&B both weapons are to me qnite indifferent. 
Hoping soon to hare the pleasure of a 
cherished answer, I declare myself to be, 
honourable sir, 

Tonra most devotedly, 


The stately Spaniards, in addressing a letter 
of bosinees to a commercial firm, instead of 
the " Sir" or " Gentlemen" of the English, 
or the " Monaienr" or " Hessiears" of the 
French, write " Mny aenor mio" or " Mny 
sefiores nnestros," or "My very sir," or 
" Our very butb," and subscribe themselves 
" Toot very attentive," op " Tour very 
obedient srorants." 

It seems to me that in this busy age the 
letter-writers of all the world would do 
well to amend their style of address, and 
revert to the simple phraseology employed 
by the ancient Romans. How truly cour- 
teous was the Boman method. If Lucius 
Verus wished to write to Scipio Afrioanus, 
he did not begin "My dear Scipio," and end 
with " Tonrs very tmly," but went straight 
to the point, and said, " Ludns Verns to 
Scipio Afiicsnns, greeting;" after which, 
witliont further paJaver, he would proceed 
to business. Would it not be a saving uf 
time if we were to imitate this excellent 
old iaahion P And why should not Smith 
minimise trouble by addressing Brown after 
the classical method : " Smith to Brown, 
greeting. Send me ten tons of your best 
coals — lowest price ;'* or " Jones to Robin- 
son, greeting. Will you dine with me 
next Thursday at the Megatherium at six 
precisely?" The one word "greeting" 
includes all that is necessary iu the way 
either of friendship or politeness, and would 
answer every purpose in the ordinary inter- 
course of life. But it would never do for 
love-letters. These always did, and always 
will, stand apart as a Utei'atnre by them- 
selves, governed by their own laws, by 
their own impulses. Had a Boman lover 
simply sent a "greeting" to his Lesbia or 
his Aspasia, Lesbia or Aspasia, if able to 
read, which in all probability she 

not, would have bad fair cause to com- 
plain of his coldness. So I except the love- 


In Six Chafteks. 

chapter iii. pabewbll ! 

Mass was inconsolable. He blamed 
himself for his violence at one moment, st 
another he cursed Tonino. The priest, 
the doctor, the wise women who came in 
to help at ^1 the births and deaths of the 
village, hastened to offer their Bssisbiice 
to the bereaved family, but they all were 
agreed that the poor girl had always been 
too deUcato to live. The woman at whose 
honse she worked, the girls who worked 
with her, all testified to the same extreme 
fragility of health. She bad once or twice 
feinted over her work, bnfc every one had 
hoped she would be better when the sum- 
mer was over. The doctor declared tb&t 
in his opinion the heart was diseased from 
her birth. Maso would listen to nothing. 
Lucia was alive yesterday ! She was dead 
to-day ! He could take in no other idea. 

Lncia was borne to her grave by six of 
her young companions. The bier was a 
bed of flowers. The fairest though frailest 
blossom was the still pure fece of the dead 

In a week all went on apparently as 
usual in the old house of Torre Mela, but 
in reality there was a dreary change. Bosa 
mourned over her living husband as much 
aa over her dead child. 

Maso had been industrious, he was now 
idle ; he had been sweet-tempered, he was 
now feverishly irritable. Before, he had 
been taciturn, now he was morose. He 
rarely went to the village, and never spoke 
at hoine. Weeks, months, two years 
passed — Maso was incurable. Diomm 
was tall, and growing the very image of 
Lucia. Bosa would try to draw her hus- 
band's attention to the girl, hoping she 
might, in time, replace the lost one. It 
was in vain ; he would caress her, take her 
head between his hands, and gaze fixedly 
at her, and then, after putting her lips to 
his forehead, would turn away with a pxwn, 
and murmur " Lucia V 

The fortunes of the family suffered from 
thb change in Maso, While they possessed 
Torre Mela, they could not absolutely 
starve, but money, that is coin, became 
rarer and rarer. The death of Lucia 
seemed to have opened the way to a whole 



aeries of mififortnnes. The vine disease 
became more and more vinileat. An earth* 
quake caused % landslip, and what had 
been once their most productive field, be- 
came a confosed mass of Btonea, and Band, 
ilantiog earth-mounds, and uprooted treem. 

Haso was imperturbable through all. 
Ko deeper shade was ou hie brow tiian 
that which aettied lliere the morning he 
had found his favonrite child a corpee, bat 
titai shadow had never passed awav. Bon 
Lnigi, the priest, advised change of air and 
total change of Ecene as the one remaining 
ofaimoe to cure him of the helpless stapor 
into which lie had fiJlen. 

Fortonatriy, at this jnaotore, an uncle 
of Boca's, who Uved at Leonforte, a Ti]> 
hge sixty miles north-west of Tom Ueta, 
wrote to his niece, complaiBing Uiat she 
had never made him acqnainted with fara 
InubBnd or her duldren, tjiat be waa old 
ud infirm, and alono, ttad needed some 
of his relatives to come to him. Why did 
not his nieoe or her hnsband, or some 
of the duldren, visit their old node, who 
was gmng to leave tiiem all be had in the 

" Ton sbonld go, Maso," said the pneet, 
who had read the letter to the family; 
"yon can Itw spai-ed now the winter is 
coming on ; it is right for yoa to go." 

Some of the restlesancss which belongs 
to great nntappiness indaced Maso to can> 
Bent to this proposition. 

The evening before be leit, he and Bosa 
««t on the low wall of the yard of the hoiifle 
which looked seawards over their mined 
fields, and, after a long and pro&mnd silence, 
he began to speak of his departare. 

" I have been helpless, like a man in a 
bod dream, these two years, Bosa ; bnt after 
this joni-ney I shall be better; if I retnm, 
I shall woiK as before," 

" Why do yon say if, Maso; why shonld 
yon not ret am ?" 

" life is so nncertain, Bosa mia ; do we 
not know it too well ? And then in this 
wretched conntry there are brigands, who 
are more active than ever this year." 

" Brigands do not seek poor men." 

" Troe, bnt they might Sfflse me, know- 
ing yonr onde is rich, though poor old Meo 
would not pay ransom for me, I think." 

"I would, tboagh; I would sell every- 
thing, my vezso (necklace), onr house, onr 
fields. They might take every barrel of 
oil, every sack of flour, if tbey would give 
yon back to me." 

Rosa clasped her hands with the enerjfy 
nith which she spoke. 

" Do yon remember Cheoco ?" said Maso, 

" He whose fiunily had refused the sum. 
for his ransom, and they broogfat him 
under the very windows of his home, and 
obliged him, with the knife at his throat, 
to call on his wife to open the door." 

" He called, she opened to him, they 
mshed into the house, murdered every one 
in it, and stripped it." 

" And poor Ohecco cut his throat when 
he saw what he had done." 

Rosa shuddered as she spoke. 

" Cheoco was a coward,' went on Maso. 
" They might have tortured me to death, 
before they got a word from me. With 
my living Upa I would never call on you. 
If you were ever to hear a voice at such 
a moment, believe it is my spirit and 
not I." 

" Do not frighten ma, Maso, with such 
chances. I feel we shall not be any more 
' tribolatj -,' retnm soon, whatever happens ; 
bat I am sure bri^ter days will begin, 
now yon are more like yourself," 

And Bosa, who was not the least ima- 
ginative, and who was pleased to hear Maso 
speaking a Uttie more like himsetf, shbok 
ail fears from her mind, and held her little 
hoy up to be kissed by his father. It was 
the old yet ever new Homeric scene. The 
fath» took off bis heavy, sloaohing cap, 
and, bareheaded, clasped his child in his 
arms, aud invoked blessings on him aud ou 
his mother. 

The two little girls joined them. They 
had been cutting the grass for the cattle. 
They carried the bundles on their bead^. 
Their slender girlish figures were almost 
hidden beneath the fragrant loads, while 
through the curling t^idrils and sprays, 
the poppiee and corn-flowers, the black eyes 
and glowing cheeks of Menica, and the 
fairer paler fcoe of Diomira (who had sweet 
soft eyes like Lucia's), peeped out as the 
&ces of wood-nymphs might have peeped 
out in pagan times from their woods and 
sylvan retreats. 

" The children have been quick," said 
Bosa ; " now let us go to supper. Is not 
Diomira like " 

" Hash !" said Maso, putting his hand 
on her mouth. " Do not say anything 
which will make me mad again." 

They went in aud bad supper. Maso was 
calmer and more composed than he had 
been since Lucia's death. 

He was to leave the next morning, and 
his simple preparations were soon made. 
They retired to rest. 

140 [Jm» J, wia.] 


(CmdKDid t; 

Boaa, tired M-ith the day's labour, and 
the emotions of the impending parting, 
was soon asleep; Maso, on the contraiy, 
was excited. He could not close his ejes. 
Towards momii^ he raised himself on his 
elbow, and bendrog over, looked at his wife 
long and intently. He seemed to explore 
her coimtenance as if he would imprint 
every featnre indelibly on his heart. 

It was a placid, beaudTnl face, with the 
dome-like foreheaJil, the oval cheek, the 
straight well-cut nose, which aro peculiar 
to handsome Italians. The fall eyelids and 
long lashes gave great softness to it, and 
round the month was the slight monmfol- 
ness which all adnlt &oes wear in sleep. 
Speechless blessings rose to the poor man's 
dumb lips as he looked on the faithful, 
tender, tme companion of his life, " the 
heart of his heart," as he sometimes called 
her. He was dimly conscious that he had 
added to her late grief by the violence of 
his own, and he felt how good, and brave, 
and uncomplaining she had been. 

He gazed and gazed, and then without 
waking her, rose, dressed himself, and 
went out of the room. He paused for a 
moment at the threshold of the room 
(Lnda's formerly), where the two giris 
now slept. He sighed heavily. He had 
never passed throngh the entrance of that 
room since that &tal morning Lucia had 
been home &om it, and he shuddered as he 
turned away. And then, stick in hand and 
handle on shoulder, he passed out. 

As he strode up the village street in the 
faint morning light, he met the priest 
coming down to see some siok person. 
The good man was often sent for as a 
healer of bodies as well as of souls. He 
stopped for a moment to speak to Maso. 
He was unfeignedly pleased that Haso had 
made np his mind to leave Torre Mela for 

" When do you return, Maso ?" 

"Perhaps in three months; hot your 
reverence knows that one may be delayed 
en such a journey." 

They stood talking just opposite the 
house which belonged to the elder Voghera. 
The same thought arose in the minds of 
the two, but Maso only frowned and bit 
his lip. 

" He has never been seen here since 
that da^," said the priest. " fie is in the 
mountains, I believe. There is a band 
making the most daring depredations, and 
committing acts of the most atrocious 
cruelty under a chief called Satanello, in 
the direction of Leonforte, and some of us 

think it is Tonino. I shall pray, my son, 
that you do not meet him." 

" If I did," said Maso, fiercely, " I would 
string him np like a dog." 

" My son, forgive, as yon would be for- 

Maso stared at him as if he did not un- 
derstand him. 

" I do not ask to be forgiven if that is 
the price of forgiveness," he murmured, 
and went on his way. 


Tbrbk, fonr, five months passed away, and 
nothing was heard of Maso. Direct com- 
municatioii between Leonforte and Torre 
Mela was impossible. The post came, vi& 
Messina, at irregular intervals, and Boea 
had never expected Maso to write. Bnt 
she longed for the time of the vintage to 
come, when unemployed peasanto at Torre 
Mela would go to Leonforte te assist in the 
vintage, and return late in the antumn. 
Meanwhile she had little time for indulge 
ing speculative fears. She drudged all 
day, and worked her fingers to the bone te 
support her femily. Herdaughters helped 
her, bnt Diomira resembled Lucia in de- 
licain' of constitution, as well as in per- 
Bonid beauty, and could do httle. 

The vintege time came, and had all but 
passed away, and no tidings of Maso had 
yet been brought to Torre Mela. Bosa 
would stand of an evening, by the low wall 
which bonnded her possessions, and watoh 
the labourers as they returned in groups 
of twos and threes from their labours. For 
many weeks it was in vain; at last one 
evening she observed some stragglers ad- 
vancing directly towards her house, instead 
of turning off at the angle which led te the 
village. She clasped her hands, and her 
breath came short. Th^ had news for 
her, she was sure. She hastened down, as 
iaet as her agitation would permit her, to 
meet them. 

The first approached her, and said : 

" The priest of Leonforte sends you this 
letter. Tour uncle is dead, and has left 
ycu everything. House, orchards, and 

fold in the ba^, and money in the house, 
on are a rich woman, Siora Rosa." 

Rosa uttered but one word in reply to 
this harangue — "Maso?" They shook their 
heads in silence. She looked wildly &om 
one to tlie other. " Have you not seen 

" Sangne delta Madonna, he has never 
been to Leonforte; here is your letter." 

She could not read it, but she held it 



tiawu.inij 141 

%ht, and flew to the priest with it. Ho 
ma smokiiig ontside his door. 

" What bit, Rosa mia?" 

"fiead," she eaid, as she held him op the 

He opraed it, and there found, expressed 
irith all the circnmtocntion, the ioar-syl- 
hbled words, the cnmhrosB oonrteEies of 
an Italian profeeaional scribe's letter, the 

It was tme ; the whole property, the 
EuTD, cattle, and podere, wen all hers, and 
> Bom of money besides. It distinctly 
stated, however, that the old man had died 
withoat having seen one of his relntiTes. 

Boea clasped her hands tight over her 
bead and buret into tears. The one reality 
to her, in these tidings, was the fact that 
Maso had nerer reached Leonfinte. The 
rat was shadowy and intangible. She 
rooked herself to and fro, she shiTered as 
■he (honest of the weaty montiiB of absence 
irhich she had passed, and of the long 
buren years whioh she would have to pass, 
■lone and beieared. Uaso was dead, or 
he wcnid have retnmed to her, or pro- 
ceeded to her tmcle. There was no donbt 
of it. Her children were fatherless. She 
"SB a widow. 

The priest toncbed her arm, and made 
ler loot at him. He tried to ronse her by 
speaking on the snbject of her inheritance, 
bat it was too early. She listened vsgnely. 
StT brain reioBed to take in a thought 
whicji, for the present, had no meuiing for 
her. At last be accompanied her home. 
He thonght the sight of her children woald 

Ab they passed down the street there 
y»a a little crowd gathered ontside. Some 
wished to congratolate, some wished to 
condole, bat M were cnrions to see her, 
and bands were held oat to her, and words 
of condolence and congratnlation were 
mnrmored, but she shook her head and 
psEsed on. Some of the ill-natnred ones 
declared her good fortune had made her 
pnmd. Bat the foctwas, the shyness which 
often accompanies a shock of fato be- 
Dmnbed her. She felt that a great gulf 
of bereavement divided her now irom all 
her old&miliar gossips and acquaintances. 

"Toa have no father now, my darlings," 
said the poor mother, sitting on her hearth 
with her little flock around her, and then 
her own words stabbed her with the oon- 
lidion that no possible donbt remained 
now she bad uttered the dreadful &ct her- 
self, and then she sobbed afresb. 

All night, after the children hod gone to 

bed, she sat np, trying to realise what bad 
happened. How p when? where? His 
last gloomy forebodings retnmed to her. 
Had he been taken by the brigands, or had 
there been some private vendetta? If so, 
Tonino was the assassin. Oh Qod, what 
a fato ! And then, with an effort at self- 
control, she thought of the other event, 
the wealth she had inherited, which, while 
it added to her anxieties and responsi- 
bilities on the one hand, diminished, on the 
other, many of her most painful fears. 
Tho cbildr^ wonld now be saved from the 
privation and the toil which for the last two 
years had been their portion. And she 
must not cloud over their young lives with 
the sadness which, with her, would increase 
with ereiy turn of the road she had now to 

A month later Boea arrived at Leon- 

Leonforto is a small town enoiroled by 
hills. These hills slope upwards, and join 
that oh&in of monntaina which mns from 
Messina right across Sicily. The largest 
boose in I^nforto was old Meo's (Rosa's 
uncle). It was called Torre del Gampanello, 
or Belfry Tower, from a machicolated 
(fourteenth century) turret crowning it, in 
which was a huge bell. This beU com- 
municated with a room below in the turret, 
where the old man had slept, and his bed 
was so placed that he could easily pnll the 
rope attached to this large bell, and ring 
an alarum, which wonld ronse the whole 
village, if he needed assistanoe. The bouse 
was like a miniature fortress. It stood on 
higher ground than Leonforte, and a steep 
road led from the front door to the village. 
At the back of the house was a small semi- 
ciroular platform, thickly studded with 
bnebes; beyond the platform was what 
seemed a sheer precipice. The rocky ravine 
below was called by the peasantry the 
Valle Nera^ and was bounded by a bare 
wall of stone called Rocca Nera, which 
rose abruptly on the other side, and barred 
all access to the valley, except by a narrow 
footpath which skirted it, and, by many a 
wind and zigzag, sloped into it at the bther 

Leonforta had of late acquired a most 
guilty notoriety, from some annsnally 
bloody outrages committed by brigands 
in its netghbourhood daring the last few 

Continual oommunioation was going on 
on this sabjeot between Catania and Mes- 
sina and Leonfbrte, and as there was mach 
political reaction mixed ap wi& the desire 

I4fi [JbwiJ.IBTB.] 



for unlawful greed, a high price nas Bet on 
the head of Satanello, the man who was 
known to be the chief of the brigands in 
that district, and who wae also Botspected 
to be in the pay of the Bonrbon. The 
most nrgent orders for his arrest were sent 
to Iho syndic, but hitherto Satanello had 

Like most villagers who make their 
home on tlie slopes of Yeanvins, the inha- 
bitants of Iteonforte had been so hardened 
b; a oonstant menaoe of peril that they 
had ceased to fear it. 

Meo had heoi, however, an exception. 
To be Rare hie house was more isolated 
than any other, and he was tJie wealtiiiest 
man in Leonfbrte. 

The neighbonrs magnified faia wealth in 
proportion to his anzietiea and enspioione. 
It was said ttiat in atray comers and cnp- 
boarda little boards of money v^re d«> 
posited, and besides tlie mooAyin Aie bank 
and in the " cassa di risparmio" (savings 
book), it was commonly reported in the 
village that if certain bncks were rused 
in the kitchen or in the old man's bedroom, 
bags ot piaati'es wosld have been dis- 

" It would never have enrptised me if I 
had heard that SataoeUo had tried to sack 
the place," said one of her neighbours to 
BoBa the night of her arrival in Leo&forte 
(they had ^ asaamhled to greet her). " I 
believe the honee, as it stands, is worth 
more than twenty thousand lire." 

" The old fellow mnet have been very 
rich to make ench a forii£oation of his 
honae ; look at that door, there is more iron 
than wood in it ; it is olamped all over with 
naitssot an inch apart; and look at the bars 
and the ' inforiate' onteide." 

" I am glad," said Bosa, dejectedly, " for 
I am all alone. My boys are young, and 
my girls " 

"How old is that pietfy &ir one hold- 
ing her brother's h&nd ?" 

" Ditmiira ? She is nearly Bizteen." 

" How delict she looke \" 

"Tee." Boea sighed. Diomira did 
indeed look fragile^ as fragile aa Lnoia. 

" Sball yon occupy yonr uncle's room ?" 

" Yes, Diomira and I, and Ueaica and 
the boys in the next" 

" If anything should occur call ns ; there 
is the oampanellone ; only toaoh that and 
the whole of the ' borgo' will be roused. 
Do yon hear, pretty one ?" said one of the 
women to Diomira. " If you are frightened 
just poll that thick rope, and we will come 
to yov in a mesao mianto." 

Diomira nodded. Bosa felt satinfied 
now they were not quite unprotected, and 
was less anxious than at first at the sight 
of the manifold evidences of wealth around 
her. The handles of the knives and the 
forks and Bpoons yren all of solid silver; 
BO were the Inoeme (the Italian household 
lamp), and the lattice work of the on* 
^a^ cupboards wae silver-gilt. 

Rosa <^d not intend to remain la the 
Belfry Tower. She resolved to let the 
honse and lands till her eld«st son was old 
enongh to take the management of it him- 
self. It was necessary, therefore, to select 
and pack, and make lists of all the house 

The ordinary coarse of busiaess is always 
slow in Italy, and especially so in Sicily, 
aMd the months were paaaing on uid 
sketching themselvee into a year, and still 
Bosa was not at the end of her labours. 

It was now nearly two yean ainoe Itaeo 
had left ber, four years and a half since 
Lucia's death. Bosa was changed. The 
two years might have been twenty from 
their effect on her, bodily and meatAlly. 
Uer beauty wae atmoet gone, and her 
placid sweetness had become a nervous, 
reticent, and anxious sadness. She had 
confided her sorrows to no one. Nothing 
was known of her but t^b she waa a 

The gossips little knew how her blood 
ran cold at t^e tales they used to recount 
to her of tiie violence and oradty of the 
brigands. The demoniacal outrages, tha 
barbarous mutilations, the cold-blooded 
murders she heard of froze the blood in 
her veins, and hannted her slumbers with 
a sad prophetic significance. 

None of these tales, however, were of 
recent date, until one evening, about a year 
after her arrival, as she sat sewing in the 
court-yard in &out of the hoBse, first one, 
then another, and finally aevraal of the 
neighbours rushed up to her in the greatest 

"Have yon heard the news, Siora 

" Ho." 

" FasqnaJe has been taken." 

" Paequale, the sacristan's broUter P" 

" Yes ; he is a tailor, you know, and he 
went to Priola to take home stnne work, 
and to be paid for it That was four days 
aga To-day, the day he ought to have 
returned, his brother has received a padtet 
with a letter from" (he lowered hia voice 
and looked round) " SataDelio!" 

" H^'*T1T1'^ mia." 



J. i5;s.i 143 

"Tes, left it in the most mysterinns way, 
but addressed to him. In it was a finger." 

"A finger!" 

"Yes, ft finger; Fasqualc's." 

"Dio bftono!" 

" Tlie letter was written as clearly and 
as Gtraight as if our own village scribe had 
written it, and said that if one thooBand 
lire were not paid in t, fortnight &om to- 
day the hand shoold be cat off, and if 
Gfieen hnndred were not paid at the end of 
mother fortnight the other hand, and so 

"Goad God, look at the poor woman!" 

"She has faint«d." 

"She looks like one dead — oh ! what a 
good heart she has." 

Poor Rosa ! it had, indeed, been too ter- 
rible a tale for bar to listen to calmly. She 
i»A a sodden, awftil intnition that such 
might have been, nay, Uiat such bad been, 
UaBo's &te. Maso, who vonld die a thon- 
and deaths rather than let bis captors 
know from whence he came, that there 
might be no nt^tiations for a ransom 

The neighlMnirs, seeing she was too agi- 
tated to listmi to them any more, left her, 
but, as may be supposed, her violent emo- 
iioa did not pass oncommented on by 

"What conld it beP" thw whispered 
amoi^ themsolvee ; " had her nnsband met 
iiis md in IJie same way P — had there been 
DO possibility of his paying ransom ¥ — or 
*u it" (and her melutoholy was more 
than natural, who had ever seen so rich a 
*idow so inconsolable ?} " that poor Siora 

Bcoa's hnsband, had, or wao " And 

bere significant gestures of having gone to 
the mountains were made, and woras and 
biota were dropped, until, wiUi the rapidly 
Mcnmulating force of village gossip, it was 
finally nniveraally betieved tJiat Boea's dead 
basband mast nave been a brigand him- 

Veiyeoon theae mnnnim and innuendoes 
'mched the efirs of the syndic himself, Don 
^ucenzo Mad^ma. 

Uadema was a fiery, pig-headed, Httle 
Neapolitan, with ui'eza^erat«d sense of 
bis own responsibility, and two ambitiona, 
vbich e(|ually consumed him, and wore the 
3ah off his bones. One was to gain a 
^«uo and be a winner to a Kirge amount 
■n the lottery. Winning a temo is when 
tbree of the five numbers one chooses is 
^wu ont. The other ambition was to 
«pture Satanello. 

The despatches on this last matter, which 

he constantly received from the prefect at 
Uessina, considerably ^grieved him. 

" That fine gentleman," he would say, 
" little knows the state of things abont 
bete, or he would write with more ' re- 
goardi' to a man who lias become grey in 
the public service. Half the people here 
Are the ' manntengoll ' (agents) of the 
brigands ; the other half pay them black 
mail, I know, and if one of tlie contribu- 
tions required was my head, I do not think 
they would hesitate long enongh to let me 
say a poteruoster. He ia an ass, is the 

This capture of Pasqnale was a blow to 
the ejmdio. He was the friond of both 
brothers. The sacristan and the tailor 
were two ezcelleut men. He wished to 
ransom Pasqnale, but where wa.t the money 
tocMnefkimr' Ifhe could secure Satanello, 
he would get the money which had been 
set on his head, and so ^ay himself if he 
advanced it ; bnt the question was, how 
could be advaooe it? and, besides, how 
was he to capture Satanello ? 

He Ut his fingers, walked np and down 
hia office, opened his money-drawer with a 

{'erk, and shut it with a slam, bnt no vio 
snce of gesture or motion could bring the 
required sum into that receptacle. 

Days passed, and only three remained 
of the fortnight's grace, when, as the syndic 
was Bitting alone, " blaspheming," as he 
afterwards shamelessly confessed, in his 
office-room, he was told a " spoea" wanted 
to me him. 

"Passi, passi," said the little man, 

The woman entered ; it was Rosa. 

" What can I do for you, Siora Rosa 9" 
said the bellicose little syndic in his softest 
voice ; and he wondered if there could be 
any truth in the gossip about her. 

She kxiked so sad and eo agitated. She 
carried a casket in her hand. 

" I have come, Signer SindacO' " she 
said, ei^rly, and then stopped. 

" Cara ad," said the syndic (I moat add 
be was an unmarried man), " 'what is the 
matter P Do yon find the cares of your 
inheTTtance too much for you ; women, I 
know, can spend money, but always find 
taking care of it irksome ; what is it P" 

"I wanted to ask yon to take these 
thousand lire." 

" Dio la benedica." 

" And send them as ransom fbr Pas- 

" Impossible ! How do you expect Pas- 
qnale will ever pay yon ; he will want two 



lives, not one, to do so. It is horrible to 
think of, bnt no one can save him ; the 
gOTemment canoot. Think what a fine 
game it would be for the brigands if the 
Btate ransomed their Tictims, and who else 
can help himF" 

"I will." 

" What will yonp children say when they 
are old enough to know what yon have 
done J this is half the sum in the savings 
bank. I know old Meo's affairs well." 

" He mnst bo saved." 

" What wonid yonr poor hnehand say if 
he were alive P" 

Bosa started, as if he had tonched her 
with a hot iron; bnt ebe controlled her- 
self. " Think of Faeqnale's wife and 
children !" 

She looked so imploring, that the syndio 
was overcome at last, and took the loone^ 
and gave her a receipt for it. 

" How do yon sendp" 

"Oh, it is all arranged in his infernal 
letter. The man I send with the money is 
to go to the Osterift del Pellicano, two nulea 
on the "Villa d'Oro road. He will find there 
a man who will ehow him a receipt. They 
will leave the osteria together, and at a 
certain distanca, my man will give the 
money and Pasqaale will be given to 

" Conld I go with the man yon send P' 
asked Boso, timidly. All her reflections 
after she bad heard of Fasqnale'B fate had 
convinced her that Satanello was Tonino, 
and that he, and he alone, knew the secret 
of Maso's disappearance. She thought it 
probable he wonjd fetch the money hunself, 
and she, if Bhe were permitted to acoompany 
the syndic's messenger, wonId implore him, 
for the sake of his former love for her dead 
child, to tell her what he had done with 

The syndic, on hearing her proposal, 
stai'ted up like a jack-in-the-boz. 


" I wnnt to ask one single qnestion of 
the man who takes the money." 

" Bah !" he stifled the oath that rose to 
his lipB ; " yon moBt oi-osB-examine F^qnale 
himself, if yon want news of the brigands;" 
he spoke with a rougher accent than he 
had used hitherto ; " if the devils saw you, 
there would be an end of the business ; they 
wonld murder the man I send and Fas- 
quaie too, and carry yon off"; what sort of 
a ransom would they ask for a rich hand- 

B woman like yon, do yon think ?" The 
syndic wondered whether Rosa wished to 
warn her husband, for he now felt con- 
vinced that he was connected with the 
brigands, was perhaps, indeed, the chief 
himself. "Good Heaven!" he muttered, 
and the little parched pea of a man was 
nearly crossing himself at the idea as he 
looked at Rosa's pale sad face, " what nttcr 
fools women are, ' 

" Here is your receipt," he said out 
loud ; " but I take the money on the condi- 
tion that yon will not carry out your 

Rosa hnng her head. 

" Let no one know yon have advanced 
the money, or we shall have half the village 
curied off. The^ will work on your Bofb 
heart as people dig in a nine." 

" If I could but learn " began Rosa, 

bnt she checked herself, her eorraws had 
made her so reticent. 

" Pat, pet, you mnst find out all yOQ 
want from Fasqnale." 

When he waa alone Don Vincenso drew 
bis heavy black OTebrowa together, and 
thoi^ht and thonght, and smoked sereial 
cigars, and finally made up his plans. 

With the aptitnde we all have of thinking 
ill rather than well of our f ellow-creahints, 
the syndic firmly believed that Satanello 
himself was the hosband of the handsome 
malanoholy widow of the Belfry Tower. 

He called np a gendarme, gave him the 
ransom, told him where: to go, and bade 
him, on hie life, open his eyes and ears, bo 
as to obtain on the road every possiblo 
information which slight eventually be of 
use. He then wrote in cipher to Messina 
and informed the prefect hi had Ibimd a 
cine by whidi he beUeved he shonld trace 
and finally captnre Satanello himself. Be 
asked for more soldiers, bnt as he did not 
wish to excite suspicion, they must drop ii 
by twos and threes dressed as ordinary 
peasants. He was convinced that he should 
win the distinction he had so long thirsted 
for, and if he did, would not the hour and 
the number of the day of the week, and of. 
the day of the month, be lucky numbers 
for the lottery I The Belfiy Tower shonld 
be watched night and day, and as soon as 
a sufficient number of men had arrived 
they should be placed so as to surronnd tho 
house and gnat^ it. The fair widow should 
not warn her husband, if it were in hie 
power to prevent it. 

l%t Sigkf of Tfonilaliiiff Jrtiefct/rom ALt Tin Year TtotJHD it meroed iy lie Aathon. 

PabUtlMd u ttia OIDca, », WeUingloa M., BtniHl. PriBMd try U. V 

e, B«*alDrt Oaaat, Dak* St, LI 

STOHJ-aE-Q!/EV->«i:S fRpK-Y^W^ ^^oj 


^^ '^oifsmoui'Wou ps 




" You'te a fiu Iwhi here," observed Ur. 
anleverer. " Why yon might play King 
John in gnch a bam as that ; &nd do it 
^eO, too. And ft nice farm-yard, very nice 
indeed; with oxen, sheep, IiorGes, pigs, 
poultry, and all complete. I like a Earm- 
jBrd; not that I know mnch abont sncb 
things. I'm a Londoner ; I'm not ashamed 
of it; London bom. The birthplace of 
UHton and Byron is good enongh for Fane 
iWeverer, Somehow I always associate a 
finn-yanl with a pantomime. I expect to 
'KM the mnsic strike np and to see Joey 
run on, and all the properties change to 
something else. I can see Uiere's a good 
deal to be done with a farm-yard that's never 
been thought of yet. Great sheep-breeding 
coDnly this, I observe. I know sheep best 
in the form of mntton ; but even in that 
form not always so intimately as I conld 
Toachstone, I remember, has some 
remarks upon sheep- breeding. 
_ , 'onchstone once, for my benefit ; 
at Stoke Moggley, I think it was. It was 
raceeesfal altogether. I did not lose more 
tan fifteen and six. Very fair for so un- 
dcamatio a neighbonrhood. Now thsre^s a 
g; if be coald only come on sqaeak- 
ug like that, under a down's arm, what 
spplanse he'd got. But I suppose he'll be 
made into pork or bacon as the case may 
w, and never know the pleasures of public 
'ife. A pig 'bom to blush unseen and 
*aste his sweetness' — ^no, that's not quite 
the right word. ' And smelt so ? Pah !' 
^js Hamlet, and throws down the skull, 
Bat with all his faults I feel I conld love 
that pig if be came before me in the form of 

bam. Like many human beings, a pig is 
more dear to us when dead than when 
ahve. For this pig, however^—be'il die 
obscurely, though not withont noise per- 
haps, and be eaten by bumpkins. I beg 
your pardon, I meant nothing personal 1^ 
my mention of bumpkins. They make a 
very good audience, when you can't get 
a better. You're fond of the play P 
Youth, like the butterfly, loves the lamps, 

I told him that I had never seen a play. 

" Never !" he repeated, with a look of 

?itifnl surprise. " But how should you ? 
ou're off our line of march here. And the 
villages are so scattered we conld hardly 
hope for a paying honse. Bnt all things 
must have a be^nning. You've seen a 
player, at any rate, and yon might see a 
worse oue, although I'll own, for I'm modest, 
yon might see a better, possibly." 

Our visitor bad remained a da^ or two 
at the Down Farm. His hurt had ac 
what inflamed, and be had been ui^ed to 
postpone his jouroey. He was not loth 
to stay, I think. But he perhaps suflered 
more than he cared to confess. He had a 
light-hearted jesting way with him, and 
inclined to make light of his troubles. No 
doubt, in such wise, he succeeded in : 
dering them more endniable. He 
in truth an actor, always acting ; but his 
faculty of investing his circumstances and 
situation with an unreal air bad its ad- 

" I shall miss my engagement at Lock- 
port," hesaid. "Butthat's no great matter, 
perhaps. There's never much done at Lock- 
port. A race-week audience. Pit full of 
jockeys and horse-dealers. Betting men in 
the boxes. A rabble in the gallery. And 
very likely, after all, the ghost wouldn't 
have wnlked." 




" Were they goiog to play Hamlet ?" I 

He langlied. 

" You've read yonr Shakespeare, I Bee. 
Good boy. Bnt I did not refer to ' buried 
Deomark.' I meant a ghost of another 
kind, that should be more material but often 
in not. It's a way we bare of saying that 
tliere is 'no treaauiy;' that onr salaries will 
not be paid to na. Yes, they might play 
Hamlet," he mused, "even without mo. 
They are capable of it. Bat I pity Shake- 
speare ! 'TwiQ be the murder of Gonzago, 
indeed, with a Tengeance !" 

He limped about the garden and the 
farm-yard, leaning upon his stick or upon 
my shoulder. I found him most amusing, 
though I failed to understand all he said. 

"Yon make a good audience," be ob- 
served sometimes with a laugh. " I should 
play all the better if I could see you in the 
pit. It's wonderful bow a friendly &ce 

And then, as be walked with difficulty — 
and perhape in his manner of doing this 
there was something theatrical— he likened 
himself now bo BeliBarins, and now to King 
Lear. Li the latter case I assumed that be 
had cast me for the' part of the Fool. It 
was all wonderfully new to me. I certainly 
thought him the most entertaining and 
attractive person I had ever known. 

Kern undemtted him : was jealous, I be- 
lieve, of my preferring bis eocie*y to hers : 
and she was quite ill-natured in her obser- 
vations upon a certain paucity of body 
linen that characterised his wardrobe. She 
accused biri of wearing a felse-front — what 
was then called a " dicW," and contemptu- 
ously viewed as an article of apparel. Mr. 
Matueverer made no further alluaiou to the 
trunks which be had ppeviously said had 
been sent on to Lockport before him. I 
have since eome to the conclnsion that the 
trunks had no real existence, and that such 
property as he posseted he carried with 
tiim tied up in the cotton handkerchief. 
During his stay at the Down Farm he was 
supplied with lines, carefully aired, from 
my uncle's store. 

Still I found Kem anxious to listen to all 
our visitor said, never tired of conteinplat- 
itighim, and altogether much entertained 
by him, though she tried not to seem so. 
She still cherished doubts as to bis social 
status, and disapproved his admission to 
tlie parlour and his reception as a gncat. 
To Keube Mr. Mauleverer was so impene- 
trable a mystery, that the shepherd, ap- 
parently in despEur, witbdrew his mind, after 

awhile, from all consideration of the sub- 
ject, and aought bis sheep as preferablo 
society, on the score of their superior in- 
telligibility. Indeed, I7 the farm Hervanta 
generally the actor was pr(»icianeed "a 
queer quiet," and there, m they exprosed 
it, " let bide." 

By my uucle and my mother Ur. Mau- 
leverer bad been besought to stay in simple 
Idndliuess and good &ith. It was sufficient 
for them that be was hurt and needed rest. 

There had been no question of withholding 
hospitality from Mr. Mauleverer by reason 
of hi^ profession'. The Down rann was 
almost without prq'udice on the Bubjeot of 
plays and players. Our distaict was too 
secluded, and its inhabitants too dispersed, 
for strolling companies ever to visit us, even 
on their way to more profitable nei^boor- 
boods. Some vague belief that actmg wm 
an "idle calling," no doubt we held — bnt 
not very firmly, on account of our want of 
absolute knowledge and experience on the 
subject. Probably had choice been possible, 
my mother and my uncle would both hare 
preferred their guest's following Bome other 
profession ; but scarcely for a better itasoa 
than that in such wise he would have been 
a mora comprehensible person to then. 
My unole iu times long past had once or 
twice visited London, and bad seen a plaf 
or two acted; but of these exhibitions he pre- 
served Ijnt faint memories. So, altogether, 
Mr. Manleverer's position was somewhat 
that of a mariner wrecked upon an island 
of friendly and innocent natives. He was 
to them as a creature from another planet. 
They were quite content to Hnd his wounds, 
help and welcome him to tbe utmost of their 
power, and to persist in hospitable officss 
so long as be maide them no nngeuerons re- 
turn. Ho was very strange, perplexing, 
and amazing to them; yet be interested 
and amused them, in spite of themselves, 
and so, while he abode with them, was 
assured of handsome treatment. 1 

To do Mr. Mauleverer justice, he stroTO 
his best, I may say he acted bis best, to 
commend himself to the favour of his hosts- 
He assumed a marvellous polish of manner, 
as thongh he were playing a noble lord in 
some old comedy. He c^led my mother 
" Madam," and bowed reverently whenever 
be addressed her. He listened to her eveq 
remark with prefound attention. He took 
a pinch of snuff from my uncle's round box 
with extraordinary grace; a certain dis- 
tinction even attraided him in the fit of 
sneezing with which be was subsequently 
afflicted, not being accustomed, I think, to 

Chuin IKclmu.] 



real Eonff. And tlien, how different ho was 
to Mr. Bygrave ! Wbat » flow of conver- 
tnlion he possessed ! The Bwifmcsa of ita 
current swept na all along with it. He 
could talk tipon any snbject and display 
intereBt in CTerything. Now ho waa chat- 
ting to my mother abont her knitting — she 
was making a warm petticoat for Jim 
Truckle's wife, to be ready for her by next 
, winter — now he waa deep in agricaltora] 
rapteries, snhsoiling and the rotation of 
CTjps, with my aacle. What did it matter 
■ Ihat^Le knew nothing whatever abotit one 
r the other? It was wonderfully 
pleasant all the same. Aad what a fond 
of anecdote he was master of ! He had 
I uqnaintancB with ^1 the topics of the day, 
many of them bo new, or so recently be- 
iB old, thftfc we had never even beard of 
tbem. He bad been in London within the 
last month, and it waa clear knew that 
great city intimately. And what a choice- 
ness of diction, a richness of voice, and 
aboTC all what a play of features he pos- 
1 way in which he sometimes 
ninked at me, io the midst of his most 
solemn speecbea, was qnite convnlsing, it 
ws so humorous. 

It was cnrions, Ihave often thought since, 
bow quickly lie appreciated the fact that 
lie was dealing with simple bnt serious 
pwple, to whom levity was distastefnl and 
, jesting unpleasant, if not nnint«lligible. 
' He maintained in the parlonr a polishod 
I ^rarity of demeanour, smiling occasionally 
I IB a dignified, composed way, but never 
isnghing or attempdng to provoke laughter. 
}>■< he promptly discerned in me mirthfnl 
inclinings, and as we paced the garden or 
lie farm- yard, did not hesitate to appeal f re- 
floeatly to my sense of the comical: strove, 
indeed, in a very prononnced way to stir 
my laughter, and certainly succeeded. 

And then he read Shakespeare to ns; 
not being specifically invited to nndcrtake 
that task, nor deliberately proposing it 
himself, but driftbg towards it by mere 
accident. Some doubt had occorred to 
'in:, he said, as to a passage in Hamlet, and 
uid we happen to have a Shakespeare in the 
hunse ? I produced the volume. He read 
»lond a few lines, closed the book; re- 
cpcned it ; rend from it again ; and at last 
|>y a gradual process he arrived at fovour- 
ns with systematic recitations from the 
poet. We were all gratified, I think. I 
"■M delighted, I know. And I could hear 
tbat Kem was listening at the keyhole, 
"ideed, I opened the door snddenly and 
discovered her on the door-mat, with the 

larger portion of her apron crowded into 
ber mouth, as thongh by such a proceeding 
her sense of hearing was eomeliow intea< 
siGed. I thought his efforts quite trium- 
phant. Of conrse, 5Ir. Bygrave, whether 
in reading-deak or pulpit, was not to be 
mentioned in the same breath with him. 
He was pompona perhaps ; his facial move- 
ments might liave been called grituacing 
by ill-natured critics ; and there was some- 
thing ventriloquial abont bis strange and 
rapid diversity of intonation. Still it was 
very interesting. He made me start, and my 
skin change suddenly to "goose-flesh " aU 
over, with a sense of an icicle being slipped 
down my back, when he introduced the 
ghost ! "How sepuluhi-al was his speech ! 
A msh of cold dank air as from a newly 
opened tomb seemed to fill the room. 

I was distressed that my mother and my 
uncle were not more enthusiastic in their 
recognition of Mr. Manlevcrer's exertions. 
Bnt they i\ere not given at any time to 
much fervour of expression. The reader 
seemed content, and smiled with self-ap- 
proval, as he dabbed his moist forehead in 
the pauses of his performance. And cer- 
tainly by their stillness and their air of 
attention and surprise, they rendered him 
a degree of homage ; though I remembered 
that once my uncle had, with much the 
same expression of face, contemplated a 
dancing dog exhibiting in Steeple borough 
market-place. But Mr. JIauIcverer seemed 
satisfied with the clfect he had producud. 
He had possibly suffered now and then, in 
the course of his career, from listless and 
unsympathetic auditors. 

He continued to cat black shades. Ify 
mother thought my uncle's portrait unmis- 
takable. He held hers to bo decidedly 
faithful. Each forbore to discuss the merits 
of his or her own silhouette, I noticed. 
And then Mr. Mauleverer gave me my first 
lessons in drawing. 


Some taste or disposition for art I was 
already conscious of possessing ; but it had 
scarcely found outlet or expression, save in 
certain rude drawings executed with a 
lamp of our native chalk upon a tarred 
bam-door, or in dim designs scratched upon 
blotting-paper to beguile the tedium of 
Latin exercises. Now I obtained a measure 
of methodical instruction from Mr. Itlan- 
leverer, and what was perhaps even more 
precious, encouragement and applAnse. He 
was unused to teaching, he stated ; yet 
he had skill as a master: instructing by 

148 [J"« 



example, which is perhaps the beEt system 
of instrnctiou. 

I AVas loud in my admiration of his 
manifold abilities. 

"Tes," he said, complacently, "I can do 
ft good many things. That I am mnch the 
better for it I'll not Tentnro to assert. It's 
nse making a nnmber of small bids for 

!coss. The thing's knocked down to the 
highest bidder, who may make perhaps bat 
one offer. Tes, young genUeman, I con 
act — &irly; I can paint—decently: por- 
traits, landscapes, history, anything, in- 
cluding acenerr. That'a what IVe been 
doing lately, thereby having a few more 
shilliu^-~owed to me. Still npon the 
whole Fortune has not smiled npon Fane 
Manleverer, or smiling, she has slid her r». 
wards into other palms than his, and less 
deserving perhaps. So yon woald hint. 
I am obliged to yon. I'll not contradict 
you. I like to hear hand-chps greet me, 
even thongh they may proceed from the 
village idiotonttie back bench of the gallery. 
Not that I am BBSociating yon, my yonng 
friend, even in thought, with that mJbrta- 
nate. Far from it. I connt yon among the 
boxaudience — thefront row,if yon ivill. 1 
would only hint my appreciation of applanse 
let it come from what qnarter it may, I 
don't despise the copper coin^e because 
of the existence of silver and gold. Half- 
pence are of nse ; so I have fonnd. One 
can buy many things with them — bread 
for Instance. I have known adversity ; I 
admit it ; and found its uses less sweet than I 
they might have been, or than the poet has 
affirmed them to be. Still I have not de- 
spaired. I am not of a desponding natnre. 
I persnade myaelf that lack may be in store 
for me, must be, indeed — put out at com* 
pound interest as it were. That there is a 
vast amount of it standing to my credit 
somewhere, I am folly satisfied. When it 
becomes dne and pa^ble I shall be a sort of 
millionaire. Meantime my position is much 
less enviable. 'While the grass grows 
— the proverb is somewhat mosty.' But 
the world uhall hear of Fane Manleverer 

I thought it hard that so clever a man 
should have undergone misfortone ; and I 
said as mnch. He patted me on the 
fihoulder, and smiled a gracious recognition 
of my sympathy. 

" "The artist must suffer; it is his destiny." 
1 noted that by describing himself as an 
artist the idea of Bafferiog became almost 
pleasant to him. " It is the price he pays 
for his endowments" 

He remained with us over one Sunday, I 
remember, although, on account of his lame 
limb, he was encased t!:at journey to chnreli 
over the down, which was invariably 
accomplished on that day by the household 
of the farm. I was sorry for bia absence 
from the service for two reasons. I doared 
his opinion upon the elocutionair efforts of 
Mr. Bygrave ; and I wanted to know what 
he thonght, as an artist, of the while- 
washed fresco in Pnrrington Church. 

He assnmed much gravity and staidness 
of demeanour on the Sunday, as though 
anxious to bring himself into harmony with 
the feelings of his hosts. His talk was of the 
clergy ; and he even referred by name io a 
bishop. X think he said that he had taught 
elocntion to that spiritoal peer. Nothing 
conld have been more exemplary than his 
speech and bearing. 

In the evening, at hig own instance, he 
read aloud a sermon by Blair. His delivery 
was 80 spirited that the discourse in ques- 
tion acquired extraordinary animation- 
Looking over it for myself afterwards, I 
fonnd it even somewhat dull. Tet from his 
lipa it sounded quite stirring. My mother 
and uncle, I think, were afflicted by doubts 
as to whether a sermon onght to be made 
to seem fio lively ; whether there was aot 
something unnatural and heterodox in so 
transforming it. In their experience, per- 
haps, sermons hadbeenalways more or less 
soporific. Bat npon this occasion Blair 
had been most awakening. 

I openly expressed regret that our ^est 
did not perennially oconpy our pnlpit in- 
stead of^Mr. Bygrave. Mr. Manleverer 
deprecated this view of him, and yet ^*^ 
clearly gratified by it. 

" The church ?" bemused. "As an op- 
portunity for oratory there is mnch to be 
said for it. I conld have shone, I tbiot, as 
a preacher. I conld have worn lawn sleeves, 
with credit to myself and to the Epecta- 
tors — I should rather have said, perhap^ 
my congregation, my flock. Tes, I conld 
have done mnch more than has ever jet 
been done, I think, with the pnrt of * 
bishop. Still, I will own a certain onfit- 
ness on my part for the assumption. "oW 
episcopari, 1 am apposed to monotony. 
I love change : change of life, of dress, oi 
scene, of chamcter. Ton see, I ^^ *" 
actor, an artist. There is a leaven of the 
vagabond in me. I own to somcthmgoj 
the gipsy in my nature. I am nowtliw- 
nowthat. Hereto-day; there to-niorrow. 
A bishop for a week— and I should weary oi j 
the task. Jfy dignity would fall into m" 




liko a ■worn-out garment ; I should bo 
capable of conduct most unworthy of the 
bench. It is better as it ja perhaps; although 
the present moment does nob display mj 
furtnncs at their best. No, not the bench 
for me; bat rather the boards. I &m at 
home there ; with scope for my versatility. 
I can paint scenes and exhibit before them 
in a Tfide range of characters. My tragedy 
baa been admired, and I have known 
andiences quite enthnsiaatic abont my 
comedy. My physical gifts are seen to 
advantage on the stage ; I am nsnally hailed 
Milh applanse immediately apon my first 
appearance — before I have spoken a word. 
Xo wonder. Ton have observed my head 
of hair p" he asked, suddenly running his 
fingers throagh hia locks and Taising a 
great crest above his brow — rather as 
iliongb he were making a hay-cock. " Pro- 
d:gions is it not ? Many have faien it for 
a vig. A genuine compliment to Nature ; 
nl:o can be more bountiful than art, how- 
ever, when she tries her best. lam grate- 
ftil for the boon she has conferred upon me. 
She Las saved me much outlay, I have no 
need of a wig-box. A comb, pomatum-pot, 
pciwder-pu£r, and curling irons, and I am 
fitted for any character; in five minutes 
my Lead can be made ready for Hamlet or 
Caleb Qnotcm. A trifie of powder and I 
am iron.grey — a stem father, a wealthy 
hankefj or a distinguished nobleman; more 
powder and a little frizzing with the tongs, 
and I'm Sir Peter Teazle or Doctor Pan- 
gloss; a varnish of pomatum simply, and 
I'm Ilomeo, or one of the curled darlings 
»ho make love to the heroines of comedy. 
The feata 1 have accomplished with my 
head of hair are unknown, save only to 
myBelf and my barber." 

There was but one failing that could be 
charged against Mr. Mauleverer, and even 
that partook of the nature of a compliment 
to our hospitality. Tfjg admiration for the 
strong beer of tho farm-house was excessive. 
Often did I note him in the kitchen amaz- 
ing Kem with his volubility and theatrical 
manner, and persuading her to fill yet 
another jng of ale for his private consamp- 
tioa,tobegaile the time, as he said, between 
his meals. He never seemed to be much 
the worse for his frequent draughts, how* 
iT^er; always stopped at a certain stage on 
this side of intoxication, although he had 
travelled some way on the road to it. His 
utterance was always distinct if it became 
Biore rapid ; and his gestures maintained 
lieir gracefalnesa if they waied more 
more redundant. A rich glow spread over 

his fleshy face, and a sort of hectic sparkle 
illumined hLs eyes. In the morning I 
noticed he looked somewhat dull a 
sodden, and his animation, although still 
remarkable, was perhaps rather the result 
of effort. 

We kept laf«r hours than nsnal at the 
farm during his stay. Often after I had 
been compelled to retire to rest, I could 
hear his rich voice still exercised in i' 
parlour. He must have enjoyed a kind of 
monologue. I often wondered what he 
could find to say to my uncle. 

"Ho is not a sympathetic auditor," Mr 
Mauleverer confessed to me. " I've played 
to farmers and won their fevour. But Mr. 
Orme is not easily moved. He would per- 
haps have succeeded as a dramatic critic. 
He misses all my best points. So long as 
I can talk mangel-wurzel to him I'm all 
right. Unfortunately I'm not np in mangel- 
wurzel. Still I managed to come out rather 
strong on wool and sheep-washing last 
night. I was not perfect, I admit ; hut 
I contrived to fill it out, very creditably 

Mr. Bvgrave met tho actor, without, 
however. Being strongly impressed by him. 
The only result was a dissertation with 
which ho favoured me upon the theatre of 
tho ancients. He was of opinion that 
there had not been much good acting since 
the time of Thespis. Ho hold the modem 
stage very cheaply indeed. Why don't 
they play .^schylu^F he demanded. I was 
unable to answer him. 

Mr. Mauleverer did not outstay his wel- 
come. There was no inclination to hurry 
his departure. At least if such a feeling 
existed there was no manifestation, of it. 
He was the first to speak of leaving the 
farm, mentioning hia intention of journey- 
ing back to Dripford, for it availed not now, 
he said, for him to proceed to Lockport. 
The race-week was over, and he judged his 
engagement to be at an end. 

" I must hark back to London," he ob- 
served, " and start afresh," 

I besought him to stay yet a few days 
longer. But he shook his head. 

" I must jog on," he said. " The rolling 
or the strolling stone must fulfil its missi 
I may not gather moss, but at least I si 
not get msty. I must jog on. I must stand 
on the pavement once more with the lamp- 
posts about me. Then I know where 1 1 
Besides, I may not remain idly here: 
must be up and abont. The stage is my 
tarm ; I must cultivate it. May it yield me 
an abundant harvest." 

150 IJun 



" You are not happy here ?" I asked. 

" I am grateful," he said. "Happiness 
is never where wo stand ; but always in the 
distance— onthohorizon. We may not reach 
it ; but we needs must travel towards it. 
And then, the country is pleasant, pictu- 
resque, salnbrioas, I don't doubt it, and its 
victualling arrangements are moat ample; 
but it sends me to sleep, it numbs me. I 
gain too ranch flesh here — I have increased 
a stone's weight, my waistcoat 'plims,' as 
yonr local word has it, I have already a 
corpulent inclining that may unfit me for 
the slimmer heroes. It mnst be checked, 
by toil, possibly even by privation. Your 
ati'ong lieer offers potent charms ; yet mast 
I part from it. Besides, I mnst put money 
in my parse. I shall need it; indeed, I 
have always needed it. Genius is but gold 
in the ore ; one must display and manipn* 
late it to obtain coin and small change for 

Then I pat in execution a plan I had 
secretly conceived. 

" het me help you, Mr. ilauleverer," I 
said. I produced my three sovereigns, the 
gift of Lord Overbnry. 

" Bless the boy," he exclaimed with a 
more nataral air than was usual with him. 
" Why how did you come by bo much 
money ?" Ho weighed the coins in his 
palm and examined them. " Genuine gold 
as I'm alive." Then he asked snddctily: 
" You've never stolen them P Pardon me. 
I am sore you have not. But ib& sight of 
Bo much money is disturbing." 

" It's my own — all my own," I said, my 
face burning as I spoke. And I told him 
very briefly my adventure at the Dark 

" I would I bad been there," he observed. 
" Lord Overbury ?" 

" Yon know him ?" 

"No. But I have heard his name, in con- 
neiion with— I scarce know what at this 
moment. And he gave you these ?" 

" Yes, but it's a, secret. No one knows it 
except Kem, and she'll never tell. Kern's 
always trao to me. Flense take them. I 
don't want tiiem, indeed I don't. I'd so 
much rather that you took them." 

"Generous boy!" he said, musingly, 
looking now at me and now at the money. 
"How old are you?" 

I told him. 

"■ And you've no father livbg?" 

" No." 

Ho covered bis face with his hand. I 
thought that he was lost in thought, until 
I detected that he was still observing joe 

through his fingers. His nose, I recollect, 
looked rather red from coutnist with his 
diamond ring which was touching it. In 
the same way the jewel gained new bril- 

" No," he said at length, throwing back 
his head, and waring his arms in tho ain 
" I'll not rob the yonng and the orphan. 
Perish the thought. Tempt me not, Duke. 
Take back the money, my brave boy," 

And he turned from me. I implored him 
anew; assured him that the money was my 
own to do what I would with, that he was 
not robbing me — that it was a crael word 
to use. But he would not listen to me. I 
felt sadly disappointed. 

He took leave of my uncle and my 
niother in the most polite way. In grace- 
fnl terms he thanked them again and again 
for the hospitality they had extended to 
him; entreated my mother to charge him 
with any commission she might desire to 
have executed in London, then or at any 
future time ; letters, be said, addressed to 
him at the Red Bull Tavern, Vinegar-yard, 
Drnry-Iane, almost invariably reached him. 
He promised that he would certainly call 
to pay his respects should chance ever again 
bring him into tlie neighbourhood of Pur- 
rington — that if he waa ever, indeed, within 
twenty miles of the Down Farm, he would 
most certainly visit it, and renew one of 
the most pleasant friendships — if he might 
presume to employ the t«rm — he might ? 
he was charmed indeed — that he had ever 
formed in the whole course of his life. 

Then, with his little bundle of clothes 
tied up in the coloured cotton handker- 
chief, which Kem had washed and ironed 
far him — not before it needed that process 
— and shouldering hie rough, knotted 
walking-stick, he quitted the farm-honse, 
pausing a moment to smile final adieux, 
and wave his battered white hat to nij 
mother, who stood at the window watching 
his departure. 

" A gratifying exit, skilfully executed," 
he said with a self-approving smile and a 
toss of his head as be strode across the 
ela^ic down in his thin shoes. 

It Lad been arranged that I should ac- 
company him as far as the high-road to 
Dripford, SO that there might be no dajiger 
of his again departing from his patli. I 
confess that I waa anxious to see as much 
of my friend as I possibly could, and was 
loth to part from him. 

" We shall meet again, my young friend, 
never fear," he said to cheer me, for indeed 
my depression was veiy evident. " I know 

ChulH Diobeiu.] 


[}naeH,Vi^^ 161 

that we shall— I feci tlat we shall. The 
world's but & small pla«e after all ; we're 
for ever running against those we never 
expected to see again, sometimee, indeed, 
those we hoped ncrcr to seo a)^n. I have 
even encountered, in LiambetJi, a landlady 
I had left in Cornwall. I owed her money, 
she said. It was possihiy true- I do owe 
money, now and then — often indeed. Trifles 
that I leave nndiscliai^d, now Irom pnro 
forgetftilness ; now, and perhaps more often, 
from lack of means. Wo shaU meet again. 
My circnmstances may have changed. T 
may have risen to fame and prosperity. Bnt 
to yoa I shall be ever the same, lamwithout 
iaise pride. I shall always remember the 
friends who showed kindness to me in my 
honr of need. Here we part. No, not a 
step fnrther, my young friend ; I remember 
vonr lady mother's instructions. Here ia 
tbe high-road stretching ont plain and clear 
before me. Good-bye, and God bless yon. 
Go on with yonr books. Study assiduously 
under the exemplary Bygisve. Be a good 
uepbcw to your uncle, a son worthy of your 
mother. Aid so again : good-bye, and God 
blesa yon." 

He dabbed his eyes with bis handker- 
chief; hot I do not feel snre that he was 
crying. I know I was. 

The white high-road parted as as though 
it had been a gulf. I began to retrace my 
steps. By chance I turned to look after 
hini. He had stopped ; he was waving his 
hand to me — beckoning — he had foi^tten 
something; had yet more last words to 
speak to me. Eagerly I ran to him. 

" I have just remembered," he said, 
" that the coach fare to London from Drip- 
ford ia of considerable amount ; beyond, 
indeed, the sum I cany with me. A 
draft npon my bankers in town would pro- 
bably not be accepted by the coachman. 
Yon spoke to me bnt a little while back of 
pecuniary assistance. Throe sovereigns 1 
think were distinctly mentioned. I declined 
them, not rudely, I trust, but still decisively. 
In these cases, however, second thoaghta 
are often beat. If you happen now to have 
about you " 

Delighted I thrust the money into his 

" A thousand thanks. I shall never forget 
your kindness. Yon will not mention tbe 
matter, I am sure ? No, of course not. Still 
some acknowledgment is due to you. Nay, 
I insist npon it. Take this, my young 
friend, and once more, blesa yon and good- 
bye." And ho hurried on hia way. 

He had given me a crumpled scrap ol 

paper taken from a greasy pocket-hook he 
carried iu the breast of bis oont. I scarcely 
looked at it until ho was out of sight. Then 
I found that upon it was written in rather 
faded characters, " Mr. Fane Mauleverer's 

Benefit. Admit and party to a Private 

Box." No date was specified ; nor waa the 
name of any theatre mentionod. It was 
not a document of much worth. 

As I re-entered the kitchen Kem said to 
me: "Old Mrs. Hullock's been over here 
from Bnlborough. She tells mo she once 
lost a main heap of things when the players 
went through the village, years ago. So 
I've been counting tbe tea-spoons. They're 
all right. Please God the linen mayprove the 
same. Bnt I had a terrible lot of washing 
out drying on the fuz bushes." 

I was much diagnsted by her suspicions 
of my friend Mr. Mauleverer. I vouched 
for his honesty. 

" Maybe," aaid Kem. " Bnt he was 
terrible short of Bhirt«." 


If the Sun were a living Sphynx, who 
amused himself by proposing enigmas, 
perplexing the learned while the nnlearned 
give tbem up in deajwir, he could not suc- 
ceed better than he has done of late.* The 
last few years have been crowded with 
solar enigmas. 

Spectral analysis has shown that the 
Sun, though composed of materials in the 
main part identical with those possessed 
both by the fixed stars and the Earth, 
has, nevertheless, something else in him, 
some unknown snbstance which we cannot 
identify. What is this substance which' we 
don't know as yet ? Whereabouts are the 
metallic vapours, of whose existence in him 
we arc assured ? Why is he wrapped and 
swathed in swaddling-clothes of almost 
pure hydrogen? Why do flames of hy- 
drogen mount with marvellona rapidity to 
incredible heights all round abont him? 
Are they eruptions of gas from the central 
mass ? Are they disaipated in space ? or 
do they return to the interior to undergo a 
second expulsion ? And the Spots on the 
Sun— what are they? 

Previooa to the seventeenth century, 
astronomers knew nothing about the Spots, 
and would have rejected any suspicion of 
their existence as the craziest of heresies. 

• Sas AlX TBI YbiB HoCHD, Hew Serie*, toI. i 

152 [Jnno 14.1673.] 


They liked an easy time of it, and, with a 
few exceptions, they had it. What good 
Avos there in disturbing established ideas ? 
Within the memory of man, from the most 
traditional antiquity, has tho Sun ever al- 
tered his behaviour? Has he not punc- 
tually warmed and illamined the world in 
the very same mode and measure? The 
variations of the seasons are a different 
affair; but they, too, are regular in their 
occorrence, and are explicable by celestial 
geometry. What would we have more ? 

On the other band, earthly flames and 
fires also light and warm us; but not in 
the same way as the Sun. Unfortunately, 
wo are obliged to feed those fires and 
flames. A strike of Welsh miners or 
London gasmen soon reminds us of our 
dependence, and of the ephemeral nature 
of all earthly furnaces; whereas the son, 
invariable, inextinguishable, receives no 
visible fuel from without He shines, 
therefore, it waa concluded, of himself, in 
virtue of his own proper essence, which 
differs completely from that of the objects 
aronnd' us. And as the case is the same 
with the stars, which shone on Mr. Dar- 
win's early progenitors as they shine on us, 
it was inferred that they aro all, together 
with the Son, formed of a special element, 
far superior to the four vulgar elements 
with which we are familiarised on earth. 

It always requires considerable courage 
to avow a belief differing from that of 
one's contemporaries. Sir ITiomas Browne 
pitcously pleads, " We shall not, I hope, 
disparage the resurrection of onr Bedeemor 
if we say that the Snn doth not dance on 
Easter Day. And though we would wil- 
lingly assent onto any sympathetic exalta- 
tion, yet cannot conceive therein any more 
than a tropical expression," It Is easy for 
us, now, to take the " fiflh element" and its 
immutabiUty to bo bo more than " a tropical 
expression" for an unknown quantity of 
unknown conditions; bat two hundred 
and fifty years ago, even the dons of 
science were obliged to be cautious. The 
doctrine of an unchangeable firmament was 
so strong that not even the appearance of 
a new star in tho constellation Serpent- 
anus could shake it. The first serious 
blow was given by the discovery, about 
1611, of Spots on the Sun, through the 
agency of a revolutionarv instrument, the 
perspiccllnm Batavum, which modem men 
name telescopo. 

The study of the Spots by Fabricius, 
Galileo, and Scheiner, enabled those astro- 
nomers to lay tho first foundation-stone of 

a theory. But their advance was stow; 
observations of the Snn were dangerous to 
eyesight. In vain did Kepler contract the 
opening of his telescope to the sizeofapio'a 
head, and place coloured glass between the 
eye-glass and his eye; even a rapid peep at 
the solar disc caused a painful dimness of 
vision which did not immediately pass away. 
Besides which, the instruments of that day 
were too weak to allow observers to do 
more than follow the motions of the spats. 
But it was soon seen that those spots were 
part of the Bun himself, turning with him, 
on an axis, in five or six and twenty days, 
absolutely as mountains and lak^ form 
part of the Earth, tnming with it in four 
and twenty hoars. 

The Snn, then, is not immovable. He 
has a movement of rotation from West to 
East. He is neither more nor less than a 
material globe, like oDr own, brought to, 
and maintained in, an incandescent state 
by unknown causes. 

Galileo, who did not studj long (forvery 
good reasons) the newly-discovered spots 
on the Sun, believed that they all mored 
(revolving with the Snn) with exactly the 
same velocity ; and thence concluded that 
they lie upon, or belong to, the actual sur- 
face of the Sun. Schemer, on the contrary 
— and this is important to note — maintained 
that their progress across the Sno'sdisc ia 
not equal, and therefore that they are not 
attached or adherent to the Sun itsel£ In 
1618, Kepler wrote, " The spots not only 
do not move parallel to the ecUptic, hat 
they have not exactly the same velocity. 
Consequently, they do not belong to the 
surface of the Sun, although they are not 
separated from it by a distance perceptible 
to oar vision. For these reasons, and he- 
cause the spots sometimes appear and some- 
times disappear, because they open wider 
and contract here and there with striking 
changes of shape, it is manifest that they 
must be something analogous to the clooda 
of our Earth, which clouds have a move- 
ment of their own, differing more or less 
from the Earth's rotation." 

Modem astronomers had long disagreed 
respecting the time of the Snn's revolntioii 
on his axis. In 1841, tho late Mpnsieor 
Langier, of the FarisBnreau des Longitudes, 
undertook a long series of observations of 
the solar spots. Instead of confining himself 
to one or two spots of long duration, he de- 
termined to observe a great number of spots 
selected in regions of both the hemispheres 
as far removed from each other as possible. 
The idea turned out a happy one. What 

ObiTlM DIctaBi.] 


strnck Langier the moat in the course of 
his researcbos, was the proof of a fact, 
more than suspected, aa we have seen, by 
Scbeiner, hut completely neglected for 
more than two centcries. The spots hare 
not tlie same velocity of rotation. Each 
spot, according to its poaitioD, gives a dif- 
ferent time of revolution. They have also 
other proper movements of their own, by 
which they approach, or recede from, each 
other. It is, as Langier told his tiieods, 
aa if each zone of the Son's photosphere 
had a spc<£al moTomcnt of its own. 

Now, results like these cannot be ex- 
plained byinaccnraciesof observation. The 
rotations of the different zones observed by 
Ijangier vary firom twenty-fonr to twenty- 
ax o^ys, nt^cing a diSerence of two whole 
days, whilst t^ errors to be expected 
&[m isolated resnlts fnrnished by each 
spot taken singly, scarcely exceed three 
or four Boors. But at that time, Sir W. 
Herschelt's hypothesis of a set of different 
fttmospherea overlying the Sun still re- 
tained firm hold of the scientiBc mind. It 
was everywhere received and taught as a 
doctrine about whose tmth there coold be 
DO question. Langier, doubtless through 
deference to opinions nniversaUy adopted, 
did not publish his Memoir, but merely 
gave the principal resnlts. 

Nevertheless, these were enough to show 
that the qaestion of ann-spots contained a 
mine of unexplored phenomena; aa well as 
that, to obtun poaseasion of novel fects, a 
great number of spots, selected in the 
moat opposite regions of tlie solar globe, 
must be submitted to strict observation. 
Mr. Carrington did so, day by day, noting 
thdr variations of ahape, their mode of 
grouping, and their geographical — or 
rather their heliographiod— distribution. 
Finally, he desired to continue this patient 
study during a whole snn-spot period j 
that is, for eleven yeara. It sometimes 
takes a good slice out of the life of a man 
to advance astronomical knowledge only 
half a step. But he completely est^lished 
the close connexion between the proper 
loovementB of the spots in longitude (from 
West to East) and their situation with 
fespect to the Sun's equator. It may be 
thus enounced : The rotation of the nrats 
is Blower in proportion as their latitude is 
greater ; in other words, the further the 
Bpots are from the Sun's eqnator, and, 
consequently, the nearer they are to his 
poles, the slower do they revolve round the 
axis of the Sun. 

Monsieur Faye — whose masterly Notice 

to Mr. Carrington's Observations of Solu- 
Spots, London, 1868, remarking the au- 
thor's complete independence of any pre- 
conceived idea. It is a pore and simple 
adherence to facts and observations, united 
with a BCmpulona care to put the reader in 
the way of following out any researches 
of his own. It gives a complete history of 
the solar spots during seven years, thereby 
marking an epoch in science, and serving 
as a model for all who wish to labour in 
this direction. Of theories Mr. Carrineton 
is sparing. He seems, however, inclmed 
to adhere to two hypotheses then in vogue 
—Sir John Herschell's and Dr. Mayer's. 

Dr. Mayer's Meteoric Theory of (he Son 
has already been propounded in these 
pagee.* Tyndall received it, if not with 
complete acceptance, at least with great 
&vonr. Its upshot is, tb&t the heat of the 
Sun is maintained by the constant falling 
into it of meteoric bodies, not through the 
fnel they supply to combustion, but from 
the heat developed by the shock — or 
rather their stoppage — by the conversion 
of their velocity into heat. The theory is 
beautifully and ingeniously philosophical, 
if it were trne. Monsieur Faye meets it 
with the fatal objection that the swarms of 
meteors which might thus feed the fire, do 
not taii into it (unless very rarely), but 
revolve round it, like the comets, escaping 
after their perihelia, although they may go 
near enough to singe their wings. 

Mayer's theory elbowed ite way to the 
front all the more easily in consequence of 
the ignorance or indifference of his prede- 
oeeaors, who, veiy curious to make out, or 
rather guess, the nature of the Sun's spots, 
scarcely troubled themselves about the 
mode of production of his light and heat. 
Nobody cudgelled his brains to find out tha 
cause of the Sun's mysterious constancy, 
which had struck all antiqnity aa a super- 
natural fact. Speculations on this sul^'ect 
were so rare and barren, that men were 
content with Wilson's and Herschell's con- 
ception of a cold and habitable nuclens 
capped and surrounded with a thin and 
shallow photosphere, in which was concen- 
trated the immense and incessant prodnc- 
tion of light and heat. Mayer's hypothec 
had at least the merit of being less repug* 
nant to possibility and common sense. 

By measaring the parallax of a few fixed 
itars, in cases where it has been possible to 
do so, astronomers have obtained a tole- 

" See All thi Ysib Bodvd, Fint Sgrin, roL xiu.. 

154 [J.. 



rably precine idea of Iheir eDormons dis- 
tance. By Bhidying the motions of double 
stars, they have nscertaiTied that those 
movements are governed by attraction. 
And, thirdly, by combiniDg those two 
notions, they have made &n approximate 
estimate of the mass of the stars so wedded 
together. Kow, those masses have always 
been fonnd comparable in magnitnde to 
that of the Snn ; which is a new and cer- 
tain confirmation of the familiar belief that 
oar Snn is only a star like the others, and 
that the stare are snns. 

Bnt the stars or the snns, wHehever we 
please to call there, are the only heavenly 
bodies which shine with their own proper 
light. Planets or satellites, whoso mass is 
imperceptible in comparison with their cor- 
responding snn (in onr system at least), do 
not emit either light or heat of their own 
in any appreciable qiiantitj. Is there no 
connexion between these two qualities 
which are special to snns; namely, the 
faculty of shining, and the possession of & 
considerable mass ? 

On Earth, a small qnantily of light and 
heat is developed bj the &,11 of aeroUtes, 
bolides, and shooting-starB into onr atmo- 
sphere. Those bodies, in the coarse of their 
travels in space, meet onr globe with a 
velocity of several miles per second. Their 
impact prodnces Inminons heat. Not long 
since, the Times newspaper, nndertfae head- 
ing of Stonned by a Meteor, described balls 
of fire, like large stars, &Uing into the sea 
like splendid fireworks. It appeared, the 
men said, as if something wore passing 
swiftly, and met with the obstrnotion of 
the vessel and bnrat. The decks of the ship 
were covered with cinders, which crashed 
nnder the sailors' feet as they walked. 

Why should not the same thing happen 
to the Snn and the stars? In virtno of 
their superior mass, they would draw 
towards them all the loose materials dis- 
persed within their sphere of attraction. 
The velocity of met«ors so &lling on them 
woald be enormous, and the light and 
beat developed wonld correspond. These 
latter are calculable, and a sufficient supply 
of aerolites would sufBce to supply the 
solar radiation. 

The idea is excellent. But a theory, 
said Fontenelle, is lite a mouse. It wri^les 
itself through one hole, and then through 
another. Bat if it comes to a hole too 
small for it, it can get no further, and 
is caught at once. So may a hypothesis 
pass the ordeal of several tests ; but if one 
tight fact comes and contradicts it, the 
hypotheaifl's progress is hopelessly stopped. 

Such seems to be the fete of Ifhyer's pi-o- 
duction of light and heat by hammering 
the Snn with aerolites. As already re- 
marked, hia machinery does not in fact 
come into play. Shooting-stars revolve 
round the Sun, instead of falling into it. 
We now knowahundred8vrarmsofmot«ors 
which the Earth encounters in her orbit; 
thousands of them doubtless exist without 
ever crossing our annual path. But nothing 
proves that they ever reach the Sun, 
Nevertheless, whatever becomes of Mayer's 
solar theory, his views on the dispersion of 
energy in the universe remain a great 
acquisition to science. 

The question of the solar spots may be 
briefly stated thus : Since Scheiner's and 
Galileo's days, plenty oftheorieshave been 
put forth; but respecting the capital point 
— whether the spots belong to the photo- 
sphere or not — the same uncertainty and 
contradiction existed in 1865 as in 1613, 
some affirming that the spots are cavitioB, 
others that they are clouds. The only 
point on which they agreed was the ex- 
istence, around the Sun, of an enormous 
atmosphere like onr own. 

It is now established, if only by a careful 
examination of Mr, Carrington s observa- 
tions, that ths spots are not clouds, but 
holes, and holes of no trifling depth, being 
(although not absolutely invariable) about 
two thousand two hundred and fif^ miles 
deep. It farther comes out that the at- 
mosphere attributed to the Snn baa no 
existence ; for, if it did exist, it would re- 
fract light to a aeuflible degree. Father 
Secchi, bue of the warmest partisans of the 
solar refraction, on attempting to verify it, 
fonnd it imperceptible. The Sun has no 
atmosphere, in the accepted meaning of 
the word. But spectral analysis has told 
us what really exists instead of it. We 
BOW know, and can observe, the some- 
what thin stratum, of incandescent hydrogen 
which overlies the photosphere. It re- 
sembles anything but an atmosphere, being 
a confused assemblage of protuberances, or 
rather flames, darting in all directions with 
incredible velocity, and assuming forms 
of a capridoosness which defies w com- 

Amongst the difficulties attached to the 
spots, are the slight movements by wfaicb 
they approach or recede from the Sun's 
equator. On the cloud hypothesis, they 
did not fell to be attributed to the action 
of trade-winds. Here, again, the study of 
facta destroyed the pretended analogy. 
Those movements are simple oscillations, 
occurring slowly between veiy narrow 


iei4,im.i 155 

limits, and not continually progressive 
moTPments, Moreover, the movements are 
cot common to all the epots of one and 
the same zone. So fer from that, it often 
happens that one ont of two neighboaring 
Bpots will recede slightly from the eqoator, 
while the other is approaching it. 

Another pecnliarify of the spots is as 
cnrions as nnexpected. It often happens 
that a spot breaks np, and so gives birth to 
a groap or rather a file of spots. The pho- 
tosphere, or the inner edge of the penumbra, 
seems to shoot out a luminous bridge across 
the spot, and to cut it in two. Soon, the 
two spota BO formed separate from each 
other and become independent. Now, Mr. 
Carrington's drawings and measurements 
show that it is usually the first segment, 
that which lies moat in advance m the 
direction of the solar rotation, which de- 
taches itself from the other in virtne of a 
very decided movement. By-and- bye that 
movement ceases, leaving the new spot to 
follow the nsual behaviour of all the others. 

This apparently inexplicable phenomenon 
is owing to a very simple canse. From 
Hi. Carrington's -valuable series of obser- 
vations, persevered in for seven long years, 
we learn that there are transitory spots and 
dnrable spots. The one show themselves 
month after month, when the hemisphere on 
which they occur presents itself to dh ; the 
others last for a few days, and then vanish. 
Nor are they indiflfcrently situated on the 
San. The durable spots scarcely show 
themselves elsewhere than between eight 
and thirty-five degrees of latitude. Those 
of the equatorial region, and those beyond 
thirty-five degrees of latitude, never last 
long. The first give the time of the Sun's 
notation with great exactitude, whilst the 
second would furnish only uijcertain results 
if we were not ablo to accnunt for the ap- 
parent irregularities. But the grand fact is, 
thatthe velocity of each spot depends exclu- 
sively on its latitude ; so much so, that if a 
spot moves from its mean position, by an 
oscillation perpendicniar to the equator, it 
instantly acquires the velocity correspond- 
ing to the aon© which it happens to have 

Another important point established by 
these observations is, that there exists no 
general movement from the equator to the 
poles, nor from the poles to the equator ; 
which completely excludes any hypothesis 
analogous to the oceanic circulation on our 
globe or to that of oar atmosphere. The 
spots, to which astronomers had assigned a 
primary importance, are a purely accidental, 
or at least a secondary phenomenon. They 

are something much more simple than 
Wilson or Sir W, Herschell had imagined. 
To account for them, we have only to con- 
sider the mode of rotation of the photo- 
sphere, whose successive and contiguous 
zones have different velocities, decreasing 
in proportion as they are farther distant 
from the equator. Thb difference of velo- 
city gives birth, here and there in the 
photosphere, to vertical vortexes or whirl- 
pools, exactly similar to those so easily pro- 
duced in cnrrentfl of water, particularly 
where streams of nneqnal rapidity combine. 
The cyclones so frequent in our atmosphere 
have no other origin. Some are of short 
duration ; others last for six or eight ter- 
restrial revolutions, or days, absolutely as 
on the Sun. 

The whirlpools of the photosphere absorb 
into their funnel the luminous clouds of the 
brilliant surface. They thus snck in the 
cooler matters of the outer region, whose 
lower temperature naturally causes the 
comparative darkness of the middle of 
the spots. For, he it well remembered, the 
blackness of the spots is only relative. Iso- 
lated from the photosphere, its brightness 
is far superior to that of our gas-flames, 
being perhaps comparable to the dazzling 
Drmnmoad light. The division of the 
spots finds its counterpart in the mnltipli- 
cation of little whirlpools or dimples in an 
eddy of water. The rarity of spots at the 
equator is explained by the slight difference 
of velocity in the contiguous zones of that 

VSR( to m? heart \ht air'oemi full of kiik, 

And kU the earth ii gtj with brigbt-hued Soiran 

And Bweet with perfumes — in tho«e bounteoua hann 
WfauD life ii rHptiirs, and mj soul ia itrong, 
Ai with Ood'a wine of g'ladnMa, it ii long 

Ere with oIpu area asd mind 1 can ducem 

Tfa> glory mid the gloriei, and can leaiD 
The one eurpaiBlng eweetoeei in (he thronR, 
But aoon I know ^JU w»tl ; for when the bliH 

That same and blinded vtaja with dearer eight 
I eea one joj wbirh gone all JDji would ahi 

Their heart of jojousneM : there it one light 
Which 'lightene all Ouogi. Let ms with aliu 

Help thee to guts* what makea mj world ao bright. 


Toe most graphic newspaper article ia 
tame, compared vrith the plain word-of- 
mouth nan-ative of one who has been an 
eye-witness of the event in question. The 
greatest historical masterpiece of painting is 
comparatively uninteresting, when set side 
by side with the rudest sketch taken on 
the spot. And if we wish to really under- 

156 (JniHi H, 187*,] 


stand historr, wemast becontenttoimder- 
take the tatk, not of the reader of history, 
bat of the historian, and to rummage, as 
Scott and Maoanlay did, among the diistj, 
yellow, vorm-eaten contemporaneous re- 
cords of the age, and of the coantry with 
which we would be acquainted, Few 
periods in history have been more talked 
of, more misrepresented both by friends 
and foes, and less nnderstood, than the last 
forty yeara of the Irish history of the past 
century. The witty, joyous, hospitable, 
and chivalrous character of all classes of 
the people, from the highest to tiie lowest 

the pomp and luxury of the aristocracy 
and gentry! the pluck and spirit with 
which the Volunteer Association wrenched 

its political requirements from the power- 
ful and hostile government of England; 
aad the unsullied patriotism, the tran- 
scendent eloquence of men like Grattan, 
Cniran, and Flunkett, dazzle the imagina- 
tion. But, on the other band, the vices and 
follies of the conutiy squires and squireens ; 
the abject misery and contemptible kna- 
vishnesB too common among the rural 
population; the scandalous condition of 
the metropolis, in which sbamefol want sat 
cheek-by-jowl with shameful prodigality; 
and the unparalleled dishonesty aud vena- 
hty of the main body of politicians, are 
enough to make every honest thinking 
man bless himself that Uiese much- vaunted 
years are over. 

Let na play the part of valet to the 
Irishman of the days of our grandfothera. 
Let us spend a few hours in the fine 
libraries of the Dublin Eiug's Inns, 
Trinity CoU^e, studying the Irish news- 

Sapera from 1763 (when the Freeman's 
oumal was Btarted) to 1800. 
Dublin, at this period, was deservedly 
famous for its printers and publishers. The 
Edict of Kantes Huguenots bad established 
a splendid business in typography aud 
engraving, many of the best illoBtrated 
editions of Addison, Swift, Ac., emanating 
from Dublin presses. As might be ex- 
pected, the daily journals (Faulkner's, the 
Saunders's, and the Freeman, the two latter 
of which still survive) are very creditable. 
Previous to the stamp being imposed, they 
sold at one penny a number, were the size 
of ordinary modem newspapers, and were 
distinctly and correctly printed, with good 
ink, on good and thick paper. Tbey con- 
tained admirable sununariea of home and 
foreign news, and frequently gave the 
reader telling leading articles, and sensible 

The first thing that strikes the reader is 
the extraordinary talent the; Irishman of 
that day had for getting hurt and for hurt- 
ing himself. Tbe amount of accidental 
injury he meets with is perfectly astound- 
ing. The Loudon list of casualties is, even 
at the present day, long enough, and scan- 
dalous enough, bat it pales before the 
similar detfuls in the Dublin of the eigh- 
teenth century. In the first place the Irish 
aristocracy seem to have had a great feucy 
for driving two, four, or even six unbroken 
horses through the narrow streets of Dub- 
lin. These equipages were also, as many a 
correspondent bitterly compluna, attended 
by largo and savage dogs, so that if the 

Kdestrian escaped oeing run over or kicked 
the equine quadrupeds, there was a 
very good chance that their canine com- 
rades would either bite him, or overset him 
by rnnning between his legs. That noblo 
animal, the pig, was very much abroad 
also, and frequently overthrew his natural 
friend, the Irishman. And as sure as horse, 
dog, or pig overturned a man, the sufferer 
was dangerously hurt, if not killed. 

The streets of the city were blocked 
with snow in the winter far weeks to- 
gether. " Several ladies of diatiuction have 
broken their limbs daring the late frost 
by attempting to get over the heaps of 
froeen snow in our leading thoroaghfares," 
says the Hibernian jonrnaliBt, who gene- 
rally disdains names, and likes to lump tbe 
viotims of accidents in columns. A thaw 
comes, and a mounted trooper gets drowned 
in the mud while trying to get across 
Church-street — incredible as this last Gsct 
appears, it is stated in black and white, aud 
does not appear to have been subsequently 
contradicted. The beat streets are full of 
laive holes. An unfortunate porter, with 
a cTeve of bottles on his back, falls, an in- 
voluntary Cnrtins, into one of these pit- 
falls in Snfiblk-street, a main thorough&re 
between the College and tbe Parliament 
House. A passer-by hearing his cries, at- 
tempts to rescue him, and falls in too, and we 
can well believe the reporter when he says 
that the two wretohes, when at length ex- 
tricated, presented a " spectacle too horrible 
for words, covered with cuts from the 
broken glass, and writhing with aognish." 

But Paddy's pet accident was to fall into 
the LiSW. One might almost suppose 
that be looked upon his picturesque bat 
evil-smelling river as the Hindoo looks on 
the sacred Ganges, aud believed that ever- 
lasting happiness was to be procured by 
immolating himself lu its waters. Does a 


Qiirigi nekau.) 


trooper or a dn^oon go down to the river 
b> water his horse ? He falls in, and is 
drowned. Does a merchant go to the 
qoay to see a brig unloaded ? Does a 
oitor go dowa to Biogsend in a boat P 
Does a girl lake some clothes to the river- 
side to iraah ? " Drowned ! Drowned !" 
Shakespeare's exdamation was never so 
applicable. And if any bodv falls in, an im- 
petnona but nnreflecting bystander gene- 
rallyjiunps in afler him or her, apparently 
forgtrtting that he himself is not much of 
s swimmer, and both are, as a matter of 
coDTEe, drowned forthwith. In one case 
a good-natured gentleman, seeing a girl 
lamenting that t£e tide ha^ carried away 
some sheets she was washing, goes in 
after them, bnt, having over-estimated 
ios powers of natation, the man goes 
the way of the clothes, and is lost for 
ever. Another gentleman's hat is blown 
off (no light matter in the days of gold- 
iaced head^coverings) ; in he goes afl«r 
it into the fatal waters, and soon exchanges 
liiffev for Styx. Persons of " disordered 
minds" (of vrhom there wonld seem to he 
quite a little army goii^ abont), are very 
fond of trying to oool lieir heated brains 
in these " waters of Eblans." But the vast 
majority of the deaths from drowning are 
dismissed with the oontemptnons pleonasm 
that the deceased was " intoxicated with 
liqaor" at the time. By the way, there is 
> powerful aroma of whisky abont this 
period in the annals of the Green Isle. 
Two snccessive viceroys, my Lords Nor- 
thugton and Batland, are freelv spoken of 
asDotorioos sotsj indeed, BntWdiBwell 
known to have drank himself to death 
while still a comparatively yonng man. And 
w on, down throngh eveir class. Lord Nor- 
thington gives a fancy ball at the Castle, 
fle being veiy nspopnlar at the time, the 
people, with rare temperance, refose to 
drink the barrels of ale set rnnning for 
them by the lord-hentenant, which are left 
' to the, soldiers, so that the whole guard, 
horse and foot, were, as "onr own corre- 
spondent" curtly observes, " when we left, 
ll helplessly dmnk." A favourite mode of 
;. shnfBing off Qds mortal coil is to drink 
I an enormous qnantitj^ (sometimes specified 
I M pints, five half-pints, Sk.) of spirits, 
I the not umiatnral consequence of which 
I u very speedy death. Illicit stills are so 
I Emnerons and active, that in a year of 
. &mine it is bitterly complained that the 
scarcity of com is aggravated by the enor- 
j fflons quantity nsed in private distillation. 
I The volunteers, to their great honour, of 

their own accord, undertake the dangerous 
and invidious task of " still- hunting," and, 
as they boast, with pardonable pride, seize 
more illicit whisky in the north of Ireland 
alone, in one year, than the English govern- 
ment, backed W an army of twelve thou- 
sand men, had been able to do in ten 

If the above sketch should appear ex- 
aggerated, I am prepared to assert that 
among the imiumerable papers I have 
looked over, there is a death by drowning, 
a murder, and a &fal accident, for every 
day in the year. 


It has unfortunately always been neces- 
sary to keep a lai^ armed force in Ireland. 
At present the regular military estabhsh- 
mcnt is reinforced by some three thousand 
constabulaiy, metropolitan and rural. The 
police, who look after the orAet and safety of 
the capital, are a fine set of men, armed at 
night with swords, and patrolling the streets 
in twos. The constabulary are armed with 
rifles and sword-bayonets; drilled and 
dressed like riflemen. I^ as Hr. Bri^t 
complains, this semi-civil army is much 
more expensive than ordinary troops, it 
must be remembered tliat the men are a 
very superior class to the ordinary material 
from which soldiers are formed ; they must 
have characters and be men of some educa- 
tion, and any riotous or disorderly conduct 
on the part of either the city or county 
police is a thing unheard of 

Bnt in the last centoiy the soldiers had 
to do the duty, not only of the present 
garrison, but of the present police establtsh- 
mentaswell. When lawlessness reached an 
intolerable point, even ia Dublin, Uie only 
resource was to send for the soldiers. The 
British army was perhaps never in a more 
discreditable condition than in the interval 
between Cullodeu and the rise of Welling- 
ton. Hogarth's March to Finohley shows 
ns the style of disdpline kept up in the 
ranks, Swift and Fielding present very 
pretty pictures of the sort of ofBcers 
who too often during the last century dis- 
graced the British nniform. Junius in- 
dignantly declares that a whole army had 
been allowed to go to ruin in Ireland, and 
General ComwaUis, so late as 1798, com- 
plains that the army under his care was 
more dangerous to friends than to enemies. 

Let us choose from a monotonously 
shameful list of military scandals, ranging 
from petty but galling insults to serious 
crimes, a couple of signal ones. 

Febmary the 23rd, 1784 (Monday). "On 



158 [Ji»»i4,18TJ.] 


tCendncM It 

Satarday Iset a soldier of this (Dablin) 
garrisoii, in daylight, was secured in an 
attempt to commit a robbery at Island 
Bridge. When the report reached the 
barracks, about five hundred men from the 
different regiments, horse nod foot, on dnty 
there, mnetered and proceeded withhateheta, 
crows, pickaxes, Ac., to rescue the prisoner. 
Not content with giving him his liberty, 
they commenced a joint attack on the in* 
habitants of tbat quarter. In a very short 
time they wounded four people, so tbat 
their lives are despaired of, tore fourteen 
houses almost to the ground, and plundered 
the people of whatever property was in 
their possession." 

Angnst the 4th, 1784. "On Monday 
night a number of field officers. Lord Har- 
rington, Colonel St. George, Colonel St. 
Leger, Colonel White, Colcmel Cradock, 
Mr. Freemantle, and two others, in a state 
of drunken insanity, went into a shop on 
the quay belonging to a Mr. Flatt«ry, a 
Tolnnteer, and proceeded to grossly insnlt 
his wife. She boxed one of the officer's 
ears. He knocked her down. Flattery 
came ont, and the officers, all seven, set 
upon him. A Hr. Moffat, who was pass- 
ing by, came to his assistance. Colonel St. 
L^er fired a loaded pistol at him, but with- 
out efiect, Flattery went for his musket, 
but was persuaded, on a parley, to give it up. 
The officers immediately broke it and flaug 
it into the river. All seven then set on bim 
with drawn swords. The gnard at the 
National Bank, hearing of this scuffle, hnr- 
ried down, headed by their snbaltenia. Lord 
Harrington, when ' they airived, ordered 
them to charge the orovrd, which bad by this 
time assembled, with fixed bayonets, which, 
however, was not done. Mr. SberiffSmith, 
who bad by this tame hastened to the spot, 
ran up to the main-guard for a force to 
suppress the riot. The officer on dnty there 
told him that the gnard had alreedy gone, 
without a m^strate's order, to rescue their 
officers. At length the sheriff collected all 
the soldiers he could get, four or five in 
number, and on going back met the niain- 
gnard with drawn swords, headed by an 
officer who was extremely drunk. He 
stopped them. The two gentlemen with 
him were violently struck. He would have 
been so also, but tbat a cry was raised that 
be was the sheriff. A party of volnnt«ers, 
who were supping in a neighbouring 
tavern, on hearing what had happened, 
hurried down, and on the way were joined 
by great numbers of their comrades. For- 
tunately when th^ arrived the soldiers 

were withdrawing fiwm the ground. The 
officers lost two swords and a laced hat, 
which are in the possession of Sheriff 

Before the night is over the mob seize 
Mr. Freemantle, and are with difficulty pre- 
vented from throwing him into the Liffey. 

Next day affidavits are sworn against all 
seven officers, three of whom obtain bail 

Some papers in the interest of the Ca.ttle 
bring forward, in palliation of the whole 
affair, two not over-respectable pleae : first, 
that tbe gentlemen were all excesBively 
drunk ; and, seoondly, that Flattery's fa onse 
was one of no very high character. 

The Duke of Bntland (lord-lieutenant) 
then sends his compliments to Flattery, 
and hopes that he vnll come to the Csstle 
to talk the matter ovw, aa ne (Flatteiy) 
suggested in his letter. Bnt Flattery 
quietly writes back to say that be never 
wrote any such letter, and declines to be 
interviewed at all. 

The end of the matter is, that after the 
fbrm of a miKtary inquiry, the offioers, to 
prevent lie matter coming before a jory, 
pay Mrs. Flattery five hundred pounds, her 
husband three hundred and fifty, Moffat 
one hundred pounds, and a " penny b<^." 
whateversortofaooffioial that may be, fifty 
pounds, making one thousand pounds in all. 

The above - mentioned sacking of the 
honsee at Island Bridge is followed by t 
horrible form of reprisal, namely, the 
boughiAg or ham-stringing of soldiers by 
t^e people, genenlly by thebut«ben (fasni- 
stringing we ma^ mention, for the benefit of 
the nnimtiated, is a process which deprives 
the man on whom it is inflicted of the 
power of nsing his legs for the rest of his 
life). GhnenI Lnttrell brings a bill into 
the Irish Parliament to grant a pension 
of twenty pounds a year to every soldier 
honghed, the money to be levied on the 
district where the crime was commit- 
ted. He complains vrith much indigna- 
tion that many of his best men had been 
disabled for life by this hideous process, 
and mentions tbat one officer hod told his 
regiment that he would flog every man in 
it the next time one of their comrades was 
houghed, if they did not the next day bring 
him (the colonel) the head of a butcher t 

On the part of the civilians the astound- 
ing assertion Is made that the militaiy were 
in the habit ofhonghing themselves, so that 
they shonldbeeither apparently or actually 
disabled, and so entitled to the pension. It 
appears that two men at least had this 
strange offence brought home to them ; one 


«i*.i97J.j 159 

receiTed sis hnndred lashes for it as soon 
as he got oDt of hospital. Another (whose 
exact paDisfament is not mentioned) is de- 
I tected hy the acnteness of his sergeant, who 
I finds the man's own mess-knife within 
twenty yards of the spot where ho was 
token up maimed and bleeding. These 
stories are almost incredible, bnt seem peiv 
fectif well anthenticated, and severe self- 
I mntilation, snch as the cntting off of the 
' fingers on one hand, or patting one eye out, 
to avoid aerrice, has in all ages been a not 
nnfreqnent military offence. An officer, now 
liTing, told the present writer that he was 
with his regiment, early in the present cen- 
tni^, wheAthey were marching from Cork to 
Cove, now Qneenstown, to embait for the 
Westlndiea. One ofthe finest yonngmen in 
tlie ranks Enddenly stepped aside to where 
as axe was lying, which had been used for 
chopping wood by the roadside. He de- 
Kberately cut off three of his fingers, to 
escape » few years' service abroad. That 
the crime exists among soldiers is nndeni- 
i able, thon^h complete self- disabling for life 
' for the sake of twenty pounds a year does 
, Beem a very motiveless act. But in onr 
; old DttbHn records, houghed many sol- 
, diers are, whether by themselves or by 
the batchers. The officers of the garrison 
give a performance at the theatre to which 
I an eccenbiic gentleman of thd name of 
Handy Pemberton, famous for writing in- 
fianunatory letters to the Dnblin papers, 
I repairs. "Tfi« object, as he tells ns him- 
I self, was ■to " contribnte his mite for the 
I relief of men who had been for life ren- 
dered incapable of injuring him or any of 
! his fellow- citizens." In this mixed spirit 
I of triumph and charity he harangues 
j the gnard which he finds at the theatre 
I door, informing them that they were sent 
I there to murder the people, that if they 
wonid mntiny or desert, the people would 
I ftid them, bnt if theydid no^ the popular 
spirit against them was snch that they must 
never expect the practice of honghing to 
cease. Pemberton seems much surprised 
and not a little aggrieved to find that the 
result of this truly conciliatory speech is a 
refusal to permit him to enter. The soldiers, 
however, do not appear to have offered him 
any violence. Pemberton, having to appear 
in court afterwards for some incendiary 
letter, is contemptuously told by IJord 
Earlsfort (afterwards first Earl of Clonmel) 
that he is insane, and it certainly looks 
rather like it. Be that as it may, he 
writes tremendous letters to the Volunteers' 
Journal at least once a week, and that his 

presence is very undesirable when any dis- 
turbance is to be apprehended is shown by 
the following circumstance. The Smock- 
alley Theatre had been closed for some time, 
long indeed that the papers sarcastically 
surmise that the Duke of Rutland pays the 
manager three hnndred pounds a night to 
keep it shut, as were it open he would h 
expected te go there, and knew that his ap- 
pearance wonld be the signal for an out- 
burst of popular iudiguation. It is opened 
at length, and sure enough when his 
cellenoy steps into the viceregal box there is 

terrific row, and the military immediately 
seize Handy Pemberton, Esquire, who i 
sitting in. a box near the lord-lieutenant 
(quiet indeed as yet, but doubtless medi- 
tating a slight "harangue" presently), and 
bundle him out. 

This has not been a cheerfol chapter. As 
a relief after these details of ruffianism, we 
will give the reader the following smart 
little song, in which the style of M^inn 
has been happily anticipated by some reader 
of the Tolunteers' Journal, in an hour not 
devoted to politics ; 

Come, jocund friend*, ■ bottle briny, 

ADdpluh nbonb thejonun; 
Well Ulk, uid laugh, uid qoalF, uid dug. 

Sane nuaTUUQ voaium. 

Wliilit wi ue in > aunry mood. 

Coma lit down ul bibandum, 
And if dull care thauld dare intrud*, 

We'll to the den] aend him. 

^ elf I cui't endure. 
While 1 have mdj tbioo : 


Ba meiT7, tlian, m^ friend*, I pny. 
And piBi joiu time in joco, 

For it ia ple«UDt, u the; aay, 
Deupecein lose. 

Ha thtt loTN Dot a jimng lui 
1* nin an unot ttnltni. 

And ba that will not lake ■ gUw 
DnerTes to be lepuUuj, 

Pleuure, muiic^ lore, and wins, 

Bes Tildft eunl jucunds. 
And prettj miidane look dirine, 

FroTided ut mot moada. 
I bate a inailiag, rarlj fool, 

Who mopti and aver live 
Drinki water and eate 

Qui finil 

n tbat'i alwaT* &M, 

u of lifa, whate'er the j ba, 

IT noie motto itiU ia Spero. 
Death will tun na ioon &om hence, 

If igerrimaa ad gadea, 
And all am landi, and all our penee, 

Ditabunt tons handes, 
Wh7 ihould «a, than, forbear to apoft t 

And when the Fatai aball rat m tbjoi, 
GoDtenti abeamua. 

160 IJimB !«, im.) 



Whek we find that there were dnring 
the last centarj more men executed in 
England ajid Ireland ^not inclnding Scot- 
land) in one year than in the whole of the 
rest of Europe in fonr ; when we find that 
by no means the smaller portion of these 
victims to justice was contribnt«d by Ire- 
land, we are not enrprised to find even 
Irish papers admitting that, for murder and 
robbe^, " onr little kingdom exceeds any 
conntryin Europe." Among the caoses of 
this terrible state, of things may be men- 
tioned the extreme misery of the people ; 
the reckless and improvident habits of the 
yonng men of the day, which often drove 
the son of a sqnireen, or even a squire, to 
take to the road; and the facilities which 
the better dressed class of thieves had for 
introducing themselves into private houses 
as the favoured lovers of the servant 
maids. To all these must be added not 
only the ine£Bciency, bnt the connivance 
and even assistance of the watehmen, who, 
it was stated by more than one robber on 
the Bcafibld, often not only stood by in- 
active while burglaries were being com- 
mitted, bnt even lent tiie robbers the 
cuidlea from thmr lanterns. The plun- 
dered not nnfreqnently, from a mieteken 
spirit of lenity, let robbers escape, or 
declined to prosecute them when taken. 
Not can we wonder at a kind-hearted man 
taking this course, when we reflect what 
earthly hells the Irish prisons were, and 
at the monstrooB state of the law, which 
virtually provided no punishment between 
that for an ordinary petty larceny and the 

This last national institntion was em- 
ployed in a way that dearly showed that 
the authorities were of opmioa that "a 
row of gentlemen suspended would illu- 
minate mankind." The papers lament 
that "no more exomciafuig punishment 
can be devised than death." And certainly 
the grim monarch seemed to have well- 
nigh lost all his terrors for the Irish ctimi- 
nfU. Spenser tells us that the nation were 
"very great scorners of death." He meant 
the glorious death of the battle-field. It 
appears to have been equally true of the 
ignominions death of the scafibld. 

Ayounggentlemanof thenameof Ennis 
morders his father, and attempts to do the 
same to his mother, only succeeding, how- 
ever, in mutilating her frightfully. How 
does he prepare himself for a sentence 
which he surely can have had no hope of 
evading ? The young villain, when brought 
up for trial, is so drunk that he cannot 

stand upright in the dock ! His execu- 
tion, for he was, one is glad to think, dnlj 
delivered up to the executioner — is the 
scene of another tragedy. An elevation, 
on which a number of spectators are sta- 
tioned, gives way, and many of them are 
senously injured, some &tally. 

Another time a boy — almost a child — is 
hanged for robbery. The Irish press in- 
forms us, that though a yet younger boy 
was once executed in England for murder, 
this is the youngest that ever snfiered in 
any of the mree kingdoms for robbery. 

Again, we find a father, mother, son, and 
daughter, all hanged together in Doblin, 
in 1785, for robbing ableaching-grouud at 
Kilmainham. The Freeman says this is an 
unexamined case. Let us hope so. 

One great cause of the insecurity of (lie 
capital was the want of light at night; 
even in the most central thorough&resfoor 
or five lamps were considered sufficient to 
illuminate a long street. And such lamps ! 
The wick, we are told, was ingeniously cod- 
ttacted into the smallest possible space, in 
order to save oil, which economics object 
was also furthered by only putting in 
enough oil to burn till two in the morning, 
or even sometimes only till eleven at night. 
" The glimmer of the oil only shows to 
more advantage the dirt on the glass." 

All this " darkness visible" was of conrse 
dne to jobbery. For we are not to suppose 
that because the citizens of Dublin did not 
enjoy the advantages of police or lighting, 
that they also enjoyed immunity from 
taxes for police and lighting. By no means ; 
the rates levied for both purposes were 

This economy of light extended even to 
the Parliament. From the ceiling of the 
great chamber of the Irish House of Com- . 
mons hong a splendid chandelier, now to 
be seen suspended in the Examination Eall 
of Trinity College. This was of course 
supposed to be always kept lighted dnnng 
debates and business. And wo have onani- 
moua testimony that the efl'eot of the cham- 
ber BO lighted was fine in the eitrepe. 
Bnt there were very few opportunitiw 
afforded of witnessing this effect. -^ * 
general rule, we are assured by the Free- 
man (then a government organ), a conpw 
of candles at the clerk's tahfe, and one at 
the entrance of each of the corridors, wm 
considered, on ordinary occasions, Bttffici.ent 

Talking of light. Did the reader ever 
hear of "philosophic tapers?" Mo-it likely 
not Tet the name is onlya sounding*^"" 
for an early form of Inxafer matoh. " Fw'^ 



sophic tapers are for affording light on 
all occasions withont flint nnti steel. Twelve 
of them may conveniently be carried in a 
tooth-pick case, beiiig in glnss tubes her- 
metically sealed, so that they will last for 
any period." In fact, they were some 
preparation of phosphorus — probably like 
the machines for producing "instantaneous 
Kght," described years afterwords by Thi 
dore Hook, with which yon generally" burnt 
jonr fingers, spoiled ^I yonr clothes, and 
set firo to the whole apparatus, without 
prodocing the light you required." 

While the prevalence of robbery, mnrder, 
4c., in England was commonly attributed 
to the recent disbanding of regiments in 
tbat country, the Freeman caUs attention 
to the fact that, in spite of all complaints 
about the military in Ireland, only one sol- 
dier had been capitally convicted there for 
a considerable time past. I shall take leave 
of the reader for the present with two 
incidents, in both of which I think his sym- 
pathy will be with the soldier. 

First: A soldier is brought in with his 
tongue cnt out. Though he expressed by 
signs that he knew who had done the' 
crime, and the motive of it, being unable 
to write be cannot commnnicate his know- 
ledge to those about him. 

Again: "A poor soldier the other day 
waiting quietly down Dorset-street with 
Ilia bayonet under his arm, it was snatched 
&om him by a. villain who made off. The 
soldier pnrBued him, but the robber ont- 
nm him. On seeing this the soldier sat 
down anfl' b^jim to cry. On being re- 
proached for his weakness ho shook his 
iead and said, ' Oh ! there ia canse for 
tears in five hundred lashes.' " 

It was undoubtedly rather a " spoony" 
thing of the soldier to let his weapon be 
snatohed from him. By the way, what 
was ho doing with his bayonet "nnder his 
arm"? But who can help pitying the 
poor wretch, possibly a mere lad, crying 
with Qtter horror at the hideous pnnish- 
■nent in store for him when he got back to 
barracks? What short of absolute star- 
vation can have ever induced a man to enlist 
in those days, when the soldier was, in 
Henry Fielding's words, " The only slave 
in a IVee country ; liable to frightful punish- 
ments for Crimea which no civil tribunal 
recognises ?" 


Cas any of onr readers give any infor- 
ination as to either of the nnder-mentioned 
antiquarian discoveries ? 

" Cuhei, October 4th, 1T83. 

" Some time ago a man dreamt that if 

he would go to such a pnrt of the Rock of 
Cashol he would find a treasure. Accord- 
ingly, as directed by his vision, he went, 
and after digging with a crow, for a con- 
siderable time, a stone gave way and showed 
a littlo cave, neatly plastered abont with 
stncco-work. In the midst of the cave 
was a small white marble pedestal, and on 
it a copper bos of curions workmanship, 
locked, on the corner of which lay a key. 
The man, expecting immense riches, opened 
the box, which only contained a book 
covered with copper, and riveted over with 
five small rivets, which they were obliged 
to file off in order to open the book ; it was 
found to be written in the year 491, which 
was plainly engraved on the corner, Tho 
leaves are vellum, the writing neat and 
plain, but such uncommon characters as 
no person can make out. They are neither 
Hebrew, Dutch, Greet, Irish, nor short- 
hand, nor anything intelligible. In tho 
midst of two pages of this wonderful book 
was written, qaite' plain, 1767. At the 
latter part of the book there seemed to be 
verses. The sentences seemed correctly 
stopped and ended, and the catch words at 
the end of each page. We understand the 
book is to be presented to the libraiy of 
Trinity College, Dublin." 

The episode of the prophetic vision is 
obviously only put in ly way of rider, but 

le would like to know what became of the 

ysterions volume. 


Dublin Freeman, Jannary the 1 2th, 1 784. 
(Copied from the St. James's Chronicle.) 
Colonel Simeon Thomson, County Kerry 
(Ireland), to Mr. George Barry Douglas, 
late of Fowey, in Cornwall, bat now of 
London : 

Last Friday I ordered two men to go 
to the bottom of a well, which I was sinking 
at a little shooting-place I call ' Do-as-you- 
please.' It was dug about sixty feet, but 
no water appeared. I was resolved, how- 
ever, to go on as &r aa I could penetrate, 
nntil a spring was found. We dug ac- 

■dingly forty-eight feet farther, when 

nething like vapour coming np, we drew 
up tho men and desisted about on hoar. 
When the smoke ceased the t;wo men again 
descended and penetrated abont three feet 
more. They found on the north-east a 
hollow way, covered over in a very curions 
manner with sticks and clay. They had 
the courage to enter, for there waa room 
sufficient for a man to walk almost nprfght. 
They proceeded for about ten yards when 
tbey beard a noise, something like the chat- 
tering of a flock of jays. This frightened 



tliem so much that they returned, and we 
drew them up. I then deEceaded with my 
brother Stephen, and we went through 
this sabteirsnean passage into a large 
space. We found a most cnriona stone 
coffin, of an enormooB size. With some 
difficulty we got off the lid, and saw a 
hnmau form, twelve feet eleren' inches and 
three quarters long, all bat the head and 
neck tjgbtly swathed in a pitched skin of a 
targe animal. On toaching this with my 
finger it fell into a kind of whitish ashes, 
and separated near the stemnm. The rest 
remained firm. We retnmed in amaze- 
ment, got np in the backet, and sent the 
men down. The entrance was widened, so 
as to admit seven people, and thus, by the 
assistance of pulleys, ac., raised the coffin 
and got it np. Tbd skin in which it was 
wT^ped became by degrees from a black 
to a white colonr. We opened it, and the 
body and anna of a woman appeared quite 
perfect and sound. On the Uiumb of the 
right hand was a very curions cornelian in 
tl^ form of a ring, and on it, as well as on 
the lid of the coffin, were these ciphers, 
0.0.0 .1.o.z.T.z. Wo tlien put the body in 
spirits of wine, and intend to send it to 
]>nblin as a present to the University. 
We could never discover, nor can we form 
any conjecture, from what cause the noise 
which tuo men heard arose, except it was 
what their feara created. There are many 
traditionary stories of giants in this part 
of Ireland. This discovery makes them all 
facts among the common people, who are 
ascending and descending the well from 
sunrise to sunset every day." 


The foneral ceremonies of the riowery 
Land difler so materially from our own, 
and are so little understood in this country, 
that the following description of the man- 
ner in which they are conducted may prove 
acceptable to the reader. 

It may be weli to mention that white, 
not Uack, is the mourning colour in China, 
and that mourners wear white clothes, 
white girdles, white shoes, and even braid 
white cotton into their qnenes or pigtails. 

The Chinese coffin is generally very 
solid in its construction, and is broader 
and deeper at the head than at the foot, 
sloping straight from one end to the other; 
the lid is not fiat, but raised all down the 
centre ; the seams are always well caulked, 
and the whole is carefnlly oiled several 
times, and finally covered with a block 

lish. Well-to-do peqple repeat these 
esses once a week for a long period. 
A common price to pay for a good, ordi- 
narily strong coffin is from two to three 
pounds, but the price varies according to 
the nature of the material employed and 
its ornamentation, oad we have heard of 
fifty and even a hundred times as much 
as this sum having been paid for a single 
coffin. Of course, among the very poor 
classes a mnch cheaper and slighter one 
is used, though even they do their utmost 
to bury their dead in such coffins as wo 
have described. Tho charitablo societies 
for rescning life, which exist at nearly all 
towns on the sea coast and on the targe 
rivers, provide coffins gratis, when their 
boats bring in dead bodies, but they are 
made veiy slightly, and of the commonest 

On the death of a father, slips of monru- 
ing (that is, white) paper are affixed to 
each Bide of the door of the house, and in 
the higher ranks a board is exhibited there, 
giving tho name, age, dignities, ifcc., of the 
departed one. Notice of the death is at 
once sent to the descendants of the de- 
ceased, who all forthwith assemble at the 
house, and range themselves on the floor 
round the body, weeping and wailing, and 
nttired in funeral garb; the immediate 
relatives, too, come and condole with the 
afflicted family. In some parte it is cus 
ternary for the frjenda and intimate ac< 
qnaintances of the deceased, who have been 
notified of his death, to bring pieces of 
white cloth or silk to place over the dead 
body. We ourselves once received a noti- 
fication of this nature from the general ia 
command of the Tartar troops at the port 
where we were residing in Cenb^ CluDa, 
but as his mother died at Uoukden, in 
Manchuria, we were unable to take any 
part in her funeral obsequies. 

If the family be settled in any part away 
from the neighbourhood of their ancestral 
burying place, it becomes necessaiy for 
them to seek out a lucky spot for the 
burial of their deceased relative. In many 
cases the coffin is kept for years in the 
room where the ancestral tablets are, and 
sometimes it is temporarily laid in a sort 
of dead-house, hired or constructed for the 
occasion, until it can be transported to the 
original sepulchre of the family, or until 
a Incky spot can be discovered. The 
Chinese are very superstitious on this 
point, and even iu times of epidemic will 
often insist on retaining coffiias in their 
houses, and, as &r ns we are aware, there is 
no sanitary or other authority to interfere 

Cluriei Dlckeng.] 


.ei*.i<;3.i 16; 

>nd protect the health of the community. 
Many will, doubtless, say that all danger 
OD this score is safficiently obviated by the 
tare with nbich most coffins are prepared ; 
but tbe erideoce of oor senses, in a cholera 
season at Pekin, has taagbt ns that the 
contrary ia frequently the case. Pamiliea 
at the rerj bottom of the social scale, for 
economy's sake, often inter their deceased 
relations within a few days of their death, 
bat this practice is much looked down 
upon, and is considered a proof of tbe 
[mrties being snnk in the lowest depths of 
penary, as well as wanting in dne respect 
lo the departed. Professors of the art of 
FSng-shni (literally wind and water), or 
geomancy, are consnlted on the subject of a 
lucky place for sepnltare. In Central and 
Southern China the summits and sloping 
aidea of nucnltivated hills are the most 
broorite spots, especially if near water, 
sod with a sonth aspect. Coffins are also 
buried in fields, more particalarly in the 
north, and, if onr memory serves ns, we 
bsTB seen more than one lai^e cemetery 
filled with low graves, and surrounded by 
dvarf mad fences, in the flat country out- 
side the walla of Pekin. Again to the 
west of Chinkiang — once a flourishing city 
DQ the bank of the rirer Tang-tsze, at the 
entrance to the southern portion of the 
Qnuid Canal — we have rambled over hills, 
where the graves are as thick as they well 
can be ; many of these, in shape very much 
like a horse-shoe, are even now still well 
kept, and carefully tended by piona rela- 
tives of the departed, although the town 
itself is sadly faUen fivm the position it en- 
joyed before the rebels held it, and levelled 
its prosperous suburbs with the ground. 
Bich fomilies often spend large sums of 
money over their bnrjal-places, adorning 
them with Hfe-size figures of various ani- 
■nals in marble, but the remains of friend- 
less and poor strangers are deposited in 
any waste and vacant piece of ground with 
merely a slip of wood to mark the spot. 
All classes m the country, however, do 
their very best to have as showy a place of 
sepulture for their dead as they possibly 
can, and to obtain this end they are willing 
to make great sacrifices. 

Soon after the death, the eldest son of the 
deceased, sopported by friends, proceeds 
with two copper " cash,"* and an earthen- 
ware bowl or vessel to tbe city moai or 
a neighbouring stream or well to "bny 
water" (mai shui) to wash the corpse with. 
In " buying the water" tbe coins are simply 

thrown into the well or stream, and this 
ceremony can only be properly performed 
by the eldest son, or, in default of his pre- 
sence at the obsequies, by his son, rather 
than by a younger sou of the deceased ; if 
there be no children or grandchildren, then 
the duty devolves on cousins, who succeed 
to all property. When the face and body 
have been washed, the corpse is dressed in 
the best clothes the family can procure, 
often in four or five snits, and put into its 
coffin, which is commonly placed on trestles. 
It now lies in state for a time, and a wooden 
tablet is set up bearing the name of the 
deceased, and his descendants prostrate 
themselves before it every day during the 
first seven days of monrning. A similar 
inscription to that on this tablet is after- 
wards erected at the grave, and is gene- 
rally carved on stone, though the poor use 

In the case of poor families the sons fre- 
quently go round to their relatives and 
friends to collect money to defray the ex- 
penses attending a fnnoral, and they are 
generally succcssfnl, as the superstitions 
Chinese are much afraid of incurring tho 
ill-will of the spirit of the departed. 

On the day of interment, usually three 
weeks after the death, a meal is set out near 
tho coffin, for the deceased's spirit to par- 
take of. Then tbe moumera, first tho 
men, and afterwards the women, holding 
sticks of incense in their hands, kneel down 
before the corpse, and bow their heads to 
the ground. They are all clothed in mourn- 
ing attire, and wear white bandages round 
their heads. After this the' funeral pro- 
cession takes place, and tho order b some- 
what as follows. First come lanterns Mid 
musicians, occasionally playing a funeral 
dirge, then the ancestral tablet of tho de- 
ceased, carried in a sedan-chair, next a man 
scattering " paper or mock money" to pro- 
pitiate the spirits of tho invisible world, 
behind him are relations and friends, then 
the coffin, followed by tbe sons and grand- 
sons, weeping and attired in monrning, and 
in their rear come the women of the family 
in sedan-chairs, wailing and crying pite- 
ously. Last of all are persons bearing the 
oblations that have to be made at the grave. 
If the deceased has held any official position, 
other tablets, besides the one above men- 
tioned, are to be seen carried in the pro- 
cession, setting forth his titles and dignities. 

When all have arrived at the grave, 
which is deep, if the nature of the ground 
will admit of it, the coffin is coi^igned to 
its last resting-place, crackers are let ofT, 
and prayers offered up; next pieces of 

164 [JnpflH.IB 


paper, supposed to represent clothes, money, 
find otlicr tbings which the deceased's 
spirit may require in the world of shadows, 
arc solemnly bDrued. At the time of burial, 
when the coffin is lowered into the grave, 
the sons, or whoever may be the ohi^f 
mourners, at once sprinkle some earth over 
it, and the grave is filled np. The coffin 
of a father is deposited on the left side of 
the grave, being the place of hononr, and 
the space on the right side is left for the 
mother. The ancestral tablet is brought 
home from the funeral in the sedan-chair, 
and various articles of food are placed before 
it ; those present again make prostrations, 
and by strict custom the same ceremonies 
ought to be repeated for seven weeks. At 
the conclusion of tho funeral rites, it is 
usual for the monmers to partake, of an 
entertainment, from whioh it is reasonable 
for us to suppose that their grief is com- 
monly of sneh a nature as to be easily com- 
forted, and that tho donning of the "garb 
of woe" is as much (if not more) a matter 
of form and usage with the children of the 
Flowery Land as it frequently is with na 
" Ontside Barbarians." 

The full term of monming for parents is 
nominally three years, but practically 
twenty-seven months, and for the first 
month after their decease the moomera are 
not allowed to shave their heads ; they 
consequently soon assume a wild and nn- 
keropt appearance. The Tery strict place 
oiTerings of food, &c., twice a year at their 
parents' graves, but our own experience 
goes to show that the customs of the 
Cliinese in this respect are, occasionally at 
any rate, more exact in theory than in 

Ernctice. Some five or six years ago we 
new an educated Chinaman, who wonld 
discourse at great iength on filial piety and 
fiucb-like virtues, but who nevertheless con- 
fessed to ns that he had not been to visit 
his mother'^ grave for ten years, although 
she was bnricd at n place only fifteen miles 
distant from where he had been living for 
a long period. 

Etiquette requires that a widow shonld 
mourn the death of her hnsband for three 
whole years, and even after that period she 
is somewhat restricted in her choice of 
colours, red being forbidden her. Should 
& widow marry again, which is not very 
frequently the cose, for the practice is 
looked down npon, she, of course,', divests 
herself of all marks and symbols of woe 
and monming. Men, however, are not ex- 
pected to be quite so self-denytng and par- 
ticnlar in mourning the death of their 
wives, for they sometimes marry again bo> 

fore they have been widowers for a full 
year. Shonld a man's wife be unlucky 
enouffb to present him with a "pledge of 
affection" during the term of mourning for 
his parent, it is looked upon as highly im- 
proper and disrespectful to the deceased. 

When an emperor dies all officials go into 
mourning, and remove the buttons and 
tassela from their hats; they are also re- 
quired to perform certain ceremonies in the 
temples ; and they ceaso, for the time 
being, to use vermilion paste for their seals 
of office, employing blue instead. Procla- 
mations are issued by the local authorities 
all over the empire, by which the common 
people are called npon to let their hair 
grow for a hundred days; marriages are 
not allowid to take place, but practically 
they are wiuked at, if shorn of all the usual 
pomp and ceremony. The theatres, too, arc 
closed for a long period, at any rate in 
Pekin and its vicinity, though after a time 
this order is not ineisted on at a distauce 
from the capital. 


In Six Chapters. 

chafteev. eahsomed. 

It was the afternoon of the dsv fixed for 
Fasquale's deliverance. The gmring snu 
ponred into the Osteria del Pellicano so 
fiercely that it seemed as if it would burn 
a hole wherever it shone. The osteria was 
filled with the usual company of peasants, 
buflalo- drivers, and stono-cntters, who as- 
semble in such places for their mid-day 
meal and the siesta after it. It had the 
low ceiling common to such localities, and 
the usual foul atmosphere impregnated with 
stale tobacco, sour wine, and greasy soap. 

Outside, stretched lazily on the ground, 
a group of boya who haid already dined 
were playing at their national game, 
" morra." Their brown fapes wei* all 
a-glow, and their black eyes gleamed, and 
their white teeth flashed as they called out 
the numbers, "uno," " quattro," "tre," 
"cinque," with hands held out, fingers 
thrown up, jerking out their words with a 
dissonant rcgnlaritv. 

Into this osteria entered, about five 
o'clock, a man rather better dressed than 
the other guests, and looking infinitely 
better fed. Ho called for some macaroni, 
and looked about him. Two of the men 
already present, and who were seated in 
the darkest comer of the room, nudged 
each other, and then one of them lounged 
up to the table occupied by the new comer. 
He looked up. 


()UIM1H.ISI3J 165 

" Scasi," said the other with more coar- 
tesy than coold have been expected from 
bis ragamaffin exterior, and leaning over 
the table, with his back to the rest of the 
persona ansembled, he raised his hand. 
In it was a paper. The man at the table 
tapped the breast-pocket of his coat. Then 
the other touched his belt and muttered : 

" Fac et spera." The sign of the cross 
was made in repi;. After that the man 
who bad left his seat rctamed to his com- 
puiion; thej paid for what they had eaten 
and walked ont of the osteria. The boys 
Gtopped their game for a moment, and look- 
ing afler them, mattered most nnSattering 
epithets, and made the sign by which 
Italians think they avert the evil eye. 

Aboat a quarter of an hour afterwards 
the last comer rose, paid Ms bill, and went 
out in the same direction as the others. 
The boys again stopped their game and 
looked after him with that haJf>pitying, 
lialf-contemptuona expression with which 
a &t fly is seen blnDdering into a hnngry 
spider's web. They shrngged their sboal' 
ien and looked as if they washed their 
bands of all responsibility in the business, 
Bod then went on with their amnsement. 

Aboat a qnarter of a mile from the 
oeteria, on tha road towards Palmo, the 
three men met and spoke. The words were 
few, bnt pregnant with meaning. 

" Ton have the ransom F" 

" Yes." 

" Here is the receipt." 

They went on a few steps, passed some 
bmhea which were massed together, below 
a bank which jutted ont from the wall of 
bills to their right; there was a whistle, 
uid then a scramble. 

" Here is your man," and Pasquale was 
pushed towards the well-dressed stranger. 

" Where am I ?" said Pasquale, pulling 
down a bandage. 

" Free !" said his delivoTer, giving him 
his hand ; " free, thanks to the good Siora 
Bosa of the Belfry Tower." 

80 mnch for tho syndic's secret. The 
impmdence of divulging it was apparent 
at once. At the sound of that name, some 
tinseen witness of tho scene made an ex- 
clamation, which might have been surprise, 
joj, malignant trinmph, or a mixture of 

"Oh, Gaspnro!" called out poor Pas- 
qoflle, "is it true, am I actually freeV 
really out of the power of those — gentle- 

Poor Pasquale looked a pitiable object. 
His teeth chattered, his white lips quivered, 

" ^lake haste— it ia late," 

" And dark — oh Heavens !" 

As they apokc, a shot was fired above 

eir heads, and high npon the hill they 
could hear a fine tenor voice singing glee- 
fully Santa Lucia. 

tvhen the syndic had got Pasquale 
into his own room, he began to question 
him. Pasquale's usual garrality had been 
terrified into silence. His mutilated hand 
had been the very least of his snSerings. 
He had been seized on his way home from 
Priola. He was knocked down, stunned, 
robbed of his earnings, and nearly stripped, 
then dn^ged along in an op'posite direction 
from whence he came. At night he was 
thrust, bound head and foot, into a cave 
or covered ditoh. He was starved, beaten, 
made to march, pricked on by bayonets; 
at night the refuse of their food was thrown 
to him. " Oh, they were wretches, more 
cruel than Turics and heathens, and yet 
said their aves and paternosters with the 
same regularity as good Christians." One 
day they told him they were going to send 
for his ransom, and cut off his finger. 
He expostulated with them when he heard 
the sum asked for him, a poor artisan, bnt 
they silenced him with blows, and told him 
they knew what they were about. 

" Did you see any other prisoners ?" 
asked the syndic. 

" Tes, bnt I never slept two nights in 
tho same place, so that I am rather con- 
fused about them- Once, for a few hours, 
I was thrown into a cave, where I found a 
poor fellow, with long grey beard and grey 
hair, chained to the ground." 

" Who was he?" 

" He would not tell me. He could not 
say how long he had been a prisoner, for 
days were like years in tiiat hell, and with 
those devils. Agony and rage had bronght 
on a brain fever, and he had been deli- 
rious mad for months. They had tortured 
him to reveal where his family was, but 
he had balked them of their wicked will ; 
and swore he would continue to do so. He 
spoke of an 'infame,' who was their captain, 
and that morning, when they had last thrust 
him his filthy food, they had jeered at him, 
and told him his turn was coming." 

" Who is leader of the band, and did you 
see him i" 

" Satanello ; and on the hiat day of all, 
a handsome, richly-dreaeed fellow began 
to ask me questions as to the inhabitants 
here. I mentioned tho rich widow of tho 
Belfry Tower, and said she came from 
Torre Mela, npon which ho started and 

166 (J-™ 1*. 1873.) 


" This becomes interesting," thought the 
syndic, and he cleared his throat with exnl- 
tation. Fasqnale saw that the syndic was 
deeply interested, and with the quick in- 
stinct of his conntryraen, waxed eloquent, 
and gave a grrcit many dramatic touches t^ 
hia dialogne with the handsome brigand. 

" He abked abont the children, and if 
the girls were pretty ; he had heard, he 
said, one Lncia was pretty ; he had some- 
thing strange and husky in hia voice when 
he spoke. I told him I did not know them 
well, bat I believe there was a pretty 
biondina among them, who was very, very 
delicate. He looked at me and then left 
me ; God knows I conld think of little 
elsebnt myself, and cared little abont his 
questions ; I was thinking how I conld 
kill myself before I was cnt to pieces, when 
I wae called before them and told my 
ransom was paid. Madonna! I reeled 
with joy ; they blindfolded me, and tramp, 
tramp, tramp, dragged me npand down, till 
we came to an osteria ; they thmst me into a 
cantina, and there I waited hours, and then 
more tramping. I wra tlien told to stand 
Rtill, and not to pall off ray bandage for ten 
minntea. ' If yon attempt to move it 
before the time ^reed, yon shall be stabbed 
to the heart.' They are men of their 
word," added Pasqtiate, with grim humour, 
" and BO I obeyed. I suddenly heard a 
cry like a oivetta (owl), I pnlled down my 
bandage, and, to my amazement, Oasparo 
stood before me." 

" So far well," said the syndic, " bat 
now, figlio mio, jon have to do with me. 
Listen to me : if yoa ntter one syllable of 
what yon have jast said to me, save in 
confession, I will send yon back to Sata- 

" Santisaima !" 

" Above all, to Siora Rosa ; yon had best 
not aee her." 

" But I mnst thank her." 

" Let me look at year finger, Fasqnale," 
said the syndic, in a most irrelevant man- 
ner; "if that finger does not soon fester 
and inflame, I am a fool." 

" Then my band mnst be cnt off. Dio 

" Tonr hand, ass, your arm ; perhaps 
even yonr life will not be saved." 

Fasqnale tnmed livid. 

" Take my advice, go to bed, stay there 
for a week's riposo, my Teresa ahall take 
yon Bonp, and your wife must put linseed 
on yonr hand every two hours. Drink no 
wine and cat no meat, and yon will pall 

Pasquale was dismissed. The syndic 


Faequalt: implicitly obeyed the syndic's 
orders. Rosa went to see him, bat his 
wife told Rosa it was impossible to distnrb 
him. He was feverish, and it would ex- 
cite him too mach to see his benefactress. 
The villagers knew now that it waa Rosa's 
money which had liberated Paaquale, and 
the comments on her generosity were end- 
less. "It was well to do it." "It was 
wrong to do it." "Where would it ^1 
end ?" " The brigands would be down on 
her," Ac. 

The syndic had made ap his plana. He 
was certain the handsome brigand was 
Rosa's husband. The aoldiere he had sent 
for were daily arriving in twos and threes, 
disguised as vintagers. He gave orders 
that the belfry-honse ehonld be watched 
day and night. Ten days passed. Poor 
unconscious Rosa was vainly endeavouring 
to see Pasquale, and hastening her arrange- 
ments for departure. She had sold most 
of the furniture, but had reserved tbo 
plate. That and a geod deal of money in 
actual coin were in the hoase, plaoed, ac- 
cording to the primitive custom of Italians, 
in socks under her bed. The ^ndio had 
promised her an escort whenever she choae 
to go. He would have promised her a 
band of elephants if she had asked for 
them. Ho was so docile to her least wish, 
that she thought him as kind as her friend 
the priest at Torre Mela. 

The syndic was rather glad her prepara- 
tiona for departure were known through- 
out Leonforte, as by that means the news 
noald reach the ewa he hoped would 
listen to them. He anticipated that the 
husband would be sure to seek the wife 
before ahe left. His men were all placed. 
Once or twice during these ten days Rosa 
had been roused in her nnquiet deep by 
the BODud of a stealthy at^ among tbo 
bashes towards Yalle Nera. She would 
jnmp up and look out, bat nothing could 

One evening, as she stood on the plat- 
form looking down the Valle Nera, her 
eye noticed something ghttering on the 
ground. With a perfect apasm of the 
heart she recognised, as she picked it up, a 
medal of Lncia'a. Moso had taken it olf 
her neck after her death and worn it roond 
his own. Rosa looked and looked, but 
there were certain little marks on it which 
identiSed it. Each brought a memory and 
a pang. This little notch had been made 
by the darling's tiny teeth, when she bad 

Cliiri» IMckeDi.] 



Htten it in a paroxjBm of infnntine anger ; 
this was from n fall wlien filie fii-st tried 
ber tottering little feet; this by Rosa's 
knitting needle, as tbe cliild had sprung 
from her father's knee to hei-s. Each 
little event was registered ia the calendar 
of a mother's love. How bad it fallen 
there? It was unaccountable. 

Tliat night Rosa conld not sleep. Dio- 
mii* was beside her. She looked at her. 
The girl was the very image of Lncia, qnd 
ronnd the slender neck was a medal, the 
fac-simile of the one Rosa held in hur hand, 
Lucia's. Rosa shuddered. Was Maso alive 
and near her? or was he dead? and had 
his mnrderera dropped it as a warning or 
threat? ^^ * 

While these thoughts kept her awake, 
she heard a sound outside. She listened, 
*fler an interval it was repeated. She rose 
noiselessly and looked out. All was still. 
The moon was bright, and the white splen- 
donr of the milky-way gave a soft lucidity 
to the sky. As she looked out from the 
back window towards Rocca Nera, she 
thought Bh« heard a gasp or groan. She 
waited, heard nothing more, and returned 
to bed. Her heart beat as if it wonid Boffo- 
cate her, and she was conscious of an in- 
eiplicable but terrible sense of expecta- 
tion. The agitation in her mind seemed 
to penetrate through Diomira's, for in a 
few minutes she too was awake. 

"What is the matter, Diomira ?" 

" 1 have been dreaming ; I am so 
frightened. I thought I heard father's 
voice. It is so warm to-night. I must 
get np. I must breathe the air." 

She rose, lit the lamp, went to tbe 
window and looked ont. She had nothing 
on bnt her white night-dreea ; her long, 
fair hair hung ronnd her throat and veiled 
ber shoulders. She looked pale in tbe moon- 
light as she bent over; she must have been 
didtinctly visible below. 

Rosa had risen with her, and stood beside 

Now, darling, go back to bed, it ia so 

As she spoke something like a hoarse 
scream was heard from Valle Nera, then 
rapidly ascending steps, and a voice 
shouted ont with an oath, "Call her." 
Soddenly a torch flared up, and threw its 
light on two men in a mortal struggle, 
while sharp, abmpt, cleaving the silent 
light, like a cry from another world, a 
terrible voice called ont, "Lucia, Lncia!" 
It was the echo of that never-forgotten 
wy which was heard by Rosa at Torre 
Mela on the morning of Lucia's death. 

It was answered by a discharge of guns. 

"My God !" sobbed Rosa, as she sank 

on her knees ; " it ia his voice — it is his 

The next moment the great bell of the 
tower rung out like a tocsin. Tbe terrified 
Diomira had flown to it, and was pulling 
it wildly. It overpowered every other 
Bonnd. Then came shots, terrible impre- 
cations, oaths, threats, and the platform, 
but now 80 solitary beneath the moon- 
light, was swarming with men in mortal 
combat. Soldiers were pursuing, and 
brigands flying down the rocks. Every 
now and then was heard a thnd as a shot 
toppled a man over into the precipice. The 
bell still sonnded on, and torches and 
Ughts were coming from the village. Bnt 
they were too late. The syndic's ambus- 
cade had been most snccessful. The bri- 
^nds were flying, the soldiers victorious. 
He had won his prize ! 

The door of the boose was burst open, 
and the syndic, followed by a score of 
villagers, entered. They rushed np-staira. 
Tbe children were all clinging to their 
mother, but she was still on her knees. 
She had never stirred since that awful 
voice called Lncia ! 

Daylight had dawned. Tbe throng in- 
creased every minnte. 

"What was it?" 
The house had been attacked by 

Had they entered ?" 
' " No, the spirit of Rosa's hosband bad 
appeared and given the alarm." 

"The house had been alarmed and all 
wore saved ?" 

"No," said the syndic, stmtting about ; 
" I was prepared for them. My men have 
watched this bouse ten days. Whoever 
captures Satanello, dead or alive — and I 
know he was among them" — glancing at 
Rosa — " will gain a thousand crowns- 
What is the day of tbe month ?" 

Ten minutes afterwards some soldiers 
were seen scrambling np towards the 
house, carrying what seemed a corpse. 
They laid their burden on the kitchen floor 
and went np-stairs to make their report 
to the syndic He turned to Rosa. 

" Go down," be said to her ; " they want 
wine for the man ; he is dying." 

He followed her as she tottered down- 

" Rosa 1" 

In a moment she was on her knees be- 
side him. 

The wasted features, the long grey hair, 
the emaciated form, could not disguise 



from her who it was lying all bnt senseless 
at her Teet. Yes, thanks to Heaven 1 once 
more, once more nni ted, though in tho very 
jaws of death, she and Maao were together ! 

" My love, my love, my love !" She conld 
only ejaculate these words as she held Lim 
to ner breast with a rocking motion, as if 
she held a child there. 

" Who is that man ?" asked Don Vit 
cenzo Maderno. 

" My hnsband !" 

" Satanello ! who wonld have thought, 
mattered the syndic, " that that excellent 
woman coald so love a bandit, even if 1 

" Sataaello is Tonino Voghers," feebly 
mnrmmred the dying man. " He took me 
prisoner on my way here ; he has kept me 
and tortured me ever since, because I wonid 

not — I would not " his voice broke and 

his eyes closed. 

" Maso, why did yon not Bend for me F" 

"No, no!" The negatives rose almost to a 
shriek aa they were uttered irith the passion 
of a dying man. 

" But why did yon not call me now ? — 
you called Lncia; I' thought it was your 
spirit i if I had thought it was von, I would 
have appeared. Tonino might have had 
all, if he had left me yon." 

" Lncia," he mnrmnred, with tremulous 
lips. " I wonId have died rather than call 
yoo, aa he wished me to do. I told yon, I 
would never call yon." 

" Come, children, kiss him, my darlings, 
he ie yonr father." 

The boys crept up to him and then hid 
their feces on her shoulder. Diomira and 
Menica bent over him. The (ast glazing 
eyes opened, once more Maso's &ce flushed 
a little as he looked at Diomira. A smile 
of almost womanly sweetness passed over 
the rugged features, " I called you, Lucia," 
he murmured, and with that loved name 
on his lips, he passed away, and Rosa held 
what had been, but was uo longer, Maso, 
to her breast. She seemed transfigured. 
She closed the dear eyes herself. She 
smoothed the grey hair, she composed the 
attenuated limbs; she waa ^ain, as by 
a miracle, her calm placid self. The 
doubts, the hopes, tho fears were over. 
He was dead ; bnt she had seen him ouce 
more, and the ineffable grace of reunion had 
robbed Death of bis sting. 

" But Satanello !" said the syndic. He 
could wait no longer, bo tried to descend 

the ravine after his men. The shots trere 
getting faintcrand fainter. Presently they 
ceased and a horn was sounded. Afl«r a 
pause tho soldiers were seen returning with 
a prisoner. It was Satanello, alias Tonino. 
Short shrift was given him. He was shot 
before noon. He confessed before his death 
that he had captured Maeo two days tther 
he had left Torre Mela. Maso's rage had 
brought on brain fever, which bad ended in 
temporary insanity. Tonino had then left the 
band on basiness connected with a Bonrbou 
reactionary plot, and had onlyretumed after 
Pasqnale b^ been taken. When he heard 
that Rosa was at the Belfry Tower, he re- 
solved on taking it by a coup de main. He 
had never heard of Lnda's death, for Maso 
had maintained, in spite of barbarous tor- 
tures, absolute silence. He resolved at last 
to take Maso with him to tho Belfry Tower, 
BO that the sight of the home which held 
his wife and Mildren might vanquish him, 
and that in his yearning weakness he would 
call upon Rosa to open to him ; bnt Maso 
was not to be betrayed. The resemblance 
of Diomira to Lncia only forced out that 
terrible cry from bis lipe, and Eosa had 
been effectually decdved. 

It was Tonino who had thrown down 
the medal. He bad torn it off Maso's 
neck. He knew itwasLncioi'a, and thoaglit 
Maeo wore it as a charm. If Lucia found 
it, be felt she would nnderstand he was 
near, and perhaps she would herself open 
to him. 

Tho syndic received tho money tor 
Satanello's capture. Ho paid Pasqnale'a 
debt to Bosa with part of it. He pnt into 
the next lottery, chose the number of tho 
day of the month, that of Tonino's age and 
birth, end the myatio numbers which cor- 
respond to sudden death— and he lost his 

Rosa left the Belfry Tower and returned 
to Torre Mela. She never forgave tbo 
syndic his ambuscade. If the soldiers had 
not been there, Maao might have escaped. 
Alas ! does not all human hope depend on 
an "if." She recovered bor beauty. Her 
white hair — it was white as snow from the 
day Maso died — made an aigent aureole to 
a face which sorrow, nobly borne, had sub- 
limed into saintliness. She had many 
offers of marriage, bnt refused them all. 
Her dead Mnso was her first, her last love. 
Had he not died to save her and her 
children from plunder and death P 

Tie Sighi 0/ Tinntloiisff ArtieUi/rim All the Yeak Bouxii •» 

■i bx tke Aulkori. 

M OCSn, M, WeDiofUn 3t, Btn^ PrUM tu 0, WHUtiig, fiMnfoTt Bona, Dnk* St^ Llocola'* iim FM-lik 


emus mcms 





AlTEB the departnre of Mr. Fane Man- 
levweTjlife atthe Down Farm seemed to sink 
back and aettle a^ain into its old eom^wfaat 
nwootonons rontma If I Bonght more 
Bdventures I found them not, either at ihe 
Dait Tower or eleewbere. Time pasaed. 
Mid we went on in oar " nsnal way," as it 
is odled; clianging imperceptibly never- 
thelesB, and tlie snm of change moonting 
.up Goneiderahly as the years lapsed. We 
pew older for one thing. My onole stooped 
more as he walked, and his shoulders 
owsed a roander oatward cnrve \ he oom- 
plained of a alight dea&ess on one side, 
ud was mach troabled as to the proper 
podtaon of the candlestick when he tried to 
wad the newspaper in the evening. There 
was a look as of a farther fall of snow npon 
my mother's hraided hair, and I noted eveo 
Dpon Kern's rotnnd, mbicnnd face, eapeci- 
^ly in the neighbonrhood of the temples, 
vnskles and lines, like the starring of a 
backed window-pane For my part I had 
>iuich increased in statore \ from a atnnted 
toy I was becoming a youth of fair propor- 
tions, thin and bony, with exposed wrists 
uid ankles, owing to my limbs lengthening 
ntJiont regard to the limits of my clothes. 

The neighbourhood had, I think, become 
Kconciled to the fact of my existence, there 
teing no longer occasion for concern as to 
the state of my health. For I was now 
wally well and strong. Bnt my " goings 
OD," as my manner of life was termed, still 
famighed materials for local criticism. It 
still commonly said abont Pnrrington 
that "Mrs. Nightingale's boy wonld be all 

the better for having some of his nonsense 
knocked ont of him." Which, very likely,' 
was true enough. 

Bnt at Purrington very small deviaijons' 
from conventional ways were sufficient to 
establish a repute for oddness, and there- 
fore to be condemned as nonsensical. For 
in onr district the new and the strange 
were viewed with distrust and objection. 
The formers' sons abont as were usually 
bronght np pretty much as ploogb-bOTs; 
they laboured in tjie ranks for a consider- 
able time before promotioa came to them. 
As I have already stated, my education, 
nnder the care of Mr. Bygrave, bad been 
the snlrject of some comment. A like pro- 
ceeding had been until then unheard of in 
those parts; and the wonder as te what 
Farmer Orme could be thinking abont te 
permit of such a thing, had Imown little 
abatement. A disposition prevailed, how- 
ever, to attribute to my mother's unwise 
intervention the pecnliar ^stem that had 
been adopted in my ' regard. Farmer 
Jobling was severely satincal as to the 
absurdities " a hen with one cMck" was 
capable of, and spoke slightingly of tho 
wisdom of women when applied otherwise 
than te the affairs of the nursery, the 
laundry, and the kitchen. It was well- 
known, however, that the farmer, for all his 
freedom of «peedi, was despotically mled at 
home by the good dame his wife. 

And presently I was the occasion of a still 
forther outrage upon our public opinion. 
Some extraordinarily high wave of misfor- 
tune had flung upon oar shores, so far in- 
land as Steep] eborough, an elderly French- 
man who called himself Monsieor Isidore 
Dubois, but who permitted it to be'under- 
stood ijiat such was not in trath his name, 
but had been assumed by him by reason of 
certain political complications of which he 


170 [J™ 



[OnDdnted b; 

had been the viatim, Monsicnr Dabois 
one morning aetonisheil flie roaftws-rf our 
laokl "paper by advL'rtiaiiig in ite cdlmniifi 
bis dedre to inelmiat pnpils in liie native 
ttrnpuc, ,in drawing, fcncing', mnsic, and 
othur acoomplialimcnts. TLia saemed to 
ne quite a providential opportnnitj for im- 
proving myself in art. I bad, with Mr. 
Manleverer's aid, and with .peraererance on 
n>y own part, overcome mai^ radimentoiy 
difficulties. I had even BrriveS at the 
.point of appreciating how little I reftUy 
kDOw, howdefiaieot were all my endeavours. 
It was a gennine step on the road of educa- 
tion. I longed for &rther qnalificd a^sist- 
ance. I iweoqght ray mother that I might 
become Monsienr Duboia'e pnpil. 

" Let me see your drawingH, Duke," she 
naid oalmly, and nomething sadly, I thought. 
I prodnoed a pile of sketches of all tinds, 
attempts at portraiture (one of Renbe, 
fitting on the down with his orook in his 
hand, and his sheep-dog beside him, I 
tbonght decidedly Bnccessfnl), efmdies of 
landiioapo and etitl life, and dwigns in 
great part dranni tiora memory or imagina- 

My mother examined these performances 
ofmmemost attentively, and made many 
inquiries conoeming them. I had nevw 
known her to be so much interested before 
in the sabjeot. 

She remained eilent for some time after 
she had completed her examination of the 
drawings. It was plain to mo that she 
was no longer thinking about them. She 
roused herself at length with an effort, and 
said, as she softly pressed my band, "I 
have not the skill to judge, Dnke. But it 
shall be as yon wish." 

My uncle, who had been standing by, 
silently scmtinising a eketch now»id then 
through his doable glasses, turned away 
and bnKied himself with his circalar sun^ 
box. Whatever he may have thought of 
my jvrojecl, he did not oppose it, my 
mother's sanction having been secnred. 

So I became Monsieur Dubois's pupil, 
visiting him twice a week at his humble 
lodging at the back of the town-hall. 
Steep lehorongh. On market-days 1 went 
in iLud came out with my uncle in his 
chaise. At other times 1 generally walked, 
getting a lift now and then upon one of 
the caiis of the Down Form, or of nei^- 
bonrs, conveying " produce" to the town. 

Monsienr Dabois was a little lean 
old gentleman, swarthy - complexioned, 
bright-eyed, and heavy-browed, wearing 
hair-powder, and even cherishing a dimina- 

tivc queue, which seemed to frisk abontiihe 
coIlaT of :Ims coat like the tail of a gambol- 
liiig lamb.'iu enni^ weather. His maimers 
boasted «n old-fiUhioned <rediui&nicy of 
elegance, and were somebimes so esseesive 
in their laborions grace, as, &om -tiie point 
of view of an English boy, to ver^ a little 
upon the Indicrous. Indeed, the French- 
man was conmum^ voted " monkeyfied" 
by his Jieighbome in <the town of Btsepls- 
borongh. Farmer Jobling conld with diffi- 
culty restntin his laughter whenever chance 
brought Mm into the preeenoe of Monsieur 
Dubois. " He minds me allays of one of 
those dressed np baboons TVe seen in wild 
beast ^owB at fair time," said the &nner. 
" But they mounseers, I take it, are mostly 
like that. It's no wonder from what I can 
see that we've allays licked 'em. He's no 
better than a hndmedud (scarecrow)." To 
the farmer I traced a rumour current at this 
period to the effect that I was about to be- 
come a dancing-master. Mr. Jobliug was 
indeed more critical upon my receiving in- 
struction from MoDsienr Dubois, than he 
had been in the case of my stndying under 
Mr. Bygrave. 

Monsieur Dubois was really a moet ac- 
complished gentleman, however, if he h&d 
undertaken the duties of tuition rather 
late in lifo. He was vory poor, and might 
perhaps have paid stricter attention to per- 
sonal oleanUneas. His wardrobe was in a 
decayed condition, and his supply of body 
linen was insufficient. But those were 
times when soap and water and brasbing 
and combing were less valued by the 
worid than in later days. He found Eng- 
lish ways of life very trying, I suspect, and 
had a difficulty in providing himself with 
the kind of food suited to his foreign con- 
stibution. The rough fare of Steeple- 
borough was to him abominable. He 
seemed to me to eabeiet ohiefly npon 
pinches of scented snnff contained in a 
r^ged twist of paper. 

He spoke English execrably, and his de- 
ficiency in this respect was perhaps an ad- 
vantage to me. It compelled meto acquire 
his language as rapidly as I conld ; other- 
wise there seemeS Kttle chance of our 
ever being able to understand each other. 
Such knowledge of French, therefore, as I 
oan now boast I owe entirely to Monsienr 
Dubois. He also introduced me to the 
masters of French literature, and laboared 
to impart to me his enthusiKstic sense of 
their merits. He succeeded feirly in this 
respect, thongh I have lived to find his 
ta^ impeached and his jndgmenta pro- 


[Jun«Sl, Ifliil 171 

noanoed dbitow and obsolete. Even then 
I was nsable to regnrd Raoine and Comeille 
ta snperior to Bhakeepeare ; an opinion he 
often proclaimed. Bnt then I discovered 
that be really knew little or nothing of the 
English poet lie wm denonncing, in pnr- 
snanoe of the exttmple of hie admired 
Voltaire, as nnconth, barbaric, and even 

1 also lettmt fencing from Monsionr 
Dnbois. I oonfesB I have not fonnd the 
acoomplishment particalarly naefnl. Still 
I enjoyed aoqniring it. I had not yet com- 
plctely outgrown my early chivalresqao 
&aciee, and Ohilde Roland se«med etill a 
cliuactar I might possibly be called on to 
nsntne at some period of my career. I 
mntt own, Iiowever, that I oonid no longer 
Ti«w Overbnry Hall aa my Dark Tower. 
That deloBion waa exbaneted. 

But it waa in the matter of artistio in- 
ctmction that I derived most benefit from 
Uonsieiir Dobois. He was himself bnt an 
imateor, as he admitted, still his taste and 
still wore indispntable. His teaching was 
mther that of the school of David, of whom, 
if i riffhtly recollect, he stated that he had 
teen for eozne brief period a pnpil. He 
bid stress upon classicality of design, even 
to frigid attitudinising; disdained the 
cHarms of colour, and was inclined to 
liniit the scope of art by restricting its 
choice of subject and method of treatment. 
In short, he advocated academic views that 
We now considerably fallen in general 
estimation. Bnt his insistence npou cor- 
wetness of drawing as the xery essence of 
«rt^ traa mncH to the purpose, and of real 

It mnst be understood that I was after all 
W an immatnre student, proceeding nnder 
MricDS disadvantages from lack of appli- 
Mces, deficiency of space in onr studio 
— Monsienr Dnbois's little parlour — and 
^m the difincalty of obtaining models and 
•oi^B of art to imitate. Then roy lessons 
■ere comparatively few and of brief dura- 
tion. Still I made progress and won the 
^lasse of my master. 

I may not linger more over these early 
jesrs of mine, nor deeoant at length npou 
rach boyish events as my first introduction 
W sport — my killing my first partridge, my 
fif«t riding to bounds. Tet these pleasures 
Tere not denied to me, and fbr awhile I 
f^joyed them very fully. Onra was a sport- 
"Dg country, and horses, dogs, and gnus 
*ere as necestaries of life to us. Even my 
node, though age had now somewhat tamed 
^>a seal, aod use had cloyed his appetite, 

hadbeenakeensportsmnn in hisyonth. Ho 
was now content with .a little hunting in 
the season when the hounds mot anywhere 
near Purrington, and, mounted on his old 
l^oy horse, was usaally to be seen holding 
his place very feirly in the chase. In his 
character of landowner he subscribed, not 
profusely bnt sufficiently, to the funds of 
the hunt, and was always most aniions that 
a fox should be found in what was known 
as Orme's Plantation — a thick belt of firs 
and gorse that skirted bis &rm in the 
dh'ection of Steepleborongh ; and he shot 
hares and partridges in his own coverts, if 
with some abatement of his earlier enthu- 
siasm : his sporting tastes laving come 
under the control, perhaps, of his sense of 
the needs of his larder. As time went on 
he grew more and more devoted to the 
afiairs of his farm, and his unwillingness to 
be drawn beyond the bonndaries of his own 
land, even for sporting purposes, corlninly 
increased. At the same time he maintained 
his interest in the doings of the county 
hunt, took note of its more famous runs, 
and was fond of comparing these with past 
achievements in which he had shared. He 
took mnch paina to instruct me in the arts 
and pleasures of sport. I was a rcisonably 
apt pupil. In this portion of my education, 
1 noted, my mother took little interest. 
So 1 advanced towards mac's estate. 


IwA8 soon to lose the benefit of Mr. 
Bygrave'a services as my tutor. Old Mr. 
Gascoigne died, and a new rector came in 
his stead to Purrington. The church waa 
hung with black, and genuine grief pre- 
vailed throughout the pariah for the loss of 
its veteran miniater. It was tme that he 
had not for some years, owing to his mani- 
fold infirmities, been able to fulfil the 
duties of his office ; atill his demiae was to 
ns like the removal of some ancient land- 
mark, or some long fitmiliar and cherished 
objeot in onr landacape. The new rector 
plainly stated that he did not need, that be 
could not aSbrd, the aid of a curate. So 
Mr. Bygrave prepared to depart from Pur- 

He gave me his pocket Horace — ft was 
crowded with manuscript annotations in his 
cramped, minute, scarcely decipherable 
handwriting, and was in his eyes bis most 
preciona possession — as a farewell gift. In 
bia stifi', silent, ungainly way he manifested 
maoh distress at leaving us. For my part 
I own to feeling more grief upon the oc- 
oaaion than I ooald at one time have be- 


172 [J«i»ii.M7ij 


lieved posBible. I was oonedoiiB perhaps 
that I had insnfficientlj rained him. He 
bad draped me, as a ship might trail its 
aochor after it, tJirongh expansive seas of 
claesical lore. I had bat hiodered and 
clogged his progress, vhile from mj posi- 
tion Deneath thd snrbce I had been power- 
less to share or even to comprehend his 
pleasares. Yet sometimes I had been, as 
it were, hoisted from below, and, thanks to 
his strennoDB exertions on mj behalf, en- 
abled, almost forced, to see, and to learn 
EomeUiing. I often think now of the op- 
portunities I wasted. Uore I might oer- 
tainl^ have done if I had not weighed so 
heavily npon his strength, hardening my 
heart and deafening my ears to his teach- 
ing. Bnt a man's ind^ent and taste are 
not to be looked for in a schoolboy. In 
the matter of teaching, children are mnoh 
like parrots. Their preceptors can bnt 
labour to strengtiien their memories ; their 
minds are nnimpressible and ont of reach, 
if they are to be called minds at all. Mr. 
Bygrave left me, after all his efforts, imper- 
fectly educated ; yet it is dne to him to say 
that I had acquired some measure of 
learning, of the kind he most approved. 
That I had advanced far beyond all the 

standard about us in tbose days iras de- 
cidedly low. 

It was soon after the departure of Mr. 
Bygrave — he had ondertaken temporary 
work as a curate in an adjoining county — 
that I also lost the help of Monsieur Dubois, 
and my leseonsin art came to an end. He 
stated, what was indeed evident enough, 
that he could barely subsist in Steeple* 
borough, bis means were so scanty, and his 
pupils BO few. He had determined upon 
moving to London. 

There was then an end of my education, 
except as a &rmer. For my profession was 
selected for me. Under the circomstances 
there could be little choice in the matter. 
It seemed unavoidable that I should follow 
my nndo's calling. Fnrrington found room 
or opportnuities for scarcely any other. 

Whatever may be the modem method, no 
one then learnt farming from books. It 
was picked up somehow from observation 
and practice. One constantiy walked over 
a farm, looking about, until knowledge 
came, it it came at all, almost of its own 
accord. At least I received no other in- 
struction in the matter than I could in 
snob wise obtain. 

I aooompanied my unole on his morning 

and evening progress over his land, watch- 
ing the performances of his labourers, and 
striving to note the why and the wherefore 
of everything. But my success was not 
remarkable. It seemed a simple business ; 
often taken altogether out of the agricul- 
turist's hands by the fickleness of Uic 
elements, or governed absolutely by a tradi- 
tional routine. Thig was done because it 
was the custom of the country; thai in 
pursuance of the prescriptions of the Orme 
family banded down from father to sou since 
remote times. And each season had it« 
assigned duties and employments. Tbe pro- 
cesses of ploughing, sowing, and reaping 
followed each other in regular snccqpsion, 
and sheep-breeding, the cluef occnpation of 
our farmers, had, of ccnrse, its established 
rules. Tet I felt that I did not gain very 
satisfactory mastery over the matter. 

My uncle was a thoroughly practical 
farmer. He had been reared to tiie business 
upon rough but complete pHnciples. As 
the custom had been in his time, he had 
as a youth shared the mde toils, tbe bafd 
haUts of life, almost the frugal faro of tbe 
farm servants. Even now, advancing in 
years as he was, he could plough as straight 
a furrow as any man in his employ ; or he 
conld take from the hand of a labourer a 
scythe, a reaping-hook, or a pitchfork, and 
show bim by sound example how to wield 
such implements to the best advant^e. 
This was not possible to me. It was not 
so much that I was above learning or trying 
to leam these rudimentary arts, but my 
mother had, I think, interfered to prevent 
employment of this kind being tJirust npon 
me. In such wise my authority over the 
labourers was of little force. They viewed 
me always in the light of an amateur, and 
I was visited with the contempt usually 
bestowed upon the unqualified by skilled 

And certainly I did not affect tbe 
bnsiness. I oouM appreciate its pleasures. 
I loved the fi<eBh morning air, exhilarating 
as wine, and scented with a thousand new- 
bom flowers; the broad rays of the rising 
snn sweeping over the open down; the 
diamond glisten of the dew npon the turf; 
the rich tints of the honey-laden heather ; 
the musioal hum of insect life; the on- 
dnlating horizon blending its faint purple 
with the saffron tints of the vemal sky — 
all this was delightful to me. My heart 
seemed to leap within me from joyous and 
redundant vitality as, at break of day, I gal- 
loped my pony hither and thither about 
the elastic down, charged with some trifling 


[Jomsuuti.] 173 

ermnd to Renbe at the sheepfold in the 
distance. There was no occasion for bo 
mnch haste ; still less was there need to 
deviate from my path in order to leap a 
hurdle, or to give chase to a hare sndd^j 
startled from ite form and scampering to 
tke covert skiHang the form. Yet it was 
ny hamonr to do thns nmoh, aad many 
other things that bronght derision npon me 
in that they were inconsistent with reason- 
aUeand practical consideratioDB. Listen- 
ing to the lark soaring high above me, and 
l&e a sort of miiBind rocket sfaoweriog 
down sparks of song ; or plunging into the 
long rank grass of the plantation to note 
ike cooing of the wind throngh the swaying 
eatangled bonghs, and scent the fresh re- 
anong odonrs of the firs ; or pausing to 
watch the flying cloads patch with shadows 
the wide-stretching landscape ; all this waa 
pleasant indeed — bnt it was not fanning. 
As my ancle was carefnl to explain to me, 
1 had been better employed in helping 
spread mannre, or feed the pigs. 

It was as a part of mr agncnltnral educa- 
tion that I was deapatcnedone aatnmnona 
mission to Dripford Fair to sell a Sock of 
lambs. Benbe acoompanied me, and thongh 
I was nominally in charge of the expedi- 
tion, I was oonscions that its real govem- 
uce rested with him. 

Dripford Fair was the great event of oor 
i^eep- breeding district. It was attended 
by aU the flock-masters of the connty. For 
Kitne days before the fitir, clonds of sheep 
night be seen crossing the down from all 

Kto, slowly making their way towards 
pford- The conntry was alive with the 
Ttncesof shepherds, the barking of dogs, and 
UiB bleating of sheep. And here and there 
■pon the open landscape large white pnfTs 
of dnst binrred the view, and marked where 
the travelling flocks had qnitted the tnr^ 
and struck t£e chalky highways leading to 
the market town. 

Benbe, in tawn^ orange gaiters or 
" vamplets," a gleaming white smock-frock, 
ascarfet neckerchief, and a bine-ribboned 
straw-bat, his beet " donnings," as he 
described his attire, looked an imposing 
figure- He was attended hj a gronp of 
boys and dogs, and carried his crook, his 
wuid of office, most majestically. I felt at 
once that though moanted npon my pony 
and clad in the smart suit of a yonng 
&rmer, I was a for inferior person, ilenbe 
was impressed with a sense of his im- 
portance, and was conscions of his re- 
sponsibilities. For he at once relieved me 
of any fanciful mis of anthority I might 

have assumed, and took npon himself the 
snprome control of the mission. He was 
complacent enough, however, and did not 
manifest too markedly the cheap terms 
npon which he held me. He was fairly 
content with his flock, and it appeared was 
especially gratified by some scandalous 
story relating to his old enemy Garge, 
alleged to have been found lying in the 
gutter, " up street" Fmrington, on the pre- 
vious night, " teniable dmnk to be sure," 
as Reube related with chuckling joy, " for 
all a's a church-goer !" 

I congiatnlated Reube on the condition 
of his lambs, which had been so washed 
and trimmed and mddled for the fair that 
they were seen to the ntmost advantage. 
They were of genuine Down breed, with 
black noses and feet, and the whitest and 
fleeciest of wool, long and broad in the back, 
rotund of body, and yet most nimble of 
movement. Each bore upon its flank a 
freshly imprinted black 0, denoting that it 
came from Mr. Orme's farm. 

" Eez, they be a tidy lot of lambs," said 
Reube, " though they might be more for- 
rard. There's a lame un or two among un, 
bnt they monster featish. I've zeen was 
and I've zeen better. Yonder's just about 

it, Maester Duke. I zits by un all day long, 
and I thinks of on all the night through. 
Please God they brings the maester a tidy 
znm at Dripford. Bnt I dnnno. There'll 
be a zight of flocka there. No, I boant 
aveard of Garge. He's got, this turn, just 
about the poorest lot of lambs that ever I 
did see. Why they was nigh starved dree 
months gone, andhe'dnanaatannnttogie 
an. But there, that Oai^ is nation dam- 
mel ; mnggle-beaded most allays. 'Tia no 
boaineas o'mine; bnt what's maester can 
zee in nn to keep un so long, or to let un 
go on rninnn the sheep, there, I dnnno. 
Bnt there's toUcs as seems to trusts them 
as bellocksaboot the monst. And Oarge 
ia a main hand at bellocking and maunder- 
ing aboot. 'Tia bloomy hot along this 
dowsty road — brings the bet drops on my 
Torehead, and makes I main virsty, I know. 
Bat there's a rare drop of strong beer to ■ 
be got at the Bam at Dripfoi-d, thank God. 
I wish I had a qnart on un now, I know," 
We halted now and then on the road to 
rest the flock, and to enable Benbe to rt>- 
fresh himself with his " nnmmet," or noon- 
meat, as he termed his luncheon. He con- 
sumed with great relish hia thick shoes of 


174 IJuDell. IBIS.] 


[OOBdaclad ij 

bread, with a vredge of strong Bmelling 
ohecee prisoned between them. 

Dripford waa a doll country town, that 
ODce in eve^ year gave way to exceedin;; 
delirium. On its fair day it wont stark 
mad, delivering over itself abeolntely to 
sheep — and drink. Sheep poured over it 
and Bwarmed abont it like an Egyptian 
plagne of an amiable sort. lU every 
avenue waa choked with flocks. Ton conld 
not move for being wedged in with sheep — 
thigh deep in sheep. It was as tbongh the 
skies had opened and rained sheep ; as 
thongh the eartb had gaped and vomited 
sheep. They overflowed the closely packed 
pens in the market-place ; tliey sorged np 
the steps of the chnrob in a dense army as 
tbongh aboot to oarry that aacred edifice 
by assault ; they charged at tbo town-ball 
and took possession of every pass in the 
precinct, occupying shops, doorways, areas, 
every poeeible position, in the sti'ongest 
force. Now and then a light division of 
lambs was to be seen harrying along a side 
street, afflicted by a stampede or bent apon 
some obscure errand, making for the sub- 
urbs or the open conatry. The noise waa 
deafening. The thwacking of sticks upon 
fat fleecy backs, the pitching of hurdles, 
the hoarse shouts of shepherds, the barking 
of dogs as they circled and lespt about, now 
bringing in deserters by the ear, now 
springing into the throng to scatter muti- 
neers or bring the listless to attention, 
madenp abewildering and ceaseless turmoil. 
All means were tried to reduce the un- 
wieldy armies of timid and perturbed re- 
cruits to discipline, and convert Uiem to 
something like close order. The shepherds 
were untiring in their efforts to accomplish 
this, and at last succeeded in their ta^ 
fairly enough. But their exertions were 
very great, and the langni^ they employed, 
by way of fortifying their auUiority, was 
desperately bad. A prodigious consump- 
tion of strong beer from Ute taps of the 
Bam and other Dripford inns, followed upon 
these proceedings. 

But the sheep and the shepherds did not 
have it all to themselves. The streets were 
thronged to excess with farmers, flock- 
mast«TB, dealers, country gentlemen, visitors 
and sightseers of all kinds. The inns were 
all choke-full. The sttdls were orowded 
vrith cattle : useful cobs, that had brought 
tlieir agricultural owners &otn far and near, 
serviceable hacks, clever ponies, and sturdy 
honbers. The inn yards were full of vehicles 
of every description, from the yeoman's 
cart to the phaetons of the more dashing 

"squire" fiirraers. The air was heavy 
and opaque with duat, the smell of sheep 
and cattle, the fumes of liqaor and tobacco. 
Throngs of buyers and seUers — red of face, 
broad of back, aad great of girth — jostled 
each other and argued and haggled and 
wrangled : now growing fiercely angry, 
now noisily jocose as they atmok bai^na 
and agreed upon terms, and then proceeded 
to celebrate the concluded negotiation in 
brimming glasses at the nearest tavern. All 
transactions were followed by prompt pay- 
ment in cash, and bundles of greasy notes 
quickly changed hands and vere transferred 
from bulky pocket-books, like small poit- 
mant«aas, to similar receptaoles, or from 
one breeches-pocket of vast capacity to 
another of like dimensions. And in ad- 
dition to the nprow of the main business 
of the fair was the supernumerary Babel 
nsnoUy generated by suah occasions; tiie 
shouting swarm of pedlars, aheap-jacks, 
showmen, momitebanks, and itinersnt 
traders and performers of every description. 

It was to me a most amazing scene. I 
had seen notliing like it before. I had 
scarcely believed that there were so many 
people in all the world as I now found 
congregated in Dripford. 

After much difficulty and delay I had 
succeeded in stabling my pony at the 
King's Headinn, opposite the market-cross. 
1 had lost sight of Kenbe and tlie flock, 
but I counted upon rejoining him presentJj- 
But it was not so easy to accomplish this 
as I had fancied. If the sheop were much 
alike to one who was not their shepherd, 
it was certain that a strong family resem- 
blance prevailed also among the shepherds. 
It seemed safer to look out for the black 
stamped npou the flaoks of our lambs. But 
I could discover this nowhere. It was 
like searching for a particular wave in on 
evei^shiftiog ocean. 

I grew bewildered, and at last from the 
pressure of the orowd found myself stand- 
ing still, helplessly and despondently, m 
front of the King's Head Inn. Suddenly 
a hand, rather a grimy band, clutched my 
forearm. I turned and found myself face h> 
faoe with my satyr. Lord Overbury I 

I recognised him immediately. His hair 
was greyer, and his dress was perhaps more 
untidy and crumpled ; othorwise he was 
little changed. 

"I know you, my lad. I've seen yon some- 
where," he said, and he fixed his protadiQg'r 
bloodshot eyes upon me, and stared into 
my face. " But I can't think of ye'"' 
name," be continued with an oath. 


ta IJiekoaiL] 


Uooe 21,1873.1 175 

" I'm Dako Nightingale, my lord." 

Still he stared at me. 

" From the Down Farm, Pnrrington P" 
he said after a pause, as though he had been 
trying to collect his thonghta. "To be 
snre ; I remember now, of coarse. Ton 
came to eee me at the hall once. S.ow 
yooVe KTown ! Yet I should have known 
yon anywhere. Tou've a strange look of 
yonr mother. Something ahout Uie eyes, I 
think. Bnt yoa're not a patch npon her for 
good looks. Twenty years ago there wasn't 
a handsomer girl in this county than Mil- 
dred Orme. And to think that you're her 
son ! Time fliea ! Como and have some- 
thing to drink." 

He drew me into the King's Head, push- 
ing his way through the thronged passage 
in the moat nnceremonions fashion. 


Ddmas the Elder, as an earnest worker, 
was fond (at proper times) of solitude— 
bnt not of a solitary solitude. His terres- 
trial paradise and his work-rooms must 
have a goodly company of birds and beasts; 
for be adored animals. Servants, being 
part of one's own individuality, hardly 
count as society; his negro lad, Alexis, 
spoiled and lazy, might be taken as belong- 
ing to either one or the other, 

T)nmas's animals came into bis posses- 
sion in all sorts of ways, the which to 
relate would be too long. Like Adam, be 
fitted them all with names. Ha had three 
monkeys; one called after a celebrated 
translator, the other alter an illnstrious 
novelist; the third, a female ape, repre- 
sented an actress then at the zenith of her 
popnlarity. French jnrlsts hold that " la 
vie privee doit 6tre muree^" private life 
onght to be enclosed with a wall ; the 
exact sobriquets cannot therefore be given, 
being founded either on personal resem- 
blance or the details of personal history. We 
will call the translator Potich, the novelist 
the Last of the Laidmanoirs, and the lady 
ape Mademoiselle Deagaroins. 

All jonmeys, long or short, are certain 
to afford two pleasures — the pleasure of 
starting, and t^e pleasure of getting home 
again. The pleasure of the journey itself 
is mncb more precarious. 

Dnmas had returned from a &tiguing 
jonmey. His old friends, the furniture, 
gave him a welcome which be repaid with 
smiles. But an easy-chair, close to the 
fireplace, displayed an unwonted occupant. 

The seat was filled with a large white mnfT, 
whose purring announced it to bo a cat. 

" Madame Lamarque !" — she was cook — 
" Madame Lamarque !" 

" I was aware that monsieur had ar- 
rived," she said, "but I was in' the middle 
of a white sance ; and nionsieur, who is a 
cook himself, knows how easily these blan- 
qncttes turn, I ought also to introduce 
our little fonndling, I was sure monsieur 
would ooueent to adopt Hm." 

" And whore did yon find the foundling, 
Madame Lamarque P" 

"In the cellar, crying 'Miaou, miaoa!' 
exactlv like a deserted child. What name 
will monsieur please to give him ?" 

" Mysonff the Second, if that suits yon. 
Only, Madame Lamarque, pray take good 
care that be don't eat my Java sparrows, 
my widow-birds, and my turtle-doves, and 
all the rest." 

" No fear of that ; he's as innocent as a 
lamb, a vegetarian, in facf> preferring broad 
and milk to cat's-meat. But with mon- 
sieur's leave, what does Mysonff mean P 
Is it a cat's name, like Puss or Minet?" 

" Certainly ; to make MysoufT the Second, 
there must have been a Mysouff tiio First." 
And Dumas fell into a fit of musing which 
Madame Lamarque did not choose to 

The mention of that name Mysonff had 
carried his thoughts back full fifteen years. 
HiB mother was at that time living. He 
bad still the happiness to be scolded, now 
and then, by a mother. He filled a clerk's 
place, under the Due d'Orleana (Louis 
Philippe) which brought him in fifteen 
hundred franca a year, and occupied his 
time from ten till five. They lived in the 
Rue do rOuest, and they had a cat, onlled 
Mysouff, which ought to have been a dog. 

Every morning, Dumas left homo at 
balf-past nine — it was half an hour's walk 
from the Sue de I'Oaest to the office in the 
Rue St. Honore, No. 216 — ^ud every after- 
noon he returned home at balf-past five. 
Every morning Mysonff accompanied his 
master as far as the Rne de Yaugirard ; and 
every aftOTuoon he went and waited for him 
at the Rne de Vaugirard. Those were bis 
limits; he never went an inch further. As 
soon aa he caught siglit of his master, be 
swept the pavement with his tail ; at his 
nearer appreach, he rose on all-fours, with 
arching back and tail erect. When Dumas 
set foot in the Rue de I'Onest, the cat 
jumped to his knees as a dog wonid have 
done ; then, turning round every ten paces, 
he led the way to the honsc. At twenty 

176 aant 11, IBTM 


pacca from the hoose, he set off at a gnllop, 
and two eeconds aElcrwards, the expectant 
mother appeared at tbe door. 

The most cnrioos circnn) stance waa, that 
whonever by chance any temptation caused 
Dtunaa to negleot his mother a dinner hoar, 
it was useless for her to open tbe door; 
Mysonff wonld not stir from his cnshion. 
Bnt on the days when Dnmas was a pnno- 
toal good bOT, if she forgot to open the 
door, Myaonff scratched it till she let him 
OQt. Consequently, she called Mjsonff her 
barometer; it was Set Fair when Dnmas 
came home to dinner, Rain or Wind when 
he was absent. 

There was a garden party of fonr or five 
intimates, comprising Maqnet the romance- 
writer, Oirand the painter, and Alexandre 
Dnmas the son. Alexis, the spoiled and 
lazy African, had condescended to bring a 
tray with three or four glasses, a bottle of 
Chablis, and a bottle of soda-water. 

"Tiens," said Alexandre, " I have an 

"What may it be?" 

" To make Uademoiselle Desgarcins un- 
cork the soda-water." 

And, withont waiting for leave to be 
given, he laid tho bottle on the floor of tbe 
monkey's cage, in the position of a cannon 
resting on its carriage. "Cnrions as ao 
ape," the saying goes. No sooner was the 
coge-door shnt, than its three occnpants, 
headed by the lady, sat in committee on 
til e bottle. She immediately comprehended 
that the cine to the secret lay in the fonr 
strings that crossed the cork. She tugged 
nt them witi her fingers. Fingers failing, 
eho tried her teeth, and in a few minates 
hr.d bitten through the two uppermost 
strings. To get at the other two, Potioh 
and the Last of the Laidmanoirs adroitly 
tnrned the bottle half round. The third 
string ont, she attacked tie fourth. As 
llif! operation adranced, its interest in- 
(U'ciised. The spectators watched the ap- 
pronching d^nooment quite as att«ntivdy 
as the actors. 

At last came the terrible detonation. Ha- 
dcmoiseHe Desgarcins was knocked heels- 
ovor-head and drenched with effervescent 
Avaler, whilst Potich and the Lost of tbe 
L:)idmanoirs bounded to the ceiling and 
cl ung to it with piercing screams. The tragi- 
comic parody of hnman emotions was too 
laughable to be believed without being seen. 

'■ I give up my share of soda-water," 
cried Alexandre, "to let Mademoiselle 
Desgarcins open a second bottle." 

Kademoiselle picked herself np, shook 
herself, and joined her companions aloft, 
where they hung by their tails like cban* 
deliers, sending forUi unearthly sounds. 

" The dear boy fancies he'll catch them 
again !" said Oirand. 

"Ma foi!" said Maquet; "I shouldn't' 
be surprised. Curioaity, with them, is still 
stronger than fear." 

" They !" chimed in Michel the garden^, 
who considered Dnmas's collection of ani- 
mals as kept fbr his (Michel's) own private 
amusement. " They 1 They are as obsti- 
nate as males, and will uncork as many 
bottles of soda-water as you like to gire 
them. Monsieur knows how they an 
caught in their own conutry ?" 

" No, MicheL" 

" Monsieur doesn't know that I" ex- 
claimed Michel, pitying his master's igno- 
rance. "At least, monsieur knows the; 
are very fond of maize. Well, the negroes 

fmt maize into a bottle whose neok is jnst 
Eirge enough to admit a monkey's empty 
hand. Tbe monkey clntohes a handful of 
maize, and, sooner than drop it, lets itself 
be caught." 

" It is a consolation, Michel, that if onr 
monkeys escape, yon know how to oatck 

" Monsieur may make himself easy as to 
that. Alexis, another soda-water." 

Truth compeb the avowal that a second 
and even a third experiment were tried, 
with exactly the aame resnlta, to Michel's 
glorification. Alexandre wanted to con- 
tinne it fnrllier, but Dumaa observed that 
poor Mademoiselle Desgarcins had a swoUeu 
nose, bleeding gums, and eyes starting ont 
of her head. 

" It isn't that," said Alexandre. "Ton 
are thinking of your soda-water. 1 assure 
you, messieurs, that my father, whom every- 
body takes for a prodi^, is tbe most miserly 
man existing on earth." 

After having done pen-work till three 
in the morning, Dnmas was still in bed at 
eight. The door opened, and Michel's head 
entered, in a visible state of agitation. 

"Here'sameas, monsiear!" he abruptly 
exclaimed. " I don't know how they ma- 
naged it, bnt the monkeys have made a 
hole in their cage big enough to let them 

"Very well, Michel j the remedyis easy. 
Ton have only to buy a little maixe^ "^^ 
put it into narrow-necked bottles." 

" Ah ! Yes ; mousienr may laugh, but 
he won't laugli when he bears tbe rest." 


[Jans Si, isni 177 

"Mon Dien, Micbel! wbat haa hap- 

" They have opened the aviaiy " 

"And the birds have flown away. All 
the better for them." 

"What has happened, moosienr, ia, that 
yonr six pairs of dores, yonr foarteen 
qnaila, all your rice-birda, Java spatTOwe, 
widow-birda, Virginian nightingales, all — 
all are killed or eaten." 

"But, Michel, monkeys don't eat birda." 

" No ; bnt they fetched a companion irho 
did — Mysonff. It is a veritable massacre. 
Only come and aee." 

It waa a sight indeed. Potich dangling 
gracefnlly from the branch of a maple ; the 
I«at of the Laidraanoira practiBing gym- 
uutica on the greenhonae door; Made- 
moiselle Deagardns, atill in the aviary, 
boDoding from cast to west, and from north 
loBonth. The trio were recaptured with- 
ODt emplo/ing maize-bottles, bnt not with- 
ont conaiderable and apitefnl resistance. 

Hyaoaff was easily cangbt They bad 
only to ahat the aviary-door, and the cul- 
prit nas in the hands of justice. What 
ahonld be hia pnniahment P Michel, in- 
censed at the loaa of his peta, was for ahoot- 
iag the murderer on the spot; Dnmaa op- 
poaed the summary execnfcion, deferring 
sentcoce till the following Snnday, when 
hia nsoal visitors wonld form a jaiy. The 
criminal w'oald be left meanwhile on the 
theatre of crime, on bread and water, nnder 
iodc and key. On Sunday hia feline avicide 
monomania being admitted as an attennat- 
isg circnmstance, he waa condemned to the 
mitigated penalty of five years' imprison- 
ment (without hard labonr) in monkey's 
company. Political events, however, come 
to his relief. 

The Revolntion of February broke out 
—tie fifteenth or sixteenth change of go- 
verament which Dnmas the Elder had 
lired to witness. During revolutions 
money comes alowly in, and slips quickly 
cut. Inetead of working at literature, 
Dmnaa started a jonrnali Le Mois, and 
Wrote for another. La Libert^. The two 
brought him in thirty-one franca per day, 
bnt by bia Theiltre Historique he was daily 
ont of pocket one, two, and sometimes five 
hundred francs. His only chance was that 
the partisans of Barbea, Blanqni, and 
Ledm-RoUin, whom he attacked without 
mercy in hia papers, wonld, by the applica- 
tion of stick or stone, at once put an end 
to his writings and his wants. 

Ueannhile be mnst reform his establish- 
ment. Hia three horses and hia two car- 

riages were Bold — as always happens in 
troubled times — for the quarter of what 
they had cost him. Myaouff waa treated liko 
a political prisoner, that is, simply set at 
liberty, and tamed adrift to seek bia foriinne. 
Mademoiselle Deagarcins and Company 
were presented to the Jardi^ des Planles. 
Dumas loat a home, but hia apea gained a 
palace. Alter revotntiona it aometimes 
happens that monkeys are lodged like 
princes, while princes have to take np with 
monkeys' lodgings — nnleaa the princes have 
frightened all Europe, in which case they 
are lodged like lions. 

For the life aad adventures of the cnn- 
ning dog Pritchard, the ferociona brute 
Mouton, the vnltnre Diogenea, and bow 
the grateful blackamoor, clad in the pick 
of his patron's wardrobe, discovered that 
revolutions aboliahed servants, see Hia- 
toire do Mes Betea, which might boar 
tranalation, as well as embellishment by 
apirited woodcuts. 


When we read about the Scots Fusilier 
Gnarda, the fonror five Highland regiments 
in the infantry of the Line, and the London 
Scottish Volunteer Eifiea, we in South Bri- 
tain have a somewhat confused notion of tho 
dress of the men composing these trusty 
corps. We picture to ourselves kil ts, plaids, 
and tartans ; not quite knowing whether a 
kilt ia a tartan, nor whether a plaid is a 
patt«m or a garment. The truth is, there 
haa been very little popular treatment of this 
snbject. Books, snoh as Logan's and So- 
bieski Stuart's, full of engravings repre- 
senting the shapes, colours, and patterns 
of real Highland garments, are ao bnlky 
and costlyj that few save wealthy persons 
ever get a sight of them; while an English 
tonriat, taking his antnomal peep at tho 
lochs and braes, innocently imagines that he 
knows a good deal about plaids and tartans, 
and brings his innocence home with him. 

The firat error to dismiss is, that a plaid 
ia a tartan, a tartan a plaid. We might as 
well Bay that a velvet is the same thing as 
a mantle, or a chintz aa a gown, or a ailk 
plash as a hat. A plaid is a garment; 
whereas a tartan is a pattern or distribu- 
tion of colours. No Scottish clan has any 
particnlar shape of plaid, by which it can al- 
wajB be distinguished from others; whereas 
every clan has its tartan, the cdlonrs and 
patterns of which it carefully preserves, 
and tlie history of which is bound up with 


[CODdDcUd bf 

traditions of the old days of clan strife and 

These tartane are remarkable in them- 
selves, irrcsppctive of their history and 
fraditioDB. They show how multitudinous 
are the patterns that may be produced by 
two or three colpnre, when arranged in 
stripes and cross-bare. Artists of acknow- 
ledged taste have frankly expressed their 
admiration of some of these patterns, for 
the well-balanced proportions of two or 
three colours, and of two shades op depths 
of one colonr — despite the faet that tlier» 
can be no "curves of beauty" in a pattern 
of stripes and checks. Red and green are 
the two colours chieSy adopted ; and it is 
generally observable that the brighter of 
two colours or tints, or the brightest of 
three, occupies a lai^er spaco than the 
darker, and gives a characteristic tone to 
the whole. No reason is assi^abie for the 
choice of pattern in the first instance ; but 
when once recognised by a particniar clan, 
an esprit de corps throws a halo aronnd it. 

How many of these clans there may be, 
docs not seem to be deGnitively settled. 
Stnart names a much larger number than 
Logan ; including many Lowland clans and 
Border families. And herein may possibly 
be the maia canse of dlfierence; for many 
of the Lowlandors and the Borderers, sepa- 
rated from England only by the Cheviot 
Hills, laid aside their characteristic garb 
much earlier than the veritable High- 
landers. Generally speaking, there is some- 
thing in the look af the name which de- 
notes to which class a dan belongs- All the 
Macs arc Highland, or at any rate spring 
from the Gaelic stock. How many varieties 
there arc of them we need not tell ; for as 
Scots very mnch like to come to London, 
we shall find all the clans represented in 
the Post Office Directory. But the original 
Gaelic has been a good deal knocked abont 
in putting it into English form. For in- 
stance, Mhic Dhnghil looks &r more dan- 
like than MacdoQgal, Mhic Donnil nan 
Eillean than llacdonald of the Isles, Uhic 
Dhnbhich than MacduO*, Mhic Griogaraick 
than Macgrcgor, Mhic Labhrainn than 
Maclaren, Many names without the prefii 
Mac, M*, or M', are, however, qnite as 
Gaelic as the rest, sach as Matheson, Mur- 
ray, Chisholm, Farqoharson, Sinclair, Ross, 
Gordon, Praser, Grant, Cumins or Cam- 
mings, Stnart or Stewart, Ac. Altogether, 
Sobieski Stuart gives the names, and beau- 
tifully represents the coloured tartans, of 
forty-two High laud clans and thirty-nine 
Lowland and Border clans. He knew 
his subject well ; he claimed to be (and 

his claim was admitted ta have some 
validity) the lineal descendant of the royal 
Stuarts of Scotland ; and he wrote ad- 
miringly of the old days up in the north. 

Much curious discassion has taken place 
concerning the origin of tartan, the name 
and the thing. The best authorities agree 
that, in the first instance, the name denoted 
neither a garment nor a pattern, but a 
material, a twilled stuff alike oa both sides. 
There were two kinds : the one hard and 
dull like shalloon, the other soft and elastic. 
The harder kind was used for kilts, jackets, 
and light snmmer mantles ; the softer for 
winter plaids, hose, and trews. In the 
Lowlands, caddis is one of the names for 
the softervariety of tartan. There are two 
names for tartan in Gaelic — the one 
simply denoting diced or checkered; the 
other signifying battle-colour or battle- 
pattern. These two names throw light on 
the real meaning ; seeing that they reveal 
at once the cross'bar nature of the woven 
pattern, and the clannish feeling which was 
associated with it. There is abundant 
evidence, moreover, that irrespective of 
clanship, the word tartan, or an equivalent 
to it, was known in other countries besides 
Scotland. Tartane, tartian, teartane, tire- 
tyen, tyretane — all are to be met with in 
old English, French, and German books; 
and etymologists have amused themselves 
with speculating on the possible deriva- 
tion either from Tyre or from Tartary. 
Hany facts support the view above stated, 
that tartan originally denoted rather the 
textile material itself, than any particniar 
pattern or colour given to it in the loom. 
In a manuscript abont three centuries and a 
half old, an English inventory of household 
furniture speaks of two altar curtains " of 
changeable tartian." Stuart supposes that 
" changeable" bere means the same thing 
as ladies now denote by the name " shot ;" 
the cross-threads or wefl of a shot silk are 
of a different colonr from the long threads 
or warp ; and the play of tints resulting 
fimm the appearance of the material from 
different points of view may not unsuitably 
be called changeable. The textile material 
said to have been changeable, the tartain 
or tartian, is supposed to have been (in 
one variety at any rate) a kind of serge, 
shalloon, or linaey-wolsey, varying consider- 
ably in fineness, but always more resembling 
a stuff than a napped cloth. A modern 
Scotch tai tan bears a closer resemblance to 
shalloon than to any other fiimiliar English 
material ; but it might still be a tartan, if 
much finer and richer in materia). The 
caddis, the soft variety of tartan (etymo> 


logists ask, is thie from Cadiz ?) was mnch. 
used in England in the lliddle Ages in 
ailk tuid other rich matenats. 

Striped and checked patterns, nicli as 
characterise all clan tartans, are in favour 
in many widely-separated regions. The 
Don Cossacks and the Circaesiana know 
them well. A foreign ambassador, familiar 
with the tribes of Bontb-eastem Europe, 
was once at the Caledonian Ball in London, 
and was stmck with the resemblance be- 
tween the tartans worn by the gnents and 
those to be met with in some of the Russian 
and Turkish provincee. Tartan was the 
material, and parti-col onred checks and 
Btripes were the pattern, in the clannish 
iajB of Scotland ; but it cannot be deter- 
mined whether or when they were directly 
borrowed from any other conntry. Stnart 
has ancceeded in identifying the fosbion as 
a Scottish one for eleven bnndred years ; 
ueing that he finds the Qnelic name for a 
parti- col onred tartan plaid or mantle in a 
Qaeiic mannecript of the eighth oentniy. 

The ladies of the clans, in early ^ye, 
are believed to have devised the patterns ; 
and samples of these patterns were care- 
fnllj preserved, to be lent to the webster 
OT weaver when a snpply of tartan cloth 
WBsneeded. The special clan tartan was in- 
sisted on only on ceremonial and warlike 
occasions ; in the ordinaiy avocations of 
daily life the hnmbler retainers wore pretty 
mnoh what tbey liked. In the V^eetunnm 
ScotioDm, a manuscript three or fonr cen- 
tnriee old, tninnte instractions are given 
oonceming the distribntion of the stripes, 
eheckerB, and colonrs. The lighter of the 
two colonrs is to be "fresoheand brigcht as 
may be, y' so the tw'a sail scheme the 
mair openlye, and be y* better kennit sfar 
off and in battayl and Ither arrayee; ilk 
maone or companye to be weil and cleariy 
knawen of hys freindis or hys athnersaryes 
ofqnhat pairtieorhonse he apperteinethe." 

A terrible blow to clan tartans, and to 
the Higbland costnme generally, was given 
after the rebellion of 'forty-five. In these 
more sober days of the nineteenth oentnry 
the costnme is still admired by those who 
know it best. Logan enthnaiastically says : 
"In the various modea of its arrangement 
this is undeniably the most picturesque and 
original costume in Europe, partaking of 
tie graceful flow of Oriental drapery with 
more than the advantage of Europeivn 
attire, and which can be used in great 
plwnness, bnt is susceptible of being carried 
to the highest enrichment. It is, indeed, 
more nsaaJly considered as a military nni- 
form than a civil costume, and its admirable 

adaptation for the fatignes and hardships 
of war is incontrovertibly admitted ; while 
it is certainly the beet adapted for the 
conntry and l^e laborions avocations of the 
inhabitants." It was against this costnme, 
so thoronghly nationalised, that an Act of 
Parliament was hurled inI74i6. The Eng- 
lish government, desirous of cmshing out 
the last remains of the rebellion, deter- 
mined to attack the clan costume which 
had helped t« keep alive the enthusiasm of 
the Highlanders. The statnte ordained 
that, &om and after a partionlar day, " No 
man or boy within that part of Great 
Britain called Scotland, other than such as 
shall be employed as officera and soldiers 
in his majesty's fbrcee, shall, on any pre- 
tence wh^var, wear or pat on the clothes 
commonly called Highland ; that is to say, 
the plaid, philib^, Idlt, tarows, shoolder 
belts, or any part whatsoever of what peon- 
liarly belong to the Highland garb; and 
that no tartan or parti- coloured plaid or 
stuff shall be used for greal>-coata or for 
upper coats." The penalty for breaking 
this law was six months' imprisonment for 
a first ofience, seven years' transportation 
for a second. Years rolled on, bat the 
Scotch never reconciled themselves to this 
nnworthy interference with their national 
habits. More than thirty years later Pro- 
fessor Forbes, of Culloden, remonstrated 
against it, and assigned as one of the 
reasons that the drees enabled the Scotch 
to bear the inclemency of the weather. 
Soatbrons are apt to regard the High- 
land costame as a cold one ; not so Forbes : 
"The statistics of onr armiee afibrd abun- 
dant proof of the trnth of this assertion. 
They show that in the intense cold during 
campaigns in Holland the Highlanders 
sufiered incomparably less than others; and 
the kilt being bound tightly ronnd the 
loins, advantages in a rapid and protracted 
march have been witnessed in tiie retreat 
of Comnna and elsewhere." Ho went on 
toargne: "A great advantage of this dress 
is its lightness, the limbs being left at peir- 
fect freedom : thus Kiabling the inhabitant 
of a monntainons region to pursue with 
facility his laborioos avocations, ascend the 
mountains, traverse the glens, and bound 
over the bogs with agility. In the army, 
this national uniform keeps alive, in sur- 
prising degree, the esprit de corps ; and 
the tajrtan being, as it were, a Highlander's 
coat armour, he is especially onrefnl that it 
shall in nowise he dishonoured." The ob- 
noxious statute was repealed in 1('S2, on 
the motion of the Dake of Uontrose. 

Through a canons train of circnmstances. 

IBO Dana 21, ins,] 



however, the real Highland tartan did not 
recover from the disconrageraent which the 
8tatat« had inflicted on it ; the Bmall pat- 
tern grey check took its place to a very 
large eitect. The grey plaid, in fact ; and 
herein we eee the origin of the mistake go 
often mado in England, of confounding a 
plaid with a tartan. A plaid is really a 
broad, nnformcd, nneewn, and anhemmed 
piece of cloth, equivalent to what in many 
conntries wonld be called a rug or blanket. 
In former times a Scotch plaid hod nearly 
always a tartan pattern, which was retained 
by the clan in the same way aa the pattern 
of some other parts of the dress. Its colonr 
was denoted by that of its gronnd or prin- 
cipal portion. Thus there were the Mac- 
kenzie and Macdonald green plaids, the 
Macgregor and the Fraser red plaids, the 
Clnny and the Bnchanan white plaids, and 
BO on. An entry in an old Scotch' house- 
hold book, concerning "wemenis qnhite 
plaidis," related to women's plaids or 
wrappers having a tartan pattern with a 
white gronnd. After the passing of the 
Act of 1746, the Scotch peasants did not 
well know what to wear ; go they adopted 
the grey maod, wrapper, or plaid, which 
was customarily worn by the shepherds of 
tho Border. It was cheap and durable, 
and more like their old favourite tartan 
than any plain cloth could be. Once esta- 
blished, it has never since gone ont of 
lashion. " Wben the prohibition against 
tartan was removed," says Stuart, "the 
elements for its restoration no longer re- 
mained ; poverty and disnse had eztiu- 
gniflhed the national manufacture, qnenchcd 
the spirit of the people, and changed their 
habits and their recollections. The pnblic 
looms (as distinguished from those kept by 
home weavers), where alone the tartan was 
&.bricated, supplied only a fine, expensive, 
and undesirable matenal — unsuitable to 
labour, inadequate to defence, and inacces- 
sible in price." Another consequence 
showed itself in a singtdar way. When 
Lowland and English sportsmen began to 
make their annual visits to the Highlands, 
they soon adopted the shepherd's grey 
plaid — " some for economy ; some because 
they observed that its aerial tint indulged 
their indolence and incapacity in stalkmg, 
by enabling them to approach deer with 
less danger of discovery, when too idle to 
wallc round a hill, or too delicate to wade 
in a bum ; (uid many beoaose in their igno- 
rance they believed the grey check of the 
shepherds to be an original Highland gar- 
ment, and that in wearing it they displayed 

a national spirit, and miuntained a charac- 
teristic of the clans." A very fair hit this, 
coming from a Highlander to the Borderers 
and the English. 

Thu9 it is, then. A plaid and a tartan 
have very difierent meanings. The one is 
the name of a garment, wiUiout reference 
to the material or colonr of the cloth; the 
other is the name of a parti-ooloured pat- 
tern, without much reference to the kind 
of cloth, and with none at all to the shape 
of the ^rment. When a lady talks about 
her plaid silk, or a servant-girl about her 
plaid ribbon, she nnconsciously uses tha 
wrong word — an error due, just in the 
same degree, to shopkeepers who announce 
their splendid stock of plaid silks at ((if 
course) unprecedentedly low prices. A 
tartan silk or ribbon would have a mean* 
ing ; a plaid silk or ribbon has none. When 
the Border mand superseded the clan 
mantle, it was a change in shape of gar- 
ment; but when, at the same time and 
from tlie same reason, the grey check 
superseded the parti- coloured tartan, it was 
a change of colour and pattern. 

All the clan tartans — Highland, Low- 
land, and Border— are still kept npj but 
their adoption ia limited in extent. Meet 
an Argyll, a Sutherland, a Breadalbane, a 
Bnccleuch in the ordinary interoourse of 
society, and you find him in plain English 
attire; but when, on ceremonial or festive 
occasions, the heads of the great Scottish 
houses wish to remember, and to impress 
upon the memory of others, that they are 
the living representatives of the dana 
Macgregor, Scott, Gordon, Lenox, Mac- 
kintosh, Cluny, Farquharson, Cameron, io., 
then they know how to moke a display of 
the tartuis which were in old days as dis- 
tinctive of the clans as armorial bearings 
were of the English harons. No real Scot 
need remain ignorant of the tartan of his 
clan, supposing his name to be in any sense 
of clannish origin ; the pattern and ooloors 
have been faithfully depicted and printed 
by Scotsmen who knew what they were 


Tni TIM*- land) glMm, with bloimi of crtunj-no'i 
With Karlrt, crimKiil, ■mber KTereigotf, 
Of Juno^i flow«r; and from llw rifBT-mudi* 
Ib« Ingruif ineuiH of th> new-movn tnlhet, 
U bonis upon the bneis. The luo-tuuied mtid, 
UrBtiEgnbiUupon fan vell-uifd nkt. 


(Jbb* n, ie;jj 181 

Balmj the air, 
ClonJIna tht ik j, uts wbcn io *m of blu«, 
Bnme fleecj iilct ■hDni^ boU ripple* *tir 
lb bee of nlTerj Ttumei, ud rrom the ejott 

hisg pluh of falling vtter eoDade 

lU dnunj miuic. Ai our whenj drift*, 
Luil; 'iMath Iha hinging mtdeF-baoglu, 
With ber trioi'flaaDelled cnv— dow and tgtim 
IpBilof giiluh UoghMrechoei forth, 
Auvand bj mAnlier tana*. tUl ou nhead 
The hrmwnj lock-mu hull our jojotu band. 
And oan murt be mumed. Ah '. dTfuniog-lime, 
Ahl happj, jODthrul. fleeting dnaming-tiine. 
Of lan^ of iiuuhiat, ud of nin— Jane 1 



This regiment, one of tlie oldest in the 
Eerrice, baa had its Aill share of hard 
knocks since the time that CromweU 
formed it for General Monk in 1650, by 
drafting off five companies from Fenwick 8 
regiment and five from that of Sir Arthnr 
Hulerig, the leader of thoee celebrated iron- 
cbde who bore down the GaWiere at Edge- 
hill. Monk's Pnritan raiment of foot took 
its same from the Border town where the 
general of the Restoratbn fixed hia head- 

It seemfl e&rlj to bavs acquired a name 
for bmTeiy, good conduct, and discipliDe. 
Oamble, Uonk's chaplain, eaja of it : 
"This town hath given tide to a email 
company of men whom God made tho in- 
rtnunents of great tbinge, and, though 
poor, yet honest as ever cormpt nature 
prodnoed into the world, by the no dis- 
hoDotirable name of Coldstreama." Bishop 
Baraet, epeaking of the Goldstreams, re- 
marks : " I remember well of these regi- 
ments coming to Aberdeen. There was an 
order and diacipHno, and a faoe of graTity 
tod piety amongst them, that amazed all 
people." Monk's sober r^ment led the 
■ttock at Dnnbar against Tower's regi* 
ment, whidi wonld not give groimd till 
one of the Coldstream sergeants had killed 
the Scottish colonel. With a shont of the 
" Lord of Hosts !" CromweU then ch^ged 
and broke np the too confident enemy — 
ten thousand prisoners were taken, with 
thirty gnns and two hundred coloors. 
While the "crowning mercy," Worcester, 
was being fbnght. Monk took Stirling and 
Ihunbarton castles, and made all smooth ii 

At the Restoration, mainly brought 
aboQt by Monk, that general headed his r^i- 
ment at the king's trinrapbal entry into Lon- 
don. Wbeotihedisbandingof the oldCrom- 

wellian wrtny came. Monk's regiment, at 
the reqaest of Clarendon, was not broken 
Ihe Goldstreams became guards of 
the king's person, and they seem to have 
fonght agauiBt onr stnbbom enemiee the 
Dntch in some of Monk's naval engage- 
ments. At a review in Hyde Park, May, 
), the Goldstreams, or Second Regi- 
ment of Gnards, are described as cvrying 
a green standard, on which were six white 
balls and a red cross — the fonrteen com- 
panies of eighty men wearing red jackets 
with green facings, the pikemen green 
jackets faced with red. At Monk's stately 
funeral in Westminster Abbey, 1670, the 
Goldstreams were prominent in the long 
procession that woond its slow length from 
Somerset Hooso te the old chonSt of the 
Confessor. In 1677, Charles increased the 
regiment by fiirty-eight men, and several 
battalions served in Flanders against the 
French. In 1680, the newspapers of the 
day tell as that the qneen dowager left 
Somerset House, which had been her r^ 
sidence, " his majesty intending to quarter 
two regiments in Somerset Hoase, and that 
place in the Savoy, where ono regiment is 
now quartered, is to be tamed intean hos- 
pital for lame and sick soldiers, and his 
majesty's hoose at Greenwich Is to be con- 
verted to the same use. His majesty, in 
parsnanoe of the lat« Act of Parliar 
ment, wherel^ the snbjeots of this king* 
dom are not to be charged with tho qnar- 
tering of soldiers, has lately ordered the 
fitting np the Savoy in the Strand for a 
regiment of foot soldiers; and it is Re- 
signed that stables shall be bnilt for the 
horse in Leicester Fields and Hyde Park 
upon that accoant." The regiment soon 
afterwards occnpied the Mows (the site of 
the Hational Gallery). 

At the end of this reign, the regiment 
wore red coats lined with green, red 
stockings, red breeches, and white sashes 
fringed with green, the grenadiers having 
high conical caps Uned and tasselled 
with green ; on their flag was a St. 
Geo^^'s cross bordered with white in a 
bine field. The captains had gold-co- 
loured corselets, the lientenanta black 
studded with gold, the eneigns corselets of 
silver. At James's coronation, the private 
soldiers wore black hats tamed np with 
gold galloon and tnfted with red ribbons ; 
the pikemen white worsted sashes fringed 
with red. A battalion of the Goldstreams 
did good work at Sedgcmoor soon after, 
and helped to mow down the rough Uendip 
miners who had joined Monmouth in hu 


182 [J" 

1, iinj 


rash rebellion. Our dragoons had oarried 
bayonets ainoB 1672 ; but it is not till 1686 
that we find bayonets issned to the Cold- 
Btreams. The regimeiit then seem to 
have worn red coats lined -with bine, bine 
breeches, and Thito stockings. 

When the Prince of Orange and his 
Dutch troopers arrived in London, be 
issued orders for all James's forces to 
march out, except the Ooldstreams — Lord 
Craven's regiment. That fine old soldier, 
Graven, who in early life had foogbt for 
' Qustavns Adolphus, would not at first give 
np his post at Whitehall to the Dutch 
Chiards, saying he would rather be cut to 
pieces than yield to them ; but James per- 
suaded hJTp to comply, as the Dutch b^an 
to handle their muBkets. When the Cold- 
streams, nob long after, received orders in 
MoorfieldB to march to Rochester, they were 
mutinous, and many of them threw down 
their arms. 

The Coldstreams had their work soon 
cut out for ihffin in Flanders, where so 
many of our brave Uncle Tobys and Cor- 
poral Trims left their bones to whiten. The 
wars of Wilham of Orange with the ambi- 
tions Loois Qnatorze supplied ample work 
to their resolute bayonets. That staunch 
old vetoran, Lord Craven, was now de- 
prived of the colonelcy (a disgrace that 
nearly broke the old man's heart), and the 
lament was handed over to one of the 
Tahnashea. In 1688, the Coldstreams 
helped to save Walconrt from the French, 
two thousand of whom were killed and 
wounded, their Guards being almost anni- 
hilated, la 1691, on the eve of an expected 
battle, the Ueutenante of the Coldstream 
Guards were given the rank of captains, 
the captains from King James's time having 
always ranked as lieutenant-colonels. In 
the battle of Steenkirk (1692), after 
William's unsucceBsfnl attempt to save 
Namnr and surprise Mons, a battalion of 
the Coldstreams was engaged. The battle, 
in which there was a good deal of hard 
fighting and some furious charges to re- 
pulse, ended with one of William's sullen 
and Euccessfiil retreats. It has been sup- 
posed that pikes were laid aside by our foot 
regiments after this battle, but Colonel 
Hackinnon, in his history of the Cold- 
etream Gaards, has shown by an official 
letter, dated Whitehall, 1702, that pikes 
were in use up to that date. Matchlocks 
were discontinued by the Coldstreams in 
1683. Bayonets became general (they 
were first used by the grenadier companies 
only) during the Spanish war in 1706. 

At the battle of Landen, 1693, King 
William led the Coldstreams to hot places, 
where they certainly had their share of 
French bullets. The fight was first for 
the Tillage of Neerwindea, then for the 
village of Neerlanden. The French, some 
thirty ihousapd stronger than the English, 
eventually broke through our long line o£ 
breastworks, and carried NSerwinden, the 
Elector of Bavaria retreating across the 
river Geete. The artillery got jammed in 
the passes, and many soldiers were drowned. 
" However," says D'Auvergne, chaplain of 
the Third Regiment of Guards, "the French 
did not come in upon easy terms; their 
first troop of Life Guards, of which Luxem- 
bourg was colonel, lost their standard, 
which was taken by a soldier of the Cold- 
stream Guards (Talmash's). The Fusiliers 
snfiered very much in this action." " The 
King of England," says one of his bio- 
graphers, " in the day of danger showed 
biiuself, ae he had always done, a brave 
and gallant man, and it was only the 
wonderful providonceof God that preeerred 
one who exposed himself so much." " The 
ting," says D'Auvergne, " narrowly miasad 
three mueket shots; one through hie periwig, 
which made him deaf for awhile; another 
through the sleeve of his coat, which did no 
harm ; the third carried off the knot of his 
scarf, and left a small contusion on his side." 
This victory, however, crippled the Frenoh, 
who lost fifteen thousand to our ten 
thouBAud. Two Coldstream officers were 
killed in this tough fight, and many 
were wounded by both sword and bullet. 
In 1694, Lieutenant- General Talmash died 
at Plymouth of woouds he had received 
when effecting a descent at Camaret Bay, 
on the French coast, in 1691. 

In 1695, the Coldstreams anffered severely 
at the siege of Namnr, and espedallj in 
attacking the lines and covered ways wbioh 
the French had constructed to cover their 
works near the bill of Bouge, and they 
joined in the great attack when the brave 
Cutta was wounded, and a lodgment, a 
mile long, was made along the covered way 
at the sacrifice of fourteen hundred killed 
and wounded. 

In 1702, Queen Anne being still detez^ 
mined to lower the pride and clip the daws 
of our old enemy Louis Qnatorze, and to 
carry on the war both in Spain and Holland, 
Biz: companies of Coldstreams were sent over 
to Spain with the Duke of Ormond in Sir 
George Rooke's squadron. The expedition 
blew up forts at Cadiz, and took nine 
men-of-war (French and SpBoish), and five 



■ 183 

^teoDS fall of gold, Tanilla, asd cochineal 
in the harbour of Vigo, where we forced 
the boom, and then helped to raise the 
si^ of Gibraltar. The Coldstreams also 
helped Snifl's friend, the cbivalronB Lord 
Peterborough, to take Barcelona. The 
English troops were kept so short of money 
by the king, whom they had all but rvstored 
to the throne, that Uie soldiers &r many 
weeks subsisted on eighteenpence a we^, 
and the ofGcara wei« obliged to pawn their 
ecarvesand accontrements. Barcelona was 
soon afterwards again besieged by the 
French. In the captnre of the fort of 
Uonjnich, Lord Don^all was shot throngh 
Uie heart, after baring cnt down five of Us 
assailants. On the arrival of the English 
and Dntch fleets, the French retreated, 
leanng behind them two hnndred brass 
cannon. In the maroh from Valencia to 
Madrid, as described by dTaptain Carleton, 
whose memoirs Swift (^ted, a cnrions in- 
stance of Spanish omelty is related, which 
we give in the captain's own words i 

"Captain Atkins of the Coldstream 
Guards (August, 1706), marching in order 
to join the battalion of the Gnards then 
nnder the command of General Wyndham, 
with some of his soldiers thftt hEid been in 
the hoepilal, took ap his quarters in that 
Httle villa. Bnt on his marching oat of 
it that morning, a shot in the back laid tiiat 
officer dead on tJie spot, and, as it had 
been before concocted, the Spaniards of the 
place at the same time fell npon the poor 
weak soldiers, killing several, not even 
sparing their wives. This was bat a pre- 
lade to their barbarit; ; their savt^ cmelty 
was (mly whetted not glntted. They took 
the snrviving £bw, hnrried and dragged 
them np a hill a little withont the villa. 
On the top of this hill there was a hole or 
opening, somewhat like the month of one 
of oar coal pite; down this they cast 
several, who, with hideous shrieks and cries, 
made more hideons by the echoee of the 
diasm, there lost their lives. This relation 
was thns made to the Earl of Peterborongh 
at his qnarters at Campilio, who im- 
mediately gave orders to soand to horse. 
At first we were all enrprised; bat were 
soon satisfied that it was to revenge, 
or rather to do jnstice on this bar- 
hnrooa action. A^ soon as we entered the 
villa, we fonnd that most of the inhabitants, 
bat especially the most gnilty, bad with- 
drawn themselves on oor approach. We 
■fonnd, however, many of the dead soldiers' 
clothes, which had been conveyed into the 
chnrch and there hid ; and a strong aconsa- 

tion being laid against a person belonging 
to the chnrcb, and fall proof made that he 
had been singularly indnstrions in the 
execntion of that horrid piece of barbarity 
on the hit], his lordship commanded him to 
be hanged np at the knooker of the door. 
After this piece of milttatr jnstice, we were 
led np to tiie &tal pit or hole, down which 
many had been cast headlong. There 
we fonnd one poor soldier alive, who npon 
beingthrown in had canght foothold of some 
impending hnshee, and eaved himsielf on a 
bttie jntty within the concavity. On hear- 
ing na failc English he cried ont ; and ropes 
being let down, in a little time he was 
drawn np ; when be gave ns an ample 
detaO <^ the whole villany. Among other 
particulars, I remember he told me of a 
very narrow escape he had in that obecnre 
recess. A poor woman, one of the wives of 
the soldiers who were thrown down after 
him, stmggled and roared so mnch, that 
they conld not, with all their force, throw 
her cleverly in the middle, by which means, 
&lling near the side, in her fall she almost 
beat htm from his place of security. Upon 
the conclnsion of this tragical relation of the 
soldier thns saved, his lordship gave im- 
mediate orders for liie firing of the TUla, 
which was executed wiUi dae severity, 
after which his lordship marohed back to 
his quarters at Campilio, from whence, two 
days after, we arrived at Valencia." 

Cntts, generally called the " Salaman- 
der," f^m his always being found in 
the centre of the fire, dying in 1707, 
General Charles CharcbiU was appointed 
colonel of the Coldstreams. The regiment 
suffered severely in the battle of Almarya, 
1707, when the Portuguese fled and left 
the English and Dutch outflanked, and 
Burroanded by the Duke of Berwick (the 
French general), who cnt off and made 
prisoners thirteen battalions at one fell 

In the more glorious MaribOTough battles 
the Coldstreams' bayonets were ever fore- 
most, especiajly at Ondenarde, when the 
great Marlborongh and Prince Eugene de- 
feated the Dake de Vend^me. In this battle 
two hnndred and fifty colonels are said to 
have led their respective battalions into ac- 
tion. The French, ontmanoenvred, wavered 
from the first, and darkness alone saved 
them from destruction. The Prince Elec- 
t«rate of Hanover had a horse shot nnder 
him on this glorions day as he was charging 
with British cavalry, and he then led on 
the line on foot. Ho wonder that, long after, 
when dressing on greet ocoasionB, the vain 

IM (Jim»S 


little mar, George the First, always nsed 
to call out for his Ondenardo sword. At 
Ualplaqnet, again, the ColdstreaiDs dis- 
tingniEned themselveB. Before the battle 
the English celebrated divine service ; 
while the French, eager to fight, shouted, 
" Vive le MarechaJ ViUare" and " Vive 
le Roi," and flnng away half their ra- 
tions, though bnt scantily supplied. The 
French entrenchmentB, abattis, and pali- 
sades in the wood of Laniers, were car- 
ried by Marlborough himself. The great 
charge of Marshal Boufflers on the lines of 
the allies with the gendarmes, gardes de 
corps, monsqnert^res, and horse grenadiers, 
shook, bat did not break ns mnch, and 
while our third line still held out, Engene 
and his cavalry came thaudering on the 
French flank, already ahaken by the cross 
fire of oitr infantry. The Irench lost 
fifteen thonsand men, five hnndred and 
forty ofiSoers killed, and ten handled and 

to the 

1720, the price of the commission of the 
lientenant-colonel and captain of the Cold- 
streams was fixed at five thoasand pounds, 
which was raisedtosix thousand seven hun- 
dred in 1766, and to seven thousand in 1621. 
The next laurels of the Coldstreams were 
won at Dcttingen in the war in aid of the 
Queen of -Hungary. George the Second 
led on the attack, flourishing his sword, and 
ahonting to our infentry, " Now, my brave 
'boys, now for the glory of England; ad- 
vance boldly and fire." Our Horse Guards 
were twice repulsed by the French gen- 
darmes, but at the last charge they drove 
back the French horse, and our in&ntry 
then made the French give way. 

It was at Fonteooy (1745) that, it is 
said, the officers of the English guards 
took off their hats to the Fr«ich guards, 
and requested them to fire first. " Gentle- 
men, we never fire flrst," relied the Count 
d'Auteroohe, according to Voltaire; "you 
fire." The flrst discharge, our majors level- 
ling their soldiers' musket barreb with their 
canes, we killed nineteen French officers and 
ninety-five soldiers ; one hundred and ten 
privates of the Coldstreams fell in this 
onsatiafactory and ill-managed battle. 

After that celebrated march from Finch' 
ley, which Hogarth represented so gro- 
tesquely in a picture that offended George 
the Second, the Coldstreams foaghtagainst 
the Pretender's Highlanders at Cultoden. 

In 1753, the Coldstreams joined in seve- 
xal iU-arranged landings on the coast of 

France. They took Cheibourg, bot failed 
in an attack on St. Maloes. GE tliis latter 
ezpsditian Colonel Mackinnon tells as a 
touching anecdote. On this occasion, says 
Mackinnon, a French shepherd was com- 
pelled to act as a guide to the Coldstream 
Guards, by whom they were purposely 
misled. 7%o late genM«J, then Colonel 
Vernon, ordered him to be hanged. That 
officer used to say that he never witnessed 
a more affecting sight than the efforts made 
by the shepherd's dog to interrupt the 
men when they proceeded to put the rope 
round his master's neck. The executioner 
had no small difficulty in managing to keep 
the affectionate animal off, though assisted 
by two drummOTs, who enjoyed the repnta- 
tion of having been practised dog-stealers in 
Westminster. "Bnt," added the general, 
" John Bull is a poor creature when it 
comes to the pinch. 1 conld not find it in 
my heart to put the etabbom fellow to 
death for his patriotism, and after well 
frightening him, and almost breaking his 
heart by threatening to have his dog de- 
stroyed, I let the fellow go, and the fiuibful 
creature with him." 

We lost some fifteen hundred picked 
men in re-embarking. The young prince 
(afterwards Duke of York), who witnessed 
the slaughter from Lord Howe's ship, was 
maddened at the sight, and could wiUi diffi- 
culty be prevented returning to snocour 
the troops. 

The Coldstreams fought in the war of 
1761, and did some gallant things under 
the auspices of the Marquis of Granby, 
and at Gravenstein Ihey helped to scathe 
the French infantry. They had a baud 
also in the American war. It is particu- 
larly recorded that in Uie battle at Free- 
hold Court House, where Washington with 
difficulty saved his advanced corps, many 
of our men fell dead from the heat The 
Coldstreams wero eventually all taken pri- 
soners with Comwallis's unlucky army. 

In 1 784, Lord Waldegrave was sncceeded 
in the oonunand of the Coldstreams by the 
DukeofYork. Adnel was fought, in 1789, 
by the doke and Lieutenant- Colon el Len- 
nox. The dnke had foolishly eaid that 
Colonel Lennox had been addressed by 
some one at Daubigny's Club in a manner 
that no gentleman oughts permit. Upon 
this the oolonel, on parade, demanded an 
explanation of the duke, bnt was ordered to 
his post. When in the orderly room the 
duke sent for Colonel Lennox and told him 
that he desired no protection from his rank, 
that when off duty he wore a brown ooat, 


ChirtH Dlo>(niM.| 


[Jons SI, ia7»J 185 

&nd was US ready aa aaj private person 
to give Colonel Lennox the satisfaction one 
gentleman required of anothor. 

The following is the acconnt given by 
tlie seconds of the afiair : " His Royal High- 
ness the Dake of York, attended by Lord 
Bawdon and Lientenant-Colonel Lensos, 
accompanied by the Earl of WincheUea, 
met at Wimbledon Common. The gronnd 
wag measured twelve paces, and both parties 
were to fire together. Lientenant-Colonel 
Lennox's ball grazed his royal higbness's 
our], bnt the Dnke of Tort did not fire. 
Lord Rawdon then interfered, and said 
'hetboaght enough had been done;' when 
the colonel observed ' that his royal bigh- 
nPBs had notfired;' Lord Rawdon rrolied, 
' it was not the intention of the Duke of 
York to fire; his royal bigbnesa enter- 
tained no animosity against Lientenant-- 
Colonel Lennox, and bad only come ont on 
bis invitation to give him satis&ction.' 
Colonel Lennox wisbed the dnke to fire, 
which was declined with a repetition of the 
reason. Lord Winchelsea then expressed 
a hope that bis royal highness wonld not 
object to say that he considered Colonel 
Leonox a man of conrage and honour. His 
rcjal highness replied that he should say 
no sQcb tbing ; he had come oat with tbe 
intention of giving Colonel Lennox the 
Bittis&otion he demanded, bnt did not 
mean to fire at him. If Colonel Lennox 
was not satisfied, he might have another 
shot. Colonel Lennox declared that he 
coDld not possibly fire again, as bis ToyaX 
highnees did not mean to retom it. Tbe 
seconds signed a paper stating that ' both 
parties bebaved with the most perfect 
coolness and intrepidity.' " The Frince 
Begent afterwards refosed to dance at a ball 
at which Colonel Lennox was present. 

In 1793, the first battabon of the Cold- 
streams joined the DukeofTorkin Hol- 
land. At St. Amand they had the pleaaant 
task of trying with six hnndred rank and 
file to dislodge the French from some en- 
trenchments in a wood, which five thousand 
Anstrians bad three times nnsnccessFully 
attempted to clear. Tbey lost seventy-seven 
men in a few minntes, and then retired, 
bnt held their second position the whole of 
the day. Darby, a sergeant-major, who 
was token prisoner on this occasion, fonght 
desperately and killed a French ofiScer, 
althongh one of bis arms was broken. A 
cannon-shot then broke bis tbigh and he 
fell. At LincelleB the Coldstreams took a 
redonbt at the chaise. " The French," 
wys Orporal Brown, " who had been aocns- 

tomed to tbe cold lifeless attacks of the 
Dntcb, were amazed at tbe spirit and in- 
trepidity of the British, and not mnch 
relishing tbe manner of oar salnte, immedi- 
ately gave way, abandoning all that was ia 
tbe place, and, in tbeir Sight, threw away 
both arms and accontrements. We took one 
stand of colonrs, two pieces of cannon, with 
two pieces they bad taken from tbe Datob." 
Tbe adjutant - general, in hia despatch 
says: "The battalions were instantly formed, 
and advanced nnder a heavy fire, with an 
order and intrepidify for which no praise 
can be too high. After firing three or four 
ronnds they rushed on with their bayonets. " 
Tbe Coldstreams lost Lientenant-Colonel 
Bosville, and eight rank and file, while 
forty-nine were wounded. Tbe enemy 
amounted to five thoosand men, and lost 
eleven guns and abont three hnndred men. 
It is said that Lientenant-Colonel Bos- 
ville's death was in conse^nence of his ex- 
traordinary hdght, he being six feet four 
inches high. He was shot in tbe forehead. 
Three hundred and forty-six rank and file 
of the Coldstreams were engaged on the 
18th of August, 1793. 

In 1808, the first battalion of the Cold- 
stream Guards set sail for Portugal. At 
Talavera they snfl'ered from their over* 
impetuosity, having three officers and fifty- 
three rank and file killed, and two hundred 
and forty-one rank and file wounded. TbSy 
took part in Busaco, tb^ drove back die 
French by an intrepid ohai^ at Barrosso, 
they served in tbe trenches at Cindad 
Bodrigo and Badajcz, and they fongbt with 
the b^ at Salamanca. 

But our space preventing onr following 
the Coldstreams step by step in the Penin- 
sular battles, we must m^ke a quick march 
and pass on at once to narrate their great 
exploits at Waterloo, where they were told 
off to defend Hongonmont and &oe the 
very central brunt of the great battle. On 
the 16th of June the Coldstreams marched 
from Enghien to Quatre-Bras, and after 
this twen^-five miles' m.arob were imme- 
diately deployed in support of the First 
Guards, who were trying to clear the Bois 
de BosBu of tbe French, and th^ repulsed 
several desperate charges of Eellerman's 
cavalry. Aboat five f.M. on the 17th, the 
Coldstreams were sent to occupy Hongon* 

The cb&tean of Hongoumont, saya Hao- 
kianon, faced the enemy without any ^c- 
tamal fence in its front. Behind it was the 
&rm-yard, protected on the left and rear by 
a wall, and on the right by farm-buildings. 




To tho left of the honse and yard was a 
garden, snrrounded by a wall, and to the 
left L>f that, but adjoining, there was an 
orcliard enclosed by a hedge and diteb. A 
large gate in the rear led into the yard, and 
throngh that supplies were received during 
the action ; two other entrances to the 
yard were closed up. Outside of the build- 
ings, on the right, there was a road and 
a high hedge. A wood in fronts which 
stretched some distance to the right, covered 
this post. 

The Becond brigade consisted uf the 
Eecond battalion of the Ooldstreama, and 
the second battalion of the Third Guards 
nnder Major-General Byng. The two light 
companies of the first brigade under Lord 
Saltoun occupied the orchard; the light 
companies of the second brigade the wood. 
Loop-holea were at osce made in the build- 
ing and garden- wall; platforms were erected, 
and all gates but the one in the rear bar- 
ricaded. Just before the battle broke out the 
duke rode through the wood of Hou^on- 
mont, saw Lientenant^Colonel Macdonald, 
and told him. " to defend the post ba the kat 
extremity." There were HaaBau and Hano- 
Terian Jagers placed in the woods and ouU 
buildings. At twenty minutes past ten the 
French moved to iho attack of the ch&teau, 
covered by a, tremendous fire from two 
hundred guns. For an hour and a half 
Macdonald repulsed all attacks of tho 
tirailleurs; but about one, just as a cart 
of aoununitioii had opportunely arrived, a 
tremendous attack was mado and the gate 
was forced, but closed again by Macdonald 
and a brave sergeant. The eight hundred 
Ifaasan men never again rallied, and our 
two thousand Quarda had to maintain the 
post alone against General Foy's thirty 
thousand men amid burning buildings and 
the incessant cross-fire of artillery. The 
second battalion of the Coldstreams lost at 
Waterloo fifty-five men, whiio two hun- 
dred and twenty-nine were wounded. 

The rector of Framlingham, in Suffolk, 
aoon after.the battle, wrote to the Duke of 
Wellington, stating that, in his opinion, 
the nou'conunisaioned of&cere of the Bri- 
tish army had, by their valorous condnct 
on that day, entitled themselves to some 
distinct marks of their country's approba- 
tion, and, therefore, he felt disposed, for 
one, to oflfer his humble tribute to their 
merit. In order that this might be pro- 
perly applied, he requested the favour of 
hia grace to point out to him the non- 
commissioned officer whoso heroic conduct 
appi-ared the most prominent, as he, the 
rector, meant to convey to him, in per- 

petuity, a freehold farm. The duke set 
ihe inquiry immediately on foot, tlirongb 
all the commanding officers of the Line, 
and, in consequence, learnt that a ser- 
gonnt of the Coldxtreams, and a corporal 
of the First Regiment of Guards, had so 
distinguished themselves, that it was felt 
difficult to point out the most meritorious ; 
but that there had been displayed by the 
sergeant an exploit arising out of fraternal 
affection, which be felt it a duty on this occa- 
sion to represent, namely, that near the close 
of tlia dreadful conflict, this distingaished. 
sergeant impatiently solicited the officer 
commanding his company for permission to 
retire ^om the ranks for a few minutes ; 
the latt«r having ezpressed some surprise 
at this request, the other said, " Your 
honour need not doubt of my immediate 
retam." Permission being given him, be 
flew to an adjoining bam, to which tlie 
enemy, in their retreat, bad set fire, and 
from thence bore on his shoulders his 
wounded brother, who, be knew, lay helpless 
in the midst of the flajmes. Having depo- 
sited him safely under a hedge, he returned 
to his post in time to share in the victorious 
pnramt of the routed enemy ; we need 
scarcely add, that the superior merit of 
this gallant non-commissioned officer was 
thus established. 

Years after the battle, the Bieverend Mr. 
KorcrosB, the above-memtioned rector of 
Framlinghami willed the sum of five hun- 
dred pounds to the bravest man in Eng- 
land. The Duke of Wellington, applied to 
upon the subject by \itQ ezetmtore, at first, 
from delicacy, declined to answer their 
question ; bnt in a few days sent ft>r them, 
when be stated that, npon considering their 
requestv he had determined to afford them 
nil the assistance in his power. The duke 
then said : " It is generally thought that the 
battle of Waterioo was one of the greatest 
battles everfought; snob is not my opinion, 
bnt I say nothing upon that head. The suc- 
cess of the battle of Waterloo turned upon 
the closing of the gates of Hougoumont. 
These gates were closed in the most cou- 
rageous manner at the very nick of time 
by the effort of Sir Jamee Macdonald. I 
cannot help thinking, therefore, that Sir 
James is the man to whom you should give 
the five hundred pounds." 

Sir James Macdonald, when applied to, 
listened to the story of the executors, 
expressed his thanks to the great hero for 
the award, but said : " I cannot claim all 
the merit due to tho closing of the gates of 
Hougoumont ; for Sergeant John Graham, 
of the Coldstreams, who saw with me the 

ChwlM DickniiJ " I 

importance of the step, raslied forward, 
Knd together we shot the gates. Wiat I 
should therefore propose is, that the ser- 
geant and myself divide the legacy between 
na" The execntore, delighted with the 
proposal, adopted it at once, and Sergeant 
Gruiam was rewarded with his share of the 
fire hundred ponnds. 

Onr space prevents ns dealing in detail 
with the deeds of the Coldstreams at Alma 
and Inkennann, Onr readers may be sure, 
towerer, that the "NnUisecondns" flag was 
bom straight and prondJy forward among 
tlie Bnsfiians, and that in the great grapple 
inthe fight of Inkarmann, the Coldstreams' 
bayonets were not inactive. The record of 
the wearers of the Victoria Cross specifies 
among the heroes of this regiment two men 
of the Coldstreams— Sergeant 6. Haynee 
and Lance-Sergeant F. Files — who dis- 
plsyed signal oonn^e in the Bussian cam- 


It was still the breathing-time of day in 
the back parlonr of Mrs. Lutestring's well- 
known msjitua - making establishment in 
Walker-streefc, S.W". That is to say, the 
twelve young ladies, inclndiiig n niece of 
the proprietress, who had partaken of the 
mid-day meal, sat calmly m their chairs, 
waiting till tuo cloak gave signal for an- 
other simnltaneons descent into the silk 
and satin sea. 

One hoar being allowed for dinner, there 
graerally remained some ten to twenty 
minatee, which portion — styled by Mrs. 
Lntestring " recreation" — was devoted by 
that lady to the cnltivation of the minds of 
her yonng friends, and the advancement of 
their knowledge and her own in politics, 
belles lettres, general society, and dress, 
throngh the medium of that comprehensive 
publication, the Daily Essence of Every- 

" ' Political,' " read Mrs. Lntestring. 
"' It is broadly stated that the forthcoming 
inidget will meet the alarming deficit in 
doable hair-pins, by a moderate impost on 
back hair.' " (Mnrmnrs.) 

" ' Litt«ry,' " resnmed Mrs. LTttesfiring, 
who, though far from ill-informed, was not 
a brilliant scholar. " ' We nnderstand that 
oftbe work jnst announced by the yonng 
German anthoress who writes andev the — 
hem— the pa — psu — posaydom of " 0-ya," 
nearly fifteen thousand copies have been 
ordered by the trade.' " 

" ' Having been litvonred with a sight of 

P." [JBne 11, h;b,j 187 

the new viai ting-bonnet — a diadem of vel- 
vet headed by pleated lace, Catalan veil, a 
natural bird's wing ' " 

" Shop, 'm !" remarked one of the yonng 
ladies, timidly. 

Mrs. Lntestring, thongb strict and some- 
what stern in'bnsinees honrs, was of a kind 
and candid nature. With an indnlgent 
smile, she admitted the impeachment, and 
passed on : 

"'It is whispered that, so moagre has 
been the take of pilchards, none can be 
spared for exportation.' " 

" Why ' whispered ?' " inqnired some- 
body. " Why oonldn't they say it oat?" 

" Not to wonnd their feelings, if fish haa 
any," said Mrs. Lntestring, half jocularly. 

" Not to alarm the berrings," snggwted 
her niece, Sosan, langhing merrily. 

" ' The long-looked-for unptials of the 
Lady Sigismnnda Picklethwaite with Sir 
Derelict Dasbwood were celelnratod with 
extraordinary pomp on Wednesday. The 
bride's dress presented featnres of usnenal 
interest. Over a rich white sat ' " 

"Shop! shop! shop! annt 1" exolaimed 
Susan, her pretty dark bltw eyes swimming 
with mirth. They bad beneatii them faintly- 
pencilled shadows, and if a sister shade was 
perceptible on Susan's delicate npper lip 
no one would presume to call that which 
gave harmony and character to one of tha 
prettiest faces in London a monataobe. 

" Higbty-tighty !" said Mrs. Lutestring, 
as her eyolitnponanotherpassage. "Well, 
this is a odd advertisement ! Well, if 
ever ! Seventy-five ponnds a year ! No- 
thing to do ! And, gracious ! jnst listen : 

" ' Wanted. — A female attendant, to wait 
occasionally upon a complete reolnse. Per- 
sonal labour extremely small. Essential 
qualities : intelligence, cheerfulness, firm- 
ness, seci'ccy. And' — well!" cried Mrs. 
Xiuteatring, sinking back in her chair, and 
bursting into hear^ laughter, "what — • 
what do yon think?" 

"What, 'm? Oh, please, 'm, what?" 
was the general cry. 

Mrs. Lutestring, breathless, conld not 
reply, and Sasau, a spoiled favonritc, 
canght the paper from her aunt's lap, found 
the place in a second, and proclaimed aloud: 

" ' And dark bine eyes !* " 

" Seventy-five pounds !" aaid Fanny 

" For only looking throngh one's eyes !" 
added Susan Lutestring. 

"What will she have to do?" asked 
another cnrious voice. 

" 'Tend on the — hem ! — the recluse," re- 
plied Mrs. Lntestring. 



" Please, 'm, what is a reclnae ?" asked 

Few knew better than the qnerist the 
ordinary meaning of " ahem." Bnt thia 
did not hit the point. She aeked again. 

Urs. Lntestring pansed, glanced at the 
clock, half hoping it wonld come to her 

"Monk," prompted her niece, in an 

" Monkey," responded Mrs. Lnteetring, 
intrepidlr. " Fecahar apecions, rery rare, 
and miBchieyons." 

" Two !" prodaimed the clock. And the 
drcle broke up. 

Snsan Lntestring h'ngered. 

" Annt, dear." 

" Well, child P" 

" Dark bine eyes." 

"What then?" 

" 2f toe are dark bine." 

" Is they P" said Mrs. Lntestring, indif- 
ferently. "That remindB me," she added. 

next time. Let Fannv Sloper do it." 

"Thank goodness,' cried Snsan, in e, 
glow of gratitude. " Bnt, aunt, why did 
my eyes put you in mind of her ?" 

" She don't hke 'em," aaid Mrs. Lnte- 

" Hers are whily - brown," remarked 
Snsan, meditatively. 

" P'raps that's the reason," said her' 
annt. " Anyhow, she mnst have her way. 
She's worth twenty other cnstomers. She 
don't like yon, noryet yonr eyes. So keep 
out of her way. Do you know, I'm think- 
ing of having a nice spiral staircase ran 
np through uie back of the workroom ex- 
press for her P She don't like being 

" I'd hustle her," muttered Susan, under 
her breath. "Well, but, aunt, about that 
advertisement P" 


" Seventy • five pounds ! Aunty, who 
knows if — would yon mind p" 

" Mind what ?" 

"Ton tell me I am often lazy, and 
I know I'm a elow workwoman, and 
I'm " 

"A little too high and mighty fbr our 
sort of work, eh ?" said her aunt, laugh- 
ing. "But, nonsense, child; here's a 
fiuicy 1" 

" Dear aunt, let us at least answer the 
advertisemeut, and get particulars." 

" Particulars of waiting on a ape !" ejacu- 
lated Mrs. Lntestring. 

cplauations to a less 
d, catching up the 

Snsan deferred 
hurried moment, 
paper, read: 

" Address, with carte de visite, Messrs. 
Straitup and AUbright — sols. — 130, Lin- 
coln 's-inn-fields. " 

Mrs. Lntestring hesitated. She was 
herself not without curiosi^ on ^le sab- 

"Weil, well," she said, BEsentingly. 

So Snsan wrote. 

The carte de visite must have been satia- 
fectoiy. With singnlar promptitude, a 
reply was received from Lincoln's-inn- 
fidds, making an appointment for Uie suc- 
ceeding day, and, in due course, Snsao 
found herself curtsying to Mr, AUbright, 
and being tnotjoned to the comfortable 
chair, in which that gentleman's &irer 
clients usually ensconced themselTOs when 
a prolonged chat was toward. 

Mr. AUbright was a handsome-featured 
man, of middle age, with grizzled hair, and 
a quick and searchiiig eye, which, like as 
awl, seemed to make the hole into which 
his question was to be poured. 

"Ton are firm, intelligent, cbeerfnl, and 
discreet P" said Mr. AUbright, glancing at 
the advertisement, a slip of which lay on 
his desk. " As to the last, can yon keep a 

" If required, sir," replied Susan, de- 
murely, thrilling with curiosity. 

" I've none to tell yon," said the lawyer, 
"In some points, we are as much in the dark 
as yon are, and as yon may, possibly for 
some time, remain. Yon are want^, as 
I understand, rather to be at hand, and 
qualify yourself for the future cbai^ of 
— of our client, than to undertake any im- 
mediate active duty. All I can add is that 
the party is neither an invalid nor a lunatic. 
It req — ahem — he requires bnt Uttlc at- 
tendance, at any time, and indeed the chief 
agent in that particular is the mother, a 
refined and rather delicate woman, for 
whom assistance may at any time become 
absolutely necessary. So, yon see, there is 
little room for alarm." 

Susan at once replied that she saw none 
at alt. 

" There is a certain amount of mystery," 
continued Mr. AUbright. " Bnt that yon 
will not mind, and I may mention, Isstly, 
that should you, after the residence of a 
week or two, desire to withdraw from the 
engagement, you will be at liberty to do 
so, and all expenses will be liberally paid. 
But I do not think that will come to pass. 
We happen to know enough of Mrs. Lute- 
string to absolve us fixMO the necessity of 

Obutga Dtokau.] 

nppesJing to any other refereoce, and are 
atroiigly of opinion tfaat both parties will 
be gainers 1:^ this most saUafactoiy ar- 
laogement. If convenient jon can go 
down to-morrow. Hero is the addreas, 
and money for your joomey." 

Susan made her acluowledgmenta, and 
prepared to withdraw, 

" As toncbing the qualification mentioned 
last in onr advertisement," observed Mr. 
Allbright, glancing in his visitor's foce^ as 
he w^ked beside her to the door, " the 
whim may seem singnlar — yon know we 
are not responsible for all the caprices of a 
client — bnt I think we have been fortunate 
enoagh to carry ont oar imnsnal instmc- 
tions in a most efficient manner. Ha, ha ! 
Qood day, Miss Lntestring. Two steps if 
yon please." 

The card, banded her by Mr. Allbright, 
bore the address : " Mrs. Orahame Moont^ 
joy. The Hornet, Grandchester." 

Ab Sosan hnrried homeward, she mental^ 
eonoocted a reapecthil announcement to the 
lady of the Hornet, intimating her inten- 
tion to present beraelf at GrandcheBter on 
the next day bat one. 

The interval was spent in needfnl pre- 
parstions, warmly promoted by her good* 
natnred relative, who, relieved firom the 
apprehension that Susan's doty was to 
attend upon a chimpanzee, was almost as 
cnrions as herself as to what the mysterions 
"it" wonld prove to be. Upon this point 
Sosan pledged herself to forward the 
earliest and fullest explanation that should 
be conBistept with the discretion required 
of her, and with this understanding was 
sped upon her way. 

Qrandchester, some honrs' railway travel 
from London, is a fine old cathedral town, 
which, lying a little aloof from the great 
highways of commerce, has been somewhat 
left behind in the general march of im- 
provement; but finds oomfort in the pre- 
servation of many a time-honoured etrno- 
tore, siany a venerable historical relic, 
which might have been called npoa to 
snociunb to the inexorable demands of 
modem taste and modem ideas of the apt 
and convenient. Not to mention its .ca- 
thedral, Orandchester poBsesses a cros^^ 
the most ancient in England--^ ruined 
caetle, a Saxon chnrch, and a mnseam 
oversowing with local antiquities. The 
Romans, there was no doubt, were partial 
to the ancient city, and, at their final de- 
parture, left behind, with more than their 
accnstotued liberally, pots, pans, old sword- 
hilts, and pieces of small money, to an nn- 

" IT." [Juno «, 1B7S.} 1B9 

On arriving at the station, Mies Lnte- 
string deemed it wisefit to charter one of 
fbe attendant vebiclcB, the driver of which, 
at the mention of the Hornet, dashed 
away with an alacrity that proved him to 
be entirely familiar with the name. 

Susan, who had rather expected a subur- 
ban drive, and to be ultimately deposited 
in some sequestered precinct, adapted to 
the taste of a recluse, found herself tattling 
merrily into the heart of the bustling, well- 
lighted town, and only relaxing in speed 
when, taming into the High-street, the 
number of carriages of different kinds, still 
on the move, compelled ereater caution. 

The High-street of Orandchester abso- 
lutely revels in eccentricities of structure. 
Besides its line of shops, broken by its 
corn-market and other pubho baildings, 
numerous mansions, of aveiy size and form, 
standing back with dignity &om the main 
thorough&re, give importence as well ss 
picturesqueness to this portion of the ancient 

Suddenly, the carriage stopped. Susan 
saw that they were in &ont of a huge, 
gloomy pile, which, &oed with a colnnmed 

Eortioo, and lighted by a single gas jet, 
ad VOTy much the appearance of a deserted 
palace, and caused in Susan's bosom a mis- 
giviiu; thriU, as she thought, "Couldthisbe 
ihe Hornet, her ftiture home P" 

A second glance reassnred her. Iron 
wickets, in front of huge entrance- doors, 
showed tiiat they were public rooms of 
some sort, now closed. The driver had 
got down to open a gate on the opposite 
side, and now, without reasoending, led his 
horse up the carriage sweep, conducting to 
a lai^, cheerfnl-looking, modem mansion, 
and stopped, by Susan's direction, at a 
sido-door leading to the kitchen offices. 

Susan's summons was answered by a neat 
maid, who called a man to take her box, and 
led her straight to the housekeeper's room. 

" Mrs. Martin," the girl remarked, " said 
you was to come here, and wami and rest 
yourself in her big chair, comfortable, till 
she can oome down and give yon your tea, 
and tell yon (dl about it, yon know!" 
llierewith, she bnstled away. 

Tell her all about it ! So the mysteiy 
was to be at once explained. Meanwhile, 
Miss Lutestring warmed her toes, as di> 
rected, and looked about her. Mrs. Mar- 
tin's room was a picture of neatness, case, 
and comfort. It was even more. Every- 
thing seemed to glitter and smile. The 
very chairs — certain of which were of 
antique 'form — seemed to put out arms 


190 [Jons SI, ISTS.] 


[Oondnctsd hr 

clocks tioked merrily, cnts parred, nnd a 
cricket, though, for reasons of bis own, 
Temaining invisible, evidently coneidered 
it, ittcambent on him to do the honoors of 
the apartment, and keep np the spiritft of 
the new arrival, Tii)til the mistress shonld 

Ten minntes had elapsed, when a cheery 
voice roRsed Susan from her pleasant 

" So, here yon are, my dear !" exclaimed 
Mrs. Martin, fanrrying in, and speaking 
almost before she saw the Tisifor, with 
whom she shook bands cordially, ^ving 
her a kind, motherly kiss. Mrs. Martin 
was & plamp, not to say portly dame of 
middle age. There was something plea- 
sant and wholesome in the tonch of the 
good woman's warm cheek and hand. It 
was not«d of Mrs. Martin that her hands, 
preserving their warmth in the coldest 
winter's day, never increased itjn the 
height df summer. Her circnlation, like 
her genial temper, never varied. 

One other peculiarity we may mention, 
namely, that she believed every other 
created being' V> be at times, nay, at &e- 
qneat times, below par, and coneeqaently 
in need of a " fillip." It might not be too 
much to say that Mi-s. Martin conceived 
the entire oniverse to be indebted for con- 
tinued existence to the periodical admi- 
nistration of the remedy jnst mentioned. 

" And how are yon, my dear P Nice 
and warm P I'd have been down before," 
she eontinaed, "but I had to toss np a 
little something for master, poor gentle- 
man, that only I knows how to make." 

" Is Mr. Monnljoy ill ?" asked Snsan. 

"DIP Eh, no — qnite charming," re- 
sponded the honsekeepcr, cheerfnlly. "But 
he's had a long practice to-day. And, oh, 
how his poor arms mnst have ached. He 
wanted a filKp, bo I ■-" 

"What does he practise, ma'am P" in- 
quired Bnsan. 

" Fiddle," said Mrs. Martin, briefly. " I 
pnt off my tea, my dear," she went on 
qnickly, "that yon and I might have it 
cosy together. This'll be yonr sittin' room 
'long o' me. Yonr bedroom's near missis's, 
I'll show it yon while the kettle's biKiig." 

Following her gaide np ^he back stair- 
cnse, Snsau found herself in a broad cor- 
ridor, running, to all appearance, almost the 
entire length of the house. It was hnng with 
family pictures, showed groups of sculpture 
in recesses lined with crimson velvet, and 
was carpeted with some rich material, so 
soft and yielding that Snsan felt as if her 
feet would never reach the ground. 

" Missis's room adjinesMr. Monntjoy's," 
Mrs. Martin continued, " and here," as 
they entered a small but pleasant cbombor, 
"is yours. That's missis's bell in the 
comer. There's a deaf and dumb walet, 
and yon won't have much to do, my dear, 
unless missis's sperrits should give way, 
sudden," concluded the good woman, with 
. mgh. 

Susan noticed that her room was in 
&ont, and recognised the grim, forbidding 
walls 6f the asBembly rooms, scowling at 
her from over the way. 

" What is that building ?" she inquired, 
with a sort of curiosity she would have 
found it difficult to explain to herself. 

" 'Sembly and show roouM — Dw^- 
finch's," was Mrs. Martin's reply. "They're 
dark and quiet just now, but they wakes 
up sometimes, I promise you." 

" Dwarfinclt !" An odd name. Sussa 
cast another glance through the window. 
That dreary, prison-like edifice seemed to 
exercise over her a gloomy faeoinotiou she 
could not in the least understand. 

Very quickly the mir found tiiemsdves 
once more seated in Mts. Martin's bright 
little room, enjoying their tea. Tea did I 
call it? What, with poached eggs on de- 
licate ham ? With hot cakes? With even 
one of those mysterious "somefliingB," the 
true secret of whose composition was looked 
in Mrs. Martin's breast, and uttimately (so 
I am assured) died wit^ her unrevealed ? 

Hungry as she was, Snian's anxious 
curiosity to learn something of Uie future 
object of her care, somewhat damped her 
appetite, thereby awakening Mrs. Martin's 
ever-ready sympathy. 

"You're below yourself, child, I see 
that," said the good lady, soothingly. " 'Tis 
Ica^ng home, and all that. Bless your 
heart, you only want a fillip. Now just 
you pnt aside that cold slop, and take what 
I'm going to give you." 

So speaking, Mrs. Martin singled out a 
little key, and, bustling to a cellaret that 
glistened in a sequestered nook of the 
apartment, instantly returned with a small 
glass, filled to the brim witli some fluid re- 
sembling tlie purest molten gold. 

" Drink that." 

Susan obeyed. It was— though not 
weak — delicious. 

" There. I don't grvo that to eveiy one, 
r promise you," remaijced Mrs. Martin, 
carefally wiping and putting away the 

It was true. And very rarely had the 
mod woman bestowed any upon beraelf, 
for, though fond of nice things, she was 

Ohuln N-fcui.] " r 

tempernte in their use. Fillips mi(;ht be- 
come espedient, but these delivered, there 
was an end of it. 

" Will not the miBtreBs see me to-night ?" 
inquired Sasan, presently. 

"All in good time," was the reply. 
" She's coming down herself to spetUc to 

"Coming down ?" 

"To he snre. Why notP She likes 
this little room. Bless your hefti-fc, many 
and mnny a chat mieeis nnd me has had 
m these two big chairs before she goes to 

" And — and when do yoa think I shaU 
see my master ?" asked Snsan, boldly. 

"Ah, that's another pint," replied the 
housekeeper. " P'raps to-morrow. P'raps 
not for a year. I've been housekeeper 
nigh three years, and I've never seen him 
"Never seen him ?" 

IfsTer seen him entire," said Mrs. Martin. 
" I've hes>rd him often, bo will yon, 'epeoially 
I when it 'WEilks." 
i| " /( .'" ejacnlftfced Snesn. 

" Ah !" said the housekeeper, qniokly, 
l| "that's only my nay of speaking. He 
I, iralks Bometimee for half the night, along 
|i the ctnridoT, xip and down stairs, any- 
I wheres, when he thinks everybody's abed, 
I and 'tis bo like a ghost's ways that we 
il a'most think him one." 
|{ " Dear Mrs. Martin," hnrst ont Snsan, 
'] "won't yoo tell me more abontthis gentle- 
ji nan? Everything yon know ?" 
li "0' ooorae I wUI," replied the good 
, woman, who had been bnrsting with im- 
\\ patience to do so before her mistress should 

I appear, and perhaps take part of the history 
|l ont of her month. 

The name, Mrs. Martin informed Snsan, 

y/OB not always Grabame Monntjoy, her 

mistress's late hnsband, Captain Fellowes, 

having assumed the former name on snc- 

<KedJDg, somewhat nnezpectedly, to a large 

&mily estate. This occurred about five 

|| years since ; and Monntjoy, dying in the 

SDcceeding year; left to his wife, herself in 

|| deUcate health, the sole charge of their 

il only child, a youth then about sixteen, and 

II an ohjeot of great solicitude. 

|l It would appear that, previous to the ao- 
wssion of fortanejuatmentdoned, theyonng 
gentleman had Mien passionately in love 
with the hlue-eyed daughter of the post- 
Waster of the quiet village in which, for 
economical reasons, the Fellowes' had for 
the moment fixed their residence. Now 
the difference of station, already sufBciently 
niDrked, heeome hopelessly augmented 1^ 



the freak of fortune that had transformed 
Captain Fellowes, with little more than his 
lialf-pay and a pension for wonnds, into 
Mr. Grahftme Monntjoy, with a landed 
estate worth twelve thousand a year. Fond 
almost to adoration, as both parents were, 
of their boy, nothing could reconcile them 
to snoh ft connexion. They qnitted the 
village, and all intcrconrae with its inha- 
bitants was thenceforth peremptorily sus- 

If the parents considered that the at- 
tachments of a boy, not yet sixteen, de- 
served no gentler treatment than this, thoy 
were very soon and painfully nndeceived. 
The youth became very ill. Without, it 
was said, displaying any positive ail- 
ment, he wasted gradually away, nntil, 
seHonsly alarmed, his parents resolved to 
sacrifice every scruple, and restore to him 
those hopes on which his life seemed really 
to depend. It was too late. The poor 
girl, whose home was at aU times unhappy 
under the rule of a savage stepmother, in 
despair or indifference had accepted the 
first suitor who sought her hand, and left 
her home for ever. 

From this period, which was farther 
marked by the death of Captain Fellowcs- 
Monntjoy, the poor young man had 
never, it was believed, been seen by human 
eyes, save by his mother, his physician, 
and one or two domestics in immediate at- 
tendance on him. To these alone was con- 
fided the secret of his mysterious ailment, 
and they kept it well. It wae known that 
he was nnder do restxaint, nor dehaired, 
by causes other than hia own will, from 
any amount of locomotion; that he ate, 
dmnk, slept, and fiddled (he was a fine 
violinist already), to use Mrs, Martin's 
homely phrase, " like a good on." He 
was heard to langh merrily, to chat, and 
sing. It was, in short, abundantly evident 
that the young gentleman was not dying 
of a broken heart, nor of utter weariness of 
life. What oonld be wrong with him P 
Soniething was. He had been attended 
by four physicians, including one the most 
eminent of his day, who came at great 
cost from London; but these gentlemen 
shook their heads, were dismissed in tnm, 
and Mr. Qrahame Monntjoy remained nn- 

About three yeara since, their country 
residence was let. Mr. Monntjoy, reclnae 
as he was, longed for the sound and move- 
ment of a town. The Hornet seemed 
to suit him exactly, and here they were. 

Susan pondered on the romantic nam- 




" What; do yen Uiink yiae the matter }" 
she aslced. 

Mrs. Martin shook her head, and de- 
clared, iritfa evident troth, that she had no 
opinion to ofier. 

"Some think," she went on to say, "that 
his disapp'intmcnt, poor gentleman ! settled 
in his legs, which grew tremenjions. That's 
not trne,for I've seen hisstockings. Others 
say that he'd tamed bottle-green. Bnt 
tho doctor here (he's a merry man — Doc- 
tor Leech) laughed hearty, and said, 'Nut 
half BO green as them that believes so.' I( 
I had an idea," continaed the good lady, 
" it is that he suddenly changed to — that 
his stomach being afiectod by — tbat there 
came ont a — bash ! I think I hear missis's 

"A — a what, dear Mrs. Martin F" asked 
her eager listener. 

" Something that spiled his good looks, 
poor gentleman !" said Mrs. Martin, hur- 
riedly ; " and very handsome 'tis said be 

They rose as Mrs. Orahame Mountjoy, 
with a kind smile, entered the apartment. 

She was a refined, gentle-mannered wo- 
man, hardly more than forty, with traces 
of nmcb former beanty, and a wist^, care- 
worn look in her large brown eyes, so 
noticeable as at once to enlist the sympatby 
of those who looked on her. 

Greeting Susan kindly, she sank into 
one of the chairs, pressing her band to her 
side, as she did bo, with a sigh of weari- 
ness or pain. 

"You've been and tired yonrself ont 
again, ma'am," remarked the honsekeeper, 
with respectful reproach. "Ton wants a 
fillip at once. Be mled by me, ma'am, 
and let m o ' " 

" No, no, Snsan," said her mistrees, stop- 
ping her peremptorily. " Ton see," she 
contlnned, addressing the new-comer, Bmil' 
iogly, "I have a Sasan already, thongh she 
is mnch too grand a person to be called so 
by any bat me. Tour dear master has 
been so merry! I have not seen him in 

such spirits for years i no, not since " 

she checked herself, suddenly. "And the 
remembrance of what he was, or might 
have been, came on me, for a moment, too 
strongly, I am tired," she owned, " but 
I would not sleep till I had seen my new 
Susan, and set at rest any apprehensions 
she might entertain as to what will be 
demanded of her. 

"It has pleased Heaven," she continued, 
" to visit my poor son with or "V'^.t'on so 
extraordinary, and yet, to. j(, ,,;.. uerent 
observer, so provocative of laughter, as to 
determine bim, some time since, to seclude 
himself altogether from the world, save 
only myself and one or two chosen atten- 
dants, who con be reUed upon to preserve 
his melancholy secret. Startling perhaps, 
but not revolting, his condition is one oi]- 
culated to excite the strongest sympathy, 
without, however, reducing him to be espe- 
cially dependent upon the good offices of 
any. He has many accomplishments, bis 
intellect is bright and clear, anil, indeed, i 
Ibe sole trace of any morbid indnenoe 
shadowing his mind is noticeable in the I 
advertisment which has brought yon here. 
He insists that any one who, in the event 
of need, shoald divide with me the duties 
of reader and occasional companion, should 
be a woman with dark blue eyea. His 
ailment," concluded Mrs. Orabame Mount- I 
joy, with a sad smile, " dates from an in- j 
cident in bis life in which such a feature i 
bad an active share, and we have not 
deemed it prudent to oppose his fancy. 
Such," she added, rising, "are all the par- 
ticular Ton need at present learn, for my 
son would defer seeing you until your at- 
tendance becomes necessary. Meanwhile I | 
can instruct yon a little as to his tastes and | 
ways, and onr good Mrs. Martin will do ' 
her best to make yon as comfortable as 
circiunstauces permit." And with a kind 
good-night, Mrs. Moun^oy left the ropm. 

"W^?" said Mrs. A^rtin, iuterroga- 

" I shall like her very much," said 
Susan, absently. "An 'ailment!' An 
' affliction !' Tet sane and merry " 

" Go to bed, and dream of it, my dear," 
interrupted the other, lighting her lamp. 

Tbey went up -stairs. 

Passing one of the doors opening on the 
corridor, Susan observed a rich brocaded 
dressing-gown, hung upon a chair. There 
were slippers to match, lined, as Mrs. 
Martin whispered her to note, with the 
softest swan's-down. 

"One of It's ' walking'- dresses," she 
added, with a harried glance at the cham- 
ber, from which proceeded the Bound of a 
pleasant, manly voice trolliug an Italian 

"It!" repeated Susan, as she prescutiy 
laid her head upon the pillow. " II I" 

The Right of Trantlatug ArtieUMfrom All the Ybar Houmj <s mmtd lit (he Anihort. 

le one*. 1^ WdUDston SL, SlTuO. PrlRed ny U. Wairma, BHsIgn Hsbh, Dsk* ul, Li 

■SToaj-QB- QUH:.lWES ■JE.()M=y^W;XO T^/i 





"WaitbbI" cried Lord OvetbuTy. "Bring 
more mutton- chops. And some hot brandy- 
and-water, AndaboUleofohtunpagne. This 
fDttng gentlenum Innchee with me." 

We were in the oid-faahioned, low-ceil- 
inged cofiee-room of the King's Head Inn 
ud Posting House. The walls were 
hung -with colonred prints in ebony frames, 
T<Epresenting sporting and coaching inci- 
iea^8, with portnntfi of &moaB laoo-horses. 
Above the small oblong mirror on the 
BUQtelpiec^ a stoffed ja(^ of enormons di~ 
meneknis glared, fiercely in his glass-case, 
openiiig wide his formidable grinning jawa. 
"Oie room had many occupants; bnt in 
oat comer a table had been retained for 
Ilia lordship. There was ranch confusion, 
and the waiters seemed so orcr-bnrdened 
care and labonr as to be verging on 
Wty. In anadioiningchamberafarmer's 
ordinary was being held, and thronghoot 
:lie house the smell of hot food and liquors, 
ud the noise of clattering ontlery and 
Guthenware, jingling glasses and spoons, 
were rife; while there blew about great 
gnats of tobacco smoke, of tnrbniettt talk, 
and stentorian laagbter. 

Upon his lordship's bidding 1 drew a 
iiorBehair'-cOTered high-backed chair to the 
table and sat down. I was hungry, and 
ijoyed the hissing mutton -chops pro- 
iigioasly, and for tiie first time in my life 
I tasted champagne. And I liked it. 

My host ate little or nothing. His 
^irst seemad unqnenchable, however. He 
quaffed gol;let8 of champagne, alternating 
tliese with popious draughts of hot spirits 
3iid water.' Snddenly ho bade the wniter 

r^ I - ' i ■ - » ■ - ^^ 

bring toasted cheese and a tankard of old 

He was the same strange, abmpt, jocund 
satyr I had met years before in the course 
of my &moaB visit to the Dark Tower. 
Only, if possible, he drank more, and took 
more snufFand smoked more, and laughed 
more wildly, and fiied his bloodshot eyes 
upon me more peraiatently than ever. And 
his hooked nose was redder ; his tnsky 
teeth were yellower. 

"And what are you doing at Dripford 
Pair, Master Duke?" he inquired at 

I told him of my errand, adding that I 
had somehow missed Benbe and the lambs, 
and that it behoved me now to try and fiud 
them. He laughed mnch at this. 

" And 80 yon're a fermer ! To think of 
that DOW ! Take some more champagne. A 
fermer ! And you've lost your sheep like 
tittle Bo peep, and don't know where to find 
them ! Never mind, my lad ; they're safe 
enough. Renbe will see after that. Let 
him alone and hell bring 'em home w-ith all 
their tailit behind them. Isn't that the old 
song? Or he'll bring home the money 
for 'em, which Farmer Orme wiU like better. 
How is old Orme, by the way? And your 
mother ? She's well ? That's weU. Bnt she 
get« to look old, I suppose ?" 

I did not care to be speaking about my 
mother to him ; his manner was so strange 
and rude. Besides, what did he know of 
her ? What waa she to him ? I had but 
very rarely indeed heard her even men- 
tion him in the most distant manner. Yet 
at some earlier time he had clearly had some 
acquaintance with her. He had spoken of 
her maiden name — Mildred Orme — and 
expressed admiration of the beauty she bad 

Still it seemed idle to take offence at 

19i (J°» 



Anything be said or did. Not only becanse 
he was a nobteman, uid i was ns ^aea^; 
bat in that he was so eooentric altogft^her, 
that he was bardlj to be held a« aoootuii- 
able cteatnjp or judged by ordiwiry stand- 
ards. Moreover, there was ao much noise 
in Ibe ?oo«i that oar conversation could 
ficarcely be overheard. So I answered him 
simply that my mother was well, but 
certainly looked older than foiwM'ly, see- 
ing that her hair was now ahaioiit white. 

" Ah, yes," he said. " Women are all 
alike in that. They grow old. Beauty 
don't last; the bloom's eoon off it. They 
{all like wall-fmit in a frost. Eyes go, 
and hair and teeth, and they wither away. 
Or they paGr oat, and make flesh, and 
to look like Christmas cattle. Yet I 

get t 

should have thoagbt Mildred Orme would 
have lasted better. The handsome f^rl that 
she was when I first saw her I Not bnt 
what she had always tJieaharpestof tongues, 
and a devil of a temper. And t^t ages a 
woman a good deid. Poor Mildred Orme!" 

I felt hob and angry at bearing him talk 
hke this. I rose indignantly, and begged 
bim to remember to whom and of whom 
be was spcaJ^ing. He looked at mo iu a 
pnzzlcd way for a few momento, m thongh 
he failed to understand the drift of my 
speech. Then he broke into a noisy langh. 

" Sit down, my lad," he said. " There's 
no o&enco meant. Yoa don't want to £ght 
me, do you ? A jnan old enough to bo your 
father ! Sit down. I don't forget you're 
Mildred Orme'v son, and a farmer bringing 
lambs to sell atDripfbrd Fair." Eelaagbed 
afresh as he said iJiis. " Bnt yon'r» right 
to speak up for your mother— quite ri^t, 
Duke, and I like you the better for it. I've 
never known, for my part, what it is to 
have a mother. Better for me if I had. 
But the poor soul died bringing ata into 
the world. Yet if I caaght a fellow 
Baying a word against her, for all I 
never saw her face, or felt her touch, or 
hoard her voice, by the liord Harry, I'd 
wring bis neck for him. Always stand by 
jour mother, Dake. I'm sorry if I said 
anything you did not tike. I'd forgotten 

yon were hero. I was thinking, my lad, of 
things that happened long ago. 1 '"" '' 
know I was talking, or what I said." He 

[ didn't 

passed his silk handkerchief across his 
eycB. Whether the tears that had gatiiered 
there arose from excess of drink, of snufT, 
or of sentiment, I felt a diiScnlty in de- 

" You'll have another bottle of cham- 
pagne? Yon won't? Ah, you've had nc 

•PTTMrs yet, or you'd know the pleasure of 
irownin»thffln in the bowl— the flowing, 
flowing Wnll" Hire he essayed to sing, 
but witi little s»ccess. " Alw^# drown 
your sorrows, Dake, like kittena, m soon 

they're bom. It's the only wi^ to deal 
with 'em. I shouldn't be the man I am. 
if I hadn't made a point of drowning >ny 
sorrows in the bowl directly they came 
nigh ue." This M> doSbt was true. " And 
tha uMUiy soraows I've had, and the stanj 
flowing bowla I've emptied !" he omUiuBed. 
' Whatever the world may mg of me, and 
.j's apt to say nasty things of m« aa of eveiy 
one else, it oan't o^ m» a BHUcsop. Thank 
Heaven for that !" 

It struck meat the time that this was not 
so very much to thank Heaven for, after all. 

" God bleas you, Dake. May yon prosper 
in all your nndertakings. Amen. Tell 
Mildred Orme — tell your mother, I mean — 
Mrs. Nightingale — that's the name isn't it P 
— tell her 1 asked after her, and after your 
nnola A woodm-headcd, gtifT-baoked man, 
Orme, bnt most respectable; and I respect 
him aoeordingly. He's making » lot of 
money out of my laud I don't dtwbt, aad 
he's a richer man thui I am, I dare say — he 
may easily be that ; bntfaepaysbis way.and 
is sober and honest and straighttbrwEml in 
all his dealings, and I've a great reject for 
him. HekuowsnolJungoftbewoiidoroflife, 
and that's saved bim a good deal of money. 
He's lived hk-e an owl in an ivy hnsb, seeing 
and hearing and knowing nothing ; still if 
he's been bappy som.noh thebetter'tbrhim. 
That's not been my way, as all the world 
knows ; it vouldn t have soitsd me, and I 
ooulda't have stood it, not for a day, no, 
not for an hour. ' But one has to pay for 
knowing life and the world, a tidy sum, as 
I've found, to my coat. God bloM you, my 
lad. Very pleased to have seen tou grown 
so tall aad looking so spruoe ; Mtc^ether a 
Emart, active young fellow. I was just 
such another ab jour age. Take a pinch of 
snufT. No ? Well, then, shake hands." 

His dingy, hairy hand was burning hot. 
Hs shook mine up aad down as though 
reluctant to let it go. 

He had seemed to be rather overcMme 
by his potations, which had certainly been 
recklessly liberal. I thought that he was 
iainng from a maudlin condition of intoxi- 
cation into a heavy drunken sleep. His 
speech was thick, his eyes were dim, and 
he had lost control over his facial mnscles. 
I was prepared to depart, leaving hint slum- 
berous and helpless in his ohair) when 
suddenly he started, sprang to his feet, 


[luMiftiiT.!. ]y5 

eliook himself like a wet d<^, and hy a 
violeiit effort appeared to regain command 
over hie facnltim, and to overcome the 
torpor that bad been stealing npon him. 

" Come ont and see tbe fan of the fair," 
be cried, aa he slipped hia arm throngh 
mine and drew me towards tbe street. 

He was far from a Tepatable<looldng 
companion. His cnriy-rimmed, black beaver 
hat waa stuck on the back of hirf head; 
his waistcoat was unbuttoned ; bis crumpled 
neckcloth was twisted round until the bow 
ieited noder his right ear. He bad lighted 
H long clay pipe, and be puffed clouds of 
smoke as he went along. The streets were 
still veiy crowded, and locomotion was 
difficult. His lordship proceeded npon a 
TGiy simple plan. He made waj for him- 
self and fcff me bv sben' foroe, now plunging 
hearilj against this obstacle and overthrow- 
ing it ; now eeiidng that (if it happened to 
be a man) bj the co&t-oollar, wid bnrlingit 
oat of his path. All the while he shouted 
at the top of his yoioe wild hunting criee 
asd nnconth ntteranoes of varions kinds, 
wdl ioterlu^ed with oaths. His pipe soon 
fell from bis grasp and was sfaatt^:«d npon 
tbenwdway. Every aoment I feared that 
«ome conflict with the oatraged crowd mnst 
resalt from my compMion's violence. Bat 
be seemed to be generally recognised, and 
hit strange hnmonpsmet witli ^traordin^y 
indalgence. It was understood, I suppose, 
that there was no malevolence in his rude 
doings ; that he was rather to be laughed 
at, or even applauded, than censured or at- 
tacked in return. Tbe " Corinthian" nohle- 
DMD was not an unpopnlar oharaol«r in 
tboae days. 

I longed to escape from him, for although 
mSamed with the wine he had plied me 
with, I was yet consciona that my position 
was nioet unseemly, and that my first ap- 
pearance in public as a farmer was he- 
coming very discreditable. Bat Lord Over- 
bury retained a finn hold of my arm; 
and, moreover, I persuaded myself that 
there would be sotoetfaing cowardly in 
abandoning him, and that I was now in 
some measnre bound to him, let bis pro- 
ceedings be never so wild and mischievous. 
I waa very young; and had tasted cham- 
pagne for the first time. And there was 
a comical air about bis lordship and his 
doings which I found irresistible. At the 
mme time a remoreeful reflection hanoted 
me as to what my nnole, what my mother, 
would think and say of me, could either 
know how I was diBcharging my mission to 
Dripford Fair ! 

" Ont of the way !" roared Lord Over- 
bury, as he ran full tilt against a bnrly, 
bulky figure that obstructed our progress. 
The figure yielded but slightly, then turned 
round angrily to confront ns. It waa 
Farmer Joining. What would he 'now 
think of tbe " goings on" of Mrs. Nightin- 
gale's son? He said nothing,' bat with 
open eyes and month made way for us, 
as be touched his brood-brimmed hat and 
bowed to his lordship. 

" Jobbng, wasn't it ?" asked Lord Over- 
bury of me. "I thought so; one of my 
tenants — farms the Home lands. Very 
good fellow, bnt a prodigious fool — ben- 
pecked they tell me; but he used to ride 
well to hounds when he was a younger man. 
I've a great respect for Jobling. He's an 
asB, but be &rma in a steady, old-fashioned 
way, and deals honestly by the land. And 
he had a tidy breed of sheep at one time." 

I was thankhl when he turned out of 
the mai^et-ptace up a less crowded side 
street. I had looked round for Benbe, but 
could see not}iing of him. 

We walked towards tbe ontskirte of the 
town, pausing for a moment to regain 
breath, and for my companion to steady 
himself somewhat, refresh himself with a 
plentiftil pinch of snuff, and re-arrange his 
disordered dress ; especially to dispose of the 
protruding sbirt-sleevcB which had issued 
between his waistcoat and bis coat, from 
the latter garment having been torn nearly 
off his back in the various enconnters he 
had nndergone. 

We now approached a piece of waste 
land, npon which were pitched varions 
booths and tents. Here ginger-bread nats 
were vended, with varions ginger-bread 
oonetmotions adorned with Dutish metal; 
peep-shows were being exhibited, with 
caravans of wild beasts and natural phe- 
nomena of all kinds, feats of contortion 
and conjuring. Whirligigs went ronnd, 
and swings sawed and rushed to and 
fro through the air. Still even this por- 
tion of the fair bad its business element. 
Not only was tbe cbeep-iack present dis- 
posing of earthen and hardware at nn- 
naturally low prices, and seasoning all his 
transftctionB with a superabundance of 
facetious sallies, but horses and pnnies, 
their manes decked with ribbons and their 
tails carefully tied np with straw, were 
also on sale, after being raced throniih the 
crowd to an accompaniment of shrill cries 
and drammed hats. Agricnllural imple- 
mentfl of a simple sort were displayed to 
possible purchasers J sporting doga were to 


196 []iiiiea8,iB;3.] 


[CoDducled by 

bo boiu;hl upon rensonablc terras ; while in 
a special corner groups of furm servants 
were in aitendtmce to be hired for a year's 

Lord Overbury invaded the booths one 
after tho other, I following him. His 
manner was still extremely rude and boia- 
tcrona. " 'Tie his lordsbip," the people 
said. ' " A's nation vuddled, bat a' meaiiB 
no harm. And a'll go about jest where a's 
a mind to." He paid liberally for his en- 
tertainment, however, scattering his money 
right and left. Bnt he refused to be bound 
by the regnlations of tiie eatablishmentfi he 
patronised. He pnshed past ntoney-takers 
and attendants, and intruded upon the 
most sacred mysteriesof the caravaDS. He 
pinched the &mons Fat Lady until she 
screamed again ; he trod upon the toes of 
the Giant; inanlted the Dwarf by grasp- 
ing the nether portion of his attire and 
holding him saspended in the Eur i and 
he grievously hurt the feelings of the 
Savage who eat raw meat by accusing him, 
of imposition. Oor progress through the 
fair was indeed desperately riotous. 

At one of the larger booths the perfor- 
mances Burned for a time to have termi- 
nated. It was called "Jecker'a Royal 
Travelling Theatre," and an inscription 
above the platfoiTu announced that it was 
"the favourite establishment of royalty, 
and the nobiLty and gentry throngho at the 
globe." Lord Overbury forced Bs way in 
at a side entrance, which had been reserved, 
as it seemed to me, for the periormera. 

It. was the first theatre of any kind that 
I had ever entered. 

It was simply a spacious canvas erection 
supported by poles and interlacing ropes. 
But there was a stags at one end with a pro- 
scenium, curtain, and footlights. Benches 
rising one abovo another provided accom- 
modation for three or four hundred spec- 
tators. The lamps on the stage only were 
lighted, but wooden hoops with candles 
attached hung from thereof, and evidenced 
that performances were exhibited in the 

Lord Overbury 's abrupt, resolute method 
of entering appeared to disarm opposition. 
We were not questioned as to our object 
in invading the theatre. It was, I suppose, 
assumed that we had some right to be 
there. We stood among a group of the 
performers, who still wore their professional 
costumes, although they had partially 
covered these by assuming rough overcoats 
of various colours — drab being the fa- 

A ti)i^t • rope fixed upon the st^c 
stretched midway into the theatre. It was 
as thick as a man's arm, and whitened with 
chalk. A hand-oi^fan was being played, 
and discoursed a lively jig-like tune. A 
girl was dancing on the rope. 

" I call her a real good-looking un," 
said his lordship with an oath. 

I thought her simply the most beaatifal 
creature I had ever seen. 


COMPAEBD with the bright daylight out- 
side, the interior of the tent seemed soac- 
what dark; its atmosphere was close, aoil 
redolent of smoking oil-lamps and orange- 
peel. And, pM'faaps, the mists of viae 
and general excitement may have disturbed 
and confused my yisioo. Tet still I knew 
on tte instant for an absolute certainty 
that she was beautiful — wonderftilly bean- 
tdftil. I oould seethat her dress was tawdry 
and shabby. Unskilled in theatrical ilia- 
sions as I was, I could not be tricked into 
admiration of tiie paltry, almost sqaalid 
finery she wore. I oould note her soiled 
and creased muslin skirt that had once 
been white and was now a lostrelees 
yellow 1 her &ayed silk stockings, macb 
darned at the knees and ankles ; her smeared 
maty bodioe of green cotton velvet, 
sprinkled with tarnished spangles; tlic 
^ded, tattered wreath of artificial flowers, 
the crumpled ribbons, and strings of glass 
beads twisted among the rich cables of her 
auburn hair. I could perceive tbe coarse 
dabs of raw vermilion upon her cheeks, 
outraging so ornelly the delicate harmony 
of pearb and roses in her transparent com- 
plexion. But any creature so perfectly 
lovely it seemed to me that I had never 
seen before — not cTen in my dreams. 

She was dancing on the rope to the 
music of the hand-organ, balancing herself 
with a long whitened pole. Her every 
movement EUjd pose struck me as singularly 
graceful. She was little more than mv 
own age, I judged ; a slim, lithe girl, of 
symmetrical figure, with shapely features, 
well-defined brows, and brilliant haael eyes. 
When her red lips parted it could be seen 
that her teeth were exquisitely white and 
regular. She had smiled as we entered, 
her brows arching, and her eyes emit- 
ting, as I fancied, visible lays, as though 
they had been diamonds. The light from 
above, filtered through the weather-stained 
canvas, poured upon her with a tawny 
warmtli of colouring, save where a rent m 
the roofing allowed a shaft of blue grey 

ChiriCB DIekHU.] 


(JoBBaHra-j l^T 

(o laU throagb, and glafkm with cold 
brig^htness Qpoa ber tin set-trimmed dress. 
And now and then ber satin arms and 
sbonlders canght glowing reflections from 
the dim red bimps npon the little stage at 
the end of the booth. She had smiled but 
iot a moment ; gratifled, I fancy, at tbe fact 
that her performance had its pnblio of un- 
professional witnesses. She conid note, of 
conrae, that liord Overbory and myself 
vera intmders in the theatre, haying no 
interest in its concerns. Bnt presently an 
eipreaeion of pain crossed her face. Her 
eyes half closed, and there cameadint npon 
Ij her fiirehead. She was panting for breath ; 
I hsr bosom heaving with extreme rapidity. 
i It was plain that she was becoming ex- 
■j hansted with her severe exertions. At 
jj Iwt she paused for a moment, planting her 
I pole in the gronnd and resting upon the 
l| cross beams of wood to which the end of 
i| the rope was attached. She pressed her 
I luad upon her heart and appeared to be 
I nearly Minting. 

I "Go on I" shouted rongbly one of onr 
i pronp, a coarse-looldng man with swollen 
I, featares and greaay hair carved into a roll 
at the back of his head. He wore a white 
! hat and a pilot-coat, half concealing a 
,' spangled, tight-fitting, cotton snit of a nan* 
I kaen colonr. 

"Who IB she?" I asked of some one 
I standing near me. I did not turn to look 
, »t him. I was noable to avert my eyes 
'I (rom the beaotifal rope-dancer. 
■j " Who is she P We call her Mademoiselle 
I Koeetta, from the Imperial Cirqne of St. 
I] PBlerebni^. That's all I know — except 
': tfiatshe'sapnpiiof Horr Diavolo's. That's 
1 Herr Diavolo, in the white hat. And Herr 
I Diavolo's a Tartar. And Herr Diavolo'a 
been drinking. And Herr Diavolo's in a 
particnlarly onpleasant mood jnst now. 
' And I wonldu't be Herr Diavolo's pnpil, 
; if I conld help it, not for nntotd gold — I 
|i wonldn't. Tes, Bosette's DiaTolo's pnpil, 
[ »nd she's catching it. And she's likely to 
i: catch it farther and woree before he's done 
. with her. Unfortunate Miss Rosetta!" 
,[ Something in the tone of the speaker's 
I vnce seemed &roitiar to me. I glanced at 
I him for a moment. Bnt it was plain that 
,' I vas mistaken ; I conld never have seen 
,' him before. His &ce was thickly coated 
I vrith white paint, with here and there odd 
'I blotches of red and black npon it. His 
nair was brnshed ont and tied into three 
i| boDches, one at the top and one on eith^ 
|| tide of his head. And he wore an odd dress 
j ofparti-colonred stripes and stars npon a 

white cotton gronnd. Wondering what 
character he conld possibly represent in 
even the most fantastic kind of stage play, 
I tamed again to look at the dancer. 

" Go on !" 

" Shame," said some one, bnt not very 

The man pointed ont to me as Herr 
Diavolo glared fiercely ronnd. I thoa^ht 
him a most rnffianly looking fellow. Ho 
stood in a straddling attitnde, smoking a 
short black pipe, and threshing the pro- 
tuberant calves of bis massive bowed legs 
with a cheap cane. He was rather corpn- 
lent, and I noted ridges of &t circKng 
his bare ball's neck. Bnt it waa clear that 
he was possessed of great strength. The 
bulging masctes of his thick anlis oonld be 
traced even through the thick cloth of his 
overcoat. His scowling face seemed sodden 
and spotted from intemperance. His bro- 
ther players were clearly afraid of him. 
Indeal, he looked capable of anything. 

" Go on ; and keep on going on ; and 
don't atop going on till I tell yon. Miss. 
Yon've been wanting a lesson this long 
time, and now yon've got it." And be 
gronnd his teeth and swore at his pnpil, 
slashing the air till it screamed E^in with 
his cheap cane. 

I could not resist reverting to the per- 
former in the strange dress who had pre- 
vionsly given me information, and then it 
dawned npon me that all the time I had 
been looking fixedly at the dancer this 
performer had been looking fixedly at me. 

" She's Diavolo's pnpil, as I said. And 
she broke down this morning — missed her 
tip, as we call it ; that is, made a mistake 
on the tight-jeff. What yon call the tight- 
rope. She fell, indeed ; bnt she did not hurt 
herself. And he's punishing her. That's 
Diavolo's way. He's great at punish- 
ing his pupils. And if they'd only com- 
bine and hang him with lus own rope, 
they'd be doing a good turn for themselves 
and society generally. Diavolo would perish 
universally nnlamented, I should say." 

And still he looked at me intently, and 
appeared to be watching the effect upon 
my face of all he said. I had scarcely time 
to note this, I was so occupied with tho 
lovely rope-dancer. Yet somehow I did 
contrive to note it. 

Presently he touched me on the shonlder. 

" Who's that?" he asked in a whisper, 
pointing to my companion, who had ad- 
vanced some few paces in front of me, and 
stood taking suulf furiously, yet not less 
interested timn I was in tho performance. 




" Hnsk ! It's Lord Overbnry." 
" Lord Overbnry ! I thought he was a 
fla^ bagman. I wonder whether he'd 
take tickets for my bespeak." And then he 
slapped hie palme together ivith an air of 
sodden discovery, or perhaps merely to 
arrest my attention, and he stmok; an 
attitude, tilting back bis head, curinng 
his arms, and hollowing his back. A \agae 
reminiscence of portraits of King George 
the Foarth visited me, and then — I knew 
him ! He was Mr. Fane Maaleverer ! 

" Hash," he said in a bissing whisper. 
" Don't breathe my name — not for worlds ! 
Z am now Signor Leverini ; bnt for a time, 
a 7ery short time. Solely to oblige the 
management. I have always been obligmg, 
too obliging. It's been my min. I know it. 
But a man cannot master his nature. An 
appeal was made to me. Urs. Jecker was 
in tears — there's no Jecker now — he's been 
dead this many a year. We keep np the 
name, but we're her com^ny. She was in 
tears, kneeling to me. Ton know my su- 
preme tenderness of heart. Coald 1 bear to 
see lovely woman in distress F No, she's not 
lovely; that'aafignreof speech; still she's a 
woman. I coold not bear it. Basinesshae 
been frightful. In this district we're no 
match for the horse-riders. The neighbonr- 
bood's horsey. They haven't minds enough 
for the stage ; but they know a oircns when 
they see one. Things were becoming despe- 
rate. The band struck, and vanished like a 
spark in a tinder-box. There was nothing 
for it but to &11 back npon a hand-organ. 
We had to throw over the legitimate aod 
engage extraneous talent to compet'e with 
the riders. The tight-jeff, Diavolo and his 
pupils — that kind of thing. Bnt a clown 
to the rope, to cackle, to fill up the rests, 
to chalk shoes, was indispensable. Diavolo 
— he's not an amiable man, and he will not 
make allowances — refused to appear with- 
out a clown to the rope. It was offered, 
beseechingly, to this one, to that, to the 
other. They hadn't the will, or say they 
hadn't the talent. Could I break Mrs. 
Jeckor's heart f I couldn't. I'm versatile. 
I'm obli^ng, as I said. So I wear motley ; 
not sinking to its level, but hfting it up to 
mine. I was really great as clown to the 
rope this morning. You.shonld have heard 
the applause. Diavolo's jealous, and is 
taking it oat of his pupils, as you see. 
Still I have my feelings- I have played 
Hamlet and Banger. I am humiliated. This 
is my own hair you observe; no clown's 
scalp for me ; my own hair frizzed out^ 
pomatumed, and tied; an entirely new 

reading of the part. There's not another 
man in the profession oould do it as I have i 
done it. But it's not &ir to roe ; I was bom 
for better things. And to think that yon 
should see me thus ! Not a word to your 
eicellent uncle, to your lady mother. I told 
you we should meet again, ^faster Duke. 
My presentiments are unerring. Still, I 
didn't think that you would find me clown- 
ing amongst the boothere. I said that you 
would find your way to a theatre. Bight, 
yon observe. Though I did not count npon 
Jecker's being the place precisely. I talked 
of Covent Garden, I think. Well, well, 
that may be yet. And Kem is well ? and 
the farm thrives P and the pigs P and the 
poultry P and the old ale is as ridi an amber, 
aa potent a drink as ever ? How you've 
grown ! and what a country roaset glows 
npon your faoe ! With a trifle of padding 
you might go on for Romeo. Hallo I" 

Our attention was recalled to the rope- I 
dancer. I 

Her looks were very angiy. She was 
now white, now red, quivering in every 
limb with excitement and exhaustion, 

" I'll dance no more," she said, howsely, 
with flashing eyes. 

" Go on," roared Diavolo, as he beat his 
calves with his cane quite fiercely. 

She jerked her chin in the air with looks 
and gestures of superb defiance. Then she 
flung down her balancing-pole, bung with 
her hands from the rope for a moment, and 
dropped lightly ou to the ground. 

" I won't go on, beast," die said, and 
she confronted her master. 

There was the sound of the cheap cane 
slashing through the air, and then a femi- 
nine shriek of pain. 

I was horrified. For a moment a blood- 
red curtain obscared my sight, sparks 
danced before my eyes, and my heart waa 
leaping to my month. I sta^^ered, then 
plunged forward to do — I know not what. 
If I could have found my hands clutching 
Diavolo's throat, how happy I should have 
been ! But before I was fully conscious 
of what had happened I fonnd myself 
pulled back by some one. Diavolo was 
prostrate with a bleeding &ce. Lord Over- 
boiy, his hat and coat flung far from him, 
with clenched fists, waa hovering near him, 
abnost dancing round him. 

" Pick him op !" screamed his lordahip, 
with a furious oath. " Put him on his feet 
again. The cur ! The coward ! Stand back, 
aU. I know what I'm about. To strike the 
child ! Come on ! Ah, would you I" 

Diavolo had slowly risep, and now made 



[jiiMM,inij iro 

i hnvy nuh at bis foe. Bnt 1m was 
stopped enddfmly, aad etrnok to earth in a 
zaomeot, bleeding afresh and seoMlees. 

" His lordship knows how to pnt in his 
left," whispered Manlererer. " I call that 
wry pretty pmctiee." 

Wl wonder how matiy people haye read 
tiis book, honestl}' and earnestly through, 
Ba we have. Wo wonder, eepeoially, bow 
man; anxiona and cosBcientions " ladiee," 
embarrassed by scanty inoomes and aa 
imperative necessity to keep witiiin them, 
We sought its pages ; ladies longing to 
lee where their heanness cosld be tight- 
ened; where they ooald be shown the best 
wtj to cease the old cry, " Kothing to 
wear," and to please " dear John," or 
"dear Harry," by patting on clothes 
fitting for a lady, that aboald yei be at 
the moderate cost^ yearly, of the sum 
stated. One tiling is oertain : ladies do 
want to know how to dress themselves 
a little prioe. Ladies, also, do want to 
bnon how to dress themsetves to fit their 
station, and beoomingly, and wiUi taste. 
Ladies, it is equally oertain, do not, aa a 
nle, wish to involve their paymaeters in 
scoldings and money difficolties, for the 
oke of new flonnoes and finery that soon 
OKHigh will be only filling np the rag-bag. 
Beaides, women, in the mass, hare an in- 
herent love of economy. Women have tiiis 
EO strongly, that most men, at the moments 
"hen they are the monsters they oan be, 
call it meanness; and this economy leads 
vomen always to get as mncb as they can 
for as httle, and to be very carefal to pre- 
vent wast«^ The reason is clear. Women 
arealways dealing with small snnu; always 
parcelliog ont these smidl snms into snma 
still smaller ; and they acquire a knack of 
economising trifles, very diffionit to be un- 
derstood by the sterner sex aocnetomed 
to see soverfflgns cast about in bankers' 
■liovels, and to be in oontacfc with loans, 
and promiees, and pnrchases, representing 
"thoDsande." As this is eo, we maybe 
sure any roles laid down by a lady, on 
how to dress as a lady for fifteen pounds a 
year, would meet with hosts of eager and 
interssled readers; and, indeed, theqnestion 
is one well meriting attention. 

Bov to DnH OD Firtr«D Foaadt a Yru, 

«aj. Bj ■ Udjr, London : Fredrtick Wama ud Co. 
"um'i UMfnl Worka Frici Uoe Shilling. 

We wish we could say that one knot 
could be untied, one painfnl problem 
solved, by the most laborions study of 
the disappointing volnme under criticism. 
What does it toach ? What does it prove ? 
Where does it in any way give assistance ? 
The writer, it must be remembered, takes 
her own sum, and her own position. She 
says fifteen pounds ; and she professes to 
show how it will drees " a lady." In the 
first place, how many English ladies are 
there who must dress, and who do dress, 
at a considerably lesB price than this, and 
yet who manage, in some skilful way, to 
pass muster, and never to have their hard 
poverty suspected ? Tet this sister of the 
pen seems to prodaim that ber snm ia 
the lowest ever invented ; that ladies will 
not be able to make it " do," unless they 
have the wisdom to seek her instmction. 
may be so. It depends doubtless, in a 
great measure, on what a lady may wear ; 
and on what, in the writers opinion, a 
lady's necessities are. We, for example, 
had always entertained the belief that a 
lady ought to have a pocket-handkerchief. 
It would have been no surprise to us, in 
fact, to find that she possessed a dozen, or 
more; all neatly hemmed and marked for 
use, in a natty box, or envelope, upon her 
dressing-table. We have been nccnstomed, 
also, to see ladies with collnrs ronnd 
ihmr throats; with these collars tastefully 
fastened with a brooch or a bow. It has 
been agreeable to us, too, to see ladies' 
hands look all the whiter and more allnring 
for cuffs, or wristbands, round them ; to 
see the hands thus ornamented occasion- 
ally resting in little pockets on coquettish 
aprons worn to keep the dresses under- 
neath from too rough using. A few other 
articles, as well as these, would have 
seemed to as oompolsory, if we had been 
consulted as to a lady's outfit. We have 
heard the garment flannel petticoat hinted 
at; so a white cambric body (or, we be- 
lieve, technically, a camisole) ; so also a 
flannel or mttrino vest for the delicate ; 
and a comtnng-gown to oover the shoulders 
whilst the hair is receiving proper drofs- 
ii^, and a night-cap to tie over it when 
it is tucked up and " done." Occasionnl 
peeps, too, into lists, headed " trouaseanx," 
" layettes," or " babies' berceannett-es," 
sent copiously through the post as adver- 
tisements, render us moro aware than we 
wish to be of the existence of veils, neck- 
ties, dress-improvers (hum ?) pins, pads, 
bags, boxes, combs, brushes, and a sacred 
I etcetera ; all needful certainly, in some form 

200 E>'<uie!8.18 



or texture, for feminine accoutrement, or 
they would no more have had space ^vea 
to Uiem for enumeration ttias would &lse 
moustachaa or shilling razors. But does 
our lady teacher mention anj one of these 
articles amoug the items requisite for a lady 
as a lady tells F We can find no allusion 
to them. This lady has been pierformiag 
a new GulhTer's Travels, perhaps, and 
has -come across a race of other ladies, 
minus that distingniehisg feature, & nose ; 
hence the absence of pooket-handkcrchiefe. 
She has come across another England in 
the tropics, where Sannel, in any form, is 
not needed; hence no woollen mystery in 
her oatalogue. She has furnished a world 
ef her own with strong - minded women 
who please no eye with dainty edges of 
lace or muslin, but put on a dress "any- 
how," and think a ribbon, baud, or bow, 
imbecility ; hence no ntargiu for the iittJe 
ruff tliat makes a woollen gown as be- 
coroing as a silk one, and that pleasant 
women know how to put on so effectively. 
Assuredly, unless the writer's views of a 
lady are very different to our own, she has 
no idea of how to dress one, and she fails 
in what she undertakes, sadly. 

As we read further we find that we 
have done our writer a wrong; a very 
little one ; bat we wish to make her due 
apologies. She does give a lady a pocket- 
handkerchief, after all. Nay, she gives 
six. In Table C, which wo may sup- 
pose, at the earliest, stands for the second 
year, she suddenly recollects herself, and 
puts down half a dozen handkerchiefs, to 
cost six and sixpence ; but it is not until 
tho second year that the civilisation of 
the typical " lady " advances far enough 
to m&ke a monchoir necessary to her- We 
trust onr author wUl see the full measure of 
this rectification we give her. Wo trust, 
besides, she will not cavil at onr refusal to 
put all the flannel petticoats, flannel vesta, 
calico and cambric bodices, veils, combing- 
gowu, and so on, missing from her list, into 
her one " line" of sundries. The exact si 
she devotes to sundries, for one year, 
sixteen shillings and sevenpeeoe; ei^ 
shiUingB and threepence-halfpenny for six 
months' call upon petty cash : four shit- 
lings and a penny tbree-iarthings for what 
would be vranted in a quarter, a fraction 
less than fourpcnce for the expenses of a 
week. The figures are so eloquent, we 
put them down and leave them. And we 
will now show what our author does order 
to bo bought in her first year for Jit 
regnlation sixteen and seveupcnce. A 

the items are down in her text as indis* 
pensable ; they are over and above the 

articles enumerated and priced in Table 
B (covering the same period and amoiint- 
ing to the fifteen pounds). 

A little braid or trimming for a petti- 

A chemisette of tulle or muslin. 

A bow for tho neck. 

Dyeing a tweed dress. 

A black French merino polonaise. 

Another of stout brown nolland or linen. 

The price of cleaning an old hat. 

A few yards of extra steel for a crino- 

A calico cover for this, nine ioches deep. 

A heaver or Irish frieze out-door jacket 
for winter. 

And (over this our Author is sweetly 
practical) " enough of coarse brown linen 
to make a couple of aprons; for if you live 
in the country and are given to poultry- 
tending, or any rough dirty occupations of 
that sort, they will save your dresses won- 
derfully, and soon repay their cost in the 
reduction of your washiug-bill, besides re»- 
cning them from many a rent and tear." 

And all for sixteen shillings and seven 
jienniea ! - 

The whole plan, indeed, of onr writer is as 
illogical as this specimen. If we could be 
so nngallant or so ungenerous as to suppose 
that u[ women were like her, there could 
not be a better proof than this book of ' 
their utter unfitness for Business, Arts, 
Votes, Seats in Parliament, or any other 
BightA of whii^ we hear so much. In- 
deed, did not our writer give us pain to 
think of the serious difficulties she will 
get all ladies into who are unwise enough 
to follow her, we should be able to laugh 
at her little volume as a piece of fan. 
How may it be supposed she proposes to 
limit annua) dress-moneyto fifteen pounds? 
By oonclnding that the lady has, before 
beginning to spend, ten dresses by her; 
two bonnets and a hat ; two shawls; two 
jackets; a black silk cape; a waterproof 
cloak; eight outside petticoats; two crino- 
lines; a pair of stays; thirteen pairs of 
stockings, including some of open-work 
thread, and a pair each of black and white 
silk ; six pairs of boots and shoes ; besides 
a sufficient stock of miscellaneous gar- 

And DOW let ns have a word about 
these tea dresses already in the wardrobe. 
Or, rather, let the writer herself have her 
on-n word. It will show her manner. 

" On looking over your summer di-esscs 


PUM M, 1873.J 201 

.... we find ft cambric, new the Ifttter part 
of the anmmv, and, therefore, tolerably 
&esh and clean ; next, a thiolc white moBlia 
io the same condition; a well-washed 
cotton of the year before ; a very shabby 
garden - dress ; two half- worn common 
evening dresses of some sort ; an old silk 
that will bear cleaning ; for evening wear 
.... a between-season matezial, snch aa a 
camlet, new in the aorly apring, which you 
*K now (in October) wearing; a tidy 
Usck Bilk, bonght this time last year ; and 
t dark linsey which yon had new the latter 
part of the winter before last." 

Uight not a lady of ordinary inteUi- 
gance, with only the smaller sum of ten 
pounds a year to spend, tfaink she was well 
porisioned with dresses, having sil these ? 
Bat a lady with fifteen pounds ia noti to 
Uve so mnch prudence. She ia at once 
to set to work and get five dressee more. 
Sbeiatobay a washing silk for two pounds 
five shillings; a cambrio for six shilUngB 
uid sixpence; a thick white muslin for 
ei^t shillinga ; an evening alpaca or 
"material" for ten shillings ; and enough 
tweed to make dress, jacket, and water- 
proof, to coxnetofbur pounds ten BbiUings. 
We leave experts to decide whether these 
Ggares are real. They do not agree with 
certain iteaoB that have come nuder onr 
notice; but we have been nnlucky, per- 
baps ; Dot so shrewd as " a lady " might 
be; and we pass them by. The real 
point is whetiier " a lady of limited 
■oeuia " is jostified in buying tweed for a 
nterproof cloak when she already has 
Each a garment ; in getting a new evening 
dress when three, ^d so on, are in her 
poBBession. The real point is, also, whether 
B connsdler who tells her she ought to do 
w, and fakee credit for wisdom and fore- 
light in the telling, is doing her a service. 

Wdl, tliese five dresses oome to a total 
of seven pounds nineteen ehillings and six- 
]>eiice. The remaining seven sover^gns 
^d sixpence, to make np the fifteen 
pounds, have to be accounted for. Thirty 

^ings a 
bonnets; ' 

fbr the material for three 
fair. Twelve shillings and 
ii^nce are to be spent on a hat and the 
tunings for it; it is fair, too — except 
Mat, as the spender already owns two 
™uiet8 and a hat, it ia evident the other 
™r who advises "goes in" for head-gear 
'Jrongly, to the exclusion of collarettes, 
aieeveg, tnckers, aprons, and tJie other 
"any Oiings the omission of which we 
Jave noted. A pair of thick boots are * 
°°<>ght for fourteen shillings ; a thin pair 

for six shillings and sixpence; a house 
pair for three shillings and sixpence ; and 
a pair of shoes for half a crown. Moderate 
and reasonable, all ; albeit it brings ns very 
nearly to the end of onr t«ther. Small as 
onr remaining cnpital is, though, a whole 
sovereign of it, save tenpence, is to go in 
gloves. This is terrible. On reflection, 
tjiongh, the lady had no gloves by her in 
the Imaginary Wardrobe (as the chapter is 
headed) our author gave her to start with ; 
it is femininely natural, therefore, she should 
wish at once for a plentiful and expensive 
supply. She is to get six pairs at two shil- 
lings and sixpence (one pair being double 
sewn), and she ie to get a pair of garden 
gannUets for one shilling (md eightpeoce. 
Two purs of colonred stockings are to take 
away fonr more of her few shillings; she 
ia to boy a black silk sash for a crown, and 
a oolonred one for anotlier; and, thongh 
the anthor has already kindly imagined 
two crinolines for her (one expressly stated 
as new), she is to boy a third, antl is to 
part with five shillings and ninepenco for 
the purpose. Yery little of the fifteen 
Bovereigus now remaina Buttwo "liucs." 
One is the sixteen shillinge and sevenpcnce 
for the very comprehensive snndries ; the 
other a stated ten shillings for under-linen. 
Now, in mentioning the under-linen in the 
imsginaiy wardrobe a lady has to start 
with, onr author has been particular to a 
scrapie. She confines herself to throe kinds 
of garments, it ia tme (whibt we should 
have tbonght a lady mnch more complexly 
composed) ; bat she save of these that one 
kind is good, the second " so, so," and the 
third BO worn ont, " you will have to get 
some new at once." Very good. Then 
must there not be an immediate purchase 
of oaUco, buttons, and so on, for tJie press- 
ing need, with a prospect of a second out- 
lay speedily, to renew the stock of the gar- 
ments that are only " so, so" ? A mascnline 
mind wonld have reasoned in thia manner. 
A lady advising another lady argues diffe- 
rently. She is oomfortable under the per- 
suasion that ten shillings, which would, 
perhaps, bay fifteen yards of " long-cloth," 
would meet the whole difficulty. In addition 
to which serene fallacy, she executes a Uttle 
arithmetical somersault, in her confidential 
way, that she thinks, no doubt, improves 
her position vastly. " Tou will see," she 
says (page 34), " that a pound is set aside 
for nnder-linen, stays, &c., which, taking 
an average, with management, you will 
find sufficient." So that besides calling 
the appropriated ten shillings a pound. 

[lima !S, len.] 



stays are to be bonght vi^ it aa veil 
as an ominoas etcetera, and jet the bnyw 
is to be dressed *' as a lady" ! How of 
the " management" required, too P We 
might have thought that ought to have 
been manifested. It might have been oon- 
Bidered, indeed, the otgect of the book. 
There ia no word of it, however. Weareleft 
to conclade it is seeing ererything donble, 
like the half- sovereign, and (hen passing 
to the next subject with the sweetest 
snavity and satis&ction. 

Our anthor gives a few general roles. 
Bay the "Cora" washing-silk, she says, 
not the Tnssore. This is cabalistio to ns ; 
it may be wisdom, it may be the flimsiest 
folly; we mention it becanae of the in- 
nocent admission that one pieoe of Cora 
will not make a dress, and so "the best 
plan is to persnade a friend to join with 
yon in the purchase of three pieces," when 
the two can divide the three between them. 
What is to be done supposing the friend is 
not forthcoming, onranthor has omitted to 
mention. Have a brown hotland drese for 
sea-side use, she says ; or else " blue tick- 
ing, snoh as is sold for working men's 
shirts." Get twelve yards of either. Pay 
about a shilling a yard for the former ; 
abont sevenpence for the latter. Trim with 
braid ; or " dispense with trimming al- 
together, merely wearing a dark-blue cam- 
bric saah." Tet in only one out of the 
three tables given is snob a garment men- 
tioned, and then it is put down decisively 
as ticking, and at the bare cost of the 
material, seven shillings. Another mild 
financial delusion is to recommend real 
lace for trimming bonnets. " It is as 
cheap as, if not cheaper (in the long run) 
than imitation," declares our author, " and 
you can gentrally bny it for half a crown 
or three shillings a yard." We will once 
more confess our entire inatality to give 
judgment on these figares, in relation to 
the goods to be purchased, or on the taet« 
that prefers one speoies to the other ; we 
are only Btnbbom in onr certainty as to 
how many yards of anything at three shil- 
lings a yard can be bought for ten shillings 
(the price notified for the materials for a 
bonnet), and in onr wonder as to how this 
limited qnantity can perform the requisite 
dnty, especially as the next sentence tells 
ns a good flower " to make the bonnet very 
complete, costs from three to five shillings." 
It convinces us our wonder has something 
in it. " To be sure," the writer adds, " a 
sipray can be bought in one of the large 
City shops for even «8 low aa sevenpence ;" 

but she says it is only " sometimes," fuid 
it is evident that snoh a rare combination 
of falls in stocks and shares, and foreign 
bonds, must be wanting to bring abont the 
cnronmstance, that it is not worth while to 
take it into consideration, rnrther inno- 
cent impracticability ia exhibited over the 
imaginary wardrobe. The writer hopes 
the lady s winter jaoket is a sealakin ! 
Considering that th^ cost of a sealskin 
jaokeA would be abont as much aa a whole 
year's expenditure, it is a Uttte toe mnch 
to make a merit of spending only fiftieen 
pounds a year when the spender has such 
a splendid stock to begin with. 

Naturally, onr lady has a lady-like vn- 
consciovsnesB of the errors she is oom- 
mitttng. Naturally, t'>o, she insists with 
feminine vehemence on the proprie^ of 
every one of her statements. " I nave 
been aocnsed" (in one matter, head-gear) 
she says, " of dire extravagance ; a grave 
aocnsation to make o^inst one professing 
to dress, and, moreover, teaching others 
that it is possible to dress on fifteen pounds 
a year .... but withont either altering my 
praetioe or opinion a whit .... I assure any 
of my readers inclined to oavil at the items 
in the varions tables, that not a single figure 
has been given at random or on heanay ; 
the whole is the .result of personal expo- 
Henoe ; fiir I need berdly say that, had it 
been otherwise, I should not thus h&ve 
taken npon myself to advise others." This 
ia firm enoneb. NevertbeleBS — with the re- 
collection tnat there is not a penny pat 
down in these tables for dresB-Aiaking, or 
millinery-making at all ; that evsiy lady is 
expected to be clever enough to make, and 
turn, fuid trim her own hats, and bonnets, 
and dresses — we repeat our protest, and we 
adhere to it. That it is possible, bnt noit 
pleasant for a lady to dresa. on fifteen 
pounds a year is certain ; that we have not 
been shown how to do it in this volome is 
every bit as certain also. 


Not sM ladies may be aware how mach 
of history, geography, biography, and mis- 
cellaneons anecdote is illuattated in their 
wardrobes, in their drawing-rooms, in the 
fabrics that line and warm their bed- 
chambers. Keariy all things worn or 
woven have a topical, traditioiial, or per- 
sonal reference attached to them — gene- 
rally justifiable, often merely conjectural, 
Bometimea only daringly ingenioas, and 

CSuu-lts Dkkaiu.) 


[JnaM. 187*.] 

imagined in what Niebnhr deooDiicea as 
" an onBpeakable spirit of abenrdity." Snp- 
pose we take the etymoloeists in hand 
wiiere tbej treat of the womc done by the 
loom and iia auxiliaries, and discover a 
little asefnl knowledge, and a little amas- 
iog Bpecnlation in drees,, and in the softer 
fnrnilnre of our abodes, from the diaper on 
lie table to the hangings at oar windows. 

There are many words, indicating parti- 
ciJar fabrics, wluch have so paawd into 
^miliar language that they no longer ne- 
cessarily surest any special significance, 
except as a trade-mark of qnality. But 
the ethology of the subject is, nererthe- 
less, interesting. Most persons giving a 
tLoQght to the matter at aU, wottld instantly 
recognise the meaning of Mechlin, Alenfon, 
Brussels, and Ghantilly lace; why one 
ehawl is called a Paisley, and another a 
Cashmere; that Holland was originally 
mannfactored hj the Dutch ; and that a Fez 
cap carries with it a local significance. The 
nutenals known in commerce as Circassian, 
Cjpms, Cobni^, and Damask, eqnaily ex- 
plain themselves ; and, thongh in a totally 
different manner, snch faahioas as those of 
Wellington and Blncher boots, KackJntosb 
and Chesterfield coats, and Spencers. But 
why is a shirt-front popularly called a 
dickey? Why are poplins so named? 
Whjr blanket, as the covering of a bed ? 
Or silk, or shawl, or jerkin, or mand, or 
cravat P It is when we &11 amid these 
EhadowBof learning that Uie etymolt^isu 
enjoy their Walpni^s dance of gnessea. 
Thus with blanket. There are said to have 
been three brothers of that name at Wor- 
Mster, who invented the coverlet so called, 
and, in confirmation, it is pointed ont that, 
not far oB* from the antiqne city, is still a 
locality known as the Blaaqnets. On the 
t4her hand, Bristol claims them among her 
medieval citizens, though, for all that, they 
may have been Woroestershire men as well. 
The coarse woollens of their fabricating 
appear to have been eagerly adopted by 
the peasantry as a substitute for hempen 
cloth ; then soldiers, sportamen, and tra- 
vdlers fonnd them useful ; neit tbey were 
laid on the stnmp bedsteads of the time, 
and a blae blanket became a Masonic 
bamier. This may confidently be reckoned 
among things not quite universally known. 

And now with respect to a dickey. Here 
the old result is reached, that the search 
only ends in nothing being found. Both 
wie reason for the word, and the date. of 
its origin, are as lost as the Livian books, 
though its L:ish equivalent among the stu- 

dents of DafoUn University is still a Tommy, 
but not in honoor of any Mr. TboEoas ; the 
scholars of that academy preferring to fix 
npon a Greek derivation, signifying a seo- 
tion. Into what wonder-lands of hnmour 

ill not a Uttle voyage among the shallows 
of the classics conduct the imaginative 
Irish genius I 

Passing on to pantaloons — not the " lean 
and slippered," but the garments which, 
in America, are styled pants ; they were 
once supposed to represent a part of male 
apparel, combining trousers and stockings 
in one, but the controversy on this point 
brandies in many directions. Does the 
name of the article mean that which 
"involves," or "covers," or is it only 
an allosion to the heel ? For all these 
theories have been insisted npon, besides 
another of prodigious boldness — that it 
was dne to the tightly -arrayed standard- 
bearers of Venice, when the " Plant c^ 
Leon" was emblazoned on the banners of 
the republic, for so £w have the fanciful 
etymologists gone. Or to a town ? Or to 
a surname ? Or simply to an Italian 
fashion in comedy P Much lore is yet 
hidden from mankind in respect of these 

As to poplin, it was invented in a 
papal territory, thongh by a Huguenot, 
and hence called papaline, which ac|X>ant 
we may as well credit, seeing that no other 
is at hand. Silk may be a Greek, a Persian, 
an Avalic, a Tartar, or a Chinese appella- 
tion, bince the lexici^raphere and other 
ernditionista might be quoted in &vour of 
each language ; but concerning shawl there 
is only a single donbt, between a transla- 
tion from a Persic word and the tonn of 
Shawl, in Beluchistan, whence it may pos-f 
sibly have been derived, and which was 
formerly faraoos for the mannfactnro. This 
must not be confounded mitti the celebrated 
shawl of Leyboume. A mand is a Scotch 
plaid, christened after a Scottish queen, 
daugiiter of Malcolm, and wife of Henry 
the First. Jerkin may be from the Anglo- 
Saxon cyrtellien — here we fall back npon 
the derivative doctor again — diminntive of 
cyrtel, a coat — a presumption, at any rate, 
more rational than that which traces it to 
the vulgarism Little Jerry,, which is also 
claimed for jacket. Bnt now we reach a 
formidable mystery. Whence came the 
name cravat ? Was it first worn by a 
Croat cavalier P Because that is almost 
the bole buggcstion of the learned. Con- 
cerning collars, there used to be a sort 
worn in Germany which were nick-named 


304 [JMieWpUTSJ 

Vater-miirdem, or fether-mnrderers, frotn 
the legend of a student who returned from 
the luuTersity vitb such a stiff pair that, 
on embrfkcing hi9 parent, they cat his 
throat. There are many testimonies to 
suicides — tight-lacing to wit — caused by 
vanity in dress; bnt we think this is the 
only case of assassination on record. In 
the general glossary, cardinals, capnchins, 
and mantillas tell their own stoiy, though 
the old-fiisbioned Berthas do not, and the 
renowned chapean-de-paille, which so har- 
monised with the beauty of the Ghnrcbills 
of the last centnry, wonld be equally ex- 
plicit had it been a straw hat at ^1. There 
are many varieties of fabrics, besides those 
already mentioned, which indicate their 
own birthplaccB, as the mohair known as 
Angola or Angora wool, shorn from the 
full-fleeced goats that feed far in the depths 
of Asia Minor; the miztnre of hair and 
silk called, m commerce, Bengal ; the long- 
cloths labelled Madapollams; the fa^ 
Tourite Merino ; the soft wcavings of 
Paramatta, in New South Wales; the 
yellow cottons of Nankin, cormpted into 
nankeen; and the tapestries of Bergamo. 
Less familiar, however, are the silks named 
Ardessines, after the district producing 
them in Persia; the lamb's-wool hats — 
now disused — which were once identified 
with the Norman town of Caadebec; the 
figured linen made and designated after 
Dornoch, in Scotland ; the thick- napped 
woollens called after Duffel, in Flanders ; 
the cords of Genappcs, in the same terri- 
tory. When yon hear of a cambric ruff 
you will naturally think of Cambray, in 
French Flanders. Behold a gingham um- 
brella, and Gningcamp, in France, rises at 
onco to the mind's eye; and so on with 
the coarse stuffs called Oenaburgs (Hano- 
verian mannfactnre) ; with their opposite, 
the delicate open lace-work tnlle, which 
forms a fleecy foundation for so many 
bonnets, and dresses so many " breathing 
roses" of the ball-room in raiment light as 

Once more, turning from cities and 
towns to persons and the signatures they 
have left behind them in the mercers', 
, drapers', or npholsterers' shops, or among 
I the chronicles of olden fashions, and we 
have tte gallant Dnc de Hoquelaire making 
a monnment to himself in the cloak he 
introduced ; Baptists inventing the batiste 
handkerchiefs, popular, principally, on the 
Continent — batiste dresses being fashion- 
able in England now — and that colour 
known as Isabel, the traditional origin 

p^DttucM br 

which, it may be supposed, everybody is 
aware of One poetical personage baa 
been credited with the name of a garment, 
a mantle of pale-grey cloth, trimmed with 
black velvet, called a Lalla Roodh, pre- 
sumably because it bears not the remotest 
resemblance to anything which an Oriental 
princess ever Wore or conid wear. Leav- 
ing this Tussaud group, mnsHn perplexes 
all inquiry ; whether the word is to be 
accounted for by the French mousse, or 
moss, because of its softness ; whether this 
theory would be more tenable if to mousse 
were added lin or flax ; whether the febric 
was first wrought at Mosul, in Asiatic 
Turkey? Masnlipatam may be left out 
of the question. Professors of derivation 
carry ns back to Grecian ages to explain 
how the torm dimity arose, declaring, on 
the authority of a whole gardenfnl of 
roots, that it signifies a fabric woven from 
double threads; but less learned pundits 
attribute it to the Egyptian Damietta. It 
is agreed that calico must be identified with 
Oaliout, on the Malabar ' coa.'it ; gambroon 
with the Persian Gombroon, and, though 
less unanimously, marsclla with Marseilles ; 
but there is no such certainty about the 
connexion between game and the scrip- 
tural Gaza ; or kersey with either Jersey 
or Cashmere, though the latitude of choice 
permitted is certainly a wide one. Jaconet 
was originally manufactured by a man of 
that name, who gave it its title in the 
market ; so, in all likelihood, of jean ; but 
how did a la^'s riding-habit ever come 
to be called a Joseph ? Tartans owe their 
designation, as we please, to the Latin, the 
PVencli, or the Gaelic, the last having the 
word "tarstin," across, which seems near 
edongh without going back to Tyre. 
Fustian, however ? One school affirms it 
is Latin, another that it is Arabic, pointing 
trinmphantly to the Egyptian town FuEt&t, 
where it is said to have originally come 
from the loom of a dusky weaver, name- 
less lo history. Of course many of these 
derivations are remote and fantastic, nad 
hang on the frailest threads of authority; 
being wholly unlike, in these respects, 
others so obvious as Arras, ftwm the quaint 
old Franco- Flemisb city; Gobelins, and 
balasore, woven from the bark of a tree in 
a district of the Bengal presidency; bnt 
we hesitate to deduce tkize from the mined 
Italian town of Baice. There is one word, 
dasey, concerning which the anecdote runs ; 
*A Dublin physician, named Dasey, was in 
tho habit of wearing a cloak to conceal his 
thefts from the houses he visited profes- 


iJnmSMMSJ 205 

eionidly. After he was hanged, for this or 
eome other crime, cloaks were nniversall^ 
discarded in Irelasd, and were generally 
called dBseys." Thus, in the literature of 
Vertia Nominalia, as an ingenioiiB writer 
calls it, we may detect not a little of the 
merest gDesavork; bat, on the other hand, 
may trace not a few of the allnBions im- 
plied by &miliar terms, which mingle with 
effect among the other lights and shadows 
of the past. 

Hot tbc; bid wutsd aod witcb'd fur the tain, ' 

UounUin and vtiUj, and Tinf jaid u>d plain. 

With Barer ■ lign from Ae iky '. 

Daj aftd itj had tbe pitilen nm 

look'd down «itb a lidttu eje. 

Bmt DOW ! Od ■ rnddoD a vhiRwr wont 

Tlirough tbe topmiiat twigi of toe pgidai-apiroj 

Oat of the eaat a llghl wmd blew 

(All tke Imtc* tnmbled. and mnrmar'd, aud drew 

Eop» to tke he^) ofdeura), 

It itined the funt poUe cf the Ibreit-tree 

And breathed through thu brake and ths brier. 

SlowlTtha cloud ame: than the wind died, 

Dumb lay the laod in iti hot luipeaw : 

The thnuh no the elm- bough auddenl; itoppcd. 


Tlia liuOet ceaied loiie; in the fenee, 

Hute tbe cloud moced, till it hung DTerhMd, 

H(ai7, big-botom'd, nod denie. 

He hepiog U leoTsa that have drunk Ihair Sll, 
lie fmhueu that follawi the dearth I 
ITew life for the woodland, the Ticejsrd, the lale 
fie* life with the world'g new birth ! 



PiKS&Fii no regiment in the British 
service has had its deeds better recorded 
than tbe Fifty-second— probably no regi- 
ment has won more glory. " A regiment 
never Bnrpaseed in arms since arms were 
firat borne by men," Napier ^d of it, 
after the gallant fight at Nivelle. The 
smtenoe rings in one's ears like the bagle 
■onnding "the advance," and that it is 
folly justified, the emb^oned words on 
the regimental colonrs of the Fifty-second, 
"Hindoostan, Vimiera, Bnsaco, Fnentes 
d'Onoro, Cindad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Sala- 
manca, Vittoria, Nivelle, Orthes, Tonlonse, 
Waterloo, and Delhi," pretty amply prove. 
The Fifty-second regiment was raised 
in 17S5, on the breaking out of the war 
with France. The r^ment was origioally 

nnmbered tho Fifty-fonrth, bnt two years 
afterwards received its present title. In 
1768, by royal warnint, the regimental 
colour was ordered to be buff, with the 
number of the regiment -worked in gold 
letters, within a wreath of rosee and thistles. 
The fiicings were to be hnff, the coat scar- 
let, the m^ecbes and waistcoat buff, with 
black gaiters. 

The regiment first distinguished itself 
in the American war of independence, 
1775. While investing Boston an odd 
event occurred, which is thus described by 
Lieat«nant MartLn Hunter, in his amusing 
r^^ental journal : 

" During the winter," he says, " plays 
were acted at Boston twice a week by the 
officei-s and some ladies. A force, called 
the BlocJiade of Boston, written by General 
BBT^yne, was acted. The enemy knew 
the night it vras to be nerfonned, and made 
an attack on the mill at Cfaarlestown at 
tbe very hour the farce began i they fired 
some shots and surprised and carried off a 
sergeant's guard. We immediately turned 
ont and manned the works, and a shot 
being fired by one of onr advanced sentries, 
firing commenced at the redonbtand eonld 
not be stopped for some time. An orderly 
sergeant, standing outside tbe playhouse 
door, who he^d the firing, immediately 
running into the playhonse, got npon the 
stage, crying out, ' Turn out ! turn out ! 
They're hard at it, hammer and tongs I' 
The whole audience, supposing the ser- 
geant was acting a part in tbe farce, loudly 
applauded, and there was snch a noise he 
could notfor some timemake himself heard. 
When the applause vr&s over he again cried 
out, ' What tho devil are ye all about P 
If ye won't believe me, be Jabers, yon need 
only go to the door, and then ye'll hear 
and see both.' If the enemy intended to 
stop the farce they certainly succeeded, as 
the officers immediately left the playbooso 
and joined their regiments." 

The Pifly-second fought at the battles 
of Brooklni and White Plains, the rednctiou 
of Fort Washington, the taking of Rhode 
Island, and the battle of Brandywine. In 
1777, they helped to eurprise a force <rf 
fifteen hundred Americans under General 
Wayne in a wood, when three hundred 
of the enemy were bayoneted at their 

The Fifty-second lost four captains in the 
American war; and on the death of Cap- 
^«in Powell in New Jersey, the drummer 
of his company was heiml to eiclaim : 
I " Well, I wonder who they'll get to accept 

[June », IMS.) 



onr grenadier cornpan; now ; I'll be hang 
if I would take it !" 

In 1783, the Fift^-Beoood sailed for 
Madras to take part in the war against 
Tippoo Sahib. The late General Honter, 
who was at that time a captain in the regi- 
ment, and commanded it daring a great 
part of the following campaign, states that 
" the regiment had two hnndred men, wo- 
men, and children on board the Kingston, 
Indiaman, which blew np off Madras. In 
spite of the active exertions of both'officera 
and men, and of those of the officers and 
crews of the Yansittart and Pigot, sizt;- 
three lives were lost. Captain Aubrey, a 
passenger, well known in the sporting 
world, was saved hj getting on a hen-coop 
he had thrown overboard. A dmmiuer-boy 
of onrs got npon the coop with him, and 
was very much frightened when the sharicB 
made their appearance, and on. the boats 
coming np hallooed ont most manfally for 
them to 'save the captsin.' Here was 
one word for Anbrey and two for him- 
self. However, Aubrey desired that they 
ehonid pick np those in greater distress, 
which the drnmmer did not at all ap- 

Before the storming of Oannanore, on the 
Malabar coast, it was necessary to obtain 
sonndings of the ditch of the prinoipal fort. 
Before the battery opened, a man named 
JKowlandson Taylor, . of the li^y-seoond, 
who was an old American light infontry* 
man, at once undertook the task, and eze- 
cated it so coolly and well, that he not 
only ascertained the exact depth of the 
ditch, bat observed that it was wet, except 
at the very point where wo intended to 
breach it, and retnmed nnder a heavy fire of 
mnsketry withont being touched. General 
M'Leod was so mnch pleased tbat he gave 
him fifty guineas. Uentenant Biobinson 
commanded the forlorn hope, consisting 
of a set^geant, corporal, and thirty volun- 
teers from the battalion. At eleven o'clock 
the battjJion paraded three companiaB in 
front; the men each carried a scaling 
ladder, the remainder of the brigade form- 
ing to fill np the ditch. They were anp- 
firted by the battalion companies of the 
ixth and Fifty-second regiments, and as 
one o'clock struck, they advanced in close 
column to the breach, which was most 
gallantly defended, and carried after an 
obstinate resistanoe. Xjieutanant Bohineon 
and the forlorn hope were nearly all killed 
or wounded, and the battahon alt<^ther 
lost four officers and fifty-three men. 

At the capture of Savendroog and 

Ontredroog the Fifty-second distinguished 
itself, as also at the first siege of Soringa- 
patam in 1792. In Tippoo'a night attack 
the regiment saved the life of Lord Corn- 
wallb by a timely retreat over the Canvery, 
when Captain Hunter had been wounded 
and carried into the sultan's redoubt. 

"Lord Comwallis," says Hunter, "bad 
&llen back with his small body-guard, 
and sent orders to the Fifty-eecond to re- 
treat, which orders were debvered to Cap- 
tain (the late general) Conran, next in com- 
mand of the regiment. At this time the 
men were under a galling fire from the 
enemy, and getting impatient, they called 
out intliehearingofCaptainConran, 'Had 
Captain Hunter been alive he would have 
ordered another -charge at those black 
rascals !' Conran said, ' Well, my lada, 
though I have received orders to retreat, 
yon shall have another, dash at themt' 
This chai^, in my opinion, was the saving 
of Lard Comwallis and tbe few troops be 
had with him. Had not the Fifty-second 
recrossed the Canvery, and by tbe greatest 
good Inck fallen in with Lord Comwallis, 
he must inevitably have been taken by 

In January, 1808, the Fiftj-8«Jond were 
made light infantry, and under their co- 
lonel, Major-Qeneral John Moore (the sub- 
sequent hero of Corunna), attained to a 
great efBciency at drill. At this period of 
threatened invasion it was found by expe- 
riment that ihe brigade could, on a sudden 
alarm, farm in column with baggage packed 
and tents struck, ready to move on, in the 

The first battalion of this highly efficient 
regiment sailed for Portugal in 1808, and 
soon distinguished itself at Vimiera, where 
they broke the left flank of the French and 
saved an English regiment that had pressed 
forward too far. "The Fifly-aecand were 
soon deep in the Peninsular war. At 
Corunna a company of the Fifty-second 
frequently formed the rear-guard of ihe 
divisions, as on the celebrated day, whem 
the military chest was abandoned and 
casks of dollars were thrown over the 
roadside preoipicea, the oxen being unable 
any longer to drag the carts. There was 
a scramble among the camp - foUowers 
when they arrived wb»e the dollara were 
falling in silver cascades, and tbe wife of 
the regimental master-tailor, Malony, got 
her share in the scramble. Her foot slipped, 
however, as she stepped from the boat to the 
ship's side at Coronna, and down she went 
like a shot, with all her dollars. 



[ jdm k. 13TJJ 207 

Major - General Di^le of tbe Fifty- 
Becond, tslkiiig of this terrible retreat, de- 
■onbes how, when he was falling to the 
Tear, fooi^«ore and fatignad, a worthy sol- 
dier's wife, named Sally Macau, whipped 
off her garters to tie on the soles of his 
boots, and tfaiu saved him from the French 
sabres. " A jear or two afl«rwKrdt," najB 
he, " I repaid Sally's kindness by giving 
her a lift on my hoise the morning afW 
I she bad given birth to a diild in tbe 
bivonac" At the battle of Gomnna the 
regiment lost five rank and file, while 
ninety men were missing. In the retreat 
tbey had lost one bngler, and ninety-two 
nude aaiA file, and thirty men in one day 
perished in the hospital 

To join Sir Arthur, at Talarera, 1809, 
the Fifty-second, nnder Brigadier- General 
Craofnrd, made tbe longest fbroed march 
we believe on record, fifty-two milee in 
twenty - six honrg, in eioesdvely hot 
weather, each man oarrying nearly sixty 
ponnds of arms and acoontrements. The 
three regimmte ( Fifty- seoond, Forty-third, 
and Ninety-fiflh BiEes) lost in this maroh 
<mly seventeen skag^lere. 

At Bnsaco, when Simon's calnmn ad- 
vanced Dp the Sierra, and the Fifty-second 
advanced to the charge, Captain William 
Jones of die Fifty-second, a fiery Welsh- 
man, generallv known as "Jac^ Jones," 
rosbed at tbe French chef de bataillon, who 
was calling to his men, killed him on 
tbe spot with a blow of his sword, and im- 
mediately cnt ofi* a medal the chef wore, 
and fastened it on his own breast. Private 
Hopkins, of Bobert Campbell's company, 
and Private Harris, captured the French 
General Simon ; both brave men got 
pensions, the latter somewhat tardily. 

When the Light Division assembled at 
Aazmda to follow Massena's retreat, a 
man of the Fiity-seoond, named Tobin 
(says Captain Moorsom in hie excellent 
record of tbe regiment), in the company 
commanded by Lieotenant James Fre- 
derick liove, was foond to be absent, and 
waa about to be reported as a dseerter. 
liieatenant Love, who knew the man well, 
and was therefore convinced he was not a 
deserter, bnt must have been killed or 
taken prisoner, had bim reported as missing. 
A few days afterwards, when the division 
was on ^e, mardi, this man rejoined his 
company, and when asked where he had 
been, replied with a brogae, that he had 
been "on a visit to the French giniral." 
Lieatenant Love, not satisfied with this, 
asoerlained from him, that between the 

French and English ont-pickets there waa 
a wine-booBe and still, at which the patrols 
need to meet and take their grog ; bnt one 
night, drinking more than he ought, he fell 
B^eep and waa laken by a patrol not ac- 
qnainted with the arrangement, and tbe 
better to make his escape, he said he was 
a deeerter. Some time before the battle 
of Fnentee, an Irish aide-de-camp of Mas- 
sena, sent in with a flag of tmce, asked 
to see Tobin, gave bim a dollar, uid 
then told the story of his visit to Massena. 
Tbe soldier had answered with clearness 
the qnestiiKis put to him, until asked what 
was the strength of the Light Division. 
Hare the poor fellow was at faalt^ and not 
wishing ibat his division shonld be poorly 
thongbt of, he replied in an off-hand Iri^ 
way, "Tin thoneand!" upon which, the 
marshal, irritated, ezolaimed, " Take him 
away — tbe lying rascal !" Tobin, seeing 
that tbe genersl was uigry, s