—














f atom's ttag si $m Statin.
THE BAKED HEAD,
And Other Tales.
Now firft Collected,
And forming the Second Yffi'^&^'t&fcubnirJt
New York:
G. P. Putnam & Co., 321 Broadway.
1856.


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Contents.
MM
Story of the Baked Head, 1
The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. 80
Elkanah Smithers, jun., ;•;;:.> '- .'. » ••• % J;Cl'.« • 48
Infatuation, . . . !"'"'•'••• • . 68
An Ordeal, . . . . i.'J ••;'">•; V_ • . .83
A Royal Whim, . . . , .' , ,^ ",.T ",.,'.+ . . 119
A Story of Sweden, . . • . -. \".'\ ..".". I \ '-. .. . . 140
Major O'Shaughnessy's Adventure on the Duke's Moor, . . 161
A Cock-Fight in the Havana, 172
Angelica Staggers, . 188
The Fall of the Janissaries, 199
Leaves from the Diary of a Law Clerk, . .• . . .217
The Golden Guillotine, 286
Edward Drysdale, 288
The Story of the Unfinished Picture, ...... 800






Story of the Baked Head.
c
he present Khon-khor* of Roum is a staunch Mus-
sulman, and a rigid upholder of the true faith.
Upon his coming to the throne, he announced his
intention of doing away with many customs common to the
infidels, which had crept into the administration of the state
during the reign of his predecessor; and he thought it his
duty to endeavor to restore things to their primitive sim-
plicity, and to adopt a mode of government purely Turkish.
Accordingly he resumed a custom which had almost got
into disuse—that of going about the city in tebdil, or dis-
guise; and he was so careful about the disguises which he
adopted, and the people whom he admitted into his secrets
on these occasions, that he took all sorts of precautions,
and invented all sorts of schemes of secresy, in whatever
related to his dresses, and the characters in which he chose
to appear.
It is not long ago that considerable discontent prevailed
throughout Turkey, and rebellion threatened to break out
• Khon-khor, literally "blood drinker;" bo the sultan of Roum, or
Turkey, is styled in Persia.


8 IJtrfnHm's Stag gTibrarg.
in Constantinople itself. He was then very anxious to
ascertain the temper of the public mind; and, in his usual
wary manner, determined to get a suit made that would
make him undiscoverable by even his own immediate
attendants.
He usually sent for different tailors at different times,
and in different places. On this occasion, he ordered his
favorite slave, the white eunuch, Mansouri, to bring him
one of no repute, with all the requisite secresy, at midnight,
in order that he might receive instructions about a dress.
The slave, in great humility, made his bash ustum (on
my head be it), and went his way to execute the com-
mand.
Close to the gate of the Bezesten, or cloth-market, he
saw an old man in a stall so narrow that he could scarce
turn himself about in it, who was taken up in patching an
old cloak. He was almost bent double with constant
labor at his shop-board; and his eyes seemed not to have
benefited by his application, for a pair of glasses were
mounted on his nose. "This is precisely the man I want,"
said the slave to himself: "I am sure he can be of no
repute." So intent was he upon his work, that he did not
heed the salutation of "Peace be with you, friend!" with
which Mansouri accosted him; and when he did look up,
and saw the well-dressed personage who he thought had
spoken, he continued his work without making the usual
reply; for he could not suppose that the salutation was
meant for such a poor devil as he.
However, finding that he was the object of the eunuch's
attention, he doffed the spectacles, threw away his work,
and was about getting on his legs, when he was stopped,
aad requested not to disturb himself.
"What is your name?" said Mansouri.
"Abdallah," said the tailor, "at your service; but I am


Stag of % iaktb |rab. 9
generally called Babadul by my friends, and the world at
large."
"You are a tailor, are you not?" continued the slave.
"Yes," said the other; "I am a tailor as well as the
muezzin at the little mosque in the fish-market. What
more can I do?"
"Well, Babadul," said Mansouri, "have you a mind for
a job—a good job?"
"Am I a fool," answered the old man, "that I should
dislike it? Say what it is."
"Softly, my friend," remarked the eunuch; "we must
go on slow and sure. Will you suffer yourself to be led
blindfolded, at midnight, wherever I choose to take you,
for a job?"
"That's another question," said Badabul; "times are
•critical, heads fly in abundance, and a poor tailor's may go
as well as a vizier's or a capitan pacha's. But pay me
well, and I believe I would make a suit of clothes for Eblis,
the foul fiend, himself."
"Well, then, you agree to my proposal?" said the
eunuch, who at the same time put two pieces of gold in
his hand.
"Yes, most surely," said Babadul, "I agree. Tell me
what I am to do, and you may depend upon me."
Accordingly they settled between them that the eunuch
was to come to the stall at midnight, and lead him away
blindfolded.
Babadul, being left alone, continued his work, wondering
what could be the job upon which he was to be so myste-
riously employed; and, anxious to make his wife a partaker
of the news of his good luck, he shut up his stall earlier
than usual, and went to his house, that was situated not far
from the little mosque in the fish-market, of which he was
the muezzin.
1*


10 Dulnam's Stlorg Jpfrrarg.
Old Dilferlb, Us wife, was almost as much bent double
as her husband; and in consequence of the two gold
pieces, and in contemplation of more which they expected
to receive, they treated themselves to a dish of smoking
kabobs, a salad, dried grapes, and sweetmeats, after which
they consoled themselves with some of the hottest and most
bitter coffee which the old woman could make.
True to his appointment, Babadul was at his stall at
midnight, where he was as punctually met by Mansouri.
Without any words, the former permitted himself to be
blindfolded, whilst the latter led him away by the hand,
making many and devious turns, until they reached the
imperial seraglio; there, stopping only to open the private
iron gate, Mansouri introduced the tailor into the very
heart of the sultan's private apartments. The bandage
over his eyes was taken off in a dark chamber, lighted up
only by a small lamp, which stood on the shelf surround-
ing the top of the room, but which was splendidly fur-
nished by sofas of the richest brocade, and by carpets of
the most costly manufacture. Here Babadul was com-
manded to sit, until Mansouri returned with a bundle,
wrapped in a large shawl handkerchief; this being opened,
a sort of dervish's dress was displayed to the tailor, and he
was requested to look at it, to consider how long he would
be making such a one, and then to return it again, duly
folded up, to its shawl covering. In the meanwhile, Man-
souri told him to stay there until he should return to take
him away again, and then left him.
Babadul, having turned the dress over and over again,
calculated each stitch, and come to its proper conclusions,
packed it up in the handkerchief as he had been com-
manded; but no sooner had he done this, than a man of
lofty demeanor and appearance, whose look made the poor
tailor shrink within himself, came into the room, took up


Storg of % UbIuJ> $tsb. 11
the bundle, and walked away with it, without uttering a
single word.
A few minutes after, as Babadul was pondering over the
strangeness of his situation, and just recovering from the
effects of this apparition, a door opened in another part of
the apartment, and a mysterious figure, richly dressed,
came in, bearing a bundle, equally covered with a shawl,
about the size of that which had just been taken away;
and making the lowest prostrations before the tailor, in
great apparent trepidation, approached him, placed it at
his feet, kissed the ground, and retreated without saying a
word, or even looking up.
"Well," said Babadul to himself, "this may be some-
thing very fine, and I may be some very great personage,
for aught I know; but this is very certain, that I had
rather be patching my old cloak in the stall than doing
this job, however grand and lucrative it may be. Who
knows what I may have been brought here for? These
comings in and goings out of strange-looking people, appa-
rently without tongues in their heads, do not argue well.
I wish they would give me fewer bows and a.greater supply
of words, from'which I might learn what I am to get by
all this. I have heard of poor women having been sewn
up in sacks and thrown into the sea. Who knows? per-
haps I am destined to be the tailor on such an occasion."
He had scarcely got thus far in his soliloquy, when the
slave Mansouri re-entered the room, and told him, without
more words, to take up the bundle; which having done, his
eyes were again blindfolded, and he was led to the spot
from whence he came. Babadul, true to his agreement,
asked no questions, but agreed with the slave that in three
days the dress should be ready for delivery at his stall, for
which he was to receive ten more pieces of gold.
Having got rid of his companion, he proceeded with all


12 fjtrfram's Jfctorg ^ibrarg.
haste to his house, where he knew his wife would be impa-
tiently waiting his return; and as he walked onwards he
congratulated himself that at length he had succeeded in
getting indeed a job worth the having, and that his fate
had finally turned up something good for his old age. It
was about two o'clock in the morning when he reached the
door of his house. He was received by his wife with ex-
pressions of great impatience at his long absence; but when
he held up the bundle to her face, as she held up the lamp
to his, and when he said, "Mujdeh, give me a reward for
good news: see, I have got my work, and a handsome
reward we shall get when it is finished," she was all smiles
and good humor.
"Leave it there till we get up, and let us go to bed
now," said the tailor.
"No, no," said the wife; "I must look at what you
have got before I retire, or I shall not be able to sleep;"
upon which, whilst he held up the lamp, she opened the
bundle. Guess, guess at the astonishment of the tailor and
his wife, when, instead of seeing a suit of clothes, they dis-
covered, wrapped in a napkin, in its most horrid and
ghastly state, a human head! *
It fell from the old woman's hands, and rolled away some
paces, whilst the horror-struck couple first hid their faces
with their hands, and then looked at each other with coun-
tenances which nothing can describe.
"Work!" cried the wife, " work, indeed! pretty work
you have made of it! . Was it necessary to go so far, and
to take such precautions, to bring this misfortune on our
heads? Did you bring home this dead man's head to
make a suit of clothes of?"
"Anna senna! Saba senna! Curses be on his mother!
Perdition seize his father!" exclaimed the poor tailor, "for
bringing me into this dilemma. My heart misgave me as


StaS of % iaktb f tab. 13
that dog of an eunuch talked of blindfoldings and silence
to me: I thought, as true as I am a Turk, that the job
could not consist only in making a suit of clothes; and sure
enough this dog's son has tacked a head to it. Allah!
Allah! what am I to do now? I know not the way to
his home, or else I would take it back to him immediately,
and throw it in his face. We shall have the bostangi bashi,
and a hundred other bashis, here in a minute, and we shall
be made to pay the price of blood; or, who knows, be
hung, or drowned, or impaled! What shall we do, eh,
Dilferib, my soul, say?"
"Do!" said his wife; "get rid of the head, to be sure:
we have no more right to have it palmed upon us than any-
body else."
"But the day will soon dawn," said the tailor, "and
then it will be too late. Let us be doing something at once."
"A thought has struck me," said the old woman. "Our
neighbor, the baker, Hassan, heats his oven at this hour,
and begins soon after to bake his bread for his morning's
customers. He frequently has different sorts of things to
bake from the neighboring houses, which are placed near
the oven's mouth over night: suppose I put this head into
one of our earthen pots and send it to be baked; nobody
will find it out until it is done, and then we need not send
for it, so it will remain on the baker's hands."
Badabul admired his wife's sagacity, and forthwith she
put her plan into execution. When the head had been
placed in a baking-pan, she watched a moment when no-
body was at hand, and set it on the ground, in the same
row with the other articles that were to be inserted in
Hassan's oven. The old couple then double-barred the
door of their house, and retired to rest, comforting them-
selves with the acquisition of the fine shawl and napkin in
which the head had been wrapped.


14 ^trfnam's &torg ipbrarg.
The baker Hassan and his son Mahmud were heating
their oven, inserting therein thorns, chips, and old rubbish,
at a great rate, when their attention was arrested by the
extraordinary whinings and barking of a dog, that was a
constant customer at the oven for stray bits of bread, and
much befriended by Hassan and his son, who were noted
for being conscientious Mussulmans.
"Look, Mahmud," said the father to the son; "see what
is the matter with the dog; something extraordinary is in
the wind."
The son did what his father bade him; and seeing no
reason for the dog's noises, said, "JBir chey yok, There is
nothing," and drove him away.
But the howlings not ceasing, Hassan went himself, and
found the dog most extremely intent upon smelling and
pointing at the tailor's pipkin. He jumped upon Hassan,
then at the pot, then upon Hassan again, until the baker
no longer doubted that the beast took great interest in its
contents. He therefore gently drew off the lid, when, need
I mention his horror and surprise at seeing a human head
staring him in the face?
"Allah! Allah!" cried the baker; but being a man of
strong nerves, instead of letting it fall, as most people
would have done, he quietly put on the lid again, and called
his son to him.
"Mahmud," said he, "this is a bad world, and there are
bad men in it. Some wicked infidel has sent a man's head
to bake; but, thanks to our good fortune, and to the dog,
our oven has been saved from pollution, and we can go on
making our bread with clean hands and clear consciences.
But since the devil is at work, let others have a visit from
him as well as ourselves. If it be known that we have had
a dead man's head to bake, who will ever employ us again?
We must starve, we must shut up our oven; we shall get


Stag of l	 gfaktb j|«t&. 15
the reputation of mixing up our dough with human grease,
and if perchance a hair is found, it will immediately be said
that it came from the dead man's beard."
Mahmud, a youth of about twenty, who partook of his
father's insensibility and coolness, and who, moreover, had
a great deal of dry humor and ready wit, looked upon the
incident in the light of a good joke, and broke out into a
hearty laugh when he saw the ugly picture which the
grinning head made, set in its earthen frame.
"Let us pop it into the shop of Kior Ali, the barber
opposite," said the youth: "he is just beginning to open it;
and as he has but one eye, we shall be better able to do so
without being seen. Do, father," said Mahmud, "let me;
nobody shall discover me; and let it be done before there
is more daylight."
The father consented; and Mahmud, catching the mo-
ment when the barber had walked to the corner of the
street to perform certain ablutions, stepped into his shop,
and placed the head on a sort of takcheh, or bracket on
the wall, arranged some shaving towels about it, as if it
had been a customer ready seated to be shaved, and, with
a boy's mischief in his heart, stepped back to his oven
again, to watch the effects which this new sort of customer
would have upon the blind barber.
Kior Ah hobbled into his shop, which was but ill
lighted by a glimmering of daylight, that hardly pierced
through the oil-papered windows, and, looking about him,
saw this figure, as he supposed, seated against the wall,
ready to be operated upon.
"Ha! peace be unto you!" said he to it; "you are
rather early this morning; I did not see you at first. My
water is not yet hot. Oh! I see you want your head
shaved; but why do you take off your fese (skull-cap) so
soon? you will catch cold." Then he paused. "No


16 f ntrram's Statu $iters.
answer," said the barber to himself. "I suppose he is
dumb, and deaf too, perhaps. Well, I am half blind, so we
are nearly upon equal terms; however, if I were even to
lose my other eye," addressing himself to the head, "I dare
say, my old uncle, I could shave you for all that; for my
razor would glide as naturally over your head, as a draught
of good wine does over my throat."
He went methodically about his preparations; he took
down his tin basin from a peg, prepared his soap, then
stropped his razor on the long bit of leather that was fas-
tened to his girdle. Having made his lather, he walked
up to the supposed customer, holding the basin in his left
hand, whilst his right was extended to sprinkle the first
preparation of water on the sconce. No sooner had he
placed his hand on the cold head, than he withdrew it as
if he had been burnt. "Eh! why, what's the matter with
you, friend?" said the barber; "you are as cold as a piece
of ice." But when he attempted a second time to lather
it, down it came with a terrible bounce from the shelf to
the floor, and made the poor shaver jump quite across his
shop with the fright.
"Aman! aman! O mercy! mercy!" cried Kior Ali,
as he thrust himself into the furthermost corner without
daring to move. "Take my shop, my razors, my towels—
take all I have; but don't touch my life! If you are the
Shaitan, speak; but excuse my shaving you!"
But when he found that all was hushed after the cata-
strophe, and that nothing was to be feared, he approached
the head, and taking it up by the lock of hair at the top,
he looked at it in amazement. "A head, by all the
imams!" said he, accosting it; "and how did you get
here? Do you want to disgrace me, you filthy piece of
flesh? but you shall not! Although Kior Ali has lost one
eye, yet his other is a sharp one, and knows what it is


Stag of % fakta jgjtttb. . 17
about. I would give you to the baker Hassan there, if his
rogue of a son, who is now looking this way, was not even
sharper than this self-same eye; but now I think of it, I
will take you where you can do no harm. The Giaour
Yanaki, the Greek kabobchi* (roast-meat man), shall have
you, and shall cut you up into mincemeat for his infidel
customers." Upon this, Kior Ali, drawing in one hand, in
which he carried the head, through the slit on the sides of
his beniche, or cloak, and taking up his pipe in the other,
walked down two streets to the shop of the aforesaid
Greek.
He frequented it in preference to that of a Mussulman,
because he could here drink wine with impunity. From
long practice, he knew precisely where the provision of
fresh meat was kept; and, as he entered the shop, casting
his eye furtively round, he threw the head in a dark corner,
behind one of the large sides of a sheep that'was to be
used for the kabobs of the day. No one saw him perform
this feat; for the morning was still sufficiently obscure to
screen him. He lighted his pipe at Yanaki's charcoal fire,
and, as a pretext for his visit, ordered a dish of meat to be
sent to him for breakfast; a treat to which he thought him-
self fully entitled after his morning's adventure.
Yanaki, meanwhile, having cleaned his platters, put his
skewers in order, lit his fires, made his sherbets, and swept
out his shop, went to the larder for some meat for the
shaver's breakfast. Yanaki was a true Greek—cunning,
cautious, deceitful; cringing to his superiors, tyrannical
towards his inferiors; detesting with a mortal hatred his
proud masters, the Osmanlies, yet fawning, flattering, and
* The kabob shops at Constantinople are eating-houses, where, at a
moment's notice, a dish of roast meat, and small bits of meat done on
skewers, are served up to whoever asks for them.


18- |totarm'g Slorg ^ikarg.
abject, whenever any of them, however low in life, deigned
to take notice of him. Turning over his stock, he looked
about for some old bits that might serve the present pur-
pose, muttering to himself that any carrion was good enough
for a Turk's stomach. He surveyed his half sheep from
top to bottom; felt it, and said, " No, this will keep;" but
as he turned up its fat tail, the eye of the dead man's head
caught his eye, and made him start, and step back some
paces. "As ye love your eyes," exclaimed he, "who is
there?" Receiving no answer, he looked again and again;
then nearer—then, thrusting his hand among sheep's heads
and trotters, old remnants of meat, and the like, he pulled
out the head—the horrid head—which he held extended at
arm's length, as if he were afraid that it would do him
mischief. "Anathemas attend your beard!" exclaimed
Yanaki, as soon as he discovered, by the tuft of hair on the
top, that it had belonged to a Mussulman. "Och! if I had
but every one of your heads in this manner, ye cursed race
of Omar! I would rnake kabobs of them, and every cur
in Constantinople should get fat for nothing. May ye all
come to this end! May the vultures feed on your car-
cases! and may every Greek have the good fortune which
has befallen me this day, of having one of your worthless
skulls for his football!" Upon which, in his rage, he threw
it down and kicked it from him; but, recollecting himself,
he said, "But after all, what shall I do with it? If it is
seen here, I am lost for ever: nobody will believe but what
I have killed a Turk."
All of a sudden he cried out, in a sort of malicious
ecstasy, "'Tis well I remembered—the Jew! the Jew!
—a properer place for such a head was never thought or
heard of; and there you shall go, thou vile remnant of a
Mahomedan!"
Upon which he seized it, and, hiding it under his coat,


Stas of % §vk1> f tab. 19
ran with it down the street to where the dead body of a
Jew lay extended, with its head placed immediately
between its legs.
In Turkey, when a Mahomedan is beheaded, his head
is placed under his arm, by way of an honorable distinction
from the Christian or Jew, who, when a similar misfortune
befalls them, have theirs inserted between their legs, as
close to the seat of dishonor as possible.
It was in that situation, then, that Yanaki placed the
Turk's head, putting it as near, cheek by jowl, with the
Jew's as the hurry of the case would allow. He had
been able to effect this without being seen, because the day
was still but little advanced, and no one stirring; and he
returned to his shop, full of exultation at having been able
to discharge his feelings of hatred against his oppressors,
by placing one of their heads on the spot in nature, which,
according to his estimation, was the most teeming with
opprobrium.
The unfortunate sufferer on this occasion had been
accused of stealing and putting to death a Mahomedan
child (a ceremony in their religion which they have been
known to practise both in Turkey and Persia), and which
created such an extraordinary tumult among the mob of
Constantinople, that, in order to appease it, he had been
decapitated. His execution had taken place purposely
before the door of a wealthy Greek, and the body was
ordered to remain there three days before it was permitted
to be carried away for interment. The expectation that
the Greek would be induced to pay down a handsome
sum, in order that this nuisance might be removed from
his door, and save him from the ill luck which such an
object is generally supposed to bring, made the officer in-
trusted with the execution prefer this spot to every other.
But, careless of the consequences, the Greek shut up the


20 $ntnam'g Stag f&rHrg.
windows of his house, determined to deprive his oppressors
of their expected perquisite; and so the dead Jew re-
mained exposed his full time. Few excepting those of the
true faith ventured to approach the spot, fearful that the
Mahomedan authorities would, in their wanton propen-
sities to heap insults upon the Giaours, oblige some one of
them to carry the carcase to the place of burial; and thus
the horrid and disgusting object was left abandoned to
itself, and this had given an opportunity to the kabobchi,
Yanaki, to dispose of the head in the manner above related,
unseen and unmolested. But when, as the day advanced,
and as the stir of the streets became more active, this ad-
ditional head was discovered, the crowd which gathered
about it became immense. It was immediately rumored
that a miracle had been performed; for a dead Jew was
to be seen with two heads. The extraordinary intelligence
flew from mouth to mouth, until the whole city was in an
uproar, and all were running to see the miracle. The
Sanhedrim immediately pronounced that something extra-
ordinary was about to happen to their persecuted race.
Rabbins were to be seen running to and fro, and their
whole community was now poured around the dead body,
in expectation that he would perhaps arise, put on his
heads, and deliver them from the gripe of their op-
pressors.
But as ill luck would have it for them, a Janissary, who
had mixed in the crowd, and had taken a close survey of
the supernumerary head, exclaimed, in a mixture of doubt
and amazement, "Allah, Allah, il Allah! these are no in-
fidels' heads. One is the head of our lord and master, the
Aga of the Janissaries." Upon which, seeing more of his
companions, he called them to him, and making known his
discovery, they became violent with rage, and set off to
communicate the intelligence to their Orta.


Stag of % §SHfub Jtab. 21
The news spread like wildfire throughout *the whole
of the corps of the Janissaries, and a most alarming tumult
was immediately excited; for it seems that it was unknown
in the capital that their chief, to whom they were devotedly
attached, and one of their own selection, had been put to
death.
"What!" said they, "is it not enough to deal thus
treacherously with us, and deprive us of a chief to whom
we are attached; but we must be treated with the greatest
contempt that it is possible for men to receive? What!
the head of our most noble Aga of the Janissaries to be
placed upon the most ignoble part of a Jew! what are we
come to? We alone are not insulted; the whole of Islam
is insulted, degraded, debased. No. This is unheard of
insolence, a stain never to be wiped off, without the exter-
mination of the whole race. And what dog has done this
deed? How did the head get there? Is it that dog of a
Vizier's work, or have the Reis Effendi and those traitors
of Frank ambassadors been at work ?— Wallah, BiUah,
Tattah! by the holy Caaba, by the beard of Osman, and
by the sword of Omar, we will be revenged!"
We must leave the tumult to rage for a short time; we
must request the reader to imagine a scene, in which Jews
are flying in all directions, hiding themselves with great
precaution against enraged Turks, who, with expressions
like those just mentioned in their mouths, are to be seen
walking about in groups, armed to their teeth with pistols
and cimeters, and vowing vengeance upon everything
which came in their way. He must imagine a city of
narrow streets and low houses, thronged with a numerous
population, in dresses the most various in shape and the
most lively in colors, all anxious, all talking, all agog as
if something extraordinary was to happen; in the midst of
whom I will leave him, to take a look into the interior of


22 |)ttiratm'a Slorg f ibrarg.
the sultan's seraglio, and to inquire in what his eminency
himself had been engaged since we last noticed him.
On the very same night of the tailor's attendance, the
sultan had given a secret order for taking off the head of
the aga of the Janissaries (the fomenter of all the dis-
turbances which had lately taken place among his corps,
and consequently their idol); and so anxious was he about
its execution, that he had ordered it to be brought to him
the moment it was off. The man intrusted with the exe-
cution, upon entering the room where he had been directed
to bring the head, seeing some one seated, naturally took
him for the sultan, and, without daring to look up, he im-
mediately placed the burden at his feet, with the prostra-
tions which we have already described as having been per-
formed before the tailor. The sultan, who not a minute
before had taken away the bundle containing the dervish's
dress, had done so in the intention of deceiving his slave
Mansouri himself—so desirous was he of being unknown in
his new disguise even to him—and intended to have sub-
stituted another in its stead; but not calculating either upon
the reception of the head, or upon Mansouri's immediate
return to the tailor, he was himself completely puzzled how
to act when he found the tailor was gone, led off by his
slave. To have sent after them would have disconcerted
his schemes, and therefore he felt himself obliged to await
Mansouri's return, before he could get an explanation of
what had happened; for he knew that they would not have
gone away without the dress, and that dress he had then in
his possession. In the meanwhile, anxious and impatient
to know what had become of the expected head, he sent
for the officer who was intrusted with the execution; and
the astonishment of both may be imagined when an expla-
nation took place.
"By my beard," exclaimed the sultan, having thought


Stag of % §ab& )|ra&. 23
awhile within himself; "by my beard, the tailor must have
got the head!"
His impatience for Mansouri's return then became ex-
treme. In vain he fretted, fumed, and cried, "Allah!
Allah!" It did not make the slave return a minute the
sooner, who, good man, would have gone quietly to rest
had he not been called upon to appear before the sultan.
As soon as he was within hearing, he called out, "Ahi!
Mansouri, run immediately to the tailor—he has got the
head of the aga of the Janissaries instead of the dervish's
dress—run, fetch it without loss of time, or something un-
fortunate will happen!" He then explained how this un-
toward event had occurred. Mansouri now, in his'turn, felt
himself greatly embarrassed; for he only knew the road to
the tailor's stall, but was totally unacquainted with his
dwelling-house. However, rather than excite his master's
anxiety in a higher degree, he set off in quest of the tailor,
and went straight to his stall, in the hopes of hearing from
the neighbors where his house was. It was too early in
the day for the opening of the Bezestan, and except a
coffee-house that had just prepared for the reception of
customers, where he applied and could gain no intelligence,
he found himself completely at a stand-still. By the
greatest good luck, he recollected Babadul had told him
that he was the muezzin to the little mosque in the Fish
Market, and thither he immediately bent his steps. The
azan, or morning invitation to prayers, was now chanting
forth from all the minarets, and he expected that he might
catch the purloiner of the head in the very act of inviting
the faithful to prayers.
As he approached the spot, he heard an old broken and
tremulous voice, which he imagined might be Babadul's,
breaking the stillness of the morning by all the energy of
his lungs; and he was not mistaken, for as he stood under


24 fuirrem's Stats Pmtrg
the minaret, he perceived the ojd man walking round the
gallery which encircles it, with his hand applied to the
back of his ear, and with his mouth wide open, pouring out
his whole throat in the execution of his office. As soon as
the tailor saw Mansouri making signs to him, the pro-
fession of faith stuck in his throat; and between the fright
of being brought to account for the head, and the words
which he had to pronounce, it is said that he made so
strange a jumble, that some of the stricter Mussulmans, his
neighbors, who were paying attention to the call, professed
themselves quite scandalized at his performance. He de-
scended with all haste, and locking the door after him which
leads up the winding staircase, he met Mansouri in the
street. He did not wait to be questioned respecting the
fate of the horrid object, but at once attacked the slave
concerning the trick, as he called it, which had been put
upon him.
"Are you a man," said he, "to treat a poor emir like
me in the manner you have done, as if my house was a
charnel-house? I suppose you will ask me the price of
blood next?"
"Friend," said Mansouri, "what are you talking about?
do not you see that it has been a mistake?"
"A mistake, indeed!" cried the tailor, "a mistake done
on purpose to bring a poor man into trouble. One man
laughs at my stupid beard, and makes me believe that I am
to make a suit of clothes for him—another takes away the
pattern—and a third substitutes a dead man's head for it.
Allah! Allah! I have got into the hands of a pretty nest
of rogues, a set of ill-begotten knaves!"
Upon which Mansouri placed his hand upon the tailor's
mouth, and said, "Say no more, say no more; you are
getting deeper into the dirt. Do you know whom you are
abusing?"


Stos of % gab* %mb. 25
"I know not, nor care not," answered Babadul; "all I
know is, that whoever gives me a dead man's head for a
suit of clothes can only be an infidel dog."
"Do you call God's vicegerent upon earth, you old
demi-stitching, demi-praying fool, an infidel dog?" ex-
claimed Mansouri in a rage, which entirely made him
forget the precaution he had hitherto maintained concern-
ing his employer. "Are your vile lips to defile the name
of him who is the Alem penah, the refuge of the world?
What dirt are you eating, what ashes are you heaping
on your head? Come, no more words; tell me where
the dead man's head is, or I will take yours off' in his
stead."
Upon hearing this, the tailor stood with his mouth wide
open, as if the doors of his understanding had just been
unlocked.
"Aman, aman, mercy, mercy, O aga!" cried Baba-
dul to Mansouri, "I was ignorant of what I was saying.
Who would have thought it? Ass, fool, dolt, that I am,
not to have known better. Bismillah / in the name of the
Prophet, pray come to my house; your steps will be for-
tunate, and your slave's head will touch the stars."
"I am in a hurry, a great hurry," said Mansouri.
"Where is the head, the head of the aga of the Janis-
saries?"
When the tailor heard whose head it had been, and
recollected what he and his wife had done with it, his knees
knocked under him with fear, and he began to exude from
every pore. s
"Where is it, indeed?" said he. "Oh! what has come
upon us! Oh! what cursed kismet (fate) is this?"
"Where is it?" exclaimed the slave, again and again,
"where is it? speak quick!"
The poor tailor was completely puzzled what to say,
2


26 jpnfaam's Stag $ikarg.
and kept floundering from one answer to another until he
was quite entangled as in a net.
"Have you burnt it?"
"No."
"Hare you thrown it away?"
"No."
"Then, in the name of the Prophet, what have you
done with it? Have you eat it?"
"No."
"Is it lying in your house?"
"No."
"Is it hiding in any other person's house?"
"No."
Then at last, quite out of patience, the slave Mansoun
took Babadul by his beard, and shaking his head for him,
exclaimed with a roar, "Then tell me, you old dotard!
what is it doing?"
"It is baking,".answered the tailor, half choked. "I
have said it."
"Baking! did you say?" exclaimed the slave, in the
greatest amazement; "what did you bake it for? Are
you going to eat it?"
"True, I said; what would you have more?" answered
Babadul, "it is now baking." And then he gave a full
account of what he and his wife had done in the sad
dilemma in which they had been placed.
"Show me the way to the baker's," said Mansouri; "at
least we shall get it in its singed state, if we can get it in
no other. "Who ever thought of baking the head of the
aga of the Janissaries? Allah il Allah /"
They then proceeded to the baker Hassan's, who was
now about taking his bread from his oven. As soon as he
became acquainted with their errand, he did not hesitate
in telling all the circumstances attending the transmission


Stag of % 8 akra frail. 27
of the head from the pipkin to the barber's bracket; happy
to have had an opportunity of exculpating himself of what
might possibly have been brought up against him as a
crime.
The three (Mansouri, the tailor, and the baker) then
proceeded to the barber's, and inquired from him what he
had done with the head of his earliest customer.
Kior Ali, after some hesitation, made great assurances
that he looked upon this horrid object as a donation from
Eblis himself, and consequently that he had thought him-
self justified in transferring it over to the Giaour Yanaki,
who, he made no doubt, had already made his brother in-
fidels partake of it in the shape of kabobs. Full of wonder
and amazement, invoking the Prophet at each step, and
uncertain as to the result of such unheard-of adventures,
they then added the barber to their party, and proceeded
to Yanaki's cook-shop.
The Greek, confounded at seeing so many of the true
believers enter his house, had a sort of feeling that their
business was not of roast meat, but that they were in
search of meat of a less savory nature. As soon as the
question had been put to him concerning the head, he
stoutly denied having seen it, or knowing anything at all
concerning it.
The barber showed the spot where he had placed it,
and swore it upon the Koran.
Mansouri had undertaken the investigation of the point
in question, when they discovered symptoms of the extra-
ordinary agitation that prevailed in the city in consequence
of the discovery which had been made of the double-
headed Jew, and of the subsequent discovery that had
produced such great sensation among the whole corps of
Janissaries.
Mansouri, followed by the tailor, the baker, and the


28 ^ntnam'a Stars Jftbrarg.
barber, then proceeded to the spot where the dead Israelite
was prostrate; and there, to their astonishment, they each re-
cognised their morning visitor—the head so long sought after.
Yanaki, the Greek, in the meanwhile, conscious of what
was likely to befall him, without loss of time gathered what
money he had ready at hand, and fled the city.
"Where is the Greek?" said Mansouri, turning round
to look for him, in the supposition that he had joined his
party; "we must all go before the sultan."
"I dare say he is run off," said the barber. "I am not
so blind but I can see that he it is who gifted the Jew
with his additional head."
Mansouri now would have carried off the head; but,
surrounded as it was by a band of enraged and armed sol-
diers, who vowed vengeance upon him who had deprived
them of their chief, he thought it most prudent to with-
draw. Leading with him his three witnesses, he at once
proceeded to the presence of his master.
When Mansouri had informed the sultan of all that
had happened, where he had found the head of the aga of
the Janissaries, how it had got there, and of the tumult it
had raised, the reader may better imagine than I can
describe the state of the monarch's mind. To tell the
story with all its particulars he felt would be derogatory
to his dignity, for it was sure to cover him with ridicule;
but at the same time to let the matter rest as it now stood
was impossible, because the tumult would increase until
there would be no means of quelling it, and the affair
might terminate by depriving him of his crown, together
with his life.
He remained in a state of indecision for some time,
twisting up the ends of his mustachios, and muttering
"Allah! Allah!" in low ejaculations, until at length he
ordered the prime vizier and the mufti to his presence.


Slorg of % iaktlr $tab. 29
Alarmed by the abruptness of the summons, these two
great dignitaries arrived at the imperial gate in no enviable
state of mind; but when the sultan had informed them of
the tumult then raging in the capital, they resumed their
usual tranquillity.
After some deliberation it was resolved, that the tailor,
the baker, the barber, and the kabobchi, should appear
before the tribunal of the mufti, accused of having entered
into a conspiracy against the aga of the Janissaries, and
stealing his head, for the purposes of baking, shaving, and
roasting it, and that they should be condemned to pay the
price of his blood; but as the kabobchi had been the im-
mediate cause of the tumult by treating the head with such
gross and unheard-of insult, and as he was a Greek and an
infidel, it was further resolved that the mufti should issue a
fetwah, authorizing his head to be cut off, and placed on
the same odious spot where he had exposed that of the aga
of the Janissaries.
It was then agreed between the sultan and his grand
vizier, that, in order to appease the Janissaries, a new aga
should be appointed who was agreeable to them, and that
the deceased should be buried with becoming distinction.
All this (except killing the Greek, who had fled) was done,
and tranquillity again restored to the city. But it must
further be added, to the honor of the sultan, that he not
only paid every expense which the tailor, the baker, and
the barber were condemned to incur, but also gave them
each a handsome reward, for the difficulties into which
they had so unfortunately been thrown.



The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing.
ytff lematis Cottage, in the suburbs of a little market-
IJ , town, which we, for many and good reasons, shall
^-^ call Brackenbury, acknowledging it to be an alias
for its real name, had been vacant many months. The
Brackenbury Journal profited thereby; for every week
there appeared in its front page an advertisement headed
"Delightful Abode" in capital letters, and assuring any-
body and everybody who wished to enjoy life 
 a cottage
at a "low figure," that Clematis Cottage was the ne plus
ultra of small convenient houses. It was pleasantly situated
in its own grounds, consisting of a quarter of an acre laid*
out in the most scientific manner. It was detached from all
other houses, but was conveniently situated near to an inn,
where good accommodation was offered to man and beast,
and where there was a good ordinary provided every Sun-
day at two o'clock. Moreover, it had the most desirable
of all desirables, a pump of excellent water.
The Brackenburyans in general, like the landlord of Cle-
matis Cottage in particular, were surprised that no one
answered this enticing advertisement. Was the world
blind? or was the circulation of the Brackenbury Journal


&	 WsAi va 9>	z$'t Clofljhtg. 81
too limited? The owner of the desirable premises thought
it was possible; so, without apologizing to the editor, he
spent "seven bob," as he called seven shillings, on an adver-
tisement in the "Times."
The first advertisement brought several applicants, but
as the owner of the cottage, Mr. Punks, asked the extra-
vagant rent of forty pounds a year, nobody would take it.
Mr. Punks then sent to the Times a "pious " advertisement,
to see if better luck would attend that plan. The pious
advertisement appeared, and Punks read it to his wife, as
follows.
"TO PIOUS PEOPLE.—In Brackenbury the pure
Word is preached. A seat in the Ebenezer Chapel may be
procured, and a comfortable cottage, within five minutes'
walk of it, rented at a moderate price, by applying to Perci-
val Punks, deacon of the said chapel."
"What do you think of that, marm ?" asked Punks of
his wife.
"No go," said the lady. "Seven shillings thrown
away."
"You'll see, marm, you'll see," said Punks. "Keep an
eye on the shop. I'll return the paper and be off to the
railway."
"I think there may be something in it, after all," said
Mrs. Punks, musingly. "There is nothing like gammon in
this world. How would Spiffen & Co. have avoided bank-
ruptcy if they had not sold three-shilling blankets for
five shillings each for the use of the poor slaves in the
West Indies? We never did much ourselves till we
gave up—that is, pretended to give up—slave-grown
sugars. Punks, you are right for once. Gammon for
ever!"
So much was the mind of the groceress engaged in spe-


32 ^nhram's Stag ITtbrarjj
culating on the result of her husband's ingenuity, that she
inadvertently committed many grievous errors during the
day. She supplied her customers with common congou at
three-and-nine for the best gunpowder at six-and-three, and
substituted coarse lump at ten-and-a-half, for best loaf at
thirteen-and-a-farthing—all her errors were fortunately on
the right side for her.
While his wife was giving way to this profitable state
of mental aberration, Punks was walking up and down the
platform of the Brackenbury station, waiting the arrival of
the down trains. He eagerly inspected every one that got
out, but without success. He knew all the arrivals to be
inhabitants of the town or its neighborhood, and was aware
that all of them were suited with houses.
At last the five o'clock train arrived at twenty-five mi-
nutes and a half past that hour. From a first-class carriage
alighted a middle-aged gentleman, who was followed by a
middle-aged lady. They were both of them modestly
attired in dark suits, plainly made up, but of the best mate-
rials. As the gentleman drew out his silk-handkerchief
from his pocket, he drew out with it sundry bits of printed
paper, which fluttered about the platform in all direc-
tions.
Punks picked up one that fell at his feet, and saw that it
was a religious tract.
"That's my man," said Punks. "I'm off home to re-
ceive him; has he brought any luggage, I wonder?"
He saw two very large portmanteaus extracted from the
luggage-van, and deposited at the feet of the pious pair, and
ran off home.
"All right," said Punks, as he entered his back parlor.
"They'll be here in a minute."
"Who'll be here in a minute ?" inquired Mrs. Punks.
"My new tenants—as nice a pair of pious, middle-aged


Kfet Moll m %fjr's Ctaffeing. S3
ones as you ever set eyes on. Give me a clean cravat and
my best coat," said Punks.
"Have you told them the rent ?" asked his wife.
"I haven't spoke to them," said Punks, undressing him-
self as far as his coat and neckcloth went.
"How do you know, then, that they are coming about
the cottage ?" asked his wife.
"By instinct—but you'll see. Shall I do? Do I look
like a deacon, eh?" said Punks. •
"Comb your hair down, straighten and tuck in your
shirt-collar—there, that will do. Bless me, here are a gen-
tleman and lady, nice, solid-looking people, crossing the road
to our door," said Mrs. Punks.
"Show them in here," said Punks, sitting down before
a monthly Missionaries' Magazine, and pretending to be
deep in its contents.
"If you can spare the time, my dear," said Mrs. Punks,
"a lady and gentleman wish to speak to you."
"I am busy, very busy in spiritual matters, but if they
cannot call to-morrow or next week, I will lay aside my oc-
cupations, and hear what they have to say," said Punks in
awfully solemn tones.
"They are come about the cottage, my dear," said Mrs.
Punks, still holding the little parlor door in her hand, and
having her applicants close to her elbow.
"Cottage ?—what cottage?" said Punks.
"Clematis Cottage, I suppose," replied his wife.
"Dear, dear, oh, dear!" groaned Punks, "the number
of applications that I have had for that sweet little spot!
really it is very tiresome—but admit them."
The gentleman and lady entered the little back-parlor,
and took the chairs to which Punks pointed.
"I am here," said the gentleman, "in consequence of
an—"
2*


34 |)ttltt8m's Storg JTtbrarg.
"Advertisement in the Times, you would say. I am
really very sorry you did not make an earlier application,"
said Punks.
"Why, I came down the moment I read it in the papers,"
said the man.
"Four trains in before you came," said Punks. "Not
less than forty or fifty applicants for Clematis Cottage in
each of them."
"Is it let then?" inquired the lady.
"Why, not exactly let, marm; references of respecta-
bility required, you know, and all that sort of thing—but
the beauty and conveniency of the spot, and"
"We do not care for them, sir," said the gentleman,
solemnly. "Its approximation to a place of worship, where
the pure word can be heard, was our chief inducement to
come down and visit it."
"The rent is really very moderate," said Punks, "and
the water remarkably salubrious."
"Could we see the premises?" asked the lady.
"Undoubtedly, marm; wearied as I am with walking
over it so often to-day, I will show it to you myself," said
Punks.
"Perhaps you would allow us to deposit our trunks in
your warehouse," said the gentleman. "If the cottage
should suit us, and you are inclined to accept us as your
tenants, we should much like to take possession of it at once."
"But furniture, my dear sir?"
"You have tradesmen—upholsterers in Brackenbury, I
presume."
"Lots," said Punks.
"And of the right way of thinking?" asked the lady.
"Independents to the back-bone, who submit to have
their goods seized rather than pay a church-rate," said
Punks.


%	 Moll in SHptp't C!rffeing. 35
"Worthy men," said the gentleman ; "lead on, sir."
Punks led the way, and made many pious remarks as
they walked along. He was delighted at the reception
which his remarks met with from his hearers, and after ex-
patiating on the merits of the preacher at Ebenezer, which
he pointed out to them as he passed it, he proceeded to
launch out in praise of the cottage to let.
"There's a room for a hymn, marm," said he, letting
them into the little front-parlor. ".There's a something holy
in the very echo!"
"Nice little place enough," said the lady, "and the floor
very clean considering the number of people that have
inspected it, and that there is no door-mats and a very bad
scraper."
"A-humph !" coughed Punks, for he did not know what
to say, and so pretended that he did not hear the re-
mark.
"A very retired and very pleasant spot, suited to sober
meditation. What say you, Martha? will it do ?" said the
gentleman.
"It wants a deal of repair," said the lady.
"Consider the rent, marm! only sixty pounds a year,
and within five minutes' walk of Ebenezer, where the pure
word is preached, and a seat secured," said Punks.
"Say fifty," said the gentleman.
Punks shook his head negatively.
"That is too much by twenty pounds," said the lady.
"Let us look a little further."
"Make it guineas and it's yours," said Punks, "provided
the references are satisfactory."
The gentleman and lady talked together for a few mi-
nutes, during which Punks was trying to appear cool and
unconcerned, though in reality he was in a state of nervous
agitation, difficult to be disguised.


36 g)nhmm's Stag fibrarg.
"We think it very highly rented," said the gentleman,
"but as money is no object to us"
"I wish I had stuck to sixty," said Punks to himself.
"And in consideration of the blessed advantages attached
to it"
"Pump of splendid water!" said Punks aloud.
"And of obtaining immediate possession of it, we will
close with you. Here is my card."
"Ahem !—Mr. Jabez Worthington—good name," said
Punks. "Alderbury—respectable place. Name your friend."
"The firm, sir, of which I am senior partner; Worth-
ington, Dubs, and Trumps—general agents—call there and
ask for Trumps, and if he don't satisfy you of my respecta-
bility, nobody else can do it," said Mr. Worthington.
"That'll do—up by train to-morrow. Meanwhile, what
will you do?" said Punks.
"Put up at the inn," said Mrs. Worthington.
"No, no ; good accommodations for man and horse, but
not for a respectable married couple. Our first floor is now
to let, and is unoccupied. You shall have it till the cottage
is furnished. Ten shillings a day, maid and cooking
included, won't hurt you," said Punks, always on the look-
out for a chance.
"We are deeply indebted to you, sir," said Mrs. Worth-
ington.
"Now, marm, now, sir, we will return and put you in
possession of your snug little apartments," said Punks, as
he locked the door of Clematis Cottage, put the key in his
pocket, and led the way to his shop.
As the rooms were quite ready, Mr. and Mrs. Worth-
ington walked into them at once, and desired that their
luggage—merely the few things that they had brought
down with them for a change or two—might be carried
upstairs.


%	 WtA.1 in %tp's Closing. 37
The heavy porter and shop-boy were set to 'work to
effect their removal, but the trunks were so heavy, they
could scarcely accomplish their task.
"Supper, marni?" said Punks, his civility greatly in-
creased by the report of the weight of the trunks.
"A little tea, if you please," said Mr. Worthington.
"We trust you have family devotions and will allow us to
join in them."
"Delightful people!" said Punks to his wife. "But I
wish I had held out for sixty. I have no doubt they would
have given it, they appear to be so very rich, and so—so—'
simple."
"Seen their money? got any trinkets, rings, watches, or
jewels, and that sort of things?" said Mrs. Punks.
"Why, really, when you come to ask—no," said Punks;
"but they look like it, eh? don't they?"
"I'll take up the tea-things myself," said Mrs; Punks,
looking very mysteriously. Her husband sat deeply and
anxiously involved in thought till her return.
"Well—how? what do you think?"
"All right," said Mrs. Punks, smoothing her black silk
apron. "The man has got a gold repeater as large as a
cheese-plate, and the woman a pretty little Geneva fastened
to a long gold chain, and her hands are positively covered
with rings."
Punks rubbed his hands with delight, and sent the por-
ter out to the expounder of the Ebenezer, and begged him
to come down to be introduced to the new occupant of
Clematis Cottage, who would doubtless be a liberal contri-
butor to the chapel, and sundry charities attached thereto.
It is needless to say the call was obeyed. The evening
was passed in a most orderly manner. The pastor was
delighted with the new addition to his flock, and Punks was
so taken with the sobriety of their manners, and their atten-


38 ^utnam's Storg JTutrarg.
tion to the exercises of the evening, that he had made up
his mind not to go to town to question their referee, but to
be content with their evident respectability.
Mrs. Punks, however, was a cautious woman, and insisted
upon the interview with Trumps; she, moreover, bade him
ask a few questions about the respectability of the firm in
general; "for," as she observed, "piety is all very well, but
pay is better."
Punks was annoyed at her suspicions, and took a little
hot rum-and-water with the pastor to quiet his nerves.
Punks was up early and off to London by the first
train, and at ten o'clock presented himself at the place of
reference.
"Mr. Trumps at home?" said Punks.
"I am Mr. Trumps, sir, pray walk in. Now what can
we do for you?" said a sleek man, throwing open an over-
grown ledger, clad in parchment, with green cuffs and col-
lar.
"I am referred to you, sir, for the respectability and the
responsibility of Mr. Worthington," said Punks.
"Eh? oh, I know—Clematis Cottage—how does my re-
spected friend like it?" asked Trumps.
"So much that he has hired it," said Punks; "that is, if
references are all right."
"Right, sir? Isn't he at the head of this firm, sir?
Don't take my word for his respectability—go upon Change
—inquire in Mark-lane—ask at the India-House—merely
whisper his name at Lloyd's, that's all. Worthington
respectable and responsible ? it's a d—d deal too good!" said
Trumps, as he laughed triumphantly.
"He seems to be a pious man, and punctual in his pay-
ments," said Punks, " and his wife is—"
"An angel, sir!—not fit to live upon this earth, sir.
Go to Clapham and ask—but you need not ask—there is


fffct Wall ht %sf'» doling. 39
not a benefaction board attached to any chapel or infant
school, that does not bear upon its black surface the name
of Dorothea Worthington, engraved in gold characters,
with a magnificent donation attached to it," said Trumps.
"Dorothea? I thought he called her Martha," said
Punks.
"For brevity's sake, sir, merely for brevity's sake,"
replied Trumps. "You are a lucky man, Mr. What's-your-
name."
"You think I'm safe, then ?" asked Punks.
"Shall I give you a check for a twelvemonth's rent in
advance?" said Trumps, opening a desk, and taking out a
long, slim book.
"Oh, dear, no ; no occasion for that," said Punks.
"Well, my dear sir, can I do anything more for you?
Sorry to hurry you, but business, you know, must be at-
tended to. Good bye—remember me to Worthington and
his angelic wife," said Trumps, as he bowed Punks out of
his office.
As Punks returned home in a third-class carriage, there
was one thing that rather puzzled him—how was it for so
old a firm—a firm that had existed ever since the waiter at
the coffee-house had administered to the comforts of its cus-
tomers—the furniture of the office should be so remarkably
new? He had almost made up his mind to return and ask
the question, when the idea occurred to him that the old
was worn out by excessive use, and had just been replaced.
"Well, my dear, is it all right ?" whispered Mrs. Punks
to her husband, when he had gained the little back parlor.
"Right, marm ? yes, I should think it was, too—a great
deal more than right. We are highly favored, marm," said
Punks; "two such angelic people are not be found every
day, I can tell you."
"Tell me all about them," said the groceress.


40 |Jntnam's Storg Jibrarg.
Punks tried to do so, but, to his own surprise, was
obliged to draw largely upon his inventive faculties; for,
when he summed up in his brain all the evidence he had
collected, it only amounted to this—that Worthington was a
partner in a general agent's office, and that his wife was an
angel, as far as being a liberal patroness to the chapels and
charities at Clapham went—upon the ipse dixit of the junior
partner, Mr. Trumps. This was a pretty strong peg, how-
ever, to hang a story upon, and Punks availed himself of it.
His imagination was fertile, and Mrs. Punks was satisfied;
especially when she heard that Trumps had tendered a cheque
for a twelvemonth's rent in advance; though she could not
help calling her husband a fool for not having taken it.
"You are quite satisfied, I hope, Mr. Punks?" said Mrs.
Worthington, as he entered the front drawing-room.
"More than satisfied, marm; delighted to have such
worthy people as my tenants," replied Punks, quite over-
joyed; for he saw a purse, a large, green, netted purse,
lying on the table, filled full of sovereigns.
"Then we can take possession and furnish the cottage
immediately," said Mr. Worthington.
"We had better remain here, my love, until the house
is fit to receive us," said Mrs. Worthington.
"Oh! by all means. In the meanwhile, Mr. Punks will
have the goodness, perhaps, to introduce me to some
respectable and pious tradesmen in Brackenbury, who will
put the place in order for us?" said Worthington.
"Too happy, sir, too happy," said Punks.
"You will take care, sir, not to introduce me to any
tradesman of the wrong way of thinking," said Mr. Worth-
ington sternly.
"Trust me for that—we hang together like—"
"Trust! sir? I don't know the meaning of the word, as
Itold you before. I pay for everything in ready money or by


£jjt Mali m Shttp's Cloijrinjg. 41
bill at two months, which is just the same," said Mr. Worth-
ington, as he put his hands into his breeches-pockets, and
rattled sundry coins about.
"Just the same," said Punks, "if it's duly honored."
"Shall I pay you in advance, sir ?" asked Mrs. Worth-
ington, angrily, and proceeded to open the green netted
purse. "If you have a doubt—"
"Oh! dear me, marm, no—excuse me, pray excuse me,
if I have offended you. I really beg pardon," said Punks,
in very humble tones.
"It is granted, sir," said the lady; "but I must confess
that I was very much hurt to think that it was possible for
a Worthington to dishonor a bill."
"Say no more about it, my dear. Come with me, and
Mr. Punks will kindly introduce us to some good tradespeo-
ple," said Worthington.
"And perhaps he will have the goodness to show us
over the British school and the Infant school? I am anx-
ious to add my mite to the contributions of the charitably-
disposed," said Mrs. Worthington, as she dropped the heavy
purse into her reticule.
"Angelic woman!" said Punks, just loudly enough to
enable the lady to hear him, as he led the way through the
private passage into the town.
The schools were duly inspected. The pious pair put
down their names as annual subscribers of £20 each, and
gave the heads of each department a sovereign, to be spent
in tea and buns for their scholars.
"What charming people! quite an acquisition to Brack-
enbury!" exclaimed the pious ladies and gentlemen who
visited the schools in the course of the morning.
The report of the benevolent characters of the new ten-
ants of Clematis Cottage was spread like wild-fire, and be-
fore they reached the upholsterer's, to whom Punks intro-


42 ^ntttHm'a Stoig Jibntrjj.
duced them, that individual was longing to have their cus-
tom. He shook Punks by the hand, whispered something
about a doshure, and undertook to furnish the cottage
within two days.
"You will do it well, sir, and reasonably. Make a fair
profit out of me, but don't impose upon me. I shall examine
your bill rigidly, for I pay for everything in ready money,
or by bill at two months," said Mr. Worthington, and so he
said to the ironmonger, the silversmith, the wine-merchant,
and all other tradesmen, to whom he gave most liberal orders.
In the course of a week Clematis Cottage was elegantly
furnished. Its cellars were well stored, its larder supplied,
and the new tenants, who had won golden opinions of every-
body of their own way of thinking, were only waiting to de-
cide which of the services of plate, sent in to them for
inspection and approval, they should purchase. It was a
delicate question, and Worthington and his wife resolved,
as they told Mr. Punks, not to rely on their own judgment
in so momentous a matter, but to ask a few friends to a tea-
party, and submit the different services to their inspection,
and take their opinions upon them.
On the afternoon of the Saturday—the day on which the
tea-party was invited—Worthington and his lady, who had
been visiting the poor, and liberally supplying them with
tracts, walked into Punks's shop. Punks and his wife were
already dressed for the party, and Mrs. Worthington paid
the groceress many compliments on the very becoming
neatness of her dress. They were, of course, asked into the
little back-parlor, but Worthington declined the invitation,
under the plea that they must hurry home to be ready to
receive their friends.
"By the by," said Worthington, "have you any cash in
the house, Mr. Punks?"
Punks smirked, and confessed he had.


€ 	 SBnlf in Step's filoijptg. 43
"Then I will trouble you, sir," said Worthington, very
sternly, "for change for that check, 54£. 9s. 10(£, on Coutta
and Co. It is crossed regularly, as you will see."
"Our outlay has been enormous—so many little things
that one never dreams of—I have not a sovereign left out
of fifty or sixty—I forget exactly which—that I put in my
purse when I came down here," said Mrs. Worthington;
"really our three or four thousand a year, at this rate, will
never do. We shall be ruined."
"Oh, dear no, marm; not by no means—it's only the
first outlay. When you are settled down in Clematis Cot-
tage, you'll live for a mere nothing—there's the money, sir;
five, four, nine, ten," said Punks; "you'll find it all right."
"Excuse me, sir ; but I am particular in money matters
—I make it a rule to count the change if it's only for a six-
pence," said Mr. Worthington.
"And very proper, too," said Mrs. Punks.
"It is quite right, sir: you'll excuse my very great par-
ticularity—I know you will—you are a man of business,
Mr. Punks, and as such, will give me credit for not mean-
ing to offend you."
Punks put the cheque on Coutts into his japanned box,
and bowed most obsequiously.
"If you are ready to walk to the cottage, sir, allow me
to offer my arm to Mrs. Punks, and do you take care of my
good lady," said Worthington.
"My dear sir, ready in a minute," said Punks, as he pop-
ped into the parlor, and sought his best hat.
Happy Punks! happy Mrs. Punks! There they were, arm-
in-arm, in the High-street of Brackenbury, with the wealthy,
charitable, pious tenants of the Clematis Cottage. Punks
enjoyed it amazingly, but thought Mr. Worthington walked
very much too fast. He wanted to prolong his triumph.
The tea—Punks' best gunpowder at six-and-ten—was


44 $jtrfmtm's Storg ^tbrarg.
excellent; the toast—buttered with purest fresh at fifteen-
and-a-half from Punks's shop, was duly appreciated, and a
heartier meal was never made. Mrs. Worthington was so
very kind and attentive, and Worthington's conversation
was so instructive, that hours passed like minutes, and it
was getting late when the silversmith ventured to allude to
the object of their meeting.
"Really, my worthy brethren, your society has proved
so agreeable—"
"Fascinating, my love."
"Don't interrupt me, Mrs. W.—so very agreeable, that
I had forgotten all about the plate. Have you brought it
with you?" said Mr. Worthington.
"Excuse me, sir, worthy sir, but it was so heavy that it
took two porters to carry it," said the silversmith. "Allow
me to display it."
The table was speedily cleared of the tea-things, and for
more than an hour and a half the party were busily engaged
deciding between the merits of the Queen's pattern, the
Albert pattern, the Cottage pattern, and a great many
other patterns besides, including the fiddle pattern, which
Worthington seemed inclined to purchase because it was
less showy than the others.
Mrs. Worthington was all for the Queen's pattern, in
which she was seconded by all the party, for the silversmith
had given them a secret hint, that it was the most expen-
sive, and by far the most profitable to himself.
"Set them all aside, my dear, for a while," said Worth-
ington. "Let us have a sandwich, and try our friend
Hutton's champagne."
"You'll find it a superior article, rely upon it," said Mr.
Hutton.
"Which shall we try first—the Moet or the Ruinard?"
said Mr. Worthington.


f |jt SSolf m J%qj's dlotjjing. 45
"Try both," said Hutton, thinking that the sooner both
cases were emptied, the better it would be for himself.
The party were all totallers, but somehow or another,
in the excitement of the moment, they forgot that they had
taken the pledge. Pop, pop, pop, went cork after cork, and
everybody said that both were so excellent, that they could
not decide between the rival makers. Pop, pop, pop, again,
without coming to any decision.
"Well, well," said Worthington, "I'll keep both cases;
but you must throw off ten shillings, ready money, recollect,
or bill at two months, which is just as good."
"Can't, indeed I can't," said Hutton; "it's put in at
the very lowest figure."
"You may as well taste the Port, and the Madeira, and
the Sherry, and the Claret," said Mrs. Worthington.
"I think we had better, Mrs. W., my dear, we shall
never get together such another committee of taste."
Pop went the corks, sip, sip, sip, first of one, and then
of another sort. Louder grew the tongues of the differing
judges. Devilled biscuits and strong cheese were intro-
duced, more bottles were opened, and before the clock
struck ten, the four wax candles—Punks's best at three-and-
nine—were multiplied into eight, and Mrs. Punks felt so
queer that she was obliged to retire.
"Hark!" said Worthington, "I hear the sound of
wheels. It's Trumps with the pictures."
All the party went out to see the van, in which a most
valuable little collection of pictures—real originals of the
best masters—had been conveyed, for it was not safe to
bring them down by rail, "they were so very careless."
"You won't unpack them to-night?" said Trumps.
"Impossible," said Worthington, "put the van into the
yard and lock the gates. James shall sit up all night and
watch it."


46 $)trfnsm'g Stag $ibrarg.
"T—t—time to go," stammered out the silversmith.
"Q—q—q—uite," said Punks. "Good night, respected
friends."
"But the plate ?" said Mrs. Worthington.
"I cannot think of letting our friend risk the removal
of it to-night," said her husband. "Let Mary take it care-
fully up stairs into our room, and do you see it safely
locked up in our cupboard."
"I will take it up myself," said the lady.
"Ve—ve—very much 'bliged to you, marm ; go—good
night," said the worthy tradesman.
"I wish you all good night, and thank you for your
company. We meet at the chapel to-morrow, of course,"
said Worthington.
And so they did, at three services, during the perform-
ance of which the decorous conduct of the Worthingtons,
and the junior partner, Trumps, made a deep impression on
all the worshippers in the Ebenezer chapel. The plate was
sent round, too, for some colonial mission, and no one drop-
ped gold into it but the occupiers of Clematis Cottage and
their junior partner.
"A real blessing to the place," was the unanimous judg-
ment of the good people of Brackenbury.
"Bless my soul! what can that be!" said Punks to the
groceress, about twelve o'clock on the Sunday night. "It's
very like a stage-coach, only they are all dead and buried."
"It's wheels, that's certain. It must be the fire-engine
—do jump out of bed and see what it is," said Mrs. Punks.
Punks rose reluctantly, for his head still ached, from
having taken too much of Hutton's samples. He drew
aside the blind, opened the window, and caught sight of a
covered van being driven at a rapid rate on the road towards
London. Two males and a female sat on the box, and as
they passed within a couple of yards of his head, Punka


ftfct Mali in S^ttp's Clofijing. 47
heard a voice—a well known voice—say, "Go it, Trumps,
there's the spoon of a grocer."
You might have knocked Punks down with a feather.
He closed the window, drew the curtains, and flung him.
self into bed, where he lay groaning deeply, and muttering,
"Done—clean done—five, four, ten and nine—sheer cash—
groceries—hams, oh, Lord! Responsible for introductions—
poor Hutton's champagne! Six services of plate—off by
first train in the morning."
As soon as it was light Punks was off without explaining
further to his anxious wife. Before he went down to the
station he ran to Clematis Cottage and peeped in at the
window. Not a vestige of furniture was to be seen.
"Sure it was so—catch them in town," said Punks, as
he trotted to the early train.
******
It so happened that Mr. Hutton, the wine-merchant of
Brackenbury, had occasion to visit London the same day.
He arrived about noon, and as he was walking along Cheap-
side, he saw a crowd collected. He ran to see the meaning
of it; and to his surprise, beheld his friend, the Deacon of
the Ebenezer chapel, grasping "the real blessing to the
town " by his collar, and shouting for a policeman.
"Are you mad, Punks?" said he ; "you are apprehend-
ing the worthiest, most liberal—"
"No, I ain't," screamed Punks, "I am apprehending a
Swindler—a Wolf in Sheep's clothing, and I'll hang him if
I can."
"But you can't, my fine, fellow, it's only a simple con-
tract debt after all," said Worthington, alias Slinking Tom.
He was not hanged; merely sent out to over-colonize
Van Diemen's Land, and the Brackenburyans had a hearty
laugh at the owner of Clematis Cottage and his pious
friends.



Elkanah Smithers, Jun.
shall never forget my first journey from Limerick
to Dublin. A day-coach had been established,
which was considered a marvel of celerity. It left
Swinburne's hotel early in the morning, and contrived to
accomplish half of the journey that day, arriving late in the
evening at Mountrath, where the travellers slept, whence,
starting next morning, after an early breakfast, it entered the
metropolis by the light of the old oil-lamps, upon the second
day. You may yet see the old roadside inn a little way
outside the town of Mountrath—a large high house, retired
a short way from the road, having a spacious sweep of gra-
velled space before it, and a multitude of windows; but,
alas! it is now falling fast into decay; and one never sees
the bustling face of the white-aproned waiter standing at
the door, or hears the crack of the postillion's whip as he
leads out his posters to horse a gentleman's travelling-
carriage.
Well, all that is past and gone. On the second day of
our journey, we had all assembled drowsily in the parlor,
which smelled villanously of the preceding night's supper,
and had sat down to our hurried breakfast. By the time


filkanajr &mi%re, |tm. 49
we had half-finished our meal, a car drove up to the door,
and in a few moments after a gentleman entered in a largo
drab travelling-coat, with half a dozen capes, and a huge
red shawl wound around his neck. He deposited a travel-
ling-case leisurely on the sideboard, and then looked keenly
around him. The survey did not seem to give him much gra-
tification. The eggs had all disappeared, and the cold beef
was in a very dilapidated condition. However, he sat down,
took off his coat and shawl, and addressed himself to the cold
meat like a hungry man. The waiter made his appearance.
"Just five minutes more, gentlemen, the horses are put-
ting to."
The traveller looked up quietly. He was not a man to
be put out of his way. He ordered some eggs, and desired
the waiter to make fresh tea.
"Are you going by the coach, sir?" inquired the atten-
dant.
"Yes, certainly," was the reply, in an English accent
(he was a traveller from a London house), "but I must
have'my breakfast first; so be quick, will you?"
The waiter left the room, and immediately after we
heard the fellow telling the guard to be expeditious; an
exhortation to which that worthy responded by a clamorous
blast of his horn that made us all start from our seats, and
hurry out of the room, leaving the English gentleman alone
to finish his breakfast, which, to do him justice, he seemed
by no means disposed to neglect. The waiter, meantime,
brought in the tea, and retired; but was speedily summoned
back by a vigorous ringing of the bell.
"A spoon, please," said the gentleman.
The waiter advanced to the table to procure the article,
but, to his astonishment, there was not a spoon to be seen;
nay, even those which had been in the cups had all disap-
peared.
3


50 Ijaftram'g Storo Jtbrarji.
"Blessed Virgin!" ejaculated the dismayed attendant,
"what's become of all the spoons!"
"That's just what I want to know, you blockhead," said
the other.
"Two dozen and a half—real silver," cried Tom.
"I want only one," said the gentleman. "Haven't you
a spoon in your establishment, my man?"
Tom made no reply, but rushed directly out of the room,
and running up to the coachman, cried out, "Stop, Demp-
sey, for the love of heaven!"
"All right!" says Dempsey, with a twirl of his whip,
gathering up the reins, and preparing to start—for we had
all taken our places.
"'Tisn't all right, I tell you," cried Tom, "where are
the spoons?"
"What spoons? Arrah! don't be bothering us, man:
and we five minutes behind time. Joey, hold that off-
leader's head, till she goes on a bit."
By this time the master of the inn had come out to learn
what all the hubbub was about. Tom, half-blubbering,
poor fellow, made him acquainted with the fact, that all his
silver spoons had vanished* The landlord cried out " rob-
bery!" the housemaids screamed out "murder!" and a
variety of other exclamations, too dreadful to contemplate.
When silence was restored, the inn-keeper insisted on stop-
ping the coach till he ascertained if the report of Tom
was true. Ere many moments he returned, as pale as a
ghost, and said—
"Gentlemen, I'm sorry to trouble you; but I must beg
you'll come down, till a search is made for my property.
Tom, here, will swear that there was a spoon in every tea-
cup this morning as usual—won't you, Tom?"
"Bedad, I'll take my Bible-oath of that same, sure
enough," replied Tom; "and sure I didn't swallow them."


GtlkaiTHJj §>mi%rs, ftm. 51
The passengers all indignantly refused to submit to the
search proposed by the landlord. An old lady inside went
off in hysterics, when the inn-keeper opened the door, and
proposed to turn her pockets inside out. There was an
officer with a wooden leg on the box-seat, who swore, in
the most awful manner, that he would run the first man
through the body that attempted to lay a hand on him—
by the way, he hadn't a sword, but he forgot that in his
fury. There was a justice of the peace for the county, who
protested that he would commit the host for contempt; and
a Dublin attorney in the back-seat intimated his determina-
tion to indict Tom, who had laid hold of his leg, for an
assault; and, moreover, to commence an action against his
master for defamation. As I was but a youngster then,
and the weakest of the party, the landlord chucked me
down in a twinkling, and hauled me into the parlor, half
dead with fright; and thereupon the rest of the passengers,
including the wooden-legged captain, scrambled down, and
followed, determined to make common cause and protect
me from insult with their lives, if necessary. And now we
were all again in the breakfast-room, clamoring and re-
monstrating, while, to add to the din, the guard kept up a
continual brattle with his horn. All this time the English
gentleman was steadily prosecuting his work upon the eggs
and toast, with a cup of tea before him, which he was lei-
surely sipping, quite at his ease like.
"What the deuce is the matter!" said he, look-
ing up, "can't you let a man take his breakfast in com-
fort?"
"The plate!" said the master.
"The silver spoons!" cried the butler.
"Robbery!" shouted the mistress.
"Murder!" &c, screamed the housemaids.
"Search every one," demanded the host; "come, let us


52 |)ntnHm's Stag ITurnmj.
begin with this young chap," diving his hand into my
breeches pocket.
"I think," said the English gentleman, coolly, "'twould
be as well first to search the premises. Is the waiter long
in your service?"
"Fifteen years last Shrovetide, and I defy any man to
lay as much as the big of his nail to my charge."
By this time the English gentleman had finished his
breakfast, and, wiping his mouth most deliberately, he com-
menced to search the room. He opened every drawer of
the sideboard, then he looked under the table, then behind
the window-shutters, but all in vain. After that he stopped
a moment to reflect, when a bright thought seemed to cross
his mind, and he raised the lid of one of the teapots, but
with as little success as before; nevertheless, he continued
his examination of the teapots, and when he came to the
last, what do you think, but he thrust in his hand, and drew
out first one spoon, and then another, till he laid a number
of them on the table. Tom rushed up and began to count
—" Two, four, six," and so on, till at length he exclaimed—
"May I never see glory, but they're all right, every one.
The Lord between us and harm, but this bangs all that ever
I seen!"
"I'll tell you what, my man," said the gentleman, looking
sternly at the astonished waiter, "I strongly suspect you
have been playing tricks upon your master. A nice haul
you'd have had of it when the company had gone away!
I don't like the look of the fellow, I tell you," he continued,
addressing himself to the host; "and if it wasn't for the
fortunate circumstances of my coming in a little late and
wanting a spoon, you would have lost your property, sir.
You may count it a lucky day that I came to your house."
The landlord was struck dumb with amazement; even
the mistress hadn't a word to say, though she looked wick-


• ftltarajj &mi%rs, fmt. 63
edly at poor Tom, and the housemaids began to cry and
bless themselves.
"Gentlemen," proceeded the Englishman, "I hope you
will overlook the insult you have received; as, after all, the
landlord is not to be blamed; and if he will insist on this
blackguard waiter making an ample apology, I will take
upon me to say for you all, that you will not take any pro-
ceedings."
All cheerfully expressed their assent to the proposition
except the attorney, who still muttered something about
assault and defamation, which so terrified Tom that he
most humbly entreated pardon of the whole company,
though he still protested that he was innocent of the crime
laid to his charge.
"Gammon!" said the gentleman; "but as you have
made proper submission, and nothing has been lost, I shall
make it a further condition with your master, that he
won't turn you adrift on the world with a thief's character,
but give you an opportunity of reforming. Keep a sharp
eye on him, however, sir, I advise you. And now, gentle-
men, I think we'd better be moving."
"We all hurried out and took our places, the English
gentleman getting up on the seat behind the coachman.
Dempsey "threw the silk" into the horses; the guard
blew an impatient blast on his horn, and off we went at a
slapping pace, the host bowing humbly to us until we were
out of sight.
"I'm driving on this road these ten years," said Demp-
sey, when he slackened his pace up a hill; "and I never
knew such a thing as that happen before."
"Very likely," said the Englishman, quietly, "and
never will again."
"I always thought Tom Reilly was as honest a fellow,
man and boy, as any in the parish."'


84 |)trfttHm's Stag ITibrarjT. •
"I make no doubt he is," replied the other; "he has
a very honest countenance."
"I thought, sir," said the captain, "you said you didn't
like his look ?»
"Maybe I did say so," was the reply.
"And pray, sir, do you still think 'twas he hid the
spoons?"
"Not a bit of it."
"Then who the d—1 did ?»
"I did. Do you think I'm green enough to travel so
cold a morning as this without having a comfortable break-
fast?"
"Well," said Dempsey, "that's the knowingest trick I
ever heard of in my life."
"Not bad," replied the gentleman, with great sang-
froid, "but it won't do to be repeated."
When we arrived at Portarlington, the gentleman—
who, by the way, turned out to be a very pleasant fellow,
and up to all sorts of life—got off the coach, and ordered
his travelling-case to be taken into the inn.
"Do you stop here, sir?" asked the coachman.
"Yes, sir, for the present. I have a little business to do
here as well as at Mountrath."
The gentleman having given the usual gratuity to the
guard and coachman, and also a slip of paper to Dempsey,
which he directed him to give to the host at Mountrath,
passed into the inn; the coach drove on, and I never saw
him again.
Dempsey having pocketed the shilling, looked at the
paper with some curiosity, in which, to say the truth, we all
shared.
"There's no harm in reading it, as it is open," said the
Captain, taking it from Dempsey.
They were a few lines, written in pencil, on the leaf of a


€Ikana(j &mi%rs, fmt. 55
pocket-book, and the Captain read them out—I remember
them to this day:—
"This is to certify that Tom Reilly put nothing into the
teapot this morning except hot water and sloe-leaves, and
that the other ingredients, the spoons, were added by me,
for the purpose of giving the composition some strength. I
further certify that the aforesaid spoons are capital for
making 'stir.'
"Given under my hand,
"Elkanah Smithees, Jun."
You may be sure we all enjoyed this finish to the joke,
and Dentpsey forwarded the paper by the down-coach, that
poor Tom Reilly's character might be cleared with thft
least possible delay. Tom was fully reinstated in the con-
fidence of his employers ; but the landlady had got such a
fright that she determined her silver spoons should never
again be placed at the mercy of any traveller. Accord-
ingly, she transferred them to the private part of the esta-
blishment, substituting for them in the public room a set of
very neat pewter articles—there was no German silver, or
albata, or such things in those days—which, when cleaned,
looked nearly as well as silver. Many a time I stirred my
tea at breakfast with one of them, and thought of " Elka-
nah Smithers, jun."



Infatuation.
#ne summer's evening two gentlemen were seated at
a well-spread dessert table in an aristocratic quarter
of West-London. He at its head, its master, was a
fine, stately man, wearing in.his countenance, in its expres-
sion and form of feature, the impress of true nobility—
nature's nobility, not that of the peerage, for in reality he
was only a merchant, though one of the first class. His
lady wife—she was the daughter of a peer—had just quit-
ted the room, and left them to themselves. They were the
heads of the well known City firm, "Grubb and Howard."
Mr. Howard had walked up from the City at this evening
hour to confer upon a matter, which had come to his know-
ledge, with his senior partner—senior in authority, but his
junior in years; a private engagement having brought Mr.
Grubb away from the City at mid-day. •
"Did you draw a cheque on Saturday morning, before
leaving home, in favor of self, and get it cashed ?" began
James Howard, as Mr. Grubb returned to his seat, from
closing the door after Lady Adela. "At Glyn's."
The merchant threw his thoughts back to Saturday
morning. The reminiscence was unpleasant. For a scene


fnfsthtirfum. 61
had taken place with his wife, painful to him, disgraceful to
her. He had drawn no cheque.
"No," he answered.
"A cheque for £500 in favor of self?" continued Mr.
Howard, slowly sipping his port wine.
"I don't draw at Glyn's in favor of self," interrupted
the merchant, "only at my private banker's. You know
that, Howard, as well as I do."
"Just so. Therefore, upon the fact coming to our notice
this afternoon that such a cheque had been drawn and paid,
I stepped over to Glyn's and made inquiries."
"Well?"
"Well, there it was, safe enough: a cheque purporting
to be drawn and signed by you."
"Charles Grubb ? »
"No; the firm signature, 'Grubb and Howard.' And
a very good imitation it is. But if it is your writing, your
hand was nervous when you wrote it, rendering the letters
less decided than usual."
"Who presented it?" inquired Mr. Grubb.
"Mr.jCleveland. And he received the money."
"Cleveland!" uttered Mr. Grubb, in the most astonished
tone. "There is some mystery about this."
"So it seemed to me," answered the junior partner.
"Cleveland's out of town, you said, to-day."
"Went down yesterday to Brighton, to his father's.
Will be home in the morning. But how did he procure the
cheque ?. Who drew it?" resumed the puzzled merchant.
"Where's the money?"
"It was Saturday morning that you left the cheque-book
at home and sent Cleveland for it, if you remember."
"Ah, to be sure it was," echoed the merchant, quickly.
"A long while he was gone."
"And during this period, between ten and half-past
3*


58 $)ntrctm's Slots fibrarg.
eleven, the cheque was presented and cashed. I thought
he was of improvident habits, but never suspected he was
one to help himself"
"He cannot have helped himself in this sort of way,"
interrupted Mr. Grubb earnestly. "Cleveland is a wild,
random species of young fellqw, and has his faults, but he
is certainly not one to descend to guilt of this nature."
"He is reckless in his expenditure, and is never out of
debt—as I hear," urged James Howard.
"Very likely. I don't doubt he is of the fast genus.
But that does not prove he would defraud us. The thing's
impossible, Howard."
"He presented the cheque and received the money,"
dryly remarked Mr. Howard. "What has he done with it?"
"But no madman would go to work in this baf efeced
way," replied his more generous-minded partner, "bringing
immediate detection and punishment down upon his head."
"Suppose you inquire what clothes he took with him,"
suggested Mr. Howard. "My impression is, that he's off.
The Brighton tale may have been a blind."
Mr. Grubb rose and rang the bell, staggered nearly out of
his senses; and, until it was answered, not another word was
spoken. Each gentleman was busy with his own thoughts.
"Richard," said the master, "when Mr. Cleveland left
for Brighton yesterday morning, did he take much luggage
with him?"
"I don't think he took any, sir, unless it was his small
portmanteau."
"Did you happen to hear him say whether he contem-
plated making a longer stay than usual?"
"I did not hear him say anything, sir. But Mr. Cleve-
land is back."
"Back!" echoed Mr. Howard, surprised into the inter-
ference.


Infatuation. 59
"He came back a few minutes ago, sir."
"Is he in now?" asked Mr. Grubb.
"No, sir; be went out again almost directly. The cab
waited for him. He is gone to dine at the Army and Navy."
"Then no elucidation can now take place till morning,"
observed Mr. Grubb, as the servant withdrew. "When he
goes out on these dining bouts he is never home till late,
sometimes not at all. But rely upon it, Howard, this mat-
ter will be cleared up. Cleveland is no forger."
"Hope it may," sarcastically uttered the junior partner.
The merchant was seated next morning at his breakfast
alone, for the Lady Adela never condescended to breakfast
with her husband, and Charles Cleveland had not made his
appearance.
"Does Mr. Cleveland know I am at breakfast?" he
inquired of the servant.
"Mr. Cleveland left word—I beg your pardon, sir, I
forgot to mention it—that he was gone out to breakfast with
his brother, Captain Cleveland, who sails to-day for India."
Twelve o'clock was heard striking by St. Paul's, in the
City premises of Messrs. Grubb and Howard, and no
Charles Cleveland had made his appearance. Both part-
ners, with a gentleman from Glyn's, were assembled in a
private room, the latter gentleman and Mr. Howard fully
persuaded that the delinquent had embarked for India with
his brother, or some other place not speedily accessible to
officers of justice. But ere the clock had well finished
striking Charley himself came in, bustling and out of breath.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for being so late," he panted,
addressing himself to Mr. Grubb, "especially after my holi-
day of yesterday. I went early this morning to Woolwich,
and on board my brother's ship, intending to be up by
business hours, but, what with one delay and another, I was
unable to get back till now."


60 $Jntimm's Stag ITikarg.
"Take a seat, Mr. Cleveland," was the reply. "We
have a few questions to put to you."
Charles glanced round. In his hurry, he had seen no one
but Mr. Grubb. His eye now fell on the banker: he knew
him well; and knew that the time was come when he would
have need of all his presence of mind and his energies.
"You presented a cheque for £500 at Glyn's on Satur-
day morning, and received the amount in notes," began
Mr. Grubb. "From whom did you get that cheque?"
No reply.
"Purporting to be drawn and signed by me," con-
tinued Mr. Grubb. "I ask from whom you received it?"
"I decline to answer," he said at length, speaking with
hesitation, in spite of his resolve for firmness.
"Do you deny having presented the cheque?"
"No. I do not deny that."
"Do- you deny having received the money for it?"
questioned the banker.
"Nor that either. I acknowledge to have received £500.
It would be folly to deny it," he continued, in a sort of
calm desperation, "since the bank could prove the contrary."
"But did you know what you were laying yourself open
to?" asked Mr. Grubb, evidently in a maze of astonishment.
"I know now, sir."
"Will you refund the money ?" interposed Mr. Howard.
"Out of consideration for your family, connected, as it is,
with that of the head of our firm, we are willing to"
"I cannot refund it, and I must decline to answer any
more questions," interrupted Mr. Cleveland, fast relapsing
into agitation.
Mr. Howard stepped into the next room, and soon a
policeman was added to the group.
"It is our duty to give this gentleman into custody for
forgery," said James Howard, pointing at Charles Cleve-


InfataHtioit. 61
land, who was standing side by side with Mr. Grubb: but
the policeman, mistaking the direction, laid his arm on that of
the head of the firm.
"Not me," said the merchant, with a slight smile.
"Why, officer, what are you thinking of?" cried the
banker, indignantly. "Don't you know this gentleman
yet—Mr. Grubb? You are a City policeman."
"No offence," deprecated the policeman, transferring
his attention to Mr. Charles. "I'm sure I beg your pardon,
sir, but I thought the gentleman pointed to you. And so
many, where you'd least expect it, get into trouble now,
that if they handed over to us a duke, we should just take
him, and make no bones about it. Is the charge to be
gone into to-day?"
"Without any delay," peremptorily uttered Mr.
Howard.
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Charles Cleveland, turning to
Mr. Grubb, in a high state of excitement, "will you look
over this one error? My father will replace the money—I
am sure he will, rather than suffer this public disgrace to
fall upon the family. Do not force the shame upon him."
Mr. Grubb drew him aside from the rest, and spoke
to him in private. "If I afford you the opportunity, will
you tell me the circumstances of the case?" he asked,
"for I own to you that your conduct appears to me per-
fectly incomprehensible. There is some mystery in the
affair, which I do not fathom. It may be better for you to
confide in me."
"I cannot," returned Cleveland.
"What if I tell you that, in spite of appearances, I do
not myself believe you guilty?"
A bright, eager flush, a glance of understanding, illu-
mined for a moment Charley's face. It seemed to say that
just, honorable natures know and trust in each other's


62 |)ntmtm's Siorg %ibrarg.
innocence, no matter what may be the signs of guilt. But
the transient expression faded away to sadness.
"I can explain nothing," he said; "I can only thank
you, sir, for this proof of confidence, and implore your cle-
mency on the ground of compassion alone."
"Then there is no more to be said. Policeman," added
the merchant, walking forward, "do your duty."
What a commotion arose in all the clubs! Charles
Cleveland in Newgate, on a charge of forgery! Charley
Cleveland the popular.—Charley Cleveland the grandson
of an earl gathered to his fathers, and nephew of the one
who stood in his shoes—Charley Cleveland, the out-and-out
good fellow, who was wont to scare the blue devils away
from everybody—Charley Cleveland who, in defiance of
his improvidence and his shallow pocket, was known to be
of the nicest honor amongst the honorable!
"The thing's preposterous altogether," stuttered John
Cust. "If Charley had drawn the money, he would have
had the money, and I know that on Saturday afternoon he
had not a rap, for he borrowed three sovs. of me to take
him down to Brighton, where he went to try and knock
some tin out of his governor."
"Which he did," added Lord Deerhum. "A ten-
pounder."
"And paid me back the three, on the Monday night,
when he came to his brother's spread at the Rag and
Famish. Gammon! Charley has not been making free
with Old Grubb's name.'..'
"But he acknowledges to having drawn the money,"
squeaked Booby Charteries. "That's proved."
"You may take that in yourself, Booby. We don't."
"But the Lord Mayor"
"Lord Mayor be hanged! If he swears, till he's black in
the face, that Charley had it, I know he didn't. There."


^irfataation. 63
"Let's cut down to Newgate, and have a smoke with
him," returned Booby Charteries; "it may cheer the fellow
up under the present alarming state of things."
"As if they'd admit us inside Newgate, or a smoke
either!" uttered John Cust. "There's only one thing
more difficult than getting in, and that is, if you are in, get-
ting out again. Newgate's no go, Booby."
"I propose that we have a throw which of us shall go
and punch Old Grubb's head, for making the charge," pro-
posed Lord Deerhum. "It would do these city plodders
good, to be taught what it is to insult our order, especially
a popular chap like Charley."
The Honorable Mr. Cleveland came up from Brighton
to find his son lying in Newgate on a charge of forgery.
At the examination, Charles had attempted no defence,
stating to the magistrate that he had none to make; so he
was committed for trial, there and then. His father, who
obtained an order to visit him in Newgate, found him, even
in that short period, greatly changed. His dress was
neglected, his hair unkempt, and his face haggard. Charley
the fastidious!
Mr. Cleveland was overcome beyond control, and sob-
bed aloud. He was a venerable-looking man of sixty years,
and had always been a fond father. Charley was not so much
affected.
"Why did you not kill me when you last came down,
Charles!" he moaned. "Better have put me out of this
world of pain than bring this misery upon me. Oh, my
boy! my boy! you were your mother's favorite; how can
you so have disgraced her memory?"
"I would I had been out of the world rather than be the
curse to you I have proved," writhed Charley, wishing
Newgate would yawn asunder and engulph him. "Oh,
don't—father, don't!" he implored, as Mr. Cleveland's sighs


64 IfBiiram's Storg ^ibrarg.
echoed through the cell. "If it will be any consolation to
know it, I will vow to you that I am not guilty," he added,
the sight of his father's affliction momentarily outweighing
his precaution. "By all your care of me, by your present
grief, by the memory of my dead mother, I swear to you I
am not guilty."
Mr. Cleveland looked up, and his heart leaped within
him. He knew Charles was speaking truth.
"Then what is this I hear, about your declining to make
a defence?"
Charles hung his head and relapsed into prudence again.
"My boy, answer me. How came you to accept—as it
were—the charge?"
"For your private comfort I have said this, dear father,
but it must remain between us as if it had not been spoken.
The world must still, and always, believe me guilty."
"But why ?—why? What mystery is this?"
"Do not ask me, sir. Believe that you have not a son
more free from the guilt of this crime than I am. Never-
theless, I must pay the penalty, for I cannot defend myself."
Mr. Cleveland could get nothing more out of Charles.
From Newgate he went to Mr. Grubb's counting-house.
"You are not more pained at this affair than I am," said
the latter, closing the door of his private room, "and cer-
tainly not more astonished."
"Oh, Mr. Grubb," cried the old man, "could you not
have hushed this wretched disgrace up, for the family's
sake?"
'I would have hushed it up. I asked Charles, in this
very room, to acknowledge the truth to me privately. Had
he done so, even though it was to avow his guilt, I should
not have proceeded. But he would not say a word, and told
me he would not." •
"Will you state the particulars to me?" resumed Mr.


fidalaation. 65
Cleveland. "I asked them of him, but he would not give
them."
"It occurred on Saturday morning. When I reached
the City, I found I had not got my cheque-book, and sent
Charles home to look for it. He was a long while gone,
but brought it when he came. During the period of his
absence, one of the cheques was abstracted, filled up for
£500, and"
"Filled up by whom ? »
"Charles presented it, and received the money. That
is all we know with certainty; but of course there is only
one deduction to be drawn, as to who filled it in."
"Was it his hand-writing?"
"It was an imitation of mine."
"Mr. Grubb," cried the agitated father, "appearances
are against him—were never more strongly against any one
—but, before Heaven, I believe him innocent."
The merchant did not reply.
"He has assured me of his innocence, by the memory of
his dead mother; and innocent I know he is, though he
stated in the same breath he should avow it to no one else,
but submit to the penalty of the crime, just as if he had com-
mitted it. There is one point—if Charles drew this money
for. himself, what did he do with it? On that very after-
noon he had to borrow money to bring him down to
Brighton. John Cust lent it to him."
"It is very singular," mused Mr. Grubb.
"Can he have been made the innocent instrument of
another? Can he have been imposed upon by any one?"
"Not likely," replied Mr. Grubb. "Were that the case,
what would be his objection to declare the truth?"
Nevertheless, the words haunted the merchant. Can he
have been made the innocent instrument of another? An
idea had been given to him—a painful idea; and, do what


66 IJniratm's Stag Itibrarg.
he would, he could hot drive it away. It intruded itself into
his business; it followed him home to dinner; and it worried
him at his club in the evening, and drove him back home
again before ten o'clock. He had determined to speak a
word with Lady Adela.
"Her ladyship is out, sir," said the servant.
"Inquire where she is gone?"
"To Lady Sanely's," was the answer.
The merchant suppressed a groan, drew his hand across
his perplexed forehead, and sat on, in his solitary drawing-
room. Presently he again rang the bell.
"Send Wilson here." And the butler appeared in
answer to the summons.
"Wilson—shut the door. You know of course of this
business about Mr. Cleveland, for it is all over London I
believe by this time. Did you see Mr. Cleveland on
Saturday morning, when he came for the cheque-book?"
"Yes, sir. I was at the door, talking to a friend who
had called, when Mr. Cleveland ran in, and went up to the
drawing-room to Lady Adela."
"Well, what next?"
"After that, sir, I was still at the door—it could not
have been above two or three minutes—when he came
down again. He seemed in a desperate hurry, and called
out to a cab which was going by, and went away in it, at a
great rate."
"He came back again?"
"Yes, sir, but not directly. I should think it might
have been three-quarters of an hour; perhaps more, for I
did not take special note of the time. I was cleaning the
hall-lamp then, and when the door was opened to him, I saw
it was the same cab."
"Did he go into the breakfast-room?"
"Not at once, sir. He went up to the drawing-room


$nfaimmon. 67
for a minute, first, and when he came down to the break-
fast-room, her ladyship came with him. After that he got
into the cab again, and it galloped away. Taking both
times together, he was not in the house five minutes."
"Not long enough to "Mr. Grubb checked him-
self, and remained silent.
"Not long enough to have drawn a falso cheque, sir,
when the handwriting has to be studied—as we have been
saying below," said the butler, following too closely his
master's thoughts. "But perhaps he had got it done
beforehand. We would sooner have suspected almost any
one than him, till this came out. It shows, sir, how one
may be deceived in persons."
Lady Adela was home at twelve o'clock, earlier than she
usually came from Lady Sanely's. She was going up-stairs
to her chamber, when Mr. Grubb stopped her.
"This is a shocking business about Cleveland, Lady
Adela."
"Yes," she answered, throwing herself into a chair.
"I hope your revenge is sated now. You had a paltry
spite against him, and you have cast him into Newgate to
gratify it; ruined his prospects, and brought disgrace upon
his family, and on my sister Mary."
He did not reply: he was accustomed to bear her
unjust accusations. "Lady Adela," he said, dropping his
voice to a whisper, "were you wholly ignorant of this busi-
ness? Who drew the cheque?"
She started up from her chair, and fixed her eyes
defiantly upon him.
"Adela, my wife," he whispered, going forward, and
laying his hands upon her shoulders, in his earnestness,
"if you had anything to do with this, if Cleveland was not
the guilty party, acknowledge it now. Confide in me for
once. I will avert consequences from him, and suspicion


68 fnfewm'g Stag fibrarj.
from you. The secret shall be buried in my breast, and I
will never revert to it."
Her lovely features had grown white, and her haughty
eyes fell before his; but presently she raised them, flashing
with indignation. "How dare you offer me this insult?"
she shrieked. "Is it your design to bring a charge of
felony against me, as you have against him—to send me
for trial at the Central Criminal Court?"
"Do not meet my words in this cruel way, Adela. I
am asking you a solemn question, and there is One above
who will hear and register your answer. Were you the
principal in this transaction, and was Cleveland but your
agent? Do not fear to trust me—your husband—you
shall have my free forgiveness now, beforehand, my shelter,
my protection. Only tell me the truth, as you wish it to
be well with us both in after life."
Again she cowered before his gaze. What made her
—she, so bold and defiant? Again she recovered her-
self, and threw a full amount of flashing scorn into her
answer.
"You ought to be ashamed of your question. I had
nothing to do with it; what could I have had? None
but a mean, suspicion-seeking spirit could imagine such a
thing."
"This is all you can say to me—your definitive answer?"
"Definitive enough," she retorted with a screaming, ner-
vous laugh. "And now you have'had your say, Mr. Grubb,
listen to me. Never speak on the subject to me again, if
you would keep the semblance of peace between us. My
feelings have been dangerously roused against you, for your
barbarous injustice to Charles Cleveland."
As she spoke, she left the room, leaving him to his feel-
ings. Few can imagine them—torn, outraged, thrown
back upon him. But she had lulled his doubts against her


fttfalna&m. 69
self. "It must have been Cleveland's own doing, and no
other's," he mentally concluded; "what strange mania
could have come over him?"
The most able counsel in the land were engaged to
defend Charles Cleveland, but that gentleman provoked
them very considerably. The old saying, "Tell your
whole case to your lawyer and your doctor," is essen-
tial advice, but Charles would tell nothing, neither truth
nor falsehood. In vain Serjeant Mo wham protested, with
tears in his eyes (a stock of which, so the bar affirmed,
he kept in readiness), that he was working in the dark,
that without some clue or hint to go upon, he could make
no defence that had a chance of success, even if he told
all the tmtruths that ever Serjeant's tongue gave utterance
to. The prisoner was immovable; the lawyers were in
despair.
One day, the Earl of Oakton had a slice of luck. He
had backed a certain horse at a provincial race meeting,
and the horse won. Amongst other moneys that changed
hands in London, on the settling day, was « ^£50 note. An
hour after the Earl received it, he made his way into his
drawing-room, in haste, where sat his daughters, Grace,
and Mary Cleveland, the latter, with her husband and
infant, having been staying in town, at the earl's, since the
outbreak of the unfortunate business.
"Mary," cried the earl, "what were the numbers of the
notes paid over to Charles Cleveland by Glyn's?"
"Mr. Cleveland has them, I believe," answered Lady
Mary. "But the thing has given me by far too much worry,
papa, for me to retain the numbers in my head."
"I have them," interrupted Lady Grace Chenevix. "I
copied them the other day. There was no knowing, I
thought, but they might prove useful."
"Quite right, Grade, girl," said the earl. "Let's see


10 $toimrm's giorg $ibrarg.
them. • 3,0,2,5,5,' " continued Lord Oakton, reading one of
the numbers which Lady Grace laid before him. "I thought
so. One of these notes has just been paid to me, Mary, by
young Waterware."
"Where did he get it?" eagerly inquired Lady Grace
Chenevix.
"I did not ask him. .1 thought I'd first ascertain
whether I was right in my suspicions. I'll get it out of him
by-and-by."
"At once, at once, sir," rejoined Lady Mary.
"No impatience, Mary. Where the deuce am I to pick
up Waterware, at this time of day? I might as well look
for a needle in a bottle of hay. To-night I shall know
where to find him."
Chance, however, favored the earl. In strolling up St.
James's street, not long afterwards, he met Lord Water-
ware.
"I say, Waterware," he began, linking his arm in that
of the younger peer, "where did you get that fifty-pound
note you paid me over this morning?"
"Where did I get it! Let's see. Oh, from Nile. He
was owing me a hundred, and he stumped up yesterday.
That fifty, two twenties, and a ten. Why? It's not
forged, I suppose," cried the young nobleman, with a yawn.
"Not exactly. Wish I had a handful of them. Good
morning! I'm going on to Nile's."
Colonel Nile was at home, in his chambers. A middle-
aged man and a bachelor, essentially a "man about town."
Possessing very little income of his own, he yet contrived to
live luxuriously.
"The fifty-pound note I paid over to Waterware," repeat-
ed Colonel Nile, cautiously, and somewhat surprised at the
question. "Why do you want to know where I got it?"
"Because it is one of the notes that Charley Cleveland's


Infaiaalion. 11
in quod for; the first that has been traced. You must give
me the information, Nile, or I shall apply for it publicly."
"Oh, I have no objection in the world," cried the Colonel,
determined to afford all that was in his power, and so wash
his hands of any unpleasantness that might turn up. "I
received it at Lady Sanely's loo-table, from—egad! from
your own daughter, Lady Adela."
"From Lady Ade,la?" echoed the surprised nobleman.
"From Lady Adela, and nobody else," repeated Colonel
Nile. "She paid another fifty to the old Dowager Beck,
the same evening."
"What was the number of that?" inquired Lord Oakton.
"How should I know?" retorted the Colonel. "It is
not my business to pry into notes which don't concern me."
The Earl of Oakton proceeded straight to Lady Beck's;
and, with much trouble and persuasion, she was induced to
exhibit the note spoken of by Col. Nile, which was still in
her possession. The old dowager was verging on her
dotage, and could not, at first, be convinced but that the
earl was going to take law proceedings against her, for win-
ning money of his daughter. The earl soothed her, copied
the number by stealth, went home, and compared it with
Lady Grace's pocket-book. It was another of the notes.
"What do you think of it, Grace?" cried the earl, in
perplexity. "Can Cleveland have been owing money to
Adela ?»
"I should imagine not," replied Lady Grace.
"It wears a singular appearance," mused the earl. "To
tell you the truth, Grace, I don't like the fact of these notes
being traced to Adela. It looks—after the rumor of that
absurd flirtation they carried on—almost as if she and
Cleveland had gone snacks in the spoil. What now, Gracie?
Are you going to fly?"
For Lady Grace Chenevix had bounded from her chair


12 fntram's Stars, fibrarg.
in sudden agitation, her arms working as she paced up and
down the room. "Sir! father! the thing has become clear
to me. That I should not have suspected it before? know-
ing what I did know."
"Child!" cried the earl, gazing at her in amazement,
"what ever is the matter?"
"Adela did this. I see it all. Charles Cleveland was
snly her instrument, and, in his infatuated attachment, he
has taken the guilt on himself, to shield her. Well may he
have asserted his innocence to his father! "Well may his
conduct have appeared to us all so incomprehensible!"
"Why, Grace, you are mad!" gasped the earl. "Accuse
your sister of—of—forgery. Do you reflect on the mean-
ing of your words?"
"Father, do not look so stern at me. I know I am
right. I assure you it is as if some power of might had
torn scales from my eyes, for I see it perfectly clear. Adela
wanted money for play ; she had been drawn in, far deeper
than you suspected, sir, at Lady Sanely's gaming-table. It
was Mr. Grubb's intention to refuse her funds—"
"How do you know?"
"I do know it, sir, never mind how. No doubt he did
refuse her, and she, when his cheque-book fell into her
hands -"
"Don't continue, Grace," sharply interposed Lord Oak-
ton; "you make my blood run cold. You must prove
what you assert, or retract it. If'—it—is proved," the earl
drew a long breath—" Cleveland must be extricated.
What a thundering fool the fellow must be!"
"Let me have time to think," said Lady Grace. "Ex-
tricated of course he must be, but without exposing her.
Don't say yet, sir, even to Mary, that you have compared
the numbers of the notes."
^ Lady Grace sought an interview with Mr. Grubb. She


Infatuation. 19
went to his house that evening, but she found he was gone
to his club, and her sister to the Opera. So Grace dismissed
her carriage, went up to the drawing-room, and wrote a
word to Mr. Grubb, asking him to come home. The
thought crossed her, that perhaps it was not quite the thing
to do, but Lady Grace Chenevix was not one to stand upon
ceremony.
He returned at once, full of bustle and curiosity. "Any-
thing the matter, Grace? Anything amiss with Adela?
She's not ill?"
"She is at the Opera, I hear; very well, no doubt." And
then she imparted her suspicions—just an allusion to them—
that her poor sister was the culprit.
"Grace," he whispered, "I don't mind telling you that
the same fear haunted me, and I taxed her with it. She
indignantly denied it."
"Two of the notes have been traced," murmured Lady
Grace.
"Traced!"
"Paid away by Adela, at Lady Sanely's."
There was a dead silence. Lady Grace Chenevix did
not raise her eyelids, for she felt keenly the pain of the
avowal, and an ominous shade of despair overspread the
merchant's face.
"Grace, Grace," he broke forth in anguish, "what is it
you are saying?"
"One of them, for £50, came into my father's hands to-
day, and he has traced it back to Adela. Another of them
ehe paid the same evening to the Dowager Beck. What
inference could I draw, Mr. Grubb, but that she you
know what I would say."
"Could she descend to be a party to such disgrace with
Charles Cleveland?" he groaned.
"Charles was no party to it," cried Lady Grace, warm-
4


74 gttferam'g Siorg fibrarg.
ly; "he was her instrument, nothing more. Whatever may
be his follies, he is the soul of honor. And it is a sort of
chivalrous sense of honor, depend upon it, which is causing
him to shield her, now the matter is come out. What is to
be done? Charles Cleveland must not stand before his
country a felon."
"Heaven forbid—if he is indeed innocent. But, Grace
—after Adela's solemn assertion that she had nothing to do
with it, when I conjured her to tell me, her husband, the
truth, and I would forgive and protect her, how is it possi-
ble to believe that she is guilty?"
Lady Grace answered by a gesture: her sister's assertions
did not go for much with her. "I fear this passion for play
has taken fatal possession of Adela," she observed, " and
that she will stand at nothing to gratify it. You must see
Charles Cleveland, and get the truth out of him."
"Better get it from Adela."
"If you can. I doubt it."
And Lady Grace had reason. When he spoke to his
wife the following morning, telling her the notes had been
traced to her, she haughtily waved her hands at him for
silence, stopped her ears, and finally left his presence, declar-
ing she would not re-enter it until he could drop all allusion
to the subject.
With a half curse—he, so temperate a man !-^-Mr. Grubb
started for Newgate, and from thence came back, and
called at Lady Oakton's. The countess and her daughters
were surrounded with visitors; Lady Mary Cleveland was
exhibiting her baby to them. Mr. Grubb made a sign to
Lady Grace, and she went with him to another room.
"Grace, what's to be done?" he said. "Adela will not
hear a word, and I can make nothing of Charles Cleveland.
Upon my mentioning Lady Adela—of course only in hints,
I could not accuse my wife outright to him—he interrupted


UnfatoHfiuit. 75
me •with a request that I would not introduce Lady Adela's
name into so painful a matter; that he had brought the
disgrace upon himself, and was prepared to pay for it. I
don't know what to think. I cannot believe, if my wife were
guilty, that Cleveland would take the penalty upon him-
self. Transportation for life is no light matter, Grace."
Lady Grace shuddered. "Do not let him suffer it,"
she said.
"I would rather cut off my right hand than punish a
man unjustly, were he my greatest enemy. But unless I
can get at the truth of this matter, and find proof that your
view of it is correct, I shall have no plea, to my partner,
to the public, or to my own conscience, for hushing it up;
and the law must take its course."
"Alas! alas!" murmured Lady Grace.
"You seem to overlook my feelings in this affair,
Grace," he whispered, a deep hue dyeing his cheeks. "That
she must have had something to do with it, her paying
away the notes proves; and to find the wife of your bosom
thus in league with another . You don't know what
it is, Grace."
"I can imagine it," she answered, the tears standing in
her eyes as she rose to bid him adieu. "Believe me, you
have, and always have had, my deepest and truest sym-
pathy; but Adela is my sister; what more can I say?"
Lady Grace sat on, alone. The murmur of gay voices
came to her from the adjacent room, but she heeded it not.
She leaned her head upon her hand, and debated with her-
self. It was imperative that the real facts of the case
should be brought to fight; for if Charles Cleveland were
permitted to suffer the penalty of transportation, and it
came out, later, that he was innocent, and her sister the
guilty party, what a fearful position would be that of Lady
Adela!


78 ^)nttt8m'a Stag Jfibntrg.
Could Charley not be brought to confess through
stratagem? debated Lady Grace. Suppose they made
believe that Adela, in order to save him, had declared the
truth, then he might speak. It was surely a good idea.
Grace weighed it, in all its bearings, and determined to
carry it out. But to whom intrust so delicate a mission?
Not to Mr. Cleveland, he would betray it all to Charles at
the first sentence; not to Mr. Grubb, his high sense of
honor would never let him assert that Lady Adela had
confessed what she had not; not to Lady Mary, for her
only idea of Newgate was that it was a place overflowing
with infectious fevers, which she should inevitably bring
home to baby. Who next? Herself? Yes, for Grace
Chenevix felt that none were so fitted for the task as she
was—she who had the subject so much at heart. So she
made a confidante of her mother, and the day for the expe-
dition was fixed.
Charles Cleveland sat on his iron bedstead, in his dreary
cell, chewing the cud of his reflections, which came crowd-
ing one upon another. None of them were agreeable, as
may be imagined, but pressing most keenly of all, was one
sensation of deep, dark disappointment. , Above the dis-
comfort of his present position, above the sense of shame
endured, above the dread of the hard, degrading life that
loomed for him in the future, was the unkind neglect of the
Lady Adela. She, for whom he was bearing this misery
and disgrace, had never, by her presence, by letter, or by
message, sought to convey a ray of sympathy to cheer him
in his dungeon. It may be she was afraid, but it told not
the less bitterly on the spirit of the prisoner.
A noise at his cell door, the heavy key was turning in
the lock, and the prisoner looked up eagerly—a visit was
such a break in his dreary day. Two ladies were entering,
and his heart beat wildly—wildly; for in the form of one


fnfalnanmt. 11
he discerned a likeness to Lady Adela. Had she come to
see him! and he had been so ungratefully blaming her!
But the lady raised her veil, and he was recalled to his
sober senses. It was only Grace Chenevix.
"So, Charles, an awful scrape you have brought your-
self into, through your flirting nonsense with Adela!"
began the Countess of Oakton.
"Now, mamma, dear mamma," implored Lady Grace,
in a whisper, "if you interfere you will ruin all."
"Ruin all! much obliged to you, Grace. I think he
has ruined himself," retorted the countess, in a shrill tone.
"I wonder, Charles, you can look us in the face. If any
one had told me I should ever walk through Newgate, sur-
rounded by turnkeys! We came in a hack cab! I wouldn't
have brought the servants here for the world."
"I shall ever feel grateful to you," began Charles.
"Oh, never mind about gratitude," unceremoniously
interrupted Lady Oakton, "there's no time for it. Let us
say what we have to say, Grace, and be gone. I am all in
a tremor, lest those men with keys should come and lock
me up. Of course, Charles, you know it has all come out."
Charles looked up sharply.
"Which is more luck than you could have expected,"
added the countess, while Lady Grace sat on thorns, unable
to get a word in edgeways. ." Of all brainless idiot^ you
have come out the first. If Adela chose (like a thoughtless,
wicked girl as she is! though she is my daughter) to write
her husband's name to a cheque, was that a reason why
you should go hotheaded to work, and make believe you
did it? Grubb is not your husband, and you have no right
to his money. Things that the law will permit a wife to do
with impunity, you might be run up to the drop for."
"Who has been saying this?" uttered the prisoner, in
breathless' bewilderment. "Surely not Lady Adela."


IS $nimtm's Storg gttbrarg.
"Charles," interposed Lady Grace, and her quiet tones,
after those of the countess, sounded like the lulling of a
storm, "there is no necessity for further mystery, or for
your continuing to assume the guilt; which, as my mother
says, was an unwise step on your part"
"I did not say unwise," sharply interrupted the coun-
tess; "call things by their right names, Lady Grace. It
was insanity, and nobody but an idiot would have done it.
That's what I said."
"The circumstances are known to us now," went on
Lady Grace. "Poor Adela, at her wits' end for money,
drew the cheque, and sent you to cash it. And then, terrified
at what she had done, persuaded you to assume the guilt."
"She did not persuade me," retorted Charles, falling
completely into the snare, and still anxious to excuse Lady
Adela; "I volunteered to bear it; and I would do as
much again."
"Charles, if you were present when she wrote the
cheque—I did not inquire, and Adela did not say—you
were doubly to blame. She, poor thing, was excited at the
moment, and incapable of reflection, but you ought to have
reasoned with her, and refused to aid in it—for her own
sake."
"And of course I should," eagerly answered Mr.
Charles, "had I known there was anything wrong about
it. Sne brought me the cheque ready written"
"When you went up from the city for the cheque-book,
on the Saturday morning. Yes?"
"Yes. I declare I thought it was Mr. Grubb's writing,
if ever I saw his writing in my life. I was not likely to
think anything else, having no suspicion. And I knew
nothing more about it till the Monday night, when I came
up from Brighton—as I suppose Lady Adela has told you,
if she has told you the rest."


80 J|trfnam'a Sting JJikraqj.
their separation, but with her parents. The merchant
proposed to allow her a liberal maintenance, and the earl
and countess agreed to receive her back in her maiden
home. The scene which ensued between her and her
husband, when the news of his fiat had burst startlingly
upon her, was more humiliating to her than any she had
hitherto held part in. For she was kneeling to him in her
terror and distress, kneeling to supplicate his mercy. Lady
Adela, so alive to the opinion of the world, would almost
have preferred death, than that her husband should con-
demn her to a forced separation.
"I have been very wrong," she implored, .the tears
streaming down her cheeks; "I have not behaved as I
ought from the time of our marriage; I acknowledge it.
Forgive me what is past, and in future I will be all that a
wife ought."
"Do not humiliate yourself by kneeling to me, Lady
Adela,"—and his tone had no relenting in it. "I pray you
rise."
"Not till you say you forgive me," was her rejoinder,
clasping his knees, and laying her tearful face against
them. "Do not let me kneel to you in vain—my hus-
band."
"Lady Adela, but a short while ago it was my turn to
supplicate you. I told you I would protect, forgive, and
shield you. I solemnly prayed you to trust in me—your
husband—as you wished it to be well with us in our future
life. Do you remember your answer?"
She moaned aloud—her only answer now.
"As you rejected me, so must I reject you."
"I will give up play—I will be all you wish—a man
may not reject his wife," she wildly urged.
"He may—when he has sufficient reason. Look at all
you have dealt to me. Few men would have borne with


Jnfohtation. 81
you as I have done. I loved you with a true and lasting
love: how have you repaid it to me?"
"Try me once again—a month—a week—let me still
live on, your wife. I will indeed be all you wish. Only
try me."
"It may not be," he coldly said. "My resolution has
been deliberately taken, and I cannot change it on impulse."
"Later, then," she panted, "try me later. Oh! mercy!
mercy!"
"Neither now nor later. My feelings were long, long
outraged, and I bore with you; but, in this last fearful act,
you have broken all allegiance, and thrown off my protection.
Lady Adela, I shall never inhabit the same roof with you
again."
She continued her distressing appeal—"Mercy! mercy!"
But her once fond husband gently unwound the clasp of
her arms, laid her on a sofa, and escaped from the room and
the house. He did not enter it again until she had finally
left it.
When the day of Charles Cleveland's trial came, there
was no prosecutor, so he was discharged. No explanation
had been given to Charley's friends in the fashionable
world, but an understanding had somehow gone forth
among them, coupled with a curious whisper about Lady
Adela, that he was not guilty and had been wrongfully
accused. They received him with a noisy welcome, each
one contesting who should make the most of him.
But Charles Cleveland was a changed man. His con-
finement and reflections in Newgate had added years to
his experience in life, and the heartless conduct of Lady
Adela filled his soul with wrath and bitterness. For,
heartless as she had been to him in prison, so she remained
in the interview which he sought with her, after he came
out of it.
4*


82 $lntnam'a Stag ^fibrarg.
"What name do you now give to that devoted chivalry
of yours, Charles?" asked Lady Grace Chenevix, with a
smile, when she was bidding him adieu, the day of his
departure for Marseilles, a post in the civil service at
Bombay having been obtained for him.
"Infatuation," replied Mr. Charles, savagely.
"That was just it," said Lady Grace. "Take care of
yourself for the future."
"If ever I get trapped by a woman again, all courtly
smiles one day, when she wants her turn served, and care-
less neglect the next, like a confounded weathercock, I'll
give you leave to transport me in earnest," was Charley's
wrathful answer. "But God bless you, Grace," he added,
changing his tone to one of deep feeling, "for I owe it to
you, and not to her, that I am not now on my free passage
to Norfolk Island."
And the Lady Adela? She is an unhappy woman,
dragging on a discontented existence under her father's
roof, wishing, how vainly, that she had not forfeited her
married home. We never know the value of a thing tiU
we have lost it. Strange to say, that feeling of admiration
and esteem, which others felt for her husband, has now
been awakened in her own breast, and she would forfeit half
her remaining existence to be allowed to return to him and
atone for days gone by. But she knows that this can never
be; that they shall not be united on this side the grave;
that when her husband threw her off, he threw her off for
ever.



An Ordeal.
«'
he fire burnt cheerily, throwing a ruddy light over
the walls of the little room, with its one or two
prints in simple frames, its hanging book-shelf, and
its ebony clock. The round table was drawn close to the
fire, and on it the tea-things glistened, and the lamp stood
ready for lighting. Agnes Ross sat with her feet on the
fender, knitting by fire-light, expecting, not waiting—he
was always too punctual for that—to hear her brother's
step outside, and the familiar click of his key in the street-
door, as he let himself in. It was a London lodging, in
one of those quiet streets that appear like the very strong-
holds of dreariness and discomfort; but, for all that, it was
a home, and looked like a home, too, to the orphaned
brother and sister.
That was his step! Agnes rose quickly, set on the
kettle, and lit the lamp. Then, with an air of careful pride,
she took from the mantel-shelf a glass jar in which was a
bouquet of glowing, beautiful, green-house flowers, rich
with aromatic fragrance. It seemed strange on the table
where she placed it, surrounded by the homely ware of the
tea-service. The bunch of winter-violets, which she removed


84 ^nhram's &iorg yibrarg.
to make room for the others, had been far more appropriate.
But Agnes' face shone as she looked on her floral treasures,
and then watched for her brother's expression as he saw
them.
He did see them, as he came into the room. He paused
—then shut the door—then smiled back in answer to his
sister's delighted glance.
"Yes, Leonard. What do you think of this?"
She held them up, glass jar and all, for admiration.
"Where do you think these came from?"
The young man did not answer at first. He took the
flowers from her hand, looked at them, breathed in their
fragrance for a minute, then put them down again. The
flush of pleasure soon passed from his thoughtful face. He
sat down, looking even grave.
"Who do you think brought them?" persisted Agnes,
changing the form of question.
"I can guess," he answered. A very brief pause ; then
he added, " Miss Bellew has been to see you. She said she
would. How do you like her?"
"Very, very much," cried Agnes, enthusiastically,
"How beautiful she is, Leonard. You told me she was,
but you did not say half enough. And so gentle, and kind,
and sweet. I fancied she was proud."
"So she is," Leonard said quickly; "but with a pride too
lofty to show itself to those below her in wealth and position."
He moved to take from his sister's hands the kettle she was
lifting. Tea-making engrossed her attention for a little
while, but she soon returned to the former theme.
"She sat and talked; pleasant, friendly, chat; for nearly
an hour. I showed her my drawings, and yours, afterwards.
She praised mine very much, but I think she would not ven-
ture to praise yours. I showed her our old house and the
views all about, that you took."


&n GtinL 85
"Little simpleton! To suppose every one as interested
in the dear old place as ourselves."
"I am sure she was interested, Leonard. Of course,
not as we are, but still very much. Is it likely she
would not be, knowing you? Then I showed her
your German drawings. She found out for herself that
Swiss view hanging by the window, and liked it. Gene-
rally, I hate to hear people praise your drawings or
yourself, even. But I would allow Miss Bellew to praise
both."
"Gracious permission! Now, terrible autocrat, give me
my tea. It is the bleakest of November nights, outside.
In this cosy little nest we feel nothing of it. Cosy little nest;
dear little bird in the nest."
But in spite of his gay, loving tone, he seemed more
than usually tired this evening. The dark hair fell care-
lessly, even rudely, over his forehead—the calm forehead
that his little sister was so proud of. She smoothed away
the vagrant locks; her cool fingers were very sweet, wel-
come visitants to his hot brow.
"Does your head ache, Leonard?"
"A little."
"And I have been chattering away so thought-
lessly. Drink your tea, brother, and keep quiet. I will be
still as a mouse."
"No need, Agnes. I am only tired; that's all. It has
been rather a busy day. Mr. Bellew had some involved
accounts from a Dresden house, which I had to go through,
because I know German. And it was more fatiguing
than reading Schiller."
"Yes, indeed!" Agnes said seriously. She sat on her
little chair; and, supporting her chin with her hand, gazed
meditatively into the fire.
"But, for all that, it was pleasant enough," pursued


86 ^trfttHtn's SStorg Jfurrarg.
Leonard cheerfully—" pleasant to be able to render a special
service to my master."
"Your master!" Scornfully curled the red lip. But the
pride of even a good woman often flies nearer the ground
than that of a good man. Leonard smiled.
"Do not disown the word, nor the fact, my birdie. It
is no shame to be a servant—or a servant I should not be."
Agnes broke forth anew with earnestness, even to tears.
"Oh, Leonard! Don't be angry: I mean, don't be vexed
with me for feeling—feeling it so hard that I should be the
cause of all."
"The cause of all? Of what?"
"Of your being in this position. If it had not been for
me, you would have gone to India, as your uncle wished;
and you would have made your fortune, and come back to
England while you were young; and you would have mar-
ried and been happy."
She stopped at length her rapid, passionate utterance.
Leonard then spoke gently.
"Happy! My little sister, what is it that you call hap-
piness?"
"Oh, I know—I know, with you duty is always happi-
ness."
"Not always; not often, I am afraid, to this restless,
erring humanity which is so strong within all of us. But,
Agnes, there was no war between duty and inclination in my
case. If it had not been simply right to stay at home, and
be a brother otherwise than in name to my sister, I might
have done it from pure selfishness. Next spring, you know,
when I lose my little sister, I may yet go to India."
"Oh, Leonard!"
"Oh, Agnes!" He laughed at her the pleasant laugh of
one who loves too truly to be less than tender over the
foibles of the beloved. "All this time, while you are elo-


g.n tofoxL 87
quent and unreasonable, my tea is getting cold, and bo is
yours."
Agnes turned slowly round to the tea-table. Her face, in
its intent thoughtfulness, looked like her brother's for the
time, though she was a youthful-hearted woman of four-and-
twenty, and he a man of thirty: old-looking for his
years.
"But, for all that"—she again plunged into the forbid-
den subject—"I am not convinced, brother."
"Not convinced, of what?"
"That you would not have been happier, making your
way abroad. It was such a prospect!"
"Spoken like a man of business. But life has other
phases than commerce, I was never meant to be a homeless
seeker for fortune. I crave more nourishment for heart and
mind. As for riches and luxury, I want none of them. I
never used to wish for them: I never will!"
His tone grew determined. Agnes looked up surprised,
but more persuaded.
"And you are really happy here, and thus?"
"Happier than I could be anywhere else in the wide
world," he answered, with a fervor that sent the color to his
cheek, the light to his eye,s. His sister looked up into his
face, and was satisfied.
The table cleared, Agnes was soon at work. But before
Leonard unclosed Shakspeare to finish The Tempest, com-
menced the previous evening, the girlish, busy tongue
began again on the fruitful theme with which their evening
talk had commenced.
"Brother, Miss Bellew invited me to go and see her."
"Did she? Very naturally."
"What sort of a house is it?"
"Their villa is a perfect palace of taste and luxury.
You were never in such a grand house in your life, Agnes.


88 ^jrrfnam'a Ssiorji Jfibnng-
Mr. Bellew is one of our merchant princes, you know. He
likes magnificence, and his house"
"It is about Mr. Bellew I want to know, not his house.
Is he a nice man?"
"Nice is such a young lady's word, I am afraid of
venturing in its way. He is a handsome old man, to begin
with. His face expresses the qualities I have always found
in him—honor, integrity, straightforward truthfulness,
perseverance, pride, and inflexible, inexorable will."
"I know what he is like, very well. Is Miss Bellew au
only child?"
"She has a brother, a boy of fourteen; and two little
sisters, born when her mother died."
"And she is a mother to them?"
"Almost," said Leonard, temperately. "She is very
good—very loving and tender over them. Her mother
left them in her charge. She fulfils it sacredly."
"And they all love her dearly?"
"I believe so: the little girls do, at least. Master
Alfred is, I should think, rather difficult to deal with. His
father has spoiled him ever since he was born."
"And neglects, or at least thinks little of his daugh-
ters?"
"Not so fast. Rosamond—Miss Bellew—is the very
apple of her father's eye."
"Is she?" said Agnes, thoughtfully.
Leonard opened his book, and began turning over the
pages.
"And her name is Rosamond," she pursued, still musing,
her work lying idle in her lap. "Rosa mundi, Rose of the
World."
"Even so," said Leonard, gently, " Rose of the World."
He repeated the words softly, dreamily, as he turned over
more pages, and finally settled his volume and himself for


§.n ®rbml 80
reading. Then his voice became cadenced to a clear and
equable music, as he began:
"There be some sports are painful; but their labor
Delight in them sets off."
A week afterwards, Agnes went to spend the day with
Miss Bellew. It was looked forward to, thought about,
counted upon. It proved one of those rare occasions when
the anticipated pleasure falls even short of its reality. At
least, so Agnes thought, when, after a long day that had
seemed short, of talk and music, books and work, she and
Miss Bellew and the children sat at evening in the drawing-
room, with Mr. Bellew asleep in his arm-chair. The two
little girls were at their sister's feet, absorbed in a fairy-tale.
Master Alfred was equally well amused by some boyish
piece of science which his father had brought him that eve-
ning. Rosamond and Agnes sat side by side on the sofa.
The night was bleak—rain falling, and gusts of wind sobbing
which reached their ears even in their curtained and cush-
ioned splendor of ease.
"My brother will be here soon," said Agnes.
"Yes. It is a wild night for him to come so far."
"Oh! he does not mind wild weather. He even likes it.
At home, he often used to go out in the midst of storm and
wind, to help the fishermen to draw up their boats on the
shore. Once he went into a little boat to save the people
out of a wreck."
"Did he?"
A silence. Curiously enough, this theme of Leonard was
a new one between the two girls, although to one of them,
at least, of ever-present interest.
"You must have loved your home very much," said
Miss Bellew presently.
"We did—especially Leonard. He looked as I never


90 jptthmm'g Statu JTiferarg.
saw him look before nor since, when we drove away from
the gate of our house, and through the village. It was
such a happy home. Perhaps, one day, we may yet have it
again."
"You and your brother?"
"Yes; or Leonard, at least. I know he hopes for it,
thinks of it, determines"
But here Agnes stopped, suddenly conscious how unwit-
tingly confidential she had become with her new friend. She
looked up, and Rosamond's eyes met her own. Miss Bel-
lew's was a lace that looked too proud for a woman's, until
she smiled or spoke; then the curves of her mouth relaxed
into a graciousness that made her whole countenance radiant
and beautiful. Now the face was softened into absolute
sweetness. Agnes thought it so lovely at that moment, she
could not choose but look at it; she could not choose but
feel it familiar, and her confidence no longer seemed unna-
tural. Nevertheless, she paused.
"You are not afraid of talking to me ?" said Rosamond,
simply. "Tell me more of your old home. I know you
must like to talk of it, and I like to listen."
And so Agnes went on talking, and Rosamond listened.
It was natural that the sister should insensibly slide back
to the subject of her brother. Agnes found herself telling
Miss Bellew of all the circumstances of their position. True,
none needed to be kept secret, and most of them Rosamond
might already have learned from her father. Perhaps she
had. However that might be, she kept very still, while
Agnes told her how the failure of a bank soon after their
father's death had ruined them, and how at first Leonard
had tried to support his mother and sister in their old home
by teaching in the neighborhoods
"But our mother died; and, soon after, an old friend
of my father's offered Leonard employment in translating,


if he would come and live in London. So we left the old
place, and went to live in London lodgings."
"It must have been a sad change."
"In many respects it was. And then our rich uncle
Fellows wrote to offer Leonard a share in some great Indian
concern of his. He had been unfriendly with the family
for years, but now he wrote. And when Leonard declined,
he sent back an angry letter, renouncing all connexion with
him for ever."
"Your brother declined?"
"Yes. Shall I tell you why? You guess—he would
not leave me. We two were alone in the world then. I
feel ungrateful sometimes."
She paused, blushing.
"Perhaps, when I am married, Leonard may go"
"To India ? »
"Yes. I often fancy he thinks of it. If it had not been
for me, he might have made his fortune there by this time.
His useless, troublesome sister, who now, after all, will leave
him!" sighed Agnes, with a pensive look in her brown
eyes.
"You are to be married, then? Soon?"
"In the spring, when his ship is expected home. He is
a sailor," added she, with a girlish flush and a rapid glance
at her companion.
"Is he? And will he have to go to sea again after you
are married—to leave you?"
"No, indeed. I shall go with him wherever he goes. No
need—no right—no reason that I should ever leave him
when I am his wife!" cried Agnes. "That is the happi-
ness!"
Again she paused with a bright blush. Again Rosa-
mond's eyes perused her face with a kind of tender exulta-
tion in what she read there. Her lips parted, as if to speak,


92 $)trfram's Storg grtbrarg.
but she checked the impulse, and sat mute; her head a little
drooped, her hands lightly clasped upon her lap—musing,
most likely.
Leonard's eyes first fell on that fair picture as he entered
the room; for the door opened noiselessly—as all doors
were educated to do in that house—and he stood before
them before they were aware. Both the girls started ; both
blushed. Agnes smiled gladly on seeing her brother,
Rosamond moved away to awaken her father.
Mr. Bellew became conversational. The children were
summoned to bed, and tea-time arrived.
Rosamond presided over the tea-table. It was pleasant
to see her at its duties, all the surrounding appointments be-
ing, after their several ways, in graceful, delicate, and refined
harmony with herself. She said little, even to Agnes, who
sat by her side. She appeared entirely intent on the office
before her: only an occasional lighting up of the dark eyes,
a radiant flow of color to the transparent cheek, betrayed
that she listened to the animated discourse between the two
gentlemen. Mr. Bellew liked talking with his clerk; he
was too clever himself not to value intellect in another;
and it was not the first agreeable evening he had owed to
the society of Leonard Ross. The old gentleman was intel-
ligent, cultivated, in a certain sense, and sagacious. All his
most genial characteristics came out on such occasions. He
paid studious little courtesies to Agnes; he was kind and
friendly beyond kindness to Leonard. As he leaned back
in his velvet chair, his fine head with its white hair, his
clear blue eyes, his well-cut features, made a pleasant picture
of flourishing old age. All the harsher points were lost,
which sometimes made his hale countenance stern and hard
of aspect, even to cruelty.
Agnes had thought of him even with affection; and of
Rosamond her appreciation had been warm even to enthu-


g.n ©rfoaL 93
siasm. "Had been," for things were changing now, and
the joy of the time seemed slipping away from Leonard's
sister. The graceful luxury of the surroundings satisfied
her taste, attracted her fancy, as before. Rosamond sat
fair and brilliant, like a star shining in the midst of a cloud,
or a diamond set in snow—as Agnes had been thinking to
herself. Leonard was there, too. All was warmth; glow-
ing, generous, cordial warmth. Yet Agnes felt chilled, and
was no longer at peace.
The evening went by, and the time of departure drew
near. Rosamond took Agnes to her room. That exquisite
little dressing-room had delighted Agnes a few hours before.
The rose-pink hangings; the mirrors with their marble
consoles; the statuettes, and pictures, and flowers, and
porcelain; the birds in their cages; the jewels and trinkets;
the rare and costly trifles tossed lavishly about—all this had
pleased simple Agnes to see. Now, she marked the incon-
gruity of her own homely bonnet and cloak as they lay on
the embroidered couch. Also, for the first time, she noted
the contrast between herself and her hostess as they were
both reflected in one of the long glasses.
Rosamond took her hand.
"Let us be friends," she said, with a certain hesitating
timidity, very unusual to Miss Bellew.
A little while before Agnes would have responded
warmly, lovingly. Now, instinctively, she shrank back.
But her next impulse forbade her to risk the chance of
giving pain.
"I hope so," she answered, with gentleness.
Rosamond kissed her, and she returned the kiss.
Down the soft-carpeted staircase into the chastened glow
of the drawing-room again, with its purple and its gold, and
its grandeur that was lost in the refinement and grace that
reigned over all. Good-night to the courtly, white-haired


94 $lntratm'g Storg ytfcrarg.
gentleman who stood by the hearth; good-night to the
queen of the palace—the fairy of the enchanted castle—the
lily of the beautiful garden. Rosamond looked like all
these as she gave her hand, first, to Agnes, then to Leonard.
He touched it; glanced, not looked into her face, and turned
to ansfrer some casual inquiry of Mr. Bellew. The bell
rang, the servant waited; the brother and sister descended
the staircase. At its foot they were arrested by Rosamond's
voice.
"Stay, Miss Ross! Agnes! you have forgotten your
flowers."
She came flying down to them, holding the beautiful
camellias and geraniums clasped to her breast. Leonard
stood nearest to her; and before his will could rise to con-
trol it, his impulse—passionate, imperious, overwhelming—
had commanded him to stretch out his hand. He took the
flowers. He looked at her; and, for a single instant, she
looked at him.
There was no second good-night. Agnes twined her arm
within her brother's. They were out in the cold, blank,
silent night.
The brother and sister walked rapidly. The rain had
ceased, but a damp mist hung over everything. The houses
looked like great, gaunt shadows; the street-lamps flared
with a sickly, lurid light; the park they had to cross was a
dreary wilderness, haunted with strange shapes; for tree,
and gate, and fence looked ghostly in the vaporous air.
Agnes shivered; her brother drew her closer to his side.
"Are you cold?" he asked anxiously. They were the
first words he had spoken since they left the house.
"No; not cold."
A pause.
"You have had a pleasant day?'
"It was very pleasant."


gjt ®rbtaL 85
Another silence.
"How sweet these flowers are!"
Agnes caught them from his hand.
"I should like to throw them away!" she said, passion-
ately.
Leonard gently reclaimed them, saying nothing. He
did not inquire the reason of his sister's sudden emotion;
although it had left her trembling, and, once or twice, a
brief, strong sob escaped from her. He said nothing.
The narrow, dismal street was reached at last. They
re-entered their home. The fire shone with a subdued glow;
two or three books lay on the table, Agnes's work-basket,
and the glass of flowers. Leonard lit the lamp, his sister sat
on the little sofa, and he took up a letter which had arrived
in their absence. But he only handled it mechanically;
looked at it with eyes whose vision seemed introverted. A
strange expression was on his face; such as even his sister
had never seen there before. It was not the look she had
expected—had dreaded to see. That she could have inter-
preted; but this was in a language of which she held no key.
He took up the glowing flowers he had brought with him,
and regarded them long with deep, thoughtful eyes. Agnes
sprang to him.
"Oh! put them away—put them away!"
He looked into her face. Her pleading, anguished look
forced down the calm front with which he strove to meet it.
So he only took her in his arms, and gently pressed her
head against his shoulder, blinding the entreating eyes that
saw too much. Presently, in a quiet voice, he said,—
"Yes, Agnes. I will put them away."
In a changed tone, presently, he added:
"You are tired, and it is late. We will not sit up
longer."
"O brother, brother! you are cruel to me."


"Oh, brother, brother!" Agnes sobbed, clinging round
his neck, "I cannot bear it; I, that am so happy, to see
you suffer."
"My child, I know it is hard," he said, tenderly; "God
bless you for the love that makes it so."
"Every day, every time you see her, that you go
there"
"I know. Therefore, when my little bird leaves me for
her own happy nest next spring, I shall go."
"Where?"
"Abroad somewhere. I shall easily settle where. In
the meantime, I shall not go there again." His glance
unconsciously caught the* flowers that lay near him for a
single instant. He rose resolvedly.
"Now, remember, no word henceforward." He kissed
her fondly, then led her gently, but irresistibly, to the
door.
"You must go to bed now. Good-night, sister."
"Good-night, brother." But she lingered yet a few
minutes—then she went.
Left alone, Leonard Ross stood beside the fire-place,
leaning his head against the high mantelpiece. His hands
clasped themselves together very tightly; the one instinc-
tive, unconscious demonstration of rending pain.
It was a new pain, and one so mingled with sweetness
that it defied him to put it away. For a brief space he had
tasted of a joy most exquisite;—for once at least his life
had risen to full tide, and joy had crowned it with a crest
of light. There is no man who loves, and sees for the first
time the answering electric look, which at a flash shows him
a new world radiant and glorious; into which he alone may
enter; over which he alone holds sovereignty—there is no
man, beholding this, but would feel the rapture of the new
joy. Leonard had tasted of the ecstasy; now came the
5


98 |)rrfmrm's Storg ^ibratg.
recoil. The gate of the dream-land had closed upon him,
and he stood in the cold, grey, outside world again.
In that grey reality, truths now made themselves
harshly felt. That he was not alone in this love, that it
was requited, soon ceased to be a thought of sweetness; it
aggravated to torture, it lashed even to fierceness. For the
first time the cry of his soul was, "It is more than I can bear."
Such strife, such struggle it is for no earthly hand to
record. Let no man be ashamed if, in his calmer latter
days, he look back to some such episode in his early life.
Over it, be sure, angel eyes have watched with divine com-
passion for the suffering, divine exultation in the victory.
In the morning Agnes came down, with looks well
tutored into cheerfulness. Her brother stood by the
window, an open letter in his hand. He was very pale, she
thought to herself. He kissed her as usual, then held her
hand still.
"Agnes," said he, in a low voice, " I have only now just
opened this letter."
"It was here last night. Oh, Leonard, no bad news?"
"Uncle Fellows is dead."
"Dead—Uncle Fellows!" A sudden flash of thought
made her heart beat quickly, almost to suffocation. She
looked up in her brother's face.
"There is no will, and I am the heir-at-law."
*********
A fortnight had gone by. What a new-hued time was
this! What a wondrous world revolved within the circle
of the old one! New life—new air—new warmth, light,
and lustre—although the days were shortening towards
the year's end, and sullen clouds hid constantly the vault
of heaven, and sunshine came not through, and earth grew
cold in the shadow.
Leonard Ross was betrothed to Rosamond Bellew. Her


$tt Drbtal 99
father was surprised, at first:—acute perceptions do not
always accompany a shrewd intellect, and the merchant
might have gone on not seeing that which was before his
eyes, to the end of his days. He was surprised, and at
first scarcely pleased, perhaps. His clerk suddenly trans-
formed into a millionaire was an idea that he could not at
once get accustomed to. That the millionaire should
become his son-in-law was more easy of acceptance. Still it
was all very strange. He was confounded, too, by his
daughter's frank, almost proud, avowal of her love for
Leonard. Of course, no objections could be urged: he
gave his consent. But it was some time before he grew
easy under the new state of things. It was curious; puz-
zling; perplexing, he thought, that Leonard Ross should be
a rich man—able to marry his daughter.
To Rosamond and Leonard it never seemed strange or
new. They were very happy. That golden fortnight had
held for them riches enough to dower many a long life.
Existence is more evenly balanced than we think. Perhaps
we all drink nectar sometimes; only to some it comes drop
by drop, sweetening the daily draught; while others quaff
it from the full goblet in one draught, and live, thereafter,
on the remembered glory.
At the fortnight's end Leonard was to go down to
Blishford, the large town near which his property lay, and
where his uncle had died, to take possession of the estate,
and to arrange various legal matters in connexion, not only
with it, but with his approaching marriage. Two weddings
would take place early in the spring. Agnes was to be
claimed by her sailor lover, who would then return from
the West Indies, and Rosamond and Leonard were to be
married at the same time. The fond dream of many,
many years was to be realized; and the birthplace of
Leonard was to be the dear home to which he would take
210655


100 $talitHm'a Stag yibrarg.
his bride. He described it to her again and again, and
sketched faithful vignettes of well remembered places on
stray scraps of paper, all of which she kept and treasured as
the costliest works of art. She listened, never tired—asking
question upon question with the persistency of an interest
that never could be exhausted, for it arose out of a depth of
tenderness that could never be fathomed.
But—at the fortnight's end, Leonard was to go. The
time came, and he went. Only for a week—a week would
suffice for everything, and he was to be back at Christmas-
time. It was scarcely like a parting, Rosamond said;
although her lip quivered like a grieved child's, and her
eyes shone through large tears she tried hard to conceal.
Nevertheless, whether at first or at last, separation
brings with it the inevitable penalty of suffering, and love
will not be constrained into submission. So Rosamond ran
into her little fairy bower and could not be won thence,
even by Agnes; who, it had been planned, was to stay with
her during Leonard's absence, and who would fain have
soothed the passionate grief away.
Meanwhile Leonard pursued his journey; thoughts,
memories, and hopes, thronging his brain: new feelings and
old, stirring at his heart. Verily, there can be few things
"Sweeter than the dream,
Dreamed by a happy man."
Great resolves mixed themselves with those happy
hopes; ardent yearnings for the future, yearnings in which
self was the beginning but not the end of aspiration.
So he went on his way—through the long railway jour-
ney, to the great, looming, London-like town near which
was his destination. Business, now, grows thick upon him
—we may leave him for awhile:
We may leave him sitting in the old oak-panelled par-


got fflibtal 101
lor, with its quaint furniture, its massive chairs and table,
and carved bureau; the room that had been his uncle's
study, and where, as the grave housekeeper informs him, her
master transacted all his business. Large and various must
that business have been. The management of the huge
property, which chiefly consisted of houses in Blishfbrd, was
only part of it. He still kept up his connexion with the
merchant's house in Calcutta wherein he had originally made
his fortune; he had large speculations afloat, grand schemes,
even at the very time of his death—when paralysis cut short
in one instant all the old man's hopes and ambitions for ever.
Leonard, during the days he passed in that old house,
thought often with much marvelling as to the manner of
man his unknown uncle had been. He asked many questions
of the demure housekeeper.
"He was a hard gentleman, sir, though I say it. Many a
time, in the bad winters, with lever about, and half Blish-
ford a'most driven to famine, he's been begged of for money
to help the poor; and he, out of all his wealth, would never
give a fraction. And his poor tenants in some o' them
miserable courts and places—where a body hardly likes to
go, they're so foul and wretched—if in the worst of times
they were backward with their rent, it fared sorely with
them."
Leonard heard and mused within himself, gravely and
sadly, for a long time, as he pursued his task of examining
the papers, letters, deeds, and memoranda, which had been
kept for the heir's arrival, with the lawyer's seal aflixed upon
the locks of the drawers which held them.
So, in the old oak-panelled parlor, with the bronze lamp
shedding a flickering light on the carved bureau, and the
thoughtful face bent over it, with the firelight glowing in
the wide grate, and the polished walls shining with a dark
resplendence,— we leave him until to-morrow.


102 |)atom's Storg $ urrarg.
A wintry night in the outskirts of London, snow on the
ground; de(?p already, and deepening at every moment.
The air is thick with large flakes that lall noiseless on road
and pavement, on house roof and church steeple, on pillared
porch and garden wall. It was bitterly cold. The snow
that had fallen was not soft, but frozen into a cruel hard-
ness. Footsteps left hardly any imprint in it, and the
track of wheels and horses' hoofs that the day's traffic had
left had been long since effaced, and no new vehicles came
down the quiet district to renew them. Houses, houses,
houses on all sides, but jealously closed; only a hall lamp
shining at rare intervals through a fanlight. No cheerful
glow came through crimson curtains, a generous contingent
from some warm cosy nest to the bleak, bare, outside night.
All without is silent, blank, chill. What is it within one of
these "handsome houses, where the wealthy" City men
and merchants dwell? For this is a suburb of " first-class
villa residences."
Through the blinding snow, through the relentless biting
cold, a gentleman who, having newly emerged from a
neighboring omnibus, afforded a black relief to the unmiti-
gated pallor of surrounding things, dashed on, very quickly
and determinedly. His color was fast changing, however,
first to iron grey, then to pepper and salt, and finally to
salt by itself. He reached his destination, rang at the bell,
as he entered by a wide gate into what, under its white
masquerade dress, seemed to be a garden and shrubberies:
then sprang up some steps, knocked loudly at a door whose
massive oak and awful knobs even the snow had respected,
and shook himself free from the cloudy flakes that covered
him. One more look out into the forbidding night; one
more instinctive shiver and shrinking from the rude gust
that came, with snow for its ally, right in his face. Then
the door flew open and he stepped in. The massive portal
^


&n (total 103
closed behind him. Where was the harsh night gone?
What had become of the incarnate dreariness? the black
vault above? the lurid desolation of the world below?
Here was a wide hall, well lit by two swinging lamps
of painted glass, that looked like ripe summer fruits hang-
ing from a garden wall; pictures rich and warm in color; and
one or two statues. A fair white Welcome stood on one
side, holding out her hands and smiling with her lip, her eyes,
her brow, with every curve of her gracious face and figure;
and a Peace, not needing to smile, her look was so serene,
with her arms folded purely over the book she held to her
breast, and her olive-wreath changed for one of Christmas
holly, red-berried, shining-leaved,' that another hand than
the sculptor's had placed there. Evergreens decked the
walls, the picture-frames, the lamps;—and the fragrance
of bay-leaves scented the warm air. The newly-arrived
guest looked round; as if with dazzled eyes, he passed his
hand across his brow, while the servant relieved him of
his hat and his cloak. And now, sound begins to add itself
to the other accompaniments of the scene ; a warm happy
murmur of voices, through which, presently, a light, tremu-
lous, girlish laugh is embroidered like a silver thread on
crimson. And then some cunning hand evokes a passionate
flood of sound from the pianoforte; it rises, it sinks, and
swells, and rises again, and falls in tiny crystal droplets, and
then ceases. For the dining-room door has been opened,
and our sometime wayfarer in the snow has entered.
A large room, glowing warmly with crimson, and open-
ing into a smaller one, beyond which again the faint light
of a pendant lamp reveals a tiny conservatory. They are
seated round the blazing fire in the first room, all but the
one who stands by the piano—her white fingers yet poised
over the ivory keys. A hale, handsome old man, two little
girls nestling on the hearth-rug, very fairy princesses, of blue


104 Ratal's &torg Jfibrarg.
eyes, golden hair, and dainty apparel; an older boy poring
over a book, and bright-faced Agnes Ross, her look alert
and flashing, her whole countenance radiant and happy,
seated on the sofa, the other place on which has been just
vacated by Rosamond.'
O happiest Rosamond! She looked up and saw the
figure standing in the doorway.
"Leonard! Oh, I knew it was you."
They gathered round him: his sister, with a fond em-
brace; the children, in much demonstrative glee; even
slow-moving Mr. Bellew rose from his chair, and met him
with outstretched hand.
"The train was late," he observed, as he seated himself.
"Delayed one hour by the great snows." Agnes made
Leonard take her place. He sat beside Rosamond on the
sofa, and then his sister attacked him volubly with inquiries
as to how he travelled ? was he tired? had he dined? But,
the questions answered, he leaned back, glad to be silent,
perhaps. The picture was complete. Laughing children,
the sweep of soft, rich drapery, the pearl-like light of lamps,
the cordial sound of the flaming fire, and the sweet, luscious
odors that stole in from the neighboring flowers: luxurious
allurements and gratifications for the senses, refined and
subtle as the tastes they wooed and won—all were here.
Leonard again passed his hand over his brow.
"Dearest, you are tired," whispered Rosamond, bending
close to him in sweet, sudden anxiety. Her hand timidly
touched his shoulder. He took it in his own, and looked at
it; the fair, soft, little hand, the delicate wrist, well guarded
by its outer sleeve of purple silk, and within that, drooping
frills of finest lace, and a shining bracelet of gold, thickly
set with emeralds, clasped about it, and ever and anon slip-
ping up the round arm. Fair little hand!
Leonard looked at it; then at her sweet face, where a


%n ®ibraL • 105
faint flush was .gathering and fading, and then glowing
again, like sunrays upon snow. Then he looked round the
room, and finally his gaze rested full on the face of Mr.
Bellew, his host, and future father-in-law. No sign of
weariness in Leonard now. There was even more than usual
energy and vigor in his face; he rose erect in his seat, still
holding the little hand in his, still gazing at the old merchant's
placid, well-favored countenance.
"It is a bitter night outside," Leonard said. "It will be
a hard winter."
"Hard winter, truly," observed Mr. Bellew. "My horses
fell three times this morning. At last I had to get out and
walk a street's length to the counting-house. Have you had
any adventures, Leonard?"
"Not of that kind," replied he, the faintest smile quiver-
ing at his mouth.
"No. But we look for something more stirring from
you, you have been away ten days; in that romantic manu-
facturing district too. How did you leave Blishford?"
"Cleaner than it had ever been in its life, I think, for the
snow fell even faster than the dirt."
"All business satisfactorily settled?" Mr. Bellew asked,
en passant.
"The business is settled."
"Come, come; you needn't blush, Rosamond!" said Mr.
Bellew, who seemed genial even to jocularity on this occa-
sion. "So much of the preliminaries over, then. Well—
well—well. Miss Agnes, shall I give you this hand-screen."
The old gentleman bent forward, always studiously
polite to his fair guest. It was curious to watch his grave
face relax into a smile of stately, Grandisonian courtesy,
while all the time the shrewd eyes shone, the inflexible
mouth was firm and hard.
"Papa, papa!" cried one little fairy, who tumbled round
5*


106 ^ntrram's Stag $hjrarg.
on the hearth-rug—a tiny bundle of azure silk and lace—
with a rosy face beaming up in eager inquiry, "is it true,
papa, is Rosamond to be married soon?" .
"And will she go away?" chimed in the other, "and
won't she be our very own any more?"
Rosamond rose. She might be excused for seeking her
work from a table in the inner room, pending the answer
to these inquiries. But Leonard followed her—Leonard
drew her yet further away—into the little conservatory, at
one side of which Rosamond was accustomed to sit and
read or write or work. Her little desk was there now; her
chair stood beside it, and a white vase with a single crimson
rose in it. She took this last in her hand, and examined it
with great attention.
"It is for you," she said, softly. "I have watched it
budding day after day, and this very morning it opened.
It knew you were coming, you see. I had taught it to
know."
"Shall we sit here awhile?" said Leonard. "I like this
place. It is pleasant to be here."
"And remember," said she, "you have everything to
tell me."
He started. She smiled up at him, in the very over-
flowing of contentment.
"Oh, I have so much to hear!" she went on, gaily; "the
history of ten days, the full, true, and particular history.
You know it is of no use to attempt to satisfy me with less.
So begin, do begin."
She sat down and he took his place beside her. Such a
serene, sweet face was drooped from his gaze, such quiver-
ing happiness played about the rosy mouth. There was a
brief silence: they could hear the children's voices in the
other room, and Agnes's vivacious tones clear above the
rest.


$tt ©ihal 107
"She is telling them a story," said Rosamond, " and
I am going to hear my own special story—am I not?"
Leonard's voice, steadfast and sustained, vibrated on
the murmur of distant sound with special distinctness.
"Yes, darling, you should be told."
Something in the tone of his voice, an indefinite, inde-
scribable something, smote Rosamond's quick sense. The
shy happiness faded from her face; she looked up with a
swift, appealing glance—a sort of helpless deprecation of
ill.
"Leonard! What is it?"
"I will tell you all, my Rosamond. My Rosamond,"
he repeated fondly, with a quiet smile, that insensibly
smoothed away, for the moment, the trouble in her face.
He held her hand close, and began.
"You are to see me, then, going through that wonder-
ful town, at once so rich and so squalid—so magnificent
and so miserable, with its thousands upon thousands of
inhabitants, mostly poor—many of them destitute—some
even despairing. Through the dark,, dismal streets, where
all the falling snow was polluted by smoke and filth, and
even through the frost the air was heavy and impure.
Past miserable dwellings—hovels, where people seemed
festering, not living; where I saw gaunt figures moving
about with wretched faces, ashen-hued—with glaring eyes,
and sunken, hollow cheeks. I saw their hungry, fierce
looks as they passed me by—these creatures that want,
and disease, and ignorance together seemed to have left
scarcely human. Kosamond, my heart swelled as I saw
them, and knew that the avarice and cold-heartedness of
my uncle had helped to make them so. I thought that,
in the days to come, life should hold better things for them,
that I would repair the injuries—right the injustice that he
had done."


108 gjauWs Stars %ibrarg.
"Ah—your uncle's property was in those miserable
streets."
"Chiefly. I planned great benefactions, I imagined
gigantic schemes of improvement. In my mind I looked
on the same places, and the people in them, ten years
hence. I thought how we would work together to help
them—minds and bodies."
"And we will—we will!" cried Rosamond, with uncon-
scious apprehension giving poignance to her tone.
"Ay, love, if it please God." He stopped a little after
those lowly-uttered words. Then he resumed.
"From thoughts, dreams, plans like these, I went back
to Woolthorpe, the old house where my uncle lived his
latter years, and died. I went back, thinking of those poor
souls' misery, which I was to alleviate through my great
happiness. That was last night, darling. Last night, at
this time, I was thinking to myself of this night's joy of
return." He went on more rapidly. "And I set to work,
tying up papers, arranging the deeds and parchments with
which the old bureau was full, and which the lawyers and I
had been busy over for many days. I had just finished; I
was closing one of the small inner drawers, which slightly
resisted the efibrt. I pressed it harder, and touched some
secret spring, it seems, and a side drawer sprang open."
"How strange!" said Rosamond.
"A paper lay there, carefully folded, not very long since
written. I saw my uncle's bold signature at the bottom of
the page. I think I knew what it was before I opened it
and read." He paused an instant and drew breath. "It
was my uncle's will, which they had vainly sought, and
could not find."
"Yes—but—I do not understand." She faltered, for
she saw in his face ample interpretation of all the rest.
"It was a will in his own handwriting, dated a very few


g4t mai 109
weeks before his death. A will, by which he leaves all his
property in the charge of trustees for the benefit of chari-
ties in Blishford, and elsewhere; but especially to found
institutions, hospitals, and asylums in that wretched town.
You see, Rosamond, my schemes were anticipated. Remorse
came to the poor old man, and a yearning to do something
by his death that might alleviate the wretchedness he had
helped to increase during his life! God knows the secrets
of his heart; it was not all hard."
"But yvu t"
"I and Agnes are mentioned in the will—five hundred
pounds are left to each of us. Also inclosed with it was
a letter to his former partner in Calcutta, recommending
me to him. It was always his wish that I should go there."
"Leonard! don't speak in that manner! Leonard!
Leonard!" She turned upon him her pale, agonized face.
She caught his arm feebly, looking round with an imploring,
searching look. "Wait a little; I cannot, cannot under-
stand yet."
"Rosamond!"
"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't try to tell me."
He put his arm round her, but, in the action, his calm-
ness fled from him. He leaned his head down on his hands;
he hid his face. One sudden, passionate groan escaped him.
Then was silence, through which they could hear Mr. Bel-
lew's voice, grave, deliberate, and decided, and the chil-
dren's musical treble blending with it. Twice Rosamond
tried to speak, but the words died away, unuttered. A
strange, almost fierce look, unnatural to see on her girlish
face, quivered about every feature. At last she whis-
pered:
"Will this separate us? Do you mean that?"
"Do I mean it?"
"Because," she went on hurriedly, but still in a whisper,


110 $jtrfnam's Storg fihrarg.
"if it is done, it will be done by you. There is no one
else to do it j no one—no one else who could"— She
stopped.
Leonard looked up. With her two little hands she
clasped his brow so that he could not look at her. And the
mutinous, half-frenzied look still grew, and grew.
"It is not right, it cannot be right," she said mechani-
cally. "God could never intend"—
"Hush! Let us look steadily at our fate; let us meet
it, since it must be met, submissively."
"What is our fate to be, then?" she asked, abruptly;
"it is for you to decide."
He did not understand her meaning, though he thought'
he did.
"No, Rosamond, it is for neither you nor me to decide.
It is already fixed."
"Does any one know of—of this will besides you?" she
said, quickly.
"No one. The person who must first be informed lives
in London. I shall go to him to-morrow."
"No!" she said, imperatively, and paused. "No," she
said again, imploringly, frightened at Leonard's silence.
"Rosamond!"
"We—we could do all he wished," she whispered, while
a burning spot rose on each cheek, "even as you planned
before, before you found—. It would be no wrong done
to any human being. Leonard, Leonard!"
He drew her closely to him, and kissed her forehead,
with a sad, tender pain expressed in his look.
"Leonard! Oh, speak to me!"
"Wait. Think a little."
"Think!" She broke from his arms, and looked up in*
his face in cold reproach. "Can you think of what is the
issue of all this? Do you love me less entirely, then, than


$n ©rkal 111
I love you? Anything, everything, is to me better, nobler,
truer than that we should part. We! It is not one little
month since we first learned to say that word. I had
known it and uttered it in my heart long, long before. I
knew you must love me by the strength of my own love.
I knew we were one. Heaven made us so.—Yet you would
part us! You could bear to do it!"
"I could bear to do it," Leonard repeated slowly,
looking at her, "because we are one."
She stretched out her arms in a sort of helpless, passion-
ate appeal. Her hand touched the crimson rose, smiling
in gorgeous fulness and completeness from its crystal vase.
She looked at it for a minute, then—her face changed.
The dilated eyes softened, the fiery spot faded from her
cheek. The frantic passion was dying out. The first
instinct of rebellion was yielding to the truer, purer, woman-
nature. She bent her head down into her hands.
"We were so happy, so happy. God pity us!" she
said, and the tears came plenteously and tenderly. And
Leonard, in his soul, cried, "God help us, strengthen us!"
For he needed both help and strength. In a little while she
knelt closely beside him, her head leaning on his breast,
weeping out the passion that had burned so fiercely as to
convulse the delicate frame wherein it flamed. Presently
when Leonard spoke, his low voice seemed gradually to
still the sobs. She looked up—with the old sweet look,
that for him her face had always worn. It almost struck
down his courage to see it. With a flash came the thought
of the coming life, life without her. What that meant to him,
only his own heart could tell. For a brief space he wrestled
with that heart. It was mutinous, it resisted the crushing
late that loomed heavy and dark before it. All the strong
passion of his man's nature roused itself, and rebelled
against the suffering. It fought fiercely, it struggled with


112 $)nltram's Stag ITibrarg.
desperate strength. It cried out against the weary years;
the desolate cruel time that was coming. How often do
we recoil thus from the time that is coming! Why do we
not remember that we live in eternity, and so be patient?
Some such thought came to Leonard, and helped to still
the tumult. And Rosamond did not guess what had passed
during those moments that he remained so still,—shading
his face with his hand. She did not know all the meaning
of the uplifted look with which he turned to her again.
And he only said:
"Rosamond, my Rosamond! We will have courage."
Then they heard the children calling them.
"I will not go back, in there," Rosamond said faintly.
She laid her hand on the side door that led Jnto the corridor.
But suddenly, she remembered—what it would be when
next she saw him, and she shrank back with a low cry.
He bent over her. He folded her in his arms. As a
mother that yearns to her child, with a tenderness as pure, a
sorrow as sacred, Leonard held his betrothed closely strained
to his heart. Again he said, and with a kind of stern
resolve, as to himself:
"We will have courage!"
Then he let her go.
Two months more, and Leonard Ross was on his way to
India. He only waited for his sister's marriage. Then he
went. There is little need to relate the history of those two
months. For Rosamond they held much strife, struggle,
and passionate but impotent resistance. It was Leonard
who had to teach her what he, alas! needed all his strength
of manhood to recognise with submission; that in patience
and power of endurance lay their hope, and not in rebellious
strivings against the inevitable. That it was inevitable they
both felt, Leonard from the first, and Rosamond later; there
was no possibility of tampering with the circumstances before


g.n ©rW. 113
them, unless by a dereliction from that straight path of
truth and honor which had ever been the roadway of Leo-
nard's life.
So they parted. Parted, knowing in how full, and
deep, and wide a sense of parting. Agnes, married to her
sailor-lover, would be wandering about the world for years
to come,—that link of possible communication was broken.
And Mr. Bellew, in the midst of his bland courtesy, contrived
to take his measures decisively and surely. Very soon after
the disclosure of what he called " the truly extraordinary
circumstances of the case," he removed his household to an
estate of his in Cornwall. He laid down no stringent rules,
he impressed no stern commands; but with the quiet, cruel,
cold shrewdness which ever went hand in hand with his in-
domitable will, he insured the absolute and entire cessation
of all intercourse between his daughter and her lover. Rosa-
mond, high-spirited and resolute as she was, could not com-
bat with the experience and gentlemanly scheming that her
father employed when he chose. Leonard was almost
equally at fault; for, though he knew the character he had
to cope with, it was only with the theoretical knowledge
that the penetration of a good man has into the nature of a
worldly and designing one.
Mr. Bellew gained credit for much magnanimity in per-
mitting Leonard to write once, once only, before he left
England. The letter was written, but it never reached
her. She saw that the ship had sailed in which she knew
he was to go. She even heard of his embarkation from
poor Agnes, bridal Agnes; torn between conflicting joy
and grief, the union with her lover, and the parting with
her brother.
After that a blank. The grave itself, it seemed, could
not have divided them more surely.
In the solitude of the wild sea-shore, with her little


114 IJuinam's Stag Jibtsrg.
sisters for her companions, Rosamond learned acquaintance
with the face of her sorrow. There the quiet capacity to en-
dure, grew and waxed stronger upon the ashes of the fiery'
emotions which had at first spent her strength. Leonard
had said, in almost the last words his voice had borne to her:
"Have no fear. We can bear it."
Nevertheless, there were seasons of exquisite pain—of
ineffable weariness and desolation, when the face of Conso-
lation was hid from her, and the presence of Peace was no
longer with her. Seasons of doubt, of self-upbraidings,
when she could fain have called herself traitress to the
great truth of her life; and in bitterness and scorn looked
on the submission which she had learned so hardly. But
one doubt never came to her—the cruellest, the worst pang
was spared. Next to her trust in Heaven was her faith in
Leonard. After all, she who loves thus is happy.
Meanwhile, there came many suitors to Miss Bellew,
and even when her youthful radiance had faded, as it did
fade sooner than it should have done, many came. And
her father chafed wrathfully at the whimsical obstinacy of
woman-nature, but nodded his head wisely the while, say-
ing, "In time—in time!"
At length, one strange, wonderful day, there came to
Rosamond a letter. Leonard wrote, openly and with no
attempt at disguise—it was singular that, so sent, the letter
ever reached her. But it came—she had it, this absolute,
tangible, visible thought from him to her. Only a few
words—but there could be no more to Rosamond than
they held for her. He said—"Tell Mr. Bellew I have
written. I do not seek to deceive him, as you know, my
Rosamond. But I must write, I will write. Something
must go from me that your eyes will look on, that your
heart will receive. Soul to soul we are together, but while
we live otherwise than in the soul, we crave for more, and


§ar ©rbtaL lis
the humanity is strong within me, and cries loudly."
Little more than this—but it was enough. It lit her life for
many, many months. Moreover, she wrote back openly,
as he had done, and never knew that Mr. Bellew, grown
more cautious and acute for his former negligence, did not
suffer the letter to go. More than once in the years that
followed, letters were intercepted by the watchful, inexo-
rable old man. Rosamond never knew—never suspected.
So the years went on. The two little girls grew up,
and, one after the other, the elder sister saw them leave her.
Her brother was at the head of the great mercantile house
of Bellew, and at last the old merchant retired with his
eldest daughter to an estate he had lately purchased, and
which he had settled on Rosamond. There the old man
lingered out his remaining days, and there he died, nine
years after Leonard Ross left England for India.
Then Rosamond was alone. She lived a very quiet,
solitary life, only different from what it had been before her
father's death, inasmuch as her close and devoted attention
to him being remitted, she had more time to give to the
charities and other beautiful and womanly duties with
which her life was lustrous. The Lady of the Manor was
like a good angel to the poor, the ignorant, and the suffer-
ing around her. The appearance of the tall, slender figure,
with its gentle, gliding dignity of movement, and the
drooped face, so sweet, and pale, and thoughtful, was a
signal of help and consolation to many an aching heart in
the village and about the country where she lived.
Thus it was one day early in January, such a day as
comes sometimes in mid-winter like a thought of childhood
to an old man; telling wondrous tidings of the far-away
spring that is,—though we see it—and that will surely come
to us again. It was evening, and the sun was near to his
setting; great purple clouds hung about him, and fragments


116 |)utnam's JJtorg ifibrarg.
of them, as of a rent robe, were scattered over the clear
sky. The wide landscape seemed to tremble in the amber
light that was shed across it from the west; the leafless
branches of the trees were traced, intensely black, against
the golden horizon, while groves of dark and heavy-foliaged
firs opposed their rounded masses of shadow to the lustrous
heaven, and would not draw in any of the radiance with
which the world was overflowing.
Nestling among the abrupt hills and wild breaks of moor-
land, lay the park and manor-house where Rosamond Bel-
lew lived. The greensward sloped to a broad stream that
flowed through the domain; beyond it rose woods, purpling
in the distance. Crowning the hill, nearer, was a grove of
pines, tall, coluinn-like, and with a "whushing" music, as of
distant waves, ever murmuring about their crests. Great trees
stood grandly about the park—benign oaks, lofty beeches,
and cedars, with a mystery in their low-spreading branches,
and their eternal depth of shade. Joyous with aerial
beauty the birches looked, grouped on a slope near the grey
old mansion, like girls who longed but were ashamed to run.
They were divided by an invisible fence from the dainty
garden beneath the windows of the lady's special sitting-
room. Behind these birches the radiance of the sunset
grew and faded every evening now, and Rosamond always
stood at her window to watch it.
She stood there now—a tall, grey-clad woman; no longer
young, either in face, in figure, or in movement; but fair
still, and gracious to behold, with a look which had in it
some kinship to the clear, cold, and pure serenity of the
winter evening. So she stood, her hands clasped lightly
together, shining white upon the dusky, cloud-like folds of
her robe, watching the sunset and thinking—thinking—
thinking.
Not fifty miles from that quiet English valley flows the


§Mt •A«L 117.
sea, and its waves break stormily outside the harbor into
which the ships come, many in a day, from every part of the
world, bringing hundreds home. Who shall say that it is a
miserable world, when one day can hold so much of happi-
ness as those simple words express—coming home?
There is one ship just coming in, and the passengers
crowd on the after-deck; some already straining their eyes
to catch the first sight of a beloved familiar face on the
shore; some lounging, careless, too used to wanderings to
feel much of the sacred joy of return; some curiously gazing
about them, new to the scene, and their perceptions keenly
aroused to everything around. But one or two stand apart,
with eyes that look outward but see inwardly, and thoughts
that are trembling, deep, deep down underneath the outside
unrippled calm of aspect—thoughts that none may guess at,
and only One knows are there.
The erect figure of a man stands out a little aloof from
the rest. He is watching the sun sink below an English
horizon—watching the soft clouds hovering over an English
landscape. His dark hair—you may see silver streaks in it,
though he is not old—is tossed by the wind about his brow
over his face. He loved to feel it—to recognise the old
familiar breath on his cheek, for it is part of the home he
has lost so long, but now has found again. Ten years he
has been a stranger in a strange land, but now—he is
coming home.
You who have never left it, never know rapture like the
heart-leap to these words. Your eyes do not see the glorified
beauty which his drink in with every common sight, so long
unseen till now. The cries of the sailors among the rigging
of the many ships around—the familiar shouts on shore—
the clanging of bells, the simplest, most accustomed sounds,
come on his ears with a very anguish of remembrance. He
had never forgotten them. But between the two verges



A Royal Whim.

CSf'VE are about to tell our readers a very strange
event that occurred in the reign of William I.,
of Prussia, father of the great Frederick, and
a man generally disliked, on account of his rough and fre
quently tyrannical manner, but who was really one of the
best regents of his fatherland, as he alone (and to this his
son afterwards bore testimony) was the real founder of its
future greatness.
This extraordinary man, who should be judged by the
customs of the age in which he lived, in order to prove him
extraordinary both in his errors and his virtues, had one
passion which far outweighed all others—namely, love for
the chase. We remember reading in his historian, Forster,
that within one year he killed upwards of three thousand
partridges with his own gun, without taking the other
game into account, in which the queen was the greatest
sufferer, as she had to find him, according to a marriage
contract, in powder and shot gratis. When there was
nothing for him to shoot in his own forests, he never
declined the invitations of the landed gentry to pay them a
visit.
Thus it happened that—it might be about the year


$. $ogjtI ffi^im. 121
he possessed as little as a mule, but, to make up for it, he
could be as vicious and obstinate as that amiable animal.
The Baron von Gilndling, then, lay at full length in the
grass, in his peculiar dress, the chief ornament of it being
an immense, full-bottomed wig, and in such a position that
only the locks of his peruke could be seen as he moved
from side to side. A gentleman, who arrived rather late
for the chase, happened to notice it, and taking it for some
strange animal, fired point-blank at the wig, but very for-
tunately missed it. His excellency sprang up immediately,
in the highest indignation, and cried out,
"You vagabond rascal, how dare you?"
The gentleman, however, when he perceived that the
strange animal must necessarily belong to the royal suite,
did not wait to reply, but ran off at full speed to the neigh-
boring forest. The baron, however, was not satisfied with
this, but, as he saw a man ploughing at a short distance
from him, he called out, in his arrogant manner—
"Come hither, man!"
The reply he received was,
"I have no time or inclination to do so; but if you'll
speak civilly I may."
His excellency was not accustomed to such an answer;
he therefore walked towards the impudent ploughman, with
upraised stick, and was about to apply it to his back, when
he noticed that it was the clergyman of the village, whom
he had seen the preceding evening at the nobleman's
chateau. The baron, therefore, lowered his stick, and
contented himself by punishing the clergyman with his
tongue.
"How can he be such an impertinent ass! Does he not
know who I am?"
"Oh, yes! he's the king's fool."
His excellency trembled with rage, and raised his stick
6


122 $)trfratm's Storg $ibrarg.
again; but on measuring the sturdy pastor from head to
foot, and seeing no help near, he let it fall for the second
time, and merely uttered the threat—
"Just wait, my fine fellow. I'll tell the king you pre-
tend to be a pastor, and yet go out ploughing."
The clergyman replied, quite calmly,
"My gracious master will probably remember that
Cincinnatus ploughed too, and he was a dictator, while I
am only a poor village pastor."
"Yes," the baron said, after inspecting his coarse and
peasant-like dress; "but when Cincinnatus ploughed he
did not look like a common peasant."
"I am certain he did not look like a fool," the clergy-
man replied, as he drove his oxen on.
This was too much for the baron, and he rushed away
towards a peasant he saw approaching, vowing vengeance
on the impudent pastor, whom he determined to ruin on
the first opportunity.
He was very glad, then, to find in the peasant a most
determined enemy to the clergyman, who complained bit-
terly of his sternness, and of the fact of his compelling him
to make up a quarrel he had carried on very successfully
with his wife for several weeks.
Our fool was clever enough to see that this anecdote
would not be of any service to him in trying to injure the
pastor with the king; he therefore answered, most pathe-
tically,
"But the pastor was perfectly in the right; that could
do you no harm."
"Well, that's very true," the peasant replied, "espe-
cially as he's getting old, and can't carry on as he used;
but I'm sure when his son soon takes his place—a fellow
like a church steeple—he'll break all our bones for us. For
that reason, if the matter was left to me, I wouldn't choose


% logHl m$m. 123
him for our clergyman; for if the patron is to beat us on
'workdays, and the pastor play the same game on Sundays,
when will our backs find time to get well?"
Gundling now listened attentively, and his plan was
soon formed, when he learned that the pastor's son would
return from Halle in a few days, to preach his trial sermon
on the next Sunday, as the patron had promised him his
father's living. He therefore quitted the peasant with a
mocking smile, and made some pretext for visiting the
sexton, to make further inquiries into the matter. The
latter confirmed the story, and gave his opinion, that the
young master must be at least six feet two inches in height,
and as straight as a poplar tree.
"Wait!" Gttndling murmured between his teeth, as
soon as he again reached the street; "we will put a blue
coat on the young fellow, and that will annoy that vaga-
bond preacher." He therefore returned to the chateau,
where he looked up a captain of his acquaintance, whom he
took on one side, with the hurried question,
"How many fellows have you already got?"
To understand this question, our reader must know,
that the king, at every review, requested each commander
of a company to present his new recruits to him. If the
poor gentleman had less than three he fell into partial
disgrace; and so each captain, about review time, which
was close at hand, tried to procure a few young men, by
any method, legal or illegal, but especially those particu-
larly tall, for the king had a peculiar delight in such soldiers.
"Woe is me! I've but one," the officer replied, "and
he's only a journeyman tailor."
"Well, then," Gundling replied, "you can get a jour-
neyman clergyman of six feet two."
"Well, that's no tremendous height, but still it's better
than nothing."


124 ^ahram'g Siorg Jturrarg.
The captain then requested an explanation, and both
discussed the measures by which to get hold of the clergy-
man's son. They soon agreed that the officer should feign
illness when the king departed. Gundling would remain
with him as company; a few soldiers would be secretly
procured from a neighboring town, and the young candi-
date taken nolens volens by the ears, and transported to
the next garrison.
In the meanwhile, the king and his suite followed the
chase on the next day, with their usual ardor. It so hap-
pened, that two ladies in attendance on the queen, tortured
by ennui, followed the windings of the stream, which led
them from the nobleman's gavden into the open fields.
One of them, Wilhelmine von B , was a young and
charming creature, and was evidently attempting to cheer
her companion, who was silent, and not nearly so charm-
ing. In consequence there was a deal of laughing, which
might have been heard at some distance off, and might
have led to the conclusion that the old, though still ever
new, story of marriage and love was being discussed by the
ladies. They had gradually wandered some quarter of a
mile from the village, when a wolf, probably disturbed by
the beaters, and which they at first took for a dog, ran
towards them, regarding them with a look which they
interpreted, "This little darling I'll make my breakfast off,
and the other little darling I'll leave on that bed of forget-
me-nots till supper time."
The poor girls had not in the least expected such a
bridegroom, and stood petrified with fear as soon as they
recognised the animal, for they possibly did not know that
a wolf, in the summer or autumn, would attack "nobody,
and that the Isegrim who fascinated their eyes was, pro-
bably, as much afraid of them as they were of him. The
silent young lady sobbed out a masculine name—we pre-


g, Sogal Mfeim. 125
sume that of her lover—while the charming one, after
recovering from her first terror, looked round on all sides
for assistance.
Suddenly a carriage made its appearance from a branch
road, drawn by two horses, in which a young and hand-
some man was sitting. Both ladies cried out together in
joyful surprise, when they perceived this unexpected assist-
ance, and the wolf immediately ran off, and took up his
station some distance from them. "You have saved us
from death," the charming Wilhelmine said, as she ap-
proached the young man, who immediately ordered the
coachman to stop, and leaped from the carriage. After
begging, in the style of French gallantry, to have his
doubts cleared up as to whether he looked upon nymphs
or hamadryads, or actual mortals, and all possible explana-
tions had been furnished him, he presented himself to the
ladies as the son of the old pastor, and just arrived from
Halle, in order to act as curate to his father. The young
man, whom we will call Carl, then invited the ladies to
take seats in his vehicle, and thus return to the chateau.
The ladies quickly accepted this invitation, and Carl
had the pleasure of lifting them into the lofty carriage, in
which he also took his seat, exactly opposite the fair Wil-
helmine, who, however, was cruel enough, for some time,
to look every way but at him. At length, when he began
to speak of Halle, where he had been several years "Fa-
mulus" at the house of Freylinghausen, she turned her
eyes with pleasure towards him, for she was well acquainted
with this poet, and became so eloquent that her companion
blushed, nudged her repeatedly, and at length whispered
in her ear, "Ah, mon Dieu! he's not a nobleman." Wil-
helmine, however, paid no attention to her, and as the
young man was very well read, and recited several of
Freylinghausen's newest poems, the time passed so quickly,


126 gtototm's Storg Jftibrarg.
that they stopped before the rectory almost without per-
ceiving it. Here all the family assembled round the car-
riage, and wished to embrace their dear relative; but this
he declined, and first presented his fair companions, who
were immediately invited into the rectory, which the silent
one at first declined, but the other immediately accepted.
After the first stormy salutation the old clergyman
clasped his hands, and commenced the hymn, "Praise God
for all his gifts!" in which the whole family joined; among
them our friend Carl, with such a splendid tenor voice, that
the young lady could not refrain from saying, after the
hymn was ended—
"If you would do me a real favor, you would sing me
that song of Freylinghausen's which you recited to us on
our road here."
This request was so flattering, that Carl could not
refuse to comply with it. He therefore sang, as solo, the
song, "My heart should feel contented," without the least
idea that, in a very short time, not merely all his consola-
tion, but all his good fortune, would originate from this
song.
The charming Wilhelmine was highly delighted when
he had finished the song; and the two ladies took their
leave, on the earnest persuasion of the silent one of the two.
Carl politely accompanied them to the neighboring gate of
the chateau, where' they parted with mutual compli-
ments.
The young man felt, for the first day or two, as if he
had lost something necessary to his existence; but as the
difference of rank between himself and a lady of the royal
suite appeared to him an insurmountable obstacle, he soon
forgot the strange adventure, in which he was materially
assisted by the composition of his trial sermon, which he
was to preach the next Sunday before his patron and the


% $0gal m#m. 127
congregation. In the meanwhile, however, the king and
his suite had returned to Berlin, while Gilndling and the
captain remained behind to carry oujt their treacherous
scheme. The captain pretended to be suffering from a
frightful attack of gout, and had secretly ordered a cor-
poral and six men to come on the ensuing Sunday night
from the neighboring garrison of G n, as he had
learned that their kind host intended to pay a visit at a
gentleman's house some thirty miles off, as soon as the
candidate's sermon was ended, and would not return for a
week. During that time they expected to have the young
recruit so securely hidden away, that any reclamation
would be unavailing; and besides, the king's adjutant, who
attende/i to all military affairs, was the captain's cousin.
Gtindling, after his usual fashion, rubbed his stomach with
both hands, as he thought of the pastor's terrible despair at
the loss of his beloved son.
As soon as the anxiously desired Sunday arrived both
gentlemen went to the over-crowded church; the captain,
as he hypocritically told his host, to return thanks for his
sudden and fortunate recovery, but in truth to have a
nearer look at his young recruit, whose height he was
delighted with, and paid Gtindling repeated compliments
for his discrimination. The poor young man gained com-
plete approbation from his patron and the whole parish,
and even Gtindling, after the service was over, approached
the pastor, and treacherously praised his good fortune
in having such a son. We must say, that the captain,
to his credit, was not guilty of such hypocrisy in this
case.
At a late hour in the evening, which was both stormy
and cold, the sound of arms and a loud knocking was heard
at the door of the parsonage. The door was at length
opened by the unfortunate Carl, with the words,


128 ^trfnam'g Slurs Jibrarp.
"Who are you, and what do you want, at this unsea-
sonable hour of the night?"
"We want you!" the captain exclaimed, as he sprang
forward, and seized the young man by the arm. "You
must come with us, and change your black coat for a blue
one."
We may easily imagine the terror of the wretched man,
who, only partly dressed, was standing speechless before
them, when his old father, who had heard this conversa-
tion, rushed out of bed, and interposed between them.
He, too, was unable at first to speak through terror, when
he perceived in the moonlight the soldiers, and among
them Gtindling, who burst into a loud laugh on seeing the
father's agony. This insult restored the old man to con-
sciousness, and crying, " You villanous Judas!" he rushed
with clenched fists at the baron. Carl, however, inter-
posed; but as the old man could not be calmed, and the
confusion and cries had become general, for the mother
and sisters had joined them, the young man repeatedly
begged to be allowed to speak; and when be gained per-
mission he addressed the following question to his father:
"Do you believe that our Heavenly Father is aware of
my fate, or not?"
At this all were silent; but when the question was
repeated, the old man replied:
"Why do you ask such a question? How should he,
who knows everything, not be aware of your fate?"
"Well, then," the son calmly replied, "if you believe
that, you must not forget that 'all things work together
for good to those who love God.' I love him, and wil-
lingly yield to my fate; and will only dress myself, and
then be ready to follow the captain."
"No!" the latter replied, "you must come directly.
AUons—march!"


% $0gal SHfcim. 129
All ran after the unfortunate man, crying to him, and
striving to retain him, but in vain. Father, mother, and
sisters were driven back by the butt-ends of the muskets.
"He will not be frozen," the captain cried, "before
getting out of the village, and then he'll put on his accou-
trements."
We will not attempt to give any description of the con-
dition of the sorrowing family, as a soldier's life in that
day was not merely the most disgraceful, but also the most
wretched, on earth; and many a father, had the choice
been left him, would sooner have seen his son in his coffin
than in the colored coat.
The unhappy father waited in vain for a letter from his
son from one week—from one month to another. The
captain had taken all necessary precautions to cut off every
opportunity for communication. No one knew what had
become of him, and although it was so very difficult, on
this very account, to claim him, still both pastor and patron
attempted it, though, as may be easily imagined, in vain.
After repeated petitions to his royal majesty, they at length
received a very harsh reply from the minister of war him-
self: that they made a most insane request in asking them
to look for a recruit in the ranks of the whole Prussian
army, when no one, not even themselves, knew where he
was; and he must be getting on well, or else he would
have written to them.
Two years thus elapsed, without the disconsolate father,
who had long before received a young curate to assist him,
hearing the least news about his son, and therefore sup-
posed that he had died through the cold on that frightful
evening, or at the halberts.
At length, when the second year had just ended, he
received a message from the neighboring town, to say that
his son was in good health, and intended to visit him that
6*


180 |)ulnam's SStorg ^ibrarg.
same evening, in company with the lady of the Dean of
P . When their joy at this unexpected news, which
appeared to the old man almost fabulous, was moderated,
and a thousand questions asked of the messenger, no one
could certainly furnish any explanation as to his strange
companion; but this was their least anxiety. "The dean's
lady," the old mother gave it as her opinion, " will soon be
tired of us." And long before evening the whole family
set out to welcome their Joseph, as the old man called him.
They had just arrived at the cross-road we have already
visited, when a carriage drove up, out of the window of
which a charming little white hand was stretched, and a
silvery voice uttered the words, " Yes, yes, dear Carl, here
it was that you saved me from the wolf." At the moment
he looked out he recognised his parents. A cry of joy
burst from him, which was echoed by the whole family.
The coachman was bidden to stop, the lady and gentleman
sprang out, and it was some time before the old father could
say, " Now then tell us all, you wicked boy; you caused us
much grief by not writing a single word."
"I could not, I dared not," Carl replied. "The captain
made me pledge my honor that I would not send you any
news of my place of abode. If I kept my word he pro-
mised to give me my liberty at the end of three years."
"And the worthy captain set you free at the expiration
of two," his father remarked.
"Not he," Carl replied. "Death alone could have
saved me from his clutches. I owe my liberty to our
glorious king."
"Tell us—tell us how," all cried; "let the carriage
drive home."
"Yes," the patron cried, who had come to share in
the general joy, "send the carriage away. I must know
all about it. We will take our seats on this bank."


g. $0gHl mtym. 131
All—among them the dean's lady, to whom no one had
yet paid any attention—seated themselves on the grassy
couch, and kept their eyes fixed on the young man, who
wiped away his tears, and then commenced thus:
"How badly I fared, and how grieved I was, at not
being able to send any news to my dear parents and sisters
I need not tell you. My only trust was in God; for had I
not had him to support me, I should have acted like a hun-
dred others—either deserted, or put an end to my life.
But my faith, which daily found nourishment in the beau-
tiful text with which I quitted you on that night of terror,
'We know that all things work together for good to them
that love God,' supported me in all my necessities.
"Thus it happened that, just fourteen days ago, I stood
as sentinel in the grand corridor of the royal palace at
Berlin. I was thinking, as usual, of home, and as I felt
very low-spirited, and besides, fancied the neighboring
apartments unoccupied, I commenced singing that sweet
song of Freylinghausen, 'My heart should feel contented;'
when I was singing the third verse a door opened, to my
great embarrassment, and I saw this lady's head."
"Ah! the dean's lady," the old pastor said, as he
bowed to her. "Now I am beginning to see more clearly
into matters." And he straightway poured forth a mul-
titude of apologies, for not having noticed her before,
through his immoderate joy at his son's return.
"But, father," the son inquired, " do you not recognise
the lady ?»
The old man, however, and his wife, had long for-
gotten the features. One of Carl's sisters at length said:
"That must be the young lady, if I am not mistaken,
whom you saved from the wolf?"
"Certainly," Carl replied; "and at this very spot'
where we are now sitting so happily together."


132 Ijtrfnsm's Stag lUmmr.
But as all began crying, "Proceed, proceed with your
story," he continued it in the following fashion:
"As soon as I saw the head I was in great fear, and
ceased singing. The lady, however, came very kindly
towards me, measured me from head to foot, and at length
said:
"' I could scarce believe my ears when I heard that
voice, but my eyes cannot deceive me. Surely you are the
son of the clergyman of H , who saved me from the
wolf two years ago?'
"' I am that unhappy man,' I said to her; and then
proceeded to tell her what a frightful revenge Gtlndling
had taken. Her eyes filled with tears, and she seemed to
me like an angel sent from on high to comfort me.
"' You saved me from a wolf,' she exclaimed; 'and I
will now do as much for you:' and then hurried back into
the room. I stood there with a beating heart, till a page
approached me with the words:
"' Sentinel, as soon as you are released from duty you
must go through that door, and present yourself to her
majesty the queen.'
"I need not say with what anxiety I waited for the
hour.
"At length I was relieved, and trembling, I entered the
queen's apartments. She asked my history very graciously,
and when I had finished it, she added:
"' I can do nothing for you, my son, but I will beg the
general to see that you are on duty here to-morrow morn-
ing between eleven and twelve, the hour at which the king
pays me a visit. Then sing, with your clear voice that
pleased me so much, any verse you like of his majesty's
favorite hymn, "Who puts his trust in God alone." I will
then see what more I can do for you.'
"With these words her majesty dismissed me, and


% legal Wifym. 133
'without the door I met this lady, who whispered to me,
'Courage, courage; I trust all will be well.'
"As I expected, I was placed on duty before the queen's
apartments the next morning, at eleven o'clock. As soon
as I heard voices within I commenced singing a verse
of the hymn that had been commanded. However, I
expected in vain to be summoned again. The hour passed,
and I fancied that no attention had been paid to me; and
I despaired, for I did not dare sing another verse."
"And yet," the young lady here interrupted the nar-
rator, "all proper attention had been paid to your hymn,
and I may be permitted to give an account of it, as Carl
has already become my dear husband."
Another cry of astonishment was here raised. "What!
what! your husband?" all exclaimed. "I fancied you
were a dean's wife," the old pastor remarked. "I never
heard of such a thing," the patron murmured, for he knew
the lady was of very old family, and both he and the
pastor seemed scarce to know whether they were awake or
dreaming.
"You must then hear my story," the young lady
remarked, with a smile:
"The voice delighted both of their majesties greatly,
and as soon as I perceived this I began saying everything
I could in favor of the yotfng man without, till the king
laughed, and said:
"'Why, she must be in love with the fellow.'
"I felt that I blushed at this remark, but still answered
boldly:
"' Yes, your majesty, for he saved me, two years ago,
from a frightful wolf.'
"' Diable!' the king added. 'You are of a very old
family, and might get a lieutenant, as far as I know.'
"Here the queen interposed, and begged his majesty,


134 ^jntnams Stag Jpiirrarg.
who was in very good humor that day, not to torment me
further. I had opened my whole heart to her, and was
determined on having this grenadier, or no one else, for
my husband. 'I must beg your majesty to remember,'
the queen continued, 'how carefully this good girl attended
to our child in its last illness.'
"' Well,' the king remarked, 'we'll see. The captain
praises the fellow; but still-she cannot, by any possibility,
marry a simple curate. Well, as I said, we'll see. I'll
examine the fellow myself; but apropos, suppose he will
not have you P
"I did not know what answer to make to this inquiry,
save by letting my eyes sink on the ground; but the
queen came to my assistance, by saying, 'Your majesty
will be best fitted to arrange that matter.'
"' Well, that's very true,' the king replied. 'We'll
see, then; the fellow will not be such a fool as to refuse.'
And with these words his majesty left the room, apparently
in deep thought.
"That is the end of my story," the young lady said,
"and my husband must proceed with his now."
Carl therefore continued:
"I naturally believed that I had been quite unnoticed,
especially as nothing of the slightest importance occurred
during the remainder of the day that might nourish my
hopes.
"The next morning, however, at parade, the king
cried out, after he had finished all other affairs:
"' Where is the fellow who stood as sentry yesterday
morning, between eleven and twelve, at the queen's door?
—let him step out of the ranks.'
"With a beating heart I obeyed this order, on which
his majesty, without moving a feature, first measured me
from head to foot, and then said, 'Two under officers here,


% Iob&I ffl$m. 135
take the fellow's coat off!' I could fancy nothing else than
that I was going to be tied up to the halberts for my
unseasonable singing, and therefore began tremulously, 'I
implore your majesty, with all submission 'but the
king interrupted me: 'Don't argue—take his waistcoat
off!' The under officers did what they were commanded,
and the king, in the same tone, and without moving a
feature, said, ' Now his gaiters!'
"I now fancied I was going to be impaled at the least,
and entreated, in my fear, 'I beg your majesty, on my
knees, to be merciful to a poor fellow;' but the same
answer was given me—' Don't argue.'
"As I stood there, in my shirt sleeves, the king ordered,
'Now bring that black chest hither to the front.'
"I was now certain of death, when I saw this chest
brought up, in which I fancied an executioner's sword, at
the very least, was contained. I clasped my hands, and
commended my soul to God, when the king, before whom
the chest had been deposited, cried out to me, 'Now look
in, and see how that suits you.'
"As soon as I raised the lid, I saw, not a sword, or any
instrument of torture, but a black clerical dress, and the
bands laid on the top of it. This change in my feelings
almost took my senses away, but the king's voice again
aroused me. 'Now, dress yourself immediately, and listen
to what I say. Bring four drums here, and lay a dozen
side-arms across them, so that he cannot tumble through.
The grenadier shall preach us a sermon, for I must first
examine him, and see if he has learned anything. If he sits
firm in the saddle, as the saying is, he can keep the black
stuff, and all it contains; but if he's a stupid ass, I'll make
him put the coatee on again. Now, then, up on the drums;
you need not give it us long, but it must be good.'
"Assuredly," the young man continued, " I should have


136 $ntnam's Stm?g JTibrarg.
talked nothing but nonsense, through the agitated nature
of ray feelings, and the fact that such a terrible alternative
was offered me, but, to my great good fortune, during the
whole duration of my wretched servitude, I had daily
thought of my favorite text, and determined I would
preach on it the very first Sunday after my release. In
fact, from continually thinking on the subject, I had the
whole discourse long before ready in my mind. I therefore
boldly mounted the drums, and began immediately with
the words:—' St. Paul says, in Rom. viii. 28, "And we
know that all things work together for good to them that
love God;"' after which I gave a detailed account of my
own misfortunes, which worked together for good by the
confirmation of my faith, and then made a universal and
particular application of it.
"I had noticed that the king, who stood close before me,
and never once took his eyes off me, could not keep the
tears from pouring down his cheeks; and I had scarce
uttered the word 'Amen,' when he said to me, ' Now come
down from your pulpit; you can keep the black coat, and
all it contains. You had better inspect the pockets, and
see what you have got in them.'
"During my discourse, I had noticed that one of them
seemed heavier than the other. I therefore put my hand
into that one first, and who could picture my astonishment,
when I drew out a gold tabati&re, filled with ducats. I
was silently regarding it, when the king said, 'That is a
present from my wife; but now look, and see whether
there is anything in the other pocket;' and not yet able to
utter a word through surprise, I drew out my appointment
as dean, signed by the king's own hand."
"How is that possible? Such a thing was never heard
of," the old pastor exclaimed, as he raised his hands to
heaven. "My son a dean! A candidate and private in


% $0gHl W\pm. 137
the Grenadiers a dean! Yes! now I understand why you
sent to tell us you would visit us in company with the
dean's lady. But not to ask your poor old father to the
wedding—as if you were ashamed of him—that's unpar-
donable."
"Did I know anything about my marriage?" the son
continued: "but listen further."
"I naturally tried, after all these fabulous events, to
murmur out my thanks, but was interrupted by the king,
who said, 'Now come up to the palace; you can eat your
soup with us, and the regimental chaplain must accompany
you.'
"Giddy with the thought of all that had happened, I
followed with the chaplain, who was hardly less astonished
than I was, the king and his suite to the palace, and as
soon as we had entered the audience-room, where all the
court was assembled together with his majesty and this
young lady, the king advanced, and asked me,
"' Who does he think he has to thank for all this?'
"I answered, with a low bow,
"' Besides God, my most gracious king, and his most
illustrious consort.'
"To which his majesty remarked,
"' There he's right; but look ye here, this young and
charming woman did the most for him. Has he nothing to
say to her? She is not proud, and I know not married.
What does he think of her? He's now a dean, and has his
pocket full of ducats. Will he try his luck, and fancy he is
all alone with her?'
"Half with joy and hope, I raised my eyes, and looked
at the poor girl, who was blushing and trembling before
me, and who could not raise her eyes from the ground.
"All were silent, though at intervals a slight sound of
laughter could be heard in the room. In spite of all my


138 |ntow's Stag Sftbrarg.
good fortune, I was even more embarrassed than I had
been an hour before when forced to mount the drums; but
I collected myself, and in a few moments said,
"'His majesty the king, to whom I owe all my good
fortune, has inspired me with the courage to ask you, before
this great assembly, whether you will accompany me in
my wanderings on the troubled path of life, as the angel
Raphael formerly guided the youthful Tobias?'
"She immediately gave me her hand, silent and trem-
bling, which I pressed with ardor to my lips, and her
majesty had scarcely bidden God to bless us, when the
king added,
"' Regimental chaplain, come hither and marry them.
Afterwards we'll have our dinner; but I must get them off
my hands to-day.'
"The chaplain, with a deep bow, remarked,
"' It is impossible, your majesty; the young couple
have not been asked in church.'
"' Nonsense!' the king objected; 'I askedthem. myself
long ago. Come, and marry them as quickly as you can,
for I am hungry. Next Sunday you can ask them in
church as many times as you like.'
"Although the chaplain urged various reasons, all was
of no avail. The marriage took place that very hour, and
my parents can now see why it was impossible for me to
invite them."
"I really must be dreaming," the old pastor now said;
"why it is stranger than any story in the 'Arabian Nights!'
A grenadier made a dean! But what did the members of
the consistory say to it? I cannot imagine."
"They kept me so long," the young man replied, "or
I should have come to share my joy with you eight days
ago. I had scarcely announced myself, and handed in my
diploma, with a request to be ordained, when the gentle-


% logal Wjaa. 139
men, as may be easily conceived, declared the whole affair
impossible, and sought to demonstrate this to his majesty
in a long petition. The king returned it with these words,
written with his own hand, on the margin:
"' I have examined him myself If he does not understand Latin I
can afford to keep some one who does. I do not understand Latin
myself.
"' Frederick William.'
"As they did not dare to trouble the king again in
the matter, they proceeded to ordain me, after an exami-
nation, to which I voluntarily submitted."
The young man thus ended his story, and our kind
readers can easily imagine the rest. We need only remark,
that our hero made an excellent dean, and for many years
held the living of P .
In conclusion, we are bound to state, that the above
anecdote is historically true, and that we have merely
repeated the family tradition. Still we thought it better
to refrain from giving the real names, as the descendants
of our illustrious grenadier might not desire the story to be
publicly known in connexion with themselves.


XB^'

A Story of Sweden.
yiTHRisTiNA of Sweden, only child and successor to
II , Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North, and
right arm, as he was called, of the Protestant Faith,
ascended the throne of her ancestors at a very early age.
She was a woman of considerable talents, but more remark-
able for energy of character, and an indomitable will;
qualities which she inherited from her father, and which
her position, as the uncontrolled head of an almost absolute
monarchy, nursed into more than masculine strength. Her
'wilfulness always displayed itself in a rash, though some-
times in a generous way; and in one of her fits of the
latter kind, ere she advanced far in life, she formally re-
signed her crown, for the good, as she imagined, of her people.
The sacrifice was soon repented of, but too late for retrieval,
and she spent her latter days in retirement. It was this
extraordinary woman's leading wish, when on the throne,
to be compared to Elizabeth of England, and she imitated
that princess even in her cold-hearted and unworthy coquet-
ries. Hereby hangs the tale we have now to tell.
The young queen of Sweden gave a magnificent fete or
masquerade in her palace at Stockholm. This fete had a


%. Slorg of Statbm. 141
peculiar character, and one which doubled its splendor and
attractions, while exhibiting, at the same time, the ruling
foible of the heroine of the north. Christina wished, for
one night, to have the pleasure of openly and expressly
bearing the character of the English princess, and to resusci-
tate around her all that was brilliant and distinguished at
the court of her model. For this purpose she had given
orders that her own courtiers should assume for the time
the characters of the various men of note in Elizabeth's
reign, and, in particular cases, she conferred on individuals
the honor of assigning to them the parts they were to
play. This was rather a delicate point, it must be remem-
bered ; for such parts as those of Essex and Leicester had
a significance attached to them which could not escape
remark. Any old statesman might play Burleigh, as easily
as is done in Mr. Puff's famous drama; but no common
man durst assume the character of either of the two noble-
men before mentioned. A modest aspirant for royal favor,
however, might venture on the garb of a Raleigh, and
more than one young courtier did appear in the guise of
Sir Walter on this brilliant evening. The Swedish queen
was delighted with the result of her project. A strict
etiquette had been established for the regulation of costume,
and in order to give a better rule of guidance in this par-
ticular, Christina had been at the pains to send for portraits
of all the principal personages to be represented. Thus the
verisimilitude of the scene was perfect.
Among the individuals who attracted most interest on
this occasion, by their appearance and manners, were a
young cavalier and an elegant woman, who kept much
beside one another during the evening. They were both
distinguished for the high-bred ease and grace of their
movements, and this circumstance alone, independently of
the language in which they spoke to each other, might have


142 ^ntitam'a JSlorg Itibrarg.
served to mark them as foreigners. They were both, in-
deed, from France. They seemed to be on the most con-
fidential terms; but there was one notable point of discre-
pancy apparent between them. The lady seemed willing
and even desirous to show herself openly in the crowd,
whereas her companion evidently sought to keep himself
as much as possible out of the common eye, and, in particu-
lar, to avoid the notice of the queen, as she moved from
place to place in the splendid assembly. Ultimately the
young cavalier appeared to succeed in bending his com-
panion to his wishes on this subject, and the pair retired to
the recess of one of the lofty windows, where they com-
menced an animated conversation, though in low tones.
Young and light-hearted, and possessing the spirited tem-
perament of their common country, with a full share of its
turn for raillery, they scanned from their secluded nook
the whole of the vast assembly, and subjected every
one who caught their eyes to a witty but good-humored
review.
"Ah," said the lady, "look at that little Leicester;
what think you of him?"
"Poor fellow! he does not see that the queen wished to
make a caricature of him, by putting him into such a
garb!" said the gentleman in return.
"Lord Burleigh's representative," continued the lady,
"has got the wig at least—but nothing more."
"And see," rejoined her companion, " how Sir Christo-
pher Hatton bears himself? The English cavalier, it is
said, could dance well, but his personator is pleased to make
himself a walking-minuet."
In such a style did the cavalier and the lady chat for
one another's amusement in the window recess. At last,
the lady, with an appearance of nonchalance, but with a
tone of voice that betrayed some deeper interest in the


144 $Miwm's Siorg library
panion, Christina then turned away, and with majestic step
moved to a spot where a band of courtiers were at the
card-table. Meanwhile the whisper passed from tongue to
tongue: "the queen has spoken particularly to the young
Frenchman; his fortune is made."
The object of their remarks, on the other hand, was at
that moment muttering to himself: "I am ruined—lost!"
And taking leave of his former companion, almost with-
out a word on either side, the Count d'Harcourt left the
assembly.
Christina, after speaking as has been related, went
directly to the ambassador of France, whom she drew
aside from the crowd. "I have a favor to ask of your
excellency," said she, "under the seal of secresy."
"Your majesty has but to speak," said the diplomatist
gravely, "and I shall be proud to obey you to the utmost
of my power."
"I assure you," returned the queen, "your power will
not be severely taxed at present. It is but a trifle—a
bagatelle—that I am interested about just now; but I
think you are the only person who can gratify my wish.
I desire but to know who and what a certain Parisian lady
is, who bears the name of Madame Laura?"
"Madame Laura—Madame Laura!" rejoined the am-
bassador, turning his eyes on the ground.
"Yes, Madame Laura," said the queen impatiently;
"does your excellency know her?"
Upon the diplomatist avouching that he never in his life
had heard of such a lady, Christina tapped the ground rest-
lessly with her foot, and appeared annoyed.
"Then, your excellency," said she, at length, with an
imperious voice, " will have the goodness to favor me by
finding out the lady. Let an express set out for Paris this
night, and return without a moment's delay, with full


% Stag of Staita. 145
details respecting the position and character of this Madame
Laura."
The ambassador bowed respectfully, and retired to give
immediate orders to a courier to proceed on this extraordi-
nary mission. *
It has been said that the Queen of Sweden imitated, or
at least, resembled, Elizabeth in her fashion of coquetting
with some favored noble of her court. The personage on
whom, at the date of our story, the favor of Christina
seemed to have fallen, was that young Frenchman, who,
exiled for political reasons from his own Country, had come
to Sweden in the hope of obtaining military service. The
queen received him with peculiar marks of distinction, gave
him a commission in her life-guards, and conducted herself
towards him, altogether, in such a manner as would have
given even a very modest man reason to believe himself an
object of marked regard. To a young man of twenty-five,
bold and ambitious, such a conviction was likely to be flat-
tering and seductive. We cannot say that it was not so in
the case of Count d'Harcourt, but whatever might be his
dreams of ambition, his affections had lighted on another
object than the sovereign of Sweden. This was the Baron-
ess Helena of Steinberg, a young and beautiful country-
woman of his own, and the widow of a deceased Swedish
noble. The baroness returned D'Harcourt's passion warmly,
and the jealous eye of love soon advised her of the potent
rival with whom she had to combat for his affection. On
the occasion of the masked-ball, Christina had herself
deigned to suggest the character of Essex to the young
Count d'Harcourt. The baroness, when informed of the
circumstance, saw its full significance, and was bold enough
to venture on answering the hint of the queen by a covert
allusion of the same practical kind. Finding a portrait of
Lady Sydney, widow of Sir Philip, whom Essex had pri-
1


146 $trfrara's Stag Jitosrg.
vately made his countess, the baroness had assumed the
character of that lady at the risk of giving offence. Hence
the unwillingness of D'Harcourt to attract attention at the
masquerade, the baroness being then his companion. Well
would it have been for the young noble had he been equally
cautious with regard to his speech! But, in reality, the
costume of Christina, which had called from him the mys-
terious remark about Madame Laura, was somewhat ridi-
culous. The numberless frills of Elizabeth's usual dress,
with all its other stiff and stately points, were very much
out of place on the restless, careless, and petulant queen
of Sweden. Perhaps she was partly suspicious of this on
reflection, and the more galling was the idea of being an
object of ridicule to the man she favored, and, above all, to
her rival in his regard.
The impatient queen received an answer from Paris in
eight days, so actively did the courier fulfil the orders
given. "Madame Laura," said the document which he
brought, "is a court-lady who has become mad. Her
mania consists in a belief that she is queen of France, and
in her endeavoring to rival the real sovereign, Maria
Theresa, in all her dresses and decorations. The poor
woman passes her life in this sole occupation. The queen
never assumes a habit, which is not seen immediately after-
wards on Madame Laura. As she is as inoffensive as ridi-
culous, nobody meddles with her, and she is everywhere
known in Paris by the name of the queen's caricature.'1''
This despatch had additional details of the same kind, and
concluded by exhibiting a portraiture of poor Madame
Laura, dressed as Maria Theresa, and looking inexpressibly
ridiculous.
The rage of the queen of Sweden knew no bounds.
She had conceived that there was some little point about
D'Harcourt's comparison somewhat unfavorable, but to find


148 $)rubram'g Slnrg Jibrarg.
Still more was this the case when, after the lapse of but a
few months, he was raised to the rank of colonel, and, sub-
sequently, on the occasion of his performance of a gallant
action, was honored with the rank of general, and the key
of chamberlain of the household. He was induced also to
become a naturalized Swede, as a step to future greatness.
All eyes were now turned upon the rising young French-
man, and it was thought that the partnership, if not a
higher honor, was within his grasp. He was in a trying
position. He was charmed with the queen's generosity of
heart, and believed that she must love him, though nothing
but her kindly actions, and it may be her looks, had indi-
cated it hitherto; and he had never dared to enter on such a
subject. Indeed, dazzled as he was by the prospect of per-
sonal favor from a young, powerful, and not unlovely
princess, D'Harcourt still felt his heart to be with the
Baroness de Steinberg. His fidelity to the latter and his
ambition came at length to a direct trial—a struggle of
superiority. The Baroness de Steinberg had seen, with
mingled feelings of pain and pleasure, the elevation of her
lover, but the sense of pain predominated. She saw that
ambition was estranging him from her. One day, accord-
ingly, she wrote to him, announcing her intention to leave
Stockholm that evening; but plainly indicating, that if he
yet loved her enough to retain her, she would not go. At
the same moment, almost, the count received a letter from
the queen, desiring his immediate presence at a private
consultation with her council. This was equivalent to an
announcement of a new honor awaiting him. The count
was deeply agitated by this dilemma, but ambition, or
what he would fain have called duty, gained the day. He
neglected the invitation of the baroness, and went to the
palace, seals and portfolios dancing before his mind's eye by
the way.


160 ^ntnam's Stag %ilnraig.
is equally cruel as mad, I may fairly finish the similitude.
You remember the end of Essex?"
"Death!" exclaimed the agitated count, involuntarily.
"Yes, death on the scaffold," said the queen. "I have
taken care to naturalize you in Sweden, and you are at my
discretion. But I will conclude this affair in a manner
more worthy of Madame Laura, and consequently of me,"
added Christina, bitterly. As she spoke, she summoned
the counsellors to re-enter. "This man," said she to them,
"is insane. Let him be conveyed to the madhouse /"
Dumb with horror, the Count d'Harcourt was taken from
the royal presence.
Insanity really attacked the unhappy man. But from
the tenderness of one woman he found a partial remedy for
the cruelty of another. On hearing of his doom, which was
mitigated in time, the Baroness de Steinberg, forgetful of
all her wrongs, flew back to Stockholm. Her future days
were dedicated to the solacement of the broken-spirited
Count d'Harcourt.


Major O'Shaughnessy's Adventure on
the Duke's Moors.
CVJYJYajob O'Shaughnessy was of ancient Milesian
^ if I origin > nis descent was as irreproachable as his
\_$LJ honor; his rank was taken from a militia regi-
ment, the South Cork, in which he had served with distinc-
tion, and acquired that profound knowledge of men and
manners for which throughout life he was so remarkable.
Six feet high, broad-shouldered, and of athletic frame, the
major was a bold rider, and an unerring shot. His stud
was the admiration of the whole county, and he had a
breed of bull-terriers not to be matched in Ireland. There
were few men of his time whom he was not able to walk
down, still fewer whom he could not drive under the
table; generous, brave, and hospitable, even to a fault.
Every description of field sport was a pleasant pastime to
him—he delighted and excelled in them all. But the
darling passion of his life was grouse-shooting.
It came to pass, one fine evening towards the end of
autumn, that the major, who, accompanied by his friend,
Tom Wildman, had been making a tour of the Highlands,


152 |)nta8m's Stag f ibrarg.
arrived at the village of D . It was their intention to
have proceeded some miles further, but a brief deliberation
with the driver having satisfied them that the accommoda-
tions which the place afforded were tolerably comfortable,
they agreed to halt for the night, and bivouacked at the
Cat and Bagpipes, a hostelrie which stood at the further
extremity of the village. The scenery was such as Scotland
alone can produce in perfection—hills, blooming with
purple heather, rose in gentle undulations on every side;
a fine stream, now foaming over rocks, now eddying into
deep still pools, swept along in its course to the sea, which
might be descried sparkling in the distance. The hamlet,
consisting of a few scattered houses, lay snugly sheltered in
a quiet nook; the hills by which it was environed forming,
as it were, the base of a continuous range of lofty moun-
tains, that sloped westward. To those who look with a
painter's or a poet's eye upon the beauties of nature, it
would have been difficult to present a landscape more inte-
resting, or more abounding in varied charms, than that
upon which the travellers gazed as they wandered forth to
loiter away the tedious half hour preceding dinner. But
the major cared little for scenery, however picturesque,
nor, to his shame be it spoken, was he a lover of the fine
arts in the very least; so as his eye roved abroad over the
wide expanse of purple heather, the low stunted coppice-
wood, and the patches of corn land jotted about at inter-
vals like the squares of a chess-board, his whole soul was
filled with quite another admiration, intense enough after
its kind, which will be best explained by the following
exclamation, that burst as it were involuntarily from his
lips:
"By Jove, Tom! what splendid shooting there must
be on those hills!"
"Likely enough," replied his companion, who was not


Psjor ©'S^ang^nt8gg's ^bfenturt. 153
a man of many words, but uncommonly fond of fly-fishing
(in which he was an adept), of smoking tobacco, and other
amusements suited to a contemplative nature.
"Fine river, too—eh, Tom? Look at the tail of that
pool; if there's a salmon in all Scotland, he's there, waiting
for his dinner, as we are." •
"Claret-colored body, pheasant's wing, red hackle
underneath—that's the color would 'tickle his fancy.'"
"Here's the color for us, Tom!" the major said, as,
after the lapse of some short time, which the pair spent in
lounging upon the bridge, he observed a waiter signalling
to them from the door of the village inn.
Nothing could have been better than the dinner which
they found awaiting their return; delicious salmon that an
hour ago had been swimming in the silver lustre of his
prime; delicate mountain mutton, washed down by amber
ale, which it was a pleasure to look at as well as to drink,
formed a repast to which both did ample justice. The
major felt supremely happy and comfortable; and, as he
lighted a cigar, said to his companion—
"Suppose, Tom, we have up the landlord, and ask if
it's possible, for love or money, to get a day over those
mountains?"
"With all my heart," replied Tom Wildman, who was
addressing himself to the manufacture of a bowl of punch.
The proprietor of the Cat and Bagpipes, being sum-
moned accordingly, soon made his appearance, and a few
minutes sufficed to satisfy the major that the object of his
aspirations was one, apparently, impossible of attainment.
The mountains, it appeared, belonged to the Duke of
B ;they were the best preserved in the kingdom,
no one ever drawing trigger upon them except his grace,
and such intimate friends as were occasionally partakers of
the ducal hospitality. The keeper, a certain Sandy Mac-
V*


154 $jntnam's Stag £ibrarg.
pherson, was of tried integrity—the terror of all poachers,
cockney tourists, and trespassers of every kind; money
could not bribe, nor menace, even followed up by assault
and battery, dismay him; he had refused with scorn ten
golden guineas, offered by a sporting gent from London,
and had thrashed, single-handed, three Oxford under-
graduates, who had tried to force a passage through a
certain portion of the dominions intrusted to his care.
• " It don't look very promising, eh, major?" Tom
Wildman said, when the door had closed upon the de-
parted host.
"Not very; nothing could be more unsatisfactory: so
we shall have to fall back upon the salmon, if we remain
here a day or two; and we will, Tom, for I know your
heart is set upon trying your favorite claret body with the
red hackle."
The quaint old Izaac Walton himself could scarcely have
desired a more propitious day for the exercise of his gentle
craft than that which succeeded. Tom Wildman having
screwed togethef his rod, issued forth, accompanied by his
friend with a landing net. Passing over the bridge, they
strolled leisurely along the river's side, in the direction of a
mountain glen at no great distance, with the intention of
fishing downwards to the bridge, in the first instance,
before they proceeded to investigate that portion of deeper
water which flowed between the village and the sea.
They had not proceeded very far upon their voyage of
discovery, when a nice, snug house, standing in a quiet,
out-of-the-way spot, among the hills, was descried at a
little distance. It had the appearance of one of those old-
fashioned comfortable farm-houses seldom seen out of
Scotland; a tract of highly cultivated ground lay behind it,
skirted by a belt of Scotch firs, which seemed to thrive like
hardy denizens of these mountain solitudes. While our


Phjoi (§'§>jjmig|mtsi5g's gJbtatart. 155
friends were engaged in making these observations, a man
was seen rapidly descending a long stubble field, which
sloped from the house down to the river's side.
"I shouldn't at all wonder, now, Tom, if this were the
redoubtable keeper himself; there's something sporting in
his trim, ain't there?" said the major.
And so there was, nor would it be easy to find a better
specimen of his class than he who was now approaching
them. Sandy Macpherson, for the major was right in his
conjecture, looked the very beau-ideal of a gamekeeper;
his figure was tall, but active and sinewy; the well pro-
portioned limbs, and light springy step, were those of a
man used to breast the mountain sides; a face, bronzed by
exposure to the sun and wind, was lighted up by eyes
twinkling with shrewdness and intelligence; huge red
whiskers met underneath his chin, almost covering his
neck, which was unconfined by any kerchief; his attire
consisted of a velveteen jacket with gaiters and leggins,
and his head was covered by a Scotch bonnet. A glance
from the major, which took in all these outward signs, con-
vinced him that any one who calculated upon taking the
smallest advantage of Sandy, would, as the saying is, have
to get up early in the morning.
"Fine day, gentlemen," said he whom we have just
described.
"Beautiful," replied Tom Wildman.
"Ye hae leave in writin' from the duke to come on
these grounds, otherwise my orders is verra strict," the
keeper said, in a civil tone.
"We have no leave whatever, nor did we know the
river was preserved," replied Tom Wildman.
"Nae mair it is, until ye come upon the heather. Hia
grace doesna fash himsel' about the fishes, but he's unco
particular for fear o' the birds bein' disturbed."


156 ^trftmm'g Stag Stibrarg.
"Well, we must turn back again, that's all; and
perhaps you'll be good enough, for I suppose you
are the duke's keeper, to show us whereabouts is the
boundary, which we shall take care not to pass for the
future."
The honest keeper pointed to a turn in the river, where
the moorland terminated, and was about to take his depar-
ture, when the fisherman requested to have the benefit of
his advice as to what flies were best suited for the river,
and whether his favorite claret-colored body would be
likely to please the taste of the trout. This produced an
inspection of the book of flies, as well as a discussion upon
the various topics connected with the art. The piscatorial
opinions of the keeper were listened to with the utmost
respect and deference by the two sportsmen, who made
themselves in short so agreeable to their new acquaintance,
that when they parted, it was upon the condition he would
look in when the day's sport had concluded, and inspect
some fishing gear of a novel construction.
The river did not belie the expectations its appearance
had created—the trout rose merrily. The fisherman filled
his creel; evening came; and as the major, with his friend,
sat after dinner in the little parlor, speculating if the
keeper would make his appearance, a knock was heard at
the door, and the subject of their contemplations" entered
the apartment. Tom Wildman insisted upon his taking a
chair, filled him a huge bumper of punch out of the bowl
which steamed upon the table, and opened his repository
of flies, while the Major was not behindhand in civility,
and requested their guest to pronounce an opinion upon a
new box of choice cigars. The punch was good; the
tobacco was better; what Scotchman, what mortal man,
could long withstand the combination of their genial influ-
ences? so, by imperceptible degrees, the reserve of Mr.


Ulajor ©'JJJjmtigJjtttssg's gJbfrwtfan. 157
Maepherson thawed away, he was quite at his ease, and
grew not only communicative, but loquacious, and as he
swallowed tumbler after tumbler of the inspiring liquor, he
launched forth into praises of the nobleman, his master, his
own dogs, guns, and all the paraphernalia appertaining to
his calling.
The major, with that intuitive sagacity for which, in
common with his countrymen, he was eminently remarkable,
arranged at once within his own mind a plan of operations
which he fondly trusted would lead to success; he saw
with how shrewd a gentleman he had to deal, and although
Mr. Macpherson was, to all outward appearance, perfectly
off his guard, and thoroughly warmed by the generous
influences to which he was exposed, the major could at
times detect a shrewd glance, which looking quite through
him, showed an intelligence which all the liquor in the
world could neither cloud nor baffle; he affected therefore
a total and entire ignorance of all matters relating to field
sports, hinted delicately that he delighted in picturesque
scenery, and occasionally occupied his leisure hours by
taking rough sketches, while he carried the landing-net for
his piscatorial companion.
"Gran' views are verra weel in their way, verra weel,
but hech, sirs, to my mind there's nae sic sight in natur', as
to see twa weel broke setters on a pack o' grouse!" and
as he spake the keeper's features glowed with the enthu-
siasm of his calling.
"I have seen a bull terrier worry a rat, but I can't say
I liked it much," replied the major, with an effrontery
which did credit to his powers of face.
"Worry a rot! dang it, mon—beg pardon, sir—but
dang it, is that a' ye ken? ye dinna think we kill grouse
by catchin' them, and worryin' them like stots!"
"What's the use of dogs, then, what do you do with


158 ^nhram's Stag Jibrarg.
them?" the major said, lighting a fresh cigar, and smiling
with the apparent guilelessness of an infant.
Sandy Macpherson thus addressed, looked first at Tom
Wildman as if to see what he thought of his friend's
lamentable ignorance, but that gentleman's countenance
affording no index whatever as to the nature of his cogita-
tions, he turned then to the major, who regarded hira with
an air of innocent surprise most comical to behold. The
worthy keeper could control himself no longer, and gave
vent to his feelings in a burst of laughter, so sudden, loud,
and continuous, that the glasses danced upon the table.
"What amuses you, my friend?" the major said.
"Hech, sir, to think o' a gentleman come to your years
an' never heerd tell o' settin' a grouse; I canna believe it,"
and Sandy laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.
"It would make a pretty picture, I suppose."
"Pictur', sir, hech!"
But the result of the dialogue may be told in a few
words. The ignorance assumed by the major was so admi-
rably acted, that the suspicions of Mr. Macpherson began
gradually to die away, in proportion as he warmed under
the genial influences of the punch and cigars. Thus it
came to pass, when the deepening shadows warned him it
was time to bend his steps homewards, he gave his hosts to
understand that, having occasion on the following morning
to procure some grouse to send up to London, he would
be extremely happy if the major could make it convenient
to take a walk along with him, in order that he might have
an opportunity of satisfying himself by personal observa-
tion, that grouse were killed in a scientific and sportsman-
like fashion, and not, as he supposed, worried "like rots."
That night the major slept but little; his brain, fertile
in expedients, was occupied in revolving by what means it
was possible for him to attain his wished-for object. He at


Pajor ©'SSjpragjjtussg's ^.hbadxat. < 159
length hit upon a device, so extraordinary, that it was
little wonder the keeper looked at him from head to foot
with genuine amazement, when they met on the following
morning, for never in his experience had he seen a gentle-
man similarly attired for an excursion on the moors. In a
blue dress coat with gilt buttons, a white waistcoat, fawn
colored jean unmentionables, spotless white stockings, and
shoes of varnished leather, had the major carefully arrayed
himself'—a well brushed white hat was stuck jauntily on his
head; in one hand he bore a French cane with a gold top,
in the other a small sketch-book.
"Ye dinna mean to say ye're for travellin' the moors in
sic a dress as yon?" Mr. Macpherson said, when his asto-
nishment had sufficiently subsided to enable him to speak.
"Why, as I told you yesterday evening, I don't know
much about these matters, and the fact is, I've always
been accustomed to hear of grouse-shooting as an amuse-
ment, partaken in by noblemen and great people, so I
thought a man should dress for it, as if he were going to a
ball."
"Weel a weel, ha'e a care o' the quaighs, that's all,
ye'U be in the de'il's ain pickle afore ye're mony hours
older. I wadna gi'e a siller saxpence for the hail claes on
yer back when ye come hame at e'en, that's sure at any
rate," replied the keeper. But the major, who would wil-
lingly have bought success at a much higher rate than the
price of a suit of clothes, was quite prepared for the trifling
sacrifice, so they went on their way rejoicing; the keeper's
boy, a red-legged young Celt, with a huge creel strapped
on his back, casting many an admiring glance at the
gorgeous apparel of the strange gentleman, about whose
legs Flora, the red setter, kept sniffing, as if she greatly
desired a taste of their quality for her morning's meal, her
master muttering to himself:


160 ^ntitatn's Stcrji |tibrarg.
"A weel, I ha'e seen some strange sights in my day,
but de'il tak me if ever I saw a chiel come out to walk the
moors in dancin' shoon afore."
A stiffish walk of some miles over the heather, which
by no means added to the brilliancy of the major's costume,
brought the party to a beautiful mountain glen, round
which lay a wide expanse of ground, broken into undu-
lating little knolls, which the experienced eye of the major
saw at a glance was splendid feeding ground for birds.
Nor was he deceived; the dogs had not been very long
uncoupled, when it was manifest they were on game.
"Ho, Don! steady! ha'e a care, good dowg," whis-
pered the keeper, as Don, throwing back his fine head,
began to proceed with more caution; the crafty major,
repressing as well as he could his admiration, said, in an
alarmed tone,
"Why, what's the matter with the animal? he has got
his tail as stiflf as a poker; he ain't going mad, I hope? If
you think so, shoot him! for heaven's sake, Sandy, shoot
him at once."
"Wheest!" replied the keeper, opening his eyes with
amazement, and cocking both barrels. "Look at Flora
there, may be she's mad too."
The training of the dogs was perfect. Flora lay motion-
less behind the setter, who now stood stock-still, every hair
on his back bristling up like porcupines' quills; the red-
legged attendant had lain down on the heather, whence
the top of his head alone was visible.
"Noo, then! keep a wee bit behind me, or them fine
colors o' yours will do mischief; I can see the old birds
glancin' through the heather," whispered Mr. Macpherson,
adding softly, "Go on, Don; go on, good dowg!"
The setter, at his master's bidding, crept quietly for-
wards, and up at their very feet sprang a magnificent pack


Ifejor ®'S|ang^rasss's gMratatt. 161
of grouse, the' old cock leading the van, and crowing lus-
tily—whirr! whirr! whirr! the major thought they would
never stop.
Sandy Macpherson's brown barrels glanced for an
instant in the sun, flash! down went the old cock with a
heavy "thud" on the heather, a whole shower of his
feathers floating in the morning air. Pop! and over went
a brace of his companions, a wave of the keeper's hand,
and motionless as stones lay the dogs, while their master
proceeded to load.
Much as Major O'Shaughnessy had admired the training
of the dogs, as displayed in their first performance, their
subsequent conduct was beyond all praise, and he confessed
to himself that anything more perfect than their pointing,
or than the shooting of their master, he had never seen.
The flat tract of ground had abundance of game—each
single bird, as it got up, was knocked over with a precision
that never erred; but it was in disposing of a pack that
the keeper's coolness and steadiness of hand were dis-
played to the greatest advantage; he never threw away a
shot, but singled out the old cock, picked him off with his
first barrel, reserving the second to intercept the flight of
any unlucky straggler who lingered behind his fellows.
Not a word was spoken—the dogs and master understood
each other perfectly. When the brown barrels were
raised and fired, up went his hand, and down went the
setters, never attempting to stir until he had reloaded.
Then the click of the hammer, as he cocked his piece, was
sufficient signal for them; they understood it at once, and
went off quartering their ground as before. By the time the
long flat tract of heather had been thoroughly beaten, the
spoils being collected by the red-legged urchin, were found
to amount to twelve brace.
"Weel, sir, what do you think o' grouse shooting?


162 ^nbram's Slorg fikarg.
nice sport, ain't it V inquired the keeper, depositing him-
self at full length beside the major, and laying his gun
down on the heather.
"Uncommonly interesting, but by no means comfort-
able," replied the major, casting a rueful glance at his
nether man, which had suffered not a little. The var-
nished shoes were rent in twain, the white stockings and
nice jean pantaloons were plastered with mud, and the
whole aspect of his companion so miserable, that the com-
passion of Sandy Macpherson overpowered his more risible
indications. The roughest day will, however, wear to a
close. After some further shooting, the keeper declared
the sport to be over; he had enough, he thought, for his
purpose. The spoils being counted were found to amount
to twenty-five brace of magnificent grouse, and the party
prepared to bend their steps homewards.
"Ha'e ye e'er tried a shot yer ainsel, noo?" inquired
Mr. Macpherson, with some interest, as they were descend-
ing a steep brae.
"Yes, of course I have," replied the major, boldly.
"Birds?" inquired the keeper.
"Yes; birds, certainly."
"Paitrich, maybe; or pheasant; a cock pheasant's a
braw easy shot!"
"'Twas at a cock-robin I fired," replied the major, with
cool effrontery, "and by Jove I missed him into the
bargain."
"Like to try your chance, sir, on a grouse now? he's
a bigger mark," said the keeper, with a hearty chuckle.
"If I could only catch him sitting, and get near
enough, I'd pepper him, by Jove I would!" the major said.
"That would be just clean murder, outright; if ye'd
only let him up, and take time, and hold the gun straight,
ye couldna miss him."


Ifajor ®'&tym$rut®2'B gufcbtnto. 163
"Gad, I think I'd like to try, any how," replied the
major.
"Verra weel, and so ye shall when we're down this
hill; I'll let Don awa' by himsel'; he'll nae be lang afore
he finds ye a bird. Dang it, sir, I would like just to see
ye tumble an auld cock for the fun o' the thing," said Sandy
Macpherson.
The party had not proceeded very far over the flat
ground which lay at the foot of the hill they had just tra-
versed, when the red setter, released from his four-footed
companion, dropped slowly on the brow of a gentle
eminence.
"Noo," whispered the keeper, "here'll be a braw
chance—stan' yer ground quietly until I load; will ye ha'e
the twa barrels? I think the ane will be enugh."
"Wouldn't I have a better chance with the two?"
inquired the major, shuddering nervously, as if he had
been seized with a fit of the ague.
Sandy Macpherson smiled grimly as he loaded his favor-
ite brown barrels, put on the caps, cocked the piece, and
handed it to the trembling gentleman at his side.
There probably never was an erring mortal more sorely
tried than the major at this moment; the whole enthusiasm
of his sporting nature was astir within him, as he felt the
gun in his hand, the heather under his foot, and saw the
fine setter motionless as a rock before him. How I could
astonish Sandy, if the pack be a strong one, he thought to
himself; but no, I'll play the game out, it has cost me
trouble enough already; he advanced a few steps, and up
got a tremendous pack of grouse, all round him.
"Lord save us!" shouted the major, as if terrified out
of his senses.
"Noo, man! noo! noo's the time; dang it they'll be
awa," said Sandy.


164 $)ttinam's Stag ^ibrorg.
The major shut his teeth, and having previously closed
his eyes, pointed the muzzle to the firmament, pulled both
triggers simultaneously, and dropped on his nether end on
the heather, as if he had been shot himself, while Sandy
burst in a guffaw of laughter, that made the echoes ring.
"How many's down?" inquired the sportsman.
"Nane but yer ain sel'; the de'il a feather ha'e ye
touched; there gaes the auld cock crawin', as if he was
daft; he's laughin', an' nae wonder," the keeper said.
In a word, the acting of the crafty old campaigner was
so good, that he thoroughly deluded his companion into
the belief he was as ignorant of the mysteries of grouse-
shooting as if he had been a shopman's apprentice, and
never off the flags of London; so, after dinner, which Mr.
Macpherson had been persuaded to remain and partake of,
at the Cat and Bagpipes, when the punch had circulated
pretty freely, the conversation turned of course upon the
exploits of the morning, which the Scotchman narrated
with great humor. The major took occasion to insinuate,
that the fault lay not so much in his shooting as in the gun,
which had kicked him so tremendously, he said, that he
was unable to hold it straight!
This was too great a trial of the keeper's patience, who,
of course, stoutly maintained the reputation of his favorite
brown Bess, asserting, with a force of logic which was
difficult to overcome, that when he could kill with the
piece himself, it could not be her fault if, in other hands, a
like result did not follow.
"Ah, Sandy, you cannot persuade me of that! A gun
that kicks, hurts a fellow's shoulder, and knocks him down,
can never be a good gun, say what you will," persisted the
major.
"Whatna piece is there that wunna kick if a chiel
pu' baith triggers thegither? and as for knocking a mon


Pajor #'U^Httg^«Ssg's Qbbadun. 165
doon, why, that's the fault o' the mon—no' o' the gun,"
said Sandy.
"Well, well, when I go home again, I'll take lessons.
I'll be able to shoot grouse as well as you, Sandy, before I
die."
"Na, na, sir! some folks would ne'er ken the knack;
ye're a gey stout-built gentleman to look at, but ye ha'e na
nerves, nane whatever," replied the keeper, shaking his head.
"If I had been only by myself, with no one to look on,
I could have shot him, I'm sure I could," said the major, as
if asserting an abstract proposition, the truth of which was
indisputable.
"Shot wha; no the auld cock, surely?" inquired Mr.
Macpherson.
"Yes, the old cock; I'd have done for him."
"Na, ye wouldna shoot a haystack."
"I'm blessed if I couldn't," interrupted the major.
"I'm d—d if you could," shouted the keeper, slapping
his huge hand upon the table, until the glasses danced.
The major smiled a smile which was peculiar to him,
such a smile as might have played over the Great Captain's
iron visage when he saw the decisive moment had come,
and he said,
"I'll bet you ten guineas I do it."
"What! shoot a grouse?" inquired the keeper,
eagerly.
"Shoot a grouse—one, two, three, aye, four of them,"
shouted the major, thumping, in his turn, the table with
his fist.
"Sittin', if Dick '11 put salt on their tails," replied Sandy,
with a grin of contempt.
"No, flying,"
"Hoot awa', mon, ye wadna do't in a twalmonth. Ye
needna fash yersel' to stake yer money."


166 $trfmim's Slurs ^ibratrg.
"Ten guineas I do!" thundered the major, flinging, as
he spoke, the coin on the tahle.
"Ten pun', four grouse, flyin', and a' in the ane day;
done, sir, I'll tak' ye up," said Mr. Macpherson, clutching
the tempter's hand.
"Done," replied the major, returning the pressure.
"But I must go out quietly by myself; you'll have to lend
me a dog too; you see I have learned something by the
morning's lesson; my friend here will, I have no doubt,
stand the loan of an old gun he carries about with him."
"Dowg!" said the keeper, musingly, " I dinna ken how
we'll manage about that; I wadna trust the dowgs we had
in the morn to any ither than my ain sel'; but stap, I ha'e
it; there's an auld pointer ayont, a gey good beast he was
in his day; ye shall ha'e him, an' Dick too, if ye like, to
carry hame the birds," he added with a grin. ,
"Lots' of powder and shot, too—eh, Sandy?"
"A sack fu', if your honor pleases. I'll tell ye how
we'll manage—on Saturday morn I'm goin' to a fair, a
gey piece off; you can just slip quietly out up the glen; you
ken whar you met me—I'll ha'e Dick wi' the auld pointer
waiting for you there; but, for the Lord's sake, sir, it must
na be tauld to a living cre'tur. If it came to the duke's
ken I'd lose my place."
The major having given a solemn pledge of secresy,
Sandy Macpherson took his departure, not a little elated at
the prospect of winning ten guineas, and perfectly satisfied
that there was no danger whatever, except, perhaps, to
Sancho, the old pointer.
Saturday morning came in due course, and a finer
autumn day never dawned; there had been a slight frost
during the night, but the air, though bracing, was not so
keen, and a gentle breeze swept the heather, as Major
O'Shaughnessy, determined to be in good time, drew near


Ufepi ©'JSfjmtgjjtussg's g^frnttart. 167
to the keeper's lodge; when, who should come full upon
him but that functionary himself, jogging along on a High-
land shelty.
"Gude mornin', ye'll ha'e a braw day any how; but,
Lord save us, wha's this!" and the countenance of Mr.
Macpherson, as his eye fell upon the major, underwent a
considerable alteration; and well it might, for a man of
another fashion than the over-dressed blundering compa-
nion of his former excursion stood before him now. The
major, who had calculated that the keeper would have
taken his departure for the fair long before his own arrival
at the lodge, had arrayed himself in the accurate sporting
costume he Usually wore when equipped for the moors—a
loose, single-breasted jacket of brown tweed, dark grey
linen trousers, and well greased brogues, formed his ap-
parel; a silver dog-whistle hung suspended from his button-
hole; a light "wide-awake" covered his head, and poised
upon his shoulder was an old Joe Manton, which had evi-
dently seen service: upon the whole there was a certain
something in the air and carriage which caused an uneasy
sensation about the keeper's heart. The travelling artist
looked like a man who could do mischief; but there was
no help for it now, so Sandy Macpherson took his depar-
ture, consoling himself with the reflection, that even if the
major could, by any possibility, kill % grouse, Sancho was
about the' last dog in the world likely to facilitate such an
operation. He was an old pepper and salt colored pointer,
with a remarkably short tail, dull bleared eyes, which
looked as if he slept a great deal more than was good for
him; he was lame into the bargain; and, upon the whole,
as unlikely looking an animal to be of use, except for "cat's
meat," as any the major had ever seen. But he was not
the man to be deterred by difficulties; so having pulled out
a handful of bright new shillings, brought with him for the


168 ^ntnam's Storg jribraxjj.
purpose, he showed them to the young Celt at his side, and
promising to reward him richly for every pack of grouse
to which he introduced him, Major O'Shaughnessy trudged
cheerfully on, resolving that if whipcord could enlighten
Sancho as to the responsibilities of his situation, he should
have it in abundance.
A smart walk of a couple of miles brought the party to
a beautiful range of quiet hills, whose sides were covered
nearly half way up with heather-green—pasture land lay
along the top—no trace of human habitation, save an old
dismantled sheep-fold, was in sight, and the occasional
tinkling of a sheep bell in the distance, was the only sound
that broke the silence. Far as the eye could reach lay a
wide expanse of heather, the tops and brooms of which
waved to and fro in a fresh westerly breeze, affording
abundant promise that the task of finding birds would be
one of easy performance.
"Here be the ground, sir, that maister always brings
the quality folks to; there's a sight o' grouse along them
hills," the red-legged boy said.
"Very well, then, Dick, you may let the old dog go."
Away accordingly scampered Sancho, evidently in a
state of high excitement, his stump of a tail wriggling to
and fro, and his whole deportment affording abundant
proof that he knew^perfectly well where he was. In his
more juvenile days, he had upon the same stage probably
acquitted himself with credit; but to do anything with
credit, except eat, drink, and bite beggars, was an exploit
with which Sancho had long ceased to be familiar; so on
he went, poking and snuffing among the heather, until he
sprang a fine pack of grouse, and then his conduct was
indecorous in the extreme; for not content with nearly
capturing the old cock, he began to bark like a terrier, and
chased each bird in succession as it rose from the heather,


Pajor ®'S^aug^iusgg's gJbtataa. 169
with an agility which could scarcely have been expected in
a dog of his years.
"Ho! I'll cure you of that presently, my boy," the
major said, as he knocked over a brace of birds, right and
left.
Sancho, by the aid of the young Celt, was soon caught,
and a flagellation inflicted which astonished him, as well as
some sheep grazing in the distance, whom the howls of the
unlucky culprit sent scampering off across the hills.
The dog, released, rolled himself on the heather, and
trotted off gay as a lark, as if his faculties had been re-
freshed by the discipline he had undergone.
"By Jove, he's on birds again!" said the major.
"Deed, an he just is; ye had best keep close up to
him," whispered the boy.
"Have a care there!" roared the major, whose mouth
the words had hardly escaped, when up got another
pack. Bang! bang! right into the middle of them went
both barrels, and a shower of feathers descended upon
Sancho, who behaved, if possible, worse than before, for
seizing upon one of the fallen birds, he proceeded very
deliberately to tear it to pieces.
"Catch him, Dick! get hold of the bird, or the brute
will eat it, feathers and all!"
Sancho was caught, this time not without difficulty, and
a second flogging liberally administered, which seemed to
recall the dog to some of his senses, for he went on rather
more cautiously than before, no great way, indeed, before
it was evident there was something more in'' the wind, for
after a short time he came to a very tolerable point. TJp
got a fine hare; off went Sancho, the major's gun just
touched his shoulder and over went pussy, crunkling out a
full length in the heather. At the same moment, started
by the noise, another pack of grouse rose, into which the


170 $xdmm't Stag £rbrarg.
contents of the major's second barrel went with fell pre-
cision.
"Now, Dick! be alive, pick up the birds, look sharp;
at this rate you'll be rich before night," said the major,
reloading as quickly as he could.
The place was literally alive with game. The coolness
and precision of the sportsman made amends for the obsti-
nate perversity of the dog. The major's blood was up, he
scarcely missed a shot, and the red-legged boy was stag-
gering with the weight he carried, long before the day
was over. Alas! could the deceived and deeply injured
Sandy Macpherson have only known what devastation was
going on among his grouse he could scarcely have been so
hard upon the grazier, with whom he was chaffering about
the price of a heifer; nor," his bargain being concluded,
would he have jogged home with that cheerful expression
his countenance wore when he alighted from his shelty,
towards nightfall, at the door of the Cat and Bagpipes.
"Ha'e ye the ten pun' ready for me?" he inquired,
with a pleasant smile, as he opened the door of the parlor,
where the major was seated at dinner. t
"No, Sandy, but you have brought it from the fair for
me, I hope," replied the major, laughing.
"Na, na, de'il a bit, that winna do; ye couldna shoot
a grouse if yer life depended on it—ye ha'e nae nerves."
"Take a chair, Sandy, you must stay to dinner; but
before you sit down just lift that cloth, on the side-board;
you'll see something there that'll give you an appetite for
the mutton."
The poor keeper did as he was bid, and a sight was
indeed revealed to his astonished gaze which for many a
long day he bitterly remembered. There, ranged in due
order, were about forty brace of the duke's finest grouse,
not to mention several hares, and sundry head of black


game. Confusion, horror, surprise, and wrath struggled
for a moment in his countenance, and seemed to deprive
him of all power of utterance.
"Hech, sirs! I'm a ruined man, that's all," he said at
last, with an execration we need not stay to mention.
"Deuce a bit, Sandy; keep your own counsel, and I'll
keep mine, you may be certain of that."
"An' with that auld dowg, that I thocht didna ken a
grouse frae a gander. An' my ten pun' into the bargain.
Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!" groaned the unhappy keeper,
wiping the perspiration off his forehead.
"Never mind that, Sandy, I can afford to let you off
the bet; the day's sport is worth the money, and more
too," and the major, as he spoke, slipped a few sovereigns
into the keeper's hand.
"Aweel! aweel! wha'd ha'e thocht it, wi' that auld
deef pointer. De'il tak' me but if ever I see a chiel on the
mountains again wi' a blue body coat an' dancing shoon,
I'll slip the dowgs at him, dang me if I don't!"
"Never mind; Sancho is no great things of a dog, but
his master is a right honest fellow, and a staunch sports-
man into the bargain. Scotchman as you are, you cannot
be expected to be a match for a man who has hunted with
the 'Faugh a Ballaghs.' But if ever you come to Ireland,
Sandy, you shall be right welcome at Badger Hall."


A Cock-Fight in the Havana.
#
1KB bright morning in the month of December, a
few years ago, the Ohio lay swinging to-and-fro,
under the guns of the Moro Castle, in the harbor
of Havana.
Rising and falling on the breast of the billow, like a
beautiful thing of life, with her tall masts tapering to the
sky, her half-clewed sails hanging gracefully in the sun, and
her bristling port-holes showing a row of teeth almost as
formidable as the castle itself, she was a thing both to be
admired and to be feared.
The beautiful quarter-deck shone like a well-polished
table; the brass mountings of "long Tom," a respectable
sixty-four pounder, glistened like gold, when contrasted
with his black muzzle; and beneath the belaying-pins lay
sundry well-tarred ropes, coiled up like snakes preparing for
a spring.
A slight breeze rippled the water, gently wafting to
leeward the smoke which issued from the cigars of a few
officers, who, dressed in the gay uniform of our navy, sat
discussing the merits of the combatants in a certain cock-
fight, which was to take place on the island that day, and


174 ^ntnam's Siorg gribrarg.
captain; "you cannot hope to fight one of the half-bred
game-cocks which we have at home against the splendid
birds which these Creoles devote their whole time to breed-
ing and training, and which are perhaps unequalled in the
world."
"Never mind that, captain," answered Will; "we have
a bird here that is known all over the United States, and
which has never been whipped yet, although he has had
worse enemies to encounter than these bilious-looking
Spaniards."
"Well, I do not know what mischief you are after,"
replied the captain, good-naturedly; "but if you will give
your word on behalf of"these men, that you will behave
yourselves properly while on shore, and not taste a drop of
liquor, you may go."
Will touched his cap again, and in a minute disappeared
down the hatch, while the officers stood wondering at the
implicit reliance which he seemed to have in the powers of
his bird, yet at the same time confiding fully in the well
known shrewdness of the fellow, which they had often seen
put to the test.
The yawl was soon lowered, a dozen sailors sprang into
it, and swinging round to the gangway, sat silently waiting
for the officers; but a knowing smile might have been seen
playing about each man's face, which broke into a cheer, as
the sturdy boatswain appeared on the monkey-rail with his
precious bird in a sack, and seizing the painter, swung him-
self lightly into the boat.
By this time the officers had become as.much interested
in the proceedings as the men, and as soon as they were
seated, demanded to see the contents of the bag.
But Will assured them that the bird would fight so much
better if kept in the dark until the hour of combat, and
pleaded so earnestly against taking him out, that they at


%, Cork-cfig^t in i	 |$abana. 175
last yielded the point, and contented themselves with listen-
ing to an interesting but entirely fabulous history of "The
Unknown," which the boatswain related with a seriousness
that would have done credit to a funeral sermon.
As they approached the shore, he concluded by saying:
"I have good reason for wishing to preserve my bird's
secret until the last moment, and although you will discover
it the moment it is pitted, I hope your honors will keep
your thoughts to yourselves, and not betray us. We have
raised all the money we could on the ship, and have got a
good purse to put against the best cock that ever crowed
in the Havana, and if your honors would like to do a little
betting, you can do it with perfect safety on this bird, or
my name's not Will Glover; for their picayune chickens
will stand no more chance with him than one of these fel-
lows themselves would with me, and I never saw any three
of them yet that I couldn't whip in a free fight."
Having finished this modest assertion, his eye glanced
slightly at his powerful frame, as if to say, "judge for your-
selves;" and indeed it required little judgment to perceive
that if the bird resembled his master, he would prove a for-
midable antagonist; for Will's clear blue eye, broad fore-
head, and bright, handsome countenance gave promise of
more than ordinary intelligence and resolution, while his
thick, brawny neck and huge arms looked perfectly capable
of performing in a "free fight," even more than had just
been claimed for them.
In a few minutes, the party had landed and separated,
the officers having gone to a livery-stable to procure a con-
veyance, and the stalwart form of the boatswain could be
seen rolling up the street, at the head of a body of men,
whose appearance was such as to render them little likely
to receive interruption from the majority of peaceably-dis-
posed citizens.


176 ^uteam'a JJtorg %ibrarg.
In about half an hour, they had reached the inclosure
which contained the pit, and they soon found themselves in
the midst of a motley assemblage, who were chattering and
yelling in a manner worthy of the gallery of a third-rate
theatre in the United States.
Women of every shade of color, from ebony to dirty
white, were seated around the outer side of the wall, with
tables or trays displaying oranges, bananas, sugar-cane, alli-
gator-pears, mangoes, bell-apples, sapadilloes, and various
other tropical fruits, while men and boys were seen parading
about with every variety of that officious bird which always
insists upon announcing the break of day, when nobody
cares about hearing it.
The pit was surrounded by a large amphitheatre, capable
of holding an immense number of persons, and there, seated
upon benches, raised one above the other, sat the beauty
and chivalry of the Havana. There
"Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-belll"
but nevertheless old and young, rich and poor, seemed bent
upon enjoying the sport, and the "soft eyes" above alluded
to seemed quite willing to divide their favors equally be-
tween their cavaliers and the chickens. —
Whenever a fine bird was exhibited and matched
against another, the ladies were seen betting with as much
vivacity as the men, although their stakes were more mode-
rate than the immense sums which some of the old Dons
displayed upon little tables around the edge of the ring, and
which they won and lost with a nonchalance worthy of a
better cause.
Glover and his companions, on entering the amphi-
theatre, took their seats near the door, and shortly after the


% Cock-digljt in: i	 fata. 177
officers of the Ohio arrived, and obtaining places a short
distance from the men, were soon engaged in making trifling
bets with those around them, on such birds as happened to
excite their admiration.
Gallant birds they certainly were, and worthy of all ad-
miration; but unless history is to be disbelieved, they were
guilty of most extraordinary anachronisms.
Time, place, and facts were utterly disregarded in the
scenes there enacted, and the very dead were brought from
their graves to fight for the amusement of the inconsiderate
spectators.
Julius Cassar was there picking a quarrel with the Duke
of Wellington; Plutarch was strutting about with a large
red comb in his head; Lord Byron, with bare legs and steel-
spurs, was seen running away from Christopher Colum-
bus; and Mark Antony was heard pronouncing an ex-
tremely tautological oration over the dead body of Don
Quixote.
It is true that the eloquence of this Mr. Antony was not
quite equal to that of another of the same name, who once
began an address by making the unreasonable request that
his "friends," as well as the "Romans and countrymen,"
would "lend him their ears;" but his style was certainly
more terse and laconic, for his preface consisted of " cock-a,"
his story of "doodle," and the conclusion of " doo." Such
brevity should certainly have ranked with the "veni, vidi,
vici" of olden times, and the "Sebastopol estpris" of our
day. But to return to our unfortunate bird, who had been
covered all this time with sack-cloth, if not with ashes, and
who had been kept entirely in the dark with regard to these
proceedings. Various contests had taken place, many a
gallant bird had fallen a victim to his bravery, and the inte-
rest of the audience was beginning to flag, when a Creole
stepped into the ring, and offered to match a splendid bird
8*


178 $)ntnam's Storg Jfibrarg.
which he held under his arm, against anything that had
wings, on the island. „
No one answered, as the bird was the most celebrated
one in the Havana, and the owner's efforts to find an anta-
gonist seemed likely to prove futile.
Signor Amigo's black gamecock, "Satan," was known
to every one in the town as having whipped the best birds
the island had produced, and being still in his prime, no
one cared about losing a fine bird by matching him against
this "Coeur de Lion" of roosters. Incensed with the idea
of winning neither money nor renown with his favorite bird,
he at last offered .to stake a hundred doubloons against
fifty, and no one accepting his challenge, he was preparing
to leave the ring, when our boatswain sprang up, and in
very bad Spanish, a smattering of which he had acquired in
his wanderings, asked him if he was willing to match him
against a curious-looking bird which he had with him in a
bag.
"Against anything that has wings is my challenge,"
proudly replied Amigo; "produce your bird, sir."
Without further parley, Will untied the bag, and pro-
duced, to the astonishment of the officers and the rest
of the assembly, the most curious-looking specimen of
the feathered tribe that had ever graced or disgraced a
cock-pit.
It was a bird about the size of a large rooster, with no
tail, no comb, and no steel games. Comb it seems he never
had had, and as for tail, if he had ever been blessed with.
such an appendage, the ruthless sailors must have "clipped
it short and driven it in," for not a vestige of it remained;
and to add to the disfigurement, he was smeared with a
mixture of grease and blacking, until his original color had
been entirely lost. A loud shout of derision arose from the
spectators at the impudence of the Yankees, in offering so


%, Cock-Jig^ in % f akna. 179
miserable a creature as the antagonist of " Satan," the pride
of the Havana, and as they doubtless thought, the hero of
a Hemisphere.
But to the experienced eyes of the officers of the Ohio,
the secret was now revealed, and beneath the grease and
soot, in spite of the clipped wings and chipped feathers, they
perceived the eye of an old bald eagle, and the terrible
beak and claws, which the sailors had almost managed to
conceal by covering them with feathers, taken from the
chickens of some by-gone dinner.
The officers now regretted that they had permitted the
men to come ashore, as they were fearful that the artifice,
if discovered, might lead to blows; and the determined
character of the men rendered them very dangerous when
excited.
Matters, however, had now proceeded too far to be
stopped, and they had to content themselves with relying
on the prudence of Glover. Although they knew that he
was a perfect devil when his blood was up, they still knew
him to be a man of his word, and that he would not make a
disturbance if he could help it; so hoping that their pre-
sence would have its influence with the audience, they drew
still closer to the boatswain, and then quietly awaited the
issue. But their fears were unnecessary; the sailors had no
intention of getting into a fight, and as their chief object
was to make up their losses by winning a pile of gold from
the Habaneros, they quietly staked all the money they had
among those around them, generally contriving to get
heavy odds in their favor. Besides the money which the
men had brought with them, Glover had collected on the
ship about thirty doubloons, twenty-five of which he staked
against the fifty of the Signor's, who had graciously conde-
scended to reduce the amount of the bet one-half, in consi-
deration of the poverty of " Los Americanos," and the


180 Ijutaam's Storg Itibrarg.
other five he had managed to place advantageously, at the
rate of about one to three, among the audience, all of whom
seemed anxious to have an opportunity of " turning an
honest penny," by fleecing the ignorant Yankees.
Even the officers themselves at last caught the infection.
Unable to resist the pressing offers of those around them,
knowing the power of their champion, and feeling a gallant
pride in sustaining the character of their national bird, they
bet the last dollar they had with them, until the amount
staked by officers and men exceeded a hundred doubloons,
and the odds given by the Cubans had amounted to nearly
three times this sum.
Before proceeding further, it was arranged that the
birds were to be placed in the ring, and then both the Sig-
nor and Will were to retire, while the actual death of a
bird was alone to decide the victory.
The birds were accordingly set down a few feet from
each other, and amid the acclamations of the Habaneros,
the instant that "Satan" touched the ground, he threw
himself into an imposing attitude, and uttered a crow of
defiance, which rang through the building, and was imme-
diately answered by a dozen of his neighbors outside the
walls. Black as a raven's wing, a more beautiful bird had
never delighted the eyes of the Cubans. He wore on his
neck a natural ruff, which looked like that once worn by
Mary, Queen of Scots, while his blood-red comb looked still
redder when contrasted with the jet-black hue of the rest
of his body. His tail fell gracefully to the ground, and it
was very evident to discriminating spectators that he
would never "show the white feather," because he did not
happen to possess any of that description.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" was all that he said, and then
looking round to see who he could pick a fight with, he
espied the American bird cuddled up in a heap, as if very


^ Cotk-Jigjji in fyt patera. 181
much annoyed at the embarrassing position in which he
found himself placed.
But if astonishment was ever depicted on the brow of
a chicken, it certainly was depicted upon "Satan's" at this
moment. More than once he extended his long neck, as
if to obtain a nearer view, and convince himself that he
was not deceived, and then puffed out his breast, as if he
considered it morally impossible that he, the descendant
perhaps of a race that had crowed over Granada with Alha-
mar, or who possibly had even displayed their valor before
Euric and his Goths, could be pitted against such a dirty
specimen of the "canaille" as now stood before him. Had
there been an aperture in the wall of the ring sufficiently
large to have enabled him to stalk majestically away, it is
probable that this scion of Granada would have declined
the contest, in the same manner that we might suppose the
"Chevalier Bayard" would have declined to sully his repu-
tation by an encounter with a common prize-fighter; but
there was no chance of escape, and conscious that both the
nobility and democracy of Havana were awaiting his move-
ments, he concluded to kill his antagonist at once, and extri-
cate himself from the unpleasant predicament. He could
not shout "a Bayard!" or "a Satan to the rescue!" for his
voice was only adapted to saying that eternal "cock-a-doodle-
doo," and he had no lance to couch; so instead, he lowered
his head and tail to a level, in imitation of one, and then
precipitated himself with unerring precision on his adver-
sary, making the feathers fly, as he struck him a savage blow
with his sharp steel gaffs.
Had Mr. Pickwick heard an insinuation against his cou-
rage; had a Yankee peddler been discovered in the act of
selling honest nutmegs; had Macdonald surrendered at
Wagram without a blow; had Napoleon's "Old Guard"
deserted him at Waterloo; or had "Old Hickory" been


182 futnam's Stag ftbrarg.
seen scampering away at New-Orleans; had anything in
fact utterly impossible happened to anybody, anybody
could not have been more completely thunder-struck than
was our dilapidated old eagle at the impudence of this
vicious chicken.
The few battles that the eagle had heretofore indulged
in had always been conducted on the wing, and consisted
merely in his pitching into somebody with a kind of flying
artillery, so that he was about as much used to this kind of
fighting as one of our city-brigade inspectors would be if
he found himself dodging Camanche rifle-balls in a Mexican
swamp. It would be natural to suppose that "his eagle eye
now lighted up," and that the rash chicken would instantly
have paid the penalty of his folly, but he did not do any-
thing of the kind.
As the cock struck him, he slightly elevated his wings,
as elderly gentlemen elevate their eye-brows when they
hear of the mad freaks of younger members of the family,
ducked his head like a goose entering a barn-door, twisted
his neck into a most uncomfortable position, to take a bird's-
eye view of the matter, and then calmly walking away from
the irascible individual who had insulted him, drew himself
into as spherical a position as possible, and waited to see
what would happen next.
His curiosity upon this point, however, was destined to
be very soon gratified, for "Satan," having once tasted
blood, waived all difference of rank, and flew at him again
like a fury.
Three times did the eagle receive these unwarrantable
assaults without giving way to his temper, and although
his feathers were flying about and the blood trickling down
his breast, he still seemed indisposed to fight. Every time
that "Satan" struck him, a yell of delight broke from the
Cubans, and to them the late of the nondescript seemed


g. Codt-Jigkt in % fabana. 183
inevitable; but Glover and his companions maintained an
imperturbable silence, their only fear being that an unlucky'
blow of the spurs might reach a vital part before the eagle
had awakened to a sense of his danger.
But the time had now arrived when America was to
assert her majesty, and the Habaneros were to learn the
danger of trifling with her eagle.
The last blow the gallant cock was ever to strike had
been struck, and as the blood spurted from a deep wound
made by the gaffs, the eagle, raising himself to his grandest
height, extended a claw, and seizing the brave but doomed
bird by the back, pinned him to the earth as if he had been
nailed there.
For an instant he gazed upon his fallen enemy—
*' With that stern pride which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel,"
and then—I blush to tell it—with his other claw, delibe-
rately pulled Ms head off!
Do not smile, reader; it is a very serious thing to have
one's head pulled off, even if one is a chicken; and when
we take into consideration what a chivalrous chicken this
was, that was so unceremoniously decapitated, and how
contrary such a proceeding was to the usual courtesies of
the cock-pit, the subject becomes a grave one. Such a foul
innovation upon the rules of propriety was heretofore
unknown among chickens; and although it is true that
"Satan" had only received what he had so often dealt out
to others—death—yet he had always killed his adversaries
in a high-bred, chicken-like manner, and had never con-
ceived the horrible idea of pinning his enemy to the ground,
and then pulling his head out of its socket, as a dentist
would pull a tooth.
O Cruikshank! why were you not in that vicinity then?


184 $)uinHm's Stag ^ibrarg.
Why has not that picture been faithfully portrayed by your
truthful but sarcastic pencil?
Collins might have written another ode on the passions
there displayed, or John Bunyan filled another "Pilgrim's
Progress" with personifications from that scene. Death was
there in the form of a headless chicken; victory in the shape
of a burly boatswain: malice in the sinister looks of the
enraged Creoles; while dismay, chagrin, and vexation were
faithfully represented by the discomfited Signor, as he stood
with the body of the deceased in one hand and the head in
the other, looking "first upon this picture and then upon
that." But besides these beautiful images—to the disgrace
of the waggish sailors—there was a sad transposition of an
emblem that they were bound by every tie of duty to have
preserved intact.
A modern poem, which has been made trite by its
beauty, tells us that once upon a time Freedom
"From hia mansion in the sun
Had called her eagle-bearer down,
And given to his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land:"
and yet, without the slightest regard for all this, the said
eagle had been tarred and feathered until "the majestic
monarch of the cloud" had been converted into a creature
which, instead of soaring to heaven as the presager of
liberty, was running about a cock-pit, looking very much
like an old school-girl in pantalettes with wide ruffle's, or
even more like one of those strong-minded females who
pass their declining years in asserting "women's rights"
and "higher laws," and who generally become " Bloomers"
about the time they cease to bloom. Nevertheless, the
girlish attire and innocent unconsciousness of the old eagle
were not sufficient to appease the wrath of the backers of


% (Kotk-<#ig^t in % fiakna. 185
"Satan;" and if they had been fallen angels themselves,
they could not have looked more ready to avenge the death
of his Satanic Majesty than they did to avenge the death of
his namesake.
The cry of "unfair, unfair!" arose from all sides, and
symptoms of a row were quite prevalent, when Glover
sprang into the ring, and snatching up his bird, roared out
with a voice of thunder, "that his comrades were willing
to abide by the decision of the judge, and that they wanted
nothing but what was right," adding, however, parentheti-
cally and "sotto voce," that "if the judge did not know
what right was, he would probably receive some instruction
upon the subject before they left."
. Fortunately, for the sake of peace, the matter was too
plain a one to admit of much dispute. "Satan" had been
fairly pitted against the nondescript, and if the nondescript
preferred pulling his head off, to the more laborious method
of killing him by spurring and pecking at him, he had a
perfect right to do so.
Whether the judge had overheard the conclusion of
Will's remarks; whether he had perceived a curious fat-
looking pistol, with six holes in it, which the fellow had con-
trived to leave sticking out of his pocket; and whether
either had any influence in bringing his mind to a just deci-
sion, are points which, like many other gentlemen on the
bench, he reserved to himself; but his decision was certainly
given promptly in favor of the American bird, and both
officers and men immediately received from the stake-
holders the full amount of the bets. Still, notwithstanding
the favorable decision of the ermine, Cuba had now become'
to the sailors what England became to the regicides of the
seventeenth century—quite a warm place of residence, or,
to speak more plainly, "too hot to hold them."
The regicides had beheaded a king of England, and they


186 $jntmtm'a Storg fibrarg.
had only beheaded a king of the cock-pit; but the Cubans
were as likely to avenge the one as the Stuarts had been to
avenge the other, and therefore, like the man who was
pitched Out of a second-story window, they "concluded
that it was time to leave."
Not that the tars were really pitched out, however; for
although pitch and tar are almost synonymous terms, yet
there is a kind of American tar which does not get often
pitched about by anybody except old "Poseidon," the chap
that carries a trident—an article, by the way, that reminds
us either of a cow-stable or our grandmother's toasting-fork.
And to this class our sailors belonged.
Had a due sense of propriety governed their actions, it
is probable that we should have now seen them
"Fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away;"
but they had kept quiet a marvellously long time for
sailors; so waving their hats above their heads, they gave
three tremendous cheers, which fairly shook the building,
and then forming in line, marched out, straight through a
crowd of men, who had collected at the door, as if for the
purpose of impeding their exit, but who, when they found
themselves in actual contact with the sturdy tars, con-
cluded to let them strike a "bee line" in any direction they
preferred.
The officers soon followed the men, and in a few minutes
the yawl was bounding over the water, flying back to the
ship like a gull to its nest.
Many a bottle was cracked to the health of the Ameri-
can bird in the cabin of the Ohio that night, and it is sup-
posed that "brandy-smashes" to a considerable amount,
to say nothing of " gin cock-tails," were consumed in the



Angelica Staggers.
BY AS OLD BACHFXOR.
'm not a sentimental man now. I have passed that
state of existence long since, as a man whose whiskers
have got bushy, while the hair on his crown has got
thin, and whose eyes are surrounded by little nascent
crows' feet, decidedly ought to have done. I confess that
I prefer a good dinner to the most enchanting of balls,
claret to polkas, and a jolly bacchanalian ditty to the pretty
small talk of the most dainty damsel that ever floated
through a quadrille in ringlets and clear muslin.
"Horrid wretch!" I hear some lady reader exclaim, as
she peruses this confession, and prepares to throw down the
book in disgust. Stay one moment, fair lady, I beseech
you, and you shall have a little genuine sentimental remi-
niscence of my "days of auld lang syne"—and then—then
you may throw down the book if you please, and call me a
"horrid wretch" if you can.
What a pretty, little, gauzy, fairy-like creature was
Angelica Staggers, when first I met her? The very recol-
lection of her at this moment makes a faint vibration of my


gotgtlka Staggers. 189
heart perceptible to me, while then the sound of her name
would startle me like the postman's rap at the street door.
Bill Staggers (it isn't a pretty name, Staggers—but then,
Angelica!) was a schoolfellow of mine. Schoolboys don't talk
much about their sisters, because they get laughed at if they
do: so that I knew little more than the bare fact that Stag-
gers had a sister. In after years when we left school, and
Staggers went into his father's counting-house in the city, and
I into my father's office in Gray's Inn, the matter was different.
Staggers introduced me to his family. This consisted of
his papa, a pompous old fellow who always wore a dress
coat in the street as well as at home, and whose pendant
watch-seals would certainly have drawn him under water,
if he had ever had the misfortune to tumble overboard from
a Margate steamer; of mamma, who was a lady of vast
dimensions, with the usual superfluity of color in her cheeks
and cap ribbons on her head; of a sister of Mr. Staggers,
senior, who might have been agreeable if she had not given
you the idea of being pinched everywhere—pinched in her
waist, pinched in her nose, pinched in her mouth, and pinched
in her views of things in general; and, lastly, of the daugh-
ter of the house—the divine Angelica herself.
How shall I describe Angelica as I first saw her one fine
summer's day, about two o'clock in the afternoon, dressed
in the most charming of muslin negligee dresses, reclining
in a large easy-chair, and embroidering on a frame a pair
of worsted slippers for her papa? How shall I ever give an
accurate picture of her beautiful, light, golden hair, that
literally glittered in the rays of the sunshine, that made
their way through the half-drawn green Venetian blinds of
the window by which she sat, in the drawing-room of that
delightful villa at Peckham, that looked out on to the
smoothly shaven lawn, with the large washing basin of a
fish-pond on it, containing ever so many shillings, worth of


190 ^ntnam's Storg IRbrarj.
gold and silver fish? I can't do it. I have let all my poetry
run to seed, and I feel myself as incompetent to do justice
to the charms of Angelica as a sign-painter would be to
copy a Madonna of Raphael, or a street ballad screamer to
sing the "stabat mater" of Rossini. I must give up the
attempt: but cannot the reader help me out of the diffi-
culty, by imagining something very fair, pink and white,
very slight, very animated, and very ethereal-looking alto-
gether? Of course he can ;—then there is Angelica Stag-
gers before his eyes directly.
From the moment I saw her I felt that my doom was
fixed, and my heart trans-fixed. I admired, I loved, I
adored her, and the very atmosphere that surrounded her
(I don't mean the smell of roast duck that was steaming up
from the kitchen) seemed to breathe of paradise. Accord-
ingly, as a very natural consequence of this feeling of mine,
I behaved very sheepishly—blushed and stammered, and
tore off the buttons of my gloves, stuck my legs into absurd
positions from not knowing what the deuce to do with them,
stumbled over an ottoman as I took my leave, and to save
my own fall caught at a china card-tray and smashed it—
effecting my retreat at length in a state of tremor sufficient
to have brought on a nervous fever.
My friend Staggers quizzed me:—
"Why, Jones, I never saw you so quiet. I always
thought you such a devil of a fellow among the ladies.
You've lost your tongue to-day: what is it?"
What is it! As if I were going to tell him what it was.
Supposing I had told him that his sister was an angel, the
fellow would have grinned and thought I was mad. Men
never do believe in the divinity of their sisters; they are
almost as incredulous as husbands touching their wives.
The last man in the world I would select as the confidant
of my love affairs would be the brother of my adored one.


gjtjfdits Staggtrs. 191
I should know that he would annoy me by the most anti-
romantic anecdotes of his sister's childhood, and tease her
to death by frightful stories of myself. And so I invented
excuses about being " out of sorts," and that sort of thing,
to account for my unwonted taciturnity and embarrassment
at this my first interview with Angelica Staggers.
I was soon a very frequent visitor at the Peckham Villa,
and I had reason to suppose that I was a welcome one.
The old gentleman was very civil; mamma was pressing in
her invitations; the "maiden aunt" affable in the extreme;
and Angelica always received me with a smile, that I valued
at a higher price than California and Australia together
could pay.
The Staggers family led a quiet life, with the exception
of Bill, who haunted theatres and cider cellars, and harmonic
meetings, and passed as disreputable an existence as a city
clerk well could. I seldom met any one at the Peckham
Villa but the family, and occasionally a Signor Fidilini, who
was Angelica's music and singing master, and was some-
times invited to tea in the evening, that he might delight
Papa Staggers by playing and singing duets with Angelica.
I can't say I liked his doing so myself, and I always con-
sidered his double-bass growl spoiled the silvery notes of
his pupil's voice; and then I had a great objection to see-
ing his jewelled fingers hopping about and jumping over
Angelica's on the piano, in some of those musical firework
pieces they played together. But he was a very quiet,
gentlemanly fellow, and remarkably respectful in his man-
ner to Angelica, so that there could be no real cause for
jealousy—but!—the word seemed quite absurd to use in
such a case.
My father pronounced me the idlest clerk he ever had.
I am not sure that he was quite wrong, but he little sus-
pected the cause. While I ought to have been drawing


gingtlica Staggers. 193
was just one of those crusty old gentlemen that look on
a young fellow as little better than a pickpocket, who dares
to gain a daughter's affections without first asking her
papa's permission to do so. On the other hand, I was quite
aware that young ladies don't like to be asked of their papas
before they are asked themselves; there is too much of the
Mahometan and Continental style in such a proceeding to
please our 'free-born island lasses. Still, I might get over
that difficulty by explaining how hopeless I believed it to
be to secure her father's consent at all, unless I got it first.
I was right; and so I resolved to have an interview with
Mr. Staggers, and explain my sentiments.
Did any one of my readers ever drive in tandem two horses
that had never been broken to harness! Did he ever let off
a blunderbuss that had been loaded for ten years 1 Did he
ever walk through long grass notoriously full of venomous
snakes? Did he ever ride a broken-kneed horse over stony
ground? Did he ever take a cold shower-bath at Christ-
mas? Did he ever propose the health of the ladies in the
presence of the ladies themselves, and before he had at all
"primed" himself? Did he ever walk across a narrow
greasy plank placed across a chasm some hundreds of feet
in depth? If he has done all or any of these feats, I can
bear witness to the fact that he has had some experience
of nervous work; but if he has never been back-parlored
with a grave, pompous old father, of whom he is about to
ask his daughter's hand, then, I say his experience of real,
genuine, "nervous work" is but infantile after all. Mak-
ing a declaration to the lady herself is nothing to it, though
a little embarrassing too; but then you know that the fair
one is in as much trepidation as yourself, and not watching
you with a cold calculating eye, weighing your expressions,
and drawing conclusions perhaps prejudicial to your repu-
tation for sense or honesty. I declare that I would not go
9


194 Iptrfram's Storg %ibrarg.
through that ordeal again for the wealth of the Antipodes
(that's the last new phrase): and, between ourselves, that is
the very reason why I remain to this day a ;—but
stop—I am anticipating.
I cannot give an account of my interview with Old
Staggers, because, even half an hour after it was over, I had
but a confused recollection of what took place at it. I only
know that it haunted my dreams like a nightmare for nights
after. I was eternally jumping up in my bed in a cold
perspiration, with my hair half thrusting my night-cap off
my head, in the midst of "explaining my intentions."
However, a great point was gained—Mr. Staggers agreed
to offer no opposition to the match, provided my father con-
sented also.
"I shall call on him to-day, my young friend," he said:
"so dine with us at Peckham at six, and you shall know the
result. I don't forbid your going there earlier, if you feel
inclined to do so."
This was handsome. I expressed my gratitude as well as
I was able, and at once took a Peckham omnibus, and hast-
ened to Angelica.
"Missus is out, sir; and so's Miss Staggers: but Miss
Angelica's in the drawing-room, sir."
"Very well. I'll go there—you needn't show me up."
So saying, I sprang lightly upstairs, and was in the
drawing-room in an instant. A sudden shriek—a short,
quick, half-stifled one—met my ears as I entered, and I saw
Signor Fidilini move his arm very hastily, as if it had been
in far closer proximity to the waist of Angelica, who was at
the piano, than I should have considered at all necessary in
an ordinary music lesson.
"Oh dear, Mr. Jones! how you did startle me," cried
Angelica, blushing terribly, as she rose to shake hands with
me. %i I didn't hear you coming at all, I assure jrou."


g^ngtlica SSteggtrs. 195
I didn't need that assurance, and I believe I said some-
thing of the sort.
"Mees Angelica so feared, dat I put out my arm to stop
her fall off from the stool," said Fidilini; and he looked so
perfectly truthful and unembarrassed as he spoke, that my
dreadful suspicions began to be allayed.
"I feel quite nervous at this present moment," said
Angelica. "Indeed, Signor, you must not ask me to take
any more music lessons to-day."
Signor Fidilini bowed gracefully his assent, and I cast a
delighted look at Angelica; for was she not getting rid of
that tiresome music-master for my sake? Fidilini packed
up his german-sausage roll of music, and, bidding us good-
day, bowed himself out of the room.
We were alone! We looked uncomfortable, and we felt
so—I am sure of it in her case as well as my own.
"Angelica! " I exclaimed.
She started, and looked surprised.
"Angelica, I love you—you know it: but you do not
know how deeply and how devotedly," &c. &c. I suppose
it is quite unnecessary for me to give the remainder of the
declaration, because no one can be ignorant of the usual
form of the words in these cases. It is as "stereotyped"
as an Admiralty Secretary's letters—but I suppose it means
a little more, or what a deal of fibbing lovers must be guilty
of when they come to the grand scene of the domestic
drama of " love!"
Angelica hung her head, and blushed, and panted. I
felt she was mine, and I seized her hand and began to cover
it with kisses, when she snatched it from me in such haste,
that her diamond and pearl ring scratched my finger. I
was amazed!
"Mr. Jones, I can listen no more. I assure you I must
listen no more."


198 |)ntmrm'g Siotg Jibrarg.
""Why so? Your father will not oppose my wishes,
for—"
"It is not that, sir: it is that I cannot reciprocate
the attachment you profess for me."
"Oh! do not say so—do not—"
"If you have any generosity in your heart, Mr. Jones,
you will cease this strain at once. You have mistaken my
feelings altogether."
"It's that cursed Fidilini!" I cried in a rage, forget-
ting my good breeding.
"I beg, sir, that you will not use such language in my
presence, especially with reference to a gentleman for whom.
I entertain a feeling of—"
"Love," I said, with a stupidly indignant laugh, and an
attempt at an air of tragedy. "But I care not. I will
shoot him within twenty-four hours, or he shall shoot me;"
and I started to my feet with a thorough determination to
call out Fidilini without an hour's delay.
"For heaven's sake, don't speak so," cried Angelica.
"There will be murder; I know he'll fight, and you might
kill—"
"Thank you; I might kill him—yes: you don't seem to
have any fears lest he should kill me. However, he shall
have a chance," and I strode towards the door.
"Stay," cried Angelica: and she seized my arm: "stay,
you shall have my secret, and then I throw myself on your
generosity. He is my husband!"
"Fidilini ?—the devil!" I exclaimed.
"We are privately married," said Angelica, "but for
the present do not let—"
Here we were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. and
Miss Staggers, who entered the room, to our great discom-
fiture. Angelica, with an appealing look towards me,
hurriedly left the room.


^ngtlita Staggtrs. 197
If ever a poor wretch felt himself in an uncomfortable
position, I did at that moment, and during the rest of that
evening. Mr. Staggers brought home a city friend with
him, obviously to avoid a tete-a-tete with me after dinner,
but he took care to inform me, in a whisper, that his nego-
tiations with my father had failed. I dare say he was very
much surprised at the cool indifference with which I received
this piece of information, for he little knew how worthless
were the consents of the papas in the present instance.
Of all the artful little hussies that ever lived, decidedly
that girl is the most complete! thought I, as I watched the
quiet and composed manner in which Angelica behaved dur-
ing dinner, and the evening which followed. She played
and sang as freely as ever, and even expressed her sorrow
that Signor Fidilini was not present, that she might sing
one of her papa's favorite duets. If he had been present, I
believe I should have strangled the fellow against all resist-
ance.
How I passed that night, I wont say, but I did not sleep.
Next morning I was at the office as usual, and really
trying to work hard to keep my thoughts from dwelling on
Angelica. About ten o'clock my father rushed into the
room where I was seated at the desk, in company with Mr.
Staggers.
"Villain!" cried Staggers, to me.
"You young scoundrel!" screamed my father.
I was really alarmed, for I thought that both those
respectable elderly gentlemen must have gone mad. I
stared, in open-mouthed astonishment.
"Where's my daughter ?" bawled Staggers.
"Answer, sir!" shouted my father, as I looked, if possi-
ble, still more surprised.
"I don't know," I replied.
"You he, sir," cried Staggers.


198 ftrfnam's Stag fibrarg.
"You are quibbling, sir," added my father ; " we don't
ask where she is at this very moment; you know what we
mean."
"Is she married?" said Staggers: " answer that."
"Really, I—»
"Answer plainly, sir, and without shuffling," cried my
father.
"I believe she is," I answered.
"Believe! why, you young villain, when you know
whether you have married her or not, how dare you talk
about what you believe?"
"I marry her! I'm not married to her!" I cried, in
surprise.
"What the does all this mean?" exclaimed my
father, losing all patience. "Miss Staggers has run off from
her father's house—with you, it's suspected."
"Indeed!" I exclaimed, interrupting him; "then I
suppose I may tell the truth; no doubt she has gone with
her husband, Fidilini."
Never shall I forget old Staggers' rage and surprise
when he heard my simple story; nor his savage indignation
when my father (thinking only of his own son being out of
a mess) exclaimed :—
"I'm deuced glad of it."
I am going to the christening of Madame Fidilini's seventh
child to-morrow. They like an old bachelor for a godfather
sometimes because he has no other children than god-chil-
dren to provide for. Grandpapa Staggers will be there,
and so will grandmamma and grand-aunt; and the latter will
be very attentive to me, but she's more pinched than ever,
and looks like a dried herring in figure and complexion. I
shall dine with old Staggers afterwards, and he has some
superb claret, much better stuff than—well, never mind, I
have done!



The Fall of the Janissaries.
um
'ho is this that cheapens pistols, when he
rather needs a coat of mail?"
On hearing these words, pronounced in a
low, significant tone, the handsome young soldier turned
quickly, and beheld near him two female figures shrouded
in dark-blue mantles, and long yashmaks, or veils of white
muslin. One of them, however, chanced to be in the very
act of adjusting her veil, and thus allowed the yuzbashi,
or captain—for such his scarlet pelisse, and the golden
star embroidered on his jacket, bespoke him—to catch
a glimpse of a youthful face of ravishing beauty. The eyes
were fixed on the ground, and a deep blush suffused the
rounded cheeks. In another instant the veil was replaced,
and the two muffled figures moved on and mingled with the
throng, leaving the soldier in a state of extreme astonish-
ment and perplexity.
The principal bazaar of Constantinople presented that
day, as usual, a scene of great brilliancy and animation.
The numerous arcades, with rows of shops on either hand,
were crowded by people of all classes and every race of the
East. Grave Turks, in flowing robes and turbans of various
hues, shuffled slowly along, followed by slaves who carried


200 |)ateam's Stag £ibrarg.
their masters' purchases; Persian and Arab traders,
Bedouin chiefs, Armenian merchants, Greek islanders,
Arnauts from Albania, Mangrebihs from Northern Africa,
Toorkomans, Khoords, Tartars, and now and then a Frank
of some western nation, all added, by their varied cos-
tumes, to the picturesque liveliness of the shifting pano-
rama. Women, whose large languishing eyes were alone
visible from within the muffled folds of their vestments, flit-
ted incessantly from shop to shop, displaying quite as much
fondness as their western sisters for the delightful trouble
of bargaining. Rich young Osmanlis, mounted on hand-
some steeds, with splendid housings of velvet and gold,
rode slowly along in the central avenues; and an" araba, or
carriage, like a huge cage, all lattice-work and gilding,
occasionally stopped to allow one or two shrouded figures
to issue forth and join the moving throng.
One customary element of variety, however, was want-
ing, the absence of which excited no little remark. Very
few of the Janissaries—whose crimson pelisses, white tur-
bans, red shawl-girdles, and silver-mounted weapons, usually
made a conspicuous appearance, as they swaggered through
the crowd—were now to be seen. The cause of their
absence was no secret. This was the 14th of June, 1825, a
year and a day memorable in the annals of the Ottoman
empire. On the previous day the grand-vizier Selim
Mehmed Pasha, and the celebrated Aga Pasha Hussein,
commander of the forces, had assembled the Janissaries in
their great square—called the Etmeidan, or "Place of
Meat," because they there received their daily rations of
soup—and had announced to them the new regulations to
which they would be required thenceforth to submit. These
regulations, which affected not merely their organization,
but also their pay and perquisites, their dress and their
weapons, were all of a nature to be highly distasteful to


€	 Jail of % faimrarug. 201
the members of that lawless and intractable corps. The
precautions of the sultan and his ministers, who had pre-
viously gained over or put out of the way many of the lead-
ing and most dangerous characters, prevented any open
expressions of feeling. The Janissaries listened in sullen
silence, and retired quietly to their kislas, or barracks, when
the ceremony was over. The grand-vizier beheld this
apparent submission with great satisfaction, and congratu-
lated his fellow-minister on the easy success of their master's
favorite project. But the aga pasha, better acquainted
with the character of his old comrades, shook his head and
said, "It will not be done without much blood."
This day, the 14th, was appointed for the first drilling
of the new companies which were to be drawn from each
orta, or regiment of Janissaries, and placed under Egyptian
officers of the army of Mehemet Ali. Those of the corps
who were not in the companies were collected either in the
Etmeidan, or in their barracks, anxiously discussing the
nature and probable effect of the new regulations, and the
course to be pursued by the body at the present crisis.
Thus it was that very few of them made their appearance
that day in the bazaar; and their place was but poorly sup-
plied by the soldiers of the regular troops—the seymeus
(infantry), tobjees (artillery), bostanjees (seraglio-guard),
and galionjees (marines), who were present in considerable
numbers, and in their ungraceful summer uniforms of white
cotton jacket and trousers, with the red cloth fez or scull-
cap, and leathern belt, made anything but a pleasing appear-
ance in the eyes of the Mussulman beholders. Their officers,
however, in their embroidered jackets, and the scarlet
mantles which they were allowed to retain, were seen to
more advantage. Of this number was the young soldier
who has been already mentioned, and who was at once
known by his uniform to be a captain of the corps of gun-
9*


202 $jtrfmtm's Stag fibrarg.
ners. Nor did those who were familiar with the various
races of the East fail to perceive in the tall and well-set
figure, the bold military bearing, the keen blue eye, chest-
nut locks, and classically-moulded head and features, the
marks which denoted his Circassian or Georgian blood.
"Who is this that buys a bridle when he more requires
a spur?"
The voice was the same that had before struck his ear;
and on turning, he again beheld the lovely face, over which
the yashmak was just falling. This time the large dark
eyes were'fixed on him for a moment with an expression of
timid anxiety. The soldier stood and gazed at the retreat-
ing forms with still greater astonishment than before. The
women were evidently of the higher class; and the words
which had been uttered seemed to imply some knowledge
of and interest in him. Yet he had been but four months
in Constantinople, and of that time the greater part had
been spent in his barracks at Tophana, out of which he had
hardly an acquaintance. If it were a mere frolic of two
laughter-loving damsels making their sport of the foreign
soldier, why did she who partially unveiled her face assume
an expression so little akin to mirthfulness? And why did
her companion, who he felt assured was the one that had
spoken, keep her countenance carefully concealed?
While pondering upon this mystery, and pretending to
be absorbed in the examination of some Farangee shawls,
which were displayed upon the stall of an Armenian mer-
chant, he caught sight of two muffled figures, whose
approach caused his heart to beat with a kind of instinctive
presentiment. This time his hand was slightly touched, and
a soft voice murmured beside his ear, "To-night before the
mosque of Raghil Pasha." The figures passed slowly on,
and the soldier followed at a little distance, until he saw them
enter a carriage, which immediately drove away. The


%	 Jfall of % farassarits. 203
young man, however, easily kept it in sight, until it passed
out of the gate of the bazaar. Here a number of Jew
porters were seated, waiting to offer their services to any
one who might seem to require them. Dropping a coin
into the hand of one of them, he said, "Tell me, Jew, know
you whose carriage it was that just now passed the gate."
"Truly, effendi," replied the Jew, "I know it well, for
it is one often seen in the bazaar. It is the araba of the
Chorbajee Osman, of the seventeenth orta."
"Osman, a chorbajee* of Janissaries," said the soldier
to himself, as he drew his mantle about him, and moved
slowly away. "I have heard of him as a favorite leader
among his comrades, and a violent partisan of the old insti-
tutions. But how can I have become known to any in his
harem? There is some mystery, and I will not renounce
the adventure until I know more. At all events, there can
be no harm in spending an hour or two before the mosque
of Raghil Pasha."
Thus meditating, the young man was proceeding in the
direction of the Etmeidan, when he encountered a brother
officer, who was hastening rapidly towards the port. "How,
Soujouk Saduk," said the latter, "are you not for Tophana?
have you not heard the news?"
"What! Have the Janissaries risen?"
"Not yet," replied the other: "but the Etmeidan is all
in commotion. An Egyptian officer has struck one of his
men in his company, and all the rest have thrown down
their arms and torn off their new uniforms. The ortas are
assembling; and there will be burning and bloodshed if
something is not quickly done to appease them. I am going
to inform the tobjee-bashi."f
* An officer answering nearly to our colonel; the word, however,
means literally, "master of rations," or soup distributer,
f Chief or general of the artillery.


204 |jttbram's Storg Itibntrg.
"I will wait and learn more," returned Saduk, "and will
follow you in a few hours."
"With these words he took leave of his companion, and
directed his course through the most unfrequented streets
leading towards the mosque of Raghil Pasha, which was
beyond the barracks of the Janissaries. It was now sunset,
and he made a wide circuit, in order to allow the night to
close in before he reached the place of rendezvous. The
few persons whom he met on his way hurried by with looks
expressive of fear and agitation. He could not doubt that
some calamitous event was apprehended; and knowing
that an outbreak of the Janissaries was almost always pre-
ceded or accompanied by extensive conflagrations, he easily
understood the anxiety of the citizens.
On reaching the mosque, he took post in an obscure
angle within its shadow, and remained there motionless for
two or three hours. At length, just as he was about to
quit the spot, with the conviction that he had been the sub-
ject of a very annoying practical jest, a veiled female fig-
ure hastily approached the mosque, and, after a moment's
hesitation, came towards him. Uncovering her face suffi-
ciently to let him perceive that she was an Abyssinian slave,
the woman inquired, "Are you the yuzbashi who buys
pistols and bridles, as though he were still a rider on the
hills of Atteghai?"
"I am he whom you seek," replied the young man, much
surprised at the latter part of the question.
"Then," continued the negress, "I am sent to bid you
follow me to the presence of a daughter of Atteghai."
Atteghai is the name which the natives of Circassia
give to their country. Saduk at once concluded that some
female of his nation, the slave or perhaps the wife of the
Chorbajee Osman, desired to speak with him, for the pur-
pose of making inquiries respecting the friends whom she


f jw Jail 0f % lanissarits. 205
had left in her native land. With this idea, and excited by
the hope of once more seeing the face of the beautiful
young houri whom he had met that morning, he bade the
messenger lead on without delay. The negress obeyed,
and after a walk of some length, through several narrow
by-streets, she stopped before a small postern door. Open-
ing this with a key, she introduced him into a low dark
passage, and producing a small lantern from beneath her
mantle, directed him to move forward as noiselessly as pos-
sible. In this way they passed through several rooms, and
at length the slave, drawing aside a curtain, said, "Enter,
effendi, for the mistress awaits you."
Saduk advanced and found himself in a small apartment,
furnished in a costly and luxurious style. A divan of crim-
son velvet encircled three sides of it; on this, and on the
Persian carpet, were heaped numerous cushions, covered
with red cloth and morocco. The ceiling was painted in
fresco; and from the centre hung a lustre of four lights,
which illuminated the apartment. A veiled figure was
seated at the upper end of the room, and a voice—the
same that he had heard in the bazaar—said in Turkish,
"Khosk geldin, Cherkess"—(" You are welcome, Cir-
cassian.")
Before he could reply, the veil was drawn aside, and
the soldier beheld, to his astonishment, what he would
have said was the same face that he had seen in the bazaar,
but with the addition of fifteen or sixteen years to its age.
The features and expression were the same. The eyes were
as large, dark, and languishing; but the sparkle of youth
was gone. The cheek was as beautiful in its outline, but
without the glow and smoothness of early yeai-s. Was it
possible that his momentary glimpse could have so much
deceived him?
As he stood thus embarrassed, the lady, who seemed


206 gtoiram's Stag fibrarg.
rather to enjoy his perplexity, said with a smile, in the Cir-
cassian tongue, "Sit, my friend, while I speak a few words
on a subject near to my heart. You are a son of Atteghai,
of the family of Soujouk, and the tribe of Natukaitsa.
This I have heard from those who have made inquiries
respecting you."
"It is true, lady," replied the young man, "however
you have learned it."
"I, too, am a child of Atteghai," continued his hostess,
"of the tribe of Shegakeh. Yours is a great tribe, and a
noble family, but mine is obscure and poor. Yet perchance
you may have known the Dar Khaldeer of Malskoy?"
"Unhappily," replied the young man, "I know too
little of my native land. When I was a boy of fifteen, the
Muscov* and Cossacks crossed the Kouban, and ravaged
all the neighboring valleys. The Natukaitsa assembled,
and drove them back over the river; but my father and
my elder brother were killed in the battle, and I was
wounded, and taken prisoner. They carried me with them
to Tscherkask, where my wound was healed, and after-
wards I was sent to the military college to receive the edu-
cation of a Russian officer, in the expectation that I would
do them good service in the war against my own country.
Seven years I remained in the college and in the Russian
army, and at length I was sent to fight against my brethren
of Atteghai. But I laughed at the beards of the Muscov,
and escaped, and fled to the army of my own people, and
fought among them until our enemies were driven once
more from the land. But when I returned home, my heart
was heavy, for there were none to welcome me. My
mother and my brothers were dead, and our uncles had
taken or sold our property; so, rather than make ill-blood
* Muscovites, or Russians proper.


208 f irfnam's Stag gibrarjr.
—I, a poor yuzbashi, with nothing but my mantle and my
sabre?"
"You are rich in the favor of the sultan," replied the
lady. "Think you not that all these matters are known in
the harems of Stamboul as well as in your barracks at
Tophana? You have the knowledge of Frank arts of war,
which the sultan prizes above everything else. In a year
you will be a bin-bashi (a colonel of artillery) ; in five years
you will be a bey; in ten years, inshallah—please God—
a pasha. I will answer for it, that when your messenger
comes to the chorbajee, he will send back words pleasant to
your heart. Even now, you can do more to win his friend-
^fiip than if you could offer him the dowry of a pasha's
daughter. You know that the evil advisers who surround
the sultan, and pervert his mind, have persuaded him to
take away the ancient privileges of the Janissaries, and alter
their laws and customs, which were established by the great
and wise Sultan Urkham, and the holy dervish Hadji Bec-
tash. But the Janissaries are strong, and will maintain
their rights in spite of traitors and evil counsellors; and
when they meet in their ortas, with their camp-kettles borne
before them, and require the restitution of their old laws
and privileges, and demand the heads of their enemies, be
assured that they will obtain both the one and the other.
Whether they will prevail without much fighting and blood-
shed, is another matter. Allah only knows. But this, dear
Saduk, is what I would teach you, that you may know how
to win the favor of the chorbajee. Of all the troops of the
nizam djedid, there are none which are not as dust, as bosh
(nothing) in the eyes of the Janissaries, save only the artil-
lery. Most of these, as you know, were formerly Janissa-
ries, or friends of the Janissaries, and will be loath to fight
against them. It is their officers alone who are strangers
and enemies to the Janissaries. If now there could be


&(« Jail of % $Htrissarus. 209
found one officer of the tobjees—one yuzbashi—who, in the
hour of conflict, would say to his men, 'Do not fire upon
your brethren, the children of Hadji Bectash,' they would
all obey at the word, and the victory would be secure to
the good cause without more blood. Surely, Saduk, dear
friend, child of Atteghai," she said, bending forward, and
looking imploringly into his darkened face, "you will not
fire upon my husband—upon the father of my daughter
Shereen."
"This is a snare !" exclaimed the soldier, rising hastily
from his seat, and gathering his mantle about him. "What
dust is this that you would have me eat? Shall I dishonor
my father's grave? Shall I break my oath to the sultan
for a handsome face? Is this becoming the daughter of
Atteghai, to mislead her countryman to disgrace and ruin?
Know that for seven years I have carried my life in the
hollow of my hand, ready to throw it away at the first
warning; but my faith I have kept secure, holding it a
thousand times dearer to me than life. This is the law of
Atteghai. Have you never heard the history of Mehemet
Gherrai, my ancestor, how he gave himself up to death to
redeem his word? Farewell, hanoum; I truly believe that
your daughter knows nothing of this deception, else she
would have been with you. For her sake, and the sake of
our common blood, I pardon you this evil design, and may
hereafter do you good."
• So saying, before the dame could recover from her con-
fusion, he hastily thrust aside the curtains which concealed
the entrance to the room, and seizing the slave by the arm,
drew his poniard, and bade her show him the way to the
door. The terrified negress obeyed without hesitation, and
Saduk presently found himself in the street. Taking, as
near as he could judge, the direction of the port, he hurried
forward until he reached the aqueduct of Valens. Here,


210 f^ntxam'e Storg ^iferarg.
while he stood concealed in the shadow of an arch, he heard
the tramp of a body of men approaching, and presently
about a hundred soldiers in the Janissary uniform, com-
pletely armed, passed at a rapid pace within a few feet of
him. From the course which they pursued, he had no
doubt that their object was to surprise their aga, who was
especially obnoxious to them, from the part which he had
taken in favor of the new regulations. This, then, was the
commencement of the insurrection. As soon as they were
out of hearing, he turned and hurried in another direction
towards the Ayazmah landing. On arriving, he roused a
boatman from his slumbers, and bade him row as rapidly as
possible to Tophana. Twenty minutes brought them thither;
and the young man hastened directly to the quarters of his
commander, the tobjee-bashi. The latter had directed his
slaves to awaken him on the arrival of any important intel-
ligence, and Saduk was quickly ordered before him. When
the commander heard his statement, he said, "You bring
great news, yuzbashi. This must go directly to the padishah.
We will proceed to Beshiktash together in the caique which
brought you hither. Beybars," he continued, turning to his
orderly in waiting, "tell Kara Jehennem to make sure that
his gun-carriages are in good order, and that his men are
staunch. I foresee," he added, "a day of bloody work, in
which we tobjees shall have to bear the heaviest share."
So saying, he proceeded with Saduk to the landing, and
put off in the caique for Beshiktash. They were half an
hour in reaching the palace, where they found that the sul-
tan, as became a sovereign whose empire was trembling in
the balance, had been up all night, engaged in close con-
sultation with his ministers. The grand-vizier, the mufti,
the aga pasha, the Janissary aga, the capudan pasha, and
other great officers of state, were present in the council.
The tobjee-bashi was admitted at once, and Saduk was


ffw Jail of % lamssarits. 211
presently summoned to the council-chamber. He found
the sultan sitting on a pile of cushions at the upper end of
the apartment, while his ministers stood near him on either
hand. Mahmoud's dark-blue eyes glittered with vindictive
pleasure, and his naturally sallow cheek was flushed with
joyful excitement. "Ha!" he exclaimed, as Saduk
approached, and made his military obeisance, "it is
the Cherkess who has brought the good news. You
have done well, yuzbashi: it shall not be forgotten. At
what hour did you see these dogs of Sheitan, and how
many were there of them?"
"Asylum of the world!" replied the Circassian, "it
was shortly after midnight, when your servant saw about
a hundred of the rebels, on their way seemingly to the
dwelling of his lordship the aga."
"The curs! the miscreants!" exclaimed Mahmoud.
"You did well, aga, to remove your harem in- time, for
nothing will be sacred to these wretches. You are all wit-
nesses, pashas, that it is they who have begun the conflict,
and not I. This day shall decide who is to govern hence-
forth in Stamboul—the sultan or the Janissaries. If it be
these dogs, I will retire to Asia, and leave the city and the
western empire to them. But wherever I am, there I
will be king. Come, pashas, now that the work is com-
menced, our place is in the city. Let every one perform
his part, according to the plan which we have sanctioned."
With these words the council broke up. The sultan
and his principal ministers proceeded immediately to the
seraglio, and walked from thence in solemn procession to
the imperial mosque of Sultan Ahmed, near the ancient
Hippodrome. Here a ceremony of great importance took
place. The Sandjak Shereef, or sacred standard of Islam—■
made, it is said, of the apparel of the Prophet, and only
produced on the most momentous occasions—was brought


212 |)trfnam's Storg JTibrarg;.
out from the treasury, in 'which it had lain for fifty years,
and set up on the pulpit. Standing beneath it, the mufti
and the ulemas—the three heads of the Mahomedan faith
—pronounced a solemn anathema upon the rebels, and
devoted the whole body of the Janissaries to destruction.
The news of this proceeding quickly spread through the city,
and produced a decisive effect. The mass of the population
had previously been wavering between their devotion to
their sovereign and their ancient sympathies for the rebel-
lious troops. But when the influences of religion were
enlisted in favor of the former, there was no longer any
hesitation; the great majority of the citizens came forth in
a tumultuous throng, and swelled the number of the forces
which were advancing from all sides against the in-
surgents.
The latter, after sacking the palaces of the Janissary aga
and the -grand-vizier, and making an ineffectual assault
upon the seraglio, had retired to their square, the Etmei-
dan; and there having inverted their camp-kettles, accord-,
ing to their usual custom when in a state of revolt, they
appointed a deputation to lay before the sultan their
demands—namely, the restoration of all their ancient privi-
leges, and the death of the four ministers whom they consi-
dered their chief enemies. But while thus engaged, they
neglected, with unaccountable infatuation, to take any pre-
caution against the approach of the various corps of regular
troops which were gradually occupying every avenue lead-
ing to the Etmeidan. Thus, when the Janissaries received
the positive refusal of their demands, together with the
alternative of submission or instant destruction, they found
themselves hemmed in on all sides by the hated troops of
the -nizam djedid. A sense of their dangerous position
then first seized upon them, and they made a furious and
simultaneous effort to break down the living barrier which


Z	 Jail of % fswissarits. 213
inclosed them, with the intention of spreading themselves
through the city, and setting fire to it in every quarter.
The principal rush was directed towards a narrow street,
occupied by a body of flying artillery, with two guns loaded
with grape. The leader of this body was an officer noted
for his great size and strength, his swarthy and forbidding
countenance, and his relentless determination, all of which
traits had procured him the appellation, by which he was
usually known, of Kara Jehennem, or the "Black Infernal."
It was supposed that the dread and respect which the tob-
jees entertained for him would serve to counteract their
well known sympathies for their former comrades. Thus far
the expectation had been fulfilled; for the men had fought
with vigor in repelling the attack of the Janissaries upon the
seraglio. But now, when the mighty mass came rolling
towards them, calling on the sacred names of the Prophet
and Hadji Bectash, and shouting to the gunners the watch-
words of their ancient fellowship, the hearts of the latter
failed them, and they drew suddenly back from their guns,
carrying their officers with them. In another moment the
pieces would have been in possession of the insurgents. It
was the crisis, if not of the Ottoman empire, at least of the
reign of Mahmoud. Kara Jehennem, who stood in front of
his troops, with his yataghan in one hand and a pistol in the
other, when he found himself thus left alone by their retreat,
took his resolution with the unhesitating boldness of his cha-
racter. He shook his sabre, with a terrible imprecation,
at his recreant soldiers, and then, springing to one of the
guns, fired his pistol over the priming. The Janissaries
were close upon the piece when it was discharged, and the
effect of the grape .upon their dense column was tremen-
dous. The whole mass recoiled in confusion, which the dis-
charge of the second gun, by another hand, turned to a
headlong flight.


214 ^ntiram'a Storg ^Fibrarg.
"Aferin, Cherhess /"—(" Well done, Circassian !"—
exclaimed Kara Jehennem; "that shot has made you a
colonel. Come on, dogs, cowards, sons of burnt fathers!"
he shouted to the tobjees. "Your guns to-day, or the
bowstring to-morrow."
The gunners needed no further menace to make them
return to their duty, and the guns were quickly manned
and brought forward to take part in the deadly shower of
grape and musketry which was now pouring, with fearful
effect, upon the rebels in the Etmeidan. Presently a cry
was raised among the latter, "To the kislas—to the bar-
racks!" The barracks of the Janissaries adjoined the
Etmeidan, and the revolted troops, now taking refuge in
them, defended themselves there with desperate resolution.
The aga pasha sent to inquire of the sultan if he should
endeavor once more to make terms with the insurgents
before proceeding to the last extremity. The answer was
brief and decisive—" Set fire to the kislas!"
The stern command was unhesitatingly obeyed. In a
few moments the barracks were enveloped in flames; but
not even the prospect of the dreadful and inevitable death
which awaited them could induce the Janissaries to sue for
the mercy which they had before rejected, and which they
probably felt would now be refused them. They fought on,
with the fury of despair, until the greater number were
buried in the burning ruins. A portion of them sallied
forth, and attempted to cut their way through the line of
their enemies. In the conflict which ensued, Kara Jehen-
nem fell with a bullet through his hip. "Die, dog!"
shouted an old chorbajee, rushing towards him with up-
lifted yataghan; "down to Jehennem, where you be-
long!"
"Not yet, uncle Osman," replied the " Black Infernal;"
and raising himself on his left elbow, he fired his pistol at


i% JhII of % %mamtxts. 215
the Janissary, saying, "Take that, old friend, for your good
wishes."
The chorbajee stopped suddenly, and struck his hand to
his side; then springing like a tiger upon the ranks of the
tobjees, be cut down two men by successive blows of his
yataghan, and fled swiftly up the street towards the mosque
of Raghil Pasha, closely pursued by a party of the soldiers.
All resistance was now at an end, but the work of destruc-
tion did not cease. Every Janissary who was found within
the walls of Stamboul, whether concerned in the late revolt
or not, was put to death without mercy. The bowstring
and the Bosphorus completed what the cannon and the
sabre had begun; and within twenty-four hours, that for-
midable body, which for four centuries and a half had been
by turns the bulwark and the scourge of the Ottoman
empire, was utterly annihilated. Its very name was made
accursed, and a heavy penalty denounced upon any one
who should utter it. Twenty thousand men are supposed
to have perished in consummating this brief but sanguinary
revolution, for such its objects and its consequences entitle
it to be called.
During the conflict, Saduk had distinguished himself
both by his courage and presence of mind. But he felt no
disposition to take part in the massacre which followed,
and was about to withdraw from the scene, when a sudden
recollection flashed upon him, and caused an immediate
change of purpose. Collecting a few of his men, he hastened
towards the dwelling of the Chorbajee Osman, which he
had no difficulty in discovering. He arrived just in time.
The old Janissary, mortally wounded by the pistol-shot of
Kara Jehennem, had fled to the privacy of his harem to die.
In ordinary times, even the executioners of the law do not
venture to violate this sacred refuge; but the solemn ana-
thema pronounced upon the rebels removed all scruples of


216 $ trfmtm's Stag ftbrarg.
this nature, and Osman's pursuers had just broken into the
apartment, where the affrighted women were clustered in
speechless horror about the dying man. Saduk's appear-
ance saved him from the last indignity of the bowstring,
and preserved the females from insult. In gratitude for
this service, the old cborbajee, by a will pronounced upon
the spot, as the Moslem law allows, bequeathed to the
young man all his wealth, on condition that he continued
to extend his protection to Shereen and her mother. This
condition being anything but an onerous one, the trust was
promptly accepted by the youthful soldier. The will, it is
true, as made by a rebel who had forfeited his property by
his guilt, would have been of no avail but for the favor of
the sultan, who not only confirmed it, but also bestowed
upon the Circassian the rank which Kara Jehennem had
promised him. Shereen, it is hardly necessary to add,
became the wife of the fortunate adventurer; and her
mother, with the third of her late husband's ample fortune,
was able to fulfil a long-cherished vision, of returning in
splendid state to the land of her nativity.


ftafrrs from % Jiarg of a fafa €kik 219
that I would look, and passed my finger slowly and delibe-
rately down the page of an entry-book. "No, he is not,"
I said, on reaching the foot of the leaf.
"Then here is a retainer for the defence." Dodsley
placed a one pound note and a shilling on the table, and, as
soon as I had made the usual entry, added, "I am acting
in this matter for Cotes, of Salisbury, who, as the case is of
some importance, will deliver the brief, handsomely marked,
I believe, and with a good fee to clerk, at Winchester'
good-by!"'
A quarter of an hour afterwards, the great Mr. Pen-
dergast, solicitor, of Basinghall Street, ascended the stairs,
and presented himself. He had a brief in his hand,'
marked "Fifty Guineas." This I saw at a glance: indeed,'
of all the characters on the back of a brief, the figures,—
the fee,—by some magnetic attraction or influence, invaria-
bly caught my eye first.
"Mr. Prince proceeds on the Western Circuit?"
"Certainly." .
"And is not, I conclude, retained in the Crown case
against Somers for larceny?"
"The deuce! well, this is odd!" I exclaimed. "Mr.
Dodsley left a retainer for the defence not above ten minutes
ago."
"You don't say so!" rejoined Mr. Pendergast, pee-
vishly; "dear me, dear me; how unfortunate! The
prosecutrix is anxious above all things to secure Mr. Prince's
services, and now—dear me! This is a kind of business
not at all in our line; nor indeed in that of the respectable
Devizes firm who have taken the unusual course of sending
the brief to London, although relating only to a simple
matter of larceny;—dear me, how unfortunate! and the
fee, you see, is heavy."
"Surprisingly so, indeed! The prosecutrix must be


220 |)ntnam'g Stag Jiharg.
wonderfully anxious to secure a conviction," I replied with
as much nonchalance as I could assume, confoundedly vexed
as I was. It was not at all likely, for all old Dodsley had
hinted, that the brief in defence of a prisoner committed for
larceny would be marked at a tenth of fifty guineas: how-
ever, there was no help for it, and after emitting one or two
additional "dear mes !" away went Mr. Pendergast with
brief, fifty guineas, and no doubt proportionately handsome
clerk's fee, in his pocket. I was terribly put out, much
more so than Mr. Prince, when he came in and heard of
what had happened, although fifty guineas were fifty guineas
with him at that time. "I have seen something of the case,"
he said, "in the newspapers; it has curious features. The
prisoner is a female of great personal attractions, it seems.
We must console ourselves," he added with jocose famili-
arity, "it is something to be the chosen champion of
beauty in distress." To which remark I perceive the word
"Fudge," in large capitals, appended in my diary. "Hum-
bug" would have been more forcible, but that expressive
word had not then been imported into the English voca-
bulary, or it would, I doubt not, have been used.
Mr. Prince of course travelled by post-chaise with a
learned brother, and I reached Winchester by coach, just
as the sheriff's trumpets proclaimed the arrival of my lords
the judges in that ancient city. Our Wiltshire fame had
not yet reached Winchester, and although the criminal
business of the assize was heavy, very few cases were con-
fided to Mr. Prince. Cotes arrived on the second day, with
the brief in the Salisbury case, marked, I was astonished to
find, "Twenty Guineas," and the old fellow behaved, more-
over, very well to me. Mr. Prince was in court, and I had
full leisure to run over the matter, and a very strange, out-
of-the-way, perplexing business, as set forth in Mr. Cotes's
instruction to counsel, it appeared to be. Divested of sur-


Iisba ixom i	 grarg of a "gnb Clerk. 221
plusage, of which the brief contained an abundant quantity,
the affair stood about thus:—Mr. Hurdley, a wealthy per-
son, who had resided many years at Hurdley Villa (then so.
called, but now, I hear, bearing another appellation, and
not very distant, by-the-by, from Bowood, the Marquis of
Lansdowne's country seat), had died three or four months
previously intestate, and Hurdley Villa was now inhabited
by a Mrs. Gilbert, the deceased's sister-in-law, and her son,
Charles Gilbert, the heir-at-law, but who yet wanted some
ten months of his majority. The day before his death Mr.
Hurdley despatched James Dakin, an aged and confidential
servant, to bring home one Emily Somers from Brighton,
where he, Mr. Hurdley, had placed her some fourteen years
previously in a first-rate school. He told the mistress of
the establishment, a Mrs. Ryland, that the child, then about
five years old, was the orphan daughter of a distant rela-
tive, a statement discredited as she grew up by the evi-
dence of her features, described as presenting a beautiful
and feminine but still surprisingly accurate reflex of those
of Mr. Hurdley. This remarkable resemblance not only
gave rise to calumnious rumors, but appeared greatly to
impress Mr. Hurdley himself, at the Jast and only interview
he ever had with the young girl since he consigned her to
Mrs. Ryland's care. This was about six months before he
died, and on his return home he gave Mr. Cotes directions
to prepare a new will, by which he bequeathed twenty thou-
sand pounds to Emily Somers, and divided the residue,
about double that amount, amongst his nephew, Charles
Gilbert, and other more distant relatives. This will was
drawn out and executed, but was subsequently destroyed
under the following circumstances :—The instant Mrs. Gil-
bert heard of the serious illness of her wealthy brother-in-
law, she hastened with her son to Hurdley Villa, and imme-
diately set to work, tormenting the dying gentleman into
y


222 Ipnhram's Slorg fibrarg.
annulling his will. Wearied out at length, it seemed, by
Mrs. Gilbert's importunities, he yielded the point, and the
will was burnt in the presence of Cotes, the attorney, a
medical gentleman of Devizes, Mrs. Gilbert, and the
housekeeper, a Mrs. James. "You persist, Charlotte,"
said Mr. Hurdley, feebly addressing his sister-in-law, "that
Emily Somers ought not to inherit under this will?" "I
do, indeed, my dear Robert; you may be sure she will be
sufficiently provided for without the necessity of your
bequeathing her such an enormous sum as twenty thousand
pounds." "Are the two letters I gave you sent to the
post ?" asked Mr. Hurdley of the. housekeeper. The woman
hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Oh yes, certainly;
some time since." A strange expression, something like
mockery or malice, Cotes thought flickered over the pale
face of the dying man as he said, addressing the attorney,
"Then I authorize and require you, sir, to burn that my
last and only existing testament." This was done, and
everybody except the medical gentleman left the room.
Mrs. Gilbert vanished instantly her wish was accomplished,
following sharply upon the heels of her housekeeper.
Mr. Hurdley died on the following day. He was already
speechless, though still conscious, when Dakin returned
from Brighton with Emily Somers, upon whom his fast-
darkening eyes rested whilst yet a ray of light remained,
with an intense expression of anxiety and tenderness. The
wealth, I may here state, of which Mr. Hurdley died pos-
sessed, was almost entirely personal, Hurdley Villa and
grounds being, indeed, the only reality, and was lodged in
British securities. It was the intention, Mr. Cotes believed,
of Mrs. Gilbert and her son, the instant the latter came of
age and could legally do so, to dispose of those securities,
and invest the produce in land: that time was, however, not
yet arrived.


£tafrtg from % grarg of h ITafo Cltrk. 223
Matters went on smoothly enough at Hurdley Villa for
some time after Mr. Hurdley's death; Mrs. Gilbert was ex-
ceedingly civil and kind to Emily Somers;—her son, from the
first, something more; and it was soon apparent that he was
becoming deeply attached to the gentle and graceful girl
bequeathed to his mother's and his own generous care by
her deceased protector. These advances, evidently at first
encouraged by Mrs. Gilbert, were by no means favorably
received,—why, will presently appear,—whereupon that lady
worked herself into a violent rage, both with her son's folly
and the intolerable airs and presumptions of Emily Somers,
who had forthwith notice to quit Hurdley Villa, accom-
panied by an intimation that an annuity of fifty pounds a
year would be settled on her. This scandalous injustice
roused the spirit of the young girl, acquainted as she was
with the burning of the will, and a violent altercation ensued
between her and Mrs. Gilbert, in the course of which some-
thing was said or hinted that excited Mrs. Gilbert to down-
right frenzy, and she vowed the insolent, audacious minx
should not sleep another night in the house. This scene
occurred just after breakfast, and a chaise was ordered to be
in readiness by two o'clock to convey Emily Somers to
Devizes. About half-past twelve Mrs. Gilbert went out for
an airing in the carriage, and was gone about an hour; her
passion had by this time cooled down, and the servants
thought, from the irresolute, half regretful expression of her
countenance, that a conciliatory word from Miss Somers
would have procured her permission to remain. That word
was not spoken, and Mrs. Gilbert, with a stiff bow to the
young lady, who was already equipped for departure, sailed
grandly away to her dressing-room. In about ten minutes
a terrible hurly-burly rang through the house: Mrs. Gilbert's
diamond necklace and cross was declared to be missing from
her jewel case, and a hurried search in all possible and


224 $)ntnam's Stag Ifibrarg.
impossible places was immediately commenced. Miss
Somers, distracted as she said by the noise and confusion,
intimated that she should walk on and meet the chaise,
which could not be far distant; and " as Mrs. Gilbert," she
added with bitter emphasis, " insists that every trunk in the
house shall be searched, I will send for mine to-morrow."
So saying she left the apartment, and a minute afterwards
the house. The post-chaise was not far off, and she had
reached it, and seated herself, when a footman came running
up with a request from Mrs. Gilbert that she would return
immediately. Miss Somers declined doing so, and ordered
the postillion to drive on. Seeing this, the footman, a
powerful fellow, caught hold of the horses' heads, exclaim-
ing, as he did so, "that it was a matter of robbery, and the
young lady should«return." The chaise was accordingly turn-
ed round, and the now terrified girl was in a manner forcibly
taken back to Hurdley Villa. There it was proposed to
search her. She vehemently protested against being sub-
jected to such an indignity, but Mrs. Gilbert peremptorily
insisted that she should, and a constable having been actually
sent for, she, at length, reluctantly submitted. The search was
fruitless, and Mrs. Gilbert, taking up the young lady's muff,—
it was the month of January,—which was lying in a chair,
tossed it contemptuously towards her, with an intimation that
"she might now go!" The muff fell short, and dropped
on the floor. A slight sound was heard. "Ha ! what's that?"
exclaimed Mrs. Gilbert. Quickly the muff was seized, felt,
turned inside out, ripped, and the missing diamond neck-
lace and cross were found carefully enveloped and concealed
in the lining! Miss Somers fainted, and had only partially
recovered when she found herself again in the chaise, and
this time accompanied by a constable, who was conveying
her to prison. The unfortunate young lady was ultimately
committed for trial on the charge of stealing the jewels.


$mbta from % Jiarg of a "gvia Cltrk. 225
Miss Somers's refusal to entertain the suit of Mr. Charles
Gilbert, and the large fee marked on the brief in defence,
were explained by the fact that a Lieut. Horace Wyndham,
of the artillery service, then serving in Ireland, had, when at
Brighton, contracted an engagement with Emily Somers,
fully sanctioned, Cotes believed, by the late Mr. Hurdley.
This young officer remitted a considerable sum to the attor-
ney, with directions that no expense should be spared; and
further stated that he had applied for leave of absence, and
should, the instant it was granted, hasten to Wiltshire.
This was the tangled web of circumstance which it was
hoped the ingenuity of counsel might unravel, but how, Mr.
Cotes, a well-meaning, plodding individual, but scarcely as
bright as the north star, did not profess to understand.
Mr. Prince took great interest in the matter, and he speedi-
ly came to the conclusion that it was highly desirable Miss
Somers should be directly communicated with. The
etiquette of the bar of course precluded Mr. Prince from
himself visiting a prisoner, but I, though it was rather out
of my line of service, might do so, by permission of Mr.
Cotes. This was readily accorded, and the next day I and
the attorney set off for Salisbury.
We had an interview with Miss Somers early on the
following morning. All my clerkish bounce was thoroughly
taken out of me by the appearance and demeanor of the
young lady. There was a dignified serenity of grief im-
printed on her fine pale countenance, a proud yet tempered
scorn of the accusation and the accuser in her calm accents,
so different from the half-swaggering, half-whining tone and
manner I had been accustomed to in persons so situated,
that my conviction of her perfect innocence was instantane-
ous and complete. She, however, threw no light upon the
originating motive of the prosecution to which she was
exposed, till, after refreshing my memory by a glance at the
10*


$}trfttHm's Storg $ikarg.
notes Mr. Prince had written for my guidance, I asked her
what it was she had said on the occasion of her quarrel
with Mrs. Gilbert that had so exasperated that lady? "I
merely ventured," she replied, "to hazard a hint suggested
by an expression used by Mr. Hurdley in a letter to—
to a gentleman I have reason to believe Mr. Cotes will see
to-day or to-morrow, to the effect that I might alter all
prove to be the rightful heiress of the wealth so covetously
grasped. It was a rash and a foolish remark," she added
sadly, her momentarily crimsoned cheeks and sparkling eyes
fading again to paleness and anxiety, "for which there was
no tangible foundation, although Mrs. Gilbert must, it seems,
have feared there might be."
This very partial lifting of the veil which concealed the
secret promptings of the determined and rancorous prose-
cution directed against our interesting client, rendered me
buoyantly hopeful of the result, and so I told Cotes
on leaving the prison. He, however, remained like old
Chancellor Eldon, permanently "doubtful," and moreover,
stared like a conjuror, which he was not, when, after again
consulting Mr. Prince's memoranda, I said he must let me
have two subpoenas for service on Mrs. James and Mr.
Dakin at Hurdley Villa.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed; "what will be the use of
calling them?"
"I don't know; a great deal of use, it may be; but at
all events the subpoenas will give me an excuse for seeing
them both, and that I must do as early as possible."
He made no further objection, and by eleven the next
day I was at the hall door of Hurdley Villa, blandly request-
ing to speak with Mrs. James. I have always piqued
myself upon not having the slightest odor of law or parch-
ment about me, and I was only gratified, therefore, not
surprised—ahem!—at overhearing the servant who an-


$tate from % gliarg of a fata Cltrk 227
swered the door assure Mrs. James that the person inquiring
for her "was quite the gentleman." This was, moreover,
only a fair return for the compliment I had paid the damsel's
blooming cheeks. I was immediately ushered into the
housekeeper's room, where, as soon as the door was closed,
I handed the astonished woman a strip of parchment and a
shilling. She hopped back as if suddenly confronted by a
serpent.
"A subpoena, Mrs. James," I said, "commanding you,
in the name of our Sovereign Lord the King, to attend and
give evidence on the trial of Emily Somers."
"I give evidence!" she replied, much flurried; "I know
nothing of the matter; I wash my hands of the whole busi-
ness."
"That will require, my dear lady, a very profuse and
judicious use of soap and water, or the damned spots will not
out, as the lady says in the play."
"Oh, don't bother me about the lady in the play," she
retorted angrily. "I can give no evidence, I tell you,
either for or against Miss Somers. I did not accuse her of
stealing the necklace!"
"That I am sure, Mrs. James, you did not. You are, I
know, too just and sensible a person to do anything at once
so wicked and foolish, but you must tell the judge how it
was the two letters—ha! you begin to perceive, do you, that
more is known than you imagined."
"Letters—what letters?" she muttered with pale lips.
The words which had so startled her had been suggested
by a surmise of Mr. Prince, and a remark which dropped
from Miss Somers, implying that Lieutenant Wyndham had
been expecting a promised explanation from Mr. Hurdley
when the news reached him of that gentleman's death. The
woman's tremor convinced me that I had struck the right
trail, and I determined to follow it up boldly.


228 $)ttiram's Stag librarg.
"I will tell you, Mrs. James," I replied, "but first, and
for your own sake, ascertain that we are entirely alone."
She looked into the passage, reclosed the door, and said with
fast-increasing agitation, "Quite, quite alone; what can you
mean?"
"This: the two letters intrusted to you by Mr. Hurdley,
the day before his death, you had neglected to forward as
you ought to have done."
"I—I meant no harm," she huskily gasped; "as I live
and breathe I meant no harm!"
"I believe you; and it was after the will was burned
that Mrs. Gilbert, who followed you out of the sick room,
obtained possession of them."
She did not answer in words, and it was not necessary
that she should; her scared looks did that sufficiently.
"Do you remember either of the addresses of the letters,
Mrs. James," I presently continued, " or shall I refresh your
memory? Was not the first syllable of one of the names
Lieutenant Wyndham—"
"Ha!"
"Now don't make a noise, there's a good woman. To
whom was the second letter addressed? Answer that
question, or you will be in custody before ten minutes have
passed; answer it truly, and you will not be in the slightest
degree molested;—come, out with it!"
"The Reverend Mr. Ridgway, Yeovil, Somerset."
"Very good. And do you know anything about this
Mr. Ridgway, whether he was related to, or in any way
connected with, the late Mr. Hurdley?"
"As I hope for mercy, I do not."
"Very well: now pay attention to what I am about to
say. Mrs. Gilbert must not be acquainted with what has
passed between us."
"Oh, no, certainly not; on no account whatever," she


JTrafes from % $rarg of a fato Ckk. 229
quickly replied. "She strictly forbade me to mention the
circumstance."
"No doubt. As she is sure, however, to hear that I
have been here, you had better admit that I have served
you with a subpoena. Good day," I added, taking her hand,
which was cold as ice,—" and remember—Silence! or it
will go ill with you."
"Come, George," I mentally exclaimed on emerging
with exultant step from Hurdley Villa, " come, George,"—
my name is George—" you are getting along in first-rate
style, my boy; and there is nobody I wish half so well as I do
you. I am heartily rejoiced at it. Old Dakin is at Devizes,
it seems; well, I don't know that it's worth while waiting
to see him, so I'll e'en be off again back at once."
The news I brought which, well managed, would in all
probability lead to important results, put quite a varnish on
old Cotes's mahogany phiz, and it was needed, for Lieutenant
Wyndham, who had arrived at Salisbury shortly after I had
left, had kept him in a state of terrible anxiety and harass-
ment from the first moment he entered the office. He was
a fine dashing young fellow, by Cotes's account, sudden and
fiery as a rocket, and at first seriously purposed to send a
bullet through young Gilbert's head, as the only fitting
answer to the atrociously absurd accusation against Miss
Somers. Convinced at last that ball practice, however
sharp and well directed, would avail little against a " true
bill" for felony, he bounced off to procure permission to visit
the imprisoned lady. This could not be for the moment
granted, " and," added Cotes, "he has been tearing in and
out of the office for the last hour and a half like a furious
maniac, threatening to write immediately to the Home
Secretary, nay, the Prince Regent himself, I believe, and
utterly smash every gaoler, sheriff, and magistrate in the
county of Wilts;—oh, here he is again!"


230 $)rtlnHm's Storg ^ujrttrg.
The youthful soldier certainly was much excited and
exasperated, but I found no difficulty in so far calming him
that he listened with eager attention and interest to what I
had to relate. "I cannot do better," he exclaimed, the
instant I ceased speaking, " than start immediately for Yeo-
vil, and ascertain what the Rev. Mr. Ridgway knows of
Em—of Mr. Somers or Mr. Hurdley." We agreed that it
was highly desirable he should do so, and in less than ten
minutes he was off in a post-chaise from the "Antelope" for
Yeovil.
The next day, Saturday, as I and Cotes were busy, about
noon, drawing a fresh brief for counsel, a horseman, followed
by a mounted groom, alighted in front of the attorney's
house, and presently a small clerk threw open the office door
and announced—" Mr. Gilbert!"
The appearance of this young gentleman was somewhat
prepossessing, albeit he appeared to be suffering from illness
of body or mind, perhaps of both; and there was a chang-
ing flush on his brow, a quick restlessness in his eyes, and a
febrile tremor, as it were, in his whole aspect and manner,
which, read by the light of what we knew and suspected,
had a deep significance.
"You are the attorney for the defence, I understand,
in "—he hesitatingly began,—" in the unfortunate affair of
the diamond necklace?"
"I am," replied Mr. Cotes, "and what then?"
"Your clerk has served a subpoena upon Mrs. Gilbert's
housekeeper; what may that mean?"
"A silly question, sir, you will pardon me for saying:
we lawyers are not generally in the habit of making con-
fidants of those opposed to us."
There was a silence for some time; Mr. Gilbert crossing
his legs, tapped the toe of his boot with his riding-whip,
and passed his right-hand fingers several times through


grata fnmt i^t Jrarg of a %ab (tkrift. 231
the thick brown locks that fell over his forehead, his irreso-
lute, wavering glance all the while shifting from Cotes's
face to mine and back again.
"Would it not be better," he at length said, " that this
unhappy business were accommodated? There is a means—
one," he added, flushing intensest scarlet, "whereby that
desirable result may be accomplished. I must be frank
with you, for I cannot otherwise communicate with the—
the prisoner; it is this,—if Miss Somers will accept my
hand, the prosecution is at an end."
Cotes was about to speak, but I pinched him with such
sudden force that he sprang to his feet instead, and the first
attempted word broke into a-shriek of pain.
"Is this proposition made with Mrs. Gilbert's consent?"
I hastily interposed.
"Yes, certainly;—yes."
"Mrs. Gilbert consents, does she, that her son shall wed
a fortuneless girl accused of the disgraceful crime of theft,
her character unvindicated, her—"
"Stay, sir, a moment. I speak of course in confidence.
If my proposal be accepted, I will say that I placed the
necklace in the muff in jest, or as a present."
"Do you say, Mr. Gilbert," I exclaimed, "that it was
you, not your mother, that placed the jewels in the lining of
the muff?"
Ha! ha! That shaft, I saw, found the joint in his
armor. He started fiercely to his feet. "What do you
mean by that, fellow?"
"Precisely what I said, sir. Mr. Cotes," I added, "you
can have nothing more to say to this person."
"Certainly not," snapped out the attorney, who was
limping about the room, and rubbing one particular part of
his left thigh with savage energy.
The young gentleman, finding that his conciliatory mis-


232 ftrfnam's Storg ITibrarg.
sion had missed fire, began to bully, but that failing also he
went his way, muttering and threatening as he went. And
I soon afterwards departed, after very humbly apologizing
to Mr. Cotes for the extreme liberty I had taken with his
still very painful leg.
On Monday, the day the Commission was opened at
Salisbury, Lieutenant Wyndham brought us the Reverend
Mr. Ridgway. What he had to say was this:—Mr. Hurdley
had married privately, for fear of his father's displeasure,
Emily Ridgway, the reverend gentleman's sister, at Bridge-
water. The marriage was a most unhappy one; a cause-
less, morbid jealousy possessed the husband to such an
extent that he believed, or affected to believe, that the
child, a girl, baptized Emily, in giving birth to whom her
mother died, was not his; but this child, so Mr. Hurdley
wrote to the Reverend Mr. Ridgway, died at the age of
four years.
The reader is now quite as wise as the wisest in the con-
sultation held at Mr. Cotes's on the Tuesday morning, when
it was known that the grand jury had returned a "true bill"
against Emily Somers. The announcement that our case
would probably be called on almost immediately, broke up
the council, and away we all departed for the court, Mr.
Prince, of course, who was in costume, walking up Catha-
rine street with the gravity and decorum which so well
becomes the law; I and the lieutenant walked faster.
"A queer fish," said the anxious and irate artillery
officer, "that master of yours: he listened to everybody, it
is true, but said nothing himself, nor did anything, for that
matter, except rub his nose and forehead now and then."
"Never mind; wait till it is his cue to speak. I have
no fear, unless, indeed, luck should run very contrary."
The small, inconvenient court was crowded to excess.
Mr. Justice Rook presided, and the Earl of Pembroke, with,


'gts&ts from % gforg of h £afo Cltrft. 233
if I mistake not, the present Earl Radnor, then Lord Folke-
stone, was on the bench. Immediately a trifling case was
disposed of, Emily Somers was brought in and arraigned.
A murmur of sympathy and sorrow ran through the crowd
at the sad spectacle, in such a position, of one so young, so
fair, so beloved,—aye, so beloved, as all could testify who
witnessed the frightful emotion depicted in Lieutenant
Wyndham's countenance when the prisoner was placed in
the dock. It was a speechless agony, and so violent, that
I and the Reverend Mr. Ridgway caught hold of his arms
and endeavored to force him out of the court. He
resisted desperately; a deep sob at last gave vent to the
strangling emotion which convulsed him, and he became
comparatively calm. The leading counsel for the prosecu-
tion,—there was a tremendous bar against us, as if that
could avail!—opened the case very temperately, and the
witnesses, previously at the request of Mr. Prince ordered
out of court, were called seriatim. The first were servants,
who merely proved the finding of the necklace, as before
described, and Miss Somers's anxiety to be gone before
the chaise arrived; they were not cross-examined. Char-
lotte Gilbert was next called. At the mention of this name
the crowd undulated, so to speak; a wave seemed to pass
over the sea of heads, and all eyes were eagerly, the great
majority angrily, bent upon the person of a lady about fifty
years of age, splendidly attired in satin mourning. She
was a fine woman, and ordinarily, I should have supposed,
of imperious, commanding aspect and presence, but not
now: she had, it was clear to me, undertaken a task beyond
her strength, and every fibre in my body pulsated with
anticipated triumph.
She answered, however, the few questions put to her by
the prosecuting counsel distinctly, though in a low tone,
and without raising her eyes. The necklace produced was


234 $)ulnam's Stag £itarg.
hers, and she had seen it found in the prisoner's muff et
cetera. Mr. Prince rose amidst the profoundest silence;
"Will you have the kindness, Mrs. Gilbert, to look at me?"
he said. The witness raised her eyes for a moment, but
utterly unable to sustain his gaze, they were instantly
cast down again.
"Well, never mind, we must excuse you; but listen, at
all events. The letters addressed to Lieutenant Wyndham
and the Rev. Mr. Ridgway, which you purloined the day
before Mr. Hurdley died,—where are they?"
A faint bubbling scream, she vainly strove to entirely
repress, broke from the quivering lips of the witness. "The
letters!" she feebly gasped.
"Aye, the letters informing those gentlemen that Emily
Somers was" in truth Emily Hurdley, and the legitimate
heiress to the writer's wealth."
There was no attempt to answer, and Mrs. Gilbert
clutched tightly at the front of the witness-box. "Your
witness is fainting," said Mr. Prince to the counsel for the
prosecution; "has no one a smelling-bottle?" One was
found, and the terrified woman appeared to partially revive.
The cross-examination was resumed.
"When you placed the diamond necklace in the prison-
er's muff, you—"
A piercing shriek interrupted Mr. Prince, and when we
looked again towards the witness-box, it seemed empty,—
Mrs. Gilbert had fallen, utterly insensible, on the floor. She
was borne out of court, and Mr. Prince addressing the
opposite side, said in his blandest tone, "You had better,
perhaps, call another witness; the lady may presently
recover." This was acceded to, and the name of Charles
Gilbert was bawled out once—twice—thrice. The attorney
for the prosecution left the court to seek for the unanswer-
ing Charles Gilbert. He had been gone a considerable


3ftab« from fyt Jhtrjj of a Jafa Clerk. 235
time, and the judge was becoming impatient, when he
re-entered, looking very pale and agitated. "My lord," he
said, "the prosecution is abandoned! Mrs. Gilbert and her
son have driven off in their carriage."
The tempestuous hubbub that followed this announce-
ment, the exclamations in a contrary sense,—maledictions
on the prosecutrix, congratulations of the accused,—could
not be for some time repressed. At length order was
restored, a quasi explanation ensued between counsel, and
Mr. Justice Rooke, turning towards the jury, said, "I con-
clude that after what we have just witnessed and heard,
there can be no doubt of what your verdict will be." An
acquittal was instantly pronounced by acclamation; the
triumphant shouts of the audience were renewed, and I
could just distinguish through tears that almost blinded me,
Emily Somers carried off in the rapturous embrace of Lieu-
tenant Wyndham.
"You and Mr. Cotes," said Mr. Prince, as soon as I
could listen to him, "must instantly follow to Hurdley
Villa; there is important work to be done yet." There
was, no doubt, but it was easily performed. Utterly panic-
stricken, bargaining only for personal safety, Mrs. Gilbert
and her son gave us all the information, acquired by them
from the purloined explanatory letters, which was necessary
to establish the legitimacy of Emily Somers,—properly
Emily Hurdley; and a joyous triumphant finale concluded
the at-one-time menacing and troubled drama I have, I fear,
very imperfectly depicted.


The Golden Guillotine.
I
passed part of the year 1824, and nearly the whole
of 1825, in France. I was then more than a boy,
{^y though not quite a man—that is, I was able to
observe everything, without having attained the full power
of reasoning upon what I saw. Above all, my memory was
more retentive than it has ever been since, for I have
remarked that the pictures drawn upon the retina of the
mind do not become fastened by after processes. As they
first impinge, so they remain, all the more distinctly and
permanently from having been traced upon a delicate and
virgin surface. Youth employs itself little with the images
it stores within its memory. .They are kept for after use—
a use that wears them out.
One over-clouded afternoon, having just had my fencing
lesson, and finding it quite impossible to remain within doors
any longer without getting hopelessly into the blue devils,
I sallied forth into the street of Tours (the town in which
we then resided), without any very definite idea of the next
thing to be done. There were two ways, of course, to
choose between—one to the left, up the Faubourg, past the


Sjjt (ioftm ©nillo&tt. 23V
Fabrique de Passementerie, the Pension, and the ancient
stone, on which was inscribed the record of some ancient
inundation of the Loire, "jusqu' ici," stopped by the visible
interposition of St. Anthony. But, then, in that direction
lay the abattoir, and the bare idea of a sanguine gush from
within the archway and down the kennel whilst I was tra-
versing its brink, was enough to decide me. I turned to
the right.
This led me to the more ancient parts of the town, and
the congenial vicinity of the great Cathedral of St. Gatien.
The echoes of the deep bells swept over the roofs of the
houses, and chimed in with the sombre tone of my contem-
plations. At a particular break in this ridge of roofs, I
caught a sight of the massive towers, staring over omi-
nously upon me from the region of tempest, while two or
three ravens seemed to be blown out of them ever and anon
by the gusts, slowly and perseveringly returning with each
lull to the shelter of the ragged tracery near their summits,
and forcibly reminding me of those evil thoughts which,
when expelled, return again and again to find shelter in
some rent of our ruined organization. It was not without
a certain sensation of awe that I found myself thus under
the archiepiscopal shadow, for I had learned thus early to
succumb to the genius of great structures, and to suffer
myself tot be bestridden by these dark embodiments of
mediaeval influences.
Suddenly I observed indications of the avenue coming to
an end. Grass started greenly between the stones, and the
street appeared untrodden by man or beast. A few steps
further, and a heavy gate stood opposite me, under the
skeletons of large timber trees, barring all further advance.
I now cast about me for some means of exit, other than by
retracing my steps, which somehow or other conveyed to
me a sense of humiliation; and I did contrive to make out


238 ^ntnam's Store $ibrarg.
at the right a low archway, through which a paved alley
sharply descended, I knew not whither, but apparently a
public thoroughfare. Down this, after a moment's hesita-
tion, I plunged, and found myself, as soon as I had emerged
into the light at the rear of the buildings, in a deserted
plot, which seemed to stretch away in one direction, com-
fortless and grass-grown, nearly to the inner face of the
town walls.
Long as I had resided in Tours, I had never seen or
heard of this place. Where was I ?—what was it? I
determined to find out. Besides, it was sheltered from the
wind, which was getting keener every moment, as the
short day began to close in. I knew not what it was that
urged me on, but I felt a forward impulse, and followed the
path for some distance, until a slight bend removed alto-
gether from my view both the buildings I had left behind,
and the distant town wall, and brought me to the foot of an
ancient terrace.
The solitude was impressive. The storm, which roared
among the leafless great trees on the terrace overhead, as
through the cordage of a ship, could not get down to where
I was, except in an occasional gust and eddy, striking a
bare branch against a bare stone, as if bent on killing what
the winter had robbed; and the soft, moist black loam about
me I could fancy to partake of the genius of the place, and
derive its richness from accumulated relics of mortality.
Here I paused, marvelling at the Cyclopean proportions
of the stones of which the terrace wall was composed.
Surely, said I, they were giants who fashioned and put
together these huge 'masses! But what is this? Why, the
terrace looks as if it was undermined?
This exclamation was forced from me by my coming
suddenly upon a breach, similar to what the waves some-
times make in a sea-wall—that is, the lower courses for some


% ^ofitttt ^ttillofett. 239
distance appeared to have been removed outwards, the
upper remaining hanging together by their own weight, so
as to give a cavelike appearance to the aperture.
I had not time, however, to speculate upon the cause of
what I saw, for at that instant I perceived, just within the
shadow of the opening, the figure of a man kneeling. There
is always something startling in stumbling upon the hidden
devotions of another. If you add to this, in the stranger's
appearance, a stern melancholy of countenance spread over
the rigid prominence of protruding bones, scarcely covered
by the sallow flesh, and the peculiar expression of eyes, the
balls of which seemed, instead of swelling outwards, to hol-
low inwards, as you look into a rock crystal, some idea of
my first sensations may be realized. I felt my heart throb,
and drew a step back, in hopes I had not been observed;
but the stranger, without turning his eyes in the direction
in which I stood, bent towards the sound, and held up one
hand, with a motion which seemed to warn me not to go, as
well as not to advance.
I obeyed, as if under the spell of a mesmerizer, and
stood there for three or four minutes, during which the
great bells of the cathedral came down upon us ever and
anon, like puffs of smoke. They were, I now for the first
time remarked, tolling solemnly—a mournful peal. Pre-
sently they ceased; and then the stranger rose, and came
out into the entrance of the grotto, towards me. I bowed
respectfully, and, in such French as I could muster, apolo-
gized for having intruded, however unconsciously, upon his
devotions. I now saw that that peculiar expressionless look
I had at first remarked could give place to a more searching
one. He drew his eyes, as it were, to a focus by an instan-
taneous effort, and set them burning upon me like a lens;
then again retracted them within himself and said, calmly,
and almost mournfully-^-


240 |)trfnsm's Stag Jibrarg.
"The archbishop died an hour ago. I had a prayer to
say for his soul as well as the rest. They prayed before the
High Altar—I before Heaven. Where should I pray but
here?"
"You knew him, perhaps ?" I rejoined, scarcely know-
ing what to say.
"I have known many people, young man. It is not for
that alone I knelt under this ruin. But come, sit down
here; you, I see, are a stranger—so am I, though a French-
man. We have thus a bond between us. You are young
—I am old. That, too, is a bond. You are guiltless of the
last century. Sit down—we can have a word with each
other."
The quiet self-possession with which he addressed me, an
utter stranger, surprised me. I could only account for it as
the result of that one intense, concentrated gaze, by which
I fancied he had satisfied himself as to my character. But
such a man, so nervous, energetic, and decided, must be of
no common stamp. Indeed, young and inexperienced as I
was, I scarcely needed more than a moment to read thus
much.
Whatever it was—whether fear or confidence, or the
youthful love of adventure that prevailed with me, I made
no demur, but seated myself beside him upon one of the
blocks of stone.
"Let us know each other a little better," said he, "and
we shall be more at our ease. I ask no particulars of you.
I will not hear them; for you are too young to be master of
your own secrets. All I required, I have discovered. You
are English. Had I not been satisfied of this, do not sup-
pose you would have been sitting here, now!"
"Well. lam."
"Enough. My name you may set down as Jean Fran-
cois Lenoir. I have seen many strange things in my day,


!% folbttt §xnMm. 241
young man. Aye, and picked up odd relics from the past,
as a man who digs in the bed of a stream will come upon
coins, and potsherds, and bones. Here is one, now, so out-
of-the-way, that I always carry it about me."
So saying, he held up before me a small gold ornament,
apparently designed for the neck; but which, to my inex-
pressible horror, I perceived at once to be fashioned into the
shape of a guillotine! I started up—and he rose too ; but,
instead of entering into an explanation, he stepped over to
me, and taking my hand, led me to the light at the entrance
of the grotto, then, holding the ornament so as to exhibit
the reverse side, bid me read the inscription there written.
It was this—
Is UU tomit, U tocut xistt.
As I read, he looked me steadily in the face; and, as
soon as I had pronounced the words, he led me back to my
seat, and, placing himself once more beside me, said:—
"Now, I have given you the key to my history.
Hearken unto it, for it contains instruction :—
On the 20th of October, in the year 1793,1 was con-
ducted a prisoner to the Palace of the Luxembourg. They
had accused me of the crimes of being rich, noble, and a royal-
ist. My estates having been forfeited, I had been arrested in
the provinces, and was now brought up, along with several
prisoners of inferior rank, to Paris. As the gate of the
Luxembourg closed after me, I resigned all hope of libera-
tion, except by one exit—the scaffold ; and secretly deter-
mined to seek, if I could, the most solitary recesses of the
prison, there to remain shut up with my own thoughts until
my time should arrive for removal to the Conciergerie, and
execution. I trusted to what ready money I had the com-
mand of for the means of obtaining this indulgence—for the
11


242 $Mnam's Storj) %ibrarg.
time had now come when the system of rapiotage had been
organized, under which every one of the better class was
robbed on entering the prison-gate.
The first person I saw, amidst the crowd who thronged
round the wicket, anxious to catch a glimpse of their fellow-
sufferers, was Pierre Levasseur, a travelling companion of
mine in former years, and afterwards an occasional associ-
ate, until something incompatible in our positions in society
(for he had not the cent annees), and then the stormy
scenes of the Revolution, had parted us, and I lost sight of
him. He embraced me with the utmost demonstrations of
affection, and, taking me by the hand, led me a little apart,
and told me that having been some time an inmate of the
prison, he could be of great service in introducing me to its
customs as well as to its inhabitants, and preventing me
making mistakes which might compromise me.
"But," said I, "I have determined to make no acquaint-
ances here. I have friends enough for the rest of my life,
I am sure. If I want to make a last confidence, you are
here, my dear Levasseur, and will shrive me."
"Unless," replied he with a laugh, "Zhave first to make
a confession to you, which, in the order of our arrest, is the
most likely thing."
"And how came you here?" I inquired, suddenly recol-
lecting that he had never appeared to me a very warm roy-
alist, but, on the contrary, avowed himself, when I parted
from him two years before, rather inclined to the popular
side.
"Oh, we must not forestall our revelations! We should
be at the mercy of each other, you know, if we became
confidants here until compelled by necessity. Enough for
me to say, in a whisper, that Robespierre fancied my linen
was finer than his, and, as we employed the same blan-
chisseuse, he thought, I presume, that the best way of


Cjjt folbcit Guillotint. 243
reducing my fabric to the texture of his own, was to trans-
fer my lingerie to the laveuses of Luxembourg."
"The same extravagant drole as ever!" I exclaimed,
recognising the esprit railleur I had so often observed and
rebuked. "Take care that your nonsense does not get you
into a scrape. I am told that there are eyes and ears busy
hereabouts"—
"Hush! I know it; but I know, too, that the best way
of disarming suspicion, is to be frank, careless, and jovial.
Do you think, now," continued he, lowering his voice to'a
distinct whisper, at the same time putting his mouth so
close to my ear, that he had to lift up my hair for the pur-
pose—" do you think that you could form any guess
amongst the persons about us, as to that character we are
all so much in dread of—the agent of the police?"
"I don't know," replied I, venturing a stealthy look
round me, which I instantly withdrew, adding—" Is it safe
to scrutinize people? You confirm my suspicions as to our
being watched."
"Scarcely safe, I believe," he replied; "but they have a
few marks, nevertheless. For instance, when you see a
man sitting gloomily apart, avoiding much converse with
the prisoners, and noticing neither the motions nor the con-
versation of the groups which pass him by, you may be
pretty sure that that man is a spy of Fouquier's. Upon
such a fellow as me, now, they have an uncommonly sharp
eye; but I laugh at them, and they can make nothing of
me. Whatever evidence exists against me outside, they
shall add nothing to it here, I promise you. You must act
as I do, my dear friend. Come into society (for we have
our society here); address every one, get all you can out
of them; make your own observations in silence, and if
you want to pass remarks, come to me. Ten to one, my
superior knowledge of character, gained here at the foot of


244 fntmtm's Stag Jibrarg.
the scaffold, which strips off all masks, will stand you
in stead. And now, remember, there is a select reunion
this very evening in the Salle des Pleurs, as we have named
it. A few of the better order, as it used to be called—you
know what that means—meet there, so I will direct
(request, I beg his pardon) my peculiar little turnkey to
summons you to that apartment at the usual hour, and there
you will meet me, and some others of the missing aristo-
cracy of France!"
I was amazed at the levity of Levasseur under such cir-
cumstances; still, I was young myself, naturally high-spirit-
ed, and was greatly re-assured by meeting an old acquain-
tance where I had so little expected it; so, after a moment's
hesitation, I abandoned my original design, and surrendered
myself to my friend's invitation.
As soon as we had separated, however, my mind relapsed
into despondency. The execution of Marie Antoinette had
taken place only a few days before. When I first heard of
it, my soul had boiled over with vengeance, but by this time
its effect was only to aggravate and deepen my dejection.
Besides, the terrible reality of my situation forced itself
upon me through every chink of my senses. It was now
that I felt, for the first time, the iron of captivity enter
into my soul. Pallid and emaciated faces peered spectrally
into mine, as if they envied me the flush of health I had
borne in among them from the world without, and could not
communicate. A confused wrangling, consequent on over-
crowded accommodation, incessantly met my ears; a con-
tention in which every loftier feeling proper to man as a
member of society, gives way to the one grovelling instinct
of self, degrading his high humanity down to the level of
the brutes. The forced intermixure of ranks and grades,
previously dissociated by a natural arrangement assented
to on both sides, displayed its effects in fierce and humi-


%	 ©atom (Moihtt. 245
liating collisions, in which the great social drama of the
Revolution was enacted on a small and mean scale-under
my eyes. I might easily enter into detail. Here and there
a group lay apart, unconscious, apparently, of the terrible
tumult around. The messenger of death had come to
these—had taken one, or two, or more away to the Con-
ciergerie, never to be heard of more. I saw one man, who
seemed to be the survivor of a family; for even the wretches
expecting their own fate, pitied him. He sat still, in a ray
of sunshine, a thing which the full blaze of day was power-
less to resuscitate.—But why torture you with all this?
It is past—and here am I.
Evening came, and, instead of the turnkey, appeared
Levasseur himself. He suspected I might make excuses, or
be unable to muster my spirits, and determined, he said, to
use his own influence. I saw it was useless to resist; so I
rose from my seat, leaned on his arm, and passed along the
corridor to the Salle des Pleurs.
I entered; and found myself in an ill-lighted but spa-
cious hall, furnished with some rude chairs, tables, and
benches, in which were already assembled probably more
than one hundred persons. It was at once perceptible that
here, though a prisoner, I was in elevated society. The
eye of one accustomed to mix with the world detects,
almost at a glance, and under any disguise, the grade of the
company it surveys. Besides, mine was not wanting in
quickness, and at that time, though uninstructed as yet,
possessed in full vigor those natural powers it learned after-
wards to turn to better account. I saw that, in spite of
those dim lamps, and iron bars, and rude benches, I stood
amongst the nobility of France, and like'a true aristocrat,
my heart and courage instantly bounded within me. I
felt that amidst the convulsion of society it was still permit-
ted me to associate with the ancient blood of an ancient


248 Ipulnam's Stag ^fikrarg.
steadiness of nerve under circumstances so trying and so
novel, and at the same time satisfied my curiosity, every now
and then, by recounting anecdotes and incidents relating to
the more remarkable of the personages who approached and
receded from us.
"There: do you see that reserved, downcast-looking
body, with the tonsure of a monk only half overgrown by
the locks of a sa?is-culotte? He seems to think that society
is a mistake, now that it is likely to lose Mm so soon. That
is the cidevant Abbe Fauchet, who will probably remove
his gravity from hence to the Conciergerie in a day or two.
He figures, you know, among the Girondin worthies who
seem so indignant that their turn should come at last for the
guillotine."
"What! a Girondin?" exclaimed I; "are they actually
in the room?"
"To be sure. The noblesse admits them on the score
of their youth and approaching dissolution. See, here we
have another of them, for they are gregarious. He is hob-
bling up on his crutches to cheer up Fauchet. That is
Sillery; a jolly dog to the last."
"Where is Vergniaud ?" I whispered, unable to repress
the interest I felt in the theme of all tongues.
"We must go further up the room to reach him,"
replied Levasseur. "He and Ducos have contrived to ex-
cite pretty nearly as violent afureur amongst the grandee
dames as they, formerly did chez les danies de la halle; and
never can manage to get, even in prison, a moment's peace,
or what they would call peace ; that is, solitude."
I could scarcely refrain from a smile at this wild travesty
of the classic sentiment, and advanced into the hall until I
reached the circle, in the midst of which stood Vergniaud,
Ducos, and Fonfrede. For a moment I could not help feel-
ing a flush of triumph at seeing these firebrands themselves


250 |)ntnam'g Storg ^tibrarg.
Here Levasseur laughed softly, with the discreet hilarity
of an habitue of these prison festivities.
"Levasseur! Levasseur! be serious, I entreat of you.
This is not the place for such levity!"
My remonstrance was prompted by the entrance of two
persons.
One of them was an elderly lady, the other a young
one. As soon as they had entered, an ecclesiastic, of digni-
fied demeanor, whose face I did not see at the time, but
who seemed to have been expecting them, moved over
towards them, as if to afford them the protection their sex
and unprotected condition had need of in such an assem-
blage as this.
They were dressed differently from the rest of the com-
pany, who most of them contrived still to adorn themselves
in what might be called, by courtesy, the fashion of the
day, even as far as paint, patches, and powder, to say
nothing of the ominous jewellery they wore. A sepulchral
simplicity marked these ladies. The elder wore a plain
grey robe, and a plain cap covering her grey locks. The
younger was in spotless white, with an extraordinary
weight of what is called black hair, but which in northern
nations is more frequently dark brown, drawn away from
her brow, and falling in shadows of lustrous intricacy upon
her neck and shoulders. It would be a vain task to
describe her face. At the time, I could not have even
made the attempt; and if I afterwards knew her marble
complexion and Grecian features by heart, it was in that
moment but a wonderful and radiant embodiment of loveli-
ness that I saw, penetrating without definite outlines the
tissues of my imagination. At the instant she entered, a
rich voice from amongst the company was just giving the
minor motif of the then favorite aria by Glilck, "Che
faro /" and that form, to my excited fancy, seemed to start


252 $uinam's Stag Ifibrarg.
that moment I caught a glimpse of the clergyman that had
at first joined them, and, to my surprise, discovered him to
be the archbishop of the province to which I belonged, the
excellent and loyal M. de Montblanc. Our mutual recogni-
tion was at once pleasurable and painful. I threw myself at
his feet, and the excellent prelate shed tears over my youth-
ful captivity. When I raised myself up, I observed the
eyes of the younger of the two ladies resting upon me with
a mournful expression, and turning towards Levasseur, saw
upon his countenance the last traces of a smile, which he had
not intended to have left lingering there so long. As it was,
he took my hand, and gallantly kneeling before the two
ladies, presented with an extravagance of gesture, looking
very like a caricature of the ancien regime, Citoyen le
Vicomte de Martigny!
The archbishop seized my other hand, and without
seeming to notice the overstrained acting of my companion,
spoke my name over again, adding some words of delicate
commendation—dictated, I felt, more by his kindness, and
the interest he had evinced in my family, than by any
deserts of mine.
I look back with astonishment at the intensity of the
glow which I felt pervading my whole soul—at the magnifi-
cence of the conflagration kindled within me by the con-
sciousness felt at the instant and in its full energy, that now,
at the portals of the grave, as it were, I had for the first time
met with the fulfilment of my destiny, the substance of that
shadow of love my whole previous life had been one vain
pursuit of. It is possible, young man, that no human being
in a less desperate emergency could have all the aspirations
of his nature so completely and instantaneously embodied
before him. Life was condensed, as we believed, from years
into hours. The world was compressed within the bound-
aries of our prison. Our career was to be accomplished in


C^rt Bolton (futMnt. 253
a few actions, for which we scarcely had time. Our destiny'
was cooped up in a few fierce feelings, crowding to rend
their barriers within our breasts. I received the image
before me into my heart as a revelation from heaven—a
great light, which I only knew to be light, too dazzling for
me to look at. It passed in, blinding me on its way. I could
scarcely say what it was I worshipped.
This powerful heart-stroke carried with it the recipro-
cating conviction which alone could make the sensation
endurable. I felt that the shock was mutual—that the
electric current of passion could not rend one bosom so
completely, without a corresponding rift in the other. To
have doubted this would have been death. And, as after
knowledge showed me that these subtle influences, while
they transcend reason, act in strict conformity with it, so
now, in very truth, I had divined aright in the midst of my
bewilderment. Oh, mighty force of one master passion!
Terrific and fatal power, which lightens and blasts at the
same moment, according to what inscrutable law are thy
thunderbolts turned loose amongst mankind! To what end
was it, mighty Creator! if not to vindicate thy superseded
worship, that the swift and merciful axe cut off the authors
of our woes, while upon us was wreaked the slow vengeance
which has cast her bones here, and still binds me fast to life,
like a malefactor chained to the oar which strains without
liberating him!
The wretched man, as he alluded to the fate of the
woman appearing to be thus idolized, had seized my arm,
and when he shrieked the word "here," pointed with his
skinny finger to the ground at our feet—which caused me
to start up—but the next moment set me upon endeavoring,
in the midst of my excitement, to form some conjecture as
to the cause of his haunting this spot, coupling what he had
now uttered with some expressions used previously. I


254 $tolnam's Stag f ibrarg.
immediately perceived, however, that there was not enough
revealed as yet to justify any plausible surmise, so I turned
once more in the attitude of anxious attention towards the
exhausted narrator, on whose forehead big drops of sweat
stood out.
Let us hasten on, my son. Hasten as I may, I cannot
make my relations as rapidly as time flew. Nearly four
months had gone over our heads as prisoners in the Lux-
embourg, and still, though the Angel of Death entered those
gloomy dungeons day after day, laying his fingers of blood
upon victim after victim right and left of us, upon our
shoulders his touch had not yet descended. We had sur-
vived, as it seemed to us, whole generations of mankind.
From the young and gifted Girondins, and the regicide
Orleans, to the very turnkeys themselves, all had been
swept off to the guillotine, and new victims and new gaolers
were still brought in to pass their probation for the scaffold.
The festivities which we had affected to make a microcosm
of the precincts of our prison-house, had died with the pro-
jectors of them. To us, and with new comers, it became
flat and wearisome, this attempt to re-enact gaieties which
only reminded us of our losses. In the Conciergerie, it is
true, those who had been brought so far on their way to the
grave still made wild sport of their last hours, in the dead
of each night rehearsing the ghastly tragedy they were to
perform on the morrow. Suppressed laughter floated
through the empty corridors, and troubled the sleep of the
conscience-ridden gaolers, making them lie closer, as they
half believed that the ghosts of headless tenants were
rejoicing at the ample repasts preparing for the tomb they
had descended into. But here we had neither hope nor
despair enough for such things. Life for us had become a
dream—a sepulchral shadow, under which silence alone
flourished. The discipline having become stricter, we could


8% (foftrtn (fnillotitu, 255
not, indeed, have indulged in all the relaxations once open to
us; but the stringency of their rules was an unnecessary
severity. Our spirits had descended to the level of their
requisitions before ever they had been devised.
A question, I know, by this time suggests itself to you—
how did all this act upon the feelings and affections of two
individuals thrown together as spectators of such horrors!
A curious speculation, no doubt. It was the fire mighty to
separate the gold from the dross. We bore the test. Hap-
piness hovered over us both like a commiserating angel, not
quite daring to alight upon us, but without once winging its
way out of sight. To me no period of life, before or since,
has equalled that in felicity. For her, I believe, I may
answer with equal confidence. If the chamber of life was
dark and vaulted, there was a window through which each
could look into a world, and deem it its own. The barriers
which shut out heaven and earth, had left to us our eyes,
and left us together. Into these luminaries we looked for
light, and saw in them perspectives, heights, depths^ distan-
ces, glories, sufficient for the amplest aspirations of two
beings like us joined, fused now, in the furnace of adversity,
into one. We had sworn upon a token I had given her—
one devised in accordance with the spirit of the strange and
half-sepulchral world we lived in—the token I have already
exhibited to you—to be true to each other until divided by
its stroke. The vow was intended to strengthen our hearts,
and fortify them against the worst fate we apprehended—
though not the worst that awaited us. I had no hope, no
wish, no thought, beyond where I was. She pastured upon
my looks; and though her paleness had become mortal, her
flush hectic, and the gleam of her eyes meteoric, nothing
boded that she was not blessed, and might not be immortal
in her present condition.
The demeanor of Levasseur during the period we have


256 $)ntnam's Storg ^ibrarg.
come to, was puzzling. He made friends and intimates on
all sides, and succeeded, by his appearance of sympathy and
the pliancy of his character, in gaining the confidence of
those most opposed to each other in station and opinion.
He was always occupied, if not in the large common apart-
ments, in the more secluded parts of the palace; and the
very turnkeys appeared to exhibit towards him a deference
which they refused to more exalted personages. As fresh
arrests took place, the new comers found in him a ready
and instant sympathizer, and when at last the summons of
death came (for such everybody felt the removal to the
Coneiergerie to be), he took leave of the departing wretches
with every demonstration of commiseration, frequently
remarking to us how bitter a drop it was in the cup of his
captivity that so many of those with whom he had formed
the closest intimacy, were amongst the number thus selected
for sacrifice. It became a common topic, indeed, with the
survivors, this ill-omened peculiarity respecting him; "and
we should have been more ready, perhaps, under some
superstitious feeling, to dissociate ourselves from his society,
but for the dread that was uppermost with us all of having
it supposed, by any withdrawal from each other, that we
might be classed with those retiring and morose individuals
whom he had himself taught us to suspect of being impli-
cated with the police in their system of espionage.
Alphonsine alone manifested a reserve towards Levas»
seur. I could not comprehend this; and occasionally rallied
him about it. He turned off the subject with a laugh; and
only redoubled his assiduities in his usual sarcastic style,
which won upon so many and amused all. As for me, I
kept nothing from him—my heart was as open as the sun to
his gaze.
The 10th of February, 1794, was the clay fixed upon
for our flight—yes, that was a thing arranged. Her aunt


258 iprtinam's Stag $ibrarg.
of an instant. Another moment had decided me to put her
to the proof. "She would leave happiness in the prison,"
were her words. Who was remaining behind? Why, of
our intimates, only Levasseur. Infernal thought! How
had this never occurred to me before? Nothing more
likely. He was ever of our party. He would not speak of
her. True, she avoided him in my presence, and his very
attentions were tinged with something of bitterness. But
what of that? The thing was—not plain, perhaps, but pro-
bable—-probable. I will test him to the quick. He shall
aid me in the business himself I
I was sitting in the depth of a window, with my back
to the light, leaning against iron bars, pondering these
things. Levasseur entered;—I sprang up, and laid a hand
upon each of his shoulders—
"Levasseur, mon gar con, we are off, if all succeeds, to-
night, you know."
"Well! Yes, you are."
"You are sorry, infernally sorry—eh?"
"Yes; it will make a difference to me for a time."
"Oh, I know. Suppose we enliven the scene, to keep
up our spirits?"
"Enliven the scene! How?"
"Take a lesson from the Conciergerie; enact a drama,
or something of the sort."
"I don't understand you, De Martigny. Don't let
the people see you so ebloui, or they will suspect some-
thing."
"Women are not always what they look."
"Sometimes they are better."
"Sometimes, Levasseur, sometimes. Old Madame de
St. Luc, for instance. Eh?" •
"Quite as good, at all events."
"Can we be sure of any of them?"


&ftt (feothm ^uillofctt. 259
"Tom can, I suppose. For myself, I have seen too
much of the world to be anything but a sceptic on such
points."
"Then you do not entirely believe in Alphonsine?"
"Ha, ha! I knew what all this was coming to. A
discreet question to put to a friend!"
"That is the point. I want to try her."
"Try her!" he exclaimed, disengaging himself from my
grasp. "How is that to be done?"
"Oh, easily. Parbleu! it will be such a famous
preparation for the journey! Now, you can help me in
this."
Fool that I was! I might have seen in the sudden
introversion of his eyes, so well remembered afterwards,
what that man's soul was made of. They drew back, as it
were, deep beneath his brows, and glowed with a flicker-
ing, suspicious gleam, which he could neither control nor
conceal.
All this I laid at the instant to a distrust of his own
powers of assisting me, or, at most, to a momentary un-
willingness to implicate himself in any new difficulty or
adventure. I gave him time to recover, and lost for ever
the golden opportunity of unmasking him.
"Yes! you can help me. The postern towards the
gardens will be opened this night at twelve o'clock by an
unknown agent. An outer gate will likewise be un-
guarded. We have the password. Disguises and places
of concealment are prepared. A guide awaits us. I have
till midnight to put Alphonsine to the proof. If I let that
hour pass I shall never know her—never, Levasseur. Her
heart I feel to be my own. Look at me, Levasseur. You
know we need not put her affection to the test; but she
may not be proof against terror. Muffle yourself in a dis-
guise; touch her on the shoulder, Levasseur, as she passes


260 |9trfram's Stag ITutrarg.
to her cell; say she must come to the Conciergerie; that
if she utters an exclamation or arouses her friends, all must
accompany her; that she must, therefore, be silent, and
acquiesce. Then tell her that her only chance of evading
the horrible fate yawning before her, is by revealing what
she knows concerning me—what are my sentiments on
public affairs—what intrigues I am party to—and, gene-
rally, what secrets I have to divulge. Let this go on, until
her inmost heart is probed; and then, and not till then,
release her. The trial will be a sharp and terrible one, but
it will be final and complete."
Levasseur hesitated, meditated,—and undertook the
task. As for me, 'I felt a wild elation, agonizing as if my
own trial had been at hand, and compounded of I know not
what of distrust, excitement, alarm, recklessness, passion,
and revenge. Utter confusion was in my breast.
The scene was fixed for eleven o'clock, after the turn-
keys had gone their rounds, and when the galleries were
deserted. Young man, I had my own plan within the
other. Do not suppose I believed that I should have satis-
fied myself by leaving the trial in Levasseur's hands. No;
I had not informed him of the interior secret, which was,
that I should be myself a concealed witness of the seizure
and examination of Alphonsine.
In the shadow of an arched niche some of the prisoners
had set up a crucifix of overgrown proportions, before
which, in passing to and from their cells, they might stop
to offer a hurried prayer. Behind this crucifix the darkness
was complete, and, as it was close to the place arranged for
the arrest, I ensconced myself there. The only ray, indeed,
which reached the spot, struggled from a coarse lamp, hung
at a considerable distance in an angle, where it was con-
trived to throw its feeble light down two diverging galleries.
As the moment approached, I trembled all over; the joints


8%t «nttm (Moirtw. 261
of my knees refused their office, my trepidation being in-
creased by the apprehension that my very nervousness might
betray my concealment, and frustrate my scheme. Listen-
ing for every sound, I heard at a distance the rumbling of
the fatal cart, usually arriving at this unobserved hour from
the Conciergerie for those wretches who were next to
undergo examination before the revolutionary tribunal.
Presently it came into the yard, and stopped ; and then my
ear, rendered acute by the silence and the morbid disturb-
ance of my nerves, became conscious of sounds from
distant cells, mumbled whispers of plotting fellow-prisoners,
agonized ejaculations of solitary prayer, the moaning hum
of disturbed sleep; nay, I even fancied I could catch ever
and anon the more remote clank of a chain, as some unhappy
wretch in the vaults beneath the palace turned himself round
in the darkness. From without, there came to my ear now
and then, as if borne upon a breeze, the hushed thunder of
the great city, like the premonitory voices of a volcano
whose long inactivity is about to have its term at last. By-
and-by, an owl blundered against the stonework of the
window at the end of the passage and startled me. I had
scarcely recovered from this, when I heard a stealthy step
approach, and, a little further removed, a light but firm
foot-fall following the same direction.
The stealthy step drew near, stopped close to me, and I
could see the outlines of a figure cloaking itself. Scarcely
had it time to draw aside when the other came up; and the
first, which I had no difficulty in recognising as Levasseur's,
suddenly emerged into the middle of the passage, and con-
fronted the advancing figure. A faint shriek issued from the
lips of Alphonsine—for it was she; but she immediately
recovered herself, and demanded with firmness who bar-
red her passage.
"One," said Levasseur, disguising his voice with consi-


&	 #olbot iuillo&u. 263
divinity of reason within your own heart be favorable, and
plead for me. I have much to reveal—of myself and others.
Listen to me, who can speak and answer; and turn from
that image, before which you might pour forth your suppli-
cations for ever without response or succor. Who, think
you, has sent me here, to accost and confront you in this
lonely cloister? You dare not answer, though I understand
your misgivings. The loved, trusted, faultless De Mar-
tigny!"
A faint exclamation burst from the lips of the girl as she
drew back from his embrace.
"Aye, De Martigny. He believes you false; he does not
understand you—he never understood you. Selfish even
in his predilections, he now seeks to test you in this cruel
manner, as much, perhaps, to seek evidence against you,
and a plausible excuse for—shall I say ?—deserting you "—
Alphonsine gave signs of faintness, and supported her-
self against the masonry of the wall. It was too dark for
me to see her face, though she was close to me, but I could
hear the heart beat.
"Or, perhaps," continued he, relaxing the strain when
it appeared too violent, "it is only levity; though methinks
it is a cruel game to play. You are going to run away
with him this night—at least so you think. Perhaps he
thinks so, too. Is it to happiness you are going? Just
reflect upon this scheme. Suppose it never went further.
Is it for this man—the man who devised all this torture—is
he the one for whom you are prepared to risk so much? I
see you pause—you reflect. You have need to do so—far
greater need than you imagine. Hearken! do you know me?
Have you ever heard for what crime I was thrust in here,
or why I have not followed Vergniaud, Madame Koiand,
and the rest to the guillotine? Ask Fouquier-Tinville who
I am. Put the same question to Danton—to Robespierre.


264 gMnam's Stag $itarrg.
Dost thou suppose the rulers of the destinies of France are
not represented within these walls? or only represented by
gaolers or turnkeys? I have thy life—your lives—in my
hand. A turn in this way, and you are safe—a turn in the
other, and you are under the bloody axe. He has betrayed
you—be mine 1"
"Yours?" feebly ejaculated Alphonsine, scarcely able
to stand, or utter the word.
"Yes—mine. Reassure yourself. Your ridiculous
plot I have taken the means of frustrating. It never had a
chance of succeeding. Should the attempt be made, and
fail, you are all swept to execution. Let it drop. Nothing
will happen to your aunt and friends—in short, to him.
They will remain here as before; and when peace is pro-
claimed, they will be free. A short time—a very short
time—will show you what stuff he is made of. Come with
me. You know that long before this fickle fool appeared
amongst us, I was devoted to you. I have never ceased to
be at your feet. Yes; through the whole humiliation of
this hated rival's courtship, never for an instant did I relin-
quish my claim upon the heart of Alphonsine. Let her
now understand constancy, and reward it."
"Reward it, sir?"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! I have earned something; your
reason must tell you so. Come then, fairest, dearest Al-
phonsine! A word from me is our passport beyond these
gloomy walls, into safety and happiness."
"Begone!" she exclaimed, in a hollow voice, hoarse
with indignation, spurning him from her with & gesture I
judged to be a blow.
He staggered back towards the crucifix—and me—I
heird, or rather felt, his breast heave with rage.
"Miserable woman!" he muttered; "think you that
the supercilious caprice of a court can find here an appro-


(% CfjotbjETt ©mllofittt. 265
priate field of action? Do you nourish the delusion
that heroism, as you may name it, will in these gloomy
cloisters preserve the victim an hour from the Barriere du
Trone? Humble yourself, woman! not to this stump of
idolatry here, but at Levasseur's feet, and implore him not
to drag you through the streets by the hair of your head to
the guillotine!"
"Villain! in this hour of anguish and horror, I tell thee
that I despise thee more than I hate the sanguinary gang
whose spy thou boastest to be. And here I, Alphonsine
de St. Luc, knowing I am to die, yet stand prouder, and
purer, and more joyful at heart, before the efligy of my
crucified Saviour, as the afiianced bride of that Charles de
Martigny whom thou falsely malignest, than thy masters
ever did at the shrine of the Reason their deeds have
outraged, and in the face of a heaven that sickens at the
blood they have spilt!"
"Call, then, upon thy God, or upon Charles de Mar-
tigny, which thou pleasest, for all other help is in vain."
"Oh, Charles! oh, God!" cried Alphonsine, as she
sprang forward, with the intention, it was evident, of
embracing the crucifix. Levasseur threw himself between
it and her—and at the same instant my hands were round
his throat with so deadly a gripe that he was at once
deprived of all power either to utter or to resist. There I
held him paralysed—and was about to call Alphonsine by
name, when the continuing immobility and rigidity of the
figure I clutched, shot a sudden conviction into my mind—
and I was silent. Agitation, and darkness, and meditated
crime, make a man susceptible of any extravagant impres-
sion. Circumstances afterwards gave strong corroboration
to the judgment formed at that instant. I was satisfied
that Levasseur believed himself to 'have been seized by the
figure on the cross 1
12


(% ffiolbtn #mllonnt. 267
within our hearts. On the way I made full confession to
the heroic creature of my cruel suspicions, of my employ-
ment of Levasseur, of my own counter-plan—of all that to
her was still inexplicable. I made no attempt at extenua-
tion. I could only confess myself utterly unworthy of her,
and acknowledge that my bitterest punishment was to
learn how faultless was the object I had presumed to suspect
of a taint of earthly corruption. She wept as I recounted
these things, received my explanations with a heavenly ten-
derness, smiled sadly at my doubts—and forgave me. We
were too new to life, and too uncertain of its lasting, to
waste time upon anything but the great love that possessed
us.
We had to trust ourselves to numerous individuals. It was
a slender chance of our reaching Tours unbetrayed. Terror
reigned around; and when occasionally we were constrained
to ask for shelter in some remote and humble homestead,
even where it was afforded, paleness and trembling seized
upon the inmates, and we were dismissed with furtive haste,
leaving dread and disquiet behind us, as if a crime had been
committed upon the premises.
Besides, I could not help experiencing a sort of boding
apprehension, coupling itself with the revelations of the
wretch Levasseur. Suppose him dead, had his agents
already received instructions to act, and were we to be the
victims of posthumous malignity? It was plain that he
had had his reason for not having us swept away in the
usual course to the Conciergerie. Perhaps he judged that
he should have a freer stage for the accomplishment of his
iniquitous designs outside the prison walla. It was easy to
understand his hints as to seeing us soon again. Now the
question arose on the supposition that he was dead, should
we change our course at once? I did not hesitate to
decide against doing so, We had a plan laid, the only one


268 |)uimim'a Stag fibmrg.
which afforded rational grounds of hope, but which might
have been thwarted by the machinations of a traitor. He
being dead we had so much the better chance of success,
since under no circumstances could his emissaries act
without communicating with him—these not being times
for men to compromise themselves without the warrant of
influential instigators. But suppose him alive—I would not
allow myself to speculate upon this alternative at all. The
thing, I insisted, was impossible. Nevertheless, prudence
constrained us so far to deviate from our plan, as to make
Tours only a first halting-place, with the design of pene-
trating at once further into the west, where we should be
more out of the reach of pursuit.
We arrived here safely. The archbishop had made his
plans previously, and contrived matters so, that a passage
leading from the palace underground was open for us; and
the secret oratory which existed in the spot where we now
stand, received the weary party of fugitives on the night
of their arrival. Then for the first time since our departure
from the prison were we able to collect our thoughts, and
devise means for our ultimate safety.
Our plans were as follows: We were to remain where
we were for the night, and the next day the archbishop
and I, after ascertaining as well as we could the state of
public feeling in Tours, were to proceed down the river to
the retired hamlet of Luynes, and there engage one of the
flat-bottomed boats that ply on the river, which was to be
ready for us—that is, for Alphonsine, her aunt, and myself
—to embark on the same night, and follow the current of
the Loire in the direction of La Vendee, where we believed
we should find friends, and were likely to obtain an asylum.
But before we set out upon our voyage, the exemplary
prelate, who had thus far been our guide, protector, and
friend, was to perform for us a last service, and within this


% foGiCTt (Mofittt. 269
apartment unite my adored Alphonsine and me in the holy
bond of wedlock.
Look about you, young man. Does this- look like an
asylum of refuge—a bridal chamber! Behold these gi-
gantic blocks, dislocated as if by an arm still more gigantic,
and ask yourself whether an ordinary frenzy, even of
destruction, could have wrought the ruin you see!
The next morning arose, serene and bright. As Al-
phonsine and I ascended from the apartments beneath into
the secluded gardens of the Archeveche, and for the first
time looked upon the enchantment of heaven and earth in
freedom and together, we felt our souls overpowered, and
stood long in speechlessness under the open sky, unable to
do more than silently inhale an atmosphere of happiness
almost too rare for our subdued spirits. I then turned
towards Alphonsine, and perceived the tears coursing down
her marble cheeks.
"Oh! my well beloved," cried I; "give this day at
least to smiles, and let the current of our destiny, if it must
form to itself a channel of tears, flow round the tranquil
island of this present happiness, even though it meet to-
morrow, to unite the past and the future in one stream of
sorrow
l»
I could not adopt another tone, though I felt how im-
possible it was for such language to establish confidence
within her breast. We had gone through too much—our
fortunes had been of too eventful and too terrible a cast,
to make the idea of security anything but a mockery. It
'was better to be true than to be cheerful, and in a minute
my tears mixed with hers.
"In a few days, perhaps, Alphonsine, we may feel that
there is a life before us. I admit that as yet we eannot
reckon upon an hour."
"Yes, Charles, until then we^have only to hope the


270 $Mnam's Stag fibrarg.
best, and be prepared for the worst. Your gift is yet upon
my bosom"—here she showed me the golden guillotine
suspended from her neck. "As long as I wear this I am
reminded that I belong half to death, half to life. Only
when we are safe will I remove it from its present place,
and preserve it as a relic of dangers—and pleasures—that
are past."
So saying, she replaced it in the folds of her dress next
her heart, and a smile, the last I ever saw her wear,
dawned upon her pallid countenance. If I imprinted a kiss
upon those lips, and drew that form to my breast, it was
with so largely mingled a sense of foreboding, and so
evasive and unrealized a throb of joy, that it became a
question with me, in after years, whether the bliss of that
instant did not belong to the domain of dreams, and deserve
a place among the other aspirations after which a heart
destined to misfortune feebly flutters out of the shadow of
a doom it cannot escape.
The first buds of spring tipped the fruit trees of the
garden. A hundred birds sported from branch to branch,
and the frosty dew of the morning yet hung upon the early
flowers. We could not but feel all this. These simple
things, of all other things, went most to our hearts.
"We fell upon our knees, and prayed there under the open
sky.
And there I quitted her. Oh, God! can I go on? The
archbishop and I found the town in a state of fierce excite-
ment. Recent arrivals from Paris had still further inflamed
the revolutionary zeal of the inhabitants, whose vicinity to
the seat of the Vendean war had rendered them from the
first ardent partisans of the Montagne. Riotous parties
paraded the streets, armed with weapons, carrying fire-
brands, and shouting their wild carmagnoles, and all busi-
ness was suspended. It was with difficulty, even under the


Ity @ofora (SniUothtt. 271
favor of our disguise, that we evaded these bands, and
made our way across the bridge, to the right bank,
towards St. Cyr and Luynes. At last, however, we"
reached the hamlet; and my companion's former know-
ledge of the inhabitants enabled us to bribe an old boat-
man, whom he remembered to have been less imbued with
the new ideas than his neighbors, to drop the party down
during the night below Saumur, where we could put our-
selves at once in communication with certain Seigneurs of
the Bocage, in whom we knew we should find stanch
friends.' Having settled this matter to our satisfaction, we
turned our steps towards Tours again, my heart in a glow
of anticipation, and even the good archbishop elated with
the near prospect of our speedy deliverance. For himself,
he refused to accompany us. He trusted to some faithful
friends, and a knowledge of the hiding-places about his
own palace, and preferred awaiting a turn of affairs, which
it was his fixed opinion would speedily arrive.
It was evening before we drew near the city; but long
before ^ve reached the barriers, the shouts of the mob were
audible, and to our alarm we heard the tocsin ringing from
the great Abbey of St. Martin. We hastened our steps,
only to discover on entering the town that a dreadful scene
of havoc and devastation was going forward. Above the
shouts of the mob screams arose, as if from victims of their
barbarity; and now and then there shot up a lurid glare
towards the sky, which betokened too plainly that the
ravages of fire were to be added that night to those of
violence and plunder. Advancing in an easterly direction,
we discovered that the ancient Abbey Church of St. Martin,
the pride of central France, from whence the tocsin had been
sounding, was the principal object of the fury of the mob,
probably for that very reason. It was in flames before we
arrived there, and we met many wretches escaping with the
v"


272 $nfaram's Storg fibmg.
sacred vessels and ornaments, their share of the spoil.
Hurrying our steps towards the Cathedral, 'wo found the
mob less numerous and violent in that direction, and,
although St. Julien was on fire, it was evident that the set
of the raging tide was towards St. Martin, and that the
quarters in our neighborhood were emptying themselves of
their population, to swell the main flood thereabouts. This
process appeared to me, I remember, even in that hurried
and anxious moment, to go forward according to an
organized system, and as if under the guidance of certain
recognised leaders; for I repeatedly heard the words d
droit, d gauche, given at the head of the gangs, by voices
which they seemed instructed to obey.
The precincts of the palace were completely deserted.
Not a sound was to be heard but the distant hubbub of the
rioters, and occasionally the crash of a roof or tower of
one of the burning edifices. When this occurred, we were
further notified of the catastrophe by the sudden leap of
the towers of the Cathedral out of the darkness, as they
were smitten by the red-hot glow from behind us.
With trembling joy we believed all safe; and stealing
cautiously up, descended into the concealed passage leading
to our hiding-place. Traversing it as quickly as we could
in the pitchy darkness, we both of us stopped simultaneously.
It was—it must be—a dream. We rubbed our eyes.
Where we had left the chamber we emerged into this open
cavern, into which the lurid sky darted its dull glances, and
the cries we had left found their way with the vapors and
exhalations of the night.
Nobody was there. Nothing was to be seen but ruin.
Not a vestige. Not a piece of furniture. Not an article of
clothing. Nothing but these huge fragments scattered
about, and the desperate marks of wedges and crowbars,
and other mechanical means of aiding human fury.


(% Glol&tn fimllothu. 273
Like lightning, Levasseur darted across my mind.
"He is alive!" I shrieked, dashing my hands up towards
heaven. The next moment I had fled out through the
aperture into the darkness, leaving the archbishop motion-
less where he had first become aware of the catastrophe.
For weeks my existence is a dream. I believe I was
mad. Levelled with the beasts, I acquired the keen scent
and sagacity of these tribes, when instinct draws them
after their prey. I remember myself at Saumur, at Angers
in the forests of Brittany, subsisting upon roots. The
slot of my enemy lay towards Nantes. There Carrier
was multiplying his human sacrifices. Blood was too slow
in flowing. The river offered more speedy execution, and
a roomier grave. Shoals of victims choked the channels of
the Loire, and turned its waters into putridity. There were
people about, here and there, who could afford some
inklings. Kennelling as I did with the wolves, with them I
made nightly descents upon habitual places and the abodes
of men. As these bore away lambs and other weaklings of the
flock, so I fragments of intelligence, whispers, hearsays, eaves-
droppings, and vague surmises of the bloodshot stranger,
who was urging some females westward. I saw whither all
this was tending. Hope had left my bosom; I scarcely cared
to accomplish a rescue; and dared not think upon anything
but revenge. To enter Nantes was certain death, and death
would frustrate all my objects, and crown his with triumph
—so I reserved myself to the consummati'on.
I joined the remnant of the Vendeans, wandering house-
lessly through Brittany, and prowling about since the bat-
tle of Savenay in bands of fifties and hundreds, with every
man's hand against them. For such I was a fit companion.
They armed me; I clasped my sword like a friend who was
to do me a service. Thenceforth it was my closest com-
panion.
12*


278 $)ntiram'a Stoig ^tkarij.
day to day, more intimately acquainted with Levasseur's
movements. Every prisoner had something to tell. His
bloodthirsty ferocity had gained him celebrity amongst
them. I knew his division, his quarters, his assigned place
on each day's march—nay, his very uniform, and the color
of his horse. I kept myself so thoroughly in the secret of
the man's movements, that whenever we should meet in
open field, I should be able without difficulty to mark him out,
and have him before me in the thickest confusion of battle.
The night of the 20th of July, 1795, fell dark and tem-
pestuous. The waves rolled in with fury upon the narrow
strip of sand we yet retained upon the shore of France.
Our only barrier against the enemy was Fort Penthievre,
which stood, a darker mass, against the dark sky. I lay
upon the sand, with my sword—my inseparable com-
panion—in my grasp. Suddenly, a shout was heard above
the roar of the waters. I started up—but could see no-
thing. It proceeded from the direction of the fort, and I
knew that a surprise was at least attempted, if it had not
succeeded. A moment's agony passed across my brow, like
the glow of a fierce fire. This was the only contingency
I had not foreseen; my enemy and I might be close to each
other in the darkness without coming into contact.
My worst suspicions were the best founded. Fort Pen-
thievre had been surprised and taken—we were now at the
mercy of the republican army. All those within reach of
me rose along with me, and obeying the word of command,
placed themselves in order, and rushed upon the advancing
enemy. The collision was tremendous. Hoche's guns had
already begun to play, and in a few minutes the English
squadron, which had been obliged to keep out to sea in
consequence of the tempest, announced their presence by
the roar of their artillery. From the first I saw that resist-
ance was hopeless; and that escape was almost equally so.


Edward Drysdale.
(~}i bout the year 1798, James Bradshaw and William
/\ Drysdale, both invalided masters of the Royal
03/ Navy, cast anchor for the remainder of their lives
at about twelve miles' distance from Exeter, on the London
road. Bradshaw named his domicile, an old-fashioned
straggling building, Rodney Place, in honor of the
admiral in whose great victory he had fought. Drysdale's
smaller and snugger dwelling, about half a mile away from
Rodney Place, was called Poplar Cottage, and about
midway between them stood the Hunter's Inn, a road-
side public-house, kept by one Thomas Burnham, a stout-
hearted, jolly-bellied individual, the comeliness of whose
rubicund figure-head was considerably damaged by the
loss of an eye, of which, however, it is right to say, the
extinguished light appeared to have been transferred in
undiminished intensity to its fiery, piercing fellow. The
retired masters, who had long known each other, were
intimate as brothers, notwithstanding that Bradshaw was
much the richest of the two, having contrived to pick up a
considerable amount of prize money, in addition to a rather


284 • |)nlnam's Stag fibrarg.
large sum inherited from his father. Neither did the
difference of circumstances oppose, in Bradshaw's opinion,
the slightest obstacle to the union of his niece and heiress,
Rachel Elford, with Edward Drysdale, his fellow veteran's
only surviving offspring. The precedent condition, how-
ever, was, that Edward should attain permanent rank in
the Royal Navy, and with this view a midshipman's war-
rant was obtained in '99 for the young man, then in his
eighteenth year, and he was despatched to sea.
The naval profession proved to be, unfortunately, one
for which Edward Drysdale was altogether unfitted by
temperament and bent of mind, and sad consequences
followed. He had been at sea about eighteen months,
when news reached England of a desperate, but successful,
cutting-out affair by the boats of the frigate to which he
belonged. His name was not mentioned in the official
report—but that could hardly have been hoped for—
neither was it in the list of killed and wounded. A map
of the coast where the fight took place was procured; the
battle was fought over and over again by the two veterans,
and they were still indulging in these pleasures of the
imagination, in the parlor of the " Hunter's Inn," when the
landlord entered with a Plymouth paper in his hand, upon
one paragraph in which his single orb of vision glared with
fiery indignation. It was an extract from a letter written
by one of the frigate's officers, plainly intimating that Mid-
shipman Drysdale had shown the white feather in the late
brush with the enemy, and would be sent home by the first
opportunity. The stroke of a dagger could have been
nothing compared with the sharp agony which such an
announcement inflicted on the young man's father, and
Bradshaw was for a few moments equally thunder-stricken.
But he quickly rallied. William Drysdale's son a coward!
Pooh! the thing was out of nature—impossible; and very


fibfcmrtt grgsbalt. 285
hearty were his maledictions, savagely echoed by Burnham,
with whom young Drysdale was a great favorite, of the
lying lubber that wrote the letter, and the newspaper
rascals that printed it.
Alas! it was but too true! On the third evening after
the appearance of the alarming paragraph the two mariners
were sitting in the porch of Poplar Cottage, separated only
by a flower garden from the main road, conversing upon
the sad and constantly recurring topic, when the coach
from London came in sight. A youthful figure, in naval
uniform, on the box-seat, instantly riveted their attention,
as it did that of Rachel Elford, who was standing in the
little garden, apparently absorbed till that moment by the
shrubs and flowers. The coach rapidly drew near, stopped,
and Edward Drysdale alighted from it. The two seamen,
instead of waiting for his approach, hastily arose from their
seats and went into the cottage, as much perhaps to avoid
the humiliating though compassionate glances of the out-
side passengers, as from any other motive. The young
man was deadly pale, and seemed to have hardly sufficient
strength to move back the light wicket-gate which ad-
mitted to the garden. He held by it till the coach had
passed on, and then turned with a beseeching, half-
reproachful look towards Rachel. She, poor girl, was as
much agitated as himself, and appeared to be eagerly
scanning his countenance, as if hopeful of reading there a
contradiction of the dishonoring rumor that had got
abroad. In answer to his mute appeal, she stepped quickly
towards him, clasped his proffered hand in both hers, and
with a faint and trembling voice ejaculated—
"Dear, dear Edward! It is not true—I am sure it is
not, that you—that you"
"That I, Rachel, have been dismissed the naval service,
as unfit to serve his majesty, is quite true," rejoined


286 |Mmrm'g Slorg ^ibrarg.
Edward Drysdale, slowly, and with partially recovered
calm—" quite true."
The young woman shrank indignantly from him; fire
glanced in her suffused eyes, and her light, elegant figure
appeared to grow and dilate with irrepressible scorn, as
this avowal fell upon her ear. "A coward!" she vehe-
mently exclaimed; "you that—but no," she added, giving
away again to grief and tenderness, as she looked upon the
fine, intelligent countenance of her lover, "it cannot be;
there must be some error—some mistake. It is impos-
sible!"
"There is error and mistake, Rachel; but the world
will never, I fear, admit so much. But come, let us in;
you will go with me!"
We will not follow them till the first outburst of angry
excitement is past; till the father's passionate, heart-broken
reproaches have subsided to a more patient, subdued,
faintly-hopeful sorrow, and Rachel's wavering faith in the
manhood of her betrothed has regained something of its
old firmness. Entering then, we shall find that only Mr.
Bradshaw has remained obstinately and contemptuously
deaf to what the young man has falteringly urged in vindi-
cation of his behavior in the unhappy affair which led to
his dismissal from the service. He had, it appeared, sud-
denly fainted at the sight of the hideous carnage in which,
for the first time in his life, he found himself involved. »
"You have a letter, you say, from Captain Otway,"
said Mr. Drysdale, partially raising his head from his hands,
in which it had been buried whilst his son was speaking.
"Where is it? Give it to Rachel; I cannot see the
words."
The note' was directed to Mr. Drysdale, whom Captain
Otway personally knew, and was no doubt kindly intended
to soften the blow, the return of his son under such cir-


d&hrarb §rgsbak. 287
cumstances must inflict. Although deciding that Edward
Drysdale was unfit for the naval profession, he did not
think that the failure of the young man's physical nerve, in
one of the most murderous encounters that had occurred
during the war, was attributable to deficiency of true cou-
rage; and as a proof that it was not, Captain Otway men-
tioned that the young man had jumped overboard during
half a gale of wind, and when night was falling, and saved,
at much peril to himself, a seaman's life. This was the
substance of the note. As soon as Rachel ceased reading,
Mr. Drysdale looked deprecatingly in his friend's face, and
murmured, "You hear?"
"Yes, William Drysdale, I do. I never doubted that
your son was a good swimmer, no more than I do that
coward means coward, and that all the letters in the
alphabet cannot spell it to mean anything else. Come,
Rachel," added the grim, unreasoning, iron-tempered vete-
ran, "let us be gone. And God bless, and if it be possible
comfort ye, old friend. Good-bye! No, thank ye, young
sir!" he continued, with renewed fierceness, as Edward
Drysdale snatched at his hand. "That hand was once
grasped by Rodney, in some such another business as the
letter speaks of, when its owner did not faint! It must not
be touched by you!"
The elder Drysdale took not long afterwards to his bed.
He' had been ailing for some time; but no question that
mortification at his son's failure in the profession to which
he had with so much pride devoted him, helped to weaken
the springs of life, and accelerate his end, which took place
about six months after Edward's return home. The father
and son had become entirely reconciled with each other,
and almost the last accents which faltered from the lips of
the dying seaman, were a prayer to Bradshaw to forget
and forgive what had passed, and renew his sanction to the


288 $)trfnam's Storg JUmtrg.
marriage of Edward and his niece. The stern man was
inexorable; and his pitiless reply was, that he would a
thousand times rather follow Rachel to her grave.
The constancy of the young people was not, however,
to be subdued, and something more than a year after Mr.
Drysdale's death they married; their present resources,
the rents—about one hundred and twenty pounds per
annum—of a number of small tenements at Exeter. They
removed to within three miles of that city, and dwelt there
in sufficiency and peace, for about five years, when the
exigencies of a fast increasing family induced them to dis-
pose, not very advantageously, of their cottage property,
and embark the proceeds in a showy speculation, pro-
mising, of course, immense results, and really ending, in the
brief space of six months, in their utter ruin. Edward
Drysdale found himself, in lieu of his golden hopes, worth
about two hundred pounds less than nothing. The usual
consequences followed. An undefended suit-at-law speedily
reached the stage at which execution might be issued, and
unless a considerable sum of money could be instantly
raised, his furniture would be seized under a fi. fa., and
sacrificed to no purpose.
One only possible expedient remained—that of once
more endeavoring to soften the obduracy of Mr. Bradshaw.
This it was finally determined to attempt, and Mr. and
Mrs. Drysdale set off, by a London morning coach, upon
the well-nigh hopeless speculation. They alighted at the
Hunter's Inn, where Drysdale remained, whilst his "wife
proceeded alone to Rodney Place. Thomas Burnham was
friendly and good-natured as ever. The old mariner, he
told Drysdale, was visibly failing, and his chief amusement
seemed to be scraping together and hoarding up money.
James Berry, a broken-down tailor, and a chap, according
to Burnham, who knew how many beans made five as well


290 gntoam'g Siorg liharg.
not soon return, a bright, almost fiery expression seemed
to leap from his usually mild, reflective eyes, and partially
dissipate the thick gloom which mantled his features.
This occurred on a winter's day in early March, and the
evening up to seven o'clock had passed gloomily away with
the Drysdales, when all at once the husband, starting from
a profound reverie, said he would take a walk as far as
Exeter, see the attorney in the suit against him, and, if
possible, gain a little time for the arrangement of the debt.
His wife acquiesced, though with small hope of any favor-
able result, and the strangely abstracted man left the
house.
Ten o'clock, the hour by which Edward Drysdale had
promised to return, chimed from a dial on the mantel-
piece. Mrs. Drysdale trimmed the fire, lit the candles,
which for economy's sake she had extinguished, and had
their frugal supper laid. He came not. Eleven o'clock!
What could be detaining him so late? Twelve!—half-
past twelve! Rachel Drysdale was just about to bid the
servant-maid, who was sitting up in the kitchen, go to bed,
when the sound of carriage-wheels going toicards Exeter
stopped at the door. It was a return post-chaise, and
brought Edward Drysdale. He staggered, as if intoxicated,
into the kitchen, reached down a half-bottle of brandy from
a cupboard, and took it to the post-boy, who immediately
drove off. Anne Moody, the servant-girl, was greatly
startled by her master's appearance; he looked, she after-
wards stated, more the color of a whited wall, than of flesh
and blood, and shook and "cowered," as if he had the
ague. Mrs. Drysdale came into the kitchen, and stood
gazing at her husband, in a white, dumb kind of way (I
am transcribing literally from the girl's statement), till the
outer door was fastened, when they both went up stairs
into a front sitting-room. Curiosity induced Anne Moody


©bfoarfc glrggbak 291
to follow, and she heard, just as the door closed upon them,
Mrs. Drysdale say, "You have not been to Exeter, I am
sure." This was said in a nervous, shaking voice, and her
master replied, in the same tone, "No; I changed my
mind," or words to that effect. Then there was a quick
whispering for a minute or two, interrupted by a half
stifled cry or scream from Mrs. Drysdale. A sort of
hubbub of words followed, which the girl, a very intelligent
person of her class by-the-by, could not hear, or at least
could not make out, till Mr. Drysdale said, in a louder,
slower way, "You, Rachel—the children are provided for;
but, O God! at what a dreadful price!" Anne Moody,
fearful of detection, did not wait to hear more, but crept
stealthily up stairs to bed, as her mistress had ordered her
to do, when she left the kitchen. On the following morn-
ing the girl found her master and mistress both up, the
kitchen and parlor fires lit, and breakfast nearly over. Mr.
Drysdale said he was in a hurry to get to Exeter, and they
had not thought it worth while to call her at unseasonable
hours. Both husband and wife looked wild and haggard,
and this, Moody, when she looked into their bed-chamber,
was not at all surprised at, as it was clear that neither of
them had retired to rest. One thing and the other' espe-
cially kissing and fondling the children over and over again,
detained Mr. Drysdale till half-past eight o'clock, and then,
just as he was leaving the house, three men confronted
him! A constable of the name of Parsons, James Berry,
Mr. Bradshaw's servant, and Burnham, the landlord of the
Hunter's Inn. They came to arrest him on a charge of
burglary and murder! Mr. Bradshaw had been found,
early in the morning, cruelly stabbed to death beside his
plundered strong-box!
I must pass lightly over the harrowing scenes which
followed—the tumultuous agony of the wife, and the


292 g)ttitmm's fttorg %ibrarjj.
despairing asseverations of the husband, impossible to be
implicitly believed in even by that wife, for the criminating
evidence was overwhelming. Drysdale had been seen
skulking about Rodney Place till very late, by both Burn-
ham and Berry. In the room through which he must have
passed in going and returning from the scene of his fright-
ful crime his hat had been found; and it was now dis-
covered that he, Drysdale, had taken away and worn home
one of Berry's—no doubt from hurry and inadvertence.
In addition to all this, a considerable sum of money in gold
and silver, inclosed in a canvas bag, well known to have
belonged to the deceased, was found upon his person! It
appeared probable that the aim of the assassin had been
only robbery in the first instance, for the corpse of the
unfortunate victim was found clothed only in a night-dress.
The fair inference therefore seemed to be, that the robber,
disturbed at his plunder by the wakeful old seaman, had
been compelled, perhaps reluctantly, to add the dreadful
crime of murder to that which he had originally contem-
plated. The outcry through the country was terrific, and
as Edward Drysdale, by the advice of Mr. Sims, the attor-
ney, who subsequently instructed Mr. Prince, reserved his
defence, there appeared to be nothing of a feather's weight
to oppose against the tremendous mass of circumstance
arrayed against the prisoner.
And when, upon the arrival of the king's commission at
Exeter, Mr. Prince received a very full and carefully
drawn brief in defence—a specious, but almost wholly
unsupported story of the prisoner's, appeared all that could
be relied upon in rebuttal of the evidence for the crown.
According to Edward Drysdale, he merely sought Mr.
Bradshaw upon the evening in question for the purpose of
concluding with that gentleman an arrangement for the
separation of himself from his wife and children, and their


©bfesrb grgsbak 293
domiciliation at Rodney Place. It was further averred,
that he was received with greater civility than he ex-
pected; that the interview was a long one, during which
he, Drysdale, had seen nobody but Mr. Bradshaw,
although he believed the aged and deaf cook was in the
kitchen; that he had arranged that Mrs. Drysdale and hia'
children should be early on the morrow with her uncle, and
that he had received the money found upon his person and
at his house from the deceased's own hands, in order to
pay the debt and costs in the suit wherein execution was
about to be levied on his furniture, and that the residue
was to be applied to his, the prisoner's own use; that the
expressions deposed to by Anne Moody, and his own and
Mrs. Drysdale's emotion after his return home, which had
told so heavily against him in the examinations before the
magistrates, were perfectly reconcilable with this state-
ment—as, indeed, they were—and did not, therefore, bear
the frightful meaning that had been attached to them.
With respect to the change of hats, that might easily have
happened, because his hat had been left on entering in the
hall-passage, and in his hurry in coming out by the same
way, he had no doubt mistaken Berry's for his own; but
he solemnly denied having been in the room, or near the
part of the house, where his hat was alleged to have been
found.
This was the gist of the explanation; but, unfortu-
nately, it was not sustained by any receivable testimony in
any material particular. True, Mrs. Drysdale, whom
everybody fully believed, declared that this account exactly
coincided with what her husband told her immediately on
arriving home in the post-chaise—but what of that? It
was not what story the prisoner had told, nor how many
times he had told it, that could avail, especially against the
heavy improbabilities that weighed upon his, at first view,


294 ^trfram's Stars gibrarg.
plausible statement. How was it that, knowing Mr.
Bradshaw's almost insane dislike of himself, he did not
counsel his wife to make terms with her uncle, preparatory
to her returning to Rodney Place? And was it at all
likely that Mr. Bradshaw, whose implacable humor Mrs.
Drysdale had experienced on the very day previous to the
murder, should have so suddenly softened towards the man
he so thoroughly hated and despised? I trow not. And
the first consultation on the case wore a wretchedly dismal
aspect, till the hawk eye of Mr. Prince lit on an assertion
of Thomas Burnham's, that he had gone to Mr. Bradshaw's
house upon some particular business at a quarter-past
twelve on the night of the murder, and had seen the
deceased alive at that time, who had answered him, as he
frequently did, from his bedroom window. "Rodney
Place," said Mr. Prince, "is nine miles from Drysdale's
residence. I understood you to say, Mr. Sims, that Mrs.
Drysdale declares her husband was at home at twenty
minutes to one ?»
"Certainly she does; but the wife's evidence, you are
aware, cannot avail the husband."
"True; but the servant girl! the driver of the post-
chaise! This is a vital point, and must be cleared up
without delay."
I and Williams, Sims' clerk, set off instantly to see Mrs.
Drysdale, who had not left her room since her husband's
apprehension. She was confident it was barely so late as
twenty minutes to one when the post-chaise drove up to
the door. Her evidence was, however, legally inadmis-
sible, and our hopes rested on Anne Moody, who was
immediately called in. Her answer was exasperating. She
had been asleep in the kitchen, and could not positively
say whether it was twelve, one, or two o'clock when her
master reached home. There was still a chance left—that


€bfarari» Jrgsbalt. 295
of the post-chaise driver. He did not, we found, reach
Exeter, a distance of three miles only from Mr. Drys-
dale's, till a quarter to three o'clock, and was then much
the worse for liquor. So much for our chance of prov-
ing an alibi.
There was one circumstance perpetually harped upon
by our bright one-eyed friend of the Hunter's Inn—Cy-
clops, I and Williams called him. What had become of a
large sum, in notes, paid, it was well known, to Mr. Brad-
shaw three or four days before his death? What also of a
ruby ring, and some unset precious stones he had brought
from abroad, and which he had always estimated, rightly
or wrongly, at so high a price? Drysdale's house and
garden had been turned inside out, but nothing had been
found, and so for that matter had Rodney Place, and its
two remaining inmates had been examined with the like ill
success. Burnham, who was excessively dissatisfied with
the progress of affairs, swore there was an infernal mystery
somewhere, and that he shouldn't sleep till he had ferreted
it out. That was his business. Ours was to make the best
of the wretched materials at our disposal; but the result
we all expected followed. The foregone conclusion of the
jury that were empanelled in the case was just about to be
formally recorded in a verdict of guilty, when a note was
handed across to Mr. Sims. One Mr. Jay, a timber mer-
chant, who had heard the evidence of the postillion, desired
to be examined. This the judge at once assented to, and
Mr. Jay deposed, that having left Exeter in his gig upon
pressing business, at about two o'clock on the morning of
the murder, he had observed a post-chaise at the edge of a
pond about a mile and a half out of the city, where the
jaded horses had been, he supposed, drinking. They were
standing still, and the post-boy, who was inside, and had
reins to drive with passed through the front windows, was


298 JItrfnama SMorg ijitatrg.
"James Berry, if he's clever enough! Look there!"
"I see; 'James Berry, passenger, London.' These,
then, are his trunks, I suppose?"
"Right, my boy; but there is nothing of importance
in them. Sly, steady-going Margery has well ascertained
that. You know Margery—hut hush! here he comes."
Berry—it was he—could not repress a nervous start, as
he unexpectedly encountered Burnham's burly person and
fierce glare.
"You here!" he stammered, as he mechanically took a
chair by the fire. "Who would have thought it!"
"Not you, Jim, I'm sure; it must be, therefore, an
unexpected pleasure. I've come to have a smoke and a
bit of chat with you, Berry—there isn't a riper berry than
you are in the kingdom—before you go to London, Jim—
do you mark ?—before you go to London. Ha, ha! ho,
ho! But, zounds! how pale and shaky you're looking, and
before this rousing fire, too! D—n thee, villain!" shouted
Bumham, jumping suddenly up from his chair, and dashing
his pipe to fragments on the floor. "I can't play with thee
any longer. Tell me—when did the devil teach thee to
stuff coat collars with the spoils of murdered men, eh?"
A yell of dismay escaped Berry, and he made a despe-
rate rush to get past Burnham—but in vain. The fierce
publican caught him by the throat, and held him by a grip
of steel. "You're caught, scoundrel! nicked, trapped,
found out, and by whom, think you? Why, by deaf,
paralytic Margery, whose old eyes have never wearied in
watching you from the hour you slew and robbed her good
old master till to-day, when you dreamed yourself alone,
and she discovered the mystery of the coat collar."
"Let me go!" gasped the miscreant, down whose
pallid cheeks big drops of agony were streaming. "Take
all, and let me go."


©bfamrir Jrgsbsk. 299
A fierce imprecation, followed by a blow, replied to the
despairing felon. A constable, attracted by the increasing
uproar, soon arrived; the thick coat collar was ripped, and
in it were found a considerable sum in Exeter notes, the
ruby ring, and other valuables well known to have be-
longed to Mr. Bradshaw. Berry was quickly lodged in
gaol. A true bill was returned the next day by the grand
jury before noon, and by the time the clock struck four,
the murderer was, on his own confession, convicted of the
foul crime of which a perfectly innocent man had been, not
many hours before, pronounced guilty! A great lesson
this was felt to be at the time in Exeter, and in the western
country generally. A lesson of the watchfulness of provi-
dence over innocent lives; of rebuke to the self-sufficing
infallibility of men, however organized or empanelled; and
of patience under unmerited obloquy and slander.
Edward Drysdale was, I need hardly say, liberated by
the king's pardon—pardon for an uncommitted offence;
and he, and his true-hearted wife, the heiress of her uncle,
are still living, I believe, in competence, content, and
harmony.


The Story of the Unfinifhed Picture.
A GERMAN ARTIST'S TALE, BY CHARLES HOOTON, Esq.

C^^'Veigel was an intimate acquaintance of mine,
—a good painter, and had commenced his
career promisingly. Calculating on a fortune
not yet made and a reputation that still had to take root,
although it put forth strongly, he married a handsome girl
of poor and obscure parentage, and found himself involved
in all the cares of a young family almost before he was
three-and-twenty. Fortune seemed to abandon him almost
from the very day of his wedding, and from hard expe-
rience he soon found that he had begun the world too soon.
But he was ambitious to an excess, and frequently used to
say to his acquaintance that he could willingly lay down
his life, only to become an artist that the world would
never forget. Nay, I have often heard him say he was in
the nightly habit of invoking the aid, in prayers, of either
good spirits or bad (he cared not which), whichever, if such
existed, would come first to assist him in the attainment of
a painter's success and immortality. "What matters," said
he, "even if a man could give away his immortality in the


%	 Slorg td % tftnfitn%b $}ictttrr. 303
have withered me to ashes, for what I cared, since I neither
hoped here nor feared hereafter. I had nearly smoked my
pipe out, when a man met me in the passage, and as is usual
with the people here, just inquired how I was coming on.
I told him my resolve, and added that I intended to keep
it. He said as you say, that it would be a pity to* see such
a poetical soul as mine reduced to the necessity of spending
time in common labor that any peasant hind might do as
well or better, just for the sake of finding food and shelter
for myself and family. I answered that that soul so con-
stituted had been my curse, and swore the devil might have
it if it were of any use to him, providing I could keep the
bodies of those who were dependent on me from starvation
worse than that of the beasts. He begged me not to speak
rashly, but advised me to take heart and try once more.
'Go to your easel to-morrow,' said he,'you will find a subject
ready in your own room. I will make a bargain with you;
you shall work upon it as long as you fancy you can im-
prove it; if you finish it any time within one exact year—
even a moment within—I will buy it of you at a price that
will make your fortune, on condition that if you do not, at
the expiration of that time, you take leave of your family
and walk away into the forest with me when I call for you.'
Done! said I, a bargain! And can you believe it, Zeitter,
I fancied that I heard that word a bargain, a bargain, a
bargain, repeated by twenty different echoes? We shook
hands and parted. I filled my pipe again, and walked
about till the storm was over."
I then, continued Zeitter, asked Weigel who the
man was. He said that he could not tell, as he never
troubled himself to look particularly either where he came
from or whither he went. "And the subject that you
were to find in your own room?" said I, glancing upon his
new, clear canvas—" is this it?" "That is it," answered


304 , |)ntmrm'g Stag £ibrarg.
he, " for though when I sat down I did not think what I
was going to be about, yet half-unconsciously I began to
draw that portrait. But the most odd thing about it is,
that as I advanced with it, thinking I was sketching from
fancy only, I happened to cast my eyes into the dark corner
beside my easel, and there I saw the identical face looking
through the gloom at me!"
"Exactly so," remarked Stretcher,—" and you saw it as
well, no doubt?"
"Not so," answered Zeitter,—" but as I looked on my
friend, I concluded that misery had made him mad."
"Pretty shrewd guess, that. Well, go on, old fellow.
What sort of a picture was it?"
There was nothing but a rude outline then, but after-
wards, as it seemed to grow towards perfection under his
hands, it struck the spectator at first view as the highest
conceivable manly beauty of an ethereal nature—a picture
of a being whose very outward form was spiritual, yet
heightened by a still deeper expression of remoter spiritu-
ality that made the heart quail as though standing before
the presence of a very angel. But as you continued to
gaze, that feeling grew imperceptibly into one of fear, you
knew not how or why; and then again, and at last, into a
sense of utter dread and horror; for the beauty seemed to
become spiritually sinful, and what appeared to be an angel
to the sight sank into the soul like the blighting presence
of a demon. Never, continued Zeitter, shall I get that
picture from before my eyes; for against it even Raffaelle
and Correggio were tame. After three months' incessant
labor, I thought it was finished, for so it seemed to all
eyes save Weigel's: but, on and on, he still worked as
incessantly as before, for he said that the longer he went
on, the more did his visionary model increase in beauty,
and expression, and finish:—the labor of a lifetime was


308 |)trfrarat's Stag %ibrarg.
a certain bank in the city, which he named, she would find
payment for that picture to the amount of three thousand
pounds.
"It will at least," said he, "save you and your family
from want for life; and that is all your husband cares for."
"All!—all !" said Weigel; "and now for the forest!"
So saying he arose with the alacrity of a youth whose
health and spirits the world has never broken; put on his
cap, filled his pipe as though nothing had happened, and
kissed his wife and children, after having extorted a promise
from them to be happy until he came back again.
"I will see that they fulfil it!" murmured the stranger.
"Come!—the moon is up and we must be there by mid-
night."
"May I not accompany you, Weigel?" I exclaimed.
"No !—not as you value your life;—and take heed, Zeit-
ter, take heed, also, that you never come to me."
Nevertheless, I felt impelled to go along with them, and
followed until we entered the shadows of the forest. Two
black horses, or creatures that bore their resemblance, stood
in the road.
"Mount!" cried the stranger, as he vaulted on to the
back of one, and.Weigel on the other; "Dabkness is mine,
and Ruin thine! Away, away!"
They swept the forest like a Winter's blast; bowing
the trees as they passed, sweeping leaves away like a hurri-
cane, and gathering a tempest of black hurrying clouds from
the skies along the horizon towards which they fled. The
moon sank like an opaque scarlet fire, and the hair of my
head stood up as I returned home in darkness. Need I say
that Weigel never came back again?
Here Herr Zeitter paused.
"And the picture,—did they take that too?" asked
Sapio Green. * '•- -»
; /


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