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YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

*943

















SIGHTS A-FOOT.

BY

WILKIE COLLINS.
AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN IN WHITE," "THE DEAD SECRET," "AFTER
DARK," " HIDE AND SEEK," "THE YELLOW MASK," " THE CROSSED
PATH," "THE STOLEN MASK," "SISTER ROSE," ETC., ETC.

COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED EDITION,

jpi)tla5elpl)ia:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.


SHOULDER-STRAPS! THE BOOK TOR
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Judges and Lawyers, Young Ladies about to be Married,
AND THOSE WHO HAVE NO MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS WHATEVER.

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
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HAVE JUST PUBLISHED
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SIGHTS A-FOOT.

CHAPTER I.
a letter of introduction.
Dear Reader.
When any friend of yours or
mine, in whose fortunes we take
an interest, is about to start
on his travels, we smooth his way
for him as well as we can, by
giving him a letter of introduc
tion to such connections of ours
as he may find on his line of
route. We bespeak their favor
able consideration for him by
setting forth his good qualities
in the best light possible; and
then leave him to make his own
way by his own merit — satisfied
that we have done enough in
procuring him a welcome under
our friend's roof, and giving him
at the outset a strong extrinsic
claim to our friend's estimation.
Will you allow me, reader (if
our short previous acquaintance
authorizes me to take such a lib
erty), to follow the custom to
which I have just adverted ; and
to introduce to your notice this
book, as a friend of mine setting
forth for the first time on his
travels, in whose well-being I
feel a very lively interest. He is

neither so bulky, nor so distin
guished a person as some of the
predecessors of his race, who may
have sought your attention in
years gone by, under the name
of " Quarto," and in magnificent
clothing of Morocco and Gold.
As for his intrinsic claims to
your kindness, he has only two
that I shall venture to advocate.
In the first place, he is able to
tell you something about a part
of your own country which is
too rarely visited and too little
known. He will speak to you
of one of the remotest and most
interesting corners of our old
English soil : he will tell you of
the grand and varied scenery;
the mighty Druid relics; the
quaint legends; the deep, dark
mines ; the venerable remains of
early Christianity; and the plea
sant primitive population of the
county of Cornwall. You will
inquire, can we believe him in
all that he says? This brings
me at once to his second qualifi
cation — he invariably speaks the
truth. If he describes scenery to
you, it is scenery that he saw and
noted on the spot. If he gives
little sketches of character, they
are sketches drawn from the life.
(21)


22

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

Does not this satisfy your
doubts ?
Have I said enough about my
friend to interest you in him a
little, when you meet him wan
dering hither and thither over
the great domain of the Republic
of Letters, to find shelter where
he can, and to beg his passport
from the Republic's official guard
ians, sitting in the high-places of
the Press ? (Admonish him ten
derly, good critics ! — touch him
gingerly, or he will fall to pieces
under your hands I) What more
can I plead in his behalf? I can
only urge on you that he does
not present himself as fit for the
top seats at the library table — as
aspiring to the company of those
above him — of classical, statisti
cal, political, philosophical, his
torical, or antiquarian high digni
taries of his class, of whom he is
at best but the poor relation.
Treat him not, as you treat such
illustrious guests as these ! Toss
him about anywhere, from hand
to hand, as goodnaturedly as you
can; stuff him into your pocket
when you get into the railway ;
take him to bed with you, and
poke him under the pillow ; pre
sent him to the rising generation,
to try if he can amuse them;
give him to the young ladies,
who (dear souls !) are always pre
disposed to the kind side, and
may make something of him ; in
troduce him to " my young mas
ters" when they are idling in a
contemplative and benevolent
frame of mind over their cigars !
Nay, advance him, if you will,
to the notice of the elders them
selves ; but take care to ascertain
first that they belong to the order
of people who only travel to gra
tify a hearty admiration of the

wonderful works of Nature, and
to learn to love their neighbor
better by seeking him at his
own home — regarding it, at the
same time, as a peculiar privilege,
to derive their satisfaction and
gain their improvement from ex
periences on English ground.
Take care of this; and who
knows into what high society
you may not be able to intro
duce the bearer of the present
letter ! In spite of his habit of
rambling from subject to subject
in his talk, much as he rambled
from place to place in his travels,
he may actually find himself, one
day, basking on Folio Classics
beneath the genial approval of a
Doctor of Divinity, or trembling
among Statutes and Reports un
der the learned scrutiny of a Ser
geant at Law !
Wilkie Collins.

CHAPTER II.

THE START.

Assuredly, considering that
our tour was to be a pedestrian
tour, we began it inconsistently
enough, by sitting down in the
stern-sheets of a boat; tucking
our knapsacks under our feet,
and proceeding on our journey,
not by making use of our own
legs, but of another man's oars.
You will be. inclined to ask,
how many people are compre
hended under the term " we ?"
what was our object in travel
ing ? and where we were travel
ing to ? I answer, that by '' we,"
I mean the author of this book,
1 and an artist, as a traveling com-


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

23

pan'ion ; that our only object in
traveling was our own pleasure ;
and that our destination was,
generally, Cornwall, and particu
larly, the village of St. Germans,
towards which we were now pro
ceeding in our boat from the
town of Devonport.
The main reason that urged us
to choose Cornwall as the scene
of a walking tour which we had
long proposed to ourselves, in
some part of our own country,
was simply this — Cornwall pre
sented to us the most untrodden
ground that we could select for
our particular purpose. You may
number by thousands, admirers
of the picturesque who have been
to Wales, to Devonshire, to the
Lakes, to Ireland, to Scotland;
but ask them if they have ever
been to Cornwall, and you begin
to tell them off by twos and
threes only. Nay, take up the
inap of the world, and I doubt
whether Cornwall will not gain
by comparison with foreign coun
tries, as an unexplored region
offered to the curiosity of the
tourist. Have we not, in fact,
got under our thumbs, or in our
circulating libraries, volumes of
excellent books which amuse us
with the personal experiences and
adventures of travelers in every
part of the habitable globe —
except, perhaps, Cornwall ' and
Kamtschatka? That the latter
place should still be left ope'n
ground to the modern traveler,
is, in these days, extraordinary
enough ; but that Cornwall should
share the same neglect, passes all
comprehension. Yet so it is.
Even the railway stops short at
Plymouth, and shrinks from
penetrating to the savage regions

beyond I* In a word, on con
sidering where we should go, as
pedestrians anxious to walk where
fewest strangers had walked be
fore, we found ourselves fairly
limited to a choice between Corn
wall and Kamtschatka — we were
patriotic, and selected the former.
While my traveling companion
was cleaning his color-box, and
collecting his sketching books, I
employed myself in seeking for
information, among my friends,
on the subject of our line of route.
The great majority of. them won
dered what was the use of going
to Cornwall. Was it not a hor
ribly dreary country, where you
could expect to do nothing but
tumble down mines, and lose
yourself on pathless moors?
Were not the whole population
wreckers and smugglers ? Should
we not be cheated, robbed, and
kidnapped ? Such were a few
only of the opinions that my in
quiries elicited. Very different,
however, were the answers I re
ceived when I applied to one
friend who was a Cornishman,
and to another who had really
been in Cornwall. Erom the
first, especially, I received such
an account of what we might see
and do in the far West of Eng
land, if we traveled on foot -and
looked sharply about us, as
materially accelerated the day
of our departure. We packed

* This was written little more than a
year ago ; and it has become an obsolete
remark already. A new Cornish Rail
way, from Penzance to Redruth (to be
hereafter extended to Truro and Ply
mouth) will open in two months from
the present time (December, 1851). I
heard the mere idea of this railway
talked of as a joke, when J wag in
Cornwall I— W. W. C.


24

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

up our knapsacks, transported
ourselves at once to Plymouth,
and, getting to the western water
side, saw the hills of Cornwall
rising before us, lit by the last
glorious evening rays of a July
sunlight. And now, reader, if you can
follow a couple of vagrant tour
ists, with all their luggage on
their backs ; with a perfect inde
pendence of high roads, stage
coaches, time-tables, and guide
books; with no other object in
view but to. wander about hither
and thither, in a zig-zag course,
picking up a trait of character
here, and a sketch from Nature
there — why, then, step into our
boat by all means, and let us go
to St. Germans together.
We were lucky enough to
commit ourselves, at once, to the
guidance of the most amusing
and original of boatmen. He
was a fine, strong, swarthy fellow,
with luxuriant black hair and
whiskers, an irresistible broad
grin, and a thoroughly good opi
nion of himself. He gave us his
name, his autobiography, and his
opinion of his own character,
all in a breath. He was called
William Dawle; he had begun
life as a farm-laborer; then he
had become a sailor in the Royal
Navy, as a suitable change ; now
he was a licensed waterman, which
was a more suitable change still ;
he was' known all over the coun
try ; he would row against any
man in England ; he would take
more care of us than he would
of his own sons ; and if we had
five hundred guineas apiece in
our knapsacks, he could keep no
stricter watch over them than he
was determined to keep now.
Such was this Phoenix of boat

men — under such unexceptiona
ble auspices did we start for the
shores of Cornwall.
The calm summer evening drew
near its close, as we began to
move through the water. The
broad orb of the moon was rising
dim behind us, above the dark
majestic trees of Mount Edge
combe. Already, the houses of
Devonport looked pale and in
distinct as we left them behind
us. The innumerable masts, the
lofty men-of-war hulks, the droop
ing sails of smaller vessels — all
the thickly grouped objects of the
great port through which we
were proceeding — assumed a sol
emn stillness and repose under
the faint light that was now shin
ing over them. On this wide
scene, at other hour3 so instinct
in all its parts with bustle and
animation, nothing spoke now of
life and action — save the lights
which occasionally broke forth
from houses on the hill at our
side, or the small boats passing
at intervals over the smooth
water, and soon mysteriously lost
to view behind the hull of a man-
of-war, or in the deep shadows of
the river's distant banks.
In front of us, the last glories
of day still lingered in the west.
Here, the sky was yet bright and
warm to look on, though the sun
had gone down, and, even now,
the evening star was plainly visi
ble. In this part of the landscape,
the wooded hills rose dark and
grand against' their transparent
background of light. Where the
topmost trees grew thinnest, long
strips of rosy sky appeared
through their interstices; the
water beyond us was tinged in
one place with all the colors of
the prism, in another with the


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

25

palest and coldest blue — even the
wet mud-banks, left by the retir
ing tide, still glittered with silvery
brightness in the waning light.
While, adding solemnity and
mystery to all beside, the great
hulks, painted pale yellow and an
chored close in against the black
trees, lay before us still and soli
tary, touched alike by the earliest
moonbeams of night and the last
sunlight of day. As the twilight
gloom grew on — as the impressive
tranquillity of the whole scene
deepened and deepened gradually,
until not even the distant barking
of a dog was now heard from the
land, or the shrill cry of a sea-
bird from the sky — the pale massy
hulls of the old war-ships around
and beyond us, assumed gradually
a spectral and mysterious appear
ance, until they looked more like
water-monsters in repose than the
structures of mortal hands, and
the black heights behind them
seemed like lairs from which they
had issued under cover of the
night !
It was such an evening, and
such a view, as I shall never for
get. After enjoying the poetry
and beauty of the scene, unin-
teruptedly, for some time, we
were at length recalled to practical
matters of business by a species
of adjuration suddenly addressed
to us by that prince of British
boatmen, Mr. William Dawle.
Eesting impressively upon his
oars, and assuming a deplorable ex
pression of countenance, he begged
to be informed, whether we really
wished him " to row his soul out
any longer against tide?" — we
might laugh, but would we be so
kind as to step forward a minute
and feel his shirt sleeves ? — If we
were resolved to go on, he was

ready ; for had he not told us
that he would row against any
man in England ? — but he felt it
due to his position as a licensed
waterman, having the eyes of the
public on him, and courting
inspection, to inform us that " in
three parts of an hour, and no
mistake," the tide would run up ;
and that there was a place net far
off, called Saltash, — a most beau
tiful and interesting place, where
we could get good beer. If we
waited there for the turn of the
tide, no race-horse that ever was
foaled would take us to St. Ger
mans so fast as he would row us.
In short, the point was, would
we mercifully " spare his shoul
ders," or not.?
As we belonged to the saun
tering and vagabond order of
travelers, and cared very little in
how roundabout a manner we
reached our destination, we in
clined to the side of mercy, and
spared the shoulders of Mr.
William Dawle ; who, thereupon,
reckless of the state of his shirt
sleeves, began to row again with
renewed and alarming energy.
Now, he bent forward over the
oars, as if he was about to fall
upon us — and now, he lay back
from them horizontal, and almost
lost to view in the dim light.
We passed, triumphantly, every
boat proceeding in our direction ;
we brushed, at hair-breadth dis
tances, by vessels at anchor and
stakes planted in shallow water.
Suddenly, what seemed to be a
collection of mud hovels built
upon mud, appeared in sight;
shortly afterwards, our boat was
grounded among a perfect legion
of other boats ; and the indefati
gable Dawle jumping up nimbly,
seized our knapsacks and handed


26

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

us out politely into the mud. We
had arrived at that " beautiful and
interesting place," Saltash.
There «was no mistaking the
tavern. The only light on shore
gleamed from the tavern window ;
and, judging by the criterion of
noise, the whole local population
seemed to be collected within the
tavern walls. We opened the
door; and found ourselves in a
small room, filled with shrimpers,
sailors, fishermen and watermen,
all "looming large" through a
fog of tobacco, and all chirping
merrily over their cups ; while
the hostess sat apart on a raised
seat in a corner, calm and supe
rior amidst the hubbub, as Nep
tune himself, when he rose to the
surface to save the pious Eneas
from shipwreck, at the crisis of
the storm. As there was no room
for us .in this festive hall, we were
indulged in the luxury of a pri
vate apartment, where Mr. Dawle
proceeded to " do° the honors" of
Saltash, by admonishing the ser
vant to be particular about the
quality of the ale she brought,
dusting chairs with the crown of
his hat, proposing toasts, snuffing
the candle briskly with his fingers,
and performing other pleasant
social attentions of a similar
nature. Having, as he imagined,
sufficiently propitiated us by this
course of conduct, he started an
entirely new proposition — which
bore reference, however, to the
old subject of mercifully sparing
His shoulders, and was expressed
to the following effect : — Might he
go now, and fetch his " missus,"
who lived hard by ? She was
the very nicest and strongest
woman in Saltash; was«able to
row almost as well as he could,
and would help him materially in

getting , to St. Germans ; but
perhaps we objected to admit her
into the boat ? We had but to
say the word if we, did; and
from that moment forth, he was
dumb on the subject forever.
How could we resist this most
irresistible of boatmen? There
was something about his inveter
ate good-humor and inveterate
idleness, his comical variations
backwards and forwards between
great familiarity and great respect,
his honesty on one point (he asked
us no more than his proper fare in
the first instance) and his ma
noeuvring on another, that would
have cajoled a cynic into com
placency. Besides, our innate sen
timents of gallantry forbade the
thought of objecting to the com
pany and assistance of Mrs. Wil
liam Dawle ! So, we sent the for
tunate spouse of this strong and
useful woman, to seek her forth
with — and forthwith did he return,
with a very remarkable species of
" missus," in the shape of a gigantic
individual of the male sex — the
stoutest, strongest, and hairiest
man I ever saw — who entered, ex
haling a relishing odor of shrimps,
with his shirt- sleeves rolled up to
his shoulders ! " Gentlemen both,
good evening," said this, urbane
giant, looking dreamily forward
two feet over our heads, and then
settling himself solemnly on a
bench — never more to open his
lips in our presence !
Our worthy boatman's explana
tion of the phenomenon he had
thus presented to us, involved
some humiliating circumstances.
His " missus" had flatly refused to
aid her lord and master in the
exertion of rowing, and had prac
tically carried out her refusal by
immediately going to bed before


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

27

his face. As for the shrimp-scented
giant, Mr. Dawle informed me (in
a whisper) that his name was
¦' Dick ;" that he had met him out
side, and had asked him to favor
us with his company, because he
was a very amusing man,if we
could only bring him out; and
was capable of beguiling the time,
while we were waiting for the
tide, by an excellent story or two.
Presuming that a fresh supply of
ale was all that was wanting to
develop the latent humor of our
new friend, we ordered a second
quart ; but it unhappily produced
no effect. (It would have required,
I am inclined to think, a gallon to
have attained the desired result.)
" Dick" sat voiceless and vacant,
staring steadily at the candle, and
occasionally groaning softly to
himself, as if he had something
dreadful on his mind and dared
not disburthen it in company.
Abandoning, therefore, in despair,
all hope of enjoying the comic
amusement which had been pro
mised us, we left our bulky hu
morist still silent and portentous
as a Quaker at " meeting" — proof
alike against the -potency of the
ale and the blandishments of Mr.
Dawle — and went out at the last
moment to make our observations
on Saltash by night
The moonlight gave us very
little assistance, as we groped our
-way up a steep hill, down which
two rows of old cottages seemed
to be gradually toppling into the
water beyond. Here and there,
an open door showed us a Rem
brandt scene — a glowing red fire
brilliantly illuminating the face
of a woman cooking at it, or the
forms of ragged children asleep
on the hearth ; and leaving all be
side — figures, furniture, andrough

raftered ceiling — steeped in grand
and gloomy shadow. There were
plenty of loose stones in the road,
to trip up the feet of inquisitive
strangers; there was plenty of
stinking water bubbling musically
down the kennel; and there were
no lamps of any kind, to throw
the smallest light upon any topo
graphical subject of inquiry what
ever. When I have proceeded
thus far, and have further 'in
formed the curious in such mat
ters, that Charles the Second
conferred upon Saltash the in
estimable blessing of a Mayor
and six Aldermen — that it had
the honor and advantage, before
the Reform Bill, of sending two
members to Parliament — and that
it still possesses various municipal
privileges of an equally despotic
and lucrative- nature, connected
with oyster-fisheries, anchorage,
salvage, ferries, and market-tolls —
I have said ail-that I can about
Saltash ; and must request the
reader's permission to return to
the tavern without further delay.
Here, the scene had changed
since our departure. The jovial
company of the public room had
penetrated into the private par
lor. In the midst of the crowd
stood Mr. Dawle, haranguing, with
the last glass of ale in his hand ;
by his side was his son, who had
been bribed, for the paltry con
sideration of sixpence, to relieve
his parent's shoulders by helping
to row us to St. Germans ; and,
on the old bench, in the old posi
tion, with the old fixed stare
straight into the flame of the
candle, sat the imperturbable
"Dick" — stolid and gloomy as
ever, in the midst of the festive
uproar. It was now high time
to proceed. So we gave the word


28

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

to depart. But an unexpected
obstacle impeded us at the door
way. All the women who could
squeeze themselves into the pass
age, suddenly fell down at our
feet, and began scrubbing the
dust off our shoes with the cor
ners of their aprons; informing
us, at the same time, in shrill
chorus, that this was an ancient
custom to which we must submit ;
and that any stranger who entered
a Saltash house, and had his shoes
dusted by Saltash women, was
expected to pay his footing, by
giving a trifle — say sixpence — for
liquor ; after which, he became a
free and privileged citizen for life.
As I do not remember that this
interesting custom is mentioned
among the other municipal privi
leges of Saltash, in any Itineraries
or Histories of Cornwall, I com
municate it, in all humility, to
any antiquarian gentleman who
may be disposed to make a
scientific use of it, for the benefit
of the community at large.
On departing at last for St.
Germans, grave doubts arose in
our minds, as to the effect which
Dawle's potations of ale might
have on his professional exer
tions as a licensed waterman. We
were immediately relieved, how
ever, by finding that what he had
drunk had influenced him for
good, rather than for evil — he
talked less, and rowed more.
Smoothly and swiftly we glided
through the still water. The tide
had now been flowing for some
time; the arm of the sea, up
which we were proceeding, was
in many places more than half a
mile across; on the broad, smooth
surface^ of the stream, the moon
light lay fair and unruffled ; the
woods clothing the hills on each

side, grew down to the water's
edge, and were darkly reflected,
all along, in solemn, winding
shapes. Sometimes we passed an
old ship, rotten and mastless, an
chored solitary, midway between
land and land. Sometimes we
saw, afar off, a light in a fisher
man's cottage among the trees;
but we met no boats, saw no liv
ing beings, heard no voices, on
our lonely way. It was nearly
midnight before we reached the
landing-place; got out in the mud
again here; and, guided by our
trusty boatman, began to ascend
the hill-path that led to St. Ger
mans. The village was about a quarter
of a mile inland. Mr. Dawle's
account of it was not cheering.
He described it tersely (and, as
we afterwards found, truly), as " a
d — d strap of a place," — meaning
thereby, that it consisted of one
long street only ; thus answering
to the mathematical definition of
a line — " length without breadth."
The inn, when we arrived at it,
was locked up 'for the night.
After much kicking at the door,
we succeeded in inducing the land
lady to look down on us from her
bedroom window; and a very
cautious and distrustful woman
she soon proved to be. First, she
required to be informed what sort
of characters we were? — which
gave Dawle an opportunity of
loudly assuring her, that he was
a licensed waterman, and that we
were " right-down gentlemen, and
no mistake!" Satisfied on this
point, the landlady next declared,
that nothing should induce her
to admit us, until she had first
discovered whether she had any
aired sheets, or not. These cham
ber luxuries being fortunately


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

29

found to be forthcoming, the door
was unbolted ; and we found our
selves at last admitted to a shelter
for the night on Cornish ground.
Our parting with Dawle was
characteristic on his side. Inter
preting the right way certain con
vulsive motions of his arms and
twitchings of his countenance,
when he came to bid us farewell,
we held out our hands at a ven
ture, and found them instantly
caught and shaken with a fervor
which was as physically painful,
as it was morally gratifying.
" Good-bye, gentlemen I" cried our
friendly boatman, in his heartiest
tones; "you have been very kind
to me — God bless you both ! I
should like to walk all over Corn
wall with you — and I would, if I
could leave the missus, and get
anybody to take care of my boat !
Bill, boy I" (reproachfully to his
son), "take off your hat, and make
a bow directly ! — Good-bye, gen
tlemen ; God speed you both !" —
and away he went, to row back
to Saltash.
As for St. Germans, let me
honestly confess that I have no
thing to say about it. Mr. Dawle's
happy metaphorical description
of the village, as "a strap of a
place," at once anticipates and
expresses all that I could write
on topographical matters. Beaten
out of the field, therefore, at all
points^ and having by this time
duly concluded the narration of
our "Start," nothing remains for
me but to pass at once to the
evening when we strapped on
our knapsacks for the first time,
and set out on our "Views A-Foot,
or Travels Beyond Railways, "joy
ously, and in good earnest.

CHAPTER III.
A FISHING-TOWN ON THE SOUTH
COAST.
The time is ten o'clock at
night — the scene, a bank by the
road-side, crested with young fir-
trees, and affording a temporary
place of repose to two travelers,
who are enjoying the cool night-
air, picturesquely extended flat
on their backs — or rather, on
their knapsacks, which now form
part and parcel of their backs.
In their present position, these
travelers are (to speak geographi
cally) bounded toward the east
by a long road winding down the
side of a rocky hill; towards the
west, by the broad, half-dry
channel of a tidal river ; towards
the north, by trees, hills, and
upland valleys ; and towards the
south, by an old bridge and some
houses near it, with lights in their
windows faintly reflected in shal
low water. The reader has
doubtless already discovered who
the two travelers are ; but it may
be necessary to explain, without
further delay, that the southern
boundary of the prospect around
them represents a place called
Looe — the fishing-town on the
south coast' of Cornwall, which is
their destination for the night.
They had, by this time, accom
plished their initiation into the
process of walking under a knap
sack, with the most complete and
encouraging success. You, who
in these days of vehement bustle,
business and competition, can
still find time to travel for pleas
ure alone — you, who have yet to
become emancipated from the
thraldom of railways, coaches,
and saddle-horses — patronize, 1


30

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

exhort you, that first and oldest-
established of all conveyances,
your own legs! Think on your
tender partings nipped in the bud
by the railway bell; think on the
coachman's detested voice that
summoned you famishing from a
good dinner-table ; think of lug
gage confided to extortionate por
ters, of horses casting shoes and
catching colds, of cramped legs
and numbed feet, of vain long
ings to get down for a moment
here, and to delay for a pleasant
half hour there — think of all these
manifold hardships of riding at
your ease ; and the next time you
leave home, strap your luggage
on your shoulders, take your
stick in your hand, set forth de
livered from a perfect parapher
nalia of incumbrances, to go
where you will, how you will —
the free citizen of the whole
traveling world ! Thus indepen
dent, what may you not accom
plish? — what pleasure is there
that you cannot enjoy ? Are you
an artist ? — you can stop to sketch
every point of view that strikes
your eye. Are you a philanthro
pist? — you can go into every
cottage and talk to every human
being you pass. Are you a
botanist, or geologist ? — you may
pick up leaves and chip rocks
wherever you please, the live
long day. Are you a valetudi
narian? — you may physic your
self by Nature's own simple pre
scription, walking in fresh air.
Are you dilatory and irresolute?
— you may dawdle to your heart's
content ; you may change all your
plans a dozen times in a dozen
hours ; you may tell " Boots" at
the inn to call you at six o'clock,
may fall asleep again (ecstatic
sensation !) five minutes after he

has knocked at the door, and may
get up two hours later, to pur-sue
your journey, with perfect im
punity and satisfaction. For, to
you, what is a time-table but
waste-paper ? — and a " booked
place" but a relic of the dark
ages? You dread, perhaps, blis
ters on your feet — sponge your
feet with cold vinegar and water,
and show me blisters after that,
if you can 1 You strap on your
knapsack for the first time, and
five minutes afterwards feel an
aching pain in the muscles at the
back of your neck — walk on, and
the aching will walk off! How
do we overcome our first painful
cuticular reminiscences of first
getting on horseback ? — by riding
again. Apply the same rule to
carrying the knapsack, and be
assured of the same successful
result. Again and uncompromis
ingly I say it, therefore — walk,
and be merry; walk, and be
healthy ; walk, and be your own
master! — walk, to enjoy, to ob
serve, to improve, as no riders
can ! — walk, and'you are the best
peripatetic impersonation of genu
ine holiday enjoyment that is to
be met with on the surface of this
work-a-day world I
How much more could I not
say in praise of a pedestrian tour ?
But it is getting late ; dark night-
clouds are marching slowly over
the sky, to the whistling music of
the wind ; we must leave our bank
by the road-side, pass one end of
the old bridge, walk along a nar
row winding street, and enter the
cleanest of inns, where we are
welcomed by the kindest of land
ladies, and waited on by the fairest
of chambermaids. Succulent was
our supper in these halls of
plenty; fiercely did the strong


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

31

ale spout forth from the bottle's
mouth, impatient to minister to
the thirsty throat: wide, white,
and tempting spread the spotless
sheets on great drowsy four post
beds of the olden time. Bon soir,
reader ! If Looe prove not to be a
little sea-shore paradise to-mor
row, then is there no virtue in the
good omens of to-night.
* *****
The first point for which we
made in the morning, was the old
bridge; and a most picturesque
and singular structure we found it
to be. Its construction dates back
as far as the beginning of the fif
teenth century. It is three hundred
and eighty-four feet long, and has
fourteen arches, no two of which
are on the same scale. The stout
buttresses built between each arch,
are hollowed at the top into curi
ous triangular places of refuge for
pedestrians, the roughly paved
roadway being just wide enough
to allow the passage of one cart
at a time. On some of these but
tresses, towards the middle, once
stood an oratory^ or chapel, dedi
cated to St. Anne ; but no vestiges
of it now remain. The old bridge,
however, still rises sturdily en
ough on its ancient foundations ;
and, whatever the point from
which its silver-grey stones and
quaint arches of all shapes and
sizes may be beheld, forms no
mean adjunct to the charming
landscape around it.
Looe is known to have existed
as a town in the reign of Edward
I. ; and it remains to this day one
ofthe prettiest and most primitive
places in England. The river di
vides it into East and West Looe ;
and the view from the bridge,
looking towards the two little co
lonies of houses thus separated, is

in some respects almost unique.
At each side of you rise high
ranges of beautifully wooded hills;
here and there a cottage peeps out
among the trees, the winding path
that leads to it being now lost to
sight in the thick foliage, now vi
sible again as a thin serpentine
line of soft grey. Midway on the
slopes, appear the gardens ot
Looe, built up the acclivity on
stone terraces one above another,
thus displaying the veritable gar
den architecture of the mountains
of Palestine magically transplant
ed to the side of an English hill.
Here, in this' soft and genial at
mosphere, the dydrangea is a
common flower-bed ornament, the
fuchsia grows lofty and luxuriant
in the poorest cottage garden, the
myrtle flourishes close to the sea
shore, and the tender tamarisk is
the wild plant of every farmers
hedge. Looking lower down the
hills yet, you see the houses of
the town straggling out towards
the sea along each bank of the ri
ver, in mazes of little narrow
streets ; curious old quays project
over the water at different points ;
coast-trade vessels are being load
ed and unloaded, built in one
place and repaired in another, all
within view; while the prospect
of hills, harbor, and houses thus
quaintly combined together, is
beautifully closed by the English
Channel, just visible as a small
strip of blue water, pent in be
tween the ridges of two promon
tories which stretch out on either
side to the beach.
Such is Looe as beheld from a
distance ; and it looses none of its
attractions when you look at it
more closely. There is no such
thing as a straight street in the
place. No martinet of an archi-


32

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

tect has been here, to drill the
old stone houses into regimental
regularity. Sometimes you go
down steps into the ground floor,
sometimes you mount an outside
staircase to get to the bed-rooms.
Never were such places devised
for hide and seek since that ex
citing nursery pastime was first
invented. No house has fewer
than two doors leading into two
different lanes ; some have three,
opening at once into a court, a
street and a wharf, all situated at
different points of the compass.
The shops, too, have their divert
ing irregularities, as well as the
town. Here you might call a
man a Jack of all trades, as the
best and truest compliment you
could pay him — for here one shop
combines in itself a smart drug-
mongering, cheese-mongering, sta
tionery, grocery, and oil and Ita
lian line of business ; to say no
thing of such cosmopolitan miscel
lanies as wrinkled apples, dusty
nuts, cracked slate pencils and
fly-blown mock jewelry. The
moral good which you derive, in
the first pane of a window, from
the contemplation of brief biogra
phies of murdered missionaries,
and serious tracts against intem
perance and tight lacing, you lose
'in the second, before such fleshly
temptations as gingerbread shirt-
studs, and fascinating white hats
for Sunday wear, at two and nine-
pence apiece. Let no man rash
ly say that he has seen all that
British enterprise can do for the
extension of British commerce,
until he has carefully studied the
shop-fronts of tfhe tradesmen of
Looe. Then, when you have at last
¦threaded your way successfully
through the streets, and have got

out on the beach, you see a pretty
miniature bay, formed by the ex
tremity of a green hill on the
right, and by fine jagged slate-
rocks on the left. Before this
seaward quarter of the town is
erected a strong bulwark of rough
stones, to resist the incursion of
high tides. Here, the idlers of
the place assemble to lounge and
gossip, to look out for any out
ward-bound ships that are to be
seen in the Channel, and to criti
cise the appearance and glorify the
capabilities of the little fleet of
Looe fishing-boats, riding snugly
at anchor before them at the en
trance of the bay.
The inhabitants number some
fourteen hundred; and are as
good-humored and unsophistica
ted a set of people as you will
meet with anywhere. The Fish
eries and the Coast Trade form
their principal means of subsis
tence. The women take a very
fair share of the hard work out
of the men's hands. You con
stantly see them carrying coals
from the vessels to the quay in
curious hand-barrows : they laugh,
scream and run in each other's
way incessantly: but these little
irregularities seem to assist, rather
than impede them, in the prose
cution of their tasks. As to the
men, one absorbing interest ap
pears to govern them all. The
whole day long they are mending
boats, painting boats, cleaning
boats, rowing boats, or, standing
with their hands in their pockets,
looking at boats. The children
seem to be children in size, and
children in nothing else. They
congregate together in sober little
groups, and hold mysterious con
versations, in a dialect which we
cannot understand. If they ever


34

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

affair, in these . " good old times."
The ten gentlemen who voted, and
the other two gentlemen who took
their votes, just made up a com
fortable compact dozen, all to
gether !
But this state of things was too
harmonious to last in such a world
of discords as ours. The day
of innovation came : turbulent
Whigs and Radicals laid uncivil
hands on the Looe polling-booth,
and politically annihilated the
pleasant party of twelve. Since
that disastrous period the town
has sent no members to Parlia
ment at all; and very little, in
deed, do the townspeople' appear
to care about so great a depriva
tion. In case the reader should.
be disposed to attribute this in
difference to municipal privileges,
to the supineness rather than the
philosophy of the inhabitants, I
think it necessary to establish
their just claims to be considered
as possessing plenty of public
spirit, prompt decision, and wise
fertility of resource in cases of
emergency, by relating in this
place the true story of how the
people of Looe got rid of the
rats. About a mile out at sea, to the
southward of the town, rises a
green triangularly shaped emi
nence, called Looe Island. Here,
many years ago, a ship was
wrecked. Not only were the
sailors saved, but several free
passengers of the rat species,
who had got on board, nobody
knew how, where, or when, were
also preserved by their own
strenuous exertions, and wisely
took up permanent quarters for
the future on the terra firma of
Looe Island. In process of time,
and in obedience to the laws of

nature, these rats increased and
multiplied exceedingly ; and, be
ing confined all round within
certain limits by the sea, soon
became a palpable and tremen
dous nuisance. Destruction was
threatened to the agricultural
produce of all the small patches
of cultivated land on the island
— it seemed doubtful whether
any man who ventured there by
himself, might not share the fate
of Bishop Hatto, and be de
voured by .rats. Under these
pressing circumstances, the peo
ple of Looe determined to make
one united and vehement effort
to extirpate the whole colony of
invaders. Ordinary means of
destruction had been tried already
and. without effect. It was said
that rats left for dead on the
ground had mysteriously revived
faster than they could be picked
up and skinned, or flung into the
sea. Rats desperately wounded
had got. away into their holes,
and become convalescent, and in
creased and multiplied again
more productively than ever.
The great problem was, not how
to kill the rats, but how to anni
hilate them so effectually that
the whole population might cer
tainly know that the re-appear
ance even of one of them was
altogether out of the question.
This was the problem, and it was
solved in the following manner :
— All the available inhabitants
of the town were called to join
in a great hunt. The rats were
eaught by every conceivable arti
fice; and, once taken, were in
stantly and ferociously smothered
in onions ; the corpses were then
decently laid out on clean china
dishes, and straightway eaten with
vindictive relish by the people of


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

35

Looe. Never was any invention
for destroying rats so complete
and so successful as this ! Every
man, woman, and child, who
could eat, could swear to the
death and annihilation of all the
rats they had eaten. The local re
turns of dead, rats were not made
by the bills of mortality, but by
the bills of fare ; it was getting
rid of a nuisance by the unheard-
of process of stomaching a nui
sance 1 Day after day passed on,
and rats disappeared by hundreds
never to return. What could all
their cunning and resolution avail
them now? They had resisted
before, and could have resisted
still, the ordinary force of dogs,
ferrets, traps, sticks, stones, and
guns, arrayed against them ; but
when to these engines of assault
were added, as auxiliaries, smo
thering onions, scalding stew-
pans, hungry mouths, sharp teeth,
good digestions, and the gastric
juice, what could they do but
give in? Swift and sure was
the destruction that now over
whelmed them — everybody who
' wanted a dinner had a strong
personal interest in hunting them
down to the very last. In a
short space of time the island
was cleared of the usurpers.
Cheeses remained entire : ricks
rose uninjured. And this is the
true story of how the people of
Looe got rid of the rats !
It will not much surprise any
reader who has been good-natured
enough to peruse the preceding
pages with some attention, to hear
that we idly delayed the day of
departure from the pleasant fish
ing-town on the south coast, which
was now the place of our sojourn.
If the truth must be told, it was
not easy to quit in any hurry the

comfortable precincts of the inn.
The smiles of our fair chamber
maid, and the cookery of our ex
cellent hostess, addressed us in
syren tones of allurement which
'we had not the virtue to resist.
Then, it was difficult to leave un
explored any of the numerous
walks in the neighborhood — all
delightfully varied in character,
and each possessing its own at
tractive point of view. Even
when we had made our determi
nation and fixed our farewell day,
a great boat-race and a great tea-
drinking, which everybody de
clared was something that every
body else ought to see, interfered
to detain us. We delayed yet
once more to partake in the festi
vities, and found that they sup
plied us with all the necessary re
solution to quit Looe, which we
had hitherto wanted ; we had re
mained to assist at a failure on a
very large scale.
As, in addition to the boat-race,
there was to be a bazaar on tbe
beach ; and as fine weather was
therefore an essential requisite on
the occasion, it is scarcely neces
sary to premise that we had an
unusually large quantity of rain.
In the forenoon, however, the sun
shone with treacherous brilliancy ;
and all the women in the neigh
borhood fluttered out in his beams,
gay as butterflies. W hat dazzli ng
gowns, what flaring parasols, what
joyous cavalcades on cart-horses,
did we see on the road that led to
the town ! What a mixture of
excitement, confusion, anxiety,
and importance, possessed every*
body ! What frolic and felicity
attended the popular gatherings
on the beech, until the fatal mo
ment when the gun fired for the
first race! Then, as if at that


36

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

signal, the clouds began to muster
in ominous blackness; the deceit
ful sunlight disappeared ; the rain
came down for the day — a steady,
noiseless, malicious rain, that at
once forbade all hope of clear
weather. Dire was the discomfi
ture of the poor ladies of Looe.
They ran hither and thither for
shelter, in lank wet muslin and
under dripping parasols, display
ing in the lamentable emergency
of the moment, all sorts of myste
rious interior contrivances for ex
panding around them the exterior
magnificence of their gowns, which
we never ought to have seen. De
serted were the stalls of the ba
zaar, for the parlors of the ale
houses; unapplauded and unob
served, strained at the oar the
stout rowers in the boat-race.
Everybody ran to cover, except
some seafaring men who cared
nothing for weather, some invete
rate loungers who would wander
up and down in spite of the rain,
and three unhappy German mu
sicians, who had been caught on
their travels, and penned up tight
against the outer wall of a house,
in a sort of cage of canvas, boards,
and evergreens, which hid every
part of them but their heads and
shoulders. Nobody interfered to
release these unfortunates. There
they sat, hemmed in all around
by dripping leaves, blowing grim
ly and incessantly through instru
ments of brass. If the reader can
imagine the effect of three phleg
matic men with long bottle noses,
looking out of a circle of green
bushes, and playing waltzes un-
intermittingly on long horns, in
a heavy shower, he will be able
to form a tolerably correct esti
mate of the large extra proportion
of gloom, which the German mu

sicians succeeded in infusing into
the gloomy proceedings of the
day. The tea-drinking was rather
more successful. The room .in
which it was held was filled to the
corners, and exhaled such an odor
of wet garments and bread and
butter (to say nothing of an inces
sant clatter of china and bawling
of voices) that we found ourselves,
as uninitiated strangers, unequal to
the task of remaining in it to wit
ness the proceedings. Descend
ing the steps which led into the
street from the door — to the great '
confusion of a string of smartly
dressed ladies who encountered
us, rushing up with steaming tea
kettles and craggy lumps of plum-
cake — we. left the inhabitants to
conclude their festivities by them
selves, and went out to take a
farewell walk on the cliffs of
Looe. We ascended the heights to the
westward, losing sight of the town
among the trees, as we went ; and
then, walking in a southerly di
rection through some corn-fields,
approached within a few hundred
yards of the edge of the cliffs, and
looked out on the sea. The sky
had partially cleared, and the rain
had ceased; but huge, fantastic
masses of cloud, tinged with lurid
copper-color by the setting sun,
still towered afar off over the ho
rizon, and were reflected in a
deeper hue on the calm surface of
the sea, with a perfectness and
grandeur that I never remember
to have witnessed before. Not a
ship was in sight ; but out on the
extreme line of the wilderness of
grey waters there shone one red,
fiery spark — the beacon of the
Eddystone Lighthouse. Before
us, the green fields of Looe Island


38

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

an empty " bar," and hiding him
self, as it were, from all mortal
inspection behind the full sheet
of a dirty provincial newspaper.
Doleful was our petition to this
secluded publican for shelter and
food ; and doubly doleful was his
answer. to our appeal. Beds he
believed he had — food there was
none in the house, saving a piece
of corned beef, which the family
had dined on, and which he pro
posed that we should partake of
before it got quite cold. Having
said thus much, he suddenly
retired behind his newspaper, and
spoke no word more.
In a few minutes the landlady
appeared, looking very thin and
care-worn, and clad in mourning
weeds. She smiled sadly upon
us ; and desired to know how we
liked corned beef? We acknow
ledged a preference for fresh meat,
especially in large market towns
like Liskeard, where butchers'
shops abounded. The landlady
was willing to see what she could
get ; and in the meantime, begged
to be allowed to show us into a
private room. She succeeded in
incarcerating us in the most
thoroughly private room that
could be found out of a model
prison. It was situated far away
at the back of the house, and
looked out upon a very small
yard entirely circumscribed by
empty stables. The one little
window was shut down tisrht, and
we were desired not to open it.-for
fear of a smell from these stables.
The ornaments of the place con
sisted of hymn-books, spelling-
books, and a china statue of Napo
leon in a light green waistcoat, and
a sky-blue coat. There was not
even a fly in the room to intrude
on us in our privacy ; there were

no cocks and hens in the yard to
cackle on us in our privacy ; no
body walked passed the outer
passage, or made any noise in
any part of the house, to startle
us in our privacy ; and a steady
rain was falling propitiously to
keep us in our privacy. We
dined sumptuously in our retired
situation on some rugged lumps
of broiled flesh, which the land
lady called chops, and the servant
steaks. We broke out of prison
after dinner, and roamed the
streets. We returned to solitary
confinement in the evening, and
were conducted to another cell.
This second private apartment
appeared to be about forty feet
long; six immense wooden tables,
painted of a ghastly yellow color,
were ranged down it, side by side.
Nothing was placed on any of
them — they looked like dissect-
ing-tables waiting for "subjects."
There was yet another and a
seventh table — a round one, half
lost in a corner — to which we re
treated for refuge — it was covered
with crape and bombazine, half
made up into mourning garments
proper to the first and intensest
state of grief The servant brought
us one small candle to cheer the
scene ; and desired to be informed,
at the same time, whether we
wanted two sheets apiece to our
beds, or could do with a sheet at
top and a blanket at bottom, as
other people did ? This question
cowed us at once into gloomy
submission to our fate ; we just
hinted that we had contracted
bad habits of sleeping between
two sheets, and left the rest to
chance ; reckless how we slept,
or where we slept, whether, we
passed the night on the top of
one of the six dissecting -tables,


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

39

or with a blanket at bottom, as
other people passed it. Soon, the
servant returned to tell us that
we had got our two sheets each,
and to send us to bed — snatching
up the landlady's mourning gar
ments, while she spoke, with a
scared, suspicious look, as if she
thought that the next outrageous
luxury we should require would
be a nightgown apiece of crape
and bombazine.
Reflecting, the last thing at
night, on the deplorable contrast
presented to the jovial inn at
Looe by the melancholy inn at
Liskeard (I recommend our land
lord at the latter place, to change
the name of his house, when he
repairs his sign-board, to " The
Sackcloth and Ashes"), we derived
some consolation from remember
ing that we should leave our com
fortless quarters early the next
morning. It was not Liskeard
that we had come to see, but the
country around Liskeard — the fa
mous curiosities of Nature and
Art that are to be found some
six or eight miles away from the
town. Accordingly, we were astir
betimes, on the morrow. The sky
was fair; the breeze was exhila
rating. Once past the doleful
doorway of the inn, we found
ourselves departing under the
fairest auspices for a pilgrimage
to the ruins of St. Cleer's Well,
and to the granite piles and Druid
remains, now entitled the "Cheese-
Wring" and "Hurler" rocks.
On leaving the town, our way
lay to the northward, up rising
ground. For the first two miles,
the scenery differed little from
what we, had already beheld in
Cornwall. The lanes were still
sunk down between high banks,
like dry ditches ; all varieties of

ferns grew in exquisite beauty
and luxuriance on either side of
us ; the trees were small in size,
and thickly clothed with leaves ;
and the views were generally
narrowed to a few well-cultivated
fields, with sturdy little granite-
built cottages now and then rising
beyond. It was only when we
had reached what must have been
a considerable elevation, that any
change appeared in the face of the
country. Five minutes more of
walking, and a single turn in the
road, brought us suddenly to the
limits of trees, meadows, and cot
tages, and displayed before us,
with almost startling abruptness,
the magnificent prospect of a
Cornish Moor.
The expanse of open plain that
we now beheld stretched away
uninterruptedly on the right hand,
as far as the distant hills. To
wards the left, the view was
broken and varied by some rough
stone walls, a narrow road, and a
dip in the earth beyond. Wher
ever we looked, far or near, we
saw masses of granite of all shapes
and sizes, heaped irregularly on
the ground among dark clusters
of heath. An old furze-cutter
was the only human figure that
appeared on the desolate scene.
Approaching him to ask our way
to St. Cleer's Well — no signs of
which could be discerned on the
wilderness before us — we found
the old fellow, though he was
eighty years of age, working away
with all the vigor of youth. On
this wild moor he had lived and
labored from childhood ; and he
began to talk proudly of its great
length and breadth, and of the
wonderful sights that were to be
seen on different parts of it, the
moment we addressed him. He


40

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

described to us, in his own homely
forcible way, the tremendous
storms that he had beheld, the
fearful rattling and ' roaring of
thunder over the great unshel
tered plain before us — the hail
and sleet driven so fiercely be
fore the hurricane, that a man
was half blinded if he turned his
face towards it for a moment — the
forked lightning shooting from
pitch-dark clouds, leaping and
running fearfully over the level
ground, blackening, splitting, tear
ing from their places the stoutest
rocks on the moor. Three masses
of granite lay heaped together
near the spot where we had halted
— the furze-cutter pointed to them
with his bill-hook, and told us
that what we now looked on was
once one great rock, which he
had seen riven in an instant by
the lightning into the fragmentary
form that it now presented. If
we mounted the highest of these
three masses, he declared that we
might find out our own way to
St. Cleer's Well by merely look
ing around us. We followed his
directions. Towards the east,
far , away over the magnificent
sweep of moorland, and on the
slope of the hill that bounded
it, appeared the tall chimneys
and engine-houses of the Great
Caraton Copper Mine — the only
objects raised by the hand of man
that were to be seen on this part
of tbe view. Towards the west,
much nearer at hand, four grey
turrets were just visible behind
some rising ground. These turrets
belonged to the tower of St. Cleer's
Church ; and the Well was close
by it.
Taking leave ofthe furze-cutter,
we followed the path at once that
led to St. Cleer's. Half an hour's

walking brought us to the village,
a straggling, picturesque place,
hidden in so deep a hollow as to
be quite invisible from any dis
tance, . All the little cottage-girls
whom we met, carrying their jugs
and pitchers of water, curtseyed
and wished us good morning with
the prettiest air of bashfulness and
good humor imaginable. One of
them, a rosy, beautiful child, who
proudly informed us that she was
six years old, put down her jug at
a cottage-gate and ran on before
to show us the way, delighted to
be singled out from her compan
ions for so important an office.
We passed the grey walls of the
old church, walked down a lane,
and soon came in sight of the
Well, the position of which was
marked by a ruined Oratory, situ
ated on some open ground close at
the side of the public pathway.
St. Cleer, or — as the name is
generally spelt out of Cornwall —
St. Clare, the patron saint ofthe
Well, was born in Italy, in the
twelfth century — and born to a fair
heritage of this world's honors and
this world's possessions. But she
voluntarily abandoned, at an early
age, all that was brilliant. and al
luring in the earthly career await
ing her, to devote herself entirely
to the interests of her religion and
the services of Heaven. She -oas
the first woman who sat at the feet
of St. Francis as his disciple, who
humbly practised the self-mortifi
cation, and resolutely performed
the vow of perpetual poverty,
which her preceptor's h arshest doc
trines imposed on his followers.
She soon became Abbess of the
Benedictine Nuns with whom she
was associated by the saint ; and
afterwards founded an order of
her own— the order of "Poor


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

41

Clares." The fame of her piety
and humility, of her devotion to
the cause of the sick, the afflicted,
and the poor, spread far and wide.
The best and the most illustrious
of the ecclesiastics of her time,
attended at her convent as at a
holy shrine. Pope Innocent the
Fourth visited her, as a testimony
of his respect for her virtues ; and
paid homage to her memory, when
her blameless existence had closed,
by making one among the mourn
ers who followed her to the grave.
Her name had been derived from
the Latin word that signifies pu
rity ; and from first to last, her life
had kept the promise of her name.
Poor St. Clare ! If she could
look back, with the thoughts and
interests of the days of her mor
tality, to the world that she has
quitted for ever, how sadly would
she now contemplate the Holy
Well that was once hallowed in
her name and for her sake ! But
one arched wall, thickly over
grown with ivy, still remains erect
in the place that the old Oratory
occupied. Fragments of its roof,
its cornices, and the mouldings of
its windows lie scattered on the
ground, half hidden by the grasses
and ferns twining prettily around
them. A double cross of stone
stands, sloping towards the earth,
at a little distance off — soon per
haps to share the fate of the pros
trate ruins about it. How changed
the scene here, since the time
when the rural christening pro
cession left the church, to proceed
down the quiet pathway to the
Holy Well — when children were
baptized in the pure spring ; and
vows were offered up under the
roof of the Oratory, and prayers
were repeated before the sacred
cross ! These were the pious

usages of a past age ; these were the
ceremonies of an ancient church,
whose innocent and reverent cus
tom it was to connect closer to
gether the beauty of Nature and
the beauty of Religion, by such
means as the consecration of a
spring, or the erection of a road
side cross. There has been some
thing of sacrifice as well as of
glory, in the effort by which we,
in our time, have freed ourselves
from what was superstitious and
ignorant in the faith of the times
of old — it has cost us the loss of
much of the better part of that
faith, which was not superstition,
and of more which was not ignor
ance. The spring of St. Clare is
nothing to the cottager of our day
but a place to draw water from ;
the village lads now lounge,
whistling, on the fallen stones,
once the consecrated arches under
which their humble ancestors
paused on the pilgrimage, or knelt
in prayer. Wherever the eye
turns, all around it speaks the
melancholy language of desolation
and decay — all but the water of
the Holy Well. Still the little
pool is adorned with its own calm
primeval beauty ; still it remains
the fitting type of its patron saint
— pure and tranquil as in the by
gone days, when the name of St.
Clare was something more than
the title to a village legend, and
the spring of St. Clare something
better than a sight for the passing
tourist among the Cornish moors.
We happened to arrive at the
well at the period when the vil
lagers were going home to dinner.
After the first quarter of an hour,
we were left almost alone among
the ruins. The only person who
approached to speak to us, was a
poor old woman, bent and totter-


42

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

ing with age, who lived in a little
cottage hard by. She brought us
a glass, thinking we might wish
to taste the water of the spring ;
and presented me with a rose out
of her garden. Such small scraps
of information as she had gathered
together about the well, she re
peated to us in low, reverential
tones, as if its former religious
uses still made it an object of ve
neration in her eyes. After a
time, she too quitted us ; and we
were then left quite alone by the
side of the spring.
It was a bright, sunshiny day ;
a pure air was abroad ; nothing
sounded audibly but the singing
of birds at some distance, and the
rustling of the few leaves that
clothed one or two young trees
in a neighboring garden. Un
occupied though I was, the mi
nutes passed away as quickly and
as unheeded with me, as with my
companion, who was busily en
gaged in sketching. The ruins
of the ancient Oratory, viewed
amid the pastoral repose of all
things around them, began imper
ceptibly to exert over me that
mysterious power of mingling the
impressions of the present with
the memories of the past, which
all ruins possess. While I sat
looking idly into the water of the
well, and thinking of the groups
that had gathered round it in years
long gone by, recollections began
to rise vividly on my mind of
other ruins that I had seen in
other countries, with friends, some
scattered, some gone now — of
pleasant pilgrimages, in boyish
days, along the storied shores of
Baiae, or through the desolate
streets of the Dead City under
Vesuvius — of happy sketching
excursions to the aqueducts on the

plains of Rome, or to the tem
ples and villas of Tivoli ; during
which, I had first learned to ap
preciate the beauties of Nature
under guidance which, in this
world, I can never resume ; and
had seen the lovely prospects of
Italian landscape pictured by a
hand now powerless in death.
Remembrances such as these,
of pleasures which remembrance
only can recall as they were, made
Time fly fast for me by the brink
of the holy well. I could have
sat there all day, and should not
have felt, at night, that the day
had been ill spent.
But the sunlight began to warn
us that noon was long past. We
had some distance yet to walk,
and many things more to see.
Shortly after my friend had com
pleted his sketch, therefore, we
reluctantly left St. Clare's Well,
and went on our way briskly, up
the little valley, and out again on
the wide surface of the moor.
It was now our object to steer a
course over the wide plain around
us, leading directly to the "Cheese
Wring" rocks (so called from their
supposed resemblance to a Cornish
cheese-press or " wring"). On our
road to this curiosity, about a mile
and a half from St. Clare's Well,
we stopped to look at one of the
most perfect and remarkable of
the ancient British monuments in
Cornwall. It is called Trevethey
Stone, and consists of six large
upright slabs of granite, overlaid
by a seventh, which covers them
in the form of a rude, slanting
roof. These slabs are so irregular
in form as to look quite unhewn.
They all vary in size and thick
ness. The whole structure rises
to a height, probably, of fourteen
feet ; and, standing as it does on


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

43

elevated ground, in a barren coun
try, with no stones of a similar
kind erected near it, presents an
appearance of rugged grandeur
and aboriginal simplicity, which
renders it an impressive, almost
a startling, object to look on.
Antiquaries have discovered that
its name signifies The Place of
Graves; and have discovered no
more. No inscription appears on
it ; the date of its erection is lost
in the darkest of the dark periods
of English history. I can only
add, that this interesting sepul
chral monument of the earliest
inhabitants of Britain appeals to
be nothing respected by those who
ought to be most interested in
preserving it. The ground within
and around the stones is permit
ted to remain in a state of filth,
which might deter some travelers
from examining them at all ; and
which speaks little for the national
feeling, and less for the national
decency, of the people of the dis
trict. Our path had been gradually
rising all the way from St. Clare's
Well ; and, when we left Trevethey
Stone, we still continued to ascend,
proceeding along the tram-way
leading to the Caraton Mine.
Soon the scene presented another
~ abrupt and extraordinary change.
We had been walking hitherto
amid almost invariable silence
and solitude ; but now, with each
succeeding minute, strange, min
gled, unintermitting noises began
to grow louder and louder around
us. We followed a sharp curve
in the tram-way, and immediately
found ourselves saluted by an
entirely new prospect, and sur
rounded by an utterly bewilder
ing noise. All about us mon
strous wheels were turning slowly;

machinery was clanking and
groaning in the hoarsest discords ;
invisible waters were pouring on
ward with a rushing sound ; high
above our heads, on skeleton
platforms, iron chains clattered
fast and fiercely over iron pulleys,
and huge steam pumps puffed
and gasped, and slowly raised
and depressed their heavy black
beams of wood. Far beneath
the . embankment on which we
stood, men, women, and children
were breaking and washing ore
in a perfect marsh of copper-
colored mud and copper-colored
water. We had penetrated to
the very center of the noise, the
bustle, and the population on the
surface of a great mine.
When we walked forward
again, we passed through a thick
plantation of young firs ; and
then, the sounds behind us be
came slowly and solemnly dead
ened the further we went on.
When we had arrived at the
extremity of the line of trees,
they ceased softly and suddenly.
It was like a change in a dream.
We now left the tram-way, and
stood again on the moor — on a
wilder and lonelier part of it
than we had yet beheld. The
Cheese-Wring and its' adjacent
rocks were visible a mile and a
half away, on the summit of a
steep hill. Wherever we looked,
the horizon was bounded by the
long, dark, undulating edges of
the moor. The ground rose and
fell in little hillocks and hollows,
tufted with dry grass and furze,
and strewn throughout with frag
ments of granite. The whole
plain appeared like the site of an
ancient city of palaces, over
thrown and crumbled into atoms
by an earthquake. Here and


44

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

there, some cows were feeding ;
and sometimes a large crow
winged his way lazily before us,
lessening and lessening slowly in
the open distance, until he was
lost to sight. No human beings
were discernible anywhere ; the
majestic loneliness and stillness
of the scene were almost oppress
ive both to eye and ear. Above
us, immense fleecy masses of
brilliant white cloud, wind-driven
from the Atlantic, soared up
grandly, higher and higher over
the bright blue sky. Every
where, the view had an impress
ively stern, simple, aboriginal
look. Here were tracts of soli
tary country which had sturdily
retained their ancient character
through centuries of revolution
and change ; plains pathless and
desolate even now, as when Druid
processions passed over them by
night to the place of the secret
sacrifice, and wild tribes and skin-
clad warriors of old Britain
halted on them in council, or
hurried across them to the fight.
On we went, up and down, in
a very zigzag course, now look
ing forward towards the Cheese-
Wring from the top of a rock,
now losing sight of it altogether
in the depths of a hollow. By
the time we had advanced about
half way over the distance it was
necessary for us to walk, we ob
served, towards the left hand, a
wide circle of detached upright
rocks. These we knew, from
descriptions and engravings, to
be the "Hurlers," and turned
aside at once to look at them
from a nearer point of view.
There are two very different his
tories of these rooks ; the antiqua
rian account of them is straight
forward and practical enough,

simply asserting that they are
the remains of a Druid temple,
the whole region about them
having been one of the principal
stations of the Druids in Corn
wall. The popular account of
the Hurlers (from which their
name is derived) is very different
and rather poetical. It is con
tended, on the part of the people,
that once upon a time (nobody
knows how long ago), these rocks
were Cornish men, who profanely
went out (nobody knows from
what place), to enjoy the national
sport of hurling the ball on one
fine "Sabbath morning," and
were suddenly turned into pillars
of stone, as a judgment on their
own wickedness, and a warning
to all their companions as well.
Having to choose between the
antiquarian hypothesis and the
popular legend on the very spot
to which both referred, a common
susceptibility to the charms of
romance, at once determined us
to pin our faith on the latter.
Looking at the Hurlers, therefore,
in the peculiar spirit of the legend
attached to them, as really and
truly petrified ball-players, we ob
served, with great interest, that
some of them must have been a
little above, and others a little
below our own height, in their
lifetime; that some must have
been very corpulent, and others
very thin persons; that one of
them, having a protuberance on
his head remarkably like a night
cap in stone, was possibly a slug
gard as well as a Sabbath- breaker,
and might have got out of his bed
just in time to " hurl ;" that ano
ther, with some faint resemblance
left of a fat grinning human face,
leaned considerably out of the
perpendicular, and was, therefore,


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

45

in all probability, a hurler of in
temperate habits. At some dis
tance off we remarked a high
stone standing entirely by itself,
which, in the absence of any po
sitive information on the subject,
we- presumed to consider as the
petrified effigy of a tall man who
ran after the ball. In the oppo
site direction other stones were
dotted about irregularly, which
we could only imagine to repre
sent certain misguided Wretches
who had attended as spectators
of the sports, and had, therefore,
incurred the same penalty and
judgment as the hurlers them
selves. These humble results of
observations taken on the spot,
are offered in no irreverent spirit,
but rather as tending to supply
some pretty strong facts from an
cient history to be adduced in
argument by the next pious lay
man in the government, who gets
up to propose the next series of
Sabbath prohibitions for the be
nefit of the profane laymen in the
nation. Reluctantly abandoning any
more minute observation of the
Hurlers than that already re
corded, in obedience to the neces
sity of carefully husbanding the
little time still left to u's, we soon
shaped our course again in the
direction of the Cheese-Wring.
We arrived at the base of the hill
on which it stands in a short time,
and without any difficulty; and
beheld above us a perfect chaos
of rocks piled up the entire sur
face of the eminence. All the
granite we had seen before, was
as nothing compared with the
granite we now looked on. The
masses were at one place heaped
up in great irregular cairns— at
another, scattered confusedly over ,

the ground, poured all along in
close, craggy lumps, flung about
hither and thither, as if in reck
less sport, by the hands of giants.
Above the whole, rose the weird
fantastic form of the Cheese-
Wring, the wildest and most
wondrous of all the wild and
wondrous structures in the rock
architecture of the scene.
If a man dreamt of a great pile
of stones in a nightmare, he would
dream of such a pile as the Cheese-
Wring. All the heaviest and
largest of the seven thick slabs
of which it is composed are at
the top; all the lightest and
smallest at the bottom ; It rises
perpendicularly to a height of
thirty-two feet, without lateral
support of any kind. The fifth
and sixth rocks are of immense
size and thickness, and overhang
fearfully, all round, the four lower
rocks which support them. All
are perfectly irregular ; the pro
jections of one do not fit into the
interstices of another; they are
heaped up loosely in their extra
ordinary top-heavy form, on slant
ing ground half-way down a steep
hill. Look at them from what
ever point you choose, there ia
still all that is heaviest, largest,
strongest at the summit, and all
that is lightest, smallest, weakest
at the base. When you first see
the Cheese- Wring, you instinct
ively shrink from walking under
it. Beholding the tons on tons of
stone balanced to a hair's breadth
on the mere fragments beneath,
you think that with a pole in your
hand, with one push against the
top rocks, you could hurl down
the hill in an instant a pile which
has stood for centuries, unshaken
by the fiercest hurricane that ever
blew, rushing from the great void


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

47

slanting position, while another
gentleman violently uncorked a
bottle and directed half of its con
tents in a magnificent jet of light
brown froth all over everybody,
before he found the way into the
tumbler. It was of no use to
decline imbibing the remainder
of the light brown froth — " There
was the Cheese-Wring, and here
was the porter — I must drink all
their good healths, and they would
all drink mine — this was Cornish
hospitality, and d  n them !
Cornish hospitality was the finest
thing in the world ! As for my
friend there, who was drawing,
they bore him no ill-will because
he wouldn't drink — they would
buy his drawing, and one of the
commercial gentlemen, who was
a stationer, would publish a
hundred, two hundred, five hun
dred, a thousand copies of it, on
sheets of letter paper, price one
penny ! What had I got to say
to that? — If that wasn't hospi
tality, why then what the devil
was ?"
All this was doubtless very
amusing, and our new friends
were certainly brimming over
with benevolence; but we were
nevertheless not at all sorry when
their manners subsequently ex
hibited a slight change, under the
influence of further potations of
porter. Soon, they began to look
stolid and suspicious — suddenly,
they discovered that we were not
quite such good company as they
had thought us at first — finally,
they took their departure in sol
emn silence, leaving us free at
last to mount to the summit of
the hill, and look out uninterrupt
edly on the glorious view which
6tretched around us over a cir
cumference of a hundred miles.

Turning our faces towards the
north-east, and standing now on
the topmost rock of one of the
most elevated situations in Corn
wall, we were able to discern the
sea on either side of us. Two
faint lines of the softest, haziest
blue, indicated the Bristol Chan
nel on the one hand, and the
English Channel on the other.
Before us, lay a wide region of
downs and fields, all mapped out
in every variety of form by their
different divisions of wall and
hedge-row — while, further away
yet, darker and more indefinite,
appeared the Dartmoor forest and
the Dartmoor hills. It was just
that hour before the evening, at
which the atmosphere acquires a
more mellow purity, a more per
fect serenity and warmth, than at
earlier periods of the day. The
shadows of great clouds lay in
vast lovely shapes of purple blue
over the whole visible tract of
country, contrasting in exquisite
beauty with the sunny glimpses
of landscape shining between
them. Beneath us, the pictur
esque confusion of rocks, topped
by the quaint form of the Cheese-
Wring, seemed to fade away mys
teriously into the grass of the
moorland, far out on which, a
little lake, called Dosmerry Pool,
shone in the sunlight with daz
zling, diamond brightness. In
the opposite direction, towards
the west, the immediate prospect
was formed by the rugged gran
ite ridges, towering one behind
the other, of Sharp Torr and
Kilmarth — the long hazy out
lines of the plains and hill-tops
of southern and inland Corn
wall closing grandly the distant
view. All that we had hitherto seen


48

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

on and around the spot where we
now stood, had not yet exhausted
its objects of attraction for stran
gers. Descending the rocks in a
new direction, after taking a last
look at the noble prospect visible
from their summit, we proceeded
to a particular spot near the base
of the hill, where the granite was
scattered in remarkable abun
dance, to examine some stones
which are well known to all
quarrymen in the district, as
associated with an extraordinary
story and an extraordinary man.
During the earlier half of the
last century, there lived in one
of the villages on the outskirts
of the moor on which the Cheese-
Wring stands, a stone-cutter
named Daniel Gumb. This man
was noted among his companions
for his taciturn eccentric charac
ter, and for his attachment to
mathematical studies. Such leis
ure time as he had at his command
he regularly devoted to pondering
over some of the problems of
Euclid; he was always drawing
mysterious complications of an
gles, triangles, and parallelograms,
on pieces of slate, and on the
blank leaves of such few books
as he possessed. But he made
very slow progress in his studies.
Poverty and hard work increased
with the increase of his family.
At last he was obliged to give up
his mathematics altogether. He
labored early and labored late;
he backed and hewed at the hard
material out of which he was
doomed to cut a livelihood, with
unremitting diligence ; but want
still kept up with him, toil as he
might to outstrip it, in the career
of life. In short, times went on
so ill with Daniel, that in despair
of ever finding them better he

took a sudden resolution of alter
ing his manner of living, and
retreating from the difficulties
that he could not overcome. He
went to the hill on which the
Cheese-Wring stands, and looked
about among the rocks until he
found some that had accidentally
formed themselves into a sort of
rude cavern. He widened this
recess; he propped up a great
wide slab, that made its roof, at
one end where it seemed likely to
sink without some additional
support; he cut out in a rock
that rose above this, what he
called his bed room — a mere
longitudinal slit in the stone, the
length and breadth of his body,
into which he could roll himself
sideways when he wanted to enter
it. After he had completed this
last piece of work, he scratched
the date of the year of his ex
traordinary labors (1735) on the
rock; and then, he went and
fetched his' wife and family away
from their cottage, and lodged
them in the cavity he had made
— never to return during his
life ti me, to the dwellings of men !
Here he lived and here he
worked ; when he could get work.
He paid no rent now ; he wanted
no furniture ; he struggled no
longer to appear to the world as
his equals appeared ; he required
no more money than would pro
cure for his family and himself
the barest necessaries of life; he
suffered no interruptions from Ms
fellow workmen, who thought
him a madman, and kept out of
his way; and — most precious
privilege of his new position —
he could at last shorten his
hours of labor, and lengthen
his hours of study with impunity.
Having no temptations to spend


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

51

for Cornwall there are no returns
of death from starvation.
Many causes combine to secure
the poor of Cornwall from that
last worst consequence of poverty
to which the poor in most of the
other divisions of England are
more or less exposed. The num
ber of inhabitants in the county
is stated by the last census at
341,269 — the number of square
miles that they have to live on,
being 1327. This will be found,
on proper computation and com-
parison, to be considerably under
the average population of a square
mile throughout the rest of Eng
land. Thus, the supply of men
for all purposes does not appear
to be greater than the demand in
Cornwall. JThe remote situation
of the county guarantees it against
any considerable influx of stran
gers to compete with the natives
for work on their own ground.
We met a farmer there, who was
so far from being besieged in har
vest time by claimants for labor
on his land, that he was obliged
to go forth to seek them himself
at a neighboring town, and was
doubtful whether he should find
men enough left him unemployed
at the mines and the fisheries, to
gather in his crops in good time
at two shillings a day and as
much " victuals and drink" as
they cared to have.
Another cause which has lately
contributed, in some measure, to
keep Cornwall free from the bur
then of a surplus population of
working men must not be over
looked. For the last three years,
emigration has been more largely
resorted to in that county, than
perhaps in any other in England.
Outof the population of the Penz
ance Union alone, nearly five per

cent, left their native land for
Australia, or New Zealand, in
1849. The potato-blight is assign
ed as the chief cause of this ; for
it has damaged seriously the
growth of a vegetable, from the
sale of which at the London mar
kets the Cornish agriculturists
derived large profits, and on which
(with their fish) the Cornish poor
depend as a staple article of food.
It is by the mines and fisheries
(of both which I shall speak par
ticularly in another place) that
Cornwall is compensated for a
soil, too barren in many parts of
the county, to be ever well culti
vated, except at such an expendi
ture of capital as no mere farmer
can afford. From the inexhausti
ble mineral treasures in the earth,
and from equally inexhaustible
shoals of pilchards which annually
visit the coast, the working popu
lation of Cornwall derive their re
gular means of support, where agri
culture would fail them. At the
mines, the regular rate of wages
is from forty to fifty shillings a
month ; but miners have oppor
tunities of making more than this.
By what is termed " working on
tribute," that is, agreeing to exca
vate the mineral lodes for a per
centage on the value of the metal
they raise, some of them have
been known to make as much as
six, and even ten pounds each, in
a month. When they are unlucky
in their working speculations, or,
perhaps, thrown out of employ
ment altogether by the shutting
up of a mine, they still have a fair
opportunity of obtaining farm la
bor, which is paid for (out of
harvest time) at the rate of nine
shillings a week. But this is a
resource of which they are rarely
obliged to take advantage. A


52

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

plot of common ground is in
cluded with the cottages that are
let to them; and the cultivation
of this, helps to keep them and
their families, in bad times, until
they find an opportunity of re
suming work; when they may
perhaps make as much in one
month, as an agricultural laborer
can in twelve.
The fisheries not only employ
all the inhabitants of the coast,
but, in the pilchard season, many
of the farm work-people as well.
Ten thousand persons — men, wo
men, and children — derive their
regular support from the fisheries ;
which are so amazingly produc
tive, that the '' drift," or deep-sea
fishing, in Mount's Bay alone, is
calculated to realize, on the- aver
age, 30,000/. per annum.
To the employment thus se
cured for the poor in the mines
and fisheries is to be added, as an
advantage, the cheapness of rent
and living in Cornwall. Good
cottages are let at from fifty shill
ings, to between three and four
pounds a-year — turf for firing
grows in plenty on the vast tracts
of, common land overspreading
the country — all sorts of vege
tables are abundant and cheap,
with the exception of potatoes,
which have so decreased, in con
sequence of the disease, that the
winter stock is now imported from
France, Belgium, and Holland.
The early potatoes, however,
grown in May and June, are still
cultivated in large quantities, and
realize on exportation a very high
price. Corn generally sells a little
above the average. Fish is always
within the reach of the poorest
people. In a good season, a dozen
pilchards are sold for one penny.
Happily for themselves, the poor

in Cornwall have none of the
senseless prejudices against fish,
so obstinately adhered to by the
poor in many other parts of Eng
land. A Cornishman's national
pride is in his pilchards — he likes
to talk of them, and boast about
them to strangers ; and with rea
son, for he depends for the main sup
port of life on the tribute of these
little fish which the sea yields annu
ally in almost countless shoals.
The workhouse system in Corn
wall is said, by those who are well
qualified to form an opinion on
the subject, to be generally well
administered; the Unions in the
eastern part of the county being
the least stringent in their regu
lations, and the most liberal in
giving out-of-door relief.
Such, briefly, but I think not in
correctly stated, is the condition of
the poor in Cornwall, in relation
to their means of subsistence as
a class. Looking to the fact that
the number of laborers there is
not too much for the labor ; com
paring the rate of wages with
rent, and the price of provisions ;
setting the natural advantages of
the county fairly against its natural
disadvantages, it is impossible not
to conclude that the Cornish poor
suffer less by their poverty, and
enjoy more opportunities of im
proving their social position, than
the majority of their brethren in
many other counties of England.
The general demeanor and lan
guage of the people themselves
amply warrant this conclusion.
The Cornish are essentially a cheer
ful, contented race. The views
of the working men are remark
ably moderate and sensible — I
never met with so few grumblers
anywhere. My opportunities of correctly


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

53

estimating the state of education
among the people, were not suffi
ciently numerous to justify me in
offering to the reader more than
a mere opinion on the subject.
Such few observations as I was
able to make, inclined me to
think that, in education, the mass
of the population was certainly
below the average in England,
with one exception — that of the
classes employed in the mines.
All of these men, with whom I
held any communication, would
not have been considered badly-
informed persons in a higher con
dition of life. They possessed
much more than a common me
chanical knowledge of their own
calling, and even showed a very
fair share ef information on the
subject of the history and an
tiquities of their native county.
As usual, the agricultural in
habitants appeared to rank lowest
in the scale of education and
general intelligence. Among this
class, and among the fishermen,
the strong superstitious feelings
of the ancient days of Cornwall
still survive and promise long to
remain, handed down from father
to son as heir-looms of tradition,
gathered together in a remote
period, and venerable in virtue
of their antiquity. The notion.
for instance, that no wound will
fester as long as the instrument
by which it was inflicted is kept
bright and clean, still prevails
extensively among them. But a
short time since, a boy in Corn
wall was placed under the care
of a medical man (who related
the anecdote to me) for a wound
in the back from a pitchfork ; his
relatives — cottagers of respecta
bility — firmly believe that his
cure was accelerated by the pains

they took to keep the prongs of
the pitchfork in a state of the
highest polish, night and day,
throughout the whole period of
his illness, and down to the last
hour of his complete restoration
to health.
Another and a more remark
able instance of the superstitions
prevailing among the least edu
cated classes of the people, was
communicated to me by the same
informant — a gentleman whose
life has been passed in Cornwall,
and who is highly and deservedly
respected by all thoseamong whom
he resides.
A small farmer living in one
of the most western districts of
the county, died some years back
of what was supposed at the
time to be "English Cholera."
A few weeks after his decease, his
wife married again. This cir
cumstance excited some attention
in the neighborhood. It was re
membered that the woman had
lived on very bad terms with her
late husband, that she had on
many occasions exhibited strong
symptoms of possessing a very
vindictive temper, and that dur
ing the farmer's lifetime she had
openly manifested rather more
than a Platonic preference for
the man whom she subsequently
married. Suspicion was gene
rally excited: people began to
doubt whether the first husband
had, died fairly. At length, the
proper order was applied for, and
his body was disinterred. On
examination, enough arsenic to
have poisoned three men was
found in his stomach. The wife
was accused of murdering him,
was tried, convicted on the clear
est evidence, and hung. Very
shortly after she had suffered.


54

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

capital punishment, horrible stor
ies of a ghost were widely cir
culated. Certain people declared
that they had seen a gbastly re
semblance ofthe murderess, robed
in her winding-sheet, with the
black mark of the rope round
her swollen neck, standing on
stormy nights upon her husband's
grave, and digging there with a
spade in hideous imitation of the
actions of the men who had dis
interred the corpse for medical
examination. This was fearful
enough — nobody dared go near
the place after nightfall. But
soon, another circumstance was
talked of, in connection with the
poisoner, which affected the tran
quillity of people's minds in the
village where she had lived, and
where it was believed she had
been born, more seriously even
than the ghost-story itself.
Near the church of this village
there was a well, celebrated among
the peasantry of the district for
one remarkable property — every
child baptized in its water (with
which the church was duly sup
plied on christening occasions)
was secure from ever being hung.
No one doubted that all the babies
fortunate enough to be born and
baptized in the parish, though
they might live to the age of
Methuselah, and might during
that period commit all the capital
crimes recorded in the " Newgate
Calendar," were still destined to
keep quite clear of the summary
jurisdiction of Jack Ketch — no
one doubted this, until the story
of the apparition ofthe murderess
began to be spread abroad. Then,
awful misgivings arose in the
popular mind. A woman who
had been born close by the magi
cal well, aud who had therefore in

all probability been baptized in
its water like her nsighbors of
the parish, had nevertheless been
most undoubtedly and completely
hung. However, probability was
not always truth — everybody de
termined that the baptismal regis
ter of the poisoner should be
sought for, and that it should be
thus officially ascertained whether
she had been christened with the
well water, or not. After much
trouble, the important document
was discovered — not where it was
first looked after, but in a neigh
boring parish vestry. A mis
take had been made about the
hanged woman's birth-place — she
had not been baptized in the local
church, and had therefore not
been protected by the marvellous
virtue of the local water. Un
utterable was the joy and triumph
of this discovery throughout the
village — the wonderful character
ofthe parish well was wonderfully
vindicated — its- celebrity imme
diately spread wider than ever.
The peasantry of the neighboring
districts began to send for the
renowned water before christen
ings ; and many of them actually
continue, to this day, to bring it
corked up in bottles to their
churches, and to beg particularly
that it may be used whenever
they present their children to be
baptized. Such instances of superstition
as this — and others equally true
might be quoted — afford, perhaps,
of themselves, the best evidence
of the low state of education
among the people from whom
they are produced. It is, how
ever, only fair to state, that chil
dren in Cornwall are now enabled
to partake of advantages which
were probably not offered to their


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

55

parents. Good National Schools
are in operation everywhere, and
are — as far as my own inquiries
authorize me to report — well at
tended by pupils recruited from
the ranks of the poorest classes.
Of the social qualities of the
Cornish all that can be written
may be written conscientiously
in terms of the highest praise.
Traveling as my companion and
I did, in a manner which was
perfectly new to the majority of
the people — who were only ac
customed to see such few strangers
as visited their county driving
about in carriages, or traveling
expeditiously along high roads in
stage coaches — we found constant
opportunities of studying the
most amusing eccentricities of the
popular character. We perplexed
some, we amused others : here, we
were welcomed familiarly by the
people, as traveling pedlars with
our packs on our backs; there,
we were curiously regarded at
an awful distance, and respectfully
questioned in circumlocutory
phrases as to our secret designs
in walking through the country.
Thus, viewing us sometimes as
their equals, sometimes as mys
teriously superior to them, the
peasantry unconsciously exhibit
ed many of their most character
istic peculiarities without reserve.
We looked at the spectacle of
their social life from the most
searching point of view, for we
looked at it . from behind the
scenes. The manners of the Cornish of
all ranks, down to the lowest, are
remarkably distinguished by
courtesy — a courtesy of that kind
which is quite independent of
artificial breeding, and which
proceeds solely from natural

motives of kindness and from an
innate anxiety to please. Few
of the people pass you without a
salutation. Civil questions are
always answered civilly. No
propensity to jeer at strangers is
exhibited — on the contrary, great
solicitude is displayed to afford
them any assistance that they
may require; and displayed, more
over, without the slightest ap
pearance of a mercenary motive.
Thus, if you stop to ask your
way, you are not merely directed
for a mile or two on, and then
told to ask again; but directed
straight to the end of your desti
nation, no matter how far off.
Turnings to the right, and turn
ings to the left, short cuts across
moors five miles away, churches
that you must keep on this hand,
and rocks that you must keep on
that, are impressed upon your
memory with the most laborious
minuteness, and shouted after you
over and over again as long as
you are within hearing. If the
utmost anxiety to give the ut
most quantity of good advice
could always avail against acci
dent or forgetfulness, no traveler
in Cornwall, who asks his way as
he goes, need ever lose himself.
When people possess the virtue
of natural courtesy they are sel
dom found wanting in other
higher virtues that are akin to it.
Household affection, ready hospi
tality, and great gratitude for
small rewards of services render
ed, are all to be found among the
Cornish peasantry. Their fond
ness for their children is very
pleasant to see. A word of in
quiry or praise addressed to the
mother makes her face glow with
delight, and sends her away at
once in search of the missing


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

57

relative to the extraordinary
rocks scattered about this part of
the coast. He immediately open
ed his whole budget of local
anecdotes, telling them in a
quavering high-treble voice,
which was barely audible above
the dash of the breakers beneath,
and the fierce whistling of the
wind among the rocks around us.
However, the old fellow went on
talking incessantly, hobbling
along before me, up and down
steep paths and along the very
brink of a fearful precipice, with
as much coolness as if his sight
was as clear and his step as firm
as in his youth. When he had
shown me all that he could show,
and had thoroughly exhausted
himself with talking, I gave him
a shilling at parting. He ap
peared to be perfectly astonished
by a remuneration which the
reader will doubtless consider
the reverse of excessive ; thanked
me at the top of his voice ; and
then led me, in a great hurry,
and with many mysterious nods
and gestures, to a hollow in the
grass, where he had spread on a
clean pocket-handkerchief a little
stock-in-trade of his own, consist
ing of barnacles, bits of rock and
ore, and specimens of dried sea
weed. Pointing to these, he told
me to take any thing I liked, as
a present in return for what I had
given him. He would not hear
of my buying any thing ; he was
not, he said, a regular guide, and
I had paid him more already than
such an old man was worth —
what I took out of his handker
chief I must take as a present
only. I saw by his manner that
he would be really mortified if I
contested the matter with him, so
as a present J received one of his

pieces of rock — I had no right to
deny him the pleasure of doing a
kind action, because there hap
pened to be a few more shillings
in my pocket than in his.
Nothing can be much better
adapted to show how simple and
unsophisticated the Cornish cha
racter still remains in many re
spects, than Cornish notions of
organizing a public festival, and
Cornish enjoyment of that festival
when it is organized. We had
already seen how they managed a
public boat-race at Looe, and we
saw again how they conducted
the preparations for the same
popular festival, on a larger scale,
at the coast town of Fowey.
In the first place, public feel
ing was stimulated by music at an
uncomfortably early hour in the
morning. Two horn players and
a clarionet player; a very fat man
who blew through a very small
fife and kept time with his head ;
and a withered little man who
beat furiously on a mighty drum,
drew up in martial array, one be
hind the other, before the principal
inn. Then, two boys, staring about
them in an immensely important
manner, and carrying flags which
bore rather a suspicious resem
blance to Indian pocket handker
chiefs sewn together, formed in
front of the musicians. Then, two
corpulent, solemn, cfoctor-of-divi-
nity-looking men, formed in their
turn on each side of the boys ; and
then the procession started — walk
ing briskly up and down, and in
and out, and around and around
the same streets, over and over
again ; the musicians playing on
all their instruments at once (drum
included), without a moment's in
termission on the part of any one
of them. Nothing could exceed


58

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

the gravity and silence of the
popular concourse that followed
this grotesque procession. The
solemn composure on the counte
nances of the two corpulent men
who went before it, was reflected
on the features of the smallest boy
who followed humbly behind.
The harmonic ceremonies seemed
to be considered by all the towns
people, as of far too impressive a
nature to be greeted by unseemly
merriment. Profound musical
amateurs in attendance at a class
ical quartett concert, could have
exhibited no graver or more
breathless attention than that dis
played by the inhabitants of
Fowey, as they marched at the
heels of the peripatetic town-band.
But while the music was pro
ceeding, another adjunct to the
dignity and beauty of the festival
was in course of preparation, which
ultimately appealed more strongly
to popular sympathy even than
the band and procession. A quan
tity of young trees — miserable
little saplings cut short in their
early infancy — were brought into
the town, curiously sharpened at
the stems. Holes were rapidly drill
ed in the ground, here, there, and
everywhere, for their reception,
at corners of house walls. While
men outside set them up, women
in a high state of excitement ap
peared at first-floor windows with
long pieces of string, which they
fastened to the branches to steady
the trees at the top, hauling them
about this way and that most un
mercifully during the operation,
and then vanishing to tie the loose
ends of the lines to bars of grates
and legs of tables. Mazes of long
tight strings ran all across our
room at the inn; broken twigs
and drooping leaves peered in

sadly at us through the three
windows that lighted it. We
were driven about from corner to
corner out of the way of this
rigging, until no refuge was left,
by an imperious old woman, who
fastened and fettered the wretched
trees with as fierce an air as if
they were criminals whom she
was handcuffing, and who at last
fairly told us that she thought we
had better go out again, and see
how beautiful things looked from
the outside.
The prospect of affairs in the
street was rather uproarious than
beautiful. At the sight of the
trees, the long-repressed enthusi
asm of the juvenile population
found vent in a shout. The band
marched by, playing furiously;
but the boys deserted it. The
people from the country, hasten
ing into the town, hot and eager,
paused, reckless of the music,
reckless of the flags, reckless of
the procession, to look forth upon
the streets "with verdure clad."
The popularity of the Sons of
Apollo was a thing of the past
already ! Nothing can well be
imagined more miserable and more
ugly than the appearance of the
trees, standing strung into unnatu
ral positions, and looking half dead
already; but they evidently inspir
ed the liveliest public satisfacction.
Women returned to the windows to
give a last perfecting tug to their
branches; men patted approv
ingly with spades the loose earth
around their stems. Spectators,
one by one, took a near view ,and
a distant view, and then walked
gently by and took a cursory
view, and finally gathered together
in little groups and took a general
view. Never was enjoyment more
complete than the enjoyment


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

59

afforded by the trees. If any of
those amiable demagogues from
foreign parts, who kindly return
our national hospitality by pre
dicting our national downfall, had
been in Fowey on the day of the
boat-race, they would certainly
have thought that the English
Revolution had begun in earnest
by the planting of trees of liberty
in a Cornish town, and would
have "improved the occasion"
on the spot, by haranguing the
mob from the top of a wagon
which stood most invitingly for
the purpose immediately in front
of the inn.
But, after all, I shall perhaps
best illustrate the almost primitive
simplicity of character displayed
by the Cornish — especially the
country people — by leaving the
further and less amusing prepara
tions for inaugurating the Fowey
boat-race untold, and proceeding
at once to the relation of some of
the peculiarities of behavior
and remark which the appearance
of my companion and myself
called forth in all parts of Corn
wall. The mere sight of two
Strangers walking along with such
appendages as knapsacks strapped
on their shoulders, seemed of
itself to provoke the most un
bounded wonder. We were
stared at with almost incredible
pertinacity and good humor.
People hard at work, left off to
look at us ; whole groups con
gregated at cottage doors, walked
into the middle of the road when
they saw us approach, looked at
us in front from that commanding
point of view until we passed
them, and then wheeled around
with one accord and gazed at us
behind as long as we were within
sight. Little children ran in-doors

to bring out large children as we
drew near. Farmers overtaking
us on horseback, pulled in, and
passed at a walk to examine us
at their ease. With the excep
tion of bedridden people and
people in prison, I believe that
the whole population of Cornwall
looked at us all over — back view
and front view — from head to
foot! This staring was nowhere ac
companied, either on the part of
young or old, by a jeering word
or an impertinent look. We
evidently astonished the people,
but we never tempted them to
forget their natural good-nature,
forbearance, and self-restraint.
On our side, the attentive scrutiny
to which we were subjected, was
at first not a little perplexing.
It was difficult not to doubt
occasionally whether some un
pleasantly remarkable change had
not suddenly taken place in our
personal appearance — whether we
might not have turned green or
blue on our travels, or have got
noses as long as the preposterous
nose of the luckless traveler
through Strasburgh, in the tale
of Slawkenbergius. It was not
until we had been some days in
the county that we began to
discover, by some such indications
as the following, that we owed
the public attention to our knap
sacks, and not to ourselves.
We enter a small public-house
by the roadside to get a draught
of beer. In the kitchen, we
behold the landlord and a tall
man who is a customer. Both
stare as a matter of course ; the
tall man especially, after taking
one look at our knapsacks, fixes
his eyes firmly on us and sits bolt
upright on the bench without


60

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

saying a word — he is evidently
prepared for the worst we can do.
We get into conversation with
the landlord, a jovial, talkative
fellow, who desires greatly to
know what we are, if we have no
objection. We ask him, what he
thinks we are ? — " Well," says
the landlord, pointing to my
friend's knapsack, which has a
square ruler strapped to it for
architectural drawings — "well, I
think you are both of you map
pers — mappers who come here to
make new roads — you may be
coming to make a railroad, I
dare say — we've had mappers in
the country before this — I know
a mapper myself — here's both
your good healths !" We drink
the landlord's good health in
return, and disclaim the honor of
being "mappers;" wewalk through
the country (we tell him) for
pleasure alone, and take any
roads we can get, without want
ing to make new ones. The
landlord would like to know, if
that is the case, why we carry
those weights at our backs ? Be
cause we want to take our luggage
about with us. Couldn't we pay
to ride? Yes we could. And
yet we like walking better ? Yes
we do. This last answer utterly
confounds the tall customer, who
has been hitherto listening in
tently to the dialogue. It is
evidently too much for his cre
dulity — he pays his reckoning,
and walks out in a hurry without
uttering a word. The landlord
appears to be convinced, but it is
only in appearance : he looks at
us suspiciously in spite of him
self. We leave him standing at
his door, keeping his eye on us
as long as we are in sight, still
evidently persuaded that we are

'' mappers," but " mappers" of a
bad order whose presence is
fraught with some unknown peril
to the security of the Queen's
highway. We get on into another district.
Here, public opinion is not flat
tering. Some of the groups, ga
thered together in the road to
observe us, begin to speculate on
our characters before we are quite
out of hearing. Then, this sort
of dialogue, spoken in serious,
subdued tones, just reaches us:
Question : " What can they be ?"
Answer: "Trodgers /"
This is particularly humiliat
ing, because it happens to be
true. We certainly do trudge,
and are therefore properly, though
rather unceremoniously, called
trudgers, or "trodgers." But we
sink to a lower depth yet, a little
further on. We are viewed as
objects for pity. It is a fine even
ing; we stop and lean against a
bank' by the roadside to look at
the sunset. An old woman comes
tottering by on high pattens, very
comfortably and nicely clad. She
sees our knapsacks, and instantly
stops in front of us, and begins to
moan lamentably. Not under
standing at first what this means,
we ask respectfully if she feels at
all ill ? "Ah, poor fellows ! poor
fellows!" she sighs in answer,
"obliged to carry all your bag
gage on your own backs ! — very
hard ! poor lads ! very hard, in
deed!" And the good old soul
goes away groaning over our evil
plight, and mumbling something
which sounds very like an assur
ance that she has got no money
to give us.
In another part of the county
we rise again gloriously in world
ly consideration. We pass a cot-


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

61

tage ; a woman looks out after us,
over the low garden wall, and
rather hesitatingly calls us back.
I approach her first, and am thus
saluted : " If you please, sir, what
have you got to sell ?" Again, an
old man meets us on the road,
stops, cheerfully taps our knap
sacks with his stick, and says:
"Aha! you're tradesmen, eh?
things to sell ? I say, have you
got any tea?" (pronounced tay ;)
"I'll buy some tay !" Further
on, we approach a group of miners
breaking ore. As we pass by, we
hear one asking amazedly, " What
have they got to sell in those
things on their backs?" and ano
ther answering, in the prompt
tones of a guesser who is con
vinced that he guesses right,
"Guinea-pigs!" It is unfortunately impossible
to convey to the reader any ade
quate idea, by mere description,
of the extraordinary gravity of
manner, the looks of surprise and
the tones of conviction which ac
companied these various popular
conjectures as to our calling and
station in life, and which added
immeasurably at the time to their
comic effect. Curiously enough,
whenever they took the form of
questions, any jesting in return
ing an answer never seemed either
to be. appreciated or understood
by the coantry people. Serious
replies shared much the same fate
as jokes. Everybody asked whe
ther we could pay for riding, and
nobody believed that we preferred
walking, if we could. So we soon
gave up any idea of affording
any information at all ; and walk
ed through the country comforta
bly as mappers, trodgers, trades
men, guinea - pig - mongers, and
poor back - burdened vagabond

lads, altogether, or one at a time,
just as the peasantry pleased.
I have by no means communi
cated to the reader all the conjec
tures formed about us, for the
simple reason that many of them,
when they ran to any length,
were by no means so comprehen
sible as could be desired. It will
readily be imagined, that in a
county which had a ianguage of
its own (something similar to the
Welsh) down to the time of Ed
ward VI., if not later — in a county
where this language continued to
be spoken among the humbler
classes until nearly the end of the
seventeenth century, and where it
still gives their names to men,
places, and implements — some
remnants of it must attach them
selves to the dialect of English
now spoken by the lower orders.
This is enough of itself to render
Cornish talk not very easy to be
understood by ordinary strangers ;
but the difficulty of comprehend
ing it is still further increased by
the manner in which the people
speak. They pronounce rapidly
and indistinctly, often running
separate syllables into one another
through a sentence, until the
whole sounds like one long frag
mentary word. To the student in
philology a series of conversations
with the Cornish poor would, I
imagine, afford ample matter for
observation of the most interest
ing kind. Some of their expres
sions have a character that is quite
patriarchal. Young men, for in
stance, are addressed by their eld
ers as, "my son" — every thing
eatable, either for man or beast, is
commonly denominated "meat."
It may be expected, before I
close this hasty sketch of the
Cornish people, that I should


62

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

touch on the dark side of the
picture — unfinished though it is
— which I have endeavored to
draw. But I have little to com
municate on the subject of offences
in Cornwall, beyond a few words
about "wrecking" and smug
gling. Opinions have been divided
among well-informed persons as
to the truth or exaggeration of
those statements of travelers and
historians, which impute the
habitual commission of outrages
and robberies on sufferers by
shipwreck to the Cornish of former
generations. Without entering
into this question of the past,
which can only be treated as a
matter for discussion, I am happy,
in proceeding at once to the
present, to be able to state, as a
matter of fact, that " wrecking" is
a crime unknown in the Cornwall
of our day. So far from mal
treating shipwrecked persons, the
inhabitants of the sea-shore risk
their lives to save them. I make
this assertion, on the authority of
a gentleman whose life has been
passed in the West of Cornwall ;
whose avocations take him much
among the poor of all ranks and
characters ; and who has himself
seen wrecked sailors rescued from
death by the courage and hu
manity of tbe population' of the
coast. In reference to smuggling,
many years have passed without
one of those fatal encounters
between smugglers and revenue
officers which, in other days, gave
a dark and fearful character to
the contraband trade in Cornwall.
So well is the coast watched, that
no smuggling of any consequence
can now take place. It is only
the oldest Cornish men who can

give you any account, from per
sonal experience, of adventures
in " running a cargo ;" and those
that I heard related were by no
means of the romantic or interest
ing order. As to offences in
general — both heavy and light —
the proportion of offenders of all
kinds to the population, was stated
by the Reports of 1835, as 1 in
1461. Beyond this, I have nothing
f u rther to relate regarding criminal
matters. It may not unreasona
bly be doubted whether a subject
so serious and so extensive as the
Statistics of Crime, is not out of
the scope of a book like the
present, whose only object is to
tell a simple fireside story which
may amuse an idle, or solace a
mournful, hour. Moreover, re
membering the assistance and the
kindness that my companion and
I met with throughout Cornwall
— and those only who have
traveled on foot can appreciate
how much the enjoyment of ex
ploring a country may be height
ened or decreased, according to
the welcome given to the stranger
by the inhabitants — remember
ing, too, that we walked late at
night, through districts inhabited
only by the roughest and poorest
classes, entirely unmolested; and
that we trusted much on many
occasions to the honesty of the
people, and never found cause to
repent our trust — I cannot but
feel that it would be an ungra
cious act to ransack newspapers
and Reports to furnish materials
for recording in detail, the vices
of a population whom I have only
personally known by their virtues.
Let you and I, reader, leave off
with the same pleasant impres
sions of the Cornish people — you,


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

63

whose only object is to hear, and
I whose only object is to tell, the
story of a holiday walk. There
is enough to be found in them
that is good, amply to justify a
little inattention to whatever we
may discover that is bad*

CHAPTER VI.
LOO POOL.
"Now, I think it very much
amiss," remarks Sterne, in ' Tris
tram Shandy,' " that a man can
not go quietly through a town
and let it alone, when it does not
meddle with him, but that he
must be turning about, and draw
ing his pen at every kennel he
crosses over, merely, o' my con
science, for the sake of drawing
it." I quote this wise and witty
observation on a bad practice of
some travel-writers, as containing
the best reason that I can give
the reader for transporting him at
once, in this chapter, over some
sixty miles of Cornish high-roads
and footpaths, without stopping to
drop one word of description by
the way. Having left off the re
cord of our travels at Liskeard,
and taking it up again — as I mean
to do here — at Helston, I skip
over five intermediate market-
towns and two large villages, with
a mere dash of the pen. Los-
* I take this opportunity of mention
ing the assistance kindly rendered to
me, while writing these pages, by my
friend Mr. Richard Moyle, long resident,
as a medical man, at Penzance. I am
indebted to that gentleman's knowledge
and experience for much useful infor
mation on subjects connected with
Cornwall.

withiel, Fowey, St. Austell, Gram-
pound, Probus, Truro, Falmouth,
are all places of mark and note,
and have all certain curiosities
and sights of their own to interest
the inquisitive tourist ; but, never
theless, not one of them "med
dled" with me in the course of
my rambles, and in full recogni
tion of the justice of Sterne's
opinion above-quoted, I purpose
"letting them alone" now. In
other words, the several towns
and villages that I have enume
rated, though presenting much
that was generally picturesque
and attractive in the way of old
buildings and pretty scenery, ex
hibited little that was distinctive
or original in character; produced
therefore rather pleasant than
vivid impressions ; and would by
no means suggest any very origi
nal series of descriptions to fill
the pages of a book which is con
fined to such subjects only as are
most exclusively and strikingly
Cornish. The town of Helston, where we
now halt for the first time since
we left the Cheese- Wring and
St. Cleer's Well, might, if tested
by its own merits alone, be passed
over as unceremoniously as the
towns already passed over before
it. Its principal' recommenda
tion, in the opinion of the inhabi
tants, appeared to be that it was
the residence of several very
" genteel families," who have cer
tainly not communicated much of
their gentility to the lower orders
of the population — a riotous and
drunken set, the only bad speci
mens of Cornish people that I met
with in Cornwall. The streets of
Helston are a trifle larger and a
trifle duller than the streets of
Liskeard; the church is compa-


64

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

ratively modern in date, and su
perlatively ugly in design. A
miserable altar-piece, daubed in
gaudy colors on the window above
the communion-table, is the only
approach to any attempt at em
bellishment in the interior. In
short, the town has nothing to
offer to attract the stranger, but
a public festival — a sort of bar
barous carnival — held there an
nually on the 8th of May. This
festival is said to be of very an
cient origin, and is called " The
Furry" — an old Cornish word,
signifying a gathering; and, at
Helston particularly, a gathering
in celebration of the return of
spring. The Furry begins early
in the morning with singing to
an accompaniment of drums and
kettles. Then, all the people in
the town leave off work and
scamper into the country ; then
they scamper back again, garland
ed with leaves and flowers, and
caper about hand-in-hand through
the streets, and in and out of all
the houses, without opposition ;
being joined in their antics, it is
said, even by the " genteel " resi
dent families, who wind up the
day's capering consistently en
ough by a night's capering at a
grand ball. A full account of
these extraordinary absurdities
may be found in Polwhele's
" History of Cornwall."
But, though thus uninteresting
in itself, Helston must be visited by
every tourist in Cornwall, for the
sake of the grand, the almost un
rivalled scenery to be met with
near it. The town is not only the
best starting-point from which to
explore the noble line of coast
rocks which ends at the Lizard
Head; but possesses the further
recommendation of lying in the

immediate vicinity of the largest
lake in Cornwall — Loo Pool.
The banks of Loo Pool stretch
on either side to the length of two
miles ; the lake, which in sum
mer occupies little more than half
the space that it covers in winter,
is formed by the flow of two or
three small streams. You first
reach it from Helston, .after a
walk of half a mile ; and then see
before you, on either hand, long
ranges of hills, rising gently from
the water's edge, covered with
clustering trees, or occupied by
wide corn-fields and sloping tracts
of common land. So far, the
scenery around Loo Pool resem
bles the scenery around other
lakes; but, as you proceed, the
view changes in the most strik
ing and extraordinary manner.
Walking on along the winding
banks of the pool, you taste the
water and find it soft and fresh,
you see ducks swimming about
in it from the neighboring farm
houses, you watch the rising of
the fine trout for which it is cele
brated — every object tends to
convince you that you are wan
dering by the shores of an inland
lake — when suddenly, at a turn
in the hill slope, you are startled
by the shrill cry of the gull, and
the fierce roar of breakers thun
ders on your ear — you look over
the light grey placid waters of
the lake, and behold, stretching
immediately above and beyond
them, the expanse of the deep
blue ocean, from which they are
only separated by a mere strip of
smooth white sand.
You hurry on, and reach this
bar of sand which parts the great
English Channel and the little
Loo Pool — a child might run
across it in a minute ! You stand


SIGHTS A-FOJT.

65

in the centre — on one side, close
at hand, water is dancing beneath
the breeze in glassy, tiny ripples ;
on the other, equally close, water
rolls in mighty waves, precipitat
ed on the ground in dashing, hiss
ing, writhing floods pf the whitest
foam — here, children are floating
mimic boats on a mimic sea; there,
the stateliest ships of England are
sailing over the great deep — both
scenes visible in one view. Rocky
cliffs and arid sands appear in
close combination with rounded
fertile hills, and long grassy
slopes ; salt spray leaping over
the first, spring- water lying calm
beneath the last ! No fairy vision
of Nature that ever was imagined
is more fantastic, or more lovely
than this glorious reality, which
brings all the most widely con
trasted characteristics of a sea
view and an inland view into the
closest contact, and presents them
in one harmonious picture to the
eye. The ridge of sand between Loo
Pool and the sea, which, by im
peding the flow of the inland
streams spreads them in the form
of a lake over the valley-ground
between two hills, is formed by
the action of storms from the
south-west. Such, at least, is the
modern explanation ofthe manner
in which Loo Bar has been heaped
up. But there is an ancient legend
in connection with it, which tells
a widely different story. It is
said that the terrible Cornish
giant, or ogre, Tregeagle, was
trudging homewards one day,
carrying a huge sack of sand on
his back, which— being a giant
of neat and cleanly habits — he
designed should serve him for
sprinkling his parlor floor. As
he was passing along the top of
4

the hills which now overlook Loo
Pool, he heard a sound of scamp
ering footsteps behind him ; and,
turning round, saw that he was
hotly pursued by no less a person
than the devil himself. Big as
he was, Tregeagle, lost heart and
ignominiously took to his heels :
but the devil ran nimbly, ran
steadily, ran without losing breath
— ran, in short, like the devil.
Tregeagle was fat, short-winded,
had a load on his back, and lost
ground at every step. At last,
just as he reached the seaward
extremity of the hills, he deter
mined in despair to lighten him
self of his burden, and thus to
seize the only chance of escaping
his enemy by superior fleetness
of foot. Accordingly, he opened
his huge sack in a great hurry,
shook out all his sand over the
precipice, between the sea and the
river which then ran into it, aud
so formed in a moment the Bar
of Loo Pool.
In the winter time, the lake is
the cause and the scene of an ex
traordinary ceremony. The»heavy
incessant rains which then fall (ice
is almost unknown in the moist
climate of Cornwall), increase day
by day the waters of the Pool,
until they encroach over the whole
of the low flat valley between
Helston and the sea. Then, the
smooth paths of turf, the little
streams that run by their side —
so pleasant to look on in the
summer time — are hidden by the
great overflow. Mill-wheels are
stopped ; cottages built on the de
clivities of the hills are threatened
with inundation. Out on the bar,
at high tide, but two or three feet
of sand appear between the stormy
sea on the one hand, and the stag
nant swollen lake on the other.


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

67

low. Here, they ran, calm and
shallow, into little, glassy, flowery
creeks, that looked like fairies'
bathing places. There, out in
the middle, they hardly afforded
depth enough for a duck to swim
in. Near to the Bar, however,
they spread forth wider and
deeper ; finely contrasted, in their
dun color and perfect repose,
with the brilliantly white foam
ing breakers on the other side.
The surf forbade all hope of
swimming; but, standing where
the spent waves ran up deepest,
and where the spray flew highest
before the wind, 1 could take a
natural shower-bath from the sea,
in one direction ; and the next
moment, turning round in the
Other, could wash the sand off
my feet luxuriously in the soft,
fresh waters of Loo Pool.

CHAPTER VII.
THE LIZARD.
We had waited throughout
one long rainy day at Helston —
"remote, unfriended, melancholy,
slow" — for a chance of finer
weather before we started to ex
plore the Lizard promontory.
But our patience availed us little.
The next morning, there was the
soft, thick, misty, Cornish rain
still falling, just as it had already
fallen without cessation for twen
ty-four hours. To wait longer,
in perfect inactivity, and in the
dullest of towns — doubtful whe
ther the sky would clear even in
a week's time — was beyond mor
tal endurance. We shouldered
our knapsacks, and started for

the Lizard in defiance of rain,
and in defiance of our landlady's
reiterated assurances that we
should lose our way in the mist,
when we walked inland ; and
should slip into invisible holes,
and fall over fog- veiled precipices
among the rocks, if we ventured
to approach the coast.
What sort of scenery we walked
through, I am unable to say. The
rain was above — the mud was
below — the mist was all around
us. The few objects, near at
hand, that we did now and
then see, dripped with wet, and
had a shadowy visionary look.
Sometimes, we met a forlorn cow
steaming composedly by the road
side — or. an old horse, standing
up to his fetlocks in mire, and
sneezing vociferously — or a good-
humored peasant, who directed us
on our road, and informed us, with
a grin, that this sort of "fine rain"
often lasted for a fortnight. Some
times, we passed little villages,
built in damp holes,, where trees,
cottages, women scampering back
wards and forwards peevishly on
domestic errands, big boys with
empty sacks over their heads and
shoulders, gossiping gloomily
against barn walls, and ill-condi
tioned pigs grunting for admission
at closed kitchen doors, all looked
soaked through and through to
gether. Nothing, in short, could
be more dreary and comfortless
than our walk for the first two
hours. But, after that, as we ap
proached "Lizard Town," the
clouds began to part to seaward ;
layer after layer of^mist drove
past us, rolling before the wind ;
peeps of faint greenish-blue sky
appeared and enlarged apace. By
the time we had arrived at our
destination, a white, watery sun-


68

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

light was falling over the wet
landscape. The prognostications
of our Cornish friends were plea
santly falsified. A fine day was
in store for us after all.
The man who first distinguished
the little group of cottages that
we now looked on, by the deno
mination of Lizard Town, must
have possessed magnificent ideas
indeed on the subject of nomen
clature. If the place looked like
any thing in the world, it looked
like a large collection of farm out
buildings without a farm-house.
Muddy little lanes intersecting
each other at every possible an
gle ; ricketty little cottages turned
about to all the points of the com
pass; ducks, geese, cocks, hens,
pigs, cows, horses, dunghills, pud
dles, sheds, peat-stacks, timber,
nets, seemed to be all indiscrimi
nately huddled together where
there was little or no room for
them. To find the inn amid this
confusion of animate and inani
mate objects, was no easy matter ;
and when we at length discovered
it, pushed our way through the
live stock in the garden, and
opened the kitchen door, this was
the impressive and remarkable
scene that was displayed before us :
We beheld a small room lite
rally full of babies, and babies'
mothers. Interesting infants of
the tenderest possible age, finely
draped in long clothes and short
clothes, and shawls, and blankets,
met the eye wherever it turned.
There were babies propped up
uncomfortably on the dresser, ba
bies rocking snugly in wicker
cradles, babies stretched out flat
on their backs on women's knees,
babies prone on the floor, toasting
before a slow fire. Every one of

these Cornish cherubs was crying
in every variety of vocal key.
Every one of their affectionate
parents was talking at the top of
her voice. Every one of their
little elder brothers was scream
ing, squabbling, and tumbling
down in the passage with prodi
gious energy and spirit. The
mothers of England — and they
only — can imagine the deafening
and composite character of the
noise wjjich this large family
party produced. To describe it
is impossible. Soon, while we looked on it,
the domestic scene began to
change. Even as porters, police
men, and workmen of all sorts,
gathered together on the line of
rails at a station, move aside
quickly and with one accord out
of the way of the heavy engine,
slowly starting on its journey, —
so did the congregated mothers in
the inn kitchen now move back
on either hand with their babies,
and clear a path for the great bulk
of the hostess leisurely advancing
from the fire-side, to greet us at
the door. From this most corpu
lent' and complaisant of women,
we received a hearty welcome,
and a full explanation of the fa
mily orgies that were taking place
under her roof. The great public
meeting of all the babies in Lizard
Town and the neighboring vil
lages, on which we had intruded,
had been convened by the local
doctor, who had got down from
London, what the landlady termed
a " lot of fine fresh matter," and
was now about to strike a tre
mendous blow at the small-pox,
by vaccinating all the babies he
could lay his hands on, together,
at " one fell swoop." The surgi-


70

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

Some hundred years since, a
transport-ship, filled with troops,
was wrecked on the reef off the
Lizard Head. Two men only
were washed ashore alive. Out
of the fearful number that perish
ed, two hundred Corpses were
driven up on the beach below
Pistol Meadow; and there they
were "buried by tens and twenties
together in great pits, the position
of which is still revealed by the
low irregular mounds that che
quer the surface of the field. The
place was named, in remembrance
of the quantity of fire-arms — es
pecially pistols — found about the
wreck of the ill-fated ship, at low
tide, on the reef below the cliffs.
The peasantry still continue to
regard Pistol Meadow with feel
ings of awe and horror, and fear
to walk near the graves of the
drowned men at night. Nor have
many of the inhabitants yet for
gotten a revolting circumstance
connected by traditional report
with the burial of the corpses
after the shipwreck. It is said,
that when dead bodies were first
washed ashore, troops of ferocious,
half-starved dogs suddenly ap
peared from the surrounding
country, and could with difficulty
be driven from preying on the
mangled remains that were cast
up on the beach. Ever since that
period, the peasantry have been
reported as holding the dog in
abhorrence. Whether this be
true or not, it is certainly a rare
adventure to meet with a dog in
the Lizard district. You may
walk through farm -yard after
farm-yard, you may enter cottage
after cottage, and never hear any
barking at your heels ; — you may
pass, on the road, laborer after
laborer, and yet never find one of

them accompanied, as in other
parts of the country, by his favor
ite attendant cur.
Leaving Pistol Meadow, after
gathering a few of the wild herbs
growing fragrant and plentiful
over the graves of the dead, we
turned our steps towards the Li
zard Lighthouse. As we passed
before the front of the large and
massive building, our progress
was suddenly and startlingly
checked by a hideous chasm in
the cliff, sunk to a perpendic
ular depth of seventy feet, and
measuring more than a hundred
in circumference. Nothing pre
pares the stranger for this great
gulf; no railing is placed about
it, it lies hidden by rising land,
and the earth all around is treach
erously smooth. The first mo
ment when you see it is the mo
ment when you start back in
stinctively from its edge, doubt
ful whether the hole has not
yawned open in that very instant
before your feet.
This chasm — melodramatically
entitled by the people, "The
Lion's Den" — was formed in an
extraordinary manner, not many
years since. In the evening the
whole surface of the down above
the cliff was smooth to the eye,
and firm to the foot — in the morn
ing it had opened into an enorm
ous hole. The men who had
kept watch at the Lighthouse,
heard no sounds beyond the
moaning of the sea — felt no shock
— looked out on the night, and
saw that all was apparently still
and quiet. Nature suffered her
convulsion and effected her change
in silence. Hundreds and hirh-
dreds of tons of soil had sunk
down into depths beneath them,
none knew in how long, or how


72

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

echoing sound that half oppresses
and half soothes the ear, at the
same time.
On stormy days your course is
different. Then, you wander
along the summits of the cliffs;
and looking down, through the
hedges of tamarisk and myrtle
that skirt the ends of the fields,
see the rocks suddenly broken
away beneath you into an im
mense shelving amphitheatre, on
the floor of which the sea boils in
fury, rushing through natural
archways and narrow rifts. Be
yond them, at intervals as the
waves fall, you catch glimpses
of the brilliant blue main ocean,
and the outer reefs stretching into
it. Often, such wild views as
these are relieved from monotony,
as you proceed on your way, by
the prospect of smooth corn-fields
and pasture-lands, or by pretty
little fishing villages perched
among the rocks, each with its
small group of boats drawn up
on a slip of sandy beach, and its
modest, tiny gardens rising one
above another, like the gardens
of Looe, on rude terraces built up
the hill, wherever the slope is
gentle, and the cliff beyond rises
high to shelter them from the
sea-breeze. But the place at which the coast
scenery of the Lizard district
arrives at its climax of grandeur,
is Kynance Cove. Here, such
gigantic specimens are to be seen
of the most beautiful of all varie
ties of rock— the " serpentine" —
as are unrivalled in Cornwall;
perhaps, unrivalled anywhere. A,
walk of two miles along the west
ward cliffs from Lizard Town,
brought us to the top of a preci
pice of three hundred feet. Look

ing forward from this, we saw
the white sand of Kynance Cove
stretching out in a half circle into
the sea.
What a scene was now pre
sented to us! It was a perfect
palace of rocks ! Some rose per
pendicularly and separate from
each other, in the shapes of pyra
mids and steeples — some were
overhanging at the top, and
pierced with dark caverns at the
bottom — some were stretched ho
rizontally on the sand, here stud
ded with pools of water, there
broken into natural archways —
no one resembled another in
shape, size, or position — and all,
at the moment when we looked
on them, were wrapped in the
solemn obscurity of a deep mist;
a mist which shadowed without
concealing them, which exagge
rated their size, and, hiding all
the cliffs beyond, presented them
sublimely as separate and solitary
objects in the sea- view.
It was now necessary, however,
to occupy as little time as possible
in contemplating Kynance Cove
from a distance ; for if we desired
to explore it, immediate advan
tage was to be taken of the state
of the tide, which was already
rapidly ebbing. Hurriedly de
scending the cliffs, therefore, we
soon reached the sand : and here,
while my companion was seating
himself to sketch, and I was wan
dering around the rocks, doubtful
whither to turn my steps first, I
was fortunate enough to meet with
a guide, whose intelligence and
skill well deserve such a record
as I can give of them here ; for,
to the former, I was indebted for
much local information and anec
dote, and to the latter, for quitting


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

73

Kynance Cove with all my limbs
in as sound a condition as when
I first approached it.
The guide introduces himself
to me by propounding a sort of
stranger's catechism. 1st. " Do
I want to see every thing? — " Cer
tainly." 2nd. " Am I giddy on
the top of high places?"—" No."
3rd. " Will I be so good, if I get
into a fix anywhere, as to take
it easy, and catch hold of him
tight?" — "Yes, very tight!" With
these answers the guide is satis
fied. He gives his hat a smart
knock with one hand, to fix it on
his head; and pointing upwards
with the other, says, " We'll go
up that rock first, to look into
the gulls' nests, and get some
wild asparagus." And away we
go accordingly.
We mount the side of an im
mense rock which projects far out
into the sea, and is the largest of
the surrounding group. It is
called Asparagus Island, from the
quantity of wild asparagus grow
ing among the long grass on its
summit. Half way up, we cross
an ugly chasm. The guide points
to a small chink or crevice, barely
discernible in one side of it, and
says "Devil's Bellows!" Then,
first courteously putting my toes
for me into a comfortable little
hole in the perpendicular rock
side, which just fits them, he pro
ceeds to explain himself. Through
the base of the opposite extremity
of the island there is a natural
channel, into which the sea rushes
furiously at high tide : and find
ing no other vent but the little
crevice we now look down on, is
expelled through it in long, thin
jets of spray, with a roaring noise
resembling the sound of a gigantic
bellows at work. But the sea is

not yet high enough to exhibit
this phenomenon, so the guide
takes my toes out of the hole
again for me, just as politely as
he put them in ; and forthwith
leads the way up higher still — •
expounding as he goes, the whole
art and mystery of climbing,
which he condenses into this
axiom : — " Never loose one hand,
till you've got a grip with the
other; and never scramble your
toes about, where toes have no
business to be."
At last we reach the topmost
ridge of the island, and look down
upon the white, restless water far
beneath, and peep into one or two
deserted gulls' nests, and gather
wild asparagus — which I can only
describe as bearing no resem
blance at all, that I could dis
cover, to the garden species.
Then, the guide points to another
perpendicular rock, farther out at
sea, looming, dark, substanceless,
phantom-like, in the mist, and
tells me that he was the man who
built the cairn of stones on its
top — and then, he proposes that
we shall go to the opposite ex
tremity of the ridge on which we
stand, and look down into " The
Devil's Throat."
This desirable journey is ac
complished with the greatest ease
on his part, and with considerable
difficulty and delay on mine ; for
the wind blows fiercely over us
on the height ; our rock track is
narrow, rugged, and slippery, the
sea roars bewilderingly below,
and a single false step would not
be attended with agreeable con
sequences. Soon, however, we
begin to descend a little from our
"bad eminence," and come to a
halt before a wide, tunnelled open
ing, slanting sharply downwards


74

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

in the very middle of the island
— a black, gaping hole, into the
bottom of which the sea is driven
through some unknown subter
ranean channel, roaring and thun
dering with a fearful noise, which
rises in hollow echoes through the
aptly-named " Devil's Throat."
About this hole no grass grew :
the rocks rose wild, jagged, and
precipitous, all around it. If ever
the ghastly imagery of Dante's
terrible "Vision" was realized on
earth, it was realized here.
At this place, close to the mouth
of the hole, the guide suggests that
we should sit down and have a
little talk ! — and very impressive
talk it is, when he begins the con
versation by bawling into my ear
(and down the Devil's Throat at
the same time) to make himself
heard above the wild roaring be
neath us. Now, his tale is of tre
mendous jets of water, which he
has seen, during the storms of
winter, shot out of the hole before
which we sit, into the creek of the
sea below — now, he tells me of a
shipwreck off Asparagus Island,
of half-drowned sailors floating
ashore on pieces of timber, and
dashed out to sea again, just as
they touched the strand, by a jet
from the Devil's Throat — now, he
points away in the opposite direc
tion, under one of the steeple-
shaped rocks, and speaks of a
chase after smugglers that began
from this place — a desperate chase,
in which so.me of the smugglers'
cargo, but not one of the smug
glers themselves was seized —
now, he talks of tmother great
hole in the landward rocks,
tfhere the sea may be seen boil
ing within — a hole, into which a
man who was fishing for frag
ments of a wreck fell and was

drowned ; his body being sucked
away through some invisible
channel, never to be seen again
by mortal eyes.,
Anon, the guide's talk changes
from tragedy to comedy. He be
gins to recount odd adventures of
his own with strangers. He tells
me of a huge fat woman, who was
got up to the top of Asparagus
Island, by the easiest path, and
by the exertions of several guides;
who, left to herself, gasped, reeled,
and fell down immediately; and
was just rolling off, with all the
momentum of sixteen stone, over
the precipice below her, when
she was adroitly caught, and an
chored fast to the ground, by the
ancle of one leg, and the calf of
the other. Then, he speaks of an
elderly gentleman, who, while de
scending the rock with him, sud
denly stopped short at the most
dangerous point, giddy and panic-
stricken, pouring forth death-bed
confessions of all his sins, and
wildly refusing to move another
inch in any direction. Even this
man the guide got'down in safety
at last, by making stepping places
of his hands, on which the elderly
gentleman lowered himself as on
a ladder, ejaculating incoherently
all the way, and trembling in
great agony, long after he had
been safely landed on the sands.
This last story ended, it is settled
that we shall descend again to the
beach. Stimulated by the ease
with which my worthy leadei
goes down beneath me, I got over
confident in my climbing, and be
gin to slip here, and slide there,
and come to awkward pauses at
precipitous placesj in what would
be rather an alarming manner,
but for the potent presence of the
guide, who is always beneath me,


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

75

ready to be fallen upon. Some
times, when I am holding on with
all the necessary tenacity of grip,
as regards my hands, but " scram
bling my toes about" in a very
disorderly and unworkmanlike
fashion, he pops his head up from
below, for me to sit on; and puts
my feet into crevices for me with
many apologies for taking such a
liberty I Sometimes, I fancy my
self treading on what feels like soft
turf; I look down, and find that I
am standing lik£ an acrobat on
his shoulders, and hear him civilly
entreating me to take hold of his
jacket next, and let myself down
over his body to the ledge where
he is waiting for me. He never
makes a false step, never stumbles,
scrambles, hesitates, or fails to
have a hand always at my service.
The nautical metaphor of " hold
ing on by your eyelids," becomes
a fact in his case. He really views
his employer, as porters are ex
pected to view a package labelled
"glass with care." No lady or
gentleman bent on committing
suicide, who ascended the rocks
with him, would have a chance
of effecting their purpose. I am
firmly persuaded that he could
take a drunken man up and down
Asparagus Island, without the
slightest risk either to himself or
his charge ; and I hold him in no
small admiration when, after land
ing on the sand with something
between a tumble and a jump, I
find him raising me to my per
pendicular almost before I have
•touched the ground, and politely
hoping that I feel quite satisfied,
hitherto, with his conduct as a
guide. We now go across the beach
to explore some caves — dry at
low water — on the opposite side.

Some of these are wide, lofty,
and well-lighted from without.
We walk in and out and around
them, as if in great, irregular,
Gothic halls. Some are narrow
and dark. Now, we crawl into
them on hands and knees ; now,
we wriggle onward a few feet,
Serpent-like, flat on our bellies ;
now, we are suddenly able to
stand upright in pitch-darkness,
hearing faint moaning sounds of
pent-up winds, when we are
silent, and long reverberations of
our own voices, when we speak.
Then, as we turn and crawl out
again, we soon see before us one
bright speck of light that may be
fancied miles and miles away — a
star shining in the earth — a dia
mond sparkling in the bosom of
the rock. This guides us out
again pleasantly : and, on gaining
the open air, we find that while
we have been groping in the
darkness, a change has been
taking place in the regions of
light, which has altered and is
still altering the aspect of the
whole scene.
It is now two o'clock. The tide
is rising fast ; the sea dashes in
higher and higher waves on the
narrrowing beach. Rain and mist
are both gone. Overhead, the
clouds are falling asunder in
every direction, assuming strange,
momentary shapes, quaint, airy
resemblances of the forms of the
great rocks among which, we
stand. Height after height along
the distant cliffs dawns on us
gently ; great golden rays shoot
down over them ; far out on the
ocean, the waters flash into a
streak of fire; the sails of ships
passing there, glitter bright; yet
a moment more, and the glorious
sunlight in triumphant brilliancy


76

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

bursts out over the whole view.
The sea changes soon from dull
grey to bright blue, embroidered
thickly with golden specks, as it
rolls and rushes and dances in
the wind. The sand at our feet
grows brighter and purer to the
eye; the sea-birds flying and
swooping above us, look like
flashes of white light against the
blue firmament ; and, most beauti
ful of all, the wet serpentine rocks
now shine forth in full splendor
beneath the sun; every one of
their exquisite varieties of color
becomes plainly visible — silver
grey and bright yellow, dark red,
deep brown, and malachite green
appear, here combined in thin
intertwined streaks, there out
spread in separate irregular
patches — glorious ornaments of
the sea-shore, fashioned by no
human art ! — Nature's own home
made jewelery, that the wear 'of
centuries has failed to tarnish,
and the rage of tempests has been
powerless to destroy !
But the hour wanes while we
stand and admire ; the surf dashes
nearer and nearer to our feet;
soon, the sea will cover the sand,
and rush swiftly into the caves
where we have slowly crawled.
Already the Devil's Bellows is
at work — the jets of spray spout
forth from it with a roar. The
sea thunders louder and louder
in the Devil's Throat — we must
gain the cliffs while we have yet
time. The guide takes his leave ;
my companion unwillingly closes
his sketch-book ; and we slowly
asc6nd on our inland way to
gether — looking back often and
often, with no feigned regret, on
all that we are leaving behind
us at Kynance Cove.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE PILCHARD FISHERY.
If it so happened that a stran
ger in Cornwall went out to take
his first walk along the cliffs
towards the south of the country,
in the month of August, that
stranger could not advance far
in any direction without witness
ing what would strike him as a
very singular and alarming phe
nomenon. He would see a man
standing on the edge of a preci
pice, just over the sea, gesticu
lating in a very remarkable man
ner, with a bush in his hand,
waving it to the right and the
left, brandishing it over his head,
sweeping it past his feet; in
short, apparently acting the part
of a maniac of the most danger
ous description. It would add
considerably to the startling' effect
of this sight on the stranger
aforesaid, if he were told, while
beholding it, that the insane in
dividual before him was paid for
flourishing the bush at the rate
of a guinea a week. And if he,
thereupon, advanced a little to
obtain a nearer view of the-mad-
man, and then observed on the
sea below (as he certainly might)
a well-manned boat, turning care
fully to right and left exactly a3
the bush turned right and left, his
mystification would probably be
complete, and his ideas on the
sanity of the inhabitants of the
neighborhood would at least be
perplexed with grievous doubt.
But a few words of explana
tion would soon make him alter
his opinion. He would then learn
that the man with. the bush was an
important agent in tbe Pilchard .
Fishery of Cornwall ; that he had


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

77

just discovered a shoal of pilch
ards swimming towards the land ;
and that the men in the boat
were guided by his gesticulations
alone, in securing the fish on
which they and all their country
men on the coast depend for a
livelihood. To begin, however, with the
pilchards themselves, as forming
one of the staple commercial
commodities of Cornwall. They
may be, perhaps, best described
as bearing a very close resem
blance to the herring, but as
being rather smaller in size and
having larger scales. Where they
come from before they visit the
Cornish coast — where those that
escape the fishermen go to when
they quit it, is unknown ; or, at
best, only vaguely conjectured.
All that is certain about them is,
that they are met with, swimming
past the Scilly Isles, as early as
July (when they are caught with
a drift-net). They then advance
inland in August, during which
month the principal, or "in
shore," fishing begins ; visit dif
ferent parts of the coast until
October or November ; and after
that disappear until the next
year. They may be sometimes
caught off the south-west part of
Devonshire, and are occasionally
to be met with near the southern
most coast of Ireland; but be
yond these two points they are
never seen on any other portion
of the shores of Great Britain,
either before they approach Corn
wall, or after they have left it.
The first sight from the cliffs
of a shoal of pilchards advancing
towards the land, is not a little
interesting. They produce on the
sea the appearance of the shadow
of a dark cloud. This shadow

comes on, and on, until you can
see the fish leaping and playing
on the surface by hundreds at a
time, all huddled close together,
and all approaching so near to
the shore, that they can be always
caught in some fifty or sixty feet
of water. Indeed, on certain oc
casions, when the shoals are of
considerable magnitude, the fish
behind have been known to force
the fish before, literally up to the
beach, so that they could be taken
in buckets, or even in the hand
with the greatest ease. It is said
that they are thus impelled to
approach the land by precisely
the same necessity which impels
the fishermen to catch them as
they appear — the necessity of get
ting food.
With the discovery of the first
shoal, the active duties of the
"look-out" on the cliffs begin.
Each fishing-village places one or
more of these men on the watch
all round the coast. They are
called "huers," a word said to be
derived from the old French verb,
huer, to call out, to give an alarm.
On the vigilance and skill of the
"huer" much depends. He is,
therefore, notonly paid his guinea
a week while he is on the watch,
but receives, besides, a perquisite
in the shape of a per-centage on
the produce of all the fish taken
under his auspices. He is placed
at his post, where he can com
mand an uninterrupted view of
the sea, some days before the
pilchards are expected to appear ;
and, at the same time, boats, nets,
and men are all ready for action
at a moment's notice.
The principal boat Used is at
least fifteen tons in burden, and
carries a large net called the
" seine," which measures a hun-


78

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

dred and ninety fathoms in length,
and <osts a hundred and seventy
pounds — sometimes more. It is
simply one long strip, from
eleven to thirteen fathoms in
breadth, composed of very small
meshes, and furnished, all along
its length, with lead at one side
and corks at the other. The men
who cast this net are called the
" shooters," and receive eleven
shillings and sixpence a week,
and a perquisite of one basket of
fish each out of every haul.
As soon as the " huer" discerns
the first appearance of a shoal, he
waves his bush. The signal is
conveyed to th e beach immediately
by men and boys watching near
him. The "seine" boat (accom
panied by another small boat, to
assist in casting the net) is rowed
out where he can see it. Then
there is a pause, a hush of great
expectation on all sides. Mean
while, the devoted pilchards press
on — a compact mass of thousands
on thousands of fish, swimming
to meet their doom. All eyes
are fixed on the " huer ;" he
stands watchful and still until the
shoal is thoroughly embayed, in
water which he knows to be with
in the depth of the •' seine" net.
Then, as the fish begin to pause in
their progress, and gradually
crowd closer and closer together,
he gives the signal; the boats
come up, and the " seine" net is
cast, or, in the technical prhase,
" shot" overboard.
The grand object is now to en
close the entire shoal. The leads
sink one end of the net perpen
dicularly to the ground — the corks
buoy up the other to the surface
of the water. When it has been
taken all round the fish, the two
extremities are made fast, and the

shoal is then imprisoned within
an oblong barrier of net worksur-
rounding it on all sides. The
great art is to let as few of the
pilchards escape as possible, while
this process is being completed.
Whenever the "huer" observes
from above that they are startled,
and are separating at any particu
lar point, to that point he waves
his bush, thither the boat is
steered, and there the net is " shot"
at once. In what ever direction
the fish attempt to get out to sea
again, they are thus immediately
met and thwarted with extra
ordinary readiness and skill.
This labor completed, the silence
of intense expectation that has
hitherto prevailed among the
spectators on the cliff, is broken.
There is a great shout of joy on
all sides — the shoal is secured !
The " seine" is now regarded
as a great reservoir of fish. It
may remain in the water a week
or more. To secure it against
being moved from its position in
case a gale should come on, it is
warped by two or three ropes to
points of land in the cliff, and is
at the same time, contracted in
circuit, by its opposite ends being
brought together, and fastened
tight over a length of several
feet. While these operations are
in course of performance, another
boat, another set of men, and
another net (different in form
from the " seine") are approaching
the scene of action.
This new net is called the
"tuck;" it is smaller than the
"seine," inside which it is now to
be let down for the purpose of
bringing the fish closely collected
to the surface. The men who
manage this net are termed " reg
ular seiners." They receive ten


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

79

shillings a week, and the same
perquisite as the " shooters."
Their boat is first of all rowed
inside the seine-net, and laid close
to the seine-boat which remains sta
tionary outside, and to the bows of
which one rope at one end of the
"tuck" net is fastened. The "tuck"
boat then slowly makes the inner
circuit ofthe "seine," the smaller
net being dropped overboard as
she goes, and attached at intervals
to the larger. To prevent the fish
from getting between the two nets
during this operation, they are
frightened into the middle of the
enclosure by beating the water at
proper places, with oars, and
heavy stones fastened to ropes.
When the "tuck" net has at
length traveled round the whole
circle of the " seine," and is se
curely fastened . to the " seine"
boat, at the end as it was at the
beginning, every thing is ready
for the great event of the day —
the hauling of the fish to the sur
face. Now, the scene on shore and
sea rises to a prodigious pitch of
excitement. The merchants, to
whom the boats and nets belong,
and by whom the men are em
ployed, join the "huer" on the
cliff; all their friends follow them ;
boys shout, dogs bark madly ;
every little boat in the place puts
off crammed with idle specta
tors ; old men and women hobble
down to the beach to wait for the
news. The noise, the bustle, and
the agitation, increase every mo
ment. Soon the shrill cheering
of the boys is joined by the deep
voices of the "seiners." There
they stand, six or eight stalwart,
sunburnt fellows, ranged in a row
in the '' seine" boat, hauling with
all their might at the " tuck" net,

and roaring the regular nautical
"Yo-heave-ho!" in chorus! Higher
and higher rises the net, louder
and louder shout the boys and
the idlers. The merchant forgets
his dignity, and joins them ; the
"huer," so calm and collected
hitherto, loses his self-possession
and waves his cap triumphantly
— even you and I, reader, unin
itiated spectators though we are,
catch the infection, and cheer
away with the rest, as if our bread
depended on the event of the next
few minutes. " Hooray ! hooray 1
Yo-hoy, hoy, hoy! Pull away,
boys ! Up she comes ! Here they
are !" The water boils and eddies ;
the "tuck" net rises to the sur
face, and one teeming, convulsed
mass of shining, glancing, silvery
scales; one compact crowd of
thousands of fish, each one of
which is madly endeavoring to
escape, appears in an instant I <
The noise before, was as no
thing compared with the noise
now. Boats as large as barges
are pulled up in hot haste all
round the net; baskets are pro
duced by dozens; the fish are
dipped up in them, and shot out,
like coals out of a sack, into the
boats. Ere long, the men are up
to their ankles in pilchards ; they
jump upon the rowing benches
and work on, until the boats are
filled with fish as full as they can
hold, and the gunwales are within
two or three inches of the water.
Even yet, the shoal is not ex
hausted ; the " tuck" net must be
let down again and left ready for
a fresh haul, while the boats are
slowly propelled to the shore,
where we must join them without
delay. As soon as the fish are brought
to land, one set of men, bearing


80

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

capacious wooden shovels, jump in
amongthem; and another set bring
large hand-barrows close to the
side of the boat, into which the pil
chards are thrown with amazing
rapidity. This operation proceeds
without ceasing for a moment. As
soon as one barrow is ready to be
carried to the salting-house, ano
ther is waiting to be filled. When
this labor is performed by night
— which is often the case — the
scene becomes doubly picturesque.
The men with the shovels, stand :
ing up to their knees in pilchards,
working energetically; the crowd
stretching down from the salting-
house, across the beach, and hem
ming in the boat all round ; the
uninterrupted succession of men
hurrying backwards and forwards
with their barrows, through a
narrow way, kept clear for them
in the throng; the glare of the
lanterns giving light to the work
men, and throwing red flashes on
the fish as they fly incessantly
from the shovels over the side of
the boat, all combine together to
produce such a series of striking
contrasts, such a moving picture
of bustle and animation, as not
even the most careless of specta
tors could ever forget.
Having watched the progress
of affairs on the shore, we next
proceed to the salting-house, a
quadrangular structure of granite,
well-roofed in all round the sides,
but open to the sky in the middle.
Here, we must prepare ourselves
to be bewildered by incessant con
fusion and noise; for here are as
sembled all the women and girls
in the district, piling up the pil
chards on layers of salt, at three
pence an hour ; to which remun
eration, a glass of brandy and a
piece of bread and cheese are hos

pitably added at every sixth hour
by way of refreshment. It is a
service of some little hazard to
enter this place at all. There are
men rushing out with empty bar
rows, and men rushing in with
full barrows, in almost perpetual
succession. However, while we
are waiting for an opportunity to
slip through the doorway, we may
amuse ourselves by watching a
very curious ceremony which is
constantly in course of perform
ance outside it.
As the filled barrows are going
into the salting-house, we observe
a little urchin running bjr the side
of them, and hitting their edges
with a long cane, in a constant
succession of smart strokes, until
they are fairly carried through
the gate, when he quickly returns
to perform the same office for the
next series that arrive. The ob
ject of this apparently unaccount
able proceeding is soon practically
illustrated by a group of children,
hovering about the entrance of
the salting-house, who every now
and then dash resolutely up to the
barrows, and endeavor to seize on
as many fish as they can take
away at one snatch. It is under
stood to be their privilege to keep
as many pilchards as they can get
in this way by their dexterity, in
spite of a liberal allowance of
strokes aimed at their hands ; and
their adroitness richly deserves
its reward. Vainly does the boy
officially entrusted with the ad
ministration of the cane, strike
the sides of the barrow with ma
lignant smartness and persever
ance — fish are snatched away with
lightning rapidity and pickpocket
neatness of hand. The hardest
rap over the knuckles fails to
daunt the sturdy little assailants*


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

81

Howling with pain, they dash up
to the next barrow that passes
them, with unimpaired resolu
tion; and often collect their ten
or a dozen fish a piece, in an
hour or two. No description can
do justice to the " Jack-in-Office"
importance of the boy with the
cane, as he flourishes it about
ferociously in the full enjoyment
of his vested right to castigate
his companions as often as he
can. As an instance of the early
development of the tyrannic ten
dencies of human nature, it is, in
a philosophical point of view,
quite unique.
But now, while we have a
chance, while the doorway is ac
cidentally clear for a few mo
ments, let us enter the salting-
house, and approach the noisiest
and most amusing of all the
scenes which the pilchard fishery
presents. First of all, we pass a
great heap of fish lying in one
recess inside the door, and an
equally great heap of coarse,
brownish salt lying in another.
Then we advance farther, get out
of the way of everybody, behind
a pillar, and see a whole 'congre
gation of the fair sex screaming,
talking, and — to their honor be
it spoken — working at the same
time, round a compact mass of
pilchards which their nimble
hands have already built up to a
height of three feet, a breadth
of more than four, and a length
of twenty. Here we have every
variety of the " female type" dis
played before us, ranged round
an odoriferous heap of salted fish.
Here, we see crones of sixty and
girls of sixteen ; the ugly and the
lean, the comely and the plump ;
the sour-tempered and the sweet
—all squabbling, singing, jesting,

lamenting, and shrieking at the
very top of their shrill voices for
"more fish," and "more salt;"
both of which are brought from
the stores, in small buckets, by a
long train of children running
backwards and forwards with un
ceasing activity and in inextri
cable confusion. But, universal
as the uproar is, the work never
flags ; the hands move as fast as
the tongues; there may be no
silence and no discipline, but
there is also no idleness and no
delay. Never was three-pence an
hour more joyously or more fairly
earned than it is here !
The labor is thus performed.
After the stone floor has been
swept clean, a thin layer of salt
is spread on it, and covered with
pilchards laid partly edgewise, .
and close together. Then ano
ther layer of salt, smoothed fine
with the palm of the hand, is
laid over the pilchards; and then
more pilchards are placed upon
that ; and so on until the heap
rises to four feet or more. No
thing can exceed the ease, quick
ness, and regularity with which
this is done. Each woman works
on her own small area, without
reference to her neighbor; 'a
bucketful of salt and a buck
etful of fish being shot out
in two little piles under her
hands, for her own especial use.
All proceed in their labor, how
ever, with such equal diligence
and equal skill, that no irregu
larities appear in the various lay
ers when they are finished — they
run as straight and smooth from
one end to the other, as if they
were constructed by machinery.
The heap, when completed, looks
like a long, solid, neatly made
mass of dirty salt ; nothing being


82

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

now seen of the pilchards but
the extreme tips of their noses
or tails, just peeping out in rows,
up the sides of the pile.
Having now inspected the pro
gress of the pilchard fishery, from
the catching to the curing, we
have seen all that we can person
ally observe of its different pro
cesses, at one opportunity. What
more remains to be done, will not
be completed until after an inter
val of several weeks. We must
be content to hear about this
from information given to us by
others. Yonder, sitting against
the outside wall of the salting-
house, is an intelligent old man,
too infirm now to do more than
take care of the baby that he
holds in his arms, while the
baby's mother is earning her
three-pence an hour inside. To
this ancient we will address all
our inquiries; and he is well
qualified to answer us, for the
poor old fellow has prematurely
worked away all the pith and
marrow of his life in the pilch
ard fishery.
The fish — as we learn from our
old friend, who is mightily pleased
to be asked for information — will
remain in salt, or, as the technical
expression is, " in bulk," for five
or six weeks. During this pe
riod, a quantity of oil, salt, and
water drips from them into wells
cut in the centre of the stone
floor on which they are placed.
After the oil has been collected
and clarified, it will sell for
enough to pay off the whole ex
pense of the wages, food, and
drink given to the " seiners " —
perhaps, for some other incidental
charges besides. The salt and
water left behind, and offal of all
eorts found with it, furnish a va

luable manure. Nothing in the
pilchard itself, or in connection
with the pilchard, runs to waste
— the precious little fish is a
treasure in every part of him.
After the pilchards have been
taken out of " bulk," they are
washed in clean salt water, and
packed in hogsheads, which are
then sent for exportation to some
large sea-port — Penzance, for in
stance — in coast traders. The
fish reserved for use in Cornwall,
are generally cured by those who
purchase them. The export trade
is confined to the shores of the
Mediterranean — Italy and Spain
providing the two great foreign
markets for pilchards. The home
consumption, as regards Great
Britain, is nothing, or next to
nothing. Some variation takes
place in the prices realized by the
foreign trade — their average,
wholesale, is stated to be about
fifty shillings per hogshead.
As an investment for money,
on a small scale, the pilchard
fishery offers the first great ad
vantage of security. The only
outlay necessary, is that for pro
viding boats and nets, and build
ing salting-houses — an outlay
which, it is calculated, may be
covered by a thousand pounds.
The profits resulting from the
speculation are immediate and
large. Transactions are managed
on the ready-money principle,
and the markets of Italy and
Spain (where pilchards are con
sidered a great delicacy) are al
ways open to any supply. The
fluctuation between a good sea
son's fishing and a bad season's
fishing is rarely, if ever, seriously
great. Accidents happen but
seldom ; the casualty most dread
ed, being the enclosure of a large


84

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

tongues are wagging_ incessantly
with the chit-chat of the nine
teenth century? — Certainly not!
Then, once again, for your own
sakes, keep silence !
Intelligent and orderly public !
I respectfully beg leave to com
municate that we are now about
to exhibit a short series of histori
cal pictures of the far-famed
St. Michael's Mount, Cornwall,
through the approved modern
medium of dissolving views.
These views will display some
thing of the earlier history of the
Mount, and something of the
later. You will find them, as
pictures, quite a superior article
compared to the pictures you are
accustomed to see at the Royal
Academy. Here, every thing
moveable that we present to you,
moves as it does in Nature.
Here, you may not only see the
javelin uplifted in the hunter's
hand, but, just at the right mo
ment, and in the most approved
ancient fashion, see it thrown, too !
Here, our figures will nimbly
walk and distinctly speak — here,
on our landscapes, shadows will
shift, clouds will change, tides
will ebb and flow — nay, in refer
ence to the excellence of our
scenery, I may state even more
than this ; I may safely prophesy
(so far do we carry the power of
'illusion) that when the wind is
supposed to be blowing from the
North-north-east, you will actu
ally perceive the leaves of our
trees all fluttering together, in one
direction towards the South-
south-west !
But the bell is ringing for the
first dissolving view. I have only
time to tell you that I shall ex
plain every thing, as every thing
goes on. You, gentlemen of the

orchestra, who have been pro
vided, regardless of expense, to
supply appropriate music, take
up the cithara, or lute, and the
Pan's-pipes — the earliest known
instruments. We are about to
go back into the remotest regions
of antiquity; play a barbaric
strain, therefore, as loud as you
possibly can. And now, silence,
silence, silence !
# * # *
The first picture dawns through
the darkness — dimly enough, just
yet. But now, the colors brighten ;
and as objects grow clearer) and
clearer, we behold this scene: A
wide bay sweeping in one grand
semi-circle from the foreground
to the distance of the view ; with
hills rising all along the shore,
thickly wooded almost to the
water's edge.
The tide is flowing — the sea
runs heavy. Behold it, dashing
against what appears to be an
island, a furlong or two away
from the mainland — an island
close in the foreground, towering
up to a point in the shape of a
beautiful natural pyramid. This
is the place that we moderns
know as St. Michael's Mount ; the
bay round it is what we call
Mount's Bay.
But these were the names of an
after' time; they were not thought
of at the period which the picture
we now examine is intended to
illustrate. Look forth searchingly
over the view, and you will guess
what this period is. You see no
large towns, no neat villages, no
fertile fields: here and there, a
few miserable hits peep out
among trees, briars, and weeds:
yonder, in that wood, men clothed
in rough skins, and brandishing
rude, heavy javelins, are hunting


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

85

the wild boar and the wolf. It is
England, during England's dark
est age, that we now behold.
We are carried back over long
past centuries to a long past
period, before the time when the
first Cassar landed as a conqueror
on the shores of Britain.
Fix your eyes again on the
island. See how bare and deso
late are the rugged granite rocks,
starting into huge, wild forms,
and rising all around, up to its
summit. No sign of a habitation
appears on any part of it, save at
one , corner, low down near the
beach, where two or three coarse,
clumsy structures are visible,
made of mud and wattles, and
propped up at certain places by
slabs Of unhewn granite. Below
these, a rude pier runs out into
the sea, and forms, with an acci
dental projection of the land
opposite, a snug little haven,
where a few boats might run for
refuge. Now, look closer yet at
this part of the island, and you
will see that it is alive with hu
man beings. Men with long
elfish hair hanging over their
shoulders ; men rough in gesture
and savage in feature, armed with
bow and arrow, spear and shield,
are hurrying impatiently back
wards and forwards, or standing
vigilantly on the watch. Where
fore this haste and confusion on
one side, and this anxiety and
attention on the other ?
Turn once more towards the
sea. Behold, in the offing, labor
ing heavily in the swell, a little
fleet of vessels making for the
land. They are all formed on the
same strange, unwieldy model;
carved dragons' heads rise from
their gxudily -pain ted bows; their

clumsy sails flap against the clum
sier masts; rows of oars appear
all along their sides, rising and
falling in long, regular strokes.
Now, as they approach the island,
rolling perilously with every
wave, we see armed men on deck,
collected together on a platform
above the rowers; and now, as
the vessels near the harbor, the
larger are hove to, while the
smaller proceed until they touch
the sides of the rude wooden pier.
Then, the men on shore shout in
token of exultation and welcome.
The men from the vessels advance,
meanwhile, in good order, to meet
them; some carry heavy pack
ages, others -march as guards by
their companions' sides. When
the two parties meet together, a
scene of confusion ensues. Signs
and gestures are exchanged, some
times abruptly varied, sometimes
repeated over and over again :
words of anger and impatience are
spoken in two different languages;
weapons are even raised, threaten
ingly. At last the tumult is
calmed ; the men of the island
run to their mud-huts, and drag
forth from them heavy ingots of
tin which they carry down to the
men from the vessels, and receive
in return the packages whj.ch
these last have brought ashore
with them; packages containing
salt, earthenware, and metal uten
sils. When the men of the island
begin to examine closely the goods
they have received in barter, it
soon becomes evident that they
have not had the best of the bar
gain. They quarrel among each
other, and howl menacingly after
the men from the vessels, who, on
their part, care little for threats,
and carry off their merchandise,


86

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

confident in their good discipline,
and triumphing insolently in their
superior sagacity and skill.
But now, ere we can follow
them as they join once more their
fleet outside, the whole view softly
and slowly begins to dissolve —
the first picture exists no longer !
You have just been made ac
quainted with the earliest passage
in the history of St. Michael's
Mount, when the place was used
by the ancient British tribes as a
deposit for the tin they drew from
the Cornish mines, and the ad
venturous Phoenicians — the great
merchants and colonists of the
old world — traded to it to barter
their goods for the metal which
our savage ancestors had already
learnt to find in the earth of their
native land.
* * * *
So much for our first picture !
The second will be very different,
and will illustrate some of the
customs of a very different age.
Now, let the attendant music
cease the barbarian strain, and
change to sonorous chaunts and
solemn masses, pealed out grandly
with the organ's fullest power;
for these sounds alone may fitly
accompany the second view, which
already brightens through the
darkness, in the place left vacant
by the' first.
Again we have the Mount and
the. Bay; but under altered as
pects. The tide is ebbing; the
sea is calm ; the island of the
last picture appears an island no
longer; we see a narrow cause
way — visible only at low water —
which joins it to the shore. The
clustering woods are thinned in
certain places : the mud huts are
succeeded by cottages and farm
houses, solidly constructed of

stone and surrounded by corn
fields. Such peasants as we can
observe, are neatly, though
coarsely, clad. The accoutre
ments of those armed men whom
we see near yonder fortress —
built where briars grew thick,
and wolves skulked for refuge
heretofore — are of glittering steel,
complete at all points. The man
ners and customs of Englishmen
have changed now; and many
features of the landscape have
changed with them.
Turn towards the causeway
that joins the Mount and the
shore. What procession is that
moving slowly over it from the
land? Men and women of all
ages — even little children — form
the throng. Long grey gowns
clothe them, whitened with the
dust of travel: shells and little
leaden images are sewn round
their broad hats ; crosses, fastened
to rows of beads, fall over their
breasts; their leader carries a large
crucifix, elevated on high. Hark!
as they advance, they all chaunt
in unison a solemn and sacred
strain. The peasants watching
them, uncover their heads reve
rently, and the peasants' wives
and children kneel and cross
themselves as they pass. What
is this procession? and whither
is it bound ?
Look up to the Mount. Be
hold, where the naked granite
alone rose before, a chapel with a
tower, built on the pinnacle of
the eminence, and a range of
buildings by its side ; both su
perb with the massive adornments
of Saxon archetecture, and both
rising like crowns of beauty on
the noble summit of the Mount.
See, on that stone terrace before
the chapel, which overlooks the


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

87

causeway, a row of men in black
robes, with the sign of the cross
worked on them. Here the
music of the organ rising su
blimely, and mingling with the
chaunt of the advancing proces
sion, as it already begins to toil
up the steep ascent. Now, while
the foremost ranks approach the
terrace, one man steps forth
from his brethren who stand
there, and speaks, holding up a
crucifix in his hand. His words,
as he addresses those beneath
him, fall slowly and distinctly
from his lips. He tells his au
dience that here, on the pinnacle
of the Mount, the Archangel
Michael first descended to earth ;
he commends them for coming
from afar to visit the holy place ;
he promises remission of their
sins, by the authority which he
and his brethren hold from the
Apostles of Christ, to all who
have journeyed to St. Michael's
Chapel for religion's sake. W'hen
he ceases, the pealing of the
organ swells louder and louder
on the air, and the members of
the throng below kneel together,
bareheaded, on the earth. As
the robed Abbot, who has just
addressed them, stretches out his
hands over the whole assembly
and speaks the blessing of the
Church, the scene fades, darkens,
vanishes ; and this view dissolves
in its turn, as the last dissolved
before it. You have just beheld
the Mount as it was in the eleventh
century, when the shrines of re
ligion grew many in the land —
as it was when King Edward the
Confessor gave the place to the
Benedictine monks, and when
pilgrims journeyed to it reverent
ly from all parts of our native
country.

Hush ! the music is clanging
again, ere the third picture ap
pears. The drum and trumpet
now sound the inspiring music
of war ; we are about to advance
to a time of fierce passions and
intestine strife; to the eventful
seventeenth century, and the reign
of Charles the First of England.
See how differently the Mount
dawns upon us for the third time !
Since it was first consecrated as
a place of worship, it has been
fortified as a place of strength.
The chapel still remains, but the
solemn notes of the organ sound
from it no longer. The monas
tery by its side has changed its
character ; the Benedictine monks
have been all driven from it years
on years ago; its walls are loop-
holed and bristling with guns;
strong towers are built, at inter
vals, all around it. We have the
castle now, where we had the
priory before. From this fort
ress the brilliant and ill-fated
adventurer, Perkin Warbeck,
started to try his last vain strug
gle for the crown of England.
Here he left his nobly -born and
beautiful wife to await the tri
umph whieh he was never destined
to achieve. Long years of
struggle and slaughter have
passed over the Mount since we
last beheld the peaceful throng
of pilgrims climbing to its sum
mit: and those years are not
ended yet. The bloody track
that rebellion has traced over it
in past centuries, rebellion is still
destined to renew.
Look at the crowd around and
within the fortress. We see
nobles and soldiers where we
last saw pilgrims and monks.
How brightly the polished mori-


88

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

ons reflect the sun! how gaily
plumes and ribbons flutter in the
soft genial breezes of a calm day
on the Cornish coast! What
hilarity and enthusiasm pervade
all ranks ! every man is a royalist
here. In the great struggle be
tween Charles the First and the
Parliament of England, Cornwall
has taken the loyal side. Already
during the past year, the king
has acknowledged its services by
writing a public letter of thanks
to the county, dated from his
camp at Sudely Castle ; and now
he himself is in Cornwall, to en
courage his adherents in person ;
sturdy miners and peasants gather
by hundreds to fight for the
throne; a victory has been
achieved; the king has beaten
the rebel Essex; the insurgents
are driven out of the county ;
and St. Michael's Mount is garri
soned by the royalists, as one of
their principal strongholds in the
West. Remark that little group stand
ing apart from the crowd, at one
extremity of the fortress ; every
eye is turned to it, partly in eager
curiosity, partly in deep respect ;
— the persons composing it are
silent just now — all stand with
uncovered heads but one ; this
man is of grave and noble bear
ing ; his dress is of darker color,
and has less ornaments than the
dresses of the rest; mournfulness
rests like a shadow on his hand
some, refined features; his dark,
gentle, melancholy eyes are fixed
ontheseathatliessmmothand fair
before them in the sunlight ; there
may be now and then a slight trem
bling on his lips, but he does not
speak. Not one of those around
him utters a word, or moves to
depart. His fow moments of

sorrowful thought are sacred mo
ments in their estimation : and
well they may be, for this man,
who is looking on the bright sea
and thinking as he looks, is the
most ill-fated of his ill-fated race
— he is Charles the First !
The King has already remained
in Cornwall a month, from Au
gust to September, 1644. Having
obliged the army of Essex to re
treat, he is now about to depart,
leaving the county in the entire
possession of the Royalists. See !
he rouses himself at length from
his reflections-^-bitter reflections
on all that has happened of blood
shed among brethren, and on all
that may happen yet; and ad
dresses himself to one of his
adherents standing near. This
gentleman is Sir Francis Basset,
Sheriff of Cornwall, and to him
the King speaks his last words
at parting : — " Mr. Sheriff, I now
leave the county entirely at peace
in your hands." He then waves
a farewell to the rest, and passes
slowly out of the fortress. The
Cornish Volunteers raise a great
shout of enthusiasm, as he goes,
and swear to defend the Mount
against the armies of the Parlia
ment to the last drop of their
blood. The King bows in ac
knowledgment of their attach
ment; but the grieving, care
worn expression does not leave
his countenance. Is it that the
fatal destiny in store for him is
even now darkly heralding its
approach by some secret pre
sentiment that weighs on his
heart ? Is it that his mind bit
terly compares the storm of re
bellion that is wasting the best
blood in the land, with the lovely
calm of Nature that he has just
seen reposing over the landscape


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

89

of that land? Who shall say?
He speaks no word more as he
descends the Mount; — he hides
his thoughts-^perhaps in mercy
hides them, — from the devoted
men around him, who are still
to die, and die vainly, in his
cause !
The tide is at the flow as the
King reaches the foot of the
Mount and prepares to embark
for the main land. He pauses
for a moment ere he steps into
the boat, again to thank his
Cornish friends for their loyalty,
in few but kind words, and then
gives the signal to proceed. The
towers of the fortress above are
crowded with spectators, anx
iously watching his progress.
He touches the shore at the
town of Marazion, where a great
concourse of armed men is as
sembled to meet him. There he
mounts his horse, and rides for
ward slowly a few paces; — then
those men in the fortress whose
eyesight is keenest, observe that
he stops, wheels round, and looks
once more, with a sorrowful at
tention, as they fancy, towards
his trusty garrison and the sun-
bright sea beyond.
Viewing this, and remembering
too the royal letter of thanks to
the Volunteers in the West, the
Cornish wave their caps to a man,
and renew their shouting with
tenfold enthusiasm. From the
distance their cheering voices
sound clear and musical on the
ear of the doomed monarch, as
he turns again, and sets forth in
earnest to leave Cornwall: still,
as long as he is in sight, the
burly miners and peasants sus
tain their cry of " Long live the
King I" and still the martial mu-
Bic in the fortress joins them

gaily ! Little do those hardy ad
herents of a fatal cause think
how soon the man whom they
thus delight to honor, shall die
forsaken under the headsman's
hands ! Little do they now ima
gine that Charles's letter of
thanks shall soon be all that
remains of him to his faithful
Cornish subjects — the one pre
cious relic, the honored words
of the dead, which they shall
hand down from generation to
generation, in after years ; which
they still copy and hang up on
the walls of the Cornish churches,
as an heirloom for the whole
county to reverence and pre
serve !
Fade, fade fast, fleeting picture
of the prosperity of a few hours !
fade, while the royal train is still
in sight and still brilliant to look
on ; while the brave men in the
fortress keep their stronghold,
though but for a little time, in
triumph ! Fade, as the evening
sun is already fading on St.
Michael's Mount; and as the de
ceitful sun of prosperity shall
soon fade on the fortunes of
Charles the First!
****** Let us now prepare for the
last view — to our modern sympa
thies, perhaps the most interest
ing of all — the view of St.
Michael's Mount as it is in our
own time. Away with the mar
tial music, and all the thrilling
and gloomy associations arising
with it! Pour forth a thanks
giving psalm of prosperity, awake
joyously the pleasant harmonies
of peace, touch the strings to the
simple melody of the ballad, or
the lively measure of the dance ;
and thus fitly herald a picture of
industry and security, — a picture


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

91

on the quay beneath them. And,
in place of the procession of pil
grims, with their sad - colored
dresses and solemn order of march,
what have we got now ? A com
pany of excursionists from a re
mote inland district of the county,
who have clubbed together to pay
a holiday visit to St. Michael's
Mount, and look at the pilchard
fishery in the bay — a happy set
of home tourists of all ages, from
the child who is running himself
out of breath up the steep path to
the ancient chapel, to the heavy
old gentleman who picks his steps
with slow discretion, pokes loose
stones out of his way with his
stick, and talks laboriously about
Cornish antiquities to everybody
around him, whether they will
hear him or not.
Do you look with satisfaction
on this our last view, albeit less
striking and less dramatic than
the rest. Here, it is true, you see
nothing to excite your curiosity,
like the ancient Britons trading
with their tin — nothing to impress
your imagination, like the black-
robed Benedictines and the train
of pilgrims kneeling before them
— nothing to move your national
sympathies to the quick, like an
episode in the Civil War of the
time of Charles the First. But
does not the homely picture of
prosperous labor and innocent re
creation, now before you — drawn
faithfully from the life — harmon
ize most completely, after all,
with the lovely prospect of natural
scenery which has formed the
common basis of our four Views ?
Concluding with the spectacle of a
people at peace, and of the indus
try and ease which peace brings
with it, we conclude with the spec-
.tacle of St. Michael's Mount, which

is the best of all that have been
shown ; for it is the only one of
them that we could fairly and
safely desire to see continued in
the reality, unchanged !
But the last picture is fading,
though more softly and slowly
than the rest ; and with it, while
it disappears, the showman of the
present Exhibition takes his leave.
If he has been able to interest his
audience a little about St. Michael's
Mount, and to invest it for any of
them — should they ever visit it
themselves — with something of
that additional attraction which
local association can impart to the
charms of beautiful scenery — why
then, he has amply and happily
fulfilled his purpose in endeavor
ing to afford them a Glance at
History through Dissolving Views.

CHAPTER X.
THE LAND'S END.
Something like what Jerusa
lem was to the pilgrim in the
Holy Land, the Land's End is —
to compare great things with
small — to the tourist in Cornwall.
It is the grand and final object
of his journey — the Cornish Ul
tima Thule where his progress
stops — the shrine towards which
his face has been set, from the
first day when he started on his
travels — the main vent, through
which all the pent-up enthusiasm
accumulated along .the line of
route is to burst its way out, in
one long flow of admiration and
delight. The Land's End! There
is something*in the very words
that stirs us all. It was the name


92

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

that struck us most, and was best
remembered by us, as children,
when we learnt our geography.
It fills the minds of imaginative
people with visions of barrenness
and solitude, with dreams of some
lonely promontory, far away by
itself out in the sea — just the sort
of place where the last man in
England would be most likely to
be found waiting for death, at the
end of the world! It suggests
even to the most prosaically con
stituted people, ideas of tremend
ous storms, of flakes of foam fly
ing over the land before the wind,
of billows in convulsion, of rocks
shaken to their centre, of caves
where smugglers lurk in ambush,
of wrecks and hurricanes, desola
tion, danger, and death. It awa
kens curiosity in the most care
less — once hear of it, and you
long to see it — tell, your friends
that you have traveled in Corn
wall, and ten thousand chances
to one, the first question they
ask is : — " Have you been to the
Land's End?"
And yet, strange to say, this
spot so singled out and set apart
by our imaginations as something
remarkable and even unique of
its kind, is positively and as a
matter of fact, not distinguish
able from any part of the coast
on either side of it, by any local
peculiarity whatever. If you de
sire really and truly to stand on
the Land's End itself, you must
ask your way to it, or you are in
danger of mistaking any one of
the numerous promontories on
your right hand and your left,
for your actual place of destina
tion. But I am anticipating. Be
fore I say more about the Land's
End, the common proprieties of
narration bid me say something

about how my companion and I
got there, and what we saw that
was interesting and characteristic
on our road.
The reader may perhaps re
member that he last left us
scrambling out of reach of the
tide, up the cliffs overlooking
Kynance Cove. From that place
we got back to Helston in mist
and rain, just as we had left it.
From Helston we walked to Ma-
razion, — stopping there to take
the views of St. Michael's Mount,
exhibited in the last chapter —
ffom Marazion to Penzance, from
Penzance to the beautiful coast
scenery at Lamorna Cove, and
thence to Trereen, celebrated
throughout Cornwall as the halt
ing place for a visit to one of
Cornwall's greatest curiosities —
the Loggan Stone.
This far-famed rock rises on
the top of a bold promontory of
granite, jutting far out into the
sea, spliting into the wildest
forms, and towering precipit
ously to a height of a hundred
feet. When you reach the Log
gan Stone, after some, little climb
ing up perilous-looking places,
you see a solid, irregular mass of
granite, which is computed to
weigh eighty-five tons, resting by
its centre only, on a flat, broad rock,
which, in its turn, rests on sev
eral others stretching out around
it on all sides. You are told by
the guide to turn your back to
the uppermost stone; to place
your shoulders under one parti
cular part of its lower edge, which
is entirely disconnected, all round,
with the supporting rock below ;
and in this position to push up
wards slowly and steadily, then
to leave off again for an instant,
then to push once more, and so


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

93

on, until after a few moments of
exertion, you feel the whole im
mense mass above you moving as
you press against it. You redouble
your efforts, then turn round and
see the massy Loggan Stone, set
in motion by nothing but your
own pair of shoulders, slowly
rocking backwards and forwards
with an alternate ascension and
declension, at the outer edges, of
at least three inches. You have
treated eighty -five tons of granite
like a child's cradle ; and, like a
child's cradle, those eighty-five
tons have rocked at your will !
The pivot on which the Log
gan Stone is thus easily moved,
is a small protrusion in its base,
on all sides of which the whole
surrounding weight of rock is, by
an accident of Nature, so exactly
equalized, as to keep it poised in the
nicest balance on the one little
point in its lower surface which
rests on the flat granite slab be
neath. But perfect as this balance
appears at present, it has lost some
thing, the merest hair's breadth,
of its original faultlessness of ad
justment. The rock is not to be
moved now, either so easily or so
much, as it could once be moved.
Six-and-twenty years since, it was
overthrown by artificial means;
and was then liftdd again into its
former position. This is the story
of the affair, as it was related to
me by a man who was an eye
witness of the process of restoring
the stone to its proper place.
In the year 1824, a certain
Lieutenant . in the Royal Navy,
then in command of a cutter sta
tioned off the southern coast of
Cornwall, was told of an ancient
Cornish prophecy, that no human
power should ever succeed in over
turning the Loggan Stone. No

sooner was the prediction com
municated to him, than he con
ceived a morbid and mischievous
ambition to falsify practically an
assertion which the commonest
common sense might have inform
ed him had sprung from nothing
but popular error and popular
superstition. Accompanied by a
body of picked men from his crew,
he ascended to the Loggan Stone,
ordered several levers to be placed
under it at one point, gave the
word to " heave," and the next
moment had the miserable satis
faction of seeing one of the most
remarkable natural curiosities in
the world utterly destroyed, for
aught he could foresee to the con
trary, under his own directions !
But Fortune befriended the
Loggan Stone. One edge of it,
as it rolled over, became fixed by
a lucky chance in a crevice in
the rocks immediately below the
granite slab from which it had
been started. Had this not hap
pened, it must have fallen over a
sheer precipice, and been lost in
the sea. By another accident,
equally fortunate, two laboring
men at work in the neighborhood,
were led by curiosity secretly to
follow the Lieutenant and his
myrmidons up to the Stone.
Having witnessed, from a secure
hiding-place, all that occurred,
the two workmen, with great
propriety, immediately hurried
off to inform the lord ofthe manor
of the wanton act of destruction
that they had seen perpetrated.
The news was soou communi
cated throughout the district, and
thence, throughout all Cornwall.
The indignation of the whole
country was aroused. Antiqua
ries, who believed the Loggan
Stone to have been balanced by


94

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

the Druids ; philosophers who
held that it was produced by an
eccentricity of natural formation ;
ignorant people, who cared no
thing about Druids, or natural
formations, but who liked to
climb up and rock the stone
whenever they passed near it ;
tribes of guides who lived by
showing it; innkeepers in the
neighborhood, to whom it had
brought customers by hundreds ;
tourists of every degree who were
on their way to see it — all joined
in one general clamor of execra
tion against the overthrower of
the rock. A full report of the
affair was forwarded to the Ad
miralty ; and the Admiralty, for
once, acted vigorously for the
public advantage, and mercifully
spared the public purse.
The Lieutenant was officially
informed that his commission was
in danger, unless he set up the
Loggan Stone again in its proper
place. The materials for com
passing this achievement were
offered to him, gratis, from the
Dock Yards ; but he was left to
his own resources to defray the
expense of employing workmen
to help him. Being by this time
awakened to a proper sense of the
mischief he had done, and to a
tolerably strong conviction of the
disagreeable position in which he
was placed with the Admiralty,
he addressed himself vigorously
to the task of repairing his fault.
Strong beams were planted about
the Loggan Stone, chains were
passed round it, pulleys were
rigged, and capstans were manned.
After a week's hard work and
brave perseverance on the part
* of every one employed in the
labor, the rock was pulled back
into its forme:' position, but not

into its former perfection of bal
ance: it has never moved since
as freely as it moved before.
It is only fair to the Lieutenant
to add to the narrative of his
mischievous frolic the fact that he
defrayed, though a poor man, all
the heavy expenses of replacing
the rock. Just before his death,
he paid the last remaining debt:
and paid it with interest.
Leaving the Loggan Stone, we
next shaped our course for the
Land's End. We stopped on our
way, to admire the desolate pile
of rocks and caverns which form,
the towering promontory, called
" Tol-Peden-Penwith," or, "The
Holed Headland on the Left."
Thence, turning a little inland,.
passing over wild, pathless moors;
occasionally catching distant
glimpses ofthe sea, with the mist
sometimes falling thick down to
the very edges of the waves;
sometimes parting mysteriously
and discovering distant crags of
granite rising shadowy out of the
foaming waters, — we reached, at
last, the limits of our outward
journey, and saw the Atlantic
before us, rolling against the
westernmost extremity of the
shores of England.
I have already said, that the
stranger must ask his way before
he can find out the particular
mass of rocks, geographically
entitled to the appellation of the
"Land's End." He may, how
ever, easily discover when he has
reached the district of the " Land's
End," by two rather remarkable
indications that he will meet with
on his road. He will observe, at
some distance from the coast, an
old milestone, marked "I," and
will be informed that this is the
real original first mile in Eng-


96

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

White sand, on which the yet
whiter foam of the surf is ever
seething, as waves on waves break
altogether, in long and regular
order, one behind the other. The
whole bold view possesses all the
sublimity that vastness and space
can bestow; but it is that subli
mity which is to be seen, not de
scribed, which the heart may ac
knowledge and the mind contain,
but which no mere words may
delineate, which even painting it-
Self may but faintly reflect.
However, it is, after all, the
walk to the Land's End along the
southern coast, rather than the
Land's End itself, which displays
the grandest combinations of sce
nery in which this grandest part
of Cornwall abounds. There Na
ture appears in her most trium
phant glory and beauty — there,
every mile, as you proceed, offers
some new prospect, or awakens
some fresh impression. All ob
jects that you meet with, great
and small, moving and motionless,
seem united in perfect harmony
to form a scene which presents a
wild primeval aspect — a scene
where original images might still
be found by the poet ; and where
original pictures are waiting,
ready composed, for the painter's
eye. On approaching the wondrous
landscapes between Trereen and
the Land's End, the first charac
teristic that strikes you, is the
change that has taken place in the
forms of the cliffs since you left
the Lizard Head. You no longer
look on variously shaped and va
riously colored " serpentine "
rocks ; it is granite, and granite
alone, that you see everywhere —
granite, less lofty and less eccen
tric in form than the " serpentine"

cliffs and crags; but presenting
an appearance of adamantine so
lidity and strength, a mighty
breadth of outline and an un
broken vastness of extent, nobly
and impressively adapted to the
purpose of protecting the shores
of Cornwall, where they are most
exposed to the fury of the Atlan
tic waves. In these wild districts,
the sea rolls and roars in fiercer
agitation than ever; and the mists
fall thicker, and at the same time
fade and change faster, than else
where. Vessels, pitching heavily
in the waves, are seen to dawn, at
one moment, in. the clearing at
mosphere — and then, at another,
to fade again mysteriously, as it
abruptly thickens, like phantom
ships. Up on the tops of tbe
cliffs, furze and heath in brilliant
clothing of purple and yellow;
cluster close round great white,
weird masses of rock, dotted fan
tastically with patches of grey-
green moss. The solitude of these
heights is unbroken — no houses
are^ to be seen — often, no pathway
is to be found. You go on,
guided by the sight of the sea,
when the sky brightens fitfully ;
and by the sound of the sea, when
you stray instinctively from the
edge of the cliff) as mist and dark
ness gather once more densely
and solemnly all around you.
Then, when you discover a
path again — a winding path, that
descends rapidly — you gradually
enter on a new scene. Oid horses
startle you, scrambling into peril
ous situations, to pick dainty bits
hj the hill side ; sheep, fettered
by the fore and hind leg, hobble
away desperately as you advance.
Suddenly, you discern a small
strip of beach shut in snugly
between protecting rocks. A


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

97

spring bubbles down from an
inland valley. Not far off/an old
stone well collects the water into
a calm, clear pool — sturdy little
cottages, built .of rough granite,
and thickly thatched, stand near
you — gulls' and cormorants' eggs
are set in their loop-holed windows
for ornament; great white sec
tions of fish hang thickly together
on their walls to dry, looking
more like many legs of many
dirty duck trousers, than any
thing else — pig-styes are hard by
the cottages, either formed by the
Cromlech stones of the Druids, or,
excavated like caves in the side
of the hill. Down on the beach,
where the rough old fishing-boats
lie, the sand is entirely formed by
countless multitudes of the tiniest,
fairly-like shells, often as small
as a pin's head, and all exquisitely
tender in color and wonderfully
varied in form. Up the lower
and flatter parts of the hills above,
fishing nets are stretched to dry.
While you stop to look forth
over the quiet, simple scene, wild
little children peep out at you in
astonishment; and hardworking
men and women greet you with a
hearty Cornish salutation, as you
pass near their cottage doors.
You walk a few hundred yards
inland, up the valley, and discover
in a retired, sheltered situation,
the ancient village church, with
its square grey tower surmounted
by moss-grown turrets, with its
venerable Saxon Stone cross in
the churchyard — where the turf
gfa*ves rise humbly by twos and
threes, and where the old coffin-
shaped stone stands midway at
the entrance gates, still used, as
in former times, by the bearers
of a rustic funeral. Appearing
thus amid the noblest scenery, as
6

the simple memorial ofthe prayers
of a simple race, this is a church
which speaks of religion in no
formal or sectarian tone — which
appeals to the heart of every
traveler be his creed what it may,
in loving and solemn accents ; and
sends him on his way again, up
the mighty cliffs and through the
mist driving cloud-like over them,
the better fitted for his journey
forward here — the better fitted, it
may be, even for that other dread
journey of one irrevocable mo
ment — the last he shall ever take
— to his abiding-place among the
spirits of the dead !
These are some of the attrac
tions which home rambles can
offer to tempt the home traveler;
for these are the impressions pro
duced, and the incidents presented
during a walk to the Land's End.

CHAPTER XL
BOTALLACK MINE.
I have little doubt that the
less patient among the readers of
these pages have already, while
perusing them, asked themselves
such questions as the following:
— "When are we to hear some
thing about the mines? Is not
Cornwall a celebrated mining
country? Why has the author
not taken us below the surface
yet? Why do we hear nothing
about tin, and copper, shafts, and
steam pumps — why are we all this
time kept away from the mines ?"
Readers who have questioned
thus, may be assured that their
impatience to go down a mine, in
this book was fully equalled by


98

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

our impatience to go down a mine,
in the county of which this book
treats. Our anxiety, however,
when we mentioned it to Cornish
friends, was invariably met by
the same answer. " Wait" — they
all said — " until you have turned
your backs on the Land's End ;
and then go to Botaliack — the
mine there is the most extraordi
nary mine in Cornwall — go down
that, and you will not want to go
down another — wait for Botal
iack." And we did wait for
Botaliack, just as the reader has
waited for it in these pages.
May he derive as much satisfac
tion from the present description
of the mine, as we did from visit
ing the mine itself!
We left the Land's End, feeling
that our homeward journey had
now begun from that point ; and
walking northward, about five
miles along the coast, arrived at
Botaliack. Having heard that
there was some disinclination in
Cornwall to allow strangers to go
down the mines, we had provided
ourselves — through the kindness
of a friend — with a proper letter
of introduction, in case of emer
gency. We were told to go to
the counting-house to present our
credentials; and on our road
hither, beheld the buildings and
machinery of the mine, literally
itretching down the precipitous
face of the cliff, from the land at
ihe top, to the sea at the bottom.
This sight was, in its way, as
striking and extraordinary as
the first view of the Cheese-
Wring itself. Here, we beheld a
scaffolding perched on a rock
that rose out of the waves — there,
a steam-pump was at work raising
gallons of water from the mine
every minute, on a mere ledge of

land half way down the steep
cliff side. Chains, pipes, con
duits, protruded in all directions
from the precipice ; rotten-looking
wooden platforms, running over
deep chasms, supported great
beams of timber and heavy coils
of cable; crazy little boarded
houses were built, where gulls'
nests might have been found in
other places. There did not
appear to be a foot of level space
anywhere, for any part of the
works of the mine to stand upon ;
and yet, there they were, fulfilling
all the purposes for which they
had been constructed, as safely
and completely on rocks in the sea,
and down precipices in the land, as
if they had been cautiously foun
ded on the tracts of smooth, solid
ground above !
The counting-house was built
on a projection of earth about
midway between the top of the
cliff and the sea. When we got
there, the agent, to whom our
letter was addressed, was absent ;
but his place was supplied by two
miners who came out to receive
us ; and to one of them we men
tioned our recommendation, and
modestly hinted a wish to go
down the mine forthwith.
But our new friend was not
a person who did any thing
in a hurry. He was a grave,
courteous, and rather melan
choly man, of great stature and
strength. He looked on us with
a benevolent, -paternal expression,
and appeared to think that we
were nothing like strong enough,
or cautious enough to be trusted
down the mine. " Did we know,"
he urged, " that it was dangerous
work?" "Yes; but we didn't'
mind danger !" — " Perhaps we
were not aware that we should


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

99

perspire profusely, and be dead
tired getting up and down the
ladders ?" " Very likely ; but we
didn't mind that, either !" — " Sure
ly we shouldn't like to strip and
put on miners' clothes ?" "Yes,
we should, of all things!" and
pulling off coat, waistcoat, and
trousers, on the spot, we stood
half-undressed already, just as the
big miner was proposing another
objection, which, under existing
circumstances, he good-naturedly
changed into a speech of acquies
cence. "Very well, gentlemen,"
said he, taking up two suits of
miners' clothes, " I see you are
determined to go down ; and so
you shall ! You'll be wet through
with the heat and the work before
you come up again ; so just put
on these things, and keep your
own clothes dry."
The clothing consisted of a
flannel shjrt, flannel drawers, can
vas trousers, and a canvas jacket
— all stained of a tawny copper
color; but all quite clean. A
white night-cap and a round hat,
composed of some iron-hard sub
stance, well calculated to protect
the head from any loose stones
that might fall on it, completed
the equipment ; to which three
tallow-candles were afterwards
added, two to hang at the button
hole, one to carry in the hand.
My friend was dressed first.
He had got a suit which fitted
him tolerably, and which, as far
as appearances went, made a reg
ular miner of him at once. Far
different was my case.
The same mysterious dispensa
tion of fate, which always awards
tall wives to short men, decreed th at
a suit of the big miner's should be
reserved for me. He stood six feet
two inches — I stand five feet six

inches. . I put on his flannel shirt
— it fell down to my toes, like a
bedgown ; his drawers — and they
flowed in Turkish luxuriance
over my feet. At his trousers I
helplessly stopped short, lost in
the voluminous recesses of each
leg. The big miner, like a good
Samaritan as he was, came to my
assistance. He put the pocket
button through the waist button
hole, to keep the trousers up in
the first instance ; then, he " hauled
taught" the braces (as the sailors
say) until my waistband was
under my armpits ; and then he
pronounced that I and my trou
sers fitted each other in great
perfection. The cuffs of the
jacket were next turned up to
my elbows — the white nightcap
was dragged over my ears — the
round hat was jammed down
over my eyes. When I add to
all this, that I am so near-sighted
as to be obliged to wear specta
cles, and that I finished my toilet
by putting my spectacles on (know
ing that I should see little.or noth
ing without them) nobody I think,
will be astonished to hear that
my companion seized his sketch
book, and caricatured me on the
spot ; and that the grave miner,
polite as he was, shook with in
ternal laughter, as I took up my
tallow-candles and reported my
self ready for a descent into the
mine. We left the counting-house,
and ascended the face of the cliff.
Then, walked a short distance
along the edge, descended a little
again, and stopped at a wooden
platform built across a deep gully.
Here, the miner pulled up a trap
door, and disclosed a perpendicu
lar ladder leading down to a black
hole, like the opening of a chim-


100

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

ney. "This is the shaft; I will
go down first, to catch you in
case you tumble; follow me and
hold tight," saying this, our friend
squeezed himself through the
trap-door, and we went after him
as we had been bidden.
The black hole, when we en
tered it, proved to be not quite so
dark as it had appeared from
above. Rays of light occasionally
penetrated it through thinks in
the outer rock. But by the time
we had got some little way further
down, these rays began to fade.
Then, just as we seemed to be
lowering ourselves into total dark
ness, we were desired to stand on
a narrow landing-place opposite
the ladder, and wait there while
the miner went below for a light.
He soon reascended to us, bring
ing, not only the light he had
promised, but a large lump of
damp clay with it. Having lighted
our candles he stuck them against
the front of our hats with the
clay — in order, as he said, to leave
both our hands free to us to use
as we liked. Thus strangely ac
coutred, like Solomon Eagles in
the Great Plague, with flame on
our heads, we resumed the descent
of the shaft ; and now at last be
gan to penetrate beneath the sur
face of the earth in good earnest.
The process of getting down
the ladders was not very pleasant.
They were all quite perpendicular,
the rounds were placed at irregu
lar distances, were many of them
much worn away, and were slip
pery with water and copper-ooze.
Add to this, the narrowness of
the shaft, the dripping wet rock
shutting you in, as it were, all
round your back and sides against
the ladder — the fathomless-look
ing, darkness beneath — the light

flaring immediately above you, as
if your head was on fire — the
voice of the miner below, rum
bling away in dull echoes lower
and lower into the bowels of the
earth — the consciousness that if
the rounds of the ladder broke,
you might fall down a thousand
feet or so of narrow tunnel in a
moment — imagine all this, and
you may easily realize what are
the first impressions produced by
a descent into a Cornish mine.
By the time we had got down
seventy fathoms, or four hundred
and twenty feet of ladders, we
stopped at andther landing-place,
just broad enough to afford stand
ing room for us three. Here, the
miner, pointing to an opening
yawning horizontally in the rock
at one side of us, said that this
was the first gallery from the sur
face ; that we had done with the
ladders for the present ;*and that
a little climbing and crawling
were now to begin.
Our path was a strange one, as
we advanced through the rift.
Rough stones of all sizes, holes
here, and eminences there, im
peded us at every yard. Some
times we could walk on in a
stooping position — sometimes, we
were obliged to crawl on our
hands and knees. Occasionally,
greater difficulties than these pre
sented themselves. Certain parts
of the gallery dipped into black,
ugly-looking pits, crossed by thin
planks over which we walked
dizzily, a little bewildered by
the violent contrast between the
flaring light that we carried above
us, and the pitch darkness beneath
and before us . One of these places-
terminated in a sudden rising ra
the rock, hollowed away below,
but surmounted by a narrow pro-


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

'101

jecting wooden platform, to which
it was necessary to climb by cross
beams arranged at wide distances.
My companion ascended to this
awkward elevation, without hesi
tating-; but I came to an " awful
pause" before it. Fettered as I
was by my Brobdignag jacket
and trousers, I felt a humiliating
consciousness that any extraor
dinary gymnastic exertion was
altogether out of my power.
Our friend the miner saw my
difficulty, and extricated me from
it at once, with a promptitude
and skill which deserve record.
Descending half way by the
beams, he clutched with one hand
that hinder part of my too volu
minous nether garments, which
presented the broadest superficies
of canvas to his grasp (I hope
the delicate reader appreciates the
ingenious cleanliness of my peri
phrasis, when I mention in detail
so coarse a subject as trousers !)
Having grappled me thus, he
lifted me up in an instant, as
easily as a small parcel ; then
carried me horizontally along the
loose boards, like a refractory lit
tle boy borne off by the usher to
the master's birch ; or, consider
ing the candle burning on my
hat, and the necessity of elevating
my position by as lofty a com
parison as I can make — like a
flying Mercury with a star on his
head; and finally deposited me
safely upon my legs again, on
the firm rock pathway beyond.
" You are but a light and a little
man, my son!" says this excel
lent fellow, snuffing my candle
for me before we go on ; " only
let me lift you about as I like,
and you shan't come to any harm
while I am with you !"
Speaking thus, the miner leads

us forward again. After we have
walked a little farther in a crouch
ing position, he calls a halt,
makes a seat for us by sticking
a piece of old board between the
rocky walls of the gallery, and
then proceeds to explain the exact
subterranean position which we
actually occupy.
We are now four hundred
yards out, under the bottom of the
sea; and twenty fathoms or a
hundred and twenty feet below
the sea level. Coast-trade vessels
are sailing over our heads. Two
hundred and forty feet beneath
us men are at work, and there
are galleries deeper yet, even be
low that ! The extraordinary po
sition down the face of the cliff,
of the engines and other works
on the surface, at Botaliack, is
now explained. The mine is not
excavated like other mines under
the land, but under the sea !
Having communicated these
particulars, the miner next tells
us to keep strict silence and
listen. We obey him, sitting
speechless and motionless. If
the reader could only have be
held us now, dressed in our cop
per-colored garments, huddled
close together in a mere cleft of
subterranean rock, with flame
burning on our heads and dark
ness enveloping our limbs — he
must certainly have imagined,
without any violent stretch of
fancy, that he was looking down
upon a conclave of gnomes !
After listening for a few mo
ments, a distant, unearthly noise
becomes faintly audible — a long,
low, mysterious moaning, that
never changes, that is felt on the
ear as well as heard by it — a
sound that might proceed from
some incalculable distance: — from


102

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

some far invisible height — a sound
unlike any thing that is heard on
the upper ground, in the free air
of heaven — a sound so sublimely
mournful and still, so ghostly
and impressive when listened to
in the subterranean recesses of
the earth, that we continue in
stinctively to hold our peace, as
if enchanted by it, and" think not
of communicating to each other
the strange awe and astonishment
which it has inspired in us both
from the very first.
At last, the miner speaks again,
and tells us that what we hear is
the sound of the surf lashing the
rocks a hundred and twenty feet
above us, and of the waves that
are breaking on the beach be
yond. The tide is now at the
flow, and the sea is in no extra
ordinary state of agitation : so
the sound is low and distant just
at this period. But, when storms
are at their height, when the
ocean hurls mountain after moun
tain of water on the cliffs, then
the noise is terrific ; the roaring
heard down here in the mine is
so inexpressibly fierce and awful,
that the boldest men at work are
afraid to continue their labor — all
ascend to the surface, to breathe
the upper air and stand on the
firm earth: dreading, though no
such catastrophe has ever hap
pened yet, that the sea will break
in on them if they remain in the
caverns below.
Hearing this, we get up to look
at the rock above us. We are
able to stand upright in the posi
tion we now occupy; and flaring
our candles hither and thither in
the darkness, can see the bright,
pure copper streaking the dark
ceiling of the gallery in every
direction. Lumps of ooze, of the

most lustrous green color, trav
ersed by a natural network of
thin red veins of iron, appear
here and there in large irregular
patches, over which water is drip
ping slowly and incessantly in
certain places. This is the salt
water percolating through invisi
ble crannies in the rock. On
stormy days it spirts out furiously
in thin, continuous streams. Just
now over our heads we observe a
wooden plug of the thickness of
a man's leg ; there is a hole here,
and the plug is all that we have
to keep out the sea.
Immense wealth of metal is
contained in the roof of this
gallery, throughout its whole
length ; but it remains, and will
alway-s remain, untouched; the
miners dare not take it, for it is
part, and a great part, of the
rock which forms their only pro
tection against the sea ; and which
has been so far worked away
here, that its thickness is limited
to an average of three feet only
between the water and the gal
lery in which we now stand. No
one knows what might be the
consequence of another day's la
bor with the pickaxe on any part
of it.
This information is rather start
ling when communicated at a
depth of four hundred and twenty
feet under ground. We should
decidedly have preferred to re
ceive it in the counting-house!
It makes us pause for an instant,
to the miner's infinite amusement,
in the very act of knocking away
about an inch of ore from the
rock, as a memento of Botaliack.
Having, however, ventured on re
flection, to assume the responsi
bility of weakening our defence
against the sea by the length and


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

103

breadth of an inch, we secure our
piece of copper, and next proceed
to discuss the propriety of descend
ing two hundred and forty feet
more of ladders, for the sake of
visiting that part of the mine
where the men are at work.
Two or three causes concur to
make us doubt the wisdom of go
ing lower. There is a hot, moist,
sickly vapor floating about us,
which becomes more oppressive
every moment; we are already
perspiring at every pore, as we
were told we should ; and our
hands, faces, jackets, and trousers
are all more or less covered with
a mixture of mud, tallow, and
iron -drippings, which we can feel
and smell much more acutely than
is exactly desirable. We ask the
miner what there is to see lower
down. He replies, nothing but
men breaking ore with pickaxes ;
the galleries of the mine are alike,
however deep they may go :
when you have seen one, you have
seen all.
The answer decides us : we de
termine to get back to the surface.
We returned along the gallery,
just as we had advanced, with the
same large allowance of scram
bling, creeping, and stumbling on
our way. I was charitably car
ried along and down the platform
over the pit, by my trousers, as
before : our order of procession
only changed when we gained the
ladders again. Then, our friend
the miner went last instead of
first, upon the same principle of
being ready to catch us if we fell,
which led him to precede, us on
our descent. Except that one of
the rounds cracked under his
weight as we went up, we as
cended without casualties of any
kind. As we neared the mouth

of the shaft, the daylight atmo
sphere looked dazzlingly white,
after the darkness in which we
had been groping so long; and
when we once more stood out on
the cliff, we felt a cold, health-giv
ing purity in the sea-breeze, and,
at the same time a sense of recov
ered freedom in the power that
we now enjoyed of running, jump
ing, and stretching our limbs in
perfect security and with full space
for action, which it was almost a
new sensation to experience. Ha
bit teaches us to think little of the
light and air that we live and
breathe in, or, at most, to view
them only as the ordinary con
ditions of our being. To find out
that they are more than this, that
they are a luxury as well as a ne
cessity of life, go down into a
mine, and compare what you can
exist in there, with what you do
exist in, on upper earth !
On re-entering the counting-
house, we were greeted by the
welcome appearance of two large
tubs of water, with soap and flan
nel placed invitingly by their
sides. Copious ablutions and
clean clothes are potent restorers
of muscular energy. These, and
a half hour of repose, enabled us
to resume our knapsacks as brisk
ly as ever, and walk on fifteen
miles to the town of St. Ives — our
resting place for the night.
While we were sitting in the
counting-house, we had some talk
with our good-humored and intel
ligent guide on the subject of
miners and mining at Botaliack.
Some of the local information that
he gave us, may interest the reader
— to whom 1 do not pretend to
offer more here than a simple re
cord of a half-hour's gossip. I


104

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

could only write elaborately about
the Cornish mines, by swelling
my pages with extracts on the
subject from Encyclopaedias and
Itineraries which are within easy
reach of every one, and on the
province of which it is neither
my business nor my desire to in
trude. Botaliack mine is a copper
mine ; but tin, and occasionally
iron, are found in it as well. It
is situated at the western extrem
ity of the great strata of copper,
tin, and lead, running eastward
through Cornwall, as far as the
Dartmoor hills. According to the
statement of my informant in the
counting-house, it has been worked
for more than a century. In for
mer times, it produced enormous
profits to the speculators; but
now the case is altered. The price
of copper has fallen of late years ;
the lodes have proved neither so
rich nor so extensive, as at past
periods, and the ct; sequence is,
that the mine does not at present
pay the expenses of working it.
The organization of labor at
Botaliack, and in all other mines
throughout Cornwall, is thus man
aged :— The men work eight hours
underground, out of the twenty-
four — taking their turn of night
duty (for labor proceeds in the
mines by night as well as by day),
in regular rotation. The differ
ent methods on which their work
is undertaken, and the rates of re
muneration that they receive, have
been already touched on, in the
chapter on the "Cornish People."
It will be found that ordinary, or
regular wages, for mine labor, are
there stated as ranging from forty
to fifty shillings a month — men
tion being made at the same time,
of the larger remuneration which

may be obtained by working "oh
tribute," or, in other words, by
agreeing to excavate the lodes of
metal for a per-centage which va
ries with the varying value of the
mineral raised. It is, however,
necessary to add here, that, al
though men who labor on this
latter plan, occasionally make as
much as six or ten pounds each,
in a month, they are on the other
hand liable to heavy losses from
the speculative character of the
work in which they engage. The
lode may, for instance, be poor
when they begin to work it, and
may continue poor as they pro
ceed farther and farther. Under
these circumstances, the low value
of the mineral they have raised,
realizes a correspondingly low rate
of per-centage; and when this
happens, the best workman can
not make more than twenty shil
lings a month.
Another system on which the
men are employed, is the system
of " contract." A certain quantity
of ore in the rock is mapped out
by the captain of the mine ; and
put up to auction among the
miners thus : — One man mentions
the sum for which he is willing
to undertake excavating the pre,
upon the understanding that he
is himself to pay for assistance,
candles, &c, out of the price he
asks. Another man, who is also
anxious to get the contract, then
offers to accept it on lower terms
— a third man's demand is smaller
still ; and so they proceed until
the piece of work is knocked
down to the lowest bidder. By
this sort of labor, the contracting
workman — after he has paid his
expenses for assistance — seldom
clears more than twelve shillings
a week.


106

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

and then falling twenty feet more
pitched on his head. He was of
course taken up insensible; the
doctor was sent for ; and on ex
amining him, found to his amaze
ment, that there was actually a
chance of the boy's recovery after
this tremendous fall !
Not a bone in his body was
broken. He was bruised and
scratched all over, and there
were three cuts — none of them
serious — on his head. The board
stretched across the shaft, twenty
feet from the bottom, had saved
him from being dashed to pieces ;
but had inflicted at the same
time, where his left side had
struck it, the only injury that
appeared dangerous to the medi
cal man — a large, hard lump that
could be felt under the bruised
skin. The boy showed no symp
toms of fever ; his pulse, day
after day, was found never vary
ing from eighty-two to the min
ute; his appetite was voracious;
and the internal functions of his
body only required a little ordi
nary medicine to keep them pro
perly at work. In short, nothing
was to be dreaded but the chance
of the formation of an abscess in
his left side, between the hip and
ribs. He had been under medi
cal care exactly one week, when
I accompanied the doctor on a
visit to him.
The cottage where he lived with
his parents, though small, was
neat and comfortable. We found
him lying in bed, awake. He
looked languid and lethargic ; but
his skin was moist and cool ; his
face displayed neither paleness,
nor injury of any kind. He had
just eaten a good dinner of rab
bit-pie; and was anxious to be
allowed to sit up in a chair, and

amuse himself by looking out of
the window. His left side was
first examined. A great circular
bruise discolored the skin, over
the whole space 'between the hip
and ribs ; but on touching it, the
doctor discovered that the lump
beneath had considerably de
creased in size, and was much less
hard than it had felt during pre
vious visits. Next, we looked at
his back and arms — they were
scratched and bruised all. over;
but nowhere seriously. Lastly
the dressings were taken off his
head, and three cuts were dis
closed, which even a non-medical
eye could easily perceive to be of
no great importance. Such were
all the results of a fall of seventy-
eight feet !
The boy's father reiterated to
me the account of the accident,
just as I had already heard it
from the doctor. How it hap
pened, he said, could only be
guessed, for his son had com
pletely forgotten all the circum
stances immediately preceding the
fall; neither could he communi
cate any of the sensations which
must have attended it. Most pro
bably, he had been sitting dan
gling his legs idly over the mouth
of the shaft, and had so slipped
in. But, however the accident
really happened, there the sufferer
was before us — less seriously hurt
than many a lad who has trodden
on a piece of orange peel as he
was walking along the street.
We left him (humanly speak
ing) certain of recovery, now that
the dangerous lump in his side
had begun to decrease. I have
since heard from his medical at
tendant, that in two months from
the date of the accident, he was
at work again as usual in the


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

107

mine ; at that very part of it too,
where his fall had taken place !
It was not the least interesting
part of my visit to the cottage
where he lay ill, to observe the
anxious- affection displayed to
wards him by both his parents.
His mother left her work in the
kitchen to hold him in her arms,
while the old dressings were be
ing taken off and the new ones ap
plied — sighing bitterly, poor crea
ture, every time he winced or cried
out under the pain of the opera
tion. The father put several ques
tions to the doctor, which were
always perfectly to the point ; and
did the honors of his little abode
to his stranger visitor, with a
natural, politeness and a simple
cordiality of manner which show
ed that .he really meant the wel
come that he spoke. Nor was he
any exception to the rest of his
brother-workmen with whom I
met. As a body of men, they are
industrious and intelligent ; sober
and orderly; neither soured by
hard work, n6r easily depressed
by harder privations. No de
scription of personal experiences
in the Cornish mines can be fairly
concluded, without a collateral
.testimony to the merits of the
Cornish miners — a testimony
which I am happy to accord
here ; and to which my readers
would cheerfully add their voices,
if they ever felt inclined to test
its impartiality by their own ex
perience.

CHAPTER XII.
the modern drama in corn-
wall.
Our walk from Botaliack Mine
to St. Ives, led us almost invari
ably between moors and hills on
one side, and cliffs and sea on
the other; and displayed some of
the dreariest views that we had
yet beheld in Cornwall. About
nightfall, we halted for a short
time at a place which was cer
tainly not calculated to cheer
the traveler along his onward
way. Fancy three or four large,
square, comfortless-looking, shut-
up houses, all apparently unin
habited; fancy some half-dozen
miserable little cottages near the
houses, with the nasal notes of a
Methodist hymn pouring disas
trously through the open door of
one of them ; fancy the largest of
the large buildings being called an
inn, but making up no beds, be
cause nobody ever stopped to
sleep there : fancy in the kitchen
of this inn a sickly little girl, and
a middle-aged, melancholy wo
man, the first staring despond-
ingly on a wasting fire, the
second setting before a stranger a
piece of bread, three eggs, and
some sour porter, corked down in
an earthenware jar, as all that her
larder and cellar afforded ; fancy
an old, grim, dark church, with
two or three lads leaning against
the church-yard wall, looking out
together in gloomy silence on a
solitary high road ; fancy a thin,
slow rain falling, a cold twilight
just changing into darkness, a
surrounding landscape wild, bar
ren, and shelterless — fancy all this,
and you may form some idea of
the impressions produced on my


108

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

companion and myself when we
found ourselves in the village of
Morvah. Late that night, we got to the
large sea-port town of St. Ives ;
and stayed there two or three
days to look at the pilchard fish
ery, which was then proceeding
with all the bustle and activity
denoting the commencement of a
good season. Leaving St. Ives,
on our way up the northern coast,
we now passed through the cen
tral part of the mining districts
of Cornwall. Chimneys and en
gine-houses chequered the surface
of the landscape ; the roads glit
tered with metallic particles ; the
walls at their sides were built
with crystallized stones; towns
showed a sudden increase in im
portance; villages grew large and
populous; inns disappeared, and
hotels arose in their stead; people
became Jess curious to know who
we were, stared at us less, gos
siped with us less ; gave us in
formation, but gave us nothing
more — no long stories, no invita
tions to stop and smoke a pipe,
no hospitable offers of bed and
board. All that we saw and
heard tended to convince us that
wre had left the picturesque and
the primitive, with the streets of
Looe and the fishermen at the
Land's End ; and had got into the
commercial part of the county,
9aong sharp, prosperous, busi
ness-like people — it was like walk
ing out of a painter's studio into a
merchant's counting-house !
As we were traveling, like the
renowned Doctor Syntax, in
search of the picturesque, we
hurried through this populous
and highly civilized region of
Cornwall, as rapidly as possible.
I doubt much whether we should

not have passed as unceremoni
ously through the large town of
Redruth— the capital city of the
mining districts — as we passed
through several towns and villa
ges before it, had not our attention
been attracted and our departure
delayed by a bill, printed on rain
bow-colored paper, and pasted up
in the most conspicuous part of
the market-place.
The bill set forth, that "the
beautiful drama of The Curate's
Daughter," was to be performed
at night, in the " unrivalled Sana
Pared Theatre," by "the most
talented company in England,"
before "the most discerning au
dience in the world." As far as
we are individually concerned,
this theatrical announcement was
remarkably tempting and well-
timed. We were now within one
day's journey of Piran Round, the
famous amphitheatre where the
old Cornish Miracle Plays used
to be performed. Any thing con
nected with the stage was, there
fore, a subject of particular in
terest in our eyes. The bill
before us seemed to offer a curious
opportunity of studying the dra
matic tastes of the modern Cor
nish, on the very day before we
were about to speculate on the
dramatic tastes of the ancient
Cornish, among the remains of
their public theatre. Such an
occasion was too favorable to be
neglected; we ordered our beds
at Redruth, and joined the " dis
cerning audience" assembled to
sit in judgment on " The Curate's
Daughter." The Sans Pareil Theatre was
not of that order of architec
ture in which outward ornament
is studied — there was nothing
"florid" about it; canvas, ropes


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

109

scaffolding-poles, and old boards,
threw a fine character of Saxon
simplicity over the whole struc
ture. Admitted within, we turned
instinctively towards the stage.
On each side of the proscenium
boards was painted a knight in
full armor, with swollen calves,
weak knees, and an immense
spear. Tallow candles, stuck
round two hoops, threw a brilliant
light on the green curtain, in
front of which sat an orchestra
of four musicians, playing on a
trombone, an ophicleide, a clario
net, and a fiddle, as loudly as
they could — the artist on the
trombone, especially, performing
prodigies of blowing, though he
had not room enough to develop
the whole length of his instru
ment. Every now and then great
excitement was created among the
expectant audience by the ve
hement ringing of a bell behind
the scenes, and by the occasional
appearance of a youth who gravely,
snuffed the candles all round,
with a skill and composure highly
creditable to him, considering the
pertinacity with which he was
stared at by everybody while he
pursued his occupation.
At last, the bell was rung
furiously for the twentieth time ;
the curtain drew up, and the
beautiful drama of " The Curate's
Daughter," began.
Our sympathies were excited
at the outset— we beheld a lady
like woman who answered to the
name of " Grace ;" and an old
gentleman, dressed in dingy blaok,
who personated her father, the
Curate; and was, I reluctantly
confess, utterly drunk. There
was no mistaking the cause ofthe
fixed leer in the reverend gentle
man's eye ; of the slow swaying

in the reverend gentleman's gait;
of the gruff huskiness in the
reverend gentleman's elocution.
It appeared that a pendent law
suit, and the absence of his
daughter Fanny in London, com
bined to make him uneasy in his
mind just at present. But he was
by no means so comprehensible
on this subject as could be desired ;
in fact he spoke through his nose,
put in and left out his lis in the
wrong places, and involved him
self in an inextricable confusion
of parentheses whenever he spoke
at any length. It was not until
the entrance of his daughter,
Fanny (just arrived from London :
nobody knew why or wherefore),
that he ' grew more emphatic and
intelligible. Then, after giving
his children his blessing and
embracing them both at once, he
affectionately declared, that his
"daughters were the h'all on
which his h'all depended — that
they would watch h'over his 'ale
autumn ; and that whatever hap
pened they must always trust in
heabben's obdipotent power!"
Grateful for this clerical advice,
Fanny goes into the garden to ga
ther her parent some flowers ; but
immediately returns, shrieking,
and followed by a highwayman,
with a cocked hat, mustachios,
bandit's ringlets, a scarlet hunting-
coat, and buff boots. This gen
tleman has had the extraordinary
politeness — although a perfect
stranger — to give Miss Fanny a
kiss in the garden ; conduct for
which the Curate fiercely curges
him, in the strongest possible lan
guage.- Being apparently a quiet
and orderly character, the high
wayman replies by beginning a
handsome apology, when he is
interrupted by the abrupt entrance


110

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

of another personage, who orders
him (rather late in the da}') to
" let go his holt, and beware how
he lays his brutal touch on the
form of innocence !" This new
comer, as the parson informs us,
is " good h'Adam Marie, the
teacher of the village school " —
and a pattern to teachers he ap
pears to be. He is a very short
man, dressed in a high-crowned
modern hat, with a fringed van-
dyck collar, drooping over his
back and shoulders, a modern
frock-coat, buttoned tight at the
waist, and a pair of jack-boots of
the period of James the Second.
We see but little of him in the
first scene; for he follows the
penitent highwayman out, lectur
ing him as he goes. No sooner
are their backs turned, than a
wagoner, in a clean smock-frock
and high-lows, comes in with an
offer of a situation in London for
Fanny, which the unsuspicious
Curate greedily accepts. It is
soon confided to the audience
that this wagoner is a depraved
villain, who is in the employ of
another depraved villain (Colonel
¦Chartress himself), who has com
missioned a third depraved (fe
male) villain to lure Fanny from
virtue and the country, to vice
and the metropolis. By the time
the plot has "thickened" thus
far, the scene changes, and we
get to London at once.
We now see the Curate, Chart-
ress's female accomplice, Fanny
and the wagoner, all standing in
a row, across the stage.. The
Curate is just lifting up his hands
to bless the company, when Colo
nel Chartress (dressed in an old
naval uniform, with an opera hat
of the year 1800), somewhat pre
maturely enters, followed by the

highwayman, who has relapsed
from penitence to guilt, and has
determined to supplant Chartress
in the favor of Miss Fanny.
These two seize each other by the
throat; a tremendous shouting,
scuffling, and screaming ensues;
the Curate, clasping his daughter
round the waist, frantically ele
vates his walking-stick in the air,
apparently with the intention of
giving her a good thrashing; and
the curtain falls down with a bang,
on the crisis of act the first.
In act the second, the first
scene was described, in the bills,
as Temple Bar by moonlight;
but — I presume by a mistake of
the scene-shifters — the High
Street, Newcastle, did duty on
this occasion for Temple Bar.
The person who now confronted
us, was "good h'Adam Marie."
The paint was all washed off his
face ; his immense spread of col
lar looked grievously in want of
washing; and he leaned languid
ly on an oaken stick. He had
been walking — he informed us—
through the streets of London for
six consecutive days and nights,
without sustenance, in search of
Miss Fanny, who has disappeared
since the skirmish at the end of
act the first, and has never been
heard of since. Mr. Marie further
confided to us, that he was
madly attached to Fanny; that
he knew " he was nothink " to
her, ; and that, under existing cir
cumstances, he felt inclined to rest
himself on a door step. Just as
he has comfortably settled down,
the Valet of the villain Chartress
passes by; and, being drunk,
communicates all his master's
private affairs to " h'Adam." It
appears that the gallant Colonel
has carried off Miss Fanny, has


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

Ill

then got tired of her, and has
coolly handed her over to a Jew,
in part payment of "a little bill."
Having ascertained this Jew's ad
dress, the indefatigable Marie
starts off at once to rescue the
Curate's daughter, or die in the
attempt. The next scene discloses Fanny,
sitting conscience-stricken and in
consolable, in a red polka jacket
and white muslin slip. No sooner
does Mr. Marie enter to lecture
and reclaim, than she stops his
mouth with a scream, exclaims,
" Cuss me, h'Adam ! cuss me !"
and rushes out. "H'Adam"
speaks a despondent soliloquy,
and follows with his handkerchief
to his eyes; but, while he has
been talking to himself, our old
friend the highwayman has been
on the alert. Fanny, having fall
en fainting in the street, he passes
by at the critical moment, picks
her up, and hands her over for
safe keeping' to his "pals;" these
" pals " being represented by the
trombone and opheicleide players
from the orchestra, and by the
"Miss Grace," of act first, dis
guised as a bad character, in a
cloak, with a red pocket-handker
chief over her head. Miss Fanny,
in the mean time, recovering
among the ''pals," and finding
what sort of company she has
about her, rushes out a second
time into the street, falls faint
ing a second time on the pave
ment, and is gallantly picked up
on this occasion by Colonel
Chartress; who, it would appear,
has changed his mind, and doubts
whether he has quite done with
the young lady yet. But, before
he can get clear off with his prize,
the indefatigable villain of a
highwayman, and the indefatiga

ble moralist, Marie, rush in toge
ther, assaulting Chartress, assault
ing each other, assaulting every
body. Fanny falls fainting a
third time in the street, and be
fore we can find out who is the
third person who picks her up,
the curtain descends in the midst
of the catastrophe, and the clario
net and fiddle strike up a polka
to keep curiosity alive, and pre-'
pare the audience for the death
and destruction, the fighting »and
cursing which are to come in the
last act.
Act third is opened by the
heroine, still injured, still incon
solable, and still clad in the polka
jacket and white slip. She is a
very nice little woman, this hero
ine, with a melodious, genteel-
comedy-voice, trim ancles, and a
habit of catching her breath in
the most pathetic manner, at least
a dozen times in the course of
one soliloquy. While she is still
occupied in assuring us that she
is the most forlorn and miserable
woman on the face of the earth,
she is suddenly interrupted by
the entrance of no less a person
than the Curate himself. We
have seen nothing of the reverend
gentleman throughout the second
act ; but " h'Adam" has casually
in formed, us, that his time has
been passed at his parsonage,
"sittun with his 'ed between his
knees, sobbun I" Having now
got tired of this slightly gym
nastic method of indulging in
parental grief, he has set forth to
seek his lost daughter, and has
accidentally stopped at the very
inn where she has taken refuge.
Nothing can be more piteous
than his present appearance; he
is considerably more drunk than
when we last beheld him and is


112

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

proportionally more grimly digni
fied in his manners, and more
infinitely indefinite in his mode
of expressing himself. A streak
of burnt cork running down
each side of his nose, shows us
how deeply grief has increased
the wrinkles of age; and our
pity for him reaches its climax
when he casts his clerical hat on
the floor, drops drowsily into a
chair, and begins to pray thus:
"Oh heabben ! hear a solemn and
a solid prayer — hear a solemn
heart who wants to embrace his
darling Fanny !"
Meanwhile, the lost daughter
is hiding behind the forlorn
father's chair; an awful and con
venient darkness being thrown
on the stage by the introduction
of a plank between the actors
and the tallow candles. In this
striking situation, Miss Fanny
tells her own story, and pleads
her own cause as a stranger,
under disguise of the darkness.
Her first advances being rather
severely received by the reve
rend gentleman — who never turns
round to see who it is that is
speaking to him, and has not,
therefore, the least idea that it is
his own daughter — Fanny rushes
off in despair, without discover
ing herself; aud the parson for
getting to take away his hat with
him, staggers out at the opposite
side to continue his journey, ut
tering as he goes the following
profound moral observation: —
" No soul so lost to Nature, but
must be lost eternally — my 'art is
broken !"
The next moment, we are start
led by a long and elaborate
trampling of feet behind the
scenes, and the villain, Chartress,
enters with a run, hotly pursued

by " good h'Adam Marie." Adam
loquitur : — " Stay, ruffian, stay !
Inquiring for Chartress at the
bar of this inn, I found indeed
that you was the very identical.
You foul, venimpus, treacherous,
voluptuous liar, where -is the un-
'appy Fanny ! where is the vic
tim of your prey? — Ha! 'oary-
'edded ruffian, I have yer !"
{Collars Chartress). "But no! I
will not strike yer ! I will drag
yer !" And, thereupon, Mr. Marie
proceeds to exemplify the pecu
liar distinction in the science of
assault, implied in his last words,
by hauling Chartress all round
the stage. At the second turn
the Colonel loses his temper,
murderously snaps a pistol in
" h' Adam's" face, and then rushes
out. The valiant Marie starts,
frowns, pauses, laughs fiercely,
exclaims, — " The villain 'as
missed !" and follows in pursuit.
In the interim, Miss Fanny has
fallen fainting, for the fourth
time,, in the street ; has been
picked up by a benevolent "wash
erwoman," who happened to be
passing by at the moment ; has
been conveyed to the said " wash
erwoman's" lodgings; and now
appears before us, despoiled, at
last, of all the glories of the red
polka; enveloped from head to
foot in clouds of white muslin,
and dying with frightful rapidity
in an arm-chair. In the next
and last scene, all that remains to
represent the unhappy heroine,
is a coffin decently covered with
a white sheet. With slow and
funereal steps, the Curate, Miss
Grace, "h'Adam," the highway
man, and the "venimous and
voluptuous liar," Chartress, ap
proach to weep over it. The
Curate has gone raving mad since


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

113

we saw him last ; his wig is set
on wrong side foremost ; the ends
of his clerical cravat float wildly,
a yard long at least over his
shoulders ; his eyes roll in frenzy;
he faints at the sight of the coffin ;
recovers convulsively, and places
Marie's hand in the hand of Miss
Grace (telling him that now one
daughter is dead, nothing is left
for him but to marry the other) ;
and then suddenly falls flat on
his back, with a thump that
shakes the stage and makes
the audience start unanimously.
Marie — well bred and respecta
ble to the last — politely offers
his arm to Grace ; and point
ing to the coffin, asks Chartress,
reproachfully, whether that is not
Ms work. The Colonel takes
off his opera hat, raises his hand
to his eyes, and doggedly an
swers, "Indeed, it is!" The ta
bleau thus formed, is completed
by the highwayman, the coffin,
and the defunct Curate ; and the
curtain falls to slow music.
Such was the plot of this re
markable dramatic work, exactly
as I took it down in the theatre,
between the acts ; noting also in
my pocket-book, such scraps of
dialogue as I have presented to
the reader, while they fell from
the actors' lips. There were
plenty of comic scenes in the
play which I leave unmentioned ;
for their humor was of the
dreariest, and their morality of
the lowest order that can possibly
be conceived. I am afraid I shall
not be considered as reporting
very favorably of the critical
taste of the modern Cornish in
dramatic matters, when I state
that the " Curate's Daughter" was
attentively, nay, eagerly listened
to ; and was, evidently, consider-
7

ed a remarkably impressive and
interesting play, by an audience
which, though chiefly composed
of the humbler classes, contained
a very fair proportion of respect
ably dressed persons. The ne
cessity of teaching the lower
orders of London some apprecia
tion of common sense and com
mon propriety in their dramatic
amusements, by gradually elevat
ing their drama above the utter
moral and literary degradation to
which it has now fallen, has been
already insisted on by one who is
essentially the people's author.
Of the importance of the question
raised by Mr. Dickens, no one
can doubt who has ever visited
any of the low minor theatres of
London, or who recognizes the
power the stage possesses, for
good or evil, over those especially
whom neither pulpit nor printing-
press can hope to attract. I can
only say, as the result of my own
experience at Redruth, that if
dramatic reforms are ever attempt
ed in the dramatic purlieus of
the metropolis, there would be no
harm in extending the experi
ment even as far as the locomo
tive stage of Cornwall. Good
plays are good missionaries ; and,
like missionaries, let them travel
to teach.
And now, having seen enough
of the modern drama in Cornwall,
without waiting for the songs, the
dances, and the farces which are
to follow the "Curate's Daughter,"
let us go on to Piranzabuloe and
look at the theatre in which the
Cornish of former days assem
bled ; endeavoring to discover, at
the same time, by what sort of
performances the people were in
structed or amused some two or
three hundred years ago.


114

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ANCIENT DRAMA IN CORN
WALL.
We found the modern Cornish
theatre situated in a populous
town ; built up, as a temporary
structure, with old canvas and
boards ; and opened to audiences
only at night. We found the
ancient Cornish theatre placed in
a perfect desert ; constructed per
manently, though rudely, of
mounds of turf — the sky forming
its only roof, the flat plain its
only stage, the broad daylight its
only means of illumination. No
thing could be wider than the
differences between the theatre of
the past, and the theatre of the
present day in the far West of
England. In like manner, the country
about Piran Round (such is the
name of the Old Cornish amphi
theatre) offers a remarkable con
trast to the country about Red
ruth. You are at once powerfully
impressed by its barren solitude,
its dreary repose, after the fertility
and populousness of the great min
ing districts through which you
have just passed. Now, the large
towns and busy villages disap
pear, the mines grow rarer, the
roads look deserted-; the wide
pathways dwindle to the merest
foot-track. Again you behold
the spacious moor rolling away
in alternate hill and dale to the
far horizon; again you pass
through quaint coast villages,
and see the few simple cottages,
the few old boats, the little groups
talking quietly at the inn door,
as you have already beheld them
during your former walks along
the southern and western shores

of Cornwall. Soon, however,
your onward road towards Piran
Round becomes yet more desolate
— ere long, not even a solitary
cottage is in sight, not a living
being appears; you find yourself
wandering along the uneven boun
dary of a wilderness of sand-hills
blown up from the sea-shore by
the wind. You look over a per
fect desert of miniature mountains
and valleys, in some places
overgrown with thin dry grass ;
in others, dotted with little pools
of mud and stagnant water. Year
by year, this invasion of sand
encroaches on the moorland —
year by year, it is ever shifting,
ever increasing, ever assuming
newer and more fantastic forms,
now in one direction and now in
another, with each fresh storm.
When you leave this dreary
scene, you only leave it for the
wild flat heath, the open naked
country once more. You follow
your long road, visible miles on
before you, winding white and
serpent-like over the dark ground,
until you suddenly observe in
the distance an object which rises
strangely above the level prospect.
You approaoh nearer, and behold
a circular turf embankment; a
wide, lonesome, desolate enclo
sure, looking like a witches'
dancing-ring that has sprung up
in the midst of the open moor.
This is Piran Round. Here, the
old inhabitants of Cornwall as
sembled to form the audience of
the drama of former days.
A level area of grassy ground,
one hundred and thirty feet in
diameter, is enclosed by the em
bankment. There are two en
trances to this area cut through
the boundary circle of turf and
earth, which rises to a height of


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

115

nine or ten feet and narrows
towards the top, where it is seven
feet wide. All round the inside
of the embankment, steps were
formerly cut ; but their traces are
now almost obliterated by the
growth of the grass. They were
originally seven in number; the
spectators stood on them in rows,
one • above another — a closely
packed multitude, all looking
down at the dramatic perform
ances taking place on the wide
circumference of the plain. When
it was well filled, the amphithea
tre must have contained upwards
of two thousand people.
Such is this rude, yet extra
ordinary structure, in our time;
and its patriarchal simplicity has
remained unaltered since the far
distant period when the populace
thronged its turf steps to welcome
the strolling players of their age.
The antiquity, of Piran Round
dates back beyond the period of
the earliest and rudest dramatic
performances on English ground.
It was first used for popular
sports, for single combats, for
rustic councils. Then, plays
were acted in it — miracle plays —
some translated into the ancient
Cornish language, some originally
written in it. The oldest of these
are lost; but one of a compara
tively late date has been pre
served and translated into Eng
lish. We will examine this book
while we sit within the deserted
amphitheatre; and thus, in ima
gination at least, people the simple
stage before us with the rough
country actors who once trod it —
thus pry behind the scenes at all
that is left to us of the ancient
drama in Cornwall.
The play which we now open,
is called by the comprehensive

title of "The Creation of the
World, with Noah's Flood." It
was translated in 1611, from a
drama of much earlier date,
for performance in Cornish, by
William Jordan ; was then ren
dered into English by John Key-
gwyn, in 1691 ; and was finally
corrected and published by Mr.
Davies Gilbert, in 1827. The
Cornish and English versions are
printed on opposite pages, so we
can compare the two throughout,
as Ave go on.
The play is in five acts, and is
written in poetry — in a rambling
octosyllabic metre, often varied
by the introduction of longer or
shorter lines, and sometimes in
terspersed with a word or two of
English. It occupies a hundred
and eighty pages, containing on
the average about twenty-five
lines each. This would be thought
rather a lengthy manner of de
veloping a dramatic story, in our
days ; but we must remember that
the time embraced in the plot of
the old playwright extends from
the Creation to the Flood, and
must be astonished and thankful
that he has not been more diffuse.
The dramatis personce muster
by the legion. In act first, we
have the whole heavenly host : in
act second, are superadded Adam,
Eve, " Torpen, a devil," Beelze
bub, the Serpent, and Michael the
Archangel; in act third, besides
these, Death, Cain and his wife,
Abel, and Seth ; in act fourth, we
have the addition of Lamech, a
servant, a Cherubim, and a first
and second devil ; and in act fifth,
Enoch, Noah and his wife, Shem,
Ham, Japhet, Seth, Jaball, and
Tubal Cain.
Our author manages this tre
mendous list of mortal and im-


116

SIGHTS .1-FOOT.

mortal characters with infinite
coolness and dexterity. Nothing
appears to embarrass him. He
follows history in a negligent
sauntering way, hopping over a
hundred years or so, whenever it
is convenient ; and giving all his
personages their turn of talking
in orderly and impartial rotation.
His speeches are wonderfully
moral and long ; even his worst
characters have, for the most part,
a temperate and logical way of
uttering the most violent language,
which must have read an excel
lent lesson to the roistering young
gentlemen among the audiences
of the time.
We will now examine the play
a little in detail, quoting the stage
directions (the most extraordinary
part of it) exactly as they occur ;
and occasionally presenting a line
or two of the dialogue from the
old English translation wherever
it best illustrates the author's
style. The first act comprehends the
fall of the angels — the introduc
tory stage direction commanding
that the theatrical clouds, and the
whole sky to boot, shall open
when Heaven is named ! All is
harmony at the outset of the
play, until it is Lucifer's turn to
speak. He declares that he alone
is great, that all allegiance must
be given to him: and ends tri
umphantly by asking : — " Am I
not a great pullet ? (evidently
the ancient original of the mod
ern expression "cock of the
walk"). Some of the angels
acknowledge him to be a "great
pullet," and glorify him accord
ingly ; others remain true to their
allegiance; the debate grows
warm; some of the disputants
give each other the lie (but very

calmly); at length, the scene is
closed by Lucifer's condemnation
to Hell, which as the directions
provide, "shall gape when it is
named." The faithful angels are
then told to " have swords and
staves ready for Lucifer," who,
we are informed, "voideth and
goeth down to Hell appareled
foul, with fire about him, turning
to Hell, with every degree of
devils and lost spirits on cords
running into the plain." With
this stirring scene the act ends.
The second act comprises the
creation and fall of man. Here,
again, we will consult the stage
directions, as giving the best nar
rative of the incidents and scenes.
We find that Adam and Eve are
to be " appareled in white leather
in a place appointed by the con
veyor" (probably the person we
term stage-manager now); "and
are not to be seen until they be
called; and then each rises."
After this, we read : — " Let Para
dise be finely made, with fair
trees in it, and apples upon a
tree, and other fruit on the others.
A fountain, too, in Paradise, and
fine flowers painted. Put Adam
into Paradise — let flowers appear
in Paradise — let Adam lie down
and sleep where Eve is, and she,
by the conveyor, must be taken
from Adam's side — let fishes of
all sorts, birds and beasts, as
oxen, kyne, sheep, and such like
appear." Then, we have the preparations
for the temptation ordered thus :
— " A fine serpent to be made with
a virgin's face, and yellow hair
on her head. Let the serpent
appear, also geese and hens."
Lucifer enters immediately after
wards, and goes into the serpent,
which is then directed to be


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

117

" seen singing in a tree" (the
actor who personated Lucifer
must have had some gymnastic
difficulties to contend with in his
part!) — "Eve looketh strange on
the serpent;" then, "talketh fa
miliarly and cometh near him ;"
then, "doubteth and looketh
angrily ;" and then eats part of
the apple, shows it to Adam, and
insists on his eating part of it
too, in the following lines, in
which the connubial style of
argument is certainly represented
by the old dramatist to the life : —
" Sir, in a few words,
Taste thou part of the apple,
Or my love thou shalt lose !
See, take this fair apple,
Or surely between thee and thy wife
The love shall utterly fail,
If thou wilt not eat of it 1"*
The stage direction now pro
ceeds : — " Adam receiveth the
apple and tasteth it, and so re-
penteth and casteth it way. Eve
* In case any of my readers should
feel desirous of seeing a specimen of
the Cornish language at the date of the
play, I subjoin the original text of the
seven lines of John Keygwyn's transla
tion, quoted above.
" Syr, war nebas lavarow,
Tast gy part an avallow,
Po ow harenga ty a gyll !
Meir, Kymar an avall'teake,
Po sure inter te ha'th wreage
An garienga quyt a fyll
Mar ny vynyth y thebbry 1"
Some of this looks like a very poly
glot language. But the , ancient Cor
nish tongue had altered and deterior
ated ; and was indeed changing into
English at the period of oiy play. Why
the author should have helped himself,
in his literary emergency, to the two
Latin words in the fifth line {inter te)
when English would have served his
turn as well, it is difficult to discover,
unless he wished to show his learning
before the rustic audiences at Piran
Bound.

looketh on Adam very strangely,
and speaketh not any thing."
During this pause, the " con
veyor" is told to " get the fig-
leaves ready." Then Lucifer is
ordered to "come out of the ser
pent and creep on his belly to
hell ;" Adam and Eve receive the
curse, and depart out of Para
dise, " shewing a spindle and
distaff," no badly-conceived em
blem of the labor to which
they are henceforth doomed.
And thus, the second act termi
nates. The third act treats of Cain
and Abel ; and is properly opened
by an impersonation of Death.
After which, Cain and Abel ap
pear to sacrifice.
Cain makes his offering of the
first substance that comes to
hand — " dry cow-dung" ( ! ) and
tells Abel that he is " dolthead"
and " a frothy fool" for using
any thing better. Then, " Abel is
stricken with a jaw-bone and
dieth — Cain casteth him into a
ditch." The effect of the first
murder on the minds of our first
parents is delineated in some
speeches exhibiting a certain an
tique simplicity of thought, which
sometimes almost rises to the
poetical by its homely adherence
to nature, and its perfect inno
cence of effort, artifice, or display.
The banishment of Cain, still glo
rying in his crime, follows the
lamentations of Adam and Eve
for the death of Abel; and the
act is closed by Adam's announce
ment of the birth of Seth.
The fourth act relates to the
deaths of Cain and Adam, and
contains some of the most eccen
tric, and also, some of the most
elevated writing in the play.
Lamech opens the scene, candidly


118

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

and methodically exposing his
own character in these lines : —
" Sure I am the first
That ever yet had two wives !
And maidens in sufficient plenty
They are to me. I am not dainty,
I can find them where I will ;
Nor do I spare of them
In anywise one that is handsome.
But I am wondrous troubled,
Scarce do I see one glimpse
What the devil shall be done !"
In this vagabond frame of mind
Lamech goes out hunting, with
bow and arrow, and shoots Cain,
accidentally, in a bush. When
Cain falls, Lamech appeals to his
servant, to know what it is that
he has shot ; — the servant declares
that it is " hairy, rough, ugly, and
a buck-goat of the night." Cain,
however, discovers himself before
he dies. There is something
rudely, dreary and graphic about
his description of his loneliness,
bare as it is of any recommenda
tion of metaphors or epithets : —
" Deformed I am very much,
And overgrown with hair ;
I do live continually in heat or cold
frost, Surely night and day ;
Nor do I desire to see the son of man,
With my will, at any time ;
But accompany most time with all the
beasts."
Lamech, discovering the fatal
error that he has committed, kills
his servant in his anger; and the
scene ends with "the devils car
rying them away with great noise
to hell."
The second scene is between
Adam and his son Seth; and
here, the old dramatist often rises
to an elevation of poetical feeling,
which, judging from the pre
ceding portions of the play, we
should not have imagined he
could reach. Barbarous as his

execution may be, the simple
beauty of his conception often
shines through it faintly, but yet
palpably, in this part of the drama.
Adam is weary of life and weary
of the world ; he sends Seth to the
gates of Paradise to ask mercy
and . release for him, telling his
son that he will find the way
thither by his father's foot-prints,
burnt into the surface ofthe earth
that was cursed for Adam's trans
gression. Seth finds and follows
the supernatural marks, is wel
comed by the angel at the gates
of Paradise, and is permitted to
look in. He beholds 'there, an
Apocalypse of the redemption of
the world. On the tree of life sit
the Virgin and Child; on the
tree from which Eve plucked the
apple, " the woman" is seen, hav
ing power over the serpent. The
vision changes, and Cain is shown
in hell, " sorrowing and weep
ing." Then the angel plucks
three kernels from the tree of
life, and gives them to Seth for
his father's use, saying that they
shall grow to another tree of life,
when more than five thousand
years are ended ; and that Adam
shall be redeemed from his pains,
when that period . is fulfilled.
After this Seth is dismissed by
the angel afhd returns to commu
nicate to his father the message
of consolation which he has re
ceived. Adam hears the result of his
son's mission with thankfulness;
blesses Seth; and speaks these
last words, while he is confronted
by Death : —
" Old and weak, I am gone !
To live longer is not for me :
Death is come,
Nor will here leave me,
To live one breath 1


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

119

I see him now with his spear,
Ready to pierce me on every side,
There is no escaping from him 1
The time is welcome with me —
I have served long the world 1"
So, the patriarch dies, trusting in
the promise conveyed through
his son ; and is buried by Seth
" in a fair tomb, with some Church
sonnet." After this impressive close to
the fourth act — impressive in its
intention, however clumsy the
appliances by which that inten
tion was worked out — it would
be doing the old author no kind
ness to examine his fifth act in
detail. Here, he sinks again, in
many places, to puerility of con
ception, and coarseness of dia
logue. Suffice it to say, that the
history of the Flood closes the
drama, and that the spectators
are dismissed with an epilogue,
directing them to " come to-mor
row, betimes, and see very great
matters" — the minstrels being
charged, at the conclusion, to
" pipe," so that all may dance to
gether, as the proper manner of
ending the day's amusements.
And now, let us close the book,
look forth over this lonesome
country and lonesome amphi
theatre, and imagine what a
scene both must have presented,
when a play was to be acted on a
fine summer's morning in the
year 1611.
Fancy, at the outset, the arrival
of the audience — people dressed
in the picturesque holiday cos
tume of the time, which varied
with every varying rank, hurry
ing to their daylight play from
miles off; all visible in every
direction on the surface of the
open moor, and all converging
from every point of the compass

to the one common centre of
Piran Round. Then, figure to
yourself the assembling in the
amphitheatre ; the bustle, the bawl
ing, the laughter; the running
round the outer circle of the em
bankment to get at the entrances ;
the tumbling and rushing up the
steps inside ; the racing of hot
headed youngsters to get to the
top places; the sly deliberation
of the elders in selecting the
lower and safer positions ; the
quarreling when a tall man
chanced to stand before a short
one ; the giggling and blushing
of buxom peasant wenches when
the gallant young bachelors of
the district happened to be placed
behind them ; the universal specu
lation on the weather ; the uni
versal shouting for pots of ale —
and then, as the time of the per
formance drew near, and the min
strels appeared with their pipes,
the gradual hush and stillness
among the multitude ; the com
bined stare of the whole circular
mass of spectators on the one
point in the plain of the amphi
theatre, where everybody knew
that the actors lay hidden in a
pit, properly covered in from ob
servation — the mysterious "green
room" of the strolling player of
old Cornwall !
And the play ! — to see the play
must have been a sight indeed !
Imagine the commencement of
it ; the theatrical sky which was
to open awfully whenever Heaven
was named; the mock clouds
coolly set up by the " property-
man" on an open-air stage,
where the genuine clouds ap
peared above them to expose the
counterfeit ; the hard fighting of
the angels with swords and staves ;
the descent of the lost spirits


120

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

along cords running into the
plain ; the thump with which
they must have come done ; the
rolling off of the whole troop
over the grass, to the infernal
regions, amid shouts of applause
from the audience as they rolled !
Then the appearance of Adam
and Eve, packed in white leather,
like our modern dolls — the ser
pent with the virgin's face and
the yellow hair, climbing into a
tree, and singing in the branches
— Cain falling out of the bush
when he was struck by the arrow
of Lamech, and his blood appear
ing, according to the stage direc
tions, when he fell — the making
of the Ark, the filling it with
live-stock, the scenery of the
Deluge, in the fifth act ! — what a
combination of theatrical prodi
gies the whole performance must
have presented ! How the actors
must have ranted to make them
selves heard in the open air —
how often the machinery must
have gone wrong, and the rude
scenery toppled and tumbled
down ! Could we revive at will,
for mere amusement, any of the
bygone performances of the thea
tre, since the first days of bar
baric acting in a cart, assuredly
the performance at Piran Round
would be those which, without
hesitation, we should select from
all others to call back to life.
The end of the play, too — how
picturesque, how striking all the
circumstances attending it must
have been! Oh that we could
hear again the merry old English
tune piped by the minstrels, and
see the merry old English danc
ing of the audience to the music !
Then, think of the separation
and the return home of the
populace, at s inset — the fishing

people strolling off, towards the
sea-shore; the miners walking
away farther inland; the agri
cultural laborers spreading in all
directions wherever cottages and
farm-houses were visible in the
far distance over the moor — the
darkness coming on, and the
moon rising over the amphi
theatre, so silent and empty, save
at one corner where the poor
worn-out actors are bivouacking,
gipsy-like in their tents, cooking
supper over the fire that flames
up red in the moonlight, and
talking languidly over the fatigues
and the triumphs of the play.
What a moral and what a beauty
in the quiet night-view of the
old amphitheatre, after the sight
that it must have presented dur
ing the noise, the bustle, and the
magnificence of the day !
Shall we dream over our old
play any longer ? Shall we delay
a moment more, ere we proceed
on our journey, to compare the
modern with the ancient drama,
in Cornwall, as we have already
compared the theatre of Redruth
with the theatre of Piran Round ?
If we set them fairly against one
another as we now know them,
might we not determine which
burnt purest — the new light that
flared brilliantly in our eyes when
we last saw it, or the old light
that just flickered in the socket
for an instant, as we 'tried to
trim it afresh ? Or, if we rather
inquire which audience had the
advantage of witnessing the wor
thiest performance, could we fail '
to decide at once ? Between the
people at Redruth, and the people
at Piran Round, there was cer
tainly a curious resemblance in
one respect — they failed alike to
discern the barbarisms and ab-


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

121

surdities of the plays represented
before them ; but were they also
equally uninstructed by what
they beheld ? Which was likeli
est to send them away with some
thing worth thinking of, and
worth remembering — the drama
about knaves and fools, at the
modern theatre, or the drama
about Scripture History at the
ancient ? Let the reader consider
and determine.
For our parts, let us honestly
confess, in bidding farewell to the
old play, that though we took it
up (not unnaturally) to laugh
over the clumsiness and eccentri
city of the performance, we now
lay it down (not inconsistently),
recognizing the artless sincerity
and elevation of the design — just
as in the earliest productions of
the Italian School of Painting we
first perceive the false perspective
of a scene or the quaint rigidity
of a figure; and only afterwards
discover that these crudities and
formalities roughly enshrine the
germs of deep poetic feeling, and
the first struggling perceptions of
grace, beauty, and truth.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE NUNS OF MAWGAN.
About three miles from the
large market-town of St. Colomb
Major, in the direction of the
coast, is situated the Vale of
Mawgan. The village of the
same name occupies the lower
part of the valley, and includes a
few cottages, an old church, a yet
older manor-house, and a clear
running stream, crossed by a little

stone bridge — all nestling close
together on a few hundred yards
of ground enclosed by some of
the most luxuriant wood foliage
in Cornwall. The trees bound
each side of the stream, tinging it
in deep places, where it eddies
smoothly, with hues of lustrous
green, and dipping their lower
branches into it, where it ripples
on white pebbles or glides fast
over gray sand. They cluster
thickly about the old church
yard, as if to keep the place secret,
throwing deep shadows over the
graves, and hiding all outer ob
jects from the eye. The small
cottage garden and the spacious
manor-house are sheltered by
them alike — the bye-roads lead
ing in and out of the village, are
soon lost to view amid their out
spread branches — and not even a
peep of the high laud that leads
on to the sea in one direction,
and back to the town in the other,
is to be obtained through the
natural screen of leaves above,
and mosses, ferns, and high grass
below, which closely shut in this
part of the vale of Mawgan from
the open country around.
There is an unbroken, un
worldly tranquillity about this
secluded place, which communi
cates itself mysteriously to the
stranger's thoughts ; making him
unconsciously slacken in his walk,
and look and listen in silence,
when he enters it, as if he had
penetrated into some new and un
earthly sphere. Slight noises,
rarely noticed elsewhere, are
always audible here. The dull
fall of the latch, when an idle
child carelessly opens the church
yard wicket, sounds from one end
of the village to the other. The
curious traveler who wanders


122

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

round the walls ofthe old church,
peering through its dusty lattice
windows at the dark religious soli
tude within, can hear the lightest
flap of a duck's wing in the stream
below — or the gentlest rustle of
distant leaves, as the faint breeze
moves them in the upland woods
above. But these, and all other
spunds, never break the peaceful
charm of the place — they seem
to deepen the stillness that they
fain would startle.
Within the church-yard, the
bright color of the turf, and the
quiet gray hues of the mouldering
tombstones are picturesquely in
termingled all over the uneven
surface of the ground, save in one
remote corner, where the graves
are few and the grass grows rank
and high. Here, the eye is
abruptly attracted by the stern of
a boat, painted white, and fixed
upright in the earth. This strange
memorial, little suited though it
be to the old monuments around,
has a melancholy significance of
its own, which gives it a peculiar
claim to consideration. Inscribed
on it, appear the names of ten
fishermen of the parish who went
out to sea to pursue their calling,
on one wintry night in 1846. It
was unusually cold on land — on
the sea, the frosty bitter wind cut
through to the bones. The men
were badly provided against the
weather; and, hardy as they were,
the weather killed them that
night. In the morning, the boat
drifted on shore, manned like a
spectre bark, by the ghastly
figures of the dead — horribly
freighted with the corpses of ten
men all frozen to death. They
are now buried in Mawgan church
yard ; and the stern of their boat
is the simple, yet appropriate,

tombstone which tells their fatal
story, and points to the last home
that they share together.
But it is not from such a vil
lage tragedy as this, written
briefly and eloquently on the
tablet of the grave ; it is not from
its retired situation, its Arcadian
peacefulness, its embowering trees
and hidden hermit-like beauties of
natural scenery, that the vale of
Mawgan derives its peculiar and
principal interest. It possesses an
additional attraction, far stronger
than any of these, to fix our atten
tion — it is the scene of a romance
that we may still study, of a mys
tery that is of our own time.
Even to this little hidden nook,
even to this quiet bower of Na
ture's building, that vigilant
and indestructible Papal reli
gion, which defies alike hidden
conspiracy and open persecution,
has stretched its stealthy and far-
spreading in fl uen ce. Even in this
remote corner of the remote west
of England, among the homely
cottages of a few Cornish pea
sants, the imperial Christianity
of Rome has set up its sanc
tuary in triumph — a sanctuary
not thrown open to dazzle and
awe the beholder, but veiled in
gloom, guarded in secrecy, pre
served in deep mystery behind
gates that only open, like the fatal
gates of the grave, to receive, but
never to dismiss again to the world
without. It is this attribute of the vale
of Mawgan which invests it with
something more than the simple
attraction of its own character of
pastoral repose: it is this which
leads the stranger away from the
cool, clear stream, and the plea
sant, shadowy recesses among the
trees, to the ancient building near


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

123

the church, which he knows to
have been once an old English
manorial hall — to be now a con
vent of Carmelite nuns.
The Housd of Lanhearne — so it
is named — comprises an ancient
and a modern portion; the first
dating back before the Conquest,
the second added probably not
more than a century and a half
ago. The place formerly belonged
to the old Cornish family of the
Arundels; but about the year
1700, their race became extinct,
and the property passed into the
possession of the present Lords
Arundel. However, although the
manor house has changed masters,
there is one peculiar circumstance
connected with it, which has re
mained unaltered down to the
present time — it has never had a
Protestant owner.
Thus, whatever religious tradi
tions are connected with it, are
Roman Catholic traditions. A
secret recess remains in the wall
of the old house, where a priest
was hidden from his pursuers,
during the reign of Elizabeth,
eighteen months ; the place being
only large enough to allow a man
to stand upright in it. The skull
of another priest who was burnt
at the same period, is still pre
served with jealous care, as one
of the important relics of the an
cient history of Lanhearne.
About the commencement of
this century, the manor-house en
tirely changed its character. It
was at that time given to the Car
melite nuns, who now inhabit it,
by Lord Arundel. The sister
hood was originally settled in
France, and was removed thence
to Antwerp, at the outbreak of
the first French Revolution.
Shortly after that, when the

affairs of the Continent began to
assume a threatening and troubled
aspect, the nuns again migrated,
and sought in England, at Lan
hearne House, the last asylum
which they still occupy.
The strictness of their order is
preserved with a severity qf dis
cipline which is probably with
out parallel anywhere else in
Europe. It is on our free Eng
lish ground, in one of our simplest
and prettiest English villages, that
the austerities of a Carmelite con
vent are now most resolutely
practised, and the seclusion of a
Carmelite convent most vigilantly
preserved by the nuns of Maw
gan ! They are at present twenty
in number; two of them are
Frenchwomen, the rest are all
English. They are of every age,
from the very young to the very
old. The eldest of the sisterhood
has long passed the ordinary limits
of human life — she has attained
ninety-five years.
The nuns never leave the con
vent, and no one ever sees them
in it; — women even are not ad
mitted to visit them ; the domestic
servants, who have been employ
ed in the house for years, have
never beheld any of them. It is
only in cases of severe and dan
gerous illness, when their own
skill and their own medicines do
not avail them, that they admit,
from sheer necessity the only
stranger who ever approaches them
— the doctor ; and on these occa
sions, whenever it is practicable,
the face of the patient is concealed
from the medical man.
The nuns occupy the modern
part of the house, which is en
tirely built off, inside, from the
ancient. Their only place for ex
ercise is a garden of two acres,


124

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

enclosed by lofty walls, and sur
rounded by trees. Their food
and other necessaries are con
veyed to them through a turning
door; all communication with the
servants' offices being carried on
through the medium of lay sisters.
The nuns have a private way,
known only to themselves, to the
chapel choir, which is constructed
in the form of a gallery, boarded
in at the sides and concealed by a
curtain and close grating in front.
The chapel itself is in the old part
of the house, and occupies what
was formerly the servants' hall.
The officiating priest who under
takes the duties here, lives in this
portion of the.building, and lives
a life of complete solitude, until
he is relieved by a successor; —
he never sees the face of one of
the nuns; he cannot even ask one
of his own profession to dine with
him, without first of all obtaining
the express permission of the Ab
bess ; and when his visitor is at
length admitted, it is impossible
to gain for him — let him be who
he may — the additional indul
gence of being allowed to sleep
in the house.
The chapel is the only part of
the whole interior of the building
to which strangers can be ad
mitted ; those who desire to do so
can attend mass thereon Sundays.
The casual visitor, when permitted
to enter it, is not allowed to pass
beyond the pillars which support
the gallery of the choir above him ;
for if he advanced farther, the nuns
who might then be occupying
it, might see him while they were
engaged at their devotions. The
chapel -exhibits nothing in the
way of ornament, beyond the
altar furniture and a few copies
from pictures on sacred subjects

by the old masters. Some of the
more valuable objects devoted to
its service are not shown. These
consist of the sacred vestments
and the sacramental plate, which
are said to be of extraordinary
richness and worth, and are pre
served in the keeping of the Ab
bess. One of the j e welled chalices
alone has been valued at a thou
sand pounds.
Much of the land in the neigh
borhood belongs to the convent,
which has been enriched by many
valuable gifts. The nuns make
a good use of their wealth.
Neither the austerities and morti
fications to which their lives are
devoted, nor their rigid and terri
ble self-exclusion from all inter
course with their fellow-beings in
the world around them, have di
minished their ready sympathy
for affliction, or their pleasure in
ministering to the wants of the
poor. Any assistance of any kind
that they can render, is always at
the service of those who require
it, without distinction of rank or
religion. No wandering beggar
who rings at the convent bell,
ever leaves the door without a
penny and a piece of bread to help
him on his way.
But the charities of the nuns
of Mawgan do not stop "short at
the first good work of succoring
the afflicted ; they extend also to
a generous sympathy for those
human weaknesses of impatience
and irresolution in others, which
they have surmounted, but not
forgotten, themselves. Rather
more than two years since, a
young girl of eighteen applied to
be admitted to share the dreary
life-in-death existence of the Car
melite sisterhood. She was re
ceived for her year of probation :


SIGHTS A-FOOT

125

it expired, and she still held
firmly to her first determination.
But the nuns, in pity to her youth,
and perhaps mournfully remem
bering, even in their life-long se
clusion of mind and body, how
strong are the ties which bind to
gether the beings of this world
and the things of this world, gave
her more time yet to search her
own motives, to look back on
what she was abandoning, to look
forward on what she desired to
obtain. Mercifully refusing to
grant her her own wishes, they for
bore the performance of the fatal
ceremony which irrevocably took
her from earth to give her up
only to Heaven, until she had
undergone an additional year of
probation. This last solemn pe
riod of delay that Christian
charity and sisterly love had
piously granted, expired a few
months since, and found her still
determined to adhere to her reso
lution. By this time she has
taken the veil; and the dreary
gates of Lanhearne have closed on
all that is mortal of her forever !
The convent has two burial
places. The first is in an ancient
recess within the village church,
and was given to the nurts with
the manor-house. Those among
them who first expired on Eng
lish ground, lie buried here — the
Catholic dead have returned to
the once Catholic edifice, where
the Protestant living now wor
ship ! When the Carmelite funeral
procession entered this place, it
entered at the dead of night, to
avoid the chance of any intru
sion. But as the nuns have no
private entrance to their burial-
vault, and have been by law pro
hibited from making one ; as they
are obliged to pass through the

public door of the church and
walk up the nave, they are at the
mercy of any stranger who can gai n
admittance to the building, and
who may be led by idle curiosity
to watch the ceremonies which
accompany their midnight ser
vice for the dead. Feeling this,
they have of late years abandoned
their burial place, after first care
fully boarding it off from all ob
servation. No inquisitive eyes
can now behold, no intruding
footsteps can now approach, the
tombs of the nuns of Mawgan.
The second cemetery, which
they use at present, is situated in
one of the convent-gardens, and
can therefore be secured, when
ever they please, from all obser
vation. A wooden door at one
corner of the ancient portion of
the manor-house leads into it.
The place is merely a small,
square plot of ground, damp,
shady, and overgrown with long
grass. An old and elaborately
carved stone cross stands in it,
and about this, appear the graves
of the nuns, marked by plain slate
tablets. But even here the mys
tery which hangs darkly over the
Carmelite household does not clear
— the seclusion that has hidden
the living in the convent, is but
the forerunner of the secrecy that
veils from us on the tombstone
the history of the dead. The
saint's name once assumed by the
nun, and the short yet beautiful
supplication ofthe Roman Church
for the repose of the soul of the
departed, form the only inscrip
tions that appear over the graves.
This is all — all of the lives, all
of the deaths of the sisterhood at
Lanhearne that we can ever know !
the remainder must be conjec
ture. We have but the bare stern


126

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

outline that has been already
drawn — who shall venture, even
in imagination, to color and com
plete the picture which it darkly,
yet plainly, indicates ?
Even if we only endeavor to
image to ourselves the externals
of the life which those massy walls
keep secret, what have we to
speculate on? Nothing but the
day that in winter and summer,
in sunshine and in storm, brings
with it year after year, to young
and old alike, the same monotony
of action and the same monotony
of repose — the turning door in
the wall (sole indication to those
within, that there is a world
without), moved in silence, ever at
the same stated hour, by invisible
hands — the prayer and penance
in the chapel choir, always a soli
tude to its occupants, however
many of their fellow-creatures
may be standing beneath it — the
short hours of exercise amid high
garden walls, which shut out
every thing but the distant sky.
Beyond this, what remains but
that utter vacancy where even
thought ends ; that utter gloom in
which the brightest fancy must
cease to shine?
Should we try to look deeper
than the surface, to strip the
inner life of the convent of all
its mysteries and coverings, and
anatomizing it inch by inch,
search it through down to the
very heart ? Should we pry into
the dread and secret processes by
which, among these women, one
human emotion after another may
be suffering, first ossification, then
death ? No ! — this is a task
which is beyond our power ; an
investigation which, of our own
knowledge, we cannot be certain
of pursuing aright. We may

imagine grief that does not exist,
remorse that is not felt, error
that has not been committed. It
is not for us to criticise the catas
trophe of the drama, when we
have no acquaintance with the
scenes which have preceded it. It
is not for us, guided only by our
own thoughts, moved only by
the impulses of the world we
live in, to decide upon the mea
sure of good or evil contained in
an act of self-sacrifice at the altar
of religion, which is in its own
motive and result so utterly sepa
rated from all other motives and
results, that we cannot at the out
set even so much as sympathize
with it. The purpose of the con
vent system is of those purposes
which are conceived in- this world,
but which appeal for justification
or condemnation only to the Dext.
May we not in truth, as we
leave the quiet country scene be
fore us, learn best how to treat
the doubtful and difficult subject
which now engages our thoughts,
by taking example from those
children who are sitting content
edly yonder by the bank of the
village stream ? They think not,
as they look on it, of inquiring
into the laws which regulate its
course, into the purpose which it
is destined to fulfil : their happy
curiosity is satisfied with the little
they can see of it where they are;
they seek not farther to discover
whence it comes, or whither it
goes. Even so, let us look for
the last time upon the convent
walls ; so learn to regard the Car
melite sisters at old Lanhearne !*
* In a review of the first edition of
this book, in one of the "religious"
newspapers, it was assumed that my ac
count of the rigid discipline of the con
vent at Lanhearne must be exaggerated.


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

127

CHAPTER XV.
LEGENDS OP THE NORTHERN
COAST.
From the time when we left
St. Ives, we walked through the
latter part of our journey much
faster than we walked through
the first; faster, perhaps, than
the reader may have perceived
from these pages. When we
stopped at the town of St. Columb
Major, to visit the neighboring
vale of Mawgan, we had already
advanced half way up the north
ern coast of Cornwall. Through
out this part ofthe county the
towns lay wide asunder; and,
as pedestrian tourists, we were
obliged to lengthen our walks
and hasten our pace accordingly.
After we had quitted St. Co-
lomb Major, our rambles began
to draw rapidly to their close.
Little more was now left for us
to examine than the different
localities connected with two or
three northern Cornish legends.
The places thus associated with
the quaint mythical fancies of the
olden time, were all situated close
together, some fifteen or twenty
miles farther on, along the eoast.
The first among them that we
reached was Tintagel Castle, an
ancient ruin magnificently situ-
In case the same idea should occur to
the reader's mind, I beg to say that my
narrative of the rules observed by the
Nuns of Mawgan was derived, in every
particular, from the officiating priest of
the convent. The information kindly
communicated to me by that gentleman,
I wrote down in the note-book from
which the foregoing pages were taken,
as soon as we parted, and read over to
my companion (who was present at the
interview), so as to gain the benefit of
his recollec/ion as well as my own. —
w. w. c.

ated on a precipice overhanging
the sea, and romantically, if not
historically, reputed as the birth
place of the hero of many a
magic tale — King Arthur.
The date of the Castle of Tin
tagel is as much a subject of per
plexity among modern antiqua
ries, as is the actual existence
of King Arthur among modern
historians. We may still see
some ruins of the Castle ; but
when or by whom the building
was erected which those ruins
represent, we have no means of
discovering ; — we only know that,
after the Conquest, it was in
habited by some of our English
princes, and that it was, used as a
state prison so late as the reign
of Elizabeth. The rest is, for the
most part, mere conjecture, raised
upon the weak foundation of a
few mouldering fragments of walls,
which must soon crumble and
disappear as the rest of the Castle
has crumbled and disappeared
before them.
The position of the old fortress
was, probably, almost impregna
ble in the days of its strength
and glory — the outer part of it
was built on a precipitous pro
jection of cliff, three hundred feet
high, which must have been
wrenched away from the main
land by some tremendous con
vulsion of Nature ; the inner part
stood on the opposite side of the
chasm formed by this convulsion ;
and both divisions of the fortress ,
were formerly connected by a
drawbridge. The most interest
ing portion of the few ruins now
remaining, is that on the outer
most promontory, which is almost
entirely surrounded by the sea.
The way up to this cliff is by a
steep and somewhat perilous path •


128

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

so narrow in some places, where
it winds along the verge of the
precipice, that a single false step
would "be certain destruction.
The difficulties of the ascent ap
pear to have impressed the old
historian of Cornwall, Norden,
so vividly that he tries his utmdst
in his "Survey," to frighten all
his readers from attempting it ;
warning " unstable man," if he
will try to mount the cliff, that,.
" while he respecteth his footinge
he indaungers his head; and
looking to save the head, in
daungers the footinge, accordinge
to the old proverbe : Incidit in
Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdim.
He must have eyes," — ominously
adds the worthy Norden — " that
will scale Tintagell."
The ruins on the summit of
the promontory only consist of a
few straggling walls loosely piled
up, rather than built, with dark-
colored stone. Some still remain
entire enough to show the square
loop-holes that were pierced in
them for arrows ; and, here and
there, fragments of rough irregu
lar arches, which might have
been either doorways or windows,
are still visible. Those parts of
the building which have fallen,
are concealed by long, thickly
growing grass — the foot may
sometimes strike against them,
but the eye perceives them not.
These are all the vestiges which
remain of the once mighty castle ;
all the signs that are left to point
out the site of the old halls,
where the bold knights of Ar
thur gathered for the feast, or
prepared for the fight, at their
royal master's command.
The Cornish legends tell us
that, at Tintagel, tbe British hero
held his last court, solemnized his

last feast, reviewed his last array
of warriors, before he went to the
fatal battle-field of Camelford, to
combat his nephew Mordred, who
had rebelled against his power.
In the morning, the martial assem
blage marched out of the castle
in triumph, led by the king, with
his death-dealing sword "Excali-
ber" slung at his shoulder, and
his magic lance "Rou," in his
hand. In the evening the war
riors returned, fatally victorious,
from the struggle. The rebel
army had been routed and the
rebel chief slain ; but they brought
back with them, their renowned
leader — the favorite hero of mar
tial adventure, the conqueror of
the Saxons in twelve battles —
mortally wounded, from the field
that he had quitted a victor.
That night, the wise and valiant
king died in the castle of his
birth ; died among his followers
who had feasted and sung around
him at the festal table but a few
hours before. The deep-toned
bells of Tintagel rang his death-
peal ; and the awe-stricken popu
lace from the country round,
gathering together hurriedly be
fore the fortress, heard portentous
wailings from supernatural voices,
which mingled in ghostly and so
lemn harmony with the moaning
of the restless sea, the dirging of
the dreary wind, and the dull deep
thunder of the funeral knell.
About the heights of the castle,
and in the caverns beneath it, these
sounds ceased not night or day,
until the corpse ofthe hero was con
veyed to the ship destined to bear
it to its burial place in Glaston bury
Abbey. Then, dirging winds, and
moaning sea, and wailing voices,
ceased ; and in the intervals be
tween the slow pealing of the


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

129

funeral bells, clear child-like
voices arose from the calmed
waters, and told the mourning
people that Arthur was gone
from them but for a little time,
to be healed of all his wounds in
the Fairy Land ; and that he
would yet return to lead and to
govern them'in glory, as of old.
Such is the scene — strange
compound of fiction and truth,
of the typical and the real — which
legends teach us to imagine in
the Tintagel Castle of thirteen
centuries ago ! What is the
scene that we look on now ? — -A
solitude where the decaying
works of man, and the enduring
works of Nature appear mingled
in beauty together. The grass
grows high and luxuriant, where
the rushes were strewn over the
floor of Arthur's banqueting hall.
Sheep are cropping the fresh
pasture, within the walls which
once echoed to the sweetest songs,
or rang to the clash of the stout
est swords of ancient England!
About the fortress nothing re
mains unchanged, but the sun
which at evening still brightens
it in its weak old age with the
same glory that shone over its
lusty youth ; the sea that rolls
and dashes, as at first, against its
foundation rocks; and the wild
Cornish country outspread on
either side of it, as desolately and
as magnificently as ever.
Shall we linger any longer
among the ruins ? The grandeur
of the scenery at Tintagel, the
romantic interest of the old Bri
tish traditions connected with the
castle, might well delay us many
hours more on these solitary
heights ; but we have other places
still to visit, other and far different
legends still to gossip over. Let

us descend the cliff while the day
gives us ample time to wander
where we will ; and stroll away
inland to track the scene of our
new romance as far as the water
fall called Nighton's Keive.
A walk of little more than half-
a-mile brings us- to the entrance
of a valley, bounded on either
side by high, gently-sloping hills,
with a small stream running
through its centre, fed by the
waterfall of which we are in
search. We now follow a foot
path a few hundred yards, pass a
mill, and looking up the valley,
see one compact, brilliantly green
mass of vegetation entirely filling
it to its remotest corners, and not
leaving the slightest vestige of a
path, the merest patch of clear
ground, visible in any direction,
far or near.
It seems as if all the foliage
which ought to have grown on
the Cornish moorlands, had been
mischievously crammed into this
place, within the narrow limits
of one Cornish valley. Weeds,
ferns, brambles, bushes, and
young trees, are flourishing toge
ther here, thickly intertwined in
every possible position, in trium
phant security from any invasion
of billhook or axe. You win
every step of your way through
this miniature forest of vegetation,
by the labor of your arms and
the weight of your body. Tan
gled branches and thorny bushes
press against you in front and be
hind, meet over your head, knock
off your cap, flap in your face,
twist about your legs, and tear
your coat skirts; so obstructing
you in every conceivable manner,
and in every conceivable direc
tion, that they seem possessed
with some magic and living power


130

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

of opposition, and commissioned
by some evil genius of Fairy My
thology to prevent mortal foot
steps from ever intruding into the
valley. Whether you try a zig
zag or a straight .course, whether
you go up or down, it is the same
thing — you must squeeze, and
push, and jostle your way through
the crowd of bushes, just as you
would through a crowd of men,
or else stand still surrounded by
leaves, like a " Jack-in-the-Green,"
and wait for the very remote
chance of somebody coming to
help you out.
Forcing our way incessantly
through these obstructions, for a
full half-hour, and taking care to
keep our only guide — the sound
of the running - water — always
within hearing, we came at last to
a little break in the vegetation,
crossed the stream at this place,
and found, on the opposite side
of the bank, a faintly - marked
track, which might have been
once a footpath. Following it as
well as we could among the
branches and brambles, and now
ascending steep ground, we soon
heard the dash of the waterfall.
But to attempt to see it, was no
easy undertaking. The trees, the
bushes, and the wild herbage,
grew here thicker than ever,
stretching in perfect canopies of
leaves so closely across the over
hanging banks of the stream, as
entirely to hide it from view.
We heard the monotonous, eter
nal splashing of the water, close
at our ears, and yet vainly tried
to obtain even a glimpse of the
fall. If any thing in this world
could justify a belief in the actual
existence of little Robin Good-
fellow, assuredly our fruitless pere
grinations in search of Nighton's

Keive would amply supply such
a justification. The mischievous
imp led' us up and down, and
round and round, and backwards
and forwards, amid a labyrinth of
overgrown bushes which would
have bewildered even an Austra
lian settler ; and still the nymph
of the waterfall coyly hid herself
from our eyes. Our ears informed
us that the invisible object of our
search was of very inconsiderable
height; our patience was evapo
rating; our time was wasting
away — in short, to confess the
truth here, as I have confessed it
elsewhere in these pages, let me
acknowledge that our efforts ter
minated in a sound determination
to consult our own convenience,
and give up the attempt to dis
cover Nighton's Keive !
Our wanderings, however, though
useless enough in one direction,
procured us this compensating
advantage in another: they led
us accidentally to the exact scene
of the legend which we knew to
be connected with this part of the
valley, and which had, indeed,
first induced us to visit it.
We found ourselves standing
before the damp, dismantled stone
walls of a solitary cottage, placed
on a plot of partially open ground,
near the outskirts of the wood.
Long dark herbage grew about
the inside ofthe ruined little build
ing ; a toad was crawling where
the leaves clustered thickest, on
what had once been the floor of a
room ; in every direction corrup
tion and decay were visibly bat
tening on the lonesome place ; —
its aspect would repel rather than
allure curiosity, but for the mys
terious story associated with it,
which gives it an attraction and
an interest that are not its own.


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

131

Years and years ago, when this
desolate building was a neat com
fortable cottage, it was inhabited
by two ladies, of whose histories,
and even names, all the people of
the district were perfectly igno
rant. One day they were acci
dentally found living in their soli
tary abode, before any one knew
that they had so much as entered
it, or that they existed at all.
Both appeared to be about the
same age, and both were inflexi
bly taciturn. One was never seen
without the other ; if they ever
' left the house, they only left it to
walk in the most unfrequented
parts of the wood ; they kept no
servant, and never had a visitor ;
no living souls but themselves
ever crossed the door of their cot
tage. They procured their food
and other necessaries from the
people in the nearest village, pay
ing for every thing they received
when it was delivered, and neither
asking nor answering a single
unnecessary question. Their man
ners were gentle, but somewhat
grave and sorrowful as well. The
people who brought them their
household supplies, felt awed and
uneasy, without knowing why, in
their presence ; and were always
relieved when they had dispatched
their errand and had got well
away from the cottage and the
wood. Gradually, as month by month
passed on, and the mystery hang
ing over the solitary pair was still
not cleared, these superstitious
doubts spread widely through the
neighborhood. Harmless as the
conduct of the ladies always ap
peared to 'be, there was something
so sinister and startling about the
unearthly seclusion and secresy
of their lives, that people began

to feel vaguely suspicious, to
whisper awful imaginary rumors
about them, to gossip over old
stories of ghosts and false accusa
tions that had never been pro
perly sifted to the end, whenever
the inhabitants of the cottage were
mentioned. At last they were
secretly watched by one or two
villagers whom intense curiosity
had endowed with a morbid cour
age and resolution. Even this
proceeding led to no results what
ever, but increased rather than
diminished the mystery.
The expertest eaves-droppers,
who had listened at the door,
brought away no information with
them for their pains. Some de
clared that when the ladies held
any conversation together, they
spoke in so low a tone that it was
impossible to distinguish a word
they said. Others, of more imagi
native temperament, protested, on
the contrary, that their voices
were perfectly audible, but that
the language they talked was
some mysterious or diabolical
language of their own, incompre
hensible to everybody but them
selves. One or two expert and
daring spies had even contrived
to look in at them through the
window, unperceived; but had
seen nothing uncommon, nothing
supernatural — nothing, in short,
beyond the spectacle of two ladies
sitting quietly and silently by
their own fireside. Thus, after
all their exertions, the village
people still remained as ignorant
as ever about the names, charac
ters, and histories of the tenants
of the lonely cottage in the wood.
So matters went on, until one
day an universal agitation was
excited in the neighborhood by a
rumor that one of the ladies was


132

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

dead. The rustic authorities im
mediately repaired to the cottage,
accompanied by a long train of
eager followers : they found that
the report was true. The survi
ving lady was seated by her com
panion's bedside, weeping, over a
corpse. She spoke not a word ;
never seemed even to look up at
the villagers as they entered; —
question after question was put to
her without ever eliciting an
answer ; kind words were useless
— even threats proved equally
inefficient : the lady still remained
weeping by the corpse, and still
said nothing. Gradually her in
exorable silence began to infect
her interrogators : the mystery of
her conduct awed their fickle
resolution and oppressed their
simple minds. For a few moments'
nothing was heard in the room
but the dash ofthe waterfall hard
by, and the singing of birds in
the surrounding wood. Bitterly
as the lady was weeping, it was
now first observed by everybody
that she wept silently, that she
never sobbed, never even sighed
in the heaviness of her grief.
People began to urge each
other, superstitiously, to leave the
place. It was determined that
the corpse should be removed and
buried ; and that afterwards some
new expedient should be tried to
induce the survivor of the myste
rious pair to abandon her inflexi
ble and ominous silence. It was
anticipated that she would have
made some sign, or spoken some
few words when they lifted the
body from the bed on which it
lay; but even this proceeding
produced no visible effect. As
the villagers quitted the dwelling
with their dead burden, the last
of them who went out left her in

her solitude, ever speechless, ever
weeping, as they had found her
at first.
Days passed, and still she sent
no. message to any one; weeks
elapsed, and the idlers who waited
about the woodland paths where
they knew that she was once
wont to walk with her companion,
never saw her, watch for her as
patiently as they might. From
haunting the wood, they soon got
on to hovering round the cottage,
and to looking in stealthily at
the, window. They saw her sit
ting on the same seat that she had"
always occupied, with a vacant
chair opposite ; her figure wasted,
her face wan already with inces
sant weeping: it was a dismal
sight to all who beheld it — a
vision of affliction and solitude
that sickened their hearts.
No one knew what to do; the
kindest-hearted people hesitated,
the hardest-hearted people dread
ed to disturb her. While they
were still irresolute, the end was
at. hand. One morning a little
girl, who had looked in at the
cottage window, in imitation of
her elders, reported, when she
returned home, that she had seen
the lady still sitting in her accus
tomed place, but that one of her -
hands hung strangely over the
arm of the chair, and that she
never moved to pick up her
pocket-handkerchief which lay on
the ground beside her. At these
ominous tidings the villagers
summoned their resolution, and
immediately repaired to the lone
some cottage in the wood.
They knocked and called at
the door — it was not opened to
them ; they raised the latch and
entered. She still occupied her
chair; her head was resting on


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

133

one of her hands, the other hung
down, as the little girl had told
them. The handkerchief, too,
was on the- ground, and was wet
with tears. Was she sleeping?
They went round in front to look.
Her eyes were dull, wide-open,
glaring ; her drooping hand, worn
almost to mere bone, was cold to
the touch as the waters of the
valley-stream on a winter's day —
she had died in her wonted place ;
died in mystery and in solitude
as she had lived.
They buried her where they
had buried her companion. No
traces of the real history of either
the one or the other have ever
been discovered from that time
to this.
Such is the tale that was re
lated to us of the cottage in the
valley of Nighton's Keive. It
may be only imagination; but
the stained roofless walls, the
damp clotted herbage, and the
reptiles crawling about the ruins,
give the place a gloomy and dis
astrous look. The air, too, seems
just now unusually still and
heavy here; for the evening is
at hand, and the vapors are
rising in the wood. The shadows
of the trees are deepening; the
rustling music of the waterfall is
growing dreary; the utter still
ness of all things, besides, be
comes wearying to the ear. Let
us pass on, and get into bright
wide space again, where the
downs lead back to pleasanter
solitudes by the sea-shore.
We now rapidly lose sight of
the trees by which we have been
hitherto so closely surrounded,
and find ourselves treading the
short scanty grass of the cliff-
top once more. We still advance

northward, walking along rough
cart-roads, and skirting the ex
tremities of narrow gullies lead
ing down to the sea, until we
enter the picturesque village of
Boscastle. Then, descending a
long street of irregular houses, of
all sizes, shapes, aUd ages, we are
soon conducted to the bottom of
a deep hollow. Beyond this, the
bare ground rises again abruptly -
up to the highest point of the
high cliffs which overhang the
shore; and here, where the site
is most elevated, and where
neither cottage nor cultivation
appear, we descry the ancient
walls and gloomy towers of For-
rabury Church.
The interior of the building
still contains a part of the finely-
carved rood-loft which once
adorned it. Its ricketty pews are
blackened with extreme old age,
and covered with curiously-cut
patterns and cyphers. The place
is so dark that it is difficult to
read the quaint laconic inscrip
tions on many of the mouldering
monuments, fixed together with
out order or symmetry on the
walls. Outside are some Saxon
arches, oddly built of black
slate-stone; and the window
mouldings are ornamented with
rough carving, which at once
proclaims its own antiquity. But
it is in the tower that the interest
attached to the church chiefly
centres. Square, thick, and of
no extraordinary height, it re
sembles in appearance most
other towers in Cornwall — ex
cept in one particular, all the
belfry windows are completely
stopped up.
This peculiarity is to be ex
plained simply enough : the
church has never had any bells ;


134

SIGHTS A-FOOT.

the old tower has been mute and
useless, except for ornament,
since it was first built. The con
gregation of the district must
trust to their watches and their
punctuality to get to service in
good time on Sundays. At
Forrabury the chimes have never
sounded for a marriage : the
knell has never been heard for a
funeral. -• To know the reason of this ;
to discover why the church,
though tower' and belfry have
always been waiting ready for
them, has never had a peal of
bells, we must seek instruction
from another popular tradition,
from a third legend of these
legendary shores. Let us go
down a little to the brink of the
cliff, where the sea is rolling into
a black, yawning, perpendicular
pit of slate rock. The scene of
our third story is the view over
the waters from this place.
In ancient times, when Forra
bury Church was still regarded
as a building of recent date, it
was a subject of sore vexation to
all the people of the neighbor
hood that their tower had no
bells, while the inhabitants of
Tintagel still possessed the fa
mous peal that had rung for King
Arthur's funeral. For some
time, this superiority of the rival
village was borne with scornful
composure by the people of For
rabury ; but, in process of time,
they lost all patience, and it was
publicly determined by the rustic
council, that the honor of their
church should be amply vindi
cated by the strongest possible
measures. Money was imme
diately collected, and bells of
magnificent tones and dimensions
were forthwith ordered from the

best manufactory that London
could supply.
The bells were cast, blessed by
high ecclesiastical authorities, and
shipped for transportation to
Forrabury. The voyage was
one of the most prosperous that
had ever been known. Fair
winds and calm seas so expedited
the passage of the ship, that she
appeared in sight of the downs
on which the church stood, many
days before she had been expect
ed. Great was the triumph of
the populace on the shore, as
they watched her working into
the bay with a steady evening
breeze. On board, however, the scene
was very different. Here there.
was more uproar than happiness,
for the captain and the pilot were
at open opposition. As the ship
neared the harbor, the bells of
Tintagel were faintly heard
across the water, ringing for the
evening service. The pilot, who
was a devout man, took off his
hat as he heard the sound, crossed
himself, and thanked God aloud
for a prosperous voyage. The
captain, who , was a reckless,
vain-glorious fellow, reviled Jhe
pilot, as a fool, and impiously
swore that the ship's company
had only to thank his skill as a
navigator, and their own strong
arms and ready wills, for bring
ing the ship safely in sight of the
harbor. The pilot, in reply, re
buked the captain as an infidel,
and still piously continued to
return thanks as before. The
captain, joined by the crew, tried
to drown his voice by oaths and
blasphemy. They -were still
shouting their loudest, when the
vengeance of Heaven descended
in judgment on them all.


SIGHTS A-FOOT.

185

The clouds supernaturally ga
thered, the wind rose to a gale
in a moment. An immense sea,
higher than any man had ever
beheld, overwhelmed the ship,
and, to the horror of the people
on shore, she went down in an
instant, close to land. Of all the
crew, the pilot only was saved.
The bells were never recovered.
They were heard tolling a muffled
death-peal, as they sank with the
ship ; and even yet, on stormy
days, while the great waves roll
over them, they still ring their
ghostly knell above the fiercest
roaring of wind and sea.
This is the ancient story of the
bells— this is why the chimes are
never heard from the belfry of
Forrabury Church.

Now that we have done talking
over our third legend, what is it
that keeps me and my companion
still lingering on the downs?
Why are we still delaying the
hour of our departure long after
the time that we have ourselves
appointed for it ?
We both know but too well.
At this point we leave the coast,
not to return to it again : at For
rabury we look our last on the
sea from these rocky shores.
With this evening, our pleasant
days of strolling travel are ended :
to-morrow we go direct to Laun-
ceston, and from Launceston at
once to Plymouth ; to morrow
the adventures of the walking
tourist are ours no longer; for

to-morrow our happy rambles in
Cornwall will have virtually
closed !
Rise, brother traveler! We
have lingered until twilight al
ready; the seaward crags grow.
vast and dim around us, and the
inland view narrows and darkens
solemnly in the waning light.
Shut up your sketch-book that
you have so industriously filled,
and pocket your pencils that you
have worn down to stumps, even
as I now shut up my dogs-eared
old journal, and pocket my empty
ink-bottle. One more of the few
and fleeting scenes of life is fast
closing, soon to leave us nothing
but the remembrance that it once
existed — a happy remembrance
of a holiday walk in dear old
England, which will always be
welcome and vivid to the last,-
like other remembrances of home.
Come ! the night is drawing
round us her curtain of mist ; let
us strap on our trusty old friends,
the knapsacks, for the last time,
and turn resolutely from the shore
by which we have delayed too
long. Come! let us once again
"jog on the footpath way" as
contentedly, if not quite as mer
rily, as ever; and, remembering
how much we have seen and learnt
that must surely better us both,
let us, as we now lose sight of
the dark, grey waters, gratefully,
though sadly, speak the parting
word : —
Farewell to Cornwall!

THE END.


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HIDE AND SEEK.

A. DSTO^EL,

BY

W. WILKIE COLLINS,
AOTHOR OF "THE DEAD SECRET," "AFTER DARK," ETC.

NEW YORK:
DICK & FITZGERALD, PUBLISHERS.
NO. 18 ANN STBKET.





PREFACE.

I have endeavored, in writing this book, to combine interest of story and
development of characters in nearly equal proportions throughout, so that
the one quality should never attain undue prominence at the expense of the
other. In the execution of this design I have met with many difficulties,
which I have done my best to couquer in a genuine and workmanlike way —
with what swxots it now remains for others to pronounce
Although painters have already figured somewhat largely in works of
fiction, I have ventured to introduce a painter as one of the principal char
acters in the following pages ; knowing beforehand, that whatever else1 1
might do with such a personage, I was in no danger of making him imitate
any of his predecessors. The painter in this story only assumes to be a
homely study from nature, done by a student who has had more opportuni
ties than most men, out of the profession, of observing what the varieties of
artist-life, and the eccentricities of artist-character, are really like, when
they are loeked at close. It may be necessary tc-mention this, by way of
warning, as I have ventured on this startling novelty (in fiction) of trying
to make an artist interesting, without representing him as friendless, con
sumptive, and penniless — to say nothing of the more daring innovation of
attempting to extract some amusement from his character, and yet not ex
hibiting him as a speaker of bad English, a reckless contractor of debts,
and an utterly irreclaimable sot.
There is one other personage in the following story, about whom I had
some preliminary words to say. But as saying them here might perhaps
interfere with any little interest attaching to the first presentation of this
eharacter to the reader, they have been transferred to a note on page 66.
Hanover Terrace.





14

HIDE AND SEEK.

hand, with unaccustomed impetuosity ; then
said sharply, "Go to your mistress, go on
to the church ;" and then resumed his road
home, dragging his son after him faster than
ever. " Snoxy ! Snoxy !" screamed Master Zack
viciously (he had learned that nick-name
from the nursemaid), " I say, Snoxy !" turn
ing round toward the page, so that he trip
ped himself upland fell .against his father's
legs at every, -third' step, "I've been a
naughty boy-at church !"
" Well, you look like it, you do," mut
tered Snoxell to himself sarcastically, as he
went on ; " Snoxy, too ! I 'H be even wilh
Martha 'some dav for teaching you that,
Master Zack." With these sentiments, the
page approached the church portico, and
waited' sulkily' among his fellow-servants
and their umbrellas for the congregation to
come out.
When Mr. Goodworth and Mrs. Thorpe
left the church, the old gentleman, regard
less of appearances, seized eagerty on the
despised gingham; as the largest umbrella
Tie could ger, and took his daughter home
underitiritriumph. Mrs. Thorpewas very
silent, and sighed dolefully once or twice,
when her father's attention wandered from
her to the people passing along the street.
"You're fretting about Zack," said the
old gentleman, looTting round suddenly at
his daughter. "Nevermind! leave it to me,
I'll undertake to beg him off this time."
"It's very disheartening and shocking to
find him behaving so," said Mrs. Thorpe,
"after the careful way we've brought him
up in, too !"
" Nonsense, my love ! No, I don't mean
that, I beg your pardon. But who can be
surprised that a child of six years old should
be tired of a sermon forty minutes long by
my watch ? I was tired of it myself, I know,
though I wasn't candid enough to show it
as the boy did. There ! there ! we won't
begin to argue : I'll beg Zack off this time,
and then we'll say no more about it."
Mr. Goodworths announcement of his
oenevolent intentions toward Zack seemed
to have very little effect on Mrs. Thorpe ;
but she said nothing on that subject 'or any
other during the rest of the dreary walk
home, through rain, fog^ and mud, to Bare-
grove square.
Rooms have their mysterious peculiarities
of physiognomy as well as men. There
are plenty of rooms, all of much the same
size, all furnished in much the same man
ner, which, neveri heless, differ completely In
expression (if such. a term may be allowed)
one from the other, reflecting the various
characters of their inhabitants by such fine
varieties of effect in the furniture-features
generally common to all, as are often, like
the infinitesimal varieties of eyes, nosesV'
and mouths, too intricately minute to -be

traceable. Now, the parlor of Mr. Thorpe's
house was neat, clean, comfortably and
sensibly furnished. It was of the average
size. It had the usual side-board, dining-
table, looking-glass, scroll fender, marble
chimney-piece with a clock on it, carpet
with a drugget over it, and wire window-
blinds to keep people from looking in, char
acteristic of all respectable London parlors
of the middle class. And yet, it was an
inveterately severe-looking rodm — a room
that seemed as if it had never been con
vivial, never uproarious, never anything
but sternly comfortable and serenely dull ;
a room that -appeared to be as unconscious
of acts of mercy, and easy, unreasoning,
over-affectionate forgiveness to offenders
of any kind— juvenile or otherwise — as if it
had been a cell in Newgate, or a private
torturing chamber in the Inquisition. Per
haps Mr. Goodworth felt thus affected by
the parlor, especially in November weather,
as soon as he entered it, for, although he
had promised to beg Zack off, although Mr.
Thorpe was sitting alone by the table and
accessible to petitions, with a book in his
hand, the old gentleman hesitated uneasily
for a minute or two, and suffered his daugh
ter to speak first.
"Where is Zack??' asked Mrs. Thorpe,
glancing quickly and nervously all round
her. .
"He is locked up in my dressing-room,"
answered her husband without taking his
eyes off his book.
" In your dressing-room !" echoed Mrs.
Thorpe, looking as startled and horrified as
if she had received a blow instead of an
answer; "in your dressing-room! Good
heavens, Zachary ! how do you know the
child Hasn't got at your razors?"
" They are locked up," rejoined Mr.
Thorpe, with the mildest reproof in his
voice, and the mournfullest self-possession
in his manner. "I took care before I left
the boy, that he should get at nothing
which could do him any injury. He is
locked up, and will remain locked: up,
because — "
" I say, Thorpe ! won't you let him off
this time?" interrupted Mr. Goodworth,
boldly plunging head foremost, with his
petition for mercy, into the conversation.
"If you had allowed me to proceed, sir,"
said Mr. Thorpe, who always called his
father-in-law sir, "I should have simply
remarked that, after having enlarged; to my
son (in such terms, you will observe, as I
thought best fitted to his comprehension)
on the disgrace to his parents and himse'f
of his behavior this morning, I set him ai
a task three verses to learn out of the
' Select Bible Texts for Ghildreti :' choosing
the verses which seemed, if I may trust my
own judgment on the point, the sort < f
verses to impress on him what hi«. hpbnvi.n


HIDE AND SEEK.

la

ought to oe for he future in church. He
flatly refused to earn what I told him. Is
was, of course, quite impossible to allow.
my authority to be set at defiance by my
own child (whose disobedient disposition
has always, God knows, been a source of
.constant trouble and' anxiety1 to me), so T
locked him up, and locked up he will re
main until he has obeyed 'me. My dear,1?'
(turning to. his wife. andr handing her a
key), "I have no objection, if you wish,' to
your going and trying what you cah do
toward overcoming me obstinacy of this
unhappy child."
Mrs. Thorpe took the key, and went up
stairs immediately — went up to do' what all
women have done, from the time of the
first mother; to do WHat Eve did when
Cain was wayward in' his infancy, and
<sried at her breast — in short, went urj to
coax her child.
Mr. Thorpe, when his, wife closed the
door, carefully looked down the open page
on his knee for the place where he had left
off— found i t— referred back a moment to
the last lines of the preceding leaf— and
then went on with his book, 'not taking the
smallest notice of Mr. Goodworth.
"Thorpe!" cried the old gentleman,
plunging head foremost again, 'into his son-
in-law's reading this time instead of his
talk, " You may say what you please ; but
your notion of bringing up Zack is — is, I'm
certain, a wrong one altogether."
Wiih the calmest imaginable expression
of face, Mr. Thorpe looked up from h'is
book ; and, first carefully putting a paper-
knife between the leaves, plated it on the
table. He then crossed one of his legs over
the other, zested an elbow on each arm of
his chair, and clasped his navis ia front of
him. On the wall ' opposite hvitr sever
al lithographed portraits of distinguished
preachers, in and out of the Establishment —
mostly represented as very stafdily-con-
structed men with bristly hair, fronting the
spectator interrogatively and holding thick
books in their hands. Upon one of these
portraits — the name of the original of which
was slated at the foot of the print to be'the
Reverend Aaron Yoll op — Mr'. Thorpe now
fixed his eyes, with a faint approach to a
smile on his face (he never was known to
laugh), and with a look and manner Which
said as plainly as if he had spoken it :
"This old man is about to spy something
improper or absurd to me ; but he is my
wife's father ; it is my du'/ to bear with
him, and therefore I am re.'ectly resigned."
" It's ho use looking in '.hat Way, Thorpe,"
growled the Old gentleman; "I'm not to
be put down by lopks at my time of life. I
may have my own opinions I suppose, like
other people ; and I don't see why I
shouldn't speak them, especially when they
relate to my own daughter's boy. It's very

queer of me, I dare say ; but I think I ought
to have a voice now and then in Zack'*
bringing up."
Mr. Thorpe bowed respectfully,— partly
to Mr. Goodworth, partlyrto the Reverend
Aaron Yollbp. " I shall always be happy,
sir, to listen to any expression of your—"
" My opinion's this," burst out Mr. Good-
worth, " You've no business to take Zack
to church at all, 'till he's some years older
than he is now. I don't; deny that there
may be a few children,. here ;and there, at
sis years old, who are sovery patient, and
so very— (what's the word for a child that
knows a lot more than he has any business
to know at his age ? Stop ! I've got it !—
precocious — r that's the word) — so very
patient and so very precocious that they'll
sk quiet in the same place for two hours ,
making believe all the time that they un
derstand every word of the service, whether
thfey really do or not. I don't deny that
there may be such children, though I never
rhet with; them- myself, and should think
them all nasty little hypocrites ;if I did!
But Zack isn't one of that set: Zack's a
regular natural, genuine, trump of a child
(God bless him !) Zack—"
" Do I understand 'you, my dear sir," in
terposed Mr. Thorpe, sorrowfully sarcastic,
" to be praising the conduct of my son in
disturbing the congregation, and obliging
me to take him out of the church ?"
"Nothing of the sort," retorted the old
gentleman ; " I'm not praising Zack's con
duct, but I am blaming yours. Here it is
in plain words: You keep on cramming
church down his throat ; and he keeps on
puking at it as if it was physic, because he
don't know any better, and can't know any
better at his age. Is that the way to make
him take kindly to religious teaching? I
know as well as you do, that he fidgeted
and roared like a young Turk at the sermon.
And pray what was the subject of the ser
mon ? Justification by faith. Do you mean
to tell me that he, or any other child at his
time of life, could understand anything of
such a subject as that, or get an atorn_of
good out of it? You can't — you know you
can't ? So, I say again, it's no use taking
him to church yet; and what's more,, it's
Worse than no use, for it's only associating
his first ideas of religious instruction with
everything in the way of restraint and dis
cipline and punishment that can be most
irksome to him. There! that's my opinion,
and I should rather like to hear what you've
got to say against it?"
" Latitudinarianism," said Mr. Thorpe,
looking and speaking straight at the portrait
of the Reverend Aaron Yollop,
" You can't fob me off with long words,
which I don't understand, and which I
don't believe you can find in Johnson's
Dictionary," continued Mr. Goodworth dog


16

HIDE AND SEEK.

gedly. "You would do much better to
take my advice, and let Zack go to church,
for the present, at his mother's knees. Let
his Morning Service be about ten minutes
long; let your wife tell him out ofthe New
Testament, about our Saviour's goodness
and gentleness to little children ; and then,
let her teach him, from the Sermon on the
Mount, to be loving and truthful and for
bearing and forgiving, for our Saviour's.
sake. If such precepts as those are en
forced—as they may be in one way or
another— by examples drawn from his own
daily life; from people around him, from
what he meets with and notices and asks
abou4, out of doors and in — mark my words,
he'll take kindly to his religious instruc
tion ; he'll understand it ; he'll often come
and ask for it of his own accord, as a re
ward for being a good'boy. I've seen that
in other children : I've seen it in my own
children, who were all brought up so. Of
course, you don't agree with me ! Of
course you've got your own objection all
ready to bowl me down with ?"
"Rationalism," said Mr. Thorpe, still
looking steadily at the lithographed portrait
as if he only desired to bowl Mr. Goodworth
down under the immediate clerical auspices
of the Reverend Aaron Yollop.
" W ell ! your objection's a short one this
time at any rate ; and that's a blessing,"
said the old gentleman rather irritably.
" Rationalism — eh ? I understand that ism,
I rather suspect, better than the other. It
means in plain English, that you think I'm
wrong in only wanting to give religious
instruction the same chance with Zack
which you let all other kinds of instruction
have — the chance of becoming useful by
being first made attractive. You can't get
him to learn to read by telling him that it
will improve his mind — but you can by
getting him to look at a picture-book. You
can't get him to drink senna and salts by
reasoning with him about it's doing him
good— but you can by promising him a
lump of sugar to take after it. You admit
this sort of principle so far, because you're
obliged ; but the moment anybody wants
(in a spirit of perfect reverence and desire
to do good) to extend it to higher things,
•ou purse up your lips, shake yoUr head,
and talk about Rationalism — as if that was
an answer ! Well ! well ! it's no use talk
ing — go your own way — I wash my hands
of the business altogether. But now I am
at it, I'll just say this one thing more before
I've done: your way of punishing the boy
for his behavior in church is, in my opinion,
about as bad and dangerous a one — not to
mince matters — ajS could possibly be devised.
Why not give him a thrashing;? if you
must punish the miserable little urchin
severely for what's his misfortune as much
»s his fault. Why not stop his pudding, or

something of that sort ? Here you are as
sociating verses in the Bible, in his mind,
with the idea of punishment and being
locked up in the cold ! You may make him
get his texts by heart, I dare say, by fairly
tiring him out; but I tell you what I'm
afraid you'll make him learn too, if you
don't mind — you'll make him learn to dis
like the Bible as much as other boys dislike
the birch-rod !"
".Sir," cried Mr. Thorpe, turning sud
denly round, and severely confronting Mr.
Goodworth, " once for all, I must most
respectfully insist on being spared for the
future any open profanities in conversation,
even from your lips. All my regard and
affection for you, as Mrs. Thorpe's father,
shall not prevent me from solemnly record
ing my abhorrance of such awful infidelity
as I believe to be involved in the words you
have just spoken ! My religious convic
tions recoil — "
" Stop, sir !" said Mr. Goodworth,
seriously and sternly. Mr. Thorpe obeyed
at once. The old gentleman's manner was
generally much more remarkable for hearti
ness than for dignity; but it altered com
pletely while he now spoke. As he struck
his hand on the table, and rose from his
chair, there was something in his look
which it was not safe to disregard. " Mr.
Thorpe," he went on, more calmly, but
very decidedly, "I refrain from telling you
what my opinion is of the ' respect', and
' affection' which have allowed you to re
buke me in such terms as you have chosen.
I merely desire to say that I shall never
need a second reproof of the same kind at
your hands ; for I shall never again speak
to you on the subject of my grandson's edu
cation. If, in consideration of this assur
ance, you will now permit me, in my turn
— not to rebuke — but to offer you temper
ately one word of advice, I would just re
commend you not to, be too ready in future,
lightly and cruelly to accuse a man of
infidelity because his religious opinions
happen to differ on some subjects from
yours. To infer a serious motive for your
opponent's convictions, however wrong you
may think them, can do you no harm : to
infer a scoffing motive can do him no good.
We will say nothing more about this, if
you please. Let us shake hands ; and never
again revive a subject which we disagree
too widely about ever to discuss with ad
vantage." At this moment the servant came in with
lunch. Mr. Goodworth poured himself out
a glass of sherry, made a remark on the
weather, and soon resumed his cheerful
everyday manner. But he did not forget
the pledge (hat he had given to Mr. Thorpe.
From that time forth, he never by word
or deed interfered again in his grandson'l
education.


HIDE AND SEEK.

17

While the theory of Mr. Thorpe's system
of juvenile insiruction was being discussed
in the free air of the parlor, the practical
working of that theory, iso far as regarded
the individual case of Master Zack, was
neing exemplified in anything but a satis
factory and encouraging manner, in the
prison-region of the dressing-room.
While she ascended the first flight of
stairs, Mrs. Thorpe's ears informed her that
her son was firing off one uninterrupted
volley of kicks against the door of his place
of confinement. As this was by nO means
an unusual circumstance, whenever the boy
happened to be locked up for bad behavior,
she felt distressed, but not at all surprised
at what she heard ; and went into the
drawing-room, on her way up stairs, to de
posit her Bible and Prayerbook (kept in a
morocco case, with gold clasps) on the little
side-table, upon which they were always
placed during week-days. Possibly, she
was so much agitated, that her hand trem
bled ; possibly, she was in too great a
hurry ; possibly, the household imp, who
rules the brittle destinies of domestic glass
and china, had marked her out as his
destroying angel for that day ; but however
it was, in placing the morocco case on the
table, she knocked down and broke an
ornament standing near it: a Utile ivory
model of a church steeple in the florid style,
enshrined in a glass case. Picking up the
fragments, and, mourning over the catas
trophe, occupied some little time, more than
she was aware of, befure she at last left the
drawing-room, to proceed on her way to the
upper regions.
As she laid her hand on the bannislers,
it struck her suddenly and significantly,
that the noises in the dressing-room above
had entirely ceased.
The instant, she satisfied herself of this,
her maternal imagination, uninfluenced by
, what Mr. Thorpe had said below stairs,
conjured up an appalling vision of Zack
before his father's looking-glass, with his
chin well lathered, and a bare razor at his
naked throat. The child had indeed a
singular aptitude for amusing himself with
purely adult occupations. Having- once
been incautiously taken into church by his
nurse, to see a female friend of hers married,
Zack had, the very next day, insisted on
solemnizing the nuptial ceremony from rec
ollection, before a bride and bridegroom
of his own age, selected from his play
fellows in the garden of the square ; his
performance on that occasion, being a thing
to be remembered, related, and giggled
wer, by every maid-servant who had been
present at it, for the special benefit of every
marriageable follower who had not. An
other time, when the gardener had incau
tiously left his lighted pipe on a bench,
while he went to gather a flower for one

of the local nursery-mai Is, whom he, was
accustomed to favor horticuhurally in this
way, Zack contrived, undetected, to take
three greedy whiffs of pigtail in close suc
cession : was discovered reeling about tbe
grass like a little drunkard, and had to be
smuggled home (deadly pale, and bathed in
cold, perspiration) to recover, , out of his
mother's sight,, in the deep retirement and
congenial gloom of the back kitchen. Al
though the precise infantine achievements
here cited were unknown to Mrs. Thorpe,
there were plenty more, like them, winch
she had discovered; and the warning re
membrance of which now hurried the poor
lady up the second flight of stairs in a state
of breathless agitation and alarm.,
Zack, however, had not got at the raznrs;
for they were all locked up, as Mr. Thorpe
had declared. But he had, nevertheless,
discovered in the dressing-room a means
of perpetrating mighty domestic mischief,
which his father had never thought of pro
viding against. Finding that kicking,
screaming, stamping, sobbing, and knock
ing down chairs, were quite powerless as
methods of enforcing his liberation, the
young gentleman suddenly suspended his
proceedings ; looked all round the room ;
observed the cock Which supplied his
father's bath with waiter; and instantly re
solved to flood the house. He had set the
water going in the bath, hadfilled it to the
brim, and was anxiously waiting, perched
up on a chair, to see it overflow — when his
mother unlocked the dressing-room door,
and entered the room.
" Oh you naughty, wicked, shocking
child!',' cried Mrs. Thorpe, horrified at
what she beheld, but instantly stopping the
threatened deluge from motives of precau
tion connected with ihe drawing-room ceil
ing. " Oh, Zack ! Zack ! what will you
do next ? What would your papa say if he'
heard of this ?, You wicked, wicked,
wicked child, I'm ashamed to look at
you !"
And, in very truth, Zack offered at that
moment a sufficiently disheartening, spec
tacle for a mother's eyes to dwell on.
There stood the young imp, sturdy and up
right on his chair, wriggling his shoulders
in and out of his frock,; and holding his
hands behind him in unconscious imitation
of the favorite action of Napoleon the
Great. His light hair was all rumpled
down over his forehead; ; his lips were
swelled ; his nose was red ; and from his
bright blue eyes rebellion look- ' oui frankly
mischievous, amid a surrounding halo of
dirt and tears, rubbed circular by Lis
knuckles. After gazing on her son in mute
despair for a minute or so, Mrs. Thorpe
took the only course that was immediately
open to her — or, in other words, took tha
child off the chair.


'8

HIDE AND SEEK.

" Have you learnt your lesson, you
wicked boy ?" she asked.
" No, I hav'nt," answered Zack, reso
lutely. " Then come to the table with me : your
papa's waiting to hear you. Come here
and learn your lesson directly," said Mrs.
Thorpe, leading the way to the table.
" No, I won't " rejoined Zack, empha
sizing the refusal by laying tight hold of the
wet sides of the bath with both hands.
It was lucky for this rebel of six years
old, that he addressed those three words to
his mother only.: If his nurse had heard
them, she would instantly have employed
that old-established resource in all educa
tional difficulties, familiarly known to per
sons of her condition under the appellation
of " a smack on the head ;" if Mr. Thorpe
had heard them, the boy. would have been
.sternly torn awjiy, bound to the back ofthe
cnair, and placed' ignominiously with his
chin against ihe table ; if Mr. Goodworth
had heard them, the probability is that he
would instantly have lost his temper, and
soused his grandson head over ears in the
bath. Not one of these ideas occurred to
Mrs. Thorpe, who possessed no ideas. But
she had certain substitutes which were in
finitely more useful in the present emer
gency : ¦ she had instincts.
" Look up at me, Zack," she said, return
ing to the bath, and sitting in the chair by
ts side ; " I want to say something to you."
The boy obeyed directly ; he was never
averse, in his worst moods, to looking
everybody straight in the face. His molher
opened her lips, stopped suddenly, said a
few words, stopped again, hesitated, and
then ended her first sentence of admonition
in the most ridiculous manner, by snatching
at the nearest towel, and bearing Zack off
to the wash-hand basin.
The plain fact was, that Mrs. Thorpe was
secretly vain of her child. She had long
since, poor woman, forced down the strong
strait-waistcoats of prudery and restraint
over every otner moral weakness but this —
of all vanities the most beautiful ; of all
human failings surely the most pure !
Yes ! sne was proud of Zack ! The dear,
naughty, handsome, church-disturbing, door-
kicking, house-flooding Zack ! If he had
only been a plain-featured boy, she could
have gone on sternly with her admonition :
but to look coolly on his handsome face,
made ugly by dirt, tears, and rumpled hair ;
to speak to him in that state, while soap,
water, brush, and towel, were all within
reach, was more than the mother (or the
woman either, for that matter) had the self-
denial to do ! So,' before it had well begun,
the maternal lecture ended abruptly and
impotently in the wash-hand basin.
When the boy had been smartened and
brushed up (he submitted very patiently to

the cleaning operation), Mrs. Thorpe took
him on her lap ; and, suppressing a strong
desire to kiss him on both his round, shill
ing cheeks, said these words:
" I. want you to learn your lesson, because
you will please me by obeying your papa.
I have always been kind to you — now I
want you to be kind to me."
For' the first time, Zack hung down. his
head; and seemed unprepared with an an
swer. Mrs. Thorpe knew by experience
what this symptom meant. "I think you
are beginning to be sorry forwhat you have
done, and' are going to be a good boy ;" she
said. " If you are, 1 know you. will give
me a kiss." Zack hesitated again — then
suddenly reached up, and gave his mother
a hearty and loud-sounding kiss on the tip
of her chin. '^And now you will learn
your lesson ?"¦ continued Mrs. Thorpe., "I
have always tried to make you happy, and
I am sure you are ready, by this time, to
try and make me happy — are you not,
Zack?" " Yes, I am," said Zack manfully. His
mother took him at once to the table, on
which the "Select Bible Texts for Chil
dren" lay open, and tried to lift him into a
ehair. "No!" said the boy, resisting ana
shaking his head resolutely ; "I want to
learn my lesson on your lap."
Mrs. Thorpe humored him immediately.
She was not a handsome, not even a pretty
woman ; and the cold atmosphere of the
dressing-room by no means improved her
personal appearance. But, notwithstanding
this, she looked absolutely attractive and
interesting at the present moment, as she ¦
sat with Zack in her arms, bending over
him while Tie studied his three verses in
the "Bible Texts." Women who have
been ill-used by nature have this great ad
vantage over men in the same predicament
— wherever there is a child present, they
have a means ready at hand, which they
can all employ alike, for hiding' their per
sonal deficiencies. Who ever saw an awk
ward woman look awkward with a baby in
her arms? Who ever saw an ugly woman
look ugly when she was kissing a child ?
Zack, who was a Temarkably quick boy
when he chose to exert himself, got his
lesson by heart in so short a time that his
mother insisted on hearing him twice over,
before she could satisfy, herself that he was
really perfect enough to appear in his
father's presence. The second trial decided
her doubts, and she took him in triumph
down stairs.
Mr. Thorpe was reading intently, Mr
Goodworth was thinking profoundly, the
rain was falling inveterately, the fog was
ihickening dirtily ; and the austerity ofthe
severe-looking parlor was hardening apace
into iisimost adamantine Sunday grimness,
as Master Zack was brought to sav his les-


HIDE AND SEEK.

19

son at his father's knees. He got through
it perfectly again ; but his childish manner,
during th s third trial, altered from frank
ness to distrustfulness ; and he looked much
oftener, while he said his task, at Mr.
Goodworth than at his father. , When the
texts had been repeated, Mr. iThrope just
said to his wife, before resuming his book :
" You may tell the nurse, my dear, to
get Zachary's dinner ready for him — though
he doesn't deserve it for behaving so badly
about learning. his lesson."
" Please, grandpapa, may I look at the
picture-book you brought for me last night,
after I was inbed?" said Zack, addressing
Mr. Goodworth, and evidently feeling that
he was entitled to his reward now he had
suffered his punishment,
"Certainly not on Sunday," interposed
Mr. Thrope ; " your grandpapa^ book is
not a book for Sundays."
Mr. Goodworth started, and seemed
about to speak ; but recollecting what he
had said to Mr. Thorpe, contented himself
with poking the fire. The book in question
was a certain romance, en-titled ¦" Jack and
the Bean Stalk," copiously adorned with
illustrations of thrilling interest, tinted in
in the freest style of water-color art.
"If you want to look at picture-books,
you know what books you may have to
day ; and your mamma will get them for
you when she comes in again," continued
Mr. Thorpe.
The works now referred, to were an old
copy of the " Pilgrim's Progress" contain
ing four small prints of the period of the
last century ; anda "Life of Moses,'' illus
trated by severe German ouilines in the
manner of the modern school. Zack knew
well enough what books his faiher meant,
and exhibited his appreciation of them by
again beginning to wriggle his shoulders
in and out of his frock. He had evidently
had more than enough already, of the " Pil
grim's Progress" and the " Life of Mo
ses." Mr. Thorpe said nothing more, and re
turned to his reading. Mr. Goodworth
put his hands in his pockets, yawned dis-
sansolately, and looked, with a languidly
satirical expression in his eyes, to see what
his grandson would do next. If the thought
passing through the old gentleman's mirid
at that moment had been put into words( it
would have been exactly expressed in the
following sentence: "Oh, you miserable
little boy! When I was your age, Jiow I
should have kicked at all this!"
Zack. was not long in finding, a new re
source. He spied Mr. Goodwofth's Mal
acca cane standing in a corner; and, in
stantly getting ;astride of it, prepared to
amuse himself with a little imaginary horse-
exercise up and down the room. He had
just started at a gentle canter, when his

father called out, " Zachary !" and brough
the boy to a stand-still directly,
" Put back the stick where you took il
from," said Mr. Thorpe ; " you mustn't
do that on Sunday. If you want to move
about, you can walk up and down the
room."' . ,
Zack paused, debating , for an instant
whether he should disobey or burst out
crying.' , .-. ;,,,,'¦
"Put back the s{ick !" repeated Mr.
Thorpe. Zack remembered the dressing-room and
the " Select Bible Text for Children," and
wisely obeyed. He was by,this time com
pletely crushed idown into as rigid a stale
of Sunday 'discipline as his father could de
sire. After depositing the stick in the
corner, he slowly walked up to Mr. Good-
worth, with a comical expression of amaze
ment and disgust in his chubby face ; and
meekly laid down his head on his grand
father's knee.
" Never say die, Zack !" said the kind
old gentleman, rising, and taking the boy
in his arms. "While nurse is getting your
dinrfer ready, let's look out of window, and
see if it is going to clear up."
Mr. Thorpe raised his head from his
book for a moment but said nothing this
time. " Ah, rain ! rain ! ram !" muttered Mr.
Goodworth, staring desperately out at the
miserable prospect, while Zack amused
himself by rubbing his nose vacantly back
ward and forward against a pane of glass,
appearing exceedingly inclined to go to
sleep during the operation — "Rain! rain!
Nothing but rain and fog in November.
Hold up, Zack ! Ding-dong, ding-dong ;
there go the bells for afternoon church!
Oh, Lord ! I wonder whether it will be
fine to-morrow? Think of the pudding,
my boy !" whispered the old gentleman
with a benevolent remembrance of what a
topic of consolation that thought had often
afforded to him, when he was a child him
self. "Yes," said Zack, acknowledging the
pudding, suggestion, but evidently declining
to profit by it. " And, please, when I've
had my dinner, will somebody put me to'
bed ?"
" Put you to bed !" exclaimed Mr. Good-
worth. " Why, bless the boy ! what's
come to him now?, You used always to
be wanting to stopup."
"I want to go to bed, and get to to-mor-
row,and have my picture-book," was the
weary and whimpering answer.
" I'll be hanged," soliloquized the old
gentleman under his breath, "if I don't
think I want to- go to bed too, and get to
to-morrow, and have my ' Times' at break
fast ! I'm as bad as Zack, every bit !"
" Grandpapa," continued the child, mor*


20

HIDE AND SEEK.

wearily than before, "I want to whisper
something in your ear."
Mr. Goodworth bent down a little. Zack
looked round cunningly toward his father
— then, putting his mouth close to his
grandfather's ear, confidentially communi
cated the conclusion at which he had ar
rived, after the events of the day, in these
words —
"I say, grandpapa, I hate Sunday!

BOOK I.
THE HIDING.

CHAPTER I.
A NEW NEIGHBOHHOOD.
At the period when the episode just re
lated occurred in the life of Mr. Zachary
Thorpe the younger — that is to say, in
the year 1837— Tiaregrove square was the
farthest square from the city, and the nearest
to the country, of any then existing in the
northwestern suburb of London. But, by
the time fourteen years more had elapsed —
that is to say, in the year 1851 — Baregrove
square had lost its distinctive character al
together ; other squares had filched from it
those last remnants of healthy rustic flavor
from which its good name had been derived ;
other streets, crescents, rows, and villa-
residences had forced themselves pitilessly
between the old suburb and the country,
and had suspended for ever the once neigh
borly relations between the pavement of
Baregrove square and the pathways of the
pleasant fields.
Alexander's armies were great makers
of conquests; and Napoleon's armies were
great makers of conquests; but the modern
guerilla regiments of the hod, the trowel,
and the brick-kiln, are the greatest con
querors of all ; for they hold the longest the
soil that they have once possessed. How
mighty the devastation which follows in
the wake of these tremendous aggressors,
as they march through the kingdom of
nature, triumphantly bricklaying beauty
wherever they go ! What dismantled castle,
with the enemy's flag flying over its crum
bling walls, ever looked so utterly forlorn
as a poor field-fortress of nature, imprisoned
on all sides by the walled camp of the ene
my, and degraded by a hostile banner of
pole and board, with the conqueror's device
inscribed on it — " this gkound to be let
on butlding leases?" What is the his
torical spectacle of Marius sitting among
the ruins of Carthage, but a trumpery the
atrical set-scene, compared to the sublimely

mournful modern sight of the last tree lefl
standing, on the last few feet of grass lefl
growing, amid the greenly-festering stucco
of a finished Paradise row, or lhe naked
scaffolding poles of a half-completed Pros
pect place? Oh, gritty-natured' guerilla
regiments of the hod, the trowel, andthe
brick-kiln ! the town-pilgrim of nature;
when he wanders out at fall of day into th
domains which you have spared yet for a
little while, hears strange things said of you
in secret, as he duteously interprets the old,
primeval language of the leaves; as he
listens to the imperilled trees, still whis^
pering mournfully around him the last dying
notes of their ancient even-song !
But alas ! what avails the voice of lamen
tation ? What new neighborhood ever stop
ped on its way into the country, to hearken
to the passive remonstrance of the fields, or
to bow before the indignation of outraged
admirers of the picturesque ? Never was
suburb more impervious to any faint influ
ences of this sort, than that especial suburb
which grew up between Baregrove square
and the country ; removing a walk among
the hedge-rows a mile off from the resident
families, with a ruthless rapidity at which
sufferers on all sides stared aghast. First
stories were built, and mortgaged by the en
terprising proprietors, to get money enough
to go on with the second ; old speculators
failed and were succeeded by new ; founda
tions sank from bad digging; walls were
blown down in high winds from hasty build
ing ; bricks were called for in such quanti
ties, and seized on in such hot haste, half-
baked from the kilns, that they set the carts
on fire, and had to be cooled in pails of
water before they could be erected into
walls ; and still the new suburb defied all
accidents, and would go on, and did go on,
in spite of everything, until it was actually
an accomplished fact — a little town of
houses, ready to be let and lived in, more o*
less, from the one end to the other.
The new neighborhood offered house-ac
commodation, accepted at theTiigher prices
as yet only to a small extent, to three dis
tinct subMvisions of the great middle class
of our Bn'.ish population. Rents and prem
ises were adapted, in a steeply descending
scale, to the means of the middle classes
with large incomes, of the middle classes
with moderate incomes, and of the middle
classes with small incomes. Tlie abodes
for the large incomes were called '• man
sions ;" and were in a manner fonified
strongly against the rest of the suburb by
being all built in one wide row, shut in at
either end by ornamental gates, and called
a " park." Stucco, plastered over a frame
work wrought in the domestic-classical
style of architecture, pervaded .these build
ings; flights of steps and Corinthian porti
coes, carriage-gates, and carriage-drives up


HIDE. AND SEEK.

21

to the door, conservatories on one side, and
coach-houses on the other, publicly asserted
their right to be called " mansions" in tlie
strictest and most opulent sense of the word.
The unspeakable desolation, of aspect com
mon to the whole suburb, was in a high
state of finish arid perfection in this part of
it. Irreverent street noises fainted dead
awav on the threshold of the ornamental
gates, at the sight of the hermit lodge-keep
er. The cry of the custermonger, and the
screech of the vagabond London boy, were
banished but of hearing. Even the regular
tradesman's time-honored business noises
at customers' doors, , seemed as if , they
ought lo have been relinquished here. The
frantic falsetto of the milkman, the crash
of the wildly-careering butcher's cart over
the never-to-be pulverized stones of the new
road through the " park," always sounded
profanely to the passing stranger, in the
spick-and-span stillness of this paradise of
the large incomes.
It was a curious result of the particular
arrangement adopted in planting the new
colony, that it connected the large incomes
and the small by a certain bond of union,
which had assuredly never entered ,the im
agination of the builders. As the rich
neighborhood was shut in from the general
suburb, so the poor neighborhood was shut
out from it ; the one serviiig in its way, as
completely as the' other, to keep the numer
ous habitations for the moderate incomes
exclusively in their proper places ;__ jammed
in, locally as well as socially, between the
lofty and the lowly extremes of life around
them- The hapless small incomes had the very
worst end of the whole locality entirely, to
themselves, and absorbed all the noises and
nuisances, just as the large incomes absorbed
all the tranquillities and luxuries of suburban
existence. Here were the dreary limits at
which architectural invention stopped in
despair. Each house in this poor man's
purgatory was indeed, and in awful literal-
ness, a brick box with a slate top to it.
Every hole drilled in these boxes, wheiher
door-hple or window-hole, was always over
flowing with children. They often muster
ed by forties and fifties in one street, and
were the great pervading feature of the
quarter. In the world of the large incomes,
young life sprang up like a garden fountain,
artificially playing only at stated periods in
the sunshine. In the world of the small
incomes, young life flowed out turbulently
into the street, like an exhaustless kennel-
deluge, in alT weathers. Next to the chil
dren of tht inhabitants, in visible numerical
importance, came the shirts and, petticoats,
and miscellaneous linen of the ip habitants ;
fluttering out to dry publicly on certain days
ofthe week, and enlivening the treeless lit
tle gardens where they hung, with light

some avenues of pinafores, and solemn.
spreading foliage of stout Welsh flannel.
Here, that absorbing passion for oianges
(especially active when the fruit is half ripe,
and the weather is bitter cold), which dis
tinguishes the city English girl of the lower
orders, flourished in its finest development;
and here also the poisonous fumes of the
holyday shop-boy's bad cigar told all resi»
dent nostrils when it was Sunday, as plain
ly as the church-bells could tell it to all
resident ears. The one permanent and re
markable rarity in this neighborhood, on
week days, was to discover a male inhabit
ant in any part of it, between the hours of
nine in the morning, and six in the even
ing; the one sorrowful sight which .lever
varied, was to see that every woman, even
lo the youngest, looked more or less un-
happv, often care-stricken, while youth was
still in the first bud; oftener child-stricken
before maturity was yet in the full bloom.
As for the great central portion of the
suburb, running out irregularly between the
poof boundary on the one side, and the rich
boundary on the other, until it actually
reached the fields — as for the locality of the
moderate incomes, it reflected exactly the
lives of those who inhabited it, by present
ing no distinctive character of its own at
all. In one part, the better order of houses imi
tated as pompously as they, could the archi
tectural grandeur of the mansions owned by
the large incomes; in another, the worst
order of houses respectably, but narrowly.
escaped a general resemblance to the brick
boxes of the small incomes. So, again,
what the neighborhood gained in dismal
repose at one end, from such overflowings
of superfluous "park" stillness as exuded
through the ornamental, gates, it lost at the
other, from exposure to such volatile par
ticles of noise and nuisance as floated free
of the densely-vulgar atmosphere generated
in the poor quarter. In some places, the
"park" influences vindicated their exist
ence superbly in, the persons of isolated
ladies who, not having a carriage to go out
in for an airing, exhibited the next best
thing, a footman to walk behind them : and
so got a pedestrian airing genteelly in that
way. In other places, the obtrusive spirit
of the br|ck boxes rode about, thinly dis
guised, in children's carriages, drawn by
nursery-maids : or fluttered aloft, delicately
discernible at angles of view, in the shape
of a lace pocket-handkerchief, or a fine-
worked chemisette, or other article of orna
mental linen, drying modestly at home in
retired corners of back gardens. Generally,
however, the hostile influences of ihe largt
incomes and the small, mingled together on
the neutral ground of 'he moderate incomes ;
turning it into the dullest, the dreariest, the
most oppressively conventional, and mosl


12

HIDE AND SEEK.

intensely (because negatively) depressing
division of the whole suburb. It was just
that sort of place where the thoughtful man,
looking about' him mournfully at the locali
ty, and physiologically observing the in
habitants, would be prone to stop suddenly,
and ask himself one plain, but terrible ques*
tion: "Do these people ever manage to get
any real enjoyment out of their lives, from
one year's end to another?"
To the looker-on at the system of life
prevailing among the moderate incomes in
England, the sort of existence which, with
certain pleasant exceptions, that system
embodies, seems in some aspects to be
without a parallel in any other part of the
civilized world. In what other country
cut ours is social enjoyment among the
middle classes with small means, deliber
ately denuded of all genuine substance of
its own, for the sake of making it the faint
reflection of social enjoyment among the
higher classes with large means? Is this
done anywhere else but in England ? And is
it not obviously tru* — melancholy truth!
— that, while the upper classes and the
lower classes of our society have each their
own characteristic and genuine recreations
for leisure hours, adapted equally to their
means and to their tastes, the middle
classes, in general, have (to expose the^sad
reality) nothing of the sort ?
Life in the new suburb afforded proofs
in plenty of this; as life does, indeed, every
where else in England for the most part.
To take an example from those eating and
drinking recreations which absorb so large
a portion of existence: — If the rich pro
prietors of the " mansions" in the " park,"
could give their grand dinners and be as
prodigal as they pleased with their first-
rate champagne, and their rare gastro
nomic delicacies ; the poor tenants of the
brick boxes could just as easily enjoy their
tea-garden conversazione, and be just as
happily and hospitably prodigal, in turri;
with their porter-pot, their tea-pot, their
plates of bread-and-butter, and their dishes
of shrimps. On either side, these repre
sentatives of two pecuniary extremes in
society, looking for what recreations they
wanted wilh their own eyes, pursued those
recreations within their own limits, and
enjoyed themselves unreservedly in con
sequence. Not so with the moderate iii-
comes: they, in their social moments,
shrank absurdly far from the pbor people's
porter and shrimps ; crawled contemptibly
near to the rich people's rare wines and
luxurious dishes ; exposed their poverty in
imitation by chemical champagne from sec
ond-rate wine merchants, bv flabby salads
and fetid oyster-patties from second-rate
pastry-cooks ; were, in no one of their fes
tive arrangements, true to their incomes
to their order, or to themselves ; and there

fore, never thoroughly enjoyed any hospi
talities of their own affording— never re
ally had any "pleasure," whatever their
notes of invitation might say to the con
trary, in receiving their friends.
Now, on ihe outskirts of that part of th«
new suburb appropriated to the middle
classes with moderate incomes, there lived
a gentleman (by name Mr.' Valentine
Blyth, and by' profession a painter* whose
life offered, in more respects thai one, a
very strange and striking contrast to the
lives of most of his neighbors — rolten with
social false pretences, as they generally
were, to the very core. On first taking up
his abode in the new neighborhood.'Mr.
Blyfh quite unconsciously directed oil him
self all the surplus attention which older
settlers in the colony had to spare for local
novelties, by building a large and quaintly-
designed painting-room at the side of his
¦house, and so destroying the general uni
formity of appearance in the very uniform
row of buildings amid which he had chosen
his dwelling-place. From that moment,
people began, as the phrase went, to talk
about him. Some of the idler inhabitants
made inquiries among the tradespeople,
and curiously watched the painter and his
household at available opportunities, both
at home and abroad. The general opinion
which soon proceeded from these inquiringa
and watchings was, that Mr. Blyth must
be a very eccentric person ; that he did all
sorts of .things which it was " not usual to
do ;" and that he presumed to enjoy him
self in his own way, wilhout the slightest
reference to the manners and customs of the
rich aristocracy planted in the'neighboring
seclusion of the " park" gates.
Having arrived at the?e conclusions, and
having thereupon unanimously decided that
Mr. Blyth was anything rather than a gen
tlemanly person, the neighbors would prob
ably have thought little more about the
new-comer, but for one peculiar circum
stance connected with him, which really
made a deeper impression on all inquisitive
minds than every one of his eccentricities
put together. . ',
It was more than suspected that some
impenetrable mystery lurked hidden in thV
privacy ofthe painter's fireside.
That Mr. Blyth was a married man, had
been pretty clearly ascertained. That his
wife was identical with a certain invalid
lady, who had been carried into the new
house wrapped up in many shawls', and
had never afterward appeared either at door
pr window, was a presumption "very firmly
established. So fat, though there might.
be no absolute certainty, there was also, no
positive doubt that could fairly connect it?
self with the painter's household.
But the invalid was no* the only female
member of Mr. Blyth's domestic circle.


HIDE. AND SEEK.

23

There was also a young lady, who lived in
his house, and who constantly accompanied
him in his daily, walks. She was reported
to be a most ravishingly beautiful creature
— -and yet, no one could ever be- met with
who had seen her face plainly ; for the
simple reason that she invariably arid-pro-,
vokingly; wore her veil down whenever
she went abroad. It grew to be generally
asserted and believed that Mr. Blyth, had
never told anybody who she really was ;
and Calumnious Gossip, starting with .this
rumor, soon got wonderfully and, mischiev
ously busy with her character, especially
among servants and tradespeople. : It was
surmised in some directions, ,lhat she was
the artist's natural child — in others,, that
she stood toward him in the relation of a
resident female model, or perhaps of some
thing more , scandalously improper still.
And it was further whispered about every
where, that let her be who she-might, she
was most indubitably, the victim of a very
terrible misfortune. , People shook their
heads, and sighed, and murmured, "Poor
tiling!" or assumed airs of inquisitive com
miseration, and said, " Sad case, isn't it?"
whenever they spoke of her in the general
society of the suburb.
Did this young lady deserve to excite
other emotions besides contempt or pity?
Did the painter really merit such unqualir
fled Condemnation as, he received for not
virtuously coming forward to suppress all
scandalous reports about her, by. giving a
full, true, and particular account of who
she really was?) These were questions
which the, inhabitants of the suburb were
all unable to answer definitely, and for one
good reason: — they had never, so much as
approached the gates of discovery, not one
of them having crossed; the mysterious
threshold of Mr. Valentine Blyth's new
pain ting-room. : !

CHAPTER II.

-THE STUDIO.

It is wintry weather ; not such a Novem
ber winter's day, however, as, .some of us
may remember looking, at fourteen years
ago, in Baregrove square, but a brjsk frosty
morning in January., .The country view
visible, from - the back-windows of Mr.
Blyth's house, ;which stands on the; extreme
limit of the new suburb, is thinly, and
brightly dressed out for the sun's, morning
levee, in its finest raiment of pure snow.
The cold blue sky isdoudless ; every sound
out of doors falls on the ear with a hearty
and jocund ring; all neWly-lit fires burn up
brightly and wulingly without coaxing ; the
robin-redbreasts are holder and tamer than

ever, this morning, and hop about expect
antly on balconies, and window-sills, as if
they only waited for an invitation to walk
in and,warm themselves, along with their
larger , fellow-creatures round the kindly
hearth-
. , Patty the housemaid has just kindled a
glorious blaze, using logs of wood and lumps
of coal together, in the grate of Mr. Blvth's
painting-room. She stands, warrning her
self before the fire, and staring about her,
with .reverential ignorance, at the different
objects of art by which she is encompassed
on all sides.
There happens, to be another individual
of the fair sex in the painting-room, to, keep
Patty company, who merits, some specia.
notice, as rather a remarkable character.
This iady stares like the housemaid, but
suffers apparently from a severe attach of
crick in the neck, and always gazes immov
ably in the same direction. By some extra
ordinary caprice of nature, hef head is
turned, right round on her body, so that her
face actually looks over her back instead pf
oyer her bosom, She is of average height,
and .not too fleshy; and wears, over faise
curls, a; fisherman!s red cap, surmounted by
a cavalier's hat ofthe period of Charles the
First, with a broken feather in it. One of
her arms is stiffly extended in an action of
impressive gesticulation ; the other hangs
at ner side, apparently turned inside out.
The flesh on these limbs is of a light and
tawny brown color. Her only dress is a
toga of :blue merino, very old, very dirty,
and very ragged ; but tied under one arm
and. oyer the other, in the most strictly
classical fashion. The peculiar position of
her head renders her happily unconscious
that this garment has fallen open in front*
so as to render her lower extremities visible
in a very improper manner. Looking
merely at her plump and shapely legs
(which, by-the-by, are just of the same odd
color as her arms), any spectator experi
enced in such matters would infer, from
their position alone, that the lady was ex
tremely drunk, and ought never to have
been admitted into the house of any respect
able man. When to all this is added the
fact, vouched for by competent, witnesses,
that the extraordinary female here described
has stood in her present staggering and im-
modest attitude for the last ten days, with
out moving an inch one way or. the other ;
to say nothing of her having seriously start
led every yisjter unaccustomed to such
apparitions who has entered the pain ting-
room, ever since her first establishment
there ; all unprejudiced judges must agree
that the household of Mr. Blyth (so far as
regarded this inmate at least), was fairly
open to the animadversions of every re
spectable inhabitant throughout the wholf
suburb.


24

HIDE AND SEEK.

The immovably improper lady — let all
English women be comforted as they read
it — was a foreigner.; She was of French
origin; had a silk Skin, a stuffed interior,
and wooden joints, was distantly related to
the ignoble family of the Mannikins, and
bore the barbarous name of Lay Figure.
Her business was to sit to Mr. Blyth, wear
ing any dresses he wanted to paint from.
She was disliked instinctively by both cook
and housemaid, and will always be found
to exhibit herself in the light of a perma
nently bad character through the course of
the present narrative.
" Drat the thing !" says Patty, spitefully
pulling the lady's toga into its proper place
on leaving the painting room, " drat the
thing ! it's always showing its nasty silk
legs, whatever you put on 'em. If master
must have you, you great beastly doll, why
don't he give you a petticoat ? But noth
ing's what it ought to be here ; I never see
such an untidy place in all my life !"
Patty was right. Pictorial chaos reigned
supreme in the new studio.
It was a large and lofty room, lighted by
a skylight, and running along the side of
the house throughout its whole depth. The
walls were covered with plain brown paper,
the floor was only carpeted in the middle ;
the furniture might have been fairly valued
Dy any broker who looked over it, at the
worth of twenty pounds. In each of the
four corners broad wooden shelves were
fixed, on which all sorts of objects great
and Small were crowded in compact masses,
without the slightest attempt at order or
arrangement. Plaster casts mustered strong
in all varieties on these shelves ; and were
set together anyhow, with the most whim
sical disregard ofthe persons, positions, and
periods, which they represented.
Thus, in one corner, Doctor Johnson ap
peared to be gazing down, steadfastly liber
tine, upon the bosom of the Venus de
Medici; who, in her turn,TOoked boldly
across the lexicographer's nose at Napoleon
Bonaparte. In another corner, the Fight
ing Gladiator straddled over Eve at the
Fountain to assault the good-humored fea
tures of Sir Walter Scott. Dusty little
vials of oil and varnish, gallipots, bundles
of old brushes, bits of painting-rag, lumps
of whiting, dry knobs of sponge, tattered
books, tangled balls of string, hard putty,
an old hour-glass, broken hyacinth bottles;
filled up, with dozens of similar i terns, the
interstices between the casts, and connected
the removal of any one thing that was
wanted from the shelves, with the invari
able catastrophe of knocking down eight or
ten other things that were not.
Praffleless pictures in every stage of in
completeness, sketches of all sizes, and
prints ancient and modern, decorated the
walls in just as hap-hazard a way as the

casts decorated the shelves. The pictures
hung awry, for the most part by single
strings depending from nails dotted about
at various elevations. The sketches and
prints were knocked up anyhow with tacks,
in any places where there was room foi
them. The larger works of art comprised, of
course, representations of an Italian peasant
woman decorated for a festa; of a brown
complexioned patriarch with a large white
beard ; of a rocky landscape wiih steam and'
cascade ; of a picturesque beggar-boy, grin
ning and holding out his hand (not finished)
for a halfpenny ; of a female head looking
Up, and of a dog's head looking down.
Also, there were two small copies from
Rubens, and one laige copy from Titian;
there was a print from Raphael, a print
from Hogarth, a print from Teniers, among
the dozens of engravings stuck against the
walls. Over the fireplace hung a rusty
breastplate, a dagger, and a piece of medie
val plate ; and all round the skirting-board,
at irregular intervals, were placed piles of
dirty old canvasses, three or four deep, with
their faces turned to ihe wall.
Immediately over the chimney-piece, the
blank space was covered closely and crook
edly with writing in white, black, and red
chalk. Addresses of new models, and ap
pointments with old models, short quota
tions from the poets, memoranda of evening
engagements and of domestic necessities,
painting recipes, and hasty personal senti
ments on art, were the subjects principally
treated of on the curious substitute for a
pocket diary used by Mr. Blyth. Perused
at hazard in a horizontal direction, no mat
ter whether high or low, any one line of
the half-illegible writing above the chim
ney-piece would be found to read something
in this way : —
" Daniel Sulsh, athletic model with beard,
5, Cranberry Court, High Holborn." —
"Amelia Bibby, to sit for the Genius of
Discovery in my' ' Columbus,' at 10, Wed
nesday." — "How happy is the blameless
vestal's lot! Pope." — "Melpomene Society's
Conversazione, 8 o'clock, Friday." — " Order
ginger-beer, and get hair cut." — "Try copal
thinned with turpentine; paint next sky
with linseed-oi'L and don't forget that ver-
digris is a bad color to stand." — " I consider
Michael Angelo the most glorious creature
that ever lived.— V. Blyth."
The most striking articles of furniture in
the studio were two large easels placed at
either extremity of the room ; each sup
porting a picture of considerable size,
covered over for the present with a pair of
sheets which looked wofully in want of
washing. There was a painting-stand with
quantities of shallow little drawers, some
too full to open,, others again too full to
shut ; there was a moveable platform to pu*


26

HIDE AND SEEK.

CHAPTER III.
ME. VALENTINE BLYTH.
Mr. Blyth's history, though offering
nothing very extraordinary as a whole, is,
nevertheless, in some of its aspects, rather
a remarkable one.
In the first place, neither his father, nor
his mother, nor any relation of theirs, on
either side, had ever practised the art of
painting, or had ever derived any special
pleasure from the contemplation of pictures.
They were all respectable commercial peo
ple of the steady fund-holding old school,
who lived exclusively within their own
circle; and had never so much as spoken
to a live artist or author in the whole course
of their lives. The city-world in which
Valentine's boyhood was passed, was as
destitute of art influences of any kind as if
it had been situated on the coast of Green
land ; and yet, to the astonishment of every
body, the lad was always drawing and
painting in his own rude way, at every
leisure hour — was always longing to get
into the academy schools — and. was always
firm in his determination to be a painter,
whenever his future prospects were talked
over round the family fireside.
Old Mr. Blyth was, as might be expected,
seriously disappointed and amazed at the
strange direction taken by his son's inclina
tions. No one (including Valentine him
self) could ever trace them back to any
recognizable source ; but every one could
observe plainly enough that they grew reso
lutely with the boy's growth, and that there
was no hope of successfully opposing them
by fair means of any kind. Seeing this, the
old gentleman, like a wise man, at last
made^a virtue of necessity ; and, giving
way to his son, entered him, under strong
commercial protest, as a student in the
schools of the Royal Academy.
Here Valentine remained, working in
dustriously, until his twenty-first birthday.
On that occasion, old Mr. Blyth had a little
serious talk with him about his prospects
in life. In the course of this conversation,
the young man was informed that a rich
merchant uncle was ready to take him into
partnership ; and that his father was equally
ready to start him in business with his
whole share, as one of three children, in
the comfortable inheritance acquired for he
family by the head of the well-known city
house of Blyth and Company. If Valentine
consented to this arrangement, his fortune
was secured, and he might ride in his car
riage before he was thirty. If, on the other
hand, he still persisted in becoming a
painter, nis father, being convinced that the
pursuit of art offered the most uncertain of
all resources, would exceedingly lament the
choice he had made ; but would not on that

account absolutely oppose it ; and woulo
never, whatever happened, refer to it dis
paragingly on any future occasion.
Having said thus much, the generous old
gentleman added, that if his son really chose
to fling away a fortune, he should not be
pinched for means to carry on his studies.
The interest of the inheritance to come to
him on his father's death should be paid
quarterly to him during his father's life
time : the annual independence thus secured
to the young painter, under any circum
stances, being calculated as amounting to a
little over four hundred pounds a year.
Valen'ine was not deficient in gratitude.
He thanked his father with tears in his
eyes ; took a day to consider what he
should do, though his mind was quite made
up about his choice beforehand ; and then,
as the reader has anticipated, persisted in
his first determination ; throwing away the
present certainty of becoming a wealthy
man, for the sake of the future chance of
turning out a great painter.
If he had really possessed genius, there
would have been nothing very remarkable
in this part of his history, so far; but, having
nothing of the kind, holding not the smallest
spark of the great creative fire in his whole
mental composition, surely there was some
thing extraordinary and unaccountable,
something very discouraging to contem
plate, in the spectacle of a man resolutely
determining, in spite of adverse home cir
cumstances and strong home temptations,
to abandon all those paths in life, along
which he might have walked fairly abreast
with his fellows, for the one other path in
which he was predestined by Nature to be
always left behind by the way. Do the
announcing angels, whose mission it is to
whisper of greatness to great spirits, ever
catch the infection of fallibility from their
intercourse with mortals? Do the voices
which said truly to Shakspeare, to Raphael,
and to Mozart, in their youth-time, "You
are chosen to be gods in this world," ever
speak wrongly to souls which they are not
ordained to approach ? It may be so.
There are men enough in all . countries
whose lives would seem to prove it — whose
deaths have not contradicted it.
But even to victims such as these, sacri
ficed as they are to a delusion which seems,
on first sight, to be the most fatal offspring
Of all mortal fallibilities, there are pleasant
resting-places on the thorny way, and flashes
of sunlight now and then, to make the
cloudy prospect beautiful, though only for
a little while. It is not all misfortune' and
disappointment to the man who is mentally
unworthy of a great intellectual vocation,
so long as he is morally worthy of it ; -so
long as he can pursue it honestly, patiently,
and affectionately, for its own dear sake.
Let him work, though ever so obscuralv


HIDE AND SEEK,

29

iiivancMg surely and irresistibly, until at
last the doctors themselves lost all hope.
So far as human science could foretell
events, Mrs, Blyth, in the opinion of all her
medical advisers, was doomed for the rest
of her life never to rise again from the bed
on which she lay ; except perhaps to be
sometimes moved to the sofa, or, in the
event of some favorable reaction, to be
wheeled about .occasionally in an invalid
chair. What the shock of this intelligence was,
both to husband and wife, no one ever
knew; they nobly kept it a secret even
from each other. Mrs. Blyth was the first
to recover courage and -calmness. She
begged, as an especial favor, that Valentine
would seek consolation, where she knew he
must find it sooner or later, by going back
to his studio, and resuming his old familiar
labors, which had been suspended from the
time when her illiiess had originally de
clared itself.
On the first day when, in obedience to
her wishes, he sat before his picture again
— the half-finished picture from which he
had been separated for so many months— on
that first day, when the friendly occupation
of his life seemed suddenly to have grown
strange to him ; when his brush wandered
idly among the colors, when his tears
dropped fast On the palette every time he
looked down on it, when he tried hard to
work as usual, though only for half an hour,
only on simple background places in the
composition ;, and still the brush made false
touches, and still the tints would not mingle
as they should, and still the same words,
repeated over and over again, would burst
from his lips: "Oh, poor Lavvie! oh, poor,
dear, dear Lavvie!" — even then, the spirit
of that beloved art, which he had always
followed so humbly and so faithfully, was
true to its divine mission, and comforted
and'upheld himat the last bitterest moment,
when he laid down his palette in despair.
While he was still hiding his face before
the very picture which he and his wife had
once innocently and secretly glorified to
gether, in those' happy days of its beginning
that were never to come again, the sudden
thought of consolation revived, his heart,
and showed him how he might adorn all
his after-life with the deathless beauty of a
pure and noble purpose. Thenceforth, his
vague dreams of fame, and of rich men
wrangling with each other for the posses
sion of his pictures, .took the second place
in his mind ; and, in. their stead, sprang up
the new resolution that he would win in
dependently, with his own brush, no matter
at what sacrifice of pride and ambition, the
means of surrounding his sick wife with all
those luxuries and refinements which his
own littl" income did not enable him to ob
tain, and which he shrank with instinctive

delicacy from accepting as presents bestowed
by his father's generosity. Here was the
consoling purpose which robbed affliction of
half its bitterness already, and bound him
and his art together by a bond more sacred
than any that had united them before. In
the very hour when this thought came to
him, he rose without a pang to turn the
great historical, composition, from which he
has once hoped so much, with its face to
the wall, and set himself to finish an unpre«
tending -little "Study" of a cottage court
yard, which he was certain of selling to a
picture-dealing friend. The first approach
to happiness which he had known for a
long, long time past, was on the evening
of that day, when he went up-stairs to sit
withLavinia ; and, keeping secret his, pur
pose of the morning, made the sjck woman
smile in spite of her sufferings, by asking
her how she should like to have her room
furnished, if she were the lady of a great
lord, instead of being only the wife of Mr.
Valentine Blyth;
Then came the happy day when tbe se
cret was revealed, and afterward the pleas
ant years when poor Mrs. Blyth's most
splendid visions of aristocratic luxury were
all gradually realized through her husband's
exertions in his profession. But for his
wife's influence, Valentine would have been
in danger of abandoning high art and clas
sical landscape altogether, for cheap por
trait-painting, cheap copying, and cheap
studies of still life. But Mrs. Blyth, bed
ridden as she was, contrived to preserve
all her old influence over the labors of the
studio ; and would ask for nothing new, and
receive nothing new, in. her room, except on
condition that her husband was to paint at
least one picture of high art every year, for
the sake (as she proudly said) of " asserting
his intellect and his reputation in the eyes
of the public." Accordingly, Mr. Blyth's
time, was pretty equally divided between
the production of great unsaleable "compo
sitions," which were always hung near the
ceiling; in the Exhibition, and of small
marketable commodities, which were as
invariably hung near the floor.
Valentine's average earnings from his ar.t,
though humble enough in amount, amply
sufficed to fulfil the affectionate purpose for
which, to the last farthing, they were rig
orously set aside. '.' Lavvie's Drawing-
room" (this was Mr. Blyth's name for his
wife's : bedroom) really looked as bright
and beautiful as any royal chamber in the
universe. The rarest flowers, the prettiest
gardens under glass, bpwls with gold and
silver fish in them, a small aviary of birds,
an jEolian harp to put on the window-sill
in summer-time, some of Valentine's best
drawings from the old masters, prettily
framed proof-impressions of engravings done
by Mrs. Blyth's father, curtains and hang-


30

HIDE AND SEEK.

ings of the tenderest color and texture, in
laid tables, and delicately-carved book
cases, were among the different objects of
refinement and beauty which, in the course
of years, Mr. Blyth's industry had enabled
him to accumulate for his wife's pleasure.
No one but himself ever knew what he had
sacrificed in laboring to gain these things.
The heartless people whose portraits he had
painted, and whose impertinences he had
patiently submitted to ; the stingy bargain
ers who had treated him like a low trades
man ; the dastardly men of business who
had disgraced their order by taking mean
advantage of his simplicity; how hardly
and cruelly such insect natures of this world
had often dealt with that noble heart! how
despicably they had planted their small gad
fly stings in the great soul which it was
never permitted to them to subdue !
No ! not once to subdue, not once to tar
nish ! All petty humiliations were forgot
ten in one look at " Lavvie's Drawing-
room ;" all stain of insolent words van
ished from Valentine's memory in the at
mosphere uf the studio. Never was a more
superficia judgment pronounced than when
his friends said that he had thrown away
his whole life, because he had chosen a vo
cation in which he could win no public suc
cess. Short-sighted observers! they could
look at the subject only within this one nar
row range of vision ; they failed altogether
to see what his choice had won for him, in
place of that success which they worshipped
as if it comprised the alpha and omega of
merit in itself.
The lad's earliest instincts had indeed led
him truly, after all. The art to which he
had devoted himself was the only earthly
pursuit that could harmonize as perfectly
with all the eccentricities as with all the
graces of his character, that could mingle
happily with every joy, tenderly with every
grief belonging to the quiet, simple, and
innocent life, which, employ him anyhow,
it was in his original nature to lead. But
for this protecting art, under what prim dis
guises, amid what foggy social climates of
class conventionality, would the worlds
cle/ical, legal, mercantile, military, naval,
or dandy, have extinguished this' man, if
any one of them had caught him in its
snares! Where would then have been his
frolicsome enthusiasm that nothing could
dispirit, his inveterate oddities of thought,
speech, and action, which made all his
friends laugh at him and bless him in the
same breath ; his affections, so manly in
their firmness, so womanly in their tender
ness, so childlike in their frank fearless
confidence, that dreaded neither ridicule on
the one side, nor deception on the other ?
Where and how would all these character
istics have vanished, but for his art — but for
the abiding spirit, ever present to preserve

their vital warmth against jhe outer and
earthy cold ? The wisest of Valentine'.',
friends, who shook their heads disparaging!)
whenever his name was mentioned, wen
at least wise enough in their generation
never to ask themselves such embarrassing
questions as these.

CHAPTER IV.
THE PAINTER AND HIS PALATE.
While we have been looking over hit
past life — now past for many years— Mr.
Blyth has moved away from the studio fire
place, and is about to begin work for the day.
Still whistling, he walks toward an
earthen pipkin half-full of water, placed in
one corner of the painting-room, and takes
from it a little china palette, which looks
absurdly small as a ministering agent to the
progress of the two large pictures on the
high and sturdy easels. He has indolently
left on this palette the whole of yesterday's
paint. The water, however, bas prevented
it from hardening, and has therefore ren
dered it easy of removal by the palette-
knife. Looking round the room for some
waste paper to wipe off the brimstone-and-
treacle-colored compound which tlie first
sweep of his blade has scraped up, Mr.
Blyth's eyes happen to light first on the
painting-table, and on four or five notes
which lie scattered over it.
These, he thinks, will suit his purpose as
well as anything else, so he takes up the
notes, but, before making use of them, reads
their contents over for the second time-
partly by way of caution, partly through a
dawdling habit, which men of his abfent
disposition are always too ready to contract.
Three of these letters happen to be in the
same scrambling, blotted hand-writing.
They are none of them very long, and are
the production of a former acquaintance of
the reader's, who has somewhat altered in
height and personal appearance during the
course of the last fourteen years. Here is
the first of the notes which Valentine is
now reading : —
"Dear Blyth: It's all over with me
The governor says theatres are the devil's
houses, and I must be home by eleven
o'clock. I'm sure I never did anything
wrong at a theatre, which I might not have
done just the same anywhere else ; unless
laughing over a good play is one of the
national sins he's always talking about.
But I'll be hanged if I can stand it much
longer, even for my mother's sake ! You
are my only friend. I shall come and see
you to-morrow, so mind and.be at homei
How I, wish I was an artist ! Yours ever


HIDE AND SEEK.

31

Shaking his head and smiling at the same
time Mr. Blyth finishes this letter — drops a
perfect puddle of dirty paint and turpentine
in the middle, over the words " national
sins," throws the paper into the fire — and
goes on to note number two : —
"Dear Blyth: I couldn't come yester
day, Because of another row, and my mother
crying about it, of course. You remember
the old row, when I was at school, about
Teddy Millichap and me smoking cigars,
and how my pocket-money was stopped,
and I pawned my new silver watch, and
was near being expelled because it wasn't
gentlemanlike ? Well, this is just the same
sort of row over again. The governor said
he smelt tobacco-smoke at morning pray
ers. It was my coat, which I forgot lo air
at the fire the night before ; and he found it
out, and said he wouldn't have me smoke,
because it led to dissipation, and I told him
(which is true) mat lots of parsons smoked.
There Was such a row ! I wish you visited
at our house, and could come and say a
word on my side ; for I am perfectly
wretched, and have had all my cigars taken
away from me. Yours trulv,
" Z. T'hobpe, jr."
" Catch me going near your vinegar-cruet
of a father, Mister Zack !" says Valentine
to himself, making a wry face while he
deposites a moist lump of "lamp-black,"
streaked with "lemon-yellow," upon the
fair while paper of the second note — tos
sing it into the fire afterward, as if it were
viciously burning his fingers by anticipa
tion. A third note is required before the palette
can be scraped clean. Mr. Blyth reads the
contents rather gravely on this occasion ;
rapidly plastering his last morsels of waste-
paint upon the paper as he goes on, until
at length it looks as if it had been thor
oughly peppered with all the colors of the
rainbow. Zack's third letter of complaint certainly
promised serious domestic tribulation for
the ruling power at Baregrove square : —
" Dear Blyth : I have been bullied by
my father, and coaxed by my mother: and
the end of it is, that I have given in, at
least for the present. I told the governor
about my wanting to be an artist, and about
your saying that I had a good notion of
drawing, and an eye for a likeness; but I
might just as well have talked to one of
your easels. He said the profession was a
dangerous one"— (" And I t=ay it isn't,"
muttered Mr. Blyth to himself) — "and led
to all sorts of profligacy ;" (" It doesn't !"
said Valentine, indignantly spotting the
paper with Prussian blue) — " and that art
ists in general led very debauched lives."
(" That's a vile lie !"- cried Mr. Blyth, pok
ing the top of his palette-knife clean through
the note in a rage.) "I denied it all,

of course, point-blank;" ("Well done,
Zack !") " and was savagely rowed fol
my pains." (" Never mind that, you spoke
the truth !") " It ended, as I said before,
in my giving in on mother's account. And
here I have been, for the last three weeks,
at a tea-broker's office in the city in conse
quence. The governor and his friends say
it's a good opening for me, and talk about
the respectability of commercial pursuits.
I don't want to be respectable, and I hate
commercial pursuits. What the deuce is
the good of forcing me into a merchant's
office, when I can't say my multiplication
table ? Ask my mother about that : she'll
tell you ! Only fancy me going round tea-
warehouses in filthy Jewish places like St.
Mary- Axe, to take samples, with a blue bag
to carry them about in ; and a dirty junior
clerk who wears Blucher boots and cleans
his pen in his hair, to teach me how to fold
up parcels ! Isn't it enough to make a fel
low's blood boil to think of it ? I can't go
on, and I won't go on in this way ! Mind
you're at home to-morrow ; I'm coming to
speak to you about how I'm to begin learn
ing to be an artist. The junior clerk is go
ing lo do all my sampling work for me in
tbe morning ; and we are to meet in the
afternoon, after I have come away from you,
at a chop-house ; and then go back to the
office as if we had been together all day,
just as usual. Don't be afraid of its being
discovered. I can bribe the inky-haired
little devil with the Bluchers to the strict
est secresy, by treating him to juicy steaks
and treacly porter. Ever yours,
, " Z. Thorpe, jr.
"P. S. — My mind's made up: if the
worst comes to the worst, I shall bolt from
home." " Oh, dear me ! 0 dear ! dear me !" says
Valentine, mournfully rubbing his palette
clean with a bit of rag. "What will it
all end in, I wonder ? Old Thorpe's going
just the way, with his obstinate severity,
to drive Zack to something desperate, If
my own dear, kind father had had the
management of him, what a different boy
he would have been ! Coming here to-mor
row, he says?" continued Mr. Blyth, taking
up a tin tube, and dreamily squeezing white
paint out of it, which dropped slowly on
his palette in little worm-like folds. "Com
ing to-niorrow ! He never dates his notes;
but I suppose, as this one came last night,
he means to-day. I don't know how to
advise him for the best, I'm sure — he's such
a queer, flighty fellow. Confound the Van-
dyck brown ; I'm always losing that par
ticular color. Where can it have got to !"
Not finding the Vandyck brown, Mr.
Blyth goes on to the next available pig
ment, which he can extricate from the dis
ordered interior of his painting-box — then
stops again to hunt for another lost tube of


32

HIDE AND SEEK.

„

color; the top of which, when he finds it,
won't come off, and the bottom of which
bursts in his hand, letting the paint out on
his fingers instead of his palette. Having
repaired this disaster, Valentine, before
proceeding further with his preparations
ibr the day's work, determines to refresh
himself by a look at one of his pictures.
He throws the sheet off the smallest ofthe
two, and discloses a classical landscape.
The chief aim of the muses who preside
over classic art — whether it be ancient or
modern, whether it take the form of poet
ry, painting, or music — seems to be to pre
serve their artificial dignity as goddesses,
by banishing their natural charms as wo
men ; to live even with their professed
admirers on the most stately and formal
terms ; and to keep the world at large
thoroughly well away from them by im
proving, informing, and attracting as few;
leople as possible by any recognisably use-
ul truthful, or graceful means. When,
for example, the muse who presides over
the cl issic drama, condescends to appeal
icily to us from afar off, and writes a play,
she selects a suicide — say Cato — for hero.
She keeps him incessantly engaged in talk
ing patriotism and philosophy ; represents
him as always moving about uncomfortably
in halls, porticoes, senate-houses, and
squares ; and never lets us hear a word from
his lips of any of the universal human sub
jects which the poor wretch must have
talked about, when he ate his bit of clas
sical dinner, when he dawdled out into the
forum on idle days to hear the news, or
when he started off constitutionally for a
brisk Roman walk.
And, again, when the classic muse re
solves to paint a picture of the pastoral
hilarity of primeval times, is it not always
her principle to make men and women as
unlike human nature as possible? Her
happy female revellers must always exhibit
an incredibly ugly straight profile line from
the top ofthe forehead to the tip of the
nose ; and' must generally be made to ex
press ecstasy by hopping on one leg — ap
parently in a hurricane, judging by the
frightful manner in which their petticoats
and hair are blown about them on these
occasions. And as for the jovial male com
panions of the ladies, are they not always
monsters with tawny red skins, mottled
outrageously with lumps of knotty muscle ?
Are they not continually more or less drunk ?
continually more or less beastly and ridicu
lous in their antics? Must we believe such
representations to be poetically suggestive
of life among the simple inhabitants of a
young world? Of course we must: for it
is the classic muse who has done them !
Or, lastly, when this same classic muse
appeals to our ears, and writes a symphony,
what immense pains she takes in that, as

in other things, to avoid being popularly
and immediately pleasing! Sht combines
all her instruments in a general conspiraci
against one weakly little atom of a tune
(frequently not her own property), which
is always trying to make itself heard,
and always being bellowed down sternly
for its pains: until, at last, assailed by
screeching fiddles, shouting horns, grunting
double basses, and treacherously-mellifluous
flutes, it expires, faintly piping, in a storm
of furious fugue, after a gallant but vain
struggle for existence which has lasted for
more than half an hour.
Now, in regard to the landscape develop
ment of classic art, if Mr. Blyth had done
nothing else, he had at least achieved the
great end of reminding nobody of anything
simple, familiar, or pleasing to them in
nature. In the foreground were the three
lanky ruined columns, the dancing Bac
chantes, the musing philosopher, the ma
hogany-colored vegetation, and the bosky
and branchless trees, with which we have
all been familiar, from our youth upward,
"classical compositions." Down the mid
dle of the scene ran that wonderful river:
which is always rippling with the same reg
ular waves ; and always bearing onward
the same capsizable galleys, with the same
vermilion and blue revellers striking lyres
on the deck. On the bank where there was
most room for it, appeared our old, old
friend, the architectural city, which nobod/
could possibly live in ; and which is com
posed of nothing but temples, towers, mon
uments, flights of steps, and bewildering
rows of pillars. In the distance, our favor
ite blue mountains were as blue and as
peaky as ever, on Valentine's canvass ; and
our generally-approved pale yellow sun was
stili disfigured by the same attack of aerial
jaundice, from which he has suffered ever
since classical compositions first forbade
him to take refuge from the sight behind a
friendly cloud.
Before this picture, which is very nearly
finished, Mr. Blyth stands rapt in approving
contemplation ; now dropping his head a
little on one side, and now on the other ;
now retreating backward to take in the
general effect ; now advancing again, and
isolating bit after bit of the scene, by hold
ing two of his fingers before other bits, so
as to enjoy it successively in separate parts.
He has put two fingers over the philosopher,
to see howthe Bacchantes look without him,
when a shrill and impatient mewing, out
side the studio door, attracts his attention.
"Bless my soul!" says Valentine (who
has an inveterate habit of talking to him
self), "there's 'Snooks' wanting to come
in ! She was only confined last night. I
wonder what the servants will say to h'et
getting back into the naintinnr.,-,..™ -'


HIDE AND SEEK.

33

Mr. Blyth opens the door while he is
speaking; and a small black cat, with
white toes, a melancholy-looking white
muzzle, and a kitten in her mouth, enters
methodically — walks straight up to the fire
place — deposites her kitten on the rug — and,
lying down beside it, instantly begins to
purr as loud as she possibly can.
"Why, you little wretch!" says Mr.
Blyth, poking " Snooks" gently behind the
ear with the padded end of that light cane
which artists rest against their pictures to
steady the hand while painting, and which
is technically termed a mahl-stick. — "Why
you little wretch ! when are you going to
leave off kittening? Let me see: you're
not a verv old cat yet; you've have six lit
ters of four at a time (four times six are
twenty-four) and five litters of three at a
time. Three times five's fifteen* and ten's
twenty-five, and four— no, and ten — or,
stop, two tens, twenty ; and four — no, fif
teen — well, at any rate; it must be forty ;
of course it must be forty, though I can't
exactly make it out. Oh Snooks ! Snooks !
you would have been the mother of a fam
ily of forty children, by this time, if we
hadn't taken to drowning them !"
Puss, thus apostrophized, rolls luxurious
ly over on her back ; elevates her four white
toes in the air; and looks up, indolently
impudent, with half-closed green eyes, at
Mr. Blyth. No account of that gentleman's
household could possibly pretend to be com
plete, if it did not include the cat. She
was literally a member of the family. She
lived with them, ate with them, followed
them about the house like a dog, performed
all sorts of tricks under Mr. Blyth's direc
tion, and was on perfectly friendly terms
with the whole circle of his acquaintance.
She had been first derisively called "SnookS"
by Mr. Zaehary Thorpe, junior, which des
ignation had been immediately adopted by
valentine, who said he highly approved of
a short, familiar English name, for a small,
familiar English animal. Mrs. Blyth, in
heriting her father's fondness for fine names,
suggested that the cat had better be called
"Zerlina," but was outvoted by everybody,
and puss became the comic " Snooks," in
stead of the sentimental " Zerlina," of the
family, from that moment.
After playing with the cat for a minute
or two longer, Valentine resumes the busi
ness of preparing his palette.
As the bee comes and goes irregularly
from flower to flower ; as the butterfly flut
ters in a zig-zag course from one sunny
place on the garden wall to another ; or, as
an old woman runs from wrong omnibus to
wrong omnibus, at the Elephant and Castle,
before she can discover the right one ; as a
countryman blunders up one street, and
down another, before he can find the way
lo his place of destination in London ¦ so

does Mr. Blyth now come. and go, flutter,
run, and blunder, in a mighty hurry about
his studio, in search of missing colors whic'i
ought to he in his painting-box, but which
are not to be found there. While lie is still
hunting through the room for the Vandyck
brown, his legs come into collision with a
large drawing-board, which, like everything
else, is put in the wrong place.
"Oh, my shins!" cries Valentine, gently
rubbing the affected parts. " Oh, my Van
dyck brown ! where on earth can it be ?
Stop a minute, though ! I declare I forgot
about the Venus."
The drawing-board, on which there is a
blank sheet of paper stretched, seems to
have reminded Mr. Blyth of some duty con
nected with it. He places it against two
chairs, in a good light; then moves the
portable steps up to one ofthe shelves with
the casts on it, and removes the Venus de
Medici from under the eyes of Doctor John
son ; knocking down, the moment he lifts
her away, a lump of putty, a ball of string,
and a number of old brushes. He then car
ries Venus's head and shoulders to the office
stool, which he had previously moved oppo
site the two chairs and the drawing-board.
Having completed these preparations, and
reviewed them critically with his head a
little on one side, he goes back to the paint
ing-box, and is just searching again among
the tubes of color, when the door of the
studio opens, and a young lady enters.
She is dressed in very pretty, simple,
quaker-like attire. Her gown is of a light-
gray color, covered by a neat little black
apron in front, and fastening round the
throat over a frill collar. The sleeves of
this dress are worn tight to the arm, and
are terminated at the wrists by quaint-look
ing cuffs of antique lace, the only ornamental
morsels of costume which she has on. It
is impossible to describe how deliciously
soft, bright, fresh, pure, and delicate this
young lady is, merely as an object to look at,
contrasted with the dingy disorder of the
studio -sphere through which she now
moves. The keenest observers, beholding
her as she at present appears, would detect
nothing in her face or figure, her manner
or her costume, in the slightest degree sug
gestive of impenetrable mystery, or incu
rable misfortune. And yet, she happens to
be the very person at whom prying glances
are directed, whenever she ^Jks out ;
whose very existence is referred to by the
neighbors with an invariable accompani
ment of shrugs, sighs, and lamenting looks ;
and whose "case" is always compassion
ately designed as* "a sad case," whenever
it is brought forward — which is pretty often
in the course of conversation, at dinner-
tables and tea-tables in the new suburb.
Socially, we may be all easily divided into
two classes in this world — at leist in the civ-


HIDE AND SEEK.

35

bitual expression, reminded all beholders at
once and irresistibly of the image of soft
ness, purity, and feminine gentleness, which
has been engraven foi ever on so many
memories by the "Madonnas" of Raphael.
It was in consequence of this extraordi
nary resemblance, that her own English
namj of Mary had been, from the first,
altered and Italianized by Mr. and Mrs.
Blyth, and by all intimate friends, into
•' Madonna." One or two extremely strict
and extremely imbecile people, captiously
objected to any such familiar application of
this name, as being open, in certain direc
tions, to an imputation of irreverence. Mr.
Blyth was not generally very quick at an
answer ; but, on this occasion, he had three
answers, ready before the objections were
quite out of the objector's mouths.
In the first place, he said, that he and his
friends used the name only in an artist-
sense, and only with reference to Raphael's
pictures. In the next place, he produced
an Italian dictionary, and showed that
"Madonna" had a second meaning in the
language, signifying simply and literally,
"My lady." And, in conclusion, he proved
historically, that " Madonna" had been
used in the old times as a prefix to the
names of Italian women ; quoting, for ex
ample, " MadonnaPia," whom hehappened
to remember just at that moment, from hav
ing orce painted a picture of one of the
scenes in her terrible story. These, state
ments completely overthrew all objections;
and the young lady was accordingly much
better known in the painter's house as
" Madonna" than as " Mary."
On now entering the studio, she walked
up to Valentine, laid a hand lightly on each
of his shoulders, and so lifted herself to him
to be kissed on the forehead. Then she
looked down on his palette, and, observing
that some colors were still missing from it,
began to search for them directly in the
painting-box. She found the lost Vandyck
brown in a moment ; and held it up before
Mr. Blyth with a pretty, arch look of in
quiry and triumph. He nodded, smiled,
and held out his palette for her to put the
color on it herself. Having done this very
neally and delicately, she next turned to
ward tie cat and kitten, with a merry look
of astciiishment in her soft, clear eyes.
" Snooks" had her favorites in the house,
and always expressed her excessive attach
ment to Madonna by uttering, whenever
the young lady touched her, an oddly-toned
low cry — a sort of quick, prolonged purr,
which never greeted any other member of
the ; family. Valentine had often tried to
deceive the cat in the dark, and make her
distinguish other people as she distinguished
Madonua, but it was useless. "Snooks"
was not to be imposed upon, and only ut
tered her peculiar cry — as she was uttering

it now on the studio-rug — undti the cares
sing touch of one light and ever-welcome
hand. Having left the cat to her repose, Ma
donna, looking round the room, immediately
observed the cast on the office-stool ; and;
at the same time, Mr. Blyth, who saw the
direction taken by her eyes, handed to her a
port-crayon with some black chalk, which
he had been carefully cutting to a point for
the last minute or two. She took it with a
little mock courtesy, pouting her lip slight
ly, as if drawing the Venus was work not
much to her taste — then smiled, when she
saw Valentine solemnly shaking his head,
and frowning comically at her — then went
away at once to the drawing-board, and sat
down opposite Venus, in which position she
offered as decided a living contradiction as
ever was seen to the assertion of the clas
sical idea of beauty, as expressed in the cast
that she was now about to copy.
Mr. Blyth, on his side, set to work at last
on the landscape ; painting upon the bac
chanalian nymphs, who sadly wanted a lit
tle brightening up — or, as he would have
technically expressed it, a little " fetching
out." While the painter and the young
lady are industriously occupied with the
business of the studio, there is leisure to re
mark on one rather perplexing characteris
tic of their intercourse, so far as it has yet
proceeded on this particular winter's morn
ing. Ever since Madonna has been in the
room, not one word has she spoken to Val
entine ; and not one word has Valentine
(who can talk glibly enough to himself)
spoken to her. He never said " Good morn
ing" when he kissed her; or, " Thank you
for finding the Vandyck brown ;" or, " What
do you think of Snook's new kitten ?" or, " I
have set the Venus, my dear, for your draw
ing lesson to-day." And she, woman as
she is, has actually not asked him a single
question ! has even not said " poor pussy !"
when she was fondling the cat on the rug.
What can this absolute and remarkable si
lence mean, between two people who look
as affectionately and pleasantly on each
other as these two look, every time then
eyes meet ?
Why have they not once spoken together
from the time when she opened the studio-
door ?
Is this one of the mysteries of the paint
er's fireside ?
Who is Madonna ?
What is her real name besides Mary ?
Is it Mary Blyth ?
Some years ago a curious adventure hap
pened to Valentine in the circus of an itine
rant equestrian company ; and a very strange
story was related to him by the wife of an
ordinary stage-tumbler or clown.


26

HIDE AND SEEK.

But who is Madonna i And wherefore
tbe absolute silence between her and Mr.
Blyth? The answer to these questions is only to
be found in the adventure, in the story, and
in the result which they brought about.

CHAPTER V.

THE adventure.

In the autumn of 1838, Mrs. Blyth's
malady had for some time past assumed the
final and permanent form, from which it
never afterward varied. She now suffered
lilt, e actual pain, except when she quitted
a recumbent posture. But the general
weakness and disorganization produced by
almost exclusive confinement to one posi
tion, had, even at this early period, begun
to work sad changes in her personal appear
ance. She suffered that mortifying misfor
tune, hpwever, just as bravely and resign
edly as she had suffered the first great ca
lamity of her incurable disorder. Valentine
never showed that he thought her altered ;
Valentine's kindness was just as affection
ate, as spontaneous, and as constant, as it
had ever been in the happier days of .their
marriage. So encouraged, Lavinia had the
heart to bear all burdens patiently ; and
could find sources of happiness for herself,
where others could discover nothing but
causes for grief.
The room she inhabited was already,
through Valentine's self-denying industry,
better furnished than any other room in the
house ; but was far from presenting the
same appearance of refined luxury and taste
ful completeness, to which it attained grad
ually in the course of after years.
The charming little maple-wood and
ivory bookcase, with the prettily-bound vol
umes ranged in such bright regularity along
ils shelves, was there certainly as early
as the autumn of 1838. It would not,
though, at that time, have formed part of
the furniture of Mrs. Blyth's room, but for
a chance piece of good fortune, which her
husband was doubtful about accepting when
it first came to him. He had, it is true,
often been to look at the bookcase in the Up
holsterer's show-room, but was almost re
signed to view it as a forbidden treasure,
far beyond any means of acquisition then at
his disposal, unless indeed he availed him
self of a certain professional invitation to
the country which he had just received, and
which, on his wife's account, he was very
unwilling to accept.
Upon renewed consideration, however,
the thought of his future pride and pleas
ure, if he could see the charming little
bookcase in Lavinia's room, at last supplied

him with a motive for departure, which
overcame his reluctance to separate nim-
self for any length of lime from his invalid
wife. Having once arrived at a resolution,
he immediately wrote two notes— one tc
order the new bookcase, the other to secure
the means of paying for it, by accepting the
professional invitation to the country.
This invitation had been sent to him by a
clerical friend, the Reverend Doctor Joyce,
rector of St. Judy's, in the large agricultural
town of Rubbleford. Valentine had done a
water-color drawing of one of the doctor's
babies, when the family at the rectory were
in London for a season, and this drawing
had been shown to all the neighbors by the
worthy clergyman on his return. Now,
although Mr. Blyth was not over-successful
in the adult department of portrait-art, he
was invariably victorious in the baby-de
partment. He painted all infants on one
ingenious plan. He gave them the round
est eyes, the chubbiest red cheeks, the most
serenely good-humored smiles, and the
neatest and whitest caps ever seen on pa
per. If fathers and their male friends
rarely appreciated the fidelity of his like
nesses, mothers and nurses invariably made
amends for their want of taste. The fair
sex rallied round Valentine's baby-portraits
to a woman ; always proclaiming at sight
of them with little screams of ecstasy, that
for " sweetly-pretty" representations of in
fant innocence, the painter never yet lived
who could be compared with Mr. Blyth.
It followed, therefore, almost as a matter
of course, that the local exhibition of the
doctor's drawing must bring offers of long-
clothes-porlrait employment to Valentine.
Three resident families decided immediately
to have their babies done, if the painter
would only travel to their houses to take
the likenesses. A bachelor sporting squire
in the neighborhood also volunteered a
commission of another sort. This gentle
man arrived (by a legal process which it is
hopeless to think of tracing) at the conclu
sion, that a man who was great at babies,
must necessarily be marvellous at horses ;
and determined, in consequence, that Val
entine should paint his celebrated cover-
hack. In writing to inform his friend of these
offers, Doctor Joyce added another profes
sional order on his own account, desiring
that Mr. Blyth should take the portrait of;
his favorite curate, who, though very weak
ly and consumptive, was about to leave him
to join a mission to the Cape ; and whom
the rector greatly feared he might never set
eyes on again in this_ world. Here, then,
were five commissions, which would pro
duce enough, cheaply as Valentine worked,
to pay, not only for the new bookcase, but
for some new books to put in it when ;t
can - ' "~


HIDE AND SEEK-

37

Having left his wife in charge of two of
her sisters, who were forbidden to leave the
house till his return, Mr. Blyth started for
the rectory, and once, there, set to work on
the babies with a zeal and good-humor
which straightway won the hearts of
mothers and nurses, and made him a great
Rubbleford reputation in the course pf a few
days. Having done the babies to admira
tion, he next attacked the curate ; producing
a painfully striking likeness of (hat ill-fated
gentleman ; front face, pen in hand, looking
up for inspiration over half-done sermon in
neat black leather cover. And, no sooner,
was this latter piece of workmanship turned
out complete, than away went Valentine,
brisk and dauntless as ever, to undertake the
last great effort of immortalizing on canvass
the bachelor squire's hack.
Her^ he had some trouble. The sporting
gentleman would look over him while; he
painted ; would bewilder him with the
pedigree of the horse ; would have the
animal done in the, most unpicturesque
view ; and sternly forbade all introduction
of "tone," "Tight and shade,", qr purely
artistic embellishment of any kind, in any
part of the canvass. In short, the squire
wanted a signboard instead of a picture,
and he at last got what he wanted to his
heart's content.
One evening, while Valentine, still deeply
, immersed in the difficulties of depicting the
cover-hack, was returning to the rectory,
after a day's work at the squire's house, his
attention was suddenly attracted in the high
street of Rubbleford, by a flaming placard
pasted up on a dead wall opposite the
market-house. He immediately joined the crowd of
rustics congregated around the many-colored
and magnificent sheet of paper, and read at
the top of it, in huge blue letters — " Jubber's
Circus. The Eighth Wonder or the
World." After this came some small
print, which nobody lost any time in noticing.
But, below tbe small print appeared a per
fect galaxy of fancifully shaped scarlet let
ters, which fascinated all eyes, and informed
the public that the equestrian company
included " Miss Florinda Belverlet,
known" (here the letters turned suddenly
green), " wherever the English language
was known, as tfhe Amazonian Empress
of the Realms of Equitation." This an
nouncement was followed by the names of
inferior members of the company ; by a
programme of the evening's entertainments;
by testimonials extracted from the provincial
press; by illustrations of gentlemen with
lusty calves and spangled drawers, and of
ladies with smiling faces, shameless petti
coats, and pirouetting legs. These illustra
tions, and the particulars which preceded
*' em, -.vere carefully digested by all Mr.
Blyth's neighbors ; but Mr. Blyth himself

passed them over unnoticed. His eye had
been caught by something at the bottom of
the placard, which instantly absorbed hia
whole attention.
In this place the red letters, appeared
again, and formed the following words and
marks, of admiration : —
The Mysterious Foundling !
Aged Ten Years ! !
Totally Deaf and Dumb ! ! !
Underneath came an explanation of what
the red letters referred to, occupying no less
than three paragraphs of stumpy small
print, every word of which Valentine
eagerly devoured. This is what he read : —
"Mr, Jubber,, as proprietor of the re
nowned circus, has the honor of informing
the nobility, gentry, and public, that the
above wonderful Deaf and Dumb Female
Child will appear between the first and
second parts of the evening's performances.
Mr. J. has taken the liberty of entitling this
Marvel of Nature, The Mysterious Found
ling; no one knowing who her father is,
and her mother having died soon after her
birth, leaving her in charge of the Eques
trian Company, who have been fond parents
and guardians to her ever since.
" She was originally celebrated in the
former annals of Jubber's Circus, as Eighth
Wonder of the World, or The Hurricane
Child of the Desert; having appeared in
that character, whirled aloft at the age of
seven years in the hand of Muley Ben
Hassan, the renowned Devil-Scourer of
Sahara, in his daring act of equitation, as
exhibited to the terror and amazement of
all England, in Jubber's Circus. At that
time she had her hearing and speech quite
perfect. But Mr. J. deeply regrets to state
that a terrific accident happened to her
soon afterward. Through no fault on the
part ofthe Devil-Scourer (who never made
a mistake in his life ; and who, overcome
by his feeliDgs at the result of the above-
mentioned frightful accident, has gone back
to his native wilds a moody and broken
hearted man), she slipped from his hand
while the three horses bestrode by the fiery
but humane Arab were going at a gallop,
and fell, shocking to relate, outside the Ring,
on the boarded floor of the Circus. She
was supposed to be dead. Mr. Jubber in
stantly secured the inestimable assistance
of the Faculty, who found that she was still
alive, and set her arm which had been
broken. It was only afterward discovered
that she had utterly lost her sense of hear
ing; or, to use the emphatic language of
the medical gentlemen (who all spoke with
tears in their eyes), that she had been struck
stone deaf by the shock. Under these
me!a.icholy circumstances, it was found that
tb" faculty of speech soon failed her alto-


38

HIDE AND SEiK.

gether ; and she is now therefore Totally
Deaf and Dumb; but Mr. J. rejoices to say,
quite cheerful and in good health notwith
standing. " Mr. Jubber being himself the father of
a family, ventures to think that these little
particulars may prove of some interest to
an Intelligent, a Sympathetic, and a Benev
olent Public. He will simply allude, in
ronclusion, to the performances of the
Mysterious Foundling, as exhibiting perfec
tion hiiherto unparalleled in the Art of
Legerdemain, with wonders of untraceable
intricacy on the cards, which were origin
ally the result of abstruse calculations made
oy the renowned Algebraist, Mohammed
Engedi, extending over a period of ten
years, dating from the year 1215. of the
Arab Chronology. More than this, Mr.
Jubber will not venture to relate : for
' Seeing Is Believing,' and the Mysterious
Foundling must be seen to be believed.
For prices of admission consult bottom of
bill." Mr. Blyth read this grotesquely shocking
narrative with sentiments which were any
thing rather than complimentary to the
taste, the delicacy, and the humanity ofthe
fluent Mr. Jubber. He consulted the bot
tom of the bill, however, as requested ; and
ascertained what were the prices of admis
sion — then glanced at the top, and observed
that the first performance was fixed for that
very evening — looked about him absently
for a minute or two — and resolved to be
present at it.
Most assuredly Valentine's resolution did
not proceed from that dastard insensibility
to all decent respect for human suffering
which could feast itself on the spectacle of
calamity paraded for hire, in the person of
a deaf and dumb child of ten years old. His
motives for going to the circus were stained
by no trace of such degradation as this. But
what were they then? That question he
himself could not have answered; it was a
common predicament with him not to know
his own motives, generally from not inqui
ring into them. There are men who run
breathlessly — men who walk cautiously —
and men who saunter easily — through the
journey of life. Valentine belonged to the
alter class; and, like the rest of his order,
often strayed down a new turning, without
Being able to realize at the time what pur
pose it was which first teok him that way.
Our destinies shape the future for us out of
strange materials : a travelling circus suf
ficed them, in the first instance, to shape a
new future for Mr. Blyth.
He first went on to the rectory to tell
.hem where he was going, and to get a cup
cf tea, and then hurried off to the circus — a
wooden building in a field outside the town.
The performance had begun some time
when he got in. The Amazonian empress

(known in mere ordinary male and female
society as Miss Florinda Belverley) was
dancing voluptuously on the back of a can
tering piebald horse with a Roman nose
Round and round, in her own undisputed
" realm of equitation," careered the empress,
beating time on the saddle witli her imperial
legs to the tune of " Let the Toast be Dear
Woman," played with true amatory feeling
by the band. Suddenly the melody changed
to " See the Conquering Hero comes ;" th>
piebald horse increased his speed ; the
empress raised a -flag in one hand, and a
javelin in the other, and began slaying in
visible enemies in the empty air, at full
(circus) gallop. The triumph was pro
digious ; the applause tremendous : Mr.
Blyth alone sat unmoved. Miss Florinda
Belverley was not even a good model to
draw legs from, in the estimation of this
anti-Amazonian painter!
And when the empress was succeeded
by a Spanish guerilla, who robbed, mur
dered, danced, caroused, and made love on
the back of a cream-colored horse — and
when the guerilla was followed by a clown
who performed frightful contortions, and
rriade irresistibly comic faces — still Mr.
Blyth exhibited not the slightest demonstra
tion of astonishment or pleasure. It was
only when a bell rang between the first and
second parts of the performance, and the
band struck up "Gentle Zitella," that he
showed any symptoms of animation. Then
he suddenly rose ; and, moving down from
the seat he had hitherto occupied to a bench
close against the low partition which sep
arated the ring from the audience, fixed his
eyes intently on a doorway opposite to him,
overhung by a frowsy red curtain with a
tinsel border.
From this doorway there now appeared
Mr. Jubber himself, clothed in white
trowsers with a gold stripe, and a green
jacket with military epaulettes. He had
big, bold eyes, dyed mustaches, great fat,
flabby cheeks, long hair parted in the mid
dle, a turn-down collar with a rose-colored
handkerchief; and was, in every lespect,
the most atrocious-looking stage black
guard that ever painted an insolint and
ugly face. He led with him. holding her
hand — nh, soiling and shameful contact ! —
the little deaf and dumb^jirl, whose mis
fortune he had advertised to the whole
population of Bubbleford.
The face and manner of the child, as she
walked nto the centre of the circus, and
made hei innocent courtesy and kissed her
hand, we it to the hearts of the whole
audience .ft an instant. They greeted her
with such a btrst of applause as might have
frightened a grown actress. But not a note
from those cheering voices, not a breath of
sound from those loudly clapping hands,
could reach her ; she could see that thev


HIDE AND SEEK.

39

were welcoming htr kindly, and that was
all !
When the applause had subsided, Mr.
Jubber asked for the loan of a handkerchief
from one of the ladies present, and osten
tatiously bandaged her eyes. He then lifted
her upon the broad low wall which encir
cled the ring, and walked her round a little
way (beginning from the door through which
he had entered), inviting the spectators to
test her total deafness by clapping their
hands, shouting, or making any loud noise
they pleased close at her ear. "You might
fire off a cannon, ladies and gentlemen,"
said Mr. Jubber jocularly, "and it wouldn't
make her start till after she'd smelt the
smoke !"
To the credit of the Rubbleford audience,
the majority of them declined making any
practical experiments to test the poor child's
utter deafness. The women set the ex
ample of forbearance, by entreating that
the handkerchief might be taken off, so that
they might see her pretty eyes again. This
was done at once, and then she began to
perform her conjuring tricks with Mr. Jub
ber and one of the ring-keepers on either
side of her, officiating as assistants. These
tricks, in themselves, were of the simplest
and Commonest kind ; and derived all their
attraction from the child's innocently earn
est manner of exhibiting them, and from
the novelty to the audience of communica
ting with her only by writing on a slate.
They never tired of scrawling questions,
of saying, "Poor little thing!" and of kis
sing her whenever they could get the op
portunity, while she slowly went round the
circus. " Deaf and dumb ! ah, dear, dear,
deaf and dumb !" was the general murmur
of sympathy which greeted her from each
new group, as she advanced ; Mr. Jubber
invariably adding with a smile: "And as
you see, ladies and gentlemen, in excellent
health and spirits, notwithstanding; as
hearty and happy, I pledge you my sacred
word of honor, as the very best of us !"
Now, while she was thus delighting the
spectators on one side of the circus, how
were the spectators on the other side, whose
places she had not yet reached, contriving
to amuse themselves ?
From the moment of the little girl's first
appearance, ample recreation had been un
consciously provided for them by a tall,
stout, and florid stranger, who appeared
suddenly to lose his senses the moment he
set eyes on the deaf and dumb child. This
gentleman jumped up and sat down again
excitably a dozen times in a minute; con
stantly apologizing on being called lo order,
and constantly repeating the offence the
moment afterward. Mad and mysterious
words, never heard before in Rubbleford,
poured from his lips. " Devotional beauty,"
" Early Italian art," " Fra Angelico's an

gels," " Giotto and the cherubs," " Enough
to bring the divine Raphael down from
heaven to paint her." Such were a few
fragments of the mad gentleman's incohe
rent mutterings, as they reached his neigh
bor's ears. The amusement they yielded
was soon wrought to its climax by a joke
from an attorney's clerk, who suggested
that this queer man, with the rosy face,
must certainly be the long-lost father of
the " Mysterious Foundling !" Great grat
ification was consequently anticipated from
what might take place when the child ar
rived opposite the bench occupied by the
excitable stranger.
Slowly, slowly, the little light flgui e went
round upon the broad-partition wall of the
ring, until it came near, very near, to the
place where Valentine was sitting.
Ah, woful sight ! so lovely, yet so pite
ous to look on ! Shall she never, never
hear kindly human voices, the song of
birds, the pleasant murmur of tbe trees
again ? Are all the sweet sounds that sing
of happiness to childhood, silent for ever
to her ? From those fresh, rosy lips shall
no glad words pour forth, when she runs
and plays in the sunshine? Shall the clear,
laughing tones be hushed always ? — the
young, tender life be for ever a speechless
thing, shut up in dumbness from the free
world of voices? O! Angel of judgment!
hast thou snatched her hearing and her
speech from this little child, to abandon her
in helpless affliction to such profanation as
she now undergoes ? O Spirit of mercy!
how long thy white-winged feet have tar
ried on their way to this innocent sufferer,
to this lost lamb that can not cry to the fold
for help ! Lead, ah, lead her tenderly to
such shelter as she has never yet found for
herself! Guide her, pure as she is now,
from this tainted place to pleasant pastures,
where the sunshine of human kindness
shall be clouded no more, and love and
pity shall temper every wind that blows
over her with the gentleness of perpetual
spring !
Slowly, slowly, the light figure went
round the great circle of gazers, minister
ing obediently to their pleasure, waiting
patiently till their curiosity was satisfied.
And now, her weary pilgrimage was well
nigh over for the night. She had arrived
at the last group of spectators who had yet
to see what she looked like close, and what
tricks she could exhibit with her cards.
She stopped exactly opposite to Valen
tine ; and when she looked up, she looked
on him alone.
Was there something in the eager sym
pathy of his eyes as they met hers, which
spoke to the little lonely heart in the sole
language that could ever reach it ? Did the
cluiu, with the quick instinct of the deaf
and dumb, read his compassionate disposi-


40

HIDE AND SEEK.

tion, his quick impetuous sensibilities, his
pity and longing to help her, in his expres
sion at that moment ? It might have been
so. Her pretty, rosy, lips, smiled on him
as they had smiled on no one else that
night; and when she held out some
cards to be chosen from, she left unnoticed
the eager hands extended on either side
of her, and presented them to Valentine
only. He saw the small fingers trembling as
they held the cards : he saw the delicate
little shoulders and the poor frail neck and
chest bedizened with tawdry mock jewelry
and spangles; he saw the innocent young
face, whose pure beauty no soil of stage
paint could disfigure, with the smile still
on the parted lips, but with a patient for-
lornness in tbe sad blue eyes, as if the see-
ing-sense that was left, mourned always
for the hearing and speaking senses that
were gone — he marked all these things in
an instant, and felt that his heart was sink
ing as he looked. A dimness stole over
his sight ; a suffocating sensation oppressed
his breathing; the lights in the circus dan
ced and mingled together; he bent down
over the child's hand, and took it in his
own, twice kissed it fervently, then, to the
utter amazement of the laughing crowd
about him, rose up suddenly, and; mutter
ing something about a pitiable sight that
was too heart-rending to look at, forced his
way out as violently as if he had been fly
ing for bis life.
There was a momentary confusion among
the audience. Mr. Jubber was too old an
adept in stage-business of all kinds not to
know how to stop the growing tumult di
rectly, and turn it into universal applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried, with
a finely-modulated tremor in his voice — "I
implore you to be seated, and to excuse the
conduct of the party who has just absented
himself. The talent of The Mysterious
Foundling has overcome people in that way
in every town of England (cheers). Do I
err in believing that a Rubbleford audience
can make kind allowances for their weaker
fellow-creatures? (Bravo and cheers.)
Thanks, a thousand thanks in tbe name of
this darling and talented child, for your
cordial, your generous, your affectionate,
your inestimable reception qf her exertions
to-night!" And with this peroration Mr.
Jubber left the ring with his pupil, amid
the most vehement cheering and waving
of hats and handkerehiefs. He was, too
much excited by his triumph to notice that
the child, as she walked after him, looked
wistfully, to the last, in the direction by
which Valentine had gone out.
" The public like excitement," solilo
quized Mr. Jubber, as he disappeared be
hind the red curtain. " I must have all
ih.s La the bills to-morrow. It's safe to

draw at least thirty shilling's worth extra
into the house at night.
In the meantime, Valentine, after some
blundering at wrong doors, at last found
his way put of the circus, and stood alone
on the cool grass, in the cloudless autumn
moonlight. He struck his stick violently
on the ground, which at that moment rep
resented to him the head of Mr. Jubber ;
and, still muttering to himself, was about
to return straight to the rectory, when he
heard a breathless voice behind him, cal
ling: "Stop, sir! oh, do please stop for
one minute !"
He turned round. A fat, comely woman
in a tawdry and tattered gown was running-
toward him as fast as her natural impedi
ments to quick progression would permit.
"Please, sir," she cried — "Please, sir,
wasn't you the gentleman that was taken
queer at seeing our little Foundling? I
was peeping through the red curtain, sir,
just at the, lime."
Instead of answering the question, Val
entine instantly began to rhapsodize about
the child's face.
" Oh, sir ! if you know anything about
her," interposed the woman, "for God's
sake don't scruple to tell it to me ! I'm
only Mrs. Peckover, sir, the wife of Jemmy
Peckpver, the clown, as they call him, that
you saw in the circus to-night. But I took
and nursed the little thing by her poor
mother's own wish ; and ever since that
time — "
" My dear, good soul," said Mr. Blyth,
" I know nothing of the poor little creature.
I only wish from the bottom of my heart
that I could do something to help her and
make her happy. If Lavvie and I had had
such an angel of a child as lhat," continued
Valentine, clasping his hands together fer
vently, " deaf and dumb as she .is, we
should have thanked God for her every day
of our lives!"
Mrs. Peckover was apparently not much
used to hear such sentiments as these from
strangers. She stared up at Mr. Blyth with
two big tears rolling over her plump cheeks.
" Mrs. Peckover ! Halloo there, Peck !
where are you?" roared a stern voice from
the stable-department of the circus, just as
the clown's wife seemed about to speak
again. Mrs. Peckover started, courtesied, and,
without uttering another word, went back
even faster than she had come' out. Valenr
tine looked after her intently, but made nc
attempt to follow : he was thinking toe
much of the child to think of that. When
he moved again, it was to return to the
rectory. He penetrated at once into the library,
where Doctor Joyce was spelling over the
" Rubbleford Mercury," while Mrs. Joyce
sat opposite to him, knitting a fancy jacket


42

HIDE AND SEEK.

that it was also the very worst picture that
Mr. Blyth had ever painted.
On returning to Rubbleford, Valentine
proceeded at once to the circus; placing
himself, as nearly as he could, in the same
position which he had occupied the night
before. The child was again applauded by the
whole audience, and again went through
her performance intelligently and grace
fully, until she approached the place where
Valentine was standing. She started as
she recognized his face, and made a step
forward to get nearer to him ; but was
stopped by Mr. Jubber, who saw that the
people immediately in front of her were
holding out their hands to write on her
slate, and have her cards dealt round to
them in their turn. The child's attention
seemed to be distracted by seeing the
stranger again who had kissed her hand so
fervently — she began to look confused, and
ready to cry — and ended by committing an
open and most palpable "blunder in the very
first trick that she performed.
The Spectators good-naturedly laughed,
and some of them wrote on her slate, " Try
again, little girl." Mr. Jubber made an
apology, saying that the extreme enthusi
asm of the reception accorded to his pupil
had shaken her nerves ; and then signed to
her, with a benevolent smile, but with a
very sinister expression in his eyes, to try
another trick. She succeeded in this ; but
still showed so much hesitation that Mr.
Jubber, fearing another failure, took her
away with him while there was a chance
of making a creditable exit. As she was
led across the ring, the child looked intently
it Valentine.
There was terror in her eyes — terror
palpable enough to be remarked by some
of the careless people near Mr. Blyth. "Poor
little thing ! she seems frightened at the
man is the green jacket," said one. " And
not without cause, I dare say," added an
other. "You don't mean that he could
ever be brute enough lo ill-use a child
ake that ? it's impossible !" cried a
third. At ihis moment the, clown entered the
ring. The instant before he shouted the
well-known "Here we are!" Valentine
thought he heard a low strange cry behind
the red curtain. He was not certain about
it, but the mere doubt made his blood run
chill. He listened for a minute anxiously.
There was . no chance now, however, of
testing the correctness of his suspicion.
The band had struck up a noisy jig-tune,
and the clown was capering and tumbling
wonderfully, amid roars of laughter.
" This may be my fault," thought Valen
tine. "This! What?" He was afraid
to pursue tha ; inquiry. His ruddy face sud
denly turned pale; and fee deft the circus,

determined to find out what was really go
ing on behind the red curtain.
He walked round the outside of the build
ing, wasting some time before he found a
door to apply at for admission. At last he
came to a sort of passage, with some tat
tered horsecloths hanging over its outer
entrance. " You can't come in here," said a shabby
lad, suddenly appearing from the inside in
his shirt-sleeves.
Mr. Blyth took out half-a-crown. "I
want to see the deaf and dumb child di
rectly!" " Oh, all right ! go in," muttered the lad,
pocketing the money greedily. " Jubber
ain't there now ? Only don't let him ketch
yer there — that's all ! She's nohow fit to
be seen, mind ye ; she have just been a-cry-
ing." Valentine listened to no more, and hastily
entered the passage. As soon as he was in
side, a sound reached his ears at which his
heart sickened and turned faint. No words
can describe it in all the horror of its help
lessness — for it was the moan of pain from
a dumb human creature.
He thrust aside a curtain, and stood in a
filthy place, partitioned off from the siables
on one side, and the circus on the other,
with canvass and old boards. There, on a
wooden stool, sat the woman who had ac
costed him the night before, crying, and
soothing the child who lay shuddering on
her bosom. The sobs of the clown's wife
mingled with the inarticulate wailing, so
low yet so awful to hear ; and both sounds
were audible with a fearful, unnatural dis
tinctness, through the merry melody ofthe
jig, and the peals of hearty laughter from
the delighted audience in the circus.
" Oh, my God !" cried Valentine, horror-
struck at what he heard, " Stop her, don't
let her moan in that way !"
The woman started from her seat, and
put the child down, then recognised Mr.
Blyth and rushed up to him.
" Hush !" she whispered eagerly ; " don't
call out like that ! The villain, the brutal
heartless villain is somewhere about the
stables. If he hears you he'll come in and
beat her again.— Oh, hush ! hush, for God's
sake ! It's true — he beat her — the coward
ly, hellish brute ! — only for making that
one little mistake with the cards. No! no!
no! don't speak out loud or you'll ruin us.
How did you ever get in here? — Oh ! you
must be quiet! There, sit down. — Hark!
I'm sure he's coming! Oh! go away — go
away !"
She tried to pull Valentine out of the
chair into which she had thrust him but the
instant before. He seized tight hold of her
hand and refused to move. If Mr. Jubber
had come in at that moment, he would
have been thrashed within an inch of his life


HIDE AND SEEK.

43

The child had ceased moaning when she
saw Valentine. She anxiously looked- at
him through her tears — then turned away
quickly — took out her little handkerchief—
and began to dry her eyes.
"I can't go yet — I'll promise only to,
whisper — you must listen to me," said Mr.
Blyth, pale and panting for breath; "I
mean to prevent this from ever happening
again— don't speak ! — I'll take that injured,
beautiful, patient little angel away from
this villanous place: I will, if I go before a
magistrate ! The rector's a .magistrate —
he's my friend — his name's Doctor Joyce —
I'll take her away—"
The woman stopped him by pointing
suddenly to the child.
She bad put back the handkerchief, and
was approaching him. She came close and
laid one hand on his knee, and timidly
raised the other as high as she could to
ward his neck. Standing so, she looked
up quietly into his face. The pretty lips
tried hard to smile once more; but they
only trembled for an instant, and then closed
again. The clear soft eyes, still dim with
tears, sought his with an innocent gaze of
inquiry and wonder. At that moment, the
expression of the sad and lovely little face
seemed to say, " You look as if you wanted
to be kind to me ; I wish you could find out
some way of telling me of it."
Valentine's heart told him what was the
only way. He caught her up in his arms,
and half smothered her wilh kisses. The
frail childish hands rose trembling, and
clasped themselves gently round his neck ;
and the fair head drooped lower and lower
wearily, until it lay on his shoulder.
The clown's wife turned away her face,
Jesperaiely slifling with both hands the
sobs that were beginning to burst from her
afresh. Then whispered, " Oh, go, sir, —
pray go ! Some of the riders will be in
here directly ; you'll get us into dreadful
trouble !"
Valentine rose, still holding the child in
his arms. " I'll go if you promise me — "
" Oh ! I'll promise anything, sir !"
" You know the rectory ! Dr. Joyce's- -
the clergyman— my kind friend—"
" Yes, sir ; I know it. You said that
before. Do, please, for little Mary's sake,
be as quick as you can !"
"Mary! Her name's Mary?'.' Valen
tine drew back in a corner, and began kis
sing the child again.
" You must be out of your senses to keep
on in that way after what I've told you!"
cried the clown's wife, wringing her hands
in despair, and trying to drag him out of
the corner. "Jubber and all of 'em will
be in here in another minute. She'll be
beaten again, if you're caught with her ;
O Lord ! 0 Lord ! will nothing make you
understand that?'

He understood it only too well, and put the
child down instantly, his face turning pale
again, his agitation becoming so violent,
that he never noticed the hand which she
held out toward him, or the appealing look
.that accompanied the action, and said so
plainlyand pathetically : "I want to bid
you good-by ; but I can't say it as other
children can." He never observed this ;
for he had taken Mrs. Peckover by the arm,
and had drawn her away hurriedly after
him into the passage.
Tne child made no attempt to follow
them : she turned aside, and, sitting down
in the darkest corner of the miserable place,
rested her head against the rough partition,
which was all that divided her. from the
laughing audience. Her lips began to
tremble again : she took out the handker
chief once more, and hid her face in it.
" Now, recollect your promise," whis
pered Valentine to the clown's wife, who
was slowly pushing him out, all the time
he was speaking to her. " You must bring
little Mary to the rectory to-morrow
morning at twelve o'clock exactly — you
must ! or I'll come here and fetch her
myself. You needn't believe me ; I'm
only an artist and a stranger: I don't ex
pect you to believe me. But you must be
lieve a clergyman — you can't help that !
Doctor and Mrs. Joyce want to see your
little Mary. It's her invitation, mind !
You can't refuse the rector. He's the best
and kindest man that ever—"
" I'll bring her, sir, if you'll only go now.
I'll bring her — I will, as sure as I stand
here !"
"If you don't!" cried Valentine, still
distrustful, and trembling all over with agi
tation. " If you don't!" —
He stopped ; for he suddenly felt the open
air blowing on his face. The clown's wife
was gone, and nothing remained for him to
threaten, but the tattered horsecloths that
hung over the empty doorway.

CHAPTER VI.
THE STORY. — PART FIRST.
It is a quarter to twelve by the hall-clock
at the rectory, and one ofthe finest autumn
mornings of the whole season. Vance,
Doctor Joyce's middle-aged man-servant,
or " Bishop" Vance, as the small wits of
Rubbleford call him, in allusion to his sleek
and solemn appearance, his respectable
manner, his clerical cravat, and his speck-
less black garments, is placing the cake
and cowslip wine on the dining-table, with
as much stately formality and pompous pre
cision as if his master expected an arch
bishop to lunch, instead pf a clown's wife


44

HIDE AND SEEK.

and a little girl of ten years old. It is
quite a sight lo see Vance retiring, and
looking at the general effect of knife and
fork as he lays it down ; or solemnly strut
ting about the room, with a spotless napkin
waving gently in his hand ; or patronizingly
confronting the pretty housemaid at the
door, and taking plates and dishes from her
with the air of a kitchen sultan who can
never afford to lose his dignity for a moment
in the presence of the female-slaves.
The dining-room window opens into the
rectory garden. The morning shadows
cast by the noble old elm-trees that grow
all around, are fading from the bright lawn.
The rich flower-beds gleam like beds of
jewels in the radiant sunshine. The rook
ery is almost deserted, a solitary sleepy caw
being only heard now and then at long in
tervals. The singing of birds and the buz
zing of busy insects sound faint, distant, and
musical. On a shady seat, among the trees,
Mrs. Joyce is just visible, working in the
open air. One of her daughters sits reading
on the turf at her feet.' The other is giving
the younger children a ride -by turns on
the back of a large Newfoundland dog, who
walks along slowly with his tOngue hang
ing out, and his great bushy tail wagging
gently. A prettier scene of garden beauty
and family repose could not he found in all
England, than the scene which ihe view
through the rectory window now presents.
The household tranquillity, however, is
not entirely uninterrupted. Across the
picture, on which Vance and the luncheon-
table form the foreground, and the garden
with Mrs. Joyce and the young ladies, the
middle-distance and background, there flits
from time to time an unquiet figure, which
never leaves off fidgeting about'here, there,
and everywhere. This figure is always
greeted by Leo, the Newfoundland dog,
with an extra wag of the tail ; and-is apos
trophized laughingly by the young ladies,
under the appellation of " funny Mr. Blyth."
valentine has in fact let nobody have any
rest, either in the house or the garden,
since the first thing in the morning. The
rector, having some letters to write, has
bolted himself into his study in despair, and
defies his excitable friend from that strong
hold, until the arrival of Mrs. Peckover and
the deaf and dumb child has quieted the
painier's fidgety impatience for the striking
of twelve o'clock, and the presence of the
visiters from the circus. As for the miser
able Vance, Mr. Blyth has discomposed,
worried, and put him out, till he looks
suffocated with suppressed indignation. Mr.
Blyth has invaded his sanctuary to ask
whether the hall-clock is right, and has
caught him "cleaning himself" in his shirt
sleeves. Mr. Blyth has broken one of his
tumblers, and ha, mutinously insisted on
showing him how to draw the cork of the

cowslip-wine bottle. Mr. Blyth has knocked
down a fork and two spoons, just as they
were laid straight, by whisking past the
table like a madman on his way into the
garden. Mr. Blyth has bumped up against
the housemaid on returning — again like a
madman — to the dining-room, and has apol
ogized to Susan by a joke which makes
her giggle ecstatically in Vance's own face.
If this sort of thing is to go on for a day or
two longer, though he has been twenty
years at the rectory, Vance will be most
assuredly goaded into giving the doctor
warnirig. It is five minutes to twelve. Valentine
has skipped into the garden for the thirtieth
time at least, to beg that Mrs. Joyce and
the young ladies will repair to the dining-
room, and be ready to set Mrs. Peckover
and her little charge quite at their ease the
moment they come in. Mrs. Joyce con
sents to this proposal at last, and takes his
offered arm ; touching it, however, very
gingerly, and looking straight before her,
while he talks, with an air of matronly
dignity and virtuous reserve. She is still
convinced that Mr. Blyth's principles are
extremely loose, and treats him exactly as
she would have treated Don Juan himself
under similar circumstances.
They all go into the dining-room. Mrs.
Joyce and her daughters take their places,
looking deliciously cool and neat in their
bright morning-dresses. Leo drops down
lazily on the rug inside the window, with
a thump of Ins great heavy body that makes
the glasses ring. The doctor comes in with
his letters for the post, and apostrophizes
Valentine with a harmless clerical joke.
Vance solemnly touches up the already
perfect arrangement of the luncheon table.
The clock strikes twelve. A faint meek
ring is heard at the rectory-bell.
Vance struts slowly to the door-, when —
heaven and earth ! are no household con
ventions held sacred by these painters of
pictures ? Mr. Blyth dashes past him with
a shout of "Here they are !" and flies into
the hall to answer the gate himself Vance
turns solemnly round toward "his master,
trembling and purple in the face, with an
appealing expression, which says plainly
enough: "If you mean to stand this sort
of outrage, sir, I beg most respectfully to
inform you that I don't." The rectoi
bursts out laughing ; the young ladiesfollow
his example ; the Newfoundland dog jumps
up, and joins in with his mighty bark. Mrs.
Joyce sits sileni, and looks at Vance, and
sympathizes with him.
The voice of Mr. Blyth is soon heard
again in the hall, talking at a prodigious
rate, without one audible word of answer
proceeding from any other voice. The dooi
ofthe dining-room, which has swung to, is
suddenly pushed open, jostling the outraged


46

HIDE AND SEEK.

presented together a picture which it was
a luxury to be able to look on, which it
seemed little short of absolute profanation
to disturb.
Mrs. Joyce, nevertheless, pitilessly dis
arranged it. In a moment the living picture
was destroyed ; the young ladies were called
to their mother's side ; the child was placed
between Valentine and Mrs. Peckover; and
the important business of luncheon began in
earnest. It was wonderful to hear how Mr. Blyth
talked ; how he alternately glorified the
clown's wife for the punctual performance
of her promise, and appealed triumphantly
to the rector to say, whether he had not
underrated rather than exaggerated little
Mary's beauty. It was also wonderful to
see Mrs. Pecicover's blank look of astonish
ment when she found the rigid doctor of
divinity, who would not so much as notice
her courtesy, suddenly relax into blandly
supplying her with everything she wanted
to eat or drink, But a very much more
remarkable study of human nature than
either of these, was afforded by tbe grimly
patronizing and profoundly puzzled aspect
of Vance, as he waited, under protest, upon
a woman from a travelling circus. It is
something to see the pope serving the pil
grims their dinner, during the holy week
at Rome. Even that astounding sight,
however, fades into nothing, as compared
with the sublimer spectacle of Mr. Vance
waiting upon Mrs. Peckover.
The rector, who was a sharp observer in
his own quiet unobtrusive way, was struck
by two peculiarities in little Mary's be-
iiavior during lunch. In the first place, he
remarked with some interest and astonish
ment that, while the clown's wife was, not
unnaturally, very shy and embarrassed in
her present position, among strangers who
were greatly' her social superiors, little
Mary had maintained her self-possession,
and had unconsciously adapted herself to
her new sphere, from the moment when
she first entered the dining-room. In the
second place, he observed that she constantly
nestled close to Valentine ; looked at him
oftener than she looked at any one else ;
and seemed to be always trying, sometimes
not unsuccessfully, to guess what he was
saying to others by watching his expression,
his manner, and the action of his lips.
" That child's character is no common one,"
thought Doctor Joyce ; " she is older at
heart than she looks ; and is almost as fond
of Blyth already as he'is of her. Good old
Valentine! it's pleasant to see that all his
raptures have not been thrown away on a
little'fool with a pretty face."
When lunch was over, the eldest Miss
Joyce whispered a petition in her mother's
ear. " May Carry and I take the dear little
girl out with us to see our gardens, mamma?"

" Certainly, my love, if she likes to go.
You had better ask her — ah, dear! dear! I
forgot — I mean, write on her slate. It's sn
hard to remember she's deaf and dumb,
when one sees her sitting there looking so
pretty and happy. She seems so like the
cake. Remind me, Emmy, to tie some up
for her in paper before she goes away."
Miss Emily and Miss Caroline went rouri.'
to the child directly, and made signs for the
slate. They alternately wrote on it with
immense enthusiasm, until they had filled
one side ; signing their initials in the most
business-like manner at the end of each
Tine, thus: —
" Oh, do come and see my gardens.
E. J." — " We will gather you such a nice
nosegay. C. J." — " I have got some lovely
little guinea-pigs. E. J." — "And Mark,
our gardener, has made me a summer-house,
with such funny chairs in it. C. J." — "You
shall have my parasol to keep the sun off.
E. J." — "And we will send Leo into the
water as often as you like him to go.
C. J." — Thus they went on till they got to
the bottom of the slate.
The child, after nodding her head and
smiling as she read each fresh invitation,
turned the slate over, and, with some little
triumph at showing that, she could write
too, begaa slowly to trace some large text
letters in extremely crooked lines. It took
her a long time — especially as Mr. Blyth
was breathlessly looking over her shoulder
all the while — to get through these words:
"Thank you for being so kind to me. I
will go with you anywhere you like."
In a few minutes more the two young
ladies and little Mary were walking over
the bright lawn, with Leo in close attend
ance, carrying a stick in his mouth.
Valentine started up to follow them ;
then appeared suddenly to remember some
thing, and sat down again with a very
anxious expression on his face. He and
Doctor Joyce looked at one another sig
nificantly. Before breakfast, that morning,
they had been closeted at a private inter
view. Throughout the conversation which
then took place, Mr. Blyth had been un
usually quiet, and very much in earnest.
The doctor had begun by being incredulous
and sarcastic in a good-humored way ; but
had ended by speaking seriously, and ma
king a promise under certain conditions.
The time for the performance of that
promise had now arrived.
" You needn't wait, Vance," said the
rector. "Never mind about taking the
thingsawav. I'll ring when you're wanted."
Vance gloomily departed.
"Now the young people have left us,
Mrs. Peckover," said Doctor Joyce, turning
to the clown's wife, "there is a good op-
portuiiity for my making a proposition to
you, on behalf of my old and dear friend


HIDE AND SEEK.

47

here, Mr. Blyth ; who, as you must have
noticed, feels great sympathy and fondness
for your little Mary. But, before I mention
this proposal (which I am sure you will
receive in the bes* spirit, however it may
surprise you), I should wish — we should
all wish, if you have no objection — to hear
any particulars you can give us on the sub
ject of this poor child. Do you feel any
reluctance to tell us in confidence whatever
you know about her ?"
" O dear no, sir !" exclaimed Mrs. Peck
over, very much amazed. "I should be
ashamed of myself if I went making any
objections to anything you wanted to know
about little Mary. But I'm almost afraid — "
"There! I knew she wouldn't object,"
interrupted Valentine, letting his exultation
gel tbe better of his self-control. " Excel
lent soul, 1 told you, doctor, she wouldn't
object — "
"My dear Valentine," interposed the
rector, " remember the terms of our agree
ment. You were to leave me to be spokes
man." "I won't speak another word," cried
Mr. Blyth, " upon my honor, I won't speak
another word."
" I think you were about to say some
thing more?" continued Doctor Joyce, ad
dressing Mrs. Peckover.
" Oh, nothing particular, if you please,
sir," answered the clown's wife, nervously.
" I was only afraid like — I know it's very
foolish — but it's sifange to me to be in a
beautiful place like this, drinking wine
with gentlefolks — and I was amost afraid — "
"Not afraid, I hope, that you couldn't
tell us what we are so anxious to know,
quile at your ease, and in your own way ?"
said the rector, pleasantly. "Pray, Mrs.
Peckover, believe I am sincere in saying
that we meet on equal terms here. I have
heard from Mr. Blyth of your motherly
kindness to that poor helpless child ; and I
am indeed proud to take your hand, and
aappy to see you here, as one who should
always be an honored guest in a clergy
man's house— ihe doer of a good and charr
ita lie deed. I have always, Ihope, valued
the station to which it has pleased God to
call me, because it especially offers me the
privilege of being the friend of all my fel
low-Christians, whether richer or poorur,
higher or lower in worldly rank, than I am
myself." Mrs. Peckover's eyes began to fill. She
could have worshipped Doctor Joyce at that
moment. " Mr. Blyth !" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce sharp
ly, before another word could be spoken —
" excuse me, Mr. Blyth ; but really — "
Valentine was trying to pour out a glass
of sherry for Mrs. Peckover. His admira
tion of the doctor's last speech, and his ex
treme anxiety to reassure the clown's wife,

must have interfered somehow with his
precision of eye and hand ; for one half of
the wine, as he held the decanter, was
dropping into the glass, and the other half
was dribbling into a little river on the cloth.
Mrs. Joyce thought of the walnut-wood
table underneath, and felt half distracted as
she spoke. Mrs. Peckover, delighted to be
of some use, forgot her company-manners
in an instant, pulled out her red cotton
pocket-handkerchief, and darted at the sprit
sherry. But the rector was even quicker
wilh his napkin. Mrs. Peckover's cheeks
turned the color of her handkerchief, as she
put it back in her pocket, and sat down
again. " Much obliged — no harm done — much
obliged, ma'am," said Doctor Joyce. " Now,
Valentine, if you don't leave off apologi
zing, and sit down directly in that arm
chair against the wall, I shall take Mrs.
Peckover into my study, and hear every
thing she has to say, at a private interview.
There ! we are all comfortable and com
posed again at last, and ready to be told
how little Mary and the good friend who
has been like a mother to her, first met."
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Peckover began
her narrative ; sometimes addressing it tc
ihe doctor, sometimes to Mrs. Joyce, and
sometimes to Valentine. From beginning
to end, she was only interrupted at rare in
tervals by a word of encouragement, or
sympaihy, or surprise, from her audience.
Even Mr. Blyth sat most uncharacteristi
cally still and silent ; his expression alone
showing the varying influences of the story
on him, from its strange commencement to
its melancholy close.
" It's better than ten years ago, sir," be
gan the clown's wife, speaking first to
Doctor Joyce, " since my little Tommy was
born ; he being now, if you please, at school
and costing nothing, through a presentation,
as they call it, I think, which was given us
by a k ind patron to my husband. Some time
after I had got well over my confinement, I
was out one afternoon taking a walk with
the baby and Jemmy ; which last is my
husband, ma'am. We were at Bangbury
then, just putting up the circus: it was a
fine large neighborhood, and we hoped to
do good business there. Jemmy and me
and the baby went into the fields, and en
joyed ourselves very much ; it being such
nice, warm spring-weather, I remember,
ihough it was March at the time. We
came back to Bangbury by the road ; and
just as we got near the town, we see a
young woman sitting on the bank, and
holding her baby in her arms, just as I had
got my baby in mine.
" ' How dreadful ill anu weak she do
look, don't she?' says Jemmy. Before I
could say'as much as ' Yes,' she stares up
at us, and asks in a wild voice, though it


48

HIDE AND SEEK.

wasn't very loud either, if we can tell her
the way 'to Bangbury workhouse. Having
pretty sharp eyes of our own, we both of
us knew that a workhouse was no fit place
for her. Her gown was very dusty, and
one of her boots was burst, and her hair
was draggled all over her face, and her eyes
was sunk in her head, like ; but we saw
somehow that she was a lady — or, if she
wasn't exactly a lady, that no workhouse
was proper for her, at any rate. I stooped
down to speak to her ; but her baby was
crying so dreadful she could hardly hear
me. ' Is the poor thing ill ?' says I.
'Starving,' savs she, in such a desperate,
ierce way. that it gave me quite a. turn.
Is it your child V says I, a bit frightened
about how she'd answer me, but wanting
so much to find out that I risked it. ' Yes,'
she says, in quite a new voice, very soft
and sorrowful, and bending her face away
from me over the child. 'Then why don't
you suckle it ?' says I. She looks up at
me, and then at Jemmy, and shakes her
head, and says nothing. I give my baby to
Jemmy to hold, and went and sit down by
her. He walked away a little ; and I whis
pers to her again, ' Why don'l you suckle
it ?' and she whispers to me, ' My milk's
all dried up.' I couldn't wait to hear no
more till I'd got her baby at my .own
breast. " That was the first time I suckled little
Mary, ma'am. She wasn't a month old
then, and, oh, so weak and small ! such a
mite of a baby compared to mine !
" You may be sure, sir, that I asked the
young woman lots of questions, while I
was silting side by side with her. She
stared at me with a dazed look in her face,
seemingly quite stupified by weariness or
grief, or both together. Sometimes she
give me an answer, and sometimes she
wouldn't. She was very secret. She
wouldn't say where she come from, or who
her friends were, or what her name was.
She said she could never have name or
home or friends again. I just quietly stole
a look down at her left hand, and saw that
there was no wedding-ring, on her finger,
and guessed what she meant. ' Does the
father know you're wandering about in
this way V says I. She flushes up directly ;
' No !' says she, ' he doesn't know where I
am. He never had any love for me, and he
has no pity for me now. God's curse on him
wherever he goes !' ' Oh, hush ! bush !'
says I, ' don't talk like that !' ' Why do
you ask me questions ?' says she, more
fiercely than ever. 'What business have
you to ask me questions that make me
mad ?' ' I've only got one more to bother
you with,' says I, quite cool; 'and that is,
haven't you got any money at. all with
you V You see, ma'am, now I'd got her
cb-ud at my own bosom, I didn't care for

what she said, or fear for what she migh
do to me. The poor mite of a baby was
sure to be a peacemaker between us, sooner
Or later.
" It turned out she'd got sixpence and a
few halfpence — not a farthing more, am1
too proud to ask help from any one of hei
friends. I managed to worm out of her
that she had run away from home before
her confinement, and had gone to some
strange place to be confined, where they'd
ill-treated and robbed her. She hadn't long
got away from the wretches who'd done
it. By the time I'd found out all this, her
baby was quite quiet, and ready to go^to
sleep. I gave it her hack. She said tioth-
ing ; but took and kissed my hand, her lips
feeling like burning coals on my flesh.
' You're kindly welcome,' says I, a little
flustered at such a queer way o' thanking
me. 'Just wait a bit, while I speak to
my husband.' Though she'd been and done
wrong, I couldn't for the life of me help
pitying her for all her fierce ways. She was
so young, and so forlorn and ill, and had
such a beautiful face (little Mary's is the
image of it, specially about the eyes), and
seemed so like a lady, that it was almost a
sin, as I thought, to send her to such a place
as a workhouse.
"Well: I went and told Jemmy all I
had got out of her — my own baby kicking
and crowing in my arms again, as happy
as a king, all the time I was speaking-. ' It
seems shocking,' says I,. ' to let such as hef
go intc a workhouse. What had we better-
do ?' Says Jemmy, ' Let's take her with
us to the circus and ask Peggy Burke.'
"Peggy Burke, if you please, sir, was
the finest rider that ever stepped on a horse's
hack. We've had nothing in our circus to
come near her since she went to Astley's.
She was the wildest devil of an Irish girl —
oh ! I humbly beg your pardon, sir, for
saying such a word ; but she really was so
.wild, I hope you'll excuse it. She'd go
through fire and water, as they say, to
serve people she liked ; but, as for them
she didn't, she'd often use ¦her riding-whip
among 'cm as free as her tongue. That
cowardly brute Jubber would never have
beaten my little Mary, if Peggy had been
with us still ! He was so frightened of her
that she could twist him round her finger ;
and she did, for he durstn't quarrel with the
best rider in England, and let other circuses
get hold of her. Peggy was a wonderful
sharp girl besides, and was always fond of
me, and took my part ; so when Jemmy
said he thought it best to ask her what we
had better do, you may be sure that . I
thought it best too. We took the young
woman and the baby with us to the circus
a', once. She never asked any questions;
she didn't seem to care where she went, or
what she did: she wan a™*.~a ---* J


HIDE AND SEEK.

49

rate — a sight, ma'am to make your heart
ache. " They were just getting tea in the cir
cus, which was nearly finished. We most
ly tea and dinner there, sir ; finding it come
cheaper in the end to mess together when
we can. Peggy Burke, I remember, was
walking about Pn the grass outside, whist
ling (that was one of her queer ways) 'The
girl I left behind me.' 'Ah! Peck,' says
she, ' what have you beenafternow ? Who's
the company lady ye've brought to tea with
us !' I told her, sir, all I've just told you ;
while Jemmy set the young woman down
on one of our trunks, and got her a cup .<-.'
tea. 'It seems dreadful,' says I when I'd
done, ' to send such as her to the workhouse,
don't it?' ' Workho'ise!' says Peggy, fir
ing up directly; 'I only wish we could
catch the man who's ,>ot her into the scrape,
and put him in there on water-gruel for the
rest of his life. I'd J-ive a shillin1 a wheal
sut of my own pocK',t for the blessed priv
ilege of scoring his thief's face with my
whip, till his own mother wouldn't know
him !' And then she went on, sir, abusing
all the men in her Irish way, which I can't
repeat. At last she stops, and claps me on
the back. ' You're a darlin' old girl, Peck !'
says she, ' and your friends are my friends.
Stop where you are, and let me speak a
word to the young woman on tbe trunk.'
"After a little while she comes back,
and says, 'I've done it,^?eck ! She's migh
ty close ; and as proud as Lucifer: but she's
only a dressmaker, for all that.' ' A dress
maker !' says I ; ' how did you find out she
was a dressmaker?' ' Why, I looked at her
forefinger, in course,' says Peggy, 'and saw
the pricks of the needle on it, and soon
made her talk a bit after that. She knows
fancy-work and cuttin' out— would ye ever
have thought it? And I'll show her how
to give the workhouse the go-by to-morrow,
if she only holds out, and keeps in her
senses. Stop where you are, Peck!' I'm
going to make Jubber put his dirty hand
into his pocket and pull out some money ;
and that's a sight worth stoppin' to see any
flay in the week.'
" I waited as she told me ; and she called
for Jubber, just as if he'd been her servant :
and he come out of the circus. ' I want
ten shillings advance of wages for that lady
on the trunk,' says Peggy. He laughed at her
' Show your ugly teeth at me again,' says
she, ' and I'll box your ears. I've my light
hand for a horse's mouth, and my heavy
hand for a man's cheek ; you ought to know
that by this time! Pull out the ten shil
lings.' ' What for?' says he, frowning at
her. ' Just this,' says she. ' I mean to
leave your circus, unless I get those six
character dresses you promised me ; and
the lady there can do them up beautiful.
Pull out the len shillings ! for I've made

up my mind to appear before the Bangbury
public on Garryowen's back, as six women
at once.'
" What she meant by this, sir, was that
she was to have six different dresses on,
one over another; and was io go galloping
round the ring on Garryowen (which was
a horse), beginning, I think it was, as Em
press of Roossia; and then throwing off
the top dress without the horse stopping,
and showing next as some famous French
woman, in the dress underneath ; and keep
ing on so with different nations, till she got
down to the last dress, which was to be
Britannia and the Union-Jack. We'd got
bitsof remnants, and, old dresses and things
to make and alter, but hadn't anybody
clever enough at cutting out, and what they
call 'Costoom,' to do what Peggy wanted
— Jubber being too stingy to pay the regular
people who understand such things. The
young woman, knowing as she did about
fancy work, was just what was wanted, if
she could only get well enough to use her
needle. ' 111 see she works the money out,'
says Peggy ; 'but she's dead beat to-night,
and must have her rest and bit o' supper,
before she begins to-morrow.' Jubber want
ed to give less than ten shillings; but be
tween threatening and saying it should buy
twenty shillings' worth of tailor's work,
she got the better of him. And he gave
the money, sulky enough.
"'Now,' says Peggy, 'you take her
away, and get her a lodging in the place
where you've staying ; and I'll come to
morrow wilh some of the things to make
up. But, ah dear me, sir, she was never
to work as much as sixpence of that ten
shillings out. She was took bad in ihe
night, and got so much worse in tbe morn
ing that we had to send for the doctor.
"As soon as he'd seen her, he takes me
into the passage, and says he to me, ' Do
you know who her friends are V ' No, sir,'
says I ; ' I can't get her to tell me. I only
met her by accident yesterday.' ' Try and
find out again,' says he ; ' for I'm afraid she
won't live over the night. I'll come back
in the evening and see if there is. anv
change.' "Peggy and me went into her room to
gether; but we couldn't even get her to
speak to us for ever so long a time. All at
once she cries out, ' I can't see things as I
ought. Where's the woman who suckled
my baby when I was alone by the load-
side ?' 'Here,' says I — 'here; I've got
hold of your hand. Do tell us where we
can write to about you.' 'Will you promise
to take care of my baby, and not let it go
into the workhouse?' says-she. 'Yes, I
promise,' says I ; ' I do indeed promise with
my whole heart.' ' We'll all take care of
the baby,' says Peggy; 'only you try and
cheer up, and you'll get well enough to see


50

HIDE AND SEEK.

me on Garryowen's back, before we leave
Bangbury — you will for certain, if you cheer
up a bit.' 'I give my baby,' she says,
clutching tight at my hand, ' to the woman
who suckled it by the roadside ; and I pray
God to bless her and forgive me, for Jesus
Christ's sake.' After that, she lay quite
quiet for a minute or two. Then she says
faintly, ' Its name's to be Mary. Put it into
bed to me again ; I should like to touch its
cheek, and feel how soft and warm it is,
once more.' And I took the baby out of
its crib, and lifted it, asleep as it was, into
the bed by her side, and guided her hand up
to its cheek. I saw her lips move a little;
and bent down over her. ' Give me one
kiss,' she whispers, 'before I die.' And I
kissed her, and tried to stop crying as I did
it. Then I says to Peggy, ' You wait here
while I run and fetch the doctor back ; for
I'm afraid she's going fast.' He wasn't at
home when I got to his house. I didn't
know what to do next, when I see a gentle
man in the street who looked like a clergy
man, and I asked him if he was one ; and
he said ' Yes ;' and he went back with me.
I heard a low wailing and crying in the
room, and saw Peggy silting on the bundle
of dresses she'd brought in the morning,
rocking herself backward and forward as
Irish people always do when they're cry
ing. I went to the bed, and looked through
the curtains. The baby was still sleeping
as pretty as ever, and its mother's hand
was touching one of its arms. I was just
going lo speak to her again, when the
clergyman said ' Hush,' and took a bit of
looking-glass that was set up on the chim
ney-piece, and held it over her lips. She
was gone. Her poor white wasted hand
lay dead on the living baby's arm.
" I answered all theclergymnn's questions
quite straight forward, telling him every
thing I knew from beginning to end. When
I'd done, Peggy starts up from the bundle,
and says, ' Mind, sir, whatever you do, the
child's not to be took away from this per
son here, and sent to the workhouse. The
mother give it to her on that very bed, and
I'm a witness of it.' 'And I promised to
be a mother to the baby, sir,' says I. He
turns round to me, and praises me for what
I done, and says nobody shall take it away
from me, unless them as can show their
right comes forward to claim it. ' But now,'
says he, ' we must think of other things.
We must trv and find out something aboul
this poor woman who has died in such a
melancholy way.'
" It was easier to say that than to do it.
The poor thing had nothing with her but a
change of linen for herself and the child,
and that gave us no clue. Then we search
ed her pocket. There was a cambric hand-
serchief in it, marked 'M. G.'; and some
oits of rusks to sop for the child ; and the

sixpence and half-pe.'ce which she had when
I met her ; and .beniath all, in a corner aa
if it had been forgotten there, a small hair
bracelet. It was made of two kinds of hair
— very little of one kind, and a good deal
of the other. And on the flat clasp of the
bracelet there was cut in tiny letters, ' In
memory of S. (?.' I remember all this, sir,
for I've ofien and often looked at the brace
let since that time.
" We found nothing more ; no letters, or
cards, or anything. The clergyman said
that the 'M.G.' on the handkerchief must
be the initials of her name ; and the ' S.G'
on the bracelet must mean, he thought,
some relation whose hair she wore as a sort
of keepsake. I remember Peggy and me
wondering which was S. G.'s hair; and
who the other person might be, whose hair
was wove into the bracelet. But the clergy
man he soon cut us short by asking for pen,
ink, and paper directly. 'I'm going to
write out an advertisement,' says he, ' say
ing how you met with the young woman,
and what she was like, and how she was
dressed.' ' Do you mean to say anything
about the baby, sir?' says I. 'Certainly,'
says he, ' it's only right if we get at her
friends by advertising, to give them the
chance of doing something for the child.
And if they live anywhere in this county,
I believe we shall find them out ; for the
Bangbury Chronicle, into which I mean
to put the advertisement, goes everywhere
in our part of England.'
" So he sits down, and writes what he
said he would, and takes it away to be
printed in the next day's number of the
newspaper. ' If nothing comes of this,'
says he, 'I think I can manage about the
burial with a charitable society here> I'll
take care and inform you the moment the
advertisement's answered.' I hardly know
how it was, sir; but I almost hoped they
wouldn't answer it. Having suckled the
baby myself, and kissed its mother before
she died, I couldn't make up my mind to
the chance of its being took away from me
just then. I ought to have thought how
poor we were, and how hard it would be
for us to bring the child up. But, somehow,
I never did think of that — no more did
Peggy — no more did Jemmy ; not even
when we put the baby to bed that night
along with our own.
" Well, sir, sure enough, two days after
ihe advertisement come out, it was answer
ed in the cruellest letter I ever set eyes on.
The clergyman he come to me with it,
'It was left this evening,' says he, 'by a
strange messenger, who went away direct
ly. I told my servant to follow him, but
it was too late — he was out of sight.' The
letter was very short, and we thought it
was in a woman's handwriting — a feigned
handwriting, the clergyman said. There


HIDE AND SEEK.

251

was .10 jame signed, and no date at top or
bottom. Inside ituhere was a ten-pound
bank-note ; and tbe person as sent it, wrote
that it was enclosed to bury the young
woman decently. 'She was better dead
ihan alive' — the letter wei.t on — 'after hav
ing disgraced her father and her relations.
As for the child, it was tbe child of sin;
and had no claim on people who desired to
preserve all that was left of their good
name, and to set a moral example to others.
The parish must support it if nobody else
would. It would be useless to attempt to
trace them, or to advertise again. The
baby's father had disappeared: they didn't
know where ; and could hold no cornmuni-
cation now with such a monster of wicked
ness, even if they did. She was dead in
her shame and her sin ; and her name
should never be mentioned among them she
belonged to, henceforth for ever.'
"This was what I remember in the let
ter, sir. A shocking and unchrislian letter,
I said ; and the clergyman he said so, too.
" She was buried in the poor corner of
the churchyard. They marked out the
place, in case anybody should ever want to
see it, by cutting the two letters M. G.,
and the date of when she died, upon a board
of wood at the head of ihe grave. The
clergyman then give me the hair bracelet
and the handkerchief; and said, 'You keep
these as careful as you keep the child, for
they may be of great importance one of
these days. I shall seal up the letter,
(which is addressed to me) and put in my
strong box.' He'd asked me, before this, if
I'd thought of what a responsibility it was
for such as me to provide for the baby.
And I told him I'd promised, and would
keep my promise, and trust to God's provi
dence for the rest. The clergyman was a
very kind gentleman, and got up a sub
scription for the poor babe; and Peggy
Burke, when she had her benefit before the
circus left Bangbury, give half of what she
got as her subscription. I never heard
nothing about the child's friends from that
time to this ; and I know no more who its
father is now than I did then. And glad I
am that he's never come forward — though,
perhaps, I oughtn't to say so I keep the
liair bracelet and the handkerchief as care
ful as the clergyman told me, for the
mother's sake as well as the child's. I've
known some sorrow with her since I took
her as my own : but I love her only the
dearer for it, and still think the day a happy
day for both of us, when I first stopped and
suckled her by the roadside.
" This is all I have to say, if you please,
sir, about how I first met with little Mary ;
and I wish I could have told it in a way
that was more fit for such as you to hear."

CHAPTER VII.

P h

THE oTORY. — PART SECOND.
As the clown's wife ended her narmtive,
but little was said in the way of comment
on it, by those who had listened ,.o her.
They were too much affected by wUat they
had heard, to speak, as yet, except briefly
and in low voices. Mrs. Joyce mure than
once raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
Her husband murmured some cordial words
of sympathy and thanks — in an unusually
subdued manner, however. Valentine said
nothing ; but he drew his chair close to
Mrs. Peckover, and turning his face away
as if he did not wish it to be seen, took her
hand in one of his and patted it gently with
the other. There was now perfect silence
in the room for a few minutes. Then they
all looked out with one accord, and as it
seemed with one feeling, toward the
garden. In a shady place, just visible among the
trees, the rector's daughters, and little
'Mary, and the great Newfoundland dog,
were all silling together on the grass. The
two young ladies appeared to be fastening a
garland of flowers round the child's neck,
while she was playfully offering a nosegay
for Leo to smell at. ' The sight was homely
and simple enough; but it was full of the
tenderest interest — after thenarrative which
had just engaged them — to those who now
witnessed it. They looked out on the
garden scene silently for some little time.
Mrs. Joyce was the first to speak again.
"Would it be asking too much of you,
Mrs. Peckover," said she, " to inquire how
the poor little thing really met with the
accident that caused her misfortune ? I
know there is an account of it in the bills
of the circus, but — "
" It's the most infamous and disgusting
thing I ever read !" interrupted Mr. Blyth
indignantly. " The man who wrote it
ought to be put in the pillory. I never re
member wanting to throw a rotten egg at
any of my fellow-creatures before — but I
feel certain that I should enjoy having a
shy at Mr. Jubber !"
" Gently, Valentine — gently," interposed
the rector. "I think, my love," he con
tinued, turning to Mrs. Joyce, " that it is
hardly considerate to Mrs. Peckover, to ex
pect her to comply with your request. She
has already sacrificed hersell once to our
curiosity ; and, really, to ask her now to
recur a second time to recollections which
I am sure must distress her — "
"It's worse than distressing, indeed, sir,
even to think of that dreadful accident,"
said Mrs. Peckover, "and specially as I j
can't help taking some blame to myself for
it. But if the lady wishes to know how it j
happened, I'm sure I'm agreeable to tcl- (


52

HIDE AND SEEK.

her. People in our way of life, ma'am —
as I have often heard Peggy Surke say —
are obliged to dry the tear at their eyes, long
before it's gone from their hearts. But pray
don't think, sir, I mean that now, about
myself, and in your company. If I do feel
low at talking of little Mary's misfor
tune, I can take a look out into the garden
there, and see how happy she is — and that's
safe to se.. ma right again."
"I ought to tell you first, sir," proceeded
the clown's wife, after waiting thought
fully for a moment or two before she spoke
again, " that I got on much better with
little Mary than ever I thought I should,
for the first six years of her life. She grew
up so pretty, that gentlefolks was always
noticing her, and asking about her ; and
nearly in every place the circus went to
they made her presents, which helped nicely
in her keep and clothing. And our own
people too, petted her and were fond of
her. All those six years we got on as
pleasantlv as could be ; it was not till she
was near her seventh birthday, that I was
wicked and foolish enough to consent to
her being snown in the performances.
" I was sorely tried and tempted before
I did consent. Jubber first said he wanted
her to perform with the riders, and I said
' No,' at once — though I was awful fright
ened of him in those days. But soon after
Jemmy (who wasn't the clown then that
he is now, sir ; there was others to be got
for his money, to do what he did at that
time) — Jemmy comes to me, saying he's
afraid he shall lose his place, if I don't give
in about Mary. This staggered me a good
deal ; for I don't know what we should
have done then, if my husband had lost his
engagement. And, besides that, there was
the poor dear child herself, who was mad
to be carried up in the air on horseback ; al
ways begging and praying to be made a
little rider of. And all the rest of 'em in
the circus worried and laughed at me ; and,
in shortj I give in at last against my, con
science, but I couldn't help it.
" I made a bargain though, that she
should only be trusted to the steadiest,
soberest man, and the best rider of the
whole lot. They called him ' Muley '
in the bills, and stained his face to make
him look like a Turk, or something of that
sort ; but his real name was Francis Yapp,
and a very good fatherly sort of a man he
was in his way, having a fami.yof his own
to look after. He used to ride splendid, at
full straddle, with three horses under him
— one foot, you know, sir, being on the
outer horse's back, and one foot on the inner.
Him and Jubber made it out together that
ne was to act a wild man, flying for hislife
across some desert, with his only child,
and poor little Mary was to be the child.
They darkened her face to look like his;

and put an outlandish kind of white dress
on her; and buckled a red belt round her
waist, with a sort of handle in it for Yapp
to hold her by. After first making believt
in all sort of ways, that him and his child
was in danger of being taken and shot, he
had to make believe afterward that they had
escaped and to hold her up, in a sort of
triumph at the full stretch of his arm —
galloping round and round the ring all the
while. He was'a tremendous strong man,
and could do it as easy as I could hold up
a bit of that plum-cake.
" Poor little love ! she soon got over the
first fright of the thing, and had a sort of
mad fondness for it that I never liked to
see, for it wasn't natural to her. Yapp he
said, she'd got the heart of a lion, and would
grow up the finest woman-rider in the world.
I was very unhappy about it, and lived a
miserable life, always fearing some accident.
But for some time, nothing near an accident
happened ; and lots of money came into the
circus to see Yapp and little Mary — but
that was, Jubber's luck and not ours. One
night — she was a little better than seven
year old —
" Oh, ma'am, how I ever Jived over that
dreadful night I don't know ! I was a sin
ful miserable wretch not to have starved
sooner than let the child go into danger ;
but I was so sorely tempted and driven to
it, God knows ! — No, sir ! no, ma'am ; and
many thanks for your kindness, I'll go on
now I've begun. Don't mind me crying;
I'll manage to tell it somehow. The strap
— no, I mean the handle ; the handle in the
strap give way all of a sudden — just at the
last too ! just at the worst time, when he
couldn't catch her ! —
" Never — oh, never, never, to my dying
day shall I forget the horrible screech that
went up from the whole audience ; and the
sight of the white thing lying huddled dead-
still on the boards ! We "hadn't such a
number in as usual that night, and she fell
on an empty place between the benches. I
got knocked down by the horses in running
to her — I was clean out of my senses, and
didn't know where I was going — Yapp had
fallen among them, and hurt himself badly
trying to catch her — they were running
wild in the ring— the horses was — frantic-
like with the noise all round them. T got
up somehow, and a crowd of people jostled
me, and I saw my innocent darling carried
among them. I felt hands on me, trying
to pull me back ; but I broke away, and
got into the waiting-room along with the
rest. " There she was — my own, own little
Mary, that I'd promised her poor mother
to take care of — there she was, lying all
white and, still on an old box, with my
cloak rolled up as a pillow for her. And
people crowding round her. And a docto


HIDE AND SEEK.

53

feeling her head all over. And Yapp
among them, held up by two men, with
his face all over blood. I wasn't able to
speak or move ; I didn't feel as if I was
oreathing even, till the doctor stopped, and
.ooked up ; and then a great shudder went
through all of us together, as if we'd been
one body, instead of twenty or more.
" ' It's not killed her,' says the doctor.
'Her brain's escaped injury.'
" I didn't hear another word.
" I don't know how long it was before I
seemed to wake up like, with a dreadful
feeling of pain and tearing of everything
inside me. I was on the landlady's bed,
and Jemmy was standing over me with a
bottle of salts. ' They've put her to bed,'
ne says to me, 'and the doctor's setting her
arm.' I didn't recollect at first ; but when
l did, it was almost as bad as seeing the
dreadful accident all over again.1
" It was some time before any of us
found out what had really happened; The
breaking of her arm, the doctor said, had
saved her head, which was only cut and
bruised a little, not half as bad as was1
feared. Day af.er day, and night after night,
I sat by her bedside, comforting her through
her fever, and the pain ofthe splints on her
arm, and never once suspecting — no more I
believe than she did— the awful misfortune
thai had really happened. She was always
wonderful quiet and silent for a child, poor
lamb, in little illnesses that she'd had be
fore ; and, somehow, I didn't wonder1 — at
least, at first — why she never said a word,
and never answered me when I spoke to
her. "This went on, though, after she got
better in her health, and a strange look
came over her eyes. They seemed to be
always wondering, and frightened in a con
fused way about something or oilier. She
took, too, to rolling her head about restlessly
from one side of the pillow to the other;
making a sort of muttering and humming
now and then, but still never seeming to
notice or to care for anything I said to her.
One day, I was warming her a nice cup of
beef-tea over the fire, when I heard, quite
sudden and quite plain, these words from
where she lay on the bed — ' Why are you
always so quiet here? Why doesn't some
body speak to me?'
" I knew there wasn't another soul in
the room but the poor child at that time ;
and yet, the voice as spoke those words was
no more like little Mary's voice, than my
voice, sir, is like yours. It sounded, some
how, hoarse and low, and deep and faint,
all at the same time ; the strangest, shock-
ingest voice to come from a child, who
always used to speak so clearly and prettily
before, that ever I heard, if I was only
cleverer with my words, ma'am, and could
tell you about it properly — but I can't. I

only know it gave me such * turn .o hear
her, that I upset the beef-tea and ran back.
in fright to the bed. 'Why, Mary ! Mary!'
says I, quite loud, 'are you so well already
that you're trying to imitate Mr. Jubber's
gruff voice ?'
" There was the same wondering look in
her eyes— only wilder than I had ever seen
it yet — while I was speaking. When I'd
done, she says in the same strange way,
' Speak out, molher ; I can't hear you when
you whisper like that.' She was as long
saying these words, and bungled over them
as much, as if she was only just learning to
speak. I think I got the first suspicion
then, of what had really happened. 'Mary!'
I bawled out as loud as I could, ' Mary !
can't you hear me now ?' She shook her
head, and slared up at me with the fright
ened bewildered look again: then seemed
to gel pettish and impatient all of a sudden
— the first time I ever saw her so — and hid
her face from me on the pillow.
" Just then the doctor come in. ' Oh,
sir!' says I, whispering toTiim — just as if I
hadn't found out a minute ago that she
couldn't hear me at the top of my voice —
'I'm afraid there's something gone wrong
with her hearing.' 'Have you only just
now suspected that?' says he; 'I've been
afraid of k for some days past, but I thought
it best to say nolhing till I'd tried her ; and
she's hardly well enough yet, poor child, tc
be worried with experiments on her ears.
' She's much better,' says I ; ' indeed, she's
much better to-day, sir ! Oh, do try her
now, for it's so dreadful to be in doubt a
moment longer than we can help.''
" He went up to the bedside, and 1 fol
lowed him, She was lying with her face
hidden away from us on the pillow, just as
it was when I left her. The doctor says to
me, 'Don't disturb her, don't let her look
round, so that she can see us — I'm going to
call to her.' And he called 'Mary' out
loud, twice ; and she never moved. The
third time he tried her, it was with such a
shout at the lop of his voice, that ihe land
lady come up, thinking something had hap
pened. I was looking over his shoulder,
and saw that my dear child never started
in the least. 'Poor little thing,' says the
doctor, quite sorrowful, ' this is worse than
I expected.' He stooped down and touched
her, as he said this ; and she turned round
directly, and put out her hand to have her
pulse fell as usual. I tried to get out of her
sight, for I was crying, and didn't wish her
to see it ; but she was too sharp for me.
She looked hard in my face and the land
lady's, then in the doctor's, which was
downcast enough ; for he had got very fond
of her, just as everybody else did who saw
much of little Mary.
" 'What's the matter?' she says, in the
same son of strange unnatural voice again.


<it

HIDE AND SEEK.

We tried to pacify her, hut only made her
worse. ' Why do you keep on whispering?'
she asks. ' Why don't you speak out loud,
so that I can — ' and then she stopped,
seemingly in a sort of helpless fright and
bewilderment. She tried to gel up in bed,
and her face turned red all over. ' Can she
read writing V says the doctor. ' Oh, yes,
sit,' says I ; 'she can read and write beau-
i if ul for a child of her age ; my husband
aught hev.' 'Get me paper, and pen and
nil directly,' says he to the landlady ; who
wont at once and got him what he wanted.
Wo must quiet her at all hazards,' says
• he doctor, ' or she'll excite herself into
another attack of fever. She feels what's
the matter with her, but don't understand
it ; ai d I'm going to tell her by means of
this papti. It's a risk,' he says, writing
down on the paper in large letters, You
are de if; ' but I must try all I can do for
her earj immediately ; and this will prepare
her,' says he, going to the bed, and holding
the papor before her eyes.
" She shrank back on the pillow, as still
as death the instant she saw it ; but didn't
cry, and looked more puzzled and astonished,
I should say, than distressed. But she was
.breathing dreadful quick — I felt that, as I
stooped down and kissed her. ' She's too
young,' says the doctor, Mo know what ihe
extent of her calamity really is. You stop
here and keep her quiet till I come back,
for I trust the case is not hopeless yet.'
'But whatever has made her deaf, sir?'
says the landlady, opening the door for him.
' The shock of that fall in the circus,' says
he, going cat in a very great hurry. I
thought I should never have held up my
head again, as I heard them words, looking
at little Mary, with my arm round her neck
all the time.
" Well, sir, '-ne doctor come back; and
he syringed h^t ears first — and that did no
good. Then he tried blistering, and then
he put on leecnes ; and still it was no use.
' I'm afraid it is a hopeless case,' says he ;
' but (here's a doctor who's had more
practice than I've had with deaf people,
who comes from where he lives to our dis
pensary once a week. To-morrow's his
day, and I'll bring him here with me.'
" And he did bring this gentleman, as he
promised he would — an old gentleman, with
such a pleasant way of speaking, that I
understood everything he said to me directly.
' I'm afraid you must make up your mind
to the worst,' says he. ' I have been hear
ing about the poor child from my friend
who's attended her ; and I'm sorry to say I
don't think there's much hope.' Then he
goes to the bed and looks at her. ' Ah,'
says he, ' there's just the same expression
in her face that I remember seeing in a
mason's boy — a patient of mine — who fell
oil' a ladder, and lost his heai \g altogether

by the shock. YoU don't hear what I'm
saying, do you, my dear ?' says he in a
hearty cheerful way. 'You don't hear me
saying that you're the prettiest little girl I
ever saw in my life?' She looked up al
him confused, and quite silent. He didn'l
speak to her again, but told me to turn hei
on the bed, so that he could get at one of
her ears.
" He pulled out some instruments, while
I did what he asked, and put them into her
ear, but so tenderly that he never hurt her.
Then he looked in, through a sort of queer
spy-glass thing. Then he did it all over
again with the other ear ; and then he laid
down the instruments and pulled out his
watch- ' Write on a piece of paper,' says
he to the other doctor : ' Do you know that
the watch is ticking?' When this was
done, he makes signs to little Mary to open
her mouth, and puts as much of his watch
in as would go between her teeth, while
the other doctor holds up the paper before
her. When he took the watch out again,
she shook her head, and said, 'No,' just in
the same strange voice as ever. The old
gentleman didn't speak a word as he put
the watch back in his fob ; but I saw by his
face that he thought it was all over with
her hearing, after what had just happened.
" ' Oh, try and do someihing for her, sir !'
says I. ' Oh, for God's sake, don't give her
up, sir!' ' My good soul,' says he, 'You
must set her an example of cheerfulness,
and keep up her spirits — that's all that car.
be done for her now.' ' Not all, sir,' says I,
' surely not all !' ' Indeed it is,' says he ;
' her hearing's completely gone ; the experi
ment with my watch proves it. I had an
exactly similar case with the mason's boy,'
he says, turning to the other doctor. ' The
shock of that fall has, I believe, paralyzed
the auditory nerve in her, as it did in him.'
I remember those words exactly, sir, though
I didn't quite understand them at the lime.
But he explained himself to me very kind
ly ; telling me over again, in a plain way,
what he'd just told the doctor. He remind
ed me, too, that the remedies which had
been already tried had been of no use ; and
told me I might feel sure that any others
would only end in the same way, and put
her to useless pain into the bargain. 'I
hope,' says he, ' the poor child is too young
to suffer much mental misery under her
dreadful misfortune. Keep her amu-sed,
and keep her talking, if you possibly can —
though I doubt very much whether, in a
little time, you won't fail completely in
getting her to speak at all.'
" ' Don't say that, sir,' says I ; ' don't say
she'll be dumb as well as deaf; it's enough
to break one's heart only to think of it.'
' But I must say so,' says he ; ' for I'm
afraid it's the truth.' And then he asks
me wheiher I hadr't noticed already lhaf


HIDE AND SEEK.

55

she was unwilling to speak ; and i hat, when
she did speak, hi r voice wasn't the same
voice it used to ue. I said 'Yes' to that;
and asked him whether the fall had had
anything to do with it. He said, taking
me up very short, it had everything to do
with it, because the fall had made her what
they call stone-deaf, wbich prevented her
from hearing the sound of her own voice.
So it was changed, he told me, because she
had no ear now to guide herself by in
speaking, and couldn't know in the least
whether the few words she said were
spoken soft or loud, or deep or clear. ' So
far as the poor child herself is concerned,'
says he, ' she might as well be without a
voice at all ; for she has noihing but her
memory left to tell her that she has one.'
" I burst out a-crying as he said this ;
for somehow I'd never thought of anything
so dreadful before. ' I've been a little too
sudden in telling you the worst, haven't I ?'
6ays tbe old gentleman, kindly; 'but you
must be taught how to make up your mind
to meet the full extent of this misfortune
for the sake of the child, whose future com
fort and happiness depend greatly on you.'
And then he bid me keep up her reading
and Writing, and force her to use her voice
as much as I could, by every means in my
power. He told me I should find her grow
more and more unwilling to speak every
day, just for the shocking reason that she
couldn't hear a single word she sp.id, or a
single lone of her own voice. He warned
me that she was already losing the wish
and the want to speak; and that it would
very soon be little short of absolute pain io
her to be made to say even a few words ;
but be begged and prayed me not to Jet my
good-nature get the better of my prudence
on thai account, and not to humor her, how
ever I might feel tempted to do so — for if I
did, she would be dumb as well as deaf
most certainly. He told me my own com
mon sense would show me the reason why;
but I suppose I was too distressed or too
stupid to understand things as I ought. He
had io explain it to me in so many words,
that if the wasn't constantly exercised in
speaking, she would lose her power of
speech altogether, for want of practice —
just the same as if she'd been born dumb.
' So, once again,' says he ' mind you make
her use her voice. Don', give her her din
ner, unless she asks for it. Treat her se
verely in that way, poor little soul, because
it's for her own good.'
" It was all very well for him to say that,
but it was impossible for me to do it. The
dear child, ma'am, seemed to get used to
her misfortune, except when we tried to
make ner speak. It was the saddest, pret
tiest sight in ihe world to see how pa
tiently and bravely she bore with her hard
tot from the firs'. As she grew better in

her health, she kept up her reading, and
writing quite cleverly with my husband
and me ; and all her nice, natural, cheerful
ways come back to her just the same as
ever. I've read or heard somewhere, sir,
about God's goodness in tempering the
wind to the shorn lamb. I don't know
who said that first ; but it might well
have been spoken on account of my own
darling little Mary, in those days. Insiead
of us being the first to comfort her, it was
she that was first to comfort us. And so
she's gone on ever since — bless her heart !
Only treat her kindly, and, in spite of her
misfortune, she's the merriest, happiest little
thing, the easiest pleased and amused, I do
believe, that ever lived.
" If we were wrong in not forcing her
to speak more than we did, I must say this
much for me and my husband, that we
hadn't the heart to make her miserable, and
keep on tormenting her from morning to
night, when she was always happy and
comfortable if we would only let her alone.
We tried our best for some time to do what
the gentleman told us ; but it's so hard, as
you've found I dare say, ma'am, not lo end
by humoring them you love ! I never see
the tear in her eye, except when we forced
her to speak to us; and then she always
cried, and was fretful and out of sorts for
the whole day. It seemed such a dreadful
difficulty and pain to her to say only two
or three words; and the shocking husky
moaning voice that sounded somehow as if
it didn't belong to her never changed. My
husband first give up worrying her to
speak. He practised her with her book
and writing, but let her have her own will
in everything else; and he leached her all
sorts of tricks on the cards for amusement,
which was a good way of keeping her going
with her reading and her pen pleasantly, by
reason, of course, of him and her being
obliged to put down everything they had to
say to each other on a little slate that we
bought for her after she got well.
" It was Mary's own notion, if you
please, ma'am, to have the slate always
hanging at her side. Poor dear ! she
thought it quite a splendid ornament, and
was as proud of it as could be. Jemmy,
being neat-handed at such things, did the
frame over for her prettily with red moroc
co, and got our property-man lo do it all
round with a bright golden border. And
then we hung it at her side, with a nice
little bit of silk-cord — just as you see it
DOW. " I held out in making her speak some
lime after my husband ; but at last I give
in top. I know it was wrong and selfish
of me ; but I got a fear that she wouldn't
like me as well as she used to do, and
would take more kindly to Jemmy than tc
me, if I went on. Oh, how happy she wa


HIDE AND SEEK.

57

your best attention to what I am about to
say. Let me beg you, in the first place, to
excuse Mr. Blyth's odd behavior, which I
see has stanled and astonished you. He
has an unusually excitable nature, which
makes him quite incapable of preserving his
self-control whenever his feelings are great-
ly.interested on any subject. But, how
ever wildly he may talk, I assure you he
means honorably and truthfully in all that
lie says. You will understand this better
if you'will let me temperately explain to
you the proposal, which he has just made so
abruptly and confusedly in his own words."
" Proposal, sir !" exclaimed Mrs. Peck
over faintly, looking more frightened than
ever — " Proposal ! Oh, sir ! you don't mean
to say lhat vou're going to ask me to part
fiom little Mary?"
" I will ask you to do nothing that your
own good sense and kind heart may not
approve," answered the rector. " In plain
terms then, and not to waste time by use
less words of preface, my friend, Mr. Blyth,
feels such admiration for your little Mary,
and such a desire to help her as far as may
be, in her great misfortune, that he is wil
ling and eager to make her future prospects
in life his own peculiar care, by adopting
her as his daughter. This offer, though
coming, as I am aware, from a perfect
stranger, can hardly astonish you, I think,
if you reflect on the unusually strong claims
which the child has to the compassion and
kindness of all her fellow-creatures. Other
strangers, as you have told us, have shown
the deepest interest in her on many occa
sions ; it is not therefore at all wonderful
that a gentleman, whose sensitively affec
tionate nature, and whose Christian integ^
rity of motive I have had ample opportu
nities of testi ng during a friendship of nearly
twenty years, should prove the sincerity of
his admiration for the poor child, and his
anxiely to promote her future welfare, by
such a proposal as I have now communi
cated to you." <-
" Don't ask me to say yes to it, sir !"
E leaded Mrs. Peckover with the tears in
er eyes. " Don't ask me to do that ! Any
thing else to prove my gratitude for your
kindness to us ; but how can I part from
my own little Mary ? You can't have the
heart to ask that of me ?"
" I have the heart, Mrs. Peckover, to feel
deeply for your distress at the idea of part
ing from the child; but, for her sake, I
must again ask you lo control your feelings.
And, more than lhat, I must appeal to you
by your love to her, to grant a fair hearing
to the petition which I now make on Mr.
Blyth's behalf."
" I would, indeed, if I could, sir — but it's
just because I love her so that I can't!
Besides, as you yourself said, he's a perfect
stranger." 4

"I readily admit the force of that objec
tion on your part, Mrs. Peckover ; but iel
me remind you, that 1 vouch for the up
rightness of hjs character, and his fitness
to be trusted with the child, after twenty
years experience of him. You may answer
to that, that I am a stranger too ; and I can
only ask you, in return, frankly to accept
my character and position as the best proofs
I can offer you lhat I am not unworthy of
your confidence. If you place little Mary
for instruction (as you well might) in an
asylum for the deaf and dumb, you would
be obliged to prt implicit trust in the author
ities of that asylum, on much the same
grounds as those I now advance to justify
you in putting trust in me."
"Oh, sir ! don't think— pray don't think
I am unwilling to trusf you — so kind and
good as you h?.ve been to us to-day — and a
clergyman too — I should be ashamed of
myself, and my ingratitude, if I could
doubt — "
" Let me tell you, plainly and candidly,
what advantages for ihe child Mr. Blyth's
proposal holds out. He has ne family of
his own, and his wife, poor lady is, as he
has hinted to you, an invalid foi life. If
you could only see the gentleness and sweet
patience with which she bears her affliction,
you would acknowledge that little Mary
could appeal for an affectionate welcome to
no kinder heart than Mrs. Blyth's. I as
sure you most seriously, that the only danger
I should fear for ihe child in my friend's
house, would be that she would be spoilt
by excessive indulgence. Though by no
means a rich man, Mr. Blyth is in an inde
pendent position, and can offer her all the
comforts of life. In one word ihe home to
which be is ready to take her, is a home of
love and happiness and security, in the best
and purest meaning of those words."
" Don't say any more, sir ! Don't break
my heart by making me part with her !"
" You will live, Mrs. Peckover, to thank
me for trying your fortitude as I try it now.
Hear me a little longer, while I tell you
what terms Mr. Blyth proposes. He is not
only willing but anxious — if you give the
child into his charge — that you should have
access to her whenever you like. He will
leave his address in London with you. He
desires, from motives alike honorable to
you and to himself, to defray your travel
ling expenses whenever you wish to see
the child. He will always acknowledge
your prior right to her affection and hei
duty. He will offer her every facility in
his power for constantly corresponding with
you : and if the life she leads in his house
be, even in the slightest respect, distasteful
to her, he pledges himself to give her up
to you again — if you and she desire it — at,
any sacrifice of his own wishes and hisowu>
feelings. These are the terms he proposes.


HIDE AND SEEK.

59

turned toward the garden as she pro
nounced these words ; all her fortitude for
sook; her in an instant; andshe sank back
in her chair, sobbing bitterly, i
" Take her out into the shrubbery where
the children are, as soon as she recovers a
little," whispered the rector to his wife, as
he opened the dining-room door.
Though Mr. Jubber presented, to all ap
pearance, the most scoundrelly aspect that
humanity can assume, when he was clothed
in his evening uniform, and illuminated by
his own circus lamplight, he nevertheless
reached an infinitely loftier climaxof black
guard perfection, when he was arrayed in
his private costume, and was submitted to
the tremendous ordeal of pure daylight.
The most monstrous ape :that could be1
picked from the cages of the Zoological
Gardens would have gained by comparison
with him as he now appeared, standing in
the rectory cloak-room, with his debauched
bloodshot eyes staring grimly-contemptuous
all about him, with his yellow flabby throat
exposed by a turn-down collar and a Tight
blue neck-tie, with the rouge still smeared
over -his gross unhealthy cheeks, with his
mangy shirt-front bespattered with bad
embroidery, and false jewelry that had not
even the politic decency to keep itself clean.
He had his hat on, and was sulkily running
his dirty fingers through the greasy black
ringlets, that flowed, over his , coat-collar,
when Doctor Joyce entered the cloak-room.
"You wished to speak with me?" said
the rector, not sitting down himself, and'
not asking Mr. Jubber to, sit down.
" Oh ! you're Doctor Joyce ?" said the
fellow, assuming his most insolent famil
iarity of manner directly.
" That is my name," said Dr. Joyce, very
quietly., "Will you have the goodness to
state your business wi:h me immediately,
and in the fewest possible words?"
" Halloo ! You take that tone with me,
dp you ?" said Jubber, setting his- arms
akimbo, and tapping bis foot fiercely on the
floor,: "you're trying to come Tommy
Grand over me already, are you ? very
good! I'm the man to give you change in
you're own coin — so here goes ! What do
you mean by enticing away my mysterious
foundling? What do, you mean' by this;
private swindle of talent lhat belongs to
my circus?"
" You had better proceed a little," said
the rector, more quietly than before. " Thus
far, I understand -nothing whatever, except
that you wish to behave offensively lo. me ;
which, in a person of your appearance, is,
I assure you, of not the slightest conse
quence. You had much better save time
by stating what you have to say in plain
words," "You want plain words, eh?" cried
Jubber, losing his temper. " Then, by

God, you shall have them, and plain
enough !"
„" Stop a minute," said Doctor Joyce.
','If you use oaths in my presence again, I
shall, ring for my servant, and order him to
show you out of the house."
"You will?"
" I will most certainly."
There was a moment's pause ; and the
blackguard and ihe gentleman looked one
another straight in ihe face; It was the
old, invariable struggle, between the quiet
firmness of. good breeding and ihe savage
obstinacy of bad ; and it ended in the old,
invariable way. The blackguard flinched
first. "If your servant lays a finger on me, I'll
thrash him within an inch of his life," said
Jubber, looking toward the door,and scowl
ing as he looked. " But that's not the
point just now: the point is, that I charge
you with getting my deaf ,and dumb girl
into your house, to perform before you, of
course on the sly. If you're too virtuous
tp come to my circus — and better than you
have been there — you ought to have sent
io me, and paid the proper price for a pri
vate performance. , What do you mean by
treating a public servant, like me, with
your infernal, aristocratic looks, as if I was
dirt, under your fept, afier such shabby do
ings as you'ye been guilty of— eh ?"
" May I ask how you know lhat the child
you refer to has been at my house to-day ?"
asked Doclor Joyce, without taking the
slightest notice of Mr. Jubber's indignation.
" One of my people saw lhat swindling
hypocrite of a Peckover taking her in, and
told me of it when I missed them at din
ner. There ! that's good evidence I rather
think ! Deny it if you can."
"I have not the slightest intention of
denying it. The child is now in my house."
" And has gone through all her perform
ances, of course ? Ah ! shabby, shabby !
I should be ashamed of myself if I'd tried
to do a man out of his rights like that."
"I am most unaffectedly rejoiced to hear
lhat you are capable, under any circum«
stances, , of being ashamed of yourself at
all," rejoined the rector. " Thechild, how
ever, has gone through no performances
here, not having been sent for with any
such purpose as you suppose. But, as you
said just;now, that's not the poiDt. Pray,
why did you speak of the little girl, a mo
ment ago, as your child?"
"Because she's one of my performers,
of course. But, come— I've had enough
of ibis ; I can't stop talking here all day ;
I want the child ; so just deliver her up at
once, will you? and turn out Peck as soon
as you like after. I'll cure them both of
ever doing this sort of thing again! I'll
make them stick tight to the circus for the
future ! I'll show them — "


HIDE AND SEEK.

W

finger on me, if yOu dare ! I'm a free
Englishman, and I'll have my rights and
my legal law! i I'll bring an action! I'll
ruin you! I'll have her back, and beat her
worse lhan ever when I get her ! I'll — "
Here he strutted into the front garden ;. his
words grew indistinct, and his gross voice
became gradually less and less audible. The
coachman at the outer gate saw the last of
him, and reported that he made bis exit
striking viciously at the flowers with his
cane, and swearing lhat he would ruin the
rector with "legal law."
After leaving certain directions with his
servants, in the very improbable event of
Mr. Jubber's return, Doctor Joyce repair
ed immediately to his dining-room. No
one was ihere, so he went on into the
garden. Here he found the family and the visiters
all assembled together ; but a great change
had passed over the whole party during his
absence. Mr. Blyth, on being informed of
the result of the rector's conversation with
Mrs. Peckover, acted, with his usual im
petuosity and utter want of discretion:
writing down delightedly on little Mary's
slate, without the slightest previous prepa
ration or coaxing, that she was to go home
with him to-morrow, and be as happy as
the day was long, all the rest of her life.
The result of this incautious method of pro
ceeding was that the child became exces
sively frightened, and ran away from every
body to take refuge with Mrs. Peckover.
She was still crying, and holding tight by
the good woman's gown with both hands,
and Valentine was still loudly declaring to
everybody that he loved her all the better
for showing such faithful* affection to her
earliest and best friend, when the rector
joined the party under the coolly-murmur
ing trees.
Doctor Joyce spoke but briefly of his in
terview with Mr. Jubber, concealing much
that had passed at it, and making very light
ofthe threats which the fellow had uttered
on his depaiture. Mrs. Peckover, whose
solf-possession seemed in, imminent danger
of being overthrown by little Mary's mute
demonstrations of affection, listened anxious
ly to every word the doctor uttered ; and,
as soon as he had done, said that she must
go back to the circus directly, to' tell her
husband the truth about all that had occur
red, as a necessary set-off against the
slanders that were sure to be spoken' against
her by Mr. Jubber.
"Oh, never mind me, ma'am !" she, said,
in answer to the apprehensions expressed
by Mrs. Joyce about her reception when
she got back to the circus. '"The dear
child's safe ; and that's all I care about. I'm
big enough and strong enough to take my
own part ; and Jemmy he's always by to
help me when J can't. May I come back,

if you please, sir, this evening ; and say—
and say — "
She would have added, "and say good*
by ;" but the thoughts which now gathered
round that one word, made it too hard to
utter. She silently courtesied her thanks
for the warm invitation that was given her
to return ; stooped down to the child ; and,
kissing her, wrote on the slate, " I shall
be back, dear, in the evening, at seven
o'clock" — then disengaged the little hands
that still held so fast by her gown, and
hurried from the garden, wilhout once
venturing to look behind her as she crossed
the sunny lawn.
Mrs. Joyce, and the young ladies, and
the rector, all tried their best lo console
little Mary; and all failed. She resolutely,
though very gently, resisted them ; walking
away into corners by herself, and looking
constantly at her slate, as if she could odIv
find comfort in reading the few words which
Mrs. Peckover had written on it. At last,
Mr. Blyih took her up on his knee. She
struggled to get away, for a moment — then
looked intently in his face ; and, sighing
very mournfully, laid her head down on his
shoulder. There was a world of promise
for the future success of ,Valentine's affec
tionate project in that simple action, and in
the prefefence which it showed.
The day wore on quietly — evening came
— seven o'clock struck — then half-past —
then eight — and Mrs. Peckover never ap
peared. Doctor Joyce grew uneasy, and
sent Vance to the circus to get some news
of her.
It was again Mr. Blyth, and Mr. Blyth .
only, who succeeded in partially quieting
little Mary under the heavy disappointment
of not seeing Mrs. Peckover at the appoint
ed lime. The child had been restless at
first, and had wanted to go to the circus.
Finding that they tenderly, but firmly, de
tained her at the rectory, she wept bitterly
— wept so long that at last she fairly cried
herself asleep in Valentine's arms. Pie sat
anxiously supporting her with a patience
that nothing could tire. The sunset rays,
which he had at first carefully kept from
falling on her face, vanished from the hori
zon ; the quiet lustre of twilight overspreao
the sky, and still he refused to let her bt
taken from him ; and said he would sit as
he was all through the night rather than
let her be d'sturbed.
Vance came back, and brought word that
Mrs. Peckover would follow him in half an
hour. They had given her some work to
do at the circus, which she was obliged to
finish before she could return to the rectory.
Having delivered this message, Vance
next produced a hand-bill, which he said
was being widely circulated all over Rub
bleford ; and which proved to be the com
position of Mr. Jubber himself. That in>


62

HTDE AND SEEK.

genious ruffian, having doubtless discovered
that " legal law" was powerless to help
him to his revenge, and that it would be
his wisest proceeding to keep clear of Doc
tor Joyce in the rector's magisterial capaci
ty, was now artfully attempting to' turn the
loss of the child to his own profit, by dint
of prompt and audacious lying in his fa
vorite large type, sprinkled with red letters.
He informed the public, through the me
dium of his hand-bills, that the father of
the mysterious foundling had been " most
providentially" discovered, and lhat be (Mr.
Jubber) had given the child up immediately,
without a thought of what he might per
sonally suffer.in pocket aswell as in mind,
by the loss of one of the most " devotedly
cherished" and attractive of his performers.
After this, he appealed confidently to the
sympathy of people of every degree, and
"fond parents" especially, to compensate
and console him by flocking in crowds to
the circus — adding, that if additional1 stim
ulus were wanted to urge the public into
" rallying round the ring," he was prepared
to administer it forthwith, in the shape of
the smallest dwarf in the world, for whose
services he was then in treaty, and whose
first appearance before a Rubbleford audi
ence would take place, he hoped, in the
course of a few days.
Such was Mr. Jubber's ingenious contri
vance for turning to good pecuniary ac
count the ignominious defeat which he had
suffered at the hands of Dr. Joyce.
After much patient reasoning and many
earnest expostulations, Mrs, Joyce at last
succeeded in persuading Mr. Blyth that he
might carry little Mary up-stairs to her
bed, without any danger of awakening her.
The moonbeams were streaming through
the" windows over the broad, old-fa'sliioned
landings of the rectory staircase, and bathed
the child's sleeping face in their lovely
light, as Valentine carefully bore her in his
own arms to her bed-room. " Oh !" he
whispered toTlimself, as he paused for ah
instant where the moon shone in clearest
on the landirig'Vand looked down on her' —
"oh! if my poor Lavvie could only see
little Mary now !"
They laid her, still asleep, on the, bed ;
and covered her over lightly with a shawl :
then went down s'tairs again to wait for
Mrs. Peckover.
The clown's wife came in *Vlf an hour,
as she had promised. They saw much sor
row and weariness in her face, as they
looked at her. Besides the bundle with the
child's few clothes in it, which she carried
with her, she brought the hair-bracelet and
the pocket-handkerchief which had been
found on little Mary's mother.
" Wherever the child goes," she said,
' these two things must go with her." She

the hair-bracelet and the handkerchief into
his own hands.
It seemed rather a relief ' than a disap-
pointment to Mrs. Peckover to hear that the
child was asleep above stairs. All pain of
parting would now be spared, on one side
at least. She went up to look at her on
her bed ; and kissed her; but so:lightly;that
little Mary's sleep was undisturbed by that
farewell token of tenderness and love.
" Tell her to write to me, sir," said por*
Mrs. Peckover, holding Valentine's banc
fast, and looking' wistfully in his face
through her gathering tears. "I shall
prize my first letter from her so much, if
it's only a couple of Tines. God bless you,
sir ; and good-by ! It ought to be a com
fort to me, and it is, to know that you will
be kind to her; I hope I shall get up to
London some day, and see her myself. But
don't forget the letter, 'sir, for I shan't fret
so much after her when once I've got
that!" She went away, sadly murmuring these
last words many times over, while Valen
tine was trying to cheer and reassure her,
as they walked together to the outer gate.
Doctor Jo,yce accompanied them down the
front-garden path ; and exacted from her a
promise to return often lothe rectory, while
the circus was at Rubbleford ; saying also
that he and his family 'desired her to look
on them always as her fast and firm friends
in any emergency. Valentine entreated
her, over and over again, to remember the
terms of their agreement, and to come and
judge for herself of the child's happiness
in her new home. She only answered,
"Don't forget the letter, sir!" And so
they parted.
Early the next morning, ¦ Mr,- Blyth and
little Mary left the rectory, and started for
London by the first coach.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RESULT.

The result of Mr. Blyth's adventure in
the travelling circus, and of the story told
by the clown's wife which followed it, was
that little Mary at once became a member
of the painter's family, and grew up hap
pily, in her new home, into the beautiful
young lady who was called "Madonna" by
Valentine, by his wife, and by all intimate
friends who were in- the habit of frequent
ing the house. . ..'
Mr. Blyth's -first proceeding, after he had
brought the little girl home withihim, was
to takeher to the most eminent aural sur
geon of ihe day. He did this, not in the
hope' of any curative result following the


HIDE AND SEEK.

which he thought he owed to her; now that
she was under his sole charge. The sur
geon was deeply interested in the- case:
but, aftergivirig it the mosl careful atten
tion, he declared that it was hopeless. Her
sense of hearing, he said, was entirely gone;
but her faculty of speech, although it bad
been totally disused (as Mrs. Peckover had
stated) for more than two years past, might,
he thought, be imperfectly regained, at some
fu;ure lime, if a tedious, painful, and un
certain process of education were resorted
to, under the direction of ah experienced
teacher of the deaf and dumb. The child,
however, had such a horror of this resource
being tried, when it was communicated to
her, that Mr. Blyth instinctively followed
Mrs; Peckover's example, and consulted the
little creature's feelings by allowing her in
this particular — and indeed in most others
— to remain perfectly happy and contented
in her own way. !
The first influence which reconciled her
almost imrhediately to her new home, was
the influence of Mrs. Blyth. The perfect
gentleness and patience with which the
painter's wife bore her incurable malady,
senmed to impress the child in a very re
markable manner from the first. The sight
of that frail, wasted life, which they told
her, by writing, had been shut up so long
in ihe same beautiful room, and had been
condemned to the same weary inaction for
so many, many years past — the look of that
pale, tranquil face, which had gained back
in beauty of expression so' much- of what it
had lost in beamy of form — struck at once
to Mary's heart, and filled her with one of
those new mysterious sensations wbich
mark epochs in the growth of a child's
moral nature. Nor did these first impres
sions ever alter. When years had passed
away, and when Mary, being " little'' Ma
ry no longer, possessed those marked -char
acteristics of feature and expression which
gained for her the name of "Madonna,"
she still preserved all her child's feelings
for the painter's wife. However light and
playful her manner might often be with
Valentine, it invariably changed when she
was in Mrs. Blyth's presence ; always dis
playing, at such limes, the same anxious
tenderness, the same artless admiration,
and the same watchful and loving sympa
thy. There was something, secret and su
perstitious in the girl's fondness for Mrs.
Blyth. She appeared' unwilling to let
others know what this affection really was
in all its depths and fullness: it seemed to
be intuitively preserved by her in. the most
sacred privacy of her own heart* as if the
feeling had beem part of her religion, or
rather as if it had been a religion in itself.
The custom she followed in reading her
praveis was alone enough to show lhat the
essential nature of her first childish love

for the painter's wife remained unchanged
in later years. When she enteied her new
borne, they gave her a little book, with a
prayer for ihe evening in it, which she was
intrusted to read over to herself, kneeling
at Mrs. Blyth's bedside. As she grew older
-and began to mature into womanhood, it
Was thought that she might prefer to be
alone in her own room, while engaged in
her mute and simple act of devotion. But
the very first night she was sent there she.
came back weeping,, and confessed, by her
own language of signs in writing, lhat she
dare not lie down to sleep, because wheD
she read her prayers alone she could nol
feel the same faith in God's accepting
them, which she always' felt when she
read them in Mrs. Blyth's presence.
They tried to reason with her gently, but
it was useless.. Nothing quieted and con
soled her, but permission to resume her old
privilege : and from that time forth she still
read her prayers,, morning and evening, as
she had read them when a child by Mrs.
Blyth's bedside.
The girl's affection for her new mother,
which testified itself thus strongly and sin
cerely in many other ways, was returned
by that mother with equal fervor. From
the day when little Mary first appeared at
her bedside, Mrs. Blyth felt, to use her own
expression, as if a new strength had been
given her to enjoy the new happiness that
was added to her life. Brighter hopes, bel
ter health, calmer resignation, and purer
peace, seemed to follow the child's footsteps
and be always inherent in her very pres
ence, as she moved to and fro in the sick
room. All the little, difficulties of com
municating with her and teaching her,
which her misfortune rendered inevitable,
and which might sometimes nave been felt
as tedious by others, were so many distinct
sources of happiness, so many exquisite
occupations of once-weary time to Mrs.
Blyth. Even those who had witnessed the
poor lady's admirable patience and cheer
fulness, from the first, in bearing with her
hard lot, were now often astonished to find
her, under the influence of little Mary's
presence, even rivalling her husband's flow
of good spirits, in her own gentle, feminine
way. All the friends of the family de
clared that the child had succeeded where
doctors, and medicines, and luxuries, and
ihe sufferer's own .courageous resignation
had hitherto failed— for she had succeeded
in endowing Mrs. Blyth with a new life.
And they were right. A fresh object for the
affections of the heart and the thoughts of
the mind, is a fresh life for every feeling
and thinking human being, in sickness even
as well as in health ;
, In this, sense, indeed, the child brought
fresh life with her to all who lived ia het
new home — to the servants as well as tc


64

HIDE AND SEEK.

the master and mistress. The cloud had
rarely found its way into that happy dwel
ling in former days : now the sunshine
seemed fixed there for ever. No more
beauiiful and touching proof of what the
gentle heroism of patient dispositions and
loving hearts can do toward guiding hu
man existence, unconquered and unsullied,
through its hardest trials, could be found
anywhere than was presented by the aspect
of ue painter's household. Here were two
chief members of one little family circle,
afflicted by such incurable bodily calamity
as it falls to the lot of but few human be
ings to suffer — yet here were no signs, no
tears, no vain repinings with each new
morning, no gloomy thoughts to set wo
and terror watching by the pillow at night.
In this home of love, life, even in its frail
est aspects, was still greater than its great
est trials ; though only strong to conquer
by virtue of its own innocence and purity,
its simple unworldly aspirations, its heroic
self-sacrificing devotion to the happiness
and anxieties of others.
As the course of her education proceeded,
many striking peculiarities became de
veloped in Madonna's disposition, which
seemed to be all more or less produced by
the necessary influence of her affliction on
the formation of her character. The social
isolation to which that affliction condemned
her, the solitude of thought and feeling into
which it forced her, tended from an early
period to make her mind remarkably self-
reliant, fur so young a girl. Though she
paid the readiest deference to the opinions
of others, she always seemed to have con
victions of her own in reserve — judging for
herself on all occasions as it generally
seemed to those about her, more by instinct
than by reason. This peculiarity in her
character was often curiously exemplified
by her behavior to the different visiters who
came to Mr. Blyth's house.
Her first impression of strangers seemed
invariably to decide her opinion of them at
once and for ever. She liked or disliked
fieople heartily ; estimating them apparent-
y from considerations entirely irrespective
of age, or sex, or personal appearance.
Sometimes, the very person who was
thought certain to attract her, proved to be
absolutely repulsive to her — sometimes
people who, in Mr. Blyth's opinion, were
sure to be unwelcome visiters to Madonna,
turned out, incomprehensibly, to be people
whom she took a violent liking to directly.
She always betrayed her pleasure or un
easiness in the society of others with the
most diverting candor — showing the ex-
tremest anxiety to conciliate and attract
those whom she liked ; running away and
hiding herself like achild, from those whom
she disliked. There were some unhappy
people in this latter class, whom no per

suasion could ever induce her to see a second
time, if she could possibly avoid it.
She could never give any satisfactory
account of how she proceeded in forming
her opinions of others. The only visibh
means of arriving at them, which her deaf
ness and dumbness permitted her to use,
consisted simply in examination of a stran
ger's manner, expression, and play of fea
tures at a first interview. This process,
however, seemed always amply sufficient
for her ; and in more than one instance
events proved that her judgment had not
been misled by it. Her affliction had tended,
indeed, to sharpen her faculties of observa
tion and her powers of analysis to such a
remarkable degree, that she often guessed
the general tenor of a conversation quite
correctly, merely by watching the minute
varieties of expression and gesture in the
persons speaking — fixing her attention al
ways with especial intentness on the
changeful and rapid motions of their lips.
Exiled alike from the worlds of sound
and speech, the poor girl's enjoyment of all
that she could still gain of happiness, by
means of the seeing sense that was left
her, was inconceivable in its intensity to
her speaking and hearing fellow-creatures.
All beautiful sights, and particularly the
exquisite combinations that nature presents,
filled her with an artless rapture, which it
affected the most unimpressible people to
witness. Trees were beyond all other ob
jects the. greatest luxuries that her eyes
could enjoy. She would sit for hours, on
fresh summer evenings, watching the mere
waving of the leaves ; her face flushed, her
whole nervous organization trembling with
the sensations of deep and perfect happiness
which that simple sight imparted to her.
All the riches and honors which tbis world
can afford, would not have added to her ex
istence a tithe of that pleasure which Val
entine easily conferred on her, by teaching
her to draw ; he might almost be said to
have given her a new sense in exchange for
the sense that she had lost. She often used
to dance about the room with the reckless
ecstasy of a child, in her ungovernable de
light at the prospect of a sketching expedi
tion with Mr. Blyth in the Hampstead
fields. At a very early date of her sojourn with
Valentine, it was discovered that her total
deafness did not entirely exclude her from
every effect of sound. She was acutely
sensitive to the influence of percussion —
that is to say (if so vague and contradictory
an expression may be allowed), she could,
under certain conditions, feel the sounds
that she could not hear. For example, if
Mr. Blyth wished to bring her to his side
when they were together in the painting-
room, and when she happened neither to
be looking at him nor to be within reach


HIDE AND SEEK.

65

oi a touch, he used to rub his foot, or the
end of his mahlsiick gently against the
floor. The slight concussion so produced,
reached her nerves instantly ; provided al
ways that some part of her body touched
the floor on which such experiments were
tried. As a means of extending her facilities of
social communication, she was instructed
in the deaf and dumb alphabet by Valen
tine's direction ; he and his wife, of course,
learrsng'it also ; and many of their intimate
friends, who were often in the house, fol
lowing thek example for Madonna's sake.
Oddly enough, however, she frequently pre
ferred to express herself, or to be addressed
by others, according to the clumsier and
slower system pf signs and writing, to which
she had been accustomed from childhood.
She carefully preserved her little slate with
its ornamented frame, and kept it hanging
at her side, just as she wore it on the
morning of her visit to the rectory-house
at Rubbleford.
In one exceptional case, and one only, did
her misfortune appear to have the power of
effecting her tranquillity seriously. When
ever, by any accident, she happened to be
left in the dark, she was overcome by the
most violent terror. It was found, even
when others were with her, that she never
could keep her self-possession at such times.
Her own explanation of her feelings on
these occasions, at once suggested the
simplest and best of reasons to account for
this weakness in her character. "Remem
ber," she wrote on her slate, when a new
servant was curious to know why she al-
waye slept with a light in her room — "Re
member thatl am deaf and blind too in the
darkness. You, who can hear, have a sense
to serve you, instead of sight, in the dark
— your ears are of use to you then, as your
eyes are in the light. Not hearing any
thing, I seem to lose all my senses together,
when I can't see anything; and this is why
I can't help feeling lost, and helpless, and
frightened out of my wits when I'm in the
darkness." It was only by rare accidents, which
there was no providing against, that she
was ever terrified in this way, after her
horror of being in the dark had been first
discovered. In this, as in all other matters,
Valentine made her happiness his own pe
culiar care. He was, in truth, unnecessarily
sensitive about her in many things; and
often suffered anxieties on her account,
which he was afraid or ashamed to confess
to anybody, sometimes even including his
wife. The first and the chief of these anxieties,
however, he was obliged to communicate
to others, for the sake of securing his own
peace of mind. He had a morbid dread that
Madonna might be one day traced and dis

covered by her father, or by some of her
surviving relatives. His heart sickened at
the bare thought of the desolation that
would fall upon his household, if the adopted
child who was now the great object in life
to his wife and himself, should ever, by any
evil chance, be claimed and taken away
from ibem. To avert by eveiy means in
bis power any possibility of the occurrence
of such a calamity as this, he determined to
keep ail the particulars he knew about Ma
donna's birth, as well as the circumstances
under which he himself at first met with
her, a profound secret from everybody —
from intimate friends, and from meie
acquaintances alike.
Animated by this resolution, he wrote off
to Doctor Joyce and Mrs. Peckover a day
or two after tbe child's first entry under his
roof, stating his motives for observing tbe
strictest precaution in relation to her, and
pledging hot h the persons whom he addressed
to the deepest secresy accordingly. As for
the hair bracelet, if his conscience had al
lowed him, he would have destroyed it im
mediately ; but feeling that this would be
an inexcusable breach of trust, he was fain
to be content with locking it up, as well as
the pocket-handkerchief, in one ofthe most
private recesses of an old bureau in his
painting-room, the key of which he always
kept attached to his own watch-chain.
Not one of his London friends ever knew
how be first met wilh Madonna. He
baffled all forms of inquiry with one form
of answer. The circumstances (he used to
say) were very melancholy, and such as he
must be excused from relating— except in
deed as to her deafness, which he bad no
objection to state was the result of a severe
fall. He would lake it as a favor if people
would be pleased to consider her history
before she came into his house as a perfect
blank. But now that she was a member
of his family, all friends were welcome lo
cultivate her acquaintance in her proper
character, as his adopted daughter — -as
"Miss Blyth," if it would be any particular
gratification to others to call her so. This
method of silencing troublesome curiosity
succeeded certainly to admiration ; but at
the expense of Mr. Blyth's own moral char
acter. Kind friends, with the exception
of some few who were really acquainted
with' his real disposition and his early life,
all shook their heads, and laughed in secret ;
saying that the mystery was plain enough
to the most ordinary capacity, for the young
lady could be neither more nor less than a
natural child of his own.
Mrs. Blyth was much more indignant at
this report than her husband, when in due
time it reached the painter's house. Valen
tine was not the man to care a straw about
calumny, so long as it was only confined to
his own character. He would have been


66

HIDE AND SEEK.

now perfectly easy about the preservation
of his secret, but for a little distrust, which
he felt at times in spite of himself, on the
subject of Mrs. Peckover's discretion. He
was not so easily convinced, as he ought
to have been, of that excellent woman's
power of governing her tongue on all occa
sions ; and what was worse, he could not
keep his doubts on this important point to
himself, even in her presence.
It was the most amusing thing in the
world to hear Mr. Blyth solemnly warning
Mrs. Peckover to be careful in keeping the
important secret, every time she came to
London to see Madonna. Wheiher she
only paid them a visit for the day, and then
went away again — or whether she spent
her Christmas with them, on those oc
casions when her husband got a pantomime
engagement at one of the minor theatres —
Valentine's greeting always ended nervous
ly with this distrustful question : — " Excuse
me for asking, Mrs. Peckover, but are you
quite sure you have kept what you know
about little Mary and her mother, and dates
and places and all that, properly hidden
from prying people, since you were here
last?" At which point Mrs. Peckover
generally answered by repeating, always
with the same sarcastic emphasis: "Prop
erly hidden, did you say, sir? Of course
I keep.what I know properly hidden, for of
course I can hold my tongue. In my time,
sir, it used always to take two, parties to
play at a game of Hide and Seek. Who in
the world is seeking after little Mary, I
should like to know ?"
Perhaps Mrs. Peckover's view of the
case was the right one, and there was really
no need to fear that any paternal claimant
was in search of Madonna — or, perhaps,
the extraordinary discretion observed by
the persons who were in the secret of her
history, prevented any particulars connected
with the girl's origin from reaching her
father or friends, presuming them to be still
alive and anxiously looking for her. But,
at any rate, let it happen from what cause
it might, this much at least is certain, that
nobody was ever heard of as wanting to
assert a claim to Valentine's adopted child,
from the time when he took her home with
him asvhis daughter, to the time when the
reader first made his acquaintance, many
pages back, in the congenial sphere of his
own new painting-room.*
* I do not know that any attempt "has yet been
made in English fiction to draw the character of a
"deaf-mute," simply and exactly after nature —
or, in other words, to- exhibit the peculiar effects
produced by the loss nf the senses nf, hearing and
speaking on tlie disposition of the person so afflicted.
The famous Fenella in Scott's "Peverilof the Peak,"
only assvmps deafness and dumbness: and the whole
family of dumb people on the stage hnve the remark
able faculty — so far as mv experience pops— of al-
, ways being able to hear what is said to them, When

CHAPTER IX.
VISITER IN THE STUDIO.
It is now a long time ago since we lefi
Mr. Blyth and Madonna in the studio. The
first was engaged, it may be remembered,
in the arduous process of smartening up
Bacchanalian nymphs in the foreground of
a grand classical landscape. The second
was modestly occupied in making a copy
of the head of the Venus de Medici.
The two sit nearly at opposite ends of
the studio, working away steadily — Valen
tine, in particular, paying such breathless
attention to his task, that he can not even
whistle " Drops of Brandy" as usual ; and
has only left his place once that morning
to see how Madonna is getting on. It is
past one o'clock already, when a tremen
dous ring is heard at the house-bell.
"There he is !" cries Mr. Blyth to him
self, pausing in the very act of. putting a
high light on a nymph's thigh: — " There's
Zack ! — got away from the tea merchant's,
and come here according to promise. I
know his ring among a thousand ; it's worse
even than the postman's ; it's like an alarm
of fire!"
Here Valentine drums gently with his
mahlstick on the floor. Madonna looks
toward him directly ; he waves his hand
round and round rapidly above his head.
This is the sign which means ** Zack." The
the idea first occurred to me of representing the char
acter of a "deaf-mute" as literally as possible ac
cording to nature, 1 found the difficulty of getting; at
tangible and reliable materials to work from much
greater than I had anticipated; so much greater
indeed, that I believe my design must h ive been
abandoned if a lucky chance had not thrown in
my way Doctor Kitto's delightful little bonk, "The
Lost Senses. In the first division of that work, wbich
contains the author's interesting and touching nar
rative of his own sensations under the total loss of
ihe sense of hearing, and its consequent effect on
ihe faculties of speech, will be found my authority
for most of ihnse trails in Madonna's character which
are especially and immediately connected with the
deprivation from which she is represented as suffer
ing. The moral purpose to he answered by the in
troduction of such a personage as this, and of the
kindred character of the painter's wife, lies, I would
fain hope, so plainly on the surface, lhat it can be
hardly necessary for me lo indicate it even to the
most careless reader. I know of nothing whinh more
firmly supports our faith in the better parts of human
nature, than to see — as we a'i may — with what
patience and cheerfulness the heavier bolilv afflic
tions of humanity are born, for tlie most part, by those
afflicted ; and also to note what elements of kind
ness and gentleness the spectacle of Hv*st» nfflintions
ronstnntiy develops in the persons of the little circle
by which the sufferer is surrounded. Here is the
ever hrfcht side, ihe ever noble and consoling aspect
of all human calamity; and the object of presenting
this to Ihe view of others, as trnly, as worthily, and
as tenderly as in him lies, ne^ms to me to he a fit ob
ject for any writer who desires to address himself
to the best and readiest sympathies of hi<* renders.
W. W. G


HIDE AND SEEK.

67

girl smiles brightly, and blushes as she sees
it. Zack is evidently one of her special
favorites. While the young gentleman is being ad
mitted at the garden-gate, there is a leisure
moment to explain how he became acquaint-
ec with Mr. Blyth.
Valentine's father and -Mrs. Thorpe's
father (the identical Mr. Goodworth who
figures at the beginning of this narrative
as one of the actors in the Sunday drama
at Baregrove square) were intimate friends
of that drowsy-story-telling and copious-
port-drinking old school, the last relics of
which are nowfast disappearing from among
us. The friendly intercourse between these
gentlemen spread, naturally enough, to the
sons and daughters who formed their re
spective families. From the time of Mr.
Thorpe's marriage to Miss Goodworth,
however, the connection between the junior
Goodworths and Blyths began to grow less
intimate — so far, at least, as the new bride
and Valentine were concerned. The rigid
modern puritan of Baregrove square, and
the eccentric votary of the fine arts, mutu
ally disapproved of each other from the
very first. Visits of ceremony were ex
changed at long intervals ; but even these
were discontinued on Madonna's arrival
under Valentine's roof; for Mr. Thorpe was
one of the first of the charitable friends of
the family, who suspected her to be the
painter's natural child, and said he thought
it his duty to discourage immorality by dis
continuing Mr. Blyth's acquaintance. An
almost complete separation accordingly en
sued for some years, until Zack grew up to
boy's estate, and was taken to see Valentine,
one day in holyday time, by-his grandfather.
He and the painter became friends directly.
Mr. Blyth liked boys, and boys of all de
grees liked him. He good-naturedly made
overtures of civility to Zack's parent about
this time, which were, however, accepted
so coldly, that they were never renewed ;
the boy, nevertheless frequented Valentine's
house at every opportunity, and never
neglected his artist-friend in after-years. At
the idate of this story, one of the many
points in his son's conduct, of which Mr.
Thorpe disapproved on high moral grounds,
was the firm determination the lad showed
to keep up his intimacy with Mr. Valentine
•Blyth. Let us now get back to the ring at the
bell. Zack's approach to the painting-room
was heralded by a scuffling of feet, a loud
noise of talking, and a great deal of
suspicious giggling on the part of the house
maid, who had let him in; Suddenly
these sounds ceased — the door was dashed
open — and Mr. Thorpe, junior, burst into
the room.
"Dear old Blyth! how are you.?" cried

Zack. " Have you had any leap-frog since
I was here lasi ? Jump up, and let's cele
brate my entry into the painting-room with
a bit of maidf exercise in our old way
Come on ! I'll give the first back. Nc
shirking ! Put down your palette ; and one
two, three — and over !"
While pronouncing these last words,
Zack ran to the end of the room opposite
to Valentine ; and signalized his entry into
the, studio by the extraordinary process of
giving its owner, what is termed in the
technical language of leap-frog, " a capital
back." Mr. Blyth put down his palette, brushes,
and mahlstick — tucked up his cuffs and
smiled — took a little trial skip into the air,
and became serious^ — cried out "lower!" —
took another trial skip — and, running down
the room with the heavy and slightly
tremulous step of a gentleman of fifty,
cleared Zack in gallant style ; falling over,
it is true, on the other side all in a lump
on his hands and feet, but giving the return
"back" conscientiously, at the other end
of the room ; and being leaped over in an
instant, with a shout of triumph, by Zack.
The athletic ceremonies thus concluded, the
two stood up together and shook hands
heartily. "Too stiff, Blyth— too stiff and shaky
by half," said the young gentleman. "I
haven't kept you up enough in your gym
nastics lately. We must have some more
leap-frog in the garden ; and I'll bring the
gloves next time, and open your chest by
teaching you to fight. Splendid exercise,
and so good for your jolly old liver."
Delivering this opinion, Zack ran off to
Madonna, who;had been keeping the Venus
de Medici from being shaken down, while
she looked on at ihe leap-frog— excessively
amused, but a little nervous on Mr. Blyih's
account. " How is the dearest, prettiest,
gentlest love in the world ?" cried Zack,
taking her hand, and kissing it with boiste
rous fondness. " Ah ! she lets other old
friends kiss her cheek, and only lets me kiss
her hand ! — I say, Blyth, what a little witch
she is ; I'll lay you two to one she's guessed
what I've jusl been saying to her."
A bright flush overspread the girl's face,
while Zack addressed her. Her lender blue
eyes looked up at him, shyly conscious of
the pleasure that their expression was be
traying; and the neat folds of her pretty
gray dress, which had lain so still over her
bosom when she was drawing, began to rise
and fall gently now, when Zack was hold
ing her hand. If young Thorpe had not
been the most careless, restless, and thought
less of human beings -as much a boy still,
in many respects, as when he was iocked
up in his father's dressing-room for bad
behavior at church — he might have guess
ed long ago, why he was the only one of


68

HIDE AND SEEK.

Madonna's old friends whom she did not
permit to kiss her on the cheek !
But Zack neither guessed, nor thought of
guessing, anything of this sort. His flighty
thoughts flew off in a moment from the
young lady to his cigar-case ; and he walked
away to the hearth-rug, twisting up a piece
of waste paper into a lighter as he went.
When Madonna returned to her drawing,
her eyes wandered timidly once or twice to
the place were Zack was standing, when
she thought he was not looking at her ; and,
assuredly, so far as his personal appearance
was concerned, young Thorpe was hand
some enough to tempt any woman into
glancing at him with approving eyes. He
was over six feet in height ; and, though
then little more than nineteen years old,
was well developed in proportion to his
stature. His boxing, rowing, and other
athletic exercises, had done wonders to
ward bringing his naturally vigorous, up
right frame to the perfection of healthy
muscular condition. Tall and strong as he
was, there was nothing stiff or ungainly in
his movements. He trod easily and lightly,
with a certain youthful suppleness and
hardy grace in all his actions, which set off
his fine bodily formation to the best advan
tage. He had keen, quick, mischievous
gray eyes — a thoroughly English red and
white complexion — admirably bright and
regular teelh — and curly light brown hair,
with a very peculiar golden tinge in it,
which was only visible when his head was
placed in a particular light. Iri short, Zack
was a manly handsome fellow, a thorough
Saxon, every inch of him ; and (physically
speaking at least) a credit to the parents and
the country that had given him birth.
" Hullo, Snooks !" said he, looking down
at the cat who lay between his legs, " you've
got another kitten, have you? and you're
doing as well as can be expected, you pro
lific little devil — eh? I say, Blyth, you
and Madonna don't mind smoke?" — he
added, lighting his cigar.
" No — no," said Valentine. " But, Zack,
you wrote me word that your father had
takjn all your cigars away from you — "
" So he has, and all my pocket-money
too. But I've taken to helping myself, and
got some glorious weeds. Try one, Blyth,"
said the yoifng gentleman, sublimely puffing
out a stream of smoke through.each nostril.
" Taken to helping yourself!" exclaimed
Mr. Biyth. " What on earth do you mean ?"
" Oh !'] said Zack, " don't be afraid. It's
not thieving; it's only barter. Look here,
my dear lellow, I'll tell you all about it.
My friend, the junior clerk at the tea-shop,
has three dozen weeds, and I have a beastly
Albert neck-tie that's only fit for a gent to
wear. The junior clerk gives me the three
dozen weeds, and I give the junior clerk the
Albert neck-tie. That's barter, and barter's

commerce, old chap ! It's all my father's
fault. He will make a tradesman of me
Ain't I a good boy to be doing a bit of com
merce already on my own account ?"
" I'll tell' you what, Zack," said Mr,
Blyth, speaking rather absently in consei
quence of being professionally engaged at
that moment in enlarging the folds of a
Bacchante's blue petticoat ; " I'll tell you
what, I don't like the way you're going on
in at all; your last lelter made me very
uneasy, I can promise you."
" You can't be half as uneasy as I am,"
rejoined Zack. " I'm jolly enough here, to
be sure, because I can't help it somehow ;
but at home I'm the most miserable devil
on the face of the earth. My father balks
me in everything, and makes me turn hypo-
crite, and take him in, in all sorts of ways
— which I hate myself for doing ; and yet
can't help doing, because he forces me to it.
Why does he want to make me live in the
same slow way that he does 'ni mself ? There's
some difference in our ages, I rather think !
Why don't he let me have a key to the
door ? Why does he bully me about being
always home by eleven o'clock? I only
want to amuse myself quietly as other chaps
do. Upon my soul, Blyth, I believe he
thinks it's my natural disposition to be
gambling, quarrelling, seducing, running in
debt, and getting blind drunk every night
of my life !"
" Come, come, Zack ! don't talk in that
way, even in joke."
"Oh, yes! it's all very well, you old
humbug, to shake your head at me ; but
you wouldn't like being forced into an in
fernal tea-shop, when you wanted to be an
artist, if you were in my place.. Look
here ! What do you think I had to do
yesterday ? They had a tea-tasting, as they
call it, at the office. They made fifty small
pots of fifty different sorts of tea, and poured
them all out into fifty yellow gallipots.
Then the principal partner puts a spoon into
my hand and says, ' Do as I do.' And, by
Jove, he goes all down the fifty gallipots,
beginning at number one, and takes a spoon
ful from each, and rolls it abuut in his
mouth, and then spits it out into a tin basin
with a spout like they have at the dentists',
and writes down in a book some abominable
hocus-pocus of lines and dots, at the end of
each spit, which he says is the character of
the tea. And I have to imitate him ! Fifty
of the spoonfuls, and fifty of the spits, and
fifty of the hocus-pocuses, did I go through
yesterday. I ask you, or any man, if it isn't
loo bad to force me into such a tea and ex
pectoration line of business as that ? Of
course it is ! But I've made up my mind
I want to be an artist, and I will be an
artist. Don't lecture, Blyth — it's no use:
but just tell me how I'm to begin learning
to draw."


HIDE AND SEEK.

69

This demand of Zack's touched Valentine
on his weak point. Art was his grand
topic ; and to ask his advice on that subject,
was to administer the sweetest flattery to
his professional pride. He wheeled his
chair round directly, so as to face young.
Thorpe. " If you're really set on being an
artist," he began enthusiastically, "I raiher
fancy, Master Zack, I'm the man to help
you. First of all, you know, you must
start with drawing from the antique (here
he jumped up excitably). Begin, my boy,
with the glorious works of Greek sculpture,
which will teach you the eternal principles
of taste, and — and, in short everything.
Stop! just wait one minute! there's a bit
of work here that I must finish. Never
mind my painting — I can use my brush and
my tongue both together."
Here Mr. Blyth returned in a great hurry
to his picture ; neglecting to move his chair
round again, and perching himself briskly
on the back rail. In this position he now
began to throw a little more intellect (as he
said) into the venerable bald head of the
philosopher ; who was represented in his
composition as meditating profoundly on
the gambols of the dancing nymphs.
"You'll be down directly, Blyth, if you
sit like that," said Zack.
"'Oh, no! I'm used to it," said Valen
tine ; I rather like the position ; it reminds
one of silting on the top of a stile, and
sketching from nature in the country."
"By George, so it does!" cried Zacky
taking a cnair directly, and putting himself
into Mr. Blyth's position; "but, I say!
don't you find it cuts you a little, in the
iong run — eh ?"
" So does a stile, if you sit long enough
on it," rejoined Valentine. " But let's get
back to what we were talking about. Let
me see — what was I saying? Oh! the
antique. (Just hand me the palette-knife,
will you?) Well, you must form yourself
on the antique; by which, you know, I
mean ancient sculpture — Jobk there ! just
what Madonna's doing now ; she's forming
herself on the antique."
Zack went immediately to look at Ma
donna's drawing ; the outline of which was
now finished. "Beauiiful! Splendid! Ah,
confound it, yes ! the eternal principles,
and all that, just as you say, Blyth. A most
wonderful drawing ! the finest thing of the
kind I ever saw in my life !" Here he
transferred his superlatives to his fingers,
communicating them to Madonna through
the medium ofthe deaf and dumb alphabet,
which he had superficially mastered with
extraordinary rapidity under Mr. and Mrs.
Blyih's tuition. Whatever Zack's friends
did, Zack always admired with the wildest
enthusiasm, and without an instant's pre
vious consideration. Any knowledge of
what he praised, or why he praised it, was

a slight superfluity of which he never fel
the want. If Madonna had been a greal
astronomer, and had shown him pages of
maihemaiical calculations, he would have
ejaculated vehement eulogies just as glibly
as — by means of the finger alphabet— he
was ejaculating them now.
But Valentine's pupil was used to bt
criticised as well as praised; and her head
was in no danger of being turned by Zack's
admiration of her drawing. Looking up
at him with a sly expression of incredulity,
she signed these words in reply : "lam
afraid it ought to be a much better drawing
than it is. Do you really like it ?" Zack
rejoined impetuously by a fresh torrent of
superlatives. She watched his face, for a
moment, raiher anxiously and inquiringly,
then bent down quickly over her drawing.
He walked back to Valentine. Her eyes
followed him— then returned once more to
the paper before her. The color began
to rise again in her cheek ; a thoughlful ex
pression stole calmly over her clear, happy
eyes ; she played nervously with the port
crayon that held her black and white chalk ;
looked attentively at the drawing; and,
smiling very prettily at some fancy of her
own, proceeded assiduously wilh her em
ployment, altering and amending, as she
went on, wilh more than usual industry
and care.
What was Madonna thinking of? If she
had been willing, and able, to utter her
thoughts, she might have expressed them
thus: "I wonder whether he really likes
my drawing ? Yes, I am sure he does, or he
would not have said so. Shall I try hard
if I can't make it better worth pleasing
him? I will ! it shall be the best thing I
have ever done. And then, when it is
nicely finished, I will take it secretly to
Mrs. Blyth to give from me, as my present
to Zack."
" Look there," said Valentine, turning
from his picture toward Madonna, " look, my
boy, how carefully and anxiously that dear
good child there is working from the an
tique ! I must take her out for a walk soon,
or she will be getting a headache. Only
copy her example, and I'll answer for your
being able to draw from the life in less than
a year's time."
" You don't say so ? Oh, that cursed
tea-shop! I should like to sit down and
begin at once. But, look here, Blyth, when
you say ' draw from ihe life,' you mean —
of course, there can't be the smallest doubt
about what you mean — but, at the same
time; you know, old fellow — eh ? In short,
hang me if I understand exactly what you
do mean ?"
" Gracious Heavens, Zack, in what crimi
nal ignsranceof art your parents must have
brought you up ! I mean drawing the
living human figure from the living human


70

HIDE AND SEEK.

being which sits at a shilling an hour, and
calls himself a model."
" Ah, yes, to be sure ! I understand now
(in fact I had a sort of a glimmering be
fore). Some of those people whose names
are written here over your fireplace? —
Delightful! Glorious! Drawing from the
life^-just the very thing I long for most.
Hullo !'* exclaimed Zack, turning round
to read the confused memoranda above the
chimney-piece, and lighting accidentally on
the particular line which has been quoted
•n the chapter of this narrative that de
scribes Valentine's studio — "Hullo! 'Dan
iel Sulsh, athletic model with beard.' Oh,
Lord ! how I should like to see Sulsh ! I
say, Blyth, is he the sort of chap I ought lo
begin upon ?"
" He's a capital model*" said Valentine
with a little hesitation; "his beard grows
to his waist ; and he has a splendid Farnese
Hercules development-wn fact, we call him
' Hercules Sulsh,' in the profession. But
he's a difficult fellow to manage. Some
people think him a lil tie cracked ; and he
certain,y does walk about with a black
cocked hat, and rusty knee-breeches— or, at
least, he did ; for he's in the house of cor
rection now, poor fellow !"
" What have they put him in there for ?"
asked Zack.
" Well," replied Mr. Blyth, " it's not so
easy to say. You must know, one of his
oddities is that he sees visions, which com
mand him to do all sorts of extraordinary
things — at least he says so himself. He
got into this scrape, through seeing a vision
in the Laburnum road, close by here. He
was out walking, and stopped to look at a
horse and gig, standing, without anybody
to mind them, at a garden gate ; the horse
being tied up to a lamp-post. Well, he
saw a vision which commanded him to get
in to the gig, and drive out a couple of miles
or so, on the Northern road, for an airing
to improve his health. (You may laugh;
Zack ; but he told me this himself, when I
went to see him in prison.) I daresay you
won't believe it; but he actually got into
the gig and took his drive, and "was met,
coming back to Laburnum road (with his
health, he said, greatly benefited), by the
owner of the gig, who gave him in custody
directly. His defence before the magistrate
was that he couldn't possibly disobey the vis
ion, and that he was bringing the gig back
to where he took it from, when he was
'.aught. Everybody thought him mad, ex
cept the magistrate, who said fie was drunk,
and committed him, cocked hat and all,
as a rogut and vagabond. He goes on hav
ing visions, even in the house of correc
tion ; and I dare say he'll come here and
tell me about them, the first thing when he
gets out. However, upon the whoie, Zack,

I shouldn't recommend your employing
Sulsh — at least lo begin with."
"Well, here's another name," said Zaejr.,
going on with ,the memoranda above the
chimney-piece. " 'Amelia Bibby' — oh, by
Jove, a woman! That's much nicer than
Sulsh. I'll begin with Amelia Bibby— eh,
Blyth ?"
" You may, if you go to the royal acad
emy," said Valentine. "She sits there
She's a capital model, and so is her sister,
Sophia. The worst of it is, they quar
relled mortally a little while ago ; and now,
if an artist has Sophia, Amelia won't come
to him. And Sophia, of course, returns the
compliment, and won't sit to Amelia's
friends. It's very awkward for people who
used to employ them both, turn and turn
about, as I did."
"But what did they quarrel about?" in
quired Zack.
"A teapot," answered Mr. Blyth. "You
see they are daughters of one of the late
king's footmen, and are desperately proud
of their aristocratic origin. They used to
live together as happy as birds, without a
hard word ever being spoken between them,
till one day they happened to break their tea
pot, which, of course, set them talking aoout
getting a new one. Sophia said it ought to
be earthenware, like the last ; Amelia con
tradicted her, and said it ought to be metal.
Sophia said all the aristocracy used earthen
ware ; Amelia said all the aristocracy used
metal. , Sophia said she was oldest, and
knew best ; A melia said she was youngest,
and knew better. Sophia said Amelia was
an impudent jackanapes ; Amelia said So
phia was a plebeian wretch. From tha
moment they; parted. Sophia sits in hei
own lodging, and drinks tea out of earthen
ware ; Amelia sits in her own lodging, ana
drinks tea out of metal. They swear never
to make it up, and abuse each other furious
ly to everybody who will listen to them.
Very shocking and very curious at the same
time, isn't it, Zack ?"
" Oh, capital ! best bit of human nature I
ever heard in my life," exclaimed the young
gentleman, smoking wilh the air of a pro
found philosopher. "But, tell me, Blyth,
which is the prettiest, Amelia or Sophia?
Metal or earthenware? My mind's made
up, beforehand, to employ tlie. best-looking
of the two, if you have no objection."
" Which is the prettiest, eh?" said (Mr.
Blyth, slowly backing away from his pic
ture into the middle of the room, and trying
to speak about the nymphs, Amelia and
Sophia, while his thoughts were all with
their allegorical sisterhood on his own can
vass. " Well, I really don't know ; they're
both fine girls. Sometimes one looks bes*,
and sometimes the oiher. Amelia, being
ihe biggest and fattest of the two, is, of


HIDE AND SEEK.

71

course — though I can hardly say wheiher
Sophia's figure isn't upon the whole— I
beg your pardon, Zack ! I know I'm talk
ing nonsense ; hut there's something bothers
me just now in my picture, and I can't quite
make out what it is. Dear, dear, dear me !
the foreground's io a mess somewhere ;
and I can't for the life of me make out
where." " Oh, come, nonsense !" cried Zack, look
ing at the picture with his most confidently
critical air. " It's the grandest foreground
I ever saw in my life. Real poetry and —
and, in fact, upon my soul what you call
real poetry. That's my candid opinion,
Blyth. If the patrons of art don't lug out
handsomely to get such an inestimable gem
as that picture^"
" Stop ! for heaven's sake, stop !" cried
Valentine, in a fever of excitement, " I've
found it out. I've got at the-mess in the
foreground. It's in the bushes there, to the
left of the figures. I've fetched out the
nymphs and fetched out the philosopher.
and now I must fetch out the bushes.
They're flat, and feeble, and funky in
point of painting — they want a little vigor
crisply pitched into them, and they shall
have it !"
" Well, now you mention it, perhaps
they do," said Zack. "But then the devil
of it is, how are you to manage, eh ?"
" I'll manage it in two seconds," said Mr.
Blyth, whirling his palette-knife round and
round in his hand, in a fine frenzy of artistic
inspiration. " You have only to suppose
those bushes furze-bushes in bloom, and it's
done. Don't say a word yet, till I've
fetched them fairly out by throwing every
man-jack of them into full bloom !"
Speaking thus, Mr. Blyth now proceeded
to perform by one great effort those two
difficult and delicate operaiions in an,
technically described as "putting in taky
touches, and bringing out bits of effect."
These arduous final processes, are, as all
painters know, only to be accomplished
through the medium of certain mystic
bodily evolutions, of the same intricate
nature as those to which Vi.__ntine now
abandoned himself.
He first took up a little bright yellow
paint on the top of his palette-knife, and
solemnly held it out from him at arm's
length, frowning intently at his picture for
a moment or so. Then he excitably jumped
forward a step — then nervously jumped
backward again into his former place; in
decisively describing strange figures in the
air with his palette-knife. Suddenly, the
expected moment of artistic inspiration
came. He ran at his picture as if he were
about to jump, harlequin-fashion, through
the canvass — smeared the yellow paint
over the bushes ; passing the palette-knife
across them in one ferocious zig-zag sweep

from end to end ; rubbed the color violently
inio the surface, at ceriain places, with the
ball of his thumb; ran back in a great
hurry to his former point of view in the
middle of the room ; dropped his head very
much on one side ; held up two fingers be
fore the -figure-part of the picture : and, in
lhat position, surveyed with breathless at-
tentipn the general effect of the bloom on
the furza-bushes.
"I've done it!" exclaimed Valentine,
drawing a long breath. "I've done it to
my complete satisfaction." (Here he made
another dash at the bushes with his palette-
knife and his thumb.) " You look sur
prised, Zack, I dare say you never saw
bits of effect thrown into a picture before.
it's wonderful what we can do in art with
our thumbs, in ticklish operations of this
sort. Upon my honor, I'm so satisfied
with the foreground, now I look at it again,
that I think I shall give over work for the
day, and take Madonna out to study effects
of snow in the country. It's a deliciously
bright, frosty afternoon for a walk. I wish
you could come with us, Zack. By-the-by,
I mustn't forget what lots of advice I've
still got to give you about the art. But,
tell me first, are you really and truly deter
mined lo be a painter ?"
"I mean to be a painter, or I mean to
bolt from home," said Zack, resolutely.
" If you: don't help me, I'll be off as sure as
fate! I have half a mind to cut the tea-
shop from this moment ; and go out to
study effects of snow with you and Ma
donna, instead of going back to cast up
sums at the office. Stop a minute ! By
Jupiter! I'll toss up for it. Heads, liberty
and the fine arts; tails, the tea-shop. I've
got a shilling in my pocket : here goes !"
"If you don't put the shilling back di
rectly," said Valentine, "and stick to your
engagements, I wash my hands of you ;
but, if you wait patiently, and promise to
show all the attention you can, at least for
the present, to your father's wishes, I'l,
teach you myself to draw from the antique.
If somebody can be found who has influence
enough with your father to get him to let
you go into the royal academy, you must
be prepared beforehanrl wilh a drawing
that's fit to show. Now you shall come
here, if you promise to be a good boy, and
learn the A B C of art in the evening;
every evening if you like. We'll have a
regular little academy," continued Valen
tine, putting down his palette and brushes,
and rubbing his hands in high glee; "and
if it isn't too much for Lavvie, the plaster-
model shall be set in her room ; and she
shall draw, poor dear soul ! as well as the
rest of us. There's an idea for you, Zack !
Mr. Blyth's drawing-academy, open every
evening with tea and muffins for indus«
trious students. What do you say to it ?"


HIDE AND SEEK.

direction, on either side of his nose and
mouth. These evidences of external decay
could not be ascertained to proceed from
any directly physical cause. Mr. Thorpe
certainly suffered at times from nervous at
tacks ; but the general state of his health
was, on the other hand, perfectly satis
factory, not only to himself, but even to the
family doctor as well. His friends said that
he had grown to look aged before his time,
from incessant mental anxiety, which anx
iety they invariably and indignantly con
nected with the name of Zack. Mr. Thorpe
allowed them to talk as they pleased on
this topic, never absolulely accepting or
absolutely rejecting the condolences tin t
were offered to him on the subject of hi
wayward son.
He had always been a remarkably silent
man, and his taciturn habits had increased
as he increased in years. His was not sul
ky, or mysterious, or variable silence ; it
seemed habitual and constitutional. What
words he did utter were always of the
same simple and straightforward kind. He
never exaggerated in his talk, never used
colloquial phrases, and never approached
violence of language, even in the most try
ing moments of his intercourse with Zack.
He had inherited a sufficiently large for
tune (amassed in commerce by his father),
to absolve him from all necessity of work
ing for his livelihood ; but he was by no
means an idle man on that account. Pos-
scssi ig very strong religious feelings ; be
longing to lhat large and respectable con
gregation of devout persons who seem to
look af" their religion exclusively from a
controversial point of view, and to prize it
chiefly for the sake of enforcing its pro
hibitions, Mr. Thorpe was just the man to
feel an active and conscientious interest in
the theological politics of his day. He was
warmly attached to that particular section
of professing Christians which is techni
cally described as containing the " Low
Church Party ;" and liberally devoted his
time, his energies, and his purse, lo the
service of the enterprising community lo
which he belonged. He was an active
member of more than one alliance for pro
pagating protestantism and annihilating
popery ; he was an influential and generous
director of a famous tract society; he was
secretary to a local school establishment,
organized for the express purpose of pre
venting the Romanists from getting any
ignorant children to teach ; he was head of
one of the branch-home-correspondence
departments of a wealthy missionary
corporation ; he was president of a lay
assembly of private gentlemen associated
for tne purpose of examining and interpret
ing prophecy — in short, he was always
occupied in one way or another — contro
versially, proselytizingly.'or theologically

— in advancing with all his heart a,id might,
the best interests of ihe powerful religious
party to whose service he was attached.
The house at Baregrov* square w«s not a
hospitable house; tor its master was not a
man who delighted in festivals, and expand
ed under the influences of social intercourse.
He limited himself to giving small and
mournful dinner-parties, choosing his guests
from the friends who labored with him in
the /arious uocieiies to which he belonged,
and from the clergymen under whose advice
and influence they all icted. The conver
sation was invariably on controversial sub
jects on these occasions ; the decanters cir
culated slowly after dinner ;• texts (general
ly selected from the most mystical passages
in the revelation) were " expounded" up
stairs in the drawing-room, by way of
evening recreation. Zack was always order
ed to be present at these solemnities for his
own good ; and suffered under the conse
quent mortification of flesh and spirit se
verely. Sometimes he was ignominiously aroused
before everybody, from semi-oblivious slum
bers, while the " expounding" was in full
progress. Sometimes he was discovered,
and pitilessly checked, in manoeuvring to
get the tardy decanters prematurely brought
within his own reach. Sometimes he was
reproved and lectured for abruptly leaving
the dining-room before Mr. Thorpe and
his guests had risen, from table. Zack him
self used to account for this last dereliction
of duty to Mr. Blyth, by assuring that gen
tleman that he was obliged to run out of
the room to avoid being overcome by cer
tain morbid yearnings to tumble head over
heels, to imitate the crowing of a cock, and
to grind the heads of seriously-minded gen
tlemen against the wall behind them, which
always disastrously assailed him whenever
there was a pause in the solemn flow ol
conversation at his father's table.
Mr. Thorpe's only approach to any such
levity as a recreation for his leisure hours
consisted in gathering together and arran
ging autograph letters of celebrated men.
The first places in ihis collection were as
signed to ancient and modern divines ; the
second to politicians, especially those whose
statesmanlike deafness to cries for reform
recommended tbem to the admiration of a
conservative posterity ; the third to mili
tary and naval heroes ; and the fourth to
scientific celebrities. There was also a fifth,
last, and lowest place, which was assigned
to- famous authors — an arrangement, by the
way, perfectly in harmony with that ailing
literary patriotism peculiar to the English
constitution, which is still too delicaie to
bear the shock of seeing a national statue
of Shakespeare erected, or the names of
ihe illustrious Irethren of Shakespeare's
order inscribed, on any one of the great


74

HIDE AND SEEK.

public sites and streets of the British me
tropolis. His books of autographs (for he had
many v«lumes of them) seemed to be the
principal solace of Mr. Thorpe's hours of
repose by his own fireside. Engravings of
the celebrated writers of the celebrated let
ters were neatly let into the top divisions
of the thick quarto leaves which gave size
and solidity to the books. They were all
neatly bound in the same sad colored mo
rocco suits, with indexes at the end, neatly
written in Mr. Thorpe's own hand. He
used often to sit for hours together, silently
turning over the leaves of his collection ;
smoothing out accidentally crumpled pages
of the letters, sticking them light with
gum at places where they had started, dust
ing the surface of the engravings gently
with a large camel's hair brush ; and, in
fact, keeping the whole collection perfectly
speckless in every part of it, from the first
volume to the last. He never seemed to
care much about showing his autographs
to others ; he never boasted about them,
and never talked of what they had cost.
He had a silent, thoughtful, undemon
strative pleasure in enjoying them entirely
by himself, in his own study, and that
was all.
Though in no sense of the word a domestic
tyrant, he nevertheless reigned quietly and
unobtrusively despotic over every member
of his household — always excepting the
ever-graceless and revolutionary Zack. The
housemaid never " over-slept" herself, the
cook was never unpunctual with dinner,
and the page was always ready to answer
the door, at Baregrove square. Winter and
summer, spring and autumn, the whole
domestic machine revolved always with
the same unrelenting and ceaseless regular
ity. Morning and evening prayers were
celebrated, the bell rang for breakfast at
half-past eight, the front door was bolted
for the night at eleven o'clock, never, in
any instance, five minutes before, or five
minutes after the appointed time. Accident,
forgetfulness, hurry, delay, were four words
practically superfluous to the English lan
guage under Mr. Thorpe's roof. His will
possessed some inscrutable superiority which
rendered it easily master of the wills of
others who lived in daily contact with him.
Still always excepting his insubordinate
son, he so completely assimilated every
soul in his abode to himself and his habits,
that the whole household, down to the very
boy who blacked ihe shoes, seemed to live
only to reflect the domestic character, and
develop the domestic principles of Mr.
Thorpe. His wife was a remarkable example of
his mysterious power of moulding the dis
positions of others into perfect conformity
with his own, without the slightest appa

rent effort, and without his influence being
in any respect felt by those about him.
Although Mrs. Thorpe had less of the
turbulent old Goodworth blood in her veins
than any other member of her family, her
manner, before her marriage, always ex
hibited palpable traces of her father's
vivacity, and her conversation was always
more or less enlivened by some hereditary
sparkles of her Irish mother's , wit. But,
after her union with Mr. Thorpe, these
natural characteristics began, one by one, to
disappear. Gradually and insensibly the
gay word and the joyous laugh came less
and less frequently from her lips. Old
friends of the Goodworths who could not
prevail upon themselves to face Mr. Thorpe
for the sake of seeing his wife, except at
rare intervals, always remarked with aston
ishment how completely she was changed,
how unnaturally like her husband she
seemed to have become, and how amazingly
positive she was in agreeing with him in
all his most outrageous opinions, and all his
most capricious tastes.
In time, the poor lady began to reflect
her husband faithfully, even in personal
appearance ; she grew to resemble him
outwardly and visibly by growing thin.
Her father's favorite joke, in her days of
plump girlhood, about buying a small steam-
engine to lace her stays tight enough would
have been wretched mockery in her days
of wedded life. She lost, too, in complex
ion and gait, as well as in figure ; these and
other personal changes, which it would be
ungallant to mention, proceeding, however,
from no unusual bodily ailment, and, most
assuredly, from no mental disappointment.
They were simply the necessary physical
consequences of the moral transformation
effected in her by her union with Mr.
Thorpe. At the time of her marriage it had been
whispered about among her friends that she
had misconstrued some very ordinary atten
tions paid her by Mr. Thorpe, had fallen in
love with him, and had long pined for him
in secret, before he discovered it, and —
more out of honor than affection — made his
proposals to her. Her relations disapproved
of her choice, but did not openly oppose it,
and never plainly contradicted the rumors
just alluded to. Whether they were true
or not, it is at least certain that she was
passionately fond of her husband, worship
ping him of course only with that correctly-
regulated species of amatory devotion which
it was conjugally proper to offer to such a
man. She thought him the wisest and per-
fectest of created beings. She accepted all
his worst prejudices as semi-divine inspira
tions and truths. She judged everybody by
his standard, and shuddered over all her
acquaintances accordingly. She delighted
in paying the most servile obedience to his


HIDE AND SEEK.

slightest caprices. His minutest household
formalities were sacred family ethics to
her. If, for instance, one of her best friends
had declared in her presence that nine
o'clock was a good ordinary breakfast hour
for families, she would have disagreed with
the assertion immediately (though naturally
the least disputatious human being ever
created) ; and would have insisted that
half-past e ght was the better time — simply
and solely because Mr. Thorpe had fixed
half-past eight as the breakfast hour at
Baregrove square. Thinking with her
husband, feeling with him, living in his
life, her heart was the moral thermometer
which indicated the minutest changes of
temperature in the atmosphere of his — in
dicated them truly to a hair's breadth,
except in the one solitary case when the
variations were referable to the stormy in
fluence of Zack.
Toward her son she was still secretly
unchanged. The old, loving, instinctive
pride of her earliest maternal days in (he
beauty of her child, retained unassailably
the same strong place in her heart which
it had always held. Other shrines once
seated there, beautiful and holy in their
day, had long since been overthrown : this
sftrine remained indestructible to the last.
She wept often and bitterly over Zack's
quarrels with his father ; she was shocked
and terrified, and indignant and despairing,
by turns, at witnessing' Zack's reckless in
subordination — but she never once felt
toward him as her husband felt, even in
the lad's wildest excesses of scampish ir
regularity. That first affectionate, all-per
vading sense of triumph which she used to
feel at looking on her boy, or thinking of
him, in his childish days, would burn on,
warm as ever at her heart (though she tried
hard to believe that it was sinful) — often at
the very time when she was echoing, with
tears in her eyes, her husband's fiercest
condemnation of their son's rebellious con
duct. She could say his behavior was un
pardonable, she could tell Zack himself
that it was unpardonable, and she could
determine io feel conscientiously, that it
must be unpardonable ; but still, in spile of
all, the mother's pride in his fine stature,
his handsome healthy open face, his strength,
hardihood, and high spirit, would plead for
him; and, worse still, would often secretly
take Zack's side against his father, though
it was the wife's household religion firmly
to believe thai her husband was invariably
in the right.
Perhaps, Mr. Thorpe suspected this
weakness in her character, and believed
accordingly lhat her advice would be use
less to him on any subject connected with
his son's delinquencies; for, though he often
consulted clergymen and devout friends
about the best rn.ithod of disciplining Zack,

he never sought so much as five minutes
counsel from Zack's mother on that per
plexing topic. Perhaps, on the other hand.
he not only suspected his wife's weakness,
but made allowance for it, and mercifully
forbore, whenever he could, from submit
ting it to painful tests. He might well and
justly have acted thus from motives of
sympathy and humility only ; for he had
an abiding weakness of his own which
exercised a curiously-debilitating influence
over his otherwise vigorous and unbending
disposition. His one worldly ambition was to preserve
intact the character of a respectable man.
His one moral weakness was the constant
dread of accidentally compromising this
character, if he deviated in the smallest
degree from the established routine of his
chosen opinions, employments, society, and
daily habits. His standard of respectability
was unlimited and uncompromising. That
widely-worshipped axiom of'our commercial
morality which asserts that any man (or
rascal) is respectable who can "pay his
way, was an axiom at which Mr. Thorpe
shuddered. His vigorous respectability —
both in theory and practice— ascended in
comparably higher and descended ineffably
lower than the weakly respectabilities of
most of his neighbors. It rose to the climax
of the most puritanical virtue and the most
impossible mortal perfection : it sank to the
most humble and familiar of the manners
and customs of every-day life. It embraced
at once the strictest watchfulness in preserv
ing the proprieties of temper and the pro
prieties of dress. It was equally vigilant in
regulating the flow of his language and the
length of his nails. Il began with his be
havior at church : it ended with his behavior
at tea.
If he worshipped respectability devoutly,
he also worshipped it sincerely. If he
anxiously washed the outside of the cup
and platter, he did not forget to keep the
inside clean too. He was not more virtuous
in the broad glare of noonday than he was
under cover of the darkest night. He was
no such time-server, money-server, or rank-
server with high moral principles, as may
be seen among us every day. He was no
hypocrite who secretly petted the sins that
allured him, and openly castigated the sins
that were not to his taste. In grim, un
compromising, very truth, he was what he
assumed to be; what he gloried in being;
what he dreaded as the direst of degrada
tions .lot to be — a respectable man. All
the secret pulses of his moral and mentaV
life hung together on the same thread (it is
never more than a thread, in this world),
which elevated his character above the
reach of calumnies of every kind, great and
small. As credit is prized by a merchant,
as circulation is prized by an author, as


76

HIDE AND SEEK.

reputation is prized by a woman — so was
respectability prized by Mr. Thorpe .
If he had not had any children, or, having
them, if they had been daughters: or, to
take the case as it really stood, if his son
had happened to be if a quiet, passive, and
cool-hlooded nature, the various peculiar
ities which altogether composed Mr.
Thorpe's character would never have
reached that disastrous prominence, as
domestic agents, into which circumstances
had forced them, now and for some time
past. Having, however, a son who was
neither quiet, nor passive, nor cool-blooded ;
who seemed incomprehensibly to have in
herited a disposition from his mother's fam
ily instead of his father's loins ; whose ex
uberant energies, wild flow of spirits, and
restless craving after excitement, dissipa
tion, and change, would have tried the en
durance of the most indulgent parental
rule ; having, in short, such a son as Zack;
every one of Mr. Thorpe's favorite preju
dices, principles, and opinions, acquired a
fatal importance, merely from the direct
influence which they involuntarily exer
cised, not only in aggravating the filial
irregularities, but also even in producing
those very offences which he was most
vigilantly anxious to restrain. Such pages
of this book as are destined faithfully to
relate the tribulations of Zack, must not
shrink from candidly acknowledging that
the first cause which immediately produced
them was often, in plain words, no other
than Mr. Thorpe himself.
Among the list of capacities which some
people seem to be born without possessing,
or bred without acquiring, may be included
the power of recognising their own motives,
passions, and frailties, when reproduced in
the actions of others who happen to be
their inferiors in station, or their juniors in
years. When a lady and gentleman in love
and small circumstances, for example, both
agree in considering that the motive which
makes them want to be married may rea
sonably reconcile them- to the sacrifice of
every advantage which they respectively
enjoyed in their bachelor and spinster con
ditions, as well as to the risk of every so
cial misfortune which may follow an im
prudent marriage; and when they have
been accordingly matrimonially associated
together.for life, it is by no means unusual
to hear both husband and wife declare that
they are highly astonished or extremely in
dignant, if their housemaid or cook happen
to e3pouse a footman without prospects, or
a green-grocer in a declining way of busi
ness. They can not possibly understand
how the girl can have been so infatuated
as to give up a good place where she was
perfectly comfortable and was saving
money, w;th the risk of starvation, ill-
treatment, w desertion absolutely staring

her in the face all the time! The mistress
laments over her imprudence with other
married ladies, who cordially agree with
her. The master appeals confidently, and
not in vain, to other husbands to know if
they ever before heard of such a fool in their
lives. Suggusl either to the lady or the gen
tleman, that John the foolman and Jane
the housemaid have only felt with their
motives, acted with their passions, and
obeyed* under the same circumstances, ex
actly the same human instincts which mas
ter and mistress have obeyed' before them;
and, ten to one, both husband and wife
stare with astonishment and start simul
taneously, as if they had been invested, foi
the first time in their lives* with eyesight
enough to recognize themselves in the glass
which is held up before them by the con
duct of others.
So again with fathers and sons. How
many parents are there who are capable of
remembering what they were at twenty,
when their sons happen to have arrived at
that age? How many can be found who
are able frankly to renew acquaintance, in
memory only, with such juvenile indiscre
tions as their children's irregularities some
times drag by main force Of analogy from
the convenient limbo of oblivion? How
many fathers who feel violently irritated or
deeply grieved at finding that their sons can
not practically absorb, in the course of an
hour or two, the whole flood of good advice
poured upon them from the paternal reser
voir of morality, which has only been, fed
to overflowing by ihe accumulations of
many years, drawn from that stream of
wisdom whose first source was experience ;
how many fathers, suffering under such pa
rental disappointment as this, are clever
enough to find consolation for the present,
and hope and guidance for the future, in the
remembrance that they themselves also, in
their day, were oftentimes sadly shallow
and leaky recipients of the full flow of pa
ternal counsel ? How many really possess
a serviceable capacity of this kind ; or, pos
sessing, are able to employ it for their own
advantage and the advantage of their chil
dren ? About ihe same number, probably,
which would also include the sum total of
ladies and gentlemen who are sharp-sighted
enough to' recognize their own matrimonial
motives, when exactly reflected before them
in the marriage of their inferiors.
Now, although it must have appeared
perfectly evident to anybody acquainted
with Mr. Thorpe, even by sight only, that
his character at twenty could not have re
sembled the character of his son at the
same age, it is also equally certain, as a
plain human fact, that Zack's father when
a lad, and Zack's father when a gentleman
of fifty, must have been, in many import
ant respects, two very different individuals


HIDE AND SEEK.

77

The baits with which the devil fished for
Mr. Thorpe at twenty, and for Mr. Thorpe's
son after him, at those years, might have
been different enough ; but the one must
ha been allured1 — and caught, too, some
times — by the special temptation which
was proper to attract him, just as cleverly
as the other was — caught, and perhaps
thrown back into the infernal angler's well-
stocked human preserves, to be neatly
hooked again at some future period.
Had Mr. Thorpe any memory at all for
the temptations which, as a fallible being,
he must himself sometimes haye succumbed
*o in his youth, on any of the numerous oc
casions when he passed merciless sentence
of condemnation on the frailties of Zack?
Did his power of making comparisons and
tracing resemblances (though competent
enough for all ordinary emergencies) ever
help him to the discovery that, however
different in degree his faults and his son's,
as young men, might appear, the first mo
tive causes, the original moral weaknesses
which led to them, were, nevertheless, in
virtue of their common human derivation
of similar nature in both cases? Did he
ever recognize any family likeness to past
fallibilities of his own, in the fallibilities
which led Zack astray into forbidden paths ?
Never : he was too busy in fighting blindly
with results to look back into causes and
into himself. His own conduct proved it,
if nothing else did. For, whatever other
paternal experiments he might try, he never
once attempted the justest, the most merci
ful, and the most promising of all — the ex
periment of sometimes making allowances
before he passed judgment on Zack.
A specimen has already been presented
of his method of religiously educating his
son, at six years old, by making him attend
a church-service of two hours in length ;
as, also, of ihe manner in which he sought
to drill the child into premature discipline
by dint of sabbath-resirictions and select
Bible texts. When that child grew to a
boy, and when the boy developed to a
young man, Mr. Thorpe's educational sys
tem still resolutely persisted in being what
it had always been from the first. His idea
of religion defined it to be a system of pro-
nibitions ; and, by a natural consequence,
his idea of education defined that to be a
system of prohibitions also.
He was not a man to pause for an instant
at reducing theory to practice. He never
distrusted himself: and what he thought it
right to do, that he did, undismayed alike
by logical confutation or practical ill result.
His plan of bringing up his son once
fonn«d, no earthly consideration could
move him from it an inch, one way or the
other. He had two favorite phrases to an
swer every form of objection, every variety
of reasoning, every citation of example?. No

matter with what arguments the members
of Mrs. Thorpe's family from time to time
assailed him, the same two replies were
invariably shot back at them in turn from
the parental quiver. Mr. Thorpe calmly —
always calmly — said that he " would nevei
compound with vice" (which, by-the-wayy
was what nobody asked him to do), and,
secondly, that he would, in no instance,
great or small, " consent to act from a prin
cipal of expediency:" this last asserlion, in
the case of Zack, being about equivalent to
saying that, if he set out to walk due norih,
and met a lively young bull galloping with
his head down due south, he would not
consent to save his own bones, or yield the
animal space enough to run on, by stepping
aside a single inch in a lateral direction,
east or west.
His system of education acted badly
enough with Zack as a child ; worse still
with Zack as a boy at school ; worst of all
with Zack as a young man, just ready to
accept a vocation for life. At this latter
period of the son's career, the father's in
fatuated obstinacy claims especial attention ;
for at this period it produced the most fatal
results.

CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIBULATION OF ZACK.
Narrowness and intolerance were char
acteristic in various degrees of all Mr.
Thorpe's opinions ; and they especially dis
tinguished his opinions on the sort of per
manent occupation which he thought it
desirable that his son should choose. Four
professions which the general voice of the
civilized world is accustomed to call honor
able, he condemned in a breath. The army
and navy were to be carefully shunned, be
cause officers were often tempted to dissipa
tion in quarters»i>r in port. Medicine and
law were equally inadmissible on high moral
grounds ; the first because it led the student
to materialism and drunkenness ; thi; sec
ond because it fostered infidelity by confu-
singtbe boundaries between right ami wrong.
Divinity was left as the last profession to
choose, and the only profession of which
Mr. Thorpe approved; provided always
that it wrangled on his side of the question,
and wrought to attain his favorite ends.
The second place in his estimation was oc
cupied by commerce ; principally because
many of his devout friends happened to be
mercantile friends also. Beyond this he
did not think it desirable to look. He had
the hope of hoisting Zack up into the pulpit,
and the resource, in case of failure, of jam
ming him down to the desk. What mort
could so practical-minded a parent possibly
want ?


HIDE AND SEEK.

79

must be under the eyes of devout friends, in
whom I can place unlimited confidence.
One of those devout friends is ready to re
ceive him into his counting-house, to ac
custom him to business habits and lucrative
pursuits'; to combat his rebellious disposi
tion ; to keep him industriously occupied
from nine in the morning till six in the
evening; to surround him with estimable
examples; and, in short, to share with me
the solemn responsibility of managing his
whole moral and religious training. Per
sons who ask me to allow motives of this
awfully important nature to be modified in
the smallest degree by any considerations
connected with his natural disposition
(which has been a source of grief to me
from his childhood) : wilh his bodily gifts
of the flesh (which have hitherto only served
to keep him from the cultivation of the gifts
oi the spirit) ; or with his own desires
iwhich I know by bitter experience to be
fill of ihe world worldly) ; persons, I say,
who ask me to do any of these things, ask
me also to act from a godless principle of
expediency, and to violate moral rectitude
by impiously compounding with vice."
At this point, on most occasions, when
his projects for his son were assailed by
hostile criticism, Mr. Thorpe cleared his
throat, sighed, and looked steadfastly down
on the floor — his wife put her handkerchief
to her eyes — and his wife's relatives arose
»n a hurry, and acknowledged the force of
the argument ihey had just heard, in two
words, by saying — " Good morning."
Tbe commercial situation (in a tea-
broker's office) which Zack was now ap
pointed to fill, was not expected to fall
vacant for six weeks, or more. But he lost
his liberty to roam the country from morn
ing to night, on the very day when this
place was secured to him. Mr. Thorpe
considered it important that he should be
drilled in his official exercise during all that
remained of his leisure time at home ; and
resolved on engaging a tutor to instruct him
in the art of book-keeping, and fill him
brimful of arithmetical knowledge. Zack's
natural want of the calculating capacity (he
coMld never be got to learn the multiplica
tion table), and consequent abhorrence of
all that related to figures (he used to have his
sums done for him at school by other boys),
stimulated him to immediate rebellion
against the proposed exercise of his father's
authority. Mr. Thorpe said, with his usual
brief decision and iron hardness of logic,
that arithmetic was necessary to a com
mercial man — his son was about to become
a commercial man — therefore his son must
learn arithmetic. Havinguttered thisshort
formula, he considered that he had done
quite enough to stop a perfect torrent of
filial expostulation ; and went calmly on
with his letter to the arithmetical tutor, in

forming thai gentleman of the first day ori
which his attendance would be required in
Baregrove square.
But Zack resisted and expostulated anew
at every fresh scrape of his father's pen.
He had. no head for arithmetic (he said), and
felt perfect horror at the bare idea of enter
ing a tea-broker's office. Drudgery at a
desk, and confinement from morning to
night, would drive him mad. What had he
done lobe persecuted in this infamous way ?
(Here Mr. Thorpe carefully blotted the firs'
page of the letter, and went on to the olhei
side.) Why not let him learn to be a
painter, like Mr. Blyth ? Did they want to
drive him to despair, and make him run
away from home, by forcing him into thi(
employment of all others that he hated thi
most ? (Here Mrs. Thorpe said, " Oh,
Zack, dear, hush — pray, pray, hush !") It
was very well for mother to say " hush,"
when father was breaking his heart ! Yes,
breaking his heart ! It was as good as
doing that, to keep him from being out in
the air and the daylight, working away,
sunshine and shower, all jolly and hot, at
something or other that he was fit for.
Make him anything but a tea-broker — he
didn't care what. If he might not be happy
learning to sketch out of doors with dear
old Valentine, let him be happy in some
other line. Send him to a farmer, and let
him be a country bumpkin for the rest of
his days ; pack him off to sea, as a sailor
before ihe mast, if they liked ; he could
rough it with the best of them. Make a
railway stoker of him, and only see how he
would feed ihe engine! Banish him to
some butcher's shop ; he didn't care as long
as he drove the cart. (Here Mr. Thorpe
concluded his letter, and put it into an
envelope.) Yes, raiher than be shut up in
a tea-shop and bullied into book-keeping, he
would a thousand times sooner drive a
butcher's cart — sooner sweep a crossing —
sooner go of errands — sooner be an omnibus
cad. (Mr. Thorpe directed the letter and
put a stamp on it.) They might send the
letter ; but flesh and blood couldn't stand an
ariihmetical tutor — he warned them of
that ! (Mr. Thorpe looked at his watch —
rang ihe bell — then, turning to Zack, said,
"Prayers. Take your proper place, sir:
and be silent, if you have any sense of com
mon decency.") "Ah! prayers indeed!"
(Here Zack muttered under his breath.)
" I'm miserable enough to want praying for
more than any other living soul in the
world !" Mr. Thorpe put his letter on the
sideboard, to be taken to the post the first
thing in the morning. Mrs. Thorpe stealth
ily dried her eyes ; Zack slunk off into a
dark corner ; the servants entered. Dead,
silence at last.
That night Mr. Thorpe little imagined
how seriously his son was reflecting on the


Sd

HIDE AND SEEK.

propriety of running away from book-keep
ing, tea-brokering, and home, the first ihing
in the morning. For once, Zack had not
exaggerated in saying that his aversion to
employment in a counting-house amounted
to absolute horror. His physical peculiari
ties, and the habits which they had en
tailed on him from boyhood, made life in
the open air and the constant use of his
hardy thews and sinews a constitutional
necessity. He felt, and there was no self-
delusion in the feeling, that he should mope
and pine like a wild animal in a cage, un
der confinement in an office, only varied
from morning to evening by commercial
walking expeditions of a miserable mile or
two in close and crowded streets. These
forebodings — to say nothing of his natural
yearning toward adventure, change of
soene, and exhilarating bodily exertion —
would have been sufficient of themselves to
have decided him to leave his home, and
battle his way through the world (he cared
not where or how, so long as he battled it
freely), but for one consideration which,
bold as he was, unnerved him at heart, and
stayed his feet on the brink of a sacred
threshold which he dared not pass, perhaps
to leave it behind him for ever — the
threshold of his mother's door.
Strangely as it expressed itself, and ir
regularly as it influenced his conduct, Zack's
love for his mother was yet, in its own na
ture, a beautiful and admirable element in
his character; full of promise for the fu
ture, if his father had been able to discover
it, and wise enough to be guided by the
discovery. As to outward expression, the
lad's fondness for Mrs. Thorpe was a wild,
boisterous, inconsiderate, unsentimental
fondness, noisily in harmony with his
thoughtless, rattle-pated disposition. It
swayed him by fits and starts ; influencing
him nobly to patience and forbearance at
one time ; abandoning him, to all appear
ance, at another. But it was genuine ine
radicable fondness, nevertheless, however
often heedlessness and temptation might
overpower the still small voice in which its
pure impulses spoke to his conscience, and
pleaded with his heart.
Nothing lhat Zack did was more thor
oughly characteristic of him than his man
ner of testifying his affection. for his mother,
generally on those occasions when she used
to entreat him in private to pay attention to
his father's wishes for her sake. Showers
of loud, hearty kisses, which took away
the poor lady's breath ; vigorous, romping
embraces, which half frightened, half hurt
her, though she would never confess it ;'
lo. id-voiced, filial admiration, as ignorant as
.t was sincere, of all her little, favorite,
and modest ornaments of dress: voluble
nursery terms of endearment, so absurd,
and at the same time so simply touching.

when uttered by a sturdy son full six feel
high, that the mother .often laughed and
cried in the same breath while she listened
to them : these were some among the
roughly-honest varieties of outward form
in which, from time to time, Zack's filial
affection delighted lo express itself: these
were the wonted guaranties (always given
with perfect honesty of intention at the
time) under which his promises of refor
mation bound themselves to ripen into per
formances that should last for ever.
But it was the lad's misfortune to be
gified with more than his due share of the
human frailty which, in different propor
tions, we all inherit from our common
mortality. Rarely, very rarely, did the
design and ihe fulfilment- correspond, in his
case, as they should. Often, however, as
the enjoyments of the present misled him
into forgetfulness of past engagements, and
inattention to future consequences, there
were periods in his life when the remem
brance of his mother, and of all that he
had promised to do for her sake, recurred
to his memory, touched his heart, and saved
him at the right crisis from the commission
of many a fault, the consequences of which
might have proved fatal to him lor the rest
of his days.
Twice had he set forth to run away from
school ; and twice had the loving recollec
tion of his duty to his mother stopped him
in full career, and sent him back, a self-
convicted deserter, to suffer heroically un
der the avenging birch. Over and over
again, in his wanderings about the country,
was he sorely tempted to slay out all night
with poachers and gipsies, of to stop for the
evening dancing in the booths at a fair ; but
the dread of inflicting on his mother the
misery of anxiety and suspense which his
absence would be sure to cause her, was
always powerful enough to turn his truant
steps homeward, and bring him back at tbe
appointed hour in the evening, obedient to
domestic regulations for her sake.
And, even when severer trials assailed
his forthude — even when ihe abhorrent
presence of the arilhmetical tutor first dark
ened the doors of Baregrove square — Zack
lei Mrs. Thorpe wile him into submissipn
at the eleventh hour. And again, when the
place in the tea-broker's office was vacant,
if his mother had not coaxed, cried, and
persuaded as only a mother could, nothing
short of absolute force (and a very consid
erable exertion of it, loo) would have led
him an inch in the hated direction of the
office-stool. These domestic victories,
which Mr. Thorpe complacently at;ributed
entirely to his own firmness, the secret exr
ercise of Mrs. Thorpe's influence effected
in spite of every obstacle ; but more than
this, even her unremitting exertions could
not achieve. They could not allure the lad


HIDE AND SEEK.

81

into liking an employment for which he
was essentially unfit, and which he se
cretly loathed and execrated with all his
heart.' Day by day — even hour by hour —
lus stored-up hatred of his city occupations
accumulated at compound interest. Night
after night, as he tossed restlessly on his
bed, or lolled out of window, smoking the
proscribed cigar, did the familiar and fatal
temptation to turn his back unceremoniously
on home and home-troubles, increase its
seductions, and, treacherously taking ad
vantage of his own sense of the wrong in
flicted on him, grow stronger and stronger
in the conflict with the one good influence
which still strove against it, weakly but
resolutely to the very last.
Among other unlucky results of Mr.
Thorpe's conscientious imprisonment of his
son in a merchant's office, was the vast in
crease which Zack's commercial penance
produced in his natural appetite for the
amusements and dissipations of the town
After nine hours of the most ungrateful
daily labor that could well have been in
flicted on him, the sight of play-bills and
other wayside advertisements of places of
public recreaiion appealed to him every
evening, on his way home, wilh irresistible
fascination. Almost in every street that
he passed through, wilh wandering eyes
and lounging gait, siren voices sang around
him of public gayelies from placarded shop-
doors and various-papered boardings: Come,
melancholy and discontented youth (mur
mured the dulcet accents through interstices
of red, blue, or green letters of invitation);
come, and forget the tribulations of the day,
the murky realities of commercial life, in
our brilliant fairy-land of glitter and gas !
Come, and polk with our nymphs lo the
music of far-famed bands; laugh with our
swains at comedy and farce, and slang in
slipshod rhyme, miscalled burlesque. Come,
quaff at gin and water's balmy fount ; fat
ten deleciably on chops and steaks ; toss but
some paltry shillings here and there; and
lo ! the hades of your business hours shall
change forlhwith to paradise at night !
Such was ihe constant even-song which
murmured companionably to Zack on his
homeward way. But mingling always
with those melodious sounds, and siriving
cruelly to mar their sweetness, there
growled, threatening and harsh, a horrent
accompanying discord — the voice of relent
less prohibition that issued from the pater
nal lips.
Mr. Thorpe drew the line of demarcation
between permissible and forbidden evening
recreations at the lecture-room of the roval
and polytechnic institutions, and the orato
rio performances in Exetc hall. All gates
opening on the outer side of ihe boundary
thus laid down, were gates of vice— gates
that no son of his should ever be a?" owed

to pass. The domestic laws which obliged
Zack to be home every night at eleven
o'clock, and forbade the possession of a latch
key, were directed especially to the pur
pose of closing up against him the forbidden
entrances to theatres and public gardens —
places of resort which Mr. Thorpe de
scribed, in a strain of devout allegory, as
"devil's houses" and "labyrinths of na
tional infamy." It was perfectly useless to
suggest to the father (as some of Zack's ma
ternal relatives did suggest to him) lhat the
son was originally descended from Eve, and
was consequently possessed of an hereditary
lendency to pjuck at forbidden fruit; that
his disposition and age made it next to a
certainty, that if he were restrained from
enjoying openly the amusements naturally
most attractive to him, he would end in
enjoying them by stealth ; and that the
habits of deceit so engendered would be
the habits of all others most likely, by
blunting his moral sensibilities, to lead him
into abusing the recreations which expe
rience, if not precept, might otherwise
teach him how to use. It was quite fruitless
to address arguments of this kind to Mr.
Thorpe. He answered them all by regis
tering his usual protest against " expedi
ency" and " compounding with vice ;" and
then drew the reins of discipline tighter
than ever, by way of warning off all intru
sive hands from atlempting to relax them
for the future.
Before long, the evil results predicted by
the opponents of Mr. Thorpe's plan for
preventing his son from indulging in public
amusements, actually occurred. At first,
Zack gratified his taste for the drama, by
going lo the theatre whenever he felt in
clined ; leaving the performances early
enough to get home by eleven o'clock, and
candidly acknowledging how he had occu
pied the evening, when the question was
asked at breakfast the next morning. This
frankness of confession was always re
warded by rebukes, threats, and reiterated
prohibitions, administered by Mr. Thorpe
with a calm and pitiless severity, as impe
rially paternal dignity of manner, and a
crushing assumption of superiority to every
mitigating argument, entreaty, or excuse,
that his son could urge, which often irrita
ted Zack into answering defiantly, and
recklessly repealing his offence. Finding
that all menaces and reproofs only ended in
making the lad ill-tempered and insubordi
nate for days together, Mr. Thorpe so far
distrusted his own powers of correction as
to call in the aid of his prime clerical ad
viser, the.Reverend Aaron Yollop, under
whose ministry he sat, and whose portrait
in lithograph hung in the best light on the
dining-room wall at Baregrove square.
Mr. Yollop's interference was at least
weighty enough to produce a positive and


82

HIDE AND SEEK.

immediate result ; it drove Zack to the very
last limits of human endurance. The rev
erend gentleman's imperturbable self-pos
session defied the young rebel's utmost
powers of irritating reply, no matter how
vigorously he might exert them. Once
vested with the paternal commission to re-
Duke, prohibit, and lecture, as the spiritual
pastor and master of Mr. Thorpe's disobe
dient son, Mr. Yollop flourished in his new
vocation in exact proportion to the resist
ance offered to the exercise of his author
ity. He derived a grim encouragement, he
gathered a melancholy fullness of enjoy
ment from the wildest explosions of Zack's
fury at being interfered with by a man who
had no claim of relationship over him, and
who gloried, professionally, in experiment
ing on him, as a finely-complicated case
of spiritual disease. Thrice did Mr. Yol
lop, in his capacity of a moral surgeon,
operate on his patient, and triumph in the
responsive yells which his curative exer
tions elicited. At the fourth visit of attend
ance, however, every angry symptom of
disease suddenly and marvellously disap
peared before the first significant flourish
of the clerical knife. Mr. Yollop had tri
umphed where Mr. Thorpe had failed !
The case which had defied lay-treatment
had yielded to the parsonic process of cure;
and Zack, the rebellious, was tamed at last
into spending his evenings in decorous dull
ness at home !
It never occurred to Mr. Vollop to doubt,
or to Mr. Thorpe to ascertain, whether the
young gentleman really went to bed, after
he had retired obediently at the proper hour,
to his sleeping-room. They saw him come
home from business sullenly docile and
speechlessly subdued, take his dinner and
his book in the evening, and go up-stairs
quietly, after the house-door had been bolt
ed for the night. They saw him thus ac
knowledge, by every outward proof, lhat he
was crushed into thorough submission ; and
the sight satisfied them to their hearts' con
tent. No men are so short-sighted as per
secuting men. Both Mr. Thorpe and his
coadjutor were persecutors on principle,
wherever they encountered opposition ; and
both were consequently incapable of look
ing beyond immediate results. The sad
truth was, however, that they had done
something more than discipline the lad.
They had fairly worried his native virtues
of frankness and fair-dealing out of his
heart ; they had beaten him back, inch by
inch, into the miry refuge of sheer dupli
city. Zack was deceiving them both.
His sudden submission to his clerical as
sailant was not the impulse ofthe moment,
but the result of previous reflection on the
best method of silencing his father and get
ting rid of Mr. Yollop. To attain these
ends he was reduced— or, rather, he thought

himself reduced — to a choice between twa
alternatives ; flight or dissimulation. He
would not have hesitated a moment at
adopting the first, but for his mother.- She
had been more than usually kind, tender,
and compassionate toward him (in secret,
of course j since the increase of his domestic
tribulations ; and he could not summon the
cruel resolution to leave her by leaving
home. The second alternative was all,
therefore, that remained ; for, at his age,
and with his temperament — bound down,
too, as he was, to an occupation which
made the day hateful to him-"-the idea of
ending all his difficulties by paying implici
obedience to orders, and wholly abstaining
for the future from the only evening amuse
ments that procured him a few hours of
happiness to compensate for many hours of
gloom, presented itself to his mind in the
light of a sheer impossibility. The second
alternative was accordingly the alternative
that he chose; and once thus decided, he
soon hit on a notable plan for enjoying in
secret the forbidden diversions of "London
life," and at the same lime sustaining his
good character under the deluded super
vision of the reverend Aaron Yollop.
Eleven o'clock was the family hour for
going to bed, at Baregrove square. Zack's
first proceeding on entering his room was
to open his window sofily, put on an old
travelling cap, and light a cigar. It was
December weather at that time ; but his
swimming practice in the Hampstead ponds
rendered him as impervious to cold as a
young Polar bear. Having smoked quietly
for half an hour, he listened at his door till
the silence in Mr. Thorpe's dressing-room
below assured him that his father was safe
in bed, and invited him to descend on tiptoe,
with his boots under his arm, into the hall.
Here he placed his candle, with a box of
matches by it, on a chair, and proceeded to
open the house-door with the noiseless dex
terity of a practised burglar — being always
careful to facilitate the safe performance of
this dangerous operation by keeping lock,
bolt, and hinges, well oiled. Having secur
ed the key, blown out the candle, and noise
lessly closed the door behind him, he lefl
the house, and started for the Haymarket,
Covent Garden, or the Strand, a little before
midnight — or, in other words, set forth on
a nocturnal tour of amusement, just at the
time when the doors of respectable places
of public recreation, which his father pre
vented him from attending, were all closed,
and the doors of disreputable, places all
thrown open.
One precaution, and one only, did Zack
observe while enjoying the dangerous di
versions into which paternal prohibitions,
assisted by filial perversity, now thrust him
headlong. He took care to keep sobe*
enough to be sure of getting home before


HIDE AInT «EEK.

8?

the servants had risen, and to be certain
of preserving his steadiness of hand and
stealthiness of foot, while bolting the door
and stealing up-stairs for an hour or two of
bed. Knowledge of his own perilous weak
ness of brain, as a drinker, rendered him
thus uncharacteristically temperate and self-
-estrained, so far as indulgence in strong
i;quor was concerned. His first glass of
grog comforted him ; his second agreeably
excited him; his third (as he knew by
former experience) reached his weak point
on a sudden, and robbed him treacherously
of his sobriety.
Gallantly as he had hitherto resisted its
allurements, in the constant temptation to
excess offered by this third glass, lurked the
great danger of self-betrayal and consequent
discovery that lay in ambush for Zack ;
waiting to get the better of his frailty as
other temptations had got the better of it
already. Three or four times a week, for
nearly a monih, had he now enjoyed his
unhallowed nocturnal rambles with perfect
impunity ; keeping them secret even from
his friend Mr. Blyth, whose toleration, ex-
nansive as it was, he well knew would not
extend to viewing leniently such offences
as haunting night-houses at two in the
morning, while his father believed him to
be safe in bed. His misconduct, recklessly
as he persevered in it, had, however, not
yet produced the last, worst result of de
teriorating him beyond all chance of ref
ormation. He had still grace enough left
to feel ashamed of his own successful du
plicity, when he was in his mother's presence.
But circumstances unhappily kept him
too much apart from Mrs. Thorpe, and so
prevented the natural growth of a good
feeling, which flourished only under her in
fluence ; and which, had it been suffered to
arrive at maturity, might have led to his
reform. All day he was at the office, and
his irksome life there only inclined him to
look forward with malicious triumph to the
secret frolic of the night. Then, in the
evening, Mr. Thorpe often thought it ad
visable to harangue him seriously, by way
of not letting the reformed rake relapse for
want of a little encouraging admonition of
the moral sort. Nor was Mr. Yollop at all
behindhand in taking similar precautions to
secure the' new convert permanently, after
having once caught him. Every word these
two gentlemen spoke only served to harden
the lad afresh, and to deaden the reproving
and reclaiming influence of his mother's
affectionate looks and confiding words. " I
should get nothing by it, even if I could
turn over a new leaf," thought Zack,
shrewdly and angrily, when his father or
his father's friend favored him with a little
improving advice: "Here they are, worry
ing away again already at their pattern good
boy, to mat j him a better."

Such was the point at whi?h the tribu
lations of Zack had arilved; such the trials
he was suffering, and the offences he was
committing; and such the doubtful nature
of his relations with home, at the period
when that sanguine artist, Mr. Valentine
Blyth, resolved to set up a domestic draw
ing academy in his wife's room, with the
double purpose of amusing his family circlt
in the evening, and teaching his wild young
friend to be steady by teaching him to draw
from plaster casts.

CHAPTER XII.

A FAMILY DRAWING ACADEMY.
Although the most indolent and easy-
minded of men, in dealing with the ordi
nary occupations and interests of existence,
Mr. Blyth was impetuosity itself — a very
Hotspur among painters — in all that related
to his art. Whatever professional plans he
might form, he never rested until he had
either thoroughly succeeded, or thoroughly
failed in executing them on the spot. If he
had been at liberty to consult his own feel
ings, and to exert himself without reference
to others, his morning-dream of a domestic
drawing academy would have been realized
the same' evening, by the establishment of
a family school in full working order for
the three scholars whom it was alone de
signed to accommodate — Mrs. Blyth, Ma
donna, and Zack.
But one great purpose to be achieved by
Valentine's project, was the amusement of
his invalid wife during the long winter
evenings. Lavinia's comfort and con
venience were, therefore, to be consulted,
as the first and foremost of all considerations.
Anxious as she was to witness the establish
ment of tbe new academy in her room-, it
so chanced that the variable influences of
Mrs. Blylh's malady on her general health
were especially unpropitious to the im
mediate inauguration of her husband's even
ing drawing-school. She had her days of
weakness and her days of strength ; and it
was necessary to wait patiently for the lat
ter, before she. could be allowed to exeri
herself in the smallest degree. It was only
after a week of delay that a note could be
safely despatched to Baregrove square, in
viting Zack to receive the first ofthe series
of drawing lessons which Valentine had
promised to give him, on the occasion of
his last visit to the studio.
When Mr. Blyth rested at last from his
labors of collection and arrangement; and,
looking gayly around him in " Lavvie's
drawing-room," saw that all the prepara
tions for the first evening of his domestic
academy were complete, he was beyond


<54

HIDE AND SEEK.

comparison the most innocently proud and
genuinely happy man then in existence.
And he had ample cause to feel elated, as
he viewed Ihe home-prospect surrounding
him. Even the veriest stranger must have
been morose and miserable indeed, if he
could have entered Mrs. Blyth's room with
out feeling the happier for all that he saw,
no matter in what direction his eyes might
wander. There was, in truth, but one ob
ject visible in the whole range of the apart
ment which it was not a pleasure to look
at — and this was the plaster head which
Valentii.e had incomprehensibly selected, as
the best model that his three scholars could
draw from. It was a cast taken from the
tortured and terrible face of the centre
figure, in that grand group of a father and
two sons struggling in ihe folds of an enor
mous serpent, which we know in these
modern days by the title ofthe "Laocoon."
By throwing down a partition-wall, Mrs.
Blyth's room^had been so enlarged, as to
extend along the whole breadth of one side
of the house, measuring from the front to
the back garden windows. Considerable as
the space was wfiich had been thus obtained,
every part of it from floor to ceiling was
occupied by objects of beauty proper to the
sphere in which they were placed ; some,
solid and serviceable, where usefulness was
demanded ; others light and elegant, where
ornament alone was necessary— and all
won gloriously by Valentine's brush ; by
the long, loving, unjelfish industry of many
years. From the airy and glittering little
chandelier that lit the room by night, to the
gbssy leopard-skin rug that shone before
t' e" shining fireplace ; from the garden
¦mder glass in one recess, to the tender-
tinted satin-wood cabinet in arioiber; from
the carpet, whose rich green and. brown
hues mingled together in sober and perfect
harmony of color, to the cornice with its
delicaie tracery of vine-leaves and tendrils
painted from nature — every object in the
room told its mistress the same simple
household story of watchful sympathy that
never slumbered, and generous affection
that never changed; or wrote on her heart
the same touching record of sacrifices gladly
undertaken, of trials cheerfully borne, of
har J-won rewards gratefully prized, for the
one noble purpose of making the sanctuary
of the sick chamber a shrine for the choicest
offerings, as well as an altar for the most
earnest prayers.
Mrs Blyth's bed, like everything else
thai she used in her room, was so arranged
as to offer her the most perfect comfort and
luxury attainable in her suffering condition.
The framework was broad enough to in
clude within its dimensions a couch for day
and a bed for night. Her reading easel and
work-table could be moved within reach, in
whatever position she lay. Immediately

above her hung an extraordinary complica-
tion of loose cords, which ran through orna
mental pulleys of the quaintest kind, fixed
at different places in the ceiling, and com
municating with the bell, ihe door, and a
pane of glass in the window which opened
easily on hinges. These were Valentine's
own contrivances for enabling his wife to
summon attendance, admit visiters, and
regulate the temperature of her room at
will, by merely pulling at any one of the
loops hanging within reach of her hand, and
neatly labelled with ivory tablets, inscribed
" Bell," " Door," " Window." The cords
comprising this rigging for invalid use were
at least five times more numerous than was
necessary for the purpose they were design
ed to serve ; but Mrs. Blyth would never
allow them to be simplified by dexterous
hands. Clumsy as their arrangement might
appear to others, in her eyes it was without
a fault : every useless cord was sacred from
the reforming knife, for Valentine's sake.
Looking at her lace, as she now lay on
the couch side of the bed, talking to her
husband, or writing on Madonna's slate,
while the deaf and dumb girl sal by her, it
was not easy to associate the idea of long
confinement and suffering either with her
voice, her manner, or her look. Pitilessly
as disease had set its profaning traces on
her face, the expression of her features
defied the worst ravages of the spoiler;
living on in the glad vitality of its own
beauty, the one visible portion of her frail
life unenfeebled and unchanged. The
'hollow might be now in her cheek, where
the dimple once had been ; the bloom of
her complexion and the vivacity of her
dark eyes might have died away sadly, as
the withering breath of sickness passediover
them — but the expression still shone out
with a bright happiness of modest courage
and deathless hope, which covered as with
a veil of sunshine, all that was now worn
and wasted in the tender face.
Imprisoned to one room, as she had now
been for years, she had not lost her natural
womanly interest in the little occupations
and events of household life. From the
studio to the kitchen, she managed every
day, through channels of communication
invented by herself, to find out the latest
domestic news; to be present in spirit at
least, if not in bodyy at family consultations
which could not take place in her room ; to
know exactly how her husband was getting
on down-stairs with his pictures ; to rectify
in time any omission of which Mr. Blyth
or Madonna might be guilty in making the
dinner arrangements, or in sending orders
to trades-people ; to keep the servants
attentive to their work, and to indulge or
control them, as the occasion might require.
Neither by look nor manner did she betray
any of the sullen listlessness or fretful irn


HIDE AND SEEK.

patience sometimes attendant on long, in
curable illness. Her voice, low as its tones
were, was always cheerful, and varied
musically and pleasantly with her varying
thoughts. On her days of weakness, when
she suffered much under her malady, she
was accustomed to be quite still and quiet,
and to keep her room darkened — these being
the only signs by which any increase in her
disorder could be detected by those about
her. She never complained- when the bad
symptoms came on ; and never voluntarily
admitted, even on being questioned, that
the spine was more painful to her than
usual. She was dressed very prettily for the
opening night of the drawing academy,
wearing a delicate lace cap, and a new silk
gown of Valentine's choosing, made full
enough to hide the emaciation of her figure.
Her husband's love, faithful through all
affliction and change to the girlish image
of its first worship, still affectionately ex
acted from her as much attention to the
graces and luxuries of dress as she might
have bestowed on ihem of her own accord,
in the best- and gayest days of youth and
health. She had never looked happier and
better in any new gown than in that, which
Mr. Blyth had insisted on giving her, to
commemorate the establishment of the
domestic drawing-school in her own room.
Seven o'clock had been fixed as the hour
at which the business of the academy was
to begin. Always punctual, wherever his
professional engagements were concerned,
Valentine put the finishing touch to his
preparations, as the clock struck ; and
perching himself gayly on a corner of Mrs.
Blyth's couch, surveyed his drawing-boards,
nis lamps, and his plaster cast from the
" Laocoou," with bland artistic triumph.
"Now, Lavvie," said he, "before Zack
comes and confuses me (which he's certain
to do), I'll just check off all the drawing
things one after another, to make sure that
nothing's left down-stairs in the studio, lhat
ought to be up here."
As her husband said these words, Mrs.
Blyth touched Madonna gently on the
shoulder. For some little time the girl
had been sitting thoughtfully, with her
head bent down, her cheek resting on her
hand, and a bright smile just parting her
lips very prettily. The affliction which
separated her from the worlds of hearing
and speech — which set her apart among
her fellow-creatures, a solitary living being
in a sphere of death-silence that others
might approach, but might uever enter —
gave a touching significance to the deep,
meditative stillness that often passed over
her suddenly, even in tbe society of her
adopted parents, aud of friends who were
all talking around her. Sometimes the
thoughts by which she was thus absorbed-

thoughts only indica ed to others by the
shadow of their mysterious presence, mov
ing in ihe expressions that passed over bei
face — held her long under their influence :
sometimes, they seemed to die away in her
mind almost as suddenly as they had arisen
to life in it. It was one of Valentine's
many eccentric fancies that she was not
meditating only, at such times as these, but
that, deaf and dumb as she was with the
creatures of this world, she could talk with
the angels, and could hear what ihe heavenly
voices said to her in return.
The moment she was touched on the
shoulder, she looked up, and neslled close
to her adopted mother ; who, passing one
arm round her neck, explained to her, by
means of the manual signs of the deaf and
dumb alphabet, what Valentine was saying
at that moment.
Nothing was more characteristic of Mrs.
Blyth's warm sympathies and affectionate
consideration for Madonna than this little
aclion. The kindest people rarely think it
necessary, however well practised in com
municating by the fingers with the deaf, to
keep ihem informed of any ordinary con
versation which may be proceeding in their
presence. Wise disquisitions, witty say
ings, curious stories, are conveyed to their
minds by sympathizing friends and relatives,
as a matter of course; but the little chatty
nothings of everyday talk, which most
pleasantly and constantly employ our speak
ing, and address opr hearing faculties, are
thought too slight and fugitive in their
nature to be worthy of transmission by in
terpreting fingers or pens, and are conse
quently seldom or never communicated to
the deaf. No deprivation attending their
affliction is more severely felt by ihem than
the special deprivation which thus ensues,
and which exiles their sympathies, in a
great measure, from all share in tbe familiar
social interests of life around them.
Mrs. Blyth's kind heart, quick intel
ligence, and devoted affection for her adopted
child, had long since impressed it on her,
as the first of duties and pleasures, to pre
vent Madonna from feeling the excluding
influences of her calamity, while in tbe
society of others, by keeping her well in
formed of every one of the many conversa
tions, whether jesting or earnest, that were
held in her presence, in the invalid-room.
For years and years past, Mrs. Blyth's
nimble fingers had been accustomed to in
terpret all that was said by her bedside
before the deaf and dumb girl, as they were
interpreting for her now.
"Just stop me, Lavvie, if I miss' any
thing out, in making sure that I've got all
that's wanted for everybody's drawing
lesson," said Valentine, looking admiringly
at the cast from the "Laocoon," and pre
paring to reckon up the list of his materials


HIDE AND SEEK.

87

havei ottheport-orayons?" And Mr. Blyth
began to hunt for the lust articles, as usual,
in the wrong places. Mrs. Blyth made a
sign to Madonna, who found them all hud
dled together behind the cast. " Thirdly,
the port-crayons," reiterated Valentine,
kissing her in triumph, as she presented
them to him. " The port-crayons, and the
black and white chalk all cut ready to a
point, with a double allowance to Zack, be
cause he's sure to be breaking his points all
the evening. Fourthly — now I've got to
fourthly, Lavvie: I feel all right. Stop,
though; it oughtn't to be the lamps; it
ought to be something small and likely to
be forgotten. Fourthly, three drawing-
boards — no, they're the biggest things of
all. Paper? No, it's sluck on the draw
ing-boards ; (he thickest bit for Zack, be
cause he's certain to rub out every line he
does for the first half hour.. Fourthly —
Lavvie ! I've forgotten something import
ant ; and I don't in the least know what it
is," exclaimed Mr. Blyth in a lamentable
voice, looking all round him in extreme
perplexity and dismay.
k' Not the muffins you promised Zack for
tea, I hope," said Mrs. Blyth, laughing.
" Fourthly, muffins !" cried Valentine,
briskly ; " not that they're forgotien, by
any means, for I've ordered in enough to
suffocate every soul in the house— but it's a
blessing to have something' at last that will
do for fourthly, and get one on again to
fifthly. But fifthly what? There's the
difficulty. What can I have forgotten ?
Do try and think, my dear. It's something
that everybody wants for drawing."
" Bread-crumb to rub out with," suggest
ed Mrs. Blyth, after a moment's considera
tion. " That's it !" exclaimed Valentine, ec
statically. " I've left all the bread-crumb
down-stairs in the painting-room. No, no,
don't trouble Madonna to go after it. She
don't know where it is. Tell her lo poke
the fire instead; I'll be back directly."
And Mr. Blyth skipped out of the room as
nimbly as if he had been fifteen instead of
fifty. No sooner was Valentine's back turned,
than Mrs. Blyth's hand was passed under
the pretty swan's-down coverlet that lay
over her couch, as if in search of something
hidden beneath it. In a moment the hand
reappeared, holding a chalk-drawing very
lightly and neatly framed. It was Madon
na's copy from the held of the Venus de
Medici — the same copy which Zack had
honored with his most superlative exagge
ration of praise at his last visit to the
studio. She had not since forgotten, or
altered, her purpose of making him a pres
ent of the drawing which he had admired
so much. It had been finished with the
utmost care and completeness which she

could bestow upon it ; had been put into a
very pretty frame, which she had paid for
out of her own little savings of pocket-
money ; and was now hidden under Mrs.
Blyth's coverlet, to be drawn forth as a
grand surprise for Zack, and for Valentine
too, on that very evening.
After looking once or twice backward
and forward between the copyist and the
copy, her pale, kind face beaming with the
quiet merriment that overspread it, Mrs.
Blyth laid down the drawing, and began
talking with her fingers to Madonna.
" So you will not even let me tell Valen
tine who this is a present for ?" were the
first words which she signed.
The girl was sitting with her back half
turned on the drawing ; glancing at it
quickly from time to time wilh a strange
shyness and indecision, as if the work of
her own hands had undergone some trans
formation which made her doubt whether
she was any longer privileged to look at it.
She shook her head in reply to the question
just put to her, then moved round suddenly
on her chair — her fingers playing nervously
with the fringes of the coverlet at her side.
" We all like Zack," proceeded Mrs.
Blyth, enjoying the amusement which her
womanly instincts extracted from Madon
na's confusion ; " but you must like him
very much, love, to take more pains with
this particular drawing than wilh any
drawing you ever did before."
This time Madonna neither looked up
nor moved an inch in her chair, her fingers
working more and more nervously amid
the fringe; her treacherous cheeks, neck,
and bosom, answered for her.
Mrs. Blyth touched her shoulder gayly,
and, afier placing the drawing again under
the coverlet, made her look up, while sign
ing these words :—
" I shall give the drawing to Zack very
soon after he comes in. It is sure to make
him happy for the rest of the evening, aiiu
fonder of you than ever."
Madonna's eyes followed Mrs. Blyth's
fingers eagerly to the last letter they formed ;
then rose softly to her face with the same
wistful questioning look which they had
assumed before Valentine, years and years
ago, when he first interfered to protect her
in the travelling circus. There was such
an irresistible lenderness in the faint smile
that wavered about her lips ; such a sadness
of innocent beauty in her face, now grow
ing a shade paler than it was wont to be,
lhat Mrs. Blyth's expression became serious
the instant their eyes met. She drew ihe
girl forward and kissed her. The kiss was
returned many times, with a passionate
warmth and eagerness remarkably at va
riance with the usual gentleness of all Ma
donna's actions. What had changed hei
thus ? Before it was possible to inquire o»


88

HIDE AND SEEK.

to think, she had broken away from the
kind arms that were round her, and was
kneeling wilh her face hidden in the pil
lows that lay over the head of the couch.
" I must quiet her directly. I ought to
make her'feei lhat this is wrong," said Mrs.
Blyth to herself* looking startled and grieved
as she withdrew her hand wet with tears,
after trying vainly to raise the girl's face
from the pillows. " She has been thinking
too much lately — too much about that draw
ing — too much, I am afraid, about Zack."
Just at that moment Mr. Blyth opened
the door. Feeling the slight shock, as he
let it bang to after entering, Madonna in
stantly started up and ran to the fireplace.
Valentine did not notice her when he came
in. He bustled about the neighborhood of the
plaster-cast, talking incessantly, arranging
iiis lumps of bread-crumb by the drawing-
ooards, and trimming the lamps that lit the
model. Mrs. Blyth cast many an anxious
look toward the fireplace. After the lapse
of a few minutes, Madonna turned round
and came back to the couch. The traces
of tears had almost entirely departed from
her face. She made a little appealing ges
ture that asked Mrs. Blyth to be silent about
what had happened while they were alone ;
kissed, as a sign that she wished to be for
given, the hand that was held out to her ;
and then sat down quietly again in her
accustomed place.
" FifJily, tbe bread-crumb," said Mr.
Blyth, .proceeding, undaunted by previous
failures, with his enumeration of all the
materials he had collected up-stairs.
"Sixthly, the — oh, Lord! it's no use
going on now. There's Zack."
As he spoke, a loud voice was heard cal
ling down the kitchen-stairs frum the hall —
adjuring the cook to speak the truth, and
say whether muffins had really been ordered
for tea. Then followed a long whispering,
succeeded by a burst of giggling from the
housemaid, who presently ascended to
Mrs. Blyth's room alone, and entered, after
a brief explosion of suppressed laughter
behind the door, holding out at arm's length
a pair of those puffy wash-leather dump
lings, known to the pugilistic world by the
name of boxing-gloves.
" If you please, sir," said the girl, addres
sing Valentine, and tittering hysterically at
every third word, " Master Zack's down
stairs on the landing, and he says you're to
be so kind as put on these things (he's put
ting another pair on hisself), and give him
the pleasure of your company for a few
minutes in the painting-room."
'•' Come on, Blyth," cried the voice from
the stairs. " I told you I should bring the
gloves, and teach you to box, last time I
was here, you know. Come on ! I only
want to open your chest by knocking you

about a little in the painting-room before we
begin to draw."
The servant still held the_ gloves away
from her, at the full stretch of her arm, as
if she feared they were yet alive with the
pugilistic energies that had been imparted
to them by their last wearer. Mrs. Dlyth
burst out laughing. Valentine followed her
example. The housemaid began to look
bewildered, and begged to know if her
master would be so kind as to take " the
things" away from her.
"Did you say, come up-stairs?" con
tinued the voice outside. "All right. I
have no objection if Mrs. Blyth hasn't.'
Here Zack came in with the gloves on,
"squaring" on the most approved prize
fighter principles as he advanced. "Put
'em on, Blyth 1 These are the pills for that
sluggish old liver of yours that you're al
ways complaining of. What are you laugh
ing about ? Left leg forward — right leg
easily bent — steady — and keep your eye on
me ! Don't talk, but put 'em on. I'll teach
you the science of counter-hitting at the
first lesson. Splendid system ! Owen
Swift invented it, and killed — "
" Hold your tongue !" cried Mr. Blyth, at
last recovering breath enough to assert his
dignity as master of the new drawing-school.
" Take off those things directly ! What lo
you mean, sir, by coming into my academy,
which is devoted to the peaceful arts, in the
attitude of a prize-fighter?"
" Don't lose your temper, old fellow," re
joined Zack ; " you will never learn to use
your fists prettily if you do. Here, Patty,
the boxing lesson's put off till to-morrow.
Take the gloves up-stairs into your mas
ter's dressing-room, and pop them into the
drawer where his clean shirts are, because
thty must be kept nice and dry. Shake
hands, Mrs. Blyth, though I am such a bad
boy ; it does one good, ma'am, to see you
lau^h like that, you look so much the better
for it. And how's Madonna? I'm afraid
she's been sitting hefore the fire, and trying
to spoil her pretty complexion. Why,
whit's the matter with her? Poor little
dailing, her hands are quite cold !"
" Come to your lesson, sir, directly," said
Valentine, assuming his most despotic voice,
and leading the disorderly student, by the
collar, to his appointed place.
" Hullo !" cried Zack, looking at the cast
which was designed to impress him at firs/
sight with the majesty of ancient sculpturt.
" Hullo ! the gentleman in plaster's making
a face; I'm afraid he isn't quite well. I
say, Blyth, I don't want to draw his head.
It looks as if it had got a crop of snakes on
it, instead of a crop of hair."
" Will you hold your tongue and take up
your drawing-board ?" cried Mr. Blyt!:.
" Crop of snakes, indeed ! Why, you young
barbarian, you deserve to be expelled from



HIDE AND SEEK.

8&

my academy for talking in that way of the
glorious Larkocn. Now then; where's
Madonna? Oh,- here. No! stop where
you are, Zack. I'll show her the place,
and give her her drawing-boards. Wait a
minute, Lavvie ! Let me prop you up
comfortably with the pillows before you be
gin. There ! I never saw a more beautiful
effect of light and shade, my dear, than
there is on your view of the model. Has:
everybody got a port-crayon and a bit of
Dread-crumb ? Yes, everybody has. Order !
order! ordei !" shouted Valentine, suddenly
forgetting his assumed dignity in the exal
tation of Ihe moment. "Mr. Blyth's draw
ing-academy for the promotion of family
art isnow open, and all readytfor (general
iisspection. Hooray!" >
"Hooray!" echoed Zack,. "hooray for
family art ! I say, Blyth,- which chalk do
I begin with?— the white or the black?
The black — eh ? And, just look here, what
part of the what's-his-name's face am I to
start wilh ? Ought it to be his eyes, or his
nose, or his mouth; or the top of his head,
«tr the bottom of his chin — or what ?"
" First sketch in the general form with a
light flowing stroke, and without attention
to details," said Mr. Blyth, illustrating
these directions by waving his hand grace*
fully about his own face. "Then measure
with the eye, assisted, occasionally; by the
port-crayon, the proportion of the — in short,
ofthe parts. Then put dots on the paper ;
a dot where his eyebrow comes ; another
dot where the lip of his nose comes, and so
forth. Then — then, I'll tell you what, strike
it all in boldly — it's impossible to give you
better advice than that— strike it in, Zack ;
strike it in boldly !"
"Heresroes at the back of his head to
begin with," said Zack, taking one com
prehensive and confident look at the Lao-
coon, and drawing a huge half circle, with
a preliminary flourish of his hand, on the
paper. " Oh, confound it, I've broken the
chalk !"
" Of course you have," retorted Valentine.
"Take another bit,- the academy grants
supplementary chalk to ignorant students,
who dig their lines on the paper, instead of
drawing them. Now, break off a bit of
bread-crumb, and rub out what you have
done. ' Buy a penny loaf, and rub it all
out,' as Mr. Fuseli once said to me in the
schools of the Royal academy, when I
showed him my first drawing, and was
excessively conceited about it."
"I remember," said Mrs. Blyth, "when
myifather was working at his great plate —
which was a dreadfully difficult one — from
Mr. Scamble's picture ofthe ' Fair Gleaner
Surprised,' that he used often to say how
much harder engraving was than drawing,'
because you couldn't rub out a false line on
copper, like you could on paper. We all
6

thought he never would get that prin' done,
he-iused to groan over it so in ihe front
drawing-room, where he was then at work.
And the publishers paid him infamously, all
in bills which he had to get discounted,
and the people who gave him the money
cheated, him. My mother said it served
him right for being always so imprudent .
which I thought very hard on him, and I
took his part — so harassed too as he was
by the trades-people at that lime."
"I can feel for him, my love," said Val
entine, pointing a third piece of chalk for
Zack. " The trades-people have harassed
me ; not because I could pay them certainly,
but because I could not add up their bills.
Never owe any man enough, Zack, to give
him ihe chance of punishing you for being
in his debt, with a sum to do in simple ad
dition. At the time when I had bills (go
on with drawing ; you can listen, and draw
too), I used, of course to think it necessary
to check the trades-people, and see that
their toial was right. You will hardly be
lieve me; but I don't remember ever making
the sum what the shop made it, on more
than about three occasions. And, what was
worse, if I tried a second time, I could not
even get it to agree with what I had made
it myself the first time. The green-grocer's
pence.column, I recollect, used to drive me
half mad. I was always going to jhe shops,
and insisting that they were wrong ; and
always turning out to be wrong myself. I
dare say I was sometimes cheated ; for I
used generally to make the sum I had to
pay more than the trades-people made it.
Thank Heaven, I've no difficulties of that
sort to grapple with now ! Everything's
paid for the moment it comes in. If the
butcher hands a leg of mutton to the cook
over the airey railings, the cook hands him
back four and nine — or, whatever it is — and
takes his bill and receipt. I eat my dinners
now, with the blessed conviction that they
won't all disagree with me in an arith-
melical point of view at the end of the year.
What are you stopping and scratching your
head for in that way ?"
" It's no use,":replied Zack, " I ve tried
it a dozen times, and I find I can't draw a
nose." "Can't!" cried Mr. Blyth, "what do
you mean by applying the word* can't' to
any process of art in my presence ? There,
that's the line of the Larkoon's nose. Go
over it yourself with this fresh piece of
chalk. No; wait a minute. Come here
first, and see how Madonna's striking in the
nose ; ihe front view of it, remember,
which is the most difficult. She hasn't
worked as fast as usual, though. Do you
find your view of the model a little too
much for you, my love?" continued Valen
tine, transferring the last words to his
fingers, to communicate them to Madonna.


90

HIDE AND SEEK.

She sho .k her heau :n answer. It was
not the difficulty of drawing from the cast
before her, but the difficulty of drawing at
all, which was retarding her progress. Her
thoughts would wander to the copy of the
Venus le Medici that was hidden under
Mrs. Blyth's coverlid ; would vibrate be
tween trembling eagerness to see it pre
sented without longer delay, and groundless
apprehension that Zack might, after all, not
remember itr or not care to have it when it
was given to him. And as her thoughts
wandered, so her eyes followed them. Now
she stole an anxious inquiring look at Mrs.
Blyth, to see if her hand was straying to
ward the hidden drawing. Now she glanced
shyly at Zack — only by moments at a time,
and only when he was hardest at work
with his port-crayon — to assure herself that
he was always in the same good humor,
md likely to receive her little present kind
ly, and with some appearance of being
pleased to see what pains she had taken
with it. In this way her attention wandered
incessantly from her employment ; and thus
it was that she made so much less progress
than usual, and caused Mr. Blyth lo suspect
that the task he had set her was almost
beyond her abilities.
" Splendid beginning, isn't it ?" said Zack,
looking over her drawing. " I defy the
whole royal academy to equal it," con
tinued the young gentleman, scrawling this
uncompromising expression of opinion on
the blank space at the bottom of Madonna's
drawing, and signing his name with a
magnificent flourish at the end.
His arm touched her shoulder while he
wrote. She colored a little, and glanced at
him, playfully affecting to look very proud
of his sentence of approval — then hurriedly
resumed her drawing as their eyes met.
He was sent back to his place by Valentine
before he could write anything more. She
took some of the bread-crumb near her to
rub out what he had written — hesitated as
her hand approached the lines — colored more
deeply than before, and went on with her
copy, leaving the letters beneath it to re
main just as young Thorpe had traced them.
" I shall never he able to draw as well
as she does," said Zack, looking at the little
he had done with a groan of despair. "The
fact is, I don't think drawing's my forte.
It's color, depend upon it. Only wait till
I come to that ; and see how I'll lay on the
paint ! Didn't you find drawing infernally
difficult, Blyth, when you first began ?"
" I find it difficult still, Master Zack. I
find everything difficult ; drawing, and
color, and light, and shade, and tone, and
keeping, and perspective, and proportion,"
replied Mr. Blyth, with brealkless volubil
ity. " Art wouldn't be the glorious, thing
it is, if it wasn't al'l difficulty from begin
ning to end , if it didu't fori"* out all the, fine

points in a man's character as soon as he
takes to it. It forced out the only two fine
points in mine; from the very first. Pluck
and Patience surrounding a paletie and
brushes rampant, have been the motto and
coat of arms of V. Blyth, historical painler,
ever since the tender age of seventeen. Ah.
Lavvie, I had some hard trials before I
courted you ! I'm afraid to think how
many years it took me togetapiclure hung
up at the academy exhibition. As for sel
ling anything, that was, of course, too mad
an idea to be entertained for a single mo
ment. I remember, however, at one time
getting so desperate and aggravated at the
awful number of my own unsold pictures
which surrounded me (and which were all
of one size, being economically painted,
year after year, to fit the same frame), that
1 used to leave my painting-room window
wide open when I Went out for a walk, in
the hope that somebody would just step in
from the lane outside, and relieve me of
my own works, by stealing a few of them.
But that last consolation was denied me.
The academy did not think my pictures
worth hanging ; the patrons of art did not
think them worth buying; and ihe thieves
joined in the general conspiracy to neglect
me, and didn'teven think them worth steal
ing." While Mr. Blyth was i^iering these
words, and, indeed, on previous occasions,
when he was talking most volubly, he was
unblushingly engaged in compromising that
character for impartially which, as master
of the new drawing school, it should have
been his constant study to maintain, by se
cretly helping one of his pupils to the pre
judice of the other two. Mrs. Blyth's hand
was weak, and her practice with the pencil
had been sadlyneglected of late. Without
assistance, her drawing would only have
taken a middle place between the drawings
of Madonna and Zack. But Valentine had
determined that it should win the honors
of the evening; and, whenever his wife
made a mistake, he was always unscrupu
lously ready to seize the first opportunity
of correcting it for her unobserved. If hisi
sarcastic friends, who were always making
jokes about his simplicity, could only have
observed his method of proceeding now,
when Mrs. Blyth got into a difficulty ; if
they could only have seen how cunningly
he waited to help her unlil Madonna and
Zaek were particularly hard at work ; how
stealthily he took her port-crayon out of-<
her hand ; how eloquently he began to talk
about art, at the same moment, to avoid a
suspicious silence which might induce his
younger pupils to look up ; how quick! j
and quietly he executed the necessary alter
ations, and how dramatically he made
comic faces at his wife, indicative of his
desire that she should on no account acknow


92

HIDE AND SEEK.

Here, look here ! — make her look here, and
see how I like it !" And Zack hugged the
copy of the Venus de Medici to his waist
coat by way of showing how highly he
prized 11. '
At this- outburst of sentimental panto
mime, Madonna raised her head, and glan
ced at young Thorpe. Her face, downcast,
anxious, and averted even from Mrs. Blyth's
eyes, during the last few minutes (as if she
had guessed every word that could pain
her, out of all that had been said in her
presence), now brightened again .With plea
sure as she looked Up — with innocent,
childish pleasure, lhat affected no reserve,
dreaded1 no misconstruction, foreboded no
disappointment. -Her eyes, turning quick
ly from Zack, and appealing gayly to Valen
tine, beamed with triumph when 'he pointed
to the drawing; and smilingly raised his
hands in astonishment, as a sign that he
had been pleasantly surprised by the pres-
en'ation of her drawing to his new pupil.
Mrs. Blyth felt the hand which she still
held in-hers, and which had hitherto trem
bled a little from time to time, grow steady
and warm in her grasp, and -dropped it.
There was no fear that Madonna would
now leave the sideof the couch and steal
away by herself to- the fireplace.
"Go on, Mrs. Blyth; yOu never make
mistakes in talking- on your fingers, as I al
ways do ; go on, 'please, and tell her how
much I thank her," continued Zack, hold
out the drawing at arm's length, and look
ing at it with his head on one side, by way
of imitating 'Valentine's- manner of study
ing his own pictures. " Tell her I'll take
such care of it as I never took of anything
before in my life. Tell her I'll hang it up
in mybedroom, where I can see it every
morning as soon as I wake. Have you told
her that ? or, stop ! shall I write it on her
slate ? But do just tell her 'first ; not that
it's much use, for she understands what I
mean (ihe clever, kind, lit.le darling !) if I
only look at her ; but just tell her first-
halloo! here comes the tea. Oh, by George,
what a glorious lot of muffins ! Here,
Patty, give us the toasting-fork : I'm going
to begin. I never saw such a splendid fire
for toasting 'muffins before in my life !
Rum->dum-diddy-iddy-dum-dee-, dum-diddy-
iddy-dum!" And Zack fell on his knees
at the fireplace, humming " Rule Britan
nia," and toasting his first muffin in tri
umph, utterly forgetting, in the new excite
ment of the moment,' that he had left
Madonna's drawing lying neglected, with
its face downward, on the. end of Mrs.
Blyth's couch'.
Valentine; who, in the innocence of his1
heart, suspected nothing, burst out laugh
ing at this 'new specimen of Zack's invete
rate flightiriessi His kind instincts, how-

to the drawing. He look it up carefully,
and placed it on a low bookcase at the op
posite side of the room. If any increase
had been possible in his; wife's affection for
him, she would have loved him better than
ever al the moment when he performed
that one Little action.
As her husband removed the, drawing,
Mrs. Blyth looked at Madonna. The poor
girl stood shrinking close to the couch, with
her hands clasped tightly together in front
of her, and with no trace of their natural
lovely color left on her cheeks. ; Her eyes
followed Valentine listlessly to the book
case, then turned toward Zack, not re
proachfully nor angrily, not even tearfully;
but, again with that same look. of patient
sadness, of gentle resignation to^ sorrow,
which used to mark their expression, so
tenderly in the days of her bondage among
the mountebanks of the travelling circus.
So she stood, looking toward the fiteplaiie
and the figure kneeling at lit, bearing, her
new disappointment just as, she had. borne
many a former mortification, that had tried
her sorely while she, was yet a little child.
How carefully she had labored at that
neglected drawing in the secresy of her
own room ! how happy she had been. ih. an
ticipating the moment when it would, be
giveii to young Thorpe ; in imagining whal
he would say on receiving it,:and how he
would communicate his lhanks to her-i.in
wondering what he would do wilh it when
he got home ; where he would hang it; and
whether he would often look at his pres
ent after he had got used to seeing it ohthe
wall! Thoughts such as these had. made
the moment of presenting that drawing the
moment of a. great event in her life— and
there it was now,-placed on one side by
other hands than the hands- into which it
had been given;, laid down! carelessly at
the mere entrance of a servant with a tea-
tray ; neglected for the childish' pleasureof
kneeling on the'hearth-rug, and toasting a
muffin at a clear coal-fire,!
Mrs. Blyth's generous, impulsive nature, l
and sensitively-tempered affection for her
adopted child, impelled her to take instant
and not very merciful notice of Zack's un
pardonable thoughtlessness. Her face flush
ed, her dark eyes sparkled, as she turned
quickly on her couch toward the fireplace.
But, before she Gould utter a word, Madon
na's hand was on her lips, and Madonna's
eyes were fixed wilh a terrified, imploring
expression on her face. The next instant,
the girl's trembling- fingers rapidly signed
these words: — , , , i
*' Pray, pray don't say anytljing ! I wouid
not have you speak to him just now for the
world !"
Mrs. Blyth hesitated, -and looked toward
her husband; but he was away at-theothel

ever, guided' his handat the same moment ' end of the room, amusing himself profes-


HIDE AND SEEK.

93

siOnally b'y-fcasfirlg the: drapery of the win
dow-curtains hither and- thither into all
sons pf picturesqu.e folds. She looked' next
at Zack'. Just at t that moment he was
turning his- muffin and singing louder than
ever. The temptation to startle him out of
his provoking gay ety by a good, sharp re
proof was almost too strong' to be resisted ;
but Mrs. Blyth forced herself to resist it,
nevertheless, for Madonna's sake. She did
not, however, communicate with the girl,
either by signs or writing, Bntil she had
settled herself again in her former position ;
then her fingers expressed these sentences
of reply: —
'" If you promise not to let his thought-
.essness distress you, my love, I promise
not to speak to him about it. Do you agree
to that bargain-? If you do, give me a
kiss." ¦¦ ' •
Madonna Only paused to -repress a sigh
that was just stealing from her, before she
gave the required- pledge. Her cheeks did
not recover their color, nor her lips the
smile that had been playing on them earlier
in the evening; bat she arranged Mrs.
Blyth's pillow even more carefully than
usual, before- she left the couch, and went
away to perform as neatly and prettily as
ever her own little household duty of ma
king the tea.
Zack, entirely unconscious of having
given pain to one lady, and cause of anger
to another, had got on to his second muffin,
and had changed his accompanying song
from " Rule Britannia" to the " Lass o'
Gowrie ;" Mrs. Blyth was considering how
sheicouid make him see the necessity of
atoning for his carelessness later in the
evening, without departing from the prom
ise she had just given ; Madonna, with a
hand less steady than usual, and wilh her
attention nervously concentrated entirely
on the tray- before her, was pouring out ihe
tea ; Valentine, having left the window-
curtains arid seated himself at the table,
was wondering why she was so pale, and
waiting anxiously Until she looked up to
isk if -the- room was too hot for her ; when
the hollow, ringing sound of rapidly-run
ning wheels, penetrated into the room from
the frosty road outside ; advancing nearer
and nearer, and then suddenly ceasing, as it
seemed; exactly opposite Mr. Blyth's own
door. "Dear me ! surely that's' at our gate,"
exclaimed Valentine ; " who can be com-
ing'to see us so late- on such aubld'nightsas
this? Arid in a carriage, loo !"
"It's a dab by the rattling of the wheels,
and it brings W the ' Lass o'Gowrie,' " sang
Zack, ingeniously combining 'the ¦ original
text of his §ong, arid' the suggestion of a
possible visiter, in his concluding words:
"Do leave off singing nonsense out- of
tune, and let us listen when the door

opens," said Mrs. Blythy glad to seize the
Slightest opportunity ot administering the
smallest reproof to &ack.
" Suppose it should be Mr. Gimble come
to deal at last for that picture of mine that
he has talked of buying so long," exclaimed
Valentine. i "Suppose it should be my governor!"
cried Zack, suddenly turning round on his
knees with a very, blank, face. " Or that
infernal old Yollop;i with his gooseberry
eyes and his hands full of tracts. They're
both of ihem quite equal to coming after
me and spoiling my pleasure here, just as
they've spoilt it everywhere else."
j ""Hush!" said Mrs. Blyth. "The vis
iter has come in, whoever it is. It can't
be Mr. Gimble, Valentine; he always runs
up two stairs at a time."; ; -, <
" And this is one of the heavy-weights.
Not an ©unce less than sixteen- stone, I
should say by the step," remarked Zack,
letting his; muffin burn while he listened.
" It can't be that tiresome old Lady
Brambledown come to * worry you again
about altering her picture," said Mrs.
Blyth. "Stop! surely it isn't — " began Valen
tine. But before he could say another
word the door opened ; and, to the utter
amazement of everybody but the poor girl
whose ear no voice could reach,: the ser
vant announced
"Mks. Peckover."

CHAPTER XIII.

AN OLD FRIEND.

Time had lavishly added to Mrs. Peck
over's size, but had generously taken little
or nothing from heir in exchange. Her
hair had certain»y turned gray since the
period when Valentine first met her at the
circus ;- but the 'good-humored face beneath
was just as lively and heartv to look at
now as ever it had been in. former days
Her cheeks had ruddily. expanded ; her chin
had passed' from the double to - the , triple
stage . of jovial development ;., any , faint
traces of a rwaist which she .might formerly
have possessed were utterly obliterated;
but it was pleasantly evident, to judge only
from the manner of. her bustling entry into
Mrs. Blyth's room,.that her active dispo
sition had lost nothing of its early energy,
and could, still gayly defy. all -corporeal ob
structions to the very last.
Puffing out abundant fragrttentSiof cordial
words; nodding and smiling at Mr. and
Mrs. Blyth, and >Zaek,\ till her vast country-
bonnet trembled aguishly on her head, the
good woman advanced, shaking every move
able object in the room, straight to the tea-


94

HIDE AND SEEK.

table, and enfolded Madonna in her capa
cious arms. The girl's light figure seemed
to disappear in a smothering circumambient
mass of bonnet-ribands and unintelligible
drapery; as Mrs. Peckover saluted her wilh
a rattling fire of kisses, the report of which
was audible- above the voluble talking of
Mr. Blyth and the boisterous laughter of
Zack. " I'll tell you all about how I came here
directly, sir ; only I couldn't help saying
how-d'ye-do in the old way to little Mary
to begin with," said Mrs. Peckover apolo
getically. It had been found impossible to
prevail on her to change the familiar name
of "little Mary," whiah she had pronounced
so often and so fondly in past years, for the
name which had superseded it in Valentine's
house. The truth was, lhat this worthy
creature knew nothing whatever about
Raphael ; and, considering " Madonna" to
be an outlandish foreign word intimately
connected with Guy Fawkes and the Gun
powder Plot, firmly believed lhat no respect
able Englishwoman of mature age ought to
compromise her character by. attempting to
pronounce it.
" I'll tell you, sir — I'll tell you directly
why I have come to Lundon," repeated
Mrs. Peckover, backing majestically from
the tea-table, and rolling round easily on
her own axis in the direction of the couch,
to ask for the fullest particulars of the state
of Mrs. Blyth's health:
" Much better, my good friend — much
better," was the cheerful answer ; " but
now do tell us (we are so glad to see you !)
how you came to surprise us all in this
way ?"
"Well, ma'am," began Mrs. Peckover,
" it's a'most as great a surprise to me to be
in London, as it is — be quiet, Young Good-
for-Nothing ; I won't even shake hands
with you if you don't behave yourself!"
The last words she addressed to Zack, whose
favorite joke it had always been, from the
day of their first acquaintance at Valentine's
house, to pretend to be violently in love
with her. He was now standing with his
arms wide open, the toasting-fork in one
hand .and the muffin he had burnt in the
other, trying to look languishing, and
entreating Mrs. Peckover to give him a
kiss. " When you know how to toast a muffin
properly, p'raps I may give you one," said
she, chuckling as triumphantly over her
own small retort as if she had been a pro
fessed wit. " Do, Mr.. Blyth, sir, please to
keep him quiet, or I! shan't be able to get
On with a single word df what I've got to
say. Well, you see. ma'am, Doctor Joyce — "
"How is he?" interrupted Valentine,
handing Mrs. Peckbver a cup of tea.
" He's the best gentleman in the world,
sir, but he will have his glass of port after ,

dinner ; and the end df it is, le's laid up
again with the gout."
" And Mrs. Joyce ?"
" Laid up too, sir — it's a dreadful sick
house at the rectory — laid up with the in-
ferlenzer." " Have any of the children caught thi
influenza too ?" asked Mrs. Blyth. " I hope
not." " No, ma'am, they're all nicely, except
the youngest ; and it's on account of her—
don't you remember her, sir, growing so
fast, when you was last at the rectory?—
that I'm up in London."
" Is the child ill ?" asked Valentine
anxiously. " She's such a picturesque
little creature, Lavvie ! I long to paint
her." "I'm afraid, sir, she's not fit to be put
into a picter now," said Mrs. Peckover.
" Mrs. Joyce is in sad trouble about her
because of one of her shoulders which has
growed out somehow. The doctor at Rub
bleford don't doubt but what it may begot
right again ; but he said she ought to be
shown to some great London doctor, as soon
as possible. So, neither her papa nor her
mamma being able to take her up to her
aunt's house, they trusted her to me. As
you know, sir, ever since Doctor Joyce got
my husband that situation at Rubbleford,
I've been about the rectory, helping with
the children and the housekeeping and all
that: and Miss Lucy being used to me, we
come along together in the railroad quite
pleasant ¦ and comfortable. I was glad
enough; you may be sure, of the chance of
getting here, after not having seen little
Mary for so long. So I just left Miss Lucy
at her aunt's, where they were very kind,
and wanted me to slop all night. But I
told them thai, thanks to your goodness, I
always had a bed here when I was in Lon
don ; and I took the cab on, after seeing tk
little girl safe and comfortable up-stairs.
That's the whole story about how I come
to surprise you in this way, ma'am — and
now I'll finish my tea."
Having got to the bottom of her cup, and
to the end of a muffin amorously presented
to her by the incorrigible Zack, as a token
of his unalterable affection, Mrs. Peckover
had leisure to turn again to Madonna ; who,
having relieved her of her bpnnetand
shawl, was now sitting close at her side.
"I didn't ihink she was looking quiteso
well as usual, when I first come in/' said
Mrs. Peckover, patting the girl's cheek with
her chubby fingers : " but -she seems to have
brightened up again now." (This was
irue: the sad stillness had left Madonna's
face at sight of the friend and. mother of
her early days. ) " Perhaps she's been
sticking a little too close- to. her drawing
lately—" " By-the-by, talking of drawings, what's


HIDE AND SEEK.

become of my drawing ?" cried Zack, sud
denly recalled for the first time to the re
membrance of Madonna's gift.
" Dear me !" pursued Mrs. Peckover,
looking toward the three drawing-boards,
which had been placed together round ihe
pedestal of the cast ; " are all those little
Mary's doings? She's cleverer at it I sup
pose, by this time, than ever. Ah, Lord !
what an old woman I feel, when I think
of the many years ago — "
" Come and look at what she has done
to-night," interrupted Valentine, taking
Mrs. Peckover by the arm, and pressing it
very significantly as he glanced at (he part
ofthe table where young Thorpe was sitting.
"My drawing — where's my drawing?"
repeated Zack. "Who put it away when
tea came in ? Oh ! there it is, all safe on
the bookcase."
" I congratulate you, sir, on having suc
ceeded at last in remembering that there is
such a thing in the world as Madonna's
present," said Mrs. Blyth sarcastically.
Zack looked up bewildered from his tea,
and asked directly what those words meant.
" Oh, never mind," said Mrs. Blylh in
the same tone, " they're not worth explain
ing. Did you ever hear of a young gentle
man who thought more of a plate of' muffins
than of a lady's gift ? I dare say not ! I
never did. It's too ridiculously improbable
to be true, isn't it? There! don't speak to
me ; I've got a book here that I want to
finish. No, it's no use ; I shan't say
another word."
" What have I done that's wrong ?"
asked Zack, looking piteously perplexed as
he began to suspect that he had committed
some unpardonable mistake earlier in Ihe
evening. " I know I burnt a muffin ; but
what has that got to do with Madonna's
present io me ?" (Mrs. Blyth shook her
head ; and! opening her book, became quite
absorbed over it in a moment.) " Didn't I
th-ink her properly for it? I'm sure I
meant to. I should be a beast and a fool if
I wasn't grateful and proud at what she's
done for me." (Here he stopped ; but Mrs.
Blylh took no notice of him.) " I suppose
I've got myself into some scrape ? Make
as much fun as you like about it; but tell
me what it is. You won't ? Then I'll
find out all about it from Madonna. She
knows, of course; and she'll tell me. Look
here, Mrs. Blyth ; I'm' not going to get up
till she's told me everything." And Zack,
with a comic gesture of entreaty, dropped
on his knees by Madonna's' chair ; prevent
ing her from leaving it, which she tried to
do, by taking immediate possession of the
slate "that hung at her side.
While young . Thorpe was scribbling
questions, protestatiorrs, and extravagances
of every kind, in rapid succession, on the
slate; and while Madonna— her face half-

smiling, half-tearful, as she fell lhat he was
looking up at it — was readiig what he
wrote, trying hard, at first, not to believe
in him too easily when he scribbled an
explanation, and not to look down on him
too leniently when he followed it up by an
entreaty ; and ending at last, in defiance of
Mrs. Blyth's private signs to the contrary
in forgiving his carelessness, and letting
him take her hand again as usual, in token
that she was sincere — while this li i tie scene
of the home drama was proceeding at one
end of the room, a scene of another kind —
a dialogue in mysterious whispers— was in
full progress between Mr. Blyth and his
visiter from the country,, at the other.
Time had in no respect lessened Valen
tine's morbid anxiety about the strict con
cealment of every circumstance attending
Mrs. Peckover's first connection with Ma
donna, and Madonna's mother. The years
that had now passed and left him in undis
puted possession of his adopted child, had
not diminished that excess of caution in
keeping secret all the little that was known '
of her early history, which had even im
pelled him to pledge Doctor and Mrs. Joyce
never to mention in public any particulars
of the narrative related at the rectory. Still
he had not got over his first dread lhat she
might one day be traced, claimed, and taken
away from him, if that narrative, meagre
as it was, should ever be trusted to other
ears than those which had originally listened
'to it. Still he kept ihe hair bracelet and
ihe handkerchief that had belonged to her
mother carefully locked up out of sight in
his bureau ; and still he doubted Mrs. Peck
over's discretion in ihe government of her
tongue, as he had doubted it' in the bygone
days when the little girl was first estab
lished in his own home.
After making a pretence of showing her
the drawings begun that evening, Mr. Blyth
artfully contrived to lead Mrs. Peckpver
past lliem into a recess at the extreme end
of the room.
" Well," he said, speaking in an unneces
sarily soft whisper, considering the distance
which now separated him from Zack ; and
which would have prevented any words he
might say in a low tone from being over
heard, even by a person who was expressly
listening to catch them. " Well, I suppose
you're quite sure of not having let out any
thing by chance, since we last met— in trie
way of gossip with neighbors, you knpw —
about how you first met with our darling
girl ? or about her poor mother? or — "
" What, you're at it again, sir ?" inter
rupted Mrs. Peckover loftily, but dropping
her voice in imitation of MY. Blylh— "a
clever man, too, like you ! Dear, dear me !
how often must I keep on telling you that
I'm old enough to be able to hold my
tongue ? How much longer are you going


96

HIDE AND SEEK.

to worrit yourself about hiding what no
body's seeking at.tr ?"
" My good soul, you know I always be
lieve you can hold your tongue,'- returned
Valentine, cospcingly ; "but, only just now,
you were going to talk before young Thorpe
there, about old (times, and what you re
member of our dear child years ago, if I
hadn't interrupted you."
" I wasn't going to talk of nothing of the
kind, sir ; and I'm surprised you could sus
pect me of it," answered Mrs. Peckover
tuickly and positively.
" It was my mistake then, and I beg your
pardon." He stopped here, to look at Zack ;
then, seeing that young Thorpe was too
much occupied with Madonna to pay atten
tion to anything else, added: "And your
husband? and Doctor, and Mrs. Joyce?
none of them ever say a word about it
before other people, of course?"
"Hadn't you better write and ask them,
ih ?" retorted Mrs. Peckover, sarcastically.
"It would be much more satisfactory than
depending on a gossiping old woman like
me, that can't keep a secret."
"Hush! hush!" said Valentine, taking
her hand. " You're not going to be offend
ed with me, I know ! We always haye
our little tiff about this when we meet,
don't we ? But we never take offence —
oh, no, never ! We are too old friends for
tnat." Mrs. Peckover smiled perfect acquiescence
n this sentiment, and moved to return to
ihe other end of the room. Mr. Blyth,
nowever, detained her for a few moments ;
and seriously, almost sadly, continued :—
" Whenever I see you, my good friend,
I fancy I hear all that melancholy story
over again aboul our darling child, and that
poor lost forsaken mother of hers, whose
name even we don't know. I feel, too,
when you come and see us, almost more
than at other times, how inexpressibly pre
cious the daughter whom you have given
to us is to Lavvie and me; and I think with
more dread than I well know how to de
scribe, of the horrible chance, if anything
was incautiously said, and carried from
mouth to mouth (as it certainly would be)
about where you met with her mother, for
instance, or what time of the year it was,
and so forth — that it might lead, nobody
knows ¦tow, to some claim being laid to
her, by somebody who might be able to
prove the right to make it."
" Lord, sir ! after all these years, what
earthly need have you to be anxious about
such things as that ?"
" I'm never anxious long, Mrs. Peckover.
My good spirits always get the better of
every anxiety, great and small. But, while
I don't know that relations of hers — per
haps her vile father himself— may not be
still alive, and seeking foi her."

"Bless your heart, Mr. Blyth, none of
her relations are alive ; or, if they are, none
of them care about her, poor lamb, I'll
answer for it."
"I hope in God you are right," said Val
entine, earnestly. " But let us think no
more ar-out it now," he added, resuming his
usual manner. " I have asked my regular
questions, that I can't help asking whenever
I see you; and you have forgiven me, as
usual, for putting them ; and now I am
quke satisfied. Take my arm, Mrs. Peck
over : I mean to give the students of my
new drawing academy a holyday for the
rest of tne night, in honor of your arrival.
What do you say to devoting the evening
in the old way to a game of cards ?"
"Just what I was thinking I should like
myself, as long as it's only sixpence a game,
sir," said Mrs. Peckover gayly. "I say,
young gentleman," she continued, addres
sing Zack after Mr. Blyth had left her to
look for the cards, " what nonsense are you
wriiing on our darling's slate that puts her
all in aflutter, and makes her blush up to
the eyes, when she's only looking at her
poor old Peck ? Bless her heart ! she's just
as easily amused now as when she was a
child. Give us another kiss, my own little
love. You understand what I mean, don't
you, though you can't hear.me ? Ah, dear,
dear ! when she stands and looks at me with
her eyes like that, she's the livingimage of—"
" Cribbage," cried Mr Blyth, knocking
a triangular board for ihree players on the
table, and regarding Mrs: Peckover with
the most reproachful and rebuking expres
sion that his features could assume.
She felt that the look had been deserved,
and approached the card-table rather con-;
fusedly, without uttering another word,
But for Valentine's second interruption she
would have declared hefore young Thorpe
that Madonna was the living image of her
mother. Fortunately, Zack came to her relief'
during the awkward moment of silence that
now ensued, He had gone away to the
bookcase while she was speaking, to get
his present and show it to her, and was
now carrying on his favorite joke while she
looked at the drawing — entreating her not
to be jealous of Madonna, trying to put his
arm round her waist, declaring that " Mrs.
Peckover" was the name of the only girl
he had ever truly loved, and assailing her
with so much boisterous nonsense of the
same sort thai she recovered her good spirr
its, and the use of her tongue in self-defence
immediately. " Madonna's going to play, as usual.
Will you make a third, Lavvie ?" inquired
Valentine, shuffling the cards. "It's no
use asking Zack ; he can't even count yet."
" No, thank you, dear. 1 shall , have
quite enough to do in going on with my


HIDE AND SEEK.

97

book, and trying to keep Master Madcapin
order while you play," replied Mrs. Blyth.
The game began, it was a regular custom,
whenever Mrs. Peckover came to Mr.
Blyth's house, that eribbage should be
played, and that Madonna should take a
share in it." This was done, on her part,
principally in affectionate remembrance of
the old times when she lived under the care
of the clown's wife, and when she had
learnt eribbage from Mr. Peckover to amuse
her, while the frightful accident which
had befallen her in the circus was still a
recent event. It was characteristic of the
happy peculiarity of her disposition that the
days of suffering and affliction, and the
after-period of hard tasks in public, with
which cards were connected in her case,
never seemed to recur to her remembrance
painfully when she saw them in later life.
The pleasanter associations which belonged
to them, and which reminded her of homely
kindness that had -soothed her in pain, and
self-denying affection that had consoled her
in sorrow, were the associations instinct
ively dwelt on by her heart to the exclusion
of all others.. Valentine's utmost watchful
ness never detected a sad look on her face
when Mrs. Peckover.was in town, and when
they were playing the sameigame at cards
that had been first taught her after the calam
ity which had shattered one of her senses,
and fatally suspended the exercise of another.
To Mrs. Blyth's great astonishment, Zack,
for full ten minutes, required no keeping in
order whatever while the rest were playing
at cards. It was the most incredible of
human phenomena, but there he certainly
was, standing quietly by the fireplace with
his present in his hand, .actually thinking!
Mrs. Blyth's amazement at this unexampled
change in his manner so completely over
came her, that she fairly laid down her
book to look at him. He noticed the action,
and approached the couch directly. i
" That's right," said he ; " don't read any
more. I want to have a regular good
serious consultation with you."
First a visit from Mrs. Peckover, then a
serious consultation with Zack. This is a
night of wonders! — though t Mrs. Blyth.
•' I've made it all right with Madonna,"
Zack continued. "She don't think a bit
the worse of me because I went on like a
fool about the muffins at teatime. But
that's not what I want to talk about now :
it's a sort of secret. In the first place — "
" Do you usually mention your secrets in
a voice that everybody can hear ?" asked
Mrs. Blyth, laughing.
"Oh, never mind about i hat," he replied,
not lowering his tone in the least; "it's
obly a secret from Madonna, and we can
talk before her, poor little soul, just as if she
wasn't in the ro jm. Now this is the thing :
she's made me a present, and think I ought

to show my gratitude by making her an
other in return." (He resumed his ordinary
manner as he warmed with the subject, and
began to walk up and down the room in
his usual flighty, fidgety way.) " Well,
I have been thinking what the present
ought to be — something pretty, of course.
I can't do her a drawing yet worth a rap ,
and even if I could — "
" Suppose you come here and sit down,
Zack," interposed Mrs. Blyth. "While
you are wandering backward and forward
in that way before the card-table, you take
Madonna's attention off the game."
No doubt he did. How could she see
him walking about close by her, and carry
ing her drawing with him wherever he
went, as if he prized it too much to be wil
ling to put it down — without feeling grati
fied in more than one of the innocent little
vanities of her sex, without looking after
him much too often to be properly alive to
the interests of her game?
Zack took Mrs. Blyth's recommendation,
and sat down by her, with his back toward
the cribbage-players.
"Well, the question is, what presentam
I to give her?" he went on. "I've been
twisting and turning it over in my mind,
and the long and the short of it is — "
(" Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair's
six," said Valentine, reckoning up the
tricks he had in his hand at that moment.)
" Did you ever notice that she has a par
ticularly pretty hand and arm ?" proceeded
Zack somewhat evasively. "I'm rather a
judge of these things myself; and of all the
other girls I ever saw-— "
" Never mind about other girls," said
Mrs. Blyth. " Tell me what you mean to
give Madonna."
(" Two for his heels," cried Mrs. Peek-
over, turning up a knave with great glee.)
" I mean to give her a bracelet," said
Zack. Valentine looked up quickly from the
card-table. (" Play, please, sir," said Mrs. Peckover ;
" little Mary's waiting fur vou.")
"Well, Zack," rejoined Mrs. Blyth,
"your idea of returning a present only errs
on the side of generosity. I should recomr
mend something less costly. Don't you
know that it's one of Madonna's oddities
not to care about jewelry ? She migh t have
bought herself a bracelet long ago, out of
her own savings, if trinkets had been things
to tempt her."
"Wait a bit, Mrs. Blvth," said Zack, with
an air of considerable self-approbation ;
"you haven't heard the best of my notion
yet ; all the pith and marrow of it has got
to come. . The bracelet I mean to give her
is one that she will prize to the day of her
deatb, or she's not the affectionate, warm
hearted girl I take her for What do you


HIDE AND SEEK.

99

also bring " ill-luck" to the child, was a
perfectly direct and inevitable deductive
process to Mrs. Peckover's superstitious
mind. The motives which had formerly
influenced her to forbid her " little Mary"
ever to begin anything important on a Fri
day, or ever to imperil her prosperity by
walking under a ladder, were precisely the
motives by which she .was now actuated in
determining tp; prevent the presentation of
young Thorpe's ill-omened gift by every
means in her power, short of disclosing the
secret that she was bound to preserve.
Although Valentine had only caught a
word here and there, to guide him to the
subject of Mrs. Peckover's mutterings to
herself while the game was going on, he
guessed easily enough the general . tenor of
her thoughts, and suspected that she would
ere long begin to talk louder than was at all
desirable, if Zack proceeded much further
with his present topic of conversation.
Accordingly, he took advantage of a pause
in the game, and of a relapse into another
restless fit of walking about the room on
young Thorpe's part, to approach his wife's
couch as if he wanted to find something
lying near it, and to whisper to her, .."¦ Slop
his talking any more about that present
to Madonna; I'll tell you why another
time." Mrs. Blyth very readily and easily com
plied with this injunction, by telling Zack
(with perfect truth) that she had, been al
ready a little too much excited, considering
her weak slate, by the events of the even
ing ; and that she must put off all further
listening or talking on her part till the next
night, when she promised to advise him
about the bracelet to the best of her power.
He was, however, still too full of his sub
ject to relinquish it easily under no stronger
influence than the influence of a polite hint.
Having lost one listener in Mrs. Blylh, he
boldly tried the experiment, to that lady's
great dismay, of inviting two others to re
place her, by addressing himself to the
players at the card-table.
¦ " I dare say you have heard what I have
been talking about to Mrs. Blyth ?" he be
gan. " 1 ord, Master Zack !" said Mrs. Peck
over, " do you think we haven't had some
thing else to do here, besides listening to
you ? - There now ! don't talk to us, please,
till we are done, or you'll throw us out
altogether. Don't, sir, on any account, be
cause we are playing for money — sixpence
a game." Repelled on both sides, Zack was obliged
to give way. He walked off to try and
amuse himself at the bookcase. Mrs.
Peckover, with a very triumphant air, nod
ded and winked several times at Valentine
across the table ; desiring, by these signs,
to direct his attention to the fact that she

could not only be silent herself when the
conversation was in danger of approaching
a forbidden subject, but could make othei
people hold their tongues too.
The room was now perfectly quiet, and
the game at eribbage proceeded smoothly
enough, but not so pleasantly as usual on
other occasions. Valentine did not regain
his customary good spirits ; and Mrs. Peck
over relapsed in to whispering discontentedly
again to herself — now and then looking
toward the bookcase, where young Thorpe
was sitting sleepily, with a volume of en
gravings on his knee. It was, more or less,
a relief to everybody when the supper-tray
came up, and the cards were put away for
the night.
Zack becoming quite lively again at the
prospect of a little eating and drinking,
tried to return to the dangerous subject of
the hair bracelet ; addressing himself, on
this occasion, directly to Valentine. He
was interrupted, however, before he had
spoken three words. Mr. Blyth suddenly
remembered that he had an important com
munication of his own to make to young
Thorpe. "Excuse me, Zack," he said, "I have a
bit of news to tell you, which Mrs. Peck
over's arrival drove out of my head ; and
which I must mention to you at once, while
I have the opportunity. Both my pictures
are done — what do you think of that ? —
done, and in their frames. I settled the '
titles yesterday. The classical landscape
it to be called ' The Golden Age,' which is '
a pretty poetical sort of name ; and the
figure-subject is to be ' Columbus in Sight 5
of the New World,' which is, 1 think, ,
simple„affecting, and grand. Wait a minute!
the best of it has yet to come. I am going e
to show both the pictures in the studio to^
my friends, and my friends' friends, as early "
as Saturday, next." f
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Zack..'
" Why it's only January now ; and you al- '"
ways used to have your private view a n
home of your own pictures in April, jus
before they were sent into the academy ex ld
hibition." z'
" Quite right," interposed Valentine, " buf"
I am going to make a change this year.
The fact is, I have got a job to do in the'
provinces, which will take me away at the
beginning of the spring; it is not a jote
worth mentioning; but it will prevent me1'
from having my picture-show at the usuafE
time. So I mean to. have it now. Th?1
pictures are done and framed, and fit to b<e
seen ; and the cards of invitation are com-'V
ing home from the printer's to-morrow"
morning. I shall reserve a packet, ol"
course, for you when we see you to-morrov
night." *
" Thank you, old fellow : I'll bring lot"
of friends. And now, I say, just to go bac'


[00

HIDE AND SEEK.

to what I was talking about a minute
ago—" But Valentine was not to be caught. He
had some important additions to make to
the invitation-list, which accidentally oc
curred to him just at that moment, and
sent him away, with many1 apologies, to
his wife's bedside, to " ask Lavvie for the
memorandum-book." Still obstinate and indefatigable, Zack
tried Mrs. Peckover next ; but was imme
diately repelled with such extraordinary
abruptness and asperity that he gave up in
despair all hopes of further expounding his
favorite idea of the hair bracelet for that
night ; and sought amusement elsewhere,
by practising the deaf and dumb alphabet
with Madonna.
He was still thus occupied, when the
clock on Mrs. Blyth's mantelpiece struck
the half hour after ten. Having hisown
private reasons for continuing to preserve
the appearance of perfect obedience to his
father's domestic regulations, he rose at
once to say good-night;- in order to insure
being home before ihe house-door was bolt
ed at eleven o'clock. This time he did not
forget Madonna's drawing ; but, on the con
trary, showed such unusual carefulness in
tying his pocket-handkerchief over the
frame to preserve it from injury as he car
ried it through the streets, that she could
not help — in the fearless innocence of her
heart — unreservedly betraying to him, both
by look and manner, when he took his
i leave, how warmly she appreciated his
i anxiety for the safe preservation of her
i gift. Never had the bright, kind, young
] face been lovelier in its artless happiness
than it appeared at the moment when she
' was shaking hands wilh Zack.
1 Just as Valentine was about to follow his
1 guest out of the room, Mrs. Blyth called
i him back, reminding him that he had a cold,
s and begging him not to expose himself to
a the wintry night-air by going down to ihe
c door.
j " But the servants must be in bed by this
stime (they never wait up unless they're
told); and somebody ought to fasten the
xibolts," remonstrated Mr. Blyth. "Never
omind about my cold, Lavvie ; I shan't hurt
«'if I put on my hat."
n " I'll go, sir," said Mrs. Peckover, rising
nwith extraordinary alacrity. "I'll see Mas-
yter Zack out, and do up the door. Bless
byour heart ! it's no trouble to me. I'm al-
ttways moving about at home from morning
ato night, to prevent myself from' getting
fatter. Don't say no, ma'am : I shan't feel
rat home unless you let me make myself
easeful. And don't you stir, Mr. Blyth, un-
mess you are afraid of trusting an old gossip
w ke me alone with any of your visiters."
pi The last words were intended as a sar-
rsastn, and were whispered into Valentine's

ear. He understood the allusion to their
private conversation together easily enough;
and felt lhat, unless he let her have her own
way without further contest, he must risk of
fending an old friend by implying a mistrust
of her which would be simply ridiculous.
under the circumstances in which they
were placed. SO, when his wife nodded
to him to take advantage of the offer jusi
made; he accepted it forthwith.
"Now I'll stop his giving' her a hair
bracelet!" thought Mrs. Peckover, as she
bustled out after yOUng Thorpe, and closed
the room-door behind her.
"Wait a bit, young gentleman," said
she, arresting his further progress On the
first landing. "Just leave off talking a
minute, and let me speak. I've got some
thing to say to you. Do you really mean
to give her that hair bracelet ?"*
" Oho ! then you did hear something at
the card-table about it, after- all?" said
Zack. " Mean ? Of course I mean !"
" And you want to put some of my hair
in it?"
' " To be sure I do ! Madonna wouldn't
like it without."
" Then you had better make up your
mind at once to give her some Other pres
ent ; for not one bit of my hair shall you
have. There now ! what do you think of
that?" " I don't believe it, my old darling.'*
" It's true though, I can tell you. Not a
hair of my head shall you have."
"Why not?"
"Never mind why. I've got my own
reasons." " Very well : if you come to that, I've
got my reasons for giving the bracelet ; and
I mean to give it. If you won't let any of
your hair be plaited up along with the rest,
it's Madonna you will disappoint — not me."
Mrs. PeckOver began to feel that she
must change her tactics, or be defeated.
" Don't you be so dreadful obstinate,
Master Zack, and I'll tell you the reason,"
she said, in an altered tone, leading the way
lower down into the passage. " I don't
want you to give her a hair bracelet at all,
because I believe it will bring ill-luck to
her— there!"
Zack burst out ' laughing. " Do yOu-call
that a reason ? Who ever heard before of
a- hair bracelet being an unlucky gift ? On,
you mysterious old Peck! what are you
driving at ?"
At this moment, the door of Mrs. Blyth's
room opened.
" Anything wrong with the lock V asked
Valentine from above. He was rathef'sur-
prised at the time that elapsed without his
hearing the house-dbor shut;
"All quite right, sir," said Mrs. Peck
over; adding in a whisper to Zack— »
" Hush ! don't sav a word '"


',02

HIDE ANf *-£EK.

selves the trouble ol engaging in any con
sultation on this subject. Zack's course
of study in the new drawing academy was
destined, at the very outset, lo meet with a
check. "He's gone, sir ; he's gone at last !" said
Mrs. Peckover, shutting the house-door on
the parting guest with inhospitable rapidity,
and locking it with elaborate care and ex
traordinary noise.
" I must manage to make it all safe with
Master Zack to-morrow night ; though I
don't believe I have said a single word I
oughtn't to say," thought she, slowly
ascending the stairs. " But Mr. Blyth
makes such fusses, and works himself into
such fidgets about the poor thing being
traced and taken away from him (which is
all stuff and nonsense), that he would be
sure to think I'd let out everything, and go
half distiacted if he knew what I said just
now to Master Zack. Not that it's so much
what I said to him, as what he made out
somehow and said to me. But they're so
sharp, these young London chaps — they are
so awful sharp !"
Here, she stopped on the landing, to
recover her breath ; then whispered to her
self, as she went on and approached Mr.
Eiyth's door: —
" But one thing I'm determined on ; little
Mary sha'n't have that hair bracelet !"
» * # # * *
Even as Mrs. Peckover walked thinking
all the way up-staiws, so did Zack walk
wondering all the way home.
What the deuce could this extraordinary
'botheration about his present to Madonna
'possibly mean ? Was it not at least clear
'from the fright old Peck was in, when he
Italked of asking Blyth whether Madonna
.really had a hair bracelet, that she had told
the truih after all, and not a flam? And
jwas it not even clearer still that she had let
but a secret in telling that truth, which
'Blyth must have ordered her to keep ?
Why keep it? What was there in Madon
na's having a hair bracelet lo make a mys-
cery about? Who was Madonna? How
Iwas it Blyth would never tell anybody even
Eio much as where he picked her up ? Was
his mysterious hair bracelet, which he
Vever remembered seeing her wear — and
cvhich Mrs. Blyth had said nothing about,
Vhile he was actually talking of his hair
rraeelet that he had intended to buy — mixed
rp somehow with the grand secret about
yladonna's origin that Valentine had always
Qept from everyboJy ? Was nol this, upon
t'ie whole, very possible? But what did it
aWter, afer all, whether it was or not?
V hat need to bother his head about what
f^dn't concern him ? Was it not, consider-
clg all things — and especially remembering
nie fact, previously forgotten, that he had
vit fifteen shillings and threepence of dis-
P i

posaole money in s'he world — rather lucky
than otherwise that ola Peck had taken it
into her head to stop him from buying what
he hadn't the means of paying for ? Would
she find some excuse to get him off making
his expensive present after what he had
said to Mrs. Biyth ? What could he buy
for Madonna that was pretty, and cheap
enough to suit the present state of his
pocket ? Would she like a thimble ? or an
almanac? or a pair of eyiffs? or a pot of
bear's' grease ?
Here Zack suddenly paused in his mental
interrogatories; for he had arrived within
sight of his home in Baregrove square.
A change passed over his handsome face ¦
he frowned, and his color deepened, as
he looked up at the light in his father's
window. "I'll stop out again to-night, and see
life," he muttered doggedly to himself,
approaching the door. "The more I'm
builied at home, the ofiener I'll go out on
the sly."
This rebellious speech was occasioned by
the recollection of a domestic scene, which
had contributed, early that evening, to swell
the list of the tribulations of Zack ; and
which had been produced by his father's
disapproval of his accepting an invitation
to Valentine's house. Mr. Thorpe (as has
been hinted in a former place) had moral
objections to Mr. Blyth's profession, and
moral doubts on the subject of Mr. Blyth
himself. These doubts had been strength
ened, though not originated, by the dama
ging reports occasioned by that gentleman's
own refusal to explain away the mystery
which enveloped the birth and parentage
of his adopted child. Mr. Thorpe knew his
duty to his neighbor, and was too anxious
never to judge any man hastily and wrongly,
to allow himself to be. sensibly biased by
mere report in forming his judgment of Mr.
Blyth ; but scandal had its wily influence
over him as over others: and strengthened,
more importantly than he himself suspected,
his suspicion that the painter was a person
wilh no fixed principles, and no discernible
standard of respectability. As a necessary
consequence of this suspicion, he considered
Mr. Blyth to be no fit companion for a
devout young man ; and expressed, severely
enough, his unmeasured surprise at finding
that his son could exhibit already such
" backsliding forgetfulness" ofthe excellent
lessons instilled into him by the Reverend
Aaron Yollop, as to wish to accept an in
vitation to tea from a person of doubtful
character. Zack's rejoinder to his father's
reproof was decisive, if it was nothing else.
He denied everything alleged or suggested
against his friend's reputation — lost his
temper on being sharply rebuked for the
" indecent vehemence" of his language— *
and lefl the paternal tea-table in defiance.


HIDE AND SEEK.

103

to go and eat muffins in the doubtful com
pany of Mr. Valentine Blyth.
" Just in time, sir," said the page, grin
ning al his young master as he opened the
door. " It's on the stroke of eleven."
Zack muttered something savage in reply,
which it is not perhaps advisable to report.
The servant secured the lock and bolts,
while he put his hat on the hall-table, and
lit his bedroom-candle.
Rather more than an hour after this time
— or, in other words, a little past midnight—
the door opened again softly, and Zack ap
peared on the step equipped for his nocturnal
expedition. He Kesitated, as he put the key into the
lock from outside, before he closed the door
behind him. He had never done this on
other occasions ; he could not tell why he
did it now. We are mysteries even to
ourselves ; and there are times when the
voices of the future that are in us, yet not
ours, speak, and make the earthly part of
us conscious of their presence. Oftenest
our mortal sense feels that they are break
ing their dread silence at those supreme
, moments of existence, when on the choice
between two apparently trifling alternatives
hangs suspended the whole future of a life.
And thus it was now with the young man
who stood on the threshold of his home,
doubtful whether ne should pursue or
abandon tbe purpose which was then upper
most in his mind. On his choice between
the two alternatives of going on, or going
back — which the closing of a door would
decide — depended the future of his life, and
of other lives that were mingled with it.
He wailed a minute undecided, for the
warning voices within him were stronger
than his own will: he waited, looking up
thoughtfully at the starry loveliness of the
winter's night — then closed the door behind
him as softly as usual — hesitated again at
the last step lhat led on to the pavement —
and then fairly set forth from home, walk
ing at a rapid pace through the streets.
He was not in his usual good spirits.
He felt no inclination to sing as was his
wont, while passing through the fresh,
frosty air: and he wondered why it was so.
. The voices were still speaking faintly and
more faintly within him. But we must
die before we can become immortal as they
.are ; and their language to us in this life is
aften as an unknown tongue.

BOOK II.
THE SEEKING.

CHAPTER 1.
A FIGHT IN THE TEMPLE OF HARMONY.
The Roman poet who, writing of vice,
ascribed its influence entirely to the allure
ment ofthe fair disguises that it wore, -ana
asserted it to be a monster so hideous by
nature that it only needed to be seen to ex
cite the hatred of all mankind, uttered a
very plausible moral sentiment, which wants
nothing to recommend it to the unqualified
admiration of posterity but a slight season
ing of practical truth. Even in the most
luxurious days of old Rome, it may very
safely be questioned whether vice could ever
afford lo disguise itself to win recruits, ex
cept from the wealthier classes of the pop
ulation. But in these modern times, it
may be decidedly asserted as a fact, lhat
vice, in accomplishing the vast majority of
its seductions, uses no disguise at all; ap
pears impudently in its naked deformity ;
and, instead of horrifying all beholders, in
accordance wilh the prediction of the clas
sical satirist, absolutely attracts a much
more numerous congregation of worship
pers than has ever yet been brought together
by the divinest beauties that virtue can dis
play for the allurement of mankind.
That famous place of public amusement,
known to the loose-living and late-roaming
youth of London by the name of the Temple
of Harmony, affords, among hosts of other
instances which might be cited, a notable
example to refute the assertion of the an
cient poet by establishing the fact that vice
is in no danger of being loathed, even when
it presents itself to ihe beholder uncovered
by the bare rags and tatters of the flimsiest
disguise. The Temple of Harmony, as its name de
notes, was principally devoted to the exhi
bition of musical talent, and opened at a
period ofthe night when the performances
at the theatres were over. The standing
orchestral arrangements of the place were
all comprised in one bad piano ; to which
were occasionally added, by way of increas
ing the attractions, performances on the
banjo and guitar. The singers were called
"ladies and gentlemen." The temple itself
consisted of one long room, with a double
row of benches, bearing troughs at their
backs for the reception of glasses of liquor.
It has a slightly-raised stage at the end for
the performers ; and its drab-colored wa'1'
pretended to be panelled, but made so bad a
pretence of it as to merit no notice, and
even to get none.


HIDE AND SEEK.

IO.1)

rentable intrusion, for no other discernible
reason than that people in general are not
used to it.
Quietly as the strange man in black had.
taken his seat in the Temple of Harmony,
he and his skull-cap attracted general atten
tion ; and our national weakness displayed
itself immediately.
Nobody paused to reflect that he probably
wore his black-rvelyet head-dress from ne
cessity ; nobody gave 'him crtdit for having
objections to a wig, whfeh might be per
fectly sensible and well founded; and no
body, even in this free couniry, was liberal
enough to consider that he had really as
much right to put on a skull-cap under his
hat if he chose, as any other man present
had to put on a shirt under his waistcoat.
The; audience saw nothing but the novelty
in the way of a head-dress which ihe stran
ger wore, and they resented it unanimously
because it was a novelty. Firsi, they ex
pressed this resentment by staring indig
nantly at him, then by laughing at him,
then by making sarcastic remarks on him.
He bore their ridicule with the most per
fect and provoking coolness. He did not
expostulate, or retort, or look angry, or
grow red in the face, or fidget in his seat,
or get up to go away. He just sat smoking
and drinking as quietly as ever, not taking
the slightest notice of any of the dozens of
people who were all taking notice of him.
His imperturbability only served to encour
age his neighbors to take further liberties
with him. One fragile little gentleman, with
a spirituous nose and watery eyes, urged on
by some women near him, advanced to the
stranger's bench, and expressing his admi
ration of a skull-cap as a becoming orna
mental addition to a hat, announced with a
bow of mock politeness, his ardent desire
to feel the quality of the velvet. He
stretched out his hand as be spoke, not a
word of warning or expostulation being
uttered by ihe victim of the intended insult ;
but the moment his fingers louched the
skull-cap, the strange man, still without
speaking, without even removing his cigar
from his mouth, very deliberately threw all
that remained of the glass of hot brandy
and water before him in the fragile gentle
man's face.
With a scream of pain as the hot liquor
flew into his eyes, ihe miserable little man
struck out helplessly with both his fists, and
fell down between the benches. A friend,
who was with him, advanced to avenge his
injuries, and was ihrown sprawling on the
floor. Yells of " Turn him out !" and
"Police!" followed; people at the other
end of the room jumped up excitably on
their seats; the women screamed, ihe men
shouted and swore, glasses were broken,
sticks were waved, benches were cracked,
and, in one instant, the stranger was as-
7

sailed -by eveir one of lis neighbors whr
could get near him, on pretence of turning
him put. /
Just as it seerried a matter of certainty
that he must yield, to numbers, in spite oi'
his gallant resistance, and be jgnominiously
hurled out of the door down the flightbf stairs
that led to it, a tall, young gentleman, with
a quaniity of light, curly hair on his hatless
head, leaped up on one ofthe benches at tne
opposite side of the gangway running down
^he middle of the room, and apostrophized
the company around him wilh vehement
fistic gesticulation. Alas for the respecta
bilities of parents wilh pleasure-loving
sons!, alas, for Mr. Valentine Blyth's idea
of teaching his pupil to be steady, by teach
ing him to draw ! This furious young
gentleman was no other than Mr. Zachary
Thorpe, junior, of Baregrove square.
" D — n you all, you cowardly counter-
jumping scoundrels !" roared Zack, his
eyes aflame with valor, generosity, and
gin-and-water. " What do you mean by
setting on one man in that way ? Hit out,
sir — hit out right and left ! I saw you in
sulted, and I'm coming to help you !"
With these words Zack lucked up his
cuffs, and jumped into the crowd about him.
His height, strength, and science as a boxer,
carried him triumphantly to the opposite
bench. Two or three blows on the ribs,
and one on the nose which drew blood
plentifully, only served to stimulate his
ardor and increase ihe pugilistic ferocity
of his expression. In a minute he was by
the ?'de of the man with the skull-cap;
and the two were fighting, back to back,
amid roars of applause from the audience
at the upper end of the room who were
only spectators of the disturbance.
In the meantime the police had been
summoned. But the waiters down-stairs,
in their anxiety to see a struggle between
two men on one side and somewhere about
two dozen on the other,- had neglected to
close the street-door. The consequence was,
that all the cabmen on the stand outside,
and all the vagabond night-idlers in the
vagabond neighborhood of the Temple of
Harmony, poured into the narrow passage,
and got up an impromptu riot of their own
with the waiters who tried, too late, to
turn them out. Just as the police were
forcing their way through the throng below,
Zack and the stranger had fought their
way out of the throng above, and had goi
clear of the room.
- On the right of the landing as they ap
proached it, was a door, through which the
marl with the skull-cap now darted, drag
ging Zack after him. His temper was just
as cool, his quick eye just as vigilant as
ever. The key of the door was inside. He
locked it, amid a roar of applauding laugh
ter from the people on the staircase, mixed


ne

HIDE AND SEEK.

with cries of " Police ." and '" Stop ''em in
the court !" from the waiters. The two
then descended a steep flight of stairs, at
headlong speed, and found themselves in a
kitchen, confronting an astonished mari-
cook and two female servants. Zack
knocked the man down before he could use
the rolling-pin which he had snatched up
on their appearance ; while the stranger
coolly took a hat that stood on the dresser,
and jammed it tight with one smack of his
large hand on young Thorpe's bare head.
The next moment they were out in a court
into which the kitchen opened, and were
running at the top of their speed.
The police, on their side, lost no time;
Out they had to get out of the crowd in the
passage and go round the front of the house,
before they could arrive at the turning
which led into the court from the street,
This gave the fugitives a start ; and the
neighborhood of alleys, lanes, and by-streets
in which th-eir flight immediately involved
them, was the neighborhood of all others
to favor their escape. While the springing
of rattles and the cries of "Stop' thief!"
were rending the frosty night-air in one
direction, Zack and the stranger were walk
ing away quietly, arm in arm, in the other
— young Thorpe adjuring any stray police
man who ran past them to be quick for
heaven's sake, and stop a dreadful row that
was going on outside the Temple of Har
mony Th; nan with the skull-cap had taken
the lead hitherto, and he took it still;
though, from the manner in which he
stared about him at corners of streets, and
involved himself and his companion every
now and then in- blind alleys, it was clear
enough that he wasquiteunfamiliarwith the
part of the town through which they w^re
now walking. Zack, having' treated him
self that night to his fatal third glass of grog,
and having finished half pf it before the
fight began, was by this time in no condition
lo care about following any particular path
in the great labyrinth of London. He
walked on, talking thickly and incessantly
to the stranger, who never once answered
him. It was of ho use to applaud his
bravery ; to criticise his style of fighting,
which was anything but scientific ; to ex
press astonishment at his skill in knocking
his hat on again, all through the struggle,
every lime it was knocked off; and to de
clare admiration-of his quickness in taking
the cook's hat to cover his companion's
bare head, which might have exposed him
to suspicion and capture as he passed
through the streets. It was of no u«e to
speak on these subjects, or On any others.
Ihe imperturbable hero who had not utter
ed a word all through the fight, was as im
perturbable as ever, and would not utter a
word after it.

They strayed at last into Fleet street, and
walked to the foot of Ludgate hill. Here
the stranger stopped — glanced toward the
open space on the 'right, where the river
ran — gave a great rough gasp of relief and
satisfaction— and made difectly for Black-
friars bridge. He led Zack, who was siill
slightly thick in his utterance, and un
steady on his legs, to the parapet wall ;. let
go of his arm there; and, looking steadily
in his face by* the light of the gas-lamp,
addressed him, for the first time, in a re
markably grave, deliberate voice, and in
these words: —
" Now, then, young 'un, suppose you pull a
breath, and wipe that bloody nose of yours."
Zack,, instead of resenting this uncere
monious manner of speaking to him —
which he might have done had he been
sober — burst into a frantic fit of laughter.
The remarkable gravity and composure of
«he stranger's tone and manner, contrasted
with the oddity of the proposition by which
he opened the conversation, would have
been irresistibly ludicrous even to a man
whose faculties were not at all in an in
toxicated condi tion.
While Zack was roaring with laughter
till the tears rolled down his cheeks, his
odd companion was leaning over the parapet
of the bridge, and pulling off his black kid
gloves, which had suffered considerably
during the progress of the fight. Having
rolled them. up into a ball, he jerked them
contemptuously into the river.
" There goes the first pair of gloves as
ever I had on ; and the last as ever I mean
to wear," said he, spreading out his brawny
hands to the sharp night breeze.
Young Thorpe heaved a few last expiring
gasps of laughter ; then became quiet and
serious from sheer exhaustion.
" Go it again," said the man of the skull
cap, staring at him as gravely as ever, " I
like to hear you."
"I can't go it again," answered Zack,
faintly; "I'm out of breath. Oh, you queer
old beggar ! who the devil are you ?"
" I ain't nobody in particular ; and I don't
know as I've got a single friend to care
about who I am in all England,'' replied
the other. " Give us your hand, young 'un !
In the foreign parts where I come from;
when one man stands by another as you've
stood by me to-night, them two are brothers
together afterward. You needn't be a
broiher to me, if you don't like. I mean tr
be a brother to you, whether you like it or
not. My name's Mat. What's yours ?"
" Zack," returned young Thorpe.'clapping
his new acquaintance on the back with
brotherly familiarity already. " You're a
jolly old boy; and I like your way of talk
ing. Where do you come from, Mat? And
what do you wear that queer cap undei
your hat for ?" '


HIDE AND SEEK.

10

" I come from America last." replied
Mat, as grave and deliberate as ever ;." and
I wear this cap because I haven't got no
scalp on my head."
'¦D — n it ! what do you mean?" cried
Zack, startled into temporary sobriety, and
taking his harid off his new friend's shoulder
as quickly as if he had put it on a reel-hol
iron. " I always mean what I say," continued
Mat; "I've got that much good about hie,
if I haven'i got no more. Me and my scalp
parted company years ago. I'm here, on a
bridge in London, talking to a young chap
of the name of Zack. My scalp's on the
top of a high pole in some Indian village,
anywhere you like "about the Amaion
country. If there's any puffs of wind going
there, like there is here, it's rattling just
now, like a, bit of dry parchment ; and all
the hair on it is flipping about like a horse's
tail when the flies is in season. I don't
know nothing more about myscalp than
that. If you don't believe' me, just lay hold
of my hat, and I'll show you—"
"Oh, hang it, no !" exclaimed Zack, re
coiling from the offered hat. " I believe
you, old fellow. But how the deuce do
you manage without a scalp — I never heard
of such a thing before in my life — how is it
you're not dead, eh ?"
" It takes a deal more to kill a tough
man than you London chaps think," said
Mat. " 1 was found before my head got
cool, and plastered over with leaves and
ointment. They'd left a bit of scalp at ihe
back, being in rather too great a hurry to
do their work as handily as usual ; and a
new skin growed over, after a liltle, a
babyish sort of skin that wasn't half thick
enough, and wouldn't bear no new crop of
hair. So I had to eke out and keep my
head comfortable with an old yellow hand-
kercher ; which I always wore till I got to
San Francisco, on my way back here. I
met with a priest at San Francisco, who
told me I should look a little less like a
savage, if I wore a skull-cap like his, in
stead of a handkercher, when I got back
into what he called the civilized world. So
I took his advice, and bought his cap. I
suppose it looks better than my old yellow
handkercher ; but it ain't half so com
fortable." "But how did you lose your scalp?"
asked Zack — " tell us all about it. Upon
ray soul, Mat, you seem to be the most
interesting fellow I ever met with ! Ahd,
I say, let's walk about, while we talk. I
feel steadier on my legs now ; and it's so
infernally cold standing here."
"Which way can we soonest get out of
this muck of houses and streels ?" asked
Mat, surveying the London view around
him wilh an expression of grim disgust.
" Then; ain't no room, even On this bridge,

for the wind to blow fairly over a man. Td
just as soon be smothered up in a bed, as
smothered up in smoke and stink here."
" What a queer fellow you are ! — a' regu
lar character. Come along, this way.
Steady, Old boy ! The grog's not quite out
of my head yet ; and I've got the hiccups.
Here's my way home, and your way into
the fresh air, if you really want it. Come
along, and tell me how you lost your scalp.'
" There ain't nothing particular to tell.
What's your name again ?"
" ZacK."
"Well, Zack, I' was out on the tramp,
dodging about after any game that turned
up, on the banks of the Amazon — "
"Amazon? What the devil's that ? A
woman ? or a place ? Steady ! or that cab
will be over us."
" Did you ever hear of South America ?"
"I can't positively swear to it; but to
the best of my belief, I think I have."
" Well ; Amazon's a longish bit of a
river in those parts. I was out, as I told
Vou, on the tramp — "
" By Jove ! you look like the sort of man
who has been out on the tramp everywhere."
" Do I ?"
"And done everything, I should say."
"Most everything. I've druv' cattle in
Mexico ; I've been out with a gang that
went to find an overland road to the North
Pole ; I've worked through a season or two
in catching wild horses in the Pampas ; and
another season or two in digging gold in
California. I went away from England, a
tidy lad aboard ship ; and here I am back
again now, an old vagabond as hasn't a
friend to own him. If you want to know
exactly who I am, and what I've been up
to all my life, that's about as much as I can
tell you."
" And deucedly interesting it is, too '
But I say — oh; these infernal hiccups ! I'm
always Bothered with them at night after
eating supper, I've been a martyr to hic
cups ever since I was a child — but, I say,
there's' one thing you haven'i told me yet;
you haven't told me what your other name
is besides Mat. Mine's Thorpe."
" I haven't heard the sound of the other
name you're asking after, for a matter of
belter than twenty year: and I don't care
if I never hear iragain." His voice sank
huskily, and lie turned his head a little
away from Zack, as he said those words.
" They nicknamed me ' Marksman,' when
I used to go out with the exploring gangs,
because 1 was the best shot of all of them.
You call me Marksman, too, if you don't
like Mat. Mister Matthew Marksman, if
you please : everybody seems to be a
' Mister' here. You're one, of course.
But I don't mean to call you ' Mister' for
all that. I shall stick to Zack ; it's short,
and there's no bother about it."


HIDE AND SEEK.

109

you're married or not,?" (M$. Marksman
still made no answer, and walked quicker
than ever). "But if you haven't got wife
or child, every fellow's got a father and
mother, you know ; and most fellows have
got brothers or sisters ; and even if—"
"Good night," said Mr. Marksman,
stopping short, and abruptly holding ->ut his
hand. " Why ! what's the matter now ?" asked
Zack, in astonishment. ""What do you
want to part company for already? We
are not near the end of the streets yet. I
haven't said anything that's offended youl"
" No, nothing. You can go on talking
to me, if you like, the day after to-morrow.
I shall be back then, whatever happens. 1
said I'd be like a brother to you; and that
means, in my lingo, doing anything you
ask. You want me to tell you about the
sort of life I've been leading-r-do you?-
Very well j .I'll, tell you as much as you
want. There's a backer shop in Kirk street,
Wendover market, with a green door,, and
fourteen written on it in yaller paint. When
I am shut up in a room of my own, which
isn't often, I'm shut up there. I can't give
you the key of the house, because I want
it myself." "Kirk street? That's my way. Why
can't we go on together? What do you
want to say good-night here for?"
" Because I want to be left by myself. It
ain't your fault ; but you've set me think
ing of sg^gBtfeing that don't make me easy
in my mind. I've led a lonesome life of
it, young 'un ; straying away months and
months out in the wilderness, without a
human being to speak to. I dare say that
wasn't a right sort of life for a man to take
up with ; but I did take up with it ; and I
can't get over liking it sometimes still.
When I'm not easy in my mind, I want to
be left lonesome as I used to be. I want it
now." And once more, Mr. Marksman held
put his hand.
" Well, Mat, you certainly are the most
curious fellow I ever met with. Wait a
bit, old boy, till I've written down your
direction in my pocket-book. Hang the
thing! I can't get at it. What number
was it — eh ? Oh ! Fourteen. Wait a
minute. ' Mr. Marksman (that's the name
to ask for, isn't it?)' All right. 'Mr
Marksman, 14, Kirk street, Wendover
market.' What's the day after to-morrow ?
Thursday? 'Wendover market: Thurs
day.' Morning, early, shall I write ? Very
well: ' Morning, early.' And, Mat, if
you really don't find anybody that belongs
to you — "
" Good-night," repeated Mr. Marksman,
crossing suddenly to the other side of the
road, and then walking straight on at a
great pace.
Young Thorpe st<?odwiih his pocket-book

and pencil in his hano, lboiring after, his
new friend until he had lost sight of him
in the dark distance dotted with gaslights;
and had heard the last thump of his steady
footstep die away on the' paVeme. t in the
morning stillness of the street.
" That's a queer fellow," thought Zack,
aslie pursued his Own road, "and we have got
acquainted with each other in a very queer
way. I shall go and see him though, on
Thursday; for, if ever I'm turned loose on
the.world (which isn't at all unlikely, con
sidering how badly things are going on with
me at home), he's just ihe man to give me
a hint or two in the right direction. I shall
certainly go and see him on Thursday ;
something may come of it, one of these
days." Zack was a careless guesser ; but, in this
case, he guessed right. Something did
come of it-

CHAPTER II.
the prodigal's return.
When Zack reached Baregrove square,
it was four in the morning. The' neigh
boring church clock struck the hour as he
approached his own door.
Immediately after parting with Mr.
Marksrrian, malicious fate so ordained it
that he passed one Of those late — or, to
Speak more correctly, early — public-houses,
which are open to customers during thei
" small hours" of the morning. He was
parched with thirst ; and the hiccuping fit
which had seized him in the company of
his new friend had not yet subsided. " Sup
pose I try what a drop of brandy will do
for me," exclaimed Zack, stopping at the
fatal entrance of the public-house.
He went in lightly and easily enough.
He came out with some awkwardness, and
no little difficulty. However, he had
achieved his purpose of curing the hiccups.
The remedy employed, acted, to be sure,
on his legs as well as his stomach — but that
was a trifling physiological eccentricity
quite unworthy of notice.
He was far too exclusively occupied in
thinking of the eccentric Mr, Marksmatt,
and in chuckling over the remembrance of
the agreeably riotous train of cireumstances
which had brought his new acquaintance
and himself together, to take any notice of
his own personal condition, or to observe
that his course over the pavement was Of a
somewhat sinuous nature, as he walked
home. It was only when he pulled the
door-key out of his pocket, and tried to put
it into the key-hole, that his attention was
fairly directed on himself; and then he dis
covered that his hands were slightly help-


no

HIDE AND SEEK.

less, and that he was also by no means
rigidly steady on his legs.
There are some men whose minds get
drunk, and some men whose bodies get
drunk, under the influence of intoxicating
liquor. Zack belonged to the second class.
He was perfectly capable of understanding
what was said to him, and of knowing
what he said himself, long after his utter
ance had grown thick, and his gait had
become perilously uncertain. He was now
quite conscious, lhat his visit to the public-
house had by no means tended to sober him ;
and quite awake to the importance of noise-
bjssiy stealing up to bed — but he was, at
the same time, totally unable to put the key
into the door at the first attempt, or to
look comfortably for the keyhole, without
previously leaning against the area railings
at his side.
"Steady," muttered Zack, "I'm done
for if I make any row." Here he felt for
the keyhole, and guided the key elaborately
with his left hand, into its proper place.
He next opened the door, so quietly that he
was astonished at himself— entered the pas
sage with marvellous steallhiness — then
closed the door again, and cried "Hush !"
when be found that he had let the lock go
a litlle too noisily.
He listened before he attempted to light
nis candle. The air of the bouse felt
strangely close and hot, after the air out-
of-doors. The dark stillness above and
around him was instinct with an awful and
virtuous repose ; and was deepened om
inously by the solemn tick-tick of the
kitchen-clock — never audible from the pas
sage in the daytime; terribly and incom
prehensibly distinct at this moment
" I won't bolt the door," he whispered
to himself, " till I have struck a — " Here
the unreliability of brandy as a curative
agent in cases of fermentation in the stomach,
was palpably demonstrated by the return
of the hiccuping fit. "Hush!" cried Zack
for the second time, terrified at the violence
and suddenness ofthe relapse, and clapping
his hand to his mouth when it was too late.
After groping, on his knees, with extra
ordinary perseverance: all round the rim of
his bedroom candlestick, which stood on
one of ihe hall-chairs, he succeeded — not in
finding the box of matches — but in knocking
it inexplicably off the chair, and sending it
oiling over the stone floor, until if was
stopped by the opposite wall. With some
difficulty he captured it, and struc'k a light.
Never, in all Zack's experience, had any
former matches caught flame with such a
shrill report, as was produced from the one
disastrous and diabolical match, which he
happened to select to light his candle with.
-The next thing to be done was to bolt the
door. He succeeded very well with the
bolt at the top ; but failed signally with the

bolt at the bottom, which appeared par
ficularly difficult to deal wilh that night';
fur it first of all creaked fiercely on being
moved — then stuck spitefully just at the
entrance of the staple — then slipped all of
a sudden, under moderate pressure, and ran
like lightning into its appointed place, with
a bang of malicious triumph. " If that don't
bring' the governor down," thought Zack,
listening with all his ears, and stifling the
hiccups with all his might, "he's a harder
Sleeper than I take him for."
But no doOr opened, no voice called, no
sound of any kind broke the mysterious
stillness of the bedroom regions. Zack sat
down on the stairs, and took his boots off-
got up again with some little difficulty,
listened, took his candlestick, listened once
more, whispered to himself, " Now for it !"
and begah the perilous aspent to his own
room. He held tight by the banisters, only
falling against them, and making them
crack from top to bottom, once, before he
reached the drawing-room landing. He
ascended the second flight of stairs without
casualties of any kind, until he got to the
top step, close by his father's bedroom door.
Here, by a dire fatality, the stifled hiccups
burst beyond all control ; and distinctly as
serted themselves by one convulsive yelp.
which betrayed Zack into a start of horror
The start shook his candlestick : the ex
tinguisher, which lay loose in it, dropped
out, hopped playfully down the stone-stairs,
and rolled over the landing with^a loud and'
lively ring — a devilish and brazen flourish
of exultation in honor of its own activit)'.
"O Lord!" faintly ejaculated Zack, as
he heard somebody's voice speaking, and
somebody's body moving, in the bedroom ;
and remembered' that he had to mount
another flight of stairs — wooden stairs, this
time— before he got to his own quarters on
the garret-floor.
He went up, however, directly, with the
recklessness of despair ; every separate
stair creaking and cracking under him, as
if a young elephant had been retiring to bed
instead of a young' man. He blew out his
light, tore off his clothes, and, slipping
between the sheets, began to breathe elabo
rately, as if he was fast asleep — in ihe
desperate hope of being still able to deceive
his fathei', if Mr. Thorpe came up-stairs to
look after him.' ' '
But another and a last accident, the direst
of all, baffled his plans and ruthlessly, be
trayed him. No1 sooner had he assumed a
recUmbent position than a lusty and cease
less singing began in his ears, which be
wildered and half deafened him. His bed,
the room, the house, the whole world tore
round and round, and heaved up and down
frantically with him. He ceased to be a


HIDE AND SEEK.

Ill

spinning drunkenly in illimitable space.
He started up in bed, and was recalled to a
sense of his humanity by a cold perspiration
and a deathly qualm. Hiccups burst from
him no longer ; but they were succeeded
by another and a louder series of sounds-
sounds familiar to everybody who has ever
been at sea — sounds nauiically and lament
ably associated with white basins, whirling
waves, and misery of mortal stomach's
wailing in emetic despair.
In the momentary pauses between the
rapidiy successive attacks of the malady
which now overwhelmed him, and which
he attributed in after-life entirely to the
dyspeptic influences of toasted cheese, Zack
was faintly conscious of the sound of slip
pered feet ascending the stairs. His back
was to the door. He had no strength to
move, no courage to look round, no voice
to raise in supplication. He knew that, his
door opened ; that a light came into tbe
room ; that a voice cried " Degraded beast !"
that the door was suddenly shut again with
a bang; and that he was left once more in
total darkness. He did not care for the
light, or the voice, or the banging of the
door; he did not think of them afterward,
he did not mourn over the past, or speculate
on the future. He just sank back on his
pillow with a gasp, drew the clothes over
him with a groan, and fell asleep, blissfully
reckless of the retribution that was to come
with the coming daylight.
When he woke late tbe next morning —
conscious of nothing, at first, except that it
was thawing fast out of doors, and that he
bad a violent headache, but gradually re
called to a remembrance of the memorable
fight in the Temple of Harmony by a sense
of soreness in his ribs, and a growing con
viction that his nose had become too large
for his face — Zack's memory began, cor
rectly though confusedly, to retrace the cirr
cumstances attending his return home, and
his disastrous journey up-stairs to bed.
With these recollections were mingled
others of the light that had penetrated into
his room, after his own candle was out ; of
the voice that had denounced him as a
"degraded beast ;": and of the banging of
the eloor which had followed. There could
be no doubt that it was his father who had
entered the room and apostrophized him in
'he briefly emphatic terms which he was
low calling lo mind. Never had Mr.
Thorpe, on any former occasion, been
known to call names, or bang doors. It
was quite clear that he had discovered
everything; and was exasperated with his
son as he had never been exasperated wilh
any other human being before in his life.
Just as Zack arrived at this conclu
sion, he heard the rustling of his mother's
dress on the stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe, with
her handkerchief lo her eyes, presented

herself wofully u his bedside. Profoundly
and penitently .vretched, he tried to gain
his mother's-forgiyeness before he encoun
tered bis father's wrath. To do him jus-
lice, he was so thoroughly ashamei io meet
her eye, lhat he turned his face to tut wall.
and in that position confessed everything,
vowed, amendment for the future and foi
ever, declared his readiness to make any
atonement that was desired of him ; and,
in short, appealed to his mother's compas
sion in the most moving terms, and with
the most vehement protestations that he
had; ever addressed to her.
,; But the only effect he produced on Mrs.
Thorpe was to make her walk up and down
tbe room in violent agitation, sobbing bit
terly. Now and then, a few words burst
lamentably and" incoherently from her lips.
They were just articulate enough for him
to gather from them, that his father had
found out everything, had suffered in con
sequence from an attack of palpitations of
the heart, and, had felt himself, on rising
tha,t morning, so unequal, both in mind and
body, to deal unaided with the enormity of
his son's offence, that he had just gone out
to seek Mr. Yollop's advice as to what it
would be best for him to do, as a Christian
and a parent, under tlie shocking and
shameful emergency in which he was now
placed. On discovering this, Zack's penitence
changed instanily into a curious mixture of
indignation and alarm. He turned round
quickly'toward his mother ; but, before he
could open his lips, she told him, speaking
with a sudden and unexampled severity of
tone,, lhat he was on no account to think of
going to the office as usual, but was to wait
at homev until his father's return — and then
hurried from -the room. The fact was, that
Mrs. Thorpe distrusted her own inflexibil
ity, if she stayed too long in the presence
of her penitent son ; but Zack could not,
unhappily,- know this. He could only see
that she left him abruptly, after delivering
an ominous message ; and could only place
the gloomiest and most disheartening inter
pretation on her conduct.
"When mother turns against me, I've
lost my last chance, and nothing's left for
it but to — " he stopped .before he ended the
sentence, and sat up in bed, deliberating
with himself for a minute or two. "I
could make up my mind to bear anything
from ihe governor, because he has a right
to row me, after what I've done. But, if I
stand old Yollop again, I'll be— " here,
whatever Zack said was smothered in the
sound of a blow, expressive of fury and
despair, which he administered to the mat
tress on which he was sitting. Having re
lieved himself thus, he jumped out of bed,
pronouncing at last in real earnest those
few words of fatal slang which had often


HIDE AND SEEK.

113

has been half his life in the wilds of Amer
ica ;' so, if 'you don't give me the go-by, I
shall bring him to see your picture of Co
lumbus. " I feel sr. miserable, and have got such
a headache, that I can't write any more.
"Ever yours, "Z. Thorpe, je."
After directing this letter, and placing it
in his pocket lo be put into the post by his
own. hand, Zack looked toward the door,
and nesitated — then advanced a step or two
to get out— then paused thoughtfully — and
ended by returning to the writing-table, and
taking a fresh sheet of paper out of the
portfolio before him.
" I can't leave the old lady (though she
- won't forgive me) without writing a line to
keep up he? spirits, and say good-by,"
thought he, as he dipped the pen in the
ink, and began in his usual dashing, scrawl
ing way. But he could not get beyond
" My dear Mother." The writing of those
three words seemed to have suddenly para
lyzed him. The strong hand that had
struck out so sturdily all through the fight,
trembled now at merely touching a sheet
of paper. Still he tried desperately to write
something, even if it were only the one
word, "good-by:" tried till the, tears came
into his eyes, and made all further effort
hopeless. He crumpled up the paper and rose hasti
ly, brushing away the tears with his hand,
and feeling a strange dread and distrust of
himself as he did so. It was rarely, very
rarely, that his eyes were moistened as
they were moistened now. Few human
beings have lived to be twenty years of age
without shedding more tears than had ever
been shed by Zack.
" I can't write to her while I'm at home,
and I know she's in the next room to me. I
will send her a letter when I'm out of the
house; saying it's only for a little time, and
lhat I'm coming back when the angry part
of this infernal ousiness is all blown over."
Such was his resolution, as he tore up the
crumpled paper, and went out quickly into
the passage.
He look his .hat from the table. His
hat? No,, he remembered that it was the
hat which had been taken from the man at
the tavern. At the most momentous in
stant of his life — w-hen his heart was bow
ing down befure the thought of his mother
— when he was leaving home in secret, per
haps for ever — the current of his thoughts
could be incomprehensibly stopped and al
tered in its course by the trumpery influence
of such a trifle as this !
It was thus with him ; it is thus with all
of us. Our faculties are never more com
pletely at the mercy of the smallest inter
ests of our being, than when they appear

to be most fully absorbed by the mighliest.
And it is often well for us that there exists
this seeming imperfection in our nature.
The first cure of many a grief, after the
hour of parting, or in the house of death,
has begun, insensibly to ourselves, with the
first moment when we were betrayed into
thinking of so little a thing even as a daily
meal. '
The rain which had accompanied the
thaw was falling faster and faster ; inside
the house was dead silence, arid outside it
damp desolation, as Zack opened the street-
door ; and, without hesitating a moment,
dashed out desperately through mud and
wet, to cast himself loose on the thronged
world of London as a fugitive from his own
home. His first thoughts, obedient to the striange
direction which accident had given to them,
were all occupied in devising the best meth
od of sending back the hat he wore to trie
man from whom it had been taken. A plan
for accomplishing this soon suggested itself
lohim; and then his mind returned once
more, of its own accord, to the reflections
that had filled it while he was trying in
vain to write a farewell letter to his mother.
Before he got out of Baregrove square, he
stopped, and looked back from an angle in
the pavement which gave him a view of
his father's house.
He paused thus ; the recollections of
weeks, months, years past, all whirling
through his memory in a few moments of
time. He paused, looking through the,
damp, foggy atmosphere, at the door which
he had, just left — never, it might be, to ap
proach it again ; then moved away, but
toned his coat, over his chest wilh trem
bling, impatient fingers, and saying to him
self, "I've done it, and nothing can undo
it now," turned his back resolutely on
Baregrove square.

CHAPTER III.
MR. MARKSMAN'S COUNTRY TRIP
Kirk street, Wendover market, was
not exfetly the place which most gentle
men, having money at their disposal, would
choose to reside in, on returning to their
native country after long expatriation. The
neighborhood was densely populous, and
by no means widely respectable ; and the
Street itself exhibited a vagabond liveliness
of characler, productive of almost every
known species of public nuisance of the
noisy sort. Here the men of the fustian-
jacket and sealskin cap clustered tumultu
ous round the lintels of the gin-shop doors.
Here ballad-bellowing, and organ-grinding,
and voices of costermongers, singing of


H4

HIDE AND REEK.

poor men's luxuries, never ceased all through
the hum of day, and penetrated far into the
frowsy repose, of latest night. Here, on
Saturday evenings especially, the butcher
smacker! with triumphant hand the fat car
cases that hung around him ; and, flourish
ing his steel, roared aloud ito every woman
who passed the shop-door wilh a basket, to
come in and buy. Here the peripatetic
green-grocer stood up, a vocal commercial
prop of his country, proclaiming the prices
current of the apple and onion markets
lustily from the top of a donkey-cart. Here,
with foul frequency, the language of the
natives was interspersed with such words
as reporters indicate in the newspapers by
an expressive black line ; and on this " beat,"
more than on most others, the night police
were especially chosen from men of mighty
strength to protect the sober part of the
street community, and of notable cunning
to persuade the drunken part to retire harm
lessly brawling into the domestic (or wife-
beating) seclusion of their own homes.
Such was the place in which Mr. Matthew
Marksman had set up his residence, after
twenty years of wandering amid the wilds
of the great American continent.
On arriving in London he had looked
about him to see what civilized life appear
ed like, after his long absence, and had
found it in its fashionable, wealthy, and re
spectable aspects, without external interest
or character of any kind — essentially neg
ative, intolerably dull. Descending next
to the poor and the populous aspects, he
had succeeded at last in discovering some
thing to look at. The struggle of life, with
all its antagonistic glories and degradations
in daily conflict which should be upper
most, was here fully exposed to view— hid
den by no comfortable curtain of conven
tionality — hardly covered even by a veil of
decency over its baser acts. Few stages
could have been sought out which more
freely displayed the dramatic low life of
London than the stage presented by Kirk
street. So at that vagabond thoroughfare
Mr. Marksman, being somewhat of a vaga
bond himself, paused sympathetically : and,
entering the first house whose windows in
formed him thatrooms were to be let with-'
in, planted his:Stake in the country at last,
by taking a back and front British first floor
for a week certain.
Never was tenant of any order or degree
known to make such conditions, with a
landlord as were made, by Mr. Marksman.
Every household convenience with which
the people at the lodgings could offer tp ac
commodate him, he considered t0, be, a sper
cies of domestic nuisance it was particular
ly desirable to get rid of. He stipulated
that nobody should be allowed to clean his
room but himself; that the servant of all
work should never attempt to make his bed,

or offer to put. sheets on it, or venture to
pook him a bit of dinner when he stopped
at home ; and that he should be free to stay
away unexpectedly for days and nights
together, if he chose, without either land
lord or landlady presuming to be anxious or
to make inquiries about him, as long as
they had his rent in their pockets. This
rent he willingly covenanted to pay before
hand, week by week, as long as his stay
lasted; and he was also liberally ready to
fee the servant occasionally, provided she
would engage solemnly " not to bother his
life by doing anything for him."
The proprietor of the house (and tobacco-
shop) was at first extremely astonished,
and extremely inclined to be distrustful ;
but as he was likewise extremely familiar
with poverty, he was not proOf against the
auriferous halo which the production of a
handful of bright sovereigns shed glorious
ly over the personal eccentricities of the
new lodger. The bargain was struck ; and
Mr. Marksman went away directly to fetch
i/s luggage.
After an absence of some little time, he
returned with a large corn-sack on his back
and a long rifle in his hand. These articles
were his luggage.
First putting the rifle on his bed, in the
back room, he cleared away all the little
secondrhand furniture with which the front
room was decorated, packing the three
rickety chairs together in one corner, and
turning up the cracked round table in an
other. Then, untying a piece of cord that
secured the mouth of the corn-sack, 'he
emptied it, over his shoulder, into the
middle of the room — just (as the landlady
afterward said) as if it was coals coming
in instead of luggage. Among the things
which fell out on the floor in a heap, were
— some bearskins and a splendid buffalo-
hide, neatly packed ; a pipe, two red flannel
shirtsi a tobacco-pouch, and an Indian
blanket ; a leather bag, a gunpowder flask,
two squares of yellow soap, a bullel-mould
and a nightcap; a tomahawk, a paper of ,
nail*, a scrubbing-brush, a hammer, and an
old gridiron. Having emptied the sack, Mr.
Marksman took up the buffalo-hide, and
spread it out on his bed, with a very ex
pressive sneer at the patchwork counter
pane and meagre curtains. He next threw
down the bearskins, with ihe emply sack
under them, in an unoccupied corner; prop
ped up the leather bag between two angles
of the wall ; took bis pipe froth the floor;,
left, everything else lying in the middle of
the room ; jind, sitting down or. the bear
skins with his back against the bag, told
the astonished landlord that he was quite
sealed and comfortable now, and would
thank him to go down-stairs, and send up a
pound of the strongest tobacco he had ia
Ihe ;h™.


U15

HIDE AND SEEK.

to make ; he knows that he must begin the
search which is to lead to that discovery,
either m the shop before him, or in the
churchyard which he has left behind him :
but for some time he can not choose his
alternative. At last, he decides to begin
with the churchyard, and retraces his steps
accordingly. "
He enters quickly by the gate at which
he delayed before; and pursues the path
among the graves a little way. Then stri
king off over the grass after a moment's con
sideration and looking about him, he winds
his course hither and thither among the
turf mounds ; and stops suddenly at a plain
flat tombstone, raised horizontally above the"
earth by a foot or so of brickwork. Bending
down over it, he reads the characters en-'
graven on the slab.
, There are four inscriptions, all of the
simplest and shortest kind ; comprising
nothing but a record of the names, ages,
and birth and death dates of the dead who
lie beneath. The first two inscriptions
notify the deaths of children : — " Joshua
Grice, son of Joshua and Susan Grice, of
this parish, aged four years ;" and " Susan
Grice, daughter of the above, aged thirteen
years." The next death recorded is the
mother's: and the last is the father's, at
the age of sixty-two. Below this follows
a quolalion from the New Testament:
" Come unto me all ye that are weary and
heavy laden, and I will give you rest." It
is on these lines, and on the record above
them of the death of Joshua Grice the elder,
that the eyes of the lonely reader rest the
longest ; his lips murmuring several times,
as he looks down on the letters : " He lived
to be an old man — he lived to be an old
man, after all !"
There is sufficient vacant space left to
ward the bottom of the tombstone, for two
or three more inscriptions; and it would
appear that Mr. Marksman expected to
have seen more. He looks intently at the
vacant space, and measures it roughly wilh
his fingers, comparing it with the space
above, which is occupied by letters. " Not
there," he says to himself; "not there at
any rate !" as he leaves the churchyard, and
walks back to the town.
This time he enters the double shop — the
hosiery division of it — without hesitation.
No one is there, but the young man who
serves behind the counter. And right glad
the young man is, having been long left
without a soul to speak to on that'r^iny
morning, to see some one — even a stranger
with a queer skull-cap under his hat — enter
the shop at last.
What can he serve the gentleman wilh?
The gentleman does not come to buy. He
only wants to know if the young man can
tell him whether Johanna Grice, who Used
to keep the dressmaker's shop, is still living.

Oh yes! the young man can tell him th'at,
and a great deal more besides ; being glad
to feet his own tongue wag after long
silence and depressing loneliness behind
the counter. Miss Grice (the young man
is more polite in speaking of her than the
stranger) — Miss Grice, whose brother once
had the business now carried on by.Bradford
and Son, still lives, all by herself, in the
town ; and is a very curious old person,
who never goes out, and lets nobody inside
her doors. Most of her old friends are
dead ; and those who are still alive she has
broken with. She is full of fierce, wild
ways ; is generally suspected of being
crazy; and is execrated by the boys of
Dibbledean as an " old tiger-cat." The
young man thinks it possible that her intel
lects may have been a little shaken, some
how, years ago, and before, his time, by a
dreadful scandal in the family, which quite
crushed them down ; being very respect
able, religious people. It was a scandal
that made a great stir, he believes, in its
day ; and was about —
Here the young man is interrupted, in a
very peculiar and uncivil manner, as he
thinks, by the stranger, who desires to
know nothing about the spandal, but has
another question to ask. This question
seems to be rather a difficult one to put;
for he begins it two or three times, in
two or three different forms of words, and
can not get on with it. At last, he ends
by asking, generally, whether any other
members of old Mr. Grice's family are still
alive. For a moment or so the young man is
stupid aud puzzled, and doesn't know what
other members theTgentleman means. Old
Mrs. Grice died some time ago ; and there
were two -children who died young, and
whose names are in the churchyard. Does
the gentleman mean ? — ah, yes, to be sure!
of course he must — ihe second .daughter,
who folks say lived and grew up beautiful,
and was, as the story goes, the cause of all
the scandal. She ran away, and died miser
ably somehow — nobody knows how ; and
was supposed to have been buried like a
pauper somewhere — npbody knows where,
except perhaps Miss Grice.. But it, all hap
pened! a long time ago, and really—
. The young man stops short and looks
perplexed. A sudden change has passed
over the strange gentleman's face. His
swarthy cheeks have turned to a cold clay
color, through which those two strange
scars seem to burn fiercer than ever, like
streaks of fire. His heavy hand and arm
tremble a little, as he leans against ihe
counter. Is he going to be taken ill ? No
this man's heart is strong ; his will is reso
lute ; his body has been used to hard shock*
and sharp pangs ; and he will recover him
self as many other men in his conditio!'


HIDE AND SEEK,

117

perhaps could not. He falters a little, but
he walks at once from the counter to the
door — turns round there — and asks where
Johanna Grice lives. The young man says,
the second turning to the right, down a
street which ends in a lane of cottages.
Miss Grice's is the last cottage on the left
hand; but he can assure the, gentleman that
it will be quite useless to go there, Tor she
lets nobody in. The gentleman thanks
him, and: goes, nevertheless.
"I didn't think it would have took me
so," he says, walking quickly up the street ;
" and it wouldn't if I'd heard it anywhere
else. But I'm not the man I was, now I'm
in the old place again. Over- twenty year
of hardening, don't seem to haye hardened
me yet !"
He follows the directions given him, cor
rectly enough, arrives at the last cottage on
his left hand, and tries the garden-gate. It
is locked ; and there is no bell to ring. But
the paling is low, and Mr. Marksman is not
scrupulous. He gets Over it, and advances
to the cottage-door. It opens, like other
doors in the country, merely by turning the
handle of the lock. He goes in without
any hesitation, and enters the first room
into which the passage leads him. It is a
small parlor ; and, at the back-window,
which looks out on a garden, sits Johanna
Grice, a thin, dwarfish old woman, poring
over a big book that looks like a Bible. She
starts from her chair, as she hears the sound
of footsteps, and totters up fiercely, with
„ wild wandering gray eyes, and horny threat
ening bands to meet the intruder. He lets
her come close to him ; then mentions a
name— pronouncing it twice, very distinctly.
She pauses instantly, livid pale, with
.gaping lips, and arms hanging rigid at her
side ; as if that name, or the voice in which
it was uttered,, had frozen up in a moment
all the little life left in her. Then she
moves back slowly, groping with her hands
like one in the dark — back, till she touches
the wall of the room. Against this she
leans, trembling violently ; not speaking' a
word ; her wild eyes slaring panic-siricken
on the man who is confronting her.
''He sits down unbidden, and asks if she
does nol remember him. No answer is
given : no movement made that might
serve instead of answer. He asks again ; a
Mttle impatiently ihis time. She nods her
nead and stares on him — still speechless,
still trembling.
He tells her what he has heard at the
shop ;" and, using ihe shopman's phrases,
asks whether it is true that the daughter oft
old Mr. Grice, who was the cause of all
th9 scandal in the family, has died long
since, away from her home, and in a miser
able way.
Her eyes flash at him fiercely — then
shrink before his. She cowers closed into

the corner ofthe wall ; and tells him in a
faint, quavering voice that she will not,
and dare not speak of that which he calls a
scandal. He answers that he wants to Know noth
ing ofthe scandal itself; for, years and years
ago, he got a, letter that told him of it when
it happened — a letter that he has kept ever
since, and that he will never forget. What
he does want to know, and will know is,
whether it be true that M,ary (he mentions
the name now) is dead.
There is something in his look, as he
speaks, which seems to oblige her to an
swer, against her will. She says, " Yes ;"
and trembles more violently than ever.
He clasps his hands together ; his head
droops a little; dark shadows seem to move
over his bent face ; and the scats of the old
wounds deepen to a livid violet hue. He
begins to speak again — then stops suddenly,
and remains for some minutes speechless.
His silence anu h&ilation seem to inspire
Johanna Grice with sudden confidence and
courage. She moves a little away from the
wall ; and a gleam of evil triumph lightens
over her face, as she reiterates her last an
swer of her own accord. Yes ! the wretch
who ruined the good name of the family is
dead — dead, and buried far off, in some
grave by herself— not in the same grave
where her honest kindred lie — not there, in
the churchyard, with her father and mother
—oh, no,1 thank God, not there !
He looks up at her instantly, when she
says these words. There is some warning
influence in his eye, as it rests on her, which
sends her cowering; back again to her former
place against the wall. He asks sternly
where Mary is buried. The reply — doled
out doggedly and .slowly, forced from her
word by word — is, that she was buried
among strangers, as she, deserved to be ; at
a place called Bangbury ; far away in the
next county, where she died,, and where
money was sent to bury her.
His manner becomes less Toughly impera
tive ; his eyes soften ; his voice saddens in
tone, when he speaks again. And yet, the
next question' that he'puts to Johanna Grice
seems to pierce her lo the quick, to try her
to the heart, as no questioning has tried her
before. • The muscles are writhing on her
haggard face, her breath is bursting from
her in quick, fierce pantings, as he asks,
whether it was only suspicion, or really the
truth, lhat Mary was with child when she'
lefl her home.
No answer is given to him. He repeats
the question, and insists on having one.
Was it suspicion or truth? The reply
hisses out at him in one whispered word--
Truth. Was the child born alive ?
The answer comes again in tbe same
harsh whisper ; the panting bi rath heaving


IIS

HIDE AND SEEK.

quicker and quicker yet, and a dark blood-
tinge rising slowly over the fleshless, yellow
cheek — Yes: born alive.
What became of it ?
She never saw it ; never asked about it ;
never knew. While she replies thus, the
whispering accents change, and rise sullenly
lo hoarse, distinct tones. The questioner
murmurs something to himself— half-articu
late words of cursing against the merciless
who never forgive — then becomes silent
again. During this, silence, .the dark blood-
tinge spreads fast over Johanna Grice's
face ; and the pantings quicken to moaning,
breathless gasps. But it is not till he speaks
to her once more that the smothered fury
flashes out into flaming rage. Then, even
as he raises his head and opens his lips, she
staggers, wilh outstretched arms, up to the
tablelat which she had been reading when
he came in ; and strikes her bony hands on
the open Bible ; and swears by the Word
of Truth in, that' Book, that she will answer
him no more.
He rises calmly ; and with something of
contempt iu his look, approaches the table,
and speaks. But his voice is drowned by
hers, bursting from her in screams of fury.
No ! no ! no ! Not a word more ! How
dare he come there, with hi« shameless
face and his threatening eyes, and make
her speak of what should never have passed
heriips again— never till she went up to
render her account at the judgment-seat?
How dare he come between her and God,
with his talk of this world, which it is
profanation for her to hear while she is
preparing for the next? Relations ! let
him not speak to her of relations. The
only kindred she ever cared to own lie
heart-broken under the great stone in the
churchyard. Relations ! if they all came
to life again that, very minute, what could
she have to do with them, whose only rela
tion was death ? Yes ; death, that was
father, mother, brother, sister to her now !
Death, lhat was waiting to take her in
God's good time. What! would he stay
on yet? stay on in spite of her? stay after
she had sworn not to answer him another
word ?
Yes ; let her rave at him as she pleases,
he will stay. He is resolved to know more
yet. Did Mary leave nothing behind her,
in the bilter day when she fled from her
home? Give h|m an answer to lhat, for
that he is determined to know ; and morej
too, afterward — more, till he knows all.
Some suddenly-conceived resolution seems
to calm the first fury of her passion, while
he says these .words. She stretches out her
hand quickly, and gripes him by the arm,
and looks up in his face wilh a wicked ex
ultation in her wild eyes. He will know
all, will he? Then he shall ! but npt from
her lips! All the black iniquity Whall be

exposed before him from first to last. It-
shall break his heart ; and crush him into
old age like hers ! He is bent on knowing
What that ruined wretch left behind her, is
he ? Let him follow her, then, and he shall
see !
Between the leaves of Johanna Grice's
bible there is a key, which seems to be used
as a marker. She takes it out, and leads
the way, with toilsome step and hands out
stretched for support, to the wall on one
side, and the banisters on the other, up the
one flight of stairs which communicates
with the bedroom slory of the cottage.'
He follows close behind her ; and is stand
ing by her side, when she opens a door, and
points into a room, telling him to take what
he finds there, and then go — she cares not
whither, so long as he goes from her.
She descends the stairs again, as he en
ters the room. There is a close, faint, air
less smell in it. Cobwebs, pendulous and
brown with dirt, hang from the ceiling.
The grimy window-panes soil and sadlen
all the light that pours through them faint
ly. He looks round him hastily, and sees
no furniture anywhere ; no sign that' the
room has ever been lived in, ever entered
even, for years and years past. He looks
again, more carefully ; and detects, in one
dim corner, something covered with dust
and dirt, which looks like a small box.
He pulls it out toward ihe window. Dust
flies from it in clouds. Loathsome, crawl
ing creatures creep from under it, and from
off it. He stirs it with his foot still nearer
to the faint light ; and sees that it is a com
mon deal-box, corded. He looks clospr, and
through cobwebs, and dead insects, and foul
stains of all kinds, spells out a name that is
painted on it : Mar* Grice.
At the sight of that name, and ofthe pol
lution that covers it, be pauses, silent and
thoughtful : and, at the same moment, hears
the parlor-door, below, lucked. He stoops
hastily, takes up the box by the cord round
it, and leaves the room. His hand touches
a substance, as it grasps the cord, which
does riot feel like wood. He examines the
box by the clearer light falling on the land
ing from a window in the roof, and discov
ers a letter nailed to the cover. There is
something written on it ; but the paper is
dusty, the ink is faded by time, and the
characters are hard; to decipher. By diut
of perseverance, however, he makes out
from them this inscription: "Justification
of my conduct toward my niece: ti Reread
after my death. Johanna Grice."
As he passes the parlor-door, he ' hears
her voice, reading. He stops and , listens.
The words that reach his ears seem famil
iar to therii ; and' yet he knows not, at first,
what book ihey come from. He iistens a
little longer, and then his recollections of
his boyhood and of home help him; and he


HIDE AND SEEK.

119

knows that the book from which Johanna
Grice is reading aloud to herself, is the Bible.
His face darkens, and he goes out quickly
into the garden ; but stops before he reaches
the paling, and, turning back to the front
window of the parlor, looks in. He sees
her sitting with her back to him, with el
bows on the table, and hands working fever
ishly in her tangled gray hair. Her voice
is still audible, but the words jt pronounces
can not any longer be distinguished. He
waits at the window for a few moments;
then leaves it suddenly, saying to himself,
" I wonder the book doesn't strike her dead !"
These are his only words of farewell. Wi th
this thought in his heart, he turns his back
on the cottage, and on Johanna Grice.
Which way shall he betake himself? Back
to the town, or forward into ihe country ?
Forward. The old yearning to be alone,
and out of the sight of human beings, has
overcome him again.
He goes on through the rain, taking the
box with him, and looking about for sOme
sheltered place in which he can open it.
After walking nearly a mile, he sees an old
eattle-shed, a little way off the road — a rot
ten, deserted place ; but it may afford some
little shelter,, even yet: so he enters it.
There is one dry corner left; dry enough,
at least, to suit his purpose. In that he
kneels down, and cuts the cord round the
box— -then hesitates to open it — and begins
by tearing away the letter outside, from the
nail that fastens it to the cover.
It is a long letter, written in a close,
crabbed hand. He runs his eye over it im
patiently, till his attention is accidentally
caught, and arrested by two or three lines,
more clearly penned lhan the rest, near the
middle of a page. For many years he has
been unused to reading any written charac
ters, and he finds them more troublesome to
decipher now than when he was a boy. But
he spells out resolutely the words in these
few lines that have struck his eye, and finds
that they run thus: —
"I have now only to' add, before proceed
ing to the miserable confession of our fam
ily dishonor, that I never afterward saw,
and only once heard of, the man who tempt
ed my niece to commit the deadly sin which
was her ruin in this world, and will be her
ruin in the next."
Beyond ihese words he makes no effort
to read further. Few as they are, they have
been evidently enough to oppress him with
unwelcome recollections and disquieting
thoughts, from which he struggles for de
liverance resolutely ; and which leave him,
when he tears" himself free of them at last,
wilh ihe letter crushed up into a shapeless
twist of paper in his hand. Thrusting it
hastily into his pocket, withovt so much as
a passing attempt to smooth it out again,
he turns once more to the box.

It is sealed up with strips of tape, but
not locked. He forces the lid open, and
sees inside a few simple articles of woman's
wearing-apparel; a little work-box; a lace
collar, with the needle and thread still stick
ing in it ; several letters, here tied up in a
packet, there scattered carelessly ; a gayly-
bound album; a quantity of dried ferns and
flower-leaves that have apparently fallen
from between.the pages; a piece of canvass
with a slipper-pattern worked on- it ; and a
black dress waistcoat with some unfinished
embroidery on the collar. It is plain u
him, at a first glance, that these things have,
been thrown into the box anyhow, and have
been left just as they were thrown. For a
moment or two, he keeps his eyes fixed on
the strange and sad confusion displayed be
fore him ; then turns away his head, whis
pering to himself, mournfully, and many
limes, that name of " Mary," which he has
already pronounced while in the presence
of Johanna Grice. After a little, he looks
back again into the box ; mechanically picks
out the different letters that lie scattered
about it ; mechanically eyes the broken seals
and the addresses on each ; mechanically
puts them back again unopened, until he
comes to one which feels as if it had some
thing inside it. This circumstance stimu
lates him into unfolding the enclosure, and.
examining what the letter may contain.
Nothing but a piece of paper neatly fold
ed. He undoes the folds, and finds part of
a lock of hair inside, which he wraps up
again the moment he sees it, as if anxious
to conceal it from view as soon as possible.
The letter he examines more deliberately.
It is in a woman's handwriting ; is directed
to " Miss Mary Grice, Dibbledean ;" and is
only dated " Bond Street, London. Wednes
day." The post-mark, however, shows thar.
it was written many years ago. It is no
very long; so he sets himself to the task oi
making it all out from beginning to end.
This is what he reads :—
"My Dearest Maky: I have just sent
you your pretty hair bracelet by the coach,
nicely sealed and packed up by the jeweller.
I have directed it to you by your own name,
as I direct this, remembering what you told
me about your father making it a point of
honor never to open your letters and par
cels ; and forbidding that ugly aunt Johanna
of yours to do so either. I hope you will
receive this and the little packet about the
same time.
" I will answer for your thinking the pat
tern of your bracelet much improved, since
the new hair has been worked in with the
old. How slyly you will run away to your
own room, and blush unseen, like the flow
er in the poem, when you look at it ! You
may be raiher surprised, perhaps, to see
some little gold fastenings introduced as ad-


ii\)

HIDE AND SEEK.

ditions ; but this, the jeweller told me, was
a matter of necessity. Your poor dear sis
ter's hair being the only material of the
bracelet, when you sent it up to me' to be
altered, was very different from the hair of
that faultless true-love of yours that you
also sent to be worked in with it. It was,
in fact, hardly half long enough to plait up
properly with poor Susan's, from end to
end; so the jeweller had to join it with lit
tle gold clasps, as you will see. It is very
prettily run in along with the old hair,
though. No country jeweller could have
done it half as nicely; so you did well to
send it to London, after all. I consider my
self rather a judge of these things; and I
sayrpositively that it is now the prettiest
hair bracelet I ever saw.
" Do you see him as often as ever ? He
ought to be true and faithful to you, when,
you show how dearly you love him, by
mixing his hair wilh poor Susan's, whom
you were always so fondly attached to. I
say he ought ; but you are sure to say he
will —and I am quite ready, love, to believe
that you are the wiser of the two.
" I would write -more, but have no time.
It is just the regular London season now,
and we are worked out of our lives. I
envy you dressmakers in the country; and
almost wish I was back again at Dibbledean,
to be tyrannized over from morning to night
by Miss Johanna. I know she. is your aunt,
my dear; but I can't help saying that I
hate her very name !
" Ever your affectionate friend,
" Jane Holdsworth.
"P.S. — The jeweller sent back ihe hair
he did not want ; and I, as in duty-bound,
return it, enclosed, to you, its lawful
owner." Those scars on Mr. Marksman's face,
which indicate the stir of strong feelings
within him more palpably than either his
expression or his manner, begin lo burn
redly again while he spells his way through
this letter. He crumples it up hastily
round the enclosure, instead of folding it
is it was folded before ; and is about to cast
X back sharply into the box, when the sight,
of the wearing apparel and half-finished
work lying inside, seems to stay his hand,
and teach it on a sudden to move tenderly.
He smooths out the paper wilh care ; folds
it as it was folded before; apd places it
very gently among ihe rest of the letters-
then looks at the box thoughtfully for a
moment or two ; -takes from, his pocket the
letter that he first examined, and drops it
in among the others — then suddenly and
sharply closes "the lid of the box again.
"I can't touch any more of her things,"
he says to himself; "I can't so^muoh as
look at 'em, somehow, without its making
roe — " he stops lo tie up the box ; straining

the cords with unnecessary tightness, as if
the mere physical exertion of pulling hard
at something were a relief to him at this
moment. " I'll open it again, and look ii
over, in a day or two, when I'm away from
ihe old place here," he goes on, jerking
sharply at the last knot — " when I'm away
from the old place, and have got to be my
own man again."
He leaves the shed ; regains the road ;
and stops, looking up and down, and all
round him, indecisively. Whither shall he
turn his steps now ? A thought of going
to the place where he has been told "Mary"
is buried, to find out her grave, and discover
if he can how she died, crosses his mind ;
but he dismisses it again, believing that it
will be better to defer undertaking any such
pilgrimage as this, until after he has read
all the letters, and carefully examined all
the objects in the box. There is nothing,
therefore, now to be done, but to go back to
London by the next train that stops at
Dibbledean station.
The tobacco-shop in Kirk street has had
the gas turned on for some hours, and the,
proprietor is smoking his second evening
cheroot at the door, when he sees his
strange lodger approach, carrying' on this
occasion what really looks like a Christian
and civilized article of' luggage. The
tobacconis't naturally expects, after having
had a little talk with Mr. Marksman on his
departure in the morning, to have a little
more talk wilh him on his return at night.
Never were expectations more completely
frustrated. Mr. Marksman passes his land
lord quickly, wilh an odd altered look in
his face; growls out' "Good night," and
lets himself in at the private door, without
speaking another word.
The tobacconist joins his wife behind the
counter, and expresses a conviction that
something must have gone wrong with the
new lodger since he has been down in the
country. The tobacconist's wife says,;
"Let's listen."
Mr. Marksman's room is over the shop,
and the house is a London house — or, in
other words, is built in the flimsiest possible
way, with the flimsiest possible materials.
Accordingly, whatever is done( above is
heard below — even a slight sneeze in, what
is called,, the "drawingroom," is enough
to wake the echoes far and wide in the shop.
They listen ; and hear the box Mr. Marks
man has brought with him deposited on the
floor — all the clay pipes and tin canisters
about them rattling responsive to the shock.
.Next, Mr. Marksman himself is heard to
sit down in his usual odd way, and in his
usual odd corner, on the bearskhis — anil,
again, the pipes and canisters rattle more
sharply than ever. After this all1 sound
ceases; and then the tobacconist's wife re
minds her husband that they have not heari?


HIDE AND SEEK.

123

Don't bother ; and take what you want.
Money's. what you want, though you won't
own it. That's money. When it's gone, I
can go back to California and get more.
While it lasts, make it spin. What is
there to stare , at ? I told' you I'd be a
brother to you, because of what you done
for n.e the other night. Well: I'm being
a brother to ybuinow. iGet your watch out
of pawn.; andlben you; can shake a loose
leg at .the world. Will you take what you
want? . And when you have, just lie' up
the rest, and chuck ,'erri over here." With
these words, Mr,, Marksman sat down on
his bearskins,and sulkily surrounded him
self with clOuds of tobacco-smoke.
Finding it quite impossible :to make him
understand those delicacies and refinements
of civilized life, which make one gentleman
(always excepting a «clergyman at Easter
time) unwilling to- accept - money from
another gentleman, as a gift — perceiving
that he was beginning to" lose his temper,
under the infliction ofremonstranr.es, which
be seemed to receive as declarations of per
sonal enmity.and disirust^and well know
ing, moreover, that, a little money to go on
with,iSVould be really a very acceptable! ac
commodation under existing circumstances,
Zack consented to take two ten-pound notes,
as a loan. At this reservation Mr. Marks
man scoffed contemptuously ; , but young
Thorpe enforced it., by tearing a leaf out of
his pocket-book, and writing an acknowl
edgment for the sum he had borrowed. Mat
roughly: and resolutely refused to receive the
document, but Zack tied it up along with
the bank-notes ; and threw the beaver-skin
roll back to its owner, as requested. :•
" Do you want a bed ,to sleep in ?" asked
Mr. Marksman. " Say: yes, or no, at once !
I wdn't have no more gibberish. I ain't a
gentleman, and I can't shake up along with
them as are. It's no use trying it on with
me, young 'un. I'm not much better than
3 cross" between a savage and a, Christian.
I'm a battered, lonesome, scalped old vaga
bond — that's what I am ! But I'm brothers
with you, for all that. What's - mine's
yours; and if you tell me it isn'tagain, me
and you are likely to quarrel. Do you want
a bed to sleep in ? Yes ? or no i?"
Yes,; Zack certainly wanted a bed, but —
'» There's one for you," said.. Mr. Marks
man, pointing through the folding-doors into
the back roomj ((/ don't want it. . , I
JiaVen'i slept in a bed these! twenty years
and more,, and I can't do it- now- I, take
dog's snoozes in this corner.; [and I shall
.•(ake more, dog snoozes out of doors, in the
daytime, whendhe'sun begins, to shine. I
haven't been,' used to much sleep,,, and, I
;dop't want much.' Go in and try if, the
-bed's long enough for you." .
Zack began to expostulate again ; but
Ma, ii 'errupted himdir.ec! '.y.

" I suppose you don't care to sleep next
door to such as me," said he. "You
wouldn't turn your back on a bit of my
blanket though, if we were out in the lone
some places together. Never mind ! You
Won't cotton to me all at once, I dare say.
-Well: I cotton to you, in spite of that,
D — n ihe bed !' Take it, or leave it, which
you like." - '
Zack the reckless, who was ,al ways ready
at five minutes' notice to make friends with
any living being under the canopy of heaven;
who, only last night, had "cottoned" to a
masier-bulqher, and a tripe-dresser — Zack
the gregarious; who in his:,days of roaming
ihe country before , lie .was fettered to an
office-;St;oo], had "pottoned" to,everyi,species
of rustic vagabond, from a travellingjinker
to a resident poacher — now, indignantly,
and in perfect sincerity, repudiated ihe con
struction which had been placed on his un
willingness to take - fbe ,<ifFejed , bed ; and
declared warmly that he would sleep in it
that very nigh),tby way of showing himself
worthy of Mat's assistance and regard, if
worthy of nothing, else. He was about to
add that he had only hesitated at accepting
the invitation, from an apprehension lhat
he wouldbe forbidden to pay his. share to
ward ihe rent of the lodgings ; hut wisely
suppressed this acknowledgment for ihe
present,, andt resolved, , at the first future '
opportunity, on insisting that he should be
privileged to pay the expenses of the bed
room as long as he occupied it.
" There! now ihe bother's over at last, 1
suppose," said Mr. .Marksman, with an air
of great relief. "Pull in the buffalo-hide,
and bring your legsi.to an anchor anywhere
you like. I'm smoking. Suppose you
smoke tpo. Hoi! Bring me a plean pipe,"
cried Mat in conclusion, turning up a loose
corner, pf. the carpet, and roaring through a
crack in the floor into ill e shop below.
The pipe was, -brought. Zack sat down
on the buffalo-hide, and began to asK his
queer friend about the life he had been lead
ing in the wilds of North, and South Amer
ica. , From short replies at first, Mr, Marks
man was gradually, beguiled into really re
lating some of his adventures. Wild, bar
barous fragments of narrative they were —
mingling together, in one darkly-fantastic
record, fierce triumphs apd deadly dangers';
miseries' of cold, a»d hunger, andi thjrst ;
glories of hunters' feasts in mighty forests ;
gold-findings among desolate rocks ;. gallop-
ijigs for, life from the flames of the blazing
prairie; combats with wild beasts and with
men wilder still; weeks of, ,awful solitude
in primeval. wastes ; days and nighis of per
ilous orgies among drunken savages ; vis
ions of meteors in heaven, of hurricanes on
earth,. and of icebergs blinding bright, when
the sunshjne was beautiful over the polar
seas. 'Ihese, and,, other topics like them


124

HIDE AND SEEK.

formed the staple of Mr. Marksman's ad
ventures, which he related in a quiet, mat
ter-of-course manner, that added infinitely
to their effect. Young Thorpe listened in
a fever of excitement. Here was the des
perate, dangerous, roving life of which he
had dreamed! He longed already to en
gage in it: he could have listened to de
scriptions of it all day long. But Mat was
the last man m the world to err, at any
time, on the side of diffuseness in relating
the results of his own experience. And he
now provokingly stopped, on a sudden, in
the middle of an adventure among the wild
horses on the pampas — declaring that he
was tired of hearing his own' tongue wag,
and had got so sick of talking of hinflself,
that he was determined not to open his
mouth again — ex0epf to put a rump-steak
and a pipe in it — for the^rest of the day.
Finding it imposstble^to make him alter
this resolution, Zack thought of his engage
ment with MK Blyth, arid asked what time
it was. Mr. Marksman, having no watch,
conveyed this inquiry into the shop by the
same process of roaring through the crack
in the ceiling, which he had already em;
ployed to produce a clean pipe. The an
swer which was given showed Zack that
he had barely time enough left to be punc
tual to his appointment with Valentine.
" I must be off to my friend at the turn
pike," said he, rising and putting on his
hat ; "but I shall be 'back again in an- hour
or two. And, I say, Mat, have you thought
seriously yet about going back to America ?"
His eyes sparkled eagerly as he put this
question. " There ain't no need to think about it,"
answered Mr. Marksman. " I mean to go
back; but I haven't setfled'whal day yet.
And I don't know when I shall settle. I've
got something to do first." Here his face
darkened, and he glanced aside at the box
he had brought from Dibbledean, which was
now cpvered with one of his bearskins.
" Never mind What it is ; I've got it t'O do,
and that's enough. Don't you ever go ask
ing again about wheiher I've brought news
from the country, or whether I haven't:
don't yoU ever do that, and then We are safe
to sail along easy! I like yoU, Zack, when
you don't bother me, There ! Now, if
you want (0' go, what are you stopping for?
Why don't you clear out at once ?"
Young Thorpe departed, laughing. It
was a fine, clear day; and the bright sky
showed signs of a return of the frost. He
was in high spirits as he' walked along,
thinking of Mr- Marksman's wild adven-
lures. What' was the happiest painter's
,ife, after all, compared to such a life as
Mat had been leading? Zack vyas hardly
in the Laburnum road, befbre he began to
doubt already whether he had really made
Up his mind to be guided entirely by Mr.

Blyth's advice, and to devote all his ener
gies for the futur,e to the cultivation of tht
fine arts. '
Near the turnpike stood a tall gentleman*
making a sketch in a note-book of some
felled timber lying by the roadside. This
could be no other than Valentine— ^and Val
entine it really was. :<
Mr. Blyth "looked unusually serious, as
he shook hands wi ih young Thorpe, i - " Don't
begin to justify yourself, Zack," said. he;
" I'm not going to blame you now. Let's
walk on a little: I have some news to teL
you from Baregrove sqUare."
It appeared from the narrative on which'
Valentine now entered, that, immediately
on the receipt of Zack's letter, he had called
on Mr. Thorpe, with the kindly purpose of
endeavoring to make peace between the fa
ther and son. His mission had entirely
failed. Mr. Thorpe had grown more and
more irritable as the interview proceeded;
and had accused his visiter of unwarranta
ble interference, when Valentine suggested
the prupriety of holding out some prospect
of forgiveness to the runaway son; This
outbreak Mr. Blyth said he abstained from '
noticing, out of consideration for the agi
tated state of the speaker's feelings. But
when Mr. Yollop (who had been" talking
with Mrs. Thorpe up-stairs) came into the
room soon afterward, and joined in the con
versation, such words had been spoken as
obliged Valentine to leave the house; The
reiteration of some arguments on the side
of mercy which he had already advanced,
had been viewed by Mr, Yollop and Mr.
Thorpe (who supported ..whatever his cleri
cal ally said) as So many evidences ofthe
painter's own laxity of principle, and want
of due sense of the sinfulness of vice. Uion
this, discussion had grown warm ;' and, be
fore it closed, Mr. Yollop had hinted, with
an irritating affectation of extreme polite
ness and humility, that Mr. Blyth's profes
sion was not of a nature to render him ca
pable of estimating properly the nature and
consequences of moral guilt; while Mr.
Thorpe had referred almost openly, and
wilh a manner which there was no mista
king, to the scandalous reports' that had
been spread abroad in certain quarters', years
ago; On the subject of Madonna's parentage.
These insinuations had roused Valentine in
stantly. He had denounced them" as false
in the strongest terms he could employ ; and
had left the house resolved never to hold
any communication again either with Mr.
Yollop or Mr. Thorpe." :
About an horn1 alter his return home, a
letter marked "Private" had been brought
to'him from: Mrs1: Thorpe. The writer re
ferred, with many expressions of sorrow, to
what had occurred at the interview of the
morning ;- and earnestly begged Blr. Blyth
to take into consideration the state of ."If


126

HIDE AND SEEK.

rative now addressed to him!. As soon as
Jt was concluded, he expressed the most
decided disapprobation of the careless readi
ness with which Zack :had allowed a perfect
stranger to become intimate with him-^re-
minded him that he had met his new-ac
quaintance (of whom, byhis own confession,
he knew next to nothing) in a very dis
reputable place ; and- (concluded by earnest
ly recommending him to break of all con
nection with so dangerous an associate, at
*.he. earliest possible opportunity.- " <¦'
Zack, on his side, was not slow in muster
ing arguments to defend his conduct* He
stated that Mr. Marksman had gone into
the Temple of Harmony innocently, as a
stranger ignorant, of the real character- of
the: place; and had been grossly insulted
before he became the originator of the riot
there. As to his family affairs and his real
name, he might have good and proper rea
sons for concealing them ; and this was the
more probable, inasmuch as his account of
himself in other - respects was straight
forward and unreserved enough. He might
be very eccentric, and might" have" led an
adventurous life; but it was surely not fair
to condemn him on that account only, as a
downright bad character. In conclusion,
Zack cited> the loan he had received, as a
proof that the stranger could not be a
swindler, at any rate ; and referred to the
evident familiarity with localities and cus
toms in California, which he had shown in
conversation that afternoon, as affording
satisfactory evidence in corroboration- of his
own statement that he had gained his money
by gold-digging. .-;¦,.
Mr. Blyth admitted that there might' be
some force in these arguments, but never
theless held firmly to his original opinion ;
and, first offering, to advance the money
from his own purse, suggested : that young
Thorpe should relieve himself of -the ob
ligation which- he had imprudently con
tracted, by paying back what he "had bor
rowed, that very afternoon.
Zack replied, that, if he -followed this
advice, and so openly avowed' the most
complete, distruct of his new friend, he had
not the least doubt in the world that Mr.
Marksman was of a temper to knock him
down the moment he offered the rnlpney-
back ; adding, in conclusion : " " And, let me
tell you.Blyth, he's tine of the few men
alive who could really do it.''
Valentine shook his head ;- and said this
was no joking matter.
Zack declared he was quite in earnest!"
ind prbdeededito illustrate the peculiarities
of Mr. Marksman's character by "relating a
few of his friend's wildest adventures at
seebndihand. From lhes6 heiire'xt1 diverged
to Mat's rough kindness in placing all "his
bank-notes, and his bed after lhat, a*' his
visiter's disposal ; laying great stress, -while

relating these circumsuinces, on his refusa.
to accept any acknowledgment for the
money he'had lent. :^'I only succeeded in
forcing it on him unawares," concluded
: young Thorpe, " by slipping it in among
his bank-notes ; and, if he finds it there;
I'll lay you any wager he tears u up, or
throws it into the fire." -
Mr. Blyth hesitated, and began to, look a
little puzzled. > The suspicious stranger's
behavior about the money was rather stag
gering, to sayithe least af it.
"Let me' -bring him to your picture-
show," pursued "Zacki "Judge of him
yourself, before you condemn him. He's
the queerest and best fellow in the world:
look at him and hear him talk ; and then,
if you tell me to break with- him,! I will.
Surely I can't say fairer than that:— May
I bring him to see the pictures? I mention-!"
ed it iri my letter, didn't I ?" ¦ ' ¦ , • ' ;
" Before I answer," said Valentine, "just
think again, whether it wouldn't really be
hetter to risk offending this man,- and to
follow my advice."
" I should be "ashamed to offend him,"
answered Zack. " Upon my honor, after
what has passed between us, I should1 be
ashamed to treat him as you tell me. ' "
" Then, Zack; it seems certainly neces
sary — as lam in a" manner answerable for
you to your mother, now — that I should
see this new associate of yours as soon as
possible." " Will you come at once to Kirk street,
where he lives?"
" I must write my letter to your mother-
before I do anything elsei- And then I ex
pect Lawie's father to come early, and
drink - tea with- us. I might slip awayy-to
be sur-e; but the poor old gentleman would
think rbe neglectful if I left him." .
- ''What do you say to-morrow, then?
To-mbrrow's Friday, you know."
"Friday's unluckily out of the question.
I have a retouching job to do on an old
picture, down in the country. It's at'a
friend's house ; so I shall have to dine there,
and shan't get back till the night train.
No: it can't be done to-morrow." '
."And the next day is the day of your
picture-show." '.. ''¦'''';,¦
' " Well, Zackyall things corisidered,"!ybu
had better bring him to It as 'you proposed
just now. But" remember' the distinction
I-alwaySmake between my public studio
and my private house. ' I consider the
glorious mission of art to apply' to every
body ; so' I am proud to open my painting-
room to any- libnest man who wants to look1
at my pictures. But the freedom of my
oilier rooms is only for my own friends.-
I- can't have strangers I know nothing about
brought up-stairs: remember that."
¦ " Of course ! I shouldn't think of it, my
dear fellow. Only you look at honest old'


HIDE AND SEEK.

127

Mat, and hear him ; and I'll answer for the
rest," " Zack ! Zack ! I wish you were not so
dreadfully careless about whom you get
acquainted with. I have often warned you
lhat you risk , bringing yourself or your
friends into trouble some day, when you
least expect it. Where are you going to
now?" . "Back to Kirk street. This is my near
est way ; and I promised Mat — "
'¦ Remember what you have promised
•ne, ami what I am going to, promise your
mother. Wait a moment; I have some
thing more -to say. What about to-morrow ?
1 shan't be able to get you ihe order for the
m lseum by that time.. How do.you mean
to employ the day:?-"
" In taking a good,, long, l>ealihy,iglorious
stretch into the country with .Mat, who likes
a tough walk, as well as any man that ever
trod on shoe-leather. Good-by, dear old
boy ; and thank you for all you're going lo
do for me. I. remember, andimean to keep,
on my honor, every promise I have made
to you. Only wait till we: meet on Satur
day, and you see my new friend ; and you-
will find it all right."
"I hope I shan't" find it all Wrong," said
Mr. Blylh, to himself forebodingly, as he
followed the road to his own house.

CHAPTER V.

the pictur-e-show.

The great day of the year in Valentine's
.house, was always ihe day oil which his
pictures for the royal academy exhibition
were shown, in their completed state to
friendsand admiring, spectators, congregated
in his own painting-room. By dint :of is
suing invitations right and left, in all direc
tions — on the liberal principle that anybody
was welcome to his studio, wilhout dis
tinction of class, who wanted to look at his
pictures, 'or who would feel complimented
iy being invited to see them — he invariably
contrived to insure a large attendance of
company, in spite of tne humble position
which he held in his profession..; His visit
ers represented almost every variety of
rank in the social: scale ; and grew numer
ous in proportion as they defended from
the higher to the lower degrees. Thus, the
aristocracy of race. was, usually impersona-'
ted, in his painting-room,, by his one nohle
patron, the Dowager Countess of Bramble
down ; the aristocracy of art "by -two or
three royal academicians ; and the aristoc
racy e.f ' money by eight or len highly re
spectable families/ who came.qufte as much
to look at the doWager countess as to look
at ihe pictures. With these last, tile select

portion of the company might oe said to
terminate ; and, after them, flowed in pro
miscuously the general mass, and great
obscure majority of the visiters —a hetero
geneous and blindly-admiring mob of minor
people — a congregation of worshippers at
ihe shrine of art, who were some of then
of s*nall importance, some of doubtful im
portance, some of no importance at all;
and who included within their numbers, not
only" a sprinkling of Mr. Blyth's old-es
tablished iradesmen, but also his gardener,
his wife's old nurse, the brother of his
housemaid, arid the father of his cook.
Some of his respectable friends deplored,
on principle, ihe "levelling tendencies"
which induced him thus to admit a mixture
of all classes into his pain ling-room, on tbe
days when he exhibited his pictures. But
Valentine persisted, nevertheless, year after
year, in choosing his visiters from the low
degree as well as the high; and was warm
ly encouraged in taking this course 'by no
less a person than Lady Brambledown her
self, wno had once been a violent tory, but
was now an uncompromising radical, a
taker of snuff, a reviler of the peerage, a
teller of scandalous royal anecdotes, and a
worshipper of the memory of Oliver Crom
well. On the eventful Saturday which was to
display his works to an applauding public
of private friends, Mr. Blyth had dressed
himself in his gayest morning costume, and
had entered his paintingrroom,-to be ready
to receive the visiters, a good half-hour
before the most punctual people could pos
sibly be expected to arrive. Thanks to
Madonna's industry and attention, ihe studio
looked really in perfect Order — as neat and
clean as a room could be. A semicircle of
all the available chairs in the house — draw-
ingroom and bedroom. chairs inier.mingkd
— ranged itself symmetrically in front of
the pictures. That imaginative classical
landscape,. " The. Golden Age," reposed
grandly on its own easel: while "Columbus
in Sight .ofthe New World" — tbe largest
canvass, Mr. Blylh had ever worked on, en
cased in the most gorgeous frame he had
ever ordered for one of his own: pictures —
was hung on the, wall at an easy distance
from the ground, having proved too bulky
to be safely accommodated hy any easel iii
Valentine's, possession".-.:
¦ Except Mr. Blyth's bureau, all the ordi
nary furniture and general litter of the room
had been cleared out of it, or hidden away
behind some draperies, flowing picturesque
ly-pendulous and slightly damaged by uld
paintrstains, over the lumber in one turner,.
which it had been found impossible to
remove. Every other portion of the studio
was perfectly clear from end to end; and
backward and forward over ihe open spare
thus obtained, Mr. Blyth walked exuecuni,


128

HIDE AND SEEK.

with the elastic skip peculiar to him ; look-
jng ecstatically at his pictures, as he passed
and repassed them — now singing, now
whistling ; sometimes referring mysterious
ly to a small manuscript which he carried
in his band, jauntily tied round with blue
riband* sometimes following tbe lines of
the composition in " Columbus," by flourish
ing his mahl-stick before it in the air, with
dreamy artistic grace ; always, turn where
he would, instinct from top to toe with an
excitable activity which defied the very idea
of rest ; and always hospitably ready to
rush to the door and receive the first en
thusiastic visiter with open arms, at a
moment's notice.
Above siairs, in " Lavvie's drawing-
room," the scene was of a different kind.
Here also the arrival of the expected visit
ers was an event of importance ; but it was
awaited in perfect tranquillity and silence.
Mis. Blyth lay in her usual position on the
couch side of the bed, turning over a small
portfolio of engravings ; and Madonna stood
at the front window, where she could com
mand a full view of the garden-gate, and of
the approach from it to the house. This
was always her place on the days when the
pictures were shown ; for, while occupying
this position, she was able, by signs, to in
dicate the arrival of the different guests lo
her adopted mother, who lay too far from
the window to see them. On all other days
ofthe year, it was Mrs. Blyth who devoted
herself to Madonna's service, by interpret
ing for her advantage the pleasant conversa
tions that she could not hear. On this day,
it was Madonna who devoted herself to
Mrs. Blyth's service, by identifying for her
amusement the visiters whose approach up
the garden-walk she could not safely leave
her bed to see.
No privilege that the girl enjoyed under
Valentine's roof was more valued by her
than this, for by the exercise of it, she was
enabled to make some slight return in kind
for the affectionate attention of which she
was the constant object. Mrs. 'Blyth always
encouraged her to indicate who the different
guests were, as they followed each other,
by signs of her own choosingi that were
almost invariably suggested by some habit
ual gesture, or other characteristic peculiar
ity of the person represented, which her
quick observation had detected at a first in
terview, and which she copied with the
quaintest exactness of imitation. The cor
rectness with which her memory preserved
these signs, and retained, after longintervals,
the recollection of ihe persons to whom they
alluded, was very extraordinary. The name
of any mere acquaintance,* who came seldom
to the house, she constantly forgot, having
only perhaps had it interpreted to her once
or twice, and not hearing it as others did,
whenever it accidentally occurred in con

versation. But if the sign by whien she
herself had once designated that acquaint
ance — no matter how long ago— happened
to be repeated by those about her, it was
then always found that the forgotten per
son was recalled to her recollection im-
mediately. From eleven till three had beennotified
in the invitation-cards as the time during
which the pictures would be on view. It
was now long pasi ten. "Madonna 'still
stood patiently by the window, going on
wilh a new purse which she was knitting
for Valentine ; and looking out attentively
now and then toward the road. Mrs. Blyth,
humming a tune to herself, slowly turned
over the engravings of her portfolio, and
became so thoroughly absorbed in looking
at them, that she forgot altogether how
time was passing, and was quite astonished
to hear Madonna suddenly clap her hands
at the window, as a signal that the first
punctual visiter had passed the garden-gale:
Mrs. Blyth raised her eyes from the prints
directly and smiled as she saw the girl
puckering' up her fresh, rosy face inio a
childish imitation of old age, bending her
light figure gravely in a succession of formal
bows, and kissing her hand several times
with extreme suavity and deliberation.
These signs were meant to indicate the
poor engraver, whose old-fashioned habit it
was to pay homage to all his friends among
the ladies, by saluting them from afar off
with tremulous bows and gallant kissings of
the hand.
"Ah !" thought Mrs. Blyth, nodding, to
show that she understood the signs. " Ah !
there's father. I felt sure he would be ihe,
first ; and I -know exactly what he will do
when he gets in. He will-admire the pic
tures more than anybody, and have a better
opinion to give of ihem than anybody else
has ; but before he can mention a word of
it to Valentine, there will be dozens of
people in the painting-room, and then he
will get taken suddenly nervous, and come
up here to me."
While- Mrs. Blyth was thinking about
her father, Madonna signalized the advent
of two more visiters. First, she raised her
hand sharply, and began pulling at an im
aginary whisker on her own smooth cheek
—then stood bolt upright, "and folded her
arms majestically over her bosom. Mrs.
Blylh immediately recognised the originals
of these two pantomime portrait-sketches.
The one represented Mr. Hemlock, a small
critic of a small newspaper, who njas prin
cipally remarkable for never letting his
whiskers alone for five minutes together.
The olher portrayed Mr. Bullivant, the
aspiring fair-haired sculptor, who wrote
poetry, and studied dignity in his attitudes
so unremittingly, that he could not even
stop to look in at a shop-window, without


HIDE AND SEEK.

131

ral is only, I think, to be attained by taking
Nature merely as a foundation, and build
ing up upon it an airy ideal, which shall
elevate the mind, and diffuse sublime, poe
try and philosophy over laborious reality,
which can not be said to diffuse anything
out itself. As an instance, in the picture
now! favored by yOUr notice" (Mr. Blyth
waved his rriahl-Stick persuasively toward
the " Golden Age")— " you have in the fore-
ground-bUshes, the middle-distance trees,
the horizon-mountains, and the superincum
bent sky,- what I would fain hope isa toler
ably faithful transcript of mere Nature. But
in the group of buildings to the right" (here
the cane touched the architectural city, with
its acres of steps and forests of pillars), "in
the dancing nymphs, and the- musing phi
losopher" (Mr. Blylh rapped lhat sage brisk
ly on the head with the padded" end of his
mahl-stick), "you have" the ideal — the ele
vating poetical view of ordinary things, like
cites, happy female peasants, and thought
ful spectators.' Thus Nature is exalted;
and thus the diffusion to which I have briefly
alluded lakes place." Here Valentine paused
at the end of a paragraph ; and the gardener
made an abortive effort to get" back to the
doorway. " Capital, Blyth !"• "cried Lady Bramble
down — " liberal! comprehensive, progres
sive, profound. Gardener, don't fidget !"
" The true philosophy of art— the true
philosophy :of art, my lady,", added: Mr.
Gimble, the picture-dealer.
"Crude?" said Mr. Hemlock, the, critic,
appealing" confidentially to. Mr. Bullivant,
the sculptor. ; •*' '.-,-,-
"What?" inquired that gentleman.
" Blyth's principles . of criticism," ' an
swered Mr. Hemlock.
"Oh, yes! extremely so," said Mr. Bul
livant. "Having 'glanced at art pastoral, as at
tempted in the ' Golden Age,' " pursued
Valentine, turning over a leaf,-*' I will' now,
with your permission, proceed to art mystic
and 'Columbus.' Art mystic, I would briefly
endeavor to define, as aiming at the illustra
tion of fact on the highest imaginative prin
ciples. It takes a scene, for instance, from
history — sacred or profane, nomatter which
— and represents that scene as exactly and
naturally as possible. And here the ordi
nary thinker might be apt to say, 'Arftmys-
"tic- 'has done enough.' " — (" So -it has," mut
tered Mr. Hemlock. V "On the contrary,
trt mysiic has dnly- begun. Besides the
representation of the scene itself, the spirit
of the age" — (" Ah ! quite right," said Lady
Brambledown ; ¦" yes, yes, the- spirit of 'the,
age")— ''ihe spirit of ihe age which pro
duced that scene, and the prophetic fore
shortening — I beg your pardon, I rrieah fore
shadowing — prophetic foreshadowing of fu
ture periods, must also beindicated, mysti

cally, by the 1. troduction of tnose angelic
or infernal winged forms — those cherubs
and airy female, geniuses, those demons and
dragons of darkness — which so many iLus-
trious painters have long since la.ught us to
recognise as impersonating to the eye the
good and evil-influences — virtue and vice,,
glory: and shame, success and failure, past
and future, heaven and earth— sdl oil the
same canvass." Here, Mr. Blyth stopped
agjiin,;, this passage had cost him sxim.
trouble, and he was secretly proud.of it.
" Glorious !" cried enthusiastic Mr. Gim-
hle. ¦ ". Turgid," muttered critical Mr. Hem
lock. - f'Very," assented compliant Mr. Bulli
vant.. . , ¦ -'
"Go -on— get to ithe picture — don't stop
so often," said Lady Brambledown. " Bless
my soul, how- the man does fidget!" This
was not directed at Valentine (who, how
ever, richly deserved it),, but at the unhappy
gardener, who had made a second attempt
to escape to the sheltering obscurity of the
doorway, and had been betrayed by his
boots. "To, exemplify what, has just been re
marked, by the picture at my side," pro
ceeded Mr, Blyth. "The moment sought
to. be represented is sunrise on the 12ih of
October; 1492, when the great Columbus
first saw land clearly at the end of his
voyage.''!.. Oihserv-e mow, in the upper por
tions of the composition, how the mystical
illustration ofthe spirit of tbe age, and the
symbolical prophecy of, future events, to
which I have referred, are developed before
the spectator. Of the two winged female
figures hovering in the morning clouds,
immediately over Columbus and his ship,
the one is the spirit of discovery, holding
the orb of the world in her left hand, . and
pointing with a laurel crown (typical, of
Columbus's fame) in her .right hand, to
ward the newly-discovered, continent. The
other figure symbolizes the spirit of royal
patronage, impersonated by being. a. portrait
of Queen Isabella, Columbus's warm friend
and patron, who offered her jewels: (to pay
his,expenses, and wh,o, throughout his peril
ous voyage,, was with him in. spirjtas here
represented. The, tawny figure with feath
ered head, floating hair, and wildly-ex
tended pinions, soaring upward from, "the
western! horizon, represents the genius of
America: advancing to meet, her , great dis
coverer; while the shadowy countenances,
looming dimly through the morning, mist
behind her, are portrait- types pf Washing
ton and Franklin, the patriot preseryers.of
America, who would never have been given
to it if; that continent had not been dis-
coveredv and who are here:, therefore, assp
ciated prophetically with the first voyager*
from the Old World to the New."


HIDE AND SEEK.

135

sbciated with art mystic m the character of
a guardian genius. Yet such was the proud
position which he was now actually select
ed by Fate to occupy. In, plain words, Mr.
Blyth's greatest historical wofk— his won
derful "Columbus" itself — had been for
some little lime in imminent danger of de
struction "by falling ; and Mat's "look at the
picter" was the all-important lOok which
enabled him to be the first person in* the
room who perceived that it was in peril.
The eye with which Mr. Marksman now
regarded (he picture was certainly the eve
of a barbarian, but the eye with which lie
afterward examined the suppons by which
it was suspended was the eye of a sailor,
and of a good practical carpenter to boot.
He saw directly that one of the two iron
clamps to which the frame-lines of " Colum
bus" were attached, had been carelessly
driven into a part, of the wall that was not
strong enough to hold it against the down
ward stress of the heavy frame. Little
warning driblets of loosened plaster had
been trickling down rapidly behind the can
vass ; but nobody heard them fall in the gen
eral buzz of tallting ; and nobody noticed
the thin, fine' crack above the iron clamp,
which was now lengthening stealthily min
ute by minUte.
"Just let me by, will you?" said Mr.
Marksman quietly to some of his neighbors.
"I want to stop those flying women and the
man in the crank ship from coming down
by the long run."
Dozens of alarmed ladies and gentlemen
started up from their chairs. Mat pushed
through ihem unceremoniously ; and was
indebted lo his want of politeness for being
in time to save the picture. With' a grating
crack, and an accompanying descent of a
perfect slab of plaster, the loose clamp came
clean out of ihe wall, just as Mr. Marksman
seized the unsupported end and side of the
frarne in his sturdy hands, and so prevented
the picture from taking the fatal swing
downward, which would have infallibly
torn it from the remaining. fastening, and
precipitated it on the chairs beneath.
A iremendous confusion and clamoring
of tongues ensued ; Mr. Blyth being louder,
wilder, and more utterly useless in the
present emergency than any of his neigh
bors. Mat, cool as ever, kept his hold of
the picture : and, taking no notice of the
confused advice and cumbersome help offer
ed to him, called to Zack to fetch a ladder,
failing that, to " get a hoist" on some chairs.
»nd cut the rope from the clamp that re
mained firm. Wooden steps, as young
Thorpe knew, were usually kept in the
painting-room, Where had they been re
moved lo now ? Mr. Blyth'smemory was
lost altogether in his excitement. Zack
made a speculative dash at the flowing
draperies which concealed the lumber in

one corner, and dragged out the steps in
triumph. " All right ; take your time,
young 'un : there's a knife in my left-hand
breeches' pocket," said Mat. "Now, then,
cut away at that bit of rope's-end, and hold
on tight at top, while I lower away at bot
tom. :Sieady! Take it easy, and — there
you are !" With which wOrds, Mr. Marks
man left the picture resting safely on the
floor, and began to shake his coai-tails free
of the plaster that had dropped on them.
" My dear sir ! you have saved the finest
picture I ever painted," cried Valentine,
warmly seizing him by both hands. "
can't find wards to express my gratitude
and admiration—"
" Don't worry yourself about that," an
swered Mr. Marksman; "I don't suppose
I should understand you if you could find
'em. If you want the picter put up again,
I'll do it. And if you want the carpenter's
muddle-head punched, who put it up before,
I shouldn't much mind doing that too,"
added Mat, looking at the" hole from which
the clamp had been lorn wilh an expression
of the profoundest workmanlike disgust.
A new commotion in the room — near the
door this time — prevented Mr. Blyth from
giving an immediate answer to the two
friendly propositions just submitted to him.
At the first alarm of danger, all Ihe ladies
— headed by the dowager countess, in whom
the instinct of self-preservation was largely
developed — hadgot asfaraway as they could
from the falling picture, before they ventured
lo look round at the process by which it was
at last safely landed on the floor. Just as
this had been accomplished, Lady Bramble
down — who stood nearest to ihe doorway —
caught sight of Madonna in the passage that
led to it. Mrs. Blyth bad heard ihe noise
and confusion down-stairs, and finding that
ber bell was not answered by the servants,
and that it was next to impossible to over
come her father's nervous horror of confront
ing the company alone, had sent Madonna
down-stairs with him, to assist in finding
out what: had happened in the studio.
While descending the stairs with her old
companion, the girl had anticipated' that
they might easily discover whether anything
was amiss, without going further than the
passage, by merely peeping through the
studio-door. But all chance of escaping the
ordeal of the painting-room was lost the
moment Lady Brambledown set eyes on
her. The dowager countess bad always
been one of Madonna's warmest admirers ;
and now expressed lhat admiration by
pouncing on her with immense affection
and enthusiasm from the painting-room
doorway. Other people, to whom the deaf
and dUmb girl was a much' more interesting
sight lhan "Columbus," or the "Golden
Age," Crowded round her; all trying to
gether, with great amiability and small in-


136

HIDE AND SEEK.

telligence, to explain what had happened
by signs which no human being could pos
sibly understand. Fortunately for Madonna,
Zack (whoever since he had cut the picture
down, hud been assailed by an incessant fire
of questions about Mr. Marksman from
dozens of inquisitive gentlemen) happened
to look .toward her, over the ladies' heads,
and came directly to explain, by signs that
she could comprehend, the danger from
which " Columbus " had escaped. She
tried hard to get away, and bear the intel
ligence to Mrs. Blyth; but Lady Bramble
down, feeling amiably unwilling to resign
her -too soon, pitched on the poor engraver
standing tremulous in the passage, as being
eruite clever enough, to carry, a message up
stairs, and sent him off to take the latest
news from the studio to his daughter iin-
'mediately. Thus it was that when Mr. Blyth lefl
Zack's friend to see what was going on near
the door, he found Madonna in the painting-
room, surrounded by sympathizing and ad
miring ladies. The first words of explana
tion by which i»ady Brambledown answered
his mute look of inquiry, reminded him of
the anxiety and alarm thai his wife must
have suffered ; and he ran up-stairs directly,
promising to be back again in a minute or
two. Mr. Marksman carelessly followed Val
entine to the group at the doorway — care
lessly looked over some ladies' bonnets —
and saw Madonna, offering her slate to the
dowager countess at that moment.
The sweetfeminine gentleness and youth
ful softness of ihe girl's face, looked inex-
pressibly lovely, as she now stood shy and
confused under the eager eyes that were all
gazing on her. Her dress, too, had never
more powerfully aided the natural attrac
tions of her face and figure by its own love-
able charms of simplicity and modesty, than
now, when the plain gray merino gown,
and neat little black silk apron that she
always wore, were contrasted with the
fashionable frippery of fine colors shining
'all around her. Was the rough, Mr. Marks
man himself lured at first sight into ac
knowledging her influence ? If he was,
his face and ., manner showed it very
strangely. Almost at the instant when his eye fell
on her, that clay-cold change which had
altered the color of his swarthy cheeks in
the hosier's shop at Dibbledean, passed
over them again. The first amazed look
that he cast on her, slowly darkenetl, while
his eyes rested on her face, into a fixed,
heavy, vacant st;ue of superstitious, a we.
He never moved, he hardly seemed to
breathe, until the head of a person before
him accidentally intercepted his view.
Then he stepped back a few paces ; looked
about him bewildered, as if he had forgotten

where he was; whispered to himself once
again that name of " Mary," which the
tobacconist's wife had .heard him muttering
in his heavy sleep ; and turned quickly to
ward the door, as if resolved to leave the
room immediately.
But there was some inexplicable influence
at work in his heart that drew him back,
in spite of his own will. He retraced his
steps to the group round Madonna: — looked
at her once more — and, from that moment,
never lost sight of Jier till she went up-stairs
again. Whichever way her face turned, he
followed the direclion, outside the circle, so
as to be always in front of it. When Valen
tine reappeared in ihe studio, and' Madonna
besought him by a look, to set her free from
general, admiration, and send her back to
Mrs. Blyth, Mat was watching her over the
painter's shoulder. And when young Thorpe
— who had devoted, himself to helping her
in communicating with the visiters, nodded
to her as she left the room, Mr. Marksman
was close behind him. •

CHAPTER VI.
THE FINDING OF THE CLUE.
Mr. Blyth's friends, now that their
common centre of attraction had disappear
ed, either dispersed again in the, painting-
room, or approached the door to take (heir
departure. Zack, turning round sharply
after Madonna had left the studio,, encoun
tered his queer companion, who had nOt
stirred an inch while other people were all
moving about him.
" Why, Mat ! what the devil's come to
you now ? Are you ill ? Have you hurt
yourself wilh lhat picture?" asked Zack,
startled .by the incomprehensible change
wbich he beheld in Mr. Marksman's face
and manner.
" Come out," sa'd Mat. Youni^ Thorpe
looked at him in amazement ; even the
sound of his voice had altered !
" Can you wait two minutes, old fellow?
I wanted to go up-stairs, and say how-d'ye-
do to Mrs. Blyth. But if you're really out
of- sorts, and — -" >
" Come out," repeated Mat, taking him
by the arm, and forcing him to leave the
room. " What's wrong ?" asked Zack. Ni
answer. They went quickly along the
passage and down to the garden-gate, in
silence. As soon as they had got info one
of the lonely by-roads of the, new suburb,
Mr. Marksman stopped short ; and, turning
full .on his companion, said: "Who is
she ?" The sudden eagerness with which
he spolte, so strangely at variance with his
usual deliberation of tone and manner, madf


HIDE AND SEEK.

137

those three common words almost startling
to hpar;
"She? Who do you mean?" inquired
young Thorpe.
"That young woman they were all
staring at."
For a moment, Zack contemplated the
anxiety visible in his friend's face, with an
expression of blank astonishment; then
burst into one of his loudest, heartiest, and
longest tils of laughter. " Oh, by Jove, I
wouldn't have missed this for fifty pound.;
Here's old Rough and Tough smitten with
the tender passion, like all the rest, of us !
Blush, you brazen old beggar, blush !
You've fallen in love with Madonna at
first sight."
" D — n your laughing. Tell me who
she is." ,
" Oh, Lord ! he's losing his temper now.
Fell you who sheas?- That's exactly what
I can'i do." ' ,
"Why not ! AVhat do you mean ? Does
she belong to that man ?"
" Oh, tie, Mat ! You mustn't talk of a
young lady belonging to anybody, as if she
vas a piece of furniture, or money in the
three per cents, or something of that sort.
Confound it, man, don't shake me in that
way ! You'll pull my arm off. Let me
nave my laugh, and I'll tell you everything."
" Tell it then ; and be quick about it."
" Well, first of all, she is not Blyth's
daughter — though some scandal-mongering
people have said she is — "
"Nor yet his wife?"
" Nor yet his wife. What a question !
He adopted her as they call it, years ago,
wheu she was a child. But who she is, or
where he picked her up, or what's her
name, Blytli never has told anybody, and
never will. She's the dearest, kindest,
liveliest li tile soul that ever lived ; and
that's all I know about her. It's a short
story, old boy ; but devilish romantic —
isn't it ?"
Mr. Marksman did not immediately an
swer. He paid tbe most breathless atten
tion to ihe few wjrds of information that
Zack had given hi
 — repeated them over
again to himself— reflected for a minute or
so — then said: — ,;
" Why won't he tell anybody who she
is?" "How should I know? It's a whim of ,
his; And, I'll tell you what, Mat, here's a
piece of serious advice for you : If you want,
to go there again, and make her acquaint
ance, don't you ask , Blyth who she is, or
let him fancy you want to knovy. He's-
touchy on that point — I can't say why ; but
he is. . Every man has a raw place about
him somewhere : that's Blyth's raw place,'
and if you hit him on it, you won't get
nside of his house; again in a hurry,. I can,
tell you." 9

Still Mr. Marksman's attentiejn fastened
greedily on every word — still his eyes fixed
eagerly on his informant's face — still he
repeated to himself what Zack was te' ling
him. "Byrthe-by, I suppose you saw the; [ jor
dear little soul is deaf and dumb," young
Thorpe continued. " She's been so from a
child. Some accident ; a fall, I believe.
But it don't affect her spirits a bit. She's
as happy as the day is long — that's one
comfort." >•
" Poor creature ! and so like her, too ; it
was a'most as awfui as seeing the dead
come to life again— she had Mary's turn
wilh her head ; Mary's — ah, poor creature !
poor creature "'. He whispered these words
to himself, under his breath, his face turned
aside, his eyes wandering over the ground
at his feet, with a faint, troubled, vacanily
anxious expression.
; "Oh, hang it! don't , be getting into the
dolefuls already," cried ' Zack, laughing
again ; and administering an exhilarating
thump on the back lo his friend. ,," The
[despairing lover don't suit your line ;of
character, old boy. Cheer up ! We're all
in love with her; you're rowing in the
same boat with Bullivant, and Gimble, and
me, aud lots more ; and you'll get used to
it in time, like the rest of us. I'll act the
generous rival with you, brolher Mat !"
Here he struck a stage attitude, i" You shall
have all the benefit of my experience and
advice gratis ; and shall lay siege io oixt
little beauty in regular form. How do you
mean to make love to her? Did you ever
make love to a squaw ? Oh, Lord, he '11
be the death of me if heigoes on looking
sentimental like that." '/
"She isn't his wife; and she isn't his
daughter; he won't say where he picked
her up, or who she is." Repeating these
words to himself in a quick, quiet whisper,
Mr. Marksman .grew more thoughtful than
ever. He |opked?away from young Thorpe,
and did not appear to be listening to a single
word that he said,, His mind was running
now on one of the answers he had wrested
from Johanna Grice, at Dibbledean. — the
answer winch had informed him that Mary '/
child had been born, alive !
" Wake up, Mat ! You shall have your
fajr chance with the lady, along with the
rest of us ; and I'll undertake to qualify you
on the spot for civilized courtship," con
tinued Zack, pitilessly carrying on his joke.
"In, the first place^always remember that
you mustn't go beyond passionate admiration
at a i respectful distance, ; at, the first inter
view. At ihe second, you may make
amorous faces, at close quarters — what you
call, looking unutterable things, you know.
At the third, you may get bold, and try her
with a ljttle present. Lots of people have;
done that, before. you. Gimble tried it, and.


138

HIDE AND SEEK.

Bullivant wanted to; but Blyth wouldn't
lot him; and I mean to give her— oh, by
Jove ! I've got another important caution
for you." Here he indulged himself in a
fresh burst of laughter, excited by the
remembrance of his interview with Mrs.
Peckover, in Mr. Blyth's hall. " Remember
that the whole round of presents is open
for you to choose from, except one ; and
that'sa hair bracelet. You mustn't think
of giving her — Hullo ! What's the matter
now ?"'
Zack's laughter came to an abrupt ter
mination. Mat had raised his head sudden-'
ly, and was now staring him full in the
face again, with a bright searching look —
an expression in which sUspicious amaze
ment and doubting curiosity were very
strangely mingled together.
" You're not angry with me for cracking
a few respectable old jokes?" said Zack.
" Hang it ! I haven't said anything — Stop !
yes I have, though I didn't mean it. You
looked up at me in that queer way, when
I told you about not giving her a hair brace
let ; and I'll bet five to one you thought I
said it to make fun of your not having
any hair on your own head to give anybody
— didn't you now ?— D — n it, old fellow !
I'm not such a beast as to make jokes on
your misfortune. I never thought of you,
Dr your head, or that infernal scalping busi
ness, when I said what I did. It was true
— it happened. to me. Don't go on looking
ike an old savage, Mat.. I'll prove it to
you. Look here, I wanted to give her a
hair bracelet myself— my hair and Blyth's,
and so on. And a queer old woman who
seems to know Madonna (that's a name we
give her) as well as Blyth himself, and
keeps what she knows just as close, fell
foul of me about it, all of'a sudden, in the
passage. She talked a lot of rigmarole,
and said a hair bracelet would be unlucky
to' Madonna ; ,and then told me she had one
already ; and then wouldn't let me ask
Blylh whether it was true, because I should
get her into dreadful trouble if I said any
thing to him about it : besides a good deal
more which you wouldn't care to be bother
ed with. But I have said enough — haven't
I? — to show I was not thinking of you,
when I rapped that out just now by way of
a joke. Come, shake hands, old fellow.
You're not offended with me now Ihave
explained everything?"
Mat gave his hand ; but he put it out like
a man groping in the dark. He wasthink-
ing of that letter about a hair bracelet,
which he had found in the box given to him
by Johanna Grice.
"A hair bracelet ?" he said, vacantly.
"Don't besulky!" cried Zack, clapping
him on the shoulder.
"A hair bracelet; — unlucky to the ybung
woman — and sir Vs got one already" (he

was weighing attentively the lightest wcrd
that Zack had spoken to him). "Whit's
it like ?" he asked aloud, turning suddenly
to young Thorpe. '. ¦
"What's what like?"
" A hair bracelet."
" Still sticking to that, after all my ex
planations ! Like ? why it's hair plaited
up, and made to fasten round the wrist,
with gold at each end to clasp it by. What
the devil are you stopping for again ? I'll
tell you what, Mat, I can make every
allowance for a man in your love-struck
situation — but if I didn't know how you
had been spending the morning, I should
say you were drunk."
They had been walking along quickly,
while Mr. Marksman asked what a hair
bracelet was like. But no sooner had Zack
told him than he came to a dead pause-
thought for a moment— started and changed
color — opened his lips to speak — then check
ed himself, and remained silent. Young
Thorpe's description had recalled to him a
certain object that he had seen in thedrawei
of Mr. Blyth's bureau; and the resemblance
between the two had at once flashed upon
him. The importance which this discovery
assumed in his eyes, in connection with
what he had already heard, may be easily
estimated when it is remembered that nis
barbarian life had kept him totally ignorant
that a hair bracelet ^is in England one of
the com mon est ornaments of woman V wear.
"Are we going to stop here all day?'
asked Zack. " Oh, confound it, if you're
turning from sulky to sentimental again, I
shall go back and have my talk with Mrs.
Blyth, and pave 'the way for you with
Madonna, old boy !" He turned in the
direction of Valentine's house, as he sail.
these words, anticipating in high glee all i
the jokes that he and his friends' would
make on the subject Of Madonna's new cOn-
quest. Mat did not offer to detain him ; did not
say a word at parting. He passed his hand
wearily over his ,eyes as Zack left him.
"I'm sober," he said vacantly to himself;
" I'm not dreaming ; I'm not light-headed,'
though I feel a'most like it. I saw that
young woman as plain as I see them houses
in front of me now ; and.by God if she had
been Mary's ghost, she couldn't have been
more like her !"
He stopped. His hand fell to his side ;
then fastened mechanically ori the railings
.of a house near him. His rough, misshapen
fingers trembled round the iron that they,
held incessanllyi Recollections that had1
slumbered for years and years past, were
awakening again awfully to life within
him. Through the obscurity and oblivion
of long absence, through the chill, change
less darkness of the tomb, there was shining
out now, vivid and solemn on his memory


HIDE AND SEEK.

139

after a dimness of many years,, the image
-r-as she had been in her youthtime — of
the dead woman, whose name was "Mary."
And it was only ihe sight of lhat young
girl, of .that poor shy-looking; tender-faced,
deaf and dumb creature, that had'wrought
the miracle !
He tried to shake himself free pf the in
fluences that were now at work on him.
He moved forward a step of two, and look
ed up. Zack ! — where was Zack ?
Away, at the other end of the solitary
suburban street, just visible sauntering along
and swinging his stick in his hand.
Without knowing why he did so, Mat
turned instantly and walked after him, cal
ling to him to come back. The third sum*-
mbns reached him : be stopped, hesitated,
made comic gesticulations with his stick in
the air — then began to retrace his steps.
The effort of walking and calling after
nim turned Mat's thoughts in another direc
tion. They now began to occupy them
selves again with the hints' lhat Zack had
dropped (by way of explaining himself to
his friend) of some incomprehensible con
nection between a supposititious hair brace
let and tbe young girl who was called by the
strange *narne of "Madonna." With the
remembrance of this, there came" back also
the recollection of the letter aljout a brace
let, and its enclosure of hair, which he had
examined in the lonely cattle-shed at Dib
bledean, and which still lay in the little
box bearing on it the name of "Mary
Grice." .-
" Hullo there !" cried Zack, speaking as
ne came on. "Hullri, old Cupid, what do
you want with me now ?" ,
Mr.- Marksman did not immediately
answer. His thoughts were still travelling
back cautiously over the ground that they
had already explored. Once more, lie was
pondering on that little circle of plaited
hair, having gold at each end, and looking
just big enough to go round a wonian's
wrist, which he had Seen in the drawer of
Mr. Blyth's bureau. And once again, while
he thought on it, the identity between this
object and the ornament which "young
Thorpe had described as being the thing
called a bair bracelet, began surely and
more surely to establish itself" in his
mind. " Now (hen, Mat, don't keep us waiting,"
continued Zack, laughing again as he came
nearer:' "clap your hand on your he>art, and
give me your tender message for the future
Sirs. Marksrman." a' " .
It was on the tip of Mat's tongue to
emulate the communicativeness of young
Thorpe, and speak unreservedly of what
he had seen in the drawer of the burea-—
out he suddenly restrained the words jusi
as they were dropping from his lips. At
ihe same moment his eyes began to lose

their vacant perturbed look,'and to brighten
again with something jjf intell.gence and
cunning added -to their customary watchful
expression. " What's the young woman'sreal name?"
he askedcarelessly, just as Zack was about
to banter him for the third time.
" Is that all you called me back for *
The devil ta|<e your amorous impudence
— What s her real name ? Her real name's
Mary." Mat had' made his inquiry with the air
of a n in whose thoughts were far away
frorh his words, and who only spoke because
he felt obliged to say something. Zack's
reply to his question, however, startled him
into instant and anxious attention.
" Mary !" he repealed in a tone of sur
prise. Then added1 quickly, "What else
besides Mary ?" !
" How should I know ? Didn'tT try and
:b'eat il into your muddled old head, half an
hour ago, that Blyth won't tell anybody
anything about her?"
Mat turned a little away. .The secrecy
in which Mr. Blyth chose to conceal Ma
donna's history, and the sequestered place
in the innermost drawer of his bureau where
he kept the hair bracelet, began vaguely
and indefinably to connect themselves to
gether in Mr. Marksman's mind. A curi
ous smile hovered about his lips, and the
cunning look in his eyes brightened more
and more. " The painter-man won't tell
anything about her, won't he? Perhaps
that thing in his drawer will." He mut
tered this to himself, putting his hands in
his pockets, and mechanically kicking away
a stone that happened to lie at his feet on
thepavement. , " What are you mumbling about now ?"
asked Zack. "Do you think I'm going to
stop here all day for the pleasure of hearing
you talk to yourself? If you call after me
again, you'll call a lbng time before ybu get'
me to come back, old boy!" With these
words, he vivaciously rapped his friend on
the shoulder with his stick, and ran off in
the direction 'of Mr. Blyth's house.
"It was a hair bracelet. I' know, by what
Zack said, it was a hair bracelet," contin
ued Mat, still mumbling his words to him
self, still with his hands in his pockets, still
kicking at the pavement, though there was
no stone left on it to kick now.'
"I'll see if I can't have soipe fun with
Mrs. Blyth- about you!" thought young
Thorpe, as he slopped for an instant, and
turned round to see whether Mat was going
home or not.
I " I'll see if I can't have another look at
your friend's hair bracelet," thought Mr
Marksman, glancing up at that moment,
and nodding over his shoulder at Zack —
then walking away quickly in the direction
of Kirk street.


140

HIDE AND SEEK.

CHAPTER VII.
THE BOX OF LETTERS.
The first. thing Mr. Marksman did when
he got to his loelgings was, to fill, and light
his Ipipe. He, then sat down on his bear
skins, dragged close to him the box he had
brought from Dibbledean, and straightway
fell ipto,a long and profound meditation.
Although the machinery of Mat's mind was
constructed of very clumsy and barbaric
materials ; although book-learning, had nev
er oiled it, and wise men's talk bad never
quickened.il ; somehow it always contrived,
to work on— much as it was working now
— gloomily and sullenly at one time, fiercely
and cunningly ai another, often revolving in
awkward roundabout directions, often paus
ing with many a heavy check and many a
blundering entanglement1; but, still, always
pertinaciously arriving, sqoner or later, at
ihe practical results required of it. Solitude,
and peril are stern schoolmasters, but they,
do their duty, for good or evil, thoroughly
with some men; and they had done it thor
oughly, amid the rocks and wildernesses of
the great American continent, with Mat.
Many a pipe did he empty and fill again,"
many a dark change passed over his heavy
features, as he now pondered long and labo
riously over every word of the dialogue thai
had just been held between himself and
Zack. But not so much as five minutes out
of all the time he ihus consumed, was, in
any irue sense of the word, time wasted.
He had sat down to hi? first pipe, resolved
that, if any human means could compass it,
he would find ou: how the young girl whom
he had seen in Mr. Blyih's studio had first
come there, and who she really was. When
he, rose upat last, and put the pipe away to
copl, he had thought the matter fairly out
from beginning to end, had arrived at his
conclusions, and had definitely settled his
future plans.
Reflection had strengthened him in the res
olution to follow his first impulse when he
parted from Zack in the street, and begin
the attempt to penetrate the suspicious se
cret that hid from him and from every one
the origin of Valentine's adopted child, by
getting possession of the hair bracelet which
he had seen laid away in- ihe inner drawer
of the bureau. As for any assignable rea
son for justifying him in even vaguely asso
ciating this hair bracelet wilh Madonna, he
found it, to his own Satisfaction, in the
hints which had dropped fr,om young Thorpe
in reference to the strange words spoken, by
Mrs. Peckover in M,r. Blyth's hall— the sus
picions resulting from -these hints being also
immensely strengthened, if not originally
suggested, by certain recollections that oc
curred to him of the letter signed "Jane
Holdsworth," and containing an .enclosure

of hair, wbich he ad examined in the cat.
tie-shed at Dibbledean.
According to that letter, a hair bracelet
(easily recognisable, if still in existence, by
comparing it with the hair enclosed in. Jane
Holdsworth's note) had once been the ptop-
eny of Mary Grice. According to what
Zack had said, there was apparently some
incomprehensible confusion and mysiery in
connection with a hair bracelet, and the
young woman, whose extraordinary like
ness to what Msiry Grice had been in her
girlhood, had at once excited, in his mind
the momentous doubt which first urged him
to the purpose he was now pursuing. - Last--
ly, according to what he himself now knew,
there was actually a hair bracelet, lying in
a sequestered place in the innermost drawer
of Mr; Blyth's bureau — this latter fragment
of evidence assuming in his mind, as has
been already remarked, an undue signifi
cance and importance, in relation to the frag
ments preceding it, from his not knowing
that hair .bracelets are common enough to
be found in every house where there are
women in a position to wear any jewelry-
ornament at all.
Vague as they might be, the coincidences
indicated above were sufficient to startle
him at first — then to fill him with an eager,
devouring curiosity — and then to suggest to
him ihe uncertain and desperate course thai
he was now firmly resolved to follow. How
he was to, gain possession of ihe hair brace-"
let without Mr. Blyth's knowledge, and
without exciting the slightest suspicion in
the painter's family, he had not yet deter
mined. But he was resolved to have it, he
was perfectly unscrupulous as to means,
and he felt certain beforehand of attaining
his object. Whither, or to what excesses,
that object might lead him, he never stopped
and never cared to consider. The awful
face of the dead woman, as! she was in her
youth (now fixed for ever, in his memory by
the living copy of it lhat his own eyes had
beheld), seemed to be driving him on swift
ly into unknown darkness, to bring him out
into unexpected light at the end. The in
fluence" which was thus at work in him
was not to be questioned— it? was to be
abeyed; ,
His resolution' in reference to the hail
bracelet was not more firmly settled than
his resolution to keep his real sensations on
seeing Madonna, and the purpose which
had grown out of them, a profound: secret
from young Thorpe, who was loo warmly
Mr. Blyth's friend to be trusted. Every
word lhat Zack had let slip had been of
vital importance hitherto ; every word that
might yet escape him might be: of the most
precious use for future guidance. "If it's
his fun and fancys," mused Mr. Marksman,-
" lo go on thinking I'm sweet on the girl,
let him think it. The more he thinks, the


HIDE AND SEEK.

141

more he'll talk. All I've got to do is to
hold in'; and then lie's sure to let out."
While schooling himself thus as to his
future conduct toward- Zaek, he did not for
get another person who was less close at
hand cesrtainly, but who might also be
turned to good account. Before he fairly
decided on his plan (if acti >n, he debated
with 'himself- the propriety of returning to
Dibbledean, and forcing from the old wo
man, Johanna Grice, more information than
she had been willing to give him at their
fifst interview. But, On reflection, he con
sidered that it was better to leave this as a
resource tb be tried, in case ofthe failure of
his first experiment with the hair bracelet.
One look at that— one close comparison of
the hair it was made of, with the surplus
hair which had not been used by the jewel
ler, in MaryGrice's bracelet, and which had
been1 returned to her in her friend's letter —
was all he wanted in the first place ; for this
would be enough to clear up every present
uncertainty and suspicion connected with
the ornament in the drawer of Mr. Blyth's
bureau. ! These were mainly the resolutions to
which his long meditation had now crook
edly and clumsily conducted him. His
next immediate business' was to examine
those' letters in the box he had brought from
Dibbledean, which he had hitherto not
opened ; and also to possess himself of the
enclosure of hair, in the letter to "Mary
Grice," so that he might have it always
about hitti ready for any emergency.
Before he Opened the box, however, he
took a quick impatient turn or two up and
down his'rniSerable little rbokm" Not Once,
since he had set forth tn return to his own
country, and to tbe civilization from which,
for more than twenty years, he had been an
outcast, had he felt (to use his' favorite ex
pression) that he was "his own man again,"
until now: A' thrill ofthe old, breathless,
fierce suspense of his dayfe of deadly peril
ran through him, as he now thought on the
forbidden secret into which he was about to
pry, and for the disOovery of which he was
ready to dare any hazardand use any means.
" It goes through and through me, a'most
li ke dodging for life again among the bloody
Indians," muttered Mat tb himself, as, he
trod restlessly to and frb in his cage of a
room, rubbing all the while at the scars on
his face, as his way was when any new
exciternenf got the; better of him.
At the very moment when this thought
was rising ominously in Mr. ' Marksman's
mind, Valentine was expounding anew the
whole scope and object of "Art-Myslic,"as
pictorially exemplified in his " Columbus,"
tb a fresh circle of adm'ririgj spectators-^
while his wife was interpreting- to Madonna
above-stairs, Zack's Widest jokes about his
friend's love-siricken ' •ocil'uion ; and all

three were'latighinggayly at a caricature,
which he was maliciously drawing for
them, of "poor old Mat, '"in the cnaracter
of a sca|ped Cupid of the backwbods. Even
the little mitiOr globe - of -each man's social
sphere has its antipodes-points ; and when
it is all brigrit sunshine in one part cf the
miniature world, it is all pitch darkness, ;»t
the very same moment, in another.
Mr. Marksman's face had grown suddenly
swarthier than ever, while he walked across
his room, and said those words to himself
which have just been recorded. It altered
again, though, in a minute or two, and
turned once more to the cold clay color
which had overspread it in the hosier's
shop at Dibbledean, as he returned to his
bearskins and Opened the box that had be
longed to " Mary Grice."
He took out first the letter with the en
closure of hair, and placed it carefully in the
breast-pocket of hiscoat. Henext searched
a moment or twd for the letter superscribed
and signed by Johanna Grice ; and, having
found it, placed it on one side of him, on the
floor. After this- he paused a moment;
looking into the box with a curious, scowl
ing sadness On his face ; yvKile his hat.d
vacantly stirred hither and thither, the dif
ferent objects that lay about among the
papers— the gayly-bound alburn, the lace-
collar, the dried flower-leaves, arid the other
little womanly possessions which had once
belonged to Mary Grice.
Then he began to collect together all the
letters in the box. Having got them into
his hands— some tied up in a packet, some
loose— he spread them out before him on
his lap, first drawing up an end ofione
of the bearskins, oyer his legs for them
lo lie on .conveniently. He began by ex
amining thp directions. They were, all
addressed to "Mary Grice," in the same
clear, careful, sharply-shaped handwriting.
Though they were letters in form, they
proved to be only notes in substance, when
he opened them ; the writing, in some, no?
extending to more than four or five lines.
At least fifteen or twerity were, for example,
expressed, with unimportant variations, in
this form: — - -- ,
"My Dearest Mary: Pray try all you
can to meet me to-morrow evening at the
usual place. I have been waiting and long
ing for you in vain, to-day. Only think of
me, love, as I am/iow, and always; think
ing of you ; and I know you will come.
Ever and only yours. " A. C."
All these notes were signed in the same
way, merely with. initial letters. They
contained nothing' in the shape of a date,
except the day of the ^week on which they
had been written; and' they had evidently
been delivered by some private means — for
there did riot 'appear to be a postmarK on


HIDE AND SEEK.

143

side of the channel, I will send you wtwd
where to direct to. I will write constantly
— mind you write constantly too. Love me,
and remember me always till I return, never,
I hope, to leave you again. " A. C."
Over this letter, Mat meditated long
before he quietly cast it away among the
rest. When he had at last thrown it from
him there remained only three more to
examine. They proved to he notes of no
consequence, and had been evidently written
at an earlier period than the letters he had
just read. After hastily looking them over,
he searched carefully all through the box,
but no papers of any sort remained in it.
That hurried letter, with its abrupt an
nouncement of the writer's departure from
England, was the latest in date — the last of
the series !
After he had made this discovery, he sat
for a little while vacantly gazing out of
window. His sense of the useless result to
which ihe search he had been prosecuting
had led him thus far, seemed to nave robbed
him of half his energy already. He looked
once or twice at the letter superscribed by
Johanna Grice, mechanically reading along
the line on the cover: " Justification.of my
•conduct toward my niece" — bui not attempt
ing lo examine what was written inside.
It was only after a long interval of hesita
tion and delay that heat, last roused himself.
" I must sweep these' things out of the
way, and read all what I've got to read
before Zack comes in," said he tg himself.
gathering up the letters in the, heap at his
feet, and thrusting them all back agaim to
gether, with an oalh, into the box.
He listened carefully once or twice after
he had shul down the lid, and while he, was
tying the cords over it, to ascertain wheiher
his wild young friend was opening the
street-door yet or not. How short a time
he had passed in Zack's company, yet how
thoroughly well he knew him, not as to his
failings only, but as to his" merits besides!
How wisely he foreboded that his careless,
social, boisterous fellow-lodger would in
fallibly turn against him as an enemy, and
expose him without an instant's hesitation,
if young Thorpe got any hint of his first
experimental scheme for discovering poor
Mr. Blyih!s anxiouslyrtreasured secret by
underhand and treacherous means ! Mat's
cunning had proved an invaluable resource
Jo him on many a critical occasion already';
but he had never been more admirably
served by it than now, when it taught him
to be cautious of betraying himself to Zack.
For ihe present there seemed to be no
danger of interruption. He corded up the
box at his leisure, concealed it in its accus
tomed place, took his brandy-bottle from
the cupboard, opened Johanna Grice's letter
—and still ihere was no sound of any one

entering, in he passage down-stairs. Be
fore he began to read, he drank some ofthe
spirit from the neck of the hottle. Was
there some inexplicable dread steal 'ing over
him at the mere prospect of examr.iing.-,the
contents of this one solitary letter? If
seemed as if there was. His finger trem
bled so, whefr he tried to guide himself by
it along each successive line of the crampeo
writing which he was now attempting tc
decipher, that he had to take a second dram
to steady it. And, when he at length fairly
began to examine the letter, he did not pur
sue his occupation either as quietly or as
quickly as he had followed it before. Some
times he read a line or two aloud, some
times he overlooked several sentences, and
went on to another part of the long narra
tive—now growling out angry comments
on what he was reading, and now dashing
down the paper impatiently on his kneers,
with fierce outbursts of oaths, which he had
picked up in the terrible swearing-school
of the Californian gold-mines.
He began, however, with perfect regu
larity at the 'proper part of the letter ; sit
ting as near to lhe,,window as he could, and
slanting the closely-written page before him
so as to give* himself the full benefit of all
the afternoon light that still flowed into the
room.

CHAPTER VIII.
JOHANNA GRICE'S , NARRATIVE.
"I intend .this letter to' be read after my
death, and I purpose calling it plainly a
justification epf ray conduct toward my
niece. Not because I think my conduct
wants any excuse — for, except on one point,
my conscience has always been tranquil on
that head — but because others, ignorant of
my true motives, may think that my'ac-
tfons want justifying, and may wickedly
condemn me, unless I make some such
statement in my own defence as ihe pres
ent. There may still be living one member
of my late brother's family, whose voice
would, I feel sure, be raised against me for
what I have done. I could wish that this
person, if still spared, might one day be
able to read attentively what is here writ
ten ; for it is addressed to the hasty and ma
licious accuser, as well as to the deliberate
and impartial inquirer. The relation to
whom I refer has been — "
(Here Mat, who had read carefully thus
far, grew impatient, and, growling oul some
angry words, guided himself hastily down
the letter with his finger till he arrived at
the second paragraph.)
— "It was m the April of 1827 that the
villain who was the ruin qf my niece, and
the dishonor of the once respectable familj


144

HIDE AND SEEK.

to which she belonged, first came to Dibble
dean. He took the little four-room cottage
called Jay's cottage, which was then to be
let furnished, and which stands out of the
town about a quarter of a mile down Church
lane. He called himself Mr. Carr, and the
few. letters that came to him were directed
to 'Arthur Carr, Esq.' He was quite a
young man — i should say not more than
four or five and twenty — very quiet-man
nered, and delicate or rather effeminate look
ing, as I thought ; for he wore his hair quite
long over his shoulders, in the foreign way,
and had a clear, soft complexion, almost like
a woman's. Though he appeared to be a
gentleman^ he always kept out of' the way
of making acquaintances among the respect
able families about" Dibbledean. He had no
friends of his own "to come and see him that
I heard of, except an old gentleman who
might have been his father, and who came
once or twice. His own account of himself
was, that, he came to Jay's cottage for quiel,
and retirement, and study ; but he was very
reserved, and would let nobody rhake up lo
him until the miserable day when he and
my brother Joshua, and then my niece Mary,
all got acquainted together.
" Before I go to anything else, I must say
first that Mr. Carr was what they call a bot
anist. Whenever it was fine, he was al
ways out of doors, gathering bits of leaves,
which it seems he carried home in a tin
case, and dried, and kept by"him. He hired
a gardener for the bit of ground round abuui
Jay's cottage; and the- man told me once
that his piaster knew more about flowers,
and how to grow them, than anybody he
ever met with. Mr. Carr used to make lit*
tie pictures, too; of flowers "and leaves set
together in patterns. Tliese things- were
thought very odd amusements for a young
man to take up wilh ; but he was as fond of
them as others' of his age might be of hunt
ing or shooting. He brought down many
books with him, and read a great deal ; but,
from all lhat I heard, he spent -more time
over his flowers and his botany than any
thing else,
" We hafl, at that time, the two best shops
in Dibbledean. Joshua sold hosiery, and I
carried on a gipod dressmaking and general
millinery business. Bolh our shops were
under the same roof,- with a panition-wall
between. One day, Mr. Carr' came "into
Joshua's shop, and wanted something which
my brother had not got as ready to hand as
the common things that the towns-people
generally bought. Joshua begged him to
sit down for a few minutes ; but Mr. Carr
(the parlor-door at the bottom of the shop
being left open) happened to look into the
garden, which he could see very well
through the window, and said lhat he would
like to wait there, and ook at the 'flowers,
while what he wanted vas being got for

him: Joshua was only loo glad to have his
garden taken such'notice of, byiageniieman
who was a botanist ; so he showed Ins cus-
tomer in there, and "then went up into the
warehouse to lookfor what was wanted.
" My niece, Mary, worked in my part of
the house, along with the other young wo
men. The room they used to be in looked
into' thegarden ; and from the winuow my
niece must have seen Mr. Carr, and must
have slipped 'down-stairs (I not being in the
way just "then) to peep at the stranse gen
tleman — or, more likely, to make believe
she was accidentally walking in the gar
den, and so get noticed by him. All I know
is, that when I came up into the workroom
and found she was not there, and looked
out of ihe window, I saw her, and Joshua,
and Mr. Carr, all standing together on the
grass-plot, the strange gentleman talking to
her quite intimate, with, a flower iri hi»
hand. I called out to her1 to come back te
her work directly ; and she looked up at
me, smiling in her bold, impudent way, and
said: 'Father has told me I may stop and
learn what this gentleman is so kind as to
teach me about my geraniums.' After ihatj
I could say nothing more before the stran
ger ; and when he was gone, and she came
back triumphing, and laughing, and singing
about the room* more like a mad play^ac-
tress than a decent young woman, I kept
quiet and bore with her provocation. But
1" went down to my brother Joshua the same
day, and talked to him seriously, and warned
him that she ought to be kept stricter, and
never let to have her own way, and offered
to keep a strict hand over her myself,, if he
would only 'support me properly.-' But he
put me off with' careless, jesting words,
which he learned to repent of bitterly after
ward.
¦' " Joshua was as good, and pious, and re
spectable a man as ever lived: but it was
his misfortune to be loo easy-tempered, and
too proud of his daughter. Having lost his
wife, and his eldest boy and girl, he seemed
so fond of Mary, that he could deny-het
nothing. There was, to be sure, another
one left of his family of children, wbo"^-"
(Here.'again, Mat lost palience. He had
been muttering to himself angrily for the
last minute or two, while he read ; and now
once more he passed over several linesi of
the letter, and went on at once to a new
paragraph.) " I have said she was vain of her good
looks, and bold, and flighty ; and I must
now add that she was also hasty, and pas
sionate, and reckless. But she had whee
dling ways wilh her, that nobody was sharp
ehough to see through but me. When I
made complaints against her to her father,
and proved that I was right in making them*
she always managed to get him to forgive
her. . She Could make anybody take henside


HIDE AND SEEK.

145

against me ; and though I stood in the place
of a mother to her, she had no respect for
me, and never showed me any gratitude,
and was always insulting and setting me at
defiance, whenever she could get the oppor
tunity. She behaved, from ihe outset, as
perversely toward me as usual, in respect
to Mr. Carr. It had flattered her pride to
be noticed and bowed to, jusl as  she was
a born lady, by a genileman, and a customer
at the shop. And the very same evening,
at tealirrie, she undid before m; face the
whole effect of the good advice 1 had been
giving her father. What with jumping on
his knee, kissing him, lying and untying
his cravat, sticking flowers in his. button
hole, and going on altogether rriore like a
child than a grown-up young woman, she
wheedled him into promising that he would
take her next Sunday to see Mr. Carr's gar
den ; for it seems the gentleman had invited
them to look at his flowers. I had tried
my best, when I heard it, to persuade my
brother not to accept the invitation, and let
her scrape acquaintance with a stranger un
der her lather's own nose ; but all I could
say was useless now. She had got the bet
ter of me, and when I put in my word, she
had her bold laugh and her light answer
ready to insult me with directly. Her fa
ther said he wondered Iwas nol amused at
her high spirits. I shook my head, but said
nothing in return. Poor man ! he lived to
see where her ' high spirits' led her to.
"On the Sunday, after church, they went
to Mr. Carr's. Though my advice was set
at defiance in this way, I determined to per
severe in keeping a stricter watch over my
niece than ever. I felt that the maintaining
of the credit and reputation of the family
rested wilh me, and I determined that I
would try my best to uphold our good
name. It is some little comfort to me;
after all that has happened, to remember
that I did my utmost to carry out this reso
lution. The blanie of our dishonor lies not
at niy door. I disliked and distrusted Mr.
Carr from the very first ; and I tried hard
to make others as suspicious of him as I
was. But all I could say, and alt I could
do, availed nothing against the wicked cun
ning of my niece. Watch and restrain her
as I might, she was sure — "
(Once more Mat broke off abruptly in the
middle of a sentence. This lime, however,
it was to strike a light. The brief day of
winter was fast fading out— ihe coming
darkness seemed to be deepening palpably
over the pages of Johanna Grice's letter.
When he had lit his candle, and liad sat
dOwn to read again, he lost his place, and,
not having patience to look for it carefully,
went on at once with the first lines that
happened tn strike his eye.)
" Things were now come, then, to this
pass, hat I felt certain she was in the habit

of meeting him in secret ; and yet I could
not prove it to my brother's satisfaction. • 1
bad no help that I could call in tri^make me
equal to cope with the diabolical cunning
that was used to deceive me. To set other
people to watch them, when I could not,
would only have been spreading through
Dibbledean the very scandal that I was most
anxious to avoid. As for Joshua, his in
fatuation made him deaf to all that I coult1
urge. He would see nothing suspicious in
the fondness Mary had suddenly taken for
botany, and drawing flowers. He let Mr.
Carr lend her paintings to copy from, just
as if they had known each other all their
lives. Next to his blind trust in his daugh
ter, because he was so fond of her, was his
blind trust in this stranger, because the
gentleman's manner was so quiet and kind,
and because he sent us presents of expensive
flowers to plant in our garden. ' He would
not authorize me to open Mary's leiters, or
to forbid her ever to walk out alone. He
even told me once that I did not know how
to make proper allowances for young people.
Allowances! I knew my niece better, and
my duty as one of an honest family better,
than to make allowances for such conduct
as hers. I kept the tightest hand over her
that! could. I advised her, argued" with
her, ordered her, portioned out her time for
her, watched her, warned her, told her in
the plainest terms that she shopld nol de
ceive me — she or her genileman ! I was
honest and open, and said I disapproved so
strongly of the terms she kept up with Mr.
Carr, that if ever it lay" in my power to cut
short their acquaintance together, I would
most assuredly doit. I even told her plainly
that if she once got into mischief, it would
then be too late to reclaim her ; and she
answered in her reckless, sluttish wily, that
if ever she did get into mischief it would be
nothing but my aggravation lhat would
drive her to it;.«nd that she believed her
father's kindness would never find it too
late to reclaim her again. This is only one
specimen of the usual insolence and wkited'
ness of all her replies to me."
(As he finished this paragraph. Mat
dashed the letter down angrily on his knee,
and cursed ihe writer of, it with some of
those gold-digger's imprecations which it
had been his misfortune to hear but too
often in the past days of his Califoinian
wanderings. It was evidently only by
placing considerable constraint upon him
self that he now refrained from crumpling
up the letter and throwing it from him in
disgust; However, he spread it out flat
before him once more — 'looked first at one
paragraph, then at another, but did not read
them; hesitated — and then irritably turned
over the leaf of paper before him, and began
at a new page:)
"When I told Joshua generally what J


146

HIDE AND SEEK.

had observed, and particularly what I my
self had seen and heard on the evening in'
question, he seemed at last a little staggered,
and sent for my niece to insist on an expla
nation. When he repeated to her what I
had mentioned to him, she flung her arms
round his neck, looked first at me and then
at him, burst out sobbing and crying, and
so got from bad to worse Jill she had a sort
of fit. I was not at all sure that this might
not be one of her tricks; but it frightened
her father so that he forgot himself, and
threw all the blame on me, and said my
prudery and conspiring had tormented and
frightened the poor girl out of her wits.
After being insulted in this way, of course
the only thing I could do was to leave the
room, and let her have it all her own way
with him.
" It was now the autumn, the middle of
September ; and I was at my wit's end to
know what I ought to think and do next —
when Mr. Carr left Dibbledean. He had
been away once or twice before, in the
summer, but only for a day or two at a time.
On this occasion, a letter came from him to
my niece. He had never written to her
when he was away in the summer, so I
thought this looked like a longer absence
than usual, and I determined to take advan
tage of it to try if I could not break off the
intimacy between them, in case it went the
length of any more leiter-writing. I most
solemnly declare, and could affirm on oath
ii" necessary, that in spite of all I had seen
and all I suspected for these many months,
I had not the most distant idea of the wick
edness lhat had really been committed, I
thank God I was not well enough versed in
the ways of sin to be as sharp in coming lo
the right conclusion as other women might
have been in my situation. I only believed
.hat the way she was going on might be
fatal to her at some future time ; and, acting
on that belief, I thought myself justified in
using any means in my power to stop her
in her present course. I therefore resolved
wilh myself that if Mr. Carr wrote again,
she should get none of his letters ; and I
knew her passionate and proud disposition
well enough to know that if she could once
be brought to think herself neglected by
him, she would break off all intercourse
with him, if ever he came back, im
mediately. " I, thought myself perfectly justified,
standing toward her as I did in the place
of a mother, and having only her good at
heart, in taking these measures. Oil that
head my conscience is slill quite easy. I
can noC,menlion what the plan was that I
now adopted, wit hot t seriously, if not fatal
ly, compromising a iying person. All I
can say is, that every letter from Mr. Carr
to our house, passed into my hands only,
and was by me committed to the flames,

unread, TJbese letters were at first all fpi
my niece ; but toward the end of the yeat
two came, at different intervals, directed lo
my brother. I distrusted ihe cuiihing of
ihe writer and the weakness of Joshua ;
and I put both these letters into the fire,
unread like the rest. After that, no more
came : and Mr. Carr, never returned, to Jay's
cottage. In reference to this part of my
narrative_ therefore, I have only now to
add, before proceeding to the miserable
confession of our family dishonor, thai I
never afterward saw, and only once, heard
of the man who tempted my niece to com
mit the deadly sin which was her ruin in
this world, and will, be her ruin in the next."
(Mat was evidently getting more arid
more interested in the letter. Although.
when he had first erarained it, he had read
the last sentence, by chance, in the shed at
Dibbledean, he read it again carefully now
— paused a moment — then resolutely went
through it once more. After he had done
this, he became suddenly "ery still and
thuughtful. His brow darkened heavily,
and that fierce brightness which had been
flashing in his eyes a short time back, light*
ened up again in them, when he proceeded
with the letter.)
"I must now return to what hpppened
from my burning of the letters. When my
niece fuund that week after week passed,
and she never heard from Mr. Carr, she
fretted about it much more than I had
fancied she would. And Joshua unthink
ingly made her worse by wondering, in her
presence, at the long absence of the gentle
man of Jay's cottage. My brother was a
man who could not abide his habits being
broken in on. He had been in the habit of
going on certain evenings to Mr. Carr's
(and, I grieve to say, often taking his daugh
ter with him) to fetch the London paper, tc
take back drawings of flowers, and to let
my niece bring away new ones to copy.
And now, he fidgeted, and was restless,
and discontented (as much as so easy-tem
pered a man could be) at not taking, his
usual walks to Jay's cottage. This, as I
have said, made his daughter worse. She
fretted and fretted, and cried in secr^i, as I
could tell by her eyes, till she grew to be
quite altered. Now and then, the, an \xy fit
thai I had expected to see, came upon I er;
but it always went away again in a maicei
not at afT natural to one of her passionate
disposition. All this time, she led me r\3
miserable a life as she could ; provoking
and thwarting, and insulting me at every
opportunity. I believe she suspected me,
in the matter of the letters. But I had
taken my measures so as to make discovery
impossible; and f determined to wait, and
be patient and persevering, arid get the
better of her and her wicked fancy foi Mr.
Carr, just as I had made up my mind to do.


HIDE AND SEEK.

147

"At kst, as the winter drew on, she al
tered so mucb, and got such a strange look
in her face, which never seemed lo leave it,
that Joshua became alarmed, and said he
must send for the doctor. She seemed to
be half frightened out of her wits at tjie
mere thought of it; and declared, quite
passionately, all of a sudden, that. she had
no want of a. doctor, and would see none
and answer the questions of none. This
astonished me as well as Joshua ; and when
he asked me privately what I thought was
the matter with her, I was obliged of course
to tejl him the truth,, and say 1 believed
that she was almost out of her mind wilh
love for Mr. Carr. For the first time in his
life, my brother flew into a violent rage
wilh me. I suspect he was furious wilh
his own conscience for reminding him, as
it- must have done then, how foolishly oyer-
indulgent he had been toward her, and
how carelessly he had allowed her> as well
as himself, to get acquainted with a person
out of her own station, whom it was not
proper for either of them to know. I said"
nothing of this to him at the time: he was
not fit to listen to it — and still less fit, even
had I been willing to confide it to him, to
hear what the plan was which I had adopted
for working her cure.
"As the weeks went on, and she still
iretted in secret, and still looked unlike her
self, I began to doubt wheiher this very
plan, from which I had hoped so much,
would after all succeed. I was sorely
distressed in my mind, at times,, as to what
I ought to do next ; and began indeed to
feel the difficulty getting too much for me,
just when it was drawing on fast lo its
shocking and shameful end. We were then
close upon Christmas time. Joshua had got
his shop-bills well forward for sending out,
and was gone to London, on business, as
was customary with him at this season of
the year. I expected him back, as usual,
a day or two kef'ore Christmas day.
" For a little while past, I bad noticed
some change in my niece. . Ever since my
brother had talked about sending for the
doctor, she had altered a little, in the way
of going on more regularly with her work,
and pretending (ihough she made but a bad
pretence of it) that there was nothing ailed
her, her object being, of course, to make
her father easier about her in his mind.
The change, however, to which I now refer,
was of another sort, and only affected her
manner toward me, and her manner of
dressing herself. When we were alone
together, how, I found her conduct quite
altered. She spoke soft to me, and looked
humble, and did wbat work I set her with
out idleness or murmuring ; and once, even
made as if she wanted to kiss me. But I
was on my guard — suspecting lhat she
wanted to entrap me, with her wheedling

ways, into letting out som -thing about Mr.
Carr's having written, and my having burn
ed his letters. It was at th.s time also, and
a little before it, that I noticed the .alter
ation in her dress. She fell into wearing
her things in a slovenly way, and sitting at
home in her shawl, on account of feeling
cold, she said, when I reprimanded her for
such untidiness.
"I don't know how long things might
have lasted like this, or what the end might
have been, if events had gone on in their
own way. But the dreadful truth made
itself known at last suddenly, by a sort of
accident. She had a, quarrel wilh one of
the other young women in the dressmakings
room, named Ellen Gough, about a certain
disreputable friend of hers, one Jane Holds-
worth, whom I had once employed, and
bad dismissed for impertinence and slattern
ly conduct. Ellen Gough having, it seems,
been provoked past all bearing by some
thing my niece said to her, came away to
me in a passion, and in so many words told
me ihe awful truth, that my brother's only
daughter had disgraced herself and Iter
family for ever. The unuiterable horror
and misery of that moment is present to
me now, at this distance of time. The
shock I then received struck me down at
once: I never have recovered from it, and
I never shall.
" Iri" the first distraction of the moment,
I must have done or said something down
stairs, where I was, which must have
warned the wretch in the room above lhat
I had discovered her infamy. I'remember
going to her bed-chamber, and finding the
door locked, and hearing her refuse to open
it. After thai, I must have fainted, for I
found myself, I did not know how, in the
w,ork-room, and Ellen Gough giving me a
bottle to smell to. With her help, I got
into my own room ; and there I fainted
away dead again. When I came to, I went
once more to my niece's bed-chamber. The
door was now open ; and there was a bit
of paper on the looking-glass directed to
my brother Joshua. She was gone from
the honest house lhat her sin had defiled —
gone from it for ever. She had written only
a few scrawled wild lines to her. father, but
in them there was full acknowledgment
of her crime, and a confession lhat it was
the villain Carr who had caused her to
commit it. She said, she was gone to take
her shame from our doors. She entreated
that no attempt might, be made to trace her,
for she would die rather than return to
disgrace her family, and her father in his
old age. After this came some lines, which
seemed lo have been added, on second
thoughts, tb what went before. I do not
remember the exact words ; but th* sense
referred, shameiessly enough as I thought,
to the child that was afterward born, and


HIDE AND SEEK.

our infamy home lo our own doors, by actu
ally bringing his degraded daughter back
with him into my presence, in thp face, of
the whole town — this thought, I say, was
too much for me. I believed that (he day.
when she crossed our threshold again would,
be the day of my death, as well as the day
of my farewell , to home ; and under that
conviction .I concealed from Joshua what
my real opinion was.
" I deserved. to suffer for, this.; and I did
suffer for it. Two or three days after the
lonely Christmas-day that I passed in utter
solitude at our house in Dibbledean, I re
ceived a letter from Joshua's lawyer in
Loudon, telling me to come up and see my
brother immediately, for he was taken dan
gerously ill. In the cours£,of his inquiries
(which he vyould pursue, himself, ajihough
the lawyers, whp,knew better v^hat ought
to be dope, were doing their utmost to help
him), he had been misled by some false in
formation, and had: been robbed and ill-used
in some place near the river, and then turned
out at night in a s'orm of snow and sleet.
It is useless now to write about what I suf
fered from thjs, fresh blow, or to speak of
tbe awful time I passed by his bedside in
London. Let, it be enough to say that he
escaped out of the very jaws of death, and
that it was the end of February before he
was well enough to be taken home to Dib
bledean. " He soon got better in his own air — bet
ter as to his body, but. his mind was in a
sad way. Every morning, he used to; ask
if any news, of Mary had come ; and when
he heard there was none, he used to sigh,
and :then hardly say another word, or so
.nuch as hold up his head, for the rest of
the day. At one time, he showed a. little
anxiety now and then about a letter reach
ing its destination, and being duly received ;
peevishly refusing to mention to me even
so much as the address on it. But I guessed
who it had been sent to easily enough, when
his lawyers told me that he. had written it
in London, and had mentioned to them that
it was going to some place beyond the seas.
He soon seemed lo forget this, though, and
to forget everything, except his , regular
question about Mary, which he spmetimes
repeated in his dazed condition, even after
I had broken it to him that she was dead.
" The news of her death came in the
March of the new year 1828. All inquiries
in London had failed up to that time, in disr
aovering the remotest trace of her. In Dib
bledean we knew she could not be; and
elsewhere Joshua was now in no stale to
search for, her himself, or to have any clear
notions of instructing others in what direc
tion to make inquiries for him. But in this
month of March, I saw in the Bangbury
paper (which circulates in our county be
sides its own) an adveriisement calling on

149

the friends tay :ung woman, who had just
died and left behind her an infant, to come
forward and identify the body, and take
some steps in respect to the child. The de
scription was very full and particular, and
; did not admit of a doubtj to any one who
iknew her as well as I did, that the young
woman referred to was my guilty and mis
erable niece. My brother was in no condi
tion to be spoken to in this difficulty ; so .
determined to act for myself. I sent, by a
person I could depend upon, money enough
to bury lier decently, in Bangbury church
yard, putting no name or date to my letter.
There was no law to oblige me to do more,
and more I was determined not 10 do. As
to the child that was the offspring Of her
sin, it was the infamous father's business
to support and own it, and not mine.
"When people in the town, who knew
of our calamity, and had seen the advertise
ment, talked tome of it, I admitted nothing
and denied nothing — I simply refused to
speak with them on the subject'of what had
happened in our family.
"Haying endeavored, to provide in this
way for the protection of my brother and
myself against the rrieddling and imperti
nence of idle people, I believed that T had
now suffered' the last ofthe many bitter trl
als which had assailed me as the cohse
quences of my niece's guilt. I was mista
ken — the cup of my affliction was not yet
full. One day, hardly a fortnight after I
had sent the burial-money anonymously to
Bangbury, our servant came lo me and said
there was a stranger at the door who wished
to see my brother, and was so bent on it,
that lie would take no denial. I went down,
and found waiting on the doorsteps a very
respectable-Iooking,middle-aged man, whom
I had certainly never set eyes on before in
my life.
"I told him that I was Joshua's sister,
and that I managed my brother's affairs for
him in the present state of his health. The
stranger only ansvyered that he was very
anxious to see Joshua himself. 1 did not
choose to expose the' helpless condition into
which my brother's intellects had fallen, to
a person of whom I knew nothing ; so I
merely said the interview he warned was
out of the question, but that, if he had any
business with Mr. Grice, he might, for the
reasons I had already given, mention it to
me. He hesitated, and smiled, and said he
was very much obliged to me; and then,
making as if he was going to step in, added
that I should probably be able to appreciate
the friendly nature of the business on which
he came, when he informed ine lhat he was
confidentially employed by Mr. Arthur Carr.
The instant he spoke it, I felt the name go
to my heart like a knife — then my indigna
tion got the better of me. I told him to
tell Mr. Carr that the miserable creature


.50

HIDE AJ\D SKEK.

whom his villany had destroyed, had fled
away from her home, had died away from
her home, and was buried away from her
home ; and, with that, I shut the door in
his face!' My agitation, and a sort of terror
that I could not account for, so overpowered
me, that I was obliged to lean against the
wall of the 'passage, and was unable for
some minutes to stir a step toward going
up-stairs. As soon as I got a little better,
and began to think about what had taken
place, a doubt came across me as to wheth
er I might not have acted wrong. I re
membered lhat Joshua's lawyers in London
had made it a great point that this Mr. Carr
should be traced ; and though, since then,
our situation had been altered by my niece's
death, still I felt uncertain and uneasy — I
could hardly tell why— at what I had done.
It was as if I had taken some responsibility
on myself which oufht not to have been
mine. In short, I ran. back to the door and
opened it, and looked up and down the street.
It was too late : the strange man was out of
sight, and I never set eyes on him again.
"This was in March, 1828, the same
month in which ;the advertisement ap
peared. I am particular in repeating the
date, because it marks the iime of the last
informa.ion I have to give in connection
with ihe disgraceful circumstances which I
have here forced myself to relate. Of the
child mentioned in the advertisement, I nev
er heard anything, from that time to this.
I do not even know when it was born. I
only know lhat its guilty fnolher left her
home in the December of 1827. Whether
it lived after the date of the adveriisement,
or whether it died, I never discovered, and.
never wished to discover. I have kept my
self retired since the days of my humiliar
tion, hiding my sorrow in my own heart,
and neither asking questions nor answering
them." At this place, Mat once more suspended
the perusal of the letter. He had now read
on for an unusually long time with unflag
ging atiemion, and with the same stern sad
ness always in bis face, except when the
name of Arthur Carr occurred in the course
of the narrative. Almost on every occasion
when the finger by which he guided himself
along ihe close lines pf ihe letter, came to
those words, it trembled a little, and the
dangerous look grew ever brighter and
brighter in his eyes, It was in them now,
as he dropped the letter on his knee, and,
turning round, took from the wall behind
him, agaiusi which it leaned, a :er;ain leath
er bag, already alluded to, as part of the per
sonal property that he brought wilh him on
installing himself in Kirk street. He opened
it, took out a feather fan, and an Indian to
bacco-pouch of scarlet cloth ; and then began
to search in the bottom of the bag, from
which at length he drew forth a letter. It

was torn in several places, the ink of the
writing in it was faded, and the paper was
disfigured bv stains of grease, tobacco, ajid
dirt generally. The direction was in such
a condition, lhat the word " Brazils," at the
end, was alone legible. Inside, it was not
in a much better state. The date at the
top, however, still remained tolerably easj
to distinguish : it was " December 26th,
1827." Mat looked first at this and then at the
paragraph he had just been reading, in Jo
hanna Grice's narrative. After that, he be-
gan to count on his fingers; clumsily enough
— beginning with the year 1828 as number
one, and ending with the current year 1851,
as number twenty-three. " Twenty-three,"
he repeated alotid to himself, " twenty-three
year: I shall remember that.!' Then he
looked down a little vacantly at the old
torn letter again. Some of the lines, here
and there, had escaped stains and dirt suffi
ciently to be still easily legible ; and it was
over these that his eyes now wandered.
The first words that caught his attention
ran thus:, "I am now, therefore, in this
bitter affliction, more than ever desirous
that all past differences between us should
be forgotten, and" — here the beginning of
another line was hidden by a stain, beyond
which, on the cleaner part ofthe letter, the
writing proceeded: "In this- spirit, then, 1
counsel you, if you can get continued em
ployment anywhere abroad, to accept it, in
stead of coming back" (a rent in the paper
made the next wor,ds too fragmentary to be
easily legible). ..." any good news be sure
of hearing from me again. In the mean
time, I say it once more, keep away, if you
can. Your presence could do no good ; and
it is better for you, at your age, to be spared
the sight of such sorrow as that we are now
suffering." (After this, dirt and the fading
of the ink made several sentences near the
end of the page almost totally illegible—
the last three or four lines at the bottom of
ihe letter alone remaining clear enough to
be read with any ease.) . . . . " the poor,
lost, unhappy creaiure! But I shall' find
her — I know I shall find her ; and then, let
Johanna say or do what she. may, I will
forgive -my own Mary, for I know she will
deserve her pardon. As for him, I feel con
fident that he may be traced yet ; and that
I can snathe him into the atonement of mar
rying her. If he should refuse, then the
black-hearted villain shall — "
At this point, Mat abruptly stopped in
his reading; and, hastily folding up the
letter, put it back iri the' bag' again, along
with the feather fan and the Indian pouch.
" I can't go on with lhat part of the story
now, but thenime mcty come, perhaps-1"
He pursued the thought which thus ex
pressed itself in him no further, but sat still
for a few minutes, with his head on hi?


HIDE AND SEEK.

151

hand, and his heavy eyebrows contracted
by an angry frown, staring sullenly at the
flame of the candle. Johanna Grice's letter
still remained to be finished. He took it
up, and : looked back to the paragraph that
he had last read.
"As for the child mentioned in the ad
vertisement" — those were the words to
which he was now referring. " The child ?"
— There was no mention of its sex. " I
should like tb have known if it was a boy
or a girl, thought Mat.
Though he was now close to the end of
the letter, he roused himself with difficulty
to attend to the last few sentences which
remained to be read. They began thus: —
"Before I say anything, in conclusion,
of the sale of our business, of my brother's
death, and of the life which I have been
leading since that time, I should wish to
refer, once for all, add very briefly, to ihe
few things which my niece left behind her,
when she abandoned her home. Circum
stances may, one day, render this necessary.
I -desire then to state, that everything' be
longing to her is preserved in one of her
boxes (now in my possession), just as she
left it. When the1 letters signed 'A. C
were discovered, as I have mentioned, on
the occasion of repairs being made in the
house, I threw them into the box with my
own hand. They will all ^be found, more
or less, to prove the justice of those first
suspicions of mine, which my late brother
so unhappily disregarded. In reference lo
money or valuables, I have only to mention
that my niece took all her savings with her
in her flight. I knewin what box she kept
them, and I saw that box open and empty
on her table, when I first discovered that
she was gone. As for the only three articles
of jewelry that she had, her brooch I
myself saw her give to Ellen Gough — her
ear-rings she always wore — and I can only
presume (never having found it anywhere)
t'aat she took with her, in her flight, her
aair bracelet."
" By God ! there it is again !" cried Mat,
dropping the letter in astonishment, the
instant those two significant words, "hair
bracelet," caught his eye.
He had hardly uttered the exclamation,
before he heard the door of the house flung
open, tlien shut to again with a prodigious
bang. Zack had just let himself in with-
his latch-key.
"I'm glad he's : come," muttered Mat,
snatching up the letter from the floor, and
crumpling it into his pocket. There's
another ihing or two I want to find out,
before I go any further — and Zack's the
ejhap to help me."

CHAPTER, IX.

A FEW MORE niSCOVERIES.
When Zack entered the room, and saw
his queer friend, with legs crossed and
hands in pockets, sitting gravely "in the
usual corner on the floor, between a brandy-
bottle on one side, and a guttering, unsnuff-
ed candle on the other, he roared with
laughter, and stamped about in his usual
boisterous way, till the flimsy little house
seemed, to be trembling under him to its
very foundations. Mr. Marksman bore all
this noise and ridicule, and all the jesting
that followed it about the futility of drown
ing his passion for Madonna in iho brandy
bottle, wilh the most unruffled and ex
emplary patience. The self-control he thus
exhibited did not pass without its reward.
Zack got tired of making jokes which had
no effect, and of telling preposterous stories,
which were received with the serenest in
attention ; and, passing at once from the
fanciful to the practical, astonished Mr.
Marksman by suddenly communicating a
very unexpected and very important piece
of news.
"By-the-by, Mat," said he, "we must
sweep the place up, and look as respectable
as we can before to-morrow night. My
friend Blylh is coming to spend a quiet,
social evening with us. I stayed behind
till all the visiters had gone, on purpose to
ask him."
" Do you mean he's coming to have a
drop of grog and smoke a pipe along with
us two?" asked Mr. Marksman, raiher
amazedly. " I mean -he's coming here, certainly ;
but as for grog and pipes, he never touches
either. He's the best and dearest fellow in
the world ; but I'm ashamed t' say he's-
spooney enough to like lemonade and tea.
Smoking would make him sick directly ;
and, as for grog, I don't believe a drop ever
passes his lips from one year's end to
another. A weak head, Mat — a devilish
weak head for drinking," concluded Zack,
tapping his forehead with an air of bland
Bacchanalian superiority.
Mr. Marksman seemed to have fallen, into
one of his thoughtful fits again. He made
no answer, but, holding the brandy-bojtle
standing by his side up before the candle,
looked in to see hcv much liquor was left
in it.
" Don't begin io bother your head about
the brandy ; you needn't get any more of
it for Blyth," continued Zack, noticing his
friend's "action. " I say, old boy, do you
know that the best thing you ever did in
your life was saving Valentine's picture in
that way? You have regularly won his
heart by it. He was deuced suspicious of
my making friends with you before ; bur


152

HIDE AND, or^n..

now — by Jove ! he doesn't seem to think
(here's a wotd in the English language
that's good enough for you. He said he
should be only too glad to thank you again,
when I asked him to come and judge of
what you were really like in your own
lodging. Tell him some of those splendid
stories of yours. I've been terrifying him
already with one or two of them at second-
haDd. Tell him that, about when you and
the other chaps were exploring, and all Lut
starved to death, and just going to cast lots
which should be killed to feed the rest. 0
Lord ! how pale he'll, turn when he hears
that! and how hospitably we'll treat him —
won't we? You shall make his hair stand
on end, Mat; and I'll make him some
tea." ¦
" What does he do with them picters of
his?" asked Mr. Marksman.; "Sell 'em?"
"Of course!" answered the other, con
fidently ; " and gets tremendous sums of
money for them." Whenever Zack found
an opportunity of magnifying a friend's im
portance, he always rose grandly superior
to mere matter-of-fact restraints, and seized
the gold-en moment without an instant of
hesitation or a syllable of compromise.
" Gets lots of mohey, does he ?" pro
ceeded Mr. Marksman. "Arid keeps on
hoarding of it up, I daresay, like all the
rest of you over here ?"
" H e hoard money!" retorted Zack.
"You never made a worse guess in your
life. I don't believe he ever hoarded six
pence since he was a baby. If Mrs. Blyth
didn't look after him, 1 don't suppose there
would be five pounds. in the house from one
year's end to another."
There was a moment's silence. "It wasn't
because he had money in it, then," thought-
Mat, " that he shut down the lid of that chest
of his so sharp, when the smilin' little chap
come up to speak to him. I wonder
whether — "
" He's the most generous fellow in the
vorld," continued Zack, lighting a cigar;
" and the best pay : ask any of his trades
people." This remark Suspended the conjecture
that was just forming in Mr. Marksman's
mind. He gave up pursuing it quite read
ily, and went on at once with his questions
to Zack. Some part of the additional in
formation that he desired to obtain from
young. Thorpe, he had got already. He
knew now, that when Mr. Blyth, on the
day of the picture-show, shut down the
bureau so sharply on Mr. Gimble's ap
proaching him, il was not, at any rale (as
Mat had imagined in the studio), because
there was money in it.
" Is he going to bring anybody else in here
along with him, to-morrow night?" asked
Mr. Marksman.
"Anybody else? Who the devil should

he bring? Why, you old barbarian, you
don'l expect him to bring Madonna into our
jolly bachelor den to preside over. the grog
and pipes — do you ?"
"How old is the young woman?" in-,
quired Mat, contemplatively snuffing the
candle with his fingers, as he put the
question. " Still harping on my daughter !" shouted
Zack, with a burst of laughter., "She's
older than she looks, I can tell you that.
You wouldn't guess her at more than eigh
teen or nineteen. , But the fact is,, she's
actually twenty-three ; steady there ! you'll
be through ihe- window if you don't sit
quieter in your queer corner than thai."
(Twenty-three ! The very number he
had stopped at when he reckoned off the
difference on his fingers between 1828 and
1851, just before young Thorpe came im)
"I suppose the next cool thing yOu will
say, is lhat she's too' old for you," Zack'
went on ; " or, perhaps, you may prefer
asking another question or two first. I'll
tell you what, old Rough and Tough, the
inquisitive part of your character is begin
ning to be,—"
"Bother all this talking!" interrupted
Mat, jumping up suddenly as he spoke, and
taking a greasy pack of cards from the
chimney-piece. " I don't ask no questions,
and don't want no answers. Let's have a
drop of grog and a turn-to at beggar-my-
neigjibor. Tuppence a time. Come on!"
They sat down at once to their cards and
their brandy-andrwater ; playing uninter
ruptedly for an hour or mor.e. Zack won ;
and— being additionally enlivened by the
inspiring influences of grog — rose to a
higher and higher pitch of exhilaration
wilh every additional twopence which his
good luck extracted from his adversary's
pocket. His gayety seemed at last to com
municate itself even to ihe imperturbable
Mat, who, in an interval of shuffling the
cards, was heardto deliver himself suddenly
of one of those gruff chuckles, which' haye
been already described as the nearest ap
proach he was capable of making toward a
civilized laugh.
He was so seldom in the habit of exhibit
ing any outward symptoms of hilarity, that
Zack, who was dealing for the new game,
stopped in astonishment, and inquired with
great curiosity what it was that his friend
was "grunting about." At firsts Mat de
clined altogether to^ say : then; on being
pressed, admitted that he was laughing
over the recollection of something young
Thorpe had told him after they left Valen
tine's studio ; and, finally, under stress of
much farther questioning, at last confessed
that his mind was just then running on' the
"old woman" Zack had tpoken of, as ha^
ing " suddenly fallen foul of him in Mr.
Bly ill's passage, because he wanted to gi/e


j a

HIDE AND SEEK.

obedience to the summons that had just
reached him.
On arriving at the painter's house, he was
shown into one of the parlors on the ground
floor; and there sat Mrs. Thorpe, with Mr.
Blyth to keep her company. The meeting
between motaer and son was characteristic
on both sides. Without giving Valentine
time enough to get from his chair to the
door, without waiting an instant to ascertain
what sentiments toward him were expressed
in Mrs. Thorpe's face, without paying the
smallest attention to the damage he did to
her cap and bonnet, Zack saluted his mother
with the old^hower of hearty kisses and
ihe old boisterously affectionate hug of his
nursery and schoolboy days. And she, poor
woman, on her side, feebly faltered over her
first words of reproof — then, lost her voice
^altogether, pressed into his hand a little
paper packet of money that she had brought
for him, and wept on his breast without
speaking another word. Thus it had been
with them, long ago, when she was yet a
young woman, and he but a boy — thus,
even as it was now in the latter and the
sadder time !
Mrs. Thorpe was long in regaining the self-
possession which she had lost on first seeing
' her son. The circumstances connected with
their present meeting agitated and over
powered her almost as much as the meeting
itself. Her own wish had been to go alone
to Zack's lodging; but Mr. Blyth (whom
she had consulted in her emergency) would
not hear of her doing this, until he had
himself seen what sort of place it was, and
what sort of people inhabited it ; and he
pressed on her his offer of his own abode,
as the scene of the interview, wilh such
earnestness that she was quite unable to
refuse him. With her previous habits of
implicit ..conjugal obedience, however, it
was in fear and trembling that she now
entered Valentine's house — from which, in
deference to her husband's merciless preju
dices she had been estranged for so many
years past — without having first obtained
Mr. Thorpe's express permission. The
agitation consequent on engaging in an act
of such doubtful propriety had been enough
lo unnerve her when she reached the
painter's abode ; but it was increased ten
fold, when she went tjp-stairs (while Mr.
Blyth was despatching his note to Zack),
and renewed her long suspended acquaint
ance with Mrs. Blyth, and took Madonna
by the hand for the first time since the deaf
and dumb girl had been received into Val
entine's house. The emotions thus aroused,
"bad exhausted all the little resisting strength
¦ of her feeble powers of self-control : and so
it happened that they succumbed almost
without a struggle, under the. heavy ad-
Ational trial of a first meeting with her son
«ince .he .had been a fug tive from his home.

Zack expressed his contrition over and
over again, and many times reiterated his
promise to follow ihe plan Mr. Blyth had.
proposed to him when they met at the turn
pike, before his mother became calm enough
to speak three wprdi together without burst
ing into tears. When she at last recovered
herself sufficiently to be able to address him
with some composure, she did not speak,
as he had expected, of his past. delinquen
cies, or of his future prospects, but of the
lodging that he then inhabited, and of the
stranger whom he had suffered to become
his friend. Although Ma^'s gallant rescue
of " Columbus" had warmly predisposed
Valentine in his favor, the painter was too
conscientious to soften facts, on that ac
count, when he told Zack's mother where
her son was now living, and what sort of
companion he had chosen to lodge with,
Mrs._Thorpe was timid, and distrustful as
all timid people are ; and she now entreated
him with nervous eagerness to begin his
promised reform by leaving Kirk street, and
at once dropping his dangerous intimacy
with a perfect stranger, who must certainly
turn out, sooner or later, to-be a man ofthe
vilest principles, being already by his own1
confession a vagabond of the idlest degree.
Zack defended his friend to his mother,
exactly as he had already defended him to
Valentine. Mr. Marksman had disinterest
edly supplied him with money when he
wanted it, and had hospitably given him a
bed when he did not know where he was
to sleep "that night: therefore, although a
little eccentric in his habits, no doubt, Mr.
Marksman was the most generous, trust
worthy, and respectable of men. Mrs.
Thorpe hinted not a word against the ex
cellence of her son's arguments, but pre
served her own opinion nevertheless, in de
fiance of all he could say to shake,,it, until
he bethought himself of promising her that
in this matter, as in all others, he would be
finally guided by the opinion of Mr. Blyth.
The assurance so given, accompanied as it
was by the announcement that Valentine
was about to form his own judgment of Mr.
Marksman by visiting the house in Kirk
street that very night, seemed to quiet and
satisfy Mrs. Thorpe. Her last hopes for
her son's future, now that she was forced to
admit the sad necessity of conniving at his
continued absence from home, rested one
and all on Mr. Blyth alone.
This first difficulty smoothed over, Zack
asked, with no little apprehension and anx
iety, whether his father's anger showed any
symptoms of subsiding as yet. The ques
tion was an unfortunate one. Mrs. Thorpe's
eyes began to fill with tears again, the moi
ment she heard it. The news she had, now
to tell her son, in answering his inquiries,
was of a very melancholy and a very hope
less kind.


HIDE AND SEEK.

15a

The attack of palpitations in the heart
which had seized 'Mr. Thorpe on the day
of his son's flight from Baregrove square,
had been immediately and successfully re
lieved by the medical remedies employed
but it had been followed, wilhin the las.
day or two, by a terrible depression of spii-
its, under which the patient seemed to, hat e
given way entirely, and for which the doc
tor was unable to suggest any speedy pro
cess of cure. Few in number at all times,
Mr. Thorpe's words had now become fewer
than ever. His usual energy appeared to
be gone altogether. He still went through
all the daily business of the various socie
ties to which he belonged ; but it was me
chanically, and without any apparent inter
est in the persons or events with which he
was brought in contact. He had only men
tioned his- son once in the last two days ;
and then it was not to talk of reclaiming
him, not to ask where he had gone, but only
to desire briefly and despairingly that his
name might not be mentioned again.
The doctor, in endeavoring to account for
this sudden and serious moral alteration in
Mr. Thorpe, could only say that his whole
nervotts system had been in a state of sad
prostration and weakness for years and years
past, and that even a slighter shock than
the shock which it had so lately received,
would have been powerful enough to havp
broken it down altogether, as it was but too
surely broken down now. The only possi
ble remedies to recover him from the con
dition to which he was reduced, were,
change of air and scene, entire tranquillity,
and absolute cessation from all employment
ofthe brain — even to such slight occupation
for it as the writing of an ordinary letter.
When this advice was communicated to Mr.
Thorpe, be positively refused to follow it.
He declined giving up — only for the pres
ent, only for two or three months — any one
of the honorary situations that he held, to
any of the numerous friends who were wil
ling to relieve him of his duties. , He.said,
in the desponding tone which now never
varied, that the performance of those duties
was the last and best interest which he had
left in life; and lhat he would hold to his
various occupations, therefore, so long as he
held to existence at all. It was useless to
think of arguing him out of this resolution:
every one who attempted.it, from his wife
downward, attempted it in rain.
So far as Zack's interests or apprehen
sions were now concerned,, there was, for
the present at least, norfear of any new col
lision occurring between his father and him
self. W hen Mrs. Thorpe had told her hus
band (after receiving Valentine's answer to
her letter) that their runaway son was " in
safe hands," Mr. Thorpe never asked, as
she had feared he would, "What hands'?"
And, again, when she hinted that it might

be perhaps advisable to assist the ad to
some small extent, as long as he kept in the
right way, and suffered himself to be guided
by the "safe hands" already mentioned,
slill Mr. Thorpe made no objections and no
inquiries, but bowed his head, and told her
to do as she pleased ; at the same time whis
pering a few words to himself, which were
not uttered loud enough for her to hear.
She could only, therefore, repeat tbe sad
truth that, since his energies had given way,
all his former plans and all his customary
opinions, in reference to his son, seemed to
have undergone some disastrous and sudden
alteration. It was only in consequence of
this alteration, which appeared to render
him as unfit to direct her how to act as to
act himself, that she had ventured to under
take the responsibility of arranging the pres
ent interview with Zack, and of bringing
him the small pecuniary assistance which
Mr. Blyth had considered to be necessary
in the present melancholy emergency.
The enumeration of all these particulars
— interrupted, as it constantly was, by un
availing lamentations on one side and by
useless self-reproaches on the other — occu
pied much more time than either mother
or son had imagined*. It was not till ihe
clock in Mr. Blyth's hall struck, that Mrs.
Thorpe discovered how much longer her
absence from home had lasted than she had
intended it should on leaving Baregrove
square. She rose directly, in great trepida
tion — took a hurried leave of Valentine, who
was loitering about his front garden — sent
the kindest messages she could ihink of to
the ladies above-stairs — and departed at
once for home. Zack escorted her to the
entrance of the square ; and, on taking leave,
showed the sincerity of his contrition in a
very unexpected and desperate manner, by
actually eiffering to return home then and
there with bis mother, if she wished it !
Mrs. Thorpe's heart yearned to take him at
tiis word, .but she rememnefed ihe doctor's
orders and the critical condition of her hus
band's health, and forced berself to confess
to Zack that the favorable time for his re
turn had not yet arrived. After this, with
rnulual promises to communicate again soon
through Valentine, they parted very -sadly,
just at the entrance of Baregrove square —
Mrs. Thorpe hurrying nervously, to her own
door, Zack returning gloomily to Mr. Blyth's
house. Meanwhile, how had Mr. Marksman been
occupying himself, since be had left his
young friend alone in the lodging in Kirk
street ?
He had really gone out, as Zack had sup
posed, for one of those long night- walks of
his, which usually took him well into the
country before the first gray. of daylight had
Epread far over the sky. On ordinary occa-
sions, he only indulged in these oddly-timed


.56

HIDE AND i.£EK.

pedestrian excursions because the restless
habits engendered. by his vagabond life made
him incapable of conforming to civilized
hours, by spending the earliest part of the
morning, like other people, inactively in bed.
On this particular occasion, however, he had
gone out with something like a special pur
pose ; for he had left Kirk street, not so
much for the sake of taking a walk, as for
the sake of thinking clearly and at his ease.
Mai's brain wa,s never so fertile in expedi
ents as when," he was moving his limbs
freely in the open air.
Hardly a chance word had dropped from
Zack that night which had not either con
firmed him in his resolution to possess him
self of Valentine's hair bracelet, or helped.
to suggest to him the manner in which his
determination to obtain it might be carried
out. The first great necessity imposed on
him by his present design was, to devise
the means of secretly, opening the painter's
bureau ; the second was to hit on some safe
method — should np chance opportunity oc
cur — of approaching it unobserved. Mat
had remarked that Mr. Blyth wore the key
of the bureau attached to his watch-chain ;
and Mat had just heard from young Thorpe
that Mr. Blyth wis about to pay ihem a
visit in Kirk street. On the evening of that
visit, therefore, the first of the two objects
— the discovery of a rneans of secretly open
ing the bureau — must, in some way, be at
tained. How ?
This was the problem which Mr- Marks
man set off to solve, to his own perfect sat
isfaction, in the silence and loneliness of a
long night's walk.
In what precise number pf preliminary
mental entanglements he involved himself,
before arriving at the desired solution, it
would not be very easy to say. As usual,
his thoughts wandered, every now and ihen,
from his subject in the most irregular man
ner ; actually straying away, on one occa-r
sion, as far as the New World itself, and
unintelligibly occupying themselves with
stories he had heard, and conversations he
had held, in various portions of that widely-
extended sphere, with vagabond, chance-
comrades from all parts of civilized Europe.
How his mind ever got back from these
past times. and foreign places, to present dif
ficulties and future considerations connected
with the guest who was expected in Kirk
street, Mat himself would have been puz
zled to tell. But it did eventually get back,
nevertheless ; and, what was still more to
the purpose, it definitely and. thoroughly
worked out the intricate problem that had
been set it to solve.
Not a whispered word of the plan he had
hit on dropped from Mr. Marksman's lips,
as, turning it this way and that .in his
thoughts, he walked briskly back to town
in the first fresh tranquillity of the winter

morning, liscreet as .ne was, howeve
either some slight practical hints of his
S resent project must have oozed out through
is actions when he got back lo London,
or his notion of the sort of hospitable prepa
ration which ought to be made for the re
ception of Mr. Blylh was more barbarously
and extravagantly eccentric than all the
rest of his notions put together.
Instead of going hOme at once, when he
arrived at Kirk street, he stepped, at certain
shops, in the neighborhood to make some
purchases which evidently had reference to
the guest of theevening; for the first things
he bought were two or three lemons and a
pound of loaf-sugar. So far his proceedings
were no doubt |ntelligibW enough ; but they
gradually became more and more incompre
hensible when he began to walk up and down
two or three streets —looking about him
attentively, stopping at every locksmith's
and ironmonger's shop that he passed, wait
ing to observe all the people who might
happen to be inside them, and then deliber
ately walking on again. In this way he
approached, in course of time, a very filthy
little row of houses, with some very ill-
looking male and female inhabitants visible
in detached positions, staring out of win
dows or lingering about public-house doors.
Occupying the lower story of one of these
houses was a small, grimy shop, .which,
judging by the visible stock-in-trade, dealt.
on a rnuch larger scale in iron and sleel
ware that was old and rusty than in iron
and steel ware that was new and bright.
Before the counter no customers appeared;
behind it there stood alone a squalid, bushy-
browed, hump-backed man, as dirly as the
dirtiest bit of iron about him, sorting old
najjs. Mat, who had unintelligibly passed
ihe doors of respectable ironmongers, how
as unintelligibly entered this doubtful and
dirty shop, and addressed himself to the un
attractive stranger behind the counter. The
conference in which the two immediately
engaged was conducted in low tones, and
evidently ended to the satisfaction of both;
for the squalid shopman began to whistle a
tune as he resumed his sorting of the nails,
and Mr. Marksman muttered to himself,
"That's all right," as he came out on the
pavement again.
His next proceeding — always supposing
that it had reference to the reception of Mr.
Blyth — was still more mysterious. He
went into one of those grocer's shops which
are dignified by the title of "Italian ware
houses," and bought a small lump of the
very, best refilled wax ! After making this
extraordinary purchase, which he put into
the pockdi of his trousers, he next entered
the public-house opposite his lodgings, and,
in' defiance of what Zack had told him about
Valentine's temperate habits, bought and
brought away with him, not only oi fresh


HIDE AND SEEK.

157

bottle of brandy, but a bottle of Old Jamaica
rum besides.
Young Thorpe had not returned frorrt Mr.
Blyth's, when Mat entered the lodgings
with these purchases. He put the bottles,
the sugar, and the lemons, in'the cupboard,
cast a satisfied look at the three clean tum
blers and spoons already standing on the
shelf— relaxed so far from his Usual com
posure of aspect as to smile — lit the fire,
and heaped plenty of coal on, to keep it
alight--tben sat down on his- bearskins —
wriggled himself comfortably into the
corner, and threw his handkerchief over
his face ; chuckling gruffly for the first time'
since the past night, as he put his hands in
his puckets, and so accidentally touched the
lump of wax that'lay in orie'of them. .
"Now I'm all ready for Zack's friend,"
growled Mr. Marksman behind the handker
chief, as he quietly settled himself to go to
sleep.

CHAPTER X.
THE SQUAW'S MIXTURE.
Like the vast majority of those persons
who are favored by nature with, what is
commonly termed, " a high flow of animal
spirits," Zack was liable, at certain rare
times and seasons, to fall from the utmost
heights of exhilaration to the profoundest
depths of despair, without stopping for a
moment, by the way, at any inferrnediate
stages of moderate cheerfulness, pensive
depression, or tearful gloom. ' After he had
parted from his mother, he presented him
self, again at Mr. Blyth's house, in such a
lamentably despairing condition of mind,
and talked of his, delinquencies and their
effects on his father!s spirits, with such,
vehement bitterness of self-reproach, as
quite amazed Valentine, ahd even alarmed
him a little On the lad's account. The good-
natured painter was no friend to contrite
desperation of any kind, and no believer in
repentance, which could not look hopefully
forward to the future, as well as sorrow
fully back at the past. So he laid down his
brush, just as he was abOut to begin varnish
ing the "Golden Age ;" and set'himself tb
console Zack, by reminding him of all the
credit and honor he might yet win, if'he
was regular in attending to his riew studies
— if he never flinched from work at the
British Museum, and .the private drawing
school to which' he was immediately to be
introduced — and if he ended _ as 'he well
might end, in excusing to his father his
deiermination to be an artist, by showing
Mr. Thorpe a prize-medal, honorably'*vori
by the industry of his son's hand in the
schools of the royal vad;my.

A necessary characteristic of people whose
spirits arealways running into extremes, is
that they are generally able to ..pass from
one change of mood to aftolher with unUsua.
facility. By the time Zack had exhausted
' Mr. Blyth's copious stores of consolation.
had partaken of an excellent and ptentifui
hot lunch/and had passed an hour up-stairs
with the ladies, he had recovered his ac
customed gajtety in the most complete and
magical manner. He predicted his own
reformation now, just as confidently as he
had predicted his own ruin about two hours
before; and went away to Kirk street, to
see that his friend Mat was at home to re
ceive Valentine that evening, stepping along
as nimbly and swinging his stick as cheer
fully, as if he had already vindicated him-
sejf to1 his father by winning every prize
medal that the royal academy could bestow
oh' him.
Seven o'clock had been fixed as the hour
at which Mr. Blyth was to present himself
at the hospitable back and front drawing-
room apartments of Messrs. M. Marksman
and Z. Thorpe, junior. He arrived punctual
to the appointed time, dressed jauntily for
the occasion in' a short blue frock-coat,
famous among all his acquaintances for its
smartness of cut and its fabulous old age.
From' what Zack had told him of Mat's
lighter peculiarities of character, he antici
pated rather a quaint and divertingly un
civilized reception from the elder of his two
hosts; and when he got- to Kirk streel, he
certainly found that his expectations were,
Upon the whole, handsomely realized1.
On mounting the dark and narrow Wooden
staircase of the tobacconist's shop, his nose
was greeted by a composite smell: of fried
liver and bacon, brandy and water, and
cigar smoke, pouring hospitably down to
meet him through every practicable crevice
of the drawing-room door. When he got
into the room, the first Object that struck
his eyes at one end of it, was Zack, wilh
his hat On, vigorously engaged in freshening
up the dusty carpet with a damp tnop; arid'
Mr. Marksman, at the other, presiding over
the frying-pan, with his coat off, his shirt
sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, a glass
bf steaming hot grog on the chimney-piece
above him, and a long pewter toasting-fork
in his hand. "Hailo, Mat! here's the
honored guest of the evening arrived before
I've Swabbed dowri-the decks," tried Zack,
jogging his friend in the ribs with the long
handle of the mOp. "How are you, to-'
night?" said Mr. Marksman, with familiar
ease, not moving from the frying-pan, but
getting his right hand free to offer to Mr.
Blyth by taking the pewter toasttng-forV
between his teeth. " Sit down anywhere
you like : and just holler through the crack
in the floor, under the bearskins there, if
you want anything out of the bocker-shop


HIDE AND SEEK.

159

tweon his teeth — and then voraciously and
instantly swallowed it whole. By the time
a quarter of Mr. Blyth's plateful of liver
and bacon, and half of Zack's, had dis
appeared, Mr. Marksman had finished his
frugal meal ; had wiped his mouth on the
back of his hand, and the back of his hand
on the leg of his trousers ; had mixed two
glasses of strong hot rum-and-water for
himself and Zack ; and had setHo work on
the composition of a third tumbler, into
which sugar, brandy, lemon-juice, rum, and
hot water ail seemed to drop together in
such incessant and confusing little driblets,
that it was quite impossible to tell whicti
ingredient was uppermost in the whole
mixture. When the tumbler was full, he
set it down on the table, with an indicative
bang, close to Valenline's plate.
"Just try a toothful of that, to begin
with, "said Mat. "If you like it, say Yes;
if you don't, say No ; and I'll make it' better
next time."
" You are yery kind, very kind indeed,"
answered Mr. Blyth, eying the tumbler by
his side with some little confusion and
hesitalion; "but really, though I should
be shocked to appear ungrateful, I'm afraid
I must own — Zack, you ought to have told
your friend — "
" So I did," said Zack, sipping his rum-
and-water wilh infinite relish.
" The fact is, my dear sir," continued
Valentine, " I have the most wretchtd
head in the world for strong liquor of any
kind—" "This ain't strong liquor," interposed
Mr. Marksman, emphatically tapping the
rim of his guest's lumbler with his fore
finger. '
" Perhaps," pursued Mr. Blyth, with a
polite smile, "I ought to have said grog."
"This ain't grog," retorted Mat, wilh
two disputatious taps on ihe rim of the glass.
" Dear me !" asked Valentine, amazedly,
"what is it then?"
" Squaw's mixture," replied Mr. Marks
man, wilh three distinct taps of assevera
tion. Mr. Blyth and Zack laughed, under the
impression thai their queer companion was
joking with (hem. Mat looked steadily
and sternly from One to the other ; then re
peated wilh the roughest gravity— "squaw's
mixture." " What a very curious name ! How is it
made ?" asked Valentine.
" Enough brandy to spile the water.
Enough rum to spile the brandy-and-water.
Enough lemon lo spile the rum and brandy
and water. Enoijgh sugar to spile every
thing. That's ' squaw's mixture,' " respond
ed Mr. Marksman with perfect calmness
and deliberation.
Zack began to laugh uproariously. Mat
became mure inflexibly grave than ever.

Mr. Blyth felt that he was gi owing in
terested on the subject of the " squaw's
mixture." He stirred it diffidently with
his spoon, and asked with great curiosity
how Mr. Marksman first learnt to make it,
" When I was out, over there, in ihe
Nor'-West," began Mat, nodding toward
the particular point of ihe compass that he
mentioned. " When he says Nor'-West, and wags
his addled old head like that at ihe chim
ney-pots over the way, he means North
America," Zack explained.
" When I was out Nor'-West," repeated
Mat, heedless ofthe interruption, "working
along with the exploring gang, our stock
of liquor fell short, and we had to make thf
best of it in the cold wilh a spirt of spirils
and a pinch of sugar, drownded in moTe hot
water than had ever got down the throat
of e'er a man of the lot of us before. We
christened ihe brew 'squaw's mixture,' be
cause it was such weak stuff that even a
woman couldn't have got drunk on it if she
tried. Squaw means woman in those parts,
you know ; and mixture means — what
you've got afore you now. I knowed you
couldn't siand regular grog, and that's why
I cooked it up for you. Don't keep on
stirring of it wilh a spoon like that, or you'll
stir it away altogether. Try it."
" Let me try it — let's see now weak it
is," cried Zack, reaching over to Valentine
" Don'i you go a-shoving of your oar into
another man's rollocks," said Mr. Marks
man, dexterously knocking Zack's spoon
out of his hand just as it touched Mr. Blyth's
tumbler. " YoU stick to your grog ; I'll
slick to my grog; and he'll stick to ' squaw's
mixture.' " With these words, Mat leant
his bare elbows on the table, and watched
Valentine's first experimental sip with great
curiosity. The result was not successful. When
Mr. Blylh put down the tumbler, all the
watery part of the "squaw's mixture"
seemed to have got up into his eyes, and
all the spirituous part to have stopped short
at his lungs. He shook his head, coughed,
and fainily exclaimed — " Too sirong."
" Too hot; you mean ?" said Mat.
" No, indeed," pleaded poor Mr. Blyth,
"I really meant too strong."
" Try again," suggested Zack, who was
far advanced toward the bottom of his own
tumbler already. " Try again ; your liquor
all went the wrong way last time."
"More sugar," said Mr. Marksman,
neatly tossing two lumps into the glass
from where he sat. "More lemon,"
squeezing one or two drops of juice, and
three or four pips, into the mixture.
" More water," pouring in about a tea-
spoonful,! with a clumsy flourish of the
kettle. " Try again."
" Thank you, ihank you a thousand times


164

HIDE AND SEEK.

throwing a piece of lemon-peel at Valen
tine's face.
" He's told me already," echoed Mr.
Blyth, in ihe most mellifluous of voices,
taking no more notice of the lemon-peel
than he took of young Thorpe.
" I say, Mat, leave off smoking, and be
hanged to you," said Zack. " Tell us some
thing. Bowl away at once with one of
your tremendous stories, or Blyth will be
bragging again, before we can stop him,
about his rickety old legs and Trimboy the
tailor. Talk, man! Tell us your crack
story of how you lost your scalp."
" Of how ytm lost your scalp — eh ?" re
peated Valentine in his most melodious
tones, drinking again, leaning back till his
head rested against the wall, and still not
taking the smallest notice of Zack.
Mat laid down his pipe, and for' a moment
looked very attentively at Mr. Blyth — then,
wilh the most unprecedented readiness and
docility, began his story at once, without
requiring another word of persuasion. Young
Thorpe prepared to listen to it in perfect:
comfort by turning himself sidewise to the
table (so that his back was toward Valen
tine), and luxuriously stretching his great
legs out to their full length on the floor.
Mr. Marksman was in general the very
reverse of tedious when he related any ex
periences of his own ; but on this particular
occasion he seemed strangely bent on letting
his narrative ooze out drowsily to the most
interminable length. Instead of adhering
to the abridged account of his terrible ad
venture, which he had given Zack when
they first talked together on Blackfriars
bridge, he now dwelt on all the minutest
particulars of the murderous chase that had
so nearly cost him his life, enumerating
them one after the olher in the same heavy
droning voice which never changed its tone
in ihe slightest degree as he went on. After
about ten minutes drowsy endurance of the
narrative-infliction which he had himself
provoked, young Thorpe was just beginning
to feel a sensation of utter oblivion stealing
over him, when a sound of lusty snoring
close at his back startled him iri to instant
wakefulness. He looked round. There was
Mr. Blylh placidly ahd profoundly asleep,
with his mouth wide open and his head
resting against the wall.
" Stop !" whispered Mat, as Zack seized
on a half-squeezed lembn and took aim at
Valentine's mouth. " Don't wake him yet.
Are you game for some oysters ?"
"Game ? I should think I was," re
turned young Thorpe. " Give us a dish-
Sally's in bed by this time — I'll go arid fetch
them, from over the way. But, 1 say, d — n
: t, I must,' have one shy.''
" Get the oysters first," said Mat, pro
ducing from the cupboard behind him a
large yellow pie-dish. "Let's wike him

up with a cold native flopped info his
mouth. Come on! I'll see you down-stairs,
and leave the candle on the landing, and
the door on the jar, so as you can get in
quietly. Steady, young un ! and rnihd the
dish when you cross the road." With these
words Mr. Marksman dismissed Zack from
the street-door to the oyster-shop ; and ihen
returned immediately to his guest up-stairs.
Valentine was still fast asleep and sno
ring vehemently. Mat's hand descended
again into his pocket, reappearing, however,
quickly enough On this occasion, with the
piece of wax which he had purchased that
morning. Steadying his arms coolly on the
table, he detached the Utile chain which
held the key of Mr. Blyth's bureau, from
the watchgUard to which it was fastened,
took off on his wax a perfect impression of
the whole key from the'pipe to the handle,
attached it again to the sleeper's walch-
guard, pared away the rough ends of the
piece of wax till it fitted into an old tin
tobacco-box which he took from the chim
ney-piece, pocketed this box, and then
quietly resumed his original place at the
table. "Now," said Mat, looking at the un
conscious Mr. Blyth, after he had lit his
pipe again ; "now, painter-man! wake up
as soon as you like."
It was not long before Zack returned. A
violent bang of the street-door announced
his entry into the passage — a confused clat
tering and stumbling marked his progress
up-stairs.— a shrill crash, a heavy thump,
and a shout of laughter indicated his arrival
on the landing. Mat ran out directly, and
found him prostrate on the floor, with the
yellow pie-dish in halves at the bottom of
ihe stairs, and dozens of oyster-shells scat
tered about him in every direction.
" Hurt ?" inquired Mat, pulling him up
by the collar, and dragging him into the
room. " Not a bit of it," answered Zack, laugh
ing as heartily as if his fall had been an
excellent joke. "I've woke Blyth, though
(worse luck !) and spoilt our fun with the
cold native, haven't I? 0 Lord! howhe
Stares!" Valentine certainly did stare. He was
standing up, leaning against the waili; ano
looking about him in a wofully dazed con
dition. Either his hap, or the alarming
manner in which he had been awakened
from it, had produced' a decided change for
the worse in him.' As he slowly recovered
what little sense he had left to make use
of, all his talkativeness and ' Cordiality
seemed to desert him. He shook his head
mournfully ; refused to eat oq drink any
thing ; said with sullen solemnity, that his
digestion was " a perfect wreclr in minse-
qtfence of his keeping drunken socjety;"
and insisted on going home directly/'in


HI. E AND SEEK.

165

spite of everything that Zack could say to
him. The landlord, who had been brought
from his shop below by the noise, and who
thought it very desirable,. to take ihe first
opportunity that offered of breaking up the
party before any more grog was consumed,
officiously ran down-stairs, and called a cab
—the result of this manoeuvre, proving in
the sequel to be what the fobaccopist.de-
sired. The moment the sound^of wheels
was heard at the door, Mr. Blyth clamor
ed pererriptorily for his hat and coat ; and,
after some little demur, was at. las,t helped
into the cab in the most friendly and atten
tive manner by Mr. Marksman himself, -
" Just see the lights out up-stairs, and the
young un in bed, will ye ?" said Mat to his
landlord, as they stood together; on the
doorstep. "I'm going to blow some of
the smgke out of me by taking a turn in
the fresh air."
He walked away briskly, as he, said the
last words, but when he gOt to the end, pf
the street, instead of proceeding northward
toward the country, and the cool night-
breeze that was blowing from it, he per
versely turned southward toward the most
filthy liule lanes and courts in the whole
neighborhood; into,, which the merciful
fresh air had tried hard to , penetrate for
many a long year past, and had been regu-
.arly refused admission, except under ihe
poisonous passports of the presiding district
authority — King Dirt.
Stepping along at a rapid pace, Mr.
Marksman directed his course toward that
particular row of small and vile houses
which he had already visited early in the
day, and stopped, as before, at the" second
hand iron shop. It was shut up for the
night ; but a dim light, as of one farthing
candle, glimmered through the circular
holes in the tops of the shutters ; and when
Mat knocked at the door with his knuckles,,
it was opened immediately by the same
squalid, humpbacked shojpman with, whom
he had conferred in the morning.
"Got it ?" asked the hunchback in, a
cracked querulous voice, the moment the
door was ajar.
" All right," answered Mat in hisigruffest
bass tones, handing to the little man the tin
tobacco-box. " We said to-morrow evening* didn't
we?" continued the squalid shopman.
"Not later than six," added Mat. .
. " Not later than six," repeated the other,
shutting the doejr softly as Mr. Marksman.
walked away — northward this time — to
seek the fresh air in good earnest.

CHAPTER XI.

THE GARDEN-DOOR.

" Hit or miss, I'll chance it to-night."
These words were the first that issued from
Mat's lips on the morning after Mr. Blyth's
visit, as he stood alone amjd the festive
relics ofthe past evening, in the front room
at Kirk street. " To-night," he repeated
to himself, as he pulled off his coat and
prepared to make his toilette for the day
in a pail of cold water, with the assistance
of a short bar of wholesome yellow soap.
Though it was still early, his mind had
been employed for some hours past in con
sidering how ihe second and only difficulty,
which now stood between him and the
possession of the hair bracelet, might best
be overcome. Having already procured the
first requisite for executing his design, how
was he next to profit by what he had
gained ? Knowing that the false key would
be placed in his hands, lhat evening, how
was he to open Mr. Blyth's bureau without
risking discovery by the owner, or by some
other person in the house ?
To this important question he had as yet
found no better answer than was involved
in the words he had just whispered to him
self1, while preparing for his morning ablu
tions. Whether he succeeded, or whether
he failed, he was determined to make the
attempt on the bureau that evening. As for
any definite plan, by which to guide him
self, he was desperately resigned to trust
for the discovery of it to the first lucky
chance which mighl.be brought about by
the events of the day. "I should like,
though, to have one good look by daylight
round that place they call the painting
room," thought Mat, still pondering inveler-
ately em the only difficulty which now re
mained for him to encounter, even while
he was plunging his face into two handfuls
of hissing soap-suds.
He was still vigorously engaged over the
pail of cold water, when a loud yawn, which
died away gradually into a dreary howl,
sounded from the next room, and announced
that Zack was awake. In another minute
the young gentleman appeared gloomily in
his night-gown at tbe folding doors by which
the two rooms communicated. His eyes
looked red-rimmed and blinking, his cheeks
mottled and sOdden, his hair tangled and
dirty. He had one hand to his forehead,
arid groaning with the corners of his mouth
lamentably drawn down, exhibited a shock
ing and salutary picture of the consequences
of excessive conviviality.
" O Lord, Mat !" he moaned, " my head's
coming in two."
" Souse it in a pail of cold water, and
walk off whal you cari't get rid of, after
that, along' with me," suggested his friend


.66

HIDE AND SEEK.

Zack wisely took this advice. As they
left Kirk street for their walk, Mat managed
that they should shape their course so as to
pass Valentine's house on their way to the
fields. As he had anticipated, young Thorpe
proposed to call in for a minute, to see how
Mr. Blyth was after the festivities of the
past night, and to ascertain if he still re
mained in tbe same mind about making
the drawing of Mr. Marksman's arms that
evening. " I suspticf you didn't brew the ' squaw's
mixture' half as weak as you told us you
did," said Zack slily, when they rang at the
bell. "It wasn't a bad joke for once in a
way. But, really, Blyth is such a good
kind-hearted fellow, it seems too bad — in
short, don't let's do it next time, Mat,
that's all ?"
Mr. Marksman gruffly repudiated the
slightest intention of deceiving their guest
as to the' strength of the liquor he had
drunk. They went into the painting- room,
and found Mr. Blylh there, pale and peni
tent, but manfully preparing to varnish the
Golden Age, with a very trembling hand, and
a very headachy contraction ofthe eyebrows.
" Ah, Zack, Zack ! I ought to lecture
you about last night," said Valentine ; " but
I have no right to say a word, for I was
much the worse of the two. I'm wretchedly
ill this morning, which is just what I de
serve; and heartily ashamed of myself,
which is only what I ought to be. Just
look at my hand ! It's all in a tremble like
an old man's. Not a thimbleful of spirits
shall ever pass my lips again. I'll slick to
lemonade and tea for the rest of my life.
No more ' squaw's mixture' for me! Not,
my dear sir," continued Valentine, ad
dressing Mr. Marksman, who had been
quietly stealing a glance or two at the
bureau, while the painter was speaking to
young Thorpe, " Not, my dear sir, that I
think of blaming you, or doubt for a moment
that the drink you kindly mixed for me
would have been considered quite weak and
harmless by people with stronger heads
than mine. It was all my own fault, my
own want of proper thoughtfulness and
caution. If I misconducted myself last
night, as I am afraid I did, pray make
allowances — "
" Nonsense !" cried Zack, seeing that Mat
was beginning to fidget away from Valen
tine, instead of returning an answer. "Non
sense ! you were glorious company. ' We
were three choice spirits, and you were
number one of the social trio. Away wilh
melancholy ! Let's have a temperance orgy
to-night to make amends for yesterday. - Do
you still keep in the same mind about draw
ing Mat's arms? He will be delighted to
come, and so shall I ; and we'll all get virtu
ously uproarious this time, on lothing but
toast-and- water and tea."

" Of course I keep in the same mind,"
returned Mr. Blyth. I had my senses
about me, at any rate, when I invited you
and your friend here tO-night. Not that I
shall be able to do much, I am afraid, in the
way of drawing; for a letter has come this
morning to hurry me into the country.
Another portrait-job has turned up, and I
shall have to start to-morrow. It's very
inconvenient, and I never in my life felt so
unwilling to leave home as I do this time.
I'm almost 4ineasy about it — I can't tell
why — but I am. However, there is money
to be made, so I suppose I must go."
" Why ?" asked Zack, " why should you
go if you don't like it ? You don't want
money." "Ah, but I do," said Valentine. " Hush !
don't say a word to Lavvie just yet" (here
he sank his voice io a whisper). "I've
ordered that chased-silver vase that I told
you about. It's just the sort of pattern she
is sure to like, and it will4ook lovely in her
room." .
" How much ?" asked young Thorpe in a
confidential whisper.
" Awful, Zack, thirty guineas !" replied
Mr. Blylh under his breath. " Two or
three portraits will cover it — thai'S one
comfort. I've got four in prospect if I
accept this' job. So you see I must go away
from home, whether I like it or not; or
run in debt, which I haven't the courage to
do. Never mind ! I can get in the outline
of your friend's arms to-night, and leave the
rest to be done when I come back. Shall I
take that sketch down for you, my dear sir,
to look at close?" continued Valentine, sud
denly raising his voice, and addressing him
self to Mr. Marksman. " I venture to think
it one of my most conscientious studies
from actual nature."
While Mr. Blyth and Zack had been
whispering together, Mat had walked away
from thetn quietly toward one end t>f the
room, and was now standing close to a door,
lined inside with sheet iron, haying bolts at
top and bottom, and leading down a flight
of steps from the studio into the back-garden.
Above this door hung a largej chalk sketch
of an old five-barred gate, being the identical
study from nature, which,, as Valentine
imagined, was at that moment the special
object of interest to Mat.
" No, no ! don't trouble to ger the sketch
now," said Zack, once more answering for
his friend. " We are going out to get fresh
ened up by a long walk, and can't stop.
Suppose you come with us, Blyth ?"
No. Valentine could not leave his paint
ing-room for the next two hours at least.
"You had better," urged Zack. "Noth
ing like exercise, when a man is as seedy
as you are. Or, stop! if you "won't come
for a walk, what do you say to sweeping
the cobwebs out of your brains with Aittle


168

HIDE AND SEEK.

eulogies on Mrs. Blyth ; and then, passing
from the lady herself to the chamber that
she inhabited, wound up with a magnificent
and exaggerated description of the splendor
of her room.
Mat listened to him attentively ; then
said he supposed Mrs. Blyth must be fond
of curiosi lies, and all sorts of " knick-knack
things from foreign parts." Young Thorpe
not only answered the question in the affirm
ative, but added, as a private expression of
his own opinion, that he believed these said
curiosities and "knick-knacks" had helped,
in their way, to keep her alive, by keeping
her amused. From this, he digressed to a
long narrative of poor Mrs. Blyth's first ill
ness; and having exhausted that sad subject
at last, ended by calling on Mr. Marksman
to change ihe conversation to some less
mournful topic.
But just at this point, it seemed that Mat
was perversely determined to lapse into an
other silent fit. He not only made no at
tempt to change the conversation, but en
tirely ceased asking questions ; and, indeed,
hardly uttered another worff of any kind,
good or bad. Zack, after vainly trying to
rally him into talking, lit, a cigar in despair,
and the two walked on together silently —
Mr. Marksman having his.hanels in his pock
ets, keeping his eyes bent on the ground,
and altogether burying himself, as it were,
from the ouier world, in the innermost re
cesses of a deep, brown study.
As they returried, and got near Kirk street,
Mat gradually began to talk again, "but only
on , indifferent subjects — asking no more
questions about Mr. BlylhJ or any one else.
They arrived at their lodgings at half-past
five o'clock. Zack went into the bedroom
to wash his hands. While he was thus en
gaged, Mr. Marksman opened that leather
bag of his which has been already described
as lying in the corner wilh the bearskins,
and, taking out the feather-fan and the In
dian tobacco-pouch, wrapped them up sep
arately in paper. Having done this, he
called to Zack, and, saying that he was
about to step over to the shaving-shop to
get his face scraped clean before going to
Mr. Blyth's, left the house with his two
packages in his hand.
"If the worst comes to the worst, I'll
chance it to-night with the garden-door,"
said Mat to himself, as he took the first
turning that led toward the second-hand
iron-shop. " This will do to get rid of the
painter-man with. And this will send Zack
after him," he added, putting first the fan
and then the tobacco-pouch into separate
pockets of his coat. A cunning smile hov
ered about his lips for a moment, as he dis
posed of his two packages in this manner ;
but it passed away again almost immedi
ately, and was succeeded by a curious con
traction and twitching of the upper part of

his face. He began muttering once again
that name of " Mary," which had been so
often on his lips lately ; and quickened his
pace mechanically, as it was always his
habit to do when anything vexed or dis
turbed him.
When he reached the shop, the hunch
back was at the door with the tin tobacco-
box in his hand. On this occasion, not a
single word was exchanged between the
two. The squalid shopman, as the custom
er approached, rattled something triumph-^
antly inside the box, and then handed if to
Mat ; and Mat put his finger and thumb
into his waistcoat-pocket, winked, nodded,
and handed some money to the squalid shop
man. , The brief ceremony of giving and ta
king thus completed, these two originals
turned away from each other without a word
of farewell— the hunchback returning to his
counter, and Mr. Marksman proceeding to
the shaving-shop.
Mat opened the box for an instant, on his
way to the barber's; and, taking out the
false key (which, though made of, baser
metal, was almost as bright as the original),
put it carefully into his waistcoat-pocket.
He then stopped at an oil and caudle shop,
and bought a wax-taper and a box of match
es. " The garden-door's safest: I'll chance
it with the garden-door," thtiughi Mr.Marks-
man, as he sat down in the shaving-shop
chair, and ordered the barber to operate on
his chin.
Punctually at seven o'clock Mr. Blyth's
visiters rang at his bell. As they were
shown into the.hall, Mat whispered to Zack
— " This is where that old woman laid hold
on you, and made such a fool of herself—
ain't it?" — "Yes," returned young Thorpe,
in his lowest tones ; " but, I say, don't tell
Blylh about my taking her off the other
night. He's uncommonly fond of oldJVIolh-
er Peckover, and might run rusty with me, ¦
if he knew I'd been making fun of her to
you." When they entered the studio, they found
Valentine all ready for them, wilh his draw
ing-board at his side, and his cartoon-sketch,
for the proposed new picture of Hercules
bringing to King Eurystheus the Eryman-
thian boar, lying rolled up at his feet. He
said he had got rid of his headache, and felt
perfectly well now ; but Zack obseived that
he was not in his usual good spirits. Mat,
on his side, observed nothing but the gar
den-door, toward which he lounged care
lessly, as soon as the first salutations wer«
over. " This way, my dear sir," said Valentin*
walking after him. " I've taken down th«
drawing you were so good as to admire this
morning, as I said I would. Here it is on
this paiptingrstand, if you would like ta
look at it." -
Mat, whose first glance at the garden


HIDE AND, SEEK.

171

In the ltterance of these words there was
a certaiL rough pathos and bitter reference
, to past .'.alamity which touched Valentine
in one of his tender places. His generous
instincts overcame his prudent reflections
in a moment; and moved him; not merely
to accept the present, but also to predict
warmly that Mrs. Blyth would be delighted
with it.
"Zack," said he, speaking in an under
tone to young Thorpe; who had been listen
ing to Mat's last speech, and observing his
production of the fan, in silent curiosity
and surprise, " Zack, I'll run up-stairs with
the fan to Lavvie at once, so as not to seem
careless about your friend's present. Mind
you do the honorsof the supper-table— such
as it is! — wilh proper hospitality, while I
am away."
Speaking these words, Mr. Blyth bustle'd
out of ihe room as nimbly as usual. A
minute or two after his departure, Mat put
his hand into his pocket once more ;
mysteriously approached young Thorpe,
and opened before him the paper containing
the Indian tobacco-pouch, which was made
of scarlet cloth, and was very prettily dec
orated with colored beads.
" Do you think the* young woman would
fancy tbis?" he said. "I'd have asked
him" (referring by the last word to Valen
tine); "but he looked so queer at the feather-
thing, and bolted in such a hurry — "
Here Zack, with a shout of laughter,
interrupted him by snatching the pouch out
of his hands ; and began to quiz his friend
more unmercifully than ever. For the first
time, Mat seemed irritated by his bad jokes
about courting a civilized young lady by
means of a savage tobacco-pouch; and cut
him short quite fiercely with a frown and
an oath.
" Don't swear, Don Juan !" cried Zack
with incorrigible levity. "I'll take it up
to her ; and, if Blyth will let her have it,
I'll manage to get her down-stairs some
how. Oh, what a sight it will be to see
the leathery old boy trying to make soft
eyes at Madonna!" Saying this, young
Thorpe ran laughing out of the room, with
the scarlet pouch in his hand.
Mat listened intently till the sound of
Zack's rapid footsteps died awayup-stairs —
then walked quickly and softly down the
studio to the garden-door — gently unlocked
it — gently drew the bolts back — gently
openedTi, and ascertained that it could also
be opened from without, merely by turning
the handle — then, c-uielly closing it again,
left ii, to all appearance, as fast for the
night a? before, provided no one went near
enough, or had sufficiently sharp eyes, to
observe lhat it was neither boiled nor
locked. " Now for the big chest !" thought Mat,
taking the false key cut of liis pocket, and

hastening back to the bureau. "If Za^lc
or ihe painter-man come down before I've
time to get at the drawer inside, I've se
cured my second chance after they're all in
bed with the garden-door.
He had the key in the lock as this thought
passed through his mihd< He was jus
about to turn it, when the sound of rapidly
descending footsteps upon the stairs, struck
on his quick ear.
"Too late!" muttered Mat. "I must
chance it, after all, with the garden-door."
Putting the key into his pocket again, as
he said this, he walked back to the fireplace.
The moment after he got there, Mr. Blyth
entered the sludio.
"I am1 quite shocked that you should
have been so unceremoniously left alone,"
said Valentine, whose naturally courteous
nature prompted him to be just as scrupu
lously polite in his behavior to his rough
guest, as if Mr. Marksman had been a civil
ized gentleman of the most refined feeling,
and the most. exalted rank. "I am so sorry
you should have been left, through Zack's
carelessness, without anybody to ask you to
take a little supper," continued Valentine,
turning to the table. "Mrs. Blytli, my
dear sir (do take a sandwich!) desires me
to express her best thanks for your very
pretty present (that is the brandy in the
bottle next to you)-. She admires the design
(sponge-cake? Ah, you don't care about
sweets), and thinks the color of the centre
feathers — "
At ihis moment, the door opened, and
Mr. Blyth, abruptly closing his lips, looked
toward it with an expression of the blank
est astonishment ; for he behejd Madonna
entering the painting-room in company with
Zack. Valentine had been persuaded to let the
deaf and dumb girl accept the scarlet pouch,
by his wife ; but neither she nor Zack had
said a word before him, up-stairs, aboc
taking Madonna'into the studio. The plain
fact was that young Thorpe had warily ab
stained from mentioning the not over-wise
projecV, which he had now executed (and
which lie knew would have been summarily
opposed by Mr. Blyth), until the painter had
hastened away down-stairs, to pay the proper
hospitable attentions to his guest. When
he was well out of earshot, Zack confided
to Mrs. Blylh the new freak in which he
wanted to engage, predicted that it would.
produce a fresh fund of amusement at Mat's
expense, declared that one of the ladies was
bound in common gratitude to make a per
sonal acknowledgment of ihe receipt of his
friend's presents, and, signing unscrupulous
ly to Madonna that she was wanted in the
studio, to be presented to the " generous
man who had given her the tobacco-pouch,'
took her out of the room without stopping
to hear to the end the somewhat faint re-


HIDE AND SEEK.

m

"Zack might,, after all, have made many
I worse friend than this man," thbught Mr.
Blyth, still attentively observing Mat.
"Vagabonds don't behave in the presence
of young girls as he is behaving now."
With inis idea in his mind, Valentine
advanced to help Mr. Marksman in his be
wilderment by Showing him how to com
municate with Madonna. He was inter
rupted, however, by young Thorpe, who,
the moment he recovered from his first
sensaiions of surprise,' began to talk non
sense again, at the top of his voice, with
themischievous intention of increasing Mat's
embarrassment. While Mr. Blyth was attempting to
- silence Zack by leading him to tbe supper-
table, Madonna was trying her best, in a
new way, to reassure the great bulky, sun
burnt man who seemed to be absolutely
afraid of her. She moved to a stool, which
stood near a second table in a corner by the
fireplace; and sitting down, produced the
scarlet pouch, intimating by a gesture that
Mat was to look at what she was now
doing. She then laid the pouch open on
her lap, and put into it several little work-
box toys, a Ton bridge silk-reel, an ivory
ne^edle-case, a silver thimble with an en
amelled rim, a tiny pair of scissors, and other
things of ihe same kind — which she took
first from one pocket of her apron and then
from another. While she was engaged in
filling the pouch, Zack, standing at the
supper-table, drummed on the floor wilh
his foot to attract her attention, and inter
rogatively held up a decanter of wine and a
glass. She started as the sound struck on
her delicate nerves ; and, looking at young
Thorpe directly, signed lhat she did not
wish for any wine. The sudden movement
of her body thus occasioned, shook Off her
laj a little mbther-of-pearl bodkin-case,
which lay more than half out of one of the
pockets of her apron. The bodkin-case
rolled under the stool, without her seeing
it, for she was looking toward the supper-
table: without being observed by Mat, for
his eyes were following the direction of
he.s: without being heard by Mr. Blyth,
for Zack was, as usual, chattering and
making a noise.
When she had put two other little toys
that remained in her pockets into thepoUch,
she drew ihe mouth of it tight, passed the
loops of the loose thongs that fastened it,
over one of her arms, and then, rising to
her feet, pointed' to it, and looked at Mr.
Marksman with a very significant nod. The
action expressed the idea she. wished to
communicate, plainly enough : " See," it
seemed to say, " see what a pretty wofk-
bag I can maise of your tobacco-pouch !"
But Mat, to all appea-mce, was not able
to finil out the meaning nf one of her ges-?
tures, easy as they wer i ;o interpret. His

senses seemed to grow more and more per
turbed the longer he looked at her. As she
courtesied to him again, and moved away
in despair,: he stepped forward a little, and
suddenly and awkwardly held out his hand.
"The big man seems to be getting a little
less afraid of me," thought Madonna, turn
ing directly, and meeting his clumsy ad
vance toward her with a smile. But the
instant he took her hand, her lips closed,
and she shivered through her whole beidy
as if dead fingers had touched her. " Oh,"
she thought now, " how cold his hand is!
how cold his hand is !"
" If I hadn't felt her warm to touch, I
should have got dreaming to-night that I'd
seen Mary's ghost." This was the grim
fancy which darkly troubled Mat's mind, at
the very same moment when Madonna was
thinking how cold his hand was. He turned
away impatiently from some wine offered
to him just then by Zack; and, looking va
cantly into the fire, drew his coat-cuff sev
eral times over his eyes and forehead.
The chill from the strange man's hand
slill lingered icily about Madonna's fingers,
and made her anxious, though she hardly
knew why, to leave the room. She ad
vanced hastily to Valentine, and made the
sign which indicated Mrs. Blyth, by laying
her hand on her heart ; she then pointed up
stairs. Valentine, understanding what she
wanted, gave her leave directly to return to
his wife's room. Before Zack could make
even a gesture to detain her, she had slipped
out of the studio, after not having remained
in it much longer than five minutes.
" Zack," whispered Mr. Blyth, as the
door closed, " I'm anything but pleased with
youfor bringing Madonna down-stairs. You
have broken through all rule in doing so;
and, besides that, you have confused your
friend by introducing her to him without
any warning or preparation."
"Oh, that's not of the slightest conse
quence," interrupted young Thorpe. " He's,
not the sort of man to want warning about
anything. I apologize for breaking rules ;
but as for Mat— why, hang it, Blyth, it's
plain enough what has been wrong with
him since supper came in!. He's fairly
knocked up with doing Hercules for you.
You've kept the poor old Guy for near two
hours standing in one position, without a
rag on his back ; and then you wonder — "
"Bless my soul ! that never occurred, to
me. I'm afraid you're right," exclaimed
Valentine, "Do let us make- him take
something hot and comfortable ! Dear, dear
me! how ought one to mix grog?" Mr.
Blyth had been for some little time past
trying his best to compound a, species of
fiery and potential " squaw's mixture" for
Mat. He had begun the attempt some
n inutes before Madonna left the studio —
having previously found it useless to offer


176

HIDE AND SEEK.

the black bulky figure of Mr. Matthew
Marksman appeared on the threshold, low
ering out gloomily against a background
of starry sky.
He stepped into the painting-room, and
elosed the door quietly behind him ; stood
listening anxioUsly in the darkness for a
moment or two; then pulling from his
pocket the wax-taper and the. matches
which he, had bought that afternoon, im
mediately provided himself with a light.
While the wick of ihe taper was burn
ing up, he listened again. Except the sound
of his own heavy breathing all was quiet
around him. He advanced at once to the
bureau, starting involuntarily as he brushed
by Mr. Blyth's lay-figuse wilh the Spanish
. hat and the Roman toga ; and cursing it
inder his breath for standing in his way,
as if it had been a living creature. The
door leading from the studio into the pas
sage ofthe house was not quite closed ; but
he never noticed this as he passed to the
bureau, though it stood close to the chink
left,between the door and the post. He had
the false key in his hand ; he knew that he
should be in possession of the hair bracelet
in another moment, and his impatience for
once getting the better of his cunning and
coolness, he pounced on the bureau, without
looking either to the right or the left.
He had unlocked it, had pulled open tbe
inner drawer, had taken out the hair brace
let, and was just holding his lighted taper
to it, to examine it closely (after having
locked the bureau again), when a faint
sound on the staircase of the house caught
his ear.
At the same instant, a thin streak of
candle-light flashed on him through the
narrow chink between the hardly-closed
door and tbe doorpost. It increased rapidly
in intensity as the sound of softly-advan
cing footsteps now grew more and more
distinct from thel stone passage leading to
the interior of the house.
He had the presence of mind to extin
guish his taper, to thrust the hair, bracelet
into his pocket, and to move across softly
from the bureau (which stood against the
lock-side doorpost), to the wall (which was
by the hinge-side doorpost), so that the
door itself might open back upon him, and
thus keep him concealed from the view of
any person entering the room. He had the
presence of pind to take these precautions
instantly ; but he had not self-control enough
to suppress the involuntary exclamation
which burst from his lips at the moment
when the thin streak of candle-light first
flashed into his eyes. A violent spasmodic
action contracted the muscles of his throat;
he clenched his fist in a fury of suppressed
rage against himself, as he felt that his
own voice had turned traitor and heirayed
turn. "

The light came close: the door opened
— opened gently, till it just touched him aa
he stood with his back against the wall.
For one mstant his heart stopped ; the
next, it burst into action again with i
heave, and the blood rushed hotly ihrougi
every vein all over him, from head to foot
as his wrought-up nerves of mind and bod)
relaxed together under a sense of ineffable
relief. He was saved almost by a miracle
from the inevitable consequence of the rash
exclamation that had escaped him. It was
Madonna who had opened the door — it was
the deaf and dumb girl whom he now saw
walking into the studio.
She had been taking her working mate
rials out of the tobacco-pouch, in her own
room, before going to bed, and had then
missed her mother-of-pearl bodkin-case.
Suspecting immediately that she must have
dropped it in the studio, and fearing that it
might be trodden on and crushed if she left
it there until the next morning, she had now
stolen down-stairs by herself to look for it.
Her hair, not yet put up for the ni^ht, was
combed back from her face, and lightly
hung down in long silky folds over her
shoulders. Her complexion looked more
exquisitely clear and pure than ever, set off
as it was by the white dressing-gown which
now clothed her. She had a pretly little
red and blue china candlestick., given to her
by Mrs. Blyth, in her hand ; and, holding
the light above her, advanced slowly from
the studio doorway, with her eyes bent on
the ground, searching anxiously for the
missing bodkin-case.
Mat's resolution was taken the moment
he caught sight of her. He never stirred
an inch from his place of concealment, until
she had advanced three or four paces into
the room, and had her back turned full upon
him. Then quietly stepping a little forward
from the door, but still keeping well behind
her, he blew out her candle, just a« she was
raising il over her head, and lec fig down
intently on the floor in front of her.
He had calculated, rightly enough, on
being able to execute this manoeuvre with
impunity from discovery, knowing that she
was incapable of hearing tbe sound of his
breath when he blew her candle out, and
that the darkness would afterward not only
effectually shield him from detection, but
also oblige her to leave him alone in the
room again, while she went to get another
light. He had not calculated, however, on-
the serious effect which the performance
of his stratagem would have upon her
nerves, for he knew nothing of the horror
which the loss of her sense of hearing
caused her always to feel when she was
left in darkness ; and he had not stopped to
consider that by depriving her of her light,
he was depriving her of that all-important
guiding sense of sight, the loss of which


HIDE AND SEEK.

177

she could not supply in the dark, as others
could, by the exercise of the ear.
The instant he blew her candle out, she
dropped the china candlestick in a paroxysm
of tefror. It fell, and broke, wilh a dead
ened sound, on one of the many portfolios
lying on the floor about her. He had hard
ly time to hear this happen, before the
dumb moaning, the inarticulate cry of fear,
which was all that the poor panic-stricken
girl could utter, — rose low, shuddering and
ceaseless, in the darkness, so close at his
ear, that he fancied he could feel her breath
palpitating quick aud warm on his cheek.
If she should touch him ? If she should
be sensible of the mOtion of his foot on the
floor, as she had been sensible of the motion
of Zack's. when young Thorpe offered her
me glass of wine at supper-time? It was
a risk to remain still — it was a risk to
move! He stood as helpless even as the
helpless creature near him. That low,
ceaseless, dumb moaning, neither varied
nor overcome by any other sound, lo show
that she was moving to get out of the room,
smote so painfully on his heart, roused, up
so fearfully the rude superstitious fancies
lying in wait within him, in connection
with the lost and dead Mary Grice, that
the sweat broke out on his face, the coldness
of sharp mental suffering seized on his
limbs, the fever of unutterable expectations
parched up his throat and mouth and lips ;
and for the first lime, perhaps, in his ex
istence, he felt the chillness of mortal dread
tinning through him to his very soul — he,
who, amid perils of seas and wildernesses,
ind horrors of hunger and thirst, h,ad played
familiarly with his own life for more than
twenty years past, as a child plays familiar-
•y with an bid toy.
He knew not how long it was before the
dumb moaning seemed to grow fainter ; to
be less fearfully close to him ; to change
into what sounded, at one moment, like a
shivering of her whole body ; at another,
like a rustling of her garments; at a ihird,
like a slow scraping of her hands over the
table on the other side of her, and of her
feet over the floor. She had summoned
courage enough at last to move, and to
grope her way out — he knew it as he list
ened. He heard her touch the edge of the
half-opened door; he heard the still sound
of her first footfall on the stone passage
outside ; then the noL-e of her hand drawn
along the wall ; then the far lessening gasps
of her affrighted breathing as she gained
the stairs.
When she was- gone, and the change and
comfort of silence and solitude stole over
him, his power of thinking, his cunning
and resolution, began to return. Listening
yet a little while, and hearing no sound of
any disturbance among the sleepers in the
house; he ventured to light one of his

matches: and, by the brief flicker that il
afforded, picked his way noiselessly through
the lumber in the studio, and gained the
garden-door. In a minute he was out again
in the open air. In a minute more, he had
got over the garden- wall, and was walking
freely along the lonely road of the new
suburb, with the hair bracelet safe in his
pocket. At first, he did not attempt 10 take it out
and examine it. He had not felt the slight
est scruple beforehand ; he did not feel
the slightest remorse now, in connection
with the bracelet, and with his manner of
obtaining possession of it. Callous, how
ever, as he was in this direction, he was
sensitive in another. There was both re
gret and repentance, in him, as he thought
of the deaf and dumb girl, and of the par
oxysm of terror that he had caused her
How patiently and prettily she bad tried to
explain to him her gratitude for hi'- gift, and
the use she meant to put it to ; and how
cruelly he had made her suffer in return ! " I
wish I hadn't frighted her so," said Mat to
himself, thinking of this in his own rough
way, as he walked rapidly homeward. " 1
wish I hadn't frighted her so."
But his impatience to examine the brace
let got the better of his repentance, as it
had already got the better of every othei
thought and feeling in him. He stopped
under a gas-lamp, and drew his prize out
of his pocket. He could see that it was
made of two kinds of hair, and that some
thing was engraved on the flat gold of the
clasp. But his hand shook, his eyes were
dimmer than usual, the light was too high
above him, and try as he might he could
make out nothing clearly.
He put the bracelet into his pocket again,
and, muttering to himself impatiently, made
for Kirk street at his utmost speed. The
tobacconist's wife happened to be. in the
passage when he .opened the door. With
out the ceremony of a single preliminary
word, he astonished her by taking her candle
out of her hand, and instantly disappearing
up-stairs with it. Zack had not come from
ihe theatre — he had the lodgings to himself
— he could examine the hair bracelet in
perfect freedom.
His first look was at the clasp. By hold
ing it close to the flame of the candle, fie
succeeded in reading the letters engraved
on it.
" M. G. In memory of S. G."
" Mary Grice. In memory of Susan
Grice." Mat's hand -closed fast on the
bracelet — and dropped heavily on his knee,
as he uttered those words.
# * * * * *
The pantomime which Zack had gone to
see, was so lengthened out by encores ol
incidental songs and dances, that it was not
over till close on midnight. When he left


178

HIDE AND SEEK.

the theatre, the physical consequences of
breathing a vitiated atmosphere made them
selves felt immediately in the regions of his
mouth, throat, and stomach. Those ardent
aspirations in the direction of shell-fish and
malt liquor, which it is especially the mis
sion of the drama to create, glowed in his
breast as soon as he issued into the fresh
air, and took him to the local oyster-shop
for refreshment and change of scene.
Having the immediate prospect of the
British Museum, and Mr. Strather of the
Little Bilge street drawing academy, vividly
aud menacingly present before his eyes,
Zack thought of ihe future for once in his
life, and astonished the ministering vassals
of the oyster-shop (with all of whom he
was on terms of intimate friendship), by
enjoying himself with exemplary modera
tion at the festive board. When he had
done supper, and was on his way to bed at
the tobacconist's across the road, it is ac
tually not too much to say thai he was
sober and subdued enough to have borne
inspection by the president and council of
the royal academy, as a highly respectable
student of tbe fine arts.
It surprised him a little not to hear his
friend snoring when he let himself into the
passage — and it astonished him very con
siderably, when he entered the front room,
to see the employment on which Mr. Marks
man was engaged.
Mat was sitting by the table, with His
rifle laid across his knees, andjwas scouring
the barrel bright with a piece of sand-paper.
By his side was An unsnuffed candle, an
empty bottle, and a tumbler wilh a -little
raw brandy left in the bottom of it. His
face, when he looked up, showed that he
had been drinking hard. There was a stare
in his eyes that was at once fierce and
vacant, and a hard, fixed, unnatural smile
on his lips which Zack did not at all like
to see.
" Why, JVIat, old boy !" said he, sooth
ingly, " you look a little out of sorts. What's
wrong?" Mat scoured away at the barrel of the
gun harder than ever, and gave no answer.
" What, in the name of wonder, can you
be scouring your rifle for, to-night ?" con
tinued young Thorpe. " You have never
yet touched it since you brought it into the
House. What can you possibly want wilh
it now ? We don't shoot birds in England
wilh rifle-bullets."
"A rifle-bullet will do for- my game, if I
put it up," said Mat, suddenly and fiercely
fixing his eyes on Zack.
" What game does he mean ?" thought
young Thorpe. " He's been drinking him
self" pretty nearly drunk. Can anythirg
have happened to him since we parlea com
pany at the theatre ? I should like to find
out ; but he's such a d  d old savage

when the brandy's in his head, that I, don't,
half like to pump him — '
Here Zack's reflections were interrupted
by the voice of his eccentric friend.
"Did you ever meet with a man of the
name of Caw?" asked Mat, He looked
away from young Thorpe, keeping his eyes
steadily on the rifle, and- rubbing hard at the
barrel, as he put this question.
"No," said Zack. "Not that I can
remember." Mat left off cleaning the gun, and began
to fumble awkwardly in one of his pockets.
After some little t|me, he produced what
appeared to Zack to be an inordinately long
letter, written in a cramped' hand, and
superscribed apparently with two long lines
of inscription, instead of an-ordinary address.
Opening this strange-looking document,
Mat guided himself a little way down the
lines on the first page wilh a ve:ry unsteady
forefinger — stopped, and read something
anxiously and with evident difficulty — then
put the letter back in his pocket, dropped
his eyes once more on the gun in his lap,
and said, with a strong emphasis on the
Christian name : —
"Arthur Carr?"
"No," returned Zack. "I never met
with a man of that name. Is he a friend
of yours ?"
Mat went on scouring the rifle-barrel.
Young Thorpe said nothing more. He
had been a little puzzled early in the even
ing, when his friend had exhibited the fan '
and tobacco-pouch (neither of which had
been ever produced before), and had men
tioned to Mr. Blyth that they were once
intended for "a woman" who was now
dead (to which " woman" Mat had never
previously alluded, even in ihe bachelor
familiarity of the iodgings in Kirk street).
Zack had thought this conduct rather odd
at the time ; but now, when ii was followed
by these strangely abrupt references to ihe
name of Carr, by this mysterious scouring
of the rifle, and desperate brandy-drinking
in solitude, he began to feel perplexed in
the last degree about Mat's behavior. "Is
this about Arthur Carr a secret of ihe old
boy's?" Zack asked himself with a sort of
bewildered curiosity. " Is he letting e<ui
more than he ought, I wonder, now' he's a
litlle in liquor?"
While young Thorpe was pondering thus,
Mr. Marksman was still industriously scour
ing the barrel of the rifle. After ihe silence
in the room had lasted some minutes, he
suddenly threw away his bit t)f sand-paper^
and spoke again,
" Zack," said he, familiarly smacking the
stock ofthe rifle, while he still 'looked down
s.eadily on it, " Me and yol' had some talk
once about going away lo the wild country
over the waters together. I'm ready to sail
when you are, if — " He had glanced up at


HIDE AND SEEK.

171.

young Thorpe with his vacant blood-shot
eyes, as he spoke the last words. But he
checked himself almost at the same mo
ment, and looked away again quickly at
the gun. v
" If what ?" asked Zack.
"I want to find out Arthur Carr first,"
answered Mat evasively, and with very un
usual lowness of tone. " Only let me do
that, and I shall be game to tramp il at an
hour's notice. He may be dead and buried
for anything I. know — ""
" Then what's ihe use of looking for him?"
interposed Zack.
" The use is, I've got it into my head
lie's alive, and that I shall find him," re
lumed Mat.
" Well ?" said young Thorpe eagerly.
Mat became silent again. His head
drooped slowly forward, and his body fol
lowed it till lit rested his elbows on the
gun. Sitting in ihis strange crouched-up
position, he abstractedly, began to amu:-e
himself by snapping the lock of the rifle.
Zack, suspecting that the brandy he had
swallowed was beginning to stupefy him,
determined with characteristic recklessness,
to rouse him into talking at any hazard.
" What the devil is all this mystery
about ?" he cried boldly. "I'll be hanged
if I can make out what you've been up to
all night ! Ever since you pulled out that
' feather-fan and tobacco-pouch at Blyth's — "
"Well! what of them?" interrupted
Mat, looking up instantly wilh a fierce, sus
picious stare.
" Nothing particular," pursued Zack, un
dauntedly, "except lhat it's odd that you
never brought them out before ; and odder
still that you should tell Hlylh, and never
say a word here to me, about getting ihem
for a woman, who—"
" What of her?" broke out Mat, rising to
his feet with flushed face and threatening
eyes, and making the room ring again as he
grounded his rifle on the floor.
"Nothing but what a friend ought to
say," replied Zack, feeling that, in Mr.
Marksman's present conditian, he had ven-
.ured a little too far. " I'm sorry, for your
sake, that she never lived to have the
presents you meant for her. There's no
offence, I hope, in saying lhat much, or in
asking (after what you yourself told Blyth)
whether her dealh happened lately, or — "
" It happened afore ever you was born."
He gave this answer, which amazed Zack
more than anything he had heard yet, in a
curiously smothered, abstracted tone, as if
he were talking to himself; laying aside
the rifle suddenly as he spoke, sitting down
by the table again, and resting his head on
his hand. Young Thorpe took a chair near
him, but wisely refrained from saying any
thing just at that moment. Silence seemed
to favor the change that was taking place

for the better in Ma 's tcaper. He looked
up, after awhile, and regarded Zack with a
rough wistfulness and anxietv working in
his swarthy face. "I like you, Zack," he
said, laying one hand on the lad's arm anel
mechanically stroking down the cloth of his
sleeve. " I like you. Don't let us two
part company. Let's always pull together
brotherly and pleasant as we can." He
paused. His hand tightened round young
Thorpe's arm ; and the hot, dry, tearless
look in his eyes began to soften as he added,
"I take it kind in you, Zack, saying you
were sorry for her just now. She died
afore ever you was born." His hand re
laxed its grasp ; and when he had repeated
those last words, he turned a little away,
and said no more.
Astonishment and curiosity impellad
young Thorpe to hazard anoiher question.
"Was she a sweetheart of yours ?"l-e
asked, unconsciously sinking his voice to i
whisper, " or a relation, or — "
"Kin to me. Kin to me," said Mi*.
quickly, yet not impatiently ; reaching ou '.
his hand again to Zack's arm, but withou
looking up.
" Was she your mother?"
"No.""Sister?"
"Yes."For a minute or two Zack was silent
after this answer. As soon as he began to
speak again, his companion shook his arm —
a little impatiently, this tkne — and stopped
him. " Drop it," said Mat peremptorily. ' ' Don't
let's talk no more, my head — "
" Anything wrong with vour head ?"
asked Zack.
Mat rose to his feet again. A change
began to appear in his face. The flush that
had tinged it from the first,. deepened pal
pably, and spread up to the very rim of his
black skull-cap. A confusion and dimness
seemed to be stealing over his eyes, a thick
ness and heaviness to be impending his artic
ulation when he spoke again.
" I've overdone it wilh the brandy," he
said, " my head's getting hot under the
place where they scalped me. Give me
hold of my hat, and show me a light, Zack.
I can't stop in doors no longer. Don't talk •
Let me out of the house at once."
Young Thorpe took up the candle direct
ly ; and leading the way down-stairs, let
him out into the street by tbe private door,
not venturing to irritate him by saying any
thing, but waiting on the doorstep, and
watching him with great curiosity as he
started for his walk. He was just getting
out of sight, when Zack heard him stop,
and strike his stick on the pavement. In
less than a minute he had turned, and was
back again at the door of the tobacconist's
shop.


180

HIDE AND SEEK.

"Zack," he whispered "you ask about
among your friends if any of 'em ever
knowed a man wilh that name I told you
of." "Do you mean the 'Arthur Carr' you
were laiking about just now ? ' inquired
young Thorpe.
" Yes ; Arthur Carr," said Mat, very
earnestly. Then, turning away before Zack
could ask him any other questions, he
disappeared rapidly this time in the dark
ness of the street.

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. MARKSMAN S SECOND COUNTRY TRIP.
Mr. Blyth was astir betimes on the
morning after Mat and young Thorpe had
visited him in the studio. Manfully deter
mined not to giye way an inch to his own
continued reluctance to leave home, he
packed up his brushes and colors, took an
affectionate leave of his wife and Madonna,
and started on his portrait-painting tour by
the early train which he had originally set-
tied io travel by.
His present prospects of professional em
ployment took him to the west of England,
and to a neighborhood renowned for the hos
pitality of its inhabitants and the beauty of
its scenery. Though he had thus every
chance of spending his time, during his ab
sence, agreeably as well as profitably, his
inexplicable sense of uneasiness at being
away from home, remained with him even
on the railway, defying all the exhilarating
influences of rapid motion and change of
scene, and oppressing him just as inveter-
ately as it had oppressed him the night be
fore. Bad, however, as his spirits now
were, they would have been worse if he
had known of two remarkable domestic
events which it bad been the policy of his
household to keep strictly concealed from
him on the .day of his departure.
When Mr Blyth's cook descended, the
first thing in ;he morning, to air the siudio
in the usual way by opening the garden-
door, she was not a li tile amazed, and alarmed
to find that, although it was closed, it was
neither bolted nor locked. She communi
cated this circumstance (reproachfully, of
course) to the housemaid, who answered
(indignantly, as was only natural) by reiter
ating her assertion of the past night, lhat
she had secured the door properly at six
o'clock in the evening. Polly, appealing
to contradictory, visible fact, rejoined that
the thing was impossible. Patty, holding
fast to affirmatory personal knowledge, re
torted that the thing had been done. Upon
this, the two had a violent quarrel — fol-
owed by a' sulky silence — succeeded by an

affectionate reconciliation — terminated by a
politic resolution to say nothing more about
the matter, and especially to abstain from
brealhing a wold in connection with it to
the ruling authorities above-stairs. Thus
it happened that neither Valentine nor his
wife knew anything of the suspicious ap
pearance presented that morning by the
garden-door. But, though Mrs. Blyth was ignorant on
this point, she was well enough informed
on another of equal if not greater domestic
importance. While her husband was down
stairs taking his early breakfast, Madonna
came into her room, and followed up the
usual morning greeting between the paint
er's wife and herself by communicating con
fidentially all the particulars of the terrible
fright that she had suffered while looking
for her bodkin-case in the studio. How her
candle could possibly have gone out, as it
did in an instant, she could not say. She
was quite sure that nobody was in the room
when she entered it, and quite sure lhat she
felt no draught of wind in any direction ;
in short, she knew nothing of her own ex
perience, but that her candle suddenly went
out: that she remained for a little time,
half-dead with fright, in the darkness; and
that she then managed to grope her way
back to her bedroom, in which a nighl-light
was always burning.
Mrs. Blyth followed the progress of this
strange story on Madonna's fingers- wilh
great interest to the end : and then, after
suggesting that the candle might. have gone
out through some defect in the make of it,
or might really have been extinguished by
a puff of air which the girl was too much
occupied in looking for her bodkin-case to
attend to, earnestly charged her not to say
n.word on the subject of her adventure to
Valentine, when she went to help him in
packing up his painting-materials. "He is
nervous and uncomfortable enough already,
poor fellow, at the idea of leaving home,"
thought Mrs. Blyth ; " and if he heard the
story about the candle going out, it would
only make him more uneasy still." To ex
plain this consideration to Madonna was to
insure her discretion. She accordingly kept
her adventure in the studio so profound a
secret from Mr. Blyth, that he no more sus
pected what had happened to her after he
was in bed; than he suspected what had
happened to the hair bracelet when he hast
ily assured himself that he was leaving his
bureau properly locked, by trying the lid of
it the last thing before going away.
Such were the circumstances under which
Va) entine left home. He was not, however,
the only traveller of the reader's acquaint*
ance whose departure from London took
place on the morning after the mysterious
extinguishing of Madonna's light in the
Dainting-room. By a whimsical coinci.


HIDE AND SEEK.

81

dence, it so happened that, at the very same
hour when Mr. Blylh. was journeying west
ward to paint portraits, Mr. Matthew Marks
man (now, perhaps, also recognisable as Mr.
Matthew Grice) was journeying northward,
to pay a second visit to Diboledean.
Not a visit of pleasure by .any means, but
a visit of business — dangerous personal busi
ness which could not be trusted to clerks
and deputies — . dejubtful, underhand busir
ness, ol,the sort that can not safely be writ
ten in daybooks and ledgers — business,
which, in every particular, Mat had espe
cially intended to keep strictly secret from
Zack, but some inkljng of which he had
nevertheless weakly allowed'.to escape him
during his past night's conversation with
the lad in Kirk street.
When young Thorpe and he met on the
morning after that conversation, he was suf
ficiently aware of the fact that his overdose
of brandy had set him talking in a very un
guarded manner ; and desired Zack, as blunt
ly as usual, to repeat to him all that he had
let out while liquor was in his head. After
this request had been complied wilh, he vol
unteered no additional confidences. He sim
ply said that what had slipped from his
tongue was no more than the truth ; but
that- he could add nothing to it, and explain
nothing about it, until he. had first discov
ered whether "Arthur Carr" were alive or
dead. On being asked how and when • he
intended to discover this, he answered that
he was going into the country to make the
attempt that very morning ; and that, if he
succeeded, he would, on his return, tell his
fellow-lodger unreservedly all that the lat
ter might wish to know. Favored wilh this
conditional promise, Zack was left alone in
Kirk street, to quiet his curiosity as well as
he could with the reflection that he should
hear something more about his friend's se
crets when Mat returned from his trip to
the country.
In order to collect a little more informa
tion on the subject of these secrets than was
at present possessed by Zack, it will be ne
cessary to return for a moment to the lodg
ings in Kirk street, at that particular period
of the night when Mr. Marksman was sit
ting alone in the front room, and was hold
ing the hair bracelet crumpled up tight in
one of his hands.
His first glance at the letters engraved on
the clasp not only showed him to whom the
bracelet had once belonged, but set at rest
in his mind all further doubt as to the iden
tity of the young woman whose face had so
startled and impressed him in Mr. Blyth's
studio. He was neither logical enough nor
legal enough, in his mode of reasoning, to
see that, although he had found his sister's
bracelet in Valentine's bureau, it did not
actually follow as a matter of proof— though
it might as a matter of suspicion — that he

had also found his sister's child in Valen
tine's house. No such objection as this oc
curred to him. He was now perfectly sat«
isfied lhat Madonna was what he had sus
pected her to be from the first — Mary's
child. But to the next questions that he asked
himself, concerning the girl's father, the an
swers were not so easy to be found : Who
was Arthur Carr ? Wberewashe? Was
he still alive ?
These momentous inquiries had first start
ed in his mind when he had talked with
Johanna Grice, after hearing of his sister's
death, at Dibbledean, and had read thai one
passage in the old, woman's narrative, refer
ring to Carr, which had accidentally caught
his eye in the cattle-shed. His thoughts had,
however, been prematurely turned aside from
pursuing the direction then given to them,
by his meeting soon, afterward with Madon
na, and by the train of events and projects
which had followed thai meeting. Now,
when his mind was once more at leisure to
resume the consideration cf the questions
referred to, they recurred to him with re
doubled force: Who was 'Arthur Carr?
Wberewashe? Was he still alive?
His first, hasty suspicion that Valentine
might have assumed the name of Arthur
Carr, and might therefore he the man him
self, was set at rest immediately by another
look, at, (he bracelet. Ho knew that the
lightest in color, of the two kinds of hair of
which it was made, was Cair's hair, be
cause it exactly resdrabied the surplus lock
sent back by the jeweller, and enclosed in
Jane Holdswortb's letter. He made the
comparison and discovered the resemblance
at a glance. . The evidence of his own eye
sight, which was enough for this, was also
enough to satisfy him immediately that Ar
thur Carr's hair was, in color, as nearly as
possible the exact opposite of Mr. Blj'tb's
hair. Still, though the painter was issycdly
not the father, might he not know v/lio the
father was.br had been ? How cr.did he
otherwise have got possession cf Mary
Grice's bracelet and Mary Grice't, child ?
These two questions suggested a third in
Mat's mind. Should he discover himself
at once to Mr. Blyth, and compel him by
fair means or foul, to solve tall doubts and
disclose what he knew ?
No — not at once. That would be play
ing, at the outset, a desperate and danger
ous move in the game, which had best be
reserved to the last. Besides, it was use
less to think of questioning Mr. Blyth just
now — except by the uncertain and indiscreet
process of following him into the country—
for he had settled to take his departure from
London early the next morning.
But it was now impossible to rest, aftei
what had been already discovered, wiihou'


1S2

HIDE AND SEEK.

beginning, in one oirection or another, the
attempt to find out A.thur Carr. Mat's-pur-
pose of doing this spiang from the strongest
of all resoluiions — a vindictive resolution.
That dangerous part of the man's nature
which his life among the savages and his
wanderings in the wild places of the earth
had been stealthily nurturing for many a
long year past, was beginning to assert it-
•self, now that he had succeeded in penetra
ting the mystery of Madonna's parentage
by the mother's side. Placed in his posi
tion, the tender thought of their sister's
child would, at this particular crisis, have
been uppermost in many men's hearts. The
one deadly thought of the villain who had
been Mary's ruin was uppermost in Mat's.
He pondered but a little while on the
course lhat he should pursue, before the
idea of returning to Dibbledean, and compel
ling Johanna GviceTo tell more than she
had told at their last interview, occurred to
him. He disbelieved the passage iri her
narrative which stated that she had seen
and heard nothing of Arthur Carr in all the
years that had elapsed since the flight and
death of her niece: he had his own convic
tion that, or rather his own presentiment
(which he had mentioned to Zack), that the
man was still alive somewhere ; and he felt
confident lhat he had it in his power, as a
last resource, to awe the otd woman into
confessing everything that she knew. To
Dibbledean, therefore, in the first instance,
he resolved to go.
If he failed there in finding and clue to
the object of his inquiry, he determined to
repair next to Rubbleford, and to address
himself boldly to Mrs. Peckover. He re
membered that, when Zack had first men
tioned her extraordinary behavior about the
hair bracelet in Mr. Blyth's hall, he had
prefaced his words by saying that she knew
apparently as much of Madonna's history as
the painter did himself, and kept that knowl
edge just as close and secret. This woman,
therefore, doubtless possessed information
which she might be either entrapped or
forced into communicating. , There would
be no difficulty about finding out where she
lived ; for, on the evening when he had mim
icked her, young Thorpe had said that she
kept a dairy and muffin-shop at Rubbieford.
To that town, then, he proposed to journey,
in the event of failing in his purpose at Dib
bledean. And if, by any evil chahce, he should end
in ascertaining no more from Mrs. Peckover
than from Johanna Grice, what course should
he take next ? There would be nothing to
be dune then, but to return to London— to
try the last great hazard — to discover him
self tc Mr. Blyth, come what might, with
the hair bracelet to vouch for him in his
band. These were his thoughts as he sat alone

in the lodging in Kirk street. At night,
they had ended in the fatal consolation of
the brandy-botlle — in the desperate and soli-
tary excess, which had so cheated him of
his self-control, that the lurking taint which
his life among the savages had left in his
disposition, and the deadly rancor which his
recent discovery of his sister's fate had stored
up in his heart, escaped from concealment,
and betrayed themselves in that half-drunk
en, half-sober occupation of scouring the ri-
fle-barrel, which it had so greatly amazed.
Zack to witness, and which the lad had sc
suddenly and strangely suspended by his few
chance words of sympathizing reference to
Mary's death.
iBut, in the morning, Mat's head was clear,
and his. dangerous instincts were held once
more under cunning control. In the morn
ing, therefore, he declined explaining him
self to young Thorpe, and started quietly for
the country by the first train.
On being set down at the DibbleJean
station, Mr. Marksman lingered a little and
looked about him, just as he had lingered
and looked, on the occasion of his first visit.
He subsequently took the same road to the
town, which he had then taken ; and, on
gaining the church, stopped as he had for
merly stopped, at the churchyard-gale.
This time, howeyer, he seemed to have
no intention of passing the entrance — no in
tention, indeed, of doing anything, unless
standing vacanily by the gate, and mechani
cally swinging it backward and forward
with both hisTiands, can be considered in
the light of an occupation. As for the
churchyard, he hardly looked at it now.
There were two or three people, at a little
distance, walking about among the graves,
who it might- have been thought would
have attracted his attention: but he never
took the smallest notice of them. He was
evidently meditating about something, for
he soon began to talk to himself— being,
like most men who have passed much of
their time in solitude, unconsciously in the
habit of thinking aloud.
"I wonder how many year ago it is, since
she and me used to swing back'ards and
for'ards on this," he said, still pushing the
gate slowly to and fro. " The hinges used
to creak lhen. They go smooth enough
now. Oiled, I suppose." As he said this,
he moved his bands from the bar on which
they rested, and turned away to go on to
ihe town ; but stopped, and walking back
to the gale, lookeri attentively at its hinges:
"Ah," he said, "not oiled. New."
"New," he repeated, walking slowly
toward the High street — "new since my
time, like everything else here. I wish I'd
never come back— I wish to God I'd nevei
come back !"
On getting into the town, he stopped a<
the same place where he had halted on lus


186

HIDE AND SEEK.

morning train on .whajt was termed the
trunk line. By this main railroad he leach-
ed his destination early in the forenqon, and
went at once to Dawson's buildings.
" Mrs. Peckover has just stepped out, sir
—Mr. Randle being a little better this morn
ing—for a mouthful of fresh air. She'll be
in again in half-an-hour," said the maid-of-
all-work who opened Mr. Randle's door.
Mat began to suspect that something
more than mere accident was concerned in
keeping Mrs. Peckover and himself asunder.
"I'll come again in halftan-hour," said he
— then added, just as the servant was about
to shut the door ; — " Which is my way to
ihe church?"
Bangbury church was close at hand, and
the directions he received for finding it were
easy to follow. But when he entered the
churchyard, and looked about him anxiously
to see where he should begin searching for
his sister's grave, his head grew confused,
and his heart began to fail him. Bangbury
was a large town, and rows and rows of
tombstones seemed to fill ihe churchyard
bewilderingly in every visible direction.
At a little distance a man was at work
opening a grave, and to him Mat applied
for help — describingTiis sister as a stranger
who had been buried somewhere' in the
churchyard better than twenty years ago.
The man was both stupid and surly, and,
would give no advice, except that it was
useless to look near where he was digging,
for they were all respectable townspeople
buried about there.
Mat walked round to the olher side of
the church. Here the graves were thicker
than ever, for here the poor -were buried.
He went on slowly through them, with his
eyes fixed on the ground, toward some trees
which marked the,limits of the churchyard
— looking out for a place to begin his search
in where the graves might be comparatively
•few, and where his head might not get con
fused at the outset. Such a place he found
at last, in a damp corner under the trees.
About thisspot the thin grass languished; the
mud distilled into, tiny waterpools; and ihe
brambles, briers, and dead leaves, lay thick
ly and foully between a few ragged turf-
niounds. — Could they have laid her here ?
Could this be, the last refuge to which Mary
ran after she fled from home?
A few of the mounds had stained, mould
ering tombstones at their heads. He looked
at these first, and, finding only strange names
on them, turned next to the mounds marked
out by cross-hoards of wood. . At one ofthe
graves the cross-board had been torn, or had
rotted away, from its upright supports, and
lay on the ground weather-stained and split,
but still faintly showing thstt it had once
had a few letters cut in it. He examined
this board to begin wilh, and was trying to
make out what the letters were, when the

sound of some one app. oaching disturbed
bim. He looked up, and saw a woman
walking slowly toward the very place where
he was standing. s
It was Mrs. Peckover herself! She had
taken a prescription for her sick brother to
the chemist's— had bought him one or two
¦litlle things he wanted, in the High street —
and had now, before resuming her place at
his bedside, stolen a few minutes to go and
look at the grave'of Madonna's mother. It
was many, many years since Mrs. Peckover
had last paid a visit to Bangbury church.
yard. . .
She. stopped and hesitated when she.first
caught sight of Mat r but, after a moment or
two, not being a woman easily balked in
anything when she had once undertaken ia
do it, continued to advance, and never paused
for the second time until she had come close
to the grave by which Mat stood, and was
looking him steadily in the face, exactly,
across it.
He was the first to .speak. "Do, you
know whose grave ihis is?" he asked.
" Yes, sir," answered Mrs. Peckover —
glancing indignantly at the broken board,
and the mud and brambles all about it —
" yes, sir, I do know ; and, what's more, I
know that it's a disgrace to the parish!
Money has been paid twice over to keep it
decent ; and look what a stale it's left in !"
"I asked you whose grave it was," re
peated Mat, impatiently.
"A poor, unfortunate, forsaken creature,
who's gone tb heaven, if ever an afflicted,
repenting woman went there yet !" an
swered Mrs. Peckover, warmly.,
"Forsaken? Afflicted? A woman, too?"
Mat repeated to himself, thoughtfully.
" Yes, forsaken and afflicted," cried Mrs.
Peckover, overhearing him. "Don't you
say no ill of her, whoever you are. She
sha'n't be spoken unkindly of in my hear
ing, poor soul !"
Mat looked up suddenly and eagerly.
"What's your name?" h'e inquired.
"My name's Peckover, and I'm not
ashamed of it," was ihe pror^ft reply,
"And, now, if I may make so bolt), what's
yours?" Mat took from his pocket the hair brace
let, and, fixing his eyes intently on her face,
held it up, across the grave, for her to look
at. "Do you know this?" -he said.
Mrs. Peckover stooped forward, and close
ly inspected the bracelet for a minute or
two. " Lord save us !" she exclaimed, rec
ognising it, and confronting him with cheeks
that had suddenly become colorless, and
eyes that stared in terror and astonishment
— " Lord save us ! how did you come by
that ? And who, for mercy's sake, are
you ?"
"My name's Matthew Grice," he an-.
swered,cquickly and sternly. " This brace"


188

HIDE AND SEEK.

daughter at Rubbleford ; but he flatly de
clined to infoim her how he had first found
out that she lived at Rubbleford at all. Again,
he readily admitted that neither Madonna
nor Mr. Blyth knew who he really was ;
but he refused to say why he had not dis
closed himself to them, or when he iplended
— if he ever intended at all— to inform them
that he was the brother of Mary Grice. As
to getting him to confess in what manner
he had become possessed of the hair brace
let, Mrs. Peckover's first question about it,
although only answered by a look, was re
ceived in such a manner as to show her
that any further efforts on her part in that
direction would be perfectly fruitless.
On one side of the door, at Dawson's
buildings, was Mr. Randle's shop, and on
the other was Mr. Randle's "little dining-
parlor. In this room Mrs. Peckover left
Mat, while she went up-stairs to see if her
sick brother wanted anything. Finding that
he was still quietly sleeping, she only wait
ed to arrange the bedclothes comfortably
about him, and to put a hand-bell easily
within his reach in case he should awake,
and then went down-stairs again immedi
ately. She found Mat sitting with his elbows
on the one little table in the dining-parlor,
his head resting on his hands. Upon the
table, lying by the side ofthe bracelet, was
the lock of hair out of Jane Holdsworth's
letter, which he had yet once more taken
from his pocket to look at. " Why, mercy
on me!" cried Mrs. Peckover, glancing at
it, "surely it's the same hair that's worked
into the bracelet ! Wherever, for goodness'
sake, did you g-et that ?"
" Never mind where I got it. Do you
know whose hair it is ? No ! you don't ?
Look a "Utile closer. The man this hair be
longed to was the man she trusted in — and
he laid her in the churchyard for her pains."
"Oh! who was he? — who was he?"
asked Mrs. Peckover, eagerly.
"Who was he?" repeated Matthew,
sternly. " What do you mean by asking
me that ?"
" I only mean that I never heard a word
about the villain — I don't so much as know
his name."
" You don't ?" He fastened his eyes sus
piciously on her as he said those two words.
"No — as true as I stand here, I don't.
Why, I didn't even know that your poor,
dear sister's name was Grice till you told
me." His look of suspicion began to change to
a look of amazement as he heard this: He
hurriedly gathered up the bracelet and the
.ock of hair, and put them into his pocket
again. " Let's hear first how you met with
ner," he said. "I'll have a word or two
wilh you about the other matter afterward."
Mrs. Peckover sat down near him, and

began to relate the mournful story which
she had told to Valentine and Doctor and
Mrs. Joyce, now many years ago, in the
rectory dining-room. But on this occasion
she was not — as on the last — allowed to
go through her narralive uninterruptedly.
While she was uttering the few simple
words which told how she had sat down by
the roadside and suckled the half-starved
infant of the forsaken and dying Mary Grice,
Mat suddenly reached oul his heavy, trem
bling hand, and took fast hold of hers. He
griped it with sUch force, that, stout-hearted
and hardy as she was, she cried out in alarm
and pain, " Oh, don't! you hurt me — you
hurt me !"
He dropped her hand directly, and turned
his face away from her — his breath -quick
ening painfully, his fingers fastening on the
side of" his chair as if some great pang of
oppression was trying hjm tb the quick.
She rose and asked anxiously what ailed
him ; but, even as the words passed her lips,
he mastered himself wilh thai iron resolu
tion of his which few trials could bend, and
none break, and motioned lo her to sit down
again. "Don't mind me,*' he said; "I'm
old and tough-hearted with being battered
aboUt in the world, and I can't give myself
vent nohow wilh talkihg or crying like the
rest of you. Never mind ; it's all over now.
Go on."
She complied, a little nervously at first;
but he did not interrupt her again. He lis
tened while she proceeded, looking straight
at her ; not speaking or moving — except
when he winced once oi twice, as a man
winces under unexpected pain, while Ma
ry's death-bed words were repeated lo him.
Having reached this stage of her narrativi,
Mrs. Peckover added litlle more ; only say
ing, in conclusion : " I took care of the pnoi
soul's child, as I said I would; and did m\
best to behave like a mother to her, till sht
got to be ten year old ; then I give her up
— because it was for her own'good — to Mr.
Blyth." (If he had wanted any confirmation of his
belief that Madonna was really and truly
the child of Mary Grice, here it was. But
his convictions on this point had been set
tled beforehand, and the words Mrs. Pecko
ver had just spoken produced apparently ni
effect on him.)
"I dare say you know all about what Mr.
Blyth has done for her ?" continued the good
woman ; " and about the fall that tobk her
hearing away ? Surely, you don't want me
to tell 'how that happened, do you ?'¦'
He did not seem to notice this question.
The image of the forsaken girl; sitting alone
by the roadside, with her -child's natural
sustenance dried up within her ^-travel-
worn, friendless, and desperate — was still
uppermost in his mind ; and when he next
spoke, gratitude for the help lhat had been


HIDE AND SEEK.

1S9

given to Mary in her last son; distress was
the one predominant emotion, which strove
roughly to express itself to Mrs- Peckover
,n his words.
" Is there any living soul you care abou.
that a trifle of money would do a little good
to?" he asked, wilh such abrupt eagerness,
that she was quite startled by it.
" Lord bless me !" she exclaimed, " what
do ,you mean? What has lhat got to do
with your poor sister, or Mr. Blyth, or any
thing — "
" It's got this to do," burst out Matthew,
starting to his feet, as ihe struggling grati
tude within him stirred hody and soul both
together ; " you turned, to and helped, Mary
when she hadn't nobody else in the world
to stand by her. She was always father's
darling — but father couldn't help" her then ;
and I was away on. the wrong side of the
sea, and couldn't be no goqd to her neither;
But I'm on the. right sidp, now ; and if
there's any friends of yours, norih, south,
east, or west, as would be happier for a
trifle of money, here's. all mine; catch it,
and give it 'em." (He tossed his beaver-
skin roll, with the bank-notes in it, into
Mrs. Peckover's lap.) "Here's my two
hands, that I dursn't take a-hold of yours
with for fear of hurting you again" (pacing
backward; and forward in the little room,
and tucking up the cuffs of his coat), " here's
my two hands that can work along with
any man's, Only give 'em something to
do for you, that's all ! Give 'em something
to make or mend, I don't care what, so long
as you — "
"Hush ! hush !" interposed Mrs. Peckover,
"don't be so dreadful noisy, there's a good
man ! or you'll wake my brother up-stairs.
And, besides, where's the use to make such
a stir about what I have done for your sis
ter? Anybody else would have took as
kindly to her as I did, seeing what distress
she was in,, poor sbjil ! Here," she contin
ued, handing him back the beaverskin roll,
" here's your money, and thank you for the
offer of it. Put it up safe in your pocket
again. We manage to keep our heads above
water, thank God ' and don't want to do 110
better than that. Put it up in your pocket
again, and then I'll make bold to ask you
for something else."
" For what ?" inquired Mat, looking her
eagerly in the face.
'(.Just for this : that you'll promise not to
take little Mary away from Mr. Blyth. Do,
pray do promise me you won't ?"
" I never thought to take her away*" he
answered..' ¦:.?' Where should / take- her. to?
What could a lonesome old. vagabond, like
me, do for her ?.. If she's happy where
she is — let her stop where she is."
"Lord bless you for saying that !" fer
vently exclaimed Mrs. Peckover,, smiling
for the first time, and smoothing out her i

gown over her k.iees w ith an air of inex
pressible relief. " I'm rid of my grand
fright now, and I'm gelling to breathe again
freely, which 1 haven't once yet been able
to do since I first set eyes on you. Ah !
you're rough to look at ; but you've got
your feelings like the rest of us. Talk
away now as much as you like. Ask me
about anything you please, and — "
" Whai's the good,?" he broke in, gloom
ily. "You don't know what I wanted you
to know. I come down here for to find out
the man as once owned this" (he pulled the
lock of hair out of his, pocket again), "and
you can't help me. I didn't believe it when
you first said so, but I do now."
" Well, lhanit you for saying that much;
though you might have put it ci viler — "
"His name was Arthur Carr. Did you
never hear tell of anybody with the name
of Arthur Carr?"
" No : never— never till this very mo
ment." " The painter-man will knew," continued
Mil, talking more to himself than to Mrs.
Peckover. " I must go back, and chance
it with the painter-man, jifler all."
" Painter-man ?" repeated Mrs. Peckover.
" Painter ? Surely you don't mean Mr.
Blyth?" " Yes, I. do."
" Why ! what in the name of fortune
can you be thinking of? How should Mr.
Blyth know more than me ? He never set
eyes on little Mary till she was ten year
old ; and he knows nothing about her poor
unfortunate mother except what I told him."
These words seemed at first to stupefy
Mat : they burst upon,. him in the shape of
a revelation for which he was totally, un
prepared. It had never once occurred, to
him to doubt that Valentine was seerelly
informed of all that he most wished to
know. He had loolted forward to what the
painter might be persuaded— or, in the last
resort, forced — to tell him, as the one cer
tainty on which he might finally depend ;
and here was this fancied security exposed,
in a moment, as the wildest delusion that
ever man trusted in ! What resource was
lefl ? To return to Dibbledean, and,, by, the
legal help of Mr. Tatt, to possess himself
of any fragments pf evidence which Johanna
Grice might have left behind her in wri
ting ? This seemed but a broken reed, to
depend on ; and yet nothing else now re
mained. "I shall find him! I don't care where
he's hid away from me, I shall find him
yet," thought Mat, still holding with dogged
and desperate obstinacy to. his first super
stition, in spite of every fresh sign that ap
peared to confute it.
" But why worrit yourself about finding
Arthur Carr at all?" pursued Mr;.. Peck
over, noticing his perplexed and mortified


190

HIDE AND SEEK.

expression. " The wretch is dead, most
likely, by this time — "
- " I'm not dead !" retorted Mat, fiercely ;
" and you're not dead ; and you and me are
as old as him. Don't tell me he's dead
again ! I say. he's alive ; and, by G-d, I'll
be even wilh him !"
",0h, don't talk so, don't! It's shocking
to hear you and see you," said Mrs. Peck
over, recoiling from ihe expression of his
eye at that moment, just as she had recoiled
from it already over Mary's grave. " Sup
pose he is alive, why should you go taking
vengeance into your own hands after all
these years ? Your poor sister's happy in
heaven : and her child's took care of by the
kindest people, I do believe, that ever drew
breath in this world. Why should you
wan; to be even with him now? If he
hasp been punished already, I'll answer
for it he will be— in the next world, if not
in this. Don't talk about it, or think about
it any more,( that's a good man ! Let's be
friendly and' pleasant together again — like
we were just now — for Mary's sake. Tell
me where you've been to all these years.
How is it you've never turned up before?
That's what I want so particularly to know.
Come ! tell me, do."
She ended by speaking to him in much
the same tone which she would have made
use of to soothe a fractious child. But her
instinct as a woman guided her truly : in
venturing on that little reference to "Mary,"
she had not ventured in vain. It quieted
him, and turned aside the current of his
thoughts into the better and smoother direc
tion. "Didn't she never talk to you aboul
having a brother as was away aboard ship ?"
he asked, anxiously.
" No. She wouldn't say a word about
any of her friends, and she didn't say a word
about you. But how did you come to be so
long away ? that's what I want to know,"
said Mrs. Peckover, pertinaciously repeat
ing her question, partly out of curiosity,
partly out of the desire to keep him from
returning to the dangerous subject of Arthur
Carr. "I was always a d  d bad 'un, /was,"
said Matthew meditatively. " There was
no keeping of me straight, try it anyhow
you like. I bolted frOm home, I bolted
from school, I bolted from aboard ship — "
"Why? What for?"
" Partly because I was a d- — -d bad 'un,
and partly because; of a letter I picked up in
port, at the Brazils, at the end of a long
cruise. Here's the letter — bnt it's no good
showing it to you: the paper's so grimed
nnd tore about you can't read it."
"Who wrote it? Mary?"
" No : father — saying what had happened
to Mary, and telling me not to come back
home till things was pulled straight again.
Here— here's what he said — CBider the big

grease-spot -i ' If you can get continued em
ployment anywhere abroad,' he said, 'ac
cept it instead of coming back.' Then he
said again — (down here; t'other side of
where the paper's lore) ; ' Better for you at
your age, to be spared ihe sight Of such
sorrow as we are now suffering.' Do you
see that ?"
"Yes, yes, I see. Ah; poor man! he
couldn't give no kinder nor better advice;
and you — "
" Deserted from ,my ship. The devil was
in me to be off on the tramp, and father's
letter did the rest. I got wild and desper
ate with the thought of what had happened
to Mary, and with knowing they were
ashamed to see me back again at home. Sc
the night afore the ship sailed for England
I slipped into a shore-boat, and turned my
back on salt-junk and the boatswain's mate
for the rest of my life."
"You don't mean to say you've done
nothing but wander about in foreign parts
from that time to this?"
"I do, though ! I'd a notion I should be
shot for a deserter if I turned up top soon in
my own country. That kep'me away for
ever so long, to begin with. Then tramps'
fever got into my head ; and there1 was an
end of it."
"Tramps' fever! Mercy on me! wha'
do you mean ?"
"I mean this: when a man turns gipsy
on his own account, as I did; and tramps
about through cold and hot, and winter and
summer, not'carin-g where he goes or what
the fa — 11 becomes of* him, lhat sort of life
ends by getting into his head, just like
liquor does — except that it don't get out
again. It got into my head. It's in il
now. Tramps' fever kep' me away in the
wild country. Tramps' fever will take me-
back there afore long. Tramps' fever will
lay me down, some day, in the lonesome
places, with my hand on my rifle and my
face to the sky ; and I sha'n't get up again
till the crows and vultures come and carry
me off piecemeal."
"Lord bless us ! how can you talk about
yourself in that way?" cried Mrs. Peckover,
shuddering at the grim image-which Mat's
last words suggested. " You're trying- lo
make yourself out worse than you are.
Surely, you must haye thought of your
father and sister, sometimes — didn't you ?'
' "Think of tbem? Of course I did
But,. mind ye, there come a time when I as
good as forgot ihem altogether. They
seemed to get smeare'd out of my head-
like we used to smear old sums off our
slates at school."
(> More shame for you ! Whatever else
you forgot, you oughtn't to have forgotten — "
"Wait a bit. Father's letter told me—
I'd show you the place only I know you
couldn't read it — that he was a going tut


102

HIDE AND SEEK.

father's name in the churchyard— which
was no more than I looked for: but when
they told me Mary had never been brought
back, and said she'd died many a year ago
among strange people, they cut me to the
quick." " Ah ! no wonder, no wonder !''
"It was a wonder to me, though. I
bnould have laughed at any man, if he'd
told me I should be took so at hearing what
I heard about her, after all the time I'd-
been away. I couldn't make it out then,
and I can't now. I didn't feel like my own
man, when I first set eyes on the old place.
And th»n to hear she was dead — it cut me,
as I told you. It cut me deeper still, when
I come to tumble over the thingsshe'd left
behind her in her box. Twenty year ago
•got nigher and nigher to yesterday with
every fresh thing belonging to her that I
'aid a hand on. There was an arbor in
lather's garden she used to be fond of work
ing in of evenings. - I'd lost all thought of
lhat place for more years than I can reckon
up. I called it to mind again^and called
her to mind again, too, sitting and working
and singing in the arbor — only with laying
hold of a bit of patchwork stuff in the, bot
tom of her box, with her needle and thread
left sticking in it."
" Ah, dear, dear !" sighed Mrs. Peck*
over, "I wish I'd seen her then ! She was
as happy, I dare say, as the bird on the tree.
But there's one thing I can't exactly make
out yet," she added — " how did you first
come to know all about Mary's child?"
" All ! There wasn't no all in i', till I
see the child herself. Except knowing that
the poor creater's baby had been born alive,
I knowed nothing when I first come away
from the old place in the country. Child!
I hadn't noUiing of the sort in my mind,
when I got back to London. It was how
to track the man as was Mary's death, that
I puzzled and worrited about in my head,
at that time—"
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Peckover, interr
posing to keep him away from the danger
ous subject, as she heard his voice change,
and saw his eyes begin to brighten again.
" Yes, yes — but how did you come to see
the child? Tell me that."
"Zack took me into the painter man's
big room — "
" Zack ! Why, good gracious heavens !
do you mean Master Zachary Thorpe ?"
"I see a yoang woman standing among
a lot of people as was all a staring at her,"
continued Mat, without noticing the inter
ruption. " I see her just as close to, and
as plain, as I see you. I see her look up,
til eif a sudden, front face to front face
wilh me. A creeping and a crawling went
through me ; and I says to myself; ' Mary's
child has lived to grow up, and that's
her."

"But, do pray tell me, how ever you
come to know Master Zack ?"
" I says to myself, ' That's her,' " repeat
ed Mat, his rough voice sinking lowei and
lower, his attention wandering farther and
farther away from Mrs. Peckover's inter
ruptions. " Twenty year ago had got to be
like yesterday, when I was down at ihe old
place; and things I hadn't called to mint
for long times past, I called to mind when
I come to the churchyard gate, and see fa
ther's house. But there was looks Mary
had with her eyes, turns Mary had will
her head, bits of twitches Mary had with
her eyebrows when she looked up at you,
that I'd clean forgot. They all come back
to me together, as soon as ever I see lhat
young woman's face."
" And do you really never mean to let
her know who you are? You may tell me
that, surely — though you won't speak a
word about Master Zack."
" WJien I'm going back to the wild
country, I may say to her : ' Rough as I am
to look at, I'm your mother's brother, and
you're the only bit of my own flesh and
blood I've got left to cotton lo in all the
world. Give us a shake of your hand, and a
kiss for mother's sake; and I won't trouble
you no more.' I may say that, afore I gq
back, and lose sight of her for good and all."
" Oh, but you won't go back. Only you
tell Mr. Blyth you don't want to take her
away, and then say to him, ' I'm Mr. Grice,
and—'" " Stopi Don't you get a-talking about
Mr. Grice."
" Why not ? It's your lawful name, isn't
it?" " Lawful enough, I dare say. But I don't
like the sound of it, though it is mine.
Father as good as said he was ashamed to
own it, when he wrote me that letter ; and
I was afraid to own it, when I deserled
from my ship. Bad luck has followed the
name from, first to last. I ended with it
years ago, and I won't take up with it again
now. Call me 'Mat.' Take it as easy wilh
me as if I was kin to you."
"Well, then -Mat," said Mrs. Peckover
with a smile, " I've got such a many things
to ask you still — " ,
"I wish you could make it out to ask
them to-morrow," rejoined Matthew. "I've
overdone myself already, with more talk
ing than I'm used to. I want to be quiet
with my tongue, and get to work with my
hands for the rest of the day. You don't
happen to have a foot-rule in ihe house, do
you?" On being, asked to explain what motive
could possibly induce him to make this
strangely abrupt demand for a foot-rule. .
Mat immediately, admitted that he was
anxious to proceed at once to the renewal
of the crossboard at the head of his sister's


HIDE AND SEEK,

193

grave. He wanted the rule to measure the
dimensions of the old board ; he desired to
be directed to some timber-merchant's,
wh-ere he could buy a new piece of wood ;
and, after that, be would worry Mrs. Peek-
over, he said, about nothing more. Extra
ordinary as his present caprice appeared to
ner, the good woman saw that it had taken
complete possession of him, and wisely and
willingly set herself to humor it. She
procured for him the rule and the address
of a timber-merchant ; and then they part
ed, Mat promising to call again in the
evening at Dawson's buildings.
When he presented himself at the tim-
ber-merchani's, after having carefully meas
ured the old board in the churchyard, he
came in no humor to be easily satisfied.
Never was any fine lady more difficult to
decide about the texture, pattern, arid color,
to be chosen for a new dress, than Mat was
when he arrived at the timber-merchant's,
about the grain, thickness, and kind of
wood to be chosen for the cross-board at the
head of Mary's grave. At last, he selected
a piece of walnut-wood, and, having paid
the price demanded for it, without' any
haggling, inquired next for a carpenter, of
whom he might hire a set of tools. A man
who has money to spare,, has all things at
his command. Before evening, Mat had a
complete set of tools, a dry shed to use
them in, and a comforiable living-room at
a public-house near, all at his own sole
disposal. Being skilful enough at all carpenter's
work of an ordinary kind, he would, under
most circumsiances, have completed in a
day or two such an employment as he had
How undertaken. But a strange fastidious
ness, a most uncharacteristic anxiety about
the smallest matters, delayed him through
every stage of his present undertaking. Mrs.
Peckover, who came every morning to see
how he was getting on, was amazed at the
slowness of his progress. He was, from
the first, morbidly scrupulous in keeping the
board smooth and clean. After he had
shaped it, and fitted it to its upright sup
ports ; after he had cut in it (by Mrs. Peck
over's advice) the same inscription which
had been placed on the old board — the sim
ple initials "M. G.," with the year of Ma
ry's death, " 1828" — after he had done these
things, he was seized with an unreasonable,
obstinate fancy for decorating the board at
the sides. In spite of all that Mrs. Pecko
ver could say to prevent him, he carved an
anchor at one side, and a tomahawk at the
other — these being the objects with which
he was most familiar, and therefore the ob
jects which he chose to represent. But
even when the carving of his extraordinary
ornaments had been completed, he could
not be prevailed on to set the new cross-
board up in '*s proper plae ?¦ Fondly as

artists or authors linger over their last, lov
ing touches to the picture or the book, did
Mat now linger, day after day, over the
poor monument to his sister's memory which
his own rough hands had made: he smoothed,
it carefully with bits of sand-paper, he rubbed
it industriously with leather, he polished it
anxiously with oil, until at last Mrs. Peck-
uver lost all patience, and, trusting in the
influence she had already gained over him,
fairly insisted on bis bringing his work to
a, close. Even while obeying her, be was
still true to his first resolution. He had
said that no man's hand should help him in
the labor he had now undertaken ; and he
was as good as his word, for he carried the
cross-board himself to the churchyard.
All this time, he never once looked at that
lock of hair which he had been accustomed
to take so frequently from his pocket but a
few days back. Perhaps ihere was nothing
in Common between the thought erf -tracing
Arthur Carr and the thoughts of Mary, that
came to him while he was at work on the
walnut-wood plank.
But when the cross-hoard had been set
up ; when he had cleared away ihe mud
and brambles about the mound, and had
made a smooth little path round it ; when
he had looked at his work from all points
of view, and had satisfied himself that he
could do nothing more to perfect it, the
aciive, restless, and violent elements in his
nature seemed to awake; as it were, on a
sudden. His fingers began to search again
in his pocket for ihe fatal lock of hair ; and
when he and Mrs. Peckover next met, the
first words he addressed to her announced
his immediate departure for Dibbledean.
She had strengthened her hold on his
gratitude by gettinghim permission, through
the rector of Bangbury, lo occupy himself,
without molestation, in the work of repair
ing his sister's grave. She had persuaded
him to confide to her many of the particu
lars concerning himself which he had re
fused to communicate at their first inter
view. But when she tried, at parting, to
falhom what his ultimate intentions really
were, now that he was leaving Bangbury
wilh the avowed purpose of discovering Ar
thur Carr, she failed to extract from him a
single sentence of explanation, or even so
much as a word of reply. When betook his
farewell, he charged her not to communi
cate their meeting to Mr. Blyth till she
heard from him or saw him again ; and he
tried once more to thank her in as fit words
as he could command, for the pity and kind
ness she had shown toward Mary Grice :
but, to the very last, he closed his lips reso
lutely on the ominous subject of Arthur
Carr. He had been a fortnight absent from Lon
don, when he set forth once more for DiV
bledean. to try that last chance of tracing


HIDE AND SEEK.

195

It by no means so easy; however, to shake
himself free of Mr. Tatt's legal services.
"Depend on my zeal," cried this energetic
solicitor, following Matthew pertinaciously
on his way to the staiion. " If there's law
in England, your identity shall be proved,
and your rights respected. I intend to throw
myselfinto this case, heart and soul. Money,
justice, morality, and — One moment, my
dear sir ! If you must really go back to
London, oblige me, at any rate, with vour
address ; and just state, in a cursory way,
wheiher you were christened or not at Dib
bledean church. I want nothing more to
begin wilh — absolutely nothing more — on
my word of honor as a professional man."
willing in his present mood to say or do
anything io get rid of his volunteer solicitor,
Mat mentionod his address in Kirk street,
and the name by which he was known there
— impatiently said " Yes" to the inquiry as
to whether he had been christened at Dib
bledean church — and then, abrupily turning
away, left Mr. Tatt standing in the middle
of the high-road, excitably making a note
of the evidence just collected, in a new legal
memorandum-book. As soon as Mat was alone, the ominous
question suggested itself to him again: Had
he lost the last chance of tracing Arthur
Carr? Although inexorable facts, seemed
now to prove past contradiction that he
had, even yet he held lo his old superstition
more doggedly and desperately than ever.
Once more, on his way to the station, he
pulled out the lock of hair, and obstinately
pondered over it. Once more, while he
journeyed to London, that strange convic
tion upheld him which had already sup
ported him under previous checks. " I
shall find him," thought Mat, whirling
along in the train. " I don't care where
he's hid away from me, I shall find him
yet!"

CHAPTER XV.
THE TRACING OF AKTHUR CAEK.
While Matthew- Grice was travelling
backward and forward between town and
town in the midland counties, the life led
fly his gallant young friend and comrade in
'Jie metropolis was by no means totally de
void of incident and change. Zack had met
wilh his advenlures as well as Mat ; one of
them, in particular, being of such a nature
— or, rather, leading to such results — as ma
terially altered the domestic aspect of the
lodgings in Kirk street.
True to his promise to Valeniine, Zack,
on the morning of his friend's departure for
the country, presented himself at Mr. Strath-
er's house, with his letter of introduction,
punctually at eleven o'clock ; and was fairly

started in life by that gentleman,- before
noon on the same day, as a student of the
classic beau-ideal in the statue-halls of the
British Museum. He worked away reso
lutely enough till the rooms were closed;
and then returned to Kirk street, not by any
means enthusiastically devoted to his new
occupation, but determined to persevere in
it, because he was determined to keep to
his word.
His new profession wore, however, a mucl-
more encouraging aspect when Mr. Strathet
introduced him, in the evening, to the Lit
tie Bilge street academy. Here, live peo
ple were the models to study from. Here
he was free to use the palette, and to mix
up the pinkest imaginable flesh-lints with
bran-new brushes. Here were high-spirited
students of the fine arts, easy in manners
and picturesque in personal appearance,
with whom he contrived to get intimate
directly. And here, to crown all, was a
model, sitting for the chest and arms, who
had been a great prize-fighter, and with
whom Zack joyfully cemented the bonds of
an eternal (pugilistic) friendship, on the
first night of his admission to Mr. Strather's
academy. All through the second day of his proba:
tion as a student,'he. labored at his drawing
with immense resolution and infinitesimal
progress. All through the evening bedaubed
away industriously under Mr. Strather's
supervision, until the academy sitting was
suspended. It would have been well for
him if he had gone home as soon as he laid
down his brushes. But in an evil hour he
lingered in Little Bilge street, after the
studies of the evening were over, to have a
gossip with the prize-fighting model, and
in an indiscreet moment he consented to
officiate as one of the patrons at an ex
hibition of sparring, to be held that night
at a neighboring tavern, for the ex-pugilist's
benefit. By no part of their conduct do the gentle
men connected with the prize-ring show their
freedom and int'ependence of spirit more
remarkably, lhan by their behavior under
that patronage for which they are inces
santly clamoring, and which, when they
get it, they usiia;iy study to deserve by
picking a patron "j pockets, knocking a
patron's hat over bis eyes, or subjecting ?
patron generally to almost every knowr
variety of bodily ill-usage. Zack was no'
destined to escape paying the customary
penally for ihe privilege and honor of pa
tronizing a mixed society of prize-fighters
After being conducted in an orderly manne-
enough for some litlle time, the pugilistir
proceedings of the evening were suddenly
interrupted by one of the patrons present
(who was also a student at the Bilge street
academy), declaring that his pocket had
been picked, and insisting that the room-


,96

HIDE AND SEEK.

door should be closed and the police sum
moned immediately. Great confusion and
disturbance ensued, amid which Zack sup
ported the demand of his .fellow-student —
perhaps a little too warmly. At any rate
a gentleman sitting opposite to him, wilh a
patch over one eye, and a nose broken in
three places, swore that young Thorpe had
personally insulted him by implying that he
was a thief, and vindicated his moral char
acter by throwing a cheese-plate at Zack's
head. The missile struck the mark (at the
side, however, instead of in front), and
breaking when it struck, inflicted what ap
peared to every unprofessional eye that
looked at the injury like a very extensive
and dangerous wound.
The chemist to whom ZacK was tanen in
the first instance to be bandaged, thought
little of the hurt ; but the local doctor who
was called in, after the lad's remoyal to
Kirk street, did not take so reassuring a
view of the patient's case. The wound
was certainly not situated in a very danger
ous part of the head ; but it had been
inflicted at a time when Zack'si naturally
full-blooded constitution was in a very un
healthy condition, from the effects of much.
more ardent spirit-drinking than was at all
good for him. Bad fever-symptoms set in
immediately, and appearances became visi
ble in the neighborhood of the wound, at
which the medical head shook ominously.
In short, Zack was now confined to his bed,
with ihe worst illness he had ever had in
his life, and with no friend to look after him
except the landlady of the house.
Fortunately for him, his doctor was a
man of skill and energy, who knew how to
make the most of all the advantages which
the patient's youlh and strength could offer
to assist the medical treatment, In ten
days' lime, young Thorpe was out of. danger
of any of the serious inflammatory results
which had been apprehended from the injury
to his head.
Wretchedly weak and reduced — unwil
ling lo alarm his mother by informing her
of his illness-- without Valentine to console
him. or Mat to amiise him, Zack's spirits
now sank to a far lower ebb than they had
ever fallen to before. In his present slate
of depression, feebleness, and solitude, there
were moments when he doubted of his own
recovery, in spite of all that the doctor could
tell him. While in this frame of mind, the
remembrance of the last sad report he had
heard of his father's health, affected him
very painfully, and he bitterly condemned
himself for never having written so much
as a line to ask Mr. Thorpe's pardon since
he had left home. He was too weak to use
the pen himself; but the tobacconist's wife
— a slovenly, showy, kind-hearted woman
enough — was always ready to do anything
to serve him ; and he determined to make

his mind a little easier by asking her tc
write a few penitent lines for him, and
having the letter despatched* immediately
to his father's address in Baregrove square.
She had long since been made the confidant
of all his domestic, tribulations (for he freely
communicated them to everybody witl
whom he was brought much in contact),
and showed, therefore, no surprise, but on
ihe contrary expressed great satisfaction
when his request was preferred to her.
This was the letter which Zack, witfc
tearful, eyes, and faltering voice, dictated to
his landlady : —
" Mv Dear Father : I am truly sorry
for never having written to ask you to for
give me before. ,; I write now, and heg your
pardon with all nsryJieart, for I am indeed
very penitent, and ashamed of myself. If
you will only let me have another trial, and
will nol be too hard upon me at first, I will
do my best never to give you any more
trouble. Therefore, pray, write to me at
14 Kirk street, Wendover market, where I
am now living wilh a friend who has been
very kind to me. Please, give my dear
love to mother, and believe me your truly
penitent son, • "Z.Thorpe, jr."
Having got through this letter pretty
easily, and finding that the tobacconist's
wife was quite ready to write another for
him, if he pleased, Zack resolyed to send a
line to Mr. Blyth, who, as well as he could
calculate, might now be expected to return
from the country every day. On the even
ing when he had been brought home with
the wound in his head, he had entreated
that his accident might be kept a secret
from Mrs. Blvth (who knew his address),
in case she should send after him. This
preliminary word of caution was not use.
lessly spoken. Only three days later a note
was brought from Mrs. Blyth, upbraiding
him for never having been near the house
during Valentine's absence, and asking him
to come and drink tea that evening. The
messenger, who waited for an answer, was
sent back with the most artful verbal excuse
which the landlady could provide for the
emergency, and no more notes had been
delivered since. Mrs. Blyth was doubtless
not over well satisfied wilh the cool manner
in which her invitaiion had. been received;
In his present condition of spirils, Zack's
conscience upbraided him soundly, foi having
thought of deceiving Valentine by keeping
him in ignorance of what had happened.
Now that Mat seemed, by his long absence.
to have deserted Kirk street for ever, there
was a double attraction and hope for the
weary and heartsick. Zack in the prospect
of seeing the painter's genial face by his
bedside. To this oldest, kindest, and most
merciful of frieodB„therefore,.he determined


HIDE AND SEEK.

199

to confess, what he dare not so much as
hint to his own father.
The note which, by the assistance of the
tobacconist's wife, he now addressed to
Valentine, was as characteristically boyish,
and even childish in tone, as the note he
had dictated to send to his father. It ran
thus: —
"My Dear Bltth: I begin almost to
wish that I had never been born ; for I
have got into another scrape, having been
knocked On the head by a prize-fighter with
a cheese-plate. It was wrong in me to go
where I did, I know- But Twent to. Mr.
Strather, just as you told me, and stuck to
my drawing — I did, indeed ! Pray do cpme^
as soon as ever you get back — I send this
letter to make sure of getting you at once.
I am so miserable and lonely, and too weak
still to get out, of bed.
" My landlady is very good and kind to
me ; but, as for that old vagabond, Mat, he
has been away in ihe country, I don't know
how long, and has never written to me.
Please, please do come ! and don't blow
me up much if you can help it, for I am so
weak still I can hardly keep from crying
when 1 think of what has happened. Ever
yours, "Z. Thorpe, jr.
" P.S. If you have got any of my money
left by you, I should be very glad if you
would bring jt. I haven't a farthing, and
there are. several little things I ought tb
pay for."
This letter, and the letter, to Mr. Thorpe,
after being duly sealed and directed, were
confided for delivery to a private messenger.
They were written on the same day which
had been occupied by Matthew Grice in
visiting Mr. Tatt and Mr. Nawby, at Dib
bledean. And the coincidences of time so
ordered it, that while Zack's letters were
proceeding to their destinations, in the hand
of the messenger, Zack's. fellow-lodger was
also proceeding to his destination in. Kirk
street, by the fast London train.
Baregrove square was nearer to the mes
senger than Valentine's house, so the first
letter that he delivered was that all-import
ant petition for the paternal pardon, on the
favorable reception of which depended
Zack's last chance of reconciliation with
home. Mr. Thorpe sat alone in his dining-parlor
— the same dining-parlor in which, so many
weary years ago, he had argued with old
Mr. Goodworth, about his son's education.
Mrs. Thorpej being confined to her room
by a severe cold, was unable lo keep him
company — the doctor had just taken leave
of him— friends in general were forbidden,
op medical authority, to excite him by
visits — he was left lonely, and he had the
prospect of remaining lonely for the rest of
the day. On the table beneath him was

placed one of his volumes of autograplney
He had ev dently been looking over it t'i?r
see if it wanted any cleansing or repairing,"1
for his litlle bottle of gum-water, his
camel's-hair brush, and his magnifying-,
glass, all lay wilhin reach. That tola.
prostration of the nervous system, from
which the doctor had declared him to be;
now suffering, showed itself painfully from
time to time, in his actions as well as his
looks — in his sudden starlings when an un
expected noise occurred in the house, and
in the trembling of his wan, yellowish-
while hand whenever he lifted it from the
table, as well as in the transparent paleness
of his cheeks, and the anxious unceitainty
of his ever-wandering eyes.
His attenTTbn was just now no longer
directed on his volume of autographs. He
was looking down at an open letter lying
near it — a letter fitted to encourage and
console him, if any earthly hopes could still
speak of happiness to his heart, or any
earthly solace still administer repose to his
mind. ,
But a few days back, his wife's entreaties
and the doctor's advice had at length pre
vailed on him to consult his"health and in
crease his chances of recovery, by resigning
the post of secretary to one of the religious
societies to which he belonged. The letter
he was now looking at, had been written
officially to inform him that ihe members
of the society accepted his. resignation with
the deepest regret, and the most fervent
hopes for his recovery, and to prepare him
for a visit on the morrow from a deputation
charged to present him with an address and
testimonial, unanimously voted by the socie
ty'" in grateful and affectionate recognition
of his high character and eminent services,
while acting as their secretary." He had
not been able to resist the temptation of
showing ihis letter to the doctor ; and he
could not refrain from reading it onee again
now, before he put it back in his desk. It
was, in his eyes, the great reward and the
great distinction of his life.
He was still lingering thoughtfully over
the last sentence, when Zack's letter was
brought in to him. It was only for a mo
ment lhat he had dared to taste again the
sweetness of a well-won triumph — but even
in that moment, there mingled with it the
poisoning bitter of every past association
that could pain him most ! — With a heavy
sigh, he put away the letter from the friends
who honored him, and prepared to answer
tbe letter from the son who had deserted
him. There was grief, but no anger in his face,
as he read it over for the second time. He
sat thinking for a little while — then drew
toward him his inkstand and paper — hes-
i lated — wrote a few lines — and paused again
putting down the pen this time, and cover-


1 98

HIDE AND SEEK.

ing his eyes with his thir. trembling hand.
After sitting thus for some minutes, he
seemed to despair of being able to collect
his thoughts immediately, and to resolve on
giving his mind full time to compose itself.
He shut up his son's letter and his own un
finished reply together in the paper-case.
But there was some reassuring promise
for Zack's future prospects contained even
in the little that he had already written ;
and ihe letter suggested forgiveness at the
/ery outset, for it began with, " My dear
Zachary." On delivering the second note at Valen
tine's house, the messenger was informed
that Mr. Blyth was expected back on the
next day, or on the day after that, at the
latest. Having a discretionary power to
deal as she pleased with her husband's cor
respondence, when he was away from home,
Mrs. Blyth opened the letter as soon as it
was taken up to her. Madonna was in the
room at the time, with her bonnet and
shawl on, just ready to go out for her usual
daily walk, with Patty the housemaid for a
companion, in Valentine's absence.
"Oh, that wretched, wretched Zack!"
exclaimed Mrs. Blyth, looking seriously
distressed and alarmed, the moment her
eyes fell on the first lines of the letter.
" He must be ill indeed," she added, look
ing closely at the handwriting; "for he
has evidently not written this himself."
Madonna could not hear these Words, but
she could see the expression which accom
panied their utterance, and could indicate
by a sign her anxiety to know what had
happened. Mrs. Blyth ran her eye quickly
over the letter, and ascertaining that there
was nothing in it which Madonna might
not be allowed to read, beckoned to the girl
to look over her shoulder, as the easiest
and shortest way of explaining what was
the matter.
" How distressed Valentine will be to
hear of" this !" thought Mrs. Blyth, summon
ing Patty up-stairs by a pull at her bell-
rope, while Madonna was eagerly reading
the letter. The housemaid appeared im
mediately, and was charged by her misiress
to go to Kirk street at once ; and after in
quiring of the landlady about Zack's health,
o get a written list of any comforts he
might want, and bring it back as soon as
possible. "And mind you leave* a mes
sage," pursued Mrs. Blyth, in conclusion,
" to say that he need not trouble himself
about money matters, for your master will
come back from the country, either to
morrow or next day."
Here, her attention was suddenly arrest
ed by Madonna, who was eagerly and even
impatiently signing on her fingers: "What
are you saying to Patty ? Oh ! do let me
know what you are saying to Patty ?"
Mrs. Blyth repeated, •<¦' means of the

deaf-and-dumb alphabet, the instructions
which sh,e had just given to the servant ;
and added — observing the paleness and
agitation of Madonna's face — "Let us not
frighten ourselves unnecessarily, my dear,
about Zack ; he may turn out. to be much.
better than we think him from reading his
letter." "Mayl go with Patty?" rejoined Ma
donna, her eyes sparkling'wiih anxiety, her
fingers trembling as they rapidly formed
tliese words. " Let me take my walk with
Patty, just as if nothing had happened.
Let me go ! pray, let me go !"
" She can't be of any use, poor child,"
thought Mrs. Blyth ; but if I keep her here,
she will only be fretting herself into one of
her violent headaches. Besides, she may
as well have her walk now, for I shan't be
able to spare Patty later in the day." In
fluenced by these considerations, Mrs. Blylh,
by a nod, intimated to her adopted child
that she might accompany the housemaid
to Kirk street. Madonna, the moment this
permission was granted, led the way out
of the room ; but stopped as soon as she
and Patty were alone on the staircase, and,
making a sign that she would be back di
rectly, ran up to her own bed-chamber..
Wfien she entered the room, she unlocked
a little dressing-case that Valentine had
given to her ; and, emptying out of one of
the trays four sovereigns and some silver,
all her savings from-her own pocket-money,
wrapped them up hastily in a piece of
paper, and ran down-stairs to Patty. Zack
was ill, and lonety, and miserable; longing
for a friend to sit by his bedside and comfort
him — and she could not be that friend!
But Zack was also poor ; she had read it in
his letter ; ihere were many little things he
wanted to pay for ; he needed money. — and
in that need she might secretly be a friend to
him, for she had money of her own to give
away. "My four golden sovereigns shall
be the first he "has," thought Madonna,
nervously taking ihe housemaid's offered
arm at the house-door. " I will put them
in some place where he is sure to find them,
and never to know who ihey come from.
And Zack shall be rich again—rich with
all the money, I have got to give him."
Four sovereigns represented quite a little
fortune in Madonna's eyes. It had taken
her a long, long time to save them out of
her small allowance of pocket-money.
When they knocked at the private door
of the tobacco-shop, it was .opened by the
landlady, who, after hearing what their
errand was from Patty, and answering some
preliminary inquiries after Zaclt", politely
invited them to walk into her back parlor.
But Madonna seemed — quite incomprehen
sibly to the servant — to be bent on remain
ing in tbe passage till she had finished
writing some lines which she just then


202

HIDE AND SEEK.

He walked to the fireplace, and rested
nis head and arm on the chimney-piepe —
reflected for a litlle while, in that position
—then stood upright again — and searching
in his pocket, drew from it once more that
fatal lock of hair which he had examined so
anxiously and so often during his past fort
night in the country.
" Your work's done," he said, looking
at it for a moment, as it lay in his hand —
then throwing it into ihe dull red fire which
was now burning low in the grate. " Your
work's done ; and mine won't be long
a-doing." He rested his head and arm
again wearily on the chimney-piece, as he
added : —
"I'm brothers with Zack — that's the hard
part of it ! I'm brothers with Zack."

CHAPTER XVI.
IS HE THE MAN ?

On the forenoon of the day that followed
Mat's return to Kirk street, the ordinarily
dull aspect of Baregrove square was en
livened by a procession of three handsome
private carriages which stopped at Mr.
Thorpe's door. From each carriage there
descended gentlemen of highly respectable
appearance, clothed in shining black gar
ments, and wearing, for the most part,
white cravats. One of these gentlemen
carried ir» his hands a handsome silver ink
stand, and another gentleman who followed
him, bore a roll of glossy paper, tied round
with a broad riband of sober purple hue.
The roll contained an address to Mr. Thorpe,
eulogizing his character in very affectionate
terms — the inkstand was a testimonial to
be presented after the address — and the
gentlemen who occupied the three private
carriages were all eminent members of the
religious society which Mr. Thorpe had
served in the capacity of secretary, and
from which he was now obliged to secede
in consequence of the precarious state of
his health.
A small, orderly, and reverential assem
bly of idle people had collected on the pave
ment to see the gentlemen alight, to watch
them go into the house, to stare at the ink
stand, to wonder at the address, to observe
that Mr. Thorpe's page wore his best livery,
and that Mr. Thorpe's housemaid had on
new cap-ribands and her Sunday gown.
After the street-doeir had been closed, and
these various objects for popular admiration
had disappeared, there still remained an at
traction outside in the square, which elo
quently addressed itself to the general ear.
One of the footmen in attendance on the
e-arriages, had collected many interesting
particulars about the deputation and the

testimonial, and while he related them u
regular order to another footman anxious
for information, the small and orderly pub
lic of idlers stotid round about, and eagerly
caught up any stray words explanatory of
the ceremonies then in progress inside the
house, which fell in their way.
One of the most attentive of these listen
ers was a swanhy-complexioned man wilh
bristling whiskers and a scarred face, who
had made one of the assembly on the pave
ment from the moment of its first congre
gating. He had been almost as much stared
at by the people about him as the deputa
tion itself; and had been set down among
them generally as a foreigner ejf ihe most
outlandish kind — but, in plain truth, he was
English to the back-bone, being no other
than Matthew Grice.
Mat's look, as he stood listening among
his neighbors, was now just as quietly
vigilant, his manner just as gruffly self-
possessed, as usual. Bui it had cost him a
hard struggle that morning, in the solitude
of one of his longest and loneliest walks, to
compose himself — or, in his favorite phrase,
to " get to be his own man again."
To better-instructed minds, the startling
resemblance between Zack's hair and
" Arthur Carr's," and even the last remark
able words which the lad himself had let
drop after waking in the evening, would
not have seemed such absolutely conclusive
proofs as they appeared to the superstitious
mind of Mat. From the moment when he
threw the lock of hair into ihe fire, to the
moment when he was now loitering at Mr.
Thorpe's door, he had never doubled, what
ever others might have done, lhat the man
who had been the»ruin of his sisier, and the
man who was the nearest blood-relation of
the comrade who shared bis roof, and lay
sick at that moment in his bed, were one
and the same. Though he stood now, amid
the casual street spectators, apparently as
indolently curious as the most careless
among them — looking at what they looked
at, listening to what they listened lo, and
leaving the square when they left it — he
was resolved all the time lo watch his first
opportunity of entering Mr. Thorpe's house
that very day ; resolved to investigate
through all its ramifications, the secret
which he had first discovered when the
fragments of Zack's hair were playfully
held up for him to look at in the deaf and
dumb girl's hand.
The dispersion of the idlers on the pave
ment was accelerated, and the footman's
imaginary description of the proceedings
then in progress at Mr. Thorpe's, was cut
short, by the falling of a heavy shower.
The frost after breaking up had been suc
ceeded that year by prematurely mild spring
weather — April seemed to have come a
month before its time.


HIDE AND SEEK.

203

Regardless of the rain, Mat walked
si iwly up and down the streets round
Baregrove square, peering every now and
then, from afar off, through ihe misty
shower, , to see if ihe carriages were siill
drawn up at Mr. Thorpe's door. The
ceremony of presenting the testimonial was
evidently a protracted one ; for the vehicles
were long kept waiting for their owners.
The rain had passed away — the sun had
reappeared — fresh clouds had gathered, and
it was threatening a second shower, before
the deputation from the great religious
society re-entered their vehicles and drove
out of the square.
When they had quitted it, Mat en
tered it again. As he advanced and
knocked at Mr. Thorpe's door, ihe clouds
rolled up darkly oyer the sun, and the first
warning drops of the new shower began
to fall.
The servant hesitated about admitting
him. He had anticipated that this sort of
obstacle would be thrown in his way at the
ouiset, and had provided against it in his
own mind beforehand. " Tell your master,"
he said, " that his son is ill, and I've come
to speak to him about it."
This message was delivered, and had the
desired effect. Mat was admitted into the
drawing-room immediately.
The chairs occupied by the members of
the deputaiion had nol been moved away —
the handsome silver inkstand was on the
table — the address, beautifully written on
the fairest white paper, Jay by it — Mr.
Thorpe stood before ihe fireplace, and bend
ing over toward the table, mechanically
examined for the second time the signatures
attached to the address, while his strange
visiter was being ushered up-slairs.
Mat's arrival had interrupted him just at
the moment when he was going to Mrs.
Thorpe's room, to describe to her ihe pre
sentation ceremony which she had been
prevented by her cold from attending. He
had stopped immediately, and the faint
smile that was on his face had vanished
.from it, when the news of his son's illness
reached him through the servant. But the
hectic flush of triumph and pleasure which
his interview with the deputatior had called
into his cheeks, still colored them as bright
ly as ever, when Matthew Grice enteied
the room.
" You have come, sir," Mr. Thorpe began,
" to tell me — " He hesitated, stammered
out another word or two, then stopped.
Something in the expression of ihe dark and
strange face that he saw lowering at him
under the black velvet skull-cap, suspended
the words on his lips. In his present ner
vous enfeebled state, any sudden emotions
of doubt or surprise, no matter how slight
and temporary in their nature, always
proved too pow?'^ ... r.is self-control, and

betrayed themselves in his speech and man
ner painfully.
Mat said not a word to break the awk ward
silence. Was he at thai moment, in very
truth, standing face to face wilh Arthur
Carr? Could this man — so frail and
meagre, with the narrow chest, the droop
ing figure, the effeminate pink tinge on his
wan wrinkled clieeks — be indeed the man
who had driven Mary to that last refuge,
where the brambles and weeds grew thick,
and the foul mud-pools stagnated, in the
forgotten cornel of the churchyard ?
" You have come, sir," resumed Mr.
Thorpe, controlling himself by an effort
which deepened the flush in his face, " to
tell me news of my son, which I am not
entirely unprepared for. I heard from him
yesterday ; and, though it did no, strike me
at first, I noticed on referring to his letter
afterward, that it was not in his own hand
writing. My nerves are not very strong,
and they have been tried — pleasurably,
most pleasurably tried — already this morn
ing, by such testimonies of kindness, and
affection, and sympathy, as it does not fall
to the lot of many men to earn. May I beg
you, if your news should be of an alarming
nature (which God forbid !) to communicate
it as — "
"My news is this," Mat broke in: "Your
son's been hurt in the head, but he's got
over the worst of it now. He lives with
me ; I like him ; and I mean to take care
of him till he gels on his legs again. That's
my news about your son. But that's not
all I've got to say. I bring you news of
somebody else."
"Will you take a seat, and be good enough
to explain yourself?"
They sat down at opposite sides of the
table, with the testimonial and the address
lying between them. The shower outside
was beginning to fall at its heaviest. The
splashing noise of the rain and the sound of
running lbotsteps, as the few foot-passengers
in the square made for shelter at the top of
their speed, penetrated into the room during
the pause of silence which ensued after
they had taken their seats. Mr. Thorpe
spoke first.
" May I inquire your name ?" he said, in
his lowest and calmest tones.
Mat did not seem to hear the question.
He took up the address from the table, looked
at the list of signatures, and turned to Mr.
Thorpe. " I've been hearing about this," he said.
"Are all them names there, the names of
friends of yours?"
Mr. Thorpe looked a little astonished :
but he answered after a moment of hesita
tion : —
" Certainly ; the most valued friends 1
have in the world."
" Friends," pursued Mat, reading lo


204

HIDE AND SEEK.

nimself the introductory sentence in the
address, " who have put the most affection
ate trust in you."
Mr. Thorpe began to look rather offended
as well as raiher astonished. " Will you
excuse me," he said coldly, " if I beg you
to proceed to the business that has brought
you here."
Mat placed the address on the table again,
immediately in front of him ; and took a
pencil from a tray with writing materials
in it, which stood near at hand. "Friends
' who have put the most affectionate trust
in you,' " he repeated. " The name of one
of them friends isn't here. It ought to be ;
and 1 mean to put it down."
As the point of his pencil touched the
paper of the address, Mr. Thorpe started
from his chair. " What am I to understand,
sir, by this conduct ?" be began haughtily,
stretching out his hand to possess himself
df the address. Mat looked up with the
serpent-glitter in his eyes, and the angry
red tinge glowing in the scars on his cheek.
"Sit down," he said, "I'm not quick at
writing. Sit down, and wait tall I'm done."
Mr. Thorpe's face began lo look a little
agitated. He took a step toward the fire
place, intending to ring the bell. " Sit
down, and wait," Mat reiterated, in quick,
fierce, but quieily-uttered tones of command,
rising from his own chair, and pointing
peremptorily to the seat just vacated by the
master of the house.
A sudden doubt crossed Mr. Thorpe's
mind, and made him pause before he
touched the bell. Could this man be in his
right senses? His actions were entirely
unaccountable — his words and his way of
uttering them were alike strange — his
scarred, scowling face looked hardly human
at that momenf. Would it be well to sum
mon help? No, worse than useless. Except
the page, who was a mere boy, there were
none but women-servants in the house.
When he remembered this, he sat down
again, and at the same moment, Mat began,
clumsily and slowly, to write on the blank
space beneath'the last signature attached to
the address.
The sky was still darkening apace, the
rani was, falling heavily aud more heavily,
as he traced the final letter, and then handed
the paper to Mr. Thorpe, bearing inscribed
on il the name of Mary Grice.
He looked at that name, and his face
changed instantly — he sank down in ihe
jhair — one faint cry burst from his lips —
then he was silent.
Low, stifled, momentary as it was, that
cry proclaimed him to be the man. He
was self-denounced by it even before he
cowered down, shuddering in the chair,
with both his hands pressed convulsively
over his face.
Mat rose to his feet, and spoke ; eying

him pitilessly from head to foot: "Not a
friend of the lotof 'em," he said, pointing
down at the address, " put such affectionate
trust in you, as she did. When first I see
her grave in the strange churchyard, I said
I'd be even with the man who laid .her in
it. I'm here to-day lo be even' with you.
Carr or Thorpe, whichever you call your
self, I know how you used her from first to
last ! Her father was my father ; her name
is my name : you were her worst enemy
three and twenty year ago; you are my
worst enemy now. I'm her brother, Mat
thew Grice !"
As he said this, he involuntarily turned
away his head; foT the hands of the shud
dering figure beneath him suddenly dropped,
and the ghastly uncovered face looked up,
with such a panic stare in the eyes,1 such a
fearful quivering and distorlion of all the
features, lhat il tried even his firmness of
nerve to look at il steadily. He went back
to his chair, and sat down doggedly by the
table, and was silent.
A low murmuring and moaning, amid
which a few disconnected words made
themselves faintly distinguishable, caused
him to look round again. He saw that the
ghastly face was once more hidden. He
heard the disconnected words reiterated,
always in the same stifled wailing tones.
Now and then, a half finished phrase was
audible from behind the withered hands,
still clasped tight over the face. He heard
such fragments of sentences as tliese: —
"Have pity on my wife" — "accept the re
morse of' many years" — "spare me the dis
grace — "
After those four last words, he listened
for no more. The merciless spirit was rous
ed in him again the moment he heard ihem.
" Spare you the disgrace ?" he repeated,
starting to his feet. "Did you spare her?
— Not you !"
Once more the hands dropped ; once more
the ghastly face slowly and horridly con
fronted him. But this time he never re
coiled from it. There was no mercy in him
— none in his looks, none in his tones^-as
he went on :
" What ! it would disgrace you, would
it? Then disgraced you shall be! : You've
kep' it a secret, have you ? You shall tell
that secret to every soul that comes about
the house ! You shall own Mary's disgrace,
Mary's death, and Mary's child, before every
man who's put his name down on that bit
of paper ! — You shall, as1 soon as to-morrow
if I like ! You shall, if: I have to bring ihe
girl with me to make you: if I have to
stand up, hand in hand along with 1 tr, here
on your own — "
He stopped. The cowering figure was
struggling upward from the chair ; one of
the withered hands slowly raised, was
stretching itself out toward him ; the panic


<J06

HIDE AND SEEK.

-jest — in a wager that certain companions
of my own age, who were accustomed to
ridicule my fondness for botanical pursuits,
and often to follow and disturb me when I
went in search of botanical specimens,
jvould not be able to trace and discover me
in my country retreat. I went to Dibble
dean, because the neighborhood was famous
for specimens of rare ferns, which I desired
to possess ; and I took my assumed name
before I went, to help in keeping nte from
being traced and disturbed by my com
panions. My father alone was in ihe secret,
and came to see me once or twice in my
retirement. I have no excuse to offer for
continuing to preserve my false name, at a
time when I was bound to be candid about
myself and my station in life. My conduct
was as unpardonably criminal in this, as it
was in greater things.
" Of what happened at Dibbledean I need
not speak to you — even if shame and re
morse would permit me to write about
it. "My stay at the cottage I had taken,
lasted much longer than my father would
have permitted, if I had not deceived him,
and if he had not been much harassed at
that time by unforeseen difficulties in his
busini'ss as a foreign merchant. These
difficulties arrived at last at a climax, and j
his health broke down under them. His
presence, or the presence of a properly-
qualifieid person to represent him, was ab
solutely required in Germany, where one
of his business-houses, conducted by an
agent, was established. I was his only son ;
he had taken me as a partner into his Lon
don house ; and had allowed me, on the
plea of delicate health, to absent myself
iron my duties for months and months to
gether, and to follow my favorite botanical
pursuit's just as I pleased. When, there
fore, he wrote me word that great part of
his property, and gre.at part, consequently,
of my sisters' fortunes, depended on my
going to Germany (his own health not per
mitting him to take the journey), I had no
choice but to place myself at his disposal
immediately. "I went away, being assured beforehand
that my absence would not last more than
(.bree or four months at the most. I wrote
to your sister constantly ; for though I had
treated her dishonorably and wickedly, no
thought of abandoning her had ever entered
my heart: my dearest hope, at that time,
was the hope of seeing her again. Not one
of my letters was answered. I was detain
ed in Germany beyond the time during
which I had consented to remain there ;
and, in the excess of my anxiety, I even
ventured to write twice to your father.
Those letters also remained unanswered.
When I at last got/back to England, I im
mediately sent a person on whom I could

rely to Dibbledean to make ine inquiries
which I dreaded to make myself. Mv
messenger was turned from your doors',
with the fearful news of your sister's fiigh
from home and of her death.
" It was then I first suspected that my
letters had been tampered with. It was
then, too, when the violence of my grief
and despair had a litlle abated, that the
news of your sister's flight inspired me, foi
the first time, wilh a suspicion of ihe con
sequence which had followed the commis
sion of my sin. It may seem strange to
you that this suspicion should not have oc
curred lo me before. It would seem so no
longer, perhaps, if I detailed to you ihe pe
culiar system of home-education by which
my father, strictly and conscientiously, en
deavored to preserve me — as other young
men are not usually preserved — from the
moral contaminations of the world. But it
would be useless to dwell on this now. No
explanations can alter the evenls of the
guilty and miserable past.
"Anxiously — though privately, and in
fear and trembling — I caused such inquiries
to be made as I hoped might decide the
question whether the child existed or not.
They were long persevered in, but they
were useless — useless, perhaps, as I now
think with bitter sorrow, because I truslei1
them to others, and had not the courage U
make them openly myself.
" Two years after that time I married
under circumstances not of an ordinary kin*
— what circumstances, you have, however
no claim to know. That part of my life is
my secret and my wife's, and belongs lo us
aloite. " I have now dwelt long enough for your
information on my own guilty share in the
events of the past. As to the present and
the future, I have still a word or two le/t
to say.
" You have declared that I shall expiate,
by the exposure of my shameful secret be
fore all my friends, the wrong your sister
suffered at my hands. My life has been
one long expiation for that wrong. My
broken health, my altered character, my
weary, secret sorrows unpartaken and un-
consoled, have punished me for many years
past more heavily than you think. Do you
desire to see me visited by more poignant
sufferings than these ? If it be so, you may
enjoy the vindictive triumph of having al
ready inflicted them. Your threats — which
I firmly believe you are the man to execute
to the letter — will force me, in a few hours,
from the social world I have lived in, at the
very time when the affection shown to me
and the honor conferred on me, by my dear
est friends, have made that world most pre
cious to my heart. They will force me
from this, and from more — for ihey will
force me from my home, at the moment


HIDE AND SEEK.

207

when my son has affectionately entreated
me to take him back to my fireside.
" These trials, heavy as they are, I am
ready to endure, if, by accepting ihem hum
bly, I may be deemed to have made some
atonement for my sin. But more I have
not the fortitude to meet. I can not face
the exposure wilh which you are about to
overwhelm me. The anxiety — perhaps I
ought to say the weakness — of my life has
been, to win and keep ihe respect of others.
You are about, by disclosing the crime which
dishonored my youih, to deprive me of my
good fame. 1 can lei it go without a strug
gle, as part of the punishment lhat I have
deserved ; but I have not the courage to
wait and see you take it from me. My own
sensations tell me that I have not long to
live; my own convictions assure me lhat I
can not fitly prepare myself for death, until
I am far removed from worldly interests
and worldly terrors — in a word, from the
horror of an exposure which I have de
served, but which, at the end Of my weary
life, is mure than I can endure. We have
seen the last of each oilier in this world.
To-night I shall be beyond the reach of your
retaliation ; for to-nig»t I shall be journey
ing to the retreat in which the short remain
der of my life will be hidden from you, and
from all men.
" It now only remains for me to advert to
the two enclosures contained in this letter.
"The first is addressed io Mr. Blyth. I
leave it to reach his hands through you, be
cause I dare not, for very shame, communi
cate with him directly, as from myself. If
what you said about my child be the truth
— and I can not dispute it — then, in my ig
norance of her indemnity, in my estrange
ment frum the house of her protector since
she first entered it, I have unconsciously
commit, ed sujIi an offence against Mr. Blyth
as no coiuritton can ever adequately atone
for. Nuw, indeed, I feel how presumptuous
ly merciless my bi.ter conviction ofthe tur
pitude of my own sin has made me toward
what I deemed like sins in others. Now
also I know that, unless you have spoken
falsely, I was guilty, the very last time Mr.
BIyih entered my house, of casting ihe
shame of my own deserted child in ihe
teeth of the very man who had nobly and
tenderly given her an asylum in his own
home ! The unutterable horror and anguish
which only ihe bare suspicion of this inflict
ed on me, might well have been my death.
I marvel eveu now at my own recovery
from it.
"You are free, if you wish it, to look at
the letter to Mr. Blyth which I now intrust
to you. Besides the expression of my shame,
my sorrow, and my sincere repenance, it
con tains some questions, to which Mr.Blyth,
in his Christian kindness, will, I doubt not,
readily write answers. The questions only

refer to the matter ol the child's identity,
and the address I have written down at the
end, is that of the house of business of my
lawyer and agent in London. He will for
ward the document to me, and will then
arrange with Mr.Blyth the manner in whicfc.
a fit provision from my property may be
best secured to his adopted child. He has
deserved her love ind to him I gratefully
and humbly leave uer. For myself, I am
not worthy even to look upon her face.
" The second enclosure is meant for my
son ; and is to be delivered, in the event of
your having already disclosed to him ihe
secret of his father's guilt. But, if you have
not done this — if any mercy toward me has
entered into your heart, and pleads wilh il
for pardon and for silence — then destroy the
letter, and tell him that he will find a com
munication waiting for him at the house of
my agent. He wrote to ask my pardon :
he has it freely. Freely, in my turn, I
hope to have his forgiveness for severities
exercised toward him, which were honestly
meant to preserve him betimes from ever
falling as his father fell, but which I now
fear were persevered in too hardly and loo
long. I have suffered for this error, as for
others, heavily — more heavily, when he
abandoned his home, than I should ever
wish him to know. You said he lived with
you, and that you were fond of him. Be
gentle wilh him, now that he is ill, for his
mother's sake.
" My hand grows weaker and weaker : I
can write no more. In penitence, in grief,
and in shame, I now ask your pardon : if
you ever grant it me, then I ask also your
prayers." With this the letter ended.
Matthew sat holding it open in his hand
for a little while. He looked round once
or twice at the letter from Mr. Thorpe to
his son, which lay close by on the table —
but did not destroy it — did not so much as
touch it even.
Zack spoke to him before long from the
inner room : —
" I'm sure you must have done reading
your letter by ibis time, Mat. I've been
thinking, old fellow, of the talk we used lo
have about going back to America together,
and trying a litlle buffalo-hun ting and roam
ing ab^ut in the wilds. If my father lakes
me into favor again, and can be got to say
' Yes,' I should so like to go with you, Mat !
Not for too long, you know, because of my
mother, and my friends over here. But a
sea-voyage, and a litlle scouring about in
what you call the lonesome places, would
do me such good ! I don't feel as if I should
ever settle properly to anything, till Pve
had my fling. I'm afraid I sha'n't do, till
I've had the devil taken out of me, just as
one lakes it out of a horse, by a thundering


208

HIDE AND SEEK.

good run. I wonder whether my father
would let me go?"
" I know he would, Zack."
"You! How?"
"I'll tell you how another time. You
shall have your run, Zack ; you shall have
your heart's content along wilh me." As
he said this, he looked again at Mr. Thorpe's
letter to his son, and took it up in his hand
this time.
"Oh, how I wish I was strong enough
to start ! Come in here, Mat, and let's talk
about it."
" Wait a bit, and I will." Pronouncing
these words, he rose from his chair, and
dropped the letter into the fire.
" What can you be about all this time in
there?" asked young Thorpe.
" Do you call to mind," said Mat, going
into the bedroom, and sitting down by the
lad's pillow — "do you call to mind me
saying that I'd be brothers with you, when
first us two come together? Well, Zack,
I've been trying to be as good as my word."
" Trying ? How do you mean ? I don't
undersland, old fellow."
"Nevermind: you'll make it out better
some day. Let's talk about getting aboard
ship, and going a buffalo-hunting, now."
They discussed the projected expedition,
until Zack grew sleepy. As he fell off into
a pleasant doze, Mat went back into the
front room ; and, taking from the table Mr.
Thorpe's letter to Mr. Blyth, left Kirk street
immediately for the painter's house.
It had occurred to Valentine to unlock
his bureau twice since his return from the
country, but on neither occasion had he
found it necessary to open lhat long, narrow
drawer at the back, in which he had se
creted the hair bracelet years ago. He was
consequently still totally ignorant that it had
been taken away from him, when Matthew
Grice entered the painting-room, and qui
etly put it into his hand.
Consternation and amazement so thor
oughly overpowered him, that he suffered
his visiter to lock tbe door against all intru
ders, and then to lead him peremptorily to
a chair, without uttering a single word of
inquiry or expostulation. All through the
narrative, on which Mat now entered, he
sat totally speechless, until Mr. Thorpe's
letter was placed in his hands, and he was
informed that Madonna was still to be left
entirely under his own care. Then, for the
first lime, his cheeks showed symptoms of
returning to their natural color, and he ex
claimed fervently, "Thank God ! I sha'n't
lose her, after all ! I only wish you had
begun by telling me of that the moment you
came into the room !"
Saying this, he began to read Mr. Thorpe's
letter. When he had finished it, and looked
up at Mat, the tears were in his eyes. " It's
so shocking," said the kind-hearted painter,

" that he should write to me in such terms
of humiliation as these, and doubt if I can
forgive him, when he has a right to my
everlasting gratitude for not breaking my
heart by asking me to part with our darling
child — for I must call her ours still. They
never met — he has never, never, seen her
face," continued Valentine, in lower and
fainter tones. "She always wore her veil
down by my wish, when we went out, and
our walks were generally into the country,
instead of town way. I only once remem
ber seeing him coming toward us ; and ihen
I crossed the road with her, knowing we
were not on terms. There's something
dreadful about the father and daughter
Jiving so near each other, yet being — if one
may say so — so far, so very far apart. . It's
dreadful to think of that — more dreadful
still to think of its having been her hand
which held up the hair for you to look at,
and her little innocent action which led to
the shocking discovery of who her fathei
really was !"
" Do you ever mean to let her know as
much about it as we do ?" asked Matthew.
The look of dismay began to appear again
in Valentine's face. "Have you told Zack,
yet ?" he inquired, nervously and eagerly.
" No," said Mat ; " and don't you !
When Zack's on his legs again, he's going
to lake a voyage, and get a season's hunting
along with me in the wild country over the
water. I'm as fond of the lad, as if he was
a bit of my own flesh and blood. I cottoned
to him when he hit out so hearty for me at
the singing-shop — we've been brothers to
gether ever since. I've spared Zack'sfather
for Zack's sake ; and I don't ask no more
reward for it, than to take the lad a-hunting
for a season or two along with me. When
he comes back here, and we say 'gotel-by,'
I'll tell him all what's happened; but 1
won't risk bringing so much as a cross Iook
into his eyes now, by dropping a word to
him of what's passed betwixt his father
and me."
Although this speech excited no litlle
surprise and interest in Valentine's mind, it
did not succeed in suspending the anxieties
which had been awakened in him by
Matthew's preceding question, and which
he now began to feel the necessity of con- ¦
tiding to Mrs. Blyth — his grand counsellor
in all difficulties, and unfailing comforter in
all troubles. "Do you mind waiting here?"
he said, " while I go up-stairs, and break
this strange and fearful news to my wife.
I should wish to be guided entirely by hel
advice in meeting the very serious difficulty
in relation to the poor dear child, which you
have just suggested to me. Do you minr1
waiting?" Yes: Matthew would willingly wait.
Hearing this, Mr. Blyth left the room
directly.


HIDE AND SEEK.

311

than they have been for many a long year
past, and the clear tones of her voice — al
ways ctieerful— have a joyous sound in them
now. Ever since the first days of the spring
season, she has been gaining so greatly in
health and strength, that the "favorable
turn" has taken place in her malady, which
was spoken of as " possible" by the doctors
long ago, at the time of her first sufferings.
She has several times, for the last fortnight,
been moved from her couch for a few hours
to a comfortable seat near the window ; and
if the fine weather still continues, she is to
be taken out, in a day or two, for an airing
in an invalid-chair.
The prospect of this happy event, and ihe
pleasant expectation of Zack's return, have
made Valentine more gayly talkative and
more nimbly restless than ever. As he
skips discursively about the room at this
moment, talking of all sorts of subj.-cts, and
managing to mix art up with every one of
them — dressed in the old, jauny frock-coat
with ihe short tails, and the famous tight
trousers which rigidly follow his form, and
which Trimboy the tailor can never cut out
firoperly, except when he is drunk — he
ooks, if possible, raiher younger, plumper,
rosier, and brisker, than when lie was first
introduced to the reader. It is wonderful,
when people are really youthful at heart,
to see how easily the girdle of Venus fils
them, and how long they contrive to keep
it on, without ever wearing it out !
Mrs. Peckover, arrayed in festively-flaring
cap-ribands, sits cfose to the window to get
all the air she can, and tries to make more
of it by fanning herself with the invariable
red cotton pocket-handkerchief to which she
has been all her life attached. In bodily
circumference she has not lost an inch of
rotundity ; suffers, in consequence, consid
erably from ihe heat ; and talks to Mr. Blyth
wilh parenthetical paniings, which do not
reflect much credit on the cooling influence
of ihe breeze, or the ventilating properties
of the pocket-handkerchief fan.
Madonna sits opposite to her at the win
dow — as cool and pretty a contrast as can
be imagined, in her white muslin dress and
light, rose-colored ribands. She is looking
at Mrs. Peckover, and smiling every now
and then at the comically-languishing faces
made by that excellent woman to express to
"little Mary" the extremity of her suffer
ings from the heat. The whole length of
the wiiidow-sill is occupied by an iEolian
harp — one of the many presents which Val
entine's portrait-painting expeditions have
enabled him to offer to his wife. Madon
na's hand is resting lightly on the box of
the harp ; for, by touching it in this way,
she becomes sensible to the influence of its
louder and higher notes when the rising
breeze draws them out. This is the only
pleasure she can derive from music ; and it
is?lwavs. during the summer and autumn

evenings, one of the amusements .hat she
enjoys in Mrs. Blyth's room.
Mrs. Thorpe, in the course of her conver
sation with Mrs. Blyth, has been reminded
of a letter to one of her sisters, which she
has not yet completed, and goes to her own
room to finish it — Valentine running to open
the door for her wilh the nimblest juvenile
gallantry, then returning to the window
and adtlressing Mrs. Peckover. " Hot as
ever, eh? Shall I get you one of Lavvie's
fans ?" says Mr. Blyth.
" No, lhank'ee, sir — I ain't quite meltee
yet," answers Mrs. Peckover. "But I'L.
tell you what I wish you would do for me.
I wish you would read me Master Zack's
lasl letter. You promised, you know, sir."
" And I would have performed my prom
ise before, Mrs. Peckover, if Mrs. Thorpe
had not been in the room. There are pas
sages in the letter which it might revive
very painful remembrances in her to bear.
Now she is not here, however, I have not
the least objection to read, if you are ready
to listen."
Saying this, Valentine takes a letter from
his pocket. Madonna, recognising it, asks
by a sign if she may look oyer his shoulder
and read it for the second lime. The re
quest is granted immediately. Mr. Blyth
makes her sit on his knee, puts his arm
round her waist, and begins to read aloud
as follows : —
" My Dear Valentine : Although I am
writing to you to announce my return, I can
not say that I take up my pen in good spir
its. It is not so long since I picked up my
last letters from England that luld me of
my lather's dealh. But, besides lhat, I have
had a heavy trial to bear, in hearing the
dreadful secret, which you all kept from
me when it was discovered ; and afterward
in parting, I am afraid for ever, from Mat
thew Grice.
" What I felt when I knew the secret,
and heard why Mat and all of you had kept
it from me, I may be able to tell you ; but
I can not and dare not write about it. You
may be interested to hear how my parting
with Matthew happened; and I will relate
it to you, as well as I can. You know,
from my other letters, all the glorious hunt
ing and riding we have had, and the thou
sands of miles of country we have been
over, and the wonderful places we have
seen. Well, Bahia (the place I now write
from) has been the end of our travels. It
was here I told Mat of my father's dealh :
and he directly agreed with me that it was
my duty to go home, and comfort my poor,
dear mother, by the first ship that sailed
for England. After we had settled that, he
said he had something serious to tell me, and
asked me to go with him northward half a
day's march along the seacoast, saying we
could talk together quietly as we went alonf