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VANITY FAIR, a New Edition. SmaU 8vo, price 6s. in cloth. THE HISTORY OF SAMUEL TITMARSH AND THE GREAT IIOGGARTY niA.MONI). In One Volume. Small 8vo. Price 4s., with Ten Illustrations on Steel. A New Edition. Works by Mark Lemon. PROSE AND VERSE. Fcap. Svo. Price 4». cloth. THE ENCHANTED DOLL. A Fairy Tale for Young People. Illustrated by Richard Dovle. Price 3*. M. in boards. BRADBURY AND EVANS, II, BOUVERIE STREET. Bradbury & Eyans, Printers, Whitefriars. / ' -^ 2^-^ . ^^.^ /^;7 '^'■' >^ ^ -?/• ^>^, /'-- ■■- THE WRITINGS OF DOUGLAS JERROLD. COLLECTED EDITION. VOLUME IV. CAKES AND ALE. CAKES AND ALE. BV DOUGLAS JERROLD. LONDON : BRADBURY AND EVANS, 11, BOUYERIE STREET. 1852. LONDOS : BBADBUBT AND BVAKS, PRINTEKS, WH1TIFB1AK8. PREFACE. Cakes and Ale are of many-sorted flour, and many-sorted barley. Then there are the spices, the condiments, the milk, and honey and eggs, that give character and individuality to the great family of Cakes ; and then there is the born faculty of the cake- maker — for do not certain babies come into the world with a hand for a light crust ? — the faculty bestowed by housewife Nature on her favourite little ones ; bounteously touched with a delicacy of palm and finger, denied to so many of her clay-fisted pixjgeny. With the same flour, and the same milk and eggs and spices, how diflerent may be the grand result of combination, the Cake ! — From one hand, how light and melting — from another, dead dough ! Even as to two men lie open the same stores of mother English ; the very self-same words in self-same quantities : yet what very different Cakes — that is. Books — the two men will compound therefrom. And as with Cakes, so with Ale. Let there be the same barley, the same hops, the same water impregnated with the same properties, and — two brewers ! What is this ? Melted topaz, liquid amber, — with here and there just a filament of hop ; no, not hop ; but the feather of the wing of a fairy flail-killed PREFACE. while sleeping in the beard of the venerable barley. And what is this ? Sour puddle : doomed by Zeus — struck flat by thunder- bolt ? Not so : nothing but the thick brains of the uninspired brewer. As with ale, so with bookman's ink. One pen shall make the fluid sparkle with sparks immortal ; another shall make it mud. Cakes of several sorts are here set forth : Ales of various kinds. What they may be to the taste, it is for the taster to pro- nounce. It was the property of manna — writes a certain Doctor — that it tasted in the mouth of the eater of whatsoever thing the eater willed. Goodnature and a willingness to be pleased may in like manner in some degree assist him or her who would eat a cake. He may at first reject its flavour ; yet afterwards endure, commend it. Dear lady, did you ever try to eat an olive ? Yes — and couldn't abide it. No ; and doubtless for this reason ; you did not womanfuUy try to eat it : otherwise you would have found that, with a perseverance of chewing — (even Venus and Diana must chew) — would have come a sweet, nourishing flavour, in no way a part of the salt, acrid touch that stung your mouth, and suddenly puckered your lips like a rosebud. Thus it may be with one of the stories — that is, one of the Cakes — before you. It may at first seem sharp, but go on, encourage yourself to taste it — chew it. And for the Ales, — do not pronounce them all bitter. They are of various kinds ; flat, weak, and poor, if you will ; but if any of them be decidedly bitter, do not think the bitterness that of wormwood, but of hop that has grown in sun — yes, and in rain ; of hop that had far better never have been if, although it may have a bitter taste in the mouth, it carry not some tonic warmth to the heart. And so, gentles all, whether you taste the Cakes and Ale set before you in summer garden or by winter fire, — may the trees ». 4 PREFACE. still wave harmony to your thoughts, and the flowers look glad- ness in your eyes, — may the sea-coal fire crackle lusty dtfiance to the cold without, and the cricket chirp the louder as the wind rises at the fasement. On the first publication of this collection of stories and essays it was IDrticatrt ta THOMAS HOOD ; A WRITER WHOSE VARIOUS PBN TOUCHED ALIKE THE 8PEIN0S OP LAUGHTER, ASl) THE SOUnCE OF TEAB3. This humble offering is herewith renewed ; with the expres- sion of a regret, that it was necessary for Tliomas Hood still to do one thing, ere the wide circle and the profound depth of his genius were to the full acknowledged : that one thing was — to die. London, September 11, 1852. CONTENTS. — ♦ — fage The Lesson of Life 1 Perditds Mutton ; who Bought a Caul . . . . 86 The Mayor of Hole-Cum-Corneb 108 The Romance of a Key-Hole 130 Mr. Peppercorn "At Home" 163 The Preacher Parrot 190 The Lives of Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson . . 206 Shakspeare at " Bankside " 260 The Wine Cellar. A " Morality " 264 Kind Cousin Tom 270 The Manager's Pig 278 The Tapestry Weaver of Beauvais 284 The Genteel Pigeons 290 Shakspeare in China 312 The Order of Poverty 319 A Gossip at Reculvers 327 The Old Man at the Gate 333 The Epitaph of Sir Hugh Evans 337 CAKES AND ALE. tii:e lesson of life. CHAPTER I. An old, white-haired man watched at the bedside of his sleeping lord. The room, richly appointed, gave token of the voluptuous tastes, the unbounded wealth of its possessor. Gor- geous hangings, stiff with gold, adorned the walls — odours of precious price burned in the chamber. It was near noon, and still the master slept : the old man, with folded hands and saddening face, sighed as he gazed upon him. " Hush ! " cried the watcher, and hurried from the bed as a youth rushed into the chamber — " Hush ! softly — softly, for your life. Our master sleeps." " I'll not believe it — I can't believe it," cried the youth indignantly, and he sought to approach the bed. " Ernest ! boy ! what wouldst do ? " exclaimed the old man, vainly endeavouring to hold the intruder. " I pray thee, pause — what wouldst do ? " " Be satisfied he cannot sleep," replied Ernest, " or, if indeed he can, behold an awful sight, a bad man in his dreams. Look !" and the youth approached the bed, and smiling bitterly, pointed to his master. " Hush I I told you he did sleep." " Sleep ! " echoed the youth, and still he pointed to the distorted features, the writhing limbs of the dreamer. " Alack ! " cried the attendant, " some fearful dream, — or " " See," and, grasping the old man, the youth held him B CAKES AND ALE. motionless — " see, how his throat works as if some snake were romid it — mark, how his feet dig into the bed, and his reeking hands gripe the covering ! Look, how his face grows bruised and livid ! Big drops run down it, — and now his gnashing teeth grin out in horrid whiteness." " Alack ! " cried the old man, and he strove to free himself from the grasp of Ernest — " alack ! 'tis terrible — I will awake him." " No I " exclaimed the boy resolutely. " Boy ! see you not it is some vision that so shakes him ? " " It is — let it work," said Ernest. " Let the tyrant lie and howl beneath the scourge. His victims are not altogether unavenged by such dreams." " In all my days I never saw such horror. What, ho ! Master," cried the old man. " Peace ! " said Ernest, and still he grasped the aged man. " For the love of charity," cried the old servant ; and he pointed towards his suffering master. " Peace ! " replied Ernest, " peace and listen. Charity ! Old man, hadst thou seen the. sight I have quitted, thou wouldst let him shriek upon a bed of fire, — ay, when one syllable from thee might raise him." " Wliat sight — tell me, for your looks are savage, terrible — good boy, what sight ] " " 'Tis to own fealty to the devil to eat this tj'rant's bread," cried Ernest, moved by the recollection of the scene he had quitted. " From this hour I cast it from me." "Take counsel, — think again, boy. But what hasl thou seen — tell me, what hast seen ? " " First tell me, how long has thy master, the sleeper there, dwelt among us," asked Ernest. " Thou kuowest well, boy ; 'tis nine years and odd," replied the old servant. " What then ? " " And then, as I remember, the land was full of the best beauty of this earth — the happy homes of a contented poor. And now — why, had some monster that we meet in fable fallen among the people, could they be more scattered, harried, desolate ?" " True boy," and the old man groaned — " too true ! " " Hath he not," and the youth spoke in deepest passion, his eyes flashing, his features burning as he told the tale, " hath he not oppressed the weak — mocked at the wretched — ay, made sport of the affliction which he himself hath wrought ? The poor man's eyes looks blight upon him — the poor man's lip throbs with the unuttered cui-se." THE LESSON OF LIFE. " Thy story, lad— thy story ? " " Listen," said Ernest, and he struggled for self-composure. " Dost know a woodman, who dwells — dwelt, I may say — at tho edge of the forest ? " " Surely do I," answered the old man, " Eupert, an honest toilsome man." " A patient, sober, uncomplaining drudge. Well, this poor wretch — his sleeping worship there hath willed it — with cares, of wife and children beating at his heart — is flung from out his home — hunted like a wild beast from its den." " It cannot be," — cried the old servant, — " by his worship's order ? " " Such is his mercy," said Ernest, bitterly. " And in tliis pitiless weather ! " " Ay, in troth, pitiless," answered Ernest. " The frozen earth tinkles like iron, — and the nortli wind cuts to the very marrow of a man. "What then ? His worship's heart and spirit ai-e of the season." " But," asked the old man with a bewildered look, " but the woodman Eupert, — hath he not done some wrong, some hasty crime that almost passes mercy ? " " Thou hast been a father," — " Oh, lad ! " cried the old man, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and his withei"ed frame trembled — " Oh, lad ! thou didst not mean it — but with a word thou hast placed my buried boy before my face. I was a father." " Picture thy boy," said the impassioned youth, " a piece of laughing, happy childhood, writhing on the earth, shrieking in the jaws of a fierce hound — well, a weapon near, thou wouldst slay the brute " " Eend it with my hands !" exclaimed the old man. " Thou wouldst have killed the hound ? Well, such has been the crime of Eupert ; and his punishment for a slain bloodhound that would have killed his child — ('twas a favourite hound, and so the otfence outstrips compassion) — is a roofless hut — a ravaged home." " It cannot be — I wiU not believe it — our master hath heard the story fi'om some slanderous tongue," — said the old ser- vant. " 'Tis goodness in you to think so," replied Ernest, " but 'tis not so. This day ends my service with him — this — hark ! " and the youth paused at a low knocking at the chamber door. " Hush ! 'tis not yet noon — he must not be awakened — stay here," — and the old man tottered from the room to answer the summons. Ernest turned to the bed, and with bitter satisfaction B 2 CAKES AND ALE. gazed on the convulsed frame of the dreamer, heard with bitter pleasure Iiis half-stifled moans and sobs. In a few minutes, the old man, with astonished looks, returned to the chamber. " God help us ! " he cried, " 'tis true — too true ! Poor wretch ! He is come to beg for mercy — he is come to ask for leave to tarry in the forest. Poor Rupert ! a simple, honest soul." " He will not listen to him — he will not " " Hark !" said the old man, as the chimes sounded from the neighbouring church — " hark ! 'tis noon." " Not so. I think it wants an hour," said Ernest ; and he placed himself before the old man, who sought to wake his master. " I say, 'tis noon," cried the old man — " Listen, boy, listen '* " OxE," — and Eniest told the first stroke of the clock " Two," — and the old man counted. " TlIREK," " Four," « Five," « Six," " Seven " Leaving the domestics counting the hours, we beg the reader to quit with us the chamber of affluence for the home of affliction. CHAPTER II. It was winter in its most savage mood. The tops of the forest-trees were heaped with snow — the earth was hard as granite — and the wind howled like a wounded monster thro'igh the wood. Desolation seemed at the very heart of tilings. Such was the season, when a woman with a child upon her knees, sat in the ruin of an imroofed hut. She did not weep, but looked as though the tears were frozen in her eyes. Misery never crouched itself in a more squalid, miserable comer. As the child sobbed, the mother bent her face, and muttered comfort to it ; then cast her eyes upwai-ds, and shook her head at the unpitying heaven. " May the dry sticks they've taken from us roast 'em I " — cried a lad, lying on his belly at the hearth, and blowing with his mouth among some twigs wet with the snow. THE LESSON OF LIFE. " 'Twill kindle yet," said the woman languidly. " The wood is green, and hisses like a snake. Dame," and here the boy, turning his head showed a vacant, lumpish face, in which cunning would mix itself with wilduess, — " dame, I think they've left their hearts in the logs," and the cold, blue, staring eyes of the boy gleamed, and, jilaciug his fingers in his matted flaxen hair, he stared and chuckled. " My chiKl — my child ! " cried the woman. The boy tluiig himself down again, again puffed, and blew among the sodden, smoking sticks, — "Ho! it will blaze yet," he cried — " it will blaze ! Ugh ! it's out ! " and he turned I himself round, and, raising himself ujwn his knees, cried ( suddenly, " Not a spark, d.-uue — nut a spark." I " No no, Swithin — 'twill burn," said the mother. " Yes," and the boy leered at his mistress, " if the good fairies will Clime and blow it. Swithin can do no more; "and he ruse, and almost burying one of his hands in his mouth, he blew at it, and violently beat the other at his side. " He will die ! — my cliild will die ! " crieil the mother. " Ha ! ha !" and the idiot grinned and jumped. " Why, why do you laugh / " asked the woman, angrily. Swithin's eyes were blue and bright as burning sulphur, and he chuckled forth — " To think what I would do should little Stephen die ! " " What would you do ? " said the woman. "Ha! ha I ha! I'd send his woi-shiji mad. Ha! ha! Mad — mad — mad ! Dame, I'd sit at his golden gate with the corpse on my knees ! I'd run after his bright coach with the corpse at my back ! I'd face him at the church door with the corpse in my arms. Ho ! ha ! ha ! " and the simpleton rubbed hLs hands. " Peace ! you are mad again," said the woman ; " peace, and try once more." " For what," asked the boy, with his usual sullen look ; " for what, I ask I You might as well think to fire Witch Margery's broomstick." " You will not do it — you will not ? Tell me," cried the mother, with emotion, " tell me ? — the roof they've torn from our heads, how long did it shelter you ? " " Eh ? " asked the boy, and his features darkened, and he stood looking at the ends of his fingers, the tears dropping upon them. " Ha ! ha ! I only took a bit of rest, dame ; the smoke has set my eyes a running ; " and instantly he turned to the hearth, and, flinging himself down, again blew among the embers. " 'TwiU burn soon," said the boy ; " very soon, now — very soon." " No, no, no," exclaimed the woman, who, having laid down CAKES AND ALE. the cliild, stood behind the boy. " The fire is dead — dead as the world's charity. God be witli us ! " " Amen — amen ! " cried a deep, manly voice ; and Kupert, the woodman, again stood before his ruin of a home. " Husband," cried the wife, " hast been to the mansion ? " " Ay," answered the man, and he folded his arms and groaned. " Eupert ! " shrieked the woman. " Why, what's the matter 1 " " You look as you never did look before," and the woman gazed fearfully in the f:xcc of her hu.sband. " It is your face, indeed — but not your eye ; your lip, but not the smile that I have seen there." " I am changed, then ? " asked Rupert in a hollow tone. " Your voice, too ! Oh, call me Edith — say Edith ! " and the woman wound her arms about her husband's neck, and looked into his eyes as though she would have looked into his brain, "Say Edith!" " Edith ! " " 'Tis not the voice I have hciird before ! " cried the woman, and she became white as death. " Am I alone then ? " " Edith," said Rupert, " I am changed : my walk hath made me a new man." " Thou hast seen his worship then ? He has forgiven all — will let x;s stay here ? Is it not so 1 " The husband placed his arm around his wife, and, Mith the face and tone of a man determined, spoke to her. " Thou dost know every path of the forest, Edith. Well — choose, girl. Choose, I say — they are all befure us ! " " No hope ? " exclaimed the wife. " For six-aud-thirty years," said Rupert, " I have lived a fool — have been an honest slave. I have traded with honesty, and what is my estate ? " " Not a log," cried Swithin, with a chuckle — " not a log ! " " A roofless hut and a cold hearth," said Rupert. " More, Rupert, more," said Edith, passionately : " you have the respect, the good word of many." " True, I had forgot," said Rupert. " Swithin, boy ! " " Goodman, master," answered the lad, and approached the woodman. " So, boy," asked Rupert, " thou art hungry ? " Swithin stared at his master, opened and shut his jaws, and, hugging himself, said, in a low grunt — " Could bark an oak." " But thou hast heard," said Eupert, "the praise of thy good dame. The good word of honest people " THE LESSON OF LIFE. " Should like an onion and some barley-bread," cried Swithin, and he smacked his lips. " Nay," said Rupert, " " t«ll me, Swithin, how lon^ dost think thou couldst live uj)on respect ? " Swithin ^buckled, rubbed his sides with his elbows, and answered — " All tlie days of my life — witli mutton." " Peace, fool — peace ! " cried Edith to tlie half-witted boy. " Husband, I will not hear this." " Will the woman drive me mad ? Wliat's left us ? Good words — resjject !" shouted Rupert, and he looked wildly around him. He then hid his face in his hands, and walked rapidly to and fro. Then he paused, and, in a trembling voice, asked " How's the child ? " " Sleeps," cried Swithin, from the hut. " Look, Edith— look ! " cried Rupert ; "he knows not if it be sleep or — or — " — and, with his back to the hut, his face hajrgard with dread, the father listened. " Will the woman never speak I Edith ! " " He sleeps soundly," said Edith. " Soundly ! " echoed Rupert, " soundly ! " " I see the poor man's angel at his head," said Swithin, staring at the child. " The poor man's angel, boy ! " said Edith. " What fully dost thou talk ? " " The poor man's angel,'' repeated Swithin, earnestly : " what other augel would come in weather such as tliis — in such a hole as this — with not a roof to cover him — not a crumb to lay in his platter ? I have met angels in the forest ; have talked to them ; heard them call me from the trees : but then I was little — little as Stejjhen : I never see them now, and why ? I've grown so old — so very old ! 'Tis only when we're little things that angels play with ua." Rupert walked distractedly to and fro : then, pausing and meeting the looks of his wife, he exclaimed in a tone of helpless miser\'— " Edith— wife — what's to be done ] " " Thou hast entreated of him — begged of his worship " " I saw him not ; I was chased like a dog from his gate : a vow was at my tongue — I almost swore a lasting warfare upon all." " A good oath — a right good oath — had it been taken ! " exclaimed a voice ; and Edith, turning towards the speaker, scarcely suppressed a shriek as she recoiled from the glance of the intruder ; he saw the terror, the loathing of the woman, and met it with a spirit of banter. " Why, my good dame, shall I never grow into your good graces ? Humph ! I have seen my CAKES AND ALE. face in a stream, and, if I have seen better, truly I have seen worse." " What seek you here ? " asked Eupert of the stranger, " So, so, — 'tis time, then," said the visitor, staring at the roofless hut, the squalid wretchedness before him. " A pretty picture, i'faith — man's mercy towards man — a moving sight ! " " What seek you here ? " again asked Rupert. " You," replied the stranger. " Hearken not to him," whispered Edith, who had crept close to her husband. " I sicken at his looks — tremble at his voice. Our miseiy is great, but take no aid from him." " What says your honest woman ? " asked the stranger. " I see — she likes not my face : well, well, we shall be better friends in good time." " You have sought me. I am here — for the third time we have met. What would you with me ? " and Ilupert advanced to the stranger. " I came in pity to you. I would not see a bold, brave man cast down, writhing umler the iron heel of a ruthless world, and not stretch forth a hand to raise him. Listen to my counsel, and " " Do not, Eupert — for Heaven's sake, do not ! " cried Edith. " Ha ! ha ! we shall be better friends," repeated the stranger, with a confident laugh, and he nodded gaily at the woman. " Peace, Edith — peace," said Eupert ; then turning to the stranger — " if your purpose be an honest one, go on ; if other- wise, leave me to my wretchedness." " Honesty ! " cried the stranger. " I knew a spiritless varlet of the name. For some black offence — (he had killed one of his lordship's bees, or plucked a stake from a hedge, or some such vUlany) — his roof was torn from his cabin, and he was left to blow his nails, and warm himself, his wife and child, with the glowing thought of his great goodness." " Cold work, master — cold work," cried Swithin, from the hut. " This same honesty found a fi'iend, as you may find one ; he took wise counsel, and became " " What 1 " asked Eupert, hastily. " What all men would become — rich and powerful. Virtue reads prettily upon a tombstone, goodman Eupert, but 'tis a losing quality with bare walls and a quenched hearth." " Husband," cried Edith, " listen not to him. There is tempta- tion, horrible temptation, in his voice ; his eyes are not as the eyes of other men." " And you can bestow wealth 1 " asked Eupert of the stran>:er. THE LESSON OF LIFE. " I can give ye counsel that shall bear wealth. You hesitate ? Poor wretched worm — poor, bloodless, abject thing ! — whine, starve, and die ! " " Stay," cried Eupert, as the stranger turned to depart. " Begone !• speak not to him, Eupert ! " and Edith clung to her husband. " Strange man ! there's something in your voice, your looks that makes ray heart quail, yet di-aws it to you. You can give me wealth ? " cried Eupert ; and the stranger smiled, and bowed his head. " For what 1 What must he render in return ? " exclaimed Edith, passing before her husband and confronting the stranger. " He must promise in some things to obey me." " Eupert," cried Editli, " / have obeyed you — in all things obeyed you — with a love that made obedience my best hapjiiness. Oh, by that love — by the love that's mingled in our children, I do implore you — I pray for it as I would pray for your salva- tion — ^trust not that man ; " and with these words Editli cast herself into the arms of Eupert, who, not venturing to meet the sti'anger's glance, in a loud voice bade him begone. The stranger, deigning no word in answer, disappeared in the forest. " The angel's flown," cried Swithiu, who still lay upon the earth watching the sleeping child ; " the boy's awake ! " The cries of the child called the mother to the hut, and airain stirred up the bitterness in the heart of Eupert. He looked around him for the stranger. " Gone ! " he cried. " 'Tis not every day, goodman Eupert, that the fallow-deer puts his head in at the kitchen and oti'ers his haunches to the cook," said Swithiu. " Nobody will buy the poor innocent," he added, sighing. " Wouldst sell thyself ? " asked Eupert. " Is't as cold as this," said Swithin, " at a hall-fire, with ale and a toast ] " " What ! hast wit enoush " " Enough — quite enough," answered Swithin, interrupting Rupert. " God help the folks that have too much ! Goodman, dost think the ground of the hut is soft as a lord's bed ? Thanks to the snow upon it, 'tis as white — that's something. Phew ! cold's a cruel thing, master ! Though I shall be a man some Michaelmas, I'd change my body and bones for the coat of an owl." " Silence, and help me, as best we may, to keep out the night — for 'twill come," said Eupert. " We'll' cut some boughs, and" J 10 CAKES AND ALE. " Here be the axes," said Swithin. " Ha ! ha ! and here comes the hardest piece of timber iu the forest." " Locust ! " cried Eupert. " His worship's man, or beast, or, what is worse;" said Swithin, " the two in one." Locust, followed by three men, presented himself before the hut. " Not gone yet ? " he cried, and frowned at Rupert ; " what ! dost rebel against his worship's orders ? Wast not enough to kill his hound, the noblest beast that ever tracked its prey, but thou must linger here, braving thy lawful lord 1 Knowest not that he might have hung thee at his giite ? Dost not answer me, thou sullen, savage knave i " cried the menial. " Teai- down the hut ! Nay, if thou wilt not budge when the roof be off, we'll burn the ruin to ashes." " "lis very cold," said Swithin ; " bless thy worship — give us a fire ! " " Stand away, fool," cried Locust ; and he raised hia stick at the boy. Swithin stared in Locust's face, then ran his finger along the axe, and chuckling, nodded at him, and said " She has a sharp edge, and why / — she was whetted on his woi-ship's heart." " So, so," said Locust, " we'll have the fool whijjped out of ye, and then hang all the rogue that's left. Eupert, thou dost know his worship's orders i Thou must troop from the forest. Men, fire the hut." Saying this, Locust advanced, but was seized by Eupert : both struggled, when Locust, breaking from the woodman, ilealt him a heavy blow with his staflF. Rupert snatched up an axe, and, in a moment, Locust, with his arm cleft to the bone, lay bleeding on tiie earth ; his companions, seeing him wounded, fled in terror. " What hast thou done, Eupert ? " cried Edith—" murder ! " " 'Tis red ! " s;ud Swithin, staring at the blood—" 'tis red ! ha ! ha ! who'd have thought it ! " " What's to be done 1 " exclaimed Eupert. " I am here," said a voice ; and Eupert again beheld the fearful stranger at his side. " Come." " Go not with him, husband ! " cried Edith. " Stay then, Eupert," said the stranger, " and among these goodly trees choose thou thy gallows." " Go on," raved Eupert fi-antically, " for good or evil — I can do no otherwise — I am yours ! " The stranger smiled, and beckoning, led the way into the depth of the forest. THE LESSON OF LIFE. 11 CHAPTER III. " A THOUSANT) pieces of gokl, good wife — a full thousand." Such was the exulting cry of the Chevalier Belleville, as he fluiiLT tlie treasure on the table, and sank, wearied and over- wrought, into a chair. " You hear wife ? a thousand j)ieces." Tlie woman turned her wan, jjale face to her husband, and, without a word, sighed deejdy. " Is't ever to be thus ] Sighs, and groans, and lamentations, when fortune showers her bounty on us ? " " Fortune, Rupert ! " and the wife sighed, and shuddereil. " Rupert ! wilt never forget that cui-sod name ? " exclaimed the husband. " A cureed name ! He was an honest man who owned it," said the woman, meekly. " A druilge ! — a miserable drudge ! a fool, who licked the shoe that trod up