
 
 <iiS) 
 
 &^ 
 
 UbI

 
 HALF-HOURS 
 
 GREAT HUMORISTS. 
 
 THE CHOICEST HUMOR OF GREAT WRITERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ZHARLES LAMB, TOM HO®D, F. C. BURNaM^ 
 MARK TWAIN, AND OTHERS. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 E)0NOHUE, HENNEBERRY & G®. 
 407-429 DEARBORN STREET
 
 l30N0hUE & HENNEBERRY 
 
 printers and binders 
 
 Chicago
 
 SRLF 
 URL 
 
 PREFACE. oc/^-'H- 
 
 If the principle which should guide the editor of the 
 Treasure-Trove Series has been followed, as 1 think it has, 
 the result will be a series of readable little volumes, which 
 one may take up at odd intervals with the certainty of find- 
 ing some things, I would fain hope many things, in which 
 he cannot fail to be interested. He should look, in the first 
 place, for amusement; in the second place, for variety; if 
 he finds these qualities here, he has something to be thanls- 
 ful for. He has to be thankful, at any rate, for the labo" 
 which the compiler has expended for him, — labor which i > 
 not to be measured by what is accepted so much as by a'"i.'\ 
 is rejected, the reading of many books to no end. If the 
 best books are those which are not written, as a cynical 
 critic would have us believe, the worst books are certainly 
 in the same category, " a happy thought," as a great living 
 philosopher would have us believe, which is not without its. 
 compensations. Not to dwell, however, upon these literary 
 possibilities, which we can well spare, so numberless ai '-^ 
 the books on all sorts of subjects which every day brings 
 forth, let us turn for a moment to the papers which follow. 
 We have first, from the pen of England's greatest humoi 'tt, 
 a serio-comic protest against an individual with whom we- 
 in America are tolerably familiar. I refer to that ramp tnt 
 and irrepressible myth " the noble savage." He mr.de his. 
 earliest appearance in English poetry, I believe in Dryden's 
 " Conquest of Grenada,'' the first part of which (they l.ad 
 leisure for continuations then) was written in the autumn- 
 of 1669. Here are the lines in which his unfragrant na- 
 bility is embalmed: — 
 
 "I am as free as Nature first made man, 
 Ere the base laws of servitude beg-an, 
 When wild in woods the noble savage ran."
 
 4 PREFACE, 
 
 I have forgotten, if I ever knew, in whose mouth this 
 -•heroic triplet is placed ; nor does it matter — enough that it 
 Is absurd. 
 
 Sixty years passed, and this elderly aborigine (when, in- 
 deed, was he not elderly, this swarthy autochthon, whose 
 origin is lost in the night of time?), — sixty years passed, I 
 say, or to speak more exactly, in the seventh lustrum of the 
 eighteenth century (1732), and he re-appeared in English 
 verse, no longer running wild in primeval woods, but 
 trained into a respectable member of frontier society, ignor- 
 ant, no doubt, but seriously inclined — when sober. He was 
 the discovery of a poet named Pope, an ingenious young 
 Papist, who, dabbling in ethics which he did not under- 
 stand, must needs Avrite an " Essay on Man." Hear the 
 Jittle man of Queen Anne's time : — 
 
 " Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk or milky-way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope' has given, 
 Beyond the cloud-tapped hill, an humbler heaven; 
 Some safer -world in depths of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the watery waste, 
 Where skives once more their native land behold. 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be contents his natural desire; 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire, 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal skv, 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company."" 
 
 Against Pope's poetic misrepresentation of the aboriginal 
 
 ^nature, and the no less poetic misrepresentation of Feni- 
 
 more Cooper, the genius of Dickens has entered its protest 
 
 — a protest which needs no justification in our-eyes, which, 
 
 for the last two hundred years, have seen enough of the 
 
 noble savage. The noble savage, qviotha! The only writer 
 
 who has expressed the average American opinion in regard 
 
 to this brutal myth is a Western poet, who has summed the 
 
 inatter up in a nutshell, i. e., — 
 
 "The only good Injun's 
 Them that's dead."
 
 PREFACE. § 
 
 To trace the connection between humor and wit, of which 
 we have several specimens in the present volume, would be- 
 an interesting study, if I had the space to pursue it; but as. 
 I have not, I must content myself by saying that the hu- 
 mor of a people precedes its wit (when it has any), being^ 
 the first, as it is frequently the last, growth of its genius. 
 We have humor in abundance, — even our English cousins 
 allow that; but of wit in its highest sense, we have little oj 
 none. We have the wildest humor, we have the most up- 
 roarious fun, we have nonsense, so alive, that it might 
 create a soul under the ribs of death; but we have no wity 
 no sarcasm, no satire, that is worthy of the name. We have- 
 our Dickenses; but we have no Thackeray. Our best, in- 
 deed our only satirist, is Mr. George William Curtis, whose- 
 " Potiphar Papers " are all that we have to show in this de« 
 lightful walk of letters Twenty years have passed since 
 they first saw the light; but they are as fresh and as life- 
 like as if they were written yesterday. Nothing that they 
 satirized has passed away, albeit a new regime, so to speak,, 
 has gained a foothold among us, — the regime of Shoddp 
 and Petroleum. Mr. Curtis's satire is sharper than one 
 might at first think. It is not bitter, or savage, as wh}- 
 should it be, considering the smallness of the game it pur- 
 sues (we do not break butterflies on the wheel) ; but it is 
 sly and laughable, and as just as if it were ten times as grave 
 as it is. The state of society which awakened it, only ob« 
 tains, perhaps, in a new country. Let us hope so, at all- 
 events ; for it is not pleasant to have to confess that we are 
 as great snobs as our friends over the water, and that we 
 have yet to learn the difference between genuine manhood 
 and bojus /erinement. 
 
 As a set-off to all this, to Mrs. Potiphar, and young 
 Gauche Boosy, and the R ev. Cream Cheese, alter ego o£ 
 the heavenly-minded Charles Honeyman, let us turn to aru 
 J*
 
 6 PREFACE. 
 
 other page of the history of the Island of Manahatta, — an 
 earlier and homelier page, written by that most veracious 
 of all chroniclers, good old Diederich Knickerbocker. It is 
 refreshing, is it not? to notice the difference between the 
 hearty ways of that sturdy old Dutch race and the thin so- 
 cial veneering of their degenerate descendants. 
 
 " Hail, ancient mariners, sure defence. 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws." 
 
 But we must be just, even when the follies of society are 
 in question, or we shall not enjoy, as we should, Mrs. Sarah 
 Battle's opinions on cards and whist, — opinions which that 
 dear old lady has promulgated any time within the last fifty 
 years, and to which her happy shade is indissolublv wedded. 
 
 If we are readers of newspapers, — as who is not now-a- 
 days.-* — Hood's "Parish Revolution" will recall many a 
 tempest in a. teapot, by which we are excited over our morn- 
 ing rolls. It may be the last French i-evolution, of which 
 it is a memory; or it may be the next French Revolution 
 of which it is a prophecy, — we have it here, with all its 
 humorsome terrors, an imperishable leaf of the perishable 
 day, the immortality of noisy nothings. Truly revolution- 
 ary man knows not what he wants, and will never be con . 
 tent until he has it. 
 
 These and other papers here collected, I commend to tne 
 lovers of light reading. They may remember some of them, 
 but most, I fancy, Avill be new, or as good as new, to them : 
 for no matter how many times a thing has been read, pro- 
 vided it is really forgotten, the last reading is as good as 
 the first, and in that sense, at least, it is certainly Treasure 
 Trove. R. H. STODDARD, 
 
 Note. — Acknowledgements are especially due to G. \V. Curtis, Esq, 
 Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, and the heirs of Washing-ton Irving for 
 courtesies extended in the organization of this volume.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface . 
 
 The Noble Savage . . Charles Dickens. 
 
 New Livery and Other Things, George W. Curtis 
 Mrs Battle's Opinion on Cards, Charles Lamb 
 The Parish Revolution . . Thojnas Hood 
 A Day in the Academy . F. C.Burnand 
 
 Mrs, Brown at the Play . Arthur Sketchley . 
 
 The Will of a Virtuoso . . Joseph Addison . 
 The Golden Age of New York Washington Irving \d^^ 
 The Insanity OF Cain . . Mary Mapes Dodge vd-z^ 
 Encounter with an Interviewer Mark Tvjain . [ 77 
 
 PAGE. 
 3 
 
 9 
 
 . 21 
 
 63 
 76 
 
 93 
 107 
 
 145 
 
 The Painter's Bargain 
 The Lady Rohesia 
 
 W. M. Thackeray iS; 
 R. H. Bar ham • 21c
 
 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 |0 come to the point at once, I beg to say 
 that I have not the least belief in the no- 
 ble savage. I consider him a prodigious 
 nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His call- 
 ing rum fire-water, and me a pale-face, wholly fail 
 to reconcile me to him. I don't care what he 
 calls me. I call him a savage ; and I call a savage 
 a something highly desirable to be civilized off 
 the face of the earth. I think a mere gent (which 
 I take to be the lowest form of civilization) bet- 
 ter than a howling, whistling, clucking, stamping, 
 jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me, 
 whether he sticks a fish-bone through his visage^ 
 )r bits of trees through the lobes of his ears, or 
 oirds' feathers in his head, whether he flattens 
 his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose 
 
 9
 
 I o TREASURR-TRO V£. 
 
 over the breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip 
 down by great weights, or blackens his teeth, or 
 knocks them out, or paints one cheek red, and the 
 other blue, or tattooes himself, or oils himself, or rubs 
 his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yield- 
 ing to whichsoever of these agreeable eccentricities, 
 he is a savage, cruel, false, thievish, murderous ; 
 addicted more or less to grease, entrails, and beastly 
 customs ; a wild animal with the questionable gift 
 of boasting ; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, 
 rronotonous humbug. 
 
 Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some 
 people will talk about him as they talk about the 
 good old times ; how they will regret his disappear- 
 ance, in the course of this world's development, 
 from such and such lands, where his absence is a 
 blessed relief, and an indispensable preparation for 
 the sowing of the very first seeds of any influence 
 that can exalt humanity; how, even with the evi- 
 dence of himself before them, they will either be 
 determined to believe, or will suffer themselves to 
 be persuaded into believing, that he is something 
 which their five senses tell them he is not 
 
 There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with 
 his Ojibbeway Indians. Mr. Catlin was an ener-
 
 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. If 
 
 getic, earnest man, who had lived among more tribes 
 of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who 
 had written a picturesque and glowing book about 
 them. With his party of Indians squatting and 
 spitting on the table before him, or dancing their 
 miserable jigs after their own dreary manner, he 
 called, in all good faith, upon his civilized audience 
 to take notice of their symmetry and grace, their 
 perfect limbs, and the exquisite expression of their 
 pantomime : and his civilized audience, in all good 
 faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as mere 
 animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in 
 the scale, and very poorly formed ; and, as men 
 and women possessing any power of truthful dra- 
 matic expression by means of action, they were no 
 better than the chorus at an Italian opera in Eng- 
 land, and would have been worse if such a thing 
 were possible. 
 
 Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The 
 greatest writers on natural history found him out 
 long ago. Buffon knew what he was, and showed 
 him why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his 
 women, and how it happens (Heaven be praised I) 
 that his race is spare in numbers. For evidence of 
 the quality of his moral nature, pass himself tor a
 
 IS TREASURE-TROVE, 
 
 moment, and refer to his "faithful dog." Has b<5 
 ever improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his 
 nobility first ran wild in woods, and was brought 
 down (at a very long shot) by Pope ? Or does the 
 animal that is the friend of man always degenerate 
 in his low society ? 
 
 It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage 
 that is the new thing : it is the whimpering over 
 him with maudlin admiration, and the affecting to 
 regret him, and the drawing of any comparison 
 of advantage between the blemishes of civilization 
 and the tenor of his swinish life. There may have 
 been a change now and then in those diseased 
 absurdities ; but there is none in him. 
 
 Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men 
 and the two women who have been exhibited about 
 England for some years. Are the majority of per- 
 sons — who remember the horrid little leader of that 
 party in his festering bundle of hides, with his tilth, 
 and his antipathy to water, and his straddled legs, 
 and his odious eyes shaded by his brutal hand, and 
 his cry of " Qu-u-u-u-aaa ! " (Bosjesman for some- 
 thing desperately insulting, I have no doubt) — con- 
 scious of an affectionate yearning towards that noble 
 savage? or is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest.
 
 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. \% 
 
 abominate, and abjure him ? I have no reserve op 
 this subject, and will frankly state, that, setting 
 aside that stage of the entertainment when he coun- 
 terfeited the death of some creature he had shot, by 
 laying his head on his hand, and shaking his left leg 
 (at which time I think it would have been justifia- 
 ble homicide to slay him), I have never seen that 
 group sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round 
 their brazier, but I have sincerely desired that some- 
 thing might happen to the charcoal smouldering 
 therein, which would cause the immediate suffoca- 
 tion of the whole of the noble strangers. 
 
 There is at present a party of Zulu Caffres ex- 
 hibiting at St. George's Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, 
 London. These noble savages are represented in a 
 raost agreeable manner : they are seen in an elegant 
 ^eatre fitted with appropriate scenery of great 
 >eaut}^ ; and they are described in a very sensible 
 ind unpretending lecture, delivered with a modesty 
 which is quite a pattern to all similar exponents. 
 Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped 
 than such of their predecessors as I have referred 
 to ; and they are rather picturesque to the eye, 
 though far from odoriferous to the nose. What a 
 risitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings
 
 1 4 TRE A S URE- TRO VR. 
 
 might suppose these noblemen to be about, when 
 they gave vent to that pantomimic expression which 
 is quite settled to be the natural gift of the noble 
 savage, I cannot possibly conceive ; for it is so much 
 too luminous for my personal civilization, that it 
 conveys no idea to my mind, beyond a general 
 stamping, ramping, and raving, remarkable (as 
 every thing in savage life is) for its dire uniformity. 
 But let us, with the interpreter's assistance, of which 
 I for one stand so much in need, see what the 
 noble savage does in Zulu Caffre land. 
 
 The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, 
 to whom he submits his life and limbs without a 
 murmur or question, and whose whole life is passed 
 chin-deep in a lake of blood, but who, after killing 
 incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and 
 friends, the moment a gray hair appears on his head 
 yVll the noble savage's wars with his fellow-savages 
 (and he takes no pleasure in any thing else) are wars 
 of extermination ; which f* t%ie ^st thing I know 
 of him, and the mosc comfortable to my mind when 
 1 look at him. He has no moral feelings oi any 
 kind, sort, or description ; and his " mission " may 
 be summed up as simply diabolical. 
 
 The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies
 
 THE NOB IE SAVAGE. 15 
 
 his life, are, of course, of a kindred nature. If he 
 wants a wife, he appears before the kennel of the 
 gentleman whom he has selected for his father-in- 
 law, attended by a party of male friends of a very 
 strong flavor, who screech and whistle and stamp an 
 offer of so many cows for the young lady's hand. 
 The chosen father-in-law — also supported by a high- 
 flavored party of male friends — screeches, whistles, 
 and yells (being seated on the ground, he can't 
 stamp) that there never was such a daughter in the 
 market as his daughter, and that he must have six 
 more cows. The son-in-law and his select cin^le of 
 backers, screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, 
 that they will give three more cows. The father-in- 
 law (an old deluder, overpaid at the beginning) 
 accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The 
 whole party, the young lady included, then falling 
 into epileptic convulsions, and screeching, whistling, 
 stamping, and yelling together, and nobody taking 
 any notice of the young lady (whose charms are not 
 to be thought of without a shudder), the noble 
 savage is considered married ; and his friends make 
 demoniacal leaps at him by way of congratula 
 tion. 
 
 When the noble savage finds himself a little un-
 
 1 6 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 weil. and mentions the circumstance to his friends, 
 it is immediately perceived that he is under the 
 influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, 
 called an Imyanger or witch doctor, is immediately 
 sent for to nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out 
 the witch. The male inhabitants of the kraal be- 
 ing seated on the ground, the learned doctor, got 
 up like a grizzly bear, appears, and admi/iisters a 
 dance of a most terrific nature, during the exhibi- 
 tion of which remedy he incessantly gnashes his 
 teeth, and howls, " I am the original physician 
 to nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow vow 1 No 
 connection with any other establishment. Till 
 till till ! All other Umtargarties are feigned Um- 
 targarties, Boroo Boroo ! but I perceive here a genu- 
 ine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh ! 
 in whose blood I, the original Imyanger and 
 Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo ! will wash these bear's 
 claws of mine. O yow yow yow ! " All this time 
 the learned physician is looking out among the 
 attentive faces for some unfortunate man who owes 
 him a cow, or who has given him any small offence, 
 or against whom, without offence, he has conceived 
 a spite. Him he never fails to nooker as the Um- 
 targartie, and he is instantly killed. In the absence
 
 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 1 7 
 
 of such an Individual, the usual practice is to nooker 
 the quietest and most gentlemanly person In com- 
 pany. But the nookering is invariably followed 
 on the spot by the butchering. 
 
 Some of the noble savages In whom Mr. Catlln 
 was so strongly interested, and the diminution of 
 whose numbers, by rum and small-pox, greatly 
 affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though 
 much more appalling and disgusting in its odious 
 details. 
 
 The women being at work In the fields, hoeing 
 the Indian corn, and the noble savage being asleep 
 in the shade, the chief has sometimes the conde» 
 scension to come forth, and lighten the labor by 
 looking at it. On these occasions, he seats himself 
 in his own savage chair, and is attended by his 
 shield-bearer, who hold over his head a shield of 
 cowhide — in shape like an immense mussel-shell — 
 fearfully and wonderfully, after the manner of a 
 theatrical supernumerary. But, lest the great man 
 should forget his greatness in the contemplation of 
 the humble works of agriculture, there suddenly 
 rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, called a 
 praiser. This literary gentlemen wears a leopard's 
 head ov^r his own, and a dress of tigers' tails; he 
 has the appearance of having come express on his
 
 1 S THE AS URE- TRO VE. 
 
 hind-legs from the Zoological Gardens; and he in- 
 continently strikes up the chief's praises, plungin^r 
 and tearing all the while. There is a frantic 
 wickedness in this brute's manner of worrying the 
 air, and gnashing out, " Oh, what a delightful 
 chief he is! Oh, what a delicious quantity of blood 
 he sheds! Oh, how majestically he laps it up! 
 (3h, how charmingly cruel he is! Oh, how he tears 
 the fiesh of his enemies, and crunches the bones! 
 Oh, how like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf 
 and the bear he is! Oh, row, row, row row, how 
 fond I am of him ! " — which might tempt the So- 
 ciety of Friends to charge at a hand -gallop Into 
 tne Swartz-Kop location, and exterminate the 
 whole kraal. 
 
 When war is afoot among the noble savages, — 
 \vhich Is always, — the chief holds a council to ascer- 
 tain whether It is the opinion of his brothers and 
 friends in general that the enemy shall be extermi- 
 nated. On this occasion, after the performance of an 
 Umsebeuza, or war-song, which is exactly like all 
 the other songs, the chief makes a speech to his 
 brothers and friends arranged in single file. No 
 particular order is observed during the delivery of 
 this address; but every gentleman who finds him- 
 self excited by the subject, instead of crying;^
 
 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 1 9 
 
 '*Hear, hear!" as is the custom with us, darts from 
 the rank, and tramples out the hfe, or cruslies the 
 skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or 
 breaks the limbs, or performs a whirlv/ind of atro- 
 cities on the body, of an imaginary enemy. Several 
 gentlemen becoming thus excited at once, and 
 pounding away without the least regard to the 
 orator, that illustrious person is rather in the posi- 
 tion of an orator in an Irish House of Commons 
 But several of these scenes of savage life bear a 
 strong generic resemblance to an Irish election, and 
 I think would be extremely well received and un- 
 derstood at Cork. 
 
 In all these ceremonies, the noble savage holds 
 forth to the utmost possible extent about himself; 
 from which (to turn him to some civilized account) 
 we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of the 
 most offensive and contemptible littlenesses a civil- 
 ized man can exhibit, so it is really incompatible 
 with the interchange of ideas; inasmuch as, if we 
 all talked about ourselves, we should soon have no 
 listeners, and must be all yelling and screeching at 
 once on our own separate accounts, making society 
 hideous. It is my opinion that, if we retained in us 
 anything of the noble savage, we could not get rid 
 of it too soon. But the fact is clearly otherwise. 
 LToon the wife and dowry question, substitutinj;'
 
 20 TREAS URE. TRO \ ^E. 
 
 coin for cows, we have assuredly nothing of the 
 Zuhi Caffre left. The endurance of despotism is 
 one great distinguishing mark of the savage always. 
 The improving world has quite got the better of 
 that too. In like manner, Paris is a civilized city, 
 and the Theatre Francais a highly civilized theatre; 
 and we shall never hear, and never have heard in 
 these later days (of course), of the praiser there. 
 No, no, civilized poets have better work to do. As 
 to nookering Umtargarties, there are no pretended 
 Umtargarties in Europe, and no European powers 
 to nooker them ; that would be mere spydom, sub- 
 ornation, small malice, superstition, and false pre- 
 tence. And, as to private Umtargarties, are we 
 not in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-three, 
 with spirits rapping at our doors? 
 
 To conclude as I began. M}- position is, that, if 
 we have any thing to learn from the noble savage, 
 it is what to avoid. His virtues are a fable; his 
 happiness is a delusion; his nobility nonsense. We 
 have no greater justification for being cruel to the 
 miserable object than for being cruel to a Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, or an Isaac Newtox; but 
 he passes away before an immeasurably better and 
 higher power than ever ran wild in any earthly 
 woods, and the world will be all the better when 
 bis place knows him no more.
 
 OUR NEW LIVERY, AND OTHER 
 THINGS. 
 
 A Letter from Mrs. Potiphar to Miss Caroline Pettitoes^ 
 
 BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 New York, April. 
 
 V DEAR Caroline, — Lent came so fright- 
 fully early this year, that I was very much 
 afraid my new bonnet, h Flmperatrice^ 
 would not be out from Paris soon enough, . But, 
 fortunately, it arrived just in time ; and I had the 
 satisfaction of taking down the pride of Mrs. Croesus, 
 who fancied hers would be the only stylish hat in 
 church the first Sunday. She could not keep her 
 eyes away from me ; and I sat so unmoved, and so 
 calmly looking at the doctor, that she was quite 
 vexed. But, whenever she turned away, I ran my 
 e^/es over the whole congregation, and would you 
 believe, that, almost without an exception, people
 
 22 TREASURE^TROVE. 
 
 had th^ir old things ? However, I suppose they for- 
 got how soon Lent was coming. As I was passing 
 out of church, Mrs. Croesus brushed by me. 
 
 "Ah!" said she, "good-morning. Why, bless 
 me ; you've got that pretty hat I saw at Lawson's. 
 Well, now, it's really quite pretty : Lawson has some 
 ^aste left yet. What a lovely sermon the doctor 
 gave us ! By the by, did you know that Mrs. Gnu 
 has actually bought the blue velvet ? It's too bad ; 
 because 1 wanted to cover mv prayer-book with blue. 
 and she sits so near, the effect of my book will be 
 quite spoiled. Dear me ! there she is beckoning to 
 me. Good-by: do come and see us. Tuesdavs, 
 you know. Well, Lawson really does very well." 
 
 I was so mad with the old thing, that 1 could noi 
 help catching her by her mantle, and holding on, 
 while I whispered, loud enough for everybody to 
 hear, — 
 
 " Mrs. Croesus, you see I have just got my bonnet 
 from Paris. It's made after the empress's. If you 
 would like to have yours made over in the iasnion, 
 dear Mrs. Croesus, I shall be so glad to lend you 
 mine I " 
 
 " No, thank you, dear 1 " said she. " Lawson won't 
 do for me. By-by."
 
 NEW LIVER 2', AND OTHER THINGS. 33 
 
 And so she slipped out, and, I've no doubt, told 
 Mrs. Gnu that she had seen my bonnet at Law- 
 son''s. Isn't it too bad ? Then she is so abominably 
 cool! Somehow, when I'm talking with Mrs. 
 Croesus, who has all her own things made at home, 
 I don't feel as if mine came from Paris at all. She 
 has such a way of looking at you, that it's quite 
 dreadful. She seems to be saying in her mind, 
 " La, now, well done, little dear." And I think 
 that kind of mental reservation (I think that's 
 what they call it) is an insupportable impertinence. 
 However, I don't care, do you? 
 
 I've so many things to tell 3'OU, that I hardly 
 know ^vhere to begin. The great thing is the livery ; 
 but I want to come regularly up to that, and forget 
 nothing by the wa}^ I was uncertain for a long 
 time how to have my prayer-book bound. Finally , 
 after thinking about it a great deal, I concluded to 
 have it done in pale blue velvet, with gold clasps, 
 and a gold cross upon the side. To be sure, it's 
 nothing very new. But what is new now-a-days? 
 Sally Shrimp has had hers done hi emerald; and I 
 know Mrs. Croesus will have crimson for hers; and 
 those people who sit next us in church (I wonder 
 who they are: it's very unpleasant to sit next to peo-
 
 24 TPEAS URE- TRO VE. 
 
 pie you don't know; and, positively, that girl, the 
 dark-haired one with large eyes, carries the same 
 muff she did last year; it's big enough tor a family) 
 have a kind of brown morocco binding. I must 
 tell you one reason why I fixed upon the pale blue. 
 Kou know that aristocratic-looking young man, in 
 white cravat and black pantaloons and waistcoat, 
 whom we saw at Saratoga a year ago, and who al- 
 ways had such a beautiful sanctimonious look, and 
 such small white hands. Well, he is a minister, as 
 we supposed, — " an unworthy candidate, an un- 
 profitable husbandman," as he calls himself in that 
 delicious voice of his. He has been quite taken up 
 among us. He has been asked a good deal to din- 
 ner, and there was hope of his being settled as 
 colleague to the doctor, only Mr. Potiphar (who 
 can be stubborn, you know) insisted that the Rev. 
 Cream Cheese, though a very good young man, 
 he didn't doubt, was addicted to candlesticks. I 
 suppose that's something awful. But could you 
 believe any thing awful of him? I asked Mn 
 Potiphar what he meant by saying such things. 
 
 "I mean," said he, "that he's a Puseyite; and 
 I've no idea of being tied to the apron-«itrings of 
 the Scarlet Woman,"
 
 NEW LIVERY AX D OTHER TlliXi.S. 25 
 
 Dear Caroline, who is the Scarlet Woman ? 
 Dearest, tell me, upon your honor, if you have 
 ever heard any scandal of Mr. Potiphar. 
 
 " What is it about candlesticks? " said I to Mr, 
 Potiphar. " Perhaps IMr. Cheese finds gas too 
 bright for his eyes; and that's his misfortune, not 
 his fault. 
 
 "Polly," said Mr. Potiphar, who %vill call me 
 Polly, although It sounds so very vulgar, " please 
 not to meddle w^ith things you don't understand. 
 You may have Cream Cheese to dinner as much 
 as you choose; but I will not have him in the pul- 
 pit of my church." 
 
 The same day, Mr. Cheese happened in about 
 lunch-time, and I asked him if his eyes were really 
 weak. 
 
 " Not at all," said he. " Why do you ask?" 
 
 Then I told him that I had heard he was so 
 fond of candlesticks. 
 
 Ah, Caroline! you should have seen him then. 
 He stopped in the midst of pouring out a glass of 
 Mr. P.'s best old port; and holding the decanter 
 in one hand, and the glass in the other, he looked so 
 beautifully sad, and said in that sweet, low voice, — 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Potiphar, the blood of the martyrs is
 
 2 6 TREAS URE- TR O VE. 
 
 the seed of the Church." Then he filled up \is 
 glass, and drank the wine off with such a mourn- 
 ful, resigned air, and wiped his lips so gently with 
 his cambric handkerchief (I saw that it was a hem- 
 stitch), that I had no voice to ask him to take a bit 
 of the cold chicken; which he did, however, with- 
 out my asking him. But when he said in the 
 same low voice, "A little more breast, dear Mrs. 
 Potiphar," I was obliged to run into the drawing- 
 room for a moment to recover myself. 
 
 Well, after he had lunched, I told him that I 
 wished to take his advice upon something connected 
 with the church (for a prayer-book is^ you know.^ 
 dear;) and he looked so sweetly at me, that (would 
 you believe it ?) I almost wished to be a Catholic, and 
 to confess three or four times a week, and to have 
 him for my confessor. But it's very wicked to wish 
 to be a Catholic, and it wasn't real much, you know ; 
 but, somehow, I thought so. When I asked him in 
 what velvet he would advise me to have my 2:)rayer- 
 book bound, he talked beautifully for about twenty 
 minutes. I wish you could have heard him. I'm 
 not sure that I understood much of what he said. 
 How should I? But it was very beautiful. Don't 
 laugh, Carrie. But there was one thing I did under-
 
 NEW LIVER 1\ AND OTHER THINGS. 27 
 
 land, and which, as it came pretty often, quite 
 hehDcd me through. It was, " Dear Mrs. Poti- 
 phar." You can't tell how nicely he says it. He 
 began by telling me that it was very important to 
 consider all the details and little things about the 
 church. He said they were all timbales or cym- 
 bals, or something of that kind; and then he talked 
 very prettily about the stole, and the violet and 
 scarlet capes of the cardinals, and purple chasu- 
 bles, and the lace edge of the pope's little short- 
 gown; and, — do you know it was very funny? — 
 but it seemed to me, somehow, as if I was talking 
 with Portier or Florine Lefevre, except that he 
 used such beautiful words. Well, by and by, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Therefore, dear Mrs. Potiphar, as your faith is 
 so pure and childlike, and as I observe that the 
 light from the yellow panes usually falls across 
 your pew, I would advise that you cymbalize your 
 faith (wouldn't that be noisy in church?) by bind- 
 mg your prayer-book in pale blue, the color of 
 skim-milk, dear Mrs. Potiphar, wdiich is so full of 
 pastoral associations." 
 
 Why did he emphasize the word "pastoral"? 
 Do you wonder that I like Cream Cheese, dear 
 Caroline, when he is so gentle and religious? — and
 
 28 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 such a pretty religion too! For he is not only 
 well-dressed, and has such aristocratic hands and 
 feet in the parlor; but he is so perfectly gentle- 
 manly in the pulpit. He never raises his voice too 
 loud, and he has such wavy gestures. ]Mr. Poti- 
 phar says that may be all very true; but he knows 
 perfectly well that he has a hankering for artificial 
 flowers, and that, for his part, he prefers the doctor 
 to any preacher he ever heard ; " because," he says, 
 " I can go quietly to sleep, confident that he will 
 say nothing that might not be preached from every 
 well regulated pulpit; whereas, if we should let 
 Cream into the desk, I should have to keep awake 
 to be on the lookout for some of these new-fangled 
 idolatries; and Polly Potiphar, I for one, am de- 
 termined to have nothing to do with the Scarlet 
 Woman." 
 
 Darling Caroline — I don't care much — but did 
 he ever have any thing to do with a Scarlet 
 Woman? 
 
 After he said that about artificial flowers, I or- 
 dered from Martelle the sweetest sprig of imiJior- 
 telle he had in his shop, and sent it anonymously on 
 St. Valentine's Day. Of course I didn't wish to do 
 any thing secret from my husband, that might make
 
 NEW LIVERV AXD OrilER T1IIX(,S. 29 
 
 people talk; so I wrote, "Reverend Crcnm Cheese; 
 from his grateful Skiin-viilkP I marked the last 
 words, and hope he understood that I meant to ex- 
 press my thanks for his advice about the pale-blue 
 cover. You don't think it was too romantic, do 
 you dear? 
 
 You can imagine how pleasantly Lent Is passing 
 since I see so much of him; and then it is so ap- 
 propriate to Lent to be intimate with a minister'. 
 He goes with me to church a great deal; for Mr. 
 Potiphar, of course, has no time for that, except on 
 Sundays; and it is really delightful to see such 
 piety. He makes the responses In the most musical 
 manner; and when he kneels, upon entering the 
 pew, he Is the admiration of the whole church. He 
 buries his face entirely in a cloud of cambric poc- 
 ket handkerchief, with his Initial embroidered at 
 the corner; and his hair is beautifully parted down 
 behind, which is very fortunate, as otherwise It 
 would look so badly when only half his head 
 showed. I feel so good when I sit by his side; 
 and when the doctor (as Mr. P. savs) "blows up" 
 those terrible sinners in Babylon and the other 
 Bible towns, I always find the Rev. Cream's eyes 
 fixed upon me, with so much sweet sadness, that I 
 am ver}^, very sorry for the nau^^^hty ])eople the
 
 30 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 doctor talks about. Why did they do so, do you 
 suppose, dear CaroHiie? How thankful we ought 
 to be that we live now with so many churches, and 
 such fine ones, and with such gentlemanly minis- 
 ters as yir. Cheese! And how nicely it's arranged, 
 that after dancinsf and dinino^ for two or three 
 months constantly, during which, of course, we 
 can only go to church Sundays, there comes a time 
 for stopping, when we're tired out, and for going 
 to church every day, and (as Mr. P. says) " striking 
 a balance," and thinking about being good, and all 
 those things! We don't lose a great deal, you 
 know. It makes a variety; and we all see each 
 other ju5t the same, only we don't dance. I do 
 think it would be better if we took our lorgnettes 
 with us, however; for it was only last Wednesday, 
 at nine o'clock prayers, that I saw Sheena Silke 
 across the church, in their little -pew at the corner, 
 and I am sure that she had a new bonnet on; and 
 yet, though I looked at it all the time, trying to 
 find out, prayers were fairly over before I dis- 
 covered w^hether It was really new, or only that 
 old white one made over with a few new flowers. 
 Xow, if I had had my glass, I could have told in 
 a moment, and shouldn't have been obliged to lose 
 all the prayers.
 
 NE \V LI VER 1 ; A XD O TIIER THINGS. 3 ! 
 
 But, as I was sayin^^, tho^c poor old jocoplc in 
 Babylon and Nineveh! — only think, if they had 
 had the privilege of prayers for six or seven weeks 
 in Lent, and regular preaching the rest of the year, 
 except, of course, in the summer — (by the by, I 
 wonder if they all had some kind of Saratoga or 
 Newport to go to. I mean to ask ]Mr. Cheese), 
 they might Jiave been good, and all have been 
 happy. It's quite awful to hear how eloquent and 
 earnest the doctor is when he preaches against 
 Babylon. Mr. P. says he likes to have him " pitch 
 into those old sinners; it does 'em so much good:" 
 and then he looks quite fierce. Mr. Cheese is 
 going to read me a sermon he has written upon the 
 maidenhood of Lot's wife. He says that he quotes 
 a great deal of poetry in it, and that I must dam 
 up the fount of my tears when he reads it. It was 
 an odd expression for a minister, wasn't it? and I 
 was obliged to say, " Mr. Cheese, you forgot your- 
 self." He replied, "Dear Mrs. Potiphar, I will 
 explain;" and he did so; so that I admired him 
 more than ever. 
 
 Dearest Caroline, if you should only like him I 
 He asked one day about you; and, when I told him 
 what a dear good girl you are, he said, "And her 
 father has worldly Dossessions. has he not?"
 
 3 2 TREA S URE- TR O VE 
 
 I answered, Yes; that your father \va^ very rich, 
 Then he sighed, and said that he could never 
 marry an heiress, unless he clearlv saw it to be his 
 duty. Isn't it a beautiful resignation? 
 
 I had no idea of saying so much about him; 
 but vou know it^s proper, when writing a letter in 
 Lent, to talk about religious matters. And I 
 must confess there is something comfortable in 
 in having to do with such things. Don't you feel 
 better, when you've been dancing all the week, and 
 dining, and going to the opera, and flirting, and 
 flving around, to go to church on Sundays? I do. 
 It seems, somehow, as if we ought to go. But I do 
 wish Mrs. Croesus would sit somewhere else than 
 just in front of us; for her new bonnets and her 
 splendid collars and capes make me quite misera- 
 ble. And then she puts me out of conceit of my 
 things by talking about Lawson, or somebod\', as 7 
 told vou in the besrinninof. 
 
 Mr. Pctiphar has sent out for the new carpets. I 
 had only two spoiled at my ball, you know, and that 
 was very little. One always expects to sacrifice at 
 least two carpets u^Don occasion of seeing one's 
 friends. That handsome one in the supper-room 
 was en''^-elv ruined. Would vou believe that Mr.
 
 NEW LIVERY. AND OTHER Tf/ZNGS. 33 
 
 P., when he went down stairs the next morni'i^, 
 found our P'red and his cousin hoeing it with their 
 .'Itle hoes ? It was entirely matted with preserves 
 di(d things ; and the boys said they were scraping it 
 clean for breakfast. The other spoiled carpet was 
 in the gentlemen's dressing-room, where the punch 
 bowl was. Young Gauche Boosey, a very gentle 
 manlv fellow, you know, ran up after polking, and 
 WHS so confused with the light and heat, that he went 
 qiite unsteadily; and as he was trying to fill a giasi^ 
 with the silver ladle (which is rather heav}'), hte 
 somehow leaned too hard upon the table, and down 
 went the whole thing, — table, bowl, punch, and 
 Boosey, and ended my poor carpet I was sorry tor 
 that, and also for the bowl, which was a very hand- 
 some one, imported from China by my father's 
 pjtrtner, — a wedding-gift to me, — and for the table, 
 a delicate rosewood stand, which was a work-table 
 of my sister Lucy's, whom you never knew, and 
 who died long and long ago. However, I was 
 amply repaid by Boosey's drollery afterward. He is 
 a v*'ry witty young man ; and when he got up from 
 the f^.oor, saturated with punch (his clathes, I mean), 
 he looked down at the carpet, and said, — 
 
 " Well, I've given that such a punch, it will want 
 some lemon-aid. to recover"
 
 34 TRRA S UKE^ TRO VR. 
 
 I suppose he had some idea about lemon acid 
 taking out spots. 
 
 But the best thing was what he said to me. He 
 is so droll, that he insisted upon coming down, and 
 finishing the dance just as he was. The funny 
 fellow brushed against all the dresses in his way, 
 and finally said to me, as he pointed to a lemon - 
 seed upon his coat, — 
 
 " I feel so very lemon-choly for what I have done.'^ 
 
 I laughed very much (you were in the other 
 room) ; but Mr. P. stepped up, and ordered him to 
 leave the house. Boosey said he would do no such 
 thing ; and I have no doubt we should have had u 
 scene, if Mr. P. had not marched him straight to 
 the door, and put him into a carriage, and told the 
 driver where to take him. Mr. P. was red enough 
 when he came back. 
 
 " No man shall insult me or my guests, by getting 
 drunk in my house," said he ; and he has since 
 asked me not to invite Boosey, nor "any of his 
 kind," as he calls them, to our house. However, I 
 think it will pass over. I tell him that all young 
 men of spirit get a little excited with wine some- 
 times, and he mustn't be too hard upon them. 
 
 " Madame." said he to me, the first time I ven
 
 iyfEvr LIVERY, AND OTHER THINGS, 35 
 
 ^Jred to say that, " no man with genuine self-respect 
 ever gets drunk twice ; and, if you had the faintest 
 idea of the misery which a little elegant intoxication 
 has produced in scores of families that you know, 
 you would never insinuate again that a little excite- 
 ment from wine is an agreeable thing. There's your 
 friend Mrs. Croesus " (he thinks she's my friend, be- 
 cause we call each other " dear ") : " she is delighted 
 to be a fashionable woman, and to be described as 
 the * peerless and accomplished Mrs. C-ce-s,' in 
 letters from the watering-places to ' The Herald ; ' but 
 I tell you, if any thing of the woman or the mother 
 is left in the fashionable Mrs. Croesus, I could 
 wi ing her heart as it never was wrung — and never 
 shall be by me — by showing her the places that 
 young Timon Crcesus haunts, the people with whom 
 he associates, and the drunkenness, gambling, and 
 worse dissipations of which he is guilty. 
 
 '* Timon Croesus is eighteen or nineteen, or, per- 
 haps, twenty years old ; and, Polly, I tell you, he is 
 actually blase, worn out with dissipation, the com- 
 panion of blacklegs, the Chevalier of Cyprians, 
 tipsy every night, and haggard every morning. 
 Timon Croesus is the puny caricature of a mau 
 mentally, morally, and ohysically. He gets 'ele
 
 30 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 gantly intoxictited * at your parties ; he goes off to 
 "■up with Gauche Boosey. You and Mrs. CrcEsus 
 think them young men of spirit ; it is an exhilarat- 
 ing case of sowing wild oats, you fancy : and 
 when, at twenty-five, Timon Croesus stands ruined 
 in the world, without aims or capacities, without 
 the esteem of a single man, or his own self-respect, 
 — youth, health, hope, and energy, all gone for- 
 e\'er, — then you and your dear Mrs. Croesus will 
 probably wonder at the horrible harvest. Mrs. 
 Potiphar, ask the Rev. Cream Cheese to omit his 
 sermon upon the maidenhood of Lot's wife, and 
 preach from this text, * They that sow the wind shall 
 reap the whirlwind.' Good heavens ! Polly, fancy 
 our Fred growing up to such a life ! I'd rather bury 
 him to-morrow ! " 
 
 I never saw Mr. P. so much excited. He fairly 
 put his handkerchief to his eyes ; and I really be- 
 lieve he cried. But I think he exaggerates these 
 things ; and as he had a very dear friend who went 
 worse and worse, until he died frightfully, a drunk- 
 ard, it is not strange he should speak so warmly 
 about it. But as Mrs. Croesus says, — 
 
 " What can you do ? You can't curb these boys • 
 you don't want to break their spirits ; you don't 
 want to make them milksops."
 
 NEiV LIVERY, AND OTHER THINGS. 57 
 
 When I repeated the speech to Mr. P., he said to 
 me with a kind of solemnity, — 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Croesus that I am not here to judge 
 nor dictate ; but she may be well assured, that every 
 parent is responsible for every child of his to the 
 utmost of the influence he can exert, whether he 
 chooses to consider himself so or not. And if not 
 now, in this world, yet somewhere and somehow, he 
 must hear and heed the voice that called to Cain in 
 the garden, * Where is Abel, thy brother ? ' " 
 
 I can't bear to hear Mr. P. talk in that way : it 
 sounds so like preaching ; not precisely like what I 
 hear at church, but like what we mean when we say 
 " preaching," without referring to any particular ser- 
 mon. However, he grants that young Timon is an 
 extreme case : but he says it is the result that 
 proves the principle ; and a state of feeling which 
 not only all5ws, but indirectly fosters, that result, is 
 frightful to think of. 
 
 "Don't think of it then, Mr. P.," said I. He 
 looked at me for a moment with the sternest scowl I 
 ever saw upon a man's face ; then he suddenly ran 
 up to me, and kissed me on the forehead (although 
 my hair was all dressed for Mrs. Gnu's dinner), and 
 went out of the house. He hasn't said much to mc
 
 38 Tif^ 4SURE- TRO VE. 
 
 since; but he speaks very gently when he dcxis 
 speak, and sometimes I catch him looking at me in 
 such a singular way, so half mournful, that Mr. 
 Cheese's eyes don't seem so very sad, after all. 
 
 However, to return to the party : I believe nothing 
 else was injured, except the curtains in the front 
 drawing-room, which were so smeared with ice- 
 cream and oyster-gravy, that we must get new ones ; 
 and the cover of my porcelain tureen was broken by 
 the servant, though the man said he really didn't 
 mean to do it, and I could say nothing j and a party 
 of young men, after the German cotillon, did let fall 
 that superb cut-glass claret,^ and shivered it, with a 
 dozen of the delicately-engraved straw-stems that 
 stood upon the waiter. That was all, I believe — 
 oh ! except that fine " Dresden Gallery," the most 
 splendid book I ever saw, full of engravings of the 
 great pictures in Dresden, Vienna, and the other 
 Italian towns, and which was sent to Islr. P. by an 
 old friend, an artist, whom he had helped along 
 when he was very poor. Somebody unfortunately 
 tipped over a bottle of claret that stood upon the 
 table (I am sure I don't know how it got there, 
 though Mr. P. says Gauche Boosey knows), and it 
 lay soaking into the boc-k ; so that almost every
 
 x/':pv livery, and other things. 39 
 
 picture has a claret stain, which looks so funny. I 
 am very sorry, 1 am su'e ; but, as I tell Mr. P., 
 it's no use crying for spilt milk. I was telling Mr. 
 Boosey of it at the Gnus' dinner. He laughed very 
 much ; and, when I said that a good many of the faces 
 were sadly stained, he said in his droll way, " You 
 ought to call it L' opera di Bordeaux; Le Domino 
 rouge.'' I supposed it was something funny, so I 
 laughed a good deal. He said to me later, — 
 
 " Shall I pour a little claret into your book — I 
 mean into your glass?" 
 
 Wasn't it a pretty bon-mot 1 
 
 Don't you think we are getting very spirituel in 
 this country? 
 
 I believe there was nothing else injured, except 
 the bed-hangings in the back-room, which were 
 somehow badly burnt, and very much torn in pulling 
 down ; and a few of our handsomest shades that 
 were cracked by the heat ; and a few plates, which it 
 was hardly fair to expect wouldn't be broken ; and 
 the colored glass door in my escritoire^ against which 
 Flattie Podge fell as she was dancing with Gauche 
 Boosey ; but he may have been a little excited you 
 know, and she, poor girl, couldn't help tumbling, 
 and as her head hit the glass, of course it broke,
 
 40 /A'/- W S/ S h- / A " ' A 
 
 and cut her head badly, so that the blood ran down^ 
 and naturally spoiled her dress ; and what little 
 escritoire could stand against Flattie Podge? So 
 that went, and was a good deal smashed in falling. 
 That's all, I think, except that the next day Mrs 
 Croesus sent a note, saying that she had lost hei 
 largest diamond from her necklace; and she was 
 sure that it was not in the carriage, nor in her own 
 house, nor upon the sidewalk, for she had carefully 
 looked everj'where, and she would be very glad if J 
 would return it by the bearer. 
 
 Think of that! 
 
 Well, we hunted everjrwhere, and found no 
 diamond. I took particular pains to ask the ser- 
 vants if they had found it ; for, if they had, they 
 might as well give it up at once, without expecting 
 any reward from Mrs. Croesus, who wasn't ver)' 
 generous. But they all said they hadn't found any 
 diamond ; and our man John, who you know is so 
 guileless, — although it was a little mysterious 
 about that emerald pin of mine, — brought me a bit 
 of glass that had been nicked out of my large cus- 
 tard-dish, and asked me if that was not Mrs. Croe- 
 sus's diamond. I told him no, and gave him a gold 
 dollar for his honest)\ John is an invaluable ser 
 vant ; he is so guileless.
 
 NEW LIVt.h'W A.\'/' nr//hA' lH/.\i,S 41 
 
 Do you know, J am not so sure about Mrs. Crassusi 
 diarnund I 
 
 Mr. P. made a great growling about the ball. 
 Hut it was very foolish, for he got safely to bed by 
 six o'clock; and he need ha\e no trouble about 
 replacing the curtains and glass, &c. I shall do all 
 that ; and the sum total will be sent to him in a 
 lump, so that he can pay it. 
 
 Men are so unreasonable ! Fancy us at seven 
 o'clock that morning, when I retired. He wasn't 
 asleep. But whose fault was that ? 
 
 " Polly," said he, " that's the last" 
 
 *' Last what?" said I. 
 
 " Last ball at my house," said he. 
 
 " I-'iddle-dee-dee," said L 
 
 " I tell you, Mrs. Potiphar, I am not going to 
 open my house for a crowd of people who don't go 
 away till daylight, who spoil my books and furni- 
 ture, who involve me in a foolish expense ; for a 
 gang of rowdy boys, who drink my Margaux and 
 Lafitte and Marcobrunner (what kind of drinks are 
 those, dear Caroline?), and who don't know Cham- 
 bertin from licorice-water ; for a swarm of per- 
 sons few of whom know me, fewer still care foi 
 me, and to whom I am only ' Old Potiphar,' the
 
 42 TREASURE-TROVE, 
 
 husband of you, a fashionable woman. I am sint- 
 ply resolved to have no more such tom-foolery in 
 
 my house." 
 
 " Dear Mr. P.," said I, "you'll feel much better 
 when you have slept. Besides, why do you say 
 such things } Mustn't we see our friends, I should 
 like to know ; and, if we do, are you going to let 
 your wife receive them in a manner inferior to old 
 Mrs. Podge or Mrs. Croesus ? People will accuse 
 you of meanness, and of treating me ill ; and, if 
 some persons hear that you have reduced your style 
 of living, they will begin to suspect the state of 
 your affairs. Don't make any rash vows, Mr. P.," 
 said I, " but go to sleep." 
 
 (Do you know that speech was just what Mrs. 
 Crcesns told me she had said to her husband under 
 similar circumstances ?) 
 
 Mr. P. fairly groaned ; and I heard that short, 
 strong little word that sometimes inadvertently 
 drops out of the best-regulated mouths, as young 
 Gooseberry Downe says when he swears before 
 his mother. Do you know Mrs. Settum Downe ? 
 Charming woman, but satirical. 
 
 Mr. P. groaned, and said some more ill-natured 
 things, until the clock struck nine, and he wa«
 
 NEW JJ \' Lin' AXn ( > 1 li i.K Jj//\<..^ -),- 
 
 oblij^cd to get up. I should be sorry to say to any- 
 body but you, dearest, that I was rather glad of it; 
 for I could then fall asleep at my ease; and these 
 little connui>ial felicities (I think tlicy call them) 
 are so tiresome! But everybody agreed it was a 
 beautiful ball; and I had the great gratification of 
 hearing young Lord Mount Ague (you know you 
 danced witii him, love) say that it was quite the 
 same thing as a ball at Buckingham Palace, except 
 of course, in size, and the number of persons and 
 dresses and jewels, and the plate and glass and sup- 
 per and wines, and furnishing of the rooms, and 
 
 ' lights, and some of those things, which are natur- 
 ally upon a larger scale at a palace than in a private 
 house. But he said, excepting such things, it was 
 quite as fine. I am afraid Lord ^Slount Ague flat- 
 
 \ ters — , just a little bit, you know. 
 
 i' Yes; and there was young Major Staggers, who 
 said, that " Decidedly it was the party of the sea- 
 son." 
 
 " IIow odd! " said Mrs. Croesus, to whom I told 
 it, and, I confess, with a little pride. " What a 
 sympathetic man! that is, for a military man, I 
 mean. Would you believe, Dear Mrs. Potiphar, 
 that he said precisely the same thing to me two 
 days after my ball?"
 
 4 4 TREA S URE- TR O VE. 
 
 Now, Caroline dearest, perhaps he did 1 
 
 With all these pleasant things said about one s 
 party, I cannot see that it is such a dismal thing as 
 Mr. P. tries to make out. After one of his solemn 
 talks, I asked Mr. Cheese what he thought of balls, 
 whether it was so ver}' wicked to dance, and go to 
 parties, if one only went to church twice a day on 
 Sundays. He patted his lips a moment with his 
 handkerchief ; and then he said, — and, Caroline, 
 you can always quote the Rev. Cream Cheese as 
 authority, — 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Potiphar, it is recorded in Holy 
 Scripture that the king danced before the Lord." 
 
 Darling, if any thing should happen^ I don'v believe 
 he would object much to your dancing. 
 
 What gossips we women are, to be sure ! I meant 
 to write you about our new livery, and I am afraid I 
 have tired you out already. You remember when 
 vou were here, I said that I meant to have a livery ; 
 for my sister Margaret told me, that when they used 
 to drive in Hyde Park, with the old Marquis of 
 Mammon, it was always so delightful to hear him 
 say, — 
 
 " Ah ! there is Lady Lobster's liver)-." 
 
 It was so aristocratic ! And in Cvountries whe^e
 
 NEW LIVERY, AND UTnE^ 'I'HINGS. 41. 
 
 D'rtain colors distinguish certain families, and are 
 hereditary, so to say, it is convenient and pleasant 
 to recognize a coat-of-arms, or a liver)', and to know 
 that the representative of a great and famous family 
 is passing by. 
 
 " That's a Howard, that's a Russell, that's a Dor- 
 set, that's De C^Iique, that's Mount Ague," old Lord 
 Mammon used lo say as the carriages whirled by. 
 He knew none of them personally, I believe, ex- 
 cepit De Colique and Mount Ague ; but then it was 
 so agreeable to be able to know their liveries. 
 
 j^'^ov,', why shouldn't we have the same arrange- 
 ment ? Why not have the Smith colors, and the 
 Brown colors, and the Black colors, and the Potiphar 
 colors, &c., so that the people might say, "Ah ! there 
 go the Potiphar arms " } 
 
 There is one difficulty, Mr. P. says ; and that is, 
 that he found five hundred and sixty-seven Smiths 
 in the directory, which might lead to some confu- 
 sion. But that was absurd, as I told him, because 
 ever)'body would know which of the Smiths was 
 able to keep a carriage ; so that the liver}' would be 
 recognized directly the moment that any of the 
 family were seen in the carriage. Upon which he 
 said, in his provoking way, " Why have any liver}' at
 
 1 < ) /"A A AS URE- Tk O VE. 
 
 all, then ? " and he persisted in saying thaf no Smith 
 was ever the Smith for three generations, and that 
 he knew at least twenty', each of whom was able to 
 set up his carriage, and stand by his coiors. 
 
 " But then a livery is so elegant and aristocratic," 
 said I, " and it shows that a servant is a servant." 
 
 That last was a strong argument ; and I thought 
 Mr. P. would have nothing to say against it. But he 
 'attled on for some time, asking me what right I had 
 to be aristocratic, or, in fact, anybody else ; went 
 over his eternal old talk about aping foreign habits, 
 as if we hadn't a right to adopt the good usages of 
 ill nations ; and finally said that the use of liveries 
 imong us was rot only a "pure peacock absurdity.," 
 as he called it, but that no genuine American would 
 ever ask another to assume a menial badge. 
 
 " Why ! " said I, " is not an American ser\'ant a 
 sen'ant still .? " 
 
 " Most undoubtedly," ^e said ; " and when a man 
 >s a ser\'ant, let him serve faithfully ; and in this 
 country especially, where to-morrow he may be the 
 served, and not the ser\'ant, let him not be ashamed 
 of serving. But, Mrs. Potiphar, J beg you to 
 ibserv^e that a serv^ant's liver)' is not, Lke a general's 
 uniform, the badge of honorable service, but of
 
 .VE^V LIVERY, AND OTHER THINGS. 47 
 
 ttvenial service. Of course, a servant may be a? 
 h.)norable as a general, and his work quite as nece/s 
 sary and well done. But, for all that, it is not so 
 respected nor coveted a situation, I believe ; and; in 
 social estimation, a man suffers by wearing a livery, 
 as he never would if he wore none. And while, in 
 countries in which a man is proud of being a servant 
 (as every man may well be of being a good one), 
 and never looks to any thing else, nor desires any 
 change, a livery may be very proper to the state of 
 society, and ver)' agreeable to his own feelings, it is 
 quite another thing in a society constituted upon 
 altogether different principles, where the servant of 
 to-day is the senator of to-morrow. Besides that, 
 which I suppose is too fine-spun for you, kver}- is a 
 remnant of a feudal state, of which we abolish every 
 trace as fast as we can. That which is represented 
 by livery is not consonant with our principles." 
 
 How the man runs on, when he gets going this 
 way ! I said, in answer to all this flourish, tnat I 
 considered a livery very much the tiling ; that Euro- 
 pean families had liveries, and American families 
 might have liveries ; that there was an end of it, 
 and I meant to have one. Besides, if it is a matter 
 of family, I should ''V-e to know who has a better
 
 fS TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 /•ight? There was Mr. Potiphar's grandfather, to 
 be sure, was only a skilful blacksmith and a good 
 citizen, as ]Mr. P. says, who brought up a family 
 in the fear of the Lord. 
 
 How oddly he puts those things! 
 
 But my ancestors, as you know, are a different 
 matter. Starr Mole, who interests himself in ec- 
 nealogies, and knows the family name and crest of 
 all the English nobility, has " climbed our family 
 tree," as Staggers says, and finds that I am lineally 
 descended from one of those two brothers who 
 came over in some of those old times. In some of 
 those old ships, and settled in some of those old 
 places somewhere. So you see, dear Caroline, if 
 birth gives any one a right to coats-of-arms and 
 liveries, and all those things, I feel myself sufii- 
 ciently entitled to have them. 
 
 But I don't care anything about that. The Gnus 
 and Croesuses and Silkes, and the Settum Downes, 
 have their coats-of-arms, and crests, and liveries, 
 and I am not going to be behind, I tell you. ]Mr. P. 
 ought to remember that a great many of these fami- 
 lies were famous before they came to this countr}^ ; 
 and there is a kind of interest in having on your 
 ring, for instance, the same crest that your ancestor,
 
 two or three centunes ag^., nad upon her ring. One 
 day I was quite wrought up about the matter, and I 
 said as much to him. 
 
 "Certainly," said he, "certainly: you are quite 
 right. If I had Sir Philip Sidney to my ancestor. I 
 should wear his crest upon my ring, and glor)- in my 
 relationship ; and I hope I should be a better man 
 for it. I wouldn't put his arms upon my carriage, 
 however, because that would mean nothing but 
 ostentation. It would be merely a flourish of trum- 
 pets to say that I was his descendant, and nobody 
 would know that, either, if my name chanced to be 
 Boggs. In my library I might hang a copy of the 
 family escutcheon as a matter of interest and curi- 
 osity to myself, for I'm sure I shouldn't understand 
 it. Do you suppose Mrs. Gnu knows what gules 
 argent are ? A man may be as proud of his family 
 as he chooses, and, if he has noble ancestors, with 
 good reason. But there is no sense in parading that 
 pride. It is an affectation, the more foolish that it 
 achieves nothing, no more credit at Stewart's, no 
 more real respect in society. Besides, Polly, who 
 were Mrs. Gnu's ancestors, or Mrs. Crcesus's, or 
 Mrs. Settum Downe's "*. Good, quiet, honest, and 
 humble people, who did their wcrrk, and rest from
 
 5 c 7 'A- A .^ S r '/; A -TROVE 
 
 their labors. Centuries ago, in England, some drops 
 of blood from * noble ' veins may have mingled with 
 die blood of their forefathers ; or even the founder of 
 the family name may be historically famous. What 
 tnen ? Is Mrs. Gnu's family ostentation less 
 absurd t Do you understand the meaning of hei 
 crest, and coats-of-arms, and liveries ? Do you 
 suppose she does herself? But in forty-nine cases 
 out of fifty, there is nothing but a similarity ot 
 name upon which to found all this flourish of aris- 
 tocracy." 
 
 My dear old Pot is getting rather prosy, Carrie. 
 So when he had finished that long speech, during 
 which I was looking at the lovely fashion-plates In 
 Harper, I said, — 
 
 " What colors do you think I'd better have ? " 
 He looked at me with that singular expression, 
 and went out suddenly, as if he were afraid he 
 •nighl say something. 
 
 He had scarcely gone before I heard, — 
 "My dear Mrs. Potiphar, the sight of you is 
 refreshing as Hermon's dew." 
 
 I colored a little. Mr. Cheese says such things 
 so softly 1 But I said good-morning, and then asked 
 him about liveries, &c.
 
 NEW LIVERY, AND OTHER THINGS. 51 
 
 He raised his hand to his cravat (it was the most 
 snowy lawn, Carrie, and tied in a splendid bow). 
 
 " Is not this a livery, dear Mrs. Potiphar ? " 
 
 And then he went off into one of those pretty 
 talks, in what Mr. P. calls "the language of arti- 
 ficial flowers," and wound up by i^xoting Scripture : 
 " Servants, obey your masters." 
 
 That was enough 'or me. So f told Mr. Cheese, 
 that, as he had already assisted me in colors once, 1 
 should be most glad to have him do so again. 
 What a time we had, to be sure, talking 01 colors, 
 and cloths, and gaiters, and buttons, and knee- 
 breeches, and waistcoats, and plush, and coats, am* 
 lace, and hatbands, and gloves, and cravats, and 
 cords, and tassels, and hats. Oh, it was delight- 
 ful ! You can't fancy how heartily the Rev. Cream 
 entered into the matter. He was quite enthusiastic, 
 and at last he said, with so much expression, " Dear 
 Mrs. Potiphar, why not have a chasseur V 
 
 I thought it was some kind of French dish for 
 lunch : so I said, — 
 
 " I am so sorry ; but we haven't any in the house.* 
 
 "Oh I" said he; "but you could hire one, you 
 'uiow." 
 
 Then I thought it must be a musical instrument,
 
 5 2 rh' A AS Ik E- 7 /C Of'' A. 
 
 a panharmonicon, or something of that kind . sf) 1 
 said in a general way, — 
 
 " I'm not very, very fond of it" 
 
 " But it would be so fine to have him standing on 
 the back of the carriage, his plumes waving in the 
 wind, and his lace and polished belts flashing in the 
 sun, as you whirled dowTi Broadway." 
 
 Of course I knew then that he was speaking of 
 those military gentlemen who ride behind carriages, 
 especially upon the Continent, as Margaret tells me, 
 and who in Paris are very useful to keep the 
 savages and wild beasts at bay in the Champs 
 Elysees ; for you know they are intended as a guard. 
 
 But I knew Mr. P. would be firm about that : sc J 
 asked Mr. Cheese not to kindle my imagination 
 with the chasseur. 
 
 We concluded, finally, to have only one full-sized 
 footman, and a fat driver. 
 
 " The corpulence is essential, dear Mrs. Foti- 
 phar," said Mr. Cheese. " I have been mucli 
 abroad ; I have mingled, I trust, in good, which is to 
 8ay, Christian society ; and I must say, that few 
 things struck me more upon my return than that the 
 ladies who drive very handsome carriages, with foot- 
 men, &c., in liver^', should perrnit such diin coach-
 
 NEW LIVERY, AND OT/fF.R TfflNGS. 53 
 
 men upon the box. I really believe that Mrs. 
 Settum Downe's coachman doesn't weigh more than 
 a hundred and thirty pounds, which is ridiculous. 
 A lady might as well hire a footman with insufficient 
 calves, as a coachman who weighs less than two 
 hundred and ten. That is the minimum. Besides, 
 1 don't observe any wigs upon the coachmen. Now, 
 if a lady sets up her carriage with the family crest, 
 and fine liveries, why, I should like to know, is the wig 
 of the coachman omitted, and his cocked hat also t 
 It is a kind of shabby, half-ashamed way of doing 
 things, — a garbled glory. The cock-hatted, knee- 
 breeched, paste-buckled, horse-hair-wigged coach- 
 man is one of the institutions of the aristocracy. 
 If we don't have him complete, we somehow make 
 ourselves ridiculous. If we do have him complete, 
 why, then " — 
 
 Here Mr. Cheese coughed a little, and patted his 
 mouth with his cambric. But what he said was very 
 true. I should like to come out with the wig — I 
 mean upon the coachman : it would so put down 
 the Settum Downes. But I'm sure old Pot wouldn't 
 have it. He lets me do a great deal. But there is 
 a line which I feel he won't let me pass. I men- 
 tioned my fears to Mr. Cheese.
 
 " Well," he said, *' Mr. Potiphar may be right \ 
 *emember an expression *5f my carnal days about 
 coming it too strong,' which seems -n me to l:»e 
 applicable just here." 
 
 After a little more talk, I determined to have red 
 plush breeches, with a black cord at the side ; white 
 stockings ; low shoes with large buckles ; a yellow 
 waistcoat with large buttons, lappels to the pockets : 
 and a purple coat, very full and fine, bound witli 
 gold lace ; and the hat banded with a full gold ro- 
 sette. Don't you think that would look well in Hyde 
 Park ? And, darling Carrie, why shouldn't we have 
 in Broadway what they have in Hyde Park ? 
 
 When Mr. P. came in, I told him all about it, 
 He laughed a good deal, and said, " What next ? " 
 So I am not sure he would be so very hard upon 
 the wig. The next morning I had appointed to see 
 the new footman; and, as Mr. P. went out, he 
 turned, and said to me, " Is your footman coming 
 to-day ? " 
 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 " Well," said he, " don't forget the calves. You 
 know that every thing, in the matter of liver^% de- 
 pends upon the calves." 
 
 And he went out, laughing silently to himselt. 
 ¥dth — actually, Canie — a tear in bis eve.
 
 NEW LIVERY, AND OTHER THINGS. 55 
 
 But it was true, wasn't it ? I remember in all the 
 books and pictures how much is said about the 
 calves. In advertisements, &c., it is stated, that 
 none but well-developed calves need apply ; at least, 
 it is so in England, and, if I have a livery, I am not 
 [;oing to stop half-way. My duty was ver)* clear. 
 When Mr. Cheese came in, I said I felt awkward in 
 asking a servant about his calves : it sounded so 
 queerly. But I confessed that it was necessary. 
 
 " Ves ; the path of duty is not aiways smooth, 
 dear Mrs. Potiphar. It is often thickly strewn with 
 thorns," said he, as he sank back in tht/auteuil, and 
 put down his petit verre of Marasquin. 
 
 Just after he had gone, the new footman was an- 
 nounced. I assure you, although it is ridiculous, I 
 felt quite nervous. But, when he came in, I said 
 calmly, — 
 
 " Well, James, I am glad you have come." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, my name is Henry," said he. 
 
 I was astonished at his taking me up so, and said 
 decidedly, — 
 
 " James, the name of my footman is always James. 
 You may call yourself what you please : J shall 
 always call you James." 
 
 The idea of the man's undertaking to arrange m^ 
 servants' names for me 1 .
 
 56 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 Well, he showed roe his references, which w<re 
 very good : and I was quite satisfied. But there 
 was the terrible calf-business that must be attended 
 to. I put it off a great while ; but I had to 
 begin. 
 
 " Well, James ! " and there I stopped 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said he. 
 
 " I wish — yes — ah ! " and I stopped again, 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said he. 
 
 "James, I wish you had come in knee-breeches. 
 
 " Ma'am > " said he in great surprise. 
 
 " In knee-breeches, James," repeated I. 
 
 *' What be they, ma'am 1 \Miatfor, ma'am ? " said 
 he, a little frightened, as I thought 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing ; but — but " — 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said James. 
 
 " But — but I want to see — to see " — 
 
 " Wbat, ma'am "i " said James. 
 
 '•' Your legs," gasped I ; and the path was thorny 
 enough, Carrie, I can tell you. I had a terrible 
 time explaining to him what I meant, and all about 
 the liveries, &:c. Dear me ! what a pity these things 
 are not understood ; and then we should never have 
 this trouble about expl.inarvons. However, I couldn't 
 make him a^ee to we.^r tnc livery. }{e said, —
 
 NEW LIVEKY, AND OTHER THIXG.S. «,7 
 
 '* I'll try to be a good servant, ma'am ; but I cm- 
 not put on those things, and make a fool of myself. 
 I hope you won't insist ; for I am very anxious to get 
 a place." 
 
 Think of his dictating to me I I told him that I 
 did not permit my servants to impose conditions 
 upon me (that's one of Mrs. Croesus's sayings), that 
 I was willing to pay him good wages, and treat him 
 well, but that my James must wear my livery. He 
 looked very sorry, said that he should like the place 
 very much; that he was satisfied with the wages, 
 and was sure he should please me : but he could not 
 put on those things. We were both determined, 
 and so parted, I think we were both sorry ; for I 
 should have to go all through the calf-business 
 again, and he lost a good place. 
 
 However, Caroline, dear, I have my livery and my 
 footman, and am as good as anybody. It's ver\' 
 splendid when I go to Stewart's to have the red 
 plush, and the purple, and the white calves, spring- 
 ing down to open the door, and to see people lorjk, 
 and say, " I wonder who that is ! " And everybody 
 bows so nicely ! and the clerks are so polite! and 
 Mrs. Gnu is melting with env}- on the other side \ 
 and Mrs. Croesus goes about, saying, " Dear little
 
 jS ' TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 woman, that Mrs. Potiphar, but so weak I Pitf, 
 pity ! " And Mrs. Settum Downe says, " Is that tl: e 
 Potiphar livery t Ah, yes 1 Mr. Potiphar's grand- 
 father used to shoe my grandfather's horses " (as if 
 to be useful in the world were a disgrace, as Mr. P. 
 says). And young Downe and Boosey and Timon 
 Croesus come up and stand about so gentlemanly, 
 and say, "Well, Mrs. Potiphar, are we to have no 
 more charming parties this season ? " and Boosey 
 says, in his droll way, " Let's keep the ball a-rolling ! " 
 That young man is always ready with a v/itticism. 
 Then I step out, and James throws open the door ; 
 and the young men raise their hats ; and the new 
 crowd says, " I wonder who that is ! " and the plush, 
 and purple, and calves spring up behind, and I drive 
 home to dinner. 
 
 Now, Carrie dear, isn't that nice ? 
 
 Well, I don't know how it is ; but things are so 
 queer ! Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, 
 in my room, which I have had tapestried with fluted 
 rose silk, and lie thinking under the lace curtains • 
 although I may have been at one of Mrs. Gnu's 
 splendid parties the night before, and am going to 
 Mrs. Silke's to dinner, and to the opera and Mrs. 
 Settum DouTie's in the evening, and have nothing to
 
 NK VV LJ I 'KK >', A i\' t) » > 'J Ji i\ A J /nW u.S . 
 
 :>') 
 
 do all day but go to Stewart's, or Martelle's. or 
 Lefevre's and shop, and pay morning-calls, — do 
 you know, as I say, that sometimes I hear an old 
 familiar tune played upon a hand-organ far away 
 in some street, and it seems to me, in that half- 
 drowsy state under the laces, that I hear the girls 
 and boys singing it in the fields where we used to 
 play? It is a kind of dream, I suppose ; but often, 
 as I listen, I am sure that I hear Henry's voice 
 again, that used to ring so gayly among the old trees, 
 and I walk with him in the sunlight to the bank by 
 the river ; and he throws in the flower, — as he really 
 did, — and says with a laugh, " If it goes this side 
 of the stump, I am saved ; if the other, I am lost ; " 
 and then looks at me as if I had any thing to do 
 with it. And the flower drifts slowly off and off, and 
 goes the other side of the old stump, and we walk 
 homeward silently, until Henry laughs out, and says, 
 " Thank Heaven, my fate is not a flower ; " and I 
 swear to love him for ever and ever, and marry him, 
 and live in a dingy little old room in some of the 
 dark and dirty streets in the city. 
 
 Then I doze again : but presently the music 
 steals mto my sleep, and I see him, as I saw him 
 last, standing in his pulpit, so calm and noble, and
 
 drawing the strong men as well as the weak womc * 
 
 by his earnest persuasion; and after service he 
 smiles upon me kindly, and says, " This is my wife ; " 
 and the wife, who looks like the Madonna in that 
 picture of Andrea Del Sarto's which you liked so 
 at the gallery, leads us to a little house buried in 
 roses, looking upon a broad and lovely landscape ; 
 and Henry whispers to me, as a beautiful boy bounds 
 mto the room, "Mrs. Potiphar, I am very happy." 
 
 I doze agam until Adele comes in, and opens the 
 shutters. I do not hear the music any more ; but 
 those days I do somehow seem to hear it all the 
 time. Of course, Mr. P. is gone long before I 
 wake : so he knows nothing about all this. I gener- 
 ally come in at night after he is asleep ; and he is 
 up, and has his breakfast, and goes down town, be- 
 fore I wake in the morning. He comes home to 
 dinner, but he is apt to be silent ; and, after dinner, 
 he takes his nap in the parlor, over his newspaper, 
 while I go up and let Ad^le dress my hair for the 
 evening. Sometimes Mr. P. groans into a clean 
 shirt, and goes vdth me to the ball, but not often. 
 WTien I come home, as I said, he is asleep : so I 
 don't see a great deal of him, except in the sum- 
 mer, when I am at Saratoga or Newport, and then
 
 rot SO much, after all; tor he usually only passes 
 Junday, and I must be a good Christian, you know, 
 md go to church. On the whole, we have not a 
 very intimate acquaintance ; but I have a great 
 respect for him. He told me the other day, that he 
 should make at least thirty thousand dollars this 
 year. 
 
 My darling Carrie, I am very sorry I can't write 
 you a longer letter. I want to consult you about 
 wearing gold powder, like the new empress. It 
 would kill Mrs. Croesus if you and I should be the 
 first to come out in it ; and don't you think the effect 
 would be fine, when we were dancing, to shower the 
 gold mist around us ? How it would sparkle upon 
 the gentlemen's black coats ! (" Yes," says Mr. P., 
 " and how finely Gauche Boosey, and Timon Croe- 
 sus, and young Downe, will look in silk tights and 
 small-clothes ! ") They say it's genuine gold ground 
 up. I have already sent for a white velvet and lace, 
 — the empress's bridal dress, you know. That fool- 
 ish old P. asked me if I had sent for the emperor 
 and the bank of France too. 
 
 ** M^en ask such absurd questions ! " said I. 
 
 " Mrs. Potiphar, I never asked but one utterly 
 absurd question in my life," said he, and marched 
 >ut of the house.
 
 62 TREASURE^ TRO VE, 
 
 Au revoiry chire Caroline. I have a thousand 
 ttings to say; but I know you must be tired to 
 d^,ath. 
 
 Fondly yours, 
 
 Polly Potiphar. 
 
 P.S. — Our little Fred is quite down with the 
 scarlet-fever Potiphar says I mustn't expose my- 
 self : so I don't go into the room ; but Mrs. JoUup, 
 the nurse, tells me through the keyhole how he is. 
 Mr. P. sleeps in the room next the nursery, so as not 
 CO carry the infection to me. He looks very solemn 
 as he walks down town. I hope it won't spoil Fred's 
 complexion. I should be so sorry to have him a 
 Uttle fright 1 Poor little thing ! 
 
 P.S. 2d. — Isn't it funny about the music ?
 
 MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON CARDS 
 AND WHIST. 
 
 BY CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor 
 of the game. This was the celebrated 
 wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), 
 who, next to her de\otions, loved a good game of 
 whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, 
 your half-and-half players, who have no objection to 
 take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber ; 
 who affirm that they have no pleasure in winning j 
 that they like to win one game, and lose another ; 
 thnf ihey can while away an hour very agreeably at 
 a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or 
 no ; and will desire an adversary who has slipped a 
 wrong card, to take it up and play another. Th« sc 
 insufferable triflers are the curse of a table. One «>♦ 
 these flies will spoil a whole pot. . Of such it ma^
 
 64 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 be said that they do not play at cards, but only 
 play at playing them. 
 
 Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She de- 
 tested them, as I do, from her heart and soul, 
 and would not, save upon a striking emergency, 
 willingly seat herself at the same table with them. 
 She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined 
 enemy. She took and gave no concessions. She 
 hated favors. She never made a revoke, nor ever 
 passed it over in her adversary, without exacting 
 the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight • 
 cut and thrust. She held not her good sword 
 (her cards) *Mike a dancer." She sat bolt upright ; 
 and neither showed you her cards nor desired to 
 see yours. All people have their blind side, their 
 superstitions ; and I have heard her declare, under 
 the rose, that hearts was her favorite suit. 
 
 I never in my life — and I knew Sarah Battle many 
 of the best years of it — saw her take out her snuff- 
 box when it was her turn to play, or snuff a candle 
 in the middle of a game, or ring for a servant till it 
 was fairly over. She never introduced, or connived 
 at, miscellaneous conversation during its progress. 
 As she emphatically observed, cards were cards; 
 and, if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last-
 
 MRS. HATTLF. OAT CARDS AND WHIST. 65 
 
 century countenance, it was at the airs ot a youn^ 
 g-i:ntleman of a literary turn, who had been with 
 ditficulty persuaded to take a hand ; and who, in his 
 excess of candor, declared that he thought there 
 was no harm in unbending the mind now and then, 
 after serious studies, in recreations of that kind. 
 She could not bear to have her noble occupation, to 
 which she wound up her faculties, considered in that 
 light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she 
 came into the world to do ; and she did it. She 
 unbent her mind afterwards — over a book. 
 
 Pope was her favorite author ; his " Rape of the 
 Lock," her favorite work. She once did me the 
 favor to play over with me (with the cards) his cele- 
 b'ated game of ombre in that poem, and to explain 
 tc me how far it agreed with, and in what points it 
 would be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illusr 
 trations were apposite and poignant ; and I had the 
 pleasure of sending the substance of them to Mr. 
 Bowles ; but I suppose they came too late to be 
 inserted among his ingenious notes upon that author. 
 
 Quadrille, she has often told me, was her fiist 
 
 love ; but whist had engaged her maturer esteem. 
 
 The former, she said, was show^' and specious, and 
 
 likely to allure young persons. The uncertaintji 
 
 5
 
 I ) 6 / a' E a o U k h— i hiJ t h.. 
 
 and quick shifting of partners, a thing which 
 the constancy of whist abhors ; the dazzling su- 
 premacy and regal investiture of Spadille, absurd, 
 as she justly observed, in the pure aristocracy of 
 whist, \vhere his crown and garter give him no 
 proper power above his brother-nobility of the Aces \ 
 the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of 
 playing alone ; above all, the overpowering attrac- 
 tions of a Sans Prendre Vole, to the triumph of 
 which there is certainly nothing parallel or ap- 
 proaching, in the contingencies of whist, — all these, 
 she would say, make quadrille a game of captivation 
 to the young and enthusiastic. But whist was the 
 solider game : that was her word. It was a long 
 meal, not, like quadrille, a feast of snatches. One 
 or two rubbers might co-extend in duration with an 
 evening. They gave time to form rooted friend- 
 ships, to cultivate steady enmities. She despised 
 the chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuating 
 alliances of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, 
 she would say, reminded her of the petty ephemera] 
 embroilments of the littie Italian States, depicted 
 Dy Machiavel ; perpetually changing postures and 
 connections ; bitter foes, to-day, sugared darlings to- 
 morrow ; kissing and scratching in a breath : but
 
 V^■^. HA III f- OX (Ah'DS A .\ / ) li'///S7\ hj 
 
 (In: wars of whist w<;rc comparable to the long, 
 sveady, deep-rooted, rational antipathies of the great 
 French and English nations. 
 
 A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired 
 in her favorite game. There was nothing silly in it, 
 like the nob in cribbage, nothing superfluous ; no 
 ffushes, that most irrational of all pleas that a rea 
 onahle being can set up, — that any one should 
 claim four by virtue of holding cards of the sam*/ 
 mark ■^\^^ color, without reference to the playing ot 
 the game, or the individual worth or pretensions (<f 
 the cards themselves I She held this to be a soK- 
 cisni, as pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration 
 is in authorship. She despised superficiality, ar d 
 looketl deeper than the colors ot things. Suits 
 were soldiers, she would say, and must have a 
 uniformity of array to distinguish them ; but what 
 snould we say to a foolish squire, who should chi m 
 a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red jackt is, 
 that never were to be marshalled, never to take titc 
 field .^ She even wished that whist were miic 
 simple ^han it is, and, in my mind, \ uuld ha\'i 
 stripped it of some appendages, which, in the state 
 of human frailt}', may be venially and even corp- 
 'jicndably allowed of. She saw no reason fcr 'he
 
 <38 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 •deciding of the trump by the turn of the card. 
 Why not one suit always trumps ? Why two colors, 
 when the mark of the suit would have sufficiently 
 distinguished them without it ? 
 
 " But the eye, my dear madam, is agreeably re- 
 freshed with the variety. Man is not a creature ol 
 pure reason : he must have his senses delightfully 
 appealed to. We see it in Roman Catholic coun- 
 tries, where the music and the paintings draw in 
 many to worship, whom your Quaker spirit of un- 
 sensualizing would have kept out. You yourself 
 have a pretty collection of paintings ; but confess 
 to m«, whether, walking in your gallery at Sandham, 
 among those clear Vandykes, or among the Paul 
 Potters in the ante-room, you ever felt your bosom 
 ^low with an elegant delight at all comparable to 
 that you have it in your power to experience most 
 evenings over a well-arranged assortment of the 
 court-cards? — the pretty, antic habits, like heralds 
 in a procession ; the gay, triumph-assuring scarlets \ 
 the contrasting deadly-killing sables ; the ' hoar}' 
 majesty of spades ; ' Pam in all his glory i 
 
 " All these might be dispensed with ; and, with 
 "their naked names upon the drab pasteboard, the 
 ^ame might go on very well, pictureless. But the
 
 MRS. BATTLE ON CARDS AND WHIST. 69 
 
 beauty of cards would be extinguished forever. 
 Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they 
 must degenerate into mere gambling. Imagine a 
 dull deal board, or drum head, to spread them on, in- 
 stead of that nice verdant carpet (next to Nature^sX 
 fittest arena for those courtly combatants to play 
 their gallant jousts and tourneys in 1 Exchange 
 those delicately-turned ivory markers (work of 
 Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol, or as 
 profanely slighting their true application as the 
 arrantest Ephesian journeyman that turned out 
 those little shrines for the goddess),. — exchange 
 them for little bits of leather (our ancestors' moneyX 
 or chalk and a slate 1 " 
 
 The old lady, with a smile, confessed the sound- 
 ness of my logic; and, to her approbation of my 
 argument on her favorite topic that evening, I have 
 always fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a 
 curious cribbage-board, made of the finest Sienna 
 marble, which her maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer 
 whom I have elsewhere celebrated) brought with 
 him from Florence : this, and a trifle of five hundred 
 pounds, came to me at her death. 
 
 The former bequest (which I do not least value) 
 I have kept with religious care ; though she herself.
 
 70 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with crib^ 
 bage. It was an essentially vulgar game, I ha^ e 
 heard her say, disputing with her uncle, who was very 
 partial to it. She could never heartily bring her 
 mouth to pronounce, " Go^'' or " Thafs a go" She 
 called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging 
 teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber 
 (a five-dollar stake) because she would not take 
 advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have 
 given it her, but which she must have claimed by 
 the disgraceful tenure of declaring, " Two for his 
 heels." There is something extremely genteel in 
 this sort of denial. Sarah Battle was a gentle- 
 woman born. 
 
 Piquet she held the best game at the cards for 
 two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry 
 of the terms, — such as pique, repique, the capot : 
 they savored (she thought) of affectation. But 
 games for two, or even three, she never greatly 
 cared for. She loved the quadrate, or square. She 
 would argue thus : Cards are warfare : the ends are 
 gain, with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of 
 a sport: when sifigle adversaries encounter, the 
 ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it 
 is too close a fight ; with spectators, it is not much
 
 MRS. BATTLE ON CARDS AND WHIST. 71 
 
 bettered. No looker-on can be interested, except 
 for a bet, and then it is a mere affair of money : he 
 cares not for your luck sympathetically^ or for your 
 play. Three are still worse , — a mere naked war of 
 every man against every man, as in cribbage, with- 
 out league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and 
 contradictory interests, a succession of heartless 
 leagues, and not much more hearty infractions of 
 them, as in tradille. But in square ganies {she 
 meant whist) all that is possible to be attained in 
 card-playing is accomplished. There are the incen- 
 tives of profit with honor, common to every species, 
 though the latter can be but very imperfectly en- 
 joyed in those other games, where the spectator is 
 only feebly a participator. But the parties \n whist 
 are spectators and principals too. They are a thea- 
 tre to themselves ; and a looker-on is not wanted. 
 He is rather worse than nothing, and an imperti- 
 nence. Whist abhors neutrality', or interests beyond 
 its sphere. You glory in some surprising stroke of 
 skill or fortune, not because a cold, or even an in- 
 terested bystander, witnesses it, but because your 
 t>artner sympathizes in the contingency. You win 
 for two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. 
 Two, agam, are mortified ; which divides their dis-
 
 72 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 grace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking off the 
 invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are 
 better reconciled than one to one in that close 
 butcher^'. The hostile feeling is weakened by 
 multiplying the channels. War becomes a civil 
 game. By such reasonings as these the old lady 
 was accustomed to defend her favorite pastime. 
 
 No inducement could ever prevail upon her to 
 play at any game, where chance entered into the 
 composition, yj7r nothing. Chance, she would argi^e, 
 — and here again, admire the subtlet}' of her co n- 
 clusion, — chance is nothing, but where something 
 else depends upon it. It is obvious that cannot l)e 
 glory. What rational cause of exultation could it 
 give to a man to turn up size ace a hundred times 
 together by himself ? or before spectators, where no 
 stake was depending ? Make a lottery of a hundred 
 thousand tickets with but one fortunate number, 
 and what possible principle of our nature, except 
 stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that 
 number as many times successively, without a prize } 
 Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in 
 backgammon, where it was not played for money. 
 She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who 
 were taken with a lucky hit under such circura-
 
 MRS. BATTLE ON CARDS AND WHIST. 73 
 
 Stances. Games of pure skill were as little to hei 
 tancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system 
 of over-reaching. Played for glory, they were a 
 mere setting of one man's wit — his memory or 
 combination-faculty rather — against another's ; like 
 a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless and profit- 
 less. She could not conceive a game wanting the 
 sprightly infusion of chance — the handsome ex- 
 cuses of good-fortune. Two people playing at 
 chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was stir- 
 ring in the centre, would inspire her with insuffera- 
 ble horror and ennui. Those well-cut similitudes of 
 castles and knights, the imagery of the board, she 
 would argue (and I think in this case justly) were 
 entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard head 
 contests can in no instance aiiy with the fancy 
 They reject form and color- A pencil and dry 
 slate (she used to say) were the proper arena for 
 such combatants. 
 
 To those puny objectors against cards, as nur- 
 turing the bad passions, she would retort, that man 
 IS a gaming animal. He must be always trying to 
 get the better in something or other, that th's pas- 
 sion can scarcely be more safely expended than 
 upon a game at cards ; that cards are a temporary
 
 74 TRRASURE'TROVE. 
 
 illusion, in truth, a mere drama ; for we do bwt 
 play at being mightily concerned, where a few idle 
 shillings are at stake, yet during the illusion we 
 are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is 
 crowns and kingdoms. They are a sort of dream- 
 fighting, — much ado, great battling, and little blood- 
 shed, might>' means for disproportioned ends, quite 
 as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than 
 many of those more serious games of life, which men 
 play, without esteeming them to be such. 
 
 With great deference to the old lady's judgment 
 on these matters, I think I have experienced some 
 moments in my life when plapng at cards for noth- 
 ing has even been agreeable. When I am in sick- 
 ness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for 
 the cards, and play a game at piquet for love with 
 my cousin Bridget, — Bridget Elia. 
 
 I grant there is something sneaking in it ; but 
 with a toothache or a sprained ankle, when you are 
 subdued and humble, you are glad to put up witli 
 an inferior spring of action. 
 
 There is such a thing in nature, I am convinced, 
 as sick whist. 
 
 I grant it is not the highest style of man — I depre- 
 cate tjie manes of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas! 
 to whom I should ap&log:ize.
 
 MRS. BATTLE ON CARDS AND WHIST. 75 
 
 At such times, those terms which my old friend 
 objected to come in as something admissible. I 
 love to get a tierce or a quatorze, though they mean 
 nothing. I am subdued to an inferior interest 
 Those shadows of winning amuse me. 
 
 That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I 
 capotted her) — (dare I tell thee how foolish I am.?) 
 — I wished it might have lasted forever, though we 
 g.iined nothing, and lost nothing, though it was a 
 mere shade of play: I would be content to go on in 
 tliat idle folly forever. The pipkin should be ever 
 boiling, that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to 
 my foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after 
 the game was over ; and, as I do not much relish 
 appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and 
 I should be ever playing.
 
 THE PARISH REVOLUTION. 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Alarming News from the Country. — Awful Insur- 
 rection at Stoke Fogis. — The Military called out. 
 — Flight of the Mayor. 
 
 E are concerned to state, that accounts 
 were received in town at a late hour last 
 night, of an alarming state of things at 
 
 Stoke Pogis. Nothing private is yet made public ; 
 
 but report speaks of very serious occurrences. The 
 
 number of killed is not yet known, as no despatches 
 
 have been received, 
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS. 
 
 Nothing is known yet. Papers have been received 
 down to the 4th o^ November ; but they are not up 
 to any thing. 
 
 76
 
 THE PARISH REVOLUTIOI^. 77 
 
 FURTHER, FURTHER PARTICULARS. 
 
 (^Private Utter.) 
 
 It is scarcely possible for you, my dear Charles, 
 to conceive the difficulties and anarchical manifes- 
 tations of turbulence, which threaten and disturb 
 your old birthplace, poor Stoke Pogis. To the 
 reflecting mind, the circumstances which hourly 
 transpire afford ample food for speculation and 
 moral reasoning. To see the constituted authorities 
 of a place, however mistaken or misguided by 
 erring benevolence, plunging into a fearful struggle 
 with an irritated, infuriated, and, I may say, armed 
 populace, is a sight which opens a field for terrified 
 conjecture. I look around me with doubt, agitation, 
 and dismay; because, whilst I venerate those to 
 whom the sway of a part of a State may be said to 
 be intrusted, I cannot but yield to the conviction 
 that the abuse of power must be felt to be an over- 
 step of authority in the best intentioned of the 
 magistracy. This even you will allow. Being on 
 the spot, my dear Charles, an eye-witness of these 
 fearful scenes, I feel how impossible it is for me to 
 give you any idea of the prospects which surround 
 me. To say that I think all will end well is to
 
 TREASURE-TRO VE. 
 
 trespass beyond the confines of hope ; but, whilst I 
 
 admit that there is strong ground for apprehending 
 
 the worst, I cannot shut my eyes to the conviction, 
 
 that if firm measures, tempered with concession, be 
 
 resorted to, it is far from being out of the pale of 
 
 probability that serenity may be re-established. In 
 
 hazarding this conclusion, however, you must not 
 
 consider me as at all forgetting the responsibilities 
 
 which attach to a decidedly formed opinion. O 
 
 Charles I you who are in the quiet of London can 
 
 little dream of the conflicting elements which form 
 
 the storm of this devoted village. I fear you will be 
 
 wearied with all these details ; but I thought, at this 
 
 distance at which you are from me, you would wish 
 
 me to run the risk of wearying you rather than omit 
 
 jiny of the interesting circumstances. Let Edward 
 
 lead this: his heart, which I know beats for the 
 
 parish, will bleed for us. 
 
 I am, &c., 
 
 H. J. P. 
 
 P.S. — Nothing further has occurred; but you 
 shall hear from me again to-morrow. 
 
 ANOTHER ACCOUNT. 
 
 Symptoms of disunion have for some time past 
 wevailed between the authorities of Stoke Pogis
 
 »; id a part of the inhabitants. The primum mobile, 
 C'»- first mobbing, originated in an order of the 
 mayor's, that all tavern doors should shut at eleven. 
 Many complied, and shut ; but the door of the Ram- 
 pant Lion openly resisted the order. A more recent 
 notice has produced a new and more dangerous 
 inltation on our too combustible population. A 
 proclamation against Guy Fawkes and fireworks was 
 understood to be in preparation, by command of 
 the chief magistrate. If his worship had listened 
 to the earnest and prudential advice of the resi of 
 the bench, the obnoxious placard would not havi; 
 been issued till the 6th ; but he had it posted up on 
 the 4th, and by his precipitation has plunged Stoke 
 Pogis into a convulsion that nothing but Time's 
 Soothing Sirup can alleviate. 
 
 FROM ANOTHER QUARTER. 
 
 We are all here in the greatest alarm. A general 
 rising of the inhabitants took place this morning, 
 and they have continued in a disturbed state ever 
 since. Everybody is in a bustle, and indicating 
 some popular movement. Seditious cries are heard. 
 The bellman is going his rounds, and on repeating, 
 * God save the king I " is saluted with. " Hang the
 
 TREASUR E- TRO KA. 
 
 crier 1 " Organized bands of boys are going about 
 collecting sticks, &c., — whether for barricades or 
 bonfires is not known, — many of them singing the 
 famous gunpowder hymn, "Pray remember," &c. 
 These are features that remind us of the most 
 inflammable times. Several strangers of suspicious 
 gentility arrived here last night, and privately 
 engaged a barn : they are now busily distributing 
 handbills amongst the crowd. Surely some horrible 
 tragedy is in preparation 1 
 
 A LATER " JCOUNT. 
 
 The alarm increases. Several families have taken 
 flight by the wagon ; and the office of Mr. Stewart^ 
 the overseer, is besieged by persons desirous of 
 being passed to their own parish. He seems em- 
 barrassed and irresolute, and returns evasive an- 
 swers. The worst fears are entertained. 
 
 FRESH INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 The cause of the overseer's hesitation has trans- 
 pired. The pass-cart and horse have been lent to a 
 tradesman, for a day's pleasure, and are not re- 
 turned. Nothing can exceed the indignation of the 
 paupers. They are all pouring towards the poor
 
 THE PARISH KEVOLUTWN. Si 
 
 house, headed by Timothy Gubbing, a desperate 
 drunken character, but the idol of the workhouse. 
 The constables are retiring before this formidable 
 body. The following notice is said to be posted up 
 at the Town hall : " Stick no Bills." 
 
 Eln>en o'clock. 
 
 The mob have proceeded to outrage. The poor 
 poor-house has not a whole pane of glass in its 
 whole frame. The magistrates, with Mr. Higgin- 
 bottom at their head, have agreed to call out the 
 military ; and he has sent word that he will come as 
 soon as he has put on his uniform. 
 
 A terrific column of little boys has just run down 
 the High Street, it is said to see a fight at the Green 
 Dragon. There is an immense crowd in the market- 
 place. Some of the leading shop-keepers have had 
 a conference with the mayor ; and the people are now 
 being informed by a placard of the result. Gracious 
 heaven ! how opposite is it to the hopes of all mod- 
 erate men 1 "The Mare is Hobstinate. He is at 
 the Roes and Crown, but refuses to treat." 
 
 Twelve o'clock. 
 The military has arrived, and is placed under his 
 own command. He has marched himself in a body
 
 82 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 to the market-place, and is now drawn up one deep 
 in front of the pound. The mob are in possession 
 of the walls, and have chalked upon them the 
 following proclamation: " Stokian Pogians, be firm ! 
 Stick up for bonfires I Stand to your squibs I " 
 
 Quarter-past Twelve. 
 Mr.Wigsby, the master of the Free School, has 
 declared on the side of liberty, and has obtained an 
 audience of the mayor. He is to return in fifteen 
 minutes for his Worship's decision. 
 
 Half-past Twelve. 
 During the interval, the mayor has awom in two 
 special constables, and will concede nothing. When 
 the excitement of the mob was represented to him 
 by Mr. Wigsby, he pointed to a truncheon on a 
 table, and answered, "They may do their worsest." 
 The exasperation is awful. The most frightful cries 
 are uttered, " Huzza for Guys 1 Gubbins forever ! 
 and no Higginbottom ! " The military has been 
 ordered to clear the streets ; but his lock is not flinty 
 enough, and his gun refuses to fire on the people. 
 
 The constables have just obtained a slight advan- 
 tage : they made a charge all together, and almost
 
 THE PANJSH HEVOLUrrOS. S3 
 
 iipsct a Guy. On the left-hand side of the way they 
 liave been less successful. Mr. Huggins, the beadle, 
 attempted to take possession of an important street- 
 post, but was repulsed by a boy with a cracker. At 
 the same moment Mr. Blogg, the churchwarden, 
 was defeated in a desperate attempt to force a pas- 
 sage up a court. 
 
 Oiie o'clock. 
 
 The military always dines at one, and has re- 
 treated to the Pig and Puncheon. There is a report 
 that the head constable is taken with all his staff. 
 
 Two o'clock. 
 A flying watchman has just informed us that the 
 police are victorious on all points ; and the same has 
 b'ien confirmed by a retreating constable. He 
 states that the pound is full, Gubbins in the stocks, 
 and Dobbs in the cage ; that the whole mob would 
 have been routed, but for a very corpulent man, who 
 rallied them on running away. 
 
 Half- past Three. 
 
 The check sustained by the mob proves to have 
 
 been a reverse : the constables are the sufTerers. 
 
 The cage is chopped to fagots ; we haven't a pound ; 
 
 and the stocks are rapidly falling. Mr. VVigsby has
 
 84 TRRASURE-TROV&, 
 
 again gone to the mayor with overtures. The people 
 demand the release of Dobbs and Gubbins, and the 
 demolition of the stocks, the pound, and the cage. 
 As these are already destroyed, and Gubbins and 
 Dobbs are at large, it is confidently hoped by all 
 moderate men that his Worship will accede to the 
 terms. 
 
 Four o'clock. 
 The mayor has rejected the terms. It is confi- 
 dently affirmed, that, after this decision, he secretly 
 ordered a post-chaise, and has set off with a pair of 
 post-horses as fast as they can't gallop. A meeting 
 of the principal tradesmen has taken place ; and the 
 butcher, the baker^ the grocer, the cheesemonger, 
 and the publican, have agreed to compose a provis- 
 ional government. In the mean time the mob are 
 loud in their joy: they are letting off squibs and 
 crackers, and rockets, and devils, in all directions ^ 
 and quiet is completely restored. We subjoin two 
 documents, — one containing the articles drawn up 
 by the provincial government and Mr. Wigsby ; the 
 other, the genuine narrative of a spectator : — 
 
 Dear Charles, — The events of the last few 
 hours, since I closed my minute narration, are preg-
 
 THK PARISH REVOLUTION. Sj 
 
 nant with fate ; and no words that I can utter on 
 paper will give you an idea of their interest. Up to 
 the hour at which I closed my sheet, anxiety regTi- 
 \ated the movement of every watchful bosom ; but, 
 since then, the approaches to tranquillit}' have met 
 with barriers and interruptions. To the meditative 
 mind, these popular paroxysms have their desolating 
 deductions. Oh, my Charles ! I myself am almost 
 sunk into an Agitator ; so much do we take the 
 color from the dye in which our reasoning faculties 
 are steeped. I stop the press, — yes, Charles, — I 
 stop the press of circumstances to say that a dawn 
 of the Pacific is gleaming over the Atlantic of our 
 disturbances ; and I am enabled, by the kindness of 
 Constable Adams, to send you a copy of the Pre- 
 liminaries, which are pretty well agreed upon, and 
 only wait to be ratified. I close my letter in haste. 
 That peace may descend on the Olive-Tree of Stoke 
 Pogis is the earnest prayer of, &c. 
 
 H. J. P. 
 
 P.S. — Show the articles to Edward. He will, 
 with his benevolence, at once see that they are in- 
 deed precious articles for Stoke Pogis.
 
 S6 TREASURE- TRO VE, 
 
 CONDITIONS. 
 
 1. That, for the future, widows in Stoke Po^is 
 shall be allowed their thirds, and Novembers their 
 fifths. 
 
 2. That the propert}- of Guys shall be held invio 
 lable, and their persons respected. 
 
 3. That no arson be allowed, but all bonfires 
 shall be burned by the common hangman. 
 
 4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to 
 leave the place. 
 
 5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented 
 to Madam Hengler in a cartridge-box. 
 
 6. That the militar)^ shall not be called out, 
 uncalled for. 
 
 7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be 
 authorized to stand no nonsense. 
 
 8. That his Majesty's mail be permitted to pass 
 on the night in question. 
 
 9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at 
 the parish expense. 
 
 10. That the ashes of old bonfires be never raked 
 up. 
 
 ( Waggstaff, High ConsiabU 
 (Signed) ^^._^^^^^
 
 THE PARISH REVOLUTION, If 
 
 The Narrativ of a High Whitruss wfie seed every 
 think proceed out of a Back-winder up Fort Pears to 
 Mrs. Humphries. 
 
 Oh Mrs. Humphris ! Littel did I dram, at my 
 Tim of Life, to see what is before me. The whole 
 Parrish is throne into a Pannikin ! The Revela- 
 tions has reached Stock Poggis — and the people is 
 riz agin the King's rain and all the Pours that be. 
 All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and Me as 
 bean sitting abscondingly at the tip-top of the 
 Hows, crying for lowness. We have locked our 
 too selves in the back Attical Rome, and nothing 
 can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like 
 the Frentch plot — sum say sumthing moor arter the 
 Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be 
 flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them 
 Brown holland brum gals 1 
 
 Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept 
 jest ware Mister Higgins juts out Behind. What a 
 prospectus! — All riotism and hubbub. — There is a 
 lowd speechif)'ing round the Gabble end of the 
 Hows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from 
 one of his own long winders. Poor Man ! — for all 
 his fine goold cheer, who wood Sit in his shews 1 
 
 I hobserve Mr. Tuder's bauld Hed uncommon
 
 g8 TREAS URE- TRO VE. 
 
 hactiv in the Mobb, and so is Mister Wagstaif the 
 Constable, considdering his rummatiz has only left 
 one arm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He 
 and his men air staving the mobbs Heds to maktt 
 them suppurate. They are trying to Custardise 
 the Ringleders. But as yet have Captivated No- 
 boddy. There is no end to accidence. Three 
 unsensible boddies are Carrion over the way on 
 Three Cheers, but weather Naybres or Gyes, is 
 dubbious. Master Gollop, too, is jest gon By on 
 one of his Ant's Shuters, with a bunch of exploded 
 Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. 
 and Me tremble like axle trees, for our Hone ne\-\'ies 
 While we ware at the open winder they sliped out. 
 With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps 
 they may git into. Mister J. is gone off with his 
 MuskitT}' to militate agin the mobb ; and I fear 
 without any Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. 
 Mrs. Griggs is in the sam state of singularit}" as 
 meself. Onely think, Mrs. H. of two Loan Wiminir 
 looken Down on such a Heifervesence, and as 
 Hignorant as the Unbiggotted Babe of the state 
 of our Husbandry I to had to our convexity, the 
 Botcher has not Bean. No more has the Backer 
 and we shold here Nothing if Mr. Higgins hadn't
 
 THR PARISH REVOLUTION. 89 
 
 hollowed up bore Storys. VVhiU iiewj> he brakes ! 
 The wicked Wigsby as refused to Reed the Riot Ax, 
 and the Town Clark is no Schollard ! Isn't that a 
 bad Herring I 
 
 O Mrs. Humphris ! It is unpossible to throe 
 ones hies from one end of Stock Poggis to the 
 other, without Grate Pane. Nothing is seen but 
 Wivs asking for Huzbinds — nothing is heard but 
 childerin looking for Farthers. Mr. Hatband the 
 Undertacker as jist bean squibed and obligated for 
 safeness to inter his own Hows. Mr. Higgins 
 blames the unflexable Stubbleness of the Mare, and 
 says a little timely concussion on Hearth wood hav 
 prevented the Regoolator bein scarified by a Squib 
 and runnin agin the Rockit, or that it could un 
 shatter Pore Master Gallop, or squentch Wider 
 Welshis rix of Haze witch is now Flamming and 
 smocking in two volumes. The ingins as been, but 
 could not play for want of Pips, witch is too often 
 the Case with Parrish inginuity. Wile affares are 
 )n this friteful posturs, thank Haven I have one 
 grate comfit Mr. J. is cum back on his legs ^rom 
 Twelve to won tired in the extreams with Being 
 a Standing Army, and his Uniformity spatter- 
 dashed all over. He says his hone saving was 
 only thro' leaving His retrenchments.
 
 90 TREASURE" TRO VE. 
 
 Pore Mr. Griggs has come in after his Wif in a 
 state of grate exaggeration. He says the Boys ha/e 
 maid a Bone Fire of his garden fence, and Pales 
 upon Pales can't put it out. Severil Shells of a 
 bombastic natur as been picked up in his Back Yard 
 and the old Cro's nest as been Perpetrated rite thro 
 by a Rockit. We hav sent out the Deaf Shopman to 
 hear what he can, and he says there is so Manny 
 Crackers going he don't no witch report to Belive, 
 but the Fishmongerers has cotched, and with all his 
 stock compleately Guttid. The Brazers next door is 
 lickwise in Hashes, — but it is hopped he ha? assur- 
 ance enough to cover him All over. — They say 
 nothing can save the Dwellins adjourning. O Mrs. 
 H. how greatful ought J. and I to bee that our hone 
 Premiss and Proppaty is next to nothing ! The 
 effex of the lit on Bildings is marvulous. The turrit 
 of St. Magnum Bonum is quit clear and you can tell 
 wat Time it is by the Clock verry planely only it 
 stands ! 
 
 The noise is enough to drive one deleterious ! 
 Too Specious Connestabbles is perse^^^ng littel Tid- 
 mash down the Hi Street, and sho grate fermness, 
 but I tremble for the Pelisse. Peple drops in wi-ii 
 Mew News every Momentum. Sum say All is I,ost - —
 
 THE PARISH REVOLUTION 91 
 
 and the Town Criar is inissin. Mrs. Griggs is quile 
 retched at herein five littel Boys is throwd off a 
 spirituous Cob among the Catherend VVoals. But I 
 hope it wants cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed 
 has had his hies Blasted by sum blowd Gun Pow- 
 der. You Mrs. H. are Patrimonial, and may supose 
 h:)w these flying rummers Upsetts a Mothers Sper- 
 rits. 
 
 O Mrs. Humphris ! how I envy you th.it is net 
 tossing on the ragging bellows of these Flatulen: 
 Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic Govinmen* 
 in such sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padding 
 ton. May you never go through such transubstan 
 tiation as I have been riting in 1 Things that stood 
 for Sentries as bean removed in a Minuet — and the 
 very effigies of wat was venerabblest is now burn 
 ing in Bone Fires. The Worshipfull chair is empty. 
 The Mare as gone off clandestinely with a pare of 
 Hossis, and with out his diner. They say he com 
 plains that his Corperation did not stik to him, as it 
 shod have dun, but went over to the other side. 
 Pore Sole — in sich a case I don't wunder he lost his 
 Stummich. Yisterday he was at the Summit 01 
 I'our. Them that hours ago were emoying parrish 
 officiousness as been turned out of tneir Digniris '
 
 92 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 Mr. Barber says in futer all the Perukial authoriti( s 
 «'ill be Wigs. 
 
 Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim 
 Minestir think of Stock Poggis's, and constitution 
 beleeve me conclusively my deer Mrs. Humphris 
 most frendly and trully Bridget Jones,
 
 A DAY IN THE ACADEiMY. 
 
 BY F. C. BURNAND. 
 
 |ARLY. Very early. No one there. Up 
 the steps into the hall Not a soul. No 
 one to take the money. Perhaps they've 
 abolished payments. Good, that. So gloomy! I'm 
 quite depressed. See a policeman. He reminds me 
 that — of course — how idiotic ! — the Royal Acad- 
 emy has gone to Picadilly ; and here I am in the old 
 Trafalgar Square place. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Take a cab to the New Acad- 
 emy. 
 
 Ah, nice new place I Inscription over the entrance 
 ail on one side. Leave my stick, and take a cata- 
 iogue. Hate a catalogue! Why can't they put the 
 names on the pictures, and charge extra for entrance ? 
 I know that there used to be a north and a south 
 and an east and a west room in the old place.
 
 94 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Make a plan for seeing the 
 
 rooms in order. Go back and buy a pencil. I'll 
 
 begin with the north, then to the east, then to the 
 
 west, and so on. 
 
 The catalogue, on reference to it, is, I find, divided 
 
 \ into gal!eries, all numbered. 
 
 ! Happy Thought. — Take Number One first, and 
 so on in order. Where is Number One ? I find 
 myself opposite 214. I won't look to see what it is, 
 as I want to begin with Number One. This, I 
 ascertain by the catalogue, is Gallery No. IV., and 
 the picture is Landing Herrings. By C. Taylor. Go 
 into another gallery. 336. The Nurslifig Donkey. 
 A. Hughes. Oh ! this is Gallery No. VI. Retrace 
 my steps to another. Let me see : think I've been 
 here before. Have I seen that picture ? What I 
 want is Number One. What number is that ? Oh, 
 2 1 4. Landing LLerrings again, of course. To anothc r 
 room. Now, then. Old men talking. Can't help 
 ^stopping before this picture, though I want to 
 f ^o on to Number One. This is 137. Politicians. 
 \ r. Webster, R.A. Capital ! But this is Galler}- No. 
 III. People are crowding in now. Nuisance. 
 Wedged in. Beg pardon. Somebody's elbowing 
 my back. Big lady stops the way. Beg pardon. 
 Thanks. Squeeze bv
 
 A DAY IN THE ACADEMY. 9 
 
 In another room. 1 hope Number One this time. 
 4*!9. Soonabharr. J. Griffiths. Gallery No. VII. 
 Bother Soonabharr I Try hack again. 
 
 Beg pardon several times for toes and elbows. Nc 
 one begs my pardon. Irritating place the Roya^ 
 \cademy, when you can't get a settled place. Where 
 is Number One .? Beg pardon, bow, bend, toes, 
 elbows, pusn, squeeze, and I'm in another room. 
 Hot work. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Watch old lady in chair. 
 When she goes, 1 will sit down. Getting a seat is 
 quite a game, like Puss-in-the-Comer. She does go 
 at last, and though elbowed, hit, trodden upon, 
 backed, and pushed, I've never moved. I sit. Now, 
 then, to take it coolly. Where am I .? What's that 
 just opposite ? Have ^ seen it before t 214. Landing 
 Herrings. C. Taylor. Gallery No. IV. That's the 
 third time I've seen the picture. f 
 
 HAPpy Thought. — To look out in catalogue for 
 what is Number One. Number One is Topsy, Wasp. 
 Sailor^ and Af aster Turvey, proteges of yarnes Farrar 
 ILsq.^ of IngUboroiigh. A.D.Cooper. Wonder what 
 riat means? He might have called it Topsy. 
 A'opsy. & Co. Funny that. As I am being funn'. 
 all to myself, I see two ladies whom 1 know, — 
 Miss Millar and her mamma.
 
 ) 6 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Offer mamma a seat, and 
 iralk with Miss Millar. Opportunity for artistic con- 
 7ersation. Clever girl, Miss Millar, and pretty 
 " Do I like pictures ? " Yes, I do, I answer, with s 
 ^eserv^ation of " Some — not all." — "Have I been 
 here before ? " I've noL Pause. Say, " It's very 
 warm, though." (WTiy " though " ? Consider "his). 
 Miss Millar, looking at a picture, wants to know, 
 " Whose that is .? " I say, off-hand (one really ought 
 ^cy know an artist's style without referring to the cata- 
 logue), " Millais." I add, " I think." I refer to 
 catalogue. It isn't We both say, " Very like him. 
 though." 
 
 Miss Millar observes there are some pretty faces 
 on the wails. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To say, " Not so pretty as 
 those off it." I don't say this at once, because it 
 doesn't appear to me at the moment well arranged 
 as a compliment ; and, as it would sound flat a few 
 minutes afterwards, I don't say it at all. Stupid ol 
 me ! Reserve it. It will come in again for some- 
 body else, or for when Miss Millar gives me anotiier 
 opportunity. 
 
 Portrait of a Lady. — The opportunity, I think. 
 " Don't I admire that ? " — " Not so much as " — If
 
 A DAY IN THE ACADEMY. 97 
 
 I say, "as you," it's too coarse, and, in fact, not 
 wrapped up enough. She asks, " As what ? " 1 
 refer to catalogue, and reply, at a venture, " As 
 Storey's Sister J' Miss Millar wants to know who 
 she is. I explain, — a picture of ''Sister,*' by 
 G. A. Storey. 
 
 We are opposite 428, Sighing his Soul into his 
 Lady's Face. Calderon. We both say, " Beautiful ! " 
 I say, ** How delightful to pass a day like that ! " 
 Miss Millar thinks, with a laugh, that it's rather too 
 spooney. (Don't like " spooney " to be used by a 
 girl.) " Spooney ! " I say. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Opportunity for quoting a 
 poetical description out of Typical Developments, 
 just to see how it goes. If it doesn't go witn Miss 
 Millar, cut it out, or publisher won't jump. I sav, 
 " See this lovely glade, this sloping bank, the trees 
 drooping o'er the stream, which on its bosom carries 
 these two lovers, who know no more of their future 
 than does the drifting stream on which they float." 
 She observes, "That is really a poetic description. 
 Do you like rowing ? " — " Yes, I do, and " — 
 
 Happy Thcught. — Wouldn't it be nice to have a 
 picnic up the river ? Miss Millar says, " Oh, do I " 
 She knows some girls who will go. I reply I knon
 
 98 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 some men who will be delighted ; only she (Miss 
 Millar) must let me chaperone her for the day. 
 (This with an arch look : rather telling, I think • 
 couldn't have done it before I was married. Being 
 married, of course there's no harm in it.) " Oh, yes ! " 
 she replies, " of course." Wonder if she means what 
 she is saying. I ask, " What day ? " and take out mv 
 notebook. I say gently, I shall look forward to" — 
 Before I can finish, I am suddenly aware of two girls 
 and a boy (from fourteen downwards), very provin- 
 cially dressed, rushing at me with beaming faces ; 
 and the taller of the girls, crying out (the three posi- 
 tively J/^<72/^ — the uncouth wretches!) " O Brother 
 Wiggy I " (they ail say this) seizes me round tlie 
 neck, jumps at me, and kisses me. The lesser one 
 follows. Same performance. I can't keep them off. 
 They are my wife's youngest sisters and little brother, 
 just from school, whom I used at one time foolishly 
 to encourage. Friddy told them about my song of 
 the little pig ; and they always (as a matter of endear- 
 ment) call me, " Brother Wiggy." I shall write to 
 my wife, or tell her, when I get home, that her family 
 must really be kept quiet. I can't stand it. I smile, 
 and look pleased (every one is turning to observe 
 me, except Miss Millar, who pretends to be absorbed
 
 A DAY I.V THE ACADEMY. 
 
 99 
 
 hi a picture), and say, " Ah, Betty I Ah, Polly I How 
 dy'e do ? When did you come up ? " 
 
 Happy Thought. — When are you going back 
 again ? Give them half a crown to go to the refresh- 
 ment-room, and eat buns and ices. They go. Miss 
 Millar has found her mamma, and gone into another 
 room. Hang those little Sympersons 1 Somebody 
 treads on my toes. I will not beg his pardon : I am 
 very angry. Somebody nearly knocks my hat off, 
 pointing out a picture to a friend. He doesn't beg 
 niy pardon. Rude people come to the Academy, 
 ril be rude. I'll hit some one in the ribs when I 
 want to change my position. I'll tread on toes, and 
 say nothing about it Very tall people oughtn't to 
 be allowed in the Academy. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Wiik between tall person 
 and pictures ; must be rude at the Academy, or one 
 will never see any pictures at all — at least, close to. 
 
 A hit, really a blow, in my side. I turn savagely. 
 " Confound it, sir " — 
 
 It's that donkey Milburd, who introduces a tall 
 young friend as Mr. Dilbur)'. " What picture do you 
 particularly want to see ? " asks Milburd. I toll him 
 Number One. Dilbury will show me. 
 
 " But first," says Dilbur}-, taking me by the arm,
 
 I DO TREASURE^ TRO VE. 
 
 " Here's rather a good bit of color." He is evidently 
 a critic, and walks me up in front of a picture, 
 
 " There ! " says Dilbury. 
 
 I refer to catalogue. Oh, of course — 
 
 214. Landing Herrings. C. Taylor. For the 
 fifth time. I tell him I know it, and so we pass on. 
 
 Dilbur}- takes me to see Eagles attacked. By Sir 
 Edwin Landseer. We starnl opposite the picture in 
 front of several people : we are silent Dilbury says 
 presently, " Fine picture that 1 " I agree with Dil- 
 bury. Wonder where Sir Edwin was when he saw 
 it I don't see how he could have imagined it, 
 because, from what one knows of eagles and swans, 
 it is about the last thing I should have thought of. 
 Perhaps it occur^^d to him as a Happy Thought. 
 But what suggested it ? 1 put it to Dilbury. 
 
 "The Serpentine, perhaps," Dilbury thinks, add- 
 ing afterwards, "and a walk in the Zoo.'' 
 
 Dilbur}' tells me that that is how subjects suggest 
 themselves to him. From which I gather that Dil- 
 bury is an artist I don't like to ask him, " Do you 
 paint ? " as he may be some very well-knowTi 
 painter. 
 
 He says, " I'll show you a little thing I think you'll 
 like. He takes me by the elbow, and, evidentlv
 
 A DAY IN THE ACADEMY. .01 
 
 knowing the Academy by heart, bumps, shoves, and 
 pushes me at a sharp pace through the crowd. Dil- 
 bury has an awkward way of stopping one suddenly 
 in a sharp walk to draw one's attention to something 
 or somebody that has attracted him, — generally, a 
 prett}' face. 
 
 " I say," says he, after two bumps and a shove 
 have brought us just into the doorway of Gallery 
 No. III., " there's a deused prett}' girl, eh ? " 
 
 Before I have time to note which girl he means, he 
 is off again with me by the elbow. Bump to the right, 
 shove to the left, over somebody's toes, and through 
 a knot of people into Galler}' IV. Stop suddenly. 
 Hey what? "There's a rum old bird," says Dil- 
 bur\', winking slily : " in Eastern dress he'd make a 
 first-rate model for ray new picture : sacred subject, 
 Methusaleh coming of Age in the Olden Time. Won- 
 der if he'd sit" 
 
 Happy Thought. — To say jestingly, '*! wish I 
 could," meaning sit down, now. 
 
 Dilbury is rejoiced. Would I sit to him ? He is 
 giving his mind to sacred subjects, and is going to 
 bring out Balaam and Balak. Would I give him a 
 sitting, say, for Balak ? Milburd has promised him 
 one for Balaam, unless I'd like to take Balaam. (As
 
 102 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 he pronounces this name Baa-lamb, I don't at &5i 
 catch his meaning.) I promise to think of it lie 
 gives me his address. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Have my portrait taken. Not 
 as Balaam — as myself. Settle it with Dilbury. He'll 
 paint it this year, and exhibit it next Milburd, who 
 happens to come upon us at this moment, suggests 
 showing it at a shilling a head in Bond Street, as a 
 sensation picture. 
 
 " I'll be with him," says Milburd, " as Balaam 
 (you've promised me that), and he shall be the " — 
 
 I know what he is going to say, and move off with 
 Dilbury before he's finished. Milburd will talk r^o 
 loud 1 He's so vain, too I does it all for applause 
 from strangers. I saw some persons laughing about 
 Balaam. Hope the little Sympersons have gone. 
 As we are squeezing through the door, we come 
 upon Mrs. and Miss Millar again. Meeting for the 
 third time, I don't know what to do. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Safest thing to smile, and 
 take off my hat Miss Millar acknowledges it grave 
 ly. Pity people can't be hearty. She might have 
 twinkled up and nodded. 
 
 Dilbury points out a picture to me. A large one 
 " Yours .? " I ask.
 
 A DAY IN THE ACADEMY. 103 
 
 Happy Thought. — To make sure of this before 
 I say any thing about it He nods, yes, and looks 
 about to see whether any one is listening. I suppose 
 he expects, that, if it got about that he was here, he'd 
 be seized and carried in procession round the gal- 
 leries, on the shoulders of exulting multitudes. 
 However, there is no one near the picture ("which," 
 h«; complains, " is very badly hung "), and, conse- 
 qiiently, no demonstration. 
 
 " Good subject, eh ? " he asks me. " Yes, verj," 
 I answer, wishing I'd asked him first what it was, or 
 had referred to the catalogue. It is classical, evi- 
 dently ; that is, judging from the costume, what there 
 is of it. I try to find out quietly in the catalogue. 
 
 Dilbury says, " You see what it is, of course t " 
 " Well — I — I — I in fact, don't " — that is, not quite. 
 
 " Well, he replies, in a tone implpng that I am 
 sure to recognize it when I hear it, " it's Prometheus 
 instituting the Lampadephoria." To which I say, 
 '* Oh, yes, of course I Prometheus vinctuSy' and look 
 at the number to see how he spells it. I compliment 
 him. Yery fine effect of light and shade. In fact, 
 it's all light and shade, representing a lot of Corin- 
 L^iians (he says it's in Corinth) running about with 
 red torches. Dilbur}' points out to me the beauties
 
 of the picture. He says it wants a week's study. 
 He informs me that it was taken on the spot, and 
 that his models were " the genuine thing." 
 
 Happy Thought. — To say, "I could stop and 
 look at tliis for an age," then take out my watch. 
 
 " Vou can come back again to it," observes Dil^ 
 hury, seizing my elbow again. 
 
 Meet Mrs. and Miss Millar again. Awkward. 
 Don't know whether to bow, or smile, or nod, or what, 
 this time. I say, as we pass, " Not gone yet ? " I 
 don't think she likes it I didn't say it as I should 
 like to have said it, if I had the opportunity over 
 again. I dare say it soui\ded rude. 
 
 Dilbur}' stops me suddenly with, '' Pretty face that, 
 eh ? " and looks back at Miss Millar. Whereupon, 
 I rejoin, " Hush ! I know them." Dilbury immedi- 
 ately wishes to be introduced. I will, as an Academi- 
 cian, and his picture too. We go back after them. 
 \\'e struggle towards them : we are all jammed up 
 .n a crowd together. I hear sometliing crack, l 
 become aware of treading on somebody's dress. Ii 
 is Miss Millar's. I beg her pardon. " 1 hope I " — 
 
 Happy Thought. — " We met : 'twas in a crowd.'' 
 Old song. I say this so as to give a pleasant turn 
 to the apology and the introduction. I don't think
 
 Miss Millar is a ^ood-iempered girl. Somebody in 
 nudginp; me in tJie back, and somebody else is wedg- 
 ing nrte in on either side. As she is almost swept 
 away from me by one current, and I from her by 
 another, I say hurriedly, ** Miss Millar, let me intro- 
 duce my friend, Mr. Dilbury, an Academician." She 
 tries to stop. I turn and lay hold of some one who 
 ought to be Dilbury, in order to bring him forward 
 It isn't Dilbury at all, but some one else, — a perfect 
 stranger, who is very angry, and wants to kick or hit 
 — I don't know which (but he can't, on account of 
 the crowd), and I am carried on, begging Miss Mil- 
 lar's pardon, and his pardon, and remonstrating with 
 a stout, bald-headed man in front, who will get in 
 the way. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ge': out of this as quickly as 
 possible. 
 
 Getting out again. Lost my catalogue. Meet 
 Milburd. I ask him what's that picture, alluding to 
 one with a lot of people in scant drapery in an Ori 
 ental apartment. He replies, " Portraits of Members 
 of the Garrick Club taking a Turkish Bath." It is 
 Number 277. It simply can't be. Besides, there are 
 ladies present Milburd pretends to be annoyed, 
 and says I needn't believe it unless I like.
 
 To6 
 
 TREASURE-TRO VE, 
 
 Must go to Willis's : see about sleeping to-nigh , 
 .uggage, dinner, and a lot of things. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Have my hair cut Have an 
 ice first Leave the Academy. 
 
 '^ 
 
 mmmi
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 
 
 BY aXTHUR SKKTCHLKY. 
 
 T is a good many years ago now when me 
 and Brown was a-livin' in the Commercial 
 Road, leastways Condick Street, as is a 
 turnin' ofT it ; and a 'appy 'ome I 'ad, as I never 
 >*fanted to leave. And if any one 'ad sed to me, 
 • Mrs. Brown, mum, you're a-goin' out," that evenin' 
 as I did go to the play, why, I should 'ave took and 
 smiled derisive ; for I'm one as loves my 'ome thro' 
 a-takin' a pride in it ; and any one might eat off 
 the boards thro' bein' a little pallis all over, as the 
 say in' is. 
 
 And if ever I did want to stop at 'ome, it were 
 that partikler evenin', thro' 'avin' a little bit of iron- 
 in' as I wanted for to conker, as it didn't seem as 
 tho' I never should, thro' 'avin' 'ad 'em damped down 
 in a little brown pan over three days ; and was 
 
 107
 
 1 08 TREASURE- TRO VR, 
 
 a -iayin' to myself as them things must be ironed ap 
 afore Brown comes in, or miljews is the conse 
 quence, thro' bein* cuffs and collars as was worn 
 large that time. And I'm one of them as can't 
 abear no dabwashes about the place : so in course, 
 as a good wife's doot}^ is, I never thinks of such a 
 thing; and 'ad jest been and unrolled 'em with the 
 irons down, when in who should come but Brown 
 'isself. 
 
 " Law 1 " I says, " Brown, what a turn you give 
 me I Why, wotever wind's blowed you 'ome," full a 
 'our before 'is reg'lar time, as did used to be the 
 closin' of the Docks. 
 
 He says, " No wind at all, old gal, but am come 
 'ome for you, as we're agoin' out on a reg'lar 
 spree." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, I'd thank you for to recollect 
 as you're a-talkin' to a lady, and one as do not 'old 
 with them low-lived sprees, thro' bein' brought up 
 serous ; " and kep' on with my ironin'. 
 
 " Oh 1 " he says, " it's all right, old gal : we're only 
 agoin' to the play." 
 
 I says, "No, I thank you, Brown, none of your 
 plays for me." For, bless you I I 'adn't been at a 
 play since a mere gal, as a aunt of mine took. And
 
 SfRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 109 
 
 irerry lovely it certingly were ; for a dark-colored 
 forriner set crossed-legged like a tailor, with a turbot 
 ou 'is 'ead, a-shyin' cheyney orringes round it afore 
 a lookin'-glass, as were called Rammer Sammy ; and 
 a lady as were all blue and spangles, she rolled a 
 gold cat's-meat barrer up a rope full of fireworks as 
 went off with a bang at the end ; and I remember 
 as they did say as they were a Italian royal family. 
 And a beautiful play it were — not as I knows who 
 'rote it, as in course don't signify, thro' bein' most 
 likely French, as is the only ones as can write plays. 
 
 " Oh 1 " says Brown, " you'd better come ; for it'll 
 be a reg'lar treat, and I've got a border." And he 
 pulls out of 'is wenscot pocket a little bit of a yaller 
 ticket. 
 
 So I says, " In my opinion, at your time of life, 
 Mr. Brown, you might be a-spendin' of your money 
 over somethink better than borders for plays." 
 
 " Law," he says, " I ain't spent no money over it ; 
 but the party where I buys my 'baccy, close ag'in 
 the Commercial Road, as puts out the bills for the 
 playhactors, he give it me gracious free for nothink." 
 
 "Well, then," I says, " 'owever's them poor play- 
 hactors to get a bit of bread, if every one goes in 
 for nothink ? "
 
 T T o TREASURE-TRO VR, 
 
 " Oh I " says Brown, " the5r're used to it ; besides, 
 It keeps them in practice." 
 
 "Well," I says, " I don't think as I cares much 
 about it, thank you all the same ; " and keeps on 
 with my ironin'. 
 
 "Well," he says, "you needn't go if you don't 
 like ; only I can tell you as I could easy find thou- 
 sands as would jump at it." 
 
 I says, "No, Brown," and looks at 'im steady. 
 " I am your lawful wife, and where you leads is my 
 duty to foller ; and my duty I'll do, if I drops at it ; 
 for I do not 'old with you agoin' out like pro- 
 miscous." 
 
 He says, " Right you are for to come, as'll be a 
 teg'lar treat ; for it's for the Queen Wictoria's werry 
 own theayter." 
 
 I says, " Whyever didn't you tell me that afore, ^s 
 makes all the difference ? For, in course, if it's good 
 enuf for 'er, it's good enuf for me, as am not agoin' 
 to look down upon any think as belongs to Queen 
 VVictoria." 
 
 " Well," says Brown, " if you're agoin', go, and 
 look slippy, and toss on your rags." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, if that's your low-lived ways 
 a-talkin' about a lady's twilight, as is a thing you did
 
 Mf!S. hi<OWN AT THE PLAY, in 
 
 ought to respect, none of your plays for me ;" and i 
 keeps on a-ironin'. 
 
 " Oh, bother 1 " says Brown, " I can't keep on 
 9-arglin' the pint with you ; for I must give myself a 
 bit of a rense in the back-washus, and'll brew the 
 tea while you're a-dressin' ; " and were thro' the 
 washus door like a whirlwind, as is jest like 'is erra- 
 table temperature. 
 
 Well, when he were gone, I says to myself, " It's 
 a poor 'art as never rejoices ; " and pre'aps if it's 'is 
 wish, I did ought for to go. So I rolls up that bit 
 of ironin', and goes up stairs for to tidy myself up 
 a bit ; for, I says, if I am agoin' out with 'im, he 
 sha'n't be ashamed of me, as will dress myself that 
 helegant, as is a wife's duty, in my opinion, agoin' 
 out along with a usband. And tho' not a woman 
 give to dress, am one as, when dressed, tho' I says 
 it as didn't 'ought to, looks noble, thro' bein' one 
 of them fine full figgers as shows off what you 
 wears. 
 
 I certingly did dress myself lovely that artemo^n, 
 thro' a-puttin' on a lovely gownd as I'd 'ad by me for 
 years, — a Norwich crape with a satin front, as one 
 time was werry much wore, and were one of my dear 
 mother's, but made to fasten in front, the same m
 
 1 1 2 TRRA S URE- TRO VE. 
 
 they wears *em now ; but, thro' bein' short in the 
 waist, required a good deal of pins and coaxing tor 
 to make it set proper to the figger, but, with a broad 
 watered waist-ribbin and a steel buckle, looked werry 
 becomin', I do assure you. 
 
 It certingly might 'ave been a little fuller in the 
 skirts, not as I could espect it not to be a little 
 scant}', thro' 'avin' took out a breadth for to make a 
 new back ; for match it all over London, I couldn't, 
 were it ever so. 
 
 Then I put on a lovely shawl as I've got, as 
 looked werr}' beautiful, thro' bein* a Chinee crape, 
 as I know'd were real Chinee, thro' bein' brought me 
 from them parts by my own godfather, as were in 
 the seafarin' perswashun, and met a watery grave off 
 the coast of Bumbay, so in course never looks at it 
 without a feelin' of melancholy a-thinkin' on 'im, 
 poor feller ! and never wears escept when agoin' out 
 pleasurin' somewheres partickler. 
 
 And then I put on my bonnet, as were a lovely 
 Leghorn as belonged to a lady where I did used to 
 live, as I've 'ad by me for years, and were the hight 
 of fashion, tho' large in the crown, as makes it 
 roomy for the 'ead, and cooler ; and lined and trimmed 
 with a dark green, as is werr}' becomin,' thro' me
 
 MRS. BROWI^ AT THE PLAY. 173 
 
 bem' k fair complexion, with my 'air kep' steady 
 thi'o' a welwet band twice round my 'ead, and a 
 brooch on the forehead as looked noble, with a 
 bunch of red on one side, and blue on the other, for 
 a bonnet-cap, as set one another off. 
 
 Then I put on a bit of a frill for to finish off my 
 Chinee crape, with a string of carnelian beads and 
 a gilt clasp, 'cos I always thinks as a little jewelry 
 does light you up so. 
 
 And then I put on a pair of new pruneller boots. 
 Oh, them boots ! afore the night were out, my suf- 
 frages along of them boots is more than 'uman tung^s 
 can think on. Not as I've got a large foot, but 
 quite different, tho' one of them feet as is 'ard for 
 fit, thro' bein' between the sizes, and requirin' a deal 
 of room in the tread. Thro' the sowin' a-ketchm' me 
 across the jinte, where the pruneller jines on the 
 patten-leather, I was in hagonies all that night long. 
 
 Wherever that young man at the shoe-shop can 
 'ope to go to as perswaded me to 'ave 'em, a-saymg 
 as side-springs was easy wearin', I can't think ; lor 
 they was a-clutchin' me round the ancles like wices 
 all night, and seemed to be a-forcin' all my blood 
 into my heyeballs. 
 
 I shouldn't 'ave wore them boots, but for Brown,
 
 IT4 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 tor my 'art misgive me when I slipped 'em on ; but he 
 was agoin' on like tigers at the foot of the stairs, 
 a-sayin' as the tea were drawed to death, and we 
 should be late, as thro wed me into that fluster as I 
 'adn't 'ardly time for to get my umbreller and redi- 
 cule, with a pair of beaver gloves, as is things I 
 never goes out without, thro' a-likin' to look the ladv 
 from top to toe, as tne saym' is ; and 'urries down 
 stairs, a-forgettin* all about them soles of them boots 
 bein' that slippy, and never stopped to scratch 'em. 
 nor nothink proper, and come with a run from 
 the top of the stairs to the bottom, pitched on to 
 the door-mat like a earthquake, and busted into the 
 parlor like thunder. 
 
 There set Brown as cool as a lettice, a-finishin' of 
 'is tea, readin' last week's paper, and dewourin' 
 water-creases in 'is shirt-sleeves, and took no moi 
 notice of me than if a dog 'ad fell in the place. 
 
 So I says, " Well," I says, " Mr. Brown, if I was 
 gentleman, and a lady was to pitch into a rooi 
 where I were a-settin*, if I didn't come to pick 'ei 
 up, I should say, ' Did you 'urt yourself? ' or som( 
 think, and not set there a-readin' of them rubbish] 
 old papers, as I'm sure you gets no good out on :'j 
 for he always were given to them papers a deal toe
 
 liHS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 115 
 
 Diuch in my opinion, as 'ave frightful things in 'em ; 
 for it ain't many months ago as he read out of one 
 on 'em to me, as there were a bishop as didn't 
 believe in Noah's ark. 
 
 Then I says, " More shame for 'im I as only shows 
 'is hignorance ; " for I knows that's true, tho' 'avin' 
 one myself when quite a child ; and nicely I caught it 
 for my little brother a-swallerin' the black-beedle, as 
 were as broad across the back as the helefant, tho' 
 no fault of mine, and pretty nigh the death of 'im. 
 
 Well, Brown he look up from 'is paper, and says, 
 "What, are you there? Why, halloo! wot a swell 
 you are 1 any one would think as we'd been married 
 this mornin'," 
 
 I says, "Mr. Brown, I'd thank you not to take no 
 liberties, 'cos I don't 'old with no free ways," as 
 Brown is apt to give in to. 
 
 He says, " All right, old gal : take your tea, and 
 ave' a crease, as'll cool you." 
 
 I says, " No, thank you, none of your creases for 
 me : wegetables is all werry well in their way, but 
 don't suit me along with tea ; " and I set there 
 a-sippin' my tea as seemed to go in me like. 
 
 So I puts down the cup, and says I to Brown, 
 a-lookin' at 'im steady, " If I'm to go out this night,
 
 Il6 rh'hASL'kh.~T/KOih. 
 
 as is quite immaterul to me," I says, "I must 'ave 
 the least as is, if only a thimbleful atop of this tea 
 to pre went it's a-ranklin' in my constitution." 
 
 He says, " All right, old gal, I knows your little 
 game;" and pulls out of is' coat-pocket, as were 
 'angin' behind 'is chair, a little flat bottle as he'd 
 been and got filled with the best Jamaica, as is a 
 thing I can take, tho' werry few things as ever I do ; 
 and, when I'd 'ad three cups with just a dash in 'em, 
 I says, " Brown, I'm agreeable." 
 
 He says, " All right, let's start : we can lock the 
 door, and leave the key witli the neighbors." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, I'm not agoin' to be treated 
 like a siphon in my own 'ouse, and not 'agoin' to 
 stoop to them neighbors on the right, and I considers 
 a stuck-up objec' ; and as to the left, 'er langwidge 
 in licker is enuf to make the' uman 'air tie up in 
 knots. I takes that key, or I don't go." 
 
 " Oh ! " says he, " bother the key ! 'ang it round 
 your neck, for all I cares." 
 
 That's Brown all over, that is: open yo'ir mouth, 
 and he's down your throat 
 
 So I puts the key in my redicule, and oil we sets ; 
 ami of all the 'eat as ever I felt, it were jest like 
 a-breathin' a red-'ot oven. And when we gets to the
 
 AfRS. BROWN AT Tf/E PLAY. iij 
 
 corner of our street, as is the Catherine Wheel, a 
 werry respectable 'ouse, I says, " Brown," I says, 
 * this little flat bottle," for I'd got it in my redicule, 
 ' feels a deal lighter than wot 1 like it to feel when 
 we're agoin' out for the 'ole evenin', as there's no 
 tellin' wot may 'appen." 
 
 He says, " Come on, then ; let's 'ave it filled up." 
 And into the Catherine Wheel we goes, as Mrs. Parker 
 as keeps it in 'er widders weeds at the bar says the 
 moment she sees me, " Mrs. Brown, mum, you looks 
 flustered, and did ought to 'ave the least as is." 
 
 " Well," I says, " I do feel werry all-overish thro' 
 bein' put out and 'urricd in my tea : so, pre'aps, it is 
 my doot}' to." And the drop as 1 took seemed to do 
 me good ; and I says, " I'll trouble you, Mrs. Parker, 
 for 'arf one of 'em pork-pies, and three of them 'art 
 cakes," as were under a glass case at the bar ; for, I 
 says, " I feel as I may require refreshments afore the 
 night is out." 
 
 She says, " Right you are in 'avin' them refresh- 
 ments ; for," she says, " I've knowed parties as 'ave 
 brought on serous illnesses, and took to their beds 
 for months, thro' a-settin' so long in them public 
 places on their empt}' stomicks." So I puts the 
 things in my redicule, and otT we started.
 
 Il8 Th'E.'. -/.To'/v. 
 
 But, law blesi you ! Uiere ain't no pleasure in goi K 
 out along with Brown, as is, for all the world, lil« 
 goin' out along with a child, as will keep a-walkin' en 
 ahead of you, a-shufflin' of 'is feet, and 'olerin,' 
 " Come on," over 'is shoulder. 
 
 If there is any think as do aggrawate me in this 
 world, it's to be told to come on when I'm adoin' my 
 uttermost to : so I 'oilers arter 'im, " Brown 1 " 
 Ke says, " What are you a-'owlin' at?" 
 I says, " I ain't a-'owlin', Mr. Brown ; but I'm 
 a-graspin' for breath, for you're a-stranglin' me with 
 your dust, as I've been and swallered cart loads-on." 
 Well, he pulls up at them w^ords, and says, " Then 
 the best thing as you can take is a little shandy-gaff 
 for to wash it down," and a werry^ nice drink too, 
 bein' ginger-beer with a little somethink in it for to 
 correct the ginger. 
 
 Arter that, we got on pretty well, till we was in the 
 middle of Tower '111, where I fust began to feel my 
 feet; for tliere came a pain thro' my right boot like 
 a flash of lightnin'. 
 
 So I says, " Brown, wherever are we agoin' to ? " 
 He says, " Over the water to Charley." 
 I says, " Then I 'opes as Charley ain't fur over 
 the water, or he won't see much of me to-night"
 
 MRS. RKO WN A T THE PL A Y. 
 
 iig 
 
 He only sa)'s, " Come on," 'uffy like. 
 
 I were a-'obblin' all along Terns Street ; and at 
 last I stops and says, '* Ikown, 1 m jst rest ; for I'm 
 a-<1ioppin', and as 'ot as a cook." 
 
 Then he says, " The best thing as you can take 
 will be 'arf a pint of mild ale with jest a dash of 
 sperrits in it, for fear as the cold should strike to 
 you suddin." 
 
 I do think as that drop of ale saved my life, that 
 r do. 
 
 Arter that, we got on pretty well to the middle of a 
 bridge, when Brown he says to me, " You're all right 
 now, old gal ; for here's the river, and here's the 
 bridge." 
 
 I says, " Wotever river is it, for goodness' sake ? " 
 
 " Oh," says he, " Blackfriars, in course." 
 
 I says, " Oh, indeed I " for I goes so seldom to the 
 West End as I don't know much about them fashion- 
 able parts. 
 
 But when we'd got over that bridge into what they 
 calls the Blackfriars Road, I never did 1 They may 
 well call it friars ; for of all tlie 'eat ! I were pretty 
 nigh cooked ; for the sun were a-settin' in the small 
 of my back all down that road. 
 
 At last I gets to a post as I puts my back ag*iB
 
 120 TREASURE^TROVE. 
 
 firm , and I says, " Brown, if I were a' are 'unted by 
 the 'ounds, I couldn't go a step hirder without thai 
 nutriment as is necessary for me." 
 
 That stops 'ira short ; and he turns round, and 
 says, " I tell you what it is, old gal, if you goes on 
 like this, I'm blessed if you won't be tight." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, 'ow you can bring your mind 
 to say them insultin' things to a lady, I can't think, 
 as 'ave only took sips to your drafts." 
 
 He only give a increjulous whistle like, and shoves 
 open the door of a ma'oganny wine waults, and in 
 we goes. 
 
 There was a werry nice young lady a-standin' the re 
 at the bar, as no sooner set eyes on me than she 
 says, " Oh, mum ! do step in the back-parlor, and 
 set yourself to-rights a bit; for you are that a\^iul 
 blowed about as never was." 
 
 It's well as I did step into that parlor ; for of all 
 the figgers as ever I see, there never wasn't one like 
 me, with my bonnet 'arf off my head, and my black 
 welwet had slipped, and all my 'air gone into the 
 crown of my bonnet, as there wasn't a westment on 
 it wisible, with my bonnet-cap ail of a bunch under 
 my chin, and my shawl, and my frill ail over my left 
 shoulder.
 
 MA'S. HNOWN AT THE FLAY 121 
 
 However Brown could let me walk such a fig^ei 
 without a-tellin' me, I can't think ; but that's the wust 
 of Brown : he's one of them 'usban's as don't take 
 no proper pride in their wives. 
 
 When I'd set myself to rights a bit, I comes out 
 ag'in ; and that young lady says, " Ah, mum I now 
 you're somethink like, and, if you was my ma, I know 
 wot I'd make you 'ave this very instant." 
 
 I says, " Wotever's that, ray dear ? " 
 
 "Well," she says, "the least as is, in a little cold 
 water, for to refresh you." 
 
 I says, " It is not my 'abits for to take them sper- 
 ritual things, but pre'aps a duty thro' bein' that 
 fainty ; but," I says, " wotever you do, my dear, deal 
 gentle with the water, for, if there is a thing as I'm 
 afraid on in this world, it's water." 
 
 Well, that little drop seemed for to pick me up 
 like, as the sayin' is ; and off we started when Brown 
 'ad took 'is glass of ale, but 'adn't gone fur, when my 
 feet begun to tune up ag'in, and my right 'and boot 
 were a ragin' maniac for pain. 
 
 So I says, " Brown, if this 'ere theayter of yourn 
 is much furder, I'd rather set 'ere on the kerb-stone, 
 and wait for you to come back, if it was all night 
 long."
 
 r 2 2 THE A S UR E- TR O VE. 
 
 " Why," he says, " it's only jest round the cormr, 
 as is the fust tumin' to the right." 
 
 So on we went, me a-'obblin' thro' a lot of 
 brokers' shops, and pickled eels, and all other sorts 
 of wegetables, as was esposed for sale, as the sayin' 
 is, along with whelks, as is things I don't 'old with ; 
 till Brown says, " There you are, old gal : that's 
 Queen Wictoria's werry own theayter oppersite." 
 
 I says, " Oh, indeed I Well, then," I says, " if I 
 was Queen Wictoria, give me a better ; for I con- 
 siders it rayther a ramshackle place for a queen to 
 go to constant" 
 
 "Oh," says Brown, "you're always a-growlin'. 
 The outside of a theayter ain't nothink : it's the 
 inside as is that awful grand : so come on." 
 
 We crosses that road, and goes into the entrance 
 to that theayter, as were for all the world like a 
 passage agoin' into a cellar, with a gaslight a-flarin' 
 out, for all the world like a butcher's shop of a 
 Saturday night, as bulged out that sudden, jest as I 
 wrere a-passin' it, and scorched my 'air all up into 
 lumps, and it's a mussy as I were not reduced to a 
 fiery grave, as the sayin' is. 
 
 When we got to the end of that passage, as were 
 1 door, there were a werry nice old gentleman
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 123 
 
 a-standin' there, a fatherly old man, as was a-^atin' 
 of f>ennywinkJes out of 'is pocket-'ankercher, as no 
 sooner set eyes on me than he says, " Elscuse me, 
 mum, but you looks fatigued, and, if you'll take and 
 rest your back ag'in the wall, you'll find as it will 
 rest you wonderful." 
 
 It were good adwice as he give me, and well 
 meant, no doubt ; but I shall never, in this world, 
 get the green paint and whitewash out of my Chinee 
 crape shawl, 'as 'ave reg'lar spilte it." 
 
 I don't think as ever I did, and 'opes I never 
 ag'in shall, feel so dreadful knocked up, and should 
 'ave give way altogether, if I 'adn't kep' a-leanin' all 
 my weight on my umbreller for to support myself, 
 when that old gent with the winkles says, arter a bit, 
 " Escuse me, mum ; but, if it don't make no differ 
 ence to you, would you mind a-takin' of your um 
 breller off my foot for a bit, as is my tender pint t " 
 
 I says, "With pleasure, sir; and 'opes as you'll 
 escuse me thro' 'avin' of a dreadful sinkin' come 
 on." 
 
 Well, jest then I looks round ; and if there weren't 
 Brown a-drinkin' out of the bottle ! So I says, 
 " Brown," I says, "wotever you do, don't give in to 
 them wulgar 'abits, but jest put your 'and into my
 
 r 2 4 TREASURE- TRO VR. 
 
 redicule, and you'll find at the bottom a little heg^ 
 cup without a foot, as is a thing I never goes oirt 
 without; for I can't abear to lift a bottle to my 
 mouth, as looks so wulgar in a lady." 
 
 So he says, " All right, 'ave a drain," as I took 
 jest for to keep the life in me, as the sayin' as. 
 
 Several parties 'ad come in meanwhile, as stood 
 there a-waitin', partickler one boy as kep' on 
 a-crackin' nuts, and starin' at me, and bustin' out 
 a-larfin' : in course I didn't take no notice, a-knowin' 
 as boys will be boys, as always was noosances, and 
 always will be, tho', if he'd been a boy of mine, I'd 
 'ave stopped them nuts, as was a deal more than 
 was good for 'im. 
 
 Well, there we kep' on, a-waitin' and a-waitin', 
 and parties a-comin' in : so I says, " Dear me, what 
 a crowd ! " 
 
 "Yes," says a lady, as 'ad come in with a babby 
 in 'er arms : " it's a benefit." 
 
 "Well," I says, "it ain't much of a benefit for me; 
 for parties is a-weighin' dreadful 'eavy on me, and 
 a-makin' thoro 'fares of my feet as is hagonies." 
 
 "Ah! " she says, "you ain't used to these places." 
 
 "No, mum," I says: "I am not." 
 
 "Ahl" she says, "I knowed that the moment I
 
 MRS. f^ROlVX AT TUP. rl.AY. 125 
 
 Mit eyes on you, by the way as you're 'oldin' of your 
 iKons, as is 'ighly dangerous." 
 
 I says, " Wotever do you mean ? " 
 
 She says, " Oh ! you mustn't 'old 'em a-kimbo 
 'ike that, when the rush comes, but straight down 
 by your sides, or else you might be served like the 
 ;Ady were as lodged in the 'ouse along with me, 
 agoin' to see Mazeppa at Ashley's three year last 
 Whitsuntide, and 'ad both of 'em broke short oflE." 
 
 I says to Brown, " 'Owever could you bring me 
 to sich a awful dangerous place ? " 
 
 All he says was, " 'Old your row, you old fool ! " 
 
 In course that boy with the nuts, he bust out 
 a-larfm' at them words, as were Brown's fault for 
 incouragin' of 'is impidence : so I didn't take no 
 notice, but kep' a-standin', fust on one foot, and then 
 on the other, for to get a little ease. 
 
 Well, all the time parties kep' a-comin' in ; and at 
 last I says to the lady, 'Why, it's quite a conquest 
 of people ! Wotever can it mean ? — Do you think, 
 mum," I says to the lady with the babby, " as Queen 
 Wictoria is a-comin' 'ere to 'er own theayter to-night, 
 as 'ave always 'eard as there's crowds for to see 'er 
 wherever she goes t " 
 
 She said as she did not know, therefore could not
 
 r6 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 tell. But the old gentleman, — 'im with the win- 
 kles, — he says, a-tumin' round quite sharp, "Oh. 
 bless you, no ! she can't be here to-night ; for don't 
 you know as she dursn't come over the bridges with- 
 out the leave of the Lord Mare ? And she can't get 
 that to-night, I can tell you j for to my certain kno-wl- 
 edge he's gone to dine along ^,\^th the Licensed 
 VVittlars, as is annular custom." 
 
 '* Oh ! " I says, " indeed ! I do not pretend for to 
 understand politics, as ain't a woman's spear in my 
 opinion, tho' others thinks different." 
 
 But, poor old gentleman, I see 'im a-'eavin' ; and, 
 thro' 'im a-anserin' me that suddin about Queen 
 Wictoria a-comin', somethink 'ad been and gone 
 the \^Tong way, as made 'im bust out, and guggle 
 and splutter all over the place. 
 
 It give me sich a awful turn a-seein' 'im purple to 
 the roots of 'is 'airs, and a-'oopin' like a hinfant in 
 croup, 'cos I nat'rally thought as he'd been and 
 swallered that crooked pin as he were a-eatin' of 'is 
 winkles with, as it did not prove to be. but only 
 them carryways as was aggrawatin' of 'is throat, as 
 is as sharp as needles, as the savin' is ; but I do 
 believe, il I 'adn't 'ad the presence of mind to keep 
 a-punchin' 'im 'ard berween the blade-bones with
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 127 
 
 ihe 'andle of my umbreller, he'd *ave been a tangled 
 copse at my feet. 
 
 jt give me sich a shock a-seein' 'im suffer like 
 fliat, that if I 'adn't 'ad the presence of mind to 'ave 
 took, the hegg-cup out of Brown's 'and, as were 
 elpin* 'isself, I do believe as I must 'ave come out 
 of tlie place ; leastvvays that's if I could, for we was 
 all w«xlL^ed up frightful, and I couldn't 'ardly draw 
 tny breath. 
 
 Well, at last I were in that hagony with my feet, 
 as I says to myself, " I must ease this 'ere right boot 
 o(T if 1 dies for it." So I were a-workin' away to get 
 II down at 'eel, when, all of a suddin, there was a 
 splashy sort of a sound like drorin' of bolts; and I 
 gets a shove from behind as sent me a-flyin', and I 
 come with my chest with that fortitude ag'in a 
 wooden bar as nearly knocked ever}' bit of my breath 
 out of my body. 
 
 I should 'ave been killed on the spot, I do 
 believe, but for the perliceman as were a-standin' 
 there, and puts 'is 'and on my shoulder, and says, 
 •' Duck ! " Not as he me^.nt any think rude nor free- 
 like, but oiily for me II. stoop my 'ead under that 
 bar. But when I did stoop 1 weren't no better off ; 
 tor two parties each side o^ »»»e 'ad got 'old of my
 
 128 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 Chinee crape shawl crossways, and were a-seesaw- 
 in' of it across my throat that wiolent as strangled 
 I thouf^ht I must be; and, in my contortions for to 
 set myself free, my string of carnelian beaas 
 busted, and dribbled down my back with a sensa- 
 tion I sha'n't never forget. 
 
 Well, there I were, with my 'ead under that 
 wooden bar, and parties a-drivin' away like mad 
 behind; and Brown, as 'ad got in, he kep' a-'ollenn' 
 " Come on 1 " 
 
 I says, " It's werry easy for to say, ' Come on; ' 
 but 'owever am I to do? " as couldn't estricate my- 
 self from under that bar not nohow, till Brown he 
 come up, and ketched 'old of my arm with a jerk 
 that wiolent as made every 'ook and eye as I'd got 
 about me give way \vith a crash, and pulled me 
 thro*. 
 
 I says, " Brown, wherever is my boot ? " 
 
 He saj^s, " Blow your boot! " and, if it 'adn't 
 been as that perliceman found it for me, I couldn't 
 ave went a step furder; and as it were, get it up 
 at 'eel I couldn't, was it ever so. 
 
 At last Brown says, " Come on, old timber-toes, 
 do," and took and give me a shove through a door 
 into a dark place and says, "Set down with you do." 
 
 I says, " Set down, indeed I wotever on?'* for it
 
 ^^^'S. Bi<(J\\ .\ A I J ///: iJ,A t . i ^y 
 
 were that dark, I couldn't see nothink, 'till, thro' 
 a-barkin' my shins a-fallin' over somethink, I found 
 there was forms all over the place, and disj^raceful 
 forms too, with nails a-stickin' out, as 'ave made the 
 back-breadth of my Norwich crape for all the 
 world as if it 'ad been cut with a knife. 
 
 And, when I did come for to set down, I were 
 that dreadful all-overish and fainty, as, if I 'adn't 
 kep' on a-sippin' at the hegg-cup, I never could 
 'ave stopped in the place. 
 
 Well, arter a time, I was more myself like; and 
 Brown, he'd made me go more forard for to set, and 
 I begun a-lookin' round me; and I says to 'im, " if 
 this is your theayter as were so grand inside, I don't 
 think much on it, as is wot I calls a dingy 'ole." 
 
 That boy as 'ad been a-standin' at the door, 
 a-crackin' them nuts, he was a-settin' just in front 
 on me; and he turns round, and says, " Don't you 
 tho'!" in a jeery sort of a tone, as I should 'ave 
 give 'im a-settin' down for, thro' not a-'oldin' with 
 boys a-makin' that free with their helders; but just 
 then some gentlemen as was a-settin' close in front 
 on us begun a-playin' the music beautiful. 
 
 It certainly were lovely music, as I doats on, par- 
 tickler the wiolin, as I could set and listen to by the
 
 " -^o J nh.iS L nil,— J A u t a. 
 
 '■our together : I 'ave done so afore now, thro' little 
 Tommy Roberts, as lived in our court, a-playin' of it 
 "^intire by 'is ears, and did used to come and play to 
 i&e a 'ole artemoon. 
 
 But wot I liked best in that music as them gents 
 was a-pla}in' were the omet. I never 'eard such 
 ornet-playin', never; for the party as blowed It 
 biowed that wiolent, a-turnin' that red, with his 
 wains a-swellin', as I says to Brown, "Mark my 
 words, he'U bust 'isself to bits ; and, wots more, he'll 
 blow us all out of the place." 
 
 I liked it all werry much, but the drum, as a bit ot 
 a boy 'd got 'old on, as were a deal too young to be 
 trusted with a drum, as he 'it that 'ard as it went 
 clean thro' my 'ead, and drownded every think. 
 
 But I certingly did like that music ; and I says to 
 Brown, " It's a pity there ain't a bit of dance, for 1 
 loves a dance." 
 
 That boy, he turns round, and says, "You're a 
 beauty to dance, any'ow ! " 
 
 My fingers did itch for to box that boy's ears, as I 
 should have done, only just then they drawed up a 
 %ig thing as were 'anging in front of us, and, oh I it 
 were lovely to be sure. I never did ! There was 
 Mue mountings over there, and in front on 'em a
 
 .V'A'.V. liROWN AT THE PLAY. 131 
 
 mtr with a little bridge, and a cottage all a one 
 side, with trees a-'angin' down, and lovely flowers ail 
 over the place. 
 
 " Law," I says, " Brown, ain't it lovely ? 'Ow 1 
 should like to spend the day 1 for all the world like 
 Eppin Forest the day we was married." 
 
 That boy, he trms round, and says, "Shet uf>^ 
 can't you?" 
 
 I'd 'ave giifsjn 'im a good prog in the back with 
 my umbrellcr, only I see two parties a-coming over 
 that little bridge, as I see 'ad someth -^ partickler 
 to say as I wanted to listen to. 
 
 One on 'em were a 'aughty, stuck-up feller in » 
 large cloak, with a feather in 'is 'at, and yeller boots^ 
 with spurs a-clinkin', as they always wears over there, 
 So I see in a instant as he were some one partickler. 
 
 Jhere come along with them a nasty smudged- 
 *A2ed character, with one of them dark caniste? 
 v)oks in the heye, as 1 couldn't abear the moment ) 
 St I eyes on 'im, and says to Brown, " Mark my 
 words, he ain't no good." 
 
 Brown, he only say.s, " 'Old your row ! " 
 
 Well I says, "Thoughts is free, any'ow," but didn't 
 say no more ; for parties says, " 'U.sh ! " and I wanted 
 myself for to 'ear what them fellers 'ad got to say 
 for them.s«^lv«*s
 
 132 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 Well, the chap in the feathers, he up, and says. 
 "All I possesses is mine: why should I not have 
 that which I desires ? " 
 
 The dirty face chap, he ups, and says, " My lord, 
 you shall." 
 
 "Oh!" I says, "shall he?" for I couldn't not 
 abear them two from the werry fust 
 
 Then says the chap in the feathers, " Why does 
 the 'aughty beauty so long despise my suits ? " 
 
 The dirty face chap, he says, " Give me but gold, 
 and I will bear *er this night to your castle 'alls." 
 
 I was put out to 'ear 'im talk like that, so takes, 
 and shakes my umbreller at 'im, and says, "You 
 dare to lay a finger on 'er, you good-for-nothink, 
 kidnappin' waggerbone ! " as made Brown give me a 
 wiolent nudge to be quiet 
 
 But law ! that chap with the feathers, he takes, and 
 says, scowl in' like, " Slave, gold shall be thine, and 
 more," and takes and chucks at 'im a puss as long 
 as my arm ; and the money as must *ave been in tha.t 
 puss must 'ave been untold, if you might judge by 
 *he chink. 
 
 Well, that sroudged-face waggerbone, he ketches 
 that puss, as he takes and shoves in 'is bussim, and 
 says, "Ahl she comes," a-whisperm' 'oarse-like
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY. 133 
 
 And jest then the music played up ; and out at that 
 cottaeje-door come the loveliest young creetur as 
 ever I set eyes on, — a reglar beauty : wax-works was 
 fools to 'er. 
 
 Every one begun a-clappin' of their *ands as she 
 come forrard, a-makin' of 'er obedience quite pretty ; 
 and I says to Brown, " Well, she is a dear, and you 
 can tell as she's from the country' : look at 'er rosy 
 cheeks," for I never did see any one look more 
 rosyer. 
 
 Well, there she was a-standin' just over them 
 musicianers, as couldn't play for lookin' at 'er, with 
 'er lovely 'air all in ringlets down 'er back, jest, for 
 all the world, like a 'air-dresser's winder, and a 
 book-muslin skirt that full, that it stuck out like 
 a umbreller all round 'er. 
 
 I couldn't take my eyes off 'er, and says to 
 Brown, " She is a love, to be sure ; but," I says, 
 " Brown ! " 
 
 He says, " Oh, bother 1 What is it ? " 
 
 " Why," I says, " she certingly is a dear creetur ; 
 but, in my opinion, 'er things is full ?hort." 
 
 Brown, he says, " All the better." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, you're a brute ; but," I says, 
 " all as I've got to say is, if she was a dorter of
 
 C34 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 mine, growed up like that, she shouldn't stand at 
 the hedge of a pressy pitch of fiddlers, not with 
 sich short things on as them. Wotever would you 
 say if you see me a-standin' up there dressed like 
 that?" 
 
 He only busts out a-larfin' that loud as made 
 parties 'oiler out, " 'Ush ! " and stare round at us, as 
 is so rediculous of Brown, a-makin' of 'isself that 
 conspicerous in a public place, where parties wishes 
 for to be quiet, in course. 
 
 Well, them two waggerbones 'ad drawed their- 
 selves back while th^ young gal sung a little song, 
 a-wishin' she were a thing of hair. As I says, 
 *** Well, I'm sure she's got a plenty, if all 'er own," 
 as made them as was near me snigger like ; tho' 
 some took my remark werry 'uffy, partickler a young 
 woman with a sojer, as set next me, as tossed 'er 
 'ead every time as I opened my lips. 
 
 When she'd done a-singin', that young gal begun 
 a-talkin' about 'er mounting 'ome ; and that chap 
 with the feathers comes up to 'er with a start like, 
 and says, "'Aughty beauty, 'ow long will you dis- 
 dain my suits? 'Ave I not gold? 'ave I not lands? 
 eeill I not lay hall at your feet ? " 
 
 Hnt she up and spoke that proper, and says.
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PLAY 13.- 
 
 " No, my lord ; never, my lord 1 Though poor and 
 lowly, I am 'umble and innercent ; and," she says> 
 " I would rather," she says, " 'ave innercency on tht 
 mounting top than wice in a walley." 
 
 I was so pleased to 'ear 'er talk like that, st 
 proper, that I says to 'er, I says, " And right you 
 ire, my dear," as made some fools bust out a-larlin'. 
 
 But law bless you ! that chap in the feathers, hfc 
 wasn't to be put off with no words like them, du. 
 ketches 'old on 'er by the wristes, and I do believ« 
 \>ere agoin' to be downright rude on the spot. 
 
 But she give a squall ; and, as luck would 'ave it, 
 fhere were a sea-farin' party a-comin' by, a reg'lai 
 sailor in little white trousers and a shiny 'at, with a 
 stick and a bundle jest like a sailor, as says, " Avas^. 
 ♦here I wot a lovely fieldmale in distress, and olri 
 Jack Marlin'spike, shiver my timbers." 
 
 Oh 1 I was so glad to see 'im, I could 'ave give 'in&. 
 A kiss ; and I says, " Oh, you old dear 1 " 
 
 But the chap in the feathers, he were ready foe 
 'im, bless you ; for he takes and whips off his cloaks 
 ^^d if he weren't stuck full of swords and daggers 
 'II round 'im 1 
 
 It give me such a orful turn ; for I can't abeay 
 he sight of them fire-arms, as is well kno^n wiil go 
 .cT like a gpjn when least espected.
 
 »36 TREASURE-TROVh 
 
 So I says, "Brown," I says, " there il be murdei 
 'ere, I can see — the hegg-cup this hinstant, if you 
 please." 
 
 " Oh ! I'm glad as I took it \ for, if I 'adn't, I nevei 
 could 'ave set and see it ; for them two got a-fightin' 
 with the sailor like mad, till they knocks 'im down 
 on one knee, tho' he wouldn't give in, with fire 
 a-fiashin' out of them swords, till he were reg'lai 
 down \ and then they was agoin' to massercree 'im 
 on the spot, when that young gal got a couple of 
 pistols somewheres, and come and 'eld 'em to their 
 two good-for-nothink 'eads. 
 
 You should 'ave see 'ow them waggerbones was 
 took aback, as went over that bridge a-gnashin' of 
 their teeth like a couple of tigers debaulked of their 
 cubs. 
 
 That young gal, she run away into the cottage, 
 glad to get away from such company. But the 
 sailor, he got up, and made 'isself werr}' agreeable, 
 a-singin' and a-dancin' quite cheerful, — jest like a 
 sailor all over. 
 
 Well, I do think as I must 'ave dropped off a biL, 
 as some will ; for, tho' the 'art is light, the heyes is 
 'eavy sometimes. But there wasn't no occashuns 
 for Brown to ketch me like that sharp in the side
 
 MRS. BROWN AT THE PL A 2'. 137 
 
 with 'is elber, as he did, and say, "Come, old snorer, 
 if you're agoin to sleep all night, you might as 
 well be at 'omc." 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, I am not reg'lar asleep^ 
 tho' dosey, and wot you takes for snores is sobs; 
 for I 'as a feelin' 'art, and can't help a-f rettin' about 
 that young gal." 
 
 He says, " Oh, bother the young gal ! she's all 
 right. Here, you take the hcgg-cup, as is about 
 your size." 
 
 I'm thankful as I did take it; for I'm sure, if [ 
 'adn't, I should 'ave screamed out, bein' that sur- 
 prised a-lookin' up, and seein' all the place turned 
 into a bed-room, — a good-sized room, I might say 
 large^ cho' not much furniture, with a little tent- 
 bed, with check curtings to the winder, and a chest 
 of drawers as looked desolate like; and there was 
 that young gal as we'd see at fust, with a candle in 
 'er 'and, as she put down on the chest of drawers, 
 and takes and draws the curtings, and turns down 
 the bed, all nat'ral like. 
 
 Well, then she takes off 'er little 'at, and kicks 
 off 'er little shoes, and begins for to undo the little 
 jacket she'd got on. 
 
 So I says, " Brown! " and gives 'im a nudge.
 
 TREASURR^TRO VR, 
 
 He says, " Wot is it ? " 
 
 I says, " You don't never mean to say as she's 
 agoin' to bed afore all these people ? " 
 
 He says, " You'll see." 
 
 I says, " I 'opes I shall not see ; foi," I says, " ii s 
 Mghly improper \ and I shall make a pint of not 
 i-Iookin', and you didn't ought to." 
 
 Well, poor thing, she didn't do no more in the 
 way of undressin', when she puffs out the light. It 
 give me sich a turn ; for the place went that suddin 
 dark, you wouldn't 'ave thought as one candle could 
 ave made sich a difference. 
 
 Well, poor thing, she was into bed in a jiffey, aa 
 the sayin' is, and off like a church in a instant 
 
 "Well," I says to Brown, "I'm a good sleeper 
 myself, but couldn't 'ave gone off suddin like that, 
 as were pre'aps through the music a-playin' that soft 
 like. 
 
 She 'adn't 'ardly closed 'er heyes, when out from 
 the wallance of *er little bed come the 'ead of that 
 smudge-faced willin we'd see at fust 
 
 " Now," I says, " Mr. Brown, who is right, una 
 who is wrong ? Didn't I say he were a bad 'un troia 
 the werry fust ? " 
 
 He says, " Oh, do 'old your row, do ! "
 
 AfA\S. BROWlsr AT THE FLAY. 1-9 
 
 I says, "That depends ;" for that fellar, he come 
 a-crawlin' from under the bed, a-squabblin' all aboui 
 the place, a-pretendin' as he couldn't see, as were 
 like 'is nasty deceitful ways ; 'cos, in course, if I could 
 see, he could. 
 
 Well, he goes across the room, and opens the 
 winder, and gives a whistle like a low-lived butcher- 
 boy ; and if that willin in the feathers didn't come 
 a-rigglin' on the pit of his stomick on that winder 
 sell, and get into the room I 
 
 I says, " Mr. Brown, here's goin's on as I don't 
 'old with. Wotever bisness has them two wagger- 
 bones in this poor young thing's room ? " for I felt 
 like a mother to 'er. 
 
 Says Brown, " Do be quiet ; for," he says, " if you 
 keeps on a-interruptin' of 'em like this, they'll turn 
 you out." 
 
 I says, " Interruptin' of 'em, indeed ! as is my 
 dooty for to do, as one woman by another. And, as to 
 turnin' me out, I should like to see 'em do it ; for 
 as long as I've got my umbreller, I'm a match for 
 them two rascals, any day." 
 
 Well, poor thing ! jest then, bein' nat'ral disturbed 
 in 'er rest by them whistlin's and noises, she give a 
 uneasy turn in 'er, like wakin' up; and if that
 
 1 40 TREASURR-TRO VE. 
 
 smudge-face willin didn't take and draw a knife oui 
 as long as my arm, as seemed for to turn the 'o^ 
 mask of my blood I 
 
 So I says, " Brown," I says, " if it's only arf the 
 hegg-cup, I must 'ave a somethink." 
 
 It's a mussy as I took it ; for jest then she set up 
 in the bed, and giye a scream as went right thro' 
 me, as made them two fellers rush at 'er with their 
 drawed swords. 
 
 I says, " Brown," I says, " I'm your lawful wife, 
 and the mother of children ; and ain't agoin' to set 
 'ere in cold blood and see murder done, to please 
 nobody." And a party a-settin near says, " 'Ush ! " 
 
 I says, " Who are you a-'ushin' .? I sha'n't 'ush. 
 There I " 
 
 Says another feller, a-'ollerin' at me quite rude, 
 " Horder 1 border ! " 
 
 " Well," I says, " suppose I did come with a 
 horder, wot of that ? Is that any reason I ain't to 
 do my dooty by a fellow-creetur ' ? " 
 
 Says Brown, " Do for goodness' sake 'old your 
 row I " 
 
 I says, " I won't 'Elp ! " I says. " Murder ! " I 
 says ; for I see 'em a-puUin' 'er out of 'er bed. " Per- 
 lice, perlice ! " I 'oilers ; and there was the perlice,
 
 AfkS. BRO^VX AT THK PIAY. '^i 
 
 as come and ketched 'old of me by the harm, and 
 says, " Come out 1 " 
 
 I says, " Perliceman, 'owever dare you come 
 a-molestin' of me as am doin' my dooty down 'ere ? 
 but take and do yours by them as is a-doin' wrong 
 up there. You never are where you're wanted, as is 
 well known." 
 
 He only give me a wiolent pull by Ihe harm, and 
 says, " Come, out with you 1 " 
 
 That young woman as were a-settin' by me with 
 the sojer says, " And glad I am as you're agoin', as 
 'ave been a downright noosance all the evenin' ; for, 
 when you ain't been a-jorin', you've been a-snorin' : 
 so there ain't been no 'earin' a word for you." 
 
 I says, " Young 'ooman, you mind your own bis- 
 ness, and look arter your sojer, as in my opinion 
 you've been a-makin' too free with the licker, as is 
 disgraceful in a fieldmale." But she only bust out 
 a-larfin' ; and that boy, he turns round, and says, 
 " Oh, my eye, old lady 1 ain't you mops and 
 brooms ? " 
 
 1 should certingly *ave give 'im a good settin' 
 down, only but for the perlice, as said, " Are you 
 a-comin' ? " and give me sich a wiolent jerk, and 
 Brown % nudge in the side simultanous, as the say
 
 I 12 r/d£A^ (JRE- TRO VE. 
 
 n' is, as knocked my 'air right over my heyes, and 
 
 rtjg'lar blindfolded me like, so I couldn't see nothink 
 more, but could 'ear that poor gal's screams whilst 
 they was a-'awlin' and puUin' and a-liftki' me about 
 the place shameful, as made me 'oiler ten thousand 
 murders, till they let me go with my 'ands at liberty 
 for to get my 'air out of my heyes ; and, when I did 
 so, I looks round, and if I wasn't in the opin streets, 
 and a-pourin' with rain intorrently. 
 
 So I says, " Perliceman, I must go back." 
 He says, " Not to-night, my good 'ooman." 
 I says, " Who are you a-callin' your good 'oo> 
 man, as am not and never will be? But," I says, 
 " I will go back ; for I've left my umbreller in th^,* 
 place, and it's a-pourin' with rain." 
 
 " Now," he says, " I tell you wot it is, if you don't 
 ^o quiet, I'll lock you up, and that's all about it." 
 
 So I 'obbles up to Brown, as were a-litin' up 'is 
 pipe at a stall, and says, " Brown, I've been and left 
 my umbreller ; " and if he didn't take and walk on, 
 a*usiri* a epitaph to me as I blushes to think on. 
 
 And every step of the way I 'ad to 'obble 'ome 
 arter 'im, with my boot down at 'eel, through tlie 
 pourin' rain, like a drownded rat ; and, when we got 
 to our door, wot do you think? Why, if I 'adn't
 
 MRS. BROWN' AT THE PLAY. 143 
 
 been and left the key of the door in my redicule in 
 that theayter : so we 'ad to stand there pretty nigh 
 arf a 'our afore Brown could knock up the neigh- 
 bors, and get through the back premises for to let 
 me in. 
 
 'Ow I got to bed, I can't think ; for the only thing 
 as I remembers was Brown a-cuttin' my left boot 
 ofT, through bein' that swelled as nothink wouldn't 
 move it. And all night long I was a-dreamin' of 
 murders and horrors, with the bed a-turnin' round 
 with me, and my 'ead a-swimmin' and splittin' like 
 mad ; and, when he was a-gettin' up in the mornin', 
 I says, " Brown, that's a dear, give me a drop of 
 water ; fsr I am that dreadful parched." 
 
 He busts out a-larfin* as he give it me, and says, 
 ' Well, you are a beauty ! " and out of the rooms he 
 goes ; and when I got up and looks at myself in the 
 glass, I never did. I was a reg'lar objec' ; for if the 
 rain 'adn't been and washed all the green linin' out 
 of my leghorn into my face. Through bein' a 
 ingrain color, I didn't get it out for weeks. And wot 
 with the cold as I caught, and the rheumatics as set 
 in, I were laid up for days. And wot I couldn't get 
 out of my 'ead were that poor young creetur ; and 
 all as I've got to say is, 'owever Queen Wictoria can
 
 144 
 
 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 allow sich shameful goin's on at 'er theayter puzzle-^ 
 me ; but all I can say is, if that's their ways of goin' 
 ^m at them plays, if ever I goes agin to the play, 
 tiiem as sees me there may tell me on it"
 
 THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO, 
 
 BY JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 NICHOLAS GkMCRACK, being iu 
 sound health of mind, but in great weak- 
 ness of body, do, by this my last will and 
 testament, bestow my worldly goods and chattels in 
 manner following : — 
 
 Imprimis^ — To my dear wife, 
 One box of butterflies, 
 One drawer of shells, 
 A female skeleton, 
 A dried cockatrice. 
 [tem^ — To my daughter Elizabeth, 
 
 My receipt for preserving dead caterpillars, 
 As also my preparations of winter Mayd'^w and 
 embr)'o-|)ickle. 
 ftan, • * To my little daughter Fanny, 
 Threx- crocodile's eg;rs. 
 
 o us
 
 146 TREASUKE-TROVE. 
 
 And upon the birth of her first child, if sh€ 
 marries with her mother's consent, 
 The nest of a humming-bird. 
 Item, — To my eldest brother, as an acknowledg- 
 ment for the lands he has vested in my son Charles, 
 ; bequeath 
 
 My last year's collection of grasshoppers. 
 Item, — To his daughter Susanna, being his only 
 child, I bequeath my 
 
 English weeds pasted on royal paper, 
 With my large folio of Indian cabbage. 
 Having fully provided for my nepKew Isaac, by 
 making over to him some years since, 
 A homed scarabaeus, 
 The skin of a rattlesnake, and 
 The mummy of an Egyptian king, 
 I make no further provision for him in this my wit' 
 
 My eldest son, John, having spoke disrespectfully 
 of his little sister, whom I keep by me in spirits of 
 wine; and in many other instances behaved himself 
 undutifully towards me, I do disenherit, and wholly 
 cut off from any part of this my personal estate, by 
 giving him a single cockle-shell. 
 
 To my second son, Charles, I give and bequeath all 
 my flowers, plants, minerals, mosses, shells, pebbles.
 
 THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO. 147 
 
 fossils, beetles, butterflies, caterpillars, grasshoppers, 
 and vermin, not above specified ; as also all my mon- 
 sters, both wet and dry; making the said Charles 
 whole and sole executor of this my last will and 
 testament : he paying, or causing to be paid, the 
 aforesaid legacies within the space of six months 
 after my decease. And I do hereby revoke al! other 
 wills whatsoever by me formerly made.
 
 4N ACCOUNT OF THE GOLDEN AGE OF 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 BY WASmNGTON IRVING. 
 
 HE houses of the higher class were gener- 
 ally constructed of wood, excepting the 
 gable-end, which was of small black-and- 
 yellow Dutch bricks, and always faced on the 
 streets ; as our ancestors, like their descendants, 
 were very much given to outward show, and were 
 noted for putting the best leg foremost The houses 
 were always furnished with abundance of large doors 
 and small windows on every floor. The date of its 
 erection was curiously designated by iron figures on 
 the front ; and on the top of the roof was perched a 
 fierce little weathercock, to let the family into the 
 important secret which way the wind blew. 
 
 These, like the weathercocks on the tops of oui 
 steeples, pointed so many different ways, that even 
 
 «48
 
 1 Ht GOLDEN AGE OF NEW YORK. 140 
 
 m;in could have a wind to his mind. Th(j mosi 
 sianch and loyal citizens, however, always wem 
 according to the weathercock on the top of the 
 "governor's house, which was certainly the most cor- 
 rect, as he had a trusty servant employed every 
 morning to climb up, and set it to the right quarter. 
 
 In those good days of simplicity and sunshine, 
 a passion for cleanliness was the leading principle in 
 domestic economy, and the universal test of an ablf* 
 housewife, — a character which formed the utmost 
 ambition of our unenlightened grandmothers. The 
 front-door was never opened, except on marriages, 
 funerals. New Year's days, the festival of St. Nicho- 
 las, or some such great occasion. It was ornamented 
 with a gorgeous brass knocker, curiously wrought, — 
 sometimes in the device of a dog, and sometimes of 
 
 lion's head, — and was daily burnished with such 
 religious zeal, that it was ofttimes worn out by the 
 very precautions taken for its preservation. The 
 whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, 
 under the discipline of mops and brooms and scrub- 
 bing-brushes ; and the good housewives of those 
 days were a kind of amphibious animal, delighting 
 exceedingly to be dabbling in water ; insomuch thai 
 an historian of the day grrx?ely tells us, that many
 
 1 5 O TREASURE- TRO Vh . 
 
 of his townswomen grew to have webbed fingers like 
 unto a duck ; and some of them, he had little doubt, 
 could the matter be examined into, would be found 
 to have the tails of mermaids. But this I look 
 upon to be a mere sport of fancy, or, what is worse. 
 a wilful misrepresentation. 
 
 The g^and parlor was the . anctum sanctorum, 
 where the pa»**ion for cleaning was indulged without 
 •w-jntrol. In this sacred apartment no one was per- 
 micted to enter, excepting the mistress and her con- 
 fid enti -J maid, who visited it once a week, for U:ie 
 purpose of giving it a thorough cleaning, and putting 
 things to rights, always taking the precaution of 
 leaving their shoes at the door, and entering de- 
 voutly on their stocking-feet. After scrubbing the 
 floor, sprinkling it \\4th fine white sand, which was 
 curiously stroked into angles and curves and rhom- 
 boids with a broom ; after washing the windows, 
 nibbing and polishing the furniture, and putting a 
 new bunch of evergreens in the fireplace, — thc 
 window-shutters were again closed to keep out 
 the flies, and the room carefully locked up until the 
 revolution of time brought round die weekly clean 
 Ing day. 
 
 As tc/ the family they always entered 'n at the
 
 fHE GOLDEN aGE OF NEW YORK, 151 
 
 Cdte, and most generally lived in the kitchen. To 
 have seen a numerous household assembled roiind 
 the fire, one would have imagined that he was trans- 
 ported back to those happy days of primeval simpli- 
 city which float before our imaginations like golden 
 visions. The fireplaces were of a truly patriarchal 
 magnitude, where the whole family, old and young, 
 .Ti aster and servant, black and white, nay, even the 
 very cat and dog, enjoyed a community of privilege, 
 ^nd had each a right to a corner. Here the old 
 burgher would sit in perfect silence, puffing his pipe, 
 looking in the fire with half-shut eyes, and thinking 
 of nothing for hours together ; the goede vrouw, on 
 the opposite side would employ herself diligently in 
 spinning yarn, or knitting stockings. The young 
 folks would crowd around the hearth, listening with 
 breathless attention to some old crone of a negro, 
 who was the oracle of the family, and who, perched 
 like a raven in a comer of the chimney, would 
 r.roak forth for a long winter afternoon a string of 
 incredible stones about New England witches, 
 grisly ghosts, horses without heads, and hairbreadth 
 escapes, and bloody encounters among Jie Indians. 
 
 In those happy days a well regulated family always 
 rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed
 
 152 " A' A A S URE- TRO VE . 
 
 at suiib^et. Dir'ner was invariably a private meal . 
 and the fat old burghers showed incontestable signs 
 of disapprobation and uneasiness at being surprised 
 by a visit from a neighbor on such occasions Bui 
 tuoagh our worthy ancestors were thus singularly 
 averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the social 
 bards of intimacy by occasional banquerings, called 
 tfea-parties. 
 
 These fashionable parties were generally confined 
 to the higher classes, or nobksse ; that is to say, such 
 as kept their own cows, and drove their own wagons 
 The company commonly assembled about three 
 o'clock, and went away about six, unless it was in 
 V. mter-time, when the fashionable hours were a little 
 earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. 
 The tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, 
 well stored with slices of fac pork fried brown, cut up 
 into morsels, and swimming in gra\y. The company 
 — being seated round the genial board, and each 
 furnished with a fork - evinced their dexterit}' in 
 launching at the fattest ^/eces in this might}' dish, in 
 much the same manne\ as sailors harpoon porpoises 
 at sea, or our India^xS spear salmon in the lakes. 
 Sometimes tne table was graced with immense apple- 
 pies, or ^auccis fuK of preserved peaches and ^y^ars -
 
 but it was always surr lo ooasi an enormous disl 
 of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and 
 called doughnuts, or olykocks, — a delicious kind of 
 cake, at present scarce known in this city, except 
 'Li genuine Dutch families. 
 
 The tea was served out of a majestic Delft teapiot, 
 ornanicjiced with paintings of fat little Dutch shei> 
 herds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boatb 
 sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and 
 sundr)' other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beau.x 
 distinguished themselves by their adroitness in re 
 plenishing this pot from a huge copper teakettle 
 which would have made the pygmy macaronies of 
 thesfe degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. 
 To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid 
 beside each cup ; and the company alternately nibbled 
 :ind sipped with great decorum, until an improve 
 ment was introduced by a shrewd and economic old 
 hidy, which was to suspend a large lump directly 
 over the tea-table, by a string from the ceiling, so 
 that it could be swung from mouth to mouth, — an 
 ingenious expedient which is still kept up by some 
 families in Albany, but which prevails, without excep- 
 tion, m Communipaw, Bergen, Flatbush, and all our 
 «in contaminated Dutch villages.
 
 J t\ t:.n^i L A £, ■ 
 
 At these primitive tea-parties the utmost prop-net) 
 and dignit}' of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor 
 coquetting, no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden 
 chatting and romping of young ones, no self-satisfied 
 struttings of wealthy gentlemen with their brains in 
 their pocket, nor amusing conceits, and monkey 
 divertisements, of smart young gentlemen with no 
 brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies 
 seated themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed 
 chairs, and knit their own woollen stockings, nor 
 ever opened their lips, excepting to say, " Yah Myn^- 
 heer^'' or, " Yah, yah^ Vrouw'' to any question that 
 was asked them ; beha\dng in all things like decent, 
 well-educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each 
 of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost 
 in contemplation of the blue-and-white tiles with 
 which the fireplaces were decorated, wherein sundry 
 passages of Scripture were piously portrayed. Tobit 
 and his dog figured to great advantage ; Haman 
 swung conspicuously on his gibbet ; and Jonah ap 
 peared most manfully bouncing out of the whalt 
 like Harlequin through a barrel of fire. 
 
 The parties broke up without noise and without 
 confusion. They were carried home by their o^^ti 
 carriages ; that is to say. by the vehicles Nature had
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE OF NEW YORK. 155 
 
 provided them, excepting such of the wealthy as 
 could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gal- 
 lantly attended their fair ones to their respective 
 abodes, and took leave of them with a hearty smack 
 at the door ; which, as it was an established piece of 
 etiquette, done in perfect simplicity and honesty of 
 heart, occasioned no scandal at that time, nor should 
 It at the present : if our great-grandfathers approved 
 of the custom, it would argue a great want of defer- 
 ence in their descendants to say a word against it. 
 
 In this dulcet period of my history, when the 
 beauteous island of Mannahata presented a scene 
 the very counterpart of those glowing pictures drawn 
 of the golden reign of Saturn, there was. as I have 
 before observed, a happy ignorance, an honest sim- 
 plicity, prevalent among its inhabitants, which, were 
 I even able to depict, would be but little understood 
 by the degenerate age for which I am doomed to 
 write. Even the female sex, those arch innovators 
 'ipon the tranquillity, the honesty, and gray-beard 
 customs of society, seemed for a while to conduct 
 themselves with incredible sobriety and comeliness. 
 
 Their hair, untortured by the abominations of art, 
 was scrupulously pomatumed back from their fore- 
 heads with a caidle, and covered with a little cap of
 
 15b THFASUKh-TROVE. 
 
 quilted calico, which fitted exactly to their heads 
 Their petticoats, of linsey-woolsey, were striped with 
 a variety of gorgeous dyes, though I must confess 
 these gallant garments were rather short, scarce 
 reaching below the knee ; but then they made up in 
 the number, which generally equalled that of the 
 gentleman's small-clothes ; and, what is still more 
 praiseworthy, they were all of their own manufac- 
 ture, — of which circumstance, as may well be sup- 
 posed, they were not a little vain. 
 
 Those were the honest days in which every woman 
 staid at home, read the Bible, and wore pockets, — 
 ay, and that, too, of a goodly size, — fashioned with 
 patchwork into many curious devices, and ostenta- 
 tiously worn on the outside. These, in fact, were 
 convenient receptacles, where all good housewives 
 carefully stored away such things as they wished to 
 have at hand ; by which means they often came to be 
 incredibly crammed. And I remember there used to 
 be a story current, when I was a boy, that the lady 
 of Wouter Van Twiller once had occasion to empty 
 her right pocket in search of a wooden ladle, when 
 the contents filled a couple of corn-baskets, and the 
 utensil was discovered lying among some rubbish in 
 one comer. But we must not give too much faith to
 
 THK GOLDEN AGE OF NEW YORK. 15'/ 
 
 al? these stories, the anecdotes of those remote 
 periods being very subject to exaggerarion. 
 
 Besides these notable pockets, they likewise wore? 
 scissors and pincushions suspended from their gir 
 dies by red ribbons, or, among the more opulent and 
 show}' classes, by brass, and even silver chains, — 
 indubitable tokens of thrifty housewives and indus 
 trious spinsters. I cannot say much in vindicatiop 
 of the shortness of the petticoats : it doubtless wa< 
 introduced for the purpose of giving the stockings a 
 chance to be seen, which were generally of blue 
 fvorsted, with magnificent red clocks, — or, perhaps, 
 to display a well-turned ankle, and a neat though 
 servir^able foot, set off by a high-heeled leathern 
 shoe, with a large and splendid silver buckle. Thus 
 we find that the gentle sex in all ages have shown 
 the same disposition to infringe a little upon the 
 laws of decorum in order to betray a lurking beaut) 
 or gratify an innocent love of finery. 
 
 From the sketch here given, it will be seen that 
 our good grandmothers differed considerably in their 
 ideas of a fine figure from their scantily-dressed 
 descendants of the present day. A fine lady, in 
 those times, waddled undei more clothes, even on a 
 fair summer's day, than would have clad the wboV
 
 L S 8 TREASURE^ TRO VE, 
 
 bevy of a modern ball-room. Nor were thev the 
 less admired by the gentlemen in conseque\2ce 
 thereof. On the contrar}% the greatness of a lover's 
 passion seemed to increase in proportion to the 
 magnitude of its object ; and a voluminous damsel, 
 arrayed in a dozen of petticoats, was declared by a 
 Low Dutch sonneteer of the province to be radiant as 
 a sunflower, and luxuriant as a full-blown cabbage. 
 Certain it is, that, in those days, the heart of a lover 
 could not contain more than one lady at a time : 
 whereas the heart of a modem gallant has often 
 room enough to accommodate half a dozen. The 
 reason of which, I conclude to be, that either the 
 hearts of the gentlemen have grown larger, or the 
 persons of the ladies smaller: this, however, is a 
 question for physiologists to determine. 
 
 But there was a secret charm in these petticoats, 
 which, no doubt, entered into the consideration of 
 the prudent gallants. The wardrobe of a lady was, 
 in those days, her only fortune ; and she who had a 
 good stock of petticoats and stockings was as abso- 
 lutely an heiress as is a Kamtschatka damsel vfith a 
 store of bear-skins, or a Lapland belle with a plenty 
 of reindeer. The ladies, therefore, were very anx- 
 ous t*^ disr'"*" *"^.ose Love-^"' a-r-a.'rirns to the
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE OE JVEh YORK. 159 
 
 fCreatest advantage ; and die best rooms in the hou«5e, 
 nstead of being adorned with caricatures of Dame 
 xVature in water colors and needlework, were always 
 nung round with abundance of homespun garments, 
 the manufacture and the property of the females, — 
 a piece of laudable ostentation that still prevails 
 among the heiresses of our Dutch villages. 
 
 The gentlemen, in fact, who figured in the circles 
 of the gay world in these ancient times, corres- 
 ponded, in most particulars, with the beauteous 
 damsels whose smiles they were ambitious to deserve. 
 True it i^ their merits would make but a very incon- 
 siderable impression upon the heart of a moden, 
 fair. They neither drove their curricles, nor sported 
 their tandems ; for as yet those gaudy vehicles were 
 not even dreamt of. Neither did they distinguish 
 themselves by their brilliancy at the table, and 
 their consequent rencounters with watchmen ; for our 
 forefathers were of too pacific a disposition to neen 
 those guardians of the night, every soul throughout 
 .ne town being sound asleep before nine o'clock. 
 Neither did they establish their claims to gentilit\' at 
 the expense of their tailors ; for as yet those otTenders 
 against the pockets of societ)', and the tranquillity 01 
 aU aspiring young gentlemen, were unknown in Nrv^
 
 T 60 TREA S URE- TR O VE. 
 
 Amsterdam. Every good housewife made the clothej^ 
 of her husband and family ; and even the £^0€df. 
 Vrouw of Van Twiller himself thought it no dispar- 
 agement to cut out her husband's Unsey-woolse» 
 galligaskins. 
 
 Not but what there were some two or three young 
 sters who manifested the first dawning of what is 
 called tire and spirit ; who held all labor in contempt, 
 skulked about docks and market-places, loitered in 
 the sunshine, squandered what little money they 
 could procure at hustle-cap and chuck-farthing, swore, 
 boxed, fought cocks, and raced their neighbors' 
 horses ; in short, who promised to be the wonder, 
 talk, and abomination of the town, had not their st\-l- 
 ish career been unfortunately cut short by an affair 
 of honor with a whipping-post 
 
 Far other, however, was the truly fashionable gen- 
 tleman of those days. His dress, which sen'ed for 
 both morning and evening, street and drawing-room, 
 was a linsey-woolsey coat, made, perhaps, by the fair 
 hands of the mistress of his affections, and gallantly 
 bedeckfd Nvith abundance of large brass buttois. 
 Half a score of breeches heightened the proportions 
 3t his figure ; his shoes were decorated by enormous 
 copper buckles ; a low-crowned, broad-rimmeti hat.
 
 yV/A tjOLVi:^^ AGf OF AEtV YOKK. rr i 
 
 >vershadowed his burlv visage ; and his hair dan 
 gled down his back in a prodigious cue of eel-skin. 
 
 Thus equipped, he would manfully set forth, with 
 pipe in mouth, to besiege some fair damsel's obdu- 
 rate heart, — not such a pipe, good reader, as that 
 which Acis did sweetly tune in praise of his Galatea, 
 but one of true Delft manufacture, and furnished 
 -^ith a charge of fragrant tobacco. With this would 
 he resolutely set himself down before the fortress, 
 ano rarely failed, in the process of time, to smokj* 
 the tair enemy into a surrender upon honorablr 
 terras. 
 
 Such was the happy reign of Wouter Van Twille:, 
 celehrated in many a long-forgotten song as the real 
 golden age ; the rest being nothing but counterteit, 
 copper-washed coin. In that delightful period, a 
 sweet and holy calm reigned over the whole province. 
 The burgomaster smoked his pipe in peace : iJie 
 substantial solace of his domestic cares, after her 
 daily toils were done, sat soberly at the door, with 
 her arms crossed over her apron of snowy white, 
 without being insulted with ribald street-walkers c 
 vagabond boys, — those unlucky urchins who do so 
 infest our streets, displaying under the roses of 
 voutTi the thorns and briers of iniquity. Then it
 
 J 62 TREA S URE- TRO VE. 
 
 w'^s that the lover with ten breeches, and the damsei 
 with petticoats of half a score, indulged in all the 
 innocent endearments of virtuous love, without fear, 
 and without reproach ; for what had that virtue to 
 fear, which was defended by a shield of good linsey- 
 woolseys, equal at least to the seven bull-hides of the 
 invincible Ajax ? 
 
 Ah, blissful and never-to-be-forgotten age 1 when 
 every thing was better than it has ever been since, 
 or ever will be again, when Buttermilk Channel 
 was quite dry at low water, when the shad in the 
 Hudson were all salmon, and when the moon shone 
 with a pure and resplendent whiteness, instead of 
 ihat melancholy yellow light which is the conse- 
 quence of her sickening at the abominations she 
 every night witnesses in this degenerate city.
 
 
 THE INSANITY OF CAIN. 
 
 BY MARY MAPES DODGE. 
 
 HATEVER is startling in the fact of 
 questioning Cain's sanity, only goes to 
 prove the simple justice of the doubt. 
 For more than five thousand years hu- 
 mankind has been content to look upon the First 
 Born as a murderer. Each new generation, con- 
 victing him, as it were, without hearing of judge 
 or jury, has felt far more concern that the convic- 
 tion should be understood as a so-called religious 
 fact, than that their remote and defenceless fellow- 
 creature should have the benefit of human justice. 
 One-tenth of the zeal and candor with which our 
 own Froude has endeavored to make a saint of 
 England's chronic widower might have sufficed to 
 lift a world's weight of obloquy from the shoul- 
 ders of Cain; but, until to-day, no philosopher ha= 
 chosen tn a--^"'"^'^ ♦b<' d'<>''^--'^ -ind delicate tmt^
 
 164 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 No jurisprudent has dared to investigate a charge 
 that has been a sort of moral stronghold for ages. 
 So grand a thing is it to be able to point away, far 
 back, deeper and deeper into antiquity, to the very 
 first families, and say, Behold the fountain-head of 
 our murder record! 
 
 Doo^srerel has much to answer for. It has driven 
 many a monstrous wrong into the heart of its cen- 
 tury. It has done its worst with Cain, but not the 
 
 worst. 
 
 C is for Cain, 
 
 Who his brother had slain. 
 
 though winning in cadence, lacks spirit as a charge. 
 It is too non-committal. The feeble soul that con- 
 trived it was fit only for jury-duty. It wants the 
 snap of preconceived opinion. But Caix, the 
 First ^Murderer, is grand, unique, statistical. 
 Hence its vitality and power. Generation after 
 generation, taught to loathe his very name, has 
 accepted the statement on general principles. 
 There had to be a first murderer, and why not 
 Cain? Again; why not Abel for the murderee? 
 There was no miasma in that sweet, fresh time; 
 no scope for contagious diseases; there were no 
 pastry-shops, no distilleries, no patent-medicines, no
 
 THE INSAIVITY OF CAIN. 165 
 
 blisters, no lancets, and no doctors : consequently, 
 tnere was no way for a man to die, unless sombody 
 killed him. Cain did this thing for Abel. That we 
 do not dispute ; nor that he did it gratis and unso- 
 licited : but was he a murderer ? Setting aside the 
 possibility that Abel's time had not come, are we to 
 judge Cain by the face of his deed ? May there not 
 have peen palliating conditions, temperamental 
 causes ? In a word, was he sane ? 
 
 For centuries, ages, the jvorld has overlooked the 
 tremendous considerations involved in this question, 
 placidly branding an unfortunate man with deepest 
 ignominy, and taking it for granted that his deed 
 was deliberate, the act of a self-poised, calculating, 
 and guilty mind. Let us see. 
 
 In the first place, Cain, for a time, was the only 
 child on earth. That in itself was enough to dis- 
 turb the strongest juvenile organism, — all the pet- 
 ting, nursing, trotting, coddling, and watching of the 
 whole civilized world falling upon one pair of baby 
 shoulders. Naturally the little fellow soon con- 
 sidered himself a person of consequence, all- 
 absorbing consequence, in fact. Then came Abel, 
 disturbing and upsetting his dearest convictions, — 
 another self, a new somebody, a kicking countei
 
 - 6f- TREA S URE- TR O VE. 
 
 tfcit. held fondly in his mother's arms, riding l.o 
 Banbury Cross on his father's foot I 
 
 A brother ? What did it mean ? There were no 
 books to tell him ; and, if there had been, the poor 
 child never knew a letter. There were no philoso- 
 phers or metaphysicians in those days to explain the 
 phenomenon. The earliest Beecher was not bom. 
 Darwin was still a lingering atom in some undreamed 
 of, unorganized pseudo-protoplasm of a monkey. 
 The child had no friends, not even a school-fellow. 
 Adam's time was taken up with what modem conun- 
 drumists have called his express company ; Eve had 
 the baby to mind ; and Cain was left alone to brood 
 over the unfathomable. Think of the influence thus 
 brought to bear upon the delicate, sensitive brain of 
 that ver\' select child. A mature intellect would 
 have given way under a far less strain. 
 
 But Cain sur\^ived it. He became reconciled, we 
 will say, to the little Abel. They played and shouted 
 together as children do in our day, racing the fields 
 at will, growing to be strong, brave little animals, 
 fierce, impulsive, and aggressive, especially Cain. 
 But how did they fare aesthetically .? no academies 
 no Sunday schools, no g}Tnnasiums, nothing to direct 
 and balance their young minds 1
 
 ///A /N^ANrj V {}h LAIN. ;(>; 
 
 Their parents weie plain people, caring little loi 
 *^ociety, we imagine, and any thing but dressy in 
 their tastes. There were no tectures in those days, 
 remember, no concerts, no Young Men's Christian 
 Associations, to make life one long festivity : every 
 hing was at a dead level. Probably the only excite- 
 'uents Adam and Eve had were thrashing the 
 children, and making them "behave." Whatever 
 sensation Adam may have made among the beasts 
 of the field, the only public movement possible to 
 his active-minded wife was to notify all mankind 
 (i.e., little Cain and Abel) to look out, for Adam was 
 coming Naturally Abel, being the baby, the last, 
 and tlierefore the best and dearest, was spared 
 these thrashmgs and public excitements, to a great 
 extent; and so the burden of social responsibility fell 
 upon poor little Cain. Who shall blame him, or 
 wcmder at the act, if, now and then, he indulged in 
 a sly kick at Abel .'' — Abel, the goody boy of the 
 family, the " rest of the world," who would not on 
 any account be as naughty and noisy as brother Caiii. 
 
 Yet who of us can say that any such kick was 
 administered ? At that early stage of his existence, 
 the controlling mind of Cain had not yet given way. 
 
 It is no light matter to he the first man in a worlo
 
 like •^his . and Cain certainly was pt -panng tc hoi 1 
 that position. Adam, his father, was created for a 
 purpose. Like Minen^a, he sprang into life full 
 grown : therefore, though we may safely consider 
 him as the first human creature, he certainly was not 
 the first man ; for how can one be a man who never 
 v\'as a child ? 
 
 Here we have another argument in favor of Cain. 
 i:,esides having no bad boys to pattern after, he was 
 under the constant direction of his parents, who cer- 
 tainly, if only from an instinct of self-presentation, 
 would have trained him never to be passionate or 
 cruel, vfb.'^n in his right mind. To be sure, they 
 labced under a peculiar disadvantage. Herben 
 Spencer himself, coming m-.o iic world booted and 
 spurred, with no childhood to look back upon, might 
 have been at a loss how to manage the first boy. 
 We must never forget that there was a time when 
 mstinct and reflex action had the »tart of the doctrine 
 of precedent and law of consequences ; when the 
 original *' 1 told you so ! " had yet to be uttered. 
 Even the warning example of Cain was denied to 
 the moral advancing of this first boy. 
 
 Still the sit^iation had its advantages. There were 
 Qo fond uncles jz^d aunts, no doting grandparents.
 
 to spoil the child, and confound the be^i endeavors 
 of Adam and Eve. Fortunately for the boy, Poor 
 Richard's Almanac was yet unwritter* ; George 
 Washington's little hatchet was never brandished 
 before his infant mind ; and Casabianca had not yet 
 struck his attitude on the burning deck. So young 
 Cain was spared a host of discouraging influences. 
 In short, there is every reason to believe, that, in 
 spite of depressing conditions and surroundings, he 
 grew up to be at least a better man than his father, 
 who never had any bringing up at all. That he did 
 not kill Abel in his boyhood is proof enough of 
 this. There was discipline somewhere. 
 
 And, in the name of developed science and Chris- 
 tian charity, why not, in considering subsequent 
 events, make due allowance for whatever phrenologi- 
 cal excesses the cranium of young Cain may have 
 possessed? An intelligent father of to-day, figura- 
 tively speaking, can take his child's head by the 
 forelock. He can detect what is within it, and 
 counteract proclivities. If an ominous bump rise 
 near his baby's ear, he is ready to check combative- 
 ness with, " Mary had a little lamb," "Children, you 
 should never let," and other tender ditties. In a 
 word, he may take observations from rM«» litilr
 
 lyo TREASURE'TROVE^ 
 
 mounts of character on his child's head, and so, if h* 
 be wise, direct the young life into safe and pleasai t 
 places. But Adam knew nothing of phrenology. 
 Nor have we great reason to believe, that, if he haa 
 known of it, he would have discreetly followed its 
 ir.dications. ChiMren are not always cherubs. We 
 ail know how the dearest of our little ones some- 
 times become so " aggravating " as to upset our 
 highest philosophies. Was Adam more than human ? 
 Say, rather, he was the fountain-head and source of 
 human passion. 
 
 Again : both children were the victims of an abid- 
 ing privation. They had the natural propensities of 
 childhood. They had teeth, stomach, appetite, all 
 the conditions, we will say, of cholera infantum, 
 except the one thing for which they secretly yearned, 
 — green apples. These, of course, were not to be 
 nad in that house. They were not even allowed to 
 be mentioned in the family. Not once in all their 
 lonely childhood were those children comforted wii^ 
 apples. Think of the possibilities of inherited appe- 
 tite, and then conceive of the effect of these years 
 of unnatural privation 1 
 
 Again : who shall question that at times the deep- 
 est and most mysterious gloom per\'aded that house-
 
 hold ? Even if Adam and Eve did not confide ir, 
 their children, their oldest boy nnust have suspected 
 that something was wrong. What was it ? — the 
 terrible something to be read, and yet not read, in 
 the averted faces of that doomed pair ? They evi- 
 dently had seen better days. Where? WTiy .^ How? 
 What had become of some vague inheritance that 
 (Jain felt was his by nght.? Morning, noon, and 
 night, misty and terrible suspicions haunted his 
 young mind. Night and K-^on and morning, the 
 mystery revolved and revolved within him. Was 
 this conducive to sanity ? 
 
 Conceive of the effect of the animals seen in the 
 children's daily walks I There were no well-ordered 
 menagerie specimens then, with Barnum or Van 
 Amburgh in the background as a foil against terror. 
 Savage beasts glared and growled and roared al 
 every turn. Whatever geologists may say to the con- 
 trary, we must insist that the antediluvian animals 
 did not necessarily antedate Adam. Taking the 
 mildest 'possible view of the case, the plesiosaurus, 
 pterodactyl, mastodon, and megatherium, in theii 
 native state, could not have been soothing obiects 
 of contemplation to the infant mind. 
 
 Well, the boys grew up. But how bleak their
 
 172 
 
 TREASURE-TRO VE. 
 
 young manhood ! No patent-leather boots, no swal- 
 low-tails, no standing-collars, no billiards, no girls to 
 woo, no fellows to flout I Nothing to do when the 
 farm-work was over, and the sheep in for the night, 
 but to look into each other's untrimmed faces, with a 
 mute " Confounded dull 1 " more terrible than rav- 
 ing. 
 
 Fathers of to-day, would your own children pass 
 unscathed through such an existence as this ? Your 
 little Abels might stand it ; but how about your little 
 Cains ? Would they not " put a head " on some- 
 body? Would they not become, if not stark, staring 
 mad, at least non compos myitis / Gentlemen of the 
 jury, these considerations are not to be lighly passed 
 by. 
 
 In judging of Cain, look at the situation. On 
 the one hand, a terrible family mystery, no schools, 
 no churches, no lectures, no society, no amusements, 
 no apples ! On the other hand, the whole burden 
 of humanity borne for the first time, paternal disci- 
 pline, undue phrenological developments, monotonous 
 emplo>Tnent, antedilu\4an monsters, antediluvian 
 parents, and an antediluvian good brother, in whose 
 mouth butter would have remained intact for ages ' 
 
 Undoubtedly that brother had an e.xasperating
 
 THE INSANITY OF CAIN 173 
 
 ssnile. He was happy, because he was virtuous. 
 I{e had a way of forgiving and forgetting that for a 
 t-n>e would deprive the offender of reason itself , 
 above all, he had a cool, collected manner of his 
 own, added to a chronic desire to be an angel. His 
 offerings always fulfilled the conditions. His fires 
 needed only to be lighted, and the smoke was sure 
 to ascend with a satisfied, confident curl far into the 
 sky. 
 
 Cain's, on the contrary, refused to bum. We can 
 see it all. The smoke struggled and flopped. It 
 crept along the ground, and, clinging to his feet, 
 wound about him like a serpent It grew black and 
 angr\\ shot sideways into his eyes, blinding and 
 strangling him. 
 
 And there stood Abel beside his pile, radiant, sat- 
 i-^fied, wanting to be an angel ! 
 
 It was but the work of a moment. The pent-up, 
 disorganizing influences of a lifetime found vent in 
 one wild moment of emotional insanity. Abel was 
 no more ! 
 
 Why dwell upon the sickening tragedy ? The 
 world is familiar with its sickening details. We 
 shall not repeat them here ; nor shall we question tiie 
 justice of the punishment that came to Cain, — tlie
 
 r74 TREASURE^TROVR, 
 
 remorse, the desolation, the sense of being a fugitive 
 and a vagabond on the face of the earth. He had 
 killed his brother, and the penalty must be paid. 
 Sane or insane, a terrible retribution must have 
 overtaken him. But how about his guilt ? Would it 
 have been the same in either case ? Are hereditary 
 organism, temperamental excitability, emotional 
 frenzy, not to be considered ? No, a thousand 
 times, NO ! What " competent juror " would acqui- 
 esce in such a proposition ? 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper 1 " cried the poor 
 wretch when called upon to name the whereabouts 
 of the missing Abel. Who can doubt here that 
 Cain, like any lunatic of our own time, believed him- 
 self alone to be sane, and those about him stark 
 mad? His use of the word "keeper" proves this. 
 True, there were no lunatic asylums in that day ; but 
 if the first, original representative " inmate " was at 
 large, where should or could the first, representative 
 keeper be but in that inmate's diseased imagination ? 
 
 Friends, the time has come when this case musf 
 be taken up. Its mighty issues can no longer be set 
 aside. If Cain was not sane at the moment of the 
 killing, the stain of murder must be wiped from his 
 brow now and forever. This tardy justice may at
 
 THE INSANITY OF CAIN. 175 
 
 liiast be dc^e him. Our children and our children's 
 < hildren must be v-iught to speak of Cain the ma;i- 
 ttlaughterer, Cain the mentally-excitable, Cain the 
 peculiarly circumstanced. But Cain the murderer ? 
 Never 1 
 
 A man's own testimony shall not convict nor ac- 
 quit him. But are we not to take into account, as 
 ndicative of his state of mind, actions and declara- 
 tions coincident with the commission of the crime 
 alleged against him ? If, at or about the time of the 
 fatal deed, there was positive evidence of incohij- 
 rence — what then ? Witness the last recorded words 
 of Cain : — 
 
 EVERY ONE THAT FINDETH ME SHALL SLAV Ml, 
 
 Is this the utterance of a sane mind ? Every one 
 that findeth me shall slay me ? Gentlemen, Cain, 
 at this point, was not only crazy — he was the crazi- 
 est man that ever existed. No ordinary lunatic, 
 however preposterous his terrors, expects to be 
 killed more than once. But to this poor madman, 
 retribution suddenly asstrTicd a hydra-headed form. 
 His distracted brain, unconscious that Adam was 
 the only other man in the wide world, instantly 
 c'/eated an immense population. He saw himself 
 falling again and again by the strokes of successive
 
 70 
 
 TREA S URE- TRO VE. 
 
 issassins, even as Abel had fallen under his hand 
 His first dazed glimpse of death expanded and in- 
 tensified into a horror never since conceived by 
 mind of man. His happiness overthrown, his rea- 
 son a wreck, a prey to fears that stretched before 
 him forever, with no possible hope of final destruc- 
 tion, — the only consolation is, that he could not 
 foreknow the merciless verdict of posterit}\ He did 
 not recognize in himself the first murderer. Rather 
 than dream of such ignominy as this, was it not bet- 
 ter that he should cry in his ravings, " Every one 
 that findeth me shall slay me ! " 
 
 We leave the question to the intelligence and the 
 justice of this faithful and enlightened century.
 
 AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTER- 
 VIEWER. 
 
 BY yARK TWAIN. 
 
 HE nervous, dapper, "peart' young man 
 took the chair I offered him, and said he 
 was connected with "The Daily Thunder 
 storm," and added, — 
 
 " Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview 
 you." 
 
 " Come to what?" 
 " Intervirw you." 
 
 "Ah! I see. Yes — yes. Um ! Yes — yes." 
 I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, 
 my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, 
 I went to the bookcase, and, when I had been lock- 
 ing six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged lo 
 refer to the young man. I said, — 
 " How do you spell it } " 
 
 •a ir»
 
 1 78 TREASURE'TROVR, 
 
 '" Spell what ? " 
 
 ' Interview." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! What do you want to spell 
 rt for ? " 
 
 " T don't want to spell it : I want to see what it 
 means." 
 
 " Well, this is astonishing, I must say. /caa tell 
 vou what it means, if you — if you " — 
 
 " Oh, all right ! That will answer, and much 
 obliged to you too." 
 
 "In, in, t e r, ter, inter " — 
 
 " Then you spell it with an If " 
 
 " Why, certainly ! " 
 
 " Oh, that is what took me so long 1 " 
 
 " Why, my ^ar sir, what did you propose to spell 
 It with .? " 
 
 " Well, I ~ I — I hardly know. I had the Un- 
 abridged ; and I was ciphering around in the back 
 end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. 
 But it's a very old edition." 
 
 " Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of 
 
 It in even the latest e . My dear sir, I beg your 
 
 pa. don, I mean no harm in the world; but you do 
 not look as — as — intelligent as I had expected you 
 wc)u]d. No harm, — I mean no harm at all."
 
 ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER. i7<j 
 
 " Oh, don't mention it 1 It has often been said, 
 and by people who would not flatter, and who could 
 have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite re- 
 markable in that way. Yes — yes: they always 
 speak of it with rapture." 
 
 " I can easily imagine it But about this inter- 
 view. You know it is the custom, now, to interview 
 any man who has become notorious." 
 
 " Indeed ! I had not heard of it before. It must 
 be very interesting. What do you do it with ? " 
 
 "Ah, well — well — well — this is disheartening. 
 It ought to be done with a club, in some cases ; but 
 customarily it consists in the interviewer asking 
 questions, and the interviewed answering them. It 
 is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain 
 questions calculated to bring out the salient points 
 of your public and private history ? " 
 
 "Oh, with pleasure, — with pleasure. I have a 
 ver}' bad memory j but I hope you will not mind 
 that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, 
 singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, 
 and then again it will be much as a fortnight passing 
 a given point. This is a great grief to me." 
 
 " Oh 1 it is no matter, so you will trv to do the 
 best you can."
 
 1 6 o / A' A A S L'K£'-1 i<OVE. 
 
 " I will. I will put my whole mind on It.** 
 " Thanks ! Are you ready to begin ? " 
 "Ready." 
 
 Question. How old are you ? 
 
 Answer, Nineteen in June. 
 
 Q. Indeed ! I would have taken you to be 
 thirty-five or six. Where were you bom ? 
 
 A. In Missouri. 
 
 Q. When did you begin to write ? 
 
 A. In 1836. 
 
 Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nine- 
 teen now? 
 
 A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. 
 
 Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the 
 most remarkable man you ever met ? 
 
 A. 'Aaron Burr. 
 
 Q But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if 
 you are only nineteen years — 
 
 A. Now, if you know more about me than I do^ 
 what do you ask me for ? 
 
 Q. Well it was only a suggestion ; nothing mc e. 
 How did you happen to meet Burr ? 
 
 A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one 
 day ; and he asked me to make less noise, and —
 
 ENCOUNTER VVITfi AN INTERVIEWER. i8i 
 
 Q. But, good heavens 1 If you were at his 
 funeral, he must have been dead ; and, if he was 
 dead, how could he care whether you made a noise 
 or not ? 
 
 A. I don't know. He was always a particular 
 kind of a man that way. 
 
 (2- Still, I don't understand it at all. You say 
 tie spoke to you, and that he was dead. 
 
 A. I didn't say he was dead, 
 
 Q. But wasn't he dead ? 
 
 A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't 
 
 Q. What did you think .? 
 
 A. Oh, it was none of my business 1 It wasn't 
 any of my funeral. 
 
 Q. Did you — However, we can never get this 
 iTiatter straight. Let me ask about something else. 
 What was the date of your birth t 
 
 A. Monday, Oct. 31, 1693. 
 
 Q. What ! Impossible ! That would make you 
 a hundred and eighty years old. How do you 
 account for that ? 
 
 A. I don't account for it at all. 
 
 Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, 
 and now you make yourself out lO be one hundred 
 and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.
 
 1 8? Th' h A .S ( A' A- / h-U VK. 
 
 A. Why, have you noticed that ? {Shakih^ 
 hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a 
 discrepancy ; but somehow I couldn't make up my 
 mind. How quick you notice a thing 1 
 
 Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it 
 goes. Had you, ot have you, any brothers or 
 sisters ? 
 
 A. Eh ! I — I — I think so, — yes — but I don't 
 remember. 
 
 Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary state 
 ment I ever heard. 
 
 A. Why, what makes you think that ? 
 
 Q, How could I think otherwise? Why, look 
 here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't 
 that a brother of yours ? 
 
 A. Oh, yes, yes, yes I Now you remind me of 
 it, that was a brother of mine. That's William, 
 ^/// we called him. Poor old Bill I 
 
 Q. Why, is he dead, then ? 
 
 A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. 
 There was a great mystery about it. 
 
 (2- That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, 
 then? 
 
 A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. Ws 
 buried him.
 
 ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER. 183 
 
 Q. Buried him ! Buried him without knowing 
 whether he was dead or not ? 
 
 A. Oh, no ! Not that. He was dead enough. 
 
 Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. 
 It you buried him, and you knew he was dead — 
 
 A. No, no 1 We only thought he was. 
 
 Q. Oh, I see 1 He came to life ag?in ? 
 
 A. I bet he didn't 1 
 
 Q. Well, 1 never heard any thing like this. 
 Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, 
 where was the mystery ? 
 
 A. Ah, that's just it 1 That's it exactly I You 
 see, we were twins, — defunct and I ; and we got 
 mixed in the bath-tub when we were only two weeks 
 old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't 
 know which. Some think it was Bill ; some think it 
 was me. 
 
 Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think ? 
 
 A. Goodness knows I I would give whole 
 worlds to know. This solemn, tliLS awful mystery 
 has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will leli 
 you a secret now, which I never have revealed to 
 any creature before. One of us had a peculiar 
 mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand ; 
 Lliat was me. That child was the one that was 
 drowned.
 
 Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any 
 mystery about it, after all. 
 
 A. You don't? Well, /do. Anyway, I don'- 
 see how they could ever have been such a blunder- 
 ing lot as to go and bury the w^rong child. But, 
 'sh ! don't mention it where the family can hear 
 of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking 
 troubles enough without adding this. 
 
 Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough 
 for the present; and I am very much obliged to 
 you for the pains you have taken. But I was a 
 good deal interested in that account Of Aaron 
 Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling rre 
 what particular circumstance it was that mace 
 you think Burr was such a remarkable man? 
 
 A. Oh, it was a mere trifle ! Not one man in 
 fifty would have noticed it at all. When the 
 sermon was over, and the procession all ready 
 to start for the cemetery, and the body all 
 arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted 
 to take a last look at the scenery ; and so he got 
 up, and rode with the driver. 
 
 Then the young man reverently withdrew. He 
 was very pleasant company; cind I was sorrv to 
 see him cro.
 
 THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 
 
 •sr WnXlAM MAJUQPEACE THACKCKAT, 
 
 IMON GAMBaUG£ was dbe coo of Sok/ 
 
 : v^ Gamboa^; and, as all tbe «orll : 
 
 ' : th father and son wcfe ascoasisb' 
 
 t tbar profession. SolUxnoo 
 
 Jch notio^ boogbt ; at:) 
 
 i paimrid poftraits to 
 
 '^ sif to lum, 
 
 .^ds a ycarbf his 
 
 : a^ <jf tweuljf at 
 
 eltf bj taking 
 
 "•ise noen 
 
 :;e^ S^ 
 
 _.j3ter(tovhiOts 
 
 :.3 qtost ihe mea: 
 
 — iMch was tfci-: 
 
 ' 'A
 
 /86 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 her father said, as ever a man would wish to stick t 
 knife into. She had sat to the painter for all sorts 
 of characters ; and the curious who possess any of 
 Gambouge's pictures will see her as Venus, Minerva, 
 Madonna, and in numberless other characters . Por- 
 *-'ait of a lady — Griskinissa ; Sleeping Nymph — 
 Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, lying in a 
 forest ; Maternal Solicitude — Griskinissa again, with 
 young Master Gambouge, who was by this time the 
 offspring of their affections. 
 
 The lady brought the painter a handsome little 
 lortune of a couple of hundred pounds ; and, as 
 long as this sum lasted, no woman could be moie 
 lovely or loving. But want began speedily to attack 
 their little household ; bakers' bills were unpaid ; 
 rent was due, and the reckless landlord gave no 
 quarter; and, to crown the whole, her father, un- 
 natural butcher I suddenly stopped the supplies of 
 mutton-chops, and swore that the dauber, her hus- 
 band,, sliould have no more of his wares. At first 
 they embraced tenderly, and kissing, and crying 
 over their little infant, vowed to Heaven that they 
 would do without ; but in the course of the evening 
 (iriskinissa grew peckish, and poor Simon pawned 
 his best coaL
 
 THE PAINTER'S PA KG A IX. - 187 
 
 When this habit of pawning is discovered, it ap- 
 pears to the poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambougt 
 and his wife were so delighted, that they, in tht 
 course of a month, made away with her gold chain 
 her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush inex 
 pressibles, two wigs, a wash-hand basin and ewer 
 fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs 
 Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a 
 second father in her unch, — a base pun, which 
 showed that her mind was corrupted, and that she 
 was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa of other 
 days. 
 
 1 am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking : 
 she swallowed the warming-pan in the course of 
 three days, and fuddled herself one whole evening 
 with the crimson plush breeches. 
 
 Drinking is the devil, — the father, that is to say, 
 of all vices. Griskinissa's face and her mind grew 
 ugly together : her good humor changed to bilious, 
 bitter discontent ; her pretty, fond epithets, to foul 
 abuse and swearing ; her tender blue eyes grew 
 watery and blear; and the peach-color on her cheeks 
 fled from its old habitation, and crowded up into her 
 nose, where, with a number of pimples, it stuck fast. 
 Add to this a dirt}', draggle-tailed chintz ; long,
 
 1 88 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 matted hair, wandering into her eyes, and over he^ 
 lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, — and you 
 have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon 
 Garabouge. 
 
 Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow 
 enough in the days of his better fortune, was com- 
 pletely cast down by his present ill luck, and cowed 
 by the ferocity of his wife. From morning till night, 
 the neighbors could hear this woman's tongue, and 
 understand her doings : bellows went skimming 
 across the room ; chairs were flumped down on the 
 floor ; and poor Gambouge's oil and varnish pots 
 went clattering through the windows, or down the 
 stairs. The baby roared all day ; and Simon sat 
 pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at ♦.he 
 brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the 
 way. 
 
 One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, 
 furbishing up a picture of his wife in the character 
 of Peace, which he had commenced a year before, 
 he was more than ordinarily desperate, and cursed 
 and swore in the most pathetic manner. " Oh, mis- 
 erable fate of genius ! " cried he. " Was I, a man 
 of such commanding talents, born for this.? — to be 
 bullied by a fiend of a wife ; to have my master
 
 rHfi. /'A/X /hh-S HAk'i.Al.V. 189 
 
 •pieces neglected by ihe world, or sold only for a few 
 jiieces? Cursed be the love which has misled me! 
 rursed be the art which is unworthy of me 1 Let me 
 dig or steal ; let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell 
 myself to the Devil, — I should not be more wretched 
 than I am now." 
 
 " Quite the contrary," cried a small, cheery 
 voice. 
 
 " What 1 " exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and 
 surprised. " Who's there ? — where are you ? — who 
 are you ? " 
 
 ** You were just speaking of me," said the voice. 
 
 Gambouge held in his left hand his palette, in 
 his right a bladder of crimson lake, which he was 
 about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. " Where 
 are you 1 " cried he again. 
 
 " S-q-u-e-e-z-e I " exclaimed the little voice. 
 
 Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, 
 and gave a squeeze ; when, as sure as I am living, * 
 little imp spurted out from the hole upon the palette, 
 and began laughing in the most singular and oil" 
 manner. 
 
 When first bom, he was little bigger than a tad 
 pole ; then he grew to be as big as a mouse ; the? 
 he arrived at the size of a cat ; and then he jumpe«
 
 190 TREASURE-TROVE, 
 
 off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked 
 the poor painter what he wanted with him. 
 
 The strange little animal twisted head over heels, 
 and fixed himself at last upon the top of Gambouge's 
 easel, smearing out, with his heels, all the white 
 and vermilion which had just been laid on to the 
 allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge. 
 
 " What 1 " exclaimed Simon, " is it the " — 
 
 " Exactly so. Talk of me, you know, and I am 
 always at hand ; besides, I am not half so black as- 
 I am painted, as you will see when you know me a 
 little better." 
 
 " Upon my word," said the painter, '* it is a very 
 singular surprise which you have given me. To tell 
 truth, I did not even believe in your existence." 
 
 The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with 
 one of Mr. Macready's best looks, said, — 
 
 " There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio, 
 Than are dreamed of in your philosophy." 
 
 Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not under- 
 stand the quotation, but felt somehow strangely and 
 singularly interested in the conversation of his nev 
 friend.
 
 THK PAINTItR'S BARGAIN. 191 
 
 Diabolus continued, " You are a man of merit, 
 a nd want money ; you will starve on your merit ; 
 you can only get money from me. Come, my friend, 
 how much is it ? I ask the easiest interest in the 
 ur)rld : old Mordecai, the usurer, has maxle you pay 
 luice as heavily before now, — nothing but the signa- 
 ture of a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the 
 trnffisfer of an article which in itself is a supposition, 
 — a vauleless, windy, uncertain property of yours, 
 called by some poet of your own, I think, an ani- 
 rnu/d, 7'ai^ulii, blandula. Bah 1 there is no use beat- 
 ing about the bush : I mean a soul. Come, let me 
 have it : you know you will sell it some other way, 
 and not get such good pay for your bargain." And, 
 having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from 
 his fob a sheet as big as a double "Times," only 
 there was a diHerent stamp in the corner. 
 
 it is useless and tedious to describe law docu- 
 ments. Lawyers only love to read them ; ai d they 
 have as good in Chitty as any that are to be found in 
 the Devil's own, so nobly have the apprentices emu- 
 lated the skill of the master. Suffice it to say, that 
 poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it 
 He was to have all he wished for seven years, and 
 at the end of that time was to become the property
 
 1 91 rk EA S URE- TRO VE. 
 
 of the ; grobibcb that, during the course of the 
 
 seven years, ever}- single wish which he might form 
 should be gratified by the other of the contracting 
 parties : otherwise the deed became null and non- 
 avenue, and Gambouge should be left " to go to the 
 his own way." 
 
 " You will never see me again," said Diabolus, in 
 shaking hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he 
 left such a mark as is to be seen at this day, — 
 '' never, at least, unless you want me ; for every thing 
 you ask will be performed in the most quiet and 
 ever}'-day manner : believe me, it is best and most 
 gentlemanlike, and avoids any thing like scandal. 
 But if you set me about any thing which is extraor- 
 dinar}% and out of the course of nature, as it were 
 come I must, you know ; and of this you are tht 
 best judge." So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; but 
 whether up the chimney, through the keyhole, or any 
 other aperture or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon 
 Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as. Heaven 
 forgive me ! I believe many a worthy man would 
 be, if he were allowed an opporttmity to make a 
 similar bargain. 
 
 '■ Heigho ! " said Simon, "I wonder whether this 
 be a reality or a dreain. 1 ain sober, I know ; for
 
 THE PAINTER'S BARGA/A. 
 
 03 
 
 ho will give me credit for the means to be drunk ? 
 sind, as for sleeping, I'm too hungry for that. I 
 •vish I could see d capon and a bottle of white 
 \^ine." 
 
 " Monsieur Simon! " cried a voice on the land 
 iig-place. 
 
 " Cfst id" quoth Gambouge, hastening to open 
 the door. He did so ; and, lo I there was a rcsiau 
 rateur^s boy at the c!ocr, supporting a tray, a tin- 
 covered dish, and plates on the same ; and by ii> 
 side £ tall, amber-colored flask of Sauterne. 
 
 " I am the new boy, sir," exclaimed this youth od 
 entering; *'but I believe this is the right door, and 
 you asked for these things." 
 
 Simon grinned, and said, *' Certaini^, I did ask for 
 these things." But such was the effect which his 
 interview with the demon had had on his innocent 
 mind, that he took them, although he knew that they 
 were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad 
 after an opera-girl, and lived on the floor beneath. 
 
 " Go, my boy," he said : " it is good. Call in a 
 couple of hours, and remove the plates and glasses." 
 
 The little waiter trotted down stairs ; and Simon 
 sat greedily down to discuss the capon and the white 
 vine. He bolted the legs ; he devoured the wings • 
 '3
 
 194 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast, season 
 ing his repast with pleasant araughts of wine, and 
 caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to 
 follow all. 
 
 " Ye gods ! " said he as he scraped away at the 
 backbone, " what a dinner 1 what wine I and how 
 gayly sensed up too ! " There were silver forks and 
 spoons ; and the remnants of the fowl were upon a 
 silver dish. "Why, the money for this dish and 
 these spoons," cried Simon, "would keep me and 
 Mrs. G. a month ! I wish," — and here Simon 
 whistled, and turned round to see that nobody was 
 peeping, — "I wish the plate were mine." 
 
 Oh the horrid progress of the Devil ! " Here thev 
 are," thought Simon to himself: "why should not I 
 take them 1 " And take them he did. " Detection/' 
 said he, " is not so bad as starvation ; and I wou- i 
 as soon live at the galleys as live with Madame 
 Gambouge." 
 
 So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the 
 flap of his surtout, and ran down stairs as if the 
 Devil were behind him — as, indeed, he was. 
 
 He immediately made for the house of his old 
 friend the pawnbroker, that establishment which is 
 called in France the Mont de Piet^. " I am obligen
 
 THh PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 195 
 
 Xft come to you again, my old friend," said Simon, 
 *• with some family plate, of which I beseech you to 
 tjJce care." 
 
 The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. 
 " I can give you nothing upon them," said he. 
 
 " What," cried Simon, " not even the worth of the 
 silver?" 
 
 " No. I could buy them at that price at tlie Caf^ 
 Morisot, Rue de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you 
 got them a little cheaper." And, so saying, he 
 showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the 
 name of that coffee-house was inscribed upon every 
 one of the articles which he had wished to pawn. 
 
 The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed } 
 Oh ! how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, 
 how bitter is remorse for crime — luhen crime is 
 found out! — otherwise, conscience takes matters 
 much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and 
 swore henceforth to be virtuous. 
 
 " But hark ye, my friend," continued the honest 
 broker, " there is no reason why, because I cannot 
 lend upon these things, I should not buy them : they 
 will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you 
 have half the money ? — speak, or I peach." 
 
 Simon's resolves about virtue were soon dissipated
 
 196 TRhASUKE-TROVE. 
 
 instantaneously. " Give me half," he said, " and let 
 me go. What scoundrels are these pawnbrokers i '* 
 ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, 
 ' seeking every pretext to rob the poor man out of 
 his hard-won gain." 
 
 When he had marched forwards for a street or 
 two, Gambouge counted the money which he had 
 received, and found that he was in possession of no 
 less than a hundred francs. It was night, as he 
 reckoned out his equivocal gains ; and he counted 
 them at the light of a lamp. He looked up at the 
 lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pur- 
 sue : upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152, 
 " A gambling-house," thought Gambouge. " I wish 
 I had half the money that is now on the table up 
 stairs." 
 
 He mounted, as many a rogue has done before 
 him, and found half a hundred persons busy at the 
 table of rouge et noir. Gambouge's five napoleons 
 looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which 
 were around him ; but the effects of the wine, the 
 thief, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were 
 upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutlv 
 upon the o o. 
 
 It is a dangerous spot that o o, or double zero ;
 
 THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 1 97 
 
 but to Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of 
 the world. The ball went spinning round, — in " its 
 predestined circle rolled," as Shelley has it, after 
 Goethe, — and plumped down at last in the double 
 zero. One hundred and thirty-five gold napoleons 
 (louis they were then) were counted out to the de- 
 lighted painter. "O Diabolus! " cried he, " now 
 ic is that I begin to believe in thee! Don't talk 
 about merit," he cried; "talk about fortune. Tel.! 
 me not about heroes for the future: tell me of 
 z crocs P And down went twenty napoleons more 
 upon the o. 
 
 The Devil was certainly in the ball: round it 
 twirled, and dropped into zero as naturally as a 
 duck pops its head into a pond. Our friend received 
 five hundred pounds for his stake; and the crouj^iers 
 and lookers-on began to stare at him. 
 
 There were twelve thousand pounds on the table. 
 SufHce it to say that Simon won half, and retired 
 from the Palais Royal with a thick bundle of bank- 
 notes crammed into his dircy three-cornered hat. 
 lie had been but half an hour in the place, and he 
 had won the revenues of a prince for half a year. 
 
 Gambouge, as soon as he felt tliat he was a capital- 
 ist, and that he had a stake in the countrv, discov-
 
 198 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 ered that he was an altered man. He repented < 1! 
 his foul deed, and his base purloining of the rit- 
 tauratrar's plate. " Oh, honesty ! " he cried, " how 
 unworthy is an action like this of a man who ha*' 
 a propert}' like mine ! " So he went back to the 
 pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. 
 " My friend," said he, " I have sinned against all 
 that I hold most sacred : I have forgotten my family 
 and my religion. Here is thy money. In the name 
 of Heaven, restore me the pUte which I have 
 wrongfully sold thee." 
 
 But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, "Nay^ 
 Mr. Gambouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand 
 francs to you, or I will never sell it at all." 
 
 " Well," cried Gambouge, "thou art an inexorable 
 ruffian, Troisboules ; but I will give thee all I am 
 worth." And here he produced a billet of five hun- 
 dred francs. " Look," said he, " this money is all I 
 own : it is the payment of two years' lodging. To 
 raise it, I have toiled for many months ; and, failing 
 I have been a criminal. O Heaven ! I stole that 
 plate, that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear 
 wif^ from wandering houseless. But I cannot bear 
 this load of ignominy : I will go to the person to 
 whom I did wrong. I will starve ; I will confes^' ■ 
 but I will, \ will do right ! "
 
 THE PAINTER'S RARGA/N. 199 
 
 The broker was alarmed. " Give me my note ! " 
 he cned : " here is the plate." 
 
 '* Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost 
 broken-hearted. " Sign me a paper, and the money 
 is yours." So Troisboules wrote, according to Gam 
 bouge's dictation, " Received, for thirteeen ounces 
 of plate, t^venty pounds." 
 
 " Monster of iniquity ! " cried the painter, *' fiend 
 of wickedness ! thou art caught in thine own snares. 
 Hast thou not sold me five pounds' worth of plate 
 for twenty ? Have I it not in my pocket ? Art thou 
 not a convicted dealer in stolen goods ? Yield, 
 scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to 
 justice ! " 
 
 The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for 
 a while ; but he gave up his money at last, and the 
 dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus 
 had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. 
 He had taken a victim prisoner ; but he had assuredly 
 caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, 
 to do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner, and 
 restored the plate. 
 
 And now 1 may add (and the reader should ponder 
 upon this as a profound picture of human life), that
 
 200 rh'hAsi'RH- r Rcn h. 
 
 Gambouge, since he had grown rich, grew likewise 
 abundantly moral. He was a most exemplar}* 
 father. He fed the poor, and was loved by them. 
 He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt 
 that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Green- 
 acre, in similar circumstances, would have acted like 
 the worthy Simon Gambouge. 
 
 There was but one blot upon his character, — he 
 hated Mrs. Gambouge worse than ever. As he grew 
 more benevolent, she grew more virulent : when he 
 went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and vice 
 versa : in fact, she led him such a life as Xantippe 
 led Socrates, or as a dog leads a cat in the same 
 kitchen. With all his fortune, — for, as may be 
 supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things, — 
 he was the most miserable dog in the whole city of 
 Paris. Only in the point oi drinking did he and 
 Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many years, and during 
 a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus 
 dissipated partially his domestic chagrin. O 
 philosophy ! we may talk of thee ; but except at 
 the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou liest like 
 truth in a well, where shall we find thee t 
 
 He lived so long, and in his worldly matters pros- 
 pered so much, there was so little sign of devilment
 
 in the accompiishniciu ot hs wishes, and tne in- 
 crease of his prosperity, tliat Sinrion, al the end ot 
 six years, began to doubt whether he had made any 
 such bargain at all as that which we have described 
 at the commencement of this histor}'. He had 
 2:rown, as we said, ver}' pious and moral. He went 
 regularly to mass, and had a confessor into the 
 bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult that 
 reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the 
 whole matter. 
 
 " I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gam- 
 bouge, after he had concluded his histor}', and 
 shown how, in some miraculous way, all his desires 
 were accomplished, " that, after all, this demon wa^ 
 no other than the creation of my own bram, heated 
 by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my 
 crime and my prosperity." 
 
 The confessor agreed with him ; and they walked 
 out of church comfortably together, and entered 
 '.ftei wards a cafe^ where they sat down to refresh 
 hemselves after the fatigues of their devotion. 
 
 .A. respectable old gentleman, with a number ot 
 orders at his button-hole, presently entered the 
 room, and sauntered up to the marble table, before 
 .vhich reposed Simon and his clerical friend. ' blx
 
 202 TREASURE-TROVE. 
 
 cuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place 
 opposite them, and began reading the papers of the 
 day. 
 
 " Bah ! " said he at last : " sont-ils grands ces 
 journaux Anglais ? Look, sir ! " he said, handing 
 over an immense sheet of " The Times " to Mr. 
 GambDuge, " was ever any thing so monstrous ? " 
 
 Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the 
 proffered page. " It is enormous," he said ; " but 
 I do not read English." 
 
 " Nay," said the man with the orders, " look closer 
 at it, Signor Gambouge : it is astonishing how easy 
 the language is." 
 
 Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He 
 turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse 
 the ices and the waiter. " Come, M. I'Abb^," he 
 said : " the heat and glare of this place are intol- 
 erable." 
 
 The stranger r6se with them. " Au plaisir de 
 vous revoir, mon cher monsieur," said he. " I do 
 not mind speaking before the abb^ here, who will 
 be my very good friend one of these days ; but I 
 thought it necessary to refresh your menio<ry con- 
 cerning our little business-transaction six years
 
 r/ZA /'A [XI >i R .s HA K (,A i. V. i "> •> 
 
 Since, and could not exactly talk of it at church, tl* 
 you may fancy." 
 
 Simon Gambojge had seen, in the double-sheeted 
 "Times," the paper signed by himself, which the 
 little Devil had pulled out of his fob. 
 
 There was no doubt on the subject ; and Simon, 
 v\ho had but a year to live, grew more pious and 
 more careful than ever. He had consultations with 
 all the doctors of the Sorbonne, and all the lawyers 
 of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as weari- 
 some to him as his poverty had been before ; and 
 uot one of the doctors whom he consulted could give 
 h'm a pennyworth of consolation. 
 
 Ther he grew outrageous in his demands upon 
 the Devil, and put him to all sorts of absurd anc 
 ridiculous tasks ; but they were all punctually p*^r 
 formed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and 
 the Devil sat all day with his hands in his pocket* 
 doing nothing. 
 
 One day Simon's confessor came bounding into 
 the room with the greatest glee. "My friend," says 
 he, "1 have it! Eureka I — I have found it. Send 
 the pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a ne^A 
 Jesuit college at Rome, give a hundred gold candle- 
 sticks to St. Peter:, and tell his Holint'^ yoi will 
 double all. if he will snvt "ou absolution."
 
 204 TREASURE TROVE. 
 
 Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off 
 a courier to Rome, ventre a terre. His Holiness 
 agreed to the request of the petition, and sent him 
 an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all 
 in due form. 
 
 " Now," said he, " foul fiend, I defy you! Arise, 
 Diabolus! your contract is not worth a jot. The 
 pope has absolved me, and I am safe on the road 
 to salvation." In a fervor of gratitude he clasped 
 the hand of his confessor, and embraced him. 
 Tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good 
 men. 
 
 They heard an inordinate roar of laughter; and 
 there was Diabolus, sitting opposite to them, hold- 
 ing his sides and lashing his tail about, as if he 
 would have gone mad with glee. 
 
 " Why," said he, " what nonsense is this! do you 
 suppose I care about that P " and he tossed the 
 pope's missive into a corner. " M. I'Abbe knows," 
 he said, bowing and grinning, " that, though the 
 pope's paper may pass current here^ it is not worth 
 twopence in our country. What do I care about 
 the pope's absolution? You might just as well be 
 absolved by your under-butler." 
 
 *'Egad!" said the abbe, " the rogue is right; I 
 quite forgot the fact, which he points out clearly 
 enough."
 
 THE PAINTER'S /iAA'i,A/,\\ 205 
 
 " No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with 
 horrid familiarity, "go thy ways, old fellow: that 
 cock won't Jighty And he retired up the chimney, 
 chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge 
 heard his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had 
 been a sweeper by profession. 
 
 Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, 
 according to the newspapers, cities and nations are 
 found when a murder is committed, or a lord ill of 
 the gout, — a situation, we say, more easy to ima- 
 gine than to describe. 
 
 To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now 
 first made acquainted with his compact, and its 
 probable consequences, raised such a storm about 
 his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven 
 years were expired. She screamed, she scolded, she 
 swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, 
 that poor Gunbouge, who had completely knocked 
 under to her, was worn out of his life. He wao 
 allowed no rest, night or day : he moped about 
 his fine house, solitary and \\Tetched, and cursed 
 his stars that he ever had married the butcher > 
 daughter. 
 
 It wanted six months of the time. 
 
 A sudden and desperate resolution seemed al» at
 
 J't:>6 TREAS URE. TRO VE. 
 
 C'nce to have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. 
 ]Ie called his family and his friends together; he 
 c:ave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known 
 in the city of Paris; he gayly presided at one end 
 of his table, while Mrs. Gambouge, splendidly ar- 
 rayed, gave herself airs at the other extremity. 
 
 After dinner, using the customary formula, he 
 called upon Diabolus to appear. The old ladies 
 screamed, and hoped he would not appear naked; 
 the youno^ ones tittered, and longed to see the mon- 
 ster; everybody was pale with expectation and 
 affright. 
 
 A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in 
 black, made his appearance, to the surprise of all 
 present, and bowed all round to the company. " I 
 will not show my credentials i^'' he said, blushing, 
 and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hid- 
 den by his pumps and shoe-buckles, " unless the la- 
 dies absolutely wish it; but I am the person you 
 want,Mr.Gambouge, pray tell me what is your will. 
 
 " You know," said that gentleman, in a stately 
 and determined voice, " that you are bound to me, 
 according to our agreement, for six months to 
 come." 
 
 " I am," replied the new-comer.
 
 THE PAfNTRK'S HA KG A IN. 207 
 
 " You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever 11 may 
 be, or you forfeit the bond which 1 gave you ? " 
 
 •* It is true." 
 
 " Vou declare this before the present company ? " 
 
 " Upon my honor as a gentleman," said Diabolus, 
 bowing, and laying his hand upon his waistcoat 
 
 A whisper of applause ran round the room. Ali 
 were charmed with the bland manners of the fasci- 
 nating stranger. 
 
 " My love." continued Gambouge, mildly address- 
 ing his lady, " "'ill you be so polite as to step this 
 way ? You know I m»«st go soon ; and I am anxious, 
 before this noble company, to m-xke a provision for 
 one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in 
 riches, has been my truest and fondest companion." 
 
 Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief • 
 all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed 
 audibly ; and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her hus- 
 oand's side, and took him tenderly by the hand. 
 " Simon," said she, " is it true ? And do you really 
 love your Griskinissa t " 
 
 Simon continued solemnly, " Come hither, Diabo- 
 lus: you are bound to obey me in all things fo! 
 die six months during which our contract has to nin . 
 take, then. Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone witi
 
 eo8 TREAS URE-TRO VE. 
 
 her for half a year, never leave her from mornirg 
 till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her 
 whims, and listen to all the abuse which falls from 
 her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more 
 of you; I will deliver myself up at the appointed 
 time." 
 
 Not Lord G when flogged by Lord B 
 
 in the House, — not Mr. Cartlitch of Astley's Am- 
 phitheatre \x\. his most pathetic passages, could look 
 more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than 
 Diabolus did now. " Take another year, Gam- 
 bouge," screamed he; "two more — ten more — a 
 century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me 
 in holy water: but don't ask that. Don't, don't ask 
 me to live with Mrs. Gambouge! " 
 
 Simon smiled sternly. " I have said it," he 
 cried: *' do this, or our contract is at an end." 
 
 The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly, that every 
 drop of beer in the house turned sour; he gnashed 
 his teeth so frightfully, that every person in the com- 
 pany well-nigh fainted with the colic. He slapped 
 down the great parchment upon the floor, trampled 
 upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and his 
 tail ; at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as 
 wide as from here to Regent Street, he slapped
 
 THE PAINTER'S B A KG A IN. 209 
 
 Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished 
 abniptly through the keyhole. 
 
 Gambouge screamed with pain, and started up. 
 
 You drunken, lazy scoundrel 1 " cried a shrill and 
 M ell-known voice, "you have been asleep these 
 two hours ; " and here he received another terrific 
 box on the ear. 
 
 It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; 
 and the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the 
 thui.ips of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained 
 to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, 
 and this was spurted all over his waistcoat and 
 breeches. 
 
 •* I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tin- 
 gling cheeks, "that dreams were true;" and he went 
 *^o work again at his portrait. 
 
 My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he ha3 
 left the arts, and is footman in a small family. MrS. 
 Gambouge takes in washing ; and it is said that her 
 continual dealings with soap-suds and hot »v'ater 
 have been the only things in life which have kept 
 her from spontaneous combustion.
 
 THE LADY ROHESIA. 
 
 BY RICHARD H, BARHAM. 
 
 HE Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed. 
 So said the doctor j and doctors are 
 generally allowed to be judges m these 
 matters; besides, Dr. Butts was the court 
 physician; he carried a crutch-handled staff, with 
 its cross of the blackest ebony, — raison de plus. 
 " Is there no hope, doctor? " said Beatrice Gray. 
 " Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby. 
 " Is there no hope ? " said Sir Guy de Mont- 
 gomeri. He was the Lady Rohesia's husband; he 
 spoke the last. 
 
 The doctor shook his head. He looked at the 
 disconsolate widower i?i posse, then at the hour- 
 glass: its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow 
 forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts 
 was a very learned man. " Ars longa^ vita bre- 
 vis!'' said Dr. Butts.
 
 THE LADY MOHRSIA. »»1 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy da 
 Wontgomeri. 
 
 Sir Guy ws^ a brave knight, and a tall ; but he 
 was no scholar. 
 
 •* Alas, my poor sister 1 " sighed Ingoldsby. 
 
 " Alas, my poor mistress 1 " sobbed Beatrice. 
 
 Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed : his grief was 
 too deep-seated for outward manifestation. 
 
 " And how long, doctor " — The afflicted hus- 
 band could not finish the sentence. 
 
 Dr. Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the 
 lying lady. He pointed to the horologe : scarcely a 
 quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. 
 Again he shook his head. The eye of the patient 
 walked dimmer, the rattling in the throat increased. 
 
 " What's become of Father Francis? " whimpered 
 Bf^atrice. 
 
 " The last consolations of the church " — sug- 
 gested Everard. 
 
 A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy. 
 
 " Where is the confessor? " continued his ^lieving 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 " In the pantry," cried Marion Racket pertly, as 
 sne tripped down stairs in search of that venerable 
 ecclesiastic, — "in the pantry, I warrant me." The
 
 »IS 
 
 TREA S URE- Tk O VK. 
 
 bowfr-woman was not wont to be in the wrong : in 
 the pantry was the holy man discovered — at his 
 devotions. 
 
 '■'Fax vobiscumf" said Father Francia, as he 
 entered the chamber of death. 
 
 " Vita brrvis ! " retorted Dr. Butts. He was not 
 a man to be browbeat out of his Latin, and by a 
 paltry Friar Minim, too. Had it been a bishop in- 
 deed, or even a mitred abbot, — but a miserable 
 Franciscan ! 
 
 '' Berudicite r^ said the friar. 
 
 " Ars iongaf" returned the leech. 
 
 Dr. Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band, 
 drew his short sad-colored cloak closer around him, 
 and, grasping his cross-handled walking-staff, stalked 
 majestically out of the. apartment Father Franci** 
 had the field to himself. 
 
 The worthy chaplain hastened to administer the 
 last rites of the church. To all appearance he had 
 little time to lose. As he concluded, the dismal 
 toll of the passing-bell sounded from the belfry'- 
 tower : little Huben, the bandj^-legged sacristan, 
 was pulling with all his might. It was a capital 
 contrivance that same passing-bell, — which of thr 
 Urbans o\ Innocents invented it is a query ; but.
 
 THE LADY ROM ESI A. a 13 
 
 whoever he was, he deserved well of his country and 
 of Christendom. 
 
 Ah ! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, 
 as we, their degenerate children, conceit them to 
 have been. The passing-bell, a most solemn warn- 
 •ng to imps of every description, is not to be re- 
 garded with impunity : the most impudent Succubus 
 of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water 
 as come within the verge of its sound. Old Nick 
 himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had 
 best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave 
 the way open to paradise. Little Hubert continued 
 pulling with all his might; and St. Peter began to 
 look out for a customer. 
 
 The knell seemed to have some effect even upon 
 the Lady Rohesia : she raised her head slightly ; 
 inarticulate sounds issued from her lips. — inarticu- 
 late, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those 
 of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper : nothing, 
 as he averred, could be more distinct than the 
 words, "A thousand marks to the priory of St 
 Mary Rouncival." 
 
 Now, the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsbyhad brought her 
 husband broad lands and large possessions ; much 
 of her ample dow^y, too, was at her own disposal ;
 
 TREASURE- TRO ^ E. 
 
 anJ nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished \ # 
 act of parliament. 
 
 "Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. "A 
 thousand marks, she said " — 
 
 "If she did, I'll be shot!" said Sir Guy dc 
 Montgomeri. 
 
 " A thousand marks," continued the confessor, 
 fixing his cold gray eye upon the knight, as he went 
 on, heedless of the interruption, — "a thousand 
 marks ; and as many aves and paters shall be duly 
 said — as soon as the money is paid down." 
 
 Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze : he turne.d 
 to the window, and muttered to himself somethii.g 
 that sounded like, "Don't you wish you may get 
 it?" 
 
 The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had 
 quitted the room, taking with him the remains of 
 the holy oil he had been using for extreme unction. 
 Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down stairs. 
 
 " A thousand thanks ! " said the latter. 
 
 " A thousand marks ! " said the friar. 
 
 " A thousand devils ! " growled Sir Guy de Mont- 
 gomeri from the top of the landing-place.
 
 THE LADY ROHESIA. 
 
 «»5 
 
 But his accents fell unheeded : his brother-in-law 
 and the friar were gone \ he was left alone with his 
 departing lady and Beatrice Grey. 
 
 Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the 
 foot of the bed ; his arms were crossed upon hii 
 bosom ; his chin was sunk upon his breast ; his eyes 
 were filled with tears ; the dim rays of the fading 
 witchlight gave a darker shade to the furrows on 
 his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch 
 on the top of his head, — for Sir Guy was a middle- 
 aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight 
 bend in his shoulders, but that not much ; his com- 
 plexion was somewhat florid, — especially about the 
 nose ; but his lady was in extremis^ and at this 
 particular moment he was paler than usual. 
 
 " Bim I home ! " went the bell. The knight 
 groaned audibly ; Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with 
 her little square apron of lace de Malines ; there 
 was a moment's pause, — a moment of intense afflic- 
 tion ; she let it fall, — all but one comer, which 
 remained between her finger and thumb. She 
 looked at Sir Guy, drew the thumb and forefinger 
 of her other hand slowly along its border, till they 
 reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud. 
 " So kind a lady I '* said Beatrice Grey. " So excel-
 
 si6 
 
 lent a wife ! " responded Sir Guy. " So good I " 
 said the damsel. " So dear 1 " said the knight. 
 "So pious 1" said she. "So humble I" said he. 
 " So good to the poor 1 " — " So capital a man- 
 ager ! " — " So punctual at matins I " — " Dinne- 
 dished to moment ! " — " So devout 1 " said Beatrice. 
 "So fond of me!'' said Sir Guy. "And of Father 
 Francis ! " — '* What the devil do you mean by 
 that ? " said Sir Guy Montgomeri. 
 
 The knight and the maiden had wrung their 
 antiphonic changes on the fine qualities of the 
 departing lady, like the strophe and antistrophe of 
 a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed 
 of, her minor excellences came under review. She 
 •yould drown a witch, drink lamb's wool at Christ- 
 mas, beg Dominie Dumps's boys a holiday, and dine 
 upon sprats on Good Friday. A low moan trom 
 the subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate 
 that the enumeration of her good deeds was not 
 altogether lost on her, that the parting spirit felt 
 and rejoiced in the testimony. 
 
 " She was too good for earth," continued Six 
 Guy. 
 
 " Ye-ye-yes 1 " sobbed Beatrice. 
 
 ** I did not deserve her ! " said the knight
 
 THE i./DY KOflESlA. 
 
 '* No-o-o-o ! " cried the damsel. 
 
 " Not but that I made her an excellent husband, 
 and a kind; but she is going, and — and — where 
 or when or how — shall I get such another?" 
 
 " Not in broad England, not in the whole wide 
 world ! " responded Beatrice Grey ; " that is, not 
 just such another." Her voice still faltered ; but 
 her accents, on the whole, were more articulate. 
 She dropped the corner of her apron, and had 
 recourse to her handkerchief ; in fact, her eyes were 
 getting red — and so was the tip of her nose. 
 
 Sir Guy was silent : he gazed for a few moments 
 steadfastly on the face of his lady. The single 
 word, " Another 1 " fell from his lips like a distant 
 echo : it is not often that the viewless nymph 
 repeats more than is necessary. 
 
 " Bim ! bome I " went the bell. Bandy-legged 
 Hubert had been tolling for half an hour : he began 
 to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety. 
 
 " Beatrice Grey ! " said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, 
 " what's to be done ? What's to become of Mont- 
 gomeri Hall ? — and the buttery — and the ser- 
 vants ? And what — what's to become of n", 
 Beatrice Grey?" There was pathos in hi* tor^e* 
 and a solemn pause succeeded. " I'll tarn monk 
 myself I " said Sir Ga^
 
 ? r i TMEASURE-rRO VB, 
 
 "* Monk ? " said Beatrice. 
 
 " I'll be a Carthusian I " repeated the knight, but 
 in a tone less assured : he relapsed Into a revery. 
 Shave his head 1 — he did not so much mind that, 
 he was getting rather bald already ; but beans for 
 dinner, and those without butter — and then a 
 horse-hair shirt ! 
 
 The knight seemed undecided : his eye roamed 
 gloomily around the apartment : it paused upon 
 different objects, but as if it saw them not. Its 
 sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its 
 glance : it rested at last upon the fair face of the 
 s;ympathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her 
 grief. 
 
 Her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast 
 down, mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, 
 which was beating the devil's tattoo. 
 
 There is no talking to a female when sh ; does 
 not look at you. Sir Guy turned round ; he seated 
 himself on the edge of the bed, and, placing his 
 hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her 
 face in an angle of fifteen degrees. 
 
 " I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice ^ 
 but what's to become of me ? Poor, miserable, old 
 — that is, poo' wjjserable, middle-aged man that I
 
 THE LADY ROHKS/A. 219 
 
 i»wn ! No one to comfort, no one to care for me.'' 
 Beatrice's tears flowed afresh ; but she opened noi 
 ler lips. " 'Pon my life ! " continued he, " I don't 
 believe there is a creature now would care a button 
 f I were hanged to-morrow 1 " 
 
 "Oh, don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice. 
 * You know there's — there's Master Everard and — 
 and Father Francis " — 
 
 ♦* Pish ! " cried Sir Guy testily. 
 
 *' And — there's your favorite old bitch." 
 
 " I am not thinking of old bitches,'' quoth Sir 
 Guy de Montgomeri. 
 
 Another pause ensued. The knight had released 
 her chin, and taken her hand : it was a pretty little 
 hand ; with long taper fingers and filbert-formed 
 nails ; and the softness of the palm said little for its 
 owner's industry'. 
 
 " Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight 
 thoughtfully : " you must be fatigued with your long 
 watching. Take a seat, my child." Sir Guy did 
 not relinquish her hand ; but he sidled along the 
 counterpane, and made room for his companion 
 between himself and the bed-post. 
 
 Now, this is a very awkwara position for two peo- 
 ple to be Waced in, especiaitly when the nght hand
 
 320 
 
 ^f the one holds the right hand of the other: in 
 such an attitude, what the deuse can the gentleman 
 do with his left ? Sir Guy closed his till it became 
 an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the 
 bed 2. little in the rear of his companion. 
 
 " Another," repeated Sir Guy, musing, — "if, 
 indeed, 1 could find such another." He was talking 
 TO his thought ; but Beatrice Grey answered him. 
 
 •* There's Madam Fitzfoozle." 
 
 *' A frump ! " said Sir Guy. 
 
 "Or the Lady Bumbarton.' 
 
 '' With her hump 1 " muttered he, 
 
 '•' There's the aowager " — 
 
 " Stop, stop 1 " said the knight, " stop one mo- 
 aient" He paused : he was all on the tremble. 
 Something seemed rising in his throat ; but he gave 
 a great gulp, and swallowed it " Beatrice," said he, 
 " what think you of " (his voice sank into a most 
 seductive softness), — " what think you of — Beatrice 
 Grey.?" 
 
 The murder was out r the knight felt infinitely 
 relieved. The knuckles of his left hand unclosed 
 spontaneously ; and the arm he had felt such a diffi- 
 ailty in disposing of found itself, nobody knows- 
 how, all at once encircling the jimp waist of the
 
 231 
 
 f retty Beatrice. The young lady's reply was 
 • jcpressed in three syllables. They were, " Oh, Sir 
 iJuy 1 " The words might be somewhat indefinite ; 
 but there was no mistaking the look. Their eyes 
 met. Sir Guy's left arm contracted itself spasmod- 
 ically : when the eyes meet (at least, as theirs met), 
 the lips are very apt to follow the example. The 
 knight had taken one long, loving kiss, nectar and 
 ambrosia. He thought on Dr. Butts and his r^e- 
 tatur hausius (a prescription Father Francis had 
 taken infinite pains to translate for him) ; he was 
 about to repeat it; but the dose was interrupted 
 in transitu. Doubtless the adage, — 
 
 " There's many a slip 
 Twixt the cup and the lip,** 
 
 hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy's lip was again 
 
 all but in conjunction with that of his bride elect. 
 
 It has been hinted already that there was a little 
 round polished patch on the summit of the knight's 
 pericranium^ from which his locks had gradually 
 receded ; a sort of oasis^ or rather a Mont Blanc in 
 miniature, rising above the highest point of vegeta- 
 tion. It was on this little spot, undefended alike by 
 art and nature, that, at this interesting moment, a
 
 922 TREASURE- TRO VE. 
 
 blow descended, such as we must borrow a term 
 fom the Sister Island adequately to describe: it 
 uas a "Whack!" 
 
 Sir Guy started upon his feet. Beatrice Grey 
 started upon hers ; but a single glance to the rear 
 leversed her position: she fell upon her knees, and 
 screamed. 
 
 The knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a 
 sight which might have turned a bolder man to 
 stone. It was she — the all-but-defunct Rohesia! 
 There she sat, bolt upright ; her eyes no longer 
 glazed with the film of impending dissolution, but 
 scintillating like flint and steel, while in her hand 
 she grasped the bed-staff, — a weapon of mickle 
 might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now 
 well testify. Words were yet wanting ; for the 
 quinsy, which her rage had broken, still impeded 
 her utterance ; but the strength and rapidity of h<:r 
 guttural intonations augured well for her future 
 eloquence. 
 
 Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for a while like a 
 man distraught. This resurrection (for such it 
 seemed) had quite overpowered him. " A husband 
 ofttimes makes the best physician," says the proverb. 
 He was a living personification of its truth. Still it
 
 vras whispered he had been content with Dr. Butts ; 
 but his lady was restored to bless him for many 
 years. Heavens, what a life he led I 
 
 The Lady Rohesia mended apace ; her quinsy 
 
 ... cured ; the bell was stopped, and little Hubert, 
 the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry. St. Peter 
 opened his wicket, and looked out. There was 
 nobody there : so he flung to the gate in a passion, 
 and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being 
 hoaxed by a runaway nng. 
 
 Years rolled on. The improvement of Ladv 
 Rohesia's temper did not keep pace with that of 
 her health ; and one fine morning Sir Guy de Mont 
 gomeri was seen to enter the porte-cochere of Durham 
 House, at that time the town residence of Sir Wal- 
 ter Raleigh. Nothing more was ever heard of him ; 
 hut a boat full of adventurers was known to have 
 dropped down with the tide that evening to Dept 
 'ord Hope, where lay the good ship " The Darling," 
 commanded by Capt. Keymis, who sailed next 
 mornirg on the Virginia voyage. 
 
 A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may 
 yet be seen in Denton chancel, let into a broad slab 
 of Bethersden marble : it represents a lady kneel- 
 ing in her wimp, and hood • her hands are clasped
 
 124 TREASURE-TROVE, 
 
 Xi prayer ; and beneath is an inscription in the cluu^ 
 
 acters of the age, — 
 
 " IDratc for '^i sobU ef gc l^Hg IMsf t, 
 anO for allc Cfjristm soiuUsI'* 
 
 The date is illegible ; but it appears that she sur- 
 vived King Henry the Eighth, and that the dissolu- 
 tion of monasteries had lost St Mar}' Rouncival 
 her thousand marks. As for Beatrice Grey, it is 
 well known that she was alive in 1559, and then had 
 nrginity enough left to be a maid of honor to 
 " ^ood Queen Bess." 
 
 ^^iJnifS^^
 
 
 i|imiiin«iiiiii 
 
 B 000017747"
 
 _^ _^- 
 
 
 4 Vrh%r ' ^^^^.«