FOGGERTY'S FAIRY 
 
 AND OTHER TALES
 
 FOGGERTY'S FaIRY 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 W. S. GILBERT 
 
 // 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL 
 GLASGOW MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK 
 
 1890
 
 LONDON : 
 BKADBURY, AONEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFR1AR3.
 
 3 
 
 NOTE. 
 — » — 
 
 This Book contains several Tales upon which the 
 Author subsequently founded plays, which achieved 
 more or less success. " Foggerty's Fairy " is the 
 groundwork of a play of that name, which was pro- 
 duced six years since at the Criterion Theatre. " An 
 Elixir of Love" is the basis of "The Sorcerer." 
 " Creatures of Impulse," " The Wicked World," and 
 " Comedy and Tragedy," in their original forms, will 
 also be found in this book. None of the Tales, except 
 " Comedy and Tragedy," were written with a view to 
 subsequent dramatization. 
 
 W. S. GILBERT.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FACE 
 
 FOGGERTY'S FAIRY . 9 
 
 AN ELIXIR OF LOVE . . 43 
 
 JOHNNY POUNCE 69 
 
 LITTLE MIM . . 119 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF VICE . . .... 127 
 
 MY MAIDEN BRIEF 145 
 
 CREATURES OF IMPULSE 161 
 
 MAXWELL AND I 175 
 
 ACTORS, AUTHORS, AND AUDIENCES . . . .215 
 
 ANGELA 287 
 
 WIDE AWAKE 245 
 
 A STAGE PLAY 259 
 
 THE WICKED WORLD .... . . 277 
 
 THE FINGER OF FATE 297
 
 viii Conte7its. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A TALE OF A DRY PLATE 313 
 
 THE BURGLAR'S STORY 321 
 
 UNArrRECLVTED SHAKESPEARE 331 
 
 COMEDY AND TRAGEDY 337 
 
 ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN . . . .349
 
 FOGGEKTY'S FAIRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Oh, dash it all ! " said Freddy Foggerty, " he 
 knows me, and I shall be tried for desertion ! " 
 
 Freddy Foggerty was a confectioner on a small scale 
 in the Borough Road. He did not begin by being a 
 confectioner, for his career had been a chequered one, 
 and his ups and downs had been many. He began life 
 as a Gentleman's Baby, a situation which he filled for 
 about three years with much credit, when ho found him- 
 self promoted to the rank and standing of a Gentleman's 
 Little Boy — a position which carried with it an improved 
 scale of dietary, and an emolument of twopence per 
 week, on a Judge's tenure, that is to say, duiii se bene 
 gesserit. He passed through the various grades of boy- 
 hood and adolescence without having distinguished him- 
 self, except as a remarkable and exceptionally ordinary 
 kind of boy, with this one distinguishing feature — that 
 he had developed no prominent characteristic of any 
 kind whatever. At nineteen, he became a Government 
 clerk in the Bitter Beer branch of the Malt and Hops 
 Department of the Inland Revenue Ofticc. In this 
 capacity he distinguished himself by the invention of a 
 new system of cooking accounts, but the Heads of his
 
 10 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 Department looked coldly and indeed suspiciously on 
 his discovery, and, treating him with the jealous brutality 
 that usually characterises Government officials in deal- 
 ing with humble inventors, required him to send in his 
 papers without further delay. Too proud to discuss the 
 question with his blinded superiors, he retired at once, and, 
 finding himself penniless, enlisted in a regiment of High- 
 landers. He served with some distinction as a soldier 
 for nearly three days, but the brutality of the regimental 
 barber, who cut his hair so short as to be absolutely 
 unbecoming (and this in spite of his earnest remon- 
 strance), disgusted him with the service, which he quitted 
 abruptly, to the surprise and consternation of his 
 Colonel, and the bitter disappointment of the Field- 
 Marshal Commanding-iu-Chief. Feeling that a life of 
 comparative seclusion in some distant region would best 
 harmonise with his then state of mind, he shipped him- 
 self as a stowaway on board the liattan (A 1), 800 tons, 
 Captain Gilgal P. Bonesetter, then loading in the Lon- 
 don Docks, and to sail for New York forthwith. After 
 a dignified seclusion of eleven days behind a pork cask, 
 he was discovered by the boatswain, who introduced him 
 to Captain Bonesetter, who received him with open arms 
 and closed fists. The Captain's big dog Jupiter, had 
 just been washed overboard, and Captain Bonesetter, 
 with the unafi^ected hospitality of a true sailor, imme- 
 diately placed the animal's kennel at Mr. Foggerty's 
 disposal. The dog's spare collar was found to fit him 
 admirably, and the dog's daily rations were quite as much 
 as Mr. Foggerty's stomach could digest. It was the 
 Captain's whim to treat him as if he had really been a
 
 Poggertys Fairy. 1 1 
 
 dog, and Mr. Foggerty, entering fully into the spirit 
 of the joke, barked, ran about on all fours, sat up on his 
 haunches, and caught a biscuit off his nose, for all the 
 world as if he had been trained to do so. The joke 
 lasted nine weeks and five days, by which time the ship 
 had sighted the American continent, and Mr. Foggerty, 
 having been comfortably provided at the Captain's 
 expense with an entirely new and perfectly well-fitting 
 suit of tar and feathers, was placed ashore at Sandy 
 Hook, with a roving commission to go just wherever he 
 pleased, and do just whatever he liked. 
 
 Delighted with his newly-acquired liberty (for a long 
 sea voyage, even under the most agreeable circumstances, 
 is a cramping thing), Mr. Foggerty set off in the 
 direction of New York, the singularity of his appearance 
 in the Captain's suit evoking some amusement, and not 
 a few comments, from the ladies and gentlemen of Port 
 Monmouth. But Mr. Foggerty set all conjecture at 
 rest by explaining that he was the Duke of Northum- 
 berland doing it for a wager — adding that the feat he 
 had undertaken was accomplished, and he would feel 
 much obliged if somebody would kindly scrape him 
 down and " loan " him a suit or two of clothes, a gold 
 watch, and an eye-glass, until he could communicate 
 with his solicitor in London. He further stated that the 
 wager was made with a certain Eoyal Personage of the 
 very higliest possible rank, and that he was prepared to 
 settle the amount won (£37,000 and Balmoral) on 
 trustees in trust to build a cathedral and found a 
 bishopric for Port Monmouth. Upon hearing of this 
 pious resolve the clergyman of the parish, the Kev.
 
 12 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 Hicks K. Plappy (who liked the idea of the bishopric), 
 scraped him down and provided him with everything he 
 could possibly require, including a marble bust of him- 
 self, and a cow with five legs, for many years the sur- 
 prise and glory of the state of New Jersey. To these 
 gifts he superadded his daughter Louisa, a beautiful 
 young lady of twenty — marrying them himself that His 
 Grace might not have a chance of changing his mind. 
 The wedding was magnificent, and His Grace (who had 
 stipulated, as the only condition upon which he could 
 consent to marry Miss Plappy, that his incognito should 
 be strictly preserved for ever) started with his blushing 
 bride from New York, per Cuba, for England the same 
 evening. On his arrival at Liverpool, his wife, who was 
 anxious to assume her real station, urged upon her 
 husband the propriety of immediately throwing off" his 
 incognito, a course which appeared particularly advisable 
 as she had read of another Duke of Northumberland, then 
 in England, and she was anxious to know which of the 
 two was the right one. But Foggerty explained that 
 the other Duke was an impostor who had taken advantage 
 of his absence to assume his name and rank, and that he 
 proposed to remain in obscurity for the present, just in 
 order to see how far the sham Duke would carry his 
 pretentions. His wife objected, naturally enough, to 
 this course ; but Foggerty was firm, and there was 
 nothing more to be said. He proposed that while they 
 were watching the movements of the sham Duke, they 
 should amuse themselves by purchasing the goodwill of 
 a confectioner's shop in the Borough Road, and play at 
 being trudcspco})lc. To this course Her Grace was
 
 Foggertys Faiiy. 13 
 
 obliged to consent. The game had lasted about twelve 
 years, and was still going on, when our story commenced, 
 for Foggerty (as he preferred to be called) had not 
 yet done w^atching the movements of the sham Duke, 
 who was now dealing Avith Northumberland House as if 
 it really belonged to him. These are Freddy Foggerty's 
 antecedents, which we have set out at some length 
 because it is essential to a proper appreciation of his 
 astonishing adventures that these details should be 
 clearly understood. 
 
 Freddy Foggerty was seated on his counter in a 
 very uncomfortable frame of mind. A sergeant of 
 Highlanders had that morning entered his shop to pur- 
 chase some acidulated drops. On seeing Mr. Foggerty 
 it was observed that the sergeant stared at him in a 
 very remarkable manner — so much so that Mr. Foggerty 
 had said to him, " It's lucky for you, sergeant, that 
 it's me, and not my wife, you are staring at so rudely, 
 for she is strong and stands no nonsense." Upon which 
 the sergeant remarked that it was a fine day (which it 
 was not, for it was snowing heavily), and went out of 
 the shop, leaving the acidulated drops behind him in 
 his nervous agitation. This little incident served to set 
 Freddy in a roar, until he suddenly recollected that this 
 very sergeant was very like the very sergeant who had 
 enlisted him some thirteen years before, and it was this 
 sudden recollection that caused him to use the exclama- 
 tion with which this story opens — " Oh, dash it all, he 
 knows me, and I shall be tried for desertion ! " 
 
 He was terribly agitated, for he was really prosperous 
 as a confectioner ; moreover, he was extremely fond of
 
 14 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 bis wife, and lie had two cliildren. The thought of his 
 being torn away from his business and from them, with 
 the shop going to rack and ruin while he served his 
 time in the ranks, was too much for him, and he burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " Cheer up, Mr. Foggerty," said a pipy little voice. 
 
 He looked up, but could see no one. At last his eye 
 rested on a small twelfth-cake in the window, and he 
 was surprised to see the little plaster-of-Paris fairy 
 which had crowned the top of it hop off her box of 
 sugar-plums, and pick her way carefully through the 
 tracery that decorated the surface of the cake. She tra- 
 velled on slowly, tumbling over a harlequin, and getting 
 her skirt entangled in the fringe of a gelatine " cracker," 
 until she reached the edge of the cake. She looked over 
 the edge of the little parapet that ran round it, and said : 
 
 " I'm afraid, Mr. Foggerty, it's too high to jump, 
 and I shall tear my clothes if I try to scramble down. 
 "Will you kindly let me step on to your hand ? " 
 
 Freddy, who had never seen anything of the kind 
 before, was much interested in her movements, and 
 helped her down at once with the utmost propriety, like 
 a man of gallantry as he was. 
 
 " What is troubling you, Mr. Foggerty ? " 
 
 " Why, miss, thirteen years ago I enlisted, and three 
 days afterwards I deserted, and I have just been dis- 
 covered, and now I shall be taken up, tried, and 
 imprisoned, and then, perhaps, have to serve out my 
 time as a soldier." 
 
 " Indeed," said the young lady, " that will be a pity, 
 for from what I have seen of Mrs. Foggerty I don't
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 15 
 
 think she will do the shop justice. She's a respectable 
 young woman, but with no taste for business." 
 
 "Louisa is quite the lady, though," said Freddy. 
 
 " Oh, a perfect lady, but I see things from my 
 position in the shop that you don't see. Take my word 
 for it, Mrs. Foggerty is no business woman. Only the 
 other day a little girl came in for three-pen'north of 
 chocolate cream. Well, Mrs. Foggerty not only gave 
 her the chocolate for nothing, but added a Bath bun 
 and a penny ice, and told her to come in again when- 
 ever she liked, and bring all her young friends. Now 
 that's all very nice, but it's not business," said the 
 fairy, with decision. 
 
 •■'Mrs. Foggerty is all heart," said Freddy; "besides, 
 she is a born lady, and can't bear the idea of selling 
 anything." 
 
 " I wish you would tell me your history," said the 
 fairy. 
 
 " Oh, with great pleasure," said Freddy. And he 
 told her his history, just as I have been telling it to 
 you. 
 
 " It seems to me, Mr. Foggerty, that your career 
 has been a very discreditable one," said the fairy, when 
 Mr. Foggerty had finished. 
 
 " I'm not proud of it, miss. I've done many things 
 in my time that I've had reason to regret. There are 
 many incidents in my career that I'd give anything to 
 blot out." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the fairy. " Now I think I can 
 help you to do that. First of all, how many ornaments 
 are there on that twelfth-cake ?"
 
 1 6 Foggcrfys Fairy. 
 
 ** Three large ones," said Freddy ; " a Ship, a ITar- 
 lequin, and a Policeman, besides crackers and other 
 unimi^ortant trifles." 
 
 " Very good," said the fairy; " take these ornaments 
 off the cake, and whenever you wish to obliterate any 
 one deed of your life and all its consequences, eat one 
 of those ornaments." 
 
 "And the deed will be obliterated from my his- 
 tory?" 
 
 " Entirely," said the fairy ; " you will be as though 
 it had never been committed." 
 
 ** I am very much obliged to you," said Freddy. 
 
 "Not at all," said the fairy, "I'm very glad to have 
 had it in my power to assist you." 
 
 And so saying she made her way back to the bon-bon 
 box on the top of the cake, and became plaster-of-Paris 
 once more. 
 
 Freddy scarcely knew what to make of his adventure. 
 He was not so foolish as to believe in fairies, but still, 
 without committing himself to a belief, there sJie war,. 
 As to his being able to obliterate an event of his life by 
 eating one of the ornaments on the cake, why that was 
 preposterous. He could understand that he might 
 obliterate his life altogether by so doing, for they were 
 coloured, for the most part, with arsenite of copper and 
 chromate of lead, but any one event — it was out of the 
 question. 
 
 As these ideas floated through his head he looked 
 down the street, and saw a corporal's guard in the 
 distance. It was marching straight towards his shop. 
 A crisis was about to take place. It was too awful. To
 
 Foggertys Faijy. i 7 
 
 be torn away from his beloved wife and adored children 
 — no, no ! Drowning men catch at straws, and Freddy 
 crunched the Ship, ejaculating at the same time a 
 sincere wish that his return to England from New Yoek, 
 
 AND ALL 'ITS CONSEQUENCES MIGHT BE OBLITEKATED FROM 
 HIS HISTORY FOR EVER ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The fairy was as good as her word. A remarkable 
 change took place in Mr. Freddy Foggerty's condi- 
 tion. The confectioner's shop, the twelfth-cake, the 
 house, the street, the corporal's guard, all vanished in a 
 moment, and Freddy found himself lying in a comfoi't- 
 able cot in a ship's stern-cabin. 
 
 Freddy was wondering where he was, and how ho got 
 there, when the cabin-door opened, and a black man put 
 his head in. 
 
 " Seven bells, Massa Foggerty." 
 " Oh ! " said Freddy ; " how's her head '? " 
 *' S.S.W. and by S. — light breeze freshenin', Mussa 
 Foggerty." 
 
 "Oh! then I'll tumble up." 
 
 Freddy felt it incumbent upon him to appear to know 
 exactly where he was, and to be surprised at nothing. 
 He determined to make no inquiries, but to leave it to 
 time and accident to enlighten him as to the circum- 
 stances in which he found himself, and proceeded to 
 dress himself in a pair of blue serge trousers (in the
 
 Foggeriys Fairy 
 
 pockets of which were the Policeman and the Harlequin) , 
 a pea-jacket with gilt buttons, and a cap with a gold 
 band. He completed his toilet and went on deck. He 
 then saw that the ship was a fine bark, with raking 
 masts, and perhaps a tonnage of 800. She carried 
 two long carronades. 
 
 " Mornin', cap'en," said a tall wiry Yankee mate. 
 " With a breeze like this I reckon we shall take tarnation 
 snakes out of yon Britisher." 
 
 "No doubt of it," said Freddy. "Where is the 
 Britisher ? " 
 
 " About three miles off the starboard quarter," said 
 the mate, pointing in the named direction with a 
 telescope. 
 
 " I see him — that is her,''' said Freddy. 
 
 "If this breeze lasts she'll never overhaul the Flying 
 Clam:' 
 
 "And if she should," said Freddy, "who cares ? " 
 
 He looked anxiously at the mate, to see if he cared. 
 
 " Wal, I du for one. The crew du for another. And 
 the cargo du for a third." 
 
 " The cargo ? I don't see how it can concern the 
 cargo ? " 
 
 " Wal," said the mate ; Ho ! ho ! ho ! that is a 
 good'un. Don't see how it can consarn the cargo ! No, 
 no — you'll never beat that if you tries a year, cap'en ! 
 Bully for you, old man ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! " 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! ho ! " laughed Freddy, mechanically ; 
 " Bully for me, as you say." 
 
 " You du make me larf, you bet ! " said the mate. 
 "Can't consarn the cargo! No, not at all. Ho! ho! ho!"
 
 Foggerty s Fairy. 19 
 
 "I think," said Freddy, "I should like to have 
 another look at the cargo." For he began to wonder 
 what it consisted of. 
 
 "Whelps ! " shouted the mate to the boatswain, who 
 was serving out grog to five-and-twenty skulking-looking 
 ruffians, "the cap'en wants another look at the cargo. 
 Take the cap'en into the hold." 
 
 " Ay, ay," cried the boatswain. He handed the 
 pannikin to his mate, and went down the main hatch. 
 Freddy followed him. On the main deck he lighted a 
 lantern, and then descended a second " companion," 
 and so reached the lower deck. He then raised a bolted 
 and barred trap- door, and prepared to descend a third 
 ladder. At this point Freddy perceived that the atmo- 
 sphere in the neighbourhood of the cargo had a distinct 
 and recognisable flavour of its own. 
 
 He descended the third ladder. The boatswain held 
 up the lantern, and Freddy formed his first impression 
 of the cargo, and his first impression was that it was 
 cocoa-nuts. But a closer inspection showed that each 
 cocoa-nut had two white glaring eyeballs, and he then 
 formed his second (and right) impression, which was 
 " niggers." As his eyes became accustomed to the 
 darkness he saw that the hold contained from forty to 
 fifty black people, of both sexes, huddled together in a 
 dreadfully uncomfortable manner. 
 
 They were chained two and two, the chain of com- 
 munication running through a staple in the deck. It 
 flashed upon Freddy that he must be the captain of a 
 slaver, at that moment hotly pursued by one of Her 
 Britannic Majesty's ships of war. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 It now becomes necessary to explain the circum- 
 stances under Avhicli Mr. Foggerty came to fill such a 
 position. They are shortly as follows : 
 
 If Mr. Foggerty had not returned from New York 
 to England, his career would have taken an entirely 
 different course. He would have lived for some months 
 on the speculative bounty of the Rev. Hicks K. Plappy, 
 who would have secured himself from ultimate loss by 
 taking bills at twelve months for his son-in-law's keep. 
 Eventually, however, the reverend pastor's suspicions 
 would have been aroused, and Freddy's pretentions to 
 the dukedom would have undergone a thorough investi- 
 gation before a magistrate. He would then have been 
 tried, and convicted of obtaining money and goods under 
 false pretences, and sentenced to twelve months' im- 
 prisonment, with hard labour, in the " Tombs." In 
 this retreat he would have formed a bowing acquaintance 
 with a seafaring man of evil countenance, and their 
 sentences expiring on the same day, Freddy and the 
 seafaring man would have set forth " on the tramp," 
 to take whatever good or ill luck might turn up for 
 them. At length the sailor would have found work on 
 board a blockade-runner, and Freddy, who would have 
 known very well that there was no chance of his being 
 engaged as one of the crew, would have shipped himself 
 once more in his old and favourite character as a 
 "stowaway." A certain smartness and activity which 
 characterised all of Freddy's movements would have re- 
 commended him to the skipper, and he would eventually 
 have formed one of the ship's crew. In this capacity he 
 would have distinguished himself so remarkably that he
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 21 
 
 would in a couple of years, have been promoted to the rank 
 of boatswain's mate. On the cessation of the American 
 War his ship would have traded to the east coast of 
 Africa in ivory and gold dust, and Freddy, who by this 
 time would have saved about two thousand dollars, 
 would have purchased a sixteenth share in her. From 
 this point his promotion would have been rapid, and in 
 six years he would have saved money enough to pur- 
 chase her out and out, and trade with her on his own 
 account. He would have discovered that the slave 
 trade was still more profitable than that in gold and 
 ivory, and (keeping it secret from Louisa, who would be 
 living luxuriously somewhere in Florida, under the 
 impression that her husband was a blameless merchant) 
 he would have devoted himself to its prosecution with 
 an energy which might with equal profit, and less risk, 
 have been expended upon a more legitimate speculation. 
 
 However, Freddy knew nothing of what would have 
 Itapj^ened, if his return to England and all its con- 
 sequences had been blotted out of his career, and felt 
 himself somewhat at a loss to account for his position. 
 
 *' Great heavens," said Freddy, on realising the exact 
 character of the cargo, " these must be slaves ! " 
 
 "The cap'en will be the death o' me one day!" 
 roared the boatswain in the middle of an uncontrollable 
 fit of laughter. 
 
 " HoAV horrible ! how awful ! " said Freddy. " Torn 
 from the bosom of their families — cramped and crippled 
 in a filthy hold, and in an atmosphere in which a candle 
 will hardly burn — it's horrible, it's appalling ! " 
 
 " The cap'en's joke agin all others, I allers say ! "
 
 2 2 Foggerty s T^ati'y. 
 
 screamed the boatswain, who in the excess of his merri- 
 ment had to hold on by the ladder to save himself from 
 falling. " He acts it all to the life, that's sartin ! " 
 
 Freddy recollected himself and forced a grim smile. 
 " Shut the devils up again," said he. 
 
 " This yere's the slow match," said the boatswain, 
 pointing to the end of a piece of yarn which lay on the 
 lower deck. *'It's in beautiful order, and burns two 
 minutes." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure," said Freddy, " that is the slow 
 match. Quite right. Of course the other end com- 
 municates with — " 
 
 " With an open barrel of powder in the magazine, 
 'cordin' to your own orders, cap'en." 
 
 " Quite correct. And now let me see whether you 
 fully understand my instructions. When are you to set 
 light to it ? " 
 
 ** As soon as the Britisher's first shot strikes our hull. 
 Then up we goes, and there's an end of the Flyinc/ Clam, 
 crew, cargo, cap'en and all." 
 
 " Admirable ! " said Freddy, white with terror, " only 
 — I've been thinking that — perhaps on the whole there 
 is something rather contemptible, not to say do-wiiright 
 cowardly, in this summary and comparatively painless 
 way of evading the punishment our captors may have in 
 store for us." 
 
 " Wot ! " yelled the boatswain. 
 
 "Why, reflect," said Freddy. "If we blow our- 
 selves up they may say that we do so because we are 
 afraid of them ! The thought is unendurable ! No, 
 no — let us evince a truer and a nobler courage than that
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 23 
 
 of the mere suicide. Let us rather express our in- 
 difference to penal servitude by submitting with sullen 
 contempt to whatever punishment these bloodhounds 
 may think proper to inflict upon us ! " 
 
 And Freddy's nostrils dilated with a noble scorn that 
 would have fitted a Protestant martyr in the reign of 
 Queen Mary. 
 
 ** Wal ! " roared the boatswain, as he clutched at 
 Freddy's collar. " Of all the yelping cocktails — but 
 stop a bit — stop a bit ! " 
 
 He put his pipe to his mouth and blew shrilly upon it 
 — " Tweet ! tweet ! tweet ! twilly, twilly, twilly, — 
 twee-e-e — twip, twip, twip — twee-e-e-e ! All hands 
 on upper deck ! " He ran fore and aft along the main 
 deck, piping and shouting down each hatchway. 
 
 The crew tumbled up in all haste — men of all nations 
 — many black and brown — all scowling and tigerish. 
 They stood on both sides of the upper deck according to 
 their watches. 
 
 "Mr. Slip ! " shouted the boatswain, foaming at the 
 mouth. " Mr. Slip, and men all. Lookee yere. This 
 yere cap' en of ourn — this yere lanky cocktail — this 
 white-livered devil's chicken — he's showing the white 
 feather — he's a cur — a slinkin' coward — a shiverin* cock- 
 tail ! He won't fight, and he won't sink — he's going to 
 give in — if you'll let him, mates, if you'll let him ! " 
 
 The boatswain's fury had almost exhausted him, and 
 he lolloped on to a carronade from sheer weakness. 
 
 " Shame ! shame ! " yelled the men, who seemed to 
 contemplate a general rush at Freddy. 
 
 "Wot's this?" said Slip, taking Freddy by the
 
 24 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 collar and presenting a six-sliooter at his head. '' Now, 
 lookce yere, cap'en. Wot's your progr«/?2/»g '! What 
 do you pur7)os(' to du ? " Freddy recollected himself, 
 for he felt that a crisis was at hand, and that his only 
 chance lay in carrying it oft' with a high hand. 
 
 " To fight till the last drop of my blood shall trickle 
 on these snowy decks, and then, mingling with the 
 blue ocean beneath our feet, proclaim to all who may 
 chance to see it that Kule Columbia, Columbia rules the 
 waves, Yankee traders never, never, m'cey will be done 
 out of their slaves ! " 
 
 A yell of joy rang through the air as the confused 
 metaphors of their beloved captain sank into the souls 
 of the crew. He perceived his advantage, and lost no 
 time in following it up. 
 
 "Now, my men," said he, " what shall we do with 
 these lying mutineers, who for ends of their own have 
 endeavoured to stir you up against your captain '? " 
 
 " Overboard ! " was the universal verdict, and a hun- 
 dred hands clutched at the mate and the boatswain. In 
 another moment they were hurled, gurgling, into the deep. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the wind had freshened con- 
 siderably, and the British frigate (to whom no one paid 
 any attention during the excitement of this scene) came 
 up, hand over hand. 
 
 " Here you," said Freddy to a middle-aged person, 
 who had been foremost in throwing over the first mate 
 — and whom he concluded on that account to be the 
 second mate — ' ' take charge of the slow match on the lower 
 deck, and when I give the word ' go,' set light to it." 
 
 ** Ay, ay, sir ! " raid the second mate. And he sIoavIv
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 25 
 
 and reluctantly disappeared (with a very pale face) down 
 the main-hatch. " Bang ! " from the Britisher. The 
 shot, a thirty-two, flew high over their heads, carrying 
 away one of the main topsail lifts. 
 
 " Carpenter ! " shouted Freddy. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir ! " 
 
 " Stave in the boats." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " Not a word, or I'll blow your head off." 
 
 The carpenter took an axe and sullenly obeyed orders. 
 
 " Boatswain's mate ! " 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " Can she carry any more sail ? " 
 
 *' Not an inch, sir." 
 
 The chase lasted half-an-hour, in the course of which 
 the Britisher rapidly overhauled the slaver, for the breeze 
 had increased to half a gale. At length a round shot 
 carried away the mizzen about two feet below the 
 necklace, and with a fearful crash the mast and its 
 cumbrous gear fell over the ship's quarter. Two men 
 were carried overboard with it. 
 
 " Go ! " shouted Foggerty down the hatch. He took 
 out his watch ; the crew held their breath, and each 
 man nervously clutched at something. 
 
 " Go it is ! " replied the muffled voice of the palo 
 mate, as he obeyed the order from the lower deck. In 
 another moment he rushed up the companion. 
 
 "The match is fired!" screamed he, "and in two 
 minutes we shall be blown to feathers ! " And so 
 saying he flung himself overboard — an example which 
 wa-i followed by the greater part of the crew.
 
 26 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 Freddy looked at bis watch for a minute and a half. 
 
 " I NOW WISH," said he, very deliberately and dis- 
 tinctly as be masticated the Policeman, "I now wish 
 that my tarring and feathering and all its cox- 
 sequences may be blotted out of my history for 
 ever! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 With the muffled sound of a distant explosion ringing 
 in his bead, Freddy found himself sitting in a comfort- 
 able room fitted up partly as an office, and partly as 
 a luxurious study. He was seated at a handsome 
 mahogany writing-table, furnished with every little 
 luxury that can reduce the toil and enhance the 
 pleasures of pen-work. Above a handsome statuary 
 marble mantelpiece hung a portrait of himself in the act 
 of addressing society at large on the subject of a scroll 
 of parchment with a pendent seal, and regardless of the 
 threatening appearance of a raging thunderstorm, from 
 which a pillar and a crimson curtain aftbrded an inade- 
 quate protection. Beneath his feet was an Axminster 
 carpet of astonishing pile, and two or three easy-chairs, 
 with a comfortable welcoming " come along, old man " 
 sort of expression, stood about the room. 
 
 "It is quite clear," said Freddy, "that I'm a banker's 
 clerk of some kind. I wonder what Bank I belong to. 
 Rather a prosperous concern apparently — or, what is 
 still more likely, a flashy and unsubstantial one." 
 
 He took some paper from a stand in front of him, and
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 27 
 
 found it headed " Royal Indelible Bank, 142, Thread- 
 needle Street, E.G." He then noticed that all the books 
 on his desk were stamped " Royal Indelible Bank," and 
 the official seal, which stood ready to his hand, bore a 
 similar inscription. 
 
 He walked to the door and opened it. He found that 
 it communicated with a very large room, in which forty 
 or fifty clerks were at work. 
 
 " By Jove ! " thought he, as he contrasted their apart- 
 ment with his own luxurious private room, " banker's 
 clerk be hanged ! I'm a banker, or something very like 
 it, and on a large scale too ! " 
 
 At this moment the clock struck five, and all the 
 clerks rose simultaneously, and began to wash their 
 hands at little stands provided for the purpose. When 
 they had completed their toilettes they went out in twos 
 and threes, passing his door as they did so, and say- 
 ing, " Good evening, sir," very respectfully, as they 
 went by. 
 
 " I suppose," thought Freddy, " I ought to go too. 
 I wonder where I live." So he took down his hat from 
 a peg and followed the last clerk out. He saw the 
 porter (a stout responsible-looking person in a quiet 
 l)usiness-like livery), at the end of a passage, holding the 
 door open for him. 
 
 " Now," thought Freddy, " how the deuce am I to find 
 out where I live ? I can't ask the porter, he'll think I've 
 b 'cn drinking." He felt in his pockets for some cards, 
 bat he could not find any. "I'll go back," thought he, 
 " and look in the Directory. I'm sure to be a house- 
 holder,"
 
 28 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 But just as lie was turning back the porter said to bim, 
 " Your carriage is bere, sir," and as be spoke a quiet 
 broQgbam, drawn by a pair of bandsome greys, pulled 
 up at tbe door. Tbis relieved bim of all anxiety. He 
 stepped in, saj-ing " Home ! " to tbe groom, just as if 
 be knew where Home was. 
 
 He leant back on tbe soft cushions as tbe brougham 
 drove off. 
 
 " Come," thought he, '" this is better — this is some- 
 thing like. A good berth — secretary or manager perhaps 
 — in a substantial Bank — at least we'll hope it's sub- 
 stantial — and a brougham and pair to drive me home to 
 some snug little villa in the Regent's Park ; or perhaps 
 a good house in Bedford Square, and Louisa and the 
 children waiting for me at home. I wonder bow 
 Louisa's looking. Dear Louisa ! I'lii glad she wasn't 
 on board the slaver ! " 
 
 Tbe brougham drove down Oxford Street. 
 
 " Ha ! " thought he, " it isn't Bedford Square. Well, 
 I am glad it isn't Bedford Square. I prefer tbe Regent's 
 Park. By-tbe-bye, I wonder what my income is ? " 
 
 He felt in his pocket, and found a pocket-book con- 
 taining business appointments and important memoranda 
 — all in his own writing, and many of them incompre- 
 hensible to him owing to their being written in a kind 
 of cypher or shorthand with which be was not familiar. 
 
 " I hope," thought he, " I shall find tbe key to these, 
 or I shall get into a mess." 
 
 He read through several legible memoranda, and 
 eventually lit on the following : — 
 
 " Sept. -iUtb, (^r's. Siil. i'SJo.
 
 Foggei'tys Fairy. 29 
 
 " Fifteen hundred a year, eli ? Well, that's pretty 
 good — but this pair of horses can't be done on that. I 
 hope I'm not exceeding my income ; perhaps Louisa's 
 come into money." 
 
 Ho settled in his own mind that old Plappy was 
 gathered to his fathers, leaving everything to his child. 
 
 The carriage drove past the Marble Arch, and along 
 ^the road towards Bayswater. Tommy watched the pro- 
 gress of the carriage with much anxiety. 
 
 " I won't live in Bayswater," said he. " If it's Bays- 
 water I'll move to-morrow. I do wonder where I live. 
 I suppose if I asked the groom he'd think it odd." 
 However, it wasn't Bayswater, for as this thought passed 
 through his mind the carriage drove into Lancaster Gate, 
 and stopped at No. B52. 
 
 "Whew!" said he. "Lancaster Gate, eh? Freddy, 
 Freddy, this can't be done on £1500 a year, or anything 
 like it. Something wrong, Freddy, I'm afraid." And 
 he shook his head at himself, and held up his liuger in 
 a very reproving manner. 
 
 The door Avas opened by a grave man in a very hand- 
 some livery, and Tommy entered the house with much 
 misgiving. 
 
 " Anybody in? " 
 
 " Only my lady, sir," said the man. 
 
 " Only your lady ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sir Frederick. Her ladyship is up stairs." 
 
 ' ' Oho ! " thought Freddy. * ' Sir Frederick, and her lady- 
 ship, eh ? So I've been, knighted I suppose. Perhaps 
 I'm a baronet. I hope I'm a baronet fur Theodore's sake." 
 
 " Any letters ? "
 
 30 Foggcrty s Fairy. 
 
 " Only one, Sir Frederick." It was directed to 
 
 " Sir Frederick Foggerty, 
 " &c., &c., &c., 
 
 "352, Lancaster Gate, W." 
 
 "Only a knight, eh? Well, it might be worse — I sup- 
 pose I've been a sheriff. Now to surprise Louisa ! " 
 
 He ran upstairs without stopping to examine the 
 pictures in the hall, or the handsome bust of himself 
 on the first landing. He entered the drawing-room, a 
 spacious apartment tastefully furnished in French grey 
 satin and ebony, but it was empty. As he turned from 
 the room he met a nursemaid coming downstairs with 
 two children, a girl of three and a boy of two, whom he 
 had not had the pleasure of seeing before. 
 
 "Papa turn 'ome ! " cried the little boy. And the 
 two children, released by their nurse, ran and possessed 
 themselves of his two legs. 
 
 " Papa tiss Tiny ! " said the little girl, making 
 vigorous efforts to swarm up his right leg. 
 
 "My dear child," said Freddy, who had a pleasant 
 way with children, "I'm not your papa." 
 
 The nurse smiled a weak smile, as who should say, 
 " Master's joke is always so amusingly chosen." 
 
 " Yes, yes — you papa ! " chorused the two children, 
 Avith an emphasis which carried conviction with it. 
 
 " Whose children are these, nurse ? " said Freddy. 
 
 "I'm sure I can't say, sir," replied the woman with 
 an agreeable simper, as humouring her master's whim. 
 
 "Don't be a dashed fool, girl," said Freddy, losing 
 his temper. " Whose are they — tell me directly ? "
 
 FoggeTty s Fairy. 
 
 " Dear me, Sir Frederick, yours of course ! " said the 
 woman, in great terror. " Yours and my lady's, Sir 
 Frederick. What a question. Sir Frederick, and on this 
 day of all others ! " 
 
 " Oh. Go ! " 
 
 The nurse lost no time in hurrying herself and the 
 children out of the presence of a master in whom she 
 detected signs of incipient insanity. 
 
 "Mine, eh?" thought Freddy. "I've no recollec- 
 tion of — I've made up my mind not to be surprised at 
 anything, but really this discovery makes a greater 
 demand upon my powers of self-control than I bargained 
 for." 
 
 However, he regained his equanimity, and went up 
 stairs. He opened the door quietly. A lady was 
 seated at the glass, and a maid was doing her hair. 
 
 "Boo ! " exclaimed Sir Frederick, playfully. 
 
 The maid started, and the lady turned round — it was 
 not Louisa ! 
 
 "I — beg your pardon — I thought — that is, I was 
 told—" 
 
 " Come in, darling," said the lady, and a very stout, 
 jolly-looking lady she was. "Come in. I'm so glad 
 you've come home early." And so saying she ran to 
 him and gave him a sounding kiss in the very heart of 
 his right cheek. 
 
 It was quite clear that it was not Louisa, and it was 
 equally clear that it was someone in whose room he had 
 a perfect right to be. Who was she ? He had a 
 delicacy in asking the question — indeed he felt that his 
 position was altogether a most delicate and difficult one.
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 " There's nothing wrong in the city, dear?" said she, 
 noticing his embarrassment, and misinterpreting it. 
 
 " Nothing wliatever — dear." 
 
 " That's right. It wouldn't have a secret from its 
 Httle wifey, would it, on this day, too, of all others ? " 
 
 The truth flashed upon him. If he had never been 
 tarred and feathered he would never have made the 
 acquaintance of the Rev. Hicks K. Plappy, and so would 
 never have married his daughter Louisa, but would 
 probably have married someone else, to wit, the buxom 
 jolly red-faced lady who was at that moment plumping 
 kisses into the very heart of his right cheek. The 
 delicacy of his position was not all diminished by the 
 discovery. 
 
 " Poor Louisa ! " exclaimed Freddy, with unaffected 
 grief, for he was very fond of her. "Poor darling 
 Louisa ! " 
 
 "Frederick ! " exclaimed the stout lady. 
 
 " And the dear, dear children ! I shall never see them 
 again ! " 
 
 " Frederick ! on this day, too, of all others ! '" screamed 
 the stout lady. "Explain yourself this moment, I insist ! " 
 
 Freddy pulled himself together in a moment. 
 
 " It's a sad story," said he. " I had a dear, dea. 
 sister — whose existence I have hitherto kept a secret 
 from you, for, many years ago, she disgraced her family 
 by marrying a villain — a pickle- merchant, who had ex- 
 tensive works in Lambeth. His business has gradually 
 declined, owing to the rapid rise in the price of copper, 
 and he and Louisa and her innocent babes have emi- 
 o-ratcd to New Zealand."
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 33 
 
 It was a sad story, and he knew it, but there was no 
 other way out of it. 
 
 " Dear Frederick," said the lady, "you always had a 
 feeling heart. I knew there was something wrong, 
 directly I saw you." 
 
 Freddy felt dreadfully hypocritical, but what was he 
 to do ? If he had explained to Lady Foggerty that 
 an hour ago he was a Yankee slave captain, with a dear 
 wife Louisa and two beloved children in Florida, and 
 that a few hours before that he was a confectioner in the 
 Borough Koad, and that Louisa assisted him in his 
 business. Lady Foggerty would have declined to accept 
 his explanation, militating, as it would have done, with 
 her own experience of him during the last four years. 
 On the whole, I think it was one of those exceptional 
 occasions on Avliich a story is allowable, and having to 
 tell a story, I don't know that he could have pitched 
 upon a better one. 
 
 He retired to his dressing-room to prepare for dinner. 
 He found the room luxuriously furnished, with two 
 large easy chairs of the most inviting description, and a 
 comfortable sofa, on which his dress clothes were laid 
 out. He threw himself into one of the chairs, and as 
 he sank in it, he thought to himself as follows : — 
 
 "As a speculation, this change has not turned out so 
 badly. I have exchanged a lawless life of continual 
 peril for one of assured prosperity and perfect lawful- 
 ness. There are only two drawbacks to it. I am afraid 
 I must be living considerably beyond my income, and I 
 have exchanged a pretty and ladylike wife for a stout 
 and vulgar one. I wonder how I came to marry so
 
 34 Foggertys Fairy 
 
 gross a person ; for I was always a bit of an epicure in 
 such matters. There must have been some reason for 
 it," said he, musingly. "I wonder what it was ?" — then 
 with a sudden start, " I have it ! I must have married 
 her for her money ? That's it — she was a wealthy 
 widow, no doubt, and I married her for her money." 
 
 Having settled this point, much to his own satis- 
 faction (for it quite accounted for his extravagant stjde 
 of living), he proceeded, with the assistance of a quiet 
 valet, to dress for dinner. 
 
 "Which studs will you wear to-night, Sir Frede- 
 rick ? " said the man. 
 
 " Oh, well, let me see, which did I wear last night?" 
 
 " The plain pearls, Sir Frederick." 
 
 " Then I'll wear the plain pearls to-night." 
 
 "Beg pardon, Sir Frederick, but if you remember one 
 of the pearls came oft", and you told me to take it to the 
 jeweller's." 
 
 " True, how stupid of me ! Well, I'll wear the others." 
 
 " Which others. Sir Frederick ? " 
 
 "Which others?" said Freddy angrily. "Why, the 
 others to be sure ! Which others should I mean, you 
 donkey ? " 
 
 The valet shrugged his shoulders, and Freddy 
 finished his toilet. As he was putting the final touch 
 to his tie, the lady's maid rapped at the door. 
 
 "Please, sir, my lady says will you hurry please, as 
 some of 'em have arrived." 
 
 " Who has arrived ? " 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Bortle, and Lord Portico, Sir 
 Frederick."
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 35 
 
 " Oil, I'm coming. Dinner party, eh ? " said he to 
 himself as he went downstairs. ** Rather awkward.' 
 
 He entered the drawing-room and shook hands very 
 heartily with Lord Portico, telling him it seemed an age 
 since they met (which it must have done, as this was 
 the first time they had seen each other), and asking very 
 cordially after Lady Portico, Avho had been dead about 
 six months. Lord Portico's indignant stare proved to 
 him that he had made some mistake, so he was more 
 careful in his demeanour towards Mr. and Mrs. Bortle, 
 bowing coldly but respectfully to them, which was not 
 right either, as Bortle was his wife's father and had pro- 
 cured him his appointment, and Mr. and Mrs. Bortle 
 had just returned from India after an absence of six 
 years, and the meeting ought to have been a very 
 effusive one. Several other guests arrived, including 
 Mr. and Mrs. Crabthorne (Mrs. Crabthorne was Lady 
 Foggerty's sister) and Sir John Carboy, the eminent 
 accoucheur, who had presided at the birth of Freddy's two 
 little children. In short, it was quite a family party, as 
 Freddy took occasion to observe in an under-brcath to 
 Lady Foggerty, who replied, "Well, I should think 
 so, and on this day, too, of all others ! " 
 
 " I wonder what day of all others this is ! I don't 
 like to ask," thought he. 
 
 " By-the-bye, dear," said Lady Foggerty, " I forgot 
 to give you this." And she slipped into his hand a 
 piece of paper containing the list of guests told oft* into 
 couples. He was rather taken aback, because he only 
 knew the Bortlcs and Lord Portico by sight, but by dint 
 of listening to the conversation, he contrived to hit on 
 
 1) 2
 
 36 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 the right people, and when dinner was announced down 
 they went. 
 
 He managed to get through his dinner pretty comfort- 
 ably. He had Lady Carboy on his right, and Mrs. 
 Bortle on his left, and as he contrived to confine the 
 conversation to general topics, he did not " put his foot 
 into it " more than twenty or five-and-twenty times 
 during the course of the meal. He was much puzzled, 
 however, by Lady Carboy's and Mrs. Bortle's continual 
 reference to " this day of all others," and he determined 
 to find out what day of all others it really was. He 
 could scarcely ask them without seeming absurd, so he 
 called the butler to him and whispered — " Here, what's 
 your name '? In the name of mischief, tell me, uluil 
 day h this '? " to which the butler, thus solemnly adjured, 
 replied "Tuesday, Sir Frederick," which aftbrded him 
 no clue whatever to the mystery. 
 
 After dinner, 8ir John Carboy rose and said — 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, it is not usual to drink 
 healths at modern dinner parties, but there are occasions 
 when the strict forms of etiquette may be relaxed, and I 
 think you will agree with me that this day of all others 
 is one of them. I need not detain you by dilating on 
 the auspicious character of the event we are here to 
 celebrate — the circumstances are known to you all. I 
 will content myself with proposing that we drink the 
 health of my dear old friend, Sir Frederick Foggerty, 
 and my still older, and (may I add ?) ray still dearer 
 friend, his admirable wife." 
 
 This short and (to Freddy) unsatisfactory speech was 
 received with much applause, and Freddy observed.
 
 Foggertys Fairy. 37 
 
 with some apprehension, that two fat tears stood in 
 Lady Foggerty's little eyes. At last a bright thought 
 occurred to him — ' ' It must be the anniversary of our 
 wedding ! " Primed with this fortunate suggestion, he 
 rose and spoke — 
 
 "Ha — hum — sir — !" (lie liad forgotten Sir John's 
 name). " My dear, my very, very dear old friend, in 
 rising to reply to the toast with which you have been 
 good enough to couple my name, and that of my dear, 
 my dear {lie had never heard his wife's name), my dear 
 wife, I feel no little embarrassment. On this day, never 
 mind how many yearr> ago (witJi a deep sigh), Heaven 
 blessed our union — I say — Heaven blessed our union " — 
 
 " Hear, hear, my dear boy, my very dear boy," from 
 old Bortle, who was boo-hooing in his handkerchief. 
 
 "It's all right," thought Freddy, " it is the wedding 
 day." Then he continued — " Yes, on this da_y, never 
 mind how many years ago — more than I care to look 
 back upon — " 
 
 " Four years, only four, my dear boy," sobl)ed old 
 Bortle from behind his handkerchief. 
 
 " On this day four years ago, my wife and I were 
 married." 
 
 "Frederick!" exclaimed Lady Foggerty, springing 
 to her feet, " pray recollect yourself." 
 
 " I said, my dear, that on this day four years ago, on 
 this day of all others, you and I were happily married — " 
 
 Lady Foggerty screamed and fainted. Mr. Bortle, 
 her father, rose, purple with rage, and thus delivered 
 himself : 
 
 " Fred ! Fred Foggerty ! you're drunk — dnink at 
 your own table ! He mad be drunk — to insult his wife
 
 38 Fogge^dys Fairy. 
 
 in this manner — on this day of all others ! Look, sir ! 
 Look at your work, scoundrel ! She's fainted ! Con- 
 found you, sir, she's fainted ! " 
 
 "Be composed, Mr. Bortle," said Lord Portico. 
 
 " Be composed ! No, sir, I shall )iot be composed. 
 I am not here to be dictated to by anybody, whatever his 
 rank, Lord Portico — be he baron, viscount, earl, marquis, 
 duke, or king. We are invited here on the pretence of 
 celebrating the fourth anniversary of the birth of my 
 daughter's son and heir, and this insolent joker, whose 
 fortune I and my daughter have made, rises and publicly 
 states at his own table — at his oicn tahle, mind — that on 
 this day four years ago, and on this day of all others, 
 and not until this day, he and she were happily married 
 — were happily married — happily married ! " 
 
 At this point the purple old gentleman fell back gasp- 
 ing in his chair, and was carried out of the room on the 
 very verge of apoplexy, followed by all the ladies in tears. 
 
 " I am sorry, my friends," said Foggerty, when the 
 door was closed, " that my poor little joke should have 
 
 been so unfortunately misconstrued by Mr. by my 
 
 very dear father-in-law. Pray let us forget that it 
 happened, and be as jolly as though I had replied in 
 terms that had melted you to tears." 
 
 Sir Frederick was readily excused, and after a short 
 interval of rather forced conversation, the gentlemen rose 
 to join the ladies. At this moment the butler put a 
 telegram into Sir Frederick's hand. It was as follows : — 
 
 " Gone Coon, to Sir Frederick Foggerty, 
 " Cripplegate, 352, Lancaster Gate. 
 
 " Crumph jagger 'puntihoom ruhUehurby coivk,"
 
 Foggerty s Fairy 
 
 Sir Frederick stood in tlie hall, puzzling himself with 
 this document, when the street hell rang and a servant 
 opened the door to two tall stout persons, who inquired 
 for Sir Frederick Foggerty. 
 
 "I am he," said Freddy. 
 
 ** Sorry to trouble you at this time of night, sir," said 
 one of the men, " hut business is business, as you very 
 well knows." 
 
 "My maxim through life," said Sir Frederick. 
 
 " I suppose you can guess our errand? " 
 
 "I conclude it has something to do with this," said 
 Sir Frederick at a guess, handing them the mystic 
 telegram. 
 
 " Exactly. So the Gone Coon is in it ? " 
 
 " The Gone Coon is in it. Indeed, he has been in it 
 some time." 
 
 " Much obliged for the information. It seems from 
 this telegram that we were just in time." 
 
 "Just in time." 
 
 " I suppose in another ten minutes you'd have been 
 off?" 
 
 " Five. Five minutes. But I'm very glad you man- 
 aged to catch me at home." 
 
 " So are we. Sir Frederick," said the man with a 
 chuckle. " I suppose you'll come quietly ? " 
 
 " As a mouse. Shall I go with you, or follow you in 
 an hour's time ? " 
 
 " Well, I think it would be more satisfactory if you 
 were to go with us," said the man, grinning to his 
 companion. " Well, you are a game one, I will say 
 that. 'Taint every man in your position as could cut 
 jokes on the brink of penal servitude."
 
 40 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it'll be that, Sir Frederick. There's 
 the bonds and the two bills on Pogson and Blythe — you 
 know." 
 
 " Forgery! " said Sir Frederick, throwing himself back 
 into an arm-chair. " It's monstrous ! Come here, all of 
 you," shouted he up the stairs, — "come at once, will 
 you ? " 
 
 "I sa3% Sir Frederick, none of this, you know," said 
 the men, drawing their truncheons ; "you said you'd come 
 quietly, and if anything of a rescue is attempted " 
 
 " Nonsense, I'm coming quite quietly." By this time 
 the guests had lined the staircase, listening in great 
 astonishment to the excited proceedings in the hall. 
 
 "Look here," said Freddy to his friends. "It's 
 several degrees too bad. Five hours ago I commanded 
 a slaver, and at four this afternoon I was a confectioner 
 in the Borough with a wife and a fine boy. I have 
 during the last few hours been apparently a prosperous 
 banker, with another wife whose acquaintance I had 
 much pleasure in making, and a couple of children for 
 whom I can't account in any way whatever. No matter, 
 I have a fine house in Lancaster Gate, and a circle of 
 aareeable friends — more or less titled, some of them — 
 and all of them agreeable in many respects. Now, it 
 seems I'm to forfeit all these advantages, because in 
 some bygone time while I was not me but somebody 
 else. Sir Frederick Foggerty and an unknown person 
 called the ' Gone Coon ' (probably an alias) forged cer- 
 tain bills and securities. Not I, mind you, but me, 
 before I was I ! " 
 
 The guests received this lucid statement of facts in
 
 Foggerty s Fairy. 41 
 
 mnte surprise. " Gettin' up the scaffolding for a plea 
 of lunacy ! " whispered one of the detectives to the 
 other. 
 
 " Frederick ! " screamed Lady Foggerty from the top 
 of the stairs (she had gone upstairs to hathe her eyes, 
 and only rushed down in time to hear the latter part of Sir 
 Frederick's speech). "Frederick — my darling, my he- 
 loved husband — don't take him, gentlemen — he loves me 
 so dearly— it's not true — he never did a dishonest act in 
 his Hfe — don't, don't take him — and on this day of all 
 others ! " and so saying, the poor soul fell fainting at 
 his feet. 
 
 " Lead on," said Sir Frederick. 
 
 And so they handcuffed him, and drove him off to 
 jNIarlborough Street Police Station. 
 
 He had no substantial defence, but threw himself 
 upon the mercy of the Court, in a speech which has 
 been preserved in the annals of the Old Bailey, as the 
 type of what such a speech should be. 
 
 He said, " jNIy Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I 
 cannot deny that I, before I was me, may have been 
 guilty of the charge imputed to me by the learned 
 counsel for the prosecution, to whose very able and very 
 lucid recital of the varied incidents of my career I have 
 listened with much curiosity. That I have rendered 
 myself amenable to the law I admit. But reflect. I have 
 been for some hours past the toy and sport of a Twelfth 
 Cake fairy, who has tempted me to change my original 
 condition — that of a confectioner in the Borough — for, 
 firstly, that of a slave captain ; and secondly, that of a 
 fi-audulent banker. AVas I a banker or only a manager 
 to a bank ? A manager — thank you. Don't you see
 
 42 Foggertys Fairy. 
 
 the difficulty of my position ? That fairy, gentlemen, 
 has been the curse of my life. Let it be a warning to you 
 all in that box, and above all to you my Lord on the 
 bench, to beware of supernatural assistance. Trust to 
 your own exertions, gentlemen, and you'll all do very 
 well. I am very much obliged to you all for the atten- 
 tive consideration you have devoted to my case, and as 
 I know you are about to return a verdict of guilty Qicre 
 the jury bowed), which will probably be followed by a 
 sentence of penal servitude for life from my lord up there 
 {here the learned Judge hoiced), why, the best thing I 
 can do is to make another change in my condition with 
 all possible haste." 
 
 So saying, he drew the Harlequin from his pocket, 
 and put it into his mouth, uttering at the same time 
 these remarkable words, " I wish that the faiey on 
 
 THE twelfth cake, AND ALL THE CONSEQUENCES THAT 
 SPRUNG FROM MY ACQUAINTANCE "WITH HER, MAY BE 
 
 BLOTTED OUT OF MY CAREER FOR EVER." 
 
 ****** 
 
 And, behold, Mr. Frederick Foggerty found himself 
 once more in his little confectionery shop in the Borough 
 Road in the act of selling the Twelfth Cake, with the 
 Policeman, the Ship, and the Harlequin and the Fairy 
 on the top of it, to a very bilious old lady with whom it 
 was sure to disagree. 
 
 And Louisa was in the back shop with Theodore, and 
 whenever Mr. Foggerty related the history of his ad- 
 venture with the Twelfth Cake, she indignantly stopped 
 him, telling him that he was a donkey, and had been 
 dreaming. 
 
 "Which I think was very likely the case,
 
 AN ELIXIR OF LOVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ploverleigh was a picturesque little village in Dor- 
 setshire, ten miles from anywhere. It lay in a pretty 
 valley nestling amid clumps of elm trees, and a pleasant 
 little trout stream ran right through it from end to end. 
 The vicar of Ploverleigh was the Hon. and Rev. Mortimer 
 De Becheville, third son of the forty-eighth Earl of 
 Caramel. He was an excellent gentleman, and his 
 living w^as worth £1,200 a-year. He was a graduate of 
 Cambridge, and held a College Fellowship, besides 
 which his father allowed him £500 a-year. So he was 
 very comfortably " off." 
 
 Mr. De Becheville had a very easy time of it, for he 
 spent eleven-twelfths of the year away from the parish, 
 delegating his duties to the Rev. Stanley Gay, an admir- 
 able young curate to whom he paid a stipend of £120 
 a-year, pocketing by this means a clear annual profit of 
 £1,080. It was said by unkind and ungenerous people, 
 that, as Mr. De Becheville had (presumably) been 
 selected for his sacred duties at a high salary on account 
 of his special and exceptional qualilications for their 
 discharge, it was hardly fair to delegate them to a 
 wholly inexperienced young gentleman of two-and- 
 twenty. It was argued that if a colonel, or a stipendiary
 
 44 ^^i Elixir of Love. 
 
 magistrate, or a superintendent of a county lunatic 
 asylum, or any other person holding a responsible office 
 (outside the Church of England), for which he was hand- 
 somely paid, were to do his work by cheap deputy, such 
 a responsible official would be looked upon as a swindler. 
 But this line of reasoning is only applied to the cure of 
 souls by uncharitable and narrow-minded people who 
 never go to church, and consequently can't know any- 
 thing about it. Besides, who cares what people who 
 never go to church think ? If it comes to that, Mr. De 
 Becheville was not selected (as it happens) on account of 
 his special and exceptional fitness for the cure of souls, 
 inasmuch as the living was a family one, and went to De 
 Becheville because his two elder brothers preferred the 
 Guards. So that argument falls to the ground. 
 
 The Rev. Stanley Gay was a Leveller. I don't mean 
 to say that he was a mere I'm-as-good-as-you Radical 
 spouter, who advocated a redistribution of property fi:om 
 mere sordid motives. Mr. Gay was an jiesthetic Leveller. 
 He held that as Love is the great bond of union between 
 man and woman, no arbitrary obstacle should be allowed 
 to interfere Avitli its progress. He did not desire to 
 abolish Rank, but he did desire that a mere dift'erence in 
 rank should not be an obstacle in the way of making two 
 young people happy. He could prove to you by figures 
 (for he was a famous mathematician) that, rank notwith- 
 standing, all men are equal, and this is how he did it. 
 
 He began, as a matter of course, with x, because, as 
 he said, x, whether it represents one or one hundred 
 thousand, is always ,r, and do what you will, you cann ot 
 make iv or y of it by any kno^vn process.
 
 All Elixir of Love. 45 
 
 Having made this quite clear to you, he carried on his 
 argument hy means of algehra, until he got right 
 through algehra to the ''cases " at the end of the hook, 
 and then he slid hy gentle and imperceptible degrees 
 into conic sections, where ,r, although you found it 
 masquerading as the equation to the parabola, was still 
 as much x as ever. Then if you were not too tired to 
 follow him, you found yourself up to the eyes in plane 
 and spherical trigonometry, where x again turned up in 
 a variety of assumed characters, sometimes as " cos a " 
 sometimes as " sin j3," but generally with a \/ over it, 
 and none the less x on that account. This singular 
 character then made its appearance in a quaint bi- 
 nomial disguise, and was eventually run to earth in the 
 very heart of differential and integral calculus, looking 
 less like x, but being, in point of fact, more like x than 
 ever. The force of his argument went to show that, do 
 what you would, you could not stamp x out, and there- 
 fore it was better and wiser and more straightforward to 
 call him x at once than to invest him with complicated 
 sham dignities which meant nothing, and only served to 
 bother and perplex people who mot him fo}- the first 
 time. It's a very easy problem — anybody can do it. 
 
 Mr. Gay was, as a matter of course, engaged to l)e 
 married. He loved a pretty little girl of eighteen, with 
 soft brown eyes, and bright silky brown hair. Her name 
 was Jessie Lightly, and she was the only daughter of 
 Sir Caractacus Lightly, a wealthy baronet who had a 
 liirge place in the neighbourhood of Ploverleigh. Sir 
 Caractacus was a very dignified old gentleman, whose 
 wife had died two years after Jessie's birth. A well-
 
 46 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 bred, courtly old gentleman, too, with a keen sense of 
 honour. He was very fond of Mr. Gay, though he had 
 no sympathy with his levelling views. 
 
 One beautiful moonlit evening Mr. Gay and Jessie 
 were sitting together on Sir Caractacus's lawn. Every- 
 thing around them was pure and calm and still, so they 
 grew sentimental. 
 
 " Stanley," said Jessie, " we are very, very happy, are 
 we not?" 
 
 " Unspeakably happy," said Gay. " So hapjjy 
 that when I look around me, and see how many there 
 are whose lives are embittered by disappointment — by 
 envy, by hatred, and by malice " (when he grew oratori- 
 cal he generally lapsed into the Litany) ' ' I turn to the 
 tranquil and unruffled calm of my own pure and happy 
 love for you with gratitude unspeakable." 
 
 He really meant all this, though he expressed him- 
 self in rather flatulent periods. 
 
 " I wish with all my heart," said Jessie, "that every 
 soul on earth were as happy as we two." 
 
 " And why are they not ? " asked Gay, who hopped on 
 to his hobby whenever it was, so to speak, brought 
 round to the front door. ' ' And why are they not, 
 Jessie ? I will tell you why they are not. Because — " 
 
 " Yes, darling," said Jessie, who had often heard his 
 argument before. " I knoAv why. It's dreadful." 
 
 "It's as simple as possible," said Gay. " Take x to 
 represent the abstract human being — " 
 
 " Certainly, dear," said Jessie, who agreed with his 
 argument heart and soul, but didn't want to hear it 
 again. " We took it last night."
 
 An Elixir of Love. 47 
 
 " Then," said Gay, not heeding the interruption, " let 
 j:+1, ^ + 2, .r + 3, represent three grades of high rank." 
 
 " Exactly, it's contemptible," said Jessie. " How 
 softly the wind sighs among the trees." 
 
 " What is a duke ? " asked Gay — not for information, 
 but oratorically, with a view to making a point. 
 
 " A mere x + 3," said Jessie. " Could anything be 
 more hollow. What a lovely evening ! " 
 
 "The Duke of Buckingham and Chandos — it sounds 
 well, I grant you," continued Gay, "but call him the 
 a; + 3 of Buckingham and Chandos, and you reduce him 
 at once to — " 
 
 " I know," said Jessie, " to his lowest common denomi- 
 nator," and her little upper lip curled with contempt. 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," said Gay, turning red. 
 " Either hear me out, or let me drop the subject. At 
 all events don't make ridiculous suggestions." 
 
 "I'm very sorry, dear," said Jessie, humbly. "Go 
 on, I'm listening, and I won't interrupt any more." 
 
 But Gay was annoyed and wouldn't go on. So they 
 returned to the house together. It was their first till'. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 In St. Martin's Lane lived Baylis and Culpepper, 
 magicians, astrologers, and professors of the Black Art. 
 Baylis had sold himself to the Devil at a very early age, 
 and had become remarkably proficient in all kinds ol
 
 48 All Elixir of Love. 
 
 enchautmeiit. Culpepper had been his apprentice, and 
 having also acquired considerahle skill as a necroman- 
 cer, was taken into partnership by the genial old 
 magician, who from the tirst had taken a liking to the 
 frank and fair-haired boy. Ten years ago (the date of 
 my story) the firm of Baylis and Culpepper stood at 
 the very head of the London family magicians. They 
 did what is known as a pushing trade, but although they 
 advertised largely, and never neglected a chance, it was 
 admitted even by their rivals, that the goods they 
 supplied could be relied on as sound useful articles. 
 They had a special reputation for a class of serviceable 
 family nativity, and they did a very large and increasing 
 business in love philtres, " The Patent Oxy-Hydrogen 
 Love-at-First-Sight Draught" in bottles at Is. \\(\. and 
 2,s. 3(^ (" our leading article," as Baylis called it) was 
 strong enough in itself to keep the firm going, had all 
 its other resources failed them. But the establishment 
 in St. Martin's Lane was also a " Noted House for 
 Amulets," and if you wanted a neat, well-finished 
 divining-rod, I don't know any place to which I would 
 sooner recommend you. Their Curses at a shilling per 
 dozen were the cheapest things in the trade, and they 
 sold thousands of them in the course of the year. Their 
 Blessings — also very cheap indeed, and quite effective — 
 were not much asked for. " "We always keep a few on 
 hand as curiosities and for completeness, but we don't sell 
 two in the twelvemonth," said Mr. Baylis. " A gentle- 
 man bought one last week to send to his mother-in-law, 
 but it turned out that he was afflicted in the head, and 
 the persons who had charge of him declined to pay for
 
 An Elixir of Love. 49 
 
 it, and it's been returned to us. But the sale of penny 
 curses, especially on Saturday nights, is tremendous. 
 We can't turn 'em out fast enough." 
 
 As Baylis and Culpepper were making up their hooks 
 one evening, just at closing time, a gentle young clergy- 
 man with large violet eyes, and a beautiful girl of 
 eighteen, with soft brown hair, and a Madonna-like 
 purity of expression, entered the warehouse. These 
 were Stanley Gay and Jessie Lightly. And this is how 
 it came to pass that they found themselves in London, 
 and in the warehouse of the worthy magicians. 
 
 As the reader knows, Stanley Gay and Jessie had for 
 many months given themselves up to the conviction 
 that it was their duty to do all in their power to bring 
 their fellow men and women together in holy matrimony, 
 without regard to distinctions of age or rank. Stanley 
 gave lectures on the subject at mechanics' institutes, 
 and the mechanics were unanimous in their approval of 
 his views. He preached his doctrine in workhouses, in 
 beer-shops, and in lunatic asylums, and his listeners 
 supported him with enthusiasm. He addressed navvies 
 at the roadside on the humanising advantages that 
 would accrue to them if they married refined and 
 wealthy ladies of rank, and not a navvy dissented. In 
 short, he felt more and more convinced every day that 
 he had at last discovered the secret of human happiness. 
 Still he had a formidable battle to fight with class pre- 
 judice, and he and Jessie pondered gravely on the 
 difficulties that were before them, and on the best 
 means of overcoming them. 
 
 "It's no use disguising the fact, Jessie," said Mr.
 
 50 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 Gay, " that the Countesses won't like it." And little 
 Jessie gave a sigh, and owned that she expected some 
 difficulty with the Countesses. "We must look these 
 things in the face, Jessie, it won't do to ignore them. 
 We have convinced the humble mechanics and artisans, 
 but the aristocracy hold aloof." 
 
 '' The working-man is the true Intelligence after all," 
 said Jessie. 
 
 " He is a noble creature when he is quite sober," said 
 Gay. " God bless him." 
 
 Stanley Gay and Jessie were in this frame of mind 
 when they came across Baylis and Culpepper's adver- 
 tisement in the Connuhial Chronicle. 
 
 "My dear Jessie," said Gay, "I see a way out of our 
 difficulty." 
 
 And dear little Jessie's face beamed with hope. 
 
 " These Love Philtres that Baylis and Culpepper 
 advertise — they are very cheap indeed, and if we may 
 judge by the testimonials, they are very eff'ective. 
 Listen, darling." 
 
 And Stanley Gay read as follows : — 
 
 "From the Earl of Market Harborough. * I am a 
 hideous old man of eighty, and everyone avoided me. 
 I took a family bottle of your philtre, immediately on 
 my accession to the title and estates a fortnight ago, 
 and I can't keep the young women off". Please send me 
 a pipe of it to lay down.' " 
 
 "From Amelia Orange Blossom. — 'I am a very pretty 
 girl of fifteen. For upwards of fourteen years past I 
 have been without a definitely declared admirer. I took 
 a large bottle of your philtre yesterday, and within
 
 An Elixir of Love. 51 
 
 fourteen hours a young nobleman winked at me in 
 church. Send me a couple of dozen,'" 
 
 " What can the girl want with a couple of dozen 
 young noblemen, darling ?" asked Jessie. 
 
 " I don't know — perhaps she took it too strong. Now 
 these men," said Gay, laying down the paper, "are 
 benefactors indeed, if they can accomplish all they 
 undertake. I would ennoble these men. They should 
 have statues. I would enthrone them in high places. 
 They would be .c + 3." 
 
 " My generous darling," said Jessie, gazing into his 
 eyes in a fervid ecstasy. 
 
 " Not at all," replied Gay. " They deserve it. We 
 confer peerages on generals who plunge half a nation 
 into mourning — shall we deny them to men who bring 
 a life's happiness home to every door ? Always sup- 
 posing," added the cautious clergyman, "that they can 
 really do what they profess." 
 
 The upshot of this conversation was that Gay deter- 
 mined to lay in a stock of philtres for general use 
 among his parishioners. If the effect upon them was 
 satisfactory he would extend the sphere of their opera- 
 tions. So when Sir Caractacus and his daughter went 
 to town for the season, Stanley Gay spent a fortnight 
 with them, and thus it came to pass that he and Jessie 
 went together to Baylis and Culpepper's. 
 
 "Have you any fresh Love Philtres to day?" said 
 Gay. 
 
 "Plenty, sir," said Mr. Culpepper. "How many would 
 you Hke ? " 
 
 " Well — let me see," said Gay. " There are a 
 
 E 2
 
 52 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 hundred and forty souls in my parish, — say twelve 
 dozen." 
 
 **I think, dear," said little Jessie, "you are better to 
 take a few more than you really want, in case of 
 accidents." 
 
 " In purchasing a large quantity, sir," said Mr. Cul- 
 pepper, " we would strongly advise you taking it in the 
 wood, and drawing it off as you happen to want it. We 
 have it in four-and-a-half and nine-gallon casks, and we 
 deduct ten per cent, for cash payments." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Culpepper, be good enough to let me 
 have a nine-gallon cask of Love Philtre as soon as 
 possible. Send it to the Rev. Stanley Gay, Ploverleigh." 
 
 He wrote a cheque for the amount, and so the trans- 
 action ended. 
 
 *' Is there any other article ? " said Mr. Culpepper. 
 
 " Nothing to-day. Good afternoon." 
 
 "Have you seen our new wishing-caps ? They are 
 lined with silk and very chastely quilted, sir. We sold 
 one to the Archbishop of Canterbury not an hour ago. 
 Allow me to put you up a wishing-cap." 
 
 "I tell you that I want nothing more," said Gay, going. 
 
 " Our Flying Carpets are quite the talk of the town, 
 sir," said Culpepper, producing a very handsome piece 
 of Persian tapestry. " You spread it on the ground and 
 sit on it, and then you think of a place and you find 
 yourself there before you can count ten. Our Abudah 
 chests, sir, each chest containing a patent Hag, who 
 comes out and prophecies disasters whenever you touch 
 this spring, are highly spoken of. We can sell the 
 Abudah chest complete for fifteen guineas."
 
 An Elixir of Love. 53 
 
 "I think you tradespeople make a great mistake in 
 worrying people to buy things they don't want," said 
 Gay. 
 
 " You'd be surprised if you knew the quantity of 
 things we get rid of by this means, sir." 
 
 " No doubt, but I think you keep a great many people 
 out of your shop. If x represents the amount you gain 
 
 X 
 
 by it, and y the amount you lose by it, then '\i - =y 
 
 you are clearly out of pocket by it at the end of the year. 
 Think this over. Good evening." 
 
 And Mr. Gay left the shop with Jessie. 
 
 '' Stanley," said she, " what a blessing you are to 
 mankind. You do good Avherever you go." 
 
 " My dear Jessie," replied Gay, "I have had a mag- 
 nificent education, and if I can show these worthy but 
 half-educated tradesmen that their ignorance of the pro- 
 founder mathematics is misleading them, I am only 
 dealing as I should deal with the blessings that have 
 been entrusted to my care." 
 
 As Messrs. Baylis & Culpepper have nothing more to 
 do with this story, it may be stated at once that Stanley 
 Gay's words had a marked effect upon them. They 
 determined never to push an article again, and within 
 two years of this resolve they retired on ample fortunes, 
 Baylis to a beautiful detached house on Clapham 
 Common, and Culpepper to a handsome chateau on the 
 Mediterranean, about four miles from Nice.
 
 54 ^^ Elixir of Love. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 We are once more at Ploverleigb, but this time at 
 the Vicarage. The scene is Mr. Gay's handsome 
 library, and in this library three persons are assembled 
 — Mr. Gay, Jessie, and old Zorah Clarke. It should be 
 explained that Zorah is Mr. Gay's cook and house- 
 keeper, and it is understood between him and Sir 
 Caractacus Lightly that Jessie may call on the curate 
 whenever she likes, on condition that Zorah is present 
 during the whole time of the visit. Zorah is stone deaf 
 and has to be communicated with through the medium 
 of pantomime, so that while she is really no impediment 
 whatever to the free flow of conversation, the chastening 
 influence of her presence would suffice of itself to silence 
 ill-natured comments, if such articles had an existence 
 among the primitive and innocent inhabitants of 
 Ploverleigb. 
 
 The nine-gallon cask of Love Philtre had arrived in 
 due course, and Mr. Gay had decided that it should be 
 locked up in a cupboard in his library, as he thought it 
 would scarcely be prudent to trust it to Zorah, whose 
 curiosity might get the better of her discretion. Zorah 
 (who believed that the cask contained sherry) was much 
 scandalised at her master's action in keeping it in his 
 library, and looked upon it as an evident and unmis- 
 takcable sign that he had deliberately made up his 
 mind to take to a steady course of drinking. However, 
 Mr. Gay partly reassured the good old lady by informing
 
 All Elixir of Love. 55 
 
 her in pantomime (an art of expression in which long 
 practice had made him singularly expert) that the liquid 
 was not intoxicating in the ordinary sense of the word, 
 but that it was a cunning and subtle essence, concocted 
 from innocent herbs by learned gentlemen who had 
 devoted a lifetime to the study of its properties. He 
 added (still in pantomime) that he did not propose to 
 drink a single drop of it himself, but that he intended 
 to distribute it among his parishioners, whom it would 
 benefit socially, mentally, and morally to a considerable 
 extent. Master as he was of the art of expression by 
 gesture, it took two days' hard work to make this clear to 
 her, and even then she had acquired but a faint and 
 feeble idea of its properties, for she always referred to it as 
 sarsaparilla. 
 
 "Jessie," said Gay, " the question now arises, — How 
 shall we most effectually dispense the great boon we 
 have at our command ? Shall we give a party to our 
 friends, and put the Love Philtre on the table in de- 
 canters, and allow them to help themselves?" 
 
 " We must be very careful, dear," said Jessie, " not 
 to allow any married people to taste it." 
 
 " True," said Gay, " quite true. I never thought of 
 that. It wouldn't do at all. I am much obliged to you for 
 the suggestion. It would be terrible — quite terrible." 
 
 And Stanley Gay turned quite pale and faint at the 
 very thought of such a contretemps. 
 
 "Then," said Jessie, "there are the engaged couples. 
 I don't think we ought to do anything to interfere with 
 the prospects of those who have already plighted their 
 troth."
 
 56 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 "Quite true," said Gay, ''we have no right, as you 
 say, to interfere with the arrangements of engaged 
 couples. That narrows our sphere of action very 
 considerably." 
 
 " Then the widows and the widowers of less than one 
 year's standing should be exempted from its influence." 
 
 " Certainly, most certainly. That reflection did not 
 occur to me, I confess. It is clear that the dispensing 
 of the philtre will be a very delicate operation : it will have 
 to be conducted with the utmost tact. Can you think 
 of any more exceptions ? " 
 
 " Let me see," said Jessie. " There's Tibbits, our 
 gardener, who has fits ; and there's Williamson, papa's 
 second groom, who drinks, oughtn't to be allowed to 
 marry ; and Major Crump, who uses dreadful language 
 before ladies ; and Dame Parboy, who is bed-ridden ; and 
 the old ladies in the almshouses — and little Tommy, the 
 idiot — and, indeed, all children under — under what age 
 shall we say ? " 
 
 " All children who have not been confirmed," said 
 Gay. "Yes, these exceptions never occurred to me." 
 
 " I don't think we shall ever use the nine gallons, 
 dear," said Jessie. " One tablespoonful is a dose." 
 
 "I have just thought of another exception," said Gay. 
 "Your papa." 
 
 " Oh ! papa must marry again ! Poor dear old papa ! 
 Oh ! You must let him marry." 
 
 " My dear Jessie," said Gay, " Heaven has off'ered me 
 the chance of entering into the married state unen- 
 cumbered with a mother-in-law. And I am content to 
 accept the blessing as I find it. Indeed, I prefer it so."
 
 An Elixir of Love. 57 
 
 " Papa (Iocs so want to marry — lie is always talking 
 of it," replied the poor little woman, with a pretty pout. 
 " indeed, indeed, my new mamma, whoever she may be, 
 shall never interfere with us. Why, how thankless you 
 are ! My papa is about to confer upon you the most 
 inestimable treasure in the world, a young, beautiful 
 and devoted wife, and you withhold from him a priceless 
 blessing that you are ready to confer on the very meanest 
 of your parishioners." 
 
 "Jessie," said Gay, "you have said enough. Sir 
 Caractacus shall marry. I was wrong. If a certain 
 burden to which I will not more particularly refer is to 
 descend upon my shoulders, I will endeavour to bear it 
 without repining." 
 
 It was finally determined that there was only one way 
 in which the philtre could be safely and properly dis- 
 tributed. Mr. Gay was to give out that he was much 
 interested in the sale of a very peculiar and curious old 
 Amontillado, and small sample bottles of the wine were 
 to be circulated among such of his parishioners as were 
 decently eligible as brides and bridegrooms. The scheme 
 was put into operation as soon as it was decided upon. 
 Mr. Gay sent to the nearest market-town for a gross of 
 two-ounce phials, and Jessie and he spent a long after- 
 noon bottling the elixir into these convenient receptacles. 
 They then rolled them up in papers, and addressed them 
 to the persons who were destined to be operated upon. 
 And when all this was done Jessie returned to her papa, 
 and Mr. Gay sat up all night explaining in pantomime 
 to Zorah that a widowed aunt of his, in somewhat 
 straitened circumstances, who resided in a small but
 
 58 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 picturesque villa in the suburbs of Montilla, bad been 
 compelled to take a large quantity of the very finest sherry 
 from a bankrupt wine-merchant, in satisfaction of a 
 year's rent of her second floor, and that he had undertaken 
 to push its sale in Ploverleigh in consideration of a 
 commission of two-and-a-half per cent, on the sales 
 effected — which commission was to be added to the fund 
 for the restoration of the church steeple. He began his 
 explanation at 9 p.m., and at 6 a.m. Zorah thought she 
 began to understand him, and Stanley Gay, quite ex- 
 hausted with his pantomimic exertions, retired, dead 
 beat, to his chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The next morning as Sir Caractacus Lightly sat at 
 breakfast with Jessie, the footman informed him that 
 Mr. Gay's housekeeper wished to speak to him on very 
 particular business. The courtly old Baronet directed 
 that she should be shown into the library, and at once 
 proceeded to ask what she wanted. 
 
 "If you please Sir Caractacus, and beggin' your 
 pardon," said Zorah as he entered, " I've come with a 
 message from my master." 
 
 " Pray be seated," said Sir Caractacus. But the 
 poor old lady could not hear him, so he explained his 
 meaning to her in the best dumb show he could 
 command. He pointed to a chair — walked to it — sat 
 down in it — leant back, crossed his legs cosily, got up,
 
 An Elixir of Love. 59 
 
 and waved his hand to her in a manner that clearly 
 conveyed to her that she was expected to do as he had 
 done. 
 
 *' My master's compliments and he's gone into the 
 wine trade, and would you accept a sample ? " 
 
 After all, Mr Gay's exertions had failed to convey his 
 exact meaning to the deaf old lady. 
 
 "You astonish me," said Sir Caractacus ; then, 
 finding that she did not understand him, he rumpled 
 his hair, opened his mouth, strained his eye-balls, and 
 threw himself into an attitude of the most horror-struck 
 amazement. Having made his state of mind quite 
 clear to her, he smiled pleasantly, and nodded to her to 
 proceed. 
 
 " If you'll kindly taste it, sir, I'll take hack any orders 
 with which you may favour me." 
 
 Sir Caractacus rang for a wineglass and proceeded to 
 taste the sample. 
 
 " I don't know what it is, but it's not Amontillado," 
 said he, smacking his lips ; " still it is a pleasant 
 cordial. Taste it." 
 
 The old lady seemed to gather his meaning at once. 
 She nodded, bobbed a curtsey, and emptied the glass. 
 
 Baylis and Culpepper had not over-stated the singular 
 effects of the " Patent Oxy-Hydrogcn Love-at-First- 
 Sight Draught." Sir Caractacus's hard and firmly-set 
 features gradually relaxed as the old lady sipped the 
 contents of her glass. Zorah set it down when she had 
 quite emptied it, and as she did so her eyes mot those of 
 the good old Baronet. She blushed under the ardour of 
 his gaze, and a tear trembled on her old eyelid.
 
 6o An Elixir of Love. 
 
 "You're a remarkably fine woman," said Sir Caractacus, 
 " and singularly well preserved for your age." 
 
 "Alas, kind sir," said Zorali, "I'm that hard of 
 hearin' that cannons is whispers." 
 
 Sir Caractacus stood up, stroked his face significantly, 
 smacked his hands together, slapped them both upon 
 his heart, and sank on one knee at her feet. He then 
 got up and nodded smilingly at her to imply that 
 he really meant it. 
 
 Zorah turned aside and trembled. 
 
 "I ain't no scollard, Sir Caractacus, and I don't 
 rightly know how a poor old 'ooman like me did ought 
 to own her likings for a lordly barrownight — but a true 
 'art is more precious than diamonds they do say, and a 
 lovin' wife is a crown of gold to her husband, I ain't 
 fashionable, but I'm a respectable old party, and can 
 make you comfortable if nothing else." 
 
 "Zorah, you are the very jewel of my hopes. My 
 dear daughter will soon be taken from me. It lies with 
 you to brighten my desolate old age. Will you be Lady 
 Lightly ? " 
 
 And he pointed to a picture of his late wife, and went 
 through the pantomime of putting a ring on Zorah's 
 finger. He then indicated the despair that would 
 possess him if she refused to accept his offer. Having 
 achieved these feats of silent eloquence, he smiled and 
 nodded at her reassuringly, and waited for a reply with 
 an interrogative expression of countenance. 
 
 " Yes, dearie," murmured Zorah, as she sank into 
 the Baronet's arms.
 
 An Elixir of Love. 6i 
 
 After a happy half-hour Zorah felt it was her duty to 
 return to her master, so the lovers took a fond farewell 
 of each other, and Sir Caractacus returned to^the break- 
 fast-room. 
 
 " Jessie," said Sir Caractacus, " I think you really 
 love your poor old father ? " 
 
 "Indeed, papa, I do." 
 
 " Then you will, I trust, be pleased to hear that my 
 declining years are not unlikely to be solaced by the 
 companionship of a good, virtuous, and companionable 
 woman." 
 
 " My dear papa," said Jessie, " do you really mean 
 that — that you are likely to be married ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Jessie, I think it is more than probable ! 
 You know you are going to leave me very soon, and my 
 dear little nurse must be replaced, or what will become 
 of me ? " 
 
 Jessie's eyes filled with tears — but they were tears of 
 
 joy- 
 
 " I cannot tell you papa — dear, dear, papa — how 
 happy you have made me." 
 
 " And you will, I am sure, accept your new mamma 
 with every feeling of respect and affection." 
 
 " Any wife of yours is a mamma of mine," said 
 Jessie. 
 
 "My darling ! Yes, Jessie, before very long I hope 
 to lead to the altar a bride who will love and honour me 
 as I deserve. She is no light and giddy girl, Jessie. 
 She is a woman of sober age and staid demeanour, yet 
 easy and comfortable in her ways. I am going to marry 
 Mr. Gay's cook, Zorah,"
 
 62 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 " Zorah," cried Jessie, " dear, dear old Zorah ! Oh, 
 indeed, I am very, very glad and happy ! " 
 
 "Bless you, my child," said the Baronet. " I knew 
 my pet would not blame her poor old father for acting on 
 the impulse of a heart that has never misled him. Yes, 
 I think — nay, I am sure — that I have taken a wise and 
 prudent step. Zorah is not what the world calls 
 beautiful." 
 
 " Zorah is very good, and very clean and honest, and 
 quite, quite sober in her habits," said Jessie warmly, 
 ' ' and that is worth more — far more than beauty, dear 
 papa. Beauty will fade and perish, but personal 
 cleanliness is practically undying, for it can be renewed 
 whenever it discovers symptoms of decay. Oh, I am 
 sure you will be happy ! " And Jessie hurried off to 
 tell Stanley Gay how nobly the potion had done its work. 
 
 "Stanley, dear Stanley," said she, "I have such 
 news — Papa and Zorah are engaged ! " 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it. She will make him an 
 excellent wife ; it is a very auspicious beginnmg." 
 
 " And have you any news to tell me ? " 
 
 " None, except that all the bottles are distributed, 
 and I am now waiting to see their effect. By the way, 
 the Bishop has arrived unexpectedly, and is stopping at 
 the Eectory, and I have sent him a bottle. I should 
 like to find a nice little wife for the Bishop, for he has 
 Crawleigh in his gift — the present incumbent is at the 
 point of death, and the living is worth £1,800 a year. 
 The duty is extremely light, and the county society 
 unexceptional. I think I could be truly useful in such 
 a sphere of action."
 
 An Elixir of Love. 63 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The action of the "Patent Oxy-Hydrogen Love-at- 
 First- Sight Philtre " was rapid and powerful, and before 
 evening there was scarcely a disengaged person (over 
 thirteen years of age) in Ploverleigh. The Dowager 
 Lady Fitz-Saracen, a fierce old lady of sixty, had 
 betrothed herself to Alfred Creeper, of the " Three 
 Fiddlers," a very worthy man, who had been engaged in 
 the public trade all his life, and had never yet had a 
 mark on his license. Colonel Pemberton, of The 
 Grove, had fixed his affections on dear little Bessie 
 Lane, the pupil teacher, and his son Willie (who had 
 returned from Eton only the day before) had given out 
 his engagement to kind old Mrs. Partlet, the widow of 
 the late sexton. In point of fact there was only one 
 disengaged person in the village — the good and grave 
 old Bishop. He was in the position of the odd player 
 who can't find a seat in the " Family !]Coach." But, 
 on the whole, Stanley Gay was rather glad of this, as 
 he venerated the good old prelate, and in his opinion 
 there was no one in the village at that time who was 
 really good enough to be a Bishop's wife, except, indeed, 
 the dear little brown-haired, soft-eyed maiden to whom 
 Stanley himself was betrothed. 
 
 So far everything had worked admirably, and the 
 unions effected through the agency of the philtre, if 
 they were occasionally ill-assorted as regards the 
 stations in life of the contracting parties, were all that
 
 64 Afi Elixir of Love. 
 
 could be desired in every other respect. Good, virtuous 
 straightforward, and temperate men were engaged to 
 blameless women who were calculated to make admir- 
 able wives and mothers, and there was every prospect 
 that Ploverleigh would become celebrated as the only 
 Home of Perfect Happiness. There was but one sad 
 soul in the village. The good old Bishop had drunk 
 freely of the philtre, but there was no one left to love 
 him. It was pitiable to see the poor love-lorn prelate as 
 he wandered disconsolately through the smiling meadows 
 of Ploverleigh, pouring out the accents of his love to an 
 incorporeal abstraction. 
 
 " Something must be done for the Bishop," said 
 Stanley, as he watched him sitting on a stile in the 
 distance. " The poor old gentleman is wasting to a 
 shadow." 
 
 The next morning as Stanley was carefully reading 
 through the manuscript sermon which had been sent to 
 him by a firm in Paternoster Row for delivery on the 
 ensuing Sabbath, little Jessie entered his library (with 
 Zorah) and threw herself on a sofa, sobbing as if her 
 heart would break. 
 
 "Why, Jessie — my own little love," exclaimed 
 Stanley. *' What in the world is the matter '? " 
 
 And he put his arms fondly round her waist, and 
 endeavoured to raise her face to his. 
 
 " Oh, no — no — Stanley — don't — you musn't — indeed, 
 indeed, you musn't." 
 
 " Why, my pet, what can you mean'? " 
 
 " Oh, Stanley, Stanley — you will never, never forgive 
 me."
 
 All Elixi)' of Love. 
 
 " Nonsense, child," said be. " My dear little Jessie 
 is incapable of an act wbicb is beyond tbe pale of for- 
 giveness." And be gently kissed ber forebead. 
 
 " Stanley, you musn't do it — indeed you musu't." 
 
 " No, you musn't do it, Muster Gay," said Zorab. 
 
 " Wby, confound you, wbat do you mean by inter- 
 fering ? " said Stanley in a rage. 
 
 " Ab, it's all very fine, I dare say, but I don't know 
 wbat you're a-talking about." 
 
 And Stanley, recollecting ber infirmity, explained in 
 pantomime tbe process of confounding a person, and 
 intimated tbat it would be put into operation upon 
 ber if sbe presumed to cut in witb impertinent remarks, 
 
 " Stanley — Mr. Gay — " said Jessie. 
 
 "Mr. Gay ! " ejaculated Stanley. 
 
 " I musn't call you Stanley any more." 
 
 " Great Heaven, wby not ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you all about it if you promise not to be 
 violent." 
 
 And Gay, prepared for some terrible news, bid bis 
 bead in bis bands, and sobbed audibly. 
 
 "I loved you — ob so, so mucb — you were my life— 
 my beart," said tbe poor little woman. " ]^y day and 
 by nigbt my tbougbts were witb you, and tbe love came 
 from my beart as tbe water from a well ! " 
 
 Stanley groaned. 
 
 " Wben I rose in tbe morning it was to worlv for 
 your bappiness, and wben I lay down in my bed at 
 nigbt it was to dream of tbe love tbat was to weave itself 
 tbrougb my life. 
 
 He kept bis bead between bis bands and moved not. 
 
 "My life was for your life — my soul for yours! I
 
 66 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 drew breath but for one end — to love, to honour, to 
 reverence you." 
 
 He Hfted his head at last. His face was ashy pale. 
 
 " Come to the point," he gasped. 
 
 "Last night," said Jessie, " I was tempted to taste a 
 bottle of the Elixir. It was but a drop I took on the 
 tip of my finger. I went to bed thinking but of you. 
 I rose to-day, still with you iu my mind. Immediately 
 after breakfast I left home to call upon you, and as 
 I crossed Bullthorn's meadow I saw the Bishop of 
 Chelsea seated on a stile. At once I became conscious 
 that I had placed myself unwittingly under the influence 
 of the fatal potion. Horrified at my involuntary faith- 
 lessness — loathing my miserable weakness — hating my- 
 self for the misery I was about to weave around the life 
 of a saint I had so long adored — I could not but own to 
 myself that the love of my heart was given over, for 
 ever, to that solitary and love-lorn prelate. Mr. Gay 
 (for by that name I must call you to the end), I have 
 told you nearly all that you need care to know. It is 
 enough to add that my love is, as a matter of course, 
 reciprocated, and, but for the misery I have caused you, 
 I am happy. But, full as my cup of joy may be, it 
 will never be without a bitter after-taste, for I cannot 
 forget that my folly — my wicked folly — has blighted the 
 life of a man who, an hour ago, was dearer to me than 
 the whole world ! " 
 
 And Jessie fell sobbing on Zorah's bosom. 
 Stanley Gay, pale and haggard, rose from his chair, 
 and staggered to a side table. He tried to pour out a 
 glass of water, but as he was in the act of doing so the 
 venerable Bishop entered the room.
 
 All Elixir of Love. 67 
 
 " Mr. Gay, I cannot but feel that I owe you some 
 apology for having gained the affections of a young lady 
 to whom you were attached — Jessie, my love, compose 
 yourself." 
 
 And the Bishop gently removed Jessie's arms from 
 Zorah's neck, and placed them about his own. 
 
 " My Lord," said Mr. Gay, " I am lost in amazement. 
 When I have more fully realized the unparalleled mis- 
 fortune that has overtaken me I shall perhaps be able 
 to speak and act with calmness. At the present moment 
 I am unable to trust myself to do either. I am stunned 
 — quite, quite stunned." 
 
 " Do not suppose, my dear Mr. Gay," said the 
 Bishop, " that I came here this morning to add to your 
 reasonable misery by presenting myself before you in 
 the capacity of a successful rival. No. I came to tell 
 you that poor old Mr. Chudd, the vicar of Crawleigh has 
 been mercifully removed. He is no more, and as the 
 living is in my gift, I have come to tell you that, if it 
 can compensate in any way for the terrible loss I have 
 been the unintentional means of inflicting upon you, it 
 is entirely at your disposal. It is worth .£1,800 per 
 annum — the duty is extremely light, and tlie local 
 society is unexceptional." 
 
 Stanley Gay pressed the kind old l^ishop's hand. 
 
 "Eighteen hundred a year will not entirely com- 
 pensate me for Jessie." 
 
 " For Miss Lightly," murmured the l^isliop, gently. 
 
 "For Miss Lightly — but it will go some way towards 
 doing so. I accept your lordship's offer with gratitude." 
 
 "We shall always take an interest in you," said the 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 P 2
 
 68 An Elixir of Love. 
 
 " Always — always," said Jessie. " And we shall be 
 so glad to see you at the Palace — shall we not 
 Frederick ? " 
 
 " Well — ha — hum— yes — oh, yes, of course. Always," 
 
 said the Bishop. " That is — oh, yes — always." 
 
 ****** 
 
 The 14tli of February was a great day for Ploverleigh, 
 for on that date all the couples that had been brought 
 together through the agency of the philtre were united 
 in matrimony by the only bachelor in the place, the 
 Rev. Stanley Gay. A week afterwards he took leave of 
 his parishioners in an affecting sermon, and " read him- 
 self in " at Crawleigh. He is still unmarried, and likely 
 to remain so. He has quite got over his early disap- 
 pointment, and he and the Bishop and Jessie have many 
 a hearty laugh together over the circumstances under 
 which the good old prelate wooed and won the bright- 
 eyed little lady. Sir Caractacus died within a year of 
 his marriage, and Zorah lives with her daughter-in-law 
 at the Palace. The Bishop works hard at the art of 
 pantomimic expression, but as yet with qualified success. 
 He has lately taken to conversing with her through the 
 medium of diagrams, many of which are very spirited in 
 eifect, though crude in design. It is not unlikely that 
 they may be published before long. The series of 
 twelve consecutive sketches, by which the Bishop in- 
 formed his mother-in-law that, if she didn't mind her 
 own business, and refrain from interfering between his 
 wife and himself, he should be under the necessity of 
 requiring her to pack up and be off, is likely to have a 
 very large sale.
 
 JOHNNY POUNCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOW JOHNNY POUNCE WENT TO THE BAD. 
 
 Or rather, how the Bad came to Johnny Pounce ; for 
 Johnny Pounce was a brisk, energetic little man, with 
 a strong sense of his own duty towards his neighbour, 
 and a very hazy and indefinite notion of his neighbour's 
 duty towards himself; and it has been generally 
 observed that the folk who appear to go to the bad of 
 their own volition are distinguished by precisely 
 opposite characteristics, inasmuch as they are, as a 
 rule, neither brisk nor energetic (except in the matter 
 of language) and while they have formed the liveliest 
 possible conception of what is due to themselves from 
 others, appear to imagine that their obliging conduct in 
 consenting to exist is an ample set off against any 
 account which might otherwise have stood against them 
 in their neighbour's books. 
 
 He had been Johnny Pounce for many years. There 
 is in the lifetime of most Johnnies an epoch at which 
 the last syllable is cut ofi' from the affectionate diminu- 
 tive as being a species of undignified fringe, which.
 
 70 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 although proper and consistent when taken in con- 
 junction with embroidered collars, frilled trousers, and 
 caps of peculiar construction, resembling nothing so 
 much as a concertina with a tassel and a spinal affection, 
 is wholly inconsistent with the maturer dignity of 
 jackets and highlow boots, to say nothing whatever of 
 whiskers and the toga virilis. But it was otherwise 
 with Johnny Pounce. There existed a legend in his 
 family that for some years after his christening he was 
 addressed and referred to on all occasions, formal or 
 otherwise, as John, with a view to the propitiation of a 
 rich uncle, likewise so-called, who was then, and for 
 ever after until he died. Something in Demerara, and 
 who was known to have entertained great objections to 
 anything in the shape of a corruption of his own name, 
 and who would, it was supposed, be proportionately 
 gratified at his nephew's christian name being maintained 
 in its integrity. 
 
 But the rich uncle died insolvent of Sugar, when 
 Johnny Pounce was six years old, to the great indigna- 
 tion of the Pounce family generally, and of those 
 immediately interested in Johnny's welfare in particular. 
 They had only one way of taking it out of the rich 
 uncle's memory, and they availed themselves of it with- 
 out delay. John became Jack upon the spot, and the 
 name, whenever it was used, was rapped out with an 
 emphatic asperity, which, although in no way referable 
 to any misconduct on the part of its small proprietor, 
 plunged that citizen into great consternation whenever 
 family necessities required that he should be addressed 
 by name. A sense of injury is seldom so deeply im-
 
 Johnny Pounce. 71 
 
 planted, however, that time will not do much towards up- 
 rooting it, and in the course of years a compromise was 
 effected, and Jack became Johnny. This consummation 
 was brought about by various causes, and among others, 
 through the intercession of the small owner himself as 
 he considered the emendation was not so susceptible of 
 startling emphasis as the shorter corruption, and more- 
 over would give him more time to collect and arrange 
 under various heads, those senses which were generally 
 widely scattered whenever it was necessary to address 
 him. A stern sense of the impropriety of disturbing 
 the average which declared that every John shall be 
 both Johnny and Jack in the course of his existence, 
 may have had some influence in inducing Johnny's papa 
 (who was then in temporary employment as a census 
 clerk) to make the alteration. As Johnny grew up, he 
 continued so small (if one may so express oneself) and 
 evinced a disposition so pleasantly timid and so easily 
 imposed upon, and interpreted by such a cheery, piping 
 little voice, that the propriety, not to say the necessity, 
 of continuing to identify him as Johnny Pounce, was 
 tacitly admitted as a matter of course on all sides. So as 
 Johnny Pounce he grew up, as Johnny Pounce he fought 
 the battle of life, in a timidly courageous sort of way, 
 like the comic soldier in the Battle of Waterloo, who is 
 such a terrible coward until the necessity arises of 
 engaging six or eight cuirassiers at once. 
 
 Hitherto, that is to say up to the date of Johnny's 
 going to the Bad, the Bad had left him pretty well to 
 himself. Johnny was far from being a rich man, for he 
 was an attorney's clerk, but he was almost as far
 
 72 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 removed, or so be tliought, from being a very poor one. 
 At tbe age of tbh-teen be entered tbe office of Messrs. 
 Pintle and Sim, gentlemen, attorneys of Her Majesty's 
 Courts at Westminster and solicitors of tbe Higb 
 Court of Cbancery, at a commencing salary of seven 
 sbillings a week. Tbe salary was small, but tben so 
 was Jobnny, and it was understood tbat tbe two sbould 
 increase and grow up togetber — an arrangement wbicb 
 was fortunately broken tbrougb, for at fifteen Jobnny 
 became, pbysically, a constant quantity. Tbe salary 
 was, bowever, increased by small degrees, as tbe un- 
 obtrusive virtues of tbe recipient became uninten- 
 tionally conspicuous, until at tbe age of fifty-five be 
 found bimself in tbe possession of one bundred and 
 fifty pounds per annum, togetber witb bis employer's 
 full and undivided confidence. 
 
 Jobnny bad married, at tbe age of twenty-one, a 
 pleasant round-faced little body of about bis own age. 
 Sbe was tbe daugbter of tbe bousekeeper tben attacbed 
 to Pintle and Sim's offices, in Carey Street, Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields, and by ber be bad a son. Tbe son, Young 
 Jobn for distinction, was a tall young fellow, wbo bad 
 been decently educated by bis fatber, and efi"ectua]ly 
 provided for by Messrs. Pintle and Sim, wbo bad 
 managed to procure for bim a Government appointment 
 — a junior assistant clerksbip in tbe office of tbe Board 
 for tbe Dissemination of Pauper Pbilosopby. Young 
 Pounce was looked up to as tbe great Pounce Court 
 Card, being tbe representative of Majesty in tbe Pounce 
 councils, and in tbat capacity was played witb great 
 effect by Mrs. Pounce, wbenever it became necessary, in
 
 Johnny Pounce. j^ 
 
 contest with a fashionable lodging-letting neighbour, 
 to assert the family respectability. 
 
 Not that the office of the Board for the Dissemination 
 of Pauper Philosophy was an aristocratic Government 
 office, or even an agreeable one, as far as the clerks 
 were concerned. To be sure it was situated in White- 
 hall, and the hours were from eleven to five, which 
 sounded well, but any aristocratic inferences drawn from 
 these facts would be decidedly erroneous. It was to the 
 Pauper Philosophy Office that all those shabby, not to 
 say dirty, young men in caps and pipes, contrasting 
 strongly with the graceful crowd of other more fortunate 
 Government clerks, were making their way down Parlia- 
 ment Street at a quarter to eleven every morning, and 
 it was at the door of the Pauper Philosophy Office that 
 many unceremonious arrests were made by showy 
 Caacasians, who looked quite gentlemanly by contrast 
 with their dispirited and shabby prisoners. 
 
 In fact the Pauper Philosophy Office, from the Presi- 
 dent of the Board and Secretary down to the assistant 
 messengers, lived in chronic hot water, which appeared 
 to have had the eftect of boiling them hard, so par- 
 ticularly impracticable were all oilicials connected with 
 the establishment to each other and to the world at 
 large. The President of the Board was in hot water, 
 because he was ostensibly responsible for the proceed- 
 ings of the office ; and as he was a ministerial officer 
 who in his ministerial capacity was also responsible for 
 the good behaviour of five-and-twenty other depart- 
 ments, with the intricate working of which he was 
 supposed to become thoroughly intimate by a species of
 
 74 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 Divine Eight immediately on his taking office, he found 
 his time fully occupied in cramming up "explanations," 
 wherewith to satisfy the awkward demands of members 
 with a natural taste for figures. The Secretary was in 
 hot water because remorseless leader writers invariably 
 spotted him as the actual author of every official bungle, 
 and called (about three times a month) upon the country 
 for his instant dismissal. The Under-Secretaries were 
 in hot water because they found that the Secretary, upon 
 Parliamentary emergencies, was so fully occupied in 
 cramming the President, that every detail of official 
 business was referred to them for decision — matters 
 upon which, as one was appointed by a Liberal, and the 
 other by a Conservative Government, they never entirely 
 agreed ; and the clerks were in hot water because they 
 were deeply m debt, because they hated each other 
 (looking, as they did, upon each other as the stepping- 
 stones to a yearly increment of £10 instead of £5), and 
 because their prospects in life were limited to the 
 remote possibility of their attaining, one at a time, the 
 princely salary of £300, after a forty years' apprentice- 
 ship. And finally, the messengers were in hot water 
 because the clerks owed them money, because they 
 owed each other money, and because hot arguments as 
 to the comparative official superiority of clerks and 
 messengers arose upon every occasion upon which these 
 functionaries came into collision. 
 
 There was only one class of officials connected with 
 the Pauper Philosophy Department, which appeared to 
 enjoy a comparative immunity from the general feeling 
 of unhappiness and discontent which pervaded the
 
 Johnny Ponnce. 75 
 
 office. These were the Examiners ; a dozen or so of 
 gentlemen who were appointed (for no reason that 
 clearly appeared) at a salary of ^£300, rising (for no 
 obvious cause) by large yearly instalments to £800. 
 It was required of these gentlemen that they should 
 smoke pipes, drink beer, make bets, come when they 
 liked, go when they liked, do what they liked, and be 
 saddled with no responsibility whatever. These twelve 
 gentlemen were the stock mystery of the Civil Service. 
 More questions were asked in the House about these 
 functionaries than about any other minor topic of 
 Parliamentary discussion, and they were naturally 
 proud of the interest they excited. Sometimes, to be 
 sure, this interest grew to rather too unwieldly dimen- 
 sions to be pleasant, and in such cases it would become 
 the duty of one of them to manufacture a return calcu- 
 lated to show, beyond all dispute, that the whole work 
 of the Pauper Philosophy Oftice was, in point of fact, 
 discharged by them, whereupon they would be much 
 complimented in an indirect sort of way, and the 
 subject allowed to drop for a time. 
 
 On Christmas Eve, in the year of grace 1854, Johnny 
 Pounce entertained a small circle of his more intimate 
 friends. Johnny lived on a second floor in Great Queen 
 Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and on the second lloov in 
 question were assembled besides Johnny Pounce, and 
 his wife, and his son John, Mr. and Mrs. Jemmy 
 Feather, and Mr. Jemmy Feather, junior. Mr. Feather 
 made a good thing of it as a clerk to lioltcr, Q.C. 
 Jemmy Feather was a short, stoutish, middle-aged 
 gentleman, with a highly respectable gold chain, a
 
 76 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 responsible-looking shirt pin, and a gold ring which was 
 a reference in itself. Mrs. Feather was a weazen little 
 body, with over lady-like manners, and a tendency to 
 be ultra-genteel. Mr. Feather, junior, was fifteen, 
 and in collars and straps. He was also in Bolter, 
 Q.C.'s chambers as a sort of under-clerk and beer- 
 fetcher. This fact was carefully concealed from Mrs. 
 Feather, who had been deluded by her designing hus- 
 band into the idea that Mr. Feather, junior, spent his 
 day in an arm-chair, settling pleas and declarations 
 all day long, and occasionally meeting in consultation 
 such attorneys as his employer could not conveniently 
 find time to see. This hypothetical and rosy view of 
 the case reconciled his mamma to his entering the 
 service of a Queen's Counsel in such large practice that 
 his clerk drew about £300 a year in fees alone. Then 
 there was Joe Round, Mrs. Joe Round, and Miss Joe 
 Round, and Miss Joe Round's young man, in a pink 
 fluffy face, and blue stock with geld flies. Joe Round 
 was Deputy Usher at the Central Criminal Court. He 
 was a big, full-voiced man, with a red face, black curly 
 hair, and a self-assertive manner. He had a way with 
 him which seemed to say, "I am Joe Round. Take 
 me as you find me, or let me go, but don't find fault." 
 Mrs. Joe Round was a beautiful specimen of faded 
 gentility. She was an Old Bailey attorney's daughter, 
 and a taste for exciting trials had led her in early youth 
 to the C.C.C., where she saw Joe Round, fell in love 
 with his big voice, and married him. Miss Round was 
 a rather pretty girl, with flirting, aggravating ways, 
 which threatened to drive Miss Round's young man
 
 /ohnny Pounce. jy 
 
 (who was a Toast-master) into a state of utter despera- 
 tion. John Pounce, the younger, was present, but sat 
 apart, in a moody, sulky way, that created considerable 
 astonishment ; for John was a strapping, good-looking 
 young-fellow, with plenty to say for himself, and always, 
 on occasions of festivity, in good humour. 
 
 The evening had been spent as most conventional 
 Christmas Eves are. There is a fearful ordeal to be 
 gone through by all who wish to see Christmas-day in 
 according to rule, and this ordeal is called Forfeits. By 
 way of atonement for an imaginary crime you are 
 required to perform an enigmatical and apparently im- 
 possible task. As there exist only about six of these 
 supplicia, and as everybody has known them, and their 
 solution by heart from the age of four, and as the tasks, 
 when known, are of the simplest possible description, it 
 is difficult to see in what particular feature the amuse- 
 ment consists. In nearly all cases the penalty in- 
 volves kisses to be bestowed on young ladies present, 
 which is an insulting view to take of what is usually 
 looked upon as a favour, and places the recipients, 
 moreover, in an embarrassing position. As there was 
 only one young lady present. Miss Round, she became 
 as a matter of course the implement of torture, to the 
 aggravation of the pink young toast-master who 
 appeared to be doing the reverse of drinking everybody's 
 health, and making no exception in favour of young 
 John, between whom and Miss Bound an excellent 
 understanding seemed to exist. 
 
 Supper had been laid, devoured, and removed, and a 
 fragrant liquor looking like clear soup, but being, in
 
 78 John7iy Pounce. 
 
 point of fact, rum-puncb, had taken its place. Cheery 
 Kttle Johnny Pounce was ladling it out of a very large 
 bowl into very small glasses, with a skill which argued 
 an extensive practice, extending over a large number of 
 consecutive Christmas Eves. 
 
 Johnny Pounce was eminently loyal, and there were 
 three toasts that invariably obtained at his meetings, 
 the Queen, Church and State, and the Firm. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," he said, in proposing the last 
 toast, "I call it still the Firm, though it's a Firm no longer 
 except in name. Mr. Sim, as 3''ou have heard me say, left 
 the business three years since, and he's now in Melbourne 
 doing his ten thousand a year, God bless him. It's my 
 conviction, gentlemen, that if ever there was a better- 
 hearted man than Pintle that gentleman is Sim, and if 
 ever there existed a nobler old gentleman than Sim that 
 old gentleman is Pintle. They were good to me when 
 I was a boy no higher than — than I am now, gentlemen, 
 and they've made a man of me, and they've given me my 
 old wife there (hear, hear) — my old wife there, who's 
 looking just the same in my old eyes as she did thirty 
 years ago, gentlemen. (" Go along, Johnny, do," from 
 Mrs. Pounce). She's stuck to me through thick and 
 thin, for I've had a hardish time of it, take one thing 
 with another, and here I am thrown high and dry 
 beyond the reach, as I humbly believe, of poverty, with 
 my boy here — look up, young John — with my boy here 
 a-serving the Queen ; (John, my boy, fill up) — a-serving 
 the Queen, God bless her, and doing more to make his 
 old dad's heart happy, by doing that for ninety pound a 
 year than if he was managing a bank with five hundred.
 
 Johnny Ponnce. 79 
 
 Gentlemen, this is all Pintle and Sim, and what I say 
 is, Here's the health of Pintle and Sim, and God bless 
 'em. The Firm, gentlemen." 
 
 The toast was received with all enthusiasm. 
 
 " Why, young John," said Johnny. " Cheer up, lad, 
 you're terribly down-hearted to-night ! " 
 
 " What's it all about, John ? " said Jemmy Feather. 
 " Give it a name, young John." 
 
 "I think Mr. John must be in love," said Miss Kound. 
 
 "Nonsense, I'm all right, father. Don't mind me. 
 I'm a bit low to-night, but it's nothing to speak of." 
 
 "Now, Mr. John," said Miss Round, " I insist upon 
 your cheering up. It's a very bad compliment you're 
 paying me ; I declare you haven't spoken a word to me 
 all the evening." And Miss Round assumed a becom- 
 ing pout which had worked great things in bringing the 
 young toast-master to the point. 
 
 The effect of the usually successful pout was quite 
 lost upon Mr. John, who fidgetted upon his chair in an 
 unsatisfactory and discontented way. Not so, however, 
 upon the toast-master, who, remembering the effect the 
 pout in question had had upon him in happier days, 
 regarded young John with feelings of the bitterest hate. 
 He was, of course, unable to convey any verbal expres- 
 sion of his sentiments on this point, so he contented 
 himself with silently drinking innumerable ironical 
 toasts, all of which professed to invoke blessings without 
 number on the head of the young man. 
 
 A knock was heard at the door, and a drabby maid- 
 servant put her head in. 
 
 "Mr. Pounce, sir, you're wanted."
 
 So fohniy Potmce. 
 
 " Eh, what, Maria, me wanted ? Why, who wants 
 Johnny Pounce at half-past twelve on Christmas 
 morning ? ' ' 
 
 " It's a gentleman, sir. It's from the Firm. He's 
 in the back room." 
 
 "God bless me, at this time of night ! Excuse me, 
 old friends, for a moment ; I'll be with you again 
 directly. Here, young John, take my place, my boy, 
 and give 'em a song : I'll be back directly." And 
 Johnny Pounce left the room. 
 
 Young John could not in strictness be complimented 
 upon his conduct in the chair. The song which his 
 father had suggested on leaving the room was loudly 
 called for. 
 
 " Now, young John," said Round. " The song. 
 Silence in court." 
 
 " Oh, do, Mr. John," chorused the ladies. 
 
 *' For my sake," added Miss Round. 
 
 " Yes, for her sake," muttered the toast-master 
 ironically. 
 
 " Look here," said John, " I'm not in cue for sing- 
 ing, and that's the long and short of it. Hang it 
 all. Can't you see that ? " 
 
 It could be seen, and very plainly, too. The poor 
 fellow presented a depressing specimen of a convivial 
 chairman. 
 
 " I believe it's usual to sing when called on," said the 
 toast-master. " At least, that's the rule." 
 
 " Hear, hear," from Feather. " Now, gents, what 
 do you say? The prisoner at the bar stands on his 
 deliverance."
 
 Johnny Pottnce. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Good that. * Stands on his deHverance.' 
 So he does." This from Round. 
 
 " Now, gents, you shall well and truly try ; eh, Round, 
 my boy ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the usher. ** * Well and truly 
 try ! Well said Jemmy. Good. Well and truly try. 
 And true deliverance make.' " 
 
 Whether the result of this comhination of forces, 
 backed up as it was by the majesty of the Law, would 
 have had the desired effect is uncertain, for at that 
 moment Johnny Pounce entered the room as pale as a 
 ghost. 
 
 "We're very glad you've come, Mr. Pounce," said 
 Mrs. Feather, " young John is quite refractory ; he 
 won't sing, do what we can. Why, dear mo, Mr. 
 Pounce, what on earth's the matter ? " 
 
 " There must be no more singing to-night ; an 
 awful thing has happened. Mr. Pintle fell down dead 
 half-an-hour ago." 
 
 And Johnny Pounce dropped into his chair, and 
 covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " Good God, Johnny ! Dead ! " said Mrs. Pounce ; 
 " Mr. Pintle dead ! " 
 
 " Yes, dead ; and me drinking his health not ten 
 minutes since. Old friends, you'll forgive me, I know ; 
 but I'm afraid we must break up ; it's an awful thing." 
 
 " And you a-drinking of his health ! " reflected the 
 toast-master, with an air which suggested that he 
 regretted the circumstance as having a tendency to 
 lessen the general belief in the effic^u^y of toasts, and, 
 indirectly, in his professional importance.
 
 82 Johnny P ounce. 
 
 The company arose to go amid an awkAvard silence, 
 which was broken by occasional and spasmodic efforts 
 at commonplace consolation. 
 
 The having to go away gave a heartless effect to the 
 behaviour of the company ; it seemed so like deserting 
 a Inend in the hour of need ; but there was no help for 
 it, and one by one, almost silently, the visitors took 
 their departure. 
 
 " It's a dreadful thing," said Johnny, when he and his 
 wife and son were left alone. " Disease of the heart: 
 sudden, quite sudden ; dropped down in his chair, and me 
 sent to, to give up his papers ; I must be off to the office." 
 
 " Oh, Johnny, Johnny ! What are Ave to do ? Poor 
 Mr. Pintle ! Such a fine old gentleman, and ten years 
 more life you could have declared to ; the picture of 
 health he always was. Poor Mr. Pintle ! " 
 
 And Johnny Pounce wrapped himself in a great-coat 
 and shawl, and hurried through the driving snow across 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields to Carey Street. 
 
 The visitors (for they were two) who had so un- 
 ceremoniously disturbed Johnny's party were waiting 
 for him in a hansom at the office door. One of them 
 was an errand-boy, whose faculties seemed to be quite 
 dispersed by the frightful occurrence which had just 
 taken place, and which, in ffict, he had almost witnessed. 
 The other was a tall, dark, gentlemanly man, with a 
 heavy black moustache and military bearing. He was 
 John Redfern, the late Mr. Pintle's nephew and heir- 
 at-law, and he held a captain's commission in a cavalry 
 regiment. The mission upon which he had come was 
 to fetch the will which was known to be in the office,
 
 Johnny Pounce. 83 
 
 together with such other documents as might refer to 
 the affairs of the dead man, and to seal all cuphoards, 
 doors, and safes. 
 
 " Oh ! here you are," said Captain Redfern. " What 
 a deuce of a time you've been ! Now, we'll get the will 
 and other papers, and then you must come down with 
 them to Russell Square, and deliver them into Mrs. 
 Pintle's custody." 
 
 Poor Johnny opened the office door with some 
 difficulty, for his hand shook violently, and his eyes 
 were blinded Avith big tears. Although he winked and 
 blinked hard at them, they couldn't take the hint, but 
 rolled down his face until their identity was lost in that 
 of the melting snow on his woollen comforter. 
 
 " Mr. Pintle's will, sir, is in this box ; shall I take it 
 to Russell Square, sir, or unlock it here ? " 
 
 " Better open it now," said Captain Redfern ; " Mrs. 
 Pintle is, of course, greatly distressed, and would be un- 
 able to attend to it at present. Open it ; will you ? " 
 
 The box was opened, but no will was there ; and the 
 papers it contained referred only to mortgages effected 
 upon his real property. Poor Johnny stood utterly dis- 
 mayed, as he had a perfect recollection of having seen 
 INIr. Pintle place it there a few days before his death. 
 
 " There is no will here, sir, and, yet, he always told 
 me to look here for it if ever he was carried off" suddenly. 
 What's more, I saw him put it in here not three days ago. 
 It was the day before yesterday when he kindly added a 
 codicil, which increased the sum he was good enough to 
 leave to me, sir ; I'm his confidential clerk, sir, and have 
 
 been for fifteen years, and he'd have told me if " 
 
 G 2
 
 84 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 " Well, but isn't there any other receptacle into which 
 he may have placed it ? Think now. Don't stand 
 staring there, hut hustle about and liud it." 
 
 "Captain Redfern, I'm doing my best to think, but 
 my head's not strong, and I've been terribly shook, sir. 
 There are the drawers of his private table ; it's the only 
 place I can think of." 
 
 The drawers of the desk were opened one by one, and 
 their contents overhauled. Memoranda, important 
 letters that required his personal attention, stationery, 
 and other matters of a similar nature, Avere there, but 
 no will. 
 
 " I'm quite lost, sir," said Johnny. "It's the most 
 extraordinary thing ! He would never have distroyed 
 it without telling me." 
 
 " Come along, you boy," said Captain Eedfern to the 
 office lad. " You can go," he added to Pounce. "I 
 keep you on at your salary another week, during which 
 time you will be always here in case you're w'anted. At 
 the end of the week you go. Take this as notice to quit. 
 Stop ; seal up the inner room ; " and sealed up the 
 inner room was. 
 
 Captain Redfern and the boy got into the hansom, 
 and drove off to Russell Square. Old Johnny Pounce, 
 completely staggered by what had occurred, locked the 
 outer door, and trudged back through the cold slush to 
 Great Queen Street. 
 
 His wife and son were still sitting up, talking over 
 the event of the evening, when Johnny entered. The 
 mother had evidently been recapitulating the chances of 
 Johnny Pounce having been comfortably provided for ;
 
 Johnny Pounce. 85 
 
 aud young John listened sulkily, but with interest 
 nevertheless. 
 
 " Well, Johnny, back again ! Now you just drink this 
 right off before you say another word ; " aud she handed 
 him a big tumbler of punch, which she had kept hot for 
 him during his absence, 
 
 " No, no, my dear, no punch. It's a most extraor- 
 dinary thing, but there's no will to be found. He must 
 have destroyed it since the day before yesterday, and I've 
 notice to go this day week. Thus ends forty-five years' 
 faithful service ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Johnny ! " sobbed his wife. 
 
 " Young John, my boy," said his father, " there's no 
 knowing how long I may be without employment ; for 
 I'm an old man, John, and it'll be poor work, whatever 
 it is. You're the head of the family now, young John, 
 and it's your turn to show yourself equal to the position. 
 You're the Queen's servant, John, and a gentleman. 
 John, my boy, we must look to you." 
 
 "Don't look to me, father, for much," said young 
 John, " for I got the sack this morning." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 now JOHNNY rOUNCE SPENT A CONSIDERABLE TIME AT 
 THE BAD. 
 
 This was a terrible blow to Johnny Pounce and his 
 wife, who had a restless time of it that night. He 
 knew very well that Mr. Pintle had made a will, and
 
 86 Johnny Potmce. 
 
 further, that his, Johnny Pounce's, name, was down in it 
 for a thousand pounds, which was a sum sufficient to 
 render him independent for Hfe. If the will turned up, 
 which appeared unlikely, all would be well ; if not, the 
 family prospects were particularly unsatisfactory. He 
 was thrown out of employment, with no immediate 
 prospect of obtaining anything half so good (for he was 
 getting on in years) , and had saved but little money, for 
 he knew, or felt sure that he knew, that Pintle and Sim 
 would never let him starve. Moreover, his son, whom 
 he looked upon as the only prop and stay of the family 
 respectability, had that day been ignominiously dis- 
 charged from his clerkship. 
 
 And the manner of his dismissal Avas this. He had 
 a few days before, in resisting a piece of unnecessary 
 petty tyranny on the part of a fellow clerk in temporary 
 charge of his department, used stronger language than 
 was absolutely necessary. This was reported to the 
 secretary. Now, the secretary had a double-action, 
 l)ack-handed way of dealing with complaints between 
 " hands " (as he delighted to call them) of nearly equal 
 rank, and the usual remedy was adopted on this 
 occasion. Fox (the complainant) was rebuked for 
 having used unnecessary tyranny, but it was shown that 
 young John was doubly culpable, for he not only re- 
 sisted the order, which he should have obeyed and then 
 complained of, but he had also sworn a bad oath, and 
 otherwise misconducted himself (being a hot-headed 
 young fellow) to the annihilation of all order and dis- 
 cipline. So it was ordered that young John should 
 forthwith publicly apologize to the miscreant Fox,
 
 Johnny Po2ince. %"] 
 
 which young John resolutely declined to do. So My 
 Lords deliberated on the state of the case, and the result 
 of the deliberation was that young John was required to 
 deliver over into My Lords' hands his resignation of the 
 appointment he held under them. 
 
 A more miserable young man than young John was 
 on the afternoon of Christmas Eve probably never 
 stepped out of a government office. He was absolutely 
 penniless and particularly deeply in debt — in a small 
 vulgar way — besides. He had borrowed £'5 from a loan 
 office, and he was in debt to the amount of some pounds 
 to the tavern-keeper who supplied his dinner. His 
 tailor and boot-maker had for mouths been a source of 
 anxiety to him, sleeping and waking ; and a miserable 
 bit of kite-flying (of which he expected to hear more on 
 the 1st of February) exercised a depressing influence 
 over him, which appeared to increase in geometrical 
 proportion as the day approached. 
 
 As a set-off to these claims, he had his half-quarter's 
 cheque on the Postmaster-General for about i^l2, and 
 a letter from the secretary accepting his resignation in 
 My Lords' name. 
 
 Young John had, however, quite made up his mind as 
 to his future course. The Crimean War was then in full 
 swing, the battles of the Alma and Inkerman had both 
 been fought in the course of the last three or four months, 
 and the demand for young and active fellows to lill up 
 the lists of the dead was unprecedented. 
 
 There were recruiting sergeants at every street-corner 
 in Westminster, who talked with robust eloquence of 
 the glories of the war — which they had not seen — and of
 
 S8 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 the rollicking character of the life in the trenches — of 
 which they had formed but vague and imperfect 
 notions. Liberal bounty and a free kit were offered as 
 a temptation, should the war itself be an insufficient at- 
 traction. Of the starving (with plenty within grasp, only 
 under lock and key) ; of the dying for want of medicines 
 and bandages, with stores of drugs and bales of lint 
 within pistol-shot (only stowed in ship-holds) ; of the 
 freezing, with new overcoats and rugs in tens of 
 thousands a mile away (only under seal) nothing was 
 said. In point of fact, of these matters very little was 
 known in England. Young John had made up his 
 mind that morning that he would take the shilling of 
 the first smart cavalry serjeant who hailed him, so he 
 spent an hour or two in writing a letter to his father 
 and mother (enclosing his cheque on the Postmaster- 
 General duly signed) and in packing up a scanty ward- 
 robe, the greater part of which he determined to sell. 
 He left his home before daybreak on Christmas morning, 
 and bore away straight for a public-house in Charles 
 Street, Westminster, the headquarters of a party of 
 cavalry recruiting sergeants. 
 
 He soon found what he wanted. A non-commissioned 
 officer of the 13th Light Dragoons was down upon him 
 in a hail-fellow-well-met sort of way, with an affecta- 
 tion of joviality intended to convey an idea of what a par- 
 ticularly rollicking thing a soldier's life must be. Young 
 John soon entered into conversation Avith the sergeant, 
 and the sergeant, who was a liberal-hearted dog, stood a 
 pot of beer (because it was Christmas- day) which they 
 drank together.
 
 Johnny Ponnce. 89 
 
 Young Jolmny asked few questions of the sergeant, 
 but those that he did ask had reference principally to 
 the nature of the life in store for him. 
 
 "Well," said the sergeant, summarizing the whole 
 thing, "look here; eight in the morning revolly — up 
 you get. You can get up at eight, can't you ? " 
 
 Johnny thought he could manage it at a pinch. 
 
 " That's lucky. Well, you have an hour to dress ; 
 then comes breakfast — coflee or chocolate, bread and 
 butter, and eggs or what not. Then once a week 
 mornin' stables ; twice a week adjutants' parade, one 
 hour ; other days, nothing except when for guard or 
 fatigue, which comes (say) once a month. One o'clock, 
 dinner— soup or fish (seldom both), and jint ; pudden 
 very rare. Then nothiu' till six ; six, evenin' stables 
 once a week ; other days, reading out loud, half- 
 an-hour. Then nothin' till tattoo, which in crack 
 regiments is mostly half-past eleven. At tattoo, roll- 
 call, and bed. That's the programme." 
 
 Young John made some allowance for the gallant 
 fellow's enthusiasm; extreme love of a profession often 
 invests it with an attractive colouring. 
 
 "I joined eighteen months ago," the sergeant con- 
 tinued. " I'm but a young soldier, as you see, but I 
 rose. In six weeks I was made a corporal with 56'. 9d. 
 a day ; in six more I was troop sergeant, with 8s. 4.d. 
 That's what I'm getting now ; 8s. 4cL ain't bad for 
 eighteen months. You'd do it in half the time." 
 
 " Now look here," said John. " Don't tell unnecessary 
 lies. If the service was the worst on the face of the 
 earth, I'd join it, because I've what people call, gone
 
 90 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 wrong, and I want to get away from this. I'm a 
 strongisli chap, and about the sort of man you fellows 
 want ; so hand over the shilling. My name's John Cole; 
 age twenty-two ; previous occupation, clerk," 
 
 The sergeant vowed he was the very man he wanted. 
 He admired pluck, he said, and had cut himself away 
 from a lucrative profession because he wanted to see 
 what blood was like. Most of the men in crack cavalry 
 regiments were young barristers of arts or medical 
 doctors, with here and there a young nobleman or two, 
 under an assumed name. These young men had cut 
 from home because their relentless parents, having set 
 their face against the army as a profession, had refused 
 to buy them commissions. That was his case. He was 
 a barrister of arts once ; now he was troop -sergeant in 
 Her Majesty's 13th Light, and thank God, he said. 
 
 All this was satisfactory, as far as it went, and young 
 John Pounce was duly enlisted, under the name of John 
 Cole, by the friendly sergeant. The subsequent medical 
 examination and attestation were properly and satisfac- 
 torily undergone, and Private John Cole, of Her 
 Majesty's 13th Light Dragoons, was drafted off to the 
 regimental deiM)t, and thence in about six weeks to the 
 Crimea. 
 
 A thoroughly sleepless night is a fearful thing to 
 undergo. It is bad enough when that sleeplessness is 
 the result of sharp pain or irritating fever, but when it 
 comes of a distressed or a disheartened mind, it is abso- 
 lutely terrible. Poor old Johnny Pounce had a bad time 
 of it that Christmas night. He tossed and rolled about, 
 and changed the side of his pillow, and then, when it
 
 Johitny Pounce. 91 
 
 turned out that that energetic step was barren of good 
 result, he got out of bed, and walked up and down the 
 room ; then he got into bed again and counted five 
 thousand. " Five thousand " found him rather more 
 wakeful if possible than he was when he began, so he 
 gave up counting to listen to the ticking of the old Dutch 
 clock. But the old Dutch clock called so loudly for 
 " Linkman Toddles! Linkman Toddles! Linkman 
 Toddles ! " that he began to wish that functionary would 
 appear, and satisfy the clamorous old instrument. 
 Toddles not turning up, the clock gave him up for a bad 
 job, and in despair at Toddles' want of faith, ticked out 
 plaintively, "Come, Dyspepsia! Come, Dyspepsia! 
 Come, Dyspepsia ! " This awful invocation was too 
 much for poor Johnny, who got out of bed once more, 
 and finally stopped the dreadful machine. As morning 
 broke, he fell into a restless tossing sleep, which only 
 had the effect of giving him a racking headache. When 
 he finally awoke, it was with a dull heavy sense of some 
 fearful misfortune which had just happened to him, and 
 when the events of the preceding night broke suddenly 
 upon him, he buried his old head in his pillow, and 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 Matters were not mended by the discovery of the 
 letter which young John had placed on the sitting-room 
 table. It hardly wanted this to complete the family misery, 
 and old Johnny and his wife were absolutely thunder- 
 struck by this fresh misfortune. The letter did not say 
 where young John was going, nor did it give any clue to 
 the step that he was about to take. It merely said that 
 he was going away for a while ; and that if he could save
 
 92 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 any money he would send it from time to time to a post- 
 office in the neighhourhood ; that they were not to fret 
 for him, as he would be sure to turn up sooner or later ; 
 that the cheque for £12 was for their use ; that his 
 dismissal was not attended by any disgraceful circum- 
 stances, and that he was their ever-loving son, Johnny 
 Pounce. 
 
 Old Johnny's indignation at this desertion was un- 
 bounded. 
 
 " So that's my son, is it ? That's my fair-weather son, 
 whom I've brought up, and educated, and clothed, and 
 fed, and whom the firm made a gentleman of. What'll 
 the firm think of this, after all their kindness ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pounce mildly reminded her husl)and that the 
 firm was in Heaven. 
 
 " True, true — I forgot. If he'd only given us a hint 
 as to where he was going ; if he'd shaken his old 
 dad's hand and kissed his old mother before he left, I 
 could have forgiven him. But to desert his old parents 
 just as soon as he found out that they were penniless 
 and could help him no longer, was that like a son of 
 ours, Emma? " 
 
 " Well, Johnny, for the matter of that, it maybe that 
 he was fearful of being an encumbrance. He's left his 
 half-quarter's salary for us, and I'm afraid the poor boy 
 has gone forth into the world without a penny in his 
 pocket. I'd make a better breakfat^t this morning for 
 the knowledge beyond doubt that he'd had one too. 
 Perhaps he's hungry, Johnny." 
 
 " Hungry, Emma? Young John hungry, and me a- 
 pegging away into bread and meat, and his half-
 
 Johnny Potmce. 93 
 
 quarter's cheque a-staring me in the face, and him 
 hungry ! What a dreadful thing to think of, old girl. 
 Poor young John ! " 
 
 They were not long in coming to the conclusion that 
 he had enlisted. Johnny's duties called him to Carey 
 Street, although it was Christmas-day, but Mrs. Johnny 
 made it her business to wander about recruiting 
 depots all day. Youug John, however, carefully kept 
 himself inside the public-house, and gave the friendly 
 recruiting sergeant, who was not quite so friendly now — 
 that professional gentleman having cooled down amaz- 
 ingly since the morning — a hint that he might possibly 
 be sought for. So ]Mrs. Pounce's eflbrts were utterly 
 fruitless. 
 
 Johnny spent every day of that ensuing week at the 
 office. It was difficult at first to persuade oneself that 
 that chair would never be filled by Mr. Pintle again ; 
 that the ruler, paper-weight, gum-bottle, pens, ink, and 
 scissors, left as he had left them day after day for lilty 
 years, had been arranged in their methodical order by 
 him for the last time. The conveyancing clerk and the 
 common law clerk were paid their salaries and dismissed 
 by Captain Piedfern, the heir-at-law, who was closeted 
 all day long with old Johnny, going over various deeds, 
 and making himself intimate with all the affairs of the 
 dead man. On the Saturday evening old Johnny was 
 paid his last week's salary of three pounds, and was in- 
 formed that his services would for the future be dis- 
 pensed with. 
 
 Old Johnny spent many a weary day, and trudged 
 many a weary mile through snow and slush, after fresh
 
 94 Johnny Poiuice. 
 
 employment. He was known and respected by many of 
 Pintle's clients, and also by solicitors who bad been 
 opposed to Pintle and Sim ; but he could get little from 
 them. The feet that no will had been found, although 
 it was admitted by Johnny that one had been made and 
 deposited in his custody two days before Pintle's death, 
 argued either gross carelessness or gross felony on the 
 part of the confidential clerk ; and, added to this, he was 
 a feeble old man, and quite past learning new duties. 
 A fcAv of his better friends subscribed small sums for 
 the old man's maintenance, and others gave his wife 
 needlework, so that for some weeks they were kept 
 from absolute want. But these weekly subscriptions 
 dwindled down, one by one, as the recollection of old 
 Johnny and his distress became less vivid, until at last 
 they had nothing to depend on but a weekly five 
 shillings, the subscription of a stauncher friend than 
 the rest. 
 
 In his extreme distress he made an appeal to Mrs. 
 Pintle. He dressed himself as neatly as his reduced 
 circumstances would allow, and presented himself at her 
 house in Eussell Square. He had been there once before 
 since Mr. Pintle's death, to ask permission to follow his 
 old employer to the grave, but he was curtly informed 
 that Captain Redfern would require him in the ofBce 
 that day, and therefore he could not be present. This 
 rebuff, conveyed to him by a weak-eyed flunkey, who 
 called him " my man," had had the effect of preventing 
 his applying to Mrs. Pintle for assistance hitherto ; but 
 emboldened by hunger, and more especially by the 
 thinning face of his once chubby little wife, he deter-
 
 Johnny Pounce. 95 
 
 mined to put his pride in his pocket, and encounter the 
 weak-eyed one once more. 
 
 The weak-eyed one was just in the transition state 
 hetween a very old page and a very young footman. 
 His precise functions in Mrs. Pintle's household were 
 as indefinite as his age, for his duties extended from 
 cleaning the windows to driving (at a pinch) the 
 brougham. He was engaged in the familiar but neces- 
 sary duty of cleaning the knives when Johnny called, 
 and as Johnny inadvertently pulled the visitor's bell, 
 the weak-eyed one was under the necessity of exchang- 
 ing the linen jacket of domestic life for the black coat 
 and worsted epaulette of ceremony, and of making other 
 radical improvements in his personal appearance, before 
 he opened the door. This functionary had, from a 
 great many years' apprenticeship at opening street 
 doors, taught himself to look upon society as divided 
 into two great heads or groups — visitors and servants ; 
 and he who was not a visitor, was, from the weak-eyed 
 one's point of view, a servant. He considered that a 
 man's social position was typified by the bell he rang, 
 and as there existed no intermediate bell for the 
 numerous classes of callers who certainly could not 
 aspire to the dignity of being visitors in the ordinary 
 acceptation of the term, and who were equally far from 
 being in the position of domestic servants, he recognised 
 no intermediate class between the honoured drawing- 
 room caller and the boy who brought the servants' beer. 
 Avowedly a servant himself, he was affable, and, in a 
 weak-eyed wa}', even cheerful, to those who identified 
 themselves with the humbler bell ; but he who, without
 
 96 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 due excuse, rang a bell which implied that he was a 
 drawing-room visitor, became on the spot the object 
 of the Aveak-eyed one's unutterable loathing and foul 
 scorn. 
 
 Wretched Johnny stood on the steps waiting for the 
 opening of the door, and improving the opportunity by 
 blowing his frozen nose, that he might not be compelled 
 to the commission of that indecency before Mrs. Pintle. 
 Eventually it opened, and the weak-eyed one stood 
 before him in all the respectable magnificence of expen- 
 sive mourning. 
 
 " Well, what is it '? " said that retainer, as soon as he 
 had taken Johnny's measure, and assured himself of 
 Johnny's want of title to the dignity to which he had 
 aspired. 
 
 Now "What is it?" is a peculiarly aggravating 
 form of address, and one which is much a fleeted by 
 haughty menials. Bank of England clerks, ushers in 
 courts of law, and other insolent and overbearing under- 
 lines. Providence, however, who seldom inflicts a bane 
 without producing an antidote, has mercifully endowed 
 the questioned one with the power of nicaking the return 
 enquiry, " What is what "? " which, being unanswerable, 
 has the effect of invariably shutting up, humbling, and 
 morally squashing the miserable flunkey whose mis- 
 conduct brings it down upon him. 
 
 Johnny, however, being depressed in mind, enfeebled 
 in body, and entertaining altogether the poorest possible 
 opinion of himself and his claims to an honourable 
 reception, and, moreover, not being aware of the 
 magnificent revenge which lay within his grasp, humbly
 
 Johnny Potmce. 97 
 
 replied that be should be glad to see jNIrs. Pintle, if 
 convenient. 
 
 "What might you wish with Mrs. Pintle ? " asked the 
 weak-eyed one. 
 
 " I am the late Mr. Pintle's confidential clerk ; I wish 
 to speak to her in that capacity." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed, sir, walk in," said the weak-eyed one, 
 not feeling altogether sure that Johnny had not suc- 
 ceeded notwithstanding the depressing seediness of his 
 appearance, in establishing his title to the visitor's bell 
 after all. He perhaps thought that this melancholy 
 state of things was the natural result of the absorbing 
 nature of the confidences which had been reposed in 
 Johnny by Mr. Pintle. The Queen's Counsel, who 
 dined now and then at the house, were seedy, so, after 
 all, that was no rule. So he showed Johnny into the 
 library, and shortly returned with the information that 
 Mrs. Pintle was in the drawing-room and would see him 
 there. So Johnny walked up the softly-carpeted stair- 
 case, with much internal flutter, and much external 
 mopping, and moreover, with much internal clearing of 
 his husky throat. He found Mrs. Pintle dressed in the 
 deepest black, and reclining in a spineless way on a 
 comfortable sofa. 
 
 Mrs. Pintle was a lady of fifty, or thereabouts. She 
 was a lank, limp lady, with pale straw-coloured hair 
 turning grey, in that slack-baked pie-crust looking way 
 peculiar to straw-coloured hair in middle age. She was 
 a perfect monument of bombazine, crape, bugles, and jot, 
 and if the depth of her sorrow could be fathomed \\\ any 
 way by reference to the funereal character of her appear-
 
 98 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 ance, she must have heen a wife to be proud of. The 
 memorial erected in Keusal Green to the late Mr. Pintle's 
 memory, covered as it was with Scriptural references 
 (which were, no doubt, anxiously overhauled by all 
 visitors to that cheerful spot immediately on their reach- 
 ing home), was an admirable conventional tombstone, as 
 tombstones go, but it was entirely eclipsed in efficacy by 
 Mrs. Pintle herself, who possessed peripatetic advantages 
 which carried a mournful recollection of the deceased 
 lawyer into the very bosom of her visiting acquaintance. 
 The only question was as to the comparative duration of 
 the two monuments. Every article of furniture which 
 admitted of black drapery was smothered in it, and the 
 envelopes and note-paper were black, with a small white 
 parallelogram in the centre. As you gazed on this 
 melancholy state of things, you Avere almost tempted to 
 wonder how it came to pass the pie-crust hair had not 
 been placed in mourning also. 
 
 Johnny was immensely impressed by this dismal spec- 
 tacle, and was much pleased at the contradiction it gave 
 to the popular rumour that Mr. and Mrs. Pintle had not 
 spent a particularly happy life together. He bowed with 
 much reverence, an act which Mrs. Pintle acknowledged 
 with a movement of the head, which bore the same 
 relation to an ordinary nod that the Old Hundredth does 
 to an Irish jig. 
 
 " You were my dear husband's clerk, I believe," she 
 remarked. 
 
 Johnny bowed. 
 
 *' You can take a chair, if you have anything to say." 
 
 So Johnny sat down on the edge of a very low itric-
 
 Johnny Pounce. 99 
 
 Dim chair, which was the only available seat im- 
 mediately at haud, and twitched nervously at his old 
 hat ; an operation which seemed likely to result in the 
 immediate dissolution of that article of apparel. It is 
 always an awlovard thing, that hat. There are only 
 three classes of visitors who are permitted to know what 
 to do with it when they take it into a house which is not 
 their own. The friend of the family, who comes to 
 spend the evening, leaves it with the man in the hall ; 
 the ordinary visitor places it on an unoccupied chair, and 
 the carpenter deposits it on the ground ; but all others 
 are required to hold it in their hands during an inter- 
 view, and yet, if possible, to keep it out of sight. 
 Johnny's was a self-assertive hat, which did not admit 
 of easy concealment ; so he fidgeted it about until it 
 actually appeared to be taking a prominent part in the 
 conversation. 
 
 " Now, then," said Mrs. Pintle, " what do you want ? 
 
 I suppose it's nothing about the will ? " 
 
 *' Nothing about the will, ma'am. I've not been in 
 
 the way of hearing about it lately." 
 
 " Well, then, what in goodness's name do you want ? 
 
 Speak out, man, and have done with it." 
 
 Mrs. Pintle was one of that numerous class of 
 
 mourners whose grief takes the form of irritability. 
 
 Besides, she had jumped to the conclusion that 
 
 Johnny's visit referred to the missing document, and 
 
 was disappointed. 
 
 " Ma'am, I've never done this before, but it's helj) 
 
 I've come for. I've been Mr. Pintle's clerk, man and 
 
 boy, for five-and-forty year ; and — and — now I'm in 
 
 ji 2
 
 lOO Johnny Pounce. 
 
 want, ma'am. I'm in absolute want. I've not come," 
 said Jolinnv, liurriedly, anxious that he should not be 
 misunderstood, "I've not come, ma'am, to mention 
 that in the hopes that your kindness will immediately 
 — Avill immediately — " (and he paused for a way of ex- 
 pressing it, and then added triumphantly) " will imme- 
 diately put me right. God forbid. But if you would 
 kindly put me or my wife (she's a young woman still) in 
 the way of earning a livelihood — we don't care how 
 humble it is, or how hard the work — we shall be deeply 
 grateful." 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Mrs. Pintle, with a cold official 
 air which did not promise well. 
 
 "I've no more to say, ma'am," added he, "except 
 that I've been living in a sort of way, on charity mostly, 
 for the last six weeks. I've tried to get work, and failed. 
 I don't know how it is, but I've failed. I'm not young, 
 ma'am, but I've got plenty of work left in me, if I could 
 only find some one who wants it." 
 
 " That is all, I presume ? " 
 
 " That is all, ma'am." 
 
 " Then listen to me. My husband made a will — you 
 know that ? " 
 
 Poor Johnny knew it perfectly well. It had been the 
 leading fact in his thoughts for weeks past, and there 
 w^as no chance of his forgetting it. So he bowed. 
 
 " Very good. You know that my husband made a 
 Avill. He placed it under your care. He gave it to you 
 on the 22nd December. He died at midnight on the 2-Ith. 
 No will was to be found on the night of the 24th, and 
 you have been unable or unwilling to produce it since.
 
 Johnny Pounce. loi 
 
 I don't know which, nor do I care. You can draw your 
 own conclusions. Now, you can go." 
 
 It burst upon Johnny all at once ; a sort of suspicion 
 appeared to attach itself to him that he knew more 
 about the missing document than he cared to say. 
 This was the solution of the difficulty he had in getting 
 employment from solicitors whom he had known, and 
 with whom he had been friendly in brighter days. 
 
 "Mrs. Pintle," he exclaimed, "listen to me for one 
 moment. Is it possible that I am suspected of having 
 suppressed Mr. Pintle's will. It is a horrible thing to 
 have to say in connection with one's self, but you seem 
 to think that I know more than I have said. Good 
 God ! ma'am ! why I am the greatest sufferer by its not 
 being found. I am a legatee for .£1,000. If it had 
 turned up, my wife and I should have been independent 
 by this time. As it is, my wife is dreadfully ill from 
 want, and I have not a penny in my pocket — not a 
 penny, not a penny ! " 
 
 And old Johnny fairly gave way, and sobbed like a 
 child on the crown of the self-assertive old hat. 
 
 "Will you oblige me by ringing that bell?" said 
 Mrs. Pintle. 
 
 Johnny obeyed, and the weak-eyed one responded to 
 the summons. 
 
 "Give this person some bread and cheese in the 
 kitchen, and then show him out," said Mrs. Pintle. 
 
 Johnny got up, brushed the obtrusive hat the wrong 
 way with a trembling hand, and silently turned about 
 and followed the retainer down stairs. When ho 
 reached the foot, he made for the street door.
 
 T02 Johnny Potmce. 
 
 " Didn't yon hear missus say you was to have some 
 food ? " said the weak-eyed one. 
 
 But Johnny made no reply. He tugged at the street 
 door with the view of getting into the open air as soon as 
 possible. It was a complicated street door, with five or 
 six small handles, and it was only to be opened by a 
 combined tugging of two handles at once. 
 
 The weak-eyed one sauntered up to him, with his 
 hands in his pockets, and watched Johnny's efforts with 
 much complacency. 
 
 " Go on, old boy, try again. Never give it up, go in 
 and win." These and other remarks of an encouraging 
 description, intended to spur Johnny on to fresh 
 exertion, had the effect of irritating the poor old gentle- 
 man beyond all bounds. 
 
 " Damn you; open it, you dog, will you ? " exclaimed 
 Johnny with (for him) supernatural vehemence. And 
 the weak-eyed one obeyed with an alacrity w^hich one 
 would have scarcely looked for in a man who a moment 
 before was taking life in such a leisurely manner. 
 
 Johnny tottered down the steps, shaking and trem- 
 bling, and the weak-eyed one contemplated him from 
 the door. 
 
 " Poor de\al ! " exclaimed he. " Mad as flints ; 
 quite as mad ! " 
 
 And Johnny tottered on bravely, until he reached 
 the corner of Guilford Street. He then began to feel 
 that his strength was almost at an end ; so he made an 
 effort to turn round the corner, in order to get out of 
 sight of the insolent flunkey, and that accomplished, 
 fell heavily to the ground.
 
 Johnny Pounce. 103 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW JOHNNY POUNCE CAME BACK TO THE GOOD AGAIN. 
 
 " Cole, I shall want you at my quarters immediately 
 after inspection." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 The scene of this remarkable dialogue was the Crimea 
 before Sebastopol ; the speakers were our old friend 
 Captain Redfern of Her Majesty's 16th Lancers, and 
 Private John Cole of the same regiment, and regimental 
 servant to Captain Redfern aforesaid. 
 
 Young John had proved to be too tall a man, and too 
 heavy for the friendly recruiting-sergeant's corps, so he 
 had been posted to a crack Lancer regiment then serving 
 in the Crimea. Li this regiment Captain Redfern held 
 a commission, and as he went out in command of 
 recruits, of whom young John was one, he was under 
 the necessity of selecting one of them to act as a 
 regimental servant during the voyage. His choice fell 
 upon young John, who being extremely lazy and, more- 
 over, utterly indifferent as to the future in store for him, 
 accepted the situation. 
 
 Redfern and John got on exceedingly well together. 
 John's superior education made him extremely useful 
 to his master in many ways, and as Redfern was a 
 particularly open-handed man, he and John became, in 
 a distant sort of way, attached to each other. Redfern 
 spent much of his spare time in poring over deeds and 
 other legal documents referring to the estate ofwliicli lie 
 had become possessed through Pintle's death ; and as
 
 ro4 Johmy Pounce. 
 
 Jolin was formerly in the habit of assisting his father in 
 Mr. Pintle's office, he had picked up sufficient technical 
 knowledge to make himself useful as an interpreter 
 whenever Redfern (whose legal ideas were crude and 
 elementary) found himself at a stand- still. 
 
 Captain Eedfern's regiment was posted on the heights 
 above Balaklava, hut as he was attached temporarily to 
 the staff of a general officer, his duties as aide-de-camp 
 brought him continually on to the scene of action before 
 Sebastopol. He had on this occasion been in attend- 
 ance on his general at a division field-day in which his 
 own regiment took part, and he availed himself of an 
 opportunity of interchanging the few words already 
 recorded with his regimental servant before the parade 
 was dismissed. 
 
 At the termination of the parade in question, young 
 John cleaned his horse and accoutrements, and then 
 hurried off to Eedfern's tent. He found his master in 
 the act of sealing a goodly packet, which appeared to 
 contain a bundle of papers. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir," said young John, saluting, "I 
 believe you wanted me." 
 
 "Yes," said Eedfern, "I want you particularly. 
 Come in, and sit down on that chest." 
 
 Young John obeyed. 
 
 "I believe, "said Eedfern, "you're a man to be trusted." 
 
 " I hope so, sir," said young John. 
 
 " I hope so, too. Well, I'm going to trust you. 
 But in the first place I must enjoin you to utter secrecy 
 as to what I am about to say to you, until the time 
 arrives when you may speak."
 
 Johnny Potmce. 105 
 
 "You may trust me, sir; you may, indeed, I'll 
 never breathe a word of it until you give me leave." 
 
 " Very good. Now listen. The attack is to be made 
 to-night by the Second and Light division. You will 
 not be wanted, but I shall, for the general's brigade 
 forms part of the attacking column. It will all be in 
 orders in half-an-hour. I don't know whether or not 
 you believe in pre-destination, nor do I care, but I do, 
 and that is sufficient for my purpose. John Cole, I die 
 to-night ! " 
 
 " I sincerely hope not, sir." 
 
 *' Don't interrupt me. I die to-night ; that, at least, 
 is my firm impression. Now this is what I want you 
 to do. I want you to take charge of this packet, which 
 I now address to you. When I am dead you will open 
 it, and act according to the instructions therein con- 
 tained. If it should happen that I survive, I shall 
 require it of you again, until I feel disposed to give it 
 into your possession once more. Now, may I trust you 
 with this ? " 
 
 " Indeed you may, sir ; I'll take great care of it ; but 
 I sincerely trust it will not be in my keeping many 
 hours." 
 
 " I hope not, my man, but we shall see. Now, if 
 after the attack I do not return to quarters, get leave to 
 look after me ; bring me in if you find me, and, what- 
 ever you do, don't leave my body in the open air longer 
 than you can help. Now you can go. I shall Avant 
 Rocket at half-past ten." 
 
 Young John saluted, and left Iho tent with the 
 packet.
 
 io6 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 That night as Captain Redfern was carrying a mes- 
 sage from one of the attacking columns to the reserve, 
 he was struck by a rifle-ball, which entered his back and 
 came out above his left arm. He died on the field 
 within an hour of receiving the wound ; and so his 
 prophecy was verified. 
 
 Young John carried out his master's instructions 
 faithfully. Shortly after receiving the intelligence of 
 Redfern's death, he opened the packet, after having first 
 satisfied the committee of officers that sat upon the dead 
 man's effects, that it was duly addressed to him in 
 Captain Redfern's handwriting. To his intense aston- 
 ishment, he found that it was directed to Mrs. Pintle. 
 He was not aware of the relationship that existed 
 between Mr. Pintle and his late master, for although 
 Captain Redfern was well known by repute to old Johnny 
 long before Pintle's death, young John had never heard 
 of his existence until he joined the 16th Lancers. 
 
 A memorandum addressed to young John accompanied 
 the enclosure. It was to the following eft'ect : — 
 
 "John Cole, — When I am dead, take the enclosed 
 packet to Mrs. Pintle, 74, Russell Square, London, as 
 soon as you reach England. If there is any chance of 
 your being killed before you leave the Crimea, entrust it 
 to a comrade upon whom you can rely. If you know no 
 one else in whom you can place implicit confidence, give 
 it to the Colonel. 
 
 "I hereby make you, Private John Cole, C troop of 
 Her Majesty's 16th Lancers, the legatee of all my 
 inoveables in camp, with the exception of the gold watch
 
 Johnny Pounce. 107 
 
 I usually wear, which I leave to poor Annie Blake. 
 Her address is High Street, Little Petherington. And 
 I hereby appoint you the executor of this my last will 
 and testament. 
 
 " Hekbert Redfern, 
 
 " Capt., H.M. 16th Lancers." 
 
 The Crimean war was at an end, and the troops were 
 on their way home again. Thinned and shattered as 
 they were, they yet sufficed to afford evidence of the 
 noble stuff they had left behind them on Cathcart's 
 Hill, and in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. As 
 they marched through great towns in their tattered 
 uniform, with bearskins and shakoes half shot away, 
 their faces bronzed, and covered with ragged beard; and, 
 above all, their colours shot off almost to the pole, 
 carried by dirty ragged lads, who still somehow looked 
 like gentlemen — lads who had already seen more misery 
 and sickness in their young lives^ of twenty summers 
 than the oldest spectator in the enthusiastic throng of 
 spectators that gathered to welcome the old troops home 
 again — as these sturdy warriors tramped through the 
 English towns they had little expected to see again, 
 women went into hysterics, and strong men, after 
 shouting themselves hoarse with a kind of mad Avelcome 
 that let itself go free to take what form it would, threw 
 themselves down upon the grass, and there lay prone, 
 and wept like women. For each man who saw a 
 brother, or a friend, in those thinned and broken ranks, 
 saw one he had hardly reckoned on ever seeing again ; 
 and he who counted no personal friends or relations
 
 io8 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 among those rows of shattered warriors, saw thousands 
 who had endeared themselves to him by their undaunted 
 pluck in battle, and above even that, by their heroic 
 and unmurmuring endurance of pain, privation, cold, 
 disease, and hunger. And it was no disgrace to the 
 men of peace that they did so weep, for even the 
 staunchest heroes in that battle-thinned band — men who 
 had laughed at the Kussian shell, and laid wagers as to 
 where it would fall; men of the "thin red line," who 
 had fought at Balaldava and lit their cigars on the 
 parapet of the Redan, marched that summer into Hyde 
 Park, and as the Queen pinned the Cross of Yalour 
 over their sturdy hearts, choked themselves into tears 
 that no physical anguish could have wrung from 
 them. 
 
 Young John had risen in the service since the death 
 of Eedfern. He was now troop-sergeant, and one of the 
 smartest men in the squadron. His regiment was 
 quartered at Hounslow on their return, and he was 
 attached to the troop stationed at the old barracks at 
 Kensington. His first care on reaching London was to 
 find his father and mother. He had from time to time 
 sent small sums of money to them, but he had never 
 heard from them in reply, and it was with the appre- 
 hension of learning the details of some sad misfortune 
 that he knocked at the old house in Great Queen 
 Street. 
 
 The same drabby servant-girl opened the door, but 
 she did not recognise young John in the strapping, set- 
 up soldier, with the thick brown beard, who stood 
 before her. She knew nothing of Johnny Pounce's
 
 Johnny Pounce. 109 
 
 whereabouts. He and Mrs. Pounce had left Great 
 Queen Street eighteen months ^go, owing much rent, 
 and nobody in the house had heard of them since. She 
 shouldn't wonder if they'd got into trouble. She had 
 heard something about a will, and people said that they 
 were no better than they ought to be. Oh, of course, 
 he could leave a message if he liked, but he might as 
 well leave one for the Lord Mayor. 
 
 Young John turned away with an aching heart, for 
 the full sense of his ingratitude in leaving them at the 
 critical moment, burst upon him. 
 
 He next called at Kussell Square, with the object of 
 placing Captain Redfern's packet into Mrs. Pintle's 
 hands. But Mrs. Pintle had long since left the house 
 in Russell Square, for it was a much larger establish- 
 ment than she, in her reduced circumstances, could 
 afford to keep up. The footman who opened the door 
 told him that when Mrs. Pintle left she gave directions 
 that all letters directed to her late address should be 
 forwarded to an address in Michael's Place, Brompton, 
 but that was ever so many months ago, and she might 
 not be there now. However, he had better go there and 
 ascertain her present address, if she had moved. So 
 young John walked back to the Strand, and mounted a 
 Brompton omnibus, which put him down at the address 
 to which he had been directed. 
 
 He found Mrs. Pintle in drawing-room fipartmcnts in 
 Michael's Place. He obtained admission to her without 
 difiiculty, for the weak-eyed flunkey had been dismissed 
 with the rest of the household, as soon as Mrs. Pintle 
 gave up all hope of finding her husband's will. She
 
 1 1 o JohiiJiy Pounce. 
 
 was reclining on a horsehair sofa of decidedly serious 
 presence, and was still in mourning, but this time it 
 was for her nephew. 
 
 She was surprised at seeing a brown-faced sturdy 
 soldier enter the room, and her astonishment was not 
 diminished when he announced himself as a soldier of 
 the late Captain Redfern's regiment, for Captain Eed- 
 fern and she had never been on particularly friendly 
 terms, and since Mr. Pintle's death they had come to 
 open war. The mourning that she wore was not by any 
 means the result of emotion at that officer's death, but 
 sprung from a species of natural taste for tombs, and 
 everything that pertained thereunto. 
 
 "What is your business with me, soldier?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Beg pardon, ma'am ; have I the honour of speaking 
 to Mrs. Pintle ? " 
 
 '' You have." 
 
 "I'm the bearer of this parcel from the late Captain 
 Redfern. He directed me to place it in your hands as 
 soon as I returned to England. I only arrived four 
 days ago, and I've availed myself of the lirst leave of 
 absence I could get to bring it to you." 
 
 And young John touched his forehead, and wheeled 
 about to depart. 
 
 " Stop," she said. " You must wait until I see what 
 it is about." 
 
 And she attempted to open the parcel, but her hands 
 trembled so that she could not unfasten the knots, so 
 young John whipped out a pocket-knife, and solved the 
 difficulty after the original Gordian receipt. The
 
 Johnny Pounce. 1 1 1 
 
 enclosure was contained in another wrapper, and upon 
 this second wrapper heing hastily torn asunder, there 
 tumbled out of it a note addressed to Mrs. Pintle, 
 together with the will of the late Josiah ! 
 
 Mrs. Pintle was cue of those hard-faced ladies who 
 have schooled their countenances to obey them implicitly. 
 Mrs. Pintle's face was in a state of perfect discipline, 
 and expressed no astonishment whatever. Not so, 
 however, her voice. 
 
 " My God ! my husband's will ! " 
 
 Young John could scarcely believe the ears that 
 conveyed Mrs. Pintle's exclamation to his brain, and 
 felt much more disposed to trust to the eyes that told 
 him that, judging from Mrs. Pintle's countenance, 
 nothing extraordinary had happened. However, the 
 same eyes subsequently contradicted themselves, as he 
 read the endorsement, " Will of Josiah Pintle, Esq." 
 
 "Mr. Pintle's will, ma'am," he exclaimed; "I 
 had no idea of that ; he didn't tell me what it was. 
 Why, my father is down in that for a thousand 
 pounds ! " 
 
 " And who is your father ? " 
 
 "Pounce, ma'am; Johnny — I mean John Pounce, 
 ma'am — the late Mr. Pintle's confidcDtial clerk." 
 
 " Then your name is Pounce ? " 
 
 " My real name is, ma'am ; I enlisted, shortly after 
 Mr. Pintle's death, as John Cole ; but my real name is 
 Pounce." 
 
 Mrs. Pintle, after satisfying herself that the will was 
 genuine, proceeded to open the accompanying note. It 
 was to the following effect : —
 
 112 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 "Before Sebastopol, 1855. 
 
 "Amelia Pintle, — Long before this reaches you I 
 shall be a dead man. We were never on friendly terms, 
 and the words that I am about to write to you will not 
 mend matters. Whether they do, or whether they do 
 not, is a question that will not in any way disturb the 
 skeleton that by that time will be bleaching in this 
 infernal country. 
 
 " You always considered me an extravagant and 
 unconscientious scoundrel, and I give you credit for 
 your discernment. I don't attempt to exculpate myself, 
 because I do not care enough for you or anybody in the 
 world to make it worth my while to do so. As I have 
 already stated, by the time this is opened I shall be dead 
 beyond all possibility of doubt. I live only for life, and 
 posthumous honour or dishonour is a matter upon 
 which I am most completely indifferent. As evidence 
 of my sincerity, I not only enclose Josiah Pintle's will, 
 but I also give an account of the manner in Avhich it 
 came into my possession. 
 
 "On the 24th December, 1854, I dined with Mr. 
 Pintle. On that occasion you were, you may remember, 
 confined to your room by some sort of indisposition. 
 After dinner, as Pintle and I sat over our wine, we 
 talked over family matters, and, among others, of the 
 disposition of his property after death. He told me 
 that he had that evening brought his will to Russell 
 Square with the express view of reading it over to me, 
 in whom, you may remember, he reposed (contrary I am 
 bound to say, to your advice) much more confidence 
 than I either desired or deserved.
 
 Johnny Potince. 1 1 3 
 
 " He opened the document and began to read it to 
 me, as I sat with my back towards him, for he had 
 turned round to get the full benefit of the light of the 
 chandelier. He read for perhaps a couple of minutes, 
 and then stopped. I concluded that he was considering 
 the advisability of not reading to me the ensuing para- 
 graph, which might perhaps refer to a trifling legacy 
 which he intended to bestow on me. After a pause, I 
 asked him why he did not go on, and, as he made no 
 answer, I turned round to repeat my question. He was 
 dead. 
 
 " I alarmed the household ; but, before they answered 
 my summons, it occurred to me that, as I was his heir- 
 at-law, and moreover deeply in debt — and further, as no- 
 body but myself was aware of the fact that the will had 
 been taken from the ofiice, I might as well take posses- 
 sion of it and destroy it altogether. Accordingly, I took 
 possession of it, and, in due course, of the bulk of Mr. 
 Pintle's property. On second thoughts I did not 
 destroy the will, for, as I was under orders for the 
 Crimea, I thought it possible that I might be killed, 
 and, in the event of that melancholy occurrence, neither 
 the will nor the property would be of any further use to 
 me, whereas they might prove of considerable value to 
 yourself and the other legatees. So they are quite at 
 your service. 
 
 " Herbert Redfern, 
 " Capt., H.M. 16th Lancers." 
 
 Mrs. Pintle folded the letter deliberately, restored it 
 to its envelope, and placed the envelope in her pocket.
 
 114 Johnny Potmce. 
 
 " I shall not want you, Pounce," she said. " If, as 
 you say, and I see no reason to disbelieve it, your father 
 is a legatee for a thousand pounds, he will, of course, 
 receive it, when the will is proved ; that, however, will 
 probably be, under the circumstances, a work of time. 
 In the interim, as I have done your father the injustice 
 of believing that he — that he did not act with perfect 
 openness in the matter, I shall be happy to make him 
 a small allowance. You had better send him to 
 me." 
 
 " If I can discover him, ma'am, I will ; but he's left 
 his old lodgings, and no one knows where he has gone 
 to!" 
 
 *' Then, find him. You had better advertise. Now, 
 you can go." 
 
 Young John left Mrs. Pintle's house with a heart as 
 heavy as when he entered it, for there appeared but little 
 chance of his finding old Johnny and his wife ; and, more- 
 over, he had made the discovery that his late master, for 
 whose memory he entertained a sincere regard, was, in 
 point of fact, an unmitigated scoundrel. 
 
 He had the rest of the afternoon before him, and he 
 spent the early part of it in sending advertisements to 
 the principal daily papers. It was four o'clock before 
 this was satisfactorily accomplished ; and then he took a 
 steamboat from Blackfriars, intending to go to Chelsea, 
 and thence to Kensington. But the boat did not go 
 higher than Westminster Bridge ; so he landed there, 
 and determined to take the omnibus at Charing Cross. 
 
 As he walked down Parliament Street, he had to pass 
 the scene of his former labours, the Pauper Philosophy
 
 Johnny Pounce. 1 1 5 
 
 Office ; which appeared, as far as he could see, to be 
 getting on uncommonly well without him. There was 
 the same old over-fed office-keeper at the door, there 
 were the same two Caucasians waiting on the steps, and 
 there were all the twelve Examiners looking out of the 
 twelve windows as of yore. There was the Lord Presi- 
 dent's carriage at the door, and there, no doubt was the 
 Lord President in the Secretary's room, learning a prac- 
 tical reply to the eminently practical question which 
 would be asked in the House that night, "Whether 
 there was any truth in the statement that it was the 
 practice of the Board for the Dissemination of Pauper- 
 Philosophy to educate and train young paupers to an 
 extraordinary pitch of pauper perfection, at an enormous 
 public expense, Avith the express view of qualifying such 
 paupers to impart instructions in the rudiments of 
 Pauper-Philosophy, and that accomplished, to take away 
 from their sphere of duty such Pauper-Philosophers as 
 may seem to the Board to be peculiarly well qualified to 
 train and educate other young paupers, and reward them 
 with Assistant-Clerkships in the Office for the Dissemi- 
 nation of Pauper-Philosophy ? " 
 
 As young John speculated on this possibility, it 
 occurred to him that he would turn into the office, and 
 look up some of his old friends. He passed the Cauca- 
 sians and the office-keeper unrecognized, and made his 
 way up to the garret in which he had worked for the five 
 years that preceded his dismissal. 
 
 It was just as he had left it, for promotion in the 
 Pauper-Philosophy Office was a work of many years. As 
 he entered the room he was greeted with a stare of sur- 
 
 \ 2
 
 1 1 6 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 prise, which was directed not so much at him (for he 
 was unrecognized) as at the uniform he wore. 
 
 "Don't you know me, kds?"he said, "Pounce — 
 John Pounce ! " 
 
 " John Pounce ! " exclaimed the five clerks. " Lord ! 
 you don't say so ? " 
 
 And sufficiently hearty greetings ensued, for John had 
 been a sort of favourite in his way. 
 
 Inquiries as to what events had occurred since he left 
 the office followed ; and one, more hearty than the rest, 
 saw in young John's return a reason for standing much 
 beer. 
 
 "Where's Shah? "asked the hearty clerk. "Send 
 him here, somebody ! " 
 
 And somebody went for Shab. 
 
 " Who's Shab ? " said John. 
 
 " Shab ? Oh ! You know no, he's since your time. 
 
 Oh ! he's a rum 'un is Shab. He runs errands, and 
 fetches beer, and posts letters, and does odd jobs. Shab 
 ain't his name — its affectionate for shabby genteel — so 
 called because he looks like a Member of Parliament 
 down on his luck." 
 
 And the door opened, and Shab introduced his head. 
 
 " Want me, gentlemen '? Anything I can do ? " 
 
 "Here, Shab, old boy, a gallon of beer, and you so 
 much as look at it and I'll knock your empty old head 
 ofi\ D'ye hear ? " 
 
 This was a coarse speech, but it was not said un- 
 kindly. Shab was a general favourite, for he was always at 
 hand when wanted, and never grumbled at his Jionomriian . 
 He had seen better days, as the saying is, having origi-
 
 Johnny Pounce. 1 1 7 
 
 nally been employed on odd jobs in the Pauper-Philo- 
 sophy Office as a law-stationer's clerk ; but old age 
 came upon him, and his hand trembled so that he became 
 unfit for his work. So he became a hanger-on to the office 
 in which he had temporarily served, and picked up 
 occasional coppers as a kind of out-door message 
 carrier. 
 
 " Why you look out of sorts ; had your dinner, Shab ?" 
 asked the clerk. 
 
 " No, sir, no — not yet." 
 
 "Thought not; you look hungry. Here's sixpence 
 for you — no I haven't got it." 
 
 " Looks hungry," thought young John, " by Jove, he 
 is hungry too. Here, my man," added he aloud, " here's 
 a shilling for you, and in God's name get something to 
 eat." 
 
 A clerk from another room burst into the office. 
 
 ** What's this I hear about Jack Pounce come back 
 again ? " said the new comer. " Jack, old chap, doosid 
 glad to see you. Why, Avhat are you doing in a 
 uniform ? " 
 
 The answer was interrupted by an extraordinary pro- 
 ceeding on the part of poor old Shab. 
 
 " Jack ! Young John ! God ! " 
 
 And poor old Johnny Pounce fell into his son's arms. 
 
 So old, so feeble, so broken, had cheery little Johnny 
 Pounce become since he went to the bad. His rusty 
 old suit of clothes was the cast-off of a waiter, just 
 as he himself was the cast-off of society. He was 
 living in a miserable attic in Tothill Fields, and his
 
 1 1 8 Johnny Pounce. 
 
 once buxom little wife was in the fever ward of the 
 Westminster Hospital. 
 
 There cannot be much need to tell how it all ended* 
 How his son told him of the discovery of the missing 
 will; how old Johnny and he went to Mrs. Pounce's bed- 
 side, and broke the news to her, gently at first, and then 
 all at once with a sort of spasmodic rush ; how Mrs. 
 Pintle did her best (in a faded kind of way) to atone for 
 the unjust suspicions Avhich she had cast upon the old 
 man ; how the sick woman recovered her strength by 
 slow degrees, until she was able to leave the Hospital 
 for the old rooms in Great Queen Street ; how the Will 
 was proved beyond dispute, after a lapse of six months 
 or so ; how one thousand pounds were paid to old 
 Johnny, without deduction, by Mrs. Pintle, and how a 
 handsome annuity was purchased for him with the 
 money ; how young John was bought out of the 
 service, and enshrined in a high desk in the office of 
 Pintle & Sims' successors, having been articled to the 
 new firm by Mrs. Pintle herself, who further undertook 
 to make him an allowance until he was admitted — are 
 matters that would take many pages to tell in detail, 
 and matters, moreover, which the reader will probably 
 feel inclined to take for granted. 
 
 And so it was that Johnny Pounce, having gone to 
 the Bad, and having spent a considerable time at the 
 Bad when he got there, eventually, came back to the 
 Good again.
 
 LITTLE MIM. 
 
 The only point on which Joe Paulby and I could ever 
 bring ourselves to agree was that his cousin Mim was 
 the only young lady in the world who was worth falling 
 in love with. Joe Paulby was eight, I was seven, and 
 his cousin Mim was six. Joe was a strong, rough, 
 troublesome boy, and I was small and weak and 
 delicate ; and if it had not been that we were both 
 deeply in love with the same young lady I believe I 
 should have hated him. That solitary bond of 
 sympathy served to bind us more or less firmly to 
 each other, and I seldom quarrelled with him except 
 when his regard for her showed signs of cooling down. 
 
 She was a pretty, fragile little lady, with quaint ways 
 of her own, and a gentle frightened manner of dealing 
 with her boisterous ]3laymate which seldom failed to 
 bring him to a sense of order. She loved us both very 
 dearly, but I think Joe was her favourite. Although 
 a rude, unpleasant boy to others, to her he was quiet 
 and gentle enough ; but perhaps this palpable sub- 
 mission appealed more directly to the little lady than 
 my undemonstrative and colourless affection. But she 
 was very fond of me for all that. 
 
 Neither Mim nor I had any parents, and we lived 
 with Joe's papa in a great gaunt, draughty house
 
 I20 Little Mini. 
 
 in Bloomsbury Square. Captain Paulby was our 
 guardian — a tall, bony, unsympathetic widower — who 
 governed his house as though it had been a regiment of 
 soldiers, A scale of dietary was hung up in the 
 nursery, and from it one learnt how many quarter- 
 ounces of cocoa, how many half pounds of bread, and 
 how many tablespoonfuls of arrowroot we consumed in 
 the week. An order-book was brought into the nursery 
 every morning, in which the detail of the day's duties 
 was carefully set out, and to the instructions it con- 
 tained implicit and unmurmuring obedience was exacted. 
 It regulated the hours of rising and going to bed, the 
 school hours and the hours of relaxation, when and 
 where we were to walk, and what we were to wear. 
 
 We were placed in charge of a nurse — Nurse Starke — 
 a tall, muscular, hardened woman of forty. She had a stern 
 unrelenting face, close lips, hard grey eyes, and a certain 
 smooth roundness of figure, which on looking back, sug- 
 gests the idea of her having been turned in a lathe. 
 I never see the masculine old woman who lets lodgings 
 in a pantomime without thinking of Nurse Starke. I am 
 bound to say, however, that she Avas scrupulously, 
 indeed aggravatingly, clean and neat, and in that 
 respect of course, the analogy falls to the ground. 
 
 Nurse Starke was not actively unkind to us. Indeed, 
 I believe she had cheated herself into a belief that she 
 was rather weak-minded and indulgent than otherwise ; 
 but in this she was in error. I believe she was fond of 
 us in a hard unyielding way, but she was sudden and 
 impulsive in her movements, and never handled us 
 without hurting us. There was a housemaid — Jane
 
 Little Mint. J 21 
 
 Cotter — who occasionally helped to put us to bed, and 
 sometimes Nurse Starke undressed us while Jane put 
 our hair into curl papers, and sometimes Nurse Starke 
 did the curling while Jane undressed us. And the 
 manner in which these duties were to be divided became 
 a matter of no light speculation to us as evening ap- 
 proached, for it was Nurse Starke's custom to pull the 
 locks of hair out to their full length, and then roll them 
 round a piece of paper, twisting the ends together when 
 the curl had been rolled well home, whereas Jane Cotter 
 first made the curl up flat with her fingers, and then 
 encased it gently in a triangular paper, which she 
 pinched with the tongs. Jane Cotter's flat curls were 
 pleasant to sleep upon, but Nurse Starke's corkscrews 
 placed a comfortable night's rest out of the question. 
 It is impossible to sleep in peace with a double row 
 of balls, each as big as a large chestnut, round your 
 head. You can't move without giving four or five of 
 them a wrench. 
 
 I think we must have been sufiiciently happy as a 
 rule, or Sunday would not have stood out in such gaunt 
 and desolate contrast to the other days of the week. 
 There reigned in our nursery an unaccountable fiction 
 that Sunday was a holiday ; and in deference to this 
 tradition we endeavoured to cheat ourselves into a belief 
 that we were glad when that day arrived. Sunday began 
 at a very early hour in Bloomsbury. It began to ring 
 itself in at half-past seven when we got up, and con- 
 tinued to ring itself through the day at short intervals 
 until it finally rang itself out, and us into bed, at half- 
 past eight in the evening. There were drawbacks, how-
 
 122 Little Mint. 
 
 ever, to our enjoyment of the day. I think we were 
 required to tackle more Collect than is good for a child 
 of six or seven, and perhaps we did not quite understand 
 the bearing of that Shorter Catechism which a bench of 
 thoughtful Bishops has prepared for the express use of 
 very young children. Even Nurse Starke, a high 
 authority on all points of Church controversy, never 
 succeeded in placing its meaning quite beyond all ques- 
 tion. But Nurse Starke had a special Sunday frame of 
 mind which discouraged close questioning, and on that 
 day of the week, she was exceptionally short and sharp 
 in her replies. She baffled our interrogatories by point- 
 ing out to us that there was nothing so unbecoming as 
 a tendency to ask questions ; which seemed to us a little 
 unreasonable, when we considered the inquisitive 
 character of her share in the Catechism. 
 
 I believe I liked going to Church, though I am sure 
 Joe Paulby did not. That rugged boy never looked so 
 hot or so rumpled as he did during Divine Service. As 
 I look back upon Joe in church, I am always reminded 
 of the appearance of restless decorum presented by a 
 Christy Minstrel " Bones " during the singing of a 
 plaintive ballad. Joe occupied himself during the service 
 in laying the foundations of a series of pains and penal- 
 ties vdiich usually lasted well into Thursday, for Nurse 
 Starke had a quick eye for misdemeanours, and every 
 crime had its apportioned punishment. Poor little Mim 
 was too delicate to go to church, and used to sit at home 
 in theological conference with Jane Cotter, whose pic- 
 turesque and highly dramatic ideas of future rewards and 
 punishments had a special interest for the poor little lady.
 
 Little Mim. 123 
 
 For Mim had been told that even children die some- 
 times, and both Nurse Starke and Jane had a long 
 catalogue of stories in which good little people were cut 
 off in their earliest years, and bad little people lived on 
 to an evil old age. Mim was often weak and ailing, and 
 at such times the recollection of these stories came upon 
 her. Nurse Starke's grim, hard manner relaxed when 
 she was speaking to the little sick child, and her kind- 
 ness to Mim, gaunt and grudging as it was, seemed to 
 increase with the trouble the child gave her — a never- 
 ceasing source of wonderment to Joe and myself, 
 who were only in favour when we ceased to occuj)y 
 Nurse Starke's attention. Nurse Starke had a brother, 
 a boy of twelve or thereabouts (though we believed him 
 to be eight-and-twenty at least), who was a page at a 
 doctor's in Charlotte Street ; and Nurse Starke, as a 
 great treat, used to allow this young gentleman to spend 
 the afternoon with us, and entertain us with his varied 
 social powers. Gaspar — for that was his unfortunate 
 name — was a talented boy with a taste for acrobatics, 
 conjuring, killing flies, and putting lob- worms down 
 Mini's back ; but notwithstanding these powerful recom- 
 mendations we looked coldly upon him, and, on the 
 whole, discouraged his visits. He had a way of 
 challenging Joe and me to fight him with one of his 
 hands tied behind his back, by way of a handicap, which 
 was not what 3'ou look for in a visitor, and moreover 
 compromised our reputation for valour in Mim's eyes. 
 On the whole he was not popular with us, and eventu- 
 ally he was proscribed by Nurse Starke herself on a 
 charge of filling the nursery candle with gunpowder,
 
 124 Little Mi77t. 
 
 which exploded and burnt poor little Mim's eyebrows 
 and eye-lashes. Gaspar eventually got into trouble 
 about some original draughts of his own composition, 
 which he supplied to his master's patients as healing 
 waters made up in accordance with that gentleman's 
 prescriptions, and spent several years in a reformatory. 
 
 I have a dismal impression of the wretched afternoons 
 that Mim and Joe and I used to spend together in our 
 great bare play-room. We were locked in by Nurse 
 Starke at about five every afternoon, and not released 
 until seven, when we had supper, and as the shadows 
 deepened and the fire got lower and lower, we crowded 
 together in a corner for warmth, and told each other 
 strange stories of princes and noblemen who were tor- 
 tured by cruel and vindictive page-boys ; with an occa- 
 sional touch from Joe Paulby upon caverns, demons, 
 vampires, and other ghostly matters until poor little 
 Mim screamed aloud with terror. 
 
 She was a pretty, fragile, sweet-tempered, clinging 
 little soul, far too delicate for the coarse inconsiderate 
 treatment to which she was subjected in common with 
 ourselves. So at last she became seriously ill, and we 
 noticed that the poor little child grew paler and thinner 
 in her cot, day after day, day after day. She was very 
 cheerful, although so weak, and Avhen the tall, grave, 
 kind doctor came — once a day at first, and then toward 
 the last (for she died) two or three times a day — she 
 would say in reply to his question, " And how is our 
 Little Mim? " that she was much better, and hoped in a 
 day or two to be quite well again. After a time she was 
 removed to another room which was always darkened.
 
 Little Mint. 125 
 
 and to which we were seldom admitted, and only one at 
 a time. An odd change seemed to come over us all. 
 Nurse Starke was quite kind now, and used to read to 
 her (but now about good children who lived and were 
 very happy), and tell stories, and make beef-tea for her, 
 and turn the cold side of the pillow to her poor little 
 fevered head. And the oddest part of the thing was 
 that Nurse Starke was kind to us too, and used to come 
 of her own accord to tell us how Mim was (she was 
 always a little better), and what messages she had sent 
 to us, and how she seemed to take a new pleasure in the 
 toys she had once discarded. And then she would take 
 us, one at a time, to the sick room, and we were 
 allowed at first to speak to her, but afterwards only to 
 sit on the edge of the bed, (it was such a big bed now ! ), 
 and hold her little dry hand. Joe Paulby would come 
 back crying (it was a strange thing to see )i\m cry, and 
 it touched me as it touches me now to see a strong man 
 in tears), and he would spend his half-pence — they M^ere 
 rare enough, poor fellow — in picture-books for our poor 
 little dying wife. But a time came when even the 
 picture-books were forbidden, and then the whole house 
 was enjoined to silence, and the grave doctor — graver 
 now than ever — came and went on tip-toe. And if we 
 stole to the little girl's bedroom, as we often did, we 
 were pretty sure to find great hard Nurse Starke in 
 tears, or with traces of tears upon her face ; and once 
 when Joe and I crept down to the room, and looked in 
 at the half-opened door, we saw the shadow of Nurse 
 Starke on her knees, thrown by the fiickering firelight 
 on the wall. Then we knew that the end was near. 
 One day Captain Paulby came home earlier than
 
 126 Little Mini. 
 
 usual, looking very grave, and with him came the kind 
 doctor, and with them another doctor, an older man, hut 
 also very kind. They went up into little IMim's 
 room, and they stayed so long that Joe and I stole 
 down from our old dark play -room to hear, if we could, 
 the reason of his father's unexpected return. And Joe 
 and I cried as if our hearts would break, for our dear 
 little wife was dying. 
 
 Captain Paulby came out of the room, and seeing us 
 in the passage, told us quite kindly to go back to the 
 play-room. Joe Paulby went, but I begged Captain 
 Paulby to let me see my dear little playmate once more, 
 and alarmed by my excited manner and my choking 
 sobs, he admitted me. 
 
 I had not seen her for two days, and she was greatly 
 changed. She looked so little in that big bed that the 
 two doctors and Captain Paulby and Nurse Starke 
 seemed absolutely gigantic as they all bent, silently 
 and without motion, over the little child. I think 
 we must have remained so for nearly two hours, the 
 silence undisturbed except by an occasional whisper 
 from one of the doctors, and a sob from Nurse Starke. 
 When I first went into the dark room Mim was asleep, 
 but eventually she recognized me, and begged to be 
 allowed to kiss me as she was nearly quite well. They 
 laid me on the bed by her side, and her little thin arms 
 were placed round my neck, and there we lay motionless, 
 both of us in deep silence. At length I became conscious 
 of a movement among the doctors, and then a loud 
 ringing wail from Nurse Starke told me that my little 
 wife was quite, quite well again.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF VICE. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 The wealthiest in the matter of charms, and the 
 poorest in the matter of money of all the well-born 
 maidens of Tackleschlosstein, was the Lady Bertha von 
 Klauffenbach. Her papa, the Baron, was indeed the 
 fortunate possessor of a big castle on the top of a per- 
 pendicular rock, but his estate was deeply mortgaged, 
 and there was not the smallest probability of its ever 
 being free from the influence of the local money-lender. 
 Indeed, if it comes to that, I may be permitted to say 
 that even in the event of that wildly improbable state of 
 things having come to pass, the amount realised by the 
 sale of the castle and perpendicular rock would not have 
 exceeded one hundred and eighty pounds sterling, all 
 told. So the Baron von Klauffenbach did not even wear 
 the outward show of being a wealthy man. 
 
 The perpendicular rock being singularly arid and un- 
 productive even for a rock, and the Baron being remark- 
 ably penniless even for a Baron, it became necessary that 
 he should adopt some decided course by which a sufficiency 
 of bread, milk, and saucrkrout might be provided to satisfy
 
 128 The Trmniph of Vice. 
 
 the natural craving^; of the Baron von Klauffenbaeh, and 
 that fine growing girl Bertha, his daughter. So the 
 poor old gentleman was only too glad to let down his 
 drawbridge every morning, and sally forth from his 
 stronghold, to occupy a scrivener's stool in the office of 
 the local money-lender to whom I have already alluded. 
 In short, the Baron von Klaufienbach was a usurer's 
 clerk. 
 
 But it is not so much with the Baron von Klauffenbaeh 
 as with his beautiful daughter Bertha that I have to do. 
 I must describe her. She was a magnificent animal. 
 She was six feet in height, and splendidly' proportioned. 
 She had a queenly face, set in masses of wonderful 
 yellow hair ; big blue eyes, and curly little mouth (but 
 with thick firm lips), and a nose which, in the mercantile 
 phraseology of the period, defied competition. Her 
 figure was grandly, heroically outlined, firm as marble to 
 the look, but elastically yielding to the touch. Bertha 
 had but one fault — she was astonishingly vain of her 
 magnificent proportions, and held in the utmost con- 
 tempt anybody, man or woman, who fell short of her in 
 that respect. She was the toast of all the young clerks 
 of Tackleschlosstein ; but the young clerks of Tackle- 
 schlosstein were to the Lady Bertha as so many midges 
 to a giantess. They annoyed her, but they were not 
 worth the trouble of deliberate annihilation. So they 
 went on toasting her, and she went on scorning them. 
 
 Indeed, the Lady Bertha had but one lover whose 
 chance of success was worth the ghost of a halfpenny — 
 and he was the Count von Krappentrapp. The Count 
 von Krappentrapp had these pulls over the gay young clerks
 
 The Triwnph of Vice. 129 
 
 of Tackleschlosstein — that he was constantly in her 
 society, and was of noble birth. That he was constantly 
 in her society came to pass in this wise. The Baron 
 von Klauffenbach, casting about him for a means of in- 
 creasing — or rather of laying the first stone towards the 
 erection of — his income, published this manifesto on 
 the walls of Tackleschlosstein : 
 
 " A nobleman and his daughter, having larger pre- 
 mises than they require, will be happy to receive into 
 their circle a young gentleman engaged in the village 
 during the day. Society musical. Terms insignificant. 
 Apply to the Baron von K., Post Office, Tackleschlos- 
 stein." 
 
 The only reply to this intimation came from the 
 Count von Krappentrapp ; and the only objection to the 
 Count von Krappentrapp was, that he was not engaged 
 in the village during the day. But this objection was 
 eventuallyoverruledjbythe Count's giving the Baron in the 
 handsomest manner in the world, his note of hand for 
 ten pounds at six months date, which was immediately 
 discounted by the Baron's employer. I am afraid that 
 the Baron and the Count got dreadfully tipsy that even- 
 ing. I know that they amused themselves all night by 
 shying ink-bottles from the battlements at the heads of 
 the people in the village below. 
 
 It will easily be foreseen that the Count von Krappen- 
 trapp soon fell hopelessly in love with Bertha; and 
 those of my readers who arc accustomed to the unravel- 
 ling of German legendary lore will long ere this have 
 made up their minds that Bertha fell equally hopelessly 
 in love with the Count von Krappentrapp. But in this
 
 130 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 last particular they will be entirely in error. Far from 
 encouraging the gay young Count, she regarded him 
 with feelings of the most profound contempt. Indeed, 
 truth compels me to admit that the Count was repulsive. 
 His head was enormous, and his legs insignificant. He 
 was short in stature, squat in figure, and utterly detest- 
 able in every respect, except in this, that he was always 
 ready to i3ut his hand to a bill for the advantage of the 
 worthy old Baron. And whenever he obliged the Baron 
 in this respect, he and the old gentleman used to get 
 dreadfully tipsj', and always spent the night on the 
 battlements throwing ink-bottles on the people in the 
 village below. And whenever the Baron's tradespeople 
 in the village found themselves visited by a shower of 
 ink-bottles, they knew that there was temporary corn in 
 Egypt, and they lost no time in climbing up the perpen- 
 dicular rock with their little red books with the gilt 
 letters in their hands, ready for immediate settlement. 
 
 It was not long after the Count von Krappentrapp 
 came to lodge with the Baron von Klauflenbach, that the 
 Count proposed to the Baron's daughter, and in about a 
 quarter of a minute after he had proposed to her, he 
 was by her most unequivocally rejected. Then he slunk 
 off to his chamber, muttering and mouthing in a manner 
 which occasioned the utmost consternation in the mind 
 of Gretchen, the castle maid-of-all-work, who met him 
 on his way. So she offered him a bottle of cheap scent, 
 and some peppermint-drops, but he danced at her in 
 such a reckless manner when she suggested these 
 humble refreshments, that she went to the Baron, and 
 gave him a month's warning on the spot.
 
 The Triumph of Vice. 131 
 
 Everything went wrong with the Count that clay. The 
 window-blinds wouldn't pull up, the door wouldn't close, 
 the chairs broke when he sat on them, and before half 
 his annoyances had ceased, he had expended all the bad 
 language he knew. 
 
 The Count was conscientious in one matter only, and 
 that was in the matter of bad language. He made it a 
 point of honour not to use the same expletive twice in 
 the same day. So when he found that he had exhausted 
 his stock of swearing, and that, at the moment of ex- 
 haustion, the chimney began to smoke, he simply sat 
 down and cried feebly. 
 
 But he soon sprang to his feet, for in the midst of an 
 unusually large puflf of smoke, he saw the most extra- 
 ordinary individual he had ever beheld. He was about 
 two feet high, and his head was as long as his body and 
 legs put together. He had an antiquated appearance 
 about him ; but excepting that he wore a long stiff tail, 
 with a spear-point at the end of it, there was nothing 
 absolutely unearthly about him. His hair, which re- 
 sembled the crest or comb of a cock in its arrangement, 
 terminated in a curious little queue, which turned up at 
 the end and was fastened with a bow of blue ribbon. He 
 wore mutton-chop whiskers and a big flat collar, and his 
 body and misshapen legs were covered with a horny in- 
 crustation, which suggested black beetles. On his crest 
 he wore a three-cornered hat — anticipating the inven- 
 tion of that article of costume by about three hundred 
 years. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said this phenomenon, "but 
 can I speak to you ? " 
 
 K 2
 
 132 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 "Evidently you can," replied the Count, whose confi- 
 dence had returned to him. 
 
 " I know : but what I mean is, will you listen to me 
 for ten minutes ? " 
 
 " That depends very much upon what you talk about. 
 Who are you ? " asked the Count. 
 
 " I'm a sort of gnome." 
 
 "A gnome?" 
 
 " A sort of gnome ; I won't enter into particulars, be- 
 cause they won't interest you." 
 
 The apparition hesitated, evidently hoping the Count 
 would assure him that any particulars of the gnome's 
 private life would interest him deeply ; but he only 
 said — 
 
 '* Not the least bit in the world." 
 
 " You are poor," said the gnome. 
 
 " Very," replied the Count. 
 
 *' Ha ! " said he, " some people are. Now I am rich." 
 
 " Are you ? " asked the Count, beginning to take an 
 interest in the matter. 
 
 " I am, and would make you rich too ; only you must 
 help me to a wife." 
 
 " What ! Kepay good for evil ? Never ! " 
 
 He didn't mean this, only he thought it was a smart 
 thing to say. 
 
 " Not exactly," said the gnome; "I shan't give j^ou 
 the gold until you have found me the wife ; so that I 
 shall be repaj^ng evil with good." 
 
 " Yes," said the count musingly : "I didn't look at 
 it in that light at all. I see it quite from your point of 
 view. But why don't you find a wife for yourself ? "
 
 The Triumph of Vice. 133 
 
 " Well," said the gnome diffidently, " I'm not exactly 
 — yoii know — I'm — that is — I want a word ! " 
 
 "Extremely ugly ? " suggested the -Count. 
 
 " Ye-e-es," said the gnome (rather taken aback) ; 
 " something of that sort. You, know." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said the Count ; " but how am I to 
 help you ? I can't make you pretty." 
 
 " No ; but I have the power of transforming myself 
 three times during my gnome existence into a magnifi- 
 cent young man." 
 
 " 0-h-h-h ! " said the count slyly. 
 
 " Exactly. Well, I've done that twice, but without 
 success as far as regards getting a wife. This is my 
 last chance." 
 
 " But how can I help you ? You say you can change 
 yourself into a magnificent young man ; then why not 
 plead your own cause ? I, for my part, am rather — 
 a " 
 
 " Eepulsive ? " suggested the gnome thinking he had 
 him there. 
 
 " Plain," said the count. 
 
 "Well," replied the gnome, "there's an unfortunate 
 fact connected with my human existence." 
 
 " Out with it. Don't stand on ceremony." 
 
 " Well, then, it's this. I begin as a magnificent 
 young man, six feet high, but I diminish imperceptibly 
 day by day, whenever I wash myself, until I shrink into 
 the — a — the ' ' 
 
 " Contemptible abortion ? " 
 
 "A — yes — thank you — you behold. AVcll, I've tried 
 it twice, and found on each occasion a lovely girl who
 
 134 T^i^ Triumph of Vice. 
 
 was willing and ready to marry me ; but during the 
 month or so that elapsed between each engagement and 
 the day ajipointed for the wedding, I shrunk so per- 
 ceptibly (one is obliged, you know, to wash one's face 
 during courtship), that my bride-elect became frightened 
 and cried oif. Now, I have seen the Lady Bertha, and 
 I am determined to marry her." 
 
 " You ? Ha, ha ! Excuse me, but Ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Yes, I. But you will see that it is essential that 
 as little time as possible should elapse between my in- 
 troduction to her and our marriage." 
 
 " Of course ; and you want me to prepare her to re- 
 ceive you, and marry you there and then without 
 delay." 
 
 " Exactly ; and if you consent, I will give yon several 
 gold mines, and as many diamonds as you can carry." 
 
 " You will ? My dear sir, say no more ! ' Kevenge ! 
 Revenge ! Revenge ! Timotheus cried,' quoting a popular 
 comic song of the day. But how do you effect the neces- 
 sary transformation?" 
 
 " Here is a ring which gives me the power of 
 assuming human form once more during my existence. 
 I have only to put it on my middle finger, and the 
 transformation is complete." 
 
 " I see — but — couldn't you oblige me with a few 
 thaler s on account ? " 
 
 " Um," said the gnome; "it's irregular: but here 
 are two." 
 
 "Right," said the Count, biting them; "I'll do it. 
 Come the day after to-morrow." 
 
 " At this time ? " said the gnome.
 
 The Triumph of Vice. 135 
 
 " At this time." 
 " Good-night." 
 •' Good night." 
 
 And the gnome disappeared up the chimney. 
 The Comit von Krappentrapp hurried off without loss 
 of time to communicate to the lovely Bertha the splendid 
 fate in store for her. 
 
 "Lady Bertha," said he, " I come to you with a 
 magnificent proposal." 
 
 " Now, Krappentrapp," said Bertha, " don't he a 
 donkey. Once for all, I will not have you." 
 
 "I am not alluding to myself; I am speaking on 
 behalf of a friend." 
 
 " 0, any friend of yours, I'm sure," began Bertha 
 politely. 
 
 " Thanks, very much." 
 
 ** Would be open to the same objection as yourself. 
 He would be repulsive." 
 " But he is magnificent !" 
 " He would be vicious." 
 " But he is virtuous ! " 
 
 " He would be insignificant in rank and stature." 
 " He is a prince of unexampled proportions ! " 
 " He would be absurdcdly poor." 
 " He is fabulously wealthy ! " 
 
 " Indeed ? " said Bertha ; " your story interests me.'' 
 (She was intimately acquainted with German melodrama.) 
 " Proceed." 
 
 " This prince," said Krappentrapp, " has heard of 
 you, has seen you, and consequently has fallen in love 
 with you."
 
 136 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 " 0, g'long," said Bertha giggling, and nudging him 
 with her extraordinarily moulded elbow. 
 
 " Fact. He proposes to settle on you Africa, the 
 Crystal Palace, several solar systems, the Rhine, and 
 Bosherville. The place," added he, musingly, " to 
 spend a happy, happy day." 
 
 " Are you in earnest, or " (baring her right arm to the 
 shoulder) " is this some of your nonsense ?" 
 
 " Upon my honour, I am in earnest. He will be here 
 the day after to-morrow at this time to claim you, if 
 you consent to have him. He will carry you away with 
 him alone to his own province, and there will marry 
 
 you." 
 
 " Go away alone with him ? I wouldn't think of such 
 a thing ! " said Bertha, who was a model of propriety. 
 
 " H'm ! " said the Count, " that is awkward certainly- 
 Ha ! a thought ! You shall marry him first, and start 
 afterwards, only as he has to leave this in two days, the 
 wedding must take place without a moment's delay." 
 
 You see, if he had suggested this iu the first instance, 
 she would have indignantly rejected the notion, on prin- 
 ciple. As it was she jumped at it, and, as a token of 
 peace, let down her sleeve. 
 
 " I can provide my trousseau iu two days. I will 
 marry him the day he arrives, if he turns out to be all 
 
 you have represented him. But if he does not " And 
 
 she again bared her arm, significantly, to the shoulder. 
 
 That night, the Baron von Klauffenbach and the Count 
 von Krappentrapp kept it up right merrily on the two 
 thalers which the Count had procured from the gnome. 
 The Baron was overjoyed at the prospect of a princely
 
 The Triumph of Vice. 137 
 
 son-iu-law ; and the shower of ink-bottles from the 
 battlements was heavier than ever. 
 
 The second day after this the gnome appeared to 
 Count Krappentrapp. 
 
 " How do you do ? " said the Count. 
 
 "Thank you," said the gnome; "I'm pretty well. 
 It's an awful thing being married." 
 
 " Oh, no. Don't be dispirited." 
 
 " Ah, it's all very well for you to say that, but — Is the 
 lady ready?" said he, changing the subject abruptly. 
 
 "Ready, I should think so. She's sitting in the 
 banqueting hall in full bridal array, panting for your 
 arrival." 
 
 "0! do Hook nervous ? " 
 
 " Well, candidly, you do," said the Count. 
 
 " I'm afraid I do. Is everything prepared ? " 
 
 "The preparations," said the Count, "are on the 
 most magnificent scale. Half buns and cut oranges are 
 scattered over the place in luxurious profusion, and there 
 is enough gingerbierheimer and currantweinmilch on tap 
 to float the Rob Roy canoe. Gretchen is engaged, as I 
 speak, in cutting ham-sandwiches recklessly in the 
 kitchen ; and the Baron has taken down the * Apart- 
 ments furnished,' which has hung for ages in the 
 stained glass windows of the banqueting hall." 
 
 "I see," said the gnome, "to give a tone to the 
 thing." 
 
 " Just so. Altogether it will be the completest thing 
 you ever saw." 
 
 " Well," said the gnome, " then I think I'll dress." 
 
 For he had not yet taken his human form.
 
 138 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 So he slipped a big carbuncle ring on to the middle 
 finger of his right hand. Immediately the room was 
 filled with a pufF of smoke from the chimney, and when 
 it had cleared away, the Count saw, to his astonishment, 
 a magnificent young man in the place where the gnome 
 had stood. 
 
 *' There is no deception," said the gnome. 
 "Bravo! very good indeed! very neat!" said the 
 Count, applauding. 
 
 *' Clever thing, isn't it ? " said the gnome. 
 " Capital ; most ingenious. But now — what's your 
 name ? " 
 
 "It's an odd name. Prince Pooh." 
 "Prince Pooh ? Pooh ! pooh ! you're joking." 
 " Now, take my advice, and never try to pun upon a 
 fellow's name ; you may be sure that, however ingenious 
 the joke may be, it's certain to have been done before 
 over and over again to his face. Your own particular 
 joke is precisely the joke every fool makes when he first 
 hears my name." 
 
 "I beg your pardon — it was weak. Now, if you'll 
 come with me to the Baron, you and he can settle 
 preliminaries." 
 
 So they went to the Baron, who was charmed with 
 his son-in-law elect. Prince Pooh settled on Bertha 
 the whole of Africa, the Crystal Palace, several solar 
 systems, the Khine, and Rosherville, and made the 
 Baron a present of Siberia and Vesuvius ; after that 
 they all went down to the banqueting hall, where 
 Bertha and the priest were awaiting their arrival. 
 
 "Allow me," said the Baron. "Bertha, my dear,
 
 The Trmmph of Vice. 139 
 
 Prince Pooh — who has behaved most handsomely '' (this 
 in a whisper). "Prince Pooh — my daughter Bertha. 
 Pardon a father if he is for a moment unmanned." 
 
 And the Baron wept over Bertha, while Prince Pooh 
 mingled bis tears with those of Count Krappentrapp, 
 and the priest with those of Gretchen, who had finished 
 cutting the sandwiches. The ceremony was then gone 
 into with much zeal on all sides, and on its conclusion 
 the party sat down to the elegant collation already 
 referred to. The Prince declared that the Baron was 
 the best fellow he had ever met, and the Baron assured 
 the Prince that words failed him when he endeavoured 
 to express the joy he felt at an alliance with so un- 
 exceptionable a Serene Highness. 
 
 The Prince and his bride started in a carriage and 
 twenty- seven for his country seat, which was only fifty 
 miles from Tackleschlosstein, and that night the Baron 
 and the Count kept it up harder than ever. They went 
 down to the local silversmith to buy up all the pre- 
 sentation inkstands in his stock ; and the shower of 
 inkstands from the castle battlements on the heads 
 of the villagers below that night is probably without 
 precedent or imitation in the chronicles of revelry. 
 
 Bertha and Prince Pooh spent a happy honeymoon : 
 Bertha had one, and only one cause of complaint against 
 Prince Pooh, and that was an insignificant one — do all 
 she could, she couldn't persuade him to wash his face 
 more than once a week. Bertha was a clean girl for a 
 German, and had acquired a habit of performing ablu-
 
 140 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 tions three or even four times a week; consequently her 
 husband's annoying peculiarity irritated her more than 
 it would have irritated most of the young damsels of 
 Tackleschlosstein. So she would contrive, when he was 
 asleep, to go over his features with a damp towel ; and 
 whenever he went out for a walk she hid his umbrella, 
 in order that, if it chanced to rain, he might get a pro- 
 vidential and sanitary wetting. 
 
 This sort of thing went on for about two months, and 
 at the end of that period Bertha began to observe an 
 extraordinary change not only in her husband's appear- 
 ance, but also in her own. To her horror she found 
 that both she and her husband were shrinking rapidly ! 
 On the day of their marriage each of them was six feet 
 high, and now her husband was only five feet nine, 
 while she had diminished to five feet six — owing to her 
 more frequent use of water. Her dresses were too long 
 and too wide for her. Tucks had to be run in every- 
 thing to which tucks were applicable, and breadths and 
 gores taken out of all garments which were susceptible 
 of these modifications. She spent a small fortune in 
 heels, and even then had to walk about on tiptoe in 
 order to escape remark. Nor was Prince Pooh a whit 
 more easy in his mind than was his wife. He wore the 
 tallest hats with the biggest feathers, and the most 
 preposterous heels to his boots that ever were seen. 
 Each seemed afraid to allude to these extraordinary 
 modifications to each other, and a gentle melancholy 
 took the place of the hilarious jollity which had 
 characterised their proceedings hitherto. 
 
 At length matters came to a crisis. The Prince
 
 The Triwnph of Vice. 141 
 
 went out hunting one day, and fell into the Rhine from 
 the top of a high rock. He was an excellent swimmer, 
 and he had to remain about two hours, swimming 
 against a powerful tide, before assistance arrived. The 
 consequence was that when he was taken out he had 
 shrunk so considerably that his attendants hardly knew 
 him. He was reduced, in fact, to four feet nine. 
 
 On his return to his castle he dressed himself in his 
 tallest hat and highest heels, and, warming his chilly 
 body at the fire, he nervously awaited the arrival of 
 his wife from a shopping expedition in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 " Charles," said she, " further disguise were worse 
 than useless. It is impossible for me to conceal from 
 myself the extremely unpleasant fact that we are both 
 of us rapidly shrinking. Two months since you were a 
 fine man, and I was one of the most magnificent women 
 of this or any other time. Now lam only middle-sized, 
 and you have suddenly become contemptibly small. 
 What does this mean ? " 
 
 " A husband is often made to look small in the eyes 
 of his wife," said Prince Charles Pooh, attempting to 
 turn it off with a feeble joke. 
 
 " Yes, but a wife don't mean to stand being made to 
 look small in the eyes of her husband." 
 
 " It's only fancy, my dear. You are as fine a woman 
 as ever." 
 
 "Nonsense, Charles. Gores, Gussets, and Tucks 
 are Solemn Things," said Bertha, speaking in capitals ; 
 "they are Stubborn Facts which there is No Denying, 
 and I Insist on ttu Explanation."
 
 142 The Triumph of Vice. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Prince Pooh, "but I can't 
 account for it; " and suddenly remembering that his 
 horse was still in the Rhine, he ran off as hard as he 
 could to get it out. 
 
 Bertha was evidently vexed. She began to suspect 
 that she had married the Fiend, and the consideration 
 annoyed her much. So she determined to write to her 
 father, and ask him what she had better do. 
 
 Now, Prince Pooh had behaved most shabbily to his 
 friend Count Krappentrapp. Instead of giving him the 
 gold-mines and diamonds which he had promised him 
 he sent him nothing at all but a bill for twenty pounds 
 at six months, a few old masters, a dozen or so of cheap 
 hock, and a few hundred paving stones, which were 
 wholly inadequate to the satisfaction of the Count and 
 the Baron's new-born craving for silver inkstands. So 
 Count von Krappentrapp determined to avenge himself 
 on the Prince at the very earliest opportunity ; and in 
 Bertha's letter the opportunity presented itself. 
 
 He saddled the castle donkey, and started for Pooh- 
 berg, the Prince's seat. In two days he arrived there, 
 and sent up his card to Bertha. Bertha admitted him ; 
 and he then told her the Prince's real character, and the 
 horrible fate that was in store for her if she continued 
 to be his wife. 
 
 " But what am I to do ? " said she. 
 
 "If you were single again, whom would you marry?" 
 said he with much sly emphasis. 
 
 " 0," said the Princess, " you, of course." 
 
 "You would." 
 
 " Undoubtedly. Here it is in writing."
 
 The Triumph of Vice. 143 
 
 And she gave him a written promise to marry him if 
 anything ever happened to the Prince her husband. 
 
 " But," said the Count, " can you reconcile yourself 
 to the fact that my proportions are insignificant ? " 
 
 " Compared with me, as I now am, you are gigantic," 
 said Bertha. " I am cured of my pride in my own 
 splendid stature." 
 
 " Good," said the Count. " You have noticed the 
 carbuncle that your husband (husband ! ha ! ha ! but 
 no matter) wears on his middle finger ? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " In that rests his charm. Kemove it while he 
 
 sleeps ; he will vanish, and you will be a free woman." 
 
 ****** 
 
 That night as the clock struck twelve, the Princess 
 removed the ring from the right-hand middle finger of 
 Prince Pooh. He gave a fearful shriek; the room iv as 
 filled tvith smoke ; and on its clearirig off, the body of 
 the gnome in its original form lay dead upon the heel, 
 
 charred to ashes ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 The castle of Poohberg, however, remained, and all 
 that was in it. The ashes of the monster were buried 
 in the back garden, and a horrible leafless shrub, en- 
 crusted with a black, shiny, horny bark, that suggested 
 black beetles, grew out the grave with astounding 
 rapidity. It grew, and grew, and grew, but never put 
 forth a leaf; and as often as it was cut down it grew 
 again. So when Bertha (who never recovered her 
 original proportions) married Count Krappentrapp, it 
 became necessary to shut up the back garden alto-
 
 144 ^-^^^ Triumph of Vice. 
 
 gether, and to put ground-glass panes into the windows 
 which commanded it. And they took the dear old 
 Baron to live with them, and the Count and he spent a 
 jolly time of it. The Count laid in a stock of inkstands 
 which would last out the old man's life, and many a 
 merry hour they spent on the hoary hattlements of 
 Poohberg. Bertha and her husband lived to a good old 
 age, and died full of years and of honours.
 
 MY MAIDEN BRIEF. 
 
 Late on a certain May morning, as I was sitting at a 
 modest breakfast in my " residence chambers," Pump 
 Court, Temple, my attention was claimed by a single 
 knock at an outer door, common to the chambers of 
 Felix Polter, and of myself, Horace Penditton, both 
 barristers-at-law of the Inner Temple. 
 
 The outer door was not the only article common to 
 Polter and myself. We also shared what Polter (who 
 wrote farces) was pleased to term a " property " clerk, 
 who did nothing at all, and a "practicable" laundress, 
 who did everything. There existed also a communion 
 of interest in tea-cups, razors, gridirons, candlesticks, 
 &c. ; for although neither of us was particularly well 
 supplied with the necessaries of domestic life, each 
 happened to possess the very articles in which the other 
 was deficient. So we got on uncommonly well together, 
 each regarding his friend in the light of an indispensable 
 other self. Wc had both embraced the " higher walk " 
 of the legal profession, and were patiently waiting for 
 the legal profession to return the compliment. 
 
 The single knock raised some well-founded apprehen- 
 sions in both our minds. 
 
 " Walker ! " said I to the property clerk.
 
 146 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 " Sir ! " 
 
 " If that knock is for me, I'm out you know." 
 
 " Of course, sir ! " 
 
 " And Walker ! " cried Polter. 
 
 " Sir ! " 
 
 " If it's for me, I'm not at home ! " 
 
 Polter always rejoiced if he could manage to make the 
 conversation partake of a Maddisonian Mortonic cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Mr. Walker opened the door. " Mr. Penditton's a- 
 hreakfasting- "with the Master of the Rolls, if it's him 
 you want ; and if it isn't, Mr. Polter's Avith the Attorney- 
 General." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " remarked the visitor ; *' then 
 you'll give this to Mr. Penditton, as soon as the Master 
 can make up his mind to part with him." 
 
 And so saying, he handed to Walker a lovely parcel 
 of hrief paper, tied up neatly with a piece of red tape, 
 and minuted — 
 
 " Central Criminal Court, May Sessions, 1860. — The 
 Queen on the prosecution of Ann Black v. Elizabeth 
 Briggs. Brief for the prisoner. Mr. Penditton, one 
 guinea. — Poddle and Shaddery, Brompton Square." 
 
 So it had come at last ! Only an Old Bailey brief, it 
 is true ; but still a brief. We scarcely knew what to 
 make of it. Polter looked at mc, and I looked at Polter, 
 and then we both looked at the brief. 
 
 It turned out to be a charge against Elizabeth Briggs, 
 widow, of picldng pockets in an omnibus. It appeared 
 from my "instructions," that my client was an elderly 
 lady, and religious. On the 2nd April then last she
 
 My Maiden Brief. 147 
 
 entered an Islington omnibus, with the view of attending 
 a tea and praj^er meeting in Bell Court, Islington. A 
 woman in the omnibus missed her purse, and accused 
 Mrs. Briggs, who sat on her right, of having stolen it. 
 The poor soul, speechless with horror at the charge, was 
 dragged out of the omnibus, and as the purse was found 
 in a pocket in the left hand side of her dress, she was 
 given into custody. As it Avas stated by the police that 
 she had been *' in trouble " before, the infatuated magis- 
 trate who examined her committed her for trial. 
 
 " There, my boy, your fortune's made," said Polter. 
 
 " But I don't see the use of my taking it," said I ; 
 there's nothing to be said for her." 
 
 " Not take it ? Won't you though ? I'll see about 
 that. You shall take it, and you shall get her off, too ! 
 Highly respectable old lady — attentive member of well- 
 known congregation — parson to speak to her character, 
 no doubt. As honest as you are ! " 
 
 "But the purse was found upon her." 
 
 " Well, sir, and what of that ? Poor woman left- 
 handed, and pocket in left of dress. Robbed woman 
 right-handed, and pocket in right of dress. Poor woman 
 sat on right of robbed woman. Robbed woman, replacing 
 her purse, slipped it accidentally into poor woman's 
 pocket. Ample folds of dress, you know — crinolines 
 overlapping, and all that. — Splendid defence for 3'ou ! " 
 
 " Well, but she's an old hand, it seems. The police 
 know her." 
 
 " Police always do ; * always know everybody ; ' police 
 maxim. Swear anything, they will." 
 
 Polter really seemed so sanguine about it that I began
 
 148 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 to look at the case hopefully, and to think that some- 
 thing might be clone with it. He talked to me with 
 such eftect that he not only convinced me that there was 
 a good deal to be said in Mrs. Briggs's favour, but I 
 actually began to look upon her as an innocent victim 
 of circumstantial evidence, and determined that no effort 
 should be wanting on my part to procure her release 
 from a degrading but unmerited confinement. 
 
 Of the firm of Poddle & Shaddery I knew nothing 
 whatever, and how they came to entrust Mrs. Briggs's 
 case to me I can form no conception. As we (for Polter 
 took so deep a personal interest in the success of Mrs. 
 Briggs's case that he completely identified himself, in my 
 mind, with her fallen fortunes,) resolved to go to work 
 in a thoroughly business-like manner, we determined to 
 commence operations by searching for the firm of Poddle 
 & Shaddery in the Law List. To our dismay the Law 
 List of that year had no record of Poddle, neither did 
 Shaddery find a place in its pages. This was serious, 
 and Polter did not improve matters by suddenly re- 
 collecting that he once heard an old Q.C. say that, as a 
 rule, the farther west of Temple Bar the shadier the 
 attorney ; so that assuming Polter' s friend to have come 
 to a correct conclusion on this point, a firm dating 
 officially from Brompton Square, and whose name did 
 not appear in Mr. Dalbiac's Laiv List, was a legitimate 
 object of suspicion. But Polter, who took a hopeful 
 view of anything which he thought might lead to good 
 fiirce •" situations," and who probably imagined that my 
 first appearance on any stage as counsel for the defence 
 was likely to be rich in suggestions, remarked that they
 
 Afy Maiden Brief. 149 
 
 might possibly have been certificated since the publish- 
 ing of the last IjCiw List; and as for the dictu»i about 
 Temple Bar, yvhj, the case of Poddle and Shaddery 
 might be one of those very exceptions whose existence 
 is necessary to the proof of every general rule. So 
 Polter and I determined to treat the firm in a spirit of 
 charity, and accept their brief. 
 
 As the May sessions of oyer and terminer did not 
 commence until the 8tli, I had four clear days in which 
 to study my brief and prepare my defence. Besides, 
 there was a murder case, and a desperate burglary or 
 two, which would probably be taken first, so that it was 
 unlikely that the case of the poor soul whose cause I 
 had espoused would be tried before the 12th. So I had 
 plenty of time to master what Polter and I agreed was 
 one of the most painful cases of circumstantial evidence 
 ever submitted to a British jury ; and I really believe 
 that, by the first day of the May sessions, I was inti- 
 mately acquainted with the details of every case of 
 pocket-picking reported in Cox's Criminal Cases and 
 Buckler's Shorthand Reports. 
 
 On the night of the lltli I asked Bodger of Brase- 
 nose, Norton of Gray's Inn, Cadbury of the Lancers, 
 and three or four other men, college chums principally, 
 to drop in at Pump Court, and hear a rehearsal of my 
 speech for the defence, in the forthcoming cause ceVchre 
 of the Queen on the prosecution of Ann ]31ack v. Eliza- 
 beth Briggs. At nine o'clock they began to appear, and 
 by ten all were assembled. Pipes and strong waters 
 were produced, and Norton of Gray's was forthwith 
 raised to the Bench by the style and dignity of Sir
 
 150 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 Joseph Norton, one of the Barons of Her Majesty's 
 Court of Exchequer; Cadbury, Boclger, and another 
 represented the jury ; Wilkmson of Lmcohi's Inn was 
 counsel for the prosecution, Polter was clerk of arraigns, 
 and Walker, my clerk, was the prosecutrix. 
 
 Everything went satisfactorily ; Wilkinson broke 
 do^Ti in his speech for the prosecution ; his witness 
 prevaricated and contradicted himself in a preposterous 
 manner ; and my speech for the defence was voted to be 
 one of the most masterly specimens of forensic ingenuity 
 that had ever come before the notice of the Court ; and 
 the consequence was that the prisoner (inadequately 
 represented by a statuette of the Greek slave) was dis- 
 charged, and Norton, who would have looked more like 
 a Baron of the Exchequer if he had looked less like a 
 tipsy churchwarden, remarked that she left the Court 
 without a stain on her character. 
 
 The Court then adjourned for refreshment, and the 
 conversation took a general turn, after canvassing the 
 respective merits of " May it please your ludship," and 
 " May it please you, my lud," as an introduction to a 
 counsel's speech — a discussion which ended in favour of 
 the latter form, as being a trifle more independent in its 
 character, I remember proposing that the health of 
 Elizabeth Briggs should be drunk in a solemn and 
 respectful bumper ; and as the evening wore on, I am 
 afraid I became exceedingly indignant with Cadbury, 
 because he had taken the liberty of holding up to public 
 ridicule an imaginary (and highly undignified) carte-de- 
 visite of my unfortunate client. 
 
 The 12th May, big with the fate of Penditton and of
 
 My Maiden Brief. 151 
 
 Briggs, dawned in the usual manner. At ten o'clock 
 Polter and I drove up in wigs and gowns to the Old 
 Bailey ; as well because we kept those imposing gar- 
 ments at our chambers, not having any use for them 
 elsewhere, as to impress passers-by and the loungers 
 below the Court with a conviction that we were not only 
 Old Bailey counsel, but had come down from our usual 
 sphere of action at Westminster, to conduct a case of 
 more than ordinary complication. Impressed with a 
 sense of the propriety of presenting an accurate pro- 
 fessional appearance, I had taken remarkable pains with 
 my toilet. I had the previous morning shaved off a 
 flourishing moustache, and sent Walker out for half-a- 
 dozen serious collars, as substitutes for the unpro- 
 fessional " lay-downs " I usually wore. I was dressed 
 in a correct evening suit, and wore a pair of thin gold 
 spectacles ; and Polter remarked, that I looked tho 
 sucking Bencher to the life. Polter, whose interest in 
 the accuracy of my " get-up " was almost fatherly, had 
 totally neglected his own ; and he made his appearance 
 in the raggedest of beards and moustaches under his 
 wig, and the sloppiest of cheap drab lounging-coats 
 under his gown. 
 
 I modestly took my place in the back row of the seats 
 allotted to the Bar ; Polter took his in the very front, 
 in order to have an opportunity, at the close of the case, 
 of telling the leading counsel, in the hearing of the 
 attorneys, the name and address of the young and rising 
 barrister who had just electrified the Court. In various 
 parts of the building I detected Cadbury, Wilkinson, 
 and others, who had represented judge, jury, and
 
 152 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 counsel, on the previous evening. They had been 
 instructed by Polter (who had had some experience in 
 " packing " a house) to distribute themselves about the 
 Court, and, at the termination of the speech for the 
 defence, to give vent to their feelings in that applause 
 which is always so quickly suppressed by the officers of 
 a court of justice. I was rather annoyed at this, as I 
 did not consider it altogether legitimate ; and my annoy- 
 ance was immensely increased when I found that my 
 three elderly maiden aunts, to whom I had been foolish 
 enough to confide the fact of my having to appear on 
 the 12th, were seated in state in that portion of the 
 room allotted to friends of the Bench and Bar, and 
 busied themselves by informing everybody within 
 whisper- shot, that I was to defend Elizabeth Briggs, 
 and that this was my first brief. It was some little 
 consolation, however, to find the unceremonious manner 
 in which the facts of the cases that preceded mine were 
 explained and commented on by judge, jury, and 
 counsel, caused those ladies great uneasiness, and, 
 indeed, compelled them, on one or two occasions, to 
 beat an unceremonious retreat. 
 
 At length the clerk of arraigns called the case 
 of Briggs, and with my heart in my mouth I 
 began to try to recollect the opening words of my 
 speech for the defence, but I was interrupted in that 
 hopeless task by the appearance of Elizabeth in the 
 dock. 
 
 She was a pale, elderly widow, rather buxom, and 
 remarkably neatly dressed in slightly rusty mourning. 
 Her hair was arranged in two sausage curls, one on each
 
 My Maiden Brief. 153 
 
 side of lier head, and looped in two festoons over tlie 
 forehead. She appeared to feel her position acutely, 
 and although she did not weep, her red eyes showed 
 evident traces of recent tears. She grasped the edge of 
 the dock, and rocked backwards and forwards, accom- 
 panying the motion with a low moaning sound, that was 
 extremely touching. Polter looked back at me with an 
 expression which plainly said, "If ever an innocent 
 woman appeared in that dock, that woman is Elizabeth 
 Briggs ! " 
 
 The clerk of arraigns now proceeded to charge the 
 jury. " Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the 
 bar, Elizabeth Briggs, is indicted for that she did, on 
 the 2nd April last, steal from the j^erson of Ann Black 
 a purse containing ten shillings and fourpence, the 
 moneys of the said Ann Black. There is another count 
 to the indictment, charging her Avith having received 
 the same, knowing it to have been stolen. To both of 
 these counts the prisoner has pleaded ' Not Guilty,' 
 and it is your charge to try whether she is guilty or not 
 guilty." Then to the Bar, " Who appears i)i this 
 case ? " 
 
 Nobody replying on behalf of the Crown, I rose and 
 remarked that I appeared for the defence. 
 
 A counsel here said that he believed that the brief for 
 the pi-osecution was entrusted to Mr. Porter, but that that 
 gentleman was engaged at the Middlesex Sessions in a 
 case which was likely to occupy several hours, and that 
 he (Mr. Porter) did not expect that Briggs's case would 
 come on that day. 
 
 A consultation then took place between the judge and
 
 154 ^h' ^^^'^^1^ Bi'ief. 
 
 tlie clerk of arraigns. At its termination, the latter 
 functionary said, " AVho is the junior counsel 
 present ? " 
 
 To my horror, up jumped Polter, and said, " I think 
 it's very likely that I am the junior counsel in court. 
 My name is Polter, and I was only called last term ! " 
 
 A titter ran through the crowd, but Polter, whose 
 least fault was baslifulness, only smiled benignly at those 
 around him. 
 
 Another whispering between judge and clerk. At its 
 conclusion the clerk handed a bundle of papers to Polter, 
 saying, at the same time : 
 
 "Mr. Polter, his lordship wishes you to conduct the 
 prosecution." 
 
 " Certainly," said Polter ; and he opened the papers, 
 glanced at them, and rose to address the court. 
 
 He began by requesting that the jury would take into 
 consideration the fact that he had only that moment 
 been placed in possession of the brief for the prosecu- 
 tion of the prisoner at the bar, who appeared from what 
 he had gathered from a glance at his instructions, to 
 have been guilty of as heartless a robbery as ever dis- 
 graced humanity. He would endeavour to do his duty, 
 but he feared that, at so short a notice, he should scarcely 
 be able to do justice to the brief with which he had been 
 most unexpectedly entrusted. He then went on to state 
 the case in a masterly manner, appearing to gather the 
 facts, with which, of course, he was perfectly intimate, 
 from the papers in his hand. He commented on the 
 growing frequency of omnibus robberies, and then went 
 on to say: —
 
 My Maiden Brief. 155 
 
 " Gentlemen, I am at no loss to anticipate the defence 
 on which my learned friend Avill base his hope of in- 
 ducing you to acquit that wretched woman. I don't 
 know whether it has ever been your misfortune to try 
 criminal cases before, but if it has, you will be able to 
 anticipate his defence as certainly as I can. He will 
 probably tell you, because the purse was found in the 
 left-hand pocket of that miserable woman's dress, that 
 she is left-handed, and on that account wears her pocket 
 on the left side, and he will then, if I am not very much 
 mistaken, ask the prosecutrix if she is not right-handed, 
 and, lastly, he will ask you to believe that the prosecutrix 
 sitting on the prisoner's left, slipped the purse acci- 
 dentally into the prisoner's pocket. But, gentlemen, I 
 need not remind you that the facts of these omnibus 
 robberies are always identical. The prisoner always is 
 left-handed, the prosecutrix always is right-handed, and 
 the prosecutrix always does slip the purse accidentally 
 into the prisoner's pocket instead of her own. My lord 
 will tell you that this is so, and you will know how much 
 faith to place upon such a defence, should my friend 
 think proper to set it up." He ended by entreating the 
 jury to give the case their attentive consideration, and 
 stated that he relied confidently on an immediate verdict 
 of " Guilty." He then sat down, saying to the usher, 
 " Call Ann Black." 
 
 Ann Black, who was in court, shuffled up into the 
 witness-box, and was duly sworn. Polter then drew out 
 her evidence, bit by bit, helping her with leading ques- 
 tions of the most flagrant description. I knew that I 
 ought not to allow this, but I was too horrified at the
 
 156 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 turn matters had taken to interfere. At the conclu- 
 sion of the examination in chief Polter sat down tri- 
 umphantly, and I rose to cross-examine. 
 
 " You are right-handed, Mrs. Black?" {Laughter.) 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir! " 
 
 "Very good. I've nothing else to ask you." 
 
 So Mrs. Black stood down, and the omnihus conductor 
 took her place. His evidence was not material, and I 
 declined to cross-examine. The policeman who had 
 charge of the case followed the conductor, and his 
 evidence was to the effect that the purse was found in 
 her pocket. 
 
 I felt that this witness ought to be cross-examined, 
 but not having anything ready, I allowed him to stand 
 down. A question, I am sorry to say, then occurred to 
 me, and I requested his lordship to allow the witness to 
 be recalled. 
 
 " You say j'ou found the purse in her pocket, my 
 man?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Did you find anything else ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Two other purses, a watch with the bow broken, three 
 handkerchiefs, two silver pencil-cases, and a hymn-book. 
 {Roars of hdir/ltter.) 
 
 "You may stand down." 
 
 " That is the case, my lord," said Polter. 
 
 It was now my turn to address the court. What 
 could I say ? I believe I observed, that, undeterred by 
 my learned friend's opening speech, I did intend to set
 
 Aly Maiden Bj-ief. 157 
 
 up the defence he had anticipated. I set it up, but I 
 don't think it did much good. The jury, who were per- 
 fectly well aware that this was Polter's first case, had no 
 idea but that I was an old hand at it ; and no doubt 
 thought me an uncommonly clumsy one. They had 
 made every allowance for Polter, who needed nothing of 
 the kind, and they made none at all for me, who needed 
 all they had at their disposal. I soon relinquished my 
 original line of defence, and endeavoured to influence the 
 jury by vehement assertions of my personal conviction 
 of the prisoner's innocence. I warmed with my subject, 
 (for Polter had not anticipated me here), and I believe I 
 grew really eloquent. I think I staked my professional 
 reputation on her innocence, and I sat down expressing 
 my confidence in a verdict that would restore the unfor- 
 tunate lady to a circle of private friends, several of whom 
 were waiting in the court below to testify to her excellent 
 character. 
 
 " Call witnesses to Mrs. Briggs's character," said I. 
 
 "Witnesses to the character of Briggs ! " shouted the 
 crier. 
 
 The cry was repeated three or four times outside the 
 court ; but there was no response. 
 
 " No v/itnesses to Briggs's character here, my lord ! " 
 said the crier. 
 
 Of course I knew this very well ; but it sounded re- 
 spectable to expect them. 
 
 " Dear, dear," said I, " this is really most unfortunate. 
 They must have mistaken the day." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder," observed Polter, rather drily. 
 
 I was not altogether sorry that I had no witnesses to
 
 158 My Maiden Brief. 
 
 adduce, as I am afraid that they would scarcely have 
 borne the test of Polter's cross-examination. Besides, 
 if I had examined witnesses for the defence, Polter would 
 have been entitled to a reply, of which privilege he 
 would, I was sure, avail himself. 
 
 Mr. Baron Bounderby proceeded to sum up, grossly 
 against the prisoner, as I then thought, but, as I have 
 since had reason to believe, most impartially. He 
 went carefully over the evidence, and told the jury that 
 if they believed the witnesses for the prosecution, they 
 should find the prisoner guilty, and if they did not — 
 why, they should acquit her. The jury were then 
 directed by the crier to '' consider their verdict," which 
 they couldn't possibly have done, for they immediately 
 returned a verdict of " Guilty." The prisoner not 
 having anything to say in arrest of judgment, the 
 learned judge proceeded to pronounce sentence — inquir- 
 ing, first of all, whether anything was known about 
 her? 
 
 A policeman stepped forward, and stated that she had 
 twice been convicted at this court of felony, and once at 
 the Middlesex Sessions. 
 
 Mr. Baron Bounderby, addressing the prisoner, told 
 her that she had been most properly convicted, on the 
 clearest possible evidence ; that she was an accomplished 
 thief, and a most dangerous one ; and that the sentence 
 of the court was that she be imprisoned and kept to hard 
 labour for the space of eighteen calendar months. 
 
 No sooner had the learned judge pronounced this 
 sentence than the poor soul stooped down, and taking 
 off a heavy boot, flung it at my head, as a reward for
 
 My Maiden Brief. 159 
 
 my eloquence on her behalf; accompanying the assault 
 with a torrent of invective against my abilities as a 
 counsel, and my line of defence. The language in 
 which her oration was couched was perfectly shocking. 
 The boot missed me, but hit a reporter on the head, and 
 to this fact I am disposed to attribute the unfavourable 
 light in which my speech for the defence was placed in 
 two or three of the leading daily papers next morning. 
 I hurried out of court as quickly as I could, and hailing 
 a Hansom, I dashed back to chambers, pitched my wig 
 at a bust of Lord Brougham, bowled over Mrs. Briggs's 
 prototype with my gown, packed up, and started that 
 evening for the West coast of Cornwall. Polter, on the 
 other hand, remained in town, and got plenty of business 
 in that and the ensuing session, and afterwards on 
 circuit. He is now a flourishing Old Bailey counsel, 
 while I am as briefless as ever.
 
 CEEATURES OF IMPULSE. 
 
 MiSTKESS Dorothy Trabbs was the buxom landlady 
 of the "Three Pigeons," a pretty country inn on the 
 road from London to Norwich, and Mistress Dorothy 
 was held by competent judges to be the pleasantest 
 landlady on that road, for she was very pretty, and very 
 round, and very plump — too plump, some people said, 
 but that was envy. She had a pretty daughter, Jenny, 
 and a clumsy, cowardly, ill-conditioned, gawky nephew, 
 named Peter ; and these two, with a chamber-maid 
 and a nondescript " odd-man," constituted her staff of 
 assistants. 
 
 Jenny was a very pretty little girl, but so absurdly 
 shy that her prettiness went for nothing. I suppose it 
 was this very shyness of hers that emboldened Peter to 
 fall in love with her ; for he was such a timid donkey 
 that an ordinarily self-possessed woman frightened him 
 into fits. At all events he did fall in love with her, and 
 he told her so. And when he told her so, Jenny forgot, 
 for the moment, her shyness and boxed his ears soundly. 
 He felt this blow so much that he never opened the 
 subject again. In fact, Jenny had a proper contempt 
 for cowards, and like all women, shy or otherwise,
 
 t62 Creatures of Impulse. 
 
 adored manly courage. And Sergeant Brice, of Her 
 Majesty Queen Anne's Foot Guards, who had just returned 
 from Malplaquet with a bullet in his right leg, but 
 otherwise well and hearty, and who had received a billet 
 on the " Three Pigeons," was as brave as a man need^be. 
 So Jenny fell in love with him, but nobody knew any- 
 thing about it. 
 
 At the time when my story opens. Mistress Dorothy 
 was in a terrible state of perplexity. A strange Old 
 Lady, who declined to give any name or any reference as 
 to her respectability, and who had no luggage whatever, 
 had taken up her abode at the " Three Pigeons," and 
 steadily refused to pay any rent at all. This state 
 of things had continued for three months, and seemed 
 likely to continue for three more months, or three years 
 for that matter, for the Old Lady was a fairy of a malig- 
 nant description, and had it in her power to inflict all 
 sorts of punishment on anybody who displeased her. 
 At first Mistress Dorothy declined to supply her with 
 food, but the Old Lady explained that she could live 
 quite comfortably without any food at all, and indeed 
 would much prefer not to have any refreshment of any 
 kind set before her. So, as I said before, Mistress 
 Dorothy was in a terrible state of perplexity, and a 
 council of war was held in the bar-parlour, in which 
 council Sergeant Brice, Jenny, and the abject Peter 
 assisted, together with a wealthy, but very disreputable, 
 old miser named Verditter, who was collecting rents in 
 the neighbourhood, and who had made the '' Three 
 Pigeons " his head-quarters because it was the cheapest 
 as well as the best inn in the villaa'e.
 
 Creatures of Impulse. 163 
 
 Peter, abject coward as lie was, had one redeeming 
 virtue — he was not superstitious. He declined to 
 believe in fairies at all, and especially in the particular 
 fairy under discussion. He had, on one occasion, seen 
 the Old Lady cleaning her teeth with a tooth-brush, 
 and he argued, with some show of reason, that this 
 proved she was not a fairy, as fairies did everything 
 with a wand. So, as the Old Lady was a very weak and 
 tottering old lady, he thought that he might venture to 
 tackle her without incurring any serious risk. Moreover, 
 as all the others most firmly believed in her super- 
 natural character, he would no doubt acquire a cheap 
 reputation for courage if he offered to undertake to get 
 her out of the house. So he walked boldly into her 
 room with the firm intention of bullying her out of it. 
 
 " Now, Old Lady," said Peter, " we've put up with you 
 long enough. Pack up your tooth-brush, and be off, 
 for your room is wanted, and your company is not." 
 
 " Take care, Peter," said the Old Lady. 
 
 " Take care ! What have I to take care of? Why, I 
 could manage two old women like you any day in the 
 week ! " and he stalked about like a swashbuckler. 
 
 " Take care, Peter," answered she, " or I shall give 
 you a sound thrashing," 
 
 But Peter didn't care any longer, indeed he was so 
 rude as to put out his tongue at her, and by his general 
 demeanour he expressed the most marked contempt for 
 her physical strength. 
 
 " Now, Old Lady, enough of this," said he ; " you 
 talk of thrashing me. Me? Come on ! " And Peter 
 took off his coat, and squared-up to her with great bravery. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 Creatures of Impulse. 
 
 "Peter," said she, "you have thought fit to square- 
 up to me. You will continue to square-up at every- 
 body you meet, until further notice," 
 
 The Old Lady hobbled away into her bed-room, and 
 Peter, to his extreme dismay, found himself compelled 
 to be continually squaring-up, in an undaunted manner, 
 at a roomful of invisible enemies. He retired in great 
 confusion to his loft, shouting down to his friends in 
 the bar-parlour, that he had altogether failed in his 
 mission. 
 
 It was now Jenny's turn to try her luck with the Old 
 Lady. The poor little timid girl set about her work 
 with great reluctance. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said the Old Lady, " what do you 
 want?" 
 
 Jenny, finding the Old Lady in an amiable mood, 
 thought that she could not do better than endeavour to 
 coax her out of the place. 
 
 " Dear Old Lady," said she, " you are so kind, and so 
 good, and so amiable, that I am sure it is only neces- 
 sary to tell you that we want your room or your rent, 
 and you will immediately humour our little wishes in 
 this respect. Now do, there's a dear, kind, pretty Old 
 Lady." 
 
 And Jenny began to kiss and coax the Old Lady, as 
 no Old Lady was ever kissed and coaxed before. 
 
 " My dear," said the Old Lady, "this show of afiec- 
 tion for one you don't care twopence about, is very dis- 
 gusting, and, as a punishment, you will be so good as to 
 kiss and coax everybody you meet until further notice." 
 
 And Jenny retired in great confusion to her room,
 
 Creatures of Imptilse. 165 
 
 calling downstairs to her friends in the bar-parlour, that 
 she had altogether failed in her mission. 
 
 The brave Sergeant Brice's turn came next. 
 
 " Well, Old Lady," said he. 
 
 " Go away, soldier," said she. **I hate soldiers ! " 
 
 " But " 
 
 " Go away ; you're a bold, bad man ! " 
 
 And she struck so hard at the brave Sergeant with her 
 crutched stick, that he was obliged to dodge and duck 
 all over the room in order to ward ojff her blows. 
 
 "As a punishment for your impertinence in entering 
 my room without permission," said the Old Lady, '* you 
 will be so obliging to dodge and duck, as you are dodg- 
 ing and ducking now, before everybody you meet." 
 
 And the bold Sergeant retreated in great amazement 
 to his room, dodging and ducking at an imaginary foe 
 all the way, and shouting downstairs to his friends in 
 the bar-parlour, that he had altogether failed in his 
 mission. 
 
 Old Verditter, the miser, had, in the meantime, been 
 getting on very well with plump Mistress Dorothy, 
 and having looked round the comfortable bar-parlour, 
 and noticed the silver spoons and the silver tea-pot, and 
 the large silver salver on the sideboard, he had settled 
 in his own mind that Dorothy would make him a very 
 comfortable and remunerative wife. Indeed he had got 
 so far as to make two or three very broad hints on the 
 subject, when Mistress Dorothy cut him short by beg- 
 ging him to be so good as to try what he could do to get 
 the tiresome Old Lady out of the house. Verditter 
 had a firm faith in the power of gold to work out any
 
 1 66 Creatures of Impulse. 
 
 Bocial problem, and readily undertook to get rid of 
 Mistress Dorothy's unremunerative lodger. 
 
 So taking the big bag of gold, which he had collected 
 from his tenants during the day, he walked fearlessly 
 into the Old Lady's room. 
 
 " Now, ma'am," said he, " Mistress Dorothy wishes 
 you to go, and I presume that you do not comply with 
 her request, because you have no money with which to 
 pay your travelling expenses to another town. Allow me 
 to present you with this guinea, which I have no doubt 
 will enable you to reach your destination." 
 
 " You are an impertinent old scamp to dare to offer 
 me money," said the Old Lady ; '* and, as a punishment, 
 you will be good enough to offer guineas out of that bag 
 to everyone you meet, until further notice." 
 
 And the wretched miser retreated in great amazement 
 to the smoking-room (which he knew was empty), 
 offering guineas right and left to imaginary applicants, 
 and screaming downstairs to Mistress Dorothy in the 
 bar-parlour, that he had altogether failed in his mission. 
 
 Peter was getting hungry in his cock-loft, so he 
 ventured to descend, squaring at nobody, with a great 
 show of valour. His only hope was that he should not 
 meet the Sergeant, and this hope was gratified, for the 
 only person he met was Jenny, who had ventured down- 
 stairs in order to consult her mother as to the best 
 means of breaking the very compromising spell that the 
 Old Lady had thrown over her. But the mother had 
 gone out to consult the village schoolmaster, who was a 
 celebrated witch-finder, and a great authority on all 
 matters connected with the Powers of Darkness.
 
 Creatures of Impulse. 167 
 
 The shy and prudish Jenny, as soon as she saw the 
 abhorred Peter, ran up to him, and, to her extreme 
 consternation, endeavoured to throw her arms round his 
 neck and kiss him. Peter, who was delighted at this 
 proof of affection from a girl who had hitherto detested 
 him, would have offered her every encouragement if he 
 had not felt himself unfortunately compelled to hit out 
 right and left at her in unyielding compliance with the 
 request of the mischievous Old Lady upstairs. 
 
 "Peter," said the retiring girl, "I hate and detest 
 you." And so saying she once more threw her arms 
 round his neck, and he, delighted at her change of 
 manner towards him, and attributing her angry words 
 to the disappointment she felt at his rebuffing her, hit 
 out from his shoulder so violently that she had the 
 greatest difficulty in escaping the blow. 
 
 "Peter, you brute," said she, "I don't want to kiss 
 you, but somehow I can't help it." 
 
 And again she tried to embrace him, and again he 
 struck out at her. 
 
 "Peter," said she, "I tell you I am doing this 
 because I can't help it. Please don't hit me, because I 
 am only obeying an irresistible impulse." 
 
 And as she made a third attempt to get at him, the 
 Sergeant walked into the room, dodging and ducking, as 
 he dodged and ducked when the Old Lady ran after him 
 with her stick. Peter, hearing the Sergeant coming, 
 ran out of the room as fast as his legs could carry 
 him. 
 
 " What! " said the Sergeant, "do I see my shy and 
 timid Jenny endeavouring to embrace that gawky
 
 1 68 Creattires of Impulse. 
 
 nincompoop, and do I hear her excusing herself by 
 attributing her behaviour to an irresistible impulse ? " 
 
 And he dodged and ducked about the room in a 
 wholly irrational and unaccountable manner. 
 
 " Sergeant, do not hastily condemn me," said Jenny, 
 rushing at the Sergeant, and endeavouring to embrace 
 him as she before endeavoured to embrace Peter. 
 
 " Jenny, I'm ashamed of you — shocked, — disgusted ! " 
 said he, dodging and ducking, as she tried to throw her 
 arms round his neck. " I loved you for your remarkable 
 and unexampled modesty: but really — " 
 
 "Don't, don't be hard on me. Sergeant," said she; 
 " indeed, I am as timid and modest as ever, but an 
 irrepressible impulse compels me to kiss every man I 
 meet." 
 
 And she once more threw her arms around him and 
 embraced him. The Sergeant (who had been very 
 carefully brought up) was horrified, and rushed from the 
 room into the street in utter disgust, dodging and 
 ducking all the way, Jenny following him with a 
 most demonstrative show of affection. 
 
 In the street the Sergeant met Peter. Peter was in 
 a terrible state of mind, and encountering the Sergeant, 
 would willingly have run away : but the spell the Old 
 Lady had thrown over him compelled him to square up 
 at the Sergeant in the most reckless manner imaginable. 
 
 The Sergeant, who was furious at having discovered 
 Jenny's apparent love for Peter, desired nothing better 
 than to give Peter a sound thrashing, but to his own 
 intense annoyance, and to Peter's unspeakable surprise 
 and relief, the fairy's spell compelled the Sergeant to
 
 Creatures of Impulse. 169 
 
 duck and dodge as Peter struck at him as if he (the 
 Sergeant) were in a state of the most abject fear. 
 
 " Sergeant," said Peter, " please don't be angry ; but 
 indeed I can't help it," 
 
 And he hit the Sergeant straight between the eyes. 
 
 " I sincerely trust that this will not hurt you much ! " 
 
 And he struck the Sergeant full upon his military 
 nose. 
 
 " I earnestly hope that you will derive no inconvenience 
 from this round-hander." 
 
 And he planted a round-hander just on the Sergeant's 
 left ear, as that officer ducked and dodged about, 
 apparently in a great state of terror, but really boiling 
 with indignation and thirsting for his adversary's blood. 
 
 "Well," said Jenny, hugging the odd-man (who was 
 the only other person within sight, and who did not 
 resist as the Sergeant and Peter had resisted, but who, 
 on the contrary, patiently allowed her to do what she 
 pleased) — " Well," said she, " I did think the Sergeant 
 was a brave man ; and see how Peter is giving it to 
 him — Peter, who is such a coward ! " 
 
 And she ran into the house, determined to have 
 nothing to do with either of them. 
 
 In the house she met Verditter the miser, whom she 
 heartily detested, the more so because there was every 
 prospect that he would some day be her step-father ; but 
 nevertheless she ran up to him, and explaining that he 
 was not to misinterpret the compliment as she was 
 acting under an irresistible impulse, threw her arms 
 round his neck and began to kiss him as she had kissed 
 the others. Verditter was delighted (for he was a
 
 1 70 Creatures of Impulse. 
 
 dreadful old Turk), but it was not on that account that 
 he presented her with a succession of guineas from his 
 long bag ; he did that in compliance with the whim of 
 the strange Old Lady. 
 
 Jenny was very much annoyed indeed, not only at 
 having behaved in such a forward manner to old 
 Yerditter, but also because she considered his present- 
 ing her with guineas an act of extremely bad taste. 
 However, she did not wish to offend him by refusing his 
 guineas, for he was a vicious old man who always 
 resented an insult, so she pocketed them with a very 
 bad grace, and spent them the next day with extreme 
 reluctance on a handsome brooch and earrings, which 
 she wore ever afterwards as a kind of punishment upon 
 herself for having taken the old man's money at all. 
 
 As old Verditter was handing over his guineas, with a 
 most piteous expression of countenance, to Jenny, who 
 could scarcely conceal her annoyance at having to take 
 them, who should come in but Mistress Dorothy. 
 Mistress Dorothy had been trying her hand to get rid of 
 the Old Lady, and having fairly lost her temper, en- 
 deavoured to push the Old Lady by main force out of the 
 house. So the Old Lady compelled her to go on push- 
 ing everybody away from her until further notice. 
 
 As soon as Mistress Dorothy entered, Jenny ran 
 away in great confusion, so old Verditter turned his 
 attention to the buxom landlady and began, to his 
 intense dismay and to her intense delight and astonish- 
 ment, to offer her guineas from his long bag. But to 
 her intense dismay, and to his intense delight and 
 astonishment, she felt herself compelled to push him
 
 Crea hires of Fvipulse. 171 
 
 and his guineas away, althougli she would have liked 
 to have pocketed the whole hagful. 
 
 "Ma'am," said he, handing her a guinea, "do not 
 misunderstand me. I give you this money under an 
 irresistible impulse." 
 
 " Sir," said she, "you are extremely good, hut an 
 irresistible impulse compels me to reject it." 
 
 Here the Sergeant entered, dodging and ducking as 
 before. 
 
 " Sir," said old Verditter, " do not be alarmed. I am 
 not going to hurt j^ou. I feel myself compelled to offer 
 you a guinea." 
 
 " Sir," said the Sergeant, pocketing the money, " I 
 never yet was alarmed in my life. I dodge and duck 
 like this because I am acting under an irresistible 
 impulse." 
 
 At this point Peter entered, squaring -up in the 
 fiercest manner at everybody. 
 
 " Sir," said old Verditter, " I hope you will not be 
 offended, but an irresistible impulse compels me to offer 
 you a guinea." 
 
 "Sir," said Peter, pocketing the money, "I am 
 far from being offended, and 1 sincerely trust you will 
 take this in good part." 
 
 And he knocked old Verditter down to the great 
 astonishment of everybody. Jenny, hearing Mistress 
 Dorothy scream, ran in to sec what was the matter. 
 By this time the state of affairs w as as follows : 
 
 The miserly old Verditter, with tears in his eyes and 
 the worst of language on his lips, was handing guineas to 
 everyone as fast as he could get them out of his bag.
 
 172 Creatures of Impulse. 
 
 The hospitable Mistress Dorothy was trying to turn 
 him and everybody else out of her inn. 
 
 The cowardly Peter was squaring-up at everybody, 
 and particularly at the Sergeant, in an utterly reckless 
 manner. 
 
 The valiant Sergeant was ducking and dodging from 
 Peter and everybody else who came near him, as if he 
 had been the most timid soul on the face of the earth. 
 
 And Jenny — the shy, modest, prudish, bashful, 
 blushing Jenny — was kissing everybody right and left, 
 as if her life depended on it. In short, there never was 
 a more extraordinary scene in a bar-parlour since bar- 
 parlours first became an institution in Great Britain 
 and Ireland. 
 
 In the midst of this scene the Old Lady entered, for 
 she was curious to see how the spell that she had 
 thrown over the inmates of the " Three Pigeons " was 
 working. 
 
 Directly she entered, the attention of everyone was 
 directed to her. 
 
 The Miser gave her gold. 
 
 The Landlady tried to push her out. 
 
 The Sergeant ducked and dodged at her. 
 
 The bashful Jenny kissed her. 
 
 And the cowardly Peter squared-up to her in such a 
 determined manner, if she had not been surrounded 
 by the others, he would have done her a serious injury. 
 
 In short, the Old Lady, who was much more than a 
 match for each of them taken singly, was overpowered 
 by numbers. She never thought of this when she 
 entered the room, which was stupid in the Old Lady.
 
 Creatures of Impulse. i73 
 
 So she at once withdrew the spell she had over them, 
 and they all resumed their natural attributes. Then 
 the Old Lady, who felt very foolish at the error she had 
 committed, hobbled out of the inn for good and all. 
 
 The really curious part of this story is that, after 
 everything had been explained, and all had been re- 
 stored to their normal courses of action, none of the 
 personages in it married each other. They were all so 
 annoyed at having made such fools of themselves that 
 they walked out of the inn in different directions, and 
 were never seen or heard of again. 
 
 Except Peter, who, seeing nothing to be ashamed of in 
 having shown such undaunted courage, remained and 
 kept the " Three Pigeons," and prospered remarkably to 
 the end of his days.
 
 MAXWELL AND L 
 
 It was a ciull Christmas night that Ted Maxwell and 
 I were spending, boxed up in our chambers on a top- 
 floor of Garden Court, Temple. Not but that we had 
 plenty of friends in London who were keeping it up 
 merrily that night — friends whose merriment was tem- 
 pered by the fact that circumstances beyond our control 
 required that we should spend the afternoon and evening 
 in chamber solitude. But that Grand Fairy Christmas 
 Extravaganza, the One-Eyed Calendars, Sons of Kings ; 
 or, Zobeide and the Three Great Black Dogs, was due 
 on the boards of a minor metropolitan theatre by ten 
 o'clock on the following night, and there were two 
 scenes still unfinished, and three or four songs still 
 unwritten. 
 
 For we were dramatic authors, Maxwell and I. Of 
 course we were a great many other things besides, for 
 dramatic authorship in England is but an unremunera- 
 tive calling at the best of times ; and Maxwell and I 
 were mere beginners. We wrote for magazines, we were 
 dramatic critics, we were the life and soul (such as they 
 were) of London and provincial comic papers, we 
 supplied " London Letters," crammed with exclusive 
 political secrets, and high-class aristocratic gossip, for
 
 1 76 Maxwell and I. 
 
 credulous country journals ; we wrote ballads for music 
 publishers, and we did leaders and reviews for the 
 weeklies. I bad almost forgotten to add tbat we were 
 barristers-at-law of tbe Inner Temple, esquires, because 
 tbat fact was only brougbt under our notice twice a 
 year ; once wbeh tbe treasurer of tbe Inn applied to us 
 for our term fees, and once wben tbe Directories and 
 Court Guides made ironical application to us for in- 
 formation concerning our titles and country seats. 
 
 Tbere bad been an aggravating rebearsal of our extra- 
 vaganza tbat morning. It was tben discovered tbat a 
 "carpenter's scene" must, absolutely, be introduced in 
 order to allow time for tbe elaborate *' set " witb wbicb 
 tbe piece was to conclude. Tbe last scene was, as a 
 matter of course, unfinisbed ; tbe cborus tbat opened 
 tbe piece bad not yet been written ; and several " cuts " 
 bad to be made in our favourite scene. Moreover, tbe 
 leading lady. Miss Patty de Montmorenci, had expressed 
 her intention of ruining everything if she were not 
 permitted to introduce tbe " Miserere " from tbe ** Tro- • 
 vatore,^' after the comic duet between Mesrour and 
 Zobeide ; and Mr. Sam Travers, the leading low 
 comedian, had insisted on our finding occasion for him 
 to get over a brick wall with glass on tbe top of it for 
 him to stick in. 
 
 Three or four hours' incessant work enabled us to 
 overcome these difficulties witb greater or less success. 
 Tbe " carpenter's scene " was written (goodness only 
 knows what it had to witb the plot !) ; the opening and 
 final choruses were determined on, the necessary cuts 
 were made, and the excised good things carefully
 
 Maxwell and I. I'jy 
 
 stowed away for our next production. Miss de Mont- 
 morenci had her " Miserere" Mr. Sam Travers his 
 broken glass. 
 
 "Now," said Maxwell, "let's see how that bit goes, 
 after Travers' scene — the bit between Scherazade and 
 Zobeide, I mean." 
 
 ScHER. One morning early when I sought my bower 
 Without spec-te!!er just to cuU-a-flou-cr, 
 I found my cavalier astride the wall, 
 And in the glass entangled, cloak and all. 
 And then I heard the wretched youth, alas ! 
 Casting some strong reflections on the glass ; 
 And, after having to perdition booked it. 
 He first Mv/hooked his cloak, and then — he hooked it ! 
 
 Zo. You did not see his face ! 
 
 ScHER. Alas ! he fled 
 
 Ere I could make remarks upon that head ; 
 But as I scanned the footsteps in the mould 
 With eager curiosity, behold 
 I found — 
 
 " Open the door ! For God's sake, open the door ! " 
 
 Maxwell and I started to our feet. We had " sported 
 our oak," as we did not want to be disturbed, and the 
 voice (a woman's) was accompanied by a violent knock- 
 ing, as if the applicant were beating at the door with 
 her open palm. 
 
 We ran to the door, and as soon as we had opened it 
 a couple of women rushed violently past us into our 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " Shut the door — don't stop to ask any questions — 
 shut the door, I say ! " 
 
 We closed it in mute astonishment. One of the 
 women, the younger, had fallen on the hearthrug in a 
 swoon ; the elder was leaning against the mantelpiece,
 
 Maxwell and I. 
 
 her head resting in her right hand, and her left hand 
 pressed to her side. Both were soaked with rain and 
 splashed with slushy mud, but they appeared to be 
 dressed in clothes of good quality, and made with some 
 taste. The elder woman, as she stood against the 
 mantelpiece, appeared to be about forty years of age, 
 tall, thin, and notwithstanding her pitiable condition, 
 ladylike. The younger woman was evidently her 
 daughter, and appeared, as well as we could judge as 
 she lay crouched upon the hearthrug, to be about six- 
 teen or eighteen years old. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for entering your rooms so 
 unceremoniously," said the elder woman, as soon as she 
 had recovered her breath. " If you will allow me to 
 sit down for a few moments, I will explain all." 
 
 Maxwell placed her in a comfortable armchair near 
 the fire, and then busied himself in getting out the 
 brandy. I prepared, in a confused sort of way, to pick 
 up the young girl who had fainted, and who, by this 
 time, gave some evidence of returning consciousness. 
 After two or three attempts, I contrived, rather clumsily 
 I am afraid, to get her on to the sofa ; and by that time 
 she had so far revived as to be able to express her 
 thanks for the attention. I then saw that the estimate 
 I had formed of her age was rather over than under the 
 mark, for she was not more than fifteen or sixteen at 
 the utmost. She was very pale, and apparently in 
 delicate health ; her features were pretty, without being 
 strictly handsome ; and she had a quantity of light 
 yellow hair, which fell in masses over her shoulders as 
 I loosened the strings of her bonnet.
 
 Maxwell and I. 179 
 
 "Now," said Maxwell, as he placed a steaming 
 tumbler of brandy and water before each of the women, 
 ** put that away, and then tell us all about it." 
 
 " I thank you very much," said the elder woman. 
 " We " 
 
 '* I'll not hear a word while there's a drop of brandy 
 left in that tumbler. Drink it off directly." 
 
 But that was clearly impossible, for he had mixed it 
 on the Jack-tar principle of ** half-and-half." So on my 
 representing this to him, he was pleased to pass a more 
 lenient sentence, and to reduce the punishment, in each 
 case, by one half. 
 
 " I am very grateful to you for your kindness," said 
 the elder woman. " My daughter and I have fled from 
 the violence of my infuriated husband, who, but for your 
 kindness would certainly have killed us." 
 
 " May I inquire the particulars ? " said he. 
 
 " My husband is a master mariner, and we occupy a 
 house in Essex Street, Strand, where I let apartments. 
 He is a dreadfully violent man, and this evening he was 
 brought home, after an absence of three days, by two 
 policemen, quite drunk. He insisted upon having more 
 drink as soon as they had left, and he gradually worked 
 himself into a frenzy of excitement. It unfortunately 
 happened that one of our lodgers left yesterday without 
 paying his rent, and as soon as this fact came to his 
 knowledge he flew into a violent rage, and struck me 
 here," laying her hand upon her side. *' He then 
 seized a life-preserver, and, in an agony of terror, 
 Emmie and I rushed into the street, with the intention 
 of seeking shelter from his violence in my nephew's 
 
 K 2
 
 i8o Maxwell and 1. 
 
 chambers, which are nearly opposite this house. In my 
 excitement, I could not find them for some time, and 
 we wandered about the Temple for, I should think, a 
 quarter of an hour, before we found Garden Court ; and 
 when at length we did find it, we discovered to our 
 great sorrow, that his chambers were closed, and a 
 notice posted on his door to the effect that he had 
 gone out of town for a week. I heard my husband's 
 voice in the immediate neighbourhood, and seeing only 
 one window with a light in it (owing, I suppose, to its 
 being Christmas-day), my daughter and I made our way 
 to it as quickly as we could, and effected the unceremo- 
 nious entrance for which we have to offer you our 
 humblest apologies." 
 
 " If your story is true," said Maxwell, "(and I see 
 no reason to doubt it), you shall have an asylum here 
 until we can place you beyond the reach of your hus- 
 band's violence. But you are wet through. How in 
 the world are we to remedy that ? '' 
 
 *' I have it," said I. " I'll run round to Mrs. Decks, 
 and get a change of some kind for these ladies," 
 
 Mrs. Decks was one of that remarkable and much- 
 abused class of women, the Temple laundresses. She 
 was a pleasant, cheery little old woman, with a quiet 
 chirruping voice, and so big a heart, that you wondered 
 how she could find room for it in her particularly little 
 body. She had "done for" us during the three years 
 we had lived in the Temple, and had nursed me through 
 two severe illnesses. She was our adviser in all cir- 
 cumstances of social difficulty, and the present embar- 
 rassment appeared to be, pre-eminently, a case for her
 
 Maxwell and I. i8i 
 
 interference. So Maxwell agreed that we could not do 
 better than take counsel with her immediately ; and I 
 started ofif to lay the delicate circumstances of our case 
 before her without a moment's delay. 
 
 I hurried through the half-melted slush, and driving 
 rain, to Gate's Court, Clement's Inn, where the old lady 
 lived. She was entertaining a select company of laun- 
 resses and their " good gentlemen," and seemed to be 
 enjoying the gentility of her position as hostess so com- 
 pletely, that I felt I was doing a brutal thing in inter- 
 rupting her proceedings. It was a case of urgency, 
 however, which could not wait, so I did not hesitate to 
 lay the particulars before her, and claim her assistance. 
 
 The old lady had herself had some experience of con- 
 jugal existence under difficulties, for the late Mr. Decks, 
 of no occupation worth mentioning, was much given to 
 knocking her down and dancing upon her, during the 
 twenty years of their married life. His chief cause of 
 complaint was that she was " much too good for him," 
 but a merciful Providence, pitying his conscientious diffi- 
 culties, had eventually removed him to a sphere in which 
 he probably had no difficulty in meeting with congenial 
 companionship. By virtue of her personal experiences 
 with Mr. Decks, and the fact that she had lived for many 
 years in a neighbourhood where gentlemen of his stamp 
 arc common, she set herself up as a judge of bad hus- 
 bands, and in that capacity entered with considerable 
 zeal into the study of the case I placed before her. 
 
 The old lady made up a bundle of dry clothes with all 
 expedition, and, after apologizing to her guests, started 
 off with me to the chambers.
 
 i82 Maxwell and I. 
 
 Our visitors were still drying themselves by the fire, 
 and overwhelmed me with their thanks when I entered 
 with Mrs. Deeks. Maxwell and I then made a hollow 
 feint of having important business in a man's chambers 
 in the immediate neighbourhood, which would detain us 
 half-an-hour or so, and left the two ladies and Mrs. 
 Deeks to their devices. 
 
 It was still pouring with rain, so Maxwell and I sat on 
 the bottom step of the staircase, and took counsel to- 
 gether. 
 
 " Now, Ted, my boy, what are we to do ? " 
 
 " This," said Maxwell, who had a turn for stating 
 cases, " is a case of peculiar delicacy. Here we have two 
 bachelors in chambers, to whom, in the dead of night, 
 enter two sopping females— one middle-aged and not 
 otherwise remarkable ; the other very young, and I 
 think I may add interesting." 
 
 " Decidedly interesting," said I. 
 
 " And decidedly interesting. They come round with 
 an account of themselves, which on the one hand, may be 
 as true as gospel, and, on the other, may be a story of 
 a cock and a bull." 
 
 "That's not likely," said I. 
 
 " I did not say it was likely. I am not dealing with 
 probabilities, I am dealing with facts. Whether it is 
 true or not, the fact remains that two sopping females 
 have quartered themselves on two dry bachelors." 
 
 ** One dry bachelor and one wet one," was my rather 
 captious amendment. 
 
 "Now, don't interrupt me unnecessarily; they were 
 both quite dry when the women entered. The fact that
 
 Maxwell and I. 183 
 
 one of them has since been out in the rain cannot be 
 taken to act retrospectively. The two sopping females 
 quartered themselves upon two dry bachelors." 
 
 "Be it so." 
 
 ** The question then arises," said Maxwell, dropping 
 the argumentative form in which he had opened the 
 case, " what the devil are we to do ? " 
 
 " Precisely. And what do you suggest ? " 
 
 " There are three courses open to us : firstly, to allow 
 these ladies to occupy our chambers until we can dis- 
 pose of them satisfactorily, and get rooms at Sams' 
 Hotel for ourselves : secondly, to allow them to occupy 
 our chambers and not get rooms at Sams' Hotel for 
 ourselves — to occupy them conjointly in short ; and 
 thirdly, to wash our hands of the whole affair, and, by 
 placing the sopping ladies on the landing and once more 
 sporting our oak, reduce the present complicated state of 
 things to its normal simplicity." 
 
 I am bound, in justice to Maxwell, to admit that I 
 believe that he placed his last course before me, simply 
 that the beauty of his argument might not be impaired 
 by the omission of any of its features. As he himself 
 expressed it in reply to my expostulations, he did not sug- 
 gest it as a prudent course — he simply threw it out for 
 my consideration. 
 
 It did not take us long to determine that the first 
 and second propositions alone demanded our serious 
 attention. 
 
 "You see," said Maxwell, "you get two ladies and 
 two gentlemen on the one hand, and a sitting-room and a 
 double-bedded bed-room on the other. Tbere is an
 
 184 Maxzuell and I. 
 
 utter want of proportion between the two groups, to say 
 nothing of the fact that a cold and critical society is 
 looking quietly on, eager to pounce upon and make the 
 most of any step which is not characterized by the nicest 
 discrimination." 
 
 ** The upshot of all this would seem to be, that we 
 had better let them occupy our rooms until to-morrow, 
 and that the best thing we can do is to go and secure a 
 couple of beds at Sams'." 
 
 " That is the conclusion to which I should have come 
 in time, if you had allowed me to argue it out my own 
 way," said Maxwell, rather pettishly ; '* but I suppose 
 we had better let our guests know what we propose to 
 do, before we take any further steps in the matter." 
 
 So we went upstairs again, and finding from Mrs. 
 Deeks that the ladies were in as presentable a condition 
 as circumstances would permit, we walked in with the 
 intention of obtaining their agreement to our sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 They were sitting by a blazing fire, comfortably 
 wrapped up in shawls and flannel petticoats, while the 
 dresses they had taken off were steaming away on the 
 backs of two chairs. There was a quiet, cosy look about 
 the old chambers, which was partly due to the fact that 
 Mrs. Deeks had laid a substantial supper, partly to the 
 presence of the ladies themselves under circumstances 
 tvhich generated mutual communicativeness, and partly 
 to the contrast that the room afforded to the miserable 
 splashing pavement which we had been contemplating 
 for the last half hour. I daresay that the appearance 
 presented by our visitors, muffled up as they were in
 
 Maxwell and I. 185 
 
 Mrs. Deeks's underclothing, would have been suffi- 
 ciently ridiculous, if it were not that their pale appealing 
 faces, thinned as they were by hard usage and insuffi- 
 cient food, their utter helplessness in our hands, and an 
 exaggerated sense of the intrusion of which they had been 
 guilty, brought the pathetic side of their case so forcibly 
 before us that even Mrs. Deeks's flannel petticoats were 
 glorified by their association with it. 
 
 We sat down to supper ; Maxwell doing the host in a 
 pleasant, cheery, country gentleman sort of way, intended 
 to convey the impression that we were not at all taken 
 aback by the events of the evening, and that, in point of 
 fact, this sort of thing happened to us three times a 
 week, or so. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Maxwell, " may I venture 
 to ask whom I am addressing? " 
 
 " Talboys, sir — Mrs. Talboys ; and this is my 
 daughter Emmie Talboys. I should have told you our 
 names before, but in the excitement of the events 
 that brought us into your chambers, I forgot to do so." 
 
 " Pray don't mention it. I am Maxwell, my friend 
 here is Bailey — Bob Bailey ; and now that we all know 
 one another, I'll tell you, Mrs. Talboys, what we — that 
 is, Bailey and I — propose to do. "We propose to give 
 up our chambers to you for the night — Mrs. Decks will 
 see to the necessary alterations — and to take up a tem- 
 porary abode in an adjoining hostelry — at Sams', in fact. 
 Now, Mrs. Talboys, have you, or has Miss Talboys, any 
 objection to urge to this arrangement. 
 
 Mrs. Talboys was, of course, exceedingly and unne- 
 cessarily grateful to us for our hospitality, and as the
 
 1 86 Maxwell and I. 
 
 only objection she could urge was the sorrow she should 
 feel at putting us to so much trouble, the matter was 
 soon decided, and Mrs. Deeks received instructions to 
 make our room as suitable to the necessities of two 
 ladies as circumstances would allow, while we finished 
 supper. 
 
 We soon became very pleasant and chatty together, a 
 state of things for which, I believe, we were in no small 
 measure indebted to the fact that tea formed one of the 
 items in our repast, and that Mrs. Talboys presided at 
 the tea-pot. There are no circumstances better calcu- 
 lated to make an Englishwoman look and feel thoroughly 
 at home, under difficulties, then the sitting at the head 
 of a table pouring out tea. It is a position that comes 
 naturally to her, and she fits into it as a ball fits into a 
 socket. She handles your tea-pot, and your milk-jug, 
 and your sugar-basin, and your cups and saucers with 
 an air of understanding their various relations, pro- 
 perties, and proportions, to which no bachelor — or 
 married man, for matter of that — was ever known to 
 attain. It puts her on good terms with herself and her 
 surroundings, and Maxwell and I agreed that tea in 
 chambers, presided over by a lady, although in Mrs. 
 Deeks' s underclothing, was as different a thing altogether 
 to tea under bachelor circumstances as rum-punch to 
 curds and whey. 
 
 Maxwell and I took our leave of Mrs. and Miss Tal- 
 boys with as much ceremony as if they had been our 
 hostesses and we their guests, and started off" for Sams', 
 which then stood opposite King's College. After passing 
 an unsatisfactory night at that dingy establishment, we
 
 Maxwell and I. 187 
 
 returned to our chambers to breakfast. Mrs. Talboys 
 and her daughter had, it appeared, passed as comfortable 
 a night as circumstances would permit, and after a 
 pleasant breakfast, we took further counsel with our 
 protegees as to what was to be done. 
 
 It appeared from Mrs. Talboys' statement, that her 
 impulsive husband was expected to leave London for 
 Melbourne the next day ; so Maxwell and I determined 
 that our course, as far as Mrs. Talbot and her daughter 
 were concerned, was to afford them the protection of our 
 chambers for another night ; after which they would be 
 enabled to return to their house without dread of further 
 molestation. This arrangement appeared to set the 
 mind of Mrs. Talboys completely at rest, and she over- 
 whelmed us with expressions of gratitude. She ex- 
 pressed herself, however, with so much anxiety as to 
 the condition of her husband, the lodgers, and the fur- 
 niture, after the //Y/crts, that Maxwell and I determined 
 to call at the house in Essex Street on our way to re- 
 hearsal, and, in the assumed character of intending 
 lodgers, ascertain whether any harm had resulted to 
 the establishment or its inmates in consequence of the 
 previous night's disturbance. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The rehearsal was called lor eleven o'clock, and as we 
 had upwards of an hour to spare. Maxwell and I made 
 our way at once into the heart of Captain Talboys' social
 
 1 88 Maxwell and I. 
 
 privacy. The house in Essex Street had all the appear- 
 ance of a carelessly conducted lodging-house. The 
 windows were dirty, the blinds were awry, one of the 
 area railings was broken, and the place generally con- 
 veyed an impression of insolvency, which the presence 
 of a canary in the parlour window did little to remove. 
 The street-door was open, for a drabby girl of fourteen, in 
 ragged brown stockings, was cleaning the steps, and a 
 rusty cat sat by^her side, looking up and down the street 
 wistfully with an expression of countenance that seemed 
 to say, " This is a very hopeless concern of ours ; I 
 wonder if there's an opening for me at No. 15." 
 That there was at least one inmate, however, whose 
 spirits were not damped by this state of things, was 
 testified by a huge voice that came rolling out at the 
 open door, bearing upon it the refrain of some old- 
 fashioned nautical song, and which ran, I think, as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Oh, Jenny, she cock'd her eye at me, 
 
 A long time ago ! 
 A long time ago, you lubloer ! 
 A long time ago, you lubber ! 
 
 A long time ago ! " 
 
 Maxwell and I listened a few minutes, and eventually 
 the singer stopped, and applause, as from a solitary 
 tumbler, appeared to reward his efforts. We then asked 
 the wretched servant-girl, as a matter of form, if Mrs. 
 Talboys was at home ? 
 
 " No, sir, missis is just gone out, sir. Is it about the 
 lodgings ?" 
 
 ** Yes, it's about the lodgings."
 
 Maxwell and I. 189 
 
 " Master's in sir," said she, " I'll tell him, and p'raps 
 he'll show 'em." 
 
 The unhappy girl, who appeared to be suffering from 
 a chronic cold, which she relieved from time to time on 
 the back of the hearth-stone, gathered herself together, 
 and limped into the dining-room, whence the sounds of 
 revelry proceeded. She came out almost immediately, 
 with a ducking, dodging action, as if something had 
 been thrown at her, and told us to step in. 
 
 We obeyed her instructions, not without much mis- 
 giving, and, passing two corded chests, labelled 
 " Captain Talboys, ship Heart's Content, Limehouse 
 Reach," which stood in the hall, we found ourselves in 
 the presence of the carousers whose voices we had heard 
 in the street. One, evidently Captain Talboys, was a 
 big, muscular, hairy sailor, with a low square brow, a 
 bull neck, great brown hands, and shoulders of enormous 
 breadth. His coat was off, and was lying on a chair 
 hard by. He wore square-cut black trousers, a black 
 satin waistcoat, and thick square-toed Wellington boots. 
 His companion was a small, unwholesome-looking, fat, 
 Jew, with a pasty complexion, black moustache and 
 whiskers, a massive gold chain, and several thick rings 
 on his dirty squabby fingers. 
 
 " Come in shipmet," said Captain Talboys, in a thick 
 husky voice, " come in ; and what'll yer take ? Here's 
 brandy, rum, whiskey, gin, anything. Help yourself 
 shipmet ! Yo ho ! help yourself ! " 
 
 " Thank you, I don't think we'll drink anything," said 
 I, as I stumbled over the coal-scoop, which appeared to 
 have been the missile with which the announcement of
 
 TQO Maxwell and I. 
 
 our appearance by the drabby servant girl was greeted. 
 ' ' We have come about some apartments which you 
 advertise in your window." 
 
 "Here, you gal ! " shouted Captain Talboys. 
 
 The drabby girl made her appearance at the door. 
 
 "'Partments. Take 'em up," was the brief form of 
 words in which he explained the object of our visit to 
 the servant. 
 
 The fat Jew had been staring at Maxwell and at me 
 rather anxiously for a minute or two, and just as we 
 turned to leave the room he said, "Beg pardon, gents, 
 but I think I'm speaking to Messrs. Maxwell and Bailey, 
 ain't I?" 
 
 We had determined on two imaginary names, which 
 we had arranged to give if any names had been demanded 
 of us ; but as the small Jew appeared to know us, we 
 were fain to admit the truth of his assertion. 
 
 " I thort so. Here, Captain, these gents is Maxwell 
 and Bailey, the dramatic horthers. You've 'eard on 
 'em, Captain ; don't say yer ain't 'eard on 'em ! Saw 
 that farce o' yourn, ' Up in the World,' gents. Best 
 thing eversornalmilife ! best thing eversornalmilife ! 
 You know. Captain; chap up the chimney — yoxi know!" 
 
 " Oh, ah ! " said the Captain, "7 know fast enough." 
 
 " Very 'appy to make your acquaintance, gents. I'm 
 Mister Abraham Levy, of the Parnassus Music Hall ; 
 p'raps you may have 'eard on me. Any night you like 
 to look in upon me, your card's quite sufficient, gents ; 
 either on you, or any friends o' yourn." 
 
 I said Bome matter-of-course words, to the efifect I 
 should be delighted, I was sure.
 
 Maxwell and I. 191 
 
 " By the way, p'raps we can do some business to- 
 gether ; who knows ? Yer 'avent got anything in the 
 comic duologue line on yer hands, 'ave yer ? Somethin' 
 that would suit my Bob Saunders and little Clara Man- 
 deville, yer know. You know the sort of thing I mean." 
 Maxwell and I regretted that we had nothing on hand 
 that would suit him. An impatient growl from Captain 
 Talboys warned us that he considered that the audience 
 had lasted quite long enough ; so we beat a rapid retreat, 
 and proceeded, in company with the servant, to go 
 through the hollow form of inspecting the apartments. 
 
 I am sorry to say, that the rooms to which our atten- 
 tion was principally directed were at that moment in 
 process of being vacated by a gentleman, who had given 
 notice of his intention to quit on the preceding evening, 
 immediately after, and in consequence of, the disturbance 
 between Captain Talboys and his unhappy wife. There 
 was only one other lodger, an undesirable Irish tenant, 
 whom Mrs. Talboys had made repeated but fruitless 
 efforts to get rid of. 
 
 We mumbled out something to the servant about 
 returning to-morrow, and giving a definite answer, and 
 then made the best of our way to the theatre. The 
 rehearsal was unsatisfactory ; no one was perfect, or 
 anything like it ; properties had to be made, music to be 
 scored and learnt, and comic dances to be decided on. At 
 two o'clock we were all cleared off in order that the rest 
 of the afternoon might be devoted to the last scene — a 
 complicated absurdity, that took ten minutes to develope, 
 and looked, eventually, more like a gorgeous valentine 
 than anything I ever saw. The stereotyped assurance
 
 192 Maxwell and I. 
 
 that everybody gave us, that "it would be all right 
 at night," afforded us but little consolation, for we had 
 often heard it before, in cases where it was very far 
 indeed from being all right at night. So we returned to 
 the Temple in evil spirits. 
 
 We gave Mrs. Talboys and her daughter an account 
 of Captain Talboys' then condition, and we told her of 
 the first floor's indignant departure. I am afraid that 
 the result of our mission did little in the way of raising 
 her spirits. The fact, however, that the captam's 
 luggage was prepared for sea revived her a little ; and it 
 was settled that, if, on our calling the next day, we found 
 that he had joined bis ship, Mrs. Talboys and her 
 daughter were to return home. As the day wore on our 
 respective spirits revived ; and, after a pleasant make- 
 shift dinner, which we ordered in from the " Cock," we 
 began to look upon our respective prospects with more 
 hopeful eyes. We had a piano in the chambers, and 
 Emmie Talboys sang some simple old English ballads, 
 with a delightful untutored pathos which was inexpres- 
 sibly charming. Maxwell, who had a fine baritone voice, 
 also employed it to the best advantage ; and so with 
 songs and quiet chat we passed the afternoon and evening, 
 until it was time for us to go to the theatre. We left 
 the two ladies in possession of our chambers, and betook 
 ourselves to the first representation of the Grand Fairy 
 Extravaganza of *' The One-Eyed Calendars, Sons of 
 Kings ; or, Zobeide and the Three Great Black Dogs." 
 My private impression of the One-Eyed Calendars *' is 
 that it was irreclaimable nonsense ; but, as everyone had 
 the necessary number of verbal contortions to deliver, and
 
 Maxwell and I. 193 
 
 as every song was followed up by a nigger "breakdown," 
 and as the management had the combined maximum 
 of (stage) beauty with the minimum of petticoat, it was 
 practically a great success. The authors were honoured 
 with the customary " call," and the papers on the en- 
 suing day endorsed (as they usually do) the opinions 
 expressed by the audience. It is true that our satis- 
 faction at the favourable character of the notices was 
 somewhat damped by finding ourselves invariably alluded 
 to as " those twin sons of Momus ; " but, on the whole, 
 we had no reason to complain of the manner in which we 
 were treated. 
 
 The next day on my inquiring in Essex Street, I found 
 that Captain Talboys, his Jew friend, and the two big boxes 
 had taken themselves off. The drabby servant was in a 
 terrible state of mind at the non-appearance of her mis- 
 tress, who ( she now told me ) had been absent with 
 Miss Emmie ever since Christmas night. " She was a 
 good missis to her," she said, " and so was Miss Emmie, 
 right good ; and she'd go right off to the pleece and have 
 them looked for, if she'd only someone to mind the 
 house for a quarter of an hour." But the woman who 
 usually came to cook had been drunk ever since Christ- 
 mas Day, and she was at her wits' end to know what to 
 do. And the poor little drab, who had made many 
 gulpy attempts to keep the tears down (for she was a 
 brave little drab), fairly gave way, as her responsibilities 
 stood forth in all their naked magnitude before her, and 
 cried away as if her heart would break. 
 
 Maxwell and I made the best of our way back to the 
 Temple, and placed the facts of the little servant's
 
 194 Maxwell and I. 
 
 anxiety and helplessness before Mrs. Talboys and Emmie 
 who lost no time in putting on their bonnets and 
 returning to Essex Street, after thanking us most em- 
 phatically for our kindness and hospitality. She sincerely 
 hoped that we would kindly call on her from time to 
 time ; Emmie and she were always at home in the 
 evening, and they would be most happy if, when we had 
 
 an evening to spare, we would spend it with them. 
 
 ****** 
 
 By degrees Maxwell and I became very intimate with 
 Mrs. Talboys, and we took an interest in assisting her 
 with our counsel, whenever she found herself entangled 
 in a social difficulty with which she was unable to 
 grapple single-handed. For I am afraid that no course 
 of training under the sun could possibly have made a 
 good manager of Mrs. Talboys. She was a mild, weak, 
 good-hearted, unsystematic woman, who was as unfit to 
 manage a London lodging-house as Maxwell and I were 
 to command a man-of-war. A very short experience of 
 the nature of the difficulties with which the poor lady 
 was surrounded, convinced us that she was more or less 
 the dupe of everyone with whom she had dealings. AYe 
 contrived, in course of time, to establish a system of 
 check upon her lodgers and her tradespeople, we lent 
 her a little money to make a few indispensable additions 
 to her stock of furniture, and we procured her a tenant 
 for her drawing-room floor. In a couple of months 
 after Captain Talboys' departure, matters had so far 
 improved that Mrs. Talboys was in a position to substi- 
 tute a permanent cook for the intermittent functionary 
 who had hitherto been in the habit of looking in from
 
 Maxwell dnd I. 195 
 
 time to time to ascertain whether her services were 
 required. 
 
 We passed a great many pleasant evenings with the 
 Talboys, to the enjoyment of which httle Emmie's mi- 
 pretending musical powers contributed in no slight 
 degree. I have not dwelt at any length on Emmie 
 Talboys' appearance and characteristics, for, when I 
 first knew her, she did not make any very decided im- 
 pression on me. She had a quiet, retiring, unassuming 
 way with her, that appeared rather to shun observation 
 than to court it ; and, at first, her extreme nervousness 
 made us feel that the ordinary matter-of-course atten- 
 tions which we should have paid to any other young 
 lady, would have frightened the poor little woman out 
 of her senses. But as she came to know us more inti- 
 mately, her extreme shyness wore oif, and we found 
 beneath it a sweetness of disposition, combined with a 
 simple unafi'ected pleasure in our society, which to me 
 was irresistibly charming. She was not absolutely 
 pretty, but her big blue eyes, her thick yellow hair, and 
 the bright smile with which she welcomed us when she 
 came to know us well, stood her in good stead of the 
 advantages which mere regularity of feature would have 
 conferred upon her. I am afraid that I must own that 
 before I had known the little woman many weeks, I fell 
 desperately in love with her. As I have already implied, 
 it took some little time to bring this about ; for her 
 . beauties of disposition broke upon us so gradually that 
 to have fallen in love with her, at first sight, would have 
 imphed the possession of a discrimination of character 
 to which I lay no claim. 
 
 2
 
 196 Maxwell and I. 
 
 They were very pleasant evenings, those that Maxwell 
 and I spent with the Talboys. Maxwell, I think, en- 
 joyed them almost as much as I did. He was not a man 
 who was given to falling easily in love, and, although he 
 was about my own age — that is to say eight-and-twenty, 
 or thereabouts — he had a fatherly protecting way of 
 treating little Emmie Talboys that was really very 
 amusing. He looked upon her as a mere child, and 
 bought playthings and sweetmeats without number for 
 her. He had no hesitation in calling her by her Chris- 
 tian name, as soon as he knew what it was ; and his 
 elderly didactic manner caused her to look upon his 
 doing so as a matter of course. We used to sit by the 
 fire-light on the long winter evenings, and Mrs. Talboys 
 would take counsel with Maxwell on such points of 
 domestic economy as had turned up to perplex her 
 during the day, while I sat by the battered old piano, 
 and listened to Emmie's pure and gentle voice, as she 
 sang " On the Banks of Allan Water," " The Bailiff's 
 Daughter of Islington," or some other simple plaintive 
 ballad which lay within the compass of her unpretending 
 powers. Maxwell and I used often to take them to the 
 theatre, to which we had no difficulty in obtaining free 
 admission ; and it was refreshing to a couple of battered 
 theatrical hacks like ourselves, who had seen every piece 
 that had been produced in Loudon during the last ten 
 years or so, to witness the childlike interest that the 
 little woman took even in the common-place hackneyed 
 incidents of the wretched farce that played the audience 
 out. At other times, Mrs. Talboys and Emmie would 
 spend the evening with us at our chambers ; on which
 
 Maxwell and I. 197 
 
 occasions we would ask Cranley of the Home Circuit, 
 O'Byrne of the Aclvei'tiser, and one or two other fellow- 
 Templars, to drop in ; and then we always Avound up 
 the proceedings with an oyster or lobster banquet from 
 Prosser's. We always gave out that Mrs. Talboys was 
 the wife of Captain Talboys (impliedly of the Eoyal 
 Navy), now at sea ; concerning whose health and pros- 
 perity, by-the-bye, O'Byrne invariably made well-meant 
 but most awkward inquiries of Mrs. Talboys whenever 
 he met her. 
 
 This sort of thing went on for about twelve months. 
 The more I saw of little Emmie Talboys, the more 
 desperately I loved her. I don't think I ever hinted to 
 the little woman in the most remote manner at the 
 existence of this attachment, but I cannot suppose she was 
 ignorant of it. In point of fact I am sure it was marked 
 by Mrs. Talboys, and I am equally sure that she placed 
 no impediment in the way of our being together. I had 
 almost made up my mind to speak openly to Emmie, 
 when an event occurred which upset all my plans. 
 
 One morning (it was in the January twelve-month 
 after our first meeting with the Talboys) Maxwell and I 
 returned to London after a fortnight's absence in Liver- 
 pool, where we had been to superintend the production 
 of a Christmas piece. Among the letters that awaited 
 us was one addressed to Maxwell from Mrs. Talboys, 
 with a date a week old. He opened it, read it, and 
 handed it to me. It was to the following effect : — 
 
 Essex Street, 30th Dec, 1859. 
 " My DEA.R Mr. Maxwell, — I have grievous news to
 
 198 Maxzvell and I. 
 
 tell you of myself. My husband contracted a great many 
 debts before he left England, and as he has not been 
 heard of for twelve months, his creditors have become 
 most impatient. You will be distressed to hear that all 
 my furniture has been seized under a bill of sale, that 
 my tenants have been obliged to leave the house in con- 
 sequence, and that Emmie and I are absolutely ruined. 
 We start for Chester to-day — we used to have friends 
 there, who may still remember us, and place us in the 
 way of earning a respectable living ; God only knows 
 what is to become of us should they fail. Forgive me, 
 dear Mr. Maxwell, for taking this course without con- 
 sulting you or Mr. Bailey. After your exceeding kind- 
 ness to me and mine, I am afraid that you will think I 
 am acting most ungratefully in thus leaving London 
 without speaking to you on the subject. But, when I 
 tell you that I do so because I know that your generous 
 nature would have prompted you to offer further assist- 
 ance if I had placed our case before you, I am sure you 
 will see that I could not, with propriety, have acted 
 otherwise than I have done. If my husband should 
 return soon, my present difficulties may be got over, for 
 he will receive a large sum of money on his arrival ; 
 but, in the meantime, Emmie and I must do our best 
 to earn a living by ourselves. Trusting that a very 
 short time will elapse before we meet again, and with 
 the deepest gratitude to both of you for your extreme 
 and, to me, unaccountable kindness, believe me to be, 
 my dear Mr. Maxwell, ever yours, most thankfully, 
 
 " Emily Talboys."
 
 Maxwell and I. 199 
 
 We were thunder-struck at the contents of the letter : 
 in point of fact, I had to read it two or three times 
 before I could grasp its contents. Some minutes 
 elapsed before either of us spoke. I sank on my arm- 
 chair, completely overwhelmed at the misfortune that 
 had happened to them and to me. At length Maxwell 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " We must take steps to find them instantly ! " 
 " But what, in Heaven's name, can we do," said I. 
 "Advertise; we will also write to the post-office at 
 Chester — it is not improbable that they will think it 
 likely that we have written there, and will make in- 
 quiries accordingly." 
 
 " But they don't want to hear from us." 
 "Yes, they do. Besides, if a woman knows, or 
 believes, that a letter is waiting for her at a post-office, 
 she will go and apply for it, whether she wishes to hear 
 from the writer or not." 
 
 Maxwell had an intellectual pinnacle of his own, from 
 which he looked down upon woman and her ways. 
 From some cause or other (perhaps owing to its giddy 
 height) it appeared to be unfavourable for minute 
 examination ; at all events, woman at large was one 
 of those topics of discussion upon which Maxwell 
 and I seldom agreed. However, I was only too glad 
 to catch at the small crumb of comfort that he offered 
 me, and I agreed that there might be something in 
 that, too. 
 
 We hurried off to the house in Essex Street. It was 
 empty, and a torn advertisement pasted near the door, 
 together with the litter and straw on the steps and in
 
 200 Maxwell and I. 
 
 the road, spoke of the recent sale. A notice, to the 
 effect that the eHgible premises (adapted for a lodging- 
 house) were to let, and that application might be made 
 to the housekeeper within, or to Messrs. Puddick and 
 Crowby, auctioneers and estate agents, in Catherine 
 Street, Strand, adorned the parlour window. 
 
 We made application to the housekeeper, as advised, 
 believing that she would be more likely to give us in- 
 formation about Mrs. Talboys' movements, than Messrs. 
 Puddick and Crowby. However, she turned out to be a 
 sodden old lady, who knew nothing more of Mrs. 
 Talboys, except that she was a precious bad lot, as ought 
 to be rope-ended if all on us had their jew. No, she 
 didn't know nothing about no addresses — Mrs. T. took 
 precious good care as nobody should — and for a good 
 reason, too. 
 
 We left this impracticable old female in depressed 
 spirits, and turned our attention to Chester generally. 
 We sent carefully-worded advertisements to the Times 
 and to the Chester papers ; and Maxwell wrote a long 
 letter to Mrs. Talboys, Post-Office, Chester, begging 
 her to aftbrd us some information as to her proposed 
 movements, if she objected to telling us her address. 
 
 Day after day elapsed, but no letter came to us from 
 Mrs. Talboys. I will not attempt to paint my intense 
 grief at losing my little Emmie. Suffice it to say, 
 that, after six weeks' interval of mental depression, 
 which seriously affected my powers as a writer of light 
 literature, I began to recover my usual spirits, and, 
 excepting that I could never make up my mind to leave 
 the Temple at the Essex Gate, or to look down Essex
 
 Maxwell and I. 201 
 
 Street as I passed it in the Strand, matters went on 
 pretty well as they did before the events of which these 
 chapters have told. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Two years had elapsed since the disappearance ol 
 Mrs. Talboys and little Emmie. During that time 
 neither Maxwell nor I heard anything of either of them, 
 and I am afraid I must own that they had both com- 
 pletely faded from our thoughts. With the exception 
 of an occasional " Wonder what's become of the 
 Talboys ? " they were hardly ever alluded to by either 
 of us. 
 
 Time had not treated us particularly well. We had 
 long ago attained that well-known five pounds a week that 
 so many writers of light literature attain, and so few go 
 beyond, and at an average of five pounds a week, apiece, 
 our income steadily remained. Not so, however, our ex- 
 penditure. I am bound in honour to state, that Maxwell 
 and I were both inconveniently in debt. We were not 
 men of decidedly extravagant habits, but each of us had 
 his hobbies, and a hobby-horse is the most expensive 
 riding that a beggar can indulge in. In our cases, our 
 respective hobbies carried us considerably beyond the 
 constable, and we were obliged to accept all sorts of 
 work to enable us to keep our enemies at bay. 
 
 One morning, as Maxwell and I set to work, in ex-
 
 202 Maxiuell and I. 
 
 treme ill-humour, to complete a series of " Drawing- 
 Pioom Comic Songs," which we were doing for a cheap 
 music publisher at a guinea per song, we were inter- 
 rupted by a single knock, which Maxwell rose, impa- 
 tiently, to answer. He opened the door and found a 
 flabby, shabby-genteel man in rusty black, waiting on 
 the landing 
 
 "Mr. Bailey, sir?" 
 
 " No— Maxwell." 
 
 " That will do, sir. I have come " 
 
 " I know. It's steel pens ; I don't want any." 
 
 " No, sir, it's not steel pens " 
 
 " Then it's ketchup. Be off!" 
 
 "No, and it isn't ketchup neither," said our visitor, 
 with an impatient air of injury. "A letter, wait for 
 answer." 
 
 And, so saying, he put a dirty, thumby envelope into 
 Maxwell's hands. He opened it, and read as follows : — 
 
 " Parnassus, Oxford Street, April itJi., 1863. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I am in want of a short dualog for two 
 people — self and wife — with songs. Something short 
 and smart, to play twenty minutes or thereabouts, with 
 practical fun, such as suits my audience. My terms for 
 such is a ten-pound note, and if either of you got any- 
 thing to suit, shall be glad. Must have it by the 6th, 
 as we open with it on the 7th. Please send answer by 
 bearer, and beg to remain, yours, etc., 
 
 " Abraham Levy." 
 Owing to the fact that the demands for light farce had
 
 Maxwell and I. 203 
 
 not kept pace with our literary fecundity in that respect 
 we had a good deal more theatrical capital lying idle on 
 our hands than we had at the time when we first made 
 Mr. Levy's acquaintance at Captain Talboys'. So we 
 sent an answer by the seedy messenger, to the effect 
 that we had something that would doubtless suit the re- 
 quirements of a Parnassus audience, and would look in 
 upon Mr. Levy that evening, and talk the matter over 
 with him. 
 
 That afternoon, however, we were favoured with a 
 visit from Mr. Levy, who, having occasion to call at his 
 solicitor's in Clement's Inn, to instruct him to defend an 
 action by the Dramatic Authors' Society for an infrac- 
 tion of copyright, availed himself of the fact of/his being 
 in our neighbourhood, to look in upon us, and to arrange 
 preliminaries. 
 
 We submitted our plot to Mr. Levy. A lady and 
 gentleman, of high rank, who have been betrothed in 
 early infancy (as is customary in the best English fami- 
 lies), but who had taken the deepest dislike to each 
 other, owing to the fact that the gentleman was said to 
 possess an inordinate and unnatural passion for baked 
 sheep's head — a dish which the lady held in aristocratic 
 abhorrence — and that the lady was never happy unless 
 she was devouring peppermint — a confection for which 
 the gentleman entertained the profoundest disgust — meet 
 unexpectedly in the centre of the maze at Hampton 
 Court. The mutual embarrassment and annoyance 
 caused by this most awkward rencontre, is enhanced by 
 the fact that, owing to the ingenious disposition of the 
 labyrinth, neither of them is able to find a way out of
 
 204 Maxwell and I. 
 
 it. Thus thrown together by a fate with which it is 
 impossible to contend, they determine to put up with 
 each other's society as best they ma}-. The limited area 
 at their disposal is divided into two equal parts by an 
 imaginary line, and each undertakes to keep to his or 
 her own territory until such time as somebody shall 
 appear who can give them a clue out of the perplexing 
 labyrinth. The lady thinks she cannot do better than 
 employ her enforced leisure by singing some of the 
 favourite ballads of her early infancy, and the gentleman 
 (whose tastes are more material) proceeds to devote 
 himself to the lunch which he has brought with him 
 in a basket. The lady's attention is arrested by his 
 movements, and in an agony of dread at the antici- 
 pated appearance of the detested dish, implores him 
 (in a parody on " Robert, toi que j'aime ") to post- 
 pone his meal until she can escape from the maze. In 
 a comic duet (a community of proceeding not forbidden 
 by the terms of their treaty), he declines to entertain her 
 suggestion, and proceeds to lunch off — not a sheep's head, 
 but a magnificent -pate, de foie gras. The whole truth 
 flashed upon her in a moment. A wicked marquis, who 
 seeks her hand, has spread the detestable calumny which 
 has caused her detestation for her betrothed lover ! She 
 rushes to his arms and embraces him, and the gentleman, 
 as soon as he has recovered from the astonishment with 
 which this proceeding not unnaturally strikes him, is 
 amazed and delighted to discover that the lady is abso- 
 lutely free from all suggestion of peppermint. He at 
 once perceives that a wealthy (but hideous) duchess, 
 who adores him, is the author of the abominable rumour
 
 Maxwell and I. 205 
 
 that has estranged him' from his beloved — an explana- 
 tion ensues, and matters end as happily as a comic duet 
 can make them. 
 
 Mr. Levy was delighted with the plot, and after sug- 
 gesting that the gentleman must accidentally sit upon 
 the pie, and put a fork or two into his pocket, and by 
 otherwise misconducting himself contribute to the actual 
 fun of the piece ; and impressing upon us that we must 
 on no account go in for " comedy dialogue," he took his 
 departure. The dualogue was duly finished, christened 
 " Love in a Maze," and sent in. By the next post we 
 received a cheque for ten guineas on the Union Bank. 
 
 The ensuing morning, as we sat at breakfast. Max- 
 well, who had been amusing himself with the Times 
 supplement, suddenly sprang to his feet exclaiming, 
 
 " By Jove ! here's something about the Talboys ! " 
 and he handed me the paper, pointing to an advertise- 
 ment that ran as follows : — 
 
 " Talboys or Talbot. — If this advertisement should 
 meet the eye of Mrs. Emily Talboys or Talbot, widow of 
 the late Esau Talboys or Talbot, master mariner, who 
 died in Australia on the 14th or 18th of November last, 
 and late of Essex Street, Strand, she is requested to 
 send her address to Tenby and Campbell, solicitors, 
 Brabant Court, London. Any person who can furnish 
 such a clue to the present residence of Mrs. Talboys or 
 Talbot, as shall lead to her discovery, shall receive a 
 reward of Ten Pounds." 
 
 We bolted our breakfast and hurried, as fast as a
 
 2o6 Maxwell and I. 
 
 Hansom could carry us, to Brabant Court. Of course 
 we could give no information as to her whereabouts, but 
 giving our cards, and informing Messrs. Tenby and 
 Campbell that we were intimate friends of the Talboys, 
 they were good enough to tell us that Captain Talboys 
 reached Melbourne in safety, and that he had shortly 
 afterwards made his way to the diggings, where, after 
 several weeks' labour, he had made a find of surpassing 
 magnificence ; that he had returned to Melbourne, that 
 he fell overboard as he went up the ship's side in a state 
 of intoxication, that he was drowned, and that his widow 
 was entitled to a sum of seventeen thousand five hun- 
 dred and sixty-four pounds — the net proceeds of his 
 labour in the gold fields. They further told us that 
 the news only reached them two days since, and that 
 no clue had as yet been afforded as to their present 
 address. 
 
 We left the office in good spirits, for the hope that we 
 should eventually hear something of Mrs. Talboys and 
 Emmie revived within us. As we were in the City we 
 made our way to Mr. Levy's bankers, with the view 
 of getting his cheque cashed, for that gentleman's 
 reputation as a pay-master was not so unimpeachable 
 as to warrant our looking upon his cheque as a nego- 
 tiable security of a wholly unquestionable character. 
 Accordingly, we were not altogether surprised to find it 
 returned to us dishonoured, with the announcement that 
 Mr. Levy had considerably overdrawn his account, and 
 that no further advance would be made to him. So, as 
 we were particularly insolvent at that moment. Maxwell 
 and I repaired the same evening to the Parnassus Music
 
 Maxwell and I. 207 
 
 Hall, with the view of inducing him to substitute a cash 
 payment for his worthless cheque. 
 
 Mr. Levy was all apology. He had paid a large sum 
 of money in yesterday, and found himself unexpectedly 
 compelled to draw it that morning. But if we would 
 take a seat in his private room, he would see if a suffi- 
 cient sum of money had been taken at the doors to enable 
 him to settle our claim. 
 
 On inquiring he found that up to that time (nine 
 o'clock) only five pounds and some odd shillings had 
 been received, but if we would sit down and make our- 
 selves comfortable, he had no doubt but that he should 
 be able to square it up in half an hour or so. We were 
 fain to agree to this, and placing a bottle of whiskey and 
 some cigars in a tumbler before us, he left us to attend 
 to his duties. 
 
 Mr. Levy's private room was situated at the extreme 
 end of the Parnassus, and as the glass door commanded 
 the stage, we amused ourselves by watching the perfor- 
 mance until such time as ten pounds should have been 
 taken at the doors. 
 
 The principal element of entertainment at the Par- 
 nassus Music Hall was comic singing. A stout man, 
 who looked like a churchwarden out of work, occupied 
 the platform as we entered, and sang a series of dismal 
 comic songs, " all of his own composition, sir ! " as a 
 waiter informed me. 
 
 "Pm told, sir," added my informant, "that that gent 
 is always a-writin' songs in his 'ed. To look at him as 
 he walks through the 'all, talkin' affable to a gent here and 
 a gent there, and a-smokin' with this one and a-drinkin'
 
 20 8 Maxwell and I. 
 
 with that, you'd little think that all the time he was 
 a-composing the verses as he sings five minutes after on 
 the platform. But he is, sir — rhymes and all ! " 
 
 We listened with increased interest to the singer after 
 this description of his peculiarities. He was extremely 
 political, and was very hard upon Lord Derby, and very 
 patronizing indeed, when he had occasion to allude to 
 the Royal Family — every member of which appeared to 
 enjoy ex officio the advantage of his protection and his 
 encouragement — which was the more remarkable as he 
 was for upsetting every other constituted authority. He 
 touched upon the American differences, and having de- 
 molished the North at a blow, proceeded to slap General 
 Garibaldi on the back, annihilate the police system, and 
 to tell us that we had a great many more bishops than 
 was good for us. He was vociferously encored (my 
 friend, the waiter, going into ecstasies over him), and he 
 obligingly favoured us with another of his composition, 
 in which he advised Britons generally to go in for their 
 rights, which he described as, 
 
 " A pipe, my brother ; a bowl, my brother ; 
 A maiden fair of a beauty rare, 
 To comfort your jolly old soul, my brother ; 
 Sing cheerily ho ! sing ho ! " 
 
 Then a terrible woman with big bones, a raw brazen 
 voice, and her hair parted at the side, came on to the 
 stage and screamed and roared, and slapped her 
 hands, and danced, and then sang again, and then 
 danced and sang and banged herself once more, which 
 was her energetic way of advising you, under all
 
 Maxwell and I. 209 
 
 circumstances of life, to ''speak up like a ma-a-n ! " 
 And then we had a fiddler who could play under a 
 chair, and over a chair, and through a chair, and on his 
 head, and with his head hetween his legs, and under all 
 circumstances of contortion under which a man could 
 reasonably be expected to play a fiddle. The fiddler was 
 followed by two Bounding Brothers, who, at first, were 
 so mutually polite (as they bounded about the stage) 
 that you would think they had only been introduced to 
 each other ; but when (in the course of the performance) 
 they came to know one another better, you found that 
 the elder brother was haughty, for he repelled the 
 ingenious advances of the younger brother by turning 
 him head over heels in the air. But the younger 
 brother's fraternal love was too strong to be at all affected 
 by these repulses, although as often as he ran up to 
 embrace the elder brother, he was turned about by his 
 unnatural relative in a most distressing manner. 
 Eventually the elder brother began to lose his temper, 
 and seizing the younger brother by the middle, twirled 
 him violently round and round, and eventually threw him 
 over his head, standing over him (as he came down) 
 in a threatening attitude which there was no mis- 
 taking. The younger brother, who began to feel that 
 matters were getting desperate, fell on his knees and 
 prayed. The elder brother was softened, relented, 
 clasped the younger brother in his arms, and the two 
 went off, over each other's heads, in a burst of fraternal 
 ecstasy. 
 
 A depressed and faded middle-aged lady, dressed in 
 a scanty black silk dress, with a small arrangement of
 
 2IO Maxwell and I. 
 
 artificial flowers in lier bosom, and wearing black 
 mittens on her hands, then stepped nervously on the 
 platform, and began to sing, in a weak faltering voice, 
 a few verses of an Italian song, the purport of which 
 did not reach us at our end of the room. She was 
 suffering from extreme nervousness, and broke down 
 twice or three times in the song she was endeavouring 
 to sing. 
 
 I don't think I ever witnessed a more melancholy 
 spectacle. The poor lady was received with an ironical 
 cheer, which, in her innocence, she accepted as a com- 
 pliment, and every verse was hailed with derisive 
 shouts, which even she was unable to mistake ; so 
 uttering an apology to the conductor who appeared to 
 be remonstrating with her in no measured terms, she 
 left the stage amid a whirl of hooting and cat-calls, 
 which did not cease until a Favourite Delineator of 
 Negro Peculiarities appeared, when it changed to a 
 shout of applause. 
 
 "Maxwell," said I, "don't you know that poor 
 woman's face ? " 
 
 " No ; I didn't notice her, poor creature." 
 
 "It's Mrs. Talboys," said I. 
 
 "Impossible ! " 
 
 "But it is. I'm nearly sure of it. Here, waiter, 
 who was the last singer ? " 
 
 " What, her as made a mess on it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Bernardini— Madame Bernardini. It's her first 
 night — she's on trial for an engagement. And," he 
 added, " I expect it's her last."
 
 Maxwell and I. 211 
 
 There was little else to be got out of the waiter, so 
 we were compelled to wait until we saw Levy. More 
 comic singers, more acrobats, more niggers, and eventu- 
 ally poor little Emmie Talboys ! 
 
 She was announced under a different pseudonym to 
 that which her mother had adopted ; but I had little 
 difficulty in recognizing her. If anything else were 
 wanted to place it beyond a doubt that Mrs. Talboys 
 and Emmie, mother and daughter, had appeared before 
 me that evening, it would have been found in the fact 
 that the wretched bit of faded finery which Madame 
 Bernardini had worn in her bosom, had been trans- 
 ferred to that of the poor trembling little woman who 
 stood before me. 
 
 My heart seemed to rise to my throat as I looked 
 upon the old love I had so long lost. The same gentle 
 timid voice bore the accents of the same old pathetic 
 air to my ears — she was singing the " Banks of Allan 
 Water " — and the same mild appealing face, sadly 
 changed by privation, looked timidly on the audience as 
 she concluded her song. She was received with inso- 
 lent cheers, such as had greeted her poor mother half an 
 hour before, and as she left the stage she stumbled, in 
 her nervousness, over a nail in the floor, and fell heavily 
 against the wing. 
 
 Maxwell and I started up to seek Levy, and we met 
 him at the door, with our ten guineas in shillings and 
 sixpences in his hand. 
 
 "Levy," said Maxwell, " who is that young girl who 
 has just gone off ? " 
 
 " Ah, Mister Maxwell, what a chap you are ! " 
 
 p 2
 
 212 Maxwell and I. 
 
 " Tell me her name, for God's sake, mau ! " said 
 Maxwell, stamping with impatience. 
 
 " No, no, Mister Maxwell ; she's a good girl, she is — 
 I don't like that sort of thing — she's a good girl, and 
 you must leave her alone." 
 
 " Confound it. Levy, stop your infernal — no, no, I 
 beg your pardon — there, you're a good fellow, and mean 
 well — I respect you for it, but you mistake my 
 meaning." 
 
 "Oh, it's all right, is it. Mister Maxwell? Well, 
 you're a gentleman, and I don't believe you'd do a dirty 
 thing. Her name is Tolboysh — Tolboysh." 
 
 " Then she and her mother are old and intimate 
 friends of ours, and they are advertised for in to-day's 
 Times. For God's sake let us go to them ! " 
 
 " You don't say so ! Veil now, only to think ! 
 Come along -with me — come along with me ! " 
 
 And the good-natured little Jew led the way to the 
 wretched apartment dignified by the title of "Artistes' 
 Room." 
 
 It was a square whitewashed room, furnished with a 
 deal table, a small cracked looking-glass, and half-a- 
 dozen Windsor chairs ; a pot of coarse rouge with a 
 hare's foot stood upon the mantelpiece, and a well-filled 
 subscription list for an injured acrobat hung upon the 
 wall. The room was strewn with comic hats, banjoes, 
 wigs, and other properties in immediate use by the per- 
 formers. Poor little Emmie lay on two chairs, nearly 
 insensible, while the vulgar big-voiced woman (who had a 
 big heart too) was bathing a wound in her forehead with 
 a motherly tenderness which would have atoned for her
 
 Maxwell and I. 213 
 
 vulgarity twice told. Mrs. Talboys was hovering about 
 her daughter in a helpless anxious way, invoking bless- 
 ings on the comic lady who had taken the affair into 
 her own hands, and who announced her intention of 
 sending them home in her brougham after it had taken 
 her to do her " turn " at the Polyhymnian. 
 
 We were not long in making ourselves known to Mrs. 
 Talboys, and eventually to Emmie. She was at first 
 distressed at our having discovered her under such 
 circumstances, but very delighted to see us notwith- 
 standing. We all went home to her poverty-stricken 
 lodgings in the Camberwell Road together, and when 
 there, we gradually told Mrs. Talboys of the good 
 fortune that awaited her. 
 
 It would be affectation to pretend that she felt any 
 sorrow for her husband's death, and we spent a couple 
 of hours that night in mapping out the future which was 
 to be invested with such golden surroundings. They 
 had had a hard time of it since they left London ; their 
 friends at Chester had procured her a little employment 
 as a teacher in a National School, but poor little Emmie 
 fell ill of scarlet fever, and Mrs. Talboys lost her 
 situation in consequence. She then advertised as a 
 morning governess, and obtained a little work in that 
 capacity ; but she was totally unfitted for the charge of 
 children, and that source of income eventually failed 
 her. Then she obtained a little employment as dresser 
 and wardrobe-woman at a provincial theatre, and 
 eventually little Emmie made her appearance on the 
 stage, but the poor timid little girl failed absolutely. 
 For some months they obtained a precarious living by
 
 214 Maxwell and I. 
 
 hanging about theatres and provincial concert-rooms, 
 getting a Httle employment here, and a little employ- 
 ment there, until at length Mr. Levy, who happened to 
 hear her sing at a provincial music-hall, offered her an 
 engagement in London at one pound ten a v\'eek, if, 
 after a week's probation, she should be found up to the 
 requirements of his audience. 
 
 That all went merrily with us after this, it is, I 
 sujipose, unnecessary to say. We took a pleasant 
 cottage at Twickenham for Mrs. Talboys, with a pretty 
 garden and a lawn sloping down to the Thames, and 
 Maxwell and I used to pull up the river on fine summer 
 evenings after our work was done and take tea with 
 them in the open garden. I leave you to imagine the 
 happiness these evenings aftbrded me. I leave you to 
 imagine also, that it Avas not very long before I found 
 out that they aflbrded equal happiness to little Emmie. 
 And I leave you to imagine how it all ended.
 
 ACTORS, AUTHORS, AND 
 AUDIENCES. 
 
 A TKIAL BY JURY. 
 
 Scene: Interior of a Playhouse. 
 
 An original {hut tedious) i^lay lias just been damned. 
 The audience is furious. Tlie vianager comes 
 forward and implores them to listen to liim. They 
 agree to do so. He suggests that the Author he 
 tried then and there, hy a Jury of the audience, 
 for having had his play damned. They agree. A 
 Jury is empanneled and a Judge is appointed. A 
 Gentleman offers to act ccs Counsel for tlie Prose- 
 cution. The Prisoner conducts his own case. 
 
 The Counsel for the Prosecution immediately pro- 
 ceeded to open the case against the Prisoner, The 
 Prisoner was charged with one of the greatest offences 
 that a man with any pretension to a literary position 
 could commit — that of having written, and caused to be 
 produced, an original stage-play, which had not come up 
 to the expectations of the audience. For that offence
 
 2i6 Actors, AiUhors, and Audiences. 
 
 he stood at the bar of Public Opinion in order that, after 
 having said whatever he might have to say in defence 
 or extenuation of his conduct, he might undergo what- 
 ever punishment, if any, the Court might be pleased to 
 inflict. 
 
 John Jeeningham, who was much agitated, deposed 
 as follows — I am a theatrical manager. Six months ago 
 the Prisoner submitted an original play for my approval. 
 I accepted it because I had nothing else ready. I did 
 not read it. That is the play that has just been 
 damned. It is called Lead. I think it a very good 
 title. I expect that by its failure I shall be four or 
 five thousand pounds out of pocket. {Munntirs of 
 sympathy from the crowded court.) 
 
 Cross-examined by the Author. — I did not read your 
 play before accepting it, because I do not profess to be 
 a judge of a play in manuscript. I accepted it because 
 a French play on which I had counted proved a 
 failure. I had nothing ready to put up in its place, 
 I was at my Ant's end. I have been there before. 
 I soon get there. I have had no special training for 
 the position of manager. I am not aware that any 
 special training is requisite. It is a very easy pro- 
 fession to master. If you make a success you pocket 
 the profits ; if you fail you close your theatre abruptly, 
 and a benefit performance is organized in your behalf. 
 Then you begin again. I am aware that some alterations 
 were made in your play without your sanction. I did 
 not make them myself, as I do not understand these 
 things. I always leave the alterations in an author's
 
 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 217 
 
 dialogue to the stage-manager and company. I certainly 
 consider myself an object of sympathy when a piece fails. 
 I am not of opinion that I ought to be held responsible 
 for the character of the entertainment I provide for the 
 audience. What have I to do with it ? I am only the 
 manager. 
 
 John Jones. — I was a member of the audience this 
 evening. I have seen the defendant's play. I think it 
 an extremely bad play. It is full of very long and 
 (to me) very tedious speeches. I was pleased with the 
 scene between the rival tradesmen in the grocer's back- 
 parlour because I thought it true to nature ; but I 
 consider the scene between the Duke and the Duchess 
 highly improbable. I hissed it on that account. No 
 Duchess would be likely to speak as that Duchess 
 spoke. The scene between the wicked Member of 
 Parliament and the Home Secretary is open to the 
 same objection. I consider myself a judge of a play. 
 I have written a play myself. It has not been acted — 
 not yet. 
 
 Cross-examined by the Author. — I am a journeyman 
 plumber. I consider myself a judge of what Dukes and 
 Duchesses would be likely to say — at least, as good a 
 judge as any author. I have plumbed in the very best 
 families. I have supplied a ball-cock to a Royal cistern. 
 Dukes and Duchesses talk quite unlike ordinary people. 
 They have a conversation of their own, which can only 
 be mastered by means of a long familiarity with their 
 mode of life. I consider that nothing on earth is more 
 improbable than that a Duke would say "By Jove!"
 
 2i8 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 I have never heard of a Duchess riding in a four-wheeled 
 cab. I consider such a state of things impossible. I 
 do not profess to be a judge of metaphysics, because I 
 do not know what metaphysics are. I consider very 
 likely that I am a judge of metaphysics without know- 
 ing it. I am in the habit of hissing a play as soon as I 
 am bored. I consider it quite likely that I might be 
 bored by scenes with which other people might be 
 pleased. There is no accounting for tastes. I do 
 not know whether hissing a dull scene at the com- 
 mencement of a play would or would not be likely 
 to disconcert the actors and render them unfit to do 
 justice to their parts. I consider that that is their 
 look out. 
 
 LoKD Reginald Fitz-Urse. — I was a member of the 
 audience to-night. I was heartily bored by the 
 Prisoner's play. I saw nothing to complain of in the 
 scenes dealing with High Life, but I consider the 
 scene in the grocer's back parlour, ridiculously im- 
 possible. 
 
 Cross-examined. — I am an officer in the Grenadier 
 Guards. I have had some experience of stage-plays. 
 I believe that nothing is easier than to write a good 
 stage-play. I have written one myself. I found it 
 extremely easy. Mounting guard was an intellectual 
 exercise not to be mentioned in the same breath with 
 it. My play has not been produced — not yet. I have 
 shown it to several managers — they hesitate to produce 
 it, on the ground that it is too intellectual. I had no 
 objection to bring it down to the comprehension of the
 
 Actors, AtUhors, and Audiences. 219 
 
 audience ; but I did not see any way of making it less 
 intellectual than it was — I have no objection to state 
 its name — it is a burlesque called Tom Tiddler. 
 
 Thomas "Wilkinson. — I am a medical student. I 
 hissed the Prisoner's play because I thought it one of 
 the worst I ever saw. I objected, among other things, 
 to the fact that Miss de Vere had to die in Act I. I 
 did not know at the time that she was not really dead, 
 but would reappear in Act III., or I should not have 
 hissed. I thought it bad art. I thought it monstrous 
 to interest an audience in a singularly beautiful and 
 talented young lady, and then dispose of her finally at 
 an early stage in the play. If the author allows the 
 audience to suppose that a person is dead who is only 
 insensible, he must take the consequences of the im- 
 position he has practised upon them. 
 
 Cross-examined. — No doubt I am engaged to Miss 
 De Vere ; but that fact does not affect my opinion. I 
 certainly consider myself a judge of a play. I have 
 written several plays ; they have not been produced — 
 not yet. 
 
 Jacob Shuttleworth. — I am a clerk in the Home 
 Office. I have seen the Prisoner's play. I think it 
 distinctly a dull play. I did not hiss simply because I 
 do not see the necessary connection between a bad play 
 and a hiss. We do not hiss bad speeches in the House 
 of Commons. Perhaps it would be better if we did ; 
 but we don't. I would hiss indecency and profanity, 
 and even outrageously bad taste, with all the energy at
 
 2 20 Actors^ Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 my command ; but not mere dulness. I would do this 
 in the interest of public morals. I regard a dull author 
 who has to depend upon his pen for his livelihood as an 
 object of pity, not of execration. If I want to be 
 revenged upon him, I take care to caution my friends 
 that the house at which his piece is being played is to 
 be avoided. 
 
 Cross-examined. — I do not in the least like your play. 
 I entirely coincide with the general opinions which the 
 other witnesses have expressed, though I do not agree 
 with them in detail. For example, I think the scene 
 between the Home Secretary and the wicked Member is 
 very characteristic, and contains many capital hits at 
 the maladministration of our home affairs ; but I regard 
 the scenes between the duke and duchess, and that 
 between the two tradespeople as ridiculously untrue to 
 nature. Personally, I regard you as a dull and tedious 
 author. I did not hiss you, simply because I did not 
 think that the oftence of mere incompetency deserved so 
 severe a punishment, and because hissing unnerves the 
 actors, and prevents them from doing their best with 
 the play under consideration. I seldom hiss, but when 
 I do it is at the end of an Act. I am not aware that, 
 owing to nervousness caused by sounds of disapproba- 
 tion, much of the dialogue was accidentally omitted, 
 and still more of it paraphrased. I am not aware that 
 owing to imperfect rehearsals many of the " situations " 
 missed fire. I am not aware that certain characters 
 and scenes were omitted, and others re-written in 
 opposition to your earnest entreaty. The piece is 
 advertised as having been written by you, and I, of
 
 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 221 
 
 course, hold you responsible for every word that is 
 spoken on the stage. I like some plays ; I like a play 
 called the Weddimi March ; I think it is an admirable 
 piece of fooling. I think the construction of that play 
 is inimitable, and the situations singularly amusing. I 
 consequently entertain a respect for the ability of the 
 author. I am not aware that it a literal translation 
 from the French. I am not aware that characters, 
 scenery, plot, costumes, incidents, dialogue, and con- 
 struction were supplied by a French play. If I knew 
 it, it might induce me to modify my opinion of the 
 author's genius for stage construction as exhibited in 
 that work. In bestowing applause upon an author I 
 am not in the habit of distinguishing between an 
 original play and a translation. Now that you mention 
 it, perhaps I should do so. Now that you remind me 
 of it, I certainly sec a wide distinction between the two. 
 Now that you direct my attention to the circumstance, 
 I am astonished that I should ever have bracketed them 
 together. The more I think of it the more remarkable 
 it appears to me that I should have placed an author of 
 original plays on the same footing with a translator. 
 Probably I shall henceforth bear the distinction in 
 mind. Still, I consider your play a very bad one. I 
 consider myself a judge of plays. I have written many 
 plays — everybody has. They have not been acted — 
 not yet. 
 
 Emily Fitzgibbon. — I am an actress. I played the 
 part of Constantia in the comedy Lead. I have a poor 
 opinion of it as a play. I disliked it from the first
 
 22 2 Actors, Aictkors, and Audiences. 
 
 The dialogue is most carefully written, but it is not 
 dramatic. Having studied the play, I have found it full 
 of literary beauties, but it is wholly lacking in well- 
 balanced story and effective action. A series of leading 
 articles, even though they are written in blank verse, do 
 not constitute a play. I think the play suffers materi- 
 ally from being written in blank verse. Very few people 
 on the stage can speak blank verse effectively. I speak 
 it effectively, but I don't know anyone else who does. 
 As a play LcafZ is as heavy as Manfred. 
 
 Cross-examined. — I regard your play as highly credit- 
 able to you in a literary sense, but it is wholly undra- 
 matic. It is undoubtedly a thoughtful composition. In 
 point of fact, it is too thoughtful. It is a fact that the 
 stage-manager suppressed several small characters. It 
 is true that two minor parts were fused with mine to 
 make[it worthy of my reputation. I did not charge extra 
 for rolling the three parts into one. I did it entirely in 
 the author's interest. I do not remember your objecting 
 to the mutilation of your play. It is not a circumstance 
 that would be likely to dwell on my mind. I have 
 never been hissed in my life. The parts I have played 
 have frequently been hissed. No one has ever hissed 
 me. 
 
 The learned Judge. — I am quite sure of that. Miss 
 Fitzgibbon. 
 
 James Johnson. — I am a low comedian. {Laughter.) 
 I played the part of Joseph Wool in Lead. {Laughter.) 
 It is not a good part. {Laughter.) The humour is too
 
 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 223 
 
 subtle and refined for a theatrical audience. (Laughter.) 
 In point of fact, the part labours under the fatal disad- 
 vantage of not being low comedy at all. {Roars of 
 laughter, in ivhich tJie learned Judge joined.) I am sorry 
 to have to say this, as I have a personal regard for the 
 Prisoner. (Laughter.) I did my best with the part. I 
 bought a remarkably clever mechanical wig — (laughter) 
 — for it — (laughter) — but it was useless. (Roars of 
 laughter.) In my zeal in behalf of the Prisoner I intro- 
 duced much practical " business" into the part that was 
 not set down for me. (Laughter.) 1 did not charge extra 
 for introducing practical business ; I introduced it solely 
 in the Prisoner's interest. No doubt the Prisoner re- 
 monstrated, but I knew what an audience likes much 
 better than he does, (Laughter.) The part was soundly 
 hissed — even the introduced scene with the guinea-pig 
 and the hair-oil. (Roars of laughter.) 
 
 Cross-examined — This is a scene in which I ignorantly 
 attempted to convert a guinea-pig into a rabbit by 
 rubbing it with Mrs. Allen's Hair Kestorer. (Roars of 
 laughter.) I have never known this scene to fail before ; 
 its truth to nature ensures its success. (Laughter.) It 
 would not have failed on this occasion, but that the 
 audience was already thoroughly out of humour. 
 (Laughter.) The part I played was that of a London 
 butler. (Laughter.) I do not think it unlikely that a 
 London butler would suppose that a guinea-pig could 
 be converted into a rabbit. In a London cook such a 
 mistake would be highly improbable, but not in a butler. 
 (Laughter.) These nice distinctions are the outcome of 
 very careful studies on my part. I am aware that you
 
 2 24 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 protested against the introduction of this scene. 
 {Laughter.) I am accustomed to author's protests. 
 {Laughter.) I consider that authors should feel much 
 indebted to me for the valuable interpolations suggested 
 by my humour, experience and good taste. {Applause, 
 in which the learned Judge joined.) I cannot say they 
 usually do. {Laughter.) Authors are a singularly vain, 
 captious, egotistical and thankless race. I have a strong 
 personal regard for you, but I cannot regard you as an 
 exception. Most certainly I never have been hissed in 
 my life. The parts I have played have frequently been 
 hissed. No one has ever hissed me. {Loud applause.) 
 
 The learned Judge. — I can quite believe that, Mr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 Miss Jessie Jessajiine. — I am a singing chamber- 
 maid. I have heard the evidence of the last witness. 
 I agree with the general tenor of it. I have no personal 
 feeling against the Prisoner ; on the contrary, I have a 
 strong regard for him. I devoted myself to making 
 his play a success, as far as it was in my power to do 
 so. I introduced a song and dance in order to give 
 briskness to the part. I do not charge extra when I 
 introduce a song and a dance. I introduced them 
 entirely from motives of regard for the Prisoner. 
 
 Cross-examined. — I am aware that you protested 
 most strongly against their introduction. I did not 
 regard you as my enemy on that account. The part I 
 played was that of a simple-minded young governess in 
 a country rectory, who is secretly in love with the
 
 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 225 
 
 Home Secretary. I did not see why such a character 
 should not sing and dance in the intervals between her 
 pathetic scenes. She might be supposed to do so in 
 order to cheer her sjjirits. I do not consider " Father's 
 pants will soon fit brother" an inappropriate song for 
 such a character. There is nothing immoral in it. I 
 see no reason why a broken-hearted governess should 
 not endeavour to raise her spirts by dancing an oc- 
 casional "breakdown." I would not dance one in 
 every scene, because that would not be true to nature. 
 I see no objection to her dancing one now and then. A 
 governess would probably have to teach her pupils to 
 dance, and she would naturally practice occasionally to 
 keep her hand in. No, I do not mean her foot — I 
 mean what I say, her hand. I wore short petticoats 
 because the audience expected it of me. I see no 
 reason why a governess in a country vicarage should 
 not wear short petticoats if she has good legs. I did 
 not charge extra for wearing short petticoats. I wore 
 them entirely in the author's interests. Besides that, 
 I expect to have at least one song and dance in every 
 part I play. I expect this because I possess both 
 accomplishments, and it is essential that I should 
 display them to the public as often as possible. If 
 I could dance on a tight-rope, I would not insist on 
 displaying that accomplishment in a country vicarage, 
 unless, perhaps, on some very exceptional occasion, such 
 as Rejoicing on the vicar's eldest sou Coming of Age. 
 Except on such an occasion no governess in a vicar's 
 family would be likely to dance on the tight-rope. In 
 point of fact, I can dance on a tight-rope, and I did nut
 
 2 26 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 insist upon being allowed to do so on the present 
 occasion, as it would not be true to nature — so there ! 
 I consider that truth to nature is the dramatic artist's 
 lode-star. I do not know what a lode-star is, but I am 
 quite sure that head is a very dull play. No, I have 
 never been hissed. My parts have often been hissed, 
 but no one has ever hissed me. 
 
 The learned Judge. — It is hardly necessary to give 
 us that assurance, Miss Jessamine. 
 
 The evidence of this witness concluded the case for 
 the prosecution. 
 
 The Prisoner, in addressing the jury for his defence, 
 began by begging that they would dismiss from their 
 minds any natural feelings of irritation which the un- 
 fortunate events of the evening might have roused. He 
 was a dramatic author, wdio supported himself, his wife, 
 and a large family entirely by writing original plays. 
 When a piece of his failed, it meant not only so many 
 hundred pounds out of his pocket, it also meant loss of 
 reputation, and a reduced chance of ever being allowed 
 to practise the only calling with which he was familiar. 
 He was in the habit of doing his very best to please his 
 audience, according to his humble means, and if he 
 failed it was through no lack of careful thought and 
 honest hard work on his part, but either through an 
 error of judgment — to which all men, even the very 
 greatest, are liable — or owing to circumstances which he 
 was positively unable to control, and to which he would 
 presently allude at some length. The unhappy play
 
 Actors, Atitkors, and Atidiences. 22y 
 
 that had failed that evening, and perhaps deservedly 
 failed — for he could not close his eyes to the fact that it 
 was sadly lacking in those qualities which appealed at 
 once to a mixed audience — had at least the negative 
 merit of not heing an adaptation from the French. 
 Such as it was it was an original play. It had cost 
 him many months of devoted labour, and the labour of 
 those months had evaporated in one evening. He 
 could not say that he was absolutely a ruined man, for 
 he could no doubt, make a much larger and more 
 certain income by translating French plays ; but he had 
 hitherto resisted the strong temptation to resort to this 
 very easy means of earning a handsome livelihood — partly 
 from a not unworthy zeal on behalf of English Dramatic 
 Literature, but mainly because he considered the 
 Dramatic Literature of Modern France to be a foul 
 and pestilential cento of moral corruption, degrading 
 alike to the authors who wrote the pieces, to the 
 managers who produced them, and to the polite 
 audiences of both sexes and of all ranks and ages who 
 rejoiced in them. As a clean-minded gentleman he 
 would no more think of drawing inspiration from M. 
 Zola or M. Alexandre Dumas than he would think of 
 drawing drinking water from a grave yard. He hoped 
 that he should not be misunderstood. He did not ask 
 that they should approve his play because it was 
 original. He merely submitted for their consideration 
 the question whether the enormous difficulties with 
 which a dramatic author has to contend in endeavouring 
 to write a play that shall deserve to rank as original 
 should be placed wholly out of the question in estimat- 
 
 q2
 
 228 Actors, Authors, and Atidiences. 
 
 ing the punishment to be awarded to him who fails in 
 such an attempt. The author of a translated play 
 found all his materials ready at hand. There was the 
 plot, there were the characters, there was the dialogue, 
 there was the sequence of events (technically knowai as 
 the construction), there were the situations, there were 
 even the costumes and "make-up" all ready to his 
 hand, all fire-new from the furnace, all duly assayed 
 and stamped with the approving hall-mark of the 
 wittiest and most theatrically disposed people in 
 Europe. He had had the inestimable advantage of 
 seeing the play " in the flesh." He could tell to a 
 dead certainty where the play would drag if it were 
 produced in London in its then form, and he could 
 cut and modify accordingly. The Wedding March 
 had been referred to by one of the witnesses in the 
 highest terms, and it was a fact that the author thereof 
 had received considerably more than two thousand 
 pounds in return for the two days' labour he had spent 
 upon it. But the Wedding March was little more than 
 a bald translation. Every element that went to con- 
 stitute it a success was deliberately copied from its 
 French original. The dialogue was, in itself, con- 
 temptible. It derived its humour entirely from the 
 "situations" in connection with which it was spoken. 
 The dullest copying-clerk in Chancery Lane could have 
 done the work as well as its so-called "author." At 
 the same time, he was bound in fairness to admit that 
 there were translations and translations, and that in 
 some exceptional cases — he would instance Duty, by 
 Mr. Albery — the translated play was distinctly in
 
 Actors, Authors^ and Audiejices. 229 
 
 advance of its original, as it might very easily be in the 
 hands of such a master of epigrammatic dialogue. 
 Diplomacy, by Messrs. Kowe had far more original 
 merit in it than is to be found in most adaptations ; 
 but these cases stood almost alone. But he contended 
 that the author of a translated or adapted work, how- 
 ever, free the adaptation, should not be classed with the 
 author of an original play, whose only stock-in-trade 
 was a ream of paper, a bundle of quills, and such 
 inventive faculty as God had endowed him with. As 
 regards the unfortunate play which had succeeded in 
 arousing only the bitterest feelings of animosity on 
 the part of the audience, what was there to be said 
 against it, except that the dialogue was dull ? Was it 
 blasphemous ? "Was it indecent ? Was it coarse ? 
 Was there one word in it which a girl of fifteen might 
 not listen to with moral safety ? If such a word could 
 be pointed out to him his defence was at an end, and he 
 deserved all and much more than he had received at the 
 hands of the audience. He was anxious that he should 
 not be supposed to maintain that a dull play should be 
 allowed to pass muster because it was original. By no 
 means. But he did maintain that the extreme difficulty 
 of writing an original play, which shall not only succeed, 
 but which shall deserve to succeed, should be taken into 
 account in estimating an author's punishment. It is 
 easy to write an original play that will succeed. Every 
 play which contains a house on fire, a sinking steamer, 
 a railway accident, and a dance in a casino will (if it is 
 liberally placed on the stage) succeed in spite of itself. 
 In point of fact, nothing could wreck such a piece but
 
 230 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 carefully written dialogue, and a strict attention to 
 probability. Avoid these two stumbling blocks (and 
 nothing is easier than to avoid them), and your piece 
 will succeed triumphantly. But it is not easy to write 
 a stage-play which, on account of its literary merit, 
 shall deserve to succeed. The difficulty of the task may 
 be gauged by the rarity of its accomplishment. All for 
 Her was a play in which success had been most de- 
 servedly attained. Mr. Wills' exquisite drama Olivia was 
 another. The fact that one play was suggested by " A Tale 
 of Two Cities," and the other by " The Vicar of Wake- 
 field," did not militate against their claim to originality. 
 The authors had gathered no more from those works than 
 they could have gathered from an anecdote told over a 
 dinner-table. But in these cases the authors had the ad- 
 vantage of admirable interpretation. Without adequate 
 interpretation the better the play, in an intellectual sense, 
 the more likely it is to fail. He had nothing to say in 
 defence of his own unhappy play, but he would put it to 
 the jury whether, after the evidence of the actors and 
 actresses engaged in the piece, they believed that the 
 play, as they saw it, was a reflex of his intention ? He 
 ventured to believe, on these actors' and actresses' own 
 showing, that he had been exceptionally unfortunate. 
 Happily for the welfare of the drama, it very rarely 
 happened that actors took such monstrous liberties 
 with an author's play as they had taken with his. But 
 it is an undoubted fact that such liberties can be taken 
 in ill-disciplined theatres when the actors are self-willed 
 and opinionated, and the author a man of no influence. 
 In any case, the audience could never be sure whether
 
 Acfo7's, AtUhors, and Audiences. 231 
 
 the author was or was not responsible for the ill-thned 
 jest or the misplaced buflbonery that had aroused their 
 indignation ? He might be responsible or he might 
 not. Those who had had an opportunity of reading his 
 play had admitted that it was not deficient in thoughtful 
 dialogue and in a certain subtle humour ; but they con- 
 tended that the dialogue was not such as would be 
 likely to appeal, at a single hearing, to a mixed audience, 
 and herein he confessed that he was in error. As a 
 dramatist, writing for a mixed audience, he should have 
 so fashioned it as to make its merits, such as they were, 
 instantly manifest. He had no right to call upon an 
 audience to buy a copy of his play and study it carefully 
 before committing themselves to an opinion upon it ; but 
 was not that error sufficiently punished by the fact that 
 thereby nine months of ceaseless toil had been utterly 
 wasted ? He could assure the audience who hissed 
 him and howled at him, and chaffed his dialogue, and 
 sneered at his sentiment that there was a pathetic side 
 even to failure. He trusted that this appeal would not 
 be regarded as the whine of a dog who had been 
 whipped — it was simply a protest that the dog did not 
 deserve so severe a whipping as he had received. Ho 
 had written a play which had failed to interest his 
 audience, and he had no desire to shirk the reasonable 
 consequences of such an act ; but did it altogether 
 merit the public execration that had been launched at 
 it ? The evidence showed conclusively that the original 
 manuscript had been materially tampered with in face 
 of his earnest protest that, as the play was put before 
 the public in his name, the play should be his play,
 
 232 Actors, AutJioi's, and AtLdiences. 
 
 and not a modiiied version thereof, trimmed, altered, 
 written up and cut down to suit the views of individual 
 actors and actresses engaged in representing it. If he 
 was incompetent to the task of writing a good practical 
 play — and the events of the evening pointed to that 
 conclusion — the manager's obvious course was to apply 
 to a more skilful author, not to take upon himself, or to 
 entrust to a deputy, the privilege of making alterations 
 which, in the author's opinion, placed his work before 
 the audience in a distorted light. 
 
 There was but one other point on which he would 
 address the jury, and he would then conclude. Im- 
 memorial custom had conferred upon individual members 
 of a theatrical audience the privilege of expressing their 
 disapproval of the entertainment by hissing. He had 
 no desire whatever to abolish this privilege : judiciously 
 and impartially used it was a valuable privilege, and 
 undoubtedly had the effect of making authors and actors 
 particularly careful not to abuse the toleration which an 
 English audience was accustomed to extend towards 
 those who attempted to entertain them. But he sub- 
 mitted that, except in the case of an outrage on decency, 
 this privilege should be exercised at the end of the per- 
 formance, and not in the course of it. In the first place, 
 it was only reasonable to ask that a jury — and an 
 audience was in every practical sense a jury — should 
 hear a case to the end before deciding on it. It might 
 easily happen that a tedious scene in a first Act might 
 be justified by particularly ingenious and interesting 
 situations arising out of it in the third ; in point of fact, 
 one of the witnesses had admitted that he hissed a
 
 Actor's, Authors, and Audiences. 233 
 
 certain incident under a misapprehension as to the 
 author's intention. In the second place, a hiss always 
 disconcerts, and often utterly unnerves, the actors who 
 are upon the stage when it is delivered, and renders 
 them unfit to do justice to the scenes that follow. In 
 the case of the unhappy play which had been so heartily 
 condemned that night, those witnesses for the prosecu- 
 tion who took part in the play, speak unreservedly as to 
 the paralysing effect of the sounds of disapprobation 
 with which certain scenes in the first Act were received. 
 No author with any respect for himself and for his pro- 
 fession would endeavour to shield himself from the 
 consequence of failure by attempting to deprive an 
 audience of the right to express their disapproval of his 
 play ; but he respectfully submitted that it would be 
 fairer to all concerned if those expressions of disapproval 
 were reserved for the final fall of the act drop. The 
 Prisoner concluded by thanking the jury for the 
 exemplary patience with which they had listened to his 
 defence : while he had no desire to make out that his 
 play was anything but a dull, ineffective production, he 
 submitted that the punishment that inevitably accom- 
 panied absolute failure was as severe as the offence of 
 which he had been guilty. 
 
 The learned Judge briefly summed up the facts of 
 the case, and 
 
 The Jury returned an immediate verdict of Guilty, 
 accompanied by a strong recommendation to mercy.
 
 234 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 
 
 The learned Judge — On what ground do you base 
 your recommendation, gentlemen ? 
 
 The FoEEMAN — We think that he is not solely re- 
 sponsible for the result. Many persons contribute to a 
 stage performance, and the author's contribution is only 
 a part of a whole. We think that he should not be 
 held absolutely responsible for either failure or success. 
 In this case manager, actor, actresses, and author were 
 all more or less to blame. The author is one of many 
 contributors to an unsatisfactory result. 
 
 The learned Judge — At the same time you consider 
 that he has committed the offence of writing an imprac- 
 ticable and ineffective stage-play ? 
 
 The Foreman — Undoubtedly. We were never so 
 bored in our lives. (Murmui's of assent from the Jury.) 
 
 The learned Judge, addressing the Prisoner, said — 
 You have been found guilty by a most fair and impartial 
 jury of the very serious offence of having written an ex- 
 ceedingly poor play. Several of the witnesses have 
 testified to certain literary merits which are to be found 
 in your work, but sitting here as your judge, it is my 
 duty to tell you that literary merit is only one of many 
 elements — and by no means an indispensable one — that 
 go to make a successful stage-play. It is but one of the 
 constituents of the dramatic pudding. Stage-craft is 
 the water that binds these constituents into an attractive 
 mass ; without it the fabric will not hold together.
 
 Actors, Authors, and Audiences. 235 
 
 Although I cannot close my eyes to the terrible conse- 
 quences that would ensue were your offence to pass 
 absolutely unpunished, I am anxious to give the fullest 
 effect to the very strong recommendation to mercy which 
 the jury have appended to their verdict. On the whole, 
 I concur with that recommendation, for I think you have 
 received but scant justice at the hands of your opponents* 
 The piece that has been played is not your own, and 
 although your own play may be a bad play, you are entitled 
 to expect that it will be played in its integrity and with- 
 out additions. It is true that the plays of Shakespeare 
 are frequently mutilated without apparent detriment to 
 their attractive powers, but your light is not the light of 
 Shakespeare. If I may so express myself, your night- 
 light has been seen through a fog, and its natural 
 glimmer is not calculated to show to advantage through 
 such a medium. I am glad, for the credit of the 
 dramatic profession, to believe that you are an exceptional 
 instance of an ill-treated author. My own experience 
 as a play-goer teaches me that at well-conducted theatres, 
 such as the Haymarket, the Lyceum, the St. James's 
 and the Court, pieces are placed upon the stage with 
 excellent taste, and that the companies of those and 
 other theatres habitually contribute a most valuable 
 element towards such success as the author's plays may 
 achieve. But you have not been so fortunate as to have 
 your play produced at one of these well-regulated 
 establishments. You have had the misfortune to fall 
 into the hands of a manager who is no manager, and of 
 a company who, whatever their histrionic skill may be, 
 are wholly disentitled, by lack of taste and discretion, to
 
 •J 
 
 6 Actors, Authors, and Attdunces. 
 
 such latitude as the most experienced author would 
 gladly concede to an actor who has reasonable claims to 
 rank as an artist. Under the exceptional circumstances 
 of your case, and having the jury's recommendation 
 strongly before my eyes, I think I am justified in per- 
 mitting you to go at large on your own recognizances, 
 on the understanding that you hold yourself prepared to 
 come up for judgment when called upon to do so. I 
 trust that this leniency will have its effect, and that you 
 will, for the future, exercise a direct and efficient control 
 over all plays that may be put before the public in your 
 name. 
 
 The Prisoner entered into the necessary undertaking, 
 and was forthwith discharged.
 
 ANGELA. 
 
 AN INVERTED LOVE STORY. 
 
 I AM a poor paralysed fellow who, for many years 
 past, lias been confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last 
 six years I have occupied a small room, giving on to one 
 of the side canals of Venice, and having no one about me 
 but a deaf old woman, who makes my bed and attends 
 to my food ; and there I eke out a poor income of about 
 thirty pounds a year by making water-colour drawings 
 of flowers and fruit (they are the cheapest models in 
 Venice), and these I send to a friend in London, who 
 sells them to a dealer for small sums. But, on the 
 whole, I am happy and content. 
 
 It is necessary that I should describe the position of 
 my room rather minutely. Its only window is about 
 five feet above the water of the canal, and above it the 
 house projects some six feet, and overhangs the water, 
 the projecting portion being supported by stout piles 
 driven into the bed of the canal. This arrangement has 
 the disadvantage (among others) of so limiting my up- 
 ward view that I am unable to sec more than about ten 
 feet of the height of the house immediately opposite to
 
 238 Angela. 
 
 me, although, by reaching as far out of the window as 
 my infirmity will permit, I can see for a considerable 
 distance up and down the canal, which does not ex- 
 ceed fifteen feet in width. But, although I can see 
 but little of the material house opposite, I can see 
 its reflection upside down in the canal, and I take a 
 good deal of inverted interest in such of its inhabitants 
 as show themselves from time to time (always upside 
 down) on its balconies and at its windows. 
 
 When I first occupied my room, about six yeai-s ago, 
 my attention was directed to the reflection of a little 
 girl of thirteen or so (as nearly as I could judge), who 
 passed every day on a balcony just above the upward 
 range of my limited field of view. She had a glass of 
 flowers and a crucifix on a little table by her side ; and 
 as she sat there, in fine weather, from early morning 
 until dark, working assiduously all the time, I concluded 
 that she earned her living by needle-work. She was cer- 
 tainly an industrious little girl, and, as far as I could 
 judge by her upside-down reflection, neat in her dress 
 and pretty. She had an old mother, an invalid, who, on 
 warm days, would sit on the balcony with her, and it in- 
 terested me to see the little maid wrap the old lady in 
 shawls, and bring pillows for her chair, and a stool for 
 her feet, and every now and again lay down her work 
 and kiss and fondle the old lady for half a minute, 
 and then take up her work again. 
 
 Time went by, and as the little maid grew up, her 
 reflection grew down, and at last she was quite a little 
 woman of, I suppose, sixteen or seventeen. I can only 
 work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of
 
 Angela. 239 
 
 the day, so I had plenty of time on my hands in which 
 to watch her movements, and sufficient imagination to 
 weave a little romance about her, and to endow her with 
 a beauty which, to a great extent, I had to take for 
 granted. I saw — or fancied that I could see — that she 
 began to take an interest in my reflection (which, of 
 course, she could see as I could see hers) ; and one day, 
 when it appeared to me that she was looking right at it 
 — that is to say when, her reflection appeared to be look- 
 ing right at me — I tried the desperate experiment of 
 nodding to her, and to my intense delight her reflection 
 nodded in reply. And so our two reflections became 
 known to one another. 
 
 It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, 
 but a long time passed before I could make up my mind 
 to do more than nod to her every morning, when the 
 old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the 
 window, and again in the evening, when the little maid 
 left the balcony for that day. One day, however, when 
 I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her, 
 and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several 
 times in return, and I saw her direct her mother's at- 
 tention to the incident. Then every morning I threw a 
 flower into the water for " good morning," and another 
 in the evening for "good night," and I soon discovered 
 that I had not altogether thrown them in vain, for one 
 day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed 
 and clapped her hands when she saw the two flowers join 
 forces and float away together. And then every morning 
 and every evening she threw her flower when I threw 
 mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped her
 
 240 Angela. 
 
 hands, and so did I ; but when they were separated, as 
 they sometimes were, owing to one of them having met 
 an obstruction which did not catch the other, she threw 
 up her bauds in a pretty affectation of despair, which I 
 tried to imitate but in an EngHsh and unsuccessful 
 fashion. And when they were rudely run down by a 
 passing gondola (which happened not unfrequently) she 
 pretended to cry, and I did the same. Then, in pretty 
 pantomime, she would point downwards to the sky to tell 
 me that it was Destiny that had caused the shipwreck of 
 our flowers, and I, in pantomime, not nearly so pretty, 
 would try to convey to her that Destiny would be kinder 
 next time, and that perhaps to-morrow our flowers 
 would be more fortunate — and so the innocent courtship 
 went on. One day she showed me her crucifix and 
 kissed it, and thereupon I took a little silver crucifix 
 that always stood by me, and kissed that, and so she 
 knew that we were one in religion. 
 
 One day the little maid did not appear on her balcony, 
 and for several days I saw nothing of her ; and although 
 I threw my flowers as usual, no flower came to keep it 
 company. However, after a time, she reappeared, 
 dressed in black, and crying often, and then I knew that 
 the poor child's mother was dead, and, as far as I knew, 
 she was alone in the world. The flowers came no more 
 for many days, nor did she show any sign of recognition, 
 but kept her eyes on her work, except when she placed 
 her handkerchief to them. And opposite to her was the 
 old lady's chair, and I could see that, from time to time, 
 she would lay down her work and gaze at it, and then a 
 flood of tears would come to her relief. But at last one
 
 Angela. 241 
 
 day she roused herself to nod to me, and then her flower 
 came, day, day, day, and my'flower went forth to join 
 it, and with varying fortunes the two flowers sailed away 
 as of yore. 
 
 But the darkest day of all to me was when a good- 
 looking young gondolier, standing right end uppermost 
 in his gondola (for I could see him in the flesh), worked 
 his craft alongside the house, and stood talking to her 
 as she sat on the balcony. They seemed to speak as old 
 friends — indeed, as well as I could make out, he held 
 her by the hand during the whole of their interview 
 which lasted quite half an hour. Eventually he pushed 
 off, and left my heart heavy within me. But I soon 
 took heart of grace, for as soon as he was out of sight, 
 the little maid threw two flowers growing on the same 
 stem — an allegory of which I could make nothing, until 
 it broke upon me that she meant to convey to me that 
 he and she were brother and sister, and that I had no 
 cause to be sad. And thereupon I nodded to her 
 cheerily, and she nodded to me, and laughed aloud, and 
 I laughed in return, and all went on again as before. 
 
 Then came a dark and dreary time, for it became 
 necessary that I should undergo treatment that confined 
 me absolutely to my bed for many days, and I worried 
 and fretted to think that the little maid and I should see 
 each other no longer, and worse still, that she would 
 think that I had gone away without even hinting to her 
 that I was going. And I lay awake at night wondering 
 how I could let her know the truth, and fifty plans 
 flitted through my brain, all appearing to be feasible 
 enough at night, but absolutely wild and impracticable
 
 242 Angela. 
 
 in the morning. One clay — and it was a bright day 
 indeed for me — the old woman who tended me told me 
 that a gondolier had inquired whether the English 
 signer had gone away or had died ; and so I learnt that 
 the little maid had been anxious about me, and that she 
 had sent her brother to inquire, and the brother had no 
 doubt taken to her the reason of my protracted absence 
 from the window. 
 
 From that day, and ever after during my three weeks 
 of bed-keeping, a flower was found every morning on 
 the ledge of my window, which was within easy reach of 
 anyone in a boat ; and when at last a day came when I 
 could be moved, I took my accustomed place on my sofa 
 at the window, and the little maid saw me, and stood on 
 her head (so to speak) and clapped her hands upside 
 down with a delight that was as eloquent as my right- 
 end-up delight could be. And so the first time the 
 gondolier passed my window I beckoned to him, and he 
 pushed up alongside, and told me, with many bright 
 smiles, that he was glad indeed to see me well again. 
 Then I thanked him and his sister for their many kind 
 thoughts about me during my retreat, and I then learnt 
 from him that ber name was Angela, and that she was 
 the best and purest maiden in all Venice, and that any- 
 one might think himself happy indeed who could call 
 her sister, but that he was happier even than her 
 brother, for he was to be married to her, and indeed 
 they were to be married the next day. 
 
 Thereupon my heart seemed to swell to bursting, and 
 the blood rushed through my veins so that I could hear 
 it and nothing else for a while. I managed at last to
 
 Angela, 243 
 
 stammer forth some words of awkward congratulation, 
 and he left me, singing merrily, after asking permission 
 to bring his bride to see me on the morrow as they re- 
 turned from church. 
 
 "For," said he, '"my Angela has known you very 
 long — ever since she was a child, and she has often 
 spoken to me of the poor Englishman who was a good 
 Catholic, and who lay all day long for years and years 
 on a sofa at a window, and she had said over and over 
 again how dearly she wished she could speak to him and 
 comfort him ; and one day, when you threw a flower 
 into the canal, she asked me whether she might throw 
 another, and I told her yes, for he would understand 
 that it meant sympathy for one sorely afflicted." 
 
 And so I learned that it was pity, and not love, except 
 indeed such love as is akin to pity, that prompted her 
 to interest herself in my welfare, and there was an end 
 of it all. 
 
 For the two flowers that I thought were on one stem 
 were two flowers tied together (but I could not tell that), 
 and they were meant to indicate that she and the gon- 
 dolier were affianced lovers, and my expressed pleasure 
 at this symbol delighted her, for she took it to mean 
 that I rejoiced in her happiness. 
 
 And the next day the gondolier came with a train of 
 other gondoliers, all decked in their holiday garb, and 
 on his gondola sat Angela, happy, and blushing at her 
 happiness. Then he and she entered the house in which 
 I dwelt, and came into my room (and it was strange 
 indeed, after so many years of inversion, to see her with 
 her head above her feet !), and then she wished me hap- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 Angela. 
 
 piness and a speedy restoration to good health (which 
 could never be) ; and I in broken words and with tears 
 in my eyes, gave her the little silver crucifix that had 
 stood by my bed or my table for so many years. And 
 Angela took it reverently, and crossed herself, and 
 kissed it, and so departed with her delighted husband. 
 
 And as I heard the song of the gondoliers as they 
 went their way — the song dying away in the distance as 
 the shadows of the sundown closed around me — I felt 
 that they were singing the requiem of the only love that 
 had ever entered my heart.
 
 WIDE AWAKE. 
 
 I AM a remarkably good-looking middle-aged bachelor. 
 Twenty years ago I sunk all my property in an annuity, 
 and on that annuity I live very comfortably. 
 
 Ten years ago it occurred to me that I would very 
 likely marry, so I ensured my life for ten thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 I am a man of a particularly affectionate disposition. 
 This amiable tendency has led me into many difficulties 
 in my time — not the least of which was an engagement 
 to marry my cousin Georgina Sparrow. 
 
 I supposed I loved Georgina when I proposed to her. 
 Looking calmly back at Georgina, it seems improbable 
 I admit — but still I did propose to her, and as I had no 
 underhand motive in doing so (for I am rich and ex- 
 tremely handsome, whereas she is poor and singularly 
 plain), I suppose I must have loved her more or less. 
 
 However that may be, there is no doubt at all that 
 before I had been engaged to her for a week, I found 
 myself wondering what on earth I had ever seen in her to 
 admire. She was bony, angular, acid, and forty. 
 
 My uncle, old Sparrow (Georgina's father), and my 
 aunt Julia, his wife, and Georgina's two horsey brothers, 
 James and Joim, took the greatest interest in our en- 
 gagement. They seemed to think it likely that I should
 
 246 Wide Awake. 
 
 try to get out of it, and they determined that I should 
 not have a chance of doing so. I should have stated 
 that I lodged at their house. I should have liked 
 to lodge elsewhere, where I could have had more 
 liberty and less fluff, but my natural amiability was 
 more than a match for my sense of convenience, and I 
 remained. 
 
 On one occasion I did hint at the possibility of my 
 removing to a less dear, and less dirty sphere of action, 
 but the indignation of Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow, the violent 
 attitudes of John and James, and the appalling hysterics 
 of Georgina, induced me weakly to confess that it was 
 only my fun. 
 
 My natural amiability is such that I must love some 
 one — and as it was out of the question to go on loving 
 Georgina, it became necessary to love somebody else. I 
 found an appropriate object of homage in Bridget 
 Comfit, a very plump and rosy widow lady of small 
 independent property, who lived in Great Coram 
 Street. 
 
 To make a long story short, I will at once confess 
 that, being engaged to Georgina Sparrow, I nevertheless 
 secretly made love to Mrs. Comfit. I even went so far 
 as to make arrangements to marry Mrs. Comfit at St. 
 Pancras Church, Euston Square. I did not tell Bridget 
 about Georgina because I knew that it would distress 
 her, and I did not tell Georgina about Bridget, because 
 I knew that it would distress her. It would also have 
 distressed her furious father, her fluent mother, and 
 her two very violent and impulsive brothers, John and 
 James. I acted for the best.
 
 JVide Awake. 247 
 
 The day before the day appointed for my marriage 
 with Mrs. Comfit arrived. I did not feel quite happy 
 that evening. I did not enjoy my dinner. Uncle 
 Sparrow seemed to have a reproachful something in his 
 eye which I could not account for. Aunt Sparrow was 
 surprisingly silent. The two brothers, John and James, 
 looked moody, and Georgina was uncomfortably affec- 
 tionate. I felt rather conscience smitten. 
 
 I began to think that in marrying Bridget secretly, I 
 was perhaps acting an underhand part towards Georgina. 
 I had never looked at it in that light before ; it had 
 always seemed to me to be the most natural thing in 
 the world that a man who had engaged himself to 
 Georgina should take the earliest opportunity of getting 
 out of the engagement. 
 
 But there is a right and a wrong way of doing every- 
 thing, and I saw, when it was too late, that it would 
 have been better to have broken her heart in a more 
 manly and straightforward way. Still I acted for the 
 best. 
 
 The next morning — the morning of my marriage day 
 — I breakfasted in bed. I couldn't face the family. I 
 am a tender-hearted old fool, and I could not feel at my 
 ease in the presence of the woman whose heart I was 
 deliberately breaking. So I pleaded a bad bilious 
 headache, and remained in bed until Uncle Sparrow 
 had started for the City (he was something — not much 
 — in the City), and his two headstrong sons had betaken 
 themselves to Aldridge's. 
 
 I knew that this would happen at a quarter to ten, 
 and that at ten o'clock Mrs. Sparrow and Georgina
 
 248 Wide Azvake. 
 
 would go down to the kitchen to have their daily row 
 over the cook's accounts — so at ten I determined to 
 make my escape. 
 
 I dressed — reached the ground-floor in safety — kissed 
 a last farewell to Georgina's very long goloshes in the 
 umbrella-stand, and eventually stood free and unde- 
 tected in the street. I had yet an hour to spare before 
 Bridget would arrive at the church, and I spent this in 
 walking round Euston Square — which can be done in 
 two thousand one hundred paces — and at a quarter to 
 eleven I entered the church. There was no one there 
 but the beadle. 
 
 I went up to him and said, "Oh, I beg your pardon, 
 but I've come to be married." At that moment I was 
 clapped on the back by Georgina's two headstrong 
 brothers. My cousins and their father had been paying 
 a visit to a money-lender in Euston Square. They saw 
 me walking round, their curiosity was excited, and they 
 followed me to the church. And so came about one of 
 the most tremendously dramatic situations in Modern 
 History. 
 
 " So, sir," said Uncle Sparrow, " you've come to be 
 married ? " 
 
 " Fire and fury ! " said John. 
 
 " Zounds and the devil ! " said James. 
 
 I was equal to the emergency. My natural kindness 
 of heart prevented 'my admitting the truth to my uncle 
 and my cousins, for I never distress a fellow-creature 
 intentionally (unless she is ugly, and I am engaged to 
 her), so I resorted to one of the most ingenious methods 
 of getting out of a dilemma that I ever heard of. I
 
 Wide Awake. 249 
 
 gave a sudden start, gasped, rolled my eyes wildly, and 
 exclaimed : — 
 
 "Where am I?" 
 
 They explained to me in language quite unsuited to 
 the sacred edifice in which they were standing, that I 
 was in St. Pancras Church. 
 
 " How did I come here ? I don't remember anything 
 about it ! The last thing I can remember is being in 
 bed with a bilious headache, and trying to go to sleep ! 
 And here I am, dressed and wide-awake, in St. Pancras 
 Church. What is the inference ? " 
 
 They admitted in disgracefully strong language, that 
 they were at a loss to draw any satisfactory inference 
 from this statement. 
 
 *' My dear uncle, my good (but violent) cousins," said 
 I, " this is very distressing to me, for I thought I had 
 quite shaken it off. I haven't done such a thing as 
 walk in my sleep for years." 
 
 They replied, sardonically, that they felt sure of it. 
 
 '* I once remained for nearly a week in a state of 
 somnambulism. It is most providential that you 
 happened to be here." 
 
 They quite agreed with me. 
 
 " Another time," said I, " don't wake me suddenly. 
 It is very dangerous to wake a somnambulist with 
 a violent shock. Better let him have his sleep 
 out." 
 
 This I said to keep up the illusion. 
 
 They promised that, now that they were aware of my 
 infirmity, they would not wake me too suddenly on the 
 next occasion.
 
 250 Wide Awake. 
 
 "The best thing I can do," said I, "is to go home 
 and go to bed again." 
 
 They heartily concurred wtih this suggestion. John 
 took one of my arms, James took the other, and Uncle 
 Sparrow walked behind us, keeping the ferule of his 
 walking-stick in the small of my back. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to give up all hope of 
 being married that day. I was sorry for Bridget ; but 
 I felt that an explanation made at the earliest oppor- 
 tunity would set that right. After all, it would only 
 delay our happiness for a few days. I could not help 
 chuckling over my presence of mind, and the ready wit 
 I had shown in escaping from a difficulty which would 
 have overwhelmed ninety-nine men out of a hundred. 
 It is true I was rather surprised to find how readily my 
 explanation was accepted by my uncle and my cousins ; 
 but that only showed how skilfully I had played my 
 part. 
 
 I remained in bed all that day, for I really did not 
 feel equal to facing the family in my disappointed frame 
 of mind. But one can't remain in bed for ever, and 
 the next morning I put a bold face on it, and came 
 down, as usual, to breakfast. 
 
 " Good morning, uncle," said I, in my most cheerful 
 tones. "How are you, dear aunt? Ha, John! Ha, 
 James ! Georgina, my love, good morning." 
 
 They looked at one another significantly, but made 
 no response to my greeting. 
 
 " Lovely morning," said I. 
 
 " It's just as I thought," said Uncle Sparrow to Aunt 
 Julia. " He's at it again,"
 
 Wide Awake. 251 
 
 "Hush," said Aunt Julia, "don't speak so loud. 
 You'll wake him." 
 
 " Poor boy," said Georgina, in a half- whisper. " His 
 eyes are wide open, though he's evidently fast asleep," 
 
 " That is always the case with somnambulists," said 
 Uncle Sparrow. " The sleeping brain receives its 
 impressions through the eyes, nose, and ears." 
 
 " His nose and ears are wide open also," said John. 
 
 " So they were yesterday," said James. 
 
 "A very curious instance of somnambulism came 
 under my notice in Italy a few years ago," said Uncle 
 Sparrow. "A very respectable young girl was found 
 under suspicious circumstances in the chamber of an 
 Italian noble, and the most unfavourable inferences 
 were drawn as to her moral character in consequence. 
 Her forthcoming marriage with a handsome young 
 peasant was broken off, and all her old companions 
 repudiated her. Eventually she was seen crossing a 
 most dangerous plank over a watermill, in her petticoat 
 body, and it became clear to all that the girl was a con- 
 firmed somnambulist. She was at once re-instated in 
 the good opinion of her friends, and her marriage with 
 the young peasant was celebrated with unusual rejoicings. 
 I knew the family very well." 
 
 I looked from one to another in blank astonishment. 
 
 "Am I to suppose," said 1, "that you are under the 
 impression that I am asleep ? " 
 
 "Except that his utterance is thick," said Georgina, 
 " there is very little difl'orcnce between his sleeping and 
 waking voice." 
 
 I began to get annoyed.
 
 252 Wide Awake. 
 
 "Is this a joke?" I inquired, as I sat down to 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Take liis knife away, Georgina," said Aunt Julia; 
 " cut up liis bacou and let him eat it with a tea-spoon." 
 
 You can't eat fried bacon with a tea-spoon so as to 
 enjoy it. I therefore protested against this interference 
 with my convenience. 
 
 "I insist," said Uncle Sparrow, "on his knife being 
 removed. John and James, sit one on each side of him 
 and watch his movements very carefully. But be very 
 careful not to wake him as that would be most dangerous. 
 These trances usually last a week. John, feed him with 
 a spoon. James, hold his tea-cup and give him a sip 
 occasionally." 
 
 " Uncle," said I, " I beg — I herj that you will allow^ 
 me to have my breakfast in peace. I had nothing to eat 
 yesterday (having had a bilious headache), and I am 
 literally starving." 
 
 " Now give him a bit of muffin," said Uncle Sparrow. 
 " Now a spoonful of egg." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I am quite awake. I can feed 
 myself. I want no assistance from anyone." 
 
 " Now a mouthful of tea — take care — its running 
 down his waistcoat." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to submit to be fed by 
 the hulking brothers. 
 
 I made several appeals to their intelligence, to their 
 sense of humour, and to their feelings as human beings, 
 but in vain. The only notice they took of my remarks 
 was to direct each other's attention to the fact that I 
 expressed myself quite coherently.
 
 Wide Awake. 253 
 
 The farce was carried on through the whole day, and 
 the next, and the next after that. Nothing would 
 convince them that I was awake. I did all I could 
 to persuade them to treat me like a rational heing, but 
 in vain. The two detestable brothers devoted them- 
 selves to taking care of me with extraordinary assiduity. 
 They never left me. They took me out for a walk every 
 day, fed me carefully at meal times, undressed me and 
 put me to bed at night, and dressed me again the next 
 morning. 
 
 My unfortunate condition was explained to all visitors, 
 who took a deep interest in watching my movements, 
 and everyone was enjoined to speak with bated breath 
 for fear of waking me. No attention was paid by 
 anyone to my remarks ; but everyone made observations 
 of the most unpleasantly personal description about me. 
 And, curiously enough, no one entered the house who 
 did not notice something unusual in my appearance and 
 demeanour which was only reconcilable with the theory 
 that I was walking and talking in my sleep. 
 
 Uncle Sparrow opened all my letters (including a 
 very emphatic one from the disappointed Mrs. Comfit), 
 and kindly volunteered to take care of them until I was 
 in a condition to take care of them myself. 
 
 I am a man of easy temper, but there are limits to my 
 powers of endurance. It was quite evident to me that 
 they were simply "paying me out " for the deception I 
 had practised on them at the church. It was, perhaps, 
 right that I should suffer some little mortification, but 
 I felt that matters had now been carried far enough. I 
 spoke out with furious indignation, and told them that
 
 254 Wide Awake. 
 
 unless they at once gave me an assurance in writing, 
 and signed by the whole family that I was wide awake, 
 I would appeal for protection to the laws of my country. 
 I did not feel quite sure under which Act of Parliament 
 my grievance would come, but I knew that a remedy 
 was provided for every w'rong, and that to insist upon it 
 that a man is asleep when he is really wide awake, is a 
 wrong of a most distinct and aggravating description. 
 But my threats had no effect upon my relations, nor 
 was I more successful with one eminent psychologist 
 who came three times a day for a hour and a half each 
 time to study my case for a work on dreams upon which 
 he was then engaged. 
 
 As I sat fuming with impatience in an arm-chair in 
 Uncle Sparrow's stud}^ surrounded hy the whole family, 
 a letter (addressed to me) was placed in Uncle Sparrow's 
 hand. In spite of my emphatic protest, he took the 
 liberty of opening and reading it. 
 
 It was from the office in which I had insured my life 
 for the benefit of my widow (whoever that might be) for 
 £10,000. It informed me that the annual premium on 
 my policy was still unpaid, that the fourteen days of 
 grace had expired, and that unless the secretary received 
 a cheque for the amount (£320) in the course of the 
 afternoon, the policy would, ipso facto, become null and 
 void. 
 
 " You had better attend to this at once," said he, 
 handing the letter to me. ''At once,^' he added, with 
 marked emphasis. "I am surprised that you have 
 neglected so important, so vital a matter." 
 
 I saw my advantage at a glance.
 
 Wide Awake. 255 
 
 "I will attend to it, Uncle, to-morrow, if I am in a 
 condition to do so. These trances, however, usually 
 last a week." 
 
 " But to-morrow won't do. The secretary says 
 expressly that the money must be paid this afternoon." 
 
 " My dear," said Georgina, " pray do not risk a delay. 
 The matter is of the highest moment. Please be good 
 enough to write a cheque at once." 
 
 "I will write a cheque for the amount," said I, "as soon 
 as I am awake. But these trances usually last a week." 
 
 " Come, come," said Uncle Sparrow, " the joke has 
 been carried far enough. We were only chaffing you. 
 You never were wider awake in your life. Come — write 
 the cheque at once." 
 
 "Uncle Sparrow," said I, "Aunt Julia, Georgina, 
 John and James — you have done your best to persuade 
 me that I have been in a somnambulistic trance for 
 three days. At first I doubted it, but it became 
 impossible to reject the evidence of so many dis- 
 interested witnesses, and I am quite convinced that 
 you were right and I was wrong. I am, no doubt, fast 
 asleep. I admit it cheerfully, and I am very much 
 obliged to you for the great care and attention you have 
 bestowed on mc in this unfortunate and abnormal 
 condition. It is not likely to last above three or four 
 days longer, and as soon as I am thoroughly awake and 
 capable of attending to business, I will certainly send a 
 cheque for my premium. But not till then." 
 
 " I tell you, sir," replied Uncle Sparrow, "that the 
 whole thing was a joke. I freely admit it. But it is 
 time that this fooling came to an end. Write the
 
 256 Wide Aivake. 
 
 cheque, like a good fellow, or Georgina will be left 
 penniless." 
 
 " My own, my love," said Georgina, '* don't be 
 ridiculous. You are much older than I " — that wasn't 
 true — " and in the natural course of events I shall sur- 
 vive you. If the cheque is not written at once, I shall 
 be a penniless widow ! " 
 
 "I will write it," said I, " when I awake." 
 
 " Papa — Mamma — John — James," exclaimed 
 Georgina, in a frenzy, "explain to him that he is 
 labouring under a delusion ! Oh, somebody, pray do 
 something, or I shall be ruined," 
 
 I was firm ; I insisted upon it that a cheque written 
 in a state of somnambulism would be invalid, and that 
 it would be a useless waste of a stamp if I w^ere to write 
 one in my then condition. The w^hole family went on 
 their knees to me, but in vain. I stuck to my colours. 
 
 The hours crept on— it was three o'clock, and the 
 office closed at four. Eventually, finding that nothing 
 could shake my resolution. Uncle Sparrow rushed out 
 to his bankers with the family plate, Aunt Julia's 
 jewels, and a bundle of American stock, borrowed the 
 three hundred and twenty pounds on the security, and 
 
 paid my premium five minutes before the office closed. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The next day I came down to breakfast, wide awake. 
 I felt that I was awake, and besides that, the whole 
 family admitted it quite cheerfully. Uncle Sparrow 
 begged me to favour him at once with a cheque for the 
 amount of my premium. At first I did not understand 
 what he meant, but a few words of explanation made his
 
 Wide Awake. 257 
 
 meaning clear. I expressed my natural surprise that 
 he should take upon himself to pay the premium on 
 a policy which I had no intention of keeping up, and I 
 declined altogether to hold myself responsible for his 
 act. An angry scene ensued, which resulted in a final 
 rupture of my engagement Avith Georgina. 
 To-morrow I marry Mrs. Comfit.
 
 A STAGE PLAY. 
 
 Most men, whatever their occupation may be, are 
 accustomed to study man exclusively from their own 
 point of view. A man who passes his life behind a 
 tavern bar is apt to divide the human race into those 
 who habitually refresh themselves in public-houses, and 
 those who do not. A policeman classes society under 
 two great heads — prosecutors and prisoners. In a foot- 
 man's eyes, his fellow-men are either visitors or servants; 
 in an author's, they are publishers or reviewers. Now, 
 it is conceivable that a man may be at once a prosecutor, 
 a visitor, and a publisher ; but a policeman will take 
 no heed of him in the two latter capacities ; a footman 
 will care nothing that he is a prosecutor and a pub- 
 lisher ; and an author will in no way be concerned that 
 he is a prosecutor (unless, indeed, he is prosecuting the 
 author), or that he is a visitor, unless the visit be paid 
 in his capacity of publisher. Each man allows his 
 immediate surroundings to interfere between himself 
 and the world at large. He sees mankind, not through 
 a distorted medium, but through a medium so circum- 
 scribed, that it permits only one feature of the object 
 looked at to be seen at one time. In short, he examines 
 mankind, not through a field-glass, but through a 
 microscope. 
 
 s 2
 
 26o A Stage Play. 
 
 A theatre, examined through the powerful medium 
 employed by a person whose occupation is intimately 
 associated with theatres, is as unlike a theatre, as it 
 appears in the eyes of the outside public, as a drop of 
 magnified Thames' water is unlike the apparently inor- 
 ganic liquid that enters into the composition of almost 
 everything we drink. Not one person in a thousand who 
 sit in the auditorium of a theatre has any definite idea 
 of the complicated process by which the untidy, badly- 
 scrawled, interleaved, and interlineated manuscript of 
 the author is translated into the close, crisp, bright, 
 interesting entertainment that, in the eyes of the 
 spectator, represents the value of the money he has 
 paid for admittance. Still less does he know of the 
 complicated mental process by which that manuscript 
 (supposing it to have a genuine claim to the title 
 "original") has been put together. Let us trace the 
 progress of a modern three-act comedy from the blank- 
 paper stage to completion, and from completion to 
 production. 
 
 We will assume that the author, Mr. Horace Facile, 
 has such a recognised position in his profession as to 
 justify a manager in saying to him, "Facile, I want a 
 three-act comedy-drama from you with parts for Jones 
 and Brown and Robinson. Name your own terms, and 
 get it ready, if you can, by this day two months." 
 
 Facile's engagements allow of him accepting the com- 
 mission, and he sets to work on it as soon as may be. 
 
 In the first place, a " general idea " must be fixed 
 upon, and in selecting it. Facile is guided, to a consider- 
 able extent, by the resources of the company he is to
 
 A Stage Play. 261 
 
 write for. Jonea is an excellent light comedian, with a 
 recognised talent for eccenti-ic parts ; Brown is the 
 leading " old man " of the establishment ; Robinson is 
 the handsome lover or "jeune premier;'' and Miss 
 Smith plays the interesting young ladies whose fortunes 
 or misfortunes constitute the sentimental interest of 
 every piece in which she j^lays. Probably one or more 
 of these talented artists must be " exploited," and the 
 nature of the " general idea " will depend upon the 
 powers or peculiarities of the actor or actress who is 
 principally entitled to consideration. The motif of the 
 comedy having been determined upon (we will suppose 
 that it is to arise from the unnecessary antagonism ex- 
 isting between the Theatre and the Church), Facile casts 
 about for a story in which this motif can be effectually 
 displayed. In selecting a story Facile will probably be 
 guided by the j^eculiarities of the company he is writing for. 
 Brown (the "old man ") has never played an Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, and Facile believes that such a part would 
 afford that comedian a chance of distinguishing himself in 
 a new line of character ; so the story must be put together 
 in such a manner as to admit of an Archbishop of Can- 
 terbury taking a prominent part in it. It has often 
 occurred to Facile that Robinson the jenne ijrcmier, 
 could make a great deal of the part of a professional 
 Harlequin, who, under the influence of love or some 
 other equally potent agency, has " taken orders " not- 
 withstanding that, at the time of his doing so, he is 
 under an engagement to play Harlequin in a forthcoming 
 pantomime. So the story must admit, not only of an 
 Archbishop, but also of a serious Harlequin ; and,
 
 262 A Stage Play. 
 
 moreover, the interests of the Archbishop and the 
 Harlequin must be interwoven in an interesting and 
 sufficiently probable manner. However, the fact that 
 there is a clerical side to the Harlequin's character, 
 renders this exceedingly easy. The Harlequin loves the 
 Archbishop's daughter ; but the Archbishop (a very 
 haughty ecclesiastic of the Thomas a Becket type) 
 objects to Harlequins on principle, and determines that 
 his daughter shall marry into the Church. Here is at 
 once the necessary association of the Archbishop and 
 the Harlequin, and here, moreover, is an excellent reason 
 for the Harlequin's taking holy orders. The Archbishop 
 admits him, in ignorance of his other profession, and 
 places no obstacle in the way of his courting his 
 daughter. But a good deal of the interest of the lover's 
 part should obviously depend on the contrast of his 
 duties as a clergyman and his duties as a Harlequin 
 (for an obdurate manager declines to release him from 
 his engagement in the latter capacity), and Facile sets 
 to work to see how the two professions can be contrasted 
 to the best advantage. This requires some considera- 
 tion, but he sees his way to it at last. The Archbishop 
 (a bitter enemy to the stage, which he denounces when- 
 ever an opportunity of doing so presents itself) happens 
 to be the freeholder of the very theatre in which the 
 Harlequin is engaged ; and happening to call at the 
 theatre one evening, with the double object of collect- 
 ing his quarter's rent and endeavouring to wean the 
 manager from a godless profession, he meets his 
 daughter's lover in Harlequin costume. Here is an 
 opportunity for a scene of haughty recrimination — the
 
 A Stage Play. 263 
 
 Archbishop reproaching the curate for combining the 
 pulpit with the stage (by the b3^e, here is the title for 
 the piece — The Pulpit and the Stage), and the curate 
 reproaching the Archbishop with his hypocritical de- 
 nunciation of an institution from which he derives, in 
 the shape of rent, an income of say four thousand a 
 year. At this juncture the Archbishop's daughter must 
 be introduced. It will be difficult to account, with any- 
 thing like probability, for her presence behind the 
 scenes, during the performance of a pantomime ; but 
 with a little ingenuity even this may be accomplished. 
 For instance, she may have come with a view of prose- 
 lytizing the ballet, who can't get away from her, because 
 they are all hanging on irons, ready for the transforma- 
 tion scene. This may precede the arrival of the Arch- 
 bishop. The act (the second) must end with the 
 struggle (on the daughter's part) between filial respect 
 for her venerable father, and her love for the Harlequin, 
 resulting, of course, in her declaring for the Harlequin, 
 and the Archbishop's renunciation of her " for ever." 
 
 This will fill two acts. The third act must show 
 the Harlequin (now a curate) married to the Archbishop's 
 daughter, and living in the humblest circumstances 
 somewhere in Lambeth. They are happy, although 
 they are extremely poor. They have many friends — 
 some clerical, some theatrical — but all on the best of 
 terms with each other, through the benevolent agency 
 of the ex-Harlequin. Deans drop in from Convocation 
 at Westminster — actors and actresses from rehearsal at 
 Astley's ; and it is shown, beyond the possibility of 
 doubt, that the two professions have many points in
 
 264 A Stage Play. 
 
 common (here is an opportunity of introducing hits at 
 High Church mummeries, with imitations of popular 
 preachers, by Williinson, the low comedian). Now to 
 introduce the Archbishop. Since his renunciation of his 
 daughter he has become a changed man. Too haughty 
 to admit his error frankly, and take her and her husband 
 to his heart and palace, he is nevertheless painfully 
 conscious that he has acted harshly ; and, in a spirit of 
 secret self-humiliation, he disguises himself as one of 
 the undignified clergy, and in that capacity goes through 
 a house-to-house visitation. The natural course of his 
 duty brings him to the humble abode of his daughter 
 and son-in-law. He enters unperceived (of course in 
 ignorance of the fact that it is their abode) during 
 "Wilkinson's imitations, and overhears a touching 
 scene, in which his daughter indignantly rebukes Wil- 
 kinson for giving an imitation of her Most Reverend 
 father's pulpit peculiarities. The old man, utterly 
 softened by this unexpected touch of filial ajBfection, 
 comes forward, and, in broken accents, admits both the 
 correctness of the imitation, and the filial respect that 
 induced his daughter to check it, folds her and her 
 husband to his heart, and gives him the next presenta- 
 tion to a valuable living — the present incumbent (who 
 is present) being an aged man who cannot, in the course 
 of nature, expect to survive many months. On this 
 touching scene the curtain descends. 
 
 Here is an outline of a plot which Facile believes will 
 answer every purpose. The Archbishop, the daughter, 
 and the Harlequin will aftord three excellent acting 
 parts. The manager will be a bit of " character " for
 
 A Stage Play. 265 
 
 Jones, the eccentric comedian ; the actor who gives 
 imitations of popular preachers will fit Wilkinson's 
 powers of mimicry to a T ; the tottering old incumbent, 
 to whose living the ex-Harlequin is to succeed, will 
 afford Tompkins an opportunity of introducing one of 
 his celebrated " cabinet pictures " of pathetic old men ; 
 and for the other members of the company small 
 effective parts, arising naturally from the exigencies of 
 the story, will readily be found. 
 
 The next thing Facile does is to arrange striking 
 situations for the end of each act. The first act must 
 end with an announcement from the Harlequin that he 
 has just taken holy orders ; the happiness of the Arch- 
 bishop's daughter at the information, and the entrance 
 of the manager, Avho tells the Harlequin that he shall 
 nevertheless hold him to his engagement for the forth- 
 coming pantomime. The second act must end with the 
 renunciation of his daughter by the Archbishop, and the 
 last with the general reconciliation. Facile then sets 
 to work to write the dialogue. He first tries his hand 
 upon bits of dialogue that arise from suggestive situa- 
 tions — perhaps the first interview between the Arch- 
 bishop's daughter and the Harlequin at Lambeth Palace. 
 Then perhaps he will write the proselytizing scene in 
 the second act, then the dialogue that leads to the 
 situation at the end of Act I. ; and so on. After he has 
 settled half-a-dozen little scenes of this description, he 
 feels that it is time to arrange how the piece is to begin. 
 The first act takes place in the Archbishop's library in 
 Lambeth Palace. Shall the Archbishop and his 
 daughter be " discovered " at breakfast ? No : both the
 
 266 A Stage Play. 
 
 Archbishop and his daughter (that is to say, the actor 
 and actress who are to play those parts) object to be 
 " discovered." They want an " entrance," that they 
 may receive special and individual " receptions," and 
 they don't like to begin a piece, as in that case they are 
 liable to constant interruption from the arrival of such of 
 the audience as arc not in their places when the curtain 
 rises. Perhaps Jones, the manager, won't mind 
 beginning, as his part is likely to be a particularly good 
 one ; he might call on the Archbishop about the rent of 
 the Theatre. But in this case there must be a servant 
 to receive him. Well, Facile tries this : Servant dis- 
 covered (dusting, of course) ; soliloquy (this gives the 
 manager an entrance) ; knock ; servant don't answer it 
 on principle, until several times repeated ; eventually 
 admits manager ; treats manager contemptuously (or, 
 better still, as he is an Archbishop's servant, with a 
 grave and pitying air, as who would say, " Poor worldly 
 sheep ! we — that is to say, the Archbishop and I — 
 despise you, but we don't hate you " ) ; servant leaves 
 to inform Archbishop ; sarcastic soliloquy by manager ; 
 enter Archbishop ; thunders of applause at Archbishop's 
 "make-up"; and so on. Probably Facile writes and 
 rewrites this scene half-a-dozen times — it gives him 
 more trouble than all the rest of the act put together ; 
 for there are so many ways of beginning a piece, and it 
 is so difficult to find sufficient reason for selecting one 
 and rejecting all the rest. However, Facile is eventually 
 satisfied ; the scenes that he has already written are 
 tacked together with dialogue of a more commonplace 
 order, and Act I. is completed.
 
 A Stage Play. 267 
 
 At this point Facile is apt to pause and to take breath. 
 Perhaps he will run over to Paris, or go to the seaside 
 for a month, " to collect his thoughts." His thoughts 
 collected, he will make a tremendous effort to begin the 
 second act ; but here all the difficulties that he ex- 
 perienced in beginning Act I. crops up again tenfold. 
 We protest, from practical experience, that there is 
 nothing in the dramatist's profession that presents so 
 many distasteful difficulties as the commencing the 
 second act of a three-act comedy. His first act is short, 
 sharp, crisp, and to the point — " totiis teres atqiie 
 rotundus " — perfectly satisfactory in itself — artistically 
 put together, and telling the audience all they require 
 to know in order to understand what follows, and no 
 more. The thread of interest is broken at an exciting 
 point, and it has now to be taken up again, in such a 
 way as not to anticipate secrets and " situations " that 
 require time to develop. If, in commencing the first 
 act, Facile was bothered by the choice of five hundred 
 " openings," he is ten times as much bothered now from 
 the fact that he has only two or three, and none of them 
 likely to be effective whcai reduced to dialogue. 
 However, a letter from the management probably wakes 
 him up at this point. With a desperate effort he sets 
 to work, writing detached scenes as before, and writing 
 the opening dialogue last as before ; and in process of 
 time Act II, is completed. His work is now practically 
 at an end. Act III. is a simple matter enough. He 
 has laid the train in Acts I. and II., and all that 
 remains is to bring about the catastrophe in the quickest 
 possible manner consistent with the story he has
 
 268 A Stage Play. 
 
 to tell. By the time he has finished Act II., he has 
 cleared away all his difficulties. The different pecu- 
 liarities of his principal characters have not only been 
 irrevocably determined on, but he has, by this time, 
 become thoroughly saturated with their spirit ; and he 
 has no difficulty whatever in bringing the last act 
 shortly and sharply to an effective conclusion. Facile, 
 Avho knows his work pretty well, has a theory that no 
 piece has ever yet been written which deserves to arrest 
 the attention of an audience for more than two hours 
 at a time, and he has not the vanity to believe that 
 any piece of his is likely to prove an exception to the 
 rule. 
 
 The piece, duly completed, is sent to the manager 
 who is to produce it. That gentleman has sufficient 
 faith in Facile to justify him in handing it over at once 
 to his prompter, who proceeds to make a fair copy for 
 his own use, and another for the Lord Chamberlain's 
 inspection. He also copies the "parts" from which 
 the actors and actresses are to study, and which contain 
 simply the words that the actor for whom it is intended 
 has to speak, the stage directions that concern him, and 
 the last three or four words of every speech that imme- 
 diately precedes his own. As soon as the parts are 
 fairly copied, a "reading " is called — that is to say, the 
 members of the company are summoned to hear the 
 piece read by the author in the green-room. This is 
 an ordeal that Facile particularly dreads. He reads 
 abominably — all authors do — and he knows it. He 
 begins well ; he reads slowly and emphatically, with all 
 the proper pauses duly marked ; and he indicates the
 
 A Stage Play. 269 
 
 stage directions with just the right modulation of voice. 
 All is quite satisfactory until — say on page 9 — he comes 
 to a " point " on which he relies for a hearty laugh. 
 He makes his point, and dwells for a moment upon it. 
 Nobody notices it except the stage-manager, who thinks 
 he has paused because he is hoarse, and kindly pours 
 him out a glass of water. Much abashed at this, Facile 
 pounds through the rest of the manuscript at an 
 astounding pace — hurrying intentionally over all the 
 " good things " as if he were ashamed of them — which, 
 for the moment, he is — and slurring over stirring 
 passages as if they were merely incidental to the general 
 purpose of the scene — as though, in fact, the scene had 
 not been originally constructed in order to introduce 
 them. As he approaches the end of the second act, he 
 becomes quite unconscious of the fact he is reading at 
 all until recalled by an enforced pause occasioned by the 
 accident of a misplaced leaf, or the opening or shutting 
 of the green-room door. As he commences the third 
 act, he finds himself wandering into falsetto every now 
 and then ; he becomes husky and out of tune ; he takes 
 a copious drink of water, and the words immediately 
 begin to babble into each other in a manner altogether 
 incomprehensible. He falls into his old habit of slurring 
 over important passages, but endeavours to compensate 
 for this by laying such exceptional stress upon sentences 
 of no ultimate importance, that his audience begin to 
 wish they had paid more attention to the earlier 
 passages of the play, that they might understand more 
 clearly the force of the old clergyman's remark about 
 the weather, or the subtlety of the ex-harlequin's invi-
 
 270 A Stage Play. 
 
 tation to the low comedian to sit down and make 
 himself comfortable. Facile finds the " imitations " in 
 the third act seem to make no impression, which is not 
 to be wondered at, considering that he reads them " off 
 the reel," without any modification of voice at all. At 
 length, very much to his own surprise, he finds himself 
 at the last page — which is always a tremendously long 
 page to read, you never seem to get to the bottom of it, 
 — and, with his heart thumping away in his mouth, he 
 pronounces the word " curtain," and closes the manu- 
 script with, " There, that's over ! " and proceeds at once 
 to talk, with great volubility, about the sort of day that 
 it is — the bad business they've been doing at the 
 " Folly," or the horrible report that Mrs. Miggleton, 
 the wife of Miggleton, the first surgeon of the day, never 
 *' shows " in society, because her husband has, at 
 different times and in the interest of science, cut away 
 so much of her, bj' way of experiment, that only the vital 
 portions are left — about anything, in short, except the 
 piece he has just been reading. The stage-manager 
 distributes the " parts," and the author hurries away — 
 in order to avoid that roir with Miss Smith — after 
 appointing a day and hour for *' comparing parts." 
 
 In the course of this process — a very dismal one 
 indeed — the members of the company who are engaged 
 in the piece endeavour to decipher the parts and to 
 ascei'tain the context. The copyist's errors are cor- 
 rected, and everyone begins to have some idea of his or 
 her position with reference to the other persons engaged. 
 It is usually a long and tedious process, and eminently 
 calculated to reduce Facile's self-esteem to vanishing
 
 A Stage Play. 271 
 
 point. After this preliminary canter is over, Facile 
 thinks he may as well look up Mr. Flatting, the scene- 
 painter, who has been at work for the last fortnight on 
 the Archbishop's library, and who is about to begin the 
 " behind the scenes " scene in the second act. Facile 
 climbs into the tall, narrow, dingy shed called by 
 courtesy a painting-room, and finds Flatting describing 
 the " model " to the carpenter and machinist, who will 
 have a good deal to do with it, as it is a set of a rather 
 complicated description. Facile settles matters with 
 Flatting, and goes home to dine, sleep, wake at eleven 
 o'clock, and set to work till three in the morning, alter- 
 ing this scene, polishing up that dialogue, making it 
 crisper here, and filling it out with business there, as 
 the experience of the morning may have suggested. 
 The next day is the first rehearsal proper. A table and 
 three chairs are set in the middle of the stage against 
 the footlights. One of these is for the stage-manager, 
 one for the prompter, and one for the author. Very 
 often the stage-manager and prompter are one and the 
 same individual, but the three chairs (one on the 
 "prompt" side of the table and two on the "opposite 
 prompt ") are always there. Facile knows something of 
 stage management, and invariably stage-manages his 
 own pieces — an exceptional thing in England, but the 
 common custom in France. He is nothing of an actor, 
 and when he endeavours to show what he wants his 
 actors to do, he makes himself rather ridiculous, and 
 there is a good deal of tittering at the wings ; but he 
 contrives, nevertheless, to make himself understood, and 
 takes particular good care that whatever his wishes are.
 
 272 A Stage Play. 
 
 they shall be carried out to the letter, unless good cause 
 is shown to the contrary. He has his own way : and if 
 the piece is a success, he feels that he has contributed 
 more than the mere words that are spoken. At the 
 same time, if Facile is not a self-sufficient donkey, he 
 is only too glad to avail himself of valuable suggestions 
 offered by persons who have ten times his experience in 
 the details of stage management. And so the piece 
 flounders through rehearsal, the dingy theatre lighted 
 by a T-piece in front of the stage which has no per- 
 ceptible effect at the back ; the performers usually (at 
 all events during the first two or three rehearsals) 
 standing in a row with their backs to the auditorium, 
 that the light may fall on the crabbed manuscripts they 
 are reading from ; the author endeavouring, but in vain, 
 to arrange effective exits and entrances, because Mobody 
 can leave the T-piece ; the stage-manager or prompter 
 (who follows the performers) calling a halt from time to 
 time that he may correct an overlooked error in his 
 manuscript or insert a stage direction. The actors 
 themselves pause from time to time for the same 
 reason. Every one has (or should have) a pencil in 
 hand ; all errors are corrected and insertions made on 
 the spot ; every important change of position is carefully 
 marked ; every " cross " indicated as the piece proceeds ; 
 and as alterations in dialogue and business are made up 
 to the last moment — all of which have to be hurriedly 
 recorded at the time — it will be understood that the 
 " parts " are in rather a dilapidated condition before the 
 rehearsals are concluded. 
 
 Eventually the piece is ready for representation —
 
 A Stage Play. 273 
 
 three weeks' preparation is supposed to be a liberal 
 allowance — and with one imperfect scene rehearsal, and 
 no dress rehearsal at all, the piece is presented to the 
 public. It probably passes muster on the first night, 
 whatever its merits may be ; in a week or ten days the 
 actors begin to "do something " with their parts ; and 
 in a fortnight the piece is probably at its best. 
 
 There is much, very much, fault to be found (so 
 Facile says) with the system — or rather the want of 
 system — that prevails at rehearsals in this country. In 
 the first place every actor and every person engaged in 
 the piece should have a perfect copy of the piece, and 
 that copy should be ininted, not written. It costs from 
 five to six pounds to print a three-act comedy, and in 
 return for this trifling outlay, much valuable time and 
 an infinity of trouble would be saved, not only to the 
 prompter, but to the actors and the author. It is 
 absolutely necessary that every actor should have the 
 context of his scenes before his eyes as he studies them. 
 He also says (does Facile) that it is a monstrous shame 
 and an unheard-of injustice to place three-act pieces on 
 the stage with fewer than thirty rehearsals, in ten of which 
 the scenes should be set as they will be set at night, and 
 in five of which every soul engaged should be dressed and 
 made up as they will be dressed and made up at night. 
 
 As it is now, Jones, who is always fearfully nervous 
 on " first nights," is embarrassed to find himself called 
 upon to repeat his scarcely learnt lines in a spacious and 
 handsomely furnished apartment, blazing with gas and 
 gold- foil, instead of the cold, dark, empty stage on 
 which he has been rehearsing them. This is of itself 
 
 T
 
 274 ^ Stage Play. 
 
 enough to drive the words out of the head of Jones. 
 Then Jones, who has practised several scenes with 
 Brown (on the stage an " old man," but in private life 
 an airy, dressy gentleman of thirty summers), finds 
 himself called upon to speak his words, not to the 
 dressy Brown, but to a white-headed and generally 
 venerable ecclesiastic, in gold spectacles and knee- 
 breeches — that is to say, Brown, the Archbishop. 
 These surprises (for to a nervous man they are sur- 
 prises) are enough to unhinge Jones altogether. He 
 makes a mess of his part for a night or two, picks up 
 again after that, and in a fortnight is the talk of the 
 town. Now, if Jones had had an opportunity of 
 rehearsing with Brown the Archbishop, instead of with 
 Brown the Swell, and if he had rehearsed his scenes in 
 the Archbishop's library and not on the empty stage, 
 Jones might have become the talk of the town from the 
 first. In first class French theatres this system is 
 adopted. Parts are distributed, learnt perfectly, and 
 then rehearsed for six M^eeks or two months, sometimes 
 for three or four months. Scene rehearsals and dress 
 rehearsals occupy the last week of preparations. Actors 
 and actresses act at rehearsal : they have been taught and 
 required to do so from the first, and the consequence is 
 that a bad actor becomes a reasonably good actor, and a 
 reasonably good actor becomes an admirable actor by 
 sheer dint of the microscopic investigation that his acting 
 receives from the stage-manager and from the author. 
 And until this system is in force in England ; until the 
 necessity for longer periods of preparation for rehearsals 
 that are rehearsals in fact and not merely in name —
 
 A Stage Play. 275 
 
 rehearsals with scenery, dresses, and ** make-up," as they 
 are to be at night ; every expression given as it is to be 
 given at night ; every gesture marked as it is to be marked 
 at night ; until the necessity for such preparation as this 
 is recognized in England, the English stage will never 
 take the position to which the intelligence of its actors 
 and actresses, the enterprise of its managers, and the 
 talent of its authors would otherwise entitle it. At 
 least, so says Facile. 
 
 X 2
 
 THE WICKED WOELD, 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Here is a blank sheet of paper— several blank sheets 
 of paper. What shall I put upon them '? I declare I 
 don't know. Shall it be a fashionable story of modern 
 life ? I know nothing of fashionable life. A mediieval 
 romance ? It would take too much cramming. A sea 
 story ? I know nothing about the sea, except that it 
 makes me sick. A fairy tale then '? Well, a fairy tale 
 be it. 
 
 "But," says the acute reader, "if you decline to 
 write a story about fashionable life because you know 
 little of Fashion, how is it that you propose to write 
 about fairies, of whom you must know still less ? " 
 Exactly. I know nothing at all about fairies — but then 
 neither do you. If I attempt to depict fashionable life, 
 and make his Lordship the Duke dance a double horn- 
 pipe in September, at a Buckingham Palace ball, with 
 the Right Honourable Lady Annabel Hicks, daughter 
 of Sir Wickham Hicks, Puisne Judge, and Member for 
 Birmingham-super-Mare, you may be down upon me
 
 278 The Wicked World. 
 
 for a group of solecisms ; for no doubt you move in the 
 distinguished circles I attempt to describe, and there- 
 fore knoAv more about them than I do. But in Fairy- 
 land we meet on other terms, and there I am your 
 lordship's equal. Hahes. Let us get on. 
 
 The scene, then, is in Fairyland. Not the Fairyland 
 of the pantomimes, but the Fairyland of My Own Vivid 
 Imagination. A pleasant, dreamy land, with no bright 
 colours in it — a land where it is always bright moon- 
 light — a land with plenty of impalpable trees, through 
 which you can walk, if you like, as easily as my pen can 
 cleave the smoke that is curling from my cigar as I 
 write — a land where there is nothing whatever to do 
 but to sit and chat with good pleasant-looking people, 
 who like a joke, and can make one, too — a land where 
 there is no such thing as hunger, or sleep, or fatigue, 
 or illness, or old age — a land where no collars or boots 
 are worn — a land where there is no love-making, but 
 plenty of innocent love ready made. 
 
 There are no men in this Fairyland. I can't have a 
 man in my Paradise — at least, not at first. I know so 
 much about men, being myself a man, that I would 
 rather not think of them in connection with a place 
 where all is calm, and gentle, and tranquil, and happy. 
 I know so little about women, that I propose to people 
 this happy, dreamy, peaceful place with none but women. 
 There must be no envy, hatred, malice, or uncharitable- 
 ness of any kind in my Fairyland. There must be 
 nothing sordid, nothing worldly, nothing commonplace. 
 Universal charity must reign in my Fairyland, and that, 
 you see, is why I people it with women.
 
 The Wicked World. 279 
 
 "Well, they are all women, and all the women are 
 supremely lovely. They wear long robes, high in the 
 throat, falling loosely and gracefully to the very feet, 
 and each fairy has a necklace of the very purest 
 diamonds. They have wings — large soft downy wings 
 — six feet high, like the wings of angels. And by some 
 spiritual contrivance, which I will not detain you by 
 enlarging upon here, these wings won't crumple and 
 crackle under the fairies when they sit down. So you 
 see, you theatrical managers, my Fairyland is not yours. 
 When I conceive a Fairyland with creaky phenomena 
 and indelicate inhabitants who take a pride in their 
 baggy, bony knees, I will come to you for suggestions 
 on the subject. But I have not yet conceived such a 
 Paradise. Faugh ! 
 
 My tale opens upon a group of fairies — beautiful, 
 simple girls, with beautiful simple names. There were 
 Mary, and Annie, and Janet, and Mattie, and Bessie, 
 and Kate, and fifty others whose names you can select 
 for yourselves. They were chatting pleasantly together 
 — not talking all at once, as boisterous men will do — 
 but listening cheerfully and patiently to one another ; 
 for all had something to say that was worth hearing, 
 and each was read}^ to listen to the other. Mary was the 
 Queen of the Fairies. I make ]\Tary the Queen, because 
 I like the name " Mary " better than any other name I 
 know. People arc made kings and queens on earth for 
 no better reasons, and many of them turn out fairly 
 well. The conversation turned on the wickedness of 
 the world. Kate had once been a mortal, but she died, 
 and on account of her surpassing purity was translated
 
 28o The Wicked World. 
 
 to Fairyland. She was the only mortal who had ever 
 been so distinguished. Among the fairies she was an 
 authority on the subject of the wickedness of the world 
 (though in truth she knew very little indeed about it), 
 and all questions that related to the world were referred to 
 her for her decision, which was final. For I should have 
 told you that although my fairies exercised an influence 
 over the destinies of mortals, they did not mix with 
 them. They kept themselves to themselves : they were 
 not obliged to do so, but they hated wickedness, and the 
 world was very wicked. 
 
 Well, the Fairy Kate was relating some of her ex- 
 periences, and the other fairies were afi"ected almost to 
 tears at the revelations she made. Not that the Fairy 
 Kate's revelations would have shocked you and me very 
 desperately, but the other fairies had no idea of the 
 wickedness of which the world is capable, and listened 
 aghast to matters which we gross mortals look upon 
 with little or no disfavour. Indeed, the Fairy Kate did 
 not enter very deeply into the subject of her remarks, for 
 she had only an amiable, half-instructed good girl's know- 
 ledge of them, and she spoke according to her twilight. 
 She said, for instance, that whole nations devoted 
 themselves to each other's annihilation for reasons 
 which would not operate to produce a coolness between 
 two private individuals. But then she forgot that a 
 nation consists, perhaps, of fifty million private in- 
 dividuals, and that an affront off"ered to such a nation is 
 fifty million times as great as the same afi"ront would be 
 if directed against an individual member of it. She 
 also said that when people gave alms they required that
 
 The Wicked World. 281 
 
 the fact sliould be advertised in the public prints 
 through the length and breadth of the land. But 
 she forgot that as example is better than precept 
 (which is also very good in its way), it follows that, 
 although it is good to exhort people to acts of charity, 
 it is still better to let them see that you are actively 
 charitable yourself ; and if an example is good it cannot 
 be too widely diffused. I mention the statements of 
 the Fairy Kate to show that her laiowledge of the 
 world was, after all, very superficial, and not at all to 
 be relied upon. 
 
 The effect of the Fairy Kate's remarks was that the 
 other fairies were so dreadfully shocked at her picture of 
 the wickedness of the world, that they came to consider 
 whether some steps might not be taken to improve its 
 condition, and bring its inhabitants generally to a proper 
 sense of their duties to one another. 
 
 It was proposed that, with a view to ascertaining the 
 present state of the world, a Woman should be summoned 
 to Fairyland, and interrogated on the subject. For, 
 after all, the Fairy Kate's information was of no recent 
 date, and matters might have improved since she left 
 the earth. So the Fairy Bessie suggested that a Mortal 
 Woman should be summoned forthwith. The suggestion 
 was received with high favour by all the fairies, and 
 Fairy Janet suggested, as an amendment, that the 
 word "Man " should be substituted for " Woman." A 
 man, she argued, is naturally in a position to see much 
 more of the world than a woman, and his information 
 would, therefore, be more valuable. (Amendment 
 carried unanimously.)
 
 282 The Wicked World. 
 
 So a cloud was sent down to earth with mstructions 
 to envelop and carry up into Fairyland the first mortal 
 it happened to see. These instructions had to be 
 repeated several times, for the cloud was rather foggy, 
 but eventually it was made to understand them, and it 
 started on its mission. 
 
 The time that elapsed between the departure of the 
 cloud and the arrival of a real live man appeared inter- 
 minable to the fairies, but, at length, after many hours' 
 absence, it did return Avitli a magnificent young Prince. 
 The stupid cloud, instead of bringing up the first man it 
 saw (a very ragged drunken old beggar, who would have 
 answered the fairies' purpose as well as anybody else), 
 looked out for a young and handsome man, in the absurd 
 belief that the presence of such an one in Fairyland would 
 give greater pleasure to his beautiful employers. The 
 idea was ridiculous, but the cloud meant well, and the 
 fairies did not scold it. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Prince Paragon was a very brave and handsome youth, 
 the son of a powerful King, whose dominions were situ- 
 ated in what, many thousand years afterwards, proved 
 to be the (soi-disant) United States of America. He had 
 many wealmesses, and a few vices, but they were not 
 such vices as the world has ever dealt very hardly with. 
 He was a generous young man, and had a profound 
 respect for womankind.
 
 The Wicked World. 283 
 
 His cousin, Prince Snob, was a handsome, boastful, 
 courageous, reckless, unscrupulous young scamp. He 
 was in the habit of boasting of his successful love 
 affairs, which were, in truth, very numerous. One day, 
 in the presence of Prince Paragon, Prince Snob told a 
 long story how for a wager he had undertaken to break 
 the heart of a young, beautiful, and innocent girl, and 
 how he had succeeded in doing so — for she died of her 
 love for him. Prince Paragon, who made love quite as 
 successfully as Prince Snob, but who never broke hearts 
 intentionally, was very indignant with Prince Snob, and 
 challenged him to fight. The challenge was accepted ; 
 and it was as Prince Paragon was on his way to the 
 meeting that the cloud enveloped him, and took him up 
 into the skies. It will be easily understood that Prince 
 Paragon was furious at this occurrence, for he felt sure 
 that his disappearance would be attributed by his enemy 
 to rank cowardice. When he arrived in Fairyland he 
 was extremely sulky. 
 
 " Oh, what an ugly pout ! " said Queen Mary. " I 
 hope our society does not displease you ? " 
 
 " I don't know who you are, ma'am," said the Prince, 
 " or how I came here ; but I have an important engage- 
 ment which I am now quite unable to keep." 
 
 "Business?" said Fairy Kate — sober, thoughtful 
 Kate. 
 
 " Um — m — m ! " said the Prince considering. 
 
 "Pleasure?" said Fairy Bessie — light-hearted little 
 Bessie. 
 
 " Um — m — m ! " said the Prince. " Both." 
 
 " Well," said Queen Mary, "we are fairies." The
 
 284 1^^^^ Wicked World. 
 
 Prince bowed. " We want to know all about the wicked- 
 ness of the world, and we have sent for you that you may 
 give us some information on the subject." 
 
 " Ah," said the Prince. " Exactly. Do you M-ant to 
 know everything ? " 
 
 *' Everything ! " they all exclaimed. 
 
 " Do you msut on my telling you everything ? " 
 
 " Most decidedly." 
 
 " A\liat shall I begin with ? Love ? " 
 
 " Sir ! " exclaimed the Queen of the Fairies, " j^ou 
 forget that you are addressing ladies." 
 
 " Pardon me," said the Prince, " but if the bare men- 
 tion of love shocks you, I think I would rather leave the 
 selection of the matters on which you wish to be in- 
 structed in your hands." 
 
 " What was the nature of the business on which you 
 were proceeding when we interrupted you ? " said Queen 
 Mary. 
 
 " I was going to fight a duel. I was going to kill a 
 man if I could, and he was going to kill me if he could." 
 
 " A duel ! " exclaimed the Queen. " Horrible ! And 
 why were you going to fight this duel ? " 
 
 " Well," said the Prince, "there was a lady in the case." 
 
 ** Stop ! " said the Queen, much shocked. " Go onto 
 something else. Are you in debt ? You don't mind 
 my speaking openly? " 
 
 " Not at all— Oh, yes ; I'm in debt." 
 
 " You owe more than you can pay ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I do." 
 
 " Well ! " said the Queen. " Upon my word ! And 
 how did that come to pass ? "
 
 The Wicked World. 285 
 
 " Why, there was a lady in t\iat case, too " — 
 
 " Stop ! " said the Queen. 
 
 *' I was in love with her, and gave her some handsome 
 presents." 
 
 "Will you stop when I tell you ? " said the Queen. 
 ** Your conversation is shocking." 
 
 " Shall I go ? " said the Prince. 
 
 " No — let me see. Do you ever tell stories ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I do, sometimes. I did 3^esterday." 
 
 " Tell us all about it," said the fairies eagerly, for 
 they were dreadfully shocked. 
 
 "Well," said the Prince, "there was a lady in tliat 
 case." 
 
 " There seems to he a lady in every case," said the 
 Queen. 
 
 " There generally is," said the Prince. " There is no 
 complication of human events in which a woman is not 
 implicated. Such, at least, is my experience." 
 
 " How old are you ? " said the Queen. 
 
 " Twenty-two. How old are yoii ? " 
 
 "Never mind," said the Queen. "Where were you 
 born ? " 
 
 " I was born in Bulgaria. There was a lady in tliat 
 case, too." 
 
 " Of course, you absurd creature ! Do you love your 
 fellow- creatures as you are taught to do? " 
 
 " About half of them." 
 
 " Which half? — Stop, I know. I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 And the fairies were so horrified that they could not 
 take their eyes off his wicked handsome face. 
 
 " I think you are hard on me, and hard on the world,"
 
 286 The Wicked World. 
 
 said the Prince. *' I am not an anchorite, but I am not 
 a scamp. I would not knowingly do an unhandsome 
 thing. I never fight except in defence of my honour, or 
 of the honour of some one who is dear to me. I only 
 run into debt because I am liberally disposed. I only 
 tell stories to prevent innocent people from get- 
 ting into undeserved trouble. I only love women in an 
 honourable — " 
 
 " Wxll you hold your tongue? " said the Queen. ** Go 
 on," she added, rather unreasonably, 
 
 " Really," said the Prince, " the world isn't such a 
 bad world after all. I wish one of you would come down 
 to earth with me, and judge for herself." 
 
 "Yes," said the Queen, considering; "that's not a 
 bad idea. But who would go ? " 
 
 "I would go with him, dear Queen," said all the 
 fairies in a breath. They feared not the Wicked World, 
 for they were strong in their own excellence. 
 
 "No," said the Queen. " The perils of the journey 
 are great. It is fitting that I, your Queen, should set 
 an example of intrepidity and unselfishness when such 
 an example is necessary. At all risks I will go to 
 earth : I will go for one year, and at the expiration of 
 the year I will return and tell you all about it." 
 
 And Queen Mary and the Prince got into a cloud, and 
 descended to the Wicked World.
 
 The Wicked World. 287 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 The Queen of the Fairies and Prince Paragon arrived 
 safely on earth, and proceeded by train to his father's 
 Court. But before getting into the train she unhooked 
 her wings and left them at the cloak-room of the station 
 "to be called for," so as not to attract attention. The 
 Prince introduced her to his father as a lady of high 
 rank. The old King received her very graciously, but 
 his mother the Queen and his sisters thought she looked 
 a great deal too demure and quiet. 
 
 The Queen of the Fairies was regularly installed in 
 Court quarters, and — solely with a view of ascertaining 
 what the wickedness of the world really was — entered 
 into all the Court festivities. Her extraordinary beauty, 
 her modesty, her simple grace, and her unaffected dis- 
 position enchanted everybody except the old Queen and 
 her daughters, who saw through all this, and called it 
 slyness. 
 
 Prince Paragon fell in love with the beautiful Queen 
 Mary, and so did Prince Snob. But Queen Mary had 
 been so horrified at Prince Paragon's reckless confes- 
 sions in Fairyland that she could not bring herself to 
 like him at all. Prince Snob, however, gave her to 
 understand, in so many words, that he. Prince Snob, 
 was a good man, who had only committed one 
 fault in his whole life (when he was only six years old, 
 he had made use of the bad word " D — v — 1 " on strong 
 provocation). As he was a very good-looking man, she
 
 288 The Wicked World. 
 
 allowed herself to think leniently of his early error, and 
 on the strength of his sincere repentance she eventually 
 bestowed her heart upon him. For the Fairy Mary, 
 when she came down to the world, invested herself with 
 human attributes and instincts, and so fell in love, as 
 other good girls have done, and will do, until the whole 
 system of things undergoes a radical change. 
 
 For the present I must dismiss Prince Paragon (who, 
 at first, appeared likely to become the hero of my fairy 
 tale), for I have to occupy myself with the Fairy Queen's 
 love for Prince Snob. 
 
 The poor lady became quite infatuated. with the hypo- 
 critical scamp. In course of time she saw through his 
 hypocrisy, but her love for him had taken so fixed a 
 possession of her that she could not shake it oBf. She 
 also learnt that Prince Paragon was really a very good 
 young fellow — with certain human weaknesses, no doubt 
 — but still a very good young fellow, as young fellows 
 go. But she had a simple old-fashioned notion that a 
 woman should only love one man in the course of her 
 life-time, and she had made her choice and intended to 
 keep to it. Still, although she loved Prince Snob de- 
 votedly, she resolved not to marry him until he reformed ; 
 for she had another old-fashioned idea, which was — that 
 one ought not to marry a man one can't respect. So she 
 went on loving him in her innocent way without respect- 
 ing him a bit, hoping by her devotion to him, and by 
 her good example and precept, to make a respectable 
 man of him. 
 
 Prince Snob's affection for the Fairy Queen was born 
 partly of his admiration for her beauty, but mainly of
 
 TJie Wicked World. 289 
 
 his admiratioD for her magnificent diamonds. He was 
 dreadfully in debt, and he was mean enough to ask her, 
 time after time, for jewels, which he sold, and so these 
 jewels disappeared one by one, until at last there was 
 none left. Prince Snob was very indignant when he 
 found that the Fairy Queen had no more diamonds, and 
 plainly told her that unless she could borrow some 
 jewels or some money (he wasn't particular which), and 
 by so doing prove that she did possess some mortal 
 weaknesses, a sense of what was due to a Fairy Queen 
 would compel him to feel wholly unworthy to possess 
 her. 
 
 Terrified at this dreadful threat (for she had had to 
 part with all her fairy attributes on descending to earth), 
 she called upon Prince Paragon, who still loved her de- 
 votedly, and begged him to advance her some money. 
 He gave her at once all that she required, and she re- 
 turned with her pockets and her two hands full of gold, 
 to Prince Snob, and poured the money into that dis- 
 ^! graceful fellow's hat. Prince Snob embraced her, telling 
 jtl her that he was quite reassured now that he found she 
 \\ was not absolutely perfect — that ahe really was open to 
 
 Jl the influence of some mortal weakness (as if he had not 
 
 I 
 
 ■si already had proof of that !) — and he assured her that 
 ! he began to think himself once more really worthy 
 ' of her. 
 
 Well, this money was soon squandered, and again the 
 
 Prince urged her to borrow more, and again she resorted 
 
 to Prince Paragon, who again supplied her. This oc- 
 
 i curred so often that at length Prince Paragon asked her 
 
 ,vhat she did with her money, and I am sorry to say that
 
 290 The Wicked World. 
 
 her regard for Prince Snob led her to tell Prince Paragon 
 a story. So she told him that she had lost the money 
 at play. Prince Paragon spoke to her very kindly and 
 very sorrowfully, and represented to her how unladylike 
 it was to gamble for such high stakes. The good Prince 
 still loved her, and was dreadfully distressed to see her 
 going, not step by step, but staircase by staircase (if I 
 may so express myself), to her ruin. At length, 
 actuated by his sincere regard for her, he refused to 
 advance her any more money, and the miserable Fairy 
 Queen was in utter despair. 
 
 A scene ensued with Prince Snob which is almost too 
 terrible for description. However, here it is. 
 
 " Ma'am," said the Prince, when he heard that she 
 could supply him with no more money, " I am terribly 
 disappointed in you." 
 
 " Dear Snob," said the Fairy Queen, "don't be hard 
 on me. I've done my best — indeed I have." 
 
 " Ma'am," said the Prince, " you have done nothing 
 of the kind." 
 
 " Indeed, I have borrowed money for you, until I can't 
 induce anyone to lend me any more." 
 
 "Yes, you have borrowed money — hut you have not 
 yet stolen money. Steal ! " m 
 
 "Oh, Snob, you are joking." 
 
 " Do I look as if I were joking? " And indeed he 
 did not. " Steal immediately, or I have done with 
 
 you." 
 
 The Fairy Queen was at last aroused to a sense of her 
 position. 
 
 "Prince Snob, you require of me that which is not
 
 The Wicked World. 291 
 
 ordinarily required of ladies by their lovers, and I decline 
 to obey you." 
 
 " Very good, ma'am ; then you will understand that 
 our association is at an end. I thought that, Fairy 
 Queen as you are, you had, nevertheless, some mortal 
 failings — some pardonable blemishes, which would serve 
 to bring you down to the level of a human being. You 
 are much too good for me : you are a Fairy Queen ; I 
 am an erring mortal, — for I know I have my faults " 
 
 " No, no ! " said the Queen, in an agony. 
 
 "Yes, indeed I have," rejoined the Prince. " I am 
 an erring mortal, and I am wholly unworthy of you. 
 Good morning, ma'am." 
 
 And he left her abruptly. 
 
 The Fairy Queen was utterly miserable. She went 
 to good Prince Paragon, and told him all about Prince 
 Snob's treatment of her. Prince Paragon was furious. 
 He sought out Prince Snob, and immediately challenged 
 him to mortal combat. 
 
 "All right!" said Prince Snob, who had plenty of 
 pluck. " But no clouds this time." 
 
 Prince Paragon was stung by the taunt. " Come on ! " 
 said he. 
 
 And Prince Snob came on. They fought valiantly, 
 but Prince Snob was eventually overpowered. He fell, 
 and as Prince Paragon was about to pass his sword 
 through the calf of Prince Snob's left leg (for Prince 
 Paragon did not want to kill his adversary outright) , the 
 Fairy Queen rushed in and implored Prince Paragon to 
 spare his rival. 
 
 " I won't hurt him seriously, ma'am," said the Prince. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 The Wicked World, 
 
 I am only going to pass my sword through a fleshy 
 part." 
 
 He said this sarcastically, for Prince Snob's calves 
 were notoriously insignificant. 
 
 " Spare him even that," said the Queen. *' My year 
 has just expired, and I must return to Fairjdand. Let 
 me take him with me. If I cannot bring myself down 
 to his level, I can at all events raise him to mine." 
 
 "Oh!" said Prince Paragon. "Then I wish you 
 good morning." 
 
 " Staj^," said the Queen. "Won't you come, too ? " 
 • " But I should be in the way." 
 
 " You goose ! I'm not going to marry him. I want 
 to make a fairy of him ; and I'll do the same for you, 
 too." 
 
 And a cloud descended and took them all up into 
 Fairyland as soon as the Queen had redeemed her wings 
 from the custody of the woman at the railway cloak- 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 (I THINK this will be a very short chapter.) 
 
 The Fairy Queen arrived in due time at Fairyland 
 with Prince Paragon and Prince Snob. They had not 
 had a comfortable journey in the cloud, for they were 
 crowded (it was only a cloud for one), and Prince Snob 
 kept trying to push Prince Paragon out of it.
 
 The Wicked World. 293 
 
 " "Well," said the Fairy Queen to the other fairies, 
 *' here I am, safe and sound. Why, how cross you all 
 look ! " 
 
 " If we had known that we were to have had the plea- 
 sure of the society of these two gentlemen we would have 
 prepared a larger cloud," said Fairy Bessie, rather 
 spitefully. 
 
 " Fairy Bessie," said the Fairy Queen, " I don't like 
 innuendoes. Speak openly, I command you." 
 I "You — I beg pardon — you do what?" said Bessie, 
 I as if she had not understood the Queen. 
 
 " I command you ! " said the Fairy Queen, with great 
 dignity. 
 
 " Only the Queen commands me," said Bessie. 
 I "I am the Queen, miss ! " 
 [I " Oh, dear, no ! You are deposed. You would go to 
 
 I earth, you know, alone with that gentleman, and we all 
 tl thought it bold, so we deposed you. Fairy Mattie is our 
 [i Queen now." 
 
 f " Is this so ? " said Mary to Fairy Lizzie. 
 
 [[ " Certainly," said Lizzie. " We don't think your 
 
 \\ conduct respectable." 
 
 p " Will you tell your Queen that I am here, and would 
 
 \ like to speak to her ? " 
 
 !j "I can't. The Queen and I are not on speaking 
 
 II terms." 
 
 ij "Will you tell some one else to tell the Queen?" 
 i said the poor ex-monarch. 
 
 ; "I can't even do that. In fact, we are none of us on 
 
 I speaking terms with one another." 
 
 The poor ex-Queen went about from fairy to fairy, but
 
 294 '^^^^ Wicked World. 
 
 from all she received the same answer : " We are not 
 on speaking terms with each other." 
 
 At length the Fairy Kate came up. (I think it was 
 the Fairy Kate who I said had once been on earth ? 
 Let me look hack. Yes, the Fairy Kate.) Well, the 
 Fairy Kate came up, and she alone of all the fairies 
 seemed glad to see the ex- Queen. 
 
 " What in the world is the reason of this extra- 
 ordinary demoralization among my late subjects?" said 
 poor Mary. 
 
 ** I think I can explain," said Kate. " The presence of 
 the mortal whom we summoned into Fairyland a year ago 
 has contaminated us. We were all good and happy till 
 he came, but since that unfortunate event we have fallen 
 into all kinds of uncharitable ways of thinking. We 
 quarrelled dreadfully, talked at one another, and said 
 the most unkind things about each other's hair. We 
 can't get on at all. He brought a worldl}^ atmosphere 
 with him (I recognized it directly), and this has worked 
 its evil effect upon us. We are as so many women ! " 
 And the Fairy Kate burst into tears. 
 
 All the other fairies exclaimed, " Yes that's the secret 
 of it ! " and they burst into tears. 
 
 " But," said Fairy Bessie, " independently of this, 
 we have really heard such things of you ! We hear that 
 you fell in love with a man, and that you ran into debt, 
 and that you borrowed money, and that you told stories, 
 and that you actually were the cause of a duel between 
 two of your admirers. All this is very, very 
 dreadful ! " 
 
 How they knew all this I cannot for the life of me
 
 The Wicked World. 295 
 
 imagine, as tliey had held no communication whatever 
 with the world during the ex-Queen's absence. 
 
 "It is all true," said the Queen, " and, as j^ou say, it 
 is very dreadful. But make some allowance for me. 
 See what evil effect the presence among you of one 
 mortal, and that one a very good one, has worked ! The 
 mere fact of your having breathed an atmosphere in 
 common with him has robbed you of those social ex- 
 cellences for which j'ou were all so remarkable ; you 
 have become vain, tetchy, jealous, and morose. If this 
 is the legitimate and necessary eftect of the presence of 
 one good mortal among 3'ou for half an hour, think 
 what I have had to undergo, who have been compelled 
 to associate for a whole twelvemonth with men and 
 women of all descriptions ! Believe me, fairies, we are 
 too vainglorious, too proud of our excellence, too un- 
 mindful of the fact that we were good because we had 
 no temptation to do wrong. We despised the world 
 because it was wicked, forgetting that the wickedness of 
 the world is born of the temptations to Avhich only the 
 inhabitants of the world are exposed. Let us forgive 
 one another, and endeavour to think more charitably of 
 the errors of those who are subjected to temptations 
 from which we are happily removed." 
 
 The fairies were much affected by the ex-Queen's 
 remarks, and Queen Mattie resigned on the spot. The 
 Fairy Kate approached Prince Paragon and Prince Snob 
 (who were standing rather awkwardly apart during the 
 scene I have just described), and welcomed them. She 
 shook hands with Prince Paragon, but when she looked 
 at Prince Snob she gave a shriek, and fell fainting into
 
 296 The Wicked World. 
 
 his arms. Prince Snob was the villain who had broken 
 her heart when she was a mortal on earth. 
 
 Prince Snob was so much moved that he retired into 
 a corner and reformed upon the spot. He offered to 
 marry the Fairy Kate, then and there, but that, of 
 course, could not be. So the Fairy Kate was sent down 
 to earth as a mortal, with instructions to allow Prince 
 Snob to marry her, and to return to Fairyland imme- 
 diately upon his first act of unkindness ; and Queen 
 Mary received the same permission with respect to 
 Prince Paragon. Neither the Queen nor the Fairy 
 Kate returned until they were widows, when they 
 resumed their fairy attributes for good and all. Their 
 weeds were so much admired that widows* caps became 
 the fashion in Fairyland, and are universally worn to 
 this day. 
 
 This chapter is not so very short, after all.
 
 THE FINGEK OF FATE. 
 
 I AM going to give you an instance of the desperately 
 strong measures Fate will take in order to bring about 
 an event she has set her mind on. 
 
 I am a middle-aged bachelor, of staid and careful 
 habits. I am pretty comfortably " off," having an 
 independent income of £400 a-year, and a Civil Service 
 pension of ^£700 a-year. I was for many years Secretary 
 of the Warrant Officers' Shirt-frill and Shaving- Soap 
 Department, a branch office under the Admiralty, 
 Somerset House. 
 
 I have led a quiet and retired life — shunning society 
 in its gayest sense, and associating intimately with 
 three or four other heads of subordinate departments, 
 and with no one else. I am naturally nervous, and, I 
 am afraid, irritable. I hate bright colours, unnecessary 
 conversation, useless noises — such as vocal and instru- 
 mental music, and the neighing of horses — and I can't 
 bear to see people in quick motion. If I had my way, 
 no one should speak to me except on matters of pure 
 business, and only then when the communication could 
 not be conveniently reduced into the form of a memo- 
 randum. Above all other things, I detest forward
 
 298 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 people — and above all other forward people, I detest 
 strangers, who address me on immaterial topics in 
 public conveyances. 
 
 I had occasion, a few weeks after my retirement from 
 official life, to travel to Liverpool by the limited mail 
 on my way to Jamaica. A railway journey to Liverpool 
 is detestable, but posting is worse, and walking out of 
 the question. 
 
 It was a cold night in April. There were very few 
 passengers by the limited mail. There were only four 
 first-class carriages to Liverpool : of these, three were 
 occupied by ladies — one in each carriage ; the fourth 
 was a smoking carriage and empty. I don't smoke, but 
 the train was on the point of starting, and the guard 
 assured me that it was unlikely that we should take up 
 any first-class passengers on our way. It was a new car- 
 riage, and had never been used. At all events I should 
 be safe from female intrusion ; so I jumped in. The 
 train started, and I had my carriage all to myself. The 
 train did not stop till we reached Eugby. At Eugby a 
 lady opened the carriage door. She was a stout plain 
 middle-aged woman — five-and-forty, I should say. She 
 was extravagantly dressed in showy colours. Her 
 complexion was very dark — she was, in fact, a Mulatto 
 — and she wore a respectable moustache. 
 
 This wouldn't do ; I could settle her at all 
 events. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am, but this is a smoking 
 carriage." 
 
 " Exactly," replied the lady, with a strong foreign 
 accent, " but I smokes."
 
 The Finger of Fate. 299 
 
 This was a contingency that I bad never contem- 
 plated. 
 
 " You give me liglit, sar ? " said the foreign lady. 
 
 Here was a chance of escape. 
 
 " I have no lights, madam." 
 
 "Ah, dash ! " she said. " But, no consequence 
 
 Guard ! " 
 
 The guard came up. 
 
 " You give me light ? " 
 
 And he gave her a hght, and then he disappeared. 
 
 I was nearly choking with the fumes of her detestable 
 Havannah. At last I could stand it no longer. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but I object to smoking." 
 
 " Ah," replied the lady, " you object to smoke — 
 you travel in smoking carriage. Donkey — jackass 
 donkey ! " 
 
 She said these last three words with the air of one 
 who had done a short addition sum, and was stating the 
 total. 
 
 I had never travelled abroad, but I knew that 
 foreigners are remarkable for their politeness. 
 
 " I entered this carriage to avoid the society of 
 ladies." 
 
 "Me, too," said the foreign lady, " Dash ! I hate 
 lady. I like gentleman." Then she added as an after- 
 thought, "You are haughty old customer, but I like 
 you — you rummy old passenger ! " 
 
 I was exceedingly annoyed at this. I plume myself 
 upon my good taste in dress — that is to say, I study to 
 dress myself in such a manner as to call for no remark 
 of any kind, which I hold to be the perfection of good
 
 300 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 taste. My personal appearance is simply gentlemanly, 
 without anything remarkable about it. It has been my 
 constant study to be gentlemanly but usual ; and to be 
 called a " rummy old passenger " was under the cir- 
 cumstances an irritating thing. However, I maintained 
 a dignified silence. 
 
 It was a very cold night, and having regard to the 
 strong dash of negro blood in my fellow-passenger's 
 veins, thought it would irritate her if I let down the 
 window. 
 
 Accordingly, I did so. 
 
 " Thank you, old passenger," she said : " I like fresh 
 airs. I let this one down too ! " And she lowered the 
 other window. 
 
 I couldn't stand the draught so I put up my -s^indow 
 — and she put up hers. Something like this occurs in 
 *' Box and Cox." 
 
 I was sulkily furious by this time. In half-an-hour 
 we should reach Stafford, and I determined to change 
 my carriage at that station. In the meantime I tried 
 to sleep, but the foreign lady kept up such an incessant 
 clatter that sleep was out of the question. 
 
 "Where you going, old passenger? You not tell? 
 Secret, eh ? Ah, sly old dog ! You old cashier, 
 perhaps, bolting with bank moneys, eh ? Confidential 
 clerk with employer's cash-box in portmanteau, eh ? 
 Old boy going up north to marry old girl on the sly, eh ? 
 Bagman and ashamed of it, perhaps, eh, you old 
 passenger ? Bah ! Bagman good as anybody else ! 
 Never be ashamed — look at me ! Me not blush at 
 myself. What you say I am? — eh? You not guess.
 
 The Finger of Fate. 301 
 
 Duchess ? No ! Countess ? No ! Lady of large 
 property — wife of Liverpool merchant ? Devil a bit ! 
 Missionary woman ? No ! Tight-rope dancer ? No ! 
 Stewardess on West Indiaman spending pay ? Yes — 
 Hullo ! What's that ? " 
 
 I did not know what it was, but there was a sudden 
 snap and our carriage suddenly slackened speed, and 
 eventually stopped. I put my head out of the window. 
 The coupling had broken, and our carriage and the 
 guard's van had been separated from the rest of the 
 train. The driver knew nothing about it ; and there we 
 were, half-way between Rugby and Stafford at 12 p.m. 
 on a very cold April night ! 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " said I, in the very greatest alarm, 
 *' the coupling has broken and we are left behind by 
 the train ! We shall be smashed by the next down 
 train ! " 
 
 " Not a bit, you old strange one ! " replied 
 she, without even looking out of the window. 
 ** Guard at end of train. If we broke off, he broke 
 o£f too." 
 
 The guard had, in point of fact, rushed forward, moving 
 his lantern in the faint hope of being able to attract the 
 attention of the driver, but in vain. So he returned, 
 very excited, but very sulky. 
 
 " What in the world arc we to do ? " asked I. 
 
 " Get out of this, you and your old woman, while I 
 run back to Tamworth to telegraph. Come, out you 
 go " 
 
 " But where are we to go ? It is raining hard, and 
 we shall be soaked through and through."
 
 302 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 " There's a light yonder across the common. You'd 
 better trot over there, you and your old woman, and 
 knock 'em up. I don't know the country just here." 
 And off he went like lightning. 
 
 " His advice very good, my old man," said my 
 companion. " I take your arm, and we trot. Come, 
 rum chap." 
 
 There was no help for it. I succumbed, and we had 
 a squashy walk over a pathless and furzy common, half 
 a mile in diameter. My companion had a knack of 
 tumbling down in a sitting attitude at the faintest 
 provocation ; and if I lifted her up once I lifted her up 
 twenty times. Twenty times sixteen stone is exactly 
 two tons — which represents the weight I lifted off 
 Copley Common that night. (I have since had reason 
 to believe that her actual weight was fifteen stone 
 three, but I say sixteen stone because I take into 
 consideration the moisture with which her clothes were 
 saturated.) 
 
 At length, after twenty minutes' difficult walking, we 
 reached the light that had attracted our attention. It 
 proceeded from the window of a very small cottage. 
 We knocked, and eventually the door was opened to us. 
 In the meantime, my companion, who had informed me 
 that her name was Dolly Fortescue, sang negro songs in 
 a deep contralto. 
 
 " Wot is it ? " said the cottager. 
 
 *' There has been an accident on the line, and we 
 want shelter." 
 
 " Wot'llyou give?"
 
 The Finger of Fate. 303 
 
 "A guinea," said Miss Fortescue. ''This rum old 
 card give a guinea." 
 
 " Well, you can lie in the stable. My cottage is 
 chock-full." 
 
 He took a lantern and showed me the way to the 
 *' stable," which was a hut with one stall and a loose 
 box in which was a very untidy donkey. I at once 
 declined to share this stable with Miss Fortescue, 
 preferring to risk a night in the rain. I stated my 
 intention. 
 
 " Old boy is quite right. He's a rummy old passenger, 
 but he's quite right. Come along, queer little old man 
 — we walk somewheres else." 
 
 "Now, lookee here," said the man. " Wot's your 
 game, you two ? Wot are yer up to ? Is this here a 
 lark ? Where's my guinea ! Come ! — be a gentleman 
 afore ye goes ! None of this with me you know ! Give 
 us 'old of my guinea ! Come ! " 
 
 " Old man," said Dolly to me, " pull out employer's 
 cash-box and give guinea like bird." 
 
 " Wot's this here about cash-boxes?" said the man. 
 " Come, out with that guinea ! We hears a good deal 
 about it, but we don't see none of it. Come, let's see 
 some of it. Be a man ! " 
 
 "I shall give you nothing," said I. "You are an 
 insolent scoundrel ! " 
 
 " Wot ! " said the man. " Wot's this here about 
 cash-boxes ? Come along 0' me ! " and he laid his 
 hand upon my collar. 
 
 " You scoundrel ! " said I, "If I were a stronger man 
 than you are I'd "
 
 304 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 "Wot, assault the perlice ? My eye, here's a go! 
 Come along 0' me ! I'm the constable. /'// give you 
 a lodging. So it's cash-boxes, is it ? Come along 0' 
 me — both on yer ! " 
 
 And he led us to a square building at the back of his 
 house, and, unlocking the door, pushed us in, 
 
 "Now," he said, " I'm a-going to search you." 
 
 And he did ; but he found nothing except a few 
 sovereigns — for my money was in my dispatch box 
 which had been placed in the luggage van. 
 
 "Now," said he, "how about searching your good 
 woman ? I ain't a-goin' to do it — and I ain't got a 
 missus. Lookee here, suppose you do ? " 
 
 " Sir, this lady is a total stranger to me." 
 
 "Ah ! separate responsibilities, eh ? The hold story. 
 Now, lookee here, ma'am, I ain't a-goin' to search you, 
 because I've been properly brought up : but I'm a-goin' 
 to shake you to see if you rattle." 
 
 Miss Fortescue made no verbal reply, but pulled out 
 a gigantic clasp knife. 
 
 " All rights," said she. " Come on policeman ! " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Look, policeman, I tell you what I do. I walk out 
 of this. Good nights ! " And she did. 
 
 The policeman turned pale and civil. 
 
 " Ain't you goin' along with her, sir ? " said he. 
 
 " I am not. I pass the night here." 
 
 He retired, swearing fluently, and locked the door on 
 me. 
 
 I could not sleep — but, at all events, I was free at last 
 from my persecutrix. I was so pleased that I sang a
 
 The Finger of Fate. 305 
 
 j . 
 
 I merry song, and carved my name on the wall with a 
 [ rusty nail, as other prisoners have done before me. The 
 \ next day I was taken before a magistrate, who dismissed 
 i the case at once, and I resumed my journey. 
 
 When I reached Liverpool I found that my ship was 
 
 on the point of sailing. My luggage had been placed on 
 
 A board, and my half-cabin was ready for me. 
 
 I We had dreadful weather at sea ; we were driven 
 
 many hundred miles out of our course, and for three 
 
 \ weeks after leaving Liverpool I was terribly ill, and 
 
 I did not leave my cabin. I believe I should not have 
 
 : left my cabin at all if I had not been thrown bodily 
 
 ^ out of it by a tremendous concussion one stormy 
 
 night. 
 
 I rushed on deck, and found everything in the wildest 
 
 confusion. A fearful storm was raging, and the ship 
 
 ihad shifted her cargo. There was absolutely no hope 
 
 [for her, and it was impossible to launch a boat, even 
 
 lif it could have lived in such a sea. 
 
 1 I don't want to harrow anybody, so I will content 
 
 tnyself with explaining that, amid the shrieks of three 
 
 (hundred people, the vessel foundered. 
 
 , I I always take the precaution, when at sea, of wearing 
 
 ii little india-rubber apparatus round my neck, which I 
 
 inflate, and in that condition it prevents my head from 
 
 ijoing under. I inflated it hastily, and I found that it 
 
 nswered admirably. I was tossed about violently for 
 
 ij lome hours, and when the gale at length subsided, I 
 
 poked around me. No land was visible ; and as I rose 
 
 % lad fell in the sulky lopping sea, I felt that my hour was 
 
 J t band. I looked eagerly towards the horizon on all sides,
 
 3o6 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 in the vain hope of seeing a distant sail, but I saw none. 
 There was, however, one thing in view — a dark round 
 thing floating on the waves a mile or so from me. I 
 struck out for it, and I was horrified to find that it was 
 alive ! Still I approached it, reflecting that death from 
 a sea-monster was preferable to death from starvation, 
 and to my amazement I found that it was making 
 straight in my direction. On approaching it, I was 
 appalled to find that it resembled nothing so much as a 
 human head in a floating plate ; and on coming within 
 three or four yards, I discovered that it was the head of 
 Miss Fortescue, supported above water by a contrivance 
 similar in character to that which I myself wore. I 
 should add that her great fat bunchy body and (I had no 
 doubt) her legs were still connected with it. 
 
 " Not Miss Fortescue ? " said I. 
 
 *' Eummy old passenger, by Gar ! " said she. " What 
 are you doing here, sar ? " 
 
 " I am not here by choice. I was wrecked in the 
 Aurora Borealis." 
 
 "Me, too!" said she. 
 
 ** You ! " said I, " Were you on board the 
 Aurora f " 
 
 " — Borealis,'' added she. "Yes, me stewardess. 
 How are you ? " 
 
 " I am very cold, and this confounded thing has given ' 
 me a crick in the neck." 
 
 " Situation damp," said she. " Try this, you queer 
 one ! " 
 
 It was a flask of brandy. She held it to my lips until 
 I had taken a comfortable draught.
 
 The Finger of Fate. 307 
 
 " Two shillings," said she, holding the bottle to the 
 light to see how much I had taken. 
 
 " Here it is," said I. 
 
 " Stewardess a shilling — make three." 
 I determined to resist this extortion, for on that line 
 of packets the steward's fee is included in the fare. I 
 told her so. 
 
 "You mean old chap," said Miss Fortescue. " I give 
 you nothing more." 
 
 I tried to look dignified and indifferent, but it was of 
 no use. You can't look dignified when you are perpetu- 
 ally bobbing up and down on a lopping sea supported 
 entirely by an India-rubber bag round the neck. Be- 
 sides, I was very hungry, and she had a largo water- 
 proof basket on her arm, so I gave her the shilling, which 
 she bit and pocketed. 
 
 "Now then," said she, " what's to do next ? " 
 
 " What have you got there ? " said I. 
 
 " German sausage — cucumber — carrot — bottle barley- 
 water — two tomatoes — a bloater — two eggs — one pound 
 macaroni — head of endive — stick Spanish liquorice — 
 three pounds snuff." 
 
 " What are your terms for the carrot ? " 
 
 " Carrot very dear out here, you peculiar old one. 
 [Carrot a guinea." 
 
 " Hand it over." 
 
 I gave her a guinea, and ate the carrot. 
 
 " Now," said she, " I go straight on in that direction 
 |for shore. Come along, old one ! " 
 
 "Never!" said I; " I will take the opposite point 
 |of the compass, and run my chance. Good bye." 
 
 X 2
 
 3o8 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 And I struck out vigorously in the opposite direction. 
 
 After a day and a half's vigorous STvdmming, I reached 
 the point of a low sandy shore, which seemed to stretch 
 for miles in a direction due south, as I judged from the 
 position of the sun. I was well satisfied to feel dry 
 ground under my legs again, and I landed with much 
 gratitude. 
 
 I was extremely hungry, and I walked for miles along 
 the shore picking up mussels and periwinkles, and eat- 
 ing them raw. I saw no trace of a human heing of any 
 kind, and as the sun went down I began to wish myself 
 in the sea again. Night came on and I was hungry and 
 alone. However, I still wandered on in a listless pur- 
 poseless way until I fell over something that fell across 
 my path. To my intense joy I found, on investigation, 
 that it was a sleeping, breathing human being. I could 
 not tell whether it was a man or a woman, as there was 
 no moon, and the clothes he or she wore would have 
 suited either sex equally well. I endeavoured to awaken 
 the figure, but in vain, so I determined to sit by his or 
 her side until mornmg. Accordingly I dropped myself 
 into a sitting posture, when, to my extreme amazement, 
 an explosion of fire took place immediately' under me ! 
 The fearful idea flashed across me that the island was a 
 mass of slumbering fire, only waiting for accidental 
 contact with an exciting cause to blow itself and every- 
 thing for miles around into the air ! On closer examina- 
 tion, however, I found that I had sat down upon a box 
 of vesuvians, and one of them had exploded. 
 
 It suddenly occurred to me to use these vesuvians as 
 a means of identifying my companion. I ignited one, 
 
 J
 
 The Finger of Fate. 309 
 
 but it was not a flaming vesuvian ; it smouldered, and 
 fizzed, and smelt, but afforded no assistance. I lit 
 another and held it close to the person's nose, but it 
 only illuminated a small circle as big as half-a-crown. 
 I lit a third, and this time the red-hot end tumbled on 
 to the sleeper's cheek. The sleeper started up. It was 
 Dolly Fortescue ! 
 
 I was not a bit surprised. I had brought myself to 
 look upon Dolly as my Fate. D0II3' was not a bit sur- 
 prised. She looked at me — grinned — and spoke. 
 " That hot, you odd one ! " 
 
 When morning broke we looked about us. The 
 island we found was about twenty-five miles long, and 
 seven broad, principally rock — no vegetation — no fresh 
 \ water. The island was crescent-shaped, the two horns 
 I being twent}' miles asunder. I had landed on one horn, 
 , she on the other, and we had met in the middle. The 
 i only native inhabitants were periwinkles and mussels. 
 • So we set to work to make ourselves comfortable. 
 
 The object of this narrative is not to give a detailed 
 j account of the highly ingenious manner in which we 
 ' continued to live comfortably, and even luxuriously, on 
 ' our island, but rather to exhibit the caprices of a deter- 
 j mined destiny. 
 
 ' I detested Dolly with all my heart, and avoided her 
 wlienever it was practicable ; but she paid me every 
 i attention, and, notwithstanding her unpleasant appear- 
 ance, she was really valuable to me. She christened 
 I the island "Fortescue," and crowned me its monarch. 
 1 My first act as king was to try her for drawing her knife 
 Ion the policeman in Bembridgo lock-up, and by that
 
 310 The Finger of Fate. 
 
 means breaking out of custody. She was found guilty 
 by an impartial jury of me, and sentenced to transporta- 
 tion for life to the other side of the island. She went 
 meekly and uncomplainingly, but, as she took all our 
 cooking implements with her, I was obliged to follow. 
 
 This inconvenient life went on for thirteen years. 
 At the expiration of that period my kingdom was visited 
 by a missionary ship, which had driven out of her 
 course. I signalled, and my signals were answered. 
 A boat full of Baptist missionaries put off to us, bearing 
 many bales of tracts for our conversion. They were 
 very much disappointed and disgusted when they heard 
 we were Christians, and when we added we were Pro- 
 testants, they moodily returned to their boat and 
 mechanically put to sea. 
 
 I screamed aloud in my terror at their contemplated 
 departure without us. 
 
 Their chief explained that their mission was to con- 
 vert, and that we needed no conversion. 
 
 *' You are Christian," said he — "Protestant, and, no 
 doubt. Baptist. What can we do ? " 
 
 " No," said I, as a ray of hope broke through the 
 clouds that were gathering around us, "not Baptist — 
 Church of England ! " 
 
 " Ha ! " said their leader ; " will you let me make a 
 Baptist of you, if we take you with us ? " 
 
 " I am open to conviction," said I. 
 
 " And your wife '? " said he. 
 
 " This is NOT my wife ! " said I, in a passion. 
 
 " Shocking, indeed ! " said he. " Will you marry 
 her if I take you off?"
 
 The Finger of Fate. 3 1 1 
 
 "Yes," said Dolly, "he will marry me; you melan- 
 choly old Presbyterian ! " 
 
 So he took us into the boat, and we left the island. 
 We were married as soon as we reached England. 
 
 In a week my wife had had enough of me. The 
 arrears of my pension amounted to something consider- 
 able, and she ran off with them. I ran after her, but I 
 could never find her. I suppose, now that I want her, 
 I never shall.
 
 A TALE OF A DRY PLATE, 
 
 I AM a junior partner in a large mercantile house. 
 Certain irregularities had occurred in our Colombo 
 branch, and I was dispatched by the firm to investigate 
 them, and to place matters on a more satisfactory 
 footing. I need not go into details on this point, as 
 they are irrelevant to my story. 
 
 I sailed by the Kaiser-i-Hind from Tilbury, accom- 
 panied by my valet. At the Liverpool Street terminus 
 an elderly lady in widow's mourning asked me some 
 questions as to the conveyance of luggage from the 
 Tilbury station to the ship ; she should have sent her 
 luggage to the docks, but had omitted to do so. As I 
 replied to her questions, I saw that she was accom- 
 panied by a very beautiful girl of eighteen. There is 
 no need to beat about the bush — I fell in love with her, 
 there and then. It is a commonplace way of putting 
 it, but I don't know that I could make matters clearer 
 by a more elaborate method of expression. As they 
 and I travelled to Tilbury in the same conipartiiicnt, 
 we entered into conversation, as people will readily do 
 who know that they are to travel many thousand miles 
 together. I learnt that the lady was a Mrs. Selby, 
 widow of a Colonel Selby, who had died about six
 
 314 -^ Tale of a Dry Plate. 
 
 months since. Broken in health, and weakened by long 
 weeping, she had been advised to take a sea voyage, in 
 the belief that change of scene and beneficent sea air 
 would do much to restore her to health, if not to hap- 
 piness. As I happened to have met Colonel Selby on two 
 occasions — once in London and once in a country house — 
 my acquaintance with his widow and daughter rapidly 
 ripened into friendship. We sailed on a fine October after- 
 noon, and by the time we were off" the "Start" I had 
 almost established myself on the footing of an old friend. 
 
 Pass over the voyage. It lasted five weeks, but it 
 seemed like five days. I lived but in Clara's presence. 
 I scarcely spoke to anyone on board except to Clara and 
 her mother. People see more of each other, if they 
 care to do so, in a few weeks' voyage than in a lifetime 
 on shore, and before we reached Colombo I had declared 
 my love to Clara, and she had accepted it. If there is 
 unalloyed happiness on earth, it was given to us as we 
 neared Ceylon. 
 
 Unalloyed, save by the thought that we were about to 
 part for a time ; for Clara was to go on to Calcutta, 
 where her late father's brother was quartered, whereas I 
 was to remain in Ceylon for three months. We were 
 to return to England at about the same date, and it was 
 arranged that as soon as possible after our arrival we 
 were to be married. 
 
 I have some little skill in photography, and I had 
 brought with me a camera and some dry plates, intend- 
 ing to photograph any striking scenes that I might 
 come across during my journey. By the aid of dry 
 plates, photography, and especially travelling photo-
 
 A Tale of a Dry Plate. 3 1 5 
 
 graphy, is much simplified. The traveller can take a 
 photograph, shut the plate in a light-tight box, and 
 develop it twelve months afterwards if he pleases. 
 There is no need to encumber oneself with chemicals ; 
 all the messy portion of the process can be done at 
 home, in the seclusion of one's own dark room. I had 
 not intended to take any photographs on the voyage, for 
 dry plates are extraordinarily sensitive to the action of 
 the faintest ray of light, and it was practically im- 
 possible to make my cabin dark enough to allow of my 
 transferring plates from the dark box to the slides 
 without absolutely spoiling them. But I happened to 
 have left two plates in one of the slides, and before we 
 reached our destination I devoted one of these to Clara 
 and one to Mrs. Selby. 
 
 We parted tearfully, but not unhappily. We were 
 to meet in three months' time, and our lives were then 
 to be passed together. I believe we were too full of 
 happiness in this prospect to grieve very much over our 
 parting. As the Kaiser steamed away for Calcutta, I 
 kept the happiness of our next meeting steadily before 
 me, and it served to keep me in good spirits. 
 
 The time passed slowly ; but it passed. I hud 
 received two letters from Clara, written from Calcutta, 
 full of life, and hope, and joy at the prospect before us. 
 She was going to spend a month at Allahabad, and a 
 fortnight at Bombay, and she was then to return to 
 Marseilles by a Messagerics ship, the captain of which 
 was an intimate friend of the uncle with whom she had 
 been staying at Calcutta. By this arrangement she 
 ■would arrive in England about a month before me.
 
 ^ 
 
 1 6 A Tale of a Dry Plate. 
 
 At length my sailing orders came, and on one of the 
 happiest days of my life I set foot on board the good 
 ship Mirzapore, which was to convey me to Port Said, 
 on my way home, via Brindisi. I had written to Mrs. 
 Selby, begging her to bring Clara to meet me in Paris. 
 Her doing so would but shorten our period of separation 
 by some ten or twelve hours, but I knew that these 
 hours were golden to her as well as to me, and I was 
 selfish for both of us. After a stormy voyage, I reached 
 Brindisi in due course ; I hurried to the Poste Piestante, 
 for I had asked her to reply to me there, but there was 
 nothing for me. It was evident that my letter had not 
 reached her ; perhaps she had delayed a few days in 
 Paris on her way home. She had a trousseau to prepare, 
 and it is a strange article of faith among women that 
 this can be done more effectually in Paris than else- 
 where ; consequently, nothing was more probable than 
 that she was there at that moment ; my letter would 
 probably be forwarded to her, and if so, she would 
 surely be at the station on the arrival of the train 
 from Italy. 
 
 As I rushed across Europe I had but one thought in 
 my mind — would Clara be at the Paris terminus to meet 
 me ? The towns flew by me when I thought of her, and 
 yet at times the intervals between them seemed intermin- 
 able. Every stoppage irritated me ; yet the two days 
 were not tedious. I could always lose all count of time 
 by allowing my mind to dwell upon the incidents of our 
 voyage together, and especially on the crowning incident 
 that was yet to come. But when the doubting question 
 arose whether or not we should meet in Paris, the train
 
 A Tale of a Dry Plate. 317 
 
 seemed to dawdle as it never dawdled before. At length 
 we reached the termmus. I eagerly scanned the few 
 people on the platform as we entered the station, and 
 my heart sank when I saw she was not there. Then I 
 remembered that on French railways friends of passengers 
 are not, as a rule, allowed on the platform, and my hopes 
 rose again. They were soon dashed, for there was no 
 Clara for me in the waiting-rooms or at the entrance. 
 
 A dim sense of calamity — unknown, and the more 
 terrible for being unknown — took possession of me. I 
 hurried across Paris to the " Nord," reached Calais in 
 due course, crossed to Dover and made my way to 
 London, which I reached late at night. The next day, 
 at nine in the morning, I hurried to Mrs. Selby's house 
 in Oxford Square. I rang the bell, and it was answered 
 by a maid-servant in deep black. I asked for Mrs. Selby, 
 but so inarticulately that the girl did not understand 
 me. I pulled myself together, and repeated the question. 
 The girl stammered awkwardly. Had I not heard ? 
 No ! I had heard nothing ; was anything wrong ? The 
 French ship in which Mrs. Selby and Clara had sailed 
 from Bombay had been lost — as it was supposed — in a 
 hurricane between Bombay and Aden, and all souls 
 drowned. 
 
 I staggered as from a strong man's blow. I remember 
 nothing until I found myself lying on the sofa in the 
 dining-room, tended by an elderly gentleman, Mrs. 
 Selby's brother and administrator. He, of course, did 
 not know me ; still less did he know of my relation 
 towards his dead niece. I told him all, and he treated 
 me with the greatest kindness. He could give me no
 
 3 1 8 A Tale of a Dry Plate. 
 
 hope ; the ship was then six weeks overdue, and the 
 insurances on her had been duly paid. 
 
 Desolate and heart-broken I left him, and went to my 
 mother's house in Devonshire. After three weeks of 
 fever I began to recover strength, but the light of my 
 life was extinct, and an undefinable sense of night was 
 all that remained to me. As soon as I was strong 
 enough to stand, I thought of the photographs I had 
 taken at Singapore. They were all that was left to me 
 of my dead love, and with a feeling of unspeakable awe, 
 I proceeded to raise her presentment as it were from the 
 grave. In the closely darkened room, illuminated only 
 by the dim red light of my developing lamp, I prepared 
 the necessary chemicals with a trembling and uncertain 
 hand. I took the plate from the slide in which it had 
 been enclosed for so many months, and as I looked upon 
 its plain creamy surface, so soon to be sanctified by her 
 image, I almost felt that I was engaged on some un- 
 hallowed deed of necromancy. Breathless with excite- 
 ment, I poured the developer upon it, and as I awaited 
 the result, I could hear my heart thumping against my 
 chest. I had not long to wait. Slowly, but surely and 
 distinctly, the features of my darling came to me from 
 the grave. Notmthstanding the inversion of its tones, 
 it stood plainly before me — herself in every detail. As 
 I watched the gradual perfection of the portrait, I cried 
 like a child. At length the development was complete, 
 and, shaking like a leaf, I took it from its bath to 
 examine it more closely. As I did so the door of the 
 room was suddenly opened, a flood of light was admitted, 
 and the photograph was ruined beyond reparation.
 
 A Tale of a Dry Plate. 3 1 9 
 
 With an inarticulate crj^ I seized the intruder in my 
 weakened grasp — it was my valet, who had accompanied 
 me on my voyage out and home. I know not what I 
 said to him, in my furious despair — the words, whatever 
 they were, passed into forgetfulness as they were spoken. 
 
 " Sir, sir," said he, " I bring you great news. Miss 
 Selby — Mrs. Selby. Their boat was picked up by a 
 sailing ship. She encountered adverse winds, and only 
 reached Plymouth yesterday — and — and — Miss Clara is 
 here — and I have come to tell you so ! "
 
 THE BURGLAR'S STORY. 
 
 When I became eighteen years of age, my father, a 
 distinguished begging-letter impostor, said to me, 
 " Reginald, I think it is time that you began to think 
 about choosing a profession." 
 
 These were ominous words. Since I left Eton, 
 nearly a year before, I had spent my time very plea- 
 santly, and very idly, and I was sorry to see my long 
 holiday drawing to a close. My father had hoped to 
 have sent me to Cambridge (Cambridge was a tradition 
 I in our family), but business had been very depressed of 
 \ late, and a sentence of six months' hard labour had con- 
 siderably straitened my poor father's resources. 
 I It was necessar}' — highly necessary — that I should 
 I choose a calling. With a sigh of resignation, I admitted 
 I as much. 
 
 1 "If you like," said my father, "I will take you in 
 I hand, and teach you my profession, and, in a few years 
 perhaps, I may take you into partnershi}) ; l)ut, to bo 
 candid with you, I doubt whether it is a satisfactory 
 calling for an athletic young fellow like you." 
 
 " I don't seem to care about it, particularly," said J. 
 "I'm glad to hear it," said my father ; " it's a poor 
 calling for a young man of spirit. Besides, you have to 
 ! Y
 
 322 The Burglars Story, 
 
 grow grey in the service before people will listen to you. 
 It's all very well as a refuge in old age ; but a young 
 fellow is likely to make but a poor hand at it. Now, I 
 should like to consult your own tastes on so important 
 a matter as the choice of a profession. What do you 
 say ? The Army ? " 
 
 No, I didn't care for the army. 
 
 " Forgery ? The Bar ? Cornish Wrecking ? " 
 
 " Father," said I, " I should like to be a forger, but 
 I write such an infernal hand." 
 
 "A regular Eton hand," said he. "Not plastic 
 enough for forgery ; but you could have a writing- ' 
 master." 
 
 "It's as much as I can do to forge my own name. I ; 
 don't believe I should ever be able to forge anybody 
 else's." 
 
 "Anybody's else, you should say, not 'anybody 
 else's.' It's a dreadful barbarism. Eton English." 
 
 "No," said I, " I should never make a fortune at it. 
 As to wrecking — why you know how sea-sick I am." 
 
 " You might get over that. Besides, you would deal; 
 with wrecks ashore, not wrecks at sea." 
 
 " Most of it done in small boats, I'm told. A deal of ; 
 small boat work. No, I won't be a wrecker. I think L 
 should like to be a burglar." 
 
 " Yes," said my father, considering the subject 
 "Yes, it's a fine manly profession ; but it's dangerous 
 it's highly dangerous." 
 
 " Just dangerous enough to be exciting, no more." 
 
 " Well," said my father, " if you've a distinct tast 
 for burglary I'll see what can be done." '
 
 The Burglar's Story. 323 
 
 My dear father was always prompt with pen and ink. 
 That evening he wrote to his old friend Ferdinand 
 Stoneleigh, a burglar of the very highest professional 
 standing, and in a week I was duly and formally articled 
 to him, with a view to ultimate partnership. 
 
 I had to work hard under Mr. Stoneleigh. 
 
 "Burglary is a jealous mistress," said he. "She 
 will tolerate no rivals. She exacts the undivided 
 devotion of her worshippers." 
 
 And so I found it. Every morning at ten o'clock I 
 had to present myself at Stoneleigh's chambers in New 
 Square, Lincoln's Inn, and until twelve I assisted his 
 clerk with the correspondence. At twelve I had to go 
 out prospecting with Stoneleigh, and from two to four I 
 had to devote to finding out all particulars necessary to 
 a scientific burglar in any given house. At first I did 
 this merely for practice, and with no view to an actual 
 attempt. He would tell me off to a house of which he 
 knew all the particulars, and order me to ascertain all 
 about the house and its inmates — their coming and 
 going, the number of their servants, whether any of 
 them were men, and, if so, whether they slept on the 
 basement or not, and other details necessary to be 
 known before a burglary could 1)0 safely attempted. 
 Then he would compare my information with his own 
 facts, and compliment or blame me, as I might deserve. 
 He was a strict master, but always kind, just, and 
 courteous, as became a highly polished gentleman of the 
 old school. He was one of the last men who habitually 
 wore hessians. 
 
 After a year's probation, I accompanied him on several
 
 324 The Burglar's Story 
 
 expeditions, and had the happiness to believe that I was 
 of some little use to him. I shot him eventually in the 
 stomach, mistaking? him for the master of a house into 
 which we were breaking (I had mislaid my dark 
 lantern), and he died on the grand piano. His dying 
 wish was that his compliments might be conveyed to 
 me. I now set up on my own account, and engaged his 
 poor old clerk, who nearly broke his heart at his late 
 master's funeral. Stoneleigh left no family. His 
 money — about £12,000, invested for the most part in 
 American railways — he left to the Society for Providing 
 More Bishops; and his ledgers, daybooks, memoranda, 
 and papers generally he bequeathed to me. 
 
 As the chambers required furnishing, I lost no time 
 in commencing my professional duties. I looked 
 through his books for a suitable house to begin upon, 
 and found the following attractive entry : — 
 
 Thurloe^ Square.— ^o. 102. 
 
 House. — Medium. 
 
 Occupant. — John Davis, bachelor. 
 
 Occupation. — Designer of Dados. 
 
 Age.—m. 
 
 Physical Peculiarities. — Very feeble ; eccentric ; 
 drinks ; Evangelical ; snores. 
 
 Servants. — Two housemaids, one cook. ' 
 
 Sex. — All female. 
 
 Particulars of Servants. — Pretty housemaid called 
 Rachel ; Jewess ; open to attentions. Goes out for 
 beer at 9 p.m. ; snores. Ugly housemaid, called Bella ; 
 Presbyterian. Open to attentions ; ^snores. Elderly
 
 The Burglar's Story. 325 
 
 cook ; Primitive Methodist. Open to altentious ; 
 snores. 
 
 Fastenings. — Chubb's lock on street door, chain, and 
 Ijolts. Bars to all basement windows. Practicable 
 a})proach from third room, ground floor, which is 
 shuttered and barred, but bar has no catch, and can be 
 raised with table knife. 
 
 Valuable Contents of House. — Presentation plate from 
 grateful aesthetes. Gold repeater. Mulready envelope. 
 Two diamond rings. Complete edition of *' Bradshaw," 
 from 1834 to present time, 588 volumes, bound in limp 
 calf. 
 
 General. — Mr. Davis sleeps second floor front ; ser- 
 vants on third floor. Davis goes to bed at ten. No 
 I uie on basement. Swarms with beetles ; otherwise 
 excellent house for purpose. 
 
 This seemed to me to be a capital house to try single- 
 handed. At twelve o'clock that very night I pocketed 
 two crowbars, a bunch of skeleton keys, a centre-bit, a 
 hak lantern, a box of silent matches, some putty, a life- 
 preserver, and a knife ; and I set off at once for Thurloc 
 I Square. I remember that it snowed heavily. There 
 1 was at least a foot of snow un the ground, and there 
 [was more to come. Poor Stonelcigh's particulars were 
 j exact in every detail. 1 got into the third room on the 
 ground floor without any difliculty, and made my way 
 jinto the dining-room. There was the presentation 
 Iplate, sure enough — about 800 ounces, as I reckoned. 
 I collected this, and tied it up so that I could carry it 
 without attracting attention.
 
 o 
 
 26 The Burglar s Story. 
 
 Just as I had finished, I heard a slight cough behind 
 me. I turned and saw a dear old silver-haired gentle- 
 man in a dressing-gown standing in the doorway. The 
 venerable gentleman covered me with a revolver. 
 
 My first impulse was to rush at and brain him with 
 my life-preserver. 
 
 " Don't move," said he, " or you're a dead man." 
 
 A rather silly remark occurred to me to the eff"ect 
 that if I did move it would rather prove that I was a live 
 man, but I dismissed it at once as unsuited to the 
 business character of the interview. 
 
 '* You're a burglar ? " said he. 
 
 " I have that honour," said I, making for my pistol- 
 pocket. 
 
 "Don't move," said he; "I have often wished to 
 have the pleasure of encountering a burglar, in order to 
 be able to test a favourite theory of mine as to hov/ 
 persons of that class should be dealt with. But you 
 mustn't move." 
 
 I replied that I should be happy to assist him, if I 
 could do so consistently with a due regard to my own 
 safety. 
 
 "Promise me," said I, " that you will allow me to 
 leave the house unmolested when your experiment is at 
 an end?" 
 
 " If you will obey me promptly, you shall be at 
 perfect liberty to leave the house." 
 
 "You will neither give me into custody, nor take any 
 steps to pursue me." 
 
 " On my honour as a Designer of Dados," said he. 
 
 "Good," said I; "go on."
 
 The Burglar's Story. 327 
 
 " Stand up," said he, "and stretch out your arms at 
 right angles to your body." 
 
 " Suppose I don't ? " said I. 
 
 *' I send a bullet through your left ear," said he. 
 
 "But permit me to observe " said I. 
 
 Bang ! A ball cut off the lobe of my left ear. 
 
 The ear smarted, and I should have liked to attend 
 to it, but under the circumstances I thought it 
 better to comply with the whimsical old gentleman's 
 wishes. 
 
 "Very good," said he. "Now do as I tell you, 
 promptly and without a moment's hesitation, or I cut 
 off the lobe of your right ear. Throw me that life- 
 preserver." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " Ah, would you ? " said he, cocking the revolver. 
 
 The "click" decided me. Besides, the old gentle- 
 man's eccentricity amused me, and I was curious to seo 
 how far it would carry him. So I tossed my life- 
 preserver to him. He caught it neatly. 
 
 ** Now take off your coat and throw it to me." 
 
 I took off my coat, and threw it diagonally across the 
 room. 
 
 " Now the waistcoat." 
 
 I threw the waistcoat to him. 
 
 " Boots," said he. 
 
 " They are shoes," said I, in some trepidation IcsL ho 
 should take offence when no offence was really iuknded. 
 
 " Shoes then," said he. 
 
 I threw my shoes to him. 
 
 " Trousers," said he.
 
 328 The Burglar's Story. 
 
 " Come, come ; I say," exclaimed I. 
 
 Bang ! The lobe of the other ear came off. With 
 all his eccentricity the old gentleman was a man of his 
 word. He had the trousers, and with them my revolver, 
 which happened to be in the right-hand pocket. 
 
 " Now the rest of your drapery." 
 
 I threw him the rest of my draper}-. He tied up 
 my clothes in the table-cloth ; and, telling me that he 
 wouldn't detain me any longer, made for the door with 
 the bundle under his arm. 
 
 " Stop," said I. " What is to become of me ? " 
 
 " Really, I hardly know," said he. 
 
 " You promised me my liberty," said I. 
 
 "Certainly," said he. " Don't let me trespass any 
 further on your time. You will find the street door 
 open ; or, if from force of habit you prefer the window, 
 you will have no difficulty in clearing the area 
 railings." 
 
 " But I can't go like this ! Won't you give me some- 
 thing to put on ? " 
 
 " No," said he, " nothing at all. Good night." 
 
 The quaint old man left the room with my bundle. I 
 went after him, but I found that he had locked an inner 
 door that led up stairs. The position was really a 
 difficult one to deal with. I couldn't possibly go into 
 the street as I was, and if I remained I should certainly 
 be given into custody in the morning. For some time 
 I looked in vain for something to cover myself with. 
 The hats and great coats were no doubt in the inner 
 hall, at all events they were not accessible under the : 
 circumstances. There was a carpet on the floor, but it
 
 The Burglar s Story. 329 
 
 was fitted to the recesses of the room, and, moreover, a 
 heavy sideboard stood upon it. 
 
 " However, there were twelve chairs iu the room, and 
 it was with no Httle pleasure I found on the back of 
 each an antimacassar. Twelve antimacassars would go 
 a long way towards covering me, and that was some- 
 thing. 
 
 I did my best with the antimacassars, but on re- 
 flection I came to the conclusion that they would not 
 help me very much. They certainly covered me, but a 
 gentleman walking through South Kensington at 3 a.m. 
 dressed in nothing whatever but antimacassars, with 
 the snow two feet deep on the ground, would be sure to 
 attract attention. I might pretend that I was doing it 
 for a wager, but who would believe me ? 
 I grew very cold. 
 
 I looked out of window, and presently saw the bull's- 
 eye of a policeman who was wearily plodding through 
 
 \ the snow. I felt that my only course was to surrender 
 to him. 
 
 ! " Policeman," said I, from the window, " one word." 
 " Anything wrong, sir '? " said he. 
 
 I " I have been committing a burglary in this honso, 
 
 j and shall feel deeply obliged to you if you will Ivindly 
 
 ' take me into custody." 
 
 j " Nonsense, sir," said he ; "you'd better go to bed." 
 
 I " There is nothing I should like better, but I live in 
 Lincoln's Inn, and I have nothing on ])ut antinia- 
 
 1 cassars : 1 am almost frozen. Prav take nio into 
 
 I custody." 
 
 I •' The street door's open," said he.
 
 330 The Burglar s Story. 
 
 "Yes," said I. " Come in." 
 
 He came in. I explained the circumstances to him, 
 and with great difficulty I convinced him that I was in 
 earnest. The good fellow put his own great coat over 
 me, and lent me his own handcuffs. In ten minutes I 
 was thawing myself in Walton Street police station. In 
 ten days I was convicted at the Old Bailey. In ten 
 years I returned from penal servitude. 
 
 I found that poor Mr. Davis had gone to his long 
 home in Brompton Cemetery. 
 
 For many years I never passed his house without a 
 shudder at the terrible hours I spent in it as his guest. 
 I have often tried to forget the incident I have been 
 relating, and for a long time I tried in vain. Per- 
 severance, however, met with its reward. I continued 
 to try. Gradually one detail after another slipped from 
 memory, and one lovely evening last May I found, to 
 my intense delight, that I had absolutely forgotten all 
 about it.
 
 UMPPKECIATED SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 The theory that I am about to propound is so auda- 
 cious that, at the request of the PuhHsher of this work, 
 I begin by stating that he has no sympathy whatever 
 with it. He is a family man, and his life is a valuable 
 life, and he is quite right to be cautious. For myself, 
 I have the courage of my opinions. I have no doubt but 
 that the Publisher has the courage of Jiis opinions, but 
 he has not the courage of my opinions, and, indeed, it 
 would be unreasonable to expect it of him. 
 
 My theory is that the people of England have no real 
 appreciation of the merits of their most distinguished 
 poet. I do not refer to a thoughtful few, of whom I am 
 one, and the reader is another, but to the mass of 
 English-speaking men and women, educated and other- 
 wise. I am prepared for the storm of indignant re- 
 joinder with which this expression of opinion will be 
 met. I am prepared to hear that the people of these 
 islands hail Shakespeare as the greatest poet, the most 
 profound thinker, and the most accomplished dramatist 
 the world has ever produced. That the only theatre in 
 which his plays are adequately presented is crowded 
 with enthusiastic audiences. That they have mosaiced 
 a hundred of his pithy apophthegms into our daily
 
 Unappreciated S^iakespeare. 
 
 conversation. That a popular speaker, however up- 
 popular and insignificant, has only to wind up his 
 speech with half-a-dozen lines of Shakespeare (and to 
 make it clearly understood that they are Shakespeare's) 
 and he will sit down amid thunders of applause. That 
 to mention any other author in the same page with 
 Shakespeare is to insult that other author, however 
 distinguished he may be in the abstract, by reminding 
 society of his relative insignificance. All this is quite 
 true. My argument is, not that Shakespeare does not 
 deserve all that is said and done in his honour, but that 
 he deserves so much more. 
 
 He deserves to be read, but who reads him ? I read 
 him, and you read him, and probably Mr. Irving reads 
 him, but how many more read him ? A few, no doubt, 
 but how many? I do not mean "how many dip into 
 him ? " I mean how many read him right through as 
 they read Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson, and Carlyle — 
 or as they used to read Byron and Walter Scott, and 
 Cooper and Marryat ? Not to have read every novel of 
 Thackeray is to be at a serious social disadvantage. 
 No man with any pretence to a cultivated mind will 
 publicly admit that he is not acquainted with every 
 important poem of Tennyson. But how many English- 
 men can lay their hands upon their hearts and say that 
 they have read The Two Gentlemen of Verona from 
 beginning to end ? or AlVs Well that Ends Well ? or 
 Richard the Second? or " The First, Second, and Third 
 Parts" oi Heyiry the Sixth f ox Julius Ccesar? or Corio- 
 lanus? or Troilus and Cressida ? or Cymheline ? or 
 Love's Labour Lost f or Timon of Athens ? A few,
 
 Unappreciated Shakespeai^e. 333 
 
 no doubt, but how many ? I do not mean that these 
 books are never " looked into," but how many have 
 read them as they have read " The Newcomes," or 
 "David Copperfield," or "Adam Bede," or ** Ivanhoe," 
 or " Childe Harold," or the " Idylls of the King ? " A 
 few, no doubt, but how many '? How many of those 
 who bubble over about Shakespeare could give a brief 
 abstract of the plots of the plays above mentioned — or 
 quote half-a-dozen lines from any of them ? A few, no 
 doubt, but how many ? 
 
 Of Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, The 
 Merchant of Venice, As Yon Like It, Henry V., The 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, most people know something, 
 for most people have seen those plays acted. But how 
 many know anything about those plays of Shakes- 
 peare which are never acted ? The gentleman who is 
 reading these lines knows all about them, but how 
 many of his friends are as well informed as he ? Let 
 him invite the first acquaintance he meets (who has no 
 professional connection with the stage) to favour him 
 with a sketch of the plot of Cyniheline, and note the 
 result. The chances arc ten to one that that acquain- 
 tance, if he ventures on an answer at all, will describe 
 Cyniheline as a Queen of Britain. Of Troilus and 
 Cressida he will be equally ignorant. 
 
 The truth is that Shakespeare is not light reading. 
 But an absolute ignorance of the works of Shakespeare 
 is most properly held to be disgraceful, and so when it 
 comes to pass that a play of Shakespeare is adequately 
 presented people rush to see it in order to familiarize 
 themselves, in the readiest and easiest and most agree-
 
 334 Unappi^eciated Shakespeare. 
 
 able way, with works with which it is considered — and 
 most rightly — that all Englishmen should be familiar. 
 
 But of those who go to a theatre at which a Shakes- 
 pearian play is presented, how many are aware that the 
 play is not Shakespeare's, but a trimmed and docked 
 and interpolated and mutilated and generally desecrated 
 version of his play ? How many are aware that the 
 tragedy of Hamlet, as Shakespeare wrote it, contains 
 about four thousand five hundred lines, of ichich only 
 about two thousand two Imndred are usually delivered 
 on the stage ? I shall be told that that is quite enough, 
 and perhaps it is, but how is this sentiment to be recon- 
 ciled with the enthusiastic veneration in which all people 
 profess to hold the works of Shakespeare ? What author 
 can be fairly judged by a play of which one half is 
 deliberately suppressed ? Shakespeare's Taming of 
 the Shrew contains about three thousand two hundred 
 lines, the "Acting Edition" of this comedy contains 
 only about a thousand ! Then, again, how many are 
 . aware that in very many cases — I believe I may say in 
 all cases — the actual order of the scenes is changed, 
 merely to provide time and stage-room for elaborate 
 scenic display ? If such an outrage were attempted on 
 a play by, say, Mr. Tom Taylor, would it not be regarded 
 as an insult to his memory ? When Henry VIII. is 
 presented, it is customary to omit the last two acts — 
 not because they were not written by Shakespeare, but 
 because the star-part, Wolsey, finishes in the last act 
 but two ! But who cares ? So with the Merchant of 
 Venice. The last act is rarely presented because Shylock 
 is not in it ; though, in justice to Mr. Irving, I should
 
 Unappreciated Shake speai e 335 
 
 state that upon the occasion of his recent revival of this 
 play it was allowed to proceed to its legitimate conclusion. 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew, a five-act play, is usually 
 reduced to three acts, sometimes to two, occasionally to 
 one ! The Comedy of Errors, a five-act play, loses 
 nearly three thousand lines in representation ! 
 
 But who cares ? Who resents these atrocious 
 liberties ? I do and the reader does, but who else ? A 
 few, perhaps, but how many ? Who calls out from the 
 pit to the " star " who deliberately cuts out the last two 
 acts of Henry VIII. because he has no part in it — "You 
 insufferably vain and sacrilegious impostor, how dare 
 you lay your mutilating hand upon the immortal work of 
 a genius whom we revere as we revere our religion '? 
 Restore the fourth and fifth acts of this great play ! 
 Perform them at once, or up go your benches ! " / am 
 in the habit of publicly addressing the star-tragedian in 
 these words, and so is the reader ; but who else does 
 so ? No one else — probably because it is not generally 
 known that two acts have been suppressed. As for the 
 " star," in all probability he has never read those acts. 
 Why should he ? There is no Wolsey in them. 
 
 In truth — and it is a lamentable truth — the popular 
 knowledge of Shakespeare is almost entirely derived 
 from performances of mutilated versions of his plays. 
 Of those plays in their entirety, and of the plays that 
 are seldom or never performed, the mass of Englishmen 
 know little or nothing. 
 
 I will point the moral of this paper with a quotation 
 from the "Players' Preface to the Folio Edition of 
 Shakespeare's plays."
 
 T,2,6 Unappreciated Shakespeare. 
 
 "It is not our province who only gather his workes 
 and give them to you, to praise him. It is yours that 
 reade him. And there we hope, to your divers capa- 
 cities, you will finde enough both to draw and hold you ; 
 for his wit can no more lie hid than it could be lost. 
 Reade him, therefore, and againe, and againe, and if 
 then you do not like him, surely you are in some mani- 
 fest danger, not to understand him."
 
 COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. 
 
 In 1745, Mdlle. Celine was "leading lady" at the 
 Theatre FranQais. She was a very beautiful woman, 
 twenty-five years old, and of irreproachahle character. 
 Mddle. Celine was only her stage name, inasmuch as 
 she was the wife of Philippe de Quillac, late a lieutenant 
 in the Royal Bodyguard, and now an actor of small 
 parts in the theatre of which his wife was a distin- 
 guished ornament. De Quillac was a young man of 
 good family, and of some small fortune. He honestly 
 fell in love with Celine while he was still a lieutenant 
 in the army, and honestly married her, and as a conse- 
 quence of this social down-step (for actors and actresses 
 were held as little better than outcasts in those days), 
 he had to resign his commission. Having nothing 
 better to do, he took to the stage, for which, it must be 
 admitted, he had no special talent. Nevertheless, his 
 own industry, backed by his wife's influence, obtamed 
 for him an engagement at the Fran9ais — a consummation 
 which he had earnestly desired to bring about, in order 
 that he might be constantly at his wife's side. In 
 truth, she stood greatly in need of a protector, for the 
 Due de Richelieu had condescended to make two
 
 00' 
 
 Comedy and Tragedy. 
 
 distinct attempts to carry her away, as she left the stage 
 door. 
 
 Her personal beauty, which was considerable, would 
 probably have been insufficient of itself to incite that 
 distinguished blackguard to take such determined steps ; 
 but her reputation as a spotless woman was a standing 
 insult to him, and he made up his mind to avenge it. 
 He laid siege to her in the orthodox fashion of those 
 clumsy times. He sent her flowers, wdth notes in 
 them. He composed immetrical quatrains in her 
 honour. He obtained access to her at rehearsals, and 
 delivered monstrous compliments, puffed out with com- 
 plicated allegory. He was so obliging as to invite her 
 to supper on many occasions, and on one occasion he 
 carried his condescension so far as to offer to sup with 
 her. These delicate overtures were a source of in- 
 cessant irritation, both to Celine and to her husband. 
 De Quillac sent many challenges to the Due de Riche- 
 lieu, but they were treated with contempt. De Quillac 
 was an actor, and it was impossible for a nobleman of 
 Richelieu's rank to cross swords with him. Eventually 
 Richelieu's attentions became more definite, and they 
 finally culminated in two attempts to carry her off, as 
 she was leaving the theatre after performance. These 
 experiments were made, not by Richelieu himself, but 
 by his servants, who, having no great interest at stake, 
 allowed themselves to be readily defeated by De Quillac 
 and other actors of the theatre. 
 
 These renewed insults, and the impossibility of 
 bringing their instigator to account, rendered De 
 Quillac's life intolerable, and at length he and his wife
 
 Comedy and Tragedy. 339 
 
 determined to lay such a snare for tlieir distinguished 
 enemy as would bring him fairly into De Quillac's 
 power. To achieve this end, Celine gave out that as 
 she found it impossible to get on with her husband, 
 they had resolved to separate. She further explained 
 that a life of respectability was rather a Quixotic end to 
 aim at, and that she had resolved, thenceforward, to see a 
 little more of the world, and to taste a little more freely 
 of its pleasures ; and to this sensible determination she 
 was encouraged by the approval of many distinguished 
 persons of both sexes, whose careers were so strictly in 
 accordance with their proffered advice, that their good 
 faith in giving it was placed beyond suspicion. The 
 news quickly reached liichelieu's ears, and he, also, was 
 pleased to compliment her, in an atrocious ode, on her 
 extreme good sense. This was the more disinterested 
 on his part, as his appetite for the chase was in direct 
 ratio to the difticulty of the country, as he was candid 
 enough to explain to her in the last verse but one. 
 That she might not, however, bo unduly cast down by 
 this information, he assured her, in the last verse, that 
 he intended, despite the facilities that this new order of 
 things seemed to promise, to renew his solicitations at 
 an early opportunity. Celine intimated her determina- 
 tion to signalize her new method of life by a pleasant 
 supper party, to which Itichelieu, and many other 
 eminent debauchees of the Court of Louis XV., were 
 invited. 
 
 The night of the supper arrived, and Celine received 
 her guests in a mlou on the ground lloor of her hotel. 
 Shc! was, to all appearances, in admirable spirits, and 
 
 z 2
 
 ;40 Comedy and Tragedy. 
 
 received them with iutinite good humour. EicheKeu 
 arrived last, and the frankness of her welcome, tempered 
 as it was by a touch of profound respect for his exalted 
 rank, seemed to him to be the very essence of good 
 breeding. Supper was eventually announced, but at 
 this stage Celine pleaded a headache, and on this plea 
 contrived to remain behind. Richelieu, infinitely pained 
 at the news, was so good as to offer to remain with her 
 until she should feel well enough to rejoin her friends — 
 an offer which Celine gratefully accepted. 
 
 Left alone with her, he, as a matter of course, con- 
 doled with her on her affliction, and suggested many 
 remedies, which she pettishly rejected. 
 
 " Bah ! Monsieur le Due, are you so young a hand 
 as not to understand that there are headaches for which 
 a congenial tcte-a-tete is the best remedy ? These 
 friends of yours — they worry me. They talk so much, 
 and they do not talk well. I can listen to you, but not 
 to them." 
 
 "I am infinitely flattered, IMadame, at the com- 
 pliment you are so good as to to pay me. I cannot 
 doubt its good faith, for it is a conclusion that you have 
 arrived at after some deliberation." 
 
 " You allude to the silence with which I have 
 hitherto received your attention. You must remember 
 that I was not a free agent. The acts of a woman who 
 is embarrassed by the incessant presence of a jealous 
 husband must not be judged too strictly. But there, 
 he is gone, and I am to all intents a widow." 
 
 " You would have been a widoAv in very truth, long , 
 since, if I had found it possible to comply with his 

 
 Comedy and Tragedy. 341 
 
 pressing invitations. But what could I do ? Person- 
 ally, I have the profoundest respect for his calling, but 
 in my position I was helpless. Am I forgiven ? " 
 
 And so saying, he took her hand affectionately in 
 his. 
 
 " I did not desire his death, Monsieur, nor do I now. 
 He has done for me all that was necessary; he has 
 gone to Marseilles, and he has pledged his word that 
 he will not return. Nay, Monsieur le Due, be reason- 
 able." 
 
 The Duke had placed his arm round her waist. 
 
 " You must make some allowance. I am hungry — 
 here is a feast. Have I not said grace enough ? " 
 
 " Nay, Monsieur, I cannot allow this. Remove your 
 arm, I pray ; your friends will be returning. If they 
 should see us thus " 
 
 " My friends will not return yet awhile, and when 
 they do they will give us fair notice of their approach. 
 Celine, I love you. Celine, I have waited long and 
 patiently. Celine, I " 
 
 At this point he looked over her shoulder, and saw, 
 standing behind her De Quillac, white and stern, with 
 a drawn sword in his hand. The truth flashed upon 
 Bichelieu in a moment. 
 
 ** This is a trap," said he. 
 
 " It is a trap," replied Celine. 
 
 "It is a trap," repeated De Quillac. "For many 
 months you have grossly insulted my wife, and, througli 
 my wife, myself. I have sent you challenge after 
 challenge, but my messages were ignored by you. 
 Inflamed beyond endurance at the many outrages you
 
 342 Comedy and Tragedy. 
 
 have dared to inflict upon us, we have devised this plan 
 to get you into our power." 
 
 " And this is with your consent, Madame ? " 
 
 ** Entirely." 
 
 *' What do you wish me to do ? " 
 
 " Those doors lead to the garden. You must fight 
 me there, to-night." 
 
 " And if I refuse ? " 
 
 *' I will kill you where you stand." 
 
 " But you are an actor, and, by your profession, pro- 
 scribed. I cannot fight an actor." 
 
 '* Monsieur, I have laboured long and wearily to 
 attain the position which I have just achieved — that of 
 a member of the Theatre Francais. It has been the 
 aim of my ambition, and that long-coveted reward has, 
 within the last few days, been conferred on me. Here 
 is my engagement, signed and sealed. By this act " — 
 and here he tore the paper into two pieces — " I annul 
 my engagement, and I pledge you my honour that 
 under no circumstances will I ever appear on the stage 
 again. Now, M. le Due, I am no longer an actor, and 
 you cannot refuse to meet me." 
 
 " Madame," said Richelieu, turning to Celine, '• I 
 have no desire to injure you or your husband. I have 
 wronged you sufiiciently, and I would willingly make 
 amends. I implore you not to expose your husband to 
 the danger he is courting." 
 
 Celine's lip quivered for a moment ; it was for a 
 moment only. 
 
 *' Monsieur le Due, you must fight my husband." 
 
 "Let me remind you," said the Duke, "that I am
 
 Comedy and T^'agedy. 343 
 
 one of the most skilful swordsmen in France. Let me 
 jilace distinctly before your eyes the fact that in going 
 out with me your husband runs no risk, for he encoun- 
 ters a certainty. I implore you to use your influence 
 to check him, if you have any regard for him, for if I 
 cross swords with him, I assure you, on my honour, that 
 I will kill him." 
 
 Celine was deadly pale, but her resolution did not 
 desert her. 
 
 "Monsieur le Due, you must fight my husband." 
 
 " Good. It shall be as you will. I make but one 
 stipulation — that the fact that I have consented to 
 meet an actor shall never be known to any but 
 ourselves." 
 
 " You have my promise," said De Quillac. 
 
 " And mine," said Celine. 
 
 "Then, sir," said the Duke, "if you will be so good 
 as to lead the way, I will do myself the honour to follow 
 
 you." 
 
 De Quillac turned to his wife, and, taking her in his 
 arms, kissed her fondly. 
 
 "I am ready. Monsieur," said he, 
 
 And the Duke and the actor went through the double 
 doors into the garden. 
 
 At this point the full significance of the Duke's 
 warning seemed to dawn upon her. The loss that she 
 was, almost to a certainty, about to sustain — the know- 
 ledge that this great risk was undertaken on her behalf, 
 with her consent, and almost at her instigation, 
 destroyed the stern stulf of which the woman was 
 made. She rushed to the door that had just closed.
 
 i44 Comedy and 1 rageciy. 
 
 " Philippe ! — come back ! for the love of Heaven, 
 come back ! " 
 
 It was too late, for, through another door came her 
 guests, warmed with wine. With a supreme effort she 
 assumed a thoughtless gaiety of carriage, and entered, 
 almost recklessly into the tone of persiflage which pre- 
 vailed among those who had supped. She felt that it 
 was impossible to be silent — she must say something, 
 or do something incessantly, or her fortitude would 
 assuredly break down. 
 
 " Come, what shall we do ? Have you nothing to 
 propose ? Shall we sing — dance — what shall we do ? 
 But be quick ! I cannot bear delay. Suggest something, 
 for Heaven's sake ." 
 
 Several suggestions were made. Each in turn was 
 eagerly acquiesced in by Celine. At length some one 
 recollected that Celine had a singular faculty for impro- 
 visation. Give her a suitable subject, and she would 
 extemporise a poem upon it, in excellent rhymed Alex- 
 andrines. It was suggested that she should favour the 
 company with an example of her remarkable facility in 
 this respect. 
 
 " With pleasure — anything you please — give me a 
 subject — quick ! quick ! — I cannot wait." 
 
 It was debated among the company whether the sub- 
 ject to be proposed should belong to the domain of 
 Comedy or of Tragedy. Some were for one — some for 
 the other. To Celine, it was a matter of indifference, 
 so that the question was quickly settled. At length a 
 gentleman present solved the difficulty by proposing 
 that she should extemporize in Comedy first, and in
 
 Comeciy and Trao-edy. 345 
 
 tragedy afterwards. Celine was ready — all that she 
 waited for was a subject. 
 
 A comedy-subject was proposed. An unsuccessful 
 lover had surreptitiously obtained access to his mistress's 
 chamber in a woman's disguise. 
 
 It was enough. Celine, in the character of the lady, 
 commenced her improvisation. She detected the impos- 
 ture, and proceeded, in withering terms, to ridicule the 
 contemptible device to which her suitor had resorted. 
 
 At this point, one of the guests — a Monsieur 
 L'Estrange — exclaimed : 
 
 "Hush! I pray your pardon for this interruption; 
 but I am certain I heard a sound of swords clashing in 
 the garden." 
 
 "It is nothing, sir," said Celine. " My servants are 
 amusing themselves. We are enjoying ourselves here — 
 let them have their enjoyment also. It is nothing, I 
 assure you." 
 
 She proceeded with the improvisation. She pointed 
 out to her disguised lover how well a woman's garb 
 befitted such a woman's soul as his, and recommended 
 him to adbere to a costume which he carried with such 
 address. Her manner was buoyant and defiant — per- 
 haps a little too much so ; still everyone was delighted 
 with the exhibition. At a critical point in the verse, 
 L'Estrange, who had been listening at the garden-door, 
 again interrupted her : 
 
 " Madame, I am bound to interrupt you again. The 
 clashing of swords is distinctly audible. I am certain 
 you cannot be aware of what is going on. You must 
 permit me to examine the garden,"
 
 346 Comedy and Tragedy. 
 
 Celine rushed to the door, locked it, and withdrew 
 the key. 
 
 ** It is nothing, Monsieur, I assure you. You must 
 not enter the garden. The fact is, that I am preparing 
 a little surprise for you all, and if you go into the garden 
 at this moment, you will destro}^ everything. Pray 
 permit me to continue." 
 
 So saying, she gave the key of the door to the 
 physician to the theatre, who happened to be among the 
 guests, enjoining him, at the same time, not to part 
 with it on any consideration. 
 
 She attempted to resume her improvisation, but she 
 found it difficult to take up the thread at the point at 
 which it had been broken. It was, in truth, a struggle 
 between Comedy and Tragedy, and Tragedy had the best 
 of it, for a loud exclamation, as from a man in acute 
 pain, broke upon her ear, and her resolution gave way at 
 once. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I cannot go on. It is useless to attempt 
 to disguise my agitation from you. You must see that 
 I am terribly overwrought. Gentlemen, for the love of 
 Heaven, interfere to save my husband. He is in that 
 garden, engaged in a duel with the Due de Richelieu ! 
 The shriek that we all heard was his — he is dying — 
 perhaps dead ! For God's sake interfere to save him, if 
 it be not too late ! " 
 
 And so saying, she endeavoured, but vainly, to 
 break open the door which she had so recently 
 locked. 
 
 At first the guests were alarmed, till they recollected 
 that the exhibition of Comedy was to be succeeded by
 
 Comedy and Tragedy. 347 
 
 one of Tragedy, and they concluded that this was but 
 the fulfilment of the second half of her promise. 
 
 " Admirable ! What passion — what earnestness ! " 
 and a round of applause rang round the room. 
 
 " Gentlemen, pra}^ do not mock me. I am not 
 acting ; I am in earnest. My husband is dying, per- 
 haps dead. For Heaven's love, help him while there is 
 yet time ! " 
 
 A murmur of admiration was the only reply that 
 this appeal elicited. The spectators were as men spell- 
 bound. 
 
 " Doctor, you have the key ; I gave it to you. I love 
 him. He is in deadly peril. Give me the key, I say, 
 give me the key, or I shall die ! " 
 
 It was agreed by all present that Celine had surpassed 
 herself — that is to say, by all but one. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the Doctor, "this lady is not 
 acting ; she is in earnest. See her colour comes and 
 goes." 
 
 " Nonsense, Doctor ! Madame is acting, and acting 
 admirably. Strange that so old a hand as you should 
 be deceived." 
 
 " It would be strange indeed if I were deceived, but 
 I am not. I take upon myself to believe that she is in 
 mortal earnest, and in that belief 1 shall comply with 
 her wish." 
 
 Undeterred by the ridicule with which his resolve 
 was received, he went to the door and unlocked it 
 Celine rushed eagerly towards it, when she saw, standing 
 in the open doorway, her husband, pale, stern, and uu- 
 wounded.
 
 34B Comedy and Tragedy. 
 
 A few hurried whispers passed between them. 
 
 " You are safe ? " 
 
 "lam." 
 
 " And the Duke ? " 
 
 " Wounded to the death." 
 
 With a great effort she recovered her presence of 
 mind, and taking her husband's hand, led him forward. 
 
 " This ladies and gentlemen," said she, "is the little 
 surprise of which I spoke. I am delighted to think 
 that my attempt at improvised Tragedy has met with 
 your cordial approval." 
 
 A prolonged round of applause followed this an- 
 nouncement. It was admitted on all hands that, 
 admirably as she had shone in Comedy, it was in 
 Tragedy that she carried off the palm.
 
 ROSENCEANTZ AND 
 GUILDENSTERN. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS, 
 FOUNDED ON AN OLD DANISH LEGEND. 
 
 Akgument. 
 
 King Claudius, ivJien a young man, wrote a Jive-act 
 tragedy which was damned, and all reference to it for- 
 bidden luider penalty of death. The King has a son — 
 Hamlet — whose tendency to soliloquy has so alarmed his 
 niotlier, Queen Gertrude, that she has sent for Rosen- 
 CRANTZ and Guildenstern, to devise some Court revels 
 for his entertainment. Rosengrantz is a former lover 
 (f Ophelia, to wJiom Hamlet is betrothed, and they lay 
 their heads together to devise a plan by ivhich Hamlei 
 may be put out of the ivay. Some Coivrt tlieatricals are 
 in preparation. Ophelia and Rosengrantz persuade 
 Hamlet to jjlay his father's tragedy before the King and 
 Court. Hamlet, who is unaware of the jJi'oscriplion, 
 does so, and he is banished, and Rosengrantz hapjtUy 
 united to Ophelia.
 
 350 Rosencrantz ctnd Guildenstern. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Interior of King Claudius's Palace. Claudius dis- 
 covered seated in gloomy attitude. Queen Gertrude 
 at his feet, consoling him. 
 
 Q. Nay, be not sad, my lord ! 
 
 Cl. Sad, loved Queen ? 
 
 If by an effort of the will I could 
 EeYoke the ever-present Past — disperse 
 The gaunt and gloomy ghosts of bygone deeds, 
 Or bind them with unperishable chains 
 In caverns of the past incarcerate, 
 Then could I smile again — but not till then ! 
 
 Q. Oh, my dear lord ! 
 If aught there be that gives thy soul unrest, 
 Tell it to me ! 
 
 Cl. Well-loved and faithful wife. 
 
 Tender companion of my faltering life, 
 Yes ; I can trust thee ! Listen then to me : 
 Fifty years since — when but a headstrong lad — 
 I wrote a five -act tragedy ! 
 
 Q. {interested). Indeed? 
 
 Cl. a play, writ by a king — 
 
 Q. And such a King ! — 
 
 Cl. Finds ready market. It was read at once, 
 But ere 'twas read, accepted. Then the Press 
 Teemed with portentous import. Elsinore 
 Was duly placarded by willing hands ;
 
 Rosencrantz and Ginldenstern. 351 
 
 We know that walls have ears — I gave them tongues — 
 And they were eloquent with promises ! 
 
 Q. Even the dead walls ? 
 
 Cl. (solemnly). Aye, the deader they, 
 
 The louder they proclaimed ! 
 
 Q. {appalled). Oh, marvellous ! 
 
 Cl. The day approached — all Denmark stood agape. 
 Arrangements were devised at once by which 
 Seats might be booked a twelvemonth in advance. 
 The first night came ! 
 
 Q. And did the play succeed ? 
 
 Cl. In one sense, yes. 
 
 Q. Oh, I was sure of it ! 
 
 Cl. a farce was given to play the people in — 
 My tragedy succeeded that. That's all ! 
 
 Q. And how long did it run ? 
 
 Cl. About ten minutes ! 
 
 Ere the first act had traced one-half its course 
 The curtain fell — never to rise again ! 
 
 Q. And did the people hiss ? 
 
 Cl. No — w^orsc than that — 
 
 They laughed ! Sick with the shame that covered me, 
 I knelt down palsied in my private box, 
 And prayed the hearsed and catacombed dead 
 Might quit their vaults, and claim me for their own ! 
 But it was not to be ! 
 
 Q. Oh, my good lord, 
 
 The house was surely packed ! 
 
 Cl. It was — l)y me. 
 
 My favourite courtiers crowded every place — 
 From floor to floor the house was peopled by
 
 3^2 
 
 Roseiicrant2 and Guildenstern. 
 
 J 
 
 The sycophantic crew. My tragedy 
 
 Was more than even sycophants could stand ! 
 
 Q. Was it, my lord, so very very had ? 
 
 Cl. Not to deceive my trusting queen, it was ! 
 
 Q. And when the play failed, did'st thou take no 
 steps 
 To set thyself right with the world '? 
 
 Cl. I did. 
 
 The acts were five — though by five acts too long, 
 I wrote an Act by way of epilogue — 
 An Act by which the penalty of death 
 Was meted out to all who sneered at it. 
 The play was not good — but the punishment 
 Of those that laughed at it was Capital. 
 
 Q. Think on't no more, my lord. Now, mark me 
 well ! 
 To cheer our son, whose solitary tastes 
 And tendency to long soliloquy 
 Have much alarmed us, I, unknown to thee, 
 Have sent for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern — 
 Two merry knaves, kin to Polonius, 
 Who will devise such revels in our Court — 
 Such antic schemes of harmless merriment — 
 As shall abstract his meditative mind 
 From sad employment. Claudius, who can tell 
 But that they may divert my lord as well "? 
 Ah, they are here ! 
 
 Enter GuiLDENSTEBX, icho kneels. 
 Guild. My homage to the queen !
 
 Roseitcrantz and Guildenstern. 353 
 
 Enter Rosencrantz. 
 
 Ros. In hot obedience to the Royal 'best 
 We have arrived, prepared to do our best. 
 
 Q. We welcome you to Court. Our chamberlain 
 Shall see that you are suitably disposed. 
 Here is his daughter. She will hear your will 
 And see that it receives fair countenance. 
 
 [Exit King and Queen. 
 
 Enter Ophelia. 
 
 Ros. Ophelia ! [Botli embrace her. 
 
 Oph. {delighted and surprised). Rosencrantz and 
 Guildenstern ! 
 This meeting likes me much. We have not met 
 Since we were babes. 
 
 Ros. The queen has summoned us, 
 
 And I have come in a half-hearted hope 
 That I may claim once more my baby-love ! 
 
 Oph. Alas, I am betrothed ! 
 
 Ros. Betrothed ? To whom ? 
 
 Oph. To Hamlet ! 
 
 Ros. Oh, incomprehensible. 
 
 Thou lovcst Humlct ! 
 
 Oph. Nay, I said not so — 
 
 I said wc were betrothed. 
 
 Guild. And what's he like? 
 
 Oph. Alike for no two seasons at a time. 
 Sometimes he's tall — sometimes he's very short — 
 Now with black hair — now with a flaxen wig— 
 
 A A.
 
 354 Rosencrantz and Gtiildenstern. 
 
 Sometimes an English accent — then a French — 
 Then EugHsh with a strong provincial " burr." 
 Once an American and once a Jew — 
 But Danish never, take him how you will ! 
 And strange to say, whate'er his tongue may be, 
 Whether he's dark or flaxen — English — French — 
 Though we're in Denmark, a. d., ten — six — two — 
 He always dresses as King James the First ! 
 
 Guild. Oh, he is surely mad ! 
 
 Oph. Well, there again 
 
 Opinion is divided. Some men hold 
 That he's the sanest far of all sane men — 
 Some that he's really sane, but shamming mad — 
 Some that he's really mad, but shamming sane — 
 Some that he will be mad, some that he was — 
 Some that he couldn't be. But on the whole 
 (As far as I can make out what they mean) 
 The favourite theory 's somewhat like this : 
 Hamlet is idiotically sane 
 With lucid intervals of lunacy. 
 
 Bos. We must devise some plan to stop this match 
 
 Guild. Stay ! Many years ago, King Claudius 
 Was guilty of a five-act tragedy. 
 The play was damned, and none may mention it 
 Under the pain of death. We might contrive 
 To make him play this piece before the king. 
 And take the consequence. 
 
 Bos. Impossible ! 
 
 For every copy was destroyed. 
 
 Oph. But one ! 
 
 My father's !
 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 355 
 
 RoL. Eh ? 
 
 Oph. In his capacity 
 
 As Chamberlain he has one copy. I 
 This night, when all the Court is drowned in sleep, 
 Will creep with stealthy foot into his den 
 And there abstract the precious manuscript. 
 
 Guild. That's well-bethought, in truth ! but take 
 good heed. 
 Your father may detect you. 
 
 Oph. Oh, dear, no. 
 
 My father spends his long official days 
 In reading all the rubbishing new plays. 
 From ten to four at work he may be found : 
 And then — my father sleeps exceeding sound ! 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Apartment in the Castle. Chair 11. 
 Enter Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 (l- Have you as yet planned aught that may relievo 
 Our poor afflicted son's despondency '? 
 
 Ilos. Madam, we've lost no time. Alicady wo 
 Are getting up some Court theatricals 
 In which the Piince will play a leading part. 
 
 Q. That's well-bethought— it will divert liis mind. 
 Sec — here he comes. 
 
 A A '1
 
 ;56 Rosenc7'antz and Guildenstern. 
 
 Eos. How gloomily he stalks ! 
 
 As one o'erwhelmed with weight of bitter care. 
 He thrusts his hand into his bosom — thus — 
 Starts — looks around — then, as if reassured, 
 Rumples his hair and rolls his glassy eyes ! 
 
 Q. (ajyjxilled). That means — he's going to solilo- 
 quize. 
 Prevent this, gentlemen, by any means ! 
 
 (tuild. We will, but how ? 
 
 Q. Anticipate his points, 
 
 And follow out his argument for him ; 
 Thus will you cut the ground from 'neatli his feet 
 And leave him nought to say. 
 
 Ivos. and Guild. We v/ill ! — we will ! 
 
 Q. A mother's blessing be upon you, sirs ! [E.vif. 
 
 lios. Now, Guildenstern, apply thee to this task. 
 
 Enter Hamlet ; he stalks to chair, throws himself 
 into it. 
 
 Ham. To be — or not to be ! 
 
 Pios. {R. of Chair). Yes — that's the point! 
 
 Whether he's bravest who will cut his throat 
 Eatlier than suSfer all — 
 
 Guild, {L. of Chair). Or suffer all 
 Eather than cut his throat '? 
 
 Ham. {annoyed at interruption, resumes). To die — 
 to sleep 
 
 Eos. It's nothing more — Death is but sleep spun 
 out — 
 Why hesitate ? [Ofers Jiim a dagger.
 
 Rosencrantz and Gtnldenstern. 357 
 
 Guild. The only question is 
 
 Between the choice of deaths which death to choose. 
 
 \0ffeY8 another. 
 Ham. {in great terror). Do take those dreadful things 
 away. They make 
 My blood run cold. (Resumes.) To sleep, perchance 
 to— 
 Ros. Dream. 
 
 That's very true. I never dream myself, 
 But Guildenstern dreams all night long out loud. 
 Guild. With blushes, sir, I do confess it true ! 
 Ham. This question, gentlemen concerns me not. 
 (Resumes.) For who would bear the whips and scorns 
 
 of time 
 
 Ros. {as f/uessinff a riddle). Who'd bear the whips 
 and scorns ? Now let me see. 
 Who'd bear them, eh ? 
 
 Guild, {same hnsi)iess). Who'd bear the scorns of 
 
 time? 
 Ros. {correcting Jiim). The /rhi2)s and scorns. 
 Guild. The whips and scorns, of course. 
 
 [Hamlet about to jtrotest. 
 Don't tell us — let us guess — the whips of time ? 
 Ham. Oh, sirs, this interruption likes us not. 
 I pray you give it up. 
 
 Ros. ]\Iy lord, we do. 
 
 We cannot tell ivho Ijcuvs these whips and scorns! 
 Ham. {not heeding iJicni, resumes). " ]>ut that the 
 
 dread of sometliing after death " 
 
 Ros. That's true — post mortem and the coroner — 
 J''elo-de-se — cross roads at twelve p.m. —
 
 35 8 Rosencrantz and Guildensfern. 
 
 And then the forfeited life policy — ■ 
 Exceedingly unpleasant. 
 
 Ham. {really angry). Gentlemen, 
 It must be patent to the merest dunce 
 Three persons can't soliloquize at once. 
 
 [RosExcRANTZ and Guildenstern retire up,. 
 (Aside.) They're playing on me ! Playing upon me 
 Who am not fashioned to be played upon ! 
 Show them a pipe — a thing of holes and stops 
 Made to be played on — and they'll shrink abashed 
 
 And swear they have not skill on tliat ! Now mark 
 
 (/I lond.) Rosencrantz ! Here ! 
 
 [Producing a jiute as Rosencrantz comes don-u^ 
 Exit Guild. 
 
 This is a well-toned flute ; 
 Play me an air upon it. Do not say 
 You know not hoiv ! [Sneeringly.. 
 
 Ros. Nay, but I do know how. 
 
 I'm rather good upon the flute — Observe — 
 
 [Plays on elaborate '^ roulade.''' 
 Ham. {snatching it from him, 'peevishly). Bah — every- 
 thing goes wrong! 
 
 [Throws himself into a chair as if buried in 
 soliloquy. 
 
 Enter Ophelia ivhite with terror. 
 Oph. Rosencrantz ! 
 Ros. , Well ? 
 
 Oph. I've found the manuscript, 
 
 But never put me to such work again ! 
 
 Ros. Why, what has happened that you tremble so ?'
 
 Rosencrantz ajid Guildenstern. 359 
 
 OpH. Last night I stole down from my room alone 
 And sought my father's den. I entered it ! 
 The clock struck twelve, and then — oh, horrible ! — 
 From chest and cabinet there issued forth 
 The mouldy spectres of five thousand plays, 
 All dead and gone — and many of them damned ! 
 I shook with horror ! They encompassed me. 
 Chattering forth the scenes and parts of scenes 
 ^^'hich my poor father wisely had cut out — 
 Oh, horrible — oh 'twas most horrible ! 
 
 [Covering her face. 
 
 Res. What was't they uttered ? 
 
 Oph. (severely). I decline to say. 
 
 The more I heard the more convinced was I 
 My father acted most judiciouslij ! 
 Let that suffice thee. 
 
 Ros. Give me then the play, 
 
 And I'll submit it to the Prince. 
 
 Opii. But stay, 
 
 I )o not appear to urge him — hold him back. 
 Or he'll decline to play the piece — I know him. 
 
 Ham. {iclio lias been soliloquizing under his breath). 
 And lose the name of action ! [Rises. 
 
 Why what's that ? 
 
 Ros. Wc have been looking through some dozen 
 plays 
 To ihid one suited to our company. 
 This is, my lord, a live-act tragedy. 
 'Tis called " Gonzago " — but it will not serve — 
 "L'is very long. 
 
 Ham. (interested) . Is there a part for me ?
 
 360 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 Oph. There is, my lord, a most important part — 
 A mad Archbishop who becomes a Jew 
 To spite his diocese. 
 
 Ham. That's ver}^ good ! 
 
 Eos. {taking MS.). Here you go mad — and then, 
 soHloquize : 
 Here you are the sane again — and then you don't : 
 
 Then, later on, you stab your aunt, because 
 
 Well, I can't tell you 7vhy you stab your aunt, 
 But still — you stab her. 
 
 Ham. That is quite enough. 
 
 Ros. Then you become the leader of a troop 
 Of Greek banditti — and soliloquize — 
 After a long and undisturbed career 
 Of murder (tempered by soliloquy) 
 You see the sin and folly of your ways 
 And offer to resume your diocese ; 
 But, just too late — for, terrible to tell, 
 As you're repenting (in soliloquy) 
 The bench of bishops seize you unawares 
 And blow you from a gun ! 
 
 Ham. That's excellent. 
 
 That's very good indeed — we'll play this piece. 
 
 Oph. But pray consider — all the other parts 
 Are insignificant. 
 
 Ham. What matters that ? 
 
 We'll play this piece. 
 
 Ros. The plot's impossible. 
 
 And all the dialogue bombastic stuft'. 
 
 Ham. I tell you, sir, that we will play this piece. 
 Bestir yourselves about it, and engage
 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenslern. ^6 1 
 
 O' 
 
 All the most fairly famed tragedians 
 
 To play the small parts — as tragedians should. 
 
 A mad Archbishop ! Yes, that's very good ! 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Roovi in the Palace prepared for a Stage performance. 
 
 Enter King Claudius and Queen, meeting 
 Rosencrantz. 
 
 Q. A fair good morrow to you, Rosencrantz. How 
 march the Royal revels ? 
 
 Ros. Lamely, madam, lamely, like a one-lcggcd 
 duck. The Prince has discovered a strange play. He 
 hath called it "A Right Reckoning Long Delayed." 
 
 Cl. And of what fashion is the Prince's play ? 
 
 Ros. 'Tis an excellent poor tragedy, my Lord — a 
 thing of shreds and patches welded into a form that 
 hath mass without consistency, like an ill-huilt 
 villa. 
 
 Q. But, sir, you should have used your best en- 
 deavours to wean his phantasy from such a play. 
 
 Ros. Madam, I did, and with some success, for he 
 now soeth the absurdity of its tragical catastrophes, and 
 laughs at it as freely as we do. So, albeit the poor 
 author had liopcd to have drawn tears of sympathy, the
 
 362 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 l*rince has resolved to present it as a piece of pompous 
 folly intended to excite no loftier emotion than laughter 
 and surprise. Here comes the Royal Tragedian with his 
 troop. \JLnter Hamlet and Players. 
 
 Ham. Good morrow, sir. This is our company of 
 players. They have come to town to do honour and 
 add completeness to our revels. 
 
 Cl. Good sirs, we welcome you to Elsinore. 
 Prepare you now — we are agog to taste 
 The intellectual treat in store for us. 
 
 Ham. We are ready, sir. But before we begin, I 
 Avould speak a word to you who are to play this 
 piece. I have chosen this play in the face of sturdy 
 opposition from my well-esteemed friends, Avho were for 
 playing a piece with less bombastick fury and more 
 frolick. But I have thought this a fit play to be pre- 
 sented by reason of that very pedantical bombast and 
 windy obtrusive rhetoric that they do rightly despise. For 
 I hold that there is no such antick fellow as your bom- 
 bastical hero who doth so earnestly spout forth his folly 
 as to make his hearers believe that he is unconscious of 
 all incongruity ; whereas, he who doth so mark, label, 
 and underscore his antick speeches as to shoAv that he 
 is alive to their absurdity, seemeth to utter them under 
 protest, and to take part with his audience against 
 himself. For which reason, I pray you, let there be no 
 huge red noses, nor extravagant monstrous wigs, nor 
 coarse men garbed as women in this comi-tragedy ; for 
 such things are as much as to say, "I am a comick 
 fellow — I pray you laugh at me, and hold what I say to 
 be cleverly ridiculous." Such labelling of humour is
 
 Rosencra7itz and Gicildenstern. 363. 
 
 ill! impertinence to your audience, for it seemetli to imply 
 that they are unable to recognise a joke unless it be 
 pointed out to them. I pray you avoid it. 
 
 FiKST Player. Sir, we are beholden to you for your 
 i>ood counsels. But we would urge upon your con- 
 sideration that we are accomplished players, who have 
 spent many years in learning our profession ; and we 
 would venture to suggest that it would better befit your 
 Lordship to confine yourself to such matters as your 
 Lordship may be likely to understand. We, on our 
 part, may have our own ideas as to the duties of heirs 
 apparent ; but it would ill become us to air them before 
 your Lordship, who may be reasonably supposed to 
 understand such matters more perfectly than your very 
 humble servants. 
 
 [Exeunt Hamlet and Players R. and L. 
 
 Cl. Come let us take our places. Call the Court 
 That all may sec this fooling. Here's a chair 
 
 [TJic Court enter. 
 In which I shall find room to roll about 
 When laughter takes possession of my soul. 
 Now we arc ready. 
 
 The Ciniain rises. — Enter a loving couple lovingly. 
 
 She. " Should'st thou prove faithless ? 
 
 He. If I do 
 
 Then let the world forget to woo, 
 The mountain tops bow down in fears, 
 The midday sun dissolve in tears,
 
 364 Rosencrantz mtd Gttildenstern. 
 
 And outraged nature, pale and bent, 
 Fall prostrate in bewilderment ! " 
 
 \A\l titter through tlds — hreaking into a laiigii 
 at the end, the King enjoying it as much 
 as anyone. 
 Oph. Truly, sir, I hope lie will prove faithful, lest 
 Tve should all be involved in this catastrophe ! 
 
 Cl. {laughing). Much indeed depends upon his con- 
 stancy. I am sure he hath all our prayers, gentlemen ! 
 {Aside to Rosenceantz.) Is this play well known ? 
 Eos. It is not, my lord. 
 
 Cl. Ha ! I seem to have met with these lines before. 
 <jro on. 
 
 She. " Hark, dost thou hear those trumpets and 
 drums ? 
 Thy hated rival, stern Gonzago, comes ! " 
 
 {^Laughter, as he/ore. 
 Q. And wherefore cometh Gonzago? 
 Eos. He cometh here to woo ! 
 
 Q. Cannot he woo without an orchestra at his elbow? 
 A fico for such a wooing, say I ! 
 
 Cl. {ratlicr alarmed — aside to Eos.). Who /s 
 Gonzago ? 
 
 Eos. He's a mad Archbishop of Elsinore. 'Tis a 
 most ridiculous and mirthful character — and the more 
 so for that the poor author had hoped to have aj)palled 
 jou with his tragedical end ! 
 
 [During this the King has shown that he lias 
 recognized his tragedy. He is horriiicd 
 at the discovery.
 
 Rosencrantz and G2iildenstern. 365 
 
 Enter Hamlet as Archhisliop. {All laugh except 
 the King, who is miscmUe.) 
 
 Ham. " Free from the cares of Church and State 
 I come to wreak my love and hate. 
 Love whirls me to the lofty skies — 
 Hate drags me where dark Pluto lies ! " 
 
 [All laiujh except King. 
 
 i}. ^larry, but he must have a nice time of it between 
 them ! Oh, sir, this passeth the bounds of ridicule, and 
 to think that these lines were to have drawn our tears ! 
 
 Oph. Truly mine eyes run with tears, but they are 
 begotten of laughter ! 
 
 Ham. Gently, gently. Spare your ridicule, lest j^ou 
 have none left for the later scenes. The tragedy is full 
 of such windy fooling. You shall hear more anon. There 
 are five acts of this ! [All groan. 
 
 (Resumes). "For two great ends I daily fume — 
 The altar and the deadly tomb. 
 How can I live in such a state 
 And hold my Arch-Episcopate ? " 
 
 Ros. {exhausted with laugliter). Oh, my lord — I pray 
 you end this or I shall die with laughter ! 
 
 Q. {ditto). Did mortal ever hear such metrical folly ! 
 Stop it, my good lord, or I shall assuredly do myself 
 some injury. 
 
 Oph. (ditto). Oh, sir — prithee have mercy on us — 
 we have laughed till we can laugh no more ! 
 
 Ham. The drollest scene is coming now. 
 Listen
 
 366 Rosencrantz and Gztildenstern. 
 
 Cl. {rises). Stop ! [Hamlet about to resume. 
 
 Stop, I say — cast off those mum- 
 meries ! 
 Come hither, Hamlet ! 
 
 Ham. {takes off robes and comes clown). AVhy Avhat 
 ails you, sir ? 
 
 Cl. {until suppressed fiu'ij). Know'st thou who wrote 
 this play ? 
 
 Ham. Not I, indeed. 
 
 Nor do I care to know ! 
 
 Cl. I wrote this play — 
 
 To mention it is death, hy Denmark's law ! 
 
 Q. Oh, spare him, for he is thine only child ! 
 
 Cl. No — I have two — my son — my play — both 
 worthless ! 
 Both shall together perish ! [Draws dafjger. 
 
 Ham. {on his knees). Hold thine hand ! 
 
 I can't bear death — I'm a philosopher ! 
 
 Oph. Apollo's sou, Lycaeus, built a fane 
 At Athens, where philosophers dispute : 
 'Tis known as the " Lyceum." Send him there, 
 He will find such a hearty welcome, sir, 
 That he will stay there, goodness knows how long ! 
 
 Cl. Well, be it so — and, Hamlet, get you gone ! 
 
 [He (joes to the Lijeeum, uhere he is mueh 
 esteemed. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
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