THE 
 
 CURATE OF CRANSTON, 
 
 ETC., ETC.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY WOODFALL AND KINDER, 
 A.KQEL COURT, SKINNER STREET. 
 

 
 THE 
 
 Curate of Cranston; 
 
 Dt&et 
 
 anu CtJerse, 
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " MR. VERDANT GREEN," " GLENCREGGAN," ETC., ETC. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO., 
 
 66, BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE. 
 1862.
 
 TO THE EEADEK, 
 
 THE Tales of "The Curate of Cranston" and " Ma- 
 reli," together with some other pieces, are here printed 
 for the first time. The remaining Prose and Verse 
 articles have appeared, during the last fifteen years, in 
 the publications indicated in the following Table of 
 Contents.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE Curate of Cranston 1 
 
 A Small Water-Party (Illustrated News, 1855) ... 52 
 
 - " Victoria Kegia " (Illustrated News, 1856) .... 69 
 Foreign Airs and Native Graces (Literary Budget, 1861) . 73 
 The Spring of Life (Hogg's Instructor, 1856) ... 77 
 To , on her Birthday 80 
 
 ~ The Literary Abuse of Adjectives (Literary Budget, 1861) . 81 
 The Kingfisher (Sharpe's Magazine, 1853) .... 86 
 
 Misletoe Morning (Illustrated News, 1855) .... 87 
 
 --The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish (Once a Week, 1860) . 89 
 The Christmas Tree (Illustrated News, 1856) . . .111 
 
 ~~ Misses of Modem Literature (Literary Budget, 1861) . . 115 
 The Torch-Speech (Bentley's Miscellany, 1847) . . .123 
 
 A Wish (Bentley's Miscellany, 1848) 125 
 
 Literary and Artistic Profiles (Literary Budget, 1861) . . 127 
 Social Silhouettes (Literary Budget, 1861) . . . .133 
 The Praises of Colonos (Bentley's Miscellany, 1847) . . 140 
 Somebody's Eyes (Bentley's Miscellany, 1846) . . . 144 
 
 - Mareli ; or, the Best Way of Getting Over a Difficulty . . 145 
 
 - Syringaline (The Months : by Albert Smith) . . . .180 
 Potted Knowledge (Literary Budget, 1861) . . . .193 
 
 The Heart's Misgivings (Bentley's Miscellany, 1846) . . 200 
 
 Acrostic Charades (Illustrated News, 1856) .... 205 
 
 The Old Window-Sefc<fWc&er's Pocket-Book, 1858) . . 219 
 
 Moonrise /(Odd Fellow's Quarterly Magazine, 1858) . . 223
 
 viii Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Storm-Spirits (Odd Fellows' Quarterly Magazine, 1858) . 224 
 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts (Illustrated London Magazine, 1854) 225 
 The Wanton Sunbeam (Benttey' 8 Miscellany, 1847) . . 235 
 Spring-Tide (Kentley's Miscellany, 1853) . . . .236 
 
 Siddoniana (Titan, 1857) 238 
 
 Mrs. Septimus Brown 261 
 
 Jupon Squelette ; or, " The Skeleton Petticoat " . . . 263 
 The Literature of the Shop (Once a Week, 1861) . . .265 
 
 Fanny's Mirror 273 
 
 The Old Tomb in the Abbey (Hogg's Instructor, 1854) . 275 
 The Agreeable Monk (Once a Week, 1861) . . . .277 
 
 The Hangman's Show. 291 
 
 Murder-Worship (Punch, 1849) 294 
 
 Eternal Waggoners (Illustrated London Magazine, 1855) . 295 
 The Lady and the Spaniels . . .. . . . .302 
 
 The Hall and Cottage Door, on Christmas Eve (Illustrated 
 
 News, 1859) 307 
 
 Out ! (Illustrated London Magazine, 1855) .... 309 
 The Water-Lily (Bentley's Miscellany, 1848) . . . .324 
 Oak-Felling and Barking (Illustrated News, 1856) . . 325 
 Literary Ladies' Pen Money (Literary Budget, 1861) . . 331 
 The Hero and the Maiden (Hogg's Instructor, 1856) . . 337
 
 THE 
 
 CURATE OF CRANSTON, 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CRANSTON AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 You would more readily have found Cranston in the 
 county map, than in the county itself. It was a 
 leading peculiarity of its situation that it was eight 
 miles distant from everywhere from every town, at 
 least, that aspired to the dignity of holding a market, 
 and electing its own mayor and corporation. But, 
 although it was the centre of a system of towns, the 
 roads in and around Cranston were in so decided a 
 state of nature, that the parish was virtually cut off 
 from all connection with the outer world, except in 
 one direction, where the accident of a road that, by 
 Cranston courtesy, might be called tolerably good, 
 had decided the Cranston people in the selection of 
 Closeborough as their peculiar metropolis. Their 
 connection with Closeborough was certainly not of 
 
 B
 
 2 Tie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 an over-intimate kind ; for it was limited to one day 
 in the week. This was on the Saturdays, when the 
 Cranston farmers drove to Closeborough in that 
 singular species of vehicle which Sydney Smith 
 called the " pre-adamite buggy," and there munched 
 wheat out of little bags that might have been the 
 money-bags from the bank of Nature ; and felt beasts 
 in those portions of their anatomy which were des- 
 tined to be covered with fat j and discussed the merits 
 of " this here ship," and " that there ship/' as though 
 they had been British sailors instead of Cranston 
 sheep-farmers ; and in bar-parlours and over glasses 
 of heady ale and fiery brandy-and-water, talked about 
 mangles, and wuts, and stock, and the rise and fall 
 of markets, and the shortcomings of landlords, and 
 the outgoings of business, until it was time for them 
 to drive their farmeresses back to Cranston. On these 
 occasions, they carried off the Closeborough penny 
 paper, which supplied them daily with homoeopathic 
 doses of literary food, until the Saturday again came 
 round. 
 
 In addition to the pre-adamite buggies, and a 
 donkey that dragged its cart along as slowly as though 
 it were a needless Alexandrine, there was an indigenous 
 carrier, of a hopefully-speculative turn of mind, who, 
 every Saturday, undertook the overland route to
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 3 
 
 Closeborough, and obtained the fitful patronage of the 
 Cranston population in the matter of butter, eggs, 
 and poultry. With the exception of that slight flut- 
 tering towards intellectual activity which may have 
 been occasioned by an attentive perusal of the Close- 
 borough penny paper, the Cranston mind remained 
 in a dormant state, from the close of one Saturday 
 to the dawn of another ; but on market days it was 
 roused from its customary lethargy, and, for a few 
 hours of unwonted bustle and noise, opened its eyes 
 and ears to the varied sights and sounds with which 
 on all sides it was deafened and bewildered. While 
 the masculine mind of Cranston was surrendered to 
 agricultural matters, and the contemplation of new 
 scarifiers and steam-cultivators, the feminine intellect 
 was chiefly devoted to the drapery establishments, 
 with their decided bargains and fashionable novelties 
 in bonnet-ribbons and flowers for cap-borders. The 
 enervating effect produced upon the Cranston mind, 
 both male and female, by this strain upon its intellec- 
 tual faculties, was evidenced, not only by the majority 
 of the male Cranstonians leaving Closeborough in 
 that fuddled state locally known as " market peert," 
 but also by the general lassitude displayed on the fol- 
 lowing day by those who attended the services at 
 Cranston Church. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 It was not that the Curate was dull in his preaching, 
 or low in his delivery; for, on the contrary, the Rev. 
 Hugh Raymond had a voice that could be heard by 
 the aged and half-deaf; and he not only read the 
 prayers distinctly and impressively, but he also 
 preached a plain and not too-long sermon, in a tongue 
 that could be " understanded of the people." It 
 clearly was not the Curate's fault if the majority of 
 his congregation deliberately closed their eyes, as a 
 preparatory measure to nodding their heads, whenever 
 they sat down, whether their session was short or long, 
 or during the lessons, prayers, or sermon. Their 
 somnolence had become a fixed habit, and, because it 
 was a pleasant one, was not to be abandoned at the 
 mere suggestion of a stranger. For, the Curate fre- 
 quently admonished them on this subject in private 
 and friendly visits; and sometimes would pleasantly 
 say to them, " I hope you will have a better night's 
 rest to-night than you could have had last Saturday 
 night; or else you may sleep as much over your work 
 to-morrow, as you did during the service last Sunday 
 morning/' But pleasantries were lost on people who 
 were incapable of seeing the point of a joke, unless it 
 was of a breadth and calibre equivalent to the " Facetiae " 
 and American anecdotes weekly printed for their special 
 amusement in a certain column of the Closeborough
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 5 
 
 penny paper; and admonitions, however kind and 
 forcible, were of no avail in breaking through a 
 custom on which the Cranston mind had fastened with 
 tenacious perseverance many a long year before Hugh 
 Raymond had set foot in the parish. If he could 
 have kept his congregation standing through the 
 service, or if he could have changed the market- day 
 from the Saturday to the Monday, he might have had 
 a chance of preaching to people who opened their eyes, 
 if not their hearts and minds. But, as it was, the 
 excitement of the Closeborough market-day was 
 probably too much for them, and the reaction on the 
 morrow was in keeping with the local characteristics 
 of the parish. 
 
 For, Cranston was a sort of sleepy hollow ; a. spot 
 whose physical features had apparently infected the 
 people with a kindred dulness. From the force of cir- 
 cumstances, it seemed as though a drowsy sluggishness 
 of intellect was indigenous to the tillers of the Cranston 
 soil; and with whatever fork the Curate might en- 
 deavour to expel this dulness of their nature, neverthe- 
 less it would return. It was a down-looking, poverty- 
 stricken, ague-loving place, lying in a swampy valley 
 where rheumatism held its sway, arid into which the 
 agricultural enlightenment of deep draining had not yet 
 penetrated. It was the centre of a labyrinth of narrow
 
 6 Tlie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 rutty lanes that wound their devious courses between 
 tall banks and hedge-rows, and were muddy even in a 
 summer's drought. A wide stretch of open common 
 extended from Cranston in an easterly direction, and 
 afforded but very scanty pasturage to the sheep and 
 cattle that were condemned to seek their livelihood 
 amid its rushy bogs ; and, on the far side of the com- 
 mon was an outlying hamlet of the parish of Cran- 
 ston a hamlet which had been lying out for so long a 
 time in this desolate region that its air of mingled 
 melancholy and wildness was not to be wondered at. 
 Here, in the very midst of the bleak bare landscape, a 
 few miserable cottages were huddled together as though 
 for friendly warmth and fellowship. 
 
 Down in Cranston itself, the houses were dotted 
 about irregularly, chiefly in detachments of twos and 
 threes, with, here and there, an attenuated farm-house, 
 in keeping with the poverty of the district ; and over 
 everything was an air of damp, decay, and mildew. 
 In the very centre of the swampy hollow, was the 
 Church. It dated from early Norman days, and, after 
 nourishing for many centuries, had begun to give way be- 
 fore the storms of time, when, in its utter helplessness, 
 it had been compelled to endure sad indignities at the 
 hands of iconoclastic churchwardens ; and it now pre- 
 sented such a heterogeneous mass of Norman mouldings,
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 7 
 
 sash windows, wooden mullions, brick buttresses, high 
 pews, and omnipresent whitewash, that if ever such an 
 out-of-the-way place had been visited by an architectural 
 and ecclesiological society, its members would have been 
 disposed to assume complimentary mourning for the 
 ruthless destruction of what had once been so perfect 
 and beautiful. 
 
 Such was the church and the parish to which 
 Hugh Raymond had devoted those four important 
 years of his life, which closed with his thirtieth birth- 
 day. He had flung himself into his work with an 
 energy that had outlived rheumatic fevers, and was 
 neither to be subdued by damp and mildew, nor the 
 coldness of the place and people. No clergyman had 
 hitherto lived among them; there was no resident 
 squire or farmers of the better class, and the poorer 
 sort of Cranston, comprising, indeed, the whole of 
 the parishioners, had been allowed to lie undisturbed 
 in their swampy hollow for so long a time, that their 
 sluggish natures seemed to resent any benevolent 
 efforts to stir them up to a little warmer life and feel- 
 ing. Indeed, they appeared to regard the Curate's 
 well-meant exertions to bring about something like 
 a reciprocity of friendship, as an interference on that 
 gentleman's part which could only be overlooked from 
 the consideration that it was his trade, and that he
 
 8 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 was paid for doing it. If they went to sleep in their 
 high pews with tolerable frequency, and were punctual 
 in their payments to the clothing and coal clubs that 
 Hugh Raymond had established for their benefit and 
 of which, for the first year, they entertained an idea 
 that the deposits were converted to his own purposes 
 they considered that they had fulfilled their duties 
 to their parson, and that more could not be reasonably 
 expected of them. 
 
 But, unfortunately for the Curate's serenity of 
 mind, he expected more. He had brought to his 
 sacred calling all the depth and strength of his na- 
 ture. His was a naturally fervid temperament, that 
 made him dissatisfied unless he could perceive some 
 outward show of that friendly sentiment towards him 
 which he daily endeavoured to draw forth ; and, above 
 all, some slight evidence of that improved state of 
 religious feeling which he laboured so zealously to 
 kindle in their breasts. Week after week, and month 
 after month, he smote upon those stony rocks without 
 one responsive gush not such, at least, as he looked 
 for. But he had the highest motives to incite him to 
 perseverance in his apparently thankless duties; and 
 he was not to be overcome by present discouragement. 
 His was the task to sow the seed in the field that had 
 been appointed to him, whether it was cast on ,stones
 
 Tlie Curate of Cranston. 9 
 
 or amid thorns : and tie waited hopefully for the fruit- 
 ful evidences of that which may have been sown 
 upon the good ground. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 CRANSTON'S CURATE AND HIS BELONGINGS. 
 
 WHENEVER the Curate of Cranston felt himself over- 
 come by the melancholy miasma of the place, and 
 sorely inclined to think within himself, " How much 
 longer must my health and strength be expended on 
 those who heed not the outlay, and seem none the 
 better for it ? How much longer must I remain in a 
 parish where I am cut off from so much that is con- 
 genial to my tastes ?" whenever despondency in- 
 duced him to soliloquize after this fashion, then there 
 would come the thought of his widowed mother, and 
 he would beat down his dispiriting fancies, and say, 
 " Here is my lot ; my path is clearly marked out for 
 me ; let me only strive to walk in it cheerfully, and to 
 do my duty to God and man." And that same day, 
 perhaps, he would send such a letter home to the dis- 
 tant county, where, with, her niece, his mother lived 
 in humble retirement, that the widow's eyes would 
 
 B 3
 
 io The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 swim with tears of joy, and she would say to her com- 
 panion, " Oh, Margaret ! what a comfort it is to 
 think that dear Hugh is so happy." Margaret may 
 have had reasons of her own for knowing the truth of 
 the matter ; but, whatever her reasons were, she did 
 iiot impart them to her aunt, whose imaginary pic- 
 tures of Cranston and its inhabitants were as far diffe- 
 rent to the dull realities sketched in the preceding 
 chapter, as many of the works of Turner's rainbow 
 pencil were to the scenes which they professed to de- 
 pict. 
 
 Yes : in that widowed mother's home lay the chief 
 reason for Hugh Raymond's four years' servitude at 
 Cranston. It was a curacy of one hundred and eight 
 pounds a-year ! almost as much as many a skilled 
 mechanic could obtain ! and if he were to resign it, 
 he might wait for many years ere he could light upon 
 such another windfall. Most fortunate, indeed, had he 
 accounted himself to be able to obtain it, a blessing 
 to be acknowledged thankfully and humbly in private 
 prayer, and on bended knee ; and very grateful was he 
 to his father's old college friend, Sir Marmaduke 
 Wrighton, for having recommended him to his present 
 rector. True it was that the rector being non-resi- 
 dent and the inhabitants of Cranston being over a 
 certain number was obliged to pay that large sum to
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 1 1 
 
 his curate, according to the census of souls ; but this 
 was so much the better for the Curate, who took all 
 the duties and the entire responsibility of the parish ; 
 for, otherwise, he might have had to do nearly as 
 much work for far less money. So it was a mutual 
 benefit. The Curate received an unusually large sti- 
 pend, and the rector was enabled to live (for his wife's 
 health, of course,) in a distant parish, whose scenery 
 and society were more attractive than the persons and 
 places in and around Cranston, and only came to 
 Hugh Raymond's parish on tithe-days, for the purpose 
 of carrying off the five hundred and odd pounds that 
 formed his share of the proceeds of the living. 
 
 On these half-yearly occasions, the curate received 
 his rector's cheque for fifty-four pounds; and, for 
 four-and-twenty hours, at least, could feel himself 
 a man of capital ; though the pleasure was somewhat 
 alloyed by the fear lest this sum (which was the repre- 
 sentative of so many necessaries and comforts for his 
 mother and cousin) should make itself wings and flee 
 away before he could take that weary eight-mile walk, 
 and lodge it in the Closeborough Bank. There was 
 always a great mixture of pride and humility about 
 this transaction ; pride in having a banking account 
 and a cheque-book, humility in the sum deposited 
 being so small, and drawn out so speedily, that the ac-
 
 12 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 cumulated interest would seldom have exceeded five 
 shillings. When the Curate drew out ten pounds for 
 his immediate wants, and was asked how he would 
 have it, "In gold or notes?" there was a peculiar 
 humility in his invariable reply, " A pound's worth 
 of silver, and nine sovereigns if you can spare them." 
 And the grey-headed clerk, interrupted in his task of 
 tying up five hundred sovereigns in a bag, would 
 smile grimly as he replied, "I think we can spare 
 them;" and would dribble them from a great copper 
 scoop that shovelled out pecks of sovereigns and half- 
 sovereigns as though they had been of no more value 
 than peas and beans. 
 
 If the Curate of Cranston occasionally desponded 
 when he reflected upon his solitary lot, and the lack of 
 congenial society, he would soon console himself by 
 the thought that, in his present course of life, he was 
 saving money for his mother and cousin. If he had 
 been obliged to mix much in society, it would have en- 
 tailed upon him many expenses that he was now able 
 to avoid. And if his curacy had been in a town 
 or city, he would not only have been compelled to sub- 
 scribe to all the local charities, but would have been 
 looked upon by every needy person as their specially- 
 appointed almoner; every beggar's hand would have 
 been against him, and his own hand would have been
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 13 
 
 continually in his pocket, as the saying is ; though, 
 unlike the charity of many people, which takes their 
 hand to their pocket only to leave it there, the 
 Curate would have drawn forth his closed upon a 
 piece of money, which would be transferred to the 
 person who had traded upon his sympathy. In a 
 town, too, he would have been constrained to live in 
 more expensive lodgings than those two small, low 
 rooms in the cottage at Cranston, which he found to be 
 quite large and lofty enough for all his immediate 
 needs. 
 
 Besides the present support of his mother and 
 cousin, or rather, of his mother, for his cousin 
 earned her own livelihood, Hugh Raymond had 
 another motive for economy, and for endeavouring to 
 accumulate in the Closeborough Bank that little store 
 which, originally dwarfed in its dimension, had obsti- 
 nately refused to grow to any respectable bulk. It 
 was a motive based upon a very good foundation, and 
 a very pretty one too, for Margaret was both pretty 
 and good ; and, indeed, that motive was no other than 
 Margaret herself. Hugh Raymond was in the painful 
 condition of a lover who desires to be married, and 
 does not possess a sufficiency of income to justify him 
 in putting an end to his bachelor existence. By dint 
 of the severest economy, after providing for his mother
 
 14 Tlte Curate of Cranston. 
 
 and himself, he could barely save a five-pound note 
 each year for his matrimonial fund; and as his mother 
 assured him, from her own experience, that four five- 
 pound notes were not sufficient to start a newly-mar- 
 ried couple in furniture and house-keeping, Hugh and 
 Margaret were compelled to rest content with the de- 
 lightful fact that they were " engaged," and to wait for 
 that problematical "some time or other," when he 
 could place the little hoop of gold upon her finger. 
 It was one of those desperate engagements which are 
 so frequently waged in the battle of life, in which it is 
 well for the combatants if they only lose their hearts, 
 and not their health, spirits, and temper. Sometimes 
 everything is lost on either side, and the engagement 
 is equally as devastating as was the annihilating strife 
 between the two celebrated cats of Kilkenny. 
 
 Hugh's and Margaret's engagement came about in 
 this way. Margaret's mother had died when her first- 
 born was a mere baby, and Margaret had been brought 
 up by her aunt Raymond, who had one other child be- 
 sides Hugh, a daughter who only lived to be ten years 
 old. At her death, Mrs. Raymond considered Margaret 
 to possess a still stronger claim upon her as the child 
 of her adoption ; and when, a few years after this, 
 Margaret lost her father, the bond between herself 
 and aunt was indissolubly strengthened. Indeed, the
 
 Tfie Curate of Cranston, 1 5 
 
 child had been left by her spendthrift father entirely 
 dependent upon her relatives ; and as in this case the 
 affections of kindred are apt to be frozen up, poor 
 Margaret might have been condemned to a long winter 
 of privations and distress, had not her aunt's love 
 changed her young life into a long summer's day. In 
 Mr. Baymond's pleasant country rectory, Margaret 
 and Hugh passed their childhood in those mutual plays 
 and friendly fights that so agreeably diversify the 
 otherwise monotonous existence of extreme youth. 
 Hugh, the senior by five years of his little cousin 
 Maggie, loved to teach her and his sister all the boy- 
 ish knowledge that his advanced experience enabled 
 him to impart. Through him they were familiar with 
 wasps' nests and rat-holes, and were inducted to the 
 mysteries of manufacturing sailing vessels and gun- 
 powder squibs exploits and acquirements in which 
 they encountered many mishaps, and by which their 
 bumps of wonder and destructiveness must have been 
 considerably enlarged. 
 
 His sister died when Hugh was sent to his first 
 school; and during the holidays he had no one to 
 console him and to play with him except Maggie. 
 Henceforth his cousin took the place of his sister; 
 and it was not until long after he had begun to shave, 
 that he viewed her in any other than a sororial light.
 
 1 6 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 When he went to college, that slight " change came 
 o'er the spirit of his dream," which might by-and- 
 by lead to an awakening in which he would recognize 
 Margaret in a nearer and dearer position than even 
 that of cousin or sister. This change, however, was 
 stealing over him insensibly ; and, as yet, he was un- 
 conscious of the full advance it had made. 
 
 It was not a very rich living that was held by 
 Hugh's father ; and Mr. Raymond died at a time 
 that was peculiarly unfortunate to his son the ter- 
 mination of the first year of his college life. Already 
 so much had been spent on Hugh's education, that 
 but little had been laid by for the future. Certain 
 casualties had prevented the rector from fulfilling his 
 intention of insuring his life, so as to make a provi- 
 sion for his son and widow ; and he [died very sud- 
 denly, and in his prime, before he had been enabled 
 to set apart from his income a sufficient sum to enable 
 Hugh to complete his college career. In fact, it 
 would have been abandoned, and Hugh would have 
 sought some new sphere of life, had not Mr. Ray- 
 mond's old college friend and neighbour, Sir Marma- 
 duke Wrighton generously come forward and under- 
 taken to supply all that was necessary for Hugh's 
 maintenance while at college. He had already gained 
 a scholarship, and Sir Marmaduke urged that it
 
 The Curate of Cranston. iy 
 
 would be throwing away a livelihood, if he were not 
 allowed to take his degree, and, possibly, be elected a 
 fellow of his college, but, at any rate, be qualified to 
 present himself as a candidate for orders, and for that 
 clerical career for which he had professed a marked 
 preference. By these arguments Mrs. Raymond per- 
 mitted herself to be persuaded, and to accept Sir Mar- 
 maduke's liberality. And so Hugh continued at 
 college until he had duly taken his degree ; although, 
 unluckily, he failed to obtain a fellowship. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DESPERATE ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 IN due course Hugh Raymond was ordained to a 
 junior curacy in the large manufacturing town of 
 Smokehampton. His stipend was but fifty pounds a- 
 year, and lodgings were far from being cheap ; there 
 was therefore need of much pinching and contrivance 
 to make the scanty income of the little family go far 
 enough to provide them with a bare and decent main- 
 tenance. In the first instance, Margaret had wished 
 to take the situation of a governess ; but her aunt's 
 sorrow at the prospect of losing her daily companion- 
 ship was so real and poignant, that she abandoned her
 
 1 8 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 design ; and as she felt it to be impossible to remain 
 as an expensive burden upon her relatives, matters were 
 finally compromised by Margaret occupying certain 
 hours of the day in giving music and singing lessons, 
 an employment for which her talents well fitted her. 
 So well did she succeed, that, within two months she 
 might have had more pupils than she had time at 
 their disposal; and she received more than one ex- 
 cellent offer for the situation of resident music-mistress 
 in boarding-schools ; but her love for Mrs. Raymond 
 and the knowledge that she had become indispensable 
 to her, caused her to decline all proposals that would 
 have removed her residence from those dingy Smoke- 
 hampton lodgings where her cousin and aunt had fixed 
 their abode." 
 
 Did she ever tell them, I wonder, of that other 
 excellent offer made to her by a brother of one of her 
 pupils, and how she declined it and why she declined 
 it ? I think not. I fancy that she kept her own 
 counsel on this point, and had to tell a little bit of a 
 fib to her aunt in order to explain her reasons for so 
 suddenly refusing to give the young lady any more 
 music lessons. But though she did not go to that 
 dangerous house again, she continued elsewhere her 
 plodding daily round, and was not so tired of her 
 occupation but that she also found both the time and
 
 TJie Curate of Cranston. 19 
 
 the patience to train a class of school children into a 
 very effective church choir. All this time, she was 
 not only gaining her own livelihood, but was also con- 
 tributing her share, and something beside it, to the 
 expenses of lodging and housekeeping. 
 
 For the two years and a half that Hugh Raymond 
 remained at Smokehampton, he was necessarily placed 
 in the same relationship to his pretty cousin that he 
 would have held had he been her brother. And, 
 indeed, it was not until he had passed some months 
 in the flats and swamps and dulness of Cranston, 
 that the truth gradually dawned upon him that he did 
 something more than miss Maggie's bright looks, and 
 pleasant words, and brilliant playing and singing. 
 For his own comfort and happiness, he would have 
 been rejoiced iMhe household trio of Smokehampton 
 could have been repeated at Cranston. But, in the 
 first place, such a proceeding was scarcely practicable, 
 on account of the impossibility of procuring suitable 
 lodgings or renting any kind of tenement between a 
 hundred-acre farm and a wattle-and-dab cottage : and, 
 in the next place, Hugh felt that it would have been 
 worse than a cruelty to have condemned his blooming 
 cousin and his ailing mother to pass their days in the 
 uncongenial atmosphere of Cranston parish and people. 
 Acting, therefore, from the tenderest dictates of the
 
 2O The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 heart, although sorely against his own natural desires, 
 he persuaded his mother to consent to their separation, 
 and to take a small house on the outskirts of Smoke- 
 hampton, in which she and Margaret, with one 
 servant to wait upon them, could live comfortably, and 
 receive him for their guest whenever he was enabled 
 to take a holiday from his Cranston duties. And, as 
 this plan enabled Margaret to carry on her music 
 lessons with her old pupils, it was unanimously adopted 
 by the three persons concerned with only three dis- 
 sentient voices ; but as these voices were but heart- 
 whispers, they did not affect the decision. 
 
 Mrs. Raymond and her niece, therefore, went to 
 live at Laurel Lodge (a laurel on a square yard of 
 lawn before the sitiing-room window had suggested 
 to its proprietor the name for the house) ; and Hugh 
 came to Cranston; and after no small difficulty 
 which did not, however, arise from any perplexity as 
 to an embarrassment of riches in the choice of 
 lodgings, but solely from the unwillingness of Mrs. 
 Lupton to admit him as an inmate of her four-roomed 
 cottage settled down in two small low-ceiliuged 
 rooms, whose only merit was their cheapness. Here, 
 with Mrs. Lupton to " do " for him, he was enabled 
 to sit down at his leisure, and contrast his present life 
 with the past.
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 11 
 
 Now came that awakening from his dream, of 
 which the first change had come over him during his 
 college days. From the total absence of any young 
 ladies in Cranston and its immediate neighbourhood, 
 and from the consequent avoidance of any disturbing 
 elements to which their presence may have given rise, 
 the Curate's introspections were absolutely forced upon 
 the subject of his real feelings towards Margaret. As 
 a matter of course, now that his eye.s were opened by 
 love, he very soon discovered that his cousin was 
 something more to him than his sister (if she had 
 lived) could possibly have been. He pondered over 
 this discovery for some weeks, and looked at his 
 newly -found treasure from every point of view ; but, 
 as he could not in any way regard it as the creation of 
 Cranston ennui, or absence from Laurel Lodge, or the 
 deprivation of all female society but that of Mrs. 
 Lupton (a gaunt widow-woman who always wore her 
 bonnet when she waited upon him at his meals) the 
 Curate rationally came to the conclusion that he had 
 that feeling towards his cousin which filled him with 
 the desire to make her his wife. 
 
 After a few more weeks for further reflection, in order 
 that he might not make any mistake on so momentous 
 a subject, and after being daily more and more con- 
 vinced that the new land of promise, of which he was
 
 22 Tlte Curate of Cranston. 
 
 in sight, was no fog-bank or delusive oasis, Hugh 
 wrote to Margaret, and told her of his discovery. She 
 replied very truthfully and simply, though without 
 being so very much surprised at the discovery, re- 
 minded Hugh that she had not any property, and 
 delicately hinted that he had not much more ; and, 
 while she confessed that she returned her cousin's 
 affection, she expressed her opinion (with a sweet uncon- 
 sciousness of the wild inapplicability of her suggestion) 
 that it would probably be much better for his own 
 interests if he forgot her, except as a sister, and mar- 
 ried one of the wealthy young ladies of whom, doubtless, 
 he would have such a choice in his new neighbourhood. 
 Hugh thought, with a shudder, of the half-dozen 
 hoydens who were the only people who could lay claim 
 to the title of " young ladies " in Cranston ; and he 
 began to write a very bitter and witty parody upon 
 " Locksley Hall, " in which he said, 
 
 " As the wife is, so the husband, when he's mated to a clown ; 
 And the absence of her h's will have weight to drag his down ; 
 
 but, " the dark fen " and " level waste " and " rounding 
 gray " of Cranston were not so productive of poetry in 
 the Curate, as they might have been in Tennyson ; and, 
 after cudgelling his brains for an hour, and only pro- 
 ducing a dozen lines of very poor parody, he desisted 
 from his attempts on the unwilling Minerva, and wrote
 
 Tlie Curate of Cranston. 23 
 
 to his cousin in plain, and more congenial, prose. 
 Thenceforth, Hugh and Margaret were betrothed to 
 each other as firmly as though a solemn compact had 
 been mutually signed and sealed. There was very little 
 of what is commonly called " love-making ; " for, the 
 article had been already manufactured by daily acts 
 and deeds intermeshed and woven into the web of 
 their lives; but, although their correspondence and 
 conversation was continued much as usual, in a matter- 
 of-fact, humdrum way, which might have appeared 
 excessively uninteresting and unloverlike to more 
 romantically disposed people, yet a new feeling had 
 undoubtedly invested their thoughts, words, and actions 
 with a complexion that they had not previously worn. 
 That problematical " some time or other " when their 
 path in life would be the same, was now the star that 
 guided them cheerfully onwards through the weary 
 round of their daily lot, and lent a lustre even to the 
 dulness of Cranston. With that star to cheer him, 
 the Curate would plod on through discouragement 
 with a better heart. Thoughts of Margaret were 
 mixed up with his parish work in which she would be 
 such a help-meet ; they cheered him in many a gloomy 
 hour; they bore him sweet company in many a long and 
 solitary walk ; and they brightened his somewhat dreary 
 life in the swampy hollow of Cranston.
 
 24 Tin- Ci'i-"/' / ' ' i. 
 
 An.l tin ilumght of Margaret ami tin future, did 
 
 not exclude the ci.iii|)iiiiii.ii thought of In-, widowed 
 
 mother. She and Margaret went together \\\ all In* 
 
 plans ai:' 1 mi-., mill \vcrt- jmul mi- In ..!' all 
 
 in tin- iiir. His mother, i.f cour.se, would 
 li\r with thrm : Mini, \\hni hi- had MVed 
 
 lieieiit to cmil)h- them tO COmmeQOe thnr m.irrn-,1 
 ami to 1m- with ili-ivul roint'ort , thoii-h with strii-t 
 iTOiiomy, la- would prorurr a cunicy in another |>;i 
 wh.ii tlu-y COuld again occupy one h- 
 humpton. He did not entertain the idea of introducing 
 
 hit ailing mother and blooming bride to rheunmtie 
 d he trutted that a curacy mi 
 
 itsell' that should he equally Us nttiMclm-i:. 
 pei.d. and much more SO in Situation and saluhrioiu. 
 nc-N. And so, wilh l..\e'.s lo-ic to aid him, he 1, 
 hopclully to the hiturc, and endea\ hl'iilly to 
 
 discharge the important duties committed t.. 
 
 , ami to lahour for the hcst iutoret of his 
 
 The Cnin.ston people had 
 in the mud, Imth physically and morally, for so i 
 
 , th.it n could hardly he , of them that 
 
 they should emeiye with clcanU minds and v 
 moment of time. In the modern BoOtia the revolu- 
 tion of manners ami customs is not achieved in ; 
 or hour ; and the hov ine nature of the inhahitai,'
 
 77/1- ('unite of Crdiixtoii. 25 
 
 Cranston required repeated applieat ion < of nnirli 
 hirper goad H than the Curate thnii"lil lit to appls to 
 tin-in, err lhe\ roiild lie coin|)elleil to walk in fresh 
 Inn-" 
 
 A great ohjeeiion to Cranston lav m Iti <it-tanee 
 
 IVoin Sinokeliain|tton, and, although the railways help 
 poor lovers l>\ their cheapness and annihilation of dis- 
 taliee, \<l t ho Cui'atc, in In, actual poverty, no Id! 
 than from In- desire t<i lay hy a store in the Close 
 horon-li hank lor t hat, stai'l'y " HOIMC tilHO Of Other,' 
 thoir-hl him elf compelled to limit his viil,8 to Sltlokc.- 
 hamplon to t \\ o m eaeh sear. These \\ere made at 
 ChriMtmas and Midsummer, and \\ere the more rlijoy- 
 ahle heean-e Margaret's holidays occurred at those 
 n- , and the c-oiisnr< could thus de |H, c of the 
 as they thought belt, and Mai; aid's only lllllhic 
 leMOlls uere hestowcd upon llllpjll, who had already 
 made -nlheieiit pro^niss ill the divine art to enahle him 
 to pick out Gregorian* \\ith one lin-er. I5nl the 
 Curate', holidays were hut hrief, and merely hlfttcd 
 from one Monday to the next Saturday ucck ; for the 
 ieqUC8t( reil p- ilion of Cranston cut him oil' from any 
 Sunday help that mivhl haveheen given him h\ neigh- 
 hoiirni" clergymen, and he wa- thei-efore compi -Hi d l'i 
 procure a Mih-lilnle at an expense of ahoul three 
 h Sunday. U'hat with rad\va\ fare and 
 
 C
 
 26 T/ie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 this Sunday substitute, Hugh's visits to Smokehamp- 
 ton were far too expensive treats to be indulged in 
 more than twice a-year; and so far as the practice of 
 austere self-denial went, the Curate of Cranston might 
 have been a monk of La Trappe. 
 
 However, he had Hope to live upon ; and we know 
 from classical authority that credulous Hope cherishes 
 life, and ever tells us that there will be a better 
 morrow. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 HUGH RAYMOND had passed more than three years in 
 Cranston ; and now, his fourth Christmas Day had 
 come, and was well nigh at an end. He was in his 
 little room, tired from his day's duties, and depressed 
 by a slight illness and by over-exertion. He had ex- 
 tinguished his lamp, and was sitting by the flickering 
 light of the fire, lost in meditation. 
 
 He was all alone in the house; for his landlady, 
 Mrs. Lupton, had asked him to spare her, in order that 
 she might pass the Christmas evening at her married 
 daughter's in the village. His thoughts, as usual, 
 had flown to Margaret and his mother, and he fervently
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 27 
 
 prayed that it might be the last Christmas Day that he 
 might spend without them. He should not see them 
 until four days had passed ; for Sunday was very near, 
 and he must stay for his duties on that day ; but he 
 had procured a substitute for the ensuing Sunday; so, 
 in four days' time, he should be enabled to set out to 
 Smokehampton for his brief Christmas holiday. But 
 four days between him and happiness ! 
 
 The house was very still : nothing was to be heard 
 but the dull moaning of the wind, and the mo- 
 notonous ticking of Mrs. Lupton's celebrated eight- 
 day clock in the next room. Like its owner, it went 
 about its work with an energy that was annoying from 
 its very obtrusiveness, while, in face and figure, it was 
 as tall, upright, grim, and clean, as Mrs. Lupton her- 
 self. Listening to the ticking of this clock, and the 
 moaning of the wind, and shaping their combined 
 sounds into a monotonous chant, the Curate closed 
 his eyes, and fell into a sort of waking doze, in which, 
 as though in actual sleep, he gave the reins to his 
 fancies, and permitted them to bound over any ob- 
 stacle. Chiefly did he contrast his present loneli- 
 ness with that future scene that might be on the 
 next Christmas night his mother in a comfortable 
 easy-chair on the one side, and, on the other, Mar- 
 garet, with her chair drawn up close beside him, her 
 
 c 2
 
 2,8 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 left hand clasped in his, and, on the third finger, the 
 wedding-ring. How well he could fancy her looking 
 up into his face, with those deep, trustful eyes, in 
 which he had never seen aught but love and 
 truth, and then nestling still nearer to him, and say- 
 ing, "Dearest, how thankful I am that God has 
 spared our mother to see us thus happy ! How we 
 thought and talked of you last Christmas night, with 
 no one to speak to you, and cheer you, and tell you 
 how much they loved you ! and how we both prayed 
 that, by another Christmas night, it might be thus! 
 I can tell you this now ! " And Hugh could picture 
 to himself how she would nestle to him, as though 
 nothing should ever part them more. 
 
 All this was very delightful to think of in a dreamy 
 way, with closed eyes and lively brain ; but it must 
 be followed by the unclosing of the eyes, and the 
 awakening from the day-dream. And Hugh roused 
 himself from his reverie, and glanced round his lonely 
 room, where the fire-light cast fantastic shadows into 
 the cheerless corners, and felt the oppressive stillness 
 of the house, with no sound save that monotonous 
 ticking of the clock, and the dreary sobbing of the 
 wind. 
 
 He was brooding over the wretched condition of a 
 forlorn Robinson Crusoe of a bachelor Curate, cast on
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 29 
 
 such a desolate island as Cranston, in the merry sea- 
 son of Christmas, when the voices of children, outside 
 the cottage, reached his ears, and their rustic carol 
 broke in upon the oppressive silence. They sang 
 carols even in Cranston ; for carols are old-fashioned 
 things, and Cranston was an old-world place. There 
 is always something affecting in the simple songs of 
 children ; and now, at this season, and at this hour, 
 they seemed strangely pathetic. Something very like 
 tears brimmed the Curate's eyes j but his nerves were 
 unstrung by fatigue, and, as the night was cold, a pro- 
 fuse use of his pocket-handkerchief was a circumstance 
 not to be wondered at. But, by the time that the carol 
 was ended, he had relighted his lamp, and had gone 
 out to meet the children, with pleasant friendly words. 
 Then he made them come into his room, and have a 
 warm at the fire, and sing him another carol, while he 
 set out some plum-cake and cowslip-wine, that had 
 been specially procured for the occasion. He bade 
 them a happy Christmas, and God bless them : and 
 they, emboldened by the unwonted feast, laid aside 
 somewhat of their awkward, tongue-tied bashfulness, 
 and also wished him a happy Christmas, and then 
 went their way, and broke out into delirious shout- 
 ings. 
 
 He heard their noisy prattle die away in the dis-
 
 jo TJie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 tance, and then, with a shudder from the cold, turned 
 into his solitary room, thankful that he had a warm 
 fireside to sit by, and could pass the remainder of the 
 evening in slippered ease. His landlady was to return 
 by nine o'clock an excessively dissipated hour for 
 early village habits ; but his watch pointed to ten 
 before she made her appearance, full of apologies for 
 being so late, but with the all-sufficient explanation 
 that it was Christmas Day, " as only came but once'st 
 a year " a reason which, like Charity's cloak, is made 
 to cover a multitude of shortcomings. Mrs. Lupton 
 had also so much to tell of the joys of the evening, 
 and entered into a narrative, so discursive and minute, 
 of which Jacob and Rachel (her grandchildren) were 
 the hero and heroine, that the Curate began to feel 
 very drowsy, and to long earnestly for bed, even when 
 the narrative had only reached to that early stage, in 
 which the hero Jacob, as a reward for the singular 
 aptitude he had shown in learning a verse of the 
 Christmas Hymn, had been promised an orange, the 
 very next time that his father went to Closeborough 
 Market. 
 
 At length, Jacob and Rachel were disposed of, 
 though not before their identity had been altogether 
 lost in the Curate's drowsy brain ; Mrs. Lupton 
 wished him good night, and retired to bed; and,
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 31 
 
 after no long interval, the Curate followed her ex- 
 ample, feeling thoroughly tired, and ready to sink to 
 sleep in an instant. But, alas for the vanity of human 
 wishes ! he had no sooner tucked himself comfortably 
 under the clothes, than he heard the garden-gate 
 swing-to then, a heavy step clumping up the path- 
 way then, a hearty rapping at the door. The Curate 
 sprang out of bed; a light from below glimmered 
 against his window-blind ; and, opening the window, 
 he looked out, and asked, 
 
 " Who's there ?" 
 
 " Oh, your Reverence ! " replied a rough voice, 
 which he recognized as belonging to a parishioner who 
 dwelt in the hamlet on the far side of the Common, 
 "I be main sorry to disturb you, Fm sure; but my 
 missus was took bad all of a sudden, afore we'd time even 
 to get Mrs. Jinks to her ; and the long and the short 
 of it is they're twins ! and they don't look as though 
 they'd be reared, and we shouldn't like to have 'em 
 put in the ground without so much as a prayer being 
 said over 'em ; so I thought as I'd better come to you 
 at once'st, and be so bold as to ask if you'd be so good 
 as to come and name 'em ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Jones ! wait for me a moment, and I'll 
 come with you. There's nothing the matter, Mrs. 
 Lupton ! " he cried to his landlady, who had come to
 
 32 Tlie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 her door, in some alarm at the unusual disturbance ; 
 " Mrs. Jones, of the Common, has been confined with 
 twins " 
 
 "Bless me, what a woman it is \" ejaculated Mrs. 
 Lupton, as though the circumstance was some daring 
 feat or act unbecoming a female. 
 
 " And I am going to baptize them. I shall lock the 
 door after me, and shall probably not be away much 
 longer than two hours. Good night ! Jones is wait- 
 ing for me below." 
 
 At the call of duty, the Curate had at once shaken 
 off his fatigue, and, in a very short time, was accom- 
 panying Jones to the Common. 
 
 " I brought the lantern with me, your Reverence/* 
 said the man, " for it's quite unpossible to make out 
 the way sitch a dark night as this, without a light. 
 It was as much as I could do to keep it in; and I 
 shouldn't have managed it, noways, if it hadn't been 
 for lucifers. But I'm glad you've got a light of your 
 own, sir, for it will make it all the better for you to 
 see the way, which is the onkedest road as was ever 
 put under a man's feet, and is quite a picking of the 
 pockets of them as pays rates for keeping 'em in 
 order." 
 
 " Yes, Jones, I think we might mend our ways in 
 Cranston, in more senses than one ; and the road, as
 
 Tfte Curate of Cranston. 33 
 
 you suggest, might be better." Here the Curate 
 plunged into a rut, over his ancles in water, but 
 emerged radiant and serene. " And, in the Fens and 
 some other parts of England, there are roads that are 
 worse, and far more dangerous, than these/' 
 
 "Well, I should'nt ha' thought it were possible/' 
 said Jones ; " I always looked upon we Cranston 
 people as being the worst off o' anybody in that 
 respect. But this sad land holds the wet till it's all 
 of a soke and slabby, and welly fit for nought else but 
 water-blobs and dodders." 
 
 Without their lanterns, the Curate and his com- 
 panion could scarcely have made their way along the 
 deep-set Cranston lanes ; for the night was very dark, 
 and the road was by no means so hard and direct 
 that the traveller could feel the path with his feet, and 
 tread carefully but securely. But, with the aid of the 
 lanterns, they plodded on, through mud and mire, 
 avoiding, as well as they were able, the deeper ruts and 
 puddles that presented themselves as continually-re- 
 curring pitfalls before their feet ; and so, up the wind- 
 ing lane, and out of the swampy hollow, and then 
 forth upon the hill-top, and over the bare, bleak Com- 
 mon. The night was very cold, very dark, and very 
 blustering. There were no stars, no moon, and no 
 snow : it would probably have been much warmer if 
 
 c 3
 
 34 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 there had been snow. Out upon the open Common, 
 there was a fierce, biting wind, that blew through 
 them, making their eyes to water, and their teeth to 
 chatter, and wringing their noses with sharp, unplea- 
 sant twinges. It was precisely the kind of night to 
 excite within one's breast the desire to be a hare or 
 rabbit, so as to be provided with a complete fur-suit ; 
 or, at any rate, to be a horse, and possess the privilege 
 of wearing a nosebag in public. Mr. Jones, speaking 
 the Anglo-Saxon of the district, pronounced the keen 
 wind to be "a snitherer"; and, from its freezing 
 coldness, would not have been surprised to find the 
 end of his nose terminating in a " snipe/' or icicle 
 pointed, indeed, like to the bill of that bird which has 
 received its name from the length and sharpness of its 
 beak. 
 
 The two strode on together, for the most part 
 silently ; for it was no night for a prolonged out-of- 
 door conversation; and when Mr. Jones had remarked 
 upon the roads and the weather, and had exhausted 
 his formulary of apologies for dragging the Curate 
 out on such a night, he had no more conversational 
 power left. So they strode on in the cutting wind, 
 over the bleak Common, tripping at the inequalities 
 of the ground, slushing through the miry puddles, 
 scaring the sheep (who were to be envied for their
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 35 
 
 woollen blankets), and causing the mild-eyed oxen to 
 look up with apathetic glances. Floundering and 
 stumbling, they pressed across the waste, breasting 
 the sharp breeze of the wintry night, and keeping 
 their lanterns alight with as much difficulty as they 
 could keep their feet. 
 
 At length a faint flickering ray of light was visible 
 at some distance before them. " I hope," said the 
 Curate, "that it's no Will-o'-the-wisp, or, as you 
 Cranston people call it, a Jinny-buntail." 
 
 " No, your Reverence," replied Jones, much to the 
 Curate's comfort, "yon's the hoosen; and I baint 
 sorry to gain 'em. For what with stromping along in 
 this snithen wind, and being knottled about my missus 
 and the twins, I find myself quite in a guster." By 
 which Mr. Jones meant that from combined excitement 
 and exertion, he was somewhat out of breath. So was 
 the Curate : and he was thankful when they got under 
 the lee of the cottages, and out of the direct force of 
 the wind. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER AND CHRISTIANA. 
 
 THE faint light that had been their beacon during the 
 last portion of their walk, denoted the house and the
 
 36 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 chamber in which the Curate's offices were required ; 
 and there was scarcely need for Jones to say "this 
 way, sir/' as he opened the door, and ushered Hugh 
 Raymond into the cottage. 
 
 A few of the women neighbours were assembled in 
 the lower room, busied about those little offices that 
 were so much needed, and which the poor fulfil for 
 each other with such amazing readiness. Passing 
 through them, and up a step ladder, the Curate 
 entered the crazy chamber where the hardest struggle 
 in a woman's battle of life had so lately been fought. 
 The roof sloped down on either side almost to the 
 floor, and in many places, let in the moisture through 
 the old thatch and broken plaister. There were three 
 beds in the room those for the children being even 
 now filled with sleeping, or drowsy figures, huddled 
 together for warmth, no less than from necessity ; and 
 on the middle of the floor, barely protected from the 
 moisture dripping from the roof, was the bed whereon 
 the mother was lying, with all the clothes that could 
 be gathered together heaped over her. The room was 
 bitterly cold, destitute of comforts, and even of many 
 necessaries. 
 
 "It's but a poor ramshackle of a place, sir/' said 
 Mrs. Jinks, a neighbour who was in attendance. 
 Indeed, she had been professionally engaged on the
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 37 
 
 occasion a medical man being a too expensive luxury 
 and was holding a lately-born child in her arms. 
 " And very awkard it is, as the chamber's not con- 
 venienced with a chimley. But we've done all we can 
 for her, poor dear ! and made up a good fire down 
 below, so as to warm the house up, and hot her a few 
 broth and sich like." 
 
 "Am I in time?" asked the Curate, hearing no 
 infantile wailings, and seeing no movement in the 
 little bundle that Mrs. Jinks bore in her arms. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, you're in time," she replied ; " there's 
 no doubt about that ; and it's very good of you, I'm 
 sure, to come so quick, specially in the middle o' the 
 night, and sich a night, and specially of it's being 
 Christmas night, which, took altogether, makes it the 
 kinder o' you to that poor dear and these poor dears. 
 I said at once'st," continued Mrs. Jinks, as the Curate 
 went up to the bed, and spoke quietly to its occupant, 
 " I said to Jones, who was all of a fidget and firk 
 about they babies being sich poor peakin things, bless 
 you, says I, when he soodled and dawdled, and was 
 afeared to go, bless you, I says, Mr. Raymond's that 
 deadly soft-hearted he'll come without any maundering, 
 and name 'em in a twinkling." 
 
 " But, do you think that the children will not live ? " 
 asked the Curate, who, perhaps, called to mind what
 
 3 8 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 the Prayer-book said about the " great cause and ne- 
 cessity " requisite for the ministration of private bap- 
 tism of children in houses, and considered that Mrs. 
 Jinks' ideas on the subject might be somewhat hazy, 
 and that the present case was not one of necessity. 
 
 " Well, sir, you see," replied the nurse, " they ba- 
 bies is so oncertain ; sometimes the tiddiest '11 feed 
 out, and sometimes the likeliest is took off. That's 
 where it lies, sir ; you're not safe with them a minit ; 
 and as long as they're gap- mouthed, they're that 
 whingelin, that they keep you all in the dithers." 
 
 The Curate did not exactly know what this meant, 
 but it sounded like something bad, and he therefore 
 concluded that his night's walk over the Common had 
 not been in vain. Still he was rather scrupulous, and 
 preferred to be on the right side of the rubric; so he 
 again put his question as to the probable life of the 
 twins. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Mrs. Jinks, " it is, as I may say, 
 what you was a preachin' on the last time I were at 
 Church which were five sabbaths ago, but I can't 
 cudgle it to get there jist when I please, being strett 
 in other folks' affairs, and, sin' then, waitin' on young 
 Mrs. Perks with her first, her as lives by Muster 
 Ward's home-closen, and as you church'd last Sab- 
 bath," this was a parenthetical narrative, but Mrs.
 
 TJie Curate of Cranston, 39 
 
 Jinks continued her speech, as though it had not 
 suffered from any interruption; "and, as you said, 
 says you, we're here to-day, and gone to-morrow, says 
 you. I remembers me the words well/' 
 
 It was more than the Curate did. But, although 
 he doubted the verbal accuracy of the quotation, he 
 acknowledged the faithfulness of its spirit. 
 
 " And so, sir," said Mrs. Jinks, coming to the point, 
 and gathering up the links in her chain of evidence, 
 "there's no dependents to be put on they twins. 
 This little mimmockin doan't look much like a nudge- 
 lin chump of a lad; and though t'other one niffled 
 down its food like a good 'un jist at the first, yet it's 
 but a poor stubby mite ; and they're took that sudden 
 wi' 'vulsions, that they might be quite quocken'd and 
 black i' the face in almost no time. They doan't look 
 as though they'd be reared ; and though they're both 
 alive at this present, yet, bless the Lord, it'd be a 
 mercy if He'd take 'em to Hisself." 
 
 A moan from the mother, and a convulsive grasp of 
 the tiny form that lay in her bosom, told that she 
 would sooner part with life itself than lose that new 
 source of heaven-sent affection, that now, in her time 
 of great weakness, thrilled her with a greater joy. 
 
 " So I think it'd be but the right thing to name 
 'em, sir," said Mrs. Jinks, "though you're the best
 
 4O The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 judge o' that, of course, sir. But they look very pea- 
 kin ; and Pm sure it'd be the Lord's blessing if they 
 was took off, seeing as there are six mouths to fill al- 
 ready, and little enow' to put in their bellies Jones 
 being slack o' work sin' harvest, and his fam'ly comin' 
 quick, and welly as many as a fezzle o j pigs." 
 
 Hugh Raymond went again to the mother's side, 
 and ascertained her wish that the twin children should 
 be baptized. They were a boy and girl, and it was 
 their father's desire that they should respectively be 
 named " Christopher " and " Christiana," in remem- 
 brance of the Christmas-day on which they were born. 
 Jones himself made this request in person, when he 
 had been summoned up the step-ladder by the Curate, 
 in order to be present at the ceremony. It was soon 
 performed ; and when the mother, with her thin white 
 hand, again covered up the tiny form that lay upon 
 her bosom, tears checked the thanks she feebly strove 
 to utter. So Christopher and Christiana commenced 
 their lives ; and, despite Mrs. Jinks' unfavourable pre- 
 diction concerning them a prediction chiefly based 
 upon the circumstance that the clock had been dis- 
 tinctly heard to strike thirteen instead of twelve on 
 the day of their birth, despite this sure prognostic of 
 their quick decease, and despite the poverty and hard- 
 ships into which they had been flung, the twins lived,
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 41 
 
 and even thrived, long after the Curate had left them 
 in that battered chamber of their birth. 
 
 " I'm main obleeged to you, I'm sure, sir," said 
 honest Jones. " Clap another chump on, Mrs. Green, 
 and set his Reverence a cheer agin the fire. Mebby, 
 you wouldn't like to be lollupping all the night in sich 
 a oncomfortable place as this'n ; though you're right 
 welcome to stay till the marnin's dahn, and longer." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " the Curate said ; he did not mind the 
 darkness. He knew his way and had got his lantern ; 
 and, if he stayed till daylight, probably his landlady 
 might be alarmed. " And I've got nothing to lose, 
 Jones, except that," and he gave him a half-crown, 
 " which I think you'd better keep for me, and turn it 
 into something nourishing for your wife. So, if I 
 should meet with such unlikely people as thieves, they 
 can only take my lantern from me." And he forced 
 the money upon poor Jones. 
 
 "There's summat as clats in my craw," said Jones, 
 alluding to a hysterical feeling in his throat ; " but 
 I'm 'bleeged to you, though I han't got the speech to 
 say so. You'll let me gwah wi' ye back whum, I hope, 
 yer Reverence, and help to light you over the slabby 
 road?" 
 
 The Curate would by no means permit such a 
 thing : Jones had had walking enough already, and
 
 42 Tlie Curate of Cranston. 
 
 was much better at Lome where he could help to take 
 care of his wife and children. The Curate also de- 
 clined the invitation to " warm hisself agen the fire 
 afore he flitted," on the ground that it would only 
 make him the more susceptible of the cold on his way 
 home ; so, bidding them all good night and a happy 
 Christmas, he went out alone into the midnight and 
 thick darkness, with his lantern to guide him on his 
 way. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CURATE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 THE weather had not improved during the half-hour 
 that Hugh Raymond had been at the cottage. A 
 cold sleet was now falling, and as, driven by the wind, 
 it came pelting against his face, it hurt him like the 
 stinging of bees. For some time he stumbled on 
 amid the rushy bogs and puddles, until, confused and 
 half-blinded by the drifting sleet, he found that he had 
 wandered from the right track. There was no doubt 
 about it ; he had quite lost the path. He kept his 
 face, however, steadily set in one direction; and so 
 long as he did so, thought that he could not be very
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 43 
 
 far from wrong. So, stumbling and battling with the 
 sleet and wind, he made slow progress onwards. 
 
 Presently he found himself near to a clump of 
 trees ; and, as he was well acquainted with the land- 
 marks of the country, he discovered the unwelcome 
 fact, that for the last half-hour he had been steadily 
 bearing away at right angles from Cranston. It was 
 certainly vexatious, for he was exceedingly tired, and 
 it was by no means a pleasant night to be abroad ; 
 but he knew now where he was, and he could soon re- 
 gain his lost ground. So he bore manfully by the 
 skirts of a small spinny, and was just on the point of 
 striking offo uce more to the open Common, when the 
 light from his lantern flashed on something white 
 lying a few yards from him. He turned to look, 
 stopped, and looked again. A sudden fear possessed 
 him, and he shook with a cold tremor. What it was 
 had instantly flashed across his mind : but to reassure 
 and convince himself, he held out the lantern stea- 
 dily, so that its light should stream full upon the white 
 figure. 
 
 Yes ! it was not to be mistaken. His first dreadful 
 suspicion was confirmed; and through the driving 
 sleet, and by the aid of his flickering feeble light, he 
 knew that he was looking upon the prostrate form of 
 a woman bathed in blood. She lay at a short distance
 
 44 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 from him, and somewhat below him, in a hollow of 
 the uneven ground, and near to the edge of the 
 spinny. She was clad in a long, white garment that 
 appeared to be her night-dress ; one arm was tossed 
 over the head concealing the face, as though she had 
 been flung down in that posture; and from the 
 bosom streamed a great pool of blood, that had flowed 
 with a broad dabbled stain to her very feet. She lay 
 perfectly motionless, and had probably been dead for 
 some time. 
 
 The Curate felt paralysed at the dreadful sight, and 
 stood gazing at it through the drifting sleet, holding 
 out his lantern so as to throw its flickering light full 
 upon the body. He felt powerless either to speak or 
 stir. Only a few moments could have passed thus, 
 but they might have been hours from the intensity of 
 the emotions that were crowded into them. Then, 
 with a desperate effort, he moved towards the body. 
 As he did so, a great trembling seized upon him ; a 
 fresh access of fear overpowered him, and the lantern 
 dropped from his hand. In a moment its light was 
 dashed out, and he was in total darkness. He clasped 
 his hands over his eyes, as though the terrible figure 
 might even make itself apparent to him through the 
 thick gloom. Then his extreme terror inspiring him 
 with a certain sort of mad boldness, and fearing lest
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 45 
 
 his nervous system should utterly give way before the 
 trial, if he paused another minute, he dashed him- 
 self, as it were, against the body. Whether he fan- 
 cied that life might yet be left within it, or whether he 
 thought to lift it up, and bear it, if possible, to some 
 human habitation, he could never determine; but 
 acting solely on the impulse of a frenzied moment, 
 without thought of what was to come, or what was to 
 follow, he dashed towards the body, and clasped at 
 the dress; and at the same moment, overcome by 
 nervous agitation, heightened immeasurably by the 
 fatigue that he had undergone, he fell insensible by 
 the side of the body. 
 
 How long he lay he never knew. It may have been 
 but for a few minutes ; but, when he slowly returned 
 to consciousness, the great fear that had possessed him 
 had passed away, and his first confused thoughts were 
 of the woman whose twins he had baptized. She had 
 been in her night-dress ; and, like a flash, that 
 momentary thought had Jinked itself to another. 
 That murdered woman ! horrible, most horrible ! Now 
 the memory of it dawned upon him. The biting sleet, 
 and the bitter blast helped to revive him, and to 
 awaken him to a full sense of his position. He was 
 lying upon the ground, where he had fallen, and his 
 hands were ttpon the murdered woman's dress.
 
 46 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 Her dress? why, what was it? It shrank as he 
 touched it; it was soft, and wet, and so thin and 
 fragile that his hands passed through it. Strange ! 
 his senses were still but half awake ! his brain was 
 even now swimming from the effects of his fainting 
 fit. Was it a spirit ? he clutched at it desperately, 
 but could not feel any substance. 
 
 A new terror began to seize upon him a vague and 
 unsubstantial dread which he could not have expressed, 
 but which filled his whole frame. There, in the dead 
 of that Christmas night, out in the darkness, on the 
 bleak Common, the wind whistling around him, and 
 the sharp sleet pelting over him, to be thus grappling 
 with an unknown form and substance, was sufficient 
 to have struck a terror into frames that were more 
 coarsely knit, and into nerves that were less deli- 
 cately strung, than were those of the Curate of 
 Cranston. A sickening dread nearly choked him as 
 he endeavoured to call for help ; not that he thought 
 that any help was nigh ; but even the sound of his 
 own voice might have cheated his imagination, and 
 served to inspirit him with a false notion of com- 
 panionship. As he did so, he again grasped at the 
 figure, and, in a moment, felt what it was. 
 
 Paper. 
 
 Paper ? yes ! nothing more or less than a few yards
 
 TJie Curate of Cranston. 47 
 
 of tissue paper. His eyes were now becoming accus- 
 tomed to the darkness, and he could distinguish the 
 white paper pretty accurately. He began to gather it 
 up, as well as its wet state would allow him to do so ; 
 and, at the one end, came upon some wires, and a 
 piece of burnt sponge. The truth flashed across his 
 mind. It was the body, not of a murdered woman, 
 but of a collapsed fire-balloon, sent up, probably, at 
 Closeborough, at some Christmas merry-making. 
 
 A sigh of relief escaped him ; a load seemed to be 
 taken from his mind ; and, with the first revulsion of 
 feeling at his discovery, he laughed long and heartily. 
 Then he thought, what a dolt he must have been not 
 to have seen this from the first, and to have perceived 
 that the long stain of blood was nothing worse than a 
 stripe of crimson tissue paper, a part of the ornament 
 of the balloon. How every one would laugh at him 
 when the story became known ! even his own school 
 children would jeer at his mistake. 
 
 And yet, how should they, or any one else, know of 
 the circumstance, when there had been no witnesses to 
 the scene ? He would lock the secret in his own breast, 
 or divulge it only to one who would not turn his 
 adventures into ridicule. 
 
 So, this plan of action decided on, the Curate 
 groped for his hat and stick and lantern ; and then
 
 48 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 gathered up the cause of his fright, folded it as well as 
 its soaked and tattered state would allow, and put it 
 carefully into his pocket, as a proof both to him- 
 self and Margaret that he had not been dream- 
 ing, but had verily and truly seen that murdered 
 woman, who had become a ghost, and had finally 
 resolved herself, not into thin air, but into thin tissue 
 paper. 
 
 The Curate was a long time in reaching his lodg- 
 ings. He tumbled over ant-hills, and plunged through 
 sedgy pools ; and, after divers perils and muddy ad- 
 ventures, finally gained Mrs. Lupton's, where he let 
 himself in very quietly, and slunk off to bed, and was 
 soon in much too profound a slumber to dream either 
 of murdered women or collapsed balloons. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SHORT AND TO THE PURPOSE. 
 
 FOUR days after, Monday morning had come, and 
 the Curate was on his road to Closeborough, there to 
 meet the train that should convey him to his mother 
 and Margaret. 
 
 On his way, he had to pass through the village 
 where the letters for Cranston were left, and from
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 49 
 
 whence they had to be fetched by those who were 
 anxious for such missives on any day between Satur- 
 days. There were two letters for the Curate. One 
 was from Margaret, who knew that he would call at 
 the post-office on his way to the train, and had there- 
 fore written him a note to^ cheer him in his walk. 
 You may be sure that he read this note at once ; and 
 that although every word was so hastily devoured, its 
 contents agreed with him wonderfully well. Then he 
 turned to the other letter. The hand-writing and 
 crest seemed to be familiar to him : from whom 
 could it be? as, clearly, to open it would answer 
 the question, he broke the seal, and read as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " My dear Sir, 
 
 " When I advised your present Rector to 
 nominate you to the Curacy of Cranston in which 
 office I have reason to know that you have worked most 
 laboriously, and, single-handed, have had to fight a very 
 up-hill fight / hoped that you would soon have some- 
 thing better worth accepting, and a sphere of duty more 
 congenial to your tastes and feelings. From the force 
 of circumstances, I have been unable hitherto to do what 
 I wished to do from the first, and ask you to remove 
 your residence from Cranston nearer to me. I am now 
 
 D
 
 50 The Curate of Cranston. 
 
 enabled to do this, and to ask your acceptance of the 
 Rectory of Fairville, which is now vacant, and of which 
 I am the patron. I think you must know the parish, as 
 it nearly adjoins the living held by my dear old friend, 
 your late father. I need scarcely, therefore, describe it 
 to you, or tell you that it lies in one of the healthiest and 
 prettiest spots in the county ; but I may as well say 
 that its population (which is purely agricultural) num- 
 bered 327 at the last census : that the value of the 
 living, with tithes and glebe, is not under 540 : that 
 there is a capital rectory -house, with four acres of land 
 attached : that new schools have been erected, and that 
 the church has recently been restored at my cost. I 
 should be delighted to welcome as a near neighbour the 
 son of a much-valued friend ; and I sincerely hope that 
 you will be able to meet my wishes on this point, and to 
 do me the favour to accept my proposal. Your doing so 
 will, I am sure, be a great boon to the somewhat- 
 neglected parish of Fairville. With the best wishes of 
 the season, believe me, dear sir, 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 "MARMADUKE WRIGHTON." 
 " Wrighton Court, December 26." 
 
 How the Curate of Cranston got to Closeborough, 
 he knows as little as how he got to his lodgings on
 
 The Curate of Cranston. 51 
 
 that memorable Christmas night : but he did get to 
 the station, and in time for the train. 
 
 But whether or no he accepted Sir Marmaduke's 
 offer, and whether or not he married Margaret in the 
 next merry month of June, and had his mother to 
 live with them at the pretty rectory, I must leave you 
 to guess. But this one thing I may tell you ; that, 
 when Christmas night again came round, Hugh Ray- 
 mond was at Fairville Rectory, and there told to his 
 mother and Margaret (who, by the way, wore a 
 wedding-ring) the little tale that I have now told to 
 you. 
 
 D 2
 
 A SMALL WATER-PARTY.* 
 
 PERHAPS you don't know Norman Grange? and if 
 
 so, you've a loss, I assure you. 
 "Tis the prettiest spot you could find in the beautiful 
 
 county of Blankshire, 
 And of all county families there, the palm is borne off 
 
 by the Mortons. 
 
 Comes the Paterfamilias first: tall, smiling, complacent, 
 and portly; 
 
 With his face finely coloured with health, and per- 
 chance by some magnums of claret ; 
 
 With his coat of the bluest of blue, and its buttons 
 the brightest of brass ; 
 
 And the whole of his costume, as far as his wife and 
 the fashion allow him, 
 
 Partaking of that remote cut, assigned by unanimous 
 counsel 
 
 * In rhythmical hexameters, i. e. English words whose long and 
 short quantities are to be scanned by the ear, and not by the rules 
 that govern Latin dactyls and spondees.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 53 
 
 To old English Gentlemen, when there were pigtails, 
 and powder, and Tories. 
 
 Well rides he up to the hounds, on one of his thorough- 
 bred hunters, 
 
 A study for Landseer or Grant, as he sits there com- 
 pact on the pig-skin, 
 
 A model for Leech, who would masterly sketch him 
 as nobody else could, 
 
 Manfully facing a bullfinch, and flying o'er raspers 
 and five-bars, 
 
 While the woods echo back his rich voice as he cheerily 
 yoicks his harkforrud ! 
 
 A dead shot is he with the birds, and the terror of 
 partridge and pheasant, 
 
 Keeping up all the sports of the field, as an old Eng- 
 lish gentleman should do. 
 
 A Solon he is on the Bench at all the Board- meetings 
 a Draco ; 
 
 Terrible, too, on the Rates, and at Quarter Sessions, 
 tremendous ! 
 
 As Commissioner, too, of the roads, an authority 
 great as Mac Adam ; 
 
 As a Magistrate, upright and stern ; as a Guardian, 
 fierce as a lion ; 
 
 But in all the relations of life, affable, frank, and 
 good-hearted.
 
 54 A Small Water-Parti/. 
 
 When he rides forth o'er his fields, or walks at foot- 
 pace through the village, 
 The white-headed children rush forth, and pull at their 
 
 hair for a greeting ; 
 And the hearts of the Clodpoles are glad, when the 
 
 Squire pulls up to address them. 
 Great is he then on the crops ; learned on subsoil, and 
 
 compost ; 
 Knowing on Mechi and Pusey ; and quotes Mr. Hux- 
 
 table's porkers; 
 Draining, and short-horns, and lime, and oil-cake, and 
 
 Leicesters, and fallows, 
 And words to which Cockneys can't give any due 
 
 agricultural notion, 
 (Although they once got up the " Georgics " by rote 
 
 when they went to Grey Friars,) 
 Fly about like a juggler's brass balls, whenever he 
 
 talks with his tenants, 
 Who respect " Squoire Moi'ton as much why, as dang 
 
 it ! the Queen or Prince Holbut \" 
 
 Comes his good-natured better-half next, rustling in 
 richest of satin ; 
 
 With that well-preserved comeliness that's so peculiar 
 to matrons of England, 
 
 Where the roses of beauty and health can bloom with- 
 out rouge and cosmetics.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 55 
 
 What she was in her maidenly prime, we may judge 
 
 from her fair eldest daughter, 
 Miss Lizzie, of " sweet seventeen," who came out to 
 
 the world this last season, 
 And in her young rosebuds reflects the expanded full 
 
 bloom of her mother. 
 Such a friend to "the young folks," ne'er lived as 
 
 good Mrs. Morton of Blankshire ! 
 To chaperone motherless girls to giving of parties, and 
 
 picnics, 
 And filling her house full of guests no woman there 
 
 ever lived like her ! 
 
 Not long since she sent me a note, with a pressing and 
 
 kind invitation, 
 That Fd come the next week to the Grange where a 
 
 party would then be assembled ; 
 " But come on the Thursday, be sure ! for then, we've 
 
 a small Water-party ; 
 We shall have a lunch- dinner at three, and afterwards 
 
 go on the river." 
 
 I accepted (of course !) ; and next week, having sent 
 
 on my bag and my baggage, 
 I over to Norman Grange rode, and reached there in 
 
 time for the luncheon.
 
 56 A Small Water -Party. 
 
 As I took the short cut through the park, it brought 
 
 me out just by the stables. 
 And there, in the courtyard, I found a sample of each 
 
 kind of carriage, 
 From the stately old family-coach to the stylish, but 
 
 fast-looking, dog-cart; 
 Betokening our party that day was one of the largest 
 
 dimensions. 
 And so I soon found that it was a regular county 
 
 assembly, 
 Among whom, as the newspapers say, " we noticed the 
 
 Earl of Trinorben ;" 
 Her Ladyship too, with her sons, the little Lord Gules, 
 
 and his brother ; 
 With the Broughtons, the Dalrymples, Hayes; the 
 
 Gurdons, Saint Quintins, and Wyatts; 
 The Darnells, and Campbells, and Thorneys ; the 
 
 Haslewoods, Howards, and Clintons; 
 And all the best families round, and all the presentable 
 
 Curates. 
 The children had also been ask'd and all who had 
 
 juveniles brought them ; 
 And since many could boast that their quivers were 
 
 pretty well furnished with arrows, 
 The infantile prattle and laugh were decidedly in the 
 
 ascendant.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 57 
 
 We all, until feeding-time came, wandered about in the 
 
 gardens ; 
 And a beautiful prospect it was to see all the beautiful 
 
 women 
 In their many-hued muslins and silks, go gleaming 
 
 about 'mid the flowers, 
 The loveliest bouquets of all, and where all was fair, yet 
 
 the fairest, 
 Promenading the terrace in groups, while their children 
 
 played gaily around them ; 
 Strolling about through the park, and flashing, like 
 
 wandering sunbeams, 
 Down the broad avenue where the elms threw their 
 
 quivering shadows. 
 b 
 
 In a spacious marquee in the park, close by the Italian 
 
 garden, 
 There was the luncheon laid out comprising, of course, 
 
 every dainty 
 That French cooks had ever devised, or confectioners 
 
 ever invented, 
 A dejeuner ample and varied and not like to some I 
 
 could mention 
 That are more ornamental than useful, and made up of 
 
 garnish and flowers 
 
 D 3
 
 5 8 A Small Water-Party. 
 
 But a good and substantial repast, to which a great 
 gong boom'd the summons. 
 
 I was delightfully placed ! On one side Fd Miss 
 Lizzie Morton; 
 
 On the other, the fair Mrs. Hayes, with her two olive- 
 branches beside her 
 
 Their little cheeks rosy and soft as the peaches they 
 then were devouring. 
 
 She was one of those capital people that shine with 
 full force when they're married ; 
 
 And few can enchant us so much as a nice little well- 
 married woman, 
 
 Who has passed Hymen's rubicon long, and the 
 honeymoon's billing and cooing, 
 
 And has settled down into the stern and practical 
 duties of marriage, 
 
 With little, live, miniature shapes of her husband and 
 self to hang round her, 
 
 And invest her with motherly cares, and the dignity 
 too of a matron. 
 
 How delightful is she to converse with ! so unreserved, 
 easy, and piquant; 
 
 With that free confidential discourse denied to the 
 maidens of England,
 
 A Small Water -Party. 59 
 
 Whom the laws of "society" bind in conventional 
 
 stays, and strait- waistcoats, 
 And, denying them freedom of speech, thus cripple 
 
 their natural feelings, 
 
 Quite as much as in China their feet would be pinch'd, 
 
 and distorted, by Fashion ; 
 So that Miss on my right, may not say what Mamma, 
 
 on my left, says so freely ; 
 For Etiquette then would step in and say, "You are 
 
 sinning against me, 
 Thus to talk with that gentleman, whom you treat as 
 
 a man and a brother ! 
 Pray remember that others might think your affections 
 
 were his, for the asking ! " 
 So, to quite put an end to these gross and very improper 
 
 suspicions, 
 Poor Miss puckers up her sweet lips, and, to use a 
 
 most vulgar expression, 
 Picks and looks at her words, e'er she speaks, and 
 
 sinks into common-place parlance. 
 Thus it is that the gushings of youth are frozen and 
 
 chill' d in their fountains, 
 And often, it may be, choked up by " society's " 
 
 heartless conventions.
 
 60 A Small Water-Party. 
 
 But whilst Mrs. Hayes and her talk are thus my atten- 
 tion engrossing, 
 
 The luncheon has greatly progressed, and the cham- 
 pagne as greatly diminished; 
 
 And young ladies who probably made a very good 
 luncheon ere starting 
 
 Lean back in their seats, and declare, "Not a drop 
 more ! now really I couldn't ! " 
 
 But the children, who cannot as yet entertain such 
 ethereal notions, 
 
 Whilst they see all those beautiful sweets, and the 
 tempting pine-apples untasted, 
 
 Would never give over, unless their mothers cried, 
 "Hold, enough !" for them. 
 
 At length away sail the ladies and children, the 
 
 gentlemen leaving behind them 
 Disconsolate, as, of course, men always are when the 
 
 ladies have left them : 
 But trying to drown their regrets, when the Squire puts 
 
 in this suggestion, 
 "We've just a few minutes to spare before we go down 
 
 to the river : 
 You'll find this most capital port, but there's claret 
 
 for those who prefer it.'
 
 A Small Water-Party. 61 
 
 Then, when one or two hobbledehoys, who are secretly 
 
 shaving for whiskers, 
 Look vacant, and wild in the eyes, and in language 
 
 are foggy and misty, 
 Some one winks to the Squire, and says, " We'd better, 
 
 pVaps, go to the ladies." 
 
 The Swinney, as every one knows, is the principal river 
 of Blankshire, 
 
 And flows with a beautiful sweep, by the Norman- 
 grange mansion and meadows. 
 
 The boat-house thrusts out its black nose from under 
 a fringe of green willows, 
 
 And thither we all of us troop, and are marshalled 
 witli skill to our places. 
 
 When a young man at Oxford, the Squire was great in 
 
 all matters aquatic, 
 And, as captain, had got up his boat by degrees to the 
 
 head of the river ; 
 So that when he left College he brought the St. Vitus's 
 
 boat to the country. 
 And there, with the four oars, it was drawn up to the 
 
 steps at the landing 
 An eight-oar cut down to a six, with the stern fitted 
 
 up for the ladies ;
 
 62 A Small Water-Par///. 
 
 No cranky and modern outrigger, but a good patent- 
 safety flat-bottom. 
 
 The rowers are chosen, and strip; and the boats, otic 
 
 by one, are in motion ; 
 Then, a snugly-caparison'd barge receives all the rest, 
 
 and the children. 
 
 The Squire to me has been kind; of St. Vitus's boat 
 
 I'm the coxswain ; 
 And the gay tasscll'd cords of the rudder I tug with 
 
 a nervous excitement, 
 For the ten chosen belles of the party depend upon 
 
 me for their safety. 
 The Squire pulls stroke, as he did in the days of Ins 
 
 youth and his vigour; 
 And the rest, though they keep not their time, nor 
 
 feather " with skill and dexterity," 
 Yet are passable oars on the whole, and decidedly 
 
 jolly young watermen. 
 Charley Grey, of the Guards, who performs pretty \\cll 
 
 on the cornct-a-piston, 
 lias "come with his music," and lies in the bow, lest 
 
 the cars of the ladies 
 Should be pierced with the sharp, ringing notes, which 
 
 the distance will mellow to sweetness.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 63 
 
 The St. Vitus's boat takes the lead; and we sweep 
 
 with a spurt, up the river, 
 And our pennon streams out in the breeze, as Grey 
 
 blows a blast of defiance ; 
 While I, who am single, and flirting with ten flirting, 
 
 single young ladies, 
 Have lost all my presence of mind in a pleasing 
 
 delirium tremens, 
 And steer the St. Vitus's boat slap into a bed of tall 
 
 rushes ! 
 The blast of defiance is hushM, and mild objurgations 
 
 succeed it, 
 And the oars are all rapidly shipped, while the ten 
 
 bonnets duck to the rushes ; 
 And I with the reeds and confusion am coverM as 
 
 though with a garment. 
 
 We drift out at length ; and, of course, I promise 
 
 amendment of steering; 
 And we soon leave the shouts of derision the four-oars 
 
 and barge have sent to us ; 
 Then, in a soft, green, floating shade, underneath the 
 
 cool droop of the willows, 
 We lay-to awhile, and look out for the rest from our 
 
 watery arbour ;
 
 64 A Small Water-Party. 
 
 And the ladies bend over the side, and pluck at the 
 
 white water-lilies, 
 Or the more sentimental forget-me-nots, fringing the 
 
 banks of the river 
 With their flowery masses, that seem as though bathed 
 
 in the bright blue of heaven. 
 *Tis pleasant to look up the stream, as the four-oars 
 
 come dropping down to us, 
 While the heavier barge lags behind, with its freight 
 
 of mammas and their cherubs. 
 
 The breeze bears their musical laughter, the water re- 
 flects their fair figures ; 
 The oars cleave the stream into ripples that break up 
 
 the many-hued shadows ; 
 The silvery willows are fringed with a brightness that 
 
 seems like a halo ; 
 The pastures are dappled with kine, cud-chewing, 
 
 lazily lying; 
 The haymakers, ruddy and brown, are at work in the 
 
 sweet-smelling meadows ; 
 The bean-fields throw out their perfume, and the reeds 
 
 pipe their Pandaean music ; 
 And the sun, sinking low in the west, lights up all 
 
 with his own golden splendour.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 65 
 
 It is pleasant to see this, and float through the cool of 
 
 the evening shadows 
 With ten pretty girls by your side, and you wishing 
 
 you'd ten hearts to give them. 
 And p'rhaps it is better for me that the people who 
 
 manage the office 
 
 Where I'm just now insuring my life, were not pre- 
 sent to see, and report me. 
 Disease of the heart, or at least some affection in that 
 
 tender quarter, 
 Would have surely been laid to my charge, and my 
 
 bachelor's life proved in danger, 
 And the risk I was running, of course, would have 
 
 raised the expense of insuring. 
 However, I craftily covered my love-germs with heaps 
 
 of loose small- talk, 
 And Spartan-like, never cried out while my heart was 
 
 thus being devour'd. 
 
 The star of the evening comes out ere we have come 
 
 off from the water, 
 And the twilight is gathering round as we turn us 
 
 away from the river. 
 While Grey of the Guards trumpets out the air that 
 
 is called " Isle of Beauty."
 
 66 A Small Water-Party. 
 
 Then when the coffee's been served, the tuning of 
 
 harps and of fiddles 
 Gives the prelude to other delights, and summons us 
 
 all to the ball-room ; 
 And there, demi-toilet asserts its negligee charms over 
 
 full-dress. 
 Quadrilles unto waltzes succeed, and polkas are polked 
 
 to distraction ; 
 And " Pop Goes the Weazel" is tried, but condemned 
 
 to be thence shelved for ever ; 
 And " La Tempete " is danced in its stead, and seems 
 
 to give great satisfaction j 
 And the juveniles vanish with speed, and leave the 
 
 room free for their elders. 
 
 The ball-room's three windows lead out to the ter- 
 raced Italian garden, 
 
 And there by the moonlight we stroll, to cool from the 
 heat of the dances. 
 
 And some loving couples are seen extending their 
 walk and their converse, 
 
 Down the broad avenue where the elms make a cheque- 
 work of shadows. 
 
 Dangerous strolling, indeed ! the first figure of Pop 
 Goes the Question.
 
 A Small Water-Party. 67 
 
 But ethereal joys must succumb to material needs and 
 
 necessities ; 
 And, while Lubin is piping his love, his thoughts may 
 
 be busy with supper ! 
 
 And great is the charm of the supper, besides the 
 
 mere business of eating : 
 That we will leave to the gourmand ! Give us the 
 
 light feasting of reason, 
 And the flow of the soul that will spring like the 
 
 champagne's own brilliant bubbles, 
 And burst into sparkles of wit, whose grave is the 
 
 pleasures they rose from ! 
 
 Dancing commences again ; and the hobbledehoys, 
 
 growing bolder, 
 No longer as wallflowers stand, nor sheepishly lurk up 
 
 in doorways, 
 But, primed with champagne, rush to polkas, and 
 
 madly e'en think of a deux-temps, 
 And flounder about on the toes of the good-natured 
 
 girls who will take them. 
 
 Lady-mothers at length get to gape, and, unlike the 
 song's " winking May-buds,
 
 68 A Small Water-Party. 
 
 'Gin to" close, not to "ope sleepy eyes/' and look 
 
 most unnaturally drowsy ; 
 And, though their fair daughters "protest they must 
 
 throw overboard many partners, 
 Yet all's to no use ! and the prayer, " but just one 
 
 more dance," won't be heard more ; 
 And, " you know your papa never likes for the horses 
 
 so long to be waiting." 
 
 So the hens take their chickens away; and wraps are 
 
 in great requisition ; 
 And the steps and the doors of the carriages bang 
 
 with a loud demonstration ; 
 And the rattle of wheels on the gravel dies faintly 
 
 away in the distance ; 
 And the last " Sturm Marsche Galop" is whirl' d, and 
 
 the last " good night " wish'd to the hostess ; 
 And the last ringing laughter of girlhood floats lightly 
 
 its heavenly music ; 
 Till 'tis drown' d by the cornet-a-piston on which 
 
 Charley Grey is expressing 
 That till morning we do not go home, to end this 
 
 our SMALL WATER-PARTY !
 
 "VICTORIA EEOIA/ 
 
 [Nom] The Victoria Regia (as it Was afterwards called) the & 
 
 magnificent queen of the water lilies, was discovered, in 1837, 
 by Sir Robert Schomburgh, in a hitherto unvisited river in British 
 Guiana. Drawings of its gigantic dimensions were exhibited in 
 England ; but, as the seeds which had been brought over did not \ 
 germinate, the drawings were generally thought to be the artistic / 
 fictions of an imaginative traveller. Fresh seeds, however, were 
 sent over by Dr. Eodie, of Demerara, and by Mr. J. Carter (in 
 1847), which were more successful, and germinated both at Kew 
 and at Chatsworth. The latter flowered first (on Nov. 9th, 1849), 
 and a leaf and flower of the plant were presented by Mr. Paxton 
 to Her Majesty and Prince Albert. The house built for the recep- 
 tion of the Victoria Regia was planned from designs furnished by 
 the plant itself ! These are Mr. Paxton's own words : " Nature 
 was the engineer in this case. You will perceive that nature has 
 provided it with longitudinal and transverse girders and sup- 
 porters, on the same principle that I, borrowing from it, have 
 adopted in this Building." Seven months after this, when the 
 Great Exhibition Building Committee had rejected the designs of 
 
 the 273 competitors, in favour of a plan of their own, which was 
 so unsightly, cumbrous, and expensive, that it was at once con- 
 demned by the unanimous voice of public opinion, at this crisis 
 stepped in Mr. Amateur-Architect Paxton, and cut the Gordian 
 knot in the most satisfactory manner. His design for a Crystal ^ \- 
 Palace of iron and glass, on the same principle as the Victoria 
 Regia house at Chatsworth, was first published to the world in the 
 pages of the Illustrated London News for July 6th, 1850. What 
 followed upon the publication of this design is now a matter of
 
 yo " Victoria Regia" 
 
 history ; and the connection that thus arose between a Water- Lily 
 of British Guiana and the Crystal Wonder of the Nineteenth Cen- 
 tury is also a matter of history. 
 
 'Neath the burning sun of a torrid clime 
 
 All day I bathed in the waters cool ; 
 And my snowy breast, at the touch of Time, 
 
 Blushed rosy red* to the amorous pool. 
 A child of nature I lived, and loved 
 
 Thus on the waters to float all day : 
 To lazily lie by the waves upmoved, 
 
 And to sport with the billows in idle play. 
 There, with a bevy of sisters, I grew 
 
 In grace, and in beauty, and still as a dream 
 Wilderness water-nymphs, hidden from view, 
 
 And longing to die on our well-loved stream. 
 We sighed not for wealth we had emerald trees, 
 
 The jewelled birds and the sapphire sky; 
 And our forest bath, 'neath the rippling breeze, 
 
 Into sparkling diamond sprays would fly. 
 
 Ah ! well I remember the fatal time, 
 
 When a new sound startled us all to fear ; 
 
 When the plash of oars with their murmured chime, 
 Smote on the listening Solitude's ear. 
 
 * The white blossom of the Victoria Regia gradually assumes a 
 pink tinge on the upper part of the petal.
 
 " Victoria Regia" 71 
 
 Breathless we stood for we could not flee ; 
 
 Was it fear that rooted us to that spot ? 
 The sailors shouted aloud for glee, 
 
 As their boat to our unknown wilderness shot; 
 They dashed among us with open arms, 
 
 And each one eagerly seized his prize; 
 And our breasts throbbed quickly with soft alarms, 
 
 As we met the glance of their longing eyes. 
 I, by the lord of the sailors was claimed, 
 
 And he lifted me tenderly into the boat ; 
 And while the red sunset in anger flamed, 
 
 Our loved birds watched us away from them float. 
 
 A thousand miles he bore me away, 
 
 To his cold, cold land in the northern clime, 
 And I pined and drooped from day to day, 
 
 As I thought on the joys of the olden time. 
 Yet it seemed ungrateful thus to moan 
 
 O'er the golden hours all past and gone ; 
 Though lost was the sun of the torrid zone, 
 
 The light of affection upon me shone. 
 My captor loved me, and gave me wealth, 
 
 And built for my pleasure a fairy-like home, 
 Where, screened from cold, in sunshiny stealth, 
 
 I joyfully bathed 'neath a crystal dome.
 
 72, " Victoria 
 
 Then the colour came to my cheeks again : 
 And I sought to repay his loving care : 
 
 And my new home saw me as gladsome as when 
 My lips were kissed by a southern air. 
 
 Then I went to a prouder palace by far 
 
 A palace vast, with a hundred bowers, 
 Where the diamond gleamed like a wintry star, 
 
 And coloured gems mocked the gem-like flowers. 
 All around were hangings of Tyrian dyes, 
 
 And plashing fountains leapt and gushed ; 
 And cunning statues charmed the eyes, 
 
 Though their life was in marble silence hushed ; 
 Palms spread their feathery fans on high, 
 
 But they failed to touch the rainbow'd dome ; 
 And pulses of music throbbed audibly 
 
 Through the mazy courts of my palace home. 
 With the flowers and fountains, and fanlike palms, 
 
 Sweet recollections would round me throng, 
 For the buried thoughts that memory embalms, 
 
 Will rise at the last, though forgotten long.
 
 FOKEIGN AIES AND NATIVE 
 GKACES. 
 
 IN the second series of the " Recreations of a Country 
 Parson " we read the following : " I remember how, 
 a year or two since, that contemptible ' Ratcatcher's 
 Daughter/ without a thing to recommend it, with no 
 music, no wit, no sentiment, nothing but vulgar brutal- 
 ity, might be heard in every separate town of England 
 and Scotland, sung about the streets by every ragged 
 urchin, while the other songs of the vivacious Cowell 
 fell dead from his lips" (p. 68). 
 
 Now, although we never heard "the vivacious Cowell" 
 sing the song in question, yet we have heard it (from 
 a middy's lips) many years before the " vivacious " 
 Cowell had disentombed it from the grave of the past, 
 and started it on its new career of popularity. Like 
 " Villikins and his Dinah," "The Ratcatcher's Daugh- 
 ter " was merely an old ballad revived ; and, as we 
 write this, we have before us an edition of the ballad, 
 
 E
 
 74 Foreign Airs and Native Graces. 
 
 bearing date 184-2, and illustrated with seven clever 
 lithographic drawings by Miss Brigstocke. But why 
 we now more particularly draw attention to the above 
 extract from the Scotch minister's " Recreations " is, to 
 notice his remark, that the song has " no music," not- 
 withstanding that its melody was sung by all the ragged 
 urchins in England and Scotland a fact which, we 
 think, would alone have been a sufficient proof that 
 the ballad had some real u music" in its composition. 
 But what is the fact ? Perhaps if we were to assert 
 that the air of " The Ratcatcher's Daughter " was by 
 Mozart, we should appear to be stating an improbability, 
 if not an impossibility. Aud, if we were to tell our 
 Country Parson that, in the Kirks of his native land, and 
 in many of the churches and chapels in England, he 
 may have heard a hymn sung to the melody of "The 
 Ratcatcher's Daughter," we dare say that he would 
 receive our statement with polite incredulity. And yet 
 both our statements, if not absolutely correct to the very 
 letter that is, to each individual musical note yet 
 are, in the main, quite true. For, the Psalm tune (com- 
 mon in certain congregations) which goes by the name 
 of " Belmont," is an adaptation of an air by Mozart ; 
 and if " Belmont " be rather briskly sung, it will be 
 found that one is singing the melody of "The Rat- 
 catcher's Daughter " and a very pretty melody it is,
 
 Foreign Airs and Native Graces. 75 
 
 notwithstanding that the Country Parson says there is 
 " no music " in it. Since he can write essays that are 
 " Sermons in polka-time/' let him try to sing the 
 hymnal "Belmont" in "Ratcatcher's Daughter" time, 
 and he will find that he is singing a melody by Mozart, 
 which certainly has "music" "to recommend it." One 
 trial will prove the fact as the advertising grocers say : 
 and the singers of " Belmont " can lay to heart that 
 saying of Wesley's that " the devil must not have all the 
 good tunes." A sermon in polka-time would sound very 
 differently from the same sermon preached with slow 
 solemnity ; just as the same notes, when played allegro 
 and penseroso, would convey very opposite impressions. 
 Thus, we have known an instance, where a certain 
 secular air played in a church very slowly, and in 
 chords, threw the musical rector, not into dis- 
 pleasure, but into ecstacies with the impressive beauty 
 of its solemn melody. Of course the rector was 
 not in the secret ; and the next day, he asked his 
 friend, the amateur organist, for a copy of his organ- 
 piece. " Before I give you the copy, " was the reply, 
 " would you not like to hear me play it on this piano- 
 forte ? " " Oh, yes ! " " Then, for a change, I will play 
 in a rather quicker time." And he did play it ; and 
 the tune he played was Rodwell's " Nix my dolly pals 
 fake away ! " out of "Jack Sheppard." And the feelings 
 
 E 2
 
 7 6 Foreign Airs and Native Graces. 
 
 of that musical Country Parson may be more easily 
 imagined than described. 
 
 Perhaps many modern popular airs, and " nigger 
 melodies," might be traced to high originals. Thus, 
 the tune of " Buffalo Gals " is said to be taken from an 
 old air by Gliick ; and that of "Old Joe" from an air in 
 Rossini's "Coradino." There is an adagio piece of 
 musk existing in MS. at Oxford, and stated to be the 
 piece of music performed at Fotheringay, during the 
 execution of Mary Queen of Scots. It is similar in 
 character to the Dead March in " Saul," and has an 
 equally solemn and pathetic effect when played in slow 
 time; but when played in fast time it resolves itself 
 into the old English lively tune of " Jumping Joan."
 
 THE SPKING OF LIFE. 
 
 " I am content to die but, oh ! not now ! " 
 
 The Child of Earth. (By the Hon. Mrs. Norton.) 
 
 OH, 'tis hard to die when the spring has come, 
 In her grass-green robe, to her sunny home; 
 When the Winter King has resign'd his sway, 
 And his icy palace has melted away ; 
 When the spring is come and the summer is nigh, 
 'Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die ! 
 
 When the flowers are springing from out of the earth, 
 
 To deck the mother that gave them birth ; 
 
 When the opening blossoms of orchard-trees 
 
 Are scattering sweets to the passing breeze ; 
 
 When all is bright as the blue, blue sky, 
 
 Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die ! 
 
 When the rose is unveiling her blushing breast 
 To her nightingale lover in wild unrest ;
 
 78 The Spring of Life. 
 
 When the butterfly floats so blithely along, 
 And the wild bee hummeth his drowsy song ; 
 When we hear in the folds the young lambs cry, 
 'Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die ! 
 
 When the beautiful birds, in their wild-wood home, 
 
 Sing 'neath their palace's leafy dome; 
 
 When the wooded heights and the valleys ring 
 
 With the echoes of their sweet carolling ; 
 
 When the hidden cuckoo is heard hard by, 
 
 'Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die ! 
 
 When the brook comes babbling through the dell, 
 Telling soft tales to the wild bluebell ; 
 When the hyacinth blooms, and o'er each hedgerow 
 The May-buds scatter their blossoms of snow ; 
 When the winds breathe soft as love's first sigh, 
 'Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die ! 
 
 I would wish, on my death-bed, to lie, and see 
 The green leaves robing each foi-est-tree ; 
 I would wish to look, in my latest hours, 
 On the brightest hues of the fairest flowers ; 
 And to watch the sun sink in the golden sky ; 
 Yet, 'tis hard, dear mother, in spring, to die !
 
 TJie Spring of Life. 79 
 
 I would not die when the wintry snow 
 
 Clothes with a death-shroud the earth below, 
 
 Hiding from mortal eyes and sight 
 
 All that is beautiful, fair, and bright^ 
 
 When trees rear their skeleton forms on high 
 
 I would not, dear mother, in winter, die. 
 
 But, I would die when the autumn's gold 
 
 Should warm the damps of the churchyard mould ; 
 
 To wake from my wintry tomb, to rise 
 
 To the spring eternal beyond the skies ; 
 
 But, oh ! just now, when the summer is nigh, 
 
 3 Tis hard, dear mother, indeed, to die !
 
 TO ON HEE BIETHDAY. 
 
 JULY 23. 
 
 NOT in the cheerless winter of the year, 
 When sickly suns glare dimly o'er the snow, 
 When trees are stripped of yellow leaf and sere, 
 And rivers rage, and rough winds rudely blow, 
 But in the sweet time of .the Summer's sun, 
 When all is bright, and balmy breezes blow, 
 The journey of thy lifetime was begun. 
 The merry sunshine warm'd thee with its glow ; 
 The rosy Summer kiss'd thee into life, 
 And ran the hot blood dancing through thy veins ; 
 The zephyrs lull'd thee with their softest strains, 
 And Love, thy pathway strew'd with fairest flowers. 
 Dear child of Summer ! whether maid or wife, 
 May your life's dial show but sunny hours.
 
 THE LITERABY ABUSE OF 
 ADJECTIVES. 
 
 ONE of the commonest vices in literary composition is 
 the abuse of the Adjective. When properly treated, 
 the adjective is one of the most useful parts of speech ; 
 but when put to more than its due work, it becomes 
 weak and good for nothing. The chief sinners in this 
 vice are fair sinners : the poor adjectives are abused 
 and ridden to death far oftener by lady-authors than 
 by males. 
 
 It has been said, that when a woman has the 
 driving or riding-reins in her hands, she never ceases 
 from fidgeting at her horse with the whip; and it 
 is the same with these literary hacks of adjectives 
 when a woman has a pen in her hand, she is always 
 " touching up " her composition with them, not being 
 content with giving one where it is required, but dis- 
 tributing them by twos and threes with a great flourish 
 and lack of discrimination. They are, to her narra- 
 
 E 3
 
 82 T/ie Literary Abuse of Adjectives. 
 
 tive, what the fidgeting touches of the whip would be 
 to her horse, he gets on none the quicker for them, 
 and they do not improve his disposition ; and though 
 her nourish of the whip, or pen, may be given with a 
 grand air, yet, after all, it means nothing, and might 
 be much better omitted, so that the sharp, well-placed 
 lash, or adjective, might fall with full force in the pro- 
 per quarter. 
 
 For there is nothing more forcible in literary 
 composition than this often-abused adjective, if it 
 be skilfully chosen and applied after due thought. 
 But Mediocrity cannot afford to think, or to blot its 
 manuscript. Its copia fandi is after that kind of 
 watered eloquence that abounds in the small-talk of 
 ladies; and adjectives pour forth in an unhesitating 
 and indiscriminating stream. This is unpremeditated 
 art certainly; but the value of the performance 
 is terribly diminished by its superficial character. 
 Volatile spirit there may be ; but little body or depth. 
 The composition is attained by clearing the steps of 
 thought at a bound; but little meditation precedes 
 the act, and no revision follows it. If it did, how 
 many of those abused and weakening adjectives would 
 be struck out ! But Mediocrity either cannot see this, 
 or cannot afford to do it, and takes their crowded 
 presence as a sign of strength and wealth. But is it
 
 The Literary Abuse of Adjectives. 83 
 
 so ? It is very true that the adjective, when well 
 thought out and skilfully applied, can, with a happy 
 touch, change the hare outline of the substantive into 
 ar picture full of light and sensuous colour; and that 
 it will give meaning to what was obscure, and lend a 
 value to that which was worthlesss. 
 
 Macaulay and Tennyson are two note-worthy modern 
 instances of the consummately skilful use to which the 
 adjective may be put in literary composition. With 
 them its use is a matter for due thought and careful 
 selection, and it is not abused by being pitchforked 
 into a sentence, merely that it may swell that sentence 
 or eke out the rhythm. With them, the adjectives do 
 not come trooping in crowds, jostling and elbowing 
 each other in a confused medley, but are assigned to 
 their proper and individual stations. As a rule, and 
 except in certain instances where there is a special 
 end in view, and in such tricky poems as Southey's 
 Lodore, the increase in the number of adjectives does 
 but diminish their power. However bright and attrac- 
 tive they may be in themselves, yet they are but as the 
 poppies amid the corn. 
 
 An indiscriminate use of their wealth is like in- 
 discriminate charity, which, though it may now and 
 then be happily applied, yet on the whole does more 
 harm than good. The riches must be judiciously
 
 84 Tie Literary Abuse of Adjectives. 
 
 distributed in the proper quarters ere their real 
 benefit can be appreciated. However strong an 
 author may be, yet his strength is changed to weak- 
 ness, when it is expended on a thoughtless use (or 
 rather, abuse) of adjectives. A plethora of adjectives 
 is anything but a sign of literary health; and the 
 hampering of plain words with a string of gaudy 
 ornaments is far from being an evidence of pure taste. 
 The very prodigality of invention occasionally leads a 
 young writer to fling away his adjectives with a reck- 
 less profusion that sometimes borders upon the ridi- 
 culous, and at all times gives his readers a task, that 
 may prove wearisome, to possess themselves of the 
 glittering gems. 
 
 This was strikingly the case with Alexander 
 Smith, in his " Life-drama." In his love for " word- 
 painting/" he terribly abused unoffending adjectives, 
 and, as the Yankees say, piled them up too " rnoun- 
 taynious : " and, it is in word-painting, however 
 brilliant, that we too often meet with the abuse of 
 adjectives from those who have a fatal facility for their 
 fatal felicity. But this is never the case with the 
 great masters of the English language, whose sim- 
 plicity of style is a safeguard against their committing 
 the offence in question. But, while the literary abuse 
 of the adjective by the hands of Talent is a subject for
 
 The Literary Abuse of Adjectives. 85 
 
 regret, what can we say to the intolerable treatment that 
 it has to endure from Mediocrity ? There is some 
 excuse for extempore preachers and speakers; for, 
 while they are heaping up adjectives (which are gene- 
 rally synonymous) they are gaining time for fresh 
 thought though often, in their cases, the adjectives are 
 only used as decent coverings for their nakedness of 
 thought, and their literary value sinks to the level of 
 the vain repetitions of a Stiggins, or Chadband. 
 
 But there is no excuse for those who have the time 
 allowed them to write down their thoughts, and to correct 
 them when written. They are culprits (and, generally, 
 feminine culprits) beyond the hope of pardon, who 
 can deliberately send forth into the literary world such 
 poor abused adjectives as that represented by the 
 word "sweet" which are presumed to give an in- 
 definite saccharine flavour to the composition, but 
 which, in truth, do but tend to class it in that barley- 
 sugar-and-lollipop species of literature, wherein we 
 find such a terrible abuse of the Adjectives.
 
 THE KINGFISHER 
 
 A SUDDEN flash of bluest light, 
 
 The Kingfisher flew o'er the pool : 
 I tracked it in its glittering flight, 
 
 Where willows made a shadow cool. 
 The burning sun was in the sky, 
 
 But no ray pierced that sheltered spot 
 Yet, like a flash, the bird flew by, 
 
 Bluer than blue forget-me-not. 
 
 And thus, I thought, in Life we see, 
 
 In every dim and darkened scene, 
 Some glittering ray of Hope there'll be, 
 
 Where all in Sorrow's shade has been ; 
 And, radiant as that bird of blue, 
 
 'Twill lighten up each darkest spot ; 
 But brighter, in its heavenly hue, 
 
 Than bird or blue forget-me-not !
 
 MISLETOE MOKNINO. 
 
 Misletoe morning, 
 And chanticleer's warning 
 
 Had summoned fine folks from their beds and their 
 blankets, 
 
 When I saw, in a vision 
 Of Dreamland elysian, 
 A bevy of Cupids swarm forth for their prankets. 
 
 % 
 
 There was fun in their faces, 
 
 As all took their places, 
 
 And link'd themselves laughingly mad little fro- 
 lickers ! 
 
 And never such laughter 
 
 Shook roof-beam and rafter, 
 As shook the fat sides of these roystering rolickers ! 
 
 With unfetter'd actions, 
 They form'd in two factions,
 
 88 Misletoe Morning. 
 
 And, nude as old statues, selected their places : 
 
 Little rosy carousers, 
 
 Without any trousers, 
 And quite independent of straps and of braces ! 
 
 Such tints were their limbs on, 
 Such hues of rich crimson, 
 
 Such roses and lilies, wax-apples and cherries, 
 That they gleam'd hot and sunny, 
 As, with frolickings funny, 
 
 They snowball'd each other with misletoe berries !
 
 THE FOLK -LOBE OF A COUNTRY 
 PAEISH. 
 
 OUR country parish is quite a stronghold for supersti- 
 tions, and most certainly does its best to preserve " the 
 fast-fading relics of the old mythologies." It will not 
 by any means get rid of its folk-lore fancies, but 
 nourishes them with a tenderness that would be sur- 
 prising to your fine men of the world and your 
 sceptical dwellers in cities, who pooh-pooh our little 
 idealities, and delight to amuse themselves with our 
 marvels and mysteries. Let them do so, say I ! It but 
 little affects our parish, which goes on its way much as 
 it did some scores of years ago save that we have 
 done with our witches, and no longer oblige our 
 elderly females to sink or swim in the parish duck- 
 pond. 
 
 But our country parish believes in many things that 
 are not admitted into the creeds of the more en- 
 lightened towns. Permit me to divulge a few of the
 
 90 TJie Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 superstitious fancies that still abide with us : and 
 believe me when I tell you that my tales are strictly 
 true ones, and that their facts came within my own 
 cognisance. 
 
 And first which is beginning pretty nearly at the 
 beginning as to a baptismal superstition. It is not 
 often that our parish church can produce more than 
 one baptism at a time ; but, the other Sunday afternoon, 
 there was the unusual number of three christenings 
 two boys and a girl. The parents of one boy were in 
 a very respectable class of life : the parents of the two 
 other children were in humble circumstances. The 
 parties at the font had been duly placed by the officiat- 
 ing clergyman (Mr. Milkinsop, our esteemed curate) ; 
 and, as it happened, the girl and her sponsors were 
 placed last in order. 
 
 When the first child who was the. boy of the poor 
 parents was about to be baptized, the woman who 
 carried the little girl elbowed her way up to Mr. 
 Milkinsop, in order that the child she carried might 
 be the first to be baptized. To do this she had (very 
 contrary to the usual custom of the poor, who in all 
 essential points at least are generally as refined as 
 their superiors) rudely to push past her " betters " i. e. 
 the sponsors of the second boy. As she did so, she 
 whispered to one of the sponsors, by way of apology :
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish, 91 
 
 " It's a girl, so it must be christened first ! " 
 
 And christened first it was. But the peculiar manner 
 in which this was brought about, showed that the 
 woman was influenced by some peculiar feeling : and, 
 on the next day, an opportunity was taken to discover 
 her motive. 
 
 This was her explanation. 
 
 " You see, sir, the parson baint a married man, and 
 consequentially is disfamiliar with children, or he'd 
 never a put the little girl to be christen'd after the 
 little boys. And, though it sadly fluster' d me, sir, to 
 put myself afore my betters in the way which I was 
 fossed to do, yet, sir, it was a doing of a kindness to 
 them two little boys in me a setting of my little girl 
 afore 'em." 
 
 " Why so ?" it was asked. 
 
 " Well, sir ! I har astonished as you don't know/' 
 was the reply of this specimen of our country parish. 
 " Why, sir, if them little boys had been christen'd 
 afore the little girl, they'd have had her soft chin, and 
 she'd have had their hairy beards the poor little inno- 
 cent ! But, thank goodness ! I've kep' her from that 
 misfortin' !" 
 
 And the woman really believed that she had done 
 so; and, moreover, the generality of her neighbours 
 shared her belief.
 
 92 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 So let this fragment of folk-lore from our country 
 parish prove a warning to clergymen more especially 
 to bachelors like Mr. Milkinsop who would desire to 
 stand well in the opinions of their poorer neighbours. 
 
 If twins are born in our country parish, it is believed 
 th^,t of the little bipeds like the quadrupedal martin- 
 heifers and free-martins only one will prove the 
 father (or mother) of a family. 
 
 If any of our women are seen abroad, and pursuing 
 their ordinary out-of-door occupations, before they 
 have been " churched," they at once lose caste in the 
 eyes of their neighbours. 
 
 On the subject of marriage we have also our little 
 peculiarities. Not a maiden in our parish will attend 
 church on the three Sundays on which her banns are 
 proclaimed. And this, not from bashfulness or mock- 
 modesty ; but because they deem such a proceeding to 
 be eminently unlucky. When Mr. Milkinsop once 
 asked one of these damsels what was the particular 
 kind of ill-luck that she expected would have resulted 
 from her attendance at church on those three particular 
 Sundays, she informed the reverend gentleman that 
 the offspring of such marriages would be born deaf 
 and dumb. And, to clench this statement, and prove 
 its truth by a forcible example, she adduced the instance 
 of a young woman of her acquaintance who would
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 93 
 
 persist in going to church to hear her banns " asked 
 out/' and whose six children were in consequence all 
 born deaf and dumb. No wonder, then, that our 
 village maidens stay away from church on those three 
 interesting Sundays, when such sad results are known 
 to follow a deviation from our country parish supersti- 
 tion. 
 
 Why or wherefore, when these young damsels present 
 themselves before Mr. Milkinsop to be united in the 
 bonds of wedlock to the husbands of their choice 
 they should carry a sprig of gorse as a bridal bouquet 
 is a mystery which I have been unable to solve. A 
 young lady fresh from school, and therefore well versed 
 in the mystical language of flowers, informs me that 
 gorse is an emblem of " enduring affection." I am 
 also aware of the old adage (for do we not use it in our 
 country parish, where the glorious gorse grows in such 
 large tracts that, when covered with its golden bloom, 
 it might induce a second Linnasus to throw himself 
 upon his knees and kiss the earth for producing flowers 
 so beautiful ?) I am aware, I say, of the old adage 
 that says, " When the gorse is out of blossom, kissing 
 is out of fashion ; " by which is meant that kissing is 
 popular all the year round. But, still, I confess that 
 this adage and that emblem do not, as I believe, ac- 
 count for the appearance of the sprig of gorse in the
 
 94 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 bridal bouquet, and that some further meaning lurks 
 behind, which the damsels are unwilling should be 
 brought to prominent notice. I therefore am con- 
 strained to leave this popular folk-lore where I found 
 it. 
 
 The fine old church of our country parish has a 
 pretty peal of bells, whose silvery tongues melodiously 
 proclaim to the neighbourhood the various joyful 
 events that break into pleasant ripples the still sur- 
 face of our usual humdrum existence. The daughter 
 of our chief farmer was married the other day, and, 
 of course, the bells did their best to spread the tidings. 
 The ringers rang when the bride and bridegroom left 
 the church; and the ringers rang when the happy 
 couple drove out of the parish in a chaise and pair 
 for a honeymoon of four days in the great whirling 
 world of London. And the ringers rang at divers 
 times throughout the day, being filled with beer and 
 friendly feeling. And, late in the evening, when the 
 last peal had been rung, the ringers (according to the 
 custom of our country parish) tore-tolled upon the 
 great bell the number of children with which the 
 marriage was to be blessed. This tintinnabular pro- 
 phecy as to the " hostages to fortune " probably de- 
 pends like the gipsy predictions in similar cases 
 upon the largesse expected to be forthcoming. On
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 95 
 
 this particular occasion, the clapper was made to 
 smite the bell thrice three times. The bride and bride- 
 groom, therefore, know the worst, and can betimes 
 make the needful preparations for the advent of their 
 tuneful nine. 
 
 All the young ladies in our country parish, in 
 common with the young lady whom I have just men- 
 tioned, are imbued with the same superstitious spirit 
 as their poorer neighbours. That leap-year empowers 
 a young lady to " pop the question " to a young gen- 
 tleman, is, I believe, a generally received fragment of 
 folk-lore. But it is the belief of young ladies in our 
 country parish, that leap-year permits them to do 
 something more. I am informed by one of my fair 
 young friends in that romantic village, that if, in any 
 leap-year, she should so far forget herself as to suggest 
 an union between herself and a bachelor acquaintance 
 who should be uncivil enough to decline her polite 
 proposals, she could, thereupon, demand from him the 
 gift of a new silk dress : but that, to claim this dress 
 with propriety, she must, at the time of asking, be the 
 wearer of a scarlet petticoat ; which, or the lower por- 
 tion of which she must forthwith exhibit to the gentle- 
 man ; who thereupon, by the law of leap-year which 
 is as the law of the Medes and Persians is compelled 
 to present to the lady a new silk dress, to cover her
 
 96 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 scarlet petticoat, and assuage her displeasure at his 
 rejection of her proposals. 
 
 When my fair young friend told me this bit of 
 feminine folk-lore, I laid it to heart, thinking that 
 it might prove exceedingly useful to me, in putting 
 me on my guard during the forthcoming leap-year. 
 For, I thought within myself, that it was not without 
 a determined significancy, that this young lady, and 
 others in our country parish, had followed the then 
 prevailing fashions (received by us a full twelvemonth 
 after they have been introduced in more civilized 
 places), and had habited themselves in bright scarlet 
 petticoats which, on a snowy day, and from beneath 
 a looped-up dress, and over a pair of good, sensible 
 legs, shod with good, sensible boots, made, I can 
 assure you, a great figure in the landscape, and, gleam- 
 ing warm and sunny, presented to the eye that posi- 
 tive bit of colour which is so valuable to the artist. 
 And I thought it might be reasonably inferred, that 
 the ladies' law of leap-year was about to be inflicted 
 upon the gentlemen of our country parish and the 
 vicinity, in its most expensive silk-dress form, and that 
 the assumption of these scarlet petticoats was merely 
 the initiatory step to a sterner process. 
 
 And hence I thought that from a careful con- 
 sideration of the various dangers arising from this
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 97 
 
 feminine folk-lore that would beset me, and all the 
 other bachelors in our country parish, during the next 
 twelvemonth, I should be inclined to coincide with 
 Mr. Meagle's opinion of beadles,* and to consider his 
 advice with regard to those bipeds as worthy of all 
 imitation; and so, when leap-year came, and when I 
 caught sight of a young lady tripping along the road 
 " in full fig," and displaying a scarlet petticoat, I 
 should consider that I showed the best discretion by 
 turning and running away. 
 
 When our Squire's daughter married Mr. Milkin- 
 sop's predecessor (who had been presented to a living) 
 we subscribed for a testimonial to the bride and bride- 
 groom. That to the bride, took the form of a silver 
 cake-basket and knife ; and when I presented it, on 
 behalf of the parishioners, to the happy young lady, 
 I was compelled (in obedience to their instructions) to 
 demand from her a piece of money in return for the 
 knife ; for our folk-lore held, that to give a knife 
 would " sever love and acquaintance." I need not 
 say that the young lady laughingly complied with my 
 request ; and, now you know the history that attaches 
 to the crooked sixpence that hangs from my watch- 
 chain. And that crooked sixpence is in itself a piece 
 
 * See " Little Dorrit."
 
 98 Tfie Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 of folk-lore; for the wearing of it is considered to 
 bring me " luck." 
 
 We are great on the subject of the weather in our 
 country parish. In particular are we attached to 
 prognostications of rain. If the salt is damp, we say 
 that we shall soon have wet. If we see a snake 
 gliding and wriggling across the road, we say " there 
 will be rain before long." If we see the glow-worms 
 shining at night, we say, "we shall have wet ere 
 morning." If we hear the woodpeckers utter their 
 peculiar, harsh cry, we say " we shall have a shower 
 soon." We find our barometers in all these things, 
 and many more ; and, for us, the moon " takes up her 
 wondrous tale " chiefly to tell us what sort of weather 
 it will be. We say that " it will be a wet month, 
 when there are two full moons in it." Intending to 
 burst into immortal verse, but failing at the threshold 
 in our search after a rhyme, we say, 
 
 A Saturday's change, and a Sunday's full, 
 Once in seven years is once too soon. 
 
 But we are more successful in our rhymes, when we 
 treat of the gardening operations for spring. Then 
 we say, 
 
 When elm leaves are as big as a shilling, 
 
 Plant kidney-beans, if to plant 'em you're willing ; 
 
 When elm leaves are as big as a penny, 
 
 You must plant kidney-beans, if you mean to have any.
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 99 
 
 The energy infused into the last line, and the clear- 
 ness of the advice contained in it, is a sufficient apology 
 for its lengthened metre. In whatever quarter the 
 wind may be on Candlemas-eve, our people say that 
 it will "mainly " remain in that quarter for forty 
 days. Concerning the unhealthiness of the spring 
 season, we say, 
 
 March, search ; April, try ; 
 May will prove if you live or die. 
 
 In regard to the approach of spring, we are not to 
 be deceived. For we have a pretty saying, that the 
 gentle season has not come in its " ethereal mildness/' 
 until we can plant our feet on twelve daisies. And 
 when it is come, if you should chance to take violets 
 or primroses into any of the houses in our country 
 parish, I would warn you to be mindful to take not 
 less than a handful of their blossoms ; for less than 
 this would bring certain destruction to the farmers' 
 broods of young ducks and chickens. 
 
 Our fine old church keeps up the custom that was 
 prevalent in the days of good George Herbert, and 
 " at great festivals is strewed and stuck with boughs/' 
 like as was the church of " the country parson," or 
 that of Mr. Spectator, where " the middle aisle was a 
 very pretty shady walk, and the pews looked like so 
 many arbours on each side of it." At Christmas it is 
 
 p 2
 
 ioo Ttie 1 < oik-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 decorated with holly and ivy ; and mistletoe would be 
 slily added, if Mr. Milkinsop were not preternaturally 
 vigilant. On Good Friday it is dressed with solemn 
 yew: and this, on Easter day, gives place to fresh 
 boughs and primroses, and such spring flowers as may 
 then have bloomed. Then, on Palm Sunday, we have 
 palm-branches that is, the nearest imitation thereto, 
 in the shape of willow wands with their catkins and 
 fluffy blanket-looking buds. And, on Whit-Sunday, 
 we are brave with boughs and flowers. 
 
 There is no modern innovation in all this. The 
 custom has been handed down to us from antiquity, 
 and we take it as we found it. If any should class it 
 among the " superstitions " of our country parish, 
 surely it is a very simple and innocent one ! it is one, 
 at any rate, with which our people would not willingly 
 part ; and one which they recognize with pleasure 
 (not abusing it), while they bear in mind the sentence, 
 " all ye green things upon the earth, bless ye the 
 Lord; praise Him, and magnify Him for ever." 
 
 When any one dies in our country parish, the pass- 
 ing-bell is tolled. If you listen to its solemn tongue, 
 you may know the sex of the departed. Three times 
 three for a woman ; three times two for a man. As 
 the last toll dies away in faint vibrations, the labourer 
 out in the fields who hears it, bares his head, and says,
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 101 
 
 "God give him a good God-speed." This word 
 " God-speed " is one of our country parish sayings. 
 It means " the leaving one's house, in order to remove 
 to a new home " and they use it when they change 
 from one dwelling-place to another. 
 
 It is not the custom to toll the passing-hell for a 
 child that dies unbaptized. Was there more of love 
 or superstition, in that young mother's heart, who 
 came to the parson of our country parish, beseeching 
 him with earnest pleadings that the passing-bell might 
 be tolled for her dead and unbaptized little one, and 
 so give rest to its soul? For she fancied that until 
 the church-bell had tolled, her child's soul would be 
 caged in unquiet rest in its dead body. 
 
 When a funeral approaches the church of our 
 country parish, the solemn tolling is ceased, and a 
 peal is rung. It has a melancholy sweetness that is 
 very touching. 
 
 As a matter of course, the old superstition about 
 the north side of the churchyard being under the 
 dominion of evil spirits, has full sway in our country 
 parish ; and not a funeral ever takes place in that por- 
 tion of our " God's acre," or has been known to take 
 place within the memory of our oldest inhabitant. I 
 must except, though, that story he loves to tell, of 
 having passed the churchyard in the dead of the
 
 IO2 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 night, once in the days of his youth, when he and 
 poaching were more intimate than they ought to have 
 been, and being attracted by a light on the ghostly 
 side of the churchyard, and being overcome first by 
 fear, and then by curiosity, and then quietly stealing 
 to the spot, and beholding by the flickering light of a 
 lantern, a coffinless body being committed to the 
 ground by two men, and how he recognized them, 
 and knew that the corpse was that of a woman who 
 had been ruined and deserted, and in her despair had 
 destroyed herself by poison. But this is an excep- 
 tional case ; and the north side of our churchyard is, 
 as yet, free from grassy mounds and hoary headstones. 
 Yet does this remind me of another funeral of 
 which the same person has told me. Our country 
 parish is a favourite resort of the gipsies. There is 
 plenty of grass in the green lanes for camping pur- 
 poses; and the brooks are very convenient. Our 
 hedges suffer from the intrusion ; but our hen-roosts 
 and more valuable articles are safe ; for our gipsies are 
 grateful ; and, after their own peculiar code of honour, 
 thieve from our neighbours instead of from us. When 
 a child is born to them, they bring it to Mr. Milkin- 
 sop to be baptized; and they themselves often come 
 to church, and dazzle the eyes of our rustics, with 
 handkerchiefs and waistcoats as gaily coloured as the
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 103 
 
 stained-glass figures in the East window. In fact, a 
 distant likeness might be traced between the two. 
 Perhaps, the old parish-clerk may have reasoned this 
 out for himself in his own peculiar fashion, and have 
 come to associate those figures of Moses and Aaron in 
 the painted window, with certain people whom he had 
 both seen and known. For once, when a visitor to 
 the church asked him if this particular window was 
 not erected to the memory of Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, 
 the old man replied, as he pointed to the Moses and 
 Aaron, 
 
 "Yes, sir; but they don't much fature the old 
 couple ! " 
 
 But I am digressing from my gipsy, and the narra- 
 tive of his death and burial, as told me by our oldest 
 inhabitant. This gipsy was an ordinary member of 
 his tribe, and he lay ill of a pleurisy, in the camp in 
 our country pazish. They called in a surgeon from 
 the neighbouring town; and, after much persuasion, 
 the surgeon bled him. The man became worse ; the 
 surgeon's assistant came to see him, and proposed to 
 bleed him again. But the gipsies were much averse 
 to blood-letting ; so they sent the assistant about his 
 business, paid the surgeon's bill, and dispensed with 
 his further services. The man then died. He had 
 expressed a wish to be buried in his best clothes, which
 
 IO4 Tlie Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 were a velveteen coat with half-crowns shanked for 
 buttons, and a waistcoat with shillings similarly 
 shanked. But, his wish could not be carried out, as 
 these valuable garments were stolen by a woman with 
 whom he had lived, who forthwith decamped with 
 her pilferings, leaving the gipsy to be buried in his 
 second-best, without a shroud, in the very best of 
 coffins. 
 
 " At the funeral," said my informant, " they had a 
 hearse, and ostrich plumes : and about fifty gipsies, 
 men and women, followed him ; and when the church 
 service was over, and the clergyman was gone, the 
 gipsies stayed behind in the churchyard, and had a 
 service of their own. And, when a gipsy dies, you must 
 know, sir, that they always burn everything belonging 
 to him. First, they burnt his fiddle : a right-down 
 good fiddler he was, and niany's the time I've danced 
 to him at our wake. And then they burnt a lot of 
 beautiful Witney blankets, as were as good as new. 
 And then they burnt a sight o' books, for he was quite 
 a scholerd very big books they wos, too ! I specially 
 minds one on 'em the biggest o' the hull lot ! a book 
 o' jawgraphy, as 'ud tell you the history o' the hull world, 
 you understand, sir ; and was chock full o' queer, out- 
 landish picters. And then, there was his grinstun, 
 that he used to go about the country with, a grindin'
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 105 
 
 scissors and razors, and sich like : they couldn't burn 
 him ! so they carried him two miles, and then hove 
 him right into the river. That's true, you may take 
 my word for it, sir ! for I was one as help'd 'em to 
 carry it." 
 
 But to return to our own peculiar folk-lore. 
 
 There is a sanitary superstition in our country 
 parish, which Mr. Milkinsop denounces as one of the 
 latest passages from the farce of Folly, and has dra- 
 matized thus : 
 
 SCENE. The back premises of a Farm-Jtouse. Female domestic 
 plucking the feathers from a half -killed hen, which is writhing 
 with pain. Enter her Mistress, who expresses disgwt at the 
 foul proceeding. 
 
 MRS. Good gracious, girl ! how can you be so cruel ] Why, 
 the hen isn't dead ! 
 
 DOM. No, mum ! I'm very sorry, mum ; but (as though answer- 
 ing a question) I was in a hurry to come down, and I didn't wash 
 my face this morning. 
 
 MRS. (with rising doubts as to the girl's sanity in reference to her 
 sanitary proceedings.) Wash your face ! Whatever does the girl 
 mean 1 I did not say anything about washing your face. I said 
 (shouting to her, on the sudden supposition that she might be deaf) 
 that you were very cruel to pluck a hen that you've only half- 
 killed. 
 
 DOM. (placidly.) Yes, mum ! I'll go and wash my face directly. 
 
 MBS. (pothered.) Wash your face 1 Yes, you dirty slut ! it 
 wants washing. But first kill this poor thing, and put it out of its 
 misery. 
 
 DOM. (confidentially.) I can't, mum, till I've washed my face. 
 
 MRS. (repressing an inclination to use bad language.) Why not 1 
 
 DOM. (with the tone of an instructor.) La, bless me, mum ! 
 Why, don't you know as you can't kill any living thing till you've 
 
 F 3
 
 io6 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 washed your face first ] I'm sure that I tried for full ten minutes 
 to wring this 'En's neck, and I couldn't kill her nohow. And all 
 because I hadn't time to wash my face this morning. 
 
 [The mistress administers a homily to the domestic ; the hen is 
 put out of its misery, and the scene closes upon the domestic's 
 ablutions.] 
 
 Our country parish holds the same bit of folk-lore 
 with regard to the killing of pigs ; so that when we 
 wish to slay our favourite porkers and Dorkings, the 
 commonest feelings of humanity lead us first to as- 
 certain if the executioner has washed his face. 
 
 In some places, people will turn their money when 
 they first see the new moon, in order to ensure a full 
 purse. But in our country parish, we say, that if we 
 eat pancakes on Goody Tuesday, and grey peas on Ash 
 Wednesday, we shall have money in our purse all the 
 year. It is Shrove Tuesday that we call by the name 
 of Goody, or Goodish Tuesday ; and Mr. Milkinsop 
 inclines to the idea that this name is a rustic record of 
 the shriving and confession customary to the day prior 
 to the Reformation. 
 
 When the Autumn has come with its corn, and fruit, 
 and hops for ours is a hop-growing parish, and our 
 folks have a saying " Plenty of lady-cows, plenty of 
 hops!" and like to see the pretty-spotted, and un- 
 pleasantly-scented insect that feeds on the destructive 
 aphis of the hop-plant when autumn has come, and
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 107 
 
 the brown and reddened leaves are whirling down upon 
 the green meadows, the cows feed upon these sere and 
 yellow leaves, and thus give a bitter flavour to their 
 milk, and render it unfit for keeping, and this is why 
 folk-lore poetry says, 
 
 Fanners' wives ! when the leaves do fall, 
 'Twill spoil your butter, and milk, and all ! 
 
 We are old-fashioned people in our country parish, 
 and some of us have not yet fairly settled down into the 
 new style of reckoning the days and months of the 
 year, and it is not every one of us whose education is 
 sufficiently advanced to enable him to decipher Old 
 Moore's Almanack notwithstanding that we make a 
 religious point of purchasing it, and frighten ourselves 
 on winter's nights by poring over its Vox Stellarum, 
 and its terrible hieroglyphic, where the pope is always 
 so uncommonly busy, and a royal coffin is perpetually 
 prepared. When we want to determine the question 
 between the old and new style, with regard to old 
 Christmas-day, our folk-lore formula is rather dan- 
 gerous and costly to carry into execution ; for, we say, 
 that if you throw a shovel-full of hot coals upon the 
 table-cloth, they will not burn it, if it is really old 
 Christmas-day. Though, I should think that the 
 table-cloth runs as great a risk of being destroyed as 
 did the poor old woman, who, two centuries ago, was
 
 io8 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 flung into our village pond, to see whether she was a 
 witch or no. If she sank, and was drowned, she was 
 considered innocent; but, if she floated, she was 
 deemed guilty, and was put to death. Mr. Milkinsop 
 has shown me in our church register, a memorandum 
 of this witch-swimming, duly attested by the signa- 
 ture of the churchwardens. Happily for the old 
 woman, she sank; and so ended her troubled life, 
 without enduring fresh tortures, and, by this stroke of 
 policy, triumphantly established the innocence that 
 was now useless to her. 
 
 And this mention of Christmas, and of the old and 
 new style, reminds me of what one of our farmers' wives 
 told me of the curious circumstances attendant upon 
 the death of her father. He was taken ill about 
 Christmas-time. One night, he dreamed or, to use 
 his own words, " he awoke, and saw two men fighting 
 together at the foot of his bed, one of whom told him 
 that he would die on the ensuing thirteenth of March. 
 In the morning, he related this to his family; and 
 both he and they made light of it. Shortly after this 
 he recovered; and, when the thirteenth of March 
 came, he was, to all appearance, in good health. On 
 the evening of that day he referred to his dream, and 
 observed, ' I have done the ghost ! ' ' Don't be too 
 sure of that/ said a foolish woman who was present ;
 
 The Folk-Lore of a Country Parish. 109 
 
 ' it's the New Style now, and ghosts don't know any- 
 thing about it. They always go by the Old Style/ " 
 And this village oracle told him, that it would not 
 really be the thirteenth of March (by the ghost's 
 calendar) for twelve days to come. The farmer laid 
 this to heart; took to his bed, and died on the very 
 day predicted by the old woman, who, (notwithstand- 
 ing that he ascribed his death to the ghostly warning) 
 would have met her deserts by a summary conviction 
 for manslaughter.* 
 
 The letting-in of the New Year is an important 
 matter in our country parish ; though in our folk-lore 
 regarding it, we are not quite so polite as usual : for we 
 say, that if the first person who crosses your threshold 
 on the New Year's morning is a male, it will bring you 
 good luck through the ensuing year; whereas, if a 
 female is your first visitor, you wijl have bad luck. 
 Our carol-singers are up on a New Year's morning 
 before it is light, and strive who shall be first at the 
 various farm-houses. As soon as the inmates hear the 
 
 * Although this tale bears a certain degree of similarity to the 
 leading incident in the Lord Lyttelton ghost-story, yet I have not 
 the least doubt of its being thoroughly authentic ; and it is here 
 told, as it was told to me by the daughter a very respectable per- 
 son, whose family had been well-to-do yeomen for two or three cen- 
 turies. I may also remark, that all the other incidents and scraps 
 of folk-lore in this paper, have really fallen under my own notice 
 though not within the bounds of the same " country parish."
 
 no The Folk- Lore of a Country Parish. 
 
 song, they rise, and open the front door to admit the 
 first lucky carol-singer into the house : they then con- 
 duct him through the house, and bow him out at the 
 back door. You may be sure that he is not sent away 
 empty : for, according to our folk-lore, he has brought 
 good luck to that house for a whole twelvemonth. Of 
 course, it is only the young gentlemen who are thus 
 privileged to be the prognosticators of good luck. 
 
 Our farmers ought to be prosperous and well-to-do ; 
 for, as you see, they can ensure their yearly success on 
 very easy conditions : and if they want to bring spe- 
 cial good luck to their dairy, they take down the bough 
 of mistletoe, and give it to the cow that calves first 
 after New Year's Day. The cow devours it greedily ; 
 but sheep also do the same ; and no wonder, if they 
 like it. But the farmers ascribe the result to the mis- 
 tletoe charm ; anjj as their example sways those about 
 them, it is not very wonderful that folk-lore should be 
 found to flourish in our country parish.
 
 THE CHEISTMAS TEEE. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 HEAVEN and Earth their prizes 
 
 Have hung on the Christmas Tree ; 
 
 All that man idolizes, 
 
 There he can plainly see ; 
 
 And Satan has more of the prizes, 
 And most of the company. 
 
 Here are Sin's masqueraders 
 
 Wolves in the clothing of lambs 
 In juggle and falsehood, traders, 
 Dealers in cheats and shams. 
 Onward they rush 
 With a riotous crush ; 
 
 And, so that they reach the Tree's fair fruit, 
 They care not the axe is laid to the root. 
 
 Press on, ye rebel crew ! 
 The Prizes are all in view.
 
 ii2 The Christmas Tree. 
 
 Avarice, Greed, and Fraud, 
 
 Forget that ye are brothers ! 
 Clutch at each glittering gaud 
 Mitre, and sceptre, and crown. 
 Sword, and jewel, and star, 
 Dangling above you they are ; 
 Climb for them, tear them down ! 
 
 Why should you leave them for others ? 
 
 Pride, and Power, and Place, 
 
 Vanity, Vice, and Ambition, 
 
 Gluttony, Envy, Sedition, 
 Race for the prizes, race ! 
 Fight, and jostle, and grapple ! 
 Climb unto every shoot 
 Hung with the world-sought fruit ; 
 Pluck at each Dead Sea apple, 
 Whose golden rind so temptingly flashes. 
 
 Bah ! 'tis an old wife's tale to a child, 
 To talk of their hollowness, shams, and ashes ! 
 
 By fables be never beguiled. 
 
 From the precipice ne'er heed the danger ; 
 
 Ne'er pause to ponder and think, 
 How terribly nearsome and fearsome 
 
 Is that yawning Pit's horrible brink.
 
 TJie Christmas Tree. 113 
 
 Scale it with plank and ladder : 
 
 Self is all your concern ! 
 
 Let the hot wine of Passion burn 
 
 Your hearts, and make them madder ! 
 
 Ah ! would that it made them sadder. 
 
 You may clutch at the money-hags, miser, 
 But, gold will not buy off your fate 
 
 Fool ! of Poverty thou art despiser, 
 Who art poorer than Poverty's state ! 
 
 You may beat your white bosoms, frail daughters, 
 But, that calm-looking, passionate breast 
 Throbs wild as the sea in unrest ; 
 
 Doves of Peace brood not over such waters. 
 
 Ah ! would that ye looked above you 
 
 To the Babe in the stable cave ! 
 With a boundless love He doth love you j 
 
 In the greatness of might He can save. 
 
 Clutch not at the branches rotten, 
 Though their fruit is so fair to see ; 
 
 Look at the bough He hath gotten, 
 
 And the prize that He holdeth for thee !
 
 H4 The Christmas Tree. 
 
 No scathing lightnings blanch 
 That goodly, righteous Branch ; 
 Fresh and bright is its verdure ever, 
 Like the Gospel promise that dieth never. 
 
 Look on that Branch with eager eyes ; 
 Bravely contend for its high-call' d prize. 
 For you, is balanced the weight of evil ; 
 But, you scorn to look 
 To the Saviour's Book, 
 And rush to the side, where the Devil 
 
 Looks down, with a grim delight, 
 'On his children's maddening revel 
 On their chosen Christmas night. 
 
 For, Satan has hung his prizes 
 On the goodly Christmas Tree ; 
 
 And there, in Sin's disguises, 
 Crowd the thoughtless company.
 
 MISSES OF MODEEN LITEEATUEE. 
 
 SOME of the Misses of modern literature are misses in 
 every sense of the word. They are living errors, who 
 have mistaken their vocation, and have missed the 
 mark at which they aimed. But there are Misses, and 
 misses. There are some who were born, as it were, 
 with the goose-quill in their fingers; and there are 
 others who were born geese, and have taken up the 
 quill from mistaken motives. To some of our literary 
 misses, writing comes as naturally as eating and drink- 
 ing ; to others, it is as a stimulant, a bitter cup, or a 
 forced draught. "To be a well-favoured man/' said 
 Dogberry, " is the gift of fortune ; but to write and J 
 read comes by nature." And it has also been re- 
 marked that a poet is born and not made. 
 
 A great deal is said now-a-days concerning Woman's 
 Work (always in double capitals), Woman's Sphere, 
 Woman's Duty, and the like ; and the great social 
 problem of Woman has caused a vast deal of unneces-
 
 1 1 6 Misses of Modern Literature. 
 
 sary thought and scheming in the breast of Man, 
 whose best way to solve the problem would be to 
 marry Woman off-hand, and not to ransack his brains 
 as to her manner of education, her sphere of duties, 
 her intellectual condition, or her social status. But, 
 while Man is pondering over the problem, Woman is 
 obliged to be up and doing ; and, amongst other 
 methods of preserving herself from a merely vegeta- 
 tive existence, she has, of late years, taken to herself 
 the consolations of her pen, and found it to be always 
 an agreeable, and oftentimes a remunerative com- 
 panion. Whether it be that the introduction of the 
 penny-post system has given to fluent young ladies a 
 hundred-fold power of indulging in that pleasant, gos- 
 siping letter- writing, in which they so greatly excel 
 over male correspon dents ; or whether it be that the 
 extension of the railroad system has similarly deve- 
 loped in travelling maidens a passion for jotting down 
 in journals and diaries their first impressions of novel 
 places and faces ; or whether it be that the spread of 
 circulating libraries, and the creation of such institu- 
 tions as "Mudie's" or " Hookham's" have thereby 
 fostered a growing passion for, in the first place, read- 
 ing, in the second place, weaving, and, in the third 
 place, writing romances ; whether or no the travellers' 
 iron roads pave the way for the author's steel pens, or
 
 Misses of Modern Literature. 117 
 
 the writing of gossip insensibly leads to the composi- 
 tion of larger works of fiction, from whatever cause 
 the effect may arise, it is very certain that never did 
 literature boast of so many vestal votaries as at the 
 present day. Pope's " mob of gentlemen who write 
 with ease," are now very fairly matched by a bevy of 
 fair ones, who are certainly matchless so long as they 
 remain unmarried. Indeed, in looking over the long 
 list of our misses of modern literature, we are con- 
 strained to ask, Why are they still misses ? Why are 
 they still dubbed by that mademoiselle prefix, which, 
 if it had been addressed to a virtuous young lady in 
 the days of the Merry Monarch, would have stigma- 
 tized her in the grossest manner ? Why don't they 
 get married ? or are they married, although, like other 
 professional artistes, they retain their maiden names 
 when they come before the public ? One would sup- 
 pose that this was really the case with many of our 
 literary misses, and that they were but surreptitious 
 spinsters, after all, or how could they write so power- 
 fully and naturally on the many tender secrets per- 
 taining to courtship and marriage ? To build up a 
 truthful creation solely with fictitious materials, is the 
 labour of no ordinary person ; and the Miss Brontes 
 who can create Mr. Rochesters are spinsters as excep- 
 tional as extraordinary.
 
 1 1 8 Misses of Modern Literature. 
 
 However, we will dismiss all ingenious speculations 
 on these points, and will leave our misses where we 
 found them which was, on the title-pages of their 
 works ; and, as we run our eyes over them, we are in- 
 clined to think that we have at least discovered that 
 Woman's Work must mean printed works by women. 
 They write about everything under the sun ; they are 
 historians, poets, novelists, botanists, archaeologists, 
 travellers, cooks, and female parsons : and, various as 
 are their pursuits and accomplishments, yet, regarding 
 them as a whole, and as an important class in our 
 body politic, we may confess, with just as much truth 
 as gallantry, that they have done good service to the 
 State, and, by instruction and amusement, have de- 
 lighted, soothed, informed, and charmed, have been 
 pleasant companions and ministering-%angels, and 
 have done their parts in making themselves indispen- 
 sable to man. 
 
 We imagine that no' other country than Great 
 Britain could produce, among their misses of modern 
 literature, so many eminent names as those of Miss 
 Evans, Miss Yonge, Miss Sewell, Miss Muloch, Miss 
 Manning (authoress of " Mary Powell ") Miss Mar- 
 tin eau, Miss Strickland, and many other names, some 
 of which are scarcely less important, and at which we 
 will now glance under their respective departments.
 
 Misses of Modern Literature. 119 
 
 Iu History, we may name Miss Agues Strickland, our 
 queen of lady historians, her sister, Miss Jane Strick- 
 land, Miss Freer, Miss Pardoe, Miss Emily S. Holt, Miss 
 Corner, Miss Elwin, Miss Atkinson, and Miss Costello. 
 Some of these daughters of Clio also claim to be ranked 
 among our novelists, tourists, and tale-tellers : and are 
 of kin to those who weave fact and fiction into the 
 form of the historical novel, as Miss Manning has 
 done in so many of her tales, and as Miss Gillies has 
 also done in 'her civil-war tale of "The Carews." 
 And claiming a Scotch cousinship with Clio, are those 
 who edit historical biographies, like Miss Raikes, who 
 has published her father's correspondence with the 
 Duke of Wellington ; or Miss Innes, the compiler of 
 "Lodge's Peerage and Baronetage;" or Miss Jane 
 Williams, the author of " The Literary Women of 
 England ;" or Miss Sarah Williams, who deciphered 
 old manuscripts, and edited them for the Camden 
 Society.* 
 
 In Social Science, we have the names of Miss Mar- 
 
 * Alas ! that we should have to* speak of Miss Williams in the 
 past tense ; but, ere the recently-published " Letters written by 
 John Chamberlain during the Reign of Queen Elizabeth " could be 
 placed in the reader's hand, Death had claimed the accomplished 
 editor for .his own ; and the sunny, kindly, and studious Sarah 
 Williams had sunk under her labours, and, at the early age of 33, 
 had fallen a victim to that fell disease, consumption. Her care- 
 fully-edited work will be her best literary monument.
 
 1 20 Misses of Modern Literature, 
 
 tineau, Miss Meteyard (" Silverpen"), Miss Carpenter, 
 Miss Ann Blackwell, Miss Bessie Raynor Parkes, Miss 
 Emily Shirreff, Miss Twining, Miss Frances P. Cobb, 
 and Miss Nightingale; to which we might add the 
 names of Miss Emily Faithfull and her coadjutor Miss 
 Rye. 
 
 Of our Novelists, we have already mentioned some 
 illustrious maiden names. To these we must add the 
 names of Miss Marsh, of " Hedley Vicars' " fame, 
 Miss Julia Addison, Miss Cuyler, Miss Marguerite 
 Ann Power, Miss Augusta Johnstone, Miss Anna Har- 
 riet Drury, Miss Catherine St. Clair, Miss Grace Agui- 
 lar, Miss Frances Browne, Miss Palmer, Miss Good- 
 rich, Miss Julia Corner, Miss Symonds, Miss Mary C. 
 Hume, Miss Julia Kavanagh, Miss Frances M. Wil- 
 braham, Miss Jewsbury, Miss Planche, Miss Susan 
 Pitt, Miss Bowles, Miss Taylor, and others of whose 
 maiden or married state we are doubtful, and whom, 
 therefore, we are afraid to include in our list, lest we 
 should err similarly to the Saturday Review, when (in 
 its number for December 29, 1859), it pronounced 
 Miss M. Betham Edwards to be a gentleman. But 
 there are other Misses of modern literature who have 
 penned fictions not only for amusement but for in- 
 struction. There are Miss Anne Bowman, Miss Ann 
 Fraser Tytler, Miss M. Louisa Charlesworth, Miss
 
 Misses of Modern Literature. 121 
 
 Emilia Marryatt, and the authoress of the " Tales of 
 Kirkbeck." And this reminds us that the authors 
 of "Dorothy/' "A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam," 
 " Aggesden Vicarage," and " My Life, by an Old 
 Maid/' are all said to belong to the school of Spin- 
 sters. 
 
 But of Spinsters of Song we have the names of 
 many undoubted misses ; Miss Proctor, Miss Isa 
 Craig, Miss Braddon, Miss Winkworth, Miss Hume, 
 Miss Eliza Cooke, Miss Gerda Fay, Miss Mitchell, 
 Miss Marguerite Ann Power, Miss Macready, Miss 
 Frances Browne, and Miss Christina Rosetti. 
 
 Among our Young Lady Travellers, we may name the 
 following " unprotected females " : Miss Selina Bun- 
 bury, the Misses Dunlop, the Misses Catlow, and Miss 
 Emily Beaufort. And books of travels in connection 
 with missionary labours have been published by Miss 
 Barney, Miss E. Redgrave, and Miss Hughes. 
 
 Among Art-critics, Miss Theodosia Trollope and 
 Miss Howitt must be honourably mentioned. Botany 
 can boast of Miss Pirie, Miss Twamley, and the Misses 
 Catlow. Zoology has Miss Mary Roberts; and Physi- 
 cal Geography Miss R. M. Zornlin, for exponents. 
 Miss Marshall has translated Fenelon's Works ; Miss 
 Acton and Miss Esther Copley have displayed their 
 skill in Cookery; and Miss Mary C. Hume has pub-
 
 122 Misses of Modern literature. 
 
 lished her " spiritual " explanations of obscure texts of 
 Scripture. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that the Misses of modern lite- 
 rature are many in number, and that they can boast of 
 names which rank among those of the leaders of the 
 world of letters. Their worldly riches and positions 
 are probably as various as the themes of their works ; 
 for literary labour, even where it is crowned with suc- 
 cess, is not always followed by wealth ; and fame and a 
 full purse do not necessarily travel together. This, 
 however, is a point on which we would not touch ; nor, 
 out of idle curiosity, would we desire to lift the curtain 
 that shrouds the sanctity of the literary maiden's 
 private life.
 
 THE TOBCH-SPEECH. 
 
 "upturns "tins Xa^a-jan ix,irif<,<jrui ff'iXas. -358CH., Ag. 270-305. 
 
 3 TwAS Vulcan was the messenger ! he fired the beam- 
 ing light ! 
 The streaming flame from Ida came, and blazed upon 
 
 its height ; 
 
 And Ida sent the warning on to the Lemncean steep, 
 And quick upon Mount Athos' top the burning fire 
 
 did leap ; 
 Then, on the surging ocean's back, the kindling flame 
 
 of pine, 
 With ruddy blaze, like some sun's rays, all gleamingly 
 
 did shine ! 
 Quick, quick o'er-leaping ocean's waves, on went the 
 
 speeding lamp ! 
 The watchman of Macistus saw, as he his round did 
 
 tramp : 
 He linger* d not, but sent it on ; and soon the light 
 
 did gleam 
 From such a self-same beacon flame, back from Euri- 
 
 pus ; stream.
 
 124 The Torch-Speech. 
 
 The watchman of Messapius saw the glittering signal 
 
 burn, 
 And spread the light by kindling bright a heap of 
 
 withered fern. 
 From Azop's plain, the blazing torch, in brightness 
 
 noway dimm'd, 
 
 Unto Cithseron's rugged steep, like dancing moon- 
 beams, skimmed : 
 Torch blazed to torch ! fire answered fire ! the kindling 
 
 beacons burn; 
 
 And, through the night, the far-sprung light the wake- 
 ful watch discern. 
 Gorgopis' darkened waters then reflect the crimson 
 
 light; 
 With rapid force, it speeds its course to .ZEgiplanc- 
 
 ton's height : 
 High o'er the steeps, from peak to peak, it flashes high 
 
 and higher, 
 Until the mountain-range becomes one streaming 
 
 beard of fire ! 
 The frowning crags that, towering, rise o'er the Saronic 
 
 stream, 
 T J Arachne's height then hurl the light, like the lurid 
 
 lightning's gleam ; 
 
 Till Argos sees the beacon-blaze that Ida had begun, 
 And knows, with joy, that mighty Troy is captured 
 
 and is won !
 
 A WISH. 
 
 As the streamlet in its flow, 
 Smoothly gliding, calm and slow, 
 Not dashing into sight 
 With the rapid river's might, 
 Not unseen, yet, like the brook, 
 With an unobtrusive look, 
 Ever onwards, slow but sure, 
 Making progress, bright and pure, 
 Oh ! thus my life should pass ! 
 Thus Td have my life to pass. 
 
 Through the blossom' d banks of grass, 
 Where the nun-like violet grows, 
 There my brooklet ever flows 
 O'er its gleamy, pebbly bed ; 
 While, through the boughs o'erhead, 
 Dart the merry sunbeams bright, 
 In a golden shower of light j
 
 126 A Wish. 
 
 And, where lime trees dip their boughs, 
 There the lovers pledge their vows, 
 As they gaze into thy stream, 
 Dear brook, and see the theme 
 The darling, pleasant theme 
 Of young love's happiest dream. 
 
 I would live not like the ocean, 
 In boisterous commotion ; 
 Nor desire, like the river, 
 To go whirling on for ever ; 
 But would flow as tranquilly, 
 Dear brook, through life, as thee.
 
 LITEEAEY AND AETISTIC 
 PEOFILES. 
 
 THE valuable labours of the American traveller Catlin 
 had well-nigh been brought to an unexpected end from 
 the mere fact of his painting a portrait in profile. 
 His sitter was an Indian chief, of an unsophisticated 
 nature, and with limited ideas as to the aesthetics of 
 art. The red man knew that he had duplicate cheeks, 
 eyes, nostrils, and ears ; and he perceived that the 
 pale-face had fixed him on the canvas with only half 
 his possessions. With the logic of a savage, he there- 
 fore concluded that the one side of his countenance had 
 been charmed away by the painter, who barely saved 
 his life by daubing out the profile, and repainting the 
 irate chief in " full face." This was an instance of a 
 profile not meeting the requirements of an untutored 
 nature. 
 
 Take an example to the contrary. Why do all the 
 extant portraits of Cardinal Wolsey represent him in 
 profile ? There are the portraits in oil in the Halls
 
 128 Literary and Artistic Profiles. 
 
 of the London College of Physicians, and Christ 
 Church College, Oxford ; and there is the portrait in 
 stone over the portals of the latter building. These 
 are the most authentic likenesses of the " butcher's 
 dog" of "greasy genealogy;" and they, and less 
 authentic portraits, one and all, represent him in pro- 
 file. A "full-face" portrait of Wolsey is not known. 
 Were these profiles the result of mere chance ? By 
 no means. The Cardinal's contemporary, John Skel- 
 ton, lets us into the secret ; and, though so bitter 
 a satirist, yet we may credit him in this, for his state- 
 ments agree with popular tradition, and satisfactorily 
 explain the profile portraits. 
 
 It seems, then, that the magnificent Cardinal, with 
 all his splendour of appearance, and gorgeousness of 
 apparel, was condemned to appear before men "with 
 a flap afore his eye ; " and this (if Skelton and tradi- 
 tion speak truly) was the result of circumstances by 
 no means to his credit. When Mr. Charles Kean 
 played Wolsey, he judiciously omitted this veritable 
 eye-sore ; although, with scrupulous fidelity, he dressed 
 the character to the minutest detail, and wore the iden- 
 tical hat that had covered the Cardinal's head in the 
 famous Field of the Cloth of Gold. 
 
 We do not wonder at a man like Wolsey, who 
 was so proud of his personal appearance, being very
 
 Literary and Artistic Profiles. 129 
 
 chary of showing his disfigured side to the artist, who 
 was handing down his features to posterity. In this 
 respect, Wolsey was but an imitator of Hannibal, who, 
 says Mandeville, " had but one eye, though a flattering 
 limner painted him with both. This, Hannibal dis- 
 liked; but was very well pleased with another who 
 drew him in profile, an ingenious way of hiding a 
 man's blind side, without offending truth/' 
 
 Now, we may see the counterpart of all this in Litera- 
 ture. While some writers will designedly falsify facts, 
 by giving their hero two sound eyes in place of one, 
 others will take a partial, one-sided view of his charac- 
 ter, and will either keep his blind side entirely out of 
 sight, or will turn his worst side to us, and depict 
 him, as the satirist did the Cardinal, " with a flap afore 
 his eye." The literary profile-painters are a numerous 
 race, sometimes from choice, but more frequently from 
 necessity. It is so very much easier to hit off a portrait 
 in profile, than to truthfully represent the lineaments 
 of the full face ! The one bears the same relation to 
 the other, that the clever profile sketches of Count 
 D'Orsay do to the Nelly O'Brien of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds or the Mrs. Graham of Gainsborough. 
 
 Most of us, doubtless, have our blind sides; and 
 happy is the man who has no disfiguring flap over 
 his moral character. We should be better pleased if 
 
 G a
 
 i jo Literary and Artistic Profiles. 
 
 officious friends would refrain from pointing to our 
 blemish, or staring at us on our ugly side ; but, if we 
 are to fill a page in history, we must expect to be scru- 
 tinized from every point of view. Perhaps we may 
 side with Wolsey and Hannibal, and prefer the profile ; 
 perhaps we may hold with the Indian chief, and aver 
 that the profile (however skilfully pourtrayed) does 
 away with half the truth. But whatever may be the 
 sitter's predilections, any way the duty of the literary 
 portrait-painter seems clear. He must side with the 
 savage, and cast Hannibal and Wolsey to the winds. 
 There are no half-measures for him if he wishes to 
 fulfil his duty. He must not turn the best side of his 
 hero to the reader, and keep the worst out of sight. 
 If he would do his work well and truthfully, he must 
 give us both sides bad and good blind eye and 
 seeing eye flap side and sound side. It may not be 
 necessary to raise the flap, and expose the repulsive 
 evidence of vice; but still, let us have the flap. 
 
 It is certainly true, that the same thing may be 
 variously looked at by two witnesses, each credible by 
 himself; and that their testimony shall be discordant, 
 and yet not beside the facts. The fables of the Chame- 
 leon and the Knight's Shield sufliciently instruct us 
 on this point. But it is the duty of the writer, more 
 especially the historian, to look at both sides before
 
 Literary and Artistic Profiles. 131 
 
 he forms his final opinion ; to hear the evidence on 
 either side, before he delivers his verdict. What then ? 
 may he choose between them, and say, the one side is 
 wholly right, the other is altogether wrong I will 
 paint that which pleaseth me most ? By no means ; 
 for then he paints a profile only, where the reader 
 expects him to depict a full face ; and if there is but a 
 profile eternally presented to our view, we may reason- 
 ably conclude that there is a blemished or a fairer side 
 kept out of sight. 
 
 How few are there who can look facts and charac- 
 ters in full face ! What with suppressio veri with 
 regard to the unsightly side, and falsification with 
 regard to the one blind eye, how rarely does the his- 
 torian hold the mirror up to nature ! Whig and Tory, 
 Romanist and Protestant, all give their own discordant 
 versions of the self-same simple story. What with 
 partiality and partisanship, they all prefer to paint a 
 profile instead of the full face. The adversary is like 
 the satirist Skelton, and deliberately draws attention 
 to the blemished side ; the partisan keeps the blemished 
 side out of sight ; the panegyrist converts the blemish 
 into a beauty. Amongst them all, we have some diffi- 
 culty in arriving at the truth, and can only do so 
 approximately after a careful study of the various 
 versions of the same story.
 
 1 3 2 Literary and Artistic Profiles. 
 
 Lord Macaulay went so far as to say, that it was 
 impossible for an English historian to be impartial. 
 Perhaps he framed this dictum to meet his own case. 
 Compare his work with that of Alison the political 
 predilections of the latter claim his history to be 
 " His-Tory " version of the facts ; while the pic- 
 turesque artifices of the former, denote his history to 
 be " His-Story." Yet both are portraits ; only they 
 are taken from opposite sides, and so, instead of being 
 full- face likenesses, they are merely Literary Profiles.
 
 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 THE anecdote of Catlings Indians who would not be 
 painted " side-face " for fear of their full-face being 
 charmed away, has met with a curious pendant. The 
 Emperor of the French commissioned an artist to 
 paint certain pictures commemorative of the visit to 
 Paris made by the Siamese Ambassadors, who were 
 therefore requested to sit for their likenesses. They 
 did so, and great was their dismay on discovering that 
 some among them were represented in profile. They 
 protested to the artist against the cruel wrong that he 
 had done them in depriving them of one half of their 
 facial property, and demanded that both sides of their 
 faces should be depicted. It was replied to them, that 
 the artistic grouping of the picture demanded that 
 certain of the figures should be seen in profile, and 
 therefore that their request could not be complied 
 with. The difficulty was eventually surmounted by 
 the protest of the Siamese, and their delivery of a
 
 134 Social Silhouettes. 
 
 written testimony (to be for ever preserved in the 
 archives of France) that they had two sides to their 
 faces. 
 
 If the requirements of the artist's canvas had in 
 this instance been less peremptory, the request of the 
 Ambassadors might more easily have been complied 
 with than the demand of old Astley (of the Amphi- 
 theatre), who insisted that his scene-painter should 
 represent a drum (in a picture of military trophies) so 
 as to show its two heads. " But, sir," remonstrated 
 the painter, " according to the rules of perspective, 
 you could only see one head to the drum." " What 
 have I to do with perspective ? " replied the unlettered 
 proprietor ; " I pays you for painting, and not for per- 
 spective. Every drum in my establishment has got two 
 heads, and with two heads it shall be painted." The 
 painter pondered over his difficulty, and by the next 
 time that his master inspected his work and asked him 
 where was the other head of the drum, was enabled to 
 answer, " It is behind the drapery of that trumpet :" 
 a reply which was perfectly satisfactory to old Astley. 
 
 In these instances the untutored mind was not satis- 
 fied with a representation of half the truth. They 
 had a pre-Raffaelite, no-fudge principle strong within 
 them, and they required things to be represented 
 as they appeared to their own eyes, regardless whether
 
 Social Silhouettes. 135 
 
 they looked right or wrong, well or ill. In all this, 
 their rude logic made them hit upon the right scent, 
 although they could not correctly follow it up ; clutch- 
 ing at the Will-o'-wisp of Truth, they floundered into 
 the bog of Error. It is true that they showed but 
 little knowledge of the painter's craft ; but it is also 
 true that they had a glimmering of that stern faithful- 
 ness of Art which demands a recognition of opposites, 
 and is not satisfied with one-sided representations; 
 and, in this respect at least, partial historians, partizan 
 writers, and profile-painting authors, may learn a 
 lesson from the savage. These literary profilists are 
 even surpassed in number, no less perhaps than in 
 talent, by those writers who devote themselves to the 
 production of Social Silhouettes by which we mean 
 those sketches of every-day life and character which 
 may be broadly and forcibly hit off, and yet, after all, 
 be one-sided representations, drawn from only one 
 stand-point, and as different to the carefully- delineated 
 " full-face" picture, as a chef d'oeuvre of Reynolds 
 would be to the profile portrait skilfully cut out of 
 black paper with a pair of scissors. 
 
 At the present day the writers of Social Silhouettes 
 form a numerous class, either from possessing some 
 special talent that way, or from the popularity of the 
 style itself, or from the ease with which it may be
 
 136 Social Silhouettes. 
 
 worked, or from that passion for what is usually 
 termed "graphic writing," which has been so much 
 fostered by the clever correspondents of the news- 
 paper press. How far the production of Social Sil- 
 houettes ought to be carried, and whether they have 
 more than a temporary and superficial value, are points 
 on which the reading public are the best judges ; so 
 long as they demand them, we may feel assured that 
 the supply will be maintained. It is undoubtedly the 
 truth, that every person has traits of character more or 
 less developed, and that the writer who would desire 
 to represent any character with even approximate cor- 
 rectness of delineation, must study it from all points, 
 and depict it with all its traits, bestowing equal atten- 
 tion on those less marked as well as on those strongly 
 defined, and endeavouring to hold the mirror up to 
 nature, so as to show both Virtue's feature and Scorn's 
 image. But the artist whose forte lies in Social Sil- 
 houettes, does nothing of the kind ; instead of study- 
 ing his character from all sides, and looking at it in all 
 ways, and probing it in all places, he merely seizes 
 upon one or two leading characteristics, and hits them 
 off in an easy touch-and-go style, usually throwing in 
 a dash of caricature to mark the portrait more forcibly. 
 But why complain of this ? Tt is all very well that 
 the literary portrait-painter of historical characters
 
 Social Silhouettes. 137 
 
 should not represent them in profile, but should show 
 us the blind sides of Hannibal and Wolsey, and give 
 us the unsightly with the pleasing, for this is the 
 duty of the faithful historian ; but with the scribbling 
 sketch er, cui bono ? why should it be demanded of him 
 also that he must give us the disagreeable side, when 
 he undertakes only to set before us that which is 
 agreeable ? If he does not falsify truth thereby, 
 and if it be an understood thing that he under- 
 stands his vocation, and when Social Silhouettes 
 are asked for, supplies them, and not the highly- 
 finished full-faced portrait then, why should he 
 be blamed for devoting himself to a lower work of 
 Art, so long as it meets a public demand ? The archi- 
 tects of buildings that are to last for centuries, and 
 the putters-up of ornamental arches and pretty deco- 
 rations, are both useful in their several ways, and can 
 perform their duties to themselves and to society in a 
 conscientious manner. If a person has neither the 
 time nor talent to paint a Sir Joshua, he may at least 
 creditably and usefully employ himself in producing 
 a Silhouette. There is a wide difference between the 
 black profile snipped out in a few minutes and the 
 portrait on which months of thought and consummate 
 Art have been bestowed ; and yet each may tell us for 
 whom the portrait was intended although the one
 
 138 Social Silhouettes. 
 
 simply does this, while the other denotes the mind 
 and character of the person represented. 
 
 There was, at least, one feature in common to the 
 Duke of Wellington, Sir Charles Napier, Ovid, and 
 Paulinus whom Bede describes with a naso adunco 
 which Wordsworth translates 
 
 " His prominent feature like an eagle's beak ;" 
 
 .and while the Social Silhouette writer would have 
 seized upon the noses of these illustrious personages, 
 and caricatured them with an exaggerated breadth of 
 handling, the duty of the historian would have lain in 
 an opposite direction, and he would have left the nose 
 where he found it. The writer who stands on the 
 highest pedestal offers himself as the most notable 
 mark for the critic ; and Mr. Dickens has usually been 
 brought forward as a master in the art of producing 
 Social Silhouettes as an author, that is, who indivi- 
 dualizes his fictitious personages more by little outward 
 traits, and tricks and turns of expression, than by any 
 deep research into character or development of mind. 
 Mr. Carker's teeth, and Rigaud's moustache that went 
 up and nose that came down, are commonly adduced 
 as instances in point. This sort of thing (it is ob- 
 jected) certainly individualizes the character and helps 
 to stamp it upon the mind; but it is a mere trick,
 
 Social Silhouettes. 
 
 although a clever one. It is little better (the objec- 
 tors go on J;o sayjl^than the device of the farce writer, 
 who assigns to each of his dramatis persona some 
 catch word or sentence, and by condemning them to 
 certain utterances, and keeping them in one groove, is 
 enabled to achieve his object at the least expenditure of 
 thought, but with a certain sacrifice to verisimilitude. 
 
 It is very clear that this class of objectors would 
 set little store by the Social Silhouettes of literature. 
 Nevertheless, although they do not pretend to a very 
 high rank as works of Art, they require no mean .talent 
 or skill at their fabricator's hands they keep him use- 
 fully employed in a work for which he may possess 
 special aptitude and, blended with some instruction, 
 they provide harmless amusement for thousands of 
 toilers to whom happy thoughts and airy fancies are as 
 medicines to the mind. Many of the bright flowers 
 of literature are presented to us in the shape of Social 
 Silhouettes ; and so long as they do not come before 
 us as useless or poisonous weeds, we may be glad to 
 welcome them, even if they are but as the shells picked 
 up on the shore, with which we amuse ourselves for a 
 few moments, and then fling to oblivion.
 
 THE PEAISES OF COLONOS. 
 (EDIP. COL. 668719.) 
 
 WELCOME, stranger ! thou hast come 
 To the gods' -well-favoured home, 
 Where Colonos rears on high 
 Its chalky cliffs unto the sky ; 
 Listen, stranger, and Fll tell 
 All the joys that here do dwell ! 
 
 Here are horses that with pride 
 E'en a king would deign to ride ; 
 Here the sweet- voiced nightingales 
 Softly tell their mournful tales, 
 Where the purple ivy's bloom 
 Shrouds the vale in twilight gloom ! 
 
 Here's the leafy, pathless grove, 
 Which the Wine-god deigns to love,
 
 Tlie Praises of Colonos. 141 
 
 Where the mighty trees have made 
 Gloomy aisles of unpierced* shade, 
 Where the tempest's raging breath 
 Stirs not e'en a leaf in death. f 
 
 Here, within the leafy halls, 
 
 Roam the joyous Bacchanals ; 
 
 The Nysiaii nymphs, who from the first 
 
 Never left the god they nurst, 
 
 But now with laugh and merry stir 
 
 Crowd around the Reveller ! 
 
 Here, enrich' d by heavenly dew, 
 The golden crocus burst to view, 
 And the sweet narcissus throws 
 All around its clustering snows ; 
 The holy flower which erst, 'tis said, 
 Wreath' d a mighty goddess' head. 
 
 * " Where the unpierced shade 
 
 Imbrown'd the noontide bowers." Milton. 
 
 t " No stir of air was there ; 
 Not so much life as on a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it lie." Keatt.
 
 142 Tlie Praises of Colonos. 
 
 Here the sleepless fountains ever 
 Stream into Cephissus' river ; 
 Earth enriching in their flow, 
 Nomad-like, they wandering go, 
 Loved by all the Muses mighty 
 And by gold-rein' d Aphrodite. 
 
 Here Fve heard, too, is a tree, 
 Such as Asia ne'er did see, 
 Unplanted by man's hand, the fear 
 Of friendly and of hostile spear : 
 For 'tis here the olive grows, 
 In the land where first it rose ! 
 
 Here shall neither young nor old 
 E'er be impiously bold 
 To cut down the sacred grove, 
 For 'tis watch' d by Mysian Jove, 
 And the great Minerva too, 
 With her eyes of melting blue ! 
 
 Here, (and this I reckon most 
 For the Mother-City's boast,) 
 Here, 'twas first the Ocean King 
 Bade the stately steed to spring,
 
 The Praises of Colonos. 143 
 
 And with bits did curb him then 
 To be useful unto men ! 
 
 Thus our city's reached the height 
 Where true Glory sheds her light ; 
 She's the nurse of chivalry, 
 And the mistress of the sea ; 
 And 'tis thou, Saturn's son, 
 That this mighty work hast done ! 
 
 Dashing through the briny sea, 
 The tall ship bounds on wondrously, 
 Tracking through the waste of waters 
 Nereus' hundred-footed daughters : 
 For our King is Saturn's son ! 
 Stranger ! now my tale is done !
 
 SOMEBODY'S EYES. 
 
 WHILE yet I gazed, she woke : not suddenly, 
 
 But slowly coming back to life, as Venus might 
 Have risen from the foaming of the sparkling sea, 
 
 And shaken from her hair the wave-drops bright, 
 And then, as slowly, she unclosed her eyes 
 Eyes like unto the deepest hue 
 Of Adrians waters " darkly blue," 
 And not the pale cosrulean of the skies. 
 
 And what an ocean is a woman's eye ! 
 
 With bright thoughts ever floating through 
 
 Its deepest depths of bluest blue, 
 Where, lurking at the bottom, Love doth lie ! 
 And yet, those deep blue waters are so bright, so clear, 
 That you can see yourself reflected there !
 
 MABELI; 
 
 OR, THE BEST WAY OF GETTING OVER A DIFFICULTY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WELCOME LITTLE STRANGER ! 
 
 " What's in a name 1 !" The Author of SJuikspeare. 
 
 " Being now in possession of a daughter, it became necessary to 
 give her a name ; and nobody would believe the meditations, the 
 consultations, and the comical discussions he held on this import- 
 ant point. At last he determined to invent one ; and, Saba was 
 the result." Sydney Smith's Memoirs, Vol. I. p. 22. 
 
 "No names are too absurd for parents to give their children. 
 Here are innocents stamped for life as ' Kidnum Toats,' ' Lavender 
 Marjoram,' 'Patient Pipe,' 'Talitha Cumi,' ' Fussy Gotobed,' and, 
 strangest of all, here is one called ' Eli Lama Sabacthani Press- 
 nail.' " (Curiosities of Registration. CJtambers's Journal.) 
 
 " IT is all over, sir ; and it is all right ! " said Mrs. 
 Toosypegs, as she entered the breakfast-parlour, with 
 a bundle of flannel in her arms. 
 
 Mr. Chickenhackle murmured something that 
 sounded like a thanksgiving, as he wiped from 
 his brow the beads of perspiration with which it was 
 
 B
 
 146 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 bedewed. Poor mail ! he had been in a terrible state 
 of anxiety for some hours past, and had seen but little 
 of the columns of The Times, over which his eyes had 
 been dreamingly poring. His thoughts had wandered 
 upstairs to his wife's bedroom, and had there remained, 
 until forcibly brought back by the monthly nurse. 
 She came before him with the mysterious manner of 
 her profession, and with the aspect of one who was the 
 bearer of good tidings. 
 
 " Yes sir ! " observed Mrs. Toosypegs, making an- 
 swer to herself, in the absence of any remark from Mr. 
 Chickeuhackle ; " Yes, sir, it is all over ; and it is all 
 right." 
 
 " And Maria Mrs. C. is she " 
 
 " As well as can be expected, sir," replied Mrs. 
 Toosypegs, " and will be able to see you soon. But, 
 what I always says and Fve nussed parties enough to 
 know it is this; that gentlemen should not be too 
 anxious to see their ladies," (I wonder, by the way, if 
 any professional nurse could ever be induced to make 
 use of those two simple English words, husband and 
 wife !) "as it's apt to perdoose excitement, and throw 
 'em back. If gentlemen was always content to wait 
 until we gave 'em permission, their ladies would get on 
 a deal quicker, and do us more credit." 
 
 The maxims of Mrs. Toosypegs were here cut short
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 147 
 
 by a sharp cry that proceeded from the bundle of 
 flannel borne in her arms. 
 
 " Why, what is that ? " cried Mr. Chickenhackle, 
 in some astonishment, and but slowly awaking to a 
 realisation of the tremendous fact that he was a pa- 
 rent ; " What is that ?" 
 
 " That ! " responded Mrs. Toosypegs, as she play- 
 fully plunged her fore-finger into the folds of flannel, 
 " Why, bless its little life, did it want to see its own 
 father, then ? " You see, she replied, Quaker-like, by 
 putting a question in place of the answer. 
 
 "Its father!" stammered Mr. Chickenhackle, 
 though with a feeling of doubt as to whether her 
 words had been addressed to him, or to the flannel 
 bundle; "Then, have you got the child there ?" 
 
 " The blessed babe is here, sir, and nowheres else," 
 replied the nurse ; " I thought you would like to see 
 it." 
 
 " Of course, of course ! Bless me ! and that is a 
 baby ! " pondered Mr. Chickenhackle, as, with wonder 
 written upon his face, he raised his double eyeglass, 
 and scrutinized the contents of Mrs. Toosypegs' 
 bundle. " Bless me ! and that is a baby ! the baby ! 
 MY baby \" 
 
 " It is to be hoped so, sir ! " said Mrs. Toosypegs, 
 with a dubious cough. 
 
 H 2
 
 148 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 " It is very red ! " said Mr. Chickenhackle, con- 
 tinuing his eyeglass scrutiny, without heeding the 
 nurse's insinuation. 
 
 "You wouldn't have it black, sir, surely!" 
 
 " No ; I prefer the rouge to the noir. But it seems 
 odd that white people should be born with skins like 
 Red Indians. Is it a boy or a girl?" 
 
 " A girl, sir ; and as fine a little lady as I ever see. 
 Equal already to a many at a month/' It was a very 
 remarkable fact, but so it was at any rate, if her 
 statement was to be credited that every child, over 
 whose honeymoon of existence Mrs. Toosypegs pre- 
 sided, seemed to be specially endowed by nature with 
 extraordinary qualities, and miraculously advanced to 
 physical proportions far greater than those with which 
 the diminutive Lilliputian usually makes its appearance 
 among its fellow Brobdignagians. It was as though 
 at least, she would have her employers believe it so 
 some special charm hovered around Mrs. Toosypegs, 
 and brought good luck to her patrons. And, more 
 remarkable still, the child last born was always the 
 finest of the Toosypegs' series : so much so, that it 
 seemed within the bounds of probability that the 
 series would one day be developed into giants. 
 
 " A girl ! ah, good ! Though I could have wished 
 it had been a boy," murmured Mr. Chickenhackle,
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 149 
 
 still curiously inspecting through his eyeglass the 
 lively little portrait, set in its frame of flannel. It 
 was a stereoscopic portrait : in one picture, you had 
 two combined. When you looked at the baby, you 
 saw both the husband and the wife. 
 
 " It's better to have a girl the first time, sir," said 
 the nurse, who always made a professional point of 
 having her axioms ready for every emergency ; " as 
 there's an old saying, 
 
 " Girl first, and boy after, 
 Brings good luck to roof and rafter." 
 
 Mrs. Toosypegs was never at a fault; "semper 
 parata" may have been her motto as touching the 
 maxims of a monthly nurse. If Mr. Chickenhackle's 
 baby had been a boy, she would have said, 
 
 " Should their parents wish for joy, 
 Let their first-born be a boy :" 
 
 but, as it was, she reminded him of the other saga- 
 cious piece of folk-lore. There is not a proverb but 
 what may be capped, and contradicted, by another 
 proverb. 
 
 "Then I'll be satisfied with my good luck," said 
 Mr. Chickenhackle. " But she must certainly not be 
 called Blanche, if her complexion is to remain of this 
 blushing hue. Rose would be more appropriate : not 
 to say Pickled Cabbage. The organization of her
 
 150 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 lungs appears to be perfectly satisfactory ; eh, 
 nurse ?" 
 
 " The organ what, sir ! " 
 
 " Ah, well ; never mind ! a young lady's voice is 
 musically termed an organ, and I must confess that 
 this little lady's voice has less of the piano than the 
 forte, and has more the power of the organ." 
 
 "Bless its little heart, then! tchk, tchk, tchk!" 
 was Mrs. Toosypeg's reply to what she did not under- 
 stand, as she endeavoured to quiet the child, who was 
 doing its best to justify its father's description. 
 
 A short pursy man entered the room. 
 
 "Mr. C.," said the doctor, "I congratulate you, 
 sir, on being the father of a very fine little girl. Mrs. 
 C. is going on as favourably as we can expect ; and I 
 will allow you to see her for three minutes : for three 
 minutes, and not a second more. Nurse, you can 
 bring the child up-stairs." 
 
 "She must certainly be christened Rose!" mur- 
 mured Mr. Chickenhackle, as he meekly followed the 
 doctor and nurse, and gazed upon the rubicund face of 
 his first-born.
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 151 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GODMOTHER NUMBER ONE. 
 
 " THE name of Rose, my dear, would have been more 
 appropriate seven days ago than it is now ;" said Mr. 
 Chickenhackle, a week after the " interesting " event 
 just recorded. 
 
 His first-born, somewhat less rubicund as to the 
 face, but more demonstrative in the exercise of her 
 " organ," was lying in its mother's arms. Mrs. 
 Chickenhackle was engaged in that most womanly 
 of all occupations familiarly known as " nursing." 
 
 " Rose is a pretty name," said the Mamma ; " but I 
 think another one would be preferable/' 
 
 " The Rose under any other name would smell as 
 sweet -" chuckled Papa. " Let it be Maria, then. I 
 am sure, my dear, I always thought your name a very 
 pretty one when I was courting you. Don't you re- 
 member that I broke my penknife over it on that stile 
 where I used to sit and watch for you. Ah ! those 
 were happy days ! " 
 
 " Not happier than now, John, surely ? " murmured 
 Mamma in her sweetest voice, as she stole her thin 
 white hand into her husband's.
 
 152 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 Mr. Chickenhackle gallantly covered it with kisses. 
 " Happier ? no, not by one-thousandth part ! I re- 
 member when I had to make a speech at our wedding- 
 breakfast. I said that that day was the happiest 
 day in my life. And perhaps it may have been up 
 to that time. But, it was only the day that led up 
 to my really happiest days ; the gate that opened to 
 the realms of happiness. To my thinking, my dear, 
 the happiest days of married life are not known, until 
 a third little personage makes its appearance upon 
 the scene." 
 
 A tap at the door of the bedroom where this collo- 
 quy took place, interrupted Mr. Chickenhackle's elo- 
 quent oration on wedded bliss. The comer was his 
 half-sister, Miss Ricketts, a maiden lady some twenty 
 years older than himself, and much looked up to, and 
 deservedly respected, as the owner of a very comfort- 
 able independence. 
 
 When a quarter of an hour had been consumed in 
 the interesting inquiries that are usually made into the 
 condition of infants and their mothers, Miss Ricketts 
 observed, " I suppose you look to me, brother John, 
 to be one of the little dear's godmothers ? " 
 
 Brother John had looked at that very thing; and 
 his mental glance had fallen upon his half-sister's 
 property, a share of which she might, perhaps, be
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 153 
 
 induced to leave to her niece and godchild. So he 
 said, " It is both my own and Maria's wish that you 
 should do us the favour to be one of the godmothers." 
 
 "And the other godmother?" asked Miss Bicketts. 
 
 " Will be Maria's aunt, Miss Meagrim ; " answered 
 brother John. 
 
 Now, there was not much love lost, as the saying is, 
 between Miss Meagrim and Miss Ricketts. Both were 
 ladies of a certain age ; both were possessed of inde- 
 pendent property ; and both were excessively fond of 
 displaying their power of wealth upon all occasions. 
 If Miss Meagrim placed her name as a subscriber of 
 one guinea to the " Charitable Society for providing 
 Flannel Jackets for Sheared Sheep," Miss Ricketts 
 forthwith contributed two guineas to the Society's 
 funds. If the name of Miss Ricketts was published 
 to the world as a donor of five pounds to " the Wash- 
 erwomans' Dolly Club, and Soft-soap Distribution 
 Society," Miss Meagrim's name was presently seen 
 in advance of a donation of ten pounds. Each 
 maiden lady endeavoured to out-trump the other. 
 Each strove hard to obtain a more conspicuous seat 
 in the Temple of Mammon. Each essayed to play 
 first-fiddle in the social band of their town ; and it 
 must be confessed that the local charities throve 
 
 H 3
 
 154 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 thereby. When fools fall out, honest men come by 
 their own. 
 
 So Miss Ricketts, looking as though, if squeezed, 
 verjuice might be distilled from her, said, " Did my 
 ears deceive me, brother John; or did you observe 
 that Miss Meagrim was selected for the other god- 
 mother ?" 
 
 Brother John corroborated his previous statement. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Miss Ricketts. 
 
 Now, that little monosyllable " Oh/' may be made 
 to express nearly every shade of feeling. Not even a 
 young lady's monosyllabic " No " may be so twisted 
 into an opposite signification. Sentiment, wonder, 
 fear, rage, diffidence, doubt, acquiescence, enthusiasm, 
 admiration, pain, every phase of feeling may that 
 little interjection be made to express, simply by the 
 inflection of the voice. 
 
 Miss Ricketts' " Oh ! " was a dry " Oh ! " expressive 
 of displeasure. 
 
 " We thought we had better ask her, as she is my 
 aunt," observed Mrs. Chickenhackle. 
 
 " So that we might have the one godmother from 
 the father's, and the other from the mother's side;" 
 said brother John. 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! quite right !" said Miss Ricketts,
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 155 
 
 in a tone that belied her words, and proclaimed that all 
 
 was wrong. " And what name pray, brother John, do 
 
 you propose to give to my niece ?" She emphasized my 
 
 with a plain reference to Miss Meagrim. 
 
 " Well, sister, we were talking about that when 
 
 you came in, and we had scarcely made up our 
 
 minds," said brother John. 
 
 " It is usual to name a female child after one of its 
 
 godmothers," suggested Miss Ricketts. 
 
 "Or both!" supplemented brother John, anxious 
 
 to bridge over the difficulty, whose yawning chasm he 
 
 now descried near at hand. 
 
 "Just as you. wish," said Miss Ricketts, with the 
 
 air of one to whom all things are agreeable. " But, I 
 
 must say, that I cannot see that two names are neces- 
 sary for a child. None of our family, brother John, 
 ever had more than one, and I think it would seem 
 like an insult to our parents if you gave to your 
 children more names than they thought fit to give to 
 theirs." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I don't care a straw about having 
 two names for the little roguey-poguey," returned 
 Mr. Chickenhackle, with a sudden dart of obtrusive 
 affection at the infant who was the unconscious cause 
 of this discussion and difficulty ; " so it shall only 
 have one then it shall, it shall !" And the fond
 
 156 Mareli ; or y the best way of 
 
 parent whistled and chirrupped in the child's face, and 
 waggled his head, and snapped his fingers, in his 
 parental endeavours to attract the notice of his off- 
 spring, who appeared to be devoting its leisure time to 
 staring at nothing in particular upon the ceiling. 
 
 "Then that settles the matter at once!" said Miss 
 Ricketts, judicially summing up the case. " So, you 
 will name her Mary, after me?" 
 
 "We will eh, Maria?" 
 
 " If you wish it, my dear ; but I hope A.unt Eliza- 
 beth will not be offended/' 
 
 " Not she ! " said Mr. Chickenhackle (most rashly) ; 
 " and if she is, why, she shall name the next ! ha, ha, 
 ha! eh, Maria?" 
 
 MARIA. Don't, love ! I can't bear to think of it. 
 
 Miss R. He, he, he ! Miss Meagrim may not 
 have so very long to wait. Eh, my little god-daughter, 
 Mary? 
 
 BABY (removing its eyes from the ceiling, and fix- 
 ing them intently on Miss R.) Ya haa ! ya haa ! ya 
 haa ! 
 
 MAMMA. Oh, bless it, bless it ! (quiets it in the 
 usual way.) 
 
 [Scene closes.]
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 157 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 GODMOTHER NUMBER TWO. 
 
 ONE hour after Miss Uicketts had left Mrs. Chicken- 
 hackle's room, Miss Meagrim entered it. The wish was 
 expressed, that she would be one of baby's godmothers 
 in conjunction with Miss Ricketts. 
 
 "Of course, my dear Maria, I shall be most de- 
 lighted/' said Miss Meagrim ; " nothing, I am sure, 
 could give me greater pleasure ; and you may depend 
 upon it, that I shall be a good friend to my little god- 
 child, and that, when I am removed from this wicked 
 world," (here Miss Meagrim shut her eyes, and shook 
 her head,) "her name shall be found in rny will. 
 And, between you and me/' this was said with sug- 
 gestive mystery, " I dare say, I shall do much more 
 for her than Miss Ricketts will ever think of doing. 
 But, I hear Mr. C.'s foot upon the stairs, so, out of 
 deference to his feelings, I will say no more on that 
 point. I will simply content myself with observing 
 Oh ! here Mr. C. is." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Meagrim ! " said Mr. Chickenhackle, 
 pleasantly, bearing in mind the maiden's private pro- 
 perty ; " Oh, Miss Meagrim ! come to see your little
 
 158 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 niece ! or, as I should say, if I should speak correctly, 
 your little great-niece : ha ! ha ! and I hope your 
 god-daughter also ? I suppose Maria has expressed 
 to you our wish, that you would stand to the child ?" 
 
 " To which I have already consented with the 
 greatest pleasure," replied the maiden; "and I was 
 observing, as you came in, Mr. C., that the sweet in- 
 nocent shall never repent having me for a godmother/' 
 Miss Meagrim laid a great stress upon the me, as 
 though to infer that the case was dubious with respect 
 to the other godmother. 
 
 Mr. Chickenhackle perceived this, and commenced 
 somewhat sternly with " Standing in the relationship 
 to me that Miss Ricketts does " but suddenly softened 
 down, as he reflected upon the pecuniary benefit that 
 his child might derive from Miss Meagrim being 
 treated sponsorially and otherwise on the most agree- 
 able terms "of course, you see, my dear Miss 
 Meagrim, we could do no less than ask her to act in 
 conjunction with yourself." 
 
 " Oh, of course ! " replied the maiden, with sus- 
 picious acidity of manner. " And the name had you 
 fixed upon that ? " She asked this, as though it were 
 a matter of perfect indifference. 
 
 " Why," said Mr. Chickenhackle, with some hesita- 
 tion, " Maria that is, I we had certainly talked it
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 159 
 
 over, and we thought that it would be best to yes! 
 to give it a name." 
 
 Maria was altogether taken up with her baby. 
 
 " Oh ! you thought it best that it should have a 
 name, then ! " said Miss Meagrim, bitingly, scenting 
 what was in the wind. " And what name, pray, may 
 I ask, did you fix upon, Mr. C. ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chickenhackle endeavoured to come to the 
 rescue : " you have not told me, aunt, who you think 
 baby is like. / think that her forehead and chin are 
 like John's ; but " but it was of no avail; the ruse 
 did not succeed. 
 
 " Was the name that you decided upon, Mary ? " 
 continued Miss Meagrim, plunging a stiletto look full 
 into Mr. Chickenhackle's face. 
 
 " Well, now ! bless my life, my dear Miss Mea- 
 grim," responded the unfortunate gentleman, " it was 
 very extraordinary that you should guess the very 
 word, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Very ! " said Miss Meagrim, so drily, that it 
 seemed as if it was an age since her tongue had been 
 lubricated by the milk of human kindness. 
 
 " Yes : Mary was the name," went on Mr. Chicken- 
 hackle, in a hurried, nervous voice. " It was the name 
 you know, of of my grandmother ; and my sister ; 
 quite a family name."
 
 160 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 " Quite ! " The want of the lubrication just re- 
 ferred to was really remarkable. " And so you name 
 the child after Miss Ricketts?" said Miss Meagrim, 
 though more with a note of intimidation than interro- 
 gation. 
 
 " Well ! I don't altogether know about that/' ob- 
 served Mr. Chickenhackle, fencing with the question. 
 "But, we certainly thought of calling her Mary; and 
 Mary does happen to be my sister's name." 
 
 " And you do not give the child a second name ? " 
 pursued Miss Meagrim, with another stiletto look. 
 
 "No; we thought one would be enough," rejoined 
 her victim. "We are plain people, you know, Miss 
 Meagrim ; and we don't much care about having more 
 names than we want. Sister Ricketts only wished one 
 name." 
 
 " Then the other godmother is not to be noticed ? 
 I am to be passed over in favour of Miss Ricketts ! " 
 Miss Meagrim' s interrogatories were still in the form 
 of notes of intimidation. 
 
 " Oh, no ! I am sure we didn't mean that ! " 
 
 " Oh, dear no, aunt Elizabeth ! nothing, I am sure, 
 could be further from our thoughts ! " cried husband 
 and wife, in a breath. 
 
 " Then, why could you not name the child after 
 me ? " (Another stiletto look.)
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 161 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Chickenhackle as many people 
 say in dubious things, and matters of ill ; " Well ! I 
 don't know that I have a passion for the name of 
 Mary ahem ! Byron. And certainly, Elizabeth is a 
 fine name, my dear Miss Meagrim, and can be played 
 upon more than any other name, perhaps ; Lizzie and 
 Liz, Bessy and Bess, Betty and Bet, for example." 
 
 " Then you can call the child Elizabeth, instead of 
 Mary ; " said Miss Meagrim, sticking close to her sub- 
 ject, like an Indian hunter to his trail, and not to be 
 led away by improper remarks on proper names. 
 
 " Instead of? " faltered Mr. Chickenhackle. " Why 
 you see in fact we promised my sister that the 
 child should be called Mary." 
 
 " Oh, then ! you did promise Miss Ricketts to name 
 the child after her ? " said Miss Meagrim, with the 
 pouncing air of a barrister, who has been cross-ques- 
 tioning a reluctant witness, and has at last drawn 
 forth the answer he was searching after. 
 
 " Ye-es ! " faltered her victim. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Miss Meagrim, very drily, lacking the 
 afore-mentioned lubrication. " Then, Mr. C., in that 
 case, as the child will not be called by my name, you 
 cannot expect that I should do anything for her." 
 
 " I am sure, dear aunt," said the Mamma, " that 
 we shall be excessively sorry if "
 
 1 6 2. Mar eli ; or, the best way of 
 
 " Oh ! I will stand as godmother," interrupted 
 Miss Meagrim ; " but, surely, nothing more can be 
 expected ? " And the maiden lady threw herself back 
 in her seat, and rapped her teeth with the handle of 
 her parasol, as though she was knocking at the door of 
 her lips to ask if anything more could be expected. 
 It was clear that the answer would be unfavourable. 
 
 " Maria, my dear ! Baby must have two names," 
 said Mr. Chickenhackle, suddenly, but firmly. 
 
 "Certainly, John," replied his obedient spouse; "I 
 am sure we would not displease aunt Elizabeth for the 
 world." 
 
 " Baby must be called Mary Elizabeth ! " said 
 Mr. Chickenhackle. 
 
 " Excuse me ! " interrupted Miss Meagrim, who, so 
 long as she could help it, was not going to be placed 
 second to Miss Ricketts even in such a matter as this ; 
 " excuse me ! but baby must be called Elizabeth Mary ; 
 making Elizabeth come before Mary." 
 
 " She came after her in history," said Mr. Chicken- 
 hackle, with a dismal attempt at a joke. 
 
 " But was before her in reputation and popularity," 
 rejoined Miss Meagrim, sharply, with another stiletto 
 look. 
 
 " Miss Ricketts can have no objection I am sure ! " 
 confidently asserted Mrs. Chickenhackle.
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 163 
 
 Her husband and aunt thought otherwise, but eaid 
 nothing. 
 
 "Mary Elizabeth, or Elizabeth Mary is all one," 
 observed Mrs. Chickenhackle. 
 
 " Not quite ! " said Miss Meagrim drily. " For, if 
 it is Mary Elizabeth, I shall give baby a godmother's 
 present of a silver knife and folk, or something of that 
 sort : whereas, if it should be Elizabeth Mary, I will leave 
 her ten thousand pounds. Either my name must come 
 first, or the legacy must go to some one else. I have 
 little doubt, but what I should be able to find hundreds 
 of god-daughters on these conditions." A.nd Miss Mea- 
 grim again knocked at the door of her lips as though 
 to inquire if there were any god-daughters that could 
 be had for the money. It was clear both to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Chickenhackle that the answer would be strongly 
 in the affirmative. 
 
 " That settles the matter ! we decide upon Elizabeth 
 Mary, " said Mr. Chickenhackle. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 
 
 DID Mr. Chickenhackle say that the matter was 
 settled, and that they had decided that the name of
 
 164 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 Elizabeth Mary should be given to the sole daughter 
 of his house and heart ? That gentleman was never 
 more deceived. The matter was anything but settled ; 
 as he speedily found to his sorrow. Instead of having 
 cut the Gordian knot, he had but further complicated 
 its difficulties. 
 
 Miss Meagrim had no sooner left his house, than 
 she went to make a call a most friendly call, of 
 course on Miss Ricketts. What took place at that 
 important interview between these Rival Queens of 
 Spinsterhood, can only be inferred from the expressions 
 let fall by Roxana Ricketts, when she called (an hour 
 afterwards) upon her brother John, and attacked him 
 with the information she had received from Statira 
 Meagrim. 
 
 Poor Mr. Chickenhackle was bewildered. 
 
 " Do not suppose, brother John," said Miss 
 Ricketts, her maiden's breast all aglow with fiery 
 indignation, "Do not suppose that I, who am your 
 sister, am to be made of second-rate importance to a 
 a person yes, a person," continued Miss Ricketts, as 
 though that word was the most opprobrious epithet in 
 the dictionary, " who is no relation at all to you, like 
 I am, brother John ; but only an aunt of Mrs. C/s ; 
 and, thank goodness, that is only a connection, and 
 that relationship does not go by the wife's side. I am
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 165 
 
 surprised at you, brother John, for not standing up 
 for the rights of your own family, but allowing them to 
 sink in the balance, when weighed against the preten- 
 sions of that person ! " Miss Ricketts tossed off this 
 opprobrious epithet, hissing hot from the coals of her 
 wrath, with as much complaisance as though it were a 
 steak, and she the cook. 
 
 " Why, my dear Mary ! " said Mr. Chickenhackle, 
 who, as he only deared his sister in times of perplexity, 
 was evidently now reduced to that state; " what can it 
 possibly matter whether the child is called Elizabeth 
 Mary, or Mary Elizabeth ? " 
 
 " Then, " rejoined Miss Eicketts, with much stern- 
 ness and decision of manner, as though she would 
 thereby repress all remonstrance and wavering, "if it 
 does not matter, let the child be called Mary Eliza- 
 beth." 
 
 Mr. Chickenhackle scratched his head so violently, 
 as to impress the spectator with the idea of fleas. 
 
 " If she is called Mary Elizabeth, I am content, 
 brother John, " said Miss Ricketts. 
 
 " Why, you see, my dear Mary," replied brother 
 John deferentially, not to say abjectly, " Miss Meagrim 
 is rather what you call crotchety, and she particularly 
 wishes that her Christian name should come first." 
 
 " I am equally what you call crotchety, brother
 
 1 66 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 John, and I particularly wish that my Christian 
 should come first ; " said Miss Ricketts, like an indig- 
 nant Echo." 
 
 " But, how is it possible for both names to come 
 first ? it's a moral impossibility, yon know ! " And 
 again, Mr. Chickenhackle would have impressed the 
 spectator with the idea of fleas. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with impossibilities, brother 
 John/' said Miss Ricketts, sententiously and enigma- 
 tically ; " all I have to do is with possibilities ; and 
 there is every possibility, that, if I find myself made 
 of inferior importance to that person/' (which oppro- 
 brious epithet she again tossed off with a steak-like 
 hiss,) " by having my Christian name made to come 
 after that person's Christian name, and if your 
 child, my niece, brother John, and not my 
 great-niece, yon wfll please to remember if that 
 child is named Elizabeth Mary, instead of Mary Eliza- 
 beth, she will receive from me only a mere godmother's 
 present, as a silver mag, or something of that sort, 
 instead of a legacy that wfll be more worthy of her 
 acceptance." 
 
 "Almost Miss Meagrim's very words!" groaned 
 Mr. Chickenhackle, in great perplexity. 
 
 " And the amount of the legacy she named, 
 asked Miss Kicketts, as a feeler.
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 167 
 
 " Ten thousand was the figure," said brother John. 
 
 " I will make it twelve," said Miss Ricketts. 
 
 " You are very good, I'm sure," said brother John ; 
 though he would have again impressed the spectator 
 with the idea of fleas. 
 
 "Twelve thousand pounds are not to be thrown 
 away for a trifle, brother John," pursued Miss Ricketts. 
 
 " They are not, sister." 
 
 " And it is a larger amount than ten thousand, 
 brother John." 
 
 " There is no denying it, sister." 
 
 " Then, if you wish your little daughter to inherit 
 this larger sum, there is but one way by which you can 
 effect it." 
 
 " And that is ? " 
 
 " By calling her Mary Elizabeth ; making the Mary 
 to come before the Elizabeth ; as I should have thought 
 I came before that person in importance, brother 
 John." 
 
 "Of course you do, my dear sister." 
 
 " Very well, then ! you can now prove it to be so. 
 Name your child Mary Elizabeth, and I will give her 
 twelve thousand pounds. Otherwise, not one penny ! " 
 And Miss Ricketts, having given her fiat, made her exit, 
 cooking up some observation as she did so, in which the
 
 1 68 Mar eli ; or, the best way of 
 
 opprobrious epithet person spluttered with a steak- 
 like hiss. 
 
 And again Mr. Chickenhackle would have impressed 
 the spectator with the idea of fleas. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DOMESTIC DIFFERENCE. 
 
 " Why, my dear ! " cried Mrs. Chickenhackle, as her 
 spouse entered her room ; " how rough your hair is ! 
 Whatever have you been doing to it ? you look quite 
 wild." 
 
 " And enough to make me. Here's Elizabeth Mea- 
 grim comes one minute, and says that if her godchild 
 isn't christened with her name first, she shan't have 
 her legacy ; and then, the next minute, comes Mary 
 Ricketts, and says that if the child isn't christened 
 with her name first, she shan't have her legacy ! And 
 how can it be done ? We can't make the two names 
 march side by side, like school-girls out for a walk. 
 I'll declare there's more fuss about it than it is worth." 
 
 " What it /" rejoined Mrs. Chickenhackle. " Surely 
 by it you do not refer to your child, Mr. C. ?"
 
 Getting over a Difficulty, 169 
 
 " Bless me, Maria, no !" answered the Mr. C., some- 
 what testily. " No, poor little thing ! and certainly it 
 seems but right quite a parental duty, I may say 
 that we should endeavour, if possible, to secure both 
 legacies for her ; not so much for the sake of the money 
 itself, but that it will place her above the frowns of the 
 world, if anything should happen to us, and if I should 
 not be quite as successful in business as I hope to be." 
 
 It is astonishing what ready excuses people can make 
 for filthy lucre's sake ! 
 
 "Then, has Miss Ricketts also promised her a 
 legacy ? " asked Mrs. Chickenhackle. 
 
 "Twelve thousand, on the condition she is called 
 Mary Elizabeth, versus Miss Meagrim's ten thousand 
 on the condition she is called Elizabeth Mary/' replied 
 her husband. 
 
 MRS. C. I am afraid, John, that we must offend one 
 of the godmothers. 
 
 MR. C. I am afraid so, Maria. 
 
 MRS. C. rAnd there cannot be the least doubt which. 
 
 MR. C. Not the ghost of one, my dear. 
 
 MRS. C. Then we are agreed that the chief god- 
 mother shall be my aunt Meagrim ? 
 
 MR. C. Your aunt Meagrim ! No ! My sister 
 Ricketts. 
 
 MRS. C. No, John ! that will never do. 
 
 i
 
 170 Mar eli ; or, the best way of 
 
 MR. C. But it must do, Maria. My sister be- 
 queaths more than your aunt does. 
 
 MRS. C.-^-But then, dear John, you know that I too 
 have expectations from aunt Meagrim, and that she 
 has it in her power to do more for us than, perhaps, 
 Miss Ricketts can, or will ever do. 
 
 MR. C. But, Maria ! Miss Ricketts is my sister. 
 
 MRS. G. I am aware of that, John. So, she should 
 act as a sister, and give up the point when asked to do 
 so. 
 
 MR. C. Nonsense, my dear 1 she should do nothing 
 of the sort. As my sister, she has the first claim. 
 
 MRS. C. You need not talk about nonsense, my love. 
 I am sure that aunt Meagrim has done, and can do, 
 more for us than Miss Ricketts has ever done, or can 
 ever do. 
 
 MR. C. You do not confine yourself to the truth, 
 my darling. My sister's property is double your aunt's 
 any day of the week. 
 
 MRS. C. You need not rub all the hair off your head, 
 Mr. C. I am sure it is going quite fast enough, and 
 that you have not so much that you can afford to lose 
 any. 
 
 MR. C. I shall do just as I please with my own pro- 
 perty, Mrs. C., and so will my sister with hers. I will 
 not have her insulted before my very face.
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 171 
 
 MRS. C. I was not insulting her. It was you that 
 were insulting my aunt, Mr. C. 
 
 MR. C. Your aunt may be shot, Mrs. C. 
 
 MRS. C. I see how it is, Mr. C. ; you wish to quarrel 
 with me, and you seize the very moment when I am 
 worn down with weakness to do so a time, Mr. C., 
 when most men, who call themselves men, would think 
 more of their wives, and their poor helpless little 
 babes. (Begins to turn on her entire system of water- 
 works.] 
 
 MRS. C. Now pray don't, Mrs. C. For good- 
 ness sake, don't ! you know how I dislike crying. 
 Pray compose yourself, Maria ! I didn't intend to hurt 
 your feelings, my dear ; I didn't, upon my honour ! 
 It's only this absurd fix into which these two old 
 maids have pushed us that has worried me. Let them 
 both go to Jericho, and their names with them ! and 
 we'll call baby by your name or my name or any- 
 one's name Tom, Dick, or Harry, for the matter of 
 that so as to get us out of this difficulty. There, let's 
 think no more about them ; but get other godmothers, 
 if they won't stand unless they are tied to their stakes. 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 But Mr. Chickenhackle's joke did not have the effect 
 of composing his wife's mind. She good and cau- 
 tious mother naturally did not wish to throw aside
 
 1 72 Mareli ; or, the best imy of 
 
 the chance of securing at least one legacy to her daughter, 
 while she did her best to keep in her aunt's "good 
 books/' and to secure for herself that place in Miss 
 Meagrim's will, to which she had for some years hope- 
 fully and trustfully looked. So, she turned to the un- 
 conscious source of all these difficulties, who was peace- 
 fully slumbering in the crib at her side, and addressing it 
 in a highly-injured tone, said, " My poor little baby ! 
 your cruel father wants to rob you of ten thousand 
 pounds ! " and, with that, her entire system of water- 
 works were again brought into play. 
 
 This was putting quite a new aspect upon the mat- 
 ter ; and Mr. Chickenhackle felt rather uneasy at thus 
 being presented in a guise of a pilferer of his own flesh 
 and blood; his remonstrance, therefore, was tinged 
 with some warmth of colouring. 
 
 " Now, hang it, Maria ! what folly you talk ! when 
 I am working night and day to scrape up for that child. 
 If it was possible, I should like to secure both the 
 legacies for her; but, as it is not, why, in the name of 
 all that's reasonable, let us have the larger. And, as 
 Miss Ricketts bids the higher figure, why, let us choose 
 her for godmother number one ; and let baby's name 
 be Mary Elizabeth." 
 
 But Mrs. Chickenhackle said I suppose from the 
 spirit of opposition " I prefer that Miss Meagrim
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 173 
 
 should be godmother number one as you call it ; and 
 that baby's name should be Elizabeth Mary." 
 
 Mr. Chickenhackle testily rubbed his head, and strode 
 out of the room ; saying, as he got to the door, " Mary 
 Elizabeth !" 
 
 "Elizabeth Mary !" called out his wife. And then 
 as the door closed with a bang like a goose as she 
 was she cried over her child as though she were ready 
 to break her heart. 
 
 And thus were those two loving hearts, who had 
 rarely had a word of cavil since their wedding-day, set 
 at loggerheads, and plunged into difficulties of position 
 as well as temper, and all about a child's name. Truly, 
 after this, which of them could say that there was 
 nothing in a name ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CUTTING OP THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 ANOTHER week had passed. Mr. Chickenhackle had 
 made a separate and final appeal to each of the maiden 
 ladies, but without effect. They were not to be stirred 
 one inch from their position. 
 
 " If my name does not come first, she shall lose the 
 legacy ! " said Miss Ricketts.
 
 174 Mar eli ; or, the best way of 
 
 Said Miss Meagrim " She shall lose the legacy, if 
 my name is to come second. 3 ' 
 
 Mrs. Chick enhackle took part with her aunt. Mr. 
 Chickenhackle decided in favour of his sister. The 
 ass between two bundles of hay was not in a more 
 tantalising position than was little baby Chickenhackle, 
 placed between her two tempting legacies. Was it 
 possible to secure both for her ? that was the question. 
 It was the subject of her father's waking thoughts, 
 and nightmare dreams. The seven days' progress of 
 events had done nothing towards lessening the diffi- 
 culty of the situation. On the contrary, by the end 
 of the week, the subject had become even more in- 
 volved, and had assumed a fresh phase of complica- 
 tion. 
 
 " If your husband/' said Miss Meagrim to her 
 niece, "persists in declining my legacy to your child, 
 he will also oblige me to leave my other property else- 
 where than where I had intended to leave it." And 
 she gave her niece one of her stiletto looks. 
 
 "If, brother John/' said Miss Ricketts to Mr. 
 Chickenhackle, " you suffer your wife's choice to pre- 
 vail, you will not only oblige me to omit your child's 
 legacy, but will also compel me to bequeath the rest of 
 my property otherwise than I had intended." And 
 she looked at her brother with great meaning, but
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 175 
 
 with an expression that suggested the distillation of 
 verjuice if any one had the hardihood to squeeze 
 her. n x . ,_ ft , 
 
 So, here was a further complication ! Mr. Chicken- 
 hackle was fairly bewildered, and knew jiot what to do 
 for the best. The honeymoon of baby's life was now 
 upon the wane, and it was necessary that a day should 
 shortly be fixed for the christening. The name given 
 to the child would be the .signal .for war; and, of all 
 wars, a domestic war is most to be dreaded, especially 
 when, as in the present case, a heavy pecuniary loss 
 would be entailed by the contest. The days passed 
 on sadly and drearily. Mr. Chickenhackle went about 
 with such a despairing look, that his business friends 
 began to whisper tfyat he must be in difficulties, r 
 little guessing the real difficulties of his position. 
 When he came to look at his baby, he would stand 
 over her, and moodily shake his head, and sigh 
 heavily; and then walk away with only such words as 
 " Poor thing ! she little knows the troubles she has 
 brought upon us." Then, the mamma would burst 
 into tears ; at which display pf her entire Astern of 
 waterworks, her husband would , testily stride out of 
 the room. It was a miserable household : and all 
 this, because their child must have a name. 
 
 But and this " but/' I warn you, gentle reader, is 
 a very Malmsey butt, in whiph all these fcars and
 
 176 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 difficulties are to be drowned but, on the morning of 
 the last day of baby's honeymoon of existence, Mr. 
 Chickenhackle, who had left the house early with the 
 aspect of a man who was about to rashly make away 
 with himself, suddenly appeared before his wife in a 
 highly excited state of joyousness. He kissed her 
 he kissed the baby and it is probable, that he would 
 have kissed Mrs. Toosypegs herself, had not that 
 highly-valued monthly nurse just left the room in 
 order to prepare for her departure to her next patron. 
 
 " Whatever is the matter, John ? " Mrs. Chicken- 
 hackle might well ask as an explanation of her hus- 
 band's apparent lunacy. 
 
 " This is the matter, Maria. I have found it out ! 
 The problem is solved ! The knot is cut ! The riddle 
 is answered ! Baby has both legacies ! I have just 
 been to each of the godmothers, and they are perfectly 
 satisfied ! and, bless my life, what owls we must have 
 been not to have thought of it before." 
 
 " Thought of what ? " 
 
 " Why, MARELI to be sure ! " 
 
 " Mareli ! what's that ? " asked Mrs. Chickenhackle, 
 not knowing whether it was an Indian pickle, or some 
 new soothing syrup for infants. 
 
 " Mareli ! " rejoined Mr. Chickenhackle ; " why, 
 baby's name, of course ! " 
 
 " Baby's name ! do try and explain yourself if you
 
 Getting over a Difficulty, 177 
 
 are able to do so, Mr. C.," said his wife, with un- 
 pleasant suspicions as to her husband's state of 
 mind. 
 
 " Well ! I'm not quite sure that I can do so, 
 Maria : at least not very clearly ; for, I've not yet 
 recovered from the surprise of my discovery, and its 
 successful results. This was how it was : I was on my 
 way to sister Ricketts to see if she wouldn't relent, or 
 do something to help us out of our fix, when it flashed 
 across me in an -instant. By it, I mean ' Mareli.' 
 Why I thought why not take the halves of those 
 two old maids' names, and tack them together, as fish 
 and flesh are joined to make a mermaid ; then, the 
 two names will go on an equality, ambling together 
 side by side like a pair of carriage horses, and not 
 trotting one before another like a man driving tandem. 
 So, said I to myself, if I take the first three letters 
 from each of the old ladies' names, and join them 
 together, the thing is done j for, one name will be as 
 prominent as the other, and so, it will make both 
 come first, don't you see ? " 
 
 "I think I begin to see what you mean, dear 
 John." 
 
 " This is our position : Miss Elizabeth Meagrim 
 insists on her name being the prominent one ; so does 
 Miss Mary Ricketts. Very good ; we'll accommodate 
 
 i 3
 
 178 Mareli ; or, the best way of 
 
 both parties. Take the first three letters of Mary, and 
 the first three of Elizabeth, and make one word of 
 them. There it is MARELI: a name containing 
 quite as much of Miss Meagrim as it does of sister 
 Ricketts ; six of one, and half a dozen of the other ; 
 and, though I say it of my own invention, a very 
 pretty name too ! " 
 
 " Well ! I- don't know about that, dear John ; but, 
 if it answers the desired object, we could find beauty 
 in a less ugly name than Mareli. But, are you quite 
 sure that it has settled the objections raised by the two 
 godmothers ? " 
 
 " Quite ! " replied Mr. Chickenhackle, gaily. " I 
 went to each of them, charged with the electricity of 
 my own brilliant idea. The shock of the communica- 
 tion was less severely felt than I had expected. They 
 each appeared to be pleased that their godchild should 
 bear a new and entirely original name, to the creation 
 of which their own names had solely contributed; and 
 so, as there was no preference, there was no jealousy. 
 They were soon propitiated ; and they amicably agreed 
 to stand to the little ducksy-wucksy by the name of 
 Mareli." And Mr. Chickenhackle fell upon his baby 
 with an exaggerated display of parental affection. 
 
 " And are the legacies quite safe ? " asked the pru- 
 dent Maria.
 
 Getting over a Difficulty. 179 
 
 " Safe as the Bank. To make matters as smooth 
 as I could, I proposed to Miss Meagrim that there 
 should be no difference in the amount of the legacies ; 
 and that I would ask sister Ricketts to reduce her 
 legacy from twelve thousand to ten. But Miss Mea- 
 grim would not hear a word of this, and declared that 
 she would raise her legacy from ten thousand to 
 twelve. So, there, my dear Maria, you see the worth 
 of my invention-; not including what it will secure to 
 you and me, personally. Mareli is a twenty-four 
 thousand pounder!" ,, 
 
 It was even as Mr. Chickenhackle stated. The 
 rival queens had ceased their rivalry. Statira and 
 Roxana had shaken hands with greater fervency than 
 they had ever performed that accustomed action, 
 and, as they drew nigh to (what even they were 
 obliged to confess) their old age, they grew wiser, and 
 became better friends. Their little god-daughter, who 
 had once been a cause, of difference, now became a 
 centre of union : and this was not the least charm 
 wrought by MAKU.I.
 
 SYEINGALINE. 
 
 TABLES were laid at the " Grange/' tables with plenty 
 
 upon them : 
 There were they laid on the grass, out of doors, in the 
 
 cool of the evening ; 
 Guests swarm'd around them like bees, though sweeter 
 
 by far than the honey 
 Were the smiles on the lips of the ladies, all laughing 
 
 in glee and good-humour. 
 Toxophilites all were the guests, and had come from an 
 
 archery meeting, 
 Where, all the day in the sun, they had riddled the 
 
 targets with arrows, 
 And got in the gold in a way that fabulous Tell didn't 
 
 dream of. 
 As the giver of all the good cheer, so Mrs. Bright 
 
 headed the table : 
 The kindest was she of the kind, the generous and the 
 
 good-hearted,
 
 Syring 'aline. 1 8 1 
 
 The fountain of mirth and good-humour diffusing its 
 
 sparkles around her. 
 And there at the table she sat, like a motherly hen 
 
 with her chickens ! 
 And there was her cousin, Ka teHerbert, dispensing 
 
 the tea and the coffee ; 
 Kate Herbert the happy and blooming, Kate Herbert 
 
 the calm and contented, 
 Smiling serenely on all, with lips quite distracting to 
 
 look at, 
 Like a bright sunbeam condensed and endued with 
 
 health and vitality ; 
 Roses and lilies combined to make up the bloom of her 
 
 features ; 
 White were her shoulders and neck, white as the 
 
 Parian marble ; 
 
 White were her arms, too, and hands white and re- 
 freshing to gaze on 
 As she sat at the end of the table, looking as cool as a 
 
 cucumber ! 
 Long they sat over their tea, and loud was their mirth 
 
 and their laughter ; 
 And well, too, they plied the provisions, the fowl 
 
 and the ham, and the veal-cake, 
 And diminished the goodly supplies that the " Grange " 
 
 ever seem'd to overflow with.
 
 1 8 2 Syringaline. 
 
 Then, having satisfied hunger, sharpened by archery 
 
 practice, 
 Rose they from tea in a body, and went round the 
 
 beautiful gardens, 
 The gardens that circle the house, as the rich- spangled 
 
 robe does the monarch, 
 And soon the book-muslins and flounces had spread 
 
 themselves over the green turf. 
 Red rose the full-moon upon .them, and nightingales 
 
 sang in the bushes, 
 Rich was the scent of the flowers, and the night-breeze 
 
 was laden with odours ; 
 All was delicious and sweet as they walked in the cool 
 
 of the evening. 
 Then they divided for play, as happy as children and 
 
 careless ; 
 And half were to hide in the shrubs, and half were to 
 
 seek for the hidden, 
 
 And curious concealments were found, and rare hiding- 
 places selected; 
 And great was the searching and hunt after some of 
 
 the party assembled ; 
 But greater the joy and the mirth when, at length they 
 
 were found in some corner, 
 And laughingly dragg'd from their haunt, betrayed by 
 
 their dress and their giggling.
 
 Sy ring aline. 183 
 
 Then for a change they had " Tick/' and swiftly they 
 
 fled round the flower-knots. 
 Winding adroitly about, like a hare when pursued by 
 
 the greyhounds : 
 The gentlemen shouted and roar'd ; scream'd, squeal'd, 
 
 and cried o\it the ladies ; 
 A Babel of unruly tongues made pleasant with musical 
 
 laughter ; 
 So that passers-by out in the road stopp'd in wonder 
 
 and made the inquiry, 
 " What on earth means this riot and noise, and what 
 
 is the cause of this kick-up ? 
 Is it a mad-house asylum, with the lunatics out for an 
 
 airing, 
 Or the famed Agapemone House, with the inmates all 
 
 playing at hockey ?" 
 Thus the travellers, wondering, ask'd so great was the 
 
 noise of the madcaps. 
 Then when heated and fagged were the girls, and all out 
 
 of curl were their ringlets, 
 They paused for a moment in play, and debated what 
 
 next should their game be ; 
 When a bright thought Blanche Howard illumed, and 
 
 she cried, her face beaming with pleasure 
 " Oh ! come, and I'll teach you ' Tirza,' a game I've 
 
 seen play'd up in Yorkshire !"
 
 1 84 Sy ring aline. 
 
 So she set them all out, two and two, a gentleman each 
 
 with a lady, 
 Standing all round in a ring, each the waist of the 
 
 other embracing. 
 And she show'd how the game must be play'd, and 
 
 laughingly taught them the lesson ; 
 And the scholars soon willingly learnt the task of their 
 
 beautiful mistress. 
 Long played they all at the game, and mirthfully chased 
 
 one another, 
 And the red moon looked silently down on their glee 
 
 and their innocent pleasure. 
 So then they all waited awhile, and some went in-doors 
 
 for the music, 
 And others stroll' d gently about, and listened outside 
 
 to the singing. 
 
 But where is Kate Herbert the while, and what has 
 
 Kate Herbert been doing ? 
 She has wandered away with " her beau," the pleasing 
 
 and talented Henry : 
 Down, 'mid the shrubberies' maze, were the walks are 
 
 retired and winding ; 
 Down, 'mid the shrubberies' maze, where the walks are 
 
 so lonely and narrow :
 
 Syrinff aline. 185 
 
 Away from the gaze of the rest, away from the jeers 
 
 of the scoffers ; 
 There they go gently along, and each is entranced by 
 
 the other. 
 Conversational powers are his, and the theme of his 
 
 converse is fruitful : 
 In ecstacy blissful she lists, while her bright eyes are 
 
 sparkling with rapture, 
 And the little loves fan the young flame as they lurk 
 
 in the roses around them. 
 
 When they emerge from the walk " Oh ! where have 
 
 you been ? " is the question. 
 Then answered Kate Herbert, at once Kate Herbert 
 
 the calm and contented, 
 
 " To see the Syringa we went, and to gather its beau- 
 tiful blossoms." 
 Then doubtings were muttered around, and the name 
 
 was suggested of Walker; 
 And one, with a prominent nose, said, " Miss Howard, 
 
 wilt thou pray do likewise ? " 
 So she laugh'd, and she would not at first; but her 
 
 love of botanical knowledge 
 Induced her at last to consent, and they started to see 
 
 the Syringa.
 
 1 86 Syrinf/aline. 
 
 Then he of the nose led her down where Kate Herbert 
 
 had rambled before them ; 
 And Blanche shook her forest of curls, and laughed out 
 
 as though she enjoy'd it ; 
 And the moon lighted up her soft cheeks and contour 
 
 of her classical profile, 
 And lovely and beaming she looked, and bright as the 
 
 flowers around her, 
 Diffusing a sunshine around, as she moved in. the light 
 
 of her beauty. 
 Then he of the nose led her on, and they rambled away 
 
 from the others; 
 And backwards and forwards they went, and searched 
 
 for the famous Syringa : 
 All round the gardens they went, down 'mid the 
 
 shrubberies' windings, 
 Hither and thither and round, by the hothouses and 
 
 by the stables, 
 Diving about in the shrubs, and exploring their inmost 
 
 recesses ; , 
 And the red moon was lighting them on in their search 
 
 for the famous Syriuga. . 
 
 Ever anon, from .the shrubs, as they, wander' d now 
 hither and thither,
 
 Sy ring aline. 187 
 
 There was heard a peculiar sound peculiar and yet 
 not uncommon 
 
 A light gentle smack, followed close by a volley of 
 musical laughter, 
 
 Musical laughter that rose, and was caught up by mu- 
 sical echoes, 
 
 Till it fell on the ear of the Night, and awakened the 
 Dreamer to raptures. 
 
 Then giggled the ladies, and said, " Lo ! Blanche now 
 has found the Syringa :" 
 
 And then, when they met her, they asked, " Pray what 
 is it like, this Syringa ? " 
 
 Then answer made he of the nose : " I know what it's 
 
 like, and Fll tell you. 
 Its blossom is full, rich, and sweet, and wondrously 
 
 like to the Two-lip ; 
 In loneliest places it thrives, but requires some forcing 
 
 and ' Oh'ing : 
 Warmth, too, enhances the bloom, and the moon 
 
 brings it out to perfection : 
 And happy is he who can find, but happier he who 
 
 may pluck it, 
 For it brings its possessor such joy, that straightway 
 
 he falls into raptures,
 
 1 8 8 Syringaline. 
 
 And long will he dwell o'er its sweets, the fragrant 
 
 delights of its blossom, 
 Till his soul is o'erflowing with bliss, and his mind, 
 
 too, with happy contentment ; 
 So great are the powers and charms of this wonderful, 
 
 famous Syriuga." 
 
 Then the ladies all choruss'd and said, " Truly won- 
 derful is this Syringa !" 
 And one to Blanche Howard observed, as she archly 
 
 look'd over her shoulder, 
 " To judge from your dishevell'd hair, greater power 
 
 still has this Syringa : 
 For first when you went on your search, your ringlets 
 
 were seemly to look at, 
 And now they are all out of curl, and looped up in 
 
 negligent bandeaux :" 
 And further she would have run on, but Blanche 
 
 Howard had run off with laughter, 
 And ere she had time to say more, they were speedily 
 
 summon'd to supper. 
 
 In they all pour'd like a stream like an impetuous 
 
 river ; 
 Down at the tables they sat, the tables all groaning 
 
 with good cheer,
 
 Syringaline. 189 
 
 And violent hands were soon laid upon delicate dishes 
 arid dainties. 
 
 There by her Henry ensconced, pleasant and blissful 
 
 to look at, 
 There was Kate Herbert herself, Kate Herbert the 
 
 calm and contented, 
 Looking quite cool and refreshed with the sight of the 
 
 famous Syringa. 
 And so look'd Blanche Howard herself, as she sat 
 
 there just over the table, 
 With her hair smoothly drawn back in bands from her 
 
 white intellectual forehead, 
 Showing off to advantage her face, and her regular 
 
 classical features. 
 Happy and mirthful was she, and he of the nose sat 
 
 beside her, 
 Ministered e'er to her wants, and plied her with 
 
 chicken and lobster, 
 Constantly gave her Champagne, and with her divided 
 
 the bon-bon, 
 And, like a wise man, ne'er forgot his own wants and 
 
 peculiar likings. 
 Happy and pleasant was she, and buoyant as ever in 
 
 spirits,
 
 1 90 Sy ring aline. 
 
 And every fair guest seemM to catch the contagion of 
 
 mirth and of laughter, 
 And stale jokes were laughed at as new ; dim wit 
 
 shone as brightly as better; 
 And loud was the laugh at the pun, though poor was 
 
 its aspect and meaning, 
 For where all are ready for mirth, they require but 
 
 little incentive, 
 But will readily echo the laugh, though they know 
 
 not the cause of the laughter. 
 Thus the supper passed gaily away, and the midnight 
 
 pass'd into the morning, 
 And the night was refreshing and cool, and the grass 
 
 was with no dew upon it, 
 So they set out of doors once again, and all went to 
 
 see the Syringa, 
 And all were enraptured and charmed all who had 
 
 found out its fragrance. 
 And then the gay music struck up, and lithesome feet 
 
 tripp'd to the Polka, 
 And couples spun briskly about, and twirl'd, too, and 
 
 flew in the deux Temps, 
 Then sat out of doors to get cool, and made merry 
 
 parties among them. 
 So the evening ended at length, as all things sublunary 
 
 must do;
 
 ne. 
 
 191 
 
 And all went away to their homes, away from the 
 
 scenes of their pleasures, 
 Talking away as they went o'er the many delights of 
 
 the party, 
 Still feeling joyous with glee, untired, unflagging in 
 
 spirits ; 
 And the red moon look'd down on them all driving off 
 
 happily homewards. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 I bid ye good-night and adieu ! ye maidens so glee- 
 some and comely : 
 Ye have gladden'd the path of my life with brief 
 
 moments of unalloyed pleasure ; 
 Ye have brought me a sunshine awhile with your 
 
 smiles and your musical laughter; 
 And now your bright presence is gone, and I'm in a 
 
 cab with my sister ! 
 Farewell, happy maidens, farewell ! Good-night, now 
 
 our pleasure is over : 
 May care never wrinkle the brow that now is so smooth 
 
 and so placid, 
 Or dim the rich lustre of eyes that now are so brightly 
 
 resplendent ;
 
 192 Sy ring aline. 
 
 On their thrones ever lightly as now, may the lords of 
 your bosom be seated ; * 
 
 May you peacefully slumber in rest, with good angels 
 watching around you, 
 
 And may dreams bring you back all the bliss you re- 
 ceived from the famous Syringa. 
 
 * " My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne." Romeo and Juliet.
 
 POTTED KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 THE royal road to learning has been well nigh gained. 
 The age that has brought travelling to such a degree 
 of perfection that a man can now be conveyed from 
 one end of the kingdom to the other with no greater 
 discomfort to himself than if he were passing the hours 
 in his own study this age of rapidly getting over the 
 ground in the smoothest and easiest way (accidents 
 excepted) has also been remarkable for the production 
 of a class of literature whose " mission " (to use one 
 of the slang terms of the day) is to enable the reader 
 to get over a good deal of literary ground in the most 
 expeditious and agreeable manner. To change our 
 metaphor the genius of Cookery has been brought to 
 bear upon literature, and has resulted in the produc- 
 tion of Potted Knowledge. Such a result was abso- 
 lutely necessary to meet the hasty requirements of this 
 rush-about business age. The merchant and trades- 
 man who would be foremost in the race for success is
 
 194 Potted Knowledge. 
 
 compelled to be so great a martyr to his business that 
 he has not even time for his martyr's steak, but is 
 forced to content himself with a simpler noon-day 
 meal, which must be devoured hastily, savagely, and 
 mechanically, like the fitful refreshment-room dinners 
 of travellers by an express train. To this class of 
 eaters enforced hastiness is not a matter of choice, but 
 of necessity ; and it has, therefore, been an important 
 subject of inquiry with all those who have any care 
 for that portion of their anatomy which was wont to 
 be called the stomach, but which the periphrasis of 
 this mock-modest age delicately denotes as " the diges- 
 tion," it has become a matter for earnest inquiry 
 with these people of digestions liable to be disordered, 
 whether or no their food could not be so prepared that 
 it should afford the maximum of nourishment in the 
 minimum of space, and be devoured with such swift- 
 ness and ease that its consumption should offer little 
 or no interruption to business, at the same time that it 
 discharged all its looked-for functions. 
 
 Now, it has generally been conceded, that the object 
 of which these digestive inquirers were in search was 
 to be found in the shape of potted meats. In them 
 was to be discovered the maximum of nourishment in 
 the minimum of space, and such a rejection of useless 
 material, and condensation of all that was nutritious
 
 Potted Knowledge. 195 
 
 and valuable, that an ox (or all that was worth eating 
 of him) might be squeezed into the compass of an 
 oyster-barrel, and a calf could be crammed into a 
 quart-pot. What cooks have done for meat, the pur- 
 veyors of mental food have effected for literature, and 
 Potted Knowledge is now prepared and sold to meet 
 the demands of an age in which high-pressure is called 
 into requisition for all the needs of our outward life 
 and inward sustenance. 
 
 Although the process of manufacture is tedious, and 
 requires considerable judgment and skill in the selec- 
 tion of the component parts, yet, when judiciously 
 treated, the article may be made not only palatable but 
 nutritious. The recipe is exceedingly simple. As 
 soon as it has been determined what form the Potted 
 Knowledge shall take whether history, science, art, 
 politics, geography, travels, &c., the ingredients are 
 ordered from the nearest public libraries, the choice 
 pieces are cut out and minced, the scraps ai-e boiled 
 down, the residuum is compressed into as small and 
 light a compass as possible, and the result is Potted 
 Knowledge. When it is ready for use it may be la- 
 belled after this fashion : " Analysis of Art," " Abbre- 
 viated Anecdotes," " Abstracts of Accounts/' " Brief 
 Account of Birds and Beasts/' " Condensed Histories of 
 Cockchafers/' " Concise Notes on Churning," " Com- 
 
 K 2
 
 196 Potted Knowledge. 
 
 pendium of Chess/' " Handy-book of Husbandry/' 
 " Index to Literature/' " Literary Laconics," " Manual 
 of Mushrooms/' " Resume of Reports/' " Succinct 
 Notes on Schools/' " Summary of Something and 
 Everything/' "Synopsis of Sports/' or any other 
 names, in short, which would convey the idea of a 
 work so comprehensive as to contain in a brief space 
 the condensed information of encyclopaedias, diction- 
 aries, gazetteers, and a hundred books of reference. 
 
 Potted Knowledge, too, assumes another form than 
 that in which it is seen bound up in calf, cloth, or 
 morocco. For example, our quarterly reviews, scientific 
 journals and reports, and the monthly and weekly lite- 
 rary periodicals, supply a very goodly amount of Potted 
 Knowledge. The diligent reader of these various 
 reviews can form a very fair idea of the literature, 
 politics, science, and art of the day ; and without the 
 expense of subscribing to Mudie's, Hookham's, Bull's, 
 or Booth's, and without giving himself the trouble to 
 read the produce of their libraries and to form an 
 opinion as to the merits or demerits of the works, he 
 can prattle about the books of the month to his fail- 
 neighbour at the dinner-table or dance, as though he 
 had really devoured their multifarious contents. In an 
 hour's desultory reading he will have imbibed the con- 
 densed literature of the past month, and have been
 
 Potted Knowledge. 197 
 
 put in possession of sufficient material for evenings of 
 booky small-talk. For this he has to thank many a skil- 
 ful chef and cuisinier, whose natural gifts, improved by 
 cultivation and industry, have come between him and 
 his idleness or overwork, and have administered to 
 him those meals of Potted Knowledge, which, like the 
 forcemeat pellets to the turkey poults, have brought 
 him up to the requisite standard of literary fulness. 
 
 Swift evidently had the idea of Potted Knowledge 
 in his mind, when he compared the labours of an 
 author to chickens which required months to fatten, 
 but were eaten in a few minutes. It is a just com- 
 parison. The reader quickly consumes the fare that 
 the author places before him, although the author may 
 have been months or years in its preparation and 
 cookery. But, with that large class of persons, who, 
 from lack of time or trouble, derive their knowledge 
 of the chief literature of the day mainly through the 
 aid of reviews, the author's chickens must be subjected 
 to a condensation of cookery before they can be made 
 acceptable to their peculiar palates. And this is the 
 office that falls to the lot of the reviewer. The critic, 
 in a certain sense, stands between the author and a 
 large class of desultory readers, who are either of too 
 busy, placid, or bovine a nature to peruse for them- 
 selves works of which their position in society may
 
 198 Potted Knowledge. 
 
 demand some knowledge, and on which they may be 
 socially required to pass judgment. The task that 
 they are either unfitted, unwilling, or unable to do for 
 themselves, the critic does for them. The author 
 fattens his chickens for the literary market, and the 
 critic steps forward as the chef de cuisine, and cooks 
 up the chicken into a salmi, or boils it down into 
 chicken-broth, or in some other suitable method pre- 
 pares the Potted Knowledge for the reader. 
 
 First comes the author, who gives us the essence of 
 the works of all previous writers ; and then comes the 
 critic who condenses the work of the author, and pre- 
 sents the very pith and marrow of it to the reader. 
 The author has to work months and years ; the critic 
 has to labour hours and days; and the final result 
 is Potted Knowledge, which may be devoured in a few 
 minutes. In the instances where this condensed in- 
 formation is given through the medium of Reviews, 
 much, of course, must depend upon the artistic nature 
 of the critic's cookery. If he be a critic, like the one 
 in Sydney Smith's joke, who never read a book before 
 reviewing it for fear of being prejudiced, then his 
 critical cookery of the work cannot be of that Potted 
 Knowledge character which will convey to the reader 
 the very spirit and essence of the book; but rather 
 will it partake somewhat of the nature of haggis, of
 
 Potted Knowledge. 199 
 
 which it has been said that it is " fine, confused eat- 
 ing;" for, the critic will necessarily be driven to gene- 
 ralities, and the work which is professedly reviewed 
 will be merely a peg on which to hang the reviewer's 
 exercitatious. But, if he be a real and true critic, 
 with a full sense of his calling and responsibilities, he 
 will carefully consider the author's chicken in its ever 
 aspect, and, simply garnished by his own judgment, 
 he will endeavour to set before his reader its very pith 
 and essence in the shape of Potted Knowledge.
 
 THE HEAET'S MISGIVINGS. 
 
 LINES ON THE PICTURE BY FRANK STONE. 
 
 " Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, 
 Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse 
 
 " Thy love is better than high birth to me, 
 
 Kicher than wealth, prouder than garment's cost, 
 Of more delight than hawks and horses be, 
 
 And naming thee, of all men's pride I boast : 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 
 All this away, and me most wretched make." 
 
 Shakspeare's Sonnets. 
 
 THERE'S a languor in the air, 
 
 And a stillness all around, 
 The landscape wide and fair 
 
 Is in dreamy silence drown'd ; 
 The sky is blue and bright, 
 
 And all is fair to see ; 
 But the maiden sigheth sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me ! "
 
 The Heart's Misgivings. 201 
 
 The royal sun goes down 
 
 Like a bridegroom to his bower, 
 Flash from his golden crown 
 
 Bright beams on tree and tower; 
 But that scene of summer splendour, 
 
 Though so beautiful to see, 
 She heeds not, but sighs sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me I" 
 
 Like as snow her forehead white, 
 
 Dark her hair as raven's wing, 
 Bright her eyes as stars of light, 
 
 Sweet her lips as flowers of spring ; 
 Quick her breathing heaves her bosom, 
 
 Like the throbbings of the sea, 
 And she sighs again more sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me \" 
 
 Against the old stone wall 
 
 She leans with clasped hands ; 
 Nought to her that castled hall, 
 
 Nought to her those wide-spread lands ; 
 For on the youth that's near her 
 
 She gazes fixedly ; 
 But she sighs, and thinketh sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me \" 
 
 K 3
 
 2O2 The Heart's Misgivings. 
 
 He sits, while she doth stand, 
 
 He laughs, her eyes grow dim, 
 He sees that only on his hand, 
 
 She sees but only him : 
 A hawk is on his hand, 
 
 And a dog is at his knee, 
 And the maiden sigheth sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me \" 
 
 " No ! he careth not for me, 
 
 Though my heart is all his own ; 
 Since I saw him ne'er 'twas free, 
 
 And 'tis his, and his alone ! 
 'Tis no slight thing or unstable, 
 
 'Tis no trifle that I've given ; 
 For my life to him I've trusted, 
 
 And he is now my heaven. 
 
 " Pure as that sky above, 
 
 With not a cloud to dim, 
 Is the pure and holy love 
 
 That I have shrined in him ; 
 But he laughs whene'er I tell him 
 
 That like this my love can be." 
 And once more she sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me \"
 
 Ihe Heart's Misgivings. 203 
 
 " Oh ! he little thinks the anguish 
 
 His unconcern can bring, 
 Or deems the heart can languish 
 
 In life's first early spring ; 
 But thinks that merry girlhood 
 
 Must ever thoughtless be." 
 And again she sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me ! 
 
 " When he speaks mine eyes do glisten, 
 
 And I feel a burning glow 
 Come o'er me as I listen 
 
 To the voice so well I know. 
 When he comes I know his footstep, 
 
 And I thrill with ecstacy ! 
 But " she paused, and sighed sadly, 
 
 " He careth not for me ! 
 
 " No ! his hound, his steed, his bird, 
 
 To him are dearer far, 
 And no reproachful word 
 
 Shall his youthful pleasures mar. 
 Yes ! these, my heart's misgivings, 
 
 Shall net damp his happy glee." 
 But the maiden sigh'd more sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! would he'd care for me ! "
 
 204 The Heart's Misgivings. 
 
 Down went the royal sun, 
 
 And the purple twilight came, 
 And the stars rose one by one, 
 
 Still the maiden gazed the same 
 But unmoved by twilight hour, 
 
 That " hour of love," was he, 
 And the maiden sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me ! " 
 
 There's a languor in the air, 
 
 All around's in dreamy rest, 
 And love is everywhere 
 
 Save in his youthful breast ; 
 More entranced with his hawk 
 
 Than that maiden fair is he ; 
 And her heart's misgiving is, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me ! "
 
 ACEOSTIC CHAEADES. 
 
 "Lysander riddles very prettily !" 
 
 Midsummer NigJd's Dream, Act ii., Sc. 3. 
 
 CHRISTMAS, more than any other season, is the very 
 time when the wide-spread families of Riddles, Conun- 
 drums, Enigmas, and Charades love most to meet their 
 friends. 
 
 For then even the oldest and weakest may be fear- 
 lessly brought forward, with the full confidence that 
 they will be greeted with the respect due to the many 
 years during which they have been bandied to and fro 
 in the world, and in which notwithstanding that they 
 may have met with repeated failures yet (paradoxical 
 as it may appear) they have invariably been found to 
 have answered. And then, too, even the poorest and 
 most threadbare those who, in pantomimes and bur- 
 lesques, may have been brought from one stage to 
 another, and have even been reduced to beg a laugh 
 at a circus even these miserable ones are not driven
 
 206 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 away in their tatters, but, when introduced to the 
 Christmas guests, are received with that spirit of 
 good-will which is the very soul of the Christmas 
 season, and with that indulgent kindness which is 
 undoubtedly the largesse that we should bestow upon 
 them in return for their endeavours to win our smiles, 
 and to provide us with harmless amusement. 
 
 In how many homes will this kind of innocent 
 recreation be indulged in when the time of merry 
 Christmas has again come round ! It will find its 
 place in quiet family circles, where the little children 
 gather together at their games in the old English 
 farm-houses, where the ruddy fire lights up a century 
 of comforts ; as well as in stately mansions, where in 
 
 the 
 
 " Tudor-chimneyed bulk 
 Of mellow brickwork," 
 
 there is an ancient hall, with a real yule-log blazing 
 on the spacious hearth, and around it a goodly gather- 
 ing of men and maids. There, perhaps, when that 
 particular time of the evening shall have come, as it 
 
 came 
 
 " At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve," 
 
 and is told by Tennyson with such unctuous brevity 
 that time when 
 
 " The game of forfeits done, the girls all kiss'd 
 Beneath the sacred bush,"
 
 Acrostic Charades, 207 
 
 the assembled company may, over their wassail-bowl, 
 start a conversation similar to that which passed be- 
 tween Mr. Francis Allen, "the Parson Holmes, the 
 poet Everard Hall," and Mr. Tennyson himself, who 
 (as he tells us) 
 
 " held a talk, 
 
 How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, 
 Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games, 
 In some odd nooks like this :" 
 
 and having, perhaps, acted a charade at some earlier 
 part of the evening, they may now, as they sit there 
 chatting round the fire, and unable to bestow upon 
 Christmas those olden " honours " so deplored by the 
 quartet of epic-loving friends at Francis Allen's, these 
 modern Christmas-keeping men and maids may pos- 
 sibly fall back upon " odd games," even to the asking 
 of riddles and charades. In which sport, we trust 
 that we may be permitted to join them, bringing, as 
 our portion of the entertainment, a few Acrostic Cha- 
 rades. 
 
 These novel and ingenious riddles have lately been 
 introduced, and afford much amusement. Their in- 
 troduction here will, we think, be acceptable to our 
 readers, many of whom may desire to exercise their 
 invention in the composition or solution of these 
 agreeable novelties. To the young, especially, they 
 may be made the vehicles of much instruction, and
 
 208 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 to all they may afford harmless and rational amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 They are composed in this way. Two or more 
 words are selected, independent of each other as to 
 verbal connection, and yet having some dependence on 
 each other as regards their allusions and signification. 
 This connection may be that between a general and 
 his victory (as Wellington, Waterloo ; Horatio Nelson, 
 the Battle of the Nile) ; an author and his work 
 (Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit) ; a potentate and his 
 palace (Napoleon, Tuileries; the Lord Mayor, Man- 
 sion House) ; an inventor and his invention (James 
 Watt, the Steam Engine) ; a spot and its celebrity 
 (Fotheringay Castle, Mary Queen of Scots; the 
 Lakes, Wordsworth) ; or any other similarly legitimate 
 connection, provided that the word or words, chosen 
 on either side, contain the same number of letters. 
 This is necessary for the sake of the acrostics. 
 
 There are two acrostics formed by the selected pair 
 of words. Thus, in the words above quoted, if we 
 take "The Lord Mayor, Mansion House " (which are 
 the only pair of those words that contain the same 
 number of letters), we can put either " The Lord 
 Mayor," or "Mansion House" to form the first 
 acrostic. If we put the former, then the first letter 
 on the one side is T, and the first letter on the other
 
 Acrostic Charades. 209 
 
 side is M. We must then look out for some word 
 that begins with T and ends with M, selecting only 
 such words as are substantives or proper names. Sup- 
 pose we take " Term :" we must then mention it, in a 
 charade form, in one line of prose or verse (if more 
 than one line is used it must be so stated), as, for ex- 
 ample, "In college and court I bring work to all," 
 referring to the term-time of Universities and Inns of 
 Court, The next letters for the next line will be H 
 and A; and we must select a word commencing with 
 H and ending with A, as Hermia (of the "Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream"), of whom we might say "In 
 love with my next word Lysander did fall." Then we 
 come to E and N, and so on, all through the twelve 
 letters of " The Lord Mayor " and " Mansion House/' 
 When we have got through these twelves lines we 
 shall have formed our two acrostics; and it must be 
 denoted (by a break, or by writing "The Words,") 
 that we have come to the end of our acrostics, in 
 order that the guesser may know the number of the 
 letters the number of the words he must find out 
 how he can. We must then add a few more lines, in 
 order to explain the whole of course taking care to 
 describe "The Lord Mayor" and "Mansion House" 
 as enigmatically as possible. But, as example is 
 better than precept, we will here give a specimen of
 
 2io Acrostic Charades. 
 
 the Acrostic Charade, with its answer, and an explana- 
 tion of that answer. If, however, we should have 
 been fortunate enough to make the foregoing explana- 
 tion sufficiently lucid to the reader, he can, if he so 
 pleases (being thus warned beforehand) avoid looking 
 at the answer; and, not allowing his eyes to wander 
 beyond the last line of the charade, puzzle out its 
 meaning for his own amusement. With this note of 
 warning we will begin; premising that each line of 
 the introduction contains the signification of a word, 
 and that the lines are perfectly independent of each 
 other. 
 
 THE LETTERS. 
 
 (1.) I can take vengeance without taking ease; 
 
 (2.) Without saying why, I on industry seize. 
 
 (3.) I am the name by which Paris was known ; 
 
 (4.) I am an organ that up am oft blown. 
 
 (5.) I, as an exile, advance on the scene, 
 
 (6.) With great Alexander's most beautiful Queen. 
 
 (7.) I'm the pastoral poem Theocritus penned; 
 
 (8.) And I'm Cleopatra's last-welcom'd friend. 
 
 (9.) I am her Majesty, put into Latin ; 
 (10.) And I wear a coat that is smoother than satin. 
 (11.) I am the man who first weather' d the Cape, 
 (12.) I'm architectural as to my shape ; 
 (13.) And I brought a fate which men cannot escape.
 
 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 211 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 The century's wonder a raree-show 
 
 Design'd from a leaf out of Nature's book. 
 
 If you guess my two words, you then will know 
 How the one from the other existence took. 
 
 In the lines descriptive of " The Letters/' we have 
 endeavoured to give the various ways in which the 
 Acrostic may be expressed. The first word has to 
 begin with V, and end with C; there are few words 
 of this kind, except adjectives, such as viatic, vivific, 
 vitriolic, &c., which should be regarded as inadmis- 
 sible, being words of slight importance. In a case 
 like this a ruse is perfectly allowable for the purposes 
 of the Acrostic; and we, therefore, took the word 
 " Vengeance/' without taking its e's, by which means 
 the word would end with c, and thus give us the word 
 required. % In like manner, in the second line, we 
 seized on " Industry," without saying y the elision 
 of the final letter, making the word begin with I and 
 end with r, which was what we required. In the 
 third line the guesser is intended to be driven from 
 the scent by another kind of ruse, for the " Paris " 
 here referred to is not the city of Paris, but the Paris 
 of "Romeo and Juliet," and the name by which he 
 was known was "the County Paris," and "County "
 
 212 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 is the word we require. The answer to line No. 4 is 
 " Times " an influential " organ " that is alternately 
 lauded and condemned (vulgariter, "blown up"), accord- 
 ing to the opinions or temper of the speaker. The 
 exile of No. 5 is the " Outcast/' No. 6 is " Roxana," 
 the beautiful captive and Queen of Alexander the 
 Great. No. 7 is "Idyl," the name given to the 
 pastoral compositions of Theocritus. No. 8 is the 
 "Asp," "as sweet as balm, as soft as air" that 
 sucked brave Cleopatra's life. No. 9 is " Regina," the 
 Latin name of the "Queen." No. 10 is the "Eel/' 
 with his slippery skin. No. 11 is " Gama," the Vasco 
 di Gama, who has the reputation (now destroyed by 
 Mr. Timbs, in his " Things Not Generally Known ") 
 of having "first weathered the Cape." No. 12 is 
 " Ionic," one of the orders of architecture ; and No. 
 13 is the "Apple," through which Death was intro- 
 duced. And now, if you put together, in their 
 regular sequence, the first and last letters of these 
 words, they will form into the required words of the 
 answer VICTORIA REGIA, CRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 Now that we have shown the modus operandi of 
 constructing, and solving, the Acrostic Charade, we 
 will leave the subject for the amusement of our 
 readers, merely subjoining, for their practice in the 
 art, a few brief specimens.
 
 Acrostic Charades. 213 
 
 NO I. THE LETTERS. (6.) 
 
 Untax'd I brighten the poor man's home 
 My wings wave over the beauty's brow 
 
 I steal by St. Petersburg's gilded dome 
 While Bomba's subjects before me bow. 
 
 A cook had reason to dread my name, 
 
 Though I carry the tidings of pride and shame. 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 A mighty centre of woe and wealth ; 
 
 A world in little, a kingdom in small. 
 A tainted scenter, and foe to health ; 
 
 A quiet way for a wooden wall. 
 Find out these words as soon as you can, sir ; 
 And then you'll have found this acrostic's answer. 
 
 NO. II. THE LETTERS. (5.) 
 
 I brighten even the darkest scene 
 
 I very nearly an ostrich had been 
 
 I with a hood once pass'd all my days 
 
 I am a fop in the play of all plays 
 
 To its greatness the city of Bath I did raise. 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 I'm a mark of judgment, of taste, and wit, 
 O'er a crowd of pages I rule the roast ;
 
 214 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 I mix with choice spirits, while choicer ones sit 
 Around, while I give them full many a toast. 
 Of my two words, my first is squeez'd into my second, 
 Although at its head it is commonly reckoned. 
 
 NO. III. THE LETTERS. (8.) 
 
 The wisest warrior earth can name, 
 A well-won fight, well known to fame ; 
 The source of wealth to Boniface, 
 The muse of love and lyric grace ; 
 A Russian town where sailors stop, 
 What parting friends will vow to drop ; 
 A wondrous tale of jealous fears 
 The hidden cause of actors' tears. 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 Two mighty words in the page of history, 
 The one was won and the other was lost ; 
 
 Though we find it again, by a kind of mystery, 
 To the topmost summit of power tost. 
 
 NO. IV. THE LETTERS. (15.) 
 
 The Chinese sailor dreads my fearful ire : 
 For, beauty was my death 1 slew my sire : 
 And I no beauty ever had to lose : 
 And so I weigh men down with heavy dues :
 
 Acrostic Charades. 215 
 
 The earth has often felt me a great bore : 
 
 To highest flights of tragedy I soar : 
 
 For me, the batsman cheerfully goes in : 
 
 Me, from inclosure, grateful cockneys win : 
 
 An orchestra I am, without a ray : 
 
 And from my six you must take ten away : 
 
 My empire's built on rags, and not on swords : 
 
 The faith I taught, the wildest words affords : 
 
 In a thin silk I hide myself from sight : 
 
 I gain'd a world-wide name in Indian fight : 
 
 And, when I'm ended, then's "put out the light." 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 With shatter' d limb and fever' d brain, 
 
 The soldier on his pallet lay ; 
 And never thought to see again 
 
 His home and friends far, far away : 
 And ne'er to reach that cot in Devon, 
 
 Where he had pray'd to end his life; 
 And never more unless in Heaven 
 
 To look upon his child and wife. 
 And, while he lay so weak with pain, 
 
 With dry lips parch* d, and all athirst, 
 With swimming sight, and fevered brain, 
 
 My Second cheer' d him in my First.
 
 2i 6 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 Like some bright angel of a dream, 
 
 She came and stood beside his bed ; 
 And stayed his bark, as, on the stream 
 
 Of Death, it floated towards the dead. 
 She changed his couch from pain to rest, 
 
 With loving word and tender hand ; 
 She soothed the sorrows of his breast, 
 
 And brought him from the shadowy land. 
 And when he saw his home again, 
 
 He into joyous rapture burst, 
 And bless' d the blissful moment when 
 
 He saw my Second in my First. 
 
 NO. V. THE LETTERS. (14.) 
 
 The cricket merrily proclaims my name; 
 The brethren three who fought for Roman Fame ; 
 Me, as their home, the needy poets make ; 
 When Fm ahead, the stoutest hearts will quake ; 
 The monster that sets up John 'gainst Thomas ; 
 Eusebius when he was taken from us ; 
 The man who wont believe unless he sees ; 
 When I am dead I sweetly rest in peas ; 
 Mid fiends and goblins I now take my place : 
 The sculptor loves me for my clear white face ;
 
 Acrostic Charades. 217 
 
 Unto the castle's stronghold now I glance : 
 And now I spy a beauteous queen of France ; 
 At winter's misty threshold I remain ; 
 A pair that part to quickly meet again. 
 
 THE WORDS. 
 
 Master of tears and laughter ! High arch-priest 
 Of the great mysteries of this Life's fane ! 
 
 Great Wizard of the North, South, West, and East, 
 When shall we look upon thy like again ? 
 
 We will not wreathe your head with bays, 
 To be a laughing stock for all the gapers ; 
 
 But, when to thee a monument we raise, 
 
 Around your hair we'll curl your own fam'd Papers.. 
 
 ANSWERS. 
 
 " Oho ! I know the riddle ! " King Lear, Act v. Sc. 1. 
 
 Number I. The LETTERS are Light, Ostrich, Neva, 
 Despotism, Owhyhee, News : and the WORDS are Lon- 
 don, Thames, the latter odoriferous river, and common 
 sewer of Great Britain's metropolis, being " the silent 
 highway " for the wooden walls of Old England. 
 
 Number II. The LETTERS are Lamp, Emu (the 
 
 L
 
 2i 8 Acrostic Charades. 
 
 " tail-less ostrich "), Marian (" Maid Marian/' the 
 companion of Robin Hood), Osric (the courtier " water- 
 fly " of Hamlet} } and " Beau " Nash. The WORDS are 
 Lemon, Punch. Mr. Mark Lemon (the " mark of 
 judgment/' &c.), be it remembered, is the editor of 
 Punch. It has been remarked that, curiously enough, 
 three lemons entered into the composition of Punch ; 
 namely, Mark Lemon, Leman Rede, and Laman 
 Blanchard. 
 
 Number III. The LETTERS are Wellington, Alma, 
 Tap, Erato, Revel, Line, Othello, Onion. The WORDS 
 are Waterloo and Napoleon. 
 
 Number IV. The LETTERS are Simoom, Cenci, Ugli- 
 ness, Taxes, Artesian, Ristori, Inning, Hampstead 
 Heath, Orchest-ra, sf-X, Pen, Irving, Taffeta, Aliwal, 
 Life. The WORDS are Scutari Hospital, and Miss 
 Nightingale, words that will ever rise together in a 
 Briton's thoughts with the deepest feelings of gratitude 
 and respect to England. " Santa Filomena ! " 
 
 Number V. The LETTERS are Chirp, Horatii, Attic, 
 Rock, Law, Eusebi-us, Sceptic, Duck, Imp, Carrara, 
 Keep, Eugenie, November, Scissors. The WORDS are 
 Charles Dickens, and the Pickwick Papers. 
 
 " Around his hair we'll curl his own famed Papers."
 
 THE OLD WINDOW-SEAT. 
 
 THERE are spots by Love made blessed, 
 
 And hallow'd by its spells ; 
 There are scenes where Memory lingers ; 
 
 There are haunts where Fancy dwells ; 
 But the green and shady bowers, 
 
 And the grove where lovers meet, 
 Recall not happier hours 
 
 Than that dear old window-seat. 
 
 Ye may love the fields and meadows 
 
 Where as children ye have play'd, 
 The lane arch'd o'er with hawthorn 
 
 Where your first love-vows were made ; 
 Your scenes of happy childhood 
 
 May be fraught with fancies sweet ; 
 Ye may love the fields and wild wood, 
 
 But I that window-seat. 
 
 L 2
 
 22O The Old Window-Seat. 
 
 I have been where gold and jewels 
 
 Flash'd in the beauty's hair ; 
 I have listened to the whispers 
 
 Of many a lady fair ; 
 But not those scenes of splendour, 
 
 Or those hours so bright and fleet, 
 Can waken thoughts so tender, 
 
 As that dear old window-seat. 
 
 Would you ask me why I love it ? 
 
 A thousand answers find 
 Their utterance in the memories 
 
 They swiftly bring to mind : 
 There I saw her, there I woo'd her, 
 
 There betrothed we first did meet, 
 And my first love-kiss was stolen 
 
 On that dear old window-seat. 
 
 There, in the tender twilight, 
 
 On the summer evenings long, 
 To a low and plaintive air she'd sing 
 
 Some old familiar song ; 
 And her bright eyes brighter glistened 
 
 As she sang with voice so sweet, 
 While I sat entranced, and listen' d, 
 
 On that dear old window-seat,
 
 The Old Window- Seal. 221 
 
 There we sat, aye many an hour, 
 
 Though but minutes seem'd they then ; 
 Blissful moments such as they were 
 
 I shall never know again ! 
 There, our day-dreams fondly tracing, 
 
 We have passed the hours so fleet, 
 And sat in love embracing, 
 
 On that dear old window-seat. 
 
 It was upon a May-day, 
 
 As we sat there side by side, 
 That with trembling hope I ask'd her 
 
 To be my bonny bride. 
 With cheeks and bosom glowing, 
 
 She heard then my entreat, 
 And " yes " she softly falter' d 
 
 On that dear old window-seat, 
 
 But a sudden change came o'er her, 
 
 And she weaker grew each day, 
 And we knew the young and beautiful 
 
 Was passing fast away. 
 She longed that on her cheeks again 
 
 Should breathe the zephyrs sweet ; 
 So we bore her where she wished us, 
 
 To that dear old window-seat.
 
 222 The Old Window- Seat. 
 
 The twilight deepened round us ; 
 
 She saw the red sun set, 
 " I die ! " she feebly whisper'd, 
 
 " Oh ! do not me forget/' 
 We watch' d the death-glaze dim her eye, 
 
 Feebler her pulse did beat, 
 And, murmuring my name, she did die 
 
 By that dear old window-seat.
 
 MOONEISE. 
 
 ALL calm and silently the moon doth rise ! 
 
 Like some reproving spirit, sad and pale, 
 Bending o'er sinful earth, with watchful eyes 
 
 Marking men's deeds, and all their woeful tale 
 Of shame and crime, and dread enormities. 
 
 All pale she looks ; the stars come twinkling out ; 
 White fleecy clouds float lightly o'er the skies. 
 
 The earth lies hush'd, save when the children's 
 
 shout 
 
 Tells that the tired cottar's reach'd his home ; 
 Humble it is, but many a palace dome 
 
 Has seen less happy faces, less delight, 
 Than greet his coming. Sound is heard no more ; 
 The sleepy wave scarce ripples to the oar ; 
 
 And e'en the clock tells drowsily the hours of 
 night.
 
 THE STOKM-SPIKITS. 
 
 THE Spirits of the Storm are out to-night, 
 Like mighty millions massed in banded battle ; 
 And, through the crystal courts and coral caves, 
 Deep down beneath the billowy boiling waves, 
 Their clattering coursers' hurried hoofs do rattle. 
 Rushing and raging in their foaming might, 
 They toss unto the storm their manes of white, 
 And bear their spirit-riders up on high 
 
 With shining foreheads in the lightning gleam- 
 ing 
 
 To meet the tempest raining from the sky. 
 Then, down they plunge into the yawning deep, 
 
 Laden with spoil of some rich argosy, 
 While, on their billowy pillows, brave men sleep 
 
 That sleep of death which knows no rise or 
 dreaming.
 
 CAKRIAGE - AND - FOUB GHOSTS. 
 
 WHAT is the use of one's being a ghost, and driving 
 a ghostly carriage-and-four, unless one's ghostly 
 magnificence and state is to be made known to the 
 world? If I am to be made a carriage-and-four 
 ghost of, I should at any rate desire for my friends to 
 be made aware of the fact. Without their cognizance, 
 it would be no pleasure to me to be rattled along by 
 my "posters of the sky and air." 
 
 Actuated by this feeling, I now desire to repair the 
 omission made by Mrs. Crowe, the ghost chronicler 
 and seer, and to do justice to those carriage-and-four 
 ghosts, whom she has not thought fit to embody in 
 her spirited narrative. Tardy justice to these neg- 
 lected spectres is better than none ; and my humble 
 efforts may do somewhat in rescuing them and their 
 stately carriages from oblivion. 
 
 L 3
 
 226 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 
 
 It seems, then, according to.the superstitious belief 
 of a great mass of people, that certain persona who 
 have misconducted themselves while inheriting their 
 fleshly tenement, are condemned to revisit the glimpses 
 of the moon, and, as perturbed spirits, to find no 
 rest; but it also appears, that a select few of these 
 spectres, instead of being " doomed for a certain term 
 to walk the night," like the ghost of Hamlet's father, 
 and the vulgar herd of spectres, are accommodated 
 with carriages, and ride through the night at the heels 
 of four horses. Thus, there are even ghosts that can 
 keep their carriages, and their carriage company; and 
 can be independent, moreover, of all taxes and turn- 
 pikes. It frequently happens that the horses which 
 draw these ghostly carriages are headless ; as is the 
 case with the carriage-and-four ghost at Caistor Castle, 
 the seat of the Fastolfes ; and also with the ghost of 
 the Devonshire clergyman, who rides in a carriage 
 drawn by four headless horses up the lane to the 
 church in which he had been accustomed to do duty. 
 Tales of gentleman ghosts who travel in a similar 
 state, are told in connection with the mansion of 
 Parsloes, Essex; and Hardwicke and Haddon Halls, 
 Derbyshire. None of these are mentioned by Mrs. 
 Crowe; and it would appear that she had never heard 
 of the Haddon Hall carriage-and-four ghost, for she
 
 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 22,7 
 
 says, " I never heard of a ghost being seen or heard 
 in Haddon Hall, the most ghostly of houses."* 
 
 The spectre of the Devonshire clergyman appears 
 to have been unpopular ; for the tale goes, that twelve 
 parsons were procured to " lay " the ghost, but failed 
 in their attempt, through one of their number befriend- 
 ing the spirit and telling him their plan of action. 
 His ghostship, therefore, "knawed the trick," as the 
 relators of the anecdote express it, and refused to be 
 laid. The villagers of Cumnor say that they were 
 more fortunate with the ghost of poor Amy Robsart, 
 which was laid by three-times-three Oxford parsons. 
 It would be curious to know the ceremonies made use 
 of on these occasions. 
 
 I have said, that the four horses which drew the 
 carriage of the Devonshire clergyman were headless 
 horses. Carriage-and-four ghosts appear to have 
 preferred steeds of this description : probably because 
 they give a more unnatural air to the cortege. To 
 carry out the headless principle to the uttermost, the 
 horses were occasionally driven by headless coachmen, 
 and even the occupants of the carriages dispensed with 
 their heads, in order that their coachmen and steeds 
 might not be put out of countenance. But ghosts are 
 
 " The Night Side of Nature," chap. xiii.
 
 228 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 
 
 not the only kind of people who sometimes lose their 
 heads. A carriage-and-four, with headless horses and 
 coachman, is driven about between Bury St. Edmunds 
 and Great Barton. The occupants of the carriage are 
 a headless gentleman and lady. Like the late Mr. 
 Mytton, they drive across the country " as the crow 
 flies/' scorning the road, and going over hedges and 
 ditches with all Mr. Mytton's sang-froid, until they 
 arrive at their destination in "PhilhY Hole," in the 
 parish of Rougham. Another carriage-and-four ghost 
 of this description favours with his presence the 
 village of Acton, in Suffolk. He travels in unusual 
 state, being accompanied by headless grooms and out- 
 riders. The park gates fly open at his approach, and 
 he is whirled on to a place called " the Nursery Corner," 
 a place where some great battle took place in old 
 Roman times. At the Roman station of Caistor, 
 too, where Sir John Fastolfe built a castle, the people 
 believe that yearly, at midnight, a dark coach, drawn 
 by headless horses, drives into the courtyard, and 
 carries away some unearthly passengers. 
 
 The spectre of Sir Thomas Boleyn, (the father of 
 Anne Boleyu, Queen of Henry the Fat,) is another 
 carriage-and-four ghost, but one who deserves a para- 
 graph all to himself, for he takes his rides in a singu- 
 larly unique manner. He is not content with his
 
 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 229 
 
 headless coachman and horses, nor is he satisfied with 
 simply detatching his head from his shoulders, but he 
 revisits society, carrying his head under his arm, as 
 though he were St. Denis himself, and as though his 
 head was a crush gibus hat, which he puts under his 
 arm for convenience' sake. As regards this head, 
 however, thereby hangs a tale. As it lies snugly 
 under his arm, flames of fire issue from its mouth, and 
 the spectator is horror-stricken at the sight. Sir 
 Thomas resided at Blickling, near Norwich ; and he is 
 condemned to travel thus, with his flaming head 
 underneath his arm, in his carriage drawn by four 
 headless horses, and driven by a headless coachman, 
 for the term of one thousand years. Alas, poor ghost ! 
 Indeed, Sir Thomas is altogether an out-of-the-way 
 ghost, and has to take a longer drive than the ordinary 
 carriage-and-four ghosts j for twelve bridges, in the 
 vicinity of his former home, have to be passed over by 
 him, ere he can find rest for another twelvemonth. It 
 is but " only once a year " that he takes his ride, but 
 that once is quite enough to last him for the twelve* 
 month. I wonder what carriage-duty he pays. Perhaps 
 he has compounded 1 
 
 The flames of fire that issue from Sir Thomas's 
 mouth, are imitated (gross plagiarism !) by nearly all 
 the carriage-and-four ghosts who drive teams with
 
 230 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 
 
 their full complement of heads. When the horses 
 carry their own heads, they generally snort fire : sul- 
 phurous flames of a most unearthly character are 
 emitted from their nostrils. Lady Lightfoot's steeds 
 are of this description. Her Ladyship was kept a 
 prisoner in the Court-house at Little Shelsley, Wor- 
 cestershire, and was afterwards foully murdered there. 
 At night, she comes in her ghostly, fiery carriage-and- 
 four, and drives round the rooms where she was im- 
 prisoned and murdered ; of course, these chambers are 
 unoccupied, so she has them all to herself; and, as 
 she is whirled through the rooms, her piercing screams 
 ring through the house (if any one is awake to hear 
 them). Then she drives out of doors, and dashes into 
 the moat; the water seethes and bubbles, and the 
 carriage and fiery horses disappear. 
 
 Another earriage-and-four ghost haunts the West of 
 Norfolk. On the anniversary of the death of the 
 gentleman whose spectre he is supposed to be, his 
 ghostship drives up to his old family mansion. The 
 gateway is walled up ; but what does that signify ? He 
 drives through the wall carriage, and horses, and all 
 and is not seen again for a twelvemonth. He leaves, 
 however, the traces of his visit behind him ; for, in 
 the morning, the stones of the wall through which he 
 had driven over-night, are found to be loosened and
 
 Carriage-and-four Ghosts. 231 
 
 fallen ; and, though the wall is constantly repaired, yet 
 the stones are as constantly loosened. 
 
 Another carriage-and-four ghost haunts Leigh, a 
 picturesque village between Worcester and Malvern. 
 This ghost is familiarly called " Old Coles." In the 
 days of his flesh, he tenanted Leigh Court ; but, being 
 soon encumbered with debts, " which," as Mr. Habing- 
 don says in his account of him, " like a snow-ball from 
 Malvern hill gathered increase," he was obliged to sell 
 his family estate to Sir Walter Devereux. So, accord- 
 ing to the retributive justice of superstitious belief, 
 his restless spirit is now made to revisit the scene of 
 his former dissipation. With his four carriage-horses 
 snorting sulphurous flames, he is dragged on at head- 
 long speed over hedge, and ditch, and banks, and trees, 
 and finally, over Leigh Court itself, until his drive is 
 ended by the waters of the Teme, into which his fiery 
 coursers plunge with a plashing hiss. 
 
 I was once told, by a College friend, of a carriage- 
 and-four ghost that haunted his father's house, in the 
 county of Wexford, Ireland. This ghost went by the 
 name of "The Brigadier/' but I have now forgotten 
 whether any reason was given for the visit of this 
 spirit. I am not aware, too, if the spectral carriage 
 was reported to have been seen ; but, that it was heard, 
 and that distinctly, I had the assurance of my friend,
 
 23 2 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 
 
 who told me that they had frequently heard the sound 
 of the wheels rattle past the windows up the carriage- 
 drive, and then the sound, as of the sudden pulling- 
 up of the carriage when it had reached the hall-door ; 
 and that servants, new to the house, had been so 
 deceived by the sound, that they had rung the stable- 
 bell to order round the grooms to the carriage, and 
 had themselves gone to the door to receive the expected 
 guests. 
 
 Chavenage Hall, in the Cotswold Hills, is singularly 
 honoured, having a coach-and-sfa? ghost and a Royal 
 coachman. The legend springs out of the times of the 
 Great Rebellion, when the then Lord of the Manor, 
 suffering the arguments of Ireton and of a Puritani- 
 cally inclined brother, urged through the whole of a 
 livelong night, to prevail against his own better con- 
 science and the prayers of a saintly sister, consented to 
 come to town and give his vote for the murder of his 
 King. The ill-advised man had not only been super- 
 naturally warned beforehand, but his sister, in a moment 
 of inspiration, had prophesied the extinction of the male 
 branch of his family if he gave his vote as Ireton 
 desired. From a deathbed embittered by the pangs of 
 remorse, and on which he sought to make some amends 
 by a public acknowledgment of his fault, his parting 
 spirit was conveyed in a Royal coach-and-six, driven
 
 Carriage-and-Four Ghosts. 233 
 
 by the headless spectre of his injured Sovereign. It 
 seems a deal of trouble for that excellent monarch to 
 have taken about a comparatively insignificant country 
 gentleman, but, of course, his Majesty knows his own 
 affairs best; and as the honour is repeated every time a 
 Lord of Chavenage dies at the Manor House, no doubt 
 there are special reasons we are not acquainted with. 
 
 Another carriage-and-sio? ghost is supposed to haunt 
 the city of Edinburgh. Hard by the Castle, in a 
 house in the West Bow, once lived a Major Weir, a 
 person so eccentric and mysterious that his very cane 
 was thought to be invested with miraculous powers, 
 and to be able to go out shopping ! A sister managed 
 the Major's domestic affairs, and he himself was fond of 
 attending religious meetings, where he discoursed with 
 great fluency. At length, he was struck down with 
 sickness, and fearing to die, sent for the magistrates, 
 and confessed to them that he and his sister had been 
 guilty of many horrible crimes. The sister attested to 
 the truth of this confession, and she and her brother were 
 executed. Their house in the West Bow was deserted, 
 but nevertheless its windows would be lighted up at 
 night with ghostly candles, and sounds of revelry would 
 be heard within, until a spectral coach-arid-six, with 
 headless black steeds, would dash up from the Lawn- 
 market, and after receiving the Major and his sister,
 
 234 Carriage-and-Tour Ghosts. 
 
 would drive away again. The house, therefore, remained 
 untenanted for half a century, when it was taken by 
 a man named William Patullo. But on the first night 
 of his occupancy, a headless beast came to the bed 
 where he and his wife were sleeping, and so alarmed 
 them, that they left the house and never entered it 
 again. And another fifty years elapsed before another 
 tenant could be found for this house of bad repute.
 
 THE WANTON SUNBEAM. 
 
 I CAME upon her quickly ! she was sitting 
 
 Upon a bank embrowned in the shade ; 
 All round about the sunbeams bright were flitting, 
 
 But did not dare to come where she was laid. 
 And, like to gleaming guards about a portal, 
 
 Who watch, and yet to enter are afraid, 
 So they, as angels bright around a mortal, 
 
 Did keep around and guard this lovely maid. 
 But one bright sunbeam pierced that twilight bower, 
 
 And thrust aside the leaves that made the shade ; 
 And, softly as the zephyrs touch a flower, 
 
 He slid into her arms and o'er her bosom stray'd ; 
 And, wanton, kiss'd her cheeks, her lips, her hair 
 " Jove ! " I cried, " that I that sunbeam were ! "
 
 SPRING-TIDE. 
 
 APRIL lay blushing in the lap of May, 
 
 And so, mid smiles and tears, told all her love; 
 The sunshine was around them ; and above, 
 
 The clear blue sea of heaven tranquil lay. 
 
 The buds were out on ev'ry springing flower ; 
 
 The leaves were thick on ev'ry bursting tree ; 
 
 The viewless larks were gushing forth their glee, 
 And Eden odours stole from ev'ry bower. 
 
 The velvet turf was daisied o'er like snow ; 
 Their yellow bells the cowslips did disclose, 
 To ring the requiem of the last primrose, 
 
 That pale beside its brooklet dear did grow. 
 
 The butterflies to their loved flowers had gone ; 
 
 The fern was springing in the wild deer's path ; 
 
 And modestly, in her sequestered bath, 
 The nymph-like* water-lily's white limbs shone. 
 
 * " Nymphsea alba."
 
 Spring -Tide. 237 
 
 The garden trees were creaming o'er with bloom, 
 The wild wood-cherry and the plum, the same ; 
 In purple dress the meadow-orchis came, 
 
 In golden robes the king-cups and the broom. 
 
 A pleasant murmur stole the woodland through ; 
 
 The singing birds a merry music made; 
 
 And where the lime-trees threw a soft green shade, 
 The belted bees their tiny trumpets blew. 
 
 The silver streams that flow'd the meads among, 
 With a light laughter went upon their way ; 
 The lambs, with their ewe-mothers fond, did play, 
 
 And nightingales poured out their souls in song. 
 
 And everything was full of light and love, 
 
 And freshening green and bloom were everywhere ; 
 Nature seem'd bursting into flowery prayer, 
 
 Unto her beauty's Source enthroned above.
 
 SJDDONIANA. 
 
 BYRON was accustomed to say, that of actors Cooke 
 was the most natural, Kemble the most supernatural, 
 and Kean the medium between the two; but that 
 Mrs. Siddons was worth them all put together. He 
 also records that he never saw Miss O'Neil, because 
 he had made a determination that he would not see 
 any one who was likely to disturb his recollections of 
 Mrs. Siddons, whose 
 
 " Thrilling art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, stonn'd the sternest heart." * 
 
 As I believe that every new scrap of information 
 concerning this gifted woman will, however scanty and 
 puerile, possess a fictitious interest, attributable to 
 the charm of its subject, I shall here note down some 
 memorabilia relative to Mrs. Siddons, which have not 
 hitherto appeared in print, and which may prove ser- 
 viceable to the biographer, and amusing to the general 
 reader. 
 
 * Byron's Address at the Opening of Drury Lane Theatre, 
 October 10, 1812.
 
 Siddon ian a. 239 
 
 Those most unsatisfactory and miscalled " Memoirs 
 of Mrs. Siddons," by Boaden which (outdoing the 
 proportions in Falstaff's pottle of sack), for one page 
 of information regarding Mrs. Siddons, give us some 
 three or four score relative to her contemporaries, and 
 to foreign matters tell us that, "in her youthful 
 acquirements she had probably few aids beyond those 
 of her parents." Her other biographers do not 
 appear to have hazarded information on this point, 
 and pass over her girlhood in a few sentences. Now, 
 as regards her " youthful acquirements," I have been 
 fully assured that she went as day-scholar to private 
 schools of some note, both in Worcester and Wolver- 
 hampton, the theatres * at which places were under her 
 
 * At this time, there was no regular " theatre " (building) in 
 Worcester. The companies of comedians who visited the place 
 gave representations at " the Great Room, at the King's Head, in 
 High Street ; " or at " the Trinity Hall ; " or at " the Theatre, near 
 the Town Hall." The present theatre in Angel Street was erected 
 in 1780, by Mr. James Augustus Whiteley (the then manager of 
 the theatre at the King's Head), with the assistance of twelve 
 subscribers. The first notice of theatricals at Worcester occurs in 
 the " Worcester Postman," for January 4, 1717, where is advertised 
 that, " for the Benefit of Mr. Butclwr, jun., and his Wife," would 
 be acted, " at the King's Head, in High Street, that celebrated Play 
 called (Eoipus, King of THEBES, with several New and Diverting 
 Entertainments between ttie Acts particularly a Pleasant Scene be- 
 tween a Drunken Man and his Wife, in a Tavern. Beginning 
 exactly at six o'clock. VIVAT REX ! " In 1784, we find advertised 
 at the new theatre, among other startling attractions, " Harle- 
 quin's Vagaries; in which Harlequin will escape down his own
 
 24 Siddoniana. 
 
 father's management. It is very evident that the 
 acquirements of "the Siddons" were of a far different 
 order to those of " the Fotheringay ; " and it is but 
 reasonable to suppose that Miss Kemble had the 
 advantages of a school education in all or most of 
 those towns in which her parents made any lengthened 
 stay. The school to which she went in Worcester 
 was Thorn eloe House School, then kept by a Mrs. 
 Harris no myth, but a veritable and kind lady, who, 
 fascinated by the beauty and talents of the little Miss 
 Kemble, would not accept of any honorarium for her 
 tuition. A lady who has lately died in Worcester, in 
 her hundredth year, was at Thorneloe House School at 
 the same time with Miss Kemble, and well remembered 
 her. At first, Miss Kemble was somewhat looked 
 down upon by her schoolfellows, as being "a player's" 
 daughter; but at length came the occasion of her 
 triumph, and rise in popularity. The girls got up 
 
 throat ! and fly across the stage from balcony to balcony." In 
 the next year we have dancing dogs ; and Mr. Mappler takes his 
 benefit, who, " in the course of the evening, will take a brief lick at 
 his own head." (Whatever may this have been?) In 1788, "the 
 very moral pantomime of ' Don Juan ' " is performed, for the benefit 
 of Mr. John Palmer, when, " N.B. The Ladies are respectfully 
 informed that the fire in the last scene will not injure the finest 
 cambric handkerchief." In 1V95, the Chevalier D'Eon takes a 
 benefit " at the age of 68, cutting her bread with a sword." In 
 1805, Master Betty is engaged to play for eight nights at a thousand 
 guineas, but consents to receive a less sum.
 
 Siddoniana 241 
 
 some amateur theatricals, in which Miss Kemble's 
 stage knowledge and talents brought her prominently 
 forward, as manager and chief performer, and secured for 
 her not only the admiration, hut also the friendship of 
 her school companions. On one of these occasions she 
 had to personate a lady dressed in a loose kind of 
 gown known as a sack (or sacque) ; and, as the proper 
 materials wherewith to manufacture it were not forth- 
 coming, the future Mrs. Siddons displayed her inven- 
 tive and constructive powers, by fashioning the required 
 garment out of some sheets of blue sugar-paper. 
 
 Miss Kemble had made her debut upon the boards 
 at a very tender age. When her infantile appearance 
 excited the disapprobation of her Boeotian audience, 
 who hooted and hissed her, her mother led her forward, 
 and made her repeat the fable of the " Boys and the 
 Frog." She did this with such ability and point, that 
 even the rustic critics could not but help seeing that 
 what might be fun to the boys might prove death to the 
 poor little frog; so they abstained from hissing, and 
 ever afterwards received their little frog with a kindly 
 welcome. Miss Kemble's first appearance on the 
 Worcester stage appears to have taken place when she 
 was in her twelfth year. In 1767, her father became 
 the manager of the Worcester Theatre, which was then 
 held " at the Great Room, at the King's Head, in High 
 
 M
 
 Siddoniana. 
 
 Street/' where Mr. Ward (the father of Mrs. Kemble, 
 and the restorer of Shakspeare's monument) had been 
 manager. At this time the managers of country theatres 
 were driven to various ingenious expedients, in order to 
 evade those penalties upon unlicensed playhouses threat- 
 ened by the Act of 1737. This Act which first esta- 
 blished a dramatic censorship in this country was intro- 
 duced by Sir Robert Walpole, in consequence of a sedi- 
 tious and abusive farce, called the " Golden Rump," that 
 had been offered to the managers of the London theatres ; 
 but its effects are now mitigated by the Act of the 28th 
 of George III., which empowers magistrates, at gene- 
 ral or quarter sessions, to license theatres in the coun- 
 try for the performance of dramatic entertainments. 
 The common practice, in order to evade the penalties 
 of this Act, was, to advertise and charge for a concert, 
 and, between its parts, give the plays and farces gratis. 
 I shall by and by quote a very singular evasion of the 
 Act, from a play-bill issued by Kemble in Wolverhamp- 
 ton. 
 
 Mr. Macaulay's practice of looking through files of 
 old newspapers for various points of information on 
 minor, but yet important matters, can be advantage- 
 ously imitated in the matter of theatrical biography. 
 Acting upon this idea, I have turned to the file of 
 " Berrow's Worcester Journal" (a file that reaches back
 
 Siddoniana. 243 
 
 to the early part of the eighteenth century), to see 
 what light it would throw upon Mrs. Siddons' s early 
 days. The first advertisements of "Mr. Kemble's 
 Company of Comedians" is dated February 12, 1767. 
 He announces "A Concert of Music, to begin 
 axactly at six o'clock ; " and then follows the main 
 attraction of the bill of fare : " Between the parts of 
 the concert will be presented, gratis, a celebrated 
 historical play (never performed here], called CHARLES 
 THE FIRST; the characters to be dressed in antient 
 habits, according to the fashion of those times." The 
 play was chiefly performed by the members of the 
 Kemble family ; for, among the dramatis persona, we 
 find "James, Duke of Richmond, Mr. Siddons ; 
 Fairfax, Mr. Kemble ; James, Duke of York, Master 
 J. Kemble ; the Duke of Gloucester, Miss F. Kemble ; 
 the part of the Young Princess, by Miss Kemble ; and 
 Lady Fairfax, by Mrs. Kemble." " Between the actsj 
 singing by Mrs. Fowler and Miss Kemble." So that 
 here we have the future Mrs. Siddons acting and sing- 
 ing at Worcester before she was twelve years of age. 
 Her musical abilities were of the highest order, and 
 she must, despite her youthful years, have been a valu- 
 able member of her father's company. Her brother 
 John was at this time in his tenth year ; and, if he 
 and the other characters of the play were really dressed 
 
 M 2
 
 244 Siddoniana. 
 
 "according to the fashion of those times/' the pic- 
 turesqueness of the attire may have thus early imbued 
 his mind with that perception of its general fitness for 
 a conventional costume for the group of Shakspeare's 
 historical plays, which he retained to the last, and by 
 the carrying out of which though at the expense of 
 antiquarian correctness and truth he achieved a most 
 beneficial reform in stage costume. The play of 
 " Charles the First " was no doubt an attractive one to 
 the inhabitants of " the Faithful City," and was re- 
 peated on February 14. 
 
 Two months after this, Miss Kemble's acting and 
 singing were again in demand, for the character of 
 Ariel in the " Tempest." This, as I should suppose, 
 though it has escaped the notice of her biographers, 
 was the first of her Shakspearian delineations the 
 rising of that brilliant Shakspearian star that culmi- 
 nated in Lady Macbeth. On this account, therefore, 
 and also because the play-bill is in itself note-worthy, 
 I will here transcribe the greater part of it, mention- 
 ing such only of the dramatis personcs as were repre- 
 sented by the members of the Kemble family : 
 
 " Worcester, April 16th, 1767. 
 " Mr. KEMBLE'S Company of Comedians. 
 
 " At the THEATRE at the KING'S HEAD, on Monday evening next, 
 being the 20th of April instant, will be performed a CONCEBT 
 of MUSICK, to begin at exactly half-an-hour after six o'clock.
 
 Siddoniana . 245 
 
 Tickets to be had at the usual places. Between the parts of 
 the Concert will be presented, gratis, a celebrated COMEDY, 
 call'd 
 
 The TEMPEST ; or, the Inchanted Island. 
 (As Altered from Shakspeare by Mr. Dry den and Sir W. 
 
 D'Avenant.) 
 
 With all the Scenery, Machinery, Musick, Monsters, and other 
 Decorations proper to the piece, entirely new. 
 
 Alonzo (Duke of Mantua), Mr. Kemble ; 
 
 Hyppolito (a Youth who never saw a Woman), Mr. Siddons ; 
 
 Stephana (Master of the Duke's Ship), Mr. Kemble ; 
 
 Ampkitrite, by Mrs. Kemble ; 
 Ariel (the Chief Spirit), by Miss Kemble; 
 
 And Milcha, by Miss F. Kemble. 
 
 ' " The Performance will open with a Representation of a Tempes- 
 tuous Sea (in perpetual agitation) and Storm, in which the Usurper's 
 Ship is Wreck'd ; the Wreck ends with a Beautiful Shower of Fire. 
 And the whole to conclude with a CALM SEA, on whicK appears 
 Neptune, Poetick God of the Ocean, and his Royal Consort Am- 
 phi trite, in a Chariot drawn by Seahorses, accompanied with Mer- 
 maids, Tritons, &c." 
 
 Not the least curious part of this bill is its an- 
 nouncement of the "monsters and other decorations" (?), 
 and the wreck, ending " with a beautiful shower of 
 fire." Nevertheless, in this fashion was the " Tem- 
 pest " produced by Mr. Kemble, twenty-two years 
 after this, at Drury Lane, on the evening of October 
 13, 1789. 
 
 Perhaps Miss Kemble was permitted to make the 
 best use of the gratuitous schooling that she received 
 at Worcester; for, although Mr. Roger Kemble's
 
 246 Siddoniana. 
 
 company remained there till July, and on July 9 
 (1797), performed "a dramatick opera, called 'King 
 Arthur ; or, the British Worthy,' written by Mr. Dry- 
 den " in which Mr. Siddons, together with Mr., Mrs., 
 and Master Kemble appeared, yet I do not find any 
 further mention, during this season, of " Miss Kem- 
 ble." 
 
 Roger Kemble was, for some years, the manager of 
 the theatre in Wolverhampton, where he and his 
 family were greatly respected; and where, as in 
 Worcester, the future Mrs. Siddons had the benefit of 
 that school education which Boaden and her other bio- 
 graphers have denied to her. A lady, to whom I shall 
 afterwards allude, who enjoyed the friendship of Mrs. 
 Siddons, was proud to talk of the days when she and 
 the great actress were schoolfellows together in Wol- 
 verhainpton. Kemble, of course, adopted the usual 
 expedients to advertise his company ; but one, at least, 
 of his playbills is worthy of quotation, on account of 
 the originality of the ruse by which the gratuitous ex- 
 hibition was to be paid for. I cannot, unfortunately, 
 give the date to this play-bill ; but I should imagine 
 it to have been issued in 1770. I shall mention only 
 such of the dramatis persona as belong to the Kemble 
 family.
 
 Siddoniana. 247 
 
 " MR. KEMBLE, 
 
 With humble submission, to the Ladies and Gentlemen of Wol- 
 verhampton, and the Town in general, proposes entertaining 
 them on Wednesday evening, the 8th instant, at the TOWN 
 HALL, with a 
 
 CONCERT of Vocal and Instrumental Musick, 
 
 Divided into Three Parts. 
 
 Between the several parts of the Concert (for the amusement of 
 THE TOWN, and the further improvement of POLITE LITERA- 
 TURE), will be continued 
 
 THE HISTRIONIC ACADEMY ; 
 
 With specimens of the various MODES OP ELOCUTION ; by INHA- 
 BITANTS OF THE TOWN (for their diversion), without fee, 
 
 gain, hire, or reward. 
 The specimens of this night's amusement will be taken from a 
 
 COMIC OPERA, called 
 
 LOVE IK A VILLAGE. 
 
 Sir William Meadows, by MR. K MB LE ; 
 
 Young Meadows, by MR. S DD a ; 
 
 Rosetta, by Miss K MB LE } 
 Housemaid, by Miss F. K MB LE ; 
 
 Madge, by MRS. KEMBLE. 
 And concluded with Comic Orations, &c., from 
 
 THE FIDLER turn'd CITIZEN. 
 
 ** This is to assure the Public that no Money will be taken for 
 Admittance, nor will any Tickets be sold ; therefore, all persons 
 inclined to attend the Concert are desired to call at Mr. LATHAM'S, 
 at the Swan, where Tickets will be delivered GRATIS to his friends 
 and acquaintance. 
 
 N.B. Mr. LATHAM has a quantity of TOOTH-POWDER (from 
 LONDON), which he intends selling in papers at 2s., Is., or 6d. 
 each. The same POWDERS may be likewise had at Mr. SMART'S, 
 and Mr. SMITH'S Printing Office, and at the TALBOT, in King 
 Street. 
 The Concert to begin at Five o'clock, and the Lectures exactly 
 
 at half-past Six. 
 
 It is humbly hoped that no Ladies or Gentlemen will take it 
 amiss, that they cannot possibly be admitted without a Ticket." 
 
 This is certainly very curious. The selling of the
 
 248 Siddoniana. 
 
 tooth-powder, and the giving of the ticket, is like the 
 old smuggling trick of selling a sham sack of corn, 
 and making a present of the keg of brandy placed 
 within it. 
 
 Soon after this, Miss Kemble was received into the 
 family of Mr. Greatheed, of Guy's Cliff, near War- 
 wick, in which romantic and hospitable home the two 
 next years of her life were pleasantly employed. 
 During the time that she was there, she does not 
 appear to have been in any menial situation (or, as 
 one of her biographers phrases it, " in the employment 
 of a lady named Greathead ") but to have been 
 treated as a companion, and as one of the family. 
 There she practised the statuary art, and modelled 
 busts that were long preserved by the family ; and 
 there she continued to cultivate her love for theatrical 
 matters, and, in the presence of Garrick, recited some 
 speeches from "Jane Shore." Mr. Greatheed was 
 himself a lover of everything connected with the 
 stage, and a dabbler in theatrical composition. His 
 play of " The Regent " was produced at Drury Lane 
 Theatre in 1788, when Mrs. Siddons performed the 
 part of its heroine Dianora. The play has long since 
 passed into the limbo of dramatic pieces, and was not, 
 at any time, calculated to assist in the ignition of the 
 Thames ; but it was doubtless a proud moment for its
 
 Siddoniana. 249 
 
 author, when his former protegee, attired as the heroine 
 of his piece, advanced upon the stage, and, with her ma- 
 jestic voice and thrilling periods, gave utterance to his 
 own composition. 
 
 But, though the atmosphere of Guy's Cliff was thus 
 charged, as it were, with the electric phenomena of the 
 stage, yet Miss Sarah Kemble would seem to have been 
 soon wearied of her retired life, and to have yearned 
 -to once more tread those boards, which her ruling 
 passion had designated for her walk in life. Accord- 
 ingly, she left the hospitable home of the Greatheeds ; 
 and at Trinity Church, Coventry, on the 26th of 
 November, in the year 1773 (the date and place are 
 not given by her biographers), being then in her nine- 
 teenth year, she became the world-renowned Mrs. 
 Siddons. 
 
 Mr. Siddons had been the leading member of her 
 father's company for some years past. I have heard 
 that, before he took to the stage, he had been a barber 
 at Walsall, in Staffordshire. He is described as being 
 " a fair and very handsome man, sedate and graceful 
 in his manners." Although generally useful in a coun- 
 try theatre, he was but an inferior actor ; and Roger 
 Kemble was by no means pleased with his daughter's 
 selection. I fancy that the young couple were privately 
 married, without the parental knowledge and sanction. 
 
 M 3
 
 250 Siddoniana. 
 
 But, as what was done could not be undone, old 
 Kemble sent for his daughter, and said to her, " Well, 
 my child, I made you promise never to marry a per- 
 former, and you have not disobeyed me ; for the devil 
 himself could not make an actor of your husband." 
 By the way, this theatrical inferiority of the husband 
 to the wife appears to have been the chief cause that 
 led to their domestic disagreements and separation. 
 
 Let us glance at some of the doings of the Kemble 
 family, during the two years that Miss Sarah was 
 away from them at Guy's Cliff. On the evening of 
 December 12, 1772, Roger Kemble produced at his 
 theatre in Worcester "The Beggar's Opera, with 
 the characters reversed;" and twelve years later, 
 on August 26, 1784, it was thus performed in 
 London, for the benefit of the elder Bannister. 
 Indeed, just about that time, the assumption of male 
 characters by female performers was a plan usually 
 resorted to when the theatrical bill of fare wanted a 
 little spice of attractive novelty ; and a notable instance 
 of this was brought forward at the Drury Lane Theatre 
 in 1 786, when the first part of " Henry the Fourth " was 
 produced ; on which occasion the part of Falstaff was 
 stuffed (I suppose I must not say filled] by a lady (?) 
 a Mrs. Webb, who ought to have been (but was not) 
 hooted for her pains. In 1773, we find Mrs. Kemble
 
 Siddoniana. 
 
 performing the character of Ormisinda in " Alonzo, ;J 
 at her husband's theatre in Worcester, and in May of 
 the same year she appeared in " All's Well that Ends 
 Well." The theatre was then closed for a short time, 
 but was re-opened in June with " The Humours of 
 Parolles, and the Cowardly Captain ; the so-much- 
 esteemed comedy written by that excellent and inimit- 
 able poet Shakspeare " in which the hero oppears as 
 Parolles (alias Tom Drum, the Cowardly Captain). 
 The other chief pieces performed at Worcester, at this 
 time, by Kemble's company were " The Recruiting 
 Officer," "The Parthian Exile," and " Theodosius." 
 It was in this tragedy of " Theodosius" (as its hero) 
 that, three years later than this, on January 8, 1776, 
 the illustrious John Kemble first made his appearance 
 on the stage of Wolverhampton Theatre. He was 
 then in his twentieth year. Since, as a boy of ten, 
 he had acted at Worcester in the play of " King 
 Charles the First," and in the dramatic opera of 
 " King Arthur," he had received a sound and classical 
 education, first at Worcester, then at Sedgeley Park 
 School, near Wolverhampton, and finally at Douay. 
 
 Though we have seen that Mr. Kemble's theatre at 
 Worcester was opened for more than one short season 
 in the year 1773, yet that year was productive of much 
 discomfort to the poor players, whose existence the
 
 252 Siddoniana. 
 
 chief magistrate of the city contrived to make a very 
 chequered one. For, said Mr. Mayor, "neither 
 player, puppy, or monkey" shall be suffered to 
 remain in the city. For a time Othello's occupation 
 was completely gone ; but, after the Vigornian play- 
 goers had been doomed to a few months of gloom, 
 Mr. Mayor was compelled to relent before the storms 
 of supplications and fires of epigrams with which he 
 was on all sides assailed; and before the year 1773 
 had drawn to a close, the abstainers from theatrical 
 sweets were treated to a very surfeiting of those 
 dainties the Faithful City being visited by no less 
 than three companies of comedians in good time to 
 assist in the Christmas revels. 
 
 We have already seen, that it was just at this time 
 (November, 1773) that Miss Sarah Kemble left Guy's 
 Cliff, and took unto herself a husband, in the person 
 of one who had professed his affection for her, not only 
 in private, but also as Young Meadows, for example, 
 in " Love in a Village " on the public boards. One 
 of the three companies of comedians who visited 
 Worcester in December, 1773, was Mr. Kemble's; 
 and they performed (on the 1 3th of December) " The 
 West Indian/' and " The Padlock." The characters 
 of Charlotte Rusport in the former, and of Leonora
 
 Siddoniana. 253 
 
 in the latter, were sustained by " MRS. SIDDONS." 
 I imagine this to be the first occasion on which we 
 meet with that illustrious name which is now a house- 
 hold word, conjuring up before the mind's eye the 
 unequalled queen and muse of Tragedy. 
 
 Of her career from this time, we have pretty full 
 particulars ; how she performed Belvidera at Chelten- 
 ham, and attracted the notice of the Hon. Mr. Boyle 
 and Lord Bruce ; how this future Earl of Aylesbury 
 wrote to Garrick of their discovery of a rustic genius ; 
 how Garrick thereupon sent down the Rev. H. Bate to 
 see and to report ; how the reverend ambassador's 
 mission brought about Mrs. Siddons's debut at Drury 
 Lane Theatre, on Friday, 29th of December, 1775, in 
 " The Merchant of Venice, when the character of Portia 
 was performed by a Young Lady her first appear- 
 ance ; " and how she failed to please the critics, and 
 was thereupon condemned to appear in minor charac- 
 ters, and in such pieces as " The Blackamoor Washed 
 White." All this we know, and her many town failures 
 and provincial ups and downs, before she reappeared in 
 all her glory on the London stage, on the 10th of 
 October, 1782, and made herself a name which, every 
 year, became more and more famous. Of these steps 
 and slips in her path to fame, her biographers have 
 given us a pretty full account ; but there are even here
 
 254 Siddoniana. 
 
 some few gaps which we are enabled to fill up with 
 new material. 
 
 Gap the first is the birth of her first child. This 
 occurred at Wolverhampton (where her father's com- 
 pany were then performing), on the 4th of October, 
 1774. The child was a boy, and was christened 
 " Henry." It was not long after this though the 
 exact date I cannot give that her success at Chelten- 
 ham, and her engagement at Drury Lane, caused her to 
 take a " Farewell Benefit," and make a last appearance 
 at Wolverhampton Theatre. On this occasion she 
 delivered an address, written by herself, which is now 
 printed for the first time. But one specimen of Mrs. 
 Siddons's talents for versifying has hitherto been given 
 to the public. This was her farewell address at Bath, 
 in 1782, which commences with the following lines : 
 
 " Have I not raised some expectation here ? 
 Wrote by herself] What ! authoress and player 1 ? 
 True, we have heard her thus I guess'd you'd say 
 With decency recite another's lay ; 
 But never heard, nor ever could we dream, 
 Herself had sipp'd the Heliconian stream." 
 
 It appears, however, that she had endeavoured to do 
 so at least once. The original manuscript of the follow- 
 ing address was found among the papers of the late 
 Miss Barney, of Wolverhampton, who was the school- 
 fellow and friend of the great actress :
 
 Siddoniana. 255 
 
 " [ Wrangling between Mr. and Mrs. SIDDONS heard behind the 
 scenes. 1 
 
 Enter Mrs. SIDDONS. 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, my spouse and I 
 Have had a squabble, and I'll tell you why. 
 He said I must appear , nay, vow'd 'twas right, 
 To give you thanks for favour shown to-night. 
 Said I ' Our thanks most certainly are due, 
 But that's a privilege sure belongs to you, 
 And well I know how sadly you would grieve 
 To lose one inch of your prerogative.' 
 He still insisted ; and, to win consent, 
 Strove to o'ercome me with a compliment ; 
 Told me, that I the favourite here had reign'd, 
 While he but small or no applause had gain'd ; 
 Said, he was sure my thanks you would receive 
 With better grace than any he could give. 
 ' If so,' said I, 'let me, as is the vogue, 
 Express myself by way of Epilogue. 
 Pen me some lines, where I may talk and swagger 
 Of poisons, murders, done by bowl or dagger ; 
 Of Roman maids who, emulous of fame, 
 Have sacrificed themselves to gain a name. 
 Then let me step into the comic strain ; 
 Point out a tender nymph and dying swain, 
 Expose a prude, draw forth a modish wife, 
 And give a macaroni to the life ; 
 Or let me, with my brogue and action ready, 
 Give them a brush, my dear, of Widow Brady.' 
 ' Those things,' he cried, ' would be well understood 
 To show your talents, not your gratitude." 
 Then, as you heard, he forced me to obey, 
 And said my heart must dictate what to say. 
 And now I pause ! Most certainly it's true, 
 My thanks to Wolverhampton they are due. 
 First for a Father, who, on this fair ground, 
 Has met with Friendship, seldom to be found ; 
 Next for his Offspring, whom your smiles have cheer'd, 
 And plaudits greeted whene'er she appear'd ;
 
 256 Siddoniana. 
 
 A little merit, with friendly care, you spy, 
 
 When greater errors passed unnoticed by. 
 
 Would I had words to reach my wishes' height, 
 
 T* express my thankfulness to all to-night ; 
 
 Yet give me leave most humbly to impart 
 
 The fervent feelings of a grateful heart. 
 
 May all your wants be speedily supplied, 
 
 And all your wishes happily enjoy 'd ; 
 
 May th' All-good Power your every virtue nourish 
 
 Health, wealth, and trade, in Wolverhampton flourish." 
 
 Let us leap over a few years, and as a fitting pen- 
 dant to these lines, transcribe from the original 
 manuscript, and print for the first time, an " Address 
 to the town of Wolverhampton, written and delivered 
 by Mr. Henry Siddons," the son of our tragic muse : 
 
 " From lowest life, up to the highest station, 
 Each would keep moving in his own vocation ; 
 The crafty cit says to his only son, 
 ' Get money, Tommy, and you must push on !' 
 The greedy courtier eager in his wishes, 
 Will still keep moving for the loaves and fishes ; 
 No twinge of conscience can his course prolong, 
 Int'rest's the word ! and, damme, dash along ! 
 Behold the roaring buck the pavement tear, 
 Dash through the streets ; the crowding vulgar stare, 
 Admire his steeds while some sagacious don 
 Cries, ' There's the road to ruin so, push on !' 
 The simpering miss, when pa' has got a plum, 
 Neglects the shop, for opera, ball, or drum ; 
 Forgets her old acquaintance, simpers, leers, 
 And so keeps moving for a few short years, 
 Till, all her father's well-earned riches fail, 
 And miss still pushes on into a jail ! 
 The gallant sailor never heeds the blast, 
 Though red-hot bullets blaze about the mast ;
 
 Siddoniana. 257 
 
 ' Push on ! ' he cries while grappling with the foe : 
 ' Damme, my messmates, give 'em blow for blow ! ' 
 Still may our tars, this gen'rous ardour proving, 
 Maintain the seas, and make our foes keep moving ! 
 A few words for myself I now would ask : 
 Let me express my thanks an arduous task ; 
 Yet, though my tongue refuse to do me right, 
 My heart keeps moving for my friends to-night : 
 Still may your wealth, your town, your trade improving, 
 Keep you still pushing on, while I keep moving ! " 
 
 Thgse kind of addresses, though driven from the 
 London stage, are still to be heard in provincial thea- 
 tres, where they obtain the wished-for applause, from 
 
 the 
 
 " Loetus sessor plausorque theatro." 
 
 Mr. Henry Siddons appeared to be the " son of his 
 father," and not of his mother ; for he never, either in 
 his writing or acting, rose above the rank of dull re- 
 spectability. He dramatised the " Sicilian Romance " 
 of Mrs. Radclyffe ; and it was produced at Drury Lane, 
 May 28, 1794, for the benefit of Middleton ; so that 
 he began to work pretty early at dramatic authorship.* 
 He made his first appearance at Drury Lane, as an 
 actor, on October 8, 1801, when he performed the 
 character of a German lawyer in a piece called " In- 
 
 * He also published a work freely adapted from the German of M. 
 Engel, called Practical Illustrations of Rhetorical Gesture and Ac- 
 tion. Some of the plates to this book are valuable, inasmuch as 
 they represent the theatrical costumes and attitudes of his illus- 
 trious mother.
 
 258 Siddoniana. 
 
 tegrity," which was believed to be his own writing ; 
 but it did not meet with success, and was withdrawn 
 after two representations. On the 12th of October, 
 he had recovered from his mortification at this failure 
 sufficiently to essay, for the first time, the character of 
 Hamlet ; a character which would seem always to at- 
 tract and meet with applause, even when only " respect- 
 ably" performed. When Kemble first appeared at 
 Covent Garden, in 1803, his nephew, Mr. Henry Sid- 
 dons, appeared there (together with his wife), and had 
 a share in the management. Mrs. Henry Siddons 
 was "a lovely actress," and played Desdemona to 
 Kemble's Othello. 
 
 In reading the various biographies of Mrs. Siddons, 
 the following scraps of particulars strike us as being 
 both curious and noteworthy. One of Mrs. Siddons' s 
 favourite Shakspearian characters was Hamlet, although 
 she never performed it in London ; but in the pro- 
 vinces she played it repeatedly, and with the greatest suc- 
 cess. It was often the character selected for her benefit 
 night. (Would that Miss Cushman would add Hamlet 
 to her role of Shakspearian delineations; it would be a 
 worthy pendant to her Romeo.) At other times, Mrs. 
 Siddons appeared as Ophelia, and brought her musical 
 abilities into effect, by singing the incidental songs. 
 When she played Imogen, in 1802, her male dress " was
 
 Siddoniana. 259 
 
 exactly the strait or frock coat and trousers of our mo- 
 dern beaux." She personated Venus, in Garrick's " Ju- 
 bilee;" and, at a promenade concert, supper, and ball, 
 given by Brooks's Club at the Opera House, she recited 
 an ode in the character of Britannia, and then sat in the 
 attitude assumed by that merry monarch's mythological 
 beauty on our copper coinage ! In 1792, Mrs. Sid- 
 dons recited (at the Opera House) Collinses " Ode to 
 the Passions," to the great delight of every hearer ; and 
 after her retirement from the stage in 1812, she re- 
 vived these recitations * (at the Argyle Rooms), with 
 readings from Shakspeare and Milton. She died, full 
 of years and honour, at her house in Upper Baker 
 Street, London, June, 8th, 1831, aged 76.f 
 
 * Henderson (who was one of the first to thoroughly appreciate 
 the talents of Mrs. Siddons) was also in the habit of giving reci- 
 tations at Freemasons' Hall, in which (says his biographer Ireland) 
 '' he read into reputation some things which seem to have been 
 gathered to the dull of ancient days ; and, but for such a revival, 
 had probably been still covered with the cloak of oblivion." The 
 favourite, and chief of these " revivals " was Cowper*s " John Gilpin," 
 which had appeared in one of the public papers, and for six years 
 had been comparatively unnoticed. " Mr. Henderson's very outr6 
 manner of reading it " at once made it a favourite with the pub- 
 lic, and raised it to a popularity it has never since lost, but had 
 never before enjoyed. John Gilpin's " diverting history" was re- 
 printed over and over again ; one bookseller alone sold six thousand 
 copies of it ; and its author, who had at first appeared ashamed to 
 acknowledge it as his own composition, now saw it recognised as a 
 chef-d'oeuvre of humorous verse. 
 
 t With the date and place of Mrs. Siddons's birth we are not so
 
 260 Siddoniana. 
 
 well acquainted ; for on this point she is a very Homer to her 
 biographers. Campbell's account is probably the correct one : that 
 she was born at the " Shoulder of Mutton," in the town of Brecon, 
 in South Wales ; though on what day is uncertain. The 5th and 
 14th of July, 1755, are both given as the day of her birth, despite 
 the Irish axiom laid down in Lover's song of " St Patrick," 
 
 " Shure, no one should have two birth-days, but a twins." 
 
 In Tymm's Family Typographer (vol. iv. p. 292, 1834) we are told 
 " at Lower Swinford (near Stourbridge, Worcester), a thatched cot- 
 tage is shown as the birth-place of the actress Mrs. Siddons, who is 
 said to have made her ' very first ' deb&t in a barn at Bell Lane, at 
 the coronation of George III." But this " Family Typographer " is 
 a loose and very inaccurate work ; and, indeed, its author elsewhere 
 tells us, that Mrs. Siddons " made her first debUt " at Kington, in 
 Herefordshire. The reader who has paid his money for Mr. Tymm's 
 information can therefore take his choice which of these two state- 
 ments is best (or least) deserving of credit. " TTtrum horum mavis 
 accipe !" virtually says the accommodating Mr. Tymms to his gentle 
 reader.
 
 MES. SEPTIMUS BKOWN. 
 
 MARY Johnson one day in a Brown study sat, 
 
 She'd a book in her hand, but she thought not of that, 
 
 For throughout every page, in each verb and each 
 
 noun, 
 She still saw the same words " Mrs. Septimus 
 
 Brown." 
 
 Pit-a-pat went her heart, and, so great its pulsation, 
 
 Her stays could not stay its minutest vibration ; 
 
 So she rose from her seat, and she threw her book 
 
 down, 
 And yet still saw those words " Mrs. Septimus 
 
 Brown/' 
 
 From her writing-desk then, where of treasures a 
 
 hoard 
 
 Hair-lockets, old trinkets, love-letters were stored, 
 Some paper she took, and she just scribbled down, 
 Those three magic words" Mrs. Septimus Brown."
 
 262 Mrs. Septimus Brown. 
 
 Vastly well they appeared, and the name sounded pat, 
 Like a smart London footman's knock, rat-a-tat-tat, 
 And she said to herself "'Twill astonish the town, 
 To hear I'm become Mrs. Septimus Brown." 
 
 For this Mr. Brown was the luckiest of men, 
 
 Like Ca3sar, he " came, saw, and conquered ; " and 
 
 then 
 
 At once popp'd the question, and she didn't frown, 
 But consented to be Mrs. Septimus Brown. 
 
 And he, who could woo her, and make her his wife, 
 Has indeed won a prize in the lottery of life ; 
 And like a good Turk, he may swear by Mahoun, 
 The pattern of wives 's Mrs. Septimus Brown. 
 
 For, beauty and grace shine in feature and form, 
 
 Her heart is with tenderest sympathy warm ; 
 
 While themselves in sweet bliss the Loves seem to 
 
 drown, 
 In her who will be Mrs. Septimus Brown. 
 
 We will pray that all blessings may on her be shed 
 When the pale orange-blossom is wreathing her head, 
 That day when a Bride in her white satin gown, 
 Mary Johnson becomes Mrs. Septimus Brown.
 
 JUPON SQUELETTE; 
 OR, "THE SKELETON PETTICOAT/' 
 
 EGYPTIANS (says the ancient story), 
 
 Placed skeletons at banquets, for each guest 
 
 To have before him a memento mori, 
 
 That while he pick'd his bones with gourmand zest, 
 
 He might remember that, though hale and hearty, 
 
 He, too, must change into a bony party. 
 
 The world grows more refined as it grows older ; 
 
 We all should shrink from such a festal guest 
 Before it, e'en the freshest mirth would moulder, 
 
 And in its presence, jokes would lose their zest : 
 And yet, for skeletons we have a passion, 
 In all assemblies of the world of fashion. 
 
 In robes la mode we clothe their solemn strictures 
 In toilettes we entomb their churchyard hints ; 
 
 We dress their old bones into pretty pictures, 
 Like those La Follet for our pastime prints.
 
 264 Jupon Squelette. 
 
 The bony moralist becomes a charlatan, 
 And masquerades it in a dress of tarlatan. 
 
 Hidden 'neath heaps of petticoats and flounces, 
 Eclipsed by billowy clouds of gauze and lace, 
 
 The skeleton his whereabouts announces, 
 And holds his Houri in a wide embrace : 
 
 And this the warning of these Houris may be, 
 
 " Bone of thy bone thy rib I may some day be ! "
 
 THE LITEEATUEE OF THE SHOP. 
 A COUNTRY RECTOR'S COMMENTARY. 
 
 TT was just three days since ; indeed, to speak 
 with preciseness, it was Saturday, the 4th of May. 
 Sophonisba, who is at once the joy and better half of 
 my existence, was breakfasting with me in the dining- 
 room of my pleasant country rectory. Within the 
 room everything (including our two selves), looked 
 agreeable, bright, and warm ; out of doors it was cold 
 and cheerless, and anything but agreeable. Although 
 the almanacks assured us that we had entered upon 
 the genial month of May, yet, the east wind was 
 howling, biting, and cutting, and was altogether 
 behaving itself with a rude severity that no panegyric 
 of Mr. Kingsley could mitigate, while a driving hail- 
 storm rattled against the window-panes with a sound 
 like the dropping fire at a Volunteer Review. 
 
 " Sophonisba I " I exclaimed to the joy of my exist- 
 ence, as I turned from the kippered salmon to the 
 
 N
 
 266 Tfie Literature of the 8/iop. 
 
 devilled kidneys (my tastes are proverbially simple), 
 " Sophonisba, it is well that we have not sacrificed our 
 winter garments upon the altar of our fickle climate, 
 but have relied upon the truth of our village adage, 
 ' Till May be out, ne'er change a clout/ If my sing- 
 ing curate, Motet, were with us, we could perform 
 that pretty old glee, ' Hail, all hail, thou merry month 
 of May ! ' it would be appropriate. Only think of 
 the extravagance of the poets who describe the inerri- 
 r.ess of the month! and the 'ethereal mildness' of 
 Thomson, who could talk of 'gentle Spring!' Poet 
 Hood was much nearer the mark when he described 
 the breezes of spring as resembling the blows of 
 Spring the fighter. Perhaps, Sophonisba, you may 
 remember the verse : 
 
 ' What wonder if in May itself I lack 
 
 A peg for laudatory verse to hang on ] 
 Spring inild and gentle ? yes, as Spring-heel' d Jack, 
 
 To those he sprang on ! 
 fa short, whatever panegyrics lie, 
 
 Itf ftdsome odes too many to be cited, 
 T?he tenderness of Spring is all my eye, 
 
 And- that is blighted ! ' 
 
 Hood's wit is ever blooming ; is it not, Sophonisba ? " 
 " Think of the blossoms, my dear Alphonso ! " was 
 the response, as si fresh feu de joie of hail rattled 
 against the window. " The wall-fruit is gone ; and, 
 now, the apples will be eatfght."
 
 The Literature of the Shop. 267 
 
 Between mouthfuls, I was cutting the leaves of that 
 morning's " Saturday Review," and was dipping into 
 their article on " Negroes, and Negro Slavery ; " so, 
 instead of vouchsafing any other intelligent reply than 
 a grunt, I shortly called Sophonisba's attention to the 
 Review. It so happened, that, during the previous 
 fortnight, the greater portions of my evenings had 
 been occupied by new books by consuls Petherick and 
 Hutchiuson, on Ethiopia and the Soudan, and by 
 Reid's " Sketches in North America;" and these 
 works, and the present crisis in America, had made me 
 more than ordinarily impressible oh the subject of the 
 slave-trade. I presume that it arose from this combi- 
 nation of circumstances, that I suddenly uttered the 
 Archimedean cry of Eureka I when, after laying aside 
 the " Saturday Review/' I had turned to glance over 
 the various printed and lithographed communications 
 that formed a part of the contents of that morning's 
 letter-bag. 
 
 Now, parsons are peculiarly liable to other visitations 
 than those of an archidiaconal character, and they are 
 notably exposed to the literary attacks of puffing 
 tradesmen. The chief assailants (apart from clerical 
 subjects, appeals from Church Defence Associations, 
 and Insurance Companies), are hatters, grocers, tailors, 
 and wine^merchants. They are particularly attentive 
 
 N 2
 
 268 TJie Literature of the Shop. 
 
 to ine ; and, unlike the generality of my brethren, I 
 always glance over their epistolary commendations of 
 their own wares not with the thought of giving any 
 order to these mercantile anglers (for I never once 
 have risen to their most alluring flies), but solely for 
 the enjoyment that I derived from a perusal of their 
 literary efforts. For, it appears to me, that the litera- 
 ture of the shop is an astonishing evidence of the 
 progress of education, and a distinguishing character- 
 istic of the Victorian era. To me the development 
 of this peculiar branch of literature seems to be a 
 feature of the age an useful one, probably, and 
 remunerative, or our nation of shopkeepers would not 
 bestow so much care or money upon it. They are no 
 longer content to call a spade, a spade. They send it 
 forth in mountebank disguise, with a nomenclature 
 which is neither English, French, Greek, nor Latin, 
 but perhaps, a base mixture of all four ; and through 
 the aid of literature, this wonderful article is recom- 
 mended to notice, and puffed into a pseudo fame, by 
 the most ingenious artifices. 
 
 De teafabula narratur. I might tell you a tale of 
 a tea-merchant incur county-town, or 1 might cite the 
 cases of the butcher and the two rival tailors,,- who every 
 week, in the pages of- our " Slowshire Independent/' 
 puff their respective good* through the medium of mor-
 
 17te Literature of the Shop. 269 
 
 tal verse. I am not ashamed to confess that if I do not 
 use or consume their wares, I devour the verses. To 
 rny mind, their lyrics form one of the chief attrac- 
 tions of the " Independent/' whose articles, it must 
 be confessed, are not equal in ability to those in the 
 " Saturday Review ; " and it is often a subject of 
 curious speculation to me Who writes their verses ? 
 There was the butcher's poem, .last week, on the sub- 
 ject of Garibaldi : I vow that it had all the fire and 
 grace of Tupper ! the delightfully easy way in which 
 it turned from Italy and Garibaldi to " Giblett's juicy 
 chops/' and the delicate yet forcible manner in which 
 it pointed out that Giblett was no less a patriot than 
 Garibaldi in his endeavours to serve his countrymen, 
 was, to my mind, not unworthy of our great Prover- 
 bial Philosopher. While, in the same newspaper, 
 there was another poem on the subject of the British 
 Volunteers marching to glory in Aaron's guinea 
 pants, which Miss Euphemia Gushington might have 
 owned. 
 
 1 ' Yes, Sophonisba ! " I cried ; " I never throw 
 these advertising circulars into the waste-paper basket 
 without having first extracted the honey of their style, 
 and made myself master of their eloquent rhetoric. 
 Here is another circular from the Great East Indian 
 Brandisherri Wine Company, enclosing quite a pretty
 
 270 The Literature of the Shop. 
 
 pamphlet on the wine trade and prospects of the 
 vintage, and a confidential (lithographed) letter, stating 
 their possession, under very peculiar circumstances, of 
 a pipe of a fine fruity port, which they have not thrown 
 into their general stock, but which they have thought- 
 fully reserved for their own immediate friends, who 
 will be privileged to purchase it for a mere bagatelle. 
 Now, I wonder what the bagatelle may be when trans- 
 lated into the simple letters s. d. ; and also, whether 
 or no they include me among their immediate friends ; 
 and, if so, why ? But, here, Sophonisba, is the circu- 
 lar over which I cried Eureka, for it cuts the Gordian 
 knot it provides us with a solution of the Sphynx's 
 enigma it gives us the recipe for throwing the old 
 man of the sea from off our shoulders ; in short, it tells 
 us how to put an end to the slave trade. So you see, 
 Sophonisba, that, despite your occasional surprise at 
 what you deem my waste of time in glancing over 
 these trade puffs which are meant to swell into a trade 
 wind to blow custom to the advertiser yet that I am 
 able to pick up nuggets of knowledge in these literary 
 diggings. In harmonious and elegant prose, the 
 circular thus commences : it is from the Cosmopolitan 
 Composite and Translucent Candle Company : ' It is 
 but seldom that any really great improvement in manu- 
 factures is achieved. To speak comparatively, it was
 
 The Literature of the Shop. 271 
 
 but yesterday, when cotton dipped in tallow formed 
 the chief candle for general use. But, at this day, 
 products imported from tropical climates, aided by 
 Science, give forth crystallized material from which the 
 beautiful candles now offered are obtained/ Then 
 follow Statistics, treated with Gladstonian skill, and 
 remarks on the palm-oil trade, and then comes my 
 Eureka. 'The development of this branch of their 
 manufactures will promote the extinction of the slave- 
 trade' A sufficient reason, of course, why all these 
 Britons, who never will be slaves, should patronize the 
 Cosmopolitan Candle Company. By the way, what a 
 useful fact this would be for an Exeter Hall orator, for 
 I suppose the May Meetings extend their sympathies 
 to the Man and the Brother. I remember hearing a 
 speech on the subject, and very proper sentiments 
 being expressed, and I certainly thought with the 
 speaker, that we had no longer a right to expect 
 a continuance of those blessings which we have so long 
 enjoyed, if we in the slightest degree encouraged that 
 unhallowed and cruel traffic in man, against which 
 England, for more than fifty years, has been working 
 by the efforts of her greatest statesmen, and her best 
 and bravest sailors. Aye, Sophonisba, but there's the 
 rub. Look at these circulars, and all the varied litera- 
 ture of the shop, and see how eloquently and ingeni-
 
 The Literature of the Shop. 
 
 ously they commend commodities, our very use of 
 which arises from and assists the development of the 
 slave-trade. This puff from the candle company is, in 
 shop-language, a startling novelty. Supposing their 
 statement to be correct, they need not fear that it will 
 be basely plagiarized in this circular of Carraway's, the 
 tea-dealers. If we do not wish to encourage, in the 
 slightest degree, that unhallowed and cruel traffic in 
 man, we must make up our minds to deprive ourselves 
 of a tithe (to speak rectorially) of those articles of 
 necessity on which the literature of the shop so 
 eloquently descants. You, Sophonisba, will have to 
 reply to Mr. Carraway when he addresses you on the 
 subject of sugar, that you are determined not to lend 
 any support to the slave-trade ; and I must bear the 
 same testimony when he speaks to me of coffee. Mr. 
 Carraway would probably think us mere Bedlamites. 
 But we might reply to fifty other tradesmen in similar 
 terms, and yet be in our right minds. For use has 
 dulled our senses to facts, and if our comforts and 
 appetites are ministered to, we are content to shut our 
 eyes to the means employed. I have quite done now, 
 Sophonisba ; and am going into the study to write my 
 sermon." 
 
 " My dear Alphonso," said the joy of my existence, 
 " I think you have been preaching one to me."
 
 FANNY'S MIEEOE, 
 
 "VELUTl IN SPECULUM/' 
 
 WOULD that I were Fanny's mirror ! 
 
 I should see her half the day ; 
 She would then be loath to leave me, 
 
 She would love with me to stay, 
 With her merry eyes of hazel, 
 
 She would peer into my face ; 
 Oh ! that I and Fanny's mirror, 
 
 For a day could change our place. 
 
 Oh ! if I were Fanny's mirror, 
 
 She would show me all her charms, 
 Rosy cheeks, and lips of coral, 
 
 Snowy neck, and rounded arms. 
 She, without a moment's blushing, 
 
 All her beauties would lay bare ; 
 Oh ! in place of Fanny's mirror, 
 
 Would that I could then be there ! 
 
 N 3
 
 274 Fanny s Mirror. 
 
 Yet, if I were Fanny's mirror, 
 
 I should see her with new eyes ; 
 For, she then would stand before me 
 
 Maskless, and without disguise. 
 There would then be no coquetting, 
 
 Save a bit for practice* sake ; 
 Shall I, then, of Fanny's mirror 
 
 Ever wish to take the place ? 
 
 No ! if I were Fanny's mirror, 
 
 May-be she would cease to charm ; 
 Made-up smiles, and practised blushes, 
 
 Real attractions would disarm. 
 Ignorance is bliss ; rehearsals 
 
 Please not like the acted play ; > 
 So, let me and Fanny's mirror 
 
 In our wonted places stay.
 
 THE OLD TOMB IN THE ABBEY. 
 
 AMID the pride, and pomp, and state, 
 
 That wait upon King Death ; amid the splendour 
 That loads the last beds of the great, 
 
 And deadens in the heart each feeling tender, 
 To see the solemn grave bedeck' d. 
 
 With sculptured marble, and with gold, 
 
 While he who lies there dead and cold, 
 Had all his hopes of heaven wrecked ; 
 Amid the false-born pride of birth 
 
 The fulsome epitaphs that seem 
 To show man's mind is all on earth, 
 
 His thoughts of heaven but a dream 
 Amid these proud memorials is a tomb, 
 
 Which stands a silent monitor to those around, 
 Scarce seen amid the murky gloom 
 
 Its mightier brethren cast upon the marble ground, 
 
 'Tis but a slab time-eaten trodden under foot 
 Unornamented but a simple stone;
 
 276 TJie Old Tomb iii the Abbey. 
 
 And yet, like Memnon's statue, though 'tis mute, 
 There seems a very breath, a murmur 5 d tone 
 
 To breathe from out it, as it were a voice 
 
 That bids the mourning mother to rejoice. 
 
 It lies unheeded by the careless crowd, 
 For, 'tis to one whose life is undefiled, 
 
 And tells not of the mighty nor the proud, 
 Its epitaph these simple words " ^tz 
 
 How beautiful, how touching, how sincere ! 
 
 How grand, yet humble simple, yet how fine ! 
 No wonder that unbidden springs the tear 
 
 A mother's love is hallowed in that line : 
 The words are simple, but they speak unto the sense 
 With all the might and majesty of eloquence. , 
 
 And who shall tell the mother's wild despair ? 
 Her silent, sleepless grief ? her tender care ? 
 Her deep concentred love ? her hopes and fears ? 
 Her wakeful watchings through the too-short years ? 
 Her looking on that death-paled face ? 
 
 That late on her with joy had smiled ? 
 Her wish to share its dwelling-place ? 
 
 'Tis figured in those words " IB tare 
 
 * A tomb with this inscription may be seen in Westminster 
 Abbey.
 
 THE AGKEEABLE MONK. 
 
 MY Agreeable Monk is no mediaeval monastic with 
 serge gown and knotted cord ; and the nearest approach 
 that he ever makes to such a costume is when he takes 
 his ease in his rich figured dressing-gown tied about 
 with a bellrpull. And yet, in his aptitude for hilarity 
 and good living, is he like to those monks of old, who 
 sang, and laughed, and the rich wine quaffed, and lived 
 on the daintiest fare. But my Agreeable Monk has 
 not yet reached to his mediaeval age, not having been 
 born until this present century had quite run out of 
 its teens; and though, like the gentlemen just alluded 
 to, he very frequently laughs ha ! ha ! with a hearti- 
 ness that is infectious, yet I may venture to say, that 
 he so far comes short of his models in that he has 
 never quaffed ha ! ha ! the recipe for that peculiar 
 beverage having been lost in the mediaeval mists. 
 
 My Agreeable Monk, too, has no circular spot 
 shaven upon the top of his crown, a veritable crown- 
 piece gleaming like silver from its dark boundary of
 
 278 The Agreeable Monk. 
 
 hair ; neither has he smoothly-shaven Jesuitical cheeks, 
 such as we meet with on the countenances of theatrical 
 gentlemen, Popish priests, and other actors, where the 
 blueness of the mown surface interposes with marked 
 effect between the red and white of cheek and choker. 
 On the contrary, my Agreeable Monk can boast a 
 capillary development of hyacinthine locks, and 
 whiskers that are only tamed down from a militant 
 air, by being trimmed and curled to the meekness of 
 the lady-killer. No recluse or ascetic is he, but a 
 " muscular Christian ; " still able, if need be, to use 
 his fists in self-defence ; still vigorous to pull an oar ; 
 still ready to ride across country whenever he can 
 frame an excuse for a "short cut;" and with his 
 lungs still in a highly-healthy condition to bear their 
 part in secular glees or to chant the service in 
 Cathedral. For, in a Minor degree, he is one of its 
 dignitaries ; and, within its timeworn precincts, pos- 
 sesses a snug monastic retreat, admirably adapted to 
 modern tastes and ideas. 
 
 It lies hard by the sacred building. The giant 
 shadow of the great central tower steals over it in the 
 summer's sunset ; and the prebendal rooks and jack- 
 daws take it under their protection as an important 
 portion of ecclesiastical property. We go round by 
 the Lady Chapel, by a broad walk between level plots
 
 The Agreeable Monk. 279 
 
 of turf, and passing under a low, dark, groined arch- 
 way, find ourselves in cool grey cloisters, enclosing a 
 square green lawn bright with flower-knots, on which 
 we gaze through the unglazed windows. Pleasant is 
 it on a July day to struggle out of the glaring sunshine 
 into the refreshing retreat of these cool cloisters- to 
 pace their paved walks on their northern and western 
 sides, and watch the golden light glowing on the other 
 sides of the square, bringing out into all the sharpness 
 of shine and shade the bright flower-knots, the creep- 
 ing masses of ivy, the mullioned windows, and but- 
 tresses,, and battlements, and warming up the queer 
 old Gargoyles into fresh leers and laughter. 
 
 Along a shady side, and then we step into patches 
 of sunlight ; and after passing some half dozen doors 
 (but no windows) we come to a portal whose formidable 
 look of united oak and iron is considerably enlivened 
 by a door-plate and letter-box in the newest style of 
 mediaeval enrichment. Fascinated by the gay colours, 
 we peruse the rubric legends, and, trout-like, swallow 
 the bait. A tug, and we are hauled within, and in a 
 trice are landed in the domains of our Agreeable 
 Monk. 
 
 An oak-panelled hall, matted under foot. On one 
 wall, the Oxford Almanack, medisevally framed ; on 
 the other side, over a Gothic oak hall-table, a framed and
 
 280 The Agreeable Monk. 
 
 emblazoned list of anthems and cathedral services for 
 the week. Hard by, over-coats, boating-hats, chimney- 
 pot-hats, and college-caps ; then surplices and hoods, 
 pendant from the wall, where at night, as I walk by 
 them, they look like the ghosts of murdered minor- 
 canons. And (Nota Bene ! ) not far from them a cup- 
 board lurking beneath the stairs; and, within it, a 
 goodly store of pipes and tobacco. Down the hall, and 
 to the further end of a passage, and we pass through a 
 door. 
 
 A tolerably large and lofty room, of collegiate cha- 
 racter, luxurious, and comfortable. The doors are of 
 panelled oak, with ecclesiastical handles and hinges ; 
 there are two tall mullioned windows, filled with sheets 
 of plate-glass ; and there is an enormous fireplace, 
 with steel dogs, and shining encaustic tiles, and a black 
 oak chimney-piece nearly touching the ceiling, rich in 
 carved work, relieved with gilding, and gay with a 
 double row of emblazoned coats-of-arms. The walls are 
 papered with a light sea-green, diapered with dark 
 green fleur-de-lys ; the window-curtains are now a thin 
 white muslin, but in colder weather marone, with a 
 broad gold border of a Greek pattern ; the carpet a soft 
 Turkey, on which the footfalls die a Desdernona death. 
 Thickly hung upon the walls are proof-prints from 
 world-famed pictures by Raffaelle and Ary Scheffer, in-
 
 Tlte Agreeable Monk. 281 
 
 tcrspersed with large photographs of English and Con- 
 tinental Cathedrals, and with a few masterly water- 
 colours. They are hung in frames of gold, and velvet, and 
 carved oak; and, as they all have wide white margins, 
 they show out with telling effect from, the sea-green 
 walls. The book-cases are of light polished woods, carved 
 in places with open work, behind which dark green cloth 
 has been introduced ; green leather, stamped with a gold 
 pattern, is hung from the shelves, which are laden with 
 richly-bound books, redolent of russia, and magnificent 
 with morocco. In one corner is a stand for portfolios and 
 prints ; opposite to it is a Collard's semi-grand, on 
 which the Agreeable Monk will by-and-by discourse 
 most excellent music. Dotted about everywhere are 
 various species of the genus chair Glastonbuiy chairs, 
 lounging chairs, easy chairs, that do not belie their name, 
 and stiff-backed chairs, for ornament (it is to be pre- 
 sumed) and not for penance. Then, there are two or three 
 tables, where are newspapers, and some of the latest 
 periodicals and reviews, and a miscellaneous oddment of 
 the current sacred and profane literature, stacked for con- 
 venience of reference (with a Peerage, and a Clergy- 
 man's Almanac, and a Gardening Calendar, and a Book 
 of Anthems, and a Clergy List, and Army List, and 
 Navy List, and other handy books) in oak book-stands 
 with carved ends of shields and fleur-de-lys. And, in
 
 282 The Agreeable Monk. 
 
 a well-lighted corner, is a writing-table, so well ap- 
 pointed that it is a pleasure to sit down to it, and 
 scribble off a whole week's arrears of correspondence. 
 From the cushioned recesses of the two windows, we can 
 look out on the flower-pots of a trimly-kept garden, 
 shaded by venerable limes and cedars. Those sweet 
 blossomy limes are a very store-house of enjoyment for 
 the Agreeable Monk's bees, who are grandly lodged in 
 yonder ecclesiastical summer-house, the Gothic carvings 
 of which were constructed "out of his own head," as 
 was once observed by a jocose prebendary, adopting 
 the witty saying of another jocose prebendary, in order 
 to make mild fun out of the Agreeable Monk's amateur 
 carpenterings. And there, against the south wall of 
 the garden, with the Cathedral towers o'ertopping the 
 elms for a background to the view, there is a con- 
 servatory filled with floral beauties, to whom the Agree- 
 able Monk makes himself as benevolently amiable as 
 though he were the Lady of the Sensitive Plant. 
 
 What a charming snuggery it is, lacking nothing 
 but a wife to make it perfect ', though, if the hundred 
 tongues of Rumour speak the truth (and, fora wonder, 
 they are unanimous on this point), an Eve is soon to 
 appear in this Paradise, and the Monk will have to 
 break his celibate vow. There is room for her, at any 
 rate; for are there not two sitting-rooms downstairs,
 
 TJie Agreeable Monk. 283 
 
 and two bed-rooms with dressing-rooms upstairs ? So 
 let her come and welcome ; and as for the future (as 
 Horace says), don't ask what fate is going to bestow 
 upon you. At present the Agreeable Monk's nursery 
 is in his garden. 
 
 As for domestic arrangements, besides a boy in 
 buttons, of preternatural sharpness, who is his own 
 peculiar slavey, there are male and female servants to 
 obey his wants, in common with those of his five other 
 companions who may happen to be " in residence." 
 Their homes all lie in these cloistered courts, and they 
 form a corporation of their own, as the aforesaid jocose 
 prebendary observed, when he directed attention to the 
 increasing rotundity in the form of one of the reverend 
 gentlemen ; and they have their own lands and proper- 
 ties, and are mighty big folk accordingly. 
 
 My Agreeable Monk-r-in anticipation, I suppose, of 
 the coming change in his condition, has thought fit 
 to convert a room, on the opposite side of the cloistered 
 quad, into a kitchen, that is as unlike to an ordinary 
 kitchen as the Agreeable Monk is to an anchorite of 
 old. For, besides its mullioned windows and carved 
 stone fire-place, its walls are curiously ornamented 
 like a parquetted floor, while the floor itself is laid 
 with encaustic tiles. Not that there is any urgent 
 need for this glorified kitchen ; for is there not the,
 
 284 The Agreeable Monk. 
 
 great kitchen common to the six cloistered monks, from 
 whence, at the word of command, as with the waving 
 of a magic wand, all the wonders of cookery will arise. 
 But my Agreeahle Monk likes to do things on the 
 grand seigneur scale ; and, I daresay, when dinner 
 time comes, instead of letting us enjoy our tete-a-tete 
 in that snug dining-room of his (whose only offensive 
 decoration is that too-popular print of the Three Im- 
 possible Choristers their appearance here to be excused 
 on the ground of association and sublimation of ideas), he 
 will haul me up to the other end of the cloisters, up the 
 grand staircase, and into the great dininghall (in which, 
 to quote the jocose prebendary, he and his corporation 
 have a vested interest), where I shall not be surprised 
 to find covers laid for a score. Nor shall I wonder if, 
 later in the evening, we adjourn to the music-room, 
 where, arrayed in awful state in the orchestra, he and 
 his confreres will fiddle me either into Elysium or into 
 the land of Nod. 
 
 How, as I lounge in a luxurious chair in that light, 
 and pleasant, and thoroughly liveable room of his 
 how I marvel at the Agreeable Monk, as he roves from 
 sweet to sweet of his charming home now mounting 
 his music-stool to play ponderous Gregorians, or 
 heathenish waltzes now exhibiting, with a collector's 
 gusto, a rare black-letter, or choice Caxton now dart-
 
 The Agreeable Monk. 285 
 
 ing into his garden to remove a snail from the Duchess 
 of Sutherland, or some withered leaves from the Sou- 
 venir de Malmaison now taking me up-stairs to his 
 workshop, amid the big beams of the high pitched roof 
 where he has a lathe and all other carpenter's tools, 
 and where he saws me out a shield, and turns me a 
 tobacco-stopper, while I note the Rembrandt effect of 
 the sunbeams streaming through the narrow mullions 
 of the dormer windows, and barely lighting the odd 
 lumber of the quaint room. 
 
 By-and-by I am carried off to the coach-houses and 
 stables, where an episcopal-looking cob whinnies a 
 How-d'ye-do, and a Dandie Dinmont rushes at us with 
 frantic caresses. Then, Dandie Dinmont leading the 
 way, we pass on to the fruit and kitchen-garden, slop- 
 ing down to the river's edge, where the centre walk 
 terminates in a flight of steps descending to the water. 
 Moored close beside the steps is what is called by the 
 poets " a light shallop," but by mortals a pleasure-boat, 
 into which Dandie jumps and we step ; and, presently, 
 cool and comfortable in his shirt sleeves, the Agreeable 
 Monk is pulling me up the stream, I steering, and 
 Dandie keeping a sharp look-out a-head. So, up the 
 river for a mile or so, and then turn, dropping quietly 
 down with the stream the rich meadows on either 
 hand, with cattle, and clumps of trees and before us
 
 286 The Agreeable Monlc. 
 
 the quaint old city, with its bridges and cathedral 
 towers. And while we gaze, the bells begin to softly 
 chime for afternoon prayer; and so we moor the boat 
 and stable Dandie. 
 
 Ere the last vibrations of the chimes have quivered 
 upon the ripples of the air, the surplice of the Agree- 
 able Monk has fluttered through the private cloister 
 that connects his own quad with the southern transept 
 of the cathedral^ and he is in his own proper stall, 
 and I not far distant. Then I hear once more that 
 grand Service, that daily, for centuries, has led the 
 worship of God in one long song of most triumphant 
 praise. Then we return through the private cloister, 
 and linger in its cool precincts to note its old oak 
 roof, whose beams are so curiously carved with birds, 
 and beasts, and fishes, and Noah going into the ark, and 
 Joseph's dream of the sheaves, and the spies bearing 
 the fruit of the Promised Land. The next morning I 
 hear the cathedral Service again, but from a novel 
 quarter the room over the north transept. 
 
 It is a large and lofty room ; so large, that it covers 
 the whole of the spacious transept ; so lofty > that its 
 groined roof is high enough for a church. It has but 
 two windows at its north end ; it is true that they are 
 very large windows, but their glass quarries are en- 
 crusted with a century's accumulation of dirt and
 
 The Agreeable Monk. 287 
 
 cobwebs; and, therefore, the light that struggles 
 through them is certainly dim, and may possibly be 
 religious also. 
 
 Scattered around the room, are cases and chests, 
 clamped and bound with iron and profusely padlocked : 
 they are outwardly covered with dust, and inwardly 
 crammed with ancient deeds and registers, and nobody 
 knows what. Standing about on the dark oak floor 
 tall, attenuated, and gaunt, the very ghosts of woe- 
 begone bookcases are numerous old presses, containing 
 more numerous, and still older, books. The presses 
 are very shabby in their outward seeming ; the books 
 still more so. Yet, as in life, those squalid, shabby- 
 looking cases have bright and good contents, that can 
 make sunshine in many a dark spot, and cheer many 
 a sad hour. These gaunt and shabby presses are so 
 many armouries for books; for, every book within 
 them has its sides protected by plates of metal 
 breastplates that have guarded them from the onslaught 
 of damp, and have warded off many a piercing thrust 
 from grub and worm. They are also a very Tyburn 
 for books; for every book is hung in chains, like 
 culprit volumes that have been gibbeted for their evil 
 deeds; audit is far from impossible but what they 
 may, in their time, have murdered many a fact and 
 reputation. These chains are long and rusty, and are
 
 288 Tfie Agreeable Monk. 
 
 made to slide upon iron rods that run the whole length 
 of the presses, and are then fastened with a padlock ; 
 and at the end of each press is a book-desk. 
 
 Even now, as I gaze upon my friend's Library, I 
 can fancy that I see the old monks taking down their 
 Chrysostom, or Cyprian, or the " Canones Apostolici/' 
 or the " Liber Sacerdotalis," or the " Corpus Juris 
 Canonici," or the "Codex Canonum Ecclesise Uni- 
 versse," or the "Hesychii Lexicon Greece/' or the 
 " Summa Summse " of Thomas Aquinas, or any other 
 book of reference, or history, or devotional exercise, 
 and laying it upon the book-shelf within length of 
 the chain, the while they turned to some passages, and 
 perhaps made a mark for future reference, by picking 
 up one of the reeds from the rush-strewn floor and 
 placing it between the leaves : and lo, to make my 
 fancy more life-like, as I turn over the leaves of the 
 chained books, I come upon many of these monkish 
 markers dry reeds that, as I touch them, crumble 
 into the dust, to which they who placed them there 
 have long since turned. And I can fancy those old 
 monks, wishful to read further in their own cloistered 
 Cell, their " Polycarpi Epistola," or " Beda3 Opera," 
 or " Bibliotheca Patrum," and applying for a loan of 
 the volume to the Librarian, who would slide the chain 
 to the end of the bar, unlock the padlock, lift up the
 
 The Agreeable Monk. 289 
 
 bar, slip the chain from off it, and deliver over the 
 book to the applicant. 
 
 I can fancy all this. In my imagination, I can see 
 those monks of old thus reading, and thus taking 
 down, those gibbeted books. But the Agreeable 
 Monk I see doing it in reality : and, while I look 
 over some rare manuscripts, and marvel at the wonder- 
 ful labour bestowed upon them, with their brilliant 
 illuminations as clear and vivid as though painted 
 yesterday, and their grotesque biblical illustrations (yet 
 withal so valuable to the archasologist and ai'tist), in 
 which King Pharaoh, in an embroidered surcoat and 
 Milan suit of armour of the time of Richard the 
 Second, is pursuing Israelites, who wear tabards, with 
 hats, and scrips, and staves, like Chaucer's poor 
 ploughman and who are embossed and touched up 
 with gold, in a manner we wot not of, while I look 
 at these glorified manuscripts, and speculate against 
 the probabilities of the amateur artists, their authors, 
 producing more than one such work in an average 
 lifetime, the Agreeable Monk, my friend, takes off his 
 coat, and pursues his beloved (and gratuitous) work 
 of arranging, and preserving, and collating, and mend- 
 ing, and patching, and binding, and, in short, rescuing 
 from general oblivion and destruction these marvellous 
 volumes which were once so deservedly prized, and
 
 290 T/ie Agreeable Monk. 
 
 have for so many years been wantonly neglected. 
 Already has he discovered more than one volume that 
 is supposed to be unique ; and has brought to light 
 others that the British Museum would willingly pur- 
 chase for a very large sum. 
 
 As we pursue our respective occupations he, blowing 
 clouds of dust, and rusting his hands, and rattling his 
 chains, like a very Bibliomaniac as he is, I, poring 
 over a very fleshy Moses being taken out of very 
 verdant bulrushes by a doll-faced lady attired in the 
 horned head-dress of Henry the Fifth, while we are 
 thus buried in meditation and clouds of dust, the 
 cathedral service is going on down below, and the 
 waves of sound float into our dim old chamber, and 
 waft our thoughts to the haven where they would be. 
 
 And thus, amid these sights and sounds, I sit, and 
 gaze, and listen, and dream, dreams that are only 
 interrupted by the rattling of the old rusty chains, 
 when my companion bestows his duteous care on 
 another gibbeted volume. May that, his labour of 
 love, be his least worthy monument ! 
 
 But whenever I see his name in print, and, affixed 
 thereto, those mystic letters that signify his University 
 Rank, I take those two simple letters, A.M., to stand 
 not for plain " Master of Arts," but for " Agreeable 
 Monk."
 
 THE HANGMAN'S SHOW. 
 
 NOTE. The two following advertisements appeared in the 
 Birmingham Daily Mercury, June 13, 1856 : 
 
 PALMEE'S EXECUTION. 
 
 A GOOD VIEW of the DKOP, from a firm and secure Plat- 
 form, erected within a few yards of the Scaffold, may be 
 obtained by applying to Joseph Darlington, Currier's Arms Inn, 
 Sash -street, Stafford. 
 
 N.B. This Platform will be dose to one erecting to contain all L 
 the principal Nobility. 
 Tickets, Is. 6d. to 2s. 6d. 
 
 A GOOD PLATFOEM will be EEECTED within a few yards 
 of the Scaffold, thereby affording a good View of the Execu- 
 tion, and, being surveyed by the proper town officer, will secure 
 persons wishing to witness this awful ceremony from fear of ac- 
 cident. 
 
 Tickets may be obtained by applying to Thomas Stanley, 
 Builder, Stafford. 
 N.B. Accommodation separate for ladies. 
 
 A CROWD of Christian people, 
 
 At half-a-crown a-head, 
 Swarm' d on commodious platforms 
 
 To see the Poisoner dead. 
 
 o2
 
 192. The Hangman s Show. 
 
 And the principal Nobility 
 
 (If advertisements spake the truth) 
 Gave an air of extreme gentility 
 
 To that moral lesson for youth. 
 
 Nob and Snob were assembled, 
 
 Tag-rag and Bob-tail were there ; 
 High and Low saw the Hangman's Show 
 
 Set in Execution Fair. 
 And so thoughtful the Hangman's trade is ! 
 
 Newspapers gave information, 
 That platforms were there for the Ladies 
 
 With "separate accommodation." 
 
 Close were they to the scaffold, 
 
 They could feel the Poisoner's breath 
 As he mounted the steps that brought him 
 
 To his Upas-tree of Death : 
 To the Poisoner's tree whose shadow 
 
 Fell with a poisoner's blight, 
 On the half-crown Nob, and the crowd-crush'd Snob 
 
 Impatient to see the sight. 
 
 'Tis the Poisoner's end, in Java, 
 
 To be shot with a poison'd dart, 
 Whose venom, like molten lava, 
 
 Burns its death-way to the heart.
 
 The Hangman s Show. 293 
 
 So, with cries* and fierce convulsions, 
 
 Ends his wretched life of pollution; 
 A tragedy of repulsion 
 
 A dramatic " Retribution/' 
 
 Oh 4 if the Hangman had been 
 
 Alive to dramatic art, 
 He'd have changed the cord, and cap, 
 
 For a strychnine-poison'd dart ! 
 Tetanic spasm and throe, 
 
 And a lingering passage to Hades, 
 More attractive had made the Show 
 
 To the two-and-sixpenny Ladies ! 
 
 Let us hope, however, that they 
 
 Had the worth of each bright half-crown ; 
 And that Nob and Snob, and Tag-rag, and Bob, 
 
 Pleasure-surfeited left the town. 
 Yet, oh ! my Christian friend, 
 
 May it ne'er be my lot, or thine, 
 To witness so fearful an end, 
 As was seen by those who their way did wend, 
 
 As pilgrims, to Palmer's shrine.
 
 MUKDEB WOESHIP. 
 (NOVEMBER, 1849.) 
 
 ANOTHER blossom on the Tyburn-tree; 
 
 And yet another on its fruitful bough ! 
 
 The murderers* pay their bloody reckoning now, 
 And thousands throng admiringly to see. 
 And who shall blame the unschool'd mob, whilst we, 
 
 The Scholars, Law's grim tragedy allow, 
 
 Nor interest in its actors disavow. 
 We chronicle the foul minutiffi 
 Of their dark deeds of crime; nay, stop not here, 
 
 But sift their very prison-life, and drtiw 
 The veil from off their hidden histories ! 
 We crowd to see their waxen effigies ; 
 We make their portraits household gods, and rear 
 
 Them shrines, where Murder-worship is allow'd by 
 Law. 
 
 * The Mannings.
 
 ETEKNAL WAGGONEES. 
 
 OUR waggoners are not of the Peter Bell kind, as 
 lovers of Wordsworth might at first imagine ; they are 
 not the heroes of a poem which consumes twenty years 
 of labour before it is fitted (in the opinion of its san- 
 guine author) " for filling permanently a station, how- 
 ever humble, in the literature of our country ;" * they 
 cannot take their places side by side with this Peter, 
 whom the philosophic poet evidently imagined would 
 be a permanent hero an eternal waggoner. No ! 
 our waggoners are not of this description they have 
 nothing to do with a " primrose by a river's brim ;" 
 and they are not in the habit of meeting with " a soli- 
 tary ass " who possesses the accomplishment of " grin- 
 ning/' All such worthy people as these we leave to 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 " To show with what complacency lie creeps 
 With his dear ' Waggoners' around his lakes." t 
 
 Our " Eternal Waggoner " is nothing more nor less 
 * Preface to " Peter Bell." t " Don Juan/' in., 98.
 
 296 Eternal Waggoners. 
 
 than that respectable bird the Night Raven, whose 
 character has been so much defamed by omen-seekers 
 and lovers of the marvellous, and to whom the Germans 
 gave the peculiar soubriquet which heads this paper. 
 They have further assigned to him this singular le- 
 gend : He wished, for his share of Heaven, to drive 
 to all eternity; and, he accordingly drives without 
 cessation, sitting on the middle horse of the celestial 
 wain, of which the four large stars behind are the four 
 wheels ; but the three foremost stars which stand in a 
 crooked line, are the three horses ; and the little star, 
 over the middle horse, is the Eternal Waggoner. He 
 guides the horses, and, as the waggon always goes in 
 a circle, they do not stand in a right line with one an- 
 other, but in a curve, being always on the turn. Be- 
 fore midnight the waggon is said to be going out, 
 when the pole inclines upwards; and, after midnight, 
 the waggon fc goes home," and then the pole inclines 
 downwards. 
 
 Whatever could possess our Eternal Waggoner with 
 such a spirit of Jehu-ism, we are not informed : but it 
 is clear that Phaeton was not worthy to handle the 
 ribbons with him; while his system of driving, the 
 sitting on the middle horse of a team of three, is re- 
 markable, not only for its simplicity, but, also, for its 
 daring originality.
 
 Eternal Waggoners. 297 
 
 These " Eternal Waggoners " play a leading part in 
 many a ghostly drama, and appear upon their peculiar 
 stage in a way which the lover of superstitious horrors is 
 not slow to applaud. There, the ravens strut and fret 
 through the witching hours of night, and gravely hop 
 through their pas diabolique, which we may be allowed 
 to call, in reference to their " Waggoner" title, the pas 
 de Carter ! and they croak their Waggoners' songs in 
 notes, which even Mdlle. Johanna Wagner would strive 
 in vain to imitate. As it would transgress the limits 
 of this paper, were I to follow Cap'en Cuttle's advice, 
 and " make a note of" all the legends in which I have 
 found the Night Raven to be a conspicuous actor, I 
 shall here confine my notes to one or two stories told 
 in connection with the Eternal Waggoners of my 
 native County, Worcestershire. 
 
 In the fairy-haunted parish of Alfrick, on the con- 
 fines of hop-growing Herefordshire, there is a sandy 
 lane leading by Patch Hill to Bridge's Stone, and past 
 " the Fairy's Cave ;" and this lane is variously haunted. 
 But we must not stop to notice the spectral, black 
 greyhound ; nor must we even dwell upon the shadowy 
 waggon with its coal-black team ; for the waggoner of 
 whom we are now about to speak has no connection 
 with this vehicle, any more than that it passes the house 
 wherein he lives. It is in an old cider house that the 
 
 Q 3
 
 298 Eternal Waggoners. 
 
 Eternal Waggoner has fixed his abode, and there he 
 always sits, perched upon a barrel, of which he con- 
 stitutes himself the sole proprietor; for should any 
 unfortunate wight be presumptuous enough to endeavour 
 to help himself to the contents of the barrel, the 
 Eternal Waggoner forthwith flies at him, and flouts 
 him with its wing, until he runs away, terrified and 
 ciderless. 
 
 Why a raven should be chosen as the peculiar ghostly 
 custos of a cider or beer-barrel, I cannot say ; though 
 I am inclined to believe that the proprietor of a beer 
 or cider-barrel may find that an Eternal Waggoner, or 
 any other harmless bird for whom a rustic servant may 
 feel a superstitious horror, is a better preservative for 
 the barrel's contents, than all the locks, bolts, and bars 
 that were ever affixed to cellar doors. The gentle 
 reader may depend upon it, that if his ale-cask loses 
 its fulness of body by a mysterious system of evapo- 
 ration, for which even the all-destructive " cat " may 
 not be blamed, he cannot do better than get a good 
 ghost astride the cask ! Once induce an Eternal Wag- 
 goner to perch there, and your malt liquor will be 
 secure from depredation. 
 
 The fact is, that the agricultural intellect is slowto 
 recognize any charms in our Eternal Waggoner, save 
 those charms that belong to a witchery of a very dis-
 
 Eternal Waggoners. 299 
 
 agreeable character. The Boeotian understanding of 
 your true clod will most readily accept as truth, any 
 rhodomontade which has been worked up by super- 
 natural machinery; and will believe in any ridiculous 
 story so long as a bird, or beast, of ill omen figures as 
 a chief character. " Such dark articles of belief," as 
 Mr. Broderip says,* " are rapidly fading away before 
 the glare of gas, the rush of railroads, and the gallop 
 of intellect ; but they still hold their sway in quiet 
 nooks of quiet counties.''' And if you were to say to a 
 
 rustic, 
 
 " Harke ! the ravenne flappes hys wynges 
 In the briered delle below ;" f 
 
 especially if you could convey into the words all this 
 mysterious spell of spelling your rural friend would 
 no more dream of sauntering with his Phyllis into that 
 briered dell, than he would of celebrating his Phyllis 
 in love verses, like the Latin rustics of the classic 
 times. 
 
 The cellar of Holt Castle (near Witley) boasts 
 another Eternal "Waggoner, who keeps watch and ward 
 over the beer barrels ; and whose fame is only rivalled 
 by that of the black lady, who takes her nightly 
 promenade in the attics above : the Castle being thus, 
 literally, haunted from top to bottom. 
 
 * "Zoological Recreations." First Series, 
 t Chatterton's " Mynstrelle's Songe," in " (Ella, a tragical enter- 
 lude."
 
 300 Eternal Waggoners. 
 
 The "rush of railroads" above alluded to though 
 advantageous on the whole, yet, as applied to the line 
 between Kidderminster and Worcester, fails in some 
 respects, when compared with those pair-horse coaches 
 which used to drag their slow length along between 
 " the faithful City '' and the town of carpets. For 
 example : the coach passenger had no sooner left 
 Kidderminster, than he passed close to the old sand- 
 stone tower (the sole survivor of four brothers) of 
 Caldwall Castle, of which the railroad passenger does 
 not catch a glimpse. And thereby, the railroad 
 passenger, very probably, fails to hear the following 
 legend. At the base of that old crumbling tower there 
 is an arched vault, ribbed, and rich in corbels ; and 
 out of this vault (says the legend) there is an under- 
 ground passage, which leads to St. Mary's Church, and 
 is therefore nearly a half mile long. Perhaps this pas- 
 sage may have been constructed by the old monks who 
 inhabited the Saxon monastery, on the site of which 
 the castle was built ; perhaps, Earl Cynebert may have 
 made it, or else King Cador who, according to the 
 ballad, had such a strong desire to kiss the c< pretty 
 maid" * rmay have used the passage in order to get to 
 
 * King Cador saw a pretty maid. 
 King Cador would have kiss'd her; 
 But the pretty maid slipt aside and fled ; 
 And so, King Cador miss'd her. 
 
 And hence (say^imaginative people) the town was called " Cador-
 
 Eternal Waggoners. 301 
 
 church in a quiet and retired way. Of course there 
 was an underground passage, or else it would never 
 have found its way into the legend. Well, in this 
 passage, just about midway between the castle and the 
 church (pray let us be particular !), there is an immense 
 chest crammed full of untold sums of gold, which, of 
 course, has disturbed many persons to that degree, 
 that they have not been able to rest until they have 
 had a look at the treasure. So they have made their way 
 to the chest, and there they have seen, perched upon 
 the lid, an Eternal Waggoner ; and he has so terrified 
 them, that they have always taken to their heels, and 
 forgotten to look into the chest ; so that I am, there- 
 fore, unable to state the exact amount of wealth it may 
 contain. I have often been in the vaulted cellar be- 
 neath the tower, but I was never able to find the en- 
 trance to the subterranean passage : if I had lighted 
 upon it, I should then, doubtless, have been enabled to 
 give a full description of the appearance of the Eternal 
 Waggoner, for I must have seen him, because he sits 
 there day and night the sleepless guard of the hidden 
 treasure. 
 
 miss'd-her ;" from whence the transition to Keder-mist-her, and 
 from that, to Kidderminster, is both easy and obvious. But it could 
 not be very agreeable to King Cador to have his faux pas thus 
 celebrated.
 
 THE LADY AND THE SPANIELS. 
 
 Being a modern Pythagorean's account of the well-known 
 engraving from the picture by Sir Edwin Landseer. 
 
 READING a Sonnet to her praise, 
 And lying on a velvet pillow, 
 
 The summer ocean all a-blaze 
 
 With sunbeams on each throbbing billow 
 
 The sky, in colour like the hue 
 
 Upon the Speedwell's deep blue flower ; 
 
 The jess'mine odours stealing through 
 The open lattice of the bower; 
 
 Soft curtains dimming those hot gleams 
 The July sun is fiercely shedding, 
 
 The while the drowse of mid-day seems 
 Its lazy languor o'er her spreading ;
 
 The Lady and the Spaniels. 303 
 
 Spreading its languor over all 
 
 O'er Lady, lounging and luxurious, 
 
 O'er lap-dog, curl'd into a ball, 
 
 Yet wide awake with aspect curious. 
 
 Three Spaniels, well-bred, sleek, and dear 
 To that fair maid as friends, and for toys ; 
 
 King Charles lies on the table, near 
 That quaint pincushion like a tortoise. 
 
 The Blenheim by her pillow' d head, 
 
 His shiny satin coat is sunning, 
 And, crouching on his velvet bed, 
 
 Keeps watch and ward with eyes of cunning. 
 
 But, where the hyacinthine veins 
 
 In tiny streamlets vaguely flowing 
 
 Like marble tinged with faint blue stains 
 Are on her bosom's-broad map, showing, 
 
 There, where her tender maiden's breast 
 Would seem all ease of heart to nourish, 
 
 Where the bright heart's-ease flower doth rest, 
 And in congenial clime doth flourish, 
 
 There, looking up with loving eyes, 
 
 And resting on that pleasant pillow, 
 Her pet of pets securely lies, 
 
 His bark upon her bosom's billow.
 
 304 Tlie Lady and the Spaniels. 
 
 A sight that tempts us to revive 
 
 A curious creed of old-world teaching, 
 
 Could we be certain to arrive 
 
 At something better than mere preaching ; 
 
 At something more than empty terms 
 That place the fable where the fact is, 
 
 At ripened fruit, not flow'ry germs, 
 And put our precepts into practice ; 
 
 The creed Pythagoras composed, - 
 
 And taught to other would-be Daniels ; 
 
 That, when men's mortal lives were closed, 
 Their souls might pass to such sleek Spaniels. 
 
 And, monstrous though this creed we think, 
 
 That, at a long life's termination, 
 Our spiritual part could sink 
 
 To quadrupedal degradation ; 
 
 That, Lambs could take the Tiger's shape ; 
 
 And Maccaronis merge in Monkeys ; 
 And Brutus pass into an Ape ; 
 
 And Witlings vanish into Donkeys ; 
 
 And Gourmands grow to greedy Pigs ; 
 
 Poll-parrots come from Politicians ; 
 Magpies, from Tories, Rads., and Whigs ; 
 
 And quacking Ducks from grave Physicians ;
 
 The Lady and the Spaniels. 305 
 
 Yet, looking at that pet of pets, 
 
 One's fancy grows Pythagorsean, 
 Its tune to transmigration sets, 
 
 And to chimseras chaunts its paean, 
 
 For who upon that pet could gaze, 
 Without one passing thrill of pleasure 
 
 To make his passion-fire to blaze, 
 
 His pulse to bound to livelier measure ? 
 
 Who would not, for a moment, try 
 
 That doctrine of metempsychosis, 
 If, thus transformed, he then could lie 
 
 Where that dear dog's intrusive nose is ? 
 
 Who would not, for a moment, change 
 
 For Samian creed his best ambition, 
 To be allowed so free a range, 
 
 And pass to that sleek pet's position ? 
 
 happy dog ! more blest than all 
 
 The crowd of suitors who'd displace thee, 
 
 Pythagoras, himself might call 
 
 Supremely blest, from there to chase thee. 
 
 O lucky dog ! what blissful fate 
 
 Has placed thee on that throbbing breast there ! 
 Who would not change his mortal state 
 
 For thine, if then he thus could rest there ?
 
 306 TJie Lady and the Spaniels. 
 
 Content I'd be with woes to fight, 
 
 Content with carking cares to wrestle, 
 
 If, to that bosom warm and white, 
 
 Like that dear dog, I thus could nestle ! 
 
 Content Fd with privation rest, 
 
 'Content, with hardships harsh I'd struggle, 
 If, to the comfort of that breast, 
 
 Like that dear dog I thus could snuggle ! 
 
 Vain such a wish ! which but begets 
 
 In human worms cold-blooded strictures ; 
 
 Yet, still, the Lady and her Pets, 
 I'll prize as prettiest of my pictures.
 
 THE HALL AND COTTAGE DOOE 
 ON CHRISTMAS. EVE. 
 
 *Tis Christmas Eve, and, far and wide, 
 
 The shining snow spreads o'er the plain ; 
 The Fairy Frost has deftly dried 
 
 Her crystal mosses on the pane; 
 From grey church towers the Virgin chimes * 
 
 O'er hill and dale their sweetness pour, 
 And children sing their carol rhymes 
 
 Alike at Hall and Cottage door. 
 
 The eaves are hung with icy spars, 
 
 Snow-wreathes fantastic forms assume, 
 The moon shines bright, and golden stars 
 
 In Heaven's great garden burst to bloom j 
 The mansion wide its portals throws, 
 
 As in the merry days of yore ; 
 And Welcome sits amid the snows, 
 
 Alike at Hall and Cottage-door. 
 
 * The old name for the chimes on Christmas Eve.
 
 308 The Hall and Cottage Door. 
 
 The light that streams from lordly panes, 
 
 And makes the painted windows burn, 
 Is answer'd back from lowly lanes, 
 
 Where children hail their sire's return. 
 The wild bells ring with Christmas mirth, 
 
 And tell their 'tale of holy lore, 
 Glory on high, goodwill on earth, 
 
 Alike at Hall and Cottage door. 
 
 Aye ! this the key-note Christmas gives 
 
 To cheer us through the twelvemonth long, 
 And tune the burden of our lives 
 
 To echo back the angels' song. 
 Oh ! may we join that glorious band, 
 
 When, earthly joys and struggles o'er. 
 Dwellers in Hall and Cot shall stand, 
 
 On equal terms, at Heaven's door.
 
 OUT! 
 
 NOT many evenings ago, I had the honour to partake 
 of the refreshment of dinner at the table of Sir Top- 
 ham Sawyer, " Bart.," as Mr. Bucket would add ; and 
 I had the additional honour of being placed next to 
 Mrs. Marker Pepps (Sir Topham's sister), whom, in- 
 deed, I had taken into the dining-room. On the 
 other side of Mrs. Pepps sat the Rev. Mr. Lamb, 
 the curate of the parish (Pittington, Sir Topham's 
 country-seat), to whom the lady was graciously pleased 
 to throw some fragments of her conversation. 
 
 These fragments of Mrs. Pepps' conversational 
 banquet, and the observations which they educed from 
 the reverend gentleman, were not altogether lost upon 
 me, as I was prevented from carrying on a dialogue 
 with old Lady Bellwether (who sat to my left) on 
 account of the infirmity of deafness, with which that 
 venerable lady is afflicted ; and, as there was a hushed 
 funereal tone about the repast, T could not fail to hear
 
 Out! 
 
 the few remarks which Mrs. Marker Pepps conde- 
 scended to make to her right-hand neighbour. I could 
 not but perceive, too, that her observations seemed to 
 be dictated by a spirit of curious inquiry which is 
 not altogether foreign to the female sex, and plays a 
 prominent part in the history of Blue Beard. Thus, 
 for instance, she interrogated Mr. Lamb as to his 
 county, his father's " place/' his father's occupation, 
 and his knowledge of the So-and-Soes and other 
 county families; and, when she had satisfied herself 
 on these points, she inquired of the reverend gentle- 
 man if he had any sisters. 
 
 Mr. Lamb's reply intimated that he was blessed 
 with four sororial relatives, all of whom were of 
 tenderer years than himself gushing Lambkins grow- 
 ing gracefully into Muttonhood. 
 
 Upon receiving these statistics of his family, Mrs. 
 Marker Pepps made this note and query : " Four 
 sisters have you ? Oh ! are they OUT ? " 
 
 "Not all of them/' replied Mr. Lamb; "only the 
 two eldest. They came out last year." 
 
 " Indeed ! " remarked Mrs. Pepps, as though the 
 Curate had risen fifty per cent, in her estimation. 
 "Last season, did they? I don't remember their 
 names. Who introduced them ? " 
 
 The reverend gentleman appeared to be slightly
 
 Out! 311 
 
 confused, as he replied, " I misunderstood you. My 
 sisters are not out, at least, in the sense that you 
 mean." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Pepps, with an air as though the 
 Curate had fallen fifty per cent, in her estimation. 
 And, without wasting more of her colloquial banquet 
 on a person whose sisters had come " out " in a man- 
 ner which she could not be expected to recognize, she 
 transferred her attention to the ice which was just 
 then brought round; and, during the quarter of an 
 hour which elapsed previous to the ladies retiring to 
 the drawing-room, she made what observations she 
 condescended to make to an individual who shall be 
 nameless. 
 
 But, as that individual bent over his ice, and 
 thought what a capital refrigerator Mrs. Marker 
 Pepps could make of herself if the stock in her 
 brother's ice-house should run short, it struck him 
 that two people could not be at loggerheads concern- 
 ing such a little word as " out/' unless it was a word 
 that had various meanings for various people in va- 
 rious conditions. And when, on the retirement of 
 the ladies, that individual had drawn an easy-chair up 
 to the far-side of the fireplace, and was permitted 
 through Sir Topham entertaining the company with a 
 lively narrative of his daily labours during the fort-
 
 Out! 
 
 night he sat on the Committee for Inquiry into Turn- 
 pike Trusts, a topic which Sir Topharn illustrated 
 with the most diverting figures and unanswerable 
 statistics, during this narrative, I say, the individual 
 before mentioned was permitted to enjoy the solace of 
 his own thoughts, and to come to the conclusion, that 
 the little word OUT was as full of changes as a panto- 
 mime ; and, that its three letters even to a T were, 
 suggestive of many, and varied, scenes in our Life- 
 drama. 
 
 Let us glance at a few of them. 
 
 When Mr. Lamb said that his sisters were " out," 
 he meant that they had been publicly introduced to 
 the society of their own neighbourhood, through the 
 medium of their County Ball. But, when Mrs. 
 Marker Pepps asked the question, she looked above 
 county balls, and wished to know if the Misses Lamb 
 were " out/' by having been introduced to society at 
 large, and Society par excellence, at the Court of Her 
 Most Gracious Majesty. So that, here were two 
 different meanings to the word, although both mean- 
 ings were designed to express one and the same thing. 
 And, descending in the scale of social rank, the word 
 would undergo still further change ; for Miss Pounce, 
 the attorney's daughter, would be " out " when she 
 had appeared at their Town Ball; while Miss Plum,
 
 Out! 313 
 
 the grocer's daughter, not aspiring to the Town Ball, 
 would be " out " at the Tradesmen's Ball ; and Miss 
 Peach, the fruiterer's daughter, would be " out " as 
 soon as she had made her appearance at the "jig," or 
 a " grown-up party " of any kind. 
 
 Perhaps you don't know Mrs. Hurdle ? one of the 
 most good-natured of women, though more lavish of 
 her hospitality than of her " h's," which she introduces 
 into her conversation ' quite promiscous,' with an au- 
 dacity that would send a thrill through Mrs. Marker 
 Pepps' finely-toned mind. " Yes, Mister Jones," says 
 Mrs. Hurdle ; " we're a-going, as usual, to run down to 
 Rhyll for a month's sea-siding. We must have our 
 little Hout, you know ; and its quite surprisin' 'ow it 
 sets 'Urdle hup." 
 
 " What's the matter with you ? " asks the doctor, 
 as a patient comes groaning into his surgery; "have 
 you hurt your arm ? " " Yes, Sir ! Oh, law ! yes, 
 Sir ; it's the collar-bone, if you please, Sir ! it's out ! " 
 Poor fellow ! his is a painful experience of the mean- 
 ing of the word. 
 
 Not half so agreeable, I dare wager, were his feel- 
 ings regarding this little word, as were the sensations 
 of my friend Jones, after Mr. Molar, the celebrated 
 dentist, had been putting him to the most excruciat- 
 ing agony for half-an-hour, and had at length with- 
 
 p
 
 3 1 4 Out ! 
 
 drawn the offending tooth, saying, " There, Sir ! it's 
 out / " That little word insm*ed for Jones a peaceful 
 application to his business, and a sound night's rest 
 after the fatigues of the day. 
 
 Do you know M'Cullum, of Cullum ? If so, you 
 will have heard, scores of times, those wearisome 
 anecdotes of his, commencing, "When my grand- 
 father was out in forty -five." Poor M f Cullum ! he 
 could descant on that little word " out," and tell you 
 how it brought him to his present condition (manager 
 of a country bank), instead of being the Laird of 
 broad Scottish acres, and of "brave Duuie-wassels a 
 thousand times three." 
 
 Talking of banks, I presume that it is not without 
 emotions of a pleasing nature, that the generality of 
 us view the word OUT on the swinging door of the 
 Bank, when we are going to draw a pretty heavy 
 cheque, and feel that we shall leave a strong balance 
 still in our favour. 
 
 TV hen I called the other day on Mrs. Tomkins, and 
 inquired if she were at home, the footman unblush- 
 ingly replied, " Misses is hout, Sir ! " although I had 
 caught sight of her over the window-blind. Here, 
 the meaning of the word "out" would have to be 
 expressed by the periphrasis, " I don't wish to see you. 
 If you cannot come to my Twelfth-night party, when
 
 Out ! 315 
 
 you would have been really useful, you need not 
 trouble yourself to come here on other occasions. 
 Your place can be much better supplied by people of 
 greater consequence/' So, I leave my card, and walk 
 away. 
 
 "Heard the news?" gasps old Puffy, as he hobbles 
 into his Club (the Megatherium). " Whawt noos?" 
 drawls little Dick Timmins. "Why, Ministers are. 
 out ! " " Bai Jove ! " drawls Dick, with no more 
 enthusiasm than if he were the Duke of York's co- 
 lumn hard by ; while old Puffy, in a highly-explosive 
 state, like a worn-out locomotive, hobbles on, seeking 
 whom he may devour anxious to find some one else 
 to whom he can impart the gratifying news. Ask my 
 Lord Grannydean, what is the meaning of " out " in 
 his Parliamentary sense. He would tell you that he 
 is out of place, out of pocket, and out of popular- 
 opinion . 
 
 But, the servants of the Crown are not the only 
 people who are out of place; though, indeed, we 
 might say of some Ministers, that they are quite out 
 of place in the offices they hold when in place. Do- 
 mestic servants share the same fate. " Are you still 
 in service ? " asks Mrs. Brown, when she casually 
 meets her daughter's former maid. " Ho no, mem," 
 replies the late Miss Parker. ' Hive bin hout, mem, 
 
 p 2
 
 ji6 Out! 
 
 some time, mem. My name's Binns now, mem. I 
 married Binns, as you may call to mind, mem, was 
 hone vally to the Hurl of Buttonhole. We keeps a 
 greengrocer's business, mem. Binns 'ires 'imself out 
 to wait on parties, and I gets up fine linen and clear- 
 starching. Hallow me to 'and you one of our cards, 
 mem ! " 
 
 Very probably, if Mr. Binns is not going to assist 
 at any high-life (or " au-ton," as he calls it) dinner 
 party this evening, he will be found in the snug 
 parlour of "The Polyphemus and Squint," at the 
 weekly meeting of "The Gentlemen-of-the-Livery 
 Club;" where, doubtless, he will favour his former 
 companions of the plush with his celebrated song of 
 " Out John ! " And when, after a great consumption 
 of tobacco and spirits-and-water, the most modest of 
 the plush-wearers observes that it's a getting late, and 
 asks Mr. Binns if he's a going 'ome ; that gentleman 
 observes, with a slight haziness of articulation 
 " Goinome ! zatsa fine 'dea ! no ! sallstayere auzeit 
 out!" What the "seeing it out" means, the late 
 Miss Parker will discover when her liege lord is as- 
 sisted to his residence in a state which forbids him 
 employing himself otherwise than by snorting and 
 sleeping. 
 
 When a schoolboy wishes to " choose sides " for
 
 Out! 317 
 
 
 
 any game, and sets out his companions in a ring, 
 and points to each in turn, repeating the schoolboy 
 
 formula 
 
 " One-ry, two-ery, tickery teven ; 
 Alabo, crackabo, ten and eleven ; 
 Spin, spon, must be gone : 
 Alabo, crackabo, twenty-one. 
 0-U-T spells out!"* 
 
 he little thinks he is repeating a form of words which 
 is said to have been handed down from the Druids, 
 and which is met with, under various changes, in all 
 parts of Great Britain, and, as Mr. Halliwell shows, 
 in Sweden also. 
 
 But, from youth to age, in all the ins and outs of 
 Life we find out our little word " out," figged out 
 in all kinds of dresses, and coming out among all 
 sorts of company. 
 
 When the day had at length arrived for that memo- 
 rable Hazledean pic-nic, to which Fanny Gush had 
 been looking forward so anxiously, did she not, the 
 instant that she was awaked, spring out of bed, and 
 jump upon a chair to have a look at the old-fashioned 
 weather-prophet who stood on the top of the chest of 
 drawers, in the shape of a little house with a little man 
 
 * Thig formula is given by Mr. Halliwell, in his Popular Rhymes, 
 p. 134. Many other versions of the formula are given in the tenth 
 volume of " Notes and Queries."
 
 3i 8 Out! 
 
 
 
 and woman vibrating out of its two little porticoes ? 
 And did not Fanny clap her hands, and cry exultingly 
 to her sister, "Joy, joy ! it will be a fine day, Nelly ! 
 The old woman is out !" I am given to understand 
 that she did go through this tableau vivant ; and 
 moreover her animal spirits being unusually high 
 that she concluded her performance by throwing her 
 pillow at her prostrate sister ! And all this, because 
 the little old woman was not inside her portico, but 
 out. 
 
 But, talking of a lady in her robe-de-nuit, I go to 
 see Macbeth murdered by that eminent tragedian Mr. 
 G. V. Snookes, and I hear the Lady Macbeth of the 
 night exclaim, " Out (improper expression} spot ! out, 
 I say ! " and she rubs her hands, and strides about in 
 her night-gown. Here "out" means, that "all great 
 Neptune's ocean " will not wash away that spot ; and, 
 that " all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten that 
 little hand." 
 
 Who can forget the pictorial application of that 
 other Shakspearian owMine " Out ! out, brief 
 candle!" that Mr. Punch so cleverly made to the 
 ex-(or out] King Louis Philippe ? No one can forget 
 it, or those ow/-lines illustrative of " Y e manners and 
 customes of y e Englyshe " with which Mr. Doyle so 
 decked out Mr. Punch's picture-gallery.
 
 Out ! 319 
 
 But there are other out -lines to be seen. Let us go 
 with Clive Newcome and his friend J. J. to Gandish's. 
 It is the Life Class ; and a model, with an invaluable 
 beard, is posed for the father in " Jephthah's Rash Vow." 
 The red-haired Scotch student, Mr. Sandy McCollop, 
 is hard at work at his drawing-board; and Mr. 
 Gandish looks over his shoulder, and scans his out- 
 line with a critical eye. " Your drawing is out, Sir ! " 
 he says ; and he points to the places : " here, Sir ; 
 and here ; and here. It is altogether out. Sir." So 
 a piece of bread is called into requisition; and because 
 the out-line is out, it must be rubbed out. 
 
 I meet Tom kins at the Club, and I say to him, " I 
 hear that Miss Plover's match with Jack Snipe is off?" 
 " My dear feller ! " says Tomkins, " you are altogether 
 out" By which he means, that I have become the 
 depository of incorrect information, and that there is 
 a probability of Miss Plover even now changing her 
 name into that of Snipe. 
 
 As I leave the Club, and make a sharp turn at the 
 corner of the street, against whom should I jostle, but 
 that fire-eating individual Captain O'Trigger. "Bedad!" 
 says the Captain after I have apologized, and assured him 
 that the concussion was, on my part, quite accidental, 
 "And it's fortenate for ye, Sir, that it was onin- 
 tentional ; or it's sateesfaction I should have been 
 after asking ov ye/' And I feel that the Captain
 
 320 Old! 
 
 does not hold out the duel as an empty threat ; for it 
 is well known that he has been out a sufficient number 
 of times to enable him to keep his hand in practice, 
 and to be (in slang language) " an Out-and-Outer." 
 
 O Mr. Felix-on-the-Bat ! describe to me, in your 
 felicitous language, what must have been the sen- 
 sations of Mr. Bale on that momentous day when 
 he played in the celebrated match between the Twenty- 
 two of Muggleton and its District, against the Eleven 
 of England ! Recount how that illustrious amateur 
 cricketer, after extensive and expensive practice under 
 the tuition of a professional bowler, after swiping 
 threes, and even fours, in fevered dreams, amid the 
 silent applause of shadowy spectators, after making 
 proud boast to envious friends of his deeds of batting 
 fame, after individually advising the Twenty-one 
 Muggletonians how to block Mynn's shooters, and 
 what to do with Clarke's sneaks, and Pilch/ s twisters, 
 recount, O Mr. Felix-on-the-Bat, how he took up his 
 position at the wicket a sight to see in his flannels, and 
 paddings, and india-rubbers ! Tell the world, how he 
 measured the ground, and patted it, and trod it, and held 
 his bat knowingly up on end while he called " Give me 
 block, Sir!" relate, still further, how he took up his 
 position in his very best attitude, how the Muggle- 
 tonians looked on with admiration and expectation, as 
 the Umpire called " Flay ! " as Mr. Pilch delivered
 
 Out! 321 
 
 the ball as Mr. Bale raised his bat to strike ! and 
 then, if you have the power to grapple with so sad a 
 theme, communicate to the world the shame and 
 anguish of the Muggletonian champion on hearing a 
 noise among his stumps, and the voice of Mr. Box 
 the wicket-keeper, exclaiming " Out !" 
 
 "Fancy waft me in golden vision" to the side of 
 Miss Hannah Smithers, and her sister Maria. They 
 are seated on a music-ottoman; and are endeavouring 
 to strum the Tum-tum-titumtitee of Verdi's " Donna 
 e mobile," arranged as a duet. Miss Hannah waggles 
 her head to the tune ; and Miss Maria who takes 
 the treble counts " One two and three and four !" 
 to mark the time. But the young ladies not having 
 much music in their souls, cannot run on very well 
 together. Miss Hannah jibs, and drops a note ; 
 whereby the running accompaniment of her bass 
 comes into the melody at inopportune seasons ; and 
 Miss Maria exclaims (somewhat testily), " Hannah ! 
 you are out !" 
 
 When your wife goes to the Drapery and Shawl 
 Emporium of Messrs. Bobbinet and Co., and inquires 
 for some particular pattern of some new fashion, Mr. 
 Bobbinet rubs his hands, and smirkingly replies, " We 
 had a large stock of them last week, M'm ; but there 
 was such a demand for them, that we can't procure 
 
 p3
 
 322 Out! 
 
 them fast enough ; and, just at present, we are quite 
 out of the article. But allow me to show you, M'm, 
 a sweet thing in shawls the Sebastopol shawl. The 
 pattern, as you observe, represents the capture of that 
 'uge fawtress. Chaste design, and just out !" 
 
 If you go to the circulating library, for Mrs. Slip- 
 slop's new novel of fashionable life " The Magnolia 
 of May Fair ; or, the Count and the Coronet/' ten 
 to one (so great is the popular thirst for the Slip- 
 slopian rill) ten to one, but you will find that all the 
 three hundred copies of the book are out. 
 
 A book, too, will be out of print; its author may 
 have been out of money by it ; its publisher may have 
 been out of pocket, and therefore out of temper, by it. 
 
 Just so, Poke-bonnets are out of date ; oysters 
 are out of season in June ; a hack is out of condition ; 
 a race-horse is out of So-and-so by So-and-so; a 
 house is out of repair ; a coat is out at elbows ; street- 
 singing mechanics are out of work. 
 
 Friends fall out ; Ranters shout out ; babies roar 
 out ; ministers go out ; young ladies come out ; noses 
 are put out ; intrusive people are commanded to get 
 out ; quarrelsome people are apt to fly out ; imperti- 
 nent people are liable to be kicked out; of their 
 money, people run out. 
 
 Debutantes and new books will be brought out ;
 
 Out! 323 
 
 measures and railway works will be carried out) 
 fainting ladies and shop-fronts will be taken out; 
 lecture-rooms and the dresses of corpulent people 
 will be let out; nervous orators and actors will be 
 ordered to speak out, or, in vulgar language, "to spit 
 it out." 
 
 Colours may be washed out ; purses may be cleaned 
 out ; patience may be worn out. 
 
 People will assemble on the last night of the Old 
 Year, to see it out ; schoolboys will enjoy a tuck-out, 
 or a blow-out ; bustling housekeepers will delight in 
 having a good turn-out ; cryers will give it out ; dare- 
 devils will face it out ; story-tellers will brazen it out, 
 until they are found out. 
 
 If you wish to rid yourself of a fault, you must root 
 it out ; if you wish to enlarge your dining-room, you 
 must throw it out ; if your premises are on fire, the 
 engines will endeavour to put it out ; if you wish 
 to act as jackal to any literary lion, you must draw 
 him out; if you wish to make the most of anything 
 a magazine article, for instance you must spin it 
 out. 
 
 I would say more, but my paper like my subject 
 -is OUT!
 
 THE WATEE-LILY. 
 
 THE earth lay dreaming in a golden light ; 
 
 The tall trees cast their shadows in the pool 
 Where lay the Water-lily gleaming bright 
 
 Amid the sedgy umbrage dun and cool. 
 All clad in purest white, like saintly nun, 
 
 Or like some veiled bride,* in nuptial dress, 
 Who feels another's heart in her's is wound, 
 Another life of Duty is begun, 
 
 And trembles in her love and loveliness, 
 Amid its shining leaves it lay at rest, 
 Reclined upon the water's throbbing breast, 
 Answering its every motion, every bound, 
 As though some mystic love to them was given : 
 The Vestal of the Wave, it lay and look'd to Heaven. 
 
 * Nymphaa (wftQn, "a bride ") alba is its botanical name.
 
 OAK - FELLING AND BAEKING. 
 
 A TREE that takes 200 years to arrive at its full growth 
 of 120 feet, surely demands a little notice when it is 
 cut down, even if it does not arouse our sympathetic 
 feelings to intercede for its life, and bid the " Woodman 
 spare the tree, and touch not a single bough," as was 
 the case with the lady in the song. And when we 
 reflect that this same tree will, in all probability, be 
 fashioned into the rib of some leviathan of the deep, 
 or be formed into the plank that separates the sailor 
 from death, we cannot look upon its removal from its 
 forest home or country sward, without feeling an inter- 
 est in its fate far different to that with which we regard 
 the fall of an elm or an ash. There are materials for 
 thought and a suggestiveness of subject iu the felling 
 of an oak, that could be turned to valuable account by 
 the poet ; and as the poet and the painter are twin 
 spirits, the subject addresses itself as strongly to the 
 stainer of canvas as to the spoiler of paper. It has 
 received illustration from the powerful pencil of Lin- 
 nell, in a picture which is among those in the Vernon
 
 326 Oak-Felling and Barking. 
 
 Collection ; and no landscape artist has passed over 
 the rugged grandeur and solid magnificence of " the 
 brave old oak." If Tennyson could so far forget the 
 respect due to its regal dignity as to say, in his " Am- 
 phion," that 
 
 " The gouty oak began to move, 
 And flounder into hornpipes" 
 
 (a Royal abandon that surpasses the dancing of the 
 masquerading bluff King Hal at Cardinal Wolsey's 
 banquet) yet he amply makes the amende honorable 
 in his " Life and Conversations " of that talking oak, 
 the glorious and much-to-be-envied "broad oak of 
 Sumner-chace," whose knotted knees were deep in fern, 
 and whose good fortune it was to be clasped and kissed, 
 and slept under, and have sonnets made on, by a 
 young lady who was as gamesome as a colt, and livelier 
 than a lark, and who, Dryad-like, was to wear on her 
 wedding morning a wreath 
 
 " Alternate leaf and acorn-ball." 
 
 We are not prepared to state as Cabinet Ministers say 
 when they want to shuffle out of a too-pressing ques- 
 tion whether or not the arboreal hero of our present 
 sketch was ever taken into the confidence of a simi- 
 larly " gamesome " young lady. If so, it was to be 
 envied. 
 
 But there it lies. The antlered monarch of the
 
 Oak-Felling and Barking. 327 
 
 forest is laid low : its pleasant place on the gently- 
 sloping hill on the woodside, shall know it no more. 
 There is a gap in the landscape where it once stood so 
 proudly, and the clustering fern and velvet grass shall 
 never again be shrouded beneath its outstretched arms. 
 Some of them have been already lopped off, and those 
 that remain are doomed to amputation. There is the 
 head physician, Dr. Woodman, with his upraised axe, 
 who will cut off all those Briarean arms, as soon as 
 his subordinates have stripped away the bark, and the 
 monarch's once handsome form will be reduced to a 
 shapeless trunk. 
 
 It is a busy scene, this oak-barking, and one in 
 which young and old man, woman, and child can be 
 actors. While the young and active men swarm into 
 the branches, and take up perilous positions aloft, the 
 old men, and even the women, can be thumping away 
 below, loosening (with the back of the axe-head) the 
 bark of detached branches, or of those arms of the 
 tree which have been brought near to the ground; 
 while the children can find ample employment in the 
 same occupation, or in piling into heaps the detatched 
 pieces of bark. When there is a good staff of workers, 
 who can industriously ply their barking-irons and 
 peeling-irons (which are like large cheese-tasters), or 
 their axe-heads, it is astonishing to see with what
 
 328 Oak-Felling and Barking. 
 
 rapidity a gnarled and rugged tree can be converted 
 into a sleek and shining specimen. that looks some 
 thing between satin-wood and ivory. By dint of a 
 little judicious thumping the rough exterior is quickly 
 exchanged for the polished surface from which an 
 instructive moral may be drawn by those who teach 
 the ingenuous arts, and the young ideas and the 
 peeling- iron is made to do its work with great efficiency, 
 as well as rapidity. Only the chief branches and arms 
 of the tree are left for this purpose; all the lesser 
 branches and twigs are bound up into " cords," with 
 the other loppings and chips, which are to the Wood- 
 man,, what dripping and fat are to the cook his 
 perquisites. 
 
 Oak-barking always makes a pretty scene. The 
 number and variety of the figures, and their diversities 
 of attire and posture, afford good material for the 
 artist, and amusement for the spectator. The tortuous 
 branches of the felled tree are, here and there, brown 
 with the yet-unremoved bark, and in other places 
 gleam white against the blue April sky. There are 
 the first spring flowers to enamel the grass and charm 
 the senses of sight and smell : the pale primrose and 
 the cloistered violet ; the meadow crocus and the gentle 
 snowdrop ; the golden kingcups and celandines ; the 
 peeping cowslip-buds, Herrick's daffodils, and Burns's
 
 Oak-Felling and Barking. 329 
 
 daisies. The trees in the wood are putting forth their 
 green shoots ; the lark is singing high in the heavens ; 
 and butterflies are abroad in all their beauty. By the 
 woodside they have stacked the lopped branches of the 
 oaks that have been already felled ; and against one of 
 these stacks they have made a rude hut to smoke and 
 dine in when the weather is wet. There is abundance 
 of wood wherewith to keep the fire burning, and 
 Tommy's cheeks and mouth form into a capital pair 
 of bellows. A good wife has brought a provision 
 basket, in which, no doubt, there is a " sup o' cider " 
 or beer, in defiance of Father Mathew and Mr. George 
 Cruikshank. When the bark has been stripped from 
 the trees it will be put into rows, sheltered at the top, 
 in order that it may be dried. This is called " ranking," 
 and is a process that occupies about three weeks. 
 
 It will then be carted off, and set up into stacks, 
 like wheatstacks, or, as is more commonly the case, 
 will be at once taken off to its purchaser. At the oak- 
 harvest season, quite a feature at that period of the 
 year consists in the long lines of bark-laden waggons 
 that may be seen wending their way to some neighbour- 
 ing tanyard. Its bark thus being such a valuable 
 commodity, and its wood being still more valuable, the 
 oak comes to be looked upon in a monetary light by 
 out-of-elbow squires, and needy noblemen, who pay
 
 33 Oak -Felling and Barking. 
 
 their debts of honour by a cheque upon the bank of 
 nature; and, when the dice and the turf have been 
 unpropitious, repair their losses by an order to their 
 steward, to fell some timber. Then are certain trees, 
 which were old acquaintances of our great-great 
 (ever-so-many-great !) grandfathers, doomed to destruc- 
 tion, and come out to the world ticketed with red nu- 
 merals rubrics that give directions for their own death. 
 Then do the advertising columns of county newspapers 
 proclaim that " Messrs. Hammer and Co. are instructed 
 to offer for public competition four hundred superior old 
 oak trees a great proportion grove-oak of fine quality, 
 large and lengthy, and suitable for navy timber." 
 Then is this statement echoed from village barns and 
 dead walls, by placards that are printed in letters of a 
 size calculated to astonish, if not enlighten, the agri- 
 cultural mind. Then do Messrs. Hammer and Co. 
 sell the aforesaid four hundred superior old oak-trees, 
 and do thereby make four hundred lacerations in the 
 hearts of many lovers of nature and the picturesque. 
 Then arrive whole armies of " fellers " woodmen and 
 barkers who, for the next month, assault the ears of 
 the neighbourhood with the reverberating strokes of 
 the axe. And then may be seen those picturesque and 
 noisy tableaux vivants of which we have here given a 
 still-life representation.
 
 LITEEAEY LADIES' PEN-MONEY. 
 
 THE education of women has attained to the assump- 
 tion of excellence, if not to excellence itself. Our 
 modern misses learn everything, superficially, on the 
 whole, but their smattering of general knowledge 
 gives them a greater variety of objects for thought, and 
 opens up to them subjects from which their deductive 
 intellects can derive suggestive topics for remark. 
 Thus, their general intelligence is thereby raised, al- 
 though they may not be able to talk learnedly, or cor- 
 rectly, on scientific subjects, or to fulfil the stringent 
 regulations laid down for their guidance in social 
 ethics by such over-wise teachers as Mrs. Ellis. Nor 
 is it desirable that this hot-bed and palm-house sys- 
 tem of education should be introduced into the flower 
 and kitchen gardens of every-day life. A man needs 
 for his wife a woman, and not a schoolmaster, or a 
 doctor of divinity ; and the best education of a woman 
 we take to be that which will train her for a loving 
 wife, and not for an unsociable pedant. It will not, 
 in the long run, make the husband an essentially hap-
 
 33 2 Literary Ladies' Pen-Money. 
 
 pier man, because his wife is able to discuss with him 
 the beauties of a chorus in Sophocles, or the useful- 
 ness of the solution of equations by approximation ; 
 nor will the fact that she is as well up in her classics 
 as was Lady Jane Grey, or Mary Queen of Scots, ne- 
 cessarily ensure the domestic comfort of her husband, 
 although, if he be an ordinarily intelligent man, he 
 will be glad to have a wife whose intellect is suffi- 
 ciently acute to enable her to take an interest that is 
 not fictitious in the matters of science or learning that 
 daily delight him. But, " true yoke-fellows \" will 
 always be able to pull well together, whatever may be 
 the fashion of their harness ; and the thousand simple 
 realities of daily life are far more common and impor- 
 tant than a few classical contingencies and iuconsidered 
 trifles of scattered sciences. 
 
 Woman's power to please is a quality specially be- 
 stowed upon her; and she may evince it through the 
 medium of her pen, much more than from the exercise 
 of her skill over the strings of the piano and harp ; 
 for, with her pen, she can 
 
 " fret the string, 
 The master-chord of man's heart," 
 
 and make its vibrations respond to every phase of 
 feeling. 
 
 The enthusiasm that is so natural to woman must
 
 Literary Ladies Pen-Money. 333 
 
 find some vent. It has often to be repressed by the 
 trammels of society, or by timidity, or by lack of 
 opportunity ; for how, for example, can a young lady 
 talk with meet enthusiasm on the delights of recipro- 
 cal affection and wedded bliss, when she has no one 
 near her to whom she would care to make the obser- 
 vation, and when there is no one of the other sex 
 who has distinguished her by that marked preference 
 which gives the key-note for such remarks ? But, 
 endow that young lady with the faculty of expressing 
 her sentiments coherently and connectedly, and allow 
 her to sit down, pen in hand, in the privacy of her 
 own room, with the permitted privilege of giving the 
 reins to her imagination and fancy, and then see how 
 her enthusiasm will gush forth, arid how her natural 
 thoughts and feelings will be expressed. She can 
 then lay aside bread-and-butter timidity and the re- 
 pressing formulas of conventionality, and can make 
 her fictitious Amelia prattle to her imagined Edwin all 
 those pretty things that she herself would like to say 
 if any real Edwin would unfetter her tongue; she 
 can provide lovers for her friends ; can make conversa- 
 tion for them ; can many them, and bless them with 
 a fruitful crop of olive-branches ; and can do all this 
 in a way which will give pleasure to herself in the 
 writing, and may extend that pleasure to others in
 
 334 Literary Ladies Pen-Money. 
 
 the reading. And more than this it will not be an 
 expensive pleasure ; for it may put money in her purse 
 and endue her with well-earned fame; or, if not that, 
 it will at any rate repay her by the healthy mental 
 exercise with which she has refreshed her nature in 
 the composition of her tale or poem. Anything is 
 better than idleness and Berlin wool; and the young 
 lady who, without neglecting home duties and the 
 demands of her family and station in life, has occupied 
 a portion of her leisure time by strengthening her mind 
 with a self-imposed task that will call out her best 
 faculties, and force upon her something like systematic 
 reflection and sustained exertion, has surely achieved 
 something with which she may be reasonably satisfied, 
 although her performance may not be destined for 
 printer's ink, or, if it be, may not rise to a higher 
 position than to fill a nook in the corner of the local 
 newspaper, or a few pages of an Eleemosynary Maga- 
 zine supported by voluntary contributions. 
 
 But, perhaps, she has been successful with her lite- 
 rary labours; and, if she is able to keep them up 
 after her marriage instead of laying them aside, to- 
 gether with her other " accomplishments " then, 
 however dowerless she may have been, yet, out of the 
 intellectual poetry of her nature, she will be enabled 
 to bring towards the house-keeping her own share of
 
 Literary Ladies Pen-Money. 335 
 
 that which is necessary for the prosaic sustenance of 
 home. In this case, her own pen-money will be of 
 more real worth than any pin-money received from 
 her husband ; and we can imagine few more sincere 
 pleasures than would be felt by a young wife devoted 
 not so much to literature as to the interests of her 
 husband and family when she reflects that the cloth- 
 ing of herself and children has been purchased with 
 the proceeds of her own pen-money, or, that the ex- 
 penses of the trip to the sea-side which conferred so 
 great a benefit on her over-tasked husband were de- 
 frayed by the same means. Bonnet rhymes with son- 
 net ; and, when the former has been procured with the 
 price of the latter, the wearer may be permitted to 
 indulge in a little harmless vanity. Not that we 
 would desire that our modern misses should be so 
 educated that each one should be enabled (like a 
 cooped fowl) to support herself out of the proceeds of 
 her pen; or that they should be condemned to lead 
 a spider-like existence by spinning the means for 
 sustenance out of their own brains. No ! the whole 
 duty of woman is not to write poems, but to live 
 them ; nor even is it obligatory upon spinsters to spin 
 any other works than those which may be adapted 
 to household purposes, or personal use. Yet, as a 
 bird that can sing and won't sing, ought to be made
 
 336 Literary Ladies Pen-Money. 
 
 to sing, so ought a woman of literary tendencies to 
 cultivate her intellect, and make it subservient to good 
 and useful ends. If she gain nothing more than the 
 self-culture and self-discipline to which her task 
 will give rise, she will have obtained an ample reward 
 for her industry and painstaking; but there is no 
 reason which should prevent her from endeavouring 
 at the same time to earn a little pen-money. The 
 poetry of life is not for every one, while its prose 
 is for all ; but when lyrics can be exchanged for legs 
 of mutton, there is a happy meeting of sentiment and 
 reality, which is the most gratifying instance of free- 
 trade reciprocity that housekeeping experience can 
 afford. It may be very prosaic to take this view of 
 the advantages to be derived from the pursuits of 
 literature ; but, at any rate, the practical and poetical 
 can each have its turn, and both are within the scope 
 of Literary Ladies' Pen-money.
 
 THE HEEO AND THE MAIDEN. 
 
 [The following lines were written for the late Lady Victoria 
 
 T , in commemoration of her visit to the ' Gallery of Illustration ' 
 
 in company with the late Duke of Wellington, who presented to 
 her a Book descriptive of ' The Wellington Campaigns,' in which 
 he had written some lines as a souvenir of their visit, May 10, 1852. 
 The duke died on September 16, of the same year.] 
 
 A maiden, in her summer pride 
 A warrior, on whose reverent head 
 The wintry snow of Time is spread, 
 
 In a dusk room sit side by side. 
 
 The maiden comes of high degree, 
 And bears a name as noble ; one 
 That ever went with Wellington 
 
 Victoria, and Victory ! 
 
 A burst of light, and lo ! a mass 
 
 Of scenes, whose names have lived for long 
 In hist'ry's page and poets' song, 
 
 In pictured shape before them pass. 
 
 Q
 
 33 8 The Hero and the Maiden. 
 
 New are the scenes to her ; but not 
 To him whose prowess gave renown 
 To mountain-pass and country-town, 
 
 And household words made every spot ; 
 
 Where, with a valour like his own, 
 His conquering legions, far and wide, 
 Dash'd on in one triumphant tide, 
 
 And swept Napoleon from his throne. 
 
 Roll on the record ! bring to view 
 
 The fields of fight that won him fame, 
 And crown' d him with a deathless name, 
 
 Won from the world at Waterloo ! 
 
 So let them pass ! the painter's art 
 O'er realms of fancy may prevail ; 
 But here, the magic wand must fail, 
 
 That bids such scenes to being start. 
 
 The mimic shapes must feebly paint 
 
 The bloodstain'd battle's deep, dark dye, 
 And seem, to his far-piercing eye, 
 
 But shifting shadows, dim and faint ; 
 
 But shifting shades, that come and go 
 Over clear memory's sunlit field, 
 The shades of giant strifes that seal'd 
 
 The fate of nations with a blow.
 
 TJie Hero and the Maiden. 339 
 
 And what thinks he, whose outward calm 
 Betrays no throb of passion's tide, 
 The warrior of the world ! whose pride 
 
 Was but to gain the peaceful palm ? 
 
 Unmoved he seems by all ; and save 
 When some few kindly words he speaks, 
 And thus the charmed stillness breaks 
 
 Sits stern and silent as the grave. 
 
 Yet great thoughts must be his ; and she 
 The maid of twenty summers knows 
 How full must be the stream that flows 
 
 From such a fount of Memory. 
 
 And she, until her death, will hold 
 The recollection of that hour 
 As proudest of the thoughts that dower 
 
 A heart that loves the Brave and Bold. 
 
 And that small book shall rise to worth 
 All priceless yea, an heirloom proud 
 The gift of one whom all avow'd 
 
 The greatest General e'er on earth. 
 
 Four fated months had spun their thread 
 
 Of mingling colours, dark and fair ; 
 
 The roll of battles still was there 
 Their Hero slept beside the dead !
 
 LOMDOH : 
 PBIWTID BY WOODPAL1 AND KIKDRR, 
 
 ANBliL COUBT, SKIJOiKS STJIKKT.