ierkeley 
 lorporation 
 

 I LIBRARY OF FICTION, or Family Story-Teller; consisting of Orig- 
 al Tales, Essays, and Sketches of Character. With 14 illustrations. 
 vols. 8vo, original cloth, uncut, binding of Vol. I very slightly worn, new 
 d-papers. Each vol. in half levant morocco slip-case, inner cloth wrap- 
 r. London, 1 836-1 837 
 
 First Edition in Book Form. Volume I contains the first publication of "The 
 iggs's at Ramsgate," pages (i)-i8, (with two illustrations by Seymour), and "A 
 ttle Talk About Spring and the Sweeps," pages (ii3)-uo, with one etching by 
 W. Buss. The latter was altered to "The First of May," and appeared in the 
 cond Series of "Sketches by Boz" (1836). Volume II contains no Dickens material. 
 The work also contains contributions by: G. P. R. James, Miss Mitford, Douglas 
 
 rrnlrl QViot-idc 
 
THE 
 
 LIBRARY OF FICTION, 
 
 OR 
 
 FAMILY STORY-TELLER, 
 
Pa£e 17 
 
THE 
 
 LIBRARY OF FICTION, 
 
 FAMILY STORY-TELLER; 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 ©rtgtnal &ate#, 
 
 ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES OF CHARACTER. 
 
 WSVIB JFOWEMPSEW HEsEaWS'H'I&jSL'H'IIOBSig, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON —CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND. 
 1836. 
 
WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The early Numbers of this work contained several selected Tales, which 
 are marked with a *, all the others are original. 
 
 Page 
 The Tuggs's at Ramsgate. " Boz" 1 
 
 The Castle of Cleves, or the White Hand. 
 
 From the German of Castelli 18 
 
 Mr. Firedrake Fidget. C. Whitehead 26 
 
 * The Last Words of Charles Edwards, Esq 34 
 
 * Ginevra. . . 52 
 
 Passages in the Life of Francis Loosefish, Esq. C. Whitehead 57 
 
 * Tale of a Chemist . . . . . . . 74 
 
 The Landlord of Royston 84 
 
 * The Irish Lord Lieutenant and his Double. 
 
 By the Author of the O'Hara Tales 95 
 
 A little Talk about Spring and the Sweeps. " Boz" 113 
 
 * Monkwynd 119 
 
 Destiny 132 
 
 * My Little Grey Landlord. 
 
 By the Author of " Scenes of Poland" 144 
 
 Diary of a Surgeon 159 
 
 Sandie Sandeman the Piper. E. Mayhew 183 
 The Sibyl's Stone. 
 
 By the Author of the " Gentleman in Black 194 
 
 Tiberius at Capreae 207 
 
 * The Convict. C. Ollier 221 
 Jesse Cliffe. Miss Mitford 225 
 
Vlll CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 The Alchymist. T-, K. Hervey 240 
 
 The O'Connors and M'Carteys ; or, the Humours of an Irish 
 
 Fair. A. Campbell 257 
 
 The Ransom 266 
 
 Sebella. A Tale of Venice . 2 19 
 
 The Rival Houses. G. P. R. James 281 
 
 John Smith. E. Mayhew 289 
 
 The Two Martyrs 304 
 
 The Four Greys ; or, Travelling Adventures in Ireland . . 317 
 
 The Last Feat of Fra Diavolo. A. Campbell 324 
 
 The Old Farm-house. Edited by 
 
 The Countess of Blessington 337 
 
 The Hebrew Brothers ..... 347 
 
 Miss Smith at Home. W. H. Wills 359 
 
 The Image-man * 374 
 
ADDRESS 
 
 In completing the first Volume of this Work, the Pro- 
 prietors take the opportunity of expressing their warmest 
 acknowledgments for the great favour with which it has 
 been received as issued in Monthly Parts. Nothing could 
 possibly be more encouraging to them to proceed with 
 energy and spirit in carrying on the publication — which the 
 gradual development of those literary means peculiarly 
 possessed by the Editor will, they confidently anticipate, 
 enable them satisfactorily to do. 
 
 The peculiar purpose of the " Library of Fiction," is to 
 put its readers in possession, at a moderate price, of a 
 series of Original Tales and Sketches, all carefully 
 selected from among a host of candidates ; and many of 
 them written by Authors of the very loftiest pretensions in 
 the field of imaginative composition. 
 
VI ADDRESS. 
 
 To the desultory reader, whose leisure or inclination does 
 not suffice for the perusal of more elaborate works, yet who 
 is by no means indisposed to bask occasionally in the sun- 
 light of fancy and invention, this Collection is peculiarly 
 fitted; while, as a companion to the family circle) its 
 careful inculcation (though more by way of induction than 
 direct tutorage) of the purest principles of morality, will 
 abundantly recommend it. 
 
 It may be remembered that many of the most exquisite, 
 as well as most celebrated efforts of Fiction, both in our 
 own and other languages, have tended, by their dimensions, 
 to realize the adage that " Brevity is the soul of wit." The 
 Novelette has, indeed, from the days of Boccaccio to the 
 present, been the favourite medium with gifted writers of 
 pouring forth the spirit of passion, or striking out the 
 flashes of mirth. Our aim is similar : we seek to reach, 
 through its various points of access, that mysterious agent, 
 the human heart; either to touch it with sympathy or 
 brighten it by amusement. When we reflect on the dis- 
 tinguished names that have already graced our work, and 
 that are pledged to grace its future pages, we cannot doubt 
 of succeeding in this aim. 
 
LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 THE TUGGS'S AT RAMSGATE. 
 
 (original.) 
 
 Once upon a time, there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey- 
 side of the water, within three minutes' walk of the old London 
 Bridge, Mr. Joseph Tuggs — a little, dark-faced man, with shiny 
 hair, twinkling eyes, short legs, and a body of very considerable 
 thickness, measuring from the centre button of his waistcoat in 
 front, to the ornamental buttons of his coat behind. The figure 
 of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly symmetrical was de 
 cidedly comfortable ; and the form of her only daughter, the 
 accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into thai 
 state of luxuriant plumpness, which had enchanted the eyes, and 
 captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days*. 
 Mr. Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs's 
 only brother, was as differently formed in body, as he was dif- 
 ferently constituted in mind, from the remainder of his family. 
 There was that elongation in his thoughtful face, and that tend- 
 ency to, weakness in his interesting legs, which tells so forcibly 
 of a great mind and romantic disposition. The slightest traits of 
 character in such a being, possess no mean interest for specula- 
 tive minds. He usually appeared in public in capacious shoes > 
 ■with black cotton stockings ; and was observed to be particu- 
 larly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament 
 of any description. 
 
 There is perhaps no profession, however useful, no pursuit, 
 however meritorious, which can escape the petty attacks of vul- 
 gar minds. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed 
 that a grocer was beyond the breath of calumny : but no, — the 
 neighbours stigmatized him as a chandler ; and the poisonous 
 voice of envy distinctly asserted that he dispensed tea and 
 coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce, cheese by 
 the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These 
 taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggs's. Mr. Tuggs at- 
 tended to the grocery department, Mrs. Tuggs to the cheese- 
 mongery, and Miss Tuggs to her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs 
 kept his father's books, and his own counsel. 
 
 B 
 
2 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on 
 a tub of weekly Dorset behind the little red desk with a wooden 
 rail, which ornamented a corner of the counter, when a stranger 
 dismounted from a cab, and hastily entered the shop: he was 
 habited in black cloth, and bore with him a green umbrella and 
 a blue bag. 
 
 11 Mr. Tuggs?" said the stranger, inquiringly. 
 
 " My name is Tuggs," replied Mr. Simon. 
 
 " It 's the other Mr. Tuggs," said the stranger, looking to- 
 wards the glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, 
 and on the inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, 
 was distinctly visible, peeping over the curtain. 
 
 Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of 
 his wish that his father would advance, and Mr. Joseph Tuggs 
 with considerable celerity removed his face from the curtain, and 
 placed it before the stranger. 
 
 " I come from the Temple," said the man with the bag. 
 
 " From the Temple!" said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the 
 door of the little parlour, and disclosing Miss Tuggs in per- 
 spective. 
 
 " From the Temple !" said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs 
 at the same moment. 
 
 " From the Temple !" said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale 
 as a Dutch cheese. 
 
 " From the Temple," repeated the man with the bag ; M from 
 Mr. Cower's, the solicitor's. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, 
 sir ! Ladies, I wish you joy of your prosperity ! We have been 
 successful." And the man with the bag, leisurely divested him- 
 self of his umbrella and glove, as a preliminary to shaking 
 hands w 7 ith Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
 
 Now the words " we have been successful, " had no sooner 
 issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon 
 Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very- 
 wide, gasped for breath, made figures of eight in the air with his 
 pen, and finally fell into the arms of his anxious mother, and 
 fainted away, without the slightest ostensible cause or pre- 
 tence. 
 
 " Water!" screamed Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Look up, my son," exclaimed Mr. Tuggs. 
 
 " Simon ! Dear Simon !" shrieked Miss Tuggs. 
 
 " I 'm better now," said Mr. Simon Tuggs. — " What ! Suc- 
 cessful!" And then, as corroborative evidence of his being 
 better, he fainted away again, and was borne into the little 
 parlour by the united efforts of the remainder of the family and 
 the man with the bag. 
 
 To a casual spectator, or to anyone unacquainted with the 
 position of the family, this fainting would have been unaccount- 
 
THE TUGGS'S AT KAMSGATE. 3 
 
 able. To those who understood the mission of the man with the 
 bag, and were moreover acquainted with the excitability of the 
 nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it was quite comprehensible. A 
 long-pending lawsuit, respecting the validity of a will, had been 
 unexpectedly decided ; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was the possessor 
 of twenty thousand pounds. 
 
 A prolonged consultation took place that night in the little 
 parlour — a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of 
 the Tuggs's. The shop was shut up at an unusually early hour ; 
 and many were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed 
 door by applicants for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of 
 bread, or penn'orths of pepper, which were to have been " left 
 till Saturday," but which fortune had decreed were to be left 
 alone altogether. 
 
 " We must certainly give up business," said Miss Tuggs. 
 
 " Oh, decidedly," said Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Simon shall go to the bar," said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
 
 " And I shall always sign myself ' Cymon' in future," said 
 his son. 
 
 " And I shall call myself Charlotta," said Miss Tuggs. 
 
 " And you must always call me ■ Ma,' and father ' Pa/ " said 
 Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits," inter- 
 posed Miss Tuggs. 
 
 " I '11 take care o' all that," responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, 
 complacently. — He was at that very moment eating pickled 
 salmon with a pocket-knife. 
 
 " We must leave town immediately," said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 
 
 Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable prelimi- 
 nary to being genteel. The question then arose — Where should 
 they go ? 
 
 " Gravesend," mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The 
 idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was low. 
 
 " Margate," insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse — 
 nobody there but tradespeople. 
 
 " Brighton ! " Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmount- 
 able objection. All the coaches had been upset in their turn 
 within the last three weeks ; each coach had averaged two pas- 
 sengers killed, and six wounded ; and in every case the news- 
 papers had distinctly understood that " no blame whatever was 
 attributable to the coachman." 
 
 " Ramsgate!" ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. — To be 
 sure : how stupid they must have been not to have thought of 
 that before. Ramsgate was just the place of all others that 
 they ought to go to. 
 
 Two months after this conversation, the City of London 
 Ramsgate steamer was running gaily down the river. Her flag 
 
 b 2 
 
4 LIBRARY OF FICTIOX. 
 
 was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were convers- 
 ing ; every thing about her seemed gay and lively. — No wonder, 
 the Tuggs's were on board. 
 
 " Charming, a'nt it V* said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle- 
 green great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue 
 travelling cap with a gold band. 
 
 " Soul-inspiring," replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs — he was entered 
 at the bar — " Soul-inspiring !" 
 
 " Delightful morning, sir," said a stoutish, military-looking 
 gentleman in a blue surtout, buttoned up to his chin, and white 
 trousers chained down to the soles of his boots. 
 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of 
 answering the observation. " Heavenly !" he replied. 
 
 u You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, 
 sir V f said the military gentleman, deferentially. 
 
 " I am, sir," replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. " Travelled much, 
 sir?" inquired the military gentleman. 
 
 " Not much," replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. " You've been on 
 the continent, of course ?" inquired the military gentleman. 
 
 " Not exactly," replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a qualified 
 tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had gone half way 
 and come back agSin. 
 
 " You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, 
 sir ?" said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
 
 As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the 
 grand tour was, or how such an article was manufactured, he 
 replied, " Of course." Just as he said the word, there came 
 tripping up from her seat at the stern of the vessel, a young 
 lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and boots of the same, with 
 long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief petticoats, and un- 
 exceptionable ankles. 
 
 " Walter, my dear," said the young lady to the military gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " Yes, Belinda, my love," responded the military gentleman 
 to the black-eyed young lady. 
 
 " What have you left me alone so long for ?" said the young 
 lady. " I have been stared out of countenance by those rude 
 young men." 
 
 " What ! stared at !" exclaimed the military gentleman, 
 with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his 
 eyes from the young lady's face with inconceivable rapidity. 
 
 "Which young men — where?" and the military gentleman 
 clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers 
 around. 
 
 " Be calm, Walter, I entreat," said the young lady. 
 
 " I won't," said the military gentleman. 
 
 " Do, sir," interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. " They a'nt worth 
 notice." 
 
THE TUGGS S AT RAMSGATE. 5 
 
 u No — no — they are not indeed," urged the young lady. 
 
 " I will be calm," said the military gentleman. " You speak 
 truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may 
 have spared me the guilt of manslaughter ;" and calming his 
 wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the 
 hand. 
 
 " My sister, sir," said Mr. Cymon Tuggs : seeing that the 
 military gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss 
 Charlotta. 
 
 " My wife, ma'am — Mrs. Captain "Waters," said the military 
 gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady. 
 
 " My mother, ma'am — Mrs. Tuggs," said Mr. Cymon. 
 The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchanting 
 courtesies ; and the Tuggs's looked as unembarrassed as they 
 could. 
 
 " Walter, my dear," said the black-eyed young lady, after 
 they had sat chatting with the Tuggs's some half hour. 
 
 " Yes, my love," said the military gentleman. 
 
 " Don't you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the 
 head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very like the Marquis 
 Carriwini." 
 
 " God bless me, very !" said the military gentleman. 
 
 " It struck me, the moment I saw him," said the young lady; 
 gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet coun- 
 tenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at 
 every body : and finding that every body was looking at him, 
 appeared to feel some temporary difficulty in disposing of his 
 eyesight. 
 
 " So exactly the air of the marquis," said the military gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " Quite extraordinary !" sighed the military gentleman's lady. 
 
 *' You don't know the marquis, sir ?" inquired the military- 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative. 
 
 " If you did," continued Captain Walter Waters, " you 
 would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the re- 
 semblance — a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing 
 appearance." 
 
 " He is — he is indeed!" exclaimed Belinda Waters energe- 
 tically : and as her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she 
 withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion. 
 
 All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggs's ; 
 and when in the course of further conversation, it was dis- 
 covered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the fac simile of a titled 
 relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters ; and that Mrs. Tuggs herself 
 was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton; 
 their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an ac- 
 
6 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 quaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain 
 Walter Waters relaxed to such a degree, that he suffered him- 
 self to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of 
 cold pigeon-pie and sherry on deck ; and a most delightful con- 
 versation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged 
 until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier. 
 
 " Good by'e, dear !" said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Char- 
 lotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; 
 w we shall see you on the sands in the morning : and as we are 
 sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be in- 
 separables for many weeks to come." 
 
 " Oh ! I hope so," said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically. 
 
 " Tickets, ladies and gen'lm'n," said the man on the pad- 
 dle-box. 
 
 " Want a porter, sir?" inquired a dozen men in smock- 
 frocks. 
 
 " Now, my dear — " said Captain Waters. 
 
 " Good by'e," said Mrs. Captain Waters — " good by'e ! Mr. 
 Cymon !" and with a pressure of the hand that threw the ami- 
 able young man's nerves into a state of considerable derange- 
 ment, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A 
 pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a 
 white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed : the Waters's 
 were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone indeed. 
 
 Silently and abstractedly did that too sensitive youth follow 
 his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheel- 
 barrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, 
 recalled him to himself. The sun was shining brightly— the 
 sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in ; crowds of 
 people promenaded to and fro ; young ladies tittered, old ladies 
 talked, nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest pos- 
 sible advantage, and their sweet little charges ran up and down, 
 and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the 
 legs of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhi- 
 larating manner possible. There were old gentlemen trying to 
 make out objects through long telescopes, and young ones 
 making objects of themselves in open shirt-collars ; ladies carry- 
 ing about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about 
 invalids. Parties were waiting on the pier for parties who had 
 come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but 
 talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment. 
 
 " Fly, sir?" exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six 
 boys, the moment that Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his 
 little party, had set foot in the street. 
 
 " Here 's the gen'lm'n at last!" said one, touching his hat 
 with mock politeness. " Werry glad to see you, sir, — been 
 waitin' for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir." 
 
THE TUGGS S AT RAMSGATE. 7 
 
 " Nice light fly, and a fast trotter, sir," said another ; " four- 
 teen mile a hour, and surroundin' objects rendered inwisible 
 by hextreme welocity !" 
 
 M Large fly for your luggage, sir," cried a third. " Werry 
 large fly here, sir — reg'lar bluebottle ! " 
 
 M Here's your fly, sir!" shouted another aspiring charioteer, 
 mounting the box, and inducing an old gray horse to indulge in 
 some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. " Look at him, sir I 
 — temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingin." 
 
 Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so 
 valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs 
 beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish 
 hue, lined with faded striped calico ; and the luggage and the 
 family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, 
 after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at 
 last consented to depart in quest of lodgings. 
 
 " How many beds have you got?" screamed Mrs. Tuggs out 
 of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first 
 house, which displayed a bill, intimating that apartments were 
 to be let within. 
 
 " How many did you want, ma'am ?" was of course the reply. 
 
 " Three." 
 
 " Will you step in, ma'am ?" Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The 
 family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front 
 windows — charming ! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs 
 again. — One parlour, and a mattress. 
 
 " Why the devil didn't they say so at first ?" inquired Mr. 
 Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly. 
 
 u Don't know/' said Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Wretches!" exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill 
 — another stoppage. Same question — same answer — similar 
 result. 
 
 " What do they mean by this ?" inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, 
 thoroughly out of temper. 
 
 " Don't know," said the placid Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Orvis the vay here, sir," said the driver, by way of ac- 
 counting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off 
 they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh 
 disappointments. 
 
 It had grown dusk when the " fly" — the rate of whose 
 progress greatly belied its name— after climbing up four or 
 five perpendicular hills, stopped before the door of a dusty 
 house, with a bay window, from which you could obtain a beau- 
 tiful glimpse of the sea — if you thrust half your body out of 
 it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area. Mrs. Tuggs 
 alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells with 
 beds in them up stairs — a double house — family on the opposite 
 
8 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 side — five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one 
 dear little boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back 
 in the passage. 
 
 «' What's the terms ?" said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the 
 house was deliberating on the expediency of putting on an 
 extra guinea ; so she coughed slightly, and affected not to hear 
 the question. 
 
 " What's the terms ?" said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key. 
 
 " Five guineas a week, ma'am, with attendance," replied the 
 lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of 
 ringing the bell as often as you like, for your own personal 
 amusement.) 
 
 " Rather dear," said Mrs. Tuggs. 
 
 " Oh dear, no, ma'am," replied the mistress of the house, 
 with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of manners and 
 customs, which the observation betrayed. " Very cheap." 
 
 " Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a 
 week's rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In 
 an hour's time, the family were seated at tea in their new abode. 
 
 " Capital srimps !" said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
 
 Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he em- 
 phatically said " Shrimps." 
 
 " Well then, shrimps," said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. " Srimps or 
 shrimps, don't much matter." 
 
 There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon 's eye, 
 as he replied, " Don't matter, father ! What would Captain 
 Waters say, if he heard such vulgarity I" 
 
 "Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say," added 
 Charlotta, " if she saw motlier — ma, I mean — eating them whole, 
 heads and all ! " 
 
 " It won't bear thinking of !" ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a 
 shudder. " How different," he thought, " from the Dowager 
 Duchess of Dobbleton !" 
 
 " Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cy- 
 mon ?" inquired Miss Charlotta. 
 
 A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, M An angel of beauty !" 
 
 " Hallo !" said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, " Hallo, Cymon my boy, 
 take care — married lady you know ;" and he winked one of his 
 twinkling eyes, knowingly. 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of 
 fury, as unexpected as alarming, " Why am I to be reminded 
 of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of my hopes ! Why 
 am I to be taunted with the miseries which are heaped upon my 
 head ! Is it not enough to — to — to — !" and the orator paused ; 
 but whether for want of words, or lack of breath, was never 
 distinctly ascertained. 
 
THE TUGGS'S AT RAMSGATE. 9 
 
 There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this ad- 
 dress, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon at its con- 
 clusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which 
 effectually forbade a reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, 
 and the Tuggs's went to bed too, half an hour afterwards, in a 
 state of considerable mystification and perplexity. 
 
 If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to 
 the Tuggs's on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far sur- 
 passed by the appearance of the sands on the morning after 
 their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with a light breeze 
 from the sea. There were the same ladies and gentlemen, the 
 same children, the same nursemaids, the same telescopes, the 
 same portable chairs ; the ladies were employed in needle-work, 
 or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels : the 
 gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines, the children 
 were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collect- 
 ing water therein : the nursemaids with their youngest charges 
 in arms, were running in after the waves, and then running back 
 with the waves after them : and now and then a little sailing- 
 boat either departed with a gay and talkative cargo of pas- 
 sengers, or returned with a very silent, and particularly uncom- 
 fortable-looking one. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. 
 Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon 
 Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding number of yellow 
 shoes, seated themselves on four rush-bottomed chairs, which, 
 being placed in a soft part of the sand, forthwith sunk down 
 some two feet and a half. — " Well, I never !" 
 
 Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, up* 
 rooted the chairs, and removed them further back. 
 
 " Why, I'm bless'd if there a'nt some ladies a-going in 1" 
 exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment. 
 " Lor, pa !" exclaimed Miss Charlotta. 
 
 " There is ! my dear," said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure 
 enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped 
 up the steps of a bathing machine ; in went the horse, floun- 
 dering about in the water : round turned the machine, down sat 
 the driver, and presently out burst the young ladies aforesaid, 
 with four distinct splashes. 
 
 u Well, that's sing'ler, too," ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs _ 
 after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly. 
 
 " Why, here's some gentlemen a-going in on this side," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror. 
 
 Three machines — three horses — three flounderings — three 
 turnings round — three splashes — three gentlemen, disporting 
 themselves in the water, like so many dolphins. 
 
 " Well, that's sing'ler," said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. 
 
1C LIBRATIY OF FICTION. 
 
 Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. 
 It was agreeably broken. 
 
 " How d'ye do, dear ? We have been looking for you all the 
 morning," said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain 
 Waters was the owner of it. 
 
 " How d'ye do?" said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; 
 and a most cordial interchange of greetings ensued. 
 
 " Belinda, my love," said Captain Walter Waters, applying 
 his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea. 
 
 M Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Captain Waters. 
 
 " There's Harry Thompson." 
 
 " Where?" said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye. 
 
 " Bathing." 
 
 " Lor, so it is ! He don't see us, does he ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think he does," replied the captain. — " Bless 
 my soul, how very singular ! " 
 
 " What ? " inquired Belinda. 
 
 " There's Mary Golding, too." 
 
 " Lor ! — where ? " (Up went the glass again.) 
 
 " There," said the captain, pointing to one of the young 
 ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if 
 she were enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimen- 
 sions. 
 
 "So it is, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. — 
 Ci How very curious we should see them both!" 
 
 " Very," said the captain, with perfect coolness. 
 
 " It's the reg'lar thing here, you see," whispered Mr. Cymon 
 Tuggs to his father. 
 
 " I see it is," whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. (t Queer 
 though — a'nt it ? " Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent. 
 
 " What do you think of doing with yourselves this morning ? " 
 inquired the captain. — " Shall we lunch at Pegvvell ? " 
 
 " I should like that very much indeed," interposed Mrs. 
 Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell before ; but the word 
 " lunch" had reached her ears, and it sounded very agree- 
 
 abl y- 
 
 " How shall we go?" inquired the captain; " it's too warm 
 to walk." 
 
 " A chay ?" suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
 
 " Chaise," whispered Mr. Cymon. 
 
 " I should think one would be enough," said Joseph Tuggs 
 aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. 
 " However, two chays, if you like." 
 
 " I should like a donkey so much," said Belinda. 
 
 " Oh, so should I ! " echoed Charlotta Tuggs. 
 
 " Well, we can have a fly," suggested the captain, " and 
 you can have a couple of donkeys." 
 
THE TUGGS^ AT RAMSGATE. 11 
 
 A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it 
 would be decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The 
 remedy was obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gal- 
 lant enough to accompany them. 
 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly 
 protested he was no horseman. The objection was at once over- 
 ruled. A fly was speedily found ; and three donkeys — which the 
 proprietor declared on his solemn asseveration to be " three parts 
 blood, and the other corn" — were engaged in the service. 
 
 " Kum up!" shouted one of the two boys who followed be- 
 hind to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta 
 Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled into their re- 
 spective saddles. 
 
 "Hi — hi — hi!" groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon 
 Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stirrups jingling 
 against the heels of Cymon's boots, and Cymon's boots nearly 
 scraping the ground. 
 
 " Way — way ! Wo — o — o — o — !" cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs 
 as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting. 
 
 " Don't make it gallop ! " screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, 
 behind. 
 
 " My donkey will go into the public-house ! " shrieked Miss 
 Tuggs, in the rear. 
 
 " Hi — hi — hi!" groaned both the boys together; and on 
 went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them. 
 
 Every thing has an end, however ; and even the galloping of 
 donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon 
 Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, 
 the object of which he could by no means understand, abruptly 
 sidled against a brick wall, and expressed his uneasiness by 
 grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs's leg on the rough surface. Mrs. 
 Captain Waters's donkey, apparently under the influence of 
 some playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a 
 hedge, and declined to come out again : and the quadruped on 
 which Miss Tuggs was mounted expressed his delight at this 
 humorous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against the 
 ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, but some- 
 what alarming manner. 
 
 This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride naturally 
 occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehe- 
 ment screaming for several minutes ; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, 
 besides sustaining intense bodily pain, had the additional mental 
 anguish of witnessing their distressing situation 1 , without the 
 power to rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed 
 in, between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the boys, 
 however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of twisting the tail 
 of the most rebellious donkey, restored order in a much shorter 
 
12 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 time than could have reasonably been expected, and the little 
 party jogged slowly on together. 
 
 " Now let 'em walk," said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. " It's cruel 
 to over-drive 'em." 
 
 ** Werry well, sir," replied the boy, with a grin at his compa- 
 nion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty 
 applied less to the animals than to their riders. 
 
 " What a lovely day, dear!" said Charlotta. 
 
 * Charming ; enchanting, dear ! " responded Mrs. Captain 
 Waters. " What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs ! " 
 
 Cymon looked full in Belinda's face, as he responded — 
 " Beautiful, indeed ! " The lady cast down her eyes, and suf- 
 fered the animal she was riding to fall a little back. Cymon 
 Tuggs instinctively did the same. 
 
 There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. 
 Cymon Tuggs. 
 
 " Mr. Cymon," said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, 
 " Mr, Cymon — I am another's." 
 
 Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement 
 which it was quite impossible to controvert. 
 
 " If I had not been," — resumed Belinda ; and there she 
 stopped. 
 
 " What — what ?" said Mr. Cymon earnestly. " Do not tor- 
 ture me. What would you say ?" 
 
 " If I had not been" — continued Mrs. Captain Waters — '* If 
 in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, and been 
 beloved by a noble youth — a kindred soul — a congenial spirit 
 — one capable of feeling and appreciating the sentiments 
 which—" 
 
 " Heavens ! what do I hear ?" exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 
 " Is it possible ! can I believe my — Come up." (This last un- 
 sentimental parenthesis was addressed to the donkey, who with 
 his head between his fore-legs, appeared to be examining the 
 state of his shoes with great anxiety.) 
 
 " Hi — hi — hi," said the boys behind. " Come up, expostu- 
 lated Cymon Tuggs again. " Hi — hi — hi," repeated the boys : 
 and whether it was that the animal felt indignant at the tone of 
 Mr. Tuggs's command, or alarmed by the noise of the deputy 
 proprietor's boots running behind him, or whether he burned with 
 a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys, certain it is that he 
 no sooner heard the second series of " hi — hi's," than he started 
 away with a celerity of pace which jerked Mr. Cymon's hat off 
 instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no 
 time, where he deposited his rider without giving him the 
 trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his 
 head, into the very door of the tavern. 
 
 Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was 
 
THE TUGGS's AT RAMSGATE. 13 
 
 set right end uppermost by two waiters ; considerable was the 
 alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her son ; and agonizing were 
 the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain Waters on his account. It 
 was speedily discovered, however, that he had not sustained 
 much more injury than the donkey — he was grazed, and the 
 animal was grazing — and then it was a delightful party to be 
 sure ! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch 
 in the little garden behind : — small saucers of large shrimps, dabs 
 of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. The sky was without 
 a cloud, there were flower- pots and turf before them; and the 
 sea at the foot of the cliff, stretching away as far as the eye 
 could discern any thing at all, and vessels in the distance with 
 sails as white, and as small, as nicely got-up cambric hand- 
 kerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and 
 the captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain 
 Waters was in such spirits after lunch ; chasing, first the cap- 
 tain across the turf, and among the flower-pots, and then Mr. 
 Cymon Tuggs, and then Miss Tuggs, laughing too, quite bois- 
 terously. But as the captain said, it didn't matter; who knew 
 what they were, there ? For all the people of the house knew, 
 they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs re- 
 sponded, " To be sure," and then they went down the steep 
 wooden steps a little further on, which lead to the bottom of the 
 cliff, and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, 
 'till it was more than fully time to go back to Ramsgate again, 
 and finally Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the steps last, and Mrs. 
 Captain Waters last but one : and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered 
 that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even 
 more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed. 
 
 Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is 
 a very different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accom- 
 plished, than taking him from it: it requires a great deal of 
 foresight and presence of mind in the one case, to anticipate 
 the numerous flights of his discursive imagination; while in the 
 other, all you have to do is to hold on, and place a blind con- 
 fidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter 
 expedient on his return ; and his nerves were so little discom- 
 posed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were 
 all to meet again at the library in the evening. 
 
 The library was crowded. There were the same ladies and 
 the same gentlemen that had been on the sands in the morning, 
 and on the pier the day before. There were young ladies in 
 maroon- coloured gowns and black velvet bracelets, dispensing 
 fancy articles in the shop, and presiding over games of chance 
 in the concert-room. There were marriageable daughters, and 
 marriage-making mammas, gaming, and promenading, and turn- 
 ing over music, and flirting. There were some male beaux doing 
 
14 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in 
 mustaches. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in 
 sky-blue, and Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Cap- 
 tain Waters in a braided surtout : there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs 
 in pumps, and a gilt waistcoat ; and moreover, there was Mr. 
 Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat, and a shirt-frill. 
 
 " Number three, eight, and eleven," cried one of the young 
 ladies in maroon-coloured gowns. 
 
 " Number three, eight, and eleven," echoed another young 
 lady in the same uniform. 
 
 " Number three's gone," said the first young lady. " Num- 
 ber eight and eleven." 
 
 " Number eight and eleven," echoed the second young lady. 
 
 " Number eight's gone, Mary Ann," said the first young 
 lady. 
 
 " Number eleven," screamed the second. 
 
 u The numbers are all taken now, Ladies, if you please," 
 said the first; and the representatives of numbers three, eight, 
 and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded round the 
 table. 
 
 " Will you throw, ma'am V said the presiding goddess, hand- 
 ing the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with 
 four girls. 
 
 There was a profound silence among the lookers on. 
 
 " Throw, Jane, my dear," said the stout lady — an interesting 
 display of bashfulness — a little blushing in a cambric handker- 
 chief — a whispering to a younger sister. 
 
 " Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister," said the stout lady ; 
 and then she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowland's 
 Macassar, who stood next her, and said, " Jane is so very 
 modest and retiring; but I can't be angry with her for it. An 
 artless and unsophisticated girl is so truly amiable, that I often 
 wish Amelia was more like her sister." 
 
 The gentleman with the whiskers, whispered his admiring ap- 
 proval ; and the artless young lady glanced across, to observe 
 the effect of her most unqualified simplicity. 
 
 " Now, my dear ! " said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw 
 — eight for her sister, ten for herself. 
 
 " Nice figure, Amelia," whispered the stout lady, to a thin 
 youth beside her. 
 
 " Beautiful ! " 
 
 " And such a spirit. I am like you in that respect. I can 
 not help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah ! (a sigh) I wish 
 I could make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia ! " 
 
 The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment : 
 and both he, and the individual first addressed, were perfectly 
 contented. 
 
THE TUGGS'S AT RAMSGATE. 15 
 
 " Who 's this ? " inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain 
 Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was 
 led into the orchestra, by a fat man in black tights, and cloudy 
 Berlins. 
 
 " Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres," replied Belinda, 
 referring to the programme of the concert. 
 
 The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged 
 the clapping of hands, and shouts of " bravo ! " which greeted 
 her appearance, proceeded to sing the popular cavatinaof " Bid 
 me discourse," accompanied on the piano by Mr. Tippin ; after 
 which Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on the piano 
 by Mrs. Tippin, the applause consequent upon which was only to 
 be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air 
 with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on 
 the chin by Mr. Tippin. 
 
 Thus passed the evening : and thus passed the days and 
 evenings of the Tuggs's, and the Waters's, for six weeks after- 
 wards. Sands in the morning — donkeys at noon : pier in the 
 afternoon — library at night ; and the same people every where. 
 
 On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly 
 over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt 
 cliffs with just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without 
 disturbing the young ones, when two figures were discernible — 
 or would have been, if any body had looked for them — seated on 
 one of the wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of 
 the western cliff. The moon had climbed higher into the hea- 
 vens, by two hours' journeying, since those figures first sat down, 
 and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had 
 thinned and dispersed, the noise of itinerant musicians had died 
 away; light afterlight had appeared in the windows of the dif- 
 ferent houses in the distance, blockade-man after blockade-man 
 had passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary post, 
 and yet those figures had remained stationary. Some portions 
 of the two forms were in deep shadow, but the light of the moon 
 fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a glazed stock. Mr. 
 Cymon Tuggs, and Mrs. Captain Waters, were seated on that 
 bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea. - 
 
 " Walter will return to-morrow," said Mrs. Captain Waters, 
 mournfully breaking silence. 
 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest 
 of gooseberry-bushes, as he replied — " Alas ! he will." 
 
 " Oh, Cymon !'* resumed Belinda, u the chaste delight, the 
 calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is too much 
 for me." 
 
 Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for him, 
 but he stopped himself, and murmured unintelligibly. 
 
 "And to think that even this glimpse of happiness, innocent 
 as it is," exclaimed Belinda, " is now to be lost for ever ! " 
 
16 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Oh, do not say for ever ! Belinda," exclaimed the excitable 
 Cymon, as two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his 
 pale face — it was so long that there was plenty of room for a chase 
 — " Do not say for ever ! " 
 " I must," replied Belinda. 
 
 " Why ? " urged Cymon, " oh why ? Such Platonic acquaint- 
 ance as ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never 
 object to it." 
 
 " My husband ! " exclaimed Belinda. " You little know 
 him. Jealous and revengeful ; ferocious in his revenge — a 
 maniac in his jealousy ! Would you be assassinated before my 
 eyes?" Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by emotion, 
 expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of assas- 
 sination before the eyes of any body. 
 
 " Then leave me," said Mrs. Captain Waters. " Leave me, 
 this night, for ever. It is late; let us return." 
 
 Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and 
 escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door — he felt 
 a Platonic pressure of his hand. " Good night," he said, hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 " Good night," sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused 
 again. 
 
 "Won't you walk in, sir?" said the servant. Mr. Tuggs 
 hesitated. Oh, that hesitation ! He did walk in. 
 
 M Good night," said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he 
 reached the drawing-room. 
 
 " Good night!" replied Belinda; " and if, at any period of 
 my life, I — Hush!" The lady paused, and stared, with a 
 steady gaze of horror, on the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon 
 Tuggs. There was a double knock at the street-door. 
 
 " It is my husband !" said Belinda, as the captain's voice 
 was heard below. 
 
 "And my family!" added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of 
 his relatives floated up the staircase. 
 
 " The curtain ! the curtain !" gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, 
 pointing to the window, before which some chintz hangings were 
 closely drawn. 
 
 " But I have done nothing wrong," said the hesitating 
 Cymon. 
 
 " The curtain !" reiterated the lady, franticly ; " you will 
 be murdered." This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. 
 The dismayed Cymon concealed himself behind the curtain, 
 with pantomimic suddenness. 
 
 Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta. 
 
 " My dear," said the captain, " Lieutenant Slaughter." Two 
 
 iron-shod boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon 
 
 to advance, and acknowledge the honour of the introduction. 
 
 The sabre of the lieutenant rattled heavily upon the floor, as he 
 
THE TUGGS's AT RAMSGATE. 17 
 
 seated himself at the table. Mr. Cymon's fears almost over- 
 came his reason. *. 
 
 "The brandy, my dear," said the captain. Here was a 
 situation ! They were going to make a night of it : and Mr. 
 Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain, and afraid to 
 breathe. 
 
 " Slaughter," said the captain, " a cigar?" 
 
 Now Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling 
 it indispensably necessary to retire immediately, and never could 
 smell smoke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars 
 were introduced ;j|the captain was a professed smoker, so was the 
 lieutenant, so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, 
 the door was closed, the smoke powerful : it hung in heavy 
 wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the 
 curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, then his mouth, then 
 his breath. It was all of no use — out came the cough. 
 
 " Bless my soul !" said the captain, " I beg your pardon, 
 Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking." 
 
 " Oh no; I don't indeed," said Charlotta. 
 
 " It makes you cough." 
 
 " Oh dear no." 
 
 " You coughed just now." 
 
 " Me, Captain Waters ! Lor! how can you say so ?" 
 
 " Somebody coughed," said the captain. 
 
 " I certainly thought so," said Slaughter. No ; every body 
 denied it. 
 
 " Fancy," said the captain. 
 
 " Must be." echoed Slaughter. 
 
 Cigars resumed, more smoke, another cough — smothered, but 
 violent. 
 
 " Damned odd !" said the captain, staring about him. 
 
 " Sing'ler ! " ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph 
 Tuggs. 
 
 Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, 
 then at another ; then laid down his cigar ; then approached 
 the window on tiptoe, and pointed, with his right thumb over 
 his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain. 
 
 "Slaughter!" ejaculated the captain, rising from table, 
 11 what do you mean ?" 
 
 The lieutenant in reply, drew back the curtain, and dis- 
 covered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it ; pallid with apprehension, 
 and blue with wanting to cough. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the captain furiously, " What do I see? 
 Slaughter, your sabre ! " 
 
 " Cymon !" screamed the Tuggs's. 
 
 " Mercy," said Belinda. 
 
 11 Platonic," gasped Cymon. 
 
 c 
 
18 • LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Your sabre !" roared the captain, " Slaughter — unhand 
 me — the villain's life !" 
 
 " Murder ! " screamed the Tuggs's. 
 
 " Hold him fast, sir !" faintly articulated Cymon. 
 
 " Water ! " exclaimed Joseph Tuggs — and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, 
 and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau. 
 
 Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of 
 the six weeks' acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbi- 
 trary custom, however, prescribe that a story should have a con- 
 clusion, in addition to a commencement ; and we have therefore 
 no alternative. Lieutenant Slaughter brougUt a message — the 
 captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph Tuggs interposed — the 
 lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered 
 from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and 
 exciting circumstances had plunged him, he found that his 
 family had lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was 
 minus fifteen hundred pounds ; and the captain plus the precise 
 sum. The money was paid to hush the matter up, but it got 
 abroad notwithstanding ; and there are not wanting those who 
 affirm that three designing impostors never found more easy 
 dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant 
 Slaughter, in the Tuggs's at Ramsgate. 
 
 BOZ. 
 
 THE 
 
 CASTLE OF CLEVES ; OR, THE WITNESS-HAND. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF CASTELLI.) 
 
 Towards the close of the year 179 — , a division of the twenty- 
 second French brigade, in which Charles Surville had just entered 
 upon service, was ordered to Cleves (the capital of the duchy 
 bearing that name), there to establish its winter quarters. Up to 
 the period we have specified that city had not been included in 
 the league with France ; but, according to a convention entered 
 into with Prussia, the troops of the republic were to hold it in 
 possession until articles of peace should be signed between the 
 belligerent powers. 
 
 To almost any stranger the sojourn at Cleves could scarcely 
 have failed to prove delightful. The hospitable welcome offered 
 by the inhabitants, the enchanting scenery of the environs, 
 together with the extremely moderate expense of Jiving (to a 
 soldier of fortune an object of material importance), rendered 
 the quarters in every respect desirable. But, alas ! how often 
 do we feel that there is a " worm in the gourd" — a check to our 
 
THE CASTLE OF CLEVES. 19 
 
 happiness, which neither change of climate, nor the most flatter- 
 ing circumstances, can dissipate or controul. And under such 
 depression of mind was it the lot of poor Charles at this period 
 to suffer. For, whilst in obedience to the call of his country, he 
 was bending all his energies, and hazarding life itself, to preserve 
 her rights and liberties, he learnt that the very same government 
 which he was thus serving, had barbarously sacrificed the lives 
 of his dearest relatives. Besides several junior members of 
 the family, his aged parents themselves had, by an unjust and 
 sanguinary decree, been consigned to the guillotine. Almost 
 every post, indeed, brought him the harrowing detail of some 
 fresh calamity ; for the demon of the French revolution was at 
 that period stalking about with bloody footsteps, and suggesting 
 a continual succession of victims to satiate its fierce and un- 
 hallowed cravings. 
 
 Agonized and distracted by the list of horrors, the unhappy 
 Charles tore open again a wound he had but recently received 
 in a skirmish, and which was still unhealed ; and in the depth 
 of night he wandered forth from the hospital, big with the 
 design of avenging himself deeply upon those whom he re- 
 garded as the murderers of his beloved relatives. This design 
 was, however, nothing short of madness, and he had not pro- 
 ceeded far ere he became faint and exhausted, and his over- 
 wrought feelings overcoming his enfeebled frame, he sank down 
 on the road-side completely powerless. Some of his comrades 
 fortunately coming up almost at the moment, they lost no time 
 in conveying back the sufferer to the asylum he had just 
 quitted. 
 
 Several months passed before he recovered from the effects of 
 this relapse, and acquired sufficient strength to resume active 
 service. In doing so, however, he did not for a moment re- 
 nounce or abandon the thoughts of vengeance. They haunted 
 him night and day ; and he lived on in the confident hope that 
 an early time would arrive at which he might accomplish his 
 cherished purpose. 
 
 It was shortly after his return to his regimental duties, at some 
 
 distance from Cleves, that a young officer, George B , who 
 
 had been recently appointed to the same corps, joined his de- 
 tachment. It was not long ere circumstances revealed to Charles 
 that his new comrade was no other than nephew to one of the 
 tyrants who had been mainly instrumental in butchering his 
 kinsmen. The eyes of the enraged youth, when he first learnt 
 this unexpected news, flashed with almost demoniacal joy ; and 
 as he contemplated the devoted sacrifice thus suddenly pre- 
 sented, he thanked kind fortune for so speedily granting the 
 desire of his heart. 
 
 Accident soon brought the young men into collision, and a 
 
 c 2 
 
20 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 dispute having arisen between them upon some trifling matter, 
 swords were instantly drawn. They fought long and bravely ; 
 until at length the point of Charles's weapon pierced the heart 
 of his adversary, who fell to the earth a corpse. Our hero, 
 aware of the danger to which he was now exposed, repaired at 
 once to the commandant, to whom he communicated the par- 
 ticulars of the fatal occurrence ; and that officer, who enter- 
 tained a very high opinion of Charles's character, and sincerely 
 sympathized in his misfortunes, sanctioned and even aided his 
 escape, providing him with a letter of introduction to the colonel 
 of the twenty-second regiment, wherein he was strongly recom- 
 mended to that officer's protection and favour. 
 
 Surville arrived safely at the head-quarters of the brigade at 
 Cleves ; and by his unassuming and modest demeanour, strict 
 attention to discipline and courageous bearing, recommended 
 himself to the respect of his superior officers, and the esteem of 
 his comrades. He rarely joined the latter in their social hours, 
 but w 7 as generally to be found in solitary contemplation, silently 
 brooding over the horrid pictures his imagination drew of the 
 fate of his friends ; at times indeed he sought the calm converse 
 of an amiable family wherein he had become an inmate. The 
 members of this small circle consisted of the father, Mr. Milliner, 
 an antiquary; his son, Gustavus, a secretary in an official 
 office, and two daughters— Alexandria and Dorothea — the 
 eldest of whom w 7 as L7 and the youngest 16 years of age. They 
 were all much attached to Surville ; and he endeavoured to 
 retain their good-will by every means in his power : sometimes 
 he would relate his travels to the old gentleman, and describe 
 ■with all their technical peculiarities the various antiquities he 
 had beheld ; at others he was engaged in giving instruction to 
 Gustavus in the French language ; and again he would embrace 
 opportunities of pleasing the fair sisters, by procuring from the 
 master of his band select pieces of music, or getting from 
 Cologne the most interesting works of the day, which he read 
 to them. Thus the stranger became more and more intimately 
 associated with the members of the family, and was at length 
 almost looked upon as one of themselves. 
 
 The winter season had now nearly passed away ; and it be- 
 came observable that a tender attachment united the hearts of 
 Charles and Dorothea. The maiden, candid and sincere, made 
 no secret of her sentiments ; while the young soldier, now bereft 
 of the nearest ties of relationship — his hopes and expectations 
 fixed upon the colours of his regiment, could not conceal the 
 pleasure he derived from a prospect of forming so respectable an 
 alliance. At length the brother, Gustavus, was commissioned 
 by the lovers to be their messenger to his father, to whom he 
 undertook to communicate their hopes and wishes, and to beg 
 
THE CASTLE OF CLEVES. 21 
 
 the sanction of his blessing. The agent executed his task with 
 all the warmth and ardour of an affectionate brother and sincere 
 friend : — he did not however succeed in his object ; the only- 
 reply he could obtain being, " When Surville can produce a 
 captain's commission, or can gain an adequate addition to his 
 present income — then shall Dorothea become his wife." 
 
 This sentence was received by Charles with dismay. The 
 property of his family had been confiscated at the time of their 
 execution ; and he saw no prospect of promotion unless he 
 could distinguish himself by some act of bravery — an event 
 which opportunity alpne could bring about, and of which he 
 saw no chance for a length of time. Discouraged and sick at 
 heart, he sat musing on his hard fate, when suddenly a thought 
 struck him, no less singular than bold, which he instantly pre- 
 pared to carry into effect. 
 
 The father of his Dorothea not only speculated in one par- 
 ticular class of antiquities, but whenever occasion presented 
 itself, he also collected for his own use various rare and costly 
 articles, so that he was now in possession of the most complete 
 and choice collection of ancient relics to be found in the 
 province. Charles, therefore, in order to administer to this 
 taste, and conciliate the affections of the old gentleman, which, 
 like those of the aged generally, had become wayward and 
 capricious, formed a resolution to devote his -leisure -to the pur- 
 suit and discovery of specimens of virtu, which he determined 
 to acquire even at the risk, if necessary, of his life — for it 
 should be mentioned, that several natural curiosities, highly 
 prized by the antiquarian, were attainable only at considerable 
 personal hazard. It was now he recollected reports which had 
 reached him, that under the ruins of the ancient castle of Cleves 
 certain vaults existed, deeply hidden in the bowels of the earth, 
 said to contain almost countless treasures in relics of ancient 
 times. 
 
 Credulous of the'truth of this rumour, the sanguine youth 
 fixed all his hopes upon this enterprise. He hastened to get 
 together the implements necessary to force a passage into the 
 receptacle, and, without betraying his purpose to any one (not 
 even to his beloved Dorothea herself), he set out on his mo- 
 mentous expedition. 
 
 Having effected an entrance into the cavern, he pursued his 
 course through its subterraneous passages, until he arrived at the 
 deep descent which conducted to the vaults. He began his 
 labours at once, clearing away obstructions, and gradually saw 
 the accomplishment of his wishes become nearer. For three 
 successive nights did he resume his unremitting toil, till at length 
 his exertions were rewarded by the effecting an opening, and he 
 anxiously gazed round the long-unpenetrated cave wherein he 
 
22 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 found himself. By the aid of his lantern, our hero saw that 
 report for once had spoken truth : relics lay strewn around 
 him, sufficient to captivate the hearts of a whole host of virtu- 
 osi. Charles selected what he deemed most suited to his imme- 
 diate purpose, and then revisited the upper air, laden with sundry 
 coins and medals, a helmet, and a shield. 
 
 On his arrival at home, he presented these valuable objects 
 to the antiquary, who, astonished and delighted, ceased not to 
 praise the young adventurer, and to express his gratitude for so 
 important an addition to his catalogue. In high glee at this first 
 result of his adventures, Charles would have repeated his visit 
 that same day, had he not been compelled to resume his regi- 
 mental duties, wnich engrossed his attention during the whole of 
 the subsequent month. 
 
 No sooner was he again at liberty, than his urgent hopes 
 prompted him to renew his labours : and, imboldened by suc- 
 cess, he resolved to penetrate still deeper into the bowels of the 
 earth, having hitherto explored only the most superficial of the 
 vaults. In order, however, that the extended term of his ab- 
 sence (which he had fixed for three days and nights) might not 
 produce anxiety in the mind of Dorothea, he decided to impart 
 his secret to her. He accordingly explained his plan, and 
 encouraged her with the certain prospect of their union being 
 secured by the rich cargo he should be enabled to present to the 
 world on his return. After many fruitless attempts to dissuade 
 him from his purpose (although its object was to ensure their 
 happiness) the agitated girl yielded to his arguments, and accom- 
 panied him to the mouth of the cavern. She was anxious even 
 to follow her lover into the interior ; but Charles persuaded her 
 to leave him, and return home immediately, to prevent her ab- 
 sence being noticed. She quitted the spot, therefore, almost in 
 despair lest she should never see him again, although she tried 
 to console herself with the idea that he had already once 
 encountered the hazards of the expedition (for the walls were 
 everywhere crumbling, and ready to topple down), and had yet 
 returned unhurt. In order, however, to diminish the danger as 
 much as possible, she furnished him with a piece of string 
 which might assist him in tracing his road back (the involutions 
 of the subterranean ruins being perfectly labyrinthine), or guide 
 her to him in case he did not appear at the expiration of the 
 appointed time. 
 
 The second day of our hero's absence had not yet quite ex- 
 pired, when the Milliner family, and the whole town, were sur- 
 prised by the unexpected arrival of the commandant of the divi- 
 sion, with orders for the immediate march of the twenty-second 
 brigade, to join the main body of the army, which had just taken 
 its position on the banks of the Meuse. The drums sounded to 
 
THE CASTLE OF CLEVES. 23 
 
 arms, the regiment formed in the square, and the muster-roll 
 was called over, upon which it was found that Charles Surville 
 was missing. All were at a loss to explain the cause of his 
 absence. He was known to be a brave soldier, and a strict 
 disciplinarian — tenacious of his honour, and incapable of aban- 
 doning his colours. Indeed, amongst the many evidences of this 
 character he had from time to time given, was the fact, that 
 although severely wounded in the right-hand, which was thereby 
 deprived. of its forefinger, and by which circumstance he had the 
 option of abandoning the service, he had, notwithstanding, pre- 
 ferred to retain his commission, and had ever since continued on 
 active duty. 
 
 In this instance, however, he was clearly absent without leave ; 
 and having been sought for throughout the town as sedulously 
 as circumstances would permit, there remained no alternative but 
 to report the unfortunate young man as a deserter. His regiment 
 marched away without him, to the universal regret, mingled 
 with astonishment, of officers, privates, and townsfolk. 
 
 It so happened, however, that counter orders overtook the 
 corps, soon after it had left Cleves ; in consequence of which 
 the soldiers returned to that city, and having arrived once more 
 at their barracks, the general of division felt himself bound to 
 issue orders for the assembling of a court martial the following 
 day to sit in judgment on the hapless Surville. 
 
 The third day of his disappearance had now drawn to a close, 
 and no tidings were received of the absent officer. Poor Doro- 
 thea, in an agony of despair at the probable fate impending over 
 her lover, waited until the family had retired to rest. Fortifying 
 herself by fond remembrances of him, for the preservation of 
 whose life she felt resolved, if necessary, to sacrifice her own, 
 the intrepid girl set out alone for the ancient ruins. When she 
 reached the entrance of the gloomy cavern, she was overcome 
 with a sudden dread of Charles's fate, and was forced to rest 
 herself upon a block of stone. 
 
 The silence and darkness which pervaded every thing around 
 enhanced her excitement and her fears. Her imagination was 
 tortured with the most gloomy images ; and as she sat, bending 
 her eyes on vacancy, spectral shapes began to flit before them, 
 and the desolated fabric of the castle seemed to be metamor- 
 phosed into one vast tomb. At length her hand accidentally 
 fell upon the thread which was to guide her to the arms of her 
 affianced husband. She seized it with eagerness. It appeared 
 to form a link between her and hope. Her courage and spirits 
 revived ; and holding the thread firmly between her fingers, she 
 grasped the lantern she had brought with her, and, appealing to 
 Heaven for support, proceeded to enter the obscure abyss. 
 
 As Dorothea passed onward, her steps grew steadier, her heart 
 
24 LIBRARY OP FICTION. 
 
 lighter; until the dead stillness that continued to brood around 
 again caused her spirits to sink. She called aloud on Charles, 
 but none answered. A gloomy echo was the only rejoinder! 
 More than an hour passed thus, as the resolute girl followed up 
 the various openings her lover had made. But now she felt 
 her strength give way, and leant for support against a projection 
 of the rocky wall. A few minutes, repose in some degree reco- 
 vered and enabled her to resume her anxious search. Onwards 
 she glided, her streaming hair (which had become disengaged 
 from its bands), lifted by the blast that occasionally eddied 
 through the crevices, and, together with her wan cheeks, giving 
 her the semblance of a restless ghost: onward she wandered, 
 till suddenly the thread — her only guide and source of hope — 
 terminated ! Then it was she felt overpowered with despair — 
 she became chilled both in soul and body. She could with 
 difficulty articulate the words — " Charles ! my beloved Charles, 
 where, oh ! where art thou % " She listened in breathless 
 suspense, and with parted lips, but in vain. — "Alas!" cried 
 she, at length, " he is dead." Even as she spoke, the du- 
 bious light of the lantern rendered an object at some little dis- 
 tance partly definable, towards which, with frantic energy and a 
 heartbreaking shriek, she instantly sprang. Part of a wall had 
 fallen over, and beneath its ruins were protruded part of the 
 head and arms of the ill-starred Surville. He had evidently 
 been endeavouring to break through this barrier, for one hand 
 still clenched, with the convulsive grasp of death, the fatal pick- 
 axe. The breach he made had shaken down the whole ob- 
 struction! 
 
 The poor girl threw herself upon the bleeding relics of her 
 sacrificed lover, and remained long in a state of insensibility. 
 But fate forbad, as yet, her following him in death. She awoke to 
 a consciousness of misery. With considerable difficulty and 
 danger, she succeeded in extricating his head from amidst the 
 stones by which it was nearly crushed, and laid it upon her lap, 
 bedewing it with tears. She then resolved in her despair to 
 remain here until hunger might in mercy produce that death she 
 so much longed to share with him. But, after a while, the 
 thought flashed upon her mind that it was still possible to rescue 
 the honour of the deceased soldier, and that a duty the most 
 sacred had thus devolved upon her to perform ere she could 
 resolve to join him for ever in the grave. She hastened, there- 
 fore, at once to secure the only means remaining to redeem the 
 character of her betrothed ; and seizing that same hand which 
 had been plighted to her in faith and love — now, alas ! cold and 
 stiffened, she with unshrinking resolution performed the dreadful 
 operation of severing it from the wrist with an instrument that 
 lay by the body. Furnished with this terrible but undeniable 
 
THE CASTLE OF CLEVES. 25 
 
 proof of his innocence, she then hurried through the dark pas- 
 sages, nor paused until she had regained the entrance to that 
 fatal cavern. 
 
 Day had already dawned when Dorothea reached her home, 
 faint and haggard. Her sister, alarmed at her appearance at 
 that unseasonable hour, and in such a state, required an expla- 
 nation. In the greatest agitation she hastily related the dis- 
 tressing scenes of the last night, concluding with an inquiry as 
 to every particular of what had been determined on respecting 
 her Charles. Alexandria replied, that even at that early hour 
 a court martial would be sitting in judgment on him. Horror- 
 struck and alarmed lest she should be too late, she broke from 
 her sister, and rushed through the streets to the council-room. 
 In vain did the sentinels oppose her entrance ; her desperation 
 (as desperation often will) overcame all obstacles, and she burst 
 into the chamber at the very moment these words were pronounc- 
 ing : " Charles Surville, convicted of desertion, is sentenced to 
 be shot ! " 
 
 "Hold! hold!" she cried. " Justice ! justice ! Charles 
 Surville has not deserted his colours : he has sacrificed himself 
 for me, Dorothea Milliner! Behold the undeniable proof I 
 bring ! " And herewith she drew forth the cold hand of their 
 late comrade, which being directly recognised by the missing 
 finger, they at once reversed the sentence. 
 
 Poor Dorothea ! thy ghastly task was ended ! thy broken 
 heart had earned its lasting rest ! Thy lover's sentence of ac- 
 quittal was thy summons for rejoining him. Stretched at the 
 feet of the appalled and wonder-stricken officers, with one con- 
 vulsive shudder, but undiminished faith and fortitude, Dorothea 
 expired ! 
 
MR. FIREDRAKE FIDGET. 
 
 (original.) 
 
 He who is so deplorably ignorant as to require to be told the 
 locality of Bread-street-hill, must needs be all the wiser when 
 we inform him that the premises appertaining to Mr. Firedrake 
 Fidget were situated in that neighbourhood. 
 
 Mr. Firedrake Fidget was cautious, active, prudent, vigilant, 
 and a drysalter — like his father. Indeed that, worthy man had 
 occupied the same tenement, and rented the very warehouses in 
 which his son carried on so flourishing a business, and in which, 
 seated on a high stool in his dark back counting-house, it had 
 been his boast for many years that no bill had ever been pre- 
 sented for payment which had not been regularly taken up before 
 five o'clock. 
 
 Now it might have been supposed, living in so very retired a 
 spot, and almost incessantly perched upon his stool in the dingy 
 counting-house, that Mr. Solomon Fidget would have been 
 entirely overlooked and perhaps forgotten by death ; but, so it 
 was, that grim purveyor having a large bill of mortality to make- 
 up that quarter, waited upon the old gentleman rather suddenly 
 for the only debt upon which it was possible to arrest his person, 
 and taking him away, paid him into one of Nature's old esta- 
 blished branch banks, commonly called a churchyard. 
 
 Mr. Firedrake Fidget, who now ascended the stool, was deter- 
 mined, on his accession, to emulate those characteristics which, 
 displayed in his father's actions, had rendered him truly great. 
 He managed his business on precisely the same principle, go- 
 verned his household affairs in the same manner, entered the 
 same pew at the same time, and sat on the same seat ; and at the 
 age of forty (his father had just turned that age), flung his eyes 
 round the reighbourhood, fixed them at length on Miss Emily 
 Grogram, eldest daughter of Old Grogram, Manchester ware- 
 houseman, of Friday-street ; and after paying his addresses in 
 regular and acceptable instalments, was permitted, in due time, 
 to salute her as Mrs. Fidget. 
 
 Firedrake was now happy — for a time. Nobody could be 
 more attentive, affectionate, obliging, than the husband '; no one 
 more complying, considerate, and obedient, than the wife. But, 
 in a few months, the goings on of Mr. Fidget became altogether 
 inexplicable, leading to the lamentable conclusion that he had 
 dissolved partnership with his reason. He was frequently de- 
 tected in the act of crouching upon the staircase ; sometimes he 
 
MR. FIREDRAKE FIDGET. 27 
 
 had been discovered airing his left eye through keyholes — not 
 seldom suddenly emerging (to the terror of the household) from 
 cupboards. The area was his nightly promenade; he had 
 pounced upon the twopenny postman upon two several occa- 
 sions, and once he was found in the coalhole. 
 
 These were facts that went far to unsettle the nerves of a 
 newly-married wife. If Firedrake was really qualifying for a 
 strait-waistcoat, and wanted to arrive by this new cut to the 
 Lambeth asylum for lunatics, how strange she should not have 
 remarked his peculiarities while yet a suitor : if these proceed- 
 ings were habitual to him, " what a funny man Mr. Firedrake 
 Fidget must be ! " 
 
 In the meanwhile, these deviations from the every-day conduct 
 of mortals were duly detailed to the family in Friday-street. 
 Old Grogram, a novice in such practices, but predetermined 
 long ago never to say a word against any body, shook his head 
 and was silent: Dick Grogram, the only son, about to be ad- 
 mitted into partnership with his father, protested that if Fidget 
 would only belong to the Druids, anoffcome along with him to 
 the " Flower-de-luce and Fire-shovel," all his nonsense would 
 soon be taken out of him. Shrimpton, the laceman, a nightly 
 visiter at Grogram's, " and such a pleasant man," believed that 
 a bad debt and a bankruptcy would soon bring the sufferer to his 
 senses ; while the Miss Grograms were quite sure that the poor 
 man must be mad. 
 
 Not he. Firedrake Fidget was not mad. There was one 
 point in which the drysalter did not imitate his father. He was 
 jealous. Every body knows what jealousy is, although few have 
 experienced that passion. It is, says Shakspeare, 
 
 " A green-eyed monster, that doth make 
 The meat it feeds on." 
 
 Fidget was a green-eyed monster, in spectacles, and made such 
 joints of suspicion, such haunches of horror, as even his un- 
 bounded stomach could scarce digest. Did his wife go out — 
 he was not in. Was she at home — he mounted guard at the 
 street-door. Did she speak of another man — his eyes bor- 
 rowed new terrors from the tiger on the hearth-rug. Was she 
 silent — he felt she was meditating flight ! 
 
 There can be no doubt, that to this absorbing passion the 
 attenuation of Fidget's jaws, which took place about this period, 
 must be attributed. His business became irksome, his leisure 
 lassitude ; he was languid, enervated, spiritless. How unlike 
 his revered father, to whom he now bore not a filial, but a pro- 
 filial resemblance ! 
 
 Sometimes (and it was natural) he proposed to himself these 
 questions : Whom did his wife visit ? Whom did she know ? — 
 
28 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Not a soul : he had taken too good care of that ; and he smiled 
 at his caution. Not a soul — that he knew of ! And his jaws 
 fell again. 
 
 Yes, she visited her own family. Well. There was Grogram, 
 his father-in-law, a jolly old fellow, who never said any thing 
 himself, and laughed at every thing said by any one else. Dick, 
 a well-disposed young fellow, rather too fond of showing tricks 
 on the cards, and singing the last new comic song at the Druids : 
 and the two girls, very well in their way. And there was 
 Shrimpton. 
 
 If there was one human being, besides his opposite neigh- 
 bours, and every man who passed the door or entered the 
 warehouse, whom he doubted more than another, it was Shrimp- 
 ton. What did Shrimpton tell him when he was married ? — 
 What a lucky dog he was ! and that if he (Fidget) had not 
 spoken first, he (Shrimpton) would have had her himself. 
 And didn't he always pinch her cheek when they met, and 
 give her a kiss when they took leave ? Hang his impudence ! 
 
 what business had he TO pinch her cheek; and, d his 
 
 insolence ! what right had he to kiss her ? 
 
 Now if he could be sure that Shrimpton harboured any de- 
 sign of a dishonourable nature — if he was certain that Shrimpton 
 thought of such a thing — if he knew that Shrimpton could 
 forget the respect due to the wife of his friend, wouldn't he 
 brush up Shrimpton's memory pretty quickly — wouldn't he give 
 his memory a black and blue reviver with a cudgel, which should 
 make him remember the longest day he had to live ! 
 
 There was one thing that militated against this proceeding. 
 Shrimpton, although threescore, was a match for sixty of Fire- 
 drake Fidget's weight of metal. He would have passed muster 
 in that early age when " there were giants in those days," being 
 six feet two in his stockings, and two yards round the shoulders; 
 not to mention his proprietorship of a fist something like a quar- 
 tern loaf, which Firedrake felt would have been rather awkward 
 in his bread-basket. 
 
 Mr. Timothy Quince, or, as in happier days he had been 
 designated, '< Old Squaretoes," was the confidential clerk of 
 Mr. Firedrake, as for many years he had been of Mr. Solo- 
 mon, Fidget. To him, then, did the drysalter unload his grief: 
 to him did he relate the suspicions, doubts, fears, fancies, feel- 
 ings, which agitated him to phrensy, and to him did he apply 
 for such ocular assistance (in default of any comeatable 
 lynx or basilisk) as Quince's unimpaired vision might 
 afford. 
 
 The astonishment caused by this proposition wellnigh un- 
 stooled old Squaretoes. The thing was so entirely out of his 
 line — it was so completely out of his, routine — that he put a 
 
MR. FIREDRAKE FIDGET. 29 
 
 bill for acceptance on the file, and hung it on the letter-box. 
 He perfectly well knew the Italian method of book-keeping ; 
 but the Spanish method of wife-keeping was altogether past his 
 comprehension. To keep a conjugal account of Mrs. Fidget! 
 It was a novel idea. To keep a journal thus : " Jan. 1. Dr. to 
 three gaddings out." " Jan. 2. By staying at home all day;" — 
 and then to post them into a ledger, and strike the balance once 
 a year ! Quince demurred ; but, moved at length by the im- 
 ploring entreaties of his master, with a face such as is some- 
 times seen grinning over doorways, old Squaretoes consented to 
 endue himself with these inquisitorial functions, incited partly 
 thereto by the promise of a handsome douceur at Christmas. 
 
 So far so well. Quince came up to tea every evening, as 
 regularly as the milk-ewer, full of sweetness as the sugar-basin, 
 and as completely " done brown" as the toast. His researches 
 were ineffectual. Mrs. Fidget was the most exemplary woman 
 he had ever had the happiness of meeting — he must say that for 
 her ; and the confidential clerk began to curse the unworthy 
 office he had consented to fill. 
 
 It is to be presumed that Mrs. Fidget, soon after Quince had 
 been enlisted as an auxiliary, was led to divine the cause of Fire- 
 drake's disorder ; for it was observed that she visited her father 
 more frequently than heretofore ; and it is worthy of notice that 
 old Grogram shook his head more, and laughed less ; that Dick 
 insisted in stronger terms upon Fidget's installation among the 
 Druids ; that Shrimpton particularly inquired whether the recent 
 panic had affected him ; and that the two girls -were overheard 
 on several occasions whispering, " Wouldn't I teach him if he 
 had me !" " I'd let him know, indeed V* " He makes himself 
 quite ridiculous;" " Creature," " Monster," and the like. 
 
 At length Fidget's mind was made up. His worst fears — 
 we might almost call them his best hopes — were realized. They 
 must die — or be shown up at Doctors' Commons. Who ? 
 Shrimpton and his wretched wife. The whole evening, at 
 Grogram's, whither he, accompanied by Quince, had accom- 
 panied Mrs. Fidget, the guilty pair did nothing but talk apart 
 in whispers, occasionally stealing a glance towards him, and 
 then smothering their unfeeling mirth. As they parted, he 
 heard distinctly " To-morrow" mentioned by both. He could 
 not be mistaken : Dionysius, in his ear, was as deaf as a beetle 
 compared to him, upon such occasions. 
 
 " Did you see them ? Of course you did," said Fidget on the 
 next day, in the counting-house. 
 
 " See whom, sir V* inquired Quince, as he stirred the fire. 
 
 " Shrimpton and nly wife, last night," cried Fidget, with a 
 sickly smile : " you saw them ? Well, we shall see. Keep a 
 sharp look-out, Quince, till I return. They spoke of to-morrow 
 
30 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 — that's to-day. I'm only going to Cannon-street; soon 
 back." 
 
 Old Squaretoes lugged himself to his stool when Fidget had 
 turned his back, and once more did he grievously repent him 
 that he had accepted this degrading situation. What ! Jealous 
 of Shrimpton!" and Quince opened the ledger. "Strange, 
 very strange!" and he turned over the leaves till he came to a 
 blank page. " Well, a strange world we live in! — Hum! — ah! — 
 a pity, — a sad, sad pity !" Absorbed in these reflections, Quince 
 opened a new account in his ledger, under the head of Shrimp- 
 ton, and had just completed the name in large text, when that 
 gentleman entered. 
 
 Is Fidget within ?" inquired he, in his usual tone of good- 
 humoured familiarity. 
 
 Quince started. " No, sir," said he, laying down his pen : 
 *' I can't say he is ; but he will be in half an hour." 
 
 " No matter — I'll call again. Ha! you old dog!" (and 
 Shrimpton shook his head wickedly) " you're to be envied ! 
 You're a special favourite somewhere — I can tell you that!" 
 
 Old Squaretoes stared wildly. " I really don't under- 
 stand—" 
 
 " You are, you are," repeated the other, leaning on the oppo- 
 site desk, and playing with the paper-knife ; " but mind — spare 
 his feelings," and he pointed to Firedrake's vacant stool. 
 " Don't betray him. She is not happy. But I'll call again in 
 half an hour. Poor Fidget ! Ah, Quince ! But your sense of 
 honour would not permit you to Good morning." 
 
 A strange assortment of ideas presented themselves to Quince 
 when the visiter had retired. Quince was a moral man, but 
 frail ; for he was human ; and if that thought did find its way 
 into his bosom for a moment, let him be forgiven. Quince had 
 not often experienced the tender passion. Once, indeed, he had 
 opened a flirtation with a certain washerwoman who lived in 
 Battersea Fields, and brought home his clean linen every Sa- 
 turday night, but that was long ago ; and, even at this moment, 
 Miss Jinks, of No. 55, Gun place, Pimlico, was entirely in his 
 hands, to reject or to embrace, as he thought most fitting. But 
 now — old Squaretoes jumped off his stool, and strutted up and 
 down the counting-house. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! is it so ?" cried he : " Well, upon my word, (and 
 he looked down upon his ribbed cotton stockings) and I do 
 believe it's not an unlikely thing. She really is a charming 
 woman ; and if I were younger — but what of that ? I've saved 
 money : w r e might fly — we might " 
 
 Here the infatuated clerk lifted his eyes to a large map that 
 ornamented the wall, and diligently traced out a passage to 
 New York. 
 
MR. FIREDRAKE FIDGET. 31 
 
 " Has any one been here since I went out ? " cried Fidget, 
 suddenly entering. 
 
 Quince sprung round, like the late Joseph Grimaldi, when 
 saluted with an unexpected kick. " Not a soul," said he, as he 
 leaned panting against the desk. u Lord, how you frightened 
 me ! Not a soul ? Yes, Mr. Shrimpton !" 
 
 " Mr. Shrimpton ! No ?" and Firedrake lifted up his eyes. 
 " Impertinent rascal, what did he want with me ? But where are 
 you going, Mr. Quince?" 
 
 "I'll just step and pass this entry at the Custom-house," 
 said the clerk, hurrying away, fearful lest his recent thoughts 
 should be read upon his face. " I shall be back in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 What could Shrimpton want ? Was it not strange ? Was 
 it not monstrous ? Ha ! was he up stairs ? What did 
 Quince mean by going to pass an entry? Why, it was half- 
 past five ! 
 
 A knock at the door broke this chain of interrogations. — 
 " Come in." 
 
 It was Shrimpton ! J 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Fidget," said he, so|emnly. 
 " Good evening, sir," said the other, with icy coldness. 
 Shrimpton sat down, and, taking out his handkerchief, looked 
 earnestly at his companion. " Firedrake," said he, sighing 
 heavily, " I am your friend. I was your father's friend. 
 Nothing but the prompting of a friendly sentiment would 
 prevail upon me to speak what I am now about to utter. 
 Your wife — " 
 
 " Ha! " exclaimed Fidget, lifting the poker into the air. 
 " Is unhappy," continued Shrimpton ; " and I fear — " 
 " What ?" barked Firedrake, upstaring at the other like a dog 
 in expectation of a bone. 
 
 , " Some unhappy attachment ;" and Shrimpton shook his 
 head. 
 
 Fidget balanced himself on the poker as he leaned forward, 
 and shook his ringer in the face of his informant. " You're 
 right," said he. 
 
 " You are aware, then." 
 " I am." 
 
 u You know the object?" 
 "I do." 
 
 " Quince," said Shrimpton, and he arose. 
 " Quince V shrieked the other. 
 
 M Ay, Quince." And now, his joke being ended, Shrimpton 
 was about to regale himself with a shout of laughter, when the 
 hideous contortions of visage displayed by Fidget, as he arose, 
 alarmed him. 
 
32 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Quince I" said Firedrake, with a kind of whiz, as he clawed 
 hold of his friend's arm, like a cat whetting its talons on a 
 chair-leg. 
 
 " Even so," said Shrimpton : " but hush ! he'll hear us. I 
 saw him enter the warehouse a few minutes ago. Not. a word 
 to him. We'll detect and punish him in good time. Fare- 
 well r 
 
 Fidget sank back in his chair aghast. What ! Quince ! 
 Could it be ? His old confidential clerk, his friend ! It struck 
 him at that moment that he could punch his head through the 
 opposite wall ; but no, suddenly rising, he rushed into the 
 warehouse. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Quince ?" he demanded. 
 " He came in a few minutes ago," said the warehouseman; 
 but seeing you were so engaged with Mr. Shrimpton, he walked 
 up stairs. I think he's talking to Missus." 
 
 Fidget rushed back again into the counting-house. — " Talk- 
 ing to Missus, is he ? I'll talk him ! " and he slid a ruler into 
 his pocket, and crept into a cupboard at the foot of the stairs. 
 " Well," said Quince, as he descended, lifting up his hands, 
 
 " I never knew any thing more extraordinary than " 
 
 " This!" cried Fidget, springing from his concealment, and 
 levelling a blow with the ruler at his confidential clerk, which, 
 had he not fortunately kept his hat on, must have divided his 
 skull into moieties. 
 
 Old Squaretoes, as it was, staggered into the counting-house 
 with a film before his eyes that diminished the ledger to the size 
 of a pocket-book, and sinking into a chair, looked up imploringly 
 at his employer. 
 
 " Monster ! " cried Firedrake, " and so it is you that would 
 plant a thorn into the bosom of your master — you, that would 
 destroy my peace ? " 
 
 " I ? " stammered Quince, his guilty intentions passing in re- 
 view before him ; " who told you that ? " 
 
 " Why Shrimpton, to be sure — he has told me all ! " 
 " I see it — I see it," cried Quince, starting up : " Oh ! Mr. 
 Fidget, you are abused — grossly wronged ; and Shrimpton is 
 
 the man. Mrs. Fidget has been telling me " 
 
 " What ? " barked Fidget, as before. 
 
 " She says she cannot live with you any longer; you have 
 made her wretched — and — this she told me in confidence, and I 
 promised, Heaven forgive me! not to say a word — she is going 
 off to Shrewsbury by this evening's coach. It starts from Ger- 
 rard's Hall, at seven o'clock." 
 
 " With Shrimpton one of the insides — ha ! ha ! " and Fidget's 
 brains reeled round. "Hark! what was that? The street- 
 door closed ! What 's o'clock 1 " 
 
MR. FIREDRAKE FIDGET. 33 
 
 " It is now five minutes to seven ; perhaps a trifle more," 
 said Quince, looking at his watch, and applying it to his ear. 
 
 " Come along, then — come along," cried Firedrake ; " lock 
 up the counting-house." And with hasty strides the injured 
 husband and his companion strode towards Gerrard's Hall, a 
 tavern which may at any time be recognised by an exquisite 
 carving in wood at one of the doorposts, representing a gigantic 
 idiot in the act of fondling a quarter-staff. 
 
 Firedrake seized the landlord by the button. " Have you," 
 said he, in violent emotion, " a lady in one of your private 
 rooms, accompanied by " 
 
 " An elderly gentleman — very tall — yes, sir ! John ! conduct 
 these two gentlemen." 
 
 Beckoning to his companion to follow, who tottered after him 
 pale and breathless, Fidget, stumbling at the entrance, preci- 
 pitated himself head-foremost into the room, and discovered 
 Mrs. Fidget clinging to the arm of Shrimpton for protection. 
 
 " Wretch ! " said he, rising suddenly, " give me back my 
 wife : restore her instantly, or " 
 
 A sudden poke in the ribs from behind somewhat disconcerted 
 him. 
 
 " Restore her ! " reiterated Firedrake ; " return her to her 
 proper owner ! " 
 
 A second poke from behind cut short his oratory, and excited 
 him to phrensy. Turning round, that he might wreak his venge- 
 ance upon the too troublesome Quince, a loud burst of laugh- 
 ter, performed by Mr. Grogram, sen., Mr. Richard Grogram, and 
 the two Misses Grogram, echoed from the other end of the room 
 by Mrs. Fidget and Shrimpton, completely paralyzed his 
 energies. 
 
 11 What is the meaning of this ? " at length he faltered. 
 
 " Why, to laugh you out of your foolish jealousy, to be sure," 
 said Old Grogram, who seldom made so long a speech : " there, 
 go to your wife ; she '11 forgive you this once." 
 
 P'iredrake Fidget, abashed, penitent, and convinced, passively 
 obeyed the bidding of his father-in-law. 
 
 " And now we '11 make a night of it here," said Shrimpton. 
 And a night was made of it; and such a night of harmony and 
 conjugal felicity, that Quince, as he buttoned up his pockets to 
 return home, was overheard to say, with an unaccustomed oath, 
 
 as he left the doorstep of Gerrard's Hall, " D me if I don't 
 
 pop the question to Miss Jinks the first thing to-morrow 
 morning ! " 
 
THE LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 
 
 I am, or more properly speaking, I have been, a man of 
 pleasure. I am now forty years, less some few months, of age ; 
 and I shall depart this life at twelve o'clock to night. About 
 that hour it is that I propose to shoot myself through the head. 
 Let this letter be evidence that I do the act advisedly. I should 
 be sorry to have that resolution confounded with madness, 
 •which is founded upon the coolest and maturest consideration. 
 There are coxcombs even in death ; and I will not affect to 
 disguise my weakness. I would not forfeit the glory of triumph- 
 ing over broken -spirited drunkards, and half-crazy opium- 
 chewers — of being able to die grateful for the joys I have ex- 
 perienced, and of disdaining to calumniate pleasures after they 
 have ceased to be within my reach. I do assure you, Mr. — , 
 that I should wait personally upon you with this epistle ; but 
 that I think the mere reasonableness of my suicide must carry 
 conviction with it of my sanity ; but that I trust to lay before 
 you such facts, and such arguments, as shall approve me not only 
 justifiable, but most philosophic in destroying myself. Hear 
 what I have done, weigh what I mean to do, and judge if I de- 
 serve the name of madman. 
 
 I was born of a family rather ancient than rich, and in- 
 herited, with something like the handsome person of my father, 
 his disposition to expend money rather than to acquire it. To 
 my own recollection, at eighteen, I was of a determined tem- 
 per, rather than of a violent one ; ardent in the prosecution of 
 objects, rather than sudden to undertake them ; not very hasty 
 either in love or in quarrel. I had faculty enough to write bad 
 verses, — not industry enough to write anything else; and an 
 aptitude for billiards and horse-riding to a miracle. 
 
 Now I desire to have this considered not as a confession, but 
 as a statement. As I plead guilty to no fault, I make a decla- 
 ration, not an acknowledgment. I am not lamenting any 
 thing that is past. If I had to begin to-morrow, I would begin 
 again in the same way. I should vary my course perhaps some- 
 thing, with the advantage of my present experience ; but, take 
 it in the main, and it would be the race that I have run already. 
 
 At eighteen, with an education, as Lord Foppington has it, 
 U rather at large ;" for (like Swift's captain of horse) my tutors 
 were the last people who expected any good of me ; — at eighteen, 
 it became necessary for me to think of a profession. My first 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 35 
 
 attempt in life was in the navy. I was anxious to go, and cared 
 very little whither; and a schoolboy midshipman of my ac- 
 quaintance cajoled me into a Mediterranean voyage, by promises 
 of prize-money, and descriptions of Plymouth harbour. 
 
 If I were to speak from my feelings at the present moment, I 
 should say, that the life of a sailor has its charms. I am bank- 
 rupt in appetite, as well as in estate ; if I have nothing left to 
 enjoy, I have little capacity left for enjoyment; and I now know 
 how to appreciate that exuberance of spirit with which a man 
 dashes into dissipation on shore, after six weeks restraint from 
 it at sea. But I know also that these are the feelings of situa- 
 tion and of circumstance. The past seems delightful, where no 
 hope lives for the future. I am cherishing most fondly the re- 
 collection of those sensations which are now the most completely 
 lost to me for ever. But it is the act of the moment which 
 forms the index to the true impression. A ship of war may 
 seem abstract liberty to him who pines in the dungeons of the 
 inquisition. But confinement, monotony, coarse society, and 
 personal privation ; — the simple fact is worth all the argument ; — 
 after a cruise of two months, I quitted the navy for ever. 
 
 Charmed almost as much with my change of society, as with 
 my change of dress, I quitted the sea-service, and entered a re- 
 giment of light dragoons ; and, for two years from the time of 
 my joining the army, I led the life which lads commonly lead 
 in the outset of a military career. And even to the occur- 
 rences of those two years, rude and unintellectual as they were, 
 my memory still clings with pleasure and with regret. Toys 
 then, however trifling, pleased; the most refined enjoyments could 
 have done no more. Is there a man living, past thirty, who 
 does not sometimes give a sigh to those days of delicious inex- 
 perience and imperfection, when the heart could rest content 
 with the mere gratification of the senses ; when the intimacies 
 of the dinner-table passed current for friendship ; when the 
 woman who smiled on all, was to all nevertheless charming; 
 and when life, so long as health and money lasted, was one un- 
 interrupted course of impulse and intoxication. 
 
 It was my fate, however, to continue but a short time a mere 
 follower of opera figurantes, and imbiber of strong potations. 
 Just before I was one-and-twenty, a woman eight years older 
 than myself, in great measure fixed my destiny, and entirely 
 formed my character. 
 
 Boys who run riot, commonly attach themselves, I think, to 
 married woman. Wives, when by ill fortune they are inclined 
 to irregularity, are more understanding, and more accessible, 
 than girls ; and hope is your only food for an incipient passion. 
 Many a woman becomes an object of desire when there seems 
 to be a probability of success ; upon whom, but for such fore- 
 
 d 2 
 
36 
 
 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 knowledge or suspicion, we should not perhaps bestow a 
 thought. 
 
 Louisa Salvini was eight-and-twenty years of age ; a Sicilian by 
 birth, full of the climate of her country. Hers was the Italian or 
 Spanish style of beauty, — small rather as to figure, but of exquisite 
 proportions. She had a shape which, but to behold, was passion ; 
 a carriage, such as nothing but the pride of her own loveliness 
 could have suggested ; — her eyes ! their glance of encourage- 
 ment was fascination ! — her lips confused the sense to look upon 
 them ; — and her voice ! If there be (passing attraction either of 
 face or form) one charm about a woman more irresistible than 
 any other, it is that soft, that mild, sweet, liquid tone, which 
 sooths even in offending, and when it asks, commands ; which 
 shakes conviction with its weakest word, and can make false- 
 hood (ay, though known for such) so sweet, that we regard the 
 truth with loathing. Oh, heavens ! I have hearkened to the 
 delicious accents of such a voice, till, had my soul's hope been 
 asked from me, it would have been surrendered without a 
 struggle ! To-night, at midnight, I shall hear such a voice for 
 the last time ! I shall hear it while I gaze upon features of love- 
 liness ; while my soul is lulled with music, and when my brain 
 is hot with wine ; and the mere melody of that voice will go 
 
 further to raise the delirium I look for, than — 
 
 ******* 
 
 But enough of this now. My tale should be of that which 
 was. Let that which shall come hereafter give some other his- 
 torian materiel. 
 
 My acquaintance with Louisa Salvini was of her seeking 
 rather than of mine. Accident threw me, under favourable cir- 
 cumstances, in her way ; but it so happened that, at the mo- 
 ment, I did not perceive I had excited her attention. The man- 
 ner of our subsequent introduction was whimsical. I was not a 
 man (at twenty) to decline an adventure blindfold : a Avell 
 played-upon old lady carried me as a visiter to Salvini's house ; 
 and my fate was decided from the moment that I entered it. 
 
 My love for Louisa Salvini endured two years without 
 satiety. An attachment of equal duration has never befallen me 
 since. But, at the time to which I refer, all circumstances were 
 in my favour. I was glowing with all the fervour of youth, and 
 with all the vigour of unwasted constitution. My mistress's 
 beauty delighted my senses ; her avowed preference gratified my 
 vanity ; she was charming to me (love apart), taken merely as a 
 companion; and what conduced still further to the keeping 
 alive our passion, she was not (being another's) constantly in my 
 presence. 
 
 Contentment, however, is not the lot of man. Give a Maho- 
 metan his Paradise, and in six weeks he would be disgusted with 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 37 
 
 it. My affection for my charming mistress was just beginning 
 to be endangered, when the regiment to which I belonged was 
 ordered to the continent. The fact was, that I met in Louisa's 
 society a variety of women, of principles as free as her own ; 
 and the very jealousy which each lady entertained of her friend, 
 made success with herself more easy and certain. A little while 
 longer, and Louisa and I had severed : my embarkation part- 
 ing us by necessity, saved us probably from a parting by 
 consent. 
 
 I left England very poor as to pecuniary means, but rich in 
 every other advantage which (to me) made life desirable. Youth! 
 Oh, youth ! could I but recal the years that I have lived ! I would 
 rather stand now upon the barrenest plain in Europe — naked, 
 friendless, penniless — but again sixteen, than possess, as the 
 thing I am, the empire of the world. 
 
 Is there a fool so besotted as to trust the cant he utters — to 
 believe that money can really purchase all the blessings of life ? 
 Money can buy nothing — it is worth nothing. I have rioted in 
 its abundance ; I have felt its total deprivation ; and I have en- 
 joyed more, I believe, of happiness in the last state than in the 
 first. 
 
 Shall I forget the first event of my career on the continent — 
 that event which, in the end, led to its premature termination? 
 Shall I forget the insolent superiority with which I looked down 
 upon my brother officers ? — men to whom play, excess of wine, 
 and mercenary women, seemed, and indeed were, delights suf- 
 ficient. 
 
 To a man of habits and temperament like mine, the Peninsula 
 was a delightful residence in 1808. I remember the gay appear- 
 ance of the capital ; which, taken by moonlight from the river, 
 is perhaps one of the most imposing in the world. I remember 
 the striking panoramic coup d'ceil of its church and convent 
 spires innumerable ; its marble fountains, its palaces, its towers, 
 and its gardens; its streets and squares of white and yellow 
 buildings, each gaudily appointed, from the basement to the 
 roof, with jalouse lattices, balconies, and verandahs : the whole* 
 city, too, throwing itself (from the irregular site upon which it 
 rises) full at a single glance upon the eye ; and every feature in 
 the prospect seeming, like an object in a picture, disposed art- 
 fully with a view to the general beauty of the scene. 
 
 But, beyond the beauty of Lisbon as a city — beyond even the 
 brightness of those souls that inhabit it, there was a laxity of 
 law and manner in it at the period to which I speak ; a licence 
 inseparable from the presence of a foreign force in a prostrate, 
 shackled, and dependant country ; an absence as much of moral 
 as of physical police ; which, to a disposition such as mine, was 
 peculiarly acceptable. Add to this, the further fact, that I was 
 
38 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 fresh in a strange capital ; among a people to whose manners, 
 and almost to whose language, I was a stranger ; where, little 
 being fully understood, all had credit for being as it ought to be; 
 and where the mere novelty of my situation was a charm almost 
 inexhaustible ; such allurements considered, could I fail to be 
 charmed with the Peninsula ? 
 
 My stay in this land of delight, then, was something short of 
 three years. I was present at the famous battle of Talavera; 
 and afterwards at the desperate contest of Albuera, under Be- 
 resford, where the Polish lancers first tried their strength against 
 our English cavalry. I was a sharer too in the more partial affair 
 of Busaco, and took part in the duty of covering the retreat that 
 followed — a retreat in which the whole of the southern line of 
 Portugal, from the Spanish frontier to Lisbon, was depopulated 
 and laid waste ; in which convents were deserted, cities con- 
 sumed by fire, and women born to rank and affluence compelled 
 to seek protection from the meanest followers of the British 
 army. 
 
 A Spanish officer, with whom I was associated in the convoy 
 of certain treasure, proposed to me one night, after our halt upon 
 the march, to take a trip down the Tagus, and bring his wife 
 upon the journey. Whatever interest, however, I might have 
 felt in the progress of this excursion, its termination was certainly 
 such as I had not contemplated. With the utmost exertions, 
 both of the Spaniard and myself, we did not get back to our 
 halting-place until evening on the day after we had started. At 
 daybreak (twelve hours before), a treacherous quartermaster 
 had marched forward with our escort ; and to avoid the inevi- 
 table result of a court-martial, I asked and obtained permission 
 to resign. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND. 
 
 Upon home service, my affairs, in a pecuniary point of view, 
 would have been very little affected by the loss of my commis- 
 sion. On service, however, abroad, the consequence was dif- 
 ferent. Asa soldier, I enjoyed many advantages and immu- 
 nities, which a civil individual could scarcely, even for money, 
 procure. Besides, though no discredit attached to my fault (for 
 Silviera, indeed, had never been brought to any account), still I 
 was, up to a certain point, a man placed in the shade. I had 
 not lost my rank dishonourably, but still I had lost it ; and the 
 military world felt that I had. I missed the visits of some men 
 with whom I had been on terms of intimacy ; and received ad- 
 vances from others of whose acquaintance I was not ambitious. 
 One friend asked casually when I intended to go to England ; 
 another mentioned some new Spanish levies, in which commis- 
 
39 
 
 sions were easily to be obtained. One fellow, to whom I had 
 never spoken in my life, and who had been dismissed from the 
 navy for gross insubordination and misconduct, had the pre- 
 sumption to write to me about "jobs" in "high quarters," 
 " favouritism," " injustice," and "public appeal :" but I horse- 
 whipped him in an open coffee-room, while the waiter read his 
 letter to the company. These, however, were teasing, not to 
 say distressing, circumstances ; and to avoid seeming at a loss 
 indeed, it became necessary to do something, and with the least 
 possible delay. 
 
 I could have married Portuguese ladies; but their means 
 were in supposition. Ready money, in Portugal, there was 
 little ; rents, in the existing state of the country, were hopeless ; 
 and 1 had not much reliance upon a title to land, which, to-day, 
 was in our possession, to-morrow, perhaps in that of the enemy. 
 Misfortunes, as the adage declares, are gregarious. Medita- 
 ting what course, out of many, I should adopt, I fell into a 
 course which I had never meditated at all. 
 
 The Peninsula during the war, was the scene of a good deal 
 of high play. In quarters distant from the capital, the difficulty 
 of killing time drove all but professed drinkers to gaming ; and 
 the universal employment of specie (for paper was used only 
 in commercial transactions), gave an aspect peculiarly tempting 
 to the table. Silver, in dollars and Portuguese crowns, was 
 the common run of currency ; the army was paid entirely in 
 that metal ; and it was no unusual thing to see an officer come 
 down to a gaming-house absolutely bending under the weight of 
 a couple of hundred pounds which he had to risk ; or sending 
 for a servant (hackney-coaches were scarce) in case of a run of 
 luck, to carry away his winnings. 
 
 Hazard and Faro were the favourite games. Of billiards 
 people were shy — people commonly dread faculty in any shape. 
 There was some danger in going home after being very success- 
 ful at night ; but the games of chance were in general very 
 fairly played. I have heard, among many dogmas, of the 
 seductiveness of play, that a losing gamester may stop, but a 
 winning one never can. Had I at any time regained my own, 
 I think I should have stopped. I lost every shilling I possessed, 
 — horses, jewels, and even pistols in the attempt. 
 
 At the time to which I refer, I was very much estranged from 
 my relatives. My father held himself pretty well relieved from 
 anxiety as to the fate of a man over whose conduct he had no 
 control : and it was a draft only for fifty pounds which I re- 
 ceived from him in Lisbon after the loss of my commission, ac- 
 companied by a letter which determined me never to apply to 
 him again. 
 
 So, with twenty guineas only in my pockets, and with ex- 
 
40 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 perience enough to know how little twenty guineas would do 
 for me, I again landed in England in the year 1812; but I 
 have no time, nor would the world have patience for the adven- 
 tures which, in three months, conducted me to my last shilling. 
 I wrote a novel, I recollect, which no bookseller would look at ; 
 a play, which is still lying at one of the winter theatres. Then 
 I sent proposals to the commander-in-chief for altering the taste 
 of our cavalry accoutrements and harness ; next, drew a plan 
 (and seriously too) for the invasion of China ; and after these 
 and a variety of other strange efforts, each suggested by my 
 poverty, and all tending to increase it, the clocks were striking 
 twelve on a dreary November night, as I walked along Piccadilly 
 without a penny in the world. 
 
 It is at twelve o'clock this night, that my earthly career must 
 terminate ; and looking back to the various changes with which 
 my life has been chequered, I find crisis after crisis connecting 
 itself with the same hour. On the evening to which I allude, 
 I wandered for hours through the streets ; but it was not until 
 midnight that I thought very intently on my situation. There 
 is something, perhaps, appalling in the aspect of London at 
 that hour ; in the gradual desertion of the streets by reputable 
 passengers ; and, in the rising, as it were, from their depths of 
 earth, of forms repulsive, horrible, and obscene. This change 
 of object and association is sometimes peculiarly striking in the 
 parks. As the evening draws in, the walking parties and well- 
 dressed persons disappear one by one ; and the benches become 
 peopled with an array of fearful creatures, who seem to glide 
 from behind the trees — to be imbodied, as it were, out of the 
 air. I have myself turned round suddenly, and seen a squalid 
 shape beside me, which had not been there but the moment be- 
 fore. And I knew not how it came, nor from what quarter it 
 approached ; but it came in through the dark, like some pale 
 meteor, or unwholesome exhalation, which was not visible till 
 the good light was gone. The closing, too (in the town), of the 
 shops, one after the other, — the honester and safer houses first, 
 and so on, until the haunts even of guilt and infamy shut up 
 their doors, as seeing no further prospect through the gloom. 
 And the few animated objects that break the general stillness, 
 more revolting and fearful even than that stillness itself! Starv- 
 ing wretches huddled together in holes and corners, seeking 
 concealment from the eye of the police ; thief-takers making 
 their stealthy rounds, and eyeing every casual wanderer with 
 suspicious and half-threatening glances. Then the associations 
 which present themselves to the mind in such a situation : 
 thoughts of burglars, murderers, wretches who violate the 
 sanctity of the grave, and lurking criminals of still darker dye ; 
 the horror being less of injury from such creatures than of pos- 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 41 
 
 sible approximation to them ; the kind of dread which a man 
 feels, he can scarcely tell why, of being touched by a rat, a 
 spider, or a toad. 
 
 But I wandered on till St. James's bell tolled twelve ; and 
 the sound awakened some curious recollections in my memory. 
 A mistress of mine had lived in Sackville-street once ; and 
 twelve o'clock (at noon) was my permitted hour to visit her. 
 I had walked [up and down a hundred times in front of St. 
 James's church, waiting impatiently to hear the clock strike 
 twelve, which now struck twelve upon my ruin — my degrada- 
 tion. The sound of the bell fell on my ear like the voice of an 
 old acquaintance. My friend yet held his standing; my estate 
 had something changed. 
 
 I did wander on, however, after St. James's clock struck 
 twelve, and while the rain falling in torrents, drove even beggars 
 to their shelter. I had neither home nor money. There were 
 acquaintances upon whom I might have called, and from whom 
 a supper and a bed would have been a matter of course ; but 
 I felt that my spirits were rapidly rising to the right pitch for 
 considering the situation in which I stood. Nothing sharpens 
 the perceptions like the pressure of immediate hunger. Had I 
 slept and awoke at daylight, I must again have waited for the 
 hour of darkness. Men succeed over and over again, upon 
 the spur of emergency, in enterprises, which viewed calmly, they 
 would never have undertaken. 
 
 I strolled onwards down Piccadilly through the wet dark 
 night (to avoid the hackney-coachmen who kept teasing me 
 with offers of their services), and leaned against one of those 
 splendid houses which stand fronting the Green Park. The 
 strong bright glare of the door-lamps below, showed the 
 princely proportion of the building. Night was now growing- 
 fast into morning, but lights were still visible in the show apart- 
 ments of the mansion. Presently I heard the sound of a piano- 
 forte and a voice which I thought was familiar to me. I listened. 
 It was the voice of a man whom 1 had known intimately for 
 years. I cast my eye upon the door, and read the name of his 
 family. My old companion — my friend, was standing almost 
 within the touch of my hand. I thought on the scene in which 
 he was an actor ; — on the gaiety, the vivacity, the splendour, 
 and the sparkle, the intrigues and the fierce passions, from 
 which a few feet of space divided me. I was cold, wet, and 
 penniless, and I had to choose. 
 
 It may be asked, why did not suicide then, present itself to 
 me as a rallying-point ? It did present itself at once ; and, on 
 the instant, I rejected it. Destitute as I was, I had still a 
 confidence in my own powers — I may almost say in my own 
 fortune. I felt that, wealth apart, I had a hundred pleasanter 
 
42 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 capabilities which it would be folly to cast away. Besides there 
 were relatives, whose deaths might make me rich. 
 
 My next supplies, however, were to arise out of my own per- 
 sonal exertions ; and in the mean time the approach of light 
 reminded me that I was still wet, and in the street. I had no 
 fastidious apprehensions about degrading myself. If I could 
 have held a plough, or digged in a mine, I should not have 
 hesitated to have performed either of those duties. But, for 
 holding a plough, I had not the skill ; and, for the mines, there 
 were none in the neighbourhood of* London. One calling, how- 
 ever, there was, for which I was qualified. Within four-and- 
 twenty hours after my dark walk through Piccadilly, I was a 
 private dragoon in the 31st regiment, and quartered at Ly- 
 mington barracks. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD. 
 
 I have denied, I do still deny, the overpowering influence 
 commonly attributed to rank and fortune ; and let me not be 
 accused of offering opinions without at least having had some 
 opportunity for judgment. If there be a situation in which, be- 
 yond all others, a man is shut out beyond all probability of ad- 
 vancement, it is the situation of a private soldier. But the free 
 undaunted spirit, which sinks not in extremity, can draw, even 
 from peculiar difficulty, peculiar advantage ; — where lead only 
 is hoped for, grains of gold excite surprise ; — a slender light 
 shows far when all is dark around. 
 
 Twelve months passed heavily with me in the 31st dragoons. 
 My apparently intuitive dexterity in military exercises, saved 
 me from annoyance or personal indignity, and might, in a cer- 
 tain way, have procured me promotion. But a halberd, as it 
 happened, was not my object. I looked for deliverance from 
 my existing bondage to the falling in with some wealthy and 
 desirable woman ; and, in the strict performance of a soldier's 
 duty — active, vigilant, obedient, and abstaining, I waited with 
 patience for the arrival of opportunity. 
 
 The 31st regiment was remarkable for the splendour of its 
 uniform and appointment ; an attribute rather any thing than 
 advantageous to the soldier; but which always, nevertheless, 
 operates powerfully in the recruiting of a corps. We had men 
 amongst us from almost every class of society. There were 
 linen-weavers from Ireland, colliers from Warwickshire and 
 Shropshire, ploughmen, gamekeepers, and poachers, from every 
 quarter and county. There were men too of higher rank, 
 as regarded their previous condition ; and that in a number 
 very little imagined by the world. There were men of full age, 
 who had run through fortunes— lads who had quarrelled with, 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 43 
 
 or been deserted by their families — ruined gamblers — ci-devant 
 fortune-hunters — ex officers, and strolling players. In a com- 
 pany so heterogeneous, it would have been difficult to keep the 
 peace, but for that law which visited the black-eye as a breach 
 of military discipline. As men, those who had been " gentle- 
 men," were incomparably the worst characters. 
 
 But whatever might be the qualities of these men individually, 
 taken as a body, they were amenable reasonable beings. To 
 have made them, individually, discontented, would have been 
 difficult; to have tampered with them, en masse, quite im- 
 possible. The sound of the word " discipline," had a sort of 
 magical effect upon their minds. Their obedience (from its 
 uniform enforcement) became perfectly mechanical ; and seve- 
 rity excited little complaint, for it was understood to be the 
 custom of the service. 
 
 But I was soon weary of examining characters, and avoiding 
 persecutions. I was tired of being a favourite among the nur- 
 sery-girls of Lymington, and even of enjoying the enmity of the 
 young gentlemen of the neighbourhood. I had become weary 
 of the honour and discomfort of endurance — I sighed, in the 
 midst of exertion, for exertion's reward — I never doubted that 
 talent must, in time, find its level ; but I had begun to doubt 
 whether man's life would be long enough to afford the waiting, 
 when the chance that I was hoping, aud wishing for, appeared. 
 
 My object at Lymington was, to introduce myself to persons 
 of consideration ; and with that view, for months, I carried my 
 life, as it were, in my hand. Every moment that I could snatch 
 from the routine of military" duty, was systematically devoted to 
 searching after adventure. There was not a family of con- 
 dition within five miles of the depot, but I had my eye upon 
 their motions and arrangements. How often, while watching 
 their gay parties on the river, did I pray for some dreadful 
 accident which might give me an opportunity of distinguishing 
 myself! How often have I wished, in riding night picquet or 
 express, that some passing equipage would be attacked by rob- 
 bers, that I might make my fortune by defending them ! I saw, 
 by chance, one evening, a mill on fire at the distance, and 
 making sure it was a nobleman's seat, swam through two rivers 
 to arrive at it. At length the commonplace incident — I had 
 looked for it, though, a hundred times — the commonplace in- 
 cident of two tipsy farmers, on a fair day, affronting an officer 
 in Lymington market-place, who had a lady on his arm, gave 
 me' the chance I had so long sought. This affair gave me the 
 opportunity of being useful to the captain and Mrs. Levine. 
 
 The honourable Augustus Levine, who had joined the garrison 
 but a few days when this accident befel him, was one of those 
 men of fortune who seem born for no other purpose than to put 
 
44 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 poor fellows in contentment with their destiny. He was an 
 abject creature both in heart and mind. Despicable (there be 
 more such) in person as in principle; and yet the worm was 
 brother to an earl — he was master of a fine estate — he com- 
 manded a hundred soldiers ; and (a man may have too many 
 blessings) he had a young and handsome wife. 
 
 When I declare that Lymington barracks was full of strip- 
 ling officers, who, in addition to wealth and station, possessed 
 (many of them) all personal advantages, my venturing even to 
 think of Mrs. Levine upon the credit of such a service as I had 
 performed, may appear to savour not a little of presumption. 
 Setting the event apart, I should maintain a different opinion. 
 A hundred qualifications, which would only have been of course 
 in a man of rank, in a peasant, would excite surprise, and con- 
 sequently interest. My encounter in the market-place, though 
 a vulgar one, had given me some opportunity for display; and 
 a private soldier, who possessed a figure, accomplishment, and 
 deportment — who could make love, make verses, and, moreover, 
 fight like a Turk — such a man would secure attention ; and love 
 follows easily. I cannot afford now to dwell upon details ; but, 
 whatever be the value of my general principle, consequences, 
 in the particular instance, did approve my dream. Within six 
 months, I had disclosed my real name and rank — eloped with 
 Mrs. Levine — fought a duel with her husband — and had a ver- 
 dict entered against me in the Court of King's Bench, with 
 damages, by default, to the amount of 10,000/. 
 
 There is this circumstance, among a thousand others to attach 
 lis to the female sex, that a man can scarce, in any case, what- 
 ever the degree of friendship, receive a favour from his fellow 
 man, without some feeling of inferiority ; while, from a woman, 
 each new act of kindness, or of bounty, seems but a tribute to 
 his merit, and a proof of her affection. 
 
 My encounter with Levine produced very trifling conse- 
 quences. Both parties were slightly wounded at the first fire, 
 and neither appeared anxious to try the fortune of a second. 
 The penalty of 10,000/. was a more serious matter to deal 
 with. Mrs. Levine possessed, independent of her husband, an 
 income exceeding 800/. a year; but that property formed no 
 fund for the payment of a large sum in damages. Our only 
 alternative was to quit England immediately. 
 
 I enter here with pain upon an epoch of my history, which 
 filled up sadly and wearily a period of five years. Isabella 
 Levine was a woman whose personal charms were perhaps among 
 the weakest of the attractions she possessed. If I had sought 
 her in the beginning from interested motives, I did not long pro- 
 fess a passion without really entertaining it. That she had de- 
 serted such a husband as Levine, seemed to me no stain upon 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 45 
 
 her virtue. He had been forced upon her by the command of 
 an uncle upon whom she depended ; and who himself had felt 
 so little confidence in the man of his selection, that, in giving 
 his niece a large fortune, he reserved it principally within her 
 own control. Was it a crime in Isabella that she quitted a being 
 whom she could not love ? Was she a companion for stupidity, 
 for slovenliness, for brutality ? Was she a subject for neglect, 
 and for coarse infidelity ? Was it fit that her tenderness, her 
 beauty, and her youth, should be wasted upon a creature who 
 could not appreciate what he was possessing ? She did not sell 
 herself to me for title or for fortune ; she was not seduced by a 
 fashion or a feather. If she loved me — and I think she did love 
 me — it was for myself alone. 
 
 Impressed with these feelings, I left England a second time 
 for Lisbon. The war had now been carried into the heart of 
 France, and the Peninsula had the prospect of a sufficient secu- 
 rity. If, by law, I was prevented from marrying Isabella, by 
 gratitude, as well as by affection, I held myself bound to her for 
 ever. I took it as an admitted principle, that every man must 
 settle at some time ; and deliberately formed my plan of lasting 
 domestic happiness. 
 
 I had not then ascertained that the very thought of a set system 
 is destructive to every thing in the nature of enjoyment. I had 
 yet to discover that it was better even to die at once, than await, 
 in one fixed posture, the wearing of unprofitable vacancy. 
 
 I set out with a wish, as well as a resolution, to act well. I 
 had seen the errors of married men, and I determined to avoid 
 them. I will treat a woman, said I, with that attention which 
 she is entitled to demand. I will not render her miserable by 
 my dissipations ; I will not insult her by slighting her society: 
 I will love none but Isabella; and with her my hours shall be 
 passed. I now see ill omen in these my first resolutions. A. 
 man does not put himself upon the defensive, unless he feels 
 cause to apprehend attack. I suspect that, like the wolf in the 
 fable, the sight of the collar already made me uneasy. 
 
 I shall never forget — for my time indeed has almost come — 
 the torture which it cost me to carry my good resolutions into 
 effect; the days, the weeks, the years that I suffered, of satiety, 
 weariness, indifference, disgust. I am convinced that the de- 
 cline of my passion for Isabella was only hastened by my efforts 
 to conceal and to resist it. The love of full liberty, which I had 
 been used freely to indulge, acquired now tenfold force from the 
 restraint to which I subjected myself. The company of the 
 plainest woman of my acquaintance would have been delightful 
 to me, compared with the uniformity of beauty. 
 
 We had been five years together, and had been four years 
 miserable, when an habitual depression, which I had perceived 
 
46 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 but neglected to speak of — for in the fever of my own soul I had 
 no thought for the distress of others — this terminated in the 
 serious illness of Isabella. At first, supposing her indisposition 
 to be transient, I treated it as an aftair of domestic routine, 
 taking every precaution for her safety, rather as a matter of 
 course, than from any feeling of anxiety; but an intimation 
 from my physician, that she was in a state of real danger, 
 aroused me from the apathy with which I contemplated all 
 passing events. 
 
 " Danger! What danger? There could be no danger: the 
 man must be mistaken." 
 
 He was not mistaken. My wife's complaint was low, nervous 
 fever, brought on, as it seemed to him, by some cause operating 
 upon the mind ; and if her spirits could not be kept up, her 
 peril was immediate. 
 
 I never received any intelligence with greater discomposure 
 in my life. A variety of recollections, very like accusations, 
 crowded one after the other suddenly upon my memory. My 
 heart awoke from that lethargy into which long suffering had 
 plunged it. Still, I thought, the thing must be exaggerated. 
 — "Her spirits kept up?" Why, they must be kept up. — 
 " What was to be done to keep them up ?" That the adviser 
 left to me. 
 
 I visited Isabella with feelings which I could scarce acknow- 
 ledge even to myself. She sent for me as I was going to her 
 chamber ; and my purpose of going almost changed. I know 
 not how to describe the sensation which her message produced. 
 I was going to her at the very moment unsummoned, and yet the 
 summons compelled me to turn back. It was not the feeling of 
 a man who is detected in a crime ; for that must suppose a pre- 
 vious consciousness that he was committing one : it was the 
 alarm rather of a child who plays with a forbidden bauble, and 
 suddenly discovers that the last whirl has broken it. 
 
 I had seen Isabella on the previous evening; but I found her 
 much worse than I had expected. I leaned upon her bed : it 
 was some time before she could gather firmness to express her- 
 self. At length she spoke ; and I hear her accents at this 
 moment. 
 
 She spoke, with apparent confidence, of her approaching 
 death. " She regretted it for my sake, because her fortune 
 would die with her. Could she but have secured my future 
 happiness and safety, as she had nothing left in life to hope for, 
 so she should have had nothing to desire." 
 
 These are commonplace expressions, perhaps I shall be told. 
 The fact may be so : death is very commonplace. But those 
 who, in the midst of a course decidedly evil, have been cursed 
 with a sufficient perception to abhor the guilt they could not 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 47 
 
 abstain from, such only can appreciate my feelings at that 
 moment. The mere mention of Isabella's death, as possible, 
 carried distraction to my soul ! She told me she had long seen 
 the decline of my affection: "her only wish was that it would 
 have lasted while she lived." I stood before her a convicted 
 villain. I could not lie — I could not speak : at last, I wept, or 
 I had died. 
 
 I must not dwell upon the particulars of this interview. She 
 thanked me for the uniform kindness I had shown her ; for the 
 effort with which I had avoided connexions which she had but 
 too plainly seen my desire to form. " Could I pardon her for 
 the pain that she had caused me ? I should be happier after 
 her death ; for if it kept me poor, it would at least restore me 
 to liberty." 
 
 Let me do myself justice here, as I have visited justice upon 
 myself elsewhere. I was not quite a wretch. If my passions 
 were habitually fierce and ungovernable, their impulse in the 
 good cause was as powerful as in the cause of evil. 
 
 I knelt beside Isabella's bed. I confessed the truth of all 
 she charged me with. I invoked curses on my restless temper; 
 swore that all my former love for her was rekindled ; that I 
 would not survive her death ; that I should esteem myself her 
 murderer ! Nor did I at that moment, so help me, Heaven ! 
 utter any sentiment which I did not feel. If I did not at that 
 moment love Isabella passionately, I would have laid my life 
 down with pleasure for her safety, for her happiness. And I 
 trusted that I had in some measure restored her peace of mind; 
 and I was seriously resolving to like a peaceful life, when a cir- 
 cumstance occurred well calculated again to put my resolution 
 to the proof. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 
 
 Had I been asked for which of my virtues I should ever have 
 a fortune given me, I might have had some difficulty, and should 
 have had, in answering the question. It was my fate, however, 
 for once to be enriched by my irregularities. My grandfather, 
 penetrated on a sudden with admiration of a man who had 
 brought his family name so much under discussion, died, after 
 making twenty wills in favour of twenty different people ; and, 
 passing over my father, bequeathed a property of 4.000/. a-year 
 to me. 
 
 I premised that, about this time, some unforeseen occurrences 
 would befal me. Two of these I have already described ; the 
 third was, of all, the most unexpected. While I was busy in 
 preparations for returning to England, and divising schemes out 
 of number for pleasures and splendour when I should arrive there 
 —Isabella left me. 
 
48 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 It was a blow for which, less than for a miracle, I was prepared. 
 Returning one evening from shooting — we were then living at 
 Concleixa — I found a letter in her hand, lying sealed, upon my 
 table. The sight of the address alone paralyzed me. What had 
 happened flashed in an instant across my mind. The contents 
 of the letter were these : 
 
 " If I have used deception to you, Charles, believe me it is 
 now for the first time. I wish to spare you the needless agony 
 of bidding me farewell; I wish to secure myself against the 
 danger of being diverted from a course which reflection has con- 
 vinced me is the best. I cannot forget that you have ceased to 
 love me. I have known the fact long, but circumstances have 
 kept me silent. I acquit you, Heaven is my witness ! of un- 
 kindness or ingratitude ; esteem, affection, regard, compassion 
 — I know you gave me these; and love is not at our command. 
 There are men from whom I could be satisfied with kindness and 
 esteem ; but I cannot fall so low as to accept pity, Charles, 
 from you : you always will, you always must, love some woman. 
 Can I know this, and yet live with you, and be conscious that 
 you do not love me ? 
 
 " For three years I have endured to see you wretched, and to 
 feel myself the cause of your distress. Could I feel this, and 
 yet be happy ? * * * * 
 
 " Farewell! I will no longer continue to hang upon you, in- 
 terrupting enjoyments in which I am forbidden to participate. 
 Farewell, once more ; for I had intended but 
 to say, ' Farewell ! ' May you be happy, though my day of hap- 
 piness is over. Thank Heaven, your impetuous temper is no 
 longer likely to be incited by want of means to those enter- 
 prises, which might not always be successful : but, if ever chance 
 should place you again in such an emergency, as to make 
 Isabella's fortune — her life — her love, worth your acceptance, 
 then — and then only — will she consent again to hear from 
 you." 
 
 She is still living, — I trust she is ! If the last prayers of one 
 who has prayed but too seldom — if those prayers may be heard 
 which merit neither hearing nor value — if mercy for another can 
 be granted to him who dares not, cannot ask it for himself — 
 then may every blessing she can wish for, every blessing which 
 can wait on life, be hers ! May she know, that in my last hour, 
 my thoughts were upon her; that my latest wishes were 
 breathed for her safety — for her happiness. 
 
 But there are recollections which unhinge me for detail. I 
 have a blow to strike, and almost within this hour, for which 
 every corporeal and mental agent must be nerved. And my 
 senses rush along in a tide as furious and rapid as my fate. I 
 cannot dwell, amid this whirl of mind and fancy, upon the mea- 
 sures which, in seven years, dispossessed me of 70,000/. I am 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 49 
 
 not lamenting that which I have done. I began with a resolu- 
 tion to live while I did live. Uncertain of the next hour, the 
 passing moment was all to me. What mattered it, since my 
 course must cease, whether it ceased sooner or later, provided 
 while it lasted I was in all things content ? I scorned the con- 
 fined views of men who, possessing means, submitted to let 
 " I dare not" wait upon " I would ;" and vowed when I put 
 myself at the head of my fortune, that no expenditure of wealth, 
 no exposure of person, should ever have weight to disappoint my 
 inclinations. 
 
 Yet my estate lasted longer than, under such a resolution, 
 might be expected. The rich, for the most part, either lavish 
 their money without enjoying it, or to maintain what is called 
 a certain " state," suffer dependants to lavish it for them. As 
 it happened that I had no wish for commonplace distinctions, 
 nor was very desirous of anything which money alone could buy, 
 I escaped all those rapidly ruinous contests in which the longest 
 purse is understood to carry the day. I saw something of the 
 absurdities of fashion, but I entered very little into them. Cu- 
 riosity, want of employment, and that natural desire which even 
 the silliest man feels to laugh at the follies of those about him, 
 made me associate sometimes with fine gentlemen ; but I never 
 became a fine gentleman myself. 
 
 And yet it was amusing, in the way of chasse-ennui, to glide 
 along with the frequenters of Bond-street, and with the loungers 
 at the Opera ; and to observe the excessive, the monstrous, self- 
 delusion of men, who had been born to ample means, and were 
 not encumbered much with understanding. Their talk was such 
 feather; and yet, even in what they uttered, they were gene- 
 rally mistaken. If they were vicious, it was from thoughtless- 
 ness — if honest, from accident. Their conversation was so easy, 
 and yet (to themselves) so entertaining. The jest so weak, the 
 laugh so hilarious. Their belief, too, was so facile: I did envy 
 them that faculty. Not one of them ever doubted any thing 
 that he was at all interested in crediting. All about them was 
 fudge ; and yet they never seemed to be aware of it. Their Bond- 
 street dinners were not good. They would talk all day about 
 the fancied merits of particular dishes, and yet at night be put 
 off with such wine and cuisine as really was sad stuff, and could 
 not have passed but upon men of fashion. 
 
 But the most striking feature in their characters was theii 
 utter want of self-respect. I have seen a young man literally 
 begging for half-crowns, who but a few months before had driven 
 his curricle, and been distinguished for his insolence. Another 
 would borrow small sums, and never pay them, until not even a 
 servant was left to lend him a shilling. Others would endure to 
 be insulted by their tradesmen ; to be poisoned at coffee-houses 
 
50 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 where they could not pay their bills ; to truck and barter their 
 clothes and valuables for ready money with waiters at hotels, — 
 and all this to obtain supplies which in reality they did not 
 want, and because they knew no mode of dissipating a certain 
 quantity of specie. 
 
 These were the people who went to fights*— to races ; wore 
 large hats, and garments of peculiar cut ; with little of taste or 
 fancy in their devices ; and, of true conception of splendour or 
 of elegance, none. 
 
 Then their hangers-on were a set of men fit to be classed per 
 se in history : fellows called from all ranks and stations, but all 
 rascals alike : their avocations various, but all infamous. There 
 were among them cashiered officers, or men who had left the 
 army to avoid that infliction ; fraudulent waiters, and markers 
 from billiard-tables ; shopkeepers' sons, blackleg attorneys, and 
 now and then the broken-down heir of a respectable name and 
 family. 
 
 A portion of my wealth was given to relieve my father from 
 debts which he had incurred in expectation of the whole. Ano- 
 ther portion, I trust, will have placed in security beings whose 
 happiness and safety form my latest wish on earth. A third 
 portion, and a large one, has been consumed in idle dissipation ; 
 but, if I have often thrown away a hundred guineas, I have some- 
 times given away ten. 
 
 The whole, however, at last is gone. Parks, lordships, manors, 
 mansions — not a property is left. As my object was always 
 rather pleasure than parade, this change in my circumstances is 
 little known to the world. I am writing — and I shall die so — 
 in elegant apartments ; with liveried servants, splendid furniture, 
 all the paraphernalia of luxury about me. The whole is dis- 
 posed of, and the produce consumed. To-morrow gives the new 
 Owner possession. A hundred persons make account to nod to 
 me to-morrow. I have, for to-morrow, four invitations to dinner 
 — I shall die to-night. 
 
 Let me not be charged with flying this life because I fear to 
 meet the loss of fortune. Give" me back the years that I have 
 spent, and I can deem lightly of the money. But my place — 
 my station amongst my iellow men? It totters; it trembles. 
 Youth, hope, and confidence — these are past ; and the treasures 
 of the unfathomed ocean would not buy them back. 
 
 Then, if I had the Indies still in my grasp, would I endure to 
 descend in the scale of creation? Would I join in the class of 
 respectable old men, and sit spectator of a melee which I am no 
 longer able to engage in ? Would I choose the more disgusting 
 course of some I see around me, and let the vices of manhood 
 degenerate into the weaknesses of age ? Would I struggle to 
 maintain a field in which victory is past my hope ; dispute a 
 
LAST WORDS OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. 51 
 
 palm which, of necessity, must be wrested from my hand? 
 Would I endure to have men, whom I have been accustomed to 
 see as children, push me insolently from the stage of life, and 
 seize the post which I have occupied ? 
 
 If I could not bear this, still less could I endure the prob- 
 able, the inevitable consequences of old age. To be, if not 
 distasteful to my own depraved and doting sense, conscious of 
 being distasteful to all the world beside. To die worn out with, 
 pains and aches. Helpless in body — feebler still in mind. The 
 tottering victim of decrepitude and idiocy, cowering from that 
 fate which by no effort I can avoid. 
 
 I will not come to this : I will not make a shirking, ignomi- 
 nious end of life, when I have the power within myself to die as 
 may become a man. To this hour I have had strength to keep 
 my station in the world : in a few minutes it would be gone — 
 but I shall go before it. And what do I lose by thus grappling 
 with my fate ? A few years, at most, of uncertainty and uneasi- 
 ness ! That man may die to-morrow I know afflicts him little ; 
 but let him reflect, in his triumph, that he must die on the next 
 day. Let him remember, that when he has borne to have people 
 inquire after his health, listen to his answer with impatience, 
 and go to be happy out of his reach — when he has borne to close 
 the eyes of the last friend of his youth, to lose all his old con- 
 nexions, and to find himself incapable of forming new ones — 
 when he has endured to be a solitary, excommunicated wretch, 
 and to read, in the general eye, that he is an intruder upon earth 
 — he is still but as a ball, to which a certain impetus is given, 
 which, moving in a fixed track, can neither deviate nor pause ; 
 and which has but (to an inch) a marked space to pass over, at 
 the end of which comes that fall, from which the world's worth 
 cannot save it. 
 
 I can write no more. My hour is fast approaching. Now 
 am I greater, in my own holding, than an emperor ! He would 
 command the fate of others, but I command my own. This is, 
 in very choice, the destiny which I would embrace. There is 
 something sublime in thus looking in the face of Death ; he sits 
 over against me as I write ; and I view him without terror. If 
 I have a predominating feeling this moment, it is curiosity. 
 
 One full glass more, and I am prepared. Wine is wanting 
 only to aid the nerve, not to stimulate the courage or the will. 
 My pistols lie loaded by my side. I will seal this packet, never- 
 theless, with a steady hand ; and you who receive it shall bear 
 witness that I have done so. 
 
 Now within this half hour I will forget even that care must be 
 the lot of man. I will revel for a moment in the influence of 
 wine, and in the smile of beauty — I will love for one moment 
 longer the being I could wish to love for ever. 
 
52 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 The clock strikes eleven. Friend, whom I have selected to 
 receive my parting words, I must conclude. I shall send this 
 letter to you instantly. You will receive it whilst I still exist ; 
 and yet you will be unable — the world would be unable — to 
 prevent the act I meditate. Do me justice — and farewell ! 
 When the chimes tell twelve to-night, I shall be uppermost in 
 your mind. You will wonder — you will be troubled — you will 
 doubt. And, when you sit at breakfast to-morrow morning, 
 some public newspaper, recording my death, will give you per- 
 haps the real name, of — Titus. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 GINEVRA. 
 
 Antonio Roxdinelli had become deeply enamoured of the 
 beauties of the lady Ginevra, and had persevered in his attach- 
 ment for more than four years, subsequent to 1396, against the 
 express wishes of her father, who wished to bestow her hand 
 upon one of the Agolanti family, named Francesco, as being of 
 superior fortune to his rival, although not so agreeable in the 
 eyes of the fair Ginevra. She may be said, therefore, to have 
 been forced into the arms of Francesco, as she yielded a reluc- 
 tant consent to her parents' will ; while unfortunately the pas- 
 sion of Antonio seemed only to acquire fresh vigour from the 
 bitter disappointment of all his hopes. In the wretchedness of 
 his heart he vowed never to bestow his hand upon another; and 
 he still indulged himself in the sad consolation of gazing upon 
 her at all public festivals, in churches, and private assemblies. 
 
 Now it chanced that in the great plague of 1400, which 
 ravaged so many cities of Italy, and especially Florence, the fair 
 Ginevra was taken sick, and owing either to the neglect of the 
 physicians, or the malignant nature of the disease, soon after 
 fell an apparent victim to its rage. Strong hysterical affections, 
 then little understood, had preceded her decease ; and every one 
 around her supposed that she had ceased to breathe. Imme- 
 diate interments, also, taking place, as was usual in those 
 periods of distress, she narrowly escaped the fate, most probably 
 shared by many in such seasons of terror, of being inhumed 
 alive . Borne by a body of priests, she was laid with little cere- 
 mony in the family vault, belonging to the chapel of her ances- 
 tors, and to this day the place is pointed out to the curious 
 
GINEVRA. 53 
 
 stranger who visits the spot. She was greatly lamented by her 
 husband, her friends, and indeed by all who knew her virtues. 
 But the grief of none was equal to that of Antonio Rondinelli, 
 when he heard of her sudden decease. 
 
 Esteemed by all ranks, only a few months a bride, her sup- 
 posed fate drew tears from many eyes : yet only a few hours of 
 that fatal night had elapsed, when, awaking out of her lethargic 
 slumber, the poor young creature opened her eyes. The moon 
 shone brightly, when, shivering with the cold damp air of the 
 vault (it being the month of October), she attempted to raise her- 
 self up, and in a short time began to recognise the place in which 
 she lay. Commending herself to the mercy of Heaven, and all 
 its guardian saints, she next strove to release herself from her 
 unearthly garments, and perceiving a glimmer of light through 
 a crevice in the door, she succeeded, though faint and exhausted, 
 in reaching the entrance of the vault. Having mounted the 
 steps, by degrees she removed a portion of the covering least 
 secured, through which she had observed the light, and at 
 length, with extreme difficulty, issued forth. Terror and despair 
 had hitherto given her strength, while the cold air now braced 
 her nerves; and, thinly clad as she was, she pursued her way, 
 (hence called Via della Morte), found her husband's house, 
 along the Cor so degli Adimari, now named Via Dei Calzajoli, 
 and along some by streets, until she reached her own door. 
 Her husband, who happened to be sitting sorrowfully over the 
 fire just before retiring to rest, himself went to the door — and, 
 on beholding such a figure, and hearing a low and plaintive 
 voice, he started back and made a sign of the cross, believing 
 it was a spirit : then, invoking her to depart, he hastily shut the 
 door in her face, and went trembling to bed, vowing to have more 
 masses and alms offered up the following day for the repose of 
 her soul. 
 
 Ginevra wept. " Is this the love," she cried, " he should 
 have borne me ? Alas ! alas ! what shall I do ? Must I perish 
 of cold and hunger in the streets?" Then, recollecting her 
 father's house, she pursued her weary way thither; but he was 
 from home, and her mother, from an upper story, hearing a weak 
 plaintive voice, interrupted with sobs and shiverings, exclaimed 
 in a paroxysm of pious fear — " Get thee gone in peace, blessed 
 spirit ! " and shut down the window in hopes that she had laid 
 the ghost. The wretched girl, then wringing her hands, re- 
 sumed her way, and attempted to reach the abode of one of her 
 uncles, resting frequently as she went ; yet, after all, she found 
 her toil still unrecompensed, receiving the same reply wherever 
 she went, — " Get thee gone in peace ! " after which polite re- 
 ception, the door was closed in her face. At length, weary with 
 suffering, she laid herself down to sleep, or rather to die, under 
 
54 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the little lodge of San Bartolommeo, when, just before closing 
 her eyes, she bethought herself, as a last resource, of her former 
 lover, from whom she was then at no great distance. " Yet 
 what reception," she mentally exclaimed, " ought I to expect, 
 after the slights and ill treatment that he has met with at the 
 hands of me and my family ; when I consider, too, how those 
 who professed to love me have driven me from their doors ! v 
 It was with a misgiving heart, then, that she knocked at Antonio's 
 door. Whether or not we are to suppose that he possessed 
 superior strength of courage, or of love, beyond all her natural 
 relatives whom she had tried, certain it is, that instead of being 
 terrified at her appearance, he advanced boldly and even eagerly 
 towards her, gazing upon her with fixed looks, and drawing his 
 breath deeply ; then apparently recognising her, he exclaimed in 
 a kind and gentle tone, " Art thou indeed Ginevra, or her pure 
 and sainted spirit ! " and the next moment he felt her a living 
 and breathing woman in his arms. Calling out loudly for as- 
 sistance, his mother and servants came running to inquire what 
 had happened ; most of whom, on beholding her, ran away again 
 faster than they had approached. But the happy Antonio, 
 bearing her in his arms, had her speedily wrapped in warm 
 linen, and placed upon a couch, between his mother and ano- 
 ther female, in order to restore her to a natural warmth. Still 
 he indulged fears that she would not revive, while he availed 
 himself of everything that art or nature could furnish to cherish 
 the vital flame. It would be difficult to decide whether, as he 
 watched her gradually reviving, his feeling of unutterable joy 
 was not greater than had been that of his overwhelming grief, 
 on first hearing tidings that her beloved spirit had fled. He 
 lingered around her bed, or was ever at her side, unwilling to 
 trust her even to the most confidential servants of the house- 
 hold, and administering every cordial to her with his own hands. 
 When she was at last enabled to sit up, she fell at her bene- 
 factor's — at her lover's feet ; and while she poured forth her 
 unutterable gratitude in floods of tears and passionate exclama- 
 tions, she yet with her characteristic purity and virtue besought 
 him to have pity on her, to respect her honour, and to add to all 
 his generosity and tenderness the disinterestedness of a true 
 friend. For she knew, she continued, there was nothing she 
 could — nothing she ought to deny him, after such unheard-of 
 kindness, and that she was henceforward his handmaid and his 
 slave. Still, she should prefer death to the loss of virtue or of 
 reputation ; and if he truly loved her, he would respect them ; 
 and that he did love her as none ever before loved, was evident 
 in the charity, courage, and true tenderness with which he had 
 taken her to his arms, when husband, father, mother, and all 
 relatives and friends forsook her. 
 
GINEVRA. 55 
 
 Antonio, delighted to dwell upon her voice, hung enraptured 
 over her as she spoke, and then, falling before her upon his 
 knees, he entreated her forgiveness, if he had in the slightest 
 instance forgotten himself, or transgressed the strictest bounds 
 prescribed by reverence and honour. She could only answer 
 him with a fresh gush of tears, as she pressed his hands, with 
 tremulous emotion, to her heart and lips ; while, soothing her 
 alarm, the kind Antonio assured her that she owed him nothing, 
 that he was more than sufficiently rewarded in beholding her 
 restoration to health and beauty, and that he wished and would 
 accept nothing from her gratitude and love. 
 
 " Did she," he continued, with an expression of anguish and 
 alarm, " insist upon being instantly restored to her husband's 
 arms ? Then let her speak it. Hesitate not — spare me not," 
 he cried ; " I will do it, though I die for it !" Oh ! never, 
 never I" exclaimed the wretched girl : " wedded though I be, I 
 will not see him — I will not dwell with him more. Let me rather 
 fly to a nunnery, and again become buried alive for ever. 
 Besides, death hath dissolved our union. I was dead to him ; 
 nay, he interred me, and but now drove me from his presence. 
 Mention him no more," she continued ; " for, were it requisite, 
 I would appeal to our tribunal — to every tribunal on earth ! 
 Have they not all, moreover, numbered me with the dead, and 
 rejected me when I rose from the grave by little less than a 
 miracle ? " 
 
 The delighted Antonio, on receiving these sweet assurances, 
 could only fall at her feet, and thank her with his tears ; but 
 they were tears of ecstatic pleasure, soon smiled and kissed 
 away ; for, as if to promote the wishes which both in their secret 
 hearts indulged, Agolanti, the former husband of the lady, being 
 of a covetous disposition, disposed of the whole Of her orna- 
 ments and dresses, which Antonio, who had his eye upon all the 
 proceedings of her relations, very soon contrived to get into 
 his own hands. Agolanti, shortly afterwards meeting with a 
 lady of fortune, paid his addresses to her ; upon which An- 
 tonio and his beautiful Ginevra, no longer hesitating what course 
 to pursue, resolved to secure the blissful object they had in view, 
 and to unite their fate everlastingly in one. The new marriage 
 deeds being therefore drawn out according to the usual forms, 
 without the knowledge of even her nearest relatives, who had 
 scarcely yet finished offering up masses for her soul, of which 
 they imagined, from what they had seen, that she stood in the 
 utmost need, she proceeded to church early on Sunday morning, 
 to confer her hand upon the happy Antonio. Her future mother- 
 in-law, with a single servant, and Antonio following them, as if 
 going to hear mass, formed the whole of the wedding-party. 
 When just on the point of entering the church, they encountered 
 
56 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 another procession : it was that of her late husband Agolanti, 
 her mother, and other friends, proceeding- exactly on the same 
 destination. What was here to be done ? and which did it behove 
 to yield precedence of the other ? With the greatest presence 
 of mind, Antonio's bride accosted her mother, who, in some 
 surprise and terror, with the rest of her party, kept at a respect- 
 ful distance ; yet, it being daylight, and observing Ginevra so 
 well-dressed, and looking so beautiful and so happy, they felt 
 somewhat reassured when she accosted them, and briefly in- 
 formed them that, as her physicians had given her over, the 
 priest administered extreme unction, and her friends and rela- 
 tives performed her last obsequies, she had taken her first love, 
 and no longer belonged to them; that it was plain, moreover, 
 that they wished it to be so ; for that, after she had been mira- 
 culously restored to them, no one had taken the least notice of 
 her, but, on the other hand, had driven her from her own doors ; 
 that he alone, from whom she expected least, had received her 
 like a good Samaritan, and opened his house and arms to her, 
 restoring her to life and love ; and that, by all the laws of 
 heaven and earth, she would henceforth be his; for, without 
 his assistance, she must assuredly have died ; so that, having 
 every claim to her gratitude, she had consented to become 
 wholly his. Then, taking a hasty farewell of her mother and her 
 friends, the parties separated, not choosing to perform the 
 respective ceremonies at the same time, and in the same 
 church. 
 
 Upon their return, after the marriage-feast was concluded, a 
 messenger arrived with, an order from the bishop ; and, in the 
 presence of her former husband, summoned for the occasion, 
 the prelate declared the ecclesiastical sentence, of which the 
 tenour ran : that the fair Ginevra should remain the wife of 
 Antonio, and that her former husband should restore the whole 
 of her dower, since it was clear that the lady had been dead 
 and buried, but, to the glory of the church, had been miracu- 
 culously restored. 
 
 From Roscoe's Italian Novelists. 
 
SOME PASSAGES 
 IN THE LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 
 
 (ORIGINAL. BY THE EDITOR.) 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST. 
 
 I depart ; 
 
 Whither, I know not : but the hour's gone by. 
 
 Chilce Harold. 
 
 I could endure this sort of thing no longer. I felt that I 
 could not. I would pay no more debts. My creditors must 
 consent to remain in statu quo until I could turn myself round. 
 I settled this in my own mind during the preceding night, — a 
 night of restless and feverish anxiety. The pleasures of reading 
 are manifold, and while they had me in their books, a record of 
 strange and intense interest would never be wanting to them. 
 I would say to them, in the words of my favourite author, 
 
 " If you have writ your annals true, — 'tis there — " 
 
 And there, an' it please you, it must continue to remain. 
 
 Filled with this irrevocable resolution, I arose and dressed 
 myself: I must leave my lodgings that very day. It would be 
 well also to arrange and take a mental inventory of my wearing 
 apparel, and goods, chattels, and appurtenances, of whatever 
 description. New lodgings are strange, and sometimes dan- 
 gerous domiciles. Honesty is a scarce article — very few have 
 Blackstone at their fingers' ends. I found, then, after I had 
 completed my toilet, my extra wardrobe to consist of one pair of 
 azure unwhisperables, in a rapid decline from exposure to inces- 
 sant thorough-drafts — a shirt which had stuck to me through 
 good and evil report, with more adhesive attachment than did 
 the shirt of Nessus, the Centaur, to the limbs of Hercules — and 
 two pair of old, exceeding old stockings, such as, to judge them 
 by their appearance, might have been knitted by Mary Queen 
 of Scots, for her husband Darnley. 
 
 Over and above this abundance of gear, I could boast a razor, 
 better fitted to take off the beards of oysters than of men — a 
 small tooth-brush, and a large-tooth comb, the bristles of one 
 about equal in number to the teeth of the other — a superannu- 
 ated hair-brush that could make itself useful as a battledore — 
 and a locket, presented to me by my cousin Ellen, of inestimable 
 worth to me, but of no great intrinsic value — indeed, a nominal 
 relative of mine, whose house may at any time be recognised by 
 
 F 
 
58 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 its fanciful decoration of three gilded balls, had apprized me, 
 only a few days previously, that the bijou in question was not 
 worth twopence. 
 
 Having packed up these several articles in as portable and 
 invisible a shape as possible, and having, as a mere matter of 
 form and ceremony, taken the gauge of my pockets, with a view 
 to a final assurance that there was, indeed, no current coin of 
 the realm remaining in them, I turned towards the scanty furni- 
 ture of my bedroom, and took a farewell of that ancient jumble, 
 bidding it at the same time to take notice that this was to be 
 considered the last leave-taking of Frank Loosefish, Esq. 
 
 But now it may behove to state why I made so precipitate a 
 retreat from my lodging. This in few words. In the first place, 
 Gripe, a sheriff's officer for the County of Middlesex, a man who 
 had paralyzed more shoulder-blades than any two bailiffs extant, 
 was on the look out after me. I had heard — heard of, nay I had 
 seen him. He was pervading Pentonville like a pestilence, and 
 he wanted to take measure of me, on an old suit, with a long 
 piece of parchment. In the second place, my landlord had 
 disgusted me. Some men are absurdly unreasonable. He 
 wanted his little bill. He resided, as I have hinted, at Penton- 
 ville. He was by name Sullen, by profession a milkman, by 
 habit a drunkard. Pentonville was a pleasant place — very much 
 so. Milk is nutritious, the breath of cows wholesome. Nor 
 was Sullen, during the earlier period of my sojourn with him, 
 either an unamiable or an unintellectual character. It was he 
 who exploded the vulgar error that gentlemen in his line put 
 chalk into their milk. He was decisive upon the point. He 
 said it was not chalk. 
 
 But as time wore away, a change much to be deprecated took 
 place in the manners and behaviour of my landlord. Whether 
 it was that his cows yielded milk less kindly than heretofore, or 
 that he himself possessed less of the milk of human kindness, was 
 at that time a problem to me, until at length the unworthy truth 
 flashed upon me. Yes, I saw by the gradually intenserblueness, 
 which was now become blackness of his physiognomy, and the 
 half-and-half pepper and salt expression in the face of his wife 
 (a worthy woman, too), that they expected long arrears of rent 
 from me. They wanted their little bill. 
 
 I know it is unreasonable to expect invariable suavity from 
 those to whom money is due. In some few instances that have 
 come under my own knowledge such affability has been with- 
 held. Was it for me to disturb the account '{ On no account, 
 also, would I. disturb myself. I forgave, while I pitied, the 
 frailty of human nature, and was their inmate for a few months 
 longer, that they might hereafter palliate to themselves their 
 inhuman precipitancy, their indecent haste. While I remained 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 59 
 
 with them I was the most quiet lodger they ever had. They 
 brought me into a habit of early rising. I was up with the cow, 
 and when I came home at night, such was my kind and truly 
 humane horror of disturbing their repose, that I adopted a ghost- 
 like gliding, inaudible even to myself. 
 
 Every thing must have an end. One night I had, as usual, 
 crept silently into bed, where I lay for some time speculating on 
 the best means of making one sovereign, of which I had become 
 possessed, go as far as three ; and during this process of expan- 
 sion, I fell into a doze. The arms of Morpheus must have been 
 jerked out of the sockets, as awaking with a start, I sprang up 
 in bed. Could it be ? Yes. A heavy and unsteadfast foot was 
 stamping down, or rather up the stairs, while frequent tumblings 
 against the wainscot led to the momentary conviction that Sullen, 
 accompanied by his cow, was about to intrude into my chamber, 
 the door of which was now burst open. Sullen, however, had 
 come alone, much disguised in liquor (but I knew him too 
 well), and planting the weight of his detested carcass upon my 
 toes, heaved forth a heavy sigh. 
 
 " Well," presently hiccuped the bloated malt-worm, with a 
 voice as though he said-—" Here I am." 
 
 " Well," I responded in a soothing tone that might have 
 excited the envy of the late Mr. Daffy, whose invaluable elixir 
 has been found so efficacious when applied to infants, " Well, 
 Mr. Sullen." 
 
 " I want some money, Mr. Loosefish," roared the vulgar and 
 unreasonable brute, " and I can't wait no longer for it. Here 
 have we been more than ten months a waiting, and never seen 
 a farthing the blessed time. Come, tip up, now — I'll stand no 
 more nonsense." 
 
 I am no coward — far from it ; yet, I confess I was panic- 
 struck. To have attempted to give battle to the excited beast 
 would have been useless. I could no more have stood against 
 him, than a small keg could have vied with the Heidelberg tun. 
 Involuntarily seizing my pocket, 1 produced the sovereign. 
 
 " If half of this," I was about to say, u will be of any ser- 
 vice," &c. 
 
 " I'll have it all," bellowed the miscreant, falling forward 
 and grasping my treasure; " and now, Mr. Loosefish, you're a 
 gentleman — " and he staggered towards the door, " and may 
 stay here a little longer, if you like." 
 
 It was but small satisfaction to me to hear the base felon 
 fall, head-over-heels, down stairs. It only accelerated the de- 
 parture of my entire capital, which was now gone from me for 
 ever. 
 
 That night preceded the morning of my departure. — What 
 did the [filthy hog mean? Not paid him a farthing for ten 
 
60 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 months? — Ridiculous! But I had intended to pay him, 
 which is the same thing, or as near to it as may be. — Oh ! the 
 selfishness of mankind. 
 
 With a feeling of manly indignation at the meanness of the 
 world, I walked boldly down stairs, and there I paid my re- 
 spects to the good woman, who, it seemed, had been somewhat 
 assuaged by the plunder of the previous night ; and concealing 
 my few articles of wearing-apparel as well as I could, left the 
 house, with a shudder at the means some people adopt of look- 
 ing after what they call their interests. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND. 
 — Alone with thee ! 
 
 De Montfort. 
 
 I had a friend residing in Goswell-street, to whom I straight- 
 way bent my steps. Magson was a clerk in the Mint, and took 
 breakfast precisely at eight every morning. I had the length of 
 his cofTee-pot, and knew accurately the diameter of his hot rolls. 
 Magson was a very respectable, worthy, good kind of a man; 
 that is to say, he kept his landlady civil, had a tame tailor, never 
 drank more than two glasses of grog, never smoked more than 
 one cigar, and was always in bed by the eleventh hour. Yet 
 Magson had his faults. He was one of those men who would 
 do nothing for you if he knew you wanted it ; but if he thought 
 you were " about something," would lend his assistance readily 
 enough. He would not help a lame dog over the stile, but 
 would obsequiously open the gate for any well-conditioned cur 
 that could exercise its due proportion of legs. He would put 
 no shoulder to the wheel if your waggon were stuck in the 
 mud ; but when you had borrowed three pair of fresh horses, 
 and were travelling along the high road in triumph, he w T ould 
 come behind the waggon with his walking-stick, and give it a 
 plaguy hard push — " and no mistake," as he was wont to say. 
 With this estimable friend I was now taking my morning coffee. 
 
 During this refreshing meal, I had full leisure to peruse the 
 index of Magson's mind, as printed in his face. To this index I 
 added a supplement of good qualities, which my present situa- 
 tion rendered me prone to ascribe to him. But no; I felt it 
 would not do. I saw that I must not reveal to him my forlorn 
 plight. There are some men whom you can never understand. 
 Magson was one of the utterly unintelligible. As he played 
 with his watch-chain ostentatiously, I could have asked him for 
 the loan of ten pounds ; when he carefully brushed his hat, with 
 an anxious scrutiny of its minute defects, I felt that a doit 
 would have been denied. But, for what purpose had I come ? 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 61 
 
 Some compromise between ten pounds and a doit must be 
 effected. He was going — he was off to his office. 
 
 " By the by, Magson," said I, with an air of sudden remi- 
 niscence, placing my hand upon my pocket as though doubtful 
 of its vacuity. " I find I have come out without any loose 
 silver about me — lend me a few shillings, will you ? " 
 
 Had I attempted the man's existence with a breakfast-knife, 
 he could not have been more astounded. 
 
 " Loose silver," he stammered ; MI don't know — I think I 
 have a few shillings : what are you about just now ? " 
 
 " Oh ! many things — very busy, very busy — yes, those five 
 half-crowns will just do — thank ye — I shall be your way again 
 next Wednesday." 
 
 11 Well, I shall be happy to see you then," said the discom- 
 fited curmudgeon — " you're getting on, are you?" 
 
 " I believe you I am !" said I, with an important nod ; " as 
 much as I can do to get my meals sometimes — so engaged." 
 
 " I am truly glad to hear it," replied Magson, pressing my 
 hand as though it were a sponge, and we parted at the street- 
 door with mutual expressions of goodwill and regard. Upon 
 my life, the manner of the man compelled me to make a second 
 application to him some time afterwards. There is a great deal 
 in manner. I looked upon him as Dryden's treasure-seeker did 
 upon a piece of unripe ore which he suddenly turned up. 
 
 •• I knew he would be gold another day." 
 
 During the afternoon I dropped in accidentally upon my 
 agreeable companion, Skelter. He lived in Paul's Chain, and 
 was something in Doctors' Commons. Skelter was a fine, 
 generous fellow, but he never had any money about him, except 
 at quarter-day, and then you must nick the minute, or the 
 chance was hopeless. That was the worst of it — I have several 
 times been subjected to much inconvenience from that circum- 
 stance. He enjoyed, however, an enviable degree of credit at 
 the Star, whither, in a twinkling of it, we repaired. 
 
 Here I recounted to him my distresses, and vented much 
 moral reprehension of Magson's meanness of soul, and calcu- 
 lating scepticism of character. He laughed heartily at my dis- 
 tresses, and threw up his eyes at the false prudence of our 
 common friend. 
 
 " By the by," said he, after the second glass, "what a 
 ninny you must be, Loosefish, to take a lodging — a mere paltry 
 lodging in which you can never acquire respect, or exact the at- 
 tention your station in life demands ! " 
 
 I started. 
 
 " Don't you see," he resumed, " you're perpetually harassed 
 for little trifling miserable sums altogether beneath a gentle- 
 
62 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 man's notice ? Don't you see how you lower your character in 
 the estimation of the world ? Besides, to be obliged to take 
 your meals at coffee-shops and eating-houses — pshaw ! you 
 abuse your opportunities strangely, Loosefish." 
 
 " Well, but how can I help that?" was a natural que&tion of 
 mine. 
 
 " Superadd board to your lodging l" cried Skelter in a loud 
 oracular voice. 
 
 I had never thought of that before. Very strange ! I had 
 never dreamed of it before. 
 
 " Board !" I exclaimed, " why, Skelter, you astonish me." 
 
 " Do I?" said Skelter, stroking his chin with an air of supe- 
 rior knowledge of the world. 
 
 " Why, Skelter," and I leaned across the table ; " they take 
 breakfast at these places at nine o'clock every morning." 
 
 " Precisely so," cried Skelter, rubbing his hair. 
 
 " Lunch about one." 
 
 Skelter nodded his head. " Go on." 
 
 " Dine at five ; sometimes fish, and always a hot joint on 
 table ;" and here I motioned as though carving a leg of 
 mutton. 
 
 " I believe you there is," said Skelter, " cut and come again 
 there." 
 
 " And tea and supper into the bargain. Oh ! Skelter, you're 
 a good fellow — but why didn't you tell me this before?" 
 
 " Be quiet," said my friend, " don't agitate yourself. Mark 
 me : In a boarding-house you are an independent man. They 
 dare not give you warning. They haven't the heart to do it. 
 You have eaten and drunk at their table." 
 
 " Not yet," said I ; " but very soon will do." 
 
 " That's right— mind, this is no mere dry lodging, but money 
 out of pocket. Every additional joint fixes you more firmly ; 
 and when you have eaten about a hundred legs of mutton, you 
 have created a centipede which they dare not grapple with." 
 
 Skelter and I parted at midnight, — he to his own boarding- 
 house (I wanted an introduction, but he said one was enough), 
 and I to any house that might still be open. 
 
 As I walked down Fleet-street and turned up Chancery-lane, 
 how I longed, like a full-freighted captain of a merchantman, 
 that I could go on board instantly. I was inwardly resolved, 
 however, to put myself on regular diet the very next day, and 
 in the mean while, a public-house arrested my attention, in 
 which, probably I might secure a bed. 
 
 The landlord, as I entered the house, was staring with all his 
 might at a wizened lemon suspended from a hook in a small net ; 
 and yawning (for by this strange process he had been endea- 
 vouring to stave off slumber) demanded my pleasure. 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 63 
 
 " Can I have a bed here to-night," I inquired with my accus- 
 tomed suavity, 
 
 " Certainly, sir," replied the host, " if you do not mind 
 sleeping with another gentleman in the room." 
 
 " Not in the least. Misery, landlord, makes a man ac- 
 quainted with strange bedfellows, as our great bard says." 
 
 ** Ah!" said the host, as though he understood something, but 
 did not exactly know what. " Here, Betsy, show this gentle- 
 man the room." 
 
 " This honest fellow sleeps soundly," thought I, when the 
 girl had retired and left me alone with my companion, U if 
 snoring conduce to slumber, he is fast enough." 
 
 I stumbled accidentally against the bed. For this I was 
 sorry at the time, fori would not willingly mar the repose of any 
 human being. The unknown turned himself round with a blas- 
 pheming grunt, and I saw his face gradually relapse into qui- 
 escent innocuousness. 
 
 I saw his face subside, as I have stated, and moved not, for I 
 had no power to move. It was Gripe, the bailiff! My Pen- 
 tonville persecutor lay before me. " Affable wolf ! meek bear!" 
 and his withering digits were harmlessly expanded on the coun- 
 terpane. Now could I have devised engines for his life, but 
 that my senses presently returning, warned me to provide for 
 my own safety. With the cautious retrogression of a crab, 
 therefore, I left the dreaded sleeper, and forthwith applied the 
 little foolscap of an extinguisher to the candle, which was per- 
 haps the very wisest thing I ever did in my life. Slinking into 
 bed, I lay in horrible suspense. Perhaps he might be dreaming 
 of me, and would arise while I slept, and by some preternatural 
 instinct lay hands upon his quaking victim. Awaking from 
 uneasy repose, I arose about five in the morning, with a sort of 
 tic douloureux in my left shoulder, impossible to be described. 
 
 The coat of my ruthless companion lay beside me. I took it 
 up and examined the contents of the pockets. Amongst other 
 slips of parchment (I think they term them writs) was one call- 
 ing upon the sheriff of Middlesex, greeting, to secure me forth- 
 with ; stating that I owed 541. 8s. to two gentlemen of similar 
 names, and describing me as at present employed in " running 
 up and down my bailiwick." This and the other similar docu- 
 ments I destroyed, and dressing myself hastily, took my leave 
 in deep disgust of a man who, hardened by long and debasing 
 custom, had evidently quite forgotten that liberty is not only the 
 birthright but the privilege of Englishmen. 
 
64 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD. 
 
 Tell me frankly, sir, 
 
 Have you found no one yet? — has your heart yet 
 Nowhere attached itself? Faustus. 
 
 It was a highly reputable house which I stopped to recon- 
 noitre. It was in Goodge- street, Tottenham-court-road — a 
 place, I believe, only remarkable for its vicinity to the Middlesex 
 hospital, having no historical recollections connected with it to 
 recommend its adoption to the antiquary or the student. But I 
 have no such predilections, being naturally more solicitous 
 about the future for myself, than about the past connected with 
 others. " Board and Lodging." It had a pleasing look with 
 it, nicely printed, as it was, on a large white card. It reminded 
 me of a tablecloth with the first course just served. It excited 
 hunger. 
 
 I knocked and was admitted. Now, let me remark, I 
 think it very strange that women, keeping expensive establish- 
 ments of this nature, do not exercise more caution. I know 
 that my manners are prepossessing — I am aware that I have 
 been " framed to make women false" to thsir own interests, 
 but surely, a reference should have been required. I think so. 
 I may, however, be mistaken. Mrs. Moon, the worthy land- 
 lady, was pleased to remark that my face was a letter of recom- 
 mendation, a sentiment in which her truly amiable daughter, 
 Miss Eliza Moon, concurred, and I sat down to dinner, that 
 very afternoon, with an excellent appetite. 
 
 Besides myself, there were two other gentlemen to whom my 
 hostess introduced me. Mr. Trotter, an elderly gentleman with 
 powdered hair and benignant expression of face, and a young 
 gentleman, Mr. Cherubini Cox, whose chief personal points 
 consisted of no eyebrows, a set of teeth like split filberts, and a 
 voice, as though he had swallowed the husks. 
 
 At night, when the elderly gentleman had borne away his 
 chamber candlestick, Mrs. Moon imparted to me in confidence 
 that her " more than brother" Mr. Trotter was a merchant who 
 had left off business, that he was very wealthy, and lived upon 
 an annuity payable once a year, and had money out in all 
 directions, and that he was like a second father to her girl, and 
 had promised to present her with a marriage portion. Miss 
 Eliza Moon on her part descanted upon the merits of Mr. 
 Cherubini Cox, who had retired into the back parlour. He 
 was so well connected, so very respectable, so amiable, so quiet, 
 so pleasant. He was walking the hospitals, and was passionately 
 fond of music. His instrument was the violoncello ; whose 
 tones, by the by, were now rumbling through the keyhole like 
 groans of indisposed malefactors. 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 65 
 
 These recitals were gratifying to me. I was touched, nay, 
 affected by the generosity of Trotter. I yearned towards Cox, 
 whom I already looked upon as a friend. In return, I opened 
 my heart, and hinted my affairs to this worthy couple. I was 
 unexpectedly detained in London by a lawsuit involving a vast 
 sum. I had foolishly sent on my wardrobe (except a small 
 change of linen) to Paris, where my father, the General, had 
 long resided ; and I did not know whether I should not break off 
 the match with Miss Ponsonby. Those wealthy aristocrats 
 always thought so much of themselves. This discourse having 
 made an evident impression, I retired to my very comfortable 
 apartment. 
 
 For three weeks all went on smoothly enough ; but during 
 the fourth, methought I discovered a slight diminution in the 
 cordiality, — on the fifth, I imagined (I am sensitively alive to 
 such things) a degree of coolness; — and on the sixth, I felt 
 sure that a storm was brewing for me. The wort of my land- 
 lady's wrath was already fermenting. 
 
 " The sky was changed, and such a change ; oh ! night" 
 
 was nothing to the pitchy expression on the countenances of 
 my landlady and her daughter. Discontent nestled in their 
 brows, malignity took lodgings in their eyes, distrust and dis- 
 gust seemed to loom from the very peaks of their noses. What 
 was to be done? I tried Magson for five pounds, but it wouldn't 
 do — it was with the most strange difficulty that I succeeded in 
 securing one, a sum, of course, too paltry to think of tendering 
 even in part payment. 
 
 And here I found Skelter's theory imperfect. It is necessary 
 to sacrifice some little specie for the first month or two, in order 
 to secure a footing. I am thoroughly convinced that a man is 
 a gainer by that process in the longrun. It compromises the 
 principle, I grant, but the end justifies the means. 
 
 For now, I was fairly at a nonplus — I could not see my way 
 clearly — the board was giving way from under me. I saw I 
 must soon be, like the times of the melancholy Hamlet, " out 
 of joint." In vain I started at the knock of the postman — in 
 vain I cursed the dilatoriness of my Parisian Correspondent. 
 How many times did I walk into the city to inquire at the Post 
 Office whether there was not some strange mistake, some keep- 
 ing back of the letters, some misdirection. How many interviews 
 did I solicit with Sir Francis Freeling upon that very point. 
 
 When overcredulous people once begin to suspect, it is as- 
 tonishing what sceptics they are. When doubt begins, farewell 
 fiction and its uses. They doubted me. The worst construction 
 was put upon my credit: they made a marked distinction between 
 me and Cherubim Cox — there was a wide difference between 
 
66 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 their treatment of Trotter and of me. This was ungracious ; 
 nay, it was unkind. I particularly remarked that they in- 
 variably gave me the knuckle of the leg of mutton — the frost- 
 bitten potato was mine, my tea was not of the first water, and 
 my bed was never half made. How will a senseless idolatry at 
 the shrine of mammon warp the affections and corrupt the heart ! 
 - — But I pitied and forgave the poor misguided creatures. 
 
 Something must be accomplished to re-establish my equality. 
 I am free to confess that I am not partial to the knuckle end ; 
 that the potato is a vegetable by no means improved by exposure 
 to the frost ; that full-flavoured Hyson is preferable to the last 
 faint twang of Twankay, and that a featherbed is no great shakes 
 unless it be well shaken. 
 
 My thoughts alternately ran upon Cherubini Cox, and trotted 
 up to Trotter. The former was fond of music. Good. Music 
 is soothing, and I believe softens the sympathies. But then he 
 was walking the hospitals. His soul was callous, doubtless ; he 
 had seen too much of misery to be affected by a recital of pe- 
 cuniary accidents. He, who could witness unmoved a"*poor 
 creature's leg taken off, would hardly listen to me if I told him 
 that I had not a leg to stand upon. But Trotter — the benevolent, 
 the exemplary, the kind, the wealthy Trotter ! He was the man 
 for my money ; or, rather, I was the man for his : I gave Trotter 
 the preference. I would permit him to confer an obligation 
 upon me. 
 
 One night I was left alone with the philanthropist. The 
 ladies had gone to a minor theatre with tickets ; Cox was rasp- 
 ing away at his violoncello in the back parlour. Trotter was 
 dozing over the fire, with the cat on one knee, and a cotton 
 pocket-handkerchief (he hated Bandanas) on the other. He 
 looked the impersonation of disinterestedness. Ten pounds ! 
 It was a trifle. 
 
 A cough is no bad introduction to subjects of this nature. I 
 was seized with an opportune fit, which awoke him. 
 
 " I am really very rude to fall asleep in your company," said 
 the benevolent creature. 
 
 " Not in the least, Mr. Trotter," said I with a polite bow. 
 The time was come. I trembled with agitation. 
 
 " Will you excuse, Mr. Trotter," I resumed, " the liberty I 
 am about to take, in asking a very extraordinary favour. My 
 agent, sir, has been culpably remiss — my remittances have not 
 yet come to hand, and that excellent and truly intelligent wo- 
 man — Mrs. Moon, I mean — is naturally solicitous — excessively 
 so — about my little" — (here I smiled and interposed " pshaw") 
 — " my absurdly small account." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Loosefish, how can / serve you?" said my 
 companion, looking about the room with an air of vague 
 surprise. 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 67 
 
 " Simply and briefly, sir, by the trifling loan of ten pounds 
 — for a very short time." 
 
 Trotter fell back in his chair with the most original face ever 
 invented. 
 
 " My dear good sir," said he, " this is the most extraordinary 
 application — " 
 
 " Peculiar, I admit," said I, slightly chap fallen, " but let me 
 hope not offensively bold, or — " 
 
 " No — no — I'm not offended ; far from it?" cried he, " but 
 then, to make such a request to me — to me — " 
 
 " Nay, Mr. Trotter," and I smiled seductively, and shook my 
 head — " I have long marked your virtues — your qualities of 
 head and heart — " 
 
 I paused, for my friend was cogitating deeply. There was a 
 long silence, only broken by occasional bursts of anguish from 
 the overwrought violoncello, which Cox, seemingly excited to 
 frenzy, was wreaking himself upon in the back parlour. 
 
 " Mr. Loosefish," said Trotter, at length, in a tone perfectly 
 novel to my ear — " you are a man of the world — I can see that 
 — so am I. — You have placed confidence in me — it shall not be 
 broken. Can you be secret?" # 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 " You want ten pounds," continued Trotter, lowering his 
 voice, and pushing his finger towards the door of the back 
 parlour ; " you have been living here upon speculation — with- 
 out any certain means, eh ? Come, confess it." 
 
 "Sir!" cried I with becoming indignation, "do not pre- 
 sume — " 
 
 " I know you have," said Trotter ; " a word in your ear : — 
 so have I." 
 
 It was now my turn to fall back in my chair, while Trotter 
 indulged in a series of regularly measured winks. 
 
 " Good Heavens! Trotter, you astonish me; you must be 
 joking!" 
 
 " A fact," said the wealthy old gentleman. 
 
 " Why, you've been living here six months !" 
 
 " More," said Trotter; "and the deuce a farthing have I paid. 
 Eut a certain person will very soon be Mrs. Trotter." 
 
 I could have hugged to my bosom the ingenious, but I fear I 
 must call him, the unprincipled old gentleman. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'll do," said he. " You mustn't stay here ; 
 you'll disconcert my plan — they'll, perhaps, suspect me. I'll 
 guarantee the debt you owe them. I'll take it upon rnyself 
 and when I'm married you shall have twenty pounds. But, 
 lord ! a young fellow like you need never want money. Were 
 you ever in love ?" 
 
 . "I have felt that passion, Trotter ; but marriage — " 
 
 g 2 
 
68 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " The thing I mean," said he. " Have you ever thought about 
 it?" 
 
 " Why, no," said I, " not so deeply, perhaps — " 
 
 " As its importance demands," interrupted Trotter, il only 
 think ; a rich widow, with freeholds, or long leases ; or a soft 
 spinster with hard cash as a set-off." 
 
 " Not to be had, old fellow, not to be had." 
 
 u Ay, but to be imagined, young fellow. Here's a secret for 
 you that, if you have any friends, shall melt them ; that will 
 thaw the most Hyperborean tailor ; that will provide furniture, 
 lease, fixtures, every thing. Say you are going to be 
 married." 
 
 " Say you're going to be married !" It had a plausible and 
 pleasing degree of fiction to recommend it. 
 
 " Try it short," said Trotter. " Going to be married," and 
 he repeated the golden sentence as though parading it for my 
 inspection. 
 
 " Going to be married !" it was still better. " Trotter," 
 cried I, and I took up my candle, " it will do." — Good night, 
 God bless you !" 
 
 How unaccountable that I never should have hit upon it ! 
 "Why, my uncle in the country, whom I had given up in despair, 
 must come down upon so special a plea. It was worth a cool 
 hundred or two at least. Even Magson would be practicable 
 after this. " Going to be married I" I slept upon it. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 
 
 The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
 Make instruments to scourge us. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I tried the new invention upon a tailor in Oxford-street the 
 very next morning. It succeeded to admiration, and within a 
 week I was in a situation to take leave of Mrs. and Miss Moon 
 and the two gentlemen, in a suit of superfine Saxony that might 
 have defied the criticism of a Brummel. 
 
 " To you, dear madam," said I, addressing my kind hostess, 
 while a tear worked its passage into my eye; " to you I feel 
 that I shall be eternally indebted." And here I think I may 
 take credit to myself for the utterance of strict and open truth. 
 '• But to Mr. Trotter," I continued, "I acknowledge myself 
 under an obligation which can never be effaced." 
 
 " He is indeed a kind soul," cried Mrs. Moon, turning a soft 
 eye upon the counterfeit Croesus, who bowed deprecatingly. 
 V Every thing has been satisfactorily arranged, Mr. Loosefish ; 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 69 
 
 we shall be happy to see you whenever you pass our way. 
 Good bye. — Farewell." 
 
 Amid heartfelt valedictions of this nature, I withdrew. 
 
 The talismanie influence of this small sentence, " Going to be 
 married," comprising as it does, only four words, was altogether 
 beyond my fondest hopes. I gave credit to Trotter for the dis- 
 covery, and others gave me credit for the application. I actually 
 got Magson to accept a bill for me for twenty-five pounds on 
 the strength of it, which, with the assistance of Skelter, I got 
 discounted, as they call it : that is to say (such is the sickening 
 selfishness of man) after deducting five pounds for commission, 
 the agent compelled me to take a hundred bottles of blacking, 
 forty-five pipkins, a gross of door-mats, and a ton of glue, hand- 
 ing me over a paltry balance containing three bad halfcrowns, 
 two pocketpieces, and a light sovereign. 
 
 I was fain, however, to content myself, and disposed of my 
 incongruous merchandise at a tremendous sacrifice — passed the 
 bad halfcrowns with a sottish vintner — " lightly come, lightly 
 go," exchanged the light sovereign for twenty shillings ; and 
 generously gave the pocketpieces to the poor. 
 
 But a man can't be going to be married for ever. A bride 
 must be forthcoming ; there must be some producible person — 
 gome feasible female. The world goes round, and the world's 
 affairs won't always square. Some of my creditors became im- 
 pertinently importunate. They wished to know to whom I was 
 espoused — when the hymeneal altar would be lighted for me — 
 when the honeymoon would rise. In vain I rung the changes 
 upon Trotter — his immense fortune, and his only child. Some 
 hinted their belief that Trotter was a phantom, and his daughter 
 a fetch. Some, when I mentioned Trotter, said something 
 touching one " Walker," whilst others cried " All a hum," — 
 " A regular do," — " A swindling transaction," and the like. 
 In a word, it is impossible to describe the base, the cruel insults 
 to which I was subjected. 
 
 And now Magson*s bill was falling due. The days of grace 
 had commenced ; the day after to-morrow, and presentation 
 must ensue. Sooth to say, it was hardly convenient to me to 
 meet this bill ; the alternative, therefore, must be to run away 
 from it. How did I curse the foolish delicacy that had with- 
 held me from writing to my uncle Grindley, explaining my 
 connubial intentions, and soliciting fifty pounds to enable me to 
 carry into effect that desirable arrangement. I had felt, however, 
 that an abrupt intimation of that nature might prove fatal to my 
 cousin Ellen, whose love for me was altogether of a romantic 
 character. Magson, then, must be once more applied to. I 
 must raise ten pounds under pretence of taking up the bill, and 
 then start into the country, and rely upon splendid eloquence, 
 
70 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 embellished by the most persuasive, and, if necessary, pathetic 
 diction. Some affected purists would, I know, condemn this 
 step as rash and unadvised ; I can only say that it is frequently 
 resorted to by persons of the highest respectability. 
 
 The very first thing on the following morning, I found myself 
 at Magson's door. As I entered, the odour of coffee was 
 pleasingly fragrant, and the girl was just bringing in the hot 
 rolls. 
 
 u Magson," said I, shaking him heartily by the hand, " I am 
 come to breakfast with you ; your bill falls due to-morrow. I 
 can't wait half an hour — must conduct Charlotte to the morning 
 concert — we're to be married, you dog, on Tuesday next." 
 
 " Well, that is most extraordinary," said Magson ; " the very 
 day on which / am to be married." 
 
 " You — you going to be married !" And I gazed at the old- 
 fashioned juvenile with astonishment. " Well, but let me tell 
 you. Ten pounds " 
 
 " Two years ago," interrupted Magson, making an arch in 
 the centre piece of a hot roll, " I went into the country on a 
 month's leave. There I met a young lady and her excellent 
 parent, with whom I became acquainted. I renewed the inti- 
 macy last year, when I paid my addresses to the young lady, 
 which were rejected. But this year, on renewing my proposals, 
 the old gentleman gave his consent, stating that he believed his 
 daughter's objection to me had been weakened, an attachment 
 she had formerly conceived for some worthless spendthrift of a 
 nephew of his, having subsided." 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, I give you joy," said I, not paying 
 much attention to this narrative ; " but touching business : I 
 want you to lend me ten pounds for a day or two, to enable me 
 to meet your bill. I must not appear to want money, you know, 
 until I get my wife's property." 
 
 "Impossible, Loosefish, impossible!" cried Magson, setting 
 down his coffee-cup. " Didn't you tell me that the bill should 
 be taken up? It must be taken up. Your father-in-law, 
 Mr, " 
 
 " Trotter," said I. 
 
 u Mr. Trotter will lend you fifty pounds instantly." (Poor, 
 short-sighted wretch, how little he knew Trotter !) 
 
 " Besides," he continued, " I want every farthing I can lay 
 my hands upon at this moment. I must cut a dash for a month 
 or two. I told the old fellow I had six hundred a-year in the 
 Mint, and, you know, I only get a hundred and fifty. The girl 
 has lots." 
 
 Here was a sordid villain ! At that moment I could have 
 drugged his coffee with hellebore. " And so you won't lend 
 me the ten pounds ? Very well, Mr. Magson." 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 71 
 
 " I can't," he replied ; " and I wish you'd be off now. I 
 expect my wife that is to be, and her father, every instant. Oh I 
 here they are. Now, go, that's a good fellow." 
 
 Urged by curiosity, I approached the window. '* Ha ! can it 
 be?" cried I, in an ecstasy. 
 
 " Can it be ? — It is," said Magson. 
 
 "My uncle and cousin," I rejoined; and rushing to the 
 street-door, which I opened, I flung myself into the arms of the 
 old gentleman, embraced my cousin with that warmth which is 
 my chief and most amiable characteristic, and drew them into 
 the parlour. 
 
 Magson's face, as we entered, assumed the sourness of small 
 beer with which thunder has been making too free. "Very 
 strange !" said he ; " a most extraordinary coincidence." 
 
 " Very," replied the old gentleman, wiping his forehead. 
 "So, then, nephew, you know Mr. Magson?" 
 
 " He was a friend," said I, with bitterness, " but now — 
 oh! uncle — well, how have you been?" And I drew my 
 chair towards my relatives, and entered into an interesting 
 conversation. 
 
 " Loosefish, a word with you for one moment," cried Magson, 
 with an air of chagrin. I approached him. 
 
 " Now, can't you be off," said he, appealing to me; "you 
 see you are not wanted ; you can meet your friends some other 
 time." 
 
 I turned away from him in disgust. " Oh ! my dear uncle," 
 said I, with emotion, " what a viper you were about to take to 
 your bosom ! Oh ! my beloved cousin, how nearly were you 
 sacrificed ! What do you think that monster gets per annum at 
 the Mint?" 
 
 " Six hundred on the rise," said Grindley. 
 
 " One hundred and fifty, and the salaries are about to be 
 reduced ; and to my certain knowledge his mother keeps a cake- 
 shop in futile opposition to the Chelsea bun-house." 
 
 Mao-son held down his head in utter confusion, while the head 
 of my revered uncle appeared to be twisting round on a pivot 
 with inconceivable rapidity, so instantaneously did his eyes glare 
 upon every article in the room. 
 
 " Let us retire from the odious wretch !" said Ellen with a 
 thrill of horror. 
 
 " Nay, hear me," cried the crest-fallen culprit. " It is true 
 I have been guilty of duplicity, but let me plead my love for — " 
 
 I o-enerously rushed between Magson and the incensed parent, 
 and caught the descending walking-stick ere it clave open the 
 skull of the former. 
 
 " Leave him to his conscience," said I with dignity, and I drew 
 my cousin's arm between my own. "Adieu, sir !" and we 
 marched in triumph from the forlorn villain. 
 
72 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 We walked a considerable distance, unconscious of the direc- 
 tion we were taking; the old gentleman practising immense 
 strides in front, and my cousin and I exchanging explanations 
 and confessions of mutual love. 
 
 " By the by, uncle," said I, suddenly stopping, " this is not 
 the way to your inn, is it ? I must accompany you there." 
 
 " No, no, you shan't," cried Grindley, " we will go home with 
 you to-day. I will have it so. You have laid me under an 
 obligation I shall never forget. You shan't repent it. Where 
 do you live?" 
 
 Just reconciled to my uncle, and entitled to expect some 
 return at his hands, I put it to the candid reader whether, lover 
 of truth in general as I am, I was not justified in withholding 
 from Grindley the fact that I was then occupying an attic in 
 Rose and Crown-court, Borough-market? 
 
 " Why," said I, " my health has obliged me to take furnished 
 apartments in the New Road ; but that's a great distance." 
 
 "Distance!" cried the too topographical Grindley ; " why 
 here we are in the New Road— you must be mad, nephew !" 
 
 I was nearly so at this disastrous circumstance. " Ay, we 
 shall soon be there now," said I wofully, and the old gentleman 
 stepped out with increased vigour. 
 
 "Where the devil do you live, boy?" cried he at length; 
 and he threw open his coat and gave his bald pate the benefit of 
 fresh air. 
 
 " Oh, here we are now — I see," I remarked, summoning reso- 
 lution from despair, and leading the way through a small fore- 
 court to a house, in the parlour window of which " Furnished 
 Apartments" were visible. 
 
 " Step up stairs into the first floor," said I, as the door opened, 
 t( I will be with you instantly. My dear madam," and I drew 
 the landlady into the parlour, — " will you permit us to occupy 
 your first-floor room for an hour or two ? A friend of mine from 
 the country, very tired, hates taverns, member of the temperance 
 society — eh ? " 
 
 w Certainly, sir," said the landlady to this disjointed ap- 
 plication. 
 
 " You're a good woman," cried I, in a transport, " here, 
 pray accept this five-shilling piece, and I wish with this other 
 one, you'd send out for a bottle of wine, and bring it up with 
 three glasses ; will you ?" 
 
 Making a funny face, to propitiate the good lady, I hastened 
 up stairs. 
 
 " Well, my dear nephew, and how are you getting on," 
 kindly inquired my uncle. 
 
 " Why, tolerably, sir, only tolerably — want of capital debars 
 me from taking advantage of many opportunities." 
 
 " Well, but nephew, satisfy me that you can do good with it, 
 
Page 73. 
 
LIFE OF FRANCIS LOOSEFISH, ESQ. 73 
 
 and you shall not want money ; besides, there was an attach- 
 ment between you and my girl here, and if you will but be 
 commonly prudent, you may still win her." 
 
 " I am prudent enough now" said I with a deep sigh. " Ah ! 
 those follies of my youth, how I detest them ! I will have none 
 of them now." 
 
 " What! no dissipation?" cried Grindley. 
 
 " None." 
 
 "No drinking?" 
 
 " Mention it not — it makes me ill to think of — " 
 
 Here the goodnatured hostess entered with the bottle of wine. 
 
 "For you," said I, laying my hand on Grindley's arm, "I 
 myself can't touch it." 
 
 " No debts?" pursued the interested querist. 
 
 " Not a farthing in the world. I paid them off to the utter- 
 most penny long ago ; but the good lady of the house wishes to 
 speak to me — what is it, Madam ? 
 
 " Pray, sir, is your name Loosefish ?" said the woman. 
 
 " Of course it is ; ha ! ha !" and I turned to Grindley ; " she's 
 fond of a joke." I marvelled how she could learn my name. 
 
 M A gentleman below will insist upon seeing you." 
 
 " Oh! that Magson has been dogging our steps. Shall I go 
 and kick him down stairs ?" 
 
 I had just turned for that purpose, when a fearful apparition 
 made itself manifest. Taking off his hat, smoothing his straight 
 hair over his forehead, and making a strange bow, Gripe the 
 bailiff stood before me ! 
 
 In great emergencies what strange expedients present them- 
 selves. 
 
 " Ah! Gripe, is that you?" said I, winking and nodding; 
 " glad to see you ; let me introduce you to my uncle and 
 cousin." 
 
 " Come, none o' that ere nonsense," cried the savage, lifting 
 his cudgel under his arm, and producing the slip, which he gave 
 to me in return for the slip I had heretofore given him. " I 
 arrest this ere gemman, — Mr. Loosefish, — and so don't you, sir, 
 and don't you, marm, be bamboozled by none o' his stories. 
 Why, he's the slipperiest cove as is." 
 
 Let me draw a long black veil over the degrading scene that 
 followed. Suffice it to say, my uncle booked inside places for 
 two in that night's mail, and Gripe, at the same time, booked an 
 inside place for one in the King's Bench. 
 
 I am there at this moment, preparing what is technically 
 called a schedule, in order that I may take advantage of a 
 benevolent act, intended for those whose means are in an 
 inverse ratio to their debts. — Panurge. 
 
TALE OF A CHEMIST. 
 
 I was born in the Semlainogorod of Moscow, and for ten 
 years applied intensely to chemistry. I confess the failure of 
 many eminent predecessors prevented my attempting the philo- 
 sopher's stone ; my whole thoughts were engaged on the con- 
 templation of gravity — on that mysterious invisible agent that 
 pervaded the whole universe — which made my pen drop from 
 my fingers, the planets move round the sun, and the very sun 
 itself, with its planets, moon, and satellites, revolve for ever, 
 with myriads of others, round the final centre of universal 
 gravity — that mysterious spot, perhaps the residence of those 
 particular emanations of Providence which regard created beings. 
 At length I discovered the actual ingredients of this omnipresent 
 agent. It is little more than a combination of carbon, oxygen, 
 hydrogen, and azote ; but the proportions of these constituent 
 parts had long baffled me, and I still withhold them from my 
 species for obvious reasons. 
 
 Knowledge is power, — and the next easy step from the disco- 
 very of the elements, was the decomposition of gravity, and the 
 neutralization of its parts in any substance at my pleasure. I 
 was more like a lunatic than a rational chemist : a burning 
 furor drove me to an immediate essay of my art, and stripped me 
 of the power and will to calculate on consequences. Imagine 
 me in my laboratory. I constructed a gravitation-pump, ap- 
 plied it to my body, turned the awful engine, and stood in an 
 instant, the first of all created beings — devoid of weight ! Up 
 sprung my hair, my arms swung from my sides above the level 
 of my shoulders, by the involuntary action of the muscles, 
 which were no longer curbed by the reaction of their weight. 
 I laughed like a fool or a fiend, closed my arms carefully to my 
 sides, compressed or concealed my bristling hair under my cap, 
 and walked forth from my study to seek some retired spot in the 
 city where I might make instant experiment of a jump. With 
 the greatest difficulty I preserved a decent gait ; I walked with 
 the uneasy unsteady motion of a man in water, whose toes might 
 barely touch the bottom : conscious as I was of my security, I 
 felt every instant apprehensive of a fall. Nothing could have 
 reconciled me to the disagreeable sensation I experienced but 
 the anticipation of vaulting unfettered into the air. I stood 
 behind the Cathedral of the Seven Towers ; nobody was near — 
 I looked hurriedly around, and made the spring ! I rose with a 
 slow uniform motion : but, gracious Heaven ! imagine my horror 
 
TALE OF A CHEMIST. 75 
 
 and distress when I found that nothing but the mere resistance 
 of the air opposed my progress ; and when at last it stopped my 
 flight, I found myself many hundred feet above the city, motion- 
 less, and destitute of every means of descent. I tore my hair, 
 and cursed myself for overlooking so obvious a result. My 
 screams drew thousands to the singular sight. I stretched my 
 arms towards the earth, and implored assistance. Poor fool ! 
 I knew it was impracticable. 
 
 But conceive the astonishment of the people ! I was too 
 high to be personally known : they called to me, and I answered ; 
 but they were unable to catch the import, for sound, like my- 
 self, rises better than it falls. I heard myself called an angel, a 
 ghost, a dragon, a unicorn, and a devil. I saw a procession of 
 priests come under me to exorcise me : but, had Satan himself 
 been free of gravity, he had been as unable to descend at their 
 bidding as myself. At length the fickle mob began to jeer me 
 — the boys threw stones at me ; and a clever marksman actually 
 struck me on the side with a bullet ; it was too high to pene- 
 trate — it merely gave me considerable pain, drove me a few feet 
 higher, and fell again to the ground. Alas ! I thought, would 
 to God it had pierced me ! for even the weight of that little ball 
 would have dragged me back to earth. At length the shades of 
 evening hid the city from my sight ; the murmur of the crowd 
 gradually died away, and there I still was, cold, terrified, and 
 motionless — nearer to heaven than such a fool could merit to 
 rise again. What was to be the end of this ! I must starve and 
 be stared at ! I poured out a torrent of incoherent prayers to 
 Heaven ; but Heaven seemed as deaf as I deserved. 
 
 Imagine my joy when a breeze sprung up, and I felt myself 
 floating in darkness over the town : but even now new horrors 
 seized me. I might be driven downward into the Moskwa and 
 drowned ; I might be dashed against the cathedral and crushed. 
 Just as I thought on this, my head struck violently against the 
 great bell of Boris GadunufT : the blow, and the deep intonation 
 of the bell, deprived me for some minutes of life and recollec- 
 tion. When I revived, I found I was lying gently pressed by 
 the breeze against the balustrades. I pulled myself carefully 
 along the church, pushed myself down the last column, and ran 
 as straight as my light substance would permit me to my house. 
 With far greater joy than when I had been disrobed of it, I 
 speedily applied a proper condensation of gravity to my body, 
 fell on my knees to thank Heaven for my deliverance, and slunk 
 into bed, thoroughly ashamed of my day's performance. The 
 next day, to escape suspicion, I joined the reassembled crowd, 
 looked upward as seriously as the rest, gazed about for yester- 
 day's phenomenon, and I dare say was the only one who felt no 
 disappointment in its disappearance. 
 
76 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Any one would imagine that after this trial, I should have 
 burnt my pump, and left gravity to its own operations. But no : 
 I felt I was reserved for great things ; such a discovery was no 
 every-day occurrence, and I would work up every energy of my 
 soul rather than relinquish this most singular, though frightful, 
 field of experiment. 
 
 I was too cautious to deprive myself again entirely of gravity. 
 In fact, in my late experiment, as in others, when I talked of 
 extracting my gravity entirely, I meant just enough to leave me 
 of the same weight as the atmosphere. Had I been lighter than 
 this, I should have risen involuntarily upward, like an air-bubble 
 in a bucket. Even as it was, I found myself inclined to rise 
 and fall with every variation of the atmosphere ; and I had 
 serious thoughts of offering myself to the university as a baro- 
 meter, that, by a moderate salary, I might pass the remainder 
 of my days in tranquillity and honour. My object now was 
 merely to render myself as light as occasion required : besides, 
 I found that by continual contact with the earth and atmo- 
 sphere, I always imbibed gradually a certain portion of weight, 
 though by extremely slow and imperceptible degrees ; for the 
 constituent parts of gravity, which I have mentioned, enter 
 largely, as every chemist knows, into the composition of all 
 earths and airs : thus, in my late essay, I should certainly even- 
 tually have descended to earth without the intervention of the 
 breeze ; indeed, I should probably have been starved first, though 
 my body would have at last sunk down for the gratification of 
 my friends. 
 
 Three furred coats and a pair of skaits I gained by leaping at 
 fairs in the Sloboda, and subsistence for three weeks by my 
 inimitable performance on the tight-rope ; but when, at last, I 
 stood barefoot on a single needle, and balanced myself head 
 downward on a bodkin, all Moscow rung with applause. But 
 the great object of all my earthly hopes was to obtain the affec- 
 tions of a young widow in the Kremlin, whose heart I hoped to 
 move by the unrivalled effects of my despair. I jumped head- 
 foremost from a chair on the hard floor ; twice I sprung into a 
 well ; and once I actually threw myself from the highest spire 
 in Moscow. I always lay senseless after my falls, screamed at 
 my revival, and counterfeited severe contusions ; but in vain ! I 
 found my person or pretensions disagreeable to her, and deter- 
 mined in some great pursuit to forget my disappointment. A 
 thought struck me : I knew that mortal man had conceived 
 nothing so sublime, and yet it was in my power ! I prepared a 
 large tube, and bound myself round with vast bales of pro- 
 visions, which, with myself, I severally divested of gravity. 
 It was a bright moonlight night. I stood in my garden, with a 
 weightless watch in my hand, gazing on the heavens through the 
 
TALE OF A CHEMIST. 77 
 
 tube. I am confident there was in my face the intrepid air of 
 one who, on great occasions, can subdue the little feelings of 
 the heart. I had resolved on visiting the planet Venus, and 
 had prudently waited till she was in that part of her orbit 
 which was most distant from the sun and nearest to the earth ; 
 the first of which might enable me to endure the heat of her 
 atmosphere, and the latter to subsist on the stock of provisions 
 I could conveniently carry. In fact, I had no doubt but that, 
 owing to the extreme cold of a great part of the journey, the 
 evaporations from the pores of my body would be little or no- 
 thing, and I could, consequently, subsist on a trifling meal. I 
 had arranged some elastic rods of steel, to project me with con- 
 siderable velocity along the tube, the moment the planet should 
 face it : and by simple multiplication I was enabled, from the 
 given velocity of projection, and the known distance of the 
 planet, to compute to a day the period of my arrival there. In 
 fact, I took double provision, partly from overabundant pre- 
 caution, and partly to support me on an immediate return, in 
 case I found the heat oppressive. The moment approached — 
 arrived ! The planet stood shining on me down the tube. I 
 looked wildly round me for a last farewell, and was on the 
 point of loosing the springs, when a horrid doubt flashed on me. 
 United saints of Constantinople ! Should a light breeze move 
 me from the line of projection, ay, even a single inch, I 
 should shoot past the planet, fly off into immeasurable space 
 and darkness from eternity, while raving along cold, uncom- 
 fortable chaos, or plunge headlong into the sun itself! A moment 
 more, and I had been lost. I stood fixed like a statue, with 
 distended lips, gazing on the frightful planet ; my eyes swam 
 round ; my ears rung with hideous sounds ; all my limbs were 
 paralyzed ; I shrieked wildly, fainted, and should have sunk to 
 earth, had I not been utterly devoid of weight. But, lifeless as 
 my body stood, my thoughts still teemed with the frightful hor- 
 rors I had escaped : my phrensy bore me on my voyage, and to 
 this day the recollections of my delirium are fresh on my 
 mind. Methought I was on the very journey I had meditated ; — 
 already the earth had faded to a twinkling speck, and Venus, 
 with an expanded disk, lay glittering before me. Unhappy 
 being ! I had committed blunder on blunder. I had forgot the 
 motion of the planet itself, and the effects of refraction, and 
 the aberration of light, and I saw, at the distance of many hun- 
 dred miles, that I should exactly miss her. It was even so. 
 Imagine the horrors of my dream, when, after a bitter journey of 
 twenty- three millions of miles, I exactly missed her by a foot. 
 Had their been a tree, a bush, or a large stone, I might have saved 
 myself. I strained my powerless fingers at the planet in vain ; — 
 I skimmed along the surface rapidly, and at length found myself 
 
78 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 as swiftly leaving it on one side as I had approached it on the 
 other. And then I fancied I was rushing quickly towards the 
 sun, and, in an approach of some years, suffered as many years 
 the horrid anticipation of approaching combustion. Well, I 
 thought I passed safely and unscathed by the sun, and launched 
 past him into infinite darkness, except where a stray comet, 
 carrying fuel to the sun, flashed a few years' glitter on my path. 
 Sometimes, in the utter silence of this boundless solitude, some 
 large, unseen body would whiz by me with a rushing whirl, 
 rolling in its orbit even here, beyond the reach of light, yet still 
 obeying the universal laws of gravitation . Alas, how I envied that 
 mass its gravity ! And then I heard strange sounds, the hisses 
 of snakes and the shrieks of evil spirits, but saw nothing. Some- 
 times I felt my body pierced, and bruised, and blown about by 
 the winds, and heard my name screamed out at intervals in the 
 waste ; and then all would pass away, and leave me still 
 shooting silently on in the same black, hopeless, everlasting 
 track. 
 
 After this my phrensy turned, and methought I stood even on 
 the surface of the planet Venus. The ground, if ground it was, 
 seemed nothing but colour ; I stooped to touch it — my hand 
 passed unresisted through the surface. There was a perpetual 
 undulation on its face, not of substance, but of colour; every 
 hue I had seen was there ; but all were light, and pale, and 
 fleeting ; blue faded into violet, violet into the lightest green, 
 green into gentle silver, in perpetual and quick succession. I 
 looked round for the inhabitants of this strange place : me- 
 thought they too were colours. I saw innumerable forms of 
 bright hues moving to and fro ; they had neither shape nor sub- 
 stance, but their outline was in perpetual change, now swelling 
 to a circle, sinking to an oval, and passing through every variety 
 of curve ; emitting the most glittering coruscations, and assum- 
 ing every diversity of tint. But all these forms were of the 
 brightest and most powerful colours, in opposition to the pale 
 surface along which they floated. But there was order in their 
 motions, and I could discover they were rational beings, holding 
 intercourse by faculties we neither have nor can conceive ; for, 
 at one time I saw a number collect about a pale feeble light, 
 whose coruscations grew less frequent, and the vividness of its 
 colours faded. At last it seemed to die away, and to melt into 
 the surface of the planet, from very sameness of colour ; and 
 then the forms that stood about were for some time feeble and 
 agitated, and at last dispersed. This, I thought, is the death of 
 an inhabitant of the planet Venus. I watched two bright colours 
 that seemed to dance about each other, which floated in the most 
 winning curves, and sparkled as they passed. Sometimes they 
 almost met, drew back, and again approached. At the end, in 
 
TALE OF A CHEMIST. 79 
 
 a shower of light, they swam together, and were blended into one 
 for ever. There is love here, I thought, even in this unsubstantial 
 clime. A little after I saw vast troops of hues collect and flash 
 violently ; but their flashes were not the soft gentle colours I had 
 just seen, but sharp and dazzling, like forked lightning. Vast 
 quantities faded into nothing, and there remained but a few on 
 the spot, brighter, indeed, than they had arrived : but I thought 
 these few brilliant shapes a poor compensation for the numbers 
 that had perished. Even in the planet Venus, I said, there is 
 death, and love, and war ; and those, among beings impalpable, 
 and destitute of our earthly frailties. What a lesson of humility 
 I read ! I passed my hand through many of these forms — there 
 was no resistance, no sense of touch ; I shouted, but no sound 
 ensued : my presence was evidently unnoticed — there existed 
 not the earthly sense of sight. And yet, I thought, how we 
 creatures of earth reason on God's motives, as if he were endued 
 with faculties like our own ; while we even differ from these 
 created phantoms of a sister world, as much perhaps as they 
 from the tenants of Jupiter, and far more from the creatures of 
 other systems. But there was still one thing common to us all. 
 All these bright beings floated close to the surface ; and it was 
 evident that, to keep the restless beings of creation to their re- 
 spective worlds, a general law was necessary. Great Newton ! 
 Neither touch, nor taste, nor sight, nor sound, are universal ; 
 but gravity is for ever. I alone am the only wretched being 
 whom a feverish curiosity has peeled off this general garb, and 
 rendered more truly unsubstantial than the thin sliding hues I 
 gazed on. 
 
 After some time, I fancied my own native planet was shining 
 above me. I sprung franticly upward; but many a dreary 
 century passed by before I approached near enough to distin- 
 guish the objects on its surface. Miserable being ! I was again 
 out of the proper line, and I should have passed once more into 
 boundless darkness, had I not, in passing along the earth's sur- 
 face, imbibed a small portion of gravity — not indeed sufficient 
 to draw me to it, but strong enough to curve my line of flight* 
 and make me revolve round earth like a moon, in a regular 
 elliptic orbit. This was, perhaps, the most wretched of the 
 phantasies of my brain : in continual sight of my native land, 
 without the chance of approaching it by a foot ! There I was, 
 rolling in as permanent and involuntary an orbit as any planet in 
 the heavens, with my line of nodes, syzygy, quadratures, and 
 planetary inequalities. 
 
 But the worst of it was, I had imbibed, with that small por- 
 tion of gravity, a slight share of those terrestrial infirmities I had 
 hitherto felt free from. I became hungry ; and my hunger, 
 though by the slowest degrees, continually increased, and, at 
 
80 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the end of some years, I felt as if reduced to the most ema- 
 ciated state. My soul felt gradually issuing from my tortured 
 body; and at last, by one of the strange inconsistencies of 
 dreams, I seemed in contemplation of myself. I saw my lifeless 
 body whirling round its primary, its limbs sometimes frozen into 
 ghastly stiffness, sometimes dissolved by equinoctial heat, and 
 swinging in the wide expanse. I knew not if it sprung from the 
 pride inherent in all created beings, but this contemplation of 
 the ultimate state of degradation of my poor form, gave me 
 greater distress than any part of my phrensied wanderings. Its 
 extreme acuteness brought me to myself. I was still standing 
 in my garden, but it was daylight, and my friends stood looking 
 on my upright, though fainting form, almost afraid to approach 
 me. I was disengaged from my tubs and sacks, and carried to 
 bed. But it did not escape the notice of the bystanders that I 
 was destitute of weight; and although I took care to show 
 myself publicly with a proper gravity, even with an additional 
 stone weight, strange stories and whispers went forth about me; 
 and when my feats of agility, and frightful, though not fatal, 
 falls were recollected, it became generally believed that I had 
 either sold myself to the devil, or was, myself, that celebrated 
 individual. 
 
 I now began to prepare myself for immediate escape, in case 
 I should be legally prosecuted. I had hitherto been unable, 
 when suspended in the air, to lower myself at pleasure ; for I 
 was unable to make my pump act upon itself; and therefore , 
 when I endeavoured to take it with me, its own weight always 
 prevented my making any considerable rise, I have since recol- 
 lected indeed, that had I made two pumps, and extracted the 
 weight from one by means of the other, I might have carried 
 the light one up with me, and filled myself, by its means, with 
 gravity, when I wished to descend. However, this plan, as I 
 said, having escaped my reflection, I set painfully about de- 
 vising some means of carrying about gravity with me in a neu- 
 tralized state, and giving it operation and energy when it should 
 suit my convenience. After long labour, and expensive expe- 
 riments, I hit upon the following simple method. 
 
 You will readily imagine that this subtle fluid, call it gravita- 
 tion, or weight, or attraction, or what you will, pervading, as it 
 does, every body in nature, palpable and invisible, would oc- 
 cupy an extremely small space when packed in its pure and 
 unmixed state. I found, after decomposing it, that besides the 
 gases I mentioned before, there always remained a slight resi- 
 duum, incombustible and insoluble. This was evidently a pure 
 element, which I have called by a termination, common among 
 chemists, " gravium." When I admitted to it the other gases, 
 except the azote, of the atmosphere, it assumed a creamy con- 
 
TALE OF A CHEMIST. 81 
 
 sistence, which might be called " essential oil of gravitation ;" 
 and finally, when it was placed in contact with the atmosphere, 
 it imbibed azote rapidly, became immediately invisible, and 
 formed pure weight. I procured a very small elastic Indian- 
 rubber bottle, into which I infused as much oil of gravity as I 
 could extract from myself, carefully closed it, and squeezed it 
 flat ; and I found that by placing over the orifice an extremely 
 fine gauze, and admitting the atmosphere through it (like the 
 celebrated English " Davy lamp"), as the bottle opened by its 
 own elasticity, the oil became weight ; and when I squeezed it 
 again the azote receded through the gauze, and left the weight- 
 less oil. Thank Heaven ! I was now in possession of the ulti- 
 matum of my inquiries — the means of jumping into the air 
 without any weight, and the power of assuming it when I wished 
 to descend. As I feared, I was indicted as a sorcerer, and con- 
 demned to be hung. I concealed my bottle under my arm, 
 ascended the scaffold, avowed my innocence, and was turned 
 off. I counterfeited violent convulsions, but was careful to 
 retain just weight enough to keep the rope tight. In the even- 
 ing, when the populace had retired, I gently extricated my neck, 
 walked home, and prepared to leave my country. At Peters- 
 burg I heard that Captain Khark, of Voronetz, was about to 
 sail to India to bombard a British fortress. I demanded an 
 interview. " Sir," said I, " I am an unhappy man, whose mis- 
 fortunes have compelled him to renounce his country. I am in 
 possession of an art by which I can give you accurate intelli- 
 gence of every thing going on in the fortress you are about to 
 attack ; and I offer you my services, provided you will give me 
 a passage, and keep my secret." I saw by his countenance 
 he considered me an impostor. " Sir," I said, " promise me 
 secrecy, and you shall behold a specimen of my art." He 
 assented. I squeezed the little bottle under my arm, sprung 
 upward, and played along the ceiling, to his great amazement. He 
 was a man of honour, and kept his promise ; and in six months 
 we arrived off the coast of Coromandel. Here I made one of the 
 greatest mistakes in my life. I had frequently practised my art 
 during the first part of the voyage for the amusement of the 
 sailors ; and instead of carrying my gravity-bottle with me, I 
 used to divest myself of just sufficient gravity to leap mast-high, 
 and descend gently on the deck, and by habit I knew the exact 
 quantity that was requisite in northern climes. But when I as- 
 cended to view the fortress near the equator, I found too late that 
 I had extracted far too much, and for this reason : if you hold an 
 orange at its head and stalk, by the forefinger and thumb, and 
 spin it with velocity, you will see that small bodies would be 
 thrown with rapidity from those parts which lie midway between 
 the finger and thumb, while those that are nearer are far less 
 
 H 
 
82 # LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 affected by the rotatory motion. It was just so with me. I had 
 been used to descend in the northern climates with a very slight 
 weight; but I now found that in the equatorial regions I was 
 thrown upward with considerable strength. A strong breeze 
 was blowing : I was borne rapidly away from the astonished 
 crew, passed over the fortress, narrowly escaped being shot, and 
 found myself passing in this manner over the whole extent of 
 India. 
 
 Habit had entirely divested me of fear, and I experienced the 
 most exquisite delight in viewing that fine country spread out 
 like a map beneath me. I recognised the scenes of historical 
 interest. There rolled the Hydaspes, by the very spot where 
 Porus met Alexander. There lay the track of Mahmoud the great 
 Gaznevido. I left the beautiful Kashmir on the right. I passed 
 over the head-quarters of Persia in her different ages — Herat, 
 Ispahan, Kamodan. Then came Arbela on the right, where a 
 nation, long cooped up in a country scarce larger than Candia, 
 had overthrown the children of the great Cyrus, and crushed a 
 dynasty whose sway reached uninterrupted for 2000 miles. I 
 saw the tomb of Gordian, on the extreme frontier of his empire — 
 a noble spot for the head of a nation of warriors. I skimmed 
 along the plain where Crassus and Galerius, at the interval of 
 three hundred years, had learnt on the same unhappy field that 
 Rome could bleed. A stormy puff from the Levant whirled me 
 to the northward, and dropped me at length on a ridge of Mount 
 Caucasus, fatigued and hungry. I assuaged my hunger with 
 mountain mosses, and slept a few hours as well as the extreme 
 cold would permit me. On waking, the hopelessness of my 
 situation distressed me much. After passing over so many hot 
 countries, where the exhalations from the earth had enabled my 
 body to imbibe gravitation more rapidly than usual, I had gra- 
 dually moved northward, where the centrifugal force of the earth 
 had much decreased. From these two causes, and in this wild 
 country, without the means of chemically assisting myself, I now 
 found my body too light to trust again to the winds, — intrenched 
 as I was, between the Black Sea and the Caspian, but without 
 weight to give firmness to my step ; without the lightness of a 
 fowl, I had all its awkward weakness in water. The savage 
 nations cast lots for me, and I became a slave. My strange 
 lightness was a source of mirth to all — even to my fellow- ser- 
 vants; and I found, t)y experience, how little weight a man 
 bears in society who has lost his gravity. When I attempted to 
 dig, I rose without effect on my spade. Sometimes, when I 
 bore a load of wood on my shoulders, it felt so topheavy, that, 
 upon the slightest wind, I was sure to tumble over, and then I 
 was chastised ; my mistress one day hoisted me three miles by 
 a single well-directed kick. But, however powerless against 
 

 TALE OF A CHEMIST. 83 
 
 lateral pressure, it was observed with amaze how easily I raised 
 the vast weight under which the most powerful men in the 
 country sunk ; for, in fact, my legs being formed to the usual 
 capabilities of mankind, had now little or no weight of body to 
 support. I was therefore enabled to carry ten or twelve stone 
 in addition to a common burden. It was this strength that 
 enabled me to throw several feet from the earth a native who had 
 attacked me. He was stunned by the fall ; but, on rising, with 
 one blow he drove me a hundred yards before him. I took to my 
 heels, determined, if possible, to escape this wretched life. The 
 country was on foot to pursue me, for I had doubly deserved 
 death — I had bruised a freeman, and was a fugitive slave ; but, 
 notwithstanding the incredible agility of these people in their 
 native crags, their exact knowledge of the clefts in the hills, 
 the only passes between the eternal snows, and my own ig- 
 norance, I utterly baffled their pursuit, by my want of weight 
 and the energy which despair supplied me. Sometimes, when 
 they pressed hardest on me, I would leap up a perpendicular 
 crag, twenty feet high, or drop down a hundred. I bent my 
 steps towards the Black Sea, determined, if I could reach the 
 coast, to seek a passage to some port in Cathanoslaw, and retire 
 where I might pass the remainder of my life, under a feigned 
 name, with at least the satisfaction of dying in the dominions of 
 my legitimate sovereign, Alexander. 
 
 Exhausted and emaciated, I arrived at a straggling village, 
 the site of the ancient Pityus. This was the last boundary of 
 the Roman power on the Euxine, and to this wretched place 
 state exiles were frequently doomed. The name became pro- 
 verbial, and, I understand, has been so far adopted by the 
 English, that the word " Pityus" is, to this day, most adapted 
 to the lips of the banished. In a small vessel we sailed for 
 Azof; but when we came off the straits of CafFa, where the 
 waters of the Don are poured into the Euxine, a strong current- 
 drove us on a rock, and in a fresh gale the ship went speedily 
 to pieces. I gave myself up for lost, and heard the crew, one 
 after the other, gurgle in the waves, and scream their last, 
 while I lay struggling and buffeting for life. But, after the first 
 struggle for existence, I found I had exhausted myself uselessly, 
 for my specific gravity being so trifling, I was enabled to lie on 
 the surface of the billows without any exertion, and even to sit 
 upon the wave as securely as on a couch. I loosened my neck- 
 cloth, and, spreading it wide with my hands and teeth, I trusted 
 myself to the same winds that had so often pelted me at their 
 mercy, and always spared me. In this way I traversed the 
 Euxine. I fed on the scraps that floated on the surface — some- 
 times dead fish, and once or twice on some inquisitive stragglers 
 whose curiosity brought them from the deep to contemplate the 
 
 H 2 
 
84 LIBRARY OP FICTION. 
 
 strange sail. Two days I floated in misery, and a sleepless 
 night : by night I dared not close my eyes, for fear of falling 
 backward ; and by day I frequently passed objects that filled 
 me with despair, fragments of wrecks ; and then I looked on 
 my own sorry craft. Once I struck my foot against a drowned 
 sailor, and it put me in mind of myself. At last I landed safe 
 on the beach, between Odessa and Otchacow, traversed the 
 Ukraine, and, by selling the little curiosities I had picked up on 
 my voyage, I have purchased permission to reside for the rest 
 of my days, unknown and unseen, in a large forest near Minst. 
 Here, within the gray crumbling walls of a castle, that fell with 
 the independence of this unhappy country, I await my end. I 
 have left little to regret at my native Moscow, neither friends, 
 nor reputation, nor lawful life; and I had failed in a love which 
 was dearer to me than reputation — than life, than gravity itself. 
 I have established an apparatus, on improved principles, to 
 operate on gravity ; and I am employed, day and night, for the 
 benefit, not more of the present generation, than of all man- 
 kind that are to come. In fact, I am laboriously and unceas- 
 ingly extracting the gravitation from the earth, in order to 
 bring it nearer the sun ; and though, by thus diminishing the 
 earth's orbit, I fear I shall confuse the astronomical tables and 
 calculations, I am confident I shall improve the temperature of 
 the globe. How far I have succeeded may be guessed from the 
 recent errors in the almanacs about the eclipses, and from the 
 late mild winters. 
 
 Knight's Quarterly Magazine. 
 
 THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 
 
 (original.) 
 
 About the year 1668, the George and Dragon, at Royston, 
 was kept by a person of the name of Stephen Burrough ; and 
 from Northallerton to London there was not an inn that afforded 
 better fare or more comfortable accommodation, and many an 
 honourable member from the northern counties, as he proceeded 
 to London to attend his parliamentary duties, or on his return 
 home after a short session, took up his quarters for the night at 
 the George. In those days, when country gentlemen resided 
 for the greater part of the year upon their own estates, it was no 
 unusual thing for a member of the House of Commons to set out 
 for London on horseback, attended by a couple of servants, who 
 carried their master's wardrobe in their saddlebags. Stephen 
 Burrough, the landlord, was about fifty years of age, easy in his 
 
THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 85 
 
 circumstances — for the George was a money-making house — 
 and generally esteemed by all who knew him as an honest, well- 
 meaning man. He was not forward and bustling, like many 
 landlords, but, on the contrary, was rather of a reserved dispo- 
 sition, and withal somewhat religiously inclined ; indeed his 
 love of gain — for Stephen had always an eye to the increase of 
 his worldly goods — was not unfrequently so powerfully com- 
 bated by his devotional leaning as to tempt him to give up his 
 calling. But in the end, the force of habit and the real plea- 
 sure he felt in seeing his wealth increase, always proved too 
 much for the admonitions of piety ; the publican prevailed over 
 the saint, and Stephen Burrough continued in his old business. 
 The domestic economy of the house was under the superin- 
 tendence of his sister Martha, a widow, a few years older than 
 her brother, who prided herself in the excellence of her cookery 
 and the cleanliness of the house, from the garret — attics were not 
 then known — to the cellar. The excellent brawn of her own pre- 
 paration was an admirable shoeing-horn to draw on another cup 
 of wine ; the fame of her pigeon-pies at Midsummer, and her 
 pork-pies at Martinmas, was widely spread overall the county, 
 and was only rivalled by the high character of her spiced canary, 
 in the preparation of which she was often heard to declare that 
 she " would not turn her back on ever a woman in Christendom." 
 It was indeed when under the influence of this seducing liquor 
 that Mr. Praisegod Barebones, in one of his visits — for he always 
 called to see Stephen Burrough, when in the neighbourhood of 
 Royston — forgetting the sanctity of his character, essayed, for 
 the vain wager of another quart of Martha's " clear-tke-tyit" — for 
 so her spiced canary was christened by Dr. Charlton, the mathe- 
 matical professor at Cambridge — to leap over the watering-trough 
 at the door, and broke his thigh-bone in the attempt ; an ac- 
 cident which caused great sorrow to the serious and devout, 
 while to the profane and unregenerated it was regarded as an 
 excellent joke; as if the fall, and crack, of so precious a vessel 
 were a fitting subject for their indecent mirth. The George was, 
 indeed, a house well frequented by men of all persuasions. 
 Many a straight-haired puritan called there, who said a half- 
 hour's grace before he touched his drink, though he sometimes 
 sat till he forgot to return thanks ; and there many a ruffling 
 gallant and swaggering cavalier, prime judges of liquor and 
 lovers of good measure, clanked the wine-stoup till both coin 
 and credit were out, while they troHed the merry catches of 
 Etherege and Sedley, or chanted the praises of sack : ' 
 
 We abandon all ale, 
 
 And beer that is stale, 
 Rosa solis and damnable hum ; 
 
 But we will crack t 
 
 Tn praise of sack 
 'Gainst omne quod exit in «m. 
 
86* LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Stephen Burrough was a bachelor ; and as he had never, even 
 in his younger days, shown any great attachment to the fair sex, 
 though many a spruce widow and blushing maiden had set their 
 caps at him, both at church and market, it was a subject of great 
 surprise to his neighbours, and mortification to his friends, when 
 he took unto himself a young wife. Catharine Austin lived with 
 her widowed mother at a village about four miles from Royston. 
 Her father, who had been a subaltern officer in the royalist army, 
 lost his life at the battle of Worcester, leaving his wife and infant 
 daughter wholly unprovided for, as he had been an extravagant 
 careless man ; and their only dependence was on an annuity 
 which was settled on them by one of the Compton family, the 
 colonel of the regiment of horse to which Quartermaster 
 Austin had belonged, and whose life the latter had been in- 
 strumental in saving on the day in which he lost his own. 
 Catharine Austin was a very pretty girl, though the rival beauties 
 of Royston and its neighbourhood were of opinion that her 
 complexion was too dark, because it did not equal the milk and 
 rose purity of their own. Her finely-arched eyebrows lent addi- 
 tional expression to her sparkling black eyes ; the healthy glow 
 of youth mantled in her cheeks, and her form was such as 
 Albano delighted to paint. Her contour presented no corners, 
 and there was not the trace of a care to be seen on her 
 lovely brow. She was of a frank and cheerful temper, and not 
 unconscious of her charms, which she was rather fond of dis- 
 playing to the best advantage by her dress ; a disposition for 
 which her good easy mother not unfrequently reproved her, 
 but failed to correct. Catharine was not without suitors, but 
 none of them were so fortunate as to engage her affection ; 
 possibly because no one had addressed her who appeared 
 likely to maintain her in the manner she wished ; for, though 
 poor, she had her full allowance of pride. She had not been 
 educated to milk cows, churn butter, and make cheese, ac- 
 quirements in those days indispensable in the wife of a small 
 fanner, a class to which the most of her suitors belonged. 
 
 Her first acquaintance with Stephen Bui rough w T as purely 
 accidental ; no kind " mutual friend" introduced them to each 
 other in the belief that they would make " a happy couple ;" 
 no such person had previously whispered to Stephen that 
 Catharine was beautiful, nor to Catharine that Stephen was 
 rich. Her mother was expecting from London, by the Cam- 
 bridge waggon, a parcel, which was to be left at the George, 
 at Royston, where Catharine at the appointed time proceeded 
 to inquire after it. It was a fine afternoon about, the mid- 
 dle of June, and Stephen Burrough, who had been out in the 
 morning to view the progress of some haymakers whom he 
 had employed, was sitting in his snug little room behind the 
 bar, enjoying himself with a pipe of the best Virginia and a 
 
THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 87 
 
 pint of claret, when Catharine called to inquire for the parcel. 
 Perhaps, owing to the influence of the delightful summer weather, 
 the exercise he had taken in the hay-field, and the effect of 
 two or three glasses of wine, Stephen's spirits were that after- 
 noon more than usually exhilarated. He was struck with the 
 appearance of the blooming Catharine ; he thought he had 
 never before seen a young woman so good-looking, and so 
 good-tempered; and for the first time in his life, a thought 
 crossed his mind of giving a mistress to the George. — " For 
 Dame Mary Austin, Hartfoss, near Royston," said he, reading 
 the direction on the parcel; " but you are not Dame Mary 
 Austin, my pretty girl?" 
 
 H No sir," replied Catharine, " I am her daughter." 
 
 " I was thinking that you were too young for a widow, and 
 almost wishing that you were not a wife. But you must be 
 tired with your walk this warm day ; sit down and take a glass 
 of wine/' said Stephen, laying down his pipe, and producing 
 from a closet a long-necked bottle, and a small silver cup most 
 beautifully chased. " You shall taste a kind of wine that I 
 give only to great favourites, and you shall drink it out of the 
 queen's cup too. This wine and this cup were taken with the 
 late king's baggage at Naseby. The cup was once queen 
 Henrietta's, you see her cipher is engraved on it. I have many 
 pretty silver things in the closet there. — I only wish I could 
 find a good mistress for them." 
 
 Catharine smiled as she raised the cup to her lip, expressing 
 a hope that he might be fortunate in his inquiry, and happy 
 in his choice. M You need not be long in finding a mistress for 
 the George," said she, as her eye glanced towards the closet, 
 where a number of silver goblets, salvers, and other articles of 
 plate were displayed. 
 
 " That may be true," answered Stephen, " but then the diffi- 
 culty is to find one to my mind. I have no thought of marrying an 
 old woman ; and then the young ones will hardly look at a man 
 in his prime, however well to do in the world, who might keep his 
 wife like a lady ; but are all for mere lads, with scarce a cloak 
 to their backs, or a groat in their pockets, very likely. Now if 
 I could persuade a good-tempered, pretty girl, like yourself, to 
 have me, I would not mind marryingher to-morrow, and she should 
 wear such a string of pearls on her wedding-day, as a duchess 
 might be proud of. There ! what think you of these pretty 
 things?" said he, producing a smalt box, containing a pearl 
 necklace and other female ornaments from the closet. " These 
 were formerly Lady Weston's, and were pledged to me by her 
 husband, the late Sir Ralph, who was killed at Marston Moor. 
 They are all that I have had for two hundred pounds, hard 
 money, besides interest." 
 
 " You are jesting," said Catharine, as she admired the splen- 
 
88 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 did trinkets ; " and I must now think of returning home, for 
 my mother has been long expecting this parcel." 
 
 Stephen now recollected that he had something to say to his 
 haymakers — though he had not previously thought of going 
 out again that afternoon — and as Catharine's road lay past his 
 field, he offered her his company as far as he went. She 
 accepted his offer ; and so much was Stephen pleased with her, 
 that within a week, he called upon old Dame Austin, and 
 proposed himself as a suitor to her daughter. It is needless to 
 relate the manner in which a wealthy man of fifty wins a poor, 
 and rather vain girl of nineteen ; it can be much better con- 
 ceived by any reader between those ages than it can be 
 expressed by words ; let it be enough to say, that he proved 
 so persuasive a wooer, that in six weeks, Catharine Austin 
 became mistress of the George. 
 
 This sudden and unlooked for match caused no small sur- 
 prise to all who knew the parties ; and many persons uncha- 
 ritably declared Stephen to be a doting old fool, that had been 
 deluded into marriage by an artful girl, who in reality, cared 
 nothing for him, but who had married him chiefly for the sake of 
 what he possessed, and to have an opportunity of displaying her 
 beauty and her finery to the gallants that frequented the George. 
 Whatever might be the motives that influenced Catharine, her 
 husband who loved her to distraction, had for three years no 
 substantial reason to complain of her conduct; though her 
 gaiety and love of dress, and the attentions which were paid 
 her by some of his younger customers, made him uneasy and 
 caused him to wish that either his wife were a little less admired, 
 himself not quite so old. 
 
 The frequent visits of Charles II. to Newmarket, caused 
 Royston, on such occasions, to be favoured with the company of 
 many of the courtiers, and their attendants. A young man of 
 the name of Richard Wilton, secretary to the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham, was accustomed, at these visits, always to lodge at the 
 George ; and, amongst all who frequented the house, whether 
 serious or gay, there was not one whom the young hostess 
 received with a heartier welcome, or was more glad to see. He 
 was always gallantly attired ; was of an agreeable person and 
 manly figure ; and not a nobleman in his majesty's train rode 
 his horse with more grace. He could sing, and accompany 
 himself on the viol-de-gamba, like a professor ; and, altogether, 
 his manners and accomplishments were such as were likely to 
 make an impression on the heart of Catharine, to whose charms 
 he was far from being insensible. His visits, latterly, had been 
 more frequent than usual, for he sometimes called when the 
 court was not at Newmarket ; but as he always, on such occa- 
 sions, professed to be on some business of the Duke's, and 
 made no lengthened stay, his calling excited no remark. When 
 
THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 89 
 
 he came, he seldom failed to bring some trifling present for Catha- 
 rine, such as a pair of scented French gloves, or a piece of Flan- 
 ders lace ; while he propitiated the favour of Martha, who still 
 continued to preside over the culinary department, by praising 
 her cookery, which he declared was not excelled at the table of 
 his master, and by occasionally bringing her a box of rare spices, 
 or a bottle of citron-water. Whatever might be the real cause 
 of his more frequent visits to Royston, Catharine was not dis- 
 pleased with them. She was always glad when she heard of 
 his arrival, and was sorry when he went away. She had insen- 
 sibly become attached to him without ever imagining that her 
 regard was daily ripening into love. 
 
 One afternoon, on the first of May, Richard Wilton arrived at 
 Royston. In those times when " Merry England" was no mis- 
 nomer, this day was observed as one especially devoted to festi- 
 vity and mirth; and the evening was always celebrated by a 
 dance at the George, the only day in the year on which Stephen 
 Burrough allowed of this vain amusement, as he considered it, 
 in his house. Catharine's eyes sparkled with joy as she hastened 
 to the door to receive Wilton, for her husband happened to be 
 confined to his apartment from an attack of rheumatism, and 
 Martha was engaged in decorating the great room with flowers and 
 branches of thorn for the dance in the evening. " I am so glad 
 to see you here to-day," said she, as she accompanied him to his 
 favourite room, the little oak parlour looking into the garden; 
 " we have a dance in the evening, and I expect we shall have 
 your company. Stephen, who, indeed, never dances, is confined 
 with the rheumatism ; and if you will only join the Mayers, I will 
 be your partner." 
 
 " I have come expressly down from London to ask you to be 
 my partner," replied Wilton. " I could wish that this May-day 
 night, if we are to be partners, might last for ever. Since you 
 came here, Catharine, I never can bear to leave the George, and 
 am never easy till I return again. But as you are glad to see 
 me, you cannot refuse giving me May-day welcome," said he, 
 folding her in his arms, and giving her a kiss more fervent 
 than even holiday custom would warrant. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, have done, Wilton, and do not talk so ! 
 You really grow worse every time you come. Recollect who lam." 
 
 "Ah, that I do but too often; you are Stephen Burrough 's 
 wife ; and were you but mine, a humble cottage would be to me a' 
 palace of pleasure, and I should not envy kingCharleshiscrown." 
 
 " You are now repeating some of your master's lessons," 
 rejoined Catharine ; " we shall see at night if you can walk a 
 galliard, or lead down a country-dance, as well as you sing a 
 madrigal and talk court-compliments ; but I hear sister Martha, 
 who has heard of your arrival, coming with her cake and cordial. 
 I shall see you at the dance." 
 
90 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Though Wilton's moral principles were so far corrupted by 
 the example of what he saw occurring daily in the society in 
 which the duke his master chiefly lived, as to permit him to at- 
 tempt to seduce another's wife from her duty and her home, yet 
 his feelings were not so far debased as to allow him to entertain 
 the thought of withdrawing from her husband, and then aban- 
 doning to the world's scorn, a woman whose guilt was her 
 affection towards himself. His regard for Catharine was too 
 warm and too sincere to allow of his harbouring such an inten- 
 tion ; and he endeavoured to silence the " still small voice" of 
 conscience that whispered him he was doing wrong, by firmly 
 resolving to marry her should he be able to prevail on her to 
 leave her home. From the moment he perceived that the too 
 incautious Catharine felt interested about him ; that her eye 
 brightened when he came, and that it was dimmed occasionally 
 by something like a tear when he was to depart, his passion for 
 her increased. He became unsettled and unhappy except when 
 he was at Royston ; and being unable to contend longer with 
 his" feelings, he had now come down to declare his intentions, 
 and carry her off with him ; and in the event of her not con- 
 senting, firmly resolved to expose her to no further trial, and 
 never see her again. 
 
 From the time of Catharine becoming acquainted with Wilton, 
 a change had gradually taken place in her feelings, and she be- 
 gan to be dissatisfied with her husband and her home without 
 exactly knowing why. Wilton's engaging manners and flattering 
 attentions had won upon her unguarded heart; and she already 
 loved him before she was aware of the danger of her situation. 
 Her marriage with Stephen had not on her part been one of 
 affection; and when she compared him with Wilton, the young 
 and engaging Wilton, who had often, half in earnest, half in jest, 
 declared his regret that he had not known her before she became 
 Mrs. Burrough, she bitterly lamented that she was a wife. Ste- 
 phen had of late noticed an alteration in her manner, and having 
 once or twice perceived her sitting alone and in tears, he gave 
 her to understand — although he doted on her like a child, and 
 the very thought was agonizing to him — that he suspected her 
 altered demeanour to proceed from the secret preference she 
 gave to another. These suspicions, as may easily be conceived, 
 did not tend to rekindle the slumbering embers of duty, nor to 
 reconcile Catharine to her situation. 
 
 In the evening, when she came dressed in her gayest attire to 
 invite Wilton to the dance which was about to commence, she 
 found him thoughtfully pacing up and down the room. 
 
 " And am I not to have you for a partner then, Wilton ?" said 
 she, half smiling. " I did not think that you would have required 
 so much asking." 
 
 " That depends upon yourself, Catharine. But if a partner 
 
THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 91 
 
 now, a partner for ever. Let me at once declare the truth — you 
 know I love you : — I have come here for the very purpose of en- 
 deavouring to prevail on you to leave Roystcn with me, and this 
 very night, or to bid you farewell for ever. If you refuse me, 
 you will never again be annoyed either by my presence or by my 
 proposal. I can no longer bear to be as I am. — It is needless 
 attempting to reason with me. Be mine. Fly with me ; you 
 leave no child to weep for you; to-morrow you shall be my wife. 
 I shall leave the duke's service, and we can retire to some place 
 where no one knows us, and live only for each other. Drive me 
 not to despair by your refusal." 
 
 In language such as this did Wilton urge his suit upon the 
 inconsiderate Catharine, who was already too much prepossessed 
 in his favour to reject it as she ought. She had already taken the 
 first step from the path of duty in listening to his previous flat- 
 tering addresses, and she now had no longer the firmness to hold 
 back. The principles of prudence and virtue generally afford 
 but a feeble resistance to the current of human passions when 
 previous addresses have been unguardedly listened to, and an at- 
 tachment has been already formed. The voice of reason and of 
 duty is unheard in the tumult, and the half-compelled, half- 
 assenting victim is hurried away with the stream. After attempt- 
 ing in vain to combat his proposal, and overcome by his prayers, 
 his entreaties, and his professions, she sank into his arms ; and 
 as she hid her face in his bosom, consented to abandon for him 
 home, husband, and good name, and be his only for ever. 
 
 It was now agreed that Wilton should not join the merry 
 Mayers ; and he excused himself to kind old Martha, who also 
 came to invite him, on plea of fatigue from a long ride, and the 
 necessity he was under of forwarding some communications to 
 the duke, which would unavoidably occupy him during the 
 whole of the evening. When the dance was over, in which 
 Catharine did not join, and all the household had retired to bed, 
 she stripped off the ornaments she had worn during the evening 
 — her husband's present on her wedding-day — and returned 
 them to the little box in the closet where she had first seen 
 them, leaving a letter on the table directed to Stephen, whose 
 confinement to his room favoured Wilton's design. Drawing on 
 a hood, and wrapping herself in a riding-cloak, she softly 
 opened a back door which led into the garden, at the gate of 
 which she found Wilton waiting for her, with his horse ready 
 saddled. With a beating heart, and trembling in every limb, 
 she mounted behind him, and, in a flood of bitter tears, bade a 
 long adieu to a house in which she once fancied she could be 
 happy. They soon reached Ware, where a servant that Wilton 
 had left was waiting with a fresh horse, on which the fugitives 
 continued their flight, arriving in London almost as soon as they 
 were missed from the inn. In the course of a few days he was 
 
92 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 privately married to her in his mother's maiden name, thus 
 thinking to palliate his conduct by an act which the laws of his 
 country considered an aggravation of the offence, and declared 
 highly penal on the part of her to whom he thus sought to make 
 reparation. He at the same time made a full declaration to 
 Buckingham of what he had done, stating his intention of leav- 
 ing his grace's service, and retiring to a distant part of the 
 country. 
 
 Buckingham's own principles and practice, he being at that 
 period a frequent visiter to 
 
 " Cliefden's proud alcove, 
 The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love," 
 
 made him look lightly on what he considered merely as a venial 
 offence ; nay, within the pale of Charles's profligate court, Wil- 
 ton's conduct was more likely to be applauded than condemned. 
 As he had a great regard for Wilton, he offered him the situation 
 of steward on one of his northern estates, which then happened to 
 be vacant, declaring his readiness to keep the appointment secret 
 in order to favour Wilton's views. This offer, which corresponded 
 so perfectly with his design, Wilton immediately accepted ; and 
 when he pretended to retire to Holland, he proceeded under his 
 assumed name with Catharine to his new place of abode. 
 
 We must now return to the George at Royston. On the 
 morning after Catharine's elopement, when Stephen Burrough 
 awoke, he was rather surprised at not finding her in the room, 
 nor any trace of her having been there during the night ; he 
 therefore concluded, that not liking to disturb him, she had 
 slept in the apartment of his sister Martha. His wish to be 
 satisfied on this point, however, made him forget his rheumatism ; 
 and he hastened down stairs, where he found Martha exclaiming 
 against Catharine's negligence in leaving the keys in the closet. 
 On learning that she had not seen Catharine since the breaking 
 up of the dance, about eleven the night before — for our ances- 
 tors kept better hours than their descendants — he staggered to a 
 chair ; and before Martha had time to express her amazement, 
 the ostler entered with a melancholy face, to say that some one 
 had taken away Mr. Wilton's horse from the stable, together 
 with his mistress's best pillion. Martha immediately hurried up 
 stairs to see if Wilton was in his chamber; and as Stephen 
 gazed wistfully round the room, not daring to trust his apprehen- 
 sions, his eye was caught by the letter lying on the table, which 
 had been left by his wife. He hastily opened it, and found that 
 it contained her wedding-ring, and these brief words : " Forgive 
 me, and forget me," signed with the initials of her maiden name, 
 " C. A." The dreadful truth that his wife, his beloved, his che- 
 rished Catharine, had forsaken him, now flashed upon his mind; 
 and uttering a piercing cry, such as man only utters in his agony 
 when the mind sinks under its torture, he fell senseless upon the 
 
THE LANDLORD OF ROYSTON. 93 
 
 floor. A surgeon was instantly sent for, by whom he was bled ; 
 and after the lapse of a few hours he partially recovered, but his 
 mind had received so severe a shock that he imperfectly remem- 
 bered what had happened to him. He inquired anxiously for 
 Catharine ; asked why she did not come to see him, and blamed 
 her for neglecting him when he was so unwell ; and then, as a 
 bewildered recollection of her elopement with Wilton crossed his 
 mind, he would burst into a fit of childish crying, or vow venge- 
 ance against the spoiler who had robbed him of his only lamb ; 
 who had defrauded him of the wife of his bosom, the being 
 whom of all others he doted on and loved, almost as a father 
 loves the child of his old age. For several weeks did the unfor- 
 tunate man remain in this state, till at length the violence of his 
 grief subsided, and reason reassumed her sway. He now ceased 
 to talk of Catharine, and expressly desired that her name might 
 never be mentioned in his presence ; and as he was always much 
 affected when he entered the little room where he first saw her, 
 and where he first became acquainted with his loss, he gave up 
 the inn and retired to a private house, where his kind sister 
 Martha nursed him in his affliction, and poured balm into his 
 wounds. 
 
 After his retirement from business, Stephen Burrough's re- 
 ligious sentiments became deepened and confirmed. He be- 
 came a frequent attendant at prayer-meetings and preachings, 
 which were then often held by a class of itinerant ministers 
 of the word, professing a sort of motley faith, compounded 
 of the doctrines of Calvin and the new light of George Fox. 
 They classed themselves under the comprehensive term of 
 " Independents," which embraced every crackbrained visionary 
 who happened to mistake the glimmering through the flaw in 
 his own upper works for a ray of divine truth. They acknow- 
 ledged no human authority in church government, and consi- 
 dered themselves called to the ministry by the direct opera- 
 tion of the Spirit. The discipline of the pump and the horse- 
 pond, which was sometimes administered to those enthusiasts 
 by the mob, they called the persecution of the saints; a 
 shower of rotten eggs was to them martyrdom; and the ma- 
 gistrate by whom they were silenced was another Diocletian. 
 By attending such teachers, Stephen Burrough became at 
 length actuated by the impulse of religious enthusiasm. He 
 considered the misfortune which had befallen him as an es- 
 pecial dispensation, to wean him from the things of the flesh, 
 to which he now acknowledged he had been too much at- 
 tached ; that being chastened by affliction, he was now fitted 
 for the ministry, to which he fancied he had received a " call." 
 Inspired with these sentiments, he was in the habit of leav- 
 ing his home, and travelling through various parts of the 
 kingdom, picking up, as the phrase ran, "fallen fruit from 
 
94 LIBRARY OF FICTIOK. 
 
 the tree of faith," and endeavouring to save stray sheep that 
 had wandered from the fold of grace, and exposed themselves 
 to the jaws of that ravening wolf, the devil. 
 
 During his travels he had formed an acquaintance with a 
 well-meaning enthusiast like himself, though rather more 
 tinctured with Quakerism, one Ezekiel Barker, who resided 
 in the wolds of Yorkshire, between Kirkby-Moorside and 
 Helmsley. Upwards of six years had elapsed since Stephen's 
 wife had left him, without his ever having heard of or in- 
 quired after her, when he happened to pay a visit to his 
 above-named pious friend. In the evening his host related, 
 as an instance of the uncertainty of human life, and as an 
 awful warning to all persons addicted to the profane sport of 
 fox-hunting, an accident which had occurred in the neighbour- 
 hood only the day before. A person who acted as steward to 
 a nobleman possessing an estate in that part of the country, 
 had been thrown from his horse in a fox-chase, and pitching 
 with his head against a large stone, had received so much 
 injury as to die before he could be conveyed home. This in- 
 telligence having been suddenly and indiscreetly communi- 
 cated to his wife, who was near her confinement, had brought 
 on premature labour; and the child was dead, and the mother 
 not expected to survive. Ezekiel Barker was in the midst of 
 his reflections on this melancholy event, when a servant ar- 
 rived from the house of mourning to request him to come 
 and pray with her mistress, as she was dying, and the cler- 
 gyman of the parish was from home. Taking Stephen with 
 him, as one who might assist him on this solemn occasion, 
 he followed the servant to the house ; and as they entered 
 the sick woman's chamber, they met the nurse leading out 
 two weeping children, who had been brought in to receive 
 the last kiss of their dying mother. As the curtain of the 
 bed was drawn on the side next the door, they did not imme- 
 diately on their entrance see the unfortunate woman, who, in 
 broken accents, was lamenting the forlorn condition of her chil- 
 dren. " What will become of them, without father or mother, 
 or even a relation who will look upon them ! Heaven is punish- 
 ing their parents, and on the children too will be visited the 
 parents' sins ! Spare them ! spare them, Heaven ! and let 
 our punishment suffice ! Could I but in this awful moment see 
 him whom I injured, could I but know that he forgives me, I 
 could die more content. Stephen Burrough I couldst thou only- 
 know what Catharine endures — couldst thou but see her now, 
 thou mightst pity and forgive her ! " 
 
 Astonished at the mention of his own name, the sound of 
 which recalled to his memory a long unheard, though now 
 altered voice, Stephen under the impulse of the moment, drew 
 aside the curtain and beheld his own wife, his once fondly 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 95 
 
 cherished Catharine. " He does see thee ! " he exclaimed, taking 
 her hand, " and forgives thee, as he hopes for Heaven's mercy 
 himself." This sudden appearance of Stephen, as if a spirit had 
 been evoked by her prayer, was too much for the exhausted 
 strength of the dying woman to endure; it was as a gust of wind, 
 that brightens for an instant, and then extinguishes the flickering 
 light of an exhausted lamp. She looked at him for a few seconds, 
 like one of bewildered mind, who gazes on vacancy and fancies he 
 perceives an object. A faint smile of hope then passed over her 
 features; she drew his hand towards .her breast aud attempted 
 to speak, but a short convulsive throe choked her utterance. 
 — The struggle was over ; — her head fell back upon the pillow, 
 and this world closed on her for ever. She was buried in the 
 same grave with Wilton, and so wonderfully and mysteriously 
 complicated is the web of human life, that he, whom they had so 
 deeply injured, attended their funeral and wept over their grave. 
 Stephen Burrough remained but a few days after the funeral 
 with his friend, and then returned to his own home, which he 
 never again left, to wander about the country as a preacher. 
 A few months afterwards he was found dead in his room, having 
 been seized with apoplexy — to which he had been much exposed 
 since his illness — as he knelt in prayer, at the side of his bed. 
 In the little pocket-bible, which he always carried about with 
 him, and never allowed to be out of his possession, were found the 
 few words which Catharine had written to him, when she eloped 
 with Wilton. They were pasted in beside the record of his mar- 
 riage, and underneath was written in his own hand the day of 
 her death, 13th December, 1677; together with the words, 
 " Forgiven, but never to be forgotten. 'For God shall bring 
 every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be 
 good or whether it be evil."' — Stephen Oliver. 
 
 THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP " THE o'lIARA TALES." 
 
 It is really quite true that some time ago, and not long ago 
 either, there was a London gentleman who took a strange fit of 
 ambition into his head. His partial friends, or himself alone of 
 his own accord, or he, in concert with them, believed that he 
 bore, in face, air, and even in the upper part of his figure, a 
 striking resemblance to a certain nobleman, who had become 
 highly distinguished in the annals of fame by brilliant qualities 
 of various kinds. In truth there was a likeness, but a general 
 one only, between him and the celebrated Duke (or Marquis— 
 at present we cannot declare which ought to be the proper 
 
96 LIBRARY OP FICTION. 
 
 title), and, highly flattered by this personal compliment of 
 nature, he did all in his power to seem " the very image." He 
 studied his original as closely as the nobleman's appearance in 
 public, in the streets, in the parks, in " the house," gave him 
 opportunities for doing so ; and, in consequence of his observa- 
 tions, he changed his elongated hat for one of a round fashion, 
 and his light hair for a sandy-coloured, or haply (for we hate 
 being as demonstrative as he himself was) a raven-black wig ; 
 he instructed his tailor how to cut his coat; he spent hours be- 
 fore his glass, practising the very tie of his neck-cloth — to say 
 nothing of the other hours occupied, by its aid, in trying to 
 imitate a bow, a smile, a turn of the lip, or a droop or a toss of 
 the head. But, although much was gained by all these adap- 
 tations and labours, something yet remained to be done, in 
 order to procure a public and general misconception of who he 
 was : for the Double's great longing consisted of a wish to have 
 people gaze after him in the streets, in proof of how well he 
 enacted his mute lie ; and here (as regarded self-exhibition in 
 the streets) lay his difficulty. At home, indeed, or in the 
 houses of his particular friends, while he sat quietly at table, he 
 succeeded amazingly well, because, in fact, in a sitting posture, 
 you could not so easily detect that his figure was considerably 
 shorter than the noble one of his supposed counterpart; but 
 one cannot well sit down, out of doors, in a thronged metro- 
 polis ; unless, indeed, one sits in a saddle, on horseback ; and 
 even if one could do the former-mentioned feat, it were of no 
 avail in this particular case, inasmuch as the man to be cheated 
 out of the admiration due exclusively to his own person, never 
 did it; and as to sitting in a saddle, our gentleman had no 
 saddle, not to talk of a horse's back to put it on. Truth must 
 out ; although " a real gentleman," the high prices at which 
 human existence, with a reasonable share of enjoyment super- 
 added, must be purchased in London, had deterred his hitherto 
 economical and rational mind from attempting the keep of a 
 steed worthy of being seen in and about the great city. 
 
 But what will not high ambition endeavour on the road to its 
 object ? The Double, after pondering the matter some time, 
 started off, after breakfast, one morning, to scrutinize the studs 
 of sundry livery-stables, of respectable character though reason- 
 able charges; and with a vivid recollection in his mind of the 
 often-contemplated horse most usually ridden about town by 
 his own original, he selected, before dinner, an excellent likeness 
 of the animal, and hired it, for two days in each week, at not a 
 very extravagant price. And now, if ever a man were on his 
 hobby-horse, surely he was on his ; and twice every week, for 
 months afterwards, we have seen him, at fashionable hours, 
 walking or trotting, nay, even galloping, his new acquisition, 
 up and down Piccadilly, and by Hyde Park Corner into Gros- 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 97 
 
 venor-place, and about the Parks, and where not; and veritable 
 attention did they both draw from individuals of the passing 
 crowds, who, having never seen the true man and horse any 
 where but in the open air, were promptly imposed upon ; nor is 
 that all ; but once or twice in the Ring in Hyde Park, we, and 
 others along with us — (for, at the time we speak of, he was be- 
 ginning to be blown among us knowing ones, as Master Shallow 
 might say) — have seen him bowed, or smiled, or kissed finger- 
 tips to, out of carriages which he rapidly passed in the direction 
 opposite to their motion ; and, oh, intoxicating spirit of fame! 
 what a happy glow did not those palpable hits impart to the 
 countenance of the successful aspirant ! Indeed, it cannot be 
 guessed by what process of reasoning (to say little of feeling) 
 he thus deemed himself honoured in his own mind, on account 
 of only being mistaken for a celebrated person. What, then, 
 were the grounds upon which the poor Double so anxiously 
 would have disowned his identity? (so anxiously, indeed, that 
 we do believe he was ready and willing to sell himself to the 
 devil, as Doctor Faustus did, could the bargain have ensured 
 to him as perfect a change into the likeness he thirsted after, as 
 was the change from youth to age ensured to the doctor by his 
 bargain.) But 'tis useless multiplying questions or conjectures 
 on the subject; we only know that, in a vein of perfect con- 
 sistency, he was nearly as proud of the deception practised by 
 his hired horse, as of that toiled after by himself; that he often 
 wished the poor brute were conscious of the laurels he had 
 gained ; and that (wiping his brows with a handkerchief in a 
 way he had once seen his better self do) he has been heard to 
 say, after returning from a day's exhibition about town, " I do 
 own myself grateful and proud for having been cast in the same 
 mould with that great man !" 
 
 And so far, for months as has been said, he passed a very 
 happy life ; when suddenly there arose a prospect of great in- 
 terruption to the gathering of the triumphs of his deceptive 
 existence. It is clear that if the nobleman were known to have 
 left London, he could scarce hope to make people go on believ- 
 ing that he was still in London ; unless, indeed, he wished to 
 frighten passengers in the streets out of their senses, by being 
 taken for the wraith or fetch of the absent public character. 
 In fact, to continue in the glory of the occasional doubt that he 
 was somebody else, the Double was necessitously chained to the 
 place, though not to the spot of the place, inhabited by that 
 somebody : and considerable, therefore, were his anxieties, and 
 regrets, and sense of humiliation, when he read in the papers 
 
 that the noble and gallant ■ of was to go over 
 
 immediately to Ireland as its Vice-King, or Lord Lieutenant. 
 
 True, the high appointment flattered his vanity, in a kind of 
 
 I 
 
98 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 personal way. He felt it as an additional homage very nearly 
 paid to himself; and strongly was he tempted to spend the 
 summer, at least, in the Irish metropolis, in the hope of coming 
 in for his just share of the usual public, that is street, worship, 
 to be paid to the representative of royalty. But then, first of 
 all, he feared, if he did not dislike, the Irish ; and they were at 
 that time more to be feared than ever, many of the counties of 
 their country being in open insurrection, famine, and typhus- 
 fever. And next, what was he to do for his well-esteemed horse, 
 in Dublin? he could not think of purchasing him, — the price 
 was too much even for ambition to pay, taking purse into ac- 
 count ; but by no other arrangement could he prevail on the 
 owner of the livery-stables to allow the distinguished animal to 
 float within view of Ireland's Eye — (the little island so called in 
 the bay of Dublin): and, in a word, (and, alas!) the newly- 
 appointed Vice- King sailed for his Irish capital, while his dis- 
 consolate Double remained, still torn by indecision, in London. 
 Scarce a month had elapsed, however, after the Lord Lieu- 
 tenant's arrival in the land (sometimes) of potatoes, when the 
 good folks of Dublin began to be puzzled, as their brethren of 
 London had been, by the vision of his copyist, riding about the 
 main streets, or along the beautiful quays, or in the Phoenix 
 Park ; the horse, too, whether the London one or not, being a 
 very good similitude. One fortunate circumstance was in favour 
 of our adventurer. The Lord Lieutenant (though he stuck no 
 great bunch* of shamrock in his hat or on his breast, and pointed 
 at, or pressed his hand upon it, as some people had done before 
 him) was beginning to be very popular, in consequence of a 
 mode of conduct, as manly, and as suitable to his nature, as it 
 was good in policy. In truth, from almost the clay of his ar- 
 rival, he had thrown himself upon the confidence of the people, 
 asking the higher classes of them to share his hospitality, or 
 goodhumouredly sharing theirs ; and showing himself in public, 
 with the least ostentation possible, to the other classes. To 
 come to our point : he began soon to ride through the streets, 
 very often quite alone : and here, it will be perceived, was the 
 circumstance in favour of his untired and untiring mimic of 
 which we have already spoken. Here was the Vice-Sovereign 
 in a situation susceptible of perfect imitation by one man and 
 horse ; and it is quite true that the lonely impostor sometimes 
 succeeded to his heart's content in consequence ; hats and caps 
 were taken off to him by men and boys at either side of the 
 streets, as he rode along, bowing and smiling to a degree of 
 similarity only conferable by long practice ; and having heard 
 that the object of his mixed adoration and self-esteem had 
 alighted one day at the door of a pastrycook's shop, and chatted 
 amiably with the pretty girl behind the counter, he also did 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 99 
 
 dismount at the door of another shop of the same kind, and did 
 also overwhelm with a sense of being inexpressibly honoured 
 and lifted out of herself, the not as pretty handmaiden of the 
 rival establishment; and after all this, he would steal away, 
 horse and self, to deposit the former in his livery-stable, and 
 then win, by circuitous and unfrequented ways, his own humble 
 lodgings, and sit down, a delighted man, to his chop or his 
 steak, not now playing the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland to his 
 orderly landlady or her smoke-dried daughter ; though indeed 
 it added to his notions of self-consequence in the house, to hear 
 them begin to say — even while he strove to disrobe himself of 
 the character — " how very like he was." 
 
 But his happiness was again doomed to be sadly interrupted. 
 It was announced that the Lord Lieutenant would speedily set 
 out on a tour through some of the counties in Ireland, and 
 some of the disturbed ones too ! For all the reasons— and more 
 with them — given for his internal troubles when he heard of the 
 intended voyage from London to Dublin, he felt agitated anew. 
 Doubtless, the Irish he had met with in Dublin, itself, were not 
 so much to be dreaded as he had laid the thing down in his own 
 mind ; but the barbarians of the insurrectionary and remote 
 quarters of the country ! the savages, whooping among their 
 hills and bogs, with scythes and pikes in their hands ! His soul, 
 although nothing of its darling thirst for renown had abated, 
 shrunk from such a prospect of peril. Besides, would there be 
 much glory, worthy of the name, to be gained by the mistakes 
 of his person committed by the populace of small towns or 
 villages, or by peasants on the road-side, even supposing he 
 should escape danger ? Yes ! and a new and brilliant ray of 
 future fame flashed on his soul. Yes! by some happy combi- 
 nation of circumstances, in his character of Lord Lieutenant, 
 he, also — and he, really — might allay an Irish rebellion, or 
 stanch the wounds of civil discord. But fears, deadly fears, 
 came on him again. His horse, too, as in a former case? — In 
 truth, we must a second time part from him undecided, and a 
 prey to conflicting wishes and doubts, longings and terrors ; 
 and in the mean time, after some other things, let us occupy 
 ourselves a little with his reality. 
 
 This was not a year of rank insurrection, in any of the 
 usually disturbed (that is, starving) districts of Ireland. Great 
 outrages were not committed by the neglected, uneducated, and 
 despairing peasantry. The chief feature of their refractory 
 spirit, for the season, was evinced in combinations and determi- 
 nations not to cut down the corn of any of their landowners, 
 no matter of what degree, who, during the speechifying of a 
 recent election, we believe, had thought proper to give them 
 rather hard words. 
 
 I 2 
 
100 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " An' so, we're not as much as to lay a finger on the poor 
 Capt'n's whate, ather, Con ?" asked one of a body of legislators 
 among them, who were assembled, by stealth, at a late hour of 
 the night, in an old barn, for the purpose of organizing the 
 rebellious proceedings of the next day ; — it will be understood 
 that the querist spoke in a tone of mock compassion for " the 
 poor Capt'n," while his features expressed a bitter sneer. 
 
 " The divvle a grain of id 'ill ever lie in shape wid help from 
 our holy Roman reaping-hooks. Micky, ma-bouchal," answered 
 Con, who might be termed chairman of their committee of 
 public safety, though, indeed, he was only squatted on a thin 
 lair of old straw, accidentally found in the empty barn. 
 
 " Och, an' its like, if we don't cut it for him, that he'll be 
 forced to send a little way to the north for the nate Orange 
 hands," remarked a third, — " becase, ye see, boys, we're only 
 all«a set o' the baste-brutes o' Romans that's to be found about 
 him, in these parts, and that he said, out afore all the gintlemen, 
 th' other day, ware'nt fit to be touched wid a pair o' tongs, so 
 we ware'nt, the Lord look down on us !" — 
 
 " Amin," assented Micky — " an' since if he can stop his nose 
 at us, afore the whate is ripe, he can do widout us, when it's 
 ready to shell idself about the fields." 
 
 " That's a thruth," said another — " an', sure, when the 
 people that God plaised to put in a country, aren't fit to cut the 
 harvest that God put in it too, why, thin, the Capt'n must only 
 thry to send for the Orangemen, the few hundred miles, as my 
 gossip here told ye afore me, or else see how many rale, honest 
 boys, like 'em, he'll be able to get in the barony." 
 
 4< An' they're asily counted," resumed Con, the chairman, — 
 " four of 'em, all in a lump; ould Spear, wid the head shakin' 
 on his shoulders, like the last lafe on the top of a papalar — he 
 that cries ' amin' to his reverence, the ministher, in the church, 
 every Sunday, — ould Spear, I say, is one ; thru there's the two 
 Hucks, brothers, the wavers ; the only bodies that hears auld 
 Spear in the church, or does be there to hear him, barrin the 
 ministher's oun wife and childer, and the Capt'n himself, long 
 life to him — an' to his whate, too — the Hucks is — stop — ould 
 Spear is one — yes — the two Hucks is three — craturs so worn 
 away with the shuttle, and goin' in winther to a could church, 
 that — but, look up there boys !" cried the speaker, suddenly 
 interrupting himself, as he stared towards the roof of the barn. 
 The eyes of all the other rebels followed his, and fixed upon the 
 face of a man which was visible thro' a rent in the thatch, and 
 which earnestly regarded them. 
 
 "It's Connors, the informer!" — shouted Micky — "out wid 
 us, boys, an' let us give him what some of us owes him, at 
 last!" 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 101 
 
 " I'm no Connors, and I'm no informer," said the man over- 
 head, " stop where ye are, boys, and look at my fatures again." 
 
 u By the mortial man !" cried one of the conspirators, a 
 young, taciturn, sad-browed fellow, who previously had not 
 uttered a word, tho' he now spoke with remarkable liveliness of 
 voice and manner, as he sprang from his primitive seat on his 
 heels by the rough wall of the building — " By the mortial man, 
 an' he says thrue ! — it's poor Ned Cahill is in it, if he's a livin' 
 man this night!" 
 
 " You're not far off from the mark, Peery O'Dea," replied the 
 intruder — " and, nowthat you're sure o'me won't you and the other 
 boys let me drop down among ye, to discoorse one word?" — He 
 prepared to descend thro' the aperture as he spoke ; his face 
 disappeared from it ; his legs, his body, took the place of the 
 former ; then he swung an instant, by the hands, from the rude 
 joists of the roof, and saying — " tisn't the same way some 
 people 'ud like to see me hangin', boys" — he alighted firmly on 
 his outspread feet, in the middle of the earthen floor of the 
 barn. There was ease, agility, and boldness in all his motions 
 while accomplishing this not unperilous descent ; and now, the 
 rushlight which illumined the council of the disaffected Irish, 
 showed the person of a slight-limbed man of thirty, or there- 
 abouts, with broad chest and shoulders, and a well-favoured face, 
 of which the only disagreeable expression was the suspicious 
 curl of the brow, and the sidelong quick glance of the eye. 
 
 " Musha, my poor fellow ! poor Ned ! resumed Peery O'Dea, 
 hastening to him, and there were tears in Peery 's eyes, and a 
 tremor in his limbs, while they interchanged the usual salute — 
 kissing each other's cheeks, as they held each other's hands. 
 The other peasants looked on, with various expressions of 
 countenance. Some showed sympathy ; some anxiety, perhaps 
 for themselves; and one or two regarded the new comer, as if 
 forming a selfish resolution towards him. 
 
 " And how is Nelly, ma-bouchal%" demanded Ned Cahill. 
 
 " The only sisther o' yees is brave an' hearty," answered 
 Peery O'Dea — " if it w 7 asn't for thinkin' a great daile about 
 you, Ned, an' crying, mornin', noon, and night, on the head of 
 it all." 
 
 " An' her weenoch ?" continued Cahill. 
 
 " As fine a lump of a boy as ever you " began the vain 
 
 father. His brother-in-law interrupted him. 
 
 " Oh, well, — sure I know, Peery; Nelly's goreoon '11 want 
 no praises you can give him : but that's not the business, now. 
 I cum here, a good stretch o' road, to spake o' something else 
 to you and the boys foment me, only I'm hungry, not to say 
 drouthy, an' 'ud ax a bit an' a sup afore I make my noration ; 
 
102 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 so you'll just step out, a-vich, and beg a mouthful for me from 
 Nelly, and tell her I'll see her, may be, the night, afore I take 
 to my thravels again." 
 
 M /'ll run out," volunteered one of the two men, whom we 
 have mentioned as glancing at Cahill in a questionable way, — 
 " I'll. run out, Peery, an' you can be stoppin' wid your brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 " No," said Cahill, fixing upon him an expressive look — " no, 
 neighbour (we're all neighbours afther a manner, tho' I won't 
 take id on me to say I ever saw much of you afore) ; but no, 
 neither Peery nor you need go now. Con, my boy," turning 
 hastily to the ex- chief of the asstimbly, " you and I are ould 
 friends, an' you'll think it no greltt throuble to run and ax a 
 morsel to ate for a hungry and a tired man." 
 
 " Your afther just sayin it, Ned a-vich" responded Con, and 
 he rose and strode towards the badly-secured and crazy door of 
 the barn. " I'll let you out, my own self," continued Cahill, 
 — *?* there," holding the door only a little way apart, while he 
 again glanced keenly around him, " and now God speed you:" 
 he shut the door, and secured it as he had found it ; "and you 
 and I, Peery, can just step, the closest of any, to the dour ; for 
 who knows who might be on the scent of one of us abroad ; 
 there's great temptation, boys," turning to the legislators, as he 
 drew a pistol from his breast, " great temptation even among 
 neighbours sometimes, in the reward offered for the head of a 
 poor outlaw." 
 
 Short answers, yet such as sympathized with Cahill's well- 
 known position, or seemed to do so, came from the greater 
 number of his hearers after he had spoken : but Peery O'Dea 
 was greatly moved ; his friends heard him groan as he turned 
 away his face. 
 
 " It's a long time since you cum this road afore, Ned," 
 remarked Micky before named, " tho' we hard tell of you 
 showing yourself, here and there, in other places." 
 
 " Aye, Micky, the life I'm forced to keep isn't the pleasantest : 
 here an' there, as you say, good weather and bad ; sleepin' 
 little, and never two nights together on the same road, an' 
 never undher a christian roof, but out in the fields at the snug 
 side of a stack, or in a wood, or in a plantation, or near the 
 fox's hole, or down by the river near the otter's bed ; and all for 
 fear of what I said a moment ago. The neighbours are very 
 good to me — I'll never deny id ; and, as yet, I have no rason to 
 be in dread or doubt of any one; but the reward in the proclama- 
 tions is a heavy one ; that's all I have to say." 
 
 He started slightly, Peery sharing his emotion, as a woman's 
 voice came to the door at the outside, high in anxiety, if not 
 lamentation. Cahill, after listening a moment, hastily undid a 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 103 
 
 second time the fastenings of the door, using, however, some 
 caution still, and after saying in a whisper to Peery, " Look about 
 you," opened his arms to embrace his only sister, whom he had 
 not for a long time seen, and who was his nearest surviving 
 relation. 
 
 Their meeting evinced deep and true affection on both sides. 
 The young woman had an interesting if not handsome face, and 
 her person just began to indicate the matronly change, which 
 her characters and duties of wife and mother were working in 
 her mind. She wept abundantly, while her arms surrounded 
 his neck, and her face lay hidden on his bosom ; but for some 
 minutes her attempts to speak could not get beyond, " Oh, Ned I 
 Oh, poor Ned ! " Nor was the rough man she clung to unmoved. 
 
 At length they began to talk a little more freely, and calling 
 to mind the claim which her brother had forwarded by Con upon 
 her hospitality, Mary O'Dea caused the outlaw to sit down near 
 the door, with -his back to the wall, upon her ample cloak folded 
 into a temporary cushion ; and confronting him, sitting also 
 u on her hunkers," she gave him to eat of the plain fare she 
 was able to snatch up at home, and to drink, too, out of a bottle 
 of " potheen," diluted with water. During her attentions, and 
 his industry in consequence of them, Mary looked every other 
 instant at her brother's features, or scanned his person, or 
 perhaps the state of hjs attire, while tears still flowed down her 
 cheeks and plaintive mutterings escaped her. Poor Mary, poor 
 as she was, deserves to be called a good specimen of the only 
 really beautiful existence under Heaven's sun, a true-hearted 
 and gentle-hearted woman; she possessed, too, as may appear, 
 what (thank Providence !) often mixes up with female excel- 
 lence in the softest shape, a strong, prompt mind, and a sacred 
 sense of right and wrong. 
 
 " An' won't you stop wid us the night, Ned, agraw ?" she 
 asked, towards the conclusion of his hasty meal. 
 
 " You oughtn't to say to me, won't you Ned, but can you, 
 Mary ma cliree" he answered, turning his head to the door to 
 note if Peery continued to do his duty at it, with the pistol he 
 had slipped into his hand, " that's what you ought to say to me, 
 Mary ; but little's the use in thinkin' of the thing the heart 'ud 
 like best to do, when a body isn't able to do it." 
 
 " F\\ do something to get you lave to do that, Ned, my dear, 
 afore I'm many days oulder," resumed Mary, glancing at her 
 husband, and, with a nod of her head, looking expressively at 
 her brother, while she spoke in a low, cautious voice. 
 
 "Mary! Mary asthore /" he said, in the lowest whisper, 
 although its cadence betokened sudden and deep emotion, 
 " what are you for saying, girl ? Get up, and come this way wid 
 me " 
 
104 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 He took her by the arm, and led her into a corner of the 
 barn where they -were far removed from the peasants. 
 
 " What's this, at all ?" he continued ; " tell me in one word, 
 Mary!" 
 
 "I know all about it at last, Ned, and I'll do my best to free 
 you from the outlawry," she replied. 
 
 "Duoul!" he cried impatiently; " the woman has taken 
 lave of her seven senses! — all about what? and what would you 
 dhrame o' doing? and who tould you, Mary, if you do know all V 
 
 " Himself, Ned." 
 
 "Peery, his ownself ?" he demanded. " No other cratur ; 
 who could ? Poor fellow, he couldn't long keep it from me ; the 
 heart in his body is too sthraight, and it loves and likes us both 
 too well to let him lie down quietly, and you — " 
 
 " Whisht, Mary, for your life! whisht !" he cast his suspi- 
 cious eyes all around him. " Musha, but he's a born fool of his 
 mother to open his lips to you a word about it ! an' tell me, 
 Mary, what are you goin' to do? what can you thry that 
 wouldn't be against your own husband — the father of your 
 weenochV he continued passionately, " and daare you, Mary 
 — daare you attempt any thing so unnatural as that ? Mary, my 
 curse be upon your head — and I will pray to our father and our 
 mother to curse you out of their graves, if you let only the 
 thought of it come into your mind !" She several times strove 
 to speak, he seemed resolved to afford her no opportunity ; 
 " give over thinking of it I warn you !" he went on, " and now 
 good bye and God bless you, if you deserve his blessing; good 
 bye, Mary, I'll see you again as soon as I can !" He hastily 
 turned from her, and, standing with his back to the door, con- 
 tinued speaking to the peasants, without an instant's pause, " I'm 
 goin' my road, boys, and as my time is short, I must say what I 
 have to say to ye, at a hop-and-a-jump ; so here it is. The 
 Lord Lieutenant will be down among ye the morrow morning. 
 He's to stop vid a good frind of yours, I hear, and that's like as 
 if he wasn't far off from being a good frind himself. I don't 
 want to advise ye to be good boys foment his eyes ; sure you'll 
 thrate him well of your own accord, becase ye all know he 
 manes well to us, (the first of his kind that ever said so, at laste,) 
 and more betoken becase he goes about the poor counthry like 
 a man who has thrust in its poor people ; ridin' his horse, some- 
 times, amost alone, along bye roads and bosheens, as simple, ay, 
 and a great dail simpler than some o' the little squireens nigh 
 hand to us; well, if it's a thing that Captain Lighton axes the 
 Lord Lieutenant to ax ye to cut his harvest, it would only be a 
 good turn, afther all, not to refuse; it may sarve yourselves; 
 and may be it might sarve me, too, in an endayvour I'm goin* 
 to make to get lave to come home from my rambles, and take 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 105 
 
 to arning an honest mouthful again ; and ,so, there's what I'm 
 come a begging to ye for ; and, now the good night to ye, boys, 
 or the top o' the morning ; for that -matter the day's breakin' 
 already. God speed ye." 
 
 * Peery O'Dea," he added, whispering to his brother-in-law, 
 " help me to open this ould door, quick, quick ! and out vid you 
 now like a hurler afore me ! and let us run over a field or two 
 together. I want to spake to you, and keep you free of harm ! 
 Come man, hurry ! " He seized Peery's arm, and almost forced 
 him through the door-way ; and when Mary and some of the 
 peasants went out to look after them, the brothers-in-law were 
 not to be seen. Mary pondered a moment, shook her head, and 
 then bent her steps homewards, little changed in the resolution 
 she had taken to try and restore her brother to society. 
 
 " What fool's talk has passed between you and Mary, Peery 
 O'Dea?" asked Cahill, when they had gained their place of 
 concealment, the ruins of an old castle, which overhung the 
 main road to their village. 
 
 " Ned," answered Peery, " you know I've told her all ; don't 
 fly in a passion wid me ; I saw ye discoorsin' together in the 
 barn, and it was asy to guess what Mary was sayin' to you." 
 
 "An* that's the way you keep your promise wid me?" — 
 questioned Ned. 
 
 " I couldn't help it, Ned Cahill, asthore. It was lyin' like a 
 heavy stone on my heart. Sure enough, we both thought it 
 would be for the best ; I to hould my tongue an' thry to work 
 for her and the weenoch while you were only forced to hide 
 yourself for a start. But I'll tell you what it is, Ned ; the 
 mornin' I hard of them takin' you, I setoff for the jail dour, to 
 give myself up to them in your stead, as it well became me to 
 do ; an' nothin' but the news I larned on the road o' your 
 breakin' jail, an' givin' 'em leg bail, the thing that put the out- 
 lawry on you, afther all, poor boy, nothin' but that sent me 
 home agin. Ay, an' I have more to say to you, Ned Cahill ; 
 the first moment I hear of your falling into their clutches a 
 second time, I'll be on the road to the jail dour a second time 
 too ; for I can't eat by day, nor sleep by night, thinkin' o' you. 
 An' afther all we can say about Mary and the child, my heart 
 tells me I'm not doin' a thing that a man ought to do." 
 
 " Bother an' botheration, Peery ; do you mane to tell me, 
 even if it did happen that I was locked up agin, that it would 
 be the part of a man to start himself off, of his own accord, 
 from wife an' weenoch ; to say nothin' o' the poor ould father 
 o' you sittin' at home by the fire ; an' let them send you for 
 life across the wide seys, if they didn't take the life from you 
 aforehand ? I tell you, man, you have your duties laid out for 
 you on this yearth ; as for me, no one is dependin' on me, and 
 
106 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 no one 'ud miss me barrin' yourself an' Mary ; an' even ye only 
 for the sorrow, an' nothing at all for the loss ; an' I am not a 
 boy given to marryin', I don't think the notion of id '11 ever 
 come into my head agin ; for, in throth, Peery, from the day I 
 helped to carry poor Cauth Farrel to the berrin-ground, afther 
 the lang sickness that made her a light load to carry any where 
 afore it ended her days" — Cahill's voice changed, and his eyes 
 fell — " from that day to this, Peery, though I was a younger 
 boy then, I never saw the colleen I'd care to bethinkin' of; no, 
 nor wanted to see her neither. But we'ere talkin' a power o* 
 raumaush here, in this old place. Tell me, Peery, an' don't 
 tell me any thing but the thruth, how much o' the raal business 
 did you blab out to Mary?" 
 
 " I didn't hide a single bit of the raal business, Ned. I tould 
 her that it was myself (an' you not wid us nor in the secret) 
 that went up to Lighton's house that night, for the arms, along 
 wid the other boys ; an' I tould her you only follied us to get 
 me home out o' danger, when, by bad luck, you found out what 
 I was goin' to do ; and that when the Peelers purshued us, afther 
 we got the guns and pistols, and were hard and close on my 
 thrack, you ran up to me, Ned, and forced my gun from me, 
 an' made me turn off home by a cross-cut ; och, Ned ! if it could 
 come into my mind that night, what you were goin' to do — " 
 
 " Phu, Peery, I never meant they should ketch either of us, 
 when I took your gun, an' if you were bid by me to use your 
 legs sooner, they never would have to tell that they came up 
 wid me ; 'twas our argufyin' the thing that spiled all. Well, 
 no matther now. Just listen to me over agin. What's Mary 
 goin' to do, to thry an' get me free o' the outlawry ? can you tell 
 me that, Peery?" Peery solemnly protested he could not, 
 He had never heard his wife mention the subject. Cahill looked 
 grave, and, after a pause, kindling into a rage, said, " By the 
 sky over us ! if my sisther, my father's and my mother's daughther, 
 ever attempts the like of it, I could kill her with my own hand! " 
 
 Peery asked what he meant ; and it was obvious from his 
 perfectly unconscious manner, that he did not share with his 
 brother-in-law a single doubt of Mary. — Cahill evaded an- 
 swering him. 
 
 " You must stop the day by my side, Peery — that's all ; or 
 as much of the day, at laste, as '11 be wanting to do what I 
 mane to doe in. An', first of all, let us hide here till the Lord 
 Lieutenant passes by to Mr. Lowe's big house ; I'd like to see 
 him, that I may know him agin ; an' he'll soon come now, for 
 Mr. Lowe expects him to the great break'ast." 
 
 Accordingly, *both remained in the old ruins some hours, 
 peering out upon the road through narrow window-slits in its 
 walls. And Ned Cahill seemed to have gained true informa- 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 107 
 
 tion as to the movements of Vice-Royalty. After some time 
 distant shouts reached them; they watched the top line of the 
 hilly road ; the uproar came nearer ; clouds of dust arose in 
 view ; and, dimly seen through it, down streamed and trundled 
 the crowds of peasantry, who were drawing his Excellency, 
 with silken ropes, in his open carriage, and the huge crowds 
 who, jumping and capering, were before them, beside them, and 
 behind them and Mr. Lowe, and other gentlemen of the place, 
 on horseback, in front ; " an' not a soger nor a Peeler to be 
 seen!" — as the ecstatic mob declared, and truly declared, the 
 ecstatic mob, who, not two years before, had been enjoying the 
 Insurrection Act, and who have not remained quite ecstatic, 
 ever since that blessed morning. 
 
 " I'm tould I'll know him in the carriage by his takin off his 
 hat and makin all manner o' bows and fine manners to the 
 people ;" — soliloquized Cahill, looking close, as the frantic rout 
 whirled onward the truly and meritedly popular Lord Lieutenant, 
 often tumbling over each other, in the miserable zeal of each 
 and all to " have one pull at the ropes." 
 
 " Well, an' there I seen him, sure enough," resumed Cahill, 
 " an' it 'ill be quare if I don't know him agin, after he ates his 
 break'ast — much good may it do him, every bit an' sup of id 1" 
 
 At Mr. Lowe's hall-door the people permitted his Excellency 
 to stop. Their parish priest there read him a little address, to 
 which he replied kindly, in impromptu. Again we have to 
 notice the correctness of Ned Cahill's private sources of infor- 
 mation. Captain Lighton, who, with other gentlemen, had 
 ridden out that morning to meet the great man, handed a note 
 into the carriage. The Lord Lieuenant, interrupting a few 
 words of conversation with the parish priest, immediately 
 glanced once at it, and then, saying something in a low voice, 
 gave it to his late reverend panegyrist, who having perused it in 
 his turn, thus addressed the assembled thousands. 
 
 " My good people — down to this morning ye have refused, 
 even against my request, to cut Captain Lighton's corn ; here 
 is his Excellency, the Lord Lieutenant General, and General 
 Governor of Ireland, and your friend, if you will let him, by 
 deserving his friendship, — and through my mouth his Excel- 
 lency is pleased to ask ye, will you, or will you not, save the 
 blessed harvest that Divine Providence " 
 
 " We will, plase his Majesty and your Riverince;" inter- 
 rupted a voice very like that of M Con ;" — M we will, out o' 
 glory to him for axin us, — an' for another little rason, becase 
 poor Ned Cahill, that we're all sorry for, an' love an' like, is 
 afther bidding us do the same thing aforehand." 
 
 " Ned Cahill ! the poor outlaw !" resumed the good priest, 
 forgetting a little chagrin he had felt, on the head of being 
 
108 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 cheated out of a very pretty peroration, by Con's interruption : 
 and he and the Lord Lieutenant began to discourse anew, in 
 seeming earnestness. 
 
 Ned Cahill and Peery O'Dea soon had proof, from a changed 
 hiding-place, that the people respected Con's pledge as their 
 spokesman ; shouting and capering, and brandishing their 
 sickles, hundreds of them rushed into the Captain's fields, and 
 simultaneously attacked all the ripe corn they could find. 
 
 And still the outlaw showed a knowledge of how more im- 
 portant people were to act upon that — to him — memorable day. 
 Having again spirited Peery along with him to a convenient 
 place of ambush, he watched, earnestly, the expected approach 
 of the Lord Lieutenant, along a bye-road leading, zig-zag, from 
 Mr. Lowe's house. Peery knew his purpose by this time, and 
 awaited its issue with his own mental reservations of what he 
 would do, should evil come of Ned's bold thought. 
 
 " Whisht, Peery !" cried Cahill, catching his arm, as he 
 glanced over the hedge of the road, with a sparkling eye, and 
 suddenly flaring cheeks : — " here he is, sooner than I or others 
 had a notion of! — and ridin quite alone, too, by the Powers ! — 
 not an edge-a-gong , nor Misther Lowe, himself, wid him ! — 
 well, an' that's quare ! bud I s'pose they're behind the turn o* 
 the road ; or, at any rate, it's all the better for me— so here 
 goes, in the name o' God and good luck !"— -and springing upon 
 the road, and falling instantly upon his knees, straight before 
 the object of his soul's solicitude and reverence, he continued,— 
 " Oh, your Excellency ! oh, my Lord Lieutenant !— oh, plaise 
 your Majisty, hear one word from a poor, heart-sore man !" 
 
 " Wha— a — t, what, what, friend?" stuttered the person he 
 addressed, endeavouring to rein in and quiet his horse, who 
 had been amazingly startled at the sudden vision of Cahill ; 
 and, indeed, the horse's master did not speak or look like a 
 man of perfect presence of mind. 
 
 " My life, my life!" resumed Cahill; " wait, your honour, 
 my Lord Lieutenant, an' I'll hould him, for you ;" — and he 
 jumped up and grasped the horse's reins—" an' now " 
 
 " Let go, fellow ! let go !"— screamed the rider, in increased 
 terror, for, from Cahill's brogue and impassioned pronunciation, 
 he had mistaken the possessive pronoun which the supplicant 
 had placed before the word " life." 
 
 " Och, an' won't I, your Majisty, won't I, when you only 
 hear me spake one word '.—sure I'm no one else in the world, 
 bud poor Cahill the outlaw, that your Majisty— " 
 
 " Outlaw !" repeated the other — " savage villain ! do you 
 mean to murder me V 
 
 " Murder you, my Lord Lieutenant !" repeated poor Cahill, 
 in his turn, letting go the reins, and starting back, aghast, with 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. 109 
 
 clasped hands—" By the blessed stars in the sky ! I love an' 
 like you so well, that I wouldn't harm a hair o' your horse's 
 mane, let alone one o' your own head, for the round world 
 stuffed full of gold!" 
 
 ** And why do you carry that pistol, then ?" still stammered 
 the poor Double, now a little soothed, however, by the honied 
 flattery of Cahill, and the repetitions of the splendid titles ad- 
 dressed to him. 
 
 "This? the bit of a pistol, my lord?" Cahill drew it from 
 his breast, where its butt had not been well hidden—" och, an' 
 is id me you fear, on the head o' this !— lookee here, plaise 
 your Majisty ■" 
 
 He discharged the weapon in the air, close by the horse's 
 ears, however ; the animal pranced and reared in a frenzy of 
 terror, and his rider, still sharing his feelings, could scarce keep 
 his saddle. 
 
 " An' see here, agin"— continued Cahill hurling the pistol 
 from him— an action lost to the confounded and dancing eyes 
 of the Double-—" and now, at laste, your Majisty 'ill please to 
 hear me !"--- he renewed his grasp on the horse's bridle, really 
 only meaning well---" you put the outlawry on an innocent 
 poor man, my Lord Lieutenant !— one that never riz a hand, 
 for bad, in the counthry! — oh, take it off o'me ! take it off o' 
 me! Let me go home from the hills and the woods, agin, to 
 sleep undher a christhen roof, an' to meet my fellow-cratures 
 widout bein' afeard o' them, an' to put my hand to the spade 
 or the plough, agin, that I may am the honest bit, and the 
 honest sup, an' that I may go to the house o' God, an' kneel 
 down, there, and put up my prayers for you an' yours, to the 
 last day I draw the breath o' life ! — ochown, take it off o' me, 
 an' may you reign long in glory, an' die happy ! — It's an inno- 
 cent boy that axes you, my Lord the Lieutenant — it's an inno- 
 cent poor boy ! — Say the word out o' your mouth, say the word, 
 an' do a good action ! say the word, an' " 
 
 " Well, well, well, man" — interrupted the Double, his fears 
 now only divided between the uncertainty whether he had to 
 do with a wild-Irish assassin, or a wild-Irish madman — " d — 
 don't you pull me about so, and we shall see — let go the bridle 
 and I will say the word — there— -stand aside, now, and you 
 may regard yourself as a free man." 
 
 " Hurrah!" screamed Cahill, jumping up a good height 
 from the ground, as he smote his breast in utter joy — " Peery 
 O'Dea, inside the fence there, do you hear that?" 
 
 " Hurrah ! an' it's I that do !" answered Peery, with another 
 shout, discovering himself. 
 
 " It's off o' me ! it's off o' me !" continued Cahill, hugging 
 his brother-in-law, — " isn't id, your honour-in-glory — isn't id?" 
 
110 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " It is, it is — to be sure it is™ have I not said so? I revoke 
 every thing-— only won't you and the other man move away 
 from my horse's head? So — good day to you both — all's 
 
 right — good day " and seeing the road at last clear before 
 
 him, the speaker gave spur and rein to his horse, and was out 
 of sight in a moment- —ay, and out of Ireland in some hours 
 after, from the nearest sea-port, cured, in a degree, of perform- 
 ing his absurd and miserable impostures in it. 
 
 " There you go, an' may honour an' glory be in your road, 
 afore you !"— -Cahill continued to shout. 
 
 " There you go, an' may you never know what it is to have 
 a heart as heavy as the hearts you're afther makin' happy, this 
 day !"— added Peery. 
 
 " Stand !" cried voices at their backs—" one of you is 
 Cahill, the outlaw." They turned, and saw half a dozen 
 police, who, with presented carbines, immediately surrounded 
 them. 
 
 " Bother, boys, wid your e stand f" — answered Ned— -" I'm 
 Cahill, sure enough, but no outlaw, this blessed day, thank 
 God, an' his honour the Lord Lieutenant ! Hurrah" ! —he jumped 
 again. 
 
 " Come, come— your arms"— -said the Serjeant of the party. 
 
 " Arms ? sorrow a one I have, barrin' the two God gave me; 
 
 — a little while ago, to tell thruth, I had a sort of an ould 
 
 pistol wid me — but I sint the bullet of id up into the air, an' 
 
 itself afther the bullet, to the divvle, entirely — an' it's my word I 
 
 give you, masther Peelers, honies, that, from this day, out" 
 
 " Search him" — interrupted the Serjeant. 
 * Here, then — sarch — sarch, sarch — oh, wid all my heart. 
 I tell you, boys, it's only givin' yourselves throuble for nothin' " 
 " Fall in with the men, then, and march for jail," resumed 
 the serjeant, when the useless search was ended. 
 
 " Jail? me march for jail? ye're mad to spake of id. It's 
 more than your lives are worth to use the words. Take great 
 care what ye're for doin.'" 
 
 " Come, fall in : — where are the handcuffs?" 
 ** Handcuffs?" as he heard them jingling — " have a' care o* 
 your behaviour to me, I tell you once agin !" ejaculated Cahill, 
 while he vainly resisted the strength used to manacle his hands 
 — " his own self took the ban off o' me, masther Peelers — his 
 own self, my Lord the Lieutenant, only a minute agone, an' on 
 this very blessed spot ! ay, ye may laugh at me ; bud I say he 
 did ! an' here's Peery O'Dea that's ready to say the same thing, 
 for he hard an' seen him ! didn't you, Peery, didn't you?" 
 
 Peery proved, indeed, a ready witness ; but still the police 
 sneered, until, after glancing down the road, in the direction of 
 Mr. Lowe's house, the serjeant said, " well, Cahill, now's the 
 
THE IRISH LORD LIEUTENANT AND HIS DOUBLE. Ill 
 
 time to get grace from us, if your words are true," — the man's 
 tone was still deriding — " here comes his Excellency." 
 
 " Which way?" demanded Cahill, glancing up and down the 
 road, in great astonishment — " Eh? the gentleman ridin' up 
 to us wid Mr. Lowe an' the officers ? stop — wait — stop — eh ? 
 by the powers o'man, an' it is sure enough, however the divvle 
 — or by the Lord's will— he got there ! Peery ! Peery, 
 avich!"— 
 
 " Shove aside, and clear the road," said the serjeant. The 
 police and their prisoners accordingly stood at the fence, the 
 men presenting arms. The Lord Lieutenant stopt before them, 
 and was about to ask what was the matter, when Cahill broke 
 forward, and falling almost prostrate, with his manacled hands, 
 prayed his Excellency to look on him, and remember him well, 
 and say whether or no he had not, a few moments before, par- 
 doned him his offences ; and at the same time he again shouted 
 out for Peery O'Dea to support his assertion. 
 
 " The man must be mad "—said the Lord Lieutenant, to Mr. 
 Lowe—" both of them must be so ; I have never seen either of 
 them, in my life before : and yet how apparently sincere is their 
 earnestness ; one of them weeps." 
 
 At the sound of his Excellency's voice, Cahill started up, 
 staring in misgiving and dismay on the face of the speaker ; and 
 again he called, in a whisper, to " Peery! Peery, avich .'" as 
 if for counsel. 
 
 " No, Ned, asthore" replied Peery, after making his own 
 observations, " tisn't himself is afore us — or— it is himself, I 
 mane — or else there's two o' them — or, it was the ould divvle 
 that came the road, first of all, to make you go thro' wid the 
 foolish thought o' your mind, an' get you taken agin !" 
 
 While the Lord Lieutenant still spoke in an under tone with 
 Mr. Lowe, the serjeant of the police advanced to recapture 
 Cahill. Peery O'Dea now sprang forward and continued, in a 
 loud, wailing voice — " But since they have you the second turn, 
 Ned, it's time for me to do what I said ! — Plaiseyour lordship, 
 Ned Cahill, my wife's brither, tho' he broke jail, is as innocent 
 as my own weenoch o' what sent him there ! — I am the man — I, 
 Peery O'Dea, — that headed the boys up to the house, for the 
 arms that night, — an' Ned wasn't wid us at all, only met me on 
 the road, after we got what we went for — an' forced my gun for 
 me, an' stood to be saized by the Peelers ! an' this is the holy 
 thruth, an' I'll get your honor plenty o' witnesses to say so : — 
 an' now, sure your Majisty 'ill just tell them to let him go, and 
 take me, in his place, an' " — 
 
 " Don't put thrust in a word the fool of a' boy is say in, glory 
 to your lordship," interrupted Cahill—" the head of him is 
 cracked, becase I'm poor Mary's brother, an' he's often not in 
 
112 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 his right mind ; 'twas in my hands the gun was found— -an' 'twas 
 I that broke jail — and, by coorse, it's I that ought to go to jail, 
 over agin ; an' so, mister serjeant— now, the Lord save us ! an' 
 what's this V 
 
 Mary O'Dea held him in her arms, sobbing and weeping 
 aloud. " To jail you'll never go, brother Ned, tnachree /" — 
 she cried—" never, never, praises to the gcod God, an' our 
 good Lord Lieutenant !"— << Avich, you poor cratur ; an' did 
 that desaitful divvle come across you, too, an' make you all 
 manner o' promises?" asked Cahill, returning her embraces. 
 " Your honor, my lord !" continued Mary, u spake the word 
 you promised me!"— 
 
 Addressing Mr. Lowe, his Excellency, touched and affected, 
 turned his horse's head — " Pray, Sir, explain to the poor 
 people." " Cahill," said Mr. Lowe, " your sister has saved 
 you ; at least confirmed the Lord Lieutenant's merciful dispo- 
 sitions towards you, previously formed out of other circum- 
 stances. She contrived to meet his Excellency, before my 
 house this morning, and, on condition that a considerable depot 
 of concealed arms — discovered by her, she has not said how," 
 (Cahill glanced from MarytoPeery) — should " be delivered up, 
 obtained your pardon. The tranquillity of the country for the 
 last year, a word in your favor, from your priest and others, and 
 indeed from myself, and a wish to show the deluded people that 
 they will be treated mercifuily, whenever they, themselves, afford 
 the opportunity — all this helped your sister's prayers. — Thank 
 his Excellency. You are a free man.—" 
 
 That Cahill did as he was bid it would be idle to enforce. 
 Neither is it necessary to describe the joy of the re-united family. 
 But, indeed, kind readers, — contradictory as the thing may 
 sound, — men made of mortal materials similar to those which 
 we believe you like in the brothers-in-law, Ned and Peery, often 
 plunder arms, in some Irish counties, nay, — (and, alas for the 
 admission !) use them fearfully, too. Let us hope and pray, how- 
 ever, that such an Irish Lord Lieutenant as we here have sketched 
 for you, acting under the wise instructions which shape his own 
 excellent feelings and inclinations, may soon gain possession of 
 all the hidden depots of distraction, accumulated by the 
 wretched people. 
 
 As for his Double — 
 
 " Peery, avich," said Cahill, after they and Mary had been 
 left alone on the road — " let us run hard, straight-a-head, an' 
 thry an' lay hould o' that brute-baste of a pretendher !" 
 
 Englishman's Magazine. 
 
A LITTLE TALK ABOUT SPRING, AND THE SWEEPS. 
 
 (original.) 
 
 " Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour : only once a year, if you please." 
 
 Young Ladv with Brass Ladle. 
 
 u Sweep — sweep— sue-e-ep." 
 
 Illegal Watchword. 
 
 The first of May ! There is a merry freshness in the sound, 
 calling to our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant 
 and beautiful in nature, in her sweetest and most delightful 
 form. What man is there, over whose mind a bright spring 
 morning does not exercise a magic influence ? carrying him 
 back to the days of his childish sports, and conjuring up before 
 him the old green field, with its gently-waving trees, where the 
 birds sang as he has never heard them since — where the butterfly 
 fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees him now in all his 
 ramblings — where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone 
 more brightly — where the air blew more freshly over greener, 
 grass, and sweeter smelling flowers — where every thing wore a 
 richer and more brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now I 
 Such are the deep feelings of childhood, and such are the im- 
 pressions which every lovely object stamps upon its heart. The 
 hardy traveller wanders through the maze of thick and pathless 
 woods, where the sun's rays never shone, and heaven's pure air 
 never played : he stands on the brink of the roaring waterfall, 
 and, giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it leaps 
 from stone to stone, and from crag to crag ; he lingers in the 
 fertile plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the 
 luxury of their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or 
 the thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous 
 nature ever spread, to charm the eyes and captivate the senses 
 of man, compared with the recollection of the old scenes of his 
 early youth — magic scenes indeed ; for the fairy thoughts of in- 
 fancy dressed them in colours brighter than the rainbow, and 
 almost as fleeting : colours which are the reflection only of the 
 sparkling sunbeams of childhood, and can never be called into 
 existence, in the dark and cloudy days of after-life ! 
 
 In former times, spring brought with it not only such asso- 
 ciations as these, connected with the past, but sports and games 
 for the present — merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with 
 emblems of the season, and reared in honour of its coming. 
 Where are they now ! Pillars we have, but they are no longer 
 rustic ones ; and as to dancers, they are used to rooms, and 
 
 K 
 
114 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 lights, and would not show well in the open air. Think of the 
 immorality, too ! What would your sabbath enthusiasts say, to 
 an aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York's column in 
 Carlton-terrace — a grand poussette of the middle classes, round 
 Alderman Waithman's monument in Fleet-street — or a general 
 hands-four-round of ten-pound householders, at the foot of the 
 Obelisk in St. George's-fields 1 Alas ! romance can make no 
 head against the riot act; and pastoral simplicity is not under- 
 stood by the police. 
 
 Well, many years ago, we began to get a steady and matter-of- 
 fact sort of people ; and dancing in spring, being beneath our 
 dignity, we gave it up, and in course of time it descended to 
 the sweeps — a fall certainly ; because, though sweeps are very 
 good fellows in their way, and moreover very useful in a ci- 
 vilized community, they are not exactly the sort of people to 
 give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps, 
 however, got the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up and 
 handed it down. This was a severe blow to the romance of 
 spring-time, but it did not entirely destroy it either ; for a por- 
 tion of it descended to the sweeps with the dancing, and ren- 
 dered them objects of great interest. A mystery hung over the 
 sweeps in those days. Legends were in existence of wealthy- 
 gentlemen who had lost children, and who, after many years of 
 sorrow and suffering, had found them in the character of sweeps. 
 Stories were related of a young gentleman, who having been 
 stolen from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the occu- 
 pation of chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his pro- 
 fessional career, to sweep the chimney of his mamma's bedroom ; 
 and how, being hot and tired when he came out of the chimney, he 
 got into the bed he had so often slept in, as an infant, and was 
 discovered and recognised therein by his mother, who once every 
 year of her life, thereafter, requested the pleasure of the com- 
 pany of every London sweep at half-past one o'clock, to roast 
 beef, plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence. 
 
 Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air 
 of mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of 
 those good effects, which animals derive from the doctrine of the 
 transmigration of souls. No one, except the masters, thought 
 of ill-treating a sweep, because no one knew who he might be, or 
 what nobleman's or gentleman's son he might turn out. Chim- 
 ney sweeping was, by many believers in the marvellous, consi- 
 dered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or later period 
 of which, divers young noblemen were to come into possession of 
 their rank and titles : and the profession was held by them in 
 great respect accordingly. We remember, in our young days, 
 a little sweep, about our own age, with curly hair and white 
 teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely believed to be the lost 
 
Page 114. 
 
SPRING AND THE SWEEPS. 115 
 
 son and heir of some illustrious personage — an impression which 
 was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our infant 
 mind, by the subject of our speculations informing us one day, 
 in reply to our question, propounded a few moments before his 
 ascent to the summit of the kitchen chimney, u that he believed 
 he'd been born in the vurkis, but he'd never know'd his father." 
 We felt certain, from that time forth, that he would one day be 
 owned by a lord at least ; and we never heard the church bells 
 ring, or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without think- 
 ing that the happy event had at last occurred, and that his long 
 lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to 
 Grosvenor Square. He never came, however; and, at the pre- 
 sent moment, the young gentleman in question is settled down as 
 a master sweep in the neighbourhood of Battle Bridge, his distin- 
 guishing characteristics being a decided antipathy to washing 
 himself, and the possession of a pair of legs very inadequate to 
 the support of his somewhat unwieldy and corpulent body. 
 
 Now the romance of spring having gone out before our time, 
 we were fain to console ourselves as we best could, with the un- 
 certainty that enveloped the birth and parentage of its attendant 
 dancers, the sweeps ; and we did console ourselves with it for 
 many years. But even this wretched source of comfort received 
 a shock, from which it has never recovered — a shock, which was 
 in reality its death-blow. We could not disguise from ourselves 
 the fact, that whole families of sweeps were regularly born of 
 sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers' Town and Camden Towi 
 — that the eldest son succeeded to the father's business, that the 
 other branches assisted him therein, and commenced on their own 
 account ; that their children again were educated to the profes- 
 sion ; and that about their identity there could be no mistake what- 
 ever. We could not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, 
 but we could not bring ourselves to admit it nevertheless, and 
 we lived on for some years in a state of voluntary ignorance. 
 We were roused from our pleasant slumber, by certain dark insi- 
 nuations thrown out by a friend of ours, to the effect that chil- 
 dren in the lower ranks of life, were beginning to choose chimney 
 sweeping as their particular walk, that applications had been 
 made by various boys to the constituted authorities to allow them 
 to pursue the object of their ambition, with the full concurrence 
 and sanction of the law ; that the affair, in short, was becoming 
 one of mere legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to these 
 rumours at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. 
 Month after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, 
 did we meet with accounts of similar applications. The veil was 
 removed, all mystery was at an end, chimney sweeping became 
 a favourite and chosen pursuit : there is no longer any occasion 
 to steal boys, for boys flock in crowds to bind themselves. 
 
 k2 
 
116 LIBRARY OF FICTION. . 
 
 The romance of the trade has fled, and the chimney sweeper of 
 the present day is no more like unto him of thirty years ago, than 
 is a Fleet Street pickpocket to a Spanish brigand, or Paul Pry 
 to Caleb Williams. 
 
 This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble 
 youths into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, 
 was a severe blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney 
 sweeping, and to the romance of spring at the same time; but 
 even this was not all ; for some few years ago, the dancing on 
 May-day began to decline ; small sweeps were observed to con- 
 gregate in twos or threes, unsupported by a " green/' with no 
 " My Lord" to act as master of the ceremonies, and no " My 
 Lady" to preside over the exchequer. Even in companies where 
 there was a green, it was an absolute nothing — a mere sprout; 
 and the instrumental accompaniments rarely extended beyond 
 the shovels and a set of Pan-pipes, better known to the many, 
 as a " mouth organ." Thesewere signs of the times, portentous 
 omens of a coming change : and what was the result which they 
 shadowed forth ? Why, the master sweeps, influenced by a rest- 
 less spirit of innovation, actually interposed their authority, 
 in opposition to the dancing, and substituted a dinner — an anni- 
 versary dinner at White Conduit House — where clean faces ap- 
 peared in lieu of black ones smeared with rose pink ; and knee 
 cords and tops, superseded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes. 
 Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses, and steady- 
 going people, who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this 
 alteration to the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was 
 described as beyond the reach of praise. But how stands the 
 real fact ? Let any man deny, if he can, that when the cloth had 
 been removed, fresh pots and pipes laid upon the table, and the 
 customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed, the celebrated Mr. 
 ShifTen, of Adam and Eve Court, whose authority not the most 
 malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed him- 
 self in manner following : " That now he'd cotcht the cheerman's 
 hi, he vished he might be jolly veil blessed, if he worn't a goin' to 
 have his innins, vich he voud say these here obserwashuns — that 
 how some mischeevus coves as know'd nuffin about the con-sarn, 
 had tried to sit people agin the mas'r swips, and take the shine out o' 
 their bis'nes, and the bread out o' the traps o' their preshus kids, by 
 a makin' o' this here remark, as chimblies could be as vel svept by 
 'cheenery asbyboys, and that the makin' use o' boys for that there 
 purpuss vos barbareous, vereas he'ad been a chummy — he begged 
 the cheerman's pard'n forusin' such a wulgar hexpression — more 
 nor thirty year, he might sayhe'd been born in a chimbley, and he 
 know'd uncommon vel as 'cheenry vos vus nor o' no use : and 
 as to ker-hewelty to the boys, every body in the chimbley line, 
 know'd as vel as he did, that they liked the climbin' better nor 
 
SPRING AND THE SWEEPS. 117 
 
 nutfin as vos." From this day, we date the total fall of the last 
 lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among the elite of the 
 profession : and from this period we commence a new era in that 
 portion of our spring associations, which relates to the 1st of May. 
 
 We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will 
 meet us here, with the assertion that dancing on May-day still 
 continues — that " greens " are annually seen to roll along the 
 streets — that sportive youths, in the garb of clowns, precede 
 them, giving vent to the ebullitions of their sportive fancies; 
 and that lords and ladies follow in their wake. Granted. We 
 are ready to acknowledge that in outward show these processions 
 have greatly improved : we do not deny the introduction of solos 
 on the drum : we will even go so far as to admit an occasional 
 fantasia on the triangle ; but here our admissions end. We 
 positively deny that the sweeps have act or part in these 
 proceedings. We distinctly charge the dustmen with throw- 
 ing what they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. 
 We accuse scavengers, brick-makers, and gentlemen who 
 devote their energies to the costermongering line, with ob- 
 taining money once a-year under false pretences. We cling 
 with peculiar fondness to the customs of days gone by, and 
 have shut out conviction as long as we could, but it has 
 forced itself upon us; and we now proclaim to a deluded public 
 that the May-day dancers are not sweeps. The size of them 
 alone is sufficient to repudiate the idea. It is a notorious fact 
 that the widely spread taste for register- stoves has materially 
 increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men, who 
 under a fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first 
 of May now-a-days, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to 
 say nothing of the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, 
 but we have positive proof— the evidence of our own senses, 
 and here is our testimony : — 
 
 Upon the morning of the second of this present month of 
 May, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went out 
 for a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something or 
 other which might induce us to believe that it was really spring, 
 and not Christmas ; and after wandering as far as Copenhagen- 
 House, without meeting any thing calculated to dispel our im- 
 pression that there was a mistake in the almanacks, we turned- 
 back down Maiden-lane, with the intention of passing through 
 the extensive colony lying between it and Battle-bridge, which is 
 inhabited by proprietors of donkey-carts, boilers of horse-flesh, 
 and sifters of cinders : and through this colony we should have 
 passed, without stoppage or interruption, if a little crowd ga- 
 thered round a shed had not attracted our attention, and in- 
 duced us to pause. When we say a "shed," we do not mean 
 the conservatory sort of building, which, according to the old 
 
118 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 song, Love tenanted when he was a young man ; but a wooden 
 house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a small 
 yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a few shovels, 
 and iittle heaps of cinders, and fragments of China and tiles, 
 scattered about it. Before this inviting spot we paused ; and 
 the longer we looked, the more we wondered what exciting cir- 
 cumstance it could be, that induced the foremost members of 
 the crowd to flatten their noses against the parlour window, iri 
 the vain hope of catching a glimpse of what was going on in- 
 side. After staring vacantly about us for some minutes, we ap- 
 pealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a gentleman in 
 a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right hand; 
 but as the only answer we obtained, was a playful inquiry whe- 
 ther our maternal parent had disposed of her mangle, we deter- 
 mined to await the issue in silence. Judge of our virtuous in- 
 dignation, when the street-door of the shed opened, and a party 
 emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and emulating the ap- 
 pearance of May-day sweeps ! 
 
 The first person who appeared was " my lord," habited in a 
 blue coat and bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the 
 seams, yellow knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes, a 
 cocked hat ornamented with shreds of various coloured paper on 
 his head, a bouquet about the size of a prize cauliflower in his 
 button-hole, a long Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and 
 a thin cane in his left. A murmur of applause ran through the 
 crowd (which was chiefly composed of his personal friends) 
 when this graceful figure made his appearance, which swelled 
 into a burst of applause as his fair partner in the dance bounded 
 forth to join him. Her ladyship was attired in pink crape over 
 bed-furniture, with a low body and short sleeves. The symmetry 
 of her ankles was partially concealed by a very perceptible pair 
 of frilled trousers ; and the inconvenience which might have re- 
 sulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few 
 sizes too large, was obviated by their being firmly attached to 
 her legs with strong sandals. 
 
 Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers, 
 and in her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive 
 what she figuratively denominated " the tin." The other cha- 
 racters were a young gentleman in girl's clothes and a widow's cap: 
 two clowns who walked upon their hands in the mud, to the 
 immeasurable delight of all the spectators, a man with a drum, 
 another man with a flageolet, a dirty woman in a large shawl, 
 with a box under her arm for the money, — and last, though not 
 least, the Green, animated by no less a personage than our iden- 
 tical friend in the tarpaulin suit. The man hammered away at 
 the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the shovels rattled, the Green 
 rolled about, pitching first on one side and then on the other, — 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 119 
 
 my lady threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her left foot 
 over her right ankle alternately ; and my lord ran a few paces 
 forward and butted at the Green, and then a few paces back- 
 ward upon the toes of the -crowd, and then went to the right, and 
 then to the left, and then dodged my lady round the Green, 
 and finally drew her arm through his, and called upon the boys 
 to shout, which they did lustily, — for this was the dancing. 
 
 We passed the same group accidentally in the evening. We 
 never saw a green so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (except in 
 the house of peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, 
 a lady so muddy, or a party so miserable. 
 
 How has May-day decayed ! thought we. How many merry 
 sports, such as dancing round the Maypole, have fallen into de- 
 suetude ! And, apparently trifling as their loss may appear, with 
 how many profligate and vicious customs have they been re- 
 placed ! How much of cheerfulness and simplicity of character 
 have they carried away with them ; and how much of degra- 
 dation and- discontent have they left behind ! 
 
 BOZ. 
 
 MONKWYND : A LEGENDARY FRAGMENT. 
 
 ——Bast. Your sword is bright, sir : put it up again. 
 Sal. Not till I sheath it iu a murderer's skin. 
 
 King John. 
 
 The soft sunlight streamed sadly through many a dim and gloomy 
 vista of Monkwynd Forest, towards the close of a sultry after- 
 noon, in the autumn of 1399. On every side, beyond the eye's 
 ken, stretched vast sylvan colonnades of amber-hued trees, here 
 and there interrupted by a gaunt and hoary oak, who seemed 
 struggling to maintain his patriarchal supremacy over his leafy 
 brethren — and irregular clumps of towering elms. Dimly through 
 the distance was occasionally seen the form of a solitary deer, 
 glancing swiftly among the trees, as if in search of his strayed 
 comrades. — Solemn and unbroken stillness reigned throughout 
 the gloomy depths of Monkwynd. Rich masses of broken sun- 
 light fell at intervals on the soft, glistening moss, which looked 
 as though it had never been crushed beneath the proud foot- 
 steps of man. — The sun was yet at a considerable height above 
 the vast outline of the Welsh mountains, which bounded the 
 horizon. 
 
 A slight gloom overcast the rich and tranquil scenery ; and 
 the aspect of the sky betokened the rapid approach of a thunder- 
 storm. The sun, with his regal train, presently disappeared 
 behind a dense phalanx of towering clouds, which seemed as 
 
120 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 though collecting from all parts, " the loud artillery of heaven." 
 A few moments ensued, of that intense and sultry stillness which 
 usually precedes a storm. Nature seemed to sink with fearful 
 apprehension of wliat might follow. At last, a few large drops 
 of rain were heard pattering slowly through the motionless 
 branches ; they were soon followed by an astounding peal of 
 thunder, which seemed to shake the whole forest, as its long and 
 deep reverberations died away among the distant groves. Several 
 awfully vivid sheets of lightning shed over the scenery a tran- 
 sient ghastly light; and in a few moments the rain poured down 
 in torrents. There was something freshening, in hearing its 
 ceaseless clatter among the hurtling leaves and branches, and 
 viewing it streaming on the emerald grass and moss beneath. 
 
 On a slightly elevated mound of grass, at some distance from 
 the surrounding trees, in the very heart of the forest, apparently 
 unconcerned amidst the torrents of rain, the reverberating 
 thunder-claps, and the livid, incessant flash of lightning — stood 
 the tall figure of a stranger. His arms folded on his breast, drew 
 tightly around him the folds of a long dark cloak ; it doubled 
 over his head in the shape of a hood, which, in the present instance, 
 was thrown rather aside. It was the monkish costume. His 
 pale, stern, and forbidding countenance, and restless vulture- 
 eye, conveyed to the spectator the idea that he contemplated a 
 monument of ruined ambition. He was gazing on the sky ; and 
 the fitful lightning shed over his features a most wild and un- 
 earthly expression. His lips were compressed sullenly together; 
 and his broad forehead, partially shaded with black hair, was 
 knotted with a gloomy air of intense thought and disquietude. 
 
 " Ay I" he exclaimed, in a deep tone, after witnessing a 
 terrific flash of lightning, " an' I envy not that cloud, may 
 Satan asshrive me this night ! — It hath cast forth from its dark 
 chambers a troublesome guest, and now flitteth on its journey 
 easily. — Holy St. Botolph! would / were able to cast forth 
 the lightning which scorcheth me secretly — ay, blighteth every 
 hour of my accursed life ! — And that thunder — why the earth 
 seemed to leap with horror at the hearing on't — yet it shaketh 
 not the soul o' him that standeth thereon ! — I weeten* that these 
 fresh rain-drops would cool my burning brow — but, alack ! they 
 roll off hot — hot ! — Marry ! that was a doughty feat, in sooth V 9 
 said he, as the lightning descended on a giant oak, and rent 
 it asunder with a loud* crash. " That same lightning hath taught 
 me a lesson. It careered over the sky till it had collected all 
 its might — and then it flung down at once the whole of its fiery 
 vengeance ; — and see how it hath blasted the proud old king o' 
 Monkwynd ! In like manner I have wandered from far, over 
 
 * In several parts of the ensuing narrative I Lave adopted the colloquial 
 phrases of the period at which our story commences. 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 121 
 
 lonesome hill and valley, and crossed the troublous seas — and 
 now will I do in like manner, by the mass !" As he spoke these 
 last words with subdued eager bitterness, he reached over his 
 hand to his left side, as though he felt for something beneath his 
 cloak. A wild smile past over his face. — " An't shall please thy 
 reverence," exclaimed a husky voice, " thou hadst better turn 
 within, and abide under cover, till the rain be overpast." The 
 voice issued from the door of a small cave, which conveniently 
 opened between the trunks of two trees, at about ten paces dis- 
 tance from the mound on which stood the moody stranger. The 
 speaker was a jolly obese little friar, with a smooth-shaven crown, 
 and vermilion-tinted nose. The stranger stalked slowly to the 
 cave, and stood leaning against one of the elm-trees. He glared 
 silently on the lightning, as it flashed incessantly afar off. 
 
 " Sancta Maria ! what a dreary even is this !" quoth Father 
 Gootle, fingering his dusky beads. " Yon lightning looketh 
 like fiery snakes i' the sky : an't please ye, sir serpents, I wot 
 ye would keep far from this our comfortable resting-place !-— 
 Dost thou dread the lightning, holy father V 
 
 " I prithee peace, sirrah : trouble me not with thy malapert 
 questions. Rather sit thee down within there, and go to sleep,"- 
 replied the monk sternly. 
 
 " If it please thy reverence, I have but aroused a little while 
 from my nap — and even then an unmannerly peal o' thunder 
 awoke me. But I can tell thee o' something that will comfort 
 thy soul : ay, in sooth, it will comfort thy soul." 
 
 u Out with it, then !" said the monk, looking negligently 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 " Body and soul be sworn brothers, — charissimi fratres, as 
 saith one of the fathers, if it please thy reverence to recollect. 
 Sith it so stand, it follows that they have all things in common. 
 When one is griped, and pinched, why so is the other, as it were. 
 Thy mind is now disquieted, after a certain sort ; and by close 
 examination thereof, according to the command of the Holy 
 Church, — but thou rememberest what Father Ambrose saith : 
 
 Sint pura cordis intima 
 Absistat et vecordia — 
 
 I found that it was not disquieted because of aught evil in itself, 
 (blessed be the mother of God !) but purely because the body 
 is wanting in due and fitting nourishment : the stomach — the 
 stomach— hem, hem." 
 
 " Out on thy drivelling ! What wouldst thou say to me ?" 
 " Marry, that I have an excellent mutton pasty within here, 
 which a certain pious damsel gave me this morning for absolution 
 for an unspeakable thing. Doubtless thou wilt fall to, and 
 partake thereof n 
 
122 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Thou fat old dotard !" exclaimed the monk, turning his back 
 on him, angrily. 
 
 " Nevertheless, / feel a certain craving after food, which must 
 be satisfied. Doubtless, when the savoury smell of my pasty 
 ascendeth to thy nostrils, thou wilt be of other mind than thou 
 art now, for thou hast travelled far to-day," replied the good 
 friar ; and drawing a small knife from his vest, which seemed 
 always ready on such occasions, he cut out a large piece, which he 
 immed'ately began to eat, with great zest, and in silence. For 
 some moments the monk stood gazing on the storm, which yet 
 raged with unabated violence : but at last, it seemed that the 
 prediction of his companion was verified, for he turned slowly 
 round and seated himself within the cavern. 
 
 " An' thou likest, thou mayest portion me out a morsel, for I 
 wax something faint with travelling, and a long fast. I have 
 that to do which doth not admit of weakness — else I had vowed 
 
 not to eat, till"' he broke off suddenly, and a gloomy pause 
 
 ensued. 
 
 " Surely the damsel from whose fair hands did come this 
 pasty, is blessed with excellent skill in the fashioning of pasties," 
 said the friar, handing a slice to the monk, who ate a few 
 mouthfuls in silence. At length he flung down the remainder, 
 with violence. 
 
 " Sancta Maria ! doth it not suit thy palate ? Is it seasoned 
 too highly?" inquired the astonished friar. " Thou couldst 
 not have done more, an* it had been poisoned, — which our 
 blessed lady forbid, for I have eaten a reasonable quantity 1" 
 he continued, passing his hands over his protuberant paunch, 
 and looking rather alarmed. The monk, evidently striving to con- 
 ceal from his companion his great perturbation, stammered con- 
 fusedly, as a reason for his strange conduct, 
 " Carnis terat superbia 
 Potus cibique parcitas. 
 
 " Dost not thou know what that meaneth, thou that art gorging 
 like a hog beneath an oak-tree ? — I will taste no more o' thy 
 vile dainties." 
 
 He seemed fearfully agitated. He quivered from head to 
 foot : and glared so wildly around him that the friar, terrified 
 by his vehemence, and apprehending that a long fast had some- 
 what deranged him, pulled out a small flask of wine, and offered 
 it to him : he drained it off at a draught. 
 
 " Was that blood thou gavest me V* inquired the monk, in 
 a hollow tone, fixing an appalling stare on the affrighted friar. 
 
 " Blood ?— blood ?— Holy St. Becket !— Why should I give 
 thee blood ? — Thou ravest! — Thou art certainly ill ! — Look at 
 this holy wood, Father, and be blessed !" — and he held before 
 him a small crucifix. 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 123 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the monk, with a long shuddering gasp 
 gazing on the crucifix with a bursting eye. He suddenly- 
 snatched it from the trembling grasp of the friar, and dashed it 
 into fragments upon the stone floor. 
 
 " Sancta— Sanctissima Maria ! Henceforth a curse clingeth 
 to thee for ever !" screamed the astonished friar, as the monk 
 darted from the cavern, and staggered to the mound where he 
 had previously stood. He shook himself violently, as though 
 he had been flinging off the coils of a serpent, pressed his hands 
 to his forehead, and gazed upwards with an eye quivering with 
 agony and despair. He turned round with sudden calmness. 
 He seemed with a gigantic effort, to have allayed his terrible 
 excitement. He walked slowly to the cave, at the entrance of 
 which stood the pale and agitated friar, rapidly counting his 
 beads. 
 
 "Go thou within, Father Gootle; I have somewhat for thy 
 ear/' 
 
 " How shall I sit near one who hath broken and despised the 
 blessed cross ?" inquired the trembling friar. A lock from the 
 monk silenced his scruples, and he obeyed. The monk seated 
 himself opposite to him. 
 
 " Dost thou remember," he resumed, solemnly, laying his 
 cold hands on those of the friar—" dost thou remember San 
 Marco ?" 
 
 The shuddering friar made no reply. 
 
 *' I see thou dost," continued the monk, gloomily ; " but 
 why art thou so startled ? Dost thou remember in the inner 
 court of the Abbey, in the still of the evening, what words they 
 were which I spoke to thee ?— What I said about England — 
 about Cheshire V 
 
 " Holy Father, I pray thee, take off from me thy burning eye! 
 Thy fiendish stare hath maddened me. Help ; I faint !" 
 
 " Weak fool !" exclaimed the monk, as he supported him till 
 he recovered. 
 
 '.' Father Gootle— -I ask thee, dost thou remember the word 
 which I whispered in thine ear, when the bell rung to vespers V 
 
 " I do ! — I do !" replied the friar, gasping with terror. 
 
 " That word hath brought me from Italy to England, although 
 thou thoughtest I was intrusted on an errand of state to Cardinal 
 Superbe. That word hath been my support amidst troubles and 
 sorrows unutterable. That word hath been to me for breath and 
 for food. That word hath made me to laugh at the grave." 
 
 u And that word will be thy passport to hell!" replied the friar, 
 vehemently. 
 
 " Hell r ejaculated the monk, with a bitter smile. " Now, 
 Father, do thou mark me, and mind me. I go to do a deed, 
 which neither thou, nor any other man must see. Stay thou 
 
124 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 within this cavern till I return— or thy blood be on thine own 
 head. An' thou stirrest beyond these two trees till I return — by 
 the cross which I brake, but this is thy grave !" said the monk, 
 in a voice of thunder. 
 
 The friar fell on his knees, and clasped his hands in speechless 
 agony. 
 
 " What meanest thou ? — What wouldst thou?'' inquired the 
 monk sternly. 
 
 " By thy hopes of heaven, do not this dark and bloody deed!" 
 
 "Thou mayst cease thine entreaties, Father. Can the stamp 
 of a foot crumble yon mountains into dust? — Then may thine 
 entreaties melt the rock of my resolution. I tell thee I shall 
 have my revenge, an' there be truth in heaven or in hell — 
 Once again I warn thee — if thou leavest till I return, I will slay 
 thy body, and curse thy soul for ever, an' it were in my power, ? 
 
 With these words he left the cave, and Father Gootle more 
 dead than alive. He strode rapidly to the mound he had pre- 
 viously occupied. The armies of the storm had furled their 
 flags, and left the sky to the brief, but serene dominion of the 
 setting sun. Purple-tinged clouds floated around him in dim 
 pomp and shadowy magnificence. The freshly-laved trees 
 glowed in his soft lustre ; and the winds swept through their 
 foliage, as though they chanted the faint and mournful requiem 
 of the departing clay. The scene was delightfully tranquil ; but 
 not so he whose eye dilated upon it with sullen indifference. 
 
 The monk frequently cast his eye towards a grove of silvery 
 sycamores, round which wound a circuitous pathway leading to 
 Wrexham, — as though anxiously waiting the approach of an 
 expected passenger. He often muttered to himself — " When 
 will he come? — What an', after all, I am misled? — But, lo! 
 there he cometh ! ay, he cometh ! — Why doth my blood stand 
 still, and why mine eyes grow dim ? What meaneth this 
 sickness ? this deadly faintness at the heart ? — Hold ! an' it fail 
 me now — so shall my life I" 
 
 He drew his cowl over his face, and began to walk around, in 
 a thoughtful mood, so that he might be speedily overtaken by 
 the horseman who followed. It was an elderly man who rode 
 on a large white horse. He was dressed in a long buff tunic, 
 somewhat the worse for wear, with a broad leather band buckled 
 round his waist, — and had on a coarse thrum bonnet. <^ovet- 
 ousness and rapacity seemed to twinkle in his keen,- deep-set 
 gray eyes, and to be stamped upon every feature of his counte- 
 nance; and a dirty grayish, straggling beard attached to his 
 peaked chin, gave a perfect idea of a miser. He rode at a 
 leisurely pace, and soon overtook the monk, who walked on with 
 his chin inclined on his hand, in a posture of deep thought- 
 fulness. 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 125 
 
 "The blessing of St. Botolph be with thee, good stranger: 
 hast thou alms for one of the holy church's poor servants'?" 
 inquired the monk, in a stifled voice. 
 
 " Good even to thee, holy priest : but syn thou askest alms, 
 let me tell thee, I have not sufficient for mine own wants." 
 
 " An' it were never so little, give it, I prithee : wottest thou 
 not of the widow's mite ? " 
 
 " I tell thee," replied the stranger, peevishly, " I have scarce 
 sufficient for mine own wants ; and how, then, can I minister to 
 thine?" 
 
 " How sayest thou so? Report babbleth that thou hast an 
 indifferent good estate, adjoining — is it not so ? Davie o J Monk- 
 wynd passeth for richer than any within many a rood, an' I am 
 not misled." 
 
 " Then report is a liar — an' thou wilt have plain words. Even 
 suppose I had some trifling property in tenements, and so forth 
 ■ — thinkest thou I am not sufficiently burthened with young King 
 Richard's extortion ! — Every month that cometh, is saddled with 
 some new exorbitant tax. Marry, I tell thee, I am poor." 
 
 " An' it were never so small a trifle," continued the monk, 
 imploringly. 
 
 " Thou shouldst not, because thou couldst not have it ! " re- 
 plied David, angrily, at the same time quickening the pace of his 
 horse. But the monk still kept close to his side. 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, thou importunate beggar! Thou dost 
 disgrace thy cloth !" said Davie, impatiently : had he seen the 
 withering scowl with which the monk regarded him, he would 
 have set off at full gallop ; as it was, he urged his horse to 
 brisker speed than before : but the monk, with his long and 
 rapid strides, still kept even with him, and, seeing Davie inclined 
 to set off at a gallop, he laid his hand on the bridle. 
 
 " Why — what meanest thou ? — By'r lady, wouldst thou rob 
 me ! — Dost know that the greater half of this forest is owned by 
 me ?" said Davie, with great trepidation. 
 
 " An' that be so, how canst thou be so poor as to be unable 
 to give me a mark or two ? — I pray thee give me alms, in the 
 name of the blessed Virgin ! " 
 
 " I will see thee hanged first, priest as thou art!" vociferated 
 Davie, losing all patience. 
 
 " Then, mark me ! " said the monk, in a slow and solemn 
 voice, " I will give thee a gift!" 
 
 " Ay, i'fait? — ay?" inquired Davie, eagerly ; "Money or 
 goods ? Money or goods ? — Stay — perchance thou meanest thy 
 blessing? If so, keep it to thyself: a monkish blessing I value 
 not half a sterling." 
 
 " Davie, wouldst thou know what my gift meaneth?" asked 
 the monk, impressively : " It is this ! Gaze till thine eyes be 
 
126 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 blighted ! " and he drew from beneath his cloak a keen, long, 
 and glittering knife, spotted with blood. 
 
 " Holy Mary! Dost thou mean to murder an old man?" 
 stammered Davie, while he strove, but ineffectually, to urge his 
 horse to a more rapid pace. 
 
 " Murder thee? — St. Dunstan forbid! — Dost thou think a 
 monk a murderer ? — Take thou this blade, and examine it well. 
 I warrant thee thou shalt by and by discover in it something 
 strange and wondrous," replied the monk, as he extended the 
 knife to his companion. 
 
 " By the bones o' Saint Becket, I will not touch it ! Thou 
 art a fiend, and no man," replied Davie. 
 
 " Take it," or rue it!" thundered the monk. Davie took it 
 with a trembling hand. " And what am I to do with it?" he 
 inquired, faintly. 
 
 " Mark it well, and give it me again." 
 
 Davie viewed it with a dim and sickening eye, and returned 
 it in silence to his companion, who clutched it with fierce eager- 
 ness, and replaced it beneath his cloak. 
 
 " Dost thou remember it, Davie? — Dost thou remember it?" 
 
 u No!" replied Davie, casting a wild and fearful glance on 
 his companion, who drew his cowl closer over his face. A long 
 pause ensued. 
 
 " And so thou art poor, art thou ? " inquired the monk, with 
 feigned calmness. 
 
 •' Thou speakest truly, reverend father." 
 
 " How long hast thou lived in these parts?" 
 
 " I have dwelt here syn my youth," replied Davie, with trem- 
 bling submissiveness. 
 
 " Hadst thou ever a brother V inquired the monk, abruptly, 
 in a voice which thrilled to the very marrow of his shuddering 
 auditor. 
 
 u Ay I" he replied, at the same time grasping the pommel of 
 his saddle, as if he with difficulty preserved his seat. 
 
 " Why dost thou tremble, and turn so white in thy face, 
 Davie?" inquired the monk, with a fierce smile. 
 
 " A passing fit of sickness, such as I often have. — Would that 
 Gideon Drench, the leech, were here : I lack his assistance. I 
 pray thy reverence to remember, that I am a weak and year- 
 stricken man." 
 
 " Doubtless it is so ; but — thy brother ? " continued the monk, 
 with cold*solemnity ; " is he alive now ?" 
 
 Davie was silent. 
 
 " I ask thee, Davie — is thy brother alive?" repeated the monk. 
 
 " With great grief of heart, I must tell thee, he is dead. 
 God's peace be with his soul !" stammered Davie, as if his words 
 choked him. 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 127 
 
 " When did he die, Davie?" 
 
 " It is now a matter of ten years, so please thy reverence." 
 
 " I prithee, did he die at home — in his father's house V 
 
 " Alack, no ! He died at Wat Tyler's rebellion. He was slain 
 "by a knight, in Smithfield. I grieve to say he was a traitor." 
 
 A long pause ensued, which neither seemed inclined to break. 
 
 u Where didst thou say he died?" inquired the monk, abruptly. 
 
 " Peace be with him ! He followed the Duke o' Hereford to 
 Lithuania, and was left dead on the field of battle. I had like 
 to have gone beside myself with sorrow for him — for I was the 
 only one of the family that loved him." 
 
 " I thought thou saidst he was a rebel, and died in Wat 
 Tyler's insurrection — in Smithfield?" said the monk, slowly 
 fixing a keen and startling glance on Davie, who made no other 
 reply, than by gasping, " Heaven pity me — I grow distracted I" 
 
 " Hadst thou other brothers than lie, Davie?" 
 
 " No, he was the elder, and only one." 
 
 The monk drew his cowl closer over his face, and said, in a 
 voice which seemed to rise from the depths of the grave, — 
 " Davie, thou didst murder thy brother ! " 
 
 The reins fell from Davie's hands, and he fixed on the shrouded 
 face of his companion a cold, unmeaning stare, while the monk 
 continued, in the same sepulchral tone — 
 
 " Davie, dost thou remember the Elder Tower? — Dost thou 
 remember who sate in it at midnight, when stillness was upon 
 the earth ? — Dost thou remember that thy brother received from 
 thine hands a cup of sack — drank it, — and presently fell asleep? 
 — Dost thou remember that thou didst take from thy tunic — a 
 knife ? — Dost thou remember baring the cloak from thy brother's 
 bosom ? — Dost thou remember the hot blood that gushed over 
 thy clasped hands? — Dost thou remember the hooting of an 
 owl, who settled opposite to thee, on a hazel-tree, and sang thee 
 a death-song on thy deed ? — Dost thou remember that the broad 
 eye of the moon wellnigh froze thee into stone, as thou lookedst 
 on it? — Dost thou remember hearing a wild shriek — that a 
 maiden started from the bower, where she had been sleeping, 
 close by, and was awoke by the owl, — that thou wast following 
 her, with thy red knife in thine hand, when thy feet failed thee, 
 on the ground slippery with blood ?— Ha ! dost thou remember 
 that ghastly night? — Thou didst not see the blue hell-fire which 
 flickered around the shrubs and bushes by thee ! Davie !— I 
 tell thee thy soul is dyed with blood ! — Blood — blood — blood 
 cryeth out against thee for vengeance !— It was licked up by 
 the thirsty earth, into its dark womb, where it is preserved until 
 now! — Cain!— dost thou hear the curse which is denounced 
 upon thee?" inquired the monk, through his closed teeth. 
 
 During the whole of this heart-freezing recapitulation, Davie 
 
128 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 had gazed fixedly on the gloomy speaker, with a lack-lustre eye, 
 and his features bedewed with a clammy sweat. His horse had 
 for some time ceased to move, — as if the withering words of the 
 monk had operated as a spell on the horse as well as the rider. 
 At length the monk shook him from his lethargy. 
 
 " Davie !— dost thou hear thine accuser ?" 
 
 " Oh, thou fiend—thou fiend! why dost thou fright me?" 
 gasped Davie, striving to trace the figure of the cross. 
 
 u Away home, Davie ! — / will meet thee again /—See thou 
 be prepared for my coming ! " 
 
 More dead than alive, Davie urged his horse gently forwards. 
 The monk watched him till the winding pathway had hid him 
 from his view, and then darted through the trees, where he 
 was heard rapidly urging his way among the crashing and creak- 
 ing bushes, as he pushed them on each side. 
 
 Davie rode along for some time, at a very slow and mournful 
 pace ; but a sudden recollection of the last words of the terrible 
 stranger— the fearful mystery in which he was shrouded — and 
 the dreariness of his own situation — altogether, so awed his 
 imagination, and overcame his feelings, that, with sudden and 
 desperate vehemence he struck his horse, till it bore him along 
 at a rapid rate. He soon reached the borders of the forest, and 
 rode up towards a pair of dim and lofty gates, on each side of 
 which was placed a rudely-sculptured boar, scowling with great 
 fierceness. He dismounted, and fastened his horse to the gate, 
 with a trembling hand. With hurried, unsteady steps, he passed 
 through the courtyard, which was growing gloomy with the 
 shadows of evening. He approached a large, irregularly-built 
 mansion, heavy with cumbrous, dingy-hued timber-works; — and 
 each angle was garnished with a small square turret ; but for 
 what earthly use is beyond conjecture. The door was beneath 
 a ponderous stone porch. He raised his hand to the latch ; but 
 he could not move it. Again and again he shook the door, 
 with what little strength he had left— but he heard only its faint 
 echoes through the silent chambers. He called out faintly, 
 " JeanetV but received no answer. As he turned round to 
 examine the ground-casement, his startled eye caught a glance 
 of a tall dim figure, gliding swiftly and noiselessly by the gates 
 through which he had entered; and his ear caught the low 
 querulous neighing of his horse, — as though it had been startled 
 or disturbed by the being, whoever it was, that passed. 
 
 Once more he shook the oaken door, but in vain. He leaned 
 disconsolately against the porch, and groaned. He was gazing 
 on the door — when he saw it move : he pushed it, and it fell 
 back. After a moment's pause of apprehension, he crossed the 
 threshold. Had he possessed sufficient recollection and pre- 
 sence of mind, he might have been surprised and alarmed at 
 
Page 129. 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 129 
 
 the sudden opening of the door — but it escaped his notice. As 
 he paced the dim passage, his heart leaped within him at the 
 echo of every foot-fall. He was surprised at the unusual, the 
 dreary, the ominous silence which pervaded the house. Sicken- 
 ing with a vague apprehension of horror, he ascended the oaken 
 stairs which led to his sleeping-chamber. He opened the door. 
 The last lingering sunlight, which shed a melancholy gleam 
 around, revealed to him the figure of his wife, stretched in blood 
 on the floor, which had issued from a wound in her breast, where 
 the fatal instrument yet remained. He seemed petrified, as his 
 reeling eyes encountered the staring eyeballs of his murdered 
 wife. While he gazed in silence on the frightful spectacle, he 
 heard a wild unmeaning laugh behind him : he turned round 
 with tottering steps, and beheld the Monk. 
 
 " Ha, Davie ! — Art thou at thy trade of blood again?" he in- 
 quired, with bitter derision. 
 
 Davie's limbs refused him any longer support; and he fell 
 down by the side of his wife, his eye still rivetted on the fiendish 
 figure of the monk. 
 
 The monk drew back his sleeves from his hands, and knelt 
 down deliberately by his side. He slowly drew out the long 
 knife, which stood in the gashed bosom of the wife. 
 
 " Dost thou remember, I said I would meet thee again? Art 
 thou prepared ? " 
 
 He wiped the wet blade upon his sleeve, and, with terrible 
 calmness, unbuckled Davie's tunic. He laid his hand upon 
 Davie's heart. 
 
 " Thou art still warm with life, Davie : it is warm !" he con- 
 tinued, and it seemed as though a pang of momentary remorse 
 thrilled through his black heart ; for he folded his arms on his 
 breast, and gazed anxiously on the haggard countenance of his 
 unresisting victim. 
 
 "Davie ! dost thou remember me ?" asked the monk, fling- 
 ing wide his hood. 
 
 " My Brother!" gasped the dying wretch. 
 
 The words had scarcely quivered from his lips, when the monk 
 uplifted his knife, and plunged it thrice into his bosom, yelling 
 " Die, accursed ! Die, die, die !" 
 
 "It is done!" groaned the monk; "now for Italy." He 
 sprang from the scene of fratricidal horror, and hurried through 
 the courtyard. 
 
 Soon after the monk had left the cavern in Monkwynd forest, 
 Father Gootle contrived to rouse his sinking spirits, by an ap- 
 peal to a sure and often-tried friend, /. e., a flask of Gascon 
 wine, which he had concealed in a dark corner by way of 
 dernier rcssort. Never had a similar application been so in- 
 stantaneously successful. It infused new life and vigour into 
 
 L 
 
130 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 his system, and recruited his mental energies. He commenced 
 a soliloquy. 
 
 "An' it please Heaven, this deed of blood shall either be 
 prevented, or visited with due punishment. It will be a deed of 
 excellent service to the church. But wiiat an' I should perish, 
 in working this good ? Could the holy mother church afford to 
 lose me ? Truly, I fear not. Marry, this is my consolation, 
 Sanguis martyrum semen ecclesice, as one saith. My singular 
 eloquence hath often, in times past, edified the church ; and I 
 have done many other excellent things, which it becometh not 
 me to name. And, — supposing I should die, at a sudden push, 
 in defence of the church's purity— hem, hem," chuckled the 
 friar,—" methinks it would sound indifferent well in after ages, 
 for folks to beseech the intercession of Blessed St. Gootle ! — 
 But I must be doing : ay, i'faith ; and what shall I do V Here 
 a short pause ensued. " I will hie me to Wrexham (which lieth 
 at little more than half a mile's distance), to Irongripe, the 
 bailiff, and bring him, with some few other stout fellows, to 
 Davie's house : and our Lady grant I may be in time to prevent 
 the shedding of blood ! " 
 
 It is true, the fierce threats of the monk came to his remem- 
 brance ; but then he easily consoled and fortified himself with 
 mentioning the words, " Blessed St. Gootle." So away went 
 the good father, as fast as his limbs could carry him, puffing all 
 the way to Wrexham. He was successful. Irongripe, a very 
 valiant and noted thief-taker, instantly accompanied him, with 
 three other bloodhound followers. They met the monk riding 
 rapidly along on the horse of Davie. 
 
 " See— see the blood on his cloak ! Look, stout Irongripe !" 
 
 The monk heard the voice of the friar, and looked up : for he 
 was riding along moodily, with his eyes bent towards the ground. 
 He saw Father Gootle, who had considerably preceded Irongripe 
 and his party. He sprang from his horse, exclaiming, 
 
 " Thou here, caitiff?— Die I" 
 
 Before he had seized the trembling friar, the monk was locked 
 in the strong arms of the bailiff and his constables. 
 
 "Die! thou caitiff friar! Die, caitiff!" thundered the 
 monk, his eye still singling out Father Gootle — at the same 
 time that he struggled to burst from those who held him. 
 
 " Haste thee ! Haste thee, holy father ! Mount that horse, and 
 ride off for thy life!" roared out one of the men. Fear lent 
 agility to the exhausted friar : he managed to clamber, with 
 some little difficulty, into the saddle, and was out of sight pre- 
 sently. 
 
 The infuriated monk struggled like a giant, with his resolute 
 and powerful assailants. Twice he burst from their united grasp, 
 and flung Irongripe and his head constable on the ground with 
 
monkwynd: a legendary fragment. 131 
 
 stunning violence. But his opponents, beside being familiar 
 with such encounters, were well- trained wrestlers, and rose un- 
 hurt from every fall. 
 
 "Unhand me, knaves ! — Bloodthirsty villains, away!" 
 roared the monk, as he hurled them off on all sides. He per- 
 ceived, however, that his strength began to fail, while that of his 
 assailants seemed wholly exhausted. His eye glared furiously' 
 around him ; in the darkness he had discovered his revenge. 
 
 « The cliff! the cliff! — He drags us to the cliff's edge ! Hold 
 away, or we are lost ! " shouted the constables. The powerful 
 monk swayed his devoted foes nearer and nearer to the fatal 
 verge. Around three he wreathed his giant arms : he had de- 
 voted them to destruction. 
 
 "Help, as ye are men!— Help!" roared Irongripe, as a 
 body of horsemen appeared, bearing torches, headed by the 
 indefatigable friar. Again, trusting to their instant arrival, he 
 rushed to the rescue of his companions. But the monk also 
 had seen the approaching reinforcement ; and, with a last tre- 
 mendous effort, whirled himself and his four assailants from the 
 edge of the precipice. Close clasped together in the embrace of 
 death, they fell, crashing from crag to crag, into the river be- 
 neath. 
 
 When the horsemen, with their waving torches, galloped to 
 the scene of this terrible castastrophe, it was overspread with 
 the pall of silence and darkness. 
 
 Ever after this terrible transaction, superstition hung her por- 
 tentous ensign over the ancient forest of Monkwynd and the 
 house of the murdered Davie. The peasant who dared to linger 
 within its dreary precincts an hour after sunset, was esteemed 
 unusually stout-hearted. But, as for Davie's mansion, if report 
 may be credited, none ever had the temerity to enter its blood- 
 stained walls, which were suffered, year after year, to crumble 
 in solitary gloom and desolation. Many legends of the spectre 
 monk (first promulgated, perhaps, by Father Gootle) were cur- 
 rent in the neighbourhood. Nay, one very valiant fellow went 
 so far as to say that he had several times seen, in the gloom of 
 evening, a tall, gaunt, dim shape, sitting upon the edge of Monk- 
 wynd Cliff (as it was called), which then sunk down out of 
 sight: which circumstance, as he very sagaciously predicted, 
 evidenced that his soul was doomed to suffer penance there, for 
 nobody knows how many centuries. 
 
 As for Father Gootle, I have never been able to meet with 
 any information respecting his history ; and, as one never hears, 
 in the Cornish calendar, of the name " Blessed St. Gooile," we 
 may fairly infer that he was never thought worthy of canoniza- 
 tion. 
 
 Q. Q. Q. 
 l 2 
 
DESTINY. 
 
 The manner in which I have been thrice rescued from impend- 
 ing death, is almost sufficient of itself to induce me to believe 
 in what is generally called " Destiny;" — a word, the meaning 
 of which is easier to be comprehended than explained. Certain 
 impressions which I received in boyhood, concerning fate, 
 omens, second-sight, ghosts, witches, and fairies, have tended to 
 strengthen this belief, and to convince me that the destinies of 
 particular persons are often connected in a manner that is never 
 dreamt of in our modern philosophy, which can tell to the six- 
 teenth part of an inch how high a man, with a moderate effort, 
 may jump at the surface of the moon, but which is lost in a 
 maze when it attempts to explain, upon pretended rational prin- 
 ciples, why a person should fancy that he saw the " eidolon," or 
 " wraith," of an absent friend, but a few minutes before the latter 
 yielded his breath in a far distant land. Why shrouds should 
 be only seen in candles, or deathwatches be only heard a 
 short time preceding the decease of some friend or relative of 
 the observer, has never been satisfactorily explained on philo- 
 sophical grounds ; and it is much easier to trace the eccentric 
 orbit of a comet than to account for the wanderings of the mind 
 — or rather soul — when the body is in a state of repose. 
 
 I cannot say that I have ever seen any wraiths or ghosts 
 myself; but I have known several persons of unquestionable 
 veracity who have. My old nurse, who occasionally acted as a 
 country " howdy," or midwife, had seen as many wraiths 
 and ghosts as there were persons in the • parish where she 
 lived ; but then she partly owed this extraordinary faculty to 
 the circumstances of her birth ; for her father was a parish 
 clerk and sexton, and she was born at midnight on Christmas- 
 eve, a. d. 1732. My old and highly-esteemed friend, Lieutenant 
 Bowden, who served under Rodney in the first American war, 
 had twice seen and been within hail of the" Flying Dutchman," 
 that is doomed to beat up off the Cape of Good Hope till the day 
 of judgment; and a frigate to which he belonged was for many 
 years haunted by the ghost of a boatswain who had died of the 
 fever at Port-Royal, without making a discovery of some dou- 
 bloons which he had hidden in the forecastle. This ghost, which 
 Lieutenant Bowden had often heard, and once spoken to, was 
 most particularly annoying when the ship was at anchor in a 
 tideway, more especially towards high and low water, at which 
 
DESTINY. 133 
 
 time marine ghosts have generally most power ; sometimes 
 clanking the gangway ladders, making the ship's timbers creak 
 as if she was about to go to pieces ; or kicking up a racket in 
 the cable-tier, occasionally crying out in a peculiarly " gousty" 
 voice, well befitting the ghost of a deceased Boatswain, " I can- 
 not find my Spanish doubloons !" When the ship was docked, 
 about six years after the boatswain's death, his hoard of sixty 
 pieces of gold was discovered between the timbers, wrapped up 
 in the leg of an old stocking, and from that time the ghost was 
 never seen nor heard again. My own maternal uncle, Captain 
 Joseph Hunter, who made his fortune in the Guinea- trade, — as 
 honest, and, I may say, as truly humane a man as you will meet 
 with at a charity dinner or a ranter's tea-drinking, — my brave 
 and worthy uncle, who feared not the face of man, and who set 
 the devil at defiance, was sometimes alarmed at the appearance 
 of the unsubstantial ghosts of black slaves who had died on the 
 middle passage. On one occasion, which I have often heard 
 him refer to, when they had a long passage between the coast 
 of Guinea and the Spanish main, about eighty slaves died out of 
 a cargo of two hundred ; and although a heavy weight was at- 
 tached to the feet of each corpse before it was committed to the 
 deep, yet they would frequently rise breast high out of the sea, 
 and with horribly distorted visages seem to threaten destruction 
 to the vessel and her crew. When the ship was becalmed for 
 about ten days, my uncle would frequently see a black ghost 
 start up from the sea under the ship's quarter, and which, 
 after glaring at him with a most terrific expression of counte- 
 nance, would clasp its hands above its head, and sink slowly 
 down. One evening, when he was sitting alone in the cabin 
 examining a chart, he thought he heard something move be- 
 hind him ; and on turning his head round to see what might 
 bis the cause, his eyes encountered those of a gigantic black 
 slave — who had died and been thrown overboard the week be- 
 fore — glaring over his shoulder, and about a dozen other black 
 ghosts were grinning and moaning at the cabin windows. He 
 instinctively grasped one of the pistols which he always wore in 
 his belt, but before he had time to cock it and pull the trigger, 
 the ghost of big Sambo vanished through the cabin window 
 without breaking a pane of glass, and his companions outside 
 disappeared at the same moment. But I find — not being accus- 
 tomed to authorship — that I am forgetting the story which I in- 
 tended to tell, which is about my own three escapes: some 
 account of the life of my late worthy uncle, Captain Joseph 
 Hunter — whose meerschaum, his dying bequest, I am smoking 
 as I write — I may perhaps give at some future day. 
 
 When a boy, I was sent to a school about thirty miles from 
 home, kept by a clergyman, a friend of my father's, who eked 
 
134 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 out the income afforded by a poor curacy by teaching a 
 few pupils. The school was situated in a pleasant village in 
 one of the northern counties; and there was an excellent 
 trout-stream about a mile distant, which we boys used fre- 
 quently to visit, as well for the purpose of angling as for bathing. 
 When about the age of fourteen, I went to this stream one 
 fine afternoon with several of my schoolfellows, in order to enjoy 
 the pleasure of a bathe. The place which we were accustomed 
 to select on such occasions, was a retired part of the narrow vale 
 through which the burn flowed, and where the winter floods, 
 rolling over a slight declivity, had hollowed the channel into 
 a pool, which was deep and dangerous in the middle and at the 
 upper part, but gradually shallowing towards its outlet. 
 
 As I could swim tolerably well, I thought that on this occa- 
 sion I would perform a feat which none of my companions 
 would venture to imitate. There was a ledge of rocks towards 
 the upper part of the pool, about nine feet above the level of 
 the water; and, as I claimed to be best swimmer in the school, 
 I had been frequently dared to submit my pretensions to the 
 test of leaping from this ledge. Determined to give this proof 
 of my superior daring and skill as a swimmer, I leaped from the 
 highest rock into the pool. As I had yet to learn that the best 
 mode of taking such a leap was by plunging into the water in a 
 slanting direction, with my head downwards and arms" stretched 
 out like a V," I foolishly threw myself off the rock in such a 
 manner, that my breast and unprotected face first came into 
 contact with the water. The consequence was, that I felt, on 
 touching the water, as if I had received on my breast and 
 face a slap from a tremendous pair of "taws." I was, in 
 fact, stunned and stupified in consequence of the resistance 
 offered by the water to the surface of my falling body ; and be- 
 fore I could recover myself I sank. As none of my companions 
 were sufficiently expert divers to render me any assistance, and 
 as they could not reach me with an old rail which they endea- 
 voured to hand to me, there was every likelihood of my being 
 drowned, had not my "fortunate star" at that critical moment 
 gained the ascendant. 
 
 A young man, who proved to be a blacksmith employed at a 
 forge not very far from our school, happened to pass near the 
 place within a few seconds of my leaping from the rock ; and 
 hearing the outcry of my companions, he hastened to the margin 
 of the pool, where hastily throwing off his clothes, he plunged 
 into the water. As he was an excellent swimmer, he dived and 
 caught hold of my arm — for the water was so clear that he could 
 see me as I lay — and succeeded in immediately bringing me to 
 land. Although I was senseless when brought to the shore, yet 
 after two or three hearty thumps on "the back I soon reco- 
 
DESTINY. 135 
 
 vered myself; and' though I felt giddy, and my breast was sore 
 in consequence of the smack which it had received from the 
 surface of the water, I was able to walk to the school and to 
 creep unnoticed to bed. In a few days the circumstance came 
 to the master's ears; and the consequence was that we were for- 
 bidden to visit the burn except in his company, or when accom- 
 panied by his factotum — a lean, lanky, straight-haired man whom 
 he employed to keep the garden in order, look after " Blink- 
 bonnie," an old wall-eyed spavined horse, — to brew a barrel of 
 medium ale once a month, and — as the Rev. James Walby never 
 used the rod himself — to occasionally flog the boys, to whom he 
 was known by the significant name of " I'11-a-go Switch'em." 
 
 About a month after this occurrence I was visited at school 
 by my mother, who, on hearing of my narrow escape, determined 
 to see the preserver of her son's life, and to present him with 
 some reward. I accompanied her to the forge where he was 
 employed, for the purpose of pointing him out; but as I did not 
 know his name, we had some difficulty in making the foreman 
 of the establishment understand what individual it was that we 
 sought. " We have so many young men at work here," said he, 
 * that I cannot guess which is the one that the lady wishes to 
 see; for I have never heard of any of them having saved one of 
 Mr. Walby's scholars from being drowned. Was there nothing 
 particular about him that you can bring to mind?" said he, ad- 
 dressing himself to me. I at length recollected that the young 
 man spoke with a southern accent, as if he was not a native of 
 that part of the country. 
 
 " Was he rather a tall young man, with black curling hair?" 
 inquired the foreman. 
 
 " He was." 
 
 "0 then," rejoined he, " I dare say you want Mark Wortley." 
 
 Mark Wortley was accordingly sent for, and he proved to be 
 the person whom we sought. My dear and affectionate mother 
 thanked the young man as the preserver of her son's life, and 
 made him a handsome present as a more substantial token of her 
 acknowledgment. During the remaining twelve months that I 
 continued under Mr. Walby's care, I frequently saw Wortley, 
 who bore the character of a quiet, inoffensive young man, and 
 of being " one of the best nailers in the country-side." He be- 
 came quite a favourite with all the boys in the school, whom he 
 supplied with tips for their arrows for rook-shooting : and as he 
 had some little skill in farriery, he gained the especial good 
 graces of Mr. Walby by firing old " Blink-bonnie" gratis. 
 
 A few days previous to my leaving that part of the country, 
 
 to proceed to the military college of , I called at the forge 
 
 to take leave of Wortley, and to receive from him a curious old 
 pistol which he promised to give me before I should leave school. 
 
136 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 On inquiring after him, however, I was much disappointed to 
 learn that he 'had left his employment, without any warning, 
 about a fortnight before ; and that where he had gone, or what 
 had become of him, was only conjectural. It however appeared 
 that at the village races, which took place only the week pre- 
 ceding his departure, he had formed an acquaintance with the 
 sergeant of a recruiting party, who belonged to the same part of 
 the country as himself; and this fact, coupled with the report of 
 a love affair, was held to be sufficient to account for his absence, 
 which, as he had not gone off in debt and was not much known 
 — having come to the forge as a " tramp" — excited but little 
 observation. 
 
 As it is not necessary to write a continuous narrative of my 
 life, in order to elucidate the three extraordinary passages in it, 
 which my present object is to record, let me carry the reader 
 about eight years forward, and present myself to him as a lieu- 
 tenant in the second battalion of the regiment of foot, 
 
 serving under Sir John Moore, at the time of his disastrous re- 
 treat to Corunna. The division to which our regiment was at- 
 tached formed the rear-guard, which, from the nature of its 
 services, was- more particularly exposed to the hardships which 
 assailed that illfated army. At the period of which I am now 
 speaking, though only twenty-three years of age, and having 
 seen only six months of actual field-service, I had, in conse- 
 quence of the loss our corps had sustained in officers, to discharge 
 as well as I could the arduous duties of adjutant. 
 
 One cold dreary day, our poor half-clad, half-hungered sol- 
 diers arrived, after a fatiguing march in which they had been 
 much harassed by small advance parties of French cavalry, at a 
 village about ten leagues to the south-east of Lugo. Here it 
 was determined to halt, be the consequences what they might, 
 and endeavour to procure some refreshment : this, indeed, be- 
 came absolutely necessary ; for so desperate and disorganized 
 were the troops that it would have been impossible to make 
 them proceed. Of eatables but little was to be had, as nearly 
 the entire stock of the inhabitants had been required for the 
 main body ; but there was abundance of wine, and in this the 
 men could not be prevented from indulging. 
 
 Probably owing to the previous cold and fatigue, and to having 
 but little to eat, the effect which the wine produced in a short 
 time was surprising. Within two hours from the time of our arrival 
 at the village, most of the men were in a high state of excitement, 
 and not a few of them so intoxicated as to be hardly able to 
 keep their feet. It is far beyond my power to adequately de- 
 scribe the scene which then presented itself. The character and 
 temper of the men appeared to be suddenly changed, as if they 
 had drunk of an enchanter's charmed cup. The deep curse of 
 
DESTINY. 137 
 
 discontent was no longer heard, and features, which but a few 
 hours before were clouded with a savage scowl, were now lighted 
 up with a kind of frenzied merriment, which to those who could 
 survey the scene with any degree of calmness, and with a regard 
 to circumstances, was yet' more appalling. In the delirium of 
 intoxication the present seemed to be annihilated ; and memory 
 and imagination seemed only to dwell upon the past and to antici- 
 pate the future. Some trolled with maudlin energy the songs which 
 they had learnt in their father-land long ere necessity or impro- 
 vidence had urged them to the perilous trade of a soldier; while 
 others wildly danced to the well-known merry tunes which in 
 brighter days had called forth their vigorous exertions at a. 
 merry-making or a fair. Whenever the enemy were mentioned 
 it was only to anticipate their defeat ; and the general was loudly 
 blamed for believing that the French would be certain to defeat 
 his army without venturing to try the hazard of a battle, in which 
 he might gain something — were it but for his country's repu- 
 tation — but could scarcely be worse off than he was. According 
 to them, he had only to give battle to obtain a victory which 
 would open the road to Madrid, where the English army would 
 be received as deliverers, and supplied in winter-quarters with 
 all the luxuries of Spain. 
 
 In the midst of this frenzy, the bugle — which always induces 
 some attention from the soldier, and habitually reminds him of 
 his duty — sounded to arms, as a party of French cavalry were 
 within a short distance and rapidly advancing. All was now 
 riot and confusion. The few who were capable of duty were 
 busily employed in forming a barrier of carts, waggons, and logs 
 of wood, at the entrance to the village, to arrest for a while the 
 advance of the enemy. Officers were seen hurrying from house 
 to house, endeavouring to collect their men, and drunken sol- 
 diers were seen reeling about, alike unconscious of their danger 
 and incapable of making any effort to avert it. To enforce any 
 thing like discipline was impossible ; several of the men were 
 left behind, unable or unwilling to move ; and of those who did 
 depart, the greater number proceeded like a band of stragglers, 
 without any regard to order, but each according to his ability to 
 get on. Having a horse, I remained in the village until the 
 enemy arrived at the barrier — which was within an hour from 
 the time of the first alarm — when I rode off in the direction 
 which our men had taken, thinking to reach, before it was dark, 
 the place where our division was to take quarters for the night. 
 
 As the road was much obstructed by straggling parties of our 
 men, it was impossible for me, although on horseback, to get 
 forward with any considerable degree of rapidity. Some of the 
 men had fallen down from intoxication, others were staggering 
 on, shouting and singing like so many drunken men returning 
 
138 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 from a fair ; while here and there a group might be seen, not 
 satisfied with what they had already got, sitting by the road- 
 side and drinking wine from their canteens, which they had 
 taken care to fill previous to leaving the village. 
 
 I had not advanced more than four miles, when the report of 
 straggling shots was but too plainly heard ; and in a few mi- 
 nutes a party of French hussars and lancers appeared from be- 
 hind a rise in the road, about a quarter of a mile distant, riding 
 over and cutting at our men, some of whom threw down their 
 arms, while others made an ineffectual attempt at resistance, 
 and from the few shots that took effect, rendering the enemy more 
 infuriate. After an ineffectual attempt to rally a body of men 
 which might keep the French in check, I resolved to shift for 
 myself as well as I could. To gallop off might seem the most 
 obvious mode of escape for such as were mounted ; but to at- 
 tempt this, in the state that the men were in, was more hazard- 
 ous than to remain and share their risk ; for more than one musket 
 did I see raised that afternoon against an officer on horseback, 
 who appeared wishful to push forward and save himself, without 
 regarding the unfortunate beings who were exposed to be trodden 
 down in his flight. 
 
 The road which we were upon lay across a moor, and was 
 bounded on each side by rather a broad and deep ditch. As 
 the ground to the right was broken and uneven, to gain it by 
 crossing the ditch seemed to afford the most likely chance of 
 escape, either by pushing directly across the country, or by en- 
 deavouring to regain the road when the enemy should retire, as 
 it was not likely that they would take up a position so far in ad- 
 vance of their main body. I therefore put my horse to the 
 ditch, expecting him to clear it ; but not being willing to take 
 the leap, he shied and wheeled suddenly round, throwing me, 
 though a tolerably good horsemen, awkwardly across his neck; 
 and before I could recover my seat, I received a pistol-ball in 
 my right shoulder, which fractured the collar-bone and caused 
 me to drop my sword. A party of French cavalry now came 
 rapidly up at a gallop, and after receiving a slight sabre-cut on 
 the head, both I and my horse were thrown down. Whilst I 
 was struggling to extricate myself, a French lancer rode up, 
 and he was just on the point of giving me the coup-de-grace — 
 his lance was within a foot of my breast — when a musket-ball, 
 discharged from that part of the moor which I had been at- 
 tempting to gain, arrested his purpose. It entered his left 
 temple and passed through his brain, and he fell headlong from 
 his saddle, dead ere he touched the ground. 
 
 As the French cavalry pushed forward, the person who had 
 rendered me this service, an English soldier, now made his 
 appearance from behind a heap of stones, which were piled up 
 
DESTINY. 139 
 
 at the foot of an old cross, on the other side of the ditch. He 
 came to where I was lying entangled with one leg under my 
 horse, and assisted me to rise. As the horse appeared nothing 
 the worse, I took the bridle in my left hand and scrambled 
 across the ditch as well as I could, while the soldier, applying 
 his bayonet to the animal's flank, by way of a spur, compelled 
 him to follow. " Mount, mount directly," said the soldier, 
 as soon as we had got across the ditch ; " for fear any more 
 of those monsieurs should come up. . Only let us manage to 
 get out of sight, and we will reach our evening quarters after 
 all ; it will be dark in half an hour, and we cannot be more 
 than three miles from the outposts. Is there any thing the 
 matter with your arm ? — Oh, I see it is hurt. Let me help you 
 to mount, and I will lead the horse. You have got a scratch on 
 the head, too : wipe the blood from your face, and you will see 
 better. ' Never say die ! ' cries Pat, ' till the life's out.' I'll 
 be bound, sir, that when you have got a plaster on your head, 
 and your arm set, if it be broken, you'll find that you haven't 
 received a hap'orth o' harm/' 
 
 With some difficulty I got into the saddle, notwithstanding 
 the soldier's assistance and heartening ; and with him as my 
 guide I made across the moor in the direction that I supposed 
 the head-quarters of our division to lie. After travelling about 
 a mile across the open moor, we came to a well-trodden path 
 which we determined to follow; and just as it was growing 
 dark, and in less time than we had expected, we were challenged 
 by the pickets of our own party, and directed to the quarters 
 of the division. After seeing me safely lodged in a convent, in 
 which the remainder of our regiment were quartered, he went to 
 seek out for his own, promising to return as soon as he could. 
 
 After my wounds were dressed and the fracture was reduced, 
 the soldier returned, according to his promise, to inquire how I 
 was. As I had now got my baggage, I made him a present of 
 ten silver dollars, which was half of all the money I possessed, 
 and I gave him a shirt, of which he stood in great need. " I 
 am under great obligation to you, my good fellow," said I, as I 
 pressed the money into his reluctant hand. " At present I can- 
 not make you a suitable return ; but, should we ever get safe to 
 England again, I may perhaps have an opportunity of render- 
 ing you a service. Pray what is your name, and to what regi- 
 ment do you belong ?" 
 
 "My name," replied he, "is Mark Wortley; and I am a 
 corporal in the fusileers." 
 
 " Mark Wortley! — Did you ever work at Embleton forge?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Do you remember saving a boy from being drowned, when 
 bathing near the alders, in Witton burn ?" 
 
140 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Well enough. I have good reason to remember ; the best 
 suit of clothes I ever wore was bought with the money which 
 the boy's mother gave me for saving her son's life." 
 
 " Well you have saved that life a second time. Look at me 
 and be convinced." 
 
 With a look of astonishment he surveyed me from head to 
 foot. M Heaven bless us !" exclaimed he ; " can you be young 
 Harry Peirson that was at Mr. Walby's school ? There's some- 
 thing above and around us that we know nothing of, and care 
 too little about. There's a mystery in this ! — for, as I drew the 
 trigger against the French lancer, I thought on the boy in Witton 
 burn ; and the very same words came into my head as when I 
 dived to bring him up. Something seemed to whisper in my 
 ear two lines from an old ballad that I had heard my father 
 sing : 
 
 ' You're doomed to save 
 This man from the grave/ 
 
 But let me shake your hand, Mr. Harry — your left, since your 
 right is in a sling." 
 
 After mutual expressions of surprise were past, we talked for 
 about an hour on former times, when he was a hardworking 
 smith, and I a "thoughtful, thoughtless" schoolboy. He then 
 left to return to his own quarters, and I did not see him again 
 for several months, as I was sent forward with the wounded ; 
 and alter the battle of Corunna our regiments were embarked 
 in different transports. In the succeeding Peninsular campaigns, 
 however, I had many opportunities of seeing my honest-hearted 
 preserver; as it not unfrequently happened that our regiments 
 were attached to the same division. On many occasions did 
 I experience the benefit of his services ; and often at the end 
 of a weary march, when our rations were neither too good 
 nor too abundant, his canteen and haversack — for he was an 
 excellent purveyor — afforded me the refreshment which I other- 
 wise should have gone without. He possessed an excellent 
 temper ; and if refreshments were to be procured from the 
 Spanish peasantry, either for love or money, Mark Wortley, on 
 one score or other, was seldom disappointed in obtaining a 
 share. 
 
 At the conclusion of the peninsular war, Mark Wortley went 
 with his regiment to America, while that to which I belonged 
 was ordered home, but was in a short time re-embarked for the 
 continent. After the battle of Waterloo, having for more than 
 seven years had a good deal of hard service and seen some tole- 
 rably " sharp work," and as my father and elder brother had both 
 died in the interim, I retired, " with a respectable name to travel 
 by," to undertake the management of my paternal acres — "mea 
 paupera regno," as Captain Dugald Dalgetty says — and to enjoy 
 
DESTINY. 141 
 
 the pleasures of a country life, and to save my half-pay as a 
 building-fund for the restoration of the old house in which I 
 was born, and in which — my perils past — I hope to die. 
 
 About the beginning of 1817 I received a letter from Wortley, 
 acquainting me with his arrival in England, and that, having 
 obtained his discharge and taken unto himself a wife, he was 
 wishful to establish himself in some way of business. As I hap- 
 pened to have a public-house vacant at the time, I wrote to him 
 to say how much I should like to have him as a tenant, and 
 to ask him to come down and look at the place. 
 
 A few weeks after the receipt of Wortley's letter, I happened 
 to be on a visit to an old brother campaigner, whom I had not 
 seen for three or four years previously, and who was then in 
 garrison at Tynemouth, a pleasant village at the southern ex- 
 tremity of the county of Northumberland. The weather, though 
 generally fine and bright for the season of the year, was occa- 
 sionally boisterous and squally, and shortly after my arrival a 
 vessel was cast on the rocks, and wrecked immediately beneath 
 the castle. A few days after the vessel had been driven on 
 the rocks, the weather became more calm and settled ; and one 
 bright, flattering morning, my friend proposed a short excursion 
 out to sea, merely round the haven, to take a view of the wreck. 
 I willingly assented, and another officer joined us. A boat 
 was quickly engaged ; and as we were perfectly equal to its 
 management, and did not think of going far, the only person 
 whom we took with us was a boy. " I should advise you 
 not to stretch too far out, gentlemen," said the owner of 
 the boat; " the wind is rather fresh from the westward, and the 
 flood-tide will begin to make in half an hour. The boat, too, 
 which wants ballast, does not lie well to windward under that 
 single lug-sail, and you may get too far off the land before you 
 are aware." 
 
 We promised to attend to his advice, and setting our sail we 
 stood pleasantly out to sea. Just as we were clearing the mouth 
 of the haven we met a fishing coble coming in, one of whose 
 crew hailed us, advising our return. u You had better come 
 back," said he, " or you will be getting blown off the land. 
 The westerly wind will increase with the flood-tide, and we shall 
 have a stiff breeze before twelve o'clock yet. You had better 
 come back ! Recollect what time of the year it is ; and mind, 
 'tis Good-Friday." So indeed it was ; but we did not consider 
 the day with that ominous feeling with which, as we afterwards 
 learnt, it is regarded by the fishermen of that neighbourhood, 
 none of whom will cast a line or draw a net on that day. 
 
 As the morning was remarkably fine, and a pleasant breeze 
 filled our sail, we were inclined to think that those friendly 
 
142 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 warnings were dictated rather from an opinion of our want of 
 skill in the management of a boat, than from any danger that 
 was to be apprehended on account of the weather. We there- 
 fore heeded those admonitions less than they in reality deserved. 
 We soon arrived at the wreck ; and as the opportunity was so 
 tempting and the day so fine, we continued our course precisely 
 in the direction which the owner of the boat had cautioned us 
 to avoid. We now passed several vessels that were getting 
 under way to proceed into Shields harbour with the flood-tide ; 
 and though the breeze freshened and our boat passed rapidly 
 through the water, we noticed that our progress, as measured by 
 stationary objects on the shore, was not so great as might have 
 been expected. We were, in fact, making but little headway; but 
 on the contrary, with our close-hauled lug-sail and the opposing 
 tide, falling rapidly to leeward. We now perceived that we were 
 getting too far out to sea, and resolved to put about. The 
 fisherman's prognostic also began to be verified : the wind con- 
 tinued to increase, and our little boat could hardly bear her 
 sail. Our approach towards the land seemed to be as slow as 
 our progress along the coast; and at one o'clock, four hours 
 from the time of our setting out, we found ourselves driven con- 
 siderably to the southward of the point of land which we had 
 hoped to reach, and about ten or twelve miles out to sea. As 
 the waves increased the further we drifted out of the shelter of 
 the land, we were obliged to take in our sail, and the boy whom 
 we took with us was kept busy in baling the boat, which now 
 and then shipped a wave. The wind at length increased to a 
 perfect gale ; and we had considerable difficulty in keeping the 
 boat's head to the sea, which threatened every minute to sink 
 her. We continued in this situation for about three hours, 
 drifting rapidly out to sea, and the only vessel in sight was one 
 of his majesty's revenue cutters, which we had spoken with in 
 the morning, at least twenty-miles to the north-east, and appa- 
 rently standing out to sea. Even if we were to set our sail 
 again, and run before the wind, there was not the slightest 
 chance of us reaching her before it would be dark, even if 
 she were lying at anchor. 
 
 High water, however, brought us a gleam of hope. Several 
 colliers for the south were seen leaving the harbours of Shields 
 and Sunderland, and could we only manage to keep our 
 frail craft so long afloat, we trusted that some one of them 
 might notice our signal of distress, and shape her course towards 
 us. In a state of agonizing suspense did we watch them pass 
 us one by one, miles to windward without appearing to perceive 
 the signal that we had displayed. When the last vessel passed 
 us my feelings were more truly painful than I had ever before 
 
DESTINY. 143 
 
 experienced. I had braved death in the field at the bayonet's 
 point and the cannon's mouth, where 
 
 "The boldest held his breath 
 For a time j" 
 
 but had felt nothing, even in my first battle, compared with 
 what I experienced at that moment. There, after the first sen- 
 sation of dread is past, all fear of danger is lost in the hurry of 
 conflict; but here we were merely passive, with all our faculties 
 about us, threatened momentarily with a death which we could 
 not by any exertions evade. My friend by whose side I had 
 stood in more than one hard-fought field, gave me a look which 
 informed me that his feelings were similar to my own. " Albuera," 
 said he as he grasped my hand, i( was nothing to this !" Our 
 danger was indeed becoming every minute more imminent. The 
 mast, to which we had fixed a handkerchief as a signal of 
 distress, was pitched overboard from the rolling of the boat; the 
 sea had broken one of our two oars ; and evening was approach- 
 ing to render our situation still more dreadful. 
 
 A vessel which we had observed some time before to the 
 southward, seemed now evidently bound for the north ; and could 
 we only attract the attention of her crew before daylight should 
 depart, a chance of preservation yet remained. My friend un- 
 doing his sash, quickly tied it to the end of our remaining oar 
 which he immediately hoisted in the step of the mast. The vessel 
 continued to approach rapidly towards the north, though con- 
 siderably to windward ; she was already opposite to us without 
 having noticed our signal, and our last spark of hope seemed 
 about to be extinguished, when she suddenly altered her course, 
 and stood directly towards us. It was not long before she reached 
 us, when she hove to and threw us a rope to leeward. Our 
 boat was quickly hauled alongside, and the first person to greet 
 me as I gained the deck was Mark Wortley ! He had taken his 
 passage from London on board of a light Shields collier — for 
 such the ship proved to be — intending to visit me according to 
 my invitation. My astonishment that he again should be a 
 witness of my extreme peril was scarcely less than the joy which 
 I felt at my escape. 
 
 " You may thank your stars gentlemen," said the captain, 
 " that I had this soldier on board ; for otherwise I am afraid 
 that we should have passed you. I had been looking round only 
 the minute before and saw nothing of you. I was just handing 
 the glass to the boy to take below for the night, when this soldier 
 came up and begged to have a look ; and he had scarcely 
 levelled it when he had you in his eye. The man must be a con- 
 jurer! for as soon as he perceived that your signal was a sash, 
 he declared that one of the party was the very gentleman whom 
 
144 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 he was going to see; and it is wonderful, certainly, that such 
 should be the fact." 
 
 " How was this, Mark, did you know me at such a distance?" 
 " O no, sir ! the lines of the old ballad came into my head a 
 third time — 
 
 ' You're doomed to save 
 This man from the grave ;' 
 
 and I then felt as sure as I was living that you were in the boat. 
 " This is the third time, Mark ! The prophecy of my old 
 nurse, as she read my hand before I went to school, is fulfilled ; 
 and my perils I trust are past." 
 
 1 Have a care, bonny Harry, 
 Have a care by sea and land ; 
 For ance, twice, thrice, your death's forecast, 
 If saved not by a'e hand.'" 
 
 My three escapes are now told ; and the manner in whi^i ' 
 was thrice saved, by the same individual, I cannot for a moment 
 admit to have been the result of mere chance. — In the course 
 of twelve hours from the time of our being taken on board, I 
 and my companions were landed near the place from which we 
 set out. The next day Wortley attended me home, and it was 
 not long until he was comfortably settled in the public-house 
 which I had proposed to him, and which he still keeps, at the 
 sign of the Duke of Wellington, his old commander, who had so 
 often leu him to victory. Every year on the 21st of March, the 
 anniversary of my last escape, my tenants, " the trusty subjects 
 of my small domain," dine at his house, and drink the health 
 of their landlord and his preserver. 
 
 H. P. 
 
 MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 
 
 " And you will not go V said Frank, seizing the knob of the 
 door, and darting a glance of impatience. 
 
 " Not for this time. To-morrow is packet day — a number 
 of letters." 
 
 " The old song — letters — despatches. Our minister can 
 scarcely have more business than you. You are a strange fel- 
 low. Here you come over in a hurry scurry, run the first three 
 days over all the theatres and ball-rooms like a madman, and 
 then immure yourself in one of the dirtiest, shabbiest corners 
 of the most desolate parts of London, at an equal distance from 
 Billingsgate and Smithfield." 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 145 
 
 " Not quite so desolate as you may suppose," returned I, 
 pointing at a trio of vagrant minstrels, who were just establish- 
 ing their perambulatory quarters right beneath my windows. 
 
 41 Only look," said Frank ; " but the fiend may look here ! — 
 nothing but murky walls to be seen. I pledge you my word, 
 the most lovely day you ever beheld in London. Confound 
 ye !" added he, running up to the window, and tearing the 
 curtains down— 
 
 The trio had begun their concert — an invalid violin, a shat- 
 tered harp, and an asthmatic flute, sending forth a sort of caco- 
 phonic omnibus, to the great delight of a gang of ragamuffins 
 and idlers who clustered around — 
 
 " That's the third serenade I have enjoyed this morning. 
 You see, John Bull is becoming quite musical. A German 
 organ and a Scotch bagpipe have preceded these delightful in- 
 struments. If you stay, there may be a chance of hearing 
 more !" 
 
 " You are insufferable," retorted Frank. " You want me to 
 go. What is it that keeps you? Do you expect any body? — 
 1 Something pleasant to look at,' as our quaker says." 
 
 " Not that I know of." 
 
 The trio had in the mean while toiled through a skeleton of 
 Weber's hunting chorus, looking anxiously towards the window. 
 A dirty-capped, squaw-like woman, was stretching forth her 
 brown wrists, when an elegant cabriolet came up the narrow lane, 
 and right through the crowd. A young fashionably-dressed 
 man jumped out, knocked at the door, and was, after some 
 delay, admitted. 
 
 " Is the visit intended for you ?" 
 
 " I presume not." 
 
 " To whom can it be then ?" 
 
 " There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than 
 are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 The minstrels persevered in regaling us with a doleful ditty; 
 but above the shrill sounds of the music arose a cry of furv and 
 terror, declining into a low, pitiful, and fearful moan. A lon^ 
 silence succeeded. The cry seemed to startle even the musi- 
 cians; they paused, surveyed the windows, and retreated from 
 the pavement. Immediately the gay young man came slowly 
 down stairs, the bolt of the door was unfastened, and he ap- 
 proached his cabriolet; but what a change ! The colour had 
 deserted his cheeks — he was pale — he reeled as he mounted the 
 vehicle ! 
 
 "That's strange," said Frank: " strange, indeed. Why, 
 Charles, where are we ? Methought — " 
 
 " Hush !" said I ; for I heard the sound of footsteps. I was 
 not mistaken — a scarcely perceptible touch of the door indicated 
 
146 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 that some person was outside — it opened, and a head peeped 
 in — it was my landlord. 
 
 Ah ! Mr. , you have company V 
 
 I seized a couple of newspapers and ran after him. He took 
 them. 
 
 " At two o'clock you will hear the signal. The King will 
 dissolve Parliament." 
 
 I shook my head, and returned to my room. 
 
 " Who is that fellow ?" demanded Frank, with a slight shud- 
 der ; * as often as I see him an ague overcomes me." 
 
 " It is my landlord." 
 
 " I know ; but who is he — what is he ?" 
 
 " Hush ! — more anon. Are you still bound to Regent's Park?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 iC Well, then, I am at your command." 
 
 Frank shook his head, and we descended. We rode on with- 
 out a word, through Holborn. When we arrived at Tottenham- 
 court-road, my friend broke silence. 
 
 " Charles, your landlord is a singular personage. I should 
 not much like his company." 
 
 " Nor do I." 
 
 " Why not leave him then?" 
 
 " That's another question — but listen." 
 
 Frank drew his bridle and his horse approached mine. 
 
 " You remember," said I, " that in 1826 — 27, I sojourned 
 about eight months in London, and in this very house. It be- 
 longed then to the firm of G and Co., a mercantile esta- 
 blishment connected with our friends. The concern failed, and 
 this house went over to its present owner. One morning, just 
 as I was on the point of going out to hunt for apartments, this 
 little, grey, thin man entered my room, looked around, and an- 
 nouncing himself, after a long glance at me, as the new pro- 
 prietor, invited me to reside with him ; I did not quite relish his 
 appearance, but I hate moving about, and remained. Every 
 Saturday at five o'clock, five minutes, five seconds, he came re- 
 gularly for his thirty shillings, which I had to place on the 
 corner of the table, and for which he left the receipt. There was 
 no intercourse whatever between us, for the six months I stayed 
 with him, and when I departed he looked as dry and stale as 
 ever. 
 
 " Three days after my arrival last December, a transaction 
 on 'Change kept me the greater part of the day in its vicinity. 
 After I had concluded the business, I returned ; but immersed a 
 I was in thought, my steps led me unconsciously toward my old 
 residence. I was already in sight of the house before I dis- 
 covered my mistake. Curiosity prompted me to inquire after 
 its proprietor. I had not spoken three words to the old woman, 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 
 
 147 
 
 when the little grey man came down, grinned slightly and took 
 me by the hand, pointing up stairs. I followed and entered my 
 former apartments. Every thing stood as I left it, — even some 
 papers I had forgotten lay in the same corner. 
 
 M « You stay of course again with me,' said the little man, 
 who, turning round abruptly, quitted the room for his own. I 
 moved into his house. 
 
 " As I had left him four years before, so I found him again. 
 Not one additional wrinkle. The same withered, ashy features, 
 with their yellow ground, not unlike a silver medal badly gilt. 
 His thin grey hair carefully combed over his forehead, his visage 
 as impassable as ever, his reddish rabbit-eye, protected by the 
 identical dirty green spectacles, his nose as sharp as of old, his 
 lips as meagre as though food had never found its way through 
 them. — His very whisper uttered with the same calculating care 
 not to mismanage the stock of his breath. He never talks, he 
 only lisps, and if you speak to him while a carriage is passing, 
 he will delay his answer till every thing is still, for fear of strain- 
 ing his lungs. Now and then you may hear a noise — a shriek — 
 a cry — a yell in his room, but never his own voice ; and like a 
 spell, this silence has always an unaccountable sudden effect on 
 the most clamorous visiter. A deadly stillness succeeds a moan 
 which resembles the hushing moan of the waves after they have 
 ingulfed their victim. He is the most absolute egotist I ever 
 yet have seen. His age is a problem to me. During my short 
 stay in Paris (you knowl landed at Havre, and spent a couple of 
 weeks in the French capital), I became by chance possessed of 
 a secret of some importance at the period. It was on the second 
 day after I had taken up my abode with him, that he entered my 
 room to look over my newspapers. He asked me a few questions 
 respecting trade in Paris, and in the course of conversation, I 
 gave him some hints as to the stability of a most eminent and 
 flourishing house. The man quailed under my information — I 
 pitied his consternation and gave him proofs. 
 
 " No sooner had he inspected the papers, than he grasped my 
 hand, and ran out of the room. Four days afterwards he en- 
 tered with a ghastly smile, saying, ' You are right — your infor- 
 mation is correct. — It is still a secret — keep it. It will not be 
 to your loss — have you two thousand pounds to spare V 
 
 " ' No,' said I. 
 
 u ' Here they are,' returned he. ' The stocks are down — 
 
 in a week they will be up thirty per cent, and more. Buy now 
 and sell then — but let me see— I will do it for you : I have no 
 use for this money.' 
 
 " He kept his word. As he said, so it happened. After the 
 lapse of a week he laid six hundred pounds on my table, the 
 fruit of his whimsically generous speculation. From that time I 
 
 m 2 
 
148 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 have lived rent-free in his house, and his confidence in me is 
 almost unlimited. The subsequent day I was admitted for the 
 first time to his room. It is a perfect picture of himself. Every 
 piece of furniture worn out, brushed thread bare, from the bed- 
 cover to the green cloth on his writing-desk. I never yet saw 
 the coals blaze in his grate, they smoke away, smothered into a 
 thick sheet of ashes. He passes his life without making more 
 noise than the ticking of a crazy clock, as regular in his habits 
 as the movement of the pendulum, going down at sunset, and 
 winding up at sunrise/' 
 
 " I wonder what country may have given birth to this precious 
 anomaly ?" asked Frank. 
 
 " To judge from his protruding cheek-bones and a slight 
 accent, I should think him a cannie Northman. Whether he 
 has friends or relations I do not know." 
 
 " Go on," said Frank ; " the account is marvellously inte- 
 resting." 
 
 " His life is a mystery ; no one ever enters his room except 
 myself. At eight o'clock he makes his own coffee, the woman 
 bringing him milk and water, and a roll of bread. At ten pre- 
 cisely he comes to look at the papers, over the contents of which 
 he glances with the eye of an eagle. His acquaintance with 
 every thing relating to trade, commerce, or credit, is astonish- 
 ing. At eleven he walks out to return at half-past five. Till 
 this time, the man, lost to every thing save money concerns, 
 lives in a state of absolute somnambulism ; but at half- past five 
 the transmutation of the metal into something like humanity, 
 takes place; then you may see him occasionally rubbing his 
 hands, but softly and moderately, with a smile which might 
 give you a nerve fit, — his harsh, withered, features contracting 
 into ineffable bitterness. 
 
 " At six o'clock the woman carries up his dinner, which she 
 places on a small table in the corner of the staircase : two raps 
 at the door are the sign of her presence. Once she presumed 
 to intrude, but she was wellnigh dismissed. Every Monday, 
 at six o'clock, she fetches his linen, which she returns on Sa- 
 turday at the same hour. 
 
 " To save expenses, he himself receives his bills, delivers his 
 cheques, and transacts his business. However, with all his care 
 and prudence, he is not unfrequently his own martyr. Last 
 week I walked round the corner with him, when a sovereign 
 dropped out of his pocket ; how, I cannot yet conceive. A 
 gentlemanly-dressed man took it up and presented it to him. 
 
 " ' It is not mine; it is not mine — I never carry gold about 
 me, you may believe me — It is this gentleman's,' whispered he; 
 pointing at me. He was frightened out of his wits. 
 
 " I had to take the sovereign, in spite of my protestations 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 149 
 
 for he would never have forgiven me, had I left it in the hands 
 of the stranger. His satisfaction when I took it, showed that he 
 felt something like a benevolent inclination towards me." 
 
 We now had approached Ulster Terrace, which presents so 
 magnificent a range of palace-like houses to the view. It was 
 one of the finest April days. The sun peered from the silvery 
 clouds in bashful joyousness, with just sufficient force to burst 
 the buds of plants and flowers, and yet not strong enough to 
 dry up that humid fragrance which thrills through the English 
 atmosphere, like the tear glistening in the eye of gentlest beauty. 
 I enjoyed the scene fully — a scene so eminently calculated to 
 impress a stranger, like myself, with the might and grandeur of 
 this noble aristocratic country. As we approached Clarence 
 Terrace, the clock struck two. A long-drawn peal of thunder 
 came rolling on the breeze from the south. 
 
 " What is that?" said Frank; " it is like the sound of 
 cannon." 
 
 I paused. — Should it be as my landlord foretold. — It was the 
 St. James's guns. 
 
 " The King is dissolving parliament," said I. 
 
 " You are joking." 
 
 " By no means. Let us hasten down." 
 
 W T e trotted round the corner, and galloped towards Regent 
 Street. Hurry, confusion every where increased as we ap- 
 proached Whitehall. It was as the little man had said. Eng- 
 land's great, patriotic King — a Citizen King in the noblest 
 sense of the words — was hastening to give his people the highest 
 proof of his unbounded confidence — was going to put it in their 
 power to speak to him as man speaks to man. He was going 
 to dissolve Parliament. We gave a hearty hurrah ! to the un- 
 flinching monarch as he passed by. 
 
 " Now, Charles !" said Frank; " you go with me, and dine 
 with a dozen of our countrymen. We'll have a bumper to his 
 Majesty." 
 
 " Not for this time, I must be at home," said I, turning my 
 horse, and pressing his hand. 
 
 My little grey landlord filled my head. Where had he got 
 the news — the positive news of an event which the King himself, 
 probably, knew not at the time when he predicted it so confi- 
 dently. The man had assumed a fearful importance with me. 
 I hastened up the Strand, gave the stable-boy my horse, and 
 paced home. Mr. Lomond was not in yet — I turned into the 
 street, and paused ; something unaccountable stirred within 
 me. I entered the next coffee-house, ordered a hasty dinner, 
 and scarcely taking time to finish it, proceeded through the: nar- 
 now lane towards my residence. 
 
150 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Is Mr. Lomond at home ?"— " Yes." A secret satisfaction 
 accelerated my steps — I ascended the second staircase. — It was 
 dusk already in the street — our house was completely dark ; I 
 groped my way, and my hand touched the door." 
 " Who is there ?" asked he, scarcely audible. 
 I gave my name, 
 " Come in." 
 
 I found my little grey landlord in his arm chair before his 
 smoking grate, motionless as a statue ; his eyes fixed on the 
 mantel-piece, on which stood an old lamp, once bronzed, that 
 threw a pale light over an empty frame garnished with a variety 
 of bills, cheques, accounts, and the like papers. As I looked 
 into his sallow unearthly face, he glanced up, and the rays of 
 the lamp shed a reddish glare upon his features, over which 
 flickered something like a smile. 
 
 '*■ Have you heard ? Mr. Lomond," said I — 
 
 " I have, and know what you are going to say." 
 
 " And what do you say?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. " I knew it these four weeks." 
 • " These four weeks?" The tone of my voice was rather 
 doubtful. 
 
 " Look here ;" said he, pointing to a paper. It was a trans- 
 fer of stock-property to a great amount. Again he relapsed 
 into his former silence. 
 
 Does this creature think like other people, said I to myself 
 Does he know that there is a God? Has he a heart in his 
 bosom ? Has he ever felt the influence of love ? Does he know 
 any such thing as woman, or happiness ? Or is his soul shut 
 up with his bonds and bags in the coffers of the bank, where his 
 "better self is assuredly deposited. 
 
 " Well you have made a good business of it ?" 
 
 " About a thousand pounds," he drily remarked. 
 
 " And yet you are as mute and thoughtful as on the day 
 when I gave you my confidential warning." 
 
 " That you have given, young man," said he, " I have re- 
 trieved — saved — nay, gained a great sum through your fore- 
 warning. I am still your debtor, I shall pay, rely on it ; sooner 
 or later ; I shall pay : Lomond is sure." 
 
 " Don't speak of it, Mr. Lomond, you have largely paid." 
 
 He stretched out his fleshless hand and pressed mine. It lay 
 like a piece of ice on my fingers. 
 
 " Have you met with any disappointment, for really you 
 seem to me—" 
 
 It was the first time that I ever touched so closely. He cast 
 an inquiring glance at me, and said, after a pause — 
 
 " I amuse myself." 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 151 
 
 " Amuse yourself," said I. 
 
 He again shrugged his shoulders, and darted a look of pity 
 on me. 
 
 " Do you suppose there is no amusement, save that par- 
 chased by pounds and guineas in your ball-rooms and party 
 saloons? Do you presume there is no poetry, save that which 
 comes from Murray's or Longman's wholesale shops V 
 
 Poetry !-— This head, thought I, and poetry! but I kept my 
 thoughts to myself. 
 
 " Poetry— brilliant poetry— my young friend ;" the first 
 time he had honoured me with this appellation. " Yes, my 
 friend, Byron was never more in his trances than I was just 
 now." 
 
 His eyes glittered from behind the green spectacles as he 
 drew up his lips. 
 
 " I am sorry then for having interrupted you." 
 
 " Never mind, I am glad you are come. You shall hear, and 
 from the recital of the events of this morning, you may, in some 
 measure, be enabled to form an idea-— but let us see — ." 
 
 So saying, he arose and rang the bell. We sat for a while 
 without speaking a word, for the woman's heavy steps were 
 heard upon the stairs. 
 
 " One of the bottles with the ducal coronet, and two tumblers," 
 he said.— Again a pause. After some minutes the attendant 
 came up ; he went towards the door through which she held the 
 bottle, and he handed it to me with a corkscrew. 
 
 " Fill the glasses. ^The King has no equal to this Madeira 
 in his cellars." 
 
 " I never have tasted the King's wine, but this I am sure is 
 the best that ever reached my lips." 
 
 " This morning," he began, after having sipped at his tumbler, 
 " I had only three bills to present. Of the rest I had disposed 
 yesterday. The first of these three bills had been handed to me 
 by a hanger-on of the exquisites or exclusives of our capital — a 
 frequenter of Crockford's, whose transition will be Newgate, and 
 finally the halter. I have set him down for January, 1832. He 
 
 came in a cabriolet ; the bill was signed by his Grace of , 
 
 a trifle of three thousand pounds lost and won, as is the fashion. 
 The second of my bills came through a fine young dasher, who 
 sported a tilbury, a most elegant fashionable. His scrap again 
 was signed by one of our most charming women, the wife of a 
 baronet, of good property, but somewhat embarrassed : this 
 bill was for two hundred pounds. How the signature came 
 upon it, I guessed, but that's not to the purpose. The third, 
 for one hundred pounds, was to be honoured likewise by a lady 
 
 — for the signature showed a Maria . It reached me through 
 
 a linendraper. 
 
152 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 "The first object of my visit lives— you know where. The 
 
 second occupies a fashionable mansion in -square ; the third 
 
 I was to find in one of the fag-ends of our bloated city — Chelsea. 
 
 " If you knew the conjectures which crossed my brain on 
 leaving home. These two women. What overtures, what 
 anxiety, what tremors, what palpitations. How condescendingly 
 they would press my hands— nay, offer gifts- -gifts." — The grey 
 man darted a glance at me, which chilled my veins. 
 
 "Two hundred pounds are a trifle, comparatively speaking ; 
 but what might a woman not do for them, if pressed hard. 
 While I, cold— ice-cold, stern, disdainful, would stand before 
 her like the avenger of blood, seize her with the gripe of justice 
 —but let us on- -I respect rank, and my first visit, therefore, 
 was pa'" 1 to his Grace of ,. 
 
 * I entered the gorgeous mansion, freshed up with some as- 
 sistance of my purse too— repaid— however— repaid. Times 
 were once a little more prosperous in that quarter— the range 
 wider. Things have changed— you comprehend— 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 * c On I passed through the court-yard, the colonnade, when I 
 was arrested by a grinning, yawning, gold-laced varlet, who 
 handed me over to a fellow-idler, who again sent me forward to 
 another ; all of them grinning and jibing at me. 
 
 " ' His has not arisen yet,' said a powdered man. 
 
 " ' When can I see him ?' 
 
 " ' That is uncertain.' 
 
 " f My name is Lomond, I shall be here at three o'clock.' 
 
 u ' Stop a moment ;' said the minion, quailing a little under 
 my determined look, ' I shall see.' 
 
 " I looked through the colonnade of the entrance. The fel- 
 low came down with a courtly, almost humble smirk. * His 
 
 — is at leisure — please to walk up.' 
 
 " I ascended the stairs, entered a magnificent drawing-room, 
 and was ushered into a suite of apartments, each of them fur- 
 nished with regal splendour. Just as I passed through, a figure 
 was coming up from the back entrance of the mansion, who 
 shrunk behind the door as soon as he caught a glimpse of me. 
 
 However, he had not escaped me; it was the A n A- , 
 
 that prince of coxcombs and profligates. Ah ! thought I, does 
 the wind blow from this quarter? But a door opened, and to- 
 wards poor Mr. Lomond advanced, who should it be, but his 
 
 Grace of himself! * Be brief, Mr. Lomond,' said the 
 
 mighty man, * my time is precious.' I drew my bill from my 
 
 pocket-book, and held it towards him. His is said to be 
 
 unyielding — hard as iron — but he flinched a little, I can assure 
 you. 
 
 *' 'Ah, dear Mr. Lomond ! three thousand pounds ? The 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 153 
 
 rascal was very quick, indeed; I hope, however, Mr. Lomond — 
 dear Mr. Lomond, (I was dear, do you understand), I hope/ 
 continued his , * you will wait a couple of days.' 
 
 " ' Till three o'clock precisely ;' and I put my bill again into 
 my pocket-book. 
 
 " ' Till three o'clock ;' muttered his , ' till three o'clock! 
 
 Why that's little more than three hours.' 
 
 " * Exactly.' 
 
 " ' You would not, you would not.' The iron frame, me- 
 thought, shook. 
 
 " ' Were it an emperor I should not hesitate, if he refused 
 acceptance.' 
 
 " At this moment the valet-de-chambre whispered something 
 into the ear of his relating to the visitor I mentioned. 
 
 " ' Ah, well, very well ; I am at his command. All is right, 
 
 Mr. Lomond ; at three then I shall have the pleasure .' 
 
 The patrician's imperturbable countenance brightened up as I 
 retreated. 
 
 " My second visit was to the beautiful Lady N . It just 
 
 struck twelve, when I entered the hall. Her ladyship, I was 
 told, was still in bed ; she could not be seen. 
 
 " ' When can I come then V 
 
 " ' At two o'clock.' 
 
 " * My name is Lomond. Tell her my name, I shall be here 
 at two o'clock,' and I went away. My course lay down Chelsea, 
 through King's-road, into one of the lanes, where a carriage is 
 seldom or never seen. The cottage which I had to discover, 
 was retired in a nook, pleasantly sheltered from the whirlwind 
 of fashion and dissipation. I was admitted into the cheerful 
 dwelling by a cleanly-dressed woman, who showed me up stairs 
 into a neat drawing-room. Nothing can be more inviting than 
 these abodes of our less wealthy fellow-citizens : this was a 
 sample of the very best. No richness, no luxury, but every 
 thing pretty and sparkling and convenient ; I am a friend to 
 order and cleanliness, and there I met it to my heart's content. 
 Not the least trace of dust : there was an air of modesty, of 
 noble simplicity, of virtue, in the room ; true English, home- 
 bred virtue. I drew a deep sigh. On a sofa lay a prayer- 
 book and a bible, with some needle-work; on a working-table, 
 some linen ; every thing white as snow. The door opened, 
 and a girl, about eighteen, came out of a bed-room, from which 
 a distressful coughing was heard. It was a sweet, delightful 
 creature." 
 
 The man paused, and took his glass and emptied it. 
 
 " Fill, my young friend, to her health ; I should like to see 
 you carry off this prize." 
 
 " I?"* 
 
154 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Stop, let us go on. She was dressed simply, but with ex- 
 treme taste ; her fair hair was arched, in two beautifully clusters, 
 above her temples. One is seldom permitted to enjoy such a 
 sight." 
 
 I emptied the *tumbler. 
 
 " The girl stood a second or two looking at me before she 
 said, ' My mother is very sorry, but she is confined in bed.' I 
 then presented her the bill ; she stepped into the next room, 
 and returned soon after with a checque on the banking-house of 
 and Co. 
 
 " ' If, Miss, should perhaps — you understand me V I said. 
 
 " \ I do not;' replied the girl, with an inquiring glance. 
 
 " * If the payment should fall heavy upon you, I can and 
 will wait.' 
 
 " * It fell hard ; but my mother is better ; no, no,' she added, 
 and retreated a few paces, as if afraid of me. 
 
 il I was touched — really touched. I felt almost as though I 
 ought to leave the hundred pounds behind, but, on second 
 thought, I deemed it better to put it into my pocket-book. She 
 works hard to heep herself and her mother in something like 
 respectability. A hundred pounds thrown in her way in such a 
 manner, what mischief might it not create 1 One must consider 
 every thing — why she might have a cousin, or some such con- 
 nexion, who would fain drive his pony— or the hundred pounds 
 might find their road into one of the thousand craters of French 
 millinery. No; wiser to leave her as she was. She is the 
 daughter of a mercantile gentleman who failed some years ago, 
 and the remains of whose fortune are locked up in Chancery. 
 Apropos, this Chancery business — it would be a pity if Brougham 
 should succeed in curtailing so salutary an institution. It has 
 brought many a thousand pounds into my coffers. Truly that 
 girl would make a fine wife for you, young man ; but let us 
 proceed. When I regained the King's-road, the clock struck 
 one. I looked for some time at the caricature shops, and at two 
 
 found myself in square. I mounted the stairs of my lady's 
 
 mansion, leaving, with every step, a foot imprinted into the Brus- 
 sles carpet. That pleases me. I was desired by the servant to wait 
 a moment, and seated myself in one of the gilded arm-chairs. 
 
 " * Her ladyship has just rung the bell for the first time,' said 
 the waiting-maid, with an air of importance. ' I scarcely be- 
 live Mr.— what is his name? will be admitted.' 
 
 " f Tell her ladyship my name.' 
 
 " She came in a few moments, and in a hurry, as it seemed, 
 beckoning and running before me. I was ushered into a splen- 
 did apartment; the door opened to a second, and out came a 
 woman. No ; I shall not easily forget her, and how I saw her, and 
 when, and where; there, young man, where no mortal will behold 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 155 
 
 her save her husband, in a state— but hear. Over her bare 
 shoulders she had flung, in the hurry of the moment, a precious 
 cachemire, into which she shrouded herself so anxiously, that 
 her fine proportions were developed every where. She was 
 dressed in a peignoir white as snow. Her auburn air escaped 
 luxuriantly from a madras, ingeniously wound round her head, 
 a la Creole — (by-the-bye, I once kept a large assortment of 
 French goods.) The half-open door presented a coup d'ceil for 
 which a painter would have given a world. The bed was thrown 
 into the most picturesque confusion. Her dreams must have 
 been very violent; a snowy pillow lay at the foot; the blue 
 silken coverlet, garnished with white lace, was half flung on the 
 carpet. Behind one of the lion-jaws carved into the foot of the 
 acajou bed, lay a white satin shoe; another straggled further 
 off. Over a gilded chair dangled a robe crumpled into shape- 
 lessness ; stockings, which a breath might have wafted away, 
 were slung round a screen ; flowers, bracelets, gloves, garters, 
 and girdles, were strewed all over the room. She must have 
 hurried to bed without the attendance of her maid ; all was 
 luxury and disorder. A vague, voluptuous odour pervaded the 
 apartment. As these vanities lay scattered before me, I could 
 not restrain a smile of pity. In their proper places they might 
 have driven a dozen of men into delirium ; here they gave strong 
 indications of passion— of reckless passion, with misery and 
 shame, scorn and utter desolation, close on the heels; nay, 
 they lurked already beneath the bronzed eyelids of her lady- 
 ship. She was an exquisite piece of workmanship, the very 
 image of passion— wild, overpowering, restless, careering on to 
 destruction." 
 
 The man cast a feverish glance at me. 
 
 " Her eyes sparkled with a sleepy fire ; she resembled one of 
 the Herodiades, whom we owe to Leonardo da Vinci — (I have 
 dealt in pictures too). Yes, a powerful woman she was ; a ma- 
 tured form of beauty, with a tropical haze around her ; nothing 
 mean, all noble— her colour, her traits, her very paleness lighted 
 up here and there by red streaks; they all showed fire and 
 love ; and yet she seemed stronger even than love. She made 
 a deep impression on me. My heart beat almost. It is long 
 since it beat iast. I was already paid ; for what are two hun- 
 dred pounds for a sensation? — a sensation which recals our 
 sweetest hours before expiring phantasy ! 
 
 " * Mr. Lomond,' she said, * will you please to take a chair? 
 Will you be so good as to wait V 
 
 " ' Till to-morrow noon, Madam,' I answered, folding up the 
 bill which I had presented to her ; ' till to-morrow noon ; then 
 we shall see see further/ 
 
 " My glance must have told her what was passing within me. 
 
156 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Pshaw ! thought I, pay for thy luxury — pay for thy happiness, 
 thy dissipation, the monopoly which thou exercisest. For the 
 hapless wretch whom thy fastidious eye scorns to look upon, 
 there is Bow-street, and Newgate, and its juries and judges, 
 and the gallows ; but thou who reposest on silk and lace, for 
 thee are the scorpions of shame, and the world's sneer and con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " f A protest /' " said the beautiful woman; ' Mr. Lomond, you 
 cannot be so cruel, so utterly, Mr. Lomond!' 
 
 " Her words were interrupted by a rap at the door. 
 
 " ' Not at present! not at present!' ejaculated she; ' I am 
 engaged ; I am not at leisure,' she added, imperiously. 
 
 " ' Caroline ! I must see you,' said a manly voice. 
 
 " ' Impossible, my dear!' returned she in a softer, but still 
 very positive tone. 
 
 " ' You are not in earnest? Who is it whom you talk with?' 
 and with these words the door opened, and a middle-aged gen- 
 tleman walked in. The lady cast a beseeching glance at me. 
 I understood it. She was my slave. Ah! there was a time 
 when I would have been fool enough, not to protest. 
 
 '* ' Who is this man?' asked the baronet, measuring me from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " i My upholsterer, Mr. .' The brow of her ladyship 
 
 began to darken. She hesitated— she advanced. 
 
 " The baronet cast another glance at me, and then turned 
 towards the window. The bill was still in my grasp, gaping 
 most unmercifully at the beauty. At this direful sight she 
 hurried towards me, and, with a broken whisper, pressed a dia- 
 mond into my hand. ' Take it and go.— -Go, for heaven's 
 sake ! ' 
 
 " I glanced at the jewel, slipped the bill between the fingers 
 of her ladyship, and turned away. 
 
 " The diamond was worth full three hundred. When I de- 
 scended I found two brilliant carriages for her ladyship ; a couple 
 of liveried loungers brushed their coats, a third stood gaping 
 and laughing. Ah, look ! said I to myself, what leads these 
 people to my poor house ; what brings the duke and the mar- 
 quis, the earl and the viscount before my door in the shape of 
 supplicants ; what makes them lose hundreds of thousands, and 
 brings women to betray their husbands, men their country and 
 themselves? They must live in style and extravagance! — just 
 as I was thus meditating, there arrived in his elegant tilbury 
 the young man who had transferred the bill to me. 
 
 " * Sir,' I said, as he alighted, * here is one hundred pounds. 
 You will be so good as to deliver it into the hands of her lady- 
 ship, and you will at the same time be pleased to tell her, that 
 I shall keep the diamond at her disposal until next Wednes- 
 
MY LITTLE GREY LANDLORD. 157 
 
 day at two o'clock, should she be inclined to redeem the 
 pledge.' 
 
 " The youth took the hundred pound note, a sardonic smile 
 playing over his countenance. 
 
 " ' Ah ! she has paid then, has she? All the better.' 
 
 " This smile, these words, they said every thing. Her lady- 
 ship was already perdita ! 
 
 " And now I passed to the mansion of his Grace of ; 
 
 half a dozen of gold-laced servants marshalled my way, and I 
 entered the sanctuarium of the Duke. Every thing sumptuous, 
 but stern, like the possessor ; yet dissipation was gleaming 
 through. 
 
 " His Grace kept his seat, and presented me with a cheque 
 
 on — on No, I cannot mention it ! but the cheque 
 
 While his keen eye rested on me, I remained, to all appearance, 
 cold and indifferent. 
 
 " ' You understand me, Mr. Lomond ? I shall perhaps want 
 you soon again.' 
 
 " He put his ringer on his lips. ' Can you be silent V 
 
 " I knew where the wind blew from. I knew what had 
 passed-— what was to come." 
 
 My landlord paused, laid his green spectacles on the table, 
 his ghastly countenance expanded, his reddish eyes hung with 
 a chilling glare upon me. " Do you now understand my 
 pleasures V* said he, with a rising voice ; the first time I had 
 heard him raise his voice. " Do you reckon it nothing to pene- 
 trate into the innermost recesses of the human heart, to read the 
 crooked counsels of statesmen, to lay bare the most hidden folds 
 of society, to have placed before one's eyes the life of the proudest- 
 born, of the brave, the crafty, and the beautiful, in utter naked- 
 ness and in utter helplessness. These scenes, ever shifting, ever 
 varying-, in a thousand ways ; those hideous gamblings, those 
 despairing joys and bootless ravings, which lead to the scaffold, 
 those hysteric laughs of despair, those frantic festivals of dissi- 
 pation green and grey. Now a father, who cuts his throat be- 
 cause he can no longer endure the cries of his starving children ; 
 again, a woman who offers the very jewel for which she has 
 bartered name and happiness. O, these actors ! these inimita- 
 ble actors ! Here Garrick and Kean and Kemble might have 
 studied ; but their art is lost on me. Often, indeed, a love- 
 sick girl, an old merchant, a starving worthy mechanic, or a 
 mother who panted to conceal the scandal of a beloved child ; 
 a noble lord on the brink of ruin ; often have they made my 
 hair stand erect like the main of a frightened horse ; but now I 
 can look at these scenes, I can, young man ; nothing now de- 
 ceives me ; nothing will. I can pierce the heart through ; 
 and what do I want ? I possess every thing. I may buy 
 
158 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 ministers and consciences ; that is in my power. The fairest 
 women are rushing upon their knees before me. Here, young 
 man, here in this room," said the withered usurer, " here have 
 paid me homage, beauties, to delineate whose charms would 
 outstrip the artist's skill. But I stand immoveable in my scorn, 
 for I am past this frenzy ; and I revenge myself on mankind who 
 spurned and buffetted me while 1 was young and vigorous, but 
 helpless and pennyless, and with no house to shelter, no friend to 
 console me. I have tasted and am satiated. I am one of forty, 
 who are the silent, the mute, the unknown kings of this country, 
 the arbiters of life — for gold is life. Forty we are, bound together 
 by the same ties, the same interests, though not the same motives. 
 Once every week we assemble and compare notes, reveal the 
 mysteries of finance, and of existence ; no fortune, no condition 
 escapes our view. We hold the secrets of every family from the 
 highest to the lowest. Public credit and private happiness, the 
 safety of the bank, and the stability of commerce, depend ten 
 times of the year upon us. What is your secret police ? It is 
 we who analyse, who anatomise the world and its value. We 
 love money ; we love it, but we love power still more, and money 
 is power. Yes, yes it is— 
 
 " Here," said the little grey man, pointing round his com- 
 fortless walls ; " here, within these dingy naked walls— here 
 the most enraptured lover, whom a word from the lips of his 
 divinity would drive mad, here he will beg with folded hands ; 
 here prays the merchant, who never acknowledged the name of 
 his Creator ; here she bends low — low, before whom the state- 
 liest noble would kiss the dust; Here the artist and mechanic, 
 the farmer and the landlord, learn to unite in prayer. Here," 
 added he, drawing his hand over his brow, " is the scale in 
 which the destiny of thousands, of London itself, is balanced. 
 Do you then believe that I have no rejoicing, no pleasure, no 
 poetry, under this cold and shrivelled mask ? that there beats 
 no feeling under these blasted muscles?" He laid his hand on 
 my shoulder, and rivetted his eye once more upon me. M Yes, 
 you shall hear more ; yes — " and so saying he turned and re- 
 treated to his bed-room. 
 
 I arose, and staggered towards the door almost stupified. I 
 tottered down stairs. The little grey man had swollen up be- 
 fore me into a frightful monster. He had changed into a fan- 
 tastic horrible being. He was the incarnate representative of 
 the arch-demon. Existence, man, and beauty, looked hideous 
 in my eyes ; for all, all appeared subservient to his infernal 
 power. 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON, 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 I am the youngest son of a poor clergyman of the old school, 
 and was born in an antiquated whitewashed parsonage, standing 
 by the road-side, some hundred and twenty miles due north of 
 London, where my father held a small living. At eight years of 
 age, I " began my travels ;" for the " gudeman," finding the 
 olive-branches grow yearly round his slender board, without his 
 tithes increasing to supply the " oil and wine," transplanted 
 eight of us, besides my mother, to a romantic village in the 
 eastern part of Sussex ; where, through great interest, exercised 
 by a certain colonel to whose regiment my progenitor had 
 officiated as chaplain, he had been presented to a benefice better 
 calculated to feed his hungry flock. 
 
 To this day, I have the most lively recollection of our arrival 
 at the parsonage. It is with difficulty, if at all, time erases the 
 impression made on the mind of a child by a new and beautiful 
 object. The spacious and substantial mansion had been some 
 time untenanted, but our arrival having been announced, care 
 was taken to cleanse and air it; and on the approach of the 
 little cortege, the grey smoke from the chimneys was mounting 
 slowly and silently into the evening sky. We overtook some 
 villagers returning from their labours ; and around the post whose 
 white arms point out his road to the ignorant rustic, a curious 
 group was collected of both old and young, who eyed us, as we 
 passed, with rude yet unoffending curiosity. 
 
 On the first night we were compelled to sleep upon the polished 
 oak floors — some here, some there : but this was little hardship 
 to children. Our discomfort, indeed, did not last long; for my 
 father being a goodnatured and talkative man, soon procured 
 plenty of acquaintance, from whom we received many acts of 
 kindness ; and after the little alterations which every new tenant 
 thinks it requisite to make in a house, we were fairly and com- 
 fortably settled. 
 
 And a pleasant abode it was ! The house was situated in a 
 deep, rich valley, open only on its southern side, in which 
 direction extensive and luxuriant woods ran almost to the sea, 
 diversified by small estates and petty lakes, while a river also 
 held its wide course through the dale. The temperature was 
 mild as that of Italy, and the high velvet downs for which Sussex 
 is so deservedly celebrated, sheltered our peaceful hamlet. 
 
 My father's income had improved ; it amounted to upward of 
 300Z. per annum, including now and then an extra fee for riding 
 ten miles (out and home) to preach a sermon in a marshy dis- 
 trict, whither a richer brother-divine objected to go, from fear of 
 
160 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 catching cold. With foresight and strict economy, he managed 
 to maintain us, and keep besides, two female servants and a 
 gardener, the latter to trim the yew-trees, groom his horse, and 
 fetch letters from the neighbouring town. He also paid a small 
 premium with each of my two eldest brothers, obtained employ- 
 ment for two others in London, and had my three sisters respect- 
 ably educated at home, at 201. per annum, by a competent 
 governess— an exemplary young woman, who has since, through 
 continued industry, risen to fill a station which is both opulent 
 and flattering. I am proud to confess that to her I am indebted 
 for first learning a Latin verb. 
 
 At the age of ten years, I alone remained to be disposed of ; 
 for my father being an indecisive man, it was not yet determined 
 whither I was to go to acquire education. "Within four miles of 
 
 us lay the town of , remarkable for its excessive neatness, 
 
 clean windows, and pretty women ; while for the antiquary it 
 has a still greater charm ; its castle, a noble remnant, partly of 
 Roman and partly of Saxon architecture, which, standing in the 
 centre of the town, is from the surrounding hills an object of no 
 small beauty. 
 
 At this place is a free grammar-school, which at the period 1 
 speak of stood in high repute for flogging and learning ; whether 
 the latter was a corollary of the former I leave to be decided by 
 
 professed writers on education. The master was Dr. M , 
 
 who kept, as I was informed to my great discomfort, a goodly 
 collection of birch's in brine. Application was made on my 
 
 behalf to Lord G , who was a patron of my father, inasmuch 
 
 as he occasionally honoured him with an invitation-card to dine 
 at eight o'clock off silver, and return home by night through a 
 succession of green-lanes (oh, how the old gentleman dreaded 
 it!) The result of the application was auspicious, and accord- 
 ingly I was taken one day — the first after the vacation— and 
 presented at school. A shadow of a boy I was! — my heart in 
 my lips, my hands (but nothing else) in my breeches-pockets. I 
 shall never forget my debut among a hundred boys ; what a 
 heavy forlorn sense cf loneliness fell upon me, when my father, 
 having slipped five shillings into one of the empty receptacles, 
 closed the door after him. The orchard, the attic, the stable, at 
 the parsonage, would have been Elysium in comparison ! Dr. 
 M. ushered me into the lofty school-room, with its dingy win- 
 dows in the roof, and its desks and forms all in terrific array. 
 But what were these inanimate presentments to the hundred 
 pair of living eyes that were on me! — to the rude, mischievous 
 laugh that assailed me from all quarters ! I was always shy, 
 but this scene made me tremble at thinking of the time when the 
 dominie would leave me to the mercy of my new comrades. 
 
 On issuing into the playground. I found that, although active 
 at every kind of romp, their boisterous sports almost demolished 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 161 
 
 me. I was obliged to fight three battles (and be beaten in two), 
 in order to prove myself no coward. They plundered my desk ; 
 and while the tears of vexation were running down my cheeks, 
 the only recompense I got was a worthless promise from one or 
 the other to teach me my next lesson ! But I could have put 
 up with all this, had they allowed me to sleep quietly : the 
 little devils, however — for schoolboys are nothing else — tortured 
 me both night and day. 
 
 At length I experienced so strong a sense of oppression, that I 
 determined I would run away ! We were allowed between school- 
 hours to stroll into the town ; and on one of these occasions, 
 the pleasure of liberty was too tempting to be resisted. I reached 
 
 the outskirts of ; the hill, beyond which lay our village, 
 
 rose just before me. But my heart turned coward. The rod, 
 whose primum tempus I had already tasted—the dark hole 
 under the kitchen, where you could smell the dinner, but no- 
 thing more — and, I am proud to add, the disgrace of playing 
 truant, filled my imagination and scared it; so I sat down, in- 
 dulged in a passion of tears, and, by the detestable hour of two, 
 was back at my prison-door. 
 
 A month of this drudgery — for of course I fagged for a dozen 
 of them — broke me in, as they term it ; but it almost broke my 
 heart. I grew sentimental; engraved my name deep in the 
 bark of a tree, fancying I could not live a year in such misery ; 
 and on visiting the school since, I found the characters still un- 
 effaced. Thus we live on through all kinds of oppression ; but 
 what are the hardships of school compared to the mortifications 
 of manhood ? At school, the young and buoyant mind (though 
 under the hard penalty of task) can soar unshackled. A school- 
 boy, unenvied and unhated by the world, can without fear pierce 
 the wood or climb the verdant hill. Philosophers might envy 
 him his real liberty, though he himself scarcely perceives it. 
 But I must not forestal my subject. 
 
 Nothing out of the common course of school events occurred 
 to me during a five years' pilgrimage from the Eton grammar to 
 the pages of Zenophon, by which time I had become first boy. 
 I remained on the foundation till after the decease of Dr. M., 
 which happened suddenly. A paralysis carried him off in a few 
 hours, and silenced for ever the tongue of many languages. 
 He was an excellent master — petulant and severe, yet at heart 
 the boy's friend. I became gradually — I think from a sentiment 
 warmer than habit — attached to him ; and I believe pre- 
 sented a solitary case in lamenting the holiday which his death- 
 knell proclaimed. 
 
 A young divine, fresh from one of the emporiums of classic 
 lore (Cambridge) succeeded to the head mastership. We did 
 not much like him at first, for he was excessively proud and 
 
 N 
 
162 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 pedantic : however, he soon conciliated us, as he fed us well 
 and flogged us seldom. But in spite of all his exertions to 
 maintain the high reputation of the school, its numbers fell, and 
 by the end of the first year (when I left) it presented a miserable 
 attempt at forty. In fact, the school had reached its zenith : a 
 Diogenes could not have reclaimed it. 
 
 I retired as captain, which delighted my father. Oh, he 
 thought me such a genius ! Yet, in reality, I was none. My 
 classics were respectable, but not great; and still less so my 
 attachment to them. If I had any partialities at this epoch of 
 boyhood, they were divided between two pursuits, each (parti- 
 cularly the first) of a nature well calculated to attract the boyish 
 fancy— -namely, acting and fishing. The pages of Shakspeare 
 occupied me at home ; the rises on a trout-stream were my de- 
 light abroad. I was a disciple of old Walton, to an extent that 
 quite alarmed my mother, and half inclined her to doubt whe- 
 ther I had not some innate sympathies with the finny race ; 
 and when I attempted Othello in presence of the servants, 
 decked out with black silk gloves, a tablecloth, and a corked 
 face, my father trembled for my morality and my Latin verses. 
 
 Oh, how happy was I as an actor ! I caught the malady of 
 spouting, where many other obnoxious things are caught — at 
 school. Our new magistcr encouraged his young Thespians, 
 and would treat us half-yearly with an elevated stage, a first 
 and second fiddle, and, though last not least, a supper. The 
 scenes were devised and painted in verditer, rose-pink, and 
 whitewash, by our drawing-master, on copy-book leaves and 
 sheets of brown paper pasted together. The best friend I ever 
 made was one of our corps dramatique, who thought himself its 
 star — the Kean of our schoolboy-stage ; but his talents were 
 greater at criticism than at acting; — indeed, I have generally 
 remarked that good critics make but indifferent players. 
 
 My line was varied. I enacted to a large coterie of parents, 
 minors, ushers, and servants, old Obuto, in the " Blind Boy," 
 and youngFRiBURG in the " Miller and his Men ; " and as our 
 performances drew down great applause from our goodnatured 
 audience, we felt infinitely proud of our feathers and paint, and 
 no doubt, in our enthusiasm, spoke much more than was " set 
 down for us." I can recollect facing our back scene — a wood 
 fronted by pillars and bordered with Dutch leaf (to serve both 
 for temple and forest), but I could never face my audience. My 
 eyes were resolutely bent upon the ground, as if I either was, or 
 ought to be, ashamed of my position. 
 
 But oh ! what sunny days, what pleasing dreams, were those, 
 contrasted with the afflicting realities of afterlife ! Never, for 
 the world, have I made my toilet with half the spirits, half the 
 care even, with which I dressed for the stream in neat fustian 
 and hat of straw- --or for the stage, in blue calico jacket with 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 163 
 
 vest and pantaloons to match, bespangled throughout. The 
 ease of the one, and splendour of the other, compared so advan- 
 tageously with the formal suit the faculty of the present day 
 must ever wear ! The Sangrado costume, like his medicine, 
 will do nothing for the modern surgeon ; who nowadays is not 
 considered fit to feel a pulse without his repeater and his ring, 
 his unruffled cravat and tight skin of black from the scissors of 
 a Stulz. Nor should he walk to his patient, if he hopes either 
 to experience a polite reception or effect a cure. An equipage, 
 and a handsome one too — not merely an old-fashioned gig and 
 servant to correspond, but a dark-coloured cab, a spirited horse, 
 and a tiger behind, is now essential to the disciple of iEscula- 
 pius. Such a turn-out stamps, in the eyes of the multitude, 
 his standing and talent, and proves his best introduction both to 
 the palace of the noble and the obscure lodging of the poor. 
 If the confidence of the great is obtainable through the skill of 
 the coachmaker, what must be the impression on the canaille ! 
 — it must amount to something approaching the awe and vene- 
 ration of the Hindoos at the ceremony of the Jugernaut. 
 
 As a professional man, I have proved the ut ; lity of equipage too 
 painfully to write in error. During the first four years of my prac- 
 tice, I was a pedestrian, and often felt a shyness — a want of self- 
 possession, which has vanished since fortune has placed me upon 
 wheels. AVhen I used to enter quietly a drawing-room or 
 boudoir, and sit patiently listening to a string of symptoms for 
 /mZ/*-an-hour, my fee was just /iaZ/'-a-guinea. But I have since 
 discovered that the taking method is, to appear hurried to death I 
 A dash up to the door in your cab, or carriage, with your 
 servant ready to announce you, privileges you to enter a room 
 as abruptly as you please ; to ask the most delicate questions ; 
 and give your advice with a confidence, a pithiness of manner 
 astonishing to yourself, and demonstrative to the clique of pa- 
 tient, mother, and friend, that you are a first-rate man. In 
 truth, I think one of the most essential qualities to a medical 
 man is address. It tells better far than a head studded with 
 theories ; and the practitioner desirous of acquiring a fortune will 
 gain his point much more readily by a knowledge — a smattering 
 will do — of the polite accomplishments. Music, if he can 
 either play or sing, is an introduction without the aid of merit ; 
 and French, Italian, and German are pleasing accompaniments. 
 Patients are better able to appreciate these matters than your 
 professional knowledge ; and I would counsel every medical 
 aspirant to infuse deeply into his studies, that of the world. 
 
 But I am anticipating my subject, and in resuming it at the 
 proper point, I find the light-heartedness of my recollections 
 materially dashed. The sky of my destinies hacl been hitherto 
 unclouded, seasons fleeted by me like days, and I contemplated 
 nothing that could rob me of a single pleasure. Alas ! the blow 
 
£64 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 was even then hovering over, which plunged my family and my- 
 self into profound sorrow. 
 
 One dark January night I had left home, in the company of a 
 friend, for the neighbouring town, where a fresh company of 
 strollers had advertised Mrs. Shelley's terrific Frankenstein. 
 To me, the chief attraction was the Monster. Nature had 
 formed the actor who played this part admirably for the purpose. 
 She had almost made him, like Janus, double-faced ; his fingers 
 were in reality double-jointed ; and he had a voice whose tones 
 seemed to scare even himself. The mute anxiety — the icy 
 horror — I felt when Frankenstein succeeds in giving vitality to 
 the abortion he had moulded, overpowered my young nerves, 
 and I was seeking a release from these horrors in the small lobby 
 of the playhouse, when I encountered my father's servant. A 
 few words explained his errand : my father was ill— dangerously 
 ill — his life in danger. A gig waited for us at the door, and by 
 eleven we were at the parsonage. 
 
 What was the ideal tragedy I had quitted to that authentic 
 one I was now called on to witness ? My dear mother, and the 
 whole household in fact, were in tears. Death stood already at 
 the threshold, to enter we knew not how soon. And indeed he 
 delayed not ; our trial was short : notwithstanding the watchful- 
 ness and skill of the surgeon in attendance, epilepsy soon proved 
 too formidable an antagonist for human art to grapple with. 
 My father's spirits and health had been for some months shaken 
 by anticipating the result of a chancery suit, instigated by an 
 unfeeling sister. She should have witnessed his death. Death- 
 beds are terrible scenes; — when the senses and the reason desert 
 their frail tenement, leaving it to be convulsed and destroyed by 
 the expiring pang. 
 
 By this sudden blow, our family was deprived of its only pro- 
 tector. As for myself, I remained but three days in the village 
 after the funeral, and my mother no longer than sufficed to 
 witness the erection of a plain .tombstone to her husband's me- 
 mory. The house was then abandoned— it became another's; 
 and we all returned into the North — my destination being to 
 be placed with my eldest brother, then a medical practitioner 
 some hundred miles in that direction from London. I hid 
 myself in a corner of the coach that conveyed me, with my 
 brothers and sisters, from our beautiful village (for the grief of 
 early youth is always timid), and wept the whole way to town, 
 and a long distance beyond it. 
 
 My brother intending me for his profession, placed me during 
 another twelvemonth at school, where, among sundry improve- 
 ments, I took drawing lessons from the figure, which I after- 
 wards found of great assistance during my study of anatomy. 
 This year passed, and my doom was then sealed for seven more, 
 I being articled to my brother and his partner, a bold and ex- 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 165 
 
 perienced surgeon. A junior apprenticeship is the devil! — it 
 spoils the hands, ruins the clothes, and often cripples the best 
 abilities. These portentous axioms I soon imbibed, and con- 
 ceiving accordingly a due horror of the laboratory, sought, by 
 every means in my power (though seldom successfully) to vary 
 the scene. In consequence, before I knew even the nature of 
 the drugs it "was my duty to manipulate into the several shapes 
 of pill, powder, plaster and potion (for the joint advantage of 
 ledger and patient), I found myself — where does the " gentle 
 reader " imagine ? — in love ! — or what I fancied love to be. I 
 was taken aback, as the sailors call it, during the excitement 
 and glitter of a theatrical performance (for the Thespian mania 
 had not deserted me). My fair captor, however, was not, as 
 might perhaps be supposed, an actress; but the daughter of a 
 half-pay officer residing in the town. She was an acknowledged 
 belle, and her figure might be described by a poet as just set in 
 the luxurious mould of womanhood. But her simplicity of 
 manner interested me even more than her personal appearance ! 
 To be brief, my inexperienced heart was stormed. I cultivated 
 pathos ; cut (in the wrong sense) solid food ; and for a week or 
 so lived on thought and tea. But who has not fasted thus long 
 when first absorbed by the universal passion ! 
 
 Our acquaintance was altogether clandestine, for my charmer's 
 father, unlike most half-pay officers with daughters to go off, 
 threatened to shoot the first man who dared cross his threshold 
 with an operas his errand. This humour of his might have been 
 fortunate for both Margaret and myself, young as we then were. 
 We did indeed occasionally meet and occasionally reciprocate a 
 friendly billet; and this restricted intercourse continued for 
 near four years, toward the end of which time Margaret's 
 health appeared to be waning. I am almost ashamed to say, 
 that vanity led me to mingle a certain feeling of compla- 
 cency with my regret on observing this. I deemed that the 
 want of a free and unrestrained communion with the object 
 of her affections had occasioned the poor girl's indisposition ; 
 but, strange to say, as if a certainty of success had damped 
 the ardour of the pursuit, this conviction certainly slackened 
 rather than increased the warmth of my admiration. I felt 
 much sympathy for Margaret's future happiness ; but I could 
 not be blind to the fact that circumstances were hostile to 
 our union. I had, young as I then was, sufficient foresight to 
 perceive that attachments so early contracted often act as a bar 
 to the best endeavours. Before me in life lay a long tract of 
 difficulties, through which love could be no guide — no stimulus 
 — rather an impediment. These thoughts grew stronger as the 
 period approached at which my articles should expire; and 
 they were but occasionally crossed by a sentiment of commi- 
 
166 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 seration for the mischief I might have caused in a fresh and 
 susceptible bosom. 
 
 With pain do I retrace these occurrences — evidences of a 
 reckless selfishness. The bitter fact, and bitterly do I now 
 taste the flavour of its recollection, was, that Margaret, a year or 
 two my elder, had construed a boyish impulse into a sentiment 
 of depth and stability. Her affections, once kindled, had fos- 
 tered themselves ; for it is remarkable that, during our entire 
 intimacy, neither by word or letter did I ever breathe the name of 
 love ! At length the time arrived, when a few days more would 
 place distance between us. I wrote to her to appoint a previous 
 farewell meeting. That letter occupied me for hours. I felt a 
 consciousness that I had acted, and was acting, indirectly. I 
 sought in lengthened periods and involved expressions, to cover 
 this perception. To my half protesting, half apologetic epistle, 
 the following simple answer was returned, which I have kept in 
 my possession ever since— with little cause, for the words are 
 indelibly imprinted on my mind : — 
 
 " Dear Friend, — You write of leaving us on the 10th, and 
 say that you are already busied in the painful task of bidding 
 your many friends adieu. You must not forget Margaret, who 
 will be left alone— -why should she conceal it— in grief at your 
 departure, but in earnest prayer for your safety ; the only solace 
 remaining. I enclose a plain ring, to be worn in private alone. 
 You will surely accept this as a pledge of the friendship you 
 talk so much of. If an inanimate thing could speak, it should. 
 It has been taught much by one who must think of you to her 
 grave. " Margaret." 
 
 I saw her not, after the receipt of this letter. Whether she 
 Lad penetrated the flimsy veil which cloaked the hollowness of 
 my professions, or whether she dreaded the excitement of a 
 parting interview — from whatever cause, she came not to the 
 appointment I had proposed. 
 
 At the commencement of the spring session, I was in the 
 metropolis, and my name duly entered at an excellent hospital- 
 then a low, obscure, and dingy looking building, but now a 
 structure which forms a leading ornament in that part of the 
 town wherein it is situated. My appointments as a student 
 were by no means despicable : I had a comfortable lodging near 
 the New-road, a tolerable library, and 400/. in the three-and-a- 
 half consols— my share of the property of a kinswoman on my 
 mother's side, who at her recent demise had bequeathed all she 
 was worth amongst us. I was at this period, a very tyro. I 
 knew the bones, the medical plants and their uses; I could 
 read any Latin medical author with fluency. In surgery I had 
 witnessed a good deal : I could perform various operations 
 theoretically, and took especial delight in the requisite instru- 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 167 
 
 ments. I fancy my brother detected this penchant on my part 
 for the " cutting and maiming'* department, as he presented 
 me, on leaving him, with six lancets, besides a small treatise on 
 Erysipelas, and his old pocket-case (it lies before me now), as he 
 used it. This was all I ever derived from my apprenticeship, 
 beyond the ability of bleeding and book-keeping ; for my mas- 
 ters, according to the usual system of wholesale dealers in ap- 
 prentices, taught me nothing else. In most cases, the expiration 
 of this servitude is simultaneous with the pupil's discovery of 
 his ignorance, and upon himself after all, devolves the labour of 
 dissipating it. 
 
 If youths in our profession were carefully taught the practical 
 part, as they are in trades, we should have much more skilful 
 surgeons. Young sculptors and painters know the portion of 
 anatomy their arts require, far more perfectly than the majority 
 of medical students. The latter, indeed, eagerly take up the 
 knife, because its use is novel, and mutilate their subjects in a 
 manner that would disgrace a butcher-boy. Our colleges re- 
 quire a minute knowledge of the human structure ; and how is 
 this sought to be attained ? By books ! a shameful error, and 
 still more mischievous than shameful. I think, indeed experi- 
 ence has convinced me, that lads intended for the healing pro- 
 fession should be taught anatomy— the substratum of all know- 
 ledge relative to medicine and surgery— in their boyhood, 
 instead of the information being deferred till they are nearly 
 men. Other thoughts, and often other pursuits, then thwart 
 its retention ; but where is the boy who forgets his rules in 
 syntax, or who has not exercised his invention on some piece of 
 puerile machinery ? 
 
 Amidst study, attention to lectures, and episodical visits to 
 the theatres and other places of amusement, I still found leisure 
 occasionally to think of Margaret, and after awhile I wrote to 
 her. Her reply was prompt, but mournful. Time had been 
 making fresh ravages on her health. She told me she was going 
 by advice to the sea-side, on account of a troublesome cough. 
 u I have thought of you," the conclusion of her letter says, 
 " too frequently to be at peace. Our intimacy sprang from a 
 circumstance too trivial, you will probably think, to be called 
 an event, but it will end with one !" 
 
 And this was a prediction of the truth. I shortly after re- 
 ceived another communication, which proved to be her last. It 
 was almost illegible ; written amidst fears and suspicions which 
 I, to my great sorrow, was appealed to to confirm. A dreadful 
 catastrophe had occurred in her family, the knowledge whereof 
 first reached it as a dark and vague rumour, which time how- 
 ever speedily illustrated. It related to the death of her eldest 
 brother in India. He had been murdered in a manner at which 
 nature revolts and sickens. The poor fellow, stationed with his 
 
168 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 company to keep in subjection a district of savage marauders, 
 had indiscreetly left quarters with a handful of men, on an 
 exploring march up the country. The natives intercepted their 
 return, and murdered every man ; but their officer shared not so 
 merciful a death as that of the sword. He was tied to wild 
 horses, which were whipped in the direction of the four quarters 
 of the elements, until he was torn limb from limb ! 
 
 It was with a trembling and foreboding heart that I made the 
 necessary investigation ; nor, as the event proved, were my ap- 
 prehensions groundless. At official quarters all was ratified. 
 I communicated the melancholy intelligence with the caution 
 and tenderness I conceived Margaret's weak state to require ; 
 but even thus tempered, the event occasioned too painful a sti- 
 mulus in a shattered constitution : the powers of life gave way 
 beneath the shock, and instead of any further correspondence 
 from this amiable girl, an early post brought me the tidings of 
 her death ! 
 
 I will not obtrude upon the reader's attention any detail of 
 the regret, the remorse, which Margaret's dissolution stirred up 
 within me. Whence or why is it, that the period of our losing 
 any possession should be precisely that in which it assumes the 
 greatest appearance of value ? At the moment when I received 
 this fatal news, I could have willingly died for or with the fair 
 object of my anxiety. And yet, could I be merely selfish in my 
 retrospect, my present position is perhaps more palpably fortu- 
 nate than it would have been, had Margaret recovered and con- 
 sented at that period to link her destiny with mine. Early 
 marriages have been generally prejudicial to those whose lot it 
 is to carve out their own fortunes, Our mind is not a distinct 
 reality, above obscuration from the shadows of poverty ; and the 
 daily encounter with actual wants is calculated in a certain de- 
 gree to pervert the nature of both husband and wife, and render* 
 each to the other what love had never meant them to be. 
 
 Inquietude of mind, together with study, not constant, (for 
 perseverance was never any great virtue of mine), but by fits 
 and starts (when I read excessively) now began to unnerve my 
 system. I was told it would be unwise to risk further mischief, 
 by slighting the first indications of it. The sessions were over, 
 both parliamentary and medical. " The world V was leaving 
 town : my friends were urgent in their advice that I should 
 leave it too. With spirits languid and indifferent enough, I 
 adopted this counsel, and one sultry morning found me stowed 
 upon a coach bound for a certain fashionable watering place. 
 My compagnons-de-voyage were a change of garments, my 
 flute (on which I could play respectably), and a purse containing 
 fifteen pounds; and thus appointed, the next chapter will start 
 mea" Citizen of the World " and a Surgeon. 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON.— Chapter ii. 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 I devoted a month (which passed rapidly enough, amongst 
 the few friends of my earliest days), to fill up the many inroads 
 which the toil and anxiety of study had made upon my health. 
 I wandered once again through all the scenes of childhood, 
 which, although no longer such to me, held over my mind an 
 unfading and refreshing influence — to which I owe much of 
 the vigour of after life. The hope of returning there again — 
 to spend the evening of my days in that secluded village, has 
 often kept me up, under the thousand difficulties which at first 
 beset me ; whether or not it will be realized, fate only can de- 
 cide. Reluctant indeed was I to tear myself from these scenes; 
 but the dream at length was over, and the difficult road of life 
 lay before me. 
 
 It was on the morning after my debut at the Royal College 
 of Surgeons in London — the site of which most members of the 
 profession doubtless recollect — and the excitement of a successful 
 examination had scarcely subsided, inasmuch as I had still 
 heated brows, a rapid pulse, and excessive thirst — that I sat at 
 my small breakfast-table, occupied, not in eating (for appetite 
 had fled), but in reflecting. It is true, thought I, that the 
 gulf into which thousands abler than myself both in head and 
 hand have fallen, has been passed: — but the mere capricious- 
 ness of any of the members of that imperious tribunal, 
 might have sunk me too low to be reclaimed ; for my feelings 
 on this subject were poignant, peculiar, and determined. Had 
 the stig?na of rejection (for such the world erroneously considers 
 it) been cast upon me, it would have been a wound that 
 neither time nor place could have healed, and I should have 
 relinquished my profession for ever, although from it only could 
 I expect to derive the means of existence. I should have felt 
 that I had expended in vain the sacred bequest left me by a 
 devoted relative with the sole stipulation, that it should be 
 applied to place me on a respectable footing, in the profession I 
 had aspired to ; — that I had directed the fullest energies of my 
 mind to a subject, which it could not master ; — and the con- 
 viction would have blighted all my future exertions. Had 
 indeed rejection awaited me, 1 was resolved with the next 
 morning's dawn to sail from father Thames for the continent of 
 America — and in case of such an alternative, I had, on the day 
 preceding my examination, drawn from the 3J consols, the sum 
 of 100/. 
 
 o 
 
170 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Fate however, and the Royal College of Surgeons, would 
 have things turn out otherwise. I therefore returned to my 
 lodgings, somewhat poorer in purse but infinitely richer in spirit. 
 I have heard men boast, how differently they would act in 
 case of rejection ; that they would defy the court, and prove to 
 the world they were competent men. But very opposite has 
 been the conduct of the only two individuals known to me 
 under such circumstances. They left the dreaded horse-shoe 
 without a murmur or a word — with pale faces and sickened 
 hearts, and quitting the college by a private door, sought solace 
 only in the retirement of their chambers. 
 
 Having now launched my boat, I prepared to embark upon 
 the crowded and dangerous waters of life. And where lay the 
 first point of my destiny? — I was roused from a deep reverie on 
 this subject, by the postman's familiar knock, who brought a 
 letter for me bearing a foreign post-mark. I knew the hand in 
 an instant. It was that of Manvers, a fellow-student with whom 
 I had passed many hours of pleasure as well as of research. I 
 opened it and read as follows : 
 
 " My dear Friend, 
 
 " You recollect that at the end of the season I left London 
 for Paris, there to acquire a better knowledge of anatomy and 
 surgery. These important objects have, alas ! been neglected. 
 I am now many miles from that metropolis. A friend has 
 stopped me here ; and here I am likely to find my grave. I 
 left not England alone, but associated with one, to tear myself 
 from whom is impossible, yet to stay with whom is a disgrace. 
 Oh, what a folly is it to be too fond ! There is a secret of the 
 most sorrowful nature on my heart — it must be divulged, and 
 to you. I hasten to accomplish this duty : — My intimacy with 
 
 Miss which you were not a stranger to, terminated (you 
 
 pause and dare not read on) in marriage. We were mutually 
 and ardently attached, and passed the first months of our new 
 life in the enjoyment of every pure feeling of which the heart is 
 capable, and in the anticipation of future years gliding on in 
 the same unruffled way ; but we had raised the cup too high, and 
 it was dashed from our lips by a villain who has sacrificed her 
 honour and my peace." 
 
 I had read enough — I guessed the entire purport of his 
 distressing letter — namely, that he required my assistance, on 
 one of those occasions, which my nature revolted at. My 
 suspicions were indeed too true. The letter continued, 
 
 " I am now under the restraint of a physician, who tells me it 
 would be death, in my phrensied state, to leave my room- — and I 
 obey him. But why ? To rega : n strength to be avenged ! My 
 peace, my love are both destroyed ; my views of life all imbit- 
 tered ; and this convulsion of my nature must have its end in 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 171 
 
 vengeance. If you can sympathize with my extreme misery do 
 so in action, not only in heart. I am a stranger here, and can 
 neither seek new friends or forget old ones. The only appeal 
 I probably shall ever make to you, is this !-«-Come to me with 
 as little delay as possible— if you value your unhappy friend, 
 
 " Edward Man vers." 
 
 The postscript contained an order on a tradesman in Conduit- 
 street for 10/. ; enclosed as I inferred to defray the expenses 
 of my journey. 
 
 The habitual restlessness of my disposition did not permit me 
 to think too long or too intently on the course I ought to pursue ; 
 and without taking any immediate steps in my friend's affair, I 
 occupied the greater part of the day in obtaining my diploma 
 from the secretary (an errand I believe few young men think 
 irksome). But the evening was to be devoted to a different, 
 though an equally important business. During my residence in 
 town, I had been frequently tempted into the society of some 
 musical friends, and where can there be found more delightful 
 people than the Londoners ? On one of these desertions from 
 Galen and the midnight lamp, chance (that eternal match- 
 maker) introduced me to a kindred spirit in the person of a 
 young lady, the elder daughter of a professional man then 
 attached to the Court of Chancery. The occasion was a ball, 
 neither at the larger nor lesser " Willis's Rooms, " but on a 
 first floor in the immediate neighbourhood of Brunswick-square. 
 She played that night and I" listened. She danced and / was 
 her partner. She spoke in so sweet and artless a manner, that, 
 from the first hour of our meeting, without debating proa or 
 cons, without seeking any adviser but my own heart, 1 silently 
 betrothed myself to her ; and when the morning's reflection 
 came, I felt forgetfulness impossible : in short, I had never loved 
 till then. — And who can withstand the heart's first real passion? 
 
 But these delightful emotions brought, with their roses, thorns : 
 — I felt that I had studies and duties to attend to, which de- 
 manded all my thoughts. My little fortune in the stocks had 
 dwindled to about 180/. : and with these startling facts before 
 me, were it not dangerous to love? This important question 
 was, however, as will be readily imagined, soon answered in 
 the negative. It was at my mother's apartments I first met my 
 beautiful friend, and there we met again. Her look, her voice 
 were still the same; and in the excitement of those happy hours, 
 my thoughts, my feelings, were all hers. I had but a single wish, 
 a single view in life, and she only could grant the one, or darken 
 the other. Till all was told and known, I could do nothing; 
 my lectures were neglected- --my books opened in vain. 
 
 Happily I had not long to endure this weight of anxiety; 
 and having said thus much, the reader will infer that our at- 
 
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172 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 tachmcnt soon became reciprocal : — it went on undisturbed ; 
 and with similar views regarding the future (which were far from 
 romantic) we lived but in the anticipation of being united ; 
 this, however, was impossible, till my studies were completed — 
 and the few additional months they occupied did indeed drag 
 on with iron-bound steps. 
 
 It was under such circumstances, that on a Saturday evening 
 in the summer, after a fortnight's absence from town, I left my 
 lodgings for the northern environs of mighty London, where 
 the constant object of my thoughts resided. As the harbinger 
 of good news (for it was the day of my passing), my step was 
 by no means slow : nevertheless, I felt somewhat agitated. Half 
 an hour's walk brought me to the well-known street — my hand 
 was on the knocker ; but my summons was a tremulous one ; 
 it was long ere it was answered, and I was about to repeat it 
 when the door opened ; I needed no announcement, all had 
 become so familiar to me. The dining-room door stood open, 
 and I entered it, but Mary was not there. The moments seemed 
 hours till I heard her voice ; she came from an adjoining apart- 
 ment, in tears ; — and, oh, how altered ! She had been ill, but 
 hers had not been the sickness of the heart — a severe typhus 
 had attacked her immediately after my departure from town, 
 and I knew it not. Oh, that mine should have been days of 
 pleasure, whilst hers were darkened by suffering! The danger, 
 however, was over, and the evening passed away delightfully. 
 I had been a traveller since we parted, and although my pere- 
 grinations were confined to one small county, south of London, 
 they had afforded me many little incidents worth relating. The 
 old and husky watchman of the street had groaned out his 
 "past one!" ere I had courage to say good night. But we 
 parted directly afterwards, and as I raised my Mary's sickly hand 
 for the first time to my lips, I felt that the kiss was ominous. 
 
 I was happy then ; for I had experienced none of those 
 worldly trials, which so soon destroy the harmony of life, and 
 render us but sad companions even to those we love. So deep 
 was I in reveries of this kind, that I found myself after some 
 time in Cavendish-square, the clock as it struck two awakening 
 me to my error. — It is almost impossible to pass through any 
 street in London, without the eye being shocked, or the heart 
 sickened, by some distasteful scene or other ; but so absorbed 
 was I in dreaming of future days of domestic bliss, that I 
 heeded nothing ; I saw not the lamps, or heard the watchman's 
 call ; even the pitiable votaresses of dissipation and crime 
 seemed to glide by like so many phantoms. But my dream 
 being broken, I retraced my steps, and with reason for a guide, 
 soon reached home. Upon my table lay the cards of three of 
 my hospital friends, who had called, no doubt, to congratulate 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 173 
 
 me on my success. They might have envied me other feelings, 
 did they understand them, but of these I could not have spared 
 even one. Their mementos of civility and good fellowship 
 reminded me, however, of a duty which I owed to my earliest 
 benefactor, my brother. He had evinced a desire to be imme- 
 diately written to after my examination, respecting which he 
 had no misgivings, although / had many. Not to seem forgetful 
 of a wish so kindly meant, and so easily gratified, I sat down 
 and opened my desk, for my over-excited frame seemed altoge- 
 ther to refuse entrance to the god of sleep ; on doing so, my 
 eye immediately fell upon Manvers's letter, and what a sensa- 
 tion it occasioned ! His forlorn and pitiable situation at once 
 engrossed my mind. He was on a foreign shore, separated 
 from family and friends ; robbed of the greatest treasure of his 
 heart, and in the midst of bodily and mental anguish ; his 
 hour of death might be approaching, and no friend near him ; — 
 whilst I, surrounded by those I valued, had my cup of happi- 
 ness full to the brim. The comparison bore with it a convic- 
 tion which, I am proud to say, I could not withstand, and I 
 came to the immediate determination of leaving England to join 
 him on the morrow, which had already dawned. I did not 
 seek my feverish pillow till I had written a short and affectionate 
 note to Mary, informing her that my absence from town would 
 be but short; that I was leaving it, indeed reluctantly, but of 
 necessity, for Calais. On Manvers's unhappy business I was 
 silent ; for she had some knowledge of his connexions ; besides, 
 why need her fears be roused either for me or him ? Her health 
 then was too precarious to be trifled with. 
 
 It was within two hours of this, that I was threading my 
 way through the sleepy avenues between Russell-square and 
 Regent-street. What can be much more dreary, than an 
 early walk in Loudon? You meet, it is true, those useful 
 members of society, chimneysweeps, shambling along and 
 breakfasting by the way on a slice of bread (looking ex- 
 quisitely white by comparison), which they help in its digestion 
 with a pint of saloop at the next corner ; or should you be a 
 traveller in the west- end, you may perchance encounter a less in- 
 nocent sect of Londoners than these — namely, the victims of that 
 heartless, sordid passion, gambling. The clock of St. George's, 
 Hanover-square, chimed seven, as I entered the shop of the 
 tradesman with my friend's draft. I had no scruple in using it, 
 for my means were limited, whilst his were adequate. It was 
 paid without hesitation ; and this business being arranged, I 
 had but to secure the earliest conveyance to Dover ; this was 
 a van, both for passengers and luggage, which I was led to 
 believe would reach its destination by the time the mail packet 
 sailed for Calais. Although the vehicle was cumbersome and 
 
174 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 slow, I nevertheless soon lost sight of the spires of London — but 
 all was not then forgotten. The road to Dover passes through 
 one of the most beautiful and fertile counties in England, 
 Kent; yet I little enjoyed the ride, for my thoughts were pain- 
 fully engrossed. The unlucky errand I was on might, and 
 would, in all probability, be attended with fatal results. Should 
 I fail in the attempt to subdue Manvers's master-passion, revenge 
 (and I regarded duelling almost in the sense of murder), I must 
 probably witness bloodshed. It could not end as such occur- 
 rences sometimes do, harmlessly. No, the injury had been too 
 deeply inflicted to be easily atoned. His family — oh, what an 
 estimable and united one it was ! — would shrink from the name 
 of him who had stood by, and seen their only son murdered. 
 But his father had been neglected ; I alone knew of Edward's 
 danger, and kept it secret. Informing him of all that had hap- 
 pened, I might have violated my friend's confidence, but, 
 at the same time, I should preserve what I valued more, his 
 life. A father, by his entreaties, (for Manvers reverenced him), 
 might have rescued his son unharmed from the vortex into 
 which a heartless woman had plunged him. He might have 
 brought him back safe into the bosom of his family, and felt 
 the comfort, in his fast-declining years, of having snatched an 
 affectionate child from the brink of an early grave. But the die 
 was differently cast. 
 
 With these reflections, my only travelling companions, this 
 journey of seventy miles proved painfully tedious ; and it was 
 not until I caught a faint view of Dover-castle, on the heights, 
 that I experienced the least relief. We reached the town in the 
 dusk of the evening, just half an hour too late for that night's 
 packet. I had anticipated this ; it was my usual luck ; so, 
 adding it to my other troubles, after taking some refreshment, 
 I retired to bed. Fortunately, I did not pass another anxious 
 and sleepless night; so jaded was I with the rumbling and 
 shaking of the Dover van, that sleep quickly supervened. The 
 ringing of the harbour-bell awoke me early, and after a hasty 
 toilet, but no breakfast, I went on board the first packet, 
 wherein I had secured a berth immediately on my arrival. 
 
 On as sultry a morning as ever shone, we bore slowly out to 
 sea, which, without a wave or even ripple, seemed to say, Go no 
 further ! But I disregarded its foreboding. It took us a 
 whole day to traverse the salt miles which separated us from 
 France, and experiencing scarcely any tide, at length we 
 came to anchor, at sunset, in Calais harbour. My friend was at 
 Boulogne, and thither I was conveyed as fast as a pair of 
 French horses could drag me. As I entered the hotel where Man- 
 vers and his wife, as I supposed, were staying, my heart almost 
 ceased to beat ; and in order that my agitation might in some 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 175 
 
 degree subside, I hesitated to announce my arrival till I had 
 
 seen his medical attendant, Monsieur , who had his etage 
 
 in a street contiguous to the hotel. Thither, as soon as the house 
 opened, I repaired. The simplicity of his rooms contrasted 
 strangely with the costly establishments of some of our success- 
 ful physicians, who find a spacious hall, two livery servants, and 
 a library loaded with large and erudite-looking works — with here 
 and there a head of Hunter — or Soemmering, as necessary, for 
 the increase of their connexion, as calomel and Epsom salts are 
 to their successful practice. 
 
 Monsieur ■ received me as he would a patient, and his 
 
 Enylish being much better than my French, the particulars of 
 poor Edward's case were soon told : this was all I wanted from 
 him. He informed me that his disease had on the sudden com- 
 pletely changed its character ; that the phrensy at first so violent 
 as to render coercive measures absolutely necessary, had subsided 
 into obstinate sullenness, which was so settled that the most 
 brief and indistinct answers alone could be obtained from him. 
 I also learnt that Mrs. Manvers was at the same hotel, but that 
 he had not seen her. 
 
 The other circumstances he was doubtless acquainted with ; 
 but I deemed silence on these points his duty (it would have 
 been mine), and at once changed the subject of conversation. 
 He very politely agreed to walk immediately back with me to 
 the hotel ; and I availed myself of this opportunity to suggest 
 that it would be better he should inform his patient of my arrival* 
 In this he acquiesced ; — and having done so, he speedily rejoined 
 me, and pointing to the door of the sick chamber, took his leave* 
 
 It was ajar, and as I entered I perceived, as well as the half- 
 darkened room would admit, a figure on the sofa, which, notwith- 
 standing my familiarity with my friend's appearance, I at first hesi- 
 tated to approach. His voice, however (and mournful indeed it 
 was), soon set all doubts aside. I took his pale attenuated hand 
 in mine, and pressed it with a cordiality, which I hoped might 
 rouse him from his lethargy. It did so, for the excitement of 
 that moment, brought back the colour to his sickly cheeks. He 
 then raised himself to a table before him, and leaning on his 
 hand, asked me about his father, the only member of his family 
 he seemed to think of. In these inquiries he was earnest, 
 though dispassionate, which latter was the effect of his surprise 
 at seeing me so soon. The torrent of his feelings speedily burst 
 forth, and it would have been as easy to quench the great fire of 
 London with a single bucket of water as to stay its impetuosity. 
 When he had in a great measure exhausted himself, I ventured to 
 reply. I urged his family's future peace; his own views in 
 life — which, save for the cloud they were now under, seemed 
 brighter than most men's ; that her betrayer (words I dreaded 
 
176 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 to make use of) was a wretch totally worthless of an honourable 
 meeting, and fit only to live on in disgrace, and to smart under 
 the stings of conscience for his villanous and guilty conduct. 
 He heard me calmly to the last; but I felt that my good 
 intentions were all defeated. To turn him from his purpose was 
 impossible ; and so forcibly did his distressing situation appeal 
 to me, that I at length gave up the point, and passively bent to 
 his determination. A duel was inevitable. He occupied himself 
 in folding steadily, and with the greatest precision, a letter, 
 which he put into my hands, entreating me, having read, to 
 deliver it, and bring him an answer. 
 
 In my room I perused it ; it had evidently been written with 
 an unshaking hand, and the feelings which dictated it showed 
 how far the heart was injured. It was eloquent though brief: 
 heaping reproaches on the seducer, and in the end appointing a 
 meeting for seven the following evening on the sea-shore in the 
 vicinity. 
 
 This letter it was my unpleasant office to deliver, and to whom ? 
 — To an Englishman, and an officer — if such a stripling as he 
 was, deserved that epithet. I found him at his hotel, just as 
 one enters Boulogne from the hill, and at breakfast. The army 
 gives every man address, would that it also gave him principle. 
 The young man's manner towards me was particularly pleasing 
 and gentlemanly. Being seated, I had full opportunity to 
 observe his appearance, which, had it not been somewhat 
 effeminate, must have struck every one as elegant and graceful. 
 His features were fair and regular, his eyes large and sparkling, 
 whilst a profusion of hair, the only true auburn I ever met 
 with, clustered in loose curls over his brow. His figure, for he 
 stood to read the letter, was tall and excessively slender, and 
 seemed rather moulded for the painter than the field. And with 
 this prepossessing exterior, could it be possible that the heart 
 was already so depraved ? His years might at most have 
 numbered 20, and yet he was far in his career of depravity. 
 
 I had just finished my survey as he closed the letter. I expected 
 he would write an answer — but he did not ; and, without seem- 
 ing in the least astonished, or disturbed, coolly desired me to 
 assure my friend that he should be punctual. He then moved 
 and rang the bell ; and ere the servant had time to answer it, 
 and show me out, had resumed his breakfast. 
 
 Monsieur was with Manvers when I returned ; they 
 
 were conversing in a subdued voice, but evidently with more 
 freedom. Money lay on the table, which shortly afterwards 
 Monsieur took up and left the room. 
 
 Manvers must have anticipated the answer I bore, for he 
 heard it in the most collected manner. His last remark to me 
 that night was relative to the pistols. He had provided them : 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 177 
 
 they were in a box upon the lounge, and to me were they con- 
 signed till required for their detestable purpose. 
 
 Whilst these sad preliminaries were arranging, where was the 
 thoughtless woman who had rendered them necessary? She 
 remained near the husband she had disgraced ; in the same 
 hotel, but I happily did not see her, although previous to her 
 marriage we had danced and sung together, at the house of 
 Manvers's father, who having, by foresight, industry, and atten- 
 tion, amassed a considerable fortune as a general merchant in 
 Madras, had retired to Hampstead, to terminate his days in the 
 bosom of his family. But his cup unhappily was imbittered 
 when he least expected it. Mrs. Edward Manvers was indeed 
 a beautiful young woman, with a countenance so free from guilt, 
 that her very smiles seemed to certify truth and constancy ; but 
 it was like the lake — the smoother its surface, the deeper its 
 waters. She wrote to Manvers on the night before the duel. 
 My arrival had stirred within her guilty bosom a suspicion that 
 he was about to expose himself to danger. Her letter he gave 
 me next day as we were going to the place appointed. He said, 
 he dared not keep it ; she had made all the atonement words 
 could do, but they could never meet again, and the letter 
 would but rekindle feelings that pained him. Her words were 
 these. Oh ! that she could write them, and have sinned ! 
 
 " My Husband, 
 
 " I dare not say beloved, for it would seem mocking you 
 in your distress, and in mine which is still greater, for you are 
 innocent whilst I am guilty, and this stain must remain whilst I 
 live ; but do you forget it ! In a thoughtless moment, when 
 your image was absent from my heart, I injured, deeply injured 
 and disgraced you. I have thus lost my protector and my 
 husband, and left a stigma on my character which nothing can 
 efface. But I need not dwell too long upon my miseries, which 
 in vain have I tried to dissipate by tears. Your friend— he was 
 once mine-— is now with you. Had I but one to whom I dared 
 unburden this wretched mind, the weight that now overwhelms 
 it would be lightened. He will not, dare not sanction bloodshed, 
 and my fears tell me you are preparing for it. If you cannot 
 think of me, he may, to the extent of keeping you from harm. 
 I ask no more : perhaps I deprecate what cannot be prevented. 
 You owe me nothing, but there are those to whom you are 
 indebted for the life you are about to expose to danger. Think 
 of them ; return to them ; and leave me where I am likely to 
 find my grave ; although necessity must soon drive me back to 
 England, and to my family, where reproach and shame await me. 
 To this I must submit ; but ere I say farewell, may Heaven pre- 
 serve the life which I have so imbittered V* 
 
 I never in my recollection passed a day so miserable as the 
 
178 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 27th of July, 1814, Manvers and I were together all the morn- 
 ing ; but in the afternoon, thinking he might have letters, per- 
 haps his last, to write, I left him alone ; and with the hope of 
 shaking off ennui, I strolled through the principal street, and 
 soon arrived at the pier. The beauty of the day had brought 
 all the company of Boulogne to this promenade ; and I envied 
 them the spirits they seemed to possess. I but little imagined 
 then that this was the ill-fated spot where Mrs. Manvers first met 
 her betrayer ; — yes, in the glitter of that heartless throng she 
 first listened to his flattering words, and from this apparently 
 harmless intercourse sprang one, producing shame and sorrow. 
 
 I left the spot, and returned to the hotel. I found Manvers 
 dressing ; he had evidently been employed at his desk. When 
 his toilet was completed, we made a sparing dinner, but he, 
 even under all the circumstances, ate more than I did. It had 
 struck five, and my friend seemed impatient; I perceived him 
 to be minutely inspecting the hateful box upon the lounge — oh, 
 how I should have liked to have thrown it into the sea ! I paced 
 the room for several minutes ; he was still occupied with the 
 pistols— what were his feelings then ! There was no evidence of 
 fear : although within one brief hour of what might be his last, 
 his self-possession forsook him not. The box was closed and 
 locked, and we were preparing to depart, when he stopped me 
 at the door; and shocked indeed was I, when I heard him 
 entreat from me but one further act of friendship. — The pistols 
 were to be loaded on the spot by, or in the presence of, his 
 adversary's second ; who, he thought, might be induced to 
 sanction his only wish — namely, that, to render the catastrophe 
 more prompt and decisive, they should be, on both sides, doubly 
 loaded ! 
 
 This was too dreadful — I hesitated ; but, alas S that hesita- 
 tion seemed to him compliance. His bodily state was much 
 too weak to allow of our walking, and we hired a conveyance 
 which brought us within a few hundred yards of the point 
 specified. There we waited, watching in silence the faithful 
 tide recede from the shores of France. Manvers intrusted to 
 me, on the event of his foiling, letters for his family : I took 
 them with a trembling hand, for all my courage had forsaken 
 me. It was now past the hour, though but a few seconds, 
 when, turning my eye in the direction of Boulogne, I saw two 
 persons approaching across a small shelf of rocks, which seemed 
 completely to fortify and seclude the spot we stood upon. The 
 figure in advance I recognised at once, by its gay exterior, and 
 by the light step with which its owner bounded over the rocks, 
 as a boy would do in his sport. 
 
 He bowed to me, and also to Manvers, who looked contemp- 
 tuously on his courtesy. The second person had by this time 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 179 
 
 come up : he was also military, but had grown quite gray in the 
 service. 
 
 It is unnecessary to dwell long upon the details of a duel ; 
 suffice it to say, that every step was taken in the most collected 
 and determined manner by Lieut. Courtenay's second. We 
 retired a few yards to prepare the pistols, which he undertook 
 to do, for they were weapons I had scarcely ever handled, and 
 certainly not to point against man ; the few minutes this occu- 
 pied were indeed trying. I felt the blood rush from my cheeks 
 to my heart, where it seemed awhile to stagnate, and then to 
 crimson them again. What folly could have induced me to be an 
 actor in one of those scenes which darken the face of society ? 
 This was not, however, a time for much reflection. The Major, 
 (for he had attained that rank) told me all was ready. I re- 
 ceived the pistol, and placed it in the grasp of my friend. At 
 the understood signal, both were pointed, and in an instant, I 
 heard the two reports. I looked, fearing that one or the other 
 would fall — it was not so — they both remained standing and 
 unharmed. They retired to load again ; when the Major — oh, 
 that bad and cold-blooded man ! who seemed but to anticipate 
 fatal results — suggested that we should advance our men, on 
 each harmless exchange of shots, a pace nearer, so that at last 
 there could be no escape. However unusual such a proposi- 
 tion, in this instance it was assuredly made, although firmly 
 resisted by me. But there has been a visitation on this heartless 
 man ; as, within three years after the duel, it was my lot to 
 witness. He, his wife, son, and daughter, were all swept off; 
 while some thousand pounds amassed by him, in the army 
 (by what means is not known), and invested in a French bank, 
 lay without either friend or relative coming forward to claim it. 
 
 The second interchange of shots terminated this unhappy 
 affair, but not, thank Heaven, by the death of either party. 
 Manvers fell, and I was by his side in an instant. The ball had 
 entered the thigh, and had traversed, and carried off the 
 knee-cap. A worse accident, short of death, could not well 
 have happened. He was lamed, inevitably lamed for life. It 
 was, however, some relief, when I knew it w T as not a fatal 
 wound, to act as his surgeon. I was applying the usual 
 dressings, when Lieut. Courtenay approached. Had Manvers 
 been dying, he might have extended his hand even to her be- 
 trayer; but as it was, he scorned his advances. The feelings of 
 the wounded man must indeed have been enviable compared to 
 those of his victor, who, nevertheless, shortly afterwards left the 
 ground with his sanguinary second, in the most flippant manner. 
 After about an hour, the shock from the wound had subsided, 
 and I, deeming it necessary that some conveyance should be pro- 
 cured, left my friend in a fisherman's hut close by, while I 
 hastily returned to Boulogne to obtain one. 
 
180 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 It was totally dark when we reached the hotel. Monsieur 
 „ me t me that night to examine Manvers's wound. It pro- 
 mised to be some months before he could leave his room, and 
 so it turned out ; for on the 22d of May, in the following year, 
 I met him under the Piazza in Covent- garden, walking with 
 crutches. He had only the day before returned, alone, to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 How different were our situations ! He, totally incapacitated 
 from pursuing the arduous duties of his profession ; whilst I, 
 blessed with the vigour of health, continued to labour in it. I 
 was happy to hear that his fond and indulgent father allowed 
 him a handsome competence in his distresses — to the subject of 
 which, however, by a sort of tacit compact, we no more alluded. 
 Poverty being kept from the door, he had ample opportunities 
 for following his tastes for painting, literature, and music. 
 
 Poor Manvers and I entertained for each other, I really be- 
 lieve, the most disinterested and lasting regard. It was not 
 yet my good fortune to be much occupied in the active duties 
 of a professional life; I had, in fact, no establishment, and 
 but little connexion ; hence, leisure afforded me constant op- 
 portunities of being with him. His case had excited all my 
 sympathies ; for there could be no mistaking the fact that his 
 health was giving way. In my visits, I generally met his 
 father at his lodgings, which were in Henrietta-street, Covent- 
 garden. The venerable man (he had seen his 70th year) was 
 a true model of the old school ; and notwithstanding the cli- 
 mate he had lived in, carried with him all the appearances of 
 vigorous health. 
 
 Edward's wound continued, at times, very troublesome, and 
 from the pain he endured, it soon became evident that exfolia- 
 tion had taken place. Old Mr. Manvers was aware of this, 
 and, after consulting me, requested I would procure further 
 advice. This I at once agreed to do, being anxious to relieve 
 myself of undivided responsibility. I had already gone too far 
 with him in circumstances of danger; could I then see him 
 suffering, and not feel a portion of remorse? Mr. C, my old 
 teacher, came at my request, and made a most careful exami- 
 nation of the wound. His opinion was unfavourable, and there 
 was no concealing it from Manvers. He seemed, however, to have 
 anticipated all it was our duty to tell him ; the sad alternative 
 of amputation could alone save him from a premature grave, 
 so perceptible were the ravages of the disease. His nights 
 were passed in extreme restlessness and suffering, which the 
 largest doses of laudanum could not quiet ; and it was only 
 towards morning, when nature could bear no more, that he ob- 
 tained sleep. This infatuating poison, to which he was con- 
 stantly driven, from distracting pains, was also enervating his 
 once vigorous mind, for he was not at all times sufficiently 
 
DIARY OF A SURGEON. 181 
 
 collected either to understand or answer me. Mr. C. who could 
 enforce (although feelingly) the necessity of an operation, with 
 as much skill as he could perform one, devoted on this occa- 
 sion an hour of his valuable time to my friend ; and although 
 he urged that his measures were speedily necessary, he allowed 
 full time for deliberation ; for who can at once summon the 
 courage necessary to submit ? 
 
 I never met a man, in my estimation, so deserving of success as 
 Mr. C. His kind, though jocose manner, suited all, and at once 
 brought him a lucrative practice. He was, besides, totally 
 devoid of that self-sufficiency and abruptness which is both 
 ungentlemanly and unfeeling, indicative indeed rather of a 
 vulgar than of a cultivated mind. The only person who has 
 become popular in spite of this unnatural mannerism, is the 
 late Mr. Abernethy. His science, however, (for who knew the 
 human frame better ?) added to his real humanity — which all 
 who have seen him at the bedside must have witnessed — were 
 weighty apologies for apparent want of courtesy. 
 
 During one of Mr. C.'s visits, whilst he and Manvers were 
 pursuing their no very agreeable tete-a-tete, I was standing with 
 the old gentleman at the window. I watched his countenance, 
 as he caught a word now and then, become pale — and not 
 wishing to notice it, subsequently directed my eyes towards the 
 street. There were but few persons passing, which caused me, 
 perhaps, to observe two handsomely dressed individuals. One 
 of them was an officer, the other a young lady in mourning. I 
 could not mistake them ; late events had rendered me familiar 
 with the one, and earlier recollections with the other. It was 
 Lieut. Courtenay and Edward's wife. I felt it almost a mercy 
 that old Mr. Manvers could not see them ; for although the 
 sufferings of a son were hourly reminding him of her dishonour, 
 and his misfortune, Mrs. Manvers's absence (for I found she 
 had not till lately returned to England), had caused her per- 
 sonally to be forgotten by him. She, on her path of guilt, 
 knew not what her wronged husband had yet to suffer. Had 
 she done so, she must have felt additional remorse. 
 
 Mr. C. left the room at this moment, and we rode together to 
 his hospital. We agreed that I should visit Manvers the next 
 day, and hear his determination. But I was too anxious to 
 leave him alone till then, and returned. I spent the evening 
 with him. He appeared but little agitated, and without my 
 alluding to the painful subject, at once in the most earnest 
 manner fixed a day, the following Monday, for the operation. 
 I declare, as we parted for the night, I could scarcely release his 
 feverish hand from mine : his sufferings were really heart-rending. 
 For nearly two years had he now been, without complaining, 
 a prey to both mental and bodily anguish, and his trials were 
 not yet over. 
 
182 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 The appointed Monday came. How rapidly dees time glide 
 on when any doom or suffering impends — not so, however, when 
 pleasure is anticipated; the minutes then seem hours; the 
 hours days; till we experience its false and fleeting joys. The 
 instruments were sent by Mr. C. to my house on the previous 
 night, and it was my mournful task to arrange them. I had just 
 done so as his carriage drove to the door. When I heard his 
 footsteps on the stairs, I confess I trembled. What then must 
 Edward have felt ? Mr. C.'s task, in this instance, I would not 
 have undertaken for an empire ! To witness it required all my 
 fortitude. When we entered Manvers's sick room, there was an 
 hospital nurse, whom I had taken care to provide, in attendance, 
 and at the bed's head sat the father. He was giving his son 
 wine, and did not at first observe us. After a few words from 
 Mr. C, which I scarcely heard, the necessary preparations were 
 made ; and so skilful did the operator prove, that the entire 
 scene did not afterwards occupy more than two or three 
 minutes. One of the most gratifying, though affecting sights I 
 remember, was that of the fond old man (who could not be per- 
 suaded to leave the room), kissing the forehead of his son. Big 
 drops of suppressed anguish stood there, for he had not uttered 
 the faintest sigh during his agony, and there was a resignation in 
 his looks t^at could not be forgotten. During the whole night 
 his father watched him. I was also there to guard against any 
 hemorrhage. He had sleep at intervals, which was free from 
 dreams, and in the morning seemed even refreshed. Day and 
 night passed thus on, and favourably to our patient. I watched 
 him with a brother's care, and from this attendance on one of 
 the most exemplary and pitiable young men it was ever my lot 
 to meet with, I derived more real pleasure than I can describe. 
 Nor were our hopes blighted, or our cares exercised in vain. 
 The worm being rooted out, the tree flourished. Every day he 
 appeared to gain fresh strength. The hectic died upon his 
 cheek, and the darker blush of health returned ; and from these 
 bodily improvements the mind derived fresh vigour, for in the 
 course of a few weeks Manvers was able to leave London for 
 his father's house at Hampstead. He had long relinquished all 
 idea of practice, and still lives in comparative tranquillity, though 
 in seclusion. Had fate dealt less harshly with my friend, there 
 is no doubt but he would have taken a high rank in his profes- 
 sion ; for, in addition to means and connexion, he possessed a 
 powerful and original mind, which could master any subject. 
 
 The veil of silence has long been drawn over the lost Mrs. 
 Manvers. A voluntary exile frcm all she should have valued : 
 may she reflect — and ere it be too late, turn from her guilty path, 
 and strive to retrieve, by repentance, the error of a young and 
 thoughtless heart ! 
 
SANDIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE BARBERS AT COURT," AND OTHER DRAMAS. 
 
 Bauldy Cochrane once kept a tavern in London called the 
 Burns's Head. It is not so long since, but he must be still fresh 
 in the memories of many, for he was a character, and stood 
 forward in this age of civilized monotony. 
 
 Bauldy had been a jeweller in the north, but having drunk 
 deeply — not of any exciseable spirit (though mine host, to do 
 him justice, knew and approved the purposes of wholesome 
 liquor), but of poetic furor — he became non compos, and having 
 no head of his own, made free to live under that of Burns. The 
 value of patience was practically illustrated at the Burns's Head ; 
 for any fellow who was possessed of that virtue need want for 
 nothing the house contained. Allow Bauldy to entertain him 
 by reciiing " Scots wha ha'," and he might ensure all other en- 
 tertainment on the most liberal terms : so he did not stop mine 
 host's mouth, he was free to fill his own as he pleased. The 
 consequence of all this was, that Bauldy Cochrane drove a busy 
 trade, and would have soon made his fortune had he*looked to 
 the one thing needful ; but the majority of his customers were 
 of that sort who, after devouring an honest man's substance, add 
 to the injury by allowing the poor dupe to record his own folly. 
 There was not a door in the house but was carefully stippled" 
 over with chalk from the top to the bottom. 
 
 I believe the poor fellow was ruined, and after, in despair, 
 turned player, in his 56th year. Whether he is still alive I 
 know not. 
 
 It was at Bauldy's house that I encountered Mr. Willie 
 Gordon, an old Scotch adventurer, who had a fist like a sledge- 
 hammer, with which he always struck the table if any of his 
 assertions were contradicted. How far they merited contradic- 
 tion, the reader must judge from the following, which is related 
 as accurately as the distance between the present time and 
 when I first heard it will allow an old man's memory. 
 
 Sandie Sandeman, piper to a former Laird of Airly, loved his 
 glass better than he loved any thing else in this world, or maybe 
 in the next. He fuddled all the week, and got drunk on the 
 Sundays; so that it was remarked, one new-year's eve, that 
 during the whole of the preceding year Sandie had not once en- 
 tered a place of public worship. This sad neglect caused Sandie 
 no shame, nor did he appear to regard the old women when they 
 
184 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 crossed themselves in pious horror, and informed him that such 
 violation of religious duty was the only thing that could place a 
 mortal being at the disposal of the fairies. 
 
 Every reproof or caution he washed away with a dram, and as 
 these were the reverse of a angels' visits," the piper, when he 
 attempted to leave the house on the occasion alluded to, was far 
 advanced towards that state which has been described as the 
 only true independence. He was undeniably drunk : he could 
 not stand without assistance, and it was plain nonsense to think 
 he could travel three long Scotch miles and " the bittock," 
 without help of a substantial kind. 
 
 Rory Fergus, who had hitherto been the piper's friend on such 
 occasions, now stood forward. He did not fancy travelling over 
 the heath, famous in legendary history, and known by the name 
 of the " Deil's Stewpan," with a man whom he now regarded 
 as denounced. But being laughed at by the company present, 
 Rory's blood became heated, and with a profane expression it is 
 as well to omit, he took the drunkard's arm, and they proceeded 
 on their journey. 
 
 As they neared the heath, the wind began to rise : the clouds 
 huddled closer together, and then down came the rain, smacking 
 in the faces of the travellers, and making Rory vent many a 
 dreadful curse upon what he called his ovcrnature. The change 
 in the weather sobered Sandie so far as to enable him, with 
 Rory's assistance, to push forward at a good walking trot — when 
 they were suddenly joined by a third party, who, according to 
 Rory's account, seemed to him the smartest and handsomest 
 man he had ever seen. The presence of such a person at such a 
 time and in such a place, could not fail to strike them both as 
 somewhat extraordinary ; yet, owing to the annoyance of the 
 weather, they neither cared to address the stranger, or inquire 
 whence he came. They had travelled about half a mile in 
 silence, when the stranger produced a flask, made of the clearest 
 crystal, containing about a pint of rich straw-coloured liquor, 
 which Sandie's eye instinctively recognised as a drop of fine old 
 whiskey. The stranger put the flask to his mouth, and the liquor 
 bubbled up inside the bottle. 
 
 " Eh !" thought Sandie, " that's fine." 
 
 " That's fine !* said the stranger, drawing his breath, and 
 making a noise with his lips that caused the piper's heart to leap 
 within him. 
 
 " Might a poor body make so bold — " said Sandie, who could 
 no longer resist the temptation. 
 
 Before he could finish the sentence the flask was in Sandie's 
 hand, who, not waiting to thank the gentleman for his civility, 
 instantly applied it to his mouth, when, to his great surprise, the 
 liqour was gone, and nothing came from the inverted bottle but 
 
SANDIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 185 
 
 a thick vapour, that got down his throat and well-nigh choked 
 him. 
 
 The first impulse of Sandie's disappointment tempted him to 
 dash the flask to pieces, but the stranger arrested his arm, and 
 gently took it from him. 
 
 Rory looked at the gentleman, and could not help thinking 
 that his appearance was somewhat altered : he no longer seemed 
 so very handsome, but rather the reverse, and Rory's heart 
 trembled, as the many tales he had heard about the inhabitants 
 of the other world passed confusedly through his memory. 
 
 The rain about this time came down in a solid mass, and the 
 piper and his friend were soon wet to the skin. 
 
 " Deil take the night," said Sandie, pettishly, " it were worth 
 one's soul to have the sight of a full stoup, for it's more we have 
 to do with swimming than walking, and the cold night-air gnaws 
 the flesh off one's bones. " 
 
 As Sandie said this, he cast up his eyes, and there was the 
 stranger, with his clear crystal flask up to his mouth, drinking. 
 
 Sandie looked at the liquor. It was rightly tinted — mellow 
 with a respectable age ; and as it appeared to gurgle down the 
 drinker's throat, the poor piper was bewildered to think he had 
 had hold of that bottle, and it had passed from his hands without 
 his draining it. 
 
 " Well," thought Sandie, " I must have been beastly drunk 
 not to discern a bottle of whiskey from a bottle of smoke — or tell 
 a full flagon from a foul flask." 
 
 When the stranger plucked away the clear crystal flask from his 
 lips, he exhaled a long breath. Sandie did the same, but his 
 sigh was in despair, for he could not ask the gentleman to oblige 
 him a second time, having misbehaved himself a few moments 
 before ; so forward they walked, and were near the centre of the 
 common, when the piper felt something cold tickle the palm of 
 his hand, and sure enough he had hold of the stranger's bottle. 
 
 " You have a heart of humanity — bless you !" said Sandie to 
 the stranger; to whom, nodding his head, he added, " Here's to 
 you !" and making up his mouth for a hearty swig, he put the 
 bottle to his lips, when, as before, the liquor vanished, and the 
 piper sucked such a quantity of the foul steam that issued from 
 the flask, as made him cough violently. 
 
 Rory looked at the gentleman, and thought he had never seen 
 any thing in his life half so hideous ; indeed, this time he could 
 not bear the sight of him. 
 
 14 Eh !" thought Sandie, " I'll not be fooled now ;" whereupon 
 he fell to examining the bottle. He turned it up, but nothing 
 dropped ! — he shook it soundly, but nothing rattled !— he smelt 
 at it, but instead of the concentrated essence of all that's de- 
 lightful, paugh ! it was a stink that must have strangled a toad ! 
 
 p 
 
186 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Deil take me," said Sandie in a passion, " but I'll smash 
 you to pieces !" whereon he raised his arm, and with all the 
 force of disappointment, dashed the bottle to the ground ; when, 
 to their surprise, instead of breaking into a thousand atoms, 
 it passed into the earth uninjured, and, through the opening 
 chasm, it might be seen sinking and sinking, as though the land 
 they stood on were turned to air. 
 
 When the two men saw this, they became afraid, and turned 
 to where the stranger had stood. He was gone ! 
 
 Rory was now certain that spirits were abroad, and he 
 doubted not that they had been in company with the devil him- 
 self, whom his companion had pledged as a friend — nay, what 
 was worse, blessed as a benefactor. 
 
 " I'll try and repeat a prayer," thought Rory ; but no sooner 
 had he begun than Sandie Sandeman set to howling, shouting, 
 swearing, and blaspheming, in a manner horrid to think of. 
 
 " He's mad ! — he's d d mad !" said Rory. " What can I 
 
 do with him I I took him in charge — I must not desert him, and 
 I am sore feared to stay longer in this place than will serve my 
 legs to carry me out of it. Lord help us !" 
 
 At the last words the piper set up a howl sufficiently loud to 
 find an echo On a heath of six miles circumference, for it was 
 repeated several times plainly and distinctly. 
 
 Rory was now frightened into action ; so, seizing firm hold of 
 Sandie's arm, and holding down his head to keep the rain from 
 his face, he commenced running at his greatest speed, compel- 
 ling the piper to accompany him. On reaching the centre of 
 the heath, Rory ran against something which, to his surprise, 
 was materially harder than his own head, and which, on looking 
 up, he found to be a house of genteel dimensions. Now, he 
 had crossed the Stewpan that day in the forenoon, and could 
 on his oath assert no house was then there ; yet the present one 
 had the appearance of having stood for ages. It was wonder- 
 fully bothering, and while Rory was mystifying over these 
 things, he heard such a bagpipe begin to play ! It was plainly 
 no mortal music. It squeaked and grunted, snarled and snorted, 
 too melodiously for northern ears to listen long to unmoved. — 
 Sandie, at the sound of such divine harmony, appeared to 
 revive. 
 
 " Come away, Sandie, man," said Rory. " Its tempting 
 Providence to listen to such delightful music. Oh ! it's enough 
 to make a dying man foot to it. Do come away, Sandie." 
 
 " Eh !" cried Sandie, "if Moggy Macwriggle was here, how 
 her pretty wee foot would fly to it !" — saying which, he began to 
 move about his own, endeavouring to give his terrified companion 
 some idea of Moggy's " poetry of motion." 
 
 " Come, Sandie — come !" begged Rory, almost in tears; " it's 
 ill dancing when the deil pipes." 
 
SANDIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 187 
 
 But Sandie seemed to have got into the heat of it — for he 
 was shouting, jumping, twisting, and twirling, so as Rory had 
 never seen man shout, jump, twist, or twirl before in his life. 
 It was not, in fact, like any human dance. It was as though 
 some one had tied a rope to the piper's head, and jerked him 
 about with it for amusement. Up he went, high enough to 
 take the breath away — down he came, hard enough to flatten 
 him. But no ; the next moment he was kicking his heels again 
 in the air, almost horizontal with the moon. 
 
 " Do come away, Sandie, man !" cried Rory, " you must be 
 sorely tired." 
 
 Poor Sandie answered with such a groan ! 
 
 On this Rory took to his heels, and was found by some neigh- 
 bours the following morning, lying beside his mother's door, 
 which was six miles from the centre of the Deil's Stewpan. 
 How he got off the heath — which way he came — or what time it 
 took him — he could not remember ; but all that concerned poor 
 Sandie was fresh in his recollection, and he repeated it, to the 
 wonderment of the neighbourhood. 
 
 A party of villagers, headed by the parish priest, went to 
 search for the piper. They marched to the centre of the De'il's^ 
 Stewpan, but though Rory protested he had left Sandie there 
 on the preceding evening, he was now nowhere to be discerned, 
 nor could they discover any traces of him except a large pool of 
 blood, which was smeared about, as though feet had been 
 stamped violently on the ground. 
 
 " Lord help poor Sandie!" cried all with one voice — "ha* 
 mercy on the wretch." 
 
 " He was very remiss in public duties," suggested the priest, 
 by way of caution to his parishioners. 
 
 " They ha' gotten him, and they'll keep the poor body dancing 
 till the day of judgment comes to his relief." 
 
 The priest addressed the assembly on the spot, and the vil- 
 lagers gave the holy father money for the sake of Sandie's soul ; 
 for the reverend man failed not to caution them against placing 
 themselves in the power of the fairies, or stopping to listen to 
 music played by the devil himself, as such harmony had always 
 a mighty skill in making people dance, which was much to be 
 guarded against — inasmuch as though the commencement of 
 the jig was at the dancer's option, not so its continuation. 
 Having once set off, the poor man was first made to jump about 
 till the very exercise was sufficiently violent to sweat all his 
 blood, or, as the priest termed it, " all his mortal life," through 
 the pores of his skin. (In support of the truth of this part of 
 the holy father's knowledge, he pointed to the stained ground, 
 and the footmarks about the place, which none doubted were 
 made by the piper while undergoing the operation.) — When this 
 
 p 2 
 
188 UBBARY OF FICTION. 
 
 was completed, the victim became invisible to mankind, ex- 
 cepting at certain periods of the year — when, owing to the in- 
 fluence of the moon, all the state secrets of the lower world are 
 discernible by such as esteem them worthy their curiosity. At 
 such times, the priest said, Sandie might be seen dancing to the 
 deil as bagpiper, and must continue so to dance against his will 
 for all eternity, unless learning or magic could discover some- 
 thing sufficiently powerful to wrest him from the spell that held 
 him. It was to no purpose that the priest prayed and rang his 
 little bell about the spot. Old women's arts were not one jot more 
 successful ; and nothing being found of the piper, the magis- 
 trates had poor Rory taken up — and sad to relate, they hanged 
 him for the murder of his companion, though Rory on the scaf- 
 fold protested he was guiltless of any harm upon that score. 
 
 Time and this story marched on together, and neither lost 
 much by their age. The place where the footmarks had been at 
 first observed became a large hole, which was doubtless worn 
 there by Sandie's jigging it eternally on that spot. Indeed, 
 many truth-loving and respectable men — fathers of families — 
 were found to assert, and, if w T ished, were ready to make oath, 
 t that they had at various times, on rainy nights, seen a poor aged 
 cripple playing sad tricks about the hole which we have 
 accounted for in the centre of the Stewpan — which cripple no 
 sensible man could doubt was removed from all mortal law ; 
 for, though he was no fatter than a ghost, and looked ill beyond 
 earth's life, yet his antics were agile past all human belief. 
 
 So things stood till the troublesome time of 1745, when the 
 Laird of Airly having declared against the house of Hanover, 
 on the Pretender's defeat his estates were confiscated and his 
 tenants deprived of certain employ under an indulgent master. 
 Many of these poor creatures suffered severely, but none more 
 than Donald Christie, who had formerly been the laird's herds- 
 man. Donald's family was large and hungry. This was a sore 
 trial, but the wife's tongue made the bitterest drop in the good 
 man's cup. She was an ill-looking jade ; but report adds that 
 her looks were fairer than her mind. Donald, in his distress, 
 clung to his rifle, and for a time kept his wife's tongue still, by 
 bringing home many a fat buck on his shoulders. 
 
 One day Donald returned better laden than usual, and as 
 he flung the game on the floor of the cot he could not help say- 
 ing, " Would to goodness the laird were here to sup off this 
 fortune, for I'm afraid he needs it !" 
 
 " Hold your clack, fool !" screamed Mistress Christie, " and 
 think of those that should be nearer and dearer to your home 
 and heart than the silly brute who ha' brought honester people 
 than himself to ruin by turning traitor." 
 
 Donald was a true Highlander. He loved his laird as dearly 
 
SAN DIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 189 
 
 as he loved himself ; and he replied in no gentle tone to his 
 dame's advice ; whereupon the good folks had some words 
 together, in the course of which the herdsman learnt that 
 during his absence that day a poor famished creature had 
 crawled to his door and asked for charity, saying " that for three 
 days and nights he had not lain under shelter nor tasted food, 
 save a little brose which he had mixed in the heel of his shoe." 
 
 At first, Mistress Christie bade him depart, but his hungry 
 cries, at length, even overcame her resolution, and her hand was 
 in the meal-tub when it occurred to her that the poor man was 
 probably a rebel : if so, as the soldiers were in the neighbourhood, 
 to feed him was to incur danger — which Mistress Christie was 
 not inclined to do for the sake of simple charity. 
 
 " Good man," said she, " show me your hand. — Eh, would 
 you bring your sorrow under my thatch ? Get you gone, and 
 be quick, to your lurking-place ; for your hand is too white an«? 
 too soft for any honest man to own it. Get from my threshold, 
 I'll no lower my bairns' stock to feed evidence that may ruin 
 us!" 
 
 " I have not strength to take me hence," replied the poor 
 man ; " I am worn to death. Do not drive me out, for I am, 
 numbed with the cold, and feel very ill." Saying which, he laid 
 himself upon the floor, at a little distance from the fire, and, 
 covering his face, wept like a vexed child. 
 
 The man's misery only made Mistress Christie the more angry 
 with him : and when he did not heed her commands to quit her 
 house, she threatened to send her children in search of the sol- 
 diery, and deliver him to his enemies. 
 
 When the fugitive heard this, his visage kindled with anger, 
 and he told her that he was the Laird of Airly, at whose board 
 she and hers had eaten ; and now all he asked of her, in remem- 
 brance of past time and service, was a very little food, that he 
 might not perish for actual hunger. — The dame would give him 
 nothing, and the poor laird left her house to die, as she thought, 
 upon the mountain's side. 
 
 " Woe to you and me!" cried Donald, when he heard this — 
 " you have turned back the hand that has fed you — you have 
 threatened betrayal to the Laird who defended you ! God 
 help us !" 
 
 " What ails you, fool V* asked the wife. 
 
 " You have done°good service to the deil, whose chick you 
 are," continued Donald, in great bitterness. " You have sown 
 in wickedness, and good cannot grow of it. Would we were 
 in our graves ! — sad will be our journey to them. None that bear 
 Donald Christie's blood can prosper. You have given the Evil 
 one mastery over us. Cursed be the day I saw you ! Coldness 
 seize the heart that loved you ! Oh Madge ! I have put up 
 
190 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 with much — I have borne much for you ; but this is past 
 patience." 
 
 In conclusion, he rushed from the house to seek his master; 
 but it was a vain search, and all that night Donald slept not for 
 agony. 
 
 From this time fortune changed with the herdsman. He 
 walked further, and tried harder, than he had been accustomed 
 to do, but he seldom neared the game ; and, when he did, his 
 aim usually failed. It was plain to Donald's eyes that (owing 
 to his wife's conduct) he was under the influence of those evil 
 creatures which revel in the centre of the earth. He became 
 dejected, and his proud firm step was changed for the lazy 
 pace of a skulker. 
 
 Doubtless Donald would have raised his hand against his own 
 life ; but, with the belief that he was in the power of the devil, 
 came an idea that nothing mortal could destroy him ; that he 
 must live to a certain period ; for the termination whereof he 
 prayed as anxiously as ever bridegroom did for his bridal-day. 
 
 In this state affairs remained for some months, when it came 
 to pass that Donald's family had not tasted food for three days. 
 
 In vain did the herdsman scale the precipices he had in more 
 prosperous times pronounced inaccessible. Nothing in the 
 shape of game was to be found, and he was returning home on 
 the third day exhausted in mind as well as body, when he came 
 to the heath called the Deil's Stewpan. No sooner had Do- 
 nald placed his foot upon this far-famed spot than the sky 
 changed from blue to iron-gray. The clouds descended ; and 
 the whistling wind beat the rain against Donald's face till his 
 skin smarted under the infliction. He pulled his bonnet lower 
 over his forehead ; rested his chin upon his breast ; and 
 shrugging up his shoulders, continued onward, and was passing 
 the hole which marked the centre of the heath, when he was 
 startled by hearing something move ; and on turning round, he 
 saw a fine fat stag tossing its antlers into the air and skipping 
 about in the rain like a lamb in sunshine ! 
 
 It struck Donald as somewhat odd that such an animal should 
 be seen there in such weather ; but he was too happy at the 
 chance of taking his children food, to stand in the wet, question- 
 ing probabilities. 
 
 He cocked his gun and brought the piece to his eye ; but no 
 sooner had he taken aim, than the stag disappeared, and Donald 
 saw in its stead a man, who seemed old enough to be Time's 
 grandfather, kicking up his heels and jumping about in a man- 
 ner violently contrasted with his appearance. 
 
 " Eh ! " cried Donald, " I were within a guess of the blood 
 stain." 
 
 He instantly lowered his gun, which he had no sooner done 
 
SANDIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 191 
 
 than there was the stag again, frisking and twirling about as if 
 the animal was provoking the herdsman to sup off venison. 
 
 It was a stag beyond all doubt; a real one too ; for Donald 
 saw it shake its head when the rain beat in its face, and heard 
 the sound of its tread as it capered over the ground. 
 
 Having satisfied himself of this, Donald once more lifted his 
 gun to his shoulder; but the instant he shut one eye the stag 
 popped out of sight, and there was the old man leaping and 
 bounding about the hole in so vigorous and extraordinary a 
 manner as filled Donald with amazement. 
 
 The first time, the poor herdsman had been too much sur- 
 prised to observe more than the extreme age and singular agility 
 of the ancient dancer ; but he was now more composed, and 
 looked steadily at the strange figure before him. How old the 
 creature might be Donald could give no guess, for he had never 
 seen any object whereby to calculate such excessive longevity. 
 The body, or rather skeleton (for it was little else), appeared 
 almost mouldy with age ; and the few rags that hung in tatters 
 round it were of a fashion perfectly unlike any thing worn by the 
 people of Donald's time and country. 
 
 Having satisfied himself of the reality of what he saw, the 
 herdsman shouted out to the old man to move away, as there 
 was a stag in the neighbourhood, and if he shot he might do 
 him a mischief; but, instead of attending to the caution, the 
 old fellow kept on dancing — and, if possible, jumped higher 
 than he had done before ; seeing which, Donald, unwilling to 
 infliot an injury on any one, lowered his piece, and then the 
 saltatory old gentleman disappeared, and the stag once more 
 bounded forward. 
 
 " Grief ha' made me daft !" said Donald ; " I no longer 
 know the difference 'twixt an old man and a young buck." Yet, 
 resolved to act with caution, he cried out, "If any one's there, 
 move forward — I'm going to fire !" 
 
 No one moved. Donald began to feel angry — perhaps some- 
 what frightened ; so, to bring the business to a conclusion, he 
 resolved not to shut his eye this time — but, taking his aim at 
 the shoulder of the animal as well as he could, without heighten- 
 ing his piece he fired. The wind soon carried away the smoke, 
 and Donald ran to the spot where the stag had stood. No 
 stag was there, but on the edge of the hole lay an unsightly 
 heap, which he recognised as the body of the old man whom he 
 had seen dancing. 
 
 " Seeing's believing:" — yet Donald saw and could not believe. 
 He stared around, but there was no stag in sight, and the mass 
 that lay at his feet was too horrible a sight to for him willingly to 
 recognise as reality. He dared not touch it with his hand, and 
 with difficulty mustered courage sufficient to place his foot upon 
 
192 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the figure, which gave way beneath his tread, but offered suf- 
 ficient resistance to convince him that it was reality — of what- 
 ever it might be composed, the shape was substantial. He 
 reeled from the spot, sick with terror, and would have fallen, 
 but for a gust that came with unusual fury at that moment, and 
 refreshed him with its coldness. 
 
 Donald leant upon his gun, and while he gazed on the body, 
 he saw the rags that partly covered it torn away, bit by bit, by 
 the blast, and carried far out of sight ; whilst the bones sepa- 
 rated, and seemed to crumble away, and the dust was scattered 
 by the wind. 
 
 Donald, after awhile, walked slowly home, brooding over 
 what he had witnessed, and which he could not but conjecture 
 boded to him still further misery. 
 
 " Don't sit there moping !" cried his amiable wife, " but lift 
 me the child's smock beside you." 
 
 Donald endeavoured to obey, but he could not move his arm, 
 and the effort he made to do so pained him even to faintness. 
 
 " What ails you, fool ?" cried Mistress Christie. 
 
 Donald could not answer for agony, whereon the gentle woman 
 approached him, intending to shake her husband into civility — 
 but when she laid her hand on his shoulder she started back. 
 
 " Mercy, man ! you are streaming with blood IV cried she. 
 
 " Lay me on the bed, wife, for I am in great pain." 
 
 When his garment was removed, a small wound was dis- 
 covered on Donald's shoulder, which had the appearance of 
 being caused by a bullet ; but neither during his life, nor on 
 the most careful post-mortem examination, could any ball be 
 discovered. 
 
 The story^the herdsman told found many hearers, and several 
 of the higher class came to see Donald, who daily sank under a 
 kind of consumption, brought on by the running wound on his 
 shoulder, which, as the poor man foretold, baffled all human 
 skill. A subscription was entered into, and Donald was sent to 
 Edinburgh, where an eminent physician attended him, who left 
 no means untried to benefit his patient, but it availed nothing. 
 Donald Christie departed this life, after a year's agony, on that 
 very hour which completed the twelvemonth — dating from the 
 time when he stopped the old man's capering. 
 
 The Laird of Airly lived to be restored to his estates, and 
 Mistress Christie to lament her husband's loss and her hard- 
 heartedness towards a kind master in his adversity. 
 
 She was for many years a vagrant about the neighbourhood of 
 Dundee, where the good folk tell numerous stories respecting the 
 arts and tempers of the " deil's chick." 
 
 " What do you think o' that V* old Gordon would ask me, 
 
SANDIE SANDEMAN, THE PIPER. 193 
 
 when He had concluded the narrative. — To which I usually had 
 but one reply — signifying that I did not believe one word of it. 
 
 " Well," the Scot would say, " I'm open to conviction, and 
 you'll oblige me by disproving what I've stated — for it came 
 to my knowledge through a veritable friend, whom I cannot allow 
 to be wrongfully suspected of falsehood ! So you'll just oblige 
 me by disproving what I've repeated." Whereupon he would 
 strike the table with his huge fist, and look me in the face, as if 
 to intimate, that if I did not oblige him, he would oblige me to 
 disprove it. 
 
 Now, I am by no means devoid of spirit, but I hate fighting ; 
 and when an argument takes that direction, I generally end it ; 
 so, on these occasions, it was customary with me to soften my 
 tone, and advance the commonplaces general against faith in 
 supernatural appearances, cautiously interlarding them with 
 such phrases as — " a man of your good sense must see" — " a 
 gentleman of your penetration will have observed" — " your 
 superior knowledge will at once perceive." Old Gordon always 
 allowed me to exhaust these species of compliment, to each of 
 which he gave a nod by way of acknowledgment, and then he 
 would interrupt me by inquiring if I had ever been in Scotland? 
 
 My answer was always in the negative. 
 
 " Then it's not possible for you to understand such matters — 
 you should go and see the country where they took place before 
 you pretend to give an opinion. You're incompetent — you're 
 ignorant. You expose yourself by your foolish ignorance." 
 ♦ At this point Bauldy usually came in with a jorum of punch 
 mixed, as a favour, in a marble bowl, on the sides of which were 
 written several verses, which he would boast were scratched there 
 by Burns himself, who once possessed the article, it having been 
 originally given to the poet by his father- in-law. 
 
 Our glasses were filled. The punch always restored good 
 humour ; and Bauldy was allowed to spout poetry, till we, by 
 listening to him, had procured on appetite for sleep. 
 
 E. Mayiiew. 
 
THE SIBYL'S STONE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK," &C. 
 
 Miss Wilhelmina Jones had taken elegant apartments on the 
 Chiaja, at Naples, and announced that she expected some friends 
 from England, to spend the winter with her. In the meanwhile, 
 however, she seemed resolved to make the most of her time 
 by visiting every place worth seeing, followed always by an 
 eld crabbed-looking footman, and sometimes attended by a 
 hired valet de place. Her small knowledge of the Italian 
 language was useless to her for colloquial purposes, and her 
 French accent was not exactly that of a Parisian belle ; there- 
 fore she expressed herself particularly obliged to a French 
 gentleman who, in broken English, had politely indicated to 
 her certain rare antiquities in the public Museum. 
 
 Monsieur handed her to her carriage, and saw old Tom 
 Blunt, the crabbed-looking footman, mount behind. " Elle 
 est charm ante ! " cried he, rubbing his hands, and the next 
 morning, as Miss Jones was sitting at breakfast, Tom Blunt 
 brought in a card, which he placed on the table, saying, " It's 
 the little monkey-faced jabbering chap, wot was talking to you 
 yesterday at the Mewsy." 
 
 Wilhelmina cast down her eyes, and felt her heart throb as 
 she read, " Le Baron Alphonse de Shachabach." What was 
 to be done ? She was in dishabille to be sure ; but, to send 
 a Baron away rudely, was quite out of the question ; so he was 
 admitted, and thus commenced an acquaintance which soon 
 ripened into intimacy. 
 
 It was a pleasant thing for our heroine to have a beau, for 
 she had, by no means, been pestered with lovers. The atten- 
 tions of the Baron were unremitting for ten days, and then, on 
 a fine moonlight evening, they were walking in the public 
 gardens. All nature was calm, save the gentle plash of the 
 blue waves. Conversation was seldom at a stand between the 
 two friends, for, sooth to say, they were great tattlers. But on 
 the present occasion, they had been silent for the space of a 
 minute, when, on turning into a dark avenue of trees, Miss 
 Jones exclaimed, " La ! how that image frightened me!" 
 
 "I am sorry as he frighten you," said the Baron, heaving a 
 deep sigh, " vary sorry, by cause he vos Cupidon, de littei 
 rascal boy, vot has shot in my heart. Ah! Miss Vilhel- 
 mine ! vot for is de heart, if he is so cold as von stone ? But, 
 I beg you pardon ! you must sit on dis seat, and I will trow 
 myself on your knees, and tell you all about my propriety, 
 
the sibyl's stone. 195 
 
 vidout vich, I cannot esperer as you vill give me some expect- 
 ation." 
 
 "Wilhelmina, much agitated, threw herself gracefully upon the 
 bench, over which the figure of Cupid seemed to lean, while 
 the Baron went, instanter, upon his marrowbones, and, seizing 
 her hand, began to mouth it as though he would mumble it off. 
 H Oh ! ah ! Monsieur Baron ! " exclaimed our heroine, " You 
 really terrify me — remember ! we are in public — somebody will 
 
 come and see " — " I don't care noting for somebody !" 
 
 ejaculated the Baron, " All de public in de vorld be velcome to 
 know as I am in a passion vid you. But, I beg you pardon ! 
 I must tell you about my propriety." 
 
 " Well, if you expect me to listen," said Wilhelmina, " really 
 you must get up and take a seat." — "Ah! a seat," rejoined 
 the Baron, " that is him — my propriety is in my seat, as you 
 call him in Angleterre — my chateau is on de Rhine bank. He 
 is called Shachabach so veil as me, superbe et magnifique, and 
 bring me some vine like de nectar so veil as my title." 
 
 What a charming prospect for Wilhelmina ! The superb 
 chateau, surrounded by lofty vine-clad hills, danced before the 
 eyes of her imagination, and, overcome by her feelings, she 
 hid her face in her hands. "Helas! mon ange!" exclaimed 
 the Baron, jumping up and taking a small bottle from his 
 pocket, " I am in despair ! I not tink you vos so very affected. 
 But, smell him! — dis very fine stink. Hold your nose ! — take 
 him in your finger — dere ! You smile ! — Bah ! I am so happy 
 as if I vos no vere. It is arranged ; you vill be ma chere 
 Baronne." — " Really, Monsieur Baron," simpered Miss Jones, 
 in a sort of tremulous titter — " in a case of such importance, 
 I really don't know what to say." — " Den, don't say noting," 
 observed the Baron, tenderly, " De silence give some consent, 
 and I take him, and give you de tousand graces." — " But my 
 friends ! " murmured Wilhelmina. — " Only think ! I don't know 
 
 what they would say if ." " Bah ! " exclaimed the Baron, 
 
 " I not want to marry your friend ; but ve go see dem, neverless, 
 for I am alvays at home vid my charmante Vilhelmine, so no 
 matter vot become of you after ve marry. It is all von to me. 
 I get rid of all my propriety perhaps, and live in England. Ve 
 vill see." What further passed between them was, of course, 
 all very amorous and affecting, and the result was, that ere 
 they parted, Wilhelmina evinced sufficient symptoms of being 
 touched by the tender passion. 
 
 So, from that evening, the Baron became her constant com- 
 panion and accepted lover. They walked and lounged, and 
 promenaded, and made excursions together into the interest- 
 ing country around them ; and, as their conversation was such 
 as that of lovers commonly is under similar circumstances, 
 
196 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 they speedily arrived at the decision that, henceforth, there 
 should be no secrets between them. Thus matters stood, when, 
 after paying the stranger's accustomed visit to the grot of the 
 Cumsean Sibyl, they seated themselves near its entrance, to en- 
 joy the scenery around. 
 
 " The Romans must have been great fools !" observed Miss 
 Jones. " Only think of their believing that an old woman, shut 
 up in a cave, could tell them what was to happen in the world 1" 
 " Mais, mon ange," said the Baron, " your Shakyspeare say as 
 dere is more of someting in de vorld dan is dream of by a phi- 
 losopher." — " Look !" exclaimed Wilhelmina, "who can that old 
 woman be who is coming out of the cave ? she is not one of our 
 party, for the guide counted us as we came out." Briefly to 
 describe the old woman in question, it will suffice to say, that 
 her person was somewhat like the effigies of old Mother Ship- 
 ton, and her dress that of the country people. She toddled slowly 
 up to the lovers; then stopped before them, and, in an odd croak- 
 ing sort of voice, spoke, in Italian, as follows : — " You intend 
 to be married, if you don't alter your minds. There's something 
 that may be of service to you, if you use it rightly!" and, 
 throwing a small stone at their feet, she continued, " If you 
 remain unmarried for the next nine days, and keep that stone 
 in the possession of either of you, it will give you each day 
 one wish, provided that the granting of such wish does not 
 interfere with the property of others. All must be between 
 yourselves, nine wishes between you; and each must ex- 
 press his or her wish for something to happen to the other. 
 In nine days the charm will be at an end ; but, observe, if you 
 lose the stone before the expiration of that time, you will both 
 be compelled to speak the truth at your next subsequent inter- 
 view." Then, without waiting for any reply, the old body 
 turned upon her heel, and retreated into the cave, leaving our 
 lovers, of course, very particularly astonished. 
 
 " You hear vot she say, mon ange ?" asked the Baron. 
 " Not exactly," replied Wilhelmina, " Their patois hereabouts 
 is really so shockingly gothic !" Her swain, as in duty bound, 
 politely explained, and then added, " She vos a mad voman, I 
 tink; but, never mind, I vill vish someting for you, my dear 
 Vilhelmine, and ve vill see." — " Nonsense I" exclaimed the lady, 
 " I don't believe in it. However, I am not afraid, for I am sure 
 mon cher Baron will not wish me any harm." — " Von't I ! No, 
 not for noting, mon ange !" ejaculated the Baron, leering at his 
 intended with a most monkey-like expression of fondness. 
 " Veil, I vill vish someting no lady vill be sorry for, neverless 
 you is so beautiful as she is possible. I vish you some more 
 encore of de beauty. Dare ! Magnifique ! I see him come at 
 de moment. Ah ! Charmante ! Extraordinaire ! Superbe I 
 
the sibyl's stone. 197 
 
 Pretty veil ! Your eye is like some diamonds. De rose is like 
 a fool vid your cheek, and your neck is like some snow." — " All 
 your own imagination, mon cher Baron," simpered Wilhelmina, 
 endeavouring at a blush. " But love, you know, they say, is 
 blind. However, it was very kind of you to express such a 
 wish, and, if there really should be any virtue in the stone, you 
 know it will be my turn to-morrow, and, believe me, you shall 
 not repent your kindness." — " Bah ! ma chere amie !" said the 
 Baron, " Vot I can vish for ven I am bless vid your beautiful 
 person ? I vant noting more. I can live vid you very nice in 
 de littel house. But he is very true. You vos charmante and 
 so pretty as — as — de devil ! I not know vot to say." — " Well, 
 if I am*so in your eyes, dear Alphonse V. murmured Miss Jones 
 affectionately, " it is all that I wish. But now, let us talk of 
 something else, for we have been riding about and seeing sights 
 all day, and I had almost forgotten to revert to what you told 
 me last night about your agent's neglect in not sending you the 
 remittance you expected." — " Bah ! mon ange !" observed the 
 Baron carelessly, " vot signify dat ? He vill come toder day. 
 My rentes is very much grand, but he is gone behind vile I am 
 in de voyage. I dare say he did come to-morrow or next week." 
 " Mon cher Baron !" resumed the lady, " You must permit me ! 
 Do not be offended ! But situated as we are — let it be a proof 
 of my — my — the interest I take in your comfort. I cannot bear 
 the idea that you should be put to any inconvenience on such a 
 paltry account. So, if you really feel what you express towards 
 me, do not refuse to make use of this trifle, whicli I assure you 
 I have no occasion for." 
 
 As she said the last words, she drew a small folded paper, 
 value about twenty-five pounds English, from her reticule, and 
 placed it, with a loving pressure, in the hand of the Baron, who 
 replied, " Vot I can say? I can't refuse you noting. Vel, I 
 put dis littel bit paper in my pocket (here he suited the action to 
 the word), but I give him you back in de diamonds, and neck- 
 lace, and bijoux vot belong to my moder." 
 
 During the latter part of this conversation, Tom Blunt, the 
 crabbed -looking footman, had approached them unobserved. He 
 now stood before his mistress, and, in his usual straightforward 
 way, said, "The Wetturino and all the rest of the jabbering 
 foreigneerers is all in a deuce of a passion, and seem ready to 
 fight about summut; but I think that'll be no go. Howsomever, 
 the wally, as far as I can make out, wants to be off, as its get- 
 ting late, and its a long way back through Puzzley and the 
 tunnel." — " Well," replied Miss Jones, " go back and see that 
 all is right, and the Baron and I will follow you directly." 
 " Humph!" grunted Tom Blunt, in an under tone, as he re- 
 treated, " Humph ! she's been a little too long with that chap to 
 
198 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 my thinking. I don't think he's any great shakes." — " Really," 
 observed Wilhelmina, " it is quite shocking to hear any one so 
 ignorant as to call the grotto of Posillipo a tunnel, and so to 
 murder the pronunciation of Pozzuoli !" — " He is von bear," re- 
 plied the Baron, " I vonder you not send him back in Angle- 
 terre. But, diable ! Est il possible ? Oh, yes. Your foots, 
 vot is so littel before, is grown litteler vid my vish. Your shoe 
 vill tumble down from him." — " Oh !" simpered Wilhelmina, 
 "it is only fancy, mon cher Baron. The fact is, they were al- 
 ways much too large. Your eye deceives you — that's all." 
 
 What more of flattery took place on their road home need 
 not be related verbatim ; but the Baron talked as though acting 
 upon the old adage, " Lay it on thick, and some will stick." 
 
 Miss Jones, of course, consulted her glass that night, and felt 
 convinced that she had never looked so well before. Refreshing 
 sleep and pleasant dreams followed, and in the morning she was 
 equally satisfied with her toilet. " But I can hardly believe this 
 stone has any thing to do with the matter," said she. " I never 
 was thought ill-looking, though, to be sure the men have never 
 been over-attentive to me. However, that's no matter now, 
 since I've won the Baron's affections. It is impossible for any 
 lover to be more devoted, more ardent, more delicately attentive. 
 He is every thing that I could wish except, perhaps — yes — I 
 really do wish that he was a leetle handsomer. Oh ! what have 
 I said ? I have uttered my wish ! How could I be so thought- 
 less ? I meant to have wished him a great, great deal hand- 
 somer — like one of those statues of Adonis or Apollo." 
 
 However, as one wish per diem was the stipulated allowance, 
 regret was unavailing ; so she consoled herself by reflecting, that 
 if the Baron were really transformed into an Adonis, he might 
 possibly seek another Venus, and thereby destroy all her pro- 
 spects of becoming Madame la Baronne, wearing the ancestral 
 jewellery, and dwelling in the castle of Shachabach. 
 
 Scarcely had she arrived at this philosophical conclusion, 
 when the object of her cogitations made his appearance, and in 
 an instant she decided that he was very considerably improved. 
 His hair, whiskers, and mustaches were changed from a coarse 
 reddish tint to a silky blackness. His dress, moreover, which 
 (in spite of his assurance that people of his rank never thought 
 about their clothes) she had sometimes fancied not quite 
 " comme il faut," was now " exquisite." Not a lounger in the 
 Strada de Toledo could be more completely " turned out" by 
 his valet. 
 
 After the first lover-like salutations, she could not avoid 
 gazing upon him with admiration ; and something in the ex- 
 pression of her countenance, perhaps, caused him to exclaim — 
 ^ Oh, I know it all ! You have vish. I am at my toilette, and 
 
199 
 
 piff ! It come upon me, in my mind, as mon ange prefer 
 
 some oder coats ; so I go at my big box, and pull out de dozen 
 and de fifty gilets and pantalon, and habilitate myself so as you 
 see ; and if he vill not do, I go back for de change." — " Really, 
 it is most wonderful!" ejaculated Wilhelmina, " I declare I'm 
 quite frightened. I suppose there must be some magic in that 
 stone." — " Sans doute," replied the Baron, " but vot for are you 
 frightful? I know de difference is come on me so veil as your- 
 self. Three or four comtesse dis morning turn round to me vid 
 de look vot say, so plain as noting, ' Very nice man dat V " | 
 
 Mutual compliments and flattery followed ; and then, a ride 
 being agreed upon, Miss Jones withdrew to make the needful 
 change in her dress. 
 
 Scarcely had she left the Baron sitting alone, ere the door was 
 unceremoniously opened by Tom Blunt, who forthwith advanced 
 with a more vinegarish aspect than usual. " Vot you vant, 
 fellow ?" inquired Baron Shachabach ; " I not sound de bell." 
 *' I comes here o' my own accord," said Tom Blunt ; " I wants 
 a word or two with you, Mounseer. I'm up to your gammon, 
 d'ye see, and shan't stand it." — " Get out vid you, yon rascal 
 dog !" roared the Baron, " vot for you come at me vid your 
 gammon and your stand ? Keep at your place, or I vill have 
 you sent avay." — "That cock won't fight," said Tom Blunt, 
 sneeringly. — " Vot I know about de cockfight, fellow?" ex- 
 claimed the Baron, passionately. " Come, come," resumed 
 Tom, " it ain't o' no use pretending not to understand- The 
 long and short of it is, as it's my business to look arter Miss, 
 and see as she ain't imposed upon ; and I see'd her give you a 
 note for some money yesterday, and that's how you come by 
 them new clothes, or I'm blest. Howsomever, as you've been o' 
 some sort o' use in showing her about when she hadn't got no- 
 body else, may be you've earned summut fair enough; so I 
 shan't say no more about that if you makes yourself scarce from 
 this time, for I'm sure she's seen all she ought to see and a 
 little more too, mayhap. So, don't come here never no more. 
 That's all." 
 
 It is impossible adequately to describe the rage of the little 
 Frenchman. He stamped, and swore, and clenched his fists, 
 and jabbered, and ordered Tom to leave the room ; and, finding 
 that his orders had no effect, even threatened to turn him out. 
 But Tom Blunt stood, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, 
 provokingly grinning defiance at his puny antagonist ; and in 
 this state matters were when Miss Jones made her reappearance. 
 Tom Blunt then very coolly walked out of the room and left 
 the exasperated Baron to tell his own tale, which he instantly 
 did, with a degree of violence that shocked the lady's nerves so 
 much that, if matters had not gone so far, and the title of 
 
200 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Baronne, with its etceeteras, had not been uppermost in her 
 mind, the " match" would probably have "been off." 
 
 As it was she acknowledged that it was natural for a noble- 
 man to feel exceedingly indignant at being insulted by a foot- 
 man ; but, after making every allowance for provocation, the 
 Baron's excessive irritation caused her to fear that his temper 
 was not habitually so placid as she had been led to believe 
 from his accustomed demeanour. Gradually however, he 
 became somewhat calmer, but insisted upon it that Tom Blunt 
 should be instantly dismissed. This proposition was evaded by 
 Wiihelmina, who declared that it had not been her intention to 
 keep him longer than the arrival of some English friends, into 
 whose service it was arranged that he should pass, and that 
 therefore, for their sakes she could not send him away. 
 
 " But vot I can do, ma chere ?" said the Baron, " Ven I come 
 at de door, he open him, I not keep.in my temper vid his dam 
 cockfight!" — "He is beneath your notice, my dear Alfonse," 
 observed Wiihelmina, with one of her most winning smiles; and 
 then, looking down modestly, she added, " It will be but for a 
 very short time, and so — for my sake ! I will take care to keep 
 him out of the way as much as possible." — " Veil, veil," said 
 the Baron, " for your sake, mon ange, I vill do someting. So, 
 allons ! Let us go for de promenade, for de veder is almost so 
 beautiful as yourself." 
 
 Accordingly they went to pursue their pleasures for the day, 
 dined at Portici, and finished the evening at the Theatre of San 
 Carlos. Therefore Wiihelmina had no opportunity of lecturing 
 Tom Blunt till the following morning, when she very mildly, 
 yet firmly desired him not to interfere, with his opinions or 
 advice, respecting any of her friends. " Very well, Miss," 
 replied Tom, " Just as you please. It ain't no consarn o' mine ; 
 only mind what I says : if that monkey-faced chap as you seems 
 so taken up with ain't a bad un, I'm a Dutchman — that's 
 all." 
 
 Wilhelmina's next task, having still possession of the stone, 
 was one on which she had decided in consequence of the scene 
 of yesterday ; and she resolved to perform it in a more complete 
 manner than her first essay. So, taking the talisman in her 
 hand, she said, "I wish the Baron may become the sweetest 
 tempered man that ever lived, forgetful of injuries and not at all 
 passionate." 
 
 After making this aspiration, she naturally awaited the arrival 
 of her lover with more than usual impatience, longing to see 
 how the charm would work. Great therefore was her delight 
 at hearing the voice of the Baron in the ante-room, addressing 
 Tom Blunt in a calm and almost penitential strain. It was 
 impossible to avoid listening, as he said, 
 
THE SIBYL'S STONE. 201 
 
 <'lam very great fool yesterday, Monsieur Tonblone. You 
 good fellow. Tink you do some good for Mademoiselle. You 
 vill find me de^friend more as if noting had happened to dis- 
 arrange us." 
 
 What Tom replied more than a grunting " Humph !" was 
 inaudible, and, in a few seconds, the Baron was in the presence- 
 of the lady. "Ah! Mon ange !" he exclaimed, springing 
 forward to salute her, " So beautiful as never. Ah ! Vot you 
 look like some meaning? I suspect — yes, it is. You have 
 vished me vish. Veil, I not know vot he is ; but I am so very 
 pleasant and agreeable as I surprised myself. Veil, I tell you 
 toder day, I turn out ten, twenty, fifty coats in my box. I go 
 put him back dis morning, and I find dis leetle case of maroc 
 leder, vich I forget I have vid me. Take him, mon ange ! See 
 if you like de pearl vot cost- great many tousand franc, but vos 
 like so many negro in your neck. Tis de bagatelle entre 
 nous." 
 
 While speaking he had opened the casket and displayed to 
 appearance an extremely costly pearl necklace. Then, kneeling 
 before the enraptured Wilhelmina, he gallantly threw it over 
 her head, and received his reward in a very affectionate salute 
 and many expressions of gratitude. 
 
 An explanation respecting the nature of her morning wish 
 followed, and the rest of the day passed off as usual, till the 
 Baron, when taking leave at night, was reminded by his 
 Dulcinea that it was his turn to take the stone and wish some- 
 thing for her. " Veil," said he carelessly, " You have got all 
 vot I vant, and I only vant all vot you have got. I not can do 
 better dan follow your example ; so, neverless as you have de 
 temper like some honey, I vill vish you some more of it ; for ve 
 can't have too much of de generosity." 
 
 " Can any body have told him that I have a bad temper and 
 am stingy ?" thought Miss Jones ; and she mused upon the 
 bare possibility of his harbouring such a suspicion ; and the 
 consequences of her musing were a determination of sporting 
 her sweetest smiles and showing her generosity on the morrow. 
 " What will it signify V thought she, " It can be of no 
 importance in a few days whether the chain be his or mine ; 
 but, indeed, it is of English make, and much heavier than ladies 
 here wear. I was offered twenty guineas for it by a London 
 jeweller ; so it is worth his acceptance, and he wears his eye- 
 glass with a ribbon. It is long enough too, I know, because I 
 lent it to young Peter Smith before he came of age when I 
 thought he seemed to have taken a liking to me. Ah ! How 
 I should like to see him and all the rest of the Smiths when they 
 hear that Fin a Baroness ! How they'd bite their lips !" 
 
 Accordingly, the chain, which had belonged to her father, 
 
 Q 
 
202 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 was presented, as a love-token to the enraptured Baron, and 
 never did any couple appear more sweetly disposed towards each 
 other than did our lovers during; the ensuing day. But the 
 sun stayeth not his course for happy lovers, so night came again 
 and they parted, and Wilhelmina was left in possession of the 
 wonderful stone. 
 
 " What have I to wish for f thought she. " The Baron has 
 rank and wealth ; but if he had not, it would be of no use to 
 wish him more money, because I suppose that all the money 
 there is in the world must belong to somebody. Well, if we 
 could but be always as we are ! Yes, that's it ! I will wish that 
 the Baron's affection toward me may never decrease." 
 
 Such was her last thought at night, and the first wish that 
 recurred to her on waking in the morning, when she imme- 
 diately pronounced it with fitting emphasis. 
 
 "Very veil," said the Baron, when informed of its import, 
 " dere is not no fear as your wish come to pass, for I never can love 
 you de bit less as now ;" and his devoted attention to her during 
 the whole of that day was perfectly satisfactory. Towards 
 night, however, they had, for the first time, something like a 
 difference of opinion. Wilhelmina, on presenting him with the 
 magic stone, requested him to wish that her eyes might be 
 changed from an indifferent sort of gray to black ; but to 
 this proposal he demurred, observing that he did not think it 
 would improve her ; and, on being further pressed, observed, 
 " Mais, mon ange, you am now so beautiful as possible, and 
 de old woman say as vot is done must not come back." How- 
 ever, the lady had set her mind upon a pair of jetty sparklers, 
 and persisted, until Monsieur gave up the point, and agreed to 
 utter the wish, though he said he was confident, that, according 
 to the old woman's terms, it would not be granted, and, on 
 taking leave, added, " Veil, never mind, ven ve meet in de 
 morning, if dere is no shange, I vish someting else for you 
 betterer." 
 
 Wilhelmina awoke early the next morning, and many times 
 arose anxiously to consult her mirror, and watch for the desired 
 metamorphosis ; but her eyes provokingly maintained their an- 
 cient hue, and even, she thought, looked duller than usual. Still 
 she comforted herself, by imagining that her dear Baron might be 
 yet sleeping, till her usual hour for dressing had nearly expired. 
 "Then, I suppose- it can't be!" she sighed. "Well, now I 
 come to think of it, if he is satisfied with me,. why should I 
 not be so too ? Heigho ! — what gown shall I wear to-day ? 
 What a nasty, rickety, old wardrobe this is !— ah !" 
 
 A scream that sufficed to alarm the household followed, and 
 when the domestics hurried to her assistance, she was found 
 endeavouring* to extricate herself from beneath the aforesaid 
 
THE SIBYL S STONE. 
 
 203 
 
 rickety old piece of furniture, which had fallen forward upon 
 her. It soon appeared that she had escaped with a few bruises, 
 but those were of such an unseemly kind, that she thought fit 
 to put on her bonnet and veil at once, and to make some 
 change in the arrangement of her hair. 
 
 In due course the Baron arrived, and almost the first ques- 
 tion she put to him was, " Pray tell me what wish you expressed 
 for me this morning." — " Vy, vot I promise," replied the Baron, 
 " but I know dey not come — I wish you a pair of black eyes." 
 "Here they are then, sure enough!" exclaimed Miss Jones, 
 throwing aside her veil and tresses, and exhibiting a pair of 
 " glims," as scientifically coloured round, as though she had 
 been under the hands of a regular prize-fighter. " I shall not 
 be fit to be seen for this month." 
 
 The baron professed himself to be " au desespoir," and so 
 forth ; and endeavoured to console her by renewed protestations 
 of affection. " Tis all de same to me," said he, " if you have 
 twenty black eye; you vos very veil to-morrow. But I not 
 like dis sheet vid de old voman. It put me in de mind vid 
 Shakyspeare, ven de veetches sheeted Macbet. He say, * Con- 
 found de vemmen ! Dey vos paltry vid us, and has got de 
 double senses. — Eh ? you remember, mon ange ? " 
 
 Wilhelmina was either soothed into good humour by his at- 
 tentions, or could not help smiling at the style of this quota- 
 tion ; but it sufficed that she did smile, and Monsieur was sud- 
 denly relieved from his "desespoir." — " Ah!" he exclaimed, "dat 
 Shakyspeare vonderful autor — very nice ! venever I quoted 
 him, somebody laugh. But never mind, de black veil vil shut 
 up de black eye. Nobody see vot is in him — Allons! It 
 makes five time, and dere is von sheep vot come all de vay 
 from Angleterre, svimming in de bay. You vill hear de 
 news, perhap, and get de letter." 
 
 The ship, soon afterward, cast anchor off the town ; and Wil- 
 helmina received a letter with the information that her ex- 
 pected friends were en route, and would probably arrive at 
 Naples in a week or ten days. At this intelligence the baron 
 waxed very 4 ' fidgety," and besought his angel not to defer his 
 happiness. Wilhelmina demurred, and simpered, and pro- 
 tested that she really knew not what to say, and so forth ; but 
 gradually allowed herself to be won upon, and her scruples 
 melted before the ardour of his passion. They had now only 
 three wishes left, to be obtained through the wonderful stone, 
 and three days were necessary to carry them into execution. To 
 marry earlier would be throwing away good fortune ; but, on. 
 the fourth day there could be no objection left ; and so, after a 
 vast expenditure of sighs, groans, glances, protestations, be- 
 
 Q2 
 
204 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 seechings, and other ammunition employed in the artillery of 
 love, that day was fixed upon for their union. 
 
 The baron left the stone with his beloved when they parted 
 in the evening, and, after ransacking her brains, she at last 
 came to the determination of wishing him an increase of fortune 
 by a sort of side-wind. Since she could not transfer to him 
 the property of others, and he had mentioned his vineyards as a 
 principal source of revenue, she on the following morning wished 
 that their produce might be doubled. 
 
 This intimation of teeming wine-presses was received with 
 philosophic sang-froid by the baron, who declared that it would 
 make no sort of difference to him whether they were doubled or 
 trebled ; and again they passed the day together as usual. 
 
 It was now the Baron's turn to take possession of the 
 stone, and he politely insisted upon Wilhelmina's informing him 
 of some object of her desire wherewith to occupy the eighth 
 wish. After some demur, the lady condescended to acknow r - 
 ledge that she had some fears, lest in the new position in which 
 she was about to be placed, her mode of accenting the French 
 language might be noticed in society, and therefore she wished 
 to speak it with the purity and fluency of a native. 
 
 The baron assured her she was already perfect, but, neverthe- 
 less, he would, as in duty bound, obey her commands, and 
 so they parted. 
 
 Consequently, on the following evening they conversed awhile 
 in the Gallic tongue ; and, though she was not, at first, sensible 
 of any vast change for the better in her style, his frequent as- 
 severations that no " Parisienne" could speak more correctly, at 
 length produced their effect. " But," he said, " I love best to 
 spoke wid de English, by cause de praticks vill perfection 
 me." 
 
 Upon this hint Wilhelmina had resolved upon her last wish. 
 " Ah!" thought she, " what a happy and accomplished couple 
 we shall be ! Each blessed with beauty, good-temper and 
 affection, and speaking each other's native language without any 
 foreign accent ! Our company will be courted by all ! " 
 
 So the eighth day of wonderful wishes glided away pleasantly, 
 and she retired to rest w 7 ith delightful anticipations for the 
 morrow and for future life. 
 
 The morning came, and the wish that her dear Alphonse 
 should hereafter speak plain English was duly pronounced, 
 though* she recollected that she had left the marvellous stone 
 upon the mantelpiece in her sitting-room ; but that circum- 
 stance she conceived to be of no importance, as it was still in 
 her possession. 
 
 When she came down to breakfast Tom Blunt made his ap- 
 
 
the sibyl's stone, 205 
 
 pearance, with a tenfold crabbedness of aspect, and brusquely 
 said, " I can't bold my tongue no longer, Miss, and see sitch 
 goings on. That ere Baron, as he calls himself — " " I can- 
 not hear you say any thing against Monsieur le Baron ! " ex- 
 claimed Miss Jones. u No more a baron than I be ! " roared 
 Tom Blunt, " I've ferreted out his haunts, and he's no more 
 than what they call a shoveller d'industry." — " I know he is 
 a chevalier," observed Wilhelmina, calmly, " he told me so. 
 But as for industry, I'm sure I don't know what you mean." — 
 " Why I means as how he's a black-leg." — " Black-leg ! " ex- 
 claimed Miss Jones. " What's that ? You appear to be talking 
 to me as you did before to him about cock-fighting, and what 
 else I never could rightly understand." 
 
 While speaking, she had risen and was looking for the pre- 
 cious stone on the mantelpiece ; but it was not to be found * 
 so, breaking off suddenly, she exclaimed, " What can have be- 
 come of it ? Have you seen any thing of it's very strange ! 
 
 I left it here, I'm sure ! " — " What war it, Miss ? " inquired 
 Tom. " A piece of stone," replied Wilhelmina, tremulously. 
 " Oh ! bless you," said Tom, " I can find you plenty of they, a 
 cart-load, if you want's it." — " But tell me," exclaimed Miss 
 Jones, " have you seen it? What have you done with it?" 
 " Why, Miss," replied Tom, sheepishly, " I didn't see as how 
 it could be of any wally, so I hurled it away, smack into the 
 sea." 
 
 The paroxysm of anger into which the sweet-tempered lady- 
 was betrayed, caused Tom Blunt to sneak ofT, for he perceived 
 that it was not a fitting moment to proceed with his exhorta- 
 tions, which, however, he resolved to renew unless he could find 
 an opportunity of having some further private conversation with 
 the baron. 
 
 Wilhelmina, after a while, like other heroines, "found relief 
 in a flood of tears," which did not at all improve the appear- 
 ance of her two black eyes. Hope then shone in upon her 
 spirit, for it was yet possible that their ninth and crowning wish 
 might have been uttered before the stone had been thrown away. 
 Consequently she " sate on thorns" awaiting her dear baron's 
 appearance, and cogitating upon the alternative. 
 
 " He will either speak plain English or plain truth, according 
 to what the old woman said," thought she. " Well, after all, 
 there will not be any great evil in that ; but, then, I recollect, 
 we were both to speak the truth at our next interview. Let me 
 see ! " and she continued thinking, but, from the uneasiness of 
 her manner, it appeared as if the latter idea were not of the 
 most agreeable nature. 
 
 The baron had engaged to be with her at ten precisely, and 
 had never before broken an engagement ; but now the clock 
 
206 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 struck, and heavily time moved on to a quarter — then half-past, 
 and so quarter after quarter the chimes revealed what Wilhel- 
 mina could hardly credit, till noon was passed. " Something 
 must have happened ! " she exclaimed. " How strange that I 
 have never inquired where he lodges ! But, somehow, one never 
 thinks of such things abroad, about single men." 
 
 Then she faintly recollected what her footman had said before 
 breakfast, and summoned him to her presence, but Tom Blunt 
 was gone out, and contrary to all rules, had left no intimation 
 of the time when he might be expected to return. So she con- 
 tinued dolefully counting the minutes till past one, and then 
 her ears were delighted by the well-known footsteps of the 
 baron, ascending the stairs. 
 
 Immediately he entered, she perceived he was embarrassed, 
 and, as she fancied, looked extremely ill. " What can be the 
 matter, mon cher baron V 9 she exclaimed, giving way to her 
 momentary feelings. "I'm sure something terrible has hap- 
 pened !" — " Oh, yes," he replied, " someting, everyting, dam 
 deal has happen!" — " Well," thought Wilhelmina, " He can't 
 speak plain English, that's clear enough, and perhaps it's as 
 well. He will now speak the truth. Sit down," she said. 
 " Don't flurry yourself. Tell me, dear Alphonse ! Is it any 
 thing in which I can assist you ? If so, you know how delighted 
 I shall be." — " Ah ! Oh ! Yes ! " he replied, suddenly brighten- 
 ing up. " It vos de money as I vant. If you have got him, it 
 vill be very velcome, for somebody tease me, and I not get your 
 vatch as you give me t'oder day and tell me to have him 
 mended." — "I am really quite concerned," replied Wilhelmina, 
 " The fact is that I had only two bills by me, the one which I 
 gave you at the grotto, and another which I changed two days 
 since, in order to make some purchases necessary on the present 
 occasion : so I have only these ten gold four-ducat pieces : — if 
 they will be of any use — " and she held them out hesitatingly. 
 " They vos better as noting," observed the Baron, carelessly 
 taking and thrusting them into his waistcoat-pocket, as he con- 
 tinued, " But you vill get some more of de bill soon from 
 Angleterre, I hope perhap?" — " Why no," replied Wilhelmina. 
 u The fact is that I shall not be able till we get to Paris ; you 
 know we talked of going there." — " Oh, dam! It vos all de 
 non-sense!" exclaimed the Baron. — "Monsieur le Baron!" 
 cried the astonished Wilhelmina, " Did not you say that we 
 should go by way of Marseilles ? " — " Bah ! " said the Baron, 
 M de hombug is over ! You hombug me, I hombug you. You 
 give me de bill vid de name dobbel de you Jons, and I tink he 
 is you, when it was de Villem, Anglais. Veil it is de best to tell 
 to you as I no got de chateau and not go to Marseilles, by 
 cause I vos so cunning to escape ven I am at de galley, vere I 
 
*"'8USY. t „ 
 
 PaAe 2U7. 
 
the sibyl's stone. 207 
 
 am condemn for de littel blonder vot is no matter. No use as 
 you pretend as you vill faint. I know better now all as you vos 
 de gouvernesse. Tomblone, de footyman, tell to me all. Open 
 my eye. De banker tell me first dat Villem Jons draw de 
 money all vot he like, never no stop, but Vilhelmine is nobody. 
 Eh? I find you out— eh?" 
 
 Let imagination paint the lady's rage at this denouement. 
 For a while she felt as though undergoing suffocation ; but, 
 struggling hard, at last was enabled to use her tongue, and then 
 she spared not the gay deceiver. " Ugly, diminutive, insignifi- 
 cant wretch" were not the most opprobrious epithets by which 
 she saluted him in her philippic ; but they seemed to make the 
 most impression, as he retorted. " You say I vos ugly and 
 diminutif ! Vot if I vere you ? de beauty ! Look in de mirroir. 
 Never see noting so frightened, so affreuse ! Vou'd run away 
 from it if she can. De nose vot go up in de air, de eyes vot 
 is vorse before dey be knocked black so as now, and de mout 
 and shin to follow. Go away ! Get some husbands where you. 
 can find him. Make de net for catch de oder Baron. Stop 
 long time, no catch. Eh mon ange !" 
 
 It is our melancholy duty to state that our ci-devant lovers, 
 after exhausting all their rhetorical powers, parted not without 
 a personal collision very different from what they had been 
 accustomed to practise. The cause was the lady's demanding 
 her money, and the demurring to comply with so reasonable a 
 request on the part of the false Baron. So after vainly striving 
 to get her hand into his pocket, she seized him by his ex- 
 quisitely black, shining moustaches, which being false likewise, 
 yielded to her efforts, and remained in her hand as her once 
 beloved Alphonse nimbly made his last exit from her presence. 
 
 Miss Wilhelmina underwent, of course, one of those brief 
 illnesses which follow either love-disappointments or great 
 excitation of mind ; and we suppose the latter to be her case, as 
 she never made any further inquiries after the sham Baron 
 when she found there was no chance of recovering either her 
 gold chain or her money. The watch, fortunately, was found at 
 a pawnbroker's, and, on application to the proper authorities, 
 she was allowed to redeem it. It is almost needless to say that 
 the necklace presented to her by her lover was of false pearls. 
 On recovering from her indisposition she resolved to come to an 
 understanding and " make friends" with Tom Blunt. The 
 honest fellow stood, uneasily, shuffling himself about, while she 
 returned thanks for the active part he had taken, and acknow- 
 ledged her own folly, and she was proceeding to hint how 
 desirable it would be to her that the affair should be kept secret, 
 when he interrupted her by saying, " Never thank me, Miss. 
 You're very welcome. I shan't say a word about it, not I. Master 
 
208 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 told me to do all I could to make you comfortable, and so I've 
 only done my duty. You was a little pig-headed to be sure ; 
 but I druv pigs when I war a boy, and when women-folk has 
 got love-nonsense in their heads they be pretty much the 
 same. It's deuced hard to keep 'em in the right road." 
 
 What the marvellous stone really was, remains doubtful. 
 Some have supposed that it was merely a scheme of the false 
 baron's, for the purpose of inducing the lady to believe his 
 flattery. Certainly, where both were willing to deceive, and each 
 supposed the other blest with fortune's favours, it needed no 
 miracle to make them believe, or feign to believe, the existence 
 of beauty, good temper and affection. So, after all, it may 
 have been but a common pebble, although certain lovers of the 
 marvellous are disposed to think it was a fragment of the cele- 
 brated Blarney stone, which an Irish gentleman brought from 
 home with him, and threw away (when visiting the Sibyl's 
 Grot), the day after his marriage with an English heiress. 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPREjE. 
 
 A ROMAN STORY. 
 
 " Tis the truth, Danae, and shall be spoken, though the axe 
 and the lictor were before me," exclaimed Sabinus Vindex to 
 the loveliest of Rome's dark-browed daughters, as they sat in 
 earnest communion on the verdant bank of the Tiber. " 'Tis the 
 truth ! Since Rome has had a master, the statue of modesty 
 hath veiled its face. But the ribald Csesar, he's sick, they say, 
 in his isle of Capreae, and death will soon " 
 
 " Ah ! Sabinus, how oft must I beseech thee to moderate 
 thy fiery spirit. Wilt not tame that republican blood of thine, 
 when thou seest my trouble ? Oh ! wert thou denounced to 
 the emperor ! — " 
 
 " Sweet are these fears to my soul, beloved Danae ; and to 
 see thee solicitous for Vindex, willingly would he risk his life, 
 nay, willingly would he die!" 
 
 " Sabinus, if I say little of my love — * 
 
 "Well, Danae!" 
 
 " It is because my love speaketh all too much within me : — 
 but see, my sister Cesonia cometh to tell us that the star of eve 
 summons us home. My elder only by a year, yet is she as a mo- 
 ther to me, and I seem to adore her with even more than filial awe. 
 She wears a brighter smile to-day than usual, for of late there 
 has been secret trouble in her countenance. Oh ! it could not 
 escape me, though I dare not ask its cause. What can it be, 
 Sabinus ? — haste thee, salute her first." 
 
 " Welcome, Cesonia nostra, welcome, thou kind protectress 
 of our loves." 
 
 "Chance is a powerful god, Sabinus, is he not? Whoever 
 sees Danae, may well stake his sesterces that thou wilt either 
 spring up from mother earth, or drop from the clouds." 
 
 " Cesonia is jocund beyond her wont to-day," said Danae. 
 " To what temple has she been, carrying her doves, or kids ? " 
 
 " 'To Castor's." 
 
 " He is the god of the race. Does my sister mean to show 
 games to the Roman people ? " 
 
 " Is he not the god of friendship too, Danae ? " 
 
 " Cesonia's soul is lofty as her looks ! " remarked the youth. 
 
 " When Sabinus speaks to me thus, it seems as if he thought 
 I wanted thanks." 
 
 u Nay, Cesonia, why imagine that Sabinus admires thee 
 
210 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 merely as the sister of Danae ? Why not be sure that he loves 
 thee for thy own sake ? " 
 
 " Why, D'anae ? — dost thou ask why ? Ask why Diana 
 caresses the beach at her feet ! — the huntress looks to gain the 
 fawn/' 
 
 " Cesonia," interrupted Sabinus, " I swear to thee — " 
 " Nay, no oath, rash youth ! Knowest thou not, that an 
 oath is a chain, easily broken indeed, but which always leaves 
 a link that galls the wearer? But, come — what wert about to 
 swear ? " 
 
 " You awe me, beauteous Cesonia ! " 
 
 " Oh, brave ! A Roman citizen, and yield sword and buck- 
 ler to the breath of a woman's words ! But, what wert about 
 to swear, Sabinus Vindex ? " 
 
 " Yet, if I break the chain, Cesonia ? " 
 n The link will remain — thy remorse." 
 " And thou wilt be revenged, Cesonia V* 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 " And consoled too?" 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Shall I confess, Danae?" 
 
 " My sister is of those to whom the gods have forgotten to 
 give a diadem. When she speaks, she commands. I counsel 
 thee, Sabinus, to avow that which thou plainly desirest not to 
 conceal." 
 
 " Then I swear to Cesonia, that the friendship with which I 
 regard her is disinterested as herself, that it is entirely Ce- 
 sonian ! " 
 
 " And add, that it will survive thy love for Danae, should 
 that love be ever extinguished." 
 
 " I swear by Jove, and the manes of my mother !" 
 u Thou hast the true heroic spirit, O Sabinus ! But, come, 
 my friends, the shadows of eve are stealing across the Latin 
 plain, and my father will soon return wearied from his Sabine 
 farm. Corvinus Cimber loves to have his daughters greet him 
 at his threshold. These are his festal hours, his triumphant 
 games, his only pleasures. Shame on us Danae, were not the 
 bath prepared, the wine drawn from the amphora, the wheaten 
 cake baked, and the coena ready. We are Plebeians, remem- 
 ber, Sabinus." 
 
 " Ye are of Rome's best blood, nevertheless," rejoined the 
 youth. 
 
 " Hark !" exclaimed Danae, " hark to the clarions from the 
 pretorian camp." 
 
 " Tis the setting of the evening watch," said Cesonia ; 
 " Caesar is the father of his country ; for though he watch not 
 over it himself, though he lie buried in his isle of Caprete, yet 
 
Pa£e 211. 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPRE^E. 211 
 
 he «ays to his swords and pikes, serry round my people, or 
 even against them! — Oh! Tiberius Caesar is pater patr ice, and 
 I am sure Sabinus will not contradict me ! " 
 
 " Thy words, Cesonia, are grave and full of import as are 
 the oracles of the Sibyl. Thou art high-minded as thou art 
 beautiful, and should Rome e'er erect a statue to thee, my knee 
 will be the first bent in worship." 
 
 " Reserve thy incense, Sabinus, or burn it before another 
 altar. Come, let us towards the city." 
 
 They proceeded slowly to retrace the path to Rome by the 
 river's side ; the two maidens with arms fondly thrown round 
 each other's neck, and Vindex silently following with lofty 
 mien and watchful eye. His right hand, buried inthe folds of 
 his ample toga, grasped the hilt of a short but broad and massy 
 glaive ; and, as an indistinct shadow, or the fall of steps, told of 
 approach, it would be half drawn from its embossed scabbard. 
 Often did Danae look back with a smile on her lever, and often 
 did Cesonia bow her head and sigh. The waters of the Tiber 
 chafed angrily along, swollen by autumnal rains ; yet the night 
 was serene, the stars shone brightly on the marble tombs and 
 cediculce of the Latin plain, no ill-omened bird deformed the 
 air, and the busy hum of the eternal city stole on the ear, 
 intermingled with the lowing- of flocks from the hills, and the 
 song of the vintagers " wending their homeward way." A 
 bark, with a single bench of oars, which slowly stemmed the 
 current, was the only object on the river. Often did Vindex 
 cast an uneasy glance upDn. it, but it held its course steadily far 
 from the bank. 
 
 As they were drawing near the gardens of Julius Caasar, 
 Cesonia said, " Sabinus, thou mayst leave us now ; the matrons 
 of Transtiberina are keen of sight as Minerva's bird, thou 
 knowest, and their tongues ! — " 
 
 " Mehercule," ejaculated the anxious lover, " no matron is 
 so quick or deadly of tongue as a pampered freedman. Tibe- 
 rius Caesar has many such who prowl, fox-like, round this 
 quarter in search of prey." As he spoke, a centurion of the 
 Pretorian Guard was seen emerging from the shade of the 
 gardens. The two maidens drew back instinctively closer to 
 Vindex ; and the young officer, hastily advancing, suddenly 
 stopped before them, and gazing admiringly, said, in a broad 
 but soft Doric dialect, "To see one is to see both." 
 
 It was the will, doubtless, of the infernal gods that Vindex 
 should have resided at Rhodes, where this dialect was spoken, 
 and accordingly he answered in the same tongue, " Then to see 
 them is to see the honour of Rome." 
 
 " Art thou Greek V said the centurion. 
 
 " No more than thou art Roman," was the reply. 
 
212 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 The centurion then rejoined in Latin, "To protect one woman 
 is boast enough : to have two under his care is for a demigod." 
 
 " My buckler," retorted Sabinus, " would be protection 
 enough against a man : it can surely suffice to keep at bay a 
 Greek." 
 
 " Sayest thou, snarling cur of Molossus !" burst forth the 
 incensed pretorian. 
 
 " Dares the wolf abide his fang ?" 
 
 Quick as lightning their swords crossed, and the centurion had 
 already felt the keen edge of his opponent's glaive, when the 
 cries of the two maidens brought to the spot some soldiers, who 
 burned with rage on seeing one of their officers overpowered by 
 a simple citizen. Sabinus trembled, not for himself, but for the 
 affrighted doves whom he could scarce hope singly to shield. He 
 retreated slowly, covering them with his body as a buckler, and, 
 boldly facing the pretorians, returned blow for blow, and curse 
 for curse. Further retreat, however, was soon barred by the 
 river, towards whose bank the soldiery had designedly pressed 
 him. " Here," exclaimed Sabinus, " we must stop, and be our 
 trust in Jove the Avenger I" Cesonia and Danae fell cowering at 
 his feet ; and while one hand clasped theirs, his other dealt 
 death around. He was unconscious of the wounds from which 
 he bled at every pore ; his whole soul was in his sword, and only 
 watched the blows it inflicted. Suddenly a piercing cry rings 
 on his ear, and his bewildered eye perceives but one female at 
 his feet. Turning round, he sees the fatal bark bearing away 
 his Danae, who vainly extends her arms to him, as to her tutelary 
 deity. A savage seized the opportunity, and Vindex sank 
 beneath the blows thus cowardly aimed. 
 
 " He is dead !" exclaimed the pretorians. 
 
 " And the maiden too !" they added, after placing their hands 
 on her cold and clammy brow. 
 
 Three months from this eventful night, Cesonia was seated by 
 the couch of Sabinus Vindex. The latter was convalescent ; 
 but from the loss of blood he had sustained, was still pale as 
 Parian marble. Expectation was visible on both their counte- 
 nances, and a hectic flush passed over his brow, as Sabinus said, 
 " Look out on the Appian way, my sister. 'Tis the hour ap- 
 pointed by my friends." 
 
 "May the omen be propitious !" responded Cesonia, "no 
 sooner hast thou spoken than they are here. Our Lares smile 
 upon them." 
 
 The first who saluted Vindex was Quirinus, a man of consular 
 dignity, whose wealth had rendered him obnoxious to Tiberius. 
 He was followed by Cneius Lentulus, the augur, who had fallen 
 under the emperor's suspicion, from expounding a dream of his 
 contrary to the event. Next came Pompeius and Pollio ; the 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPRE5I. 213 
 
 first, a patrician of a race honoured almost as divine — the latter, 
 a plebeian, but beloved by the whole Roman people. Three 
 others completed the number ; the one, a Rhodian, who had 
 been the host of Tiberius, when he visited Rhodes, and the 
 sanctity of whose hearth the tyrant had foully dishonoured — the 
 remaining two were Messala and Cassius, by hereditary right the 
 sworn foes of tyranny. 
 
 Vindex felt an unexpected joy fill his bosom, as he beheld 
 these men circle round his couch. He sat up, erect — like a shade 
 evoked, by enchanters, from the tomb ; and extending his 
 hand to each in turn, gave them a silent welcome. He essayed, 
 indeed, to speak, but the words died away upon his lips. 
 Cesonia was the first to break the stillness. " Citizens," she 
 said, " our friend is still too weak for much speech, his wounds 
 are scantly healed. Then suffer me, a simple Roman maid, to 
 say wherefore ye are summoned. My sister has been forcibly 
 carried to Caprese ; my father, thanks to the immortal gods, was 
 spared the pain of knowing this, but grief for her loss has 
 bowed him to the grave. Ye are summoned, then, to avenge 
 the common weal, no less than to seek retribution for a private 
 wrong — an injury to Rome's meanest son is a wrong to all." 
 
 A murmur of admiration arose from the assembled group, and 
 Cassius impetuously exclaimed, " My friends, one feeling alone 
 can animate us ; to waste time in deliberation were a crime before 
 the gods ; there remains, then, but to fix the day, hour, place, 
 and means. Shall it be the sword, the cord, or poison ?" 
 
 " The sword !" exclaimed nearly every voice. 
 
 " The bowl !" said the augur. 
 
 " Mark the fear and craft of the priest," ironically observed 
 Pollio ; " and what if the imperial drunkard should hand the 
 cup to a senator or a slave to drain ? Trust me, friends, the 
 sword breaks no promises." 
 
 u The sword be it," interrupted the sick man. " Daughter of 
 Corvinus Cimber, bring hither the weapons concealed in the 
 sacrarium; there have they remained safe under the guardian- 
 ship of my paternal gods." 
 
 Shortly after Cesonia returned, bearing in her fair hands a 
 bundle of short, two-edged swords, and a dagger of ancient 
 workmanship. 
 
 " These" said Cassius, " are the best arguments of the Roman 
 Forum against tyranny ;" and so saying, the ardent youth eagerly 
 grasped the bundle and laid it on Sabinus's couch. The latter 
 waved his arm joyfully at the clank of steel ; the lion was roused. 
 Among the glaives he selected one broader than the rest, and 
 whose hilt was encircled by a garland of oak. It had been 
 bequeathed him by his father, who had received it from his — a 
 
214 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 veteran of the republic. As he kissed the sacred weapon, tears 
 fell upon the blade. " Friends !" he at length exclaimed, 
 " choose ; all are Roman." 
 
 With simultaneous movement the young men bent over his 
 couch, and the next moment stood erect, each with an uplifted 
 sword. The poniard remained ; but, at a look from Sabinus, 
 Cesonia placed it in her girdle as joyfully as if it had been a 
 rose offered by a lover's hand. 
 
 They then invoked the infernal deities, and performed lus- 
 tration with a branch of cypress. Crowning gobiets, and filling 
 them with wine, they next proceeded to libations, and ad- 
 jured the great gods. They finished by pouring out a libation to 
 the Roman goddess Fortune; and Pollio, raising both his hands, 
 preferred a solemn supplication : — " Goddess sleep, no longer in 
 the Capitol, but awaken to the voice of our despair. Look at 
 thy sons : our brows are humbled in the dust, and our eyes red 
 with tears of shame and wrath ; yet is Carthage ours, and the 
 Parthian and Dacian trouble us not. Goddess, who leadest to 
 victory, what avails it that the conquered world is ours, if we 
 crouch under the iron rod of a master ? Take back our con- 
 quests, O Fortune ! The east and her tiared kings ; the west 
 — the limit of the world ; Gaul the warlike, and the icy Ger- 
 many ; take back all the memorials of our consuls and our 
 legions, and leave us but the Latium of our fathers, so that thou 
 once more render the rostra free and the Roman senate virtuous. 
 Goddess ! to thee do I consecrate this sword, taken from the 
 double altar of friendship, and of liberty !" 
 
 " Et nos sicut Me, Fortuna," responded all present. 
 
 Sabinus Vindex received the kiss of brotherhood from each. 
 " As soon," said he, " as I have strength to strike, we will fix 
 the day for our departure to Caprese." As he embraced Cneius 
 Lentulus, the augur, he fancied he perceived a degree of hesi- 
 tation about him, and asked, " Has my friend any secret to 
 impart ?" 
 
 "None," replied Lentulus. 
 
 "Then," continued Vindex, "it is the augur perhaps that 
 wishes to speak V 
 
 "And what can he say," rejoined Lentulus, "save that the 
 omens are favourable ? Hark ! even now the thunder rolls on 
 the right of the house." 
 
 Vindex listened a moment to the awful voice of Jove, and 
 then said with a smile, " This was the sign which was wanting in 
 Murena's conspiracy against Augustus." 
 
 The augur smiled in his turn, and Cesonia, who was watching 
 him, thought she detected treachery in the upward curl of his 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPRE^. 215 
 
 West of Campania, begirt with rude and broken rocks, but 
 shining in the sun like a diamond in the coronet of the deep, 
 lies the ancient isle of Caprese. At this period it contained 
 twelve imperial villas, bearing the names of twelve divinities. 
 The most celebrated were, — that of Ceres, with its fairy pillars, 
 light and lofty as the palm tree ; the villa of Juno, in which the 
 wondrous fish of the Ganges swam in seas of porphyry; and, 
 above all, the villa of Jupiter, which rose on the western coast of 
 the isle, crowned with a golden frieze, and embossed in a grove 
 of odoriferous cedars. On its right was the Pharos, which shed 
 its glowing beams over the bosom of the deep, like another sun ; 
 and at its feet were the baths, into whose vast conclavia rolled 
 the azure waves of the Tyrrhene sea, so transparently as not to 
 veil a single picture of the rich mosaic below. The villa of 
 Jupiter was " the delight of the world," and Caprese " the eye 
 of the ocean." Augustus had loved its perfumed woods and 
 marbled halls, where the cares of empire were never suffered to 
 intrude, and had named the lovely isle — "the House of Indo- 
 lence." It was reserved for Tiberius to transform it into a den 
 of lust. 
 
 One balmy eve, in the month named from Maia, whoever 
 could have introduced himself into the gardens of the villa of 
 Jupiter, would have seen a man in the sere of life, but of com- 
 manding presence, tracing their verdant alleys with measured 
 steps and eyes fixed upon the ground. He was soon joined by 
 one younger than himself, clad in the Greek pallium, and whose 
 keen and lively eye bespoke the craft of his degraded country. 
 This was Charicles, the emperor's physician ; the elder was the 
 soothsayer Thrasyllus. The Greek accosted him in a low tone, 
 and with his habitual smile. Thrasyllus replied by an inclination 
 of the head, and followed his companion in silence, sometimes 
 listening to his voluble remarks, but chiefly intent on his own 
 thoughts. On reaching the vestibulum, from which numerous 
 sellaria branched off in different directions, Charicles stopped 
 under its lofty portico, and pointing to the sea, said, " Phoebus 
 sinks to rest in all his beauty to night V 
 
 " Knowest thou his handmaid Thetis," exclaimed a shrill 
 discordant voice behind. The soothsayer started, and turning 
 round saw the favourite dwarf of Tiberius. " If not, thou who 
 knowest all," it continued, " must at least know that she has 
 just arrived at our Olympus." The soothsayer contented him- 
 self with smiling graciously on the misshapen object that 
 addressed him, and pursued his way among the vast halls, the 
 dwarf following him, tossing oranges up to the vaulted ceilings, 
 and catching them with impish glee. On reaching the hall of a 
 bath illuminated by a thousand torches, the two friends stopped 
 upon the threshold. Young girls, clad in short tunics, were 
 
216 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 scattering odours and wreaths of flowers over the large circular 
 basin, in the midst of which, on a chair of jasper, sat an old 
 man, with his head only above the water, and who smiled as he 
 listened to the strains of the sistrum, the cithara, and the 
 Lydian lute. As soon as Thrasyllus and Charicles appeared, at 
 a nod from the voluptuous satyr the music ceased, and Tiberius 
 said in a low and hesitating, but distinct, voice. " Thrasyllus, 
 I have sent for the books of the oracle of Preeneste. We must 
 consult them together." 
 
 " Godlike emperor," replied Thrasyllus, " what can they teach 
 thee that thou knowest not already ?" 
 
 " I must be certain that they can teach me nothing Thrasyllus. 
 They have never yet deceived me. The night promises well ; 
 therefore go, prepare thee to interrogate the stars. As for thee, 
 Charicles, I tell thee thy potion has worked wonders ; I am 
 thirty years younger than when I rose this morning. But what 
 does that wayward dwarf here ? he scares my nymphs — away 
 with you both, physician and buffoon. " 
 
 Shortly after, Tiberius left the sea of porphyry in which he 
 had been sitting, and being invested with his tunic and imperial 
 mantle, was handed by his naiads to their sisters the dryads, 
 young as they, but differing in dress and office. The joyous 
 bacchants soon after appeared, crowned with ivy, and begirt 
 with the spotted hide of the leopard. Forming a litter of vine- 
 leaves and branches of myrtle, they bore the earthly god to the 
 hall of banquets, and couching him on the purple-strewed 
 triclinium, the deity deigned to eat. 
 
 The supper concluded, and libations poured, the Roman 
 Emperor signed to his nymphs to give him air with their fans 
 of peacocks' feathers, and lay luxuriating (it seemed) in his 
 own fancies, and occasionally sipping Cretan wine, until, 
 addressing a dark-haired girl of Lesbos, he said, " Leucothoe, 
 bring hither the Roman maiden who arrived this morning ; or 
 stay, bid a lictor introduce her — you and your sisters may 
 retire." 
 
 The lictor quickly appeared, accompanied by a young girl 
 whom he placed fronting the triclinium, and then took his own 
 station close to the pulvi nar of Caesar. The unknown held her 
 head proudly erect, but her eyes sought the ground ; a modest 
 red tinged her cheek, embrowned by the glowing sun of Italy ; 
 her brow and lips were ashy pale ; her arms were buried in the 
 folds of her vest, and a large pallium partly concealed her 
 round and polished shoulders ; her long and jetty tresses were 
 confined behind by small bands of red wool, which interlaced 
 each other. 
 
 Ceesar looked at her long and earnestly, as she stood there 
 before him, motionless as the statue of Silence. " Daughter," 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPRE^. 217 
 
 at length he said, " thy name is Cesonia : thy father was a ple- 
 beian, son of a centurion in one of the legions vanquished at 
 Philippi ; thy friends are my enemies ; thou perceivest I know 
 thy history. The emperor, like the gods, sees all. But, Ce- 
 sonia mea, what have I done to cause thee to seek my death ? 
 If thy wish arises from love to the republic, I tell thee Rome 
 has nought to complain of; 'tis now nine long months since 
 the eternal city has seen my face. I had trusted that the con- 
 spiracy of Sejanus would have been the last ; but thy friends 
 are mad, Cesonia. What ! a plebeian conspire against the 
 emperor — against him who has humbled patrician pride, who 
 gives his people the games of the Circus, even when absent, 
 and opens his Sicilian granaries to them in years of dearth ! 
 Thou hast erred, Cesonia. See, I am grave with thee, as with 
 the consuls. The cares of empire bring with them seriousness, 
 for 'tis not age has tamed me. I can yet bend the Scythian 
 bow, and hurl the discus. They say at Rome that I am 
 ill ; but thou shalt tell them that the old man has still the 
 vigour of youth, that he is still comely to look at — nay, tremble 
 not — no thought have I of the axe, or of the bowl, nor even of 
 detaining thee in my Olympus, thou chastest of the doves that 
 flutter on Tiber's banks ! Cheer thee ! thou shalt return to the 
 city." 
 
 " Not so, Caesar." 
 
 "Ha! has Capreae already charmed thee into forgetfulness 
 of the musty fables that wooed thy infant years ? Are our 
 Lucretias at last extinct ? Here's to our future loves, my Roman 
 maid ! " 
 
 " Caesar, I stay; but on one condition." 
 
 "Kings themselves have no conditions to make with me; 
 yet speak, O queen Cesonia." 
 
 M I will remain here in place of one of thy female attendants. 
 She must be free to return to Rome with one of the conspira- 
 tors." 
 
 " These are two conditions. For the woman, I yield her to 
 thee. Thou art a new star dropped from the clouds, and most 
 of the others here are on the wane. But a conspirator is a 
 hawk to be caged. Would I had an aviary full of them, I 
 should ask no better boon from my stars. Dost weep, Cesonia? 
 Nay then, the lion will withdraw his fang. Thou shalt have 
 the conspirator too." 
 
 " I thank thee, Caesar." 
 
 '« Tis the first kind word thou hast spoken. Come, name 
 these captives thou wouldst have released." 
 
 " I will point them out to thy freedman, Caesar." 
 
 " Nay, name them. This is my condition." 
 
 " The one is Sabinus Vindex — " 
 
 R 
 
218 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Humph ! thou knowest how to choose ! — The other ? — 
 
 " Is Danae." 
 
 On this, Tiberius looked into the goblet from which he kept 
 sipping during the conference, as if seeking at its bottom the 
 mystery he would solve ; then drained it off, and muttered to 
 himself-—'" Danae ! Why Danae, and not Panachis, Lesbia, 
 Leucothoe, Camilla, or any other !" Then he said aloud, " Is 
 Vindex thy brother ?" 
 
 " Danae is my sister," replied Cesonia. 
 
 " Immortal gods, and I could not divine this, nor Thrasyllus 
 either ! Thy sister ? yea ! there are her eyes which dazzle the 
 sight, and it is the same voice which wins its way to the soul. 
 Yet is her beauty more like that of Hebe; thou art a Juno. 
 Supposing, however, that Danae refuses to quit Capreae!" 
 
 Cesonia looked upon him with a smile of pity and incredulity. 
 Tiberius repeated what he had said. 
 
 " Then is our contract void !" exclaimed the maiden, as her 
 brow reddened with anger and with scorn. The emperor felt 
 his vanity rebuked, and hastened to change the conversation. 
 
 " I will summon Vindex first. 'Twere unlike a host not to 
 bid him farewell." 
 
 At his summons, a nymph appeared ; and a few moments after, 
 Vindex was brought in by two lictors. He was still pale from 
 his wounds, and a long scar furrowed his manly brow. He 
 fronted Tiberius with a look rather of astonishment than indig- 
 nation ; but when, on turning, he beheld Cesonia, he smiled and 
 said — " Cesonia, Soror ! " 
 
 " The whole truth is now out !" exclaimed Tiberius. " The 
 augur told but part, although he was amply paid, methinks." 
 
 " It was Lentulus then who betrayed us!" 
 
 " Who saved you," replied Tiberius. " Your plot would 
 have carried you headlong to destruction, Sabinus Vindex, 
 whereas now you will live to tell the Romans that I am no 
 tyrant." — He then made a sign with his hand, and his choir 
 of nymphs entered in joyous procession. In the midst of them 
 was a sylph- like being, who " walked in beauty;" her Coan 
 tunic was transparent as the filmiest cloud that veils Diana ; her 
 hair was turned back and plaited so as to resemble a Grecian 
 casque, sparkling with precious stones ; and she bore a sacred 
 fillet in her hand. Tiberius motioned to the crowd to divide, 
 and the two sisters were in each other's arms. At length, Ce- 
 sonia spoke : 
 
 " Csesar, thou art magnanimous !" 
 
 At the same time she cast on the mosaic pavement a small 
 poniard which had been concealed in her tunic. Tiberius turned 
 pale; the ringing of the iron on the pavement was as the hiss of 
 a serpent to his ear. He asked for it, and pricking an orange 
 with its point, said to his nymphs — " See on what depends the 
 
TIBERIUS AT CAPRE2E. 219 
 
 P 
 
 safety of the republic ! " Then addressing Vindex, H Hast 
 not thou a votive offering to make me ? A true descendant of 
 Brutus wears no tunic so scant, but it conceals a dagger. Give 
 me thine, for thou hast one, Sabinus, and take Danae in return." 
 
 " Go," said Cesonia to her sister, " thou art free ; ye are both 
 free." 
 
 " Free," murmured Danae, " Yes, yes, my sister — do not you 
 leave us F 
 
 " Thou art free, I repeat, my Danae. Behold thy lover ! 
 Away to Rome, and be the gods with you." 
 
 At this moment, Sabinus Vindex was drawing a small, but 
 tempered dagger from a fold of his tunic, and was about to lay it 
 at the feet of Caesar, when he heard a lisping voice affectedly 
 cry— 
 
 " Quit the delicious Caprese ! Oh ! no — never! " 
 
 Cesonia threw the shameless girl from her, as if an athlete 
 had hurled her to the ground. Then did Sabinus say to him- 
 self, " I am a Roman, and must not suffer her to live," — but 
 his eye encountered the majestic despair of Cesonia, and the 
 dagger fell from his grasp. 
 
 The tyrant laughed, and waving his arm, was left alone. 
 
 The next morning a storm passed over the isle of Capreae ; 
 the long, forked lightnings crossed each other like glittering 
 swords, and two eagles had been seen to fall, struck by the 
 thunderbolt. The voice of iEtna was heard above the war of 
 the elements, and Capreee shook as if with affKJght. The tower 
 of the Pharos even had been observed to totter, like a giant 
 reeling under wine. 
 
 The Emperor and Thrasyllus had closeted themselves in the 
 sacrarium of the villa of Jupiter, in order to consult the oracu- 
 lar books from Preeneste, which had just been brought to 
 Capreoe, in their golden area. Long and minutely did the 
 soothsayers examine the sigillum of the sacred ark ; it was 
 unbroken ; whole as when the signet had been applied. Then, 
 after solemn invocation, at a sign from Ceesar, he broke the 
 seal. The emperor had crowned his head with a wreath of green 
 laurel, as was usual with him during storms, to avert the thun- 
 der-stone. "With his bald and lofty brow thus garlanded, 
 the obscene old man resembled some ancient poet, and the 
 solemn awe depicted on his countenance gave dignity even to 
 Tiberius. Eager to be first to touch the sacred books, ha 
 plunged his gaunt hand into the area, opened by Thrasyllus. 
 Oh ! terror ! the oracle had flown — no book or scroll was there, 
 and yet the guardian priests had brought them in solemn state 
 to this — their mortal god ! 
 
 The pallid Csesar gazed on Thrasyllus, who stood motionless 
 as stone ; he knew that the hour of death was nigh, for his 
 
220 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 master felt the icy chill of fear. Tiberius shrinking with back- 
 ward step, and eyes that never quitted the wide-distended eyes 
 of the soothsayer, thus left the sacrarium. He called his freed- 
 man with quailing voice, and, borne rather than supported by 
 his brawny arm, reached the imperial closet. Thither none 
 presumed to follow ; — one shadowy form excepted — Terror ! 
 
 Towards nightfall, the storm ceased ; the wind lay hushed on 
 the bosom of the deep, and the voice of the thunder died away 
 in the distant horizon. The dark curtain of clouds, which 
 overhung Capreae as with a pall, had been rent asunder in the 
 west, and there the broad, red disk of the sun plunged glowing 
 into the waves. Soon as it had sunk, the light from the tower 
 of the Pharos appeared like a star on the dusky brow of night. 
 Indistinct clouds hung in masses round its lofty summit, and 
 looked like phantoms sent to upper air from Tartarus, to do 
 some infernal bidding of the powers of darkness. 
 
 At the foot of the tower was a rock, so high above the deep 
 that the brain turned giddy on gazing from it at the abyss 
 below ; so smooth and glassy that the claws of the sea-mews 
 slipped from it as from polished steel. On its peaked top there 
 appeared two youthful forms. — " This," said one in a low tone, 
 " this is the rock of the doomed." 
 
 " And we are so," was the reply. 
 
 " Yes," rejoined the first, " but the rude hand of the lictor 
 shall touch us not. The gods have opened our prison-door." 
 
 " Come. Sabinus," resumed the softer voice, " let us die. 
 There is but oneway to escape from the Caprese, and that the- 
 pretorians cannot bar." 
 
 "That I should die," replied Vindex, "is just and fitting; 
 but thou, Cesonia, so young ! — " 
 
 "Yes, young!" exclaimed the Roman maiden, "but mor- 
 tally wounded. Come ! and thou, O sea ! be kinder to us than 
 thy sister earth !" 
 
 The youth folded her to his bosom, and again besought her 
 to delay the period of her death. " My father," she replied, 
 had two treasures — one has been sullied, the other shall repose 
 spotless beneath the briny wave. But look — " 
 
 The bald, but laurelled head of Csesar appeared on a lofty 
 gallery of the palace of Jupiter, and seemed to watch intently 
 what was taking place upon the brink of the abyss ; from time 
 to time it made a movement as if to hasten the deed of death. 
 To see that pale head standing out in ghastly relief from the 
 sable pall of night, one could have sworn that it was the shade 
 of Csesar. Vindex, raising his clenched hand on high, in 
 signal of defiance, shouted to the spectre — 
 
 " Morituri te salutant" — " The dying salute thee." 
 
 With these words, he plunged into the void, repulsing 
 Cesonia; but the latter had caught his arm, and fell with him. 
 
THE CONVICT. 221 
 
 It was at this moment, as they were cleaving the air, and yet 
 hung betwixt the sea and sky, that a wild cry rung out, and 
 these words were heard : 
 
 " Sabinus — i" loved thee !" 
 
 And the voice was lost in the plashing of the waves. The 
 water opened, dashed upwards in clouds of foam and spray, 
 then quietly settled down, spreading into a series of widening 
 circles. Long did that white head watch them, as they grew 
 fainter and fainter ; and when the surface of the deep resumed 
 its glassy stillness, the phantom smiled and disappeared. 
 
 S. 
 
 THE CONVICT. 
 
 Robert Wilson was a market gardener. Early in life he 
 married a deserving young woman whom he loved with entire 
 tenderness, and by whom he had several children. No man on 
 earth could be fonder of his little offspring than Wilson ; and 
 they, on the other hand, almost worshipped their father, taking 
 delight in nothing so much as in doing what he wished. Wilson 
 was not very wise, nor was he at all learned ; but his heart, which 
 as I have said was full of tenderness, told him with unerring 
 instinct that his children would be governed more perfectly 
 and with more wholesome effect under the dominion of love than 
 under that of fear ; and his was indeed a happy family, where 
 affection, pleasure, obedience, and faith (faith in each other), 
 went hand in hand. Wilson was well situated for passing his 
 life comfortably, and rationally, — his garden being just far 
 enough out of London to render inconvenient his mixing in the 
 squalid profligacies of town (had he been so inclined) ; and yet 
 he was not so entirely in the country as to harden him into the 
 robust callousness and ignorant vices of village life. He could 
 just hear enough of the " stir of the great Babel" to interest 
 him in it, and to keep his faculties alive and awake to the value 
 of his own quiet, and to the unaffected caresses of his dear wife 
 and children, which always appeared more and more precious 
 after he had been hearing, in his weekly visits to town, some 
 instance of mercenary hypocrisy and falseheartedness. 
 
 I lodged two years in his house, and have often seen him on a 
 summer's evening, sitting in an open part of his garden sur- 
 rounded by his family in unconscious enjoyment of the still 
 and rich sunset. I was his guest the last time I saw him, poor 
 fellow, in this placid happiness. We drank tea in the open air, 
 and amused ourselves afterwards, I recollect, with the preceding 
 day's newspaper which Wilson used to hire for the evening. 
 We sate out of doors later than usual owing to the delicious- 
 ness of the night, which instead of deepening into darkness, 
 kept up a mellow golden radiance sweeter than the searching 
 
222 LIBRARY OP FICTION. 
 
 daylight ; for before the colours of the sun had entirely faded 
 in the west, the moon came up over the eastern horizon, and the 
 effect was divine. My poor host, however, did not seem so 
 happy as usual. He had been thoughtful the whole evening, 
 and now became more pensive ; and nothing roused him even 
 into momentary cheer, except the playfulness of his eldest 
 daughter, — a merry little girl of about four or five years of age. 
 It was sad to see him, with his dejected face, striving to laugh 
 and romp with the child, who in a short time began to perceive 
 the alteration in her father's manner, and to reflect in her smooth 
 face the uneasiness of his. But their pastime was of short con- 
 tinuance. It was melancholy pretence. There was nothing 
 hearty in it, except the dance of the child's forehead-locks 
 tossed to and fro in the clear moonshine. 
 
 I soon found out the cause of this depression. He was be- 
 ginning to be pinched under an ugly coalition — an increasing 
 family, decreasing business and times taxed to the uttermost. 
 The gentlefolks living about the great squares did not spend so 
 much money as formerly in decking their windows and balconies 
 with early flowers and rare exotics; and this was an important 
 source of Wilson's revenue. We bore up, however, with sad 
 patience, for a long time ; till hunger thinned and stretched the 
 round faces of his children, and his wife's endearments, instead 
 of coming with hope and encouragement, seemed like tokens of 
 love growing more spiritual and devoted under despair ; they 
 were embraces hallowed and made sublime by famine. All this 
 was more than the poor man could bear. The failing voices of 
 his unconconscious children, were like madness bringing sounds 
 in his ears, and one night, losing in the tumult of his thoughts 
 all distinction between right and wrong, he rushed forth and 
 committed a robbery. 
 
 He was not absent long, and returned, as I have been told, in 
 a delirium of joy which was fearful to see. He danced, shouted, 
 sang, and threw money on the table, crying out, "There! we 
 will have plenty of bread now, and meat too. Ah, little 
 ones ! you need not stare at me so gravely, with those curious 
 fixed eyes. Laugh, my chicks ; and rejoice ; for what I say is 
 true ; — true, that we will eat. Here, wife, go and get them 
 plenty : they must not look so pale any longer. And, that's a 
 good creature, bring me in some brandy. I am not hungry. 
 Ask no questions, if you love me ; but run, and get food for 
 yourself and the children. We'll all be merry. Betsy, my 
 child, come and kiss me." 
 
 But, alas ! in a day or two he fell from this temporary eleva- 
 tion, and the want returned — stronger, fiercer, more hopeless. 
 He had done no good to his family, but had burdened himself 
 with a crime. It was deplorable to see him mope about the 
 weedy walks of his garden. 
 
. 
 
 THE CONVICT. 223 
 
 I shall never forget, as long as I live, the hour when he was 
 apprehended by the officers of justice. 
 
 A knock was heard at the outer gate, and on Mrs. Wilson's 
 going to open it, two men rushed by her into the house and 
 seized her pale and trembling husband ; who, although he ex- 
 pected and dreaded such an event, was so staggered by it, as to 
 lose for a few moments his consciousness of all about him. The 
 first thing he saw on coming to himself was his wife stretched at 
 his feet in a fearful swoon, and, as he was hurried off, he turned 
 his eyetowards her with a heart-broken expression, calling outin a 
 tone half raving and half imploring, " Look there, look there t* 
 It would be vain to attempt a description of the wretched 
 hours passed by him and his wife in the interval which elapsed 
 between this period and the time of his trial. The madness of 
 his utter despair, perhaps, was less intolerable than the sicken- 
 ing agitation produced in her mind by the air-built hopes she 
 dared to entertain in weary succession, and which were only 
 born to be soon stricken back into nothing. This is indeed a 
 ghastly and withering conflict. The poor woman, after enduring 
 it for three weeks, could not be easily recognised by her old 
 acquaintances. There were no traces left of the happy, bustling 
 wife. She moved silently among her children ; her face was 
 emaciated, and hectic ; and her eyes were red with the constant 
 swell of tears. It was a mighty change ! 
 
 The day of trial at length came on. Wilson was found guilty, 
 and sentence of death was passed on him. The laws in their 
 justice condemned him to be hanged, and the laws in their 
 justice had enforced the taxation, the hard pressure of which had 
 so mainly assisted to drive him into crime. But the world is 
 inexplicable. 
 
 His wife did not survive the news many hours. She died in 
 the night without a struggle. It was of no use to let the con- 
 demned man know this. I knew he would never ask to see her 
 again ; for their meetings in the prison had already been 
 torturing beyond endurance. 
 
 I visited him in his cell two days before the time appointed 
 for his execution. He was silent for many minutes after I 
 entered, and I did not attempt to rouse him. At length with 
 a voice quivering under an effort to be composed, he said; 
 " Although Mr. Saville, I do not request (I was going to say I 
 did not wish, but God knows how false that would be) to 
 behold my wife again in this bitter, bitter world, because such a 
 dreary meeting would drive her mad, yet I think it would do me 
 good if I could see my child, my eldest girl, my little Betsy. 
 I know not why it is, but I have an idea that her soft prattle, 
 ignorant as she is of my fate, would take something away from 
 the dismal suffering I am to undergo on Wednesday. There- 
 fore bring her, will you, this afternoon ; and frame some post- 
 
224 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 poning excuse for my poor wife. These, dear sir, are melan- 
 choly troubles, but I know you are very good." 
 
 In the afternoon, accordingly, I took the child who asked me 
 several times on the road why her father did not come home. 
 As we walked along the gloomy passages to his cell she clung 
 close to me, and did not say a word. It was very different, 
 poor thing, to the open and gay garden about which she was 
 used to run. 
 
 The door of her father's miserable dungeon was soon opened, 
 and the child rushed into his arms. " I do not like you to live 
 in this dark place, father/' she cried ; " come home with me and 
 Mr. Saville, and see mother who is in bed." 
 
 " I cannot come just now, my child," he answered ; " you 
 must stay a little with me, and throw your arms round my neck, 
 and lean your face on mine." 
 
 The child did as she was bidden, and the poor man, straining 
 her to him, sobbed bitterly and convulsively. After a few 
 minutes, he looked with yearning eyes in her face, saying, 
 " Come, my dear, sing your poor father that pretty song which 
 you know you used to sing to him when he was tired on an 
 evening. I am not well now. Look at me, my child, and sing." 
 
 How sad it was to hear the child's voice warbling in that do- 
 lorous place ! She was sitting on his knee — returning his eager 
 gaze with a half-perplexed expression ; little thinking, poor 
 thing, how soon he was to be snatched away, and hung by the 
 neck, like a dog, till he was dead ! I could scarcely bear it ; 
 but it seemed to have a contrary effect on the father. His eyes 
 were lighted up, and a smile appeared in his countenance. The 
 song* was of love, and woody retirement, and domestic repose, 
 and the baffled frowns of fortune. While the child was singing, 
 I left the cell to make some arrangements with the gaoler, who 
 was walking close to the door. I had not, however, been thus 
 engaged five minutes, before I heard something fall heavily, 
 accompanied by a violent scream, and rushing into the cell, I 
 saw the unhappy convict lying on the floor, and his little girl 
 clinging round his neck. The gaoler and I lifted him up, and, 
 alarmed at the hue of his face, called in the medical attendant 
 of the prison, who soon told us the poor man was dead. 
 
 The account given by the child was, that after she had done 
 singing, her father started, then looked sharply in her face, and 
 with a strange and short laugh, fell from his chair. I suppose 
 she had sung him into a temporary forgetfulness of his situation ; 
 that she had conjured into his mind with her innocent voice, a 
 blessed dream of past days and enjoyments, and that the spell 
 ceasing when her melody ceased, the truth of things had beat 
 upon his heart with too stunning a contrast, and it had burst. 
 
 M. L. C. 
 * " In my cottage near a wood." 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 
 
 A COUNTRY STORY. 
 
 Living as we do in the midst of rivers, water in all its forms, 
 except indeed that of the trackless and mighty ocean, is fami- 
 liar to our little inland county. The slow majestic Thames, 
 the swift and wandering Kennett, the clear and brimming Lod- 
 don, all lend life and verdure to our rich and fertile valleys. 
 Of the great river of England — whose course from its earliest 
 source, near Cirencester, to where it rolls calm, equable, and 
 full, through the magnificent bridges of our splendid metropolis, 
 giving and reflecting beauty,* presents so grand an image of 
 power in repose — it is not now my purpose to speak ; nor am I 
 about to expatiate on that still nearer and dearer stream, the 
 pellucid Loddon, — although to be rowed by one dear and near 
 friend up those transparent and meandering waters, from where 
 they sweep at their extremest breadth under the lime-crowned 
 terraces of the Old Park at Aberleigh, to the pastoral meadows 
 of Sandford, through which the narrowed current wanders so 
 brightly — now impeded by beds of white water-lilies, or feather- 
 blossomed bulrushes, or golden flags — now overhung by 
 thickets of the rich wayfaring tree, with its wealth of glorious 
 berries, redder than rubies — now spanned from side to side by 
 the fantastic branches of some aged oak ; — although to be rowed 
 along that clear stream, has long been amongst the choicest of 
 
 * There is nothing finer in London than the view from Waterloo -bridge 
 on a July evening, whether coloured by the gorgeous hues of the setting sun 
 reflected on the water in tenfold glory, or illuminated by a thousand twink- 
 ling lights from lamps, and boats, and houses, mingling with the mild beams 
 of the rising moon. The calm and glassy river, gay with unnumbered 
 vessels ; the magnificent buildings which line its shores ; the combination of 
 all that is loveliest in art or in nature with all that is most animating in 
 motion and in life, produce a picture gratifying alike to the eye and to the 
 heart — and the more exhilarating, or rather perhaps the more soothing, because, 
 for London, so singularly peaceful and quiet. It is like some gorgeous town 
 in fairyland, astir with busy and happy creatures, the hum of whose voices 
 comes floating from the craft upon the river, or the quays by the water side. 
 Life is there, and sound, and motion ; but blessedly free from the jostling of 
 the streets, the rattling of the pavement, the crowd, the confusion, the 
 tumult, and the din of the working day world. There is nothing in the great 
 city like the scene from Waterloo-bridge at sunset. I see it in my mind's eye 
 at this instant* 
 
226 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 my summer pleasures, so exquisite is the scenery, so perfect and 
 so unbroken the solitude. Even the shy and foreign-looking king- 
 fisher, most gorgeous of English birds, who, like the wild Indian 
 retiring before the foot of man, has nearly deserted our popu- 
 lous and cultivated country, knows and loves the lovely valley 
 of the Loddon. 
 
 It is not, however, of the Loddon that I am now to speak. 
 The scene of my little story belongs to a spot quite as solitary, 
 but far less beautiful, on the banks of the Kennett, which, a few 
 miles before its junction with the Thames, passes through a 
 tract of wild marshy country — water-meadows at once drained 
 and fertilised by artificial irrigation, and totally unmixed with 
 arable land ; so that the fields being for the most part too wet 
 to admit the feeding of cattle, divided by deep ditches, un- 
 dotted by timber, unchequered by cottages, and untraversed 
 by roads, convey in their monotonous expanse (except perhaps 
 at the gay season of haymaking) a feeling of dreariness and 
 desolation, singularly contrasted with the picturesque and varied 
 scenery, rich, glowing, sunny, bland, of the equally solitary 
 Loddon meadows. 
 
 A large portion of these English prairies, comprising a farm 
 called The Moors, was, at the time of which I write, in the oc- 
 cupation of a wealthy yeoman named John Cobham, who, the 
 absentee tenant of an absentee landlord, resided upon a small 
 property of his own about two miles distant, leaving the large 
 deserted house, and dilapidated outbuildings, to sink into 
 gradual decay. Barns half unthatched, tumble-down cart- 
 houses, palings rotting to pieces, and pigsties in ruins, con- 
 tributed, together with a grand collection of substantial and 
 dingy ricks of fine old hay — that most valuable but most gloomy 
 looking species of agricultural property — to the general aspect of 
 desolation by which the place was distinguished. One solitary 
 old labourer, a dreary bachelor, inhabited, it is true, a corner 
 of the old roomy house, calculated for the convenient accom- 
 modation of the patriarchal family of sons and daughters, men- 
 servants and maid-servants, of which a farmer's household con- 
 sisted in former days ; and one open window (the remainder 
 were bricked up to avoid taxes), occasionally a door ajar, and 
 still more rarely a thin wreath of smoke ascending from one of 
 the cold dismal-looking chimneys, gave token that the place 
 was not wholly abandoned. But the uncultivated garden, the 
 grass growing in the bricked court, the pond green with duck- 
 weed, and the absence of all living things, cows, horses, pigs, 
 turkeys, geese, or chickens — and still more of those talking, as 
 well as living things, women and children — all impressed on 
 the beholder that strange sensation of melancholy which few 
 can have failed to experience at the sight of an uninhabited 
 
JESSE CUFFE. 227 
 
 human habitation. The one solitary inmate failed to relieve the 
 pressing sense of solitude. Nothing but the ringing sound of 
 female voices, the pleasant and familiar noise of domestic 
 animals, could have done that ; and nothing approaching to noise 
 was ever heard in the Moors. It was a silence that might be felt. 
 
 The house itself was approached through a long narrow lane, 
 leading from a wild and watery common ; a lane so deeply ex- 
 cavated between the adjoining hedgerows, that in winter it was 
 little better than a water-course, and beyond the barns and 
 stables where even that apology for a road terminated, lay the ex- 
 tensive tract of low, level, marshy ground from whence the 
 farm derived its title ; a series of flat, productive water-meadows, 
 surrounded partly by thick coppices, partly by the winding 
 Kennett, and divided by deep and broad ditches ; a few pollard 
 willows — so old that the trunk was, in some, riven asunder, 
 whilst in others nothing but the mere shell remained, together 
 with here and there a stunted thorn — alone relieving the mono- 
 tony of the surface. 
 
 The only regular inhabitant of this dreary scene was, as I 
 have before said, the old labourer Daniel Thorpe, who was kept 
 in one corner of the house, partly to prevent its total dilapida- 
 tion, and to preserve the valuable hay-ricks and the tumble- 
 down farm buildings from the pillage to which unprotected, 
 property is necessarily exposed, and partly to keep in repair the 
 long line of boundary fence, to clean the passages, clear out the 
 moat-like ditches, and see that the hollow-sounding wooden 
 bridges, which formed the sole communication by which the 
 hay- waggons could pass to and from the distant meadows, were 
 in proper order to sustain their ponderous annual load. Daniel 
 Thorpe was the only accredited unfeathered biped who figured 
 in the parish books as occupant of The Moors ; nevertheless 
 that swampy district could boast of one other irregular and for- 
 bidden but most pertinacious inhabitant — and that inhabitant 
 was our hero, Jesse ClifTe. 
 
 Jesse ClifTe was a lad some fifteen or sixteen years of age — 
 there or thereabout; for with the exact date of his birth, although 
 from circumstances most easily ascertained, even the assistant- 
 overseer did not take the trouble to make himself acquainted. 
 He was a parish child born in the workhouse, the offspring of a 
 half-witted orphan girl and a sturdy vagrant, partly tinker, 
 partly ballad-singer, who took good care to disappear before 
 the strong arm of justice, in the shape of a tardy warrant and a 
 halting constable, could contrive to intercept his flight. He 
 joined, it was said, a tribe of gipsies, to whom he was strongly 
 suspected to have all along belonged; and who vanishing at the 
 same time, accompanied by half the linen and poultry of the 
 neighbourhood, were never heard of in our parts again; 
 
 s 2 
 
228 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 whilst the poor girl whom he had seduced and abandoned, with 
 sense enough to feel her misery, although hardly sufficient to 
 be responsible for the sin, fretted, mourned, and pined — losing, 
 she hardly knew how, the half- unconscious light-heartedness 
 which had almost seemed a compensation for her deficiency 
 of intellect, and with that light-heartedness losing also her 
 bodily strength, her flesh, her colour, and her appetite, until, 
 about a twelvemonth after the birth of her boy, she fell into a 
 decline and died. 
 
 Poor Jesse, born and reared in the workhouse, soon began to 
 evince symptoms of the peculiarities of both his parents. Half- 
 witted like his mother, wild and roving as his father — it was 
 found impossible to check his propensity to an out-of-door life. 
 
 From the moment, postponed as long as possible in such 
 establishments, in which he doffed the petticoat — a moment, 
 by the way, in which the obstinate and masterful spirit of the 
 ungentle sex often begins to show itself in nurseries of a far 
 more polished description; — from that moment may Jesse's 
 wanderings be said to commence. Disobedience lurked in the 
 habit masculine. The wilful urchin stood, like some dandy 
 apprentice, contemplating his brown- sturdy legs as they 
 stuck out from his new trowsers, already (such was the eco- 
 nomy of the taylor employed on the occasion,) " a world 
 too short," and the first use he made of those useful supporters 
 was to run away. And so little did any one really care for the 
 poor child, that not being missed till night-fall, or sought after 
 till the next morning, he had strayed far enough when, at last 
 picked up, identified by the parish mark on his new jacket, and 
 found to be half frozen (it was mid-winter when his first elope- 
 ment happened), half starved, half drowned, and more than half 
 dead of fatigue and exhaustion. " It will be a lesson !" said the 
 moralizing matron of the workhouse, as, after a sound scolding, 
 she fed the little culprit and put him to bed. " It will be a 
 lesson to the rover r And so it proved ; for, after being re- 
 cruited by a few days' nursing, he ran away again. 
 
 When recovered the second time, he was whipped as well 
 as fed — another lesson which only made the stubborn re^ 
 cusant run the faster. Then, upon his next return, they shut 
 him up in a dark den appropriately called the black-hole, a 
 restraint which, of course, increased his zest for light and liberty, 
 and in the first moment of freedom — a moment greatly accele- 
 rated by his own strenuous efforts in the shape of squalling, 
 bawling, roaring, and stamping, unparalleled and insupportable, 
 even in that mansion of din — in the very instant of freedom he 
 w r as off again ; he ran away from work ; he ran away from 
 school ; certain to be again immersed in his dismal dungeon as 
 soon as he could be recaught ; so that his whole childhood be- 
 came a series of alternate imprisonments and escapes. 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 229 
 
 That he should be so often lost was, considering his propen- 
 sities and the proverbial cunning of his caste, not, perhaps, 
 very remarkable. But the number of times and the variety of 
 ways in which, in spite of the little trouble taken in searching 
 for him, he was sent back to the place from whence he came, 
 was really something wonderful. If any creature in the world 
 had cared a straw for the poor child, he must have been lost oven 
 and over ; nobody did care for him, and he was as sure to turn 
 up as alight guinea. He has been cried like Found Goods in 
 Belford Market; advertised like a strayed donkey in the 
 
 H shire Courant ; put for safe keeping into compters, 
 
 cages, roundhouses, and bridewells ; passed, by different con- 
 stables, through half the parishes in the county ; and so fre- 
 quently and minutely described in handbills and the Hue and 
 Cry, that by the time he was twelve years old, his stature, 
 features, and complexion were as well known to the rural police 
 as those of some great state criminal. In a word, " the lad 
 would live ;" and the Aberleigh overseers, who would doubtless 
 have been far from inconsolable if they had never happened to 
 hear of him. again, were reluctantly obliged to make the best of 
 their bargain. 
 
 Accordingly, they placed him as a sort of boy of all work at 
 " the shop" at Hinton, where he remained, upon an accurate 
 computation, somewhere about seven hours ; then they put him 
 with a butcher at Langley, where he staid about five hours 
 and a half, arriving at dusk, and escaping before midnight ; 
 then with a baker at Belford, in which good town he sojourned, 
 the (for him) unusual space of two nights and a day ; and then 
 they apprenticed him to Master Samuel Goddard, an eminent 
 dealer in cattle, leaving his new master to punish him according 
 to law, provided he should run away again. Run away of 
 course he did ; but as he had contrived to earn for himself a 
 comfortably bad character for stupidity and laziness, and as he 
 timed his evasion well — during the interval between the sale of 
 a bargain of Devonshire stots, and the purchase of a lot of 
 Scotch kyloes, when his services were little needed — and as 
 Master Samuel Goddard had too much to do and to think of to 
 waste his time and his trouble on a search after a heavy-looking 
 under-drover, with a considerable reputation for laziness, Jesse, 
 for the first time in his life, escaped his ordinary penalties 
 of pursuit and discovery — the parish officers contenting them- 
 selves by notifying to Master Samuel Goddard, that they con- 
 sidered their responsibility, legal as well as moral, completely 
 transferred to him in virtue of their indentures, and that, what- 
 ever might be the future destiny of his unlucky apprentice, 
 whether frozen or famished, hanged or drowned, the blame 
 would rest with the cattle-dealer aforesaid, to whom they re- 
 
230 LIBRARY OP FICTION. 
 
 solved to refer all claims on their protection, whether advanced 
 by Jesse himself or by others. 
 
 Small intention had Jesse ClirTe to return to their protection 
 or their workhouse ! The instinct of freedom was strong in the 
 poor boy — quick and strong as in the beast of the field, or the 
 bird of the air. He betook himself to the Moors (one of his 
 earliest and favourite haunts) with a vague assurance of safety 
 in the deep solitude of those wide-spreading meadows, and the 
 close coppices that surrounded them ; and at little more than 
 twelve years of age he began a course of lonely, half-savage, self- 
 dependent life, such as has rarely been heard of in this civilized 
 country. How he lived is to a certain point a mystery. Not by 
 stealing. That was agreed on all hands — except indeed, as to 
 a few roots of turnips and potatoes, and a few ears of unripe 
 corn, in their several seasons. Ripe corn for his winter's hoard 
 he gleaned after the fields were cleared, with a scrupulous 
 honesty that might have read a lesson to peasant children 
 of a happier nurture. And they who had opportunities 
 to watch the process, said that it was curious to see him 
 bruise the grain between large stones, knead the rude 
 flour with fair water, mould his simple cakes, and then 
 bake them in a primitive oven formed by his own labour 
 m a dry bank of the coppice, and heated by rotten wood 
 shaken from the tops of the trees, (which he climbed like a 
 squirrel), and kindled by a flint and a piece of an old horse- 
 shoe; — such was his unsophisticated cookery ! Nuts and berries 
 from the woods ; fish from the Kennett — caught with such 
 tackle as might be constructed of a stick and a bit of pack- 
 thread, with a strong pin or needle formed into a hook ; and 
 perhaps an occasional rabbit or partridge, entrapped by some 
 such rough and inadequate contrivance, formed his principal 
 support ; a modified, and, according to his vague notions of 
 light and wrong, an innocent form of poaching, since he sought 
 only what was requisite for his own consumption, and would 
 have shunned as a sin the killing game to sell. Money, indeed, 
 he little needed. He formed his bed of fern or dead grass, in 
 the deepest recesses of the coppice— a natural shelter; and 
 the renewal of raiment, which warmth and decency demanded, 
 he obtained by emerging from his solitude, and joining such 
 parties as a love of field sports brought into his vicinity in the 
 pursuit of game — an inspiring combination of labour and diver- 
 sion, which seemed to awaken something like companionship 
 and sympathy even in this wild boy of the moors, one in which 
 his knowledge of the haunts and habits of wild animals, his 
 strength, activity, and actual insensibility to hardship or 
 fatigue, rendered his services of more than ordinary value. 
 There was not so good a hare-finder throughout that division 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 231 
 
 of the county ; and it was curious to observe how completely 
 his skill in sportsmanship overcame the contempt with which 
 grooms and gamekeepers, to say nothing of their less fine and 
 more tolerant masters, were wont to regard poor Jesse's ragged 
 garments, the sunburnt hair and skin, the want of words to 
 express even his simple meaning, and, most of all, the strange 
 obliquity of taste- which led him to prefer Kennett water to 
 Kennett ale. Sportsmanship, sheer sportsmanship, carried him 
 through all ! 
 
 Jesse was, as I have said, the most popular hare-finder of the 
 country-side, and during the coursing season was brought by 
 that good gift into considerable communication with his fellow 
 creatures; amongst the rest with his involuntary landlord, 
 John Cobham. 
 
 John Cobham was a fair specimen of an English yeoman of 
 the old school: honest, generous, brave, and kind ; but, in at 
 least an equal degree, ignorant, obstinate, and prejudiced. His 
 first impression respecting Jesse had been one of strong dislike, 
 fostered and cherished by the old labourer, Daniel Thorpe, who, 
 accustomed for twenty years to**reign sole sovereign of that 
 unpeopled territory, was as much startled at the sight of Jesse's 
 wild, ragged figure and sunburnt face, as Robinson Crusoe when 
 he first spied the track of a human foot upon his desert island. 
 It was natural that old Daniel should feel his monarchy, or, 
 more correctly speaking, his vice-royalty invaded and endan- 
 gered ; and at least equally natural that he should communi- 
 cate his alarm to his master, who sallied forth one November 
 morning to the Moors, fully prepared to drive the intruder from 
 his grounds, and resolved, if necessary, to lodge him in the* 
 County Bridewell before night. 
 
 But the good farmer, who chanced to be a keen sportsman, 
 and to be followed that day by a favourite greyhound, was so 
 dulcified by the manner in which the delinquent started a hare 
 at the very moment of Venus's passing, and still more by the 
 culprit's keen enjoyment of a capital single-handed course, (in 
 which Venus had even excelled herself,) that he could not find 
 in his heart to take any harsh measures against him, for that 
 day at least, more especially as Venus seemed to have taken a 
 fancy to the lad— so his expulsion was postponed to another 
 season ; and before that season arrived, poor Jesse had secured 
 the goodwill of an advocate far more powerful than Venus — 
 an advocate who, contrasted with himself, looked like Ariel by 
 the side of Caliban, or Titania watching over Bottom the 
 Weaver. 
 
 John Cobham had married late in life, and had been left, 
 after seven years of happy wedlock, a widower with five chil- 
 dren. In his family he may be said to have been singularly 
 
232 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 fortunate, and singularly unfortunate. Promising in no com- 
 mon degree, his sons and daughters, inheriting their mother's 
 fragile constitution as well as her amiable character, fell vic- 
 tims one after another to the flattering and fatal disease which 
 had carried her off in the prime of life ; one of them only, the 
 eldest son, leaving any issue; and his little girl, an orphan 
 (for her mother had died in bringing her into the world), was 
 now the only hope and comfort of her doting grandfather, and 
 of a maiden grand-aunt who lived with him as housekeeper, and, 
 having officiated as head-nurse in a nobleman's family, was 
 well calculated to bring up a delicate child. 
 
 And delicate in all that the word conveys of beauty — delicate 
 as the Virgins of Guido, or the Angels of Corregio, as the valley 
 lily, or the maiden rose-— was at five years old, the little char- 
 mer, Phoebe Cobham. But it was a delicacy so blended with 
 activity and power, so light and airy, and buoyant and spirited, 
 that the admiration which it awakened was wholly unmingled 
 with fear. Fair, blooming, polished, and pure, her complexion 
 had at once the colouring and the texture of a flower-leaf ; and 
 her regular and lovely features — the red smiling lips, the clear 
 blue eyes, the curling golden hair, and the round, yet slender 
 figure — formed a most rare combination of childish beauty. The 
 expression, too, at once gentle and lively, the sweet and joyous 
 temper, the quick intellect, and the affectionate heart, rendered 
 little Phoebe one of the most attractive children that the ima- 
 gination can picture. Her grandfather idolized her ; taking her 
 with him in his walks, never weary of carrying her when her own 
 little feet were tired, and it was wonderful how many miles those 
 tiny feet, aided by the gay and buoyant spirit, would compass 
 in the course of the day ; and so bent was he upon keeping her 
 constantly with him, and constantly in the open air (which he 
 justly considered the best means of warding off the approaches 
 of that disease which had proved so fatal to his family), that he 
 even had a pad constructed, and took her out before him on 
 horseback. 
 
 A strange contrast formed the old farmer, so gruff and bluff- 
 looking — with his stout square figure, his weather-beaten face, 
 short grey hair, and dark bushy eyebrows — to the slight and 
 graceful child, her aristocratic beauty set off by exactly the 
 same style of parapheralia that had adorned the young Lady 
 Janes and Lady Marys, Mrs. Dorothy's former charge, and 
 her habitual grace of demeanour adding fresh elegance to the 
 most studied elegancies of the toilet ! A strange contrast ! — but 
 one which seemed as nothing compared with that which was 
 soon to follow : for Phoebe, happening to be with her grand- 
 father and her great friend and playmate Venus, a jet-black 
 greyhound of the very highest breed, whose fine-limbed and 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 233 
 
 shining beauty was almost as elegant and aristocratic as that of 
 Phoebe herself; the little damsel, happening to be with her 
 grandfather when, instigated by Daniel Thorpe's grumbling 
 accusation of broken fences and I know not what, he was a 
 second time upon the point of warning poor Jesse off the 
 ground — was so moved by the culprit's tattered attire and help- 
 less condition as he stood twirling, between long lean fingers, 
 the remains of what had once been a hat, that she interceded 
 most warmly in his behalf. 
 
 " Don't turn him off the Moors, grandpapa, 5 ' said Phoebe, 
 " pray don't ! never mind old Daniel ! I'm sure he'll do no 
 harm; — will you, Jesse? Venus likes him, grandpapa; see 
 how she puts her pretty nose into his hand ; and Venus 
 never likes bad people. How often I have heard you say that. 
 And / like him, poor fellow ! He looks so thin and so pitiful. 
 Do let him stay, dear grandpapa l M 
 
 And John Cobham sat down on the bank, and took the 
 pitying child in his arms, and kissed and blessed her, and said 
 that, since she wished it, Jesse should stay ; adding, in a sort of 
 soliloquy, that he hoped she never would ask him to do what 
 was wrong, for he could refuse her nothing. 
 
 And Jesse — what did he say to these, the first words of kind- 
 ness that he had ever heard from human lips ? or rather, what 
 did he feel? for beyond a muttered "Thankye," speak he 
 could not. But gratitude worked strongly in the poor boy's 
 heart; gratitude!— so new, so overpowering, and inspired by one 
 so sweet, so lovely, so gentle as his protectress, and, as far as 
 he was concerned, all-powerful ; and yet a mere infant whom 
 he might protect as well as serve. It was a strange mixture of 
 feelings, all good, and all delightful ; a stirring of impulses, a 
 quickening of affections, a striking of chords never touched 
 before. Substitute the sacred innocence of childhood for the 
 equally sacred power of virgin purity, and his feelings of affec- 
 tionate reverence, of devoted service and submission, much 
 resembled those entertained by the Satyr towards " the holy 
 shepherdess," in Fletcher's exquisite drama.* The 
 
 " rough thing, who never knew 
 Manners nor smooth humanity," 
 
 could not have spoken or have thought such words as these ; 
 
 * That matchless Pastoral, " The Faithful Shepherdess," is so much less 
 known than talked of, that I suhjoin the passage in question. One more 
 beautiful can hardly be found in the wide range of English poetry. 
 
 Satyr, Through yon same hending plain, 
 
 That flings his arms down to the main, 
 
234 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 but so far as our English climate and his unfruitful territory 
 might permit, he put much of the poetry into action. 
 
 Sluggish of intellect, and uncouth of demeanour, as the poor 
 lad seemed, it was quite wonderful how quickly he discovered 
 
 And through these thick woods, have I run, 
 Whose depths have never kiss'd the sun : 
 Since the lusty spring began, 
 All to please my master, Pan, 
 Have 1 trotted without rest 
 To get him fruit; for at a feast 
 He entertains, this coming night, 
 His paramour, the Syrinx bright. 
 
 [He sees Clorin and stands amazed* 
 But behold a fairer sight ! 
 By that heavenly form of thine, 
 Brightest fair, thou art divine, 
 Sprung from great, immortal race 
 Of the Gods ; for in thy face 
 Shines more awful majesty, 
 Than dull, weak mortality 
 Dare with misty eyes behold 
 And live ! Therefore on this mould 
 Slowly do I bend my knee, 
 In worship of thy deity. 
 Deign it, goddess, from my hand 
 To receive whate'er this land, 
 From her fertile womb doth send 
 Of her choice fruits ; and but lend 
 Belief to that the ladye tells : 
 Fairer by the famous wells 
 To this present day ne'er grew, 
 Never better nor more true. 
 Here be grapes, whose lusty blood 
 Is the learned poet's good ; 
 Sweeter yet did never crown 
 The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown 
 Than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em. 
 Deign, oh fairest fair, to take 'em ! 
 For these black-eyed Dryope 
 Hath often times commanded me, 
 With my clasped knee to climb : 
 See how well the lusty time 
 Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, 
 Such as on your lips is spread. 
 Here be berries for a queen, 
 Some be red, some be green ; 
 These are of that luscious sweet, 
 The great god Pan himself doth eat ; 
 All these, and what the woods can yield, 
 The hanging mountain, or the field, 
 I freely offer, and ere long 
 Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; 
 Till when, humbly leave I take, 
 Lest the great Pan do awake, 
 That sleeping lies in a deep glade, 
 Under a broad beech's shade 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 235 
 
 the several ways in which he might best please and gratify his 
 youthful benefactress. 
 
 Phoebe loved flowers; and from the earliest tuft of violets 
 ensconced under the sunny southern hedge, to the last lingering 
 sprig of woodbine shaded by some time-hallowed oak, the blos- 
 soms of the meadow and the coppice were laid under contribu- 
 tion for her posies. 
 
 Phoebe had her own little garden ; and to fill that garden, Jesse 
 was never weary of seeking after the roots of such wild plants as 
 he himself thought pretty, or such as he found (one can hardly 
 tell how) were considered by better judges to be worthy of a 
 place in the parterre. The different orchises, for instance, the 
 white and lilac primrose, the crimson oxslip, the lily of the 
 valley, the chequered tritillery, which blows so freely along the 
 banks of the Kennett, and the purple campanula which covers 
 with equal profusion the meadows of the Thames, all found their 
 way to Phoebe's flower-plats. He brought her in summer 
 evenings glow-worms enough to form a constellation on the 
 grass ; and would spend half a July day in chasing for her some 
 glorious insect, dragon-fly, or bee-bird, or golden beetle, or 
 gorgeous butterfly. He not only bestowed upon her sloes, and 
 dew-berries, and hazel-nuts " brown as the squirrel whose teeth 
 crack 'em," but caught for her the squirrel itself. He brought 
 her a whole litter of dormice, and tamed for her diversion a young 
 magpie, whose first effort at flattery was " Pretty Phoebe !" 
 
 I must go, — I must run 
 Swifter than the fiery sun. 
 
 Clorin. And all my fears go with thee ! 
 
 What greatness or what private hidden power 
 
 Is there in me to draw submission 
 
 From this rude man and beast 1 sure I am mortal ; 
 
 The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal, 
 
 And she that bore me mortal : Prick my hand 
 
 And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and 
 
 The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink 
 
 Makes me acold. My fear says I am mortal. 
 
 Yet I have heard (my mother told it me, 
 
 And now I do believe it) if I keep 
 
 My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, 
 
 No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, 
 
 Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, 
 
 Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion 
 
 Draw me to wander after idle fires, 
 
 Or voices calling me in dead of night 
 
 To make me follow, and so tempt me on 
 
 Through mire and staudiug pools to find my swain : 
 
 Else why should this rough thing, who never knew 
 
 Manners nor smooth humanity, whose herds 
 
 Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, 
 
 Thus mildly kneel to me 1 &c. &c. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's Works (Seward's edition), vol. iii., p. 117—121. 
 
236 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 But his greatest gift of all, most prized both by donor and 
 receiver, (albeit her tender heart smote her as she accepted 
 them, and she made her faithful slave promise most faithfully 
 to take no more), was a grand string of birds' eggs, long enough 
 to hang in festoons round, and round, and round her play-room, 
 and sufficiently various and beautiful to gratify more fastidious 
 eyes than those of our little heroine. 
 
 To collect this rope of variously tinted beads — a natural rosa- 
 ry — he had sought the mossy and hair-lined nest of the hedge- 
 sparrow for her turquoise-like rounds ; had scrambled up the 
 chimney-corner to bear away those pearls of the land, the small 
 white eggs of the house-martin ; had found deposited in an old 
 magpie's nest the ovals of the sparrow-hawk, red and smooth as 
 the finest coral; had dived into the ground-mansion of the sky- 
 lark for her lilac-tinted shells, and groped amongst the bushes 
 for the rosy-tinted ones of the woodlark ; climbed the tallest 
 trees for the sea-green eggs of the rooks; had pilfered the 
 spotted treasures from the snug dwelling which the wren con- 
 structed in the eaves ; and, worst of all, — I hardly like to write it, 
 I hardly care to think, that Jesse could have committed such an 
 outrage, — and, worst of all, in the very midst of that varied gar- 
 land might be seen the brown and dusky e^g, as little showy as 
 its quaker-like plumage, the dark-brown e^g from which should 
 have issued that " angel of the air," the songstress, famous in 
 every land, the unparagoned nightingale. It is but just towards 
 Jesse to add, that he took the nest in a mistake, and was quite 
 unconscious of the mischief he had done until it was too late to 
 repair it. 
 
 Of course these gifts were not only graciously accepted but 
 duly returned; cakes, apples, tarts, and gingerbread, halfpence 
 in profusion, and now and then a new shilling, or a bright six- 
 pence — all, in short that poor Phoebe had to bestow, she showered 
 upon her uncouth favourite, and she would fain have amended his 
 condition by more substantial benefits ; but authoritative as she 
 was with her grandfather in other instances, in this alone her 
 usual powers of persuasion utterly failed. Whether infected by 
 old Daniel's dislike (and be it observed, an unfounded prejudice, 
 that sort of prejudice for which he who entertains it does not 
 pretend to account even to himself, is unluckily not only 
 one of the most contagious feelings in the world, but one of the 
 most invincible :) whether farmer Cobham were inoculated with 
 old Daniel's hatred of Jesse, or had taken that very virulentdisease 
 the natural way, nothing could exceed the bitterness of the aver- 
 sion which gradually grew up in his mind towards the poor lad. 
 That Venus liked him, and Phoebe liked him, added strength to 
 the feeling. He would have been ashamed to confess himself 
 jealous of their good will towards such an object, and yet most 
 certainly jealous he was. He did not drive him from his shelter 
 
JESSE CLIFFE. 237 
 
 in the Moors, because of having unwarily passed his word — his 
 word, which, with yeomanry pride, John Cobham held as sacred 
 as his bond — to let him remain until he committed some offence ; 
 but, for this offence, both he and Daniel watched and waited 
 with an impatience and irritability that contrasted strangely with 
 the honourable self-restraint that withheld him from direct abuse 
 of his power. 
 
 For a long time, Daniel and his master waited in vain. Jesse, 
 whom they had entertained some vague hopes of chasing away by 
 angry looks and scornful words, had been so much accustomed 
 all his life-long to taunts and contumely, that it was a great 
 while before he became conscious of their unkindness ; and when 
 at last it forced itself upon his attention, he shrank away crouch- 
 ing and cowering, and buried himself in the closest recesses of 
 the coppice, until the footstep of the reviler had passed by. 
 One look at his sweet little friend repaid him twenty-fold ; and 
 although farmer Cobham had really worked himself into believing 
 that there was danger in allowing the beautiful child to approach 
 poor Jesse, and had therefore on different pretences forbidden 
 her visit to the Moors, she did yet happen in her different walks 
 to encounter that devoted adherent oftener than would be be- 
 lieved possible by anyone who has not been led to remark, how 
 often in this best of all possible worlds, an earnest and innocent 
 wish does as it were fulfil itself. 
 
 At last, however, a wish of a very different nature came to 
 pass. Daniel Thorpe detected Jesse in an actual offence against 
 that fertile source of crime and misery, the game laws. 
 
 Thus the affair happened. 
 
 During many weeks, the whole neighbourhood had been in- 
 fested by a gang of bold sturdy pilferers, roving vagabonds, beg- 
 ging by day, stealing and poaching by night — who had committed 
 such extensive devastations over the poultry and linen of the 
 village, as well as the game in the preserves, that the whole po- 
 pulation was upon the alert; and the lonely coppices of the 
 Moors rendering that spot one peculiarly likely to attract the 
 attention of the gang, old Daniel, re-enforced by a stout lad as 
 a sort of extra-guard, kept a most jealous watch over his terri- 
 tory. 
 
 Perambulating the outside of the wood one evening at sunset, 
 he heard the cry of a hare ; and climbing over the fence, had the 
 unexpected pleasure of seeing our friend Jesse in the act of 
 taking a leveret still alive from the wire. " So, so, master Jesse ! 
 Thou be'st turned poacher, be'st thou ? " ejaculated Daniel, with 
 a malicious chuckle, seizing, at one fell grip,the lad and the hare. 
 
 "Miss Phoebe !" ejaculated Jesse, submitting himself to the 
 old man's grasp, but struggling to retain the leveret, " Miss 
 Phoebe !" 
 
 " Miss Phoebe, indeed !" responded Daniel, " she saved thee 
 
238 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 once, my lad, but thy time's come now. What do'st thee want 
 of the leveret, mon ? Do'st not thee know that 'tis part of the 
 evidence against thee ? Well, he may carry that whilst I carry 
 the snare. Master'll be main glad to see un. He always sus- 
 pected the chap. And for the matter of that so did I. Miss 
 Phoebe, indeed ! Come along my mon, I warrant thou hast seen 
 thy last o' Miss Phoebe. Come on wi' ye." 
 
 And Jesse was hurried as fast as Daniel's legs would carry him 
 to the presence of farmer Cobham. 
 
 On entering the house (not the old deserted homestead of the 
 Moors, but the comfortable^dwelling-house at Aberleigh), Jesse 
 delivered the panting trembling leveret to the first person he 
 met, with no other explanation then might be comprised in the 
 words, " Miss Phoebe ! " and followed Daniel quietly to the 
 hall. 
 
 " Poaching, was he ? Taking the hare from the wire ? And 
 you saw him '( You can swear to the fact 1 " quoth John Cob- 
 ham, rubbing his hands with unusual glee. u Well, now we 
 shall be fairly rid of the fellow ! Take him to the Chequers, for 
 the night, Daniel, and get another man beside yourself to sit up 
 with him. It's too late to disturb Sir John this evening. To- 
 morrow morning we'll take him to the Hall. See that the con- 
 stable's ready by nine o'clock. No doubt but Sir John will 
 commit him to the county bridewell. 
 
 "Oh, grandpapa ! " exclaimed Phoebe, darting into the room 
 with the leveret in her arms, and catching the last words. Oh 
 grandpapa ! poor Jesse ! " 
 
 " Miss Phoebe ! " ejaculated the culprit. 
 
 " Oh, grandfather, its all my fault," continued Phoebe; 
 " and if any body is to go to prison, you ought to send me. I 
 had been reading about Cowper's hares, and I wanted a young 
 hare to tame : I took a fancy for one, and told poor Jesse ! And 
 to think of his going to prison for that !" 
 
 " And did you tell him to set a wire for the hare, Phoebe?" 
 
 " A wire ! What is that V said the bewildered child. " But 
 I dare say," added she, upon Farmer Cobham's explaining the 
 nature of the snare, " I dare say that the poachers set the wire, 
 -and that he only took up the hare for me, to please my foolish 
 fancy! Oh, grandpapa ! Poor Jesse!" and. Phoebe cried as 
 if her heart would break. 
 
 " God bless you, Miss Phoebe !" said Jesse. 
 
 " All this is nonsense !" exclaimed the unrelenting farmer. 
 " Take the prisoner to the Chequers, Daniel, and get another 
 man to keep you company in sitting up with him. Have as 
 much strong beer as you like, and be sure to bring him and the 
 constable here by nine o'clock to-morrow morning." 
 
 M Oh, grandfather you'll be sorry for this ! I did not think 
 
JESSE CL1FFE. 239 
 
 you had been so hard-hearted ! " sobbed Phoebe. "You'll be 
 very sorry for this." 
 
 " Yes, very sorry. God bless you Miss Phoebe," said Jesse. 
 
 "What! Does he threaten? Take him off, Daniel. And 
 you, Phoebe, go to bed and compose yourself. Heaven bless 
 thee, my darling!" said the fond grandfather, smoothing her 
 hair, as, the tears still chasing each other down her cheeks, she 
 stood leaning against his knee. " Go to bed and to sleep, my 
 precious ! and, Dorothy, bring me my pipe :" and wondering why 
 the fulfilment of a strong desire should not make him happier, 
 the honest farmer endeavoured to smoke away his cares. 
 
 In the mean while old Daniel conducted Jesse to the 
 Chequers, and having lodged him safely in an upper room, 
 sought out " an ancient, trusty, drouthy crony," with whom he 
 sate down to carouse in the same apartment with his prisoner. 
 It was a dark, cold, windy, October ni^ht, and the two warders 
 sate cosily by the fire, enjoying their gossip and their ale, 
 while the unlucky delinquent placed himself pensively by the 
 window. About midnight the two old men were startled by his 
 flinging open the casement. 
 
 "Miss Phoebe! Look! look!" 
 
 " What ? Where?" inquired Daniel. 
 
 " Miss Phoebe!" repeated the prisoner; and, looking in the 
 direction to which Jesse pointed, they saw the flames bursting 
 from farmer Cobham's house. 
 
 In a very few seconds they had alarmed the family, and 
 sprang forth in the direction of the fire ; the prisoner accompa- 
 nying them, unnoticed in the confusion. 
 
 " Luckily, master's always insured to the value of all he's 
 worth, stock and goods," quoth the prudent Daniel. 
 
 " Miss Phoebe !" exclaimed Jesse : and even as he spoke he 
 burst in the door, darted up the staircase, and returned with the 
 trembling child in his arms, followed by aunt Dorothy and the 
 frightened servants. 
 
 " Grandpapa ! Dear grandpapa ! Where is grandpapa ? 
 Will no one save my dear grandpapa ?" cried Phoebe. 
 
 And placing the little girl at the side of her aunt, Jesse 
 again mounted the blazing staircase. For a few moments all 
 gave him up for lost. But he returned tottering under the 
 weight of a man scarcely yet aroused from heavy sleep, and 
 half suffocated by the smoke and flames. 
 
 "Miss Phoebe! He's safe, Miss Phoebe! — Down, Venus, 
 down! — He's safe, Miss Phoebe! And now, I shan't mind 
 going to prison, 'cause when I come back you'll be living at the 
 Moors. Shan't you Miss Phoebe? And I shall see you every 
 day!" 
 
 And the gentle reader must settle whether poor Jesse did go 
 
240 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 to prison ; — for my part I think he did not ; — and whether John 
 Cobham and his family, including Miss Phoebe, really took up 
 their abode at the Moors. If I were to guess, I should say that 
 they did, and that the good farmer and old Daniel took as 
 strong a liking to Jesse, as Venus and Phoebe had done before 
 them. But this is only guessing : I do not pretend to any cer- 
 tain knowledge, and leave the courteous reader to settle the 
 matter whatever way it may please him best. 
 
 M. R. MlTFORD. 
 
 THE ALCHYMIST. 
 
 The incident which forms the groundwork of the following tale, is taken 
 from an undated manuscript, in the library of a French nobleman ; and is 
 evidently the same on which Mr. Milman has founded the plot of his 
 Tragedy of" Fazio." 
 
 During the civil wars Of Genoa, which drove so many of her 
 citizens to seek an asylum in other states, an Italian, named 
 Grimaldi, took up his abode in Pisa. The refugee was a man 
 whose idol, from his youth upward, had been gold; and, with 
 the firmness of a true devotee, he would have remained to perish 
 in his native city, had he been unable to succeed in transporting 
 with him his god. Accordingly, the few coffers which accom- 
 panied him, and which contained, as he said, his scanty ward- 
 robe, were reported to enclose a heavier and a richer lading ; and 
 the aspect of yearly-increasing poverty which he assumed, and 
 which was in direct contradiction to his unceasing (and, as was 
 well known, productive) industry, had the unwelcome effect of 
 making him to be supposed richer than, perhaps, he really was. 
 Like many another of his class, this wretch was the victim of a 
 caution which overshot its mark. His miserable fare and tat- 
 tered garments could impose on no one, in a city where his 
 accumulated usuries were known. His increasing care to appear 
 a beggar, was held to be the measure of his increasing wealth. 
 His superabundant precautions to defend his dwelling against 
 the robber, were a signal to the robber that it contained much 
 which would repay an attack; and the utter solitude in which 
 he lived and moved (at once from fear and avarice) was the very 
 circumstance to facilitate the enterprises of the thief whom his 
 rumoured hordes might attract. 
 
 One evening, as he was returning late to his lonely dwelling", 
 after a day on which he was known to have reaped a rich harvest 
 from his unholy traffic, Grimaldi was suddenly struck by a po- 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 241 
 
 niard as he turned into a narrow street and passed within the sha- 
 dow of an overhanging upper-story. The blow, which was no doubt 
 intended to have been instantly mortal, as the prelude to rob- 
 bery, had not been delivered with a hand sufficiently steady to 
 ensure that effect : and the miser, under the impulse of a fear 
 Avhich was ever, more or less, present to him, (and now at length 
 sufficiently justified), had strength left to fly from this substantial 
 murderer, as he had often before done from shadowy ones. 
 The night was stormy, and the street utterly dark — save at its 
 further extremity, where it was crossed by a line of vivid light 
 which streamed outward from a half-open door. Towards this 
 welcome beacon the wounded usurer fled, in the strength of a 
 terror which drowned the sense of pain (though, apparently, he 
 was not pursued); dashing aside the unresisting door, and 
 rushing through the outer apartment into an inner chamber com- 
 municating therewith, from whence the light issued, he presented 
 himself, amid the glare of lamps and the glow of a huge furnace, 
 before the eyes of its astonished inmate — with the dagger still 
 remaining in his wound, and features on which the most sordid 
 amongst the human passions were maintaining a desperate 
 struggle (but which was evidently to be an unavailing one) 
 against the strong hand of death. 
 
 The apartment into which the dying usurer had thus abruptly 
 and fearfully intruded, was the work-room of a goldsmith 
 named Ricciardo ; who, all his life, had been, like Grimaldi, a 
 seeker after fortune, but by far other means and with far other 
 success. No two subjects of the same idolatry could well have 
 been of dispositions more diametrically opposed. Gifted with 
 a keen intellect and an ardent temperament, with strong passions- 
 and acute sensibilities, the spirit of Ricciardo thirsted after gold, — 
 not, as did the miser's, for its own sake, but for the sake of all 
 which it could minister to those passions and those sensibilities ; 
 and the energies of his powerful mind had long been employed 
 in an endeavour to snatch from science the secrets by which 
 (like many another enthusiast of his time), he believed that the 
 precious metal which he coveted might be obtained. Love — 
 which, in a breast like his, was an overmastering spirit— had, in 
 spite of poverty, early linked to his hard fortunes a wife and 
 two children ; and, goaded on by their necessities — in addition 
 to his own desires, his youth was wasting away in the eager 
 search after the philosopher's stone. The slow but more certain 
 process by which the usurer transmuted the wants of others into 
 the precious metals for himself, was ill adapted to the Rosicru- 
 cian spirit of the enthusiastic goldsmith ; and the last remnant 
 of his exhausted fortunes was at length staked upon that final 
 venture which was, in its result, to leave him a beggar, or open up 
 for him the path to boundless wealth. On the night in question 
 
242 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 his family had been removed, under pretence of visiting a 
 sick relation of his wife ; and Ricciardo sat alone by his glowing 
 fire, wrapt in the dreams of alchymy, and watching, with a throb- 
 bing heart, for the hour of projection, which he believed to be at 
 hand. It was to temper the suffocating air flung from the in- 
 tensely heated furnace, that the door of his outer shop had been 
 left open to the street. 
 
 The kindly nature of the goldsmith was readily aroused from 
 his own engrossing speculations, by the fearful spectacle which 
 so suddenly presented itself before h,'m ; and, after a few words 
 of hurried inquiry and broken explanation, he applied himself, 
 even amid this crisis of his own fortunes, to render to his neigh- 
 bour such aid as might be in his power. Having made due pro- 
 vision for staunching the blood which was likely to follow, he 
 set about the attempt to extract the weapon from the breast 
 of the wounded man. The fears and struggles of the usurer 
 rendered this a task of some difficulty; and when, at length, it 
 was accomplished, the operation was not followed by the ex- 
 pected stream. The muscles of the face, however, which had 
 been tightened by the spasms of pain, were fast relaxing; the 
 dews of death were gathering thick and heavy on the miser's 
 brow ; and it was obvious to the goldsmith that the hemorrhage 
 was internal, and the wounded man beyond the reach of remedy. 
 
 Amid the insane terrors of the dying wretch, it was difficult to 
 get from him any particulars which might throw light upon the 
 event, the issue of which was so fast approaching. From his 
 incoherent ravings, however, and in answer to the anxious in- 
 quiries of the goldsmith, the latter gathered (as he believed), 
 that the sums which the usurer had that day received, — and 
 which had, no doubt, tempted the assassin's blow, — had been 
 deposited in his home, previously to his last departure therefrom, 
 and that the murderer would, therefore, have missed his booty, 
 even had his arm struck with more instant success. It was 
 while the alchymist thus hung above the dying miser, occupied 
 in soothing his anguish and speaking peace to his fears, that he 
 was startled, as if a trumpet had been blown close to his ear, by 
 the sound of a low hissing, whose import he too well understood ; 
 and turning, with a thrill of anguish, to his neglected crucibles, 
 he perceived that the moment of projection had passed by, and 
 his children were beggars ! A heavy sickness shot to the heart 
 of the disappointed and ruined man, — which was succeeded by a 
 spaceof entire unconsciousness; and when, at length, he awoke 
 from his syncope, and rose up with the slow measured action of 
 despair, all in the chamber was silent and still. The glowing 
 heat of the furnace was almost extinguished, in its own ashes; 
 and, by the misty light of the untrimmed lamps, the alchymist 
 saw that the sordid spirit of the miser was gone, and that the 
 
Fage 242. 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 243 
 
 wretched body before him had undergone the great transmu- 
 tation. 
 
 Closing the door which gave access from the street, the gold- 
 smith sat down to brood over his ruined fortunes. The body of 
 the usurer lay where Ricciardo had placed him, previously to ex- 
 tracting the poniard ; and, with this dismal object before his 
 eyes, and in the half-dreaming mood into which he now speedily 
 fell, (exhausted by the intensity of the last hour's sensations), 
 it was natural enough that thoughts of the murdered man should, 
 become inextricably mingled with reflections upon his own 
 desperate condition. The sudden apparition, and awful death, 
 of the rich miser, were strangely blended with his loss of the 
 grand arcanum ; and the very instant of time which had so 
 cruelly mocked his own thirst for gold, (when, as he verily be- 
 lieved, the draught had been within his reach,) had quenched 
 that same thirst in the usurer's breast for ever. The same hour 
 which had taken from the strong living man and father, his last 
 fragment of wealth, had (before his eyes, and in a manner so 
 closely connected with that event as to make the two operations 
 seem almost identical,) left hordes of that same wealth master- 
 less and unclaimed. The instant of projection, for which he had 
 watched so anxiously and so long, had (in his very presence 
 and by means conspicuously appealing to his imagination), been 
 signalised by the sudden removal of one who had heaped up large 
 treasures of the precious metal which that same instant had pro- 
 mised to his hopes. There was something in the coincidence 
 which was sufficiently striking ; and the mystical tendencies of 
 the goldsmith's mind led him to see even more in it than 
 might be reasonably suggested. Strange thoughts passed, 
 wildly and unmarshalled, through his visionary spirit ; and when, 
 at length, he sank into a restless slumber, his dreams alternated 
 between the pale faces of his famishing children and the red 
 gold of the murdered miser. 
 
 A sleep thus haunted and troubled could not endure long, 
 and the goldsmith was soon startled back into consciousness by 
 the voice of the increasing storm. The lamps and the furnace 
 had alike burnt out, and the flashes of lightning gave mo- 
 mentary glimpses of the awful thing which was his companion 
 in that dark and silent chamber. The first movement of the 
 goldsmith's re-awakened mind, was one of pity for the wretch 
 who had met with so sudden and fearful a fate ; but this was 
 speedily exchanged for a feeling of uneasiness at his own singu- 
 lar situation. Rallying his powers for reflection, he felt that 
 uneasiness by no means diminished by a further review of the 
 strange circumstances in which he was placed. The tempes- 
 tuous state of the weather had cleared the streets, at an early 
 
 t2 
 
244 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 hour ; and he was the sole witness of the misers death, and the 
 sole depositary of his tale. The notorious wealth of the usurer, 
 and his own poverty and anxious pursuit of gold, rendered it by 
 no means a safe thing for the alchymist that the former should 
 be found murdered in his house, and with every presumption 
 that the murder must have taken place there, — since the streets 
 had not been alarmed by the event, and none but the goldsmit 
 could give any account of it. He saw, too, that the business 
 on which he had been engaged when the wounded usurer ap- 
 peared before him, by preventing his summoning his neighbours 
 to his aid, would fearfully strengthen the suspicions which must 
 inevitably be excited against him. It was incredible, (he felt 
 that it was so), upon any other presumption than that of his 
 guilt, that he should have suffered the wounded wretch to die 
 in his chamber, without calling for relief to his sufferings, and 
 witnesses to his deposition of facts. Thoroughly aroused to a 
 sense of his own danger, the goldsmith proceeded to strike a 
 light ; and, in an agitation which, for the moment, overcame the 
 sentiment of his own disappointment, set about a rapid examina- 
 tion of the body- The corpse was a loathsome spectacle. The 
 grudging spirit of the miserable man had reached into the grave, 
 and cheated the worms of their appointed repast by making a 
 skeleton of his body during life. But the alchymist had far too 
 deep an interest in other objects of his search, to encourage the 
 disgust with which his unclean task inspired him ; and, one by 
 one, he deliberately proceeded to examine the thread-bare gar- 
 ments of the deceased. A bunch of massive keys was the only 
 article which they yielded to his close search. Money there was 
 none ; and the goldsmith felt, with increased alarm, that this was 
 another link in the strong chain of presumptions which was 
 about to fetter him. The usurer's gains of the day were, no 
 doubt, known to many individuals in the city ; and if (as he 
 had understood the dying man to intimate), these had been 
 already mingled with the mass of his treasures, where was any 
 evidence to rebut the suspicion which would inevitably connect 
 their disappearance from his person with the murder ? 
 
 In a state of now fully-awakened apprehension, the unfortu- 
 nate goldsmith threw himself on his bed ; and collected his 
 thoughts for a decision on the course which, under the circum- 
 stances, it might be safest for him to pursue. He had much of 
 the long dark night before him; but, on the morrow, to denounce 
 the murder to the authorities was, he felt well assured, of neces- 
 sity to give himself into their hands— without, as far as he 
 could see, the possibility of furnishing any testimony by which 
 he could rescue himself from the jealousy of the law. What, 
 then, was the alternative? There was but one, — a very danger- 
 ous one, — certain to furnish irresistibly corroborative evidence 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 245 
 
 against him, if discovered; and that was, the concealment of 
 the body and suppression of the facts. 
 
 As, however, he continued to reflect upon this alternative, his 
 fears began gradually to subside. There was not a single cir- 
 cumstance to connect the disappearance of the usurer with Ric- 
 ciardo or his home. No one had seen the usurer enter his 
 house ; no cry had been heard ; no blood had been shed ; and 
 the alchymist had been conspicuously at work, far into the night, 
 with his glowing furnace and his open door. It was, as it 
 seemed to him, his single chance against the gallows. His 
 fearful state of uncertainty and apprehension gave way before 
 its contemplation ; and, as his resolve was finally taken, the 
 miser's keys, which he still held, were tightened in his grasp. 
 Suddenly, the spasm of a moment shook his frame — the dew 
 stood on his forehead, — and his breathing came hard and thick. 
 A thought had passed into the goldsmith's mind, which sent the 
 blood tumultously to his heart. It presented itself, in the 
 first instance, in the shape of a mere vague and formless sug- 
 gestion ; but the breast of the alchymist was one well fitted for 
 its reception and nourishment, — and slowly and steadily it took 
 shape and lineament. Here were the keys which gave access to 
 the miser's treasure ! — Such was its first shadowy aspect ; but 
 the goldsmith kept it steadily in view, and set his mind to work 
 it into a form agreeable to his own imagination. The usurer 
 was gone, — his death was unknown, — his absence would be, for 
 some time, unsuspected — his gold was ownerless, — and Ricciardo 
 held the talisman which made it his. The dead man had nei- 
 ther relative nor friend, so far as was known ; his wealth must 
 pass into stranger-hands, and why not into Ricciardo's, rather 
 than any other? Nay, he even persuaded himself that he had a 
 better right than others, in virtue of the attentions which he had 
 bestowed upon the wounded man, and his ministration at the death- 
 bed of the miser. Was he not, perforce, the dead man's executor, 
 about to render him the rite of burial ? — and did not the friend- 
 less usurer's selection of his house for that closing scene and 
 those final offices, properly constitute him his heir ? Step by 
 step, he brought himself to look upon it as a natural conse- 
 quence of the position in which he found himself, and a fitting 
 corollary to his scheme for the concealment of the body, that he 
 should possess himself of the wealth so strangely offered to him 
 in his very hour of need ; and, in the spirit of transmutation for 
 which he had so much taste, he felt that he had a title to change 
 into his own benefit the heavy danger with which he had been 
 thus innocently threatened. 
 
 The more the alchymist reflected on this matter, the more 
 arguments did he find in favour of the view which he had adopted ; 
 and the longer his mind dwelt upon the riches thus presented to 
 
246 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 his disposal, the better and more conclusive each of those argu- 
 ments seemed to become. In the strong excitement to which 
 his spirit was delivered, all the occult mysticism of his nature 
 was brought out. The dreams which had presented his beg- 
 gared family and the miser's gold, as in a common speculum, 
 recurred to him, taking the character of a positive direction ; and 
 that singular coincidence which he had already remarked in the 
 events of the night, now suggested itself with redoubled and irre- 
 sistible meaning. The death of the rich miser, at the very instant 
 when, engaged in the occupations of humanity, the alchymist had 
 suffered the grand arcanum to escape him — at the very moment 
 of projection — appeared to him an evident substitution, in which 
 he must be morally blind not to recognise the direct interference 
 of heaven. His imagination strengthened marvellously upon 
 the nourishment with which he supplied it; and, in the calen- 
 ture of his brain, he brought himself at last to see, in all the 
 incidents of the night — in the storm — in the massacre of Grimaldi 
 itself — in the fact of his own shop alone having been open, in all 
 the street — and in that of the usurer transporting his wounded 
 body thither to die, at the precise hour when the secret of his for- 
 tunes was to be solved — so many obvious parts of a providential 
 scheme to crown his long cabalistic labours with success. His 
 mind was in far too mystical a state to recognise how little his 
 alembics and crucibles had had to do with the matter — and how 
 surely the events which were about to lead him to fortune would 
 have happened, in their order, without the aid of any of his 
 alchymic preparations — save only the furnace, whose light had 
 directed the wounded miser to his door. Neither was he in a 
 condition to perceive that, in all his former experiments for the 
 attainment of gold, the one ingredient in his combinations which 
 had been wanting to their success, was precisely that on which 
 he had stumbled, by accident, on the present occasion, — to 
 wit, a rich old .usurer, with a poniard in his pectoral artery. It 
 is, however, scarcely to be wondered at that the necessity under 
 which the goldsmith found himself, as the reward of his huma- 
 nity, to conceal the old man's death, lest he should pay the 
 penalty of murder, added weight to the many arguments which 
 combined to convince him that he was the subject of a fatality, 
 which distinctly pointed him out as the usurer's heir. His deter- 
 mination was therefore (and, finally, without any misgiving), 
 taken ; and, as the night was wearing onward, and there was 
 much to do, no time was now to be lost in putting that determi- 
 nation into execution. 
 
 Providing himself therefore with a lantern, and the means of 
 lighting it when he should arrive at his destination, the alchy- 
 mist secured the ponderous keys in the folds of his cloak ; and 
 having carefully extinguished the light within his dwelling, and 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 247 
 
 securely fastened his door, he groped his way, through the dark- 
 ness and tempest, to the miser's deserted abode. The storm had 
 burst forth with renewed fury, as he left his home ; and the aid 
 which this circumstance contributed to the silence and secrecy 
 of his expedition, was, in the excited state of his spirit, hailed 
 as a further token of providential acquiescence in its object. 
 
 Arrived at the usurer's door, he found ready entrance by 
 means of two of the larger keys which he had taken from the 
 body ; and stepping hastily across its threshold, stood within 
 the naked walls of that lonely dwelling, which no stranger-step 
 but his own had entered, since the day when its late occupant 
 took up his abode therein. For an instant, his heart sank beneath 
 the sense of so heavy a profanation ; and his imagination con- 
 jured up the ghastly miser, to meet him at the entrance and 
 dispute his passage. The moments were however too precious, 
 and he was too firmly nerved in the belief of a cabalistic guid- 
 ance, to give way to such visionary presentiment. Carefully, 
 therefore, securing the door which opened from the street, he 
 lighted his lantern, and proceeded to an examination of the 
 mysterious premises, and a search after their rumoured treasures. 
 
 In a corner of the wall which faced this outer door, a 
 second door of great strength presented itself, crossed by 
 bars of iron, and secured by many locks of different sizes. 
 After some difficulty in the selection of the various keys 
 which governed these locks, the goldsmith succeeded in mas- 
 tering this obstacle to his progress ; and obtained access to 
 an inner-chamber, which had apparently been the sleeping- 
 room of the unhappy usurer. The window which had once 
 given light to this apartment was now built up ; and the mi- 
 serable pallet which had witnessed the uneasy slumbers of the 
 anxious wretch, a small table, a single chair, and two or three 
 strong chests, — ostentatiously left open, and containing merely 
 some articles of ragged apparel, — formed the whole of its visible 
 furniture. There was no second chair in either apartment, and 
 they had evidently never been designed to receive a guest. But 
 what was of more importance to the goldsmith, and not a little 
 perplexing, was the entire absence of any visible evidences of 
 that wealth which fame had accumulated in the usurer's abode. 
 The room exhibited neither coffer nor closet, which might offer 
 itself as the guardian of the treasures which he sought. The 
 goldsmith, however, was too confident in the destiny which had 
 led him thither, and had far too much at stake, to be turned 
 from his purpose by a difficulty which was, of course, but an 
 effect of the miser's abundant caution. After a careful exami- 
 nation of the floor, and of the walls on those three of their sides 
 which were wholly naked, he proceeded to an inspection of that 
 end of the apartment which was occupied by the usurer's bed ; 
 
248 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 and found that, unlike the other walls of the chamber, the one 
 in question was of wainscot, and handsomely worked in square 
 panels. Drawing forward the miserable pallet, whose tattered 
 curtain concealed a part of this wall, he sounded the whole of it 
 with his knuckles ; and found, as he had expected, and to his 
 great satisfaction, that a portion of it which covered three panels 
 in breadth and four in height, returned a hollow sound to his blows. 
 Here then.was the miser's treasury! — and how to obtain access to 
 it was now the only secret betwixt him and wealth. The panels 
 presented neither seam nor perforation, and were alike to the eye ; 
 save that, on a more careful inspection, one of the centre squares 
 appeared to the goldsmith to recede from its projecting frame- 
 work rather further than the others. To this square, therefore, 
 he directed his attention, though without success in his attempts 
 to make it slide in any direction ; but pressing its frame on all 
 sides, he felt the upper wood suddenly yield to his touch, and 
 the panel fell down behind that which was immediately below it 
 with a sound which made his heart leap, — revealing the mystery 
 of the usurer's concealment, and opening up the penetralia in 
 which he had placed his god. The alchymist now perceived 
 that the wall on this side had been built forward into the chamber, 
 to the depth of two feet beyond its original boundary, — leaving a 
 space in the centre, into which was fitted an iron safe of consi- 
 derable height ; and the whole was then covered with panelled 
 wainscoting, the falling square of which answered to the iron 
 door of the concealed coffer, and was covered by the curtain 
 which fell at the head of the miser's bed. The coffer itself was 
 fastened by many locks, — which, however, were readily opened by 
 the remaining keys in the goldsmith's hand ; and the wealth of 
 •the usurer stood at length displayed, by the light of the lantern 
 which Ricciardo cautiously introduced into its mysterious shrine. 
 If the alchymist was an enthusiastic man, he proved himself to 
 be, on the present occasion, under circumstances of strong 
 temptation, also a very prudent one. The riches of the usurer 
 presented themselves under various dazzling forms, which it 
 must have cost an alchymist considerable efforts of self-denial 
 to resist. There were golden rings and bracelets, diamonds and 
 other precious stones ; and, amongst a quantity of loose coins of 
 different descriptions, four sealed bags, each of which had been 
 marked by the usurer as containing five thousand golden crowns. 
 It was, of course, the goldsmith's policy (since he was calm 
 enough, in the midst of his mysticism, to be politic at all), that 
 no reason should be found for suspecting theft, when the pre- 
 mises of the missing man should, at length, be ransacked by 
 the authorities. To remove the whole of this property, — and, in 
 fact, not to leave a large portion of it untouched, — was at once 
 to announce a robbery. The jewels were of less ready and safe 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 249 
 
 conversion to the alchymist's purposes than the gold, and cou- 
 rageously, therefore, rejecting treasures, a tithe of which were 
 well worth all his chances of the grand arcanum, he resolved to 
 content himself with removing the sealed bags, trusting impli- 
 citly to the usurer's statement for the fidelity of their count. 
 Then, locking the richly-furnished coffer, closing the panel, and 
 replacing the bed, he returned with his booty to the outer apart- 
 ment ; and, having carefully restored the bars and locks of the 
 massive inner-door, and extinguished his lantern, he quitted the 
 mansion of the miser, made fast its outer entrance, and gained 
 his home unseen and without interruption. 
 
 The night was now far advanced ; and, carefully securing his 
 doors, he set about the performance of his remaining task. 
 Lifting the body of the usurer from the couch on which it lay, 
 he descended to his cellar ; and having removed the bricks 
 which floored it, for a sufficient space, proceeded to dig a grave, 
 as deep as the time yet at his disposal permitted. Then, having 
 restored the keys to the pocket of the dead man, and deposited 
 him in the ground, in his garments as he died, he replaced the 
 earth and bricks, carefully obliterating the traces of recent dis- 
 turbance ; and stealing up to his chamber in the grey dawn of 
 the morning, flung himself on his bed, satisfied with his own 
 solution of the great secret,— and, worn out with fatigue and 
 emotion, slept the long and dreamless sleep of the utterly 
 exhausted. 
 
 The day was far advanced when the alchymist awoke, re- 
 freshed and invigorated, and applied his renewed powers to the 
 consideration and arrangement of the further conduct which he 
 had yet to pursue. Great caution was, of course, necessary, in 
 the production of his suddenly-acquired wealth; and, for the 
 present, he determined to make no change in his apparent cir- 
 cumstances or pursuits. The prolonged absence of Grimaldi 
 began, after some days, to excite speculation, and finally alarm ; 
 and his gates were, at length, forced by the order, and in the pre- 
 sence, of the magistrates. As neither the usurer nor his trea- 
 sures were found, the city seal was put upon his doors, to await 
 his return ; and when a period of some weeks had destroyed 
 that expectation, it was considered necessary to make a more 
 strict perquisition into the affair, and a more minute examina- 
 tion of his late dwelling. The result was, that his hoards were 
 discovered, to all appearance untouched, and taken possession 
 of by the authorities ; and his strange disappearance, after being 
 the subject of marvel and conjecture, throughout the city, for 
 some weeks longer, began at length to lose its interest, with its 
 novelty, and, finally, was forgotten, in matters of higher or more 
 immediate attraction. 
 
 It was not until the minds of his neighbours had ceased to be 
 
250 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 occupied with this affair, that the goldsmith began to utter 
 vague hints, which soon became rumours, of his discoveries in 
 alchymy. By degrees, he ventured even to speak of golden bars 
 which were the product of his mystic labours; and though his 
 wild assertions were laughed at by the many, who knew how 
 often the enthusiastic alchymist had been the dupe of his own 
 imagination, yet they were sufficiently in harmony with the 
 spirit of the age to make believers of some, and attract the curio- 
 sity of more. By degrees, the tone of the goldsmith became 
 more bold and decided ; and at length, he openly announced 
 his intended departure for France, to exhibit his ingots to the 
 princes who, in that country, were speculators for the philoso- 
 pher's stone, and to change them for gold of the currency. 
 For the purpose of reconciling the necessary cost of such voy- 
 age with the supposed state of his finances, he contrived to 
 borrow a hundred florins for his expedition, on the strength of 
 his grand secret, from one of the numerous waiters upon for- 
 tune who, in those days, were willing to risk something for the 
 chance of a share in the profits of the patent for making gold. 
 Of this sum, he confided one half to his wife for the maintenance 
 of herself and his children, during his absence, — and with the 
 remainder he prepared to depart on his promising journey. 
 
 It has been already said that Ricciardo had wedded, in early 
 life, the object of a passionate attachment ; and neither the years 
 which had passed over them since their bridal day, nor the 
 anxieties and struggles by which those years had been marked, 
 had brought any change to that fond attachment, or any chill 
 to the deep devotion with which it was repaid. For the sake of 
 the beloved of his youth, and of the children whom she had 
 borne to him, it was that the alchymist's search after gold, 
 which had once been only a taste, had become an engrossing 
 passion. For them, chiefly, it was that he coveted that splen- 
 dour, with the dreams of which his visionary spirit had fed him 
 so long and so dangerously. To Beatrice, her husband had 
 been the subject of many a care and many a fear, — on which her 
 love had, nevertheless, but grown and strengthened more and 
 more, as on its most appropriate food. The exaltation of his 
 nature, the long and lonely vigils to which it led, and the sacri- 
 fice of his time, and what little property he possessed, to his 
 fantastic pursuits, had been sources of deep anxiety to his less 
 sanguine wife; and she had, more than once, trembled for the 
 probable effects of what she feared were his delusions, upon his 
 highly-excitable brain. If he had, at one time, succeeded in 
 inspiring her with a portion of those hopes which nourished his 
 own imagination, they had long since yielded, in her heart, 
 before repeated disappointments and the gloomy aspect of their 
 yearly darkening fortunes. On the present occasion, the reso- 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 251 
 
 lution of the alchymist, — which was to take him, for the first 
 time, (under the influence, as she believed, of a heated and 
 deceived imagination), far from her fond superintendence, and 
 deliver him into the hands of strangers, — was, to her, a subject of 
 deep distress. Every argument was used to which his un- 
 doubted affection for her might give force, to win him from his 
 purpose ; and tears and fond reproaches (those weapons which 
 woman, when she is beloved, wields, with such unfailing effect), 
 were resorted to, when all others had proved unavailing. The 
 kind nature of the goldsmith was easily moved, at any time, by 
 the aspect of distress, — and against the tears of his wife it had no 
 chance of a prolonged resistance. Unable, therefore, to re- 
 awaken her faith in the success of his alchymic projects, and 
 mastered by her grief, he persuaded himself, at length, to the 
 only other course which was capable of reconciling her fears 
 with the prosecution of his scheme. Leading her into his cellar, 
 and standing on the usurer's grave, he confided to her the secret 
 of his wealth, and succeeded in removing her scepticism as to 
 the reality and value of his gold. 
 
 Whatever womanly fears it was natural that Beatrice should 
 experience, at the doubtful circumstances in which her husband 
 had been innocently placed,— she was, however, perfectly satis- 
 fied with the uses that had been extracted from them, and 
 greatly disposed to adopt the alchy mist's opinion of the special 
 intentions of Providence in his favour, with a view to which the 
 assassination of the usurer, amongst other things, had, as he 
 argued, been permitted. It was necessary, however, that she 
 should continue to play the part of a reluctant and afflicted 
 wife; and accordingly, the goldsmith left his home, amid her 
 tears and. remonstrances, laughed at by half the city, and quietly 
 laughing in his turn, and in his sleeve, at the whole. 
 
 On his arrival at Marseilles, the alchymist immediately pro- 
 ceeded to convert his gold into letters of exchange, upon sub- 
 stantial bankers at Pisa ; and, after the lapse of what he deemed 
 a sufficient time, he wrote to his wife, informing her that he had 
 sold his ingots, and was about to return home with the produce. 
 This letter was triumphantly shewn, by Beatrice, to her relatives, 
 her friends, her neighbours ; — to every body, in short, who chose 
 to look at it, — and created no little amazement. The ingots, it 
 was therein stated, had been pronounced to be of the purest 
 metal ; and the news of the grand arcanum having been realised 
 spread through the city, with wonderful celerity. The lovers of 
 the marvellous, the followers of science, and the greedy after 
 gold, were alike interested in the intelligence. All the crucibles 
 in the city were once more brought into action, — all the illuminati 
 set in motion ; and when the great alchymist returned to Pisa, 
 and made his extensive deposits with the bankers of that gaping 
 
252 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 town, he, who had left with the reputation of a fool, came back 
 with that of a sage, and was received with all the honours due, 
 at once, to sublimated science and substantial wealth. The 
 character and temper of the man were calculated to ensure him 
 the esteem of those with whom these circumstances brought him 
 into association ; and the once poor goldsmith of Pisa, lived 
 amongst his fellow-citizens, exciting no jealousy by his amended 
 lot, — winning the love of many, and yearly rising in the estima- 
 tion of all. 
 
 But, if the fortunes of the alchymist had come out brilliant 
 and golden from the labours of his youth, his disposition had, 
 in some respects, undergone a transmutation, which was not into 
 the more precious qualities; and his ardent and passionate na- 
 ture was, now, to be exposed to the peril of fulfilled desires. 
 That sickness of the heart which ariseth from hope deferred had 
 been too suddenly removed ; and, like the physical convalescent, 
 when first he leaves the chamber of lingering sickness, it seemed 
 to him that he could not drink too large draughts of the bright sun- 
 shine and perfumed air into which he had issued. The more ani- 
 mal parts of his nature, which had been kept down by his deep po- 
 verty and transcendental pursuits, awoke, at the many voices 
 which called upon them, amidst the new scenes in which he was 
 placed ; and his passions, nourished into force by the strong 
 stimulants on which he had fed them so long, were now directed 
 into paths more dangerous, and less pure, than those in which 
 they had formerly walked. The rich and luxurious of those 
 days, in Pisa, appear to have lived pretty much after the same 
 fashion, and cultivated pretty nearly the same vices, as the pa- 
 rallel classes of London and Paris, do in our own ; and the 
 alchymist, suddenly released from the painful restraints which 
 had made his youth one of suffering and privation, and admitted 
 within the sanctuaries of those privileged vices, responded too 
 readily to the novel temptations by which he was surrounded. 
 Not that the goldsmith's heart (which, having little occupation 
 in scenes like these, went to sleep, for a period), was reached by 
 the pollutions of the world. But his head, — which had, at all times 
 asserted its ascendancy, and carried him whithersoever it would, 
 now ran away with him, amidst the unaccustomed tumult of the 
 new path on which it found itself, and delivered him over to the 
 dissipations which there assailed him. The wife of his youth, 
 who with her children, had, in the day of his adversity, been the 
 sole objects of his hopes and wishes, now found that their empire 
 (if not over his heart, at least over his imagination), was divided 
 by many another claim ; and Beatrice began almost to regret the 
 anxious days of their young loves, and the wild, and as yet un- 
 realised dreams of alchymy. 
 
 Amongst the many who partook of the bounty which flowed 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 253 
 
 freely from the kind goldsmith's altered fortunes, was an orphan 
 girl, who was distantly related to his wife, and whom, at her 
 request, he had introduced into his establishment. Unhappily 
 for Ricciardo, Irene was surpassingly beautiful, — and more un- 
 happily still, she was very conscious of that fact, and very much 
 of a coquette. Long ere the goldsmith was aware of his danger, 
 he had already drunk large draughts of love, from the eyes of 
 the orphan girl; and long ere his wife was startled from fyer fond 
 security in his faith, he had, in the intoxication thereby produced, 
 revealed his passion to its object, and won her to its return. In 
 the delirium of his feelings, the goldsmith was far too little 
 master of himself for their long concealment; and when, at 
 length, the withering truth burst upon Beatrice, it was received 
 by her as the lightning might, which should have scorched her 
 without destroying. Long years of evil had Beatrice borne, — and 
 all evil she was prepared to bear, for the husband of her 
 heart, save this evil alone. The love of that husband was 
 a treasure with which she had once consoled herself for the 
 absence of every other ; and she was not, now, disposed to bar- 
 ter it against the murdered usurer's gold, or all that it could buy. 
 Her apparently calm and gentle spirit had in it a spark of that 
 fire, which had, probably, been communicated to it from the 
 alchymist's own ; and the blow which was now struck against 
 her heart revealed it, at once. In its first eruption, Irene was 
 driven from her protector's home, with passionate reproaches ; 
 and Ricciardo compelled, for a moment, to shrink before the 
 indignant appeals of his outraged wife. 
 
 But the alchymist was too completely under the mastery of 
 his passion to yield final obedience to the impassioned pleadings of 
 her whose lightest wish had anciently been his strong law ; and 
 his better nature was so far darkened by the madness which 
 possessed him, as to suffer him to answer her agonised remon- 
 strances by the bold avowal of his unworthy flame. Like the 
 maniac which a guilty passion had made him, he trampled, in 
 very wantonness, on the heart which he had guarded so fondly 
 and so long ; and, reckless, alike of the wrong which he did, 
 and the anguish which he inflicted ; deaf, to all suggestions save 
 those of the fever which enthralled him, — ultimately quitted his 
 home, with the declared purpose of procuring another for 
 Irene,— and sharing it with her. 
 
 The struggle was a fearful one to which the spirit of Beatrice 
 was delivered, when she was left alone ; and it was long ere her 
 anguish took that gentler tone which yielded the relief of tears. 
 In that softened mood, the memory of their early loves rose up, 
 with a sweetness which made the memory of their early poverty 
 sweet. Again and again, did she curse the gold which had 
 won them from the calm security of their humble and almost 
 
254 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 desperate lot ; and freely would she have paid it all away, to be 
 again the anxious and lonely thing she was, in those days, — if 
 thereby she might buy back the love which had made even that 
 loneliness and that anxiety most dear. Amid the alternating 
 paroxysms of her fiercer feelings, she was still haunted by this 
 one thought ; till, in the wildness of her mood, and with some- 
 thing like her ancient tendency to cabalistic belief, she came to 
 look upon that gold as, in itself, the actual spell by which her 
 husband was held, — and to fancy tha't to dispossess him of his 
 wealth would be to disenchant him. Her heart clung, eagerly 
 and dangerously, to this imagination, — which her unsettled reason 
 was not competent to correct ; and, mad with the thought of her 
 wrongs — and groping, amid the darkness of her mind, after a 
 visionary and fantastic redress — she went wildly forth from her 
 deserted home, and, in her jealous frenzy, denounced her guilty 
 lord to the authorities of Pisa, as having built his fortunes on the 
 robbery of the usurer's gold. 
 
 Great was the sensation excited by such an accusation, 
 against such a man, and coming from such a quarter. No 
 time was, however, lost, in verifying the facts. The story which 
 had been told by Ricciardo, about the usurer's grave, was taken 
 down from the lips of his distracted wife : the cellar of his 
 ancieat abode was dug up, and the body found : and the gold- 
 smith was dragged from the arms of Irene, to exchange the 
 visions of a guilty passion for such dreams as might visit his 
 solitude, in the dungeons of Pisa. 
 
 When Beatrice returned to the home which she had made for 
 ever desolate, she found it in possession of the officers of jus- 
 tice ; and, in reply to her incoherent questionings, she learnt, 
 from their rough lips, that her husband was the occupant of a 
 prison. Her frenzy gave instant way, before the pang which 
 shot through her spirit ; and, with the clearness of despair, she 
 saw, at once, the fearful significance of that which she had 
 done. Mad no longer — but like one mad — she rushed from the 
 house, and retraced her steps to the magistrates. But it was 
 too late. No tears nor prayers could avail, now, to cancel that 
 which had been done. The words were gone forth which could 
 never berecalled. Vain was her passionate retractation of all to 
 which she had deposed ; — vain were her protestations of insanity, 
 at the moment, — her admissions of jealousy and revenge, — and 
 her wild assertions, that she had but sought, by a fictitious 
 tale, to take from her husband the wealth which ministered to 
 his estrangement, and win him back, a beggar, to her arms. 
 The story told by her. had furnished the key to many things 
 which formerly seemed strange. The sudden disappearance of 
 the miser, and the sudden enrichment of the goldsmith were 
 alike explained. It was remembered, too, that some surprise 
 
THE ALCHYMIST. 255 
 
 had been felt, when the miser's treasures were discovered, at the 
 small quantity of coin which they included — and some curiosity 
 excited, in consequence, as to the manner in which the rapid and 
 constant conversion of his wealth into jewels could have been 
 effected. The body, too, had been found, and identified ; and 
 no doubt whatever existed that Ricciardo was, at once, a rob- 
 ber and a murderer! The question of the miser's disappearance 
 cleared up, by the verification of his death — and the absence of 
 all other claimants — authorised the disposal of his treasures to 
 the purposes of the state : and the trial of the goldsmith was, 
 for all these reasons, hastened forward, amidst the mingled 
 horror and regrets of the entire city. 
 
 Alone in his dungeon — and in the contemplation of that fate 
 which he knew that nothing could avert — the spirit of the 
 goldsmith righted itself. Rebuked by the place and circum- 
 stances, his passions abdicated, and his purer nature regained the 
 ascendant. His heart awoke from the deep slumber into which 
 it had been cast, by the narcotic of lawless love ; and his mind, 
 at the same time, shook off the delusions by which it had been 
 so long held in thrall, and came clear out of the mists and sha- 
 dows which had darkened it, through the greater number of his 
 days. He saw distinctly through the mysticism which he had 
 nourished, till it had made him its victim ; and knew, at last, that 
 he was unquestionably, before men — and before that God whom 
 he had claimed for an accomplice — a robber ! He saw, too, that 
 the very vices which his ill-gotten wealth had fostered, had led 
 directly to the exposure of the evil source from whence that 
 wealth had been derived, — that the mystery of his fate was 
 explained, and its moral complete. To that part of the charges 
 against him which fixed him with the stain of robbery, he 
 answered by a calm and mournful avowal ; but resolutely per- 
 sisted in flinging from him the accusation of murder. It was in 
 vain, however, that he detailed the circumstances of that event- 
 ful night when the usurer came, wounded, to his door; and in 
 vain he, too surely, felt that it must necessarily be. The facts 
 were too strong against him. Still, he bore the torture with a 
 resolution that faltered not, in this respect : till, wearied out by 
 his firmness, pitying his pangs, and having evidence enough of 
 his guilt to justify his capital condemnation, his judges sen- 
 tenced him to die — and he was left, at length, alone, to prepare 
 for his final scene. 
 
 And now, at this last hour, when the strange wild riddle of 
 his life was solved, and there remained for him but to die, stole 
 back to his heart — as they almost always do, at such a time — 
 the sweet and wholesome memories of his youth ; and with them 
 came the image of his first and pure and happy love. With the 
 passing away of the false and feverish passion which had mis- 
 
256 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 led him, all angry feelings had, likewise, passed away. It was 
 too true that the wife of his bosom (and now, again, of his un- 
 divided affection) was she who had conducted him to the scaf- 
 fold ; but it was in a moment of madness caught from him — 
 and for the love of him. She was, in truth,— as she had ever 
 been, from her childhood upwards, dragged onward and in- 
 volved by his own dark destiny,— as much its victim as himself; 
 and his spirit yearned to clasp her again, before its final divorce. 
 It was a boon readily granted. The requisitions of justice were 
 about to be sternly satisfied ; and the magistrates felt that they 
 might be merciful. That last night Ricciardo and Beatrice 
 passed together; and, clasped in each other's arms, went back 
 again over all their little history of the heart. Like all their 
 strange life, there was something strange in that final scene of it 
 which they were to enact together. The canvas of their long and 
 fitful story seemed, as it were, spread out, anew, before their men- 
 tal vision. No cloud, either of grief or guilt, remained in the clear 
 breast of the morally emancipated goldsmith ; and Beatrice, in 
 the restoration, at this final hour, of her husband's love, and the 
 renewal of that fond confidence which had made the charm of 
 her existence, fancied, for awhile, that happiness had come 
 back, and forgot the heavy price which remained to be paid. 
 They spoke nothing of the present — as a matter in which they 
 had no further concern ; but went wandering, wandering back, 
 over the long past. It was as if the history of their lives 
 were already closed, and they were reviewing it. The moon 
 looked in upon them, like an old friend, through the prison-bars, 
 as they talked of their early loves — of the fields in which they 
 had wandered, long ago — and the starry nights which had heard 
 their young vows. And when the morning dawned, and the al- 
 chymist (an alchymist no more),— after one long, long glance, 
 and one lingering kiss, so softly given that it might not awake 
 her,— -went silently and calmly forth to his eternal rest,— he left 
 the companion of all his days under the shelter (from that dread- 
 ful moment) of a deep and peaceful sleep ! 
 
 The Chronicles of Pisa give hints of a fearful catastrophe, 
 with which we feel most reluctant to darken the close of our 
 tale. Awakened from her slumber, and driven into irremediable 
 madness by the awful significance of the solitude in which she 
 found herself, the wretched wife is said, by them, to have made 
 her way through the streets of the city, with her children in her 
 arms, and amid the execrations of the crowd, (which, however, 
 she understood not), right to the scaffold. There, having as- 
 cended, on the pretext of embracing the body of her husband, 
 and hung the little arms of her children about their dead 
 father's neck, amid the passionate sobs to which the anger of 
 
THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS. 257 
 
 the nmiltidude had given place, at the spectacle, she suddenly 
 struck a poniard to the breast of each ; and, ere the officers 
 who stood at the foot of the scaffold could interfere, had suc- 
 sceeded in guiding the bloody weapon to her own heart. 
 
 T. K. Heuvey. 
 
 THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS; OR, THE 
 HUMOURS OF AN IRISH FAIR. 
 
 At somewhere about the distance of a quarter of a mile from 
 the little town or rather village of , in the north of Ire- 
 land, there lies a small common of from six to eight acres in ex- 
 tent. This piece of ground has been for centuries, I believe, the 
 scene of an annual fair, in which some business is done, but 
 infinitely more mischief. It is, in short, the scene of more battles 
 than bargains, and of more kicking than kissing. 
 
 It was my good fortune to be in the neighbourhood of this 
 celebrated spot on one of those splendid occasions alluded to, 
 and I determined to avail myself of the opportunity to witness a 
 scene where I was led to believe, I should see as beautiful a 
 development of the united effects of love, liquor, and liberty as 
 any man of a truly philanthropic disposition, such as mine is, 
 could desire. 
 
 Full then of delightful anticipations, excited by the prospect 
 of seeing a row upon a great scale— to me one of the most deli- 
 cious things in nature— I hastened to the scene of action early in 
 the forenoon, and shall now attempt to describe what I saw and 
 heard on the very impressive occasion alluded to. 
 
 On the great day in question, one side of the common was 
 occupied by a range of tents composed of old blankets, frag- 
 ments of deal, and tattered canvass, with the name of the pro- 
 prietor painted on a board surmounting each door, or opening, 
 which gave access to the interior. One of these, with its owner, 
 we shall select for special description as a fair average sample 
 of the whole. This is the tent, then, as his sign bore, of " Daniel 
 O'Grady, dealer in all sorts of liquors"— which, however, the 
 reader may as well observe by the way, meant after all, nothing 
 but whiskey ; for no other liquor had Daniel ever dealt in during 
 the whole course of his valuable existence, although he had been 
 in the trade ever since he was the height of a Sligo firkin. 
 
 Dan himself was a stout, active, lively, bustling little fellow, 
 and had all the appearance of being one who could handle a 
 
258 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 sprig should occasion require it, and such occasions often came 
 in his way, with pretty considerable effect. Indeed, the breadth 
 of his shoulders, the suppleness of his limbs, and the smart ex- 
 pression of his lively eye, shewed clearly that he had been des- 
 tined by nature from his cradle to excel in the use of that truly 
 national weapon the shillelah. 
 
 On the occasion of which we speak, Dan was dressed in a 
 pair of " spick and span new," velveteen breeches, a red waist- 
 coat, a long coat of grey cloth, and, to complete the respectabi- 
 lity of his outer man, there was a " neat Barcelona tied round 
 his neat neck." His breeches, however, which were of course 
 meant to be tied at the knee, were not secured at these particular 
 points; and thus, the ribands by which that duty should have 
 been performed were left dangling round his legs, or might be 
 seen streaming from behind him as he hurried about making 
 preparations for the business of the day. Dan's stockings too, 
 as a necessary consequence of this neglect, were left at liberty to 
 settle downwards ; and although he frequently gave them a hasty 
 pull up as he ran to and fro, they never could be kept above a 
 minute or two more than half-leg high, leaving the other half ex- 
 posed in primitive nakedness. 
 
 Dan, when I first took him under my special observation, was 
 busily employed, with the assistance of an active little girl, in 
 making various arrangements and preparations in his tent for 
 the approaching event, and occasionally holding converse with 
 his coadjutor :— -a little of which I overheard. 
 
 " Where's the big bottle with the whisky, Judy?" he said^ 
 addressing the latter, who was intently occupied in placing seve- 
 ral long forms around the interior of the tent for the accommo- 
 dation of the expected customers. 
 
 " I never seen it," replied Judy. 
 
 " You never seen it, you little spalpeen you," said Dan, sus- 
 pending the operation of wiping glasses in which he had been 
 busily engaged ; his fears for the fate of the big bottle greatly 
 increased by the denial of his handmaiden of all knowledge of it. 
 
 " Was'nt it your own two hands, now, that brought it to the 
 tint, so how can you be after saying you never seen it, tell me 
 that r 
 
 " Then to be sure if I brought it," replied Judy, " would'nt I 
 be after putting it in some safe place behind the basket of bread 
 in the corner there?" pointing to the place of safety which she 
 spoke of, where, in truth, the missing article was found, to the 
 great joy of Dan's heart, whole and sound. 
 
 Judy had, at the moment she was first questioned by her mas- 
 ter, totally forgotten where she had placed the bottle, and had, 
 therefore, to avoid all further trouble on the subject, decided on 
 the instant to deny all knowledge of it; but her recollection 
 
THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS. 259 
 
 returning, she had taken the ingenious method described of 
 getting out of the scrape. 
 
 " Quick, Judy, quick wid you now!" exclaimed Dan, shortly 
 after, as he stood towel in hand at the door of his tent, eyeing 
 with a look of great satisfaction the increasing bustle of the fair, 
 and at the same time industriously persevering in the occupa- 
 tion of wiping glasses. " Quick, now Judy, quick wid you," 
 he said, urging on the exertions which Judy was making inside 
 the tent to fit it for the reception of gentale company : " There's 
 Pat Duggan and a dozen more of them, and they'll be ajl here 
 in a bundle like a drove of sucking-pigs, and every one of them 
 as dry as a piece of half-burnt turf.— Stand out of the way you 
 there, with your dirty whale of fortune, and don't be after block- 
 ing up the passage to the tint /" exclaimed Dan, now addressing 
 a tall, raw-boned fellow, in a tattered great coat, or trusty, as 
 it is more poetically called in Ireland, who, with one of those 
 machines named after the fickle goddess, was about to take up 
 his ground directly in front of Dan's establishment. " Can't ye 
 go to the other side of the Common wid ye," he added ; " the 
 proper place for all them sort of rogueries." 
 
 " My eye, Dan," replied the other, nodding his head signifi- 
 cantly, and at the same time sulkily preparing to decamp with 
 his machine, knowing that he was on forbidden ground, " My 
 eye, Dan, but I'll mind this, or my name's not Cornelius O'Fog- 
 herty. I'll maybe come across ye afore night-fall yet, when there's 
 more fun than favour going ; more kicks than ha'pence." 
 
 " This mtnat, this minat, ye ould scarecrow," replied the 
 lively Daniel O'Grady, who understood, and rightly, Cornelius's 
 enigmatical language to mean, that when the usual blow-up took 
 place at the conclusion of the fair, he would take an opportu- 
 nity of clearing scores with him. 
 
 " This minat, ye ould potatoe-scraper !" exclaimed Dan, laying 
 down his towel and the glass which he had been wiping with it, 
 then throwing off his coat, and advancing towards Cornelius in 
 a richly scientific attitude. 
 
 At this critical moment, however, several friends of the parties 
 who had been drawn to the spot by the appearance of a row 
 successfully interfered in preventing the threatened breach of 
 the peace, by prevailing on Dan to return to his duties, and on 
 Cornelius to leave the ground without saying more about the 
 matter--" at least," as they said, rt in the manetime;" a caveat 
 which was intended as an opening for the belligerents to resume 
 and decide the dispute at the usual period when this sort of 
 count and reckoning for standing scores was resorted to. The 
 truth is, that the quarrel between Dan and Cornelius had been 
 premature; there was no corresponding spirit yet abroad ; and it 
 was, therefore, reserved by theirfriendsasasortof bonne-bouche 
 / u 2 
 
260 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 for the afternoon's entertainment — and not a little delighted were 
 they to find that they had secured at least one row, which they 
 could at any time call into existence. It was something to look 
 forward to. 
 
 One side of the Common, we have said, was occupied by 
 whisky-shops. The other was appropriated to hucksters, itinerant 
 dealers in the various merchandizes of cutlery, cotton goods. &c, 
 &c, and the Pharo tables and rouge-et-noirs of the canaille, 
 such as wheels of fortune, lotteries, the thimble, and the loop. 
 Business here had already commenced, and at least a dozen 
 fellows, " all in a row," mounted on barrels and stools, might be 
 seen, and heard too, offering their various commodities to sale 
 in the choicest flowers of oratory, and with a volubility of 
 tongue that absolutely looked like inspiration. 
 
 As in the case of Dan, I shall select one of these gentlemen 
 as a specimen of the whole, and this honoured individual shall 
 be Jemmy Flynn, a well known itinerant vender of the manu- 
 factures of Sheffield. Jemmy was a little man, rather corpulent 
 than otherwise, about 48 years of age, with a sallow complexion, 
 and a devil of an eye in his head. He had been nearly forty 
 years in the trade, for he had commenced packman when he 
 was a boy of eight, with three pen-knives, a dozen of brass breast- 
 pins, as many pair of ear-rings made of the same rare and pre- 
 cious metal, and thirteen papers of pins. " There's a knife for 
 you ladies and gentlemen," said Jemmy, holding up the instru- 
 ment of which he spoke, and which was a small pen-knife, with 
 a deer's horn handle. " There's a knife for you, that never a 
 one o' you, though you were to live a thousand years, and buy 
 five hundred pen-knives every day, would ever fall in with the 
 fellow of it. It's none of your thin delicate articles made out of 
 the refuse of the workshop by a little bungling apprentice boy no 
 bigger than a clothes-brush. No, no, this blade, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, continued the orator, " is the right article. It is made 
 of the same stuff with the famous Damascus blades, which it is 
 well known '11 cut any thing a mile off, and go through a bar of 
 iron as if it were a roll of fresh butter, and so sharp that they'll 
 shave you as clane as a skinned potatoe just by looking at them. 
 That blade, ladies and gentlemen, little as you may think it, has 
 been tempered in a fiery furnace seven times heated, that con- 
 sumed a hundred tons of coals every five minutes, and roasts 
 three firemen to death every day in the week except Sunday." 
 
 Thus spoke Jemmy Flynn, and in a somewhat similar strain, 
 thus spoke also, his brethren in the trade of hyperbole and 
 hawking. 
 
 At one end of the common, however, the real business of the 
 fair had begun. There, a little shaggy, worn-out pony, blind of 
 an eye, and absolutely overwhelmed, or rather annihilated, by 
 
THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS. 261 
 
 the prodigious quantity of long, clotted, uncombed hair with 
 which it was overgrown, was apparently on the eve of finding a 
 purchaser. The price asked for the " baste," was fifteen shil- 
 lings, and it was declared, that not a ha'peth would be abated. 
 The price offered, and which was certainly as much as the ani- 
 mal was worth, was eight and ninepence and a noggin at settle- 
 ment. 
 
 The object of debate was, at this stage of the business, sur- 
 rounded by at least a score of long, lank, fellows ; most of them 
 rather elderly men, all habited in the favourite trusty, many of 
 them having no fewer than three of these beloved garments on at 
 the same time— and they would have put on a dozen if they had 
 had them, however hot the weather might be. 
 
 The crowd that now enclosed, and wholly shut out, little Bul- 
 gruddery, so the pony was called, from the light of day — for 
 he scarcely reached the knees of any of those by whom he was 
 surrounded— -was composed of the friends of the intending 
 purchaser, and of the proprietor of the miserable little animal, 
 whose merits and defects were as noisily and clamorously dis- 
 cussed as if he had been a " Tartar of the Ukraine breed," and 
 worth his weight in gold. Into this discussion the whole party, 
 all talking at once, entered as keenly, and with as much earnest- 
 ness and vociferation, as if every one of them had a deep interest 
 at stake in the proceedings which were going forward. At 
 length it was agreed on all hands that Bulgruddery should be 
 put through his paces, to exhibit at once his speed and propor- 
 tions. With this view the crowd opened with a tremendous 
 shout, and the little shaggy animal rushed forth under the 
 stimulating influence of a huge shilellah, with which his owner— 
 a tall, ragged ferocious looking fellow — ever and anon unmerci- 
 fully belabDured him, every blow threatening to divide him in 
 two. The pony being held short by the head by the straw rope 
 with which he was secured, Bulgruddery and his owner now set 
 off together* at a round trot over the common, pursued by a 
 mob composed of the friends of both parties, buyer and seller, 
 screaming and shouting as if their lives depended on the result; 
 and each runnning as fast as his load of tattered clothes and 
 outspread trusty would permit. 
 
 " Touch up his hind-quarters, Teague," shouted out one of 
 the pursuers, and one evidently of the seller's party. 
 
 "There he goes, by St. Patrick, all the same as if he had 
 wings," screamed out another. 
 
 " See how beautifully he steps over the ground !" exclaimed 
 a third. 
 
 " Keep him to it, Teague, keep him to it, that's a jewel," 
 roared out a fourth. 
 
 " Don't be after bating him so hard, Teague," shouted 
 
262 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 one of the opposite party, " you're making him go faster than 
 he's able, and that'll be seen of it." 
 
 " His hind legs are as bowed as a pot-hook," remarked 
 a second. 
 
 " He can't trot a bit faster than my ould grandmother," bawled 
 out a third. 
 
 The expression of these contradictory opinions gradually in- 
 creased in vehemence and frequency, until the whole resolved 
 itself into one tremendous and unintelligible hubbub, that 
 threatened every moment to terminate in a general fight. This, 
 however, did not occur. The race was at length run, and Bul- 
 gruddery and his train returned to the spot from whence they 
 had set out. Here the poor harassed animal was subjected to 
 another test of the soundness of his condition. Five or six of 
 the intended purchaser's party seized him by the head, raised his 
 rough, shaggy snout, and tore open his jaws, to inspect his 
 teeth ; when, lo ! every tooth in his head fell out, and dropped 
 at the feet of the inspectors. The truth was, that having lost 
 all his own teeth, his owner had taken the liberty of supplying 
 him with a new set, an operation not unfrequentfy practised in 
 certain counties in Ireland. 
 
 On the discovery of the trick, the friends of Bulgruddery's 
 intending purchaser, set up a shout of execration. 
 
 " Ah ! what a devil of a rogue you are now Teague," said 
 one. 
 
 ** Are these your grandmother's teeth, Teague?" inquired 
 another, stooping down, and lifting up a couple of tusks like a 
 pair of pocket pistols. " My eye, what a set of powerful grinders 
 the dacent ould uman must have had." 
 
 These reflections on his integrity Teague bore with inimitable 
 grace; and in no other way resented them, than by endeavour- 
 ing to pay his assailants back in their own coin. 
 
 As the defect just discovered in Bulgruddery, lessened his 
 value at least one hundred per cent, five shillings, instead of 
 eight and ninepence, was now offered for him, and finally 
 accepted, which closed this particular portion of the business of 
 the day. 
 
 At length that great epoch in an Irish fair— that period in 
 which all the delights of the day were to be summed up in one 
 charming scene of anarchy— arrived. Evening came on, and 
 with it, certain impressive indications of the impending storm. 
 Great events, however, have frequently very small beginnings. 
 
 " Here's the very man I wanted to meet with," said Phelim 
 M'Cartey, a stout little fellow, who had a few minutes before 
 sallied out of a tent where he had been melting a thirteener or 
 two. " Here's the very man I wanted," he said, with a shout 
 and a flourish of his shillelah, to which he added a graceful ca- 
 
Pa£e Q6'.i 
 
THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS. 263 
 
 per or two as he spoke, that showed he was in beautiful spirits, 
 and ready either for love or murder. 
 
 The person whom Phelim addressed, was nearly a counter- 
 part of himself. Patrick O'Connor was'nt a lad to be trifled 
 with. "He could handle a twig with any man of his inches in 
 the county, and would'nt at any time give a ha'peth to 
 choose whether it should be a black eye or a noggin, bloodshed 
 or whisky. Patrick was also provided with a pretty tolerable 
 switch, and was, moreover, at this particular moment under the 
 benign influence of some fifteen glasses of " mighty iligant" 
 (whisky), which he had fallen in with in the course of the day; 
 so that a meeting in all its circumstances more favourable for 
 the views of both parties, could scarcely have taken place. It 
 is almost unnecessary to add, that these views had been for 
 some time directed towards a row ; for a cause for which they 
 had trusted to providence and their own good luck. In truth, 
 it so happened, that both of them at the moment of their meet- 
 ing, were anxiously on the look-out for a dust. 
 
 Patrick, indeed, had for some time previously made an inef- 
 fectual attempt to get some one to quarrel with him, by trailing 
 his trusty, — the usual provocative to battle in such cases, — . 
 which he had thrown oft' for the purpose, behind him. Drag- 
 ging the garment after him by one of the sleeves with his left 
 hand, and flourishing his shillelah in his right, he traversed the 
 fair from one end to the other, calling upon any one to touch it 
 at his peril, and challenging ^o mortal combat any man who 
 should dare but to tread on it with the point of his toe. 
 
 It was, therefore, in this attitude, with the sleeve of his trusty 
 in one hand and his sprig in the other, that Patrick encoun- 
 tered Phelim. Both instantly saw, with inexpressible delight, 
 that they had at length fallen in with the very thing they wanted. 
 
 "Ah! Phelim, my jewel !" exclaimed Patrick, with an ex- 
 pression of extreme felicity in his countenance, and giving a 
 harmonizing flourish with his shillelah as he spoke, " And am 
 I now just the man ye wanted ?" 
 
 " Faith, my broth of a boy, and that you are." 
 
 " And pray now, my darling, what is it you might be wanting 
 with Patrick O'Connor ? " inquired the latter. 
 
 " Nothing in the universal world," said Phelim, " only to 
 take a little of the orange blood out o'ye, as I'm told there's a 
 small drop of it about ye, for all your blarney, Patrick !— that'* 
 all." 
 
 D'ye see my trusty on the ground there, Phelim?" said 
 Patrick. 
 
 " To be sure I do," rejoined his antagonist. 
 
 " Well, then, my jewel, just do me the favour to put your 
 ugly fore-foot on it." 
 
264 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " There, and be damned to you," replied Phelim, at the same 
 instant planting his foot on the soiled and draggled garment — an 
 act of temerity which was instantly followed by a well-directed 
 blow from Patrick's shillelah, that nearly grounded his antago- 
 nist at the very outset. In a second, however, the latter had 
 sufficiently recovered from the effects of his friend's obligation 
 to return it with even superior cordiality. 
 
 " By the Holy Cross I'll make devil's mate of you !" shouted 
 Patrick, as he flourished his weapon in the air. 
 
 " An' that's more than any man of your size in the county can 
 do," retorted Phelim, " and bother me if I don't knock the con- 
 sate out of you." And to it they went again with a vigour and 
 glee that showed plainly enough, that the pastime was one after 
 their own hearts. 
 
 These two fortunates, however, were not long permitted to 
 engross to themselves the whole pleasures of the fight. It was 
 too great a luxury for any single couple to enjoy exclusively, 
 and, accordingly, ere many minutes had elapsed, the row be- 
 tween Phelim M'Cartey and Patrick O'Connor was shared by 
 nearly a hundred friends. 
 
 On the very first appearance of a set-to between these 
 worthies, a crowd had gradually gathered to the spot, attracted 
 by the exhtlirating prospect of a dust. 
 
 For some time the ring which had been formed around the 
 combatants was tolerably well kept ; and " Down with him 
 Phelim! Lay into him iligantly now, for the honour of 
 Antrim ! Wipe away the cobwebs from about him, Patrick ! 
 That's it my jewel, dust him clanely, rub him down hand- 
 somely !" was shouted out on all sides by the friends of either 
 party. At length, however, the temptation to join in the frolic 
 became too great to be resisted. The ring, after being repeatedly 
 squeezed out of shape, and so contracted as to leave barely suffi- 
 cient room for the shillelahs of the combatants, was fairly closed— 
 and then the only thing wanting to make the row general 
 amongst the friends of the parties was accomplished, namely, 
 bringing them into personal contact with each other. 
 
 This, then, had no sooner taken place, than such a scene pre- 
 sented itself as perhaps could be nowhere witnessed out of Ire- 
 land. 
 
 In an instant, a hundred shillelahs were seen waving over 
 the dark, dense, mass of combatants beneath, and every second 
 descending on the head of some luckless wight, either friend or 
 foe, as chance might direct— for in this particular no great dis- 
 crimination appeared to be exercised. Being by far too closely 
 wedged together to permit of any thing like a scientific use of 
 their weapons, the fight consisted merely in a rapid and thick 
 ascent and descent of cudgels. In many instances, however, 
 
THE O'CONNORS AND M'CARTEYS. 265 
 
 this constraint on the use of the national weapon, which, of 
 course, was greatest near the centre of the hubbub, had 
 induced the belligerents to take to their fists; and, wherever 
 this change of offensives took place, black eyes and bloody 
 noses prevailed over all other apparent effects of the fray. 
 
 Nor was the reckless glee which seemed to prevail amongst 
 the combatants, their loud shouts of vengeance and threats of 
 total annihilation to all around them, their singular oaths and 
 imprecations, the least remarkable part of the extraordinary 
 scene. 
 
 " Biood and blazes !" shouted out one as he furiously collared 
 an enemy, or what was the same thing, one whom he thought so. 
 " Who is't that says black is the white of my eye ? " inquired 
 another, a new-comer, who with many besides was eagerly hurry- 
 ing into the midst of the fray, and seemingly regretting that so 
 much had been lost of it. 
 
 The row was now approaching its height ; fists and shillelahs 
 were plying vigorously in all directions : and murder, wounds, 
 and confusion seemed to be carrying the day. New-comers 
 were constantly arriving too, to increase the number of combat- 
 ants, and the battle itself was gradually extending over the 
 whole ground occupied by the fair. In fact, hundreds were 
 now engaged on all sides who cared nothing for the original 
 cause of the contest, and who did not know, or stop to inquire, 
 why or wherefore they came to take a share in it. 
 
 Women and children were now heard screaming, and seen 
 scampering away from the scene of action, in all directions. 
 Tents were torn to pieces, stalls were overturned and trodden 
 under foot. In short the row, in all its bearings and circum- 
 stances, was perfectly unexceptionable. 
 
 As all human enjoyments, however, are but of short duration, 
 so this delight and glory of every true-born Irishman at length 
 passed away. The combatants became exhausted, the darkness 
 of night fell upon the field, the din of battle was hushed ; but 
 there was not a man there who did not retire from the scene of 
 strife with a feeling of sincere satisfaction at the brilliant and 
 national way in which the fair had concluded. 
 
THE RANSOM ; OR, A FATHER'S LOVE. 
 
 " All is gone now — • 
 
 We must starve — die— all— all — " 
 
 These disjointed sentences were uttered by a tall, jaded man, 
 ■who perturbedly walked up and down the darkest side of a large 
 and gloomy room. He might be about forty years of age ; his 
 countenance strongly marked by the lines of deep thought and 
 intense suffering. His profuse black hair hung down in large 
 locks on each side of his face. His make was muscular, yet 
 graceful, his motion easy and rather haughty. — Indeed, his 
 whole appearance denoted him to be a gentleman, at once by 
 birth, association, and natural perception of honour. His 
 faded dress consisted of a short mantle of black cloth folded 
 over his chest ; with pantaloons of the same colour, and 
 boots of the full and beautiful make of his age and country, 
 though they partook of the dinginess which characterized the 
 rest of his costume. 
 
 " There — there — again has he ridden by ; it is the third day ;" 
 and he cast his eyes towards a lovely girl, whose noble counte- 
 nance was slightly flushed. 
 
 " Dares he — villain — dares he?" and he caught up his rapier 
 that was lying on a rickety table. 
 
 " Calonne, you are not well, my love; lie down; you have 
 had no sleep so long, you are feverish ; lie down, love." It was 
 his wife who thus spoke ; a woman apparently but little younger 
 than himself. Her figure had naturally inclined to a graceful 
 roundness, but was now somewhat attenuated ; her bright brown 
 hair, slightly intersected here and there with a gray streak, was 
 parted on her forehead, and tied round with a band, according 
 to the becoming fashion of the time. Her face was pale, but 
 full of both tenderness and magnanimity ; her eyes large and 
 blue ; her nose straight yet short ; the nostrils (so expressive a 
 part of the countenance) full of sweetness and lofty sen- 
 timent. Her attire was of the coarsest brown cloth of the 
 country ; but, either from the taste with which it was made up, 
 or the inherent beauty of the wearer's figure, it formed a drapery 
 full of graceful lines. 
 
THE RANSOM. 267 
 
 Such was Madame Calonne, the younger daughter of a noble 
 family of Navarre, and mother to children worthy, in disposition, 
 and appearance, of such parents. When she addressed her 
 husband, the sternness of his countenance relaxed, a flood of 
 different feelings rushed on him, his manliness almost gave way ; 
 while, covering his eyes with one hand, and almost pressing his 
 fingers over them, (whilst with the other he grasped that of his 
 wife), he seemed to have a violent effort to restrain his tears. At 
 length turning away from her, and taking down his deep slouched 
 hat, he passed out of the room. — No sooner was he beyond hearing, 
 than Madame Calonne, casting herself into a chair, gave way to 
 her no longer repressible emotion. Her eldest daughter imme- 
 diately set down the work in which she had seemed to be en- 
 tirely absorbed, and tearing open her mother's kerchief, desired 
 Jaques to pour out a glass of water, which he did, from a large 
 stone pitcher that stood in the corner of their ill-furnished apart- 
 ment. Having drank some of it, she almost directly revived. 
 " It is nothing, love," said she to her daughter : " I don't know 
 how it is, but I get strangely weak." — " My father," replied the 
 affectionate girl, " wants rest; perhaps Bella and Christian may 
 bring some good news from Monsieur Lien, the notary ; they 
 must return soon ; do have a little wine, indeed it is necessary." 
 " Do, Mamma," added Jaques, a fine gentle-looking boy of 
 eleven ; and ere he had scarcely got the words out of his mouth, 
 he stood with a little narrow-necked bottle, and a long-shanked 
 prim-looking glass, in the act to pour out. Madame Calonne 
 declined, knowing it to be all there was, and desired Jaques to 
 put it up again, who moved with none of the alacrity he had 
 shown in getting it. 
 
 Mons. Calonne, or more properly the Sieur Calonne, was the 
 third son of a noble family of Navarre, who early chose the pro- 
 fession of arms, and drew his sword for the Bourbons and the 
 Huguenots. The destruction of that confederacy, on the assump- 
 tion of the Regency by Catherine de Medicis, is matter of his- 
 tory. Calonne's small fortune was dissipated by his military 
 levies and exploits, and by the increase of his family. He had 
 now removed to Paris, in order to carry on a law-suit for the 
 recovery of some property of his lady, which held out the only 
 chance of support left to them. They had, at the period in 
 question, been some time resident in this city, the small remnant 
 of their property being gradually exhausted in law expenses, 
 and providing the necessaries of life ; they were actually 
 reduced to the last crown — their means of future existence 
 depending on the decision the judges were to give this very day 
 regarding the title to the disputed estate. If that failed (as 
 Calonne reasonably expected, for he knew he was a Huguenot, 
 
 x 2 
 
268 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 and had been but lately the enemy of the established government) 
 all would be despair; his own party could not assist him, being 
 almost equally poor and powerless; many of them, indeed, 
 were confined in the prisons of the capital and provinces, 
 under charges of conspiracy against the court ; and the Prince 
 de Conde, brother to the King of Navarre, was under sentence 
 of death, as were also several of his noble partisans. 
 
 It was in such a state of circumstances, that Calonne broke out 
 as shown at the commencement of this narrative. Morbidly 
 alive to his situation and the honour of his family, he was a prey 
 to the most terrific apprehensions ; and merely because a young 
 Cavalier chanced three days to ride by his window, he indulged 
 in the idea, (though but for a moment,) that he might have seen 
 Helene, and have given way to those licentious thoughts so preva- 
 lent in the country and the age. Stung with the varieties of 
 misery that poverty engenders, he walked forth unknowing 
 whither he bent his steps. 
 
 As he was, on the occasion alluded to, wandering over the 
 Pont de " Hotel Dieu," he met his children, Christian and 
 Bella, returning from the notary's, whither he had sent them with 
 a letter to inquire what would be the likely result of the law- 
 suit. Christian rummaged for a note in his little doublet, 
 which he gave his father, saying at the same time, " Oh, 
 father, I am afraid there is no good news, for Monsieur Lien 
 was quite cross, and did nothing but mutter to himself." 
 
 Calonne glanced over the letter, and holding it loosely in his 
 hand, exclaimed inwardly, " A lost !" Recovering himself, 
 however, he said, " Go home, my dears; tell your mother I 
 shall return directly." 
 
 " And what does Mons. Lien say, papa?" 
 .•*•' Christian, we have no hope there — the judges have decided 
 against us — tell Helene aside, and bid her break it to your 
 mother." The boy burst into tears. 
 
 " Go, go home, my children. Christian, be a man— dry 
 your eyes." 
 
 " I will— I do ; but you'll also come soon.*' 
 
 " Directly; but it is better you should go first. — Go, loves, 
 go." The children proceeded. 
 
 The poor man unconsciously leant his head against the 
 balustrade of the bridge, and, dead to every thing around, was 
 engrossed by the most dreadful considerations. Thoughts 
 unconnected, yet all equally dismal, rushed wildly through his 
 mind. The long vista of futurity developed itself; and he saw 
 life consumed in struggles — existence preserved at the expense 
 of unceasing effort. He saw the elegant, the refined, the noble- 
 minded woman whom he adored, worn down with anxiety 
 
THE RANSOM. 269 
 
 privation, and everlasting endurance ; his daughter Helene, his 
 lovely exalted daughter, doomed to have every natural emotion 
 destroyed, or to be exposed to insults and villany ; his other 
 children degraded from their rank, and condemned to a mean 
 and sordid path of life. 
 
 His pride was now touched ; he started, and stamped with 
 violence ; the contumely of the rich, the insolence of the suc- 
 cessful, rose to his imagination — the paths of renown he knew 
 were occupied by the possessors of wealth. The idea of the 
 compassion of the coarse maddened him — the familiar friendship 
 of the vulgar he scorned. It is but justice to say, these selfish 
 feelings were transient — the wretchedness of the beings he lived 
 in and for, occasioned the chief pangs that convulsed his soul. 
 " It is no longer the future that is to be considered," exclaimed 
 he; " it is the present — now — even now— they want bread ! — 
 I will end it !" In the madness of the moment, he made a rush as 
 if to overleap the balustrade ! but his arm was caught by the 
 grasp of a rough hand, which roused him from his hallucination; 
 habit immediately resumed its sway, and petty anger at an 
 apparent rudeness occupied a soul which, the moment before, 
 merged every faculty in the strongest throes. 
 
 " Your pardon, Mon seigneur/' 
 
 "What is your business?" said Calonne. " Do I know 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Not that I am aware of, Monseigneur," said the stranger, 
 who was a stout muscular man, enveloped in an ample cloak. 
 
 " Your business then, Sir — " 
 
 " Is perhaps of as much importance to you, Monseigneur, as 
 to me ; and if you will favour me with a few moments attention, 
 you will not perchance regret it." 
 
 Calonne inquired, " What is the hour?" for he had lost all 
 calculation of time in the rapidity and strong current of his ideas. 
 
 " It must be near eight, for the sun has long set." 
 
 " Be quick then, Sir, in your narration. I know not, indeed, 
 why I stay to listen to it, save that it matters little what I do : — 
 trifle not with me — for I am almost desperate." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 Calonne started. 
 
 "But had we not best proceed, Monseigneur? — these are 
 troublous times ; and if noticed conferring here — especially as 
 we are known to be both Huguenots — it may be dangerous." 
 
 Monsieur Calonne eyed his companion for the first time with 
 a most scrutinizing glance — but obtained little satisfaction. 
 The large folds of his cloak, the broad hat slouching over his 
 eyes, and the duskiness, effectually shrouding him : he said, " I 
 do not know vou." 
 
270 LIBRARY OF FICTION". 
 
 The stranger took no notice, but merely asked, " Shall we walk, 
 Monseigneur?" 
 
 " I attend you." 
 
 Leaving the bridge, they turned down one of those narrow 
 streets that lead to the Pre-aux-Cleres, and all around soon 
 became silent. The houses were large and massive, and the 
 common doors stood open in the manner of our chambers in 
 inns of court. The stillness was only occasionally interrupted 
 by the nimble pushing up of a window, and the cry of "Gard* 
 de Veau" which was simultaneous with a splash in the street — 
 a warning nearly useless any where, in the manner in which it 
 was given, but almost wholly so in these remote and unfre- 
 quented streets. — This quarter of the town was chiefly inhabited 
 by Huguenots, many of whom had been induced to come to Paris 
 owing to the progress Huguenotism was just now making in the 
 most influential ranks. It is not improbable, here were formed 
 many of the plans of those future struggles for religious liberty, 
 which agitated France with three successive civil wars : the 
 spirit of which so frequently manifested itself, in conten- 
 tions betwixt the rival parties, now neatly daily, in the Pre-aux- 
 Cleres; but I digress.— No sooner had they left the main street, 
 than the stranger informed Monsieur Calonne of his business. — 
 " Perhaps, Monseigneur," he said, " I have a more extraordinary 
 disclosure to make to you, than was ever yet made by one man 
 to another. 1 must entreat your forbearance, and request you 
 will not misinterpret as offensive any thing I may say." 
 
 " Go on : if you have any claim or necessity for forbearance, 
 you shall have it : — at once to your business."-— The stranger 
 proceeded thus : " Your circumstances—" Calonne started 
 and reddened, though the latter could not be perceived. 
 
 '* Your dreadful circumstances are well known both to me 
 and to others— you have thousands of fellow-sufferers— I watched 
 your emotion on the bridge. I know you have no prospects but 
 of the most appalling nature." 
 
 " Can you brighten them V* said Monsieur Calonne. 
 
 " I can," replied the stranger, " as regards your family, but 
 not yourself." 
 
 " Oh, speak on !" cried Calonne ; " I would relieve their wants 
 even at the price of existence !" 
 
 " It must be at that price," replied the stranger. 
 
 Monsieur Calonne drew back, and clutched his rapier. 
 
 M There is no danger of that kind : Listen, Monsieur. Logere 
 is sentenced to execution to-morrow morning. You know him V 
 said the other. 
 
 " By name only — he comes from Orleans. Go on — go on." 
 
 " His life is invaluable to his party — his wife is rich and 
 
THE RANSOM. 271 
 
 despairing. She would save him at any price : — there is but 
 one way — a substitute.' 7 
 
 The speaker here hesitated, and looked as if expecting Ca- 
 lonne to interrupt him. They were both speechless :— at length, 
 after a long pause, catching hold of his arm, Calonne gaspe:l in 
 a hoarse voice — " The sum ! " 
 
 " Ten thousand crowns." 
 
 " Could it be known % " 
 
 " As we shall manage, never." 
 
 " Who are you V* 
 
 11 A friend, and agent of Madame Logere, to whom I would 
 introduce you." 
 
 " Take me to her." 
 
 The agent made no reply, but walked on rapidly, while Mon- 
 sieur Calonne followed, muttering to himself, " But a littla 
 while ago, I would have destroyed life— and now I hesitate, 
 when it will give them all they want — competence— safety ;— 
 yet to part— to part— Amelie— Helene !— Ten thousand crowns 
 — Yes — they could return to Navarre — repurchase the chateau, 
 and spend their days peacefully.— It shall be so— what is 
 life with poverty?-— to die now, or a little while hence— what 
 difference ?— none— none." 
 
 The stranger proceeded rapidly and silently, and had already 
 threaded many dingy streets, when he stopped, turned under a low 
 archway, crossed a little quadrangle, and passed up one side of 
 a flight of steps that led to the principal entrance of a large dila- 
 pidated house. The door stood half open, and they walked into 
 a marble hall, on one side of which was a broad oak staircase. 
 The stranger made a motion as if to speak, but checking him- 
 self, proceeded. At the head of the second flight they came to 
 a landing-place, on which were several doors. The stranger 
 opened one, and they entered a small ante-room. 
 
 " Will you wait but a few seconds here? — in that room is 
 Madame Logere." 
 
 Calonne bowed assent. The stranger or agent (who was a 
 confidential friend and partizan of Logere, of the name of 
 Macon), went into the inner apartment. As he opened the 
 door wide, as if by design, Calonne's eye involuntarily pene- 
 trated the further room : at the other end, by the light of two 
 tall wax candles, he saw a female kneeling, her head buried in 
 her hands. She appeared not to be roused by the entrance of 
 Macron, who having closed the door, Calonne judged, by a 
 sharp exclamation he heard, that it was not until touched by 
 Ma90n, she knew a second person was present. He could 
 scarcely have spoken to her, before Calonne heard another 
 shriek of a different expression, and Ma^n re-opening the door, 
 said, " Monseigneur, excuse this waiting : will you enter ?" 
 
272 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Calonne did so. He had not got five steps across the broad 
 room, ere Madame Logere, pale as a corpse, and with a wild- 
 ness that destroyed all thoughts of decorum, rushed to him, 
 and had he not caught her, would have fallen to the floor. She 
 exclaimed, " You will save him — you consent ! The great God 
 bless you ! Take all — all — but save him — save him !" 
 
 Monsieur Calonne tottered — he thought how his wife would 
 suffer. Macon saw the state of both, and the tears rolled 
 down his rugged face. He took Madame Logere in his arms 
 and placed her in her chair. Calonne too sat down, leaning 
 his elbow on his knee, and his forehead on his hand. They 
 were for some time mute, with the exception of the hysterical 
 sobbing of Madame Logere, which having subsided, " Your 
 pardon, Monseigneur," she said, at length ; " I am lost to all 
 generosity — I know it ; but my passion for my husband over- 
 powers every thing." 
 
 Mac,on interposed. " Monseigneur," said he, " must be aware, 
 what we offer is from selfishness; Logere is all to us, and we 
 would even sacrifice the noblest man to save him ; we must treat 
 this but as a bargain, or we are lost. Here are the title deeds, 
 Monseigneur, of an estate worth upwards often thousand crowns ; 
 and here are a thousand livres, to take possession with." 
 
 " I accept them," rejoined Calonne. " I will die. I bind 
 myself to this by every tie divine and human."— Calonne spoke 
 in the wildest yet most solemn tone: the elevation, and ex- 
 citement he was under, seemed to conquer all earthly particles, 
 and his figure shone, as it were, with the mantling feelings that 
 possessed him. He stood for a moment like a statue. His 
 face was. raised upwards ; his arm stretched forward; and his 
 thin transparent hand clenched almost convulsively. Relaxing 
 his hand and dropping his arm involuntarily — he con- 
 tinued : " Now let me know the particulars — be as brief as you 
 can, if you please — speak not one unnecessary word." 
 
 Macon immediately replied : M The likeness between you 
 and Logere is most extraordinary. His friends are allowed 
 entrance to him : you will exchange garments, and he will leave 
 the country." 
 
 " And I the world!" rejoined Calonne, with a mad laugh. 
 
 Mac,on proceeded in the same level manner as before — "These 
 estates, or the money they fetch, will be yours to bequeath as 
 you please: — but the hatred of the queen-mother is so personal 
 and cruel, that death is inevitable ; — for to aid in the escape of 
 a criminal would as inevitably condemn you as the unchal- 
 lenged exchange. Besides, it is necessary that you should 
 give us your word of Honour not to reveal that you are other 
 than Logere." 
 
 " What is the appointed time V* 
 
THE RANSOM. 273 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " So soon? — Oh! Heaven forgive me if I sin!" Calonne 
 turned away towards the window, his lips quivered, and he 
 seemed to ejaculate though inaudibly. Madame Logere was all 
 this while stupified by the former violence of her emotion. 
 Macon spoke not, though his rough and muscular figure was 
 violently agitated. Calonne very shortly turned again to them, 
 and said, " I shall now return to my family ; by five in the 
 morning I am here again." 
 
 Having returned home, the devoted man found his wife 
 and their daughter Helene sitting up for him. Madame 
 Calonne heard his step and started up — as did Helene — but the 
 former, weak from intense anxiety and want of nourishment, fell 
 back again into her chair. Her husband in a moment had his 
 hand in hers and was bending over her — while Helene lent on 
 his shoulder and wept. Madame Calonne soon regained com- 
 posure sufficiently to say, u Never mind the decision, love, we 
 shall find relief, we shall not be deserted. You are dreadfully 
 exhausted ; Oh ! do not, love, again stay so long from us." 
 
 Monsieur Calonne took hold of the back of a chair, which he 
 leant on for a second or two, and then, sitting down, glared 
 on the floor ; there was a deep silence, until the mother said, 
 in a very feeble voice — " There is some bread, Helene." 
 Helene rose, and bringing out a small crust on a little wooden 
 platter, set it down by her father; then, turning away, she 
 pressed the palms of her hands on her eyes. 
 
 Monsieur Calonne rose, and traversed the apartment; after 
 two or three turns, he said, " I have news to tell you ;" and, 
 having taken another turn, added in a low tone — " good." 
 
 The women both anxiously raised their heads. Calonne avoided 
 their glance, and while walking, continued : " One of our party 
 met me to day ; he has promised me an opportunity of gain- 
 ing an honourable relief— but — we must part." 
 
 Madame Calonne exclaimed, '* Oh no, my love, you cannot— - 
 do not— mean it ; something may arise here !" 
 
 Helene sat pondering and silent. 
 
 Calonne vehemently proceeded. " Yes, the time is come when 
 my darlings shall be relieved : you shall leave this noisome 
 dungeon. You shall know the comforts, the delights of 
 your proper station and rank. Sweet Navarre shall again 
 cheer — you shall again climb her mountains and view her rich 
 vallies ; your charms," and he pressed and kissed Helene with 
 violence* " shall ,not be corroded in obscurity ; you shall move 
 in your own station, and enjoy the delights you were born to." 
 
 " We want nothing," Helene replied, " but to see you tran- 
 quil; and a very moderate competence will make us happy 
 
274 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 here or any where. Tell us, my father, by what means we are to 
 be relieved V* 
 
 " No matter— no matter — I must leave you— for — for— a 
 time. Now let us to rest— I am exhausted : you shall know all 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " You are exhausted, love. To-morrow I trust we shall all be 
 better !" — This was spoken by Madame Calonne. 
 
 Helene rose to depart, slowly and thoughtfully ; she took 
 hold of her father's hand, and then looked intently into his face. 
 
 Calonne put his arm round her, and holding her slantingly 
 from him, passed his other hand across her forehead wildly and 
 dreamingly — then ejaculated, his features turning ashy pale, 
 " Eternal Power, protect her!" 
 
 "Come, come, my love, to bed— you are not well ; come, 
 come," Madame Calonne said, and gently disengaged Helene. 
 No sooner were they separated, than she rushed back to her 
 father's arms, and kissed hiriT^with a vehemence she seldom 
 displayed ; he returning her embrace with equal intensity : 
 "God, God bless you, my child f — She at length tore herself 
 away, hastened to her little closet, and throwing herself on her 
 knees, prayed for strength and support- 
 
 When his daughter was gone, Calonne turned to his wife, who 
 perceived that he was greatly disturbed, but knowing that repose 
 was the best, indeed the only restorative they possessed, she urged 
 it again, and forbore to enquire into the cause of his unusual 
 agitation. 
 
 Calonne caught her hand, and said " Amelie, I must leave 
 you to-morrow ; your future welfare and that of our dear children 
 depends on it. I cannot reveal the cause : it is for us to suffer 
 for our children. When I am gone, all the anxiety will be yours : 
 live for them and in them." " What do you mean, Bertrand ? 
 there is more than you tell. What else— what horror is in 
 store for us?" "None, none,— poverty, ignominy, want, are 
 now yours; but in a few days you shall be restored to ease." 
 
 " How, how, Bertrand ? You shrink,— you change colour." 
 
 " Promise, Amelie, by our long years of love, promise that, 
 should any thing happen to me, you will live for them, in 
 them." 
 
 The unfortunate wife shuddered and sobbed, and sank her 
 head despairingly upon her husband's shoulder. — That was a 
 dreadful night. In the course of it, Calonne wrote one or two 
 letters to different parties ; and no sooner had he completed this 
 requisite task, than his anxious wife and eldest daughter were 
 again beside him. He strove to comfort them as best he might. 
 To their deprecating entreaties, he replied with urging the neces- 
 sity of redeeming, by some risk on his part, the entire family 
 
THE RANSOM, 275 
 
 from ruin and starvation. At last, wearied out by their own 
 importunity and Calonne's resolution, they desisted, and Helene 
 said " Go, my father : whatever be your intention, we will no 
 longer seek to control it. But consider well, if the danger you 
 are about to undergo will be counterbalanced by the good. 
 Remember, our peace is in the balance. What — what can re- 
 compense us if you have misjudged ?" 
 
 Calonne stood a moment in deep thought, then said, " Helene ! 
 I have determined. I go. And now the cold gleams of day 
 are breaking through the dark horizon. It is time. — My wife, 
 my child, farewell !"— We will draw a veil over the agony of 
 Calonne's parting from his entire family. 
 
 He soon arrived at Madame Logere's, where he found her 
 and Macon expecting him,— the former with all the wildness that 
 a selfish mind I was going to say — but that could not be the 
 case, since it was for her husband she felt — but I must say that 
 a narrow mind, feels when its sympathies and feelings are ex- 
 cited by one, and one only, being. The latter had determined 
 at any rate to save his friend and partisan ; and whatever throes 
 of conscience he might have, they were all repressed by this 
 indomitable determination. Calonne made a slight acknow- 
 ledgment, and there was something in his manner so overpow- 
 ering, that both Macon and Madame Logere felt subdued. 
 *' You will give the papers, if you please, now over into my 
 hands?" he said to Mons. Macon. 
 
 " Certainly," replied the latter, and immediately handed a 
 small box in which they were contained. " You will find them 
 all there," said he, " together with the thousand livres." 
 
 " It is well," Mons. Calonne rejoined ; " Have you any trusty 
 man at hand who will convey these for me ?" — " You shall 
 command one immediately;" and so saying, Macon called on 
 the landing place for " Louis," and presently the person so 
 named appeared. " Take this box," said Mons. Calonne, " to 
 the Admiral Coligni, and leave it, with this letter." " Directly, 
 Monsieur;" and the man departed. 
 
 11 It grows late," said Madame Logere ; " it is near five — and 
 at six — " Calonne involuntarily shuddered, but in a second said, 
 " I attend you, Madame — let us begone." 
 
 Madame Logere hurried on her things, and Macon approach- 
 ing, said, " Will you take this cloak, Monseigneur, and forgive 
 our selfishness — our devotion to Logere." — " It is a bargain, 
 and I thank Heaven for the chance." 
 
 They all proceeded to the prison in which Logere was confined. 
 As they crossed the court-yard, they saw on one side the scaffold 
 and fatal implements of death. Madame Logere hid her head 
 in her hands — Calonne viewed them as the warrior viewed the 
 Gorgon shield, but was only petrified for an instant. They were 
 
276 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 soon conducted to the cell of Logere — his wife rushed forward 
 and clung to him : he was a tall, dark, intellectual-looking 
 man, — in fact, as I have said before, extremely like Mons. Ca- 
 lonne. He clasped her silently, and holding out one hand to 
 Macon, looked inquiringly at Calonne, and said, in a gentle 
 tone, " Who is this gentleman ? what unknown friend does me 
 the kindness to visit me at such an hour?" — " It is indeed a 
 friend," Mac,on answered ; " one who has made your friends 
 live again ; one who is" and he whispered, " ready to exchange 
 garments with you, and die for you-— there is not a moment to be 
 lost — quick, quick, prepare! This gentleman has consented, for 
 the estate in Aveiron, to surrender himself; it is voluntary." 
 " Perfectly so," said Calonne, '« stepping forward; and I thank 
 Heaven, that has thus enabled me to redeem my wife — my 
 children — from the worst of human evils — poverty ! Mon- 
 seigneur, I am ready." — " Come, come, lose no time, Henri," 
 and Madame Logere began unbuttoning his tunic. " To 
 die forme?" said Monsieur Logere. "What can induce you, 
 sir !" — " My family." — " His family, love ; we will take care 
 of them, and cherish them. Come, come,-— see how alike you 
 are ! they will never know ; you may pass out, all is pre- 
 pared for flight; come, come!"— -"Never!" said Logere. "What 
 do you think me ?— a coward—a villain— a monster ? Never !" 
 " You will kill me, Henri. It is Monsieur's wish."—" Wish 
 to die?" said Logere. "Impossible!" And going up to 
 Calonne, " I honour you," he said, " I could love you; and I 
 regret death more than ever, as it deprives me of making such a 
 friend." Calonne returned the pressure of his hand, and an- 
 swered, " I have come here to die. I am bent to the perform- 
 ance of my promise to this lady. Befriend my family, and I 
 have not a wish ungratified."— " Live and enjoy that family, 
 and the fortune you have thus acquired. I confirm it. I will 
 hear no more. Let us part here, and hope that in another world 
 we may meet once more." 
 
 " Then," said Calonne, "I return your property, and beggary 
 and starvation are my family's again. I have made a contract, 
 and as I fulfil my part, I expect you should fulfil yours." 
 
 " I knew nothing of it : they dared not tell me." Madame 
 Logere interposed : " Hark — hark — they come — fly — change," 
 and she glanced wildly around. Macron urged it also. — 
 " You do not know me," rejoined Logere: and he had scarcely 
 spoken, when one of the officers of the prison entered, and 
 requested that monsieur would hasten the departure of his 
 friends. He glanced doubtingly first at Calonne and then at 
 Logere ; but the former immediately enveloping himself in his 
 cloak, the man withdrew, saying it wanted but a quarter of 
 an hour to six. Directly he was gone, Madame Logere, who had 
 
THE RANSOM. 277 
 
 been leaning on her husband's shoulder, broke out into a paroxysm 
 of grief and supplication. Logere was deaf to all intreaty — to the 
 sobs — the shrieks — the ejaculations of his wife, and the argu- 
 ments of his friend. At length the bell sounded, for the first 
 time, the signal of preparation ; deeply did it sink into every 
 breast. Calonne first recovered self-possession, and desired 
 them to envelope Logere in his cloak, and convey him for- 
 cibly away. Macon, who was an Herculean person, pro- 
 ceeded to do so, and Calonne retired to Logere's seat. While 
 this agonizing scuffle was going one, a noise of footsteps was 
 heard in the passage. " They come!" shrieked Madame Logere. 
 "Henri!" 
 
 The doors were thrown open unusually wide, and an elderly, 
 heroic-looking man, (surrounded by others, whose counte- 
 nances beamed with joy,) came in, and going up to the prisoner, 
 cried, "Saved, saved, Logere! — you are free. Catherine has 
 been compelled to give way to us : Conde is released, and you, 
 who were the only exception to the general pardon, are no 
 longer one !" 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the unbounded joy of Madame, 
 or the strangeness of feeling on the part both of Calonne 
 and Logere. When these emotions had somewhat sub- 
 sided, the latter explained to the Admiral Coligni (for it was 
 that nobleman himself) the sacrifice which Calonne had deter- 
 mined to make for his family. 
 
 The admiral exclaimed, " Thank God ! there is now no cause 
 for such noble desperation." Logere grasped Calonne's hand 
 eagerly, and said, " You will be my friend — share my fortune, 
 and let me share your heart." Calonne covered his head with 
 his cloak, and, suddenly turning away to a recess, threw up his 
 clasped hands to Heaven, and stood lost in adoration. Then, 
 sinking on his knees, he poured out his overcharged heart. So 
 true is it, that joy is much more trying to a truly noble spirit 
 than the deepest misery. 
 
 The sequel of this story may be guessed at by every generous 
 and feeling mind. The whole party soon quitted the hateful 
 spot of incarceration ; and, after reciprocating with Logere pro- 
 mises of lasting regard, Calonne hastened home to relieve the 
 anxiety of his family, and communicate that there would, most 
 probably, be no further necessity for leaving them. Logere's 
 friendship furnished the means for obtaining a second hearing 
 of the cause respecting Calonne's fortune ; and the Huguenots 
 being, at that precise period, (in order to serve the political pur- 
 poses of Catherine de Medicis) not so warmly persecuted, justice 
 was suffered to prevail, and a fair decision given. He took 
 possession of his property, and was enabled to re-purchase his 
 hereditary estate in Navarre; whither the household now re- 
 
278 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 tired, as did also the noble-minded Logere, — the two families 
 living in the closest intimacy. 
 
 Madame Calonne and Helene, for a long time, turned pale 
 at any mention of circumstances connected with the former con- 
 demnation of Logere ; and the younger children, as they succes- 
 sively became old enough to estimate duly the motives of their 
 sire, joined their mother and sister in invoking blessings on that 
 head and heart which had, from earnest love to them, entertained 
 the thought of the Ransom. 
 
 SEBELLA. 
 A TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 " Guilt seeks a companion for the same reason as a child cries for a bed- 
 fellow because he fears being left alone in the dark," — Coltox. 
 
 " Coloni," said Signor Marcorando, " my faithful valet, I 
 need your assistance ; but first tell me, can you keep a secret?" 
 
 " My noble master, have I ever deceived you V* rejoined 
 Coloni, with the consequence of one about to be made confidant 
 to a superior. 
 
 " I blush that I doubted you for a moment, my good Coloni," 
 said the coaxing Signor ; " and, therefore, without further hesi- 
 tation, I will begin : Count Golesko has dared to refuse me the 
 hand of his daughter in marriage." 
 
 " Has he dared ?" exclaimed Coloni ; and determining to show 
 his readiness for the blackest deeds, he continued, with a frown- 
 ing brow ; " then, of course, he is to die." 
 
 This was all the Signor wanted — to rid the beauty of her only 
 protector. " Do you think he should, Coloni?" replied he, in 
 a whispering tone ; " if you will assist me in the undertaking, I 
 fear not to stain my hand with such a villain's blood." 
 
 " A fortunate circumstance, my honoured sir," said Coloni, 
 after a pause ; " the Count is at present in search of a valet ; I 
 will offer myself, with your leave, and make known to you a 
 favourable opportunity." 
 
 " Oh, my only parent ! My dear father !" exclaimed the fair 
 Sebella, " do not remain late at the Doge's palace to-night; 
 rumours are abroad that ruffians seek your life ; my father, think 
 of your lonely Sebella." 
 
 " My only child !" answered Count Golesko, " I have a 
 
SEBELLA. 279 
 
 scheme to communicate. Ere I can return, my household will be 
 wrapped in the arms of sleep ; and I know not the depth of those 
 soft smiles which play on the face of my new valet, Coloni ; 
 therefore, my Sebella, will you steal from your chamber when I 
 cast a pebble to your window, and unbolt the outer door ? then 
 may I enter, and none know of my protracted return ; my being 
 abroad so late were offering too good an opportunity to those who 
 wish me dead, for any one, save yourself, to be trusted with 
 the secret." 
 
 " My kind master !" exclaimed Coloni, entering the room 
 where Marcorando sat alone, " I have news ; the Count attends 
 the palace of the Doge to-day, and returns at midnight. I 
 loitered behind the tapestry of the saloon, to hear his last orders 
 to the Lady Sebella — Oh ! she is beautiful ;" he continued, "and 
 she shall be Signor Marcorando's queen. Count Golesko has 
 heard, by some strange means, that his life is sought, or, may- 
 hap, he only pictures what he feels that he deserves ; however, 
 he has trusted his daughter onry with the knowledge of his late 
 return ; she is to unbolt the outer door : now, my noble master, 
 come at twelve, stand at the corner of the great court-yard a 
 few moments, and you will have a chance of quenching your 
 dagger's thirst ; then throw a pebble to the nearest window 
 on the right, and the Lady Sebella is yours for ever. I will 
 be on the spot to keep off intruders." 
 
 Every clock in Venice had struck the midnight hour, and 
 tears gently coursed each other down the pale cheeks of Se- 
 bella, as she sat listening at her chamber window : " Come, 
 come, my father," she frequently repeated ; not that she was 
 wearied with waiting, or her patience exhausted ; but that she 
 could not drive from her fancy an apprehension that her father 
 had met some midnight bandit. " Ah, there is the pebble ! 
 thanks to the Holy Virgin," she exclaimed, clasping her hands ; 
 she reached the entrance door, her hand trembled on the bolt. 
 " Is it not to save a father ?" were the words of encouragement 
 she repeated, and the bolt slipped back. 
 
 The light of an Italian moon shone on a tall figure, wrapped 
 in a long black cloak. " My own, my dear father !" whispered 
 Sebella. 
 
 " Thou art mine ! mine for ever," exclaimed the deep voice 
 of the hated Marcorando. Sebella dashed from his embrace, 
 and would have roused the castle, had not Coloni, with a lamp in 
 his hand, impeded her flight. Marcorando entered. 
 
 " Approach me not, Signor Marcorando, or the curse of 
 Golesko be on thee for ever !" said Sebella in that tone which 
 is at once the offspring of wounded pride, and unsullied virtue. 
 
280 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Golesko is no more," said Marcorando, with a fiendish 
 smile ; " and thou art mine !" 
 
 " If prayers and entreaties failed, think'st thou that coward- 
 like treachery could change the vows of Sebella? I tell 
 thee by the Holy Virgin, never!" exclaimed the maiden, 
 driven to despair by indignation and fear. " Unhand me 1" 
 she added, much more in the style of a chieftain giving the 
 word of command, than that of a trembling dove in the power 
 of the vulture : " unhand me, and I may hear thee." 
 
 " Then, my Sebella, fly with me ; thy father is no more ; all 
 obstacles are removed ; give me thy heart, and — " 
 
 " Stop, villain ! murderer of my father !" she exclaimed, 
 snatching the dagger from his belt, yet wet with the life-tide 
 of her parent; and, plunging it to the hilt in her own bosom, 
 Sebella cried, " There ! take my heart, it is at the point of thy 
 
 C. W. 
 
THE RIVAL HOUSES. 
 
 By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq. 
 Author of " Richelieu," "The Gipsy," &c. 
 
 Beautiful England ! Sweet country of verdure, and richness, 
 and variety and splendour, clothed in mingled brightness and 
 clouds, blending the light and shade, the sunshine and the shadow 
 through its moral and its physical atmosphere ; place of woods 
 and streams, of hills and valleys, and offering every thing in 
 its varied aspects to charm the eye and to enchant the ear. A 
 land, too, that, notwithstanding all the discontented have 
 said — notwithstanding all that enemies who would depreciate, 
 and superficial travellers who misunderstand, have alleged 
 regarding the temper and feelings of its inhabitants — is filled 
 with a race often thrilling with as deep emotions as the more 
 licentious nations of the south, but blessed with a sense of moral 
 dignity, which, without destroying, bridles and directs the fiery 
 passions of the heart ! 
 
 It was in sweet England, then, our own dear native land, 
 little mote than a century agone, when the second George held 
 sway over a land still troubled with the memories of a former 
 race of kings, — memories deep-rooted in the hearts of those 
 noble spirits who found, in the misfortunes of the exiled family, 
 a new claim to devotion and support :— it was little more than 
 a century agone then, and in those troublous and licentious 
 times, that, while the Stuart and the Guelph ceased not to main- 
 tain a jealous rivalry for extended power, two houses of inferior 
 rank and station maintained an equal rivalry in private life — as 
 fertile to them in strong emotions, deep interests, and mighty 
 passions, as the wider, perhaps fiercer, struggle which had. 
 thrones for its object, and found its arena on the battle-field. 
 
 There was a river, a sweet and gentle river, such as wanders 
 through no country but England, and wends its way amidst the 
 soft and shadowy beauty of this stirring yet thoughtful land ; 
 and on either side of that stream, separated from its waters by 
 a few narrow meadows, rose high banks, generally covered with 
 wood, and here and there spotted with the cottage of the hus- 
 bandman, the gay little village with its Norman tower* or the 
 seat of the country gentleman, in the quaint architecture of the 
 age referred to, with its surrounding park of broad lawns and 
 old trees, holding a fanciful analogy with the antique race 
 whose dwelling they shadowed. 
 
 Two of these seats were distinguished from the rest both by 
 superior size and magnificence, by the beauty of the scenery 
 
 Y 
 
282 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 around, and by their position — the one being exactly oppo- 
 site to the other upon the two sides of the river. But a few ' 
 hundred yards of green turf were interposed between each of 
 these houses and the stream. The gifts of beauty, derived from 
 the hand of nature, had been allotted in very nearly equal pro- 
 portions to each ; each had its woody banks, broken and cliffy, 
 exposing the gnarled and projecting roots of the old trees that 
 crowned them, through the shaggy loam and marl of which they 
 were composed; each had its winding paths wandering over 
 those banks and amongst those trees ; each had its dells and 
 dingles, its detached patches of woodland breaking the mea- 
 dows, its clumps of old ancestral oaks casting a velvet shadow 
 on the lawns ; each also had its memories, its thousand memo- 
 ries of other days ; its bright associations with glorious actions 
 and heroic names ; its tales of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, 
 of festivity and death. 
 
 Nevertheless, the aspect of each of those houses was strangely 
 different. The one — stern and gray, built of the old, smooth, 
 time-coloured bricks, which have scarcely been found in Eng- 
 land since the days of Henry VIII., with here and there lines 
 of intervening stonework surrounding the windows and pointing 
 all the edges of the building — was constructed according to the 
 forms of the Elizabethan architecture ; a'nd while it displayed 
 great care and neatness in every part, evinced that that care 
 had been extended to preserving the building exactly in the 
 same state as the taste of its first architect had imparted to it, 
 banishing every attempt at innovation, as sacrilege against a 
 pure and time-consecrated style. The other, on the contrary, 
 though probably as antique in its original formation, had (while 
 the former remained untouched) been changed in a thousand 
 respects. The walls had been broken through ; and immense 
 windows, formed almost entirely of glass and woodwork, had 
 been let in to supply the place of the solid masonry thrown 
 down ; cornices had been run along, ornamented with grotesque 
 heads, tritons and river-gods, coucts and cornucopias ; and 
 every thing, in short, had been done which plaster, paint, lead, 
 and woodwork could effect, to change a good old English 
 building into a chateau in the taste of the latter and worst 
 epoch of the several ones, which were comprised during the 
 reign of Louis XIV. 
 
 It might seem, at first sight, that the difference between the 
 style of those two houses, was simply a manifestation of the 
 different character of mind of their several proprietors ; and such 
 was, in some degree, the case ; but it was still more : — in a 
 very extraordinary degree, it formed the expression of that 
 hatred which existed between the heads of two rival families. 
 The one would in nothing resemble the other ; and he made 
 
THE RIVAL HOUSES. 283 
 
 even a great sacrifice of his own taste, in order to render his 
 dwelling as unlike that of his detested neighbour as the skill of 
 man could make it. Attached to the family of the Guelphs, 
 this chief loved every thing that bespoke the changed condition 
 of the country, under their sway; and he held, and even 
 loudly proclaimed, that the antique architecture of the opposite 
 mansion bespoke, in the strongest manner, the Jacobite feelings 
 of its proprietor. But as this tale has nothing to do with 
 party politics even of a past age, and as we have not space 
 here to pause, and relate all the minute events which took place 
 from day to day, perpetuating hereditary enmity, and working 
 up ancient feuds to a pitch of fury which scarcely the strong 
 hand of law could curb, we must be contented, according to 
 the advice of the old poet, to begin our tale in the middle — 
 and, following our own peculiar fancy, to give such brief scenes, 
 as may afford, though by a series of momentary sketches, a full 
 knowledge of the event which we sit down to commemorate. 
 
 Nothing is so easy, as to portray a history ; it is a sort of 
 written hieroglyphic, and almost any passages, truly told, will 
 suffice to illustrate the rest. Take, for instance, a bright 
 moonlight by the side of the stream we have described, at about 
 one or two in the morning — the rays of the pale planet pour- 
 ing through the branches of the trees, and chequering with a 
 wavy network of light and shade the pebble-studded pathway 
 beneath. Such a scene, and such a moment, may perhaps have 
 little to do with the history ; but then, there was a light plash in 
 the water near, as if something had been suddenly propelled 
 from the other side ; and then the moonlight, which lay soft upon 
 the bosom of the calm stream, broke suddenly into a thousand 
 bright ripples as a boat darted across and sheltered itself under the 
 deep blue shadows of the overhanging trees : and somebody 
 bounded with a light foot upon the shore, and looked hither 
 and thither along the path, but the rays that stole through the 
 leaves scarcely afforded him light to see beyond a few steps on 
 either side. He paused and listened ; another ear might have 
 heard nothing, for the step, if there were a step, was as light as 
 the kiss of the summer sunshine upon a young flower, and the 
 rustling of the dress, if there were a rustling, was so slight, that 
 the waving of the trees, though stirred but by the gentlest wind 
 that ever played with their young leaves upon a summer's night, 
 might have well concealed the sound : however it was, after the 
 boatman had listened for a moment, he sped on, and was no 
 longer alone. There was a fair hand clasped in his ; there was 
 a gentle and a graceful form by his side ; but the words they 
 spoke seemed to be sad and mournful, at least from the tone in 
 which they were murmured in each other's ear. 
 
 y 2 
 
284 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " I knew it," he said at length ; " we must part, and perhaps 
 for ever. That a struggle is approaching, all must see ; that 
 your father will take his part with a desperate and an unjust 
 cause, I cannot doubt; that his hatred for me and mine will but 
 be increased by that which we must do, I must not shut from 
 my eyes, nor conceal from yours ; that duty may place an im- 
 passable barrier between us, we both of us know too well ; 
 yet, Louisa, when I ask you for one kiss before we part, I urge 
 you to no breach of duty, I ask you for that only which might 
 make me happy for many a year. I ask you for no promise, I 
 ask you to forget no tie which might ever impede your union 
 with another." 
 
 " But why?" she said : " it could but increase your pain, and 
 dye my cheek with shame." 
 
 " God forbid !" he replied, eagerly, " God forbid that shame 
 should ever stain it, and of my causing ! I sought it but as a 
 gift, as a keepsake of the heart, which no eye could ever see, 
 which no power could ever take from me ; which, if I fall upon 
 those plains whereto your father's party may soon call such as 
 support the rights and liberties of the people, would remain with 
 me to the last moment, — and even when the dim and reeling eye 
 of death can see the objects of the world no more, would be 
 present to the vision of my spirit, the keepsake of a deep and 
 pure affection." 
 
 He asked it not again, however, but merely pressed his lips 
 upon the hand he held. They parted ; again the boat cut its 
 rippling way over the bright surface of the moonlight waters ; 
 and silence, solemn and melancholy as the grave, fell over the 
 stream, the fields, the woods around. Daylight soon dawned 
 above the splendid multitude of beautiful objects there collected 
 — and with it, came all the strife and turbulence, the interests 
 and passions, the pangs, the business, and the idleness of day. 
 
 Take another scene. It happened about three nights after. 
 In the hall of the older mansion — in the large and antique hall, 
 which, since it was first erected, had seen beneath its roof many 
 a gay and glittering party assemble for the feast, the revel, and 
 the song ; and which had often also seen the dusky robes of morn- 
 ing sweep around the coffin of some one of its departed lords ; 
 stretched out there in the midst, ere it was borne forth for in- 
 terment ; — in the ancient hall, which had listened to the tale of 
 love, and to the tale of sorrow ; which had been brightened by 
 the smiles, and darkened by the tears of many a race long gone ; 
 which had echoed with the merry, careless laugh of infancy, and 
 had heard the wise and vigorous councils of age, experience and 
 valour, in troublous times and days of civil war :—- In that hall 
 were now assembled, round the council board, a number of brave 
 
THE RIVAL HOUSES. 285 
 
 and gallant men, bent upon a desperate enterprise for restoring 
 to power and dominion in their native land, a ruined and an un- 
 wise race. 
 
 At the top of the table sat the head of the house, his fine but 
 stern features full of noble enthusiasm, of fiery daring; and by 
 his side sat another, not unlike him, and of about his own age- 
 nearly approaching to fifty :— but on the countenance of this last, 
 there appeared but little of that fire, which flashed from the eyes 
 of the lord of the dwelling. His face was calm and grave ; and 
 ever and anon, when the other spoke to him, he cast his eyes 
 down upon the table, and busied them with the inkhorn which 
 stood before him, or with a roll of paper, which he turned care- 
 lessly round in his hand. 
 
 " I have promised, my lord earl," said the master of the man- 
 sion, while the rest, who sat round the table, were employed in 
 talking eagerly together; " I have promised, my lord earl, and 
 she shall be yours, with all the splendid lands, and wide-spread 
 lordships, which my only child must inherit." 
 
 " But what if you marry again, Sir John ?" demanded the 
 earl, raising his eyes to his companion's face. 
 
 " I marry not again," replied the other. " But to set your 
 mind at ease, — you, on your part, bring all your tenants and 
 retainers into the field, and join us at the rendezvous to-morrow 
 night ; and I, on my part, will at once settle on you and her all 
 that I possess upon earth." 
 
 " But what says the lady?" asked the earl. 
 
 " What should she say ?" rejoined her father. " She has no 
 will but mine." 
 
 " Yet I would fain hear her consent from her own lips," re- 
 plied the other coldly. 
 
 " Well, hear it then !" exclaimed the master of the mansion 
 somewhat impatiently. " Go to her now, you will find her in. 
 the blue saloon ; but remember, speed is every thing." 
 
 " I will but obtain her promise," answered the other, " and 
 then to horse, without delay, in order to bring my men to the 
 rendezvous. Fear not, I will lose no time. 
 
 " You know the spot?" inquired his host. 
 
 " Well, well," said the earl, as, turning away, he walked de- 
 liberately through the hall ; which he quitted, closing the door 
 after him. 
 
 He ascended the old stone staircase; he strode through a 
 long open gallery, and entered a room at the end upon his 
 left hand. He remained, perhaps, half an hour, during which 
 time his voice and that of another might be heard conversing, 
 sometimes in loud, sometimes in murmuring tones. And there 
 were long pauses and broken sobs, as if the words then spoken 
 were, on one part at least, accompanied by bitter tears. When 
 the nobleman came forth, his brow was dark as thunder, but he 
 
286 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 strode out into the court-yard ; and calling his grooms together, 
 mounted his horse, and galloped away without returning to the 
 hall. 
 
 In that hall, meanwhile, his cold demeanour had been re- 
 marked as soon as he had quitted it. The lord of the mansion 
 played in an impatient mood with the hilt of his sword ; and the rest 
 of the party, which might consist of fifteen or twenty persons, 
 gazed in one another's faces, as if each were anxious to ascer- 
 tain what were the feelings of his neighbour, in respect to him 
 who had just left them. At length, an old rough-spoken man, 
 who remembered well the battle of the Boyne, and bore a token 
 of his participation therein in a deep scar upon his brow, abruptly 
 broke silence, and expressed in some degree the sentiments of 
 all. "I like him not, Sir John," he said, " I like him not ; and 
 if my advice be followed, we shall go forward in this business 
 without him, and he shall have a good lodging, and a comfortable 
 bed, in a well secured room, where he can betray our counsels to 
 no man, till it is too late to meddle with them." 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied the master of the mansion, " he is my 
 friend and my guest, and I must not show him any want of hos- 
 pitality. Besides, I have known him long, and though he be 
 somewhat cold and backward in this business, I believe — on my 
 life I do believe — that he is a man of honour." 
 
 But the subject having now been broached, each would speak 
 his mind ; a hundred different opinions were given, and a hun- 
 dred different pieces of advice were offered. Some spoke fiercely, 
 with flashing eyes and eager hands that longed to grasp their 
 swords. Some argued more calmly, and delivered themselves 
 in milder terms. But the opinion which most prevailed was, 
 that the earl should be again brought down, and made solemnly 
 to swear, that he would support their cause, and not reveal their 
 purposes. 
 
 All seemed to hold to this counsel ; but while one or two were 
 rising to seek the earl, the clatter of his horse's feet was heard 
 passing beneath the windows. One of the guests— a quick, bold, 
 youth— started to the casement, and throwing it open, gazed after 
 him as he rode. It was a clear bright night, and the air full of 
 moonlight. But the road wound on into the woods, and after 
 dividing into two, might be seen issuing forth again ; the one 
 branch turning to the right over the hill, the other to the left, 
 along the river-side. The young man gazed forth till he saw a 
 dark object, and then two or three more, issue forth from the 
 wood, and follow the path which led along towards a bridge, 
 about a mile below. Whereupon, turning on his heel, he walked 
 back to the table, humming, with an air of nonchalance, some 
 verses of a then popular Jacobite song. 
 
 " Which way has he taken?" demanded the soldier of the 
 Boyne. 
 
THE RIVAL HOUSES. 287 
 
 " Towards the bridge," replied the young man, carelessly. 
 
 " Then, by , he is gone to betray us !" said the old 
 
 soldier. 
 
 " So I supposed," replied the youth, throwing himself down 
 in a chair in the same heedless manner. " Sir John, this is a 
 sultry night : cannot we have some Burgundy to cool us ?" 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the master of the mansion, " these are all 
 suspicions without cause. The earl may as well go to his own 
 dwelling, by the bridge, as over the hill. It is not much farther, 
 and the road is better. However, to guard against all danger, 
 we will alter our place of meeting to the ford two miles up the 
 river. I will have a page to watch at the first-named rendezvous, 
 who, if the earl comes, shall bring him to us; and who, if he 
 comes not, shall give us information. " 
 
 "Well bethought, well bethought!" cried a dozen voices; 
 " but let the page get up into an oak-tree, like old Rowley, that 
 he may see without being seen." 
 
 This point settled, and his guests having left him, the master 
 of the mansion took his way to his own apartments — passing, as 
 he did so, the door of his daughter's chamber, but he went not 
 in. A tirewoman was coming forth as he passed, and he de- 
 manded, " How goes it with your mistress, girl?" 
 
 " Somewhat sadly, sir," replied the maid, placing a piece of 
 paper in her bosom. "Somewhat sadly; but she has gone 
 to bed." 
 
 " Peace be with her," said her father ; and he passed on. 
 
 Another scene, and we have done. It was again night ; piles 
 of heavy clouds were raising their crests above the outline of 
 the hilly bank of the river ; but the sky overhead was clear, and 
 the moon, just above the edge of the vapour, was shining full 
 and mellow upon those rounded masses, tipping their shadowy 
 forms with gold. The nightingale was singing sweetly in the 
 woods ; the thrush, too, was adding from time to time the melody 
 of his song ; and the scene was as sweet and calm as we have 
 first depicted it. — There was the light flutter of a woman's gar- 
 ments in the shady walk by the stream, and beside her moved 
 along the same form which had crossed the river in the skiff a 
 few nights previous. But words seem to have been spoken 
 which had wrought a still nearer and tenderer interest between 
 them ; for the young man's arm encircled the maiden's waist as 
 if supporting her onward, and her head drooped upon his 
 shoulder, as if she needed all that support. 
 
 "Think you bold!" he exclaimed. "Think you wrong, 
 beloved girl ! Oh, no, no ! far from it. I engage boldly, cer- 
 tainly, that my father shall receive you as a daughter ; that, ere 
 four and twenty hours be passed, you shall be my bride. Come, 
 
288 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 my Louisa, come ! five steps more will bring you to the boat. 
 My father is up, even now, and shall welcome you willingly to 
 his dwelling. He has been strangely busy all day, despatching 
 messengers hither and thither in all directions, on business that 
 I know not; and the light was still burning in his cabinet when 
 I came away. Come, my Louisa, come! fear not, beloved; 
 there is no danger." 
 
 " Who goes there?" exclaimed a loud voice, directly in their 
 path. 
 
 They drew a step back, but neither of them answered ; while 
 the youth laid his hand upon his sword, and Louisa clung to 
 him in terrified apprehension. 
 
 " Who goes there?" repeated the voice; and the very next 
 moment was heard the fatal monosyllable, " Fire !" 
 
 A bright flash ran along through the wood, displaying for a 
 moment the trunks of the old trees, the wreathed and knarled 
 branches of the oaks, the green foliage and the neatly-trimmed 
 gravel walk, with the glistening of the river, along whose banks 
 it darted. There was the ringing report of musketry, silencing 
 at once the voice of the nightingale and the thrush, and scaring 
 the dove and the wood-pigeon from their nests. The clang was 
 followed by one loud piercing shriek, and one deep heavy groan. 
 
 " On, on upon the Jacobites ! on upon the rebels ! Charge I" 
 cried the same voice which had before spoken. But the silence 
 that succeeded made the party of soldiers pause ; and when 
 they advanced a little further, there was a loud cry for lights. 
 
 Lights were speedily brought ; and what did they serve to 
 show ? — A fair girl stretched upon the earth, with her garments 
 dabbled in blood — one shot-wound in her soft and beautiful 
 bosom, another traversing her temples from side to side. Close 
 by her, and with his arms still clasped round her waist, was a 
 noble-looking cavalier, in the prime of youth : death was upon 
 his countenance too. Nor had the monster come in a lingering 
 shape ; for the ball that slew the young man had passed through 
 his heart ; and it is probable that he had not even felt a second 
 shot, which had struck the hand he was laying upon his sword, 
 and dashed it to pieces, together with the hilt of the weapon he 
 was drawing. 
 
 A weeping boy was found in a tree near the spot, who told 
 that he had been placed there to watch what took place, and 
 carry information thereof to his master, who, with a consider- 
 able Jacobite force, was waiting at a ford some two miles 
 higher up the stream. The soldiers injured him not, but sent 
 him upon his errand; while, with vain care and tenderness, 
 they removed to the modern dwelling-house on the other bank 
 of the river, all that remained of the last of the race of those 
 Two Rival Houses. 
 
Page 288. 
 
JOHN SMITH. 
 
 By EDWARD MAYHEW, Esq. 
 Author of " Make Your Wills," and other Dramas. 
 
 John Smith was an able-bodied Scotchman, who, some 
 twenty years ago, supported the drama at Kelso. To all ap- 
 pearance, John was a man capable of supporting any thing ; 
 yet, by a trick of fortune, he never was, during his eventful 
 life, capable with ease of supporting himself. At Kelso, he 
 was a favourite. The " nobility, gentry, inhabitants of Kelso 
 and its vicinity," admired his manner of representing a fictitious 
 character as much as they despised his personation of a real 
 one. His style of acting was, "to do the most he could with 
 a part." He was forcible. If he did not master the passions, 
 it was not for want of effort, for he grappled them with sten- 
 torian vigour. He " gave them all breath ;" not depending for 
 applause, like some of the lazy London players, upon the author's 
 merits. No, he trusted to nature — the spur of the moment— 
 and let his feelings have fair play. Shakspeare and Fitzball he 
 treated with equal respect : he never studied a word out of 
 either ; but extemporised most fluently. 
 
 Alas, for genius ! Bread and cheese, and first parts, were all 
 John Smith's reward ; who, there is reason to believe, was called 
 to play knife and fork with more rarity than gentlemen of less 
 11 liberal" professions. The test of ability is the power to over- 
 come difficulties. John could not master his poverty, but he 
 despised it, which feeling the inhabitants of Kelso shared with 
 him. They esteemed men in proportion to their wealth : John's 
 soul was superior to such meanness — he valued himself in pro- 
 portion to his indigence, which was extreme. 
 
 " The noblest study of mankind is man." John studied man, 
 and that man was himself. If self-knowledge be indeed the 
 highest wisdom, he lost no pains in endeavouring to acquire it ; 
 for he thought of nothing but himself — spoke of nothing but 
 himself — regarded nothing but himself. If another mentioned 
 the peculiarities of Kamschatka, he particularized on his benefit 
 at Kalcardy : were the part played by ministers to the nation 
 discussed, he told you of the parts he had played in the country. 
 Should any one mention a neighbour who had died, and left 
 his business in confusion, he detailed his " business" when he 
 " died" in Richard. John would always hammer it into the heads 
 of those who were near him, that he was a person of singular 
 importance; to which end his conversation ever began with 
 the first person singular : his egotism was indeed imperturbable 
 
290 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 — nothing could destroy it. Yet never did a man more literally 
 " keep himself to himself," for it was impossible to attract him to 
 any other subject even for an instant. The head of this his- 
 trionic hero was " full of strange conceits ;" for John was vain 
 as his own endeavours to speak three lines correctly. 
 
 In personal appearance, Mr. Smith was not even " shabby 
 genteel." Shakspeare says garments " cleave not to the body 
 save by the aid of use." Now John, as if to disprove the 
 bard, who was eternally bothering him, wore garments in them- 
 selves witnesses of long usage ; but which, nevertheless, hung 
 around the tragedian's form in most unfashionable drapery. A 
 rusty brown coat, to whose surface time had, as the continued 
 running of the gentle brook is said to do to the pebble, leant a 
 uniform and pleasant polish ; trousers patched at the knees, 
 and ragged at the heels ; a hat of that convenient sort which 
 could suffer no injury from the severest weather ; and shoes 
 worn, we regret to say, still less for use than ornament, — com- 
 pleted the dress of " the leading man" of Kelso — whom we 
 must leave to do the horrible, and draw very large houses into 
 the very little back-parlour of a road-side public, graced pro 
 tern, with the name of " Theatre Royal." 
 
 It was during " the season" at Kelso, that a villain also yclept 
 John, disgraced the patrician name of Smith. Yet even this 
 fellow had some people to speak well of him. He was said by 
 these to be a free-hearted man, who would give when he had 
 it — which being seldom, his generosity was the more creditable ; 
 and by an oblique principle of equity, he would take when he 
 had it not — which being commonly the case, he soon became 
 notorious. This second John, or as he was called Jock Smith, 
 loved the old freebooter's maxim of robbing the rich to give to 
 the poor. Thus he was particular never to enter the houses but 
 of the wealthiest ; and as he generally knew more of his own 
 distresses than he cared to know of any one else's, he invariably 
 put into his pocket such little trifles as took his fancy during his 
 visit. Having called one evening at Roxborough Castle, he was, 
 much against his own desire, detained ; and the next morning 
 Jock Smith was honoured with an ample escort, and "lodged" 
 with full probability of being " done for" into the bargain, in 
 the ancient jail of the equally ancient and respectable town of 
 Jedborough. 
 
 This edifice had been famed for having held men, of yore, 
 whose strength was always described in proportion to that of 
 the narrator's imagination. It had confined those who lived 
 before improvements degenerated our race, and possessed a 
 reputation for tenacity equalled only by that of the Court of 
 Chancery. Perhaps this might have arisen from the circum- 
 stance of " Jceddart law" having been in full force during the 
 
JOHN SMITH. 291 
 
 old Border times— by virtue of which, men were executed first, 
 and tried afterwards. For, as the high-minded bailies of those 
 chivalrous times declared, " No Scotchman could live under 
 suspicion ! " — In support of which principle, they used to hang 
 a man the moment he was suspected. Now though the existing 
 bailies of Jedborough had equal confidence in the security of 
 their jail with that of the ancient mariner in the boat which 
 had carried him without repair for thirty years — yet, piously 
 feeling that nothing on earth was to be wholly trusted, they 
 engaged a sherra' officer, named Pate Poinden, to " make assu- 
 rance doubly sure," by watching every night on the outside of 
 the jail, while the regular turnkey kept watch and ward within. 
 
 Pate Poinden was a man of groaning dimensions, whose 
 qualifications, the worthy who recommended his employment 
 shall describe. 
 
 " An auld and excellent public servant; showing no respect 
 to any person in the execution of the magistrates, their orders, 
 and commands ; perfectly honest, strong and able to put in force 
 the law against all refractory lieges ; fond o'a dram ; but wha' 
 was not ? — yet never known to take more than one glass — at a 
 time ; and never fou before breakfast." 
 
 Such a recommendation was irresistible ; all thought of op- 
 posing it was silenced in one glow of admiration. Pate was 
 duly appointed to the post of " supernumerary force" of Jed- 
 borough jail, and installed with all due honours. 
 
 The duty he had to perform was to mount guard at sun-down 
 upon the top of a massive flight of stone steps, which led to the 
 gate of the prison. From this post Pate commanded a full 
 front view of the window of the cell wherein Jock Smith had 
 residence, which was in the second story of the building, imme- 
 diately under the town clock, whose cumbersome and old- 
 fashioned works occupied the apartment above. 
 
 It is possible that the noise made by this " record of the 
 times," disturbed Mr. Smith's repose ; but be that as it may, he 
 found his present lodgings far from comfortable. Durance was 
 what Jock could not endure. Like the lily ravished from the 
 freedom of its native vale, he " pined and drooped, and hung his 
 pretty head." The doctors visited him ; for it is customary to 
 take special care of the lives of those whom the law hath decreed 
 are not to live. His nerves were said to be effected, and tonics 
 were requisite to restore him to good hanging order. Strong 
 preparations of iron were therefore recommended to be admi- 
 nistered. The friends of the prisoner heard and approved the 
 prescription, and one of them gave him a crowbar, which he 
 " took" with avidity, and was reported by the visiting physician, 
 after he had it, to be doing well. 
 
 Hitherto, Jock had only studied the readiest means of enter- 
 
292 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 ing houses : he now employed his wits upon the readiest means 
 of quitting one. 
 
 On the same day that Jock Smith took the crowbar which 
 effected his recovery, Pate Poinden, as sherra' officer, " took 
 the arm " of a gentleman who was under suspicion of debt. 
 The said gentleman, being utterly insolvent, was, as a natural 
 consequence, recklessly generous. Pate treated him with civi- 
 lity — he treated Pate with whisky ; and had the prisoner been 
 inclined to escape, the officer was soon in a state capable of 
 offering little resistance ; but the gentleman respected the laws 
 of his country, and none more than those which relate to insol- 
 vents — of the benefit whereof he had frequently availed himself. 
 He led the tottering bailiff to the jail, and there surrendered 
 himself to justice ! 
 
 It was by this time the hour for Pate to mount guard, and he 
 with difficulty seated himself on the top of the stone stairs ; for 
 standing was at present out of the question. Whatever par- 
 tiality the sherra' officer might evince in other instances, he was, 
 in all that concerned law, an enemy to the spirit. He loved 
 the letter ; and finding himself inclined to sleep, it occurred to 
 him that, when the agreement was made, nothing had been 
 particularized about his remaining awake ; so he cradled himself 
 against the massy balustrade, and, rocked by the busy spirit 
 within, gave way to the soft suggestions of " nature's nurse." 
 
 Now, while Pate was below sleeping, Jock was up and wide 
 awake. Midnight was coming round ; and Mr. Smith, knowing 
 that his life was no longer his own, felt no hesitation in risking 
 it by an attempt to escape. He poised the crowbar over his 
 right shoulder, and, with expectation big, awaited the tolling of 
 the mystic hour of twelve. The warning of the striking of the 
 old crazy clock came with a whirring sort of a sound ; and as the 
 clapper gave its first clang, Jock dealt a powerful blow on one 
 of the stancheons of the window — the bar snapped in the middle. 
 This feat he repeated with every succeeding stroke of the clock, 
 carefully beating time so as to let the blow jump with the bell ; 
 and when the hour of twelve had fully sounded, six perpendi- 
 cular and as many horizontal bars to freedom dangled uselessly 
 in their sockets. Two of the pieces he secured ; and getting 
 upon the sill of the window, he descended on the outside, hang- 
 ing by one hand ; and reaching as far down as possible with 
 the other, he insinuated one of the broken bars between the 
 joints of the freestone. This, by dint of a little wriggling and an 
 occasional hearty kick, he secured firmly enough to support his 
 weight. He then hung by this bar in the same manner as he 
 had done from the sill above, and repeating the operation, was 
 enabled to gain a window on the story beneath his cell. 
 
 Just under him, and within four yards or so of Jock's present 
 
Page 293. 
 
JOHN SMITH. 293 
 
 position, was the stone stair which led to the gate of the prison, 
 on the top of which, as the reader knows, that active and vigi- 
 lant officer, Pate Poinden, was left " peaceful slumbering." 
 Jock had encountered greater dangers than a leap of twelve 
 feet, which, before the hour of twelve, hardly entered into his 
 calculations of difficulties to be overcome ; but what made him 
 hesitate was the fair proportions of Mr. Poinden's corporation, 
 which looked as if a well-shaken featherbed had been placed 
 there to break the culprit's fall, who had no scruples — consi- 
 derate soul ! — as to what his fall might break in return. There 
 was no avoiding the encounter, for the officer, stretched at his 
 ease, had taken his position so admirably, that the whole ground 
 was occupied, and it was impossible for the enemy to drop there 
 without alarming him. Seeing this, Jock determined to turn 
 the circumstance to his advantage, by falling as far as he could 
 into the pit of Pate's stomach, and, to prevent that gentleman's 
 calling for assistance, driving the breath out of his body. 
 
 No sooner thought than done ; for gentlemen under such 
 delicate circumstances learn to detest procrastination. He 
 sprang out from the wall, and came with praiseworthy exactness 
 upon the very particular part he had selected in Mr. Poinden's 
 carcass, who gave intimation of Jock's arrival by a grunt of 
 superhuman duration. 
 
 Jock was cruel enough to repose for a minute or so on the 
 unfortunate crouched beneath him, and lay heavy upon poor 
 Poinden's chest; then, having recovered himself, he started up, 
 and left his guard to do the same at leisure ; of which permis- 
 sion, however, the sherra officer never availed himself, for, 
 while folded in sleep, he got doubled up for ever. He walks 
 crooked to this day ! 
 
 The magnitude of Pate's alarm was excessive, for it spread 
 itself all over the district and beyond. Rumours of a most 
 terrific kind were circulated, all equally extraordinary, contra- 
 dictory, and false. The bailies met in council ; Pate was 
 declared a sufferer in the cause of his country; and, to prove 
 they were perfectly satisfied with their own conduct, they 
 applauded their officer to the very echo — who being by " the 
 accident" perfectly incapacitated, they lost no time in installing 
 him, with additional honours and salary, in a situation that had 
 hitherto been enjoyed by a valuable and industrious servant. 
 Letters were written to the surrounding justices. Bills, offering 
 reward for the apprehension of the scoundrel who refused to 
 stop where he was and be hanged, were posted over the country ; 
 and no step left untaken which held out a hope of recapturing 
 that notorious and daring burglar, by name John Smith. 
 
 Theatricals, in the interim, had prospered in Kelso. Mr. 
 Smith continued a decided favourite : the audience always 
 
294 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 applauded whenever lie left the stage; and, to crown that 
 gentleman's happiness, the editor of a provincial paper disco- 
 vered he had attentively studied Mr. John Kemble's style of 
 acting. This was a new scent for the player's vanity, who soon 
 found out that he resembled Mr. Kemble not only in his points, 
 but in his person also. He began to frown, and strut, and 
 whine, and added to his usual talk of himself a good deal about 
 the classics, and the Kembles who had done so much for the 
 drama. He even persuaded the poor manager to announce the 
 tragedy of " Hamlet" for performance, that he might have an 
 opportunity of proving to the audience the justness of the 
 scribe's flattering discovery. 
 
 Hamlet was announced. For once Smith endeavoured to 
 get the words of a part into his head. He tried to study 
 Hamlet ; that is, he puzzled his ingenuity in hunting after 
 " new readings," or, in other terms, laboured hard to turn com- 
 mon sense into uncommon nonsense ; and he at length found 
 out one point of original and incomprehensible value : it was 
 this. After Hamlet had apostrophized over Yorick's skull, in 
 the churchyard scene of the fifth act, to approach the grave- 
 digger, seize him by the collar, and say to him, " Get thee to 
 my lady's chamber, and tell her though she paint an inch thick 
 to this complexion she must come ;" then to dash the skull 
 violently upon the stage, and striking an attitude, wait for the 
 applause. Mr. Smith's opinion of this reading was such as 
 made him particular in his injunction to the ragged and mise- 
 rable being called — as in derision — property-mdxi, about ob- 
 taining a peculiar kind of skull, one that would look natural, 
 old and brown, as by long deposit in the earth it should do. 
 
 Night came. The early acts of the tragedy went off quietly 
 enough. Mr. Smith was philosophically monotonous — hinting 
 behind the scenes to his fellow-actors that he was reserving 
 himself for his fifth act. Alas! all human calculations are 
 subject to circumstance ; the property-man had tried in vain 
 to borrow a skull : there was none above-ground in Kelso but 
 such as were in actual use by their owners. What was to be 
 done ? It occurred to the man that a bone of any sort was 
 better than none at all ; and as the players were eternally sub- 
 stituting that which was not for that which ought to be, 
 he could see no reason why they could not substitute a beef 
 shin-bone for a human skull, especially when his trouble was 
 taken into consideration. Accordingly, he borrowed a fine fresh 
 one from a theatrical-patronising butcher ; and, perfectly satisfied 
 with his part of the business, carried it to the theatre. 
 
 Poor Smith, wrapped mysteriously in an old plaid cloak, 
 came on for ct his great scene." As the new reading ap- 
 proached, he grew more confident in its effect. — But his con- 
 fidence deserted him when he saw the huge leg of an ox cast 
 
JOHN SMITH. 295 
 
 upon the stage instead of the well-seasoned headpiece of the 
 king's jester. Experience made him fear there was no hope 
 left, and he knew that, as on former occasions, the author must 
 give way to the property-man. 
 
 " Whose sku — no — oh — (confusion !) — whose what-do-you- 
 call-'em is this ?" 
 
 " That," replied the gravedigger, " is the thigh-bone of 
 Yorick." 
 
 "This!" continued Hamlet, taking the enormous marrow- 
 bone into his hand, and trying to look at it pathetically ; " I 
 knew him well, Horatio ! Here hung those lips — no— 
 (scoundrel!) Here, dear Horatio, hung those hips which I 
 have kissed — I mean climbed— I know not how oft !"J 
 
 Having cleared the shore, he sailed on smoothly. The 
 " generous and enlightened" of Kelso comprehended nothing 
 wrong, and Mr. Smith's point made the audience thunder. In 
 the dying scene he spake so low and tumbled so high, that, if 
 his resemblance to Mr. Kemble required confirmation, it was 
 derived from the circumstance of Hamlet being also declared 
 his crack part. Smith enjoyed his triumph ; but formed a 
 resolution that, for the future, to prevent mistakes, he would 
 carry about a skull of his own. 
 
 The season at Kelso ended on the night of Jock's escape from 
 Jedborough gaol. The manager of the Edinborough " Minor" 
 having secured the aid of Mr. Smith, that gentleman strung a 
 small bundle to the end of his stage-sword, and poising both on 
 his shoulder, set out on foot for Modern Athens. 
 
 On the road, John could not help looking back with pity on 
 his poor fellow-actors, who, he doubted not, would starve now 
 deprived of his support. He could not conceal from himself 
 
 that the Duchess of R had patronized the theatre wholly on 
 
 his account, as was satisfactorily proved by the smiles she cast 
 upon his tragedy, and the manner in which she kept talking to 
 a lady beside her during the whole time he was on the stage. 
 Our friend walked some fifteen miles of his journey without 
 either adventure or mishap; when, drawing near the town of 
 Lauder, he resolved to rest awhile and look about him. 
 
 As he entered the town, he observed a number of people 
 staring at a large placard which had been recently stuck upon 
 the door of a smithy. He glanced at it as he passed, thinking 
 nothing could attract such a crowd but some important theatrical 
 announcement; but distinguishing the words "Condemned 
 Felon," " Escaped," " 100Z. Reward," he turned his head 
 in contempt, and with proper dignity proceeded on his way. 
 
 A little further, and he fronted the kirk-yard. 
 
 A funeral was being performed, which, from the unusual 
 number of mourners and spectators, he concluded formed the 
 
296 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 good-bye to some person of respectable property. It was, 
 indeed, that of a lady who had lately terminated a course of 
 upwards of a hundred years. She had, good soul ! lived to 
 see all her friends drop off one by one, and died single as she 
 had promised to do ; for in early life being " disappointed," she 
 ever after, like a burnt child, avoided the fire— wasting her 
 affection upon cats — avoiding men ; deserting the unfeeling for 
 the feline race. Being wealthy and without heirs, she had left 
 her substance to the corporation, and the civil body were polite 
 enough to iollow her body to the grave. The funeral was, for 
 Lauder, magnificent. The minister of the kirk was there, the 
 precentor, the head bailie, the provost, all the other bailies, the 
 doctor, the lawyer, the town-drummer, and such a mob of idlers 
 and bairns as beggared description. 
 
 John paused. Resolved, in imitation of Mr. Kemble, to let 
 no opportunity escape him of studying nature, he thought he 
 might get a hint for the churchyard scene of Hamlet, or scrape 
 acquaintance with a Scotch gravedigger : one thing he was 
 most anxious to achieve, and that was to procure a good skull 
 (should such an article turn up from the newly-opened grave), 
 and thus prevent a recurrence of the distressing circumstance 
 wherein he had been placed a few nights previous. 
 
 The ceremony concluded, Mr. Smith was surprised to see the 
 people, instead of leaving the ground, separate into small 
 groups and converse earnestly — some of them occasionally 
 producing printed papers, which he thought looked very like 
 play-bills. What the subject was that created such general 
 interest, our friend of the sock and buskin could not imagine ; 
 but as he was kicking a skull, and meditating boning it, he per- 
 ceived that he was an object of particular attention to three 
 highly respectable gentlemen who stood a few yards from him. 
 One of the three, a fat important looking personage, with stout 
 legs and a rubicund nose, surveyed him apparently with the 
 most affectionate regard. When Mr. Smith's eyes met his he 
 modestly withdrew his scrutiny, but immediately after renewed 
 it with what appeared to our friend increased respect. 
 
 Poor Smith ! he knew not, nor, had he known, would he 
 have believed, that the magistrates of Lauder were mistaking 
 him of " the profession" for a convicted felon ! but such was really 
 the case. His dingy habiliments, pedestrian appearance, and the 
 manner in which he obviously tried to assume some character 
 not natural to him, all pointed him out to the vigilant and over- 
 anxious bailies of Lauder as the " Jock Smith" it would 
 redound to juridical activity to re-capture. 
 
 "For the honour o' the toon!" he overheard one say: and 
 what, thought he, can I have to do with the honour of Lauder * 
 
 " Ask him to step there ; we can a' meet him in an instant," 
 he heard another say. 
 
JOHN SMITH. 297 
 
 "Meet me!*' echoed Mr. Smith, almost aloud. " Are they 
 going to ask me to dinner ? Can any of these respectable gen- 
 tlemen have seen my Hamlet? " 
 
 Vanity answered the question in the affirmative, and the tra- 
 gedian persuaded himself he had found the key to this apparent 
 mystery. One of the gentlemen must have witnessed his per- 
 formance of Hamlet at Kelso, and was debating as to the 
 propriety of asking a person of his talents and accomplishments 
 to dine with them before he proceeded to Edinburgh. 
 
 No pool is so thick with vapours as vanity ; and Mr. Smith's 
 conceit lost all curb when he saw the individual who appeared 
 to be the head of the party pull from his pocket a newspaper, 
 and point to a portion of its printed pages as to something 
 worthy particular notice. John easily recognised the head-line 
 of the print. It was the very provincial journal which contained 
 the flattering discovery concerning his resemblance to John 
 Philip Kemble. When Mr. Smith ascertained this, he inten- 
 tionally glanced in another direction, to give the readers of the 
 paragraph a more imposing view of his figure. He commenced 
 a series of frowns-— and distortions— -putting himself through 
 a vast variety of postures, such as he thought best calculated 
 for the prominent display of the likeness. He observed that 
 his movements were strictly watched, and mistook the expres- 
 sion of the bailies' countenances (who were wondering what 
 the deuce " Jock" could be at) for engrossing feelings of 
 admiration. 
 
 Having at length tired his body, and exhausted his fancy, 
 Mr. Smith assumed an easy position, intended to be emblema- 
 tical of deep mental abstraction, and therein awaited the result 
 of his efforts, which he nothing doubted would be an instanta- 
 neous and pressing invitation to honour the head bailie with his 
 company to dinner. 
 
 One of the gentlemen now separated from the rest, and 
 stepped forward in a hesitating manner. " Oh, oh !" thought 
 Smith : " I knew it— here comes the invitation !" However, 
 the gentleman advanced not far, but having cleared his throat 
 with a preliminary hem, stood staring at the actor from a most 
 respectful distance. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" soliloquised Smith, " he's evidently not 
 gifted with a good address ; he can't speak out ; and being 
 aware of the defect, doesn't like to commit himself before me 
 who am in the profession. They wish to make my acquaint- 
 ance, but, good creatures, don't know how to set about it. 
 As there is no mutual friend to undertake the ceremony of a 
 formal introduction, I can have no objection to meet them half 
 way." 
 
 In the spirit of amiable concession, Mr. Smith lowered his 
 
298 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 sword and bundle from his shoulder, and, radiating his expres- 
 sive countenance with an encouraging blandness, was about to 
 advance ; when to his surprise, the other, seeing his intention, 
 suddenly retreated, and with painful trepidation rejoined his 
 companions, who appeared to sympathize in his extraordinary 
 timidity. 
 
 This puzzled Smith more than all the rest. He could by 
 no means make out why the bailies should fear a gentleman 
 whose acquaintance it was evident they were anxious to culti- 
 vate. After such conduct, of course, he could not be the 
 party to make any new advances. 
 
 There now commenced a very earnest and angry discussion 
 between the trio. John, listening, heard the words " honour" — 
 " a duty" — " must be"—" not a moment to lose"—" lose sight 
 of him ;" and at length he distinctly made out a whole sen- 
 tence, purporting that they would be eternally disgraced in 
 the eyes of Scotland, if Smith passed through their town and 
 was not detained. 
 
 John's vanity was his most hungry feeling, and it thrived 
 when it was fed — it grew apace. Mr. Smith was now, in his 
 own eyes, superior to the magistrates of Lauder ; and the 
 dinner, since it appeared certain, was shorn of much of its 
 attraction. He resolved not to demean himself by waiting about 
 in order to be asked. Let them send after him, if they desired 
 his company ! — and even then, he was dubious if he should 
 accept the invitation. Hereupon, John left the kirk-yard, 
 though not without casting many a " lingering look behind." 
 
 " You're a hen, Bailie Jeely '."—cried the head magistrate, 
 addressing his less bulky colleague, when Mr. Smith had 
 departed. 
 
 " Vara weel, vara weel ; but ye'll na' be the cock to crow 
 o'er me if I am," replied the other : " and since ye force a man 
 to speak, I'll be free to tell ye, that the chiel dinna answer the 
 description given o' the feelon." 
 
 " And wat ha' the descreeption to do wi' it ? " asked the 
 former. "Ye ken, when I took Laury Todd for horse-stealing 
 agin the advice o' the whole collected burgess' o' the toon. Now 
 wat made me suspect that chiel ? Why, wat but his being sae 
 unlike the descreeption? I thought the difference maun be 
 unnatural. And was na' I right ? Besides, if ye had as 
 much wit in your brains as parridge in your craws, ye'd ken 
 thea folk can tak wat form they choose. "Why, rrion, it's 
 weel authenticated, that a Border-chiel called Robin Hood 
 took the form o' a lassie sae parfectly that he actually imposed 
 on an epeescopal beeshop." 
 
 This assertion of the head bailie's, supported as it was by 
 so high an example, at once decided the question ; and the 
 
JOHN SMITH. 299 
 
 three worthies became convinced that no evidence of a stranger's 
 being a convicted felon could be so strong as his looking as 
 unlike one as possible. 
 
 The constable was sent for — a huge-boned son o' the north, 
 Mac Nabben by name — who received his instructions from the 
 head bailie in person. 
 
 " Nicol Mac Nabben, ye ken o' the bonny bairn wha ha' 
 been too glib for the sleepies o' Jedbro ? My certies ! if he has 
 na' been here, wi' his black ill-favoured face among honest folk, 
 and in the kirk-yard too. Lord preserve us ! wi' his hat cocked 
 on yae sid o' his head, just as if he was sterliirg, and could pay 
 twenty shillings in the poond." 
 
 Here the worthy magistrate gave an elaborate description of 
 Mr. Smith's person, whereby Mac Nabben was to know that 
 gentleman when overtaken on the Edinburgh road, in which 
 direction they had seen him turn, after leaving the kirk-yard. 
 
 ** Ye'll just gang np to him," continued the bailie, " and say, 
 Braw day for the tail o' th' Hairst, freend Smith. Noo, if he's 
 prepared, he'll tack nae possible notice o' ye using his napie ; so 
 ye'll coller him at aince, for that's proof poositive o' his identity. 
 Or maybe he'll just look round and nae stop; then after him 
 like mad, mon. But if he should sae betray himsel' as to answer 
 your salutation, ye'll tell him I'm desiring to speak wi' him, and 
 let him come back decently if he wull ; but mind, Nicol, and 
 tak' two braw fallows wi' ye in case o' resistance." 
 
 Mac Nabben received his orders and departed. 
 
 u A braw day this for the tail o'th' Hairst, freend Smith ;" 
 our hero heard some one call out just as he was debating 
 within himself whether, after having declined dining with the 
 Lauder bailies, it should be twopenny or whiskey at the next 
 public-house. 
 
 ** No doubt it is," replied the tragedian to a familiar-looking 
 personage, who appeared sadly blown with over-exertion in 
 walking ; u although I profess to know little of such matters." 
 
 " Oh! deed, aye," responded Mac Nabben, at the same time 
 leering at the player, and winking his eye : " Your buzness lies 
 more indoors than out, as folk in the neighbourhood of Kelso 
 can testify." 
 
 " Kelso !" said Mr. Smith, at once cordially meeting the other's 
 advances, which he now looked upon as tributes to fame and 
 histrionic genius. " Did you ever see my Hamlet?" 
 
 " Eh ! I canna weel say," answered the constable, who had a 
 vague idea that there was such a word as Hamlet in being, but 
 had not the remotest notion as to what it implied. 
 
 " You should have seen it," resumed the player, lost in com- 
 fortable egotism; "every point told — the Duchess of R 
 
 z2 • 
 
300 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 applauded me ; and I make no doubt I shall have her counte- 
 nance at Edinburgh." 
 
 " Only to think o' this scoundrel !" thought MacNabben, 
 " talking of his being countenanced in his evil doings by her 
 Grace. Eh ! mercy on us !" 
 
 " Did you never see me die?" asked Smith, with a look of 
 lofty conceit. 
 
 MacNabben shook his head, and laughed outright at the idea 
 of being asked such a question. 
 
 "When I came to the business in the last scene," said the 
 tragedian, " I saw the duchess was trying to suppress her feel- 
 ings; but I said to myself, 'It's no use, old girl ! I'll make you 
 blow your nose before I've done with you !' So, in the dying 
 speech, I went it. The noble dame was melted into weakness. 
 I saw her blubbering just before the drop fell." 
 
 " Eh !" exclaimed MacNabben, horrified at what appeared to 
 him a blasphemous violation of all decent established regulations 
 for lying; "the fallow wants to persuade me he's snug wi' a 
 duchess^who ha cried her een out when he was hanged. Lord 
 preserve us '.---Hooly a bit," he added indignantly ; " there are 
 some gentlemon wad be verra glad to see ye at Lauder." 
 
 "To see me? — really — I," stammered the tragedian, who 
 thought it more genteel to hesitate a little before he accepted 
 the invitation. 
 
 " I was directed by the provost to insist o' your coming ; 
 and," continued the constable, pointing to two doughty-looking 
 men who hovered and tacked in the distance, "you see twa 
 chiels; they wul join wi' me, I'm sure, in persuading ye to gie 
 us a night or so of your company in Lauder." At the same 
 time he measured poor Smith most impudently from top to toe 
 with his eye. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," simpered the player, as he reversed the line 
 of his journey. " I can't refuse so pressing an invitation. I 
 shall be most happy." 
 
 Accordingly they marched back to Lauder, Smith becoming 
 every moment more exalted in his own estimation ; so that 
 when they were in sight of the place, he stopped, and telling the 
 men he was by no means displeased with the respect shown him, 
 bargained that they should not divulge his name as he went 
 along, or make his re-entry into the town a public affair. The 
 fellow mistook Smith's motive for this desire, but consented to 
 oblige him in it. 
 
 Nevertheless, as they approached Lauder, they grew more and 
 more impertinently bold— dropping the respectful appellation 
 of Mr. Smith, and substituting the abbreviation "Jock," which 
 the representative of princes, though he felt it was far too free for 
 £L menial, graciously constrained himself in his benignity toendure. 
 
JOHN SMITH. 301 
 
 The party proceeded through the town ; the mistaken player, 
 unconscious of his situation, receiving the rude stare of the 
 inhabitants as further proof of his own importance. John was 
 ushered up the steps which led to the town-hall ; the interior of 
 which consisted of a large room, the further end whereof was 
 now occupied by the bailies of Lauder, and a considerable number 
 of their friends and acquaintances. 
 
 The entrance of the supposed culprit was marked by a general 
 elongation of necks, and a buzz of self-approval from the assem- 
 bled bench. The head bailie got upon his legs ; and, having 
 requested silence, was going to address the alleged culprit, 
 when, to the surprise of all, Mr. Smith tripped into the centre 
 of the apartment, and placing his hand upon his breast, made 
 three profound bows. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," he began : " In consequence of the 
 very flattering manner in which " 
 
 "Hoot! hoot! hoot!" interrupted the head bailie, "Wat's 
 your name, mon V* 
 
 " Smith, sir ; Mr. Smith," replied the player, bowing. 
 
 The announcement was received with a murmur of congratu- 
 lation. Our hero recovered his confidence, which had been 
 somewhat disconcerted by the head bailie's interruption. " Oh I" 
 thought he, " they did not know me at first. It's all right 
 now." m 
 
 "And your christian name, sir?" 
 
 " John, sir. Mr. John Smith, at your service." 
 
 The murmur was repeated in a louder strain, mingled, with 
 exclamations of " It is he ! It is he ! " 
 
 " How disappointed they would all have been if I had not 
 returned to dinner ; " said the actor to himself. 
 
 " Was na I right aboot descreeption?" asked the gentleman 
 on his legs. 
 
 " I have come here in consequence of a request that was 
 brought me in the name of your worships." 
 
 " Ay, ay I we're right glad to see you ; you shall be taken 
 good care o' this time, Mister Smith." 
 
 " I'm sure I feel myself honoured. I can't express the plea- 
 sure it gives me," replied he of the sock and buskin, simpering 
 and bending almost to the floor. 
 
 " Weel," cried the head bailie, " the man's impudence is be- 
 yond all ;" and feeling naturally shocked at the levity of a wretch 
 who might be looked on as standing at the foot of the gallows, 
 he ordered Mac Nabben to " remove the prisoner." 
 
 "Prisoner! prisoner! eh! what? Remove where?" ejacu- 
 lated Smith to the men who laid hold of him by the collar, and 
 now commenced dragging him out of the hall. 
 
 The truth was soon elicited ; and in the first flush of his con- 
 fusion he might have been conveved to a dungeon in silence, had 
 
302 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 not the magistrate countermanded his orders — intimating that 
 the wretched prisoner, perhaps, wished to relieve his conscience 
 by making an ample and satisfactory confession of his guilt and 
 his accomplices. 
 
 A prosy address from the bench gave our hero time to regain 
 his self-possession ; and before the head bailie had ended the 
 harangue, Mr. Smith had assumed the character of a patriot. 
 He saw, in his person, the liberties of his country outraged, and 
 he resolved, profiting by the occasion, to deliver an oration that 
 should make a deep impression throughout the kingdom. To 
 give greater effect to this resolution, he determined to preserve 
 his temper, treating the magistrates with all proper deference; 
 and having heard Othello's address to the Venetian senate 
 praised for the sentiment of high respect wherewith it commences, 
 he chose it as his model, occasionally altering the words to suit 
 the present necessity. Having assumed an attitude, he mouthed 
 as follows : 
 
 " Most potent — grave and reverend bailies !" 
 " Eh !" shouted a man in black. " Wat's he blaspheming?" 
 Mr. Smith heeded not the ignorant interruption, but pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 " My very noble and approved good masters." 
 " Masters! ye'll say lordships when you speak to the bench," 
 cried Mac Nabben. 
 
 Smith glanced at the man a look of contempt, and continued. 
 " That I was invited here to dine, it is most true." 
 " The mon's drunk wi' raw grain," cried the head of the 
 bench. 
 
 " I beg your lordship's pardon," replied the player, " I am 
 perfectly sober. 
 
 " Ye're filthy drunk," retorted the magistrate, " and ye're 
 just shamming sober to deceive the bench: — but take him away 
 — put him in strong confinement !" 
 
 Again poor Smith was seized, and would this time have been 
 in reality dragged to prison, had not a person present (who 
 resided at Kelso), recognised his favourite tragedian during the 
 spouting of Othello's address. 
 
 An explanation ensued — Mr. Smith satisfactorily proving the 
 distinction between himself and his less reputable namesake. 
 This altered the position of affairs. The judges were converted 
 into suppliants. It was in vain they entreated the player to re- 
 collect " it was the duty o' an active bailie to commit as mony 
 people as possible." He talked of " Liberty !" of " the rights 
 of British subjects !" and " the freedom of the king's highway !" 
 —of the value whereof he was too well convinced to give them 
 up for nothing ; and when he left Lauder a second time, it was 
 after a good dinner with the head bailie himself, and with a ten- 
 pound note in his pocket. 
 
JOHN SMITH. 303 
 
 I am bound to acknowledge that I had this story from my old 
 friend Mr. Willie Gordon, who related it as having actually oc- 
 curred in the places mentioned — though he acknowledged that the 
 names of the dramatis personce had been altered ; — an acknow- 
 ledgment the more necessary, inasmuch as the gentleman who 
 performed the part of Mr. John Smith before the Lauder magis- 
 trates, is at the present moment settled in the metropolis as a 
 teacher of elocution. — What was the fate of the felon we pre- 
 tend not to demonstrate. He probably, as yet, still lives to 
 verify a paraphrase of Butler's well-known couplet : 
 
 " He who steals, and runs away, 
 May live to steal another day." 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 
 A TALE OF THE EARLY DAYS OF CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 In the year 95 of our era, and the reign of Domitian, a spider, 
 regardless of his thunderbolt, had stretched its web across the 
 nose of Jupiter himself, and in the very house, too, of Clemens 
 Rufus, the high priest. Now, the slave whose office it was to 
 keep in order the images which lined the vestibule of his master's 
 house, had so rudely brushed with his broom the Olympian nose, 
 as to leave that countenance at which the whole Pantheon trem- 
 bled, destitute of this very prominent and somewhat essential 
 feature. 
 
 No sooner was the sacrilege discovered, than the whole house- 
 hold was in uproar, and summary punishment was imme- 
 diately ordered on the criminal. 
 
 At once the post to which the hands of the unhappy wretch were 
 to be bound, was reared on the spot where the offence had been 
 committed, directly opposite the mutilated bust. The brawny 
 executioners, scourge in hand, were only waiting for the presence 
 of the high priest to begin their revolting task ; and the slaves, 
 ranged in a circle round their naked and resigned comrade, 
 gazed upon him with the same stupid, unconcerned look with 
 which the lamb beholds its fellow in the hands of the butcher. 
 " To-day his turn, to-morrow ours !" Such was the thought that 
 might be read on their will-less, passionless, and apathetic faces. 
 Yet among these beings — so degraded that the Romans classed 
 them among their effects, as a chair or an ox — might at times be 
 seen one whose blood had not been tamed down by this wretched 
 state ; and who proved that though chains might bind the body, 
 it was impossible to fetter the soul. Manes, the offender of this 
 morning, was one of those slaves over whom masters have no 
 power, so long as the dungeon cannot imprison thought, or the 
 grave bury hope. He had suffered himself to be bound to the 
 fatal post without a murmur ; his tunic had been stripped from his 
 shoulders, but not a quiver shook his frame. He looked calmly 
 on the instruments of torture and on the brutal countenances of 
 the ministers who were to ply them, and the colour forsook not 
 his cheek. His comrades, who knew his firmness, were in no 
 way surprised at his composure, but they wondered why he so 
 often bowed his forehead on his manacled hand, traced some 
 mysterious sign there with his forefinger, and murmured words 
 which they heard, but could not comprehend. 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 305 
 
 " What is that thou dost, and sayest V* asked the oldest of 
 the slaves. 
 
 Manes raised his eyes to Heaven, but answered not. 
 " Seest thou not," said the freedman Glabrio, " that he is 
 like a hog — he cries before he is struck ?" 
 
 '* Thou art out, Glabrio V exclaimed another slave, " he is 
 praying." 
 
 " And to what god, prithee? to Jove, whose nose he has 
 broken ?" 
 
 " No \" said Manes, with a loud and firm voice : " to the 
 only true God — to Jesus Christ !" 
 
 At this name a great murmur arose. However, the high priest 
 still came not, and the slaves, undeterred by the sacred images 
 around, held arguments that might have scared off Jupiter's 
 very ears. 
 
 " There is but one God," repeated Manes, " and he is the 
 Christ!" 
 
 " But who then is this Jesus V 
 
 " Woe to the slave who knows him not ; for through him 
 slavery is no more," rejoined a young bondsman, a neophyte ; 
 " through him there is no longer slave or master, rich or poor, 
 and the hour of freedom draweth nigh." 
 
 " Show us his statue!" clamoured the slaves with one accord: 
 " we will worship him." 
 
 Manes, who had been taught " the way and the life" in the 
 sacred recesses of the Catacombs, smiled at this mistaken ap- 
 plication of the Christian doctrines. The young slave, who had 
 been only recently converted, caught at the letter of the pre- 
 cepts which proclaimed that all men were equal before God : he 
 had yet to learn that the same mouth had ordered, " Render unto 
 Csesar the things which are Caesar's." 
 
 Glabrio, the freedman, proud of his recently-acquired rights 
 and growing means, was not unacquainted with the opinions of 
 the new sect ; but saw in them the destruction of those pri- 
 vileges to which he had at length a claim. Besides, he relished 
 not the faith which taught, " Sell that thou hast, and give to 
 the poor, and follow me." Therefore did he loudly proclaim his 
 contempt for the worshippers of Christ. 
 
 " Away with such impiety !" he exclaimed. " What ! a God 
 who orders fasting and humiliations ! who makes a crime of 
 pleasure and merit of suffering ! out upon such doctrines — they 
 are worse than the stoic ! We are to forgive, forsooth ; give me 
 my revenge on my enemy. We are to renounce our true-hearted, 
 jovial worship of Venus and Bacchus, abolish our feasts of 
 Flora, forsake the sports of the Circus, and break up, I sup- 
 pose, the Via Sacra — for, as we are not to fight, there can be no 
 more triumph " 
 
306 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " His kingdom is not of this world," said Manes. 
 
 At this moment the high priest arrived, leaning on the arm of 
 his son, Flavius Clemens. 
 
 Every tongue was instantly hushed, and all eyes were turned 
 on the austere old man, whose stern forbidding aspect seemed 
 a stranger to pity, even should his own child kneel before him. 
 He was about to give the signal to the executioners, when 
 Manes thus addressed him : " Beware, Rufus Clemens, of what 
 thou art about to do. I would fain prevent thee from commit- 
 ting a crime, since a crime it is thou art about to commit to- 
 wards me, thy neighbour, thy equal, and thy brother in the sight 
 of him who rules the heavens — perhaps even more favoured in 
 his eyes ; for I am a slave, and thou the master ; I am poor, and 
 thou rich ; I pass my days in tribulation, and thou art fortune's 
 minion ; yea, I repeat, perhaps more favoured, for it is written 
 * that the first shall be last, and those who shall be humbled 
 on earth, shall be glorified in heaven !' I have said." 
 
 Had the earth opened before his feet, Rufus Clemens could 
 not have been more paralyzed than by these words, coming 
 from a slave on the point of writhing under the scourge at his 
 master's nod. Yes, there was the miscreant bound to the post, 
 stripped, guilty of sacrilege ; and, instead of beseeching mercy, 
 and grovelling l3efore the high priest of the insulted god, he 
 boldly proclaims himself, " a slave-born, slave-bred vagabond of 
 Nile"— the equal of him, a Roman, a senator, and high- 
 priest of the Pater Deorum. Could Jove be sleeping, that 
 his bolt did not straightway hurl the offender to Tartarus ! 
 
 Flavius Clemens, the son, had hung intently on each word 
 that Manes uttered. The slaves trembled ; the executioners 
 stood with uplifted scourge. 
 
 " Have I heard aright?" at last thundered forth the high priest. 
 
 " He is a Christian," said Glabrio. 
 
 The priest recoiled as from a serpent. Rich and free, he 
 thought with Glabrio, that if Christianity were to gain ground, 
 the high places must fall. Like a pestilence among the people, 
 as dangerous and as deadly, did he consider its doctrines to 
 the body politic. Accordingly, the punishment of Manes was 
 doubled, and he received fifty instead of the twenty-five stripes 
 first ordered. 
 
 Some days after, Rufus Clemens summoned a convocation of 
 the pontifical college to deliberate on the dangers which 
 threatened the religion of the empire, and devise the best means 
 of checking the progress of infidelity. Domitian, as Pontifex 
 Maximus, presided at the council :— Domitian, the counterpart 
 of Commodus, of Nero, of Caligula — a race of human tigers. 
 
 The high priest, whose trust was in the cruelty of the master 
 spirit, openly proposed a general persecution of the Christians. 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 307 
 
 " The solemn period approaches," he said, " for the celebra- 
 tion of the secular games. What more fitting sacrifice to the 
 gods at this holy epoch, than the impure blood of the Christians, 
 than the extinction of the worship of that God who would de- 
 stroy all other deities ! The time requires more acceptable offer- 
 ings than the ox and the lamb ; more powerful savours than 
 frankincense and myrrh ; more solemn gifts than fruits and 
 flowers. The cry of revolt is heard aloud. It is not the temple 
 only ; they menace the palace also. A Christian slave has 
 called himself the equal of a senator. Domitian, look to thy 
 seat here in the Capitol. The imperial mantle must claim fel- 
 lowship with the beggar's cloak. Already do they crawl from 
 their Catacombs, and display the symbol of their faith in the 
 full blaze of day. Let us take a lesson from the craven Jews, 
 who killed this so-called deity, and offer up his besotted disci- 
 ples to offended Olympus. The pest began by creeping on the 
 earth, but it is already climbing high, and may — I tremble but 
 to think it — have even reached ourselves. Death, then, without 
 pity, without exception, to every Christian — though even a 
 consul be the sacrifice 1" » 
 
 Domitian nodded in sign of approbation, then cast a stealthy 
 glance on Perpenna, the high priest of Juno. Perpenna im- 
 mediately rose, and said, " Far be it from me to gainsay the 
 wholesome advice of Rufus Clemens. I gladly dwell, too, on 
 his concluding words — ' Death without pity, without exception' — 
 and if a senator, if a consul, if even the emperor's brother be 
 found professing the Christian faith — " 
 
 " With him we must begin," interrupted Rufus. 
 
 " Well, then, death to thy son," rejoined Perpenna; " Flavius 
 Clemens is a Christian." 
 
 " Thou liest !" 
 
 " He has been seen to enter the Catacombs." 
 
 " Thou liest !" 
 
 " He has broken off his connexion with the courtezan, 
 Lupa; nay, tried to convert her." 
 
 "Slanderer! To-morrow he marries the daughter of Sabi- 
 nus, the praetorian prefect, and I here beseech the emperor's 
 presence at the marriage feast ; we shall see whether my son 
 will refuse the customary libations in honour of Juno." 
 
 Domitian, on whose lips played a horrid smile when the priest 
 of Juno accused Flavius, became moody and abstracted after 
 this sudden invitation from the youth's father. At length, 
 breaking from his revery, he ordered that famous persecution 
 which is recorded as the second in the page of Christian history. 
 
 It was decided that the persecution should begin on the first 
 day of the secular games ; that the animals destined to the 
 Circus should be kept without food till that period, and that 
 
308 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 a strict search should be made for all suspected persons. The 
 sitting was broken up ; and as Rufus Clemens was taking 
 leave, the emperor blandly whispered in his ear — " I will 
 remember your invitation." 
 
 Domitian loved the affianced bride of Flavius Clemens. 
 Jealous of his rival, he had himself suggested the accusation 
 brought by Perpenna against him; nor was it destitute of foun- 
 dation. Flavius had been for some time observed to absent 
 himself from the festivals of the Pagan ritual. He avoided his 
 former friends, and abandoned his customary habits and modes 
 of life ; he no longer adjusted the drapery of his toga into the 
 most becoming folds ; his flowing locks were neglected, and his 
 whole demeanour was changed from the gay gallant of the Circus 
 and the bold frequenter of the Campus Martius, to a staid 
 deportment which, in the eyes of the Roman ladies, seemed to 
 sit as ill on his graceful form as icicles on the tender boughs of 
 the myrtle. In vain did the belles of the city linger at eve on 
 the Appian way, in the hope of meeting the splendid equipage, 
 and witnessing the skilful driving, of the handsome Flavius. It 
 was whispered that he had forsaken the flowery paths of the 
 t( curled darlings of fche land," to listen to the joyless doctrines 
 of a sacrilegious slave. 
 
 And it was true. The language which had drawn down the 
 redoubled wrath of a father, had found an echo in the bosom of 
 the son. Scarcely had the former turned his back, cursing the 
 abhorred Christian, than the latter, filled with veneration, has- 
 tened to set free his lacerated bondman. " Manes," he ex- 
 claimed, " thou wert not made to be the thrall of another. Say, 
 I beseech thee, in what school thou hast learned to speak in 
 that wise?" The slave, who had resumed his vestments, and 
 followed Flavius out of the vestibule, drew from out a fold of 
 his tunic a small ivory carving, representing a man bound on a 
 cross, and said, " Thou hast asked me the school — here is the 
 Master ! " 
 
 He then proceeded briefly to recapitulate the life and suffer- 
 ings of Christ, his blessed gospel, and the fulfilment of the 
 prophecies. Flavius was all ears to this revelation. Educated 
 in the most celebrated academies of Rome and Athens, initiated 
 in the mysteries of Isis, too learned to believe in the fables of 
 paganism, and too impassioned to resist its orgieS — this young 
 man, who could have exclaimed with the poet king, " Fame, 
 fortune, youth, and health are mine !" — this patrician, son of the 
 high priest, and rival of Domitian, stood, all mute attention, 
 before a slave of his father, and that slave a convicted offender 
 against the laws, to listen to sounds of loftiest import, to pro- 
 mises of eternal life, to doctrines, before whose simple majesty 
 philosophy " paled her ineffectual fires." There did he stand, 
 

 
 THE TWO MARTYRS. 309 
 
 fixed, breathless, yet awakening to the consciousness of a new- 
 existence, as the words of that slave sank into his soul, more 
 learned than all the science of Egypt, more eloquent than the 
 most finished oratory of the Forum, and delivered with an autho- 
 rity, compared with which the fiat of the emperor himself was 
 as a tinkling cymbal. There did the slave Manes initiate the 
 carnal pagan, the sceptical rhetorician, in the mysteries of the 
 human soul and the sublimity of faith. 
 
 His affianced bride, who loved Flavius with all the warmth of 
 a first and only love, heeded not, observed not, the change 
 which others remarked in him. No rumour of his conversion 
 had reached her ; and if it had, she would have regarded it as 
 a wanton calumny. Her Flavius could not change in aught ; 
 and if he were absent and reserved, he was, like herself, plunged 
 into delicious dreams of their approaching happiness— for the 
 day drew nigh. She wearied Juno Lucina with prayers, or at 
 least the patience of her handmaids, who daily attended their 
 young mistress to the temple, and assisted her to deck the altars 
 of the goddess with the most fragrant flowers. At length the 
 day, which to her impatience had seemed to grow more distant 
 rather than advance, arrived — diesfestus-*?L morn blessed by the 
 gods, since on it was to be proclaimed the edict for the persecu- 
 tion which would take place on the day following. 
 
 Early in the morning Sabinus, whom the edict had put into 
 unwonted good humour, consulted the augurs; their answer 
 was favourable. Victims, whose galls had been first carefully 
 removed, were duly sacrificed to Juno. A hundred slaves were 
 busied in preparations for the escort of the blooming bride ; 
 and her female friends crowded to congratulate her on her 
 union with the pearl of the Roman youth, and lend her the aid 
 of their taste in adjusting her toilet. Some arranged her hair 
 after the latest fashion imported from Greece, and powdered 
 her jetty tresses of a golden hue ; others wove the chaplet of 
 vervain, which, according to custom, she had herself gathered ; 
 and others again bound her slender waist with the girdle of white 
 wool, which it was the bridegroom's part to unloose after the 
 ceremony. 
 
 The final moment arrives ; they envelope the trembling 
 girl in the hymeneal veil ; as she reaches the vestibule, she 
 turns to seek her mother's arms ; and her friends— that every 
 ceremony may be punctually performed — tear her with gentle 
 violence from that fond refuge, which she must struggle 
 to retain, in order not to offend Diana by appearing too willing 
 to quit her virgin ranks. A pompous procession accompanies 
 her to the bridegroom's house, the porticoes of which are 
 adorned with hangings of Tynan dye, and countless garlands ; 
 whilst under the porch are suspended bands of wool, that had 
 been dipped in wolf's grease, in order to avert all evil charms. 
 
310 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 The daughter of Sabinus then knocked at the door, and Fla- 
 vius Clemens from within asked, " Who is there ?" — to which 
 she replied, M Wheresoever thou shalt be, Flavius, there shall I, 
 Flavia, be." After this formula, which was customary in 
 Roman marriages, the bride entered the house, the keys of 
 which were immediately handed to her — as a sign that she, 
 from that moment, took upon herself the duties of housewife. 
 
 Joy shone on every countenance, the rarest perfumes scented 
 the air, and the tables, covered with the imperial plate which 
 had been sent to grace the ceremony, only waited the presence 
 of the master of the world. He came, attended by the high 
 priests of the Dii Majores, by the most illustrious of the 
 senators, and by a long line of poets, dancers, mimes, and 
 freedmen. The robes of this vast retinue, crowded and 
 crowding together, shone like a sea of purple ; nor could the 
 east with all her " barbaric pearl and gold have outshone the 
 magnificence of this favoured convivium. 
 
 Each took his station according to his rank ; and the slaves 
 ranged themselves behind their masters as they lay at table. 
 Glabrio, the freedman, who had the office of toast-master, took 
 his post with Manes behind the bridegroom. The banquet 
 ended, the poets chanted their epithalamia, and u Hymen, O 
 Hymencee" resounded through the lofty atrium. 
 
 Amongst that chaos of joyous and garlanded heads, the 
 gloomy brow of Domitian lowered like a thunder-cloud in the 
 azure vault of a summer sky. Was there then none else in the 
 assembly, whose pallid cheek and thoughtful mien contrasted 
 ill with the flush of glee reflected from each other's countenance ? 
 A lover's eye alone could detect, in the midst of those laughing 
 looks and smiling lips, the care-dimmed smile and convulsive 
 laugh with which the heart mocked at the show of joy ; Flavia 
 alone could discover the grief of Flavius. 
 
 Domitian was seen to lean over the couch of Perpenna, who, 
 raising himself on the cushions whereon he had before re- 
 clined, addressed the guests: " As pontiff of Juno, it behoves 
 me to remind you all, and the bridegroom in particular, of the 
 solemn duty to be discharged towards the goddess who presides 
 over marriage. Flavius Clemens, we wait for thee to pass the 
 nuptial cup, and begin the libations in honour of Juno." 
 
 The guests applauded. Glabrio filled up the cup, and the 
 bride, suffused with blushes, followed every gesture of Flavius, 
 who seemed to be on burning coals. He slowly took the cup, 
 and turned towards his beauteous bride. There was such love in 
 the eyes of Flavia — so eloquently did they say, " Go on, 
 drink!" — her maidenly reserve and yet blushing impatience 
 were so intoxicating, that the cup was about to touch his 
 lips : his eye encountered that of Manes — it was sufficient — the 
 cup was dashed to the ground ! 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 311 
 
 A hundred voices exclaimed, " He is a Christian !" 
 
 " It has soiled my toga," said Domitian, pointing to some 
 drops of wine that had spirted upon him when Flavius had 
 thrown down the cup : and he laughed aloud. 
 
 " Well, priest of Jove, what sayest thou of thy son ?" asked 
 the triumphant Perpenna. 
 
 " And thou, daughter of Sabinus, what thinkest thou of thy 
 spouse?" added Domitian. Flavia had fainted, and Rut'us 
 Clemens remained speechless. Manes alone was calm ; and his 
 countenance, turned towards heaven, seemed to invoke its 
 assistance for Flavius. 
 
 The secret grief of the bridegroom was now explained. Now 
 did the father understand why his son had refused to suspend, as 
 bound to do, the charmed fillet from the porch, and also to attend 
 at the immolation of the victims. All the morning Flavius had 
 been a prey to the agonies of indecision. On the one hand, he 
 had pictured to himself the despair of his bride, the disgrace of 
 his father ; on the other, the loss of eternal happiness ; and a 
 look from Manes had decided all. 
 
 " Thou must own, thou shameless son of Jove's own priest," 
 said Domitian, "that thou hast been unlucky in thy choice of 
 the day for thy confession of faith. Hast thou not heard the 
 edict?" Then, turning to the centurion on duty, he added, 
 " Away with him !" 
 
 Soon did the palace, erst so full and joyous, remain as silent 
 and deserted as the halls of Babylon after the writing had gone 
 forth. The noblest of the guests, freemen and citizens of Rome, 
 had hurried away aghast at the frightful transition from joy to 
 despair. The doom was irrevocable ; for Domitian had spoken, 
 and when did even a fly escape him ? 
 
 The Christian was now alone, and the damp atmosphere of 
 his subterraneous dungeon struck a chill to his heart. What a 
 mockery did his chaplet of roses, and tunic of Egyptian byssus, 
 seem in this vault of death ! At length, worn out by the 
 anguish of his mind, and sunk into stupor by the icy cold, he 
 stretched himself on the bare ground and slept. Flavius 
 dreamed ; the bridal day had come, his Flavia was at the door, 
 and soon after the emperor deigned to grace the feast. Then 
 were libations poured out in honour of Lucina by none more 
 joyously than him. A crowd of sweet visions filled his mind in 
 harmonious succession, until — just as his father, the high priest, 
 was pressing two lovely children in his arms, and thanking 
 Jove with uplifted voice, who had spared his life to behold his 
 son's sons — the voices of the criers, who announced, at break of 
 day, the anniversary of the Secular Games, roused him from his 
 fond dream. Still confused with the heaviness of slumber, 
 and the length and truth-like consistency of his vision, it was 
 
312 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 long before he could recal his scattered ideas. Long was it 
 before he could reconcile his wedding-robes, and the perfumery 
 they still exhaled, with his couch of earth, and the rough, un- 
 hewn stone of the pillars that met his grasp. But a feeble ray 
 of the sun soon glimmered through the darkness, and by degrees 
 his eyes were enabled to descry the too certain signs of his 
 abode. There was the stone pitcher, that furniture of the dun- 
 geon from time immemorial ; there the iron rings whose purpose 
 could not be mistaken ; and, on the walls, the legible memorials 
 of the unhappy victims who had preceded him. Flavius dwelt 
 in long and earnest meditation on the names of Justin and 
 Polycarp, carved by the hands of those sainted victims themselves 
 in the times of the first persecution : in other places were 
 scratched rude representations of martyrs bound to the stake ; 
 and in others, verses from the scriptures. Flavius remembered 
 that he, too, was a Christian, and prayed. 
 
 Suddenly the door of the dungeon creaked on its hinges, and 
 three men entered. 
 
 The first said to the two others, pointing^ at the same time to 
 Flavius, " Ecce homo /" he knew not the holy application of 
 these two simple words — then he withdrew. 
 
 The second was Rufus Clemens, who came on two missions 
 — as priest, and as father : the third was Glabrio, the most 
 faithful of the freedmen of Clemens. 
 
 A father is eloquent when he pleads with his son. Tears, 
 prayers, menaces '.—the aged Clemens lavished every means of 
 persuasion ; shame, too, supplied him with the sharpest arms. 
 " To turn Christian was not so disgraceful, perhaps, as it was 
 absurd and ridiculous ! Christianity," continued the high priest, 
 " is the religion of the poor and houseless, of those who have 
 all to hope, and nothing to lose. I call upon thee by the 
 hitherto unspotted name of thy ancestors, by thy rank as pa- 
 trician, by thy own unclouded sense as a philosopher, to reject 
 the paltry juggles of these tattered sophists. " Carpediem ,-" seize 
 the present moment, and let futurity answer for itself. If reason 
 have no effect upon thee, oh ! listen to the voice of affection. 
 Spare my gray hairs ; bring them not down in sorrow to the 
 grave ; let not the proud Perpenna revile me as the father of a 
 Christian : — my son — my son — have pity on me.;" and his voice 
 was choked by sobs. 
 
 The old man had fallen at his son's feet ; his forehead touched 
 the ground, and his venerable locks were sullied in the dust. 
 To hear his groans, one would have supposed that death 
 threatened him, not his son. What more solemn and touching 
 sight than the grief of age, than Priam begging for Hector ! 
 Even the vengeful heart of Achilles melted before that appeal — 
 the Christian smote his brow, but his will was based as a rock. 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 313 
 
 Glabrio, sobbing, quite forgot the eloquent and witty harangue 
 he had prepared in favour of his dearly beloved Bacchus and 
 adored Venus ; for the grief of the old man made his prepara- 
 tions useless, and despair at his young master's probable fate 
 tied his tongue. At length the aged Rufus, swelling with in- 
 dignation at his son's obstinate rejection of his prayers, forgot 
 the father in the pride of the priest. 
 
 " Christian !" he exclaimed, as he arose from his prostrate 
 position ; " he who refuses sacrifice to the gods, shall himself 
 be sacrificed to them," and he left the dungeon. 
 
 When the high priest reached his home, he beheld the daugh- 
 ter of Sabinus waiting on the threshold ; " He has refused !" 
 said the priest, " he has refused me — his father !" 
 
 " It is my turn, then, to beseech him," rejoined the pallid 
 girl : " he shall not, must not die— and, 'tis this very morn ! 
 Oh ! wait for me ; I will soon return, and not without him. 
 He cannot deny me' — you men know not how to plead with 
 one another — you threaten, and the haughljv spirit inherent in 
 your sex rises in opposition. You have pointed out the horrors 
 of the punishment ; I will paint the charms of life, the happiness 
 he foregoes. I will encircle him with my arms, bathe him with 
 my tears, and if he yield not to my grief, he will to my love ! 
 Fear not ; I will restore the son to his father, the citizen to his 
 country, the bridegroom to his bride !" And without heeding 
 his accents of doubt, she flew, to the great discomposure of her 
 aged nurse, who vainly endeavoured to keep up with her charge, 
 to the gloomy Tullianum, or prison of Rome. 
 
 " No admittance here !" said the gaoler ; but her golden brace- 
 lets proved quick persuasive, and the doors opened at their 
 touch. 
 
 " What further trial have I to undergo?" was the thought 
 that passed in the prisoner's mind, as he caught the sound of 
 advancing steps; the grating of his cell was thrown open, and 
 two cries were heard — " Flavius ! — Flavia!" 
 
 They were at once in each other's arms ; and long did Flavia 
 lie in speechless woe upon his bosom, ere her struggling words 
 found utterance. As she recovered her self-possession, she 
 began to remind him of their early love in days of childhood, 
 their infantile sports in the bosky gardens of Tyber, of the 
 flowers they were wont to hang each morning on the pointed 
 ears of Pan, the god of gardens. " Ingrate," she continued, 
 " dost remember these things, and wish to die? To die, and I, 
 sworn to thee from infancy, at length thy bride ! Thou speakest 
 of thy God, of his greatness, of his sufferings — be it so— but this 
 is for the old, the world-worn ; we are young, our god is Hymen. 
 And what is required of thee, my Flavius, but to pour a few 
 drops of wine on the table ? Thinkest thou that this would anger 
 
 2a 
 
314 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 thy new divinity? Can he be jealous of this? Why, woman as 
 I am, and though it be in honour of a goddess, even I am not 
 jealous — and am not I thy wife V 
 
 " Strengthen me, O Lord ! Let me not sink under this 
 grievous trial !" 
 
 " Cruel that thou art, I do not attempt to frighten thee with 
 their sufferings, their garments dipped in pitch, their horrent 
 flames. I do not picture to thee the wild beasts of the arena, 
 the wilder and more ruthless gladiators, for I, pagan as I am, 
 fear them not. If thou art to suffer in the Circus, I will suffer 
 with thee. Wheresoever thou shalt be, Flavius, there will I, 
 Flavia, be." 
 
 " My God ! my God ! support me !" 
 
 " Are these thy promises ? Flavius, thou hast deceived me! 
 But, what can I expect from a renegade ? Knowest thou that 
 thy father will die with shame, that disgrace will blur his ho- 
 noured name, as rust eats into the steel ? Does thy God teach 
 thee to desert tlm country, thy father, thy wife? Oh, how much 
 better are our goas !" 
 
 " Blaspheme not, my Flavia ! Incest, adultery, murder, pride, 
 ambition, every crime and every passion— these are the gods of 
 our fathers. Name me a vice which has not a statue, a pollution 
 which has not its altar. Not content with having created as 
 many deities as man has evil passions, we seek new divinities for 
 our Pantheon in the onions of Egypt, and the crocodiles of the 
 Euphrates. Answer me, thou Roman maid , is it from Venus thou 
 wouldst seek chastity ? Believe me, my Flavia, there is but one 
 God, who dwelleth not in mansions built by human hand, and 
 requireth no other sacrifice than a pure and contrite spirit. I 
 die, not to give thee pain, but to teach others the way to im- 
 mortal life. The seed will not be sown in vain." 
 
 Long, long, did Flavia weep, and supplicate. The Christian, 
 whose firmness had been momentarily shaken, regained his sere- 
 nity by degrees, and assumed that impassive calmness whose icy 
 mantle can freeze even woman's hopes. Flavia ceased her wait- 
 ings ; she felt that the die was cast, and, collecting her thoughts, 
 silently communed within herself. Then, as if suddenly inspired, 
 starting up erect, with cheeks of the hue of death but eyes 
 gleaming with supernatural fire, she said, in a low, yet distinct, 
 unfaltering voice, " Thy God has gained the victory, and pow- 
 erful must he be, for he is stronger than our love ! Baptize me ; 
 I am a Christian !" and she fell on her knees, with clasped hands 
 and bending head, before Flavius. 
 
 " In the name of the Holy Trinity, I receive thee into the 
 fold of Christ," and he sprinkled her fair brows with water from 
 the dungeon pitcher. 
 
 At this moment the voice of the criers jarred harshly on the 
 
THE TWO MARTYRS. 315 
 
 ear — " Romans, to the Circus ! Assist at those games which no 
 mortal living has seen, or will see again. The solemn century 
 of years has again come round, and, in honour of the gods, will 
 be offered up a hecatomb of Christians. The high-priest of 
 Jupiter will preside over the sacrifice." 
 
 Flavius shuddered, not for himself, but for his bride. She 
 read his thoughts, and throwing her arms round his neck, kissed 
 his cold forehead. " Thou art not called upon to confess thy- 
 self a Christian," he gasped out; but she whispered, "Where- 
 soever thou shalt be, Flavius, there will I, Flavia, be." 
 
 It was indeed a realization of the poet's line, 
 
 " He for God only — she for God in him!" 
 
 A centurion, followed by lictors, came to conduct the pri- 
 soner to the Circus. He would fain have imposed silence on 
 his bride, but she exclaimed, " Lead me too ; I worship the 
 same God as my husband !" Then, as she observed the un- 
 steady footsteps of Flavius, she put her arm in his, and whis- 
 pered, " Courage ! Jesus died without uttering a complaint." 
 
 On leaving the dungeon, the fresh air nearly overcame Fla- 
 vius, and the blaze of the noon-day sun dazzled his sight, 
 whilst its heat depressed his spirits. Then the lively verdure of 
 the trees which lined the road, the deep azure of the beauteous 
 sky of Rome, its marble palaces, its busy multitudes, and all the 
 preparations for a " Roman holiday," made him feel how un- 
 utterably sharp is the pang, in full bloom of youth and capacity 
 for enjoyment, to be hurried to " cold obstruction, and to rot I 
 
 The lovers were separated. He was led to one of the ground 
 cells within the Circus, and she to Domitian's canopied seat, to 
 await his orderfe. 
 
 A hundred and thirty thousand spectators sat at their ease 
 within that vast enclosure, and clamoured for the show to begin 
 louder than the famished and ravenous beasts whose yells 
 seemed music to their ears. One might have deemed that they 
 were fasting rather than the lions. The seats were occupied in 
 prescribed form, according to the rank of the spectators. The 
 senators sat on cushions, immediately above the fosse that en- 
 circled the arena; higher up, on bare marble, the knights; 
 above them, on stone seats, the meaner freemen ; and highest of 
 all, the populace, the capite censi. All, however, testified the 
 same impatience for the sight of blood. They clapped their 
 hands, snouted — and the women, fair, lovely, and delicate 
 women, were even more clamorous than the men. 
 
 " When will they begin V 
 
 " Juno be praised, here are some lions, at last!" 
 
 " Don't they seem well pleased ?" 
 
 " And won't Jupiter bless the good city for it?" 
 
316 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " I wish I had his seat on the top of his temple there ! What 
 a fine view he must have !" 
 
 " The emperor has as good. See, he is right opposite the 
 cell from which the beasts are let out. I wish I was the empress 
 to-day." 
 
 Such was the discourse held by some of the gentlest maidens 
 of Rome. The men betted high, backing one lion against 
 another in the work of destruction. 
 
 At length a low door which led into the arena was opened, 
 amidst the cheers of the people. A young man advanced into 
 the open space with quick and firm step, then knelt down, folded 
 his arms, and waited. A sudden silence reigned over the 
 immense assembly ; but whilst nearly every eye was fixed on 
 that kneeling figure, a few had their attention diverted by the 
 appearance of a half-lifeless female, borne in a centurion's arms 
 before the emperor. 
 
 The youth in the arena turned towards the same quarter, and 
 uttered a cry. Doubtless he had just felt the hot breath of the 
 infuriated animal, then in the act of springing on him. At that 
 cry, the female freed herself with giant effort from the centu- 
 rion's grasp, and threw herself headlong into the arena. 
 
 Domitian called to save her ; but the will of the master of 
 the world was powerless here. 
 
 Two indistinct masses, resembling nothing human in shape 
 or appearance, were dragged over the sand and dust of the arena 
 by four hungry lions, disputing their fearful prey. 
 
 Domitian and Perpenna gazed at each other in the silence of 
 stupor ; the populace applauded. 
 
 At night Manes came to bear away their mangled remains to 
 consecrated ground. Yet, though he gave credit to one of these 
 martyrs for the sincerity of his faith, he believed that the other 
 had paltered with her God; for the one, when yielding up 
 the ghost, had called on Jesus ! — the other had murmured — 
 Flavius ! 
 
 S. 
 
THE FOUR GREYS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 TRAVELLING ADVENTURES IN IRELAND. ] 
 
 "I always sed it — always ! — " exclaimed Darby Flanaghan, 
 as with folded arms he contemplated the wreck of a superb 
 travelling-carriage, which lay shivered to pieces at the bottom 
 of a tremendous hill in one of the midland counties of Ireland. 
 
 " What did you always say, you mad rascal?'' inquired Sir 
 Henry Stavely, the owner of the luckless equipage, as with a 
 mixture of sorrow and anger he also contemplated its ruins, and 
 the consequent delay of his journey, which was for the important 
 purpose of meeting his bride elect, and completing a long-pro- 
 jected marriage. 
 
 " Ye'er honour," replied Darby, taking off his caubeen with 
 one hand, and scratching his head with the other : " It's what 
 I always sed, narra chay built in England would ever stand the 
 four greys ; and yez see it didn't, ye'er honour," he added, with 
 a humorous expression in the corner of his eye, which made 
 his sympathy for the mischance extremely doubtful. 
 
 " Sir," said Sir Henry's English lacquey, respectfully advancing 
 to his master's side : " I never see such vicious 'orses in all my 
 days ; an that 'ere wild postboy, with the ragged breeches ; why, 
 sir, one 'ud think he o'erturned the carriage o' purpose, an 
 wanted to kill us English outright, as I hear say they often do 
 in this 'ere country ; only he put his own life in jeopardy as 
 well as our'n, galloping like mad over these 'orrid roads, and 
 down this here hill. Sure it was God's mercy we wasn't all 
 dashed to pieces, as well as the carriage." 
 
 " What is to be done now? how are we to proceed on our 
 journey?" said Sir Henry, in a despairing and helpless tone, 
 to the postboy ; on whose mercy (as well as to the bottom of 
 the hill) they were completely thrown, and whose motives for 
 driving in such a frantic manner seemed at best very suspicious. 
 
 " I dun na, ye'er honour," replied Darby, " barrin we'd git the 
 loan iv a chay, here below at Jerry Sullivan's: he keeps illigant 
 post chays, an mighty fine cattle intirely ; it's not over four or 
 five miles by the road, an there's a short cut across the country 
 '11 take uz there in no time. I can turn the horses over the walls 
 quite asy— thims illigant lepers — och but yez are, my jewels iv 
 theVorld," he added, fondly caressing the light, active, wiry- 
 looking grey horses — which, having done all this mischief by 
 running away with and overturning the carriage at the bottom 
 of the hill, w T ere quietly grazing by the road-side, quite uncon- 
 scious of the dilemma caused by their outrageous conduct. 
 
318 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " To walk five miles across this wild country !" exclaimed Sir 
 Henry with dismay. " And what is to become of my luggage 
 and the carriage ? But indeed that is scarcely worth moving," 
 he added, looking despondingly on all that now remained of the 
 exquisite turn out, in which he had hoped to transport his 
 lovely bride, from a wild castle in the county of Clare, to the 
 more civilized delights of the English metropolis. 
 
 " Why then, ye'er honour, here's some iv the luggage that's 
 hardly worth the picking up," said Darby, carelessly turning 
 over the " debris " of a splendid dressing-case, which was al- 
 most ground to powder under the wheels of its fellow-sufferer, 
 the luckless carriage. Sir Henry was a mild-tempered man, or 
 this last stroke would have tempted him to bestow more than 
 one in return, on the provoking blackguard with the ragged 
 breeches, who seemed, notwithstanding the apparent cordiality 
 of his manner, and ready offers of service, to have so little 
 sympathy with the travellers in their misfortunes. 
 
 " The portmantle," continued Darby, " an any iv these 
 curious lookin things, as is any way light to carry, we can sind 
 acrass by some iv the gossoons here by at the cabin ; an the 
 trunks, an all thafs left iv the chay, we can lave here wid 
 the man iv the house^ till ye'er honour '11 be after sendin for 
 thim, and I'll engage they'll be just as safe as if they belonged 
 to the counsheller* hiself. 
 
 " I can see a number of ragged children, but I cannot see a 
 house of any description," said Sir Henry, looking anxiously 
 around, up the hill, down the hill, and on every side. 
 
 " Oh yes, ye'er honour," cried Darby, " here it is, quite snug 
 down in the ditch beyant ; an here's the gossoons that '11 carry 
 ye'er honour's things acrass to Jerry Sullivan's in no time." 
 
 " /cannot see any thing but a peat stack covered with weeds 
 — can you, Horner ? " said Sir Henry with a sigh, turning to- 
 wards his still more disconsolate lacquey, who was mourning 
 over the destroyed dressing-case. 
 
 However, wonder and lamentation being quite useless, — and as 
 the day was rapidly drawing to a close, without prospect of 
 shelter for the night, or means of pursuing their journey, — 
 Sir Henry, the impatient bridegroom, and Horner, the distressed 
 follower, bestirred themselves, with the assistance of the postboys 
 and the white-headed gossoons, to collect a few portable articles 
 of luggage from out of the ruins ; and leaving the rest under 
 shelter of a rock by the road-side to be taken care of as well 
 as circumstances would admit-— which the woman of " the house," 
 (the man being absent) assured them should be kept as " the 
 apple of her eye,"— they set forth to cross the country to Jerry 
 Sullivan's, under the guidance of Darby Flanaghan and the four 
 
 * O'Connell. 
 
THE FOUR GREYS. 319 
 
 gallant greys, now to all appearance very peaceably-disposed 
 personages. 
 
 Sir Henry meditated on the impossibility of arriving at Shan- 
 linabracken Castle at the appointed time, and on the alarm and 
 distress of his beautiful Florence at his not arriving (as in duty 
 bound) before the hour. Horner meditated on robbers, mur- 
 derers, whiteboys — heard the report of a pistol in the grunt of 
 every pig, and transformed in imagination the plover's call into 
 the signal whistle of some gang of desperadoes, ready to start 
 from behind every rock or wall intersecting the wild tract of 
 country which was stretched before them, unsheltered by a single 
 tree, or even bush. 
 
 Darby and his coadjutor, a curly-headed urchin of about 
 twelve years old, rode, or turned the horses over sundry dry 
 stone fences, ycleped walls in that country ; the light-footed, 
 mettlesome little animals taking bounds of a description that 
 appeared perfectly marvellous in the eyes of the two English- 
 men, who had no idea of the activity and training of Irish 
 horses (showing more bone than flesh) in crossing a country ; 
 horses to whom, and to their Irish riders also, bridles and 
 saddles are useless encumbrances ; and who could follow the 
 hounds with far more ease and satisfaction to themselves and 
 riders, totally divested of all such troublesome paraphernalia. 
 But of the spirit and power of these individual horses, neither 
 master nor man required any more convincing proof, than the 
 one which had been already exhibited at their expense in the 
 morning's exploit of the " four greys;" they therefore listened, 
 in rather a sullen mood, to Darby's hoops and hurras of 
 triumph, at every feat of activity performed by his hardy steeds ; 
 although, from the nature of the ground, and the quantity of 
 scattered stones, it always appeared to be at the peril of his own 
 neck, as well as of the horses' knees. 
 
 The four miles across the country seemed to extend to a space 
 which appeared in the eyes of the weary Englishmen to amount 
 to at least eight. At length, just as the sun was setting behind 
 the distant hills, a few cabins, resembling the one which Sir 
 Henry had mistaken for a peat stack covered with weeds, ap- 
 peared in sight. Presently a cluster of a few more, some- 
 what more considerable, rejoicing in holes (stuffed with straw 
 or old hats) denominated windows, and excrescences on the 
 roofs, ycleped chimneys ; and finally appeared Jerry Sullivan's 
 Hotel with a " post chay" standing under the shelter of an 
 adjoining shed. 
 
 Over the door was inscribed in capital letters, 
 
 ENTIRTAINMINT FUR MAN AND HORS. 
 And beneath, in smaller type, 
 
 Lycinced fur Post hors's. 
 Sir Henry groaned in spirit ; nevertheless he was too much 
 
320 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 interested in the prospect which awaited him at the end of his 
 journey to give himself up to despair ; accordingly he ordered 
 a relay of fresh horses, and a postchaise (such as it was) to be 
 made ready with all possible expedition. 
 
 i( Yes, shure, ye'er lordship's honour," cried the ready host. 
 " Won't your lordship be plazed to stip into the room — wheel 
 out the post chay directly, Barney — step in my lord. Get out of 
 the way, ye grate lazy baste ! (this was addressed to a large sow 
 that lay across the door-way) — this way, sir. Betty a lanna, 
 dhrive the childer and thim hens out iv the room, an dust down a 
 chair for his lordship — wipe up thim slops, hussy — this a way, 
 my lord." 
 
 Betty, the wife of the landlord, was a pretty dark-eyed slat- 
 tern, with a child on one arm, and another hanging to the skirt 
 of her gown : with her disengaged hand she took up her apron, 
 and wiped, as desired, the chair and table ; and no chair or 
 table ever stood more in need of such a ceremony : then, curt- 
 seying to his "lordship's honour," with a mingled expression be- 
 tween shyness and vanity, — a sort of consciousness of beauty and 
 consciousness of dirt on her mind, and a doubt as to which 
 might make the strongest impression on the " gintleman,"— the 
 handsome slattern, having driven out the screaming cocks 
 and hens, made good her retreat, dragging away the children, 
 and leaving Sir Henry in undisturbed possession of an apart- 
 ment such as he had never before entered, and such as he made 
 a solemn vow never voluntarily to enter again. 
 
 The evening had set in for rain ; nevertheless our traveller, 
 preferring a wetting to continuing to breathe the air of the " best 
 inn's best room," redolent of tobacco smoke and whisky punch, 
 sallied forth to superintend in person the preparations for his 
 onward journey. He found Darby and the gossoons extremely 
 busy, dusting and brushing up the crazy worm-eaten vehicle in 
 which, " faute de mieux," it was his destiny to proceed ; and, to 
 his great surprise, instead of the " illigant cattle" which he had 
 been promised, he saw that they were preparing to attach to it the 
 identical " four greys" from whose previous misconduct he had 
 already suffered so much. On his vehement remonstrance 
 against such a proceeding, he was informed by Darby : 
 
 " Och, shure, ye'er honour, the cattle is all turned out on the 
 bog afther the day's work, an it mightn't be plazin to ye'er honour, 
 seein ye'er in sich a hurry, to wait till them's cotched — bekase 
 we wouldn't know where to look for them till the daylight — 
 an thin they'll be afther comin in their ownselves, the craturs, 
 to go to the plough : and as to the "greys," why, they'll be 
 quite (quiet) enuff — shure the edge was taken off thim," he 
 added with a grin, " whin they knocked ye'er honour's English 
 chay all to smithereens." 
 
 Anger or .remonstrance was useless. The alternative of pass- 
 
THE FOUR GREYS. 321 
 
 ing the night in such a place, even if his adored Florence had 
 not been expecting his arrival, was not to be thought of. Sir 
 Henry determined to go on at all hazards ; and— although it 
 appeared to Horner little less than an act of suicide, consider- 
 ing the description of the carriage, horses, and driver — to commit 
 his life (and that of the said Horner) to the keeping of Jerry 
 Sullivan's post chay, and the "four greys" under the guidance 
 of Darby Flanaghan. 
 
 The sun had set, and the moon had risen — obscured, however, 
 by a drizzling rain, which threw a pleasing (or unpleasing, as 
 the case might be) uncertainty over the objects in the turf bog 
 and its environs, through which lay their destined road. Of the 
 real dangers, in the shape of black chasms denominated bog 
 drains and bog holes, surrounding them on every side, the for- 
 lorn travellers could, fortunately for their nerves, see but little ; 
 since the actual dimness of the prospect was rendered still more 
 so to them, from the very small portion of the " chay" windows 
 containing glass ; and the said glass not being much whiter or 
 clearer than that of which a wine-bottle is usually composed. 
 Of imaginary perils, Horner, at least, had his full share ; Sir 
 Henry, of course, was too much occupied by the anticipated 
 rapturous meeting with his beloved, to give a thought to such a 
 sublunary matter as that of being robbed and murdered. 
 
 And yet the fair one need not to have been offended, or to 
 consider her lover as indifferent, unkind, or selfish, if at that 
 moment he thought little of her, and much of his own bones, of 
 which the joints were in the most imminent danger of being 
 dislocated by every jolt — numerous from the state of the roads, 
 and nearly unendurable from the state of the springs, and also 
 from another cause, hereafter to be mentioned. The shocks 
 were tremendous ; the carriage swayed from side to side, receiv- 
 ing the most extraordinary jerks as the horses proceeded with 
 a zigzag movement resembling that which painters draw when 
 they mean to delineate a flash of lightning ; and with nearly as 
 much rapidity as a real (not a painter's) flash. 
 
 They began to descend a very rugged hill — in such a style ! 
 Horner leaned back, shutting his teeth fast, and holding his 
 breath and the side of the carriage ; the vision of robbers and 
 whiteboys disappeared from his eyes, to give place to the more 
 probable expectation of another overturn, still more desperate 
 in its consequences than the last. This time, however, his 
 apprehensions were not exactly realized ; the hill, although steep 
 and rugged, was short : the " four greys" cleared it in two 
 bounds, and having lodged the " chay" against a bank, turned 
 sharp from it and commenced kicking with the same degree of 
 activity and celerity as had marked all their former proceedings. 
 
 " Why now, be asy, Killall ! Have done, Vixen ! Won't yez be 
 2b 
 
322 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 quite ,Terryalt an Peeler ? — och, yez two could niver agree — have 
 done wid yez all !" remonstrated Darby, tranquilly dismounting, 
 and in defiance of threatening heels beginning to unyoke. 
 
 " What is the matter now V* exclaimed the unfortunate bride- 
 groom. " I believe all the devils in hell are leagued together in 
 the bodies of these horses to prevent my proceeding to-night." 
 
 " Och, don't be frichtened ye'er honour," said Darby, " shure 
 we'll get on directly." 
 
 " But what is the matter?" reiterated Sir Henry. 
 
 " Nothin, sir, nothin at all — only that confounded hostler at 
 Jerry Sullivan's, that's always forgettin the poul /" 
 
 " The pole ? — good Heavens ! and have we come thus far with- 
 out a pole ?" 
 
 u Och, ye'er honour, we'll have it in no time — little Thady here's 
 jist goin to rin fur it, an he'll be back afore the bastes have got 
 their breath — rin Thady jewel, rin fur the bare life, make no 
 delay at all, an jist bring me a new pipe ; an light it, honey — 
 this little crabbed rascal, Terry, 's knocked the dudeen out iv my 
 hand, an myself can't find it 'mong the stones in the dark/' 
 
 Sir Henry sank back in the carriage, now completely in de- 
 spair. And here we must leave him '• to chew the cud of sweet 
 and bitter fancy," whilst we convey the reader to Shanlinabracken 
 Castle, to see how the fair Florence endured the protracted ab- 
 sence of her affianced husband. 
 
 Shanlinabracken Castle was a magnificent edifice, built in the 
 olden time in one of the most commanding and picturesque 
 sites in the county of Clare ; the rock on which it was founded 
 almost overhanging the wide Atlantic. This proud inherit- 
 ance had fallen into the possession of the beautiful Florence 
 O'Brien on the death of her father, which had taken place a few 
 years before. Nature had made her a beauty, fortune had made 
 her an heiress, and her guardian, Sir Phelim O'Driscoll, had but 
 a troublesome time examining into the various claims of her nu- 
 merous admirers, and determining as to who was the fittest to 
 be put in possession of his ward's fair hand, and fair heritage. 
 
 Sir Phelim was a very decided person : he never asked Florence 
 her opinion on the subject, nor did she obtrude it unasked ; but 
 in one respect she was as decided as her guardian, and that was 
 in declaring that she would not be married until the day when 
 she should be of age. That day was now arrived ; the previous 
 winter she had passed in London, where Sir Henry Stavely, a 
 young baronet of immense property, was amongst the many 
 competitors for her favour. He wrote a statement of his affairs 
 to Sir Phelim, and sent in his rent-roll. The prudent guardian 
 examined and looked into every thing, and then fixed on Sir 
 Henry as the properest person to be put in possession of the 
 lady's large fortune, because it was clear to the meanest capa- 
 city that he had quite enough of his own. 
 
THE FOUR GREYS. 323 
 
 Florence thought — whatever she pleased ; but, as we said 
 before, her opinion was not asked, and she being then a minor, 
 it was considered of no consequence. 
 
 The important day when she completed her twenty- first year 
 had, we repeat, dawned ; and that same day was destined to 
 transfer Florence from the authority of a guardian to that of a 
 husband. On that day Sir Henry was to arrive, and the 
 wedding was to be celebrated. 
 
 Immense preparations were made; the castle was crowded with 
 company ; a bishop was to perform the ceremony in the state 
 drawing-room — it was for plebeian folks to go to church to be 
 married, the union of so much wealth was to be celebrated 
 in a manner out of the common way. The whole was to 
 conclude with a grand ball inside the castle, while outside 
 bonfires were prepared, oxen were roasting whole, and all the 
 male population ready to get very drunk. 
 
 Towards evening a superb equipage drove through the park, 
 and was received by the tenantry with the most tremendous 
 shouts of applause; a very handsome, dark-complexioned, 
 soldier-like young man, cap in hand, and with a smiling 
 countenance, returned the joyous salutations. He alighted at 
 the castle gate, and hastily extricating himself from the con- 
 gratulating crowd, flew up stairs to the principal reception-room, 
 where the blushing and trembling bride stood, supported by two 
 blooming bridemaids. 
 
 " Dear Henry I" she murmured, as he passionately kissed her 
 hand ; " what terrors I have endured ! — but I see you here at 
 last, and my heart is at ease." 
 
 " I am here at last, and all is well, my own, own Florence," 
 he returned, " and we will never part more : — you cannot guess 
 how I have earned you, love," he added, with an expressive 
 smile and in a very low whisper. 
 
 Florence presented her " beloved Henry" to the bowing Sir 
 Phelim O'Driscoll ; — the ceremony was performed ; the vow, " I, 
 Henry, take thee, Florence," and " I, Florence, take thee, 
 Henry," was mutually plighted. 
 
 The feast went on, the ball went on, the bonfires blazed, 
 the men got drunk : — all was conducted in the true spirit of an 
 Irish wedding, and as was worthy of so beautiful and so wealthy 
 an heiress. 
 
 Meanwhile travelling-carriage, servants, horses, outriders, all 
 covered with white and silvered favours, appeared in due form 
 at the castle-door. The bride, having taken leave of her friends, 
 was handed in — the bridegroom placed himself at her side — the 
 lady's-maids were in the rumble-seat behind — all was right and 
 ready to start ; when a ragged fellow, caubeen in hand, and 
 mounted on a dusty, jaded-looking " grey horse," came gallop- 
 
 2 b2 
 
324 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 ing furiously up the approach, and waving his hat and huzzaing, 
 hauled up his tired steed at the carriage-window. 
 
 " Hurra ! hurra ! long life to yez both — long life to the noble 
 Captain O'Brien and his beautiful lady ! Noble captain, shure 
 yez won't forget Darby Flanaghan, that did ye'er job for yez 
 iiately — och, shure didn't I lave the English gintleman, an his 
 man to boot, at Cockshout this morning, lyin there beyant in a 
 bog drain, fornint the ould haunted house ; and Jerry Sulli- 
 van's ould chay in smithereens, as well as the illigant new Eng- 
 lish carriage afore — an themselves up to the neck in bog wather 
 — an here I am sint on for help, captain, jewel ! — hurra ! hurra I 
 long life to the noble Captain O'Brien and his darlint lady." 
 
 " Darby, my man," said Henry O'Brien, the cousin-german, 
 and now husband to the lovely heiress ; — "Darby, my hero," he 
 continued, cordially shaking hands with our friend, Sir Henry 
 Stavely's mad driver — " Henry O'Brien can never forget the 
 services you have performed : you shall be rewarded far beyond 
 your expectations ; and your " four greys" shall never draw a 
 hired carriage again; but your reward cannot equal my gratitude. 
 You may go and release your prisoners from the bog-hole ; 
 they cannot harm us more ; then follow to O'Brien House, 
 where my Florence shall thank you herself." 
 
 THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 
 
 In the summer of the year 18 — , a carriage, in which was a 
 young lady and her father, was attacked by banditti in passing 
 through a narrow defile, within a few miles of Verona, to which 
 city the travellers were proceeding. 
 
 The robbers, after searching the persons of their captives, 
 and rummaging their trunks and other packages, finding the 
 booty much more inconsiderable than they expected, began to 
 mutter sanguinary threats of vengeance against the unfortunate 
 travellers ; threats which they would certainly have put in exe- 
 cution, had not the person who seemed to be their captain, or 
 leader, opportunely suggested a means of arresting the impend- 
 ing catastrophe. This was, that the gentleman should give 
 them a draft for 500 crowns on his banker in Verona — he having 
 answered in the affirmative to a demand whether he had credit 
 with any money-dealer in the city just named; and that 
 he and his daughter should, in the meantime, be conducted to 
 their retreat in the mountains, and remain prisoners until 
 ©ne of their number had proceeded to Verona, and obtained 
 payment of the order ; a mission which, as it was, for obvious 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 333 
 
 instantly conduct me to Diavolo's retreat, which you must know- 
 very well, I will not inform on you ; if you do not, I will." 
 
 " Well," replied Girolamo doggedly, although he could not 
 altogether conceal the perturbation and amazement into which 
 the suddenness of his predicament had thrown him : " You cer- 
 tainly have me at a disadvantage. I will conduct you to Dia- 
 volo's place of concealment. But you will keep faith with me 
 as to your promise," he added, doubtingly. 
 
 " I swear it," replied Aubigny. 
 
 " Do you mean to go alone V inquired Girolamo. 
 
 " Oh, ho, mine host, not such a young one as that, I warrant 
 you. I'll get a dozen or so of my comrades to go along with 
 me. I take it for granted there will be blows dealt. 
 
 " Why, I would not say that there will not," replied Girolamo; 
 and added, " May I, without offence, ask who you are, sir?" 
 
 " Oh, surely you may," said Francis, " but the question 
 methinks is rather superfluous. You may see that I am a 
 soldier." 
 
 " True, sir," replied Girolamo, " but your name, if you 
 please?" 
 
 Francis gave him the information he asked. 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Girolamo, in amazement, " Francis 
 Aubigny ? Not the lover of the Baron de Metteville's daughter, 
 surely ! " 
 
 " The same," replied Aubigny. 
 
 " Why this is astonishing," said Girolamo; " then you were 
 not killed at Austerlitz, as the baron believes?" 
 
 " No, indeed," said Francis, smiling at the simplicity of the 
 remark, " else I should scarce be now talking with you, mine 
 host." 
 
 Little more of any particular interest passed on this occasion, 
 between the young soldier and Girolamo. The former hastened 
 to inform his comrades of the discovery and situation of his 
 mistress, and to request their assistance in rescuing her from the 
 hands of the brigands. A score of stout young fellows instantly 
 volunteered their services, and, in less than an hour afterwards, 
 the party, headed by Francis, and conducted by Girolamo, were 
 on the march towards the retreat of the banditti. 
 
 Little dreaming of the impending visitation, Diavolo's gang 
 were at this moment in the full career of enjoyment. The pro- 
 visions whereon they had been regaling, — all choice edibles, 
 which had by some felicitous touch of their profession been trans- 
 ferred from the larders of their owners into theirs, — having been 
 removed, their place was supplied by several large flagons of 
 wine, and already a degree of drunken insubordination had begun 
 to exhibit itself. At this instant the whole of the gang were 
 
334 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 either seated, or lying at length on the floor of the cavern ; the 
 place being wholly destitute of any thing resembling such con- 
 veniences as chairs or tables, or, indeed, of accommodations of 
 any kind. The brigands were, therefore, now enjoying their 
 wine ; some seated a la Turque, others extended as described, 
 and all with their mantles spread beneath them — the only attempt 
 at comfort which was thought of. 
 
 Hitherto, none of the banditti had bestowed one momen- 
 tary thought on their unfortunate captives. Neither their wants 
 nor wishes were brought at all into calculation. From the mo- 
 ment they were first disposed of, they appeared to have been 
 utterly forgotten. It is true, they were probably better for- 
 gotten than remembered, and certainly had no wish to attract 
 the attention of their ferocious companions towards them ; 
 but this apparent oversight on the part of the latter did not save 
 the miserable pair from the most agonizing terror, when they 
 saw the naturally violent passions and ruthless dispositions of 
 their associates gradually gaining force under the influence of 
 the wine they were drinking. They every moment expected 
 that the wild and uproarious mirth which now rung through the 
 cavern, would terminate in some deadly quarrel ; and that they 
 themselves should certainly be sacrificed to the fury of one or 
 other of the parties. 
 
 They expected, in truth, every instant to see one of the 
 drunken ruffians reeling towards them with a naked stiletto 
 in his hand ; and, under this horrible impression, watched 
 every movement amongst the revellers with the most in- 
 tense and feverish anxiety. During this interval, the un- 
 happy father of the young lady was sitting between his daugh- 
 ter and the brigands — a situation which he had, as it were, 
 instinctively assumed, in order that he might first encounter 
 any danger that might be directed towards his child. One of 
 the hands of the unfortunate lady was held by her parent, 
 who was affectionately caressing it, and from time to time 
 whispering words of consolation in her ear. In this affecting 
 attitude, then, the miserable pair awaited with patience, though 
 not without fear and trembling, the issue of the terrible ad- 
 venture in which they were involved. 
 
 In the mean time, the mirth and wild glee of the brigands 
 was rapidly approaching a crisis, — when Bozzolo, whose face, 
 flushed with the wine he had drunk, now displayed an expres- 
 sion of unnatural humour, 'infinitely more appalling and re- 
 volting than the stern ferocity of look that properly belonged 
 to him, happened to cast his eyes in the direction of the pri- 
 soners. The sight seemed suddenly to recal him to a sense of 
 their presence. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " he shouted with drunken vehemence, at the 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 335 
 
 same time stretching himself forward, and seizing on some 
 fragments of food which still lay before him: "curse me, but 
 I forgot you entirely ! But the young lady," he went on, " she 
 can live on love, I suppose ; and you, old cock, you can live on 
 suction, on air. A mighty fine fattening thing it is. Very 
 light simple diet, indeed, old boy, isn't it, eh? But never- 
 theless," continued the ruffian, throwing a large bone towards 
 the baron and his daughter, " you'll be none the worse for a 
 bit of something a little more solid than either love or air." 
 Having followed up this gift with some morsels of bread, be- 
 stowed in the same ungracious manner, the brigand again 
 proceeded with his carousal. 
 
 Neither of the unhappy captives tasted of the food which had 
 been thus supplied them ; but, in order to avoid giving offence 
 to the ferocious donor, by allowing it to lie where it had been 
 thrown, the baron picked it up, and concealed it, a precau- 
 tion however which was, after all, unnecessary, as Bozzolo 
 took no further interest in the matter. Having supplied the 
 provisions, he cared nothing whether or not they were consumed. 
 
 The unhallowed orgies of the brigands had now arrived at 
 their height. Every one was speaking in a louder and fiercer 
 tone than another. Full goblets were repeatedly overturned 
 with drunken recklessness, and party brawls beginning to 
 arise on all hands ; sometimes between individuals, and some- 
 times between parties of three or four together. These were 
 conducted with all the violence, both in language and gesture, 
 which excess in wine may be supposed to produce on tem- 
 pers and dispositions, naturally fierce and impatient. At 
 length, however, all minor disputes merged into one of gene- 
 ral and engrossing interest. The subject of this, unfortunately 
 for the captives, was the plunder which the latter had afforded. 
 As no division of the spoil, however, could take place until the 
 return of Diavolo — an event which was now, of course, never 
 to happen — the present quarrel, not the less fierce on this 
 account, had arisen wholly from a disagreement as to the pro- 
 bable and prospective arrangements. 
 
 The parties were pretty equally divided as to numbers on the 
 point at issue, and there was, in consequence, strong symptoms 
 of a desire to bring the matter to the decision of pistol and sti- 
 letto. Several of the latter weapons, indeed, might already be 
 seen glittering in the hands of the hostile pretenders. At length, 
 getting more and more infuriated as the discussion proceeded, 
 the whole gang, one after another, started to their feet to pre- 
 pare for the worst. At this moment one of the drunken ruffians, 
 whose attention had been attracted towards the captives by the 
 subject whereon they had been debating, was in the act of 
 staggering towards them with a drawn dagger in his hand, — for 
 
336 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the purpose, as the half intelligible threats which he muttered 
 but too plainly indicated, of committing some act of violence, — 
 when the torch by which the chamber was lighted was sud- 
 denly struck down from its place on the wall by an accidental 
 blow, and almost immediately extinguished under the feet of the 
 brawlers. 
 
 The savage who had meditated the murderous assault alluded 
 to on the unfortunate captives, being thus providentially in- 
 volved in sudden darkness, and being, besides, bewildered with 
 the wine he had drank, missed the objects of his vengeance, and 
 being soon after involved in the general fray which had now 
 taken place, did not renew his attempts. 
 
 In the meantime the ruffians, though unable in the dark to 
 distinguish friends from foes, were fighting it out stoutly, and 
 many stabs had already been given and received, when a low 
 whistle, proceeding from the sentinel on duty at the mouth of 
 the cavern, announced the approach of some one, — and in the 
 next instant a crowd of soldiers, several of whom carried torches 
 in their hands, rushed into the place, when a brief but sangui- 
 nary struggle ensued with the brigands. 
 
 The latter, however, from the state of inebriety in which they 
 were, could not offer much resistance ; indeed, they fell 
 rapidly, one after the other, beneath the sabres and bayonets of 
 their assailants, until all were either killed or disabled. In the 
 next moment Emily de Metteville found herself in the arms of 
 her lover ; that lover for whom she had been pining her existence 
 away, and whom she believed to have been numbered with the 
 dead. 
 
 The Baron, on recognising Francis, extended his hand towards 
 him, and in the warmest terms expressed his sense of the 
 great obligation which he had just conferred on himself and his 
 daughter. " But great as that obligation is," he added, smiling, 
 " I believe I have it in my power to repay it ; " and he glanced 
 towards his blushing daughter. " You shall have your reward, 
 Aubigny ; but we will talk of this hereafter. " 
 
 On the third day after the occurrence of the events just 
 recorded, Francis Aubigny and Emily were married, with the 
 full consent of her father, who, out of gratitude to the former 
 and compassion for the latter, now urged their union with as 
 much eagerness as he had before opposed it. 
 
 Francis, through the interest of the Baron, immediately ob- 
 tained his discharge, and returned with his bride and her father 
 to his native country — one of the happiest fellows and luckiest 
 dogs in Christendom ! 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 325 
 
 reasons, one of great peril, their captain announced that he 
 himself was ready to undertake : — the further understanding 
 being, that if the draft was paid the prisoners should be set at 
 
 liberty : if not, that they should : the remainder of the 
 
 sentence was supplied by the action of one of the bandits, who 
 drew his finger across his throat. 
 
 The required draft having been readily handed, the brigand 
 chief, after giving some instructions to his men, and disguising 
 himself with certain of the wearing apparel which had been 
 found in the packages of the travellers, set out on his dangerous 
 errand. 
 
 Immediately after his departure, the banditti, with their pri- 
 soners, and with what booty they thought sufficiently valuable 
 to be worth carrying away, began their march towards their 
 mountain retreat. After a tiresome and dangerous journey of 
 about two hours, through lonely and unfrequented passes ; now 
 clambering over rocks so high and precipitous, that each had 
 to assist the person immediately following him to gain the 
 perilous elevation which he himself had attained ; now fording 
 rapid rivers with rugged and uneven bottoms, and immersed to 
 the armpits in water, and now forcing their way through thick 
 and tangled woods, — the banditti, with their captives, arrived 
 on the skirts of a plain, overlooked on the opposite side by 
 a range of bold and lofty hills. On the sides of these, and 
 towards the base, a sight now suddenly presented itself which 
 created the utmost surprise and alarm amongst the robbers. 
 This was, a vast row of small separate lights or fires, (distinctly 
 seen, as it was now dark) that burnt on the face of the hill 
 directly opposite, and were every now and then momenta- 
 rily eclipsed by dark objects passing to and fro between them 
 and the spectators. Confounded and alarmed by this singular 
 vision, the banditti called an immediate halt, to take the extra- 
 ordinary appearance into consideration, a proceeding which was 
 the more necessary as their route lay in the very direction in 
 which it presented itself. Having gathered themselves together, 
 the robbers proceeded to make their various remarks and con- 
 jectures on the unexpected sight which the front of the hill ex- 
 hibited, and the result was a general conviction that the lights 
 proceeded from a bivouac or encampment of the French army, 
 which was then in the north of Italy. The brigands were aware 
 that Massena, the commander of the army, was approaching 
 that part of the country in which they were, but they had 
 reckoned on his being yet many miles distant, Having, how- 
 over, satisfied themselves that it was, indeed, the French army 
 which they beheld, the next question was, how they were to 
 pass their out-posts without being discovered ; they having no 
 choice of route which would permit of their keeping wide of 
 
326 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 them, excepting by a circuitous march of many miles, which, 
 if adopted, would expose them to the risk of being overtaken 
 by day-light, and consequently to the chance of discovery and 
 pursuit. 
 
 The shortest path of the brigands lay through a deep but 
 narrow ravine, which opened on the face of the hill occupied by 
 the French troops ; and as their watch-fire-lights seemed to ex- 
 tend to the very brink of this hollow, it appeared next to 
 impossible that it should be traversed without detection by their 
 sentinels. This danger, however, imminent as it was, the rob- 
 bers finally determined to incur, rather than extend their route. 
 
 " We may have a shot or two sent amongst us," said one of 
 the gang, whose name was Bozzolo — a stout, thick-set fellow, 
 to whom the command of the party had been deputed by their 
 chief. " We may have a shot or two sent amongst us, but 
 that'll be the worst of it. They don't know an inch of the 
 ground ; and will not, therefore, think of pursuing us in such a 
 dark night as this. So lads," he continued, " I propose that 
 we just take the old road, and run the risk of a random pepper- 
 ing. If ye take the round-about-way, ye'll have day-light upon 
 ye, and a score of hussars at your heels. Gibbet, steel, and 
 lead, all striving for the honour of your acquaintance." 
 
 The wit and reasoning of Bozzolo were triumphant, and the 
 u short cut," with all its perils, was determined on. 
 
 In somewhat more than half an hour, the banditti had 
 approached sufficiently near to the hill whereon the lights 
 appeared, to have all their fears, or rather convictions, regarding 
 their cause fully confirmed. They could now distinguish the 
 cocked hats, and occasionally get a glance of the bayonets, of the 
 French sentinels as they paced to and fro in front of the watch- 
 fires. Alarmed every instant lest they should stumble on some 
 of the out-posts of the army, (with whom they knew there would 
 be no lights to point them out), the robbers quickened their 
 pace, scarcely daring to breathe as they glided along, for 
 fear of attracting the notice of some watchful sentinel ; and in 
 about quarter of an hour more they had fairly entered the nar- 
 row ravine, on the right bank of which the French army was 
 encamped. Neither the darkness of the night, however, nor the 
 cautiousness of their movements, could screen them from the 
 vigilant eye of a sentinel who was parading backwards and for- 
 wards on the extreme edge of the ravine. This man discovered 
 them ; and in the next instant his loud and hoarse challenge was 
 heard in the depth and stillness of the night. The brigands 
 instantly paused, as if to await the result of the discovery, and 
 crouched themselves low on the ground, compelling their prisoners 
 to do so likewise. Determined, also, that these should not escape, 
 even in the event of their being pursued, one of the ruffians flou- 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 327 
 
 rished a naked stiletto over the breast of the unhappy young 
 lady, whilst another held a similar weapon within an inch of the 
 body of her miserable father, both ready to employ them the 
 moment they should find themselves compelled to take to flight. 
 
 In the meantime the challenge of the sentinel was, after the 
 lapse of a few seconds, followed by the rapid flash and sharp 
 report of a musket. The piece had been discharged at random, 
 but chance had so well directed it that the bullet whizzed close 
 over the heads of the brigands, and lodged in a precipitous 
 bank that rose immediately above them. 
 
 " Touch and go, that," whispered Bozzolo to the bandit next 
 him, when the bullet struck into the earth " A little lower 
 down, and some of us would have tasted that pill. But we'll 
 have a few more of them if I'm not mistaken." Bozzolo teas 
 not mistaken. The report of the sentinel's musket had brought 
 a guard of eight or ten men to the spot, several of whom now 
 also fired their pieces in the direction in which the bandits lay 
 concealed. Many of these were wide of the mark, but there 
 was one shot attended with eminent success. This fortunate 
 bullet struck full on the forehead of the fellow who had taken 
 upon himself the task of dispatching the female prisoner, and 
 it was while he was in the act of hanging over her with his 
 bared weapon in his hand, as already described, that the ruffian 
 perished. On receiving the fatal shot he fell on his face upon 
 the person of his intended victim, still firmly clenching the 
 stiletto in his unconscious grasp. 
 
 " By St. Joseph, Marcario's pinned !" muttered Bozzolo, on 
 seeing his comrade fall. " He's settling accounts with the 
 devil by this time, and a tough job it will be for both of them." 
 
 In the meantime the fire of the French sentinels had dwindled 
 down to a straggling shot or two discharged at random ; they 
 having evidently begun to attach less and less importance to the 
 object of their suspicions, until, at length, perceiving no result 
 of their firing, it was abandoned altogether. Availing them- 
 selves of this remissness on the part of their assailants, the 
 banditti began again to creep onwards, and finally succeeded 
 in reaching, without further interruption, their den in the moun- 
 tains — a large cavern with a small opening, situated in a wild 
 and romantic ravine. On their arriving at the mouth of the 
 cave : — 
 
 " Snug at last, my lads," said Bozzolo, addressing his com- 
 rades, "and a devilish ugly night we have had of it. I would rather 
 encounter a score of Sbirri than one of those rascally blue-coated, 
 cock-hatted Frenchmen." Saying this, the deputy commander 
 led the way, followed by the whole gang in Indian file, into the 
 cavern. It was at this moment the unfortunate lady, for the 
 first time since she had fallen into the hands of the banditti, 
 
328 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 manifested any extraordinary emotion of terror. On perceiving 
 that she was required to enter so dark and frightful a den, 
 thus gaping hideously to receive her, she uttered a shriek of 
 horror, and clung, in an agony of despair, to the knees of her 
 no less miserable parent, who was standing beside her. 
 
 Regardless of her cries, two of the gang instantly seized the 
 maiden, and forcibly dragged her through the aperture into the 
 interior of the cave, which consisted of one large and spacious 
 chamber, with a lofty roof, and walls of the living rock. 
 
 When the whole were assembled in this apartment, one of 
 the banditti, after groping for some time in the dark, and mut- 
 tering fearful oaths in his impatience at not being able to find 
 instantly the object of his search, at length produced a tin- 
 der box, by means of which he lighted a torch. This done, 
 the brigand stuck up the lurid smoky flambeau on one of the 
 sides of the cavern, when the whole gang immediately pro- 
 ceeded to avail themselves of the light it afforded; some in 
 unpacking the plunder which they had taken ; others in collecting 
 together, for a general repast, what wine and provisions were 
 concealed in the cave; while others, again, employed them- 
 selves in stripping off cumbersome articles of dress, and pre- 
 paring for a day of repose and enjoyment after the fatigues of 
 the night. 
 
 In the meantime, at the earnest request of her father, two or 
 three cloaks were thrown by some of the banditti into one of 
 the corners of the den, to form a couch for the female captive. 
 On these she now hastened to recline. Her father seated him- 
 self on the floor beside her, and thus situated they prepared to 
 await with patience the arrival of the brigand who had gone to 
 Verona. 
 
 Leaving them thus disposed of for a time, we shall proceed to 
 trace the footsteps of the person just alluded to. 
 
 Having been successful in negotiating his draft, and in escaping 
 unsuspected from the city, he arrived, on his return to his gang, 
 just as night was beginning to fall, at a little village inn kept by 
 one Girolamo del Gambo — a portly personage in a flaming red 
 waistcoat. The domicile of mine host, Girolamo, was mean 
 and excessively shabby-looking. Agreeably, however, to the 
 custom of Italy, which increases the dignity of the names of 
 its inns in exact proportion to their insignificance and general 
 wretchedness, its squalid appearance was amply compensated by 
 the splendour of its name— Girolamo, in the magnificence of 
 his ideas, having baptized it " The Palace of the Sun," words 
 which were emblazoned in large yellow characters over the door 
 of the hostellerie. 
 
 "Ha! friend Girolamo, how dost?" said the bandit leader, 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 329 
 
 addressing mine host, who was standing at the door with his 
 hands behind his back, as if on the look-out for customers. 
 " How dost, old fellow? all quiet in the neighbourhood? No 
 rats stirring?" 
 
 The landlord of " The Palace of the Sun," placed his fore- 
 finger on his mouth. 
 
 " There be rats, and dangerous rats too," he replied, in an 
 under tone. " There's a party of French chasseurs in the vil- 
 lage. Some of them are within there drinking now," he added, 
 pointing backwards with the thumb of his left hand. 
 
 The information which Girolamo gave the bandit (who, we 
 need hardly say, was well known to him), seemed to disconcert 
 him a good deal. 
 
 " Unlucky enough," he said, after a pause of a second or 
 two ; " unlucky enough ; but never mind, I will take my chance 
 yet : I have been in more ticklish situations before now. The 
 truth is, Girolamo, I am somewhat exhausted and fatigued, and 
 must have a little refreshment, and a few hours rest, at whatever 
 risk. So lead the way, if you please. I'll keep as quiet as a 
 mill-stone ; and, of course, mum's the word with you, you 
 know." 
 
 Before stepping into the house, however, mine host'of " The 
 Palace of the Sun," seized his guest in a friendly way by the 
 belt, and gently dragging him a pace or two aside : 
 
 " How did the thing do, Diavolo?" he whispered into the ear 
 of his friend. 
 
 " Oh, pretty well, pretty well," replied the latter, who was no 
 other than the celebrated Italian brigand, Fra Diavolo ; "pretty 
 well, as ye shall know, friend Girolamo, ere I leave you. I have 
 wherewithal here," he continued — and he struck his hand on 
 the spot where the money he had received at Verona was depo- 
 sited — u to clear scores with you, and I mean to do so before I 
 am an hour older." 
 
 Girolamo acknowledged this gratifying intelligence by a smile 
 of satisfaction, and immediately led the way, followed by Dia- 
 volo, into the house. 
 
 " The Palace of the Sun" consisted of three apartments only; 
 one was appropriated to the accommodation of the family, 
 another to that of customers of an ordinary description, the 
 third for travellers of high degree, whose aristocratic feelings 
 were too sensitive to permit of their mingling with the common 
 herd in the public room. Wretched, however, as all of these 
 apartments were, each of them, on the same principle which had 
 dictated the title of the inn, bore a mighty name. One was 
 called " Louis le Grand ; " another the " Pantheon of Agrippa ; " 
 and the third " William the Conqueror." The first was occu- 
 pied, at the moment of which we are speaking, by the French 
 
330 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 soldiers to whom mine host had alluded. The second was the 
 family apartment; Diavolo was therefore ushered into that 
 which rejoiced in the name of the great Norman warrior. A 
 bottle of wine was speedily placed on the table before the bri- 
 gand, and in a few minutes afterwards a dish of fried bacon and 
 eggs. Having finished his repast, Diavolo requested his host, 
 with a significant nod, to shut the door, and take a seat beside 
 him. With this request the latter at once complied. When he 
 had seated himself — 
 
 " Come, Girolamo," said Diavolo, smiling expressively, and 
 filling up two tall capacious glasses with wine, " ere we proceed 
 to business, let us drink success to trade." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied Girolamo, returning the look of 
 his guest; " but trade is mighty flat these days. We can make 
 nothing now, either by wine-cask or windfall." 
 
 " Not so bad as all that either, friend," said Diavolo, planting 
 a bag of money energetically on the table. " There's a tolerably 
 fair article now; such a windfall as is not brought by every 
 breeze that blows, Girolamo." 
 
 " No, no, by St. Joseph !" said mine host of "The Palace of 
 the Sun," rubbing his hands in ecstasy at the sight ; and his 
 eyes, as they dwelt on the treasure, absolutely melting in his 
 head with rapture. " No, no, by St. Joseph, ten thousand 
 hurricanes might sweep Italy from Ca"pe Spartivento to Verona, 
 without blowing any thing like that in at the door ! " 
 
 " You say truly," exclaimed Diavolo, now employing himself in 
 undoing the fastenings of his purse ; " nevertheless, the last gale 
 has blown something thy way, friend Girolamo," he added, plung- 
 ing his hand amongst the coin which the leathern bag contained, 
 and immediately thereafter bringing out a handful of its con- 
 tents. " Thy information was correct," he went on, " and 
 tolerably profitable, as thou mayest see; so hold thy hands, 
 man ; there's thy share of the earnings." Saying which, the 
 bandit deposited in the ready palms of his host, the handful of 
 crowns which he had abstracted from the purse. 
 
 The latter, in the joy of his heart, was in the act of weighing 
 them for an instant in his hand, ere he passed them into a more 
 secure depositary, when a sudden elevation of voices in the 
 apartment occupied by the soldiers compelled him to abridge 
 his enjoyment, and to hasten the concealment of his newly- 
 acquired wealth. Diavolo, not less alarmed than his host, 
 hurriedly snatched his purse from the table, and buried it in the 
 folds of his cloak. Both listened for a moment in breathless 
 suspense, and gazed on each other the while with looks of intense 
 anxiety — Diavolo almost unconsciously drawing a pistol from 
 his belt, and holding it down by his side, in readiness to fire 
 upon the very first appearance of an enemy. 
 
THE LAST FEAT OF FRA DIAVOLO. 331 
 
 Girolamo rose from the table, proceeded on tiptoe to the door, 
 opened it cautiously, and thrust out his head to ascertain the 
 cause of the uproar. 
 
 " Poh, poh !" he said, again shutting the door, and returning 
 to his guest, " a false alarm : Tis but one of these drunken 
 dogs of Frenchmen singing a chanson a boire. 
 
 ( " Well, well," replied Diavolo gruffly, and replacing his 
 pistol in his belt. " 'Tis well it is nothing worse. Let the 
 fellows sing away there till their throats crack." Having said 
 this, the bandit and his host resumed their conversation and 
 their wine : — the former, however, was now conducted in a 
 much lower key than it had been before. 
 
 " I say, friend, now" pursued Girolamo, addressing his guest, 
 " what dost intend to do with the wench thou hast up the way 
 yonder ?" 
 
 " Why," replied the brigand, " I believe that she and her 
 father will expect their liberty on my return, as I have received 
 the value of the old boy's order ; but I'm not prepared alto- 
 gether for that, either. She's a devilish pretty girl, Girolamo ; 
 and between you and I, would make a choice companion for a 
 gentleman of my profession. So I think, after all, I shall con- 
 stitute her the soother of my cares and the solacer of my leisure 
 hours — that is, I think, pretty near the phraseology in which 
 your romance-writers would speak of such a connexion." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! very well," replied mine host of the Sun, laughing. 
 " You couldn't do better. She's certainly a very nice-looking 
 wench, and I dare say well deserving the honour you intend 
 her." 
 
 " I warrant she is/' rejoined Diavolo : " as pretty and gentle a 
 creature as you'll meet with any where ! " 
 
 u She's French," interjected Girolamo. 
 
 " Why, I think she is," said his companion. 
 
 " Nay, I know it," added Girolamo ; " and I know something 
 more about her besides." 
 
 " Ah ! when didst pick up that knowledge ?" 
 
 " Why, when she and her father were here, you know they 
 slept in my house on the night before you met them. Well, I 
 was very civil to both, and the old fellow over a bottle of wine 
 with me, after his daughter had retired to bed, blabbed it." 
 
 " Or rather thou didst pump it out of him," said Diavolo, 
 laughing. " Thou'rt an admirable sucker of secrets, Girolamo. 
 There is not thy match within a hundred miles. Well, but 
 what of the wench and her father ?" 
 
 " Why, he's a Frenchman, as I told you before, at least by 
 implication : — the Baron de Metteville, a rich old fellow. Some 
 two years since his daughter, the girl now with him, whose 
 name is Emily, fell in love with a young gentleman of the name 
 
332 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 of Francis Aubigny. Well, you see, the old boy didn't approve 
 of this connexion ; for, although the young fellow was of good 
 family, good character, and handsome person, he was not rich. 
 The old story you know in love matters, Diavolo. — Well, as he 
 didn't approve of his daughter's marrying Francis, what does he 
 do but whips her away to one of his distant country seats, and 
 there shuts her up and watches her himself like a tiger : but 
 he is tenderly attached to the wench for all this. — Well, you 
 see, on the young lady being carried off, the poor lad, Francis, 
 after making many fruitless attempts to open a correspondence 
 with her, and some still vainer efforts to obtain an interview, 
 what does he do in his despair, but list, list as a private soldier. 
 Having done this, he marched off with his regiment, and was 
 killed the other day at the battle of Austerlitz. But what was 
 the consequence of the crossing of the young lady's love, think 
 you? Why, she fell ill, has been ever since in a declining way, 
 and had latterly grown so bad, that it was necessary she should 
 have a change of air. Italy was recommended ; — and so here 
 they are — and so ends my story." 
 
 " And a mighty pretty one it is," said Diavolo ; " but since 
 the old fellow is so devilish rich, I'm sorry we didn't bleed him 
 a little more freely. However, I suppose we must now be 
 content. The devil a florin he has on him, and I shouldn't like 
 to run the risk again, of cashing his drafts. As to this discon- 
 solate lover, his daughter, I'll bring her round, I warrant ye. 
 Leave me alone for managing broken-hearted maidens. — " 
 
 " And leave me alone for managing atrocious villains like 
 you ! " shouted out a young French soldier, leaping suddenly 
 from a recess in the apartment, and at the same instant dis- 
 charging a pistol at the bandit's head, which stretched him 
 lifeless on the floor. It was Francis Aubigny ; he was one of 
 a party of chasseurs, who had arrived at Girolamo's about two 
 hours before, and, exhausted with the fatigues of a long march, 
 had, unknown to the latter, discovered and taken possession of 
 a bed by which the recess alluded to was occupied, and which 
 v/as concealed by a sliding panel — where he had overheard, with 
 what interest, and with what amazement, we leave the reader to 
 imagine — the conversation that had just passed between Girolamo 
 and Diavolo, and which at once informed him of the vicinity of 
 his Emily, and of the jeopardy she was in. 
 
 On Diavolo's falling, Francis seized Girolamo by the breast, 
 and holding another pistol to his head — 
 
 " Knave," he said, " you must be aware that I know of your 
 villany, of your connexion with that ruffian," pointing to the 
 body of Diavolo, " in the robbery of the Baron de Metteville, 
 and that I could, by a single word, have you hanged over your 
 own door. Now, sir, I'll make a bargain with you. If you will 
 
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE, 
 
 BY MRS. FAIRLIE. 
 
 EDITED BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 " There is but one house in the village to be let, sir," said an 
 elderly woman in reply to our inquiries, " and I do not know if 
 you would like to take that." 
 
 " Is it clean and airy?" I asked. 
 
 " It is a neat little cottage, and was a very comfortable one ; 
 but many years have elapsed since any one has lived there." 
 
 u Can we see it V* 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, it is about half a mile off the high road. I wiF 
 show you the way, and we pass the Three Bells, so we can ge 
 the keys from Mr. Mills, for he has them." 
 
 The walk lay through a beautiful country. The village of D- i 
 was in a valley, at the distance of only a mile from the sea, but 
 which was not visible from it ; except the clergyman of the pa- 
 rish, and a wealthy brewer, none of the inhabitants were above 
 the labouring class. The houses were of picturesque forms, the 
 gables facing the street. The Three Bells was the only public- 
 house, and it was a model for a village alehouse. As we ap- 
 proached, I observed two aged men sitting on benches in the 
 porch, with pipes and foaming ale before them. Basking in the 
 sun lay a large shaggy dog, and beside it was a beautiful child 
 of about two years old, the grandaughter of the landlord, who- 
 stood at the door of his dwelling, contemplating her with evi- 
 dent delight. He was a portly man of bright smiling counte- 
 nance, whose ruddy glow was evidently induced by health, and 
 not by habits of intemperance. On being asked for the key 
 of Morton's old farm, he begged us to enter his little parlour, 
 and rest while he went to fetch it. It was a small low room, 
 panelled with oak, and the cieling intersected by huge beams ; 
 a polished corner-cupboard displayed a goodly store of old In- 
 dian china, among which a punch-bowl was conspicuous. A 
 wood fire burnt upon the hearth for the purpose of boiling the 
 kettle ; on the high chimney-piece stood sundry mock shepherds 
 and lambs, and above hung strings of birds' eggs. But I have left 
 
 2 c 
 
338 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 to be last described, the most interesting of the contents of the 
 little chamber. This was the landlord's mother, a venerable 
 woman in her ninetieth year. She was employed in knitting, 
 and chanted rather than sang a monotonous air. 
 
 To say she had complete possession of her faculties would be 
 incorrect, but she retained her senses in a great degree. It has 
 always appeared to me a most benevolent arrangement of Pro- 
 vidence, that in childhood and in extreme age, afflictions are less 
 keenly felt, and we are more easily amused than in the prime and 
 vigour of life. Were sorrow to fall as acutely on the heart of 
 the child and the grandsire, as on man in his prime, their feeble 
 constitutions would sink beneath the blow. Afflictions purify, 
 and make him who feels them bow to the Almighty hand which 
 inflicts them. We oftener turn to God in our grief than in our 
 joy. The child will play thoughtlessly till he is hurt; but no 
 sooner does he feel the pain caused by his own folly, the spite of 
 his playmates, or accident, than he remembers his mother, and 
 seeks in her arms comfort and compassion. 
 
 Dame Mills, as I have said, retained considerable possession 
 of her faculties. When we entered, she bowed and requested 
 we would be seated — like all English people, high or low, 
 remarked on the weather — and then, apparently oblivious of our 
 presence, she recommenced her ditty. I longed to have a 
 sketch of her, seated in her high-backed oak chair, in the pa- 
 nelled chamber, her silvery locks turned over a cushion on her 
 forehead, surmounted by a plaited mob-cap, which sat closely 
 to her cheeks. Her features were high, and she had evidently 
 possessed considerable beauty. She wore a dark gray gown, 
 with elbow-sleeves, over which the linen ones were turned up ; 
 a snow-white kerchief and apron completed her attire. Many 
 moments had not elapsed, ere our host returned with the key of 
 the house we purposed visiting : we thanked him, saluted the 
 aged dame, and proceeded on our walk, still guided by our 
 former conductress, whom we found was a Mrs. Martin, the wife 
 of the Vulcan of D — 
 
 A gradual ascent, whence we had a fine view of the ocean, 
 led us to the Old Farm, as we found it universally called. It 
 was a low stone building, with numerous gables, each surmounted 
 by a kind of spire. The windows were large, with stone mul- 
 lions, filled with diamond-shaped panes of glass. Ivy and cle- 
 matis overgrew the porch. The garden had evidently been long 
 neglected. The tall chimneys emitted no smoke — no watch-dog 
 barked as we approached. The only sound we heard was the 
 cawing of some rooks, which had built their nests in the tall 
 trees near the deserted dwelling. We walked on in silence, for 
 there was something solemn in the stillness of the place which 
 sealed our lips. The key grated in the lock from disuse, and 
 
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 339 
 
 the rusty hinges turned with difficulty ; but at length the door 
 yielded to our efforts, and we entered the kitchen. In the large 
 open chimney daws had built, for years, undisturbed by smoke. 
 Besides this, the house contained two other chambers, and a 
 washhouse and dairy, on the ground floor ; above, were three 
 more rooms. 
 
 " It is a charming old house," said I. " Do you know what 
 rent is asked V* 
 
 Mrs. Martin professed ignorance of the precise sum, but 
 added, " The landlord would take very little, I believe, for there's 
 few would like to live here." 
 
 " And why ?" I asked, in astonishment. 
 
 This led to an explanation, which the following pages will 
 convey to the reader. 
 
 James Morton was a small farmer, cultivating about sixty 
 acres of land. His wife was a hard-working, industrious woman, 
 and an excellent manager ; and what greater treasure can any 
 man of limited income possess than a thrifty, prudent helpmate ? 
 Martha Morton had never borne but two children. The elder, 
 Peggy, was, at the time my story commences, about eighteen. 
 William, her brother, was two years younger. They were both 
 healthy and well-looking — had been taught reading, writing, 
 and arithmetic. Peggy was an excellent dairywoman, expert at 
 her needle, and bade fair to make as good a wife as her mother. 
 
 But no family is without its cares and sorrows ; and James and 
 Martha Morton lamented over the strange perversity of their 
 son, who was resolutely bent on following a seafaring life, 
 instead of remaining quietly at home, to assist his father in 
 agriculture, now that his increasing strength made his services 
 valuable. But William was an only son, doted on by both 
 parents, and, moreover, a dutiful, affectionate lad. When he 
 saw the grief which his inclination to tempt the deep caused to 
 his father and mother, he declared his willingness to abandon 
 his own wishes and accede to theirs ; but he looked so sad as he 
 said this, that they agreed it was a pity to thwart him ; and 
 accordingly William, full of dreams of glory, embarked for his 
 first voyage on board a merchant-ship destined for . 
 
 It was a sorrowful scene, the parting between the parents and 
 their children, between Peggy and her beloved brother, her only 
 one; — the playmate of her infancy, the companion of her now 
 almost womanly years, the confidant of her simple hopes and 
 fears. " When we meet again, my Peggy," said William, " you 
 will be married, and I an uncle." — " For shame, William," re- 
 plied she, blushing ; but at the same time her smile showed that 
 the ideas he raised did not displease her. " Pray, pray, my 
 dear boy, be careful when you climb those rope-ladders," said 
 the anxious mother, " and mind your prayers night and morn- 
 
 2 c 2 
 
340 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 ing." " I wish you would bring me over a bull with a hump 
 on his back," said the farmer, " and some of their foreign 
 grain." — " And don't forget my parrot, William," said his 
 sister. The boy was tenderly embraced by them all, brushed 
 away a tear, and was soon on board the Thames, a fine vessel, 
 which sailed that same day. Farmer Morton, his wife and 
 daughter, returned home sad and silent. Months elapsed ere 
 any tidings of the mariner reached the farm ; but at length a 
 letter was received, giving a pleasing account of all that had 
 occurred. William was delighted with the sea, describing the 
 captain as kind, and all his shipmates as gallant, noble fel- 
 lows. Need I say that joy reigned in Farmer Morton's abode ? { 
 
 Some time after, a second letter, in the same joyous strain, 
 reached them ; and for nearly three years they received tidings 
 from the beloved voyager twice or thrice in each twelve 
 months. At the end of this time, a small gray parrot arrived. 
 
 " I have taught it my name, dear Peggy," wrote her brother, 
 " and I do not think you will any of you like it the less for re- 
 minding you of me." — " Dear boy ! Lord bless his kind heart !" 
 cried the dame. "William! where's William?" said the 
 parrot. The old woman and her daughter fairly melted into 
 tears ; the farmer walked to the door, but I am inclined to suspect 
 it was to conceal a moistened eye. — The bird became a special 
 favourite with the trio, and even the ploughboy seemed to feel 
 pleasure in it ; but perhaps it was because he found it gained 
 him many kind looks and words from his employers. 
 
 From this time the Mortons never heard directly or indirectly of 
 the absentee. At first they hoped from week to week that ere 
 the next Sunday they should hear from him, but when the Rector 
 after service would talk to his little congregation in the church- 
 yard, the faces of the Mortons told too plainly that they were 
 disappointed in their fond hopes, for it to be inquired if 
 they had news of William. About two years afterwards, a 
 
 sailor, who had returned to D , brought intelligence that 
 
 the Thames merchant - ship had been blown up in an en- 
 gagement with a French vessel, — and now all his relations were 
 convinced that William had perished in the engagement. So 
 certain were they of this, that his father caused his name to be 
 inserted on the stone which marked the family grave, and stated 
 that he had perished at sea aged nineteen years. Time rolled 
 on, and Peggy became the wife of Arthur Mills, a young man to 
 whom she had been attached from childhood. On removing to 
 her new home in the village, she left the parrot, William's gift, 
 with her mother. 
 
 U Now that I am to lose you, Peggy," the old woman would 
 say, " I need poor Polly more than ever." 
 
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 341 
 
 "But I will often come and see you, dear mother, up at the 
 old farm, and, however I may love Arthur, I will never forget 
 my affection for you and father." 
 
 " You are a dear good child, and a comfort and a blessing to 
 us, Peggy," said the old farmer ; " and who is to be at the 
 wedding, dear V* 
 
 " Susan, Arthur's sister, is to be bridesmaid, and Mary and 
 Jane Collins, and Mary's intended, Tom Astell, and John 
 Smithson, and — " 
 
 " William, where's William V 9 said the parrot. 
 
 Peggy was mute, large tears coursing each other down her 
 cheeks ; James Morton and the mother were likewise overcome, 
 and glad to be left alone to give free vent to their feelings ; the 
 two women departed to their respective chambers for the night, 
 while the farmer sat down for a short time in the chimneys 
 corner, ere he followed their example. 
 
 Next morning the sun shone brightly on the bridal party, 
 and the rector pronounced Arthur Mills and Margaret Morton 
 man and wife. Subsequently he baptized five of their children, 
 two ' girls and three boys ; but on the day that the fifth was 
 christened, it became an orphan. Arthur's health had long 
 been in a declining state, yet he would attend his wife and 
 infant to church. It was a cold winter's day, and during the 
 baptismal ceremony, he was seized with shivering fits. Medical 
 aid was unavailing, and that night Peggy became a widow. 
 
 Her grief was deep and lasting ; but she had now five little ones 
 dependant on her for support. Arthur and his wife had always 
 
 borne high characters in D , and many now stood forward 
 
 to assist the widow and her young family. The rector had 
 lately married a lady of large property, whose benevolent 
 heart made her ready to second all his efforts for the good of 
 his little flock. A day-school had long been a desideratum in 
 the parish, and Peggy was installed as its mistress, two months 
 after her loss, at a regular salary, in a neat cottage attached to 
 the school-room, rent free. At first the task of instructing so 
 many children was irksome to her, but her mind could hardly 
 dwell on her sorrows when so employed, and in this, as in every 
 other instance, occupation was a solace to the wounded spirit. 
 
 It is not only unwise, but sinful, to encourage sorrow for the 
 death of those of whom it is the will of heaven to deprive us ; 
 " we should remember •" The Lord gave, and the Lord hath 
 taken away," and should learn to say " Blessed be the name 
 of the Lord !" We should be more or less than human did we 
 not feel, and often deeply feel, the loss of a beloved object; 
 such grief is not forbidden us ; but we are forbidden to " sorrow 
 as without hope." 
 
 Peggy managed to rear and educate her five children re- 
 
342 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 spectably though humbly ; but in the mean time her parents had 
 sadly fallen in circumstances, m The landlord under whom they 
 had held their farm for many years died suddenly. His heir- 
 at-law was a cousin, who had never even visited the county ; 
 and who was now prevented by numerous commercial specula- 
 tions in a distant part of the kingdom from inspecting the 
 property to which he had become entitled. An agent was con- 
 sequently appointed, who was to be paid by a per-centage out 
 of the produce of the estate, and who immediately began by 
 raising the rents, and increasing the size of the farms. This 
 system forced many from the land which they had all their lives 
 occupied ; but Morton, rather than quit his farm, had agreed to 
 take an additional sixty acres. He had not the assistance of 
 sons, as many of his neighbours had ; and he was now growing 
 old : that he failed to pay punctually may be readily surmised, 
 and Mr. Flint, the agent, accordingly gave him notice to quit. 
 
 Morton and his wife were one evening talking over their 
 blighted prospects, and trying to form some plan for their future 
 existence, when a low knock was heard at their door. The 
 farmer rose to open it, and a man appeared in the porch. 
 
 " Can you give a traveller a night's lodging?' 7 inquired the 
 stranger. 
 
 " We shall soon be driven to seek a shelter for ourselves," 
 replied the farmer, whose temper was soured by the previous 
 conversation with his dame. 
 
 "lam sorry to hear it, good folks," returned the man ; " but 
 I can pay for my bed and board, thank God !" 
 
 " Well, come in, come in," growled Morton ; " it's not much 
 we can offer you." 
 
 The wayfarer approached the hearth, on which a log of wood 
 burnt brightly. 
 
 " I could imagine myself at home," cried he. 
 
 " It will not long be our home, at any rate," was the farmer's 
 rejoinder. 
 
 Supper was brought, and their guest eat heartily, but he could 
 elicit very few words from Morton, whose wife scarcely spoke. 
 
 *' William ! where's William?" uttered a voice. 
 
 The stranger started. 
 
 " Tis our Poll," said Martha, in reply to his inquiring gaze. 
 
 The conversation presently turned on the West Indies, where 
 the young man stated he had been ; and he soon told his enter- 
 tainers he had but lately landed with upwards of £200, which 
 he was about to take to his aged parents. 
 
 " And they expect you V* asked the dame. 
 
 11 No ; my arrival will surprise them beyond measure. It is 
 probable they would not even recognise me were I to see and 
 speak to them." 
 
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 343 
 
 " Impossible, young man ! you know not a mother's heart, or 
 you would feel sure she would immediately hail her son." 
 
 " Well, well," replied the stra lger, " I hope to-morrow, ere 
 this hour, to be folded to my parents' hearts." 
 
 He shortly after pleaded fatigue, and retired to the small 
 chmber the hostess had prepared for h im. 
 
 Earlier in the evening, Peggy's school had just broken up, and 
 she was giving her younger children their supper of bread and 
 milk, when Arthur, the eldest, rushed into the room, crying, 
 " Mother, here is a stranger who wants to see you." — And at 
 ,the same moment a dark and foreign-looking man entered the 
 humble dwelling of the widow, and advanced rapidly towards 
 her. He strove to embrace her ; but, quickly disengaging her- 
 self from him, she said, 
 
 " Sir, I am surprised that a gentleman of your appearance 
 should insult a lone woman !" 
 
 The person addressed regarded her fixedly, and then said, 
 
 " Is it possible that my darling sister should have so entirely 
 forgotten me ? Peggy, I am William !" 
 
 Peggy sank upon a chair, uttered an hysteric laugh, and then 
 tears came to her relief. 
 
 11 Can it be ? Oh ! William, for twelve long years we have 
 mourned you as dead. But where are the shining locks and fair 
 complexion of my brother ? Oh, for God's sake, do not deceive 
 me ! If you are not my brother, what seek you here ? I with 
 difficulty support my five orphans, and my aged father and 
 mother are in almost hourly expectation of being driven from 
 their home, to seek a refuge in the workhouse." 
 
 Fresh floods of tears, and stifling sobs, choked her utterance, 
 and gave William an opportunity of reassuring her of his 
 identity, though years of hardship beneath a burning sun had 
 so changed his appearance, that even now she could scarcely 
 believe it was he whom she beheld. 
 
 They talked long and earnestly of the various changes which 
 had taken place since they parted. 
 
 " And so you are my namesake," said he, to a rosy boy of 
 five years old. " And you?" he inquired, turning to the eldest. 
 
 " He bears his father's name," replied Peggy," and Baby is 
 called after his grandfather." 
 
 " Yes, me Jemmy Mills," said the child ; " and here's Peggy 
 and Mattie." 
 
 » And will you all love Uncle William V' 
 
 " Oh yes, yes !" exclaimed they, embracing him. 
 
 " How fortunate it is," said William, " that I should have 
 returned j ust now, when my dear parents so much need assistance ! 
 I have not come home a beggar, Peggy. See here ; and he 
 
344 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 exhibited a canvass bag", containing gold and notes to a large 
 amount. 
 
 " I thank God you are come," said his sister ; " and I would 
 equally rejoice were you penniless." 
 
 " But I must go and see my father and mother," cried he. 
 u I must tell them they shall not leave the old farm ;" and he 
 took his hat and rose from the seat. 
 
 " Pray, pray, wait till morning, and I will accompany you," 
 interposed Peggy. " Our parents are now aged, and the sur- 
 prise of seeing you might have an ill effect on them in their 
 feeble state." 
 
 " Do you think they would know me, sister ?" he asked. 
 
 " 1 am sure that they would not," returned Peggy. " Time 
 has effected such a total alteration in your features, that I do 
 not perceive even the slightest trace of your former self. Your 
 voice, too, which was shrill and childish, is now deep-toned. No 
 — they could not recognise you." 
 
 " In that case I will go and ask a night's lodging, which they 
 will not, I am sure, refuse to any traveller ; for see them to- 
 night I must, the dear souls !" 
 
 " Well, since you are determined to go to the old farm, 
 William, promise me, at all events, you will not reveal yourself 
 to them to-night. I will be there to-morrow by seven in the 
 morning, and do, I beg of you, let me have the pleasure of wit- 
 nessing their delight at the restoration of the son over whose 
 supposed death they and I have so often wept. Arthur and I 
 used often to talk of you, William, and he would sometimes predict 
 your return. Alas ! he cannot hail the fulfilment of his hopes." 
 
 " Arthur was an honest-hearted, noble fellow," replied her 
 brother, " and I hope his children may resemble him/' 
 
 " Amen, amen !" cried the widowed matron, pressing her 
 slumbering babe more closely to her bosom. 
 
 William left his sister's cottage to sleep, after years of ab- 
 sence, beneath the paternal roof; and I have already recorded 
 his reception there. 
 
 Morning dawned, and the first rays of the sun found Peggy 
 and her children risen from their beds. Arthur, with childlike 
 eagerness, ran as soon as he was dressed to acquaint the neigh- 
 bours with the fact that his uncle, his mother's brother, had re- 
 turned from sea with loads of money ; and the consequence was 
 that her house was besieged with inquirers at an early hour — 
 and all rejoiced in the happiness of the humble and kind-hearted 
 Peggy* Two or three of her most intimate friends proposed to 
 accompany her to the abode of Farmer Morton, and she gladly 
 accepted their escort ; for agitation and a sleepless night had 
 made her so nervous and weak, she felt scarce equal to the task 
 
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 345 
 
 of carrying her baby. It was not more than half-past six when 
 the party reached the old farm. They were consequently sur- 
 prised to find the old man and his wife astir, and the stone floor 
 of the kitchen wet, having evidently undergone recent ablution. 
 
 Although the bright and smiling countenances of Peggy and 
 her children, and the joyous conscious looks of her companions, 
 might plainly show that no sorrowful errand brought them there, 
 the old people asked hastily and in alarm what was the matter. 
 Smiles were interchanged by the little group, and Peggy said, 
 " Tell me, dear mother, did not a stranger come to you last night?" 
 
 Martha became deadly pale, and then replied, " No," The 
 monosyllable was uttered with effort. 
 
 " No," said Morton, " we have seen no stranger." 
 
 " Good God ! he said he would come here. Twas scarcely 
 dark, and he could not have lost his way," cried Peggy. 
 
 " Who, what do you mean, Peggy ? and you, neighbours, 
 what brings you here by sunrise 1 I tell you no stranger has 
 been here." 
 
 " Ah ! I see, I see," cried Peggy ; " he could not keep the 
 secret, and told you who he was, or you discovered him." 
 
 " Yes, grandfather did not forget uncle William, though you 
 did, mother," said one of the children. The old man gazed with 
 fixed eyes upon the speaker, and muttered " William ?" 
 
 " You found him out, didn't you, farmer?" asked one of 
 Peggy's companions ; but she received no reply. A noise was 
 heard — they turned — and beheld Martha Morton extended on 
 'the floor, the blood gushing plentifully from her lips. " We 
 have killed her ! we have killed her !" screamed Peggy, rushing 
 towards her mother. The old woman was raised and carried to 
 her bed. 
 
 Peggy was too much agitated to notice it, but the neighbours 
 observed the bed was undisturbed, as if it had not been occupied 
 the previous night. — Presently the bleeding ceased, and the un- 
 fortunate woman appeared to sink into a state of insensibility. It 
 was now remarked that the farmer had not followed the group 
 into his wife's chamber ; and, leaving one of the women to tend 
 Martha, the two others proceeded with Peggy to the kitchen. 
 The baby. Jemmy, sat on the floor, playing with a kitten, but 
 no one else was there ; at the same moment the four elder 
 children entered the room. 
 
 "See here, see here!" cried one, " this is uncle William's 
 stick, which he lent me last night to ride upon." 
 
 Peggy remembered it perfectly. It was a foreign cane which 
 she had remarked the previous evening. 
 
 " Where is your grandfather ?" she inquired : " I don't know, 
 mother," replied each. 
 
 " Me know," said the little one, " him dip in water." 
 
 They flew to the pond, but saw nothing ; the child however per- 
 
346 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 sisted in his story. One of the women ran to D — , to fetch the 
 doctor, and some neighbours. During her absence, every search 
 was made for Morton, but not a trace of him discovered. 
 Half an hour elapsed ere the messenger returned ; but when she 
 did, the men proceeded to drag the pond, and the medical man 
 hastened to the assistance of Martha. 
 
 " She has ruptured a blood-vessel," said he, " and I cannot 
 answer for her life. The slightest exertion or agitation must 
 inevitably kill her." — Mr. King administered some restoratives, 
 and in about twenty minutes, Dame Morton opened her eyes. 
 
 te Are you better, dear mother ?" inquired the anxious Peggy. 
 She gazed with a haggard look on her daughter, and strove to 
 speak, but the words were unintelligible. 
 
 " William ! where's William?" cried the parrot. 
 
 " Murdered, and by his parents !" shrieked Martha. 
 
 Peggy rose from the bed, on the side of which she had sat, 
 and would have fallen, had not the surgeon caught her in his 
 arms. The other woman opened the door, and what a sight 
 presented itself! The men who had been dragging the pond^ 
 bore into the farm kitchen two bodies — that of the old man was 
 still warm, but there was another only half dressed. A severe 
 contusion darkened the brow, and a large wound appeared in 
 the throat. Two bags of shot, and the weights of the clock, 
 were tied to the feet and wrists, evidently with the intention of 
 sinking the corpse. 
 
 All present gazed with horror and amazement on the dreadful 
 spectacle, and the little Arthur screamed, " Tis uncle William !" 
 
 All efforts to restore farmer Morton to animation proved 
 futile ; and Mr. King at length relinquished the hopeless task, 
 and turned his attention to the wife, but ere night she too was 
 dead. Concealed in various parts of the house were found the 
 clothes which William had worn, and in the flour-chest lay the 
 canvass bag which he had exhibited to his sister. For years 
 after, Peggy was in a state of mental imbecility, and her children 
 were placed in a charity-school, — all but Arthur, who was taken 
 by a lady as her page. By his good conduct he so ingratiated 
 himself in the family, that he at length rose to be their butler % 
 and when death deprived him of his employers, the legacy they 
 generously bequeathed to him, and his own savings, enabled 
 him to set up the " Three Bells," in his native village. He 
 took his mother home to live with him. " You saw her to-day, 
 Ma'am," said our guide. 
 
 " What !" I cried, " was that venerable woman Peggy Mills V 
 
 Her reply was in the affirmative. 
 
 We retraced our steps to D , and gazed on the aged 
 
 Peggy with increased interest ; but the story we had heard was 
 not such an one as to induce us to become tenants of u The 
 Old Farm-house." 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. 
 
 T£ere were two merchants living in Venice, who were re- 
 puted to be of immense wealth, and who had, consequently, a very 
 considerable intercourse, as money-lenders, with the profligate 
 noblemen of that abundantly " demoralized metropolis." 
 
 They were skilled in the markets of foreign countries : they had 
 sent their ample ventures abroad upon the seas, and had seen them- 
 selves blessed with success : the winds of heaven, the inconstant 
 winds — the agents of destruction to the fortunes of other men, — 
 had wafted vast accumulations into the iron-bound coffers of the 
 merchant-brothers. By one of those ordinances which are in- 
 scrutable in the eyes of men, these merchants had prospered 
 in the amassing of vast wealth, whilst others, with as much honesty 
 of intention, and who were certainly less rigorous in their deal- 
 ings, had struggled through the endless labyrinths of adversity, 
 and died in poverty and' wretchedness, leaving widows to weep 
 the tears of unavailing misery, and orphan children to shriek 
 under the bitter privations of gnawing want, and to shriek in 
 their agony unnoticed and unrelieved. 
 
 The brothers were not natives of Venice. They were of that 
 once rejected and long-persecuted race whose fortune it has 
 been to wander over every land : whose members, with appa- 
 rently no abiding place, have gathered unto themselves gold 
 and jewels, and by degrees become, as it were, necessary to the 
 very existence of the countries upon which they were thrown. 
 
 Of the fourteen hundred Hebrews who inhabited the Sestiera, 
 or quarter of the city set apart for the express residence of Jews, 
 the brothers Zebulon and Jasaph were, beyond all calculation, 
 the richest; and as they had no rivals in their wealth, neither 
 had they any claimants on their kindred. They were in that 
 large assembly without a relative, and, excepting the company 
 of a waiting-woman named Leah, they lived in their large man- 
 sion alone. Now Leah herself was a legitimate descendant 
 from the walkers of the wilderness, and she served her wealthy 
 elders with a fidelity and devotion unexcelled even in the times 
 of patriarchal simplicity. 
 
 Years of uninterrupted prosperity passed over the heads of 
 the merchants, and they began at length to relax in their desire 
 
348 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 of obtaining riches, in order that they might have leisure to in- 
 dulge in the contemplation of what they had amassed. If, in- 
 deed, every recess of their hearts could have been minutely 
 searched, I am not prepared to say that another and a simpler 
 cause would not have been found : in other words, the season 
 for adventure had waned with them, and the fear of losing any 
 part of what they now had, set in with as strong a current as 
 did formerly the desire, at every hazard, to gain more. 
 
 "Whatever similarity there may incidentally appear between 
 relative individuals in society, yet there are distinctive traits in 
 every mind, which only require the pressure of circumstances for 
 their development, and which, in their revelation, not unfre- 
 quently show a rugged disparity beneath, where, at the sur- 
 face, all appeared as even as a polished mirror. Day by day 
 did the brothers grow more intensely enamoured of their riches ; 
 but the elder, Zebulon, carried his passion to a degree which 
 threatened the extinction of every other feeling. The gold in 
 which he had formerly delighted, now became necessary to his 
 existence — it was as the air he breathed — he lived but on its 
 contemplation. 
 
 In the ample mansion of the merchants, there was one noble 
 room set apart solely to the business of their traffic — a species, 
 of general counting-room, where the huge registers of their trans- 
 actions were kept in a kind of ducal though dusty grandeur. 
 This apartment was hung round with the gorgeous tapestry of 
 the time, and presented, to ordinary examination, the appear- 
 ance of a complete costly office for the accommodation of men 
 wealthy and thriving like themselves. On one side of this 
 apartment, and effectually screened by the ponderous folds of 
 the crimson drapery, was a recess, skilfully constructed in the 
 days of their dawning prosperity, in which lay concealed the 
 mighty amount of their successful dealings. The door of this 
 vast coffer, for it bore a resemblance to nothing else, was formed 
 of triple iron, and secured by a spring bolt of exquisite con- 
 trivance — the workmanship of a foreign artizan, who was 
 engaged expressly for its execution. This door could only be 
 opened from without, and the device was resorted to in order 
 that if, by some unforeseen accident, any one should discover the 
 recess, they might be deprived of the means of returning, and so 
 be detected in their unhallowed intrusion by the legitimate 
 masters of the golden mine. The floor was covered with layer on 
 layer of the thickest Venetian carpeting, so that no human foot 
 might be heard to tread upon it. Around this inner chamber 
 were ranged the dazzling proceeds of his life of enterprize, and 
 here did Zebulon spend such hours of nameless ecstacy as human 
 pen could never yet describe. 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. ' 349 
 
 Now Jasaph followed in the footsteps of his elder brother ; 
 but not with equal alacrity : though passionately fond of his 
 treasure, he found that there was yet a something which his 
 heart desired, and which the possession of unnumbered riches 
 could not well supply. 
 
 And what was the power which was striving for mastery with 
 the fondness for gold in the heart of the Hebrew ? It was love ! 
 How feeble are the fortifications of the strongest heart when love 
 assails the barriers ! The current of Jasaph's blood had not 
 yet become cold. His sight was not so fascinated by daily 
 intercourse with the wealth of " furthest Ind," but he could 
 discern that there was something else worth living for. The 
 vagaries of love are manifold ; and who can lay his hand upon 
 his heart and say he is secure? Who can say, "here is an, 
 adamantine barrier o'er which thou canst not pass !" Hath it 
 not penetrated the marble bosoms of kings and tyrants ? Hath 
 not the heart of a warrior fluttered beneath his triple mail like 
 that of a dove in the nest of her affection ? And shall the 
 gaberdine of a Hebrew merchant be proof against its power? 
 The unpretending services of the waiting-woman, Leah, had 
 found favour in the eyes of Jasaph, and, in the absence of more 
 spirit-stirring occupations, he had dwelt upon them with an 
 overweening admiration. 
 
 Leah, though quick to discern, was slow to acknowledge " by 
 compliment extern," that she was aware of her progress in the 
 Hebrew's affections. Still did she demean herself in all things 
 plainly and humbly, as one who knew and felt that she was but 
 a waiter in the house of the wealthy ; and much did Jasaph 
 marvel that the eyes of the Jewess should be so continually 
 bent towards the ground, when he would have been well content 
 to have them rivetted upon himself. 
 
 It is not, however, in the nature of woman to be wholly ob- 
 durate : after a time, Leah did seem aware of the Hebrew's 
 partiality, which, as may naturally be inferred, occasioned all 
 the sweet confusion that a female of the middle age may be 
 supposed to feel in such a strange emergency. Now came into 
 play the language which, either in old or young, was never yet 
 spoken in vain, — when eye responds, to eye, and says, however 
 marked the gaze, " Look on for I feel no offence !" Kinder 
 words at length were spoken, in a softer tone; directions, 
 which were wont to be conveyed in solitary sentences, were 
 now linked into lengthened conversations, the waiting-woman 
 seemed gratified by the condescension of her amatory master, 
 and he was overjoyed at his success in.wooing. Thus throve 
 they in their furtive loves; and Zebulon — the gold-dazzled 
 Zebulon — wot not of the matter, until he beheld, even 
 
350 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 as in the dim revelation of a dream, his brother Jasaph in earnest 
 conversation with the waiting-woman, and leaning, as it seemed 
 to Zebulon, for support upon her shoulder ! 
 
 Now, hitherto, Jasaph had been able to support himself, or 
 when he could not, his golden-headed staff would do him good 
 service in that office ; why, therefore, should he lean on Leah ? 
 and how became the conversation of so prolonged a nature that 
 he should need her aid in its delivery? When a man asks 
 questions of himself which he cannot answer, he does but ad- 
 minister to his own confusion ; and so it was with Zebulon. He 
 was perplexed by this accidental discovery, of which he could 
 make nothing. The consequence was, that he determined to 
 look less after his wealth, and more at his brother ; for assuredly 
 the time was come when Jasaph could not be allowed to play 
 the fool, even in the house which was partly his own. With 
 this determination Zebulon began to look about him ; and no 
 long time elapsed ere he enabled himself to become a partner 
 in his brother's confidence. 
 
 Unseen and unsuspected, the wily Hebrew entered on his 
 task. Seated on a velvet couch, he beheld his brother Jasaph 
 and the woman of the household. They sat somewhat nearer 
 than accorded with the watcher's ideas of necessity. He heard 
 the low voice of Leah die away in a faint murmur, and to his 
 consternation, Jasaph responded 
 
 " We are wealthy, Leah ! we have amassed — " 
 
 " Hush !" said Leah, " tell me not of it, lest thou shouldst 
 make me covetous." 
 
 " Covetous !" and he clasped her closer to him, " it shall be 
 all thine own — thine own, Leah ! This night will I pour a 
 thousand golden pieces into thy lap, and it shall be for a token 
 between thee and me — a love-token, Leah ! shall it not be so I" 
 And he leant his shrivelled cheek against that of the waiting- 
 woman, who turned, as if impelled by some sudden impulse, — 
 threw her dark arms round her hoary lover, and sealed the bond 
 with a long, long kiss upon his withered lips. 
 
 Oh ! how that sound shot through the palpitating heart of 
 Zebulon ! Light as it was in comparison, he beheld its ability 
 to waft away one thousand golden pieces ! Jasaph's enchan- 
 tress resumed : 
 
 " Thy generous nature I can well believe ; but — " and she 
 lowered her voice as if in trepidation — " but .what will Master 
 Zebulon say of it ? 
 
 " Tush !" said the inamorato, " he shall know nothing thereof, 
 
 Leah, nothing ! Is it not mine own, and shall it not be thine V 
 
 Stunned, and almost senseless, stood the trembling Zebulon. 
 
 Could he believe his ears ? The brother of his soul — the only 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. 351 
 
 trusted partner of his heart in every hope — could he be so lost ? 
 so bewildered by the twinkle of a waiting-woman's eye, as to 
 make an inroad upon that which was wont to be as dear to 
 him as his heart's blood ; and not that alone, but to rob him, 
 his elder and his valued brother. Horrible — horrible ! The 
 afflicted Hebrew could endure no more ; mournfully he bent 
 his noiseless steps towards the solitude of his chamber. 
 
 In the mean time the shades of twilight, drawing slowly round, 
 warned Leah that the evening repast was not yet prepared ; and 
 although Jasaph might live on love, she could not well expect 
 that Zebulon would fare so slightly. With seeming reluctance 
 she shrank from him, but not until a pledge had been given 
 that, at the deep midnight, she should receive the golden 
 « token." 
 
 "When Jasaph found himself alone, he felt as one from whom 
 the tempter has departed. The spell was relaxed ; it did not 
 press upon his senses with that forceful fascination which it 
 exercised in the presence of the sybil. Slowly rising on his 
 half-distracted mind, he beheld the semblance of the coffer he 
 was to rifle. He started in dismay. " What ! — golden pieces — 
 were not those the words ? A thousand, was not that the sum ? 
 Oh ! Leah, Leah, thou hast possessed me with a demon !" he 
 exclaimed ; " I am distraught — I cannot ! — no — I cannot!" 
 
 " Did master Jasaph call V said the well-known voice of 
 Leah, as she appeared at the door of the apartment ;"I thought, 
 as I was passing, that I heard my name." 
 
 Again was the Hebrew on the rack. In the brief space which 
 had passed since their separation, Leah had adorned herself, 
 and that too, with the skill of one who believes herself a partner 
 in a game at which she has a chance to lose. She looked, in 
 that dubious light, like to a Jewish maiden in her blossoming. 
 
 " I — I — did speak thy name, Leah — in raptures, to myself — 
 to solace me because thou wert not nigh ! Hush ! I hear a step 
 — at twelve, Leah ! remember twelve !" 
 
 Leah glided like a shadow from his presence, but Jasaph was 
 deceived ; the only step he heard was in his own misgiving ear. 
 
 How passed the anxious hour with Zebulon ? He retired to 
 his chamber, and, after the manner of his countrymen, he 
 rolled himself upon the floor in his agony. He clutched his 
 venerable beard, and beat his aged temples, till the tears stood 
 trembling in his eyes. What an abyss was before him ! The 
 knowledge that his veritable heart's drops were to be wrung 
 from him day by day, would not have caused in him so intense 
 a sorrow : but to know that the gold — the fine gold — the long- 
 eoveted, the anxiously sought, the hardly-earned, the un- 
 speakably adored gold — was to be abstracted nightly to fee the 
 
352 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 ministrations of a wanton ! Oh ! it was madness ! He arose 
 and paced the floor, and, amid the throes of his anxiety, he com- 
 muned with himself : "What if I were to reason with him? 
 Is he not even as a hair-brained youth, and might he not smite 
 me ? And she ! the Jezabel ! might she not poison me ? Oh, 
 my life is in danger, and my gold — more precious far than all 
 the lives that have suffered since the dispersion of our tribes ! 
 Ha ! shall I be robbed and murdered too, and with mine own 
 consent ? No ! no I" 
 
 He stood for a space motionless, his eyes intently fixed 
 upon the ground ; then, suddenly starting, his stern features 
 broke into the de\noniac smile of one who has achieved some 
 power of thought, of more than mortal malignancy ; and reach- 
 ing forth his high cloth cap, he took his staff in his hand and 
 left the apartment. 
 
 " Leah ! M said he, " stand by the door : I will but walk a 
 minute's space, and straight return : stand by the door." 
 
 Leah stood by the door, and she looked into the street ; but 
 her master turned an angle of the Sestiera, and even the light 
 sharp shuffle of his feet was no longer audible. In a few 
 minutes they were heard briskly re-approaching the mansion, and 
 anon he himself entered, taking care to close the door behind 
 him. 
 
 He proceeded at once to the secret chamber, and beheld that 
 Jasaph was there before him. There was a brief greeting be- 
 tween them ; and Zebulon looked around with troubled eyes, as 
 if to penetrate the precise quarter from which the thousand 
 pieces had been taken. 
 
 "And whither went you, brother Zebulon?" said Jasaph: 
 " I would have gone^br you at a word." 
 
 The Hebrew started like a guilty thing at the voice of his 
 brother's kindness. " I did but go to old Bartolo's for my 
 lozenge drops ; my cough was troublesome last night and — 
 and maybe that I shall not sleep well to-night." 
 
 He laid some little stress on the word " well," and as he 
 did so he knocked down the lamp, which was immediately ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 "See!" said Jasaph, peevishly, " I protest thou hast over- 
 turned the lamp ! " 
 
 " I can re-light it," was the reply : " lo ! I have the means." 
 
 "But the oil!" 
 
 " You will scarcely miss it ! " 
 
 The noise of a flint beating on a steel was heard, and Jasaph 
 saw the sparks flying into the case which held the material for 
 combustion. In a moment a broad flare of light burst suddenly 
 upward, and clouds of silvery smoke whirled rapidly through 
 the apartment. With a stifled yell of triumph Zebulon made 
 
Page 353. 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. 353 
 
 ior the door, the handle of which he had scarcely touched, in 
 his tremulous haste, ere the spring; shot, and the door closed 
 upon him. He fell backward, gasping for breath, and shout- 
 ing, as he best could, for the assistance which was never to aid 
 him ! 
 
 When the massive silver time-piece of the housekeeper showed 
 the hour of midnight, she took a small taper in her hand, and, 
 habited as he had last seen her, sought the place of appointment 
 with Jasaph. 
 
 Leah's sensations were by no means tumultuous : quite of 
 another description was the current of ideas which floated calmly 
 through the mind of the wily Jewess. She saw, dimly, indeed, 
 by her feeble taper's light, the source of prosperity opening upon 
 her ; and, if she should use her wealth wisely, a sum of worldly 
 happiness, of a description to which she had hitherto been an 
 utter stranger, might be hers. What ! and with the Hebrew, 
 Jasaph? No, no! Like many in the world, Leah was but 
 playing her own little game of artifice. While Kings and Prin- 
 cesses were contending for sway and splendour, Leah was 
 spreading her lures for happiness and a husband ; but she chose 
 her means of happiness from one source, and her husband from 
 another. 
 
 Few visiters had crossed the threshold of the wealthy mer- 
 chants, save those who came, in effect, to augment the sum of 
 their possessions ; yet there was one, who had been ushered in 
 under the guardian wing of Leah, who had not yet contributed 
 to their riches, and whom they had never seen ; yet had he 
 found favour in the eyes of the Jewess, and for his sake was she 
 now waiting, in meditative silence, the approaching foundation 
 of a dower which would emancipate them both from the tyranny 
 of servitude. 
 
 The favoured of Leah, by name Pietro Tomaso, was merely an 
 artisan — a gay young fellow, who had caught the glance of 
 Leah, in her loneliness, as he passed through the square in 
 which the merchants resided. He was fond of company, but his 
 poverty kept him alone : he had a taste for the indulgences of 
 the table, but his means rendered him temperate : he was, in 
 short, one to whom almost any change would prove a blessing, 
 seeing that scarcely any description of variety could be for the 
 worse. 
 
 Let us return to Leah. One — two — hours had rolled heavily 
 away, yet not a sound was heard which indicated the approxi- 
 mation of the golden shower. The first current of ideas being 
 dispelled, another succeeded, not to the full of so consolatory a 
 character. What had befallen Jasaph ? They never spent the 
 whole night in the temple of their wealth, and wherefore should 
 they on this occasion ? Perplexity sometimes sharpens the wits 
 
 2 D 
 
354 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 of a woman, and those of Leah rose superior to her bewilder- 
 ment. Taking her taper suddenly in her hand, she rushed, in 
 seeming alarm, to the counting-room, through which alone the 
 temple could be entered, and in a wild tone she exclaimed, 
 " Ho ! master Zebulon ! good master Jasaph ! — help — help — 
 thieves ! — the Philistines are upon you — come forth — come forth 
 and aid me !" and, like one overcome by the effects of fear, she 
 fell with violence to the ground. 
 
 As Leah had in some degree anticipated, no master came to 
 aid her in her well-feigned distress : with desperate energy she 
 applied herself to the massive foldings of the velvet tapestry ; 
 she found the iron door, but to open it was beyond her power. 
 She was satisfied that no common calamity had befallen the 
 merchants ; and she calmly took her taper and sought her own 
 apartment. 
 
 The Sestiera di Canale Regio did not contain a brighter eye 
 on the following morning than that which glanced, with the 
 early light, from the door of the Hebrew merchants. But still 
 Pietro came not past, and Leah looked again from door and 
 lattice in her impatience to behold him. At length he came : 
 by an upheld finger his progress was arrested on the spot ; the 
 door slowly opened, and Pietro was cautiously admitted. After 
 a few generalities, scarcely fit to be set forth here, Leah con- 
 fessed that she was embarrassed. She dreaded that something 
 had befallen the merchants, and had only deemed it right to 
 ask the counsel of a friend ere she called in the " public 
 authorities." Now, Pietro was most fixedly of opinion that 
 these " authorities" were a very officious overbearing class, and 
 ought never to be called upon until matters were perfectly in 
 extremity. He thought, whatever might have befallen the 
 merchants, it were better that Leah and himself should ascertain 
 it, lest they should make some awkward mistake in the repre- 
 sentation of the matter. The Jewess saw that she was not mis- 
 taken in her estimate of Pietro ; and having secured the outer 
 door, she led the way to the treasure chamber. 
 
 The artizan, who was himself skilled in the fabrication of 
 metallic articles, was not long in discovering the talisman by 
 which the chamber was to be entered. With a knowing hand 
 he touched the spring ; but on pushing back the door, a volume 
 of dense smoke rolled out, which made the Jewess and himself 
 recoil in dismay, and at length drove them from the chamber. 
 When the pestiferous vapour had dispersed itself, the impatient 
 witnesses eagerly returned to the treasure-chamber. They found 
 the Hebrews lying apart, and the overturned lamp between 
 them. Jasaph appeared to have fallen down at once, and 
 stirred no more. Zebulon was lying with his ghastly features 
 turned upwards, his garments all disturbed, and his contorted 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. 355 
 
 limbs betraying the last terrible struggles he had made, even in 
 death, to redeem himself from the consequences of his fatal error. 
 
 Pietro was in ecstasies ! Never before had it been his fortune 
 even to dream of the wealth by which he saw himself surrounded, 
 and he clasped the confiding Leah again and again to his ex- 
 ulting bosom. Overcome by the full force of their emotions, 
 they sank upon a seat, until their delirium should in some degree 
 subside and they could contemplate with sober joy the fortune 
 which had fallen upon them. 
 
 I know not to what phenomena in the human structure the 
 ensuing incident can be referred ; — but whilst Pietro and Leah 
 sat apart, discoursing of their coming happiness, a slight tremor 
 came over the frame of Jasaph, the youngest of the aged vic- 
 tims : he stirred — and in the next moment sat upright on 
 the thickly-carpeted floor I* He gazed around him with the 
 hideous yet imbecile expression of an astounded idiot wakening 
 from a fearful dream. He seemed to have no sense of by-gone 
 things; and scarcely a consciousness of present existence. 
 Feebly and slowly, yet noiselessly, he arose — and fixing his eyes 
 on the lovers, whose attention was too deeply engrossed to heed 
 such a visitant, gradually approached them. He cleared the 
 film from his eyes : " Leah ! said he, in an accent tremu- 
 lous and feeble as that of second childhood, * Leah !" — and 
 stretched his trembling hands towards her. 
 
 If a thunderbolt had rent the dome of Saint Mark's, and 
 strewed the scattered fragments at the feet of Pietro and his 
 mate, they could not have been more effectually startled from 
 their day-dream of delight : Leah shrieked aloud, and hid her 
 face in the folds of her ample garment ; but the indignant Pietro, 
 stung to desperation, hurled the apparition-like form of the 
 Hebrew with tremendous violence against an iron coffer, at the 
 opposite side of the chamber ; and the newly-resuscitated wretch 
 died — almost as he had lived — crouching before the huge de- 
 pository of his darling gold. 
 
 Whatever of indiscretion might have marked the conduct of the 
 lovers hitherto, it was not stained with crime ; but now, like the 
 first pair, a sense of desolation fell upon their souls, and they 
 desired to comfort each other in their guilt. As the gloomy- 
 day rolled on, however, the sense of sin grew less heavy upon 
 them. They resolved on the means of emancipation from 
 their unwelcome companions : an appropriation of a por- 
 
 * I learn from a valuable work (the Cyclopaedia of Dr. Rees) that " there 
 are several unquestionable facts, though rare, in every country, which show 
 the possibility of recovery from sudden death, whether by apoplexy, suffo- 
 cation by noxious vapours," &c. And instances are recorded, during the 
 progress of a late terrible epidemic, of appalling cases of recovery, even 
 after inhumation had taken place. 
 
 2d2 
 
356 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 tion of the spoil was planned : and they determined to leave 
 Venice as suddenly and secretly as possible. They knew that 
 inquiry would come, and in a fashion with which half- concerted 
 measures would but ill accord. 
 
 Now, in the same square, and immediately opposite to the 
 merchants, lived a Zingaro, as poor as his countrymen were 
 rich. His skill in the future brought him but a sorry recom- 
 pense for the present ; yet, with a light heart and a high hope, 
 he still held on, promising " golden opportunities" to all appli- 
 cants, which, for the credit of the Zingaro, we regret to add 
 were fulfilled to none. Many a time had the Zingaro cast a 
 wistful eye on the brothers, as he saw them march forth to the 
 Rialto, in their ample gaberdines and high square caps of the 
 finest Venetian texture ; and when he beheld their return, after 
 realizing thousands, he sighed, and felt that a professed dealer 
 in the gifts of fortune held far from the most fortunate of pro- 
 fessions. 
 
 It chanced, that morning, that the Zingaro had risen early, in 
 order to make himself master of .some new degrees of divination. 
 He observed the unusual solicitude of the waiting- woman; he saw 
 the signal given from the lattice ; he beheld the Venetian enter ; 
 and his sagacious mind, accustomed to presages, came at once 
 to the conclusion that there was something dark in the horoscope 
 of the merchants. 
 
 With the lynx-eyed curiosity of his tribe, he immediately 
 placed himself as a watch over the waiting-woman and her 
 visitor ; and still, as the latter came not forth, more determined 
 was the watcher to ascertain his egress. High noon passed, and 
 the hour of siesta winged away, and yet the Venetian came not, 
 neither were the merchants seen abroad— and even Leah did not 
 cross the threshold. 
 
 The mystery now assumed an intense character ; and although 
 the strained eye-balls of the Zingaro ached with very watchful- 
 ness, yet no relaxation did he allow them. At length, night 
 came on in all her darkness — a gloom more profound never 
 reigned over the precincts of the sea-born city. A thousand 
 times did the Zingaro curse the atramentous pall which had been 
 thrown upon his prospects, and five thousand times did he 
 bewail his fate ; but still adapting himself to circumstances, he 
 wrapped his person from head to foot in his huge mantello, and 
 placed himself in the square directly opposite the object of his 
 keen espionnage. 
 
 Slowly, still, did the lingering hours depart, and midnight 
 came as if reluctantly. The last tramp of the homeward masquer 
 was with difficulty heard ; and the far-off chorus of the exulting 
 reveller, as he reeled from the closed casino, came fainter and 
 fainter on the ear, until it trembled into silence. Cold and 
 
THE HEBREW BROTHERS. '357 
 
 heart-sick, yet with unabated nerve, did the Zingaro maintain his 
 post — when, hark ! the bolts were slowly withdrawn, and, after a 
 moment's lapse, a figure came forth as if to reconnoitre. A 
 sound, like the faint moan of expiring winds, was heard, and a 
 second figure came forth, apparently heavily burdened. It 
 moved rapidly along the square to the verge of the canal, 
 relieved itself, and returned. 
 
 "Ha!" muttered the wakeful Zingaro, "the Venetian is 
 industrious !" 
 
 Again did the premonitory figure appear ; again was that low 
 and melancholy sound heard, and once more did the burdened 
 Venetian appear. Rapidly, as before, he reached his destina- 
 tion, resigned his load to the waters, and returned. 
 
 " Ha !" muttered the Zingaro again, as the door closed upon 
 the wary but watched Pietro; " a brief business; 'twere pity 
 'twere not followed by a rapid reckoning." The watcher possessed 
 himself of the key of his habitation, and wended towards the 
 great square of St. Mark's. 
 
 At this period the Inquisition of the State, or, as they were 
 otherwise termed, the Tribunal of Three, were the conservators 
 of the public weal in Venice. All offences against the person 
 were submitted to their high arbitrement ; and so scrupulously 
 did they discharge their duties, that they were a terror alike to 
 prince and subject, and as odious as they were formidable. 
 From their decision there was no appeal ; their executions and 
 their judgments were equally expeditious and secret; and that 
 no clamour might be raised against their severity, the victims 
 were privately disposed of — drowned at midnight in the Lagune, 
 or strangled in their cells, and buried in the precincts of the 
 prison. Before this inquisition actual guilt was unnecessary. 
 The testimony of two witnesses, probably emissaries of the 
 court, was sufficient to ensure condemnation ; and, as in 
 countries aspiring to a higher degree of refinement, the wealth 
 of the felon became the property of the state. 
 
 Pietro Tomaso, and Leah, the waiting-woman of the Hebrew 
 Brothers, were cited before the Tribunal of Three, — charged, 
 by secret information, with the murder of the merchants, and 
 the intention of subsequently abstracting their vast wealth. 
 Having been examined apart, they were confronted with the 
 Zingaro, whose testimony was already lying in broad array 
 before the court. 
 
 " What answer does the woman render to this most heavy 
 charge V demanded the Tribunal. 
 
 " There is no blood upon my hands," said Leah, firmly ; 
 " the Hebrews died of suffocation by themselves engendered." 
 
 " It is most true," said Pietro, " I can avouch" 
 
358 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 " Silence If said the Tribunal ; " It is decreed /" 
 At the same moment an officer approached the prisoners 
 from behind, and, throwing a mantle over each so as completely 
 to envelope the upper part of the person — the dungeon door 
 closed upon them for ever ! 
 
 " Thy reward," said the officer, " was to be" — 
 " Five hundred zechini," said the Zingaro. 
 " They are there, well and truly told. Thou mayst depart !" 
 The Zingaro thought he heard the words " for the present," 
 as he hastily quitted the court. Of this he could not be certain ; 
 but he never loved the vicinity of a secret tribunal, and, more- 
 over, as he was one upon whom a hint is seldom bestowed in 
 vain, he took an early opportunity of passing over to the 
 Neapolitan states, where, by a new course of life, industry and 
 economy, he acquired a handsome competence ; and though, in 
 after life, he was naturally fond of relating his adventures, he 
 was never known to mention the midnight burial of the Hebrew 
 Brothers. 
 
MISS SMITH "AT HOME;" 
 
 OR, 
 
 MORE SMITHS ! 
 BY W. H. WILLS, ESQ. 
 
 Napoleon described us as a nation of shopkeepers ; a com- 
 munity of " Smiths" would have been a more appropriate de- 
 signation ; and, as at least a tithe of the king's subjects claim 
 that title, one of the greatest misfortunes it is possible to be 
 born with — except, perhaps, a taste for authorship — is to pos- 
 sess it. 
 
 To be a * Smith" in this " iron age" of rail-roads and steam- 
 engines, is to form an integral fraction of one enormous whole — 
 to be included in a general rule of which " Jones," " Williams" 
 and " Thompson" are the exceptions — to have, in short, a dis- 
 tinction without a difference. The word ought to be struck off 
 the list of nouns proper, for there is nothing substantive in it; 
 it is an indefinite expression that symbolises no one individual, 
 for it means quite a tenth of every body. If a place could be 
 found of sufficient extent, a meeting of " Smiths" ought to be 
 convened to petition for a change of name by letters patent ; 
 and the whole congregation, European and Colonial — white- 
 Smiths and black-Smiths — might be gazetted under the deno- 
 mination of Legion ; for " of a truth they are many." 
 
 " Plurals," says Longinus, in the 19th chapter of his treatise 
 on the sublime, " impart magnificence ; and copiousness of 
 number gives to the style emphasis and grace." What a " mag- 
 nificent" — what a sublime theme for pen of poet or pencil of 
 painter, must be the name of Smith! — too elevated, too over- 
 whelming for our weak powers; so we must commit the palpable 
 bathos of descending to the insignificant consideration of " one 
 Smith." 
 
 Mr. Unit Smith was a man by himself. He eat by himself, 
 slept by himself, and would have died by himself, but for an 
 accidental marriage. He had been blessed with a father (a 
 very lucky thing for a Smith) who left him "alone in his glory," 
 with five hundred a year. With this he retired to a lonely 
 house at Hammersmith, where his whole establishment consisted 
 
360 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 of a buxom cook, whom he engaged without a character, be 
 cause she described herself as a " lone woman." 
 
 A year had not elapsed before — to his consummate chagrin — 
 he began to have neighbours. He was like the heroine in Mar- 
 mion, who was bricked up in the recess of a convent; for people 
 would persist in building close around him. But what was 
 worse, these neighbours were uncommonly genteel folks, who 
 had " retired" from the city, and having no business of their 
 own, looked after the concerns of those about them. They 
 were not a little scandalized to find that Mr. Unit Smith's ha- 
 bitual love of solitude and laziness had partially left him ; for 
 he had not only become a husband, but was on the eve of being 
 a father also. Molly the cook having no great desire to retain her 
 maiden name of " Scroggs" longer than she could help, was 
 likely to add, besides herself, another being to the already over- 
 grown list of " Smiths." 
 
 Poor Molly lived just long enough to present her new-wed 
 spouse with a daughter. It is to be feared that the only im- 
 pression the departure of his wife made upon Mr. Smith, was 
 the necessity of guarding against accidents in future. He there- 
 fore engaged a man-servant, whose chief recommendations were 
 deafness and taciturnity. 
 
 His new relation did not wean him from his desire for soli- 
 tude. She was never at home, for from the nurse she passed to 
 the school-mistress, and from school to the " private governess ;" 
 who, it was agreed, should finish her education on the con- 
 tinent. 
 
 The time at length arrived when Miss Julia Smith could 
 remain no longer from her paternal roof. — The young lady had 
 not sojourned in France and Italy without acquiring a taste for 
 company ; and having completely established a will of her own 
 in her father's house, determined, with every regard for con- 
 sistency, to celebrate her return from abroad by an "At Home." 
 
 She had no acquaintance but Mrs. Diggory Smith, whose 
 daughter she had met in Paris ; and who gave her a list of the 
 names of her visiting acquaintances, to whom the indefatigable 
 Julia issued cards of invitation. 
 
 Conceive Mr. Unit Smith's horror, on learning, from his man 
 Jacob Post, the particulars of his daughter's proceedings ! The 
 thought that he, whose whole life was devoted to remaining a 
 private — very private gentleman, should have his doors thrown 
 open to the public, was perfectly terrifying ! To prevent the 
 catastrophe was impossible ; for constitutional inactivity, and 
 uncompromising gout, prevented his taking ," active" measures 
 of any kind. He was confined to his easy chair and footstool 
 like a martyr tied to the stake — the flames were igniting around 
 him, and he had no power to arrest their progress, for not all 
 
MISS SMITH " AT HOME." 361 
 
 nis expostulation could alter one jot of Miss Julia's deter- 
 mination to " flare up !" 
 
 By an hyperbole quite pardonable in notes of invitation, the 
 once lonely cottage was elevated to the dignity of a mansion ; 
 the trim but narrow entry was no longer a passage, but a hall ; 
 the closet, down three stairs at its extremity — hitherto sacred to 
 pickle-pots and soft soap, was made a cloak-room ; the parlours, 
 deprived of their folding doors, enlarged to a grand salon a 
 manger ; and the drawing-rooms were to be furnished forth 
 with all "appliances and means to boot" (chalked floors, 
 fiddlers, &c.) for a salon de danse ! 
 
 For some time before the eventful Monday evening divers 
 charwomen were hired at an expense of eighteen-pence a day 
 and their victuals ; the greengrocer was called upon to redeem 
 the pledge made upon a green board with gilt letters exhibited in 
 his window, of " Music provided for balls, and evening parties 
 attended;" while these arrangements were completed by the 
 engagement of a lank personage, dressed in scratch wig, long 
 white waistcoat, short black coat, and worsted tights — to 
 " announce the names." 
 
 The day arrived ; and to Miss Smith's great satisfaction all 
 the preparations were consummated with astonishing exactness. 
 The home-made jellies and blanc-manges "turned out beau- 
 tiful ;" not a single failure occurred in the custards ; Julia's new 
 white satin frock, turned up with blonde lace, fitted to a thread ; 
 and the chinaman was punctual with his " glass lent on hire." 
 But what afforded the fair hostess most pleasure was the fact, 
 that few of her " invites" had been negatived; and she con- 
 fidently expected the entire elite of Hammersmith, the fashion- 
 ables of Turnham Green, with a sprinkling of the haut ton of 
 Old Brentford ! A friend of a friend of Mrs. Diggory Smith, — no 
 less a personage than the celebrated author of fifteen celebrated 
 melodrames, — had consented to be lionized, and the tiger of 
 Doctor Tweedum was promised, to keep " clear away " the 
 supper. 
 
 Who can describe Miss Smith's feelings while dusting her 
 father's best china ? The appointed hour was at hand. She 
 trembled, at the imminent risk of a family slop-basin, as if the 
 crisis of her fate was approaching. Every vehicle that passed 
 the house, from Rickett's Regulation to Cloud's 'Buss, stopped, 
 she imagined, at her door. She hastened to the canterbury, 
 and placed on her piano the songs and pieces — amounting in 
 number to sixty odd — that were " inscribed to Miss Smith," all 
 which had been lent her by her neighbourly namesake, who had 
 bought them up from the trade. Every thing was now ready, 
 — even Mr. Unit Smith, whom his man Jacob wedged into a re- 
 cess upon his easy chair, like a half recumbent statue in the 
 
362 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 niche of a cathedral, — though his well- stuffed footstool, flannel- 
 bound feet, and dissatisfied looks, gave him a much greater 
 similitude to a cross old gentleman troubled with the gout. 
 
 To do our heroine justice, her travel and education had not 
 been thrown away. She received her guests with the dignity of 
 an experienced matron ; and although she had never previously 
 set eyes upon most of them, greeted all with the heartiness 
 and apparent affection of long-tried friendship. Thus the en- 
 trees were managed to a miracle. One blunder certainly 
 occurred. Mr. Socrates Snaps, the apothecary, being too 
 much of a philosopher to deem the common usages of decent 
 society worthy of his superlative connoissance, complained, on 
 entering the room, of having been grossly insulted at the bottom 
 of the stairs by a fellow in a long white waistcoat, whose im- 
 pertinence went so far as to ask, without preface or preliminary, 
 " What was my name? — An insolent rascal !" 
 
 "Mr. Gregory Jinks!" shouted he of the worsted tights; 
 and, as if the unconscious lackey had uttered an irresistible piece 
 of waggery, the whole room was convulsed with laughter ! 
 
 Every coterie has its buffoon. Mr. Gregory Jinks was the 
 drole of Hammersmith. He could not open his mouth without 
 exciting a degree of risibility amongst his particular friends, that 
 would have made the fortune of a comedian. So completely 
 had his imitations of the crowing of cocks, the frying of beef- 
 steaks, and the sibilations of saw-pits, gained for him the 
 character of a first-rate humourist, that no one could possibly 
 suspect him of a moment's gravity. He once " set the table in 
 a roar," by describing how an intimate friend got drowned in 
 the Thames ; and, on another occasion, related the particulars 
 of having been himself run over by a coach and six, till the eyes 
 of his auditory run over with laughter. His facetiousness was 
 not confined to mere parts of speech, Mr. Jinks was also an 
 extensive practical joker. He never " made one" of a water- 
 party without providing himself with a gimlet; — administered 
 cayenne pepper and Chili vinegar at pic-nics, and always kept 
 a good stock of detonating balls and exploding cigars, for the 
 use of his most esteemed friends : — in short, Mr. Gregory Jinks 
 was, to the revels of Hammersmith, what Liston is to the 
 Olympic games. 
 
 The assembled group had got to that part of such entertain- 
 ments which always takes place after most of the company has 
 arrived, and immediately before the coffee is brought in. This con- 
 sists of an unbroken, embarrassing silence. The titter on Jinks's 
 entrance had subsided ; many y oungladies looked upon the carpet, 
 — not, be it understood, to discern where it was most worn, but 
 because they were afraid to look up. Old Smith gazed round the 
 room with an expression of mute despair ; and Mrs. Diggory Smith, 
 
Page 36a 
 
MISS SMITH "at home." 363 
 
 the voluminous dowager, was motioning her youngest daughter 
 to pull her frock over her shoulders, — when the door silently 
 opened, and a grave figure stalked into the apartment with the 
 solemnity of an undertaker. He was habited in black ; his 
 black hair gracefully curled over the collar of his black coat 
 d la Paganini ; his black cane was ornamented with a huge 
 black tassel, and his left hand, incased in a black glove, was 
 adorned with a white pocket-handkerchief. This apparition 
 looked mournfully at the pleasure-party, and seated himself on 
 a vacant chair beside Mrs. Diggory Smith's second daughter, 
 Miss Seraphine Caelia Smith. 
 
 The silence was soon broken, — not with a rude and sudden 
 shock, but by a gradual progression, like the crescendo move- 
 ments of Rossini's overtures — commencing with soft whispers, 
 gaining volume in murmurs, and ending with unequivocal arti- 
 culate sounds. The new visiter had evidently created a great 
 sensation, which was developed in a general desire to know 
 who the illustrious individual could be? The whole circle 
 formed a chain of conversation and surmise. Each inquired of 
 his neighbour ; and whoever was neighbourless, catechised his 
 opposite friend in expressive pantomime. The hostess was 
 eagerly looked for, to satisfy this overwhelming curiosity, but 
 she was in the kitchen supplying the coffee-cups with silver 
 spoons, and giving out the silver salver. 
 
 Tea actually passed off without the name of the mysterious 
 stranger transpiring. He was very attentive to his fair neigh- 
 bour, who delighted in being called a " bluestocking," be- 
 cause she was in the habit of perpetrating songs and scrib- 
 bling " fragments." Mrs. Diggory Smith looked benignantly 
 on the enraptured pair ; and, like a prudent mamma, left them 
 to themselves. 
 
 Out of the forty-odd persons assembled at Miss Smith's " at 
 home," there was a due proportion of "Smiths:" for Mrs. 
 Diggory Smith had a great many cousins and nephews, married 
 and unmarried, who of course were among the guests, — and no 
 small confusion was the consequence. When Miss Smith was 
 asked to sing, a whole flight of nightingales attempted to perch 
 upon the music-stool ; and Miss Smith, Mrs. Diggory's eldest 
 girl, possessing the greatest activity and the worst voice, inflicted 
 the maximum of torture upon those present, who were learned 
 in quavers and crotchets. Now Miss Julia Smith, the young 
 hostess, really sang very agreeably; with some feeling, and 
 without pretension. On one occasion she was fortunate enough 
 to rescue her piano from the remorseless thumps of her rival 
 and namesake. She warbled a ballad with such exquisite sim- 
 plicity, and accompanied it with so much taste, as to make a 
 
364 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 deep impression on the heart of Jack Johnstone, who happened 
 to be in the close vicinity of Mrs. Diggory Smith — the piano- 
 forte intervening to prevent his seeing the fair vocalist. " Who 
 is that charming girl ?" he asked of his friend Jinks. 
 
 " Why don't you know ? — Miss Smith to be sure !" replied 
 the joker, as he tripped over to let off a Waterloo cracker under 
 the nose of the sleeping Mr. Unit Smith. 
 
 Johnstone turned to Mrs. Diggory for further information. 
 " Which lady was it who sang so sweetly V he inquired. 
 
 Of course the dowager knew only of one lady who had sung 
 sweetly, so she answered with conscious pride, " My daughter, 
 sir !" 
 
 "What, Miss Smith?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, she is my eldest — but Seraph, my second girl — 
 she, sir, she is the singer ! I wish she was not so busy with that 
 strange gentleman in black, or you should hear her — she is a 
 real genius, sings her own songs, and plays her own music. 
 Ah ! sir, she is — 
 
 " The devil incarnate !" exclaimed old Smith, rubbing his 
 nose with great violence. " Jacob," he inquired of his man, 
 whose orders were to keep behind his high chair, " who did it?" 
 
 Jacob Post pointed to Jinks. 
 
 " Knock him down !" continued the indignant old gentleman, 
 quietly resuming his nap. Jacob did as he was bid ! 
 
 Never did poor Gregory pay so dearly for one of his " good 
 things :" he lay on the floor completely stunned. Some of the 
 ladies fainted, others screamed, and all who had been lucky 
 enough to get partners for the prospective dance, rushed, in the 
 greatest alarm, to the ball-room, while Julia busied herself with 
 great adroitness to make apologies. As such adventures were 
 not new to the merry-andrew, he speedily recovered his senses 
 and his good humour, and harmony w r as restored. 
 
 During the bustle which attended the settling of the elders 
 to cards, it happened that Jack Johnstone, who was on the look- 
 out for some fair one to escort to the dancing-room, encountered, 
 among the maze of chairs, sofas, and card-tables, the "full 
 face" of Julia Smith. An instantaneous recognition ensued on 
 both sides. The lady blushed deeply : the gentleman stam- 
 mered, and kicked over a footstool. 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed Julia, in a half whisper. " Good 
 heavens, she here !" thought Johnstone ; but suddenly recol- 
 lecting himself, he thrust out his elbow with a precipitancy 
 quite fatal to poor Julia's side. He did not knock her down, to 
 be sure, thanks to the door-post for supporting her. " Will you 
 allow me the honour?" he stuttered, undismayed by his awkward- 
 ness. Julia mechanically took his arm. She trembled. 
 
MISS SMITH "at home." 365 
 
 " A very close evening*, miss," remarked Johnstone, sighing. 
 
 *« We shall find the drawing-rooms much cooler," replied 
 the lady, with simplicity. 
 
 Her almost demented companion looked round, and, to his 
 astonishment, discovered that he had so utterly lost his senses, 
 as to have brought Julia into the confines of the cloak closet, 
 instead of conducting her to the dancing-room. Suddenly his 
 temporary insanity took a new turn. He dropped on one knee. 
 
 " Julia!" he ejaculated, passionately kissing her hand, "I 
 can retain this mask of ceremony no longer. Tell me how, 
 why, do I meet you here! I am bewildered with the unexpected 
 delight of beholding you again. 
 
 Miss Smith broke away from her detainer. 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! I implore you," he continued. " I never dared 
 to express the deep love I have felt for you from the first mo- 
 ment ! When I might have done so, I felt that it would have 
 been presuming on a short acquaintance. You granted me 
 permission to commence a correspondence. You seemed to 
 take an interest in the event of my law-suit, which makes or 
 beggars me for ever ; grateful for such kindness, I 
 
 " Mr. Johnstone," interrupted Julia, " you must not de- 
 tain me. If you would refer to the folly we were — I mean 
 that / was guilty of at Paris, I would wish to forget it. You, 
 evidently have done so long since !" 
 
 " Never as I hope for mercy ! I wrote — 
 
 " Wrote ?" 
 
 " My letter was unanswered !" 
 
 "Wrote? Tome?" 
 
 " To you." 
 
 All further explanation was impracticable. The plaintive 
 voice of the romantic Seraphine Cselia Smith was heard near 
 the door, pouring into the mysterious stranger's ear the balm of 
 consolation. 
 
 " Why not hope for the best ?" she whispered. 
 
 " Hope? Hope and Julien St. Cyril de Mountfort are stran- 
 gers. I have struggled up the steep Parnassus of fame — have 
 reached its summit — can look down from its envied eminence — 
 and say, I have written as many dramas as the immortal bard of 
 Avon ; yet one other ambition have I to satisfy !" 
 
 " And that — V' breathed the expectant Cselia, eagerly. 
 
 " Is for you," answered Julien St. Cyril de Mountfort ; " deign 
 but to hear those vows repeated, I so fervently uttered during 
 our first meeting in Kensington Gardens — " 
 
 " Nay, nay, that cannot be," answered Seraphine, returning 
 her lover's ardent grasp. 
 
 «' I swear by all the but hush, that noise — " 
 
 f Johnstone, during the agitation of his " closet scene," had 
 
366 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 murdered — not a Polonius — but a bran new beaver, by knock- 
 ing it down and treading thereon. The noise scared the ro- 
 mantic pair into the parlour. Julia and her lover soon fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 " Ah ! Seraph, my dear, here you are at last," said Mrs. 
 Diggory, " we are all dying to hear you sing'. 
 
 " Indeed, mamma, I am not in spirits." 
 
 " That beautiful " farewell" you composed the other day after 
 your walk in Kensington Gardens, do try that." 
 
 " It will be useless, indeed, ma' ; without the " fragment" no 
 one would understand it." 
 
 " Well, but I dare say you can remember that too, child ; 
 I'm sure Dr. Tweezum will be charmed to hear it." 
 
 u Delighted," answered the doctor, with a look of thunder. 
 
 Having collected a tolerably large auditory, Miss Cselia very 
 deliberately pulled a paper out of her reticule, and, despite the 
 continual thumping over-head, which proved that " the votaries 
 of Terpsichore " were tripping it on the " light fantastic toe," 
 commenced: 
 
 Miss Seraphine Celia Smith's MS. 
 
 u 'Twas evening. The moon shed her resplendent lustre ; — 
 a congeries of brilliant constellations illumined the blue vault 
 of heaven. He came — his brow was darkened with a frown — 
 a mighty hurricane of tempestuous sensations swept over his 
 manly bosom. There was a sound — a female form appeared — 
 a cry of joy succeeded ; and, in another instant, the lovely 
 Juliana Marianna Montmorency was in the arms of her affianced 
 lover ! O ! what a simple, original, indivisible gush of pure 
 delight electrified their tender hearts ! They wept for joy ; but 
 short his happiness was — evanascent as the summer cloud — dura- 
 tionless, as the winter sun. The rival of Julien St. Clair sprang 
 like a tiger from his hiding place ; he tore the enraptured pair 
 asunder. The lover drew his weapon. They fought — the con- 
 flict was long and desperate — and — fatal night ! — the grass 
 received the lifeless form of the devoted Julien. His rival 
 approached the terrified Juliana. Detested as he was, he did 
 not fail to pour a heterogeneous homily of amorous amalga- 
 mations into her unwilling ear. She fled — her destroyer would 
 have pursued — she reached the halls of her father, and pouring 
 forth her woes in a strain of impassioned poetry, sank into the 
 neighbouring brook " to rise no more." She expired like Ophe- 
 lia, and " died in song." These were her warblings : 
 
MISS SMITH " AT HOME." 367 
 
 " ' Farewell ye purling; ponds and brooks, 
 
 Ye buttercups and daisies : 
 Farewell ye stately oaks, and rooks 
 
 That caw within your mazes. 
 Ye doves and singing birds adieu, 
 
 The nightingale and linnet ; 
 Farewell, O ! mead of grassy hue, 
 
 And all the cattle in it. 
 
 Farewell ye flowers of the streams, 
 
 Ye lilies and bullrushes ; 
 Farewell my garden fair, that teems 
 "With scent, and roses' blushes ; 
 Adieu, my home, and loved alcoves, 
 
 My native soil and air, 
 Adieu ye walks and shady groves, 
 
 And Jullen St. Clair.' " 
 
 When the auditory had recovered the effects of this poetic 
 composition, the whole party emigrated from the parlours to the 
 drawing-room, to give time for the people below to " lay the 
 supper things." Johnstone took a favourable opportunity of 
 speaking to Mrs. Diggory Smith, who happened to be seated 
 alone in one corner of the room. 
 
 " Madam !" he began with evident confusion ; " I trust you 
 will excuse my addressing you on a subject of some delicacy : 
 but your daughter, ma'am * 
 
 " Which, sir?" inquired the old lady, edging up to John- 
 stone with the anxious smile of an angler who has just felt a 
 most promising nibble. 
 
 " The young lady whom I met in Paris; the same, as I under- 
 stood you, who sang the song I inquired about." 
 
 " Indeed, sir ! Then you are the gentleman who wrote the 
 romantic letter from Lyons. Why, sir, you must have fallen 
 in love with her at first sight!" 
 
 " Not quite so suddenly, madam," answered Johnstone, 
 smiling; " I certainly had not the pleasure of seeing her very 
 often ; yet, madam, she made an impression which I now feel 
 can never leave me." 
 
 * But Mr. —a— a—" 
 
 " John Johnstone, Ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Johnstone, she read your letter to me and won- 
 dered who it could come from. But really, sir, you'll excuse 
 her. My girls have so many admirers that, poor things, they 
 can't always call to mind those who may be most worthy their 
 remembrance." 
 
 Johnstone began to think it was barely possible that she, " his 
 bright particular star," might turn out an arrant coquette. 
 
 "All the influence a mother possesses, Mr. Johnstone, shall 
 be yours. I think your letter stated something relative to a 
 family estate you were at law about," progressed the dowager, 
 
368 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 taking her companion by the hand with all the affection of a 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, the case will be decided on Thursday ; and 
 I am happy to add, with every prospect of success for 
 myself. The villain who has for so long deprived me of my 
 family rights absconded, and in my endeavours to overtake 
 him I had the happiness of meeting Miss Smith. The rascal is, 
 I am sorry to add, a namesake." 
 
 "Our's is not a very uncommon name, but he can be no rela- 
 tion, I can assure you." 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I could never suspect that a man, base 
 enough to forge the codicil of a will, could claim kith or 
 kin with a person so lovely, so innocent, so virtuous as your 
 daughter." 
 
 " I will speak to her at once on your hehalf, Mr. Johnstone;" 
 and with the utmost impatience did the husband-hunting dame 
 hasten to seek her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Diggory found " Bella " in most lover-like propinquity 
 to the philosophical Snaps. What passed between the mothec 
 and daughter, may be gathered from the fact of poor Socrates 
 being most remorselessly cut for the rest of the evening, by her 
 to whom he had only five minutes previously proposed, and by 
 whom he was just two minutes before unequivocally accepted. 
 
 Johnstone was greatly perplexed to find a reason for Miss 
 Smith's apparent denial of the receipt of his epistle, when her 
 mother (as he imagined,) informed him that she had not only 
 received it, but was guilty of the deceit of pretending to wonder 
 by whom it was written. His cogitations were cut short by the 
 announcement of supper. 
 
 At the table, Johnstone's friend Jinks might be in his glory. 
 There " all appliances and means to boot" for the perpetration 
 of his jokes— practical and verbal — were before him. On this 
 occasion he was, however, unusually unhappy ; his sallies were 
 nipped, like a frost-bitten rose, in the bud. A glance at the head 
 of the table, where sat the cross-looking host with his powerful 
 shadow in the person of Jacob Post stationed behind his chair, 
 never failed to congeal the glowing fancies of his facetious 
 brain. He helped the ladies to tongue, without his accustomed 
 joke concerning the garrulity of the fair sex — saw several per- 
 sons take wine, without inquiring, like Pierre — " what whin-ing 
 monk art thou V* and when he asked for porter forgot to make 
 the usual allusion to his bier. The brawny fist of Jacob had 
 knocked his best hits out of his head ; he was, to use a 
 favourite expression of his own — " dumb as an oyster." 
 
 This Hammersmith symposium — unlike each of those described 
 by Xenophon — passed over in a manner that quite reconciled 
 Mr. Unit Smith to the rest of the evening : scarcely a word was 
 
369 
 
 spoken. The only approach to a sensation was produced by 
 Dr. Tweezum, who being blessed with a pleasing obliquity and 
 a pair of spectacles — solicited, without apparent reference to 
 any individual lady "the honour of taking wine with Miss 
 Smith." Never was heard such a jingling of goblets and gurg- 
 ling of wine since the marriage feast " in Cana of Galilee." 
 Every Miss Smith at the table thought herself especially happy 
 in being singled out for the compliment of one who wrote him- 
 self L.L.D. " in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation." 
 The mistake was not easily rectified, and a great many 
 Miss Smiths thought themselves ill used, and spoke to their 
 brothers. 
 
 As for Mr. Socrates Snaps, his thoughts were sufficiently 
 occupied by the extraordinary alteration of his " ladye-love's" 
 sentiments towards him. His philosophy was unable to solve the 
 problem. A little light, however, entered his unhappy mind by 
 noticing the attentions paid her by Johnstone. The fact was, 
 when our hero (Johnstone is our hero, although we forgot to 
 give him a formal introduction) was in Paris, he frequently met 
 Miss Julia Smith and her namesake together, and naturally 
 concluded they were sisters. He was not undeceived on that 
 subject ; for his private interviews with his fair enslaver in 
 France were few, on account of the terribly sharp eyes of Julia's 
 governess. When he got Jinks's invitation to join him in a 
 bourgeois entertainment, he little imagined with whom he 
 should meet. Vexed and dissatisfied at Julia's implied denial 
 of the receipt of his epistle, he determined to seek revenge in 
 the most violent attentions to the daughter of Mrs. Diggory 
 Smith, whom he imagined to be Julia's sister. 
 
 The old lady looked round with the utmost satisfaction ; her 
 dear Seraphine Cselia and Mr. Julien St. Cyril de Mountfort, 
 were sighing, and ogling, and nudging each other with delight- 
 ful perseverance ; while the " young man with the family estate," 
 and " her eldest," were getting on charmingly. Snaps noticed 
 Johnstone's preliminary civilities undismayed ; the whisper, sofr 
 as it was, and tender as it seemed to be, did not alarm him 
 much ; but when his rival proceeded to the extremity of detain- 
 ing his fair one's willing hand to give it a perfectly visible 
 squeeze, the mind of Mr. Socrates Snaps was made up ! 
 
 By a" singular coincidence," the fair hostess at the same 
 moment abruptly gave the signal for the general exit of her lady 
 visiters, by leaving the table. Mr. Socrates Snaps buttoned his 
 coat with the utmost vehemence, and retired also. 
 
 When he was fairly out of hearing, Jinks rose, with a gravity 
 he knew very well how to assume, and proposed the health of 
 " Mr. Snaps and the rest of the ladies." As this was mean 
 for a jeu cT esprit on the chop-fallen inamorato's ill-timed 
 retreat, an uproarious three-times- three was the consequence, 
 
 2e 
 
370 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 Poor old Unit Smith was in a perfect agony ; he could not in 
 conscience require his man Jacob to knock down Jinks a second 
 time, as he was only particeps criminis in the uproar, and to 
 play at skittles with the whole company would be impossible ; 
 so putting both hands to both ears, he hobbled out of the room 
 with the utmost haste. His departure was hailed with "one 
 cheer more," proposed by Jinks, the vent-peg of whose facetia: 
 seemed to fly out with the host : for, after he had left the room, 
 Gegory's wit " flowed fast and furious." 
 
 The next toast, was the health of " Mr. John Johnstone, ac- 
 companied with a hope of success in the forthcoming trial. In 
 returning thanks, Johnstone trusted that the good wishes of his 
 friends might be realised, as much for his own sake as for 
 exposing the villanies of one of the greatest scamps that ever 
 disgraced the profession — Mr. Samuel Smith ! Johnstone then 
 sat down. 
 
 " Mr. Samuel Smith!" echoed Dr. Tweezum, "my most 
 intimate friend." 
 
 « Mr. S. Smith?" iterated Mr. Julien St. Cyril de Mountfort, 
 " the most talented — ' first robber' — in the profession." 
 
 "Mr. Samuel Smith!" reiterated another Mr. Smith," my 
 brother, the conveyancer." 
 
 Glad to escape from the fumes of ill-made punch; or, pos- 
 sibly, overpowered by the corruscations of Jinks's brandy-and- 
 water seasoned wit — Johnstone retired to muse over the wayward 
 fate that brought him so near success in his temporal, or rather, 
 legal matters, and gave so severe a disappointment to him in his 
 love affair ; for, to do him justice, the image of Julia had, since 
 his adventure in Paris, been present in his thoughts while con- 
 templating the possibility of obtaining his fortune. It was in- 
 deed always his intention to seek out the lady, and declare him- 
 self, immediately the issue of his cause was determined. 
 
 When at the foot of the stairs, he observed that a garden-door 
 stood invitingly open ; and, as a little fresh air was not to be 
 refused, he soon found himself among the shrubs, " chewing the 
 cud of sweet and bitter fancies." He was not long in discovering, 
 between thctrees, the flutterings of a white dress, and a nearer 
 view convinced him that its wearer was Julia Smith. 
 
 Women are, to a man, (as a reportliing friend once ob- 
 served) great casuists. Their curiosity is so restless, that if they 
 cannot account for effects by any real data, they set to work 
 and build up facts of their own, out of their imaginations. By 
 this process did Julia believe — although we will not be answer- 
 able for the precise phraseology in which the thought presented 
 itself to her delicate mind — she concluded, that some " d — d 
 good-natured friend" had informed her lover of the low origin of 
 her mamma ; hence his sudden, unequivocal, and somewhat 
 uncalled-for display of attention to her rival, and change of 
 
MISS SMITH "AT HOME." 371 
 
 manner towards herself. These were her thoughts, when the 
 subject of them presented himself. 
 
 Again did the lady tremble ; but the gentleman's embarrass- 
 ment had entirely left him ; his demeanour was cold and con- 
 strained, and formed a bitter contrast to his passionate manner 
 in the closet. 
 
 " I trust, Miss Smith, you will excuse my seizing so favour- 
 able an opportunity of again adverting to our former friend- 
 ship" began Johnstone, in a tone that seemed to strike a chill 
 to poor Julia's heart : " when I asked permission to be allowed 
 to write to you, it was no idle request. I availed myself of it 
 the moment I imagined you had arrived in England, and were 
 free from the surveillance of your governess. 
 
 " Your letter was never received, sir," answered Julia, with 
 the least possible betrayal of her great anxiety. 
 
 " I dare not say to a lady one word that would bear the con- 
 struction of a direct contradiction," was the reply : " but really, 
 Miss Smith, the only principal member of your family I have 
 yet had the honour of knowing, has actually repeated a portion 
 of the contents of my epistle." 
 
 " I cannot understand this; my father would, I am sure, 
 never open my letters, and — " 
 
 " Possibly your father would not; but there is, I am sorry to 
 add, another obstacle to your proving the non-receipt of my 
 communication." 
 
 " Another obstacle ?" 
 
 u Another bar which prevents me from renewing those vows 
 I so lately made, in the person of — " 
 
 " Whom?" exclaimed the almost breathless girl. 
 
 "Your mother, madam!" answered Johnstone, bitterly. 
 
 Julia instantly burst into tears, and would have inevitably 
 fallen, had not her companion promptly supported her. Johnstone 
 conducted the nearly insensible girl into the house, where a not 
 very coherent story, about having found her overcome with the 
 fatigues of the evening in the hall, lulled all suspicion of what 
 had passed in the garden. 
 
 The indisposition of the hostess caused a general " break up." 
 Johnstone, with the proverbial ill-temper of a gentleman crossed 
 in love, left the house with the utmost haste, to the utter con- 
 sternation of Mrs. Diggory Smith, who had not had an opportu- 
 nity of giving him her address. Jinks took such good care of 
 the bottle as to become totally unable to take care of himself, 
 and vociferated for the recreant Johnstone with might and main. 
 Mr. Julien St. Cyril de Mountfort dropped a word or two into 
 the delighted ear of Miss Seraphine Coelia Smith, about the 
 " sweet sorrow" of parting, and Dr. Tweezum shook all the. 
 powder out of his wig in "fie, fieing" the excesses of divers 
 
 2e2 
 
372 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 gentlemen who laboured wofully under the influences of certain 
 evil, though excisable spirits. 
 
 The next morning found Johnstone at his chambers, rumi- 
 nating, over a cup of coffee, upon the least troublesome method 
 of committing suicide. After coming to the determination of 
 deferring the " rash act" until his cause was tried, he found, on 
 opening a letter which his laundress had just brought, that the 
 writer, Mr. Socrates Snaps, would in all probability save him 
 unnecessary trouble. The note ran thus : — 
 
 " Sir, — Having been informed by Mr. Gregory Jinks of your 
 address, I lose no time in acquainting you of my engagements 
 with Miss Smith, of Hammersmith ; and unless you withdraw 
 the pretensions to that lady, which I am told you advanced last 
 evening, I shall require that satisfaction usually expected from 
 one gentleman by another. 
 
 " Your's, &c. 
 
 " Socrates Snaps. " 
 
 " So," thought Johnstone, on laying down the epistle, 
 " Julia's conduct is easily accounted for ; she would not acknow- 
 ledge me or my letter, on account of her penchant for this 
 rascally surgeon. I shall just present my compliments to Mr. 
 Snaps, and tell him he is in error; my pretensions are already 
 withdrawn." 
 
 This was no sooner said than done ; and the messenger, who 
 waited, was speedily dispatched with an answer. 
 
 Another letter made its appearance. Its contents were ; — 
 " 102, Basement, Lincoln's Inn. 
 " Sir, — My brother informs me that last evening, in the 
 presence of several persons, you characterised me ' as one of the 
 greatest scamps in the profession.' If you do not retract these 
 words by five and twenty minutes to three this afternoon, I shall 
 commence an action for slander forthwith. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 " Samuel Smith." 
 
 u Another letter — twopence, please sir," exclaimed the 
 laundress, before poor Johnstone had quite finished reading the 
 above. 
 
 " Theatre-royal, Ad el phi. 
 " Sir, — Understanding from my friend, Julien St. Cyril 
 de Mountfort, Esq., author of ' The Murdered Murderer, or the 
 Fatal Bill-hook,' and several popular dramatic compositions, 
 that you spoke of me as ' one of the greatest scamps in the pro- 
 fession,' I beg to acquaint you, that although I have been playing 
 the first business in the robber and villain line for the last ten 
 
MISS SMITH " AT HOME." 373 
 
 years, such an imputation was never cast upon me before ; and 
 I can take nothing less than a public apology in the newspapers 
 for so great and unfounded a calumny. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " Smith. 
 
 " Please to direct to the stage-door." 
 
 When the papet-beleagured Johnstone had quite done 
 laughing at the ridiculous mistakes the name of " Smith" 
 entailed, not only upon its owners, but those unlucky enough to 
 know them, he heard his risibility echoed by the well-known, 
 cachinnation of his friend Jinks,— five minutes conversation with 
 whom converted him from the most miserable to the happiest of 
 men. His friend gave him the whole history of the Smith's of 
 Hammersmith, accompanied with imitations of the peculiarities 
 of each member of each family. Johnstone remembered that 
 he had directed his love letter to Julia " to Miss Smith, Ham- 
 mersmith ;" and as it came before her arrival in town, of course 
 it was taken to the house of Mrs. Diggory Smith. 
 
 In a month Johnstone completed his happiness : he won a 
 wife and a law suit during that time, which last completely 
 cleared up the mistakes of the injured conveyancer and the 
 indignant actor. 
 
 The last time Miss Seraphine Ccelia Smith was seen, it was in 
 a strolling company, in which she acted under the name of Mrs. 
 Julien St. Cyril De Mountfort. As for her sister, she, in spite 
 of Mr. Socrates Snaps, remains a spinster, and her mamma 
 particularly wishes us to intimate, to any young gentleman with 
 a " family estate" in perspective, that that " Miss Smith" is- 
 always to be found At Home. 
 
THE IMAGE-MAN. 
 
 Of the entire coast of England (which almost every tourist 
 is familiar with) there is perhaps no part strewed with so many 
 pretty objects and delightful watering-places, as the south ; and 
 especially the shores of Sussex, which, however, long previous to 
 their being celebrated as the landing-place of that bold king, 
 William the Conqueror, were .often made the scenes of savage 
 warfare between the more barbarous nations of the period. 
 Amongst these spots of ancient renown, there is one worthy of 
 every visiter's attention. 
 
 In a valley between two of the most lofty ranges of cliffs 
 which skirt these shores for miles, — and so near the sea that the 
 -very thresholds of the houses are, in spring tides, washed by it, — 
 
 lies the secluded little town of S . Like many other places, 
 
 it has felt the change of time and taste ; for, a few years since 
 it was not only a borough of some importance, but a bathing- 
 place much frequented. Now, however, it is* deprived of its 
 parliamentary privilege, and visiters seem to prefer to its exten- 
 sive beach and sands, the more lively shores of Brighton and 
 Eastbourne, within a morning's drive of either of which it is 
 
 situated. In approaching S from the fragrant and velvety 
 
 downs, that, rising behind, shelter it from the north, there 
 are several objects of interest; which from their being consi- 
 dered as the lions of the place, it is scarcely fair to pass over 
 without notice. 
 
 First, the straggling and now almost tenantless village of B — , 
 with its solitary sign of the Ploughshare, where entertainment 
 might be had " for man and beast," and an honest old landlady 
 met with in the person of Widow Walls. Poor old dame ! it was 
 in her neat parlour, over a dish of Sussex sausages, and a glass 
 of Newhaven ale (so celebrated in the annals of John Barley- 
 corn) that the materials of this story were collected. Perhaps 
 the walls had often echoed with it before, for the widow seemed 
 to have it all at her finger's end, and had known the dramatis 
 persona?, from having occasionally accommodated their friends 
 with a bed. Nor did she forget to tell you she had taken tea 
 more than once in the oak-panelled room, whereinto the reader is 
 shortly to be introduced. The road hence to S — , lies through 
 
THE IMAGE-MAN. 375 
 
 the churchyard of that place, where the vast number of tomb- 
 stones would, at first sight, bespeak the spot unhealthy, and of 
 great mortality. But whilst listening to the murmuring ocean 
 at the foot almost of the spectator, he will soon resolve the sad 
 enigma ; or should his eye perchance roam to a distant corner of 
 the burial-ground, it will fix upon one hillock larger than the rest. 
 This is headed by a small slab, bearing the following melancholy 
 inscription : — " Here lie interred the bodies of forty brave 
 sailors, who in the night of the 22d of March 17 — , in a heavy 
 storm off this town, were shipwrecked on board the brig Ellen, 
 when it is believed all hands perished." — And leaving the con- 
 secrated spot, to enter the town,— by the side of the road, in a 
 small shrubbery of evergreens, which, with a row of lofty elms, 
 shelters it from the rude gaze of strangers, stands a comfortable 
 though old-looking manor-house. It is one of the best mansions 
 in the place ; and its gray smoke curling upwards to lose itself in 
 the evening sky, with its latticed windows reflecting the golden 
 light of sunset, serve the shepherds as a landmark, when, 
 having penned up their flocks for the night, they come from 
 the hills to take their evening meal in the bosom of their con- 
 tented and industrious families. 
 
 This dwelling is now inhabited by a wealthy grazier; but 
 twenty years ago it belonged to a middle-aged lady, who, with 
 an only daughter and two attached domestics, after having 
 spent the greater part of her life in the heart of the city of Lon- 
 don, retired thither, to end her declining days in seclusion and 
 peace. — But it was not so ordained. 
 
 It was on a lovely summer's night in June (from which our 
 tale commences) that Mrs. and Miss Graham sat near the 
 open window of a large oak-room up stairs (which had been fitted 
 up as a drawing-room), listening to the faithful tide, and 
 enjoying the breeze, which, from their vicinity to the sea, might 
 be felt to freshen and cool the sultry air. 
 
 " Will you not finish your charming tale, my love? You 
 know how delighted we w r ere with it, and I long to hear its con- 
 clusion." 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Rasselas was in Emily's hand, half closed, and 
 she raised it to her eyes as if to read ; but she remained silent, 
 looking towards the sea, and the book fell listlessly into her lap. 
 
 " Why, my child, my Emily— you have lost the page ; — but 
 let me see — I can find it — and / will read to you." With 
 this the old lady took up the book, at the same time kissing 
 her child's pale forehead. Happily, she saw not the tear stealing 
 down Emily's cheek ; happily ! — for she had watched the glad 
 gambols of her childhood, she had seen her ripen into woman- 
 hood without a cloud upon her brow, or a tear within her blue 
 
376 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 eves, save when she spoke of him who was snatched from 
 her just as her fond childish heart began to know and love a 
 father. 
 
 " Emily, dear, why, what can be the matter ? where are your 
 spirits to-night? I must not see you thus. You walked too far 
 on the beach to-day, and have tired yourself." 
 
 Emily was still silent, and seemed unconscious of her mother's 
 solicitude, as, with strained eyes, she appeared to be watching 
 some speck upon the sea. The sun was fast sinking below the 
 watery horizon ; and, by its golden light, in the distant offing, in 
 a few seconds, an object could more plainly be perceived. 
 
 There was a ship riding at anchor ; and Emily watched it with 
 such anxiety, that her mother's curiosity was directed to the same 
 quarter ; but being unable to make it out without a telescope, 
 she went to her boudoir for the glass, with which she at once 
 obtained a clear view of the ship. 
 
 In an instant there was a flash. The vessel had fired a gun ; and 
 the report not only startled them, but Emily turned deathly pale, 
 and, uttering a faint shriek, would have fallen from her chair, 
 had not her mother, agitated as she herself was, been near to 
 support her. Poor Emily's was, however, but a momentary 
 unconsciousness, and a little water sprinkled on her face speedily 
 recovered her. As Mrs. Graham was leading her from the window, 
 she saw her eyes turned once more to the sea, and at that instant 
 a boat put from the shore, which was soon lost sight of in the 
 mist now gathering upon the water. 
 
 In crossing the room to the sofa, a letter fell from Emily's 
 bosom. There was no agitation on her part to recover it, 
 although it could not have escaped her mother's notice, nor could 
 the blush which dyed Emily's face and neck do other than be- 
 tray her. With eyes fixed on the ground, she saw her mother 
 pick up the letter ; and as she returned it to her daughter, sus- 
 picion for the first time flashed across the matron's mind. 
 
 It is impossible for any who have spent both infancy and child- 
 hood at home — who have looked up to and reverenced butone, and 
 that one a parent — to disguise those feelings and emotions of the 
 heart which once, and only once, in life can fix there. 
 
 It was even so with Emily Graham ; — for to her nature dis- 
 simulation was a stranger ; and that nature betrayed itself, as, 
 looking in her mother's face, in a fond and faltering voice she 
 begged her to take again the letter — to read it — to destroy it, 
 if she wished — but to forgive her. 
 
 An appeal to such a mother as Mrs. Graham could not be in 
 vain ; who folding the trembling girl in her arms, all was for the 
 moment forgotten. Shortly after this they parted for the night, 
 and each sought her sleepless pillow. 
 
 When Mrs. Graham entered the breakfast-room next morning, 
 
THE IMAGE-MAX. 377 
 
 she found Emily already there, and occupied on the balcony with 
 her flowers. Her earliest amusement was generally to take the 
 telescope, and watch the little fishing-vessels bearing to land, 
 laden with their finny treasures. On this morning, however, she 
 had not used the glass, nor once had dared to look towards the 
 sea. But her heart had told her the worst ; for at intervals 
 throughout the tedious night she had dreamt, that object was no 
 longer to be seen ; and as the sails bore its proud bow through 
 the distant waters, she felt hopeless and forsaken. 
 
 The morning's salutation from mother to child was as affec- 
 tionate as ever ; and if Mrs. Graham's manner was at all 
 altered, it had only become more sorrowful, for she could not 
 entertain towards Emily the feelings of displeasure. She had 
 in fact a true parent's heart, near which the devotion of her 
 daughter had, like the ivy round the oak, been twining its 
 earliest shoots ; and but for the event of yesterday, the widow 
 would indeed have felt happy. But, the letter, the unhappy 
 letter— which she had read over and over again with the deepest 
 regret—had thrown a cloud over poor Emily's prospects — and 
 the mother feared, sooner or later, it might destroy them. 
 
 The next few days passed away but heavily at House ; 
 
 and with the hope that, by leaving S for a short time, 
 
 it would again appear more cheerful, Mrs. Graham proposed to 
 Emily to pay a visit to a relation at Brighton. 
 
 Miss Oldham, the person alluded to, received them most 
 gladly, nor would she suffer them to go back without their pro- 
 mising to return and remain with her through the autumn. With 
 
 this view, arrangements were soon made at House, which 
 
 Mrs. Graham readily intrusted, with all its little valuables and 
 comforts, to the care of her old gardener and his wife— their 
 only, but faithful domestics. 
 
 Brighton, however, and its thousand gaieties, did but little to- 
 wards dissipating Emily Graham's sadness. Her aunt, whose 
 circle of acquaintance was of the most attractive kind, neglected 
 no opportunity of taking her into society ; nor could she feel 
 otherwise than disappointed, when she saw her solicitude on this 
 point useless. Emily was ever by her side (for Mrs. Graham 
 seldom accompanied them), and when compelled to leave it, as 
 she sometimes was for the gay dance or to take her share in the 
 musical performance of the night, Miss Oldham saw how painful 
 such scenes were to her. To wean her heart from what it had in- 
 tently fixed itself on, seemed impossible and cruel ; and rather 
 than weary her spirits longer with their present mode of life, 
 
 Mrs. Graham at once took Emily back to S ; for those 
 
 familiar objects around our homes can often restore the fading 
 spirits, when gayer and brighter scenes tend only to depress them. 
 
 Autumn had now fled, and winter came and passed away. 
 
378 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 But neither time, nor home, brought to Emily what her mother 
 prayed for. To her, alas ! both night and day were tedious ; till 
 "hope deferred" cankered the bud of health, and sickened 
 for ever the too confiding heart. 
 
 Throughout this period, there was one whose name was held 
 sacred — and that name, written by his hand, would have been 
 to her a fresh existence — a proof that he yet lived. 
 
 But it came not — and day after day, month after month, did 
 she turn from her window, where she had stood to watch the trusty 
 postman on his rounds, in tears and disappointment. By the 
 following spring, Emily Graham was so altered a creature, that 
 none but those around her could have at first sight recognised 
 her person. While nature had played upon her cheek, without 
 the poison of neglected affection to mingle there its ashy hues, 
 all was bright and beautiful ; but now she lived a sick and 
 
 broken-hearted girl. The head practitioner of S tried 
 
 his skill in vain ; and consoling poor Mrs. Graham with an 
 assurance that her daughter was not consumptive, he advised 
 her removal to Town, where other authorities might be consulted. 
 This step was of course immediately adopted. By easy journeys, 
 Mrs. and Miss Graham arrived in London, and very shortly 
 afterwards took up their residence in Spring Gardens. — There, 
 reader, must we for the present leave them. Your wish, no 
 doubt, will be, that the life of poor Emily Graham may have had 
 its charm renewed, and that her only parent may be blessed and 
 comforted, by one whose love alone can sweeten her declining 
 years. 
 
 Time; that faithful monitor of man, has kept upon the wing 
 through ten of his chiil winters, and it is on a fine evening in 
 the early autumn of 1825, when our tale resumes itself. 
 
 But the scene is altogether changed. There is no expanse of 
 ocean for the eye to roam over ; — no beetling clifts, nor lofty 
 downs, to enhance the grandeur of our present scene. No, there 
 will be found simply the fair and cultivated face of nature, 
 studded here and there with a few cottages and modern villas, 
 inhabited principally by retired tradesmen. 
 
 The house we are about to enter may be briefly described. 
 It stands removed about fifty yards from the high western road, 
 within twelve miles of Town, and is remarkable for its appear- 
 ance of neatness and seclusion. It may, however, be more 
 intimately recognised by a plain whitewashed front, with only 
 four extremely narrow windows, like those found in almshouses ; 
 and by a good-sized flower-garden with lawn, between it and the 
 road, from which it is greatly hidden by a row of tall and regu- 
 lar poplars. 
 
 It was on the evening just mentioned, when two elderly 
 
THE IMAGE-MAN. 379 
 
 females were sitting at the parlour-window busied with their 
 work; and in an oldfashioned chair, in a retired part of the 
 room, a third figure might also be perceived, principally by her 
 snow-white dress. But the features of this party could scarcely 
 be distinguished, as it was nearly twilight. 
 
 The lady nearest the window appeared to be watching the 
 garden-gate, which a servant, who had gone down to the 
 adjacent village, had very carelessly left half open ; but her 
 attention seemed most awakened by some small white figures, 
 peeping at the moment above it. The curiosity of this lady was 
 changed to fear, as she heard heavy footsteps on the path ; but 
 especially so when the tall figure of a man presented himself 
 directly in front of the* window. 
 
 Her alarm, however, after a while subsided ; for the stranger 
 seemed only one of those harmless and wandering foreigners 
 who earn a scanty pittance by hawking their images from place 
 to place. After a few words, uttered with a deep voice, he 
 lowered the heavy tray of casts from his head, to place it on a 
 bench near the window ; and, pointing to several of the busts, 
 such as Milton's, Shakspeare's, &c, he begged the ladies, in the 
 most beseeching manner, to purchase one of them. 
 
 The distinct, though melancholy tone, in which he pronounced 
 the names of his earthy treasures," proved at once, that if au 
 Italian, he had acquired a pure English accent; nor did his 
 appearance altogether stamp the foreigner. His figure was 
 unusually tall, and, in spite of the dirty and almost ragged suit 
 he wore, commanding. A large leathern cap, stuck sideways 
 on his head, showed a high and swarthy forehead, and from 
 beneath it escaped a profusion of light hair, curling loosely 
 down each side of his sun-burnt face. Although youth and 
 health had fled his furrowed cheek, his full grey eyes gave to 
 the whole a pleasing yet sorrowful expression. 
 
 So earnestly did the man endeavour to obtain custom, that the 
 old ladies at length took compassion on him ; and whilst one of 
 them threw up the casement to select a cast, the other left the 
 room, and returned immediately with a large horn of beer, and 
 a plate full of cold meat and bread. 
 
 The man's eyes thanked her eloquently for her hospitality. He 
 took the cup and hastily emptied it; for his parched and 
 darkened lips betrayed his thirst. 
 
 The draught evidently revived him, and after partaking of 
 the eatables, he inquired how far it was to London ? 
 
 " My good man," answered one of the ladies, as she took a 
 half-crown from her pocket to pay for a bust of Milton she had 
 selected, " you are nearly twelve miles from London : it is 
 now eight o'clock, and getting dark; you cannot walk so 
 far to-night. Had you not better stop and sleep at the small 
 
380 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 inn at the end of the village? The old woman who keeps 
 it will charge you very little for a bed; besides, here is an 
 extra shilling to pay for it." 
 
 The itinerant leaned against the window-sill ; and as he 
 took the money, his chest heaved heavily, and he drew his 
 thin and yellow hand across his eyes, for tears stood in them. 
 
 The ladies felt for him, and listened. 
 
 " I had once strength in these limbs," said he, " and a heart 
 that feared nothing. But now I am quite weary ! I am in- 
 deed unable to go much further, for I have walked to day 
 more than thirty miles, with this load upon my head, destitute 
 of refreshment. Oh ! a curse on my unhappy fate ! — but it was 
 my own seeking. Why did I first leave my home !" 
 
 This language of the stranger betrayed him. He evidently 
 belonged not to those wandering tribes who come yearly to 
 England for their bread, nor had he been always used to 
 suffering and hardship. 
 
 Here he would have departed: — he was stooping for his load ; 
 but the compassion of his hearers had been won, and their 
 interest so much excited that they questioned him further. 
 
 " Had he no friends in England, none who could protect 
 him from want V — He answered rather haughtily, and without 
 disguise : 
 
 " Whilst my father lived, I wanted nothing. I was his only 
 son, and he doated on me too much to embitter any moment of 
 my life. But I became a wretch — yes, a wretch ! While but 
 a youth, heedless of his prayers and entreaties, I dashed so 
 madly into the path of dissipation, that ere I learnt to reflect, it 
 was too late !--- my prospects were all ruined, and I was homeless 
 and a wanderer." 
 
 Having uttered this, the stranger's agony betrayed its truth, 
 and he abruptly paused. 
 
 " But your friends cannot all be lost to you !" exclaimed the 
 elder of the two ladies, as she concealed her aged and tearful 
 eyes with her handkerchief. 
 
 " Yes, they must all be dead, and she — " here his voice fal- 
 tered, " she must be dead also : she, whom I nightly prayed for, 
 is lost, lost to me for ever.— Yes, there was one, whose voice 
 and image were once always with me, and I worshipped them ! 
 Our lives were so connected, from the first moment of meeting, 
 that unless we breathed the same air, and watched the sun rise 
 and set together, our days were lonely, and our nights wretched. 
 At last, a sudden impulse of my temper separated us, and I 
 fled from England's happy shores and from her— but still with a 
 promise to return. 
 
 "I found myself shortly afterwards in Paris. Its gaieties 
 consumed all my means, and I conceived that fatal passion 
 
THE IMAGE-MAX. 381 
 
 which has brought me to what I am — gambling. In indulging" 
 it, I found myself eternally disgraced, and under that disgrace I 
 tried to stifle what I felt. I prayed, I swore, to think of her no 
 more ! The oath itself made me faithless, and I deserted her ! 
 
 " After two miserable years spent wholly in the haunts of 
 dissipation, I came back to my native land. Here, though I 
 deserved ; it not, fortune awaited me ; and oh ! how wickedly 
 did I squander it !" 
 
 " But did you not still love the poor girl you had deserted ?" 
 The man answered not. 
 
 " Go to her; ask her forgiveness, at least. Perhaps she yet 
 lives ; and it would make her happy to forgive you." 
 
 " Oh, no, madam — that cannot be. I had no sooner landed in 
 England, than with hurried steps I sought out the spot we had 
 once called our own, thinking to see her walking there alone 
 — for I heard that her love forme still continued, although I was 
 worthless of it — but she was not there. In the suspense of such 
 an hour, I paced the few streets of the town which was so 
 well known to me. But amongst the many strangers there 
 (for my long absence had made them such), I searched for her 
 in vain. At length I reached her home, the doors of which I 
 had never entered, for our meetings had been all clandestine ; 
 h\xt\ had watched her enter them, and every object was dearly 
 familiar to me. Whilst I stood there a carriage stopped at the 
 gate ; the door opened, and I saw — oh, heavens ! not her — but 
 one belonging to her, in the deepest mourning. She wore the 
 black dress of sorrow, as I, with a sickly fancy concluded, for a 
 child whom I had sacrificed. That thought, that conviction, went 
 to my brain ; upon the earth I sank senseless ; and when I dared 
 to raise myself from it, I fixed for a moment my swimming eyes 
 upon the house — upon the window — her window — and from the 
 spot I rushed into the dreary distance, and never saw it more. 
 Oh ! had she been spared but to have heard me ask forgiveness ; 
 though my presence must have poisoned the pure air about her, 
 it would have been one of the most blessed moments of my 
 life r 
 
 " And where, my poor man, did you then bend your steps ?" 
 " To London, madam — to that sink of infamy. The victim 
 of sorrow and despair, the black clouds of fate hung so densely 
 around me, that I could not penetrate them. My old passion of 
 gaming sprang up with tenfold violence ; and enabled to feed it 
 still further, by the considerable fortune left me by my poor 
 father (whose eyes death had closed, whilst I was rioting in 
 other lands), I plunged at once into its deepest gulph. This 
 fortune was indeed to me a bane; for it led me into the 
 society of men of fashion, who associated with me on account of 
 it alone ; and whilst my gold lasted, they made me the toast, 
 
382 LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the god of their midnight revels. But the flattery and hollow- 
 ness of my depraved associates, instead of gratifying me, made 
 me hate myself the more ; and this hatred I tried to foster by in- 
 toxication into revenge.'* 
 
 " Unfortunate man," exclaimed one of the ladies, a who 
 could deserve your revenge?" 
 
 " Myself! no other than myself. Oftentimes, in a phrenzied 
 state from drinking, as I watched the lamps of mirth burn down 
 into their sockets, I have vowed to have that revenge — by my 
 own hand — by suicide." 
 
 A sigh of pity here escaped the lips of those who listened. 
 
 " But (continued he) the guilty are but cowards — for as often 
 as I advanced a few steps nearer my end, have I shrunk back 
 from it, appalled." 
 
 " How long did you continue such a life ?" 
 
 U So long as the last shilling of my fortune remained — al- 
 though, in those scenes of guilt, the film has fallen at moments 
 from my eyes, that I might see once more her fading image — 
 her wraith — her warning wraith — beckoning me away! But 
 what did I see ? the same bright face and form ? — Its appear- 
 ance haunts me still ! Her figure was the same — her features 
 were the same — and she moved as a thing of life. But — oh, 
 horrible to tell! — reason had fled that noble mind. She stood 
 before me in my visions a maniac V 
 
 The agitated man again paused, and passed his feverish hand 
 over his brow, whilst hishearers sat trembling and silent. 
 
 He shortly resumed. 
 
 " But my revelry at length was at an end. Her spectre had 
 not scared me from those scenes ; for I sought them till they 
 vanished from me and left me to starve. 
 
 " So used was I to misery, that I bore against it long — very 
 long — until nature grew importunate ; and to satisfy her I begged — 
 though it almost choked me — first of my midnight friends. But 
 they, all of them, were poor, they said, and could not give : — then 
 in the open streets of London did I ask for bread ; whilst, through 
 many a winter's night, have I wanted shelter from the benumb- 
 ing cola and snow, and, worn to the last thread of strength, sunk 
 senseless at a door, where I have slept till some pitying stranger 
 has awakened and relieved me. 
 
 " One morning I was furnished with a warm and plentiful 
 meal ; and the kind man who fed me urged me to seek some 
 plan of earning my bread. I did so. I seized on the first, though 
 the most wretched means of life which offered — my present 
 vocation. 
 
 " Through every part of England have I travelled with this 
 heavy tray; and the mere toil I could have well endured with her 
 bright smile to cheer me on — but she is lost to me for ever, and 
 
THE IMAGE-MAN. 383 
 
 I am hopeless ! One day, well I remember it ! on my way back 
 to Town to procure more images from an Italian who made them 
 there, I came accidentally on a large house, and having but one 
 figure left, I knocked recklessly at the door — for I was hungry, 
 and would have parted with it for a slice of bread, having that day 
 tasted nothing. The servant who answered my unwelcome 
 summons, abused me for my impudence, and tried to thrust me 
 away, threatening to set his mastiff on me if I remained there 
 longer. I stood in anger, and could have struck him to the 
 earth, as a recollection of the past flashed on my mind. The 
 house, whose doors were closed against me — the servant, who 
 had thrust me from them — and the dog that might have torn these 
 wearied limbs — were all — but a few short years since — my 
 father's ; and would have been his son's, but for the accursed 
 passion which had robbed him of them. 
 
 " With hasty paces, for my eyes could not bear its recognition, 
 I left that painful spot ; and as I passed the silver stream, and 
 the green wood, which had been the chosen haunts of my boy- 
 hood, I felt, what peace it would have been to end my galled life 
 near them." 
 
 The wretched man's history was now told'; and, sinking on 
 the seat near the window, he buried his face within his freckled 
 hands, and gave free vent to long-suppressed tears. But a 
 further trial yet awaited him ; the greatest and the saddest of 
 them all ; how little dreamt he of it I 
 
 The night by this had closed in, and the dews fell chill and 
 heavily, as the image-man rose suddenly from his seat, anxious, 
 for that night at least, to procure some place of rest. With 
 this view he tried to raise the load upon his head, but so feeble 
 was he that he was obliged to rest it some moments on his 
 arm. Ere he left the spot, his look was turned in gratitude 
 towards his benefactors, who could now be distinctly seen by 
 the lights which the servant at that instant brought into the 
 room. — The stranger's eyes seemed fixed : some indistinct words 
 fell from his lips ; he would have spoken, but the effort was too 
 mighty for him. Nought could have moved him from the spot — 
 he" stood there as it were spell-bound. What had so arrested 
 his glance ? Something as colourless and speechless as a statue. 
 As it moved unconsciously towards the light, a full glare fell 
 upon it. — The man at length instinctively approached a glass- 
 door that opened into the parlour. He unclosed it— one foot was 
 already in the room : he would have sprung forward, and touched 
 the uplifted hand of that figure, which seemed scarce earthly, 
 but for a shriek that pierced his very soul — so loud, so appalling 
 was it, as it burst from the broken heart of this realization of 
 
384 LIBBARY OF FICTION. 
 
 the wanderer's vision. Yes, it was she — now a poor maniac — 
 but once the loved, the deserted Emily Graham. 
 
 In that sad moment have they met again. ' Reason, that had 
 taken flight from her fast- withering form, returned for one 
 instant, whilst she uttered, for the last time on this side her 
 grave, the branded yet still loved name of Henry Montague. 
 
 Where is the stranger now? Is he bending over that 
 drooping flower, which had wanted but his cherishing, to bloom 
 on in happiness '? Is he chafing her stony hands lill the ebb 
 of life reflows? — till those eyes have lost their glassy stare, and 
 behold him once again ? 
 
 No — he is lost in the darkness of the night.— There lie his 
 broken images— but he has fled. 
 
 Did you ever, reader, — in passing up that lane of bustle and 
 banking-houses, Lombard-street, notice,— -near the centre of it, a 
 church ? — its name you may easily make out by a London Guide. 
 If so, let the tale you have just perused, induce you to worship 
 your Creator there next Sunday. And as you bend your humble 
 knee, remember that you are in the house of death,— that num- 
 bers are entombed beneath your feet, some of whom, perhaps, 
 you have known and spoken with. 
 
 There are, however, two graves, side by side, in the middle 
 aisle of the church, that may perhaps arrest your eye. The step 
 of man has worn away some of the letters ; but with a little care 
 you may readily make out the name of the two Emily Grahams, 
 mother and child. The younger, through the mercy of heaven, 
 was carried to the tomb first ; and the mouldering hand of time 
 could have destroyed but little of the lineaments of the child, 
 when, by the same mercy, the mother followed.