?T 
 
 ^ 
 
 'J/' 
 
 l«<H *■ ♦-« c 
 
 ..-11 
 
 2 
 
 i 
 
 'it 
 
 life 
 
 Rfc-'i 
 
 >- 
 
 p- 
 
 % 
 
 W^y? 
 
 ~7ft ( >//' ^ Z''/ 
 
 **■: #
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ;/c X 
 
 O-JO^
 
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF A FEATHER.
 
 
 "si 
 
 
 tr^
 
 w 
 
 Q 
 
 w 
 Q 
 Id 
 
 or 
 
 u 
 
 h 
 O 
 
 x 
 
 h 
 
 >• 
 <
 
 X 
 
 BY 
 
 Douglas Jeeeold. 
 
 Illustrated J5y p. J)u ^Maurier. 
 
 LONDON: 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, & CO., 11, BOUVERIE STREET. 
 
 L867.
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Introduction ........... ri 
 
 I. — My Arrival in England ; My Visit to Shadrach Jacobs, of 
 the Minor ies ......... 
 
 II. — I am Sold to the Jew. — Miriam the Temptress. — The 
 
 Family -Watch .......... 6 
 
 Illustration — " Miriam Jacobs and Jack Lipscomb are together." 
 
 III. — Flamingo, tiie Court Feather -Merchant. — The Duke's 
 
 Pine-Apple. — Birth oe a Prince oe Wales . . . 12 
 
 Illustration — " He felt, intensely felt, the surpassing importance of his position." 
 
 IV. — Patty Butler, the Feather-Dresser. — Patty's Mother. 
 
 — Me. Ltxtley, the Apothecary . . . . . . 18 
 
 Illustration — " Her Mother was dead !"' 
 
 V. — Patty Butler Finishes her Work. — A Ruffian. — A Word 
 on London Garrets. — Patty in the "Watch-house . 
 
 Illustration — " If you hav'n'1 a tongue, I'll see if you've lips." 
 
 VI. — Patty Butler en the Watch-house. — The Charge. — Her 
 Release . . . . . . . . . . 
 
 Illustration — " I ask your pardon, sir.' 
 
 '
 
 Contents and Illustrations. 
 
 VkC.V. 
 
 VTT. — Fatty returns Home. — Unexpected Visitor ... 34 
 
 Illustration — " Can it be Jessy ?" 
 
 Till. — A Funeral. — St. James's Falace. — The Prince of 
 
 Wales ......... 40 
 
 IX. — Tiie Prince of Wales Exhibited. — The Countess Blusii- 
 
 rose. — Dreadful Accident to Mr. Flamingo ... 45 
 
 X. — I am carried off from the Palace. — The Countess 
 
 BLUSnROSE AND HER CHAPLAIN 5/ 
 
 Illustration— ■"Mr. Iiiglewood gravely shook his head." 
 
 XI. — Domestic Happiness of the Earl and Countess Blush- 
 rose. — Peculation by Lord Tootle's Maid ... 58 
 
 Illustration — " Send the culprit from the house, and instantly." 
 
 XII. — TnE Countess Blushrose and her Babe. — Slavery of 
 
 St. James's. — Garrick's "Romeo" 65 
 
 Illustration— " You will at least hand me to it." 
 
 XIII. — Drury Lane Theatre. — A Broken-hearted Woman. — The 
 
 Countess is summoned Home. — An Old Acquaintance . 72 
 
 Illustration— " The Countess glanced at his plain outside." 
 
 XIV. — I am Purchased by Madame Spanneu. — An Illustration 
 
 of Human Motives ........ 79 
 
 Illustration—" ' Well, it's in Heaven,' cried Mrs. Pillow." 
 vi
 
 Contents and Illustrations. 
 
 XV. — I am of Madame Spanned' s Stock. — Gossip of Gowns 
 and Cloaks. — Short History of a Scarlet - heeled 
 Shoe .......... 85 
 
 XVI. — Madame Spanneu's Customers. — Their Humility. — Domes- 
 tic Peace and Pickles ; an Episode . . . . . 91 
 
 XVII. — Monsieur Spanneu and his Scholars. — I am Ill-used 
 
 by a Poodle ......... 97 
 
 Illustration — " His lips dropt oil, but his hand still bore a whip." 
 
 XVIII. — A Husband's Wrongs. — A Listener. — An Attack. 
 
 — Triumph of Colours '. . . . . . . 103 
 
 XIX. — I AM TAKEN TO A TAVERN. L.EFT IN A HACKNEY COACH . 108 
 
 III 'nst 'rut 'ion — " Lay him on the door-mat." 
 
 XX. — A House in Bloomsbury. — I again Meet Patty Butler. 114 
 
 XXI. — Mrs. Crumpet, and Tatty. — Cramp, the Card-maker . 110 
 
 XXII.— An Intruder. — A Stolen Watch. — Patty in New 
 
 Affliction 125 
 
 XXIII. — A Short Account of a Eighwayman. — Arrival of 
 
 Mr. Li.vii.kv ......... 130 
 
 III miration — "Tell iii", Patty, how is it that I find you in bucL a plai e
 
 Contents and Illustrations. 
 
 XXIV. — I am Behoved to Champ's House. — Death oe the Old 
 
 Cabd-makeb ......... 137 
 
 Illustration — "Why, man, that's right ; howl — howl!" 
 
 XXV. — A House of Mourning. — I am in Great Peril. — A 
 
 Message from the Dead ...... 143 
 
 Illustration — " Uriah Cloudy dropt upon his knees." 
 
 XXVI.— Mrs. Cramp's New Suitor. — The Widow's Cap. . . 149 
 
 Illustration—" There could be no harm in that." 
 
 XXVII. — I am again taken Abroad. — The Widow Loses her 
 
 Lover and Myself 156 
 
 XXVIII. — I am taken to Newgate. — The Turnkey and his Wife 161 
 
 Illustration — "What a beautiful feather, Mike ! ' 
 
 XXIX. — I Meet Patty Butler in Newgate. — The Turnkey's 
 
 Wife Pleads for Curlwell 167 
 
 XXX. — Patty is Visited by Mrs. Gaptooth and Curlwell. 
 
 — Offer of Marriage . 172 
 
 XXXI. — Curlwell's Suit Bejected. — Appearance and Grief of 
 
 the Widow Cramp ....... 178 
 
 Illustration — " You would have my answer, Mr. Curlwell?" 
 
 XXXII. — Mbs. Champ's Appeal to Patty. — Visit of a Jealous 
 
 Wife 185 
 
 a,
 
 Contents and Illustrations. 
 
 XXXVIII. — I AM LEFT IN ClTVe's DRESSING-ROOM. — A COLLOQUY 
 
 with A Hare's Foot 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXXIII. — A Conspiracy against Patty. — More Visitors to 
 
 Newgate. — The Misses Peachick . . . . 101 
 
 XXXIV. — The Trial of Click Abram and Patty Butler . . 197 
 
 Illustration—'- Clickly Abram, with a smile of killing sweetness.'' 
 
 XXXV.— I All TAKEN TO DllURY LANE THEATRE, AND BECOME 
 
 Part of its Wardrobe. — The Play-house behind 
 
 the Scenes. ........ 204 
 
 XXXVL— Something more of Fanny Dayis.— The Poor Actor's 
 
 Home. — Miss Gauntwolf 21° 
 
 Illustration —" Mi.ss Gauntwolf sat in silence at the fireside." 
 
 XXXVII. — I go upon the Stage.— The Green-room. — The Actors. 
 
 — Mr. Gauntwolf and a Pinch of Snuff . . 217 
 
 Illustration—" At length he paused before the pier-glass." 
 
 224 
 
 XXXIX.— I AM TAKEN FROM THE THEATRE. — A CRITIC'S INKSTAND. 
 
 — Death of Mrs. Gaptooth . ... 230 
 
 Illustration — "- ' Drink !' again roared the actor." 
 
 XL.— I remain in the Family of the Gauntwolfs. — A 
 
 Letter and a Cheque 
 
 b 
 
 236
 
 Contents and Illustrations. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 XLI. — Gatjntwolf falls Sick. — His C4rief and his Gold 
 
 SxriT-r.ox ......... 241 
 
 Illustration— " Then would lie strive to rave and roar at his wife." 
 
 XLII. — I am Pawned, and agadst Sold to Shadrach Jacobs. 
 
 I BECOME THE PROPERTY OE AN UNDERTAKER . . 247 
 
 XLIII. — I Leave the Undertaker, and am Promoted to a 
 
 Monkey's Cap ......... 252 
 
 XLIV. — I again Meet with Patty Butler. — Her Marriage. 
 
 — Conclusion ......... 256 
 
 Illustration — " Imdewood returned." 
 
 PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Patty at her Mother's Bedside ...... Frontispiece. 
 
 The Countess is Summoned Home ...... 75 
 
 The Stolen Watch . . . . . . . . . 127 
 
 "Well, that's what I call a Lady" 254 
 
 x
 
 5^ ^nit$§u<ti$n. 
 
 A M a native of Africa ; but my 
 
 parent ostrich having been hunted 
 
 clown for the property he carried 
 
 with hini, I was, many years ago, 
 
 shipped at the Cape of Good Hope 
 
 for London ; in which magnificent 
 
 city I have lived a life of many 
 
 changes. In my time, I have 
 
 tossed my head above the noblest 
 
 in the land ; and now — 
 
 But I will narrate my adventures in the order they befel me. 
 
 My duty to my parent demands that I should champion 
 
 him against the supercilious sneers of the world — that I should 
 
 vindicate his memory from the ignorant slander of mankind. 
 
 I will confess it, when after a race of some twenty leagues, with 
 the horses close at my parent's tail, I beheld my honoured sire thrust his 
 head into a bush, believing, as it was too plain he did, that because he 
 could see nobody, nobody could see him, — I do confess, despite of filial 
 love, I felt a fluttering of indignation, not unalloyed — may I be par- 
 doned the sin! — with contempt. The world has taught me better 
 
 .11
 
 My In troduction . 
 
 wisdom. Experience has made me tolerant. Since I have seen men 
 —praised, too, for their excelling- prudence— commit the self-same 
 folly as my unfortunate sire, reproach has subsided into sorrow, and 
 content become softened by regret. 
 
 But I come of an outraged, a slandered race. What bouncing fibs 
 have been written of me, by sand-blind philosophers, and glibly 
 repeated by gossips of all sorts at their firesides ! How venerable 
 does a lie become by length of years ! Truth is never a babe, and never 
 a hag. As at the first, so at the last: full-blown yet young ; her eyes 
 lustrous through ages, and her lip ruddy and fresh as with the dews 
 of Eden ; upon her brow sits an eternity of beauty. Now Falsehood 
 is born a puling, roaring thing : its very infancy is anticipative of its 
 old age, and stamped with the grossness of mortality. Day by day it 
 waxes bigger and stronger; has increase of reputation, crowds of 
 clients ; until, at length, its unrighteous hoariness makes it worshipped 
 by multitudes for no other reason save this — it has gray hairs. And 
 so the wrinkled wizard keeps his court, and works his mischief-dealing 
 paralysing spells, until Truth at some time turn her sapphire eyes full 
 upon him, and as a bubble at a finger's touch, Falsehood is gone. 
 
 For thousands of years my ancestors have borne the weight of lies 
 upon their backs. And first, for the shameless scandal that the family 
 of ostriches wanted the love which even with the wasp makes big its 
 parental heart towards its little ones. 
 
 " The ostrich, having laid her eggs, leaves them to be hatched by 
 the heat of the sun." 
 
 Such is the wickedness that for tens of centuries has passed among 
 men for truth, reducing the ostrich to a level with those hollow-hearted 
 
 i ,i
 
 My Introduction. 
 
 children of Adam, who leave their little ones to the mercies of the 
 world, to the dandling of chance, to the hard rearing- of the poor-house. 
 There is Lord de Bowelless ; he has a rent-roll of thousands ; is a 
 plumed and jewelled peer. Look at him in his robes ; — behold " law- 
 maker " written on the broad tablet of his comprehensive brow. He is 
 in the House of Peers : the born protector of his fellow-man. How 
 the consciousness of high function sublimates his nature ! He looks, 
 and speaks, and lays his hand upon his breast, the invincible champion 
 of all human suffering — all human truth. Turn a moment from the 
 peer, and look at yonder biped. There is an old age of cunning cut and 
 lined m the face of a mere youth. He has counted some nineteen 
 summers, yet is his soul wrinkled with deceit. And wherefore ? Poor 
 wretch ! His very birth brought upon her who bore him abuse and 
 infamy : his first wail was to his mother's ear the world's audible 
 reproach. He was shuffled off into the world, a thing anyway to be 
 forgotten, lost, got rid of. In his very babyhood, he was no more to 
 men than the young lizard that crawls upon a bank, and owes its 
 nurture to the bounty of the elements. And so this hapless piece of 
 human offal — this human ostrich deserted in its very shell — was 
 hatched by wrong and accident into a thief, and there he stands, 
 charged with the infamy of picking pockets. The world taught 
 him not hiii-- wise or virtuous, and now, most properly, will the world 
 scourge him for his ignorance. 
 
 And thus, because man, and man alone, can with icy heart neglect 
 his little ones— can leave them in the world's sandy desert to crawl 
 into life as best they may, — because a De Bowelless can suffer his 
 Datura! baby tube swaddled in a workhouse, to eat the pap of pauper 
 
 xiii
 
 My Introduction. 
 
 laws— to learn as it grows nothing but the readiest means of satisfying 
 its physical instincts, — because his Lordship can let his own boy sneak, 
 and wind, and filch through life, ending the life the father did him 
 the deep wrong to bestow upon him, in deepest ignominy, because, 
 forsooth, the human sire is capable of all this, he must, in the con- 
 sciousness of his own depraved nature, libel the parental feelings of 
 the affectionate ostrich ! Oh, that the slander could perish and for 
 ever ! Oh, that I could pierce the lie to the heart ; with a feather 
 pierce it, though cased in the armour of forty centuries ! 
 
 Again, the ostrich is libelled for his gluttony. Believe what is said 
 of him, and you would not trust him even in the royal stables, lest he 
 should devour the very shoes from the feet of the horses. Why, the 
 ostrich ought to be taken as the one emblem of temperance. He lives 
 and flourishes in the desert ; his choicest food a bitter, spiky shrub, 
 with a few stones — for how rarely can he find iron, how few the white 
 days in which the poor ostrich can, in Arabia Petraea, have the luxury 
 of a tenpenny nail ? — to season, as with salt, his vegetable diet. And 
 yet common councilman Prawns, with face purple as the purple grape, 
 will call the ostrich — glutton ! 
 
 For how many centuries did that stately rajah, the elephant, move 
 about the earth, mankind all the while resolutely denying to him the 
 natural joints of his legs ? Poor fellow ! although thousands and 
 thousands of times he must have knelt before men — going upon his 
 knees that his rider might tell the truth of him, — they nevertheless 
 refused to him the power of bending. But the elephant has become a 
 traveller — has condescended to eat cakes at a fair — has shown the 
 combined humility and magnanimity of his nature, by going on his 
 
 ./ IV
 
 My Introduction. 
 
 marrow-bones on the boards of a play-house, and the world has 
 at length passed a truthful sentence upon him ! At length the 
 elephant has joints ! 
 
 I have endeavoured, feebly enough I know, to vindicate the cha- 
 racter of the maligned ostrich. Let that pass — my purpose in the 
 following chapters is to tell what I have seen in my eventful, ever- 
 shifting existence, as a feather, among men. An ostrich feather! 
 Consider my mutations, and despise not my history. 
 
 - V
 
 s? 
 
 & 
 
 }$ $Utty $f € &Wt§4t. 
 
 My Arrival in Encjfanci ; 
 My \ isit fo sKachracK f acobs, of the Minorics. 
 
 C 
 
 |\^f V vo y a S e fr° m the Cape 
 r I to the port of London 
 I would fain pass with the 
 fewest words. I had at least this con- 
 solution — I was an unwilling traveller. 
 Otherwise, I had deserved all the 
 miseries of ship-board ; the darkness, 
 the fetor, the hubbub and violence of 
 the prison. I have some pity for any- 
 
 thing that in its ignorance of salt-water 
 first trusts itself to its mercies ; but 
 none for the fool that ventures twice. 
 There may be some Eden-like spots 
 even in a coal-mine ; but the hold of a 
 ship — ugh ! 
 
 I remember being once present at a 
 party of the Bishop of Spikenard's. The 
 conversation turned upon the boun- 
 tifulness of the sea, ordained, as it 
 assuredly was, for the facile communi- 
 cation of man with man. Poor sim- 
 pletons ! It is my inherent faith that 
 the ocean was expressly created to keep 
 nations as much as possible separate ; 
 but that the courageous wickedness of 
 man has set at nought the benevolent 
 design of nature, and — to her astonish- 
 ment — has triumphed in the very teeth 
 of sea-sickness. Nay, have I not on my 
 side the wisdom of law-makers? For 
 
 /
 
 TJie Story of a Feather. 
 
 were they not of my faith, would they 
 tax silks and pepper ? On the contrary, 
 would they not take to their bosoms 
 the adventurous men who are tossed to 
 and from the far East for rare commo- 
 dities to clothe the limbs, and tickle 
 the palates of their fellow-bipeds 1 And 
 what is the fact ? Why, legislation, as 
 a check to the presumption of man, 
 makes him — in a hundred different 
 modes — pay for his temerity. The sea 
 was intended to keep people to them- 
 selves ; but the human heart is wicked, 
 and men became ship-builders. 
 
 Let me here advise the reader of one 
 of my besetting faults. I am now and 
 then apt to give up the thread of a 
 narrative, that I may run after some 
 butterfly thought starting up before 
 me : however, if the reader have pa- 
 tience, he will find that I always return 
 to my story. If he have not, let him 
 at once lay down the feathery tale 
 before him. I am conscious of this in- 
 firmity of falling into idle chit-chat. 
 Consider, however, the prejudices of my 
 early education. Consider the time of 
 life at which I was taken to court — 
 consider the society amidst which I 
 passed my whitest clays, and you will 
 pardon the small-talk of this my forlorn, 
 ragged, mortified old age. 
 
 However, to begin the history of my 
 adventures in merry England. I found 
 2 
 
 myself the property of the third mate 
 of the Jupiter, who had purchased me, 
 with other of my companions, of a 
 Kaffir, for a twist of pig-tail ; my new 
 master rejoicing himself exceedingly at 
 the cultivated intellect which enabled 
 him to trick the savage. He never, I 
 am certain, felt so much of an English- 
 man, as when he had fobbed the wild 
 man. Jack Lipscomb, for so was my 
 new master named, combined in his 
 nature — at least, so he thought — all 
 the courage and daring of the sailor, 
 with the prudence and foresight of the 
 experienced merchant. With this be- 
 lief, he had the deepest contempt of 
 every man of every nation, save of Eng- 
 land. He believed that the blessings 
 of arithmetic were wholly confined to 
 his own beloved country and her darling 
 sons ; hence, in his small traffic with 
 Chinese, Malay, and Hottentot, he 
 would insist that two and two made 
 seven, five and seven fifteen or twenty, 
 as he might feel it convenient to arrange 
 the figures. In a word, he considered 
 every foreigner to be produced by bene- 
 volent nature for this one purpose — to 
 bestow profit and pleasure on a freeborn 
 Briton. It was this consciousness of 
 superiority that made him vote himself 
 " honest Jack Lipscomb — a man as was 
 above a lie, and didn't care who know'd 
 it. He'd no deceit in him, not he : no
 
 My Arrival in England. 
 
 — he never did nothing that he need 
 hide from nobody." It was, doubtless, 
 this fine principle that induced the in- 
 genuous sailor to pack myself and some 
 sixteen companions between his shirt 
 and jacket ere he quitted the Docks. 
 Doubtless, there was no need of such an 
 arrangement, no other than the whim, 
 the caprice of honest Jack Lipscomb. 
 
 On leaving the Docks, Jack took his 
 way towards the Minories ; and in a 
 short time smote the hospitable door of 
 an ancient Hebrew, known among his 
 people as Shadrach Jacobs, and still 
 more familiarly recognised by his inti- 
 mates as "old Fluffy." Shadrach was a 
 dealer in the pomps and vanities of life, 
 turning the honest penny by such com- 
 modities, and still benevolently deplor- 
 ing their existence. He would employ 
 an hour, persuading a poor wench that 
 ear-rings of very questionable metal 
 were of the purest ore, pocket the girl's 
 quarter's wages for the small commer- 
 cial deceit, and then sigh for the pro- 
 mised innocence, the pure felicity of the 
 New Jerusalem. This was the trades- 
 man who, for the past four voyages, had 
 purchased the merchandise of honest, 
 knowing Jack Lipscomb. "Veil! if it 
 isn't Mr. Lipscomb — if I didn't dream 
 i mi you last night — if I didn't dream 
 you was come home, captain, don't 
 never believe mo, (hat's all!" Such 
 
 was the salutation of the Hebrew dealer, 
 as Jack stood revealed at the door-step. 
 "This vay, Mr. Lipscomb — this vay ;" 
 and old Fluffy fluttei'ed down the pas- 
 sage, and mounted the narrow staircase, 
 shaking at least twenty years from his 
 heels, with the expectation of sudden 
 gain. Jack was speedily conducted into 
 the Jew's room, crammed and littered 
 as it was with exotic produce. Shells, 
 feathers, birds, bamboo-sticks, Indian 
 hammocks, war-swords, canoe-paddles, 
 with half-a-dozen screaming parrots and 
 macaws, enriched the commercial sanc- 
 tuary of the Hebrew. 
 
 " If I didn't dream you was captain, 
 Mr. Lipscomb ! " repeated the Jew, as 
 Jack dropt himself upon a chair. 
 
 "Captain!" cried Jack, affecting a 
 contempt for such vain dignity. 
 
 " Veil, then, first mate," said the Jew, 
 as though his dream comprehended 
 even the second rank. 
 
 "Ugh!" cried Jack, "a pretty first 
 mate we've got — yes, a good 'un, he is 
 — just knows a bowsprit from a um- 
 brella, and that's all." 
 
 "Bless me! veil!" sighed the Jew, 
 and then smiling and rubbing his hands, 
 he turned himself towards Jack, and 
 with an affected look of anxiety, said, 
 "In course, Mr. Lipscomb, you comes 
 back second 1" 
 
 "I tell you what, old Fluffy," said 
 
 3
 
 TJie Story of a FcatJier. 
 
 Jack, stung by the feeling of unre- 
 warded personal merit, " I tell you what 
 — I'm just what I was — honest Jack 
 Lipscomb — third mate of the Jupiter, — 
 and I'd like you to show me a more 
 straightforwarder, honestcr fellow ! " 
 
 " Ha ! it would do good to my eyes 
 to see him as could," said Shadrach ; 
 and then, in a tone of sympathy, "only 
 third-mate — veil, this is a vorld, to be 
 sure ! " Having thus delivered himself, 
 Mr. Jacobs proceeded to the first busi- 
 ness of his life ; namely, to business 
 itself. He had thought it merely pru- 
 dent to learn the condition of his old 
 acquaintance, whether improved or not, 
 since they last met. This, it must be 
 owned on the part of the Jew, was 
 really respectful to station in the ab- 
 stract ; for if Mr. Lipscomb were Cap- 
 tain Lipscomb, Mr. Jacobs, of course, 
 knew too well what was due to rank to 
 offer to a commander, or even to a first 
 or second mate, that which in the 
 trader's own opinion was merely due 
 to the third. " Veil, and vot have 
 you brought us, Jack T' asked the 
 Jew, with the old familiarity of an 
 old friend. 
 
 "In the first place," answered the 
 sailor, " feathers ; " and he produced 
 myself and companions. 
 
 "Feathers, — veil, I don't know," 
 mused the Jew, "as for feathers, Jack, 
 4 
 
 they're clown to nothiu'. There's no 
 vonder the vorld's vot it is, for feathers 
 is quite gone out. Look at them shelves, 
 there ; look at them boxes — all full — 
 not sold a feather this six months. I 
 don't know vot's come to people. Some 
 say it's edication — I don't know ; if it is, 
 it ought to be put down, for it makes 
 the feather trade nothin' — nothin' — 
 nothin'." Thus spoke the Jew, his voice 
 deepening on each of the last three 
 words, until he sounded what seemed 
 the very bass-string of despair. 
 
 Indeed, the Jew and the sailor might 
 have made a picture. Shadrach had, 
 in his youth, rejoiced in luxuriant locks 
 of more than golden : they were, in the 
 intense signification of the phrase, red 
 gold. These, in the storms of life, had 
 become thickly specked with gray and 
 white ; yet remained there a departing 
 ray among them to indicate the full 
 glory that was past. Shadrach's face 
 was lean and pointed; his eyes quick, 
 and, as at times they seemed, trembling 
 with excess of light— a light reflected 
 as from guineas. His nose was boldly 
 bowed, indicating the true son of Israel ; 
 and whilst the corners of his upper lip 
 were twitched by muscular emotion — 
 (how mysteriously is fashioned the civi- 
 lised man, when there is a connexion 
 between the seat of the pocket and the 
 seat of the mouth !) — emotion, due
 
 My Visit to Shadrach Jacobs, of the Minories. 
 
 homage to the spirit of gain, his under 
 lip hung down, lapped over with the 
 weight of sensibility, or sensuality, I 
 will not decide. His sharp face, quick 
 eye, faded 3'ellow hair, and ardent com- 
 plexion, gave him, to the eye of fancy, 
 the visage of an old fox, grown vener- 
 
 ably gray on the blood of stolen geese. 
 And thus Shadrach sat and gazed at 
 Jack Lipscomb. 
 
 And Jack received the looks of the 
 Jew with the stalwart manner of a 
 British tar, chewing the while that 
 sweetest condiment — pigtail tobacco. 
 
 fc <y~/^„ _
 
 I am Sold 10 the feu'. 
 Miriam the Tempiress. The Fami(v-Wafck 
 
 r; 
 
 HERE was a pause of 
 1 some two or three mi- 
 nutes ; Jack Lipscomb 
 fully apprehending the purpose of 
 Shadrach Jacobs, yet at the same time 
 feeling somewhat humiliated by the con- 
 sciousness of his inferiority to the Jew. 
 How had Jack in his innermost heart 
 crowed and triumphed at the hard bar- 
 gain which had made me his property ! 
 With what profound contempt had he 
 contemplated the intellectual degrada- 
 tion of the Kaffir who sold me, tricked, 
 6 
 
 cheated, as the poor savage had been, 
 by the mixed lying and bullying of the 
 sailor. Such had been Jack's emotions; 
 but as he sat, and silently chewing, 
 gazed at the Jew, he half-seemed to 
 himself to change his condition with the 
 barbarian he had gulled — he felt, in its 
 fullest force, the supremacy of the 
 Hebrew : he shrank beneath the influ- 
 ence of a subtler nature. Thus, Jack 
 Lipscomb remained doggedly silent ; 
 and thus the Jew was at length com- 
 pelled to be a talker. 
 
 " I tells you, Jack, feathers is nothin'. 
 If, now, you've a little bag of gold-dust, 
 or any nick-nack of that sort — veil, you 
 hav'n't ? Veil, veil, more's the pity, 
 Jack — more's the pity, Mr. Lipscomb." 
 
 "Then we sha'n't deal, eh?" asked 
 Jack sulkily, and throwing a signifi- 
 cant glance towards the door. " Well, 
 there's Barney Aaron yet — that's one 
 comfort." 
 
 " Veil, I didn't think it of you, Jack ; 
 to threaten me with that sarpent — that 
 disgrace to the synagogue. Vot if
 
 / am Sold to the yew. 
 
 feathers is a drug, do you think, Mr. 
 Lipscomb, that I'd let you be robbed 1 
 Vy, I should think the roof would fall 
 upon me if I let you go out of this 
 house to be cheated." 
 
 " I don't know," said Jack, a little 
 mollified — " perhaps you ar'n't the 
 worst of the sharks." 
 
 " I vish I vos — yes, Mr. Lipscomb, I 
 vish I vos," said the Jew, earnestly, 
 " for then I shouldn't be the beo-o- a r V ot 
 I am. Ha ! this is a vorld ! Veil, veil, 
 ve must take it as it is till the better 
 one conies." 
 
 " In course," responded Jack, philo- 
 sophically ; and then counting my com- 
 panions and myself before the Jew, he 
 asked, " How much for the lot ? " 
 
 " I don't know vot to do vith 'em," 
 answered Shadrach, despondiugly, look- 
 ing down upon us and sighing deeply. 
 "As I'm an honest man, I shall only 
 keep 'em for the moths. Vot money 
 have you in your pocket, Jack?" 
 
 "Something within hail of five 
 pounds," replied the sailor. 
 
 " Veil, let me see, — vun, two, three, 
 — yes, fourteen feathers — " 
 
 " Seventeen, you griffin," growled 
 Jack. 
 
 " Veil, veil— I didn't sec ; ven you've 
 looked upon the vickedncss of the vorld 
 as long as I have, Mr. Lipscomb, you'll 
 have some feeling for an old man's eyes. 
 
 Let me see, sis — no, yes — seventeen — 
 veil, seventeen feathers, and you've got 
 seven pound in your pocket ?" 
 
 " Four pound, fifteen shillings," said 
 Jack, in correction. 
 
 " Now t shall I tell you vot I've long 
 thought of, Mr. Lipscomb ? I've often 
 said to myself, vot a pity it vos that a 
 man like you, Mr. Lipscomb, didn't think 
 more of yourself : that you didn't show 
 the face you ought to the vorld." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Jacobs ?" 
 asked Jack, very seriously. 
 
 " Vy, you see," continued the Jew, in 
 his blandest manner smiling upon the 
 sailor — as an epicure smiles upon a dish 
 he purposes very pleasantly to incorpo- 
 rate in his system — "vy you see, vot 
 does it go for if you're the best sailor 
 as ever swum — the honestest, goodlook- 
 ingest young man as ever von the vink 
 of a wirtuous young voman — vot does 
 all your goodness go for vith the vorld, 
 if you don't vear a votch ?" 
 
 Jack Lipscomb, with increasing gra- 
 vity, sawed the back of his hand across 
 his chin, and looking upon the floor, 
 seemed as if the interrogative of the 
 Jew had awakened a dormant feeling of 
 vanity — had, in a moment, solved to 
 his entire satisfaction a great social 
 mystery. " I don't know if you arn't 
 right," said Jack, after a pause. 
 
 " As the vorld goes — for it's made of
 
 The Story of a FeatJier. 
 
 wanity, Jack — a man's nothin' vithout 
 a votcli." 
 
 K There may be something in it," 
 agreed the sailor. 
 
 " I'm an old man, my tear friend, 
 and know the vorld vith all its crooked 
 bits, and nasty blots, and I talk to yon, 
 Jack, like my own flesh and blood." 
 
 " Come, avast there !" exclaimed Jack, 
 suddenly ; " none o' that — I'm a Chris- 
 tian, and eats salt pork." 
 
 " To be sure, vy not ?" answered the 
 Jew, in no way disconcerted : he then 
 returned to the charge. " I talk to 
 you as I'd talk to my own son, and if 
 it vos the last vords I had to speak, I'd 
 say, Jack Lipscomb, do justice to your- 
 self and get a votch." 
 
 "Advice is plentiful as sprats," said 
 the sailor. " Any fool can say, get a 
 watch ; but he isn't such a fool, who 
 shows how it's to be done." 
 
 " My tear friend," said the Jew, "vait 
 a minute." Shadrach then unlocked a 
 drawer, and taking from it a large, 
 yellow, metal watch, exposed it, with a 
 light laugh, to the sailor. 
 
 " It's a big un," said Jack Lipscomb, 
 gravely. 
 
 " It's a beauty," exclaimed the Jew ; 
 "but you hasn't seen half, Jack, look 
 here." Shadrach then wound up the 
 watch, and the picture of a ship fixed 
 in the dial-plate was set in motion, 
 8 
 
 rocking very regularly over grass-green 
 billows, under which was written the 
 legend — "Such is life." 
 
 " She carries a good deal of canvas 
 for such a sea," said the sailor glancing 
 at the toy with a purely professional 
 eye. 
 
 " To be sure — vonts nothin'," an- 
 swered the Jew, casting his gleaming 
 looks in the weather-beaten face of the 
 doomed purchaser. 
 
 " Humph ! I wonder how long them 
 studding-sail booms would stand in a 
 trough of the sea like that ? They'd 
 snap like clay-pipes ; if they wouldn't 
 I'm—" 
 
 " Never mind, my tear friend," cried 
 the Jew quickly, " sixpence vill paint it 
 out. Veil, vot do you say to that, 
 Jack?" asked Shadrach, now holding 
 the watch to the sailor's eyes, now 
 withdrawing it, and now turning it in 
 his hand, as though he held a magic 
 mirror to dazzle and confound the be- 
 holder's senses. " Vot do you say to 
 that, Jack?" 
 
 Jack spoke to the Jew's understand- 
 ing a whole volume ; albeit he really 
 uttered not a word. For he slowly 
 wiped his lips with the cuff of his 
 jacket, the while he gazed at the chro- 
 nometer ; again he wiped away, what 
 to the Jew seemed the water rising to 
 the sailor's mouth, brought thither by
 
 The Family Watch. 
 
 strong desire of making that watch his 
 own. 
 
 " For six pound with them feathers," 
 and here the Jew threw an affected look 
 of contempt upon myself and compa- 
 nions prostrate at his feet — " the votch 
 shall be yourn." 
 
 "Is it gold?" asked Jack. 
 
 " Vot ! veil !" exclaimed the Jew, and 
 he advanced two indignant steps to- 
 wards the drawer, as if about to consign 
 the watch for ever to its keeping — then 
 paused, and looking sorrowfully up into 
 the face of Jack Lipscomb, asked him, 
 in most pathetic tones, " vot he thought 
 of him?" 
 
 " No offence. I hope," said Jack 
 Lipscomb, deferentially. 
 
 " As if I'd sell my best friend any- 
 thing but the best gold. Ha ! Mr. 
 Lipscomb, you don't know me — no, you 
 don't ; you've cut me clean to the 
 heart ; but to show you I bears no 
 malice, I'll take all the money you 
 have for the votch — " 
 
 "Without the feathers?" asked the 
 sailor. 
 
 " Xo, my tear friend, with the fea- 
 thers ; though they're of no use to me 
 — quite none : still, for principle, my 
 tear friend, I must have the feathers." 
 
 Jack turned his tobacco in his mouth, 
 looked at the watch, as the camelcon 
 fixes a fly, ere with its long thread of a 
 c 
 
 tongue he consigns it to its jaws, — then, 
 throwing forth his right hand, seized the 
 timepiece, almost immediately empty- 
 ing his pocket of four pounds, fifteen 
 shillings. 
 
 " You've a bargain, Mr. Lipscomb — 
 you've a — veil, bless my heart, don't 
 go," — said the Jew, as the knocker 
 smote the street-door — " it's only an 
 old acquaintance of yourn, my daughter 
 Miriam." 
 
 Saying this the Jew quitted the 
 chamber, and in two minutes from his 
 departure, Miriam, a more than plump 
 Jewess, with vast black eyes, a profu- 
 sion of black hair (a very net for sailors' 
 hearts), large rosy lips, showing every 
 one of her brilliant white teeth, and her 
 massive face polished over with smiles, 
 swam into the room. 
 
 Poor Jack Lipscomb ! 
 
 This may be a proper place to observe 
 that a sentimental affection had, for the 
 duration of three past voyages, grown 
 up between Jack Lipscomb and Miriam 
 Jacobs. If, however, it was not strictly 
 between them, 'twas all the same — Jack 
 thought it was. There was, unfor- 
 tunately, what at first promised to be 
 an inseparable bar to the happiness of 
 matrimony — namely, the religion of 
 Miriam ; Jack sticking for it, most 
 Instil}-, that his wife must be like him- 
 self, every inch a Christian. 
 

 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " Ha ! Miriam, what a pity it is 
 you're a Jew !" This was wont to be 
 
 the frequent complaint of the orthodox 
 Jack ; and at length Miriam, worked 
 
 upon by her lover's affection — for sure 
 we are his many presents had nothing 
 to do with it — promised, after a fair 
 exercise of thought on the subject, to 
 give up the synagogue. 
 10 
 
 Miriam Jacobs and Jack Lipscomb are 
 together. Shall I betray the language 
 of lovers ? I will not. I will content 
 myself, and I trust, the reader too, by 
 stating that Miriam (having seen the
 
 Miriam the Temptress. 
 
 watch) promised to become a Christian 
 wife in a week's time ; in token of which 
 promise, she received the said watch as 
 a gift of her expectant husband. 
 
 Jack Lipscomb, nothing the better 
 for the alcohol sold in the Minories, 
 quitted the house of Jacobs penniless, 
 leaving me and my companions — whom 
 he had all but stolen from a barbarian, 
 
 only to be tricked in his turn — the 
 property of the Jew. 
 
 As Jack reeled his way towards 
 his ship, Miriam, consigning her jetty 
 locks to the close imprisonment of 
 paper, glanced at the rocking ship 
 on the watch, and for a moment 
 ceasing to hum a tune, read — "Such 
 ts life. 
 
 it
 
 C^III^D 
 
 Flamiiujo, the Court Feather- Merchant. 
 The Duke's Pinc-Applc. Birth of a Prince of Wales. 
 
 y 
 
 next 
 remove 
 was far 
 west- 
 ward. I 
 became 
 the pro- 
 perty of 
 the fea- 
 ther- 
 nierch- 
 ant to 
 the court ; or, as the tradesman 
 himself delighted to blazon in gold 
 letters over his shop-door, " Plumas- 
 sier to their Majesties." I confess I 
 felt myself somewhat humiliated by 
 the ill-report of Mr. Flamingo, who, in 
 his dealing with Miriam Jacobs — on 
 this occasion ambassadress from her 
 sire in the Minories — protested that 
 I was the inferior article of the whole 
 lot ; and that no pains of cleaning and 
 dressing would ever enable me to return 
 sixpence to my purchaser. This melan- 
 choly feeling, however, gave place to bet- 
 12 
 
 ter hopes, when, on the departure of the 
 Jewess — (Miriam had been compelled by 
 the hard chaffering of the feather-mer- 
 chant to throw a green monkey into the 
 bargain, for the especial delectation of the 
 youngest Miss Flamingo) — my new mas- 
 ter selected me from my companions, 
 and, shaking me tenderly, asked the 
 wife of his bosom, "if I wasn't a perfect 
 beauty]" This pleasing flattery was, 
 moreover, adequately responded to by 
 Mrs. Flamingo, who, with glistening 
 eyes, declared me " quite a love." 
 
 I have already said, Mr. Flamingo 
 was feather-selier to the court of Great 
 Britain. He felt, intensely felt, the 
 surpassing importance of his position. 
 His very soul seemed plumed with the 
 dignity. Hence, like my parent ostrich, 
 he would, when full of the consciousness 
 of his greatness, scarcely tread the shop- 
 floor, but, raised upon the wings, or 
 winglets, of his self-conceit, half-fly, 
 half-walk. It was the religion of Peter 
 Flamingo, that the whole moral and 
 social condition of man depended solely
 
 Flamingo, the Court Feather-Merchant . 
 
 upon feathers. Nay, I believe it to 
 have been his inner creed that plumes 
 were not so much designed for kings 
 and nobles, as that potentates and 
 peers were especially sent into this 
 world for plumes. I say, inner creed ; 
 because my experience of mankind has 
 convinced me that there are some people 
 who have an outside faith covering a 
 faith, in the same way that jugglers 
 have a box within a box, the last in its 
 small sanctuary generally containing 
 the conjured shilling. When Peter 
 Flamingo read or heard of the possible 
 perfectibility of man, I am certain that 
 man appeared to him like a Poland 
 cock, with a natural crest of feathers. 
 With this faith, it was consequent that 
 Mr. Flamingo should pay profoundest 
 reverence to those privileged to wear 
 the artificial glory, such reverence being 
 at the prime cost of those to whom fate 
 had rigorously denied that proud advan- 
 tage. Hence, the reader can imagine 
 the separate places of the Marchioness 
 of Mannaville, born to the right of a 
 plumed coronet, and of Patty Butler, 
 also born to the duty of dressing feathers 
 — can conceive their separate conditions 
 in the mind of Mr. Flamingo. The 
 Marchioness was a creature apart, a 
 glory to be numbered with the stars 
 of heaven ; the feather-dresser, a mere 
 weed of earth, millions of miles away 
 
 from that starry presence. Therefore, 
 like a good penny-turning Chaldean, 
 Flamingo thought, to properly worship 
 the star, he must tread upon the 
 weed. 
 
 Mr. Flamingo, in the observance of 
 this faith, did at times forget the mere 
 naked meaning of words, substituting 
 another set of syllables for the only set 
 rightly called for by the occasion. In 
 home-spun phrase, Flamingo was a liar : 
 but then his lies, since I must call them 
 so, were used to the very best advan- 
 tage. He dressed himself in falsehood, 
 but then he looked all the better for it. 
 He made positive gold-leaf of his un- 
 truths, which cast a lustre on him, 
 covered, as he would still be covered, 
 with borrowed radiance. Being feather- 
 seller to the court, he was, of course, 
 intimate with the whole peerage. He 
 would, at a moment, cast you up the 
 number of dimples to be found in the 
 cheeks and chins of Countesses — would 
 minutely describe to you the hangings 
 and furniture of every best bedroom of 
 every nobleman's mansion in the king- 
 dom ; he, in the course of his glorifying 
 profession, having been an honoured 
 guest thereat. With him true friend- 
 ship was a flower that was only to be 
 plucked from the gardens of the no- 
 bility ; and this flower Flamingo was 
 for ever twisting between his lips, or 
 
 13
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 sporting in his button-hole. " My friend, 
 the Marquis," — " My most excellent 
 friend, the Duke," — "My worthy ac- 
 
 quaintance, the Baronet." Thus con- 
 tinually spoke Flamingo ; and so speak- 
 ing, he thought he let fall diamonds 
 
 and rubies from his tongue for the 
 •world to wonder at. 
 
 A man with so many, and with such 
 friends, had of course frequent evidences 
 that friendship was not what the poetic 
 cynic calls it, only "a name." By no 
 means ; to Flamingo, it was sometimes 
 44 
 
 a turbot — sometimes a turkey. His 
 friend the Marquis would now and then 
 appear upon the feather-dresser's table 
 in the not less attractive, because twin 
 shape of a brace of pheasants : his most 
 excellent friend the Duke has smoked 
 upon the board, in the solid beauty of
 
 The Dukes Pine-Apple. 
 
 a haunch of venison. Of all men in the 
 world, Flamingo would have been the 
 last to deprive the peerage of their 
 proxies. More : how often did some 
 exalted Dowager appear in a rich and 
 candied preserve — how often some Earl's 
 daughter, the last out of the season, 
 sent a basket of peaches, ripe and 
 tempting as her own lips 1 At least, if 
 these gifts were really not made by the 
 exalted people praised by Flamingo for 
 their generosity, it was not the fault of 
 the feather-dresser ; no, the more his 
 virtue to preach up the necessity of 
 liberality to the world, even by apocry- 
 phal examples of beneficence. 
 
 It was some time after I had passed 
 from the hands of the feather-merchant, 
 that I heard a story illustrative of this, 
 his theoretical virtue. As, however. I 
 may not find a fitter place than the 
 present for the story, I will here narrate 
 it ; the more especially as the occur- 
 rence took place, whilst I was yet Fla- 
 mingo's property, albeit then ignorant 
 of the history I have to speak of. 
 
 Peter Flamingo gave a dinner. I 
 should say he rather presided at a dinner 
 given to him ; for there was no dish 
 upon the table that might not have 
 borne above it the banner of the noble 
 house from whence it emanated. Be- 
 lieve Flamingo, and the banquet was 
 no other than a collection of offerings 
 
 made to him by the English nobility : 
 he could have pointed out the repre- 
 sentatives of the peerage, from the noble 
 who came to cut throats with William 
 the Conqueror at Hastings, to the last 
 baron ennobled for selling the throats 
 of his constituents at Westminster. 
 How Flamingo's guests — benevolently 
 picked out by him from the very mob 
 of tradesmen — wondered at the ban- 
 quet ; how they praised their host for 
 his high connexions, and how they hated 
 him ! 
 
 The dinner passed off with excessive 
 cordiality. The wine, every drop of it 
 from the cellars of the peerage, made a 
 passing call at the hearts of the drinkers, 
 ere it mounted into their heads ; and all 
 was sincerity and noisy happiness. 
 
 The dessert appears. Were there 
 ever seen such magnificent pine-apples ? 
 Flamingo drops his eye proudly yet 
 lovingly upon the fruit, and says, with 
 a soft voice, so modulated that not one 
 man shall lose one syllable — " Ha ! my 
 dear Duke of Landsend — he is indeed a 
 friend ; all — all from his own gracious 
 pinery." 
 
 " Bless my heart ! Well, you are a 
 lucky man !" cries Brown. 
 
 " Was there ever such a Duke in the 
 world ? " exclaims Johnson. 
 
 "It's a shame to put a knife into 
 'em;" remarks Field, directing his 
 
 45
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 looks, sharpened to a very keen edge, 
 towards the crown of the ducal gift. 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! what are pines grown 
 for, if not to be eaten 1 " cries Flamingo, 
 handling his knife, looking full at the 
 pines, but only looking at them. 
 
 "Don't cut the Duke's gift — it's a 
 shame ! I wouldn't touch a bit of it," 
 says Robinson; "but there's a couple 
 of little ones there, that — " 
 
 " Well, if you prefer them — they're 
 not so large ; but their flavour is de- 
 licious ! They were sent by — yes, I 
 think by him — by Sir Harry Bargate, 
 a baronet of the last batch : will you 
 venture 1 " And without waiting for a 
 reply, Flamingo cuts into very, very 
 small pieces the smallest pine. 
 
 And still all proceeds with increas- 
 ing felicity. The bottle goes round 
 and round, and at length the heads 
 of the drinkers begin obediently to 
 follow it. The laugh increases — the 
 shout swells — and all is boisterous 
 merriment. 
 
 Brown jumps to his legs. " It's no 
 use," he cries ; " I've fought against it 
 long enough : I must have a cut at the 
 Duke." So saying, Brown seizes the 
 largest pine, and with furious precipi- 
 tancy, strikes his knife into it ; Fla- 
 mingo's blood runuing cold to his very 
 toes. 
 
 " And so must I !" cries the no less 
 16 
 
 drunken Johnson, following Brown's 
 example. 
 
 " And I !" screams Field ; and the 
 third knife enters the Duke's third 
 pine. 
 
 " And I, too," shouts Robinson, rising 
 to commit execution ; but Flamingo, 
 restored by the third attack to some- 
 thing like consciousness, snatches up 
 the pine, and Robinson, missing his 
 mark, falls sprawling on the table. 
 
 The charm of the night is broken ; 
 Flamingo looks sulky : and the guests, 
 a little sobered by a sense of their 
 attack upon the Duke's gifts, depart. 
 
 " We were wrong," says Brown, " to 
 demolish those pines ; for, if Flamingo 
 had had to buy 'em what would they 
 have cost?" 
 
 " I wonder what 's the market-price 
 now?" says Johnson — "let's ask." 
 And as he spoke, he turned into a cele- 
 brated fruiterer's. " What 's the price 
 of those pines V 
 
 "Three guineas each, sir," answered 
 the tradesman. 
 
 " They 're very small," said Johnson. 
 " Have you none bigger % " 
 
 " Yes, four — very large ; five guineas 
 each. But I can't show them now; 
 for the fact is, they're out on hire 
 for a night to my neighbour, Mr. 
 Flamingo." 
 
 And so, the Duke of Landsend was
 
 Birth of a Prince of Wales. 
 
 the shopkeeper ; and so Flamingo paid 
 fifteen guineas (he saved one pine) 
 for a lie, certainly, if there be any 
 means of testing the value of lies, not 
 worth half the money. 
 
 This little banquet took place on the 
 11th of August, 1762. With much 
 melancholy did Peter Flamingo rise on 
 the 12th. His bile, however, was blown 
 away by the Park guns, for they an- 
 nounced the birth of Queen Charlotte's 
 first-born — the Prince of Wales. 
 
 The " rudiments of an angel " * were 
 beo'im in George the Fourth. Did 
 Peter Flamingo rejoice at the birth of 
 a Prince of Wales ? I think so ; but 
 certain I am his heart rejoiced at the 
 fine prospect for feathers. 
 
 * In The Torhskireman of Jan. 1-1, 1843, is the report 
 of a meeting of " The Stockton Mechanics' Institute," 
 William Bayley, Esq., in the chair. The Chairman, 
 in introducing the Prince of Wales and Princes 
 Royal, said — "Reverence in the son the future 
 man, and in the prince the future king. Destroy 
 not in either royal scion the rudiments of an angel." 
 
 17
 
 c-IV^o 
 
 Path' Buffer, flu Feafhcr-Brcsser. 
 Pattv's Mother. Mr. Linffcv, the Apothecary. 
 
 c } A o 
 
 H E week that followed 
 the 12th of August, 1762, 
 was a time of jubilee for rejoicing, 
 thoughtful England. A Prince of Wales 
 was born ; and as I heard, numberless 
 patriotic sages had, at public dinners, 
 already prophesied in him another 
 Alfred. In his time all the virtues 
 would walk the highways, dropping 
 flowers in the every - day paths of 
 mortals, and rejoicing plenty unloose 
 her golden sheaves for the no more 
 repining poor. The sky would wear a 
 i8 
 
 purer azure — the gladdening sun once 
 more beam with the sanctifying light it 
 cast on Eden — the whole earth lie 
 nearer Paradise, and once more 
 
 " angels talk familiarly with men," 
 
 as men were wont to talk with one 
 another. The Prince — it was pre- 
 dicted from the tables of a thousand 
 taverns — would be the paragon of 
 mortals ; in his own great acts indi- 
 cating to the highest the divine origin 
 and end of man, and showing the folly, 
 the littleness, of all human malice, and 
 all human selfishness. George the 
 Fourth yet slept in his cradle, when 
 the spirit of prophecy thus walked 
 abroad, and played the sweetest notes 
 upon its silver trumpet ; and tailors 
 and gold lacemen felt a strange, mys- 
 terious gladness — a lightening of the 
 heart and pleasant spasm of the pocket. 
 Patty Butler dwelt in a long, dark 
 lane, on the north side of the Strand ; 
 in one of those noisome, pestilent re- 
 treats abutting on, yet hidden by, the
 
 Patty Butler, the Feather-Dresser. 
 
 wealth and splendour of the metropolis : 
 one of the thousand social blotches 
 covered by the magnificent trappings of 
 London. Even to this place did the birth 
 of. the Prince of Wales bring gladness : 
 for Patty Butler smiled, as dreaming 
 grief might smile in an angel, as Luke 
 Knuckle, Mr. Flamingo's light-porter, 
 somewhat suddenly stood before her. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Patty, advancing to 
 him, with upraised finger. 
 
 " How's mother ? " asked Luke, with 
 a quiet earnestness. 
 
 "Better — better, Luke, and asleep. 
 Have you brought work % " inquired the 
 girl with trembling voice, and the tears 
 almost in her eyes. 
 
 "Hav'n't you heard the news ] " asked 
 Flamingo's porter. 
 
 " "What news should I hear in this 
 place 1 " said Patty. 
 
 " Why, to be sure, you might as well 
 be clean out of the world. Not to have 
 heard all about it ! Well, I wouldn't 
 ha' believed it ! Can't you guess ? " 
 Patty with a wan smile shook her head. 
 "Well then," said Luke, "not to tease 
 you any longer — for God help you ! 
 poor babe, you've enough trouble for 
 any six — what do you think 1 — there's 
 a Prince of Wales born." 
 
 " Indeed ? " said Patty, unmoved by 
 the blissful intelligence. 
 
 " Why, where could you ha' been not 
 
 to have heard the bells ringing, and the 
 guns — to be sure, this isn't much of a 
 place for merry bells to be heard in at 
 all — but where could you ha' been ? " 
 
 "Where could I have been — where 
 could I go 1 " said Patty a little impa- 
 tiently — and then forcing a smile to her 
 fading lips, she asked — "and what, Luke, 
 can a Prince matter to folks like us 1 '' 
 
 " Well ! — why you used to be a quick 
 girl — don't you see, the Prince of Wales 
 as is come will make the fortin' of 
 feathers'? It's what they call one of 
 his royal prerogatives — though, for 
 myself, I can't say I know what they 
 quite are. I know this much, though ; 
 old Flamingo's all upon the wing agin. 
 There's work for three months certain," 
 added Luke. 
 
 Patty clasped her hands in thank- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Master said you must come to the 
 shop and w T ork, or go without it ; but 
 I talked to missus — ha ! she'd ha' been 
 a nicer woman after all, if luck hadn't 
 given her such good board and lodging, 
 — I told her how ill your mother was 
 —how you'd starve beside her, but 
 wouldn't leave her; so I got her to 
 abuse master into a bit of goodness, 
 and so that you mayn't leave mother, 
 I've brought the work to you." Here 
 the honest porter displayed myself and 
 others to Tatty Butler. 
 
 10
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " You are always so good-natured, 
 Luke," cried Patty. 
 
 " I don't know about that," said 
 Knuckle ; "but after all, it seems to me 
 so easy to be good-natured, I wonder any- 
 body takes the trouble to be anything 
 else. Good bye, Patty : I say, the work 
 must be done directly — for master says 
 he don't know when it won't be wanted.'' 
 
 " I won't stir, Luke, till I've finished 
 it, that you may be sure of," said 
 Patty, with new cheerfulness ; and wish- 
 ing her a cordial farewell, and speedy 
 health to her mother, Luke Knuckle — 
 the light-porter to Flamingo, the court 
 feather-merchant — descended the dark 
 narrow staircase with the feeling of the 
 finest gentleman ; for he trod gently, 
 anxiously, lest he should wake the 
 sleeping sick. 
 
 Released from the case, I could now 
 look about me. I am sure I felt a 
 thrill of pain as the place broke upon 
 me. An August sun struggled through 
 a narrow lattice, as though stained and 
 tainted by the gloom it had to pierce ; 
 dimly showing the space of the apart- 
 ment, a space not encumbered by use- 
 less furniture. In a recess, a nook of 
 the room, was a bed : and I could hear 
 the hard breathing of a sleeper — but 
 only hear ; for a curtain of surprising 
 whiteness hung between us. Indeed, 
 every object was wonderfully clean, and 
 20 
 
 displayed itself in contrast to the mean- 
 ness of the material. All was penury, 
 but penury in housewife attire. 
 
 Patty Butler took me from my other 
 companions, looking earnestly at me. 
 I have seen eyes exulting under 
 coronets ; have felt throughout my 
 frame the magic breath of beauty, 
 born with all earth's pleasures for its 
 handmaids ; have waved above and 
 touched the velvet cheek of lady great- 
 ness : yet have I never felt such deep 
 emotion as when gazed upon by the 
 poor feather-dresser — the girl of fifteen 
 years — the drudge of a garret in a 
 pestilent and fever-breathing alley. 
 
 Patty would never have been beau- 
 tiful ; born in down, and fed iipon the 
 world's honey-dew, she would have 
 passed for nothing handsome ; but she 
 had in her countenance that kind of 
 plainness, to my mind, better than any 
 beauty heaven has yet fashioned. Her 
 sweet, gentle, thin face trembled with 
 sensibility — with sensibility that sent 
 its riches to her eyes, glittering for a 
 moment there, beyond all worth of 
 diamonds. I have said, she was really 
 but fifteen ; she would have passed for 
 twenty. From earliest childhood, she 
 was made to read the hardest words — 
 want, poverty — in the iron book of 
 daily life ; and the early teaching had 
 given to her face a look of years beyond
 
 Mr. Lintlcy, the Apothecary. 
 
 her age. With her, daily misery had 
 anticipated time. 
 
 And she sits, in that almost empty 
 
 garret, a lovely sacred thing — a creature 
 that redeems the evils and the wrongs 
 of earth ; and in her quiet suffering — 
 
 in her devotion, constant to her heart 
 as her heart's blood — gives best assur- 
 ance of a future heaven. She sits, 
 glorified by patient poverty — by the 
 sustaining meekness of her soul, by the 
 unconquerable strength of her affec- 
 
 tions. Beautiful are queens on thrones 
 — but is there not a beauty (eternal as 
 the beauty of the stars!) in placid 
 •want, smiling with angel looks, and 
 gathering holiest power, even from the 
 misery that consumes it \
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 For two nights, Patty scarcely took 
 one constant hour's repose. Still she 
 worked ; her labour only intermitted 
 by her frequent visits to the bed-side 
 where lay her sick mother. I have 
 seen the feet of the best opera-dancers ; 
 heard them praised for their life, ay, 
 for their intelligence — their sentiment. 
 Yet have I seen nothing like Patty 
 Butler's foot, touching the garret floor 
 from her chair to the bed-side ; so 
 gentle, so affectionate, so noiseless, lest 
 she should wake her mother. 
 
 Each day, the doctor — not the parish 
 doctor — came. A neighbour had told 
 him of the sick woman ; and he had 
 accidentally seen the gentle Patty. 
 Mr. Lintley was a poor apothecary. It 
 was at times a hard struggle for him 
 not to tell the man who called for the 
 taxes, — to call again. He had no hope 
 of a shilling from Mrs. Butler, even 
 could his skill restore her ; but more — 
 he knew the seal of death was on her ; 
 consumption — Patty knew it not — 
 withered her. 
 
 The third day I passed in the garret, 
 the doctor paid his morning visit. 
 Patty had been up all night : that 
 night she had wept — bitterly wept — 
 had risen every five minutes to hover 
 about her mother, who would still 
 assure her she was better — much 
 better. 
 
 22 
 
 Mr. Lintley, the apothecary, entered 
 the garret. What chaplets are woven 
 for men of slaughter ! What statues 
 erected to men-slaying conquerors ! 
 What notes of glory sounded — what 
 blaspheming praises to the genius of 
 blood-shedding ! I have seen much of 
 the ceremonies dedicated to these things, 
 and contrasting my late feelings with 
 my present, with what new homage do 
 I venerate the race of Lintleys — the 
 men who, like minor deities, walk the 
 earth — and in the homes of poverty, 
 where sickness falls with doubly heavy 
 hand, fight the disease beside the poor 
 man's bed, their only fee the blessing 
 of the poor ! Mars may have his planet, 
 but give me — what in the spirit of the 
 old mythology might be made a star in 
 heaven — the night-lamp of apothecaiy 
 Lintley. 
 
 "And how — how is your mother?" 
 asked the apothecary, shown into the 
 room by Patty, who, with me in her 
 hand, had risen to open the door. 
 
 " She is better, sir," said Patty — 
 " better and asleep." 
 
 The apothecary looked with a mild 
 sadness on the girl, and drew aside the 
 curtain. Her mother was dead. 
 
 In tears and agony and numbness of 
 heart, and death about me, I was pre- 
 pared — " drest " for — 
 
 But of that in another chapter.
 
 Fatty Butter Finishes her Work A fiuHian. 
 A Woro on London Garrets. fatty in the Watch-louse. 
 
 ATTY S loss of her mother 
 was quickly known; and as 
 quickly was the chamber of death filled 
 with poor neighbours — the needy, suffer- 
 ing, squalid, ay, and even vicious deni- 
 zens of that miserable, fetid alley. 
 Touched by sympathy, in the very 
 fulness of heart, utter destitution 
 proffered service and assistance to 
 the motherless girl — when its only 
 aid was a comforting look ; its only 
 means, the starting tear : nature, for- 
 getful of its worldly destitution, spoke 
 
 only from the abundance of its pity. 
 Old, care-lined faces — with the ugliness 
 of habitual want sharpening and de- 
 forming them — looked kind and gentle, 
 for the time refined and humanised 
 by the awakened spirit of human love. 
 These pressed about the sufferer, and 
 with trite words of comfort — with old 
 and common phrases of compassion — 
 (the best rhetoric the talkers had to 
 offer) — tried to soothe the stricken 
 girl. "God help her!" cried an old 
 crone, with melting looks, though with 
 the features of a sibyl. " God will 
 help her ! " cried a young creature, 
 sobbing, whilst the tears ran down her 
 cheeks, washing from them the brand- 
 ing rouge that set apart the speaker. 
 So earnest was the voice that Patty 
 raised her head from her hands, and 
 her eyes meeting the eyes of her girl 
 neighbour — of the poor, reckless thing, 
 often so heedless and laughing in her 
 very despair ; of her, who a hundred 
 times when passing in the lane, by 
 venom words and brassy looks, had 
 
 23
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 taunted and out-stared the simple, 
 gentle feather-dresser — Patty felt a 
 communion of heart in the deep sin- 
 cerity of that assurance of God's help, 
 and through her tears smiled dimly, 
 yet thankfully, affectionately on her 
 comforter. The blighted girl, thus 
 recognised, was about to seize Patty to 
 her arms with the folding of a sister : 
 she then shrunk back as at a ghost, 
 and, as though poison had suddenly 
 shot through all her veins, trembled 
 from head to foot, whilst the paleness 
 of death rose beneath the paint, in 
 ghastly contrast of mortality and shame. 
 With a half-suppressed moan, the girl 
 darted down stairs, and rushed to her 
 only place of refuge — the horrid street. 
 Happily, the kindness of Mr. Lintley, 
 the apothecary, rendered the assistance 
 of the neighbours — could they have 
 offered any beyond the kindness of 
 mere words — needless. Lintley was 
 doomed to, perhaps, the most penal 
 condition of poverty ; that is, to an 
 outside show of comfort, with that 
 gnawing, snapping fox, penury, eating 
 to the bowels within ; was one of the 
 thousand grown-up Spartans who, with 
 aching hearts and over-jaded faculties, 
 turn a shining outside look on London 
 streets. Nevertheless, Lintley deter- 
 mined that Patty's mother should not 
 go to the earth in workhouse deals ; 
 24 
 
 for though his philosophy smiled at the 
 vanities of the undertaker, it had still, 
 in its very elevation, the better part of 
 philosophy, a benign and charitable 
 consideration for the weakness, the 
 prejudice, yea, for the folly of others. 
 Thus, all things necessaiy for that last 
 scene of life — in which the man, though 
 dead, still plays a part — were duly 
 ordered at the charge of Mr. Lintley, 
 and — how few the hours ! — Patty sat 
 and worked beside her coffined mother. 
 
 " Now, child — do come down stairs — 
 do, now : you'll be comfortable there," 
 urged an old woman, a lodger, to Patty, 
 seeking to win her from the place of 
 death. 
 
 "Thank you, I am better here — 
 happier — indeed I am," said Patty, 
 with sweetest meekness. 
 
 " Well, but it's getting late and 
 dark," said the woman, " and ain't you 
 afraid P 
 
 "Afraid! Of what should I be 
 afraid P asked the girl. 
 
 " Well, to be sure, for a young thing 
 you've a bold heart ; but when I was 
 a girl, I could have no more stayed 
 alone with anybody dead — " 
 
 "Not if you loved them?" interrupted 
 Patty. 
 
 " Why, love's something, to be sure ; 
 but still death, my dear, you know — " 
 
 " Takes fear from love, and as I feel
 
 A JVord on London Garrets. 
 
 it, makes love stronger. I loved her 
 when she was here, and must I not 
 love her — still more love her — now she 
 is an angel ? I tell you, it comforts 
 me to be alone — it does indeed," said 
 Patty. 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! if ever ! who 
 could have thought ! " and the old 
 woman would have proceeded in her 
 exclamations. 
 
 "But if you'll be kind enough to 
 stay here till I come back from Mr. 
 Flamingo — '' 
 
 " To be sure ; Mrs. Shroudly and 
 me will stay," said the woman. 
 
 " You will so serve me ! In half-an- 
 hour I shall have finished my work ; I 
 shall soon be back." 
 
 " And you'll sleep here alone in this 
 room to-night ?" asked the visitor. 
 
 For a moment Patty could not speak : 
 then, with a torrent of tears, and a voice 
 of anguish, she answered — " It is the 
 last, it is the last ! " 
 
 The well-meanin"; neighbour left the 
 room, and by the last light of a golden 
 August evening, Patty completed her 
 task. Her work was done ; and the 
 room darkened, darkened about her. 
 She sat fearless, self-sustained in the 
 gloom ; her thoughts made solemn and 
 strengthened by the atmosphere of 
 death which fell upon her spirit. She 
 felt as in a holy presence. That poor, 
 
 weak, ignorant creature — in the exalta- 
 tion of her soul, communed with her 
 mother in the skies ; talked, wept, 
 prayed to her, and was comforted. And 
 for that which lay apart — for that mute, 
 dull semblance of the thing that was — 
 it was for a time forgotten in the 
 rapturous grief that sorrowed at its 
 loss. Thus passed the girl an hour of 
 darkness, made bright by spiritual 
 dreams ; and then, calm and sustained, 
 she prepared to venture in the roaring 
 street. 
 
 Unseen, unknown, are the divinities 
 that — descending from garrets — tread 
 the loud, foul, sordid, crowding high- 
 ways of London. Spiritual presences, 
 suffering all things, and in the injustice 
 — most hard to turn to right — of our 
 social purpose, living and smiling, daily 
 martyrs to their creed of good. Young 
 children, widowed age, and withered 
 singleness — the ardent student, flushed 
 and fed with little else but hope — the 
 disappointed, yet brave, good old man, 
 a long, long loser in the worldly fight, 
 who has retired apart, to bleed unseen, 
 and uncomplaining die — the poor and 
 stern man, only stern in truth — sour of 
 speech, with heart of honied sweetness, 
 — all of these, in all their thousand 
 shades of character ami spirit — the 
 army of martyrs to fortune, and the 
 social iniquities that, drest and spangled 
 
 25
 
 TJie Story of a Feather. 
 
 for truths, man passes off on man — all 
 of this bright band have, and do, and 
 will consecrate the garrets of London, 
 
 and make a holy thing of poverty by 
 the sacrificial spirit with which they 
 glorify her. Many of these are to be 
 
 known — but more escape the searching- 
 eyes of the quickest moral vision. 
 There is a something — a look of service 
 in the aspect of some ; a depression 
 that elevates, a dogged air of courage 
 that speaks the fighting man in poverty's 
 26 
 
 battalions — an honourable, undisguised 
 thread-bareness that marks the old 
 campaigner ! Are not his darns more 
 beautiful than best work of Sidonian 
 needles— is there a patch about him 
 that is not, duly assayed, true cloth of
 
 A Ruffian. 
 
 gold? And has not such poverty its 
 genii, its attending spirits ? Yes ; a 
 bloodless glory is its body-guard, and 
 its tatter-bearer an angel. 
 
 And does not some such presence 
 walk with Patty Butler down the 
 Strand, on to the house of Peter 
 Flamingo, feather-merchant to the 
 Court 1 Stay : who is it, that now 
 addresses her 1 
 
 There is a tall creature hanging 
 about her steps — now, shifting to the 
 right side, now the left ; now behind 
 and now before. And now he inclines 
 himself, and says something to the ear 
 of Patty, who — with her thoughts in 
 that room of misery and desolation — 
 cannot heed him, but with her heart 
 in her throat, walks quicker and quicker, 
 silent and choking. 
 
 " If you hav'n't a tongue, I'll see if 
 you've lips," exclaimed, — not the good 
 angel of Patty Butler, — and the speaker 
 threw his arms about the girl, who 
 shrieked with misery and terror. Ere, 
 however, the sound had died upon 
 his ear, the ruffian had measured his 
 length upon King George the Third's 
 highway. 
 
 Luke Knuckle, Mr. Flamingo's porter, 
 
 had been sent to Patty to hurry her 
 with her work. Arriving at the house 
 but two or three minutes after her 
 departure, he had followed closely on 
 her steps, and was thus in a most 
 advantageous situation for the proper 
 application of his fist, at a most dramatic 
 point of time. 
 
 " Watch ! watch ! " roared the fellow, 
 still upon his back ; for with evidently 
 a quick sense of the magnanimity of 
 Britons, he felt the only means of 
 escaping a second blow was to use 
 nothing but his lungs. 
 
 "What's the matter 1 " asked a watch- 
 man, who miraculously happened to be 
 near the spot. 
 
 " I'm robbed," was the answer. 
 
 " Robbed !" and the watchman whirled 
 his rattle. 
 
 " Robbed," was the lie repeated ; 
 " and I desire you to take to the watch- 
 house that pickpocket"— and the speaker 
 pointed to Knuckle — "and that — " but 
 the word was lost in the noise of a 
 newly sprung rattle. 
 
 The watchmen gathered together, 
 and Patty Butler, with her honest 
 champion, was taken to the watch-house 
 of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. 
 
 27
 
 Pattn Buffer in the Watch -House. 
 The Charge. Her B.clease. 
 
 pjtjy 
 
 the charge 1 " 
 asked Mr. 
 Naplightly, night-constable of the parish 
 of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. 
 
 " Picking pockets," replied one of the 
 .watchmen, trippingly. 
 
 " Ha ! I see — yes, an old friend, eh, 
 watchman ? " said Naplightly, looking 
 •with terrible significance at the little 
 feather-dresser, pale, trembling, and 
 dumfounded by the suddenness of the 
 event that had placed her in the foul, 
 dim dungeon, where justice, for a time 
 28 
 
 laying aside a half-smoked pipe, was to 
 decide upon the accusation. 
 
 "You know this young lady, of 
 course 1 " asked the constable. 
 
 " Bless your heart, sir, — know her ! 
 Do I know my own rattle 1 The most 
 troublesome and abusingest girl on my 
 beat," answered the watchman. 
 
 "That's plain enough — plain with 
 half an eye. Xow, sir, if you please" 
 — and the night-constable looked to- 
 wards the tall man, the assailant of 
 Tatty. " Xow, sir, everything according 
 to business. What's your name 1 " 
 
 "Julias Curlwell," answered the 
 ruffian, looking loftily around him, as 
 though very proud of his name, and 
 pulling up his manifold white neck- 
 cloth, as if still prouder of the cambric. 
 
 "And where do you live, and what 
 are you ? " asked the functionary. 
 
 " I at present reside," answered Mr. 
 Curlwell, with monosyllabic majesty, 
 "with my friend, my lord Hunting- 
 topper." 
 
 The face of the night- const able —
 
 Patty in the Watch-House. 
 
 before arched with dignity — relaxed 
 into a courteous smirk, aud he felt his 
 voice grow mellow in his throat : the 
 watchmen too drew themselves up, 
 glancing respectfully at Lord Hunting- 
 topper's friend, who, doubtless, uncon- 
 scious of the impression he had made, 
 jerked with languid, lackadaisical air 
 his heavy gold chain and seals between 
 his right thumb and finger. 
 
 " And you charge this young girl, 
 Mr. Curlwell, with picking your pocket? 
 -yon-" 
 
 Here the constable was interrupted, 
 as he called it, by Patty ; for she fell 
 in a heap upon the watch-house floor, 
 as though stabbed to the heart. In an 
 instant, Knuckle raised her in his arms, 
 and removing her bonnet, the yellow 
 light of a flaring lamp fell upon her 
 death-pale, innocent face ; and a tear 
 rolled down her white cheek on the 
 rough hand of Luke, who, as though 
 molten lead had dropt upon his flesh, 
 started round, and with a look of pain 
 and passion glared now at the constable, 
 and now at Mr. Julius Curlwell. " You 
 stonej-hearted vipers," cried Luke at 
 last, — " will you let the poor girl die — 
 will none of you get some water ? " 
 
 "Yes, it's all right,'' muttered one 
 watchman, leering and laughing, "when 
 the evidence is strong, they always tries 
 a faint." 
 
 Worn out, exhausted by the anguish 
 of the previous days, — oppressed with 
 that feeling of desolation which makes 
 the world far worse than valueless, — 
 terrified, astounded by her situation — 
 Patty had remained in a half-stupor — 
 her mind and senses numbed by the 
 apathy of misery. The words of the 
 constable for a moment called her back 
 to consciousness, and then she sank 
 beneath the torture. 
 
 "There— she'll do, with a little water," 
 jested one of the watchmen, as Luke 
 sprinkled Patty's face — "and if she 
 won't I'm sorry for her ; seeing as the 
 parish finds no hartshorn. I told you 
 she'd do," repeated the fellow, as Patty 
 unclosed her eyes, and, breathing heavily, 
 looked mournfully about her. 
 
 " Oh, Luke ! " she exclaimed at length, 
 bursting into tears, as the implied ac- 
 cusation of the constable flashed upon 
 her. " Oh, Luke ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " cried the night-officer, 
 knitting his brows ; and then turning 
 to the injured man — Lord Hunting- 
 topper's friend — he broke into a grim 
 smile, saying, " Now, sir, if you please ? 
 Come to the robbery." Again Patty 
 moaned, and again the night-constable 
 roared " Silence ! " 
 
 " I — I — I can't precisely make a — a 
 what you call — a criminal charge against 
 that young woman in particular — no, 
 
 29
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 understand me — not in particular — 
 certainly not — nevertheless, I have been 
 robbed — a very handsome family snuff- 
 box — robbed and knocked down — or 
 knocked down and robbed ; for under- 
 stand me, I wish to be exact ; a very 
 handsome, gold-mounted, tortoiseshell 
 box — couldn't go without fingers — with 
 family crest — dolphin with tail in his 
 mouth, Latin under it, and everything 
 proper." Such was what Mr. Julius 
 Curl well evidently considered to be his 
 charge. 
 
 The night-constable indulged in a 
 heavy shake of the head, and glancing 
 at Patty, observed, " If things of this 
 sort isn't put down by the strong hand, 
 there's an end of respectability. I 
 think there's evidence enough to lock 
 the girl up till the morning." 
 
 " Oh, for the love of mercy ! " shrieked 
 Patty ; and then, convulsed and heart- 
 stricken, she could speak no more ; but 
 held forth her clasped hands to the 
 night-constable. 
 
 " Stop — stop ! " cried the officer, as 
 Luke was about to speak ; " let us do 
 everything in order ; first search the 
 girl ; the property may be about her." 
 Patty looked entreatingly at the con- 
 stable, who waved his hand as though 
 his public virtue were proof against 
 looks. She then turned with streaming 
 eyes to Mr. Curlwell, who, with a slight 
 30 
 
 cough, and averting his face from 
 the glance of the accused, somewhat 
 hurriedly drew his handkerchief from 
 his pocket, and with considerable energy, 
 blew his nose. 
 
 " But to begin with watchman, 
 
 what's that 1 ?" asked the constable, 
 pointing to the case, where reposed 
 myself and companions : " what's that? " 
 
 " My work, sir, — it is, indeed ; I was 
 going to take it home," said Patty, 
 " when that gentleman " — her voice 
 faltered — "when that gentleman — Oh, 
 God help me ! " — she could say no 
 more. 
 
 "Ha!" and the night- constable 
 breathed hard, sucked his underlip, and 
 then said, speaking as an oracle — " The 
 thing looks very black agin her. Watch- 
 man," and he raised his voice, " what's 
 in that case 1 " 
 
 Immediately the w T atchman drew me 
 from my companions, and with a look 
 of admiration that ought to have pleased 
 me, cried, "Well ! what a bit o' snow!" 
 
 " Young woman," said the night- 
 constable — he also smitten with my 
 beauty ; " Young woman, I do hope 
 these things are honestly come by ; I 
 say, I do, as a father, hope it," he re- 
 peated, with a manner that proved he 
 had no hope whatever on the subject. 
 
 " Honestly come by — to be sure they 
 are — as I'd show you in five minutes if
 
 The Charge. 
 
 I was only out of this dog-hole," cried 
 Luke. 
 
 " By the bye," said the night-con- 
 stable, at length really awakened to the 
 presence of Knuckle — "what is the 
 charge against this man % What is your 
 charge, sir 1 " 
 
 I cannot exactly say what it was that 
 pi'ompted the answer to Mr. Julius 
 Curlwell, but that person having placed 
 his hand in his coat side-pocket, raised 
 his eyelids with a slight motion of 
 astonishment, and replied in the softest 
 voice — " Charge ! none whatever." 
 
 " I thought you was knocked down, 
 sir, and — " 
 
 " Unquestionably ; but I wish to be 
 particular, and — no, I wouldn't make a 
 mistake for the world — 'and I — that is, 
 against the man — I have no charge 
 whatever." 
 
 " You may go," said the night-con- 
 stable, adding, with a leer, "and you 
 may thank this noble gentleman for his 
 good-nature." 
 
 Luke evidently deemed such polite- 
 ness unnecessary, for taking no notice 
 of Curlwell, and saying in a hurried 
 whisper to Patty, " Just you wait a 
 minute," he impatiently made his way 
 from the watch-house. 
 
 " Upon second thoughts," said Mr. 
 Curlwell, " I do think, Mr. Night-Con- 
 stable, you had better let the girl go 
 
 too ; she may amend — she may reform 
 — and for my part, I pardon her — I do, 
 indeed ; so, you'd better let her go." 
 
 Mr. Naplightly, the constable, cer- 
 tainly felt desirous of entertaining the 
 humane idea suggested by Mr. Julius 
 Curlwell, but as that philanthropist did 
 not back his arguments by other rea- 
 sons, very current in the good old days 
 or nights of the good old roundhouse, 
 Mr. Naplightly relapsed into official 
 virtue, and said he would certainly lock 
 the girl up till the morrow morning. 
 
 Here Patty entreated the constable 
 to wait the return of Luke ; he would 
 be back immediately. Mr. Curlwell 
 also joined in the request, adding that 
 as the night was very hot, and the 
 watch-house not particularly well venti- 
 lated, he would wait outside until he 
 saw better reason either to forego or 
 press his charge. Here Mr. Curlwell 
 slipt a crown into the hand of a watch- 
 man, and the lock of the door was 
 turned, Mr. Curlwell sagaciously ob- 
 serving, as he stepped into the moon- 
 light, that " there was nothing so sweet 
 as fresh air." 
 
 And yet there was another sweetness 
 which Mr. Curlwell lost no time ere he 
 enjoyed ; for he drew from his side- 
 pocket the tortoiseshell gold-mounted 
 snuff-box — the box, bearing the dolphin 
 with its tail in its mouth, the Latin 
 
 31
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 under it, and everything proper — the 
 box he had deemed lost in the mob 
 that had gathered round him on his 
 
 prostration ; bnt which happily he had 
 found whilst in the watch-house, though 
 being on certain occasions what is called 
 
 a close man, he did not then make 
 known the discoveiy. 
 
 To return to Patty in the watch- 
 house. She is not thrust into the den 
 in which half-a-dozen wretched creatures 
 have been screaming and shouting, but 
 32 
 
 is permitted a seat among the watch- 
 men, who, leaving his Majesty's subjects 
 to the influence of their own impulses, 
 good or bad, sit at the hearth and drink 
 porter, the while they admire myself 
 and fellows.
 
 Her Release. 
 
 " I say, Barney," cries an old guar- 
 dian, sticking me in his greasy hatband, 
 and straddling about the floor ; " here's 
 a thing to go a courtin' in !" 
 
 The shout excited by this magic touch 
 of humour was checked by violent 
 knocking at the watch-house door. It 
 was no sooner opened, than Luke 
 Knuckle, Mr. Flamingo the feather- 
 merchant, and — though not too will- 
 ingly — Mr. Curlwell, entered. 
 
 Mr. Flamingo, seeing me, turned pale 
 at the desecration, and tremblingly 
 asked the watchman how he dared to 
 pollute his property. 
 
 The night-constable was now satisfied 
 — Patty's story was true, and if she 
 would only ask Mr. Curlwell's pardon 
 for having accosted him in the street, 
 she might go about her business. 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Patty, her face 
 reddening to scarlet. 
 
 It so happened that Curlwell — the 
 faithful valet of Lord Huntingtopper — 
 had no intention to appear again in the 
 watch-house, but had unhappily met 
 
 his acquaintance, the feather-merchant, 
 on his way thither, accompanied by 
 Knuckle, who had compelled him to 
 return. Being brought back, he felt 
 he was obliged to appear the injured 
 pei*son. 
 
 "Bless my soul !" said Flamingo, in 
 a half-whisper to the valet — " and that 
 creature addressed you in the street ! 
 How Mrs. Flamingo's deceived in her ! 
 This is the last bit of work she does for 
 us." Then turning to the night-con- 
 stable, he exclaimed, — " If she won't 
 ask the gentleman's pardon, lock her 
 up." 
 
 Patty thought of her home — poor, 
 stricken creature, what a home ! — of the 
 last night she was to pass beneath a 
 roof with her dead mother; and with 
 this thought in her face, her eyes, her 
 voice, — she approached Curlwell, and in 
 a tone that must have made him soul- 
 sick, said — 
 
 " I ask your pardon, sir." 
 
 " The charge is dismissed," cries 
 Naplightly, the night-constable. 
 
 33
 
 o-VII-o 
 
 1'atty returns Home. Wncxpecteb Visitor. 
 
 HEN Mr. Flamingo 
 had fairly crossed the 
 threshold "of the round- 
 house he paused, and throwing as much 
 solemnity as lay in his power into his 
 figure, voice, and manner, asked of 
 Patty, " What she thought would 
 become of her?" 
 
 Poor girl ! that thought was then 
 busy at her heart — that thought then 
 bewildered her : she answered not a 
 word — but sobbed bitterly. 
 
 "See what it is to have fallen into' 
 the hands of a Christian," continued 
 the feather-merchant. "If Mr. Curl- 
 well had only pressed his charge," — 
 34 
 
 that worthy person being too modest 
 to listen to his praises, had walked 
 quickly on — " what, what could have 
 saved you from oakum and Bridewell 1 
 If you're not quite lost to shame and 
 goodness, you'll pray for that good 
 man." 
 
 " Pray for him ! " cried Knuckle. 
 " Well, master, if you don't make the 
 flesh shake upon one's bones — I tell 
 you, as I've told you before, it was the 
 old fellow himself who insulted the 
 child — it was." 
 
 " Silence, sir — silence ! That shock- 
 ing habit you have of speaking against 
 your betters will some day take you to 
 Tyburn. Don't I know the gentleman 
 well 1 A man with money in the 
 Bank ! A man in the confidence of 
 one of my best customers ! A man 
 with such a fatherly look — wears pow- 
 der, and everything respectable ! Is it 
 likely, eh 1 " asked the feather-mer- 
 chant, with an invincible air. " As for 
 you," — and Flamingo turned to Patty 
 — " as a Christian, I hope you'll not 
 want bread ; but — no ! — I owe it to 
 Mrs. Flamingo — I owe it to the vir-
 
 Patty returns Home. 
 
 tuous young people about me — you 
 never eat another crumb of mine." 
 
 " I did nothing, sir — I said nothing 
 — indeed, sir — I — oh, sir ! — you don't 
 know what I've suffered." — Patty could 
 stammer out no more. 
 
 " Suffered ! And what have I suf- 
 fered 1 Is it nothing to have one's 
 property flaunted about in a round- 
 house 1 Gracious me ! if the world 
 knew what had happened to these 
 feathers, where would be my reputa- 
 tion — and more, where would be my 
 connexion ? The feathers now," said 
 Flamingo, " ar'n't worth a groat." 
 
 " Well, if they have been tumbled a 
 little," urged Knuckle, " can't Patty 
 put 'em all to-rights again 1 " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, sir," cried Patty, ear- 
 nestly — "indeed I will — I'll not sleep 
 first," 
 
 "Humph!" said Flamingo, "and 
 now how do I know that the property 
 will be safe 1 " Patty spoke not a 
 word ; but she looked in the face of 
 Flamingo — in his swollen, prosperous 
 face — and the look made his eye blink, 
 and his lip work : he violently rubbed 
 his chin, and said hurriedly, " Well, 
 well, I hope after all, that you are 
 honest ; and so, under the circum- 
 stances — I've no doubt I'm setting a 
 bad example — still, under the circum- 
 stances," (it was thus delicately Fla- 
 
 mingo touched upon the death of 
 Patty's mother,) " I'll bring myself to 
 trust you. Now, go home ; say your 
 prayers, be a good girl, and particularly 
 mind that I have the feathers to-mor- 
 row. Luke, I want you — quick." 
 
 Saying this, Mr. Flamingo walked 
 towards his westward habitation. Now, 
 the feather-merchant was, when all is 
 said, not really so coarse and selfish as 
 his words and manner proclaimed him. 
 He did not credit all the story told, or 
 rather cunningly hinted, by Curlwell, 
 of Patty ; nevertheless he would not 
 trust himself to disbelieve Lord Hun- 
 tingtopper's valet : he was so respect- 
 able, so well-placed, and more, he was 
 iu the establishment of a nobleman, 
 whose lady had such a laudable love of 
 feathers ! Therefore, Flamingo suf- 
 fered his belief to be nicely balanced 
 ' between the valet and the girl ; both 
 might be right — both might be wrong. 
 Flamingo was, however, one of those 
 politic folks, who think the surest way 
 to make people, that is, people depend- 
 ing upon them, better than they are, 
 is to treat them as if they were infi- 
 nitely worse. A workman had only to 
 commit some heinous fault, and so 
 entirely forfeit the confidence of his 
 master, to learn for the first time what 
 an estimable person the feather-mer- 
 chant had once thought him ! A man 
 
 35
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 had only to become a thief, to make 
 Flamingo earnestly declare that "he 
 would have trusted that man with 
 untold gold." Such trust, however, it 
 had never been his weakness to put in 
 the human animal. 
 
 Knuckle, having said a few hurried 
 woi'ds of comfort to Patty, followed his 
 master. Tatty, then, with quickened 
 steps, turned towards her home. Yes, 
 with lightened heart, she almost ran 
 along the street, gliding and shrinking 
 from every passer-by, as though dread- 
 ing some new impediment, some ter- 
 rible delay, to keep her from a hearth, 
 where death alone remained to greet 
 her. So happy, so strangely happy was 
 she at her escape from the den she had 
 quitted, so relieved from the paralysing 
 dread that the last, last consolation 
 would have been denied her, that, in 
 her assurance of liberty, she seemed to' 
 lose a conviction of that irreparable 
 misery at home : she ran once more to 
 find her mother; hardly for the time 
 remembering that that mother had 
 passed away for ever. 
 
 The bell of St. Martin's tolls two, 
 and Patty, with swollen eyes and 
 anxious, bloodless face, is working 
 alone. She is sewing some piece of 
 dress, a mourning garment, a piece of 
 decent outside black, purchased by the 
 sacrifice of almost all necessary apparel 
 36 
 
 — of the very bed covering, for which 
 in the coming winter nights she may 
 starve with winter cold — she is work- 
 ing, mechanically working, her face 
 dead, blank with misery, her fingers 
 only moving. 
 
 (What a hideous vanity may leer 
 from out the ornamental mourning of 
 the rich — what elaborate mockery of 
 woe in gauze and flounce, bought over 
 fashion's counter ! — but what a misery 
 on the misery of death — what sacrifice 
 upon suffering in the black of the poor, 
 bought with money lent — that is, sold 
 — by the money-broker !) 
 
 The church bell had scarcely ceased 
 to sound, when a low, distinct knock 
 struck on the door ; again, and again, 
 yet Patty heard it not ; but continued 
 at her work, absorbed and unconscious. 
 The door opened, and a female, silently 
 as a shadow, glided in. 
 
 " Patty, Patty," said the visitoi". 
 
 Patty lifted up her head, was about 
 to shriek, when, by a violent effort, 
 she subdued her emotion, and, laying 
 down her work and rising from her 
 chair, she asked, with trembling voice 
 — " In the name of God, who, what are 
 you ? " 
 
 " Do you not know me, Patty ? " 
 said the woman, with a slight shudder. 
 
 " Can it be Jessy ? " cried Patty. 
 
 " It is that wretch ; though God
 
 An Unexpected Visitor. 
 
 bless you for calling me Jessy, that's 
 something." 
 
 " I should not have known you ; what 
 
 has happened — are you not well V asked 
 Patty, hurriedly, becoming alarmed at 
 the unearthly aspect of her visitor. 
 
 Indeed, her appearance was changed 
 and terrible. Her face looked clay- 
 cold, and clay-wet ; blank and recking 
 from the agony of brain and heart. 
 Her black eyes had something awful in 
 their wild energy, and her discoloured 
 
 lips were pressed as one together,- as 
 though to master and control the 
 passionate grief that struggled to burst 
 from her. Thus changed, thus pos- 
 sessed, it was no wonder that Patty 
 paused ere she recognised in her visitor 
 
 37
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 the lost, the wretched girl, whose sym- 
 pathy had awakened in her sorrowing 
 heart a feeling of sisterly pity, of 
 mournful gratitude. Poor creature ! 
 the look of trading misery, the reck- 
 less, flaunting air that a few hours 
 since she deemed a fitting, necessary 
 grace, was lost, destroyed in the inten- 
 sity of mental suffering. Contrasting 
 her past aspect with her present, she 
 seemed a thing of vulgar vice, elevated 
 and purified by agony ; the hideous 
 face of wretchedness affecting mirth, 
 heightened to the solemnity of mortal 
 tragedy . 
 
 " What's the matter 1 What do you 
 want — here 1 " asked Patty, timidly, 
 and endeavouring not to shrink back 
 from the figure which — despite of her 
 attempted firmness — seemed to dilate 
 and grow more terrible before her. 
 " What do you want here ? " repeated 
 Patty, and she glanced at the coffin. 
 The look, on the sudden, changed the 
 woman to meekness ; and the next 
 moment melted her into tears. 
 
 " I would not for the world, dear 
 Patty — oh, let me for this night call 
 you so — I would not disturb you, and 
 at such a time — I would not, but 
 there's something at my heart — do let 
 me tell it — do, or my heart will break." 
 With gushing eyes the poor outcast 
 made this passionate request ; and 
 38 
 
 Patty, with pitying looks, offered her 
 a chair. 
 
 " What is the matter 1 " asked Patty, 
 with her sweet tender voice, made more 
 cordial by the uncontrollable sorrow 
 that possessed her visitor. 
 
 " Pll tell you," said the woman, with 
 an effort ; and in a few moments, with 
 dry eyes, but with a voice deep and 
 husky with subdued emotion, she thus 
 proceeded. " I come, Patty, first to 
 ask your forgiveness." 
 
 " You never offended me — indeed, 
 no," said Patty. 
 
 " I tell you, yes ; many a time I 
 have laughed at you — sneered at you 
 — called you foul names. And why 1 
 It was to relieve my heart — it would 
 have burst if I had not. When I saw 
 you so young, so innocent, so cheerful, 
 working early and late for the dear 
 soul that now lies there" — Patty un- 
 consciously stretched her hands towards 
 the coffin — " Ha ! " cried Jessy, " you 
 may look there — you may pray there ! 
 I could not dare to do it — for my 
 mother would rise in her shroud and 
 curse me." 
 
 "No, no — do not think so," said 
 Patty, "it is not goodness to think so." 
 
 "But let me say," cried Jessy, "what 
 I came to say. You did not know 
 when I sneered and laughed at you, 
 how much I loved you ; but was it for
 
 An Unexpected Visitor. 
 
 such as I was to say so 1 No ; and so I 
 relieved my heart with madness and vile 
 words, and — but that is over ; I have 
 seen that to-night" — here the woman 
 shuddered, and her cheek quivered with 
 terror — " seen what has changed me." 
 
 "Thank heaven for it, Jessy," cried 
 Patty, with a look of gladness. 
 
 " You forgive me 1 " Patty took the 
 speaker's hand, and pressed it between 
 her own. "And will you, before we part 
 for ever, let me — it will ease my heart 
 — let me tell you my miserable story 1 " 
 
 " If 'twill indeed please you, yes," 
 said Patty. 
 
 " It shall be in a few words — for I 
 am in torment while I speak; yet it is 
 a torment, that a something, I kuow 
 not what, will make me suffer. I am 
 country-born ; my childhood was one 
 long happy holiday : I was an only 
 child, and was to my father as his 
 heart was to his bosom. All life to me 
 was nothing but happy sounds and 
 happy sights. My first trouble was 
 the departure of a neighbour's son for 
 the sea : but we parted with a vow of 
 lasting love, and that vow was appi-oved 
 by our parents. I — I — two years passed 
 — my heart was changed ; some devil 
 had altered my nature — I became vain, 
 headstrong, selfish — I left my father's 
 house a wicked, guilty thing, and for 
 three years have tried to hide my 
 
 shame here, in London. Oh ! those 
 three years ! Had the sky for that 
 time rained fire upon me, I had not 
 suffered half so much. My story is 
 nearly done. Two hours since I was 
 in the street — laughing, loudly laugh- 
 ing from an empty and corrupted heart. 
 A man slowly passed me ; with a laugh, 
 I laid my hand upon his shoulder — he 
 turned his head — oh, Christ ! it was 
 my father ! " 
 
 With these words the wretched 
 woman sank back in the chair, and 
 with fallen mouth, fixed eyes, and 
 ghastly features, looked, on the sudden, 
 death-struck. Patty was about to rise 
 to seek assistance, when Jessy grasped 
 her by the hand, and held her with 
 convulsive strength. 
 
 In a few minutes she became com- 
 posed, and then proceeded : — 
 
 " Patty, I am now determined. I 
 quit this life of horror. I will pray to 
 find something like peace — like good- 
 ness. I have done you harm — will you 
 forgive me — forgive the wretched Mag- 
 dalen — and — yes — pray for her % " 
 
 Saying this, Jessy, in a passion of 
 grief, dropped upon her knees. Patty, 
 starting from her chair, and hiding her 
 face in her hands, sobbed — 
 
 " I do forgive you — I pray for you — 
 I — God in heaven bless and strengthen 
 you!" 
 
 39
 
 o~ 
 
 VIII 
 
 -o 
 
 A Funeral St. Haines's Palace. 
 
 The- Prince o{ Wales. 
 
 give Thee hearty thanks 
 for that it hath pleased 
 Thee to deliver this our sister out of 
 the miseries of this sinful world — " 
 
 Thus, in measured, metallic note, 
 spoke the curate of St. Martin's-in-the- 
 Fields — whilst the daughter Patty could 
 have screamed in anguish at the thanks- 
 giving. A few more words — another 
 and another look — yet another — now 
 the piling earth has hidden all — and 
 the forlorn creature stands alone in the 
 world. The last few moments have 
 40 
 
 struck apart the last link that still held 
 her to a beloved object — and now in- 
 deed she feels it is in eternity. Two 
 or three women press about her — turn 
 her from the grave — and, garrulously 
 kind, preach to her deaf ears that " all 
 is for the best," and that " to mourn is 
 a folly." 
 
 All this I gathered from the gossips 
 who brought back Patty to her dreary, 
 empty home. There, after brief and 
 common consolation, they quitted her 
 — and there, for a time, the reader 
 must leave the stricken, meek-hearted 
 feather-dresser. 
 
 Early the next morning, I found 
 myself in the hands of Mr. Flamingo. 
 The slight disorder — in truth, more 
 avowed than real — I had suffered in 
 the round-house, had, in the eyes of 
 the tradesman, been amply remedied 
 by Patty, and my owner turned me 
 reverently between his thumb and 
 finger, and gazed and gazed at me as 
 though, for his especial profit only, I 
 had dropt from the wing of an angel.
 
 St. yamess Palace. 
 
 Great was the stir throughout the 
 household of Flamingo — and great the 
 cause thereof. He had received an 
 order from the palace of St. James's : 
 his very soul was plumed — for he 
 should get off his feathers ! 
 
 This I heard and saw, and — I confess 
 it — with the trepidation of expectant 
 vanity, beheld the feather-merchant 
 make selection from his stock. At 
 length, with melting looks, and a short, 
 self-complacent sigh, he placed me — I 
 was sure of it — as the crowning glory, 
 the feather of feathers, among my kind. 
 I was to wave my snowy purity in 
 St. James's ! 
 
 And for this, thought I, was I drest 
 — prepared by the lean fingers of want, 
 in an unwholesome garret 1 Alas ! I 
 have since felt — ay, a thousand times 
 — that, if dim-eyed vanity would use 
 the spectacles of truth, she would at 
 times see blood on her satins — blood 
 on her brocades — blood on her lace — 
 on every rich and glistening thread that 
 hangs about her — blood. She would 
 see herself a grim idol, worshipped by 
 the world's unjust necessities — and so 
 beholding, would feel a quicker throb 
 of heart, a larger compassion for her 
 forced idolaters. 
 
 " To the palace," cried Flamingo to 
 the hackney-coachman, summoned to 
 bear myself and companions on our 
 
 glorious mission. " To the palace," 
 cried the feather-merchant, with new 
 lustre in his eyes, harmony in his voice, 
 and a delicious tingling of every nerve 
 that filled his whole anatomy with 
 music. "To the palace," were really 
 the words uttered by Flamingo ; yet in 
 very truth, he believed he said — " To 
 Paradise." 
 
 Not that St. James's was terra incog- 
 nita to Mr. Flamingo ; a Marco Polo's 
 domain filled with golden dreams. 
 Certainly not : Mr. Flamingo knew 
 exactly the number of steps composing 
 that private way to heaven, — the back 
 staircase. He had smiled, and trem- 
 bled, and bowed and wriggled, and 
 smirked and cringed his way to the 
 patronage of Queen Charlotte (of 
 odorous memory). This exalting truth 
 Mr. Flamingo had several times tested ; 
 and that in a matter peculiarly flatter- 
 ing to himself. For instance, a very 
 fine cockatoo had been thrown in to 
 the tradesman among a lot of foreign 
 feathers : this cockatoo Mr. Flamingo 
 submitted to the inspection of her 
 Majesty, who was graciously pleased to 
 say to it " Pretty Poll." On another 
 occasion, Flamingo took a Java sparrow 
 to the palace ; which bird was gra- 
 ciously permitted by the Queen to 
 perch upon her little finger, her Majesty 
 still further condescending to cry — 
 
 41
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " Swee-c-c-t ! " These circumstances 
 were at the time totally overlooked by 
 the Court historian ; but they are re- 
 corded, written in very fine round- 
 hand, in the " Flamingo Papers." 
 
 I had scarcely been an hour in the 
 Palace, ere my memory began to fail 
 me. Yes, all the previous scenes of 
 my existence, that an hour before lived 
 most vividly in my recollection, began 
 to fade and grow dim, and take the 
 mingled extravagance and obscurity of 
 a dream. Was it possible that I had 
 ever been a thing of barter between a 
 savage and a sailor for pig-tail 1 Could 
 I have ever known a Jack Lipscomb 1 
 Had I crossed the seas in the dungeon 
 of a ship 1 Was it possible that I 
 could detect the odour of bilge-water 1 
 Was there such a haunt for human 
 kind as the Minories % And that old 
 Jew — surely he was a spectre — a part 
 of night-mare 1 His large-lipped, globe- 
 eyed daughter, too, she — with all her 
 plumpness — was no more substantial ! 
 And then, that dim garret in the 
 alley — the death and enduring inno- 
 cence — the heaviness and misery of 
 human days — the suffering that made 
 of mortal breath a wearying disease — 
 all the worst penalty of life — had I 
 known and witnessed it 1 Could it be 
 possible 1 And was there really a Patty 
 Butler looking with meek face upon a 
 42 
 
 frowning world, and smiling down mis- 
 fortune into pity 1 
 
 I confess that — having delighted in 
 the atmosphere of a palace for scarcely 
 an hour — all these realities seemed 
 waning into visions of a fevered sleep. 
 It was only by a strong effort — by 
 a determination to analyse my past 
 emotions — that I could convince my- 
 self of the existence of a world of 
 wretchedness without — of want, and 
 suffering, and all the sad and wicked 
 inequalities of human life. How may 
 sudden prosperity mingle Lethe in 
 its nectar ? 
 
 I pass by moments of tumultuous 
 anxiety — of hope, painful in its sweet 
 intensity — of the delirium of assured 
 afwrandisement. It is now the rem- 
 
 DO 
 
 nant of my former self that speaks, 
 and, therefore, be the utterance calm 
 and philosophic. 
 
 It was my fate to be chosen one 
 of the three plumes — be it remem- 
 bered, the middle and the noblest 
 one — to nod above the baby Prince 
 of Wales, all royally slumbering in his 
 royal cradle. 
 
 It was my destiny, in 1762, to com- 
 memorate the conquest and bloodshed 
 of 1345 — to represent an ancestral 
 plume whereof poor John of Bohemia 
 was plucked that he of the black mail 
 might be nobly feathered : yes, it was
 
 TJie Prince of Wales. 
 
 niy happy duty to wave above Ich Dien 
 in 1762. 
 
 Ich Dien — " I serve." Such is the 
 Prince of Wales's motto ; and looking 
 down upon the Princelet's face — upon 
 his velvet cheek brought into the 
 world for the world's incense — viewing 
 the fleshly idol in its weak babyhood, — 
 I repeated for it "I serve ! " And 
 then, in the spirit of the future, asked 
 — What ? Bacchus — Venus — or what 
 nobler deity 1 
 
 The Prince of Wales — a six weeks' 
 youngling — sleeps, and ceremony, with 
 stinted breath, waits at the cradle. 
 How glorious that young one's desti- 
 nies ! How moulded and marked — 
 expressly fashioned for the high de- 
 lights of earth — the chosen one of mil- 
 lions for millions' homage ! The ter- 
 rible beauty of a crown shall clasp those 
 baby temples — that rose-bud mouth 
 shall speak the iron law — that little 
 pulpy hand shall hold the sceptre and 
 the ball. But now, asleep in the sweet 
 mystery of babyhood, the little brain 
 already busy with the things that meet 
 us at the vestibule of life — for even 
 then we are not alone, but surely have 
 about us the hum and echo of the 
 coming world, — but now thus, and 
 now upon a giddying throne ! What 
 grandeur — what intensity of bliss — 
 what an almighty heritage to be 
 
 born to — to be sent upon this earth, 
 accompanied by invisible angels to take 
 possession of ! 
 
 The baby king coos in his sleep, while 
 a thousand spirits meet upon the palace 
 floor — sport in the palace air — hover 
 about the cradle — and with looks divine 
 and loving as those that watched the 
 bulrush ark tossed on the wave of 
 Egypt, gaze upon the bright new- 
 comer, on him that shall be the Lord's 
 anointed ! What purifying blessings 
 purge the atmosphere of all earthly 
 taint ! What a halo of moral glory 
 beams around that baby head — that 
 meek vicegerent of the King of kings ! 
 Wisdom will nurse him on her knees — 
 Pity and Goodness be his play-fellows 
 — Humility and Gentleness his close 
 companions — and Love for all men, a 
 monitor constant as the pulses of his 
 heart ! 
 
 And will it, indeed, be so 1 Poor 
 little child — hapless creature — most 
 unfortunate in the fortune of a prince ! 
 Are such, indeed, the influences about 
 your cradle — will such, in very truth, 
 be your teaching ? Will you, indeed, 
 be taught as one of earth — a thing of 
 common wants and common affections 1 
 Will you be schooled in the open pages 
 of humanity — or taught by rote the 
 common cant of princes 1 Will you 
 not, with the first dim glimmerings of 
 
 43
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 human pride, see yourself a thing aloof 
 from all — a piece of costly selfishness — 
 an idol formed only for the knees of 
 men— a superhuman creature, yea, a 
 wingless deity 1 Will not this be the 
 teaching of the court — this the lesson 
 that shall prate pure nature from your 
 heart, and place therein a swelling 
 arrogance, divorcing you from all, and 
 worshipping self in its most tyrannous 
 desires, in its deepest abominations 1 
 Will you remain among the brother- 
 hood of men, — or will you be set apart 
 
 only to snuff their incense and to hear 
 their prayers 1 Splendid solitude of 
 state — most desolate privilege of 
 
 princes 
 
 i 
 
 With this thought, I felt a strange 
 compassion for the Prince of Wales. 
 All the glories of the palace seemed to 
 vanish from about me, and I looked 
 down upon the sleeping creature whom 
 I was there to honour, w T ith a deep 
 pity, a sorrow for the slippery, trying 
 fortune he was born to. 
 
 44
 
 The Prince ci Wafcs Exhibited 
 The Countess Bdishrosc. BrcaMu( Accident U Mr. F(amin<)o. 
 
 SO OH discovered that their 
 Majesties George the Third 
 and Queen Charlotte had 
 benevolently consented that their baby 
 should be exhibited to the men and 
 women of England. These tidings had 
 rung like a merry peal of bells through- 
 out London ; and on the very morning 
 after my exaltation to the Prince of 
 Wales's coronet, crowds were clustering 
 at the gates of the palace. 
 
 Here, however, I must fain confess 
 to a disappointment. Being in the 
 very temple of royalty, I at first in- 
 
 dulged in the most extravagant expec- 
 tations of the moral dignity, the uttered 
 wisdom of the high and fortunate 
 people about me. I watched the King's 
 mouth, as a bride gazes on her wedding 
 casket, rapt with an assurance of its 
 contained richness. I followed the 
 motions of the Queen, as though, for 
 a time, she had taken leave of the 
 skies, to dazzle and to dignify a be- 
 nighted planet. Such were my first 
 emotions : but let me be frank — they 
 were of brief endurance. I very soon 
 discovered his dread Majesty to be a 
 mere man who loved mutton for dinner, 
 and the Queen from Paradise, a quiet 
 little woman, with a humility so marked 
 that it disdained not decimal fractions. 
 And then there were the Lords in 
 Waiting — the Gentlemen of the Bed- 
 chamber — the women of the like Elv- 
 sium — and those doomed, fragile dolls 
 and victims of state — God help them ! 
 — the Maids of Honour. In the sim- 
 plicity of my inexperience, I believed 
 all these people to be of another order 
 
 45
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 of flesh and blood — to possess a more 
 exquisite anatomy — to be refined by 
 the pure and healthful atmosphere of a 
 court into natures above the sordid 
 influences of this nether sphere ; to be, 
 indeed, mid-intelligences between men 
 and angels. Must I say it 1 I have 
 found the coarse mind of the merest 
 footman in the lackey peer ; and in the 
 Lady of the Bedchamber, the small 
 envy, the petty heart-burning of Molly 
 the chambermaid at the Star and 
 Garter. Alas, too ! for the Maids of 
 Honour ! Hapless images of ceremony 
 — poor, moving anatomies, with eyes 
 that must not wink, tongues that must 
 not speak ; and, hardest tyranny of 
 all, with mouths that must not yawn 
 at the dull discipline that consumes 
 them. . I have seen them in the royal 
 presence stand on their throbbing feet, 
 until the blood has vanished from their 
 lips. Had I been a fairy wand, I would 
 have changed them straight ; have be- 
 stowed upon them the paradise of a 
 three-legged stool, with a cow to milk 
 beneath the odour-breathing hawthorn. 
 If, however, the Maids of Honour 
 affected my compassion, the Ladies in 
 Waiting excited my highest admiration. 
 Here, I thought, are women — doting- 
 wives and loving mothers — quitting 
 the serene and holy circle of their own 
 hearths — relinquishing for an appointed 
 46 
 
 term the happiness and tenderness of 
 home, to endure a glorifying servitude 
 beneath the golden yoke of Ceremony. 
 Here, at least, I thought, is self-devo- 
 tion : here a noble sacrifice to noble 
 objects — here at once the heroism and 
 the true religion of loyalty. 
 
 The Countess Blushrose was a Lady 
 in Waiting. Providence had expressly 
 fashioned her for the ennobling func- 
 tion. She had some vague notion that 
 there were human creatures ; a white 
 race, something higher in the scheme 
 of the world than the mere Hottentot : 
 but it was also a part of her creed that, 
 like horses and oxen, they were sent 
 for no other purpose to this earth, save 
 for that of ministering in any manner 
 to the will and wish of herself, her 
 friends, and her immediate acquaint- 
 ance. The Countess never neglected 
 her religious duties, for she had a pew 
 that a Sybarite might have slept in ; 
 and therefore generally once a week 
 seemed to listen to the home-simplici- 
 ties of the pulpit — of death, and common 
 dust, and common judgment. Never- 
 theless, it was plain that her ladyship 
 possessed a strength of mind that con- 
 tinued superior to such antique preju- 
 dices — hence, for many a year, she 
 remained an unconverted hearer. The 
 world, the habitable world, to her was 
 composed of about an area of two miles,
 
 The Countess Blushrose. 
 
 with St. James's Palace for the centre. 
 Any part beyond that boundary was, 
 to her, mysterious as the Mogul country : 
 she looked upon it with the intelligence 
 that possessed the theological opponents 
 of Columbus, when he talked of a new 
 continent: allowing it to exist, and to 
 be once reached, there were certain 
 currents that rendered impossible any 
 return from it. To the Countess 
 Blushrose, Nature herself had written 
 Nee ultra on the west side of Temple 
 Bar. 
 
 The Countess was allowed to be beau- 
 tiful as the most beautiful statue : and 
 save in the presence of Majesty, viewed 
 all things unbendingly and w T ith a stony 
 gaze. She seemed to make the atmos- 
 phere about her cold by her very looks. 
 She rather appeared an exquisite piece 
 of machinery — an improvement on the 
 mechanist's wooden bird and iron fly of 
 old — a wonderful work constructed and 
 adorned by the laboured ingenuity of 
 man, than a creature warmed by human 
 blood, and sanctified with a human soul. 
 Yet men called her beautiful. Nay, 
 born a baronet's daughter, she had 
 owed her coronet to her creamy cheek 
 and high, abstracted gaze. The heart 
 of the Earl of Blushrose had been led 
 away in chains of ice. He had been 
 frozen into matrimony by the spells of 
 a sorceress ; and, influenced by his 
 
 partner, seemed to his old friends never 
 to have recovered his natural heat. 
 
 At the time of my elevation to St. 
 James's, the Countess had only one 
 day relieved a sister Lady in Waiting 
 in her exalted ceremonies. At that 
 time, the Countess had an infant son — 
 Lord Tootle — in the cradle. She was 
 very fond of it — really very fond of it ; 
 but then she felt such devotion towards 
 the Palace. This truth I afterwards 
 learned from a brief incident. The 
 child was born weak and puny. " Ma- 
 dam," said the Doctor, "you must 
 nurse this babe yourself." 
 
 " How can you talk so ridiculously, 
 Doctor 1 " said the Countess. 
 
 " Indeed, your ladyship, I advise 
 only what is necessary — indispensable," 
 urged the Doctor. 
 
 " Necessary ! How can I submit to 
 such a tie when there is the Palace 
 to—" 
 
 "Well, Madam," said the Doctor in 
 conclusion, casting a significant glance 
 at the babe, and then at its mother, — 
 " if you do not nurse the child yourself, 
 my word upon it, 'twill die — die, Ma- 
 dam, die." 
 
 Whereupon the Countess, gently ele- 
 vating her eyelids, said — and only said 
 — " Poor thing ! " 
 
 I have dwelt thus long upon the 
 character of the Couutess Blushrose, as 
 
 47
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 she will bo found a somewhat im- 
 portant person in my narrative. In- 
 deed it was to her that I owed my 
 speedy removal from the palace. But 
 of this in due time. 
 
 At the opening of this chapter the 
 reader was acquainted with the conde- 
 scending intention of their Majesties : 
 the Prince of Wales, in his cot or cradle 
 of state, was to be exhibited in bib and 
 tucker to his future liege subjects. 
 Every precaution had been made to 
 prevent the too near approximation of 
 the curious vulgar to the resplendent 
 baby : the rockers sat at the cradle 
 within an inclosure at the end of a 
 state apartment, part of the royal 
 household lined the room, and then, 
 units of the world without were suf- 
 fered to enter at one door, and walking 
 past the cradle, and casting one look — 
 for a second was scarcely possible — at 
 the majestic infant, were rapidly con- 
 ducted out at a door opposite, to the 
 world they had come from ; a world 
 they felt themselves henceforth autho- 
 rised to gladden with tales of the baby 
 Prince — of the glories of a palace. 
 
 It was curiously instructive to watch 
 the beaming countenances of the happy 
 few who, having elbowed it lustily in 
 the crowd outside — who in the excess 
 of loyalty had thrust and fought their 
 neighbours to catch a look of princely 
 48 
 
 babyhood — now arranged their rumpled 
 habits, and tried to conjure serenity to 
 their red and streaming faces. Men 
 and women of nearly all conditions 
 poured along the room, and glanced at 
 that marvellous baby. The only court 
 attire commanded for the event was 
 decent cleanliness — in very truth (if 
 history be anything), not always palace 
 wear. 
 
 Great was the veneration paid to the 
 Prince ! Men, whom I afterwards re- 
 cognised in the world, came to look 
 their homage to the all-excelling in- 
 fant ; men, who with red wine on their 
 table, and their knees at the Christmas 
 fire, would with barred and bolted door 
 hear the starved orphan wail the Chris- 
 tian carol in the frozen street ; men, 
 with hearts close as their fobs, felt the 
 said hearts marvellously touched and 
 melted when they looked upon the 
 Prince ! How deep, how exceeding 
 their sympathy for baby helplessness 
 hedged about by palace guards, — how 
 beautiful, how touchingly beautiful, is 
 infancy born to dominion whereon " the 
 sun sets not !" 
 
 And there were other lookers — 
 honest, simple souls, who with a hur- 
 ried, almost fearful glance at baby 
 royalty, felt themselves richer for their 
 coming lives. They had seen things 
 called babies before, but the Prince
 
 Dreadful Accident to Mr. Flamingo. 
 
 was a blessing — a glory in lace, for the 
 first time vouchsafed to the world. 
 
 Some trod the palace floor as though 
 they feared to hear their own breath: 
 had their shoes creaked, it was plain 
 they must have fainted. 
 
 Others, again, looked anxiously, fear- 
 fully about them, as though, like men 
 in an Indian wood, they feared some 
 wild beast, with death in its jaws, to 
 spring out upon them. Many of these 
 — I watched them — never saw the 
 Prince at all. They approached the 
 cradle pantingly, but urged on by the 
 attendants, passed it ere they could call 
 up courage to look upon the dazzling 
 glory within. 
 
 I was thus contemplating the various 
 characters of the crowd, when I beheld 
 a face I thought not wholly strange to 
 me. After a minute I recognised the 
 visitor : it was my first acquaintance in 
 England, Shadrach Jacobs, the old Jew 
 of the Minories. Having that day 
 washed himself, it was difficult for any 
 one to detect the Hebrew dealer through 
 the strange disguise. Washed, however, 
 he had been, — washed, and dressed in 
 black and buckles, as though he had 
 been going to court at the New Jeru- 
 salem. He hobbled past the cradle, 
 gazing with his raven eye, which kind- 
 led sparklingly, but whether at the babe 
 or the lace that half smothered it, I 
 
 n 
 
 leave to be divined by the genii of 
 Solomon's brazen kettles. 
 
 Immediately following the Jew came 
 Miriam, his voluminous daughter. 
 Great was her beauty, but greater still 
 her strength : else how at her ears, her 
 neck, wrists, and fingers, could she 
 have borne the many trophies of her 
 victories bought by sailors' wages out 
 of goldsmith's cases 1 Miriam was 
 there ; but where was Jack Lipscombe 1 
 Where was my first English friend ] 
 Alas ! sick, perilously sick on an out- 
 ward-bound voyage. Poor Jack was 
 in his hammock. No matter. Tom 
 Bracely of the "Good Intent" went 
 with Miriam to St. James's. 
 
 Thus, seeing an old acquaintance, my 
 thoughts went to Patty Butler. " Will 
 she," I asked myself, " be here 1 " Then 
 I looked hopefully about me. Another 
 minute, and I saw — not Patty — but 
 her smug employer, Mr. Flamingo, with 
 Mrs. Flamingo beside him — botli gazing 
 about them, joyous as spirits new to 
 Paradise. Though Flamingo was loyal 
 to the very nails, his visit was not paid 
 only to the infant Prince. No; feathers 
 had something to do at the trades- 
 man's heart, and he came — kindly 
 bringing his wife with him — to behold 
 the exaltation of his ware. I could sec 
 him look up at myself and two com- 
 panions, as if he felt the soul of the 
 
 49
 
 The Story of a Feather, 
 
 Prince was there in the white plumes, 
 and nowhere else ; as if the dignity of 
 the Prince would have been naked as a 
 day-old sparrow, but for the feathers, 
 which were — in Flamingo's mind — its 
 natural clothing. 
 
 With these feelings Flamingo ap- 
 proached the cradle, and Flamingo's 
 evil spirit kept close at his skirts. 
 
 The Prince of Wales has fallen fast 
 asleep. Flamingo prepares himself to 
 look his homage. He is as close as 
 ceremony permits his advance : when 
 some demon in the air tickles his 
 nostrils, for the feather-merchant stands 
 fixed, throws his head back, and ex- 
 
 plodes in the loudest sneeze that ever 
 profaned the roof-tree of a palace. 
 
 As Flamingo sneezed, the Prince of 
 Wales, startled by the noise, woke — 
 and waking, roared most lustily. The 
 baby of a bacon-fed ploughman never 
 3 r elled in higher pitch. 
 
 Flamingo was about to pray that the 
 floor would open and swallow him. 
 Ere, however, he could frame his peti- 
 tion, he was hurried to the door by the 
 attendants ; further admission was de- 
 nied to thronging sight-seers, and for 
 that day (and all owing to the un- 
 towardness of a sneeze), the show was 
 ended. 
 
 50
 
 I am (Earned oft from the Fa (ace. 
 The Gounfcss Blushrose an<) her Chaplain. 
 
 and brief were my 
 clays of glory in the 
 Palace. Long ere the 
 Prince of Wales cut his first tooth 
 (what a chapter might be written on 
 the teeth of princes !) I was removed 
 from my high, intoxicating place of 
 State j plucked from the coronet. Never- 
 theless, a splendour still hung about 
 me ; I was still enriched by the recol- 
 lections of the past. I had waved 
 above the slumbers and the waking 
 smiles of the Prince of Wales — I had 
 been a type of state and honour — I 
 
 had been glorified by position — and 
 was, therefore, a relic dear to the 
 associations of those who trod the 
 carpet of a palace as though they 
 walked the odorous turf of Eden. It 
 was to this love, this veneration, that 
 I am convinced, I owed my speedy re- 
 moval from St. James's. Had the 
 Countess Blushrose felt less devotion 
 towards the Prince of Wales, I might 
 fur years have remained in the Palace ; 
 it may be, thrown aside to pass into 
 the stomachs of Palace moths. I was, 
 however, doomed to a more various 
 destiny. The Countess Blushrose re- 
 fined away the vulgarity of mere 
 honesty by the excess of loyalty. A 
 philosopher, or — if he were duly hired 
 for the coarse word — an old Bailey 
 practitioner, would say the Countess 
 stole me. Well ; in hard, iron phrase, 
 she did so ; but surely the spirit that 
 prompted the felony, made the theft a 
 divine one ! Even the accusing angel 
 must have put his finger to his lip, and 
 inwardly said " Mum ! " as the Coun- 
 
 51
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 tess, in a nutter of triumph, bore me 
 from the Palace. How her heart beat 
 — for, snugly concealed under her short 
 satin cloak, I felt the throbbing organ 
 — beat, as the beautiful robber entered 
 her carriage. 
 
 I doubt not, there are simple folks 
 who will marvel at this story — nay, it 
 may be, give no belief to it. They 
 may ask — " What ! a countess filch a 
 feather, when a word in the proper 
 place would doubtless have made it her 
 lawful chattel? Such petty pilfering 
 might have been looked for at the 
 hands of Mrs. Scott, the Prince's wet- 
 nurse — of Jaue Simpson or Catherine 
 Johnson, rockers — but from Countess 
 Blushrose ! " 
 
 I confess it : in my inexperience of 
 the world, such were the very thoughts 
 that oppressed me ; now it is otherwise. 
 Not without melancholy I own it : but 
 I have found that with some natures it 
 would pain and perplex their moral 
 anatomy to move direct to an object : 
 like snakes, they seem formed to take 
 pleasure in indirect motion ; with them 
 the true line of moral beauty is a curve. 
 Had Queen Charlotte herself bestowed 
 me upon the Countess, the free gift, I 
 am sure of it, had not conveyed so 
 much pleasure as the pilfered article. 
 
 Borne from the palace, I speedily 
 arrived at the mansion of the Countess, 
 52 
 
 in Square. A curious adventui'e 
 
 greeted me, I may say, at the threshold. 
 As her ladyship passed through the 
 hall, she was met by a mild gentle- 
 manly looking person. There was a 
 certain meaning in his look — a some- 
 thing significant of disquietude softened 
 and controlled by constitutional calm- 
 ness. " May I speak some words with 
 your ladyship % " he asked. 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Inglewood," answered 
 the Countess ; and, turning into an 
 apartment, she let her cloak drop from 
 her shoulders, cast me upon the table, 
 and then, with the voluptuous majesty 
 of Juno, sank upon a chair. " Have 
 you heard how the dear Bishop is to 
 day ? " she inquired ; and, then, without 
 waiting for an answer, she continued : 
 " poor man ! what he's made of I can't 
 think — mere flesh and blood had never 
 lasted till now." 
 
 " His lordship has been a great suf- 
 ferer," replied Mr. Inglewood ; " but 
 to-day he is better." 
 
 "But there's no hope — impossible. 
 He mends and he mends ; but then he 
 breaks and he breaks. That coiudi of 
 his ought to have killed anybody. Well, 
 Mr. Inglewood," — and here the Coun- 
 tess, lifting me from the table, and now 
 idly fanning her cheek with me, and 
 now breathing upon me, and smiling as 
 at her breath I trembled — "well, Mr.
 
 The Countess Blushrose and her Chaplain. 
 
 Inglewood," she said, " I suppose we 
 must all die." 
 
 " Thank God ! " was the answer. 
 "Really now," asked her ladyship 
 
 still waving me to and fro in her white 
 hand, " don't you think this world 
 would be a much prettier place if death 
 never showed his wicked features in 
 it?" 
 
 Mr. Inglewood gravely shook his 
 head, and then with a gentle smile 
 asked — "Ought we to say wicked, 
 madam 1 " 
 
 " I can't tell— perhaps not ; you as 
 
 53
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 a clergyman are bound, you know, to 
 have other opinions. And yet," added 
 her ladyship, condescending to glance 
 with brilliant archness at the reverend 
 man, — "and yet, I dare say death, 
 though at times he may be thought a 
 tolerable sort of thing by a curate, is 
 ugly enough — oh, a perfect fright — to 
 a bishop." 
 
 " I hope not, Madam," answered the 
 private chaplain of the Countess. 
 
 "You have no notion," asked her 
 ladyship, "who will have the vacant 
 mitre 1 Very good, Mr. Inglewood ; by 
 that look of humility I can perceive 
 that mitres make no part of your 
 dreams. You are above such vanities." 
 
 " In truth, your ladyship, though I'm 
 not of humbler stuff than bishops are 
 sometimes made of — " 
 
 "Certainly not," interrupted the 
 Countess quickly ; " I don't see why 
 you should despair. There is the Bishop 
 
 of ; he was only chaplain, and 
 
 taught — what is it ! — hie, hoc to the 
 children. You are certainly as good 
 as he — and then you can swim so well ! 
 How lucky it was that you brought his 
 lordship's nephew out of the Isis ! How 
 very lucky for your prospects — though 
 I doubt if the younger brother will 
 ever thank you for it. How strange 
 now, if some day it should prove that 
 you fished a mitre from a river ! " 
 54 
 
 Thus spoke her ladyship to the depen- 
 dant parson — spoke in a cold, icy tone 
 of banter, that — I could see it — made 
 the man wince as he listened. 
 
 "Madam," said Inglewood, "I have 
 no such hope; I will add, no such 
 wish. Contentment — " 
 
 " To be sure ! " cried her ladyship — 
 " contentment is the prettiest thing in 
 the world. Oh, it saves people such a 
 deal of trouble ! 'Tis an excellent 
 thing — a beautiful -invention for the 
 lower orders ; and then it's so easy for 
 them to obtain — easy as their own 
 bacon, milk, and eggs." 
 
 " Very often, Madam," replied Ingle- 
 wood, with some emphasis ; " nay, too 
 often, quite as easy." 
 
 "But with us, who are constantly 
 ti'oubled with a thousand things, con- 
 tentment would be as out of place as a 
 gipsy in a court suit. I think, if ever 
 in my life I was to feel perfectly and 
 truly content, I should expire on the 
 instant." 
 
 " We pray against sudden death," 
 said Inglewood, solemnly. 
 
 " Lud ! " cried the Countess, startled 
 by her chaplain's tone — "don't name 
 it ; I do, most heartily. Don't talk of 
 it — I'd forgot — you had something to 
 say, Mr. Inglewood 1 " 
 
 " Will you forgive me, Madam," said 
 the chaplain, "if, presuming on my
 
 The Countess Blushrose and her Chaplain. 
 
 function, I interfere with matters in 
 this house, as I have been told, not 
 within my duties V 
 
 " Mr. Inglewood !" cried the Countess, 
 with some surprise, throwing me upon 
 the table, "pray go on, sir : as a clergy- 
 man, nothing, sir, should be below your 
 interference that — " 
 
 "That affects the peace of mind — 
 the happiness of a fellow-creature," 
 added Inglewood. 
 
 " Very right, sir ; very right : as a 
 Christian minister of the Established 
 Church, nothing less should be expected 
 of you. I have the greatest opinion 
 of your morals, Mr. Inglewood — the 
 greatest. I only hope that the Earl — 
 for I can perceive, by your manner, 
 that it is of his lordship you are about 
 to speak — " 
 
 " Indeed, madam — I — " 
 
 The interruption was in vain. The 
 Countess, with increasing rapidity of 
 speech — accompanied with gestures that 
 left nothing for the chaplain to do, save 
 to await with resignation the moment 
 of silence — continued to repeat her 
 sentiments of confidence in the judg- 
 ment, vigilance, and devotion of the 
 divine, together with hints and sus- 
 picions directed at the connubial loyalty 
 of his lordship, towards whom her 
 vanity took the place of love. It was 
 her instant and fixed belief that her 
 
 chaplain — the man of peace — was about 
 to vindicate his functions by becoming 
 a domestic tell-tale ; that he was about 
 to prove himself her faithful friend, by 
 making her "the most wretched of 
 women." 
 
 At length — for even the tongue of a 
 vain and jealous woman will stop (an 
 invincible proof of the ending of all 
 mortal things) — at length the Countess 
 was silent ; and, throwing herself back 
 in her chair, with the deepest devotion 
 of a domestic heroine, was prepared for 
 the worst. She had always felt that 
 she was reserved by fate for something 
 dreadful, and the moment was arrived ! 
 The Earl was a fickle, false, and selfish 
 man, and she — sweet martyr to the 
 marriage service — she, alas ! was his 
 wife. 
 
 " Madam," said Inglewood, somewhat 
 abashed and confounded by the energy 
 of the Countess, " were I base enough — 
 but no " — and the chaplain stammered, 
 and his face for a minute flushed — " I 
 have no word to speak of the Earl : 
 were there that to say of him which 
 your ladyship's fears — most groundless 
 fears, I am sure — would listen to, it 
 would little suit my place or nature, 
 Madam, to utter it." 
 
 " What does the man mean ? " asked 
 the Countess. " Did you not say that 
 you had to speak of something that
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 affected happiness and peace of mind — 
 and all that 1 " 
 
 "True, Madam," answered Ingle- 
 wood. 
 
 "'Well, then — and to whose happiness, 
 to whose peace of mind could you pos- 
 sibly allude, if — " 
 
 " Will your ladyship hear me 1 I 
 will be very brief," said the chaplain, 
 with an inward twinge — a rising of the 
 heart — at the inborn, ingrained selfish- 
 ness of the beautiful creature before 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, say what you like — I suppose 
 I must hear you," answered the Coun- 
 tess, again taking me from the table, 
 and pettishly waving me about hei\ 
 
 " A person in your ladyship's house- 
 hold has committed a fault — " 
 
 " Of course," said the Countess — 
 " such creatures do nothing else." 
 
 " She has proved not trustworthy in 
 the duty confided to her." 
 
 " I hear of nothing else," cried the 
 Countess, waving me more violently. 
 " Let her be turned away immediately." 
 
 " You will pardon me, Madam : she 
 was about to be cast from the house — 
 cast out broken-hearted and with a 
 blighted name — when I took it on my- 
 self to stand between her, and, for 
 what I know, destruction, and to plead 
 her cause before you." 
 
 The Countess looked at the chaplain 
 56 
 
 impatiently — angrily, and then said, 
 " Mr. Inglewood, I am sorry for it. I 
 wish you would confine yourself to your 
 duties." 
 
 " And what, may it please your lady- 
 ship — what are they 1 " asked the clergy- 
 man, with calm voice and fixed look. 
 
 " I trust, sir, you know them — to say 
 prayers, and make or read a sermon," 
 answered the Countess. 
 
 "And nothing more, Madam?" in- 
 quired Inglewood. 
 
 " Surely not. What else 1 " cried her 
 ladyship, with raised voice and wonder- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "At least, Madam, to strive to prac- 
 tise what I pray and preach," answered 
 the chaplain. 
 
 " Mr. Inglewood, his lordship, out of 
 esteem for you, placed you here ; you 
 were lucky enough to save a relative's 
 life, and perhaps it was right — I don't 
 say it wasn't — to acknowledge the 
 attention ; nevertheless, I will have no 
 monkish, papistical principles put for- 
 ward in this house. If you can comport 
 yourself with respect and decency, as a 
 chaplain ought to do, remain where 
 you are ; if not — I say, if not, sir — but 
 you of course know what must follow.' 
 
 " Perfectly well, Madam. I am either 
 to remain a salaried mockery — an in- 
 ward apostate — a thing of outward 
 observance — "
 
 The Countess BlusJirose and her Chaplain. 
 
 " I beg, sir," cried the Countess im- 
 patiently — " I beg you will use better 
 language." 
 
 "A creature, wearing the skin-deep 
 livery of truth," continued Inglewood, 
 his face glowing, and his eye flashing as 
 he spoke — "foul and leprous within — a 
 hideous mountebank, owing the daily 
 
 bread of daily hypocrisy to an adroit 
 juggling with words; I am to do this, 
 to take the place of the fool of other 
 times in his lordship's household, 
 or I am to quit it I His lordship, 
 Madam — " 
 
 But at this moment Earl Blushrose 
 entered the apartment, 
 
 57
 
 Domestic Happiness of the £ar( ant) Countess Bfushrose. 
 Peculation bn Lovi) lootfe's Maio\ 
 
 Q)']J) come in good 
 time,'' said the Coun- 
 tess, with icy speech, 
 " in excellent time for Mr. Inglewood's 
 eloquence." 
 
 " I am always happy to listen to Mr. 
 Inglewood," said the Earl, politely bow- 
 ing towards the wife of his bosom. His 
 lordship then graciously smiled upon 
 his chaplain, and drawing a chair, cere- 
 moniously seated himself, as though 
 resigned to a long discourse. This for- 
 mality somewhat abashed the worthy 
 58 
 
 chaplain ; but there was another cir- 
 cumstance which increased his con- 
 fusion. He knew that for the past 
 week the wedded couple had not once 
 met ; and the feigned civility inter- 
 changed between them gave certain 
 omen of a rising storm. Their general 
 bearing was that of polished indiffer- 
 ence ; but when either of them was 
 stung into extreme politeness, hostilities 
 were sure to follow. The Earl coidd 
 have loved his wife, nay, when he 
 married, he did love her : but she 
 had chilled him into coldness. Her ex- 
 celling beauty had fascinated him ; but 
 too late he found that he had sacrificed 
 his dearest hopes to a statue. The 
 Countess was that most terrible, but 
 happily that rarest, evil of creation, a 
 selfish woman. Supremely arrogant in 
 her personal charms, her looking-glass 
 presented her with all the external 
 world contained ; whilst self — self — 
 self sang to her soul a never-ending 
 lullaby. " Would to God ! " cried her 
 husband, as one day he looked upon
 
 Domestic Happiness of the Earl and Countess. 
 
 her fatal loveliness with moistening- 
 eyes — " would to God she could change 
 that face for a heart ! " She would not 
 have bartered one day's bloom of it 
 for the maternal pride of a Cornelia. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Inglewood," said the 
 Earl, "now for your household sermon. 
 I see how it is,'' he continued, marking 
 the discomfort of the chaplain, keenly 
 observing too the cloudy brow of the 
 Countess, — " I see how it is ; as usual, 
 you have been discoursing to her lady- 
 ship." 
 
 Here Inglewood inwardly shivered ; 
 for he knew by fatal experience how 
 his lordship — otherwise kind and con- 
 siderate towards him — delighted to 
 play him off in his churchman's cha- 
 racter against the Countess. It was, 
 to the Earl's thinking, an exquisite 
 touch of policy to correct his wife — 
 correct, did I say 1 no, the Earl had no 
 such desperate thought ; but to punish 
 the partner of his fortunes with the rod 
 of the Church. The Earl, I say, con- 
 sidered this to be a stroke of fine 
 policy : some folks may call it conjugal 
 cowardice. 
 
 " .My lord," said Inglewood, deter- 
 mined to make an effort to extricate 
 himself — "I will defer my suit — for, 
 indeed, it was a suit 1 had to urge, and 
 not a sermon — until to-morrow." 
 
 "Certainly not, Mr. Inglewood," 
 
 cried her ladyship, affecting a dis- 
 trustful glauce towards her husband. 
 
 "Proceed, I beg of you. I assure 
 you, my lord, Mr. Inglewood was talk- 
 ing very charmingly — very much so 
 when you interrupted us. I am sure 
 he had something of importance to 
 communicate ; something that you, 
 doubtless, ought to hear — I beg he will 
 continue." All this was said with 
 meaning, inquisitive eyes, and in a tone 
 of suppressed suffering ; so admirably 
 did the unfeeling wife act jealousy — so 
 perfectly did her very heartlessness 
 assume a heart. At once, his lordship 
 knew that he was reserved for some 
 mysterious mischief, and so resolved to 
 make the first attack. 
 
 (Poor Ingle wood — poor chaplain ! And 
 he — he was to be the sentient shuttle- 
 cock, struck in cruel sport from wife to 
 husband — from husband back to wife ! 
 At that moment how did his heart 
 yearn for the paradise of a Welsh 
 curacy ! ) 
 
 " Her ladyship, Mr. Inglewood," cried 
 the Earl quickly, for the first time in 
 his life getting the advance speech of 
 his wife, and valorously determining 
 to keep it — " Her ladyship — for all she 
 may affect towards yourself — has, I 
 know, the greatest veneration for your 
 worth, your honesty. She loves plain- 
 speaking dearly ; though perhaps it 
 
 59
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 might be impolitic at all times to avow 
 it. Still, Mr. Inglewood, you must not 
 be too ascetic with her ladyship ; you 
 must be a little indulgent. You must 
 not wage such a deadly crusade against 
 piquet. I know what you have said of 
 a woman gamester ; I have listened 
 with great edification to your descrip- 
 tion of the terrible sect ; have really 
 shuddered at the frightful picture ; at 
 the anatomy, I may say, you have 
 prepared from what for all good pur- 
 pose has ceased to live — a lady 
 gambler ; nevertheless, my dear Mr. 
 Inglewood" — and here his lordship 
 wreaked such cordiality upon his re- 
 monstrance — "nevertheless, you must 
 not confound a casual instance with a 
 custom ; you must not consider her 
 ladyship a hopeless idolater of painted 
 paper, if now and then — to give wings 
 to a heavy hour — she takes a hand or 
 so. Keally, j^ou must not, Mr. Ingle- 
 wood." Thus spoke his lordship ; and 
 in the vanity of his masculine heart he 
 thought he had achieved a wondrous 
 triumph over the woman he had vowed 
 to love and cherish. The lady, how- 
 ever, who had as strongly sworn, proved 
 herself at least an equal match for the 
 man she loved, honoured, and obeyed. 
 As for Inglewood, he sat with his lips 
 glued together. The polite vehemence 
 of the Earl had kept him silent : now, 
 60. 
 
 her ladyship was about to speak, and 
 he knew that nought remained for him 
 but to suffer. With what scorching- 
 softness in her eyes — with what bitter 
 self-complacency — with what an obtru- 
 sive sense of maiiyrdom, — did the 
 Countess Blushrose carefully construct 
 a handful of innuendos, every one of 
 them enough to wound a woman's peace 
 for ever ! 
 
 "I'm sure my lord," — (if a man 
 could be killed by music, the mortal 
 melody of her ladyship's well-educated 
 voice had certainly slain her husband,) 
 — " I'm sure, that is I hope, I am 
 always a patient listener to Mr. Ingle- 
 wood. I know the goodness that 
 prompts him ; the conscience that 
 animates every word : I know his de- 
 votion to the high and abstract cha- 
 racter, as I think I have heard you call 
 it, — you see, my lord, how I treasure 
 all your syllables, — yes, the high and 
 abstract character of his function, — I 
 know his regard for the family — his 
 especial consideration for ourselves, and 
 therefore from him can bear anything. 
 Nevertheless, my lord, as I was saying 
 to Mr. Inglewood when you entered — 
 that is, I was about to say — I would 
 not have him scold you as I know he 
 does. He must not take upon common 
 report — the world is so censorious, the 
 world so delights to destroy wedded
 
 Domestic Happiness of the Earl and Countess. 
 
 confidence — what I never can believe, 
 at least nut all of it. And, therefore, 
 my lord, I say he must not scold 
 you." 
 
 (Has the reader watched a well-grown 
 kitten with its maiden mouse % Has 
 he seen how that velvet -coated, playful 
 creature, having first crushed its victim's 
 loins with all its teeth, drops it ; and 
 now, crouching apart, with serene as- 
 surance that the miserable wretch can- 
 not escape, watches with sweet forbear- 
 ance its writhiugs and its stragglings, 
 the very hopelessness of its agony to 
 get away? How the said kitten, — 
 its claws humanely sheathed, they 
 having already done their work — puts 
 forth one paw, and now taps the mouse 
 on one side — now on the other — and 
 turns it over and over — and all in play 
 — all in the prettiest sport ? ) 
 
 " No, Mr. Inglewood," continued her 
 ladyship, — " his lordship has, I know, 
 his faults ; still, he is not the unscrupu- 
 lous libertine" — 
 
 "Madam!" exclaimed his lordship, 
 firing at the word, and then turning 
 fiercely round upon his chaplain, — " Mr. 
 Inglewood, what is this?" 
 
 .Mr. Inglewood, in patient amazement 
 looked al the wedded pair, then asked, 
 "What, my lord .'" 
 
 " Am I, sir, indebted to your insinua- 
 tion.- for tliis character '. Is it thus, in 
 
 my own house, you fulfil a mission of 
 peace ? " 
 
 "I protest, my lord," stammered 
 Inglewood, — " I protest I " — 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Inglewood is a plain 
 speaker," cried the Countess, delighted 
 at the success of her artifice. " And 
 then so faithful, so vivid an ailist, too ! 
 I am sure I am delighted with the 
 portrait that, as you tell me, my lord, 
 Mr. Inglewood has passed off for me. 
 It must have been so grateful to a 
 husband, — so flattering to his wife ! 
 And then it is so comfortable to have 
 at one's elbow a kind remembrancer of 
 one's little faults. Not that I want to 
 know all your lordship's treasons, — and 
 even if I did, Mr. Inglewood is so good, 
 he would never tell me all.''' 
 
 The chaplain was by nature and self- 
 discipline a meek, forbearing man, but 
 he was full of generous impulses, and 
 the implied slander of her ladyship was 
 too much for his patience : he there- 
 fore committed a great breach of de- 
 corum ; for, ere her ladyship had well 
 concluded her sentence, Mr. Inglewood 
 brought down his clenched fist upon 
 the table with such a report that the 
 Countess leapt in her chair with a slight 
 shriek. "Mr. Inglewood!" exclaimed 
 the astonished Karl, — " you forget your- 
 self. Do you know, sir, what you are?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," replied Inglewood, 
 
 6'/
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 with sudden calmness, — "no longer 
 your chaplain. I entered your lord- 
 ship's service as a minister of peace : I 
 will not — no, my lord, will not — to suit 
 the fickle humours of the great, be 
 made a scapegoat and a fire-brand. I 
 am no longer, sir, your servant." 
 
 " Come, come," said the good-natured 
 nobleman, "not so hasty, Mr. Ingle- 
 wood. Spoil not your hopes in life by 
 a piece of temper." 
 
 " My hopes in this life, my lord," 
 said Inglewood, " are a quiet conscience, 
 health, and a cordial faith, let them 
 make what mistakes they will, in my 
 fellow-creatures. Of these three hopes, 
 it may please God to deprive me of one; 
 nevertheless, two — whilst my reason 
 lasts — must, and shall remain with 
 me." 
 
 " Mr. Inglewood — I have been wrong ; 
 I confess as much, and — " 
 
 " My lord," replied Inglewood firmly, 
 yet respectfully, " / have been wrong ; 
 and by quitting your service can make 
 the only reparation due to myself : 
 understand me, my lord — to myself. I 
 now know my place : it must be my 
 own house — my own roof — though wind 
 and snow drive through it ; my own 
 hearth, though with scarce a log to 
 warm it ; my own time, that I may 
 work to know the mystery within me. 
 I thank you, my lord, with all my 
 62 
 
 heart I thank you, for this relief from 
 bondage. You intended kindly by me : 
 but I feel it, my lord — I should dwarf 
 and wither under your patronage : I 
 should never grow to be a man I " 
 
 "You know best," said the Earl, re- 
 suming his dignity. " I w 7 ould not by 
 my favours blight a giant. Come, 
 come," said the Earl smiling, "you are 
 a young man — a very young man. 
 Let us talk of this to-morrow." 
 
 "My lord," answered Inglewood, " I 
 have made my election ; I am free. 
 Yet, my lord, let me leave your house 
 a peace-maker." Then turning to the 
 Countess, he said, " Will your ladyship 
 grant me a moment's hearing 1 for 
 what I have to say must interest 
 you." Her ladyship nodded dignified 
 assent. " I would plead for a weak 
 and foolish woman. She has betrayed 
 her trust. Yet, I believe 'twas pride, 
 a silly pride — no deep sin — that 
 beguiled her." 
 
 " What woman's this ? " asked the 
 Earl. 
 
 " One beneath your roof, my lord. 
 One of your tenant's daughters, hired 
 to tend your child. This morning — " 
 
 "Ten thousand pardons, my lady," 
 cried an elderly, hard-featured woman, 
 bursting into the apartment, " but flesh 
 and blood can't bear to have such 
 doings made nothing of. If Susan
 
 Peculation by Lord Tootle s Maid. 
 
 isn't packed off, nobody's safe. I knew 
 bis reverence here wanted to talk her 
 
 off — but — I — I beg your pardon my 
 lady, for breaking in, but everybody's 
 
 character must suffer." Here the an- 
 cient dame, with her apron corner, 
 carefully dislodged a small tear from 
 either eye. 
 
 "What's the matter, Mrs. Pillow— 
 
 what has Susan done 1 " asked the 
 Countess. 
 
 " Stolen half-a-yard of lace from his 
 lordship's cap," answered Mrs. Pillow. 
 
 " Not stolen — not stolen," shrieked
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 a girl, as she rushed in, and with stream- 
 ing eyes fell at the feet of the Countess. 
 " I never had a thief's thought — never : 
 nurse said 'twas of no use — none ; and 
 I only took it to remember me of that 
 sweet child — I love it dearer than my 
 own flesh — to remember it when I should 
 be old, and baby be a man." 
 
 The girl, with clasped hands, looked 
 with passionate gi-ief in the face of the 
 Countess. Her ladyship rose, and 
 
 fanning her cheek with me — new 
 from the Prince's coronet — said " Send 
 the culprit from the house, and 
 instantly." 
 
 The girl fell prostrate on the floor. 
 Mr. Inglewood followed the Countess 
 with his eyes as, still waving me to and 
 fro, she walked from the room. " God 
 teach you better mercy ! " he said in 
 a low voice, and he stooped to raise 
 the heart-stricken offender. 
 
 64
 
 c^ 
 
 XII 
 
 ^o 
 
 The Countess Bfushrose anb her Babe. 
 Slavery ol St. Barnes's. Garden's Borneo." 
 
 . 
 
 a,. 
 
 JJ your ladyship's 
 pardon — but will your 
 ladyship's goodness allow a word with 
 your ladyship I" 
 
 Thus spoke Mrs. Pillow, the house- 
 keeper, following the Countess from the 
 apartment ; and her ladyship, by a 
 motion of the head, implied consent to 
 the petition, 
 
 " I shall never forgive myself, never, 
 till my dying day," said Mrs. Pillow, 
 immediately she found herself closeted 
 with the Countess. 
 
 " What has happened now, Pillow ? " 
 asked her ladyship listlessly. 
 
 " Matter, your ladyship ! Well, was 
 there ever such a kind, forgiving mis- 
 tress ! I'm sure, my lady, I " — but 
 here the growing emotion of the 
 housekeeper broke forth in short, 
 quick sobs. 
 
 "Another robbery, I suppose?" said 
 the Countess, with affected resignation. 
 
 " By no means, my lady," answered 
 Mrs. Pillow. " Now Susan's gone — not 
 that she shall leave the house, my lady, 
 before her boxes are well tumbled — I'd 
 answer with my life for the honesty of 
 all of us." 
 
 " Well J" said the Countess, in a fret- 
 ful tone ; and immediately the house- 
 keeper knew she must be brief. 
 
 " But, your ladyship," — and here the 
 tears trickled down Mrs. Pillow's face 
 like rain-drops down a window-pane — 
 " when 1 think of my own assurance — 
 my — my — my worse than that, in busting 
 in as I did before your ladyship and my 
 lord—" 
 
 65
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " Well, well, see 'tis not repeated. I 
 suppose it was your zeal for — " 
 
 " That's it, your ladyship, that's it. 
 I thought if that hussy — saving your 
 presence — only had the first word, for 
 first words with a brazen face go so far 
 — she might deceive your ladyship ; 
 and, like her impudence, she would 
 come to you — but then, what do such 
 trollops know what Providence really 
 made 'em for 1 — Then I followed her, 
 your ladyship, — and there she would 
 stand in the hall, your ladyship, trying 
 to cry, and aggravating me past Chris- 
 tian flesh and blood with her assurance 
 — and then I — oh, my lady, character's 
 such a jewel, and makes us forget what's 
 proper to ourselves and our betters." 
 And Mrs. Pillow concluded this frag- 
 mentary sentence with a new supply of 
 rolling tear-drops. 
 
 " That will do — no more — that will 
 do," said the Countess, and her lips 
 almost broke into a forgiving smile. 
 Magical was their effect upon the house- 
 keeper ; for Mrs. Pillow wiped her face 
 which, on the instant, was smooth, pas- 
 sionless and glossy, as a face of orna- 
 mental china. " Mr. Inglewood leaves 
 us," said the Countess. 
 
 "I am not surprised at that, my 
 
 lady, if Susan goes." Her ladyship, 
 
 • turning quickly round, bent a haughtily 
 
 incpairing gaze upon her servant. Mrs. 
 
 66 
 
 Pillow felt she had been too abrupt. 
 " That is, I don't think Susan would 
 have stayed long after him. His rever- 
 ence once gave the girl a prayer-book, 
 my lady; well, would your ladyship 
 believe it, the wench was always a-read- 
 ing that book? I always thought it 
 strange, my lady ; still I hoped it was 
 nothing but religion. But when people 
 turn thieves, and rob such a sweet baby 
 — oh, your ladyship, what a darling, 
 darling lamb his lordship is ! So quiet 
 too ! I'm the worst of sinners, if he 
 doesn't cut his teeth like any blessed 
 spirit." 
 
 This energetic praise of the baby 
 seemed to touch the maternal instincts 
 of the Countess ; for suddenly remem- 
 bering that she had a child, she said — 
 " Let his lordship be brought to me." 
 
 I would fain pass over the emotion of 
 such a mother. The babe was brought; 
 the mother kissed her child — kissed it 
 as a nun would kiss her beads. Two 
 or three minutes passed, and she was 
 about to return it into its nurse's arms, 
 when the fretful creature — it seemed 
 wasting and pining, an offering pre- 
 pared for death — threw out its tiny 
 hand, and fixed its fingers in its mo- 
 ther's hair, whining and pulling with all 
 its little strength. "Take him away," 
 cried the Countess, with a slight laugh 
 — "the — the little rebel!" and as the
 
 The Countess Blushrose and her Babe. 
 
 babe was borne to the nursery, the 
 mother turned quickly to a mirror, and 
 arranged a few disordered raven threads 
 delicately, tenderly, as though they were 
 vital as her heart-strings. 
 
 What knew such a mother of her 
 child 1 She had heard its first wail — 
 that inconvenience she could not avoid. 
 It was from that moment divorced from 
 her cares. It grew not beneath her eye, 
 taking its hourly life from her ; she 
 never knew that sweet communion, 
 when nature touches every nerve to 
 tenderest music, still drawing forth 
 new love, repaid by love increasing ; by 
 dawning consciousness ; by looks of 
 brightening knowledge ; by fitful, bro- 
 ken murmurings, deep with a sense of 
 brooding joy ; by all that interchange 
 of mother love and baby happiness ; and 
 more, by all those pulses of the soul 
 which, in the thrilling present, assure 
 the blissful future. The Countess saw 
 her child but at stated intervals ; she 
 knew she was a mother only by the 
 clock. Ber sole offspring was her 
 beauty ; that she nursed, that she 
 watched, that she tended \ that, with 
 ry furtive glance, she with deep 
 affection worshipped. For her child, 
 that was entombed in her face. It was 
 this that to my thought made her 
 hideously lovely — that threw tbc can- 
 kerous aspect of the witch upon the 
 
 features of a goddess. Of all I have 
 known, the Countess stood apart. 
 
 Whilst in the possession of her lady- 
 ship I saw all to be seen of the high 
 world. Drawing-rooms — assemblies — 
 balls — the opera — all the. shifting 
 scenes, all the beautiful and brilliant 
 things, that make what is called so- 
 ciety. I have seen true nobility of heart 
 add lustre to the jewel on its breast ; 
 I have seen the man of birth, whose 
 great ancestors were to him as con- 
 tinually present ; whose memories were 
 as protecting angels, denying aught of 
 mean, or low, or selfish to approach the 
 sanctuary of his soul ; men with hearts 
 and minds sweetened and purified by 
 that everlasting fragrance breathing 
 from good and great men's graves. And 
 I have seen the caitiff whose stars and 
 trinkets, like blazoned coffin-plates, glit- 
 tered on nothing but corruption ; men, 
 with souls dead and noisome, in moving 
 carcases. With indignation did I first 
 behold them ; with scorn and a fierce 
 hatred. I called fortune filthy names, 
 and arraigned directing fate of gross 
 venality. This was the passion of very 
 ignorance. Since I have seen the world 
 in its many inequalities, have known 
 and seen how much the selfish lose in 
 what they deem intensity of gain, I 
 have looked upon them with compas- 
 sion — with a dec]), mute pity. Pool- 
 er
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 small things, infinitely small in their 
 imagined greatness ; men who, like the 
 maggot in a nut, feed and grow gross 
 in darkness, unwitting of the world of 
 light and beauty, without that petty 
 shell of self that circles them ! 
 
 I have seen too, woman in her sweet- 
 est, noblest aspect ; a thing of highest 
 thoughts and deepest tenderness, still 
 elevated — made softer still by minis- 
 tering tastes, almost refined away from 
 earth — a creature priceless and unpur- 
 chaseable as the angels ! Yet have I 
 seen her sold — bartered ; paid for with 
 golden guineas — with tinkling title — 
 with flashing coronet. I have heard 
 something of the slave markets of Cairo 
 — of Alexandria ; tales of snow r -skinned 
 Georgians and Circassians — of fairest 
 victims vended by avarice to lust. The 
 tales were touching — very, very touch- 
 ing. But hearing them, I have smiled 
 at the wilful ignorance, the smug self- 
 complacency of Britons — I have smiled 
 and remembered me of the slave-markets 
 of St. James's! "What!" cries the 
 reader, and his lip turns slightly purple 
 with indignation, " St. James's ! " Yes, 
 Sir, St. James's ! I have seen blue eyes, 
 pink cheeks, scarlet lips, sold — ay, as 
 you would sell a nosegay — fathers and 
 mothers having a bishop who shall bless 
 the bargain. There is this difference 
 between the Georgian and the British 
 68 
 
 merchandise — a small circle of gold wire 
 about it, no more. Have I not seen 
 creatures with seraphic looks — beings 
 that in real loveliness of form and 
 aspect, in living harmony of gesture — 
 have almost made the imagination 
 barren ; have I not seen them sold to 
 some paralytic Tlntus — some half- 
 palsied earl 1 No — not sold ; they 
 were married. Their parents made for 
 them good matches ; they were married 
 in a church — married with all the 
 honours. 
 
 The bells ring out a merry peal— 
 look at the bride, her colour comes and 
 goes, and her lip shakes like a rose-leaf 
 in the wind ; tears blind her eyes ; and, 
 as she steps from the carriage, the 
 earth whirls about her ! Is that the 
 church-door ? Surely it is the entrance 
 of a tomb. She fights with closed lips 
 — mutely fights against her swelling 
 heart. She raises her eyes— she sees 
 her father's stony face glittering with a 
 smile — a statue in the sun ; beholds 
 her mother's simper — her weight of 
 great content ; she turns — more horrible 
 than all — and catches then the look of 
 him, in some brief minutes to be made 
 her owner ; he smiles, and her heart 
 dies at his Pan-like leer 1 ? Well, they 
 are married ! The bargain is completed 
 — the receipt, a marriage certificate, is 
 duly passed. The happy couple start
 
 Slavery of St. James's. 
 
 for his lordship's hall. An ox is roasted 
 — butts of ale are tapped — all is joy 
 and rioting among his lordship's happy 
 people ; happy, too, the happiest of the 
 happiest, is his lordship's self! "What 
 an excellent match for the bride ! how 
 many pi'aise the wisdom — the policy of 
 her parents ! How nobly they " have 
 done their duty'' by her. Is it not 
 proved by after years? does not her 
 ladyship make an immaculate wife ? Is 
 she not chaste as Iceland snows ? Can 
 even midnight drunkenness dare to 
 pass a jest upon her? Is she not a 
 pattern of all the choice proprieties ? 
 True — very true. Her father and 
 mother are proud of the match — proud 
 of the spotless virtue of their daughter. 
 And she is virtuous. She may, with 
 most serene defiance, think of West- 
 minster Hall ; but what has her prudent 
 father to answer, what her most politic 
 mother to reply to that harlotry of soul 
 they have forced upon her — to that 
 inevitable daily falsehood which they 
 have made her act — to that constant 
 lie — that agonising ulcer eating in her 
 heart, most eating when a smile is 
 flickering at her lips ? 
 
 Is she not a white slave — a Christian 
 slave — a bondwoman bought in a St. 
 James's drawing room, albeit wedded 
 after at St. James's Church 1 I have 
 heard of women slaves toiling in rice- 
 
 grounds, heard of the planter's whip 
 winding like whetted steel around poor 
 woman's form : of these things I have 
 heard. But I have seen white slaves 
 in carriages — have known the agonies 
 inflicted on them by the scourge of their 
 own mind, by the worm preying in their 
 hollowing temples, by the very quietude 
 of their despair. 
 
 These scenes I mingled in — these 
 things I saw whilst in the posses- 
 sion of Lady Blushrose. I have, how- 
 ever, trespassed by a long digression — 
 have again committed my usual fault 
 of wandering from the direct line of my 
 story. Let me hasten to return to it. 
 
 Some three months after I was stolen 
 — no, taken is the word — from the 
 Palace, the Earl's infant, the heir of 
 his house, fell ill, very ill. 
 
 " I am somewhat uneasy about Ed- 
 ward," said the Earl to his wife, who 
 was drcst for the theatre. 
 
 " I'm sure he's looking a great deal 
 better — a great deal,'' answered the 
 Countess, pressing her little finger to a 
 beauty patch which threatened to fall 
 from her chin. " But if you think it 
 necessary, why not send for Dr. 
 Wilson?" 
 
 " Madam," and the Earl slightly 
 coloured, — " after your conduct to the 
 Doctor this morning, I really have not 
 the courage to send for him." 
 
 09
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 ■ 
 
 "^ S S_X"" 
 
 "Conduct! Was not the man inso- 
 lent ? — did he not accuse me of — " 
 "I fear, Madam, his great offence 
 
 was — he told the truth," answered the 
 Earl. 
 
 " Doctor Wilson is, doubtless, a man 
 
 
 of the world — a shrewd man, and passes 
 off brutality of manner, that some 
 people may mistake it for the indepen- 
 dence of genius. For my part I have 
 no very high opinion of him. Did he 
 not say that I should kill the child? 
 70 
 
 The wretch ! — kill it — because I had 
 not nursed it myself? Has the man 
 no feeling ? Did not all my friends say 
 that I should bring myself to the grave 
 if I did nurse it ? And you youi-self, 
 know my constitution ? "
 
 Gar rick's ' ' Romeo T 
 
 u Yes, Madam," answered the Earl, 
 gravely ; I have often wondered at its 
 excellence — often, too, after the labours 
 of the card-table at four in the morn- 
 
 ing. 
 
 "Now, do not let us quarrel. You 
 shall not spoil my evening — that I am 
 determined. I have made a party with 
 Lady Dinah to see Garrick's Romeo ; — 
 I have not yet seen it, and really one 
 might as well be out of the world. 
 You might have accompanied me. I 
 know the time," and the Countess 
 acted a little pouting smile — "that 
 to have seen Romeo and Juliet with 
 me — ah! well, well, marriage turns 
 
 the poetry of hope into the very prose 
 of reality." 
 
 "And you go to see Garrick's 
 Romeo ? " asked his lordship, sadly. 
 
 " I'm told it's delicious ; so full of 
 feeling ! " answered the Countess. 
 
 "The carriage is at the door, my 
 lady," said the servant. 
 
 "You will at least hand me to it," 
 said the Countess, to his lordship, with 
 a seraphic smile. 
 
 The Earl raised his eyes to his wife. 
 Still she smiled, and held forth a fairy 
 palm. The Earl sighed, and taking his 
 wife's hand as he would have taken a 
 thistle, led her to the carriage. 
 
 7i
 
 Brurv Lane Theafre. A Brouen-Hcarfeo Woman. 
 The Countess is summoned Howe. An Oft Acquaintance. 
 
 ''in][lL Countess was in raptures 
 with Garrick. Her friend, 
 Lady Dinah, too, a widow of four- 
 and-thirty, whose chief favourite in 
 this life was her own broken heart 
 — was softened to the extreme of 
 tenderness by the passion, the energy, 
 the enthusiasm of the little man. I 
 have said it — Lady Dinah had a broken 
 heart. Happy woman that it was so : 
 for that shattered organ stood to her in 
 the place of a parrot, a spaniel, a pre- 
 cious pet, to be fondled and fed upon 
 
 72 
 
 the choicest morsels. It was this atten- 
 tion to the craving appetite of her 
 broken heart that brought Lady Dinah 
 to Romeo and Juliet. Sympathy was 
 a necessity of her nature — but then 
 it must be sympathy with the wants 
 and woes of love. At eighteen she had 
 been married to a nobleman of large 
 estate, sixty years old, and a pair of 
 crutches. The daughter of a fox-hunt- 
 ing squire, she had been legally sold 
 to his lordship — vended to the winter- 
 stricken peer, like any peach in January. 
 She had been a widow only four years ; 
 her husband, with a stubbornness often 
 peculiar to the ailing, determining not 
 to cancel the contract a single day 
 before. " And so, my dear, that is how 
 my heart was broken." This was the 
 constant theme of Lady Dinah ; who 
 would continually show her broken 
 heart to her friends and acquaintances, 
 as other women would show their china. 
 It was, indeed, her only solace — her 
 only comfort. Her face had in it frank 
 good temper ; her eyes were swimming
 
 Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 in laughter ; her lips ever curling with 
 smiles — she was altogether a ripe, plump 
 piece of frolic nature ; yet to her five 
 hundred bosom friends she insisted upon 
 being known as " a blighted thing ; in- 
 deed, a disappointed woman with a 
 broken heart.'' And then she would 
 hint at the mystery" of an early passion 
 — of what in her girlhood she had 
 suffered for a first love. This mystery 
 was never cleared ; for I give no cre- 
 dence to the vulgar gossip of her nurse, 
 who, as I heard, declared that her lady- 
 ship before marriage had " never loved 
 anything that signified, except green 
 gooseberries." 
 
 The play proceeded, and with every 
 
 scene the admiration of Lady Blushrose, 
 
 the emotion of Lady Dinah, increased. 
 
 "'Tis very nice," said Lady Blushrose, 
 
 at a part of the balcony scene. 
 
 " Nice, my dear ! it's delicious," 
 cried Lady Dinah, and for a moment 
 spreading her fan before her face, she 
 sighed deeply. Very different were the 
 feelings of the two ladies. The one sat 
 as a patroness of the poet and the actor 
 ■ — now and then graciously according 
 an approving smile ; the other was in 
 the scene ; was, indeed, — or assuredly 
 tried to think so, — Juliet herself. "It's 
 very foolish," said Lady Dinah, and 
 with an attempt at vivacity, she brushed 
 her handkerchief across her eyes, I do 
 
 verily believe, thinking there was at 
 least one tear in each of them. 
 
 " Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ; 
 And I will take thy word." 
 
 Thus spoke Juliet, and immediately 
 
 Lady Dinah, in a whisper to her friend, 
 
 exclaimed, " Just like me when quite a 
 
 girl." 
 
 "Goodnight, goodnight! parting is such sweet 
 
 sorrow, 
 That I shall say good night till it be morrow." 
 
 Here Juliet disappeared from the 
 balcony, and Lady Dinah, throwing 
 herself back in her seat, slowly shook 
 her head, observing, — "If it doesn't 
 take me quite to my father's orchard !" 
 
 "My dear child," said Lady Blush- 
 rose, looking round the house — "you 
 distress me, you do, indeed, to find you 
 thus give way to your feelings. You 
 know it's only a play." 
 
 "Very true — I know that — but 
 memory, memory, my dear ! In this 
 life we — ar'n't they the Clevelands 
 opposite 1 Lud, no ! I'm getting blind 
 I think — in this life, woman has but 
 one heart, and when that is broken — " 
 
 " To be sure. Why, there's that 
 wretch Huntingtopper," cried Lady 
 Blushrose, who, whilst sympathising 
 with her friend, had carefully surveyed 
 the boxes. 
 
 " He mus'n't come into the box — • 
 
 73
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 positively, ho mus'n't come into the 
 box. I wouldn't have him see ns for 
 the world, — where is he ? " Lady Blush- 
 rose immediately pointed out to her 
 broken-hearted friend the situation of 
 his lordship, who, on the instant recog- 
 nising the ladies, kissed his hand to 
 them, and left the box. " He'll never 
 come to us," cried Lady Dinah, as 
 though she expected a reply. 
 
 "No doubt he will — and why not?" 
 asked Lady Blushrose. 
 
 " Oh, my dear — I quite loathe the 
 man," said Lady Dinah. 
 
 " He's very handsome," said Lady 
 Blushrose, believing in that she had 
 said everything. 
 
 " But then his sentiments, my dear ; 
 so coarse— so little respectful of sym- 
 pathy — so utterly ignorant or careless 
 of the emotions of the heart." 
 
 A knock at the box-door, and, imme- 
 diately, enter his lordship ! He seemed 
 a man of about two-and-thirty. His 
 features were handsome — very hand- 
 some ; in point of regularity, faultless. 
 A well-formed, well-painted lamp, but 
 with no light in it. As I shortly dis- 
 covered, his lordship was the veritable 
 Huntingtopper, the lordly master of Mr. 
 Curlwell, whose generosity towards the 
 little feather-dresser was so touchingly 
 displayed in St. Martin's watch-house. 
 
 "Well, ladies, how do you like it? 
 74 
 
 Garrick wants a little of the dash of a 
 giant for my notions of a lover. He's 
 mean — plaguy mean," said Hunting- 
 topper, plunging at once into the play. 
 
 " Does your lordship measure hearts 
 by a foot-rule ? " asked Lady Blushrose. 
 
 " Not exactly — but then, one wants 
 a sort of style in these things : when 
 we talk of heroic poetry, of course, we 
 want people of heroic look to utter it — 
 otherwise it's nonsense, quite nonsense." 
 Thus spoke the lordly critic. 
 
 "But altogether, what does your 
 lordship think of Romeo and Juliet ? " 
 inquired Lady Dinah, with a downcast 
 look, and in the gentlest tone of voice 
 — yea, almost in the accents of a 
 sufferer. 
 
 "There's some good things in it; 
 can't deny that — very decent things 
 in it ; but then there's a good deal of 
 stuff. Now, all that we've listened to 
 about the fairy's coach — can any reason- 
 able person make it clear ? Come, here's 
 the book," and his lordship read in a 
 loud tone — 
 
 "'Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' 
 legs, 
 The cover of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
 Her traces of the smallest spider's web ; 
 Her collars of the moonshine's watery' — " 
 
 " Silence in that box ! " roared a voice 
 from the gallery, and looking upwards, 
 I recognised my old, honest friend, Luke
 
 The Countess is Summoned Home.
 
 The Countess is Summoned Home. 
 
 Knuckle, Mr. Flamingo's porter. Luke, 
 otherwise a peaceable fellow, was too 
 much interested in the fate of the 
 lovers to pay any deference to any 
 body in any box ; and, therefore, almost 
 unconsciously rebuked the talkers. His 
 lordship cast a contemptuous look to- 
 wards the audience, as though one of 
 the dearest prerogatives of high box 
 company — namely, to talk loud at a 
 play to the annoyance of actors and 
 auditors — had been most impudently 
 interfered with. So indignant was his 
 lordship, yet withal so defying of vulgar 
 opinion, that he was about to continue 
 the quotation, when a hurried knock 
 struck at the box-door. It was opened, 
 when one of the Earl's servants deli- 
 vered a letter to her ladyship. 
 
 " It's impossible ! " said her ladyship, 
 with slight agitation, having read the 
 note. Then, turning to Lady Dinah, 
 she said, — " My dear, you must excuse 
 me — I am summoned home." 
 
 "What has happened?" cried Lady 
 Linali. 
 
 "Oh, nothing \ that is, nothing but 
 his lordship's groundless fear — I will be 
 back in a short time." 
 
 •■ Pray don't miss -the tomb scene," 
 urged Lady Dinah, "but what — what 
 is the matter ? " 
 
 " "J'is only to frighten me, I know — 
 it can't be otherwise ; but his lordship 
 
 writes that dear little Edward is dying. 
 But it can't be — he w r as so much better 
 this morning. I shall be able to come 
 back, I'm sure." 
 
 "To be sure you will," said Lady 
 Dinah, with a comforting manner ; and 
 very willing to be so comforted, Lady 
 Blushrose suffered herself to be handed 
 to her carriage by Lord Huntingtopper. 
 
 " You'll have no cause to remain at 
 home, I trust," said his lordship ; " and 
 till you return, I'll talk Shakspeare to 
 the broken-hearted widow." As his 
 lordship, with a peculiar smile, uttered 
 these w T ords, Lady Blushrose raised her 
 fore-finger in playful reproof of Hunt- 
 ingtopper's intention. Ere, however, he 
 could reply to this, the carriage rolled 
 away. 
 
 Arriving at his lordship's mansion, 
 the door was already open, and servants 
 already watching the coming of their 
 mistress. There was a sudden look of 
 real seriousness in one or tw r o faces ; in 
 others, worn as a part of the Earl's 
 livery, for the occasion ; a look that 
 convinced me death was in the house. 
 Mrs. Pillow was on the staircase, having 
 descended at the sound of the carriage- 
 wheels. She stood with clasped hands, 
 pursing her mouth, and striving to look 
 smitten to the heart. All she said was 
 — " Oh, my lady ! so sweet a baby ! " 
 The Countess slightly trembled at the 
 
 75
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 aspect of the matron, then rapidly passed 
 her. In a minute the mother was in 
 the room where lay her dying child. 
 
 The Earl sat at the bedside. Never 
 shall I forget the look with which he 
 met his wife — the mother of his infant. 
 There was no reproof in it — none — but 
 the very eloquence of pity. The Coun- 
 tess was running to the bed, when the 
 Earl arose and folding her in his arms, 
 led her aside. 
 
 " He's not ill — not so verv ill ? " cried 
 the Countess, hysterically. 
 
 "Patience, Margaret, patience," said 
 the Earl, with apparent calmness. " He 
 may be better — but he is, I fear so at 
 least, much changed." 
 
 " My dear — dear child ! " screamed 
 her ladyship. " He will be spared us ] " 
 
 " Let us hope it, let us pray for it," said 
 the Earl : " still we must be patient." 
 He then led his wife to the bed-side ; 
 and instantly the grief and cries of the 
 Countess were redoubled. She threw 
 herself upon the bed, and called Heaven 
 to witness how she loved her child. 
 
 "A letter, my lord, from Doctor 
 Wilson," said a servant, presenting a 
 note to the Earl. 
 
 " Where — where is the Doctor ? " ex- 
 claimed the Countess. 
 
 " Be calm, my love ; I sent for him 
 — he sends this letter," answered the 
 Earl. 
 
 76 
 
 " A letter ! Why does he not come ? 
 — a letter ! " cried the Countess. 
 
 " He Avill not come," said the Earl. 
 " Listen." His lordship then read the 
 note of the physician : — 
 
 "'My Lord, — It is with unaffected 
 pain that I cannot feel it due to my 
 professional character to attend your 
 summons. After what fell from her 
 ladyship this morning, I should forfeit 
 all sense of self-respect were I again to 
 do so. Her ladyship expressed a total 
 want of confidence in my skill ! ' — " 
 
 " I never meant it — he knew I never 
 meant it ! " cried the Countess in a rage 
 of grief. 
 
 "'Permit me, however, to recommend 
 to your lordship, the gentleman who is 
 the bearer of this. I have frequently 
 met him in the course of my profes- 
 sional experience, and have great 
 pleasure in herewith testifying to his 
 high ability. I know no man to whose 
 skill I would so readily entrust the 
 health of my own children. 
 
 " ' I remain 
 '"Your obedient humble servant, 
 
 "'Charles Wilson.'" 
 
 " Conduct the gentleman here," said 
 the Earl. 
 
 "Is he a physician?" asked the 
 Countess.
 
 An Old Acquaintance. 
 
 " The Doctor does not tell me, but I 
 have all faith in Wilson, let the gentle- 
 man be who he may." As the Earl 
 
 spoke this, the servant ushered in an 
 old acquaintance of the reader's, no 
 other than Apothecary Lintley. The 
 
 Countess glanced at his plain outside — 
 for in the days whereof I write, the 
 physician had a more marked exterior 
 than in these one-coated times — and 
 loudly whispered to her husband, "I'm 
 sure he's not a physician." 
 
 Lintley, overhearing this, observed — 
 " No, madam, I am not. Dr. Wilson 
 lias, however, informed me of the case ; 
 it is one I have treated a thousand times 
 among the poor." 
 
 At the word "poor," the Countess 
 
 77
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 looked toward her husband, as though, 
 of course, he would instantly resent the 
 insult. The Earl, however, immediately 
 addressing himself to Lintley, said — " I 
 am happy, sir, that my child will have 
 the benefit of so much experience." 
 
 Lintley then approached the little 
 patient : in an instant I saw in the eye 
 of the apothecary the fate of the babe. 
 
 "He is not so very ill, sir 1 " asked 
 the Countess. 
 
 " He is very ill, madam," answered 
 Lintley. 
 
 "But not dangerous — nothing dan- 
 gerous — you will answer for his recovery 
 — of course, with your experience, you 
 can answer ? " cried the Countess. 
 
 Lintley did not speak, but glanced at 
 the Earl. The father saw there was 
 no hope, and endeavoured to soothe the 
 mother, whose extravagant grief burst 
 forth in the wildest expressions. She 
 hung about the child, and vowed she 
 would never survive it — no, she would 
 
 be buried with it. She who had loved 
 it so — she who had so treasured her 
 dear, blessed darling ! At these words, 
 the Earl hid his brow in his hands, 
 and groaned bitterly. 
 
 " Is there nothing, Doctor — nothing 
 that will save him 1 " cried the Coun- 
 tess. 
 
 Lintley still evaded an answer ; still 
 the mother asked. At length the 
 apothecary replied — " Nothing, madam 
 — now." 
 
 " Oh, I know what you would say — 
 Doctor Wilson has said so, but it was 
 impossible. How could I nurse it — 
 how could I, blessed, dear babe that it 
 is, — but how could I nurse it 1 " 
 
 " Patience, patience, Margaret," said 
 the Earl, taking his wife's hand. And 
 so for hours they sat. As the clock 
 struck six the child died. 
 
 And then again and again the Coun- 
 tess mother vowed she would be buried 
 with her darling infant. 
 
 7S
 
 o~ 
 
 XIV 
 
 ->3 
 
 I am Purchased bv Mauamc Sjjanneic. 
 An iKush'ation o{ Human Motives. 
 
 HE Countess being placed in 
 mourning — such is the gen- 
 tle, tender phrase that indi- 
 cates the call of death at high houses — I 
 was cast aside. Indeed, again and again 
 before the Countess quitted London for 
 Canaan Hall — the family country seat 
 — 1 heard her vow that she would leave 
 the world for ever. Existence had lost 
 its only value to her; what was life 
 without her darling child ? Most voci- 
 ferous was her grief; whilst the Karl, 
 with calm, deep Borrow, would gaze at 
 her, as I thought, with doubting looks. 
 However, the day after the death of 
 
 her child, her ladyship departed to feed 
 her misery in solitude. She would 
 henceforth employ herself among her 
 husband's tenantry ; she would visit the 
 sick, the widowed, and the fatherless ; 
 again and again did she assure her hus- 
 band that she would be quite a blessing 
 to the poor ! Hearing this, and finding 
 myself cast carelessly by, I concluded 
 that I, too, was doomed to a long re- 
 tirement from the bustling world. In 
 little less than a week, I found it other- 
 wise. 
 
 One afternoon I found myself in the 
 hands of Mrs. Pillow, who declared me 
 to be, with other matters — gowns, and 
 gloves, and cloaks, and shoes — her 
 lawful property, by gift from the Coun- 
 tess. This declaration was made by the 
 housekeeper to a short, thin, flauntily- 
 dressed little woman, who evidently 
 gazed at myself and my companions 
 with the depreciating looks of a pur- 
 chaser. 
 
 "There, Madame Spanncu," cried 
 Mrs. Pillow, holding me daintily be- 
 
 79
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 tween her thumb and finger, " I call that 
 a beauty. It's a bit of wirgin snow, and 
 never been in my lady's head but once." 
 
 " La, my clear," said Madame, in a 
 most affectionate tone, " feathers fetch 
 nothing. Indeed, I'm the greatest sin- 
 ner alive if all business isn't quite gone 
 to the dogs." 
 
 " Talking about dogs, Madame Span- 
 neu, how's your husband'?" Thus spoke 
 Mrs. Pillow ; and though the reader 
 may feel that the inquiry, dictated by a 
 thought of the canine race, was scarcely 
 complimentary to Monsieur Spanneu, it 
 was nevertheless the result of associa- 
 tion of ideas in the brain of the house- 
 keeper ; for, as I afterwards discovered, 
 Monsieur Spanneu, Parisian born, was 
 an enthusiast in poodles. They were 
 to him as his own flesh and blood. 
 He was their " guide, philosopher, and 
 friend ;" though truth compels me to 
 admit that he never hesitated to sell 
 his pupils when he could obtain a 
 purchaser. His fame, indeed, was 
 widely spread throughout the fashion- 
 able world, and many were the declin- 
 ing maidens who owed the prime con- 
 solation of their lives to the delicate 
 tending of Monsieur Spanneu. Indeed, 
 as I once heard him declare, all his 
 dogs were " dogs of sentiment." 
 
 "How is Monsieur?" again inquired 
 Mrs. Pillow. 
 80 
 
 " Bless your heart, my dear," an- 
 swered the partner of his soul, "no- 
 thing ever ails the brute. Ha ! my 
 dear, it serves me right — I would try 
 to learn French, and I'm rightly served 
 for it. That satin, my dear, is stained 
 in three places," and Madame Spanneu 
 pointed to the spots on a rose-coloured 
 
 gown. 
 
 " Well, I always thought it odd as 
 how you could marry a Frenchman," 
 said the housekeeper, sinking the spots 
 of a gai'ment in the blemishes of a hus- 
 band. " I don't think it's doing the 
 right thing by one's own country." 
 
 " My dear, I had my scruples ; but 
 then he said he was a Count. What 
 shall I give you for the lot?" — and 
 again Madame jumped from thoughts 
 conjugal to matters of business. 
 
 " Why, you shall give me — but we'll 
 talk of that down-stairs ; I've a little 
 something, and such a glass of Ma- 
 deira ! " Saying this, the housekeeper 
 hurried Madame Spanneu from the 
 apartment. 
 
 An hour at least had elapsed, and I, 
 with the other perquisites, was carried 
 to the housekeeper's room ; where I 
 could not but recognise the potency of 
 the Madeira. Mrs. Pillow's face was 
 luminous ; Madame Spanneu's eyes 
 twinkled ; and a gentleman, whom I at 
 once discovered to be Mr. Curl well, was
 
 / am Purchased by Madame Spanneu. 
 
 chewing a bit of a song, in which there 
 were "Chloe's eyes," and "Chloe's lips," 
 and " Chloe's balmy kisses." 
 
 " Well, my love," cried Madame Span- 
 neu, for wine had enlarged her heart, 
 and deepened her ordinary terms of 
 affection, — " well, my love, if I've any 
 weakness in the world, it's music." 
 
 " That's me, all over," said Mrs. Pil- 
 low, with a slight titter, and as I 
 thought, an oblique half-look at Mr. 
 Curl well. Whether it was so or not, 
 that gentleman took a deep respira- 
 tion, and. again burst forth in praise of 
 " Chloe." 
 
 "And when does Lady Blushrose 
 come back, my love 1 " inquired Ma- 
 dame Spanneu, between one of Curl- 
 well's pauses. 
 
 " Bless your heart, nobody knows. 
 She's a-going to bury herself from the 
 whole world. Poor dear thing ! " Thus 
 sympathised Mrs. Pillow. 
 
 Mr. Curl well, leaning back in his 
 chair and putting his thumbs in his 
 waistcoat, roared over his neckcloth — 
 "She'll be at Ranelagh in a fortnight." 
 "La! how can you talk so? And 
 with thai dear child upon her mind! 
 To be sure, she knew as how it wouldn't 
 live, if she didn't nurse it. Well, it's in 
 Eeavi ii." cried Mrs. Pillow w it h an air 
 of satisfaction, in u<> way Lessened by 
 another glass of Madeira, "I don't 
 
 M 
 
 know how it is : between ourselves, 
 people haven't the hearts they used 
 to have when I was a girl." 
 
 Madame Spanneu was about to press 
 her lips to the glass : struck by this 
 melancholy verity, she paused an in- 
 stant : then, shaking her head with 
 deep significance at the housekeeper, 
 she cried, " They haven't," and tossed 
 off the Madeira. 
 
 " The world's a-getting still wickeder," 
 was the opinion of Mr. Curlwell — " no- 
 body now can trust nobody. I never 
 thought much of the Countess. Some 
 people says she's handsome : but she's 
 not my beauty." Here, the valet looked 
 dead in the face of Mrs. Pillow, who, 
 with the corners of her mouth slightly 
 curling — said " You're so partie'lar." 
 
 u Poor thing ! Still, you know, my 
 dear," cried Madame, " now the baby's 
 gone, the Countess must have some- 
 thing to like." 
 
 " Try a poodle," said Curlwell ; " for 
 my part, I hate a house with babbies." 
 
 " Well, what a man you are ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Pillow, smiling. " But 
 after all, people with the money of the 
 Countess can't feel grief like us as are 
 poor." 
 
 "They haven't the hearts," cried the 
 valet in a loud voice, expanding his 
 chest. 
 
 "With a good deal of money, folks 
 
 Bi
 
 The Story of a Feather 
 
 can bear a deal of trouble, and be none 
 the worse for it," said the housekeeper. 
 "Trouble does 'em good — teaches 'em 
 
 who's master," vociferated the valet, 
 
 and again he drank the Earl's Madeira. 
 
 " Still, my love," said Madame Span- 
 
 neu, " 1 pity the Earl; everybody says, 
 my dear, he's so much feeling." 
 
 " Not a atom," exclaimed Curlwell ; 
 
 his charity towards his superiors fast 
 
 vanishing with his sobriety. Indeed, I 
 
 have no doubt that the valet's firm 
 
 82 
 
 belief was that all human goodness had 
 for ever quitted the drawing-rooms of 
 the great and set up its "everlasting 
 rest " in the butler's pantry. Thus, he 
 continued, " The Earl feel ! Pooh ! 
 Crocodiles, ma'am — crocodiles."
 
 An Illustration of Human Motives. 
 
 « But really, Mr. Curlwell," said Mrs. 
 Pillow, " what motives, as we may say, 
 should his lordship have — " 
 
 " How do we know ? Motives ! Who 
 knows anything about 'em ? I don't 
 trust to anything or anybody : if the 
 Earl was to give me five hundred a 
 year to-morrow, should I thank him for 
 it in my heart ? No : and why not 1 
 Why, because I should be certain he'd 
 some motive in it. Nobody does no- 
 thing without thinking of something." 
 Such was at once the simple and en- 
 larged puiiosophy of Lord Huntingtop- 
 per's valet. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Curlwell, I do think 
 you're right. I'm sorry to say it : but 
 something happened only yesterday at 
 our house, that makes me suspect every- 
 body ; yes" — said Madame Spanueu, 
 with emphasis — " everybody." 
 
 " Can't do better, ma'am," cried 
 Curlwell, again quaffing the Madeira. 
 " What was it ] " 
 
 "Why, you know, my dear Mrs. 
 Pillow, we lost our darling cat three 
 week 
 
 " Dear me ! ' c»ed the sympathising 
 hoi r. 
 
 '• Well, my dear, about the middle of 
 
 lasl week a woman — a very tidy, civil 
 
 S'>rt <>f body, comes to our house, and 
 
 - to me, says she -Mann, dn you 
 
 want a eal I Why, my dear, says 1, 
 
 quite forgetting who I was talking to — 
 I do. "Well, then, says the Avoman, 
 here's a sweet little cretur ; and with 
 that, she does no more than take a 
 black kitten out of her basket, as she 
 had under her cloak. There, said she 
 — there's a little rose in June for you ; 
 black as a coal, ma'am ; search it all 
 over, for I wish I may die if there's a 
 white hair in it. Well, my dear, I'm 
 not superstitious ; no, I should hope 
 not ; still there is luck in a black cat. 
 So I says to the woman, you're very 
 kind ; I'll take the cat with pleasure : 
 it's very good of you to have brought 
 the cat. Don't name it, marm, says the 
 woman ; who would take no thanks at 
 all for the matter. Well, I took in the 
 cat, and the woman goes away. You'd 
 see nothing in that, would you, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all," said Mrs. Pillow. 
 
 " Cat was mad, no doubt," cried the 
 charitable Curlwell. 
 
 " Not at all ; as sensible and as well- 
 behaved a cat as ever entered a decent 
 house," averred Madame Spanneu. " But 
 what do you think, my dear ? Yester- 
 day comes the very woman to me again. 
 Marin, says she, I hope you like the 
 cat I Very much, my dear, says I. 
 You'll find it a beautiful mouser, marm, 
 for 1 know its family. I've no doubt of 
 it at all, says 1. Well then, says the 
 
 83
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 woman, since yon like the cat so much, 
 we can now come to business. What 
 business ? says I. Why, marm, says the 
 woman, as I brought you the cat, you 
 couldn't do less than let me serve it % 
 Serve it — serve it with what 1 says I. 
 "Why, with cat's-meat, says the woman. 
 Coiddn't think of such a thing, says I, 
 as I always feed my cat from my own 
 table. Then you should have heard 
 her impudence ! Why, says she, call- 
 ing me everything but a lady, I could 
 
 have got the kitten a place in a re- 
 spectable family, yes, a place in a 
 square — and you never could be such 
 a fool — yes, my love, those were her 
 very words — you never could be such 
 a fool — could never know so little of 
 life, as to suppose I'd give you a kitten, 
 if it wasn't that I was to serve her with 
 cat's-meat." 
 
 " Like all the world," says Mr. Curl- 
 well : and here ended Madame Span- 
 neu's chapter on human motives. 
 
 84
 
 XV. 
 
 I am of Madame Sjpanncu's Stock Gossip of Ixoums anb Ooalis. 
 
 Short Misioru of a Scar(et~Hee(eu Shoe. 
 
 tJE! I next saw the 
 light, I found myself 
 among the cast-off finery which formed 
 the stock in trade of Madame Spanneu. 
 There I was, in tolerably good company 
 to be sure; but with fallen companions ; 
 with degraded silks: cashiered taffeties; 
 ■lied satins; velvets, thrust for ever 
 from tli': society of the great. Nor 
 was I alone — a solitary plume. There 
 were feathers, thick as snow-flakes, 
 upon Madame Spanneu's shelves. Thus, 
 though at lii' t I I'll a sinking of the 
 
 spirit — though, as I remembered my 
 former glory, when I nodded above the 
 baby prince, I felt a sort of sickness 
 from the close, musty atmosphere about 
 me, I soon became reconciled to my 
 condition. Indeed, there Avas great 
 jollity among us. For two or three 
 nights — for it was only at night that 
 the talk and fun began — I and my 
 companions maintained the dignity of 
 sulks. We were, however, speedily 
 laughed into good temper ; and then 
 we ourselves laughed with the loudest. 
 Every day Madame Spanneu added to 
 her stock : thus, every night gave us 
 fresh matter of enjoyment. We were 
 wont to receive the newcomers as har- 
 dened jail-birds welcome culprits on 
 their first captivity ; grinning them 
 out of their sonxnv ; jesting them into 
 obduracy. Indeed, so hardened, so 
 reckless was I become, that had I been 
 selected for the head of even Garrick, I 
 do not think — such is the infection of 
 lawless company — J should have been 
 sensible of the abasement. 
 
 85
 
 The Story of a FeatJier. 
 
 I am not about to reveal the secrets 
 blabbed by my companions ; but this 
 advice, my love for mankind — badly as 
 I have been treated by the race — com- 
 pels me to give. Never, gentle reader, 
 so long as you have a stitch about your 
 anatomy, believe yourself alone. If 
 thoughtless people could only know 
 what their left-off clothes say about 
 them, sure I am, they would resolve 
 upon one of two things : either to re- 
 form their lives, or to go naked. Let 
 no man harbour a black spot in his 
 breast, and believe that his waistcoat is 
 Avholly ignorant of the stain. Let no 
 man drop an ill-gotten guinea into his 
 pocket, and think the poke unconscious 
 of the wrong. His very glove shall 
 babble of the bribe that has burnt his 
 hand. His cravat shall tighten about 
 his throat, if that throat be seared with 
 daily lies. Ignorance of man ! to be- 
 lieve that what is borne upon the body 
 has no intelligence with the moral good 
 or evil dwelling in the soul ; to think 
 that the purple of a Dives knows not 
 the innermost arrogance of its bearer ; 
 that the rag that nutters upon Lazarus 
 breathes not the sweetness of a May- 
 day blossom. I know that people who 
 believe themselves courageous thinkers, 
 may call this a superstition. I will not 
 argue it ; but I will say, there may be 
 worse. However, it is perhaps well for 
 86 
 
 poorer men that the rich put no faith 
 in such bigotry ; for if folks were once 
 assured that their cast-off garments 
 could reveal all the deeds and specula- 
 tions of the wearers, great, indeed, would 
 be the man who could afford to give 
 away an old coat ! No : we might have 
 even prime ministers and kings' con- 
 science-keepers burning their clothes in 
 their bolted bed-chambers, cautiously 
 and secretly as a gallant burns his 
 Paphian letters the night before pistols. 
 The stories I heard whilst on the 
 shelf of Madame Spanneu made the 
 white down upon me stand upright as 
 the down of a thistle. How the gowns 
 were wont to discourse ! How the 
 short cloaks would giggle with merri- 
 ment ! How the very gloves would 
 lisp their little adventures ! Nay, there 
 was a high scarlet-heeled shoe — an odd 
 one, — can I forget the story with which 
 it would make eveiy gown and petti- 
 coat heave and flap again with laughter, 
 as it told — and we had the story with 
 every newcomer — the curious incident 
 by which, in a scuffle, it lost its fellow ! 
 This shoe was a very old shoe : it had 
 been in the possession of Madame 
 Spanneu's predecessor, flung aside 
 amongst other odds and ends, and 
 having for many years outlived the 
 fashion, and being in a state of widow- 
 hood, had no hopes of returning to the
 
 History of a Scarlet-heeled Shoe. 
 
 world again. Hence, the great delight 
 of this scarlet- heeled shoe was to prattle 
 all the scandal it could remember, and, 
 I believe invent, of the sphere from 
 which it was irrevocably banished. 
 Nay, often the shoe would receive a 
 smart reprimand from a peach-coloured 
 satin, which would declare itself ready 
 to turn red at the absurd prattle of 
 "the old wretch," that would extend 
 its sides with laughter, mocking the 
 censure. Then, I remember, there was 
 a grave, long-trained pompadour that 
 would continually beg to know what 
 the scarlet-heeled shoe took them for • 
 adding that its fittest place, after what 
 it had seen, or professed to see, in this 
 naughty world, would be a convent, 
 and to go the rest of its life down-at- 
 heel in penance for past iniquities. At 
 these rebukes the shoe would laugh 
 immoderately, its high, glowing heel 
 rapping, in a spasm of merriment, 
 ainst the shelf it lay upon. The 
 worst of it was, the shoe would never 
 let any other companion tell its history : 
 the shoe insisting that the narrator had, 
 in the course of the story, determinedly 
 omitted various matters which the said 
 ie, with more loquacity than charity, 
 would insist upon supplying. There 
 was, I particularly remember, a dar- 
 ling little Bmoke-coloured satin-cloak, 
 trimmed with death-black lace — a beau- 
 
 tiful, quiet, modest thing, that Diana 
 herself might have worn of nights, 
 when she slipped out to chat with 
 Endymion ; — well, the envious shoe 
 would never let the smoke-coloured 
 cloak tell its story. Five successive 
 nights it tried hard to do so, but still 
 the shoe would so pervert the motives 
 of the cloak — would so minutely finish 
 particulars, where the cloak merely 
 intended a general sketch — would so 
 insist upon Dutch painting, when the 
 cloak, for reasons of its own, merely 
 wished an outline of the faintest chalk 
 — that at length, the patience of the 
 cloak was worn out, and the tender 
 little thing in a rumple of passion that 
 astonished a very staid lutestring — a 
 late Lady Mayoress by-the-bye — began 
 to use its tongue so rapidly, and to call 
 such names, that there was a general 
 rising and shaking of gowns to smother 
 the invective. I particularly remember, 
 too, that a pompadour, with all the 
 majesty of the coui't of Louis Quatorze, 
 begged the smoke-coloured cloak, if 
 only for the sake of other ladies, to 
 remember that " there were feathers 
 present." And then there was a sudden 
 hush — and then a murmur — and then 
 whispering sounds, in which, however, 
 I clearly distinguished the words — 
 " don't know where it may go to " — 
 "wretches of men" — "amongst all 
 
 87
 
 TJie Story of a Feather 
 
 sorts of people ; " and then, for the first 
 time, a sense of my equivocal position 
 came upon me. I then felt myself as 
 belonging to no party. To-day, I might 
 be in the head of a chaste and gentle 
 countess, to-morrow, in the hat of some 
 masque-hunting, unprincipled gallant. 
 I could not but acknowledge the pru- 
 dence of the pompadour. I felt myself 
 a kind of being of a harem ; endured, 
 but never to be taken cordially into 
 confidence. I own the thought sad- 
 dened me ; but I was speedily drawn 
 from myself by the loud, saucy voice of 
 the scarlet-heeled shoe, who cried — 
 " Feathers be fiddled ! I don't care 
 what they hear ! So swear away, little 
 smoke-colour ; say your worst, my dar- 
 ling ; and then let me try if I can't 
 beat you ! " 
 
 The cloak, folding itself in dignity, 
 deigned no answer ; and for a time, 
 there was a pause, only interrupted by 
 the low, malicious chuckle, and witch- 
 like snigger of the scai'let-heeled shoe. 
 I hope, however, that without being 
 treasonous to my trust, I have suffi- 
 ciently warned my beloved female 
 readers. Again and again let me tell 
 them, there is peril in silk — there is 
 danger in satin — yea, jeopardy in a bit 
 of riband. When they are assured that 
 cast-off gowns can babble — that cloaks 
 can give tongue — that gloves may turn 
 88 
 
 a secret inside out, — nay, that I have 
 known even the tag of a stay-lace stab 
 a reputation, — when they know all this, 
 let them be the " silver lining " of the 
 silken clouds that float between them and 
 the world, and in the innocency of their 
 thoughts, defy the gossip even of those 
 who have most closely known them. 
 
 Ere, however, I quit this part of my 
 subject, I cannot refuse to myself the 
 desire of giving, in the words I heard 
 it — ay, more than twenty times — 
 
 £f)C Sfjort pjtstorg of a Scarlct^rclcU Sfjce. 
 
 The shoe speaks. 
 
 " Once upon a time — for T shall give 
 no other register — there was bom in 
 the English court a beautiful female 
 child. She was the daughter of a king's 
 minister ; but whether the first or the 
 tenth, what does it matter? I have 
 heard it said, however, that it was the 
 minister (whoever he was) who first 
 put a tax upon shoe-leather ; for the 
 which, if there be any truth in history, 
 the punishment of corus was first sent 
 down upon high people. 
 
 " This child was christened ; and 
 great was the revelry at the baptism. 
 All the fairies then in England — for 
 upon some huff or other the greater 
 number of the good folk had quitted 
 Britain, flying, like a flight of swallows, 
 from a cliff of Dover, like the swallows
 
 History of a Scarlet-heeled Shoe. 
 
 no one knew whither — all the fairies 
 •who were too old to travel, and so were 
 left behind, came to the christening ; 
 and according to their custom, as shown 
 in many histories, brought an especial 
 gift of goodness for the little suckling. 
 One brought the voice of a nightin- 
 gale — one the grace of a fawn. One 
 the simplicity of a lamb — one the gaiety 
 of a kid. And then she had all sorts 
 of fairy clothing ; with a good gift and 
 a blessing worked in every article. In 
 truth, she was clothed from top to toe 
 from the workshops of the good people. 
 She wanted nothing — nothing but shoes. 
 They had been forgotten ; and great — 
 great was the sorrow of the fairies ; for 
 unless the baby were instantly shod, 
 and that by fairy hands, it was doomed 
 that the child should go barefoot all its 
 life. Unseemly and most uncomfort- 
 able would this have been to the beau- 
 teous daughter of the minister of the 
 king. Everybody was in grief, and 
 everybody asking everybody what was 
 to be done : when an old woman, where 
 site came from nobody could tell, ap- 
 peared in the court, carrying myself 
 and my little sister, both of us then of 
 baby size. 'Here,' said the strange 
 i. Id woman — 'here, an it please you, 
 an- t he shoes ! ' But all (he fairies 
 cried out witch — -hag — devil, — and 
 
 Bwore by all their fairy rings, by moon 
 
 light, and by whatever else the good 
 people hold solemn, that the babe would 
 be lost, if suffered to wear the old 
 woman's shoes. What, however, was 
 to be resolved ? Either the child must 
 have the shoes then provided, or go bare- 
 foot. Now bare feet for the daughter 
 of a minister of a king was not to be 
 thought of — the child might as well 
 have been born a gipsy -beggar. Where- 
 upon the king's minister rose, and with 
 a passionate voice cried — ' Put on the 
 shoes, put on the shoes ! ' — and imme- 
 diately all the fairy-folk vanished with 
 a howl ; leaving the little old woman 
 to fit her gift upon the child. 
 
 " Wonderful shoes were we ; for Ave 
 were no sooner on the feet of the minis- 
 ter's daughter than we became fixed as 
 her flesh, growing hour by hour, and 
 day by day, as her feet grew. And so 
 we grew, and so we agreed, for about 
 seventeen years. It was impossible 
 that there could be a more loving pair 
 of shoes. We were always whispering 
 in each other's ears ; kissing one ano- 
 ther ; and behaving with the greatest 
 closeness of affection. This lasted for 
 seventeen years : and then, I know not 
 bow it was, a sudden aversion arose 
 between us — and, in the end, we never 
 felt so happy as when we were apart. 
 
 " At length, it matters not how, I 
 lo.st my companion, and the minister's 
 
 89
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 daughter, in grief, in misery, died. 
 She had received every good gift, but 
 all was as nothing ; what was each 
 virtue under the sun, when a beldame 
 fairy had bestowed upon her wrangling, 
 slipping shoes 1 " 
 
 This was the story of the Scarlet- 
 heeled Shoe. I heard it over and over 
 again ; but never without sounds of 
 anger, contempt, or scorn from the 
 gowns, cloaks, and stomachers about 
 me. 
 
 90
 
 Madame Spanncu's Customers. Tlicir Wumiiilv. 
 
 o 
 
 Bomcsiic Feace and fickitz; an Episode. 
 
 U i\ l X v Ut my sojourn with 
 Madame Spanneu, I had 
 frequent opportunities of considering 
 the various characters of her customers, 
 who — I confess I was at first asto- 
 nished at the discovery — were many 
 of them most genteel and easy-going 
 people ; and, indeed, in their own es- 
 teem, a parcel of the very best society. 
 Still, whatever was their bigoted opinion 
 of tlnir own worldly consequence, their 
 visits to Madame Spanneu gave pleasant 
 proof of their humility of spirit, inas- 
 
 much as they all came to habit them- 
 selves in the left-off garments of their 
 betters. And this humility was the 
 more christianlike, inasmuch as I verily 
 believe that many of the purchasers 
 would have gone to the stake in cast 
 brocade, rather than have confessed to 
 the meekness which induced them to 
 buy it. They were, it is true, lowly 
 of heart, but would not for the world 
 have had the virtue made public. 
 
 How often have I seen the gown of 
 a peeress carried off by the wife of a 
 tallow-chandler ! How often has the 
 cloak of an earl's daughter been doomed 
 to the shoulders of the spinster of two 
 rooms ! Nay, the Countess's gowns — 
 the rustling perquisites of Mrs. Pillow 
 — I saw no less than three of them sold 
 to buyers, whose brassy looks and bold 
 voices made me tremble for the future 
 destiuy of the garments. And can I 
 ever forget the cold chill that struck 
 through me when I once felt myself 
 taken up by such a customer, who blew 
 through me and shook me, and — my 
 
 9i
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 heart of pith sank at the words — in- 
 quired, " How much l " Madame Span- 
 neu, with a just estimate of my virtues, 
 asked a good round sum, and thanking 
 my stars for my escape, I felt myself 
 dropped from the hand. " Feathers, 
 Jemima, darling, isn't the thing ; no, 
 my rose-bud, they isn't indeed." Thus 
 spoke an old gentlewoman — dear Mrs. 
 Gaptooth, as Madame Spanneu called 
 her — to the girl, who desired to make 
 me her own ; but the reproof of the 
 matron, though uttered in the calmest, 
 most maternal voice, appeared by the 
 very force of its sweetness — or certainly 
 by some force — to convince Jemima. 
 She sighed, pouted a second, then 
 soemed resigned. " Gals of your tall- 
 ness, Jemima, don't carry off feathers 
 well ; they makes you gawky ; and in 
 this wicked world, looks is everything." 
 I was quite charmed with the appear- 
 ance — the manner of Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 I thought I had never seen so venerable 
 a woman ; and even while she spoke of 
 the necessary shows of life, she dis- 
 coursed in so passionless a tone — 
 seemed to have so just a value of all 
 the fleshly vanities of the earth, that 
 she appeared to me a kind of lay saint; 
 a creature, doomed by the imperfection 
 of human nature to eat, drink, and 
 sleep, but at the same time never for- 
 getting the passing value of mere mortal 
 92 
 
 beauty, when most beautiful. " Ha ! 
 Madame Spanneu," the dear old soul 
 would cry, " beauty, as I often says to 
 my gals, is a flower — a tulip, Madame 
 Spanneu ; a painted tulip ; now, a flour- 
 ishing in a bed, and now on a duughill." 
 " True, my dear ; very true — beauty," 
 Madame Spanneu would reply — "doesn't 
 last as it ought, not even with the best 
 of us." " Ha ! my dear Madame Span- 
 neu, the beauty I've seen come on and 
 go off — beauty ! it's like a guinea, Ma- 
 dame Spanneu ; when it's once changed 
 at all, it's gone in a twinkling. That 
 satin, by candle-light, Jemima, will be 
 worth any money." And thus Mrs. 
 Gaptooth — who was a frequent visitor 
 at Madame Spanneu's — would discourse 
 before her daughters, as I concluded 
 they were, from the maternal tender- 
 ness which she would shed upon her 
 mingled talk of the outward loveliness 
 of humanity, and the glories, sold at 
 second-hand, by Madame Spanneu. For 
 Mrs. Gaptooth herself, I must repeat I 
 had the very deepest respect. Charm- 
 ing, easy, loveable old woman ; her eye 
 had such a soft, half-slumbering look ; 
 her voice came like the gentle breathing 
 of a flute ; she always walked as if she 
 trod a church-floor, and seemed fed on 
 nothing coarser than marmalade and 
 honey. As for her numerous family of 
 daughters, I must confess I have often
 
 Madame Spannafs Customers. 
 
 wished they had heeu a little more like 
 their mother, for they, it must be said, 
 were too often loud, self-willed, and 
 frolicsome. But be it understood once 
 and for all, that I write from the im- 
 pressions of characters and scenes as 
 they at the time fell upon me. 
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth on one of her visits 
 came alone. Madame Spanneu, who 
 was always with us, received the dear 
 old creature in her show-room. One of 
 Madame' s young women — for there were 
 two or three assistant sempstresses in 
 the house — was present ; and the con- 
 versation was carried on between Madame 
 and her visitor in so low a voice that I 
 could only catch here and there a few 
 words. I was convinced, however, that 
 Mrs. Gaptooth spoke of Lord Hunting- 
 topper with the air and manner of an 
 acquaintance. " There's no accounting 
 for taste, Madame Spanneu," said Mrs. 
 Gaptooth in a somewhat piteous voice, 
 " but where she's got to, I'm a sinner if 
 I know." " And you've come to tell 
 his lordship as much, my dear?" 
 " Certainly not, Madame Spanneu. 
 Lord II until i stopper's coming here to- 
 day t « » Bee your husband — Mr. CurlweU 
 told me as much — scj I'm come just to 
 throw myself promiscuously into his 
 way, that I may know a little more 
 about the business. One can't be too 
 safe." 
 
 Thus much I could piece out from 
 the low-voiced colloquy of the ladies. 
 Madame Spanneu, was, however, fidgety 
 under the restraint of a third person, 
 and so told the young woman to go 
 , down-stairs, and see that those nasty 
 dogs did no mischief. The girl being 
 gone iipon her delicate mission, Ma- 
 dame Spanneu talked freely. " Well, 
 I did hear that Lord Huntingtopper 
 was going to many Lady Dinah 
 Willoughby." 
 
 "What of that, my dear? Why 
 shouldn't he ? But after all," said 
 Mrs. Gaptooth in her mild, matron- 
 like way, " who knows if the fellow's 
 serous." 
 
 " Xo doubt of it," responded Madame 
 Spanneu ; " he must be in earnest, for 
 he's bought her ladyship a poodle ; 
 Julien's teaching it all sorts of things. 
 Ha ! Mrs. Gaptooth, men are nice 
 creatures they are," cried Madame 
 Spanneu with bitterness. Charming, 
 however, most charming was the cha- 
 rity of Mrs. Gaptooth, for she gently 
 clasped her hands, twisted her thumbs, 
 and a smile gilding her broad quiet 
 face, she cried — " Poor fellows ! silly 
 tilings!" and then she chuckled, gently 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, my love," 
 said Madame Spanneu, "it makes my 
 flesh crawl to hear you pity 'em ; 
 
 93
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 it isn't standing up for your sex. 
 Ha ! you don't know what I've to 
 suffer." 
 
 " Anything new % " asked Mrs. Gap- 
 tooth, with that peculiar sereuity 
 which characterises the interest of some 
 people in the misfortunes of their 
 neighbours. 
 
 " New ! " exclaimed the wife, and she 
 closed her eyes, gave a spasmodic shake 
 of the head, and seemed to swallow 
 a rising emotion. Then there was 
 silence for a moment, and then Ma- 
 dame Spanneu, with an alacrity that 
 appeared to do her heart good, cried, — 
 " But, my dear, I'll tell you all about 
 the villain." 
 
 I had not yet seen Monsieur Julien 
 Spanneu, for his wife rigidly enforced 
 his seclusion to his own room, and, as 
 she would say, to his fittest company, 
 his filthy dogs — his pupil poodles. I had, 
 however, heard more than enough of 
 him ; and had formed in my own mind 
 his outward man from the notes which 
 pi*oceeded from his fiddle as well as 
 from himself : for really, they were so 
 eternally blended, that man and fiddle 
 seemed but one instrument. I have 
 heard men declare that they have only 
 to hear a voice to immediately fit it 
 with an anatomy ; albeit the fleshy 
 instrument from which the voice is 
 heard shall, in its reality, be in every 
 94 
 
 point a contradiction to the body which 
 has been, by the fancy of the listener, 
 bestowed upon it. I suppose this habit 
 of men, not only when hearing persons 
 but also when hearing of them, — this 
 custom of endowing them with flesh 
 and blood of some sort, arises from the 
 difficulty that poor human nature has 
 to consider mind in the abstract — to 
 think of the human soul, without head 
 and shoulders, legs and arms. Be this 
 as it may ; I had — from a too-frequent 
 overhearing of Monsieur Spanneu — 
 made him a present of a long, thin, 
 lizard-like body, a face sharp as a blade- 
 bone, twinkling eyes, grinning jaws, 
 and a back bending like a willow in a 
 breeze. His voice came with a cutting 
 scream, far above his catgut. Hour by 
 hour I heard him raving, stamping, 
 singing, fiddling, at his canine pupils, 
 withal so passionately, so earnestly, 
 with such apparent consciousness of the 
 importance of his function, of the great 
 social value of his teaching a dog to go 
 on three legs at the word of command 
 — to limp as if wounded — to tumble 
 head over heels — to feign the last 
 mortal agony — and, above all, to toss a 
 sixpence from its nose, at any given 
 number, — that whatever might have 
 been my opinion of the value of Mon- 
 sieur's labours, I could not but respect 
 the amount of sincerity, of real heart,
 
 Domestic Peace and Pickles. 
 
 he put into them. Then, how he would 
 vociferate ! How he would scream — 
 " Chien que tu es," — as if in his indigna- 
 tion he told the dunce of a dog a 
 startling truth, and then as the gender 
 might be, crying, " Chienne que tit est," 
 as the worst opprobrium he could wreak 
 upon a female learner. With these 
 things fresh in my mind — for Monsieur 
 Julien kept them day by day smarting 
 like a new sore — I listened with all my 
 ears to the coming narrative of Madame 
 Spanneu, perceiving that — like a good 
 wife as she was — she never felt so truly 
 happy as when she could convince a 
 dear female friend, who promised to 
 keep the imparted secret locked for 
 ever in her breast, what a villain she 
 was married to. 
 
 When Madame Spanneu, as I have 
 observed, promised Mrs. Gaptooth such 
 happiness, the matron, decorously pre- 
 paring herself for the pleasure, merely 
 said, " Do." 
 
 " Well, ray dear," begins the injured 
 wit ii recollect that creature, 
 
 I. ii-u ?" 
 
 "A very fine gal," answered Mrs. 
 ptooth with Borne vivacity. "Beau- 
 tiful flaxen hair, and eyea as blue 
 as blue chancy. Where is she, my 
 de 'i- 1 " 
 
 This question Madame Spanneu 'lid 
 not answer, but waiving il with a real or 
 
 affected shiver, kept to the story of her 
 wrongs. " And you know, my dear, 
 that I'm a little particular in my 
 pickles ? " 
 
 In the name of the mummy of King 
 Cheops — certainly one of the best pre- 
 serves of the earth — what can there be 
 in common with domestic wrongs and 
 domestic pickles ? This question stirred 
 me, but not Mrs. Gaptooth. She evi- 
 dently felt there was nothing inhar- 
 monious in the matter ; for had she 
 been a statue made to speak, she could 
 not with more tranquillity have an- 
 swered, — " My dear, I do." 
 
 " I'm not a proud woman, Mrs. 
 Gaptooth ; no ; my worst enemy, my 
 dear, if I have such a thing, can't 
 say that ; but I'll turn my back upon 
 no woman for pickles. No ; if I can 
 stand upon anything in the world it is 
 my onions." 
 
 " Very true, my dear," was the cor- 
 roboration of Mrs. Gaptooth. " But 
 the gal ? " 
 
 "Well, my dear, I was called to 
 Leatherhead for a week, to see my aunt 
 in the jaundice. She got over that, 
 but she can't live long, my dear, and 
 whenever she goes, there's something 
 for us. Well, there was I, out a week 
 from home, I may say, upon business ; 
 leaving ih<tt Louisa to keep the house. 
 When I came back, there wasn't a 
 
 95
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 walnut — a bit of cabbage — not a single 
 onion, my dear, if you'd have died for 
 
 it. 
 
 " And all with Louisa 1 " asked Mrs. 
 Gaptooth. 
 
 "My love," cried Madame Spanneu, 
 
 most affectionate in her wretchedness. 
 "My love, I afterwards found out she'd 
 been altogether — yes, altogether — mis- 
 tress of the house ; and so the wretch 
 had not only destroyed my peace but 
 devoured my pickles ! " 
 
 96
 
 Monsieur Spanneu an^ his Scholars. 
 I am lii-us^ bv a PooMe. 
 
 EAR Mrs. Gaptooth felt 
 for the double calamity of 
 Madame Spanneu all the 
 sympathy of a sister. The heart of the 
 matron, upon her own grave assurance, 
 bled for her friend; albeit, no woman 
 ever sat above a bleeding heart with 
 sweeter composure. " It's a bad world, 
 my dear," said Mrs. Gaptooth, "but 
 we're in it — we're in it, and must make 
 the best of it." With this expression 
 of philosophy, the old gentlewoman 
 quitted the room, followed by Madame 
 Spanneu. 
 
 I had that day been turned over and 
 over by several hands, and had been 
 carelessly thrown upon a chair, the 
 price Madame Spanneu placed upon my 
 beauty being considered too extravagant 
 by those who came to purchase. I 
 confess it, my situation became irksome 
 to me : I longed once more to be in 
 the world : I had had sufficient of 
 retirement, and yearned for society. 
 Whilst these thoughts possessed me, 
 one of Monsieur Spanneu's poodles 
 frisked into the room. The little beast 
 was a most mischievous and volatile 
 animal, despite the daily lessons of a 
 master to correct the vices of the canine 
 constitution. He was never so happy 
 as when gnawing the edge of a carpet 
 — jumping up and tearing at the maids' 
 aprons — biting the cat in the nape of 
 the neck — and, in fact, committing 
 every licence within the wicked powers 
 of puppvhood : a more irreclaimable 
 little dog was never born to the luxuries 
 of life. As the poodle entered the 
 room I felt a strange shudder. Ho 
 
 97
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 came in with a light, cautious air, 
 treading on the very tips of his toe- 
 nails, and lifting up his jet-black nose, 
 as though he snuffed delicious mischief 
 somewhere ; then, in very self-aban- 
 donment, he chased his tail, spinning 
 round like an opera-dancer. Then, 
 tired of the sport, he approached a 
 table with sudden seriousness, and 
 staring full at a blue riband or cap- 
 string, twitched the muslin on the 
 floor, and in an instant buried his head, 
 fighting it the while with his fore-paws, 
 in the cap itself. Never did a dog 
 seem more delighted — never was puppy 
 so completely caught by a cap. At 
 length, by the very force of his admira- 
 tion, the poodle tore the cap into strips, 
 and sated with that peculiar pleasure, 
 looked round about him for another 
 victim. It was but an instant, and I 
 was in the poodle's mouth. That I, 
 who had helped to decorate the Prince 
 of Wales, should be made the plaything 
 of a dog ! I felt that my last moment 
 was come — that my ignominious end 
 was near. How the poodle snapped at 
 me and tossed me ! Then dropping 
 me on the floor, he barked and barked 
 at me ; and then, after a momentary 
 pause, he caught me up in his mouth 
 and ran with me out of the room. In 
 another minute, the heedless puppy, 
 unseen by his master, carried me into 
 98 
 
 Monsieur Spanneu's academy ; for there 
 was the Frenchman, kit in hand, play- 
 ing the Menuet de la Cour to a couple 
 of poodles, stamping, vociferating, swear- 
 ing, whilst he played. 
 
 I have no doubt that the action of 
 the Frenchman had sudden operation 
 on the fears of the animal that had 
 carried me off; for the dog crouched 
 under a chair with me between his 
 paws, now pulling me through his 
 teeth, and now contemplating in curious 
 silence the motions of his canine school- 
 fellows. I have little doubt, too, that 
 a somewhat ponderous whip, which the 
 Frenchman remorselessly applied to the 
 backs of his students, had its due effect 
 upon the transgressing poodle ; for as 
 the whip cracked, and the culprits 
 yelped and howled, the poodle trembled 
 throughout every hair, and yelped in 
 sympathy. 
 
 It was, however, delightful to witness 
 the affectionate manner with which 
 Monsieur Spanneu inflicted punishment 
 on his students. " Ha ! ha ! mon mig- 
 non," he would cry, and the thong 
 would wind round the darling's body 
 with force enough to crack it. "Yiens, 
 mon ami," the master would exclaim, 
 at the same time kicking the pupil to 
 the other end of the schookoom. The 
 teacher divided his time between soft, 
 endearing phrases and hard thwacks.
 
 Monsieur Spanneu and his Scholars. 
 
 His lips dropt oil, but his hand still 
 bore a whip. 
 
 The poodle having left me beneath 
 
 a chair, although I was somewhat flus- 
 tered by the rough treatment I had 
 received, I nevertheless soon recovered 
 
 sufficient composure to look about me. 
 I tli< 11 noted, what I have since a thou- 
 sand times remarked, the difference — 
 even to exl remes bel wren a man in 
 his reality and a man as we may, in 
 our imagination, have painted him. 
 
 Here was Monsieur Spanneu, a short, 
 obese Frenchman ; yet surely never did 
 man carry so much fat so lightly, He 
 was about four feet six in height, with 
 a face ample as the moon at the full, a 
 broad forehead and bald head, its nudity 
 
 99
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 half discovered by a nightcap half- 
 slipped from its resting-place. Nothing 
 could have been more ludicrous than 
 the aspect and manner of the teacher, 
 had they not been redeemed by an 
 energy, a certain enthusiasm of pur- 
 pose, that imparted to him something 
 like dignity. It was impossible to laugh 
 outright at Monsieur Spanneu ; the 
 earnestness of the teacher would repress 
 the giggle of the scoffer. It is true he 
 taught nothing but dogs ; but then he 
 convinced you that there were no crea- 
 tures on this earth so worthy of teach- 
 ing. "A dog," Monsieur Spanneu would 
 say, " is de only true friend of de man," 
 and this opinion the master would dig- 
 nify by laying the whip about the only 
 friend of our species. 
 
 Whether Monsieur Spanneu's pupils 
 were more than ordinarily dull, or the 
 master himself more than usually iras- 
 cible, I cannot determine ; but never 
 during my stay in the house had I 
 heard such crackings of the whip, such 
 yelpings and bowlings from the dogs, 
 as whilst I lay unseen beneath the 
 chair, a witness of the discipline of my 
 host. Monsieur had arranged his pupils 
 for a cotillon, when, after the sweetest 
 evidence of temper on his part, — after 
 the master had twenty times called to 
 the dogs, " vies petite," " vies amis" 
 " mes mignons" " mes enfans" — after 
 100 
 
 he had lavished upon them all sorts of 
 endearing syllables, — he lost his bene- 
 volence, and seizing his whip, went in 
 among the pupils and laid about him 
 like a thresher. 
 
 It was at this moment, when the 
 very tiles of the housetop were ringing 
 with the howling of the dogs, and their 
 master was raging like a tempest, his 
 face scarlet, and his forehead streaming 
 with passion, that Madame Spanneu 
 rushed into the room, ceremoniously 
 followed by Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 
 " Monsieur Spanneu, I'll put up with 
 this nuisance no longer," cried Madame ; 
 and if ever woman looked in earnest it 
 was the wife of the teacher. 
 
 Monsieur Spanneu was instantly com- 
 posed. He stooped to pick up the 
 nightcap which in his energy had 
 dropped from his head, and folding it 
 delicately, tenderly, between his hands, 
 he suffered a smile to break all over 
 his face, and bending with graceful 
 devotion, he said — "Ma belle Elise." 
 There was nothing in the words. Any 
 other husband might have called his 
 wife his beautiful Eliza, but in the 
 manner of Monsieur Spanneu there 
 was the devotion of a life. Never was 
 there such fealty paid to the wedding- 
 ring. I saw it at once ; the poodles, 
 whatever were their sufferings, were 
 fully revenged by the wife of their
 
 / am Ill-used by a Poodle. 
 
 tyrant and teacher. The meekest, 
 poorest dog there, was a lion in heart 
 and independence before Monsieur 
 Spanneu, compared to Monsieur Span- 
 neu before his wife. Hence, the hus- 
 band met the ferocity of his helpmate 
 with nothing more than a deprecating 
 bend of the back, and "Ma belle Elise." 
 
 " None of your nonsense," cried 
 Madame Spanneu, — that lofty-minded 
 woman rejecting what the weakness of 
 her sex might have deemed a compli- 
 ment. "I won't have my house turned 
 into a kennel any longer. The dogs 
 shall pack ; and all the better if their 
 master packs with them." 
 
 ".Von aivje .'" cried Monsieur Span- 
 neu, his meekness, if possible, increasing 
 with the violence of his wife. 
 
 " Yes, you're a pretty fellow to call 
 anybody your angel, you are ; I'm none 
 of your angels, I can tell you," — ex- 
 claimed Madame Spanneu, with a vigo- 
 rous tossing of the head. 
 
 "Now, my dear," said Mrs. Gaptooth, 
 apparently from the best spirit in the 
 world, "now, don't go on so — though, 
 to be sure, so many dogs must put any 
 house in a most terrible pickle." 
 
 "Pickle!" cried Madame Spanneu, 
 with Lnti hrillness of organ : 
 
 "pickle I" 
 
 •' .}/■' cht n ." said the husband with a 
 l"-t look, as though that one word 
 
 pickle had conjured about him a throng 
 of terrors which he felt it was in vain 
 to struggle with. Had Madame Span- 
 neu not been the poor man's wife, she 
 must have pitied him ; as it was, pity 
 was the last feeling to be wasted on the 
 destroyei*. 
 
 "Pickle !" for the third time screamed 
 Madame Spanneu, and I could perceive 
 as she moved from the door, that her 
 husband shifted himself, preparing to 
 make a retreat. " I wonder that the 
 floor doesn't open and swallow you at 
 the word," she cried. 
 
 "Ma belle FAise /" said the French- 
 man, but he spoke in vain. 
 
 " I wonder that you can have the 
 impudence to exist — you, that I have 
 given house and home to — you that I 
 harbour, with your filthy curs — you 
 that—" 
 
 The Frenchman was about to fly, 
 when casting his eye about, he observed 
 me lying tumbled and bitten beneath 
 the chair. The poor man turned 
 ghastly pale when he saw me. He 
 was at once assured of the ill-behaviour 
 of one of his dogs, and of the increased 
 abuse that must fall upon him, should 
 his wife discover the accident. He 
 must suffer anything, rather than per- 
 mit the chance of such disclosure : 
 hence, with false courage, he approached 
 the chair beneath which T lay, and 
 
 101
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 seating himself, so arranged his legs as 
 to keep me out of sight. 
 
 And then Madame Spanneu began 
 again to abuse her husband, whilst he 
 — poor man ! — began to tune his fiddle. 
 
 Again did the wife call out, . " False, 
 vile wretch ! — miserable Frenchman ! " 
 whilst the Gaul, affecting philosophy, 
 drew his bow, and sang — "Nous n'avons 
 qiCun temps d, vivre." 
 
 102
 
 o~ 
 
 XVIII 
 
 -o 
 
 A Husbanu's Wrongs. 
 A Listener. An Attack Triumph of £o(ours. 
 
 did Ma- 
 dame Spanneu ex- 
 ercise her voice to her husband's fiddle, 
 albeit little mollified by the conjugal 
 cat-gut. Orpheus — it is a trite tale 
 — tamed lionesses by the magic of the 
 gamut. Monsieur Jutien Spannen was 
 ad an Orpheus; neither was his beau- 
 tiful Eliza a lioness ; hence the dis- 
 cord and the music continued for 
 Borne minutes, and threatened to en- 
 dure, when the maid jigged into the 
 room, and announced the name of 
 
 Mr. Curlwell. At the sound, Mrs. Gap- 
 tooth observed in a confidential voice to 
 Madame Spanneu, — "From my lord, 
 I'm bound for him," and hastened away 
 to seek the valet. " Come for Lady 
 Dinah's dog, I'll be sworn," cried Ma- 
 dame Spanneu, with a fiery glance at 
 her husband, "and you're never in a 
 state to see anybody. How the man 
 sits ! Why don't you run and clean 
 yourself, you outlandish savage 1 " 
 
 "Ma belle EliseV cried the French- 
 man, sitting cross-legged before me, with 
 a shuddering dread of my discoveiy. 
 
 "Why don't you get up?" shrieked 
 the wife. 
 
 Monsieur Spanneu affected a sudden 
 spasm — woi'ked his nether jaw, moped 
 and mowed like a monkey, and then 
 ventured to ask his wife if she had no 
 sentiment ] 
 
 "Sentiment!" echoed the beautiful 
 Eliza, as though insulted. 
 
 " Mon anye, — I am sick — malade — 
 horrihlement malade. Allez chercher dn 
 cognac — oh! if you have religion, get 
 
 i03
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 brandy :" and the Frenchman ground 
 his teeth, and, rocking from side to 
 side, -with both his arms hugged his 
 abdomen. 
 
 "Brandy!" exclaimed the wife, with 
 mixed contempt and derision at the ex- 
 travagance of the sick man, and was 
 about to leave the room. This was pre- 
 cisely what the husband wanted : he 
 therefore sought to hurry her with 
 sweetest phrase. " Ha ! C'est bien, ma 
 vie — mon tresor — mon dme." Then see- 
 ing his wife suddenly fixed, he roared — 
 "Get brandy, or I will die — I tell you, 
 belle Elise, I will die." 
 
 " Do you promise 1 " inquired the wife, 
 with evident interest in the question ; 
 and then, with a laugh, she swept away 
 from the moribund man. For an in- 
 stant the sufferer sat listening to the 
 footsteps of his spouse descending the 
 stairs, and then he jumped up, and 
 plucking me, rumpled and disordered, 
 from beneath the chair — cried " Ha! si 
 cette diablesse vous avait vuef" Saying 
 this, he rapidly buttoned me under his 
 waistcoat, and again fell in the chair — 
 again sick, expiring for the life-bestow- 
 ing brandy. He listened, but there was 
 no wife hurrying back with the restora- 
 tive anodyne. Yet, certainly, she would 
 come — yes, she would never let him 
 expire. That was her rushing step. 
 No ; it was the cat at romps. Had he 
 104 
 
 not promised to die if brandy came not? 
 Still silence 1 It was plain the wretched 
 woman wished to try if he would keep 
 his word. Smitten with a sense of this 
 truth, the mournful spouse rose from 
 his chair, and di'awing forth his hand- 
 kerchief, was about to use it in search 
 of a tear of wounded sensibility, a tear 
 that might be in his eye. He hesitated, 
 and the majesty of an offended husband 
 coming to his aid, he exclaimed — I can- 
 not for a certainty say what, but sure I 
 am, it was not " Ange." Whatever it 
 was, the word by its energy seemed to 
 carry the man from the room, and he 
 ran muttering down-stairs, carrying me 
 as his bosom companion on the way. 
 
 I verily believe that Monsieur Span- 
 neu, having descended his own staircase, 
 was about to enter his own parlour ; he, 
 however, brought himself dead up at 
 the door. I heard voices within ; so, it 
 was plain, did Monsieur Spanneu ; for 
 after pausing a minute, his heart com- 
 mencing a hurried beat, he bent his ear 
 close at the keyhole. I must confess 
 that, for a moment, I wished I could 
 have been turned into a living hedge- 
 hog, that I might have inflicted on the 
 bosom of the offender a thousand prick- 
 ing reproofs of the meanness of the act. 
 I could have curled and twisted like a 
 snake with very indignation, as the 
 Frenchman, grasping the handle of the
 
 A Hits baud's JVrongs. A Listener. 
 
 dooi", seemed as he would screw the en- 
 tire of his ear into the compass of the 
 keyhole. How, at first, he shook and 
 quivered at the voices within — and 
 then, with an attempt at calmness, he 
 set his teeth and slightly grunted as he 
 listened ! Nevertheless, with all his in- 
 dustry and quickness of ear, Monsieur 
 Spanneu was only enabled to catch half- 
 sentences ; these he pieced together, 
 making thereof a terrible scourge by 
 the very ingenuity of his ignorance. I, 
 having the acute organisation of a bird, 
 could recognise sounds of softest vo- 
 lume, and was, therefore, excessively 
 amused at the jealousy which Monsieur 
 gathered from the mere fragments he 
 was enabled to put together. 
 
 Requesting that the printer will set 
 in different letters — will, if I may use 
 the conceit, put certain words in a whis- 
 per — I will endeavour to show what 
 Monsieur Spanneu heard, and what 
 escaped him. The proverb that " list- 
 eners hear no good of themselves," is 
 evidently worked out in this way : the 
 good, if ever spoken, is spoken in so 
 weak a voice that it falls dead ere 
 it arrives at the keyhole. This was 
 doubtless the case with Monsieur 
 Spanneu. 
 
 " I never thought that his lordship 
 could have so liked that Madame Span- 
 neu," — here begins the inaudible type, 
 
 for words inaudible to the husband— 
 (" to know all about her ladyship") 
 
 " But, bless you, he so loves her — so 
 doats iq)on her ; (and as Lady Wil- 
 loughhy has a fine fortune, perhaps she 
 deserves it") 
 
 The first voice I immediately recog- 
 nised as the silvery property of Mrs. 
 Gaptooth ; the second as the masculine 
 organ appertaining to the valet Curlwell. 
 
 " Well, there's no accounting for love, 
 to be sure ; and so his lordship comes 
 here for a dog to show his love ! Mrs. 
 Spanneu tells me everything ! La ! hov, 
 she grins at her husband — (though, do 
 you know, I think she doats upon him after 
 all") Here the gentlewoman laughed : 
 not so Monsieur Spanneu ; for his rage 
 rising, his knees began to knock against 
 the panel of the door. Every moment 
 I expected to hear a voice from the 
 room cry, " Come in." The speakers 
 were, however, too much interested to 
 take heed of a light disturbance, so the 
 half-lost dialogue, to the further misery 
 of Monsieur Spanneu, went on. 
 
 (" / must say his lordship takes a great 
 deal of trouble about pleasing her lady- 
 ship.) Why doesn't he run off with the 
 woman at once ? " 
 
 " Why not 1 I'm sure she'd jump tc 
 have him : (and as for buying dogs, anil 
 all such fal-lals — it's child's ivork, Mr. 
 Curlwell; it i% indeed") Here, again, 
 
 105
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth laughed ; and again the 
 knees of Monsieur Spanneu smote the 
 panel. Almost breathless, the forlorn, 
 self-tormenting husband again essayed 
 to listen, yet heard but fragments. 
 Thus the dialogue was continued. 
 
 {"But about that gal, Mr. Gurlwell ? 
 If his lordship, as you say, is really in 
 love with the widow, why should he care 
 for that gal? You don't know the trouble 
 she's give me") 
 
 (" You're an excellent woman, Mrs. 
 Gaptooth, and I scorn to deceive you.) 
 I've only used his lordship, as his lord- 
 ship's used the dog — as a sort of blind. 
 {He cares nothing for the feather-dresser ; 
 he's never seen her. ) It's I as loves her," 
 answered Curl well, and Monsieur Span- 
 neu gasped again. 
 
 " Impossible ! " cried Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 
 " Not that I can say, love ; but you 
 know what I mean. I don't know how 
 it is — but I — I will have her, and there's 
 an end of it," cried the valet. 
 
 " Sacre!" groaned Monsieur Spanneu. 
 
 " Well, I like a man of spirit," said 
 Mrs. Gaptooth. ("I'm sure I've done all 
 I could to rummage her out. She went 
 from her last lodgings, nobody knoivs 
 where. There was a talk about an old 
 pothecary ; but I believe nothing about it.) 
 And now, Mr. Curlwell, why should you 
 deceive an old friend? Why should 
 you tell me it was his lordship as 
 06 
 
 loved the woman, and not your proper 
 self?" 
 
 " Good reasons, Mrs. Gaptooth ; the 
 world isn't w T hat it ought to be, or I 
 should have as much money as them as 
 carry their heads among the highest. 
 It's a wicked world for poor men, 
 me'm," said the valet with a sigh. 
 
 " Well, well, the world's not so bad, 
 after all," said the philosophic matron ; 
 " we may know a worse." 
 
 " Je Vespere," muttered Monsieur be- 
 tween his teeth, and again with gaping 
 ear he listened. 
 
 " But you're rich enough for her," 
 cried Mrs. Gaptooth : " and it sha'n't be 
 my fault if you don't make her a happy 
 cretur." 
 
 " I will, Mrs. Gaptooth — I will, as 
 I'm a man," exclaimed the valet with 
 energy. 
 
 Here Monsieur Spanneu with a sud- 
 den roar burst into the room. He 
 uttered no syllable, but with a spring 
 brought himself to the fire-place, — to 
 his own sacred hearth — and caught up 
 the poker which, save himself — for at 
 that moment he had dreadful thoughts 
 of his wife — was its brightest ornament. 
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth, being a woman, 
 slightly screamed. Mr. Curlwell in 
 short spasmodic sentences inquired — 
 " Hallo ! The man mad 1 — Murder to 
 be done 1 — Blood to be shed 1 Brains
 
 An Attack. Triu nip J i of Colours. 
 
 to be knocked out ? Killed like a dog?/' 
 — And uttered other household expres- 
 sions of household alarm. Monsieur 
 Spanneu felt too much to speak. " His 
 voice was in — the poker." Seizing that 
 weapon, he commenced an attack upon 
 the valet, who, shaking many years 
 from his heels, ran round and round a 
 table, the injured husband — like Othello, 
 injured only by false suspicion— follow- 
 ing him. Mrs. Gaptooth, selecting the 
 easy chair, sank in it, evidently pre- 
 pared at any moment to faint. Still did 
 Curlwell describe the circle of Monsieur 
 Spanneu's mahogany, which was happily 
 of sufficient area to protect the valet 
 from the avenging iron of the short and 
 corpulent Frenchman, who, nathless, 
 ran round and round, making at times 
 the hardest blows upon his own hospi- 
 table table, blows inhospitably intended 
 for the brain-pan of his guest. 
 
 However, mortal breath could not 
 long sustain the trial, and at length 
 Monsieur Spanneu, gasping again and 
 shaking his head at his imagined 
 wronger, dropped the poker despair- 
 ingly upon the table. At the same mo- 
 ment, Curlwell paused, and with his 
 knuckles resting upon the same piece of 
 household utility, took wind. There 
 they stood, panting at one another, like 
 
 two dogs in July on the opposite sides 
 of a ditch. Seeing them powerless for 
 any mischief, Mrs. Gaptooth then felt it 
 her duty as a woman and a Christian 
 — as she afterwards said to Madame 
 Spanneu — to scream the roof off. 
 
 Down rushed Madame Spanneu, in 
 full dress. She had, in truth, retired to 
 her chamber to decorate herself for an 
 audience with Mr. Curlwell ; and not, 
 as her husband foolishly imagined, pour 
 cliercher du cognac. 
 
 Strange, mysterious are the move- 
 ments of the human soul ! Arguing 
 from common examples, does not the 
 reader imagine that the very sight of 
 his wife at such a moment would have 
 been as oil to the Frenchman's jealous 
 flames 1 It was otherwise. For in an 
 instant, Monsieur Spanneu, crying, "Ma 
 belle Elise! mon angel mon&me!" locked 
 his helpmate in his arms. 
 
 Now Madame Spanneu was dressed 
 in a blue lutestring, trimmed with white 
 satin. " Had it been any oder colour," 
 Monsieur afterwards declared, "he 
 vould have cast de traitresse avay — for 
 ever avay ; but dat gown vas his veak- 
 ness. He could not tiuk to lose her 
 ven in de vite and blue ! " 
 
 In a word, the Frenchman struck to 
 his wife's colours. 
 
 107
 
 o~ 
 
 XIX 
 
 ^o 
 
 I am taken to a Tavern. jLcR in a Hacknev Coach. 
 
 V Iv last chapter left 
 Madame Spanneu in 
 the arms of her husband. In less time 
 than a leaf of this small history could be 
 turned, the lady released herself from 
 that sweet bondage ; and that, too, 
 with a decision that flung her helpmate, 
 sounding, against the wainscot. Never 
 did woman more vigorously illustrate 
 the fallacy of that vulgar saying, that 
 man and wife are of one flesh ; for never 
 was division more clearly manifested. 
 
 " My heart is broke ! " exclaimed 
 Monsieur Spanneu. That his ribs also 
 were not fractured was a mercy and an 
 108 
 
 astonishment. The husband looked 
 entreatingly at his wife — there was no 
 responsive glance — and, in another 
 second, the wretched man had seized 
 his hat, and stood the statue of despair 
 upon his own door-step ! 
 
 In that moment, active was the great 
 fiend : for twenty little imps, the devil's 
 footboys, rose about the Frenchman ; 
 some crying halter — some poison — some 
 climbing his shoulder, and gently whis- 
 pering in his ear, razors ; and some 
 again, with a sweet, diabolical smirk, 
 pointing their fingers in the direction 
 of the Thames. Monsieur Spanneu 
 instantly resolved on death. What 
 place but the gi'ave for a broken heart 1 
 He would die : his only difficulty was 
 the choice of means. Thus, hanging. 
 
 &j 
 
 poisoning, drowning, abscission of 
 artery — one and all of these modes 
 recommended themselves ; but their 
 merits appeared so equal, that the 
 Frenchman was too much puzzled to 
 choose. He at once broke from the 
 besetting difficulty, by — turning into 
 an alehouse. Distrusting death, he 
 rushed to drunkenness. Monsieur
 
 / am taken to a Tavern. 
 
 Spanneu drowned liis reason twenty- 
 fathom deep ; but with wise reserva- 
 tion kept his clayey self safe from the 
 coroner. Never was the inexpei'ience 
 of man so shockingly displayed ; for 
 almost before Bacchus could have 
 winked, the Frenchman was disas- 
 trously drunk. This great evil was 
 attributable to his temperance. He 
 had never, poor man ! taught himself 
 the use of the bottle, and, therefore, 
 the exposure of his ignorance was sudden 
 and complete. He had been wont to 
 dally with water, qualified with sugar, 
 for luxurious tippling, and now stood 
 he beside that burning Lethe — gin ! 
 
 Have I not heard the story % Is it 
 not ^Esop's 1 The story of a stag, that 
 drinking at the stream, still murmured 
 at the shadow of its antlers 1 In like 
 manner did Monsieur Spanneu drink 
 and drink, — yet see nought within his 
 glass but an exaggeration of his wrongs, 
 — wrongs shadowed from false thoughts 
 that thronged his head. Hence, the 
 Frenchman — the gin distilling from his 
 eyes — would drink and cry — " trait- 
 ?-esse," " cocu," — "coat," "trattresse" — 
 and then, in the very idleness of despair, 
 sing forth the snatch of some infidel 
 song defiant of love, and satirical of 
 wedded truth. Thus, the wretched 
 husband passed with greatest facility 
 through all the degrees of drunkenness, 
 
 until he was in a state of professorial 
 imbecility. He cried, laughed, raved — 
 became maudlin, and then affectionate 
 with his own hat, calling it " Ma belle 
 Elise" then dashing it to the end of the 
 room with new disgust ; and then, 
 some pause allowed, whistling — or 
 spluttering a whistle at his foot, as 
 throwing it up and down he swore it 
 was his favourite poodle dancing a jig. 
 At length, passion would shift no 
 longer ; and so, worn out, the poor 
 Frenchman sat in his chair, a very skin 
 of gin, and snored. 
 
 Let it not be thought that Monsieur 
 Spanneu was solus. By no means. He 
 played his various antics to the rejoicing 
 shout of the customary visitors of the 
 Horse and Anchor, many of whom wit- 
 nessed the growing inebriety of a French- 
 man with the same zest and curiosity 
 with which they would have made drunk 
 a monkey, a dancing bear, or any other 
 animal endowed with certain powers 
 imitative of some gestures of humanity. 
 These true-hearted Britous, in the pride 
 of patriotism, considered it something 
 like impertinence, conceit, in a French- 
 man to get beastly drunk ; it was very 
 like a liberty in a foreigner. Therefore, 
 they manfully marked their censure of 
 the circumstance, by filling the offender's 
 pockets with soot, by blackening his 
 face with the same substance — whilst 
 
 i09
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 an indignant wag emptied the mus- 
 tard-pot upon the Frenchman's skull, 
 telling him, to the glee of the 
 party, that yellow hair became him 
 beautifully. 
 
 These insults the Frenchman felt 
 not — knew not. Gin had done its best 
 and worst ; and he sat, the world spin- 
 ning with him — the breathing block of 
 a man. He had, however, paid what 
 was called his reckoning ; and being 
 incapable of swallowing another drop, 
 the landlord of the Horse and Anchor 
 — a humane man — thought it best to 
 have the drunkard carried home : the 
 sot himself having, in his frantic cups, 
 published, again and again, the where- 
 about of the particular fireside where, 
 in his own tragic words, he had been 
 stabbed " in de vitals of his peace." A 
 hackney-coach was called, and the 
 Frenchman carried by the waiter and 
 boots from the room, the company 
 therein roaring "Rule Britannia," as 
 the foreigner was borne to the vehicle. 
 "All right — you'll know," said the 
 waiter to the coachman, the driver 
 being very imperfectly instructed in 
 the dwelling-place of Monsieur Span- 
 neu. " A Frenchman — you'll find out/' 
 bawled the waiter from the steps of the 
 tavern, and the coachman, with, as I 
 thought, a fine faith in the doctrine of 
 chance, persuaded, by dint of voice 
 HO 
 
 and whip, his horses to gather up their 
 legs, and move funereally on. 
 
 How far w r e went I know not; but 
 the day was waning, and it grew darker 
 and darker ; and the coachman — strange 
 to say — more and more impatient. " Is 
 this it 1 " he would cry, stopping at a 
 house, and thrusting his head into the 
 coach ; and once or twice Monsieur 
 Spanneu, deep in his dreams, would 
 answer something which the driver 
 insisted upon interpreting as a nega- 
 tive, and, therefore, bellowed an oath 
 — asked himself why foreigners didn't 
 stay in their own country — whipped 
 his horses anew — and still went on. 
 
 In the course of our journey, the 
 coachman stopped at three houses, in- 
 sisting that Monsieur Spanneu was the 
 master of each of them, and that he 
 had nothing to do, but to get out, un- 
 dress himself, and go to bed like a 
 Christian. 
 
 My belief is, that Monsieur Spanneu 
 had every desire to resign himself to 
 goose-feathers. More, I am half con- 
 vinced that — whilst in the coach — he 
 thought he was at home, and once more 
 smiled upon his forgiving wife. For he 
 kissed, ravenously kissed, the tips of his 
 own fingers, and muttered, "Monange!" 
 Then, I am sure, thought he of his 
 peaceful bed and of preparation for 
 repose therein ; for he unbuttoned his
 
 Left in a Hackney Coach. 
 
 waistcoat, and I fell into the straw at 
 the bottom of the coach. At this 
 moment, the coachman roared some 
 unintelligible words — the Frenchman 
 grunted some unintelligible answer — 
 and the coach stopt. With great 
 alacrity the coachman leapt from the 
 box, and thundered — knocker in hand 
 — at a door. 
 
 " GenTman drunk ! " said the coach- 
 man, as the maid presented herself. 
 
 " Here's master again ! " cried the 
 maid. 
 
 " I wish I was in my grave ! " ex- 
 claimed the mistress. 
 
 Hereupon, after some delay, a light 
 was brought, and the maid came to the 
 coach, and the driver was about to lift 
 out his passenger, when the girl screamed 
 out, " La ! let him be — this isn't my 
 master, bnt somebody else's." 
 
 Again the coachman was compelled 
 to mount the box — again to drive on. 
 Again and again he stopped ; again and 
 again he knocked at doors. Again he 
 said, " GenTman drunk ! " the domestic 
 published to the house, " Here's master 
 again ; " and again the mistress thereof 
 wished herself out of this most comfort- 
 able abiding-place, into her grave. 
 
 Even the patience of hackney-coach- 
 men may pass away. This truth I 
 learned on the third appeal to the third 
 knocker; for the driver, on being for 
 
 the third time assured that Monsieur 
 Spanneu was " somebody else's master," 
 lost all self-restraint — all philosophy. 
 He roared like a satyr ; and coupling 
 the most disrespectful words with the 
 immortal essence of Monsieur Spanneu, 
 swore that he would cause that essence 
 to evaporate to a very ungenteel and, 
 doubtless, disagreeable locality, unless 
 the Frenchman w r ould instantly, and in 
 the very best English, declare the house 
 where he might lawfully and conjugally 
 put on his nightcap. It was very strange ; 
 but the fervour of the coachman acted 
 upon the drunken man like a bucket 
 of cold water. For a moment, and a 
 moment only, the soul of Monsieur 
 Spanneu — or rather sense, for as pigs 
 and goats may get drunk, the soul can 
 have nothing to do with that very 
 popular operation — came back into its 
 proper place, wherever it may be, with 
 all its wits about it, prepared to con- 
 sider anything that might be demanded 
 of it. I am sure that a momentaiy 
 excess of reason may be wrought out 
 from an excess of drunkenness ; in the 
 same way that a momentary spark, a 
 fire, may be struck from out the cold, 
 cold flint. Thus, when the coachman 
 laid hold of Monsieur Spanneu, and 
 with certain circumlocutory phrases, 
 insisted upon a straightforward, and 
 most direct, and most reasonable re- 
 
 ///
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 sponse, Monsieur Sparine u sat bolt 
 upright, opened his eyes and mouth, 
 and looking more sensible, and arti- 
 
 culating the English language better 
 than I had ever heard him before, 
 made answer, at once satisfying the 
 
 driver as to the truthfulness of his 
 reply. 
 
 Dissatisfied is man ; for no sooner 
 
 had the coachman learned what he had 
 
 been an hour and more vainly seeking 
 
 for, than he uttered phrases very con- 
 
 112 
 
 demnatory of not only the intellect but 
 the eyes of his passenger, and with 
 renewed vigom*, plied the whip. In a 
 very short time the vehicle was drawn 
 up at Monsieur Spanneu's door. 
 
 Again the coachman knocked, and
 
 Left in a Hackney Coach. 
 
 the door opened ; again he spoke, 
 in tones as though he had brought 
 some new luxury home — "GenT'man 
 drunk." 
 
 " It can't be master," cried the maid ; 
 Spanneu never having before offended. 
 She had scarcely uttered the words, 
 however, when she rushed to the coach, 
 and in amazement cried — "Why, missus, 
 if it isn't ! " 
 
 I then heard Madame Spanneu very 
 distinctly wish herself in the grave. 
 
 The coachman inquired if "he should 
 bring the gen'l'man in % " 
 
 I heard not the answer, but the 
 driver took the Frenchman in his arms, 
 and carried him towards the house, 
 leaving me a waif, astray upon the 
 world in the bottom of a coach. The 
 door still remained open. 
 
 "Men are brutes, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 
 "Lay him on the door-mat," said 
 Madame Spanneu. 
 
 H3
 
 A Mouse in Bioornsburu. 
 I aqairi Meet Patty Buffer. 
 
 1 f J S coachman drove to his 
 stand ; where, with the 
 patience of his tribe, he sat meekly 
 awaiting another call. I heard a church 
 clock strike ten ; immediately after- 
 wards, a sharp, shrill female voice cried 
 "coach," and the driver instantly opened 
 the door, and handed in a woman, who 
 bade him drive to some street, for the 
 name escaped me, in Bloomsbury. The 
 woman, as it appeared to me, was under 
 some strange excitement ; for now she 
 giggled, and now again she sighed 
 114 
 
 heavily, and now she cried, " Well, 
 well, he can't last for ever," — and with 
 that consolation, laughed outright. In 
 the midst of this, she let fall her hand- 
 kerchief, and stooping to feel for it, her 
 hand caught me. How her eyes spark- 
 led, as she held me to the window, and 
 by the dim lamps in the street, scruti- 
 nised my shadowed beauty ! " It can't 
 belong to the coachman," she said ; and 
 immediately concealed me. From the 
 bi'ief glance I had had of my new 
 possessor, I did not feel particularly 
 hilarious at my destiny. She was a 
 woman of about three or four and 
 twenty, with an animated face, but 
 withal a certain vivacious boldness of 
 the eye, unpleasing to the sobriety of 
 my constitution. However, she had 
 taken possession of me, by right of 
 discovery. I was, to her own satis- 
 faction at least, her lawful property. 
 
 The coach stopt in a narrow, dark 
 street, opposite a mean-looking dirty 
 house — a house with all the outward 
 indications of squalor and disrepute. I
 
 A House in Bloomsbury. 
 
 may be fanciful, but there is a phy- 
 siognomy in houses — at least, such is 
 my belief. Sure I am, I have seen 
 houses with a swaggering, hat-a-cock 
 sort of look ; whilst other habitations 
 have seemed to squint and leer wickedly 
 from the corners of the windows. The 
 house the coach stopped at was of this 
 kind ; my heart fell as my new pos- 
 sessor gently struck the knocker. 
 " You'll give more than a shilling 1 " 
 said the coachman, with an affected air 
 of wonderment. "A shilling is your 
 honest fare — and as an honest man you 
 can ask no more," was the feminine 
 reply. " Honest man ! " muttered the 
 coachman, as if the woman talked of 
 something altogether out of human 
 experience. " Yes, honest man ! " an- 
 swered my new owner, — who continued 
 to press me closely under her arm, 
 ringing honesty upon every note of her 
 shrill, quick voice. At length, the 
 coachman mounted his box in evident 
 disgust at the gibberish he had been 
 compelled to listen to ; for his depart- 
 ing growl was "honesty," with no sup- 
 plementary compliment to that very 
 respectable virtue. 
 
 " And here you are agin, Mrs. 
 Cramp !" cried an old withered woman, 
 as my now mistress entered the house. 
 "And I hope you've enjoyed your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Not at all," answered Mrs. Cramp, 
 with sudden ill-humour. 
 
 " Well ! that is a bit of beauty ! " 
 exclaimed the old woman, as Mrs. Cramp 
 laid me upon the table. " How much 
 did it cost 1 " 
 
 " Got it quite a bai'gain, — I may say 
 for next to nothing. And how's your 
 lodger, now 1 " said Mrs. Cramp, with 
 an evident wish to withdraw me as the 
 subject of conversation. 
 
 " La ! what do you think ? Well, 
 wonders will never cease. It's only 
 half-an-hour after you went away, when 
 a gentleman comes here, and inquires 
 about her. I thought there was some 
 tale in that pale face of hers. Well, 
 when he found out that she was the 
 lost sheep he'd been looking after he 
 went on like mad. He told me, as 
 soon as she got well, he'd many her, 
 and make a lady of her — and more 
 than that, putting a golden guinea in 
 my hand, he told me to let her want 
 for nothing." 
 
 Here Mrs. Cramp drew herself up, 
 saying — " Mrs. Crumpet, I knew I was 
 right ! Though I never clapt my eyes 
 upon her, I knew she couldn't be any 
 better than she should be." 
 
 " Well, well, we've all our little 
 faults," said the charitable Mrs. Crum- 
 pet. "But I hav'n't told you all. 
 Besides the guinea, the gentleman went 
 
 115
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 away, and in his own pockets brought 
 back two bottles of wine ; and told me 
 not to spare it, for there was plenty- 
 more where that come from. So, my 
 dear Mrs. Cramp, we'll take a little 
 glass, just to drink the poor thing's 
 health." 
 
 "I have no objection to wish the 
 gentleman health ; but as for your 
 lodger, we don't know who's who," 
 said Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 " Oh, she's a sweet, quiet little 
 pigeon," cried the benevolent Mrs. 
 Crumpet ; and her thin, yellow face, 
 shone with a smile like new gold. The 
 wine was produced ; the glasses filled, 
 when a knock at the street-door called 
 the landlady from the room. In a 
 moment she returned. " It's only 
 Becky ; but she says Mr. Cranip won't 
 be pacified with any lies they can tell 
 him — he's doing nothing but screaming 
 for yon." 
 
 "Well, well, he can't last for ever," 
 was the self-comforting answer of the 
 wife. She then took the glass, and 
 saying, " Here's the gentleman's health, 
 whoever he is," emptied it. " Well I 
 suppose like the girl in the play, I 
 must take off my finery and be Cin- 
 derella again," said Mrs. Cramp, and 
 she rose to leave the room. 
 
 "You'll find everything as you left 
 it," said Mrs. Crumpet, who, during her 
 116 
 
 mistress's absence called in Becky, and 
 glorified her with half a glass of wine. 
 " I suppose you don't get much of this 
 sort of stuff with your master ? " said 
 Mrs. Crumpet. The girl made no 
 answer ; but gave a melancholy shake 
 to her head ; drank the wine, and 
 heaved a deep sigh. " And has the 
 old fellow made much of a rumpus 1 " 
 
 " He's been doing nothing but pray- 
 ing and swearing these two hours," 
 said Becky. 
 
 "Well, Providence is very good," 
 said Mrs. Crumpet ; " there's one good 
 thing — he's bedrid" 
 
 "That's the only blessing," said 
 Becky, " for we can have the comfort 
 of shutting all the doors and letting 
 him hallo." 
 
 More conversation of this consolatory 
 cast took place ere the return of Mrs. 
 Cramp. At length she entered the 
 room ; but what a change ! She had 
 thrown off every vestige of her finery, 
 and was drest with scarcely more pre- 
 tension than the smutch-faced, blowsy 
 maid-of-all-work, who had come to fetch 
 her. "You'll take care of the things 
 — and of that particularly," said Mrs. 
 Cramp, pointing me out to Mrs. Crum- 
 pet. 
 
 "Like the apples of my eyes," 
 answered the landlady with emphasis. 
 She then took the candle, and preceded
 
 A House in Bloomsbury. 
 
 her visitor to the street-door. " Good 
 night, my dear Mrs. Cramp ; let us 
 hope for happier days." 
 
 " Yes ! he can't last long," again 
 repeated Mrs. Cramp ; and lightened 
 by such comfort, I heard her trip 
 quickly past the window, followed by 
 Becky. Mrs. Crumpet returned to the 
 parlour, and setting herself at the table, 
 whereon was still the wine, divided her 
 admiration between the bottle and 
 myself. " Well, they ought to bless 
 their stars as are born to such things," 
 said Mrs. Crumpet ; her heart evi- 
 dently softening under vinous influence. 
 She continued to soliloquise. " Ha ! 
 with such fine feathers, what a fine 
 bhd I should have beeu 1 And now — 
 the Lord help me ! — I lets lodgings to 
 all sorts." Then, for new solace, did 
 Mrs. Crumpet again address herself to 
 the wine, which still increased its kindly 
 operation. She took me from the 
 table ; shook me ; blew through me ; 
 and then began to hum the songs of 
 her youth. For some minutes she 
 said nothing ; but sure I am her brain 
 was busy with the past ; with the 
 glowing, radiant hopes which had faded 
 into leaden-coloured realities ; for after 
 a time, she dropt me upon the table, 
 and in a deeper key exclaimed confi- 
 dentially to herself — "And now I lets 
 lodgings ! " 
 
 At length, Mrs. Crumpet rose, and 
 placing the bottle affectionately under 
 one arm, she carried me, a wine-glass, 
 and a candlestick from the room, with, 
 as I soon perceived, the intention of 
 ascending the stairs. This operation, 
 after some difficulty, she effected ; and 
 in due season I arrived at the door of 
 one of the garrets. As Mrs. Crumpet 
 opened the door — I know not how it 
 was — but the candle fell from her hand, 
 and was extinguished. With wonderful 
 presence of mind — I might even say 
 with an intuitive instinct — Mrs. Crum- 
 pet held fast the bottle. 
 
 " Who's there 1 " cried a low, gentle 
 voice — the voice of suffering. Instantly 
 I recognised it ; a tremor thrilled me. 
 It was the little feather-dresser, Patty 
 Butler. " Who's there ? " again she 
 asked, in darkness. 
 
 " They do make such candles now ! " 
 cried Mrs. Crumpet ; and she groped 
 for the lost treasure, which with some 
 difficulty she regained. " I've a tinder- 
 box in the cupboard; for at my time of 
 life I can't get up and down stairs as I 
 used to do." Saying this, Mrs. Crumpet, 
 with extraordinary facility, took the 
 box from the shelf. Here, however, 
 began a difficulty. Mrs. Crumpet en- 
 deavoured to strike a light ; but by 
 some accident neither flint nor steel 
 would meet. Sometimes the stone 
 
 417
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 jagged one set of the striker's knuckles 
 — sometimes the steel the other. And 
 thus Mrs. Crumpet sat and struck, aud 
 struck, but no spark came ! 
 
 Oh, wine — wine — Bacchus — Bacchus ! 
 Here, in a wretched garret, with an old 
 crone of a landlady, was thy subtle 
 wickedness made manifest ! How often 
 does excess of wine prevent the spark 
 that might otherwise have cast its 
 radiance far around ! How often has 
 the genius, drenched with grape, done 
 nought, when working hard to scin- 
 tillate, but blindly strike his own 
 knuckles ! 
 
 u The rain must have come in upon 
 the tinder," said Mrs. Crumpet, " and 
 more than that, I've cut my fingers all 
 to mince-meat. Well, well, people at 
 my time of life oughtn't to do nothing. 
 dear," she cried in despair — " the 
 flints they make now-a-days ! " 
 
 " Give it to me," said Patty, " I am 
 sure I can get a light." 
 
 " You ! bless the dear child ! " cried 
 Mrs. Crumpet, and vigorously she struck 
 and struck, until striking her knuckles 
 past patience, she flung the steel and 
 flint upon the bed where she had thrown 
 
 me some minutes before. "Well, if 
 you will have your way, you must," 
 cried the landlady, and she pushed 
 the tinder-box, as I thought, towards 
 Patty. 
 
 In a minute, Patty sat up in bed. 
 Once or twice she struck the flint ; 
 then she was seized with a cough, 
 which compelled her to desist. Again 
 she essayed. Surely there was some 
 truth in the saying of Mrs. Crumpet ; 
 the flint was bad — worn out; its fire 
 quenched. Again and again Patty 
 struck. And now the sparks come 
 thick ! It is plain, the rain has spoilt 
 the tinder. No ; it kindles ! Patty — 
 I had been thrown almost within a 
 hand of her — blows the spark ; the 
 fire casts a red hue upon her face, but 
 yet I see the change. How wan — how 
 thin — how much more like her dead 
 mother ! 
 
 The candle is lighted, but the exer- 
 tion has proved too much for the girl. 
 She coughs and coughs ; and exhausted, 
 yet with such sweet mildness in her 
 eyes, her face, she sinks back upon what 
 her landlady would call a pillow. 
 
 I looked round the garret. Oh, God ! 
 
 1i8
 
 Mrs. Crumpet, a.nb Pattn, 
 Cramp, the Caru-malicr. 
 
 • Y first introduction to 
 "^r f- Patty had made me ac- 
 quainted with the gloom and wretched- 
 ness of a London garret. I was, never- 
 theless, startled by the extreme misery 
 about me. The room was rather a nook, 
 a hole for useless lumber, than a place for 
 a human being. The landlady, a little 
 woman, could scarcely stand upright 
 beneath the slanting roof ; the gusty 
 wind shook the small latticed window, 
 and entered through broken panes, de- 
 fying the rags and paper thrust therein 
 
 to keep it out. In a corner, on the 
 bare floor, was the bed or mat ; and 
 there, beneath a web of a blanket, lay 
 Patty Butler. Poor thing ! After my 
 first surprise, I took a sad pleasure from 
 her wasted face : I heard sweet music 
 from her feeble voice. They are chang- 
 ing, I thought ; happily changing. A 
 few more heavy days — some few rest- 
 less, fevered nights, and that poor crea- 
 ture, dowered with the gentlest, purest 
 spirit, will smile down upon the injus- 
 tice and iniquities of a world that now 
 casts her, like a useless weed, into its 
 foulest places. 
 
 As I continued to gaze upon her, I 
 felt a strange curiosity to know her 
 history since we last met. There was 
 something more than the pain of sick- 
 ness in her face. Was it shame 1 I 
 asked ; and immediately felt mean for 
 the suspicion. Had her affections been 
 snared by heartless device — or had she, 
 secretly, nurtured a love that, in its very 
 hopelessness, consumed her 1 Yearning 
 for sympathy where the world would 
 
 149
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 sneer and mock at the desire, had she, 
 in dumbness, suffered that inward bleed- 
 ing of the heart, whereof more die than 
 coroners dream of? There was a sad 
 story in that shrunken face. The his- 
 tory of the world is made of battles 
 — conquests — the accessions and the 
 deaths of kings — the doings of states- 
 men and the tricks of law. This makes 
 the vulgar story of the external world. 
 Its deeper history is of the hearts, even 
 of its lowest dwellers — of the ennobling 
 impulses that swell them — of the un- 
 conquerable spirit of meekness which 
 looks calmly upon terror, and turns even 
 agony to patience. A London alley 
 might produce a more glorifying he- 
 raldry — if emotions could be quartered 
 — than Poictiers or Blenheim. How 
 many a man, whose only history is 
 written in a baptismal register and 
 undertaker's account, has conquered 
 suffering, stronger in its onset than a 
 squadron ! If true magnanimity awarded 
 knighthood, how many who want even 
 shoe leather, have won their spurs ! 
 
 With these thoughts passing in me, 
 I continued to contemplate the poor 
 girl before me. She lay wholly ex- 
 hausted by the effort of striking the 
 light ; whilst Mrs. Crumpet, with cha- 
 racteristic consideration for the weak- 
 ness of her lodger, attempted not to 
 disturb her, but with due self-preserva- 
 120 
 
 tion, fortified her own system with a 
 glass of wine — with another — and an- 
 other. This done, she spoke. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure, my dear, if you'd 
 only have let me known that you had 
 such a friend about you, do you think 
 I'd ever have put you in this room 1 
 Bless you ! child, what do you think 
 I'm made of 1 You might have stayed 
 in the other apartment." — (This, I after- 
 wards found, was only the next garret, 
 but then the casement was whole ; the 
 bed was of decent flock ; it had more 
 than one blanket, and had the elevation 
 of a truckle.) 
 
 " Thank you, this will do very well," 
 replied Patty, with an effort : " very 
 well — for my time." 
 
 " As I'm a Christian, you sha'n't 
 sleep here another night," answered 
 Mrs. Crumpet, with vivacity. " No : I 
 promised the gentleman to do all I 
 could for you, and my word's my bond. 
 Well, if you don't remind me of my 
 dear lost child, Maria!" Here the 
 landlady wiped, as she thought, a tear 
 from her eye, and again lifted the glass. 
 
 "What gentleman do you speak of?" 
 asked Patty, with a concerned look. 
 
 " There ! now, if I hav'n't blabbed ; 
 and I promised never to say a word 
 about him ! But he is a gentleman — a 
 real one ; nothing sham in him, my 
 dear : and more than all, you've only
 
 Mrs. Crumpet and Patty. 
 
 to get well — and ha ! ha ! why you look 
 better while I talk to you, and you've a 
 colour in your face that a duchess 
 might give her ears for! — Well, as I was 
 saying, you've only to get well, to be 
 made a lady of." 
 
 " Pray tell me — pray do ! Of what 
 gentleman do you speak ? I know no 
 one — no one, who" — and, excited by 
 the manner of her landlady, Patty lay 
 incapable of further speech ; and her 
 heart — I was sure of it — fluttered like 
 a bird. 
 
 " Come, child,'' cried the gossip, 
 " you're faint — only a little faint. I've 
 brought you some wine ; a glass — one 
 little glass — will make you alive again." 
 
 " I thank you — none — none,'' said 
 Patty feebly. 
 
 " But you must, my love ; you shall, 
 my darling," exclaimed Mrs. Crumpet, 
 and she stooped towards the bed, with 
 the bottle and glass. "There," she 
 cried, filling — "and if I stay here all 
 night, you shall, my angel, drink it." 
 
 Patty cast a helpless look towards the 
 landlady, and then resigning herself to 
 the necessity, raised herself in bed. She 
 stretched her hand towards the glass, 
 and already had the liquor at her lips. 
 " Ba l M chuckled Mrs. Crumpet, " if the 
 ■_• atleman who brought that wine for 
 you, could only sec you now!" — Patty 
 instantly withdrew t he glass, and in a 
 
 faint, yet determined voice, said — "I 
 will not taste a single drop." 
 
 " But you must, my cherub," cried 
 Mrs. Crumpet, w T ith renewed vigour. 
 
 " Not a drop," repeated Patty, " until 
 you let- me know to whom I am to 
 owe it.'' 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! '' exclaimed the land- 
 lady ; " that you'll know some day, and 
 that shortly, if you'll only make your- 
 self well and hearty. Come, drink the 
 wine, child." 
 
 " No," said Patty, with calm pur- 
 pose, and she placed the glass upon the 
 floor. 
 
 Again and again, Mrs. Crumpet tried 
 to prevail, but Patty was obdurate ; she 
 would not taste the wine until informed 
 of the donor. This knowledge Mrs. 
 Crumpet refused to communicate : let 
 me, however, do the poor woman jus- 
 tice. I verily believe she would have 
 hesitated not a second to gratify her 
 tenant, but for one circumstance ; she 
 had not the means. She was as igno- 
 rant of the benefactor who had left the 
 wine and money, as was Patty herself. 
 She, therefore, with the cunning of an 
 experienced gossip, thought she might 
 guess the person of the stranger, could 
 she only know her lodger's previous his- 
 tory. This she had often endeavoured 
 but in vain, to learn. In the present 
 instance, she determined to make an 
 
 121
 
 TJie Story of a Feather. 
 
 indirect levy upon Patty's gratitude ; 
 and, therefore, resolved to impart to 
 her the history of Mrs. Cramp in ad- 
 vance for Tatty's own. To this politic 
 end she bent her discourse. 
 
 " Well, my clear, I don't know if you 
 ar'n't right. But who'd have thought 
 that anybody so young should have 
 such caution ? Ha ! if my good friend 
 Mrs. Cramp had been like you ! You've 
 seen Mrs. Cramp, my dear V 
 
 " I have heard you speak of her," 
 said Patty, whose thoughts were plainly 
 far away from the subject talk of her 
 landlady. 
 
 " To be sure ; I'd forgot — you've 
 never seen her. Well, she was here to- 
 night. She's been to a rout of some 
 sort, and so she was obliged to come 
 here to dress.'' 
 
 " To dress?" said Patty languidly. 
 
 " Bless you, yes ; I keep all her fine 
 things for her. You see, she's married 
 to a man forty years older than her ; and 
 though everybody thought he was dying 
 when she had him, he's only beginning 
 to die now. Well, although he's as rich 
 as king Solomon, he won't let his wife 
 have a decent rag upon her. And so, 
 poor soul ! there's nothing for her but 
 to cheat her husband right and left." 
 
 " Cheat him — her husband 1 " asked 
 Patty. 
 
 " And as, by good luck, he's bedrid, 
 i22 
 
 w T hy it's cheating made quite easy, my 
 dear. The worst of it is for poor Mrs. 
 Cramp, although she's heaps of fine 
 things, she mustn't wear them in her 
 own house. There, she must look no 
 better than a cindei'-wench ; or else the 
 old villain might go out of the world 
 with malice in his heart, peril his owm 
 precious soul, and cut the wife of his 
 bosom out of his will. Well, my dear, 
 that would be dreadful, wouldn't it 1 " 
 asked Mrs. Crumpet in a tone that per- 
 emptorily called for an answer. 
 
 " Yes," replied Patty, almost uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 " And so to hinder that, whenever 
 Mrs. Cramp goes out, she comes here 
 to dress, and then comes back and 
 shifts her finery for her old clothes to 
 go home in. That's tricking the miser, 
 isn't it 1 " cried the landlady, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " Doubtless," answered Patty. 
 
 " Now, here's this beautiful feather," 
 and Mrs. Crumpet took me up, " she's 
 bought it quite a bargain. But do you 
 think she might show it to old Cramp ? 
 Bless you, she might as soon take a 
 crocodile into the house. Well, thank 
 goodness ! the old villain has his re- 
 ward. Bless you, his conscience must 
 be as full of holes as a "cullender. The 
 devil's always at his bedside, that's one 
 comfort."
 
 Cramp, the Card-maker. 
 
 " What do you mean ? What crimes 
 has the poor man committed ?" asked 
 Patty. 
 
 " Why, no crimes in partic'lar, as you 
 and I should think 'em : only you see, 
 he made all his money by making packs 
 of cards. Now, in his old age, he's 
 turned so shocking religious ! You'd 
 never believe it ; but he thinks he's 
 haunted by all the Kings and Queens 
 he ever passed across his counter. He 
 vows they all peep in and gnash their 
 teeth at him through the bed-curtains ; 
 and once — you'd ha' died a-laughing to 
 hear him, for 'twas nothing but the 
 fleas, my dear — once he swore he was 
 bitten all over by the Jack of clubs." 
 
 " Poor man ! " said Patty. 
 
 " Ha ! if poor Mrs. Cramp had only 
 known him afore she married ! And 
 that brings me back to what I was 
 going to say, that it was so proper in 
 you not to take the wine afore you 
 knowd who sent it." 
 
 "Then you will tell me ?" asked 
 Patty. 
 
 " To be sure, I will, when you tell 
 me how it was that you, with such 
 frii.'iids, should ever have wanted any- 
 thing. How was it that you came in 
 ii a pickle to me ? Without a far- 
 thing — without a — " 
 
 '• My story is not worth the telling 
 — is nothing," said Tatty. 
 
 " La ! " cried Mrs. Crumpet, uncon- 
 scious of the truth she uttered, "there's 
 nobody as hasn't a story, if they knowd 
 how to tell it. You must have had 
 comforts about you ? " 
 
 "I have found friends — dear, kind 
 friends, in my worst afflictions," an- 
 swered Patty. " When my mother died, 
 and I was left homeless, I found a 
 home." 
 
 "And why did you leave it?" asked 
 the landlady, " afore you found a 
 better \ " 
 
 " Because I feared I caused unhap- 
 piness, where I would have given my 
 life to have given joy. Oh, so good a 
 man — so kind — with such a gentle heart 
 towards everything ! " 
 
 " Was he a married man, my dear ? " 
 asked the landlady. 
 
 " He was," answered Patty ; where- 
 upon Mrs. Crumpet looked suddenly 
 very sagacious, as though by inspiration 
 she had solved the problem. 
 
 " I see," said she ; "you and the wife 
 couldn't agree. The woman was — - — " 
 
 " Kind — excellent — most kind,'' cried 
 Patty, with animation — "but weak and 
 passionate." 
 
 "And jealous, of course?" added 
 Mrs. Crumpet. 
 
 " I saw that my presence gave pain 
 to her, and I left her house, determined, 
 whatever might be my portion, to keep
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 my hiding-place 
 
 a seer 
 
 et from herself 
 
 and husband.'' 
 
 
 
 
 "But he has 
 
 found 
 
 you out," 
 
 said 
 
 Mrs. Crumpet. 
 
 
 
 
 "Mr. Lintley? 
 
 " cried 
 
 Patty. 
 
 
 " And has bi 
 
 •ought 
 
 wine and 
 
 left 
 
 money for you 1 " for Mrs. Crumpet 
 immediately concluded that the stranger 
 must be the apothecary. "What say 
 you to that, child 1 " asked the lady. 
 
 Patty could say nothing. She was 
 silent and in tears. 
 
 424
 
 q,-XXII^o 
 
 Au Intruder. A Stolen Watch. 
 
 Pattu in New Affliction. 
 
 vBJ F it doi sn'l delighl my heart 
 to see you cry," said Mrs. 
 Crumpet ; " 'twill do you good, my 
 lamb — it always did me good when I 
 was young. Ha ! they don't make the 
 bottles as they used to do ! " she added, 
 perceiving that all the wine was gone — 
 a discovery which the wine she had 
 already drunk scarcely enabled her to 
 compass. "That's Mr. Abram," she 
 cried, as a loud knock at the street- 
 door rang through the house. "He's 
 always In such a hurry! Good-night, 
 
 my darling — go to sleep, and dream 
 yourself a lady." Saying this, the land- 
 lady managed to pick her steps from 
 the room, in her vinous forgetfulness 
 leaving me behind. 
 
 Heavily the hours passed. Poor 
 Patty ! I heard her lips move — heard 
 her turn restlessly in bed — moan and 
 sigh, as though her little heart was vain- 
 ly struggling with its sorrow. "'Twill 
 soon be over " — I then heard her mur- 
 mur in a sweet resigned voice — " very 
 soon : " and then she slept. 
 
 How I wished myself in the hand of 
 some good fairy ! Some beneficent 
 sprite, piteous of human wrong and 
 human suffering ! Then, I thought, 
 should this dark, dim garret pass away ! 
 Then should rise a small, quiet nook of 
 a place, nestled among trees, and car- 
 peted with green around. And there a 
 brook should murmur with a voice of 
 out-door happiness — and a little garden 
 brimming over with flowers should mark 
 the days, and weeks, and months with 
 bud and blossom ; and the worst injuries 
 
 125
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 of time be fallen leaves. And there, 
 health in balm should come about her 
 path, and her mind be as a part of 
 every fragrant thing that shone and 
 grew around her. And thus, — poor, 
 wearied creature ! — she should draw 
 her daily, gentle breath, till ripe for 
 heaven. 
 
 I had fallen into a delicious lull with* 
 these thoughts, when I was startled by 
 a sudden uproar, proceeding from the 
 lower part of the house. There were 
 loud, blaspheming voices — the shrill 
 cries of a woman, — and on the follow- 
 ing instant, the garret-door was burst 
 open, and a man rushed in. As he did 
 so, his head struck against the low roof, 
 and he fell with a heavy weight upon 
 the rotten floor, swearing and cursing 
 with half-smothered passion, which it 
 cost him a hard effort to control. 
 
 "What's that? who's there?" ex- 
 claimed the terrified Patty. 
 
 " Nobody — silence — where's the win- 
 dow 1 " replied a voice, gaspingly. The 
 window was in a second opened, and 
 the intruder, I could perceive, endea- 
 voured to escape by it. The aperture 
 was too small for his big, burly anatomy, 
 and there for a brief space he remained 
 with his shoulders wedged in the narrow 
 space, swearing and groaning — and then, 
 on the sudden he was silent, and again 
 and again I heard his hard breathing, 
 126 
 
 and felt the garret shake as he strove 
 to effect his purpose. The noise in- 
 creased below, and coming steps and 
 voices convinced me that the fellow 
 was closely pressed. For a moment he 
 paused, as to collect and intensify his 
 energies for one last dreadful effort — 
 for one gigantic struggle : another in- 
 stant, and he had cleared the window. 
 As he did so, I thought I heai'd a heavy 
 substance fall upon the floor. 
 
 Almost immediately upon the escape 
 of the intruder, the garret was filled with 
 watchmen and others, carrying lanterns ; 
 Mrs. Crumpet, upon whom sleep and 
 surprise had induced a beneficial so- 
 briety, now bustling through, w T ith a 
 loud voice, declaratory of the wondrous 
 honesty of her habitation, and of all the 
 lodgers therein dwelling. Everybody 
 paused at the window. " Abram's gone 
 — the bird's flown," said a man, who, 
 I imagined, was in higher authority 
 than his followers. 
 
 " 'Tis impossible, Mister Hardmouth," 
 said a watchman ; " a moral impossible 
 out of this winder. Why, it isn't no 
 bigger than a rat-hole." 
 
 " Ha, Snigs, don't you yet know 
 what a man will do with Jack Ketch 
 at his heels 1 " answered Mr. Hard- 
 mouth. " Well, better luck next time," 
 said the philosophic functionary. " But 
 I tell you what, Mrs. Crumpet; the
 
 I 
 u 
 
 < 
 
 z 
 
 w 
 
 j 
 
 
 H 
 Ok 
 
 tJ 
 
 I
 
 Ail Intruder. 
 
 parish of Bloomsbury will give you a 
 taste of Bridewell, if you don't keep 
 deceuter people about you." 
 
 " Me ! Mr. Hardmouth ! I'm a peace- 
 able woman, and never troubles my 
 head with my neighbours. I'm a 
 woman as pays my church-rates, and 
 can look the queen herself in her face ! 
 My husband could have bought and 
 sold you all, — every jack of you, — but 
 he's in heaven." And Mrs. Crumpet 
 continued to spin off this old, homespun 
 sort of yarn with practised volubility ; 
 at the same time, as I observed, that 
 she carefully covered a watch which had 
 fallen from Mr. Abram in the hurry of 
 his departure, and which lay beneath 
 the window. This operation she very 
 adroitly effected ; and then continued 
 her self-assertion of punctilious honesty, 
 the while with her foot she pushed 
 and slid the watch close to Patty's 
 bed. 
 
 " And who's here ? " cried Hardmouth, 
 taking a lantern from a w r atchman, and 
 holding it towards Patty, who cowered 
 and trembled, with blushes in her face 
 that seemed to scorch her. For the 
 first time, I saw within her eyes a look 
 of scorn, of passion. Her hands shook 
 together, as she appealed to the land- 
 lady, " Will not these men go?" 
 
 "To he sure they will — never fear 
 'em, my love," cried Mrs. Crumpet, 
 
 seating herself upon the edge of the 
 bed. "And if they won't, I'll never 
 leave you ; never, my darling." 
 
 " And so this is Mrs. Abram, is it 1 " 
 asked Hardmouth. " Poor thing ! Well, 
 with all her husband's luck upon the 
 road, he might house her better." 
 
 " She is no Missus Abram ; nor no- 
 thing of the sort. Don't cry, child, 
 they're brutes ; a waking honest people 
 in their beds. I should like to know 
 when you're going ] " asked Mrs. Crum- 
 pet of her intruders. 
 
 "When we've done a little more 
 business. Off o' that, Mother Crumpet; 
 you and I are old friends, and cere- 
 mony's lost atween us." Saying this, 
 Mr. Hardmouth — if justice be a woman, 
 she ought specially to protect her sex 
 — seized Mrs. Crumpet by the arm, and 
 swung her from her seat upon the bed. 
 " Now, my dear, where's the traps ? " 
 asked the officer with most familiar 
 insolence. 
 
 " I know not w r hat you mean — not a 
 word ; but leave me — only a few 
 minutes, whilst I rise and dress." Thus 
 spoke Patty ; and for a time she seemed 
 to vanquish sickness by the strong sense 
 of her offended modesty. There was a 
 look of command in her face — a look in 
 which were lost the care and feebleness 
 of an hour since. "I beg — I desire 
 that you leave me." 
 
 127
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " To be sure— leave us," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Crumpet in treble notes, and 
 imitating, though with shrewish awk- 
 wardness, the imperative manner of 
 Patty. " How can we dress with men 
 in the room ? Are you lost to natur, 
 you brutes ? " cried the landlady. 
 
 " Mrs. Abram can dress alone," said 
 Hardmouth ; and so saying, he twirled 
 Mrs. Crumpet from the attic, that lady 
 loudly denouncing the brutality of all 
 men. Nor was she content with this ; 
 for as she stood outside the door, she 
 called loudly to Patty, telling her to 
 show her spirit, and conjuring upon her 
 true womanhood, not to rise for the best 
 man as ever walked upon shoe-leather. 
 
 Tatty, however, regardless of such 
 conjuration, dressed herself with her 
 best speed ; nor did the multiplicity or 
 cumbrousness of her garments very 
 much retard the operation. Her 
 offended feelings of maidenly shame 
 gave her strength and energy of pur- 
 pose. Sickness seemed banished from 
 her cheek ; and in its place there was a 
 look of sorrowful dignity — a mingling 
 of grief and elevated patience. 
 
 " Come, Missus Abram, you're not 
 dressing for the Lord Mayor's show," 
 called out Hardmouth. 
 
 "You may come in," said Patty; 
 and she sank upon the one chair. 
 
 The watchmen and officers again 
 428 
 
 entered the garret, and again with 
 quickened looks did Mrs. Crumpet press 
 forward amongst them, watching with 
 feline eagerness the motions of Hard- 
 mouth. "I thought as much," cried 
 that wary servant of police, as he kicked 
 aside the bedding and discovered a 
 watch. Mrs. Crumpet, in the vigour 
 and confusion of her wrath, nearly bit 
 through her thumb for her thumb-nail ; 
 the watchman laughed and chuckled 
 knowingly ; whilst for Patty, she sat 
 unmoved, and seemingly careless of all 
 that passed around her. 
 
 "The very watch as we had infor- 
 mation of," said Hardmouth. " I can 
 swear to the marks. But this can't be 
 the only egg in the nest ; " and with 
 this wise saw, Hardmouth turned over 
 and over the bed, Mrs. Crumpet all the 
 while abusing him, and asking him if 
 he knew where he would go to ? She 
 then nodded to Patty, and whispered, 
 " Never mind, my darling, for this little 
 mishap — your friend will see you 
 righted." 
 
 "What friend?" inquired Patty, 
 almost unconscious of the words. 
 
 "What friend? Why, you haven't 
 forgot the wine and the guinea I told 
 you on ? " These words brought to the 
 mind of Patty the kind, benevolent 
 Lintley. The recollection was again 
 too much for her. She looked about
 
 Patty in New Affliction. 
 
 her — fit the faces hurrying around her, 
 and smitten by the remembrance of her 
 past sufferings — by her belief in future 
 misery — she hid her face in her hands, 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 " It's a bad job, Missus Abram,'' 
 said Hardmouth ; " but if people was 
 only to think of being found out afore 
 they begun, why we might turn New- 
 gate into another playhouse, and turn- 
 keys might go a-begging. Come," he 
 added, "you must go along with us for 
 thia," Patty, aghast with terror — worn 
 with sickness — looked silently in the 
 man's face. She tried to answer him, 
 but the words choked her. 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried Mrs. 
 Crumpet in a screech, and suddenly 
 trembling all over. 
 
 " Mean ! Why, my meaning is as 
 plain as Tyburn. This watch is stolen, 
 
 and that girl — Mrs. Abram, if she is 
 Mrs. Abram, and if she isn't, why she 
 ought to be —why she knows all about 
 it." 
 
 "I know nothing — nothing," said 
 Patty, with a voice lessened to wins 
 pering, by terror. 
 
 " If you don't, man and wife is one 
 flesh all the world over ; and as it was 
 your husband's bed " — 
 
 " I have no husband," cried the girl. 
 
 " Well, that's your business, I can't 
 help that," said Hardmouth. 
 
 " No one — no one — I am alone in 
 this cruel world — alone, with none but 
 God to help me." 
 
 Here Patty was again convulsed in 
 tears ; whilst Mrs. Crumpet, infected 
 by the sorrow, continued to weep, and 
 cry, " If I had only known it had come 
 to this ! " 
 
 129
 
 o- 
 
 XXIII 
 
 -o 
 
 A Short Account of a Hiqhxvar/man. 
 Arrival of Mr. jLinttcv. 
 
 H E clamour raised 
 by Hardmouth and the 
 watch had had its due 
 effect upon the neighbourhood ; many 
 of the dwellers thereabout having a 
 most delicate, a most educated organ 
 for the music of justice, or rather, of 
 police. Hence, in a brief time, the 
 house was beset by curious inquirers, 
 anxious to learn the peculiar offence 
 committed, whether it rose to the 
 tragic dignity of murder, or descended 
 to the sneaking littleness of petty 
 i30 
 
 larceny. Nor was it wholly curiosity 
 that brought many to the door of 
 Mrs. Crumpet. There were some, who, 
 very justly indignant at the prying 
 propensities of the watch, knew not 
 where they might stop. " Nobody's 
 house is safe ! " cried one. " "Waking 
 honest people up in the dead of night !" 
 cried others ; whilst a few declared, 
 upon the responsibility of their own 
 invention, that one of Mrs. Crumpet's 
 lodgers had murdered a bishop on 
 Hounslow Heath, and with a heathenish 
 contempt of religion, had pawned the 
 dead man's canonicals. It was, how- 
 ever, very creditable to the general 
 sympathy, that everybody expressed 
 unbounded satisfaction at Abram's 
 escape. Much of this I heard where 
 I lay, as it sounded from the street 
 beneath ; and I confess my feeling of 
 curiosity was awakened to learn some- 
 thing more of the fugitive. 
 
 It appeared, as I afterwards found 
 out from the gossip let fall about me, 
 that Clickly Abram was a mercer's
 
 A Short Account of a Highwayman. 
 
 man of rising reputation. He was 
 young, good-looking, and, as the women 
 declared, the best creature that ever 
 broke the bread of life. Clickly, how- 
 ever, had this seemingly inborn preju- 
 dice — he preferred the bread of other 
 people to the bread of his own hands. 
 To this prejudice may be traced all the 
 difficulties of Clickly's too short career. 
 In the pursuit of his business, whilst 
 measuring a delectable lutestring, he 
 was shot dead behind his master's 
 couuLji by a pair of fatal eyes, alas ! 
 too skilful in such mortal practice. 
 Clickly's story is as old, as worn, as 
 London stones. He was led step by 
 step in silken chains to earn the iron 
 fetters of Newgate. Mrs. Crumpet — I 
 take the good woman's own avowal — 
 had not the remotest suspicion of the 
 highway profession of her lodger. No ; 
 it was a base, vile story. He always 
 paid his way, and she would not believe 
 it. 
 
 But I have left Patty wretched and 
 desolate. She sat with a look of dread- 
 ful resignation in her face — a look that, 
 for a moment, made Hardmouth pause, 
 the while he rubbed his chin, and 
 doubtingly observed, " If nothing could 
 be proved agin her, why nothing could 
 come of it. Though if she wam't posi- 
 tively Mrs. Abram — if she warn't really 
 married to him, — why, perhaps, it 
 
 might go the harder with her, because 
 the law — though he never could find 
 out the reason of that — supposed that 
 a woman was under the authority of 
 her husband." Having delivered this, 
 the sagacious officer was about to raise 
 the girl from her seat, when she 
 swooned and lay like a corpse in his 
 arms. 
 
 " You villains ! you'll murder the 
 poor thing ; " cried a woman, a neigh- 
 bour, who with others had crowded 
 into the garret, and who, with this 
 indignant cry, rushed down-stairs. 
 
 "You'll never move her in that 
 state 1 " exclaimed Mrs. Crumpet. 
 
 " She'll be better in a minute," 
 answered Hardmouth ; and lifting the 
 girl, as though she had been an infant, 
 he descended the stairs, followed by the 
 watchmen. Mrs. Crumpet for a mo- 
 ment stood alone in the garret, casting 
 bewildered looks about her — and then 
 whirling round and round in a passion 
 of despair— she caught me up, and 
 rushed from the attic. When she 
 arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she 
 found the street-door open, and Hard- 
 mouth and his party about to carry 
 Patty from the house. 
 
 " Stop — stop," cried the woman who 
 had left the garret ere Patty was re- 
 moved, " stop till the doctor sees her. 
 As the Lord would have it, he was at a 
 
 131
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 labour at No. 9, and — God bless him ! 
 — here comes the gentleman." After 
 a moment, Hardmouth turned with his 
 charge into her parlour, and was fol- 
 lowed by Mrs. Crumpet, who stuck 
 me in a china mug upon the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 Another moment, and the kind- 
 hearted woman, who had sought his 
 assistance, showed my old acquaintance, 
 Mr. Lintley, into the room. He looked 
 cold and pinched ; and I could not but 
 observe that his great coat might have 
 been thicker. There was an air of 
 languor and fatigue about him ; yet 
 did the goodness of his heart, the 
 gentle cheerfulness of his mind, sit 
 triumphant over his looks, and he 
 smiled as he asked, " Where is the 
 patient ? " 
 
 " Here she is, doctor," answered 
 Hardmouth, pointing to Patty still 
 insensible. 
 
 " Good God ! " cried Lintley, and his 
 face changed, aud he clasped his hands 
 and compressed his lips, struggling to 
 master his emotion, as he gazed at the 
 feather-dresser. " How — what is this 1 " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Why, doctor, you see — there's been 
 a little bit of highway robbery. Click 
 Abram's the man we want — but the 
 bird's flown. Howsomever, we found 
 this in his nest, along with his wife 
 132 
 
 there ; " and Hardmouth, weighing the 
 watch in his hand, nodded significantly 
 towards Patty. 
 
 " It's no such thing," cried Mrs. 
 Crumpet. " She's not his wife — she" — 
 
 " Well, that's not our affair," said 
 Hardmouth — " as Pve said afore, if she 
 isn't, she ought to be." 
 
 " Stay — tell me," cried Lintley, and 
 his lips trembled, and he cast a look of 
 extreme p>ain towards Patty — " what is 
 the distinct charge against this young 
 woman ? " 
 
 "Why, her husband — or as good as 
 her husband — has committed robbery : 
 we hunted him here, but he got clean 
 off, leaving the girl in bed, and this 
 watch with her." 
 
 Lintley, with troubled looks, took the 
 watch from the officer. I then for the 
 first time had a full view of it. In a 
 moment I recognised the metal chro- 
 nometer sold by Shadrach Jacobs to my 
 earliest English friend, Jack Lipscomb, 
 and beguiled again from Jack by the 
 potent blandishments of Miriam. And 
 now was Patty, poor, self-denying thing, 
 by the force of circumstances, in the 
 deep shadow of suspicion ; now was she 
 deemed the tainted associate of vice— its 
 companion and its comfortei\ I glanced 
 again at the watch, again saw upon its 
 dial-plate the sea-tost ship, again read — 
 " Such is life," written beneath it.
 
 Arrival of Mr. Lintley. 
 
 " There must be some mistake ; I am 
 sure of it," said Lintley with emphasis. 
 
 " Very like, sir," answered Hard- 
 mouth ; " but, you see, sir, law has 
 nothing to do with mistakes — law has 
 nothing to do but to punish 'em." 
 
 "Leave her with me, officer — for a 
 few minutes, at least. Some water," 
 and the apothecary turned to Mrs. 
 Crumpet. " Poor soul ! she is much 
 shattered — much changed ; but she will 
 soou revive — 'tis nothing but fainting." 
 
 * fter many entreaties, Hardmouth, 
 who expressed a sort of respect towards 
 the apothecary — having heard his virtues 
 extolled by several women who had 
 thronged the door — consented to leave 
 the room, Mrs. Crumpet adding the 
 further inducement of the second bottle 
 of wine left by Patty's unknown patron. 
 
 Lintley administered restoratives, and 
 in a brief time Patty became conscious 
 of the presence of her first benefactor. 
 She blushed, trembled, wept, yet, in 
 her excess of agitation, felt a strange 
 comfort that, in this new affliction, her 
 first friend was with her. 
 
 " Tell me, Patty," said Lintley, in a 
 calm, sad voice, "how is it that I find 
 you in such a place 1 " 
 
 " It was the best — the only place I 
 could find shelter in," was the meek 
 answer. 
 
 "Wherefore, and stealthily, too — 
 
 wherefore did you quit my house 1 
 Come, I must know everything," said 
 Lintley. 
 
 "You shall, sir, everything — as though 
 I talked to my own soul, you shall know 
 all;" and Patty paused as though she 
 needed strength to proceed. 
 
 " Go on ; wherefore, then 1 " asked 
 Lintley. 
 
 " I was not happy, sir. Mrs. Lintley 
 was not happy. I felt that my presence 
 brought upon you disquiet ; I felt that 
 — God pardon them ! — your kindness 
 towards an orphan girl made foolish, 
 thoughtless people talk, and it was my 
 duty, though I should die, to go away." 
 
 " Yet, tell me," said the apothecary, 
 "for I must trace you step by step — 
 tell me, wdiat could have brought you 
 here?" 
 
 " I sought for w T ork and found a 
 little — a very little. Yet 'twas enough 
 — I made it enough. I found, too, a 
 kind person to dwell with ; but I was 
 persecuted, and" 
 
 " Persecuted, child ! By whom ?" 
 
 " By a strange woman — a strange, 
 old woman. Day after day she came 
 to the house — I never went abroad but 
 she followed me. I know not how it 
 was, I felt for her a loathing I never 
 knew for any human creature. I could 
 not endure her. And then I heard 
 strange stories of her; and so that I 
 
 i33
 
 The Story of a FcatJier. 
 
 might free myself of her, unknown to 
 anybody, I hid here. I had not long 
 been in this house, when I fell ill — they 
 told me, very ill." 
 
 "Ill, indeed," said Lintley, looking 
 with compassionate eyes at the poor 
 wasted creature. 
 
 Patty smiled, and with strange earn- 
 estness asked, "Very ill ? am I not, sir ?" 
 
 " A little quiet, with careful tending, 
 and your health will now return," said 
 Lintley. 
 
 "And I shall not die ?" asked Patty, 
 with sudden melancholy. 
 
 " Certainly not," answered Lintley ; 
 "you will be an old woman yet, Patty." 
 
 " God forbid ! " cried the girl, her 
 eyes filling with teai-s. "Oh, sir, do 
 not take from me the hope which for 
 many a day has been my sole comfort 
 — which I have nursed, fondled, doated 
 on — the hope of death. This may, I 
 know, be a happy world ; but, though 
 young, I have seen enough of it. I 
 have neither strength nor carelessness 
 sufficient to struggle and live on as I 
 have lived. I would wish to die. Oh, 
 sir, indeed, indeed, I speak the truth ! 
 You know not how beautiful to me is 
 death ! What ease — what comfort — 
 what sweet repose within a grave ! " 
 
 "And is the world so barren to you, 
 Patty?" asked Lintley. "Do not sin 
 in such a wish ? " 
 134 
 
 " Oh, sir, do not think me ungrate- 
 ful. All your kindness I feel, past 
 words to speak it. Your kindness in 
 relieving me here — my landlady has 
 told me all — your gifts of" — 
 
 " My gifts ! No, child — not mine — 
 it is the merest accident that has 
 brought me to this house ; where, in 
 truth, it grieves me to find you. Hear 
 me, yet a few words. I would wish to 
 believe you still good — still innocent, 
 Patty"— 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " exclaimed the girl with 
 sudden passion — "why should you not? 
 What have I done — God help me ! — 
 what have I done ? " 
 
 "Listen, and patiently. I find you 
 in a house, nay in a neighbourhood 
 known and noted as shameful. I came 
 here to fulfil a duty of humanity — 
 prayed and entreated hither to assist a 
 poor helpless creature in her worst 
 agony. It was well I came, Patty, or 
 we might never " — here the apothecary's 
 voice thickened, and he hesitated — " we 
 might never again have met in this 
 world." 
 
 " I bless the chance," cried Patty, 
 sobbing. 
 
 "I find you, girl" — here Lintley 
 paused, and then sadly continued — " I 
 find you in deepest misery. It seems 
 you are said to be the wife or worse 
 companion of a nightly robber."
 
 Arrival of Mr, Lint ley. 
 
 " You do not believe it — you cannot 
 believe it " — exclaimed Patty. 
 
 " Stolen property — stolen by him — is 
 found in your bed. Answer me, girl — ■ 
 
 for others you must answer — how is 
 this ?" 
 
 "Almost as much as I know, you 
 know. I had fallen asleep ; the door 
 was burst in — the window opened — by 
 
 some strange man, who muttered 
 curses when I called to him. From the 
 window, struggling and striving with 
 terrible strength, he made his way, as I 
 suppose, across the house-tops." 
 
 135
 
 The Story of a Feather, 
 
 " A watch was found " — said Lintley. 
 
 " It must have fallen from the man, 
 as he escaped," answered Patty. 
 
 Lintley approached the girl, and 
 taking her hand in his, looked stead- 
 fastly in her face, saying — "And this 
 man you knew not % " 
 
 " No," answered Patty, looking back 
 the look. 
 
 " And you are as innocent of all this," 
 said Lintley, his eyes moistening — "as 
 I could wish y ou ? " 
 
 " I am — I am " — cried the girl. " Oh, 
 sir ! You believe me 1 in this misery 
 you will not forsake me 1 " 
 
 " I do believe you, Patty," answered 
 Lintley, with solemn voice — "and so 
 believing, I will not forsake you." 
 
 13G
 
 o- 
 
 XXIV 
 
 -o 
 
 II am llemoveb to Cramp's House. 
 Death of the 0(cl Caru-maher. 
 
 u 
 
 OW* sir," said Hard- 
 mouth, putting his head 
 into the room. " Now, if 
 you please 1 " 
 
 " You'll never take her to the round- 
 house ? " sohbed Mrs. Crumpet, forcing 
 past him. " You haven't the heart, I 
 know you haven't ? " and the landlady 
 raised her voice to a scream, and wrung 
 her bands. 
 
 "Be patient, good woman," said 
 Lintley. lie then turned to the officer. 
 "This mistake will soon be cleared. 
 Let one of your men call a coach ; we 
 
 will go where you please. Come, Patty," 
 and the apothecary, with a comforting 
 smile, gave his arm to the girl, and led 
 her, pale and trembling, from the room. 
 In a few minutes a coach drove to the 
 door, and again whirled away. The 
 neighbours departed, and Mrs. Crumpet 
 was left solitary in her silent house. 
 She came into the room ; looked 
 wanderingly about her ; cried — " If I 
 should hang her ! Oh, I shall never 
 know what sleep is again ! " And then 
 she went to bed, and lay till late next 
 
 morning. 
 
 In the afternoon, Becky, Mrs. Cramp's 
 maid, arrived with speed in her looks, 
 and I was taken from the mantel-piece, 
 and placed in a bundle of clothes to be 
 carried from the house. "And the 
 card-maker's very bad this time ? " 
 asked Mrs. Crumpet. "Quite in ear- 
 nest, now," said Becky. " Missus says 
 it's a moral impossible he can live. 
 Well, I say nothing, Mrs. Crumpet ; but 
 if she should have a bit of luck, she 
 won't be long a widdcr." Mrs. Crumpet 
 
 137
 
 The Story of a Feather, 
 
 nodded assent to this belief, and Becky, 
 strengthened in her opinion, depai'ted ; 
 the landlady uttering no syllable on 
 the events of the past night. 
 
 I was soon in the house of the old 
 card-maker ; soon heard the chirruping 
 voice of his young wife. "You've got 
 all the things, I hope, Becky 1 " 
 
 " Every thread, mem, and do you 
 know, mem, I think we're in luck to 
 get 'cm. That's a wicked old woman, 
 that Mrs. Crumpet, mem," said Becky. 
 
 " Perhaps she is, Becky," answered 
 the charitable mistress, " but whilst the 
 world's what it is, wicked people are 
 sometimes useful." 
 
 " Pretty goings on in her house, 
 mem," said Becky, with a knowing 
 look ; for it seems she had heard a 
 very imaginative version of the affair 
 of the highwayman and Patty from 
 Mrs. Crumpet's communicative neigh- 
 bours. " Perhaps, mem, you didn't 
 know that she lodges highwaymen and 
 their wives, or worse than that, for 
 what I know, mem 1 " 
 
 " Highwaymen, Becky," cried Mrs. 
 Cramp, with a shudder, and then she 
 added, with deeper disgust, " and then- 
 wives 1 " 
 
 "The man's got off — just like 'em, 
 
 mem ; and left his wife, or whatever 
 
 she may he, to be hanged in his place," 
 
 said Becky. " But that's like the whole 
 
 ■138 
 
 sect, mem." The truth is, Becky, in the 
 most unhandsome way, revenged her 
 own inimitable ugliness upon the cha- 
 racters of men generally : they had 
 never said, they never could say, a civil 
 word to her, and it was her especial 
 pleasure to malign them. " Yes, mem, 
 crept out at the chimney, and left the 
 poor girl, mem, with the watch under 
 her bolster. Such a feller as that, mem 
 — why, Pd hang him, mem — by the 
 toes, mem." 
 
 Mrs. Cramp, with an exquisite sense 
 of thanksgiving, merely observed, " It's 
 a blessing I've got back my satin and 
 this dear feather." 
 
 " Quite right, mem ; and as master 
 can't last much longer, why should you 
 go out to dress when } r ou go to church 
 or to Ranelagh — when you can make 
 yourself comfortable at home ? " 
 
 "You're quite right, Becky, I won't 
 be the poor trod-on thing I have been — 
 I'll show a woman's spirit." 
 
 "To be sure, mem ; and as master 
 has made his will as he ought to do, 
 why, mem, 'twill be your own fault, if 
 you ever let any other nasty lawyer 
 come atween you two again, mem." 
 
 It was evident that Mrs. Cramp was 
 suddenly become very independent of 
 the ire of her husband ; for in the 
 course of the day she carried her for- 
 bidden finery, of which I was no small
 
 Death of the Old Card-maker. 
 
 —• """■v^" — ' 
 
 part, into the sick man's bed-room. 
 The patient was fast asleep. Mrs. 
 Cramp softly approached the bed-side, 
 peeping between the curtains ; and 
 thus, as she still held me in her hand, 
 I had a full view of the old card-maker. 
 His face was sharp and withered ; and 
 his nightcap, half removed from his 
 head, showed a few short white hairs, 
 like goose-down. I could see at once 
 that Mrs. Cramp and her mate had 
 been chained by a golden manacle, 
 mado nt the Mint. The old man's face 
 had in it nothing venerable : it was 
 mere old age — mere decay, without 
 that sweet, serene light, which gives 
 to years a halo of holiness. The young 
 wife looked at her sleeping mate in 
 silence : and then, a deep, deep sigh 
 broke from her almost unconsciously. 
 She retreated from the bed-side as the 
 man awoke. 
 
 " Who's there 1 devils again ! " cried 
 the sick man in a hoarse, trembling voice. 
 
 The wife made no answer, but laying 
 me and her other treasures upon the 
 table, she walked on tip-toe out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Who's there 1 " again cried the 
 card-maker ; and then he mumbled — 
 "Devils— devils — more devils. And I 
 shall go among 'cm — I must go among 
 '(in — no help. Damned — damned — ha! 
 ha ! — damned." 
 
 For an hour and more the old man 
 raved, groaned, and muttered to him- 
 self. He had, as I heard, committed 
 no peculiar wickedness in life ; but his 
 imagination had caught a disease from 
 a spiritual counsellor, who, in the 
 anxiety of his soul for the dying man, 
 felt it a duty to convince him that he 
 must be damned. He had dealt in 
 cards ; he had made gold by the devil's 
 tools, and there was no help for him ; 
 the devil must have him. This com- 
 fortable assurance, Mr. Uriah Cloudy 
 conceived it to be his Christian duty to 
 pour once a day at least into the ears 
 of the departing tradesman ; who had 
 such confidence in the authority of the 
 Muggletonian — for Cloudy was said to 
 be of that enlightened sect — that he 
 gave himself up to inevitable perdition. 
 Hence, to his crazed perceptions, his 
 chamber was beset by devils, male and 
 female ; all of them wearing the faces, 
 forms, and habits of the kings, queens, 
 and knaves of cards ; all of them, by 
 such masquerade, torturing the re- 
 morseful spirit of the dying dealer. 
 
 " Oh ! Ugh ! " he groaned—" and 
 there, peeping between the curtains — 
 there's that cat, the Queen of Dia- 
 monds ! " Then he sat bolt upright 
 in his bed ; and, throwing his nightcap 
 into the room, he screamed — "Jack of 
 Clubs, my time's not up — I defy you ! " 
 
 139
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 At this moment Becky entered the 
 room. "Here's Mr. Cloudy come to 
 see you." 
 
 The name seemed to awaken new 
 terror in the card-maker, for he fell 
 back in his bed, and howled like a wolf. 
 
 In an instant the Muggletonian was at 
 the bedside. 
 
 " Why, man, that's right ; howl — 
 
 howl ! It will do you good, poor 
 
 doomed wretch ; if anything will do 
 
 you good. Ha ! that's sweet music — 
 
 140 
 
 sweet as the sackbut and timbrel," said 
 the self-complacent Mr. Cloudy, as old 
 Cramp yelled in a higher pitch. This 
 spiritual comforter was a fat, squab 
 man, of large breadth of back, huge 
 legs and arms, and a big head, thatched
 
 D eat J i of the Old Card-maker. 
 
 with short black hair, and sunk between 
 his shoulders. He had large, rolling, 
 black eyes, a flattened nose, and wide 
 dropping mouth, with the complexion 
 of antiquarian parchment. "And so 
 you've suffered, poor wretched worm ! — 
 eh 1 " asked Mr. Cloudy, comfortably 
 seating himself in an arm-chair by the 
 bed-side. 
 
 " Ugh ! I have suffered," cried the 
 card- maker. 
 
 "It's a blessed thing," said the Mug- 
 gletotoian. " But you have suffered 1 
 Beware, beware that Beelzebub doesn't 
 deceive you. You're sure you've suf- 
 fered 1— Well, then, thank God ! " 
 
 " I do, I do — that is, I hope I do," 
 answered the man. " And now, do you 
 really, my kind, good friend — my dear, 
 charitable friend — do you really think 
 I shall be damned 1 — Are you sure 1 " 
 
 "Cock-sure," cried Cloudy. "Ain't 
 you a wretched sinner 1 ? Haven't you 
 lived upon perdition ? Haven't you 
 sold traps for sinners' souls ? How 
 many lost sheep have you sent before 
 you I " 
 
 " But then, my dear friend, I was 
 card-maker to the court ; and that may 
 go for something — eh? Mayn't it, 
 mayn't it ? " exclaimed Cramp, despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Don't hope it ; quite lost if you 
 hope," answered Cloudy. "Wretched 
 
 old man ! haven't you put snares into 
 the hands of the wicked ? Haven't you 
 sold beggary, and robbery, and self- 
 murder? How many precious souls 
 are now roaring out against you ? " 
 
 " True, true, true ! " screamed the 
 card-maker — " no hope, no hope ! " — ■ 
 and then he fell back and groaned. In 
 a moment he jumped up again in bed, 
 and with such new terror in his face, 
 that he made his spiritual comforter 
 leap up also. With an uneasy look, 
 Mr. Cloudy pulled the bell, immediately 
 answered by Becky. She no sooner 
 threw a glance at her master, than she 
 hurried down-stairs, and almost imme- 
 diately returned with her mistress. " If 
 you please, mem," I heard her say 
 upon the stairs, — " If you please, mem, 
 he's going mad again." 
 
 Mrs. Cramp entered the room, and to 
 my amazement burst into tears. " Dear 
 Mr. Cloudy," she cried, " is it come so 
 near 1 Is he really going ? " 
 
 " I have seen many things of the 
 sort," said the tranquil Cloudy, "and I 
 should say really going." 
 
 Mrs. Cramp wiped her eyes, and, ap- 
 proaching the bed, asked, "Joseph, 
 don't you know me 1 " 
 
 Old Cramp looked at his pretty young 
 wife, and, with a smile of imbecility, 
 answered, " You're the Queen of 
 Hearth:-." 
 
 141
 
 The Story of a FeatJier. 
 
 "Poor wretch!" groaned Cloudy 
 "how he's wandering !" 
 
 "I'm going — I'm going — see, how 
 they're all about me ! — why, the coun- 
 terpane's all tens of diamonds ! And 
 there, there at my bedside — don't you 
 see him 1 — there's the King of Spades 
 digging my grave — digging my grave ! 
 And now, now there's two of 'em on the 
 quilt !" and the card-maker roared, and 
 his face became hideously distorted. 
 
 " There's nobody on the bed, Joseph ; 
 nobody at all, dear ; " said Mrs. Cramp, 
 feeling that she ought to say something. 
 
 " There they arc," cried Cramp ; 
 "two of 'em. Two upon the quilt — 
 here, right upon my knees — playing 
 cribbage for my precious soul ! Hush ! 
 that's the Jack of Clubs ; — the devil — I 
 know him ; can't be mistaken in him ! 
 And there — that's the King of Hearts : 
 bless his sweet face! — that's my good 
 spirit. Ha, ha ! he may win — he may 
 win!" 
 
 "A dreadful sight, Mrs. Cramp," 
 said Cloudy ; " but now he's going. 
 Comfort yourself — he can't last now." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! they're at it. The 
 King of Hearts has first crib. Ha, ha ! 
 the devil loses — the devil loses." 
 
 For more than an hour Cramp, in his 
 madness, watched the progress of a 
 
 game of cribbage played by his good 
 and bad angel ; and, with intense 
 anxiety, looked over the cards, talking 
 loudly of the fortune of the game. 
 Now he advised his good angel in the 
 laying out of his crib, and the playing 
 of his cards : now he rejoiced and 
 chuckled at his successes ; and now spat 
 and gnashed his teeth at the pro- 
 sperity of his devil antagonist. At 
 length the game approached its close ; 
 and Cramp sat with his eyes glaring 
 and riveted upon the counterpane, 
 resting his chin upon his hands, and, in 
 the agony of his expectations, scarcely 
 seeming to breathe. 
 
 " Hush," he cried ; " there is but one 
 hole a-piece to play ; only one hole, 
 and, with luck, I may be an angel yet ! 
 — Silence, I say ; not a word — not a 
 syllable. The devil has to deal — that's 
 bad ; never mind — silence. Yes, yes, 
 that will do ; never mind the crib 
 now," cried Cramp, still counselling the 
 play of his good angel. "You only 
 want one hole, and you must get it — 
 you must get it. Silence ; — it's you to 
 cut, it's you to — What ! the Jack of 
 Spades ! — One for his nob. The devil 
 pegs !" 
 
 And with these words the card-maker 
 sank back upon his bed, and died. 
 
 442
 
 o- 
 
 XXV 
 
 -o 
 
 A House o{ Mourniiu). I am in Great Peril. 
 A Mcssaqe from the Beau. 
 
 a house of 
 mourning. That is, the 
 shutters were partly 
 closed ; the curtains were drawn : the 
 dressmaker had taken orders for black ; 
 and very dear friends were invited to a 
 funeral. Becky, the maid — I honoured 
 her resolution — struggled hard to look 
 lugubrious, not at all comforted by 
 the prospect of a new gown ; whilst 
 the fortitude of the bereaved Mrs. 
 Cramp was an example to all newly- 
 dclivcrcd widows. 1 protest I loved 
 
 the woman for her honesty. The 
 breath being fairly out of the body of 
 her husband, that is, her husband by 
 conjugal law, she neither wept, nor 
 whined ; never caught herself in a 
 strangulating sigh ; but wiped all de- 
 filing grief from her face as she would 
 have wiped fly-spots from china. She 
 looked more than resigned. Ere Cramp 
 was screwed down, I heard her laugh 
 lustily ; albeit the practised Becky 
 begged her mistress " not to go on so 
 'stirically ; as 'stiricks wouldn't bring 
 him back ; and why should they — 
 wasn't he in heaven ? " Mrs. Cramp 
 declared she couldn't help it ; and from 
 my heart I believe the woman. 
 
 " I was a good wife to him, Becky," 
 said the widow, smiling in the very 
 sweetness of conscience. 
 
 " When he was alive, mem, I always 
 said you was too good for him ; but 
 now he's jest gone, it isn't right to 
 say so. Still he was old, mem ; that's 
 on his coffin, so there's no harm in 
 saying that. Nothing's wickeder than 
 
 143
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 to abuse the dear dead, mem. Still he 
 was old." 
 
 " He was," said the widow, with slight 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Never could have been good-looking; 
 but, bless him, dear soul ! who'd blame 
 him for that? Still he never could have 
 been handsome," sighed Becky. 
 
 " I never heard of anybody who said 
 as much. But what's beauty in a mart, 
 Becky ? Nothing. Nevertheless, he 
 wasn't handsome, God knows," cried 
 the widow. 
 
 " And then we all have our tempers, 
 mem, to be sure. For all that, mem, 
 master was a little sour. Sometimes, 
 as one may say, he'd bile over with 
 vinegar." 
 
 "He meant nothing, Becky; nothing 
 at all," said Mrs. Cramp. " It was 
 only in our honeymoon, I remember — 
 Ha, Becky ! " — here the widow slightly 
 shuddered — " I shall never forget my 
 honeymoon." 
 
 " Yes, mem — but you were going to 
 say — what did dear master do then, 
 mem ? " 
 
 "Swore like any trooper, Becky. But 
 sickness did him a deal of good," said 
 Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 "Quite cured him at last, mem. And 
 then — but it's a common fault — he did 
 love money a little, mem ? " and Becky 
 paused. 
 
 144 
 
 The widow made no answer, but, 
 glancing at her maid-servant, drew a 
 long sigh. 
 
 " And what was the use, mem ? 
 You know he couldn't take it with 
 him." 
 
 Here a burst of light animated the 
 widow's face, and she cried — the mono- 
 syllable bubbling from her heart — 
 " No ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't abuse the dead for the 
 world, mem ; but people called him an 
 old Jew," said Becky. 
 
 " He wasn't that, Becky," answered 
 the widow, in the mildest, sweetest 
 tone of reproof. 
 
 " But he did like to drive a bargin. 
 He did love more than his penn'orth," 
 cried Becky. 
 
 "He was a man of the world, Becky," 
 said Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 " Ha ! mem," said Becky, hai-dly 
 knowing the truth she uttered ; " if so 
 many folks wasn't what they call them- 
 selves, men of the world, the world, 
 mem, wouldn't be so bad as it is." 
 
 " I don't think the poor man left it 
 worse than he found it," observed the 
 man's widow. 
 
 " And then — if he wasn't dead I 
 would say it — he used you like any 
 Turk." 
 
 " It was his fondness, Becky ; at 
 least, I hope it was his fondness."
 
 / am in Great Peril. 
 
 " Ha, mem, I've said it agin and 
 agin, you was too good for him ; " cried 
 Becky. 
 
 My belief at the time was, that Mrs. 
 Cramp had long been of her maid's 
 opinion. However, she merely answered, 
 " That's over now, Becky. - ' 
 
 " It is over, and a good thing, too ; 
 for although nobody should speak ill of 
 the dead — I must say it — a worser 
 man never lived." 
 
 " Becky, don't distress me : come 
 herV With this meek reproof, Mrs. 
 Cramp approached where I was lying, 
 followed by her maid. " 'Twill be a 
 thousand pities," said the widow, taking 
 me gently in her hand. 
 
 " Quite a sin, mem, to do it," said 
 Becky. 
 
 "And yet I must go into weeds," 
 sighed the widow. 
 
 " All the better, mem ; you do look 
 so nice in black," cried the maid. 
 
 It is clear, I thought, I have been 
 the subject of previous conversation, 
 and mistress and maid are now dis- 
 cussing my fate. What was to become 
 of me \ 
 
 " A thousand pities to dye it," said 
 Mrs. Cramp, still gazing at me. 
 
 1 trembled at the word through 
 every filament. Dye me ! What ! 
 was I to forego, and so soon, the 
 snowy purity of my outside 1 In 
 
 the very beauty of my whiteness — 
 in my excelling candour to be dyed 
 pitch-black — for no fault of mine, 
 but at the whim, the tyrannous ca- 
 price of another, to be degraded to 
 the nesrro ] 
 
 " And yet 'twill wear a long time 
 dyed," mused Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 " Doesn't show the dirt, to be sure, 
 mem," said Becky. 
 
 " Still it's a pity. Yet, I must be in 
 black for a twelvemonth, Becky," ob- 
 served the widow. 
 
 " You must, to be decent, mem," 
 answered the maid. Suddenly, how- 
 ever, she thought of a probable escape, 
 and added, " Unless you marry afore, 
 mem." 
 
 " Before a twelvemonth ! What do 
 you think me, Becky ? Well, Becky, 
 we shall see," said Mrs. Cramp, laying 
 me down again, and after a few moments 
 leaving me in solitude. 
 
 The last speech of the widow left me 
 in perplexity : for I knew not whether 
 she had deferred the idea of again 
 marrying within the year, or of sub- 
 mitting me to the dyer's mystery : 
 whether she was again to speedily don 
 bridal white, or I was to be imme- 
 diately doomed to wear enduring dark- 
 ness. I passed a time of restless 
 misery. I am sure that I felt as a 
 man feels, condemned by inevitable 
 
 145
 
 TJie Story of a Feather. 
 
 circumstance to be blackened for life, 
 he himself no party to the iniquity. I 
 felt the same anguish at the thought of 
 losing my exterior whiteness ; and being 
 after a time used in fifty different offices 
 for the convenient reason, that the dirt 
 I gathered would not show. Can it be 
 thus with men, I pondered 1 After the 
 first dip and dye in inky guiltiness, do 
 after-spots go with them for nothing 1 
 The purity of their white fame once 
 gone, do they show no future dirt 1 
 Again I reasoned with myself. What ! 
 I asked, if I am no party to the pol- 
 lution, shall I therefore despair 1 Say 
 that to outward look I am made black 
 as pitch, shall it be to me no conso- 
 lation that I feel the same inward 
 purity that I am black only to ap- 
 pearance, not black within ] Such 
 were then my musings. I have since 
 learned to look on some men with 
 all their faults, as sometimes little 
 more than feathers in the hands of 
 the dyer. 
 
 About ten days had elapsed from the 
 death of the old card-maker, and I had 
 begun to think myself forgotten by 
 his widow, when she took me from a 
 drawer, and carried me down-stairs. I 
 might narrate much gossip of which 
 I was ear-witness, respecting the so- 
 lemnity of the funeral, with the tea and 
 very hospitable supper given on the 
 146 
 
 lamentable occasion. All this I pass 
 over. Mrs. Cramp — I must own as 
 much — wore her widow's weeds as 
 though she was proud of them. Many 
 of her female friends assured her that 
 she never looked better, whilst to one 
 or two she confessed that, to her sur- 
 prise, she never felt so. 
 
 When Mrs. Cramp had descended to 
 the parlour, I trembled, for there was 
 Becky, plainly prepared for some 
 mission. After all, I thought, are they 
 going to dye me 1 
 
 " And now, Becky, you will take the 
 feather to " — 
 
 A peremptory knock at the street- 
 door mutilated Mrs. Cramp's sentence. 
 Becky immediately answered the sum- 
 mons, and as quickly returned : — " Oh, 
 mem ! it's that monster of a man, 
 Mr."— 
 
 Becky was a quick speaker, but ere 
 she had uttered the word due, Mr. 
 Uriah Cloudy personally introduced 
 himself. Now women have a peculiar 
 dexterity in hiding things : with almost 
 more than feminine rapidity, Mrs. 
 Cramp threw me at the back of her 
 chair, and prepared herself for her 
 visitor. 
 
 " Girl, you're not wanted," said Mr. 
 Cloudy to Becky. " Go into the 
 kitchen." 
 
 The Muggletonian having been the
 
 A Message from the Dead. 
 
 spiritual adviser of the late-cardmaker, 
 for the nonce installed himself the 
 master of his widow's maid. Becky 
 
 seemed resolved to question the usurpa- 
 tion, hut a look from her mistress sent 
 her grumbling from the room. 
 
 "You're quite happy, Mrs. Cramp?" 
 asked < Iloudy 
 
 "Happy as can l>c expected,'' an- 
 swered I be widow. 
 
 "It's a blessed thing I'm left exe- 
 cutor," said the Muggletonian. Mrs. 
 
 Cramp said nothing. "And now, Mrs. 
 (lamp, I'm come upon a solemn busi- 
 ness. I come to bring you the words 
 of the dead.'' 
 
 "Mr. Cloudy!" cried the widow, 
 anxiously ; as though half-expecting 
 
 147
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 some unpleasant communication from 
 her buried husband. 
 
 "You knew my Rebecca? Well, 
 wasn't she a woman 1 A wedding-ring 
 wasn't lost upon her, was it 1 Well, 
 she knew she was dying. Dear crea- 
 ture ! She knew everything. It was 
 strange, too — at least, if we didn't 
 know all things are for the best — it 
 was strange that she should go only a 
 mouth before your poor man : but she 
 knew he'd follow her ; she knew it, 
 ma'am ; she knew it. And so she 
 called me to her, and said, ' Uriah, will 
 you take my last words to that dear 
 angel of a woman, Mrs. Cramp 1 ' Dear 
 angel were her very words, or I'm the 
 worst of sinners. Rebecca, says I, make 
 your mind easy, I'll tell her every syl- 
 lable. Then she takes hold of my 
 hand — just as I take hold of yours, 
 Mrs. Cramp — and says, ' Uriah, I'm 
 a-going, and Mr. Cramp is coming after 
 me. You and Mrs. Cramp will be left 
 alone in the world. She's a dear 
 woman, and ' " — 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Mr. 
 Cloudy," cried the widow, never divining 
 human meaning better in all her life. 
 
 " It's only my respect for the dead, 
 
 Mrs. Cramp, that makes me offend you ; 
 but Rebecca promised to haunt me if I 
 didn't do as she begged me. ' She's a 
 dear woman,' she said, ' and, as I think, 
 has always had an honest regard for 
 you. When I'm gone, Uriah, you'll be 
 left a poor unprotected creature in the 
 world. Nobody to look to your wants ; 
 to take care of your darning, your linen, 
 and your nice, little hot suppers. Oh, 
 Uriah ! I couldn't rest in my grave if I 
 thought it ; and so, in decent time, go 
 to that dear Mrs. Cramp when she's a 
 widow, and give her my love and my 
 compliments, and say, if she'd be really 
 happy in this life, she'll much oblige me 
 by marrying you.' " 
 
 With these words, Uriah Cloudy 
 dropt upon his knees, and Mrs. Cramp 
 suddenly jumping from her seat, the 
 chair fell back to the floor. Becky, 
 startled by the noise, ran into the 
 room, and picking me up, hid me under 
 her cloak. " What's the matter, mem 1 " 
 she cried. 
 
 Mrs. Cramp could give no answer, 
 but burst into a violent fit of laughter. 
 
 " It's nothing, Becky, nothing," said 
 the Muggletonian ; " only taking on 
 about your poor master." 
 
 148
 
 o- 
 
 XXVI 
 
 -o 
 
 Mrs. (Lramp's New Suitor. 
 The WiWs £ap. 
 
 ^2) ^ needn't wait for 
 Mr. Cloudy, I'll show 
 him out," said Mrs. Cramp. "And 
 Becky, go directly where I told you. 
 You know," added the widow signifi- 
 cantly, and I felt Becky clutch me 
 closer as she answered, " I know, 
 mem ; " and she immediately turned 
 from the room. Ere, however, she 
 closed the street-door, I heard Mrs. 
 Cramp again loud in her silver laugh- 
 ter ; again evidently taking on for the 
 buried card- maker. 
 
 It was nearly dark, and Becky tripped 
 along with the true timidity of a Loudon 
 maid-of-all-work. For myself, I was in 
 despair. I felt it — I knew it — I was 
 carried onward to be stained, lost for 
 ever : widowhood had passed sentence 
 upon me, I was to be dyed. I put it 
 to the reader — proud, it may be, of the 
 cleaiuiess of his complexion, what would 
 be his agony if he knew that to-morrow 
 morning he must inevitably rise a black- 
 amoor ! I put it to you, madam ; you, 
 with your milky cheek, carnation-tinted ; 
 would you not break your glass when it 
 showed you a Hottentot 1 
 
 Still Becky tripped along, inhumanly 
 humming, I think, " Nancy Dawson," 
 when a man, crossing the way, stood be- 
 fore her. Becky immediately drew her- 
 self up ; and 1 could feel that her heart 
 began to nutter and beat, precisely as 
 every woman's heart has beat since the 
 first rub-a-dub in Paradise. Becky knew 
 not whether the monster was about to 
 compliment or insult her ; she was 
 equally prepared for either incident. 
 
 149
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 "My pretty maid," — began the 
 stranger. 
 
 " None o' your nonsense," broke in 
 Becky, and I could feel her jerk, and I 
 have no doubt she sneered. 
 
 "Don't be cruel, child," said the 
 man, in a soft, gentle voice. 
 
 " Never was cruel in my life," said 
 Becky, the man's musical words melting 
 in her bosom. 
 
 "Well then, my deal"," — and the 
 stranger laid his hand upon the maid. 
 
 "None o' your nonsense," cried 
 Becky, starting back ; " you'd better 
 not ; I wears pattens." 
 
 " You have the advantage of me," 
 replied the man, with a bow ; " but I 
 am sure you are too much a lady of 
 honour to use it." 
 
 " I've two hands of my own, and 
 they're quite enough upon me at one 
 time, that's all," said Becky ; " so what 
 you've got to say, you can say with 
 your hands in your pockets." 
 
 Becky's reproof evidently struck upon 
 the fine sense of the stranger, for he 
 immediately pulled out his purse, and 
 offering the maid, as it appeared to me, 
 a piece of gold, asked if she would make 
 him happy by accepting it. 
 
 Becky received the coin, merely ob- 
 serving, " There could be no harm in 
 that." 
 
 " And now, my dear, one word ; is 
 150 
 
 your sweet mistress within 1 " asked the 
 donor. 
 
 " In course ; crying her dear eyes 
 out for poor Mr. Cramp." 
 
 " That's a pity," said the stranger. 
 
 " She's murderin' herself," answered 
 Becky. 
 
 " She must be saved," cried the man. 
 
 " But it's jest like us," answered the 
 maid; "we are all fools alike. I 
 wonder if he'd ha' gone on so about 
 her 1 Not he ; men are flints — not 
 made as we are." 
 
 "And Mrs. Cramp is at home 1 Alone, 
 too, no doubt 1 " said the stranger. 
 
 "Alone," said Becky, and she said 
 no more. Her manner warranted the 
 solitude of her mistress. 
 
 " You must tell her that a gentleman 
 wishes particularly to see her," said the 
 man. 
 
 "And her husbaud not been buried 
 a week 1 " cried the maid, who, however, 
 suffered the stranger to pass his hand 
 under her elbow, turning her towards 
 the widow's house. " I wouldn't do it 
 for a thousand pounds," said Becky, 
 as she stood at the late Mr. Cramp's 
 door. 
 
 " 'Twill be worth more than that to 
 your dear mistress," said the stranger. 
 "Come, I've no doubt you've the key." 
 
 " Well, what a man you are ! " cried 
 Becky, immediately producing that
 
 Mrs. Cramp s New Suitor. 
 
 domestic implement. " Shouldn't won- 
 der if I get turned away for it. Who 
 shall I say 1 " 
 
 " Say, Edward — that's enough," said 
 the man. 
 
 " Hush ! Stop a minute, while I see 
 
 if missus is alone ; a neighbour may be 
 with her," said Becky, softly turning 
 the key, and entering the house with 
 caution, the stranger following her. 
 Becky immediately entered the parlour. 
 " You are alone, mem i " 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Mrs. Cramp, 
 and again she burst into laughter. 
 " I've made such a fool of the man. 
 He thinks "— 
 
 " Hush, mem ; there's a gentleman 
 in the passage wants to see you. He 
 
 151
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 seized me in the street, and would 
 make me bring him to you. His name, 
 mem — it's all he'll tell me — his name 
 he says is Ed'ard ! " 
 
 " Edward ! Oh, heavens ! bring the 
 candles," cried Mrs. Cramp, sinking 
 upon a chair. Becky immediately flung 
 me upon a table, and rushed out of the 
 room ; at the same instant Edward 
 passed from the passage, and — why 
 was not I already dyed to be spared 
 my blushes — and caught the widow in 
 his arms ! The worst remains to be 
 told. Mrs. Cramp neither squealed, 
 nor shrieked ; nor conjured the man to 
 depai-t — conjured him by the memory 
 of her husband yet green in earth — by 
 the gloom and sadness of her desolate 
 weeds ; no — astounded by the violence, 
 all the poor woman was able to utter 
 was — " Edward ! Is it you ? " 
 
 " It is," said Edward ; and somehow 
 it was impossible for the woman any 
 longer to doubt it. 
 
 Can it be? Is it possible? Why 
 does not Becky bring the candles ? 
 Edward kisses the widow ; kisses her, 
 and calls her his Clarissa ! To kiss a 
 woman in a widow's cap ! Excuse hu- 
 man infirmity as we may, is there not 
 very great presumption in the act ? 
 Is it not greeting the handmaid of 
 death — the — but it is plain, Edward 
 wants imagination. Again we ask it, 
 152 
 
 is there not something awful, freezing, 
 in that white, chilling muslin, that 
 sometimes surrounds the face of Venus 
 with a frame of snow — that ices beauty 
 for a twelvemonth ? In the superstition 
 of custom, we are prone to think the 
 dead has yet some lien upon her — a 
 year's hold at least. Is there not ? — 
 but there is this excuse for Edward ; it 
 is dusk ; he cannot see the cap that 
 ought to freeze him. 
 
 Thank goodness ! Becky has brought 
 the candles. 
 
 I was now enabled to have a good 
 stare at Edward. He was a very hand- 
 some fellow ; that is, ninety women out 
 of a hundred would have called him 
 handsome. His figure was thickset, 
 but far above the middle height, with 
 the chest and back of a gladiator. His 
 face was large and open, with careless 
 good humour upon it — his brow unlined 
 by thought. He had a fine colour, 
 black whiskers, a sufficiently large 
 mouth, and remarkably white teeth. 
 I know that Mrs. Cramp thought his 
 eyes — they were black as coals — very 
 beautiful : for my part, I liked not their 
 expression. They were of those eyes 
 that seem always trying to look gay and 
 sparkle ; and then there was an occa- 
 sional dropping down and pulling of 
 the corners of the mouth, as though 
 twitched by uneasy heartstrings. My
 
 Mrs. Cramfis New Suitor. 
 
 gentleman had clothed his fleshly man 
 with a due sense of its excellence. 
 There was lace on his cravat — gold- 
 lace on his coat and waistcoat — gold 
 loop and button in his beaver. He 
 wore a jewel on his finger, and took 
 snuff from what seemed a box of em- 
 bossed silver. And this was Edward ! 
 
 No, reader, it was not. It was 
 Clickly Abram, highwayman. And did 
 Mrs. Cramp know this ? Not she, 
 poor widowed dove. The truth is, she 
 had rpet the man at Ranelagh ; and 
 as, conscientious soul ! she could not 
 boast of her husband, she had never 
 spoken of his existence. Again, know- 
 ing that Mr. Cramp could not much 
 longer endure this sinful world, his 
 wife, like a provident woman, looked 
 around her for a more than substitute 
 for the dying card-maker, and looking, 
 beheld — Edward. Hence, she had al- 
 ways spoken of obstacles that time 
 might destroy, and then — and then — 
 Edward and she might wed ; but Ed- 
 ward must wait. To Edward, the widow 
 was the ward or niece of some ancient 
 villain — for she now and then spoke of 
 an old tyrant ; — whilst to the widow, 
 Edward was the only darling son of a 
 rich lady of the manor somewhere near 
 the Land's End. All this, I afterwards 
 discovered; hut as I hate mystery, I 
 lay the case at once befure the reader. 
 
 " Supper — something nice," said 
 Mrs. Cramp in a whisper to Becky, 
 as the widow crossed the room to 
 lay me upon the mantel-piece ; and 
 then as she returned — " Never mind 
 expense." 
 
 " Ar'n't you surprised to find me as — 
 as I am?" asked Mrs. Cramp, glancing 
 at her mourning. 
 
 " Not in the least, my angel — I knew 
 your husband's doctor all the time," 
 said Abram. 
 
 " Is it possible ? Well, if I'd have 
 known ! I shall never forgive myself," 
 exclaimed the widow, trying to look 
 very like a penitent. 
 
 " And now the maid's gone, my sweet 
 one — name the day, when shall it be? 
 I'm tired of this damned London, and 
 I don't know how it is, I get quite 
 foolish — I want to see the old lady — I 
 want to hug my old mother again." 
 Such were the ^filial yearnings of Ed- 
 ward ; but we fear that the stir caused 
 by the highway robbery of Clickly 
 Abram had some influence upon his 
 wish for travel. " When shall it be ? " 
 he asked, smiling upwards in the widow's 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why do you ask me ? You can 
 leave London when you like — can't 
 you?" said Mrs. Cramp, with an inno- 
 cence that would have adorned girlhood 
 at sixteen. 
 
 153
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " No — no ; I don't budge without 
 my dear Clarissa. Come, we'll say 
 next week." 
 
 " Impossible, Edward ! Have you 
 no respect for the world 1 And my 
 husband only — no ; you must wait a 
 twelvemonth or two — a twelvemonth 
 at least." 
 
 " Why 1 A man isn't any more dead 
 after a year than after a day, is he 1 " 
 asked the highwayman ; and, to confess, 
 Mrs. Cramp seemed willing to be puzzled 
 by the thief s philosophy. " As for the 
 w r orld, it's a damned world, my dear, 
 and not worth the pleasing ; but, I tell 
 you what — we'll get coupled in the 
 country; come up to town in three or 
 four years' time, and say we're just 
 married." 
 
 " Oh, the art of man ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Cramp, throwing up her pretty 
 eyes in sweet reproof. 
 
 " And I say, Clarissa, are you fond of 
 poultry 1 " asked the thief. 
 
 " Don't dislike a chicken," answered 
 the widow. 
 
 " But I mean poultry in its natural 
 state 1 Ha ! you should see my mother's 
 doves ; a million of 'em, my dear. How 
 they will flock about you ! And then 
 our sheep, and our pet lambs ; and the 
 haycocks and the orchard ; and the 
 peaches, like your own velvet face, 
 ripening on the wall ; and the pigs ; 
 154 
 
 and the harvest-home ; and the dairy ; 
 and, eh — eh, Clarissa 1 " and the high- 
 wayman laughed and rubbed his hands, 
 full of glee at the rural objects that 
 his imagination had placed at "his 
 mother's." 
 
 Mrs. Ci'amp was evidently touched 
 by the promised Paradise ; for she said 
 with a sigh, "Well, I do like the 
 country." 
 
 And thus the lovers — for we must 
 call them so — talked, until the supper 
 came. Becky proved herself bountiful 
 as expeditious. She had attacked the 
 larder of a neighbouring tavern, and 
 had carried off a most substantial and 
 most varied banquet. And wine and 
 brandy dignified the feast. 
 
 Eating and drinking soften the heart. 
 Edward became more urgent for instant 
 flight, and marriage in the country; 
 whilst Mrs. Cramp said nothing, but 
 sighed the more heavily. 
 
 Bumper after bumper was swallowed 
 by the wooer, and his increased passion 
 did honour to the distiller. " No, 
 my angel, we'll be off — off by to- 
 morrow ; and you shall be like a 
 shepherdess in China — and as for that 
 cap " — 
 
 Mrs. Cramp, dreaming doubtless of 
 the card-maker, had sat twiddling her 
 cap-strings, until the tie was loosed ; 
 whereupon the enamoured and excited
 
 The Widow s Cap. 
 
 lover twitched the muslin from her 
 head, swearing "it was wickedness to 
 hide such lovely hair." 
 
 " Now, Edward ! " 
 
 " It looks like a bit of his shroud — 
 shall never wear it again — never — 
 never 1 " And so saying, the husband 
 
 elect threw the widow's cap upon the 
 fire, thrusting it among the burning 
 coals with the poker ; and thus he 
 stood triumphant over burnt muslin, 
 whilst Mrs. Cramp clasped her hands 
 in what she thought was rage, astonish- 
 ment, and wounded affection. 
 
 155
 
 o~ 
 
 XXVII 
 
 ^D 
 
 1 am again taken Abroab. 
 The Wiooiv Loses Iter Lover anb MvscH. 
 
 Q£ may be supposed that 
 Mrs. Cramp was justly 
 offended at the ruthless sacrifice of her 
 cap — one of the few tokens by which 
 she remembered her departed husband ; 
 one which, when she passed the looking- 
 glass, convinced her she was a widow. 
 To say the truth, she had a liking for 
 the cap ; there was a significant pret- 
 tiuess about it that pleased her mightily. 
 Hence, she was majestically indignant 
 with Edward. He was a brute — a 
 ruffian ; and then, her passion suffering 
 156 
 
 a sweet diminuendo, he was finally a 
 very foolish fellow. She would not 
 take a glass of wine with him ; she 
 would not even touch the liquid ; well, 
 she would touch it and no more. She 
 was not the foolish, weak woman he 
 thought her ; but, if he was very good, 
 she might go to the play with him on 
 Tuesday. Should she ever see his 
 mother, she would tell her what a 
 scapegrace son she had — that she would. 
 
 And thus, with the prettiest affecta- 
 tion of remorse on the part of the high- 
 wayman, and with a coy, wayward pet- 
 tishness on the side of the widow, who, 
 never having been wooed by Mr. Cramp, 
 promised herself an enjoyment of court- 
 ship in all its dear distracting variety, 
 — thus, till eleven o'clock they sat, 
 unseen Cupids hovering about them, 
 snuffing the candles. 
 
 I will pass the separation of the 
 lovers, which Mr. Abram vowed — and 
 he ratified the oath with a bumper of 
 brandy — tore the very heart out of his 
 bosom. Theu he burst into the snatch
 
 / am again taken Abroad. 
 
 of an amorous ditty, whilst Mrs. Cramp 
 begged him to remember the neigh- 
 bours. To this appeal he made answer 
 by singing the louder, and vowing if he 
 were hanged he didn't care, he couldn't 
 die at a happier moment. And then 
 Mrs. Cramp wondei*ed what nonsense 
 was in the man's head about hanging ; 
 and, finally, she and Becky coaxed him 
 to the door, and "hush-hushed" him 
 into the street. 
 
 " Quite a gentleman, mem," said 
 Becky, left alone with her mistress, who 
 sat silently looking at her fingers. 
 " You didn't see his hands, mem ; never 
 saw veal whiter, mem ; always tell a 
 true gentleman by his hands, mem. 
 Can't be a London gentleman, mem, — 
 has a country look. Ha ! that's the 
 place, mem, for my money. I could live 
 an long pigs, mem ; and then for poultry 
 — for breeding goslings, mem — I will 
 say it, I was born for it, mem." 
 
 Becky's avowal of her love for an Ar- 
 cadian life .convinced me that the par- 
 lour-door was not without a key-hole. 
 
 " Lawks ! " cried Becky, getting no 
 answer from her mistress, — "here's the 
 feather; 1 couldn't take it for" — 
 
 " Never mind," said Mrs. Cramp, and 
 she took me from the mantel-piece ; 
 "nevermind; we'll talk about dyeing 
 it another time." 
 
 " Well, it would have been a pity and 
 
 a shame, mem ; besides, you won't be 
 in nasty black a year — I'm sure you 
 can't, mem." 
 
 " I've such a headache, Becky," sighed 
 Mrs. Cramp. " I'll go to bed." And 
 the widow, carrying me with her, and 
 sighing very heavily, crept slowly up- 
 stairs to her bedroom, followed by her 
 maid. Laying me carefully aside, she 
 sank into a chair. Taking up her 
 pocket-handkerchief, she sat mutely 
 squeezing it between her palms, and 
 then she slightly brushed the lawn 
 across her eyes, and then her lips 
 moved, as with some dolorous soliloquy. 
 At length the widow cried, " This is 
 lonesome, Becky." 
 
 " Might as well be buried alive, mem. 
 I couldn't sleep here alone, mem, for 
 the world, mem. And, then, there's 
 that pictur' of master, mem," — and 
 Becky glanced at a daub portrait of the 
 late card-maker hanging over the chim- 
 ney-piece, — "it's shamefully like him, 
 mem, isn't it 1 " 
 
 " Don't talk so, Becky ; you don't 
 know how you distress me." 
 
 " Shall I turn him to the wall, 
 mem 1 " and Becky, with the word, had 
 mounted a chair to give a turn to the 
 card -maker. 
 
 " By no means," said the widow ; 
 " what harm can the poor man's picture 
 do me 1 " 
 
 157
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 " I don't know, mem ; but, if I was 
 you, I should think he was always look- 
 ing at me, mem ; and, then, there's 
 that big silver watch of his at the head 
 of the bed. Well, how you can sleep 
 with that, mem, I can't tell. I should 
 think it was his sperrit, tick, ticking 
 away all night, and I shouldn't wink 
 for him." 
 
 "Silly creature!" said Mrs. Cramp, 
 with a very faint smile. 
 
 "Why do you wind it up, mem?" 
 cried Becky. 
 
 " Habit, Becky ; I always did when 
 the poor man was alive. But it is 
 loud to-night, and my head is, I think, 
 going to pieces. Put the watch under 
 the mattress, Becky." 
 
 " Yes, mem," and in a trice the card- 
 maker's chronometer was crammed 
 away. " Shall I turn the pictur', too, 
 mem 1 " cried Becky. 
 
 " I'm afraid you should touch it : 'tis 
 in such a wretched state, so worm- 
 eaten, and I don't know what : remind 
 me that I send it away to-morrow to be 
 revived. And Becky, as I see, foolish 
 girl, you are a little frightened, you 
 shall sleep with me to-night." 
 
 And mistress and maid slept. The 
 widow, for she told her vision when she 
 awoke, dreamt that she was carried to 
 the Land's End through the air, drawn 
 1 iy a team of pouter pigeons ; whilst 
 i58 
 
 Becky, who was also favoured with a 
 vision, declared that she had hatched 
 a couple of dozen of goose-eggs, with 
 twin goslings in every one of them. 
 
 Days passed on, and every day gave 
 new brightness to the widow. She sang 
 louder, laughed louder, trod her cham- 
 ber with lighter step, and would lie and 
 giggle in bed, Becky giggling in concert 
 with her mistress. One morning, the 
 widow observed to her confidential 
 friend, " This black, Becky, is sad hy- 
 pocrisy." 
 
 " To be sure, mem, it is ; but then, 
 mem, we can't be respectable without it." 
 
 "And then people stare so, if they 
 see one in weeds with a gentleman, 
 especially if one smiles, or " — 
 
 " A wicked world, mem ; think people 
 ought to have their sperrits in mourn- 
 ing as well as their backs. I should 
 like to know what mourning was made 
 for, if it wasn't to carry it all off." 
 
 " I'll not go out in black to-morrow," 
 said the widow, after a pause. 
 
 "Well, mem, I honours you for the 
 resolution," cried Becky. 
 
 " At the same time the neighbours 
 needn't know it," observed Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 " Why should they, mem 1 Ah, them 
 neighbours ! They're the cuss of one's 
 life, mem. How happy all the world 
 might be, mem, if all the world hadn't 
 neighbours, mem."
 
 TJie Widow Loses her Lover mid Myself. 
 
 " 1 can wrap a cloak about me, and 
 sneak into a coach, Becky," said Mrs. 
 Cramp. 
 
 "And not a mouse be the wiser," 
 said her maid. 
 
 The morrow came, the widow flung 
 aside her black, and burst into colours. 
 More ; as an excelling bit of beauty, 
 she took me. I was placed in her 
 head ; aud I was delighted to find, as 
 she looked and looked in the glass, that 
 she fully appreciated the value of my 
 presence. " A beautiful feather, isn't 
 it, Becky?" 
 
 " I'll tell you the world's truth, 
 mem," cried Becky, putting together 
 her extended palms, and flinging them 
 from her as she spoke — I've seen the 
 Queen, mem, and she isn't fit to see 
 you to bed, mem." Thus irreverently 
 did Becky speak of her anointed 
 majesty, Queen Charlotte, of rappee 
 memory. 
 
 It was evening ; a coach was called. 
 Mrs. Cramp, as cautiously as a mid- 
 night cat would cross a gutter, put her 
 foot into the street, and for an instant 
 looked hurriedly about her : the next 
 moment she was in the coach. The 
 action was rapid, yet I thought I saw 
 two or three figures on the opposite 
 side of the way, watching the progress 
 of innocent Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 The coach drove on. At length it 
 
 stopped at the corner of a street. " All 
 right," said a voice to the coachman, 
 and immediately the door was opened, 
 and " Edward " was seated beside Mrs. 
 Cramp. " My angel ! " he cried, " why 
 wouldn't you let me take you up V 
 
 "The neighbours, Edward — the neigh- 
 bours," said the widow. 
 
 " The fellow knows where to drive 1 " 
 asked the highwayman. 
 
 " I've told him — he can't mistake," 
 said Mrs. Cramp. The coach rolled on. 
 
 " This surely can't be the way," cried 
 the thief. 
 
 " He can't be wrong — I was so par- 
 ticular, Edward," replied the widow. 
 " I hope we shall be in time for the 
 beginning." 
 
 " Oh, I see ; all right," said Abram, 
 glancing through the window. At this 
 moment the coach stopt. " This isn't 
 Drury Lane," cried the highwayman. 
 
 " No," said a man who presented him- 
 self at the coach-door, and whom I in- 
 stantly recognised as Hardmouth, the 
 police-officer — "No, but it's Bow- 
 street." 
 
 The highwayman turned round, and 
 grasping the widow's hand, and looking 
 like a demon in her face, he shouted — 
 " Did you do this ? " 
 
 " What ? what ? " cried the widow. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, my dear," said 
 Abram, assured by the woman's look 
 
 159
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 of innocence. " Never mind, 'twill all 
 be right. Hardmouth take care of the 
 lady," cried the highwayman, jumping 
 nimbly out of the coach, and immedi- 
 ately disappearing amidst a crowd of 
 constables. 
 
 " Edward, Edward ! " exclaimed the 
 widow. 
 
 " He's in a bit of trouble, mum," said 
 one of the officers. 
 
 " Trouble !" cried the widow, and with 
 the word she stood upon the pavement. 
 
 " Highway robbery, mum," said the 
 same functionary. 
 
 " A robber ! " exclaimed the woman, 
 fainting in the arms of the constable, 
 who carried her into the office. 
 
 " It can't be his wife, Tim," said a 
 man, as he brought water to restore 
 the sufferer. 
 
 " One on 'em, perhaps," was the 
 answer. 
 
 In a few minutes the poor soul be- 
 came conscious of all about her. She 
 was told that Clickly Abram — her Ed- 
 
 ward — was a known highwayman — that 
 a poor girl was in Newgate upon his 
 account — a girl, sacrificed to his safety. 
 A watch he had stolen upon the high- 
 way from a sailor had been found in her 
 bed ; what was that to him 1 He'd 
 hang twenty women, and laugh at 'em 
 afterwards. 
 
 Such were the acts, such the cha- 
 racter, in brief, of the prisoner. The 
 widow, of course, would not believe a 
 word of the scandal. She insisted upon 
 seeing her Edward ; and, careless of all 
 beside, she begged, entreated, that the 
 officers would conduct her into the 
 office. The officers, subdued by an 
 influence which the widow had in her 
 pocket, granted her request. She rushed 
 forward to seek her Edward. In her 
 agitation, I fell from her head, and for 
 some minutes lay in the passage. And 
 then, a rough, coarse-looking man took 
 me up, and twirling me over and over, 
 and grunting a sort of approbation of 
 my beauty, put me under his waistcoat. 
 
 160
 
 c^ 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 -o 
 
 I am Taken to Neivtjafe. 
 The Turnkey and his Wife. 
 
 Uncovered that my 
 new owner was a tenant 
 of Newgate. Official business of some 
 kind had for a time drawn him from 
 his homo to the police-office. I cannot 
 clearly tell the purpose of his errand ; 
 but I believe it wan to speak to new 
 evidence which had come out against 
 some thief committed for trial ; and 
 that duty fulfilled, my possessor had 
 nought to do but straightway seek his 
 home in the Old Bailey. Nevertheless, 
 he lingered about the office, whiling 
 
 away the pleasant minutes in ses- 
 sional discourse, with old acquaintance. 
 "Hanging must be the end of this?" 
 said he to an emissary of justice. " Click 
 can't get off this time 1 " 
 
 "Lord love you, no, Mister Traply," 
 was the answer. " He may set measured 
 for his coffiu the first minute he has to 
 spare." 
 
 " He's a fine fellow, and won't disgrace 
 Tyburn," said my new master. " Ha ! 
 Tom — it's a pity for the time folks 
 have to live, that they can't 'scriminate 
 as to what belongs to 'em, and what 
 don't." 
 
 " I don't know ; it's all right and 
 proper to say so ; but if they did, what 
 would become of us 1 " 
 
 " That's true, too. Well, it takes all 
 sorts to make a world ; " and with this 
 worn adage, my new possessor prepared 
 himself to depart, when Clickly Abram 
 was brought into the hall, in the custody 
 of a couple of officers, poor Mrs. Cramp 
 with streaming eyes and ashy face, 
 following him ; and declaring between 
 
 161
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 her sobs, that " they should never tear 
 him from her." 
 
 "Tell you what it is, mum," said 
 Traply, gently taking the woman aside. 
 ' I'm turnkey in Newgate ; and if you 
 like to come there, you may be as happy 
 as the day is long with him." 
 
 " Heaven bless you ! " cried the 
 widow. Nor did the excess of her 
 gratitude make her forgetful of the 
 surer means of touching Mr. Traply 's 
 sympathy. 
 
 "I can have a coach?" said the 
 highwayman, looking about him with 
 dignity. 
 
 " To be sure you can, captain," cried 
 Traply ; " and more than that, I'll ride 
 with you." 
 
 The coach was speedily procured, 
 and Mr. Abram as quickly invited to 
 enter it. 
 
 " We shall be happy yet," cried Mrs. 
 Cramp, throwing herself into the high- 
 wayman's arms. 
 
 "As turtles, my darling," said Abram ; 
 and then, in a lower voice, "don't forget 
 the money." 
 
 Mrs. Cramp answered hysterically, 
 " She would die first ; " and then again 
 and again embracing the thief, she was 
 at length separated from him, fainting 
 in the arms of an officer. 
 
 " All right. Newgate ! " cried a 
 linkman with a laugh, having just 
 162 
 
 picked up a shilling, thrown to him by 
 the culprit, as the coach was about to 
 drive away. 
 
 " It's not so bad, I hope, sir 1 " said 
 Traply, -who had seated himself beside 
 Abram. 
 
 " A bagatelle," answered the thief. 
 
 " I thought so," cried the turnkey ; 
 " and that's not capital." 
 
 Rapidly the minutes passed, and we 
 stopt at Newgate. I shall never forget 
 that dead halt. Ere the prison -door 
 was opened, it seemed to me a pause 
 between life and death — and then, 
 what a terrible transition ! Now, and 
 the man, albeit a prisoner, had out- 
 door life about him ; saw the worldly 
 working of men ; saw free faces ; beheld 
 the passers-by carrying on the business 
 of life : some were going to then homes; 
 some, as perhaps the prisoner fashioned 
 to himself, going to merry meetings. 
 And yet he — he — was as unthought of, 
 as unacknowledged, as though he had 
 never been. Still he felt himself a part 
 of the world ; he saw its people, and 
 he was of them ; another instant — the 
 prison-door had closed upon him, and 
 the outward world was to him a dream ! 
 Between this and that side of a prison 
 threshold, may there not be grey 
 hairs 1 
 
 My possessor, Mr. Traply, was a 
 privileged man in Newgate ; and there-
 
 / am Taken to Newgate. 
 
 fore, as others might say, he was per- 
 mitted to have his greatest comforts 
 about him. And Mrs. Traply was al- 
 lowed to do her best to turn a gaol to 
 Paradise by her presence. I fear, how- 
 ever, that the opportunity was rarely 
 improved by the good woman, whose 
 first principle was to teach her husband 
 the virtue of humility, by constantly 
 showing to her mate how very much 
 she was above him. 
 
 It was late when I arrived in New- 
 gate— 'Try late. Mr. Traply, doubtless 
 to cheat the misanthropy of prison life, 
 had humanised himself with an extra 
 allowance of liquor. That good inten- 
 tion was by no means applauded by the 
 partner of his fate. 
 
 " Here you are again, like a beast, 
 Mr. Traply," cried the wife from be- 
 tween the bed-clothes, as the turnkey 
 entered his den of a bed-room. " Well ! 
 if my father, the lawyer, had ever 
 thought I should come to this ! " 
 
 "Where could he think you would 
 come to, when he brought you up, Mrs. 
 Traply, — eh % Where, ma'am, but to 
 Newgate 1 " asked the bacchanal and 
 brutal husband. 
 
 " You're a villain ! " cried Mrs. 
 Traply. 
 
 "That's my affair, Charlotte," said 
 the turnkey. "Nevertheless, my pet 
 lamb, look here." 
 
 " Don't lamb me ! Ha ! I wish my 
 dear father was only here." 
 
 " More shame for you ; if he was, 
 he'd be hanged, you know, for coming 
 back afore his time. Now, look here, 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " I w T on't look at nothing," cried 
 Mrs. Traply; who then asked, "What 
 is it?" 
 
 Mr. Traply approached the bed-side, 
 and with a candle in one hand, and me 
 in the other, presented himself to the 
 sparkling eyes of his placable wife. 
 
 " What a beautiful feather, Mike ! 
 Where did you get it 1 " cried Mrs. 
 Traply. 
 
 " Get it? I'm always a buying some- 
 thing for you," said the turnkey. 
 
 " It is a dear ! But what's feathers 
 in Newgate ? " sighed the wife. 
 
 "Well, well, we sha'n't always be 
 here, Charlotte. What's the news? 
 Anything happened since I went out ? " 
 
 Mrs. Traply, taking me in her hand, 
 and carefully examining me by the 
 candle, whilst her husband prepared 
 himself for bed, began, in a changed 
 voice to narrate the events passing in 
 her husband's absence. For once I 
 felt I had been a peacemaker between 
 man and wife ; for the late complaining, 
 shrewish Mrs. Traply spoke in accents 
 of connubial sweetness : " That gentle- 
 
 man has been here again." 
 
 163
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 "What, Mr. CurlwelH" cried Traply. 
 'Well?" 
 
 " It seems, as they call it in books, 
 
 quite a passion with the man. But he 
 says, he'll give anything if we can only 
 tell him how to get the girl off." 
 
 "And what says Patty?" asked the 
 turnkey, by this time in bed. 
 
 At the word, I trembled ; for I knew 
 they spoke of the helpless, innocent 
 creature, then with shame and misery 
 upon her, a captive in Newgate. 
 164 
 
 " She says, she doesn't want him to 
 meddle or make with the business," 
 answered the turnkey's wife. 
 
 "What then, she doesn't buckle to 
 him yet 1 " asked Traply. 
 
 "She quite shivers and turns white
 
 The Turnkey and his Wife. 
 
 when you talk of him. And, for all I 
 had her up hero to tea to-night, and 
 tried to talk reason to her, she said 
 she'd rather die than she'd have him." 
 
 " Well, then, she must die," said 
 Traply. 
 
 " Lor, Mike ! " cried the woman ; 
 "you don't mean it ? " 
 
 " That is, you see, we must make her 
 believe that Mr. Curlwell can get evi- 
 dence enough about her — right or 
 wrong, no matter — to hang her, if she 
 won't have him." 
 
 " Well, do you know, Mike, I think 
 she would die first," said Mrs. Traply. 
 
 "You're a fool, wife," answered the 
 turnkey, " and know nothing of natur. 
 All that we have to do is to keep from 
 her the news that Click Abram's taken." 
 
 "And is he taken?" asked Mrs. 
 Traply. 
 
 "Is he taken? Whenever I go out 
 of Newgate, I don't go for nothing ; I 
 think I always bring my bird home 
 with me. Yes, we have him. It's a 
 comfort to think we have him sleeping 
 as sweet as any babby under the same 
 roof with us." The caption of the 
 highwayman was plainly too high an 
 achievement for Traply not to put in 
 some claim to it. " He's sure to be 
 hanged," said the turnkey, yawning. 
 
 " You don't say so ? " cried the turn- 
 key's wife, slightly yawning too. " Well, 
 
 for my part, Mike — after all, you're not 
 so bad ; that is a pretty feather you've 
 bought me — for my part, I don't think 
 — no, I wouldn't hang nobody." 
 
 " You wouldn't hang nobody ! — 
 You're a fool, wife ; and don't know 
 what morals is," cried Traply. 
 
 "Well, and now you've bought me 
 that feather, what's the use of it ? " 
 asked Mrs. Traply, with a epiick jump 
 from death to ornament. " Feathers is 
 of no use in Newgate, Mike." 
 
 " You don't think I'm always a-going 
 to bury myself as a turnkey, do you ? " 
 asked Traply. 
 
 " I should think not," said his spouse. 
 "Suppose, now, the governor should 
 die" 
 
 "And what then?" asked Traply. 
 
 " Why, you might get his place. I 
 say you might get his place. For you 
 can't think wdiat civil things Alderman 
 Ruby says of you. Then, if you was 
 governor, I suppose I should dress a 
 little different to what I do now ? " 
 
 "Well?" cried Traply, with a half- 
 snore. 
 
 " And then, I suppose, we should see 
 and be seen ? " 
 
 "Well?" said the turnkey in a 
 fainter voice. 
 
 " And then, I suppose, we should go 
 and dine with the Lord Mayor ? " 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted Traply. 
 
 165
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 "And I suppose, if we was to ask 
 him, the Lord Mayor would come and 
 dine with us ? " 
 
 The turnkey was asleep. 
 
 " I say, Mike," and Mrs. Traply plied 
 her elbow in her husband's side — " I 
 say, suppose the Lord Mayor — Mike ! — 
 you don't hear what I say? — I say, 
 suppose " — 
 
 Traply snored deeply — most pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 Mrs. Traply having fallen into a 
 
 waking dream of ambition, would 
 not dismiss it. She, therefore, again 
 moved her connubial elbow : — " I say, 
 Traply — my dear Traply ! — I say, 
 suppose " — 
 
 The turnkey jumped up in the bed, 
 exclaiming, with most savage emphasis 
 — " Mrs. Traply, I have to go to Ty- 
 burn to-morrow morning ; and suppose 
 you go to sleep, that you may get up 
 time enough to mend them holes in my 
 stockings 1 " 
 
 1G6
 
 c^ 
 
 XXIX 
 
 ^D 
 
 I Meet Patty Butler in Newcjafe. 
 The Turnkey's Wife F(eabs lor £uriwe(i. 
 
 the time — the 
 good old time — 
 I was in New- 
 gate, there was a finer spirit of cordiality 
 between the keepers and the kept than 
 at the present day lessens the gloom 
 of that great, yet necessary evil. The 
 departing spirit of romance still lin- 
 gered about it. Fine ladies thronged 
 the lobby to roll their liquid eyes upon 
 the gentle highwayman ; and house- 
 breakers, though barred from liberty, 
 were still treated as persons of dis- 
 tinction, indulgence being ever vendible 
 
 for ready money. In those days, 
 Bacchus and Venus were never denied 
 by the grim turnkey ; but received 
 with a frank courtesy due to their 
 large influence on the lives of mortals. 
 Hence, Newgate was not the stony 
 terror of our time. Certes, it was not 
 so clean ; but then, in all the real en- 
 joyments of life, how much more com- 
 fortable ! Soap is but a poor commo- 
 dity, exchanged against that agreeable 
 licence which softens captivity. True, 
 there was then the gaol-fever, that 
 sometimes lessened the fees of the 
 hangman ; but then there was per- 
 mitted ingress to all black-bottles, with 
 no inquisitorial nose of turnkey, snuff- 
 ing their contents. Even then romance 
 gilded the prison flags, and cast a bloom, 
 a lustre on the footpad and the burglar. 
 Then was there popping of corks and 
 rustling of lutestring. And now is 
 Newgate a hard, dull, dumpish reality ; 
 dull as a play-house. As if too in 
 mockery of the glad past, the gyves of 
 Jack Sheppard hang, ignobly idle, in 
 
 167
 
 The Story of a Feather, 
 
 Newgate lobby. The imagination may- 
 yet play around them ; but, alas ! they 
 are but as a satire and reproach to the 
 poor, weak ankles of the degenerate 
 burglar of our time : to the living felon 
 of present Newgate, as the Elgin 
 Marbles to the dwarfs that gaze on 
 tiptoe about them. 
 
 That Mrs. Traply should board and 
 bed with her husband in Newgate was 
 a part of the indulgence vouchsafed in 
 the old, benevolent day : turnkeys are 
 not now so blessed. Hence, I owed 
 my introduction to the gaol, and my 
 early meeting with clear, persecuted 
 Tatty. Mr. Traply quitted his con- 
 nubial bed before daylight, called from 
 his repose by the iron tongue of law. 
 " Ugh ! " he grunted, as he put on his 
 clothes, " here's a day, I can tell, to call 
 a man out ! Pretty ride I shall have 
 to Tyburn. It's pleasant enough in 
 summer ; but this weather's enough to 
 kill a man." 
 
 " Never mind, Mike,'' said his wife ; 
 "I've got you what you love for din- 
 ner — rabbit and onions; so let the 
 thoughts of that comfort you as you go 
 and come." 
 
 " Ha ! " cried Traply, " a man wants 
 something, heaven knows ; " and with 
 this saying he went upon his awful 
 errand, an errand to be lightened by 
 the dream of dinner. 
 168 
 
 When Mrs. Traply rose, she looked at 
 me again and again, and vowing I should 
 be a perfect beauty when a little put 
 to rights, began to prepare breakfast. 
 Suddenly she stopped ; and then adding 
 a second cup and saucer, said — "Yes, 
 poor dear, she shall breakfast with me ; 
 and, as luck would have it, she's a 
 feather-dresser, she can tidy it up for 
 me." With this thought Mrs. Traply 
 left the room. In a few minutes she 
 returned with Patty Butler, prisoner. 
 
 Poor thing ! I thought to see her 
 much changed ; even more pale, more 
 haggard than when carried from Blooms- 
 bury. It was not so. Ill she looked — 
 very ill. But to me she seemed as one 
 who held constant communion with 
 death, and was thereby comforted. 
 There was sadness in her face, yet sad- 
 ness glorified by sweetest patience. 
 Sorrow seemed to ennoble her. She 
 appeared no more sullied by all the 
 hideous guilt and miseiy of the gaol 
 than did the light of heaven that shone 
 in upon her. Her eyes were mild and 
 tearless ; and at her mouth there was a 
 smile of resignation ; a smile that showed 
 angelic might of heart ; mighty from 
 its very weakness. Her voice was 
 changed ; deeper, calmer. 
 
 "There, my dear child," said Mrs. 
 Traply, whose heart was, after all, un- 
 chilled by the flints of Newgate, "there;
 
 / meet Patty Butler in Newgate. 
 
 make yourself happy with some tea and 
 toast. Come ; you seem a little down 
 this morning. Ha ! I don't wonder at 
 it. I, who have been here these ten 
 years — ha ! my dear, when I danced at 
 the race-ball with Sir Mohawk Brush, I 
 never thought to come to Newgate. 
 A little drop in your tea," — and Mrs. 
 Traply having qualified her own cup 
 with some brandy, proffered the restor- 
 ative to Patty.— "You won't? Well, 
 you know best. I should never get 
 through these days without it. I'm 
 sure it's enough to work poor Traply 
 to death. They hang six more next 
 Monday." -* 
 
 Patty spoke not, but shuddered ; 
 then with an effort compressed her 
 lips. 
 
 "Jack Ketch drinks George the 
 Third's health every Monday," said the 
 woman ; " calls him the real father of 
 his people, he does so well know how 
 to correct 'em. Ha ! " cried Mrs. 
 Traply, casting a glance at a Dutch 
 clock in the corner, " they haven't got 
 to St. Giles's Pound yet ; and such a 
 day ! Poor dear Traply ! I feel for 
 his rheumatiz. And going, they do go 
 so slow, my dear." 
 
 Patty tried to speak ; she could not. 
 
 " ¥"ou couldn't have lived so long in 
 London without seeing such a sight, 
 my love ? " 
 
 " I never did — never will," said 
 Patty. 
 
 " Let us hope not ; for though there's 
 a sort of somethiug that makes one long 
 to see it — I don't know, but it isn't 
 pleasant — no my dear, it isn't," cried 
 Mrs. Traply, with emphasis. " I was a 
 young, giddy, happy thing, when I saw 
 the first man hanged. Ha ! my dear, 
 little I thought of Newgate then. Well, 
 we won't talk of it. We'll talk of your 
 little trouble, my love. I'm sure I 
 hope it will come to nothing. I'm sure 
 / think you innocent." 
 
 "I am innocent," said Patty, mildly. 
 
 " But my dear," cried the turnkey's 
 wife, " what's innocence in Newgate ? 
 Bless you, it's better to be a little guilty 
 and safe outside, than be as innocent as 
 snow, and locked up here. Still, you 
 know, my dear, matters do look a little 
 black against you. In case of the 
 worst " — 
 
 " I am prepared, even for the worst," 
 said Patty. 
 
 " I don't blame you ; as a Christian, 
 my dear, I don't blame } 7 ou," said the 
 woman. " But for all that, you wouldn't 
 throw away your life, my dear? It 
 would be murder, you know." 
 
 Patty said no word, but sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 " And you're so young ; and if you 
 was only once comfortable, I've no 
 
 169
 
 The Story of a Fcatlicr. 
 
 doubt would be very good-looking. 
 Bless you ! I shall live to see you a 
 happy wife, and the mother of a dear 
 family. Now, there's that gentleman, 
 Mr. Curlwell — the man's a doting upon 
 you. He says he'll lay out his last 
 farthing upon lawyers and witnesses for 
 you : and for money, in a good cause, 
 there's kind-hearted people to be found 
 who'll swear whatever they're told, my 
 dear." 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear it," said Patty. 
 "What ! when they know you to be 
 innocent, and will swear w r hat will prove 
 as much 1 " 
 
 " Never mind ; we will not talk of 
 it, Mrs. Traply. I have known but 
 little to tie me to this world ; and if 
 it — if I say," here Patty struggled with 
 her heart ; then, observing me upon a 
 chair, she said, her lips quivering as 
 she spoke, " What a pretty feather ! 
 Is it yours ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; though I don't 
 wear such things now. Ha ! the last 
 time I wore that feather I danced with 
 Sir Mohawk Brush — I think I've named 
 him to you before. If he had only 
 kept his word, w T hat a sweet man he 
 would have been. It's been tumbled, 
 my love, lying by in my box ; perhaps 
 you can put it to-rights for me 1 " 
 
 " Certainly — I shall, indeed, be glad ; 
 for you have been very kind to me." 
 170 
 
 "And I want to be kind to you, if 
 you'll let me," said the woman. " Now 
 there's Mr. Curlwell" — 
 
 "Pray, do not speak of him," said 
 Patty. 
 
 " A nice, kind, affable man ; older 
 than you, to be sure ; but all the 
 better ; for die when he will, he'll 
 leave you snug. Suppose now — I 
 merely say suppose — he could get you 
 out of this trouble, if you'd only marry 
 him? Suppose, I say there was nothing 
 between death and the church, what 
 would you do % " 
 
 Patty, who had been gazing at me, 
 laid me down upon the table, and, 
 looking full at the woman, answered in 
 a calm, deep voice — " Die." 
 
 " You'd never be so wicked 1 " cried 
 Mrs. Traply. 
 
 " I will never be so wicked," said 
 Patty, " so false, so cruelly deceitful 
 towards any man, as to vow a love 
 where my heart sickens." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, but to die," said 
 Mrs. Traply. 
 
 " But to live," cried Patty, with 
 quick earnestness ; " to live and be a 
 daily hypocrite ; to feel a daily heart- 
 ache ; to shudder at even a word of 
 tenderness : to loathe one's-self for 
 seeming content — happy ! Where all 
 this is, what can be life 1 Oh, no ! " 
 said Tatty, with a gentle smile, " I
 
 The Turnkey s Wife pleads for Curlwell. 
 
 have thought of death ; and, indeed, I 
 can die." 
 
 " Ha ! my dear, that's often our pride 
 and vanity to think so. But to die 
 any way in our own sheets, with the 
 doctor, and every other comfort about 
 us, and to have all sorts of civil things 
 said in a sermon made on purpose for 
 us, even then, my dear, death is bad 
 enough ; but what, when you go out of 
 the world with a bad name — with the 
 world, my love, always to have some- 
 thing to say against you 1 " 
 
 " Terrible, very terrible," said Patty, 
 placing her hand to her brow, " but I 
 have thought of this too : and it is 
 little, very little, with the thought of 
 innocence. The world ! " cried Patty, 
 in a piteous voice ; " what shall I be to 
 the world ] What to me the blame or 
 praise of the world, when I am in the 
 grave 1 " 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; but you must own 
 there's a hard trial 'twixt Newgate and 
 that. Ha ! at this moment, poor 
 things," — and again Mrs. Traply looked 
 at the Dutch clock — " at this very 
 moment, they're taking their last sup 
 at the Pound. Ha ! there's the trial, 
 my love." 
 
 Patty trembled from head to foot, and 
 I could see her small hands work con- 
 vulsively — could see the fighting of her 
 heart to keep the terror down, as Mrs. 
 
 Traply, for the kindest purpose, as she 
 thought, painted the horrors of the 
 death-journey from Newgate to Tyburn. 
 
 " You don't know what it is, child, 
 or you wouldn't talk in that way. Ha ! 
 my dear, it's very different to going 
 with a party, and sitting at a window 
 to see the poor things in the cart ; 
 that's very different to being one of 
 'em, you know. Innocence, my dear, 
 is all very well ; but I don't know any 
 innocence that could bear to be stared 
 at by thousands of people, all looking 
 as if they had red-hot eyes upon you. 
 And then to see the whole street swim- 
 ming about you — and to have the blood 
 like boiling lead in your ears — for a 
 dear soul as was reprieved told me all 
 about it — and how all the men and 
 women looked like stony-faced devils 
 round him — and how as he heard some 
 of 'em laugh, it went like a knife into 
 his heart — and how as the cart rumbled 
 along, he prayed for the stones to open 
 and bury him — and how when he got 
 to Tyburn, ha ! my dear, he was proved 
 as innocent as you are, and yet he felt 
 all this — and how, as I was saying, 
 when he got to Tyburn — but you don't 
 listen to me 1 " 
 
 The woman spoke the truth ; for 
 Patty had sunk beneath the struggle 
 of her feelings, and lay insensible in 
 the chair. 
 
 171
 
 3raH» is Yisiic^ W Mrs. tSapfooth ant> Curdued. 
 Offer of Marriage. 
 
 1 1 3 she hasn't fainted!" 
 cried the turnkey's wife, 
 jumping from her seat to the side of 
 Patty. " Poor little lamh ! " said the 
 woman, as she applied restoratives to the 
 girl, and chatted calmly the while — for 
 her prison-experience had taught her 
 composure at such moments — " Poor 
 little kitten ! A stout heart she has 
 for Tyburn ! No, no ; I shall dance at 
 her wedding yet ! Dear me 1 well, she 
 is gone. Ha ! I'm sure when Traply 
 first asked me, I thought I'd be torn to 
 172 
 
 bits first ; and now — well, it might be 
 worse." In this wise, the turnkey's 
 wife continued to talk to herself, when 
 at length Patty sighed heavily. " Yes, 
 yes," said the woman, " she'll ciy soon, 
 and then be nice and comfortable." At 
 this moment there was a knock at the 
 door. " Come in," cried Mrs. Traply, 
 not stirring from her charge. 
 
 The door was opened, and Mrs. Gap- 
 tooth with Curlwell, the valet, imme- 
 diately entered. 
 
 " Lor ! and is it you 1 " cried Mrs. 
 Traply. " Here she is, poor thing ! but 
 she'll be better now you're come, Mr. 
 Curlwell j" and the woman threw what 
 she believed to be a very speaking look 
 at the valet, graced, too, with a pretty 
 bridling of the neck. 
 
 " Poor soul ! poor heart ! — Well, if 
 ever ! " cried Curlwell ; and he then 
 stared at Patty with knitted eyebrows 
 and open mouth. " Who'd ha' thought 
 it 1 " he then cried " If Newgate hasn't 
 made her all the beautifuller. Ha ! 
 Mrs. Gaptooth, she's a lily that would
 
 Patty is Visited by Mrs. Gaptooth and Curlwell. 
 
 grow anywhere ; — a golden flower she 
 is!" 
 
 I could perceive that Mrs. Gaptooth 
 had the most contemptuous opinion of 
 Curlwell's taste ; and this opinion she 
 motioned to the turnkey's wife, who, by 
 her mute acknowledgment of the intel- 
 ligence, showed that she, too, considered 
 the valet as a poor, fascinated, lost 
 man. As, however, Curlwell looked 
 for some sort of affirmation from Mrs. 
 Gaptooth, that well -practised woman 
 awarded to him one of her most elabo- 
 rate smiles. 
 
 " She's coming round — a dove ! " said 
 Mrs. Gaptooth. " As time's getting 
 short, Mr. Curlwell, and as I wouldn't 
 have you throw your money away upon 
 an ungrateful person " — 
 
 " I'll spend a hundred pound upon 
 hei*," cried the valet, with magnanimous 
 energy. 
 
 "Not upon another man's wife, I 
 should think. You'd never be so ex- 
 travagant as that, Mr. Curlwell 1 " cried 
 the full-fed, oily hag. 
 
 " What do you mean, ma'am ? " asked 
 Mr. Curlwell. " Another man's wife, 
 ma'am 1 " 
 
 " Certainly. If the gal will marry 
 you, why you know best, and may buy 
 your wife out of Newgate ; but if, like 
 a proud saucy jilt as she may be, she 
 won't have nothing to do with you, why, 
 
 you're only saving an ungrateful cretur 
 from Tyburn, to be for what you know, 
 wife to some other man. That's my 
 meaning, Mr. Curlwell," said the hideous 
 woman. 
 
 " To be sure," said Mrs. Traply ; " the 
 gentleman oughtn't to lay his money 
 out in the dark. He ought to know 
 what's what first. It's but reasonable." 
 
 "I'll spend a hundred pound upon 
 the dear creature ! " repeated the valet. 
 
 " You'll do as you like, Mr. Curlwell ; 
 but, as your friend, — though, the Lord 
 help me ! real friends are held cheap 
 now-a-days — as your friend, and as the 
 trial's coming on nest week, you ought 
 not to throw away your money, the 
 reward of your honest labour — the very 
 sweat of your brow, as I may say — 
 without knowing what for. So let the 
 gal speak out, once and for all. For 
 my part, I'm upright and downstraight, 
 and can't abide pigs in pokes. And 
 now," cried Mrs. Gaptooth, dropping 
 with physical emphasis upon a chair, 
 " now you know my mind." 
 
 " She's coming to," said Mrs. Traply. 
 
 " Go into the next room — he may, 
 my dear, mayn't he? — and, when the 
 gal's quite recovered, you can get an 
 answer." Thus counselled Mrs. Gap- 
 tooth. 
 
 Mr. Curlwell again muttered his de- 
 termination to lay out a hundred 
 
 173
 
 The Story of a FeatJier 
 
 pounds, and passed into the adjoining 
 room. Mrs. Gaptooth slowly turned 
 her head, following him with a most 
 pitying sneer. She then rose, and ap- 
 proached Patty. " A hundred pounds ! 
 and for a nose like that ! If the bless- 
 ings of money ar'n't thrown away upon 
 some people ! " 
 
 "She's getting better," said Mrs. 
 Traply ; who continued, in a low tone 
 of confidence, — "You're right, Mrs. 
 Gaptooth. Men are fools, ma'am, when 
 they get a fancy in their heads — quite 
 fools. Noses, indeed ! The noses, and 
 the eyes, and the complexions too, that 
 I've seen taken out of the dirt, carried 
 to church, and stuck up for life in car- 
 riages ! People talk of beauty ; but I 
 do think there's often great luck in solid 
 ugliness. She's getting better. Men 
 are fools." 
 
 "They are, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Gaptooth ; " and perhaps after all, 
 it's as well it is so : it makes all the 
 better for the weakness of our sex. 
 She'll do now ;" and Mrs. Gaptooth 
 turned aside, as Patty unclosed her 
 eyes, and looked dreamily about her. 
 
 " There, you 're better — to be sure 
 you are," said Mrs. Traply, "and it 
 was very foolish of you to take on so. 
 Bless your poor heart ! you '11 never 
 suffer anything of the sort, not you. 
 No, no ; you've too many good friends 
 174 
 
 about you, if you'll only let 'em be 
 your friends." 
 
 " I am better," said Patty, leaning 
 her brow, as if in pain, upon her hand. 
 " It was weak of me to — but, pray, say 
 no more of it." 
 
 " There, your colour 's coming like a 
 carnation," said Mrs. Traply ; " and, 
 since you 've been ill, some friends have 
 come to see you." 
 
 "Mr. Lintley?" cried Patty, with 
 sparkling eyes and animated face. 
 
 " No, not Mr. Lintley, but"— 
 
 Ere the woman could end the sen- 
 tence, Mrs. Gaptooth showed herself, 
 approaching Patty. I shall never for- 
 get the two faces. They seemed the 
 incarnated expressions of confident 
 wickedness and alarmed innocence. 
 "When I first saw the old woman at 
 Madame Spanneu's, I confess I was 
 tricked into a respect for her ; she 
 seemed so meek, so mild, so matronly. 
 And now — perhaps it was from seeing 
 her in contrast with Patty — I felt for 
 her a loathing, a disgust ! This feeling 
 was strengthened by what I witnessed 
 in the turnkey's room. 
 
 The old woman, overlaying her broad 
 ripe face with a smile — a laborious look 
 of complacency — made up to Patty. 
 As she approached, the face of the girl 
 changed to marble paleness ; her eyes 
 looked darker and darker : and her
 
 Offer of Marriage. 
 
 mouth became rigidly curved, with au 
 expression of mingled fear and scorn. 
 Once, as from some ungovernable im- 
 pulse, she shivered from head to sole. 
 She grasped the arms of the chair, and 
 still shrank back as the old woman 
 came nearer to her. She seemed pos- 
 sessed by some terrible antipathy — 
 some irrepressible loathing — that, in its 
 intensity, made her powerless. Still 
 Mrs. Gaptooth, with her undaunted 
 smiles, advanced. She was about to 
 lay her hand upon Patty, when, with 
 almost a shriek, the girl leaped from 
 her chair. 
 
 "Creature! touch me not!" Patty 
 exclaimed with a vehemence that sur- 
 prised me. She then passionately 
 seized Mrs. Traply by the hand, beg- 
 ging protection from that " horrid 
 woman." 
 
 As Patty spoke the words, the sha- 
 dow of a black heart darkened the 
 woman's face : in one brief moment, I 
 beheld w T ithin it the iniquities of a long 
 noisome life. The old crone stood for a 
 moment eyeing the girl like a baulked 
 witch. It was a hideous sight. 
 
 " You're a foolish, fly-away puss," 
 said Mrs. Gaptooth, rallying herself, 
 and again essaying her customary smile, 
 though I could see the harridan still 
 shaking with passion. "I come to do 
 you good, and you call me wicked 
 
 names. — Ha ! you have much to answer 
 for — you have." 
 
 "I know the good you would offer," 
 said Patty ; " you have offered it before. 
 I was helpless, alone, without a friend ; 
 and, therefore, you offered it. — Oh ! " 
 and Patty cried as from a crushed heart 
 — " shame upon you ! " 
 
 "You silly little child," said Mrs. 
 Gaptooth, still striving to trample upon 
 her passion. " You foolish little pet," 
 she cried, and laughing, would have 
 playfully pinched Patty's cheek, but the 
 girl with a look repelled her — " There, 
 you silly creature," she continued, " all 
 I said about a lord, and a fine gentle- 
 man, and a carriage, and gay clothes, 
 and all that, was only a tale — a story 
 to try you. Now, there is no lord in 
 the case ; but an honest, worthy gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 " You lose your pains," said Patty, 
 again restored to her composure. 
 
 " He can and will take you out of 
 this place," cried the invincible Mrs. 
 Gaptooth, " and make you his lawful 
 wedded wife. Do you hear what I say, 
 child 1 — his lawful, wedded wife. What 
 say you now, Patty 1 " 
 
 " I say again to you," answered the 
 girl, with the natural dignity of a pure 
 heart — " I say again, you lose your 
 pains, woman. Go." 
 
 Patty had overcome the patience of 
 
 175
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth. That ignominious word, 
 woman ! — that name so stung its un- 
 worthy possessor, that the old crone 
 gave up her tongue to unlimited indul- 
 gence. In a deep contemptuous tone, 
 she first begged to ask Patty what she 
 thought of herself that she called her 
 betters, woman 1 — " You, indeed ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Gaptooth. "You! — 
 woman, indeed ! and in such a place ! 
 — In Newgate, madam — Newgate ! — 
 or, perhaps, miss, I say miss, you have 
 forgotten where you are 1 " 
 
 " Indeed, no ; nor the cause, the 
 wicked cause, that brought me here," 
 said Patty. 
 
 " Clickly Abram, and a gold watch," 
 cried Mrs. Gaptooth, with a loud ma- 
 licious laugh. 
 
 At this moment I observed the door 
 open, and apothecary Lintley, followed 
 by some one whose face I could not see, 
 was about to enter. He, however, 
 shrank back, the door remaining ajar. 
 The noise caused by Mrs. Gaptooth 
 enabled Lintley to make this backward 
 movement without being noticed. 
 
 " I was happy, at least I was content, 
 when you, like some bad thing," said 
 Patty, " when you beset my daily walk 
 — when you followed me to my home — ■ 
 when you uttered words to me. You, 
 an old woman that should have advised, 
 have comforted a helpless creature like 
 176 
 
 myself — when you tempted me with — 
 but you know the wickedness, the 
 shame ! It w r as to avoid you, who 
 seemed to taint my life, I left a com- 
 fortable home — lost the means of 
 certain bread. I was driven — by want 
 and sickness driven — to the miserable 
 house, where the most cruel ac- 
 cident " — 
 
 "Accident ! Ha ! ha ! " chuckled Mrs. 
 Gaptooth. " Accident put a gold watch 
 in a lady's bed ! And do you know 
 what comes of such accidents 1 " 
 
 Patty looked pityingly upon the 
 hai'd-hearted creature, saying — " Yes ; 
 I know." 
 
 " And now, you would have the im- 
 pudence to abuse me — who would have 
 been your best friend — you, standing- 
 there, so bold and glib, do you know 
 that you mayn't have another month to 
 live ? " 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Gaptooth!" cried the 
 turnkey's wife, moved by the fiendish 
 malice of the hag. 
 
 " She does not hurt me ; let her 
 speak," said Patty, with a patient, yet 
 a worn and wearied look. " It is very 
 true," she then said, turning to the 
 wretched woman, "another month — or 
 less and I may be with the dead. I do 
 not fear to go to them ; and that, your 
 own heart will tell you so — nothing 
 better — that is much. Let me then
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth and Patty. 
 
 seem to you a dying creature ; and 
 with my dying breath, let me — poor, 
 wretched woman ! — let me pray you to 
 repent. Consider it ; what a weight of 
 broken hearts is upon your soul ! What 
 daily misery, what nights of horror, fall 
 to your account. Repent, I say ; or 
 what, indeed, will be the last hour to 
 you ? What the thoughts of helpless, 
 happy creatures snared and killed by 
 your wickedness 1 Again, I say, re- 
 pent ! " 
 
 There was a moment's pause. The 
 old woman had recoiled, shrunk beneath 
 the quiet energy of soul with which 
 Patty addressed her. There was a 
 pause ; and the woman with a tenacity 
 of evil — a daring resolution not to be 
 awed and beaten by a girl — shrieked at 
 her. Many of her words were unintel- 
 ligible from their shrill volubility : they 
 seemed to me the sounds of some fierce 
 brutish thing. "What you! you! you!" 
 at last I distinguished — " You to preach 
 
 to me ! To me ! Now, I tell you 
 what — I tell you what," screamed 
 the harridan, approaching Patty with 
 clenched, trembling fists — " I'll see you 
 hanged — I'll see you hanged ! If I give 
 twenty guineas for a window, I'll see 
 you hanged — I'll see you hanged — 
 Twenty guineas ! Twenty guineas ! " 
 
 The door opened, and Apothecary 
 Lintley, followed by Mr. Inglewood 
 — whom we trust the reader haa 
 not wholly forgotten — entered the 
 room. 
 
 "What wretched creature is this?" 
 asked Lintley, looking at Mrs. Gaptooth, 
 as she stood writhing and spent with 
 execration. 
 
 She, however, made one last raging 
 effort ; for, bursting into a loud hys- 
 teric laugh, she exclaimed, " Twenty 
 guineas to see her hanged ! Twenty 
 guineas ! " 
 
 And whooping, the demoniacal wo- 
 man rushed from the room. 
 
 A A 
 
 177
 
 o- 
 
 XXXI 
 
 -o 
 
 (Eurlwelfs Suit 3a c j c c t c *>. 
 
 Appearance anb Grief of the Wiuoiu Cramp. 
 
 r < 
 
 AVE I not heard 
 of this woman, eh, 
 child ?" said Lint- 
 ley, taking Patty's hand. " The wretch ! 
 must she follow you even here ? But 
 now we will not talk of her. This is 
 Mr. Inglewood, a clergyman, my friend. 
 He had heard your story, and wished 
 to see you." 
 
 " You will pardon me, I hope 1 " said 
 Inglewood. " It was impossible to sup- 
 press such a wish, learning such a 
 history. I came — I felt it my Christian 
 duty — to counsel, comfort you. I find 
 178 
 
 you well prepared ; so well, many might 
 learn their best lesson of you. Young 
 woman, the sorrow that has fallen upon 
 you becomes, through patience, a sweet- 
 ness and a beauty. It is a fiery trial, 
 this," said Inglewood, with a slight 
 tremor of voice, " and proves the purity 
 of your immortal spirit." 
 
 Patty made no answer ; but with 
 downcast eyes and flushing face seemed 
 to shrink and tremble at the commen- 
 dation of the speaker. Her agitation 
 increased : her feelings had been over- 
 wrought in the past scene, and now the 
 voice of tenderness and sympathy quite 
 subdued her. Still grasping Lintley's 
 hand, her big heart relieved itself in tears. 
 
 (Let me seize this moment — for I 
 would fain explain matters as I proceed 
 — to account for the appearance of Mr. 
 Inglewood. As I afterwards discovered, 
 he had become known to Mr. Lintley 
 through Dr. Wilson, who, it may be 
 remembered, was physician to the 
 Countess of Blushrose and her child ; 
 and whose recommendation had iiitro-
 
 CurlwelVs Suit Rejected. 
 
 duced Lintley, albeit too late, to the 
 Earl's house. When Inglewood re- 
 nounced his chaplain's office, he sought 
 — but vainly sought — for the humblest 
 curacy. Promises, promises were, after 
 a time, almost his daily food. Still, 
 often dinnerless, he put a blithe look 
 upon ill-fortune, descending from his 
 garret to the world, as though he came 
 warm from every household comfort. 
 And then it happened, that as his purse 
 shrank, his health failed. When he 
 appeared in the prison he looked a 
 disappointed, patient, dying man. Had 
 he made his condition known to the 
 Earl of Blushrose — the Earl's nephew- 
 was out of England — that kind, good- 
 hearted nobleman had placed him in 
 employment. Often, the poor parson 
 promised himself to make the appeal ; 
 and then something put off the hour. 
 That something could not have been 
 pride ; for Inglewood himself was the 
 last person to suspect it.) 
 
 "Come, Patty, I have some good 
 news for you," said Lintley. " The 
 man Abram is taken — is now a prisoner 
 in the gaol." 
 
 "La, sir, and if he is," said Mrs. 
 Traply, vexed that the secret should 
 have escaped, "the judges won't take 
 his word for the young woman's inno- 
 cence, supposing he can be brought to 
 swear it : and if he's a chance of slip- 
 
 ping his own head out of the rope — oh, 
 sir, I know what Newgate is — he won't 
 mind whose head he puts into it. As 
 for Mrs. Gaptooth, why, she's as good a 
 heart, I'll be bound, as ever beat ; but 
 temper, sir — temper spoils the best of 
 us. I'm sure I should be sorry, very 
 sony, if anything was to happen to the 
 girl ; and if you'll take my advice," — 
 here Mrs. Traply beckoned Lintley and 
 Inglewood apart, and lowered her voice 
 to a confidential whisper — " take my 
 advice, and persuade her to marry the 
 gentleman in the next room, he'll lay 
 out any money on witnesses. And he's 
 quite struck with her;- epiite foolish 
 like ; and more than that, really means 
 honour and nothing less." 
 
 " Of wdiat gentleman do you speak 1 " 
 asked Lintley. 
 
 "Mr. Curl well," answered the turn- 
 key's wife. 
 
 " Mr. Curlwell, pray walk into this 
 room," said Lintley, opening wide the 
 half-closed door, and discovering the 
 valet, who, stationed close beside it, 
 had overheard all that had passed. 
 Curlwell, somewhat abashed, awk- 
 wardly complied with Lintley's re- 
 quest. Patty, who, for the first time, 
 was made conscious of the presence of 
 her old persecutor, instinctively ap- 
 proached Lintley, as for protection. 
 
 " Your servant, Mr. Inglewood ; hope 
 
 179
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 you are well, sir. Strange place to 
 meet in, Mr. Inglewood," said Curlwell, 
 whose visits to the Earl's housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Pillow, had made the person of 
 the chaplain no stranger to him. 
 Moreover, the valet wanting a subject 
 to relieve his confusion, availed himself 
 of the readiest that offered. 
 
 "I have heard of you, Mr. Curlwell," 
 said Lintley ; " and as the friend, the 
 protector, of this young woman, desire 
 a little plain speaking. Why do you 
 follow her % " 
 
 " Honour, sir ; all honour," answered 
 the valet, throwing back his head, and 
 spreading the fingers of his right hand 
 over his heart. "I hope, Mr. Lintley, 
 sir, I'm a man above prej udice. And I'm 
 not ashamed to own it, I don't think 
 Miss Butler at all guilty ; and to prove 
 it, sir, if a jury should think as I do — 
 and as I've had lawyer's opinion, there's 
 little doubt all may be made straight, 
 if we go the right way to work ;" and 
 here Curlwell slightly laughed, and 
 slightly winked; "why, sir, then" — 
 
 " And then 1 " asked Lintley, in a 
 tone not to be mistaken. 
 
 " And then, as I said before, sir," 
 answered Curlwell, " I offer Miss Butler 
 my hand, my purse, my heart. Can 
 any gentleman do more ? " cried the 
 valet with a self-approving smile. 
 
 "Well, Patty," said Lintley, "it is 
 180 
 
 now for you to speak. If Mr. Curlwell 
 has followed you " — 
 
 "All love, nothing but love and 
 honour," exclaimed the valet. "No- 
 thing but that could have made me 
 follow her as I have done ; seeking her 
 out in all corners. Oh, sir ! the work 
 I had before I found her in Blooms- 
 bury — that will prove I'm in earnest. 
 I know, I don't deny it, I've been wild, 
 like other young men ; but a man may 
 repent, eh, Mr. Inglewood ? " 
 
 " I hope you feel he may," answered 
 the parson. 
 
 " Never was more certain of any- 
 thing," said Curlwell ; " and so, as I 
 said before, if Miss Butler will let me 
 try to clear this matter up, there's my 
 hand, my purse, my heart." 
 
 " Patty," said Lintley again, " it is 
 for you to speak." 
 
 Patty, in a most calm, collected 
 manner, as though she had gathered 
 her energies for the one effort, quitting 
 the side of Lintley, approached Curl- 
 well. The valet was plainly flattered 
 by the action, and stood smiling, and 
 working his fingers, ready to seize the 
 hand that he was sure was to be re- 
 signed to him. " You would have my 
 answer, Mr. Curlwell % I believe, I am 
 sure, you are sorry for the pain you 
 have given me ; from my very heart I 
 pardon you. I thank you, too, for the
 
 Curlwell's Suit Rejected. 
 
 offer of your help ; I cannot, on your 
 terms, accept it. Still, sir, indeed, I 
 thank you. Grant me one kindness — 
 
 hut one. Never again, whatever may 
 he my fate — never waste a thought, a 
 word upon me." 
 
 Thus Patty, in clear and passionless 
 voice, destroyed the hopes of Curlwell. 
 
 "Well, you know best," cried the 
 valet, with a face of scarlet, violently 
 putting on his gloves, and with equal 
 violence trying to smile. "You know 
 
 hest ; I meant well ; and if things 
 shouldn't turn out as some other 
 people would desire, at the last mo- 
 ment, don't blame me." Saying this, 
 Curlwell stalked towards the door. 
 Pausing a moment, he returned, op- 
 
 181
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 preaching Patty. " Still," he said, " if 
 you should alter your mind, rememher 
 there's my hand, my purse — yes, my 
 purse and my heart." And then Curl- 
 well disappeared, though unable to 
 divest himself of the conviction that 
 his offer must be accepted at the last : 
 how, indeed, could it be otherwise 1 
 
 "And now, Mrs. Traply," said the 
 apothecary, "let me thank you for 
 your goodness to my young friend 
 here. I hope we shall not much longer 
 trouble you. Dear me ! I had almost 
 forgotten. Here are the drops I 
 promised you," and Lintley drew a 
 phial from his pocket. "Take about 
 twelve drops when you feel the fit 
 come on." 
 
 " You're very kind, doctor. Nobody 
 knows what I suffer from vapours, 
 sometimes. And it's no wonder ; I 
 wasn't brought up to Newgate. When 
 I was a girl at Chester — do you know 
 Chester ? " and Mrs. Traply sighed. 
 
 " Very well," answered Lintley. 
 
 " You don't know the family of the 
 Brushes ? " and again Mrs. Traply 
 sighed. 
 
 " I can't say I do ; but I have no 
 doubt, from what I have heard you 
 say, they are veiy excellent people : " 
 Mrs. Traply having, in her short ac- 
 quaintance with the apothecary, again 
 and again talked of Sir Mohawk Brush 
 482 
 
 and his high relations : insinuating, 
 moreover, that she had never been 
 troubled with the vapours at Chester ; 
 which desolating complaint, real or 
 imaginary, had enabled Lintley cheaply 
 to show his appreciation of Mrs. 
 Traply's kindness to Patty. Hence 
 the phial. 
 
 " Ingle wood, I have some business in 
 the prison : I will not be long," said 
 Lintley, hastily quitting the room, as 
 though animated by some sudden 
 thought. 
 
 Inglewood for a moment looked con- 
 fused. His face flushed, and when he 
 appeared about to address Patty, words 
 seemed to be denied him. And then 
 he sighed heavily, and looking at the 
 wretched girl, melancholy, like a deep 
 shadow, fell upon him. For a moment 
 he buried his face in his hand ; he then 
 rose, and walked rapidly up and down 
 the narrow room. 
 
 " You don't look well, sir," said Mrs. 
 Traply : " it's the weather." 
 
 " It is," answered Inglewood, list- 
 lessly, casting his heaviness of heart 
 upon the all-suffering atmosphere. 
 
 "Will you try the doctor's drops, 
 sir ? " and the woman proffered the 
 phial, the harmless fraud — well would 
 it be were all frauds so harmless — of 
 Lintley. " With me the sky sometimes 
 pours vapours ; but then my nerves
 
 Appearance and Grief of the Widow Cramp. 
 
 are like any cobwebs. Like me, sir, 
 perhaps you're not used to London. 
 Now, when I was at Chester " — 
 
 " I wish somebody would take you 
 there, and never let you come back 
 again," said Mr. Traply, entering the 
 room, and bringing with him, well nigh 
 dissolved in tears, the widow Cramp. 
 " Here, make this lady comfortable, 
 if there's room," cried the turnkey, 
 glancing at Patty and Inglewood. 
 
 " Why, there's nobody here but Miss 
 Butler and " — the turnkey's wife was 
 proceeding. 
 
 " Butler ! that's the young woman I 
 wished to see ! Oh, my dear child ! 
 How is he 1 A blessed creature ! How 
 is he 1 " cried Mrs. Cramp. " Doesn't 
 he ask after me ? Isn't he dying to 
 see me 1 " exclaimed the widow, seizing 
 Patty's hand. 
 
 " What is it — of whom do you 
 speak 1 " asked Patty. 
 
 " Of whom ? Why, of Edward- 
 dear, suffering, innocent Edward," ex- 
 claimed the widow. 
 
 "She means Mr. Clickly Abram, the 
 gentleman that's stole a watch," cried 
 a voice ; and looking, I observed the 
 faithful Becky, Mrs. Cramp's maid. 
 
 " He did no such thing," cried Mrs. 
 Cramp. " Dear slandered creature ! 
 he's as innocent as the baby at the 
 bosom. And you're innocent, too," 
 
 said the widow to Patty ; "at least, I 
 hope you are ; but at all events, you 
 can clear him, my dear girl, can't 
 you 1 " 
 
 " Truly, madam," said Inglewood, 
 " you seem to forget that the man 
 Abram — that the crime committed by 
 him has caused the misery of this inno- 
 cent young woman : it is he who must 
 clear her." 
 
 " There — there — you're all alike — all 
 against him ; a dear, noble fellow. 
 But he'll overcome his enemies yet ! 
 Yes ! if I sell my bed from under me, 
 he shall. I don't want money ; no, 
 thank Heaven, I don't want money." 
 
 " Don't missus ; don't," said Becky, 
 whispering, and edging close to the 
 widow. 
 
 " 'Twill be all right enough, ma'am," 
 said Traply ; " never a doubt of it. 
 Can't it be easily proved Mr. Abram 
 was fifty miles from the place where 
 the man was stopped, and the watch 
 taken ? " 
 
 " To be sure, no doubt," cried Mrs. 
 Cramp. " lie steal a watch ! That 
 noble, generous soul — with the senti- 
 ments he possesses ! He'd have died 
 'first. Ha ! they little know Edward ; 
 and so my good girl," — and again the 
 widow, in the very childishness of her 
 grief, turned to Patty — " so you can 
 prove that you know nothing of him? 
 
 183
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 That the watch found with you was 
 given to you by somebody else — that 
 however you came by it, dear Edward 
 knew nothing of the matter 1 " 
 
 "I must beg your silence, madam. 
 I have already told you, the young 
 woman is a victim — a helpless, ignorant 
 victim of the atrocity of the man 
 
 Abram ; and again I beg," said Ingle- 
 wood, 
 
 But he was permitted to say no 
 more ; for Mrs. Cramp, again bursting 
 into a passion of tears, loudly exclaimed 
 that everybody was set against the 
 charming creature — that all the world 
 thirsted for the life of her dear Edward. 
 
 184
 
 Mrs. Cramp's Appeal to PaHv. 
 Visit of a D>ea(ous Wife. 
 
 I Lb I the widow recreated 
 herself with her sorrows — 
 for to me it seemed plain that she 
 took a strange pleasure in declaring 
 her wretchedness — I could pei'ceive that 
 Mr. and Mrs. Traply communicated 
 with one another hy frowns and pouts, 
 and other expressive means known to 
 the married ; which looks and signs I 
 readily interpreted into great discon- 
 tent on the part of the turnkey at the 
 presence of Tatty and Inglewood ; 
 whilst poor Mrs. Traply, by the eloquent 
 elevation of her eyebrows, asked as 
 
 n ii 
 
 plainly as ever woman spoke, " How 
 she was to help it 1 " The truth was, 
 Mr. Traply had returned soured and 
 disgusted to Newgate ; for, as I after- 
 wards discovered, the cart had been 
 stopped in Oxford-road by a reprieve, 
 and the horse's head turned towards 
 the Old Bailey. Such an accident, 
 especially in the winter season, was a 
 mishap to ruffle the turnkey, who, as I 
 heard him swear, vowed it " was only 
 playing with people." Hence he had 
 returned cold and hungry, and no pro- 
 missory rabbit and onions prepared for 
 the board. This incident was of itself 
 enough to curdle the milky humanity 
 of the officer. When, however, he saw- 
 Patty and Inglewood — from whom, with 
 a fine instinct, he knew he could obtain 
 nothing — when he saw them intruding 
 upon Mrs. Cramp, who declared she 
 had plenty, of money, and whom, there- 
 fore, the man very naturally wished to 
 have all to himself — he lost the patience 
 which, by the very smallness of the 
 stock, was so valuable to him, and 
 
 185
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 relieved his bursting heart in contempt 
 of Patty. 
 
 "All very fine, Mr. Parson — since 
 you are one — all very fine, sir : but the 
 young 'oman can tell what's what. 
 Bless your heart ! she's not such a fool 
 — she can tell Newgate from pie-crust. 
 She knows it wasn't Mr. Abram as give 
 her the watch ; and though she might 
 turn king's evidence" — 
 
 " She'd never be such a wretch ! 
 Never swear away the dear man's life ! 
 Could you be such a monster ? " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Cramp, entirely losing 
 herself in her fears for the highway- 
 man. "No, no, you shall not leave 
 me," cried the widow, as Patty moved 
 towards the door; "you shall not quit 
 this spot until you swear to me — and 
 this kind gentleman will take your oath 
 — until you swear to me that you'll 
 preserve Edward." And with these 
 words Mrs. Cramp seized Patty by the 
 wrists, who meekly begged Traply to 
 take her back into the prison. " Not 
 till I have her oath ! Not till I have 
 her oath ! " repeated the woman hys- 
 terically. Patty for a moment forgot 
 her own miseries in pity of the forlorn 
 condition of the widow. " Your oath, 
 my dear, sweet girl, your oath, before 
 this pious, reverend gentleman ! Swear 
 it, and I'll go upon my knees " — 
 
 And the widow, in the veriest imbe- 
 186 
 
 cility, was about to prostrate herself, 
 when Patty prevented her. " Be as- 
 sured I will say nothing — can say no- 
 thing — to injure him," said the girl. 
 
 " But swear it ! swear it ! " cried Mrs. 
 Cramp ; who was for a moment inter- 
 rupted in her violence by the return of 
 Liutley. The apothecary had heard of 
 the widow's consuming passion for the 
 highwayman, and placing himself be- 
 tween her and Patty, he said — 
 " I am come from Mr. Abram." 
 " From dear Edward 1 " exclaimed 
 the widow, " ha, the suffering martyr ! " 
 " I have had some talk with him," 
 said Lintley, "about the stolen pro- 
 perty. He knows nothing of the watch, 
 of coui*se." 
 
 " I'll be sworn for him ! A love ! " 
 cried Mrs. Cramp. 
 
 " Neither, Patty, does he know any- 
 thing of you. No : he does you this 
 much justice ; he says, though they 
 hang him for the robbery, as far as lies 
 in him, he'll acquit you." 
 
 " Hang him ! He, a robber ! Oh, 
 trouble's turned the dear creature's 
 brain. I see it. They'll drive him 
 mad, and then make him say all sorts 
 of things against his precious self. He 
 steal a watch ! I wouldn't believe it, 
 though I saw him. No : I'd rather 
 doubt my own eyes than him. But 
 he'll be murdered ; and for her sake —
 
 Mrs. Cramps Appeal to Patty. 
 
 to save her. Yes, yes ; I know it — I 
 see it," and the poor widow, flinging 
 herself in a chair, moaned pit eon sly. 
 
 "Good bye, sir — good bye," said 
 Patty to Lintley, as she endeavoured 
 to hurry from the room. Then, after 
 a moment, turning to Inglewood, she 
 said, "Sir, I thank you for this kind- 
 ness ; and whatever may befall me, 
 must think of it." 
 
 "Whatever may befall you," cried 
 Inglewood, sadly, taking Patty's hand, 
 " I will pray for the best ; and whatever 
 may befall you," he repeated with ear- 
 nest yet trembling voice, " I will be 
 here to sorrow or rejoice with you." 
 
 The tone in which Inglewood spoke 
 — I could see it — thrilled the heart of 
 Patty. New emotion seemed awakened 
 within her. She was fixed to the spot 
 — her eyes upon the ground — her face 
 now red and pale. And Inglewood, 
 with death in his aspect, gazed upon 
 the hapless, persecuted girl, and for a 
 moment his eye brightened, and he 
 smiled as though he heard the whisper- 
 ings of long-silent hope. To me, the 
 couple were a touching sight. The 
 girl, with affections deep as the sea, a 
 wronged and blighted thing ; doomed, 
 it might be, to death made horrible by 
 every circumstance of shame ; the man, 
 in the first strength of life, with the 
 best nobility of heart ; a gentle, up- 
 
 right, holy-minded being, surely wither- 
 ing to an early grave. And in these 
 two, there were new-born hopes ; affec- 
 tions for the first time known ; a dream 
 — a mocking vision that, for the mo- 
 ment, made the prison-place a para- 
 dise, and glorified the hideous present 
 by the happy future. "And shall it 
 be " — I communed with myself — " shall 
 it be, indeed, a dream ? " 
 
 " Come, Patty," said Lintley, not un- 
 observant of the girl's emotion, " I will 
 — with Mr. Tra ply's good leave — see 
 you through the passage." And with 
 this intention, Lintley, taking Patty's 
 hand, was about to leave the room, 
 when the door was flung open, and 
 Mrs. Lintley — for she soon proclaimed 
 herself — bounced before her husband. 
 Poor Lintley ! I could see it : he was 
 a man of firm, yet gentle, temper ; he 
 was upon the noblest duty that can 
 employ a human creature ; that of ad- 
 ministering sympathy and strength to 
 the weak and suffering, and yet for an 
 instant he looked confounded : had he 
 been detected in the meanest act that 
 could vulgarise life, he could not have 
 looked more shamefaced. He had 
 swallowed the bitterest drug in his 
 shop, rather than the words — for 
 well he knew their quality — of Mrs. 
 Lintley. 
 
 Now, the apothecary's wife doated 
 
 187
 
 T/ie Story of a Feather. 
 
 upon her husband ; and such excess of 
 affection was to her a sufficient reason 
 that she should . make him, now and 
 then, extremely miserable. She em- 
 ployed her love upon her husband, as 
 cats employ their claws upon a half- 
 dead mouse ; hence, she would make 
 him keenly suffer her affection. In the 
 first place it was with her an enduring 
 principle that every woman who saw 
 Mr. Lintley — who, in truth, was a good- 
 tempered, sweet-natured looking man, 
 and no more — was from the moment 
 incurably in love with him. Maids, 
 wives, or widows, all were alike ready 
 to sacrifice their hearts, their wedding- 
 rings, and mourning-caps to the apothe- 
 cary. It never for a moment struck 
 Mrs. Lintley that by such belief she 
 committed a grievous scandal upon all 
 her sisterhood ; certainly not ; she never 
 so far analysed her feelings ; but lived 
 on, with suspicion of all for her con- 
 nubial creed. The ingenuity with which 
 her jealousy would transform straws 
 into poisoned daggers, and cobwebs into 
 whips of steel, though highly creditable 
 to the maker of the implements, was 
 grievously painful to the sufferer. Let 
 a girl, with a tolerably sparkling eye, 
 enter the shop for some anodyne for 
 tooth-ache : " Oh," in the words of the 
 apothecary's wife, " there must be some- 
 thing in it ! " Let her opposite neigh- 
 188 
 
 bour have a pain in the head, and send 
 for Mr. Lintley : why, " That woman 
 was always having a pain in the head, 
 and there must be something in it ! " 
 A poor widow could not summon Lint- 
 ley to the spasms, but — " there must 
 be something in it ! " Nay, had the 
 same widow broken a limb, and sent 
 for Lintley, there would have been 
 "something" even in a compound frac- 
 ture. And then, Mr. Lintley had such 
 an inveterate habit of feeling the pulse 
 of a patient. " Could he not," asked 
 Mrs. Lintley, at least when the sufferer 
 was feminine, " could he not tell what 
 was the matter without squeezing the 
 woman's wrists ] Oh, there must be 
 something in it ! " Many a time, when, 
 after a hard day's drudgery — tramping 
 through the mud and mists of London 
 to his far-scattered patients, the worn 
 apothecary had stretched himself in bed, 
 and the sordid, miserable pettinesses of 
 the world were melting in the balm 
 of sleep, — many a time when that 
 demon, lodged in the clapper of his 
 night-bell, has called him from warrn 
 sheets into the raw, drizzling, wintry 
 air, the apothecary's wife, ere the bell 
 had ceased sounding, has declared it 
 very strange "that all his labours should 
 be at night : very strange, indeed ; but 
 it was plain enough — there must be 
 something in it."
 
 Visit of a ycalous Wife. 
 
 And this was the woman — the affec- 
 tionate wife, for she was so, in her own 
 persecuting way — who caught Mr. Lint- 
 ley in the fact ; apprehended him, with 
 his fingers holding the fingers of Patty 
 Butler. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Lintley, I'm satisfied, 
 quite satisfied," and the little woman 
 spoke as though she was chewing 
 ground-glass. "Yes, I knew it — I was 
 sure of it — I always said to myself, 
 there must be something in it." 
 
 " My dear Nancy " — said Lintley, 
 with his customary meekness. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Lintley ; not dear 
 Nancy — but dear Patty," and then 
 Mrs. Lintley smiled, as none but 
 women can smile under such circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " I assure you, Mrs. Lintley," — and 
 Inglewood was about to intercede for 
 his friend ; but vain indeed his inter- 
 cession. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Inglewood, it's not for 
 me to speak ; but I really am ashamed 
 of you. A parson — a minister of the 
 Church — and here abetting a man — a 
 husband and a father of a family — 
 abetting him, I say, in such doings. 
 The whole neighbourhood rings with 
 'em ! It wasn't enough that I was to 
 be insulted in my own house, but lie 
 must come to Newgate — among felons, 
 and worse than that." 
 
 " Are you not ashamed, Nancy % " 
 cried Lintley, and his colour rose. 
 
 " No, Mr. Lintley, I am not ashamed, 
 nor you either, but you ought to be. 
 I thought you had given this creature 
 up, but " — 
 
 " Woman," exclaimed the apothe- 
 cary, in a stern, commanding voice, — 
 " for your foolish sayings, keep them 
 for your own house, and for my ear — 
 since I must hear them — for my ear 
 alone. But I say to you, speak not a 
 syllable, look not one affronting look 
 against this poor wretched girl; this 
 victim of ill-fortune ; this patient, un- 
 repining piece of goodness. At another 
 time, your words would have been 
 those of a silly woman ; now do they 
 sound as of a wicked one. Here 
 is a poor, innocent, friendless soul, 
 standing for what we know on the 
 very edge of an untimely grave — yet 
 standing with a courage and a meek- 
 ness enough to put pity in the breast 
 of a wolf — and yet you — you, a 
 woman and the mother of future 
 women, you with a vain and idle 
 tongue must stab a heart the world 
 so wickedly has bruised. Are you not 
 ashamed 1 Blush, I say — blush, lest 
 I despair of you." 
 
 The little woman was awed, con- 
 science-stricken by the stern yet whole- 
 some rebuke of her husband. She 
 
 189
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 vowed she meant nothing in the world, 
 only that she was never allowed to 
 speak, and Mr. Lintley was always 
 so violent. Then she dissolved into 
 
 tears, at the same time declaring that 
 she thought Patty the most innocent 
 creature that ever broke the world's 
 bread. 
 
 190
 
 o 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 -o 
 
 A Conspiracy against PaHr>. 
 More Visitor* to Neonate. The Misses Peachick. 
 
 you say you wanted 
 to go into the prison?" asked 
 Traply of Patty ; for the turnkey 
 became more impatient of the unpro- 
 fitable delay of herself and friends. 
 Patty instantly grasped the hand of 
 Mrs. Lintley, and looking farewell 
 to the apothecary and Inglewood, 
 with a forced smile upon her face, 
 hun-ied from the room, followed by 
 Traply. " God help her ! " exclaimed 
 Lintley. " Amen — amen ! " cried Ingle- 
 wood, as from a writhing heart. Mrs. 
 Lintley could say nothing ; but weep- 
 
 ing, placed her arm beneath her hus- 
 band's, who, pressing it in token of 
 conciliation, led her away. Nobody 
 remained, save the widow, her maid 
 Becky, and Mrs. Traply ; the widow ex- 
 claiming against the stony-heartedness 
 of all the world, and the turnkey's 
 wife eloquently sympathising with her. 
 The passion of Mrs. Cramp grew and 
 grew with nursing ; at length, in a 
 paroxysm of love and grief, she vowed 
 she would give her last shilling to the 
 lawyers, rather than see her Edward 
 murdered. He — the dear man ! — had 
 with his own sweet lips vowed to her 
 his innocence ; and yet the world was 
 made up of such wretches, they would 
 not believe him ! Nevertheless, she 
 would spend her last shilling upon him. 
 Poor, departed Mr. Cramp ! How — 
 thought I — would it irk your ghost, 
 could it know that all the harvest of 
 your daily shuffling — all the bright, 
 bliss-bestowing guineas, for which for a 
 long life you played at bo-peep with the 
 devil, — all were to be emptied into the 
 
 191
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 bags of law, to save a highwayman for 
 your disconsolate mate ! Had Joseph 
 Tramp toiled, and edged, and scraped, 
 and only to buy from Tyburn a hus- 
 band for his widow 1 Surely, I thought, 
 if elderly folk would now and then — 
 whilst chaffering and fibbing in the 
 world's market-place for the over-reach- 
 ing pennyworth — now and then ponder 
 on the future outlay of their gains 
 when they themselves should be slabbed 
 over with a flattering gravestone, they 
 would let many a bargain slip, and 
 with it many a sin ! But no, with 
 such folks the spirit of hard-dealing is 
 a spirit hostile to death. It is impossible 
 — thinks the hard huckster — that death 
 should be so unmannerly as to surprise 
 me in the middle of a bargain. No : 
 with the miser, every guinea got is a 
 nail out of his coffin. And so, chuckling, 
 he draws nail and nail, and promises 
 himself the days of Methuselah, when 
 abruptly comes Mr. Undertaker with 
 his screw-driver — more certain imple- 
 ment than the sword of Csesar. 
 
 Mrs. Traply w r as at length left alone, 
 when, with housewife alacrity, putting 
 her room straight, she placed me in a 
 bureau amongst her other treasures. 
 As she did so, she cried, " There's so 
 many people about that Patty, she'll 
 never be able to pxit it to-rights. If 
 she gets off, I dare say she'll be like the 
 192 
 
 rest, and never think of the kindness 
 she's had in Newgate ; and if she 
 shouldn't, why then the thing's im- 
 possible." It was thus the turnkey's 
 w T ife speculated upon the life and death 
 of Patty Butler — upon the condition of 
 an ostrich feather ! 
 
 I was shut up in an old wainscot 
 bureau, through which the light glim- 
 mered in twenty cracks, though not 
 sufficiently to allow me to discern sur- 
 rounding objects. I could, however, 
 distinguish nearly every word that was 
 uttered, though the sound came to me 
 somewhat muffled. Hence, there was 
 enough to alarm me for poor Patty. 
 One wdiole day I was left in continual 
 terror. Poor, dear Patty ! I pictured 
 her to myself in that dreary prison, 
 surrounded by objects of misery and 
 vice in their thousand dreadful appa- 
 ritions. I trembled for her : and then, 
 remembering her sweet invincible pa- 
 tience, the mighty gentleness of her 
 heart, I knew she would retire within 
 her own nature, enshrined from prison- 
 taint. I had no fear of the crystal 
 purity of her soul, but I trembled for 
 her life, and, indeed, with good cause, 
 from the voices I heard about me. 
 My first London purchaser, Shadrach 
 Jacobs, the old Jew, was a visitor at 
 the hearth of Mr. Traply. He had 
 been show r n Patty in the prison, and
 
 A Conspiracy against Patty. 
 
 he could not be mistaken ; no, he never 
 was in all his life. And then, Mi-s. 
 Gaptooth would talk in a low voice to 
 Shadrach, and afterwards laugh horribly. 
 I shuddered, as I felt assured that the 
 life of poor Patty was chaffered for by 
 wretches. Then I heard Curlwell, in a 
 voice of remonstrance, declare that he 
 would have fair play ; and then twitted 
 by Mrs. Gaptooth, who would call upon 
 him to be a man, and not be made a 
 fool of by a brazen slut, he would vow 
 "he'd rather see her hanged than see 
 another man have her." Mrs. Gaptooth 
 would then declare " she was too good 
 for him, but he must have his own 
 way. She had no spite against the 
 wench for her impudence ; none — she 
 couldn't feel spite for the poorest thing 
 in the world — it wasn't by no means in 
 her natur ; nevertheless she'd go and 
 see her hanged with the greatest plea- 
 sure." The reader may believe that 
 from these broken sentences, I could 
 piece out sufficient to make me tremble 
 for Patty. 
 
 Days passed on, and from what I 
 could hear, the next day was appointed 
 for the trial of Clickly Abram and his 
 confederate, as she was called, Patty 
 Butler. Now it was the custom of 
 Mrs. Traply — I know not whether it 
 be common with the sex — to visit the 
 treasures in her bureau at least once a 
 
 c c 
 
 day. She would take up, and hang 
 over, and smile and nod at various 
 odds and ends of silk, and ribbon, and 
 lace ; and now and then sigh at an old 
 fan, as though it brought back to her 
 the days when she danced at Chester 
 with Sir Mohawk Brush. The remnants 
 of by-gone frippery, among which I was 
 placed, seemed to tie poor Mrs. Traply 
 to the out-door world. There were 
 laces in that bureau, knitted up with 
 the strings of her maiden heart. There 
 were pieces of silk which reminded her 
 of her lustrous youth, when Newgate 
 was to her a fable ; a gloomy dream ; 
 and nothing more. Then would she 
 sigh, and that sigh spoke of sad experi- 
 ence of hai-d Newgate stones. 
 
 It happened then that Mrs. Traply, 
 in a mild melancholy mood, took me, 
 the morning before the trial, from my 
 dark abiding-place. What she purposed 
 with me I know not, but she was about 
 to carry me from the room, when she 
 was arrested in her intent by the sound 
 of her husband. By the softened tones 
 of his voice, I concluded that he was 
 about to introduce Newgate visitors 
 into his domestic retreat. I was right. 
 The turnkey showed into his room 
 three ladies and a gentleman ; and as 
 they entered, Mrs. Traply at the same 
 time curtseyed, and flung me on the 
 top of the bureau. 
 
 103
 
 TJie Story of a FcatJier. 
 
 The male, and one of the female 
 visitors, I immediately recognised as 
 Mr. and Mrs. Flamingo, under whose 
 auspices, it may be remembered, I was 
 dressed for the Prince of Wales's cradle. 
 They were accompanied by two elderly 
 ladies ; and I will here set down what 
 I subsequently learned of them. They 
 were maiden sisters, Miss Amelia and 
 Miss Leonora Peachick, of Man-trap 
 Park, in the county of Devonshire. 
 They seemed, at first sight, as indeed 
 they afterwards proved, sweet, good- 
 hearted old women. Age and celibacy 
 had not soured their tempers, but 
 mellowed them. I have, indeed, re- 
 marked through life, that, where the 
 female heart withstands the withering, 
 chilling influence of singleness, it be- 
 comes rich, ripened with a thousand 
 virtues, that render it one of the noblest 
 hearts of the world. And thus it was 
 with the Misses Peachick. To this ex- 
 cellence, they united a simplicity of 
 mind almost childish. They were both 
 of an age not to be spoken of, and this 
 was their first visit to London. To 
 them life had been a tolerably long 
 walk upon lamb's-wool ; and they knew 
 little of misery, save of that misery in 
 novels, which is generally hung with 
 golden fringe at the end. Hence, in 
 London, they were in a perpetual state 
 of agitation, from the objects of crime 
 194 
 
 and wretchedness which beset them. 
 Every day they vowed they would start 
 for Man-trap Park, there to end their 
 days, forgetful, if possible, of the horrors 
 they had seen ; and every day Mr. and 
 Mrs. Flamingo prevailed upon them to 
 lengthen their visit ; there was some- 
 thing yet so beautiful — so interesting, 
 they must behold. What would their 
 friends in Devonshire say, if they did 
 not? 
 
 I know not if destiny had ordered it 
 as a reward or trial of the virtues of the 
 maiden Peachicks, that they should be 
 sent as first-floor lodgers to the house 
 of Flamingo ; there, however, they 
 were, and, under the potent persuasion 
 of the feather-merchant, there they 
 promised some time to l-emain. It was 
 in vain that they protested they had 
 seen enough of London ; Mr. Flamingo 
 knew better. 
 
 " No, no," cried the elder Miss Pea- 
 chick, as she came timidly into the 
 room, " I've had quite enough of this 
 dreadful place. Dear me ! Well, how 
 anybody can live with bolts drawn upon 
 them ! And you mean to say, Mr. 
 Flamingo, that all those men and 
 women — the poor prisoners, Heaven 
 bless 'em ! — that they've all really 
 done something wrong 1 They don't 
 look like it. There must be some 
 mistake."
 
 The Misses Peachick. 
 
 " Most of 'em old hands, my lady," 
 said Traply. 
 
 " Confirmed thieves and murderers," 
 observed Flamingo, glibly. 
 
 " It can't be," cried Miss Leonora ; 
 " it's flying in the face of goodness to 
 believe it." 
 
 " And is that poor woman a criminal, 
 too 1 " asked Miss Amelia, pointing at 
 Mrs. Traply. 
 
 " My wife, my lady," said the turn- 
 key ; and then added, with a grin, 
 " sometimes a criminal for all that." 
 
 " Ha ! and the good woman helps 
 you to lock the poor things up, I sup- 
 pose 1 And you live here, eh 1 Well, 
 bless me ! And you never let the pri- 
 soners out for an airing? They never 
 take a ride, poor things 1 " asked Miss 
 Leonora Peachick, in the innocence of 
 fifty-three and rustic life. 
 
 "Never take a ride, my lady," 
 answered Traply, that officer being 
 mightily tickled by the simplicity of 
 his guest ; "never ride, 'cept when they 
 go to be hanged." 
 
 "Don't talk in that way, my good 
 man ; it's impossible," cried Miss Amelia. 
 " Why, you'll never tell me that they'll 
 have the heart to kill any of those 
 dear creatures we've just left. There's 
 that sweet-looking little girl" — 
 
 " What, she ? Click Abram's wife, as 
 they call her 1 Ha, my lady ! " and 
 
 Traply tried to look grave. " Law's all 
 luck ; but if she hasn't a good share of 
 it, I wouldn't give the valley of a neck 
 of mutton for hers." 
 
 " What ! kill that innocent mild- 
 looking ! — Come away, Leonora ; come 
 away, child. Don't let us stop in this 
 wicked place, for fear it shoidd fall 
 upon us." 
 
 " My dear madam," said Flamingo, 
 " there's more to see yet." 
 
 " We've seen quite enough of Lon- 
 don," cried Amelia. 
 
 " Quite," said Leonora ; " and nothing 
 that's innocent and fit for Christian 
 people to see but the wax-work, West- 
 minster Abbey, and " — 
 
 " The Tower and Bedlam is thought 
 something of," said Flamingo, with 
 a critical air. 
 
 " Oh ! the king's crown and jewels 
 are very well — very respectable, and 
 all that. But, Bedlam !— Well, I do 
 hope," cried Miss Amelia, with the tears 
 nearly in her eyes — " I do hope that 
 the poor people are really mad, for 
 then they can't know how badly they 
 use 'em." 
 
 " Come along. I shall die if I stop 
 here," said Miss Leonora. "Pray, 
 come, Mr. Flamingo." 
 
 " Certainly — to be sure ; and then, 
 on our way back, we can peep at the 
 debtors through the bars of the Fleet. 
 
 105
 
 The Story of a Feather 
 
 Bless you, ladies ! you haven't half seen 
 Loudon ; there's enough to delight you 
 for a week." 
 
 The maiden sistei*s, without an an- 
 swer, fluttered from the room, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Flamingo, with suppressed 
 laughter, following them; and Mr. 
 Traply conveying to his wife, by the 
 eloquence of his looks, the most con- 
 temptuous opinion of his visitors. 
 
 The day passed — the next day came. 
 It was the first day of the sessions. 
 Mrs. Traply had taken me from the top 
 of the bureau, where I had remained 
 from the first appearance of the Miss 
 Peachicks. She stood, pondering, I 
 know not what ; holding me between 
 
 her fingers, when her husband — it was 
 a busy day — hurried in. 
 
 " There you are again, thinking o' 
 nothing but that cust feather," he cried, 
 snatching me from her hands, and 
 about to throw me into the fire. He 
 then paused, and thrusting me under 
 his waistcoat, ran from the room, his 
 wife vainly clamouring after him. 
 
 In a few minutes — for I could peep 
 very well from the bosom of the turn- 
 key — I was in the court of the Old 
 Bailey. 
 
 It was the duty of Traply to stand in 
 the dock near to the prisoners. He 
 took his place close to Click Abram and 
 Patty Butler — there and then arraigned 
 before the Bench. 
 
 190
 
 The Trial of t\u\ Abram am> Faifw Buffer. 
 
 & the highwayman glanced 
 round the court, it was 
 plain he felt the greatness 
 of his reputation. He w T as to be tried be- 
 fore a most crowded and most fashionable 
 assembly. His courtesies of Finchley 
 and Hounslow had not been lost upon 
 a reflecting world, that thronged to see 
 a thief who robbed a lady of her watch, 
 as though it had been her heart ; who 
 would pick a pocket with the like 
 mingled grace and serenity with which 
 a statesman would propose a money- 
 bill. Clickly Abram had elevated his 
 profession ; he had made robbery like 
 war, — at the worst, as people say, but a 
 
 necessary evil. Hence, high and beauti- 
 ful women had migrated from the west- 
 end to the Old Bailey, and with 
 scrutinising, sympathising eyes, saw the 
 lion in the cage — the hero in the dock. 
 Clickly Abram, with a smile of killing 
 sweetness, laid his hand upon his breast, 
 and bowed. He was dressed in the 
 fulness of the mode. His linen — the 
 gift of the widow — was of the finest web ; 
 and a diamond ring flashed upon the 
 little finger of the highwayman's white 
 right hand, which, with graceful negli- 
 gence, he rested on the bar of the dock. 
 A jeweller had visited Newgate to fit 
 Mr. Abram with that ring ; and thirty 
 guineas, the late money of the late Mr. 
 Cramp, had paid for it. If — I thought 
 at the time — the perversity of an 
 English jury should send the highway- 
 man to that far country where the 
 card-maker abided, what misery might 
 the widow's lover wreak upon the hus- 
 band ghost ! But no ; it was impos- 
 sible. Hang such a man, with such a 
 smile upon his face, such ruffles at his 
 wrists, such a coat upon his back ! No 
 law coidd be so arrogant. Clickly 
 
 197
 
 TJie Story of a Feather. 
 
 Abram was not a thief. No ; he stood 
 in the dock a graceful, light-hearted 
 gentleman, summoned for some good 
 
 he had performed to receive a sentence 
 of thanks from a grateful generation. 
 Patty stood beside the highwayman. 
 
 She was pale, and, after a brief time, 
 tranquil as a statue. When she en- 
 tered the dock, a momentary blush, 
 deep as blood, covered her face and 
 arms ; and she stood, struggling against 
 the beating of her heart. The high- 
 498 
 
 wayman played his gallantry ; for he 
 bowed, and smiled very powerfully 
 upon his fellow prisoner : he could not 
 have been more polite to the widow at 
 Ranelagh. The courtesy was, however, 
 cast away upon Patty. Though she
 
 The Trial of Click A bram and Patty Butler. 
 
 thought not to vindicate her own 
 guiltlessness by scorn of her com- 
 panion, she stood in soul apart from 
 him. She felt alone in that dock — 
 alone with innocence. 
 
 I looked around the court, and to 
 my surprise, saw many of my old 
 acquaintances. Seated close to the 
 bench, with her eyes upon the high- 
 wayman, was Lady Dinah Willoughby. 
 She, of course, came to give a day's 
 recreation to her breaking heart : she 
 was there to solace her sorrow with a 
 highwayman in jeopardy of Tyburn, as 
 she would have regaled her poodle, the 
 pupil of Mr. Spanneu, on the breast of 
 a chicken. A trial for life or death was 
 a tit-bit for what she thought her con- 
 stitutional melancholy. 
 
 Not far from Lady Dinah sat the 
 owners of Man-trap Park, the Miss 
 Peachicks. They looked about the 
 court ; then in each other's face, then 
 at the highwayman and Patty, then 
 threw up their hands and eyes, and 
 shifted in their seats, in a state of 
 wondering agitation. In near neigh- 
 bourhood to them were the Flamingos. 
 I could see the feather-merchant look 
 very judicial, as he scanned Patty, 
 and then whispered something to his 
 helpmate, who nodded in apparent 
 affirmation. Flamingo was not a 
 juryman ; but he had already passed 
 
 a verdict of guilty against the feather- 
 dresser. 
 
 Mrs. Gaptooth, with a gleesome 
 wickedness in her looks, was amongst 
 the crowd, and Mrs. Traply, and honest 
 Luke Knuckle. Poor fellow ! he sat 
 staring at Patty and vigorously gnaw- 
 ing his thumb-nail, unconscious of the 
 feast. 
 
 There, too, was the widow Cramp, 
 with the faithful Becky at her side. 
 Poor widow ! Tears had touched her 
 beauty : her face looked scalded with 
 weeping ; and there, seeing nothing 
 before her, but one form, one face, she 
 sat working her pocket handkerchief 
 into a ball, in her burning hand. 
 Abram saw her, and with a blithe look 
 kissed his fingers towards her. The 
 tenderness was too much for the poor 
 creature ; she broke into hysterical 
 sobbing, whilst the homely Becky, with 
 one tear trickling down her nose, took 
 her mistress like a child to her bosom, 
 and a man of office, with a fierce eye 
 cast towards the mourner, bellowed out 
 — " Silence in the court." 
 
 Lintley, his wife, and Inglewood 
 were together. Once only did Ingle- 
 wood exchange a glance with Patty. 
 He then seemed to avoid her ; seemed 
 as though he had retired into his soul, 
 and was there praying for her de- 
 liverance. The apothecary bowed to 
 
 199
 
 The Story of a Feathcy. 
 
 Patty, who meekly smiled ; and little 
 Mrs. Lintley hei-self allowed the recog- 
 nition, never even hinting that " there 
 must be something in it." 
 
 Mr. Curlwell was among the crowd, 
 anxious and restless. Now he looked 
 at Patty — now he blew his nose — and 
 now he appealed for tranquillity to his 
 snuff-box : that box — crested with a 
 dolphin with tail in its mouth, Latin, 
 and everything proper — which the valet 
 had proclaimed in the round-house, on 
 the night he had assaulted with his 
 attentions the young feather-dresser in 
 the Strand. Sure I am that that box 
 smote CurlwelTs conscience at the Old 
 Bailey ; and then he made himself 
 comfortable with the thought, that if 
 the girl would go to Tyburn and not 
 to the church, the evil was all her own 
 wicked wilfulness. 
 
 The trial began. The indictment 
 charged Abram with stealing a watch 
 and certain moneys on the highway, 
 and Patty with aiding, abetting, and 
 comforting the evil-doer. 
 
 The first witness called was one 
 Andrew Bishop. He was a rough, dull- 
 looking man, and stared doggedly about 
 the court, as though the business therein 
 transacted was wearying and contemp- 
 tible. His examination, which I reduce 
 to the main points, began. He had 
 been supercargo to the Mermaid ; she 
 200 
 
 had sailed without him, and he had 
 lost his berth, and all along of the 
 damned watch and the trial. (Here 
 the witness was rebuked by the Bench 
 for bad language ; whereupon, the wit- 
 ness scratched his head.) It was a 
 gold watch, with a ship in the plate, 
 pitching in a green sea, with the words 
 Such is life. He had met the prisoner 
 at the bar of a tavern, the Dog and 
 Duck ; thought him a jovial gentleman ; 
 he sang a good song. Witness left the 
 tavern, and the prisoner went with him : 
 went through a many places. At last, 
 up somewhere by the Long Fields, 
 when there was nobody by, the prisoner 
 clapt a pistol to witness's skull, and said 
 he must have all he had. And so the 
 prisoner took it ; and that was all 
 witness knew — but that he'd swear to. 
 
 Mr. Clickly himself cross-examined 
 the witness, and with an elegant sub- 
 tlety of manner that would have 
 honoured even the coif. In vain : the 
 witness was too dull to be puzzled. 
 He would not stir from two facts. The 
 one, that Abram had put a pistol to 
 his head ; the other, that Abram had 
 taken both his purse and his watch. 
 Mr. Abram himself smiled pityingly 
 upon the witness, and then smiled upon 
 the jury : but it aided him not — Andrew 
 Bishop, supercargo, remained fast to the 
 two facts.
 
 The Trial of Click Abram and Patty Butler. 
 
 Shadrach Jacobs was the next witness, 
 and proved that he had sold the watch 
 to Bishop (a circumstance substantiated 
 by the subsequent testimony of his 
 daughter Miriam). He proved that he 
 was present at the Dog and Duck with 
 Bishop ; that there was a man, drink- 
 ing and singing with the supercargo, 
 very like the gentleman at the bar; 
 certainly, veiy like him ; but not the 
 gentleman. There was a girl with the 
 man ; and that girl — Shadrach Jacobs 
 would swear it — was the girl in the 
 dock. 
 
 Here an ejaculation of disgust was 
 heard from one of the audience, and 
 the officer, looking in the direction of 
 Luke Knuckle, exclaimed, "Silence in 
 the court ! " Curl well, looking at Patty, 
 seemed anxious and irresolute ; and Mrs. 
 Gaptooth leered and smiled. 
 
 And then came the evidence of 
 Hardmouth and two of the watchmen. 
 They had tracked the pi-isoner to his 
 lodgings in Bloomsbury, whence he had 
 escaped. They, however, found there 
 the pocket-book (the money gone) and 
 the watch of the prosecutor. The 
 watch was found in the bed of the 
 female prisoner, after Abram had es- 
 caped from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Crumpet, who declared that 
 she believed Mr. Abram to be a perfect 
 gentleman, deposed that he had lodged 
 
 D D 
 
 in her house. Never knew anything 
 irregular in him. Would have trusted 
 him with untold gold. The young 
 woman at the bar had been a long 
 time sick ; and, when the robbery was 
 committed, was in bed. Could not, 
 certainly, explain how the watch was 
 found with Patty. 
 
 Three others — witnesses for Mr. 
 Abram — courageously swore that, on 
 the night of the robbery, the maligned 
 prisoner was at Gloucester. I could 
 perceive that the widow, albeit she 
 looked wonderingly at these witnesses, 
 looked not with displeasure. 
 
 Mr. Lintley bore testimony to the 
 worth, the goodness of Patty ; and Mr. 
 Flamingo, who had been hunted out 
 and compelled to attend by the apothe- 
 cary, deposed that he thought the 
 female prisoner a very honest woman ; 
 and then, on cross-examination, allowed, 
 with great alacrity, that she had been 
 once in the round-house ; that there 
 had been a charge against her — some- 
 thing about a snuff-box. 
 
 " But that man knows it was all a 
 lie," cried Luke Knuckle from the 
 gallery, pointing to Curlwell. 
 
 " Remove that man ! " said the judge 
 to the officer of the court ; but Luke 
 did not wait to trouble that functionary. 
 Mr. Lintley, however, immediately com- 
 municated with the counsel ; and when 
 
 201
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 Flamingo's examination was over, Julius 
 Curhvell was called and sworn. It was 
 very true, he owned, he had made a 
 false charge — he had found his box — 
 in fact, he had himself addressed, not 
 assaulted, as the counsel said, the girl 
 in the street. It was true he had 
 offered to many her ; since — yes, he 
 would not deny it — he loved her very 
 much. Had never said he could save 
 her if he would. Knew Shadrach 
 Jacobs — but knew no harm of him ; 
 would swear — that is, he was almost 
 sure he would — that he had never met 
 the Jew about the trial. Knew a 
 woman Gaptooth (here that excellent 
 matron elbowed her way out of court) ; 
 thought her character tolerably good ; 
 she had been two or three times in- 
 dicted ; would not swear that he had 
 not sent messages by her to the prisoner 
 at the bar ; they were not dishonour- 
 able messages — that is, they were 
 messages that gentlemen sometimes 
 sent to young women. 
 
 Here Curlwell's examination termi- 
 nated ; that is, he was taken off the 
 rack. He had a quick-witted counsel 
 and his own conscience against him. 
 Hence the valet turned pale and red, 
 and shuffled and stammered, and 
 grinned vacantly, and whined, and so 
 laid bare before the court the miserable 
 nature of Julius Curl well. There never 
 202 
 
 was a more pitiable picture of a weak, 
 dissolute creature. When released from 
 the torture of self-delineation, the valet, 
 with the sweat running from his brow, 
 ran from the court. His evidence had 
 done much for the cause of Patty. 
 Lintley — I saw it — thought so ; for he 
 smiled and grasped Inglewood's hand, 
 and Mrs. Lintley herself nodded cheer- 
 ingly to "the female prisoner at the 
 bar." 
 
 And now was Abram called upon for 
 his defence. Leaning forward, he made 
 a sort of sweeping bow to the whole 
 court ; and then, with a condescending 
 air, began. " My lord and gentlemen 
 of the jury," said the highwayman, 
 " whilst I regret that the inconvenience 
 of being in this place should have fallen 
 to your humble servant, I cannot but 
 feel that there are circumstances which, 
 at the first blush, demanded, for the 
 satisfaction of justice, that I should be 
 so placed. A robbery has been com- 
 mitted, gentlemen, there can be no 
 doubt of that ; the prosecutor, a most 
 intelligent, and I am sure, very honour- 
 able man, was despoiled of his money 
 and his watch. He has sworn that I 
 am the robber ; and I believe, gentle- 
 men, that he believes he has sworn 
 truly. But, is the fact supported by 
 corroborative testimony 1 Mr. Jacobs, 
 a merchant of high standing, distinctly
 
 The Trial of Click Abram and Patty Butler. 
 
 states that I was not present at the 
 Dog and Duck ; but that a man, unfor- 
 tunately like me, was : I must say," 
 and the speaker smiled, " unfortunately 
 for me, in this case. Three other re- 
 spectable men swear, that on that very 
 night I was at Gloucester. Gentlemen 
 of the jury, I was ! It is true the 
 watch was found at my lodgiugs : but 
 Mrs. Crumpet lets her every room. It 
 has been said, I was lying concealed 
 there. Gentlemen, it is true : and 
 why 1 I was a little in debt — I own it 
 with a blush — a little in debt. Gen- 
 tlemen, I leave my case to your own 
 intelligence. You will not find me 
 guilty of felony, because I happen to 
 resemble some unfortunate man ; you 
 will not hang me for a likeness ; " and 
 Mr. Abram tried to be jocular; "you 
 will not find me guilty for having the 
 same eyes, and nose, and mouth, as a 
 highwayman, for such indeed is proved 
 my only offence ; no, gentlemen, you 
 value your own peace of mind — you 
 value your own night's rest, the rest of 
 your wives and your families ; and 
 above all, you value truth ; in which 
 case, gentlemen of the jury, without 
 one anxious thought, do I leave my 
 fate in your hands. I know what your 
 
 verdict must be, and in the tranquillity 
 of innocence await it." 
 
 There was a buzz, a murmur of 
 applause, at the eloquence, the self- 
 possession of the speaker, who bowed 
 acknowledgment. The widow Cramp 
 looked smilingly about. 
 
 Patty was then called upon. Her 
 defence was, simply — " Not guilty." 
 
 The judge briefly summed up ; and, 
 as I thought, bore hard upon Click 
 Abram : that person, however, seemed 
 to think otherwise : for whilst the jury 
 was retired, he lounged against the side 
 of the dock, and employed himself by 
 trimming his filbert nails. 
 
 The jury returned into court. The 
 verdict was given. " Clickly Abram, 
 guilty ; Martha Butler 1 , not guilty." 
 
 A loud shriek rang from the gallery; 
 and then poor Mrs. Cramp, screaming 
 " Murder, murder ! " fell in the arms of 
 her faithful handmaid. The highway- 
 man paused, as he was about to turn 
 from the dock, and a momentary look 
 of anguish possessed him, as he gazed 
 upward at the suffering widow. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lintley, Inglewood, and 
 lastly the two Miss Peachicks, crowded 
 their way to the dock, to grasp the 
 hands of Pattv. 
 
 20L
 
 I am fallen to Brurn Lane Theatre, anc* become Part ot 
 its YV arbrooc. The Piap-house Lclainb the Scenes. 
 
 lR<fa(rL¥ 9 by duty of his office, 
 retired with Click Abram and 
 Patty from the dock into the 
 prison. The highwayman, rallying his 
 courage and his gallantly, begged to 
 congratulate the girl on her escape. 
 " Gad's me ! " he cried, " I'm glad of it, 
 though I lose the honour of your com- 
 pany to Tyburn. Yet, curse the jury- 
 men ! To have one's dinner spoilt by 
 such a set of blockheads ! Buttermen 
 and shoemakers to hang a gentleman ! " 
 And then Abram burst into a wild 
 and hollow laugh to show his fine phi- 
 losophy. 
 
 " Miserable man ! " cried Inglewood ; 
 204 
 
 " your grave is dug ; your knell about 
 to toll ; death is staring in your face. 
 Wretched creature, would you jest with 
 God ? " 
 
 Abram started at this passionate re- 
 proof of Inglewood, whose pale thin 
 cheek was flushed and quivering with 
 emotion ; and then the highwayman, 
 summoning his contempt, stared at the 
 intruder, and executed a long, loud 
 whistle. Inglewood, with sorrow in his 
 face and voice, raised his hands and 
 cried, "Heaven be merciful to you!" 
 He then joined Mr. and Mrs. Lintley 
 and the Miss Peachicks, all of whom 
 were congratulating and caressing Patty. 
 The maiden sisters were weeping — 
 joyously weeping ; and Mrs. Lintley 
 declared that Patty should go home 
 with her ; she was such a good, inno- 
 cent creature, and would bring a blessing 
 upon any house. Then Lintley smiled, 
 and Miss Amelia Peachick, slipping a 
 guinea into Traply's hand, begged him 
 to send for a coach. As for Miss 
 Leonora, I heard her whisper to her
 
 / am taken to Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 sister, that " she hoped no harm could 
 come to the poor creature who was 
 found guilty ; they had, no doubt, only 
 done it to frighten him." 
 
 Traply departed on his errand : as 
 he hurried away, I caught a glance of 
 Inglewood ; he stood somewhat apart 
 from the group, gazing at Patty — his 
 heart in his eyes. And thus I left him. 
 
 When the turnkey returned to his 
 wife, he was so mollified by the harvest 
 of the day, that although he had en- 
 tirely forgotten me, he suffered his 
 spouse to remind him of his brutality 
 with no other reply than a jocose 
 growl ; and delivered me — bent and 
 rumpled, and, as his spouse said, not fit 
 for any Christian to wear — into the 
 hands of his helpmate. I was curious 
 to learn the condition of Mrs. Cramp, 
 but heard nothing more than, as Traply 
 reported at supper, that she had been 
 " a crying and a melting over Click 
 like butter." The next morning Mrs. 
 Traply left Newgate, cax-rying me with 
 her. 
 
 In a few minutes, I found myself 
 consigned to the hands of a feather- 
 cleaner in Shoe-lane, with an injunction 
 from Mrs. Traply to be put in order 
 without delay. " It's been a handsome 
 thing in its time, but, like most of us, 
 a little tumbled and worse fur wear," 
 
 said an old woman, the shopkeeper, and 
 as I found, an acquaintance of her cus- 
 tomer. " Ha ! Mrs. Briggs, when I 
 wore that feather at Chester," cried 
 Mrs. Traply. " Well, w r ell, you may 
 say tumbled ; " and, with a significant 
 toss of the head, the turnkey's wife 
 departed, I suppose for Newgate. " She's 
 a nice cretur, she is," said Mrs. Briggs 
 to her dirty shop-girl ; " she wear a 
 feather ! I'll be bound for't got out of 
 some poor thing in trouble — some dear 
 soid in gaol." 
 
 About a fortnight passed, in which 
 time I was cleaned and set in order, 
 and, as I thought from a glance of my- 
 self in a glass, made to look as beautiful 
 as ever. Alas ! was I to carry my 
 whiteness back to Newgate % Fortu- 
 nately, no. Mrs. Briggs was a shrewd 
 shopwomau. She had mislaid or lost 
 an excellent feather brought, among 
 others, by a lai-ge customer, and she 
 resolved that I should take the place 
 of the missing goods. "As for Mrs. 
 Traply," said her acquaintance, Mrs. 
 Briggs, " she might be put off with 
 anything, and never know any better. 
 Now, Mr. Garrick was so partic'lar." 
 
 My heart throbbed at the words. 
 Was I to become the property of Mr. 
 Garrick 1 Was I to go upon the stage 1 
 Having played my part above the cradle 
 of a real Prince of Wales, was I to wave 
 
 205
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 amongst kings and princes of sixty shil- 
 lings per week 1 These thoughts pos- 
 sessed me, as I lay in a bundle upon a 
 shelf, among other feathers of all kinds 
 and colours ; when, after an anxious 
 three days, I felt myself cai*ried out of 
 the shop with my companions. In a 
 short time, I found myself at the stage- 
 door of Drmy-lane Theatre. My bosom 
 beat and glowed, for I was among his 
 Majesty's servants ! 
 
 Assuredly, there is something subtly 
 intoxicating in the air of a theatre. I 
 had no sooner passed the vestibule of 
 the play-house, than I felt myself an 
 exceedingly great creature. My every 
 filament seemed to expand with new 
 dignity ; I felt myself swelling like a 
 cat's tail. It is the atmosphere, I 
 thought. It is the air, impregnated 
 with the spirit of poetry — of mighty 
 thoughts, that gives an elevation, a 
 largeness of manner, even to the door- 
 keeper. The place seemed to me a 
 sort of half-way house, between the 
 sordid homeliness of the world and the 
 revealed glories of the land of romance. 
 I felt drunk ; but the intoxication was 
 delicious. 
 
 I was soon deposited in what I found 
 to be the ladies' wardrobe. Looking 
 about me, I discovered more than one 
 old acquaintance in the gowns I had 
 fallen among at Madame Spanneu's. 
 206 
 
 There was my old friend, the lutestring, 
 at times devoted to the nightly service 
 of Mrs. Clive ; Mrs. Pritchard was wont 
 to wear the pompadour ; and the smoke- 
 coloured cloak had graced the fair 
 shoulders of the gentle Mrs. Abington. 
 I nodded to them ; and at night began 
 to talk to them as old acquaintances. 
 They, however, treated me contemptu- 
 ously as a new-comer and a nobody ; 
 desiring me to remember that all the 
 town was mad after them; that, in- 
 deed, the world itself could not turn 
 round without them. Snubbed, I was 
 compelled to hold my peace, or now 
 ' and then to have a whispering chat 
 with a shabby old blue bodice, com- 
 monly worn, as it informed me, by the 
 meaner people of the playhouse. " I 
 have never yet opened my mouth upon 
 the stage," said the bodice to me in a 
 tone of melancholy : and when I begged 
 to be further informed of its meaning, 
 it assured me that it was only worn by 
 the girls who acted speechless peasants 
 and tongue-tied domestics. "Bless 
 you," it sighed, " I have never yet been 
 into the first green-room ; but have 
 merely stared at it with all my eyelet- 
 holes, as I have passed on and off with 
 the mob. Now, you," said the bodice, 
 "you are sure to have better luck. I 
 shouldn't wonder to see you very soon 
 as Mrs. Oakley, or the Queen, in Hamlet.
 
 / become part of the Wardrobe. 
 
 I," said the bodice, heaving a deep 
 sigh, " I have never known the sweets 
 of a round of applause in all my life ; 
 now, you'll have it — hot as you can sup 
 it." I confess it, I was in a nutter of 
 delight at these words ; though from 
 what I heard from every piece of rai- 
 ment that opened its lips, I conceived 
 a deep aversion for Mr. Garrick. No 
 one had a civil syllable for him. " Are 
 managers," I asked of the bodice, 
 " always such wicked people ; such ty- 
 rants, such knaves, such shufflers, such 
 hypocrites ? " The bodice made an- 
 swer, with significant emphasis, " My 
 dear, always." 
 
 " Kitty, was the house good to- 
 night 1 " asked the pompadour of the 
 lutestring, or rather Mrs. Pritchard of 
 Mrs. Clive, for I shall give to the gar- 
 ments the names of the ladies who 
 sometimes wore them. 
 
 " Quite good enough," answered 
 Clive. " That Jew, Garrick, acts worse 
 and worse." 
 
 "Now, Kitty," cried Mrs. Abington, 
 in the gentlest voice, " why will you 
 abuse David ? I'm sure he loves you 
 like a brother." 
 
 " Yes, as brother Cain loved brother 
 Abel," replied Kitty. " Love me ! 
 Didn't the wretch take me out of Miss 
 Prue, and the romps I've played for 
 thirty years 1 Had the impudence to 
 
 talk of my age. He doesn't see the 
 wrinkles in his own face — as deep and 
 as black as a coal-pit. Why didn't 
 the ' sick monkey ' stay in Italy ? I 
 could kiss Beard for having driven 
 him out of the country with cat-gut. 
 The brute ! Took me out of Miss 
 Prue ! Why doesn't he take himself 
 out of Ranger ? " 
 
 " But then, you know, love," ob- 
 served Mrs. Yates, represented by a 
 white satin petticoat, " you know he's 
 a manager." At this all the ladies 
 laughed in chorus. 
 
 In a short time I learned all the 
 past and present politics of the play- 
 house. Poor Mr. Garrick had been 
 twanged away from tragedy by the 
 fiddles of Mr. Beard, at Covent Garden. 
 Arne and Artaxerxes had been too 
 much for David and Shakspeare ; and 
 so the manager had fallen conveniently 
 sick — " The rosin-sickness, my dear," as 
 I heard Mrs. Clive declare — and sought 
 the restorative air of Italy and France. 
 " I wish, when they had him abroad, 
 they'd have made him a cardinal," 
 cried Mrs. Pritchard. " Yes," chimed 
 in Clive, with a chuckle, " or a rabbi ; 
 I'm sure they'd have found him Jew 
 enough." 
 
 I own I felt myself delighted with 
 the sallies of these ladies, and of Clive 
 in particular ; for though she was 
 
 207
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 always the loudest in her abuse of 
 Garrick, it seemed more as an exercise 
 of her vivacity than of spleen. She 
 called him a Jew — a tyrant — a Turk — 
 a devil ; but she did so with a laugh 
 that turned her bitterest woi'ds iuto 
 sugar-plums. 
 
 " It must be a delicious life, that of 
 an actress," I whispered, one evening, 
 when all was silent, to my friend, the 
 bodice. 
 
 " I dare say it is," was the answer ; 
 " but I know it's terrible work to be 
 as I am. Nobody ought to be so 
 miserable a nobody as the nobody of a 
 theatre ; only," added the bodice, " in 
 a theatre nobody ever thinks itself 
 nobody. There's the little girl who 
 wore me last night. Poor soul ! she 
 has a few shillings a week ; and is, 
 indeed, as good and meek a little 
 creature as ever bore spangles. Yet, 
 when even the king and queen come to 
 the house, does she think herself one 
 of the chief attractions of the show." 
 
 " Is it possible % " I cried. " What 
 folly ! " 
 
 " And, after all," said the bodice, " is 
 it not well that it is so % Conceit to a 
 player must be as oil to a machine ; a 
 thing necessary to keep the engine 
 harmoniously at work, to prevent the 
 grinding, clanging friction that else 
 must follow. The lower the actor, too, 
 208 
 
 the greater the need of such oil. And 
 nature is kind," added the bodice ; 
 " in such cases, it generally happens, 
 the greater the want, the greater the 
 supply." 
 
 " I see not the necessity," I ob- 
 served. 
 
 " That comes of your ignorance of 
 stage life," replied the bodice ; " nay, 
 I might add of life in almost every 
 variety. Is there so hard a lesson for 
 a man to con as to learn that he is 
 nobody 1 In a play-house it is especially 
 difficult. Here, strange as it may seem, 
 men are kept in stirring spirits by a 
 lively sense of their wrongs. Like 
 eels, they are made the more vivacious 
 by skinning. The man who plays 
 Catesby to Garrick's Richard believes, 
 but for the tyranny of fate, he could 
 play Richard every bit as well, if not 
 better, than the manager. He recol- 
 lects the applauses of his youth from 
 rustic hands ; he remembers how he 
 made certain barns echo and vibrate, 
 and he thinks with pity of a London 
 audience and Mr. Garrick. Now, make 
 Catesby know his real worth, and you 
 make him a miserable creature. Let a 
 man unconsciously offer a counterfeit 
 guinea, in his ignorance he will throw 
 it with an air upon the counter ; and 
 when accused of the attempt to pass a 
 pocket-piece, fly into a tempestuous
 
 The Play-house behind the Scenes. 
 
 passion, making loud assertions of his 
 honour and gentility. Let the same 
 man, if he can persuade himself to the 
 act, knowingly offer the bad coin, and 
 with what a poor, sneaking grace will 
 he acquit himself! Now, the Catesby 
 I speak of, and such actors, never will 
 be persuaded that their Richards are 
 pocket-pieces. No ; they are gold — 
 best Mint gold ; but it is the perverse- 
 ness, the injustice of men, that flings 
 them back upon their hands. They 
 are, however, rich that they themselves 
 possess them, although refused by all 
 the world. Prove the pieces brass or 
 copper, make their holders know as 
 
 much, and they, in that knowledge, 
 would be ' poor indeed.' " 
 
 " I understand," I replied. " In truth, 
 I have fallen amongst a strange 
 people." 
 
 "Nay, if they have follies, weak- 
 nesses — and who has not 1 — to laugh 
 at, there are virtues, even in a play- 
 house soil, to praise and venerate." 
 
 " Virtues ! " I cried, and I am afraid 
 with a slight laugh. 
 
 " Listen," said the bodice. " I spoke 
 of Fanny Davis, the little girl who last 
 night wore me. I will tell you a shoi-t, 
 a very short history, of that gentle, that 
 heroic child." 
 
 i i 
 
 20!)
 
 c.XXXVI^ 
 
 Somethinq move of Fannu Bains. 
 
 V o 
 
 The Poor Actor's Home. Miss GauntwoH. 
 
 
 tinned the bodice, " is 
 only now in her seven- 
 teenth year ; and for her salary, she 
 may, perhaps, have as many shillings 
 as years. Yet is she the most discreet, 
 the most gentle of creatures. Her 
 first baby recollections are of the 
 play-house. From the first hour she 
 could balance herself upon her two feet, 
 Fanny was an actress. Ere she had 
 been twenty months in the world's 
 theatre, she was a little toddling fairy 
 at one shilling per night. Being the 
 210 
 
 child of poorest actors — folks just 
 trusted with syllables in London — her 
 baby earnings were precious silver drops 
 in the small household cup of her 
 parents. Hence, too, she had no real 
 childhood. Happily for her, she was 
 not an infant wonder. She was not 
 taught to think herself a little lump of 
 brain in red shoes ; a dwarfed woman 
 housed in the image of an infant. 
 Oh, those baby prodigies ! " cried the 
 bodice. 
 
 " Baby prodigies ! " I echoed in my 
 
 ignorance. 
 
 " Comedy and tragedy queens of six 
 years old," said the bodice. " Crea- 
 tures made to • chew Shakspeai'e with 
 their pap ; poor little souls forced out 
 of babyhood to mum maturity. And 
 they catch a trick of it, poor things ; 
 and full-grown babies stare, and applaud, 
 and whoop at the miracle, as doubtless 
 Adam wondered when the first parrot 
 cried ' Pretty Poll ! ' To make a pro- 
 digy of this sort, you must first kill the 
 baby. Depend upon it, these doings
 
 Something more of Fanny Davis. 
 
 are child-murders, with only this differ- 
 ence — they escape the coroner. Happily, 
 I say then, Fanny Davis was none of 
 these. She was not fed on the applauses 
 of an audience — she was not brought 
 up by the clapping hands of a wise and 
 discerning public. To this moment 
 she has never heard her voice upon the 
 stage, but is accounted no more of than 
 a part of the human furniture which 
 makes up the train of queens and 
 princesses ; is now one of a mob of 
 happy villagers, and now a silent cham- 
 bermaid. Hence, to Fanny there is no 
 hope — none. She can never be an 
 actress — never anything but a sort of 
 fringe upon an actress's robe. Her 
 seventeen shillings per week may have 
 increase of three — and there, in the 
 play-house at least — must the hopes 
 of Fanny rest. And the best of it is, 
 dear creature, she knows this, and in 
 all her poverty is blithe as a robin in 
 December." 
 
 " Is she pretty ? " I asked. 
 
 "Very beautiful," answered the bod- 
 ice ; " and therefore in this place has 
 need of a stout heart and constant 
 spirit. Mr. Garrick is somewhat par- 
 ticular, and doesn't let the wild fellows 
 of the town sharpen their wits upon the 
 actresses — he doesn't suffer his green- 
 room to be a place of ease to other 
 places ; nevertheless, he can't stop 
 
 letters, and presents in them, with 
 promises and kickshaws that catch 
 poor butterfly girls. Genei'ally one a 
 night of these things comes to Fanny, 
 and still it is refused. Only two nights 
 since, a note was offered her. ' I 
 know nobody to write to me,' she said. 
 ' But it is of consequence, Miss Davis,' 
 said the bearer. ' Is it so, indeed 1 ' 
 cried Fanny, ' then pray take it to my 
 father.' Bless her ! " cried the bodice, 
 " I hugged her for the moment all the 
 closer for it." 
 
 " A sweet thing, indeed," said I. 
 '• How I should like to see her ! " 
 
 "In good time," observed the bodice. 
 " But I haven't told you half. Though 
 I loved the dear child from the first 
 time she wore me, I knew not her full 
 worth until about a fortnight ago. 'Tis 
 a touching story, though indeed there's 
 little in it." 
 
 " Tell it me," I cried, impatiently. 
 
 '* Last Thursday week," said the bod- 
 ice, " I was worn by Fanny, who, I 
 observed, looked ill — very ill. Poor 
 child ! She was hoarse — almost inar- 
 ticulate ; and, I could feel, burnt with 
 a fever. Several of the ladies — for 
 Fanny is a general favourite — spoke to 
 her, and begged her to go home. Still 
 she answered with a smile, faint enough, 
 that it was nothing — it would pass off 
 — she should be better. At length, 
 
 21 J
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 dear Mrs. Clive called the under- 
 prompter to Fanny. ' This dear child 
 must go home — she sha'n't stay here.' 
 'Well,' said the prompter, 'she had 
 better take oft' her dress, and ' — ' Dress ! 
 Don't talk to me of your rags, man ; 
 she sha'n't stop an instant. Here, Nell !' 
 and Clive called to her maid, ' wrap her 
 up warm in my cloak — get her things 
 together, and — you, Bob, go for a coach ! ' 
 she said to one of the men. ' And mind, 
 Nell, you take her safe home, and say I 
 shall come and see her in the morning.' 
 Now, Mrs. Clive," said the bodice, "is 
 not a woman to be denied anything ; 
 even David shakes before her ; and so, 
 in a very few minutes, Fanny, well 
 wrapt up, was in a coach on her way 
 home, and Nell with her. I found 
 Fanny's dwelling-place humble enough, 
 but clean and orderly. There were five 
 children, all much younger than herself, 
 at home. Fanny's mother had some 
 time since quitted the stage, as she 
 says, to look after her family. Poor 
 soul ! this is a bit of professional pride : 
 the stage quitted her. Her first hold 
 upon it was merely a pretty face and 
 slim figure, and as bloom and slimness 
 departed, why, the stage slipped from 
 her, and she then said it would be 
 cheaper for her to look to her children 
 at home, than to remain in the profes- 
 sion. Mr. Davis, with conjugal pride, 
 212 
 
 is wont to speak of the sacrifice that 
 Mrs. Davis has made for her family ; 
 what she might have been, had she 
 continued on the boards, nobody could 
 tell. However, there was no arguing 
 with a mother's heart ; the dear soul 
 would have her way, and — it ivas a 
 sacrifice — but she has it. Mr. Davis 
 had an uncertain nightly salary at 
 Covent Garden, which he always speaks 
 of as our house, though it is now three 
 years since he belonged to it. Poor 
 fellow ! He is an honest, worthy crea- 
 ture, devoted to his wife and children, 
 and by such devotion enabled to bear 
 much. He and Mrs. Davis think each 
 other the greatest artists in the world. 
 Hence have they enjoyment — with only 
 a handful of sleepy fire in the winter's 
 grate, and with pale-faced children 
 about them — to talk of the triumphs 
 of one another in the country." 
 
 " Is it possible 1 " I asked. 
 
 " True, I assure you ; and a great 
 solace it is to them. I remained about 
 a week in their lodgings, and heard 
 them at it every day. 'Well, John,' 
 Mrs. Davis would begin, ' I saw Hamlet 
 last night. People may call it a wife's 
 prejudice, but 'twas nothing like your 
 Hamlet at Cranbrook. I shall never 
 forget that point of yours at the Ghost's 
 speech, " I am thy father's spirit." As 
 for Garrick, he quite missed it.' ' It's
 
 The Poor Actor s Home. 
 
 very odd, Mary,' said Davis, ' I was just 
 then thinking of the new Juliet, and 
 your Juliet at Gravesend. That line 
 of yours — ' ' What line, John 1 ' Mrs. 
 Davis asked with the prettiest inno- 
 cence. ' Oh, my dear, that line that 
 struck the mayor so much — "As with 
 a club dash out my desperate brains ! " 
 There, Mary, though you're my own 
 wife, I will say it, you went quite 
 through the heart. The poor girl of 
 the other night scarcely touched one's 
 waistcoat.' And thus," said the bod- 
 ice, " the happy pauper couple are 
 wont to flatter one another." 
 
 " With an empty cupboard, 'tis as 
 you say, a great solace, and may serve 
 them somewhat instead of beef and ale," 
 said I. 
 
 "Yes," answered the bodice, drily; 
 " but they cannot feed the little Davises 
 after that fashion. However, to my 
 story of Fanny. Her poor mother was 
 dreadfully alarmed when the girl was 
 brought home. ' Oh,' she cried, ' those 
 shoes — those dreadful shoes ! I knew 
 she'd catch her death ! ' This made me 
 look at the shoes, which, with Fanny's 
 street attire, Mrs. Clive's maid brought 
 with her. They were worn thin as 
 paper; and though stitched and stitched, 
 there were treacherous holes at the sides 
 to let fever and death in from the cold 
 wet street. Poor thing ! in those reek- 
 
 ing shoes had she that day stood three 
 hours at rehearsal. ' My dear Fanny ! ' 
 cried Mrs. Davis, with all the mother 
 in her face. ' Oh, I shall be quite well 
 to-morrow ; I shall, indeed. I am not 
 so ill now — 'twas only Mrs. Clive would 
 make me come home,' said Fanny. 
 ' And she'll be here, ma'am, she bid me 
 say, in the morning,' cried Nell, who 
 then returned to her mistress. Mrs. 
 Davis assisted Fanny to bed; and then, 
 with heavy heart, rocking her youngest 
 child to sleep, awaited the coming of 
 her husband, who heard the story of 
 Fanny's illness with tearful eyes ; and 
 swore that, come how they might, new 
 shoes should come to-morrow. Poor, 
 penniless player ! I shall never forget 
 the wretched, bewildered look with 
 which he turned and turned over each 
 shoe. ' I knew 'twould come to this — 
 I was sure of it,' he said, with anxious 
 voice ; and then again and again he 
 handled the shoes ; again looked at 
 every flaw ; and again and again heav- 
 ing a sigh, dropt them at his feet. He 
 then sat moodily looking at them for 
 two or three minutes, and then leaping 
 up, cried out, ' My God ! that I should 
 lose a child — and such a child — for a 
 pair of shoes ! ' I have seen many a 
 tragedy acted," said the bodice, " have 
 many a time heard Garrick's soliloquy 
 on death — it never touched me half so 
 
 213
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 much as that poor player's grief ou two 
 old shoes." 
 
 " And Fanny ? " said I, impatiently. 
 
 " She was better — so much better in 
 the morning," answered the bodice, 
 " that she resolved to go to the theatre. 
 The streets were quite dry, she said, 
 and she could get no hurt. Her father 
 had gone out to borrow money for new 
 shoe-leather, and her mother — as I 
 think — upon the same fruitless errand. 
 Fanny sat by the fire, with one of her 
 little sisters in her lap ; and her shoes 
 — the fatal pair — were still upon the 
 hearth. A sharp, short rap struck the 
 door, which, ere one of the children 
 could reach, was opened, and Miss 
 Gaunt wolf entered." 
 
 "And who is Miss Gauntwolf?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " I forgot : you have not yet seen 
 her. She is a girl in the theatre, in 
 the same rank, and receiving about the 
 same salary as Fanny." 
 
 " I perceive," said I ; " Fanny's 
 fi-iend." 
 
 " Certainly not," said the bodice : 
 "save on the business of the house, 
 they never speak. Poor sold thing ! 
 but you shall hear all in time. Miss 
 Gauntwolf entered the room in a very 
 cloud of musk. She was — as, indeed, 
 she always is — magnificently dressed, 
 in a sack of rich sky-coloured satin, 
 214 
 
 with cloak and bonnet, and the prettiest 
 shoes to match. ' Miss Gauntwolf,' 
 cried Fanny, colouring, and setting 
 down her sister. 
 
 " ' My dear creature,' cried the young 
 lady, ' I saw you were very ill last 
 night ; and you know, I couldn't rest 
 this morning till I came to see you. 
 My dear soul ! you don't take care of 
 yourself. You don't wrap yourself up 
 enough this dreadful weather. Now 
 look at me, I always muffle — always — 
 though I never stir out but in the 
 carriage '" — 
 
 " Carriage ! Did you not say the 
 young lady had only seventeen shillings 
 a week ? " I asked. 
 
 " Seventeen shillings," answered the 
 bodice gravely, and then proceeded 
 with the talk of Miss Gauntwolf. 
 " ' Now, my dear, I hope you are better 
 — much better,' and the visitor pouted 
 her pretty lips, and threw a look of 
 concern into her mealy doll's face, as 
 she gazed at Fanny. 
 
 " ' Better, much better,' answered 
 Fanny, rising. 
 
 " ' Now, don't get up — don't use any 
 ceremony with me. The truth is, I 
 came in the hope of finding you well 
 enough to go to the house. My dear, 
 they do work us to death at that 
 theatre, and so I've told his lordship 
 
 over and over 
 
 again ; 
 
 so that if you
 
 Miss Gauntwolf. 
 
 were recovered, I'd take you in my 
 carriage. There is only my dear father 
 in it,' said Miss Gauntwolf. 
 
 " ' Your father in the carriage 1 ' said 
 Fanny, coldly. 
 
 " ' That's all ; and he's nobody you 
 
 know — so there's a sweet creatui*e — do 
 come,' said Miss Gauntwolf. 
 
 " ' I thank you,' said Fanny, ' I must 
 wait for my mother.' 
 
 " ' Now,' urged the young lady, ' I'm 
 sure that's unnecessary. Do come.' 
 
 " Fanny resolutely shook her head. 
 
 " ' But why not ? Well, you are such 
 a strange girl! Such a day as this — 
 and you so weak, so ill ; and there's a 
 warm seat in the sweetest carriage in 
 the world, and ' — 
 
 2/5
 
 The Story of a FeatJier 
 
 " ' I'd rather walk,' said Fanny- 
 firmly. 
 
 " ' You'd rather walk ! ' exclaimed 
 Miss Ganntwolf. 
 
 " ' Much rather,' repeated Fanny. 
 
 " ' Well, you are the strangest girl,' 
 again said Miss Ganntwolf, piqued by 
 Fanny's resolution. And then, at a 
 loss for further arguments, Miss Gaunt- 
 wolf sat in silence at the fireside, and 
 
 listlessly, with her pretty blue satin 
 slipper, pushed at Fanny's leathern 
 shoe. 
 
 " Ha, my friend ! " I cried to the 
 bodice, " what a picture of ulcerous 
 misery and noble truth is there ! Oh 
 that silly satin slipper, that would at 
 all cost ride, — and that heroic, worn- 
 out leathern shoe, that in all weathers, 
 would — rather walk ! " 
 
 2/0
 
 c^-XXXVIIo 
 
 I no upon tire Sfaqe. The Green-room. 
 
 The Actors. Mr. GauntwoH ana a Pinch of Snuff. 
 
 the midst of our 
 conversation, my new 
 acquaintance and myself were separated 
 by one of the wardrobe women, and, for 
 the time, I heard no more of Fanny 
 Davis or Miss Gauntwolf. A few days 
 passed, and, to my exceeding delight, I 
 was selected by Mrs. Clive, and was to 
 appear the next night before the king 
 and queen, in the head of Bizarre in 
 Farquhar's comedy of The Inconstant. 
 Many little incidents, much gossip, 
 which fell to my knowledge in my pro- 
 gress from the wardrobe to the boards, 
 
 F p 
 
 I pass in silence. My sensations, upon 
 first entering the green-room, were 
 delicious. I w r as in fairy-land. Even 
 though I had passed through the disen- 
 chanting atmosphere of a dressing-room, 
 I looked upon every actress as very 
 near a heathen goddess; and Garrick 
 and Aiken were more than mortal men. 
 Indeed, at first, there seemed to me an 
 air of romance about the meanest 
 person — a something that took them 
 away — set them apart from common 
 life. The very stage carpenters were 
 not, to my intoxicated fancy, the mere 
 mechanics of the outer world. And 
 then the ease, the hilarity of the green- 
 room ! The free and mirthful inter- 
 course of men and women ! Nothing 
 prim or ceremonious in any of them ; 
 but, as I thought, a large, happy family 
 of privileged mortals delighted to de- 
 light the world ; folks, whose hardest 
 labour was most delicious excitement ; 
 whose lives were passed in communi- 
 cating pleasure, and receiving thereby 
 the sweetest plaudits, and the most 
 
 217
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 approving smiles. I felt this ; I, who 
 had seen palace-life ; I, who had been 
 familiar with the breath and looks of 
 royalty ! Whether it was that I asso- 
 ciated the words of Shakspeare with 
 Garrick, I cannot clearly say ; but sure 
 I am, I often thought the actor more 
 of a king than King George the Third. 
 Mrs. Yates, too ! There was such in- 
 born grace in that gentle creature ; 
 and fair Abington, with her sweet, 
 liquid voice, and dove-like looks ; and 
 charming Mrs. Barry ; and kind, wo- 
 manly Pritchard ; and out-speaking, 
 pnre-hearted Kitty Clive, who would 
 beard the tei'rible manager, and then 
 bestow the kindest words and thoughts 
 upon the poorest underlings — the meek 
 and pauper Fanny Davises : and there 
 were, and are, many, many such, who, 
 looking down temptation with virtuous 
 looks, are made, by their weekly shil- 
 lings — wages earned in a fiery furnace 
 — meek-hearted ministrants of daily 
 bread to a whole family. I have known 
 many scenes of life, but none in which 
 the filial principle more nobly — nay, in 
 few so nobly — exercised itself as among 
 players, from high to low ; the " vaga- 
 bonds" branded in the statute. Many 
 a time has the house rung with plaudits 
 of Mrs. Gibber, in her sweet devotion, 
 as the self-denying child ! And at that 
 moment, among the few girls, the at- 
 2/8 
 
 tendants of the scene — the creatures 
 upon whom undistingnishing profligacy 
 in the boxes woidd set a price — were 
 those, who practised in the hard prose 
 of life the lovely fable of the poet. 
 Believe it, reader ; I have known Cor- 
 delias in cotton gowns, and Grecian 
 Daughters in pattens. 
 
 Let me, however, return to the 
 green-room. As I have said, for some 
 time all the actors appeared to me 
 creatines of another world — men and 
 women elevated above common life. 
 At last, I discovered that I had con- 
 founded them with their stage-cha- 
 racters. It required, indeed, a sti'ong 
 effort to separate the two. Garrick 
 would be a hero — Mrs. Cibber a heroine. 
 They dwelt in a cloud of rainbow 
 fiction, cast by poetry around them. 
 Or I have sometimes thought the actor 
 — that is, the mere word-speaker, who 
 brings no great original mind to his 
 , task — the jackdaw that, innocent of the 
 larcency, is, nevertheless, the jackdaw 
 always dressed in the feathered pens 
 of authors. (Observe, gentle reader, 
 I would not utter this opinion in a 
 green-room. More ; should destiny, in 
 its benevolence, ever again lead me 
 into that elysium, it is an opinion I 
 would there and then most vigorously 
 deny.) It is so difficult for the common 
 mind to disunite the hero and the
 
 The Green-room. The Actors. 
 
 actor — to wipe off every particle of 
 rouge, and pick off every spangle. 
 
 " Mrs. Clive," cried the call-boy ; and 
 oh ! how my heart beat as Bizarre 
 carried me upon her head to make my 
 first appeai'ance on the stage. Their 
 Majesties were in the royal box ; but 
 in the days I write of, this was a com- 
 mon event. Nevertheless, half St. 
 James's was in the theatre ; and at 
 different intervals of the night, half 
 the ministry in the green-room. Pel- 
 ham chatted familiarly with Barry ; 
 and Marquesses and Lords formed 
 about Garrick, as though, indeed, king 
 David held a real levee in the play- 
 house. 
 
 " Mrs. Clive," again cried the call- 
 boy ; for Kitty was talking and laugh- 
 ing to one of his Majesty's equerries ; 
 "Mrs. Clive, act drop's up, ma'am," 
 was the summons ; when Mrs. Clive, 
 Bizarre, and Mrs. Abington, Oriana, 
 hurried from the green-room, and Clive 
 had scarcely time enough to say to her 
 friend, " What an ass that colonel is, 
 my dear ! " ere both the ladies were 
 upon the stage. Shall I ever forget the 
 sensation 1 I was sick, and dizzy, and 
 blind. As for the folks in front, I 
 could distinguish no one. I saw nothing 
 but a huge, black, moving mass — a vast 
 one thing heaving about, and making a 
 
 noise ; for the applause, which in my 
 folly I took at first wholly to myself, 
 when Clive entered, was excessive. 
 When it had ceased, and I had a little 
 recovered myself, I heard the king (and 
 so must all the audience) say to the 
 queen, "That's Clive — Clive — clever 
 woman Clive ; good character — good 
 character — good woman, good woman." 
 For a moment, 1 felt confused that 
 their Majesties, who must so often 
 have seen me when I adorned the 
 Prince of Wales, should behold me on 
 the stage. Poor vanity ! how, indeed, 
 should they know me 1 
 
 When Clive made her exit, she was 
 stopped at the wing by Miss Gaunt- 
 wolf, who was to play one of the two 
 ladies who assist Bizarre in her little 
 plot against Duretete. It was a great 
 night for Miss Gauntwolf, for she was 
 for the first time entrusted with two 
 lines : yes, she had on that night to 
 make what we must call her virgin 
 speech, as the first Lady. The second 
 (dumb) Lady was given to Fanny 
 Davis. " Do you like my dress, Mrs. 
 Clive 1 " asked Miss Gauntwolf, with a 
 fainting air ; the two lines she had to 
 deliver making her an object of exceed- 
 ing interest to herself. "Humph!" 
 said Kitty, looking the lady up and 
 down, and then looking her through, 
 " Why, child," and Clive seized her by 
 
 219
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 the ear, whereat sparkled a ver} r hand 
 some diamond, "whose is this 1 " "Mine 
 ma'am," answered MissGauntwolf, softly 
 " Indeed," and Clive took a long breath 
 " And this ring 1 " " Mine, ma'am.' 
 " And this necklace 1 " " Mine, ma'am.' 
 "All this finery yours, child 1 ?" cried 
 Kitty ; and then she asked in a voice 
 cold enough to freeze quicksilver, " and 
 pray, what — what may you have given 
 for them?" "Nothing — nothing at 
 all," said Miss Gauntwolf, with forced 
 vivacity. " Yes, you did," said Clive ; 
 "yes, you did, poor thing ! and bought 
 'em in the dearest market." 
 
 Clive was then making her way to 
 the green-room, as Mr. Gauntwolf, 
 dressed for the Fourth Bravo in the 
 comedy, came up. He was a tall, big- 
 boned man, with a coarse, thin, rugged 
 face, high cheek-bones, and a voice like 
 the edge of a saw. With this, he 
 assumed a sort of pompous gentility, 
 as gilding to the base material. Seeing 
 Mrs. Clive talking to his daughter, he 
 was approaching Kitty, with a mouth 
 set for a compliment, and had uttered 
 a word or two, though I knew not what, 
 when Clive started back, as though from 
 a pit-fall, and with a most tragic in- 
 tensity of expression, cried, " beast ! " 
 She then passed a few steps on, and 
 was met by her friend, the equerry, who 
 again opened small talk, which I did 
 220 
 
 not attend to. The truth is, my curi- 
 osity was quickened towards Gauntwolf, 
 who was still near me. I saw him 
 apply himself to his snuff-box — a very 
 handsome gold article, with a picture 
 of Venus painted in enamel on the top. 
 He was snuffing away the indignity put 
 upon him by Clive, as Moody, also "with 
 open snuff-box, stood talking to another 
 actor, near him. 
 
 Gauntwolf, unasked, put his fingers 
 into Moody's box, at the same time 
 advancing his own. Moody, looking 
 the intruder full in the face, instantly 
 emptied the box visited by Gauntwolf's 
 fingers on the flooi*. " What may that 
 be on the lid ? " asked another actor, 
 standing by Gauntwolf. " Venus — 
 Venus," was the answer. " 'Twas given 
 to me, I think I've said so, by his lord- 
 ship." " Humph ! " said the actor, 
 glancing at Gauntwolf, and then at his 
 daughter, " I thought it was Virginia, 
 or the Roman father." 
 
 For a long time, I could not under- 
 stand why it was that every body shunned 
 Gauntwolf, as though his breath carried 
 a pestilence. At last, I learned the 
 horrid story. That such a man could 
 look in the face of heaven — in the face 
 of man ! That he should walk upright ! 
 That a reptile in soul, he did not crawl 
 like a snake to his grave upon the dust ! 
 That he should live, and bear the loath-
 
 The Actors. 
 
 ing of the world upon his shoulders, and 
 yet try to smile, and make grim faces 
 of content beneath it ! The unutter- 
 able wretch had sold his daughter ! 
 He ate, drank, and clothed himself 
 from the spotted fame of his trafficked 
 child. Yes, Mr. Gauntwolf had shown 
 himself equal to the devil in wicked- 
 ness, and really earned with him the 
 diploma of his iniquity in that gold box 
 — given to him by his lordship ! 
 
 There ! Pah ! Let us put some cam- 
 phor iu the ink, and go on. 
 
 Mrs. Clive remained talking to her 
 friend as Garrick came from the stage. 
 He was about to enter the green-room, 
 when he met the young gentleman who 
 played Dugard. " My good lad," said 
 Garrick, "you are dull, plaguy dull in 
 this; flat, very flat." "What would 
 you have me do, sir 1 Indeed, I should 
 be happy to be instructed," said the 
 meek Dugard. " Do ! " cried Garrick ; 
 " why you must feel more spirit — you 
 must work yourself into the passion 
 that — zounds, my lad ! this is w 7 hat 
 you must do — you must put more 
 Champagne — yes, that's it — you must 
 put more Champagne into it," " Sir," 
 replied the actor, with a literalness of 
 apprehension sometimes found behind 
 the scenes — "sir, I should be very 
 happy, but it's impossible." "Impossi- 
 
 ble ! " cried David, looking w T ith his 
 wonderful eye, " impossible to put more 
 Champagne into it 1 " " Yes, sir," said 
 the stolid Dugard, "with my salary, 
 how can I afford it?" " Foregad ! " 
 cried David, smothering a laugh, " I 
 had forgotten that. No : I see ; small 
 beer is the best we can hope from 
 you." 
 
 At this moment Fanny Davis, dressed 
 for the Second Lady, was laid hands 
 upon by Mrs. Clive : " Come to my 
 room, child," said Kitty, and — the 
 dressing-room is a sanctuary, of which 
 I speak no further ; nevertheless, I 
 may say this much, Fanny wore, for 
 that night, Mrs. Clive's stage-jewels, 
 and what passed between the two con- 
 vinced me that Kitty had been as good 
 as her word, and had called upon poor 
 Davis and his all but shoeless child, as, 
 from the bodice, I learned she had 
 promised. 
 
 The play went on, and I was in the 
 highest spirits. " Kitty," said Mrs. 
 Abington, coming off the stage into the 
 green-room, "there's that viper, Kelly, 
 in the pit." 
 
 " Poor wretch ! come for the benefit 
 of his venom, I suppose;" whereupou 
 further conversation ensued; from which 
 I gathered that the said Hugh Kelly 
 was one of those insects of the ink-horn 
 that make their dirty meals of public 
 
 221
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 and private slander. Of him, however, I 
 have more to say in another chapter. 
 "Confound it, Kitty," cried Garrick, 
 
 in the course of the night, "why didn't 
 you catch my eye in the last scene 1" 
 "I couldn't," said Clive, with a face 
 
 of delicious impudence, " it so burnt me 
 up I couldn't look at it." 
 
 " Burnt you up ! " exclaimed Garrick, 
 half laughing, half vexed. 
 
 " Quite true," cried the indomitable 
 Kitty ; " how poor Mrs. Garrick has 
 222 
 
 endured it, I can't tell : by this time I 
 wonder the poor soul isn't cinders." 
 
 Still the play went on. An actor — I 
 forget his name — who played Gibbet, 
 again and again lamented to Mrs. Clive 
 his hard destiny. He was the only man
 
 The Actors. 
 
 who could play Mirabel; but in that 
 theatre, he was crushed, ruined, anni- 
 hilated ! 
 
 The green-room was empty. Mrs. 
 Clive sat alone, unseen, behind the 
 door. Gibbet, the ill-used actor, entered. 
 He thought himself solitary with his 
 wrongs. He stalked up and down the 
 room, swelling and swelling — and then 
 
 muttering and muttering his injuries. 
 At length, he paused before the pier- 
 glass ; and, gazing intently at himself, 
 he clenched his fist, and shaking it 
 vehemently at the reflection of his face, 
 growled with bursting heart, " You — 
 you — you are a — a — fettered — lion ! " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" screamed Kitty 
 Clive ; and the fettered lion, more than 
 amazed, rushed from the green-room. 
 
 223
 
 c^XXXVIII^o 
 
 I am (eft in £(iuc's Dressing-room. 
 A CJoHoqu^ with a Marc's Foot. 
 
 jlj'li^M would I linger on the 
 glories of the green-room ; 
 fain dwell upon the deliciousness of 
 that fairy scene, in which men and 
 women seemed exempt from all the 
 cares, yea, from the bleak coldness of 
 mere human life, making to themselves 
 an existence of sweetest ease and hap- 
 piest excitement. Malice, envy, and 
 slander might be there ; but, reader, 
 say where they are not, and what an 
 amaranthine bank that will be — what 
 a half-way resting-place to heaven for 
 224 
 
 human weariness ! For my part, I was 
 so happy smelling and plucking the 
 roses about me that I never thought 
 of the slugs and creeping things that 
 might be at their roots. And then I 
 had seen so much of high life — which I 
 suppose means life nearest heaven — 
 that I had become tolerant of the fail- 
 ings of those living in the lower stories 
 and cellars of the world's Babel ; poor 
 things, in dimness dwelling ! denied the 
 elevating influence of the starry host, 
 which rains down wise humility on the 
 topmost tenants. 
 
 An actor is a creature of conceit. 
 Such is the reproof flung upon poor 
 buskin. How, indeed, is it possible that 
 he should escape the sweet malady ] 
 You take a man of average clay ; you 
 breathe in him a divine afflatus; you 
 fill him with the words of a poet, a wit, 
 a humourist ; he is, even when he knows 
 it not, raised, sublimated by the foreign 
 nature within him. Garrick enters as 
 Macbeth. What a storm of shouts — 
 what odoriferous breath in " bravos "
 
 / am left in C lives Dressing-room. 
 
 seething and melting the actor's heart ! 
 Is it possible that this man, so fondled, 
 so shouted to, so dandled by the world, 
 can at bed-time take off the whole of 
 Macbeth with his stockings 1 He is 
 always something more than David 
 Garrick, householder in the Adelphi. 
 He continually carries about him pieces 
 of greatness not his own ; his moral 
 self is encased in a harlequin's jacket — 
 the patches from Parnassus. The being 
 of the actor is multiplied ; it is cast, for 
 a time, in a hundred different moulds ; 
 hence, what a puzzle and a difficulty 
 for David to pick David, and nothing 
 more than David, from the many run- 
 nings ! And, then, an actor by his 
 position takes his draughts of glory so 
 hot and so spiced — (see, there are 
 hundreds of hands holding to him 
 smoking goblets!) — that he must, 
 much of his time, live in a sweet in- 
 toxication which, forsooth, hard-thinking 
 people call conceit. To other folks, 
 reputation comes with a more gentle, 
 more divine approach. You, sir, have 
 carved a Venus, whose marble mouth 
 would smile paralysis from Nestor ; you 
 have painted a picture, and, with Pro- 
 methean trick, have fixed a fire from 
 heaven on the canvas ; you have penned 
 a book, and made tens of thousands of 
 brains musical with divinest humanity 
 — kings have no such music from cym- 
 
 G G 
 
 bals, sackbut, and psaltery, — and to 
 each of you reputation comes silently, 
 like a fairy, through your study key- 
 hole ; you quaff renown refined, cold- 
 drawn ; cold as castor-oil ; and, sir, if 
 you be a true philosopher, you will 
 swallow it as a thing no less medicinal. 
 Let me, however, get back to my story. 
 
 The play was over, and for the night 
 I was left in Mrs . Olive's dressing-room. 
 I had, I felt it, achieved the most com- 
 plete stage triumph ; and from the 
 fulness of a contented soul, sighed 
 gently, happily. My future path seemed 
 to me a path of satin and spangles ; 
 and in the completeness of my success, 
 all the sordidness and squalor of my 
 past life faded into a dream ; nothing 
 to me seemed real but the glory of the 
 present. Again I fetched a deeper and 
 a deeper sigh. 
 
 " What's all these airs about 1 " cried 
 a coarse voice, with something of a 
 rustic twang. I started, but in a mo- 
 ment discovered that the speaker was a 
 hare's-foot, whose duty it was to touch 
 the honest cheeks of Kitty Clive with 
 stage-rouge. " I suppose you think 
 yourself somebody 1 " said the hare's- 
 foot. " Pretty conceit, indeed ! " 
 
 As I felt myself no match for the 
 speaker, I meekly replied that I had no 
 intention of offending anybody by un- 
 seemly affectation ; but that I hoped 
 
 225
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 some indulgence might be granted me 
 as a young beginner ; the more espe- 
 cially, after the exciting events of the 
 night. It was impossible, I humbly 
 submitted, to receive so much applause, 
 and not be a little moved. 
 
 " It's like the whole tribe of ye," cried 
 the hare's-foot with a sneering laugh. 
 " Applause to you ! Where would the 
 applause have been but for me 1 Why, 
 Kitty Clive would have looked a ghost, 
 a spectre, a thing out of a shroud, but 
 for my red ! 'Twas I who gave some- 
 thing like youthful blood to her face 
 and sparkle to her eye ; and so have I 
 helped her, year after year. Whilst 
 you — what are you at the best but a 
 supernumerary nourish ; a thing that 
 gives neither fire, nor expression, nor 
 any other quality ? But then, I own 
 it, you are seen ; you are a thing 
 waving in the eyes of the woi'ld ; and 
 though, in my opinion, not worth a 
 groat, you are gaped at and bepraised ; 
 whilst I, who give good gifts in secret, 
 I am unthought of or despised." 
 
 Spite of my vanity, my conscience 
 told me there was some truth in this. 
 Hence, addressing the hare's-foot in the 
 mildest manner, I begged to know if it 
 had been long in the profession 1 
 
 " I have painted everything," replied 
 the hare's-foot, " from Juliets down to 
 the old women. Ha! no doubt you have 
 226 
 
 sighed for the freedom of your African 
 wilderness ; you have yearned " — 
 
 " Yes," I answered hastily, " but 
 never less than now. This life appears 
 to me delicious. Indeed, I know no 
 condition so blissful." 
 
 " Poor wretch ! " cried the hare's-foot 
 with a contemptuous groan. " Shall I 
 ever forget the sweetness of my liberty 1 
 The fresh perfumed dew that bathed 
 my infant paws? My adult gambols 
 by moonlight 1 The sweet spring-grass 
 and beds of thyme, and sweeter felony 
 committed upon early peas in kitchen- 
 garden 1 Nights of my youth ! Fra- 
 grant and nimble was the air around 
 me, and freshness was in all my steps ! 
 Then was I guileless even to simplicity. 
 I was slain, and from that hour I have 
 been made an instrument of deception. 
 Oh, the false paintings I have done ! 
 Oh, the cracked and faded human canvas 
 I have daubed and daubed, and passed 
 upon men for heaven's painting ! " 
 
 There was an earnestness in these 
 words that interested me. " How were 
 you killed," I asked ; "according to act 
 of parliament, or " — 
 
 " No," cried the hare's-foot with much 
 satisfaction, " I was not coursed, and 
 worried, and torn to pieces according to 
 the statute. No ; I thank my stars, I 
 was humanely poached. There might 
 have been, in my case, more honour in
 
 A Colloquy with a Hares Foot. 
 
 dying by the laws of my country ; but 
 as far as I cau conceive of the matter, 
 snaring must be much less painful. 
 Nevertheless," said the hare's-foot with 
 a sudden touch of melancholy, " all my 
 career has been mean and miserable. 
 Would you think it 1 I was even 
 cooked without gravy, and dished with- 
 out currant-jelly." 
 
 An exclamation of sympathy escaped 
 me. 
 
 " You have heard," continued the 
 hare's-foot, " that I was poached ? I 
 believe I owed my death to an unso- 
 phisticated love of the English drama. 
 Yes ; Hodge Peastraw, lacking the price 
 of admission to the barn of Biggleton, 
 elevated for a time into a theatrical 
 temple, took me as a mysterious present 
 to Bellowly, the manager. Mr. Bel- 
 lowly vaunted an everlasting devotion 
 to the laws of his country ; neverthe- 
 less, Mrs. Bellowly had, at the time, a 
 strange mysterious yearning for hare, 
 and the manager sacrificed the feelings 
 of the patriot to the tenderness of 
 the husband. Hodge gave me — poor 
 poached and slaughtered me ! — to Bel- 
 lowly ; and Bellowly, who was that 
 night to play Othello, gave Hodge an 
 order for the show. Hence," added 
 the hare's-foot with a slight laugh, " in 
 the bargain that bartered me, there 
 was murder on both sides." 
 
 " So your flesh," said I, " became a 
 dinner to the manager's family, and 
 Peastraw was never suspected 1 " 
 
 " Suspected ! " cried the hare's-foot. 
 " Mr. Bellowly took care of that, at the 
 same time doing what was needful for 
 his own dignity. He dropped a large 
 blot of red sealing-wax upon my fore- 
 head, then writing an address to 
 'Achmet Bellowly, Esq., with the Lady 
 of the Manor's admiring compliments,' 
 tied the document to my hind-legs, and 
 caused me to be delivered to him, 
 during rehearsal, in the bosom of his 
 whole company. Nevertheless, I was 
 served up, I may say it, in undress ; 
 for the manager could not in private 
 life rise to cuiTant-jelly. I was eaten," 
 said the hare's-foot with a sigh, " I was 
 eaten without the honours." 
 
 " And your feet 1 " I asked. 
 
 " My fellow fore-paw was at once 
 consigned to paint the heavy old men, 
 and general utility. Fortune alone 
 can tell what has become of it ; but if 
 there be anything in what the players 
 call sympathy, I think it has sunk to 
 the shows, for every year I feel strange 
 low yearnings towards Bartlemy Fair." 
 
 "And yourself ?" I asked. "What 
 was your career, for you have strangely 
 interested me 1 " 
 
 "You are very kind," answered the 
 foot, in a slightly satirical tone. " I 
 
 227
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 became the property of Mr. Bellowly' s 
 little Belvidera. Poor little thing ! 
 She -was killed for a genius." 
 
 " Pray explain," said I. 
 
 "You must know," said the hare's- 
 foot, " that it has been ordered by 
 nature — whether wisely or not I will 
 not answer — that every manager who 
 is a father, has a genius : that is, he 
 possesses a wonderful child, who has 
 been privately suckled by the Tragic 
 Muse, and taught the witching ways of 
 comedy by Thalia. Poor Belvidera 
 was this doomed wonder. Hence, I 
 was set aside to rouge her little baby 
 cheeks ; to paint out the fresh hue of 
 childhood — to overlay it with midnight 
 red. Poor waxen puppet ! She raved 
 according to rote ; she laughed a parrot 
 laugh, she ogled, she simpered ; she 
 deformed the frank face of babyhood 
 with the taught tricks of the woman ; 
 and grown fools applauded, and won- 
 dered, and cried a miracle ! The marvel 
 went on ; and at length, Mr. Bellowly 
 gave up, as he declared, a very flourish- 
 ing circuit of barns — for no man more 
 beautifully combined agriculture with 
 the drama — to devote himself wholly 
 to the interest of his darling Belvidera. 
 And the daily wardrobe of Mr. Bellowly 
 increased in lustre ; and watch-and- 
 chain, and rings, and other ornaments, 
 which even philosophers, whilst they 
 228 
 
 despise them, wear out of respect to 
 the world, became the property of the 
 devoted father ; who, that no spot of 
 the world might be denied the benefit 
 of Belvidera's genius, would conde- 
 scendingly exhibit it even in way-side 
 inns, at taverns, clubs, in all places, 
 and before all societies. And the poor 
 child was coaxed, and petted, and ho£- 
 suppered into a belief of its own great- 
 ness, and into the reality of a slow and 
 mortal sickness. I felt its cheek, now 
 hot and clammy, as night after night I 
 was made to lay on more and more 
 paint, and I was assured that the 
 creature was laughing, and dancing, 
 and mumming, every night nearer and 
 nearer to its little grave. And still 
 Mr. Bellowly would, in his blindness, 
 expand his paternal chest, and play 
 with his watch-chain, and pass his ring- 
 encumbered hand athwart his chin, 
 when the meanest and most stolid biped 
 fraction of the world would speak of 
 that 'sweet little dear, his daughter;' 
 to the which praise the manager would 
 merely reply, ' he knew not how it was 
 that Heaven had blessed him, of all 
 men, in that manner ; but he was a 
 happy father.' 
 
 "Time went on," continued the 
 hare's-foot, " and Belvidera grew worse. 
 The cough — that herald of the church- 
 bell — seized her : nevertheless Mr. Bel-
 
 A Colloquy with a Hares Foot. 
 
 lowly declared 'twas nothing — merely 
 symptomatic of the measles ; and she 
 couldn't have them in a better season. 
 At this time the child played at a 
 country theatre where Mrs. Clive acted. 
 1 What think you, ma'am, of my darling 
 Belvidera?' asked Bellowly. 'I think 
 her,' said Kitty, in her sharp, quiet way 
 — for she cuts as silently as a pick- 
 pocket's knife — ' I think her the clever- 
 est corpse I ever thought to see.' 
 ' Heavens ! ma'am,' cried Bellowly. ' I 
 tell you, man,' said Kitty, outcrying 
 him. ' vou'll have that child's blood 
 upon your hands as surely as those rings 
 her blood has bought.' 
 
 " Oh, there was a long to-do ! At 
 last Mrs. Clive persuaded Bellowly — 
 and, as I think, not without hard 
 money — to take the child, for a time, 
 from the stage. And she had the poor 
 
 thing up to London, and sent doctors 
 and physicians, and day after day would 
 nurse her herself. But all would not do. 
 The little waxen wonder wasted and 
 wasted, and at length Bellowly, aghast, 
 saw his infant miracle about to die. 
 
 " The little creature was meek, affec- 
 tionate, intelligent. ' I shall die,' she 
 said to Clive ; ' I'm sure of it — and oh, 
 it is so strange, I do not seem to fear 
 it. I wish you would let me give you 
 something — it is the only thing that 
 ever was mine. Don't look at it till 
 I'm dead, but pray take it.' 
 
 " Clive, with her heart gushing at 
 her eyes, dumb and strangling with 
 emotion, suffered the child to place the 
 gift in her hand. 
 
 " The child died. Clive opened the 
 paper, and found the gift to be a hare's- 
 foot — myself." 
 
 229
 
 Qy~ A JC±. X JL VV ~>Q 
 
 I am fallen from the Theatre. 
 A Critic's Ink&ianb. Beath o{ Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 
 fiEMAfflaU only a few 
 nights in Olive's dressing- 
 room, and was again given to the mis- 
 tress of the wardrobe. I know not how 
 it was — cannot divine what persuasion 
 was used by Mr. Gauntwolf; but one 
 morning I was consigned by the lady to 
 his cai - e, with strict injunctions of being 
 speedily returned, lest Mr. Garrick 
 should know it ; and in a few minutes 
 afterwards found myself in the Rose 
 Tavern — a hostelry much used by 
 actors and their familiar and distant 
 230 
 
 admirers. Here, too, was the small 
 hireling critic, who sugared his ink or 
 added gall to it according to the con- 
 descension, flattery, and liquor of the 
 parties to be written up or crushed for 
 ever. Mr. Hugh Kelly was one of 
 these biped insects of the press, and 
 sold what he called fame or destruction 
 to the trembling player. When I en- 
 tered, I found him listening with an 
 air of contemptuous patronage to the 
 poor actor Davis, who was picking 
 certain cuttings from newspapers — the 
 solace of his life — out of an old leathern 
 pocket-book, and endeavouring to read 
 them to the London critic. These 
 paragraphs were precious extracts from 
 country journals — the St. Kildds Chro- 
 nicle, the Penzance Flying Post, the 
 Bullochsmithy Courier — all of which, 
 with twenty others, had declared, in 
 good honest-faced type, that "that 
 spirited actor Davis would inevitably 
 get to the top of the tree ; " and very 
 benevolently advising " Mr. Garrick to 
 look to his laurels." Sweet, passing
 
 A Critic s Inkstand. 
 
 sweet, to Davis were these promises ! 
 Though he was in the autumn of life — 
 an autumn without fruit — with penury 
 clinging to him like a garment, that 
 flattering type would now and then 
 cast a mild lustre about the past, and 
 he would feel he had not lived in vain. 
 He Imd been praised, and that w r as 
 something. 
 
 " Gauntwolf, how d'ye do 1 " cried 
 Kelly, turning abruptly from Davis. 
 "Your girl played in The Inconstant 
 divinely : looked lovely, too — and so I 
 have said — and in pretty sti-ong terms, 
 I believe. Stop till I've written Mother 
 Clive down, and then " — 
 
 " My dear sir," cried Gauntwolf, 
 seizing Kelly's hand, and smiling hide- 
 ously, " you make me, indeed, a happy 
 father. As for other critics, Mr. Kelly, 
 I value them, say what they will, as so 
 many gnats. But you, sir ! what you 
 say should be written in letters of 
 gold ! " Now, as Mr. Kelly was very 
 often fee'd for what he wrote, many of 
 his words may really be said to have 
 been registered in that precious mate- 
 rial. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I speak out — I give 'em 
 plain English. I'm just finishing here 
 another bunch of nettles for Mother 
 ('live. I'll blister her ! " cried the critic, 
 with a look of manly triumph. 
 
 "Ton my word, now," said Gaunt- 
 
 wolf, with the compassionate air of a 
 hangman, "you'll kill that poor woman 
 — you will, indeed. I know she hasn't 
 slept since your last attack." 
 
 " She shall never sleep again, sir ; 
 never. I have said it ; " and the mag- 
 nanimous Kelly smote the table with 
 his fist. " Oh, what, you've brought it 
 at last, have ye 1 " said the critic to the 
 waiter, who appeared with a large re- 
 plenished inkstand. " Now, remember, 
 sir, that I always have plenty of ink — 
 a sea of it. When a man's thoughts 
 are pouring from him, to be diving 
 and diving for a drop of ink — 'tis 
 damnable." 
 
 " How you ever get your thoughts 
 down," said the courteous Gauntwolf, 
 " I can't think : they do seem to come 
 upon you in such a flood. Waiter, a 
 glass of brandy. May I be allowed the 
 honour, Mr. Kelly ? " 
 
 "Thank ye," responded the critic, 
 "not at present. A little too early," 
 and he addressed himself to his declared 
 task — that of growing nettles upon 
 paper for the doomed Mrs. Clive. In a 
 few minutes Moody of Drury Lane 
 entered. Kelly looked \ip ; then im- 
 mediately fixed his eyes upon the paper, 
 Mr. Moody, possibly from a certain 
 roughness of manner that belonged to 
 him, not being anioni* the statre favour- 
 ites of the critic. Moody bowing recog- 
 
 231
 
 The Story of a Feather, 
 
 uition to several in the room, walked 
 up to Kelly, and laying his hand upon 
 the critic's shoulder, said, " One word, 
 yes or no." Suddenly Mr. Kelly looked 
 serious. Moody, in the most leisurely 
 manner, took a newspaper from his 
 pocket, and pointing to a paragraph, 
 asked, " Is this your work ? " 
 
 " I never eat my words," cried Kelly, 
 rising, and assuming a big look ; " they 
 are mine." 
 
 "A foul, low, personal calumny on 
 Mrs. Clive. Now, Mr. Kelly," and 
 Moody grasped a cane with a signifi- 
 cance that attracted Mr. Kelly's eye, 
 "you deny this private slander, or " — 
 
 " I beg leave to repeat," cried the 
 critic, beginning to tremble, and his 
 eye still playing about the stick, — " I 
 beg leave to say that I cannot eat my 
 words." 
 
 "Very well," answered Moody; " the 
 stars forbid that I should force a gentle- 
 man against his taste ! But I tell you 
 this, Mr. Kelly," and the actor raised 
 his voice and his stick too, — " if you 
 won't eat your words, you shall drink 
 what your words are written in — before 
 this good company, too — drink it to 
 the health and long life of Mrs. Clive, 
 or there isn't a bone in your skin that 
 sha'n't want a separate surgeon." 
 
 "What — what, sir — what do you 
 mean 1 " stammered Kelly. 
 232 
 
 "Come, I'll be your cup-bearer, for 
 once," said Moody, presenting the brim- 
 ming inkstand to Kelly ; " you shall 
 empty this — it can't hurt you — for, 
 though it may be poison to the peace 
 of innocent women, you live upon it. 
 Drink ! " roared Moody ; and striking 
 his cane violently upon the ground, 
 he at the same time forced the 
 inkstand between the fingers of the 
 slanderer. 
 
 Mr. Hugh Kelly, who dealt out life 
 and death from his goose-quill — he who 
 could crush any man with the thunder- 
 stroke of his pen — looked appealingly 
 about the room. Many familiar faces 
 were there ; but in no one of them did 
 he see the least promise of assistance. 
 On the contrary, there were not a few 
 which indicated a mingled gratification 
 and curiosity. And then the horrible 
 Moody stood and shook his cane. 
 " Drink ! " again roared the actor. 
 
 " Mr. Moody," said Kelly, "you have 
 injured me by a vile aspersion. You 
 have been pleased to say that I live 
 upon venomous ink. Now, sir, to show 
 to the world, and to confound you with 
 the truth, 1 will prove that there is no 
 poison in my ink — prove it for my own 
 satisfaction, mind you — by immediately 
 drinking it." Saying this, and shutting 
 his eyes, Kelly emptied the inkstand, 
 filled so lately, by his express order, to
 
 A Critic s Inkstand. 
 
 the brim. Some of the company laughed, 
 and others cried " bravo ! " at the feat. 
 "There," said Kelly, pale in the face 
 
 and shuddering — " no man, I think, 
 would drink poison in that way." 
 
 Moody glanced at the critic with the 
 
 deepest contempt, and then burst into 
 laughter. " Here," he said to the 
 waiter, at the same time throwing a 
 crown upon the table, "let Mr. Kelly 
 have some brandy to wash his mouth 
 with ; and I hope, after this, he'll keep 
 
 H u 
 
 it the cleaner for the future." Moody 
 then quitted the room ; and Mr. Gaunt- 
 wolf, possibly not feeling himself in a 
 condition to sympathise with the ink- 
 stained critic, caught me up and has- 
 tened to his lodgings. I soon discovered 
 
 233
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 the purpose for which I had been bor- 
 rowed j Mr. and Mrs. Gauntwolf had 
 been invited by their dear girl to a 
 "solemn supper," at which "his lord- 
 ship" had graciously promised to attend. 
 Mr. Gauntwolf, wishing to do all honour 
 to the ceremony, had borrowed me, 
 among other finery, from the theatre 
 for the purpose ; and in due season I 
 was taken to the festival. 
 
 The party was small, but very hilari- 
 ous. What, however, was my astonish- 
 ment to find Mrs. Gaptooth of the com- 
 pany ! She evidently felt the honour 
 conferred upon her, for her manners 
 were wonderfully precise and reserved : 
 nor do I think that the Gauntwolfs had 
 a full knowledge of the character of 
 the old gentlewoman distinguished by 
 his lordship's friendship. The party, I 
 say, was very merry. Mr. Gauntwolf 
 kissed his dear child again and again ; 
 and as often begged his lordship to 
 take snuff with him, " out of ilmt box, 
 which he should treasure to the last 
 moment of his life." As the wine cir- 
 culated, Mrs. Gaptooth became thawed, 
 and laughed and talked in such a 
 manner, that more than once Mrs. 
 Gauntwolf, in the startled purity of 
 her soul, wondered " who that woman 
 could be ? " When, however, the old 
 woman talked of Fanny Davis, extolling 
 her beauty to the skies, at the same 
 234 
 
 time casting strange looks towards his 
 lordship, Mrs. Gauntwolf was convinced 
 that the creature "was no friend to 
 her dear child ! " 
 
 And the revelry went on. At length 
 twelve o'clock warned the party of bed 
 time. By this hour Mrs. Gaptooth felt 
 her heart ripened to mellowness with 
 generous wine ; and Mrs. Gauntwolf, 
 not wholly dead to its benevolent influ- 
 ence, thought more charitably of the 
 " merry old lady." A coach was at the 
 door — the Gauntwolfs could set Mrs. 
 Gaptooth down — and the party rose 
 for their homes. Mrs. Gaptooth quitted 
 the room for an inner apartment, when 
 — on Bacchus be the mortal blame ! — 
 taking the wrong turning, she fell down 
 stairs. A piercing shriek ran through 
 the house ; and few, indeed, were the 
 moments, and the wretched, sinful, 
 dying old woman — for death, indeed, 
 was looking awfully from her eyes — 
 was brought up-stairs and laid upon a 
 couch. 
 
 " A doctor — a doctor!" — cried Gaunt- 
 wolf. 
 
 "A parson," groaned the woman, 
 with terrible energy ; " I am dying — I 
 feel it here — I know it. Dying ! That 
 such a wTetch as I should ever die ! 
 Send for Mr. Lintley — send for his 
 friend the parson ; be sure, the parson." 
 She then with difficulty gave the apothe-
 
 Death of Mrs. Gaptooth. 
 
 cary's address, and a messenger was 
 hastily despatched to him. 
 
 In a brief time, Lintley came, accom- 
 panied by Inglewood. At once he per- 
 ceived there was no hope ; the fall had 
 produced a mortal injury of the spine. 
 
 " I did not want your assistance but 
 forgiveness," said the woman, "and 
 yours too, sir. God bless you, pray 
 
 for me," she cried to Inglewood. " You 
 don't know how I worked to destroy 
 that poor child ! There were twenty 
 witnesses ready at my hire — but Curl- 
 well would not be the villain to the 
 last — to swear away poor Patty's life — 
 forgive me — beg of her to forgive me !" 
 And with these words the miserable 
 creature died. 
 
 235
 
 oXL^ 
 
 I remain in the Family o{ the IxaunhuoHs. 
 A jLetter an<) a Cheque. 
 
 T 
 
 X may be that the sud- 
 Ji > deu tragedy witnessed by 
 Mr. Gauntwolf made him forgetful of 
 his promise to return me to the mis- 
 tress of the -wardrobe ; it may be that 
 Mrs. Gauntwolf, approving my fitness 
 to her beauty, refused to deliver me up. 
 However it was, I remained some twelve 
 months in the family, and in that time 
 saw the gradual decline of all its glory. 
 Week after week Miss Gauntwolf be- 
 came more tetchy, pert, and violent. 
 "My darling lamb — my sweet one — 
 236 
 
 my rose-bud," for w T ith such tender and 
 caressing words was Gauntwolf wont 
 to address his bartered child, "my 
 pearl of light, what ails you % " 
 
 " La, father ! how can you be such a 
 fool ?" cried the dutiful Almeria. "What 
 ails me, indeed ! " 
 
 "You ought to be as happy as the days 
 are long," exclaimed the father. " And 
 yet for this last week, Almeria, you've 
 been sobbing and pouting like any 
 pauper. For shame ! With your com- 
 forts about you, too ! It's flying in the 
 face of Providence." 
 
 " Comforts, indeed ! And his lord- 
 ship going to be married ! " cried the 
 girl ; and her eyes flashed, and she bit 
 her lips. 
 
 Mr. Gauntwolf took his gold snuff- 
 box, the lustrous gift of his lordship, 
 from his pocket, and squeezing together 
 a pinch of snuff with quiet energy 
 'twixt finger and thumb, and then 
 jerking it up either nostril, said, 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " It can't be, Almeria," cried Mrs.
 
 /// the Family of the Gauntwolfs. 
 
 Gauntwolf. " Going to be married ! 
 He couldn't do it." 
 
 " His lordship's too much of a gentle- 
 man," said Gauntwolf; and his eye 
 slumbered complacently on the gold 
 snuff-box. 
 
 " You're both fools together ! " ex- 
 claimed the young vixen ; " blind fools, 
 not to see it." 
 
 " Almeria," said Gauntwolf, acting 
 the wounded father, " is this language 
 to me — to your darling mother? Is 
 this our reward ? — this the payment for 
 our anxious days, our sleepless nights ; 
 this the return for all our tenderness ? 
 You, Almeria, have been our idol ; the 
 sole object of our every thought ; to 
 make your fortune, to see you well in 
 the world, has been our only purpose 
 on this earth, before we went down 
 hand-in-hand into the quiet grave. A 
 thankless child, as King Lear very 
 properly observes, is sharper than a 
 serpent's tooth ; I feel it, Almeria — I 
 feel it ; " and Mr. Gauntwolf, with a 
 tear glistening in his eye, again took 
 from his lordship's box a consolatory 
 pinch. Mrs. Gauntwolf drew a long 
 sigh, and, with a sympathetic look at 
 her husband, shook her head. 
 
 " It's all very fine talk about serpents' 
 teeth," said Miss Gauntwolf; "but I 
 tell you his lordship's going to be 
 married ; and just, too, as I was begin- 
 
 ning to love him." Here the young 
 lady began to whimper very piteously. 
 
 " Now, Almeria, how will you go on 
 so ? " cried Mrs. Gauntwolf ; " crying 
 for nothing, and making your nose as 
 red as anything ? It's only your fond 
 fears ; just like your jealousy about 
 Fanny Davis ; and what did that end 
 in ? His lordship was going to run 
 away with her ; at least, so you would 
 have it ; and now, the poor little wretch 
 is really married to one of the fiddlers." 
 
 " Poor little thing ! Yes, really 
 married," said Gauntwolf, again taking 
 snuff. " Ha ! she deserved a better 
 fate. But, then, she had no fond 
 father to watch her interests ; nobody 
 to put her on in life ; for Davis knows 
 nothing of society — poor creature ! quite 
 a fool. Whilst you, Almeria — you, who 
 are envied and — " 
 
 "What's the use of being envied for 
 a little time, if it's not going to last ? " 
 inquired Almeria. " I know his lord- 
 ship's altered — I'm sure of it. Have I 
 had a letter from him this whole week? 
 He's getting colder and colder, and will 
 bring me to an early grave." 
 
 " Colder ! You're a fond, foolish girl," 
 said Mr. Gauntwolf. "Didn't I tell 
 you that I met his lordship yesterday ; 
 and I'm sure he squeezed my hand — 
 no brother could have been kinder." 
 
 All these paternal assurances failed 
 
 237
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 to comfort Almeria ; for she flung her- 
 self from the room, muttering some- 
 thing about old fools, and that nobody 
 was so blind as they who wouldn't 
 see. 
 
 Miss Gauntwolf being fairly gone, 
 her mother, with an anxious look, 
 observed that after all it was strange, 
 very strange, that his lordship had 
 not called — not so much as written. 
 "Should anything like a marriage 
 happen, that poor girl would break her 
 heart. My dear Abimelech," said Mrs. 
 Gauntwolf to her husband, " hadn't you 
 better sound his lordship % " 
 
 " There can be no harm in that," said 
 Gauntwolf, " and now I think of it, I've 
 an excellent way to probe his affections. 
 We want a hundred pounds, Eliza?" 
 
 " Dreadfully," answered Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf, with great emphasis. 
 
 " I'll ask his lordship to lend me the 
 sum," said Gauntwolf. " If he should 
 refuse, why we shall know 7 what to think 
 of him. Should his lordship mean 
 falsehood to Almeria, he shall find that 
 she has still a father." Concluding 
 this sentence, Mr. Gauntwolf snatched 
 his snuff-box from his pocket, and, with 
 a determined look, shaking his head 
 very significantly, he took a mighty 
 pinch. 
 
 "You've hit upon the very plan, 
 Abimelech," said Mrs. Gauntwolf; "and 
 238 
 
 as we can't have the money too soon, 
 and besides, can't know too early what 
 his lordship means towards our dear 
 girl, suppose, like a good creature, you 
 go at once ] " 
 
 Mr. Gauntwolf, in the pursuit of 
 money, was a man of decision. The 
 fifth minute from this discourse saw 
 him on his way to his lordship's man- 
 sion. In less than an hour he had 
 returned to his happy, peaceful hearth, 
 with new gleesomeness in his eyes ; new 
 importance in his manner. His whole 
 anatomy seemed seething in content. 
 
 " You've got the money, Abimelech 1 ?" 
 cried Mrs. Gauntwolf, interpreting with 
 feminine quickness her husband's happy 
 looks. 
 
 " To be sure. As I have said, re- 
 ceived me like a brother. Ha ! this it 
 is to deal with real noblemen." 
 
 " And you've really got the money 1 ? " 
 again asked Mrs. Gauntwolf. "And 
 Almeria — what did his lordship say 
 about our dear girl 1 " 
 
 " Spoke like a gentleman and a man 
 of honour. Said her happiness was the 
 nearest to his heart ; called her a sweet 
 girl — a good girl ; and said both of us 
 ought to think such a child a treasure. 
 When he said that, I at once asked him 
 for the hundred pounds. Ha ! Eliza, 
 what a fool I was," said Gauntwolf, and 
 a shadow fell upon his face. " His lord-
 
 A Letter and a Cheque. 
 
 ship was so affable, I might have made 
 it two." 
 
 " It is a pity," cried the wife. " But 
 where is the money 1 " 
 
 '* His lordship will send it — in half- 
 an-hour, he said." A knock at the 
 door attested his lordship's punctuality. 
 A livery servant brought a letter — no 
 answer was required — directed to Mr. 
 Gaunt wolf. " Here it is, Eliza ; his 
 own gracious hand — his own beautiful 
 seal. Two unicorns, and the Latin 
 Omnia virtute. You don't know what 
 that means, Eliza ; it means," — Gaunt- 
 wolf had somewhat improved its mean- 
 ing from his lordship — " it means 
 'Everybody in the woi'ld is done by 
 virtue.' " 
 
 " A beautiful sentiment," cried Mrs. 
 Gauntwolf ; " but let's see the 
 money." 
 
 "Why, you don't suspect it isn't 
 here 1 No, no ; had it been a thousand 
 pounds, his lordship had not refused it. 
 Here it is," cried Gauntwolf, taking a 
 cheque, delicately as it had been a 
 butterfly, from the letter ; " here it is : 
 ' Pay to Almeria Gauntwolf or bearer the 
 sum of — why, no, it isn't — it can't be," 
 exclaimed Gauntwolf with more than 
 player's energy : "and yet it is — ' the 
 sum of Two Hundred Pounds.' Two 
 hundred pounds ! " 
 
 " It can't be," cried Mrs. Gauntwolf, 
 
 with a hysteric laugh, and snatching the 
 cheque : " it's impossible, and — ' Tivo 
 hundred pounds ! ' " 
 
 " What a man he is to read hearts ! 
 His lordship knew I wanted two hun- 
 dred," said Gauntwolf. 
 
 " ' Two hundred pounds,' " read Mrs. 
 Gauntwolf, "'value received.'' Is that 
 the way they always write cheques ? " 
 she asked. " Do they always put 
 ' value received ' 1 " 
 
 " Not always," answered Gauntwolf ; 
 " but then his lordship's such a man 
 of business." 
 
 " But isn't it strange, my love, that 
 his lordship should have written the 
 cheque in the name of Almeria % " 
 
 " Not at all ; a delicate way of con- 
 ferring a favour ; so like a real noble- 
 man ! " cried Gauntwolf. " But here's 
 his lordship's letter ; this is to myself, 
 listen. ' Lord presents his compli- 
 ments to Mr. Gauntwolf, and forwards, 
 for the use of his daughter, the inclosed 
 cheque, as a — a — farewell gift.' " 
 
 " A what ! " screamed Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf. 
 
 Gauntwolf, flushed to the eyes, cleared 
 his throat, and after an effort proceeded : 
 — "'His lordship leaves England next 
 week, a married man.' " 
 
 "The villain !" exclaimed Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf. 
 
 " The heartless, mindless, soulless 
 
 239
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 robber ! " cried the actor, who snatched 
 the cheque from the hand of his wife, 
 and with a look of vengeance held it 
 extended, a thumb and finger loathingly 
 grasping either end. Thus for a moment 
 stood Gauntwolf. He then exclaimed 
 between his teeth, as though the genius 
 of a better thought had lighted in his 
 brain, " But no ! " 
 
 " Everybody done by virtue ! " cried 
 Mrs. Gauntwolf, with a venomous sneer, 
 as she glanced fierily at his lordship's 
 motto. 
 
 "An insult — a cowardly insult — to 
 a broken-hearted girl," said Gauntwolf. 
 
 "And after all," exclaimed his wife, 
 " God knows ! they mayn't pay the 
 cheque." 
 
 Woman — bless her ! a thousand and 
 a thousand times softens the rugged- 
 ness of fortune ; nevertheless, thought 
 Gauntwolf, she has now and then a 
 knack of making bad worse, by the 
 force of ill-timed suspicion. At least, 
 such was the infirmity of Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf; who, by this doubt, this last sur- 
 mised evil — almost unmanned her agi- 
 tated helpmate. 
 
 " In the wide world," exclaimed 
 Gauntwolf, unconsciously adopting the 
 worst language of the playhouse, 
 " there cannot be so vile a wretch ! 
 Not pay the cheque ! Perhaps, ordered 
 not to pay it ! To sport with the 
 heart-strings of an innocent child ! 
 But his lordship — aye, and were he ten 
 times a lord — shall find that his victim, 
 his artless victim, has a father." Here 
 Mr. Gauntwolf again applied for con- 
 solation to the gold snuff-box. 
 
 At this moment, Miss Gauntwolf, 
 alarmed by the vehemence of her 
 parent, entered the room. What could 
 be the matter 1 Whereupon Mr. Gaunt- 
 wolf, for the time suppressing the 
 letter, assured Almeria that it was 
 nothing ; he was merely talking w T ith 
 her mother about his lordship's cheque. 
 " And here," said Mr. Gauntwolf, "here 
 it is; look. 'Pay to Almeria Gaunt- 
 wolf or bearer the sum of hvo hundred 
 jwunds,'' " — 
 
 Almeria took the document from her 
 father's hand, and almost unconsciously 
 concluded the sentence — "Value re- 
 ceived." 
 
 240
 
 Gauntwolf faffs Sick. 
 His Grief anil his Gofu Snuff-box. 
 
 iR. GAUNT WOLF lost 
 no time in hurrying to the banker's. 
 It was all right ; the cheque was paid ; 
 and the anxious father, somewhat re- 
 lieved and soothed by the circum- 
 stance, returned to his home, as he 
 expressed himself to his wife, "with a 
 load off his heart." Leaving to the 
 partner of his bosom the painful and 
 delicate task — she could do it much 
 better than he could — of communicating 
 his lordship's treason to Almeria, Mr. 
 Gauntwolf again sallied forth. 
 
 i i 
 
 I will not dwell upon the misery of 
 Almeria ; if her grief w T as painful, it 
 was happily very brief, for in less than 
 a week, solaced and uplifted by the phi- 
 losophy of her mother, she followed her 
 advice, which was to " wipe his lordship 
 clean from her heart, like a milk-score 
 from a door-post." And then, there 
 were the two hundred pounds which, 
 for a time, gave a sweet oblivion to all 
 care ! Mrs. Gauntwolf blazed in new 
 gowns \ Mr. Gauntwolf became the wit 
 and idol of a tavern set, merely by 
 virtue of paying their score ; whilst the 
 thought of some new conquest that 
 should prove to his lordship how very 
 contemptible a person he was to her, 
 imparted even a skittish vivacity to 
 the deserted Almeria. 
 
 Sweet, however, as are two hundred 
 pounds, they carry with them this alloy 
 — they will not give delights and last. 
 In some three months — for Mr. Gaunt- 
 wolf had in the handsomest manner 
 discharged a few debts which had be- 
 come very pressing — scarcely a shilling 
 
 241 
 
 »S
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 of his lordship's farewell donation re- 
 mained unspent. Another loss — severe, 
 irreparable — fell upon the hapless Gaunt- 
 wolf. I have before related that, as an 
 actor, his deep, blatant voice, was his 
 chief excellence. Nature had marked 
 and fitted him up for at least a stage- 
 ruffian. His lungs were his fortune. 
 What, then, will be felt by the reader, 
 doubtless much interested in the des- 
 tinies of Gauntwolf, when he is informed 
 that the actor — stricken by sudden 
 cold, when jocundly emerging from a 
 tavern — became dead hoarse ? " Hush'd 
 was Apollo's lute." For some time, 
 the calamity was considered but as a 
 passing evil : rum and butter, or twenty 
 other specifics — wdiich Gauntwolf had 
 successfully tried as many times — would 
 bring back the treasured music to the 
 organ. Reader, that music was gone — 
 extinct as a dead nightingale. Gaunt- 
 wolf, who once spoke like a Philistine 
 trumpet, had not voice enough where- 
 with to rouse a mouse. Even Mrs. 
 Gauntwolf had to incline her ear to 
 catch the reedy sounds of her afflicted 
 mate. After a few weeks, Gauntwolf, 
 being found mere lumber in the theatre, 
 was discharged. His voice had kept 
 him in his situation — he was so useful 
 in the thieves and murderers ; but that 
 gone, his character in no way addressed 
 itself to managerial sympathies. Be- 
 242 
 
 sides, it so happened that when Gaunt- 
 wolf was found to be vocally useless, he 
 was discovered to be shamefully im- 
 moral : hence, his dischai'ge — at least 
 in the opinion of the management — 
 threw a sort of lustre on the authority 
 that banished him. 
 
 And now poverty, with every day a 
 sterner, ghastlier look, became the in- 
 mate of the house of Gauntwolf. It 
 was hardly to be hoped that his daugh- 
 ter, taught as she had been, would 
 remain in so cold and dreary a mansion, 
 and with her slender salary, bestow a 
 passing comfort on such household 
 misery. No ; she left her parents and, 
 in her own words, took care of herself. 
 She w r as too young to be moped up ; it 
 would be time enough for her to know 
 trouble when she grew older. She left 
 her father in suffering and destitution ; 
 and he — poor wretch ! — marvelled at 
 her ingratitude, seeing, as he said, what 
 he had done for her ! 
 
 Daily meals still took away some 
 article of dress — some little piece of 
 plate ; and now a brooch — and now 
 a ring bought breakfast and dinner. 
 With every sacrifice, Gauntwolf s temper 
 became sourer and more violent. Then 
 would he strive to rave and roar at his 
 wife, but his voice sounded like wind 
 through a crevice, and his blasphemies 
 were scarcely audible, though his fea-
 
 Qauntwolf falls Sick. 
 
 tures were often blackened and con- 
 vulsed with rage. His wife would at 
 times sit in most malicious ti-anquillity, 
 
 eyeing her gasping mate with scorn and 
 contumely. "Why don't you speak 
 out 1 " she has said, in her most sneer- 
 
 ing moods, " why don't you speak out, 
 and then I should hear you 1 " And 
 then Oauntwolf, panting and foaming 
 with passion, has shaken his fists in the 
 woman's face, who has laughed the 
 more provokingly. These were fits of 
 
 passion. There were times when hus- 
 band and wife exchanged sympathy and 
 tenderness, mutually bemoaning their 
 fortune — mutually lamenting their un- 
 dutiful daughter. And then, with more 
 than usual pathos, would Gauntwolf 
 
 243
 
 TJie Story of a FeatJicr. 
 
 take snuff from the gold box, and 
 cry — " And after all I have done for 
 her ! " 
 
 Throughout the domestic wreck 
 Gauntwolf had clung to that gold box 
 with the tenacity of dying vanity. 
 Twenty times had his wife begged that 
 she might carry that valuable to the 
 pawnbroker ; no, anything but that ; 
 he would want bread — he would perish 
 first. Then, in maudlin voice he would 
 cry he could not help it. Almeria had 
 been an uudutiful child ; it was true — 
 an unfeeling child ; and yet that snuff- 
 box seemed still to link her to his 
 heart ; yes, and he would lose his 
 heart-strings ere he would part with it. 
 And so, every day some household 
 article, some piece of dress was pawned, 
 Gauntwolf seeking consolation with 
 snuff from the gold box — the gift of 
 his lordship — the gold box with the 
 beautiful Venus on the lid — the gold 
 box that always brought back thoughts 
 of his uudutiful daughter. Hence, 
 Gauntwolf was resolute : he would sit 
 with hunger at his vitals — with deso- 
 lation around him — but he would hold 
 to the death the gold box ! 
 
 Speedily sickness fell upon Gauntwolf. 
 In a fortnight from the first attack, he 
 lay in utter helplessness, with poveily, 
 destitution at his bed-side. A little 
 money was raised at the theatre ; for 
 244 
 
 Mrs. Olive, on hearing the wretched 
 man's condition, headed the subscription 
 list, and carried it round the green- 
 room. This help somewhat smoothed 
 the sick man's pillow ; but the disease 
 grew, and the money ebbed and ebbed, 
 and again Gauntwolf was penniless. 
 
 " Now, my dear, my love — let me, 
 do let me take that box," cried the 
 wife, with her ear close to the sick 
 man's lips. 
 
 " I won't — I can't — I'll suffer any- 
 thing first," said Gauntwolf, in a gasping 
 whisper. 
 
 "It's not like selling it ; we can get 
 it again, Abimelech ; to be sure we can, 
 when you are well, and your voice 
 comes back ; and doesn't the doctor 
 say that this veiy sickness may be the 
 means of bringing it back again ] Do 
 let me take the box," and the wife was 
 sliding her hand under the pillow. 
 
 " Leave it alone ! " cried Gauntwolf ; 
 and with sudden might he rose in the 
 bed, and looked rage and defiance at 
 his wife. "It's like tearing my life 
 away to part with it. Never — never — 
 while I live, never ! My poor child — 
 my naughty child, — yet, it's all I have 
 to remember her." In this manner 
 did the wretched man, dupe to himself, 
 confound the recollection of his daughter 
 with the golden payment of the infamy 
 he, her father, had brought upon her.
 
 Qauntwolf falls Sick 
 
 Gauntwolf became worse — delirious : 
 his wants increased — there was neither 
 food nor firing in the house ; and whilst 
 he slept, his wife drew from beneath his 
 pillow the contested snuff-box, which 
 the pawnbroker changed into money. 
 Ten guineas did Mrs. Gauntwolf carry 
 from the money-lender ; ten guineas, 
 which, she declared to her landlady, 
 seemed as if dropt from heaven ! Ere 
 she returned home she had taken the 
 precaution of buying a bright brass box 
 which — filled with suuff — she placed 
 beneath Gauntwolf's pillow. He was 
 too ill — too light-headed, she said, to 
 know the difference, and as he got well, 
 she could break the matter to him. 
 She felt — as she avowed to her land- 
 lady — that it was a dreadful sacrifice 
 for him ; he had such pride, such 
 manly pride ; and then he so loved 
 that box for the sake of his daughter. 
 Nevertheless, could she as a wife stand 
 there and see him die for medicine, 
 with that gold snuff-box under his 
 pillow 1 It could have been nothing 
 but Providence that made them keep 
 that gold box for such a time ! What 
 should they have done without that 
 gold box 1 
 
 Time brought healing on its wings ; 
 Gauntwolf's fever subsided, but left 
 him worn, spent, emaciated. For a 
 week he had taken no snuff. At length, 
 
 he whispered — looking with a quick- 
 ened look at his wife — " My box — 
 where is my box 1 " 
 
 " Under your pillow — you'll find a 
 box, love — yes, under your pillow," 
 said the wife coaxingly. 
 
 The sick man searched, and whilst 
 his wife shrunk from the bed-side he 
 drew forth the brass counterfeit. In a 
 moment he saw the truth ; in a moment 
 seemed to know and acknowledge the 
 necessity that had made the change. 
 Hence, with a tear trickling down his 
 nose, he resignedly tapped the lid, lifted 
 it, took a pinch of snuff, and said, 
 turning the box in his hand, " Brass ! 
 God bless me ! this is indeed a trial." 
 Mrs. Gauntwolf, affected by the resigna- 
 tion of, as she called him, her suffering 
 martyr, rushed from the room, and in 
 glowing words narrated the scene to 
 her landlady. "When the dear soul 
 saw it was brass, bless him, he took it 
 like an angel." Whereupon the land- 
 lady assured Mrs. Gauntwolf that such 
 obedience to the will of the Lord would 
 be sure to meet with blessings. For 
 herself she had no doubt of it, Mr. 
 Gauntwolf would get his beautiful, 
 manly voice once more ; and she should 
 see him in Richard, go to murder the 
 young princes once again ! 
 
 " Vain human hopes — fond, empty 
 aspirations ! Gauntwolf recovei'ed his 
 
 245
 
 llie Story of a FcatJicr. 
 
 health ; but his voice remained dead and 
 buried in his throat. Strong he was, 
 and could have done porter's work ; 
 but, as he lamented, he had been born 
 and bred a gentleman — for this, be it 
 remembered, I have only Gauntwolfs 
 unsupported word — and how could he 
 labour like a common fellow 1 How he 
 lived from month to month, — Heaven, 
 that has charge of the destitute, alone 
 
 knew how. And then the frequent 
 memento of his present wretchedness — 
 that brass snuff-box ! Oh, it would 
 wear his heart, the more especially if 
 softened by a gratuitous glass of spirits 
 or a mug of ale! "That it should 
 come to this ! " he would say, in melan- 
 choly musing, feeding his nose — " That 
 it should come to this ! Brass ! Gra- 
 cious Heaven — brass ! " 
 
 246
 
 I am Pawned, ant) acjatn Sotb to Shaurach Jacobs. 
 I become the Property of an "(Undertaker. 
 
 J m h passed, and the 
 fortunes of Gauntwolf 
 still remained desperate. 
 His voice returned not, and the in- 
 temperance which, at others' cost, he 
 sometimes indulged in, brutalised his 
 temper, and by degrees gave him the 
 countenance of a savage. Then would 
 he wreak his worst wishes on his 
 daughter, who, as he declared, all 
 forgetful of his tenderness, had de- 
 serted the best of fathers in his sorrow 
 and destitution, and whilst she herself 
 
 revelled in the luxuries of the world — 
 for Almeria had been beguiled from the 
 theatre, and lived a life of miserable, 
 guilty splendour — suffered the kindest, 
 most indulgent of parents to wither 
 on a crust. Poor wretch ! aud so he 
 wasted, his gray hairs being to him as 
 a crown of penal fire. (He died, as I 
 afterwards learned, in misery, aud his 
 child indignantly refused to look upon 
 her father's corpse.) 
 
 Piece by piece each article was 
 pawned. How it was that I remained 
 so long in the possession of Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf, I will explain. Again and again, 
 when making up a parcel for the money- 
 lender, did she take me between her 
 fingers, ponder awhile, then lay me 
 down again. " No," she has said to 
 herself, " I'll live in hope ; better times 
 must come ; and if they don't, why it 
 sha'n't go till the last, I'm determined." 
 She could not give up the fond, the 
 flattering thought, that at some early 
 day she should be called, as she ex- 
 pressed it, into the world again, and 
 
 247
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 therefore hoarded me, even with super- 
 stitious care, that I might grace her 
 reappearance on the stage of life. " Be- 
 sides," she has sometimes added, "they'd 
 lend me nothing on it after all." The 
 time, however, came when our separa- 
 tion could no longer be put off. Hence 
 I was one day taken to the pawn- 
 broker. Yes ; poor Mrs. Gauntwolf looked 
 at me with moistened eyes ; sighed 
 very heavily ; then carefully laying me 
 in a piece of folded paper, carried me 
 away to the money-lender, who, with 
 the brevity of his trade, asked, " How 
 much?" 
 
 "You must let me have a crown, 
 indeed, you must," said Mrs. Gauntwolf, 
 trying to smile through all her heavi- 
 ness of heart. 
 
 The pawnbroker flung me contemp- 
 tuously back, saying, " Eighteenpence." 
 
 " Now, really, I've been a good cus- 
 tomer," said Mrs. Gauntwolf, "and I 
 happen to want the exact crown. My 
 dear sir " — 
 
 " Eighteenpence," repeated the pawn- 
 broker. 
 
 "Now, really"— 
 
 " Don't waste my time. Eighteen- 
 pence." The money-broker was inex- 
 orable. 
 
 " I must take it," said Mrs. Gaunt- 
 wolf, with a sigh : the money was paid, 
 and in the evening I was deposited in 
 248 
 
 the pawnbroker's store-room, where I 
 remained undisturbed for upwards of 
 a twelvemonth. Then I was sold with 
 other unredeemed goods, and once more 
 passed into the hands of Shadrach 
 Jacobs, my old master, of the Minories ; 
 that thrifty Hebrew always attending 
 the sale of pawnbrokers' effects, to buy 
 thereat his profitable penn'orths. How 
 my heart sank within me as the old 
 Jew turned me over and over ! What 
 scenes had I mins-led in since he last 
 
 O 
 
 took me between his fingers ! And 
 had I been dressed, prepared for a 
 Prince of Wales, only at length to be 
 returned to the miserly Jew, my first 
 London purchaser 1 Alas ! I knew not 
 then what further misery awaited me. 
 
 When Shadrach Jacobs carried me to 
 his den in the Minories, I no longer 
 found there the plump and languishing 
 Miriam. " She'll die in a ditch vid de 
 Christian dog she's married — she vill, 
 she vill, "cried Shadrach to a friend and 
 fellow-tradesman, Moses Moss, who called 
 upon him very shortly after my arrival 
 at the Jew's house. " Ha, Moses, my 
 tear friend, it's unknown what she 
 robbed me on ; if I hadn't been her 
 father, I'd a hanged her ; but I couldn't 
 do it — I couldn't do it." And so the 
 old man lived alone, hoarding, hoai'd- 
 ing ; hunting bargains hour by hour — 
 accumulating wealth for no end. His
 
 / become tlie Property of an Undertaker. 
 
 daughter had forgotten the faith of her 
 fathers, and mai'ried a Christian butcher. 
 Old Shadrach was a childless, miserable, 
 wealthy man. Every day he became 
 more and more enfeebled, and all his 
 money could not buy him one touch of 
 sympathy in his downward path ; and 
 so, unregarded, he travelled with disease 
 upon him to the grave. In three 
 months after he became my purchaser, 
 Shadrach died. Who inherited his 
 wealth I know not. What I know is 
 this ; his stock and household goods 
 were sold, and I was bought by Sha- 
 drach's late friend, Moses Moss, who 
 had me cleaned, and shortly afterwards 
 sold me to a furnishing undertaker. In 
 brief time I was promoted to the plume, 
 and solemnly borne on a lid before the 
 hearse. 
 
 I will not dwell upon my experience 
 in this my new and most melancholy 
 condition. Not that I should need 
 matter wherewith to chequer scenes of 
 funereal woe. The lively and humor- 
 ous discourse of those chamberlains of 
 death, the undertaker's men, who — the 
 funeral over — make so very merry at 
 the public-house, and are so extremely 
 jocose on the top of the hearse, would 
 afford me very pleasant and mirthful 
 memories. All these, however, I shall 
 pass, dwelling only upon one incident 
 of my funereal life. 
 
 K K 
 
 Has the reader forgotten Jessy — the 
 miserable, blighted, yet warm-hearted 
 girl, who in her passion of remorse be- 
 . sought the prayers and forgiveness of 
 Patty Butler'? She died in peace and 
 penitence, though it is not of her funeral 
 I have now to speak. 
 
 One Sunday I had been upon duty, 
 carried before the hearse, at the funeral 
 of a man, a bachelor, who died an early 
 death. He was buried in a suburban 
 church-yard, where at least the grass 
 could grow about the graves, and was 
 not blighted, stifled by London soot. 
 He was not laid in a London charnel- 
 house, where London life in all its 
 noise and activity roars and bustles 
 around the sanctuary of death. No ; 
 he was buried in a quiet, sequestered 
 spot ; and the funeral over, the under- 
 takers hurried with the hearse to the 
 door of the Silver Lion, where they 
 " undressed " the vehicle of all its 
 mournful appointments. An elderly 
 woman, in decent black, had followed 
 the procession from the house to the 
 grave-yard. It was a sultry day, and 
 her walk had been a long one : the 
 woman paused at the door of the inn, 
 and asked for a glass of ale. She then 
 seated herself on a bench at the door, 
 and in a few minutes was in conver- 
 sation with the mistress of the inn, 
 who, having brought the ale, still lin- 
 
 249
 
 The Story of a FcatJier. 
 
 gered gossiping in the sunshine ; the 
 while the undertaker's men drew me 
 with my companions from the hearse, 
 and deposited us in a bag. 
 
 " You've had a long walk, eh, mis- 
 tress % " said she of the Silver Lion. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, long enough," said the 
 woman. " But had the way been twice 
 as long, I must have come." 
 
 " Ha ! you knew the poor man that's 
 buried 1 " 
 
 " I can hardly say I knew him, and 
 yet thei*e was something so sweet in 
 his manner — something so sorrowful 
 in his story, that, though I never spoke 
 twenty words to him, made me quite 
 love him. Ha, ma'am," cried the wo- 
 man, " folks may laugh and jeer as they 
 will, but men do die of broken hearts, 
 be sure of it." 
 
 " And did he die so 1 " asked the 
 landlady, immediately interested in the 
 fate of the departed. 
 
 "Ay, indeed, he did. I'll tell you 
 the story. You see, ma'am, I'm one 
 of the pew-openers at the Magdalen — 
 you've heard of the Magdalen, ma'am V 
 "To be sure I have," answered the 
 landlady, a little coldly, " and what of 
 the Magdalen \ " 
 
 " Well, ma'am, the poor young man 
 
 that's buried had been to sea, far away 
 
 in foreign parts, and came home with 
 
 money for life. Before he went away 
 
 250 
 
 he was plighted to a girl, and now he 
 was come back, and was going down 
 the next morning to his native place to 
 see her. In the evening he came to 
 our church. Shall I ever forget his 
 healthy, happy face, when I showed 
 him to a seat 1 Yet, when the service 
 was over, he seemed troubled in his 
 looks ; there w T as a sort of cloud upon 
 him. Well, ma'am, a month after that 
 he came back ; and then was his face 
 as fixed and white as any stone." 
 
 " He had lost his sweetheart, I sup- 
 pose 1 " said the landlady. " Married 
 somebody else, no doubt 1 " 
 
 "Worse than that, ma'am. Some 
 time after he had gone to sea, she be- 
 came flighty and foolish, and the end 
 of it was, she left her home and led a 
 life of sin. Poor soul ! she repented, if 
 ever poor mistaken soul repented ; but 
 she was not to remain in this world. 
 When she came to the Magdalen, she 
 was fast gone into a consumption. Yet 
 she would sing so beautifully ! Oh, you 
 could hear her voice so sweet, and so 
 pure above all the others ! Well, ma'am, 
 as it afterwards turned out, she sang, 
 and for the last time at church, on the 
 very night that her sweetheart first 
 came there. It was her voice — though 
 he couldn't believe it hers — that had 
 so troubled him. However, he went 
 home, and learned all his misery — she
 
 / become the Property of an Undertaker. 
 
 who should have been his wife was a 
 penitent sinner in the Magdalen." 
 
 " Dear heart ! " cried the landlady. 
 
 " As I say, ma'am, he came back, but 
 Jessy — for that was her name— was 
 dead. So to speak, he had heard her 
 dying voice ; she never sang after that 
 night." 
 
 " Poor soul ! " said the landlady. 
 "And did he come after that to the 
 church ? " 
 
 "Never missed a day, ma'am," said 
 the pew-opener. " But every time 
 looked paler and paler, and thinner and 
 thinner. Poor soul ! When the women 
 sang the hymns Pve seen the tears 
 sometimes come into his eyes, as if he 
 heard her voice again, and he would 
 sigh so it would have melted a heart of 
 stone to hear him." 
 
 " How veiy odd !" cried the landlady. 
 " I never thought to hear such a thing 
 
 of a man ; with us, to be sure, broken 
 hearts are common enough. But a 
 man — well, I never ! " 
 
 " Oh, anybody coidd see his was 
 breaking. Last Sunday week only, he 
 came to church ; for many Sundays I 
 never expected to see him again — but 
 still, though.weaker and weaker, he was 
 there ; and still he smiled so gently, 
 so patiently, and to the last seemed 
 so comforted with the singing ! Ha, 
 ma'am," cried the pew-opener, " if there 
 ever was such a thing as a broken heart, 
 there's one in his coffin." 
 
 And such was the end — the happy 
 end — of Jessy, for she died in peace and 
 in purity of spirit. Such the closing 
 hour of him who should have been her 
 husband. Her voice seemed to have 
 left its dying echoes in the church, and 
 still the wasting, broken-hearted man 
 would smile as fancy listened to them. 
 
 251
 
 c^XLIII^o 
 
 I jL e a v e the ¥ n u 4 e r t a )i e x, 
 antl aw Promoted to a Monlicu's (Lap. 
 
 (ArrlLY, I was not fated to 
 remain long in the service of 
 the undertaker ; although, 
 indeed, my release from him was pur- 
 chased at a considerable sacrifice. One 
 day, the undertaker's men having pos- 
 sibly been more than usually impressed 
 with the solemnity of their calling, re- 
 quired more than their usual quantity 
 of alcohol to give a fillip to their cast- 
 down spirits. In a word, they lingered 
 so long at the public-house, that one and 
 all of them became, in the most intense 
 meaning of the word, drunk. They 
 brawled, scuffled, and fought ; and in the 
 252 
 
 confusion, a lighted candle falling on the 
 bag in which myself and comrades were, 
 after the ceremony of interment, ordi- 
 narily deposited, the flame in an instant 
 singed me from top to toe. It was im- 
 possible that I could be taken back to 
 my owner in my burnt condition, and 
 therefore, in the most liberal spirit, 
 peace being somewhat restored, I was 
 given to the bar-maid, — who the next 
 week presented me to a damsel, who for 
 three nights became the tenant of the 
 back attic of the Hare and Hounds, the 
 while the fair was held in the village. 
 This maiden was the columbine of the 
 first booth ; but I was even too much 
 disfigured to appear in the front of a 
 show, and was therefore given, I pre- 
 sume, as a sort of gage damour, to a 
 Mr. Bunkle, the proprietor of a drome- 
 dary and a monkey. In a trice, I was 
 placed as an ornament in the monkey's 
 cap ; and my wearer being perched 
 upon the dromedary's back, I was 
 enabled to consider out-door life from a 
 very advantageous eminence. As the
 
 / am Promoted to a Monkey s Cap. 
 
 monkey twitched his cap on and off at 
 the command of his master, and so 
 rumpled me sadly, it is true I felt an 
 occasional twinge at the indignity ; 
 that I, who had commenced life as one 
 of the plumes of a Prince of Wales, 
 should end in a moukey's bonnet, be- 
 coming the beggar of halfpenny pieces ! 
 Such were now and then my thoughts, 
 but I wai'ded them off w T ith a gay phi- 
 losophy that said — ■" Pooh, pooh, let's 
 jog on, and be merry." 
 
 However, my situation had this ad- 
 vantage. As I was carried to all parts 
 of London, and travelled many portions 
 of the country, I learned the history of 
 several of my old acquaintances. It is 
 true I learned it by snatches, but yet 
 sufficiently well to piece out a history. 
 Hence, one day while my master was 
 exhibiting his wonders — the dromedary 
 and myself — at Tyburn Turnpike, 1 
 beheld among the crow T d, leaning on the 
 arm of a stalwart-looking tradesman, 
 dear Mrs. Cramp, the card-maker's 
 widow. But there was such happiness 
 in her face — such heartiness in her 
 laughter as my wearer, the monkey, 
 approached and doffed his bonnet to 
 her, that I was convinced her shattered 
 heart had been newly cemented by a 
 second marriage. Her face seemed 
 shilling in the serene light of a honey- 
 moon. It is true, she stood upon the 
 
 death-place of Abram Clickly — for, alas ! 
 the highwayman was really hanged, — 
 nevertheless, it was plain she was not 
 haunted by the remembrance of that 
 untoward event. Yes — there was no 
 doubt of the fact — she was married. 
 The tone in which I heard her say, 
 " Come, love, or Becky will scold us for 
 spoiling dinner," rang with w^edded 
 bliss. And Becky — the faithful, sym- 
 pathising Becky — still kept her place, 
 and doubtless still guarded the secrets 
 of her mistress. 
 
 It was on one of these pilgrimages, 
 that my owner — as usual seeking the 
 hospitality of a stable for my wearer 
 and the bigger beast — put up at the 
 Crown at . What was my astonish- 
 ment, shall I say, too, my delight — to 
 find that albeit the hostelry bore the 
 name of Julius Curl well, it was Curl- 
 well's wife who ruled the house, and 
 more especially ruled the individual 
 master thereof? And who, think ye, 
 reader, was Mrs. Curlwell 1 No other 
 than the former Mrs. Pillow, house- 
 keeper to the Earl of Blushrose. Every 
 movement of her tongue seemed to 
 blister the hapless Julius ; he winced 
 and trembled, yet answered not. When 
 my master, with a bland politeness that 
 really exalted his calling, asked Mr. 
 Curlwell to grant the shelter of his stable 
 at the lowest possible price, Curlwell 
 
 253
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 replied not, but looked appealingly to 
 his wife ; whereupon, Mrs. Curlwell ex- 
 claimed, " Beasts ! I'll have no more 
 beasts than the law compels me to have 
 in my place. Hav'n't I beast enough 
 in you, you lazy animal 1 " — she ex- 
 claimed to Julius, who had not the 
 courage to venture dissent. Sweet, 
 most sweet to me, was it to know that 
 Julius Curlwell, the plague and perse- 
 cutor of Fanny Butler, was sentenced 
 for life to the excoriating voice of a 
 painted shrew — for her cheeks were 
 red as ruddle — together with an oc- 
 casional visitation from rolling -pin 
 or candlestick. Hymen had terribly 
 avenged the wrongs of the feather- 
 dresser. 
 
 Repulsed from the Crown, the show- 
 man wandered to a village — the village 
 of Mannasfield — some three miles off. 
 Here we exhibited, evidently to the 
 very great admiration of the rustic 
 natives and to the especial delight of 
 their children. It was plain that we 
 had fame enough among them ; but 
 equally plain that we had no halfpence. 
 My master had a touch of the philo- 
 sopher and the philanthropist in his 
 composition ; nevertheless, he could not, 
 as he said, " keep his beasts for nothing," 
 and was therefore about to leave Man- 
 nasfield with some disgust at the little 
 tangible patronage he had received from 
 254 
 
 its inhabitants, when an incident oc- 
 curred that altogether mollified him, 
 sending him in good humour to an 
 opposite ale-house. 
 
 The dromedary was showing his paces, 
 and the monkey in his most winning 
 way holding his cap to the crowd that 
 laughed loudly at his antic politeness, 
 yet nevertheless dropt no copper to 
 him, — when a lady stept from a cottage. 
 The monkey — well-educated beggar ! — 
 immediately approached her, and held 
 forth his cap with most beseeching air. 
 The lady — there seemed to me a sweet 
 benignity in her eyes, though her face 
 was stained and disfigured by disease — 
 smiled, and then — I knew not how it 
 was — I felt certain that I had seen her 
 somewhere before, though where I could 
 not well remember. Looking graciously, 
 pityingly at the poor monkey, she dropt 
 a shilling in his cap, and with a new 
 smile passed on. 
 
 " Well, that's what I call a lady — a 
 real lady down to the stockings," said 
 my master. 
 
 "You may say a lady," chimed in 
 the master of the ale-house, who was 
 sunning himself in his door - way, 
 and gratuitously enjoying the per- 
 formances of the beasts. "You may 
 say a lady." 
 
 " Lives hereabout, I suppose 1 " said 
 my master.
 
 SSI 
 
 Q 
 < 
 
 J 
 J 
 
 < 
 
 X 
 
 J 
 W
 
 / am Promoted to a Monkeys Cap. 
 
 " Up at the great house," said the 
 landlord. 
 
 " Give us a mug of ale, and I'll drink 
 her health, and wish there was more 
 like her," cried my master, dropping 
 himself on a bench, that he might at 
 leisure enjoy his tipple. 
 
 " That's a angel, turned to a woman," 
 said the tapster, bringing the ale ; " 
 " ami more than that, she's a real 
 Countess — mayhap you've heard of her, 
 for she made a great noise once in 
 London — she's the Countess Blushrose. 
 She was the beauty of six counties 
 once." 
 
 " I can't say much for her beauty," 
 answered my master, "but a shilling 
 ivas like a lady." 
 
 " Ha ! " said the publican, " she was 
 beautiful, I can tell you ; but the 
 droll thing is, when she was in the 
 full blow of her beauty nobody could 
 abear her. Her husband and she, 
 like poker and tongs, was always on 
 opposite sides. You see, she thought 
 all the world was in her beautiful face, 
 and nothing whatsomever out of it. 
 Then, she'd as soon agone into a pig- 
 stye with silk stockings on as walked 
 into the cottage of a poor man ; 
 now, bless your heart ! she's all the 
 contrary." 
 
 " That's droll enough," said my 
 master ; " and how was it brought 
 about?" 
 
 " You see, one night, when she was 
 in all the glory of her beautiful face, 
 over-dancing or something of that sort 
 — she caught the — the- — I don't know 
 why they give sickness such hard names, 
 unless it be to frighten it — the erisy- 
 puluss." 
 
 " Sipelas," said the landlord's wife in 
 correction, the two eking out the proper 
 word. 
 
 " That's it," said the landlord ; " well, 
 that it seems was enough ; there was 
 no more beauty — that w r as gone for 
 life. When they first showed her a 
 looking-glass, they say she doubled up 
 her little .white fist and smashed it into 
 a thousand pieces. And then she wept 
 and tore her hair, and all that. At 
 last, she listened to reason. She give 
 up London, and all its routs and balls ; 
 come down here — from the first moment 
 went among the poor, — and now she 
 nurses 'em and talks to 'em just as if 
 they was like her own flesh and blood. 
 Now, she never stirs that she doesn't 
 walk out like in a very shower of 
 blessings." 
 
 Such was the benignity — such the 
 benevolence of the Countess Blushrose. 
 
 255
 
 c^ 
 
 XLIV 
 
 ^o 
 
 I again Meet luith Pattv Butler. Her Marriage. 
 
 (Lonclusion. 
 
 j story now approaches the 
 end. My master continued 
 to travel from place to place, and at 
 length one day arrived at Man-trap 
 Park, the abode of the two Miss Pea- 
 chicks — the lodgers of Flamingo — the 
 visitors to Newgate — the simple, sym- 
 pathising creatures who, touched by 
 the early sorrows, the sweet patience of 
 Patty Butler, had carried her away with 
 them from London ; and in the soli- 
 tude and calmness of the country, had 
 tended and comforted her. How they 
 256 
 
 loved her ! How they lavished daily, 
 hourly tenderness upon her ! Excellent 
 women — twin sisters of benevolence ! 
 Creatures preserved from all the hurry, 
 all the sordid coarseness of life, to be the 
 simple almoners of human kindness. 
 
 It was not until after the accident 
 that released me from the bonnet of 
 the monkey, that I learned the good 
 fortune of Patty. I have, however, set 
 it down in this place, that I might as 
 eai-ly as possible please the reader with 
 the news of Patty's happiness. 
 
 My master, with his treasured beasts, 
 approached the house ; and in a moment 
 were at the window the smiling, good- 
 natured faces of the owners of the 
 mansion. A moment afterwards ap- 
 peared Patty. Bless her ! how happy 
 she seemed ! What a thing of inno- 
 cence and tranquil joy ! Country air 
 and a quiet spirit had imparted to 
 Patty's looks a freshness and beauty 
 that suiptrised me. Even in her worst 
 misery, with all daily wants besetting 
 her, there was about her an air of
 
 / again meet ivitJi Patty Butler. 
 
 refinement — a quiet dignity that marked 
 her as one of nature's gentlewomen ; 
 but now there was a simple elegance in 
 her manner, an elevated cheerfulness 
 of look, that showed she dwelt amid 
 ministering comforts — that proved the 
 love, the watchful benevolence of all 
 about her. 
 
 AVith these thoughts I continued to 
 gaze at Patty, when the monkey ap- 
 proached the window. For a moment I 
 thought of the poor orphan feather- 
 dresser, in that garret of death, with 
 want and worst temptation around her ; 
 and I felt an inexpressible warmth and 
 glow of heart, to behold the noble- 
 hearted girl snatched from the weariness 
 and violence of a rough world, and trea- 
 sured as she was, a thing of purity and 
 meekness. Such were my thoughts, as 
 the monkey — drawing near to the win- 
 dow — extended his paw for a piece of 
 cake which Patty held towards him. 
 The next moment, and a huge dog, 
 Dragon, the pet of the Miss Peachicks, 
 rushed I know not whence upon the 
 monkey, seizing the creature in his 
 jaws. The Peachicks screamed — Patty 
 turned pale — my master swore — the 
 servants ran from the house, and in a 
 trice the terrified monkey was carried 
 into the parlour. Happily, the animal 
 had suffered nothing but fright from 
 the jaws of Dragon ; and my master, as 
 
 L L 
 
 he allowed, more than recompensed for 
 any anxiety he might have suffered on 
 account of poor pug, went his way. A 
 fortunate accident, however, allowed me 
 to remain in the house. In the con- 
 fusion I had fallen from the monkey's 
 cap, and lay unseen on the carpet be- 
 neath the table. Indeed, I was scarcely 
 the shred of my former self, and could 
 be easily overlooked. Truly, there was 
 a time when my waving whiteness caught 
 all eyes ; but now I was a poor disco- 
 loured, diminished thing — the very rag 
 of a feather. Hence, for a whole day I 
 remained unseen ; and when I was at 
 length discovered, I was carried into the 
 kitchen, where I remained long enough 
 to learn the happiness of Patty. 
 
 Immediately after the trial, Patty 
 had been carried to Man-trap Park, 
 the Miss Peachicks declaring that from 
 that moment they adopted her as a 
 younger sister — certainly, a much 
 younger sister. And Patty was happy? 
 No — not happy ; she poured forth 
 prayers of gratitude for her deliverance ; 
 and her heart grew too big for words as 
 the kind old gentlewomen, in the very 
 excess of sympathy and compassion, 
 strove to make amends for the past 
 buffetings of fortune. Nevertheless, 
 her heart was no longer single : it was 
 — even ere she well knew it — wedded 
 to Inglewood ; and disease, a slow yet 
 
 257
 
 The Story of a Feather. 
 
 certain disease, was wasting him. He 
 seemed doomed, inexorably doomed, by 
 that subtle tyrant consumption. " His 
 
 only hope," said Lintley, " is in a speedy 
 removal to a warm climate. Then, 
 perhaps, could he remain some two or 
 
 three yeai'S, why — perhaps," — and still 
 the doctor hesitated ; he could give no 
 strong assurance even of the benefit of 
 that last hope. He, however, strove to 
 compass it. Without breathing a word 
 to Iuglewood, Lintley sought Earl 
 258 
 
 Blushrose ; simply told the story of 
 his lordship's late chaplain ; and the 
 Earl, glad to remember and acknowledge 
 the humanity of Inglew T ood, who — I 
 hope the reader has not forgotten the 
 circumstance — had at some peril saved
 
 Marriage of Patty Butler. Conclusion. 
 
 the life of his lordship's brother, imme- 
 diately promised the means required ; 
 aud, briefly, Inglewood, without an 
 unnecessary hour's delay, was to take 
 ship for Madeira. 
 
 Solemn, yet hopeful, was the parting 
 of Inglewood and Patty. They were 
 already wedded in heart ; and troubled, 
 yet with sweet assurance of a future 
 meeting, the lovers separated. Every 
 month brought better news from the re- 
 viving man — every month saw new 
 cheerfulness in Patty's eyes ; and when 
 I became an inmate of the Miss Pea- 
 chicks' mansion, a letter was every day 
 expected from Inglewood, announcing 
 his arrival in England. 
 
 " It is from Inglewood," said Miss 
 Leonora Peachick, as at length the 
 postman knocked. 
 
 " Then he's arrived of course 1 " said 
 Miss Amelia. 
 
 " No doubt of it," cried Leonora. 
 
 A few moments, and Patty, her eyes 
 swimming with tears, placed the opened 
 letter in the hands of the eldest huiv. 
 
 " I knew it was from Inglewood," she 
 
 cried, and how she trembled as she 
 
 read : — 
 
 " ' Portsmouth, . 
 
 " ' Another day, my beloved Patty, 
 and I shall be at your side. Travel has 
 
 awarded me the wished-for blessing, 
 health ; a blessing still to be crowned 
 by your love. 
 
 '"To the clear friends whose quick sym- 
 pathies acknowledged your innocence — 
 who have protected, sheltered ye — ' " 
 
 " There, never mind all about that ; 
 read the next," said the younger Miss 
 Peachick, and her sister obeyed. 
 
 " ' To-morrow I return. The Earl 
 has added to the obligation which en- 
 abled me to travel, the means of com- 
 petence ; a small but sufficient curacy 
 in your neighbourhood. To-morrow, 
 and I claim a wife. 
 
 " ' Thine, with deepest love, 
 
 "'Robert Inglewood.'" 
 
 " You shall be married the day 
 after," said the elder Miss Peachick. 
 
 " Or if not, the day after that," added 
 the younger. 
 
 Inglewood returned, and Patty, in 
 due season, became the curate's wife. 
 Lintley, who had made good advances 
 in the world, attended the solemnity, 
 accompanied by his worthy little spouse : 
 and happy and placid were the after- 
 days rewarding the early trials of the 
 gentle feather-dresser. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 259
 
 orhs bjr Jlouijlas fcrmlb. 
 
 Uniform in size with the "Story of a Feather," and handsomely bound, price lOs. 6d. , 
 
 The Caudle Lectures. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 With a Chromo-Lithograph and numerous "Woodcuts, 
 
 By CHARLES KEENE. 
 
 In Four Volumes, crown 8ro, cloth, price 6s. each, 
 
 THE COLLECTED WOKKS OF 
 
 Douglas Jerrold. 
 
 With a Memoir by "W. Blanchard Jerrold, and Frontispieces on Steel by John Leech. 
 
 In Two Volumes, small 810, cloth, price is. each, 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD S 
 
 Comedies and Dramas. 
 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., 11, BOUVER1E STREET.
 
 Icto Ilhistmtcir Wiaxk$. 
 
 <$ 
 
 Royal Quarto, in a beautiful Presentation Cover, designed by J. Leighton, F.S.A., price 31*. 6d., 
 
 The New Table-Book; 
 
 OR, 
 
 Itictnrzs fax fxmng and 01d Parties. 
 
 By FREDERICK ELTZE, 
 
 "With a "Copy of Verses" to each Picture, and a Fage for "Everybody's Favourite." 
 
 Edited by MARK LEMON. 
 
 In imperial 16»w, tastefully bound, price 7s. Gd., 
 
 THE CHRONICLES OF 
 
 The Three Sisters. 
 
 & Jairg gzh for $ittle Mollis. 
 
 Edited by MARK LEMON. 
 
 Phofusely Illustrated by C. H. BENNETT. 
 
 Oblong folio, Coloured Plates, with a handsome margin, and very elegantly bound, price 21s., 
 
 Follies of the Year 
 
 By JOHN LEECH. 
 
 With " some Notes " to each, by SHIRLEY BROOKS. 
 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., 11, BOUVERIE STREET.
 
 ianbarir fUustnttcb Wiaxk&. 
 
 Oblong, price 7s. 6d., 
 
 JOHN LEECH'S YOUNG TROUBLESOME; or, Master Jacky's 
 
 Holidays. A Series of Coloured Etchings for Boys. 
 
 In Two handsome Folio Volumes, elegantly bound in half morocco, price 3/. 3s., 
 
 LEECH'S "PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER." Con- 
 
 sisting of upwards of '2000 Sketches of Domestic and Social Life, from the Collection of "MR. PUNCH." 
 Also in Four Volumes, price 12s. each, in boards. Sold separately. 
 
 A handsome Volume, printed on toned paper, price 21s., 
 
 JOHN TENNIEL'S "CARTOONS FROM PUNCH." Comprising 
 
 a selection of 100 of Mr. Tenniel's Cartoons during the years 1840 — 18(50. With Explanatory Notes by 
 Mr. MARK LEMON (Editor of " Punch '). 
 
 In Two Royal Quarto Volumes, with a Portrait, &e., extra cloth, gilt edges, price 21s. each, 
 
 LEECH'S "EARLY AND LATER PENCILLINGS." Including 
 
 nearly all his Political and Social Cartoons from " Punch " during the last 20 years. With Notes by 
 MARK LEMON. The volumes sold separately. 
 
 In a beautiful half-morocco binding, tastefully printed in the old style, price 15*., 
 
 MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF YE ENGLYSHE. A Series of 
 
 Illustrations of Modern English Society by RICHARD DOYLE. With Extracts by PERCIVAL 
 LEIGH from "Pips' Diary." 
 
 In Two handsomely bound cloth volumes, price 19*. 6d., 
 
 LEECH'S ILLUSTRATED COMIC HISTORIES OF ENGLAND 
 
 AND ROME. Written by G. A. A'BECKETT. With Coloured Plates and numerous Woodcuts by 
 JOHN LEECH. Sold separately — "England," price 12s. ; " Rome," price 7s. 6d. 
 
 In One Volume, handsomely bound in cloth, price 21s., 
 
 FOREIGN TOUR OF BROnVN, JONES, AND ROBINSON. What 
 
 they Saw and Did in Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, and the Rhine. A Series of Drawings by 
 RICHARD DOYLE. 
 
 Imp. 16mo, with a Coloured Frontispiece and other Illustrations, price 10s. GJ., 
 
 LEECH'S LITTLE TOUR IN IRELAND. Illustrated. Being a 
 
 Visit to Dublin, Wicklow, Galway, Connemara, Killarney. Written by Ax Oxonian. Illustrated bv 
 JOHN LEECH. 
 
 JOHN LEECH'S ILLUSTRATED HUNTING WORKS. A Series 
 
 of Sporting Talcs, illustrated with numerous Coloured Steel Engravings and Woodcuts, as follows: — 
 SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR, lis. I PLAIN, OR RINGLETS, lis. 
 
 ASK MAMMA. 14*. I HANDLEY CROSS, 18*. 
 
 MR. FACET ROMFORD'S BOUNDS, 14s. 
 
 BRADBUltY, KVANS, AND CO., 11, BOUVERIE STREET.
 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., 
 
 PRINTERS EXTRAORDINARY TO THE QUEEN, 
 WHITEFRIARS.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 OCT 7 1974 
 
 Form L9-Series 4939
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 374 121 2
 
 $83 
 
 m 
 
 VZ&W&Mi