GIFT or V Sir Henry Heyaan THE WORKS'- :;r ' ; OF Charles Reade A NEW EDITION IN NINE VOLUIIES Illustrated with One Hundred and Twelve Full-Page Wood Engravings GOOD STORIES Good Stories of Man and Other Animals READIANA VOLUME NINE New York PETER FENELON COLLIER, PUBLISHER . CONTENTS OF VOLUME NINE. PAGE GOOD STORIES: The History of an Acre. 5 The Knightsbridge Mystert 9 slngleheart, and doubleface 32 Tit for Tat "JO Rus 112 Born to Good Luck 118 " There's Many a Slip 'Twist the Cup and Lip " 125 What has Become of Lord Camelford's Body ? I3S GOOD STORIES OF MAN AND OTHER ANIMALS: The Knight's Secret 147 A Special Constable 153 Suspended Animation 155 Lambert's Leap 157 Man's Life Saved by Fowls, and Woman's by a Pig 158 Reality 159 Exchange of Animals 166 The Two Leaps 108 Doubles 178 The Jilt— A Yarn 185 The Kindly Jest 218 RE ADIAX A 221 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. GOOD STORIES. PAGE They took off the handkerchief. He had been dead some time 31 "I'm the master of the house '' 54 The limp body and drooping head of the true wife ^ank helplessly against the door with a strange sound ;•_' " Well, you are a good husband ; I must kiss you " ,"2 He started back, bewildered, blasted, terrified, and glared after her in stupid dismay 79 She with her cheek all love and blushes on his shoulder 99 GOOD STORIES OF MAN AND OTHER ANIMALS. The dead monk chases the living 150 Away flew the cat through the open window 156 Man's life saved by fowls, and woman's by a pig 159 " A word, first, if you please, sir " 164 There were piles and piles of gold glowing in the sun 175 He tore the necklace off her neck, and dashed it to the ground 183 The ladies faced each other like two young stags ready to butt each other 184 This artless speech, if artless it was, brought the man on his knees to her 187 Lifted her veil for one moment, and showed him the face of Ellen ap Rice 204 The next moment her old lover was by her side, untying her hair 213 i)i) •>4 }0 GOOD STORIES. THE HISTORY OF AN ACRE. A. D. 1616.— The "Swan Inn," Knights- bridge, with a pightle of land and three acres of meadow skirting Hyde Park, was leased by the freeholder, Agmondisham Muscamp, to Giles Broncham, of Knights- bridge, Winifred his wife, and Roger their son ; rent £30 a year. A. D. 163-1. — The same freeholder leased the above to Richard Callawaie and his son, for their lives; rent £30 a year. A. D. 1671. — The above lease was sur- rendered, and a new one granted to Rich- ard Callawaie, the younger, for forty-two years; rent £42. October 10 and 20, A. D. 1674.— The then freeholder, William Muscamp, Jane his wife, and Ambrose, their son, sold the property, subject to Callawaie's lease and a mortgage of £200, to Richard Portress, baker and citizen of London, for £680. December 5, A.' D. 1674. — Portress sold to Robert Cole for a trifling profit. March 17, A.D. 1682. — Cole mortgaged the property to Squire Howland, of Streat- ham, for £200, with forfeiture forever if not redeemed by payment of £212, on or before September 18, 1682. This marks the tightness of money in those days, and the high interest paid on undeniable secur- ity. The terms of the forfeiture were rig- orous, and the £212 was not paid ; but the mortgagee showed forbearance. He even allowed Cole to divide the security, and sell the odd three acres, in 1684, to Richard Callawaie, for £180. For this sum was then conveyed the site of all the buildings now abutting on Hyde Park, from the "Corner" to opposite Sloane Street, and including, inter alia, nearly the whole of Lord Rosebery's site. July, A. D. 1686.— Nicholas Burchade, goldsmith and citizen of London, purchased the " Swan" and pightle (subject to Iveson's lease for 21 years at £50 a year). He paid to Howland, the patient mortgagee, £239 15s. ; to Cole and his wife, £700. But in less than a year he sold to Ed- ward Billing, tobacconist, for £602 10s. Billing may be assumed to have also purchased Callawaie's lot, for though no negotiation either with Burchade or Bill- ing is disclosed in the recitals, Callawaie's interest in the property disappears between 1686 and 1719, and the heirs of Billing are found possessed of the whole property. A. D. 1701.— Edward Billing made a will, leaving to his wife the "Swan" and pightle for her life, and this is the first document which defines that property pre- cisely. . July, A. D. 1719.— James Billing, of Boston, carpenter, and Mary his wife, sold to John Clarke, baker, the entire WOEKS OF CHARLES READE. property, for £075, subject to Ahae Bill- ing's life-interest in the "Swan." Some years later, Anne Billing sold her life-interest to Clarke for £29 10s. per annum. John Clarke was the first to take a right view of this property and its capabilities. A. D. 172'i.— He granted a building lease, for 61 years, of the three acres, ground rents £3 per house. His successor, Jonathan Clarke, fol- lowed suit, and, in A. D. 1770, condemned the " Swan." and granted the materials, the site, and the pightle, on building lease, to Ralph Mills, for a much shorter time than is general nowaday.-, on condition of bis building is houses, one of which to be the freehi rent free, and .Mills paying £59 a year for the other l i . Now in the will of Edward Billing, al- ready referred to, and dated 1 701, the "Swan" and its messuages, and its pightle, are described as "lying near the bridge, and bounded west bySir Hugh Vaughan's lands, east by the Lazar-cot, north by the wall of Hyde Park, and south by the King's Highway." I should have called it the Queen's Highway, but you must be born before yon can be consulted in trifles. From ibis document, coupled with the building lease of LI 76, we can tn property to a Bquare foot; the back slum now leading to four houses called "High Row," together with those houses, covers the area of the old "Swan Inn." The lately called "Albert Terrace," and numbered correctly, but now called " Albert Gate," and numbered prophetically, are, with their little gardens, the pightle. The "Swan Inn," condemned in 1776, was demolished in 1778, not 88, as the guide books say. and the houses rose. The ground leases were not a bad bar- gain for the builder, since in 1791 I find his tenants paid him £539 a year; but it was an excellent one for the freeholder's family — the ground leases expired, and the last Clarke enjoyed both land and houses gratis. The three acres of meadow had got into Chancery, and were dispersed among little Clarkes and devoured hy lawyers. A. D. 1830.— The last Clarke died, and left " High Row" and the back slum, erst the "Swan Inn," and the 18 houses built on the pightle — in two undivided moieties — to a Mr. Franklin, and to his own house- keeper, Anne Byford. Mrs. Byford was a worthy, prudent woman, fn mi the County Durham, who had put by money, and kept it in an obsolete chimney more mulierum. But now objecting, like most of us, to an undivided moiety, she swept her cold chim- ney, and. with of her solicitor and trusty friend, Mr. Charles Ilird, she bor- rowed the needful, and bought Franklin out, and became sole propriet. r. The affair was not rosy at first: th< leases were unexpired, the rents low, the unpaved. She has told me her- self — for we were lor year- on very friend 1 ly terms — that she bad to trudge through tiie Blush and dirt to apply for her quarterlj rem-, and ..iter, went home crying at the hostile reception or excuses she met, in stead of her modest dues. But sbe In Id the site was admirable ; no other houses of this description bad gardens running to Hyde Park. Intelli- gence wa> Bowing westward. Men of sub- stance begm to take up every lease al a pent, and to layout thousands of pounds in improvements. Between L860 and l 865 ambitious specu- lators sougbt noble sites, especially for vast hotels; and one fine day the agent for an enterprising company walked into the office of Mrs. Byford 's solicitor. Mr. Charles Hird, Portland Chambers. Tichfield Street, and offered five hundred thousand pounds for "High Row" and "Albert Terrace," with its gardens. Tn this offer the houses counted as de- bris: it was an offer for the site of the "Swan" and pightle, which between 1616, the year of Skakespeare's decease, and the date of this munificent offer, had been so leased and re-leased, and sold, and bandied to and fro, generation after generation, for an old song. At the date of the above proposal, Mrs. Byford's income from this historical prop- erty could not have exceeded £2,500, and the bid was £20,000 per annum. But a THE HISTORY OF AN ACHE. profane Yorkshireman once said to me, for my instruction, " Women are kittle cattle to drive ;" and so it proved in this y case. The property was sacred in that brave woman's heart. It had made her often sorrowful, often glad and hopeful. She had watched it grow, and looked to see it grow more and more. It was her child — and she declined half a million of money for it. A few years more, and a new cutsomer stepped upon the scene — ■ CUPIDITY. A first-class builder had his eye upon Albert Terrace and its pretty little gar- dens running to Hyde Park. Said he to himself : " If I could but get hold of these, how I would improve them! I'd pull down these irregular houses, cut up the gardens, and rear 'noble mansions' to command Hyde Park, and be occupied by rank and fashion, not by a scum of artists, authors, physicians, merchants, and mere ladies and gentlemen, who pay their rent and tradesmen, but do not drive four-in-hand." A circumstance favored this generous design : the Government of the day had been petitioned sore, by afflicted house- holders, to remove the barracks from Knightsbridge to some place with fewer cooks and nursemaids to be corrupted and kitchens pillaged. The Chancellor of the Exchequer loved economy, and hated deficits, so this canny builder earwigged him. "If you," said he. "will give us the present site of the condemned barracks, and compulsory sale of 'Albert Terrace,' under a private Bill, we will build you new barracks for noth- ing on any site you choose to give us. It will bejoro bono publico." This, as presented ex parte, was a great temptation to a public economist; and the statesman inclined his ear to it. The patriotic project leaked out, and set the "Terrace" in a flutter. After- wit is everybody's wit; but ours had been the forethought to see the value of the sweet- est site in London long before aristocrats and plutocrats and schemers and builders ; and were our mental inferiors to juggle us out of it on terms quite inadequate to us? We held meetings, passed resolutions, interested our powerful friends, and sent a deputation, dotted with M.P.'s, to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The deputation met with rather a chill reception, and at first buzzed, as deputa- tions will, and took weak ground, and got laid on their backs more than once; but when they urged that the scheme had not occurred to the Government, but had been suggested by a trader — cloaking lucre with public spirit — -and named the person, the statesman lost his temper, and they gained their cause. He rose like a tower, and dis- posed of them in one of those curt sentences that are often uttered by big men, seldom by little deputations. "Enough, gentle- men; you have said all you can, and much more than you need have said, or ought to have said, to me: you keep yours, and we'll keep ours." Then he turned his back on them, and that Was rude, and has all my sympathy ; for is there a more galling, disgusting, unnatural, intolerable thing than to be forced by our own bosom traitors— our justice, our probity, our honor, and our conscience — to hear reason against our- selves? The deputation went one wa}', and baffled cupidity another, lamenting the scarcity of patriotism, and the sacrifice of £100,000 to such bugbears as Meum and Tuum, and respect for the rights of the weak. Peace blessed the little Terrace for three or four years, and then " The mouthing patriot with an itching palm," rendered foxier by defeat, attacked the historical site with admirable craft and plausibility, and a new ally, seldom de- feated in this country — Flunkyisrn. The first act of the new - comedy was played by architects and surveyors. They called on us, and showed us their plans for building "noble mansions" eleven sto- ries high, on the site of our houses and gardens, and hinted at a fair reniun- WORKS OF CHARLES READE. eration if we would consent and make way for our superiors. See Ahab's first proposal to Naboth. We declined, and tbe second act com- menced. Tbe architects., surveyors, and agents vanished entirely, and the leading- actor appeared, with his drawn sword, a private Bill. He was a patriot peer, whose estates were in Yorkshire; from that far country came this benevolent being to con- fer a disinterested boon on the little village of Knightsbridge. The Bill was entitled "albert terrace, knightsbridge, im- provement ACT." It is a masterpiece in its way, and very instructive as a warning to all public men to look keenly and distrustfully below the Surface of every private Bill. The PREAMBLE stated that the new road, hereinafter described, from the high-road. Knightsbridge, into Hyde Park, would be of great public and local advantage. That the Right Honorable Henry Staple- ton, Baron Beaumont (hereinafter called the undertaker), was willing to construct the said new road at Ins own expense. if authorized to acquire certain lands, buildings, and property for that purpose. And that this could not be effected with- out the consent of Parliament. The BILL, amid a number of colorless clauses, slyly inserted that the undertaker of this road (which ought clearly to have been a continuation of Sloane Street straight as a bee-line) might deviate, not eastward into his own property and justice, but west- ward, like a ram's horn, into the bulk of Anne Byford's houses. And instead of asking for the unconsti- tutional power of compulsory purchase, clause 10 proposed that the power of compulsory purchase should not be ex- ercised after three years from the passing^ of this Act. The abuse might be forced on them. Their only anxiety was to guard against the abuse of the abuse. Briefly, a cannier, more innocent-look- ing, yet subtle and treacherous, composi- tion never emanated from a Machiavelian I pen. — > It offered something to every class of society : a new public road into the Park, good for the people and the aristocracy ; a few private houses that stood in the way, or nearly in the way, of the public road, to be turned into noble mansions, good for the plutocracy and the shopkeepers; and the projector a peer, good for the national flunkyism. For the first time I was seriously alarmed, and prepared to fight ; for what says Syd- s ney Smith, tbe wisest as well as wittiest man of his day? "Equal rights to un- equal possessions, that is what English- men will come out and light for." I fired my first shot; wrote on my front , wall, in huge letters, NABOTH-S VINEYARD. The discharge produced a limited effect. 1 bad assumed too hastily that all the world was familiar with that ancient his- tory of personal cupidity and spoliation jiro bono publico, and would apply it to the modem situation, with which it had two leading features in common. The de- portment of my neighbors surprised me. They stopped, read, scratched their heads, and went away bewildered. I observed their dumb play, and sent my people to catch their comments, if any. Alas! these made it very clear that Knightsbridge thumbs not the archives of Samaria. One old Clo' smiled supercilious, and we always suspected him of applying my text; but it was only suspicion, and counterbal- anced by native naivetej a little tradesman was bustling eastward to make money, saw the inscription, stopped a moment, and said to his companion, " Nabob's vinegar ! Why, it looks like a gentleman's house." However, as a Sphinx's riddle, set, by a popular maniac, on a wall, it roused a little of that mysterious interest which still waits upon the unknown, and awak- ened vague expectation. Then I prepared my petition to the House, and took grave objection to the THE HISTORY OF AN ACRE. 9 Bill, with an obsequious sobriet}- as ficti- tious as the patriotism of the Bill. But I consoled myself for this unnatural restraint by preparing a little Parliamen- tary Bill of my own, papered and printed and indorsed in exact imitation of the other Bill, only worded on the reverse principle of calling things by their right names. The Bill was entitled, " Knightsbridge Spoliation Act," aud described as follows: A BILL. For other purposes, under pretext of a new private carriage drive into the Park, to be called a public road. THE PREAMBLE. Whereas the sites of certain houses and gardens, called Albert Terrace, Knights- bridge, are known to be of great value to building speculators, and attempts to appropriate them have been made from time to time, but have failed for want of the proper varnish ; and whereas the owners of the said sites are merchants, physicians, authors, and commoners, and to transfer their property by force to a speculating lord and his builders would be a great advantage to the said specula- tors, and also of great local advantage — to an estate in Yorkshire. And whereas the tradespeople who con- ceived this Bill are builders, architects, and agents, and their names might lack luster, and even rouse suspicion, a noble- man, hereinafter described as the "Pa- triot Peer," will represent the shop, and is willing to relieve the rightful owners of the sites aforenamed, by compulsory purchase, and to build flats one hundred feet high, and let them to flats, at £50 a room, and gain £200,000 clear profit, provided he may construct a new drive into the Park at the cost to himself of £80, or thereabouts, and bear ever after the style and title of "the Patriot Peer." And since great men no longer despoil their neighbors in the name of God, as in the days of King Ahab and Mr. Cromwell, but in the name of the public, it is expedient to dedicate this new car- riage drive to the public; the said drive not to traverse the Park, and no cab, cart, or other vehicle such as the public uses, will be allowed to travel on it. The new drive and the footpaths together shall be only forty-four feet wide, but whether the foot-paths shall be ten feet, twenty, or thirty, is to be left to the dis- cretion of the private Lawgiver. As this carriage drive of unlimited nar- rowness is to be used only by the nar- rowest class in the kingdom, it shall be dedicated to all classes, and this phrase- ology shall be often repeated, since re- iteration passes with many for truth. The drive, during construction, to be called "Patriot's Road," and when fin- ished, " Oligarch Alley," or "Plutocrat Lane." And so on, with perfect justice, but a bitterness not worth reviving. Then for once I deviated from my habits, and appealed in person to leading men in both Houses, who are accessible to me, though I never intrude on them. Finding me so busy, some friends of the measure, out of good nature, advised me not to waste my valuable time, and proved to me that it was no use. Albert Terrace was an eyesore long recognized : all the tradespeople in the district, and three hun- dred ladies and gentlemen of distinction, dukes, earls, marquises, countesses, vis- countesses, and ladies, had promised to support the Bill with their signatures to a petition. Flunkyism is mighty in this island. I knew, I trembled, I persisted. I sounded the nearest Tory member. He would not go into the merits, but said there was a serious objection to the Bill as it stood. It would interfere with the Queen's wall. Unfortunately this was a detail the pro- jectors could alter, and yet trample on such comparative trifles as the law of England and the great rights of little people. Next I called upon a Liberal, my neigh- bor, Sir Henry James. I had a slight acquaintance with him, through his beat- ing me often at whist, and always at rapartee, in a certain club. I now took a mean revenge by begging him to read my papers. He looked aghast, and hoped they were not long. "Not so long as your briefs" said I, sourly. Then this master of fence looked away, and muttered, as if in soliloquy, " I'm paid 10 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. for reading that rubbish." He added, with a sigh, "There! leave thern with me." The very next morning he invited me to call on him, and I found him completely master of the subject and every detail. He summed up by saying, kindly: "Really I don't wonder at your being indignant, for it is a purely private specu- lation, and the mad is a blind. 1 think you can defeat it in i imittee, but would cost you a good deal (if money'." I asked bun if it could not be stopped on the road to committee. lb' said thai was always difficult with private bills. "However," said he, "if the persons interested are disposed i" con- fide the matter to me, I will Bee if 1 can do anj thing in so clear a case" You may guess whether 1 jumped at this or not. A< a proof how these private Bills are smuggled through Parliament, it turned out thai the Bill in question bad already been read once, and none of us knew it. and the sec. md reading was coming on in a few days. Sir Henry James lust no time either. He rose in the House, and asked the member for Chelsea whether lie was aware of a Hill called Knightsbridge Improvement Acts, and had the Government looked into it, The honorable member replied that they had, and be would go so far as to say did not approve it. "Shall you oppose it?" asked Sir Henry James; and as the other did not reply, "Because, if not, we shall." He then gave notice that before this Bill was al- lowed to go into committee be wished to put certain questions to the promoters. and named next Thursday. Then I lent my bumble co-operation by a letter to the I>"i/i/ Telegraph, entitled "private bills and public wrongs." One unfair advantage of private bills is that their opponents can't get one-tenth part of the House of Commons to be there and discuss them; so this letter of mine was intended as a whip to secure a House at that early hour, when there never is a House, but only a handful, chiefly parti- sans of the oppressive measure. It had an effect; there were a good many independ- ent members present when Sir Henry James rose to question the promoters of the Knightsbridge Improvement Bill. He was met in a way that contrasted curiously with the advice I bad received, no1 to run my bead against a stone wall, with three hundred noble signatures writ- ten on it. A member instructed by the promoters popped up and anticipated all Sir James's questions, with one prudent reply, "THE BILL IS WITHDRAWN." Thus fell, by the mere wind of a good lawyer's sword, that impregnable edifice of patriotic spoliation; ami Anne Byford, who in this business represented the vir- tues of the nation, the self-denial and t Homy which purchase from a willing vendor, with Abraham for a precedent, Moses for a guide, and the law of En- gland for a title, and the fortitude which retains in lend times, till value increases, and cupidity burns to reap where it never sowed, was not juggled ou1 of her child for nth pari of the sum she bad refused from a straightforward bidder. So much for the pasi history of the "Swan" and pightle. There is more to come, and soon. The projectors of the defeated Bill bad made large purchasi - land (dose by Albert Terrace, and this wa- tbrown upon their bands at a heavy loss for years. But now I am happy to say they have sold it to the Earl of Rosebery for £120,000, so says report. Even if they have, what has been will be; in fifty years' time this transaction will be called buying the best site in Lon- don for an old song. Meantime, siege and blockade having failed, a mine is due by all the laws of war. So a new Metropolitan Company proposes this very year to run under the unfortunate Terrace, propel the trains with a patent that, like all recent patents, will often be out of order, and stop them with another patent THE KN1GHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 11 that will seldom be in order. Item, to stifle and smash the public a good deal more than they are smashed and stifled at present (which seems superfluous) ; the motive, public spirit, as before; the in- strument, a private Bill — Anathema sit in saicula sceculorum. While the moles are at work below, Lord Rosebery will rear "a noble man- sion ; " by that expression every builder and every snob in London means a pile of stucco, huge and hideous. Then flunkyism will say, "Are a peer and his palace to be shouldered by cribs'?" and cupidity will demand a line of " NOBLE mansions," and no garden, in place of Albert Terrace and its pretty gardens — a rus in urbe a thousand times more beauti- ful and a hundred thousand times more rare, whatever idiots, snobs, builders, and beasts may think, than monotonous piles of stucco — and that engine of worse than Oriental despotism, the private Bill, will be ready to hand. The rest is in the womb of time. But my pages are devoted to the past, not to the doubtful future. What I have related is the documentary, pecuniary, po- litical and private history of the " Swan" and pightle. Now many places have a long prosaic history, and a short romantic one. The chronic history of Waterloo field is to be plowed and sowed, and reaped and mowed : yet once in a way these acts of husbandly were diversified with a great battle, where hosts decided the fate of empires. After that, agriculture resumed its sullen sway, and even heroes submitted, and fattened the field their valor had glori- fied. Second-rate horses compete every year on Egham turf, and will while the turf endures. But one day the competing horses on that sward were a king and his barons, and they contended over the Constitution, and the Cup was Magna Charta. This double history belongs to small places as well as great, to Culloden and Agincourt, and to the narrow steps leading from Berkeley Street to Curzon Street, Mayfair, down which, with head lowered to his saddle-bow, the desperate Turpin spurred his horse, with the Bow Street runners on each side ; but no man ever did it before, nor will again. Even so, amid all these prosaic pamph- lets and papers, leases and releases, mort- gages, conveyances, and testaments, ingor- ing so calmly every incident not bearing on title, there happened within the area of the " Swan" and its pightle a romantic story, which I hope will reward my friends who have waded through my prose; for, besides some minor attractions, it is a tale of blood. THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. CHAPTER I. In Charles the Second's day the "Swan" was denounced by the dramatists as a house where unfaithful wives and mis- tresses met their gallants. But in the next century, when John Clarke was the freeholder, no special im- putation of that sort rested on it : it was a country inn with large stables, horsed the Brentford coach, and entertained man and beast on journeys long or short. It had also permanent visitors, especially in summer; for it was near London, and yet a rural retreat; meadows on each side, Hyde Park at back, Knightsbridge Green in front. Among the permanent lodgers was Mr. 12 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Gardiner, a substantial man ; and Captain Cowen, a retired officer of moderate means, had lately taken two rooms for himself and his son. Mr. Gardiner often joined the company in the public room, but the Cowens kept to themselves upstairs. This was soon noticed and resented, in that age of few books and free converse. Some said, "Oh, we are not good enough for him!" others inquired what a half-pay captain had to give himself airs about. Candor interposed and supplied the climax : " Nay, my masters, the captain may be in hiding from duns, or from the runners; now I think on't, the York mail was robbed scarce a sennight before his wor- ship came a-hiding here." But the landlady's tongue ran the other way. Her weight was sixteen stone, her sentiments were her interests, and her tongue her tomakawk. "'Tis pity," said she. one day. " .-Mine folk can't keep their tongues from blackening of their betters. The captain is a civil-spoken gentleman — Lord send there were more of them in these parts! — as takes his hat off to me whenever lie meets me, and pays his reckoning weekly. If he has a mind to be private, what business is that of yours, "i- \ours? But curs must bark at their belters." Detraction, tints roughly quelled for cer- tain seconds, revived at intervals whenever Dame Cust's broad back was turned. It was mildly encountered one evening by Gardiner. "Nay, good sirs," said he, "you mistake the worthy captain. To have fought at Blenheim anil Malpla- quet, no man hath less vanity. 'Tis for his son he holds aloof. He guards the youth like a mother, and will not have him to hear our tap-room jests. He wor- ships the boy — a sullen lout, sirs; but paternal love is blind. He told me once he had loved his wife dearly, and lost her young, and this was all he had of her. 'And.' said he, 'I'd spill blood like water for him, my own the first.' 'Then, sir,' says I. 'I fear he will give you a sore heart one day.' 'And welcome,' says my cap- tain, and his lace like iron.'' Somebody remarked that no man keeps out of company who is good company; but Mr. Gardiner parried that dogma. " When young master is abed, my neigh- bor does sometimes invite me to share a bottle; and a sprightlier companion I would not desire. Such stories of battles, and duels, and love intrigues !" " Now, there's an old fox for you," said one approvingly. It reconciled him to the captain's decency to find that it was only hypocrisy. "I like not — a man — who wears — a mask," hiccoughed a hitherto silent p< r- sonage, revealing his clandestine drunken- ness and unsuspected wisdom at one blow. These various theories were still fer- menting in the bosom of the "Swan," win n one day there rode up to the door ous officer, hot from the minister's Levee, in scarlet and gold, with an order liko a starfish glittering on his breast. His servant, a private soldier, rode behind him. and. slipping hastily from his sad- dle, held his master's horse while lie dis- mounted. Just then Captain Cowen came out for bis afternoon walk, lie started, and cried out. "Colonel Barrington!" " Ay. brother." cried the other, and in- stantly the two officers embraced, and even kissed each other, for that feminine cus- tom hail not yet retired across the Channel; and these were soldiers who had fought and bled side by side, and nursed each Other in turn; and your true soldier does not nurse by halves; his vigilance and ten- derness aie an example to women, and he rustleth not. Captain Cowen invited Colonel Barring- ton to his room, and that warrior marched down the passage after him, single file, with long brass spurs and saber clinking at bis heels; and the establishment ducked and smiled, and respected Captain Cowen for the reason we admire the moon. Seated in Cowen's room, the newcomer said, heartily, " Well, Ned, I come not empty-handed. Here is thy pension at last," and handed him a parchment with a seal like a poached egg. Cowen changed color, and thanked him with an emotion he rarely betrayed, and gloated over the precious document. His THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 13 cast-iron features relaxed, and he said, " It comes in the nick of time, for now I can send my dear Jack to college." This led somehow to an exposure of his affairs. 'He had just one hundred and ten pounds a year, derived from the sale of his commission, which he had invested, at fifteen per cent, with a well-known mercantile house in the City. " So now,'" said he, " I shall divide it all in three ; Jack will want two parts to live at Ox- ford, and I can do well enough here on one." The rest of the conversation does not matter, so I dismiss it and Colonel Barrington for the time. A few days afterward Jack went to college, and Cap- tain Cowen reduced his expenses, and dined at the shilling ordinary, and in- deed took all his moderate repasts in public. Instead of the severe and reserved char- acter he had worn while his son was with him, he now shone out a boon companion, and sometimes kept the table in a roar with his marvelous mimicries of all the char- acters, male or female, that lived in the inn or frequented it, and sometimes held them breathless with adventures, dangers, intrigues, in which a leading part had been played by himself or his friends. He became quite a popular character, except with one or two envious bodies, whom he eclipsed; they revenged them- selves by saying it was all braggadocio; his battles had been fought over a bottle, and by the fireside. The district east and west of Knights- bridge had long been infested with foot- pads ; they robbed passengers in the coun- tr} T lanes, which then abounded, and sometimes on the king's highway, from which those lanes offered an easy escape. One moonlight night Captain Cowen was returning home alone from an enter- tainment at Fulham, when suddenly the air seemed to fill with a woman's screams and cries. They issued from a lane on his right hand. He whipped out his sword and dashed down the lane. It took a sud- den turn, and in a moment he came upon three footpads robbing and maltreating an old gentleman and his wife. The old man's sword lay at a distance, struck from his feeble hand; the woman's tongue proved the better weapon, for at least it brought an ally. The nearest robber, seeing the captain come at him with his drawn sword glit- tering in the moonshine, fired hastily and grazed his cheek, and was skewered like a frog the next moment ; his cry of agony mingled with two shouts of dismay, and the other footpads fled ; but, even as they turned, Captain Cowen's nimble blade en- tered the shoulder of one and pierced the fleshy part. He escaped, however, but howling and bleeding. Captain Cowen handed over the lady and gentleman to the people who flocked to the place, now the work was done, and the disabled robber to the guardians of the public peace, who arrived last of all. He himself withdrew apart and wiped his sword very carefully and mi- nutely with a white pocket handkerchief, and then retired. He was so far from parading his exploit that he went round by the Park and let himself into the "Swan" with his private key, and was going quietly to bed, when the chambermaid met him, and up flew her arms with cries of dismay. " Oh, cap- tain! captain! Look at you — smothered in blood! I shall faint." " Tush ! Silly wench !" said Captain Cowen. "I am not hurt." " Not hurt, sir? And bleeding like a pig! Your cheek — your poor cheek!" Captain Cowen put up his hand, and found that blood was really welling from his cheek and ear. He looked grave for a moment, then assured her it was but a scratch, and offered to convince her of that. "Bring me some lukewarm water, and thou shalt be my doctor. But, Barbara, prithee pub- lish it not." Next morning an officer of justice in- quired after him at the "Swan," and de- manded his attendance at Bow Street, at two that afternoon, to give evidence against the foot-pads. This was the very thing he wished to avoid ; but there was no evad- ing the summons. 14 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. The officer was invited into the har by the landlady, and sang the gallant cap- tain's exploit with his own variations. The inn began to ring with Co wen's praises. Indeed there was now but one detractor left — the hostler, Daniel Cox, a drunken fellow of sinister aspect, who had for some time stared and lowered at Cap- tain Cowen, and muttered mysterious things, doubts as to his being a real captain, etc., etc. Which incoherent murmurs of a muddle-headed drunkard were not treated as oracular by any human creature, though the stable-boy once went so far as to say, "I sometimes almost thinks as how our Dan do know summut; only he don't rightly know what ong o' being always muddled in liquor." Cowen, who seemed to notice little, but noticed everything, had observed the low- ering looks of this fellow, and felt he had an enemy; it even made him a little un- easy, though he was too proud and self- possessed to show it. With this exception, then, everybody greeted him with hearty compliments, and he was cheered out of the inn, march- ing to Bow Street. Daniel Cox, who— as accidents will hap- pen — was sober that morning, saw him out, and then put on his own coat. " Take thou charge of the stable, Sam." said he. "Why, where be'st going at this timeo' day?" " I be going to Bow Street, " said Daniel, doggedly. At Bow Street Captain Cowen was re- ceived with great respect, and a seat given him by the sitting magistrate while some minor cases were disposed of. In due course the highway robbery was called and proved by the parties who, un- luckily for the accused, had been actually robbed before Cowen interfered. Then the oath was tendered to Cowen : he stood up by the magistrate's side and deposed, with military brevity and exact- ness, to the facts I have related, but refused to swear to the identity of the individual culprit, who stood pale and trembling at the dock. The attorney for the Crown, after press- ing in vain, said, " Quite right, Captain Cowen; a witness cannot be too scrupu- lous." He then called an officer who had found the robber leaning against a railing faint- ing from loss of blood scarce a furlong from the scene of the robbery and wounded in the shoulder. That let in Captain Cowen 's evidence, and the culprit was committed for trial, and soon after peached upon his only comrade at large. The other lay in the hospital at Newgate. The magistrate complimented Captain Cowen on his conduct and his evidence, and he went away universally admired. Yet he was not elated, nor indeed con- tent. Sitting by the magistrate's side, after he had given his evidence, he hap- pened to look all round the court, and in a distant corner he saw the enormous mot- tled n<>se anil sinister eyes of Daniel Cox glaring at him with a strange but puzzled expression. Cowen had learned to read faces and he saiil to himself, "What is there in that ruffian's mind about me? Did he know me years ago? I cannot remember him. < !urse the beast — one would almost — think — he is cudgeling his drunken memory. I'll keep an eye on you." lie went home thoughtful and discom- posed, because this drunkard glowered at him so. The reception he met with at the " Swan" effaced the impression. He was received with acclamations, and now that publicity was forced on him, he accepted it, and reveled in popularity. About this time he received a letter from his son, inclosing a notice from the college tutor, speaking highly of his ability, good conduct, devotion to studj*. This made the father swell with loving pride. Jack hinted modestly that there were unavoidable expenses, and his funds were dwindling. He inclosed an account that showed how the mone}- went. The father wrote back and bade him be easy; he should have every farthing re- quired, and speedily, "For," said he, "my half-vear's interest is due now." THE KXIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY 15 Two days after he had a letter from his man of business begging him to call. He went with alacrity, making sure his money was waiting for him as usual. His lawyer received him very gravely, and begged him to be seated. He then broke to him some appalling news. The great house of Brown, Molyneux & Co. had suspended payments at noon the day before, and were not expected to pay a shilling in the pound. Captain Cowen's little fortune was gone, all but his pension of £80 a year. He sat like a man turned to stone. Then he clasped his hands with agony, and uttered two words, no more — " My son !" He rose and left the place like one in a dream. He got down to Knightsbridge, he hardly knew how. At the very door of the inn he fell down in a fit. The people of the inn were round him in a moment, and restoratives freely supplied. His sturdy nature soon revived, but, with the moral and physical shock, his lips were slightly distorted over his clinched teeth. His face, too, was ashy pale. When he came to himself the first face he noticed was that of Daniel Cox, eying him, not with pity, but with puzzled cu- riosity. Cowen shuddered and closed his own eyes to avoid this blighting glare. Then, without opening them, he mut- tered, "What has befallen me? I feel no wound." "Laws forbid, sir," said the landlady, leaning over him. "Your honor did but swoon for once, to show you was born of a woman, and not made of naught but steel. Here, you gaping loons and sluts, help the captain to his room amongst ye, and then go about your business." This order was promptly executed, so far as assisting Captain Cowen to rise; but he was no sooner on his feet than he waved them all from him haughtily, and said, "Let me be. It is the mind; it is the mind;" and he smote his forehead in despair, for now it all came back on him. Then he rushed into the inn and locked himself into his room. Female curiosity 7 buzzed about the doors, but was not ad- mitted until he had recovered his fortitude and formed a bitter resolution to defend himself and his son against all mankind. At last there came a timid tap, and a mellow voice said, "It is only me, cap- tain. Prithee let me in." He opened to her, and there was Bar- bara with a large tray and a snow-white cloth. She spread a table deftly, and un- covered a roast capon, and uncorked a bot- tle of white port, talking all the time. " The mistress says you must eat a bit and drink this good wine for her sake. Indeed, sir, 'twill do you good after your swoon." With many such encouraging words she got him to sit down and eat, and then filled his glass and put it to his lips. He could not eat much, but he drank the white port ■ — -a wine much prized, and purer than the purple vintage of our day. At last came Barbara's post-diet. " But alack! to think of your fainting dead away! Oh, captain, what is the trouble?" The tear was in Barbara's eye, though she was the emissary of Dame Cust's cu- riosity, and all curiosity herself. Captain Cowen, who had been expecting this question for some time, replied, dog- gedly, " I have lost the best friend I had in the world." "Dear heart!" said Barbara, and a big tear of sympathy, that had been gathering ever since she entered the room, rolled down her cheeks. She put up a corner of her apron to her eyes. " Alas, poor soul !" said she. " Ay, I do know how hard it is to love and lose; but bethink you, sir, 'tis the lot of man. Our own turn must come. And you have your son left to thank God for, and a warm friend or two in this place, thof they be but humble." "Ay, good wench," said the soldier, his iron nature touched for a moment by her goodness and simplicity, " and none I value more than thee. But leave me awhile." The young woman's honest cheeks red- dened at the praise of such a man. " Your will's my pleasure, sir," said she, and re- tired, leaving the capon and the wine. Any little compunction he might have at refusing his confidence to this humble ir, WORKS OF CHARLES READE. friend did not trouble him long. He looked on women as leaky vessels; and he had firmly resolved not to make his situation worse by telling the base world that he was poor. Many a hard rub had put a fine point on this man of steel. He glozed the matter, too, in his own mind. "I told her no lie. I have lost my best friend, for I've lost my money." From that day Captain Cowen visited the tap-room no more, and, indeed, seldom went out by daylight. He was all alone now, for Mr. Gardiner was gone to Wilt- shire to collect his rents. In his solitary chamber Cowen ruminated his loss and the villainy of mankind, and his busy brain resolved scheme after scheme to repair the impending ruin of his son's prospects. It was there the iron entered his soul. The example of the very tout- pads he had baffled occurred to him in his more desperate moments, but he fought the temptation down; and in duo course one of them was transported, and one hanged; the other languished in Newgate. By-and-by he began to be mysteriously busy, and the door always locked. No clew was ever found to his labors but bits of melted wax in the fender and a tuft or two of gray hair, and it was naver discov- ered in Knightsbridge that he often begged in the city at dusk, in a disguise so perfect that a frequenter of the " Swan" once gave him a groat. Thus did he levy his tax upon the stony place that had undone him. Instead of taking his afternoon walk as heretofore, he would sit disconsolate on the seat of a staircase window that looked into the yard, and so take the air and sun ; and it was owing to this new habit he over- heard, one day, a dialogue, in which the foggy voice of the hostler predominated at first. He was running down Captain Cowen to a pot-boy. The pot-boy stood up for him. That annoyed Cox. He spoke louder and louder the more he was opposed, till at last he bawled out : " I tell ye I've seen him a-sitting by the judge, and I've seen him in the dock." At these words Captain Cowen recoiled, though he was already out of sight, and his eye glittered like a basilisk's. But immediately a new voice broke upon the scene, a woman's. " Thou foul-mouthed knave. Is it for thee to slander men of worship, and give the inn a bad name? Remember, I have but to lift my finger to hang thee, so drive me not to't. Begone to thy horses this moment; thou art not fit to be among Christians. Begone, I say, or it shall be the worse for thee;" and she drove him across the yard, and followed him up with a current of invectives elo- quent even at a distance, though the words were no longer distinct: and who should this be but the house-maid, Barbara Lamb, bo gentle, mellow, and melodious before the gentlefolk, and especially her hero, Captain Cowen ! As for Daniel Cox, he cowered, writhed, and wriggled away before her, and slipped into the stable. Captain Cowen was now soured by trouble, and this persistent enmity of that fellow roused at last a fixed and deadly hatred in his mind, all the more intense that fear mingled with it. He sounded Karbara; asked her what nonsense that ruffian had been talking, and what he bad done that she could hang him for. But Barbara would not say a malicious word against a fellow- servant in cold blood. "I can keep a secret," said she. " If he keeps his tongue oft' you, I'll keep mine." " So be it," said Cowen. " Then I warn you I am sick of his insolence; and drunk- ards must be taught not to make enemies of sober men nor fools of wise men." He said this so bitterly that, to soothe him, she begged him not to trouble about the ravings of a sot. "Dear heart," said she, "nobody heeds Dan Cox." Some days afterward she told him that Dan had been drinking harder than ever, and wouldn't trouble honest folk long, for he had the delusions that go before a drunk- ard's end : why, he had told the stable-boy he had seen a vision of himself climb over the garden wall, and enter the house by the back door. " The poor wretch says be knew himself by his bottle nose and his cowskin THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 17 waistcoat, and, to be sure, there is no such nose in the parish — thank Heaven for't ! — and not many such waistcoats." She laughed heartily, but Cowen's lip curled in a venomous sneer. He said : " More likely 'twas the knave himself. Look to your spoons, if such a face as that walks by night. " Barbara turned grave directly. He eyed her askant, and saw the random shot had gone home. Captain Cowen now often slept in the City, alleging business. Mr. Gardiner wrote from Salisbury, ordering his room to be ready and his sheets well aired. One afternoon he returned with a bag and a small valise, prodigiously heavy. He had a fire lighted, though it was a tine autumn, for he was chilled with his journey, and invited Captain Cowen to sup with him. The latter consented, but begged it might be an early supper, as he must sleep in the City. "I am sorry for that," said Gardiner. " I have a hundred and eighty guineas in that bag, and a man could get into my room from yours." "Not if you lock the middle door," said Cowen. "But I can leave you the key of my outer door, for that matter." This offer was accepted ; but still Mr. Gardiner felt uneasy. There had been several robberies at inns, and it was a rainy, gusty night. He was depressed and ill at ease. Then Captain Cowen offered him his pistols, and helped him load them, two bullets in each. He also went and fetched him a bottle of the best port, and after drinking one glass with him, hurried away, and left his key with him for further security. Mr. Gardiner, left to himself, made up a great fire and drank a glass or two of the wine; it seemed remarkably heady, and raised his spirits. After all, it was only for one night: to-morrow he would deposit his gold in the bank. He began to unpack his things, and put his night- dress to the fire. But by-and-by he felt so drowsy that he did but take his coat off, put his pistols under the pillow, and lay down on the bed, and fell fast asleep. That night Barbara Lamb awoke twice, thinking each time she heard doors open and shut on the floor below her. But it was a gusty night, and she con- cluded it was most likely the wind. Still a residue of uneasiness made her rise at five instead of six, and she lighted her tinder, and came down with a rush-light. She found Captain Cowen's door wide open. It had been locked when she went to bed. That alarmed her greatly. She looked in. A glance was enough. She cried, "Thieves! thieves!" and in a mo- ment uttered scream upon scream. In an incredibly short time pale and eager faces of men and women filled the passage. Cowen's room, being open, was entered first. On the floor lay, what Barbara had seen at a glance, his portmanteau, rifled, and the clothes scattered about. The door of communication was ajar; they opened it, and an appalling sight met their eyes: Mr. Gardiner was lying in a pool of blood, and moaning feebly. There was little hope of saving him. No human body could long survive such a loss of the vital fluid. But it so happened there was a country surgeon in the house; he stanched the wounds — there were three — and somebody or other had the sense to beg the victim to make a statement. He was unable at first ; but, under powerful stimulants, revived at last, and showed a strong wish to aid justice in avenging him. By this time they had got a magistrate to attend, and he put his ear to the dying man's lips; but others heard, so hushed was the room and so keen the awe and curiosity of each pant- ing heart. " I had gold in my portmanteau, and was afraid. I drank a bottle of wine with Captain Cowen, and he left me. He lent me his key and his pistols. I locked both doors. I felt very sleepy, and lay down. When I woke, a man was lean- ing over my portmanteau. His back was toward me. I took a pistol, and aimed steadily. It missed fire. The man turned and sprang on me. I had caught up a knife — one we had for supper. I stabbed him with all my force. He wrested it 18 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. from me, and I felt piercing blows. I am slain. Ay, I am slain." " But the man, sir. Did you not see bis face at all?" " Not till be fell on me. But then very plainly. Tbe moon shone." "Pray describe him." "Broken bat." "Yes." "Hairy waistcoat." " Yes." " Enormous n< "Do you know him?" "Ay — the hostler, Cox." There was a groan of horror and a cry for vengeance. "Silence," said the magistrate. "Mr. Gardiner, you arc a dying man. Words may kill. Be careful. Have you any doulu " About what?" "Thai the villain was Daniel Cox." •' None whatever." At these words the men and women, who were glaring with pale faces and all their senses strained at the dying man and his faint, yet terrible, denunciation, broke into two bands; some remained rooted to the place, the rest hurried, with cries of vengeance, in search of Daniel Cox. They were met in the yard by two constables, and rushed first to the stables, not that they hoped to find him there. Of course he had absconded with his booty. The stable door was ajar. They tore it open. The gray dawn revealed Cox last asleep on the straw in the first empty stall, and his bottle in the manger. His clothes were bloody, and the man was drunk. The}' pulled him. cursed him. struck him, and would have torn him in pieces, but the constables interfered, set him up against the rail, like timber, and searched bis bosom, and found — a wound: then turned all his pockets inside out, amid great expectation, and found — three half- pence and the key of the stable door. CHAPTER II. They ransacked tbe straw and all the premises, and found — nothing. Then, to make him sober and get some- thing out of him, they pumped upon his head till he was very nearly choked. However, it told on him. He gasped for breath awhile, and rolled his eyes, and then coolly asked them had they found the villain. They shock their fists at him. "Ay, we have found the villain, red-handed." " I mean him as prowls about these parts in my waistcoat, and drove his knife into me last night — wonder a didn't kill me out of hand. ound him amongst ye?" This question met with a volley of jeers and execrations, and the constables pin- ioned him, and bundled him off in a •art to Bow Street, to wait examination. Meantime, two Bow Street runners came down with a warrant, and made a careful examination of the premises. The two keys were on the table. Mr. Gardiner's outer door was locked. There was no money • nie i in his portmanteau or Captain Cowen's. Both pistols were found loaded, luit no priming in the pan of the one thai lay on the bed; the other was primed, hut tlie bullets were above the powder. Bradbury, one of the runners, took par- ticular notice of all. Outside, blood was traced from the stable to the garden wall, and under this wall, in the grass, a bloody knife was found belong- ing to the "Swan Inn." There was one knife less in Mr. Gardiner's room than had been carried up to bis supper. Mr. Gardiner lingered till noon, but never spoke again. The news spread swiftly, and Captain Cowen came home in the afternoon, very pale and shocked. He had heard of a robbery and murder at the "Swan," and came to know more. The landlady told him all that had tran- spired, and that the villain Cox was in prison. Cowen listened thoughtfully, and said, " Cox 1 No doubt he is a knave ; but mur- THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 19 der ! — I should never have suspected him of that." The landlady pooh-poohed his doubts. " Why, sir, the poor gentleman knew him, and wounded him in self-defense, and the rogue was found a-bleeding from that very wound, and my knife, as done the murder, not a stone's throw from him as done it, which it was that Dan Cox, and he'll swing for't, please God." Then changing her tone, she said, solemnly, "You'll come and see him, sir?" "Yes," said Cowen, resolutely, with scarce a moment's hesitation. The landlady led the way, and took the keys out of her pocket and opened Cowen's door. " We keep all locked," said she, half apologetically; "the magistrate bade us; and everything as we found it — God help us! There — look at your portmanteau. I wish you may not have been robbed as well." " No matter," said he. "But it matters to me," said she, "for the credit of the house." Then she gave him the key of the inner door and waved her hand toward it, and sat down and began to cry. Cowen went in and saw the appalling sight. He returned quickly, looking like a ghost, and muttered, " This is a terrible business." " It is a bad business for me and all, " said she. " He have robbed you, too, I'll go bail." Captain Cowen examined his trunk care- fully. "Nothing to speak of," said he. "I've lost eight guineas and my gold watch." "There! there! there!" cried the land- lady. " What does that matter, dame? He has lost his life." "Ay, poor soul. But 'twon't bring him back, you being robbed and all. Was ever such an unfortunate woman? Murder and robbery in my house! Travelers will shun it like a pest-house. And the new landlord he only wanted a good excuse to take it down altogether." This was followed by more sobbing and crying. Cowen took her downstairs into the bar and comforted her. They had a glass of spirits together, and he encouraged the flow of her egotism, till at last she fully persuaded herself it was her calamity that one man was robbed and another murdered in her house. Cowen, always a favorite, quite won her heart by falling into this view of the matter, and when he told her he must go back to the City again, for he had impor- tant business, and besides had no money left, either in his pockets or his rifled valise, she encouraged him to go, and said, kindly, indeed it was no place for him now; it was very good of him to come back at all: but both apartments should be scoured and .made decent in a very few days, and a new carpet down in Mr. Gardiner's room. So Cowen went back to the City and left this notable woman to mop up her murder. At Bow Street next morning, in answer to the evidence of his guilt, Cox told a tale which the magistrate said was even more ridiculous than most of the stories unedu- cated criminals get up on such occasions; with this single comment he committed Cox for trial. Everybody was of the magistrate's opin- ion, except a single Bow Street runner, the same who had already examined the prem- ises. This man suspected Cox, but had one qualm of doubt, founded on the place where he had discovered the knife, and the circumstance of the blood being traced from that place to the stable, and not from the inn to the stable, and on a remark Cox had made to him in the cart. " I don't be- long to the house. I haan't got no keys to go in and out o' nights. And if I took a hatful of gold I'd be off with it into another country — wouldn't you? Him as took the gentleman's money, he knew where 'twas, and behave got it: I didn't, and I haan't." Bradbury came down to the "Swan," and asked the landlady a question or two ; she gave him short answers. He then told her that he wished to examine the wine that had come down from Mr. Gardiner's room. The landlady looked hinL in the face, 20 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. and said it had been drunk by the serv- ants, or thrown away long ago. " I have my doubts o' that," said he. "And welcome," said she. ' Then he wished to examine the key- holes. "No," said she. "There has been prying enough into my house." Said he, angrily, "You are obstructing justice. It is very suspicious." "It is you that is suspicious, and a mis- chief-maker into the bargain," said she. " How do I know what you might put into my wine and my key-holes, and say you found it? You are well known, you Bow Street runners, for your hanky-panky tricks. Have you got a search-warrant to throw more discredit upon my house? No? Then pack, and learn the law before you teach it me." Bradbury retired, bitterly indignant, and his indignation strengthened his faint doubt of Cox's guilt. He set a friend to watch the "Swan," and he himself gave his mind to the whole case, and visited CV\ in Newgate three times before his trial. The next novelty was that legal assist- ance was provided for Cox by a person who expressed compassion for his poverty and inability to defend himself, guilty or not guilty; and that benevolent person was — Captain ( !owen. In due course Daniel Cox was arraigned at the bar of the Old Bailey for i and murder. The deposition of the murdered man was put in by the Crown, and the witnesses sworn who heard it, and Captain Cowen was railed to support a portion of it. He swore that he supped with the deceased, and leaded one pistol for him while Mr. Gardiner leaded the ether; lent him the key ef his own door for further security, and himself slept in the City. The judge asked him where, and he said, "13 Farringdon Street.'' It was elicited frcm him that he had provided counsel foi the prisoner. His evidence was very short and to the point. It did not directly touch the ac- cused, and the defendant's counsel, in spite of his client's eager desire, declined to cross - examine Captain Cowen. He thought a hostile examination of so re- spectable a witness, who brought nothing home to the accused, would only raise more indignation against his client. The prosecution was strengthened by the reluctant evidence of Barbara Lamb. She deposed that three years ago Cox had been detected by her stealing money from a gen- tleman's table in the " Swan Inn," and she gave the details. The judge asked her whether this was at night. " No, my lord ; at about four of the clock. He is never in the house at night. The mistress can't abide him." " Has he any key of the house?" " Oh, dear no, my lord." The rest of the evidence for the Crown is virtually before the reader. For the defense it was proved that the man was found drunk, with no money nor keys upon him, and that the knife was found under the wall, and the blood was traceable from the wall to the stable. Bradbury, who proved this, tried to get in a 1 lent the wine, but this was stopped as irrelevant. "There is only one person under suspicion," said the judge, rather sternly. As counsel were not allowed in that day to make speeches to the jury, but only to examine and cross-examine, and discuss points of law, Daniel Cox had to speak on his I iwn defense. " My lord," said he, "it was my double done it." "Your what?" asked my lord, a little peevishly. "My double. There's a rogue prowls about the 'Swan' at nights, which you couldn't tell him from me. {Laughter.) You needn't to laugh me to the gallows. 1 tell ye he have got a nose like mine." ( Laughter, i Clerk of Arraigns. "Keep silence in the court, on pain of imprisonment." " And he have got a waistcoat the very spit of mine, and a tumble-down hat such as I do wear. I saw him go by and let hisself into the 'Swan' with a key, and I told Sam Pott next morning." THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY 21 Judge. " Who is Sam Pott?" Culprit. " Why, my stable-boy, to be sure." Judge. "Is he in court?" Culprit. " I don't know. Ay, there he is." Judge. ''Then you'd better call him." Culprit (shouting). " Hy, Sam!" Sam. "Here be I." (Loud laughter.) The judge explained, calmly, that to call a witness meant to put him in the box and swear him, and that although it was irregular, yet he should allow Pott to be sworn, if it would do the prisoner any good. Prisoner's counsel said he had no wish to swear Mr. Pott. "Well, Mr. Gurney," said the judge, "I don't think he can do you any harm." Meaning in so desperate a case. Thereupon Sam Pott was sworn, and deposed that Cox had told him about this double. "When?" "Often and often." " Before the murder?" " Long afore that." Counsel for the Crown. " Did you ever see this double?" "Not I." Counsel. "I thought not." Daniel Cox went on to say that on the night of the murder he was up with a sick horse, and he saw his double let himself out of the inn the back way and then turn round and close the door softly, so he slipped out to meet him. But the double saw him and made for the garden wall. He ran up and caught him with one leg over the'wall, and seized a black bag he was carrying off ; the figure dropped it, and he heard a lot of money chink; that therefore he cried "Thieves!" and seized the man; but im- mediately received a blow, and lost his senses for a time. When he came to, the man and the bag were both gone, and he felt so sick that he staggered to the stable and drank a pint of neat brandy, and he remembered no more till they pumped on him, and told him he had robbed and murdered a gentleman inside the " Swan Inn." "What they can't tell me," said Daniel, beginning to shout, "is how I could know who has got money and who haan't inside the 'Swan Inn.' I keeps the stables, not the inn ; and where be my keys to open and shut the 'Swan?' I never had none. And where's the gentleman's money? 'Twas somebody in the inn as done it, for to have the money, and when you find the money you'll find the man." The prosecuting counsel ridiculed this defense, and, inter alia, asked the jury whether they thought it was a double the witness Lamb had caught robbing in the inn three years ago. The judge summed up very closely, giv- ing the evidence of every witness. What follows is a mere synopsis of his charge. He showed it was beyond doubt that Mr. Gardiner returned to the inn with money, having collected his rents in Wilt- shire ; and this was known in the inn, and proved by several, and might have tran- spired in the yard or the tap-room. The un- fortunate gentleman took Captain Cowen, a respectable person, his neighbor in the inn, into his confidence, and revealed his uneasiness. Captain Cowen swore that he supped with him, but could not stay all night, most unfortunately. But he en- couraged him, left him his pistols, and helped him load them. Then his lordship read the dying man's deposition. The person thus solemnly denounced was found in the stable, bleeding from a recent wound, which seems to connect him at once with the deed as described by the dying man. " But here," said my lord, "the chain is no longer perfect. A knife, taken from the 'Swan,' was found under the garden wall, and the first traces of blood com- menced there, and continued to the stable, and were abundant on the straw and on the person of the accused. This was proved by the constable and others. No money was found on him, and no keys that could have opened any outer doors of the 'Swan Inn.' The accused had, how- ever, three years before been guilty of a theft from a gentleman in the inn, which negatives his pretense that he always con- 22 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. fined himself to the stables. It did not, however, appear that, on the occasion of the theft, he had unlocked any doors or possessed the means. The witness for the Crown, Barbara Lamb, was clear on that. "The prisoner's own solution of the mystery was not very credible. He said he had a double, or a person wearing his clothes and appearance; and he had seen this person prowling about long before the murder, and had spoken of the double to one Pott. Pott deposed that Cox had • spoken of this double more than once; but admitted he never saw the double with his own eyes. "This double, says the accused, on the fatal night let himself out of the 'Swan Inn.* and escaped to the garden wall. There he (Cox) came up with this mys- terious person, and a scuffle ensued, in which a bag was dropped, and gave the sound of coin, and then Coz held the man and cried 'Thieves!' but presently received a wound and fainted, and. on recovering himself, staggered to the stables and drank a pint of brandy. "The story sounds ridicul> rus, and there is no direct evidence to back it. Bui there is a circumstance that lends some color to it. There was one blood-stained instru- ment, and no more, found on the prem- ises, and that knife answers the descrip- tion given by t lie dying man, and indeed may be taken to be the very knife missing from his room, and this knife was found under the garden wall, and there the bl 1 commenced, and was traced to the stable. " Here," said my lord, "to my mind, lies the defense. Look at the case on all sides, gentlemen : an undoubted murder done by hands; no suspicion resting on any known person but the prisoner, a man who had already robbed in the inn; a confident rec- ognition by one whose deposition is legal evidence, but evidence we cannot cross-ex- amine, and a recognition by moonlight only and in the heat of a struggle. " If on this evidence, weakened not a little by the position of the knife and the traces of blood, and met by the prisoner's declaration which accords with that sinarle branch of the evidence, you have a doubt, it is y WORKS OF CHARLES READE. crimes, lay the corpse of Edward Co wen. Thus miserably perished a man in whom were many elements of greatness. He left what little money he had to Brad- bury, in a note imploring him to keep par- ticulars out of the journals for his son's sake, and such was the influence on Brad- bury of the scene at the " Star," the dead man's face, and his dying words, that, though public detail was his interest, nothing transpired but that the gentle- man who had been arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder at the "Swan Inn" had committed suicide; to which was added, by another hand : " Cox, however, has the king's pardon, and the affair still remains shrouded with mys- tery." Cox was permitted to see the body of Cowen, and, whether the features had gone back to youth, or his own brain, long sobered in earnest, had enlightened his memory, recognized trim as a man he had seen committed for horse-stealing at Ips- wich, when lie himself was the mayor's groom; but some girl lent the accused a file, and he cut, his way out of the cage. Cox's calamity was his greatest blessing. He went into Newgate scarcely knowing there was a God ; he came out thoroughly enlightened in that respect by the teaching of the chaplain and the death of Cowen. He went in a drunkard ; the noose that dangled over his head so long terrified him into life-long sobriety — for he laid all the blame on liquor — and he came out as bitter a foe to drink as drink had been to him. His case excited sympathy ; a consider- able sum was subscribed to set him up in trade. He became a horse-dealer on a small scale; but he was really a most ex- cellent judge of horses, and, being sober, enlarged his business; horsed a coach or two; attended fairs, and eventually made a fortune by dealing in cavalry horses under government contracts. As his money increased, his nose dimin- ished, and when he died, old and regretted, onlyapink tinge revealed the habits of his earlier life. Mrs. .Martha Cust and Barbara Lamb were no longer sure; but they doubted to their dying day the innocence of the ugly fellow, and the guilt of the' handsome, civil-spoken gentleman. But they converted nobody to their opin- ion ; for they gave their reasons. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. A MATTER-OF-FACT ROMANCE. CHAPTER I. Matthew Brent, a small shop-keeper in Green Street, Liverpool, was a widower with two daughters. Deborah, the elder, had plenty of tongue and mother-wit, but could not and would not study anything on earth if it had the misfortune to be written or printed. Sarah, the younger, showed attention and application from her childhood. Her father cultivated those powers, for they are the roots of all excellence, and he knew it. He sent the girl to school, and there she learned the usual smattering; and one thing worth it all, viz., how to teach herself. Under that abler tuition she learned to write like a clerk, to keep her SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 33 father's books, to remember the price of every article in the shop, to serve the cus- tomers when required, and to read for her own pleasure and instruction. At eighteen she was Brent's right hand all day, and his reader at night. Deborah, who could only spell The Mer- cury, and would not do that if she could get Sally to read it out, found her level as cook, housekeeper and market-woman. At twenty she was very tall, supple and mus- cular; comely but freckled, reddish hair, a very white skin, only it tanned easily. It revealed its natural beauty in her throat, and above all in the nape of her neck. This nape, snowy and solid, and a long row of ivory teeth, were her beauties. She married quite young — her father's cousin, a small farmer — and settled in Berkshire, her native county. Sarah Brent was about two inches shorter than Deborah, but a finer figure; had an oval face full of modesty and gentle dignity. Her skin was also white, and revealed itself in her shapely hands as well as her alabaster throat. Her hair brown, and so were two fearless eyes that looked at people full without staring. When she was nineteen a worthy young fellow, called Joseph Pinder, fell in love with her and courted her. He- was sheep- ish and distant in his approaches, for he looked on her as a superior being. She never chattered, yet could always answer civilly and wisely; this, and her Madonna- like face, made Joe Pinder reverence her. Her father thought highly of him, and connived at his visits, and so they were often seen together in a friendly way ; but when he began to make downright love to her, she told him calmly she could go no farther than friendship ; " and indeed," said she, " I would never leave my father for any young man." Joseph Pinder knew that this declara- tion has often preceded connubial rites, and continued his friendh' assiduities; and these two often came back from church to- gether, he glowing with delight at being near her, and she cool and friendly. The Brents were in a small way of busi- ness, and Sarah's adorer was a decorative Readk— Vol. IX. painter, and what is called in trade a " writer" — one of those astounding artists who, by skillful shading, make gilt letters appear concave or convex, or stand out bodily from a board or wall, and blazon a shop-keepers' name and business. On one occasion he had a large job of this sort to do in Manchester. It took him a fort- night, and led to another at Preston. In a month he came back with money in both pockets, and full of joy at the prospect of meeting Sarah again. He found the Brents at supper, and there was a young man with them who had a deal to say, and made the old man smile, while the young woman often looked fur- tively at him with undisguised compla- cency. This was a second cousin of Mr. Brent's, one James Mansell, a painter and grainer, who had settled in the town while Pinder was away. Pinder's heart sank at this, and instead of exerting himself in vigorous competi- tion, he became more silent and more de- pressed the more James Mansell rattled away ; in short, he was no company at all, because the other was good company. After a while he said "Good-night." A coquette would have followed him to the door and smoothed matters; but that was not Sarah Brent's line; she said "Good -night" kindly enough, but she never moved, and James Mansell 's tongue resumed its headlong course. This was the first of many such scenes. Sarah was always kind, but cool, to her old admirer, and manifestly attracted by the new one. Indeed, it came to this at last that Pinder could never get a walk with her alone except from church. On one occasion he ventured on a mild remonstrance : " If you had not told me you would never leave your father, I should be almost afraid that James Mansell would entice you away from us all." "From everybody else — but not from father. " One would think that was plain enough, but Joe could not realize it; and he went on to ask her if she could really find it in her heart to throw such an old friend as him over for a stranger. '2 34 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. She replied, calmly, "Am I changed to you any way? I always respected you, and I respect you still." "That is a comfort, Sarah. But if this goes on, I'm afraid you will like another man far better than me, whether you re- spect me or not. " "That is my business," said she, firmly. "Isn't it mine, too, Sarah? We have kept company this two years." "As friends; but nothing more. I have never misled you, and now if you are wise you will take up with some other girl. You can find as good as me." "Not in this world." "Nonsense, Joe; and besides — " " Well, what?" " I am one that forecasts a little, and I am afraid you will tease me, and pain yourself, and some day we shall part had friends, and that would be a pity, after all." "Nothing but death shall part us." " Yes, this door will. Father is not well to-night." The door in question was the side door of her own house. Pinder took the hint and bade her "Good-night" affectionately. He walked a little way out into the coun- try by himself, wonderingnow whether she would ever bo his. He was dejected, hut not in despair. In his class of life men and women have often two or three warm- ish courtships before they marry. Sarah was not of that sort, hut this James Alan- sell would he as likely as not to leave the town, and think no more of Sarah Brent. In his trade it was here to-day and there to-morrow, and he did not look like the man to cling to the absent. Pinder re- turned homeward by Green Street to have a last look at the shell which held his pearl. As he passed by on the other side of the way James Mansell came and knocked at Mr. Brent's side door. Pinder waited with a certain degree of jealous malice to see him excluded. Sarah came to the door and parleyed ; probably she told him her father was unwell. Pinder went on a lit- tle way, and then turned to see. The colloquy continued. It seemed in- terminable. The woman he loved was in no hurry now to get back to her sick father, and when she did, what was the result? Mansell was iuvited in, after all, and the door of heaven closed upon him instead of in his face. The watcher stood there transfixed with the poisoned arrow of jealousy. He was sick and furious by turns, and at last got frightened at himself, and resolved to keep out of the way of this James Mansell, with whom he had no chance, Sarah's prefer- ence was now so clear. But he was too much in love to forego the walks from church ; and Sarah never objected to his company, nor, indeed, to his coming in to supper afterward. But lie was sure to find his rival there, and be reduced to a sullen cipher. So things went on. Ho did not see what passed between Mansell and Sarah Brent, the open wooing of the man, the timid tumult in the woman, expanding, ripen- ing, blushing, thrilling, and blooming in the new sunshine. But he discovered a good deal; she seemed gliding gradually away from him down a gentle but inexor- able slope. She was as friendly in her cool way as ever, but scarcely attended to him. Her mind seemed elsewhere at times, even in that short walk from church, sole relic now of their languid but unbroken friendship. The time came when even this privilege was disputed. One Sunday James Man- sell arrived in Green Street earlier than usual. He heard where Sarah was, so he came to meet her. She was walking with Pinder. Mansell had been drinking a lit- tle, and did not know, perhaps, how little cause he had for jealousj*. He stepped rudely in between Pinder and Miss Brent, and took her arm, whereas Pinder had been walking merely by her side. " What sort of manners are these?" said Pinder. "They are my manners," said the other haughtily. "She has no business to walk with you at all." "Don't insult her, at all events. She has walked with me this two year." " Well, then, now you can go and walk with some other girl." SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 35 "Not at your bidding, you brute." "Oh, you want a biding, do you?" "No; it is you that want that." James Mansell replied by a blow, which took Piuder unawares, and sent him stag- gering. He would have followed it up, but Pin- der stopped the second neatly, and gave him a smart one in return, crying, "Cow- ard! to take a man unawares." Sarah was terrified, and clasped her hands. " Oh, pray do not quarrel about me!" " Stand aloof," said Mansell imperiously. "This must end." Sarah obeyed the man, who was evidently her master, but implored him not to hurt Joe Pinder — he was only a friend. The truth is Mansell had recounted such deeds of prowess that, what with his gasconades and her blind love, she thought no man could have a chance with him. He sparred well, and hit Pinder several times, but rather short. Both were soon infuriated, and they were all over the street, fighting and raging. Under similar circumstances Virgil's heifer browsed the grass in undisturbed tranquillity, content to know that her mate would be the best bull of the two. Not so Sarah Brent. She clasped her hands and screamed, and implored her hero to be merciful. Her conscience whis- pered that her inoffensive friend was being hardly used in every way. Presently her hero, after administering several blows, and making his adversary bleed, received a left-handed stinger that made him recoil. Maddened by this, he rushed at Pinder to annihilate him. But Pinder was no novice either; he drew back on the point of his toe, and met James Mansell's rush with a tremendous slogger that sounded like a falling plank, and shot him to the earth at Sarah Brent's very feet, a distance of some yards. All was changed in a moment; she liter- ally bounded over the prostrate form and stood between him and danger; for in Liverpool they fight up and down, as the saying is. "You wretch," she cried, "to kill the man I love !" It was Pinder's turn to stagger before that white cheek, and those fiery eyes, and that fatal word. " Man you love?" said he. " I love ! I love ! I love !" cried she, stabbing with swift feminine instinct the monster who had struck her love. Then Pinder fell back, subdued, with a sigh of despair; she flung herself down, • and raised James Mansell's head and sobbed hysterically over it. Some people now came up ; but Pinder in those few seconds had undergone a change. He stepped forward, thrust the people away, and kneeling down, lifted James Mansell up and took him under his arm. "Leave him to me, Sarah," said he. " To you?" she sobbed. "Ay; do you think I shall ever hurt him again, now you have told me you love him?" And he said it so finely she knew he meant it. Then he sent to the market public-house for a sponge and some brand}-, and mean- time Mansell, who was tough, came to of himself; but the water and brandy com- pleted his restoration to society. It was Pinder who sponged his face and nostrils, and took him to Brent's house, Sarah hovering near all the time like a hen over her chickens. She whipped into the house with her pass-key, and received her favorite at the door, then closed it gently, but decidedly — not that Joe Pinder would have come in if she had asked him. He did not even trust himself to say " Good- night." It was all over between him and her, and of course he knew it. When she had got James Mansell safe she made him lie down on the little sofa, and sat at his head, applying cool linen rags to his swollen cheeks, and a cut upon his forehead due to Pinder's knuckles. Presently her father came in from visit- ing a sick friend, and at sight of this group asked what was to do. "It is that cruel Joe Pinder been beat- ing him, father; I thought he had killed him." "What for?" Sarah blushed and was silent; she wouldn't own that James was the ag- gressor, and yet she wouldn't tell a false- hood. 36 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. "Joe Pinder!" said the old man: "he was never quarrelsome ; there's not a bet- ter-hearted young man in the town, nor a more respectable. Now you tell me what was the quarrel about?" " Oh, father !" said Sarah, deprecat- ingly. "Ay! ay! I needn't ask," said the old man. "It was about a woman, eh? You might have been better employed, all three, this Sabbath evening." " Well, sir, Sarah was only coming home from church this Sabbath evening." said Mansell; "but as for me, I was as much to blame as the other, so let us say no more about it." Sarah whispered, " You are very generous. " The subject dropped till the old man retired to rest, and then .Janus .Man- sell, who had been brooding, delivered him- self thus: "lie is net half a bad suit that Joe Finder. But he is one too many for me, or I am one ton many fur him, so you must make up your mind this night w hich is to be your husband, and give the other the sack." This was virile, and entitled to a femi- nine reply. Itcamo immediately, in what, perhaps, if we could know the truth, is a formula — not a word — nor even a syllable — but a white wrist passed round the neck, and a fair head deposited like down upon the shoulder of her conqueror. Joseph Pinder grieved and watched, but troubled the lovers no more. James Man- sell pressed Sarah to name the day. She objected. Her father's health was break- ing, and she would not leave him. Man- sell urged her ; she stood firm. He accused her of not loving him ; she sighed, and won- dered he could say that, but was immov- able. By-and-by it all came to her father's ears. He sent for a lawyer directly, and made the shop and house over to Sarah by deed of gift. Then he told her she need not wait for his death ; he would prefer to see her happy with the man of her choice, and also to advise her in business for the little while he had to live. So the banns were cried, and Joseph Pinder heard in silence; and in due course James Mansell was united to Sarah Brent in holy matrimony. In its humble way this was a promising union. The man was twenty-seven, the woman twenty, and thoughtful beyond her years. They had health and love and oc- cupation; moreover, the man's work took him out of the woman's way, except at meals, and in the evening. Now nothing sweetens married life, and divests it of monotony and ennui, more than these daily partings and meetings. Mansell had three trades, and in one of them (graining) he might be called an artist. He could imitate the common woods bet- ter than almost anybody; but at satin- wood, mahogany, and American birch he was really wonderful. Sarah was a first-rate shop-woman, civil, prompt, oblig- ing, and handsome — qualities that all at- tract in business. She gave no credit beyond a week, and took none at all. In any class of life it is a fine thing when both spouses caii contribute a share to the joint income. This is one of the boons found oftenest among the middle classes. Most laborers' wives can only keep house, and few gentlemen's wives can earn a penny. The Mansells, then, upon a large and wide survey of life, were in a happy con- dition — happier far than any pair w*ho dc not earn their living. ( hie day a great sorrow came, but not unexpectedly. Matthew Brent died peace- fully, blessing his daughters and his son- in-law. The next day came a joyful event, Sarah's child was born — a lovely girl. Mighty nature comforted the bereaved daughter, and soon the home was as cheer- ful as ever. Indeed, it was not till the third year of her marriage that a cloud appeared, and that seemed a small one, no bigger than a man's hand. James Mansell began to come home Saturday night instead of Saturday after- noon ; and the reason was clear, he smelled of liquor; and though always sober, his speech was thick on these occasions. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. Sarah, who had forecasts, was alarmed, and spoke in time. She rememhered some- thing her father — an observant man — had said to her in his day, viz., that your clever specimens of the class which may be called artist-mechanics are often ad- dicted to liquor. However, this prudent woman thought it best not to raise an argument about drink; she merely represented to her hus- band that there was now a run upon her shop Saturday afternoon and evening, and really it was more than she could manage without his assistance; would he be so good as to help her? He assisted readily enough, and then the Saturday afternoons became bar happiest time. He himself seemed to enjoy the business and the bustle and his wife's company. But by-and-by he came home very late on Monday, with the usual signs of a drop; then she advised him and entreated him, but never scolded him. He acquiesced, and was perfectly good-tempered though in the wrong. But one day in the week he would come home late, and mumble what is called the Queen's English, but I believe the people hold a few shares in it. Sarah was disappointed, and a little alarmed, but began to hope it would go no farther at all events. However, one Saturday, if you please, he did not come to help her in the shop, did not even come home to supper, and she had made such a nice supper for him. She sat at the win- dow and fretted, she went from the window to her sleeping child and back again, rest- less and apprehensive. At midnight, when the whole street was still, footsteps rang on the pavement. She looked out and saw two men, each with an arm under the shoulder of a third, hoisting him along. She darted to the street door, and received her husband from the hands of two men who were perfectly sober. One of them turned on his heel and walked swiftly away at sight of her. But she saw him — for the first time this three years. It was Joseph Pinder. CHAPTER II. Mr. Mansell began his bibulous career with a redeeming quality more common in Russia than in England — good-natured in his cups. He chuckled feebly, and op- posed the inertia of matter only, while the dismayed wife pulled him and pushed him, and at last got him down on the little sofa in the shop parlor. Then she whipped off his neck-tie, and washed his face in diluted lavender water, and put her salts to his nose. Being now on his back, he soon went to sleep and breathed sono- rously, while she sat in her father's arm- chair and watched him bitterly and sadly. At first his hard-breathing alarmed her, and she sat waiting to avert apoplexy. But toward morning sleep overcame her. Then daylight coming in with a shoot awakened her, and she looked round on the scene. The room in disorder, her hus- band sleeping off his liquor, she in her father's armchair, not the connubial bed. Her first thought was, " Oh, if father could see us now this Sabbath morn !" she got up sadly, and lighted fires; then went upstairs, washed and dressed the little girl and made her lisp a prayer. Then, not choosing the daughter to see the father in his present condition, she went down and waked him, and made him wash his face and tidy himself. He asked for brandy; she looked him in the face, and said, "No, not one drop." But he was ill and coaxed her. She gave him a table- spoonful, and then ground some coffee and gave him a cup hot and strong. She was not a hasty woman, she showed him a face grave and sad, but she did not tell him her mind. So then he opened the subject himself. " This will be a warning to me." "I hope so," said she, gravely. " Can't think how I came to be over- come like that." " By putting yourself in the way of it. If you had been helping me at the shop, that needed your help, it would have been better for you, and for me too." " Well, I will after this. It is a warn- ing." 38 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. She began to relent. "Well, James, if you take it to heart, I will not be too hard, for where is the sense of nagging at a man when he owns his fault? But, oh, James, I am so mortified ! Who do you think brought you home?" He tried to remember, but could not. " Well, one of them was the last man in Liverpool I would have to see you let yourself down so. It was Joe Pinder." "I never noticed him. What, was he tight, too?" "No; if he had been, I wouldn't have minded so much. He was sober and you were — •" The man did not seize the woman's sen- timent. He said, carelessly, "Oh, 'twas he brought me safe home, was it? He is not half a bad sort, then." Sarah stared a1 this plain, straightfor- ward view of her old lover's conduct. She had a greater desire to be jusi than most women have, but she labored under femi- nine disabilities. She was silent, and weighed Mansell's view of the matter, hut came back to her own. "I do hope," said she. "you will never be so overtook again—think of your child— but if you are, oh! pray don't come home on that man's arm. I'd crawl home on all fours sooner if I was you." " All right." said he vaguely. Then she took this opportunity to beg him to go to church with her that morning. Hitherto he had always declined, but now he con- sented almost eagerly. He clutched at a composition. He said. "Sally, them that sin must suffer." The fact is, he expected to hear his conduct denounced from the pulpit. Catch the pulpit doing anything of the kind ! The pulpit is not practical, and meddles little with immorality as it is, and rarely gives ten consecutive minutes to that particular vice which overruns the land. James Mansell sat under a drizzle of thin generalities, and came home com- placent. His wife was pleased with him, and still more when he took her and Lucy for a walk in the evening, and they carried the child by turns. After this the man kept within bounds; he soaked, but could alwaj^s walk home. To be sure, he began to diffuse moderate inebriety over the whole week. This caused the good wife great distress of mind, and led to practical results that alarmed the mother and the woman of business. Mansell was still the first grainer in the place, and the tradesmen would have employed him by preference if he could have been relied on to finish his jobs. But he was so uncertain: he would go to dinner, and stop at a public- house; would appoint an hour to com- mence, and be at a public-house. He tired out one good customer after anoth- er. The joint income declined in conse- quence, and, as generally happens, their expenses increased, for Mrs. Mansell, get- ting no help from her husband, was obliged to take a servant. Often in the evening she would close her shop early, leave her child under strict charge of the girl, and go to some public- house, and there coax and remonstrate, and get him away at last. With all this, she was as true as steel to him. She never was known to admit ho was a drunkard. The most she would ac- knowledge to angry tradesmen, and that somewhat haughtily, was that he took a drop now and then to put away the smell of the paint. But in private she was not so easy. She expostulated, she remonstrated, she re- proached, and sometimes she lost heart, and wept bitterly at his behavior. All this had its effect. The invectives galled Mr. Mansell's vanity; the tears bored him; the total made him sullen, and alienated his affection. The injured party forgave freely; not so the wrong- doer. As he never hit her — which is a vent — this gracious person began to hate her. But her love remained as invincible as his vice. Deborah's husband died suddenly of apoplexy. Sarah dared not go to comfort her, and would not tell the reason. She begged the mourner to come to her. Deborah came, and the sisters rocked | together, country fashion, crying; though SING LEHE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 39 such different characters, they had a true affection for each other. By-and-by Deborah told her, with an- other burst of grief, her husband had left her nothing but debt. She was next door to a beggar. "Not while I live," was the quiet reply. " Stay with me for good, that is all." The servant was discharged at Deborah's re- quest : she said she must work hard or die of grief. Accordingly, she went about crying, but working, and all the steel things began to shine and the brass to glitter, because there was a bereaved widow in the house. This was a great comfort in every way to Sarah ; she could leave the house with more confidence when her beloved had to be dragged away from liquid ruin, and also it did her good to sympathize with her bereaved sister. She forebore at that time to tell Deborah her own trouble ; and this trait indicates, I think, the depth of her character. As for Deborah, she soon cried herself out, and one afternoon Sarah heard her laughing with the baker's man — laughing from the chest, as young ladies are ordered to sing (but forbidden by Sir Corset), and an octave lower than she had ever spoken upstairs since she came. Sarah was surprised, and almost shocked at first. But she said to herself, "Poor Deb, she is as light-hearted as ever; and why should she break her heart for him? he wouldn't for her." By-and-by Deborah used to leave the house when her work was done, if Sarah stayed at home. She could not read, so she must walk and she must talk. She had not read a single book this five years; but her powers of conversation were developed. She had sold country produce in two mar- kets weekly, and picked up plenty of coun- try proverbs and market chaff. She soon took to visiting all her old ac- quaintances in the place, and talked nine- teen to the dozen — and here observe a phenomenon. Her whole vocabularly was about nine hundred words, whereas you and I know ten thousand and more, yet she would ring a triple bob major on that small vocabulary, and talk learned us to a stand-still. As her talk was all gossip, she soon knew more about the Mansells than they knew themselves, and heard that Mansell drank and lived upon his wife. This gave her honest concern. Now she held the clew to Sarah's absences and fre- quent return with her husband in charge and inarticulate. She did not blurt it out to her sister, nor was she angry at her want of confidence. She knew Sarah's character, and rather admired her for not exposing her man to any human creature. Still, when she did know it, she threw out so many hints one after another that Sarah, who, poor soul, yearned for sympathy, made at last a partial disclosure, with many a sigh. Deborah made light of it, and hoped it was only for a time, and after all Sarah was glad she knew, for Deborah's tongue was not in reality so loose as it was fluent. She could chatter without any appearance of reserve, and yet be as close as wax. She brought home to Sarah all she heard, but she never told anything out of the house. One day she said to Sarah, " Do you know a man called Varney — Dick Var- ney?" Sarah said she had never heard his name. "Then," said Deborah, "you ought to know him." "Why?" " Because when you know your enemy you can look out for him, and he is your enemy after a manner; for 'tis he that leads your husband astray, so that young man said." " What young man?" " I think his name is Spencer, and some- body called him Joe ; he was a good-look- ing chap anyway. I suppose he was a friend of Jemmy Mansell's. Somebody did praise you for a good daughter and a good wife, but one that had made a bad bargain ; then that was the signal for each to have a fling at Jemmy Mansell. Never you mind what they said. This handsome chap stood up for him, and said the man was a first-rate workman, and meant no harm, but he had got a tempter, this Dick 40 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Varney. So then I told the young chap who I was, and he seemed quite pleased like, and said he had heard of me. Of course what he said I stood hy. I said there couldn't be a better husband or a better man — bar drink— than James Man- sell." Sarah thanked her, but said, "Oh, that we should come to be talked of!" " Everybody is, within walls," said Deb- orah, "and them that listens learns. By the same token, you keep your eye on that Varney." "How can I? I don't know him." "No more you do, and what a stupid I must be not to ask that good-looking chap more about him. 1 wonder who he is; I will ask James." "No." " Why not?" - 1 1 -ill >* - him to me." "Well, he is tall and broad-shouldered, ami lias light hair, ami dark gray eyes like jewels, and teeth as white as milk, and a gentle, pleasant way; looks a bit sad, lie does, as if he had been erossed in love, but that is not likely — no woman would be Buch a fool that had eyes in her i, : Then he was very clean and neat, like a man that respected hisself, and low- ered his voice a bit to speak to a woman. There's a duck !" Sarah looked a little surprised at this ardent description. However, she re- flected — and 1 suppose she thought I must he some truth in it, though it had not struck her. Then she said, carelessly, "What was his business?" "1 think he was in the same way as James himself." '• Was his name Pinder? — Joseph Pin- der?" " That or something. The name was new to me, but Joseph for certain." " Well, if it is Joseph Pinder, I will ask you not to make acquaintance with him. You seem to be making acquaintances very fast for a woman in your condition." " My condition," said Deborah. " Why, that is where it is — I can't bear to think. I must work or talk. It is very unkind of you to cast my condition in my teeth." " I didn't mean to, Deb. There, forgive me." " With all my heart — you have got your own trouble. Only give me a reason why am I not to speak to this Joseph — such an outlandish name — -this handsome Joe." " Well, then, one reason is, he courted me after a fashion." "Oh, la! Is that where the shoe pinches?" " We used to walk together like two chil- dren till my man came; then they quar- reled, and that Pinder beat him, and I can't forgive it, and the first night James was quite overtaken with liquor Pinder brought him home, and it was like a knife to my heart." ••Toor Sally! you saw you had chosen the wrong one." "Chosen the wrong one!" cried Sarah, contemptuously. "I wouldn't give my James's little finger, drunk or sober, for a thousand Joseph Pinders. There, it is no use talking to you. You don't under- stand a word I say. Anyway, 1 do beg of you not to make acquaintance with the man. nor ht him know what passes in this house.'' •■ Why, of course not, Sally, if you say the word. What is the man tome? Your will is my pleasure, and your word my law." This, from an elder sister, merited an , and it received a very tender one. A1 last it came to this, that nobody in the town who knew James Mansell would employ him. Instead of contributing his share, he lived entirely on his wife, at home and abroad; and he lived ill. So the house was divided against itself. The husband, the bread-wimier in theory, was doing all he could to ruin the family; two brave women were fighting, tooth and nail, to save it. They were losing ground a little, and that alarmed Sarah terribly ; but then she had a reserve — sixty pounds hidden in an iron box, with a good key. She never told her husband of this. She hid it for his good. The box was a small one, but she had it fastened with strong iron clamps SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 41 to the wall, and she kept salables before it to hide it. Mansell's extravagance she fed from the till, not without comments, grave and sor- rowful, not bitter; yet they imbittered him. The man's vanity was prodigious : it equaled his demerit. While the brave wife and mother was thus battling with undeserved adversity, she received a new alarm. Being single-handed in the shop, it was her way to prepare, with Deborah's as- sistance, weighed and marked packets of sugar, tea, soda, and other things; and one evening they had taken a lump of Irish butter out of the tub and weighed five pounds, and left it on a slab. Early in the morning a customer came for a pound. This was weighed off, and left so small a residue that Mrs. Mansell weighed it, and found there was only one pound and a half left. She could hardly believe her senses at first, but the weight was clear. She asked Deborah, with assumed carelessness, how much butter they had weighed out last night. Deborah replied, without hesita- tion, "Five pounds." After that day she looked more closely into the stock, and she detected losses and diminutions. One day a slice off a side of bacon; another, a tin of preserved meat; in short, a system of pilfering. She shrank from the idea of theft, if it could be ac- counted for in an3 r other way. She thought it just possible, though not likely, that Deb- orah had made free with these things for the use of the house. She told her what she had discovered, and asked her as deli- cately as possible whether she ever came to the shop for anything that was wanted in her kitchen. Deborah went off like a woman of gun- powder cross-examined by a torch. "Me take anything out of your shop for my kitchen!" "Well, 'tis my kitchen and all — 'twould only be from Peter to Paul." The other was not to be pacified so. " Me take what does not belong to me ! Oh, have I liv.ed to be suspected by my own sister? I'd cut off this arm sooner than I would steal with this hand. I never wronged a creature of a farthing, or a farthing's worth, in all my life. Send me home. Send me to the work- house. I am not fit to be trusted — and so many things about. Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !" and down she sat and rocked. " There ! there ! there !" cried Sarah, com- ing swiftly and sitting beside her. " Now where would have been the harm if you had taken things for our own use? And oughtn't I to ask you before I suspected something worse? Oh, Deborah, haven't I trouble enough that you must cry and set me off too? Oh ! oh ! You might think a little of me as well as yourself. Is it nothing to you that I am robbed and all? Haven't I trouble enough without that? There, give over, that's a dear, and I'll give you a new print this very day." Deborah dried up directly, and her senti- ments shifted like the wind. " I wish I had them that rob you," said she, and she extended her great, long, powerful arm formidably. " We must watch day and night, dear," said Mrs. Mansell, gloomily, and with a weary air, and she took it all to heart, even the pain she had given Deborah, whose mind was like running water, and retained no trace of the dialogue in ten minutes. Not so the deeper nature. Mrs. Mansell brooded over it all, and when the shop was shut, she sat in the parlor — sat and suffered. James Mansell was out as usual. She sat and looked at Lucy, and wondered what would be her owu fate and her child's at the end of this desperate struggle. She became hysterical — a rare thing with her — and Deborah found her trembling all over where she sat, and quite shaken. She was despondent and exas- perated by turns. She had twitches all over her body, and hot tears ran out of her eyes. It was a woman's breakdown, and Deb- orah, who knew the female constitution, just sat beside her and held her hand. Sarah clung to this hand, and clutched it every now and then convulsive^. She spoke in broken sentences. "Too many 42 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. things against me; drunkenness here; theft there. It will end in the work- house! How else can it end? I'm glad father's dead. Poor father! Have I lived to say that?" The talkative De- borah said never a word, so Sarah began to calm down by degrees with gentle sighs and tremors. Unluckily, before she was quite calm, Mansell knocked at the door. Sarah could tell his knock, or his footstep, or any sound he made, in a moment. Her face beamed. It was early for him. He was sober, and she could tell him of this new trouble. Deborah ran to let him in. Sarah stood up smiling to welcome him. He blundered into the room, beastly drunk, neckcloth loose, eyes blood-shot; he could just keep on his legs. Sarah caught up her child with the strength of a lioness, Hung one full and fiery look of horror ami disgust right in her husband's face, then rushed majesti- cally from the room, carrying her child across her arms. Drunk as he was, the brute staggered under lliis tremendous glance and eloquent rush. He blundered against the mantel- piece, and hung his bead. Deborah set her arms akimbo. " You've done this once too often," she said, grimly, ami her e3"es glittered at him wickedly. " Mind your own business," said he. "Why did she run away from me like thai ?" "Because of the child, you may be sure. There, don't let us quarrel. Will you have your supper, now you are here?" "I don't want my supper; I want my wife. You go and fetch her directly." He was excited, and Deborah, determined to keep the peace, took his message to Sarah in Lucy's bedroom. Sarah was shaking all over, and refused to come. " I dare not," said she. " I am in such a state I feel I might say or do something I should rue afterward, for I love him. Would to God I had never seen him, but I love him. Go you and pacify him. I shall sleep here beside my child." Deborah went down, and found Mansell in the armchair, looking spiteful. She told him Sarah was not well. She could not come down. " Humbug !" roared James Mansell ; " she is shamming — I'll go and fetch her down;" and he bounced up. Deborah whipped be- fore the door. "Stand out of my way," said he, loftily, and came blundering at her. She pinned him directly by the col- lar with both hands, shook him to and fro as a dog does a rat, then put both hands suddenly to his breast, made a grand rush forward with him, and with the double power of her loins and her great long arms shot him all across the room into the arm- chair witli such an impetus that the chair went crashing against the wall, and the man in it bead down, feet up. Mr. Mansell stared dumfounded at first. He thought some supernatural power hail disposed of him. He did not allow for suddenness, and was not aware that pull- ing and pushing go by weight, and that strapping Deborah, without an ounce of fat, weighed two stone more than he did, owing to certain laws of construction not worth particularizing it l<( frangaise. "I never lay my hand on a woman," said he, moodily. "I'm not so nice," replied I'eborah, erect, with her lists u]>on her hips. "I can lay my hands on a man — for bis good. I've had that much to do afore now, and I never found one could master me, bar hitting, which I call that cowardly." Then as time was up for a change of sentiment — eighty whole seconds — she shifted to friendly advice. "Jemmy, my man," said she, "women are curious creatures. They are not them- selves at times. Our Sally has got the nerves. She might fling a knife at you if you tormented her just now, sobbing over her child. Take my advice, now, that is a friend to both of you. Let her a-be. If you don't upset her no more to- night, which I declare you shan't, she'll be as sweet as honey in the morning." "She may," said Mansell sullenly, "but I shall not. If she lies away from me to- night, I'll lie away from her a year or more, mind that." SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 43 "Where? In the union?" "No. That is as much as to say she keeps me." "Well, and doesn't she? Where does the money come from you spend in drink?" " I have got an offer of work." " Work? It isn't under your skin." "Not here, but this is in America. Such work as mine is paid out there, and I can make my fortune, and not have it flung in my face I'm living on a woman." Deborah did not think this gasconade worth replying to. She suggested repose as the best thing for him after the hard work he had gone through — lifting mugs and quarterns all the way from the counter to his teeth. With much trouble she got him up the stairs, and took off his neck- cloth and loosened his shirt collar. Then she retired for a reasonable time, and when he was in bed came and took away the candle from him as she would from a child. He called to her. " Hear my last word." "No such luck," said she, dryly. " Hold your tongue. " " If I hold my tongue I shall slobber my teeth." "Can you listen a moment?" " If I hold my breath." "Then mind this. If she leaves me like this, I'll leave her. I won't be taken up and put down by any woman." "I'll tell her, my man," said she, to quiet him; then took away his candle, and went downstairs to her own room, for she slept on the kitchen floor. She seized a feather bed, lugged it up the stairs, and made up a bed on the floor for Sarah. "He is all right," said she, and not a word more. Then she went downstairs, and put her red hair in curl- papers — for she was flirting all round (No. 1 had been dead six months) — and slept like a stone upon a hard mattress, not harder than her own healthy limbs. CHAPTER III. What wonderful restoratives are a good long sleep and the dawn of day! They co-operate so, invigorating the body and fortifying the mind. They clear away the pain and the forebodings night engenders, and brighten not only the face of nature, but our individual prospects. The glorious dawn falling upon our refreshed eyes and invigorated bodies is like a trumpet sound- ing "Nil Desperandum." Mrs. Mansell was one of the many whom sleep and dawn reinspired and reconciled to her lot that morning. She had slept in a pure atmosphere, untarnished by a drunkard's breath. She awoke with her nerves com- posed and her heart strengthened. Her life was to be a battle — that was plain. But she had forces and an all}'. Her forces were rare health, strength, prudence, and sobriety. Her ally was Deborah. She began the battle this morn- ing brightly and hopefully. She was the first up, and having dressed herself neatly, as she always did. she put on a large apron and bib, coarse but clean, and descended to the parlor. She called up the spiral staircase, " James ! " No answer. She went into the shop and called down the kitchen stairs. No reply from her sister. "Lazy-bones," said she. She struck a light in the shop, and her eye fell upon a large hand-bell. She took it up and rang it down the kitchen stairs. Instantly there was a sort of yawn of distress. Then she bustled into the parlor and rang it up the spiral staircase. Then she set it down and took her candle into the shop, and sorted, and dusted, and counted the goods, and cleaned the counter. Presently in sauntered Deborah from the kitchen, with her hair in curl-papers, and a chasm in the upper part of her gown, so that she seemed half dislocated ; and she adhered to the wall for support, and sprawled out one long arm and a hand, which she flattened against the wall, to hold on by suction sooner than not at all. " Here's a [yawn] to do," said she. " Any- body's [yawn] cat dead?" 44 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. "No, but mine are catching no mice. Nobody to light the fire and give my man his breakfast while I open the shop. Aren't you ashamed of yourself ?" "Too sleepy [yawn] to be ashamed of anything!" "Then wake up and bustle." Deborah gave herself a wriggle 1h.it set her long bare arms flying like windmills, and went to work. The pair soon bright- ened the parlor, and then Sarah came into the shop and opened the door; but the in- tent shutters outside were heavy and stiff, as she knew, so she called 1 teborah. "You might pulldown those heavy shut- ters outside for me. You are stronger than I am, for all you look like a jelly-bag." Deborah drew back in dismay. " .Me go into the street! I'm not half dressed." "Fine shapes don'l need fine clothes. You might catch another husband on the pavement." " I'd rather catch him in church with my new bonnet." Then, to escape any more invitation- to publish her curl-papers — for that was where the sin ie really pinched — she ran maliciously into the parlor, screaming up the corkscr* ■■• stairs. " Here, master! James Mansell,you are wanted .'" "Be quiet." said Sarah, coloring; "he is not vein- servant. Them that do it for me will be round directly. It isn't the mas- ter's business to put up the wife's shut- ters." "I think it is then, if he is a man, for it is a man's work." Deborah spoke this at James Mansell, and at the top of her voice. The words were hardly out of her mouth when a man's hands were seen to pull down the heavy shutters and let in the light. "Didn't I tell you?" said the ready Deborah. "And here is one dropped from the sky express." "Why, it is Joseph Pinder," said Mrs. Mansell, drawing back. " La ! Your old sweetheart !" "Never! For shame! Hold your tongue !" Deborah grinned with delight, and whipped into the parlor to hide her curl- papers and listen. Sarah went behind the counter and minded her business. She made sure Pinder would proceed on his course as soon as he had done that act of courtesy. Instead of that he came slow!}- and a little sheepishly in at the door, and stood at the counter opposite her. He was in a complete suit of white cotton, all but his soft brown hat, and looked wonderfully neat and clean. "Good-morning, Mrs. Mansell," said he, respectfully. "Good-morning, Mr. Pinder," said Mrs. Mansell. Then, stiffly, "Sorry you should take so much trouble." Pinder looked puzzled, so, woman-like, she answered his looks : "I mean, to take down my shutters. I pay a person express." "Oh, I heard somebody say it was a man's work." Sarah explained, hurriedly: "Oh, that was my sister." "What, Deborah?" "Deborah," said she, dryly, in a way calculated to close the dialogue. But Pin- der did not move. He fumbled with his hat, and at last said ho was not there by accident, but had come to see her. "What for?" and she opened her eyes rather wide. " A little hit of business." Sarah colored, but she said, dryly, " What can I serve you?" "Oh, it is not with you; it is with j-our husband." " Indeed," said she, rather incredulously, almost suspiciously. " Got him a job." "That is very good of you, I'm sure," was the reply, and now the tone was satiri- cal. " My husband has plenty of jobs." "Well, he used to have; but the shop- keepers here are against him now; they say he leaves his work." Sarah seized this opportunity- to get rid of Mr. Pinder altogether. " Did you come here to run my husband down to me?" she inquired, haughtily. "Am I one of that sort?" said Pinder, defiantly. He was beginning to take offense, as well he might. " I came to SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 45 do the man a good turn, whether I get any thanks for it or not." Sarah colored and held her peace. He had taken the right way with her now. But it was hard for the good-natured fel- low to hold spite, especially against her. He went naturally back to his friendly manner, and told her that the new Rectory was being decorated by a London firm, and their grainer had been taken ill, and he (Pinder) had told the foreman he knew a tiptop grainer, James Man Sell, and the foreman had jumped at him. " I've made the bargain, Sarah. London price. It's a thirty pound job." And he looked proud. " Thirty pounds !" exclaimed Sarah. " Yes; it is a large house, paneled rooms, and hall, and staircase, all to be grained, besides the doors and shutters and skirt- ings. Only mind, these swell London tradesmen won't stand — unpunctuality. Where is he, if you please?" " Oh, he is at home." " Then let me see him directly." "You can't just now." Deborah, who had listened to every word, chose this moment to emerge from the parlor. She had utilized her curl- papers by lighting the fire with them, and came out very neat in a charming cap, and courtesied. "Give him half an hour, Mr. Pinder," said she, sweetly; "he is in bed." Pinder looked at his watch, and said he could not wait half an hour; he was due; but he wrote a line with his pencil for Mansell to give to the foreman; then he put on his cap and said jauntily, " Good- morning, ladies." " Good - morning, sir," said Deborah, graciously. "And thank you, Joseph," said Sarah, gently. " You are very welcome ; I suppose jon know that," said he, as bluntly as he could. When he was gone, Sarah's artificial in- difference disappeared with a vengeance. She ran into the parlor, and screamed up the spiral staircase, " James ! James ! Such good news ! Get up and come down direct- ly!" "All right," said a sleepy voice. Then she turned on Deborah. "And what call had you to say he was in bed?" "Oh, the truth may be blamed, but it can't be shamed," was Deborah's steady reply. Proverbs being unanswerable, Sarah changed the subject. " And if you haven't got on my new cap!" Deborah had no by-word read}- to justify misappropriation of another lady's cap; so she took a humble tone. "La, Sally, I couldn't help it! he was such a nice young man. You can't abide him, but tastes they differ. Do you think he will come again? If he does, I really must set my cap at him." " But not mine;" and Sarah, who was in rare spirits, whipped her cap in a mo- ment off her sister's head. "La! you needn't to take my hair and all," whined Deborah. " That's my own, anyway." " Then you are not in the fashion," was the ready reply. "Come, Deb, enough chat; this is a busy morniug, and a happy morning to make us forget last night for- ever. Now, dear, run, and make my man his coffee — nice and strong." "I will." " And clean his boots for going out." "If I must, I must," said Deborah, with sudden languor. She never could see why women should clean men's boots. " And air him a shirt." "Is that all?" inquired Deborah, affect- ing surprise. "All at present," said the mistress, dryly. " What, hasn't he any hose to darn, nor hair to be cut, nor teeth to be cleaned for him?" "You go on with your cheek," and she threatened Deborah, merrily, with a duster. Her heart was light. And now a customer or two trickled in at intervals. She served them promptly and civilly. Presently she saw her husband coming slowly down the spiral staircase. She ran into the parlor to meet him. Not a word about last night, but welcomed him with smiles and a long kiss. "Good news, dear," said she, jubilant. 46 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. He received her with discouraging languor. "Well, what is up?" But she was not to be disheartened so easily. " Why, Jemmy dear, there's a job waiting for you at the Rectory, and you are to have thirty pounds for it." "Thirty pounds! That will be a long job." She tossed her head a little at that. "Why a long job? It is not day work. It shouldn't be a long job if I had it to do, and was as clever as you are. Come, here's Deborah with your coffee and nice hot toast. Eat your breakfast and start. No, don't take it into the parlor, Deb, to waste more time; set it down hereon the flap. I do love to see him eat." Mr. Mansell, thus stimulated, put the coffee to his lips. But he set it down untasted, and said lie couldn't. "Try, dear; 'twill do you good." "I can't, Sally; I am wry ill; my head swims so, and my chest is mi lire. Oh!" and Mr. Mansell leaned on tin' end of the counter and groaned aloud. He made so much of his disease that Sarah was alarmed, and told Deborah to run for the doctor. That personage Btood Btock-still, ami as ostentatiously calm as the invalid was de- monstrative in his sufferings. " A doctor! Why, he'd make the man ill." She folded her arms and contemplated the victim. "Hot coppers," said she. " He only wants a hair of the dog that bit him." This with a composure that befitted the occasion ; bul it was not so received. " How dare you !" cried Sarah. "Yes, Deb, for mercy's sake," moaned the sufferer — "for mercy's sake, a drop of brandy !" Deborah would have gone for it directly if she had been mistress, but, as it was, she consulted her sister by the eye. Sarah replied to that look with great de- cision. " Not if you are any sister of mine. Ay, that is the way of it — drink to be ill, and then drink to be well; and once you have begun, go on till you are ill again, and want a drop to start you again on the road to beggary and shame. Drink, drink, drink, in a merry - go - round that never halts." Then, firmly: " You drink your coffee without more words, and then go and work for your daughter like a man. Come!" She held the cup out to him with a fine air of authority, though her heart was quaking all the time, and he, being just then in a subdued condition, took it re- signedly, and sipped a little. Then a cus- tomer came in, but Sarah was not to be diverted from her purpose. She ordered Deborah to 'stand there and see him drain every drop. Deborah folded her bare arms and inspected the process loftily but keenly. He got through two-thirds of the contents, then showed her the balance with such a piteous look that she had compassion, stretched out her long arm for the cup, sent the contents down her throat with one gesture, and returned the cup with another gesture, half regal, half vulgar, all in two seconds, and James, with admirable rapid- ity, set the cup down empty under Sarah's eye, and so they abused her confidence. " Well done," said she; " strong coffee is an antidote, they say, and work is another. Off you go to the Rectory, and work till one. Deborah will have a idee hot dinner ready for you by then." She found him his basket and his brushes, all cleaned by herself, though he had left them foul. At this last trait a gleam of gratitude shot into his skull. He said, "Well, 3-ou are the right sort. It is some pleasure to work for you." "And our child," said she. "Think of us both when you think of one. Oh, Jemmy, dear! if you should ever be tempted again, do but ask yourself whether them that tempt you to your ruin love you as well as we do." "Say no more, Sally; I'll turn a new leaf. Here, give me a kiss over the coun- ter." So they had a long conjugal em- brace over the counter. Deborah looked on, and said in her way, " Makes my mouth water, being a widder." "There," said James Mansell, turning to go. " I'll never touch a drop again until I have chucked that thirty pounds into your lap, my girl." With this resolve he left the shop. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 47 Sarah must come round the corner and watch him down the street; then she turned at the door, and beamed all over, and her eyes sparkled. " God bless him !" she cried. " There isn't a better workman, nor a better husband, nor a better man, in Britain, only keep him from drink. Now is there?" " La, Sarah ! how can I tell ? I never saw him sober six days running; but I have heard you say he used to be a good hus- band. And why not again, if he do but keep his word?" " And he will ; he is not the man to break his word, far less his oath. He turns over a new leaf to-day, and I'm a happy woman once more." "And I'll have his dinner ready to the moment. " Deborah dived into the kitchen, and was heard the next moment working and whist- ling tunes of a cheerful character. No blacksmith or plow-boy could beat this rustic dame at that. Mrs. Mansell was soon occupied at the counter. A cook came in, and bought three pounds of bacon at Sd. the pound for her mistress, and ditto of best Lim- erick at llcZ. for the kitchen; these prices to be reversed in her housekeeping book. She also paid the week's bill, and de- manded her perquisite. Sarah submitted, and gave her half a crown, or her mistress would have shopped elsewhere under her influence. Then came a maid-of-all-work for a packet of black-lead, seven pounds of soda, two of sugar, a bar of soap, and some " connubial" blacking. Sarah said she was out of that. The slavey replied, with the usual attention to grammar, "Oh, yes you do. Mrs. White's servant buys it here." "Oh, that's Nubian blacking." "Well, and that's what I want; saves a vast o' trouble." Others came, child customers, some only just up to the counter, and many of them mute. These showed their coppers, and Sarah had to divine the rest. But she had a rare eye for them ; she looked keenly at each mite, and knew what they wanted by their faces and their coin. She gave one a screw of tobacco for father, another a candle with paper wrapped round the mid- dle, another an ounce of candy. But as it drew near one there was a lull in trade, and savory smells came up from the kitchen. The good wife must have a finger in her husband's dinner. She locked the shop door and ran down to the kitchen fire, and when it had struck one, and everything was done to a turn, she ran up again and unlocked the door and laid a clean cloth in the little parlor, and had Lucy there very neat, that no attraction might be wanting to her con- verted husband and workman on his re- turn to his well-earned meal. By-and-by Deborah looked in with cheeks as red as her hair to say the steak would spoil if not eaten. "But you mustn't let it spoil," objected Sarah, loftily. "He won't be long now." Then, with delight, "Here he is," for a man's figure darkened the door. "No; it's only Joseph Pinder. " Joseph Pinder it was, and for once looked morose. He had a tin can with a narrovv- ish neck in his hand, and put it down on the counter with some noise, as much as to say, " This time I am a customer and nothing more." Mrs. Mansell received him as such, went behind the counter directly, and leaned a little over, awaiting his orders. " Half a gallon of turps," said he, almost rudely. Mrs. Mansell went meekly and filled his can from a little tank with a tap. But Deborah, who never read books, al- ways read faces. She scanned Pinder, and said, " You seem put out. Is there any- thing the matter?" " Plenty " said he ; " more than I like to tell. But she must know it sooner or later. Serves me right, anyway, for recommend- ing a — " He stopped in time, and turned away from Sarah to Deborah, and said, bitter- ly, " He never came to work at all. He fell in with a tempter in this very street, and got enticed away directly." Sarah raised her hands in dismay, and uttered not a word, but an inarticulate cry of distress so eloquent of amazement and dismaj" that Pinder's anger gave way to WORKS OF CHARLES READE. pity, and he began all of a sudden to make excuses for the offender, and lay the blame on Dick Varney, a dangerous villain with a cajoling tongue, a pickpocket's fingers, and a heart of stone. He turned to Sarah uow, and enlarged on this villain's vices. Said he had been in prison twice, and it was he who was ruining James Mansell. But Sarah interrupted all this. " Never mind him. Where is my poor husband V" "At the 'Chequers,' my mate says." "Give me my shawl and bonnet, Debo- rah." " What to do?" inquired Finder, un- easily. "To fetch him away," was the dogged reply. Then at last the long-hidden truth came out. "Oh, it will not be the first time I have gone to a public-house, and stood their jeers and his drunken anger for an hour or two. and brought him home at last. He has sworn at me before them all, but he never stniek me Perhaps that is to come. I think it will come fco-day, for he was more violent last night than ever I knew him to be 1 don't care; I'll have him home if I die for it." "Not from the 'Chequers,' you won't. You don't know the place; there are bad women there as well as bad men. Why, it's a boozing ken for thieves and their jades. Take a man away from them ! They would soil your ears and make your flesh creep, and perhaps mark your face forever. You stay beside your sis- ter. I must go on with it now. I'll strike work at dinner-time, for once in my life, and I'll bring your man home." This melted both the sister-. Sarah most, who had been so cold to her old lover. " Oh, thank you ! bless you, Joseph," she sobbed. "Don't cry, Sally," said the honest fel- low, in a broken voice ; " pray don't cry ; I can't bear to see you cry," and he almost burst out of the place for fear he should break down himself, or say something kinder than he ought. His boy was waiting outside; be sent him in for the turps, and ordered him to tell the foreman to dock his afternoon time; he was gone to look after the grainer. He went down to the "Chequers," and got there just in time to find Mansell quar- reling with three blackguards in the skittle- ground. Indeed, before he could interfere, one of them gave the drunken man a severe blow on the nose, that made him bleed like a pig. The next moment the aggressor lay flat on his back, felled by Joe Pinder. The other two sparred up, but went down like nine-pins before that long muscular arm, shot out straight from the shoulder. Then he seized Mansell, and said, "The villains have hurt you; come and be cured." And so, not giving him time to think, he half coaxed, half pushed him out of the place, and got him on the road home. Meantime Sarah sat sorrowful, and said her happy day was soon ended, and she wished her lite was ended too. Deborah sat beside her, and tried to comfort her. "One good thing." said she, "you have got a friend now. when most wanted, and a 'friend in need is a friend indeed.' And to think you had the offer of Joseph Tinder and could go and take James Mansell!" Sarah drew up. "And would again," said she, "with all his faults. I would not give him for Joe Pinder, nor any other man." " Well, that's a good job. as you are tied to him." remarked Deborah. "Do you think Joseph will bring him home?" " ll any man can. I think ever so much of that chap." "Then don't let the dinner spoil, at all events." Deborah didn't trust herself to speak. She got up resigned^ to attend to the possible wants of this deserving husband. Sarah divined that it cost her a struggle, and tried to gild the pill. "You are a good sister to me," said she. "That I am," said Deborah, frankly. "But so are you to me; and I was always as fond of you as a cow is of her calf." "And I haven't forgot the print." said Mrs. Mansell; "but you see how I have been put about. I mustn't go to my safe even for you, but there's half a sovereign in the till, and you shall have it^efore SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 49 some fresh trouble comes to make me for- get." Deborah's eyes sparkled, but she said it wasn't a fit time, there Were too many suck- ing at her. "And that is true; but they can't drain me. Don't tell a soul; I make a deal of money in this little shop. I wouldn't give my Saturda3's for £5 apiece." Then, al-. most in a whisper, " I've got sixty pounds put by in that safe there, and the safe fast- ened to the wall. I mustn't touch that money, 'tis for my darling Lucy. But there's an odd half-sovereign in the till, and it is for you. There are some beau- ties at Coverley's over the way." Dress, having once been mentioned, was of course the dominant substantive. While she was speaking, she took out her keys and opened the till. There was much less silver in it than she expected to find. She put both hands in, and turned it all over in a mo- ment. There was no half-sovereign. "Come here ! come here !" she screamed ; " the till has been robbed." "La, Sarah!" cried Deborah — -"never!" "But I say it has; there's not a shilling here but what I have taken to-day." "When did you look last?" " Yester e'en at six, and counted half a sovereign and eighteen shillings in silver. What will become of me now? There are thieves about. Heaven knows how the goods go, but this is some man's work." " Then I wish I had him," said Deborah, and she thrust out her great arms and long sinewy fingers. The words were scarcely out of her lips, and the formidable fingers still extended knuckles downward, when James Mansell, his shirt and trousers cov- ered with blood, was thrust in at the door by Joseph Pinder: his own white dress had suffered by the contact. Both women screamed at sight of him, and Sarah cried, " Oh, they have murdered him !" Pinder said, hastily, "No, no, he's none the worse — only a bloody nose." "Then he is cheap served," said Debo- rah. "Ay, but let me tell you I came just in time; there were three of them on to him." "Oh," cried Sarah, "the cowards!" Mr. Mansell caught at the word "cow- ards." Cried he, " Let's go and fight 'em." "Not if I know it," said Pinder, stop- ping his rush, and holding him like a vise. "What, are you turned coward and all? Look here, he knocked 'em all three down like nine-pins." "Then there let 'em lie," said this ra- tional hero. " I shan't," said the irrational one. " I'll go and just kick 'em up again, and then — " But the next process was not revealed, because in illustrating the first Mr. Man- sell sat down on the floor with a heavy bump, and had to be picked up by Pinder and lectured. " What you want just now is not more fighting, but a wash, and then a sleep." Sarah proposed an amendment — " What he wants most, Mr. Pinder, is a heart and a conscience." " Is that all?" said the impenitent. Deborah giggled. But Mr. Mansell had better have kept his humor for a less seri- ous situation. The much enduring wife turned upon him the moment he spoke. " After all you promised and swore to me this day. Good work and good money brought to your hand by one we had no claim on, either you or I ; a good home to come to, a good dinner cooked with loving hands, and a good wife and daughter that counted the minutes till they could see you eating it. What are you made of? You are neither a husband, nor a father, nor a man." CHAPTER IV. " Hold your tongue !" roared the culprit. But her blood was fairly up, and instead of flinching from him she came at him like a lioness. " No ; I have held.my tongue long enough, and screened your faults, and hid my trouble from the world. What right have such men 50 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. as you to marry and get children that they hate, and would beggar if they could, as well as their miserable wives?" She put her hand suddenly to her forehead as a keen pain shot through it. " He will drive me wild. If you are a sister of mine, take him out of my sight." She stamped her foot on the ground, and her eyes flashed. "D'ye hear? Take him out of m}- sight before my heart bursts my bosom, and I curse the hour I ever saw him." Deborah had bundled him into the parlor before this climax came, and she now gut him out of sight altogether, saying, " Come, Jemmy — 'A wise man never faces an angry woman.' " As for Sarah, she sank down upon a seat, languid and limp; and after the thunder the rain. Pinder, with instinctive good-breeding, had turned to go. But now he couldn't. The woman be had always loved, and who had given him so much pain, sat quietly weeping, as one who could no longer strug- gle. He looked at her, and, to use the expressive words of Scripture, his bowels yearned over her. He did not know what he could say to do her any good, yet lie couldn't go without trying. He said, gen- tly, "Don't despair; while there's life there's hope." She shook her head sadly, and said. gently, "There's none for me now." "Oh. yes; if that Vamey could be got out of the way, he would listen to reason. He is the wicked one; your man is only weak." "Where's the odds if they do the same thing? But it is very good of you to make excuses for him." She then took out a white pocket-hand- kerchief and meekly dried her eyes; then she stood up and said, in a grave, thought- ful way, which he recognized as her old manner, "Let me look at you." She took a step toward him, but he did not move toward her. On the contrary, he stood there and fidgeted, and when she looked full at him he hung down his head a little. " Nay, look at me," said she; " you have done naught to be ashamed of. " Being so challenged, he did look at her, but not so full as she did at him. It was a peculiarity of this woman that she could gaze into a man's face without either seem- ing bold or feeling ashamed. She never took her eye off Pinder's face during the whole dialogue which follows. Said she, slowly and thoughtfully, and her eye perus- ing him all the time, " You must be a very good young man. Years ago you courted mo honorably, and I was barely civil to Pinder said, gently, "You never de- ceived me." " No, but I never valued you. Now that I am older, I have noticed that for a woman to refuse a man makes him as bitter as gall. Dear heart, do but wound his vanity, and bis love, such as 'tis, turns to spite direct- ly; but instead of that you have always spoken respectful of me, for it has come round to my ears; and you have held aloof from me, and that was wise and proper, till you saw I was in trouble, and then you came to me to do me a good turn in the right way, through my unfortunate hus- band. You are one of a thousand, and may God reward you!" By this time Finder's eyes had grad- ually sunk to the ground before the calm gaze and the intelligent praise of one who was still very dear to him. " Have you don.-?" said he, dryly, in- specting the floor. " Yes," said she; "I have thought my thought and said my say." "Well, I should like to tell you some- thing. It makes a man better to love a good woman, even if he can't win her and wear her. I studied you when you were a maid, and it set me against a many' vul- gar vices. I have had my eye on you since you were a wife, and that has made me respect you still more, and respect virtue. You have a dangerous enemy in that Dick Varney. Against him you want a friend. I seem to feel somehow as if I was called upon to be that friend, and I do assure you, Sarab, that I am not so unreasonable as I was when the disappointment was fresh. I should have been downright happy to- day if things had gone to yenr mind. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 51 After all, the day isn't over j-et, and I've struck work. Is there nothing I can do Drink and Dick Varney can't spoil, confound them?" Thus urged, and being beset with troubles, and feeling already the rare comfort and support of a male friend, she confessed she had another trouble — a small one, comparatively, but not a small one on the top of the others. She was being robbed. She told him all about it, and with a workman's quickness he asked to see the lock of the till. He examined this closely, and detected at once, by abrasions in the metal, that it had been opened with a picklock, not a key. He told her so, and she said she was none the wiser. "I am, though," said he. "It shows that nobody in the house has done it. It's professional. I should not wonder if this was Varney and all. Why he's an old hand at this game, and has been in trouble for no other thing. Does he ever come into your shop?" " He may. I don't know him by sight." Pi nder reflected. "James Mansell tells him everything, you may be sure, and it's just like the scoundrel to steal in here and rob the wife at home, and ruin the husband abroad." Then he thought again, and presently slapped his thigh with satisfaction, for he thought he saw a way to turn all this to profit. " If we can oidy catch that Varney, and give him five years penal — it won't be less, being an old offender — Mansell will lose his tempter, and then he'll listen to you and me, strike drink, go in for work, and be a much happier man, and you a happy woman." " Oh, these are comforting words ! " said poor Sarah. " But how am I to catch the villain?" " Others must do that. You go to the police station, see the superintendent, and make your complaint. I'll come after you, and talk to Mr. Steele, the detective ; he is a friend of mine, and we will soon know all about it. A drunken thief is as leaky as the rest. But you must keep your own counsel ; your sister has a good heart, but she is a chatterbox, and out every evening in half a dozen houses. I don't like to go with you, because of the blood on my clothes; but if you will start at once, I will change my coat and join you at the station, and bring you back." Sarah carried out these instructions with her usual fidelity. She ascertained that her husband was lying fast asleep upon the bed ; she put on her shawl and bonnet, confided Lucy and the shop to Deborah, and when the latter asked where she was going, said, dryly, "There and back." With that she vanished. "There, now," said Deborah, "I owe that to you, Mr. Pinder." " How so?" " When they have got a nice young man to tell their minds to, they don't waste words on a sister." "Well, you needn't grudge me," said he. " It's five years since she spoke a word to me." So then he retired in his turn, and Deborah had only the customers and little Lucy to talk to. The customers of this little shop, accus- tomed to the grave, modest Sarah, must have been a little surprised at the humors of her substitute. The first to be astonished was a game- keeper. He came in spruce, in velveteen jacket and leathern gaiters, from the coun- try. He stared at Deborah, none the less that she happened just then to be whistling a poacher's song. " Why, where's the mistress?" said he. " Gone after the master." " And where's the master?" "Gone before the mistress." "I want a pound o' powder." "Well, money will buy it. What pow- der? Emery powder, putty powder, violet powder?" " No, gunpowder, to be sure." Deborah recoiled. "I wouldn't touch it for a pension." The gamekeeper laughed. " Well," said he, "you are a pretty shop-woman." "Oh, sir," said Deborah, coquettishly, "and I'm sure you are a beautiful game- keeper." 52 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. He took a considerable time to compre- hend this retort; when he had mastered the difficulty, he said, " Well, let us trade. You'll beat me at talk. Powder isn't loose; it's in a canister." "Oh," said Deborah, "you seem to know all about it. Where does she keep it?" " Why, there 'tis, right under your nose." " Well, I can't see with my nose, can I?" She took it and put it rather gingerly on the counter. " Now, before it goes off and sends us all to Heaven or Somewhere, what is the price of it, if you please?" "Oh, the seller sets the price," said he. "All right," said she. "Ten shillings! See what a lot 3-ou can kill with it." "The mistress always makes it half a crown." "Ay," said Deborah, "she is a hard woman. You give me a shilling, and I'll only charge you cighteenpence." While he was counting out the money, a keen whistle was heard. Deborah's quick ears caught it directly. "Is that for you?" said she. "No; more likely for you." "All the better. 'Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, '" said she. directing the invitation out into the street. "I'd step out and whistle if I thought that." said the gamekeeper, showing his whistle. "Shall I try?" " Why not? " ' It's a man's part to try. And a woman's to deny, And new you'd better fly,' for here comes our family sponge. Well, he does shake off liquor quick, I must say that for him." James Mansell came through the parlor, clean washed and very neatly dressed. "Mrs. Smart," said he, civilly. " Mr. Mansell, I hope I see you well, sir. It's you for quick recoveries. Bloody noses is good for the brain, apparently," sug- gested Deborah, "likewise a little repose after the fatigue of drinking and fight- ing." "I did take forty winks." "Well, sir, and now you are fortified, what's the next order? Another cup of coffee, warranted to contain a little chic- ory, and a deal of bullock's liver, acorns, burned rags, and muck?" "No; after this last experience I've fore- sworn all liquids except juicy meat and rotten potatoes. And I should feel greatly i ibliged if you would prepare me a nice hot steak, and fry me some onions nice and brown, as you alone can fr} r them." " It is the least any woman can do for such a civil-spoken gentleman," said Debo- rah, and she dived at once into her kitchen, telling him to mind the shop. She little thought that his great object was to get rid of her. He watched her out, and then went to the shopdoor and looked out. It was Var- ney's whistle that had drawn him, and that worthy was waiting, and upon Mansell's invitation came cautiously in. Never was thief more plainly marked on a human he- ing. His little, lank, wriggling body re- minded one of a weasel, and his eyebrows seemed to spring from his temples, and meet on the bridge of bis nose. The eyes thus fiamed could not keep still a moment. They were like a hare's ears, in constant alarm. Between this man and Mansell an eager dialogue took place, rapid and low, which nobody heard bul themselves. But any one who saw the speakers would feel sure those two were plotting some vile thing. Something or other was definitely set- tle,], even in that short time, and then Varney, who was ill at ease in that place, invited Mansell to turn out at once. Mansell objected that he was famished, and dinner was being prepared. "No, no," said the other; "I won't stay here. You follow me to Buck's dining- room; and mind, no more liquor for me to-day. It will be a ticklish job." He wriggled away, and Mansell took his hat, and called down the kitchen stairs: "Mrs. Smart — Deborah — please come up here, and attend to the shop. I'm wanted for a job." Deborah raised no objection, but she resolved on the spot that the steak she had twice prepared for a fool should now be eaten by a rational being, and to make SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. quite sure of this she would eat it herself. So she put a little cloth on a tray, with the steak and two potatoes, and ran up with it all, and put this savory supper on the flap, and had just made her first incision, when in came one of the little mites I have referred to, intelligible to Sarah alone. The mite rapped the counter with a penny. Deborah left her steak and faced him. " What can I serve you, sir?" The mite hammered the counter with his copper. "Oh, yes," said Deborah, "I see what I am to have out of you ; but what are you to have for all that money?" Then she leaned over the child. "Is it baccy? Is it soap? It should be soap if I was your mother, you little pig. You won't tell me, eh? It's a dead secret. Let's try another way !" And she put down the likeliest articles one after another. "There! a penn'orth o' baccy for father; a penn'orth o' soap; a penn'orth o' lollipops." The child grabbed the lollipops in a moment and left the copper, and Deborah dashed back to her steak, muttering, "Sally would have known what he wanted by the color of his hair." There was a run on the shop. For every three mouthf uls of steak a penny customer. Deborah dispatched them how she could, then dashed back to her steak — in vain : it was an endless va et vient. The last was a sturdy little boy, who came and banged down a penny, and in a wonderful bass voice for his size cried, "Bull's-eyes." Deborah, in imitation of his style, banged down a ready penn} - worth of bull's-eyes, then banged the penny into an iron basin, then dashed back and hacked away at her steak. " Oh, dear !" said she, " I wish a shilling would come in, and then a lull, in- stead of this continual torrent of fiery, un- tamed farthing pieces." She hadn't half finished her steak when Mrs. Mansell and Pinder came home. "How is he now?" was Sarah's first word. "Sober as a judge, and gone out for a job; and if it is all the same to everybody, I ask just ten minutes' peace to eat my 53 up the supper." Then Deborah caught tray and fled into the kitchen. She had not gone long when a detective in plain clothes looked in, and said in a low voice there was news. A female detective had been put on to Varney with rare suc- cess. She had listened in the bar of an eating-house, and had picked up the whole story. The kitchen was deserted every night. The servant was out gallivant- ing. Varney had come in through the kitchen and robbed the till, and to-night he was going to rob the safe or something. "Now," said Steele, "get my men in without the servant knowing, and then send her out, and we shall nab the bloke to a certainty." Pinder acquiesced, but Sarah began to exhibit weakness. "Oh, dear!" said she, " thieves, and jjolice, and perhaps pistols !" Steele whispered to Pinder, " Get her out of the way, or she'll spill the treacle." Pin- der persuaded her to go into James's room with the child until they should send for her. She consented very readily. Then Steele let in a policeman, and hid him be- hind a screen in the parlor. Two more were hidden in an empty house opposite, watching every move. Then Pinder put up the shutters and darkened the shop. Now the question was how to get Deborah out of the house. Pinder had to go and ask Sarah if she could manage that. " In a minute," said she. She came down, and went into the kitchen with ten shillings, and told Deborah she should have her printed gown in spite of them all. Then Deborah was keen to get out before the shops closed, and in due course the con- federates heard her go out and bang the kitchen door. Now there was no saying positively whether Varney was on the watch or not; and if he was, he might make his attempt in a few minutes, or wait an hour or two. And as he was an old hand, he would probably look all round the house to see if there was danger. Every light had to be put out, and the shutters drawn, and the screen carefully placed. They closed the parlor door, and hid in the parlor. 54 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. "But how is my man to get in?" Sarah whispered. One of the black, undistinguishable figures replied to her, "Easy enough, only I hope he won't come this two hours; he would spoil all." "Not come to his supper! Then that will be a sign he is not sober. I'm all of a tremble." " Hush !" " What! thieves?" " No ; but pray don't talk. He'll come in like a cat, you may be sure. Hark !" "What is it:-" "The kitchen window, "whispered Steele. Now Sarah was silent, but panted audibly in the darkness. M\ ind-bya step was heard on the stairs. Then silence — another creaking step. ■ The watchers huddled behind the screen. What now took place they could onlj divine in part. But I will describe it from the other side of the parlor door. A man opened the kitchen door softly, and stepped in lightly and noiselessly as a cat. He had a dark-lantern, and flashed it one half momenl to show him the place. In that moment was revealed a laic with a very small black mask. Small as it was. it effectually disguised the man, and made his e;es look terrible with the excitement of crime. He opened the parlor dour, flashed bis light in for a moment, then the door. That was a trying mo- ment to the watchers. They feared he would examine the room. Then the man stepped softly to the kitchen door, opened it, and whispered, "Coast clear; come on." Another man came in on tiptoe. The first - comer handed him the light. " No," whispered the other, "you hold the light. Give me the key." Then the first-comer opened the bull's-eye direct on the safe, and gave the second man a bright new key, evidently forged for this job. The safe was opened by the second man. He looked, and uttered an ejacu- lation of surprise. Then he plunged his hands in, and there was a musical clatter that was heard and understood in the next room, and the watchers stole out softly. " Here's a haul !" cried the man. " Come and reckon 'em on the counter. Why, there's more than fifty, I know." He put them down in a heap on the counter, and instantly the parlor door opened, and a powerful bull's-eye shot its light upon the glittering coin. The man stood dum- founded. The other, with a yell, dashed at the kitchen door, tore it open, and re- ceived the fire of another bull's-eye from the foot of the stairs. He staggered back, and in a moment was at the shop door and opened it; the key was in it, that James might he admitted if he came. Another bull's-eye met him there, held by a police- man, who stepped in, and bade his mate remain outside. The shop was now well lighted with all these vivid gleams, concentrated on the stolen gold, and every now and then played upon the masked faces and ghastly cheeks and glittering eyes of the burglars. Steele surveyed his trapped vermin grim- ly for a moment or two. He felt escape was impossible. "Now, Dick Varney," said he. "you'are wanted. Handcuff him." The smaller figure made no resistance. "Now. who's your pal? Don't know him by his cut. Come, my man. off with that mask, and show us your ugly mug." He was going to help him off with it; but the man caught up a knife that Deborah had left on the counter. " Touch me if you dare !" " Oh, that's the game, is it?" said Steele, sternly. " Draw staves, men. Now don't you try that game with me, my bloke. Fling down that knife, and respect the law. or you'll lie on that floor with your skull split open." The man flung the knife down savagely. "And now who are you?" The man tore his mask off with a snarl of rage. "I'm the master of the hous;:!" He rang these words out like a trumpet. A faint moan was heard in the parlor. " Gammon ! " said Steele, contemptu- ously. SING LEHE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 55 "Ask Dick Varney, ask Joe Pinder there," said the man. "Ask anybody." " Ask nobody but me," said the miserable wife, coming suddenly forward. "He is my husband, sir, and God help me !" "D'ye hear?" cried the raging villain, mortified to the core, yet exultant in his revenge. " This house is mine — this shop is mine — that woman is mine — and this money is mine.'" He clutched the gold, and put it insolently into his breeches pockets. " Take your hand off that man, Bobby." "Not likely," said Steele. "A thief caught in the act." " A thief ! Why, he is my servant, doing my business, under my orders — one of my servants. My wife there — she's my servant in law — collared my money and hid it away ; I ordered another of my servants to open the safe and get me back my own. He's here by my au- thority." "Why were you in masks, my bold blackguard?" asked Steele. "Oh, pray don't anger him, sir," said poor Sarah. " Yes, James, you are the master. It was all a mistake ; we had no idea — oh !" She tottered and put her hand to her brow. Steele helped her to a chair. So small an incident did not interrupt her master's eloquence. "Respect the law, says you? Pretty limbs of the law you are, that don't know the law of husband and wife." Long before this Steele had seen plainly enough that he was in the wrong box. "We know the law well enough," said he, dejectedly. "It's a little one-sided, but it's the law. Come, men, loose that vagabond." " He shall bring an action for false im- prisonment." "No he won't." " Why not? He has got the law on his side." "And we have got his little mask, and his little antecedents on ours." Varney whipped out of the place, and at the same time Deborah opened the kitchen door and stood aghast. " Come, men, " said Steele, " clear out ; we are only making mischief between man and wife, and she'll be the sufferer, poor thing." "No," said James Mansell, authorita- tively. " I'm the master, and since you have heard one ston-, I'll trouble you to stay and hear the other. I'm the one that is being robbed — of my money, and my wife's affections, and my good name." " Oh, James ! " gasped Sarah, " pray don't say so. Don't think so for a mo- ment." He ignored her entirely; never looked at her; but went on to the detective : " My wife here hid my money away from me." " To pay my master's rent, and make his child a lady," put in Sarah. " And now she and her old sweetheart there — " "Sweetheart! I never had but thee." " They have put the mark of a thief on me in this town. So be it. I leave it for- ever. I'm off to America." He marched to the street door, then turned to shoot his last dart. "With my money " and he slapped his pockets, "and my liberty," and he waved his hat. " But I'll have your life," hissed Pinder, and strode at him with murder in his eyes. But Sarah Mansell, whc sat there crushed, and seemed scarcely sensible, bounded to her feet in a moment, and seized Pinder with incredible vigor. "Touch him, if you dare!" cried she. And would you believe it, males, she had no sooner stopped him effectually than she turned weaker than ever, and sank all limp against the man she had seized with a clutch of steel. Then he had nothing to do but support her faint head against his manly breast; and so, arrested by woman's vigor, which is strong for a moment, and conquered by woman's weakness, which is invincible, he half led, half lifted her tenderly back to her seat. This defense of her insulter was the last feat that day of unconquerable love. The policemen went out softly, and cast looks of manly pity behind them. Soon after the stunning blow came the agony of an outraged, deserted, and still loving wife. But Deborah rushed in with 56 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Lucy in her arms, and forced the mother to embrace her child, then wreathed her long arms round them both, and they, being country bred, rocked and sobbed together. Honest Joe Pinder set his face to the wall, but there his concealment ended; he blubbered aloud with all his heart. CHAPTER V. The first burst of distress was followed by the torment of suspense: for several days, at Sarah's request, the friendly police watched the steamboats, to give her an opportunity of appeasing her burglar; and all this time her eye was always on the street by day, her ear ever on the watch for the music of the blackguard's step. She kept hopi I hing from | affection: why should he abandon Lucy? She had never offended him. But in tin!-.' proof was brought hi he had actually levanted in a sailing ves- sel bound for New York. I do not practice vivisection, and will in >t detail all the sufferings of an in- sulted and deserted wife — sufferings all the more keen that she was a woman of great spirit and rare merit, and admired for her looks and her qualities by every- body except her husband. Public sym- pathy was offered her. A Liverpool jour- nal got the incident from the police, and dealt with it in a paragraph headed EVERY MAN HIS OWN BURGLAR. The writer of paragraphs, after the manner of his class, seasoned the dish from his own spice-box. A revolver was leveled at the auto-burglar by the wife's friend ; but the wife disarmed him ; a cir- cumstance the writer deplored, and hoped that, should "sponsa-burglary'' recur, even conjugal affection would respect the inter- ests of society, and let the bullet take its course. Pinder read out this paragraph, or papa- phrase, and translated the last sentence into the vulgar tongue. Then Deborah reveled in it. Sarah was horrified at the exposure, and indignant at a journal presuming to meddle with conjugalia. To hear her, one would infer that if a blackguard should murder his wife, it ought to be hushed up, all matters between husband and wife, good or bad, being secret and sacred, and all in- dictments thereon founded obtrusive, im- pertinent, and indelicate. A greal sea-row has often compensations that do the heart no good at the ninnient; but time reveals their importance, and that they would have been comforters at the time, ci mid the sufferers have foreseen whal was coming. This observation is necessarily connected with trust in Providence; yet the good, who suffer, should ei insider man's inability to foresee tb" event-' of a single day, and also that they are in the hands of One before Whom what we call the future lies flat like a map alnng with the past and the presi nt. Even myown brief experience of human life lias shown me the truth and value of these lines, so comforting to just men and women : "Willi steady mind thy course of duty run : '. er does, nor suffers to be di me, Aught but thyself wouldsl do. couldst thou fore- see The end of all events so well as He." This story is not written to support that or any other theory ; but as all its curious incidents lie before me, I cannot help be- ing struck with the numerous conversions of evil into unexpected good which it re- veals. The immediate examples are these. In the first place, before this great and endur- ing grief fell on Sarah Mansell, Mr. Joseph Pinder had a natural but narrow-minded contempt for Mrs. Deborah Smart. He saw a six months' widow husband-hunt- ing without disguise. To put it in his own somewhat rough but racy language, she raked the town every night for No. 2. But when lasting grief fell upon Sarah, he SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 57 saw this imperfect widow resign her matri- monial excursions night after night, and : exhaust her ingenuity to comfort her sister. Sometimes it was rough comfort, some- times it was the indirect comfort of kind- ness and attention, but sometimes it was a tender sympathy he had never expected from so rough-and-ready a rustic. There- upon Pinder and Deborah became friends, and as Sarah was grateful, though sad, this wove a threefold cord — a very strong one. The second good result was one that even the mourning wife appreciated, because she was a mother, and looked to the future. Seeing her deserted and in need of help, Joseph Pinder became her servant, and yet her associate. For a fair salary he threw himself into the business, and very soon improved and enlarged it. Tinned meats, soups, and fruits were just then fighting for entrance into the stomach of the preju- diced Briton. Joseph prevailed on the sis- ters to taste these, and select the good ones. They very soon found that among the trash there were some comestible treasures, such as the Boston baked beans, Australian beef briskets, and an American ox-tail soup; also, the pears of one firm in Delaware, and the peaches of another. Pinder, who, like many workmen, was an ingenious fellow, had invested his sav- ings in a type-writer, and he printed short notices, and inundated inns and private kitchens with the praises of the above articles, and personally invited many cooks and small housekeepers to the use of his cheap American soup for gravies. "Where," said he, "is the sense of your boiling down legs of beef for gravies and stews and things? Here are six rich stews, or hashes, for 10d., and no trouble but to take it out of a can." One day Sarah showed him, with sor- rowful pride, James Mansell's "panels," as he called them. That personage, before he took to drink, was an enthusiast in his art, and he had produced about fifteen specimens on thin panels two feet square. They were really magnificent. Joseph cleaned and varnished them ; then caught a moderate grainer, and made him study them; then put one or two of them in a window, with a notice: "Graining done in first-rate style by a pupil of Joseph Man- sell." The trade soon heard, and gave the young man a trial. He was not up to the mark of his predecessor, but, thanks to the models, and Pinder overlooking his work, he was accepted by degrees, and so Mrs. Mansell drove her husband's trade and her own enlarged. Money flowed in by two channels, and did not flow out for "drink." Pinder's salary was not one- tenth part of the increase his zeal and management brought into the safe, and now there was no drunkard and auto- burglar to drain his wife's purse and tap the till. In the three years whose incidents I have decided not to particularize, and so be tri vo- luminous, not luminous, the deserted wife had purchased the little shop and premises in Green Street, and had £400 in the bank, Pinder having declared the London and County Bank to be safer than a safe. Lucy Mansell was now over seven, and a precocious girl, partly by nature (for she came of a clever father and a thoughtful mother), but partly by living, not with children, but with grown-up people. As she inherited her mother's attention, and was a born mimic, she seemed to strangers cleverer than she was. The sprightliness of Aunt Deborah naturally attracted this young person, and of course she admired what at any young ladies' school she would have been expressly invited to avoid — the by-words and blunt idioms that garnished Mrs. Smart's discourse. Now, having faithfully though briefly chronicled the small beer, I come to the events of an exciting day. Sarah sat at the counter, sewing, and ready to serve customers. Lucy sat at her knee, sewing, and ready to run for what- ever might be wanted. Deborah came up from the kitchen with a rump steak and some kidneys in her market-basket, and thrust them under her sister's nose. Debo- rah was a connoisseur of raw meat, luckily for the establishment, and admired it when good. Sarah did not admire it at the best of times, so she said, " I'll take your word." 58 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. "Do but feel it," persisted Deborah. Thereupon Sarah averted her head. Deborah warmed. " Wait till you see it at table. I am going to make you a steak and kidney pudding." " Oh, be joyful !" cried Lucy, and clapped her hands. "Come, there's sense in the family," re- marked Deborah; "and if your mother doesn't enjoy it, I give warning at the table — that's all." "I'll try, sister," said Sarah, sweetly. " But you know an empty chair at the head of the table is a poor invitation to eat, and the stomach is soon satisfied when the heart is sad." "That is true, my poor Sal; but, dear heart, is there never to be an end of fret- ting for a man that left you like that, and has never Bent you a line?" "That is my grief. lam afraid he is dead." " Not he. He has got plenty more mis- chief to do first. Now I'm afraid you'll hate me, but I can't help it. 'The truth may lie blamed, hut it can't he shamed.' 'Twas the luckiest thing ever happened to any good woman when he left you, and you got a good servant instead of a bad master." "If I only knew that he was alive!" per- sisted Sarah, absorbed in her one idea. Deborah's patience went, and she let out her real mind. She had kept it to herself about eighteen months, so now it came out with a rush. She set her arms akimbo — an attitude she very seldom adopted in reasoning with Sarah. "If so be as you are tired of peace and comfort, and money in both pockets, you put it in the news- papers as you have bought these premises, and got £400 in the bank, and you mark my words, Jemmy Mansell will turn up in a month ; but 'tis for your money he will come, not for you nor your child." This home -thrust produced a greater effect on Sarah than Deborah expected ; for as a rule Sarah rnerely defended her husband through thick and thin : but now she was greatly agitated, and when Debo- rah came to that galling conclusion, she drew herself up to her full height, and said, sternly, " If I thought that I'd tear him from my heart, though I tore the heart out of my bod} - . Perhaps you think be- cause I'm single-hearted and loving that I am all weakness. You don't know me, then. When I do turn, I turn to stone." As she said this her features became singularly rigid, and almost cruel, and as a great pallor overspread them at the same time, she really seemed turned to marble, and the gentle Sarah was scarcely recog- nizable. Even Deborah, who had known her all her life, stared at her, and suspected she had not j-et got to the bottom of her character. Lucy gave the conversation a lighter turn — she thought all this was much ado about nothing. " Don't you fret any more, mamma,'' said she. "Ifpapawon't come home, you marry Uncle Joe." Mrs. Mansell remonstrated: "Lucy dear, for shame." " ' No shame, no sin ; No copper, no tin,'" said Lucy. " Marry him bang ! Here he is." "Hush!" and Sarah reddened like fire. Pinder opened the shop door, and came briskly in fur business. "Good-morning, Sarah; morning, Deborah; morning, little Beauty. Made a good collection this time. Please open your ledger and begin alpha- betical. B — Bennett, the new hotel, £3 L3s. i'"/. There's the money." Sarah wrote the payment of Bennett in the ledger. Pinder went on putting each payment on the counter in a separate paper. "Church, £1 5s.; Mr. Drake, e't 9s." " That's a he-duck," suggested Lucy. "You're another, allowing for sex, 7 ' re- torted Pinder. "And now we jump to M— Mr. Mayor." " That is a she-horse," remarked Lucy, always willing to impart information. Pinder denied that, and said it was the great civic authority of the town, and in proof produced his worship's check for £17 4.s. "And now what's the news here?" he inquired. "I'll tell you," said miss, with an oblig- SING LEHE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 59 ing air. " Mamma and Aunt Deb have just had a shindy." "Oh, fie!" cried Deborah. "It's you for picking up expressions." "Then why do you let them fall?" said the mother. " It's j'ou she copies. We only differed in opinion." " And bawled at one another," suggested Lucy. Deborah exclaimed, " Oh, for shame, to say that ! " Says this terrible child, " ' The truth maybe blamed, but it can't be shamed.' You know you did." "It sounds awful," said Pinder, dryly. " Let us make 'em friends again. What is the. row?" and Mr. Pinder grinned in- credulous. "Well," explained Lucy, in spite of a furtive signal from her mother, "mamma fretted because papa does not write; then she " (pointing at Deborah, malgre the rules of good-breeding) " quarreled with her for fretting, and she said, 'You put it in the papers how rich you are, and he'll turn up directly.' Then mamma bounced up and gave it her hot" (Sarah scandal- ized, Deborah amused), "and then it ended with mamma crying. Everything ends with poor mamma crying." Then Lucy flung her arms round her mother's neck, and Pinder suggested, "Little angel." Sarah kissed her child tenderly and said, " No, no ; no quarrel. And do but give me proof that he is alive, and I'll never shed another tear." " Is that a bargain ? " asked Pinder, quietly. "That it is." "Just give me your hand upon it, then." She gave him her hand, and looked eagerly in his face. He walked out of the shop directly, as- sailed by a fire of questions, to none of which he replied. The truth is he could not at present promise anything. But he knew this much : that Dick Varney had gone out to New York three months ago, and had been seen at a public-house in the neighborhood of Green Street that very day. Pinder got it into his head that Varney would most likely know whether Mansell was alive or dead. With some difficulty he found Varney. That worthy was dilapidated, so he was induced by the promise of a sovereign to come and tell Mrs. Mansell all he knew about her hus- band. The sly Varney objected to tell Pinder until he had fingered the rnoney, and asked for an advance. This the wary Pinder declined peremptorily, but showed him the coin. Thus distrusting each other, they settled to go to Green Street. But when he got to the door, Varney remembered the scene of the burglary, and the woman's dis- tress; he took fright and wanted to go back. "No, no," said Pinder; "I'll bear the blame of this visit," and almost forced him in. The family was still all in a flutter, and Deborah bearing her sister company in the shop. Though Sarah had only seen Varney once, his face and figure were indelible in her memory, and at the sight of him she gave a faint scream, put both her hands before her face, and turned her head away into the bargain. " Oh, that man ! " she cried. " There!" said Varney, "she can't bear the sight of me, and no wonder." With this re- mark—the most creditable he had made for years — he tried to bolt. But Pinder collared him, and held him tight, and for the first time this three years scolded Sarah. " Why, where's the sense of flying at the man, and frightening what little courage he has out of him, and shutting his mouth?" "No, no," said Deborah, hastily. "If you can tell her anything about the man, don't you doubt your welcome. Let by- gones be by-gones." " I am bound to answer whatever she asks me." " And I'm bound to give you this, if you do," said Pinder. "Deborah shall hold it meantime." He handed over the sovereign to Deborah. Her fingers closed on it, and did not seem likely to open without the equivalent. During all this Sarah's eyes had been gradually turning round toward the man, 60 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. and by a feminine change they now dwelt on him as if they would pierce him. "You have been to New York?" "Yes." CHAPTER VI. " Did you look for my husband?" " You may be sure of that, and it took me all my time to find him." "Find him! He is alive?" "Alive! Of course he is." "Thank God ! Thank God !" She was so overcome that Pinder and Deborah came to her assistance, but she waved them off. "No," said she; "joy won't hurt me. Alive and well?" "Never better." "And happy?" "Jolly as a sand-boy." " A sand-boy?" murmured Lucy, inquir- ingly. Sarah's next question was uttered timid- ly and piteously — " Did ho ask jitter us?" Deborah cast an uneasy glance at Pinder. She was sorry her sister hail asked that, and feared a. freezing reply. " Rather," said Varney. " First word ho said was, 'How is Sarah and the kid ?' " " Bless him !" cried Sarah. " Bless him !" Lucy informed the company that a kid was a little goat. But her innocence did not provoke a smile. They were all hanging on Dick Varney's words. " And what did you say about us?" " Oh, well, I could only tell him what I hear of all sides, that you are doing his trade as well as your own. That Joe Pin- der is your factotum. That you are as rich as a Jew, and respected accordingly." "You told him that?" said Deborah, keenly. " Those were my very words." "And he didn't come back with you?" she asked. "No." " Then he must be doing well out there?" " I shouldn't wonder ; he was dressed like a gentleman." " And he looked like one, I'll be bound," said his devoted wife. " He didn't behave like one, then, for he gave an old friend the cold shoulder." "What a pity!" suggested Deborah — "you that used to set him such a good example." Pinder said that was not fair, and the man telling them all he could. Deborah said no more it wasn't, and if Mr. Varney would come with her, she would cook him a bit of this nice steak. He said he should be very glad of it. " But mind, there's no brandy allowed in this house. Can you drink home-brewed ale?" " I can drink anything," said he, eagerly. She showed him into the kitchen, hut whipped back again for a moment. " There's more behind than he has told you," said she. "I'm a-going to pump him." She ran off again directly to carry out this design, and very capable of it sho was: just the sort of woman to wait for him like a cat. and go about the hush, and put no question of any importance till he had eaten his fill, and drunk the home- brewed ale. which tasted innocent hut was very heady. This maneuver of hers raised some vague expectations in the grown-up people, but Lucy's mind, as usual, fixed itself on a word. "Pump him?" said she to Pinder. "How will she do that, Factotum?" "Not knowing, can't say," was Facto- tum's reply. "Like this, Factotum?" said she, and took his arm and pumped with it. " Good- by, Factotum," said she, for a new word was like a new toy to her; " I'm off to see the pumping." Pinder laughed, and looked at Sarah; but not a smile. " Why, you are not going to fret again?" said he. "You gave me your word to be happy if he was alive." " And I thought I should at the time. But now I know he is alive, I know too that he is dead to me. Alive all this time, SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 61 and not write me a line ! I insulted him, and he hates me. I'm a deserted wife." "And I am a useless friend. Nothing I do is any use." He lost heart for a time, and went and took a turn in the street, despondent, and for the moment a little out of temper. She watched his retiring figure, and thought he had gone for good, and felt that she must appear ungrateful, and should wear out this true friend's pa- tience before long. "I can't help it," said she to herself. " I can love but one, and him I shall never see again." Never was her sense of desolation so strong as at that moment. Sbe laid her brow on the counter, and her tears ran slowly but steadily. She had been so some time when a voice somewhere near her said, rather timidly, "Sally!" She lifted her head a little way from the counter, but did not look toward where the voice came from; it seemed like a sound in a dream to her. "It is," said the man, and came quickly to her. Then she looked and uttered a scream of rapture, and in a moment hus- band and wife were locked in each other's arms. At this moment Pinder, whose momen- tary impatience had very soon given way to compassion and pity, came back to make the amende by increased kindness; and Deborah, who knew every tone of her sis- ter's voice, flew up from the kitchen at her cry of joy. But in the first rapture of meeting and reconciliation neither spouse took any notice of these astounded wit- nesses. " My Jemmy ! my own ! my own !" "My sweet, forgiving wife!" " It is me should ask forgiveness." "No, no! 'Twas the police drove me mad." " To leave me for three years!" "Do you think I'd have stayed away three weeks if I had thought I should be so welcome?" " What ! you did not know how I love you?" Then came another embrace, and at last Sarah realized that there were two specta- tors, one on each side of her, and those spectators not so much in love with the recovered treasure as she was. She said, "Come, clearest, joy is sacred," and drew him by both hands, with a deal of grace and tenderness, into the little parlor, and closed the door. Pinder and Deborah looked at each other long and expressively, and by an instinct of sympathy met at the counter as soon as the parlor door closed, Deborah very red, and her eyes glittering, Pinder ghastly pale. "Well, Mr. Pinder," said she, with affected calm, but ill-concealed bitterness, "you and I— we are two nobodies now. Three years' kindness of our side goes for nothing, and three years' desertion don't count against him. I've heard that ab- sence makes the heart grow fonder, and now 'tis to be seen." Pinder apologized for his idol. " She can't help it," said he. "But I can help looking on. I've seen them meet, after him abandoning her this three years, and what I feel this moment will last me all my time. I won't stay to watch them to- gether, like the devil grinning at Adam and Eve; and I won't wait to hear him say that this business I have enlarged is his, the trade that he killed and I have re- vived is his, that the woman is his, and the child is his, and the money we have saved is his. No, Deborah, I'll give her my blessing and go, soon as ever I have put up those shutters for her, and it is about time. You will see Joseph Pinder in this place no more." "What! you will desert hei and all?" " Desert her? That is not the word. I leave her when she is happy. I am only her friend in trouble." "And not her friend in danger then?" "I see no danger just at present." "Think a bit, my man. What has brought him home? Answer me that." "Well, I can," said he. "There is ^ plenty of attraction to bring any man home that is not blind, and mad, and an idiot." "Ay," said she, "that is hew you look WORKS OF CHARLES READE. at her; but it's him I want you to read. Why, it was three years since he left, but it's not a month since that Varney told him she was a rich woman, and here he is directly." " Oh !" said honest Joe Pinder, " I see what you are driving at; but that may be accidental. Tilings fall together like that. We mustn't be bad hearted, neither. Why, surely he can't be so base." "He is no worse than he was, and no better, you may be sure. Crossing the water can't change a man's skin, nor his heart neither, and I tell you he has come here disguised as a gentleman fur the thing he came for disguised as a burglar." Here she tapped the safewitb the key of the kitchen door, which she had in her hand, ami that action ami the ring of the metal made her reasoning tell wonderfully. She followed up her advantage, and as- sured Pinder that if lie did not stay and lend her his support, Sarah would soon be stripped bare and then abandoned again. " If he does," said Pinder, "111 kill him, thai is all." "With all my heart," was Deborah's reply. " But you mustn't leave her. And then," said she, "'here's me. You that is so g l-natured, would you leave to fight against the pair? To be sure, I am cook, and my kitchen is overrun with rats: and one penn'orth of white arsenic would rid the place of them and the two-legged vermin and all." Pinder was shocked, and begged her solemnly never to harbor such thoughts for a moment. "Then don't you leave me alone with my thoughts," said she, "for I hate him with all my heart and soul." The discussion did not end there; and, to be brief, Deborah had the best of it to the end. Pinder, however, was for once dog- gedly resolved to consider his own feelings as well as Sarah's interests. He would go ; but conseuted not to leave the town, and to look in occasionally, just to see whether Sarah was being pillaged. "But," said be, "if 'tis all one to you, I will come to the kitchen, not the shop." The ready-witted Deborah literally and without a metaphor licked her lips at him when he proposed this, so hearty was her appetite for a tete-a-tete or two in her own kitchen with this Joseph Pinder; he had pleased her eye from the first moment she saw him. She said, "Well, so do. 'What the eye don't see the heart don't grieve.' Leave hint the shop, and you come in the kitchen." With this understanding Pinder put up the shutteis and went away, sick at heart. Deborah had half a mind to stay in her kitchen, so odious to her was the sight of her brother-in-law; and, besides, she was jealous : however, her courage was a qual- ity that came and went. She was afraid to declare war on the pair, with nobody on the spot to hack her. So she tempo- rized; she took Lucy into the parlor to wel- come her father. The child said, "How d'ye do, papa?" in rather an oil hand way, and was kissed overflowingly. She did not respond one bit, and began imme- diately to fire questions: "Why did you go away so long, and make mamma fret? Why didn't you write to her, if you couldn't come?" Sarah stopped the rest of the cross-ex- amination with her hand, and told Lucy it was not for her to question her father. Deborah never moved a muscle, but chuckled inwardly. " What will you have for supper, now thai you are come?" inquired she, with affected graciousness. " Anything you like," said James, po- litely. "Don't make a stranger of me." That evening the reunited couple spent in sweet reminiscences and the renewal of conjugal ardor. Before morning, however, they had talked of everything — at all events, Sarah had, and being grateful to Pinder, and anxious to make her benefactor and her husband friends, had revealed the results of Joseph's faithful service and intelli- gence — the shop purchased, and £440 in the bank. " At what interest?" inquired James. "Ob, no interest. I am waiting to buy land or a good house with it." James laughed, and said "that was En- SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 63 gland all over — to let money lie dead for which ten per cent could be had in the United States on undeniable security." When once he got upon this subject he was eloquent; descanted on the vast opportunities offered both to industry and capital in the United States ; bade her ob- serve how he had improved his condition by industry alone. "But with capital," said he, "I could soon make you a lady." "Lucy you might," said she, "but I shall live and die a simple woman." Finding she listened to him, he returned to the subject again and again; but I do not think it necessary to give the dialogue in extenso. There is a certain monotony in the eloquence of speculation, and the sensible objections of humdrum prudence. I spare the reader these, having sworn not to be trivoluminous. It was about twelve o'clock next day when Pinder, whose occupation was gone, and ennui and deadness of heart substi- tuted, found the time so heavy on his hands that he must come and chat with Deborah in her kitchen. He looked in; she was not there. So then he peeped in timidly at the shop window, and there she was in sole possession of the counter. Her qualifications for that post were as well known to him as to the readers of this tale, so he looked surprised. "Why, where are they all?" "In Cupid's bower," said Deborah, re- peating a phrase out of a daily paper. " Billing and cooing are sweeter than business." " Where's Lucy?" " You are the first that has asked. Well, she is asleep upstairs. My lady found her- self neglected first time this three years, so she came and cried to me, and I took her in my arms and laid her on the bed. She's all right. Pity grown-up peojjle can't go to sleep when they like and forget." At this moment the parlor door opened, and Sarah Mansell, who had worn noth- ing but black these three years, emerged, beaming in a blue dress with white spots, and a lovely bonnet, all gay and charm- ing. This bright vision banished Debo- rah's discontent in a moment. "Well," said she, "you are a picture." Sarah stopped to be looked at, and smiled. "Well," said Deborah, "he has found a way to make us all glad he is come home. " Sarah smiled affectionately on her, and said she only wished she could make every- body as happy as she was. " Why not?" said Deborah, playing the courtier to please her. "And where are you going so pert, I wonder?" "To the bank, to draw my money," re- plied Sarah, gayly. Pinder and Deborah looked at one an- other. " How much of it?" asked Deborah. "Four hundred pounds," said the wife, brightly. Pinder groaned, but was silent. Debo- rah threw up her hands. "Oh, Sarah!" said she, piteously, "do but think how long it has taken you to make that, and don't throw it into a well all at one time." Sarah smiled superior. " I affronted him about money three years ago, and you see what came of it." She was going out jauntily, neither angry nor in any way affected by her friends' opposition, when Pinder put in a serious word. "Well," said he, "give him a good slice. But do pray leave a little for Lucy. You are a mother as well as a wife." She turned on him at the door with sud- den wrath, to crush him with a word for daring to teach her her duty as a mother; then she remembered all she owed him, and restrained herself. But what a look flashed from her eyes! and the hot blood mounted to her temples. Pinder was quite staggered at such a look from her, and Deborah shook her head. They both felt they were nullities, and James Mansell the master again. He let them know it too. He had been quietly listening on the stairs to every word they had said to his wife, and he now stepped into the shop, and took up a commanding position on the public side of the counter, opposite Pinder and Deborah. They were 04 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. standing behind the counter at some dis- tance from each other. It was Pinder he attacked. Said he, quietly. " Are you going to meddle again between man and wife? It didn't answer last time, did it?" Pinder did not think it advisable to quar- rel if it could be helped, so he said not a word. But Deborah was not so discreet. " Why, you have allowed him to meddle this three years. You pillaged and deserted her; he interfered, and made her fortune. Ho doesn't meddle to mar." Then Pinder spok<\ but in a more pacific tone. "I don't want to meddle at all," said he. "But Deborah and 1 have done our best for you both, and 1 do tliink your wife's friends might be allowed to ask what is to be done in one day with the savings of three years." Before these words were out of his mouth Mansell registered a secret vow to get rid of him and Deborah both. lie replied, with 1 1 le ] lltelltioll of galling them to the quick, " Well, I don't know that the master is bound to tell the serv- ants what be does with bis moiu \ •' Tour money?" snorted Deborah. "Ay," said this imperturbable person. "My wife's money is mine. 1 thought I had made you understand that last time. Well, what I am going to do with my money is to invest it in American securi- ties at ten per cent, instead of letting it lie idle in an English bank." " Oh !" said Deborah. " That is the tale you have been telling her, eh? Well, I mean to tell her the truth. You are going to collar her money and off to America directly. Varney has been here and split on you. You came for the money, not the woman." She flung these words in his face so vio- lently that even his brazen cheek flushed as if she had struck him; but ere he could reply. Sarah stood aghast in the doorway. "Oh, dear! high words already." Then James Mansell, who, in his way, was cleverer than any of them, recovered his composure in a moment, and said, quietly, "Not on my side, I assure you. But this young woman says I have come for your money, not for you. That's a pretty thing to bawl at a man for all the street to hear. Well, Sarah, I don't bawl at Tier, hut I put it to you quietly — how can I live in the same house with people that hate me, and are on the watch to poison my wife's mind against me?" CHAPTER VII. Pinder and Deborah both felt they had met their match. Pinder held his peace; but Deborah couldn't. Her lips trembled, but sbe fought him to the last. "I shall leave this bouse at one word from my sis- ter; but not at the bidding of a stranger that's here to-day and gone to-morrow, as si ion as he has milked the cow and bled the calf." With a grand swet ping gesture of the left arm sbe indicated Sarah as the cow, and with her right, Lucy as (be calf. The tremendous words, and the vulgar yet free and large gestures with which she drove them home, made even Binder say. " ( >h !" and so upset Mansell's cunning self- command that he came at her furiously. But Sarah stopped him. "No, you shall not answer her, James. You go and take your daughter on your knee, and I'll tell these two my mind." Sbe was so grave and dignified there was no resistance. Mansell retired with Lucy, and went up the stairs. When he was quite gone, Sarah put out her two hands and said, sweetly, "Come here, you two." Then they each took a hand, and their eyes glistened. She took them gently to task in silvery accents, that calmed and soothed them as they fell. " You have a true affection for me, both of j _ ou. Then pity me too, and don't drive me into a corner. Do not make me choose between my husband and you; you know which I must choose. Why, dear heart, if I spent my money on my i 3 SING LEHE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 65 back, you would not grudge it me. Then why not let me please my heart, and give my money where I give my love, that is worth more than £400 if you could but see it." They were both subdued by her words. Deborah said, in a sort of broken, helpless way, to Piuder, "She doesn't understand." " What we mean is, that if you part with your money, you will lose your man ; but so long as you stick to your money, he will stay with you; and we have both seen how you can fret for him, when he does desert you as well as bleed you." "Ay," said Sarah, nobly, and without anger. "You mean me well, but you doubt and mistrust, and suspect. No offense to either of you, but your nature is not mine. I am single-hearted. I can not love and mistrust. Nor I could not mistrust and love." The beauty of her mind and the sweet- ness of her strong but sober words over- powered her old lover and tender friend. "Don't harass her any more," said he. " She is too good for this world. She is an angel." Deborah smiled, and after taking a good look at her sister, said coolly, " She is a wonderful good woman ; her face would tell one that; but she is a woman, you may be sure, like her mother before her. Sarah, 'tis no use beating about the bush any longer. Would you like that £400 to go to another woman?" " Another woman !" cried the supposed angel, firing up directly. " What do you mean? What other woman?" " Dick Varney saw him with a woman, and a handsome one." "Well, what does that prove?" "Not much by itself; but a man that leaves one woman for three years, at his • time of life, is safe to take on with an- other." "Oh!" cried Sarah, "don't tell me so." But Deborah was launched. She said, "It's all a mystery, and against nature, if there's no other woman ; but, if there's an- other, it's all as plain as a pikestaff. Three years' dead silence and neglect — another Reade— Vol. IX. woman — you fretting in England — no other man (Mr. Pinder is only a friend) — he jolly as a sand-boy in New York — another wo- man — she wants money (t'other woman al- ways does) — Dick Varney tells him you've got it — he's here in one month after that, and the first day he is here he drains the cow. American insecurities? — A Yankee gal !" This time her rude eloquence and homely sense carried all before them. Sarah, whose face had changed with the poison of jeal- ousy, lost all her Madonna-like calmness. She was almost convulsed; she moaned aloud, "If it is so, Heaven help me!" She put her hand to her bosom, and her beautiful brown eyes half disappeared up- ward, and showed an excess of white. " Oh, sister, you have put a viper in my bosom — Doubt. It will gnaw away my heart. " " Heaven forbid !" cried Deborah, terri- fied at her sister's words, and still more at her strange looks. Then she began to blame her woman's tongue, and beg Sarah to dismiss her suspicions with contempt. But this was met by another change, almost as remarkable in its way. "No," said Sarah, with iron firmness, "I could not love and doubt, and live. I'll put it to the test." Deborah looked amazed and puzzled. Sarah walked to the parlor door and called up the stairs, " James, dear, please come here." " Whatever will she do or say?" groaned Deborah, and began to shiver. Sarah came back to her and said, in a sort of hissing whisper, " Now, since you have taught me to suspect and distrust, and doubt, you must go a little further. I bid you watch my husband's face, and his very body, while I that am his wife play upon him." She hung her head, ashamed of what she was going to do. But Deborah said, roughly, "Won't I? that's all." James Mansell came in and cast a shrewd glance all round. Deborah's face told him nothing. She wore an expression of utter indifference. Pinder hung his head. Mansell was now between two masked batteries: his wife's eyes scanned him pointblank, and Deborah watched him — ■ "3 66 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. like a cat — out of the tail of her eye, as Sarah tested her husband. " James, dear, I have a great affection for my sister, and a true respect for Joseph Pinder, and I owe them both a debt of gratitude. " James looked rather gloomy at that. " But I love you better than all the world. I can't bear to turn these faithful friends out of the house; they comforted me when I was desolate." Mausell looked dark again. " And yet I can't have you made uncomfortable for anybody. So, if my company is as welcome to you as my money, we will go to America to- gether." Pinder and Deborah both uttered ex- clamations of surprise and dismay, but Deborah's eye never left James. He was startled, but showed no reluctance. He merely said, "You don't mean that?" "Indeed I do; but perhaps you don't want me. You would rather go back alone?" The four eyes watched. •' No," said James ; " we have been parted long enough. But would you really cross the water with me?" "As I would cross this room, if you really wanted me." " ( >f course I want you, if we are not to live together here, where your friends hate me. But, Sally, if you are game to emi- grate with me, why make two bites of a cherry? We must sell the shop and real- ize, and settle in the States for life. I've no friends here, and you'll never want to come to England again, when once you have spent a summer in New York." Here was a poisoned arrow. Deborah clasped her hands piteously, and cried, "Oh, Sarah!" Sarah put up one hand to her to be quiet. "No," said she, as shortly and dryly as if she were chopping fire-wood, " I'll not fling my sister on the world nor put all my Lucy's eggs in one basket. I will risk £400 and no more. I don't look to find the streets of New York City paved with gold. Money must be lost by one, for another to make it, and the folk out there are as sharp as we are — sharper, by all accounts. Many go there for wool, and come back shorn. This shop is a little haven for us, if things go wrong out there. These good friends will keep it warm for us. Now I think of it, doesn't a boat start for New York this evening?" " This evening!" cried Pinder and Debo- rah in one breath. " Ay, this very night — before affection is soured by disputes and love is poisoned by jealousies." Then she told James to put on his hat and bring her word when the boat started. Lucy and she would he ready; she could pack all her clothes in half an hour, with Deborah to help. Thus the greater character asserted itself at last. She had seen with a woman's readiness that the present position was untenable for a day, and she had cut the knot with all a man's promptitude. From that hour she took the lead. Deborah was wringing her hands, and crying, "Oh, what have I said? What have I done?" Sarah said, quietly, "Time will show. Please come and help me pack; and, Joseph, put up the shutters; I trade no more this day. Ah, well, 1 never thought to leave home; but no matter. A wife's home is by her husband's side." While they were packing, and Deborah's tears bursting out every now and then, Sarah said to her, a little haughtily, "Well, did he stand the test?" "Yes," said Deborah, humbly. " Do you think he would take me to New York if there was another woman?"' "No" (very humbly). "But see," said she, sorrowfully, "what, it is to rouse mistrust. I shall sew the notes into his Sunday waistcoat, but I shall not give them to him until we are on the sea." Deborah began to say, "And why — " but she got no further. She ended with, "I'm afraid to speak." They got the man's Sunday waistcoat out of the drawer and their quick fingers soon cut a deep inside pocket. Sarah took the numbers of the notes and sewed in the notes themselves. They packed the waist- coat for the time being at the bottom of SINGLEHEAET, AND DOUBLEFACE. 67 Sarah's box. The packing was done two hours before the vessel sailed. The whole party met again in the parlor — Pinder to bid good-by; but Mansell, to please his wife, I suppose, said, civilly, "No, no; come and see us on board. There let us part friends ; the chances are you will never see us again." These words fell like a knell on the true hearts Sarah Mansell left behind her. Pinder and Deborah saw the Mansells go down the Mersey, and returned sadly to the house that had lost its sunshine. That night Deborah, all in tears, begged Pinder not to leave her alone in the house. She said she could not bear to talk of anybody but Sarah ; if she went out her friends would chatter about this, that, and t'other. Pinder was of the same mind, and gladly embraced the proposal. She gave him his choice of Lucy's room or the connubial chamber. He gave a little shudder, and chose Lucy's. He now became the master of the house and the shop, and had plenty on his hands. He taught Deborah the prices of things, and how to weigh and put up goods in paper, and that is an art; and at night he read her a journal or a book, and they talked of Sarah, and won- dered and wondered what would be her fate. Deborah thought she would come back in about a year. The £400 would not last longer than that in Mansell's hands, and he would be sure to get hold of it. But Pinder thought she would not return at all. James Mansell was evi- dently jealous of her friends, and deter- mined to have her all to himself. There was a very good photograph of her — cabinet size; he took this to Ferranti, and had it enlarged, retouched, and tinted by that artist. Ferranti, who employed a superior hand to retouch these enlarge- ments under his own eye, produced a mar- vel. It had the solidity and clean outline of a statue. • They had it lightly tinted, especially the eyes and hair, so as not to injure the trans- parency of the photograph ; and there was Sarah Mansell, full size, and all but alive. It arrived, quite finished, rather late at night, and Pinder was out ; but he opened the case and took it out, and neither he nor Deborah could go to bed for gazing at it. "I never knew how beautiful she was," said Deborah. They actually sat up till two o'clock looking at this reproduction of a good and beautiful face, and they des- canted on her virtues, and Deborah told incidents of her childhood, and Pinder re- peated wise and sober answers from her sweet lips. Pinder now found himself gliding from bachelor life into half matrimonial. His dinner was always ready on a clean cloth ; and a comely woman, a year younger than himself, cooked it, and put on a clean apron and cap to eat with him. They supped to- gether, too. She gave up her nightly ex- cursions after a husband, and was always at his service, and ready to talk to him, or listen to him, or both; for if he read aloud police cases, or other things in which men and women revealed their characters and the broad features of human nature, her comments were as sagacious — especially in relation to her own sex — as if she had devoted her life to the study of philosophy. Sometimes, too, she had a look of her sister. He never expected to see Sarah any more, and, take it altogether, he was on the road which, by a gentle incline, has often led the victim of a romantic attachment to a quiet union of affection. When they were fairly out at sea, Sarah brought James his waistcoat and showed him how the notes were secured. "You keep them," said she, "and I keep the numbers." Mansell's greedy eyes flashed. "Well, you are a business woman ; we shall never go wrong together." The water was like glass for eight days, but then they had a gale, and Mansell was very ill. It was calm again as they drew near the end of their voyage, but Mansell did not regain his looks. When they reached the port he looked ill, pale, de- pressed, and worried. They landed, and left their boxes in the Custom House, and James Mansell told 68 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Sarah and Lucy to stay there, while he ran into a neighboring street to see whether his old lodgings — very comfortable ones — were vacant. She called after him not to be long. "Mind, I am strange here," said she. " He won't be long, I guess," said a civil officer standing bj' ; then he brought two chairs. "Thank you kindly, sir," said she. "Lucy, my dear, thank the gentleman." Lucy took the two steps her dancing- master prescribed as essential prelimi- naries of a courtesy, and then effected a prim reverence — "Thank you, sir." The gentleman, a tall, gaunt citizen from Illinois, grinned, and struck a bow, with bis hat in his hand, at right angles. Sarah watched her husband take the second street to the right and disappear. Then she took out some work, not to be idle, and Lucy prattled away, all admira- tion. Never had this brilliant city a more appreciative critic;. To be sure she had not learned the suicidal habit (if detraction, thanks to which nothing pleases us. and so we pick up nothing. An hour passed — two hours — James did not come back. Sarah was mortified — then she was perplexed — then she was alarmed. What if be had gone drinking ! He seemed exhausted by the voyage. Once thi< fear took possession of her, waiting there idle became intolerable to her. She begged that civil officer to put their boxes aside for a time, and she took Lucy by the hand and followed in the direction her husband had taken. But as she walked for hours before she found her treasure, I ask leave to go before her to a certain street. CHAPTER VIII. Solomon B. Grace, the man who was so civil to Sarah Mansell at the Custom House, was, in his way, a rough and sturdy example of the species Pinder; and on his way to and from the Custom House he used always to stand stock-still for two minutes and gaze at the windows of a house in One Hundred and Fourth Street, that belonged to one Elizabeth Haynes. Two minutes is not long for a busy man to spare to the past, and Solomon had never been detected at the weakness. But to-day Elizabeth Haynes caught sight of him as she put on her bon- net at a glass to go out, and when she did come out at the door, there he was gazing at the windows. Mrs. 1 1 aynes was a handsome, gay young woman, of a genial disposition. She knew very well what Solomon was up to, but use- less sentiment was not her line. "Well," said she, feigning astonish- ment, " is that you, Mr. Grace, standing there like a petrified policeman?" Solo- mon was too confounded to answer. " Per- haps you want apartments;" and she pointed to the card in the window. " Perhaps I wanted a sight of the lady that lets 'em." "Then why not knock at the door and ask for the lady?" " Wa'al, I guess rejected suitors ain't always the most welcome callers." " Why not? If they behave themselves, do you really think any woman hates a man for having been a little sweet on her? Next time don't watch the premises, but walk right in and tell me the news from out West." "Wa'al," said he, hesitating, "ye see, I don't want no fuss. Now, there's some- body in that house that riles me. He has got a good thing, and doesn't vally it. He gambles away all your money, and he is never at home. You were married to one Illinois man, and he respected you and loved you ; and what mad dog bit j-ou that you must go and marry a stranger? You had the whole State to pick from." "And Mr. Solomon Grace in particular! You forget I'm a stranger myself. I'm not annexed to your State." Solomon admitted this, but said it was an oversight in the Constitootion. "Now this," said she, "is why rejected SINGLEHEAET, AND DOUBLEFACE. 69 suitors are not welcome to prudent women and good wives. They must run down the man we have chosen, and behind his back, too, nine times out of ten." " I'm darned if it isn't mean — as mean as dirt." This concession seemed so creditable that she invited him to be her beau — as far as the market. Solomon could not believe his good fortune. She laughed at him, and en- lightened him. " Give me a fair excuse, do you think I wouldn't rather have a decent man beside me than take my walks alone? What a bad opinion you must have of woman's sense! I do suppose that gentleman you are named after knew 'em better. To be sure, he had six hundred teachers, poor man!" "I would give his lot for my one." "Solomon," said Mrs. Haynes, severely, "flattery is poison, so come on. I won't stand still to be poisoned." So she went shopping, and continued at it long after she had parted with Solomon Grace. Mrs. Mansell wandered on and on, and then back, to and fro, Lucy prattling gay- ly, and almost irritating her, until she turned hungry. Then her mother bought her a piece of pie with the only coin in her pocket, but could not eat herself. Night fell, the lamps were lighted; foot-sore, weary, and sick at heart, she could hardly draw her limbs along, and began to ask herself bitterly what she had done to be abandoned again and again by everybody. But in truth she was not abandoned by all ; a wise and just Providence was guiding her every step. At last she stopped in despair, and began to speak her mind to Lucy, since there was no one else. "It is inconsiderate, it is cruel," said she, " and me a stranger in this great city. Why couldn't he take me up with him to look for lodgings? Oh, Lucy, my mind misgives me." " Sit down on those steps, mamma," said Lucy, with pretty affection. " Indeed I shall be glad to rest a bit." She sat down on the doorsteps, and thoughts tormented her she could not utter to Lucy. This must be their old enemy, Drink. He had looked so pale and exhausted. Oh, if it was! Misery! for the habit once resumed, after so long ab- stinence, would never be got rid of. Here was a miserable prospect, and in a foreign land as well : no friends to curb him or stand by her. And then, if he got drunk he would be robbed. How lucky she had sewed up the notes in his waistcoat ! The money ! Another chill thought went through her like an ice-bolt. Why had she parted with it? She had been warned that while she held it she held her husband. It was but a momentary horror. She dis- missed that suspicion as unworthy and monstrous, and was ashamed of herself for harboring so base a fear. Lucy saw the change in her distressed face, and came to a simple, comprehensive conclusion : " Mamma, he is a wicked man." Sarah was shocked at this from her. "No, no, my child; he is a good man, and your father." "Then fathers don't love us like uncles do. Uncle Joe would never have left us like this. I wish I had never left home." Sarah w r ould not say that ; but she sighed deeply, and rocked herself, country fashion, sitting on the stone steps. Mrs. Haynes came back to her tea, and found her in that condition, while Lucy, standing beside her, opened two glorious eyes with sorrowful amazement. For a moment Mrs. Haynes thought they were beggars, but the next her eye took in al- most at one glance their dress and neat appearance, and Lucy's ear-rings, pearl and gold. She asked Mrs. Mansell civilly what was the matter — was she tired? Mrs. Mansell looked up, and said, sor- rowfully, that she was in care and trouble. She had lost her husband. "What, dead?" " Nay, Heaven forbid ! But we parted on the quay. He went to look for lodg- ings, and he never came back. I don't know what to think nor what to do, I'm sure." "Dear me," said the other; "and you a stranger in the country !" ?(» WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Sarah sighed. " And it is late for the child to be out." Sarah gave her a glance of maternal gratitude, and passed her arm round her child at the very idea of any harm threat- ening her. Mrs. Karnes looked well at them both, and liked their faces even better than their appearance. She said, good - naturedly, " You had better step in and rest your- selves a while, and then we'll see." "Thank you kindly, ma'am; I'm sure it is very good of you." Mrs. Haynes opened the door with a latch-key and led the way to a back room of mixed character. There was a French bed in it, with curtains descending from a circular frame. There was also a chest of drawers, ami a sort of plate-chest on them; a large easy-chair, much worn; and a round table, witli a white cloth on it — in short, it was an unpretending snuggery. " There, take off your bonnets and make yourselves comfortable," said Mrs. Haynes. And while they were doing this, she whis- pered an order to her maid — her name was Millicent. Then she took cups and saucers out of a cupboard and wiped them herself; and they talked all this while, she anil Mis. Mansell. A housekeeper's vanity is always on the alert the moment a possible rival comes; so as Mrs. Mansell looked like a person with a house of her own, Mrs. Haynes said, "You mustn't go by this room: mine is a beautiful house, but I take lodgers, and it is so full that I have to pig any- where. It doesn't matter much, you know, when one's husband is away." Lucy listened, and informed her mother, with some surprise, that the young lad}' was married. '•Why, bless the child, I have been married twice. The first was an Illinois man. Ah! be was a husband! This time it is Matthew Haynes, an English- man. I can't show him you, for he has gone home to draw a legacy, and that takes time." She paused a moment to pour out the tea. " Are you a New York lad}*, if you please?" inquired Sarah. Mrs. Haynes, poising the tea-pot in the air, smiled at her simplicity. "No," said she. "Are you? Why, we both speak country English as broad as a barn-door. Bless your heart, I knew you for a coun- try-woman the moment you opened your mouth, and I shouldn't be surprised if we came from the very same part. I be Wilt- shire." "And I'm Barkshire, born and bred." "Didn't I tell 'ee?" Here Millicent came in with a large dish of fried oysters. " Y"ii don't get such oysters as these in Barkshire, let me tell ye." •"That we don't. I never saw so many all at one time." The hostess helped them liberally, and the wanderers enjoyed them to the full, and their eyes brightened, and the color came back to their faces, and when, like a tun wife, Mrs. Haynes said, "Now tell me about yours," Mrs. Mansell was more communicative than she would have b© n to an older acquaintance. "Oh, my man is an excellent husband. Indeed, he hasn't a fault that I know >A', except he lakes a drop now and then." "' Oh, they all do that at odd times," said the other, carelessly. "And even that he has given up," said Sarah, earnestly. " Only he was so ill at sea and exhausted like. How else to ac- count for his behavior, I can't think; and you know they are sometimes obliged to take a glass medicinal." " Ay, that is their chat ; and 'tis the only medicine where one glass leads to another. There, don't you begin to fret again. You'll see yours long before I shall see mine.'' Then she observed that Lucy could not keep her eyes open. So she went farther than she had intended at first; she deter- mined to let them sleep in the house. "Take your bonnets," said she, "and come with me." She opened one of two folding-doors, and showed .them into a larger parlor, with a bachelor's bed in it. The carpet was up, and stood in a roll, but everything was clean. "There, this room islet, but not till twelve to-morrow; you must excuse disorder. You put the little SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. n love to bed, and then we will have our chat out. Ah," said she, with a sudden change of manner that was sweet and touching, " I had a little girl by my first husband ; she would be about the age of yours if I could have kept her alive; so my heart warmed to yours the moment I saw her standing beside you on my step, and her young eyes full of love and trouble." Mrs. Haynes cried a little at this picture and her own sad reminiscences, and the happy mother kissed the sorrowful one, and she kissed her in return. Then Mrs. Haynes withdrew and summoned her maid, and she cleared away the things, and then they cleaned the cups and saucers and had a gossip, for Mrs. Haynes must have somebody to talk to. She was well educated, not like Deborah Smart: for all that, she never read a book now, and those who won't read must talk. The folding-doors were thin, and did not meet very close ; the new wood had shrunk ; and Sarah, without intending it, heard a word every now and then, but she paid no attention. The first thing the careful mother did was to thrust her hand and arm all down the bed inside, and she in- stantly resolved not to put her girl into it. She told her she should not undress her. So Lucy knelt at her knee, and said her prayers. When she had done, she asked if she might pray for the good lady. " Ay do, dear, and so shall I. It's all we can do for her." She pulled down the counterpane, laid Lucy on the blanket, and put a shawl over her. All this time she was thinking, and now her thoughts found vent. " My girl, is it not strange that those who are sworn to stay by us, and we by them, should fail us, and that a lady who never saw our faces before should open her arms and her house to us, because we are strangers in a foreign land? God bless her!" There was a loud knock at the street door. It was followed by an eager ex- clamation from the other room: "Oh, Milly! Why, sure that's my husband's knock." "Oh! I hope it is, "cried Sarah, as Milli- cent and her mistress clashed into the pas- sage. There was a moment of suspense, and then joyful exclamations in the passage. "It is, Lucy; I am so glad," Sarah cried. " So am I, mamma." " This way ! this way ! " screamed Mrs. Haynes, pulling what seemed to Sarah to be rather an undemonstrative husband into her little room. " I must have him all to myself. " Then there was a long and warm embrace. Sarah was somehow conscious of what was going on. She sat down by Lucy, and said, a little sadly, "Ay, they are happy, those two." Then, cheerfully, "Well, my turn must come." Sarah Mansell did not hear exactly what was said next, but I will tell the reader. Mrs. Haynes, who had now turned the gas up, was concerned at her husband's appearance. "La," said she, "how pale you look! Sit down in your own chair." (He staggered a little, but got into the chair all right.) "I'll make you a cup of tea." " Tea be blowed !" said he, roughly. Sarah heard that where she sat, with her cheek against Lucy's. She started away from her, half puzzled, half amazed. "Gimme — drop brandy," said the man, louder still. Sarah bounded with one movement into the middle of the room, and then stood panting. Even Lucy raised herself on her hands in the bed, and her eyes opened wide. " I doubt you have had enough of that already," was the reply in the next room. " Why, now I think of it, you must have come by the steamboat eight hours ago. How many have you liquored with before your wife's turn came?" "I don't know," said he, like a dog's bark, loud and sharp and sullen. Lucy heard, and slipped off the bed to her mother, full of curiosity. " Why, mamma," said she, "that's — ■" Before she could say the word, Sarah closed the child's mouth with her hand almost fiercely; then held her tight, and 72 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. pressed the now terrified girl's face against her own body. All the woman's senses were so excited that she heard through the doors as if they had been paper. And this is what she heard this man say, who was her husband and the husband of the woman that had sheltered her : " If you must know, I was faint and troubled in my mind, and just took one glass to keep mj- heart up and clear my head, and then one led to another. Never you mind. I'm a good husband to you, the best in England — no, the best in New York — the best in all the world; d'ye hear?" "Yes," said the other wife, "I bear the good news; but please don't bawl it so loud." Then she whispered something. Sarah caught her girl up like a baby, was at the bed in a moment, laid her on it, and dared her to move with such a look and such a commanding gesture as the girl had never seen before. Then hissing out, "I'll know all if it kills me." she glided back like a serpent to the door. She pui her ear to the very aperture. Matthew Haynes, alias James Man-ell, lowered his voice. "You don't know the sacrifice, curse it all. One drop of brandy, for mercy's sake." "Only one, then." She gave him a glass. He gulped it down. "Ah! It is no use sniveling; I didn't mean to do it this way. But it was sure to come to this. 1 was in a cleft stick." " Whatever is the man maundering about?" said Elizabeth. "Oh, cursed liquor! " The moment she raised her voice he raised his. " D'ye want to wrangle? It isn't for you to grumble! You are all right. I've got the four hundred POUNDS I WIRED YOU ABOUT!" He uttered these words, not loudly, but very impressively, syllable by syllable. And syllable by syllable they seemed to enter Sarah Mansell's body like javelins made of ice. The poor creature shrank al- together at first, and then slowly stretched herself out. Her arms strangely contorted themselves in agony, hut at last spread feebly out, and her hands clutched vague- 1}', as if she was on a real cross, as well as on a cross of mental anguish ; and when, after a few words of explanation, that told her nothing more, the other woman said: " Well, you are a good husband ; I must kiss you," the limp body and drooping head of the true wife sank helpless against the door with a strange sound ; it was gen- tle, yet heavy and corpse-like. CHAPTER IX. Doubleface, like others who have crime in hand, was startled by a sound the meaning of which he did not know. He thrust away his partner and held her at arm's-length. "What is that'.'" said he. "Only my lodger," said Elizabeth. "I'll go and see what she wants.'" She stepped toward the door, against which Sarah was lying erect (I can de- scribe it no other way), not insensible, hut utterly limp and powerless to move, and indeed conscious that if she moved she musl fall headlong. At this crisis Double- face turned jealous all of a sudden. "No," said he; "bother your lodgers! I'm the master. Attend to me first. Here, help me off with my coat and waistcoat. " Ni >w give me my dressing gown. Now my shoes." At last he rolled into bed. Now Eliza- beth Haynes suspected her lodger of listen- ing, and she thought it was too bad. She resolved to catch her. She took off her shoes and stole on tiptoe from the bed to the door. At the same moment, Sarah Mansell, having nothing more to learn, made an effort to escape from her post of agony. She laid a hand on the projection of the door and tottered a little way ; from that to a chair, which she clutched, and just as Elizabeth Haynes turned the door handle she sank SING LEHE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 73 down by the bed, and seizing the clothes convulsively, she sank on her knees, with her arms helpless before her, as the door opened and Mrs. Haynes peeped in. Then that lady thought she was praying, and postponed her examination until the morn- ing. She was not so far wrong; for the first thing the betrayed wife did, when she had power, was to pray over her fatherless child. She prayed to God for hours, and I think He heard her. It did not appear so at first. In that horrible night she lived a life of agony. She thought of all she had done and suffered for that man, and she was the milch cow, and on the other side that door was the wife. Three thousand miles from home — a de- serted wife. If ever a woman lived a year of torture in a night, she did. It exhausted her body so that she actually fell asleep for half an hour. She dreamed the events of years; but at last her ever-changing dream culminated in a vision. She saw before her her own little parlor. In it sat Deborah and Pinder looking at a picture. The picture had no features to her, but Deborah's face and Pinder's were quite clear, and beautiful with affection. Thej- said it was her picture, as beautiful as herself, and they feared they should never see her again. She dreamed she wanted to comfort them, and say, "You shall — 3-011 shall," but her tongue was tied. The two faces then lie- came angelic with affection, and vanished. She awoke. She came back by degrees to her own misery. But how is this? The anguish that was so keen remains, but no longer pierces, stuns, galls, and maddens. It is blunted, and her heart seems turned to stone. "Villain — drunkard — thief and traitor!" said she to herself. " All this time every- body knew him but me. I've shed my last tear for him. I've turned against him. I'm a stone." She turned up the gas and looked at Lucy. This moment she became con- scious, then, that Lucy had no longer a rival in her heart. She resolved to leave the place at once. Suddenly she remembered the money Doubleface got out of her to make Lucy's fortune, as he said. She stooped over Lucy and kissed her, too softly to wake her. "No, my fatherless girl," said she, "money is nothing to me now, but they shan't rob you. You shall have your own, if they kill me." She sat down quietly, and thought what was the best way to execute the design she had conceived in a moment; and not every one of us would have hit upon the right order of action so well. She began by doing in her own room all that could be done there at all. She put a small table near the gas-light, laid her scissors on it, threaded a needle, and fastened it to her sleeve. Then she went very softly, opened one of the folding-doors, and satisfied herself that Doubleface and his other wife were asleep. Then she slipped into their room and turned up their gas a very little, found his trousers, and his waistcoat under them, took away the waistcoat to her own room, and left the door ajar. She brought the waistcoat to her table, cut the stitches, drew them away, took out the bank-notes, and put them in her bosom, all as coolly as possible. Then she sat quietly down and sewed up the top of the pocket again, imitating the very number of the stitches she had originally put in. Then she took the waistcoat, went into the next room, and put it back on the chair exactly where she had found it, and laid the trousers on it. Then, having resumed her own, and no longer caring so very much whether she ' was caught or not by a man whom she could send to prison for bigamy, she act- ually drew the curtain back a little, and folding her arms, surveyed the couple steadily with such an expression as sel- dom looks out of mortal eye. The bus. band lay on his back snoring loud, as he always did after excess. The other woman he had deceived lay on her side as innocent as a child, and sleeping like one. The resolute woman who looked on stood there to be cured or die. Her flesh crawled 74 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. and quivered at first, but she stood and clinched her teeth, and deliberately burned this sight into her heart, that she might never forget it, nor, by forgetting, be in- duced to forgive it. Soon the day dawned, and a servant un- bolted the street door. Then Sarah made Lucy get up in silence, both put on their bonnets, and she took the little girl through the other room, keeping her on her other side, so that she could see nothing, and walked out of the house with- out a word. Late in the morning James Mansell awoke from a heavy sleep, and found himself alone in bed. He soon realized the situation drink had blunted overnight, and it frightened him. His thoughts were bitter. How drink had foiled all his cun- ning! He had settled in his sober mind to play both women with consummate skill; not to go near Elizabeth in New York till he had settled Sarah in Boston, and stayed with her a month at least. What was to be done now? Why, snatch a mouthful, and then hunt after Sarah and tell her some lie, and fly with her to write Elizabeth another lie to account for his departure. He burst through the folding-doors, and threw them both wide open for air. In the room his haggard face looked into sat Elizabeth, smiling and making his tea, and getting breakfast ready for him; her quick ear had heard him move in the bed- room. "That's right," said he; "give me a morsel to eat. I must be off to the docks directly for my luggage." " What, is your money and all at the docks?" "Not likely. That never leaves me night and day." "La! then you might show it to me," said she. "Perhaps you don't believe I have got it?" said he. "The idea! Of course I believe your word." She filled him a cup of tea, and said no more. It was he who returned to the subject. "Come, now, you'd like to see it, and make sure?" "Why, Matthew," said she, "what wo- man wouldn't that had heard so much about it?" " Here goes, then," said he, and took off his coat. " What, in your coat?" said she. " Oh dear ! That is not a very safe place, I am sure." " Guess again," said he. Then he opened his waistcoat, and showed her the inside pocket. She peered across the table at it, and approved. "I see," said she. "Who'd have thought a man had so much sense?" On reflection, however, she was not so pleased. "Who sewed it in foryou?" said she sharply. "I can see the stitches from here. 'Twas a woman." " Well, then, let a woman unsew it," was all the reply he deigned; and he chucked her the waistcoat, and went on witli his breakfast very fast. She t<>f>k the waistcoat on her knee, whipped her scissors out of her pocket, and carefully snipped the stitches — then opened the pocket, and groped in it witli her fingers. " Well, hut, "said she, "there's no money here." "Gammon," said he, with his mouth full. She groped it thoroughly. " But I say there isn't," said she. " Don't tell lies. Give it me." She gave it him, and watched him keenly, and even suspiciously. He felt the pocket — groped it — clutched it — turned it inside out: there was nothing. "What in Heaven is this?" he gasped. "Am I mad? Am I dreaming? It is im- possible. Cut the thing to pieces ! Tear it to atoms! Robbed ! robbed ! I'll go for the police! I'll search ever}' woman in the house !" And he started wildly up. But Elizabeth rose too, and said, very firmly, " You'll do nothing of the kind ; there are no thieves here. Now sit down and think." " I can't; I'm all in a whirl." " You must. Tell me the name of all SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 75 the bars you drank at before you came here." He groaned, and mentioned several. " Were there any women about?" "Plenty at some of them." " Did 3*ou take your coat off?" "Not likely. I tell you I felt them in my pocket before I went to bed." " Ah ! you thought so, perhaps. Now who sewed them in for you?" " No matter." " Who sewed them in for you?" " The tailor." " No, Matthew, a woman sewed them in; and a woman sewed the empty pocket up again this last time. It is not a man's work ; and, besides, men are not so artful as all that. There's more behind than you have told me," and she fell into a brown- study. Doubleface took his resolution in a mo- ment. He would go to the docks, wait there till Sarah came for her boxes, and tell her he had been set upon and robbed. Then he would go away with her and work for a month, till she got more money from England. So he told Elizabeth he would take the police to all those bars, and he went out hastily. She made no objection ; she sat there, and brooded over this strange mystery. By-and-by she had a visitor — an unex- pected one, and one she could speak her mind to on this subject more openly than to her husband. Sarah Mansell, on leaving that house, asked her way to the Custom House. To her surprise it was very near. All her de- sire now was to get home. Her heart, al- ways single, turned homeward entirely. Jealousy had tortured her too much. The torture that kills defeats itself, and her an- guish had killed love as well as agonized it. And then she had her own special character; for women vary as men do: in some, jealousy preponderates so that they cannot resign an unworthy man who be- longs to them to another woman ; in others, jealousy, though terribly powerful, is curbed by pride and self-respect. These are the high-spirited women who will be the only one or none; and note this, the more they love a man, the more they will have him all to themselves, or part with him root and branch : wild horses could not tear them from that alternative. These loving but resolute women belong to no class in society, and are found in every class. Books, journals, education, ignorance, neither make nor mar them. It is a law of their nature, though not the gen- eral law. Sarah found that a steamboat started for England that day. She instantly took a berth for Lucy and herself, and meantime took her boxes away in a cab, lest James Mansell should come and find them there, and wait about for her. She did not fear him one bit; but she abhorred the sight of him now. She directed a carman to drive her to any good hotel he chose, only let it be a mile distant. James Mansell came to the Custon House, inquired for ber boxes, and found that his wife had removed them and gone to a hotel. The carman who took her had not returned, but a person James feed promised to ask him on his return to what hotel he bad driven the lady. Then Mansell went back to get some money from Elizabeth, for he had drunk all his loose cash the day before. The visitor she received meantime was Solomon Grace. He came in rather sheep- ishly, and began to plead her permission, but she cut all that short very bruskly. " You come at the right time. I have been robbed of £400." Then she told him all that had passed between her and Matthew, and Solomon offered his theory, videlicet, that the notes had never existed. "Well, then, I think tbey did," said Elizabeth. "But here's my trouble. There's a person I suspect; but I don't like to tell him; he might blame me for housing a stranger, and indeed it was a foolish thing of me — there! I gave a night's lodging to an English woman and her child. She said she had come 76 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. by the boat, and lost her husband. I am afraid she never had one. Anyway, she slept here in this very room, and, Solomon, while my man was telling me in there he had got me the £400, she came bounce against that door, and I thought at the time she was listening.'" " She is the one that did the trick," was Solomon's conclusion. However, to make sure, he asked if Mr. Haynes had told her where the notes were while the woman was listening. "He must have," said Elizabeth. Then she thought a bit. " Why, la ! no he didn't. She could hear no more than I did, and certainly I didn't know, nor he didn't tell me until this morning, breakfast lime. There — she couldn't know unless she had sewn them in, and that's against all i It's a mystery; it is quite beyond me." Solomon puzzled over it in turn. lie said there was a good-looking woman Eat waiting for her husband besl pari of two hours at the Custom House, and a child witli her. "A girl?" " fes, a girl." " What had she on?" " Didn't observe." "What was the child like?" "Darkish — beautiful black eyes — a pict- ure!" "That is them, I shouldn't wonder. You saw no husband, I'll go bail." "Ay, but I did — saw his back, however. That one is no thief — a plain, honest wo- man, with a face something between a calf and an angel." "Indeed," said Elizabeth, "she looked honest; and if her tale was true, it seems hard to suspect her. But it is a puzzle." Then Solomon Grace summed up the evidence: " He drinks and gambles. One of those ways is enough. Such a man is soon eased of £400 in New York City. I've seen a many drained out here with dice and drink, but I never knew a fool's pocket picked of notes sewn into the lining. Puz- zle or not, that's a lie, I swan." The latter part of this summing up was heard by Mr. Mansell from the parlor, he having slipped into the house the back way. He came in lowering, and put in his word. " Did you ever know an honest man slip into a house and backbite a man to his wife?" Solomon turned red with ire and shame, for his position was not a perfect one. " Can't say ever I did, but I've known folk the truth was pison to wherever told." " And the truth is that you are a dis- carded lover of in) - wife's, and a mischief- making hypocrite." Elizabeth was alarmed, for she knew Solomon could wring this bantam's neck in a moment, and she had no blind con- fidence in his pacific disposition, though he vaunted it so highly. "La! Matthew, do you want every bone in your skin broken? And, Solomon, you must ex- cuse him for my sake; he is in great trouble. 1 won't detain you at present." "That means make tracks," said poor Solomon. "I'm pacific," said he, almost crying with vexation. "I'll go, sartain. I'd better go. But, Britisher — " " Well, what is it, old Ohio?" " A word at parting." " In Ohieageese?" "Every dog has his day. That's En- glish. 1 rather think." When he was gone, Elizabeth took a cheerful tone. She told James she did not tor one moment believe he had drunk or gambled away £400. " But," said she, "' ii is no use being angry with Solomon for saying what all the world says." Then after a little while she played the philosopher. " If \ 7 ou gave me my choice, and said, 'Will you have £-400 or a sober, industrious husband?' do you think I'd choose the money? Never. So don't let us cry over spilled milk, but just }-ou drop gambling — you don't drink as you used — and we shall do first-rate. The house is full and all the lodgers like me. It al- ways will be full now. Starting was the only trouhle. I will undertake to keep you if you will only spend your evenings with me. " James Mansell pretended to jump at these terms, and Elizabeth invited him to go out walking with her in an hour's time. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 77 He agreed with feigned alacrity, and she dressed for the occasion, and they walked out arm in arm, she gay as a lark, he moody and distracted, and attending to her flow of talk only by fits and starts. Meanwhile Mrs. Mansell and Lucy had a nice wash and a good breakfast, and by- and-by a conveyance was at the door to take their boxes to the boat. But Lucy was most unwilling. "Oh, mamma," she said, "we have only just come." "I can't help that," was the dogged reply. " But everything is so beautiful, and the people so kind : they call me miss!" "My child," said her mother, "I must go home. Wounded creatures all go home ; and I am wounded to the heart. I have nobody now but you : be kind to me." Lucy flung her arms round her mother's neck. " Oh, mamma, I'll go with you to Jericho." CHAPTER X. It seemed as if everything was to be smoothed for their going home. At the docks they found Solomon Grace superin- tending Custom House work, and Sarah beckoned him, and asked him how she should get her boxes on board. " Going home already ! What, without your husband?" "Sir, my husband has abandoned me." "What, altogether?" "Me and my child." "The miserable cuss." Having thus delivered himself, he said it was his business to obe} 7 her orders. He couldn't leave that spot just then, but if she would give him the ticket, his mate should stow her things in the cabin. This was done accordingly. Meantime he asked leave to put her a question. "As many as you please," said she, calmly. " Where did you sleep last night?" " With a lady who called herself Mrs. Haynes." "At One Hundred and Fourth Street?" " I don't know, unfortunately. But since you ask, perhaps you know that Mrs. Haynes. " " I rather think I do." " That is curious." " Well, no. I've known her nine years. Why, her first husband was a cousin of mine. When he died I always intended to be number two; only I didn't like to ask her in the churchyard ; but that 'ere Brit- isher warn't so nice; he slipped in ahead of me." Sarah turned her brown eye full on him with growing interest. " I understand per- fect^-, " said she. " You respected her most because you loved her best." Solomon stared at her. He was utterly amazed, but at the same time charmed, at this gentle stranger reading him so favorably all in a moment, and reading him right. He asked her a little sheep- ishly if he might make so free as to take her hand. "You are very welcome, I am sure," said she, smiling calmly. " I'll tell you the truth," said he, " though it's agin myself. I love her still; can't get her out of my head nohow." "Why should you?" said she, loftily. Solomon stared at that. " It's like poor Joe Pinder," said she, half to herself. "Can't say; don't know the family." Sarah began to wonder. Presently she scanned him all over with her steady eyes. "I think," said she, slowly, "it must be my duty to write a note to Mrs. Haynes." " About her housing you for the night?" "About that and other things. You know her and respect her; will you give it her?" "Of course I will." " Into her own hand?" "And glad of the job." "Not into the hands of the man." " What! her husband — the cuss — not likely." 78 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Satisfied on that point, Sarah said she would like to go on board out of the bustle. She could write the letter in the cabin; it would be a short one. Then Solomon took her and Lucy on board. After some little preparation Sarah took paper and an en- velope out of ber bag: she had everything ready to write to her sister. She sat down and wrote to the other wife of James Man- sell. Solomon Grace had nothing else to do but to watch her, and he did wonder what that thoughtful brow and white hand were sending to the woman he still loved. It was no simple matter; the English- woman had a difficult task before her. She paused at every line. Her face was solemn, grave, and powerful. So the puz- zle deepened. Solomon could see this was not a woman writing merely to thank an- other for a night's lodging. Winn she had finished it she folded it and secured it very carefully, and beckoned Solomon Grace. He came to her. "You will give this letter into her own hand, and sec her read it ';" "I will; who shall 1 say it is from?" "Sarah Mansell." "Oh! Sarah Mansell. You are Sarah Mansell'/" "lam Sarah Mansell." Then she said very thoughtfully, "This Mrs. Haynes, have you a real affection for her?" " I am a bachelor for her sake, that is all." said he despondently. She fixed her eyes on him. "Perhaps some day you may be a married man for her sake." Solomon shook his head. " Is that a conundrum?" " Well," said she, " the future is a riddle. What I am doing now proves that. Who knows? you have been very kind to me. Blessings come to those who are good to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow. Well, my child is fatherless this day, and I am a deserted wife, all alone on the great sea, with nobody but my child and my God." Poor Solomon might have told her those two were more than seventy-seven bad husbands, but she went too straight for the tender heart that lay beneath his breast. "Don't ye now, don't ye," he sniveled; "you make me cry enough to 'wash a palace-car. You're not alone, you shan't be alone. Here, little beauty, come and comfort mother. Solomon Grace isn't much, but he'll stand by you till she starts, and then you must just keep your eye square for home, like the jade's figure- head there. You have got friends to homi >?" " 1 have." "You are loved to home?" "I am, sir." "Don't I tell you? They are waiting for you; they are thinking of you." " They are. I saw them in a vision last night." " It stands to reason; you was born to be loved." " 1 thought so once, sir." •' 1 think so now, and I'm sure of it. You'd bewitch creation. Why, I'd cut myself in pieces to serve you. Darn mo if I wouldn't take you safe to thai ar island and hand you to your friends, and then slip back, if it warn't for the letter." Leaving this good soul to comfort Sarah Mansell till the ship was cleared of stran- gers, I must go to meet a less interesting couple, who are coming this way. As James took the walk merely to pleaso Elizabeth, he went wherever she chose. Thej ailed at a provision shop and bought the things he liked. Elizabeth was hand- some, and well dressed, and many admir- ing glances were cast on her. Her com- panion's vanity was tickled at this. Only what rather spoiled the walk was that he longed so at that very moment to be rak- ing the town for the other. Presently they came out in sight of the quay, and James began to fidget again. He burned to get away from his companion to see if his agent had news of Sarah, and, besides that, he had a dread of open spaces. The}- facilitate surprises. Sarah mi him from a distance walking with Eliza- beth. This extreme uneasiness did not escape the latter. " Why, what is the matter with you now?" said she. "You SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 79 keep looking about as if you had done something, and expected the police to pounce on you from every corner." " You wouldn't be easy if you had lost £400 and couldn't tell how." "Yes, I would, if I could do without them. They were for me, but I don't fret, and why waste another thought on them, my dear?" At this moment the steamer's bell rang. "There now, "said Elizabeth kindly, "stay and see the boat start." "Lend me a couple of dollars," said he. She gave it him directly. " Wait a bit for me here," he said, and Elizabeth seated herself in a sort of pleasant waiting-room near the main entrance to the piers, and waited. He darted into a shop and replenished his flask. Then he ran to find his agent, and got from him the name of the hotel Sarah Mansell had gone to. He was eager to go there at once, but dared not. Eliza- beth had a temper. Doubleface was fairly puzzled between the two. However, it was only postponed for an hour. Elizabeth, with her house full of lodgers, would not be out more than that, and then he would fly on the wings of penitence to Sarah, and not leave her for the other till he had hum- bugged her thoroughl}- and eradicated all suspicion. So he came back to Elizabeth. She was sitting there quite at ease. "Curse it," said he, "she must go home." But now ropes were cast off, and every preparation made for the vessel leaving. This is admirably managed in New York. The largest steamboat just glides away into the Atlantic like a river boat start- ing upon the Thames. "Ah," said Doubleface, tormented by the situation he had created for himself, " I wish I was going in you — alone." He stepped forward and saw her move away. She lay against the quay amidships, but she was so long that it took a minute be- fore her aftercabin came opposite. A woman, who had caught sight of James Mansell, but hidden herself till then, rushed out upon the poop, followed by a girl. She whipped a packet of notes out of her bosom, and brandished them high in the air to him, then drew her child's head to her waist. That is what she did. But how can words convey the grandeur of those im- passioned gestures, the swiftness of their sequence, and the tale that towering figure and those flaming eyes told to the villain and fool who had possessed her, plagued her for years, and hit upon the only way to lose her. He started back, bewildered, blasted, terrified, and glared after her in stupid dismay. While he stood petrified, a voice hissed in his ear, " You know- — where — your — notes — are — now !" It was Elizabeth at bis shoulder, but a little behind him. Doubleface turned slowly, aghast with this new danger. He gasped, but could not articulate. Elizabeth laid her right hand on his shoulder, and pointed to Sarah with her left. " Why, that woman is shaking them in your face!" Then she took him by both shoulders and turned him square to her. " Your face, that is as white as ashes ! " In this position she drove her eyes into his, and clutched him firmly. " What is there between that woman and you? She has taken your money, yet she is not afraid. She vaunts it, and it's you that tremble. Oh! what does this mean?" In her excitement she had grasped him so firmly that her nails hurt him severely through his clothes, but now that clutch relaxed, and she felt weak. "What does this mean?" she repeated. The other creature, accustomed to lie, now tried to escape, hopeless as it seemed. He stammered: "I don't know. I saw a woman shake something or other at me — was it at me?" "Who else?" " I fancied she looked past me, somehow. Where were you?" "Behind you at the door." " Could it be to you?" The desperate wretch hardly knew what he was say- ing. To his surprise this bold suggestion told. "Why, of course it might be to me." 80 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. He seized this advantage artfully. "More likely to neither of us," said he; "and yet I don't know; since I came home everything that happens is a mys- tery." " That is true, and I suppose I shall never know the meaning of it all." "I'm as much in the dark as you are," said he, "and you can believe me or not, as you like." Then he took a step or two away to show her he was disposed to quar- rel with her. That answers sometimes when a body is in the wrong. This stroke of policy left room for a third figure to step in between them, and that position was promptly taken by Solo- mon Grace. "Letter from Sarah Mansell." Doubleface tinned with a yell, and made a grab at the letter. Solomon, who was holding it, out with his right hand toward Elizabeth, stopped the rush with his left. and mocked the attempt. " No yer don't," said the stalwart giant. "I'm under Mrs. Sarah Mansell's orders as this letter is not to be intercepted by any darned cuss what- ever, but guv into the hands of Mrs. Haynes, and read before me to make sure. " Elizabeth stared, hut hesitated to defy her husband before Solomon Grace. "But I don't know her," said she, looking at the letter in Solomon's hand. "Yes ye do — it's the lady that slept at your house last night." Elizabeth uttered a little cry ami panted. She almost snatched the letter now, and said, "Then she did listen at the door." " Like enough," said James. " Then of course she'll know what to say to set us all by the ears." "Yes, but," said Elizabeth, "she knows more than you ever told me that night. She knew where to find those notes — ay, those that hide can find. My fingers tremble; open it for me, Solomon." He opened the letter, and handed it to Elizabeth, and dared James Mansell to interfere. Elizabeth read the letter very slowly, and piecemeal — read it how she could, indeed; for her turn was come to have her bosom pierced: " 'Madam — You and I are both un- fortunate. You are betrayed, and I am deceived. If I tell the truth, I must pain you ; if I withhold it, he will deceive you still.' Oh, what is coming? said poor Elizabeth. 'The man that passes for Matthew Haynes' " — she stopped and looked at him, and read again — " 'passes for Matthew Haynes — is James Mansell — my husband!' " (The reader held out her hand piteously to Solomon Grace ; he sup- ported her, and she held on to him, and that seemed to give her more power to rend on.) " 'We were married at St. Mary's Church, Glo'ster, on the 13th of July, 1873.'" " That's a lie!" said James. "It does not lead like one," was the dogged reply. " 'In fsis he robbed me of mv savings, and went to Ann liea. Last month one Varney from Liverpool told him I had money. He came for it directly, and to,>k me with it — it was £400 — sooner than not have it at all. Dear madam, I could not let my child ho robbed.' There, I knew it — she took back her own. ' But James Mansell is yours if worth keeping.' Are you worth keep- ing? 'My door he m vc r enters again. But if ever you should be as desolate as I was on your steps that hitter night, my home is yours. God help us both ! '• ' Sarah Mansell, " '13 Green Street, Liverpool.'" "That is as clever a lie as ever woman told," said James Mansell. Elizabeth replied: "It is God's truth! Sunshine is not clearer. So, then, I never had but one husband." She put both hands to her face and blushed to the throat. " You were his friend. Take me home." She clung piteously to Solomon. Then she turned to Doubleface. " In one hour my servant will give you your clothes on my doorstep. My door you never enter again." " Mind that !" said the Illinois man. " I shall be there. 'Every dog has his day !' " With the word he tucked the resolute but trembling Elizabeth tight under his arm . and took her home. SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 81 Doubleface cursed them both as they retreated. Then he rushed to the water- side, and the steamboat was now all in sight, and Sarah Mansell still visible, standing over her child, with her eyes raised to Heaven. Then the fool and villain raged and raved between the two superior women he had deceived and lost. Both too good for him, and at last he knew it — both in sight, yet leaving him forever, and he knew it. He raved; he cursed; he ran to the water's edge. No, he had not the courage to die. He took out his flask and went for comfort to his ruin — he drank neat brandy fiercely. Then fire ran through his veins. He began not to care quite so much. He drank again. Aha! He was brave. He defied them. He drank both their healths in brandy. He vowed to have two more as good as either of them. He drank on till his eyes set and he rolled upon the pavement. There the police found him dead drunk, and held a short consultation over him. "Police cell?" "No — hospital." CHAPTER XL Joseph Pinder and Deborah Smart kept the home and the little shop, and were on those terms of gentle fellowship which often lead to a closer union when some stronger attachment ceases to inter- fere. When a month had elapsed they began to be very anxious to hear from Sarah ; and one evening Pinder said if she had written the day she landed, or even the day after, they ought to have had a letter that very day. "Oh!" said Deborah, "he won't let her write to us. That is my trouble now — we shall never know whether she is dead or alive." Pinder could not bring himself to believe that; so then they had a discussion. It was interrupted by the rattle of a fly drawing up at the door. Wheel visitors were rare at that house. Deborah thought the man had drawn up at the wrong door; Pinder said he would go and see; a knock at the door settled the question. Pinder opened it, and there, full in the gaslight, stood Sarah Mansell and Lucy. Pinder uttered a loud exclamation. She gave a little sign of satisfaction and put both hands on his shoulders. "Yes, my good Joseph, here we are, thank Heaven ! Oh, sister!" and she stopped Deborah's scream of amazement and delight by flying into her arms. The cab was paid, the boxes taken into the parlor, and then Sarah and Lucy were inspected and cuddled again. Then came a fusillade of questions. " But what brought you back so soon? Did he change his mind? I never thought he would let you come back at all. And looking like a rose; you are properly sun- burned ; but it becomes you — everything becomes my sister. Here's your picture; it has been our only comfort. Aren't you hungry after your journey?" "Indeed I am." "Bless you! And I could almost bless him for bringing you back in such health and spirits. There, you go upstairs and make yourselves comfortable; your supper shall be ready in ten minutes. Oh dear! I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels for joy." In due course the cloth was laid for five and supper served. "Will he be here to supper?" asked Deborah with a laughable diminution of ardor. "No." " That is odd. Of course he will sleep here?" "No." At this Deborah and Pinder sat open- mouthed, and could hardly believe their senses. Sarah, brimful of health and in good spirits, yet her husband not with her. He could not be far off, thought Deborah. " He is in Liverpool?" 82 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. "No." " Then he is coming by next boat?" "No." "Well, I never." "Let us welcome her, not question her," suggested Pinder; "she will tell us all about it when she chooses. It is enough for me to see her looking so well and so happy." " Happy — because I am at peace, and because I have got back to two dear friends. Ah! I saw you both in my dream, sitting over . that picture there ami saying, 'We shall never see her again.' " "Oh, gracious Heavens! and so we did,*' cried Deborah. "I was sure of it," Sarah replied, "the vision was so plain." Deborah's curiosity burned her; she could not help putting questions directly or indirectly. Sarah parried them calmly; then came a practical and somewhat deli- cate question. Deborah a] >proached it in- directly. "Since \ - ou went I was afraid to Ik 1 alone in the house, and Mr. Pinder he has slept in Lucy's room." Sarah saw at once what she would be at, and said, "Pray make no change for me. Lucy will sleep with me in the best bedroom. We shall both prefer it, shall we not?" "Oh. yes, mamma! I like to be with you day and night." Deborah was charmed at the arrange- ment, and so was Pinder; he had ex- pected to be politely consigned to some other dwelling. Deborah, however, must try once more to draw her sister. "This is a blessed state of things," said she, " but I am afraid 'tis too good to last. He will drop on us some day, and turn us to the right-about." Sarah would not utter a syllable in reply, and wore an impassive countenance, as she took no interest whatever in the specula- tion. It must be confessed this was enough to exasperate curiosity. "Well," said Debo- rah, in despair, "will you answer me one thing? Has he collared the money?" Sarah put her hand to her bosom and produced a bundle of notes. " It is all here except the traveling expenses," she said, calmly. "lam glad of that," said Pinder; "and, for pity's sake, don't question her any more." Sarah smiled. " Don't be hard on her, Joseph," said she. "She must ask ques- tions, being a woman, and one that loves me. But I'm not bound to answer them, you know." " If she won't bear to be questioned she shall go to bed, for I am dying with curios- ity. Aren't you, Mr. Pinder? Now tell the truth." " W't 11, I am," was the frank reply. " But I don't want to know everything all in a moment. I'd rather have her here ami know nothing more than know everything and not have her." Deborah acquiesced hypocritically, be- cause she had just remembered she could get it all out of Lucy. That young lady now showed fatigue, and the little party separated for the night. "One word," said Deborah to Sarah in her bedroom. "Give me one word to sleep on. Are you happy?" " Sister, I am content." Deborah pumped Lucy. Lucy, to her infinite surprise, pursed up her lips, and would not say a word. Her mother bad made her promise most solemnly not to reveal anything whatever that bad happened to them in New York. Deborah writhed under this, but Pinder made light of it, and really there was plenty to balance the want of complete information. Sarah resumed her busi- ness; he was once more her associate, and his jealousy was set to sleep. Her husband was not there, and no longer filled her thoughts. She never fretted for him; indeed, she ignored the man. The phenomenon was new and un- accountable, but certain. Joseph Pinder threw himself with more ardor than ever into her service, and persuaded her to seize an opportunity, and rent larger and better- situated premises in a good thoroughfare. Here their trade was soon quadrupled, and Sarah Mansell was literally on the road to SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 83 fortune. By-and-by Lucy's health failed. It was " Pinder to the rescue" directly. He took a little villa and garden outside the town, and there he established Deborah and Lucy with a maid-servant. Sarah slept there. Pinder had a room there, but generally slept on the old premises. All this time he was making visible ad- vances in the affection of Sarah Mansell. Indeed, that straightforward woman never condescended to conceal her growing affec- tion for him. The change was visible on the very night of her arrival ; but now, as the months rolled on, her innocent affection and tenderness for the friend who had suf- fered for her, and loved her these ten years, grew and grew. Deborah saw it. Lucy saw it. The last to see it was Joseph himself; but even he discovered it at last with a little help from Deborah. In truth, it was undisguised. The only mystery was how it could be reconciled with her character, for she was a wife, and the most prudent of women. Then why let Joseph Pinder see he was the man she cared for — and the only one? However, one day the exultant Joseph found there were limits. In the ardor of his affection he went to kiss her. She drew back directly. "Please don't forget I am James Mansell's wife." And for a day or two after that her manner was guarded and reserved. This was a warn- ing to Mr. Joseph Pinder. A full and sweet affection visibly offered, but passion declined without a moment's hesitation. Joseph was chilled and disappointed for the moment, but what he had endured for her in less happy times reconciled him to the limits she now imposed. The situa- tion was heavenly compared with those that had preceded it, and above all he saw nobody to be jealous of. He had also little auxiliary joys in the affection of Lucy and Deborah. These two, as well as Sarah, loved, petted, and made much of him. How long this placid affection and sweet tranquil content — the most enduring happi- ness nature permits, if man could but see it — might have endured, I cannot say, for it was cut short about ten months after Sarah's return by a revelation that let in passion and let out peace. They did now a brisk trade with the United States; and one evening a new agent came from New York with liberal offers. This man happened to be a gossip and a friend of Solomon Grace. "Man- sell !" said he (the name over the shop). " I could tell j-ou a queer story connected with that name." " It's not an uncommon name," said Pin- der. " Was it James Mansell? " "No; it was a woman — a Mrs. Mansell. My friend Grace's wife — 'that is now — found her seated on a doorstep with a little girl; she said she had missed her husband. Mrs. Grace — at least, Mrs. Haynes she was then— asked her in, and liked her so well she gave her her supper and a bed. Presently home comes Mr. Haynes, her husband, quite unexpected. They had a hug or two, I suppose, and talked of their family affairs. And it seems this Mrs. Mansell listened, for next day this Haynes, as he called himself, missed £400 sterling that was sewed in- side his pocket. There was a row; one said one thing, one said another. Then — let me see — what's next? Oh, I remem- ber! what do you think? Mr. and Mrs. Haynes were watching the steamboat start- ing for England. Doesn't Mrs. Mansell step on deck all of a sudden and shakes the missing bank - notes in both their faces—" " Capital !" roared Pinder. " Go on ! go on !" " And it turned out she had only taken back her own, for this Haynes was no Haynes at all, but one Mansell, if you please, and had been taking a turn at bigamy." " The scoundrel ! Now I see it all." " However, it didn't pay. Both the women sacked him, and Mrs. Haynes's friends wanted to imprison him. But Solomon Grace said, 'Don't let's have a row. Marry me.' Mind, he had always been sweet on her. So she married him like a bird. Why, you seem quite flut- tered like. Do you know the people?" " I do. This very shop belongs to that 84 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. same Mrs. Man sell. Do tell! How things come about !" " But of course the story is no news to you?" said the agent. " Yes it is. She never mentions his name." "No wonder. It must be a sore sub- ject." "Where is the villain? What has be- come of him? Any chance of his coming over here?" "How can I tell?" You may imagine the effect of this story upon Pinder. He went out to the villa hot with it, and glowing with love and pity for Sarah and rage at her husband. But dur- ing the walk he cooled a little, and began to ask himself if he ought to go and blurt out his information. Sarah must have some reason for with- holding it so long. Why, of course she was mortified, and would not thank him if ho went and published it. Herein he misunderstood Sarah's motive — it was more profound, and the result of much thought and forecast. However, she will speak for herself. As for Binder, he took a middle course: he confided it to Debo- rah, stipulating thai she should feel her way with Sarah, ami see how she could bear the truth being known. Deborah acted on these instructions. But Sarah broke through them all in a moment, and told her the whole truth. Next morning after breakfast she spoke privately to Pinder. "So you have heard something about what parted James Mansell and me for- ever?" (She had divined at once it must have come through Pinder.) "Yes, Sarah, to tell the truth, I have." " Well, Deborah will tell you the whole story. It is not a matter I care to talk about. " •• I would rather have heard it from you than from a stranger. Did you doubt whose side I should be on?" " No, Joseph, not for a moment. If you must know, it was entirely for your sake I kept it to myself. " "For my sake? Why, it only makes my heart warm a little more to you. To think that such an angel as you should ever be deceived and pillaged!" " And cured. Believe it or not, I am thankful it happened, and almost grateful to the man for undeceiving me before I wasted any more affection on such a creat- ure. No, Joseph. I am single-hearted, as I always was, and my heart turned to you before ever j-ou saw my face this time, and I kept that cruel story locked in my bosom for your sake. Ah, well! I was not to have mj* way. You know my condition now — neither maid, wife, nor widow — and I am afraid it will unsettle your mind, and this will not he the happy home it has been." She sighed as she said this. He smiled at her wild apprehensions. But she was wise, and one that knew the heart of a man, and had forecasts. CHAPTER XII. The only difference it made at first was a sli-ht increase of sympathy and respect -a the part of Joseph Pinder. But this wa- followed by a more manifest ardor of devotion, and this in due course by open courtship. Sarah thought it due to herself and her position to curb this. She did so with admirable address — sometimes playfully, sometimes coldly, sometimes firmly, al- ways kindly; yet with all this tact the repeated cheeks made Pinder cross now and then. She was sorry, but out of prudence would not show it. It ended in his begging par- don, and in her saying she did not blame him; it was the natural consequence of her situation, now that situation was de- clared. As nothing stands still, this went on till the very thing Sarah had foreseen came to pass. The man, after so many years of self-restraint, and so many good offices SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 85 done, found himself at last rewarded with affection only. Tli at was so sweet that, instead of satisfying him, it enticed him on; he longed to possess her, and asked himself why not. It was no longer either wrong or impossible. He implored her to divorce James Mansell and marry him. She received the proposal with innocent horror. " For shame !" she said — "' oh, for shame !" and turned her back on him, and would hardly speak to him for some hours. He took the rebuff humbly enough at the time. But afterward he consulted his friends, and they sided with him, and he returned to the charge. He pressed her, he - urged her, he coaxed her, he did every- thing except remind her of his own merits (and her own heart supplied that omission), but she would not yield. And the provok- ing thing was, she would not argue. Her old-fashioned religion and her old-fash- ioned delicacy despised reasoning on such a matter. He might almost as well have offered her reasons for bigamy. She was prejudiced and deaf to logic. The next time he attacked her she showed distress. " Ah," she said, " I foresaw this. Now you know why I kept my sad story to myself. I know the value of peace and pure affec- tion, and I know that you or any man would demand more than I can give. I don't blame you, dear; but you will not forgive me; it is not likely." Her tears, the first he had ever made her shed, melted him. He kissed her, and begged her to forgive him. She sighed, and said, " I suppose it is no use telling you what it costs me to deny you. You will never be easy now, but will never move me. I can't help it. I must trust in God." Joseph Pinder told his friends it was no use; he couldn't move her; he only tor- mented himself and made her unhappy. Then one of them laughed in his face, and told him he was loving the woman like a calf and not like a man. " If she is really fond of you, be her master. She'll like you all the better, whatever she may pretend. You cut it for a year or two, and let her find out what you are worth." Another told him he was being hum- bugged and made a convenience of. The woman was secretly hoping her husband would come back and eat humble pie. So what with passion, the sense of long serv- ice, instilled distrust, and wounded vanity, Joseph Pinder, after disquieting himself and Sarah in vain for six months, re- solved to make a change. One Saturday night he packed up his carpet-bag, and announced that he should go next morn- ing to Manchester, and thence to London. "For how long?" asked Sarah anxiously. " Well, Sarah, for good, unless some- thing happens." Sarah said nothing; she understood in a moment that he intended to make a last attempt, and to go if she refused. Next morning she went to church just as usual, and Joe Pinder awaited her re- turn — with his ultimatum. However, his feelings were subjected to some little trials before she came home. It was a glorious day. Lucy and Deborah sat out in the little garden. He finished packing his bag, and then went down to say a last word to them. He found Deborah with red eyes, and silent too — very unusual things with her. She and Lucy had evidently been talking the matter over, for Lucy asked him plump why her mother would not marry him. He replied, sullenly, " Be- cause I don't deserve it, you may be sure." "That is a fib," said Lucy, severely. " Well, if she won't, you had better marry me. Anything is better than being cross." "You must grow up first," suggested Deborah , "Or I must grow down," said Pinder. Then he took Lucy on his knee, and be- ing in no humor for jest, he said, "I had set my heart on you for a daughter. A wife I might find, but a daughter like you, all read}" to love me- — a regular rose-bud! Ah, well !" Lucy, precocious in all matters of senti- ment, gushed cut directly, "You shall, you shall. Why, now I think of it, I want a father. I never much liked the other one. But I like you, Uncle Joe — I mean Father Joe. There, I love— I adore you." She spread her arms supernaturally wide, and 86 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. threw them round his neck with an en- thusiastic rush. " Little angel !" said the affectionate fel- low. " Well, Lucy, I'll try for you, but I suppose it is no use. Yes, Deborah," said he, " I'll go for my bag, and a few minutes will decide." Deborah could not blame him, for she knew that, if she'd been a man, she could not have been so patient as Joe Pinder had been. There was a wicket-gate at the back of the garden, and Sarah now appeared at it. She had risen in the world. Both .-lie and Deborah were dressed in rich black silk dresses, but with no trimming or flounces. Being tall, they showed off the materia] all the more. Sarah had a white French bonnet and neat gloves, but, relic of humil- ity, she carried her prayer-book in her hand. Deborah sent Lucy indoors, and went to meet her sister. "Oh, Sarah," she said, all in a hurry, "do mind what you're about. Joe Pinder's blood is up. I think it is his friends that jeer him." Sarah sighed. " What can 1 do?" " You can't do nothing, but you can say a deal. Why. what is a woman's tongue for? Tellium anything, promise anything. La, 1 wish I was in your place — he should never leave me!" Before Sarah could answer. Pinder ap- peared at the door with a large carpet-bag. He put it down en the steps. Deborah ran to him. "Oh, Joseph," she said, pathetically, "what should we do without thee? And look at the garden — not a flower but you planted; ami 'twas you laid the turf. Joe, dear, don't believe but she loves you with all her heart. She never could love two since she was born, and you are the one." " That remains to be seen," said the man firmly ; and he looked so pale and so dogged Deborah had little hope he would give in. He came to Sarah; she was seated in a garden chair waiting bravely for him. He stood in front of her. " I've come to know your mind, once for all." "I think you know my mind," she said, gently, " and I'm sure you know my heart." "No, Sarah, I don't, not to the bottom." " Perhaps not. Women-folk were always hard for men to understand. Never heed that. Speak your own mind to me, dear Joseph." And Pinder said he was there on pur- pose. "But first," said he, "let me put a question to you. I'm almost ashamed to, though." " It is no time to be afraid or ashamed," said she, solemnly. " Let me know all that is in your heart — the heart that I am los- ing." " No, no," said Pinder, "not if you think it worth keeping. Well, Sarah, what I am driven to ask you is, What can any man do to earn a woman more than I have done? I have loved you honestly these ten years. I was true to you when you didn't belong to mo. 1 tried to serve your husband for your sake — a chap I always disliked and despised. You found him out at last, and parted with him. Then I hid my mind no longer." "It never was hidden from me." "Since you came back alone I have courted you openly. You don't forbid me. You almost seem to return my love." *' Almost seem! I love you with all my heart and soul. I never loved as I love you, for I never esteemed." " Ah ! If I could only believe that !" •• You may believe it. I never told a lie. Myhearl turned to you when I saw you in my dream, and thought of your lone; fidel- ity and no reward. My poor Joseph, my heart turned more and more to you as the ship sailed homeward, and you were the one that made coming home seem sweetest to me. Where are your eyes? Since I came home have I ever regretted the creature I used to pine for?" (She put her white hands to her face and blushed.) "Women don't make love as men do, but they shore it in more ways than men do to those who will but see it." " Then show me a little love — real love. Make me your husband !" "How can I?" "Easy enough. Divorce that villain, and marry me. It is a plain case of de- sertion and infidelity. You can get a divorce for the askinar." SINGLE HE ART, AND DOUBLEFACE. 87 "What! Go to law?" " Why not? It's done every day by your betters." She colored faintly, and said, with gen- tle dignity, " My superiors, you mean. They do a many things I can't, besides painting and powdering of their faces. Me go to a court of law to part those that were joined till death in a church? That I could never do." Piuder got angry. He belonged to a de- bating club, and he let her have it accord- ingly. " That is all superstition. The priests used to tell ignorant folks that marriage was a sacrament, and only the Pope of Rome could annul it. But we are not slaves of superstition and priestcraft nowadays. Marriage is not a sacrament ; it is a contract, no more, no less. Your husband has broken it, contrary to law, and you have only got to dissolve it ac- cording to law. Wouldn't I divorce a faith- less wife for you? And you would do as much for me, if you loved me as I love you." "I love you better," said she; "by the same token, I couldn't quarrel with you as you do with me. Oh ! pray, pray don't ask me to go into a public court, and say I only come to be freed from a wicked husband, and then have to own another man is wait- ing to take me. Ah ! if you respected me as I do you, you couldn't — " " I have respected you these ten years, and I've shown it. Now it is time to re- spect myself. I'm the laughing-stock of rny friends for my calf-love." " Ah !" cried she in dismay, " if they have been and wounded your vanity, it is all over. A man's love cannot stand against his vanity. But oh! if they knew how you are loved and respected, they would be ashamed to play upon you so. Dear Joseph, be patient, as I am. Be- lieve that I love you better than you or any man born can ever love me. You are so agitated and so angry you frighten me, dear. Do but think calmly one mo- ment: what is the best thing in holy wed- lock, after all? Is it not the respect, and the tender affection, and the sweet com- pany? What husband is more cherished than you, or better loved? My sister loves you; my child loves you; I love you dear- ly. If you could but see us when you are away, how dead alive the place is, and we all sit mum-chance; but the moment you come we are all gay and talkative. You are our master, our delight, our very sun- shine, and is that nothing?" Joseph Pinder drank the honey with glistening eyes, but he could Dot quite digest it. He said these were sweet words, and there was a time when they would have charmed his ears, and blinded him to the hard truth. But he was older now, and had learned that woman's words are air. It is only by her actions you can ever know her heart. "James Mansell," he said, "is a man of my age. 'Tisn't likely we shall both out- live him. So when you say you will not divorce him, that is as much as to say you will never be my wife till he is so obliging as to die. What is that but treating me like a calf? I won't die a bachelor to please James Mansell, nor any woman that clings to him for life. I will leave this, kill or cure." Sarah objected firmly to that. "No, Joseph, if we are to part, it is for me to go and you to stay. This pretty house and garden I have enjoyed so, 'tis the fruit of your industry, and your skill, and your affection, that I cannot recompense as you require, and so you will call me ungrateful some day, and break my heart altogether. My dear, you must oblige me in this one thing, you must live here, and send me back to my little shop, and let me see you get rich, and make some woman happy that will love you better than I do. You loved me most when I stood at that little counter in Green Street, and didn't even pretend to be a lady." She began steadily enough, but with all her resolution, her voice failed, and she ended in tears. " No, Sarah, you are not going to get it all your own way. Lucy loves me, and would be my daughter to-morrow. I won't hurt her; and I could not let you go back to Green Street. I'll take noth- ing with me but my carpet-bag and my pride, and the heart ycu nave worn out." WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Then Sarah began to cry in earnest. " Oh, Joseph," said she, in accents to melt a stone, " is it not sorrow enough to part? Can you part in anger? I wouldn't be angry with you if you were to kill me." "Part in anger?" said he. "Heaven forbid! Forgive me, my darling, if I have spoken a harsh word; and give me your hand at parting." He put out his hand, she seized it, and kissed it passion- ately. He kissed hers as tenderly, and their tears fell fast upon each other's hands. But he was a man, and had said he would go. So he actually did tear himself away, and catch up his bag, and through the wicket gate; and such was his nianly resolution and his wounded pride that he went thirty — or at least twenty-rive — yards before he wished him- self back upon any terms whatever. Till now he never knew how much she loved him. As for Sarah, she did not attempt to de- ceive herself or any one else. She laid her browon the little table and Bobbed piteous- lv. Deborah came running to her, a off her bonnet the first thing, for why should she spoil that as well as break her heart? But while saving the sacred bonnet, she was trying to comfort the heart. "How could he leave you? How could you let him? It will kill you." "Perhaps not. I trust in Heaven." "Don't cry like that, dear," sobbed Deborah. "He will come back in a month or two, and then you will give in to him." "No. I can only cry for him, and trust in my Redeemer, as I did when that creat- ure played me false. I didn't trust in vain. Bring me my child." Deborah put Lucy on her lap, and Sarah fondled her and cried over her. Presently what should Deborah see but Joseph Pin- der at the wicket gate with his bag. She ran to him all in a hurry and whispered, "Not yet, ye foolish — you mustn't come back for a week; then she will be like was." "I'm not coming back at all," said Pin- der, loud and aggressively. "It is only out of civility. Lady and gentleman from America looking everywhere for her." Then he held the gate open, and beck- oned to a lady and gentleman. They ap- peared, and at his invitation passed through the wicket. Now Sarah had ears like a hare. She heard ever}' word, and her smile of celes- tial love and just a little earthly triumph at Pinder's voice and self-deception was delicious; only, as she had been crying, she could not face these visitors all in a moment, but dried her eyes and tried to compose her features. Just then Pinder pointed her out in silence, and Solomon alked gravely down the garden, and drew up stiflly at her right hand, Mrs. Grace also moved toward Sarah, but hung hack a little. There was an air of solemnity about them both. Pinder, in stead of retiring again, crept down a little way witli his hag, and a swift exchange of words passed between him and Deborah. " You came out of civility : what are you staying for?" "Curiosity," snarled Binder. A- soon as Mrs. Mansell saw Solomon Grace she said, eagerly, " < )h, my good friend, you here? Welcome!" She pi:t out both hands to him. He took them, and said gravely, "We bring you serious news." At the sound "we, ' Sarah turned, and there was .Mrs. Grace. She welcomed ner just as she had done her husband. Lucy made a school courtesy to both of them. There was a hesitation. Grace and his wife looked at each other. "Yes, you can tell her," said Elizabeth. Sarah Mansell eyed them keenly. " Yes, you can tell me: whoever is false to me is dead to me from that moment." She half divined the truth. Some women can read faces, manner, incidents, all in a moment, and put them together. This was one. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I am glad you are prepared for it. James Mansell is no more." Then Grace handed her the certificate of Mansell's death. Mrs. Grace resumed: "He died in the hospital, and he died penitent, begging SINGLEHEART, AND DOUBLEFACE. forgiveness of those he had injured. Mrs. Mansell, I stood by his bedside and par- doned him." "And so do I," said Sarah. " I forgive him with all my heart, as I hope to be one day forgiven;" and she raised her pious eyes to heaven. While this was going on, Deborah came behind Pinder, who was listening gravely to every word, and quietly took the bag away out of his hand, and then his hat; both of these she handed to the servant- girl, and bade her hide them. Susan took the hint in a moment. Thus disarmed, Joseph sat meekly down in a chair at some distance, and Lucy immediately seated herself on his knee, with an arm round his neck. Sarah parted for the present with her American friends, but took their address, and in due course entertained them hospitably. But this was a solemn day, and though she scorned to feign a single particle of regret, yet she felt it was not a day for conviviality. When she had bidden the Graces "good-by" at the wicket gate, she walked slowly toward the house. Then, looking askant, her eye fell on Pinder, with Lucy on his knee. She stopped and looked at them. Just then the servant came out into the porch and announced dinner. Sarah smiled sweetly on the pair, and said, "Come, my dears." They both came; Joseph very humbly. But Sarah never uttered one syllable of comment on his temporary revolt. He, on his part, tried his best to make her for- get their one quarrel. But that was quite unnecessary, and she let him see it. She never thought him in the wrong, but only thought herself in the right, and she never showed him even the shadow of resentment or exultation. She was " Singleheart, " and she loved him. When, after waiting a decent time, he threw out a timid hint that he hoped he might call her his own before so very long, she opened her eyes and said, " Whenever you 1 lease, dear. T m only wa it in g your pleasure." Hewasamazed. But that did not prevent his catching her to him with rapture. In the ardent colloquy that followed this embrace he said he had been fearing she would demand a year's delay. "Not I," said she; "nor yet a month's. To be sure, I have my own old-fashioned notions of decency; but when it comes to ceremony, I would not set up such straws against you, not for one moment. What is etiquette to me? I am not a lady." [I am not so sure of that as she was.] So they were married off-hand, and she soon showed Joe Pinder whether she loved him or not. All he had ever dreamed of love never came near hers. His happiness is perfect; and ten times the sweeter that he waited for it, pined for it, lost it en- tirely, earned it again, gained it by halves, then enjoyed it to the full. To the world they are just thriving traders, very diligent and square in busi- ness, but benevolent; yet their private his- tory is more romantic than the lives of nineteen poets in twenty. Deborah is courting diligently. One Sunday afternoon Lucy, nodding over a good book, yet fitfully observant, saw her wooed by three eligible parties in turn over the palings. Then Lucy asked her which she was going to marry. " How can I tell?" said she. "Are they all three so very nice?" in- quired Lucy, slyly*. " They are all three nicer than none at all," was Deborah's reply. Lucy's Last. "Aunt Deb, I don't think you will ever be married." " That's good news for me. And why not?" "Because marriages are made in heaven. " Now it is not for me to predict the future ; but from my observations of the Lucy Man- sells I have known, I should expect to find that young lady at seventeen excessively modest and retiring, but as stupid as an owl. 90 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. TIT FOR TAT. CHAPTER I. It was a glaring afternoon in the short but fiery Russian summer. Two live pict- ures, one warm, one very cool, lay side by side. A band of fifty peasant girls, in bright- spotted tunics, snow-white leggings, and turban handkerchiefs, blue, crimson, or yellow, moved in line across the pale green grass, and plied their white rakes with the free, broad, supple, and graceful movements of women whom no corset had ever confined and stiffened. Close by this streak of vivid color, mov- ing in afternoon haze of potable gold over gentle green, stood a grove of ancient birch- trees with great smooth silver stems ; acool brook babbled along in the deep shade; and on the carpet of green mosses, and among the silver columns, sat a lady with noble but hardish features, in a gray dress and a dark brown hood. Her attendant, a girl of thirteen, sparkled apart in pale blue, seated on the ground, nursing the lady's guitar. This was the tamer picture of the two, yet, on paper, the more important, for the lady was, and is, a remarkable woman — Anna Petrovna Staropolsky, a true Rus- sian aristocrat, ennobled, not by tli6 breath of any modern ruler, but by antiauity, local sovereignty, and the land she and hers had held and governed for a thousand years. It may throw some light upon her char- acter to present her before and after the emancipation of her slaves. Her family had never maltreated serfs within the memory of man, and she in- herited their humanity. For all that, she was very haughty ; but then her towering pride was balanced bj* two virtues and one foible. She had a feminine detestation of violence — would not allow a horse to be whipped, far less a man or a woman. She was a wonder- fully just woman, and, to come to her foible, she was fanatica per la musicaj or, if aught so vulgar and strong as En- glish may intrude into a joyous science whose terms are Italian, music mad. This was so well known all over her vast estates that her serfs, if they wanted new isliahs— alias log-huts — a new peal of forty church bells, mounting by perfect gradation from a muffin-man's up to a deaving dome of bell-metal, or, in short, any unusual favor, would get the priests i ir the deacons to versify their petition, and Bend it to the lady, with a solo, a quartet, and a little chorus. The following sequence of events could then be counted on. They would sing their prayer at her; she would listen politely, with a few winces; she would then ignore " the verbiage," as that intellectual oddity, the public singer, calls it, and fall tooth and nail upon the musical composition, correcting it a little peevishly. This done, she would proceed to their in- terpretation of their own music. "Let us read it right, such as it is," was her favor- ite formula. When she had licked the thing into grammar and interpretation, her hard features used to mollify so, she seemed another woman. Then a canny moujik, appointed beforehand to watch her counte- nance, would revert for a moment to '' the verbiage." "Oh, as to that — " the lady would say, and concede the substantial favor with comparative indifference. When the edict of emancipation came, and disarmed cruel proprietors, but took no TIT FOR TAT. '.il substantial benefit from her witbout a full equivalent, sbe made a progress through her estates, and convened her people. She read and explained the ukase and the com- pensatory clauses, and showed them she could make, the change difficult and dis- agreeable to them in detail. "But," said she, "I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall exact no impossible purchases nor crippling compensations from you. Our father the emperor takes nothing from me that I value, and he gives me good money, bearing five per cent, for indifferent land that brought me one per cent clear. He has relieved me of your taxes, your law- suits, and your empty cupboards, and given me a good bargain, you a bad one. So let us settle matters beforehand. If you can make your fortunes with ten acres per house, in spite of taxes, increasing mouths, laziness, and your beloved corn-brandy, why I give you leave to look down on Anna Petrovna, for she is your inferior in talent, and talent governs the world nowadays. But if you find Independence, and farms the size of my garden, mean Poverty now, and, when mouths multiply, Hunger, then you can come to Anna Pe- trovna, just as you used, and we will share the good emperor's five per cents." She was as good as her word, and made the change easy by private contracts in the spirit of the enactment, but more lenient to the serfs than its literal clauses. Bj- these means, and the accumulated respect of ages, she retained all the power and influence she cared for, and this brings me fairly to my summer picture. Those fifty peasant girls were enfranchised serfs who would not have put their hands to a rake for any other proprietor thereabouts. Yet they were working with a good heart for Anna Petrovna at fourpence per day, and singing like mavises as they marched. Catinka Kusminoff sang on the left of the band, Daria Solovieff on the right. They were now commencing the last drift of the whole field, and would soon sweep the edge of the grove, where Ma- dame Staropolsky — as we English should call her — sat pale and listless. She was a widow, and her only son had betrayed symptoms of heart-disease. Sad reminis- cences clouded those lofty but somewhat angular features, and she looked gloomy, hard and severe. But it so happened that as the band of women came alongside this grove, which bounded the garden from the fields, Daria Solovieff took up the song with marvelous power and sweetness. She was all uncon- scious of a refined listener : it was out of doors, she was leading the whole band, and she sang out from a chest and frame whose free play had never been confined by stays, and with a superb voice, all power, volume, roundness, sweetness, bell-like clearness, and that sympathetic eloquence which pierces and thrills the heart. In most parts of Europe this superb organ would have sung out in church, and been famous for miles around. But the Russians are still in some things Orien- tal; only men and boys must sing their an- thems ; so the greatest voice in the district was unknown to the greatest musician. She stood up from her seat and actually trembled — for she was Daria 's counterpart, organ- ized as finely to hear and feel as Daria to sing. The lady's lofty but hardish feat- ures seemed to soften all their outlines as she listened, a complacent, mild, and rapt expression overspread them, her clear gray eyes moistened, melted, and deepened, and lo ! she was beautiful ! She crept along the grove, listening, and when the sound retired, directed her little servant to follow the band and invite Daria to come and help her prune roses nextda} r . The invitation was accepted with joy, for the work was pleasant, and the re- muneration for working in Anna Petrov- na's garden was not money, but some arti- cle of female dress or ornament. It might be only a ribbon or a cotton handkerchief, but even then it would be worth more than a woman's wage, and please her ten times more : the contemplation of a chiffon is a sacred joy, the feel of fourpence a mere human satisfaction. So the next day came Daria, a tall, lithe, broad-shouldered lass, very fair, with hair like a new sovereign — pardon, oh, race Sclavonic, my British similes! marvelous 92 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. white skin, and color like a delicate rose, eyes of deep violet, and teeth incredibly white and even. When she went among the flowers she just seemed to be one of them. The lady of the house came out to her with gauntlets and scissors, and a servant and a gig umbrella, whereat the child of nature smiled, and revealed much ivory. Madame snipped off dead roses along with her for nearly half an hour, then observed, " This is a waste of time. Come under that tree with me. Now sing me that song you sang yesterday in the field." The fair cheek was dyed with blushes directly. "Me sing before you, Anna Petrovna !" " Why not? Come, Daria, do not be afraid of one old woman who loves music, and can appreciate you better than most. Sing to me, my little pigeon." The timid dove, thus encouraged, fixed her eyes steadily on the ground and cooed a little song. The tears stood in the lady's eyes. " You are frightened still," said she; "but why? See, I do not praise you, and I weep. That is the best comment. You will not always be afraid of me." " Oh, no; you are so kind." Daria's shyness was soon overcome, and every other day she had to conic and play at gardening a bit, then work at music. When the winter came her patroness could not do without her. She sent for old Kyril, Daria's father, and offered to adopt her. He did not seem charmed; said she was his only daughter; and he should miss her. " Why, you will mam' her, and so lose her," said madame. He admitted that was the custom. " The go-between arranges a match, and one daughter after another leaves the nest. But I have only this one, and she is in- dustrious, and a song-bird; and I have forbidden the house to all these old women who yoke couples together blindfold. To be sure, there is a young fellow, a cousin of mine, comes over from the town on Sun- days and brings Daria flowers, and me a flask of vodka." " Then he is welcome to one of you?" "As snow to sledge-horses; but Daria gives him little encouragement. She puts up with nim, that is all." •' You would like a good house, and fifty acres more than the ten a bountiful State bestows on you, rent free forever." "Forgive me for contradicting you, Anna Petrovna; I should like them ex- tremely." " And I should like to adopt Daria." The tender father altered his tone direct- by. " Anna Petrovna, it is not our custom to refuse you anything." "And it is not. your custom to lose any- thing by obliging me." "That is well known." After this, of course, the parties soon can:" to .-m understanding. Daria was to be adopted, ami some land ami a house made over to her and her father as joint proprietors during his life- time, to Daria after his decease. Daria, during her father's lifetime, was to live with Madame Staropolsky as a sort of humble but valued companion. When it was all settled, the only one of the three who had a misgiving was the promoter. "This song-bird," said she to herself, "has already too much power over me. How will it be when she is a woman? Her voice bewitches me. She has no need to sing: if she but speaks she enchants me. Have i brought my unstress into the house?" This presentiment flashed through her mind, but did not abide at that time. One Sunday she saw Daria strolling along the road with a young man. He parted with her at the door, but was a long time doing it, and gave her some flowers, and lingered and looked after her. Anna Petrovna felt a twinge, and the next moment blushed for herself. " What ! jealous!" said she. " The girl has certainly bewitched me." She asked Daria, carelessly, who the young man was. Daria made no secret of the matter. "It is only Ivan Ulitch Koscko, who comes many miles every Sunday." " To court you?" TIT FOR TAT. 93 " I suppose it is." "Does he love you?" "He says so." "Do you love him?" "Not much; but he is very good." " Is he to marry you?" " I don't know. I would rather be as I am." " I wonder which you love best — that young man or me?" " I could never love a young man as I love you, Anna Petrovna. It is quite different." Madame Staropolsky looked keenly at her to see whether this was audacious humbug or pure innocence, and it ap- peared to be the latter; so she embraced her warmly. Then Daria, who did not lack intelligence, said, "If you wish it, I will ask Ivan Ulitch not to come again." This would have been agreeable to Madame Staropolsky, but her sense of justice stepped in. "No," said she; "I will interfere with no prior claims." This lady played the violin in tune; the violoncello sonorously, not snorously; the piano finely; and the harp to per- fection. She soon enlarged her pupil's musical knowledge greatly, but was careful not to alter her style, which indeed was won- derfully natural, and full of genius. She also instructed her in history, languages, and arithmetic, and seemed to grow younger now she had something young to teach. Christmas came, and her son Alexis was expected, his education at St. Petersburg being finished. Until this year he had not visited these parts for some time. His mother used to go to the capital to spend the winter vacation with him there; the summer at Tsarskoe. But there was a famous portrait of him at seven years of age — a lovely boy, with hair like new- burnished copper, but wonderful dark e}"es and brows, his dress a tunic and trousers of purple silk, the latter tucked into Wellington boots, purple cap, with a short peacock's feather. We have Gainsborough's blue boy, but really this might be called the Russian purple boy. A wonder-striking picture of a beautiful original. Daria had often stood before this purple boy, and wondered at his beauty. She even thought it was a pity such an angel should ever grow up, and deteriorate into a man. The sledge was sent ten miles to meet Alexis, and while he was yet three miles distant the tinkling of the bells announced him. On he came, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, with three horses — -a power- ful black trotter in the middle, and two galloping bays, one on each side, all three with tails to stuff a sofa and manes like lions. Everybody in the village turned out to welcome him ; every dog left his occupation and followed him on the spot; the sledge dashed up to the front veranda, the ready doors flew open, the family were all in the hall, read}- with a loving wel- come; and the thirty village dogs, having been now and then flogged for their hospi- tality, stood aloof in a semicircle, and were blissful with excitement, and barked sym- pathetic and loud. When the mother locked the son in her arms the tears stood in Daria's eyes; but she was disappointed in his looks, after the picture ; to be sure, he was muffled to the nose in furs, and his breath, frozen flying, had turned his mustache and eye- brows into snow. Beard he had none, or he might have passed for Father Christ- mas — and he was only twenty. But in the evening he was half as big, and three times as handsome. His mother made Daria sing to him, and he was enraptured. He gazed on her all the time with two glorious black eyes, and stealing a glance at him, as women will, she found him, like his mother, beautified by her own enchant- ment, and he seemed to resemble his por- trait more and more. From that first night he could hardly take his eyes off her. These grand orbs, always dwelling on her, troubled her heart and her senses, and by degrees elicited timid glances in return. These and the seduc- tions of her voice completed his conquest, and he fell passionately in love with her. She saw and returned his love, but tried 94 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. innocent artifices to conceal it. Her heart was in a tumult. Hitherto she had been -as cool as a cucumber with Ivan and every other young man, and wondered what young women could see so attractive in them. Now she was caught herself, and fluttered like a wild bird suddenly caged. Ivan Ulitch Koscko, who could not make her love him, used to console himself for her coolness by saying it was her nature — a cool affection and moderate esteem was all she had to give to any man. So many an endured lover talks; but suddenly the right man comes, and straightway the icy Hecla reveals her infinite fires. Alexis soon found an opportunity to tell Daria he adored her. She panted with happiness first, and hid her blushing lace, but the next moment she quivered with alarms. ''Oh, no, no," she murmured, "you must not! What have I done? Your mothei ■-- she would never forgive me. It was not to steal her son's heart she brought me here." And the innocent girl was all mis- givings, and began to cry. Alexis consoled her and kissed her tears away, and would not part with her till she smiled again, and interchanged vows of love and constancy with him. Under love's potent influence she left him radiant. But when she thought it all over, and him no longer there to overpower her, her misgivings grew, and she was terrified. She hail an insight into character, and saw beneath the surface of Anna Pe- trovna. That lady loved her, but would hate her if she stole the affections of her son, her idol. Daria's deep eyes fixed themselves all of a sudden on the future. " Misfortune is coming here," she said. Then she crossed herself, bowed her head piously in that attitude, and prayed long and earnestly. Then she rose and went straight to Anna Petrovna. She found her knitting mittens for Alexis. She sat at her feet, and said wearily, "Anna Petrovna, I ask leave to go home." " Why? what is the matter?" "My father." " Is he unwell?" " No. But he has not seen me for some time." "Is it for long?" " Not very long. " Anna Petrovna eyed her steadily. " Per- haps you are like me, of a jealous disposi- tion in your little quiet way. Tell the truth now, my pigeon, you are jealous of Alosha." " Me jealous of Alexis?" "Oh, jealousy spares neither age nor sex. Come, you are — just a little. Con- fess now." Daria was surprised ; but she was silent at first; and then, being terribly afraid lest one so shrewd should discover her real sen- timents, she had the tact and the self- defensive subtlety to defend herslef so tamely against this charge that she left the impression but little disturbed. Anna Petrovna determined to cure her by kindness, so she said, " Well, you shall go next week. But to-day we expect our cousin Vladimir Alexeitch Plutitzin on a short visit. He is musical, and I can- not afford to part with you while he is here." Then Daria's heart bounded with de- light. She had tried to go away, but was forcibly detained in paradise. Vladimir Alexeitch Plutitzin arrived — a keen, dark gentleman, forty years old, and a thorough man of the world ; a gamester and a roue, bully or parasite, whichever suited his purpose; but most agreeable on the- surface, and welcome to Madame Staropolsky on that account and his relationship. He seemed so shallow she had never taken the trouble to look into him. His principal object in this visit was to borrow money, and as he could not do that all in a moment, he looked forward to a tedious visit. But this fair singer made all the differ- ence. He was charmed with her, and be- gan to pay her attentions in the drollest way, half spooney, half condescending. He was very pertinacious, and Daria was rather offended, and a little disgusted. But TIT FOR TAT. 95 all she showed was complete coolness and civil apathy. Vladimir Alexeitch, having plenty of vanity and experience, did not accept this as Ivan did. "This cucumber is in love with somebodjV said he; and he looked out very sharp. He saw at once that Alexis was wrapped up in her, but that she was rather shy of him, and on her guard. That puzzled him a little. How- ever, one Sunday he detected her talking with a young man under the front veranda. It was not love-making after the manner of Vladimir Alexeitch, but they seemed familiar and confidential : clearly he was the man. Vladimir burned with spite; and he wreaked it. He went into the drawing- room, and there he found Alexis and his mother seated apart. So he began upon Alexis. He said to him, too low for his mother to hear, " So our cantatrice has a lover. " Alexis stared, then changed color. "Daria a lover — who?" He thought at first his own passion had been discovered by this shrewd person. " Oh, that is more than I can tell you. Some fellow of her own class, though. He is courting her at this moment." Alexis turned ashy pale, and his lips blue. "I'll believe that when I see it," said he, stoutly. "See it, then, in the veranda," was the calm reply. With that the serpent glided on to the mother. Alexis waited a moment, and then sauntered out, with a ghastly attempt at indifference. Once in the hall, he darted to the door, opened it, and found Daria and her faith- ful Ivan in calm conversation. The sight of the young man was enough for Alexis. He said, angrily, " Daria, my mother wants you immediately." "Farewell, then, Ivan," said Daria, sub- missively, and entered the house at once. Alexis stood and cast a haughty stare on Ivan ; and the poor fellow, who had walked ten miles for a word or two with Daria, returned disappointed. CHAPTER II. Meantime Anna Petrovna asked Vladi- mir Alexeitch what he had said to Alexis. " Oh, nothing particular; only that our fair cantatrice had a lover." " Why, that is no news," said the lady. " But indeed he is not much of a lover, and I hope it will come to nothing. That is very selfish, for he is an old friend and a faithful one to her. His mother kept the district school at Griasansk, and taught Daria to read and write and work. Her son is a notary's clerk, and assisted her in her learning. Let me tell you she is a very fair scholar, not an ignorant savage like the rest of these girls. To be sure her father has a head on his shoulders, and had sent her to school, contrary to the custom of the country." That favorite topic of hers, the praises of her protegee, was cut unnaturally short by Daria in person. She came in, and gliding up to her patroness with a sweet inclination of her whole body, said, "You sent for me, Anna Petrovna. Alexis Pav- lovitch told me." " Indeed ! Then he divined my thought. But I did not send for you ; I heard your friend was with you." " He was." "What have you done with him?" " I told him to go." " That you might come to me?" "Certainly." "That was rather hard upon him." "It does not matter," said Daria, com- posedly. "Not to you, Daria; that is evident." Alexis came in, and flung himself into a chair, manifestly discomposed. Daria cast a swift glance at him, then looked down. Anna Petrovna surprised this lightning glance and looked at her son, and then at Vladimir ; then she turned her eyes inward, mystified and inquiring, and from that hour seemed to brood occasionally, and her feat- ures to stiffen. Vladimir watched his poison work. Some days afterward he joked Alexis about his passion for a girl who was 96 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. already provided with a lover, but found hini inaccessible to jealousy. The truth is, he and Daria had come to an explana- tion. " She loves nobody but rue," said the young man, proudl}-; "and no other man but me shall ever have her; not even you, my clever cousin." " Oh, I make way for the head of the house, as in duty bound," said sneering Vladimir. " But when you have got her all to yourself, what do you mean to do with her? I am afraid, Alexis, she will get you into trouble. Her people are re- spectable. Your mother's morals are se- vere. She is attached to the girl. What on earth can you do with her?" " I mean to marrj- her, if she will have rue." "Do what?" " Marry her, man. What else can I do?" Vladimir was incredulous, and amused at first; then taking a surve3 r of the young man's face, he saw then- the iron resolu- tion that he had observed in the boy's mother. He looked aghast. Alexis marry this blooming peasant — a woman of another race, a child of nature I She would till that sterile house with children, and he would die the beggar thai he was. Vladimir did not speak all at once. At last In' said, "You cannot; you are not of age." "I shall be soon." "Your mother would never consent." " I fear not. " "Well, then—" " I shall marry Daria." When Alexis said this, and looked him full in the face, Vladimir turned his cold, pale, Tartar eye away, and desperate thoughts flashed across him. Indeed he felt capable of assassination. But pru- dence and the cunning of his breed sug- gested crafty measures first. He controlled himself with a powerful effort, and said quietly, "Such a marriage would break your mother's heart; and she has been a good friend to me. I cannot abet you in it. But I am sorry I treated a serious matter with levity." Then he left him, and his brain went to work in earnest. The truth is that a more dangerous man than Vladimir Alexeitch Plutitziu never entered an honest house. Craftj' and self- ish by nature, he was also by this time practically versed in wiles; and his great expectations, should Alexis die without issue, and his present ruin, made him think little of crime, though not of detec- tion. lli' was too cunning to go and tell Anna Petrovna all at once and so reveal the mis- chief-maker to Alexis. He was silent days and days, but went into brown studies be- fore Anna Petrovna, to attract her atten- tion. He succeeded. She began to watch him as well as her son ; and at last she said to him one day, "There is something mys- terious going on in this house, Vladimir." "Ah, you have discovered it?" "Ihave discovered there is something. What is it, if you please?" " I do not like to tell you; and yet I ought, for yon have been a u,-. nul friend to nu', and if I do not warn you, you will perhaps doubt my regard. I don't know what to do." "Shall I help you? Alexis and Daria!" "There, then, you have seen it." " I see he is extasie with her, and no wonder, since I am. Luckily she has too much good sense." "Anna Petrovna, my dear kinswoman and benefactress, it is my duty to unde- ceive you. She is more timid and more discreet, because she is a woman; but she is j 1 1 — i as much in love. It is a passionate attachment on both sides, and — how shall I tell j'ou? — marriage is to be the end of it!" " Marriage! My son — and my serf!" " Serfs exist no more. We are all ladies and gentlemen, thanks to God and the czar." Anna Petrovna turned pale and her feat- ures hard as iron. "Viper," said she, not violently, but sadly. Then her breath came short, and she could not speak. But after a little while this just woman half recanted. "No," said she, "I had no right to say that. She sought me not; I brought her into this house, and she was a treasure to me. I brought him into the TIT FOR TAT. 97 house, and she saw her danger and asked leave to go. But J, who ought to have been wiser than she, had no forethought. I have made my own trouble, and it is for me to meud it. There shall be no discus- sion on this subject. You must not let Alexis know you have spoken to me, nor shall I speak to him." Vladimir consented eagerly. It was not his game to quarrel with Alexis. That very afternoon Madame Staropolsky said to Daria, " Daria, my little soul, you were right and I was wrong; you shall visit your father this afternoon." Daria turned red and white by turns, and acquiesced, trembling at what this might mean. Two maids were sent to assist her in packing. That gave her no chance of delay. In one hour a large sledge came round, filled with presents for her father. Anna Petrovna blessed her fervently, but with a feminine distinction kissed her coldly, enveloped her in rich furs, and packed her off sans ceremonie. She dashed over the hard snow for a mile or two, then through the village, sore envied, and followed by each cur, and at last landed triumphantly at her own farm and her father's, warmly welcomed, admired, and barked after; only the tears trickled down her cheeks from the door she quitted to the door she reached. That evening the house looked blank. Everybody missed Daria, and Alexis kept looking at the door for her. At last he asked, with indifference ill feigned, what had become of her. "Oh," said his mother, "she has gone home. She wished to go last month, but I detained her. I wished you so to hear her sing." She then turned the conversation adroit- ly and resolutely. But Alexis as resolutely declined to utter anything but monosyllables. He could con- ceal neither his anger nor hisunhappiness. He avoided the house, except at meals, yawned in Vladimir's face, and even in his mother's, and once, when she asked, tenderly, why he was so dull, replied that Reade— Vol. IX. the house had lost its sunsnine and its music. This was a cruel stab to Anna Petrovna. She replied, grimly, " Then we will go to Petersburg earlier than usual, dear." One day he cleared up and became as charming as ever. Anna Petrovna, whose mother's heart had yearned for him, was comforted, and said to Vladimir, " Ah, youth soon forgets. Dear Alexis has come 'to his senses and re- covered his spirits." "So I see," was the reply. "But I do not interpret that as you do. I take it for granted he sees the girl every day." " What ! " said Madame Staropolsky, "under her father's roof? He would not wrong me so, after all I have done for him. But I should like to know." Artful Vladimir took her hand tenderly. " I don't like spying on Alexis, but you have a right to know, and you shall know." She pressed his hand grateful]}', then left him, with a deep maternal sigh. In a few days he made her his report. Alexis rode straight to the farm every day, and spent hours with Daria. Her father encouraged him, and indeed ordered the girl to receive him as her betrothed lover. The mother's features set themselves like iron, but she uttered no impatient word this time. She just directed her servants to pack for Petersburg. When Alexis heard this he said he should prefer to stay behind until the full summer. "No, my son, "said Madame Staropolsky calmly; "you must not abandon me alto- gether. If I have lost your affection, I retain my authority." "So be it; I must obey," said he, dog- gedly. " I am not of age. I shall be soon, though, thank Heaven." The iron pierced through the mother's heart. She winced, but she did not deign to speak. That evening Alexis did not come home to dinner. He arrived about ten o'clock, with his eyes red and swollen, would take nothing but a glass of tea, and so to bed. At the sight of his inoffensive sorrow the "4 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. mother's bowels began to yearn over her son. "Oh, my friend," said she to her worst enemy, " what shall I do? He will not live long." Vladimir pricked up his ears at that. " Aneurism of the heart — very slight at present, but progressive. Win- poison his short life? She is virtuous. It is only her birth. I am a miserable mother. " Her crafty counselor trembled, but his cunning did not desert him. " And I can't bear to see you weep," said he. "Yes, try the capital and its female attractions, and if they fail, let him marry his enfranchised serf and found a plebeian line. I would rather endure that shame than see you and him really unhappy. But if you rms- by. "Now, how will you proceed? Can we render you any assistance?" Patrick said, humbly, and in a downcast way, he would like to see the place where the thieves got in. He was taken to the pantry window, and examined it inside and out, and all the serv- ants peeped at him. " What next?" asked the squire. Then Patrick inwardly resolved to get a good dinner out of this business, however humiliating tbe end of it might be. " Sorr," said he, "ye'll have to give me a room all to myself, and a rump-steak and onions; and after that your servants must bring me three pipes and three pints of home- brewed ale. Brewer's ale hasn't the same spiritual effect on a seer's mind." The order was given, and set the kitchen on fire with curiosity. Some disbelieved his powers, but more believed them, and cited the jeweler's business and other ex- amples. When the first pipe and pint were to go to him a discussion took place between the magnates of the kitchen who should take it up. At last the butler and the house- keeper insisted on the footman taking it. Accordinglj- he did so. Meantime Patrick sat in state digesting the good food. He began to feel a physi- cal complacency, and to defy the future ; he only regretted that he had confined his demand to one dinner and three pots. To him in this frame of mind entered the foot- man with pipe and pint of ale as clear as Madeira. Says Patrick, looking at the pipe, " This is the first of 'em." The footman put the things down rather hurriedly and vanished. "Humph!" said Pat to himself, ''you don't seem to care for my company." He sipped and smoked, and his mind worked. The footman went to the butler with a scared face, and said, " I won't go near him again; he said I was one." "Nonsense!'' said the butler, "I'll take up the next." He did so. Patrick gazed in his face, took the pipe, and said, sotto voce, " This is the second;" then, very regret- fully, "only one more to come." The butler went away much discom- posed, and told the housekeeper. "I can't believe it," said she. "Any- way, I'll know the worst." So in due course she took up the third pipe and pint, and wore propitiatory smiles. "This is the last of 'em," said Patrick, solemnly, and looked at the glass. The housekeeper went down all in a flutter. " We are found out, we are ruined," said she. "There is nothing to be done now but — Yes there is ; we must buy him, or put the comether on him before he sees the master." Patrick was half dozing over his last pipe when he heard a rustle and a com- motion, and lo! three culprits on their knees to him. With that instinctive sa- gacity which was his one real gift — so he underrated it — he said, with a twinkling eye— "Och, thin you've come to make a clane brist of it, the three Chrischin vartues and haythen graces that ye are. Ye may save yourselves the throuble. Sure I know all about it." " We see you do. Y'are wiser than Solomon," said the housekeeper. "But sure ye wouldn't abuse your wisdom to ruin three poor bodies like us?" "Poor!" cried Patrick. "Is it poor ye call yourselves? Ye ate and drink like fighting cocks; y'are clothed in silk and plush and broadcloth, and your wages is all pocket-money and pin-money. Yet ye must rob the man that feeds and clothes ye." " It is true ! it is true !" cried the butler. BOEN TO GOOD LUCK. 123 "He spakes like a priest," said the wo- man. "Oh, alarma! don't be hard on us; it is all the devil's doings; he timpted us. Oh! oh! oh!" " Whisht, now, and spake sinse," said Patrick, roughly. "Is it melted?" " It is not." " Can you lay your hands on it?" " We can, every stiver of it. We in- tinded to put it back." " That's a lie," said Patrick firmly, but not in the least reproachfully. " Now look at me, the whole clan of ye, male and fay- male. Which would you rather do — help me find the gimcracks, every article of 'em, or be lagged and scragged and stretched on a gibbet and such like illi- gant divarsions?" They snatched eagerly at the plank of safety held out to them, and from that minute acted under Mr. O'Rafferty's orders. "Fetch me another pint," was his first behest. " Ay, a dozen, if ye'll do us the honor to drink it." " To the divil wid your blarney ! Now tell the master I'm at his sarvice." "Oh, murder! what will become of us? Would you tell him after all?" "Ye omadhauns, can't ye listen at the dure and hear what I tell him?" With this understanding Squire Ormsby was ushered in, all expectation. " Yer honor," said Patrick, "I think the power is laving me. I am only able to see the half of it. Now, if you plaze, would you like to catch the thieves and lose the silver, or to find the silver and not find the thieves?" " Why, the silver, to be sure." " Then you and my lady must go to mass to-morrow morning, and when you come back we will look for the silver, and may- be, if we find it, your honor will give me that little bit of a lease." " One thing at a time, Pat ; you haven't found the silver yet." At nine o'clock next morning Mr. and Mrs. Ormsby returned from mass and found O'Rafferty waiting for them at their door. He had a long walking-stick with a shining knob, and informed them, very solemnly, that the priest had sprinkled it for him with holy water. Thus armed, he commenced the search. He penetrated into outhouses, and applied his stick to chimneys and fagots and cold ovens, and all possible places. No luck. Then he proceeded to the stableyard, and searched every corner; then into the shrubbery; then into the tool-house. No luck. Then on to the lawn. By this time there were about thirty at his heels. Disgusted at this fruitless search, Patrick apostrophized his stick: "Bad cess to you, y'are only good to burn. Ye kape turning away from ever} 7 place; but ye don't turn to anything whatever. Stop a bit! Oh, holy Moses! what is this?" As he spoke, the stick seemed to rise and point like a gun. Patrick marched in the direction indicated, and after a while seemed to be forced by the stick into a run. He began to shout excitedly, and they all ran after him. He ran full tilt against a dismounted water-barrel, and the end of the stick struck it with such impetus that it knocked the barrel over, then flew out of Patrick's hand to the right, who himself made a spring the other way, and stood glaring with all the rest at the glittering objects that strewed the lawn, neither more nor less than the missing plate. Shouts and screams of delight. Every- body shaking hands with Patrick, who, being a consummate actor, seemed dazzled and mystified, as one who had succeeded far beyond his expectations. To make a long story short, they all set- tled it in their minds that the thieves had been alarmed, and hidden the plate for a time, intending to return and fetch it away. Mr. Ormsby took the seer into his study, and gave him a piece of paper stating that for a great service rendered to him by Patrick O'Rafferty he had, in the name of him and his, promised him undisturbed possession of the farm so long as he or his should farm it themselves, and pay the present rent. Pat's modesty vanished at the squire's 124 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. gate; be bragged up and down tbe village, and hencefortb nobody disputed bis seer- sbip in tbose parts. But one day tbe Sassenacb came down witb bis cold incredulity. A neighbor's estate, mortgaged up to tbe eyes, was sold under tbe hammer, and Sir Henry Steele bought it, and laid some of it down in grass. He was a breeder of stock. He marked out a park wall, and did not include a certain little orchard and a triangular plot. The seer observed, and applied for them. Sir Henry, who did bis own business, received the appli- cation, noted it down, and asked him for a reference. He gave Squire ( Irmsby. " I will make inquiries," said Sir Henry. " Good-morning." He knew Ormsby in London, and when be became his neighbor the Irish gentle- man was all hospitality. One day Sir Henry told him of O'Rafferty's applica- tion, and asked about him. " Oh," said I Irmsby, " that is our " Your what'.'" "Our wise man, our diviner of secrets; and sum.' wonderful things he has done." He then related the loss of his plate and its supernatural recovery. The Sassenach listened with a cold, in- credulous eye and a sardonic grin. Then the Irishman got hot and accumu- lated examples. Then the Sassenach, with the obstinacy of bis race, said he would put these pre- tensions to tbe test. He had picked out of the various narratives that this seer was very fond of a good dinner, and pre- tended it tended to enlighten his mind; so be laid bis trap accordingly. At his request Patrick was informed that next Tuesday, at one o'clock, if he chose to submit to a fair test of bis divin- ing powers, the parcel of land he had asked for should be let him on easy terms. Patrick assented jauntily. But in his secret soul he felt uneasy at having to encounter this Sassenach gentleman. Sir Henry was the fortunate possessor of what Pat was pleased to call " a nasty glittering eye," and over that eye Pat doubted his ability to draw the wool as he bad done over Celtic orbs. However, be came up to the scratch like a man. After all, he had nothing to lose this time, and he vowed to submit to no. test that was not preceded by a good din- ner. He was ushered into Sir Henry Steele's study, and there he found that gentleman and Mr. Ormsby. One com- fort, there was a cloth laid, and certain silver dishes on the hobs and in the fender. " Well, Mr. O'Rafferty," said bis host, " I believe you like a good dinner?" " Thrue for you, sorr," said Pat. " Well, then, we can combine business with pleasure; you shall have a good din- ner. " "Long life to your honor!" "I cooked it for you myself." " God bless your honor for your conde- scension." "You are to eat the dinner first/and then just tell me what the meat is, and the parcel of land is yours on easy terms." Patrick's confidence rose. "Sure, thin, it is a fair bargain," said he. The dishes were uncovered. There were vegetables < ked most deliciously; the meat was a chef-d'oeuvre ; a sort of rich it done to a turn, and so fragrant thai the very odor made the mouth water. Patrick seated himself, helped himself and took a mouthful: that mouthful had a double effect. He realized in one and the same moment that this was a more heavenly compound than he had ever ex- pected to taste upon earth, and that he could not and never should divine what bird or beast be was eating. He looked for the bones; there were none. He .yielded himself to desperate enjoyment. When he bad nearly cleaned the plate he said that even the best cooked meat was none the worse for a quart of good ale to wash it down. Sir Henry Steele rang a bell and ordered a quart of ale. Patrick enjoyed this too, and did not hurry; he felt it was his last dinner in that bouse, as well as his first. The gentlemen watched him and gave " THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP." 125 him time. But at last Orrnsby said, "Well, Patrick—" Now Patrick, while he sipped, had been asking himself what line he had better take ; and he had come to a conclusion creditable to that sagacity and knowledge of human nature he really possessed, and underrated accordingly. He would compliment the gentlemen on their superior wisdom, and own he could not throw dust in such eyes as theirs; then he would beg them not to make his humble neighbors as wise as they were, but let him still pass for a wise man in the parish, while they laughed in their superior sleeves. To carry out this he im- pregnated his brazen features with a world of comic humility. "And," said he, in cajoling accents, "ah, your honors, the old fox made many a turn, but the dogs were too many for him at last." What more of self-depreciation and cajolery he would have added is not known, for Sir Henry Steele broke in loudly, "Good Heavens! Well, he is an extraordinary man. It was an old dog- fox I cooked for him." "Didn't I tell you?" cried Ormsby, delighted at the success of his country- man. " Well, sir," said Sir Henry, whose emo- tions seldom lasted long, "a bargain's a bargain. I let you the orchard and field for — let me see — you must bring me a stoat, a weasel, and a pole-cat every year. I mean to get up the game." Mr. O'Rafferty first stared stupidly, then winked cunningly, then blandly absorbed laudation and land; then retired invoking solemn blessings; then, being outside, exe- cuted a fandango, and went home on wings. From that hour the village could not hold him. His speech was of accumulating farms at pepper-corn rents, till a slice of the county should be his. To hear him, he could see through a deal board, and luck was his monopoly. He began to be envied, and was on the way to be hated, when, confiding in his star, he married Norah Blake, a beautiful girl, but a most notorious vixen. Then the unlucky ones forgave him a great deal; for sure wouldn't Norah re- venge them? Alas! the traitress fell in love with her husband after marriage and let him mold her into a sort of angelic duck. This was the climax. So Paddy Luck is now numbered among the lasting insti- tutions of ould Ireland (if any). May he live till the skirts of his coat knock his brains out, and him dancing an Irish fling to " the wind that shakes the barley !" THERE'S MANY A SLIP TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP." CHAPTER I. Mr. Samuel Sutton, wool-stapler, had a large business in Frome, inherited from his father, and enlarged by himself ; also a nest-egg of £150,000 invested at four per cent in solid securities. He lived clear out of the town in a large house built by himself, and called "Merino Lodge," with lawn, gardens, conservatories, stables, all of them models. He loved business, and spent his day in the office; he loved his wife, and enjoyed his evenings at home. But this life of calm content was broken up in one month : his wife sickened and died, leaving him utterly desolate and wretched. No child to reflect her beloved features, and no live thing to cherish but 126 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. her favorite dog, an orphan girl she had taken into the house eight years before, and the immortal memory of a watchful and unselfish affection. Under this stunning blow messages of consolation poured in upon him, many of them delicately and admirably worded, all written with a certain sympathy, but with dry eyes. His very servants spoke with bated breath and sorrowful looks before him, but he heard the squawks of the women and the guffaws of the men out in the yard. Only one creature beside himself suffered. It was his wife's pro- tegee, Rebecca Barnes. For many a day this girl, like himself, never smiled, and often burst into tears all in a moment over her work. This was not lost on the mourner; hitherto he had hardly noticed this humble figure; but now lie Looked at her with in- terest, and told her, once for all, he would be a friend to her, as his beloved wile hail been. The young woman thus distinguished was attractive; she was tall and straight, but not bon.y, nor nipped in at the waist. She had the face of an English rural beauty, light brown hair, a very white skin, dark -ray eyes, and a complexion not divided into red and white, but with a light brick- dusty color, very sweet and healthy, dif- fused all over two oval cheeks; a large but shapely mouth and beautiful teeth made her winning; a little cocked-up nose spoiled her for a beauty; and she might be summed up as comeliness in person. Educated by a lady with great good sense, she could read aloud fluently and with propriety, could write like a clerk, cook well, make pickles and preserves, sweep, dust, cut and sew dresses, iron and get up lace and linen; but could not play the piano nor dance a polka. Mr?. Sutton always intended her to be housekeeper; and the widower now told her to try and qualify herself in time; she was too young at preent. Months rolled on, but Samuel Sutton's loneliness did not abate. He had onl}- one relation who interested him, Joe Newton, son of a deceased sister, a bold Eton boy he had often tipped. Joe was now at Oxford, and Mr. Sutton invited him for the long vacation, and prepared to like him. While he is on the road let us attempt his character — at that period : a goodish scholar, excellent athlete; rowed six in the college boat, and was promised a place in the University Eleven for fair defense, hard hitting, and exceptional throwing. He used to back himself against both the universities to fling the hammer and con- strue Demosthenes ; the college tutor heard, and remonstrated. "It was not the thing at Oxford to brag; why, Stilwell made a bundled and fifteen against Surry the other day. but be only said be had been very lucky. That is the form at present," said the excellent tutor, stroke of the uni- versity boat in his day. Joe explained largely. Of course he knew there were two men who could beat him at throwing the hammer, one Oxford, one Cambridge, and a lot who could eclipse him at con- struing Greek orators. " But you see, mi."" said lie, Blyly, "the fellows that can construe Demosthenes can't fling the ham- mer; and the happy pair that can take the shine out of me at the hammer can't con- strue Demosthenes. I can do both after a fashion." "Oh," said the tutor, "that alters the case. So it was only an enigma; sounded like a brag." Add to the virtues indicated above, pugilism, wrestling, good spirits, six feet, broad shoulders, abundance of physical and a want of moral courage, and behold Joe Newton, aged twenty-one. He came to "Merino Lodge," and filled the place with sudden vitality. He rowed everybody on the lake; armed both sexes with fishing rods; mowed and rolled a paddock into a cricket-ground ; organized matches between county clubs; drew on his uncle for copious luncheons; chaffed, talked, and enlivened all the family and neighborhood, and gazed at Rebecca Barnes till he troubled her peace, and set her heart in a flutter. One fine summer evening there was a harvest-home supper, and the rustics drank "THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP." 127 the farmer's cider without stint. Return- ing from this banquet a colossal carter met Rebecca Barnes and proceeded to some very rough courtship. She gave him the slip, and ran and screamed a little. It was near the cricket-grouud that Joe was rolling for a match to come off. He heard the signals of distress, and vaulted over the gate in front of Rebecca, just as the carter caught her, and she screamed violently. "Come, drop that, my man," said Joe, good-humoredly enough. "Who be you?" inquired the rustic, dis- dainfully, and challenged him to fight. "No, don't, sir; pray don't," cried Re- becca. " He is bigger than you, and he thrashes them all." Joseph hesitated out of good nature. The bully called him a coward, and took off his coat. Joseph said, apologetically — " He wants a lesson. I won't detain you a minute. Now, then, sir, let us get it over;" and without taking off his coat, put himself in his favorite attitude. The carter made a rush, got it right and left as if from Heaven, and stood staring with two black eyes; came on again more cau- tiously, but while endeavoring a tremen- dous rounder that would probably have finished the business his way, received a dazzler with the left followed by a heavy right-hander on the throat that felled him like a tree. Joe then gave his arm to Rebecca, who was trembling all over. She took it with both hands, and an inclination to droop her head on his shoulder, which made the walk home slow, amusing, and delightful to Joe. After that evening Rebecca, who was already on the verge of danger, began to be divinely happy and unreasonably de- pressed by turns. She was always peep- ing at Joe, and coming near him, and avoiding him ; and then he took to spoon- ing upon her, and she was coy, but flut- tered with wild hopes, and thrilled with innocent joys. At last energetic Joe spooned on her so openly that Mr. Sutton observed. He made short work with both culprits. "Rebecca," said he, "be good enough to keep that young fool at a distance. Joe, let that girl alone. She is only a servant, after all, and I will not have her head turned." Rebecca blushed, and cried, and tried to obey. Joe affected compliance, got impatient, and one day watched for Rebecca, caught her away from home, declared his love for her, and urged her to run away with him. The instinct of virtue supplied the place of experience, and she rejected him with indignation, and after that kept out of his way in earnest. However, before he left he owned his fault, begged her pardon, and asked her to wait for him till he got his family liv- ing, and was independent of everybody. This was another matter, and female love soon forgives male audacity. Reck- less Joe overcame her reasonable misgiv- ings, and fed her passion by letters for three whole years, and she refused young Farmer Mortlock, an excellent match in every way. By and by Joe's letters cooled, and be- came rare. He even declined his uncle's invitations on pretense of reading with a tutor in Wales. Then Rebecca paled and pined, and divined that she was abandoned. Soon cruel suspense gave way to certainty. Joe was ordained priest, took the family living, and married Melusina Florence Tiverton, a young lady of fashion, high connections, and eight thousand pounds, which before the marriage was settled on her and her children. Mr. Sutton announced this to his friends with satisfaction, and he even told it to Rebecca Barnes, whom he happened to find at a passage window sewing buttons on his shirts. He was fond of Joe, and thought his good marriage ought to please everybody, and so he was in a good humor, and told Rebecca all about it, and that he had promised the happy pair a thousand pounds to start with. Rebecca turned cold as a stone, and kept on sewing, but slower and slower every stitch. " Well, you might wish them joy," said Mr. Sutton. 128 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. " I wish — them — every — happiness," said Rebecca, slowly and faintly, and went on sewing mechanically. Mr. Sutton looked at her inquiringly, but had already said more to her than was his custom at that period of her service; so he went about his business. She sewed on still, feeling ver} T cold, and soon the patient tears began to trickle, and then she put her work aside, and laid her brow against the corner of the shutter, that the tears might run their course with- out spoiling her master's collars and cuffs. Not long after this the housekeeper left and Mr. Sutton Bent for Rebecca. "You are young," In- said, half hesitating, "but you are steady and faithful." Then he turned his back on her and looked at his wife's portrait. "Yes, Jane," said he, "we can hut try her." Then, without turning from the picture, "Rebecca, take the housekeeper's keys and let us see how you can govern my houa "I will try, sir," said she; then courte- sied and lefl the room with the tear in her eye at him consulting the picture of her they both 1' >\ ed. Rebecca Barnes had made many obser- vations upon servants and their ways, and entered on office with some fixed ideas of economy and management. She did not hurry matters, but by de- grees waste was quietly put down, the servants were compelled, contrary to their nature, to return everything to its place; the weekly bills decreased, and yet the donations to worthy people increased. She had held the keys, and nearly doubled their number, about eight months, when Mr. Sutton gave her an order. "Barnes," said he, "Joe and his wife are coming to see me next Wednesday at five o'clock. Get everything ready for them at once — give them the best bedroom — and make them comfortable." "Yes, sir," said she, and went about it directly. She summoned maids, saw fires lit, beds and blankets put down to them, not sheets only, took linen out of her lavender cup- board, ordered flowers, and secured the comfort of the visitors, though heats and chills pervaded her own bod} 7 by turns at the thought of receiving Joe Newton and the woman he had preferred to herself. "She is beautiful, no doubt," thought Rebecca. "I wonder whether she knows? Oh, no, surely he would never tell her. He would be ashamed." The mere doubt, though, made her red and then pale. The pair arrived with their own maid; a house-maid under orders showed them to their rooms; Rebecca Barnes kept out of their way at first, and steeled herself by degrees to the inevitable encounter. She took her opportunity next day, and approached Mrs. Newton first with a civil inquiry if she could do anything for her. " You are the — the — " drawled the lady. "The housekeeper, madam." " The housekeeper? You are very young ("or that." " X"t so young as I look, perhaps; and I have been sixteen years in the house." She then renewed her question. "Not at present," was the reply. "I will send for you if 1 require anything." The words were colorless in themselves, hut there was a hard, unfriendly, and su- perior tone in them rather out of place in a house where she was a guest, and a new one, and kindly civility just being shown her. Downstairs the lady did not charm. She desired to please, but had not the tact. Her voice w.is high-pitched, and she could not listen. Her husband, however, was in ecs- tasy over her, and rather wearied his uncle with descanting on her perfections. Things went on well enough until she got a little more familiar with Uncle Sam- uel ; and then, looking on him as virtually a bachelor, she must needs advise him from the heights of her matronly experience. She told him his housekeeper was too young for the place. "She is young," said he, "but she has experience, and my dear wife taught her." Instead of listening to that, and saying, " Ah, that alters the case," as most men or women would, this tactless young lady went on to say that she was too young and good- looking to be about a widower. It would ' THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP." 129 set people talking, and so she strongly ad- vised him to change her for some staid, respectable person. "Mind your own business, my dear," replied the wool-stapler, with such con- temptuous resolution that she held her tongue directly, and contented herself just then with hating Rebecca Barnes for this repulse. But when she got hold of Joe, she scolded him well for the affront; she never saw she had drawn it on herself. It was not in her nature to see a fault in herself under any circumstances whatever. Joe, physical hero, moral coward, dared not say a word, but took his unjust pun- ishment meekly. However, after dinner, owning to him- self that this infallible creature had made a blunder, he set himself to remove any ill impression. He descanted on her virtues; above all, her generosity and her zeal for her friend's interests, etc. Uncle Sutton got sick of his marital mendacity, and said, "Now, Joe, don't you be an uxorious ass. She is your wife, and she is well enough ; but she is no para- gon." And so he shut him up. They stayed a fortnight and then went home. As Melusina had intruded her opinion on Rebecca, Mr. Sutton, who came more into contact with the latter now she was housekeeper, had the sly curiosity to ask her, in a half careless way, what she thought of Joe's wife. "Well, sir," said Rebecca, wiser and more on her guard than Melusina, " he might have done better, I think, and he might have done worse." "Voice too shrill for me," said the mas- ter. " But I suppose he took her for her good looks." "Good looks, sir? What, with a beak for a nose, and a slit for a mouth?" Mr. Sutton laughed. " How you women do admire one another. Stop; now I think of it, this is ungrateful of you, for she told me you were too good-looking." "Too good-looking!" said Rebecca. "What did she mean by that? Ah! she wanted you to part with me." "Stuff and nonsense," said he; but he colored a little at the abominable shrewd- Reade— Vol. IX. ness of females in reading one another at half a word. Rebecca was too discreet to press the matter; she pretended to accept the dis- avowal, but she did not. Joe's wife to come into the house on her first visit, and instantly endeavor to turn out the poor girl that had been there from a child ! " And he could look on and let her," said she; "he that thought it little to defend me against that giant. Men are so strange, and hard to understand." Next year Joe came by himself, and charmed everybody. Rebecca at last kept out of his way, for she found the old affection reviving, and was fright- ened. Two years more, and the pair came on a visit at one day's notice. But all was ready for them in that well-ordered house. The motive of this hasty visit soon tran- spired. They had spent more than double their income since they married, owed two thousand pounds, and had an execution in the house. Uncle Sutton was displeased. "Debt is dishonest," said he. "We can all cut our coat according to our cloth." But he ended by saying, " Well, make out a list of all the debts. Try if you can tell the truth now, both of you, and put them all down." By this time Rebecca had become his accountant in private matters, and her fidelity and discretion had gradually earned his confidence. He actually con- sulted her on the situation, not that she could have influenced him against his own judgment. No man was more thoroughly master than Sam Sutton. But he was a solitaiy man, and it is hard to be always silent. " Bad business, Rebecca. Now I won- der what you would do in my place?" "Do, sir? Why, pay Master Joe's debts directly. You will never miss it. But when I had paid them, I'd tell her not to come begging here again with a fortune on her back." "Come, come," said Sutton, "she is dressed plainer than any lad}' in Frome. I will say that for her." " La ! sir, wdiere are your eyes? What, '5 * 130 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. with those furs and that old point lace? Three hundred guineas never bought them. There are no such furs in Frome. I've seen their fellows in London. They are Russian sables, the finest to be had for money. And look at her fingers, crippled with diamonds and rubies. There's four or five hundred more, and that is how Master Joe's money goes. I pity him; he couldn't have done worse if he had married — a servant." Mr. Sutton looked very grave. How- ever, he sold out and drew the check. But, unfortunately, instead of lecturing the wife, be took the husband to task. He said he was sorry to see Mrs. Joseph so extravagant in dress. "My dear uncle," replied he, "why, she is anything but that; she is most self-deny- ing. 1 am the only one to blame, believe me." "Now, you uxorious humbug," cried Uncle Samuel, "can't you see she has got three hundred guineas on her back in lace and sable furs, and as much more on her fingers? Where are your eyes?" Joe looked sheepish. "I am no judge of these tliuigs, uncle. But I feel sure you are mistaken." " No, I am not mistaken. Everybody knows the value of sables and diamonds." Joe retailed this conversation very tim- idly to his wife, not to make her less ex- travagant, but more cautious under Uncle Sutton's eye. He took care to draw that distinction for the sake of peace. His finesse was wasted. "It's the wo- man," said she, as quick as lightning. "What woman?" "The woman Barnes. She has told him — to make mischief." " No, no ! the old fox has got eyes of his own." " Not for sables. It is the woman." "Well, dear, I don't think so; but if it is, then I wouldn't give her the chance again." " Me take off my sables because a wo- man is envious of them? What do you think I bought them for? I'll wear them all the more — ten times more." " Hush ! hush !" implored the weak hus- band, for the peacock voice, raised in de- fiance, was audible through doors at a considerable distance. All this mortified Mrs. Joe's vanity, and that was her stronger passion. She came no more to " Merino Lodge." But she sent her husband once a year, with orders to bring home some money and get rid of the woman Barnes. He was to tell Mr. Sutton Barnes was a mercenary woman and kept his wife away. But Joe's subservience relaxed when he got to "Merino Lodge," and his pea-hen could not watch him. He made himself agreeable to ever3"body. ( 77f Act kv\iko£ Km ^etAeo^ axpov. This has been Englished, thus : " There's many a slip 'Twixt the cup and the lip." And to my mind the superiority of the English language is shown here, for an original -writer has always a certain ad- vantage over a translator, yet the English couplet expresses in eleven syllables all that the Greek hexameter says in sixteen; and our couplet, close as it is, can be reduced to eight syllables without weakening or obscuring the sense — " Many a slip Twixt cup and lip." WHAT HAS BECOME OF LORD CAMEL- FORD'S BODY? This question comes not from an Old Bailey counsel squeezing a witness; 'tis but a mild inquiry addressed to all the world, because the world contains people who can answer it; but 1 don't know where to find them. To trace a gentleman's remains beyond the grave would savor of bad taste and Paul Pry; but I am more reasonable: 1 only want to trace those remains into a grave, if they have reached one. Even that may seem impertinent curios- ity — to his descendants; but if it is im- pertinent, it is natural. To permit the world a peep at strange facts, and then drop the curtains all in a moment, is to compel curiosity; and this has been done by Lord Camelford's biographers. To leave his lordship's body for seven or eight years in a dust-bole of St. Anne's Church, packed up — in the largest fish- basket ever seen — for exportation, but not exported, is also to compel curiosity; and this has been done by his lordship's exec- utors. Now this last eccentric fact has come to me on the best authority, and coupled with the remarkable provisions for his inter- ment made by Camelford himself, has put me into such a state that there is no peace nor happiness for me until I can learn what has become of Lord Camelford's body — fish-basket and all. I naturally wish to reduce as many sen- sible people aslcan to my own intellectual standard in re Camelford. I plead the fox who, having lost his tail — as I my head — was for decaudating the vulpine species directly. To this bad end, then, I will relate briefly what is public about Lord Camel- ford, and next what is known only to me and three or four more outside his own family. Eccentricity in person, he descended from a gentleman who did, at least, one thing without a known parallel: he was grandson or great-grandson of Governor Pitt. I beg pardon on my knees, but being very old and infirm and in my dotage, and therefore almost half as garrulous as my juvenile contemporaries, I really must polish off the Governor first. He had a taste for and knowledge of precious stones. An old native used to visit him periodical- ly and tempt him with a diamond of pro- digious size. I have read that he used to draw it out of a piece of fusty wool, and dazzle his customer. But the foxy Gov- ernor kept cool, and bided his time. It came ; the merchant one day was at low- WHAT HAS BECOME OF LORD CAMELFORD'S BODY? 139 water and offered it cheaper. Pitt bought it ; and this is said to be the only instance of an Anglo-Saxon outwitting a Hindoo in stones. The price is variously printed — man being a very inaccurate animal at present — but it was not more than £28,000. Pitt brought it home, and its fame soon rang round Europe. A customer offered —the Regent of France. Price, £135,000. But France at that time was literally bank- rupt. The representative of that great nation could not deal with this English citizen, except by the way of deposit and installment. Accordingly a number of the French crown- jewels were left in Pitt's hands, and four times a year the French agents met him at Calais with an install- ment, until the stone was cleared and the crown-jewels restored. Thenceforth the Pitt diamond was called the Regent diamond. It is the second stone in Europe, being inferior to the Orlop, but superior in size to the Koh-i-noor; for it was from the first a trifle larger, and the Koh-i-noor, originally an enormous stone, was fearfully cut down in Hindostan, and of late years terribly reduced in Europe — all the better for the Amsterdam cutters. Every great old stone has cost many a life in some part of the world or other. But in Europe their vicissitudes are mild. Only the Sancy has done anything melo- dramatic* The Regent has always gone quietly along with France. No Bourbon took it into exile at the first Revolution. * The Sancy, a beautiful pear-shaped diamond of, say, fifty-three carats, was first spoken of in the possession of Philip. Duke of Burgundy. Very likely he imported it, for he dealt habitu- ally with the East for curiosities. It passed, after some generations, to a Portuguese Prince. He wanted to raise money on it, and sent it to Paris, instructing the messenger to swallow it if he found himself in trouble or danger. It did not reach Paris, and this news was sent to Portugal. The French authorities were applied to, and they searched diligently, and found a foreigner had been assassinated, and buried in a French village. They exhumed him, opened him, and found the Sancy in his stomach. The stone was purchased by James the Second, and afterward was in vari- ous French hands. I think it has now gravitated to the Rothschilds. No Republican collared it. Napoleon set it in his sword-hilt, but it found its way back to the royal family who originally purchased it, from them to the Second Emperor, and again to this Republic. I am afraid, if I had been Bony, I should have yielded to Etymology, and boned it before I went on my travels. But deli- cacy prevailed, and it has only run one great risk. In 1818 it lay a week in a ditch of the Champ de Mars, after the sack of the Tuileries, but was given up at last under a happy illusion that it was unsalable. As if it could not have been broken up and the pieces sold for £1 00,000 ! The stone itself is worth £800,000, I am told. From the importer of this diamond de- scended a Mr. Pitt, who was made a peer in 1784. He had a son, Thomas, born in 1775, to astonish his contemporaries while he lived, and torment one with curiosity seventy years after his death. Thomas Pitt, Lord Camelford, was a character fit for the pen of Tacitus or Clarendon : a singular compound of vir- tues and vices, some of which were direct- ly opposed, yet ruled him by turns; so that it was hard to predict what he would do or say on any given occasion; only the chances were it would be something with a strong flavor, good or bad. In his twenty-nine years, which is only nine years of manhood, he assassinated an unresisting man, and set off to invade a great and warlike nation, single-handed; wrenched off many London door-knockers; beat many constables ; fought a mob single- handed, with a bludgeon, and was cud- geled and rolled in the gutter without uttering a howl; mauled a gentleman without provocation, and had £500 to pay; relieved the necessities of many, and administered black eyes to many. He was studious and reckless; scientific and hare-brained; tender-hearted, benevo- lent, and barbarous; unreasonably vindic- tive and singularly forgiving. He lived a humorous ruffian, with flashes of virtue, and died a hero, a martyr, and a Christian. To those who take their ideas of char- acter from fiction alone, such a sketch as 140 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. this must seem incredible; for fiction is forced to suppress many of the anomalies that Nature presents. David was even more like David than Camelford varied from Camelford; and the chivalrous Joab, who dashed, with his life in his hand, into the camp of the Philistines to get his parched general and king a cup of water, afterward assassinated a brother soldier in a way so base and dastardly as merited the gibbet, and the lash to boot. Imagine a fellow hanging in chains by the road-side, with the Victoria Cross upon his bosom, both cross and gibbet justly earned ! Such a ni.in was, in his day, the son of Zeruiah. Were fiction to present such bold anoma- lies, they would he dubbed inconsistencies, and Horace would lly out of his grave at our very throats, erring, Amphora eoepit Institui, currente rotA cur urceusexit. It is all the more proper that the strange characters of history should be impressed on the mind, lest, in our estimate of man- kind, men's inconsistencies should 1"' for- gotten, and puzzle us beyond measure some line day when they turn up in real life. Lord Camelford went to school first at a village of the Canton Berne in Switzer- land, and passed for a thoughtful box- thence to the Charter-house. He took a fancy to the sea, and was indulged in it. At fourteen years oil he went out as mid- shipman in the Ghiardian frigate, bound for Botany Bay with stores. She met with disasters, and her condition was so desperate that the captain (Riou) per- mitted the ship's company to take to the boats. He himself, however, with a forti- tude and a pride British commanders have often shown in the face of death, refused to leave the ship. Then Camelford and ninety more gallant spirits stood by him to share his fate. However they got the wreck — for such she is described — by a miracle to the Cape, and Camelford went home in a packet. Next j'ear, 1791, he sailed with Van- couver in the Discovery. But on this voyage he showed insubordination, and Vancouver was obliged to subject him to discipline. He got transferred to the Re- sistance, then cruising in the Indian seas, and remained at sea till 1796, when his father died, and he returned home to take his estates and title. Though years had elapsed, he could not forgive Captain Vancouver, but sent him a challenge. Vancouver was then retired, and in poor health. The old captain ap- pealed to the young man's reason, and urged the necessitj- of discipline on board a ship-of-war, but offered to submit the case to any flag-officer in the navy, and said that if the referee should decide this to be a question of honor, he would resign his own opinion and go out with Lieuten- ant ( lamelford. ( lamelford, it is to be feared, thought no sane officer would allow a duel on such grounds; for he did not accept the pro- posal, but waited his opportunity, and meeting Vancouver in Bond Street, in- sulted him and tried to strike him. The mortification and humiliation of this out- rage preyed upon Vancouver's heart, and shortened the life of a deserving officer and very distinguished navigator. Little more than a year after this, Camelford took a very different view of discipline, and a more sanguinary one. > .1 there was one key to these discordant views — his own egotism. Peers of the realm rose fast in the king's service ; it that date, and Camelford, though only a lieutenant, soon got a command; now it so happened that his sloop, the Favorite, and a larger vessel, the Perdrix, Captain Fahie, were both lying in English Harbor, Antigua, on the 13th January, 179S. But Fahie was away at St. Kitts, and Peter- son, first lieutenant, was in charge of the Perdrix. Lord Camelford issued an order which Peterson refused to obey, because it affected his vessel, and he represented Fahie, who was Camelford 's senior. There were high words, and, no doubt, threats on Camelford 's part, for twelve of Peter- son's crew came up armed. It is not quite clear whether Peterson sent for them ; but he certainly drew them up in line and bared his own cutlass. Camelford immedi- ately drew out his own marines, and ranged WHAT HAS BECOME OF LORD CAMELFORD' S BODY? 141 them in a line opposite Peterson's men. He then came up to Peterson with a pistol and said, " Lieutenant Peterson, do you still persist in not obeying my orders?" "Yes, my lord," said Peterson, "I do persist." Thereupon Camelford put his pistol to Peterson's very breast and shot him dead on the spot. He fell backward and never spoke nor moved. Upon this bloody deed the men retired to their respective ships, and Camelford surrendered to Captain Matson, of the Beaver sloop, who put him under parole arrest. He lost little by that, for the populace of St. John's wanted to tear him to pieces. A coroner's jury was sum- moned, and gave a cavalier verdict that Peterson "lost his life in a mutiny," the vagueness of which makes it rather sus- picious. Camelford was then taken in the Beaver sloop to Martinique, and a court-martial sat on him, by order of Rear- Admiral Her- vey. The court was composed of the five captains upon that station, viz., Cayley, Brown, Ekers, Burney, and Mainwaring, and the judgment was delivered in these terms, after the usual preliminary phrases: " The court are unanimously of opinion that the very extraordinary and manifest dis- obedience of Lieutenant Peterson to the lawful commands of Lord Camelford, the senior officer at English Harbor, and his arming the ship's company, were acts of mutiny highly injurious to his majesty's service ; the court do therefore unanimous- ly adjudge that Lord Camelford be honor- ably acquitted." Such was the judgment of sailors sitting in secret tribunal. But I think a judge and a jury sitting under the public eye, and sitting next day in the newspapers, would have decided somewhat differently. Camelford was the senior officer in the harbor; but Peterson, in what pertained to the Perdrix, was Fahie, and Fahie was not only Camelford's senior, but his superior in every way, being a post-cap- tain. "Lieutenant" is a French word, with a clear meaning, which did not apply to Camelford, but did to Peterson — lien ten- ant or locum tenensj I think, therefore, Peterson had a clear right to resist in all that touched the Perdrix, and that Camel- ford would never have ventured to bring him to a court-martial for mere disobedi- ence of that order. In the court-martial Camelford is called a commander; but that is a term of courtesy, and its use, under the peculiar circumstances, seems to indi- cate a bias ; like the man he slaughtered, he had only a lieutenant's grade. Much turns, however, on the measure and manner even of a just resistance; and here Peterson was primd facie to blame. But suppose Camelford had threatened violence! The thing looks like an armed defense, not a meditated attack. For the lieutenant in command of the Favorite to put a pistol to the breast of the lieu- tenant in charge of the Perdrix, and slaughter him like a dog, when the mat- ter could have been referred on the spot by these two lieutenants to their un- doubted superiors, was surely a most rash and bloody deed. In fact, opinion in the navy itself negatived the judg- ment of the court-martial. So many officers, who respected discipline, looked coldly on this one-sided disciplinarian, Camelford, that he resigned his ship and retired from the service soon after. THE CAPEICCIOS OF CAMELFORD. It was his good pleasure to cut a rusty figure in his majesty's service. He would not wear the epaulets of a commander, but went about in an old lieutenant's coat, the buttons of which, according to one of his biographers, "were as green with verdigris as the ship's bottom." He was a Tartar, but attentive to the comforts of the men, and very humane to the sick. He studied hard in two kinds — mathematical science and theology; the first was to make him a good captain ; the second to enable him to puzzle the chaplains, who in that day were not so versed in controversy as the Jesuit fathers. Returning home, with Peterson's blood on his hands, he seems to have burned to recover his own esteem by some act of WORKS OF CHARLES READE. higher courage than shooting 1 a brother officer a bout portant ; and he certainly hit upon an enterprise that would not have occurred to a coward. He settled to invade France, single-banded, and shoot some of her rulers, pour encourage?- les autres. He went to Dover and hired a boat. He was sly enough to say a1 first he was bound for Deal; but after a bit, says our adventurer, in tones appro- priately light and cheerful, " Wrll.no, on second thoughts, let us go to Calais ; I have gol some watches and muslins I can sell there." Going to France in thai light and cheerful way was dancing to the gallows; so Adam, skipper of the boat, agreed with him for £10, but went directly to the authorities. They con- cluded the strange gentleman intended to deliver up the islalid to France, so they let him get into the boat, and then ar- rested him. They searched him. and found him armed with a brace of pistols, a dagger, ami a letter of introduction in French. They sent him up to the Privy Coun- cil, and France escaped invasion that bout. At that time, as T have hinted.it was a capital crime to go 1" France from England : so the gallows yearned for Camelford. But the potent, grave, and reverend seniors of his majesty's Council examined him. and advised the king to pardon him under the royal seal. They pronounced that " his only motive had been to render a service to his country." This was strictly true, and it was un- patriotic to stop him; for whoever fat- tens the plains of France with a pestilent English citizen, or consigns him to a French dungeon for life, confers a benefit on England, and this benefit Camelford did his best to confer on his island home. It was his obstructors who should have been hanged. His well-meant endeavor reminds one of the convicts' verses, bound for Botany Bay : " True patriots we. for. be it understood. We left our country for our country's good.'' The nation that had retained him against his will now began to suffer fol- ks folly, by his habitual breaches of the public peace. After endless skirmishes with the con- stables, my lord went into Drury Lane Theater, with others of the same kidney, broke the windows in the boxes, and the chandeliers, and Mr. Humphries's head. Humphries had him before a magistrate. Camelford lied, but was not believed, and then begged the magistrate to ask Mr. Humphries if he would accept an apolo- gy ; but word-ointment was not the balm for Humphries, who had been twice knocked down the steps into the hall, and got his rye Dearly beaten out of his head. He prepared an indictment, but afterward changed his tactics judiciously, and sued the offender for damages. The jury, less pliable than captains in a secret tribunal, gave Humphries a verdict and £500 damages. After this. Camelford's principal ex- ploits appear to have been fights with the constables, engaged in out- of sport, but Conducted with great spirit by both parties, and without a grain of ill-will on either side. He invariably rewarded their valor with gold when they suc- ceeded in capturing him. When they ol him prisoner, he would give the constable of the night a handsome bribe to resign his place to him. Tims pro- moted, he rose to a certain sense of duty, and would admonish the delinquents with greal good sense and even eloquence, but spoiled all by discharging them. Such was his night-work. In the daytime he was often surprised into acts of uninten- tional charity and even of tender-hearted- ness. HIS NAME A TERROR TO FOPS. He used to go to a coffee-house in Con- duit Street, shabbily dressed, to read the paper. One day a dashing beau came into his box, flung himself down on the opposite seat, and called out, in a most consequential tone, "Waitaa, bring a couple of wax-candles and a pint of Ma- deira, and put them in the next box." En attendant he drew- Lord Camelford "s candle toward him, and began to read. Camelford lowered at him, but said noth- WHAT HAS BECOME OF LORD CAMELFORD' S BODY? 143 ing. The buck's candles and Madeira were brought, and he lounged into his box to enjoy them. Then Camelford mimicked his tone, and cried out, " Waitaa, bring me a pair of snuflaa." He took the snuffers, walked leisurely Kound into the beau's box, snuffed out both the candles, and retired gravely to his own seat. The buck began to bluster, and demanded his name of the waiter. "Lord Camelford, sir." "Lord Camelford! What have I to pay ? " He laid down his score and stole awaj r without tasting his Madeira. HIS PLUCK. When peace was proclaimed this suffer- ing nation rejoiced. Not so our pugna- cious peer. He mourned alone — or rather cursed, for he was not one of the sighing sort. London illuminated. Carnelford's windows shone dark as pitch. This is a thing the London citizens always bitterly resent. A mob collected, and broke his windows. His first impulse was to come out with a pistol and shoot all he could ; but luckily he exchanged the firearm for a formidable bludgeon. With this my lord sallied out, single-handed, and broke several heads in a singularly brief period. But the mob had cudgels too, and belab- ored him thoroughly, knocked him down, and rolled him so diligently in the kennel, while hammering him, that at the end of the business he was just a case of mud with sore bones. All this punishment he received with- out a single howl, and it is believed would have taken his death in the same spirit ; so that, allowing for poetic exaggeration, we might almost say of him, " He took a thousand mortal wounds As mute as fox 'midst mangling hounds." The next night his windows were just as dark ; but he had filled his house with "boarders," as he called them, viz., armed sailors ; and had the mob attacked him again, there would have been whole- sale bloodshed, followed by a less tumult- uous, but wholesale, hanging day. But the mob were content with having thrashed him once, and seem to have thought he had bought a right to his opinions. At all events they conceded the point, and the resolute devil was al- lowed to darken his house, and rebuke the weakness of the people in coming to terms with Bony. THE PITCHER GOES ONCE TOO OFTEN TO THE WELL. Camelford had a male friend, a Mr. Best, and, unfortunately, a female friend, who had once lived with this very Best. This Mrs. Simmons told Camelford that Best had spoken disparaging-ly of him. Camelford believed her, and took fire. He met Best at a cofTee-house and walked up to him and said, in a loud, aggressive way, before several persons, " I find, sir, you have spoken of me in the most un- warrantable terms." Mr. Best replied, with great modera- tion, that he was quite unconscious of having deserved such a charge. "No, sir," says Camelford, "you know very well what you said of me to Mrs. Simmons. You are a scoundrel, a liar, and a ruffian ! " In those days such words as these could only be wiped out with blood, and seconds were at once appointed. Both gentlemen remained at the coffee- house some time, and during that time Mr. Best made a creditable effort ; he sent Lord Camelford a solemn assurance he had been deceived, and said that under those circumstances he would be satisfied if his lordship would withdraw the ex- pressions he had uttered in error. But Camelford absolutely refused, and then Best left the house in considerable agita- tion, and sent his lordship a note. The people of the house justly suspected this was a challenge, and gave information to the police ; but they were dilatory, and took no steps till it was too late. Next morning earlj' the combatants met at a coffee-house in Oxford Street, and Best made an unusual and, indeed, a touching attempt to compose the differ- ence. "Camelford," he said, " we have been friends, and I know the unsuspect- ing generositj' of your nature. Upon my honor you have been imposed upon by a 14-1 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. strumpet. Do not insist on expressions under which one of us must fall." Camelford, as it afterward appeared, was by no means unmoved by this appeal. But he answered, doggedly, '"Best, this is child's play: the thing- must go on." The truth is, Best had the reputation of beinga fatal shot, and this steeled Camel- ford's pride and courage against all over- tures. The duel was in a meadow behind Hol- land House. The seconds placed the men at thirty paces, and this seems to imply they were disposed to avoid a fatal ter- mination if possible. Camelford fired first, and missed. Best hesitated, and some think he even then asked Camelford to retract. This, however, is nol certain. He fired, and Lord Camelford fell at his full length, like a man who was never to stand again. They all ran to him; and it is said he —i\ e Bes1 his hand, and said, " Best, 1 am a dead man. You have killed me ; but 1 freely forgive you." This may very well be true; for it cer- tainly accords with what he bad placed on paper the day before, and also with woi-ds lie undoubtedly uttered in the .presence <>f several witnesses soon after. Mr. Bes1 and bis second made oil to provide for their safety. One of Lord Holland's gardeners called out to some men to stop them: but the wounded man rebuked him. and said be would not have them stopped ; he was the aggressor. He forgave the gentleman who had shot him, and hoped God would forgive lam too. He was carried home, his clothes were cut oil' him. and the surgeons at once pro- nounced the wound mortal. The bullet was buried in the body, and the lower limbs quite paralyzed by its action. It was discovered, after his death, imbedded in the spinal marrow, having traversed the lungs. He suffered great agonies that day, but obtained some sleep in the night. He spoke often, and with great contrition, of his past life, and relied on the mercy of his Redeemer. Before the duel he had done a just and worthy act. He had provided for the safety of Mr. Best by adding to his will a positive statement that he was the ag- gressor in every sense : " Should I. there- fore, lose my life in a contest of my own seeking, I solemnly forbid any of nvy friends or relations to proceed against my antagonist.'' He added that if the law should, nevertheless, be put in force, he hoped this part of his will would be laid before the king. I have also private information, on which I think I can rely. thai, when he found he was to die, he actually wrote to the king with his own hand, entreating him not to let Best be brought into t rouble. And if we consider that, as deal li draws near, the best of men generally fall into a mere brutish apathy — whatever you may read to t lie contrary in Tracts — me thinks good men and women may well yield a tear to this poor, foolish, sinful, but heroic creature, who, in agonies of pain and the jaws of death, could yet he so earne I in his anxiety that no injustice should be done to the man who had laid him low. This stamps Camelford n. man. The best woman who ever breathed was hardly capable of it. Shi' would forgive her enemy, but she could not trouble her- self and worry herself, and provide, niori- bunda, againsl injustice being done to nemy : c'etait mdle. 1 come now to those particulars which have caused me to revive the memory of Thomas Pitt, Lord Camelford, and I divide them into public and private in- formation. THE PUBLIC INFORMATION. The day before his death Lord Camel- ford wrote a codicil to his will which, like his whole character, merits study. He requested his relations not to wear mourning for him, and he gave particular instructions as to the disposal of his re- mains in their last resting-place. In this remarkable document he said that most persons are strongly attached to their native place, and would have their re- mains conveyed home, even from a great distance. " His desire, however, was the reverse. He wished his body to be con- veyed to a country far distant, to a spot WHAT HAS BECOME OF LORD CAMELFORD'S BODY? 145 not near the haunts of men, but where the surrounding' scenery might smile upon his remains." He then went into details. The place was by the lake of St. Pierre, in the Can- ton Berne, Switzerland. The particular spot had three trees standing on it. He desired the center tree to be taken up and ids body deposited in the cavity, and no stone nor monument to mark the place. He gave a reason for the selec- tion, in spite of a standing- caution not to give reasons. "At the foot of that tree," said he, "I formerly passed many hours in solitude, contemplating the mutability of human affairs." He left the pro- prietors of the trees and ground £1,000 by way of compensation. COMMENT ON THE PUBLIC INFORMATION. Considering his penitent frame of mind, his request to his relations not to go into mourning for him may he assigned to hu- mility, and the sense that he was no great loss to them. But as to the details of his interment, I feel sure he mistook his own mind, and was, in reality, imitating the very per- sons he thought he differed from. I read him thus by the light of observation. Here was a man whose life had been a storm. At its close he looked back over the dark waves, and saw the placid waters his youthful bark had floated in before he dashed into the surf. Eccen- tric in form, it was not eccentric at bot- tom, this wish to lay his shattered body beneath the tree where he had sat so oft- en an innocent child, little dreaming then that he should ever kill poor Peterson with a pistol, and be killed with a pistol him- self in exact retribution. That at eleven years of age he had meditated under that tree on the mutability of human affairs is nonsense. Here is a natural anachron- ism and confusion of ideas. He was medi- tating on that subject as he lay a dying ; but such were never yet the meditations of a child. The matter is far more sim- ple than all this. He who lay dying by a bloody death remembered the green meadows, the blue lake, the peaceful hours, the innocent thoughts, and the sweet spot of nature that now seemed to him a temple. His wish to lie in that pure and peaceful home of his childhood was a natural instinct, and a very com- mon one. Critics have all observed it and many a poet sung it, from Virgil to Scott. Occidit, et mot'iens dulces, reminiscitur Argos. THE PRIVATE INFORMATION. In the year 1858, I did business with a firm of London solicitors, the senior partner of which had in his youth been in a house that acted for Lord Camel- ford. It was this gentleman who told me Cainelford really wrote a letter to the king in favor of Best. He told me, further, that preparations were actually made to carry out Camelford's wishes as to the disposal of his remains. He was embalmed and packed up for transporta- tion. But at that very nick of time war was proclaimed again, and the body, which was then deposited, pro tempore, in St. Anne's Church, Soho, remained there, awaiting better times. The w^ar lasted a long while, and, naturally enough, Camelford's body was forgotten. After Europe was settled, it struck the solicitor, who was my friend's informant, that Camelford had never been shipped for Switzerland. He had the curiosity, to go to St. Anne's Church and inquire. He found the sexton in the church, as it happened, and asked him what had be- come of Lord Camelford. "Oh," said the sexton, in a very cavalier way, "here he is ; " and showed him a thing which he afterward de- scribed to my friend M'Leod as an enormously long fish-basket, fit to pack a shark in. And this, M'Leod assured me, was seven or eight years after Camelford's death. Unfortunately, M'Leod could not tell me whether his informant paid a second visit to the church, or what took place between 1815 and 1858. 14G WORKS OF CHARLES READE. The deceased peer may be now lying peacefully in that sweet spot he selected and paid for. But I own to some mis- givings on that head. In things of rou- tine, delay masters little ; indeed, it is a part of the system ; but when an out-of- the-way thing is to be done, oh, then de- lay is dangerous : the zeal cools : the ex- pense and trouble look bigger ; the obli- gation to incur them seems fainter. The inertia of Mediocrity flops like lead into the scale, and turns it. Time is really edax rerum, and fruitful in destructive accidents; rectors are apt to be a little lawless; church-wardens deal with dust- men; and dead peers are dust. Even sextons are capable of making away with what nobody seems to value, or it would not lie years forgotten in a corner. These thoughts prey upon my mind; and as his life and character wen' very remarkable, and his death very, very noble, and his instructions explicit, and the duty of performing them sacred, I have taken the best way I know to rouse inquiry, and learn, if possible, what has become of lord camel- ford - s body. Charles Reade. Authorities. — Annual Register, February 25, 1798; Times, January 14 ami 17, 1799; True Briton, January 17, 19, 1799 ; "Humphries v. Ca Iford," Londoii Chronicle, Times, True Briton, Porcupine, May 16, 17, 18, 1799; Porcu- pine, October 8 and 12, 1801 ; Times, October 9, 12, 17. 24, 1801 ; Morning lost. March 8. 10, 13, 14, 26, 28, 1804; Annual Register, 1804 ; Eccentric Mirror, 1807. Rev. William Cockburn, "An Authentic Ac- count of Lord Camelford's Death, with an Extract from his Will," etc., 1804. Letter from William Cockburn to Philip Neve, Esq., Morning Post, March 20, 1804 M'Leod, deceased. END OF "GOOD STORIES." GOOD STORIES OF MAM AND OTHER ANIMALS. THE KNIGHT'S SECRET. Thomas Erpinghah was knighted by Henry the Fourth for good and valiant service. This Sir Thomas Erpingham, Knight of the Garter, afterward fought by the side of Henry' the Fifth in his French wars, and was made Warden of the Cinque Ports, but retired to Norwich, his native place. He married a beautiful, pious lady, and after a turbulent career and the horrors of war, desired to end his days in charity. Being wealthy, and of one mind, he and Lady Erpingham built a goodly church in the city, and also erected and endowed a religious house for twelve monks and a prior close to the knight's house, and parted only by a high wall. But though the retired soldier wished to be at peace with all men, two of his friars were of another mind : Friar John and 1 Friar Richard hated each other, and could by no means be reconciled ; neither had ever a good word for t'other ; and at last Friar John gave Friar Richard a fair excuse for his invectives. Lady Erping- ham came ever to matins in the convent, and Friar John would always await her coming, and attend her through the clois- ter, with ducks and cringes and open adulation ; whereat she smiled, being, in truth, a most innocent lady, affable to all, and slow to think ill of any man. But Richard denounced John as a li- centious monk ; and some watched and whispered ; others rebuked Richard ; for it was against the monastic rule to put an ill construction where the matter might be innocent. But Richard stood his ground ; and, unfortunately, Richard was right. Mis- understanding the lady's courtesy and charity, Brother John thought his fawn- ing advances were encouraged, and this bred in him such impudence that one day he sent her a fulsome love-letter, and had the hardihood to beg for a private inter- view. The lady, when she opened this letter, could hardly believe her senses: and at last, as gentlewomen will be both unsuspicious and suspicious in the wrong place, she made up her mind that the poor, good, ridiculous friar could never have been so wicked as to write this ; nay, but it was her husband's doing, and a trial of her virtue: he was older than herself, and great love is oft tainted with jealousy. This brought tears into her eyes, to think she should be doubted ; but soon anger dried them, and she took occasion (117) 148 WORKS OF CHARLES READF. to put the letter suddenly into Sir Thomas's hand, and fixed her eyes on him so keenly that if there had been a flaw in his conjugal armor, no doubt those eves had pierced it. The knight read the letter, and turned black and white with rage ; his eyes sparkled with fury, and he looked so fearful that the lady was very sorry she had shown him the letter, and begged him not to take a madman's folly to heart. "Not take it to heart!" said he. "Whai ! these beggarly shavelings thai I have housed and fed, and so lessened my estate and thine — they shall corrupl thee, and rob me of my one earthly treas- ure ! Sit thou down and write." •• Write — Thomas whai ?— -towhom?" "Do as I bid thee, dame," said he, sternly, "and no more words." Those were days when husbands com- manded and wives obeyed; so she sat down, trembling, and took the pen. Then he made her write a letter back to the friar, and say she compassionated his love, and her husband was to ride toward London that night, and her serv- ant, on whom she could depend, should admit him to her by a side door of the house. Friar John, at the appointed time, took care to be in the town, for he knew the lay brother who kept the gate of the priory would not let him out so late. He came to the side door, and was admitted by a servant of the knight, a reckless old soldier, who cared for neither man nor devil, as the saying is, but only for his master. This man took him into a room and left him, then went for the knight: he was not far off. Now the unlucky monk, being come to the con- quest of a beautiful lady, as he vainly thought, had fine linen on, and perfumed like a civet. The knight smelled these perfumes, and rushed in upon him with his man. like dogs upon the odoriferous fox. and, in a fury, without giving him time to call for help or to say one prayer, strangled him, and left him dead. But Death breeds calm ; the knig-kt"s rage abated that moment, and he saw he had done a foul and remorseless deed. He would have given half his estate to bring the offender back to life. Half his estate? His whole estate, ay, and his life, were now gone from him : they were forfeited to the law. So did he pass from rage to remorse, and from remorse to fear. The rough soldier, seeing him so stricken, made light of all, except the danger of discovery. " Come, noble sir," said he, "let us bestir ourselves and take him hack to the priory, and there bestow him; so shall we ne'er be known in it." Thus urged, t he knight roused himself, and he and his man brought the body out, and got if as far as the wall that did pari the house from the monastery. Here they were puzzled a while, hut the man remembered a short lander in the back yard, that was high enough for this job. So they set the ladder, and, with much ado. got the body up it. and then drew the ladder up and set it again on the other side and so, with infinite trou- ble, the soldier got him into the priory. The next thing was'to make it appear Friar John had died a natural death. Accordingly, he set him upon a rickety chair he found in the J'ard, balanced him, and left him; mounted the wall again, let. himself down, and then dropped into the knight 's premises. He found the knight walking in great perturbation, and they went into the house. •-.Now. good master," said this stout soldier, "go you to bed, and think no more oirt." "To bed!" groaned the knight, in agony. "Why should I go there? 1 cannot sleep. Methinks I shall never sleep again." " Then give me the cellar key. good sir. I'll draw a stoup of Canary. 7 ' "Ay, wine!" said the knight; "for my blood runs cold in 1113- veins." The servant lighted a rousing fire in the dining-hall, and warmed and spiced some generous wine, after the fashion of the day, and there sat these two over the fire awaiting daylight and its reve- lations. THE KNIGHTS SECRET. 149 But, meantime, the night was fruitful in events. The prior, informed of Friar Richard's uncharitable interpretations, had condemned him to vigil and prayer on the bare pebbles of the yard, from midnight until three of the clock. But the sly Richard, at dusk, had conveyed a chair into the yard to keep his knees off the cold hard stones. At midnight, whoa he came to his enforced devotions, lo, there sat a figure in the chair. He started, and took it for the prior, seated there to lecture him for luxury ; but peeping, he soon discovered it was Friar John. He walked round and round him, talking at him. " Is it Brother John or Brother Richard who is to keep vigil to-night? I know but one friar in all this house would sit star-gazing in his brother's chair, when that brother wants it to pray in," etc. Brother John vouchsafed no reply; and this stung Brother Richard, and he burned for reveng-e. " So be it, then," said he ; "since my place is taken, I will tell the prior, and keep vigil some other night." With this he retired, and slammed the door. But having thus disarmed, as he conceived, Brother John's suspicion, he took up an enormous pebble, and slipped back on tiptoe, and getting near the an- gle of a wall, he flung his great pebble at Brother John, and slipped hastily behind the wall; nevertheless, as he hid, he had the satisfaction of seeing his pebble, which weighed about a stone, strike Brother John on the nape of the neck, and then there was a lumping noise and a great clatter, and Friar Richard chuckled with pride and delight at the success of his throw. However, he waited some min- utes before he emerged, and then walked briskly out, like a new-comer. There lay John flat, and the chair upset. Brother Richard ran to him, charged with hypo- critical sympathy, and found his enemy's face very white. He got alarmed, and felt his heart ; he was stone-dead. The poor monk, whose hatred was of a mere feminine sort, and had never been deadly, was seized with remorse, and he beat his breast, and praj-ed in earnest, instead of repeating Paternosters, "preces sine mente dictas," as the great Erasmus calls them. But other feelings soon succeeded : his enmity to the deceased was well known, and this would be called murder, if the body was found in that yard; and his own life would pay the forfeit. Casting his eyes round for a place where he might hide the body, he saw a ladder standing against the wall. This sur- prised him ; but he was in no condition to puzzle over small riddles. Terror gave him force : he lifted the body, crawled up the ladder, and placed the body on the wall — it was wider than they build now — then he drew up the ladder, set it on the other side, and took his ghastly load down safely. Then being naturally cun- ning and having his neck to save, he went and hid the ladder, took up the bod j', staggered with it as far as the porch of the knight's house, and set it there bolt -upright against one of the pillars. As he carried it out of the yard he heard a window in the knight's house open. He could not see where the win- dow was, nor whether he was watched and recognized ; but he feared the worst, and such was his terror, he resolved to fly the place and bury himself in some distant monastery under another name. But how ? He was lame, and could not go ten miles in a day, whereas a hun- dred miles was little enough to make him secure. After homicide, theft is no great mat- ter: he resolved to borrow the maltster's mare, and turn her adrift when she had carried him beyond the hue and cry. So he went and knocked up the maltster, and told him the convent wanted flour, and he was to go bet imes to the miller for a sack thereof. Now the convent was a good customer to the maltster ; so he lent Friar Richard the mare at a word, and told him where to find the saddle and bridle. Richard fed the mare for a journey and saddled her ; then he mounted and rode at a foot-pace past the convent, mean- ing to go quietly through the town, 150 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. making no stir, then away like the wind. But as he paced by the knight's house he cast a look ascaunt to see if that ghastly object still sat in the porch. No, the porch was empty. What might that mean ? Had he come to life ? Had the murder been discovered ? He began to wonder and tremble. While he was in this mood there was a great clatter behind him of horse's feet and clashing armor, and he felt he was pursued. The knight and his man sat together, drinking hot spiced wine and awaiting daylight. The knight would not go to bed, yet he wanted a change. " Will daylight never come?" said he. '• "Twill be here anon." said the soldier; " in half an hour." The knight said no. it would never come. The soldier said he would go and look at 1 h«' sky, ami tell him for certain. " Be not long away." said the knight, with a shiver, "orthedead friarwillbe taking thy place here ami pledging me." " Stuff ! " said the soldier; " he'll never trouble you more." With tins he marched out to consull the night, and almost ran againsl tin' dead friar seated in the porch, white and glaring: this was too much even for the iron soldier; he uttered a sharp yell, staggered back, and burst into the room, gasping for breath. He got close to his master, and stammered out, " The dead man! — sitting in the porch!" — and crossed himself energetically, the first time these thirty years. The knight stared and trembled: and so they drew close together, with their eyes over their shoulders. •' Wine ! " cried the knight. " Ay," said the soldier ; " but I go not alone. He'll be squatting on the cask else." So they went together to the cellar, often looking round, and fetched two bottles. They drank them out, and the good wine, falling upon more of the sort, made them madder and bolder. They rolled along, holding on by one another, to the porch, and there they stood and looked at the dead friar, and shuddered. But the soldier swore a great oath, and vowed he should not stay there to get them hanged. Thereupon a furious fit of recklessness succeeded to their terror : they got a suit of rusty armor and fast- ened it on the body ; then they saddled an old war-horse that was kept in the stable only as a reminiscence, and tied the friar's body on to him with many cords; they opened the stable door and pricked the old war-horse with their daggers that he clattered out into the road with a bound and a great rattling of rusty armor. Now as ill luck would have it. Friar Richard and his borrowed mare were pacing demurely through the town scarce fifty yards ahead. The old horse nosed the mare, and. being left to choose his road, took very naturally after her; but when he got near her 1 he monk looked round and saw the ghastly rider. He gave a yell so piercing it waked the whole street, and, for lack of spurs. drove his bare heels into the mare's side : she cantered down the street at an easy pace, the fearful pageant cantered after the friar kept turning' and yelling, and the windows kepi opening and heads popped out to see, and by-and-by doors opened and a few early risers joined in the pursuit, wondering and curious. The cavalcade never cleared the town of Norwich ; the friar, in the wildness of despair, turned his mare up what- seemed to him an open lane ; but there was no exit ; his dead pursuer came up with him, and he .threw himself off. and cried, "Mercy ! mercy ! mea culpa !— I confess it ! I confess it ! only take that horrible face from me ! " and in his despair he owned that he had slain Brother John. Then some led the horse and his ghastly load away, and wondered sore ; but others hauled Friar Richard to justice ; and he, believing it was a miracle, and Heaven's hand upon him, persisted in his confes- sion, and was cast into prison to abide his trial. THE KNIGHTS SECRET. 151 Ho had not to wait long - . In those days the law did not tarry for judges of assize to come round the country now and then. Each town had its inaj-or and its aldermen, any one of whom could try and hang a man if need was. So Friar Richard was tried next week. By this time he had somewhat recov- ered his spirits and his love of life : he defended himself, and said that indeed he had slain his brother, but it was by mis- adventure ; he had thrown a stone at him in some anger, but not to do him deadly harm. This he said with many tears. But, on the other hand, it was proved that he had long hated Brother John ; that he had got out of the priory without passing the door, and had borrowed the maltster's mare on a false pretense; and finally, marks of strangulation had been found on the dead man's throat. All this amazed and overpowered the poor friar, and although his terror at the apparition was not easily to be reconciled with his having been the person who tied the body on the horse, and though one alderman, shrewder than the rest, said he thought a great deal lay behind that, yet, upon the whole, it was thought the safest and most usual course to hang him. So he was condemned to die — in three days' time. The friar, seeing his end so near, strug- gled no more against his fate. He sent for the prior to confess him, and told the truth with deep sorrow and humility : "Mea culpa! mea culpa !" he cried. "If I had not hated my brother and broken our rule, then this had not come upon me ! " Then the prior gave him full absolu- tion, and went away exceeding sorrow- ful, and doubting the wisdom and justice of laymen, and in particular of those who were about to hang Brother Richard for willful murder. This preyed upon his mind, and he went to Sir Thomas Erping- ham to utter his misgivings, and pray the good knight to work upon the sheriff, who was his friend, for a respite until the matter could be looked into more closely. The knight was not at home, but my lady saw the prior, and learned his er- rand. "Alas, g - ood father," said she, " Sir Thomas is not here ; he is gone to London this two days." The prior went home sick at heart. Even so long ago as this they hanged from Norwich Castle. So the rude gal- lows was put up at seven o'clock, and at eight Brother Richard must hang and turn in the wind like a weather-cock. But before that fatal hour a king's mes- senger galloped into the city and spurred into the courtyard of the castle. Very soon the sheriff was reading a parchment signed by the king's own hand : the gal- lows was taken clown, and the people dis- persed by degrees. Some felt ill used. They thought appointments should be kept, or else not made. At night Friar Richard, not reprieved, but, to the amazement of smaller func- tionaries, freely pardoned by his sover- eign, in a handwriting a house-maid of this day would blush for, but with a glori- ous seal the size of an apple fritter, crept forth into the night, and, gliding- along the streets with his head down, slipped into the priory, and was lost to the world for many a long day. Indeed, he was confined to his cell for a month by order of the prior, and ordered to pray thrice a day for the soul of Brother John. When Brother Richard emerged from his cell he was a changed man. He had gathered, amid the thorns of tribula- tion, the wholesome fruit of humility, and the immortal flower of charity. Henceforth no bitter word ever fell from his lips, though for a time he had many provocations, and "Honi soit qui mal y pense " was the rule of his heart. He made himself of little account, and out- lived all enmities. He lived much in his cell, and prayed so often for the soul of Brother John that at last he got to love him dead whom he had hated living. Time rolled on. The knight's hair turned gray, and the good prior died. Then there was a great commotion in the little priory, and three or four of the leading friars each hoped to be prior. That appointment lay with Sir Thomas Erpingham. He attended the funeral of the late prior, and then desired the sub-prior to convene the monks. " Good 152 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. brothers," said he, "your prior is Broth- er Richard. I pray you to invest him forthwith, and yield him due love and obedience/' The knight retired, and the monks stared at each other a while, and then obeyed, since there was no help for it : they invested Brother Richard in due form; and such is the magic of station that, in one moment, they began to look on him with different eyes. The new prior bore his dignity so meekly that he disarmed all hostility. His great rule of life was still " Honi soit qui iikiI y pense," and there is no course in.. it apt to conciliate respecl and good-will. The knighl showed him favor and esteem ; tin 1 monks learned to respecl and by-and-byto revere him; hut: he never ceased to reproach himself, and say massesf or the soul of Brother John. The \ ears rolled on. The knight's gray hair turned while; and one day he senl for 1 lie prior, and said to him, " < food fa1 her. 1 have grave mat ber i<> entertain you withal." •■ Speak, worshipful sir," said the prior. The knight looked at linn awhile, but- seemed ill at ease, and us one thai hath resolved to speak, bul is loath to begin. At lasl In' said, "Sir. there be men thai waste their goods in sin, or meanly hoard them till their hist hour, yet leave them freely to Mother Church after their death, when they can no longer enjoy them. Others there be whose breasts are laden with a secret crime they ought to confess, and clear some worthy man suspected falsely: yet they will not tell till they come to die. Methinks this is to be charitable too late, and just when jus- tice can neither cost a man aught nor profit his neighbor. Therefore, not to be one of these, I will reveal to you now a deed that sits heavy on my conscience." " You would confess to me, my son? " "As man to man, sir, but not as peni- tent to his confessor ; for that were no merit in me : it would be no more than bury my secret in a fleshly grave. Nay, what I tell to you, you shall tell to all the world, if good may come of it." Here the knisrht sighed, and seemed much distempered, lika one who wrestleth with himself. Then he cast about how he should begin, and to conclude he opened the matter thus: "Sir, please .you read that letter ; it was writ by Brother John unto my wife." The prior read it. but said never a word. •■Sir." said the knight, -'do you re- member a sad time when you lay in Nor- wich jail accused of murder and cast for death?" "I do remember it well, sir, and the uncharitable heart that brought me to thai pass." " While you lay there, sir. something befell elsewhere, which I will hide no longer, from you. The king being at his palace iii London, a knight who had fought by Ins side in France sought an audience in private. It was granted him a1 once. Then the knight fell on his knees to the king, and begged that his life and lands might be spared. though he had slain a man in licit of blood. The king was grave bul gentle, and then 1 showed him that letter, and owned the truth, that 1 and my servant, in our fury, had strangled that hapless -• .Mas! sir, did you lake my guilt upon yourself to save my life, so fully forfeit? 'Twas 1 who hated him; "twas I who flung the stone." •• At a dead body. I tell thee, man, we strangled him, and set his body up where you saw it : hand in his death you had none." The prior uttered a strange cry, and was silent. The knight continued, in a low voice : •• We set him in the yard ; and when we found him in the porch, being half mad with terror and drink together, we bound him on the horse and launched him. All this I told the king, and he, considering the provocation, and pitying too much his old companion in arms, gave me my life and lands, and gave me thine, which, indeed, was but bare jus- tice. So now, sir. you know that you are innocent of bloodshed, and His I am guilty." The knight looked at the churchman, A SPECIAL CONSTABLE. 153 and thought to see him break forth into thanksgivings. But it was not so. The prior was deeply moved, but not exultant. "Sir," said he, like a man that is near choking, "let me go to my cell and think over this strange tidings." " And pray for me, I do implore you," said the knight. " Ay, sir, and with all my heart." Some days passed, and the knight looked to hear his own tale come round again. But no ; the prior was silent as the grave. Then after a while the knight sent for him again, and said, " Good father, what I told you was not under seal of confession." " I know it, sir," said the prior. " Yet will it go no further, unless 1 should out- live you by God's will. Alas ! sir, you have taken from me that which was the health of my soul, nvy belief that I had slain him I hated so unchristian-like. This belief it made humility easy to me, and even charity not difficult. What engine of wholesome mortification would be left me now, were I to go a-prating that I slew not the brother I hated ? Nay, I will never tell the truth, but carry my precious burden of humility all my days." " Oh, saint upon earth ! " cried the knight. " Outlive me, and then tell the truth." The monk replied not, but pondered these words. And it fell out so that the knight died three years after, and the prior closed his eyes, and said masses for his soul ; and a good while afterward he did, for the honor of the convent, reveal this true story to two young monks, but bound them by a solemn vow not to spread it during his life. After his death the truth got abroad, and among churchmen the prior was much revered, for that he had cured himself of an uncharitable heart, and had enforced on himself the penalty of unjust shame so many years. A SPECIAL CONSTABLE. Two women, sisters, kept the toll-bar at a village in Yorkshire. It stood apart from the village, a.ud they often felt un- easy at night, being lone women. One day they received a considerable sum of money, bequeathed them by a relation, and that set the simple souls all in a flutter. They had a friend in the village, the blacksmith's wife ; so they went and told her their fears. She admitted that theirs was a lonesome place, and she would not live there, for one — without a man. Her discourse sent them home downright mis- erable. The blacksmith's wife told her husband all about it when he came in for his din- ner. "The fools!" said he: "how is anybody to know they have got brass in the house ? " " Well," said the wife, "they make no secret of it to me; but you need not go for to tell it to all the town — poor souls ! " " Not I," said the man : " but they will publish it, never fear; leave women-folk alone for making their own trouble with their tongues." There the subject dropped, as man and wife have things to talk about besides their neighbors. The old women at the toll-bar, what with their own fears and their Job's comforter, began to shiver with apprehension as night came on. However, at sunset the carrier passed through the gate, and at sight of his 154 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. friendly face they brightened up. They told him their care, and begged him to sleep in the house that night. " Why. how can I ? " said he. " I'm due at ; but I will leave you my dog." The dog was a powerful mastiff. The women looked at each other ex- pressively. " He Won't hurt us, will he? " sighed one of them, faintly. "Not he," said the carrier, cheerfully. Then he called the dog into the house, and told them to lock the door: and went away whistling. The women were left contemplating the dog with that tender interest apprehen- sion is sure to excite. Al first he seemed staggered a1 this off-hand proceeding of his master j it confused him: then he snuffed at the door; then, as the wheels retreated, he began to see plainly he was an abandoned dog; he delivered a fear- ful howl, and Hew at the door, scratching and barking furiously. The old women fled the aparl menl . and were next seen at an upper window. screaming to the carrier. "Come back ! come back. John ! He is tearing the house down.'" "Drat the varmint! "said John, and came hack". On the road he though) what washes! lobe done. The good nafr- ured fellow took Ins great-coal out of the carl, and laid it down on the floor. The mas! ill' instantly laid himself on it. "Now." said John, sternly, "let us have no more nonsense; you take char-' of that till I come back, and don't ye let nobody steal that there, nor yet t' wives' brass. There, now," said he, kindly, to the women. " I shall be back this way breakfast-time, and he won't budge till then." " And he won't hurt vs. John ? " " Lord no. Bless your heart, he is as sensible as any Christian : only, Lord- sake, women, don't ye go to take the coat from him, or you'll be wanting a new gown yourself, and maybe a petticoat and all." He retired, and the old women kept at a respectful distance from their protector. He never molested them : and indeed, when they spoke cajolingly to him, he even wagged his tail in a dubious way ; but still, as they moved about he squinted at them out of his blood-shot eye in a way that checked all desire on their parts to try on the carrier's coat. Thus protected, they went to bed earlier than usual; but they did not undress ; they were too much afraid of everything, especially their protector. The night wore on, and presently then- sharpened senses let them know thai the dog was getting restless : he snuffed and then he growled, and then he got up and pattered about, muttering to himself. Straightway, with furniture, they bar- ricaded the door through which their protector must pass to devour them. Bui by-and-by, listening acutely, they heard a scraping and a grating outside the window of the room where the dog wis: and he continued growling low. This was enough : they slipped out at the back-door, and left their money to save their lives: they got into the vil- lage, li was pitch-dark, and all the houses black but two: one was the public-house, casting a triangular gleam across the road a long way oil. anil the other was the blacksmith's house. Here was a piece of fortune for the terrified women. They burst into their friend's house. "• < >h. Jane ! the t hieves are come ! " and they told her in a few words all that had happened. "La!" said she; " how timorsome you are! ten to one he was only growl- ing at some one that passed by." •• Nay, Jane, we heard the scraping outside the window. Oh, woman, call your man, and let him go with us." "My man — he is not here." " Where is he, then ? " " I suppose he is where other working- women's husbands are, at the public- house," said she, rather bitterly, for she had her experience. The old women wanted to go to the public-house for him : but the, black- smith's wife was a courageous woman, and. besides, she thought it was most likely a false alarm. "Nay, nay," said she, "' last time I went for him there I got a fine affront. I'll come with you," S USPENDED ANIMA TION. 155 said she. " I'll take the poker, and we have got our tongues to raise the town with, 1 suppose/' So they marched to the toll-bar. When they got near it, they saw something- that staggered this heroine. There was actually a man half in and half out of the window. This brought, the blacksmith's wife to a stand-still, and the timid pair implored her to go back to the village. "Nay," said she, "what for? I see but one — and — hark ! it is my belief the dog is holding of him." However, she thought it safest to be on the same side with the dog, lest the man might turn on her. So she made her way into the kitchen, followed by the other two ; and there a sight met their eyes that changed all their feelings, both toward the robber and toward each other. The great mas- tiff had pinned a man by the throat, and was pulling at him. to draw him through the window, with fierce but muffled snarls. The man's weight alone pre- vented it. The window was like a pict- ure-frame, and in that frame there glared, with lolling tongue and starting eyes, the white face of the blacksmith, their courageous friend's villainous hus- band. She uttered an appalling scream, and flew upon the dog and choked him with her two hands. He held, and growled, and tore till he was all but throttled himself, then he let go, and the man fell. But what struck the ground outside, like a lump of lead, was, in truth, a lump of clay : the man was quite dead, and fearfully torn about the throat. So did a comedy end in an appalling and most piteous tragedy ; not that the scoundrel himself deserved any pity, but his poor, brave, honest wife, to whom he had not dared to confide the villainy he meditated. The outlines of this true story were in several journals. I have put the dis- jointed particulars together as well as I could. I have tried to learn the name of the village, and what became of this poor widow, but have failed hitherto. Should these lines meet the eye of any one who can tell me, I hope he will, and without delay. SUSPENDED ANIMATION. A journal called the Los Angeles Star recorded the following incident at the time it occurred : A gentleman in that city had a very large and beautiful tomcat, which he had reared from a kitten. It was now five years old, and the two animals were mutually attached. Every morning, when the servant brought in the water for his master's tub, puss used to come in and sit at the side of the bed, and gaze with admiration at his employer, and sometimes mew him out, but retired into a corner during the tubbing, which he thought irrational, and came out again when the biped was clothed and in his right mind. One day the cat was seen in the garden, tumbling over and over in strong convulsions, which ended in its crawling feebly into the house. The master heard, and was very sorry, and searched for the invalid, but could not find him. However, when he went up to bed at night, there was the poor creature stretched upon the floor at the side of the bed, the very place where he used to sit and gaze at his master, and mew him out of bed. The gentleman was affected to tears by the affectionate creature's death, and his 156 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. coming- there to die. He threw a hand- kerchief over poor Tom, and passed a downright unhappy night. He deter- mined, however, to bury his humble friend, and no time was to be lost, the weather being- hot. So, when his servant came in to fill his tub, he ordered a little grave to he dug directly, and a box found of a suitable size to receive the remains. Then he got up, and instead of tubbing, as usual, he thought he would wash poor Tom's body for interment, for it was all stained and dirty with the mould of the garden. He took the body up, and dropped it into the water with a souse. That souse was sunn followed by a furious splashing that- sent the water Hy- ing in his lace and all about therooin, and away flew the cat through the open window, as ,f possessed by a devil. Nor did the poor body forgive tins hydro- pathic treatment, although successful. He took a perverse view, and had never returned in the imuse " up to the time of our going to press." says the Los Angeles Star. The cat Is not the only animal subject to suspension of vital power. Many men and women have been buried alive in this condition, especially on the Continent, where the law enforces speedy inter- ment. Even in Britain — where they do not shovel one into the earth quite so fast— live persons have been buried, and others have had a narrow escape. 1 could give a. volume of instances at home and abroad — one of them an archbishop, who was actually being carried in funeral procession on an open bier, when he came to, and objected, in what terms I know not ; but the Scotch have an excellent formula in similar cases. It runs thus : "Bide ye yet. mon ; I hae a deal mair mischief to do firrrst ! " Two recent English cases I could certify to he true : one a little girl at Nuneaton, who lay several days without signs of life ; another, a young lady, not known to the public, but to me. She was dead, in medicine ; but her mother refused to let her be buried, because there was no sign of decomposition, and she did not get so deadly cold as others had whom that mother had lost by death. This girl remained unburied some days, till another of God's creatures put m his word : a fly thought her worth biting, and blood trickled from the bite. That turned the scale of opinion, and the girl was recovered, and is alive to this day. However, the curious reader'who desires to work this vein need go no further than the index of the Aim mil "Register and the Gentleman's Magazine. As for me, I must not be tempted outside my imme- diate subject. The parallel I shall con- tine a very Large theme to is exact. At the opening of the century the pub- lic facilities for anatomy were less than now: so then robbing the churchyards was quite a trade, and an egotist or two did worse— they killed people for the small sum a dead body fetched. Well, a male body was brought to a surgeon by a man he had often employed, and the pair lumped it down on the dissecting table, and then the ven- der received his money and went. The anatomist set to work to open the body; but. in handling it, he fancied the limbs were not so rigid as usual, and ho took another look. Yes. the man was dead ; no pulsation either. And yet somehow he was not quite cold about the region of tie- heart. The surgeon doubted : he was a humane man : and so. instead of making a fine transverse cut like that at which the unfortunate author of " Manon Lescaut," started out of his trance with a shriek to die in right earnest, he gave the poor body a chance ; applied hartshorn, vine- gar, and friction, all without success. Still he had his doubts ; though, to he frank. I am not clear why he still doubted. Be that as it may, he called in his assistant, and they took the body into the yard, turned a high tap on, and dis- charged a small hut hard-hitting column of water on to the patient. No effect was produced but this, which an unscientific eye might have passed over : the skin turned slightly pink in LAMBERTS LEAP. 157 one or two places under the fall of water. The surgeon thought this a strong proof life was not extinct ; but, not to overdo it, he wrapped the man in blank- ets for a time, and then drenched him again, letting the water strike him hard on the head and the heart in particu- lar. He followed this treatment up, till at last the man's eyes winked, and then he gasped, and presently he gulped, and bj'-and-by he groaned, and eventually ut- tered loud and fearful cries as one bat- tling with death. In a word, he came to, and the surgeon put him into a warm bed, and as medi- cine has its fashions, and bleeding was t he panacea of that day, he actually took blood from the poor body. This ought to have sent him back to the place from whence he came — the grave, to wit ; but somehow it did not : and next day the' re- viver showed him with pride to several visitors, and prepared an article. Resurrectus was well fed, and, being a pauper, was agreeable to lie in that bed forever, and eat the bread of science. But, as years rolled on, his preserver got tired of that. However, he had to give him a suit of his own clothes to get rid of him. Did I say years ? I must have meant days. He never did get rid of him ; the fellow used to call at intervals and demand char- ity, urging that the surgeon had taken him out of a condition in which he felt neither hunger, thirst, nor misery, and so was now bound to supply his natural needs. However, I will not dwell on this pain- ful part of the picture, lest learned and foreseeing men should, from the date of reading this article, confine resuscitation to quadrupeds. To conclude with the medical view. To resuscitate animals who seem dead, but are secretly alive, drop them into water from — or else drop water on them from — A SUFFICIENT HEIGHT. LAMBERT'S LEAP. Near Newcastle is Sandy-ford Bridge, thirty-six feet above the river, which, like many Northern streams, is seldom quite full, but flows in a channel, with the rocky bed bare on each side : an ugly bridge to look up to or to look over, driv- ing by. In Scotland and the north of England, when our wise ancestors got hold of so dizzy and dangerous a place, they made the most of it ; with incredible perver- sity, they led the approach to such a bridge either down a steep or nearly at right angles. They carried Sandy-ford Lane up to the bridge on the rectangular plan, and thereby secured two events, which were but the natural result of their skill in road-making, yet, taken in conjunction, have other claims to notice. At a date I hope some day to ascertain precisely, but at present I can only say that it was very early in the present cen- tury, a young gentleman called Lambert was run away with by his horse ; the animal came tearing down Sandy-ford Lane, and, thanks to ancestral wisdom aforesaid, charged the bridge with such momentum and impetus that he knocked a slice of the battlement and half a ton of masonry into the air, and went down after it into the river with his rider. The horse was killed ; Mr. Lambert, though shaken, was not seriously injured by this awful leap. The masonry was re- paired ; and, to mark the event, these 15S WORKS OF CHARLES READE. words, "Lambert's Leap,*' were en- graved on the new coping-stone. The road was allowed to retain its happy angle. December 5, 1822, about eleven, fore- noon, Mr. John Nicholson, of Newcastle, a student in surgery, was riding in San- dy-ford Lane. His horse ran away with him, and. being unable to take the sharp turn for such cases made and provided, ran against the battlement oi the bridge. It resisted this time, and brought the horse to his knees ; but the animal, being now thoroughly terrified, rose and actual- ly leaped or scrambled over the battle- ment, and fell into the rocky bed below, carrying away a single coping-stone, viz., the stone engraved " Lambert's Leap.'' That stone was broken to pieces by the fall. The poor young man was so cruelly injured that he never spoke again ; he died at seven o'clock that evening ; but the horse was so little the worse, and so tamed by the fall, that he was at once ridden into Newcastle for assistance. The reversed fates of the two animals, ami the two incidents happening within an inch of each other, have earned them a place in this collection. Richardson's Local Historian's Table- Book relates the second leap, and refers to the first, which is also authenticated. MAN'S LIFE SAVED BY FOWLS, AND WOMAN'S BY A PIG. Men's lives have been sometimes taken, sometimes saved, by other animals, in ways that sound incredible until the de- tails are given. Here is a list that offers a glimpse into the subject, nothing more : 1. Several ships and crews destroyed by fish. 2. Two ships and crews saved by fish. 3. One crew saved by a dog. 4. Many men killed by dogs, and many saved. .">. Many men killed by horses, and many saved. 6. Men killed, and saved, by rats. 7. Man killed by a dead pig. s. Woman saved from death by a live piS- 9. Man saved by fowls. 10. Ditto by a crocodile. 11. Ditto by a lady-bird. 12. One man executed by the act of a horse. 13. Crows leading to the execution of murderers. 14. A man's life saved by an ape. 15. Ditto by a bear. 1G. Ditto by a fox. Some of these sound like riddles, and are at least as well worth puzzling over as acrostics and conundra. I will leave the majority to rankle in my reader, and rouse his curiositj'. But I feel he is entitled to some immediate proof that i he w hole list is not a romance ; so I will relate 8 and 9, by way of speci- men. And here let me promise that, as a general rule, I exclude from this collec- tion all those wonderful stories about animals which are found only in books especially devoted to that subject. Those writers are all theorists — men with an amiable bias in favor of the inferior ani- mals. This tempts them to twist and exaggerate facts, and even to repeat stale falsehoods which have gone the round for \-ears, but never rested on the evidence of an eye-witness. On the other hand, when some plain man, who has no theory, writes down a story at the time and on the spot, and REALITY. 159 sends it. off to a newspaper or other chronicle of current events, where it lies open to immediate contradiction, then we are on the terra fir ma of history. Example. — Here is a letter written on the spot and at the time to a newspaper, and transferred from that newspaper to the Annual Register: EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM NOTTINGHAM. "January 9, 1761. "On Tuesday sennight Mr. Hull's ser- vant, of Beckingham, returning- from market, and finding- the hoat at Gains- borough putting off from shore full of people, was so rash and imprudent (to say no worse of it) as to leap his horse into the boat, and with the violence of the fall drove the poor people and their horses to the further side, which instantly carried the boat into the middle of the stream and overset it. "Imagine you see the unfortunate sufferers all plunging in a deep and rapid river, calling out for help and struggling for life. It was all horror and confusion ; and during this situation the first account was dispatched, which assured us that out of eighty souls only five or six were saved. By a second account we were told that there were only thirty on board, but that out of these above twenty had been drowned. This was for some time believed to be the truest account : but I have the pleasure to hear by a third ac- count that many of those who were sup- posed to be lost have been taken up alive, some of them at a great distance from the ferry, and that no more than six are missing, though numbers were brought to life with difficulty. It was happy for them that so many horses were on board, as all who had time to lay hold of a stir- rup or a horse's tail were brought safe to shore. "A poor man who had a basket of fowls upon his arm was providentially buoyed up till assistance could be had, and he, after many fruitless attempts, was at last taken up alive, though sense- less, at a distance of four hundred yards from the ferry. "A poor woman who had bought a pig, and had tied one end of a string round its foot and the other round her own wrist, was dragged safe to land in this provi- dential manner." Observe — I am better than my word ; for I have thrown you in the circum- stance that the horses saved the rest: certainly in this particular business the lord of the creation does not show that vast superiority to the brutes which he assumes in some of his sculptures and nearly all his writings, Butler's Analogy included. The animal that makes the mischief by his folly is a man ; the ani- mals that prove incompetent to save their own lives are the men. All the other animals in the boat, down to the very pig, turn to and pull the lords and ladies of the creation out of the mess one of these peerless creatures had plunged them all into. REALITY. Miss Sophia Jackson, in the State of Illinois, was a beautiful girl, and had a devoted lover, Ephraim Slade, a mer- chant's clerk. Their attachment was sullenly permitted by Miss Jackson's parents, but not encouraged : they thought she might look higher. Sophia said, "Why, la! he was hand- some and good, and loved her, and was not that enough ? " 160 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. They said, "No; to marry Beauty, a man ought to be rich." "Well," said Sophy, "he is on the way to it: he is in a merchant's office." " It is a long- road ; for he is only a clerk." The above is a fair specimen of the dialogue, and conveys as faint an idea of it as specimens generally do. All this did not: prevent Ephraira and Sophia from spending many happy hours together. But presently another figure came on the scene — Mr. Jonathan Clarke. He took a fancy to Miss Jackson, and told her parents so. and that she was the wife for him, if sin- was disengaged. They said, "Well, now, their was a young clerk alter her, but the man was too poor to marry her." Now Mr. Jonathan Clarke was a wealthy speculator; so, on that infor- mation, he [ell superior, and courted her briskly. She complained to Ephraim. "The idea of their encouraging thai fat tool to think of me!" said she. She called him old, though he was but thirty; and turned his person and sentiments into ridicule, though, in the opinion of sen- sible people, he was a comely man, full of good sense and sagacity. Mr. Clarke paid her compliments. Miss Jackson laughed, and reported them to Slade in a way to make him laugh too. Mr. Clarke asked her to marry him. She said no ; she was too young to think of that. She told Ephraim she had flatly refused him. Mr. Clarke made her presents. She refused the first, and blushed, but was prevailed on to accept. She accepted the second and the third, without first refus- ing them. She did not trouble Ephraim Slade with any port ion of t his detail. She was afraid it might give him pain. Clarke wooed her so warmly that Eph- raim got jealous and unhappy. He re- monstrated. Sophia cried, and said it was all her parents' fault — forcing the man upon her. Clarke was there every day. Ephraim scolded. Sophia was cross. They parted in anger. Sophia went home and snubbed Clarke. Clarke laughed and said, "Take your time." He stuck there four hours. She came round, and was very civil. Matters progressed. Ephraim always unhappy. Clarke always jolly. Parents in the same mind. Clarke urged her to name the day. "Never ! " Urged her again. •• Next year." Urged her again before her parents. They put in their word. "Sophy, don't trifle any longer. You are overdoing it." "There, there, do what you like with me," said the girl ; " I am miserable ! " and ran out crying. Clarke and parents laughed, and stayed behind, and settled the day. When Sophy found they had settled the day, she sent for Ephraim and told him, with many tears. "Oh!" said she, "you little know what I have suffered this six monl hs." " My poor girl ! " said Ephraim. "Let us elope and end it ." ■• What ! My parents would curse me." ••< lh, they would forgive us in time." •• Never. You don't know them. No, my i r Ephraim, we are unfortunate. We can never he happy together. We must bow. I should die if this went on much longer." " You arc a fickle, faithless jade," cried Ephraim, in agony. " God forgive you, dear ! " said she, and wept silently. Then he tried to comfort her. Then she put her arm round his neck and assured him she yielded to constraint, but her heart could never forget him ; she was more unhappy than he, and always should he. They parted, with many tears on both sides, and she married Clarke. At her earnest request Slade kept away from the ceremony ; by that means she was not compelled to wear the air of a victim, but could fling the cloak of illusory happiness REALITY. 161 and gayety over her aching heart ; and she did it, too. She was as gay a bride as had been seen for some .years in those parts. Ephraim Slade was very unhappy. However, after a bit, he comprehended the character of Sophia Clarke, nee Jack- son, and even imitated her. She had gone in for money, and so aid he : only on the square — a detail she had omitted. Years went on : he became a partner in the house, instead of a clerk. The girls set their caps at him. But he did not marry. Mrs. Clarke observed this, and secretly approved. Say she had married, that was no reason why he should. Jus- tice des fe in mes .' Now you will observe that, by all the laws of fiction, Mrs. Clarke ought to have learned, to her cost, that money does not bring happiness, and ought to have been miserable, especially whenever she en- countered the pale face of him whose love she valued too late. Well, she broke all those laws, and went in for Life as it is. She was hap- pier 1 han most wives. Her husband was kind, but not doting ; a gentle master, but no slave : and she liked it. She had two beautiful children, and they helped fill her life. Her husband's gold smoothed her path, and his manly affection strewed it with flowers. She was not passionately devoted to him, but still, by the very laws of nature, the wife was fonder of Jona- than than the maid had ever been of Ephraim ; not but what the latter re- maining- unmarried tickled her vanity. and so completed her content. She passed six years in clover, and the clover in full bloom all the time. Never- theless, gilt happiness is apt to gel a rub sooner or later. Clarke had losses one upon another, and at last told her he was done for. He must go back to California and make another fortune. "Lucky the old folks made me settle a good lump on you,'' said he. "You are all right, and the children." Away went stout-hearted Clarke, and left his wife behind. He knew the coun- try, and went at all in the ring, and be- gan to remake money fast. Reade — Vol. IX. His letters were not very frequent, nor models of conjugal love, but they had g - ood qualities ; one was their contents — a draft on New York. Some mischievous person reported that he was often seen about with the same lady ; but Mrs. Clarke did not believe that, the remittances being regular. But presently both letters and remit- tances ceased. Then she believed the worst, and sent a bitter remonstrance She received no reply. Then she wrote a bitterer one, and, for the first time since their union, cast Eph- raim Slade in his teeth. "There he is," said she, "unmarried to this day, for my sake." No reply even to this. She went to her parents, and told them how she was used. They said they had foreseen it — that be- ing a lie some people think it necessary to deliver themselves of before going se- riously into any question — and then, after a few pros and cons, they bade her ob- serve that her old lover, Ephraim Slade, was a rich man, a man unmarried, evi- dently for her sake ; and if she was wise, she would look that way, and get rid of a mock husband, who was probably either dead or false, and, in any case, had de- serted her. "But what am I to do?" said Mrs. Clarke, affecting not to know what they were driving at. "Why, sue for a divorce." " Divorce Jonathan ! Think of it ! He is the father of my children, and he was a good husband to me all the time he was with me. It is all that nasty California." And she began to cry. The old people told her she must take people as they were, not as they had been; and it was no fault of hers, nor California's, if her husband was a changed man. In short, they pressed her hard to sue for a divorce and let Slade know she was going to do it. But the woman was still handsome and under thirty, and was not without a cer- tain pride and delicacy that grace her sex even when they lack the more solid "6 162 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. virtues. "No," said she, "I will never go begging to any man. I'll not let Ephraim Slade think I divorced my hus- band just to get him. I'll part with Jon- athan, since he has parted with me, and after that I will take my chance. Eph- raim Slade ? he is not the only man in the world with eyes in his head." So she sued for a divorce, ami gol il quite easy. Divorce is beautifully easy in the West. When she was free, she had no Longer any scruple about Ephraim. He lived at a town seven miles from her. She had a friend in that town. She paid heravisit. She Let the other Lady into her plans. and secured her co-operation. Mrs. X set it abroad that Mrs. Clarke was a widow ; and, from one to another. Ephraim Slade was given to undcrsl nd that a visit from him would i"~ agree- able. •• Will it ?" said Ephraim. "Then I'll go." lie called on her, and was received with a • ness. •• Sit down. Ephraim— Mr. Slade." said she. softly and tremulously, and lefl tie room. She had scarcely cleared it, when he heard her tell the female servant . with a sharp, imperious tone, to admit no other visitors. It did not seem the same voice. ne back to him melodious. " The sight of you after so many years upsel me," said She. Then, after a pause and a sigh, " You look well." "Oh, yes, I am all right. We are neither of us quite so young as we were. you know." ••No. indeed" (with another sigh). "Well, dear friend, I suppose you have heard. I am punished, you see. for my want of courage and fidelity. I have always been punished. But you could not know that. Perhaps, after all, you have been the happier of the two. I am sure I hope you have." •• Well. I'll tell you. Mrs. Clarke." said he. in open, manly tones. She stopped him. "Please don't call me Mrs. Clarke, when I have parted with the name forever." (Sotte voce.) ••Call me Sophia." " Well, then, Sophia, I'll tell you the truth. When you jilted me — " "Oh!" "And married CI — who shall I say? Well, then, married another, because he had got more money than I had — " "No. no. Ephraim, it was all my parents. Bu1 1 will try and hear your reproaches. Go on." "Well, then, of course I was awfully cut up. I was wild. 1 gol a six-shooter to kill you and — the other." " I wish you had." said she. She didn't wish anything of the kind. '• I'm very glad 1 didn't., then. I drop ped the six-shooter and took to the mop- ing and crying' line." " Poor Ephraim ! " "Oh, yes; 1 went through all the changes, and ended as other men do." •• And how is thai ? " •• Why, by getting over it." •• What ! yon have got over i1 ? " •■ Lord, yes : long ago." "Oh! -in — deed!" said she, bitterly. Then, with sl\ incredulity, •'How is it you have never married ? " •Well. I'll tell you. When I found that money was everything with you girls. I calculated to go in lor nmiiex too So I speculated, like — the other, and made money. But when 1 had once begun to taste money-making, somehow 1 left oiT troubling about women. And, besides, I know a greal many people, and I look coolly on. and what. I see in every e has set me againSl marriage. Most of my married friends envy me. and say I don't envy any one of them, and don't pretend to. Marriage! it is a bad institution. You have got clear of it, I hear. Ail the better for you. 1 mean to take a shorter road : I won't ever get into it." This churl, then, who had drowned hot passion in the waves of time, and, instead of nursing a passion for her all his days, had been hugging celibacy as man's choicest treasure, asked her coolly if there was anything he could do for her. Could he be of service in finding out in- vest ments, etc., or could he place either of the bovs in the road to wealth? In- REALITY. 163 stead of hating - these poor children, like a man, he seemed all the more inclined to serve them that their absent parent had secured him the sweets of celibacy. She was bursting- with ire, but had the self-restraint to thank him, though very coldly, and to postpone all discussion of that kind to a future time. Then he shook hands with her and left her. She was wounded to the core. It would have been very hard to wound her heart as deeply as this interview wounded her pride. She sat down and shed tears of mortifi- cation. She was aroused from that condition by a letter in a well-known hand. She opened it, all in a flutter : " My dear Sophy — You are a nice wife, 3 T ou are. Here I have been slaving my life out for you, and shipwrecked, and nearly dead with a fever, and coming home rich again, and I asked you just to come from Chicago to New York to meet me, that have come all the way from China and San Francisco, and it is too much trouble. Did you ever hear of Lunbam's dog that was so lazy he leaned against the wall to bark ? It is very dis- heartening to a poor fellow that has played a man's part for you and the chil- dren. Now be a good girl, and meet me at Chicago to-morrow evening - at 6 P.M. For if you don't, by thunder ! I'll take the children and absquatulate with them to Paris, or somewhere. I find the drafts on New York I sent from China have never been presented. Reckon by that you never got them. Has that raised your dander ? Well, it is not my fault ; so put on\ r our bonnet and come and meet "Your affectionate husband. "Jonathan Clarke. "I sent my first letter to your father's house. I send this to vour friend Mrs. X—" Mrs. Clarke read this in such a tumult of emotions that her mind could not settle a moment on one thing. But when she had read it, the blood in her beating veins bes - an to run cold. What on earth should she do ? Fall to the ground between two stools ? No : that was a man's trick, and she was a woman, every inch. She had not any time to lose ; so she came to a rapid conclusion. Her acts will explain better than comments. She dressed, packed up one box, drove to the branch station, and got to Chicag - o. She bought an exquisite bonnet, took private apartments at a hotel, and employed an intelligent person to wait for her husband at the station, and call out his name, and give him a card, on which was written •■ Mrs. Jonathan Clarke. At the X Hotel." This done, she gave her mind entirely to the decoration of her person. The ancients, when they had done an3'- thing wrong and wanted to be forgiven, used to approach their judges with di- sheveled hair, and shabby clothes. Sor- didis vestibus. This poor shallow woman, unenlight- ened by the wisdom of the ancients, thought the nicer a woman looked, the likelier a man would be to forgive her, no matter what. So she put on her best silk dress, and her new French hat bought on purpose, and made her hair very neat, and gave her face a wash and a rub, that added color. She did not rouge, because she calculated she should have to cry be- fore the end of the play, and crying hard over rouge makes channels. When she was as nice as could be, she sat down to wait for her divorce ; she might be compared to a fair spider which has spread her web to catch a wasp, but is sorely afraid that, when he does come, he will dash it all to ribbons. The time came and passed. An ex- pected character is always as slow to come as a watched pot to boil. At last there was a murmur on the stairs; then a loud hearty voice; then a blow at the door — you could not call it a tap — and in burst Jonathan Clarke, brown as a berry, beard a foot long, genial and loud, open-heart, Californian manners. At sight of her he gave a hearty "Ah ! " and came at her with a rush to clasp her 164 WORKS OF CHARLES READJL. to his manly bosom, and knocked over a little cane chair gilt. The lady, quaking internally, and trem- bling from head to foot, received him like the awful Sid dons, with one hand nobly extended, forbidding- his profane advance. " A word first, if you please, sir." Then Clarke stood transfixed, with one foot advanced, and his arm in the air. like Ixion, when Juno turned cloud. "You have ordered me to come here, sir, and you have no longer any righl to <,i-t]r\' : hut L am come, you see, to tell you my mind. What, do you really think a wife is to be deserted and abandoned, mosl likely for some other woman, ami t hen lie whistled back into her place like a dog? No man shall use me so." '• Why. what is I lie row? has a mad dog bitten you, ye cantankerous crit- •■ Nol a letter for ten months, t hat IS the matter!"' cried Mrs. Clarke, loud and aggressive. ■• That is not my fault . 1 \\ ro1 from I 'hina. and sent rafts on New York." •• li is easy t .1 say : I do it." (Louder and age. Clarke (bawling in his turn). " I don'1 care whel her 3 ou believe it 1 Nobody but you calls Jonj Clarke a liar." Mrs. Clarke (competing in violence). ■■ 1 believe one t hing, 1 ha: ; ou w ere seen all about San Francisco with a lady. 'Twas to her you directed mj letters and drafts: thai is how 1 lost them. It is al- ways the husband that is in fault, and not the post." (Very amicably all of a sudden:) "How long were you 11, Cali- fornia after you came back from China ? " ■■ Two months." "How often did you write 111 that time?" (Sharply.) •• Well, you see. I was always expect- ing to start for home." "You never wrote once." (Very loud.) "That was the reason." "That and the lady." (Screaming loud ) "Stuff! Give me a kiss, and no more nonsense.' (Solemnly:) "That I shall never do again. Husbands must be taught not to trifle with their wives' affections in this cruel wax." (Tenderly:) "Oh, Jona- than, how could you abandon me ? What could you expect? I am not old; lam not ugly." "D — n it all, if you have been playing any games " — and he felt instinctively for a bowie-knife. "Sir!" said the lady, in an awful tone, that subjugated the monster di- rect ly. •• Well, then," said he, sullenly, " don'1 talk nonsense. Please remember we are man and wife." Mrs. Clarke (very gravely). "Jon- athan, we are not ." •• I damnation ! what do 3 mi mean ? " "If you are going into a passion, 1 won't tell you anything: I hate to be frightened. What language the man has picked up — in California ! " "Well, that's neither here nor there. You go on." "Well. Jonathan, you know 1 have al- ways been under the influence of my It was at their wish I married you." '• That is not what you told me at the •• 1 Hi. >• s, 1 did ; only you have forgot- ten. Wei , when no word came from you for so many months, my parents were in- dignant, and they worked upon me so and pestered me so — that — Jonathan, we are ced." ctress thoughl this was a good point to cry at. and cried accordingly. Jonathan started at the announcement, swore a heartful, and then walked the room in rage and bitterness. " So. t ben," said he. "you leave the woman you love, and the children whose smiles are your heaven; you lead the life of a dog for them, and when you come back, by God, the wife of your bosom has divorced you, just because a letter or two miscarried ! That outweighs all you have done and suffered for her. Oh. you are crying, are you ? What, you have given up facing it out . and laying the blame on me, have vou ? " REALITY. 165 "Yes, dear; I find you were not to blame : it was — my parents." " Your parents ! Why, you are not a child, are you ? You are the parent of my children, you little idiot : have you forgotten that? " "No. Oh ! oh ! oh ! I have acted hastily, and very, very wrong." "Come, that is a good deal for a pretty woman to own. There, dry your eyes, and let us order dinner.*' " What ! dine with you ? " " Why, d — n it, it is not the first time by a few thousand." " La, Jonathan, I should like ; but I mustn't." "Why not?" "I should be compromised." "What, with me?" "Yes; with any gentleman. Do try and realize the situation, dear. I am a single woman.'" Good Mr. Clarke — from California— de- livered a string of curses so rapidly that they all ran into what Sir Walter calls a " clishmaclaver," even as when the ring- ers clash and jangle the church bells. Mrs. Clarke gave him time; but as soon as he was in a state to listen quietly, compelled him to realize her situation. " You see," said she, "I am obliged to be very particular now. Delicacy de- mands it. You remember poor Ephraim Slade?" " Your old sweetheart. Confound him ! has he been after you again ? " "Why, Jonathan, ask yourself. He has remained unmarried ever since ; and when he heard I was free, of course he entertained hopes ; but I kept him at a distance; and so" (tenderly and regret- fully) " I must you. I am a single woman." "Look me in the face, Sophy. You won't dine with me?" " I'd give the world ; but I mustn't, dear." " Not if I twist your neck round — dar- ling— if you don't?" "No. dear. You shall kill me, if you please. But I am a respectable woman, and I will not brave the world. But I know I have acted rashly, foolishly, ungratefully, and deserve to be killed. Kill me, dear — you'll forgive me then." With that, she knelt down at his feet, crossed her hands over his knees, and looked up sweetly in his face with brim- ming eyes, waiting, yea, even requesting, to be killed. He looked at her with glistening eyes. "You cunning hussy," said he; "you know I would not hurt a hair of your head. What is to be done? I tell you what it is, Sophy ; I have lived three years without a wife, and that is enough. I won't live any longer so — no, not a day. It shall be you, or somebody else. Ah ! what is that ? — a bell. I'll ring, and order one. I've got lots of money. They are always to be had for that, you know." " Oh, Jonathan ! don't talk so. It is scandalous. How can you get a wife all in a minute — by ringing ? " " If I can't, then the town-crier can. I'll hire him." " For shame." ' ' How is it to be, then ? You that are so smart at dividing couples, you don't seem to be very clever in bringing 'em to- gether again." '• It was my parents, Jonathan, not me. Well, dear. I always think when people are in a difficulty, the best thing is to go to some very good person for advice. Now. the best people are the clergymen. There is one in this street, No. 18. Perhaps he could advise us." Jonathan listened gravely for a little while, before he saw what she was at ; but the moment he caught the idea so slyly conveyed, he slapped his thigh and shouted out, "You are a sensible girl. Come on." And he almost dragged her to the clergyman. Not but what he found time to order a good dinner in the hall as they went. The clergyman was out, but soon found : he remarried them : and they dined together man and wife. They never mentioned grievances that- night ; and Jonathan said, afterward, his second bridal was worth a dozen of his first ; for the first time she was a child, and had to be courted up-hill : but 166 WORKS OF CHARLES READE the second time she was a woman, and knew what to say to a fellow. Next day Mr. and Mrs. Clarke went over to . They drove about in an open carriage for some hours, and did a heap of shopping-. They passed by Epliraim Slade's place of business much oftener than there was any need, and slower. It was Mrs. Clarke who drove. Jonathan sat and took it easy. She drives to this day. And Jonathan takes it easy. EXCHANGE OF ANIMALS. Old traditions linger in country long after they have perished in great Nik lis. Were t lie English pro\ i be groped for modem antiquities, and the sum total presented, the general reader would be amazed a1 the mass of ancient superstition lingering England. Not only do popish pra popish legends and charms, flourish in our most Puritanical c iut even pagan rites and cerei ies. In the north the mummers at Christmas, of all days. dance a sword-dance which belo the worship of a Scandinavian ;rod ; in Northumberland and parts of Ireland. the young folks still make Little bonfires and leap through thorn on a ■ day, though the practice is forbidden in the Old Testament as an abomination, for this is no other thing than " going through the Bre to Baal." and is the many signs that we Colts were an Oriental tribe. Any novice wishing to strike this vein of lore without much trouble has only to read the excellent book of Mr. Henderson, and grope the in- dex to Notes and Queries. I strongly recommend the latter course. "For index-reading turns no student pale. Yet takes the eel of science by the tail." My own reading in such matters has taught me one thing — to suspect old tra- dition whenever I encounte: any strange practice down in the country. Why, even rustic mispronunciation is often a relic, where it passes for an error. Rusticus calls a coroner's inquest "crowner's and the educated smile superior. But Rusticus is not wrong : he is only in arrear. " Crowner's quest " is the true medieval form, and was once universal. Every English peasant calls a theater a n sneer. Yet theater is the true pronunciation: and fifty years in fore Shakespeare nobody, low, mispronounced the word into r. as he does and we do. To the tenacity of old tradition I ascribe a prevalent notion, in rude parts of this country, that an Englishman and his wife can divorce themselves under certain con- ditions. 1st. the parties must consent; 2d, there must he a public auction ; 3d, the lady must lie sold with a halter round her neck. That our rural population ever in- vented this law is improbable in itself ami againsl evidence: there are exan the practice as old ;is any chronicle we have : and I really suspect that in some barbarous age — later, perhaps, than our serious worship of Baal, but anterior to our earliest Saxon laws — this rude divorce by consent was the unwritten law of Britain. The thing has been done in my day many times, and related in the journals., and I observe that it is always done with similar ceremonies, and that the lower order of people, though they jeer, are not shocked at it, nor does it seem to strike them as utterly and profoundly illegal. It dates, I apprehend, from a time when marriage was a partnership at will, and EXCHANGE OF ANIMALS. 1G7 the Roman theory that marriage is a sacrament, and the English theory that marriage is not a sacrament, but half a sacrament, were alike unknown to a primitive people. My note-book contains numerous ex- amples. I select one with a bit of color, which was published at the date when it occurred. Joseph Thompson rented a farm of forty acres in a village three miles from Carlisle. In 1829 he married a spruce, lively girl twenty-two years of age. They had many disputes, and no chil- dren. So after three years they agreed to part. The bell-man was sent round the vil- lage to announce that Joseph Thompson would sell Mary Anne Thompson by auc- tion on April 5, 1832, at noon precisely. At the appointed hour Joseph Thomp- son stood on a table, and his wife a little below him on an oak chair, with a halter of straw i*ound her neck. He put her up for sale in terms that a by-stander thought it worth while to take down on the spot. '•Gentlemen, I have to offer to your notice my wile, Mary Anne Thompson, otherwise Williamson. It is her wish as well as mine to part forever, and will be sold without reserve to the highest bid- der. Gentlemen, the lot now offered for competition has been to me a bosom ser- pent. I took it for my comfort and the good of my house : but it became my tor- mentor, a domestic curse, a night inva- sion, and a daily devil. The Lord deliver us from termagant wives and trouble- some widows ! Gentlemen, avoid them as you would a mad dog, a roaring lion, a loaded pistol, cholera morbus, or any other pestilential phenomenon — " Here it seems to have occurred to Joseph Thompson that he was not going the way to sell his lot at a high figure ; so he tried to be more the auctioneer and less the husband. " However,'" said he, "now I have told you her little defects, I will present the bright and sunny side of her. She can read novels, milk cows, and laugh and weep with the same ease that you could toss off a glass of ale. What the poet says of women in general is true to a hair of this one — •Heaven gave to women the peculiar grace To laugh, to weep, and cheat the human race.' She can make butter and scold the maid ; she can sing Moore's Melodies, and plait her own frills and caps. She cannot make rum. nor gin. nor whisky : but she is a good judge of all three from long ex- perience in tasting them. What shall we say for her, with all her perfections and imperfections ? — fifty shillings to begin ? " There was a dead silence. He had bet- ter have employed George Robins, Senior. " Cuilibet in sua, arte credendum." There was no bidding at all. Then the auc- tioneer w r as angry, and threatened to take the lot home. The company in general sustained this threat with composure ; but one Mears conceived hopes, and asked modestly whether an exchange could not be made. "I have here," said he. "a Newfound- land dog — a beauty. He can fetch and carry ; and if you fall in the water, drunk or sober, he'll pull you out." Thompson approved the dog, but ob- jected to give a Christian in even ex- change for a quadruped. Each species has a prejudice in its own favor, owing to which the company backed him. So at last Mears agreed to give the dog and twenty shillings to boot. The bargain was made. Thompson took the halter off the wife and put it round the dog. and Mears led his pur- chase away by the hand, amid the shouts and huzzas of the multitude, in which they were joined by Thompson. After a while, however, the latter recol- lected he had a duty to perform. ' ; I must drink the new-married couple's health,"' said he, gravely. Accordingly he adjourned with his dog and his money to the public-house, and toasted his de- liverer so zealously that he took nothing home from the sale except the dog. For- tunately for him. a man can't drink his superior. 168 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. THE TWO LEARS. Geoffrey of Monmouth tells the old British legend of King- Leir. Hollings- head repeats it, and from him Shakes- peare took it. and made the dry bones live. In that great master's hands the tale broadened and deepened. It became more tragical than the original record. This is the outline of Shakespeare's story : King Lear, being old, and disposed to enjoy ease and dignity withoul the cares of state, resolved 1" divide his kingdom among his three daughters : their names were Groneril, Duchess of Albany. Etegan, Duchess of Cornwall, and Cordelia, un- married, but courted by the king of France and the Duke of Burgundy, then a powerful monarch, though nominally vassal to t he French king. When it came to the division, the old kins' was weak enough to tell his daughters he should give the larger share to the one who loved him best, and should prove her love by words. This was to invite cheap protesta- tions, and accordingly, two of the ladies, Goneril and Regan, vied in lip-love: Goneril said she loved him more than words could utter, yet she found words to pain; filial love in tolerably glowing terms : for she went so far as to say that she loved him dearer than eyesight, space, or liberty, and no less than honor, beauty, health, and life itself: with more to the same tune. Regan could not soar above this : so she had the address to say that her sister had spoken her very mind, only she. Regan, went a little further, and detested all other joys iuit that of filial love. The royal parent believed all this, and then turned to his favorite, his youngest, and asked her what she could say to draw from him a larger dowry than her sisters had just earned — with their tongues. Cordelia. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing. Cord. Nothing. Lear. Nothing can come of nothing: again. Cordelia was a little frightened of her father's anger; but she would onl\ say that she Loved her father as a daughter should : she obeyed him, loved him. honored him, aim t bought it no merit , but a thing of course. She also declined frankly to believe that her sisters, who were wives, had no love for their hus- bands, only for their father; nor could she promise to reserve all her love for her father, and give none to the man she mighl \\cd. The fact is. she being a woman, her sisters were such transparent humbugs to her thai it made her rather blunt in her honesty, and she did not gild the pill. Lear. So young, and so untender? So young, my lord, ami true. i o; thj truth then be thy dower. lie then went into a violent passion, and disowned her as his daughter, and ordered her from his presence, while la- settled with his favorite daughters what retinue he was to have as a retired king-, and where he was to li Afterward he sent for Cordelia and the princes her suitors ; he told them to her face he had disinherited her, and he used terms of invective, so ambiguous that Cordelia, who had borne all the rest in silence, now interfered, and appealed to his justice to tell those gentlemen she had lost his favor not by any unchaste or dis- honorable act, but for want of a greedy eye and a flattering tongue. Lear evaded this remonstrance, and up- braided her again in general terms; but Cordelia's appeal was not lost upon her THE TWO LEARS. 169 suitors. Burgundy, indeed, only offered to take her with the dowry originally proposed, and on the king refusing this, he declined her hand. But thereupon this pitiable scene was redeemed by a trait of nobility: France, who had come there for a rich dowry as well as a bride, was now fired with nobler sentiments, and welcomed a pearl of Womanhood, without land or money. Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich, being poor ; More choice, forsaken ; and most loved, despised ! Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance. Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France : Not all the dukes of wat'rish Burgundy Shall buy this unprized, precious maid of me. Even this noble burst did not enlighten or soften the impetuous old king, whose vanity had been publicly wounded. He actually took the arm of Burgundy, the paltry duke who had admitted lie wooed the lady only for her substance, and he bade the only daughter who really loved him begone. Without his love, his grace, his benison. France was as glad to have her as he to part with her, and so she disappeared for a time from the scene. Now the terms of Lear*s retirement, which I alluded to above, were these : he was to retain the title of a king, and a retinue of a hundred knights, to be kept at the expense of his regal daughters, and he and that retinue were to reside a month at a time with each princess in turn. He began his new life in the palace of his daughter Goneril. He and his knights soon became burden- some to that lady, and she made the most of every little offense. She resolved to shift him on to her sister, and gave in- sidious instructions to her major-domo. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows : I'd have it come to ques- tion : If be dislike it, let him to my sister. Whose mind and mine. I know, in that are one, Not to be overruled. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away. These prefidious instructions bore fruit immediately. Goneril's head servant was insolent to Lear ; the impetuous king beat him, and was soon after confronted by his daughter, who, to his amazement, took him to task in cold and lofty terms for his disorderly conduct and that of his tram. With regard to the latter, she told him plainly he must discharge one- half of them, or she should do it for him. This cool insolence, coming so soon after the violent protestations, put Lear in a fury. Darkness and devils ! — Saddle my horses ; call my train together. Degenerate bastard ! I'll not trouble thee — Yet have I left a daughter. Goneril. You strike my people, and your dis- ordered rabble Make servants of their betters. These two speeches alone may serve to show which was likely to prevail in this unnatural combat, the hot-headed, warm- hearted king, or his cold-blooded, iron daughter. Lears rage broke into curses, but ended in tears that were like drops of blood from his wounded heart, and at last he turned away from that ungrateful ser- pent, and journej-ed to the Court of Re- gan. But a letter from Goneril reached that palace before the ex-king, and he actual- ly found some difficulty in obtaining an audience of his own daughter. At last she and her husband met him, but. outside the house. At sight of her his swelling breast overflowed, and he told her her sister was ungrateful, and had struck him to the heart. "Oh, Regan ! " he sobbed. Regan calmly begged him to be pa- tient, and said he had misunderstood her sister: it was for his own good she had restrained the riots of his followers. She reminded him lie was old, insinuated he was in his dotage, and needed the control of wiser people : and to conclude, she cool- ly advised him to return to her sister, and beg her pardon. "What ! " cried he: "when she has abated me of half my train, looked black upon me. and struck her serpent fangs into my heart ! " He then, in his rage, 170 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. called down all manner of curses on his eldest daughter. Says Regan, " Why, you will be cursing me next." In the midst of this who should arrive but Goneril and her attendants, on a visit to Regan. Regan received her instantly with a cordiality she had not shown to her father and benefactor. Learwas amazed at that, after what he had said, and exclaimed. "Oh, Regan, will you take her by i lie hand ? " It was Goneril who replied to this, and with the most galling and contemptuous insolence : Whynol by the hand, sir? How have I ofl All's not offense t hal Bods ■ : ms so. At this t In- poor old king pr Heaven fur put ience. Regan paid no attenl ion to that, but coldly stuck to her point. Sin- advised him to «■ ply \\ it b < kraeril's terms, strike "if half Ins knights, and conclude his month. After thai be could come bo her. At presenl his visits would not be convenienl . Lear refused, lint Iy. ••As you please," said Goneril, coldly. Regan persisted, and said that. fifty followers were too many in another prison's house. How could so many peo- ple, under two commands, hold amity? Then Goneril pul in her word. Why could he not be attended on by their servants ? "'I'o be sure." said Regan. ••Then, if they were disrespectful, we could control them. At all events." said she, ••when you come to me, bring no more than twenty-five." He asked her if that was her last word : she said it was. Then the poor old king said Goneril was better than she was. Y''s. he would go back with Goneril. and dismiss half his retinue. One would have thought these clever. heartless women had bandied the poor old man to and fro enough. But Goneril had no mercy: this was her reply, when he consented to her own proposition : Goneril. Hear me. my lord : What need you flve-and-twenty, ten. or five. To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you? Began. What need one f So they trumped each other's cards, and coldly drove him wild. He raged and stormed at them, un- heeded. He wept with agony, unheeded. He left them both, and went forth into the stormy night a houseless king, a ban- ished father. Crushed vanity is hard to bear. Wound* i on is hard to beat . Under the double agony the poor old king lost Ins reason, and wandered about. the kingdom like a beggar. Meantime his despised curses began to work, for his wicked daughters prepared their own chastisemenl l>\ their own crimes; and here the poet has well shown that the hearts cold to divine affection could be hot with illicit love as well as spurred by greed. But now it was reported in France how King had been abused, and Queen Cordelia, indignant, invaded the kingdom with a French army. Her emissaries found the pool- king in a miserable condi- tion, living in rags, and sleeping in out- houses :,inl stables. She had him hud, ail on a fair bed in her ow n tent . with music softh playing, and hei ", n physician waiting on him. She herself nursed him with deep anxiety for his wakii i All was changed. She who in his hour of pridi and prosperity hoi said she loved him only as every daughter ought to love her father, now overflowed with passion- ate tenderness. She took his gray head to her filial bosom, and bemoaned him. •• Was this a face,'" said she. " to posed to the warring winds? On such a night, too! Why, I would have given shelter to my enemy's dog, though he had bitten me. And wast thou fain, poor father, to hovel thee with swine on musty straw ? " While she was t hus lament ing over him, the sore-tried king awoke ; but not his memory. He thought he had been dead, and told them they did wrong to take him THE TWO LEARS. 171 out of the grave where he rested from his sufferings. The happy change in his con- dition brought him no joy at first ; it did but confuse and puzzle him. He looked at Cordelia, and saw she was a queen, and tried to kneel to her. But she would not let him, and kneeled to him instead, and begged him to hold his hand over her and give her a parent's blessing. Seeing so great a lady at his feet craving his blessing let some light into his distracted mind, and drew from the once fiery old man sweet piteous words that have made many an eye wet : Pray do not mock me : I am a very foolish, fond old man, Fourscore and upward ; and to deal plainly, I [ear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful ; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is : and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments: nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me ; For. as I am a man I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cord. And so lam. I am. Then the poor soul seeing her weep, bade her not cry, and offered to drink poison if she chose ; for he said she had far more reason to hate him than her sisters had. But she soon convinced him of her love, and from that time they never parted. At this very time Groneril and Regan died by poison and suicide, and so paid the forfeit of their crimes. But all this was on the eve of a battle between the French and English forces, and in that battle, deplorable to relate, Cordelia was slain, and Lear mustered strength to kill her assassin, and then the last chord of his sore-tried heart gave way, and he died by the side of his loved daughter, who had professed so little, ye1 had done so much, and died for him. This is the heart of Shakespeare's story. There is an inferior hand visible in parts of it ; it is clogged with useless characters and superfluous atrocities, and the death of Cordelia is revolting, and a sacrifice of the narrative to stage policy. But all that pertains directly to King Lear : s ex- quisite, and so masterly that the tale has extinguished the legend. Historically in- correct, it is true in art, all but the sacri- fice of Cordelia, which, coupled with the other deaths, turns the theater into a shambles, and, above all, disturbs the true motive of the tale. When the reader finds the sore-tried old man lying on a soft couch, tended by Queen Cordelia, and when at last he knows her, and they mingle their tears and their love, the reader sees this is the lightening before death, and the mad king has recovered Ins wits to be just to his one child, and then to fall asleep after life's fitful fever. Against such a. tale, so told, no previous legend can fight. Under such a spell you can neither conceive nor believe that Lear recovered his kingdom, and caroused again at the head of his knights, and toasted his one child. Youth may recover any wound ; but old age and royal vanity crushed and trampled on. and paternal love struck to the heart by the. serpent's tooth of filial ingratitude, what should they do but rage and die? Yet there is a legend, almost as old as "Lear," of a father whom his children treated as Goneril and Regan treated Lear ; but he suffered and survived, and his heart turned bitter instead of break- ing. Of this prose Lear the story is all over Europe, and, like most old stories, told vilely. To that, however, there happens to be one exception, and the readers of this collection shall have the benefit of it. In a certain part of Ireland, a long time ag'o, lived a wealthy old farmer whose name was Brian Taafe. His three sons, Guillaum, Shamus and Gar- ret, worked on the farm. The old man had a great affection for them all; and finding himself grow unfit for work, he resolved to hand his farm over to them, and sit quiet by the fireside. But as that was not a thing to be done lightly, he thought he would just put them to their trial. He would take the measure of their intelligence, and then of their af- fection. Proceeding 111 this order, he gave them 172 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. each a hundred pounds, and quietly watched to see what they did with it. Well, Guillauin and Shamus put their hundred pounds out to interest, every penny; but when the old man questioned Garret where his hundred pounds was. the young man said, " I spent it. father." " Spent it ? '" said the old man, aghasl . " Is it the whole hundred pounds ? " •' Sure I thought you told us we might lay it out as we plaised." " Is that a raison ye'd waste the whole of it in a year, ye prodigal?" cried the old man : and he trembled at the idea of his substance falling into such hands. Some months after tins he applied the second test . He convened his sons, and addressed them solemnly: "I'm an old man. my children; my hair is white on my head, ami it's time 1 was giving over trade and making my sowl." The two elder overflowed sympathy. He then gave the dairj -farm and t he Hill to Shamt the meadows to Guillaum. Thereupon these two vied with eai expres- sions of love and gratitude. Bu1 Garrel said never a word ; and i Ins. coupled w it li Ins behavior aboul the hundred pounds, so maddened the old man I hat Garret's portion, namely, the home and the home-farm, to his elder brothers to hold in common. Garrel be disinherited on the spot, and in t\\u- form. Thai is to saj . he did not overlook him nor pass him by: but even as spiteful testators used bo leave the disinherited one a shilling, that he mighl not be able to say he had been inadvertently omitted, and it was all a mistake, old Brian Taafe solemnly pre- sented young Garrel Taafe with a hazel staff and a small has'. Poor Garret knew very well what that meant. He shoul- dered the bag. and went forth into the wide world with a sad heart, but a si- lent tongue. His dog, Lurcher, was for following him, but he drove him hack with a stone. On the strength of the new arrange- ment, Guillaum and Shamus married di- rectly, and brought their wives home, for it was a large house, and room for all. But the old farmer was not contented to be quite a cipher, and he kept finding fault with this and that. The young men became more and more impatient of his interference, and their wives fanned the flame with female pertinacity. So that the house was divided, and a very home of discord. This weiii on getting worse and worse, till at last, one winter afternoon. Shamus defied his father openly before all the rest, ind said,"I'd like to know what would plaize ye. May he ye'd like to turn us all out as ye did Garret." Tie- old farmer replied, with sudden dignity. • If I oid. I'd take no more than I gave." "What good was your giving it?" said Guillaum; "we gel no comfort of it while \ on are in t he house." "Do you tall; that way to me. too?" said the father, deeply grieved. "If it was pom- Garret I had. he wouldn't use me so." ••"Much thanks the poor hoy ever got from you." said one of t he women, with us tongue : t hen l he ot her woman. finding she could counl on male support, suggested to her father-in-law to take his stick and pack and follow his beloved < {ar- ret. •• Sure he'd find him begging about the count hry." At the women's tongues the wounded hay. •• 1 don't wonder al anything I hear ye saw Ye never yet heard of anything woman would have a hand in — only mischief always. If ye ask who made such a road, or buill a bridge, or wrote a great histhory, or did a great action, you'll never hear it's a woman done it; but if there is a jewel with swords and guns, or two boys cracking each other's crowns with shillalahs, or a daily secret let out. or a character ruined, or a man brought to the gallows, or mis- chief made bet ween a father and his own flesh and blood, then I'll engage you'll hear a woman had some call to it. We needn't have recoorse to histhory to know your doin's, 'tis undher our eyes; for 'twas the likes o' ye two burned Throy, and made the king o' Leinsther rebel aerainst Brian Boru." THE TWO LEARS. 173 These shafts of eloquence struck home ; the women set up a screaming, and pulled their caps off their heads, which in that part was equivalent to gentlefolks draw- ing their swords. " Oh, murther ! murther ! was it for this I married you, Guillaum Taafe ? " '•'Och, Shamus, will ye sit an' hear me compared to the likes ? Would I rebel against Brian Boru, Shamus, a'ra gal? " "Don't heed him, avourneen," said Shamus ; "he is an oukl man." But she would not be pacified. " Oh, vo ! vo ! If ever I thought the likes 'ud be said of me, that I'd rebel against Brian Boru !" As for the other, she prepared to leave the house. " Guillaum," said she, " I'll never stay a day undher your roof with them as would say I'd burn Throy. Does he forget he ever had a mother himself ? Ah ! 'tis a bad apple, that is what it is, that despises the tree it sprung from." All this heated Shamus, so that he told the women sternly to sit down, for the offender should go ; and upon that, to show they were of one mind. Guillaum de- liberately opened the door. Lurcher ran out. and the wind and the rain rushed in. It was ajstormy night. Then the old man took fright, and hum- bled himself : "Ah! Shamus, Guillaum, achree, let ye have it as ye will ; I'm sorry for what I said, a'ra gal. Don't turn me out on the high-road in my ould days, Guillaum, and I'll engage I'll niver open my mouth against one o' ye the longest daj 7 I live. Ah ! Shamus, it isn't long- I have to stay wid ye, anyway. Yer own hair will be as white as mine yet. plaise God ! and ye'll be thanking Him ye showed respect to mine this night." But they were all young and of one mind, and they turned him out and barred the door. He crept away, shivering in the wind and rain, till he got on the lee side of a stone wall, and there he stopped and asked himself whether he could live through the night. Presently something cold and smooth poked against his hand : it was a large dog that had followed him unobserved till he stopped. By a white mark on his breast he saw it was Lurcher, Garret's dug. • • Ah ! ' ' said the poor old wanderer, •• you are not so wise a dog as I thought, to follow me." When he spoke to the dog, the dog fondled him. Then he burst out sobbing and cr3'ing, "Ah, Lurcher! Garret was not wise either ; but he would niver have turned me to the door this bit- ter night, nor even thee." And so he moaned and lamented. But Lurcher pulled his coat, and by his movements conveyed to him that he should not stay there all night : so then he crept on and knocked at more than one door, but did not obtain admittance, it was so tem- pestuous. At last he lay down exhausted on some straw in the corner of an out- house : but Lurcher lay close to him, and it is probable the warmth of the dog saved his life that night. Next day the wind and rain abated ; but this aged man had other ills to fight against beside winter and rough weather. The sense of his sons' ingratitude and his own folly drove him almost mad. Some- times he would curse and thirst for ven- geance, sometimes he would shed tears that seemed to scald his withered cheeks. He got into another county and begged from door to door. As for Lurcher, he did not beg ; he used to disappear, often for an hour at a time, but always re- turned, and often with a rabbit or even a hare in his mouth. Sometimes the friends exchanged them for a gallon of meal, sometimes they roasted them in the woods; Lurcher was a civilized dog, and did not like them raw. Wandering hither and thither, Brian Taafe came at last within a few miles of his own house ; but he soon had cause to wish him himself further off it ; for here he met his first downright rebuff, and, cruel to saj', he owed it to his hard- hearted sons. One recognized him as the father of that rogue Guillaum Taafe, who had cheated him in the sale of a horse, and another as the father of that thief Shamus. who had sold him a diseased cow that died the week after. So, for the 174 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. first time since he was driven out of his home, he passed the night supperless. for houses did not lie close together in that part. Cold, hungry, houseless, and distracted with grief at what he had been and now was, nature gave way at last, and. un- able to outlast the weary, bitter night, he lost his senses just before dawn, and lay motionless on the hard road. The chances were he must die ; bul just at Death's door his luck turned. Lurcher put lus feel over him and Ins chin upon his breast to guard him ften guarded Garret's coat, and that kept a little warmth in his heart; and at the very dawn of day the door of a farmhouse opened, and the master came out upon Ins business, and saw something unusual lying in the road a good way off. So he went toward it, and found Brian Taafe in that condition. This farmer was very well to do, but he ban known trouble, and it had made him charitable. !i hallooed to ins men, and bad t he old man taken m . ed bis w lie too, aim bade her observe that it was a rever- end face, though he was all in tatters. They laid him between hoi blankets, and. when be came to a bit. gave him warm drink, and at last a good meal. He re- covered his spirits, and thanked them wit h a certain dignity. When he w:is quite comfortable, and not before, they asked him bis name. ■ \ i ! don'1 ask me t bat." said be. piteously. "It's a bail name I have, and it used to be a good one, too. Doift ask me. or maybe you'll put me out. as the others old. for the fault of my two sons. It is hard to he t urned from my own door, let alone from other honest men's doors, through the viiyms." said he. So the farmer was kindly, and said. " Never mind your name, fill your belly." But by and by the man went ou1 into the yard, and then the wife could not re- strain her curiosity. " Why, good man," said she. •• sure you are too decent a man to be ashamed of your name." '•I'm too decent not to be ashamed of it." saiil Brian. *• But you are right ; an honest man should tell his name though they druv him out of heaven for it. I am Brian Taafi — that was." •■ Not Brian Taafe the strong farmer at Corrans ? " "Ay, madam; I'm all that's left of him." •• Have you a sou called Garret ? " "I had. then." The woman spoke no more to him, but ran screaming to the door : " Here, Tom ! Tom ! come here I " cried she : " Tom ! Tom ! " As Lurcher, a very sympathetic dog, flew to the door and yelled and barked fierely in support of this invocation, the hullaboosoon brought the farmer running in. "Oh, Tom, asthore," cried she, "it's Mr. Taafe. the father of Garrel Taafe himself." "Oh, Lord ! " cried t be farmer, in equal agitation, .and stared at him. " My bles- sing on the day von overset foot within i hese doors ! " Then he ran to the door and hallooed: "Hy, Murphy! Ellen.' come here, ye divils ! " Lurcher supported the call with great energy. In i ittle boy and girl. '• Look a1 this man with all the eyes in your body !" said lie. "This is Misther ■ ■ rtt t Taafe t hat saved us all from ruin and d est ruction entirely." He then turned to Mr. Taafe. and told him. a little more calmly, "that years ery haporth thej bad was going to lie carted for the rent : but. Garret Taafe came by, | M it bis hand in his pocket . toe, out thirty pounds, and cleared them in a moment. It was a way he ban ; we were no1 the onh , nes in- saved that way, so long as he had it to give." The old man did not hear these last words: his eyes were opened, the iron entered his soul, and he overflowed with grief and penitence. " Och, murther ! murther ! " he cried. "My poor boy ! what had I to do at all to go and turn you adrift, as I done, for no raison in life ! " Then, with a pit- eous, apologetic wail, "I tuck the wrong for the right : that's the way the world is blinded. Och, Garret. Garret, what will I do with the thoughts of it? An' those two vilyians that I gave it all to, THE TWO LEARS. 175 and they turned me out in my ould days, as I done you. No mattheiy' and he fell into a sobbing- and a trembling- that near- ly killed him for the second time. But the true friends of his son Garret nursed him through that, and comforted him ; so he recovered. But, as he did live, he outlived those tender feelings whose mortal wounds had so nearly killed him. When he recovered this last blow he brooded and brooded, but never shed an- other tear. One day, seeing him pretty well restored, as he thought, the good farmer came to him with a fat hag of gold. " Sir," said he, *'soon after your son helped us, luck set in our way. Mary she had a legacy ; we had a wonderful crop of flax, and with that plant "tis either kill or cure ; and then I found lead in the hill, and they pay a dale o' money for leave to mine there. I'm almost ashamed to take it. I tell you all this to show you I can afford to pay you back that thirty pound*, and if you please I'll count it out." "No!" said Mr. Taafe. "I'll not take Garret's money ; but if you will do me a favor, lend me the whole bag for a week, for at the sight of it I see a way to — Whisper." Then, with bated breath and in strict confidence, he hinted to the farmer a scheme of vengeance. The farmer was not even to tell it to his wife; "for," said old Brian, "the very birds carry these things about ; and sure it is knowing divils I have to do with, especially the wo- men." Next day the farmer lent him a good suit and drove him to a quiet corner scarce a hundred yards from his old abode. The old farmer got down and left him. Lurch- er walked at his master's heels. It was noon and the sun shining bright. The wife of Shamus Taafe came out to hang up her man's shirt to dry. when, lo ! scarce thirty yards from her, she saw an old man seated counting out gold on a broad stone at his feet. At first she thought it must be one of the good people — or fairies — or else she must be dream- ing ; but no ! cocking her head on one side, she saw for certain the profile of Brian Taafe, and he was counting a mass of gold. She ran in and screamed her news rather than spoke it. '• Nonsense, woman ! " said Shamus, roughly; "it is not in nature." ■' Then go and see for yourself, man ! "' said she. Shamus was not the only one to take this advice. They all stole out on tip-toe, and made a sort of semicircle of curiosity. It was no dream; there were piles and piles of gold glowing in the sun, and old Brian with a horse - pistol across his knees ; and even Lurcher seemed to have his eyes steadily fixed on the glittering- booty. When they had thoroughly drunk in this most unexpected scene, they began to talk in agitated whispers ; but even in talking they never looked at each other — their eyes were glued on the gold . Saul Guillaum : "Ye did very wrong, Shamus, to turn out the old father as you done; see now what we all lost by it. That's a part of the money he laid by, and we'll never see a penny of it."' The wives whispered that was a foolish thing to say : " Leave it to us," said they, "and we'll have it all one day." This being agreed to. the women stole toward the old man, one on each side. Lurcher rose and snarled, and old Brian hurried his gold into his ample pockets, and stood on the defensive. " Oh, father ! and is it you come back ? Oh, the Lord be praised ! Oh, the weary day since you left us, and all our good luck wid ye ! " Brian received this and similar speeches with fury and reproaches. Then they humbled themselves and wept, cursed their ill-governed tongues, and bewailed the men's folly in listening to them. They flattered him and cajoled him, and ordered their husbands to come forward and ask the old man's pardon, and not let him ever leave them again. The sup- ple sons were all penitence and affection directly. Brian at last consented to stay, but stipulated for a certain chamber with a key to it. " For," said he, " I have got my strong-box to take care of, as well as mvself." 176 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. They pricked up their ears directly at mention of the strong-box, and asked where it was. "Oh! it is not far, but I can't carry it. Give me two boys to fetch it." "Oh! Guillaum and Shamus would carry it or anything to oblige a long-lost father." So they went with him to the farmer's cart, and brought in the box, which was pretty large, and. above all, -cry full and heavy. He was once more king "f hisown house, and flattered and pel ted as he l. ad nei er been since he gave away 1 j i — - estate. Ti> be sure, he fed this by nivsi erious hints f hat In' had other lands besides thai part of tin' country, and that, in- deed, tin- full exfcenl of his possessions would never be known until his will was read: which will was safely locked away in his strong-box with <>ll<> r things. And so he passed a pleasanl I tme, im- bi1 tered only b\ regrets, and very poignant they were, thai he could hear nothing of his son Garret. Lurcher also was taken great car i of, ami became old and lazy. Mut shocks thai do not kill inn. Before he reached threescore ami ten. Brian Taafe's night-work and troubles told upon him. and he drew near his end. He was quite conscious of i:. and an- nounced his own departure, bul not in a regretful way. He had b • omi quite a philosopher; and indeed there was a sorl of chuckle about the old fellow in speak- ing of his own death, which his daughters- in-law secretly denounced as unchristian, and. what was worse, unchancy. Whenever he did mention the expected event, he was sun' to say, ■•Ami mind, boys, my will is in that chest ." •'Don't spake of it. father." was the reply. When he was dying, he called for both bis sons, and said, in a feeble voice. ■'' I was a strong farmer, and come of honest folk. Ye'll give me a good wakin', boys, an* a gran' funeral." They promised this very heartily. '•And after the funeral ye'll all come here together, and open the will, the children an' all. All but Garret. I've left him nothing, poor boy, for sure he's not in this world. I'll maybe see him where I'm goin'." So there was a grand wake, and the viri ues of t lie deceased and his professional importance were duly howled by an old lady who excelled in this lugubrious art. Then the funeral was hurried on. because they were in a hurry to open the chest. The funeral was jmned in the church- yard by a stranger, who muffled his face, and shed the only tears that fell upon a ve. Aft'i' the funeral he stai ed behind all the resl ami mourned, lint he l;e fa mm al 1 he feast which fol- lowed, ami behold! il was Garret, come a day too late. He was welcomed with exuberant affection, not being down m the will: but they did not ask him to sleep there. They wanted to be alone, and read the will. He begged for some reminiscence of his fatlu i\ and they gave him Lurcher. So he put Lurcher into his gig. and drove away to that good farmer. sure of his welcome, and praying God he might find him alive. Perhaps his , would not have let him go so had they known he had made a large fortune m America, and was going to bu\ quite a slice of the county. ( in t he way he kept talking to Lu and reminding him of certain sports they had enjoyed together, ami feats of poach- ing they had performed. Poor old Lurch- er kept pricking his ears all the time, and cudgeled his memory as to the tones of the voice Dial was addressing him. Garret retailed the farm, and was received tirst with stare,, then with cries of joy, and was dragged into the house, so to speak. After the first ardor of wel- come, he told them he had arrived only just in time to bury his father. "And this old dog," said he. " is all that's left me of him. He was mine first, but when I left, he took to father. He was always ., wise dog."' ••We know him,"' said the wife: "he has been here before." And she was going to blurt it all out. bul her man said . '■ Another time," and gave her a look as black as thunder, which wasn't his way at all, but he explained to her afterward. THE TWO LEARS. 177 •• They are friends, those three, over the old man's grave. We should think twice before we stir ill blood betune 'em." So when he stopped her, she turned it off cleverly enough, and said the dear old dog must have his supper. Supper they gave him, and a new sheepskin to lie on by the great fire. So there he lay, and seemed to doze. The best bed in the house was laid for Garret, and when he got up to go to it, didn't that wise old dog get up too with an effort, and move stiffly toward Garret, and lick his hand ; then he lay down again all of a piece, as who should say, " I'm very tired of it all." "He knows me now at last, "said Garret, joyfully. "That is his way of saying good-night, I sup- pose. He was always a wonderful wise dog." In the morning they found Lurcher dead and stiff on the sheepskin. It was a long good-night he had bid so quietly to the friend of his youth. Garret shed tears over him, and said, " If I had only known what he meant, I'd have sat up with him. But I never could see far. He was a deal wiser for a dog than I shall ever be for a man." Meantime the family party assembled in the bedroom of the deceased. Every trace of feigned regret had left their faces, and all their eyes sparkled with joy and curiosity. They went to open the chest. It was locked. They hunted for the key ; first quietly, then fussily. The women found it at last , sewed up in the bed : • they cut it out and opened the chest. The first thing they found was a lot of stones. The3 T glared at them, and the color left their faces. What deviltry was this? Presently thev found writing on one stone -•'Look below.' Then there was a reaction and a loud laugh. " The old fox was afraid the money and parchments would h\\ away, so he kept them down." They plunged their hands in, and soon cleared out a barrowful of stones, till they came to a kind of paving-stone. They lifted this carefully out, and discov- ered a good new rope with a running noose, and — the will. It was headed in large letters finely en- grossed : "THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF BRIAN TAAFE." But the body of the instrument was in the scrawl of the testator. " I bequeath all the stones in this box to the hearts that could turn their father and benefactor out on the highway that stormy night. " I bequeath this rope for any father to hang himself with who is fool enough to give his property to his children be- fore he dies." This is a prosaic story compared with the "Leat" of Shakespeare, but it is well told by Gerald Griffin, who was a man of genius. Of course I claim little merit but that of setting the jewels. Were I to tell you that is an art, I suppose you would not believe it. I have put the two stories together, not without a hope that the juxtaposi- tion may set a few intelligent people thinking. It is very interesting, curious, and instructive to observe how differ- ently the same events operate upon men who differ in character. And per. haps "The Two Lears " may encourage that vein of observation : its field is boundless 178 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. DOUBLES. We live in an age of bad English. There is a perverse preference for weak foreign to strong British phrases, and a run upon abstracl terms, roundabout phrases, polysyllables, and half-scien- tific jargon on simple matters, like vel- vet trimming on a cotton print. Addison could be contenl to write, "My being bis nearesl neighbor gave m«' some knowledge of bis babits;" bul our contemporaries musl say, " The fad of my being his nearesl neighbor g inc." ele. N.i in 111.' Brs1 . it is mil "the fact" bul "the circumstance ; " ind in I be nexl . bo1 b "fact" and "circumstance" are super- fluous ami barbarous. Probably the schoolboys who invented this circum- locution had been told by some village schoolmaster thai ■ •■ verb can only he governed by a ooun substantive. Pure illusion ! it can be governed by :. sen- tence with no nominative case in it. and Hie Addisonian form is good, elegant, classical English. All the Roman au- thors are full of examples: and. unless my memory fails me, the very lirsl Latin line cited as -mid syntax in Hie old Eton grammar is : Ingeuuas didicisse Bdeliter artes Eniollit mores, nee sinit ess.' feros. Try your nineteenth century grammar ou this — it is a fair test : -'Factum dis- cendi ingenuas artes emollit mores."" Why is this so glaringly ridiculous in Latin, yet current in English? Simply because bad English is so common, and bad Latin never was. "To die is landing ou some distant shore." This line of Garth's turned into nine- teenth-century English would be, " The fact of dying is identical with landing on some distant shore If I could scourge that imbecile phrase, ■• the fact of." out of England, I should lie no slight benefactor to our mother- tongue. 1 may return one day to the other vices of English 1 have indicated above. At presenl 1 will simply remark that what 1 call "Doubles," the writers ..f the new English call "cases <>f mis- TAKEN IDENTITY." Ph03DUS ! what a mouthful ! This is a happj combination of the currenl vices. 1 . Here is a term dragged oul of philos- ophy i.. do vulgar work. ','. It is wedded to an adjective, which can not coexist with it. You may mis- take a man for A, or you may identify him with A. But yon cannol do both; for if you mistake, you do not identify, and if you identify, you do not mistake. ::. Here are ten syllables set In do the two. Now in every other art and science economy of time and space is the irreat object : only the English of the day aims at parvum in multo. But. thank- Heaven, good ..Id •- Double " is not dead yet, though poisoned with exotics and smothered under polysyllables. There are always many persons on the ; obe who seem like other persons in feature when the two are not confront- ed : but. setting aside twins, it is rare that out of the world's vast population any two cross each other "s path so like one another as to bear comparison. Where comparison is impossible, the chances are that the word ■• Double "is applied without reason. Sham Doubles are prodigiously common. My note-books are full of them. Take two examples out of many. Two women examine a corpse carefully, and each claims it as her hus- band. It is interred, and by and by both husbands walk into their wives' houses alive and — need I say — impenitent. A wife has a man summoned for deserting DOUBLES. 179 her. Another woman identifies him in the police court as her truant husband. This looks ugly, and the man is detained. Two more wives come in and swear to him. A pleasing 1 excitement pervades the district. Our lady novelists had. kept to the trite path of bigamy ; but truth, more fertile, was going- to indulge us with a quadrigamy. Alas ! the quadrigamist brought indisputable evidence that he had been a public officer in India at the date of all the four marriages, and had never known one of these four injured fe- males, with the infallible eyes cant assigns to that sex. Sometimes the sham Double passes cur- rent by beguiling the ears in a matter where the eyes, if left to themselves, would not have been deceived. The most remarkable cases on record of this are the false Martin Guerre and the sham Tichborne. A short comparison of these two cases may serve to clear the way to my story. Fifteenth century — Martin Guerre, a small peasant proprietor in the south of France, and a newly married man. left his wife and went soldiering, and never sent her a line in eight years. Then came a man who, like Martin, had a mole on his cheek-bone and similar features, only he had a long beard and mustache. He said things to the wife and sister of Mar- tin Guerre which no stranger could have said, and, indeed, reminded the wife of some remark she had made to him in the privacy of their wedding night. He took his place as her husband, and she had children by him. But her uncle had al- ways doubted, and when the children came to divert the inheritance from his own offspring, he took action and accused the newcomer of fraud, it came to trial ; there were a prodigious number of respect- able witnesses on either side; but the accused was about to carry it, when stump — stump — stump — came an ominous wooden leg into the court, and there stood the real Martin Guerre, crippled in the wars. The supposed likeness disappeared, all but the mole, and the truth was re- vealed. The two Martins had been soldiers, and drunk together in Flanders. and Martin had told his knavish friend a number of little things. With these the impostor had come and beguiled tin.' ears, and so prejudiced the eyes. French law was always severe. They hanged him in front of the real man's door. Orton"s case had the same feature. His witnesses saw by the ear. He began by pumping a woman who wanted to be deceived, and from her and one or two more he obtained information, with which he dealt adroitly, and so made the long ears of weak people prejudice their eyes. As for his supposed likeness to Tichborne, that went not on clean observation, but on wild calculation. •• If Martin Guerre, whom you knew beardless, had grown a long beard, don't you think he would be Like this? " "Yes, I do; for there's his mole, and lie knew things none but Martin Guerre could." " If Roger Tichborne, whom you knew as thin as a lath, had become as fat as a porpoise, don't you think he would be like this man ? " •• Yes, I do ; for his eyes twitch like Roger"s, and he knows some things Roger knew." Eleven independent coincidences prove the claimant to be Arthur Orton ; and three such coincidences have never failed to hang a man accused of murder. But that does not affect the question as to whether he was like Tichborne. There is, however, no reason whatever to be- lieve that he was a bit like him. In the first place, it is not in the power of anj r man to divine how a very lean man would look were he to turn \^vy fat in the face ; and. in the next place, the fat was granted contrary to experience : for it is only a plump young man who gets fat at thirty ; a lean man at twenty-one is never a por- poise till turned forty. To conclude, this is no case of Doubles, but the shallowest imposture recorded in all history : and the fools who took a fat, living snob, with a will of iron, for a lean, dead aris- tocrat, with a will of wax, have only to thank their long ears for it; no down- right delusive appearance ever met their eyes. 180 WORKS OF CHARLES READL. A much nearer approach to a Double occurred almost under my eyes. A certain laughter-loving' dame, the delight of all who knew her. vanished suddenly from her father's house, where she was visiting. Maternal tenderness took the alarm, emissaries searched the town north, south, east and west, and a young lady was found drowned, and im- mediately recognized as my sprightly friend. Her father came and recognized her too. In his anguish he asked leave to pray with her alone; and it was only in the act of prayer thai his eye fell upon some small thing that caused a doubt: but examining her hair and forehead more narrowly, he tumid the drowned girl was inn his child. As I'm- her, poor girl, she was young, and had dashed off to Brighton, in very good company, and, Like the rest of her prodigious sex. had grudged a shilling for a telegram, though she would have given all she had in the world rather than cause her. parents so -en,, us an alarm. Even in this case calculal ion enters : the drowned girl, when alive, may not have looked so like my laughter-loving friend. Still, we musl allow them Doubles, or very near it Having t hus narrowed I he subject . 1 will now give the reader the mos1 curious case of Doubles my reading — though somewhat rich in such matters — furnishes. The great Moliere married Ajrmande Bejart, a sprightly actres pany. She was a fascinating coquette, and gave him many a sore heart. But the public profits by a poet's torments: wound him. he bleeds, not ephemera] blood, but immortal ichor — thoughts thai breathe, and words that burn, and char- acters that are types more enduring than brass. The great master has given us. in a famous dialogue, the defects and charms of the woman lie had the misfortune to love. This passage in which a disinterest- ed speaker runs her down and a lover de- fends her. is charming : and the inter- locutors are really the great observer's judgment and his heart. The contest ends, as might be expected, in the vic- tory of the heart. Covielle, alias Moliere's judgment: " But you must own she is the most capricious creature upon earth." Cleonte, alias Moliere's heart : " Oui, elle est capricieuse, j'en demeure d'ac- cord ; mais tout sied bien aux belles ; on sontfre tout des belles." — Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Act III., Scene IX. But Armande Bejart entered more deeply into Moliere's mind, and hut for her the immortal Celinioiu — a character it will take the world two hundred years more to estimate at its full value — would ne\ er ha\ e seen i he light . < !&limene is a horn coquette, bul with a world of good sense and been wit, and not a bad heart, but an untruthful — a pernicious woman, not a had one. She has an estimable lover, and she esteems hmt: hut she can- !i"! do without two butterfly admirers, whom she fascinates ami deceives. They detect her, and expose her insolently, She treats them with calm contempt. ( )nly to the wort liy man she has slighted she bangs her head with gentle and evi a pathetic penitence. She oilers to marry him ; hut when he makes a condition that would render infidelity impossible, lirage fails, ami she declines. yr\ not vulgarly. Tins true woman, with all her suppleness, ingenuity, and marvelous pow.a-s of fence, whether she has to parry the just remonstrances of her worthy lover, or soot he the vanity of her bu1 terfly dupes, or pass a polished rapier through the bodj of a female friend who co her wiih hypocrisy and envenomed bland- ishments, is Armande Bejarl . Thai is on reason why I give a niche in my collec- tion to a strange adventure that befell her after the great heart she so played with had ceased to beat, and the great head that created Celimene had ceased to ache. The widow Moliere, after her hus- band'- death, carried on her gallantries with greater freedom, but in an inde- pendent spirit, for she remained on the stage, a public favorite : and her lovers, though not restricted as to number, must please her eye. She does not appear to have been accessible to mere ignoble in- DOUBLES. 181 terests. Monsieur Lescot, a person of some importance, President of the Par- liament of Grenoble, saw her repeatedly on the stage, and was deeply smitten with her. He had heard it whispered that she was not quire a vestal, and he resolved to gratify Ins fancy if he could. In those days the stage at night was a promenade open to any gentleman of fashion ; but President Lescot did not care to push in among the crowd of beaux and actors, so he consulted a lady who had been useful to many distressed gentlemen in similar cases. This Madame Ledoux ba'd a very large acquaintance with persons of both sexes ; and such was her benevolence, that she would take some pains, and even exert some ingenuity, to sweep obstacles out of the path of love and bring agreeable people together. She undertook to sound Mademoiselle Moliere, as the gay widow was called, and. if possible, to obtain Monsieur Lescot an interview. After some days she told Lescot that the lady would go so far as to pay her a visit at a certain time, and he could take this opportunity of dropping in and paying his addresses. He came, and found a young lady whose quiet appearance rather surprised him. La Moliere on the stage was celebrated for the magnificence of her costumes : but here she was dressed with singular mod- esty. He had a delightful conversation with her, and one that rather surprised him. She was bitter against the theater, its annoyances and mortifications, and confessed she felt not altogether unwill- ing to make a respectable acquaintance who had nothing to do with it. In the next interview Lescot was urgent and the lady coy: nevertheless, she held out hopes, provided he would submit to certain positive conditions. Lescot agreed, and expected that a settlement of some kind would be required. Nothing of the sort. What she de- manded, and upon his word of honor, was that he would never come after her to the theater, nor. indeed, speak to her in public, but onty at the house of their mutual friend, Madame Ledoux. The condition was curious but not sordid. President Lescot accepted it, and very tender relations ensued. Lescot was in paradise, and Madame Ledoux took ad- vantage of that to bleed him very freely : but his inamorata herself showed no such spirit. She threw out no hints of the kind, and the most valuable present she accepted from him was a gold necklace he bought for her on the Quai des Or- fevres. She assured him, too. that the intrig-ues ascribed to her were utterly false, and that what most attracted her in him was his being in every way unlike her theatrical comrades — a man of posi- tion and a friend apart, with whom she could forget the turmoil of her daily ex- istence and the stale compliments of the coxcombs who throng the theater. At this time the work of Thomas Cor- neille, nephew of the great dramatist, had a vogue which has now entirely de- serted them. His " Circe " was produced. and Mademoiselle Moliere played the leading part and astonished the town by the splendor and extravagance of her dresses. Lescot saw her from his box and admired her. and applauded her furiously, and with raptures of exulta- tion, to think that this brilliant creature belonged to him in secret, ami came to him dressed like a nun. But this new eclat set tongues talking, and Lescot listened and inquired. He learned on good authority that La Moliere had two lovers — one a man of fortune, M. Du Boutay, and another an actor, called Guerin, whose affections she had stolen from an actress of the same company. Item — that Du Boulay had offered her marriage, but finding her incapable of fidelity, had retired, and at present she was on discreditable terms with the actor in quest ion. Lescot, who was now tenderly attach© to his fascinating visitor, put her on hei defense, addressed the bitterest re- proaches to her. and lamented his own misfortune in having listened to her per- fidious tongue, and bestowed a constant heart upon a double-faced coquette. She seemed surprised and alarmed : but re- covering herself, used all her address to calm him. She shed many tears, and de- 182 WORKS OF CHARLES REALji. clared she loved no one but him, and had kept him out of the theater for this very reason — that it was, and always had been, a temple of lies and odious calum- nies. Lescot was half appeased, but his jealousy being excited, demanded more frequent interviews. She consented readily, made a solemn appointment for next day. and took good care not to come. This breach of faith revived all Lea ol 's jealousy, and after waiting for her, and and storming for t wo hours, he could bear his jealous doubts and fears ger, lint broke bis word and went straighl to the theater. As any gentle- man could sit on the stage during the performance, President Lescol claimed that right, and sat down upon a stool during the performance of "Circe." In this situation, being only one of many gentlemen there, and under the public eye, lie managed to restrain bimself, though greatly agitated, and at firs! contented himself with watching to see i rl at the sight of him. She did no1 seem to notice him, however; t<> he sure, she was warm m her part. At hist it so happened thai she walked past him wiih that grand reposeful slowness which is, and always was. one of :i graceful actress's most majestic charms. lie seized that opportunity. "You are more beautiful than ever," he said. quite audibly; "and if 1 was no: in love wiih you already. I should be now." Whether La Moliere was warm in her part and did no1 hear, or was used to sides, she paid no attention what- ever. That piqued the distinguished member of Parliament, and he sat sullen till the play ended. Then he was on the alert, and followed La Moliere so sharply that he entered her dressing-room at her heels. Her maid requested him to leave. He stood firm, and requested the maid to retire, as he had something particular to say to mademoiselle. Mademoiselle wanted to remove the glorious but heavy trapping's of tragedy, so she. said, rather sharp 1 '-- "Say it, then. sir. I do not think there can be anj- secrets between you and me." ■•Xvvy well, madame," said Lescot, bitterly; "then what I have to say is that your conduct is unjustifiable." " What cause of displeasure have I given you F " "You made an appointment with me; I keep il. you break it I come here. disheartened and unhappy, to learn the reason, and you receive me like a crimi- nal." "The man is mad," said La Moliere, and eyed him with a look of haughty dis- dain that would have crushed him had less sure right was on his side. As it was. though il staggered him. il provoked him more. He confronted her with equal hauteur, ami cried out. •• Yom had better say you do not know me." i hallenged, and being aware she knew a great many gentlemen, she looked at him hard and full, not to make a mistake, then she said, "I don't oven know your name." LeSCOl put his hand to his heart, and was wonndeo to the (piiek. " What ! " he cried, " after all t hat has passed be- tween us ! Why. you must lie the basest id' God's creatures to use me so ! " •• Ah ' i Moliere. " Jeannette, call some people to turn this man i he plai "By all means," cried the other. ill Paris to hear me give this woman her i me character before 1 leave "Ruffian! you shall smart for this, in- solence," said La Moliere. -rinding her white teeth. By tli ■ o or three actors and a dozen actresses had come running and half dressed. The disputants French, both spoke at once, and at the top ol' 1 hen- voices : La Moliere declaring this ruffian a perfect stranger to her, who had burst into her dressing-room, and outraged her with the grossest calum- nies, the very meaning of which was an enigma to her, and Lescot relating all the particulars of his secret intrigue with her. Detail convinces, and La Moliere had the mortification to see by the snig- DOUBLES. 183 gering of the actresses, who knew her real character, that they believed the gentleman and not her. ••Why, look!'" cried he, suddenly; "the ungrateful creature lias a necklace on I gave her. 1 bought it for her on the Quai des Orfevres." This was too much. La Moliere, red as fmy, and her eyes darting flame, sprang at him with her right hand lifted to give him such a box on the ear as she had never yet administered mi the stage; but he had the address to seize her wrist with the left hand, and with the right he tore the necklace off her neck and dashed it to the ground. Then La Moliere called the guai'd ; and as personal violence is always severely treated in France, the President of the Parliament of Grenoble cooled his heels in prison that night. Next morning the President Lescot was released on bail, after a short hear- ing, in which he declared loudly that he hail a perfect right to expose a courtesan,, whose lover he was, and who had the ef- frontery to say publicly she did not know him. •• That right," said he, " I am pre- pared to maintain in any tribunal."' He held the same Language in Society ; and. on the whole, the world took his part in the matter. Supposing the allegation to he false. La Moliere had her proper remedy. She had only to proceed against Lescot for vio- lence and slander. She hesitated, and this confirmed the public opinion. It spread to the theatri- cal audiences, and the favorite actress began to be received with sneers and chuckles, or ominous silence. She was alarmed, and went to an old actress called Chateauneuf, who had a long head and had often advised her in matters of intrigue. La Chateauneuf said the case was plain. She must take proceedings. "Nay, but I dare not," said La Moliere. •• They will search into my whole life." The older fox laughed, but said, " Never mind that, child. You are innocent, for once ; that is an accident you must put to profit, and so thro 1 ' a doubt on your real indiscretions. Commence proceed- ings at once. You are ruined if you sub- mit." The young fox listened to the old fox with the respect due to our seniors, and laid a criminal information against Les- cot. He stood firm as a rock, persisted in his statements, and brought a very ugly witness, the goldsmith from the Quai des Orfevres. This trader swore to La Mo- liere's necklace, as one he had sold, and to her as the lady who was with Lescot when he sold it. This evidence was fatal to the accuser, both in the court and with the public. But. when Lescot went after Madame Le- doux. to complete his defense, she was not to be found. He let this out, and that he had relied on her. The accuser's agent then smelled a rat, and set the po- lice on to find Ledoux. Meantime La Moliere was the butt of Paris. But the police succeeded in finding Le- doux, and her examination put a new face on the matter. Ledoux confessed that Monsieur Lescot, being madly enamored of Mademoiselle Moliere, had asked her assistance; that she, not caring to med- dle with an intrigue of that kind, had in- troduced to him a young lady who per- fectly resembled Mademoiselle Moliere. This young lady, she said, had for maid- en name Marie Simonnet, but called her- self the widow of a Monsieur Harve de la Tourelle. a gentleman of Brittany. On this hint, the accuser searched for the young lady m question. They soon found traces of her, and that she was called by her friends " La Tourelle." La Tourelle had disappeared. " And never will appear, being a phantom," said Lescot. " Was ever so audacious a figment ? as if one woman could have the face, the figure, the manners, the cough, and the necklace of another." Well, the officers of justice caught La Tourelle in the suburbs of Paris, and were astonished at the resemblance. She was confronted with Mademoiselle Moliere, in the judge's room, in presence of Ledoux and the President Lescot. 184 WORKS OF CHARLES RE A Dm, The ladies faced each other like two young- stags ready to butt each other. The injured Moliere folded her arms grandly, and cocked her nose high, and would fain have locked the other down as a criminal. But the other jade saw- she was the younger of the two, and wore a demur*' air of defiant com- placency. But, setting aside fleeting expression, they were literally one in stature, form, and feature. If each had looked into a mirror, she would have seen the hussy thai now faced her. Amazemenl painted itself on everj' fare: most of all on Lescot's. Ledoux persisted in her confession ; and l >< >t h she ami La Tourelle were im- prisoned, lo await l he trial. Lescol now- found himself in the wrong box : and it became \ erj importanl to him tiiat tiie trial should never conn- oil'. Wit h t his view he exerted all Ins influence to bail La Tourelle, meaning, no doubt, to forfeil ins recognizances, and send her out of the country. Bui the judges would accepl no bail, and the day of trial was lixed. Then Lescol bribed the jailer; and he showed La Tourelle how to make her escape in a very ingenious way. that had never occurred to the lady, whose genius, like that of many other ladios. was mainly confined to matters of love and intrigue. Lescol senl her away into the depths of Dauphine, ami hoi- absence suspended that trial. But La Moliere's hlood was up. and she appealed personally to men in power, and used all her charms and all her arts. The result was a new process, under which not one of those who had offended her escaped. The President Lescot was condemned to stand at the bar. and read a paper in presence of La Moliere and four witnesses, to he by her chosen. "I, Frangois Lescot, admit and declare that 1, by recklessness and mistake, have used violence against Mademoiselle Mo- liere, here present and slandered her foully, but without malice of heart, hav- ing taken her for another person.*' He was also fined two hundred francs. By the same judgment the women Le- doux and La Tourelle had to pay a line of twenty francs each to the king, one hundred francs each to La Moliere, and to be whipped, naked, before the gate of the Chatelet, and also before the house of Mademoiselle Moliere. Lescol mane tn> amende honorable, and paid his fine. Ledoux paid her line, and was whipped before the Chatelet and before La Moliere's windows: but La Tourelle was more fortunate. Nature has her freaks: she profiled by one of i hem. Lescot, who had now compared in many ways the hussy he adored with e w ho had personated 1km-. was as much enamored as i \er. if not more ; hut. i.\ Jupiter, it was no' the actress, hut her double, he was now in love with. lie joined her in Dauphine, and rewarded her with a life-long attachment, which She is believed lo have shared. La Moliere. as her foxy adviser had prophesied, was wonderfully re-esiab- lished m character. Men said. " And, no doubt, she was always calumniated." The judgmenl of the Chatelet operated as a certificate of her good morals. The goldsmith's evidence is accounted for thus. There were no jewels to the necklace, a number of gold necklaces hail been made on one pattern. The goldsmith swore lo La Moliere's, because he saw the lady, as he thought. While the affair was yet warm the fcragi-comedy of Thomas Corneille, called •• LTnconnu." was produced. La Moliere was the Connies-,, and in the play a gjpsy looked at her hand, and spoke these lines : "Cette lig-ne, qui croisse avec celle de vie, Marque pou rvotre gloire un moment trc fatal ; Sur des traits ressemblants on en parlera mal, Et vous ;uirez une copie. NVn prenez pas trop de chagrin : Si votre araillarde figure Contre vous. quelque temps, cause un facheux murniure, Un tour tie oiUe y mettra fin, Et vous rirez d l'aventui-e." THE JILT.— A YARN. 185 The public, always quick to fit fiction to reality, seized on these verses at once and applied them to the recent event, and showed their sympathy with the actress by storms of applause. The favorite, her popularity embel- lished by a coup de maitre, now mar- ried her actor — and continued her gal- lantries. But Celimene, at bottom, lacked neither judgment nor heart. Hence I am able to conclude with a good and touching trait. On the anniversary of Moliere's death, which befell in winter, she always col- lected the poor round his grave, and there bestowed charity on them, and lighted great fires to warm them as they ate the food she bestowed without stint upon them at that great master's tomb. Poor Celimene. Adieu ! THE JILT.— A YARN. PART I. It was a summer afternoon ; the sun shone mellow upon the south sands of Tenby ; the clear blue water sparkled to the horizon, and each ripple, as it came ashore, broke into diamonds. This am- ber sand, broad, bold, and smooth as the turf at Lord's — and. indeed, wickets are often pitched on it — has been called •'Nature's finest promenade; " yet, ow- ing to the attraction of a flower show, it was now paraded by a single figure — a tall, straight, well-built young man, rather ruddy, but tanned and bronzed by weather : shaved smooth as an egg, and his collar, his tie, and all his dress very neat and precise. He held a deck glass, and turned every ten yards, though he had a mile to promenade. These signs denoted a good seaman. Yet his glass swept the land more than the water, and that is not like a sailor. This incongruity, however, was soon explained and justified. There hove in sight a craft as attrac- tive to every true tar. from an admiral of the red to a boatswain's mate, as any cutter, schooner, brig, bark, or ship; and bore down on him, with colors flying alow and aloft. Lieutenant Greaves made all sail tow- ard her, for it was Ellen Ap Rice, the loveliest girl in Wales. He met her with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and thanked her warmly for coming. "Indeed you may," said she : " when I promised, I forgot the flower show." "Dear me," said he, "what a pity I I would not have asked you." "Oh," said she, "nevermind; I shall not break my heart ; but it seems so odd you wanting me to come out here, when you are always welcome at our house, and papa so fond of you." Lieutenant Greaves endeavored to ex- plain. " Why, you see. Miss Ap Rice, I'm expecting my sailing orders down. and before I go, I want — And the sighl of the sea gives one courage." " Not always : it gave me a fit of ter- ror the last time I was on it." " Ay, but you are not a sailor ; it gives me courage to say more than I dare in your own house ; you so beautiful, so accomplished, so admired, I am afraid you will never consent to throw yourself away upon a seaman." Ellen arched her brows. " What are you saying-, Mr. Greaves ? Why. it is known all over Tenby that I renounce the military, and have vowed to be a sailor's bride." 186 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. By this it seems there were only two learned professions recognized by the young- ladies — at Tenby. •• Ay, ay." said Greaves, "an admiral, or that sort of thing'." "Well," said the young- lady, "of course he would itare to he an admiral — eventually. Bui they cannot be burn ad- mirals." At this stage of the conver- sation she preferred oot to look Lieu- tenant Greaves, R. N.. in the face: so sin- wrote pot-hooks and hangers on the sand, with her parasol, so can-fully thai you would have sworn they must be words of deepest import . •• From a lieutenanl loan admiral is a long way." said (ireaves. sadly. ■- Yes." said she, archly. •• it is as far as f r Tenby to Valparaiso, where my n Dick sailed to last year— such a handsome fellow! — and there's Cape Horn to weather. But a good deal de- pends (in and perseverance." In uttering this last remark she turned her eye askanl a moment, and a flash shot out of it that lighted the sailor's bonfire in a moment . •• < >h, Miss Ap Rice, do 1 understand you ? Can I be so fortunate? If courage, perseverance, and devotion can win you. no other man shall ever — You must have seen 1 love you." ■'It would be odd if I had not." said e. blushing a little, and smiling slyly. " Why. all Tenby has seen it. You don't hide it under a bus The young man turned red. "Then I deserve a round dozen at the gangway, for being so indelicate." " No, no," said the young Welsh- woman, generously. "Why do I prefer sailors: Because they are so frank and open and artless and brave. Wiry, Mr. Greaves, don't you be stupid ; your admiration is a compliment to any girl : and I am proud of it. of course." said she. gently. "God bless you ! " cried the young man. "Now I wish we were at home, that I might go down on my knees to you. with- out making you the town-talk. Sweet, lovely, darling Ellen, will you try and love me ? " " Humph ! If I had not a great esteem for you. should 1 be here ? " "Ay, but 1 am asking for more," said Greaves: "for your affection, and your promise to wait for me till I am more than a lieutenant. I dare not ask for your hand till I am a post-captain at least. Ellen, sweet Ellen, may I put this on your dear Anger ? " " Why, it i^ a ring. No. Whal for?" " Let me put ii on. and then I'll tell you." " I decare, if he had not got it readj on purpose ! " said she. laughing, and was so extremely amused thai she quite forgot ' . and be whipped it on in a t rice. It was no sooner on than she pulled a ace ami demanded an explanation of this singular conduct. "It means we are engaged," said he. joyfully, and flung his cap into the air a greal heighl . and caught it . •■ A 1 rap ! " screamed she. ■• Take it off this instant." " Must 1 ? " said he. sadly. " ( >f i must ." And she crooked her finger instead of straight- ening " It won't com id lie. with more cunning than one would have ex- " No more it will. Weil. 1 must have my finger amputated the moment 1 get home. But mind. I am not to be i art Hires. You must ask papa." So 1 will," cried Greaves, joyfully. Then, upon reflection: "He'll wonder at my impudeii " Oh. no," said Ellen, demurely ; "you know he is mayor of the town, and has the drollest applications made to him at times. Ha ! ha ! " "How shall I ever break it to him?" said Greaves. " A lieutenant ! " " Why a lieutenant is a gentleman : and are you not related to one of the first lords of the admiralty ? " " Yes. But he won't put me over the heads of my betters. All that sort of thing is gone by." "You need not say that. Say you are cousin to the first lord, and then stop. That is the way to talk to a mayor. La, THE JILT.— A YARN. 187 look at me, telling him what to say — as if I cared. There, now — here comes that tittling-tattling Mrs. Dodsley, and her whole brood of children and nurses. She shan't see what I am doing;" and Miss Ap Rice marched swiftly into Merlin's Cave, settled her skirts, and sab down on a stone. " Oh ! " said she, with no great appearance of agitation, " what a goose I must be ! This is the last place I ought to have come to : this is where the lovers interchange their vows — the silly things." This artless speech — if artless it was — brought the man on his knees to her with such an outburst of honest passion and eloquent love that her cooler nature was moved as it had never been before. She was half frightened, but flattered and touched : she shed a tear or two, and, though she drew away the hand he was mumbling, and said he oughtn't, and he mustn't, there was nothing very discour- aging in her way, not even when she stopped "her ears and said. " You should say all this to papa." As if one could make as hot love to the mayor in his study as to the mayor's daughter in Merlin's Cave ! She was coy. and would not stay long in Merlin's Cave after this, but said noth- ing about going home ; so they emerged from the cave, and strolled toward Griltar Point. Suddenly there issued from the sound, and burst upon their sight, a beautiful yacht. 150 tons or so. cutter - rigged, bowling along before the wind thirteen knots an hour, sails white as snow and well set, hull low and shapely, wire rig- ging so slim it seemed of whip-cord or mermaid's hair. "Oh, Arthur!" cried Ellen. "What a beauty ! "And so she is," said he, heartily, "Bless you for calling me 'Arthur.'" "It slipped out — by mistake. Come to the Castle Hill. I must see her come right in — Arthur." Arthur took Ellen's hand, and they hurried to the Castle Hill ; and, as they went, kept turning their heads to watch the yacht's maneuvers ; for a sailor never tires of observing how this or that craft is handled ; and the arrival of a first- class yacht in those fair but uneventful waters was very exciting to Ellen Ap Rice. The cutter gave St. Catharine's Rock a wide berth, and ran out well to the Woolhouse Reef ; then hauled up and stood on the port tack, heading for her anchorage; but an eddy wind from the North Cliffs caught her, and she broke off ; so she stood on toward Monkstone Point ; then came about with her berth well under her lee. mistress of the situa- tion, as landsmen say. Arthur kept explaining- her maneuvers and the necessity for them, and, when she came about, said she was well-be- haved — had forereached five times her length — and was smartly handled too. •■ Oh, yes," said Ellen ; "a most skill- ful captain, evidently." This was too hasty a conclusion for the sober Greaves. " Wait till we see him in a cyclone, with all his canvas on that one stick, or working- off a lee shore in a nor'wester. But he can handle a cutter in fair weather and fresh-water, that is certain." ••Fresh-water!" said Ellen. "How dare you ? And don't mock people. I can't get enough fresh-water in Tenby to wash my hands." " What, do you want them whiter than snow ? " said Greaves, gloating on them undisguised. " Arthur, behave, and lend me the glass." " There, dearest." So then she inspected the vessel, and he inspected the white hand that held the glass. It was a binocular ; for even sea- men nowadays seldom use the short tele- scope of other days ; what might be called a very powerful opera-glass has taken its place. " Goodness me ! " screamed Ellen. The construction of which sentence is referred to pedagogues. "What is the matter ? " "The captain is a blackamoor. " Having satisfied herself of the revolt- ing fact by continued inspection, she 188 WORKS OF CHARLES READE handed the glass to Greaves. " See if he isn't," said she. Greaves looked through the glass, and took leave to contradict her. "Blacka- moor ! not he. It is worse. It is a gen- tleman — that ought to know better — with a beastly black beard right down to his waistband." "Oh, Arthur, how horrid! and in such a pretty ship ! "' Greaves smiled indulgently al her call- ing a cutter a - ship '" ; bu1 her blunders were beaul ies, he was so in love with her. She took the glass again, and looked anil talked al 1 hie same 1 noe. •■ 1 won- der what lias broughl him m here ? " " To look for a barbel-. I should hope." '■ Arthur — suppose we were to send out the new hair-dresser i" him? Would it no1 he fun ? <>h : -oh !— oh !" " What is it now ? " •• A boal going oul to aim. Well. I declare -;> boal ful of dignitaries." •■ Mercy on us ! " •• Yes : 1 see papa, ami 1 see I lie secre- tary of the Cambrian Club, and another uvnt leman— a deputation. 1 do believe. No — how si lipid 1 am ! Why. the now arrival musl bi Mr. Laxton, that wrote and told papa he was coming ; lie is the son of an old friend, a ship-builder. Papa is sure to ask him to dinner: and Z ask you. Do come. Ee will be quite a lion." " I am very unfortunate. Can'1 possi- bly come to-day. Gol to dine on board the Warrior, and meel the prince; name dou ii : no getting oil." "Oh, what a pitj ! It would have oeen so nice; you and Captain Laxton together." "Captain Laxton ? Who is he ? " •■ Why. the gentleman wit h the beard." "Hang it all, don't call him a captain." ■■ Xot when he has a ship of his own ? " " So lias a collier, and the master of a fishing lugger. Beside-, these swells are only fair weather skippers ; there's al- ways a sailing-master aboard their ves- sels, that takes the command if it blows a capful of wind.'' " Indeed ! then I despise them. But I am sorry you can't come. Arthur." " Are you real! v. love ? " "You know I am." "Then that is all I care for. A dandy yachtsman is no lion to me." " We ought to go home now." said Ellen, ■ - or we shall not have time to dress." He had not only to dress, but to drive ten miles : yet he went with her to her very door. He put the time to profit; he got her to promise everything short of marrying him without papa's consent, and. as she was her father's darling, and in reality ruled him. not he her. that ob- stacle did not seem insurmountable. Thai evening the master of the yacht dined at the mayor's, and was the lion of tl vening. His lace was rather hand- some, what one could see of it. and his beard manly. He had traveled and cruised for years, and kept his eves and ears open: had a greal How of words, quite a turn for narrative, a ready wit, a seductive voice, ami an infectious laugh. His oiih drawback was a restless eye. Even that lie put 1o a good use by being attentive to everybody in turn. He was evidently charmed with Ellen Ap Rice, but showed it in a well-bred way, and old not alarm her. She was a lovely girl, and accustomed to he openly admired. Next day Arthur called on her. and she told him everything, and seemed sorrj to have had any pleasure lie had not a share in. " He made himself won- derful!/. ." said she. •■ especial- ly to papa : and, oh ! if you had seen how his beard wagged when he laughed — ha! ha! And, what do you think? the 'Cambrians ' have lost no time : they have shot him flying: invited him to their Bachelors' Ball. Ah. Arthur, the first time you and I ever danced together was at that ball, a year ago. I wonder whether you remember 'i Well, he asked me for the first round dance." " Confound his impudence ! What did you say ? " •'I said 'No' : I was engaged to the Royal Navy." " Dear girl. And that shut him up, I hope." "Dear me, no. He is too good-hu- THE JILT.— A YARN. 189 ruored to be cross because a strange girl was bespoke before be came ; be just laughed, and asked might he fol- low in its wake." " And you said 'Yes.' " "No, I did not, now. And you need not look so cross, for there would have been no harm if I had; but what I did say was not 'yes,' but 'hum,' and I would consult my memoranda. Never you mind who I dance with, Mr. Ar- thur ; their name is legion. Wait till you catch me parading the sands with the creatures, and catching- cold with them in Merlin's Cave.'' "My own love. Come on the sands now; it is low water, and a glorious day." " You dear goose ! " said Ellen. "What, ask a lady out when it is only one clear day before a ball ? Why, I am invisible to every creature but you at this moment, and even you can out- stay till she comes." "She ? Who ? " "Why, the dressmaker, to be sure. Talk of the — dressmaker, and there's her knock." "Must I go this moment? " " Oh no. Let them open the door to her first. But of course it is no use , our staying while she is here. We shall be hours and hours making up our minds. Besides, we shall be upstairs, trying on things. Arthur, don't look so. Why, the ball will be here with awful rapidity ; and I'll dance with you three times out of four: I'll dance you down on the floor,- my sailor bold. I never knew a Welsh girl yet couldn't dance an Englishman into a cocked hat : now that's vulgar." " Not as you speak it, love. Whatever comes from your lips is Poetry. I wish you could dance me into a cocked hat and two epaulets; for it is not in nature nor reason you should ever marry a lieu- tenant." "It will be his fault if I don't, then." The door was rattled discreetly, and then opened. b\" old Dewar. butler, foot- man, and chatterbox of the establish- ment. "The dressmaker, miss." "Well, let Agnes take her upstairs." " Yes, miss." Greaves thought it was mere selfish- ness to stay any longer now ; so he bade her good-by. But she would not let him go away sad. She tried to console him. " Surely," said she, "you would wish me to look well in public. It is the ball of Tenby. I want you to be proud of your prize, and not find you have captured a dowdy." The woman of society and her reasons failed to comfort Lieutenant Greaves : so then, as she w T as not a girl to accept de- feat, she tried the woman of nature : she came nearer him. and said, earnestly, "Only one day. Arthur! Spare me the pain of seeing yon look unhappy." In saying this, very tenderly, she laid her hand softly on his arm, and turned her lovely face and two beautiful eyes full up to him. A sweet inarticulate sound ensued, and he did spare her the pain of seeing him look unhappy ; for he went off flushed and with very sparkling eyes. Surely female logic has been under- rated up to the date of this writing. Greaves went away, the happiest lieu- tenant in the Royal Navy, and content to kill time till the ball day. He dined at the club ; smoked a cigar on the Castle Hill, and entered his lod.2-in,h. dear ! Why not ? " ( 'qptain. — "That is my business." The fair speaker tossed her head and said. ■•Well. I am sure ! " bu1 she drew baric with red cheeks, and the tears in her eyes, at being snubbed so suddenly and unreasonably : the other ladies ered round her, and the winds. "Cross old thing ! *" were heard in issue from the party, but fell unheeded, for nen captain nor Mr. Lewis had eyes nor ears except for the schooner and the boat. As the latter neared the ship, several faces peeped, lor a moment, at the port --holes of t he sen ler. Vet. when the boat ran alongside the Schooner amidships, there was no re- specl shown to Castor's uniform, nor. indeed, common civility : it won 1 - been no more than the riuht thing to pipe the side: but there were no sides- men at all, nor even a siderope. Observing this. Captain Curtis shook his head very gra^ ely. But the dare-devil Castor climbed the schooner's side like a cat, and hoarded her in a moment, then gave his men an order, and disappeared. The men pulled rapidly away from the schooner; and a snarl of contempt and horror brol Curtis and his first male. They seemed to be abandoning their imprudent but gallant officer. They pulled about a hundred yards, and then rested on their oars and waited. Then every sailor on board the PliQ'he saw instinctively that Castor felt his danger, and had declined to risk any life but his own. He must have ordered the men to lie to a certain tune, then give him up for lost, and return in safety to the ship. This trait and his daring made Castor, in one single moment, the darling of the whole ship's company. The ladies were requested to go below, on some pretense or other ; and the ship was cleared for action as far as possible. Meantime words can hardly describe the racking suspense that was endured by the officers, and. in a great degree, by the crew of the Phoebe. The whole living heart of that wooden structure throbbed for one man. Five minutes passed — fen — twenty — thirty — yet lie did not re-appear. Apprehension succeeded to doubt, and despair to apprehension. At last they gave him up, and the burn- ing desire for vengeance mingled with thier fears for their own safety. So Strong was fchis feeling that the next event, the pirate's a Hack upon that ill-fated officer's ship, was no longer regarded with un- dread. The thirsl for vengeance mingled w it h it . At ten o'clock L. M. the strained eyes on board the Phcebe saw two sidesmen appear amidships, and lix scarlet side- ropes. Then came an officer and haded ( lastor's boat . The men pulled In 1 he schooner. I astor appeared, and weui by 1 he ropes into the boat: he and the Officer touched hats. Castor sat down in the stern-sheets, and the men gave way. The ship's company cheered, the side was piped, and the insubordinate officer on board with all the honors. Caps were waved, eyes glistened, and .mils extended to him; but he himself did not seem so very exultant. He was pleased with his reception, how- over, and sani. in his quaint way, "This is jolly. I am not to he put in irons, then." The captain drew him apart. "Well, what is she ?" " Don't know." •• Why, what do you mean ? You have been near an hour aboard her." " But I am none the wiser. Captain, I wish you would have us all into your cabin, and then I'll tell you a rum story : perhaps you will understand it among you, for you know my headpiece isn't Al." This advice was taken directly, and THE JILT.— A YARN. 199 Castor related bis adventures, in full conclave, with closed doors. MR. CASTOR'S NARRATIVE. " The beggar did not hang- out so much as a rope to me. I boarded his hooker the same way I should like to board her again with thirty good cutlasses at my back ; and I ordered the boat to lie out of harm's way for an hour. "Well, I soon found myself on her quarter-deck, under the awning. By George, sir, it was alive with men, as busy as bees, making their little prepa- rations, drat 'em. Some were oiling the locks of the guns, some were cleaning small-arms, some were grinding cutlasses. They took no notice of me ; and I stood there looking like an ass. "I wondered whether they took me for a new officer just joined ; but that was not likely. However, I wasn't going to notice them, as they hadn't the manners to notice me. So there I stood and watched them. And I had just taken out my vesuvians to light a cigar, when a middle-aged man, in a uniform I don't know, but the metal of it was silver, came bustling up, touched his cap to the declc, and brushed past me as if I was invisible ; so I hung on to his coat-tails, and brought him to under all his canvas." This set the youngest mate giggling, but he was promptly frowned down. " ' Hullo ! ' saj'S he, ' what are ye about ? Why, who the deuce are you ? ' " ' Second mate of the Phcebe, along- side,' says I. " ' Mate of the Phoebe,' says he ; 'then what brings you on boa rd of us ? ' That was rather a staggerer, but I thought a bit, and said I wanted to see the captain of the schooner. "Well, sir, at this some of the men left off working, and looked up at me as if I was some strange animal. "'Do you?' says the officer; 'then you are the onty man aboard that does.' Then he turned more friendly like, and says, 'Look here, young gentleman, don't you go to meet trouble. Wait till it comes to you. Go back to your ship, before she sees you.' " 'She ! Who?' " ' No matter. You sheer off, and leave our captain alone.' " Now, gentlemen, I'm a good-temper- ed chap ; and you may chaff me till all is blue ; but I can't stand intimidation. If they threaten me, it puts my blood up. At school, if another boy threatened me, I never answered him ; my fist used to fly at his mouth as soon as the threat was out of it." " Good little boy," said Lewis. But the captain was impatient. " Come, sir, we don't want your boyish reminis- cences : to the point, please." "Ay, ay, sir. Well, then, the moment he threatened me, I just turned my back on him, and made for the companion ladder. " 'Avast there ! ' roared the officer, in an awful fright. ' Nobody uses that ladder but the captain himself and — Man alive, if you will see him, follow me.' So he led me down the main hatch-way. By the cabin-cable tier 1 came all of a sudden on three men in irons ; ugly beg- gars they were, and wild-looking, reckless chaps. One of them ran a spare anklet along the bar, and says to me, ' Here you are ; room for one more.' But my com- panion soon stopped his jaw. ' Silence in irons, or he'll cut your tongue out,' says he. He wouldn't go to the captain with me ; but he pointed aft, and whispered, 'Last cabin but one, starboard side.' Then he sheered off, and I went for'ard and knocked at the cabin door. No an- swer ; so I knocked louder. No answer; so I turned the handle and opened the door." "Young madman !" groaned the cap- tain. "Not so very. I HAD MY LITTLE plan'. ' ' "Oh, he had his little plan," said Curtis, ironically, pityingly, paternally. Then, hotly, " Go on, sir; don't keep us on tenter-hooks, like this." "Well, captain, I opened that door, and oh, my eye! it wasn't a cabin: it was a nobleman's drawing-room : pile carpet an inch thick ; beautiful painted ceiling ; so many mirrors down to the 200 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ground, and opposite each other, they made it look like a big palace ; satin- wood tables ; luxurious couches and chairs ; a polished brass stove, but all the door-handles silver ; Venetians, and rose-colored blinds and curtains. The sun just forced its way through, and made everything pink. It was a regular paradise ; but, instead of an angel, there was a greal hulking chap, squatted cross- legged on an ottoman at the further end. smoking a hookah as long and twisty as a boa-constrictor. The beggar wasn't smoking honest tobacco neither, but mixed with rose leaves and cinnamon shavings, and, in my opinion, a little opi- um, for he turned up his eyes like an owl in paradise.' 1 " Not so very formidable, then." " Formidable? — well, I wouldn't answer for that, at the proper time, and a1 the head of Ins cut-throats ; for he was a pre- cious big chap, with black brows, and a wicked-looking mustache and tuft. He was Hi" sort of chap thai nigger who smothers Ins wife in the play says he killed, 'a malignant and a burbaned Turk." you know. But then it wasn'1 his fighting hour; he was in smoker's paradise, and it's my belief you might have man-bed up to him and knocked him on the head — like one of those devil-may- care penguins that won't budge for a can- non-ball — and then he would have jjoni smoking on the ground till you cut ln- head off and took away his pipe. But you'll find the 'Malignant ' had a protec- tor, worse luck, and one i hat didn't smoke spice, but only looked it . Well, captain, 1 came up to the nearest table, and hit it pretty bard with my list bo see if I could make that thundering picture jump." •• What picture ? " '• Why. the ' Malignant and the Tur- baned." Devil a bit. He took no notice. So then I bawled. at the beggar: • Your most obedient, sir : I'm the second male of the Phoebe, lying alongside, and the captain has sent me to compare longi- tudes.' " The ' Malignant ' took no notice ; just glared at me. and smoked bis pipe He looked just like that ' Malignant Turban ' that plays whist with you by machinery in London, and fixes his stony eyes on you all the time ; but, with nie bawling at him, a door opened, and in came a flood of light, and, in the middle of it — Oh, Lord !" ••Well, what ?" '• Just the loveliest woman I ever clapped eye on. The vision took me all aback, and I suppose 1 stared at her as haul as the ' Malignant ' was staring at vacancy : for she smiled at my astonish- ment, and made me a sort of a haughty courtesy, and waved her hand for me to sit down. Then says she, mighty civil — too civil by half — 'Have I 1 lie pleasure ressing the captain of that beauti- ful ship ? ' " ' Fin her second officer, ma'am,' says 1: hut 1 was too dazzled by her beauty to her up an\ lies all in a moment. •■ • Bound lor China '( ' says she, like honey. " ' Yes, ma'am.' ••■A large crew?' says she, like treacle. •■ ' About ninety, ma'am.' says I, very short, for 1 began to smell a rat. ••'Many European sailors among them?' says she. "So then I saw what the beautiful fiend would be at. and 1 said, 'About liny.' •• • Indeed ! ' says she, smiling like Ju- das. • You know ladies will be curious, ami 1 could only count twenty-live.' •••The rest wen- below, coiling ropes,' says I. "So she laughed at that, and said, • But I saw plenty of Lascars.' ■•■<>h. our Lascars arc picked men.' says 1. •• • I wish you joy of them,' she says : ' we don't have them here : not to be trusted in EiiEEGE>xiES, you know.' '• While I was swallowing this last pill, she at me again. Did we often exercise our guns? I said of course we did, in a calm. 'Why,' said she, 'that is not much use ; the art is to be able to hit ships and things as you are rising or falling on the waves — so they tell me,' savs she, correcting herself. THE JILT.— A YARN. 201 "The beautiful devil made my blood run cold. She knew too much. " ' What is your cargo ? ' says she, just as if she was our bosom friend. But I wouldn't stand any more of it. 'Nut- megs,' says I. So she laughed, and said, • Well, but seriously ? ' So then I thought chaffing her would do no good, and I told her we had landed the valuable part of our carg-o at Bombay, and had only a lot of grates and fire-irons left. I put on a friendly tone, all sham, like hers, you know, and told her that tea ships depended on the cargo they brought home, not on the odds and ends thej r took out just to ballast the craft." "Well, what was the next thing?"' " Oh, I remember she touched a silver bell, and a brown girl, in loose trousers and cocked-up shoes and a turban, came in with a gold tray — or it might be silver gilt— and a decanter of wine ; and the lovely demon said, ' Pour out some wine, Zulema.' '"No, thank you, ma'am,' said I. So she laughed, and said it wasn't poisoned. She sent off the slave, and filled two glasses, with the loveliest white hand, and such a diamond on it. She began drinking to me. and of course I did the same to her. ' Here's to our next merry meeting,' said she. My blood ran a little cold at that; but I finished my liquor. It was no use flying a white feather; so says I. 'Here's to the Corsair's bride." Her eyes twinkled, but she made me a civil courtesy. " ' That's prime Madeira," says I. " She said yes, it had been their com- panion in several cruises. "'It runs through a fellow like oil,' says I. " 'Then have some more,' said she. " So I did, and then she did not say any moi*e, and the ' Malignant * sat nmm- chance : and I was pumped dry. and quite at a loss. So, not to look like a fool, I — asked 'em to breakfast." ••What! Who?" "Why, the lady and gentleman : I mean the ' Malignant ' and ' the Cor- sair's bride.' " " Youn? madman ! " •■ Why, what harm could that do, captain ? " •• What good could it do ? What did they say ? " "She said, 'Are there any ladies aboard ? ' " I said, ' Yes, and tip-top fashionable ones." "So then she looked at the ' Malig- nant,' and he never moved a muscle. So then she said, 'We will do ourselves the pleasure — if we are in company,' and she smiled ever so knowingly, did that beautiful demon. '• Then I pretended cheerful. ' That is all right,' said I. ' Mind, I shall tell the ladies, and they will be awfully disap- pointed if you don't come.' "•I assure you,' says she, 'we will come, if we are in company. I give you my hand on it,' says she, and she put out her hand. It was lovely and white, but I looked at it as if 'twas the devil's claw ; but I had to take it, or walk the plank : so I did take it, and — Oh Lord, would you believe it? — she gave mine such a squeeze." Lewis. — ■• Gammon ! " Castor. — •• I tell you she gave my flip- per the most delicious squeeze you ever — it was so long, and soft, and gentle." Curtis. — "But what was it for ? " Castor. — '■ At the time I thought it was to encourage me ; for she said, ever so softly, 'You are a brave man.' But more likely it was to delude me and put me off my guard. Well, I was for sheer- ing off after that, and I made a low bow to the 'Malignant.' He never got up, but he showed his little bit o' breeding, took the snake-pipe out of his mouth, and brought his head slowly down, an inch a minute, till he looked like pitch- poling over on to the floor and cutting a somersault : and. while he was going down and up again, the lady said, 'You had better wait a minute.' It was in a very particular way she said it : and she flew to a telegraph, and her white hands went clicking at an awful rate ; and I cannot get it out of my head that if those white hands hadn't worked those wires, I should have been cut in pieces at the 202 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. cabin door. Not that I cared so very much for that. I had my little plan. However, she left off clicking just as that old picture got his figure-head above his bows again : so I made my bow to 'em both, and sheered off ; and blest if that elderly officer does not meet me at. the door, and march before me to the quarter-deck: and there's another officer hailing my boat ; and there were fine scarlet silk side-ropes fixed, and two men standing bj them. Sol came away in stale. But I'm no wiser than I went. Whether it is an Eastern prince, out 'in pleasure, or a first-class pirate. 1 don't know. I hope you will order a tin- top breakfast, captain, for the honor of the ship: Lobster curry, for one thing; and sharpen cutlasses and clean small- arms : and borrow all .Mr. I . < revolvers; he is taking ou1 quite a cargo of 'em: and thai reminds me I forgot to toll ,\oii what my little plan was thai mane me so saucy. 1 borrowed one of Greaves's six-shooters; here i1 is. file lii-sl sign of treachery 1 wasn'l going to waste powder, hut just cut back and kill the 'Malignant' and the 'Corsair's bride: ' for 1 argued they wouldn't have a successor ready, and ten lo one they would have a quarrel who was to take the command : so thai would save our hooker at the expense of one hand, and him a bachelor. Nobody minds a bach- elor getting snuffed o Upon Mr. Castor revealing his little plan, the other officers insisted on shak- ing hands with trim. At which he stared, hiii consented heartily; and finding him- self in such unexpected favor, repeated his advice. " - Prepare an excellent break- fast for to-morrow, and grind cutlasses. and load the guns with grape, and get all the small-arms loaded, especially revol- vers: for.'' said Castor, "I think they mean to board us to-night, cut all our throats, ravish the women, and scuttle the craft, when they have rifled her : but if they don't. I'm sure they will come to breakfast. She gave me her hand on that, and the turbaned Turk nodded his thundering old piratical figurehead." The other officers agreed with him that the ship would probably be attacked that night, and all possible preparations wcvv made for her defense. They barred the ports on the maindeck, charged the can- non with grape, armed the Lascars with cutlasses, and the white men with mus- kets as well, and the officers and the boatswain with cutlasses ami revolvers. The sun set. and all was now grim ex- pectation and anxiety. No watch was called, for the whole crew was the watch. The moon came out. and showed the cutter, like a Mack snake, lying abomi- nably near. Hour after hour dragged by in chill suspense. Each hell, as it was struck. rang like a solemn knell. Midnighl came, i passed. Morning approached. The host time for attacking seemed to have passed. f us began to lessen — hopes to glow. The elastic Castor began to transfer his v hole anxiety to the cook and his standing firm to ins theory thai i he Corsair and his bride would come to breakfast, if the> did not attack- the ship ight. The captain pooh-poohed i his : and indeed ( lastor persuaded no- body hut the cook. Sim he so flattered i ies and Lobster curries, etc.. t hat he believed anj thii Day broke, and t he ship's company a nd officers breathed freely. Some turned in. lint siill the Schooner was closely watched by many eyes and deck glasses, and keenly suspected. Soon after eighl bells there was a movement on board the schooner : and this was immediately reported by Mr. Castor, then in charge of the ship, to Captain Curtis. He came on deck di- rectly. "You are right, sir," said he, handling bis glass. ; ' and they are lowering a boat. He is coming. And — by Jove, they are rigging a whip! There's a lady. Mr. Castor, rig a whip on the main-yard. Bear a hand there, forward. Boson, at- tend the side. Here, sling this chair. Smart, now- — they are shoving off'." Six able oarsmen brought the Corsair THE JILT.— A YAEX. 203 and his bride, with race-horse speed, from the schooner to the ship. But there were smart fellows on board the Phoebe too. There was a shrill wind of the boatswain's pipecall, the side was promptly manned, the chair lowered into the schooner's boat as she came along- side, and gently hoisted, with the lady in it. and she was landed on the deck of the Phoebe. She had a thick veil on. The commander of the schooner drew up beside her, and Captain Curtis came forward, and the two commanders off hats and bowed. The captain of the schooner was now gorgeous in a beautiful light blue uni- form, the cloth glossy as velvet and heavy with silver, as was also his cap. The captain led the way to the cabin. His guests followed. The ladies were duly informed, and dropped in one after another. Then the Corsair's bride re- moved her veil, and revealed a truly beautiful woman, in the prime of youth, with a divine complexion, and eyes al- most purple, so deep was their blue. Captain Curtis seated this dazzling creature to his right, and, to the sur- prise of the company, her companion im- mediately seated himself on her other side. The ladies looked at each other and smiled, as much as to say, " He is jealous; and no great wonder." How- ever, they talked to her aci'oss the body of her lord, and she to them, and she was a most piquant addition to the table, and full of spirit. She seemed devoted to her companion. For all that, she had a letter in her pocket, which she intended to confide to one of those ladies she had never seen be- fore in all her life; and she was now quietly examining their faces and judg- ing their voices, as she conversed with them, merely to make the best selection of a confidante she could. The breakfast did honor to the ship, and the Corsair praised the lobster curry, and made himself very agreeable all round. Presently one of the ladies said to Mr. Castor, "But where is Mr. Greaves?" Castor told her he had been disabled by a shot a lubberly gunner had dropped on his foot, and was confined to his cabin. '• Oh, dear," said the lady ; " poor Mr. Greaves ! How unlucky he is ! " " Is it one of your officers ? " asked the strange lady, quietly. "No, ma'am; he is a queen's officer, lieutenant of the Centaur, going out with us as passenger." Then the lady changed color, but said nothing, and speedily turned the con- versation ; but the Corsair looked black as thunder, and became rather silent all of a sudden. The ladies rose, and invited the fair stranger to go with them. " Please excuse her," said the Corsair, in a civil but commanding tone. She seemed indifferent. Soon after this an officer came in. and said, joyfully, " Wind from the nor- west." "Ah!" said the stranger; "then we must leave you, sir. Come on deck, dear." When they got on deck, the lady said, rather pettishly, "Wind? I feel no wind." Thereupon Mr. Castor pointed out to her a dark blue line, about eight miles off, on the pale blue water. '• Oh."' said she, " that is wind, is it ? " " Yes, ma'am, and a good breeze too ; it will be here in twenty minutes. Why, j'our boat is gone ! Never mind, we will take you." " By all means," said she, aloud ; then, as she turned from him, she said, in a swift whisper, " Sit near me in the boat ; I've something for you." Now this conversation passed at the head of the companion ladder, and Greaves heard the lady's voice though not the words. He started violently, huddled on his clothes, and would have hobbled on deck ; but the boat was brought alongside in full view from the port window r of his cabin. He heard her grate the ship's side, and opened the window just as the lady was lowered into the boat. The chair was hoisted. The lady, with her veil down as she had come, took her seat on the stern thwart, 204 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. beside her companion, Castor sitting at the helm. " Shove off ! " was the word. Then, as they turned the boat's head round, the lady, who had seen Greaves through her veil, and had time to recog- nize him in spite of his beard, lifted her veil for one moment, and showed him the face of Ellen Ap Rice— that face he had loved so well, ami suffered so cruelly for loving it. That face was now pale am! eloquent beyond the power of words. There was self-reproach, a prayer fur for- giveness, and, stranger si ill. a prayer to that injured friend — for help. PART III. The boat proceeded on her way. Ellen pointed to windward, and said, "See, Edward, the dark hue is ever so much nearer us." Laxlon turned his head to windward directly, and some remarks passed be- tween him and Castor. Ellen had counted on this: she availed herself of it to whip a letter out of her pocket, and write in pencil an address upon the envelope. This she did under a shawl upon her lap. Then she kept quiet, and wailed an opportunity to do some- thing more dangerous. But none came. Laxton sat square with her. and could see everj' open move- ment of her hand. They were within ten yards of the schooner, and the side manned to receive them. Just then Laxton stood up, and cried out, " Forward there — stand by to loose che jib." The moment he stood up, Mrs. Laxton whipped the letter out from under her shawl, and held it by her left side, but a little behind her, where nobody could see it, except Castor. She shook it in her fingers very eloquently, to make that officer observe it. Then she leaned a little back, and held it toward him ; but, with female adroitness, turned it outward in her hand, so that not one of the many eyes in the boat could see it. A moment of agony, and then she felt fingers much larger and harder than hers take it quietly, and convey it stealthily away. Her panting bosom relieved itself of a sigh. •■ What is the matter?" said the watch- ful Laxton. '• The matter:-' Nothing," said she. •'I hope." said he. ••you are not sorry to return to our humble craft? " •• 1 have seen none I., compare with her." said she. fencing boldly, hut trem- bling to herself. The next moment she was on board the schooner, and waited to see the boat oil'. and also to learn, if possible, whether Castor had her letter all sale, and would take it to its address. To her consternation she heard Laxton invite ( 'a si or to conn' onboard a moment. She tried to catch Castor's eye and warn him to do nothing of the kind. Bui the light-hearted officer assented an', was on the quarter-deck next moment . Laxton waved the others to fall back; hut Ellen would not lea ve them together : she was loo a pproheusive, knowing what She had jiist mine. •■ I have not t he honor of knowing \ our name, sir: mine is Edward Laxton." •■ Mine is Dick Castor, sir, at your ser- vice, and yours, ma'am." And he took this fair opportunity, and gave Ellen a look that made her cheeks burn, for it said, plainly. "Your letter is in safe hands." "Well, Mr. Castor," said Laxton, " you are the sort I want on board this schooner : yon are a man of nerve. Now I have never had a sailing-master yet, be- cause I don't need one — I am an enthu- siast in navigation, have studied it for years, theoretically and practically — but I want a first lieutenant, a man with nerve. What do you say. now ? Five hundred a year, and a swell uniform." THE JILT.— A YARN. 205 "Well, sir, the duds don't tempt me; but the pay is very handsome, and the craft is a heauty." Laxton bowed ceremoniously. " Let me add,"' said he gravely, "that she is the forerunner of many such vessels. At present, I believe, she is the only armed yacht afloat ; hut, looking at the aspect of Europe, we may reasonably hope some nice little war or other will spring- up ; then the Rover can play an honorable, and, indeed, a lucrative part. My first lieutenant's prize money will not be less, I should imagine, than twenty thousand a year ; an agreeable addition to his pay, sir."" "Delightful!" said Castor. "But they sometimes hang' a privateer at the yardarm ; so I should be quite contented with my quiet little five hundred, and peaceful times." "Well, then, tell 'em to sheer off, and fetch your traps." "Yes, do, Mr. Castor." said Ellen. " You can send a line to explain." That was to get her own letter delivered, the sly thing. Castor shook his head. " Sorry to dis- oblige you. ma'am, and to refuse you, sir ; but things can't be done that way. A seaman must not desert his ship on her voyage. Catch me in port and make the same offer, I'll jump mast-high at it." "Well," said Laxton, "what port are you to be caught in ? " "Why, it must be London or Hong- Kong. I shall be three months at Hong- Kong." Laxton said he had not intended to cruise so far west as that, but he would take a note of it. " You are worth going a little out of the way for," said he. While he was making his note, " Bang " went a gun from the Phoebe, and she was seen hoisting sail with great rapidity ; her rigging swarmed with men. " There, that's for us," said Castor. "No hurry, sir," said Laxton ; "he is going to tack instead of veering ; she'll hang in the wind for half an hour. For- ward there — hoist the flying-jib and the foretop-sel. Helm aweather ! Veer the ship. Mr. Castor, bid your men hold on. We must not part without a friendly glass." "Oh, no," said Ellen. "I will order it." Some of the prime Madeira was imme- diately brought on deck ; and while they were all three drinking to each other, the impatient Phoebe fired another gun. But Castor took it coolly ; he knew Laxton was right, and the ship could not come round on the port tack in a hurry. He drank his second glass, shook hands with Laxton, and then with Mrs. Laxton, re- ceived once more an eloquent .pressure of her soft hand, and this time returned it, to give her confidence, and looked courage into her eyes, that met his anxiously. Then he put off ; and though the Phoebe was now nearly a mile off, he easily ran alongside her before she paid off and got her head before the wind. His mind w T as in a troubled state. He was dying to know what this lovely wo- man, who had' fallen in love with him so suddenly, had written to him. But he would not open it right in sight of the schooner and so many eyes. He was a very loyal fellow. At a good distance, he took it carefully out, and his countenance fell ; for the let- ter was sealed, and addressed, "Lieut. Greaves. R.N." Here was a disappointment and a blow to the little amorous romance which Mr. Castor, who, among his other good quali- ties, was inflammable as tinder, had been constructing ever since the Corsair's bride first di'ank to him and pressed his hand. He made a terribly wry face, looking at the letter : but he said to himself, with a little grunt, " Well, there's nothing lost that a friend gets." As soon as he had boarded the Phoebe, and seen the boat replaced on the davits, the good - natured fellow ran down to Greaves's cabin, and found him sitting dejected, with his head down. "Cheer up, Mr. Greaves," cries Cas- tor; '-luck is changed. Here is a fair wind, and every rag set, and the loveliest 206 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. woman I ever clapped eyes on has been and written you a letter; and there it is.' ; •• It is from her ! " cried Greaves, and began to open it, all in a tremble. " She is in trouble. Castor. I saw it in her face." "Trouble! not she. Schooner Al. and money in both pockets." "Trouble, 1 tell you : and great trouble, or she would never have written to me." By this time he had opened the letter, and was busied in the contents. "It wasn't tn me she wrote," he sighed. ■■ How could it be ? " He read it through. and then handed it to Castor. The letter ran thus : '• 1 have written this in hopes I may be able to give it to some lady on board the Phoebe or to one of fche officers, and thai something may be done to rescue me, and prevent some terrible misfortune. ■• M\ husband is a madman. It is his mania bo pas- for a pirate, and frighten Unarmed vessels. (Inly last week we fell iii with a Dutch brig, and he hoist< hi ick Bag with a white death's-head and cross-bones, a nd Bred a shol across the Dutchman's bows. The Dutchman hove to directly, bul took to Ins boats. Then Mr. Laxton thoughl he had done enough, so he Bred a gun to leeward, in token of amity: bul the poor Dutchman did nol understand, and the crew pulled their boats toward .lava Head, full ten miles off, and abandoned theirship. I told him it was too cruel : but he spoke quite harsh- ly to me, and said that lubbers who i know the meaning of a gun to leeward had no business afloat. All I could per- suade him to was to sail quite away, ami let the poor Dutchmen see they could comeback to their ship. She could not fly from them, because she was hove to. ••He tried this experiment on the Phoebe, and got the men to join him in it. He told me every word I was to say to the officer. The three who were put in irons had a guinea apiece for it and double groe:. He only left off because the officer who came on board was such a brave man, and won his respect direct- ly ; for he is as brave as a lion himself. And that is the worst of it ; if a frigate caught him playing the pirate, and fired at him, he would be sure to fire back, and court destruction. " His very crew are so attached to him. and so highly paid — for he is extremely rich — and sailors are so reckless, that I am afraid they would fight almost any- body at a distance. But I think if they hi officer on board in his uniform, and he spoke to them, they would come iii i hen- senses; because they are many of them men-of-war's men. But. indeed, 1 fear he bribed some of 1 hem out of the queen's ships ; anil I don't know what those fellows might not do. because they an' deserters. •■ It is my hope and prayer that the rapt am and officers of the Phoebe will. all of them, tell a greal many other cap- bains, especially of armed vessels, not to lake tie- Rover for a real pirate, and Bre on him. but to come on board, and put him under reasonable restraint for Ins own sake and that of others at sea. •• As lor myself. 1 believe my own life is hardly safe. He has fits of violence which he cannot help, pom- fellow, and is very sorry for afterward ; but they are becoming more frequent, and he is get- ing worse in every way. •'But it is not for myself I write these lines, so much as 1" prevent wholesale f. I behaved ill in marrying h'im, and must take my chance, and perhaps pay my penalty. ELLEN LaXTON." •• Well. ( lastor," said Greaves, eagerly, •■what shall we do? Will the cant:, in let vim take volunteers and board her?" ••Certainly not! Why, here's a fair wind, and stunsels set to catch every puff." ■■ For Heaven's sake, take him her let- ter, and try him." •• I'll do that, but it is no use." He took the letter, and soon came back with a reply that Captain Curtis sym- pathized with the lady, and would make tli- case known to every master in his service. '• And that is all he is game for ! " said THE JILT.— A YARN. mi Greaves contemptuously. " Castor, lend me your arm. 1 can hobble on deck well enough." He got on deck, and the schooner was three miles to leeward and full a mile astern, with nothing set but her top- sails and flying-jib. Greaves groaned aloud. "He means to part company. We shall never see her again." He groaned, and went down to his cabin again. He was mistaken. Laxton was only giving the ship a start, in order to try rates of sailing. He set his magnificent mainsail and foresail and main-jib, and came up with the ship hand over head, the moderate breeze giving him an ad- vantage. Castor did not tell Greaves, for he thought it would only put him in a pas- sion, and do no good. So the first intimation Greaves got was at about 4 p.m. He was seated, in deep sorrow, copying his lost sweetheart's let- ter, in order to carry out her wishes, when the shadow of an enormous jib-sail fell on his paper. He looked up, and saw the schooner gliding majestically along- side, within pistol-shot. He flew on deck, in spite of his lame foot, and made the wildest propositions. He wanted a broadside fired at the schooner's masts to disable her ; wanted Captain Curtis to take the wind out of her sails, and run on to her, grapple her, and board her. To all this, as might be supposed, Cap- tain Curtis turned a deaf ear. " Interfere, with violence, between man and wife, sir ! Do you think I am as mad as he is ? Attack a commander who has just breakfasted with me, merely because he has got a .tile loose? Pray compose yourself, Mr. Greaves, and don't talk nonsense. I shall keep my course, and take no notice of his capers. And. Mr. Greaves, I am sorry for you — you are out of luck — but every dog has his day. Be patient, man, for God's sake, and remember you serve her majesty, and should be the last to defy the law. You should set an example, sir." This brought that excellent officer to his bearings, and he sat down all of a heap and was silent, but tears of agony came out of his eyes, and presently something occurred that made him start up in fury again. For Laxton's quick eye had noticed him and his wild appeals, and he sent down for Mrs. Laxton. When she came up, he said, " My dear, there's a gentleman on deck who did not breakfast with us. There he sits abaft the mainmast, look- ing daggers at us. Do you know him ?"' Ellen started. ••Ah, you do know him. Tell rne his name." " His name is Arthur Greaves." •• What, the same that was spooney on you when I sailed into Tenby Har- bor?" " Yes, yes. Pray spare me the sig-ht of the man I wronged so wickedly." •'Spare you the sight, \ou lying devil ! Why. you raised your veil to see him the better." With these words he caught her hastily round the waist with his powerful arm, and held her in that affectionate position, while he made his ironical adieux to the ship he was out- sailing. During the above dialogue, the schoon- er being directly under the ship's lee, the wind was taken out of the swifter craft's sails, and the two vessels hung together a minute ; but soon the schooner forged ahead, and glided gradually away, steer- ing a more southerly course ; and still those two figures were seen interlaced upon her deck, in spite of the lady's letter in Greaves's possession. "The hell of impotence," says an old writer. Poor Greaves suffered that hell all the time the schooner ran alongside the ship, and nobody would help him board her, or grapple her, or sink her. Then was added the hell of jealousy ; his eyes were blasted and his soul sickened with the actual picture of his old sweet- heart embraced by her lord and master before all the world. He had her letter, addressed, though not written, to him ; but Laxton had her, and the picture of possession was public. Greaves shook his fist at him with impotent fury, howl- 208 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ed impotent curses at him, that every- body heard, even the ladies, who had come on deck well pleased, seeing - only the sur- face of thing's, and were all aghast when Greaves came up all of a sudden, and stormed and raged at what to them was that pretty ship and justly affectionate commander; still more aghast when all this torrent came to a climax, and the strong man fell down in a fit. and was carried, gnashing and foaming and insen- sible, to bis cabin. On board the schooner all was not so rosy as it looked. Mrs. Lax ton, quietly imprisoned by an iron band, and forced into a pictorial attitude of affection quite out of character with her real sentiments — which at that moment were fear, re- piignanee. remorse, and shame — quivered and writhed in that velvet-iron embrace : her cheeks were rrtl. al first, with burn- ing blushes; l)ui by degrees they became very pale; her lips quivered, and lost all color; and, soon after Greaves was car- ried below, her body began to collapse, and at last, she was evidently about to faint ; hut her eha useable husband looked in her face, uttered a cry of dismay, and supported her. with a world of tender- ness, into the cabin, ami laying her on a sofa, recovered her with all the usual expedients, and then soothed her with the tenderest expressions of solicitude and devotion. It was not the first time bis tyranny had ended in adorai ion and tenderness. Tne couple had shed many tears of rec- onciliation: but the Quest fabric wears oul in time: and the blest shade of Lord Byron must forgive me if I declare that even '-Pique her and soothe by turns" may lose its charm by what Shakespeare calls "damnable iteration." The reader, indeed, might gather as much from Mrs. Laxton's reply to her husband's gushing tenderness. " There — there — I know you love me. in your way : and. if you do, please leave me in peace, for I am quite worn out." " Queen of my soul, your lightest word is a command." said the now chivalrous spouse ; impressed a delicate kiss upon her brow, and retired, backward, with a gaze of veneration, as from the presence of his sovereign. This sentiment of excessive veneration did not, however, last twenty-four hours. He thought the matter over, and early next morning he brought a paint-pot into the cabin, and having stirred some of his wife's mille-fleur into it, proceeded to draw, and then paint, a certain word over a small cupboard or locker in the state cabin. Mrs. Laxton came iu, and found him so employed. "What a horrid smell!" said she, pettishly. •'Paint !" " What, do you smell it?" said he. in a humble, apologetic tone. "I thought 1 had succeeded in disguising it with something more agreeable to the nostrils of beauty — the essence of a thousand flowers." "You have not, then: and what are you doing? " " Painting a word on this locker. A salutary word. Behold, queen of this ship and your husband's heart! "and he showed her t he word " discipline "beau- tifully written in large letters and in an arch. She began to quake a little : but being high-spirited, she said. "Yes, it is a sal- utary word, and if it had been applied to you when a boy. it would be all the better for you now — and for me too." "It would," said he, gravely. "But I had no true friend to correct the little faults of youth. You have. You have a husband, who knows how to sail a woman. • Saunter hi modo, fort iter in re,' that's the rule, when one is blessed, and honored, and tormented, with the ch irge of capricious beauty." Then Mrs. Laxton took fright, and said, cajolingly, she really believed lie was the wisest man upon the seas. As he was, at all events, one of the vainest, this so gratified him that no fur- ther allusion to her faults was made that day. The next morning two sailors had a fight for the affections of Susan Tucker, Mrs. Laxton's Welsh maid, whom he had made her color and rig out as Zulema, in that little comedv with Castor. THE JILT.— A YARN. 209 Thereupon Laxton complained to her, and said, " I cannot have the peace of the vessel disturbed by that hussy. I shall discharge her.'* " What, into the sea, dear ? '* said Mrs. Laxton, rather pertly. "No love. Though I don't see why I shouldn't launch her in an open boat, with a compass, and a loaf, and a barrel of water, and a bottle of hair oil — she uses that, the nasty little pig. That sort of thing has been done, on less provocation, to Captain Blyth, and many others. No, I shall fire across the bows of the first homeward-bound — " Mrs. Laxton uttered a loud sigh of dis- may. — " And send that little apple of discord back to its own orchard in South Wales — he ! he ! he ! " This was no laughing matter to poor Mrs. Laxton. She clasped her hands. " Oh, Edward, show me some mercy ! I have never been without a woman about me. Oh, pray don't let me be alone in a ship, surrounded by men, and not one woman ! " " For shame, Ellen ! " said he, severely. " You are a pirate's bride, and must rise above your sex. I devote myself to your service as lady's-maid. It would be odd indeed if a man who can pass a weather earing, couldn't humble-cum-stumble a woman's stays." " That is not it. If she goes, my life will not be safe." " Not safe ! with me to look after it ! " " No, 3 T ou villain ! — you hypocrite ! If she goes, my life will not be safe from ijou." She was wild with anger and fear. " These are hard words," said he, sor- rowfully. Then, firmly, " I see the time has come for discipline; " and though his words were wondrous calm, he seized her suddenly by the nape of the neck. She ut- tered one scream ; the next he stopped with his other hand, and she bit it to the bone; but he never winced. "Come." said he, "I'll use no unnecessary violence. ' Suaviter in modo, fort iter in re,' is the sailing order;" and in a few moments she was bundled, struggling violently, into the locker, and the key turned on her. Though his hand bled freely, he kept his word, and used no unnecessary vio- lence, provided you grant him, by way of postulate, that it was necessary to put her into that locker at all. Only as she fought and bit and scratched and kicked and wriggled her very best, the necessary violence was considerable. That was her fault, not his, he con- ceived. He used no unnecessary vio- lence. He now got a napkin and tied up his hand. Then he took a center- bit, and bored holes in the paneled door. This, he informed his prisoner, was necessaiy. "Without a constant sup- ply of fresh air, you would be uncom- fortable ; and your comfort is very dear to me." He then remarked that she ought to have a sentinel. Respect, as well as safe custody, demanded that ; and, as he was his own factotum, he would discharge that function. Accordingly, he marched past the locker, to and fro, without ceas- ing, till there was a knock at his cabin door, and a sail reported to leeward. " Homeward bound ? " " Yes, sir." " Then close up with her, and get my gig ready to board her." When he came near her, it proved to be one of Mr. Green's tea ships ; so he fired a gun to leeward, instead of sending a shot across her bows ; and then he launched his gig, with Susan blubbering in the stern-sheets, and her clothes in a hammock. The ship, for a wonder, condescended to slack her main-sheet, and the boat, being very swift, ran up to her astern, and the officer in command of the boal offered forty pounds for a passage. They happened to want a female ser- vant, and so they took her, with a little grumbling ; and she got her fare, or the greater portion of it, paid her for wages at Southampton. So I am told, however. The pursuit and capture of the ship, and the hoisting on board of Susan, were all reported, during their actual progress, with great bonhomie, to Mrs. Laxton, 210 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. through her air-holes, by her spouse and sentinel, and received with sobbing and sullen tears. When the boat came back, Laxton put on a bright and cheerful air. "There," said he to his prisoner, " the bone of contention is gone, and peace is restored — nautical peace and domestic peace. Aren't you glad ? " No answer. " Don't be sulky, dear. That shows a bad disposition, and calls for discipline. Open your mind tome. This is the cel- lular system, universally approved. How do you lind it work ? How do you feel, love? A little— subjugated— eh ? Tell the truth now." "Yes; quite subjugated," said a fainl voice. •• Pray Le1 me out." •■ With pleasure, deal'. Why did you not ask me before ': " I [e opened t he door, and there poor woman, croui upboard that only just held her, seated on the ground with her knees half waj in. She came oul wit h her ej es as wild as anj beast of the forest thai had been caughl in a trap, ami tottered to a seat. She ran her white hands recklessly into her hair, and rocked herself. " Oh, my God!" she cried. "Susan gone: and I am alone with a madman ! I'm a lost woman ! Laxton pitied her distress and set him- self to eool her fears. '-Don't talk like that . dearest ." said he: "a little disci- pline is wholesome. Whal have you to fear from a man whose sportive ensign, no doubt, is a death's-head and cross- bones: but his motto is ' Suavitcr in modo, forliter in re.' Look here ; here is an ensanguined cloth. Mine is I blood that has been shed in our little lov- ing encounter ; the only blood that ever shall be shed between us, sweet tigress of my soul." <• Forgive me ! " said she, trembling all over. "I was so frightened." "Forgive you. dearest? Why, you know a bite from you is sweeter to me than a kiss from any other woman. It, was rapturous. Bite me again, love ; scratch me; beat me. Sweet, darling Nelly, teach a brute and ruffian to dan? to discipline his lovely queen." "No, no. I won't touch you. Yen don't love me." "Not love you? Ah! cruel Nelly! What man ever loved a woman as I love you ? " " Give me a proof ; some better proof than locking me up in that horrid hole." •• Any proof you like." ■• Take me on shore. I'm not a sailor; and I begin to pine for the land." " Of course you do," said Laxton, who was now all indulgence. " Choose your land at ouee. There's Australia to lee- ward." •• Yes. six thousand miles. Let us go ink lea together, dear. fresh gal hered." •• The desire is nal ural," said Laxton s arse making life sweet to a refrac- tory child. •• ['11 go on deck and alter her course directly. By-the-by, where did thai Castor say 1 should lind him ? " Thus, even in her deplorable condition, and just lei out of prison, did a terrified but masterly woman manipulate her maniac. But what she endured in the course of a very few days was enough to unhinge a lady for life. Laxton took to brooding, and often passed his hand over his brow with a weird, terrified look. Then she watched him with terror. On deck he went into furies about the mosl trifling things, and threatened his best seamen with the cat. Ellen could hear his voice raging above, ami sat trembling as his step came down the ladder after these explosions. But at the cabin door he deposited violence, and his mania look another turn. He disci- plined her every day, and it seemed to cool him. She made no resistance, and they conversed amicably on different sides of the prison, she admitting that discipline was good for her mind. After a time she would say. " Edward, I'm sorry to say this contracted position pains my limbs." "We must provide for that. I'll build THE JILT.— A YARN. 211 another yacht, with more room in it — for everything." "Do, dear; and, meantime, I am afraid I must ask you to let me out." " Oh, by all means. Everything must give way to your comfort." Unfortunately, Mr. Laxton, as his rea- son became weaker, set up a spy ; and this fellow wormed out that one of the crew had seen Castor take a letter on the sly from Mrs. Laxton. This upset his mind altogether. He burst in upon her, looking fearful. "So you write love- letters to strangers, do you ? " he roared. " No, no. Who dares say so ? " " Who dares deny it ? You were seen to give one to that Castor, a man you had only spoken to once, you false- hearted, adulterous hussy ! " "It was only a letter to my father." " Liar ! it was a love-letter. And that Greaves couldn't show his face, but you must unveil to him. — Damnation ! — There ! you are driving me mad. But you shall not escape, nor your paramours elect. I know where to find them; and you I've got." The poor creatm-e began to shiver. "I am full of faults," she whimpered. "Discipline me, dear. You will mend me in time." "No, Judas ! " roared the madman. "I have disciplined you in vain. Disci- pline ! it is wasted on such a character. I must try extinction." " What, would you kill me, Edward ? " " Dead as a herring." " God have mercy on me ! " " That's His affair ; mine is to see that you deceive and delude no more able navigators, and drive them mad. But don't you think I'm going to shed your blood. I'm too fond of you, traitress — viper — hussy — demon of deceit. And don't you think you shall die alone. No. You shall perish with your Castor and your Greaves, cursed triumvirate. I know where to And them both. This very day I'll catch them, and lash them to the furniture, scuttle my beloved schooner, and set the water bubbling slowly up till it sucks you all three down to the bottom. Sit down on that ottoman, if 3*ou please, loveliest and wickedest of all God's creatures." •• I will not. I will scream if you lay a hand on me." "In that case," said he, "you will drive me to a thing I del est. and that is violence." And he drew out a revolver. Then she put up her quivering hands, and, pale and quaking in every limb, sub- mitted. She sat down on the ottoman, and he produced some gold cord and fine silk cord. With the silk he tied her hair most artistically to the table, and with the gold cord he bound her hands behind her back, and reduced her to utter help- lessness. This done with great care and dexterity, he bade her observe, with a sneer, that his revolver was not loaded. He loaded it and another before her eyes, put them in his pocket, locked the cabin, and went on deck, leaving her more dead than alive. PART IV. All this time the schooner had been running thirteen knots an hour before a southwest breeze, and Laxton soon saw a port under his lee. with many ships at anchor. The sight fired his poor brain ; he unfurled two black pennants with a white head and crossed bones, one at each of his mastheads, and flew a similar en- sign at his main-peak, and so stood in for the anchorage, like a black kite swooping into a poultry -yard. Greaves soon came to from his fit ; but he had a racking pain across the brow, and the doctor dreaded brain-fever. How- ever, a violent bleeding relieved the suf- ferer, and Nature, relenting, sent this much-enduring man a- long, heavy sleep, whence he awoke with an even pulse, but fell into a sullen, dogged state of mind, sustained only by some vague and not very reasonable hope of vengeance. But now the ladies interfered ; from 212 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. one to another they had picked up some of his story. He was the one hero of ro- mance in the ship ; and, his ill-luck, bodily and mental, before their eyes, their hearts melted with pity, and they came to the rescue. However timid a single lady may be, four can find courage, when acting in concert. They visited him in his cabin in pairs : they made him in one day. by division of labor, a fine cloth shoe for his bad fool : they petted him, and poured consolation on him: and one of them. Mrs. Genera] Meredith, who had a mellow, sympathetic voice, after beating Coyly about the bush a bit. wormed his whole story out of him. and instantlj told it to the oi hers, and they were quite happy the resl of the voyage, having a real live love story to talk over. Mrs, Meredith gave him her address at Hong-Kong, and made him promise to call on her. At last they reached that port, and the passengers dispersed. Greaves weir, on board tlir Centaur, and was heartily wel- comed. He reported his arrival to the admiral, ami fell at oner into the routine of duty. He intended to confide in his good-nut ured friend the second mate, hut was deterred by hearing that a now steam-corvette was about to be dispatched to the island to look after pirates. She was to be ready in less 1 han a month. Noi Inn-- was more likely than that the admiral would give the command to his flair-lieutenant . Indeed, the chances were five to one. So Greaves said to himself, "I'll hold my tongue about that madman, and then if I have the good luck to fall in with him. 1 can pretend to take him for a pirate, and board him, and rescue her."" So he held his tongue, and in due course it was notified to him that he was to com- mand the corvette, as soon as her arma- ment should be complete. It did not escape Lieutenant Greaves that the mad cruiser might be cruising in Polynesia while he was groping the Chinese islands with his corvette. Still there was a chance : and as it seemed the only one, his sad heart clung to it. In England, time and a serious malady had closed his wound ; hut the sight of Ellen's face, pale and unhappy, and the posses- sion of her letter, which proved that she feared her husband more than she loved him. had opened his wound again, and renewed all his love and all his pain. But while he was waiting and sickening with impatience at the delays in fitting out his corvette for service, an incident occurred that struck all his plans aside in a moment, and taught him how impossi- ble it is for man to foresee what a single day may bring forth. Admiral Hervey was on the quarter- deck of the Centaur, and a group of his officers conversing to leeward of him, at a respectful distance, when suddenly a schooner, making for the port, hoisted a black flag, with death's-head and cross- bones at her mastheads and her main- peak, and came howling in. She steered right for the Centaur, just shaved her stern, ran on about a cable's length, hove up m the wind, and anchored between the flagship and the port she was watching. It really looked as if this comic pirate meant to pour his little broadside into the mighty Centaur, and get blown out of the water in a moment. Then Greaves began to ask himself whether he was right not to tell the ad- miral all about this vessel. But while he hesitated, thai worthy did not. He -ruined at t lie absurdity of 1 he thing, hut lie frowned at the impudence. "This won't do." he said. Then, turning to- w am his officers, " Lieutenant Greaves ! " "Sir." "Take an armed party, and bring the master of that schooner to me." •• Ay. sir." In a vevy few minutes, Lieutenant Greaves, with two boats containing armed sailors and marines, and the union-jack flying, put off from the Cen- taur and boarded the schooner. At sight of his cocked hat. the schoon- er's men slunk forward and abandoned their commander. He sat aft, on a bar- rel of gunpowder, a revolver in each hand, and vociferated. Greaves stepped up, and fixed his eye THE JILT.— A YARN. 213 on him. He was raving mail, and dan- gerous. Greaves ordered two stout fel- lows to go round him, while he advanced. Then, still fixing his eye on the maniac, he so mesmerized him that he did not no- tice the other assailants. At one mo- ment they pinned him behind, and Greaves bounded on him like a cat. Bang ! — bang ! — went two shots, plow- ing the deck, and Laxton was secured and tied, and bundled, shrieking, curs- ing, and foaming, on board one of the boats, and taken to the flagship. Meantime. Greaves stepped forward. and said a few words to the men : " Now then. Jack, do you want to get into trouble ? " The men's caps went off in a moment, "No. your honor ; it ain't our fault."' "Then strike those ridiculous colors. and fly your union-jack at the main-peak ; this schooner is under royal command for the present." "Ay, ay. sir." This was done in a moment, and mean- time Greaves ran down the companion ladder, and knocked at the cabin door. No answer. Knocked again, and listened. He heard a faint moan. He drew back as far as he could, ran furiously at the door, ami gave it such a tremendous kick with his sound foot that the lock gave way, and the door burst open. Then the scared Ellen saw a cocked hat in the doorway, and the next moment her old lover was by her side, untying her hair, and cutting the ligatures carefully, with tender ejaculations of pity. " Oh, Arthur ! " she sobbed. " Ah ! go away — he will kill us both." "No, no; don't 3-011 be frightened. He is under arrest; and I command the schooner, by the admiral's orders. Don't tremble so, darling ; it is all over. Why, you are under the guns of the flagship, and you have got me. Oh, my poor El- len ! did ever I think to see you used like this?" So then they had a cry together; and he said everything in the world to com- fort her. But it was not to be done in a moment. The bonds were gone, but the outrage re- mained. " I want a woman," she cried, and hid her face. " Arthur, bring me a woman." •■That I will." said he; and seeing paper and envelopes on a table, he dashed off a line to the admiral : '• Lady on board the schooner in great distress. May I send her ashore to female friends ? " He sent the remaining boat off with this, and the answer came back directly : "Act according to your discretion. You can go ashore." As soon as he got this, he told Mrs. Laxton he would take her to Mrs. Gen- eral-Meredith, or invite that lady on board. Mrs. Laxton said she felt unable to move ; so then Greaves dispatched a mid- shipman m the boat, with a hasty line, and assisted Mrs. Laxton to the sofa, and holding her hand, begged her to dismiss all her fears. She was too shaken, however, to do that, and sat crying and quivering; she seemed ashamedtoo, and humiliated. So this honest fellow, thinking she would perhaps be glad if he left her, placed two marines at her cabin door, to give her confidence, and went on deck, and gave some orders, which were promptly obeyed. But very soon he was sent for to the cabin. "Pray don't desert me," said Mrs. Laxton. "The sight of you gives me courage." After a while she said, "Ah. you return good for evil." " Don't talk like that," said he. "Wiry, I am the happiest fellow- afloat now. I got your letter. But I never thought I should be so happy as to rescue you." "Happy!" said she. "I shall never be happy again. And I don't believe you will. Pray don't forget I am a married woman." " I don't forget that." "Married to a madman. I hope no harm will come to him." 214 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. " I will take care no harm comes to you." Then Greaves, who had read no French novels, and respected the marriage tie, became more distant and respectful, and to encourage her, said, "Mrs. Laxton, the lady I have sent to, admired you on board the ship, and I am sure, if she gets my letter, she will do more for you than a poor fellow like me can, now you are out of danger. She is a general's wife, and was very kind to me." "You arc very good and thoughtful," said Mrs. Laxton. Then there was an awkward silence ami it was broken by the arrival of the boal . wit h ( fceneral Meredil b and his wife. Greaves goi them on board the sch r. s] k bands with the lady, and proposed to her to see Mrs. Laxton ■• You are right," said she. Greaves showed her to the cabin: and 1 don't know all thai passed, hut m a very short time these Ladies, who had never me1 bu1 once, were kissing e: ch nt her, with w e1 eyes. Mrs. Meredith insisted en taking her new friend home with ber. Mrs. Laxtou acquiesced joyfully ; and for once a baskei of lady's clothes was packed in five min- utes. The boat pul off again, and Greaves looked sad. So Mrs. Meredith sinned to him, and said, "You know where to find us. Don't tie long." Greaves watched the boat till it was lost among the small shipping, then placed the midshipman in charge, and went at once on hoard the flagship. Here he heard the master of the schooner had been taken on the quarter- deck, and requested, civilly enough, to explain his extraordinary conduct; but he had sworn at the admiral, and called him an old woman : wiiereupon the ad- miral had not shown any anger, but had. said " Clap him in irons." concluding that was what he expected and desired. Then this doughty sailor, Greaves, who had been going to kill his rival at sight, etc.. was seized with compunction the moment that rival was powerless. He j went boldly to the admiral, and asked leave to give information. He handed him Mrs. Laxton's letter. "Oh," said the admiral, •■then he is mad." "As a March hare, sir. And I'm afraid putting him in irons will make him worse. It is a case for a lunatic asylum." •• You won't find one here ; but the marine hospital has a ward for lunatics. 1 know thai, for we had to send a foretop- man there last week. I'll give you an order, and you can take him ashore at once." Then Greaves actually took the poor wretch who had wrecked his happiness, Mid was new himself a wreck, on hoard a boat . and convej ed him to the hospital, and instructed the manager not to show him tiny unnecessary severity, bu1 to guard against self-destruction. Then hi' went directly to Mrs. Meredith and reported what lie had done. .Mrs. Laxton, in spite of all remon- strance, would go and see her husband 1 hat nighl . hut she found him in a si rait - waistcoat, foaming and furious, and using such language, she was obliged to retire horror-s1 ricken. About live in the morning he burst a blood-vessel in the brain, and at noon next day all his troubles were over. .Mrs. Laxton mourned him. and buried him. and Greaves held aloof, not liking to gO near her jUSt now; for he was too frank and simple to pretend he shared her grief. Yet he had sense enough to understand that, at such a time, a gener- ous spirit remembers only a man's good qualities: and Laxton had many; but, even when he married Ellen Ap Rice, the •rein him of that malady which destroyed him at. last. However, if Greaves was out of the widow's sight, he was not out of her mind, for Mrs. Meredith knew his whole tale, and told her how he had gone to Tenbj - , and had taken her marriage to heart, and had been at death's door in London. At last Greaves called, having the ex- cuse of a message from the admiral. He wished to know if Mrs. Laxton would sell THE JILT.— A YARN. 215 eight of her guns to the government, and also allow her sailors to be drafted into his ships, all but two, that number be- ing' sufficient to take care of her vessel in port. Mrs. Laxton said, •' I shall do nothing of the kind, without your advice, Arthur — Mr. Greaves. Why, how am I to get home? " Then Greaves advised her to sell the guns, for they were worse than useless ; but to part with the men only on condi- tion that the admiral would man the schooner, "when required," with new hands, that had never played tricks at sea under her late commander. Greaves called once or twice in the course of this negotiation, and thought Ellen had never looked so lovely as in her widow's cap. But he felt bound to abstain from making love, though he was burst- ing with it, and both ladies saw it, and pretended not. But one day he came to them in great dismay, and told them the guns had been bought for the steam-corvette he was to command, and she would be ready in a week, and he should have to go on his cruise. "I am very unfortunate," said he. The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when his friend, the second lieu- tenant, was announced. "Beg pardon, ladies ; but here's a letter from the ad- miral, for Greaves ; and we all hope it's promotion." He produced an enormous letter, and, sure enough, Lieutenant Greaves was now a commander. " Hurrah ! *' shouted the second lieutenant, and retired. " This would have made me very happy, once," said Greaves; then cast a despairing look at Ellen, and went off, all in a hurry, not to break down. Then Mrs. Laxton had a cry round her friend's neck. But next day the same Greaves came in all joyous. "1 was a fool," said he. '•I forgot the rule of the service. An admiral can't have two commanders. That fine fellow, who came after me with the news, is lieutenant, in my place, and I'm to go home for orders." "Oh, I'm so glad!" said Ellen. "When must you go?" " Oh, I dare say I might stay another fortnight or so. When are you going home, Mrs. Laxton ? " " The very first opportunity ; and Mrs. Meredith is to go with me. Won't it be nice ? ' ' "Yes." said he; "but it would be nicer if I could be third man. But no such luck for me, I suppose." Those two ladies now put their heads together, and boarded the admiral. He knew Mrs. Meredith ; but was a little surprised, though too true a tar to be displeased. They were received in his cabin, and opened their business. Mrs. Laxton wanted to go home im- mediately in her schooner, and she had no crew. " Well, madam, you are not to suffer for your civility to us. We will man your schooner for you in forty-eight hours." " Oh, thank you, admiral ! But the worst of it is I have no one to com- mand her." " No sailing-master ? " "No; my poor husband sailed her himself." '• Ay, I remember, poor fellow. Be- sides " (looking at the beautiful widow), " I would not trust you to a sailing- master." " What we thought, admiral, was, that as we gave up the guns and the sailors, perhaps you would be so kind as to lend us an officer." "What, out of Her Majesty's fleet? I could not do that. But, now I think of it, I've got the very man for you. Here's Commander Greaves going home on his promotion. He is as good an officer as any on the station." " Oh, admiral, if you think so well of him, he will be a godsend to poor us." " Well, then, he is at your service, ladies; and you could not do better." Greaves was a proud and joyful man. "My luck has turned," said he. He ballasted the schooner and pro- visioned her, at Mrs. Laxton's expense, 216 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. who had received a large sum of money for her guns. The two ladies occupied the magnificent cabin. He took a hum- bler berth, weighed anchor, and away for old England. I shall not give the reader any nautical details of another voyage, but a brief sketch of things distinct from naviga- tion that happened on board. Mrs. Laxton was coy for some days; then friendly; then affectionate: and, off the Cape, tyrannical. " You are not the Arthur Greaves I remember,'' said she; "he had not a horrid beard." " Why. I suffered for not having one," said la'. " What I mean," said she, "you do not awaken in me the associations you would but for that — appendage." "You wish those associations awak- ened ? " •• 1 don't know. Do you ? " •■ Indeed 1 do." ••Then le1 me see you as you used to be — Arthur." The beard came off nexl morning. ••Ah! "said Mrs. Laxton, and. to do tier justice, she fell a little compunction at her tyranny, and disposed to n him to his loss. She was so kind to him thai . at Maderia. he asked her to marry him. "To be suit 1 will." said she — "some day. Why, 1 believe we are engaged." '• 1 am sure of it." said he, ••Then, of course, I must many you. Bui there's one Littli — condition." "Must I grow a heard again ? " "No. The condition is — I am afraid you won't like it." "Perhaps not ; but I don't care if I am to be paid by marrying you." " Well, then, it i. — you must leave the service." " Leave the service ! You cannot be serious ? What, just when I am on the road to the red flag at the fore ! Besides, how are we to live ? I have no other means at present, and I am not going to wait for dead men's shoes." "Papa is rich, dear, and I can sell the yacht for a trading vessel. She is worth ten thousand pounds, I'm told." " Oh, then, I'm to be idle, and eat my wife's bread." '• And butter, dear. I promise, it shall not be dry bread." " I prefer a crust, earned like a man." ••You don't mean to say that you won't leave the service to oblige me, sir ? " '• Anything else you like ; but I cannot leave the service." "Then I can't marry you, my sailor bold," chanted the tyrannical widow, and ii-t ired to her cabin. She told Mrs. Meredith, and that lady scolded her and lectured her lill she pouted and was very nearly crying. However, she vouchsafed an explana- tion — "One requires change. 1 have been the slave of one man. and now 1 must be the tyrant of another." Mrs. Meredith suggested thai rational Freedom would be a sufficienl change from her condil ion under Laxton. " Rational freedom !"said the widow, contemptuously; ••that* is neither one thing nor the other. I will be a slave or a tyrant . He will give in. as he did a bout the beard, if you don't interfere. I'll be cross one day. and affectionate the next . and all sweetness the next . He will soon find out which he likes the best, and he will give in. poor dear fellow." 1 suppose that in a voyage round the world these arts might have conquered; hut they sighted the Lizard, without - 3 ielding, and both were gel ting unhappy ; so Mrs. Meredith got them to together, and proposed she should marry him, and if. in one year after marriage, she insisted on his leaving the service, he \\ oiild be hound in honor to do so. "I'm afraid that comes to the same thing," said Greaves. " No. it does not," said Mrs. Meredith. " Long before a j r ear she will have given up her nonsensical notion that wives can be happy tyrannizing over the man they love, and you will be master." '■ Aha ! " said Mrs. Laxton. " we shall see." This being settled, Ellen suddenly ap- peared with her engaged ring on her fin- ger, and was so loving that Greaves was THE JILT.— A YARN. 217 almost iu heaven. They landed Mrs. Mere- dith, with all the honors, at Plymouth and telegraphed the mayor of Tenby. Next day they sailed into the Welsh harbor, and landed. They were both received with open arms by the mayor and old Dewar ; and it was the happiest house in Wales. Ellen stayed at home: but Greaves lived on board the ship till the wedding- day. Ellen, still on the doctrine of opposition, would be cried in church, because the last time she had been married by license, and, as she had sailed away from church the first time, she would travel by land, and no further than St. David's. They were soon back at Tenby ; and she ordered Greaves to take her on board the yacht, with a black leather bag. " Take that into the cabin, dear," said she. Then she took some curious kej-s out of her pocket, and opened a secret place that nobody would have discovered. She showed him a great many bags of gold and a pile of bank-notes. " We are not so very poor, Arthur," said she. "You will have a little butter to your bread. You know I promised you should. And there is money settled on me ; and he left me a great deal of money, besides, when he was in his senses, poor fellow. I could not tell before ; or papa would have had it settled on me, and that lowers a hus- band. Being hen-pecked a very little — quite privately — does not," said she, cajolingly. Greaves was delighted, within certain limits. " I am glad to find you are rich," said he. "But I hope you won't make me leave the service. Money is not every- thing." "I promise never to discharge you from my service, dear. I know your value too well." They spent a happy fortnight in Tenby as man and wife. One day they walked on the south sands, and somehow round themselves in Merlin's Cave. Here Ellen sat, with her head on that faithful shoulder, and he looking down on her with inexpressible tenderness. Presently she gave a scream, and started up, and was out of the cavern in a moment. He followed her, a little alarmed. " What is the matter? " " Oh, Arthur, a dream ! Such a dread- ful one ! I dreamed I played you false, and married a gentleman with a beard, and lie was mad, and took me all round the world, and ill-used me, and tied me by the hair, and you rescued me : and then I found, too late, it was you I esteemed and loved, and so we were parted forever. Oh, what a dream ! And so vivid ! " "How extraordinary! " said he. "Would you believe that I dreamed that I lost you in that very way. and was awfully ill, and went to sea again, and found you lashed to a table by your beautiful hair, and lost to me forever? " " Poor Arthur ! What a blessing it was only a dream ! " Soon after this little historical arrange- ment they settled in London ; and Mrs. Greaves, being as beautiful as ever, and extremely rich, exerted her powers of pleasing to advance her husband's inter- ests. The consequence is, he remains in the service, but is at present employed in the Education Department. She no longer says he must leave the service ; her complaint now is that she loves him too well to govern him properly. But she is Arm in this, that if he takes a command she shall go with him ; and she will do it, too. Her ripe beauty is dazzling; she is known to be rich. The young fellows look from her to her husband, and say, "What on earth could she have seen in that man to marry him ? " I wonder how many of these young swells will vie with him in earnest, and earn a lovety woman both by doing - and suffering ? 218 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. THE KINDLY JEST. There appear to be at present two great divisions of humorous wit — the repartee and the practical joke. Both these have an aggressive character. To begin with, the repartee — it is generally a slap in the A few years ago the country possessed a master of repartee, Mr. Douglas Jer- rold. Specimens of his style still survive in the memory of his contemporaries. A mediocre writer, employed on the sain.' subject as himself, said : •■ Yi.it know, Jerrold, you and 1 are rowing in the same boal !" "Yes," re- plied tin* wit, •• inn nol with the same sculls ! " A noi her inferior art isl is eating soup a1 the Garrick Club. He praises it to Jer- rold, and tells trim i1 is calf-tail soup. •• Ay," says Jerrold, "extremes meet." These are strong specimens ; hut take milder ones, still the aggressive character is there. Pecuniary calamity overtook a friend of Mr. Edmund Burke. Another friend went to console him. and. like Job's comforters, told him it was all his own fault. •• How could you be so unfeeling ? " s;i id iir. Burke, when lie heard of it. •• Unfeeling, sir." said the other : " why. I went to him directly, and poured oil into his wounds." " Oil of vitriol." says the statesman. I need not say that a thousand exam- ples of the kind are to be found in litera- ture. The witty Voltaire receded with admbvable dexterity from good nature into wit. He permitted himself to praise some gentleman rather warmly. His hearer said : " This is very good of you, for he does not speak of you with any respect — quite the reverse." "Ah!" said Voltaire. •• humanum est errare. Probably we are both of us mistaken." An observer of witty men and their sayings, summed the matter up as fol- lows: " Diseur de bon-mots, mauvais caractere." Even where the wit is without person- ality, it- does not always lose its aggress- ive character. See how the personages in i he "School for Scandal " explain why wit and good-nature are so seldom united. The explanations arc not hitter, hut still t hey arc biting. Now go from this to the practical joke, which is ;il\v;iys nil attempt a1 humor. |)i>scct the practical joke. Egotism and a poverty Of real wit tempi sonic dunce to intlict moderate pain upon another, keeping well out of it himself ; and, his hem-- out of it and the other being in it makes him feel humorous; and this really favors the narrow theory of Hobbes of Malmesbury, that " laughter arises from a glorying m ourselves at some superior- ityover our neighbor." The dull humor- ist- in this style chips bristles, and strews them in his friend's bed, or makes him up what is called an apple-pie bed — a won- derful corrupt ion of cap-h-pie. Meanl ime, his bed is all right, and his heart re- joices. One of these humorists put a skeleton into a young lady's bed, down in Somersetshire, then retired softly and awaited the result with the idiotic chuckle of a dull dog who has gone astray into humor. The result was that the lady fell streaming on the floor, was taken up in- sane, and ended her days in a madhouse. Another such humorist battened down the hatches of a small trading vessel in the Thames. Smoke was created some- how in the hold (I forget by what cause), and the crew, consisting of four poor THE KINDLY JEST. 219 wretches, tried in vain to escape. Their very cries were stifled, and, the next day, their smoking- corpses were recovered, grim monuments of a blockhead's humor. Solomon has observed that Nature con- tains tremendous animals. At the head of the list he places a couple, viz., a bear robbed of her whelps, and an irritated fool. Leaving- these two terrible creat- ures to figure cheek by jowl in the sacred page, I beg the third place for a dull man or woman trying to be witty. Now, all this is not absolutely neces- sary. It is more difficult to say witty and kindly things than witty and ill- natured things ; yet it is within the powers of the human understanding. A young lady walking in her garden with Sydney Smith pointed out to him an everlasting pea, reported to blossom beautifully; "but," said she, "we have never been able to bring it to perfection." "Then," said the kindly wit, "let me bring perfection to the pea," and so led her by the hand to a closer inspection of the flower. Coulon, a famous mimic in Louis XV. 's time, took off the king as well as his sub- jects. The king heard of it and insisted on seeing the imitation. He was not of- fended at it, and gave Coulon a fine dia- mond pin. Coulon looks at the pin, and says, "Coming to me, this ought to be paste, but coming from Your Majesty it is naturally a diamond." Is the element of wit extinguished here ? I trow not. Frederick the Great disbelieved in phy- sicians, and said that invalids died oftener of their remedies than their maladies, and, as the lancet was rife in his day, probably he was not very far wrong. However, he fell sick, and the weakness of his body, I suppose, affected his mind : so he sent for a physician. Dr. Zimmer- mann ; but at sight of him his theory re- vived, and his habitual good manners led him to say to Zimmermann, by way of greeting, " Now, doctor, I'll be bound to say you have sent many an honest fellow under ground." Zimmermann replied, without hesitation, " Not so many as Your Majesty — nor with so much credit to myself." Isn't that wit, if you please ? Ay, and of a very high order. But it is possible to convert even the practical joke to amiability, and to substitute the milk of human kindness where hitherto men have dealt in adulterated vinegar. And of this I beg to offer an example. A certain German nobleman provided his son with a tutor, who was to attend closely to him, and improve his mind. This tutor, it seems, took for his ex- ample a certain predecessor of his, who used to coach young Cyrus indoors and out ; and both these tutors, each in his own country and his own generation, had the brains to see that to educate a young- fellow you must not merely set him tasks* to learn indoors, and then let him run wild in the open air, but must accompany him wherever he goes, and guide him with your greater experience in his prac- tical judgment of the various events that pass before his eyes. For how shall he learn to apply an experience which he does not really possess ? What a boy learns by rote is not knowledge, but knowledge's shadow. One day these two came to the side of a wood, and there they found a tree half felled, and a pair of wooden shoes. The woodman was cooling his hot feet in a neighboring stream. The young noble- man took up a couple of pebbles, and said, " I'll put these in that old fellow's shoes, and we'll see his grimaces." "Hum!" says the tutor, "I don't think you'll get much fun out of that. You see he's a poor man, and probably thinks his lot hard enough without his having stones put into his shoes. I can't help thinking that if you were to put a little money in instead — and you have plentj r of that, you know, more than I should allow you if I were your fa- ther — the old fellow would be far more flabbergasted, and his grimaces would be more entertaining, and you would be more satisfied with yourself." The generous youth caught fire at the idea, and put a double dollar into each shoe. Then the confederates hid behind 220 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. a hedge and watched the result of their trick. They had not long to wait. An elderly man came back to his hard work — work a little beyond his years — and slipped his right foot into his right shoe. Finding something hard in it, he took it olf again and discovered a double dollar. His grave face wore a look of amazeinenl . and the spies behind the hedge chuckled. He laid the coin in the palm of his hand. and, still gazing at it with wonder, he mechanically slipped his foot into the other sabot. There he found another coin. He look it up, and holding ou1 both his hands, gazed with wonder at them. Then he suddenly clasped his hands together, and fell on his knees, and cried out in a loud voice, "0 God, this is your doing. Nobody nut you knows the state we are in at home, my wife in her I'ed. my Children starving, and 1 hardly able to earn a crust with these old hands. It is You who have sent me these blessed coins by one of Your angels." Then h.' paused, and another idea st ruck him : "Perhaps it is not an angel from heaven. There are human angels, even in this world; kind hearts tha.1 love to feed the hungry, and succor the poor. < me of these has passed by. like sunshine in win- ter, and has seen the poor old mall's slices, ami has dropped all this money into them, and gone on again, and not even waited to he thanked. But a poor man's blessing Qies fast, and shall over- take him and he with him to the end of the world, and to the end of his own time. May God and His angels jro with you, keep you from poverty and from sickness, and may you feel in your own heart a little of the warmth and the joy you have brought to me and mine. I'll do no more work to-day. I'll go home to my wife and children, and they shall kneel, and bless the hand that has given us t his comfort, and then gone away and thought nothing of it ." He put on his shoes, shouldered his ax, and went home. Then the spies had a little dialogue. " This I call really good fun," said the tutor, in rather a shaky voice; "and what are you sniveling at ? " " 'Tisn't I that am sniveling so ; it is you." '• Well, then, we are both sniveling," said the tutor, and with that, both being foreigners, they embraced, and did not conceal their emotion any longer. •• ( 'nine on," said the boy. •• Where next ? " asked the tutor. ■• Why. follow him to be sure. I want to know where he lives. Do you think I will let his wife be sick, and his children starve, after this ? " I tear i>o\ ." said t he I utor, " I don't for a moment think you will. Yours is not the age, nor the heart, that does things by halves." So they dogged their victim home, and the young nobleman secured a modest competence from that hour to a very worthy and poverty - strick en family. Now I think that both these veins of humor mighi be worked to the profit of mankind, and especially of those who can contrive to be witty or humorous, yet kindly, and of those who will profit by this improved sort of humor. 1 have heard of an eccentric gentleman who had some poor female relations, and asked them to tea, a beverage he himself de- tested. He retired before the tea-drink- ing commenced, and watched their laces from another room. They found the cups mighty heavy, and could hardly lift the ponderous liquid. They set them down, probed the contents, and found a sedi- ment of forty sovereigns in each cup. Each discovery being announced by little screeches, and followed by continuous cackling, the eccentric host appears to have got more fun out of it than by the vulgar process of drawing checks for the amount . The human mind, when once the atten- tion of many persons is given to a subject, is so ingenious, and gets so much metal out of a small vein of ore, that I feel as- sured, if people at home and abroad will bring their minds to bear on this subject, they may in some degree improve man- ners, and embellish human life with good- hearted humor and kindly jokes. READIANA. PREFACE. Many people think they can discern a novelist's real opinions in his works, and. of course, when he speaks in his own per- son, they can. But surely the dialogue of fictitious characters must be an unsafe guide to an author's real mind ; for it is the writer's business to make his charac- ters deliver their convictions, not his, and as eloquently as possible. My good friend, Mr. Chatto, has thought it worth while to ransack the files for my personal convictions on various subjects and to publish them. In this he has consulted friendship rather than interest. How- ever, honest and lasting convictions are worth something, and this volume con- tains nothing else. I find I have gone a little beyond the mark in calling the execution of Murdoch illegal. It is not primd facie illegal to hang a man who kills an officer in the discharge of his duty, but in this country law goes by precedent ; Murdoch gar- roted the jailer, not with the intention of killing him, but of escaping while the jailer was disabled for a time. The de- sire for liberty is as natural and overpow- ing as hunger, and the prisoner acted upon it with no murderous intention whatever. He never left the neighbor- hood, sure proof he did not know he had killed the jailer, and he went into tears when he heard the old man was dead. The people who at that date misgoverned this nation had tempted Murdoch to the act by leaving Hastings Jail inefficiently guarded. When they hung the youth they had tempted — hung him to hide their own fault — the spectators of the execu- tion were fewer than ever assembled to see a hanging before or since, and the onky cry that came from this handful of spectators was, "Murder! Murder!!" Just three months after this butchery, an escaped prisoner was brought before a judge; the judge was invited by the crown to inflict condign punishment ; he treated the proposal with contempt. ••The prisoner," said he, "yielded to the natural and imperious desire of lib- erty. It was his business to escape, and it was the jailer's business not to let him." In two other matters 1 said too little. Colonel Baker's sentence was beyond all precedent, and the verdict hardly justi- fied. In a court that defies the Divine law, and the laws of civilized Europe, by closing the mouth of the accused, every admission made by the prosecutor ought to have double weight. When a young lady orders a gallant colonel to hold her while she projects from a railway car- riage, he is her ally in a gymnastic, not an assailant she really feai-s. or has grave reason to fear. Quodcunque ostendis nulii sic incredulus odi. The other ex- ample in which I have written below the mark, is the verdict of willful murder against Louis Staunton, Mrs. Patrick Staunton, and Alice Rhodes : a verdict bloodthirsty yet ridiculous, a verdict ob- (221) 222 WORKS OF CHARLES READ&. tained by transparent perjury in the witness-box, and prejudice, sophistry, and bad law upon the bench. But this latter shortcoming- I hope to repair, with God's help, before the two victims of perjury, sophistry, false fact, and rotten law, are slaughtered in the bloodless but effectual shambles, where the one real criminal has already perished. Charles Reade. October, 1882. A BRAVE WOMAN. THE pi s to bear what people of rank and reputation do and say, how- ever trivial. We defer to this taste : and Miii gives us a righl to gratify our own now and then, by presenting what maj tie called the reverse picture, the remark- able acts, or sufferings, or qualities, of persons unknown to society, because so- ciety is a clique ; and to tame. I is pari ial. In this spirit we shall tell our readers a few facts about a person we are not likely to misjudge, for we do not know h by sigh! . 31st of Au-ust. 1878, a train left Mar- gate for London by the Chatham and Dover line. At Sittingbourne the points- man turned the points the wrong way, and the train dashed into a shunted train at full speed. The engine, tender, and leading carriages were crushed fco and piled over one another. The nearesl passengers were chatting merrily one moment, and dead, dying, or mutilated, the next . Nearest the engine was a third-class carriage, ami in its furthest compartment sat a Mrs. Freeland, who in heryouth had led an adventurous life in the colonies, but now in middle age had returned to mother England for peace and quiet. She felt a crash and heard a hissing, and for one moment saw the tender bursting through the compartments toward her ; then she was hurled clown upon her face, with some awful weight upon her, and wedged im- movable in a debris of fractured iron, splintered wood, shattered glass, and mutilated bodies. In a few minutes people ran to help, but m that excited state which sometimes ag-l gravates these dire calamities. First bhey were for dragging lier ou1 by force; bu1 she -possessed, and said: "Pray, be calm and don't attempt it: I am fast by the legs, and a great weighl on my back." Then t hej 'ere for breaking into the carriage from above: bu1 she called to them. ■■ Please donM do that— the roof is broken, and you don't know what you may bring down upon us." Thus advised by the person most likely to lose her head, one would think, they ;ii cut ranee at the sides. They removed from tier back an iron w) I aim body, and they sawed round her jammed and lacerated limbs, and at last v. ith difficulty carried out a lady, with her boots torn and tilled with blood, her clot hes m ribbons, her face pouring blood, her back apparently Indian, and her right leg furrowed all down to the very foot witli a -aping wound, that laid bare ■■.'. s : besides numberless contusions and smaller injuries. They laid her on a mat upon the platform, and there she re- mained, refusing many oilers of brandy, and waiting for a surgeon. None came tor a longtime : and benevo- iture, so-called, sent a heavy rain. At last, in three-quarters of an hour, - arrived, and one of them re- moved tier on her mat into a shed, thai let in only part of the rain. He found her spine injured, took a double handful of -. wood, and glass, out of hei head and face, and then examined her leg. He looked aghast at the awful fur- row. The sufferer said quietly. " 1 should like a stitch or two put into that." The surgeon looked at her in amazement . •• Can you bear it? " She said : "I think so. 7 ' He said she had better fortify herself with a little brandy. She objected to that EEADIAXA. 223 as useless. But he insisted, and the aw- ful furrow was stitched up with silk. This done he told her she had better be moved to the infirmary at Chatham. "Army surgeons?" said she. "No, thank you. I shall go to a London hos- pital."' Being immovable in this resolution, she had to wait three hours for a train. At last she was sent up to London, lying upon a mat on the floor of a car- riage, hashed, as we have 'described, and soaked with rain. From the London station she was conveyed on a stretcher to St. George's Hospital. There they discovered many grave injuries, admired her for her courage and wisdom in having had her wounded leg sewn up at once, but told her with regret that to be effectual it must be secured with silver points, and that without delay. " Very well." said she patiently ; " but give me chloroform, for I am worn out." The surgeon said: "If you could en- dure it without chloroform it would be better." He saw she had the courage of ten men. "Well," said she, "let me have some- body's hand to hold, and I will try to bear it." A sympathizing young surgeon gave this brave woman his hand : and she bore to have the silk threads removed, and thirty little silver skewers passed and repassed through her quivering flesh, sixty wounds to patch up one. It afterward transpired that the good surgeon was only reserving chloroform for the amputation he thought must follow, having little hope of saving such a leg. Whatever charity and science — united in our hospitals, though disunited in those dark hells where God's innocent creatures are cut up alive out of curi- osity — could do, was done for her at St. George's Hospital ; the wounded leg was saved, and in three weeks the patient was carried home. But the deeper inju- ries seemed to get worse. She lay six months on her back, and after that was lame and broken and aching from head to foot for nearly a year. As soon as she could crawl about she busied her- self in relieving the sick and the poor, according to her means. Fifteen months after the railway acci- dent, a new and mysterious injury be- gan to show itself; severe internal pains accompanied with wasting, which was quite a new feature in the case. This brought her to death's door after all. But, when faint hopes were enter- tained of her recovery, the malady de- clared itself, an abscess in the intestines. It broke, and left the sufferer prostrate, but out of danger. Unfortunately, in about a month an- other formed, and laid her low again, until it gave way like its predecessor. And that has now been her life for months; constantly growing these ago- nizing things, of which a single one is generally fatal. In one of her short intervals of peace a friend of hers, Major Merrier, repre- sented to her the merits and the diffi- culties of a certain hospital for diseases of the skin. Instantly this brave woman sets to work and lives for other afflicted persons. She fights the good fight, talks, writes, persuades, insists, obtains the public support of Ave duchesses, five marchionesses, thirty-two countesses, and a hundred ladies of rank, and also of many celebrated characters: obtains subscriptions, organizes a grand bazaar, etc., for this worthy object. Now. as a general rule, permanent in- valids fall into egotism : but here is a lady, not only an invalid, but a sufferer, and indeed knocked down by suffering half her time ; yet with undaunted heart, and charitable, unselfish soul, she struggles and works for others. whose maladies are after all much lighter than her own. Ought so much misfortune and merit to receive no public notice ? Ought so rare an union of male fortitude and womanly pity to suffer and relieve with- out a word of praise ? Why to us, who judge by things, not names, this seems some heroic figure strayed out of An- tiquity into an age of little men and ■zu WORKS OF CHARLES READE. women, who howl at the scratch of a pen . Such a character deserves to be sung by some Christian poet; but as poet- asters are many and poets are few, Mrs. Rosa Freeland. brave, suffering 1 and charitable, is chronicled in the prose of "Fact." PERSEVERANCE. On a certain day in the year 1819, Mr. < 'limy, an attorney in Shaftesbury, was leaving his office for the day. when he was met at the door by a respectable woman and a chubby-faced boy with a bright eye. He knew the woman slightly — a widow thai kept a small stationer's slid]) in the town. She opened her business at once. ••< Mi. .Mr. dully. 1 have brought you my Robert ; he gives no peace; Ins heart is so set on being in a lawyer's utiie,.. Mm there, 1 have not go1 i be money to apprentice him. Only we thoughl perhaps you could find some place or oilier for him. if it was ever so small.'* Then she broke off and looked appealingly, ami the boy's cheeks and eyes were tired with expectation. Most country towns at thai tune pos- sessed two solicitors, who might be called tj'pes ; the old-established man. whose firm for generations had done the pacific and lucrative business — wills, settlements, partnerships, mortgages, etc. — and the sharp practitioner, who was the abler of the two at litigation, and had to shake the plum tree instead of sitting under it and opening his mouth for the windfalls. Mr. Chitty was No. 2. But these sharp practitioners are often very good-natured ; and so, looking at the pleading widow and the beaming boy, he felt disposed to oblig'e them, and rather sorry he could not. He said his was a small office, and he had no clerk's place vacant : " and, indeed, if I had. he is too young : why he is a mere child ! " ■■ I am twelve next so-and-so," said the boy. giving the month and the day. ••You don't look it, then," said Mr. Chitty incredulously. ••Indeed, but he is. sir." said the widow; "he never looked his age. and wi'ites a beautiful hand." '• But I tell you I have no vacancy," said Mr. Chitty, turning dogged. '• Well, thank you. sir. all the same," said the widow, with the patience of her sex. '• Come, Robert, we mustn't detain the gentleman." So they turned away with disappoint- ment marked on their faces, the hoy's especially. Then .Mr. Chitty said in a hesitating way: "To lie sure, there is a vacancy, but it is not the sort of thing for you." •' What is it. sir. if you please!'" asked the widow. •• Well, we want an office boy." •• An office boy ! What do \ on say, Robi it ? 1 suppose n is ;i beginning, sir. What will lie have to do? " '• Why. sweep the office, run errands, carry papers — and that is nol what he is after. Look at him — he has got thai eye of ins fixed on a counselor's wig. you ina.\ depend: and sweeping a country attorney's office is not tie. 1 stepping-stone to that." He added warily. " a1 least. t here is no precedenl reported." • La ' sir." said the widow, -'he only wants to turn an honest penny, and be among law-papers." "Ay, ay. lo write 'cm and sell 'em, but not to dust em ! " "For thai matter, sir. I believe he'd rather be the dust itself in your office than bide at home with me." Here she turned angry with her offspring for half a moment. •• And so I would." said young master stoutly, indorsing his mother's hyperbole very boldly, though his own mind was not of that kind which originates meta- phors, similes, and engines of inaccuracy J in general. " Then I say no more," observed Mk. READIANA. 225 Chitty ; " only mind, it is half-a-crown a week — that is all." The terms were accepted, and Master Robert entered on his humble duties. He was steady, persevering-, and pushing-; in less than two years he got promoted to be a copying clerk. From this in due course he became a superior clerk. He studied, pushed and persevered, till at last he became a fair practical lawyer, and Mr. Chitty's head clerk. And so much for Perseverance. He remained some years in this posi- tion, trusted by his employer and re- spected too ; for besides his special gifts as a law clerk, he was strict in morals, and religious without parade. In those days country attorneys could not fly to the metropolis and back to dinner. They relied much on London attorneys, their agents. Lawyer Chitty's agent was Mr. Bishop, a judge's clerk ; but in those days a judge's clerk had an insufficient stipend, and was allowed to eke it out by private practice. Mr. Bishop was agent to several country at- torneys. Well, Chitty had a heavy cast' co.ning on at the assizes, and asked Bishop to come down for once in a way and help him in person. Bishop did so, and in working the case was delighted with Chitty's managing clerk. Before leaving-, he said he sadly wanted a man- aging clerk he could rely on. Would Mr. Chitty oblige him and part with this young- man ? Chitty made rather a wrj r face, and said that young man was a pearl -'I don't know what I shall do without him ; why, he is my alter ego.'' Howevei', he ended by saying gener- ously that he would not stand in the young man's way. Then they had the clerk in and put the question to him. "Sir," said he, "it is the ambition of my heart to go to London.*' Twenty-four hours after that, our humble hero was installed in Mr. Bishop's office, directing a large business in town and countrj\ He filled that situation for many years, and got to be well known in the legal profession. A brother of mine, who for years was one of a firm of solic- Reade— Vol. IX. itors in Lincoln's Inn Fields, remembers him well at this period ; and to have met him sometimes in his own chambers and sometimes in Judge's Chambers ; my brother says he could not help noticing him, for he bristled with intelligence, and knew a deal of law, though he looked a boy. The best of the joke is that this clerk afterward turned out to be four years older than that solicitor who took him for a boy. He was now among books as well as lawyers, and studied closely the prin- ciples of law, while the practice was sharpening him. He was much in the courts, and every case there cited in argu- ment or judgment he hunted out in the books, and digested it, together with its application in practice by the living judge, who had quoted, received, or evaded it. He was a Baptist, and lodged with a Baptist minister and his two daughters. He fell in love with one of them, proposed to her, and was accepted. The couple were married without pomp, and after the ceremony the good minister took t hem aside, and said, " I have only £200 in the world ; I have saved it a little at a time, for my two daughters. Here is your share. my children. Then he gave his daughter £100, and she handed it to the bridegroom on the spot. The good minister smiled approval and they sat down to what fine folk call breakfast, but they called dinner, and it was. After dinner and the usual cei-emonies, the bridegroom rose and surprised them a little. He said. "I am very sorry to leave you. but I have a particular busi- ness to attend to; it will take me just one hour." Of course there was a look or two in- terchanged, especially by every female there present ; but the confidence in him was too great to be disturbed ; and this was his first eccentricity. He left them, went to Gray's Inn, put down his name as a student for the Bar ; paid away his wife's dowry in the fees, and returned within the hour. Next day the married clerk was at the office as usual, and entered on a twofold D 8 226 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. life. He worked as a clerk till five, dined in the hall of Gray's Inn as a sucking barrister ; and studied hard at night. This was followed by a still stronger ex- ample of duplicate existence, ami one without a parallel in my reading and ex- perience — he became a writer, and pro- duced a masterpiece, which, as regarded the practice of our courts, became at once the manual of attorneys, counsel, and judges. The author, though his book was en- titled " practice," showed some qualities of a jurist, and corrected soberly but firmly unscientific legislature and judi- cial blunders. So here w;is a student of Gray's Inn. supposed to be picking up in thai inn a small smattering of law. yet, to diversify his crude studies, instructing mature counsel and correcting The judges them- selves, a1 whose chambers he attended daily, cap in hand, as an at bornej - There's an intellectual hotch-potch for you ! All t his tlid not in his inn i him to be a barrister ; bu1 years and din- ners did. After some weary years he took the oaths a1 Westminster, and va- cated by that act his place in Bishop's office, and was a pauper— for an after- noon. Hut work, thai has been long and tedi- ously prepared, can be executed quickly: and adverse circumstances, when Perse- verance conquers them, turn round and 1 une allies. The ex-clerk ami young barrister had plowed and sowed with such pains and labor, thai lie reaped with comparative ease. Half the managing clerks in I or don knew him and believed in him. They had the ear of their employers, and brought him pleadings to draw and mo- tions to make. His book, too. brougb.1 him clients: and he was soon in full career as a junior counsel and special pleader. Senior counsel too found that they could rely upon his zeal, accuracy, and learning. They began to request that he might be retained with them in difficult cases, and he became first junior counsel at the Bar ; and so much for Per- severance. Time rolled its ceaseless course, and a silk gown was at his disposal. Now, a popular junior counsel cannot always af- ford to take silk, as they call it. Indeed. if In' is learned, but not eloquent, he may ruin himself by the change. But the re- markable man. whose career 1 am epito- mizing, did not hesitate: he still pushed onward, and so one morning the Lord* Chancellor sat for an hour in the Queen's Bench, and Mr. Robert Lush was ap- pointed o if Her Majesty's I learned in the law. and then and there, by the Chancellor's invitation, stepped oui from among the juniors and took his Seal within the Bar. So much for Perse- \ erance. From 1 his point 1 he outline of his career is known to everybody, lie was appointed in 186a one of the judges of the Queen's Bench, and. after sitting iii thai court some years, was promoted to be a lord just ice of appeal. A few days ago he died, lamented anil revered by 1 he legal profession, which is very critical, and does not bestow its re- peet lightly. 1 knew him only as queen's counsel. 1 had him againsl me once, but oftener for me. because my brother thought him even then the best lawyer and the most zealous at the Bar, and always retained him if he could. During the period 1 knew him personally Mr. Lush had still a plump, unwrinkled face, and a singu- larly bright eye. His voice was full, mel- low, and penetrating: it filled the court without apparent effort, and accorded well with his style of eloquence, which was what Cicero calls the / c m prruf inn genus loquendi. Reasoning carried to perfection is one of the fine arts: an argument by enchained the ear and charmed the derstanding. He began at the begin lung, and each succeeding topic was ar- ticulated and disposed of, and succeeded by its right successor, in language so lb and order so lucid, that he rooted and grew conviction in the mind. Tantum series nexuraque pollent. I never heard him at Nisi Prius, but should think he could do nothing ill, yet t is one >y Lush I the un- jl BE A DIANA. 227 would be greater at convincing- judges than at persuading juries right or wrong ; for at this pastime he would have to escape from the force of his own under- standing ; whereas I have known counsel blatant and admired, whom Nature and flippant fluency had secured against that difficulty. He was affable to clients, and I had more than one conversation with him, very interesting to me. But to intrude these would be egotistical, and disturb the just proportions of this short notice. I hope some lawyer, who knew him well as counsel and judge, will give us his dis- tinctive features, if it is only to correct those vague and colorless notices of him tit at have appeared. This is due to the legal profession. But, after all, his early career interests a much widei- circle. We cannot all be judges: but we can all do great things by tin' per- severance, which, from an office bo\ T , (made this man a clerk, a counsel, and a ljudge. Do but measure the difficulties he overcame in his business with the difficul- ties of rising- in any art. profession, or honorable walk ; and down with despond- ency's whine, and the groans of self- : deceiving laziness. You who have youth and health, never you quail " At those twin jailers of the daring heart, Low birth and iron fortune." See what becomes of those two bug- bears when the stout champion Single- heart and the giant Perseverance take them by the throat. Why. the very year those chilling lines were first given to the public by Bulwer and Macready, Robert Lush paid his wife's dowry away to Gray"s Inn in fees, and never whined nor doubted nor looked right nor left, but went straight on — and prevailed. Genius and talent may have their bounds — but to the power of single- hearted perseverance there is no known limit. Non omnis morluus est j the departed judge still teaches from his tomb : his dicta will outlive him in our English courts : his gesta are for mankind. Such an instance of single-heartedness, perseverance and proportionate success in spite of odds is not for one narrow island, but the globe ; an old man sends it -to the young in both hemispheres with this comment : If difficulties lie in the way, never shirk them, but think of Robert Lush, and trample on them. If impossibilities encounter you— up hearts and at "em. One thing more to those who would copy Robert Lush in all essentials. Though impregnated from infancy with an honorable ambition, he remembered his Creator in the days of his youth ; nor did he forget Him. when the world poured its honors on him, and those insidious temptations of prosperity, which have hurt the soul far oftener than " low birth and iron fortune." He flourished in a skeptical age : yet he lived, and died, fearing God. A HERO AND A MARTYR. There is an old man in Glasgow, who has saved more than forty lives in the Clyde, many of them with great peril to his own. Death has lately removed a French hero, who was his rival, and James Lambert now stands alone in Eu- rope. The Frenchman saved more lives than Lambert, but then he did most of his good work with a boat and saving gear. The Scot had nothing but his own active body, his ra.re power of suspending his breath, and his lion heart. Two of his feats far surpass anything recorded of his French competitor : he was upset in a boat with many companions, seized and dragged to the bottom, yet contrived to save nearly them all: and on another occasion, when the ice had broken under a man, and the tide had sucked him un- der to a distance of several yards, James Lambert dived under the ice, and groped 22o WORKS OF CHARLES READE. for the man till he was nearly breathless, and dragged him back to the hole, and all but died in saving- him. Here the chances were nine to one against his ever finding- that small aperture again and coming out alive. Superior in daring to his one European rival, he has yet. another title to the sympathy of mankind ; he is blind : and not by any irrelevant accident, but m consequence of bis heroism and Ins goodness. He was working at a furnace one wintry day, and perspiring freely. The cry got up that a man was drowning. He flung himself, all heated as he was, into icy water, ami. when he cam it, in- lost his sighl i>>r a t ime on the very bank. His sight returned: inn ever after thai daj In- was subject to similar seizures. They became more frequent, and the in- tervals of sight more v.>\-<-. until the dark- ness settled down and tin- light retired forever. The meaning of the word "martyr" is — a man who is punished for a great virt ue bj .1 gre .1 calamity. Every martyr in Foxe's hook, or Butler's, or the "Acta Sanctorum," or t he " Vita ml >cci- dentis," comes under that definition; bu1 not more SO than .lames Lambert ; and the hero who risks his life in saving, is just ' as much a hero as he who risks his life in killing, his fellow-creatures. Therefore 1 do not force nor pervert words, but weigh them well, when 1 call James Lambert w hat he is a hero and a martyr. That is a great deal to say of any one man : for all of us who are really men or w omen, and not, as Lamberl once said to me, "mere broom-besoms in the name o' men." admire a hero, and pity a martyr, alive or dead. In espousing this hero's cause I do but follow a worthy example. Mr. Hugh Macdonald was a Glasgow- citizen, and a man known by many acts of charity ami public feeling. He revealed to the Glas- gow public the very existence of Burns's daughter, and awakened a warm interest in her; and in 1856 he gave the city an account of James Lambert's deeds and affliction, and asked a subscription. Glas- gow responded warmly : two hundred and sixty pounds was raised, and afterward seventy pounds. The sum total was banked, and doled to James Lambert ten shillings per week. However, the sub- scribers made one great mistake, they took for granted Lambert would not outlive their money : but he has. In 1868, having read Mr. Macdonald's account, I visited Lambert and heard Ins story. Being now blind, and compelled to live m the past, he had a vivid recol- lection of his greatest deeds and told me them with spirit. I. who am a painstak- ing man. and owe my success to it. wrote down the particulars, and the very word- that. In- said, had passed on these grand occasions. Next day, 1 tools the blind hero down to the ( '\\ de, w hose even bend he knew at that time, and made him repeat to me every principal incident on its own spot. Prom that i\:,y 1 used to send Jaine- Lambert monej and clothes at odd times: but 1 did not write about him for years. However, in 1 s r 4 . 1 pub- lished my narrative (entitled " A Hero and a Martyr") in the Pall Mall Gazette, London, the Tribune, New York, and a shilling pamphlet with a One engraving of James Lambert. 1 invited a subscription, and. avoiding the error of the former subscribers, announced from t he first t hat it should .ii ected to buying .lames Lambert a small annuity for life. The printed story flew round the world. Let- ters and small subscriptions poured in from e\er\ pari of England, and in one course from Calcutta, from the Australian capitals, from New York, Boston, San Francisco, and even from Valparaiso in Chili. An American boy sent me a dollar from New Orleans. Two American children sent me a dol- lar from Chicago. A warm-hearted Glasgow man wrote to tin' with rapt- ure from the State of Massachusetts, to say every word was true: he remem- bered blythe Jamie well, and his unri- valed reputation ; remembered his saving the mill-girls, and added an incident to my narrative, that in all the horror of the scene James Lambert's voice had been heard from the bank shouting lustily, '• Dinua grip my arms, lassies : liing on to my skirts." The English papers quoted RE AD I AX A. 229 largely from the narrative and recom- mended the subscriptions. But, while the big - world rang - with praises of the Glas- gow hei*o, and thrilled with pity for the Glasgow martyr, detractors and foes started up in a single city. And what was the name of that city ? Was it Rome jealous for Regulus and Quintus Curtius ? Was it Tarsus jealous for St. Paul ? Was it Edinburgh, Liverpool, Paris or Washington ? Oh, dear no ; marvelous to relate, it was Glasgow, the citj r of Hugh Mactlouald, the hero's own birthplace — and the town which the world honors for having produced him. These detractors deny James Lambert's ex- ploits, or say they were few and small, not many and great. They treat his blindness and its cause as a mere irrele- vant trifle, and pretend he squandered the last subscription — which is a lie, for he never had the control of it, and it lasted ten years. Scribblers who get drunk three times a week, pretend that Lam- bert — who. by the admission of his enemy McEwen, has not been drunk once these last five years — is an habitual drunkard, and that they, of all people, are shocked at it. Need I say that these detractors from merit and misfortune are anonymous writers in the " Glasgow Press." It does not follow they are all natives of Glas- gow. Two of them, at least, are dirty . little penny-a-liners from London. The jjroublic knows nothing about the Press, ami is easily gulled by it. But I know- all about the Press, inside and out, and shall reveal the true motive of the little , newspaper conspiracy against Lambert and Reade. It is just the jealousy of the little provincial scribbler maddened by the overwhelming superiority of the na- tional writer. I'll put the minds of these quill-drivers into words for you. " Curse it all I there was a hero and a martyr in our midst, and we hadn't the luck to spot him. [In reality they had not brains enough in their skulls nor blood enough in their hearts to spot him. But it is their creed, that superior discern ment is all luck.] Then comes this cursed En- glishman and hits the theme we missed. What can we pigmies do now to pass for giants ? It's no use our telling the truth and playing second fiddle. No — our only chance now, to give ourselves importance, is to hiss down both the hero and his chronicler. If we call Lambert an im- postor and a drunkard, and Reade a mer- cenary fool, honest folk will never divine that we are ourselves the greatest drunk- ards, the greatest dunces and the most habitual liars in the city." That was the little game of the Glasg - ow penny-a-liners, and twopence a-liars ; and every man in Scotland, who knows the provincial Press, saw through these caitiffs at a glance. But the public is weak and credulous. Now, they mig - ht as well bay the moon as bark at me ; I stand too high above their reach in the just respect of the civil- ized world. But they can hurt James Lambert, because he is their townsman. Therefore, I interfere and give the citi- zens of Glasgow the key to the Glasgow backbiters of a Glasgow hero and mar- tyr. I add one proof that this is the true key. The exploits and the calamity of James Lambert were related by Hugh Macdonald eighteen years ago when proofs were plentiful. If they were true eighteen years ago how can they be false now ? Answer me that, honest men of Glasgow, who don't scribble in papers and call black white. Can facts be true when told by a Glasgow man, yet turn false when told by an Englishman ???!!! Now observe — they might have shown their clanmshness as nobly as they have shown it basely. There are brave men in England — many; and unfortunate men — many ; whom a powerful English writer could celebrate. But no — he selects a Scotchman for his theme, and makes the great globe admire him, and moves En- gland to pity him and provide for him. Any Scotch writer worthy of the name of Scotchman, or man, observing this, w t ouM have said : " Well, this English chap is not narrow - minded anyway. You need not be a Cockney to win his heart and gain his pen. He is warmer about this Glasgow man, than we ever knew him to be about a south country- man. It is a good example. Let us try and rise to his level, and shake hands 230 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. with the Southron over poor Jamie Lam- bert " This is how every Scotchman, worthy of the name, would have felt and argued. But these Glasgow scribblers are few of them Scotchmen, and none of them men. The line they have taken in vilifying a blind man. who lost his sight by benevolent heroism, is one thai hell chuckles at. and man recoils from. They have disgraced the city of Glasgow and human nature itself. Whatever may be the faults of the working classes, they are MEN. Anonymous slanderers and del ractors are Dot men — they are mere lumps of human filth. I therefore ask - ii ives of < Hasgow, and i he man- ly citizens, to shake off these lumps of dirt and detraction, and aid me to take the Glasgow hero and martyr out of all 'list roubles. The Frenchman 1 have mentioned had one great title to sympathy, v Lambert has two; and this is how France i real heroic son : He mi he public expense, bul free as air. The public benefactor was not locked up ami hidden from the public. His breast was emblazoned With medals. and among bhem shone ti i kraal order. : he < Iross of I he Legion of Honor, which many distinguished noble- men and gentlemen have sighed for in vain-, and when he walked abroad every nan in the count ry dolled his hat to him. Thus does Prance treat a great saver of human lives. James Lambert lives at the public expense, but not as thai Frenchman lived. It grieves my heart to say it : but the truth is, James Lambert lives unhappily. He is in an almshouse, winch partakes of the i ter of a prison. It is a gloomy, austere place, and that class of inmates, to which he belongs, are not allowed to cross the Threshold upon their own business, ex- cept once in a fortnight. But to ardent spirits loss of liberty is misery. Meanly clad, poorly fed, well imprisoned, and little respected— such is the condition of James Lambert in Glasgow, his native city. Yet he is the greatest man in that city, and one of the very few men now liv- ing in it, whose name will ring in history a hundred years hence; the greatest saver of lives in Europe; a man whose name is even now honored in India and Australia, in the United States and Canada, and indeed from the rising to the setting sun, thanks to his own merit. the power of the pen, and the circi of the Press — a true hero and a true mart \ r. glorious by his deeds and sacred by his calamity. DEATH OF WINWOOD READE. i the " Daily Telegraph " {April 36, : We regret to announce the death of Mr. Win wood Reade, well known African traveler and correspondent, and by many works of indubitable power. emarkable man closed, on Satur- day last, April 24, a laborious career. with few of Fortune's As a youth he had shown a singular taste for natural science. This, how- ever, was interrupted for some years by University studies, and afterward by an honest but unavailing attempt to master the art of Fiction, before pos- sufficienl experience of life. He ed, however, two or three novels containing some good and racy ■ iinskillt'iilly < and one Saw") which is a well-const run ,■.. He also published an archaeo ■■•. nine, entitled ••'The Vale of Isis." The theories of M. du Chaillu as to the power and aggressive character of the gorilla inflamed Mr. Reade's curiosity and awakened his dormant genius. He raised money upon his inheritanci set out for Africa fully equipped. He hunted the gorilla persistently, and found him an exceedingly timorous ani- mal, inaccessible to European sports- men in the thick jungles which he in- READIANA. 231 habits. Mr. Reade then pushed his researches another way. On his return he published " Savage Africa," a re- markable book, both in matter and style. After some years, devoted to general science and anonymous literature, he re- visited that continent — " whose fatal fas- cinations," as he himself wrote, " no one having seen and suffered, can resist," and this time penetrated deep into the in- terior. In this expedition he faced many dangers quite alone, was often stricken down with fever, and sometimes in danger of his life from violence, and once was taken prisoner by cannibals. His quiet fortitude and indomitable will carried a naturally feeble body through it all, and he came home weak, but apparently uninjured in con- stitution. He now published two vol- umes in quick succession — "The Martyr- dom of Man," and the "African Sketch- book " — both of which have met with warm admiration and severe censure. Mr. Reade was now, nevertheless, gen- erally recognized by men of science, and particularly by Dr. Darwin and his school. In November, 1S73, he became the Times' s correspondent in the Ashantee war, and, as usual, did not spare himself. From this, his third African expedition, he re- turned a broken man. The mind had been too strong for the body, and he was obliged to halt on the w r ay home. Early in this present year, disease, both of the heart and lungs, declared itself, and he wasted away slowly but inevitably. He wrote his last work, "The Outcast," with the hand of death upon him. Two zeal- ous friends carried him out to Wimble- don, and there, for a day or two, the air seemed to revive him ; but on Friday night he began to sink, and on Saturday afternoon died, in the arms of his beloved uncle, Mr. Charles Reade. The writer thus cut off in his prime en- tered life with excellent prospects ; he was heir to considerable estates, and gifted with genius. But he did not live long enough to inherit the one or to ma- ture the other. His whole public career embraced but fifteen years; yet in another fifteen he would probably have won a great name, and cured himself, as many think- ing men have done, of certain obnoxious opinions, which laid him open to reasona- ble censure, and also to some bitter per- sonalities that were out of place, since truth can surely prevail without either burning or abusing men whose convic- tions are erroneous but honest. He felt these acrimonious comments, but bore them with the same quiet fortitude by help of which he had endured his sufferings in Africa, and now awaited the sure ap- proach of an untimely death at home. Mr. Reade surpasses most of the travel- ers of his day in one great quality of a writer — style. His English, founded on historical models, has the pomp and march of words, is often racy, often pict- uresque, and habitually powerful yet sober : ample yet not turgid. He died in his thirty-seventh year. CREMONA FIDDLES. From the •• Pall Mall Gazette. FIRST LETTER. August 19tk, 1872. Under this heading, for want of a bet- ter, let me sing the four-stringed instru- ments, that were made in Italy from about 1560 to 1760, and varnished with high-colored yet transparent varnishes, the secret of which, known to numberless families in 1745, had vanished off the earth by 1760, and has now for fifty years baffled the laborious researches of violin makers, amateurs, and chemists. That lost art I will endeavor to restore to the world through the medium of your paper. But let me begin with other points of connoisseurship, illustrating them as far as possible by the specimens on show at the South Kensington Museum. %-d-l WORKS OF CHARLES READE. The modern orchestra uses four-stringed instruments, played with the bow ; the smallest is the king- ; its construction is a marvel of art ; and, as we are too apt to underrate familiar miracles, let me ana- lize this wooden paragon, by way of showing- what great architects in wood those Italians were, who invented this in- strument and its fellows at Breschia and Bologna. The violin itself, apart from its mere accessories, consists of a scroll or head, weighing an ounce or two. a slim neck, a thin back, that ought to be made of Swiss sycamore, a thin belly of Swiss deal, and sides of Swiss sycamore no thicker than a sixpence. This little wood- • •li shell delivers an amount of sound that is simply monstrous; but, to do that, n must submit to a strain, of which the public has no conception. Let us sup- pose two Claimants to take opposite ends of a violin-string-, and to pull againsl each other with all their weigh! : the tension of the string so pro- duced would qoI equal the tension which is created hy 1 he screw in raising thai string to conceri pitch. Consider, then, thai not one hut four strings tug nighl and day. like a team of demons, at the wafer-like sides of this wooden shell. Why does it not collapse ? Well, il would collapse with a crash, long before tin- strings reached conceri pitch, if thi was not a wonder inside as well as out. The problem was to w it list and that severe pressure without crippling the vast vibra- tion by solidity. The inventors ap- proached the difficulty thus : they inserted six blocks of lime, or some light wood ; one of these blocks at the lower end of the violin, one at the upper, and one at each corner — the corner blocks very small and triangular; the top and bottom blocks much larger, and shaped like a capital D. the straight line of the block lying close to the sides, and t he curved line out- ward. Then they slightly connected all the blocks by two sets of linings ; these linings are not above a quarter of an inch deep, I suppose, and no thicker than an old penny piece, but they connect those six blocks and help to distribute the re- sist a nee. Even so the shell would succumb in time; but now the inventor killed two birds with one stone; he cunningly divert- ed a portion of the pressure by the very means that were necessary to the sound. He placed the bridge on the belly of the violin, and that raised the strings out of the direct line of tension, and relieved the lateral pressure at the expense of the belly. But as the belly is a weak arch, it must now be strengthened in its turn. Accordingly, a bass-bar was glued hori- zontally to the belly under one toot of the bridge. This bass-bar is a verj small piece of deal, about the length and half the size of an old-fashioned lead pencil, but, the ends being tapered otf. il is on to the belly, with a spring in it. and supports the belly magically. Asa proof how nicely all these 1 Iiiiil's were balanced, the bass-bar of Gasparo da Salo, the Amati, and Stradiuarius, being a little shorter and shallower than a modern bass-bar, did admirably for their day. yet will not do now. Our raised conceri i' i'li has clapped on more tension, and straightway you musl remove the bass- bar even of Stradiuarius. and substitute one a little longer and deeper, or your Cremona sounds like a strung frying- pan. Remove now from the violin, which for t wo cent uries lias endured this st rain. 1 be finger-board, tail-piece, tail-pin and screws — since these are the instruments or vehicles of tension, not materials of re- sistance — and weigh the violin itself, weighs, 1 suppose, about twenty ounces : and it has fought hundredweights of pressure for centuries. A marvel of con- struction, it is also a marvel of sound : it is audible further otf than the gigantic pianoforte, ami its tones in a master's hand go to the heart of man. It can be prostituted to the performance of difficul- ties, and often is ; but that is not its fault. Genius can make your very heart dance with it, or your eyes to fill; and Kiel Gow. who was no romancer, but only a deeper critic than his fellows, when being asked what was the true test of a player, replied, "A mon is a player when he CAN GAR HIMSEL' GREET Wl' HIS FIDDLE." READIAXA. 233 Asking' forgiveness for this preamble, I proceed to inquire what country invented these four-stringed and four-cornered in- struments ? I understand that France and Germany have of late raised some pretensions. Connoisseurship and etymology are both against them. Etymology suffices. The French terms are all derived from the Italian, and that disposes of France. I will go into German pretensions critically, if any one will show me as old and specific a German word as viola and violino, and the music composed for those German in- struments. '• Fiddle " is of vast antiquity; Imii pear-shaped, till Italy invented the four corners, on which sound as well as beaut}' depends. The Ordek of Invention. — Etymology decides with unerring voice that the vio- loncello was invented after the violono or double-bass, and connoisseurship proves by two distinct methods that it was in- vented after the violin. 1st, the critical method : it is called after the violon, yet is made on the plan of the violin, with arched back and long inner bought. 2d, the historical method : a violoncello made by the inventors of the violin is in- comparably rare, and this instrument is disproportionately rare even up to the year 1610. Violino being- a derivative of viola, would seem to indicate that the violin followed the tenor ; but this taken alone is dangerous ; for viola is not only a specific term for the tenor, but a generic name that was in Italy a hundred years before a tenor with four strings was made. To go then to connoisseurship — I find that I have fallen in with as many tenors as violins by Gasparo da Salo, who worked from about 1555 to 1600, and not quite so many by Gio Paolo Maggini, who began a few years later. The violin being the king of all these instruments. I think there would not be so many tenors made as violins, when once the violin had been invented. Moreover, between the above dates came Corelli. a composer and violinist. He would naturally create a crop of violins. Finding the tenors and vio- lins of Gasparo da Salo about equal in number. I am driven to the conclusion that the tenor had an unfair start — in other words, was invented first. I add to this that true four-stringed tenors by Gasparo da Salo exist, though very rare, made with only two corners, which is a more primitive form than any violin by the same maker appears in. For this and some other reasons, I have little doubt the viola preceded the violin by a verj' few years. What puzzles me more is to time the violon, or, as we childishly call it (after its known descendant), the double-bass. If I was so presumptuous as to trust to my eye alone, I should say it was the first of them all. It is an in- strument which does not seem to mix with these four-stringed upstarts, but to belong to a much older family — viz., the viole d'amore, da gamba, etc. In the first place it has not four strings ; sec- ondly, it has not an arched back, but a flat back, with a peculiar shoulder, copied from the viola da gamba : thirdly, the space between the upper and lower corners in i he early specimens is ludicrously short. And it is hard to believe that an eye. which had observed the graceful propor- tions of the tenor and violin, could be guilty of such a wretched little inner bought as you find in a double-bass of Brescia. Per contra, it must be admitted first, that the sound-hole of a Brescia n double-bass seems copied from the four- stringed tribe, and not at all from the elder family : secondly, that the violin and tenor are instruments of melody or ha r- mony. but the violon of harmony only. This is dead against its being invented until after the instruments to which it is subsidiary. Man invents only to supply a want. Thus, then, it is. First, the large tenor, played between the knees ; then the violon. played under the chin ; then (if not the first of them all) the small double-bass: then, years after the violin, the violoncello : then the full-sized double- bass ; then, longo intervallo, the small tenor, played under the chin. However. I do not advance these con- clusions as infallible. The highest evi- dence on some of these points must surely lie in manuscript music of the sixteenth century, much of which is preserved in 234 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. the libraries of Italy ; and. if Mr. Hatton or any musician learned in the history of his art will tell me for what stringed in- struments the immediate predecessors of Corelli, and Corelli at his commencement marked their compositions, I shall receive the communication with gratitude and respect. I need hardly say thai nothing but the MS. or the editio princeps is e^ 1- dence in so nice a matter. The liisi known maker of the true tenor, and probably of the violin, was Gasparo da Salo. The student who has read the valuable work pu1 forth by Monsieur Fetis and Monsieur Vuillaume mighl imagine thai 1 am contradicting them here; for they quote as " luthiers" — antecedenl to Gasparo da Salo Ker- lino, Duiffoprugcar, Linarolli, D ami others. These men. I granl you, worked long before Gasparo da - even offer an independent proof, and a very simple one. I find thai their genuine tickets are in Gothic letters, whereas t hose of i lasparo da s a lo are in Roman type; bul 1 know the works of those makers, and they did nol make tenors nor violins. They made insl ruments of i he older family, viole d'amore, da gamba, etc. Their true tickets are all black-letter tickets, and not one such ticket ei any old violin, nor in a single tenor. The fact is that the tenor is an instrument of unfixed dimensions, easily be reconstructed oul of differenl viole made in an earlier age. There are innumerable examples of this, and happily the exhibition furnishes two. There are two curious inst ruments si rung as tenors, Nos. 114 and 134 in the catalogue : one is given to Joan Carlino. and the year 1452; the other to Linaro, and 1563. These two instruments were both made by one man. Ventura Linarolli. of Venice (misspelt by M. Fetis, Venturi), about the year 1520. Look at the enormous breadth between the sound-holes: that shows they were made to carry six or seven strings. Now look at the scrolls ; both of them new, because the old scrolls were primi- tive things with six or seven screws : it is only by such reconstruction that a tenor or violin can be set up as anterior to Gas- paro da Salo. No 114 is. however, a real gem of antiquity ; the wood and varnish exquisite, and far fresher than nine Amatis out of ten. It is well worthy the special attention of collectors. It was played upon the knee. There are in the collection two instru- ments by Gasparo da Salo worth especial notice : a tenor. No. 14'.'. and a violono, or primitive double-bass, 199. The ten one of his later make, yet has a grand primitive character. < >bserve, in particu- lar, the scroll all round, ami the amaz- ing in between the bass sound- hole and I he purfling of the belly ; this instrument and the grand tenor as- i to Mage-ini. ;,, u ) i eri t b_v Madame Risler, oiler a poinl of connoisseurship worthy t he si udent "s at tent ion. The back of each instrument looks full a century younger than the belly. Hut this is illu- sory. The simple fact is thai the t of that day. when not m use, were not nursed in cases, bul hung up on a nail, belly outward. Thus the belly caught the sun of Italy, the dust, etc.. and its varnish was often withered to a mere resm. while t he back and sides This is the key to that little mystery. 1 Ibserve t he scroll of the violono 199 ! How primitive it is all round: ai hack a Hat cut . in front a single flute, copied from its Inn part in', the viola ba. This scroll, taken in conjunction with the si/.e and other points, marl - instrument considerably anterior to No. 200. As to the otherdouble basses in the same ease, they are assigned by their owners to Gasparo da Salo, because they are double purhVd and look older than Cremonese violins : but these indicia are valueless : all Cremona and Milan double- purfled the violon as often as not : and the constant exposure to air and dusl gives the violono a color of antiquity- i is delusive. In no one part of the busi- ness is knowledge of work so necessary-. The violoni 201-2-3, are all fine Italian instruments. The small violon, 202, that stands by the side of the Gasparo da Salo, 199, has the purfling of Andreas Amatus, the early sound-hole of Andreas Amatus : the exquisite corners and finish KEADIAXA. 235 of Andreas Amatus ; the finely cut scroll of Andreas Amatus ; at the back of scroll the neat shell and square shoulder of Andreas Amatus ; and the back, instead of being- made of any rubbish that came to hand, after the manner of Brescia, is of true fiddle wood, cut the bastard way of the grain, which was the taste of the Amati ; and, finally, it is varnished with the best varnish of the Amati. Under these circumstances, I hope I shall not offend the owner by refusing- it the infe- rior name of Gasparo da Salo. It is one of the brightest gems of the collection, and not easily to be matched in Europe. SECOND LETTER. August -2-ith. 1872. Gio Paolo Maggini is represented at the Kensington Museum by an excellent violin. No. Ill, very fine in workmanship and varnish, but as to the model a trifle too much hollowed at the sides, and so a little inferior to some of his violins, and to the violin No. 70, the model of which, like many of the Brescian school, is simple and perfect. (Model as applied to a violin, is a term quite distinct from outline.) In No. 70 both belly and back are modeled with the simplicity of genius, by even gradation, from the center, which is the highest part, down to all the borders of the instrument. The world has come back to this primitive model after trying a score, and prejudice gives the whole credit to Joseph Guarnerius, of Cremona. As to the date of No. 70, the neatness and. above all, the slimness of the sound- hole, mark, I think, a period slightly pos- terior to Gasparo da Salo. This slim sound-hole is an advance, not a retro- gression. The gaping sound-holes of Gasparo da Salo and Maggini were their one great error. They were not only ugly: they lessened the ring by allowing the vibration to escape from the cavity too quickly. No. 60, assigned to Duiffoprug- car and a fabulous antiquity, was made by some 'prentice hand in the seventeenth century ; but No. 70 would adorn any collection, being an old masterpiece of Brescia or Bologna. The School of Cremona.— Andreas Amatus was more than thirty years old, and an accomplished maker of the older viole, when the violin was invented in Brescia or Bologna. He does not appear to have troubled his head with the new instrument for some years : one proof more that new they were. They would not at first materially influence his estab- lished trade ; the old and new family ran side by side. Indeed it took the violin tribe two centuries to drive out the viola da gamba. However, in due course, Andreas Amatus set to work on violins. He learned from the Brescian school the only things they could teach a workman so superior — viz., the four corners and the sound-hole. This Brescian sound-hole stuck to him all his days ; but what he had learned in his original art remained by him too. The collection contains three specimens of his handiwork : Violin 202, Mrs. Jay's violin — with the modern head — erroneously assigned to Antonius and Hieronymus ; and violoncello No. 183. There are also traces of his hand in the fine tenor 139. In the three instruments just named the purfling is composed in just proportions, so that the w T hite comes out with vigor ; it is then inlaid with great neatness. The violoncello is the gem. Its outline is grace itself : the four exquisite curves coincide in one pure and serpentine design. This bass is a violin souffle : were it shown at a distance it would take the appearance of a most ele- gant violin ; the best basses of Stradiua- rius alone will stand this test. (Apply it to the Venetian masterpiece in the same case.) The scroll is perfect in design and chiseled as by a sculptor ; the purfling is quite as fine as Stradiuarius : it is violin purfling-, yet this seems to add elegance without meanness. It is a masterpiece of Cremona, all but the hideous sound- hole, that alone connects this master with the Brescian school. His sons Antonius and Hieronvmus 236 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. soon cured themselves of that grotesque sound-hole, and created a great school. They chose better wood and made richer varnish, and did many beautiful things. Nevertheless, they infected Italian fiddle- making with a fatal error. They were the first SCOOPERS. Having improved on Brescia in outline and del ails, they as- sumed too hastily thai they could im- prove on her model. So they scooped ou1 i he wood about the sound-holts and all round, weakening the connection of i he center with the sides of I he belly, and cheeking the fullness of the vibration. The German school earned this vice much further, bill the Amati went too far, and inoculated a hundred line makers with a wrong idea. It I ook St radiuarius himself fifty-six years to gel entirely clear of it. The brol hers Amal i are represented in this collection, first by several tenors that mice W ere nohle I bingS, bul ha\ e been CUl on the old system, which was downright wicked. It is cutting m i he statutory sense ; \ }■/,., cutting and maiming. These ruthless men just sawed a crescent oil' the top, and another oil' the bottom, and tin' result is a thing with the inner bought of a giant and the upper and lower boughl of a dwarf. If one of these noble Lnsl ru- ments survives in England uncut. 1 im- plore the owner to spare it : to |>lay on a £5 tenor, with the Amati set before him to look at while he plays. Luckily the scrolls remain to us ; and let me draw at- tention to the scroll of 136. Look at the back of this scroll, and see how it is chiseled -the center line in relief, how sharp, distinct, and fine; this line is ob- tained by chiseling out the wood on both sides with a single tool, which fiddle- makers call a gauge, and there is nothing but the eye to guide the hand. There are two excellent violins of this make in the collection — Mrs. Jay's, and the violin of Mr. C. J. Read, No. 75. This latter is the large pattern of those makers, and is more elegant than what is technically called the grand Amati, but not so striking. To appreciate the merit and the defect of this instrument, com- pare it candidly with the noble Stradiua- rius Amatise that hangs by its side, num- bered 82. Take a back view first. In outline they are much alike. In the de- tails of work the Amati is rather su- perior ; the border of the Stradiuarius is more exquisite; but the Amati scroll is better pointed and gauged more cleanly, the purfling better composed for effect, and the way that purfling is let in. espe- cially at the corners, is incomparable. On the front view you find the Amati vio- lin is scooped out here and I here, a defect the Si radiuarius has avoided. I prefer the Stradiuarius sound-hole per st •: but, if you look at the curves of these two violins, you will observe thai the Amati sound-holes are m strict harmony with the curves; and the whole thing'- the pro- one original mind thai saw its way. Nicholas Amatus, the son of Hierony- mus, owes his distinct reputation to a called by connoisseurs the (Irani! \iiiaii. This is a very large vio- lin, with extravagantly long corners, ex- tremely fine in ail the details. 1 do not think it was much admired at the lime. At all events, he made hut few. and his copyists, with the exception of Francesco Rugger, rarel y selected thai form to imi- tate. Bui nowadays these violins are al- most worshiped, and, as the collection is ilete without one, I hope some gen- tleman wjll kindly send one in before ,• closes. There is also wanting an Amati baSS, and. if the purchaser of Mr. (iil- lott'S Should feel disposed 1 o supply that gap, it would be a very, kind act. The Rugger family is numerous; it is repre- i by one violin (14)). Leaving the makers of the Guarnerius family — five in number — till the last, we come to Antonius Stradiuarius. This un- rivaled workman and extraordinary man was born in 1644, and died in December 1737. There is nothing signed with his name before 1667. He was learning his business thoroughly. From that date till 1736 he worked incessantly, often varying his style, and always improving, till he came to his climax, represented in this collection by the violins 83 and 87, and the violoncello 188. READIAXA. 237 He began with rather a small, short- cornered violin, which is an imitation of the small Amati, but very superior. He went on, and imitated the large Amati, but softened down the corners. For thirty years — from 1672 to 1703 — he poured forth violins of this pattern ; there are several in this collection, and one tenor, 139, with a plain back but a beau- tiful belly, and in admirable preserva- tion. But, while he was making these Amatise violins by the hundred, he had nevertheless his fits of originality, and put forth an anomaly every now and then ; sometimes it was a very long, narrow violin with elegant drooping - corners, and sometimes, in a happier mood, he combined these drooping cor- ners with a far more beautiful model. Of these varieties No. 86 gives just an indication; no more. These lucid inter- vals never lasted long, he was back to his Amatis next week. Yet they left, I think, the germs that broke out so marvelously in the next century. About the year 1703 it seems to have struck him like a revelation that he was a greater man than his master. He dropped him once and forever, and for nearly twenty years poured forth with unceasing fer- tility some admirable works, of which you have three fine examples, under av- erage wear, hard wear, and no wear — 90, 92, 91. Please look at the three vio- lins in this order to realize wliat I have indicated before— that time is no sure measure of events in this business. Nev- ertheless, in all these exquisite produc- tions there was one tiling which he thought capable of improvement — there was a slight residue of the scoop, espe- cially at the lower part of the back. He began to alter that about 1720, and by decrees went to his g-rand model, in which there is no scoop at all. This. his grandest epoch, is represented by the Duke of Cambridge's violin, Mr. Ark- wright's, and M. le Comte's : this last has the additional characteristic of the stiffer sound-hole and the wood left broad in the wing of the sound-hole. One feat- ure more of this his greatest epoch : the purfling, instead of exactly following the corner, is pointed across n in a manner completely original. He made these grand violins and a bass or two till about 1729; after that the grand model is confined to his violins, and the details become inferior in finish. Of this there is an example in No. 84, a noble but rough violin, in parts of which certain connoisseurs would see, or fancy they saw, the hand of Bergonzi, or of Fran- cesco or Homobuono Stradiuarius. These workmen undoubtedly lived, and sur- vived their father a few years. They seem to have worked up his refuse wood after his death; but their interference with his work while alive has been ex- aggerated by French connoisseurs. To put a difficult question briefly : their the- ory fails to observe the style Stradiuarius was coming to even in 1727; it also ig- nores the age of Stradiuarius during this his last epoch of work, and says that there exists no old man's work by Stradi- uarius himself ; all this old man's work is done by younger men. However, gen- eralities are useless on a subject so diffi- cult and disputed. The only way is to get the doubtful violins or basses and analyze them, and should the Museum give a permanent corner to Cremonese instruments, this Francesco and Homo- buono question will be sifted with ex- amples. The minutias of work in Stra- diuarius are numerous and admirable, but they would occupy too much space am! are too well known to need discourse. His varnish I shall treat along with the others. A few words about the man. He was a tall, thin veteran, always to be seen with a white leathern apron and a nightcap on his head ; in winter it was white wool, and in summer white cotton. His indomitable industry had amassed some fortune, and '"'rich as Stradiuarius" was a by-word at Cremona, but probably more current among the fiddle-makers than the bankers and merchants. His price toward the latter part of his career was four louis d'or for a violin ; his best customer's Italy and Spain. Mr. Forster assures us on unimpeachable authority that he once sent some instruments into England on sale or return, and that thev 238 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. were taken back, the merchant being un- able to get £5 for a violoncello. What ho! Hang- all the Englishmen of That clay who are alive to meet their deserts ! However, the true point of the incident is, I think, missed by t he narrators. The fact is that then, as now, England wanted old Cremonas, not new ones. That the Aniati had a familiar reputation here and probably a ready market can be proved rather prettily out of the mouth of Dean Swift. A violin was left on a chair. A lady swept by. Her mantua caught it and knocked it down and broke it. Then t he witty Dean applied a line in Virgil's " Eclogue : " "Mantua vbb miserse nimiura vicina Cremonae." This was certainly said during the life- time of Stradiuarius, and proves thai the Cremona fiddle had a fixed reputation ; it also proves thai an Irishman could make a better Latin pun 1 ha n any old Roman has left behind him. Since 1 have di- into what some brute calls anec . let me conclude this article with one thai is at all events to the point, since it tolls the eventful history of an hi- st rumen t now on si The Romance of Fiddle Dealing. Nearly fifty years age a gaunl Italian called Luigi Tarisio arrived in Paris one day with a lot of old Italian instruments by makers whoso names were hardly known. The principal dealers, whose minds were narrowed, as is often the case, to three or four makers, would not deal with him. M. Georges Chanot, younger and more intelligent, purchased largely, and encouraged him to return. He came back next year witli a better lot. : and yearly increasing his funds, he flew at the highest game; and in the course of thirty years imported nearly all the finest specimens of Stradiuarius and Guarnerius France possesses. He was the greatest connoisseur that ever lived or ever can live, because he had the true mind of a connoisseur and vast opportu- nities. He ransacked Italy before the tickets in the violins of Francesco Stra- diuarius, Alexander Gagliano, Lorenzo Guadagnini, Giofredus Cappa, Gobetti, Morgilato Morella, Antonio Mariani, Santo Maggini, and Matteo Benti of Brescia, Michel Angelo Bergonzi, Mon- tagnana, Thomas Balestrieri, Storioni, Vicenzo Rugger, the Testori, Petrus Gu- arnerius of Venice, and full fifty more, had been tampered with, that every bril- liant masterpiece might be assigned to some popular name. To his immortal credit, he fought against this mania, and his motto was •• A tout seigneur tout hon- neur." The man's whole soul was in fiddles. He was a great dealer, but a greater amateur. He had gems by him no money would buy from him. No. 91 was one of them. But for his death you would never have cast eyes on it. He has often talked to me of it : but he u ould never let me see it. for fear I should tempi him. W ell, one day Georges Chanot. Senior. who is perhaps the best judge of violins left, now Tarisio is gone, made an excur- sion to Spam, to see if he could find any- thing there. He found mighty little. Put. coming to the shop of a fiddle- maker, one Ortega, he saw the belly of an old bass hung up with other ibm^s. (bed Ins eye-. :inil asked him- self, was no dreaming? the belly of a Stradiuarius bass roasting m a shop-win- dow ! He went in. and very soon boughl it for about fort \ francs. He then ascer- tained that the bass belonged to a lady of rank. "The belly was full of cracks: so. not to make two bites of a cherry, had made a nice new one. Cha- not carried this precious fragmenl home and hung it up in his shop, but not in the window, for he is too g r ood a judge not to know the sun will take all the color out of that maker's varnish. Tarisio came in from Italy, and his eye lighted instant- ly on the Stradiuarius belly. He pestered Chanot till the latter sold it him for a thousand francs and told him where the rest was. Tarisio no sooner knew this than he flew to Madrid. He learned from Ortega where the lady lived, and called on her to see it. "Sir," says the lady, "it is at your disposition.'* That doesnot mean much in Spain. When he offered to buy it, she coquetted with him, said it READIANA. •239 had been long in her family ; money could not replace a thing- of that kind, and in short, she put on the screw, as site thought, and sold it him for about four thousand francs. What he did with the Ortega belly is not known — perhaps sold it to some person in the toothpick trade. He sailed exultant for Paris with the Span- ish bass in a case. He never let it out of his sight. The pair were caught by a storm in the Bay of Biscay. The ship rolled ; Tarisio clasped his bass tight, and trembled. It was a terrible gale. and for one whole day they were in real danger. Tarisio spoke of it to me with a shudder. I will give you his real words, for they struck me at the time, and I have often thought of them since — " Ah, my poor Mr. Reade, the bass of Spain was all but lost." Was not this a true connoisseur? a genuine enthusiast ? Observe! there was also an ephemeral insect called Luigi Tarisio, who would have gone down with the bass: but that made no impression on his mind. Dc minimis non curat Ludovicus. He got it safe to Paris. A certain high priest in these mysteries, called Vuillaume. with the help of a sacred ves- sel, called the glue-pot, soon re-wedded the back and sides to the belly, and the bass being now just what it was when the ruffian Ortega put his finger in the pie, was sold for 20,000 fr. (800/.). I saw the Spanish bass in Paris twenty - two years ago, and you can see it any day this month you like ; for it is the identical violoncello now on show at Ken- sington, numbered 188. Who would di- vine its separate adventures, to see it all reposing so calm and uniform in that case — "Post tot naufragia tutus." THIRD LETTER. August 27th, 1872. "The Spanish bass" is of the grand pattern and exquisitely made : the sound- hole, rather shorter and stiller than in Stradiuarius's preceding epoch, seems stamped out of the wood with a blow, so swiftly and surely is it cut. The pur- fling is perfection. Look at the section of it in the upper bought of the back. The scroll extremely elegant. The belly is a beautiful piece of wood. The back is of excellent quality, but mean in the figure. The sides are cut the wrong way of the grain ; a rare mistake in this master. The varnish sweet, clear, orange-colored, and full of fire. Oh, if this varnish could but be laid on the wood of the Sanctus Seraphin bass ! The belly is full of cracks, and those cracks have not been mended without several lines of modern varnish clearly visible to the practiced e3'e. Some years ago there was a Stradi- uarius bass in Ireland. I believe it was presented by General Oliver to Signor Piatti. I never saw it ; but some people tell me that in wood and varnish it sur- passes the Spanish bass. Should these lines meet Signor Piatti's eye, I will only say that, if he would allow it to be placed in the case for a single week, it would be a great boon to the admirers of these rare and noble pieces, and very instruc- tive. By the side of the Spanish bass stands another, inferior to it in model and general work, superior to it in pres- ervation, No. 1ST. The unhappy parts are the wood of the sides and the scroll. Bad wood kills good varnish. The scroll is superb in workmanship ; it is more finely cut at the back part than the scroll of the Spanish bass; but it is cut out of a pear tree, and that abominable wood gets uglier if possible under var- nish, and lessens the effect even of first- class work. On the other hand, the back and belly, where the varnish gets fair play, are beautiful. The belly is incom- parable. Here is the very finest ruby varnish of Stradiuarius, as pure as the day it was laid on. The back was the same color originally, but has been reduced in tint by the friction this part of a bass encounters when played on. The varnish on the back is chipped all over in a manner most picturesque to 240 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. the cultivated eye ; only it must go no further. I find on examination that these chips have all been done a good many years ago, and I can give you a fair, though of course not an exact, idea of the process. Methinks I see an old gentleman seated sipping his last glass of port in the dining-room over a shining table, whence the cloth was removed for dessert. He wears a little powder still, though no longer the fashion : he has do shirt-collar, but a roll of soft and snowy cambric round his neck, a plain gold pin, and a frilled bosom. He lias a white waistcoat — snow-white like his linen : lie washes at home — and a blue coat with gill buttons. Item, a Large fob or watch- pocket, whence bulges a golden turnip, ami puts forth seed, to wit, a bunch of seals and watch-keys, with perhaps a gold pencil-case. One of these seals is larger than the others : the family arms are engraved on it, and only important letters are signed with it. He rises and goes to the drawing-room. The piano is opened: a servant brings the Stradiua- rius bass f r the stud\ ; the old gentle- man takes it and tunes it. and. not to be bothered with his lapels, buttons his coat, and plays his part in a quartet of Haydn or a symphony of Corelli, and smiles as he plays, because he really loves music, and is not overweighted. Your modern amateur, with a face of justifiable agony, plows the hill of Bee- thoven and harrows the soul of Reade. Nevertheless, my smiling senior is all the time bringing the finest and mosl delicate varnish of Stradiuarius into a series of gentle collisions with the follow- ing objects — First, the gold pin: then t he t wo rows of brass buttons ; and last. not least, the male chatelaine of the period. There is an oval chip just off the center of this bass ; I give the armorial seal especial credit for that : " a tout seigneur tout honneur." Take another specimen of eccentric wear : the red Stradiuarius kit 88. The enormous oval wear has been done thus — It has belonged to a dancing-master, and he has clapped it under his arm fifty times a day to show his pupils the steps. The Guarnerius family consisted of An- dreas, his two sons Petrus and Joseph, his grandson Petrus Guarnerius of Venice and Joseph Guarnerius. the greatest of the family, whom Mons. Fetis considers identical with Guiseppe Antonio, born in 1683. There are. however, great diffi- culties in the way of this theory, wine I will reserve for my miscellaneous re- ma rks. Andreas Guarnerius was the closest ol all the copyists of the Amati ; so close. indeed, thai his genuine violins are nearly always sold as Amati. Unfortunately he imitated the small pattern. His wood and varnish are exactly like Amati : there is. however, a peculiar way of cut ting the low er wing of Ins sound-holes t hat bet rays lii iii at once. When you find him with the border high and broad, and the pur- fling grand, you may suspecl his son Pe- trus of helping him, for his own style is petty. His basses few, but line. Petrus ( luarnerius of ( Iremona makes violins pro- digiously bombSs, and more adapted to grumbling inside than singing out ; hut their appearance magnificent: a grand deep honier. very noble, sound-hole and scroll Amatise, and a deep orange varnish Hiat nothing can surpass. His violins are singularly -cane m England. I hope to see one at the Exhibition before ii closes. Joseph. Ins brother, is a thorough origi- nal. His violins are narrowed under the shoulder in a way all his own. As to model, his fiddles are bombes, like his brother's; and, as the center has gen- erally sunk from weakness, the violin presents a great bump at the upper part and another at the lower. The violin 97 is by this maker, and is in pure and per- fect condition ; but the wood having no figure, the beauty of the varnish is not ap- preciated. He is the king of the varnish- ers: he was the first man at Cremona that used red varnish oftener than pale, anil in that respect was the teacher even of Stradiuarius. When this maker deviates from his custom and puts really good hare-wood into a violin, then his glorious varnish gets fair play, and nothing can live beside him. The other day a violin KEAD1ANA. 241 of this make with fine wood, but under- sized, was put up at an auction without a name. I suppose nobodj- knew the maker, for it was sold on its merits, and fetched £160. I brought that violin into the country ; gave a dealer £24 for it in Paris. He made a very few flatter violins, that arc worth anj r money. Petrus Guarnerius, the son of this Jo- seph, learned his business in Cremona, but migrated early to Venice. He worked there from 1 7"25 to 1740. He made most beautiful tenors and basses, but was not so happy in his violins. His varnish very fine, but paler than his father's. Joseph Guarnerius, of Cremona, made violins from about 1725 to 1745. His first epoch is known only to connoisseurs ; in outline it is hewed out under the shoul- der like the fiddles of Joseph, son of An- drew, who was then an old Addle- maker ; but the model all his own ; even, regular, and perfect. Sound-hole long and char- acteristic, head rather mean for him : he made but few of these essays, and then went to a different and admirable style, a most graceful and elegant violin, which has been too loosely described as a copy of Stradiuarius; it is not that, but a fine violin in which a downright good work- man profits by a great contemporary ar- tist's excellences, yet without servility. These violins are not longer nor stiffer in the inner bought than Stradiuarius : they are rather narrow than broad below, cut after the plan of Stradiuarius, though not so well, in the central part, the sound- holes exquisitely cut, neither too stiff nor too flowing, the wood between the curves of the sound-holes remarkably broad. The scroll grandiose, yet well-cut, and the nozzle of the scroll and the little plat- form. They are generally purfled through both pegs, like Stradiuarius ; the wood very handsome, varnish a rich golden brown. I brought three of this epoch into the country ; one was sold the other day at Christie's for £260 (bought, I be- lieve, by Lord Dunmore), and is worth £350 as prices go. This epoch, unfortu- nately, is not yet represented in the col- lection. The next epoch is nobly represented by 93, 94, 95. All these violins have the broad center, the grand long inner bought, stiffish yet not ungraceful, the long and rather upright sound-hole, but well cut ; the grand scroll, cut all in a hurry, but noble. 93 is a little the grand- er in make. I think; the purfiing being- set a hair's breadth further in, the scroll magnificent ; but observe the haste — the deep gauge-marks on the side of the scroll; here is already an indication of the slov- enliness to come : varnish a lovely orange, wood beautiful : two cracks in the belly, one from the chin-mark to the sound- hole. 94 is a violin of the same make, and without a single crack ; the scroll is not quite so grandiose as 93, but the rest incomparable ; the belly pure and beauti- ful, the back a picture. There is nothing in the room that equals in picturesqueness the colors of this magnificent piece : time and fair play have worn it thus ; first, there is a narrow irregular line of wear caused by the hand in shifting, next tomes a sheet of ruby varnish, with no wear to speak of ; then an irregular piece is worn out the size of a sixpence ; then more var- nish ; then, from the center downward, a grand wear, the size and shape of a large curving pear ; this ends in a broad zigzag ribbon of varnish, and then comes the bare woods caused b3 r the friction in playing, but higher up to the left a score of great bold chips. It is the very beau- ideal of the red Cremona violin, adorned, not injured, by a century's fair wear. No. 95 is a roughish specimen of the same epoch, not so brilliant, but with its own charm. Here the gauge-marks of impatience are to be seen in the very border, and I should have expected to see the stiff-throated scroll, for it belongs to this form. The next epoch is rougher still, and is generally, but not always, higher built, with a stiff-throated scroll, and a stiff, quaint sound-hole that is the delig-ht of connoisseurs ; and such is the force of genius that I believe in our secret hearts we love these impudent fiddles best — they are so full of chic. After that, he abuses the patience of his admirers ; makes his 242 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. fiddles of a preposterous height, with sound-holes long enough for a tenor; but, worst of all, indifferent wood and downright bad varnish — varnish worthy only of the Guadagnini tribe, and not laid on by the method of his contempo- raries. Indeed. I sadly fear it was this great man who, by his ill-example in 1740-45. killed the varnish of Cremona. Thus — to show 'the range of the subjecl — out of five distinct epochs in the work of this extraordinary man we have only one and a half, so to speak, represented even in this noble collection— the greatesl by far the world has ever seen: inn I bope to see all 1 bese gaps filled, and also to -■ i he collect ion a St radiuarius violin of that kind I call t lie dolphin-backed. This m;ii ber of picturesque wear. When a red Stradiuarius violin is made of soft velvet wood, ami the varnish is just half worn oil' the back in a rough triangular form, i hal produces a certain beauty of lighl and shade which is in my opinion the ne plus ultra. These violins are rare. I never had but two in my life. Avery obliging dealer, who knows my views, lias promised his co-operation, and 1 think England, which cuts at presenl rather boo pour a figure in respei this maker, will add a dolphin-backed Stradiuarius to the collection before il is dispersed. Carlo Bergonzi, if you go by gauging and purfling, is of course an infi make to the Amati ; but, if thai he the line of reasoning, he is superior to Joseph Guarnerius. We oughl to be in one story: if Joseph Guarnerius is the second maker of Cremona, it follows thai Carlo Bergonzi is the third. Fine size, reasonable outline, flat and even model. good wood. work, and varnish, and an indescribable air of grandeur and impor- tance. He is quite as rare as Joseph Guarnerius. Twenty-five years ago I ransacked Europe for him — for he is a maker I always loved — and I could ob- tain but few. No. 109 was one of them, and the most remarkable, take it alto- gether. In this one case he has really set himself to copy Stradiuarius. He has composed his purfling in the same pro- portions, which was not at all his habit. He has copied the sound-hole closely, and has even imitated that great man's freak of delicately hollowing out the lower wood-work of the sound-hole. The var- nish of this violin is as fine in color as any pale Stradiuarius in the world, and far superior in body to most of them; hut thai is merely owing to its rare pres- ervation. Most of these pale Stradiuar- inses. and especially Mrs. Jay's and No. 86, had once varnish on them as beautiful won this chef-d'oeuvre of Carlo onzi. Monsieur 1-Vtis having described Mich- ael Angelo Bergonzi as a pupil of Stradi. English writers having blind- ly follow ed him, t Lis seems a tit place I o correcl t hat error. Michael Angelo Her- gonzi was the son of Carlo: began to work after i he deal h of St radiuarius, and inula led nobody but his father — ami him vilelj . I hs corners are not corners, hut peaks. See them once, you never forget bu1 you pray Heaven you may never see them again. His ticket runs, ■•Michel Angelo Bergonzi I'm No di Carlo, fece nel Cremona," from 1750 to 1780. Of Nicholas, son of .Michael Angelo, I have a ticket hated 1796, bu1 be doubtless began before that and worked iilll830. He lived till 1838, was well known to Tarisio, and ii is from him alone we have learned the house Stradiuarius lived in. There is a tenor by Michael Angelo Ber- gonzi to be seen at Mr. Cox, the picture dealer. Pall Mall, and one by Nicholas, in Mr. Chanot's shop, in Wardour Street. Neither of these Bergonzi knew how their own progenitor varnished any more than my housemaid does. Stainer. a mixed maker. He went to Cremona too late to unlearn his German style, hut he moderated it. and does not scoop so badly as his successors. The model of his tenor, especially the back, is very fine. The peculiar defect of it is that it is purfled too near the border, which always gives meanness. This is the more unfortunate, that really he was freer from this defect than his imitators. He learned to varnish in Cremona, but his varnish is generally paler than the READIAXA. 243 native Cremonese. This tenor is excep- tional : it has a rose-colored varnish that nothing can surpass. It is lovely. Sanctus Seraphin.— This is a true Venetian maker. The Venetian horn was always half-Cremonese, half-Ger- man. In this bass, which is his uniform style, you see a complete mastery of the knife and the gauge. Neither the Stradi- uarius nor the Amati ever purfled a bass more finely, and, to tell the truth, rarely so finely. But oh ! the miserable scroll, the abominable sound-hole ! Here he shows the cloven foot, and is more German than Stainer. Uniformity was never carried so far as \>y this natty workman ; one violin exactly like the next ; one bass the image of its prede- cessor. His varnish never varies. It is always slightly opaque. This is observed in his violins, but it escapes detection in his basses, because it is but slight, after all. and the wonderful wood he put into his basses, shines through that slight defect and hides it from all but practiced eyes. He had purchased a tree or a very large log of it ; for this is the third bass I have seen of this wonderful wood. Nowadays you might cut down a forest of sycamore and not match it ; those vet- eran trees are all gone. He has a feat- ure all to himself ; his violins have his initials in ebony let into the belly under the broad part of the tail-piece. This natty Venetian is the only old violin maker I know who could write well. The others bungle that part of the date they are obliged to write in the tickets. This one writes it in a hand like copper- plate, whence I suspect he was himself the engraver of his ticket, which is unique. It is four times the size of a Cremonese ticket, and has a scroll bor- der composed thus : — The sides of a par- allelogram are created by four solid lines like the sound-holes ; these are united at the sides by two leaves and at the center by two shells. Another ser- pentine line is then coiled round them at short intervals, and within the parallelo- gram the ticket is printed : Sanctus Seraphin Utinensis, Fecit Venetis, anno 17 — . The Mighty Venetian. — I come now to a truly remarkable piece, a basso di camera that comes modestly into the room without a name, yet there is noth- ing' except No. 91 that sends such a thrill through the true connoisseur. The out- line is grotesque but original, the model full and swelling but not bumpy, the wood detestable ; the back is hare-wood, but without a vestige of figure ; so it- might just as well be elm : the belly, in- stead of being made of mountain deal grown on the sunny side of the Alps, is a piece of house timber. Now these ma- terials would kill any other maker ; yet this mighty bass stands its ground. Ob- serve the fiber of the belly ; here is the deepest red varnish in the room, and laid on with an enormous brush. Can you see the fiber through the thin varnish of Sanctus Seraphin as plainly as you can see the fiber through this varnish laid on as thick as paint ? So much for clear- ness. Now for color. Let the student stand before this bass, get the varnish in his mind, and then walk rapidly to any other instrument in the room he has previously determined to compare with it. This will be a revelation to him if he has eyes in his head. And this miracle comes in without a name. and. therefore, is passed over by all the sham judges. And why does it come without a name? I hear a French dealer advised those who framed the catalogue. But the fact is that if a man once nar- rows his mind to three or four makers, and imagines they monopolize excellence, he never can be a judge of old instru- ments, the study is so wide and his mind artificially narrowed. Example of this false method: Mr. Faulconer sends in a bass, which he calls Andreas Guarnerius. An adviser does not see that, and sug- gests " probably by Amati." Now there is no such thing as ''probably by Am- ati." any more than there is probably the sun or the moon. That bass is by David Tecchler, of Rome ; but it is a masterpiece; and so, because he has done better than usual, the poor devil is to be robbed of his credit, and it is to be given, first to one maker tvho is in tin- 244 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ring and then to another, ivho is in the ring. The basso di camera, which, not being in the ring, comes without a name, is by Domenico Montagnana of Venice, the greatest maker of basses in all Ven- ice or Cremona except one. If this bass had only a decent piece of wood at the back, it would extinguish all the other basses. But we can remedy that defect. Basses by this maker exist with fine wood. Mr. Hart, senior, sold one some twenty years ago with yellow varnish, and wood striped like a tiger's back. Should these lines meet the eye of the purchaser, 1 shall feel grateful if ho will communicate with me thereupon. 1 come now to the last of 1 lie (lot lis. thus catalogued. No. 100, "ascribed to Guarnerius. Probablj bi Storioni." Lorenzo Storioni is a maker who began to work at Cremona aboul 1780. He l.as a good model bid wretched spiril varnish. Violin No. ii |n is si met inn-- much better. li is a violin mad-' lief,, re i 760 by Lan- dolfo "i Milan. He is a maker well know n to experienced d< alers who can take t heir minds oul of bhe ring, but, as the writers seem a li1 1 le confused, and talk of t wo L uidulpb -. :. I iharles and a Ferdinand. 1 maj as well say here thai the two are one. This is the true tickel : — Carolus Ferdinandus Landulphus, Mediolani in \ ia S. Mar- garitas, anno I i 56. Stiff inner bought really something like Joseph Guarnerius ; but all the resl quite unlike: scroll very mean, varnisl and sometimes very fine. Mr. Moore's, in point of varnish, is a fine specimen. It has a deeper, nobler tint than usual. This maker is very interesting, on account of his being absolutely the last Italian who tised the glorious varnish of Cremona. It died first at Cremona ; lingered a year or two more at Venice ; Landolfo retained it at Milan till L760, and with him it ended. In my next and last article I will deal with the varnish of Cremona, as illus- trated by No. 91 and other specimens, and will enable the curious to revive that lost art if thev choose. FOURTH LETTER. August 3\st. 1ST:.'. The fiddles of Cremona gained their reputation by superior tone, but they hold it now mainly by their beauty. For thirty years past violins have been made equal in model to the chef-d'ceuvres of Cremona, and stronger in wood than Stradiua litis, and more scientific than Guarnerius in the thicknesses. This class of violin is hideous, but has one quality in perfection — Power; while the master- of Cremona eelipse every new violin in sweetness, oiliness. crispness, and volu of tone as distincl from loud- ness. Age has dried their vegetable juices, making the carcass much lighter than that of a new violin, ami those light ory frames vibrate at a touch. Bui M. Fetis goes too Ear when he inti- mates that Stradiuarius is louder as well as sweeter than Lupot, Gand, or Bernar- del. Take a hundred violins by Stradi- uarius and open them; you find about ninety-five patched in the center with new wood. The connecting link is a i glue. And is glue a line reso- n:i iii substance? And are the glue and the new wood of John J'-uil and Jean Crapaud transmogrified into the wood of Stradiuarius by merely sticking on to it ? Is it not extravagant to quote patched violins as beyond rivalry in all the quali- ties of sound? How can they he the when the center of the sound- board is a men' sandwich, composed of the maker's thin wood, a buttering of glue, and a huge slice of new wood ? Joseph Guarnerius litis plenty of wood : but his thicknesses are not always so scientific as those of the best modern fiddlemakers : so that even he can be rivaled m power by a new violin, though not in richness and sweetness. Consider, then, these two concurrent phenomena, that for twenty-five years new violins have been better made for sound than they ever were made in this world, yet old Cremona violins have nearly doubled in price, and. you will divine, as the truth is. that old fiddles are not bought by the BEADIANA. 245 ear alone. I will add that 100 years ago, when the violins of Brescia and of Stradi- uarius and Gruarnerius were the only well- modeled violins, they were really bought by the ear, and the prices were moderate. Now they are in reality bought by the eye. and the price is enormous. The rea- son is that their tone is good but their ap- pearance inimitable ; because the makers chose fine wood and laid on a varnish highly colored, yet clear as crystal, with this strange property — it becomes far more beautiful by time and usage : it wears softly away, or chips boldly away, m such forms as to make the whole violin picturesque, beautiful, various and curi- ous. To approach the same conclusion by a different road — No.' 94 is a violin whose picturesque beauty I have described al- ready ; twenty-five years ago Mr. Plow- den gave £450 for it. It is now, I sup- pose, worth £500. Well, knock that violin down and crack it in two places, it will sink that moment to the value of the •• violon du diable," and be worth £350. But collect twenty amateurs all ready to buy it, and, instead of cracking it, dip it into a jar of spirits and wash the var- nish olf. Not one of those customers will give you above £40 for it; nor would it in reality be worth quite so much in the market. Take another example. There is a beautiful and very perfect violin by Stradiuarius, which the Times, in an ar- ticle on these instruments, calls La Messie. These leading journals have private information on every subject, even grammar. I prefer to call it — after the veiw intelligent man to whom we owe the sight of it — the Vuillaume Stradiua- rius. Well, the Vuillaume Stradiuarius is worth, as times go, £600 at least. Wash off the varnish, it would be worth £35 ; because, unlike No. 94, it has one little crack. As a further illustration that violins are heard by the eye, let me re- mind your readers of the high prices at which numberless copies of the old makers were sold in Paris for many years. The inventors of this art undertook to deliver a new violin, that in usage and color of the worn parts should be exactly like an old and worn violin of some favorite maker. Now, to do this with white wood was impossible ; so the wood was baked in the oven or colored yellow with the smoke of sulphuric acid, or so forth, to give it the color of age; but these proc- esses kill the wood as a vehicle of sound ; and these copies were, and are, the worst musical instruments Europe has created in this century ; and, bad as they are at starting, they get worse every year of their untuneful existence ; yet, because they flattered the eye with something like the light and shade and pictur- esqueness of the Cremona violin, these pseudo-antiques, thoug-h illimitable in number, sold like wildfire ; and hun- dreds of self-deceivers heard them by the eye, and fancied these tinpots sounded divinely. The hideous red violins, of Bernardel-Gand, and an En- glish maker or two, are a reaction against those copies ; they are made honestly with white wood, and they will, at all events, improve in sound every year and every decade. It conies to this, then, that the varnish of Cremona, as operated on by time and usage, has an inimitable beauty, and we pay a high price for it in second-class makers, and an enormous price in a fine Stradiuarius or Joseph Guarnerius. No wonder, then, that many violin-makers have tried hard to discover the secret of this varnish ; many chemists have given days and nights of anxious study to it. More than once, even in my time, hopes have run high, but only to fall again. Some have even cried Eureka ! to the public : but the mo- ment others looked at their discovery and compared it with the real thing, "inex- tinguishable laughter shook the skies." At last despair has succeeded to all that energetic study, and the varnish of Cre- mona is sullenly given up as a lost art. I have heard and read a great deal about it. and I think I can state the principal theories briefly, but intelli- gibly. 1 . It used to be stoutly maintained that the basis was amber; that these old Italians had the art of infusing- amber 246 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. without impairing its transparency ; once fused, by dry heat, it could be boiled into a varnish with oil and spirit of turpentine and combined with transparent yet last- ing colors. To convince me, they used to rub the worn part of a Cremona with their sleeves, and then put the fiddle to their noses, and smell amber. Then I. burning with love of knowledge, used to rub the fiddle very hard and whip it to my nose. and not smell amber. Bu1 that might arise in some measure from there not being any amber there to smell. (N. B. — These amber-seeking worthies never rub- bed tin' colored varnish on an old violin. Yet their theory had placed amber ' hri,'. | \!. That, time does it all. Tin' violins of St radiuarius were raw, crude i bings at starting, and the varnish rather opaque. 3. Two or three had the courage to say ii «as spirit varnish, ami alleged in proof that if you drop a drop of alcohol on a Stradiuarius, it '.cars the varnish off as il runs. ■1. The far more prevalent notion was I is an oil varnish, in support of which they pointed to the rich appear- n hat 1 hey call the bare wood, and contrasted the miserable hungry appear- ance of the wood in all old violins known to be spirit varnished — for instance, Nicholas Gagliano, of Naples, and .lean Baptiste Guadagnini, of Piacenza, Ital- ian makers contemporary with Joseph Guarnerias. 5. That the sccrd has been lost by adulteration. The old Cremonese and Venetians got pure and sovereign gums. that have retired from commerce Xow.as totheory N». I. — Surely amber is too dear a gum and too impracticable for two hundred fiddle-makers to have used in Italy. Till fused by dry heat it is no more soluble in varnish than quartz is: and who can fuse it? Copal is in- clined to melt, but amber to burn, to catch fire, to do anything but melt. Put the two gums to a lighted candle. you will then appreciate the difference. I tried more than one chemist in the fus- ing of amber ; it came out of their hands a dark brown opaque substance, rather burned than fused. When really fused it is a dark olive green, as clear as crystal. Yet I never knew but one man who could bring it to this, and he had special ma- chinery, invented by himself, for it ; in spite of which he nearly burned down his house at it one day. I believe the whole amber theory comes out of a verbal equivoque; the varnish of the Amati led amber to mark its rich color, and your a priori reasoners went oil' on that, forgetting that amber must be an inch thick to exhibit the color of amber. By such reasoning as this Mr. Davidson, in a book of iM'eat general merit, is mis- led so far as to put down powdered glass for an ingredient m Cremona varnish. Mark the logic. Glass in a sheet is trans- parent : so if you reduce it, to powder it will add transparancj to varnish. Im- posed on by this chimera, he actually puts powdered "lass, an opaque and insoluble sediment, into tour receipts for Cremona varnish. Bui the th :. 4. "i have all a gfood oeal of irui li m them; their fault is that they are too narrow, and too blind to the truth of each other. In this, as .V SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY, THE TRUE SOLUTION is THAT WHICH RECONCILES ALL THE TRUTHS THAT SEEM AT VARIANCE. The way to discover a losl art. once d with variations by a hundred people, is to examine very closely the mosl brilliant specimen, the most charac- teristic specimen, and. indeed, the most extravagant specimen — if you can find one. 1 took thai way, and I found in the chippiest varnish of Stradiuarius, viz., his dark red varnish, the key to all the varnish of Cremona, red or yellow. (N.B. — Tiie yellow always beat me dead, till I got to it by this detour.) There is no specimen in the collection of this red varnish so violent as I have seen ; but Mr. Pawle'sbass. No. 187, will do. Please walk with me up to t he back of that bass, and let us disregard all hypotheses and theories, and use our eyes. What do we see before us ? A bass with a red varnish that chips very readily off what people call the bare wood. But nevermind what READIAXA. •247 these echoes of echoes call it. What is it? It is not bare wood. Bare wood turns a dirty brown with age. This is a rich and lovely yellow. By its color and its glassy gloss, and by disbelieving what echoes say and trusting only to our e3 r es, we may see at a glance it is not bare wood., but highly varnished wood. This varnish is evidently oil. and contains a gum. Allowing for the tendency of oil to run into the wood, I should Ray four coats of oil varnish : and this they call the bare wood. We have now discovered the first process : a clear oil varnish laid on the white wood with some transparent gum not high colored. Now proceed a. step further ; the red and chippy varnish, what is that? "Oh, that is a varnish of the same quality but another color," say the theorists No. 4. " How do you know?" says I. "It is self-evident. Would a man begin with oil varnish and then go into spirit varnish?" is their reply. Now observe, this is not humble observation, it is only rational preconcep- tion. But if discovery has an enemy in the human mind, that enemy is precon- ception. Let us then trust only to hum- ble observation. Here is a clear varnish without the ghost of a chip in its nature; and upon it is a red varnish that is all chip. Does that look as if the two var- nishes were homogeneous ? Is chip pre- cisely the same thing as no chip? If homogeneous, there would be chemical affinity between the two. But this ex- treme readiness of the red varnish to chip away from the clear marks a defect of chemical affinity between the two. Why, if you were to put your thumb- nail against that red varnish, a little piece would come away directly. This is not so in any known case of oil upon oil. Take old Forster, for instance ; he begins with clear oil varnish ; then on that he puts a distinct oil varnish with the color and transparancy of pea-soup. You will not get his pea-soup to chip off liis clear varnish in a hurry. There is a bass by William Forster in the collection a hundred years old ; but the wear is con- fined to the places where the top varnish must go in a played bass. Everywhere else his pea-soup sticks tight to his clear varnish, being oil upon oil. Now, take a perfectly distinct line of ob- servation. In varnishes oil is a diluent of color. It is not in the power of man to charge an oil varnish with color so highly as the top varnish of Mr. Pawle's bass is charged. And it must be remembered that the clear varnish below has filled all the pores of the wood ; therefore the diluent cannot escape into the wood, and so leave the color undiluted ; if that red varnish was ever oil varnish, every par- ticle of the oil must be there still. What. in that mere film so crammed with color? Never ! Nor yet in the top varnish of the Spanish bass, which is thinner still, yet more charged with color than' any topaz of twice the thickness. This. then. is how Antonius Stradiuarius varnished Mr. Pawle*s bass. — He began with three or four coats of oil varnish containing some common gum. He then laid on several coats of red varnish, made by simply dissolving some fine red unadulter- ated gum in spirit; the spirit evaporated and left pure gum lying on a rich oil var- nish, from which it chips by its dry nature and its' utter want of chemical affinity to the substratum. On the Spanish bass Stradiuarius put not more, I think, than two coats of oil varnish, and then a spirit varnish consisting of a different gum. less chippy, but even more tender and wear- able than the red. Now take this key all round the room, and you will find there is not a lock it will not open. Look at the varnish on the back of the " violon dti diable." as it is called. There is a top varnish with all tire fire of a topaz and far more color : for slice the deepest topaz to that thinness, it would pale he- fore that varnish. And why? 1st. Be- cause this is no oily dilution ; it is a divine unadulterated gum, left there undiluted by evaporation of the spirituous vehicle. 2d. Because this varnish is a jewel with the advantage of a foil behind it : that foil is the fine oil varnish underneath. The purest specimen of Stradiuarius 's red varnish in the room is, perhaps, Mr. Fountaine*s kit. Look at the back of it by the light of these remarks. What ■us WORKS OF CHARLES READE. can be plainer than the clear oil varnish with not the ghost of a chip in it, and the glossy top varnish, so charged with color, and so ready to chip from the varnish below, for want of chemical affin- ity between the varnishes? The basso di camera by Montagnana is the same tliin^'. See the bold wear on the back revealing Mil' heterogeneous varnish below tin' ivii. They are all the same tiling. The palest violins of Stradiuarius and Amati are much older and harder worn than Mr. Pawle's bass, and the top varnish nut of a chippy character: yel look at them closely by the lighl of these remarks, and you shall lind one of two phenomena — either the tender top varnish has all been worn away, and so there is nothing to be inferred one way or other, or else there are flakes of it left ; and. if so. these however thin, shall always betray, bj the superior vividness of their color to the color of the subjacent oil varnish. bhal they are not oil varnish, but pure gum left there by evaporating spirit on a foil of beautiful old oil varnish. Take Mrs. Jay's A.matise Stradiuarius: on the back of that violin toward the top there is a mere flake of top varnish left by it- self: all round it is nothing left but the bottom varnish. That fragment of top varnish is a film thinner than gold Leaf; > k at its intensity : it lies on t be fine old oil varnish like fixed lightning, il is so vivid. It is just as distinct from the oil varnish as is the red varnish of the kit. Examine the Duke of Cambridge's violin or any other Cremona instrument in the whole world you like ; it is always the same thing, though not so self-evident as in the red and chippy varnishes. The Vuillaume Stradiuarius. not being worn, does not assist us in this particular line of argument ; but it does not contradict us. Indeed, there are a few little chips in the top varnish of the back, and they reveal a heterogeneous varnish below, with its rich yellow color like the bottom varnish of the Pawle bass. Moreover, if you look at the top varnish closely you shall see what you never see in a new violin of our day : not a vulgar glare upon the surface, bui a gentle inward lire. Now that in- ward fire, I assure you, is mainly caused by the oil varnish below ; the orange varnish above has a heterogeneous foil below. That inward glow is character- istic of all foils. If you could see the Vuillaume Stradiuarius at night and move it about in the light of a candle, you would be amazed at the fire of the foil and the refraction of light. Thus, then, it is. The unlucky phrase ■•varnish of Cremona" has weakened men's powers of observation by fixing a preconceived notion thai the varnish must be all one thing. The LOST SECRET is this. rni'. Cremona varnish is not A VARNISH, BUT TWO VARNISHES: AM) THOSE VARNISHES ALWAYS HETEROGENE- OUS: I HAT IS TO SAY, FIRST THE PORES OF THE WOOD ARE PILLED AXD THE GRAIN SHOWN I'P BY ONE. BY TWO, BY THREE. AND SOMETIMES, THOUGH BARELY, I'.'i I'H B (HATS OK FINE oil, VARNISH WITH SOME COMMON BUT CLEAR GUM IN sul.r- tion. Then upon this oil varnish, WHEN DRY, is LAID a HETEROGENEOUS VARNISH; VIZ., A SOLUTION in BPIRIT OF -• 1MB SO^ EREIGN, HIGH < OLORED, PEL- LUCID, AND, ABOVE ALL. TENDER GUM. Gum-lac, which for forty years has been the mainstay of violin-makers, must never be used : no! one atom of it. That vile, flinty gum killed varnish at Naples and Piacenza a hundred and forty years ago, as it kills varnish now. Old Cre- mona shunned it . and whoever employs a Traill of it. commits willful suicide as a Cremonese varnisher. It will not wear; it will not chip ; it is in every respect the opposite of the Cremona gums. Avoid it utterly, or fail hopelessly, as all varnish- ers have failed since that fatal gum came in. The deep red varnish of Cremona is pure dragon's blood; not the cake, the stick, the filthy trash, which, in this sin- ful and adulterating generation, is re- tailed under that name, but the tear of dragon's blood, little lumps deeper in color than a carbuncle, clear as crystal, and fiery as a ruby. Unadulterated dragon"s blood does not exist in commerce west of Temple Bar : but you can get it by groping in the City as hard as Diog- enes had to grope for an honest man in EEADIAXA. 249 a much less knavish town than London. The yellow varnish is the unadulterated tear of another gum, retailed in a cake like dragon's blood, and as great a fraud. All cakes and sticks presented to you in commerce as g'unis are audacious swin- dles. A true gum is the tear of a tree. For the yellow tear, as for the red, grope the City harder than Diogenes. The orange varnish of Peter Guarnerius and Stradiuarius is only a mixture of these two g-enuine gums. Even the milder reds of Stradiuarius are slightly reduced with the yellow gum. The Montagnana bass and No. 94 are pure dragon's blood mellowed down by time and exposure only. A violin varnished as I have indicated will look a little better than other new violins from the first ; the back will look nearly as well as the Vuillaume Stradi- uarius, but not quite. The belly will look a little better if properly prepared ; will show the fiber of the deal better. But its principal merit is that, like the violins of Cremona, it will vastly improve in beauty if much exposed and persistently played. And that improvement will be rapid, because the tender top varnish will wear away from the oily substratum four times as quickly as any vulgar varnish of the day will chip or wear. We cannot do what Stradiuarius could not do — give to a new violin the peculiar beauty, that comes to heterogeneous varnishes of Cremona from age and honest wear ; but, on the other hand, it is a mistake to sup- pose that one hundred years are required to develop the beauty of any Cremona varnishes, old or new. The ordinary wear of a century cannot be condensed into one year or five, but it can be con- densed into twenty years. Any young ameteur may live to play on a magnifi- cent Cremona made for himself, if he has the enthusiasm to follow my directions. Choose the richest and finest wood ; have the violin made after the pattern of a rough Joseph Guarnerius : then you need not sand-paper the back, sides, or head, for sand-paper is a great enemy to var- nish : it drives more wood-dust into the pores than you can blow out. If you sand-paper the belly, sponge that finer dust out, as far as possible, and varnish when dry. That will do no harm, and throw up the fiber. Make your own lin- seed-oil — the linseed oil of commerce is adulterated with animal oil and fish oil, which are non-drying- oils— and varnish as I have indicated above, and when the violin is strung treat it regularly with u view to fast wear ; let it hang up in a warm place, exposed to dry air, night and day. Never let it be shut up in a case except for transport. Lend it for months to the leader of an orchestra. Look after it, and see that it is constantly played and constantly exposed to dry air all about it Never clean it, never touch it with a silk handkerchief. In twenty years your heterogeneous varnishes will have parted company in many places. The back will be worn quite picturesque : the belly will look as old as Joseph Guar- nerius; there will be a delicate film on the surface of the grand red varnish mellowed by exposure, and a marvelous fire below. In a word, you will have a glorious Ci'e- mona fiddle. Do you aspire to do more. and to make a downright old Cremona violin? Then, my young friend, you must treat yourself as well as the violin ; you must not smoke all day, nor the last thing at night ; you must never take a dram before dinner and call it bitters: you must be as true to your spouse as ever you can, and, in a word, live moder- ately, and cultivate good temper and avoid great wrath. By these means, Deo volente, you shall live to see the vio- lin that was made for you and varnished by my receipt, as old and worn and beau- tiful a Cremona as the Joseph Guarnerius No. 94, beyond which nothing can go. To show the fiddle-maker what may be gained by using as little sand-paper as possible, let him buy a little of Maunder's palest copal varnish ; then let him put a piece of deal on his bench and take a few shavings off it with a carpenter's plane. Let him lay his varnish directly on the wood so planed. It will have a fire and a beauty he will never quite attain to by scraping, sand-papering, and then var- nishing the same wood with the same 250 WORKS OF CHARLES READK. varnish. And this applies to bare-wood as well as deal. The back of the Vuil- laume Stradiuarius, which is the finest part, has clearly not been sand-papered in places, so probably not at all. Where- over it is possible, varnish after cold steel, at all events in imitating the Cremonese, and especially Joseph Guarnerius. These, however, are minor details, which I have only inserted, because I foresee that 1 may be unable to return to this subject in writing, though I shall be very happy to talk about it at my own place to anj one who really cares about the d However, it is uol everyday one cm re- store a Los1 art l o I ho world : and ii.it. and my anxiety uol 1" do it by halves, « ill excuse t ins prolix arl ( it \u.i 3 RE U>E. THE DOCTRINE OF COINCI- DENCES. To the Era tob oi ' I FIRST LETTER. Sir — In reply to your query — it is true that after the trial at Nisi Prius. where "the Claimant"' was plaintiff, but be- fore his trial a1 Bar as defendant, 1 pro- nounced him to be Arthur Orton. and gave my reasons. These you now invite me to repeat. 1 will do so ; only let me premise that I am not so vain as to think I can say any- thing essentially new on this subject, which has been fully discussed by men superior to me in attainments. It so happens, however, that those superior men have always veiled a part of their own mental process, though it led them to a just conclusion : they have never staled in direct terms their major premiss, or leading principle. This is a common omission, especially among Anglo-Saxon reasoners : but it is a posi- tive defect, and one I do think I can supply. But before we come to the debat- able matter. I fear I must waste a few words on the impossible — namely, that this man is Roger Charles Tichborne. Well. then, let those who have not studied the evidence and cross-examina- i ion, .in-; casl then- e\ es on this paper a sample of whal they must be- Le\ e, or else reject that chimera. Thai Roger Tichborne was drowned with thirty more, yet reappeared years after, all alone, leaving at the bottom of the sea all his companions, and certain miscellaneous articles, vi/. : 1. His affection for ins mother, his brother, and others. 2. His handwriting. 3. His leanness. 4. His French. 5. His love of writing letters to his folk. 6. His knowledge of Chateaubriand, and his comprehension of what the douce lie, Roger Tichborne, was writing aboul when he put upon paper — before lus sub- mersion —that he admired Rene, and gave his reasons. :. His knowledge of the Tichborne estates, and the counties they lay in. 8. His knowledge of his mother's Chris- tian names. 9. His knowledge of his beloved sweet- heart 's face, lie-iire. and voice. 10. His tatt narks, three inches long. 11. His religion. 1-.'. Five years of his life. These five years lay full fathom five at the bottom oi ill-' ocean hard by No. 10, when tins aristocratic Papist married a servant girl ina Baptist chapel, and was only thirty years old, as appears on the register in Ins handwriting, which is nothing like Tichborne"s. Along with this rubbish we may as well sweep away the last inven- tion of weak and wavering intellects, that the Claimant is no individual in par- ticular, but a sort of solidified myth, in- carnate alias, or obese hallucination. And now having applied our besoms to READ! AX A. 251 the bosh, let us apply our minds to the debatable. Since he is not dead Castro, nor dead Tichborne, nor live Alias, who is he ? Here then to those, who go with me so far, I proceed to state the leading principle, which g-overns the case thus narrowed, and — always implied, though unfortunately never stated— led our courts to a reasonable conclusion. That principle is : THE PROGRESSIVE VALUE OF PROVED CO- INCIDENCES ALL POINTING TO ONE CON- CLUSION. Pray take notice that by proved coin- cidences I mean coincidences that are — 1. Not merely seeming - , but independent and real. 2. Either undisputed, or indisputable. 3. Either extracted from a hostile wit- ness, which is the highest kind of evi- dence, especially where the witness is a deliberate liar ; or 4. Direct ly sworn to by respectable witnesses in open court, and then cross- examined and not shaken — which is the next best evidence to the involuntary ad- missions of a liar interested in concealing the truth. Men born to be deceived like children may think these precautions extravagant: but they are neither excessive nor new : they are sober, true, and just to both the parties in every mortal cause ; they have been for ages the safeguard of all great and wary minds : and neither I nor any other man can lay down any general position of reasoning, that will guide men aright, who are so arrogant, so ignorant, or so weak as to scorn them. On the other hand, if your readers will accept these safeguards, the general prin- ciple I have laid down will never deceive them : it will show them who the Claim- ant is, and it will aid them in far greater difficulties and more important inquiries ; for, like all sound principles of I reason, it is equally applicable to ques- I tions of science, literature, history, or crime. I am, sir. Yours faithfully. Charles Reade. SECOND LETTER. Sir — A single indisputable coincidence raises a presumption that often points toward the truth. A priori what is more unlikely than that the moon, a mere satellite and a very small body, should so attract the giant earth as to cause our tides ? Indeed, for years science rejected the theory ; but cer- tain changes of the tide coinciding regu- larly with changes of the moon wore out prejudice, and have established the truth. Yet these coincident changes, though re- peated ad infinitum, make but one logical coincidence. On the other hand, it must be owned that a single coincidence often deceives. To take a sublunary and appropriate example, the real Martin Guerre had a wart on his cheek ; so had the sham Martin Guerre. The coincidence was genuine and remarkable; yet the men were distinct. But mark the ascending ratio — see the influence on the mind of a double coincidence— when the impostor with the real wart told the sisters of Martin Guerre some particular's of 'their family history, and reminded Martin's wife of something he had said to her on their bridal night, in the solitude of the nuptial chamber, this seeming knowledge, coupled with that real wart, struck her mind with the force of a double coinci- dence, and no more was needed to make her accept the impostor, and cohabit with him for years. Does not this enforce what I urged in my first letter as to the severe caution necessary in receiving alleged, or seem- ing, or manipulated coincidences, as if they were proved and real ones ? How- ever, I use the above incident at present mainly to show the ascending power on the mind of coincidences when received as genuine. I will now show their ascending value when proved in open court and tested by cross-examination. A was found dead of a gunshot wound, and the singed paper that had been used for wadding lay near him. It was a frag- ment of the Times. B's house was 252 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. searched, and they found there a gun re- cently discharged, and the copy of the Times, from which the singed paper afore- said had been torn ; the pieces fitted exactly. The same thing- happened in France with a slight variation ; the paper used for wadding was part of an old breviary, subsequently found in B's house. The salient facts of each case made a treble coincidence. What was the result ? The treble coincidence sworn, cross-ex- amined, and unshaken, hanged the Englishman, and guillotined the i man. In neither case was there a scin- tilla of direct evidence; in neither case was the verdict impugned. 1 speak within bounds when 1 saj thai a genuine double coincidence, proved be- yond doubt, is not twice, but two hundred times, as strong as one such coincidence, and that a genuine treble c cidence is many thousand tunes as strong as one such coincidence. But, when we gel to a tic fold coincidence real and proved, it is a million to < againsl all these honest circumstances having combined to As for a seven-fold coincidence not manipulated, nor merely alleged, but fully proved, doeseither history, science. literature, or crime offer one example of its ever misleading the human mind? Why, the very existence of seven inde- pendent and indisputable coincidences, all pointing' to one conclusion, is a rarity so great, that, in all my reading. 1 hardbj know where to find an example of it ex- cepl in the defense thai baffled this claim- ant at Nisi Prius. Now. on that occasion, the parties en- countered each other plump on various lines of evidence. There were direct rec- ognitions of his personal identity by re- spectable witnesses, and direct disavowals of the same by respectable witnesses, just as there were in the case of the sham Martin Guerre, who brought thirty honest disinterested witnesses to swear he was the man he turned out not to be. With this part of the case I will not meddle here, though I have plenty to say upon it. But both parties also multiplied coinci- dences : only some of these were real, some apparent, some manipulated, some honest and independent, some said or sworn out of court by liars, who knew better than venture into the witness-box with them: some proved by cross-exam- ination, or in spite of it. We have only to subject this hodge-podge of real and sham to the approved test laid down in my first letter, and we shall see daylight ; for the Claimant's is a clear case, made obscure by verbosity, and conjecture in eeth of truth ! A. He proved in court a genuine coin-- cidence of a corporeal kind — viz., thai Roger Tichborne was in-kneed, with the left leg turned out more than the right, and the Claimant was in-kneed in a simi- lar way. This is a remarkable coincidence, and cross-examination failed to shake it. Bui when he attempted to prove a second coincidence of corporeal peculiar- it ies like t he above, winch, being the work of Nature, cannot be combated, what a falling off in I lie evidence. B. They found in the Claimant aeon- genital brown mark on the side: they could only assert or imagine a similar mark in Tichborne. No ririi voce evi- dence by eyo-w itnessesto anything- of the sort. C. The\ r proved, by Dr. Wilson, a pe- culiar formation in the Claimant : hut in- stead of proving by some doctor, surgeon, or eye-witness a similar formation in Tichborne, they wenl oil' into wild infer- ences. The eccentric woman, who kept her boy three years under a seton, had also kept him a long time in frocks ; a no the same boy. when a moody young- man. had written despondent phrases, such as. in all other cases, imply a dejected mind, but here are to be perverted to indicate a malformed body, although many doctors, surgeons, and nurses, knew Tichborne's body, and not one of all these ever saw this malformation which, in the nude body, must have been visible fifty yards off. In short, the coincidences B and C, were proved incidences with unproved "Co's."' RE A MAS' A. 253 Failing to establish a double coinci- dence of congenital features or marks, the Claimant went off into artificial skin marks. Examples : Roger had marks of a se- ton ; the Claimant showed marks of a similar kind. Roger had a cut at the back of his head, and another on his wrist. So had the Claimant. Roger had the seams of a lancet on his ankles. The Claimant came provided with punctures on the ankle. Roger winked and blinked. So did the Claimant. Then there was something about a mark on the eyelid ; but on this head I forget whether the Claimant's witness ever faced cross-examination. Nor does it very much matter, for all these artificial coincidences are rotten at the core : un- like the one true corporeal coincidence the Claimant proved, they could all be imi- tated ; and, as regards the ankles, imita- tion was reasonably suspected in court, for the Claimant's needle-pricks were un- like the seam of a lancet, and were not applied to the ankle-pulse, as they would have been, by a surgeon, on lean Tich- borne, in whom the saphena vein would be manifest, and even the ankle-pulse per- ceptible, though not in a fair, fat, and false representative. Then the seton marks were stiffly disputed, and the balance of medical testimony was that the Claimant's marks were not of that precise character. These doubtful coincidences were also encountered by direct dissidences on the same line of observation. Roger was bled in the temporal artery, and the Claimant showed no puncture there. Roger was tattooed with a crown, cross, and anchor by a living witness, who faced cross-examination, and several witnesses in the cause saw the tattoo marks at vari- ous times ; and it was no answer to all this positive evidence to bring witnesses who did not tattoo him, and other witnesses who never saw the tattoo marks. The pick- pocket who brought twenty witnesses that did not see him pick a certain pocket, against two who did, was defeated by the intrinsic nature of evidence. I shall ask no person to receive any coincidence from me that was so shaken and made doubtful, and also neutralized by dissidences, as the imitable skin marks in this case were. But the Claimant also opened a large vein of apparent coincidences in the knowl- edge shown by him at certain times and places of numerous men and things known to Rog'er Tichborne. These were very remarkable. He knew private matters known to Tichborne and A, to Tichborne and B, to Tichborne and C, etc., and he knew more about Tichborne than A, B, C. etc., individually knew. It is not fair nor reasonable to pooh-pooh this. But the defendants met this fairly ; they said these coincidences were not arrived at by his being Tichborne, but by his pumping various individuals who knew Tichborne : and they applied fair and sagacious tests to the matter. They urged as a general truth that Tichborne in Australia would have known just as much about himself, his relations, and his affairs as he subsequently knew in England. And I must do them the justice to say this position is impregnable. Then they went into detail and proved that when Gibbs first spotted the Claim- ant at Wagga- Wagga, he was as ignorant as dirt of Tichborne matters : did not know the Christain names of Tichborne's mother, nor the names of the Tichborne estates, nor the counties where they lay. They then showed the steps by which his ignorance might have been partly less- ened and much knowledge picked up, they showed a lady, who longed to be deceived, and all but said so, putting him by letter on to Bogle — Bogle startled, and pumped — the Claimant showing the upper part of his face in Paris to the lady who wanted to be deceived, and, after recognition on those terms, pumping her largely ; then coming to England with a large stock of fact thus obtained, and in England pump- ing Carter, Bulpitt, and others, searching Lloyd's, etc. 2. Having proved the gradual growth of knowledge in the Claimant between Wagga- Wagga and the Court of Common Pleas, they took him in court with all his 254 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. acquired knowledge, and cross-examined him on a vast number of things well known to Tichborne. Under this test, for which his preparations were necessarily imperfect, he betrayed a mass of igno- rance on a multitude of things familiar to Roger Tichborne, and he betrayed it not frankly as honesl men be traj' igno- rance, or oblivion of what they have once really known, but in spite of such fencing, evading, shuffling, and equivocating, as the most experienced have rarely seen in the witness-box. Personating a gentle- man, he shuffled with ou1 a blush; person- al ing a collegian, he did nol know what a quadrangle is. The inscription over the Stonyhursl quadrangle, " Laus Deo," was strange to him. He 1 hougb.1 it something aboul the laws of God. He knew no French, no Latin. He bl Caesar was a Greek: and. when a crucial test was offered him, which, if he had been Ticl \ ould lia\ e welcomed with delight, and turned the ii ins favor, when a thoughtful comment in Rogi r Tichborne <>u t he character of Bene was submitted to him, and he was quesl ioned aboul I his Rene, he was utterly flabbergasted. He wrig- gled, and writhed, and brazened out his ignorance, but it shone forth in spite of him. He was evidently not the man. who had tasted Chateaubriand, ami had written a thoughtful comment on I lis tnind w as net I hat mind, any mere than his handwriting was thai handwriting. To judge this whole vein of coinci- dences, ami their neutralizing dissi- dences, the jury had now before them three streams of fact. 1. That at Wagga-Wagga the Claim- ant knew nothing about Tichborne more than the advertisements told him. 2. That in England he knew an incred- ible number of things about Tichborne. 3. That in England he took Mrs. Towne- ley for Roger's sweetheart, ami. even at the trial, was ignorant of many tilings Tichborne could not he ignorant of. NOW, IX ALL CASES, WHERE THERE ALE SEVERAL FA( TS INDISPUTABLE, YET SEEMINGLY OPPOSED, SCIENCE DECLARES THE TRUE SOLUTION TO BE THAT, WHICH. SETTING ASIDE THE DOUBTFUL FACTS, RECONCILES ALL THE INDISPUTABLE FACTS. This maxim is infallible : The good sense of the jury led them to this solutieii as surely as Science would have hd a jury of Huxleys and Tindals to it: and they decided thai the coinci- dences were remarkable, but manipu- lated, the knowledge astonishing, but acquired, the ignorance an inevitable residue, which only Tichborne could have escaped. They saw a small pump work- ing in Australia, a large pump work- ing in Paris, a huge pump working in England, bul a human, and therefore Unite, pump after all. as proved in court by examination of the Radcliffes, Gos- ford, and ol hers ; and. above all. b\ cross-exa minai ion of i he < llaimant, which last is t he highesl e\ idence. So much for the single genuine coinci- dence ol knees, and t he manipulated coincidences of artificial skin marks, and i knowledge, relied on for the aant. At this stage your readers should ask themselves t wo quesl io 1st. Is not history printed experience ; and ought experience to be printed in vain ? Did not the real wart, and the simu- lated knowledge, and the thirty direct witnesses of the sham Martin Guerre, anticipate the broad out line of tins ( Vanu- atu 's c 3d. As regards the coincidences, which were not only open to the charge of ma- nipulation, but also neutralized by dissi- dences, are they mighty enough to con- vince any candid mind that a fat. live person — who slaughtered bullocks and married a housemaid, and swore in the box without a blush that he had lied, like a low fellow, to his friend and bene- factor, Gibbs, and that he well knew, and had loved, and after the manner of the lower orders seduced a lady (though he afterward took Mrs. Townely for her), and still following the lower orders, blasted her reputation — was the lean, dead aristocrat, Tichborne, who went READIANA. ^'5.3 down in the Bella, with all hands, not one of whom has reappeared, and died, as he had lived, the delicate, loyal lover of the chaste Kate Doughty — and a gen- tleman — and a man of honor? I will now show, in contrast, the indis- putable coincidences, which, converging from different quarters, all point to one conclusion — that the Claimant is Arthur Orton, of Wapping. I am. sir. Yours faithfully, Charles Reade. THIRD LETTER. Sir — I now venture to hope that all I have written will seem silly to fanatics, and that unprejudiced minds will grant me — 1. That, where there are indisputable facts and doubtful ones, the true solution is that, which ignores the doubtful, and reconciles all the indisputable facts. 2. That two coincidences are a hun- dred times as strong as one ; and five coincidences a million times as strong as one ; and so on in a gigantic ratio as the coincidences multiply. 3. That coincidences, like other circum- stances, must rest on legal evidence, and that there is a scale of legal evidence, without which a man would be all at sea in any great trial, since such trials arise out of a conflict of evidence. I indicated this scale in my first letter ; but as it is not encountered, but ignored in all the replies I have seen, I will amplify and enforce it. THE SCALE OF EVIDENCE. A. A written affidavit, not cross-exam- ined, is " PERJURY MADE EASY." B. A written affidavit, signed by a per- son who could carry his statement into open court, but does not, is perjury declared : for. when a man's actions contradict his words, it is his words that lie. C. In open court tin' Lowest kind of evi- dence is the evidence in chief of the plaintiff, or defendant. D. The highest evidence is the admission, under cross-examination, of the plaintiff or defendant. E. The next highest is the evidence in chief of disinterested persons, not shaken by cross-examination. These rules were not invented by me, nor for me nor against the Claimant. They are very old, very true, and equally applicable to every great trial — past, present, and to come. Yel you have a correspondent in whose mind this scale of evidence has no place; he gravely urges that the bestial hjho- rance of the Tichborne estates, and the bereaved woman's name he called his mother, shown by the Claimant at Wagga-Wagga, in his very will, a solemn instrument, by which he provided for his own wife and expected child, was not real, as forsooth all his knowledge was, but feigned in order to humbug his pro- tector without a motive, and bilk his <>iru wife out of her sole provision, and sole claims on the Tichborne property; and for this self-evident falsehood your corre- spondent's authority is the evidence of the Claimant himself, a party in the suit, and a party interested in lying, and throwing dust in the eyes of simpletons, who can- not see a church by daylight if some shal- low knave says it is a pigeon house. It was almost as childish to reply to me with the evidence of Moore. What evidence ? Why, he never ventured into court. Mr. Moore is a humbug, who wrote down a romance, and — fled. Catch him carrying his tale into the witness-box, and being cross-examined out of fiction's fairy realm into one of her majesty's jails. See scale of evidence B. These two great instruments of evidence, men and circumstances, resemble each other in this, that men do not lie without a mo- tive, and circumstances never have a mo- tive, and therefore never lie, though man may misinterpret them. And it is the beauty of true coincidences that in them circumstance preponderates, and man 256 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. plays second fiddle. A coincidence often surprises even deceitful men into reveal- ing- the truth: for a coincidence is two facts pointing- to one conclusion : and the effect of the first fact is seldom seen till the second comes, and then it is too late to tamper effectually with the pair. You will sec this pure and unforeseeing character running through mosl of the coincidences I now lay before you. i. It was proved thai Tichborne was in-kneed, and dead, and that the Claim- ant and Arthur Orton are in-kneed and alive. 2. Disinterested witnesses swore thai Arthur Orton was unusually stoul at twenty; and was called, tit Wapping, ••bullocky" Orton. Later m Ins life, Australian witnesses, who knew him, de- scribed hmi as uncommonly lusty. The Claimant's figure is described in similar terms by all the Australian w itnesses who knew him. Now. many a lean youth puts on fat between thirty-five and forty, bul lean, acl h e men do not very often fatten from twenty to t Irirty. This, therefore, is a coincidence, though a feeble one. :. Art hur < )rton. horn September 13th, 1832. was the youngest son of Q-eorge < 'i ton. ;i shipping butcher, and an im- porter of Shetland ponies. He used to ride the ponies from the Dundee steamers, and so ^'nt a horseman's seat ; for they are awkward animals to ride, if you take them like that, one after another, raw from the Shetland Isles. When full grown, hut under age, he slaughtered and dressed sheep and bullocks for his father. The Claimant in Australia lived by rul- ing, and slaughtering, and dressing beasts. On this point, his own evidence agrees with that of every witness who knew him. And when he came up the Thames in the ('el la to personate Tich- borne, he asked the pilot what had he- come of Ferguson, the man who used to he pilot of the Dundee boats. All this taken together is rather a strong coinci- dence. It may seem weak : but apply a test. To whom does all this, as a whole. apply ? The riding — the slaughtering — and the spontaneous interest in an old Dundee pilot? To Castro? To Tich- borne ? To any known man not an Or- ton ? 4. In 1S4S, Arthur Orton, aged 1G, sailed to Valparaiso, and subsequently in June, 1840, made his way to Melipilla. He was young, fair, the only English boy in the place, and the good people took to him. He made friends with Dona Hay ley. wife of an English doc- tor, and with Thomas Castro and his wife, and many others. They were very kind to him m 184!» and '50, particularly Dona Hayley. and in these gentle minds the kindly feeling survived the lapse of lime, and his long neglect of them. Not foreseeing in 1850 his little game in 1866, Arthur Orton told Dona Hayley he was the son of Orton. the queen's butcher, and as a child had played with the queen's children. Not being a prophet, all this bounce at that dale went to aggrandize Orton. Hi- spoke of Arthur's sisters, by name, and Dona Hayley, twenty years after, remembered the names with slight and natural variations. The wile of Tl as Castro was called at Melipilla Dona Natalia Sarmiento: but this En- glish hoy. knowing her to lie tin' wife of Castro, used to call her .Mrs. Castro. This seems to have amused Dona Hay- ley. and she noted it. This hoy was not Castro, for Castro was :m elderly Span- iard, kind to his hoy on the spol and at t lie time. He was not Tichborne, for Tichborne was in England till late in 1852. Tichborne's alibi during Arthur Or- ton's whole visit to Melipilla is proved by a cloud of witnesses, and his own writ- ing, and is. indeed, admitted ; he sailed late in 1852, and reached Chili in 1853. Arthur Orton was back in England, June. 1851. Now so much of this as respects Arthur Orton is the first branch of a pure, un- foreseen coincidence. The second branch is this — The Claimant on the 28th August, 1867, wrote from his solicitor's office. 25, Poultry, to prepare the good Melipillians for a new theory — that Arthur Orton, seventeen years old to the naked eye, was not Castro — (that cock might fight in Hobart Town, but not in Melipilla) . not KEADIAXA. 257 Castro, but Tichborne, age 23. He wrote to Thomas Castro, complained he was kept out of his estates, and begged to be kindly remembered to Don Juan Hay- ley, to Clara and Jesusa, to Don Ramon Alcade, Dona Hurtado, to Senorita Ma- tilda, Jose Maria Berenguel, and his bro- ther, and others, in short to twelve per- sons besides Castro himself. One of the messages has per se the character of a coincidence. " My respects to Donna Na- talia Sarmiento, or as I used to call her, Mrs. Castro." Thomas Castro, to whom this was sent, being in confinement as a lunatic, his son, Pedro Castro, replied in a letter full of kindness, simple faith, and a desire to serve his injured friend. His letter car- ries God's truth stamped on it. His re- plies to the kind messages accord with our sad experience of time and its rav- ages. "His father bereft of reason, his mother — dead this fourteen months. Dona Hayley's recollection of the boy perfect, and she is ready to serve him, and depose to the truth. But the doctor's memory gone through intemperance, Dona Jesusa dead." " Don Jose Maria Berenguel is not so called, his name is Don Francesco Beren- guel. He is established at Valparaiso." Then the writer goes on to say what had become of the other friends inquired after by the Claimant. One of them he speci- fies in particular as taking fire at the Claimant's letter, and remembering all about him, and desirous to serve him, he himself being animated by the same spirit, tells him that Dona Francesca Ahumada retains a lock of his hair, which he sug- gests the Claimant might turn to ac- count : and so he might if he had been Tichborne. In the same spirit he warns him that his enemies had an agent at Melipilla hunting up data to use against him. The correspondence thus begun contin- ued in the same spirit. The whole coincidence is this : The Claimant stayed a long time at Meli- pilla in 1849 and 1S50, and called him- self Arthur Orton, and proved himself Arthur Orton, by giving full details of his family, and left Chili in 1850, during Reade — Vol. IX. all which time an aliba is proved for Tichborne, but none can be proved, nor has ever been attempted, for Arthur Orton. On the contrary, a non aliba was directly proved for him. He was traced from Wapping to Valparaiso, and Melipilla, in 1S4S. His stay there till 1850 was proved, and then he was traced in 1S50 into the Jesse Miller, and home to Wapping in 1S5L just as he had been traced out — by ships' regis- ters and a cloud of witnesses. The coincidence rests on the two high- est kinds of evidence, the Claimant's written admission, and the direct evi- dence of respectable witnesses unshaken by cross-examination (see scale of evi- dence), and it points to the Claimant as Arthur Orton. Those who can see he is not Tichborne, but are deceived by the falsehoods of men into believing he is not Orton. should give special study to this coincidence ; for here the Claimant is either Tichborne or Or- ton. No third alternative is possible. At Melipilla, in 1850, he was either Or- ton, who was there, aged 17, or Tich- borne. who was in England, aged 23. 5. There was, for some years, a bulky man in Australia riding and breaking horses, slaughtering and dressing beasts. His name — Castro — appears when that of Orton disappears. The two men seem to differ in name but not in figure and occu- pation. And no witness ever came into the witness-box and swore that he had ever seen these two portly butchers in two different skins. In 1867 the Claimant explained this phenomenon. In his letter to Thomas Castro he wrote thus: — "And another strange thing I have to tell you, and I have no doubt you will say I took a great liberty on myself; that is to say, I took and made use of your name, and was only known in Australia by the name of Thomas Cas- tro. I said also I belonged to Chili." He adds, however, an assurance that he had never disgraced him as a horseman. This coincidence proves that whenever we meet in Australia a bulky butcher stock-keeper, horse-breaker, etc., called Thomas Castro, of Chili, that means the "9 258 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Claimant, and also means Arthur Orton, of Melipilla. And Arthur Orton, of Melipilla, is Arthur Orton of Wapping. 6. This sham Castro, sham Chilian, sham aristocrat, etc., married, as people do nine times in ten, into his own class. a servant girl who could not write her name. She made her mark. He forged a friend's name. Apparently he did nut foresee he was going to leave off sham- ming Castro and begin shamming Tich- borne, a stiff Papist ; so he got married by a dissenting minister, and in signing the register, described himself as thirty years old. Castro was. say sixty ; Tichborne was thirty-six. Who was thirty? Arthur Orton of Wapping. 7. It was the interest of Gibbes this man should lie Tichborne. His wishes in- fluenced his judgment. He inclined to think he was the right man. But some things staggered him; in particular the man's want of education. Gibbes told him frankly thai seemed inconsistent. Then the Claimant, to get over that, told Gibbes thai in childhood he had a nervous affection which checked his edu- cation. He then described this affection so correctly that Gibbes said, " Bless me. that is St. Vitus's dance. 1 ' "Yes,"' said the Claimant, "thai is what they used to call it." This solution eased Gibbes' mind, and he sat down and. honestly enough, sen', an account of the conversation to Lady Tichborne's agenl : he wrote it to serve the plaintiff, not foreseeing the turn that revelation of the truth would take. Coming home in the Rachaia there was some document or other to be read out, and the pessengers confided this to the Claimant as a person claiming the high- est rank. He blundered and made a mess of it, and showed his ignorance so that suspicion was raised, and one Mi'. Hodson put it pointblank to him — " You a baronet, and can't read!" Then the Claimant told him he had been afflicted in his boyhood with St. Vitus's dance, and could not learn his letters. It was afterward proved by a surgeon and a multitude of witnesses that at ten years of age Arthur Orton had been frightened by a fire, and afflicted with St. Vitus's dance, and that this had really checked his education, and that the traces of it had remained by him for years; and that, in fact, he was sent to sea in hopes of a cure. This coincidence is very strong. Observe— it is not con- fined to the disease ; but to the time of life, and its effect on a boy's education. No doubt a third man neither Tich- borne nor Orton might have St. Vitus's dance as a little boy. and so be made a dunce, in spite of great natural ability. There is not above a hundred thousand to one against it ; but coming after coin- cidences 4. ."), and (>. which clear away ('astro and all other mere vapors, and confine the question to Tichborne or Or- ion, have 1 not now the right to say, Tichborne. by admission of all the wit- nesses on bol h shies, never had St . Vitus's dance: Arthur Orton undisputably had St. Vitus's dance; the Claimant, to ac- count, for his ignorance, spontaneously declared, at different times and to differ- ent people, that he had been afflicted with St. Vitus's dance, and this coincidence points to the Claimant as Arthur Orton of Wapping ? Yours obediently, Charles Reade FOURTH LETTER. Sir — I will ask those who have done me the honor to keep my last letter, to draw a circle on a sheet of paper, the larger the better, and to draw seven radii from its center across the line of circumference to the edge of the paper; then upon those extended radii, and be- tween the circle and the edge of the paper, I will ask them to write in small letters a short epitome of each coin- cidence, or a few words recalling what they consider its salient feature. Those who will do me the honor to take EEADIAXA. 259 the trouble, and so become my fellow- laborers in logic, will not repent it. It will, I think, assist them, as it has as- sisted me, to realize how vast an area both of territory and multifarious evi- dence is covered at the circumference by these seven coincidences, which neverthe- less converge to one central point, no bigger than a pin's head, viz., that this Claimant, who has owned himself a sham Castro of Chili, but clings to his other alias, Tichborne, is Arthur Orton of Wapping. 8. From the day the Bella foundered to the day Gibbes spotted the Claimant, a period of thirteen or fourteen years, Roger Tichborne never wrote a line to his mother or his brother, or any relation or friend. This is accounted for rationally and charitably by bis being dead at the bottom of the ocean. No, says the Claimant, I was alive all the time, and let my mother and my brother and 1113' sweetheart think I had died horribly, cut off in mj 7 prime. The animal never realized that he was both drawing upon human credulity, and describing a monster and a beast. What was it that so blinded his most power- ful understanding? From 1852 to 1865 Arthur Orton never wrote a line to Wapping. He let the father who reared him, the mother who bore him, go to their graves without one little word to say their son was alive. Not a line to brother, sister or sweetheart. This unnatural trait being absent in Tich- borne till he was drowned, and present in the Claimant by his own confession, and in Arthur Orton by a pj^ramid of evidence, is a startling coincidence of a new class. The unnatural heart of the Claimant is the unnatural heart of Arthur Orton. 9. In 1S52 Arthur Orton went out to Hobart Town with two Shetland ponies in the Middleton. Subsequently, as the Claimant swore, he was for years at Boisdale and Dargo, slaughtering and riding, etc., in the ser- vice of Mr. W. Foster, and under the name of Castro, the Chilian. Foster's widow confirmed most of this, and pro- duced her account books for 1854, 55, 56, 57 and 58, with full details of the Claim- ant's service during a part of that time ; but she knew him as Arthur Orton, and he figured as Arthur Orton all through the books, and the name of Castro did not occur in any of these books. The books were dry account books written in Australia, with a short-sighted view to the things of the place and the time, and not in prophetic anticipation of a Lon- don trial, that lay hid in the womb of time. Not to multiply coincidences unfairly, I am content to throw in here, that on a page of a book produced by this Austra- lian witness, was written as follows : " Dargo, 11th 3Iarch, 1858. "I, Arthur Orton, etc.," vowing ven- geance in good set terms, on some per- sons who had wronged him. The witness had no doubt this was written by her servant, the Claimant, whom, by the by, she recognized in court as her Arthur Orton ; and two judges compared the handwriting with the Claimant's and declared positively they were identical. Now, the judges try so many questions of handwriting, and ex- amine so many skilled witnesses, that they become great experts in all matters of this kind ; and as they are judges who — unlike other European judges — can and do disagree, I think their consent on this matter, though not sworn evidence, is very convincing to any candid mind. However, I have no wish to press this part of the coincidence separately, or unduly ; but I do say that, taken alto- gether, No. 9 is a most weighty coin- cidence. 10. A pocket-book was produced at the trial with miscellaneous entries by the Claimant, artfully inserted to identify him with Tichborne. That being the object, it is unfortunate that he wrote down as follows — La Bella, R. C. Tich- borne arrived at Hobart Town, July 4, 1854. Because at the trial he said he landed at Melbourne. The person who landed at Hobart 2C0 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Town was Arthur Orton in the Middle- ton. In this same book he wrote — Rod- ger Charles Tichborne. and Miss Mary Anne Loader. 7, Russell's Buildings, High Street, Wapping. Now, here are three things Roger Tichborne was igno- rant of : 1. That his name was Rodger. 2. That Mary Anne Loader existed. 3. That sin- lived at 7, Russell's Build- ings, High Street, Wapping. Now, who on earth was this, that landed, not at Melbourne, but Hobart Town, and knew so little about Roger Tichborne, and so much about Mary Anne Loader? Who could it be but Mary Anne Load- er's quondam sweetheart, whose letters, written in the Claimant's handwriting, and signed Arthur Orton, she broughl into court, and identified the man himself as her own sweetheart, Arthur Orton ? That identification would be valueless by itself, in this special line ( if argument, but the entry in i lie pocket-book by the Claimant's own hand makes it a coinci- dence. 11. At Wagga Wagga the Claimant, being called upon to play the part of Tichborne. made a will, and appointed executors, to wit. ••John Jarvis, Esq., of Bridport, Dorsetshire, and my mot her. Lady Hannah Frances Tichborne." Failing either of them, he appointed Sir John Bird, of Hertfordshire. As guar- dian of his children, he appointed his friend Gibbes: and failing him. Mr. Henry Angell. Now when all this was looked into by the other side, the Claim- ant's aristocrat ie friend. Sir John Bird, was found to be a myth. That aristocrat existed, like the Claimant's own preten- sions to aristocracy, in the Claimant's imagination ; but the plebeians were real men : friends of Tichborne ? Of course not. Jarvis and Angell were old friends of Arthur Orton. When this was dis- covered, the Claimant pretended these plebeian executors were suggested to him by Arthur Orton ; but Arthur Or- ton was not on the spot, except in the skin of the Claimant; out of that skin neither Gibbes nor any witness saw him at Wagga Wagga when that will was drawn. At the trial Angell recognized the Claimant as his old acquaintance, Arthur Orton, and that evidence con- firms a coincidence which was already very striking. 12. The Claimant came home, asked after Ferguson, Arthur Orion's old friend, as he steamed up the river, and at last got to Ford's Hotel with his wife. It was Christmas Day, a cold evening, and he was in the bosom of his family, which people do not leave for strangers on Christmas night. What does lie do? Gets up, leaves his family and the Christ- mas fire, and goes off all alone in a four- wheel. Where to ? To Tichborne? To some place where the Tichborne family could be heard of? No ; to Wapping. He gets to the Globe, Wapping, finds Mrs. Johnson, wlio keeps the house, and her mot her who had once kept it . The Claimant walks in, orders a glass, and talks about the Ortons and their neighbors, showing so much mote knowl- edge than any stranger in the neighbor- hood could have possessed, that Mrs. Fairhead looked at him more keenly, saw a likeness to old George Orton. and said, '• Why. you must be an Orton ?" Such is the attraction of Wapping that lie goes down there again next day and sees a Mrs. Pardon, who also observes his likeness to the Ortons. He passes himself off not as Tichborne, who never could be a friend of < >i ton's, but as a Mr. Stephens, who might, if he existed, ex- cept as an alias. He does not attempt the Tichborne lie at Wapping, any more than the Castro lie at Melipilla. The portrait of his own wife and child, which he gave as a portrait of Arthur Orton's wife and child, and the other curious details are pretty well known, and I have no wish to go too far into debatable matter. Take the indisput- able part only of this twelfth coincidence and read it with its eleven predecessors. READIANA. >61 13. There were remarkable coincidences between the spelling - and tbe handwrit- ing- of the Claimant and Arthur Orton. This is a part of the subject I cannot properly do justice to. I can only select from the mass of evidence the Chief Jus- tice submitted to the jury. The Claimant writes the word receive receve, so does Arthur Orton ; also anythink and noth- ink for anything and nothing, a mistake peculiar to the lower orders. They also spell Elizabeth Elisaberth. ''Few " they spell fue ; "whether" "weather." The pronoun I they both write i, after the manner of the lower orders. But as this is not merely a coincidence but a vein of coincidences which it would take columns to explain, I prefer to refer the candid reader to the masterly dissection of hand- writing that took place at the last trial, and the Chief Justice's most careful analysis of it. 14. At the first trial there were heavy sums at stake, and a wide belief in the Claimant, and a romantic interest in him. The Claimanfs friends would have given hundreds of pounds to any sea- man who would come into the box and prove he sailed in the Bella, on her last trip. We all know Jack tar ; give him his month's pay, and he is as ready to sail to the port of London as to any other, and readier to sail to London for £300 and his month's pay than to any other port for his month's pay alone. Yet not one of these poor fellows could be got alive to London, for the first trial. Why not? Creation was raked for witnesses, and with remarkable success. Why could not one of these seamen be raked for love or money into the witness-box of the Common Pleas ? Was it because money ■ will not draw men from the bottom of the sea, or was it because the trial was in London, and a large sum of money awaited them there for expenses ? Who does not see, that, had the trial been at Melbourne, these fabulous seamen would have been heard of. not at Melbourne, but in London or some other port ten thousand miles off. where they could have been talked about in far away Melbourne, but never shown to a Mel- bourne jury. Well, the real inability, and pretended unwillingness, of those poor seamen to come to London and get two or three hundred pounds apiece, is matched by the real inability, and fictitious unwill- ingness, of Arthur Orton, to show his face in London except in the skin of the Claimant. The two non-appearances make one coincidence. The Claimant, who knows better than" any other man, declared Arthur Orton to be alive in 1866; and in Australia; and from that time a hundred thousand eyes have been looking for him in the Colony, yet nobody can find him there alive, or get legal evidence of so marked a man's decease. At the first trial seven or eight thou- sand pounds were waiting for him just to show his person in the witness- box in any man's skin but the Claim- ant's. Yet he held aloof, and by his absence killed the Claimant's case at Nisi Prius. At the criminal trial there were still a thousand pounds or two waiting for this need}' butcher. Yet he never came into the witness- box, and his absence killed the Claim- ant's defense. Imbeciles are now, after all these years, invited to believe he kept away on both occasions merely because he had com- mitted some crime in Australia. This is bosh. There is no warrant out against Arthur Orton in Australia. And if sus- pected of a crime there, he was clearly safer in England than there. Had he appeared at either trial, his evidence would have been simply this. "I am Arthur Orton, son of George Orton : my brothers are so-and-so, my sisters are so-and-so. You can confront them with me." Outside this straight line hostile coun- sel could not by the rules of the court cross-examine so narrow and inoffensive a deponent : or if they did he need not answer them. No judge in England would fail to tell him so. But the truth is that there was never a counsel 265 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. against him, who would have made mat- ters worse by a wild cross-examination. They would have thrown up their Orton case that moment, and merely persisted that the Claimant was not Tichborne. Only, as they had committed themselves to both theories, his evidence would have been death to one, and sickness to the other. The Claimant and his counsel knew all this, yet they made no effort to show Arthur Orton to cither jury, though there was money enough to tempt him into the witness-box a dozen times over. The only real difficulty was to show him at Nisi Prius except in the skin of the plaintiff, and to show him at the Central Criminal Courl except in the skin of the defendant. Years have rolled on, but that difficulty remains insuper- able. Even now Arthur Orton 's appear- ance out of the Claimant's skin would shake one limb of the verdict, and also create revulsion of feeling enough to re- lieve the Claimant of Ins sc.-oml term of imprisonment. Bui neither pay, nor the money that, is still waiting for him, nor the public acclamations that he knows would hail him, can drag Arthur Orton to light, except in the skin of the defend- ant. And so it will be till sham Castro- sham Stephens, sham Tichborne. and real Orion all die at one and the same mo- ment in the skin of the Claimant. After all these years and all these reasons for appearing, no man — whatever he may pretend— really believes in his heart that Arthur Orton will ever appear to us ex- cept in the skin of the Claimant. 15. I forgot to note in its place a re- markable coincidence. After several in- terviews with Gibbes and some cor- respondence with Lady Tichborne. but while his knowledge of Tichborne affairs was still very confined, it was thought advisable by his friends that the Claimant should make a statutory declaration. He made one accordingly in the character of Roger Tichborne, and by this time he had learned the date of Roger's birth, and landed him at Melbourne. June 24th, 1S54. But. being still ignorant when Roger sailed on his last voyage, viz., 1st March, 1853, and in La Pauline, he de- clared as follows : — •• I left England in the Jesse Miller, 28th November, 1S52." Now, in point of fact, Arthur Orton sailed — while Tich- borne was at Upton — in the MiddU ton : but he sailed 28th November, 1852. which is a coincidence ; and the Jesse Miller is a ship unknown to Roger Tichborne, hut well known to Arthur Orton. for he sailed in her from Valparaiso in 1851. Subsequently, having declared he was picked up at sea by the Osprey, and car- ried into Melbourne, he was asked for the name of bis principal benefactor, the cap- tain, and of the other kind souls who had saved him, fed hiin, etc., for three months, and earned his eternal grati- tude; all he could recall was Lewis Owen, or Owen Lewis. Now Arthur Orton's ship, the Middleton, contained two persons, one Lewis anil one Owen. So here we find him dragging into his "voyages imaginaires" of Tichborne true particulars of two voyages by Ar- thur Orion. your readers, especially those who have paid me the compliment of drawing the circle with radii converging to one center, caii now fill the interstices of those radii, and so possess a map of the fifteen heterogeneous, and independent, coincidences converging from different quarters of the globe, and different cities, towns, ami streets, and also from differ- ent departments of fact, material, moral, and psychological, toward one central point, that this man is Arthur Orton. Then, if you like, apply the exhaustive method, of which Euclid is fond in his earlier propositions. Fit the fifteen co- incidences on to Roger Tichborne if you can. If this is too impossible, try them on Castro the Chilian, or Stevens, the man who dropped down on Wapping from the sky. You will conclude with Euclid, " in the same way it can be proved that no other person except Arthur Orton is the true center of this circle of coincidences." My subject proper ends here ; but with your permission I will add a short letter correcting the false impression conveyed READIANA. 263 to the judges by defendant's counsel, that the famous Irish case of James Annesley was a precedent favorable to the Claim- ant. I will also ask leave to comment upon the question whether the extreme term of imprisonment under the Act ought to be inflicted, and also that term repeated; for false oaths sworn by the same individual in the course of a single litigation. I am, Yours faithfully, Charles Reade. SUPPLEMENTAL LETTER. Sik — The ordinary features of a trial are repeated ad infinitum ; but now and then, say once in a hundred remarkable trials, comes an intellectual phenome- non — There is at the disposal of the plain- tiff's counsel, or the defendant's, a friend- ly witness, whose evidence to some vital point ought to carry far more weight, if believed, than any other person's evi- dence : yet that friendly witness is not called. Let a vital point of the case be matter of direct and absolute knowledge to A, but only matter of strong belief or conviction to B, C, and D, A is then, as regards that vital matter, the principal witness, and all B, C, and D, can do is to corroborate in a small degree the higher evidence of A. Then, if A is not called, this suppression casts utter discredit upon the inferior witnesses, who are called, and upon the whole case. The reason is obvious to all persons ac- quainted with litigation. Verdicts are obtained, and, above all, held, by the evidence alone. Witnesses are not allowed to go into the box with- out consent of counsel. Counsel are con- sulted behind the scenes as to what wit- nesses are necessary to the case, and may be safely shown to the jury, and trusted to the ordeal of cross-examination. If then an able counsel withholds his prin- cipal witness from the jury, he throws dirt upon his own case ; but he is not the man to throw dirt upon bis own case ex- cept to escape a greater evil. Now, what greater evil than throwing dirt upon his case can there be ? Only one — his principal witness is al- ways the very witness who may kill his case on the spot, either by breaking down under cross-examination, or in some other way, which a wary counsel foresees. Therefore, when either suitor through his counsel does not call his principal wit- ness, the case is always rotten. History offers no example to the contrary, and only one apparent example, which better information corrected. In fact, whenever with evidence against him. an able counsel dares not call his principal witness, the court might save time and verbiage by giving the verdict against him without any more palaver. Such a verdict would always stand. You have a correspondent, who cannot see the superiority of indisputable coin- cidences, to " Jack swears that Jill says," and even to direct evidence contradicted by direct evidence. I will give this gen- tleman one more chance. Does he think that all judges are fools, ex-officio, and all jurymen idiots by the effect of the sheriff's summons? If not, let him con- sult that vast experience of trials he must possess, or he would hardly have the pre- sumption to teach me how to sift legal evidence, and let him ask himself did he ever know a judge and a jury, who went with any suitor, that dared not call his principal witness. I know one case, but the verdict was upset. Does he know a single case ? I doubt it. I will give one example out of thousands to the contrary, which I had from the lips of a very popular writer, beloved by all who knew him, the late Mr. Lever. It was a reminiscence of his youth. At some county assize in Ireland, counsel called the sort of witnesses I have defined above, as B, C, and D. but did not call witness A. The judge was a good lawyer, but not polished, having been born a peasant ; but had none the less influence with country juries for that, 261 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. perhaps rather more. He objected blunt- ly to this as a waste of time, and said the jury would expect to see witness A, and the sooner the better. " My Lord," says the counsel, "I must be permitted to conduct my case accord- ing to my own judgment." The judge raised no objection ; only in return he claimed his right, which was to read a newspaper so long as the case was so conducted. When counsel had had their say, my lord came out of his journal, fixed his eyes on the jury, and summed up. My deceased friend gave me every syllable of his summing up, and here it is : The Shortest Summing-up on Record. The Judge : "He didn't call his prin- cipal witness. Wee-y-Wheet ! " Tins wee-y-wheet, hitherto written for archaeological reasons " Phugh," was a long, plowman's whistle, with which my hud pointed his summing up. and such is the power of judicious brevity falling on people possessed of common sense, that the jury delivered their verdict like a shol againsl the ingenious suitor, who did not call his principal witness. It was in tins same country, nevertheless, that. on the single occasion I have referred t<>. a jury gave the verdict to the party who did not call his principal witness. It was the greal ease of Campbell Craig versus Richard Earl of Anglesey. Craig, in this cause, was a mere instru- ment. James Annesley, claiming the lands and title of Anglesey, leased a farm to Craig. Anglesey expelled Craig. Craig sued Anglesey as lessee of James Annesley, and then disappeared from the proceedings. James Annesley. who had thirteen years before been kidnaped by this defendant, and sent out to the colonies, took these indirect proceedings as the son and heir of Lord and Lady Altham. to whose lands and title had succeeded, first a most respectable noble- man, the Earl of Anglesey, and, on his decease, his brother, the said Richard Annesley, both these succeeding Lord Al- tham in turn by apparent default of di- rect issue. James Anneslev therefore had only to prove his legitimacy, as clearly as he proved this very defendant had kidnaped him by force — and the es- tates were his. Now both parties agreed that James Annesley was the son of Lord Altham : but the defendant said James Annesley's mother was not Lady Altham. hut one Joan Landy, a servant in Lord Altham's house, who nursed him from his birth, not in Lord Altham's house, but a cabin hard by, where he was admitted to have lived with her fifteen months. There was no parish register to settle the matter, and Lady Altham, an Englishwoman, driven out of the country many years before by her husband's hrutality. had died in En- gland, and never mentioned in England that she had a son in Ireland. The plaintiff called a cloud of second- class witnesses, hut he could not be got to call Joan Landy, who had such an ab- solute knowledge whether the boy was her child, or her nursling, as nobod3' else could have. Defendant's counsel. Prime-Sergeant Ma lone, one of the greatest forensic reasoners the British Empire has pro- duced, dwelt strongly upon the plaintiff's conduct m not showing this witness to the jury. Here is his general position — "It is a rule thai every case ought to be proved lo the best testimony the nature of the thing will admit, and this Joan Landy was the very best witness that could have been produced on the side of the plaintiff." He then showed this without any diffi- culty, and afterward made rather an extraordinary and significant statement. ''The counsel on the other side did very early in this case promise we should see tier : only, as she was the person that was to wind up the case, she was to be the plaintiff's last witness, and this was the reason given for not producing her till the trial was near an end." He adds that having kept her out of court on this pre- tense, they now shifted their "round and professed not to call her, ••because she was a weak woman, and might forget or be put off the thread of her story." This last theory he exposes with that READIAXA. 205 admirable logic I find in all his recorded speeches, and urges that the plaintiff's counsel were simply afraid to subject their principal witness to the ordeal of cross-examination. The three judges — for it was a trial at Bar — all ignored this strong point for the defense, and the jury steered themselves through a mass of contradictory evidence by an unsafe in- ference — the defendant had kidnaped the boy, and therefore the defendant, who as Lord Althanrs brother, must have known all about the matter, had shown by his actions that he knew him to be legitimate. James Annesley got the verdict. But the soundness of Malone's reasoning was soon demonstrated. A bill of exceptions was tendered and admitted, and pending its discussion, James Annesley's case was upset in a criminal trial. His impetuous friends indicted Mary Heath, a main pillar of the defense, for perjury. She was ably defended, and destroyed her accuser.* She brought home several perjuries to some of James Annesley's witnesses, and to the whole band of them in one vital matter. They had sworn in concert that the boy was christened on a certain day at Dunmore, his godmother being Mrs. Pigot, and one of his godfathers, Sergeant Cuff. Well, Mary Heath proved that Mrs. Pigot was nursing her husband with a broken leg 100 miles off, and showed by the records of the Court of Chancery that Sergeant Cuff moved the Court that very day in person, and in Dublin, 100 miles Irom Dunmore. After this James An- nesley's case got blown more and more. The judges would not act on that verdict, and the Court of Chance^ restrained him from taking fresh proceedings of a similar nature in the county Wexford. Public opinion turned dead against him. He was horsewhipped on the Curragh by the defendant, and showed his plebeian origin, by taking it like a lamb. Growing contempt drove him out of Ireland, and he lived in England upon his English con- * See The King v. Mary Heath, published in pamphlet form. nections, and fell into distress. His last public act was to raise a subscription at Richmond. This appears either in the •' Annual Register " or the " Gentleman's Magazine " of the day — I forget which— but distinctly remember reading it in one or other of those repertories. His successful defendant outlived him, and held the title of Anglesey, and the Irish and English estates, till his death. After that he gave some trouble, because he had practiced trigamy with such skill, that the English peers could not find out who was the legitimate heir to his earl- dom. The Irish peers, with the help of the logical Malone, cracked the nut in Ireland, and so saved the Irish titles. In this discussion James Annesley's preten- sions were referred to, but only as an ex- tinct matter and a learning to juries not to go by prejudice against evi- dence. See the minutes of the proceed- ings before the Irish Lords, published at Dublin by David Hay, 1773, p. 19, and elsewhere. It certainly is curious that both counsel for the Claimant Orton should have been ignorant how the famous case of James Annesley terminated, and should have cited it in support of Orton ; curious that both the judges should have submitted to so singular an error. However, there is a real parallel be- tween the cases, though not what the learned counsel imagined. 1st. James Annesley was either an impostor or the tool of impostors, and Arthur Orton is an impostor. 2d. James Annesley's counsel dared not call his principal witnesses — viz., the sisters of Arthur Orton. Who, in this world, could settle the Orton ques- tion with one-half the authority of these two ladies? It was only to call them and let them look at the Claimant, and swear he was not Arthur Orton — and stand cross-ex- amination. Why was this not done ? Withholding them from the jury threw dirt on all the other witnesses, who could only swear to the best of their belief, or offer reasons, not pure evidence. The comments of Sergeant Malone on 2GC WORKS OF CHARLES READE. the absence of Joan Landy from the wit- ness-box, Craig v. Anglesey, 322, all apply here; so does the plowman's whistle of that sagacious judge ; who economized the time of the court. It is not that the value of these ladies' evidence iB not known. They have been got to sign affidavits that the man is not their brother. Why, with this strong disposi- tion to serve him, could they not be trusted to the ordeal of an open court ? Sergeant Malone puts it down to dread of cross-examination. There is, how- ever, another thing on the cards which naturally escapes a lawyer, for their minds are not prepared for unusual tilings. Lord and Lady Alt ham were both wrv dark. James Aunesley was fair. Now, suppose J«>an Landy was fair, and other- wise like i lie plaint ill', \\ horn we now know to have been her child:' Annesley's counsel may have been afraid to show her to the eyes of the jury, and her son sitting in their sight,.as the evidence of John Purcell shows he was. Old George Orion is said to have marked all his children, including the Claimant, pretty strongly. Supposethese two sisters are like George Orton, and t he Claimant, sworn to be like George Orton, is also like these sisters, this would he a reason for showing the public their hand- writing to a statement, and not showing the jury their faces. Between this and the dread of cross-examination lies the key to the phenomenon. He didn't call his principal witness. Wee-y-Wheet! Enough has been said I hope, to recon- cile men of sense to the verdicts of two juries. The sentence is quite another matter. I do not approve it, and will give my reasons in a short letter, my last upon the whole subject. Yours faithfully, Charles Reade. THE RIGHTS AND THE WRONGS OF AUTHORS. To the Editor of the " Pall Mall Gazette." FIRST LETTER. Sir — Those, who do not bestow sym- pathy, have no right to ask it. But if a man for years has been quick to feel, and zealous to relieve, his neighbor's wrongs, he has earned a right to expose his own griefs and solicit, redress. By the same rule, should a class, that has openly felt and tried to cure the wrongs of others, be deeply wronged itself, that class has a Strong claim to be heard. For I he public and the State to turn a deaf ear would be ungrateful, and also impolitic; it would be a breach of the mutual compact. that cements society, and tend to dis- courage the public virtue of that worthy class, and turn its heart's milk to gall. Now, the class " authors" may be said to rain sympathy. That class has pro- duced the great Apostle of Sympathy in this age; and many of us writers follow m his steps, though we cannot keep up wlili Ins stride. In the last fifty years legislation ami public opinion have purged the nation of many unjust and cruel things; but who began the cure? In most cases it can be traced to the writer's pen. and his singular power and habit of sympathizing with men whose hard case is not his own. Accordingly, in France and some other countries this meritorious and kindly class is profoundly respected, and its industry protected as thoroughly as any other workman's industry. But in Great Britain and her colonies, and her great off-shoot, the class is personally undervalued, and its property' too often pillaged as if it was the production of an outlaw or a beaver. The notorious foible of authors is disunion ; but our wrongs are so bitter, that they have at last driven us, in spite of our besetting infirmity, into a public league for protection,* and they * The Association to Protect the Rights of Authors, 28 King Street, Covent Garden. RE A DIANA. 267 drive me to your columns for sanctuary. I ask leave to talk common sense, com- mon justice, common humanity, plain arithmetic, and plain English, to the Anglo-Saxon race, about the property of authors — a theme which has hitherto been rendered unintelligible to that race by bad English, technical phrases, ro- mantic pettifogging, cant, equivoques, false summing, direct lies, roundabout sentences, polysyllables, and bosh. Do not fear that I will abuse the public patience with sentimental grievances. I have lived long enough to see that each condition of life has its drawbacks, and no class must howl whenever the shoe pinches, or the world would be a kennel, sadly sonorous in the minor key. I will just observe, but in a cheerful spirit, that in France the sacred word " Academy " means what it meant of old — a lofty as- semblage of writers and thinkers, with whom princes are proud to mingle ; and that in England the sacred word is taken from writers and thinkers, and bestowed with jocular blasphemy upon a company of painters and engravers, most of them bad ones ; that the great Apostle of Sym- pathy, when dead, is buried by acclama- tion in Westminster Abbey, but is not thought worthy of a peerage while living, yet a banker is, who can show no title to glory but a lot of money ; that what puny honors a semi-barbarous' but exceeding merry State bestows on the fine arts are given in direct ratio to their brainless- ness — music, number one ; painting, number two; fiction, the king of the fine arts, number nothing — that authors pay the Queen's taxes and the parochial rates, and yet are compelled to pay a special and unjust tax to public libraries, while painters, on the contrary, are allowed to tax the public full fifteen thousand pounds a year for leave to come into a public shop, built with public money, and there buy the painters' pictures. All these are Anglo-Saxon humors, that rouse the con- tempt of the Latin races, but they cannot starve a single author and his family ; so we leave them to advancing civilization, political changes, and the ridicule of Europe. But insecurity of property is a curse no class can endure, nor is bound to endure. It is a relic of barbarism. Every nation has groaned under it at some period ; but while it lasted, it always destroyed hap- piness and goodness. It made fighting and bloodshed a habit and criminal re- taliation a form of justice. Insecurity of property saps public and private moral- ity ; it corrupts alike the honest and dis- honest. It eggs on the thief, and justi- fies the pillaged proprietor in stealing all round, since in him theft is but retribu- tion. Under this horrible curse there still groans a solitary class of honest, productive workmen, the Anglo-Saxon author, by which word I mean the writer, who receives no wages, and therefore his production becomes his property, and his sole means of subsistence. To make his condition clear to plain men, 1 will place him in a row with other productive work- men and show the difference : 1. His own brother, the Anglo-Saxon writer for wages, is never robbed of a shilling. He has the good luck not to be protected by feeble statutes, but by the law of the land at home and abroad. 2. His first cousin, the Latino-Celtic author, has his property, made secure by the common law of his nation, and effici- ent statutes, criminal as well as civil. 3. The painter, the cabinet-maker, the fisherman, the basket-maker, and every other Anglo-Saxon workman, who uses his own or open materials, and receiving no wages, acquires the production, has that production secured to him forever by the common law with criminal as well as civil remedies. Only the Anglo-Saxon author has no remedy against piracy under the criminal law, and feeble remedies by statute, which, as I shall show, are sometimes turned from feeble to null by the misin- terpretations of judges, hostile (through error) to the spirit and intention of the statute. The result of this mess is that the British author's property is pillaged at home ten times oftener than any other productive workman's property ; that in Australia he is constantly robbed, though his rights are not as yet publicly disputed ; 2GS WORKS OF CHARLES READE. that in Canada he is picked out as the one British subject to be half outlawed ; and that he is fully and formally outlawed in the United States, though the British writer for wages is not outlawed there, nor the British mechanical inventor, nor the British printers — these artisans are paid for printing- in the United States a British author's production — nor the British actor ; he delivers in New York for live times as many dollars as his per- formance is worth those lines, which the British author has created with five times his labor and his skill, yet that author's remuneration is outlawry. Unjust and cruel as this is, the other Anglo-Saxon authors are still worse used, especially the American author. He suffers the same wrongs we do. and a worse to boot. Our home market is nol seriously injured by American piracy, but his home market, is. The remuneration of the established American author is artificially lowered by the crushing com- petition of stolen goods ; and, as for the young American author, however promis- ing Ins genius, he is generally nipped in the bud. I can give the very process. He brings the publisher his manuscript, which represents months of labor and of debt, because all the time a man is writ- ing without wages the butcher's bill and baker's are growing fast and high. His manuscript is the work of an able novice ; there are some genuine observations of American life and manners, and some sparks of true mental lire: but there are defects of workmanship: the man needs advice and practice. Well, under just laws his countryman, the publisher, would nurse him ; but, as things ai'e, he declines to buy, at ever so cheap a rate, the work of promise, because he can obtain gratis works written with a certain mechanical dexterity by hum-drum but practiced En- glish writers. Thus stale British medi- ocrity, with the help of American piracy, drives rising American genius out of the book market. Now, as the United States are not defiled with any other trade, art, or business, in which an American can be crushed under the competition of stolen goods, the rising author, being an Ameri- can, and therefore not an idiot, flings American authorship to the winds, and goes into some other trade, where he is safe from foul play. At this moment many an American, who, under just laws, would have been a great author, is a second-rate lawyer, a second-rate farmer. or a third-rate parson: others overflow the journals, because there they write, not for property, but wages, and so escape from bad statute law to the common law of England and the United States. But this impairs the just balance of ephemeral and lasting literature. It creates an ex- cess of journalists. This appears by four tests — the small remuneration of average journalists; the prodigious number of native journals compared with native books; the too many personalities in those too many journals; and the bankruptcy of son journals pel- annum. Now I am ashamed to say all this in- judicious knavery had its root, in En- gland. It was here the words were firsl spoken and written which, being thought- lessly repeated by statesmen, judges, writers of law books, and now and then by publicists, have gradually deluded tin' mind and blunted the conscience of the Anglo-Saxon. That gie.it race is inferi- or to none in common sense, respect for property, small ;is well :is great, and im- partial justice. To be false to all these, its characteristic and most honorable traits, n must lie under some strong de- lusions. I will enumerate these, and show that they have neither truth, rea- son, common law, nor antiquity to sup- port them ; and I hope, with God"s help and the assistance of those able men I may convince, to root them out of the Anglo-Saxon mind, and so give the Anglo- Saxon conscience fair play. Charles Reade. SECOND LETTER. Sir — The four main delusions that set the public heart against authors' rights are : READIANA. 269 1. The JEtherial Mania.— That an author is a disembodied spirit, and so are his wife and children. That to refuse an unsalaried fisherman an exclusive title to the fish he has labored for in the public sea would starve the fisherman and his family; but the same "course would not starve the unsalaried author, his wife, and his children. Those little imps may seem to cry for bread ; but they are squeaking - for ideas. The astherial mania intermits, like every other. Its lucid in- tervals coincide with the visits of the rent- gatherer, the tax-gatherer, and the trades- men with their bills. On these occasions society admits that an author is a solid, and ought to pay or smart ; but re- turns to asther when the funds are to be acquired, without which rent, taxes, and tradesmen cannot be paid, nor life, far less respectability, sustained. No Anglo- Saxon can look the aetherial crotchet in the face and not laugh at it. Yet so sub- tle and insidious is Prejudice, that you shall find your Anglo-Saxon constantly arguing and acting as if this nonsense was sense; and. pray, believe me, the most dangerous of all our lies are those sill3 r , skulking falsehoods which a man is ashamed to state, yet lets them secretly influence his mind and conduct. Lord Camden, the great enemy of authors in the last century, was an example. Com- pel him to look the a3therial mania in the face, and his good sense would have re- volted. Yet, dissect his arguments and his eloquence, you will find they are both secretly founded on the aetherial mania, and stand or fall with it. 2. An Historical, Falsehood. — That intellectual property is not founded on the moral sense of mankind, nor on the com- mon law of England, but is the creature of modern statutes, and an arbitrary in- vasion of British liberty. This falsehood is as dangerous as it looks innocent. It crosses the Atlantic, and blunts the American conscience : and it even vitiates the judicial mind at home. It works thus down at Westminster. The judges there hate and despise Acts of Parliament. They make no secret of it ; they sneer at them openly on the judgment seat, filling foreigners with amazement. Therefore, when once they get into their heads that a property exists only by statute, that turns their hearts against the property, and they feel bound to guard common- law liberties against the arbitrary restric- tions of that statute. Interpreted in this spirit, a statute, and the broad intention of those who framed it, can be baffled in many cases, that the Legislature could not foresee, of which 1 shall give glaring examples. 3. That the laws protecting intellectual property enable authors to make more money than they deserve, and that pirati- cal publishers sell books, not for love of lucre, but of the public, and for half the price of copyrighted books. I will anni- hilate this- falsehood, not by reasoning, but by palpable facts and figures. 4. The worst delusion of all is, that what authors, and the Legislature, call intellectual property is neither a common law property nor a property created by statute, but a monopoly created by stat- ute. This confusion of ideas, unknown to our ancestors, and at variance with the dis- tinctive terms they used, was first ad- vanced by Mr. Justice Yates in the year ITG9. He repeated it eight times in Mil- lar v. Taylor ; and. indeed, without it his whole argument falls to the ground. The fallacy has never been exposed with any real mental power, and has stultified sen- atorial and legal minds by the thousand. It was adopted and made popular by Macaulay in the House of Commons, February 14, 1841. He was on a subject that required logic ; he substituted rhet- oric, and said striking things. He said, " Copyright is monopoly, and produces all the effects the general voice of mankind attributes to monopoly." In another part of his rhetoric he defined copyright "a tax on readers to give a bounty to authors ; " and this he evidently thought monstrous, the remuneration to producers in general not being an item that falls on the public purchaser ; but, where he learned that, only God, who made him, knows. In another part he stigmatized copyright as '•'« monopoly in books." 270 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. He did not carry out these conclusions honestlj'. Holding- them, it was his duty to advocate the extinction of intellectual property ; but, if his conclusions were weak, his premises were deadly. He took a poisoned arrow out of the custody of a few pettifoggers, and put it into the hands of ten thousand knaves and fools; where the respected word ''property - ' had stood for ages, he and the pettifogger Yates, whom he echoed, set up the hated word " monopoly." " Rank weeds do grow apace ; " this fallacy spread swiftly from the Senate 1o the Bar, from the Bar to the Bench. I have with my own ears heard the Barons of the Exchequer call copyright a monopoly ; nor is the expres- sion confined to thai court ; it is adopted by writer's of law-books, and so infects the minds of the growing lawyers. But only consider the effect — Here is a prop- erty the uiv.ii public never reads aboul nor understands, and is therefore at the mercy of its public teachers. It hears fehe mouthpieces of law, and the mouth- pieces of opinion, declare from their tri- bunals that the strange, unintelligible properly called by the inhuman and unin- telligible name of " copyright " is a mo- nopoly. The public hasat last go1 a word with a meaning-. It knows what monop- oly is. knows it too well. This nation has groaned under monopolies, and still smarts under their memory. It abhors the very sound, and thinks that whoever baffles a monopoly sides with divine jus- tice and serves the nation. Therefore to call an author's property a monopoly is to make 1 he conscience of the pirate easy, and even just men apathetic when an author is swindled; it is to prejudice both judges and juries, and prepare the way to false verdicts and disloyal judg- ments. I pledge myself to prove it is one of the stupidest falsehoods that mud- dleheads ever uttered, and able but un- guarded men ever repeated. Ium to prove this to the satisfaction of the Anglo-Saxon race, and of all the honest lawyers who have been decoyed into the error, and have delivered it as truth from the judgment seat this many a year. At present I will only say that if any states- man or practical lawyer, or compiler of law books, who either by word of mouth or in print has told the public " copyright " is a " monopoly,'' dares risk his money on his brains, I will meet him on liberal terms. I will bet him a hundred and fifty pounds to fifty copyright is not a monopoly, and is property. All I claim is capable ref- erees. Let, us say Lord Selborne, Mr. Robert Lowe, and Mr. Fitzjames Ste- phen, if those gentlemen will consent to act. I offer the odds, so I think I have a right to demand discriminating judges. If any gentleman takes up this bet I will ask him to do it publicly by letter to the Pall Mall Gazette, and we will then proceed to deposit the stakes, etc.* From all these cruel delusions I draw one comfort : perhaps authors are not. hated after all. but only misunderstood ; and, if we can enlighten the mind of Statesmen, lawyers, and I lie public, we may lind the general heart, as human to us as ours has always been to our fellow Citizens, and they don't deny it. The t ho greal proper! ies of authors are •• copyright," or t he sole right of printing and reprinting for sale the individual work a man has honestly created, and •• stage-right," or the sole right of repre- senting the same for money on a public stage. The men who violate these rights have for ages been called pirates. The terms "copyright" and "stage-right" are our calamities. They keep us out of the Anglo-Saxon heart by parting us from its language. France calls them both by one name. "Ies droits d'auteurs ;" and it is partly the long use of this human phrase that has made France so just and humane to authors. Warned by this experience, I pause in alarm before these repulsive words, that stand like a brist- ling wall between us and manly sympa- thy; and I implore the reader of these letters to be very intelligent, to open his mind to evidence that under these un- fortunate and technical words lie great human realities; that both rights mean * No person has ever ventured to encounter Mr. Reade. and risk his money on his opinion that copyright is a monopoly. BEADIANA. 271 property, and that to infringe either prop- erty has just the same effect on an author as to rob his house ; but to infringe them habitually by defect of law or judicial prejudice is far more fatal ; the burglar only takes an author's superfluities, but the unchecked pirate takes his house itself, and, indeed, his livelihood. You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house ; you take my life, Wlieu you do take the means whereby Hive. I do earnestly beg the reader then, iti the name of wisdom, justice, humanity and Christianity, not to be baffled by a misera- ble husk where there is really a rich ker- nel ; not to let the technical appearance of two words divert him from a serious effort to comprehend the rights and the wrongs of those men, living, whose in- sensible remains he worships when dead. In face of eternal justice the dead and the living author are one man ; the dead is an author who was alive yesterday, the living is an author who will be dead to-morrow. In a word, then, take away or mutilate either of the properties so unfortunately named, and you remove the sole check of piracy ; but, piracy unchecked, the ruin and starvation of authors, and the extinction of literature follow as inevitably as sunset follows noon. To give the reader a practical insight into this, I will select literary piracy, or infringement of copyright, and show its actual working. The com- position is the true substance of a book ; the paper, ink, and type are only the vehicles. The volumes combine the sub- stance and the vehicles, and are the joint product of many artisans, and a single artist, the author. The artisans, to wit, the paper-makers, compositors, pressmen, and binders, are all paid, whether the book succeeds or fails. To go from the constructors to the sellers, you find the same distinction ; the retail bookseller- takes the enormous pull of 25 per cent on every copy, yet the failure of the work entails no loss on him — unless he over- stocks himself — because he is paid out of the gross receipts. But the author and the publisher take their turn last, and can only be paid out of profits. Where there is a loss it must all fall on author or publisher, or both. Now, books not being so necessary to human life as food or clothing, publishing is a somewhat speculative trade. It is calculated that out of. say, ten respectable books, about half do not pay their expenses, and of the other five four yield but a moderate profit both to author and publisher, but that the tenth may be a hit and largely re- munerative to publisher and author, supposing those two to share upon fair terms. But here comes in the pirate. That caitiff does not print from manu- scripts nor run risks. He holds aloof from literary enterprise till comes the rare book that makes a hit. Then he and his fel- lows rush upon it, tear the property limb from jacket, and destroy the honest shareholders' solitary chance of balancing their losses. The pirate who reprints from a proprietor's type, and reaps gratis the fruit of the publisher's early advertise- ments, and does not pay the author a shilling, can alwa.ys undersell the honest author or the honest publisher, who pays the author, and buys publicity by ad- vertising, and sets up type from manu- script, which process costs more than reprinting. This reduces the honest author's and publisher's business to two divisions : the unpopular books — often the most valuable to the public — by which they lose money or gain too little to live and pay shop, staff, etc. ; and the popular book, by which they would gain money, but cannot, because the pirates rush in and share, and undersell, and crush and kill. I appeal to all the trades and all the arts if any trade, or any art ever did live, ever will live, or can live, upon such terms? The trade— all commercial en- terprise requires capital, and all genuine capital is timorous and flies from insecure property. The art — to produce popular books requires, as a rule, such intelligence and capacity for labor as need not starve for ever, but can go in the course of a generation, and after much individual misery, from literature to some easier profession. Therefore, piracy drives out both capital aad brains, and marks out 272 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. for ruin the best literature, and would ex- tinguish it if not severely checked. This is evident, but it does not rest on specula- tion. History proves it. Piracy drove Goldoni out of Italy, where he was at the top of the tree, into France, and maae him end his days a writer of French pieces for the one godlike nation, that treated a pirate like any other thief, and a foreign author like a French author; piracy ex- tinguished an entire literature in Bel- gium; piracy, A.D. 1875. stifles a gigantic literature in the United States ; piracy for a full century has lowered the British and American drama three hundred per cent; A.D. 1694, the protection afforded to copyright by the licensing Acts be- ing 1 removed, literary piracy obtained a firm footing in England for a time. What followed ? Tn a very few years a handful of hungry pirates reduced both authors and res ble publishers to ruin, them, and their families. This was sworn and proved before Queen Anne's Parliament, and stands declared and printed in their Copyright Act. A.D. 1700. Those col- lected examples of honesl artists, and traders, ruined by piracy are hidden for a time in the Record < >llice : bu1 are many sad and public proofs piracy can break an honest trader's heart, or an honest workman's. I will select two on I of hundreds. The ill-fated scholar we call Stephanus was not only ruined but destroyed, mind and body, by a piratical abridgment. lie found the Greek language without a worthy lexi- con. He spenl twenty years compiling one out of the classical authors. It was and is a gigantic monument of industry and learning. He printed it with his own press and rested from his labors: lie looked at his Colossus with honest pride, and boasted on the title-page, very par- donably, Me duce plana via est, qua? salebrosa fuit. What was his reward ? A man, who had eaten his bread for years as a journey- man printer, sat down, and without any real labor, research or scholarship, pro- duced in one volume an abridgment of the great lexicon. With this the mis- creant undersold his victim and stopped his sale, and ruined him. In his anguish at being destroyed by his own labor stolen, the great scholar and printer went mad, and died soon after. The composer of our National Anthem surely deserved a crust to keep body and soul together. Well, piracy would not let him have one. His immortal melo- dies sold for thousands of pounds, but the pirates stole it all and never gave the composer a farthing. At eighty years of age he hanged himself in despair to escape starvation. The old cling to life — good- ness knows why ; it is very rare for a man of eighty to commit suicide: but, when an inventor sees brainless thieves rich by pillaging his brains, and is gnawed by hunger, as well as the heart's agony and injustice too bitter to bear, what wonder if he curses God and man, and ends the intolerable swindle how he can. The malpractice which could mur- der the composer of our National An- them, has surely some little claim to national disgust, and the legal restraints upon thai malpractice to a grain of sym- patby. Well, its only restraints upon earth are not justice nor humanity — it mocks at these — but copyright and st age- right, whose ugly sound pray forgive, ami listen to their curious history. Charles Reade. THIRD LETTER. Sir — The Greeks and Romans and Saxons had no printing-press, and no theaters taking money at the doors. It is idle to search antiquity, or even medi- aeval England, for copyright, or stage- right, or my right to my Cochin China lien and every chick she hatches. "Bona? legis est ampliare jura : " common law, old as its roots are, has at every period of its existence expanded its branches, because its nature is the reverse of a par- liamentary enactment, and is such as READIAXA. 273 permits it to apply old principles to new contingencies ; to bloodhounds, potatoes, straw-paper, the printing-press, each as they rise. Copyright and stage-right, and many other recent rights, grew out of two old principles of common law ; and these laid hold of the printing-press and the theater as soon as they could and how they could. The first old principle is this: Productive and un- salaried labor, if it clash with no prop- erty, creates a property. All the un- caught fish in the sea belong - to the public. Yet every caught fish comes to hand private property, because produc- tive labor, when it clashes with no precedent title, creates property at com- mon law. The second old principle is this. Law abhors divestiture, or forfeiture of prop- erty. From time immemorial the law of England has guarded property against surmises and surprises by defining the terms on which it will permit divestiture. They are two — ''consensus " and "delic- tum;" that is to say, "clear consent" and "' long neglect," each to be proved before a jury. By the first principle— viz., that pro- ductive labor not clashing with property creates property — a writer or his pay- master acquires the sole right to print the new work for sale. All lawyers out of Bedlam go thus far with me. By the second the proprietor acquires nothing at all ; he merely retains forever that sole right to print which he has ac- quired by productive labor — unless, in- deed, he divests himself by " clear con- sent " or "long neglect," to be proved before a jury. Transfer to another individual is " clear consent." To leave a printed book fifty years out of print might possibly be "delictum," or long neglect — if a jury should so decide — and that would make the right common. But to print and re- print one's own creation is to exercise the exclusive right, and exercise is the op- posite of "delictum : *' it is the very course the common law has prescribed from time immemorial to keep alive an exclusive right when once acquired. So much for the governing principles. Now for their operation. No French nor Dutch jurist disputes that intellectual property was the prod- uct of his national law, though after- ward regulated by statutes ; and that alone is a reply to the metaphysical sophists who argue y some gravitation of injustice to weigh down the habitual victims ; and so a small majority of the peers was got to overpower a large majority of the < ' urns, and the sense and humanity of the nation. Upon this, authors and honest pub- lishers fell into deep dejection, and re- signed all hope of justice during their enemy's lifetime. After his death the House of Peers became more human; t hey seemed t o admit . with tardy regret, that Lord Camden had misled them, a little.; that an author, after all, was not an old wild beast, but an old man: and so t hey gave him hack his stolen property for his whole life, and for twenty-eight years al least . That remorse did not decline, but grew as civilization advanced. In 1842, Parlia- ment . advised by lawyers worthy of the name, passed a nobler bill. They gave the lie direct to Mr. Justice Yates and Lord Camden, by formally declaring copy- right to be property (Act 5 and 6 Vic- toria, cap. 45, sect. 25), anil they post- poned the statutory dissolution of this sacred and declared property for forty- two years at least, and seven years after the author"s death. But for Macaulay\s rhetoric, and his popular cry " Monopoly,'' Parliament would have refunded us our property for sixty years : and that may come as civil- ization and sound views of law advance. For. in this more enlightened century, the progress of intellectual property keeps step with advancing civilization and sound views of trade. Accordingly READIANA. a?9 in 183S, there was a faint attempt at in- ternational justice to authors, and in 1851, other nations began really to comprehend what France, the leading nation in this morality, had always seen, that the nationality of an author does not affect his moral claim to a property in his com- position. But that question includes in- ternational stage-right, and must follow its legal history ; which, however, will not detain us long from the main topic of these letters. Charles Reade. FOURTH LETTER. Sir — Stage-right is a term invented \)y me, and first printed in a book called "The Eighth Commandment." The judges of the Common Pleas accepted it from me when I argued in person the question of law, that arose out of the first count in Reade v. Conquest. The term was necessary. Truth and legal science had not a fair chance, so long as the fal- lacious phrase '•'Dramatic Copyright" infested the courts and the books : its use, by counsel and judges, had created many misunderstandings, and one judicial error, Cumberland v. Planche. Lan- guage has its laws, which even the learned cannot violate with impunity : adjectives can qualify a substantive, but cannot change its substance; "Dra- matic Copyright " either means the ex- clusive right of printing a play book, or means nothing : but, since the word " Copyright " covers the exclusive right of printing a play book, " Dramatic Copy- right " does really mean nothing. It is an illogical, pernicious phrase, and, if any lawyer will just substitute the word " Stage-right," he will be amazed at the flood of light the mere use of a scientific word will pour upon the fog, that at present envelops history and old decisions, especially Coleman v. Wathen, Murray v. Elliston, and Morris v. Kelly, leading cases. Stage-right, or the sole right of an au- thor to produce and reproduce his im- printed dramas on the stage, is allowed by lawyers to have been a common-law right up to the date of 3 Will. IV. This admission shortens discussion. Hens- lowe's Theater was exceptional: in his days and Shakespeare's, most theaters were managed thus : established actors were the shareholders, and obtained plays on various terms; if an author was a member of the sharing company, he was paid by his share of the profits. The non- sharing author received a sum, or the overplus of a certain night, or both. The stage-right of an author vested in the company upon the common-law principle, that the paymaster of a production is its proprietor. To this severe equity we owe a literary misfortune; several hundred plays, many of them masterpieces, were kept out of print, and have been lost. The plays of Jonson, Fletcher, Shakes- peare, and others, were confined to the theater until well worn. Messrs. Pope, Warburton, and Jonson, had not the key to Shakespeare's business, and wrote wildly— that he neglected his reputation, did not think his works worth printing, and, thanks to his flightiness, his lines come down to us more corrupt than the text of Velleius Paterculus : but the t ruth is, other plays were kept out of print as long as his were, and his text is by no means the only corrupt one of that clay ; and what those fine fellows call his flighti- ness was good sense and probity. He valued reputation, as all writers do. But he valued it at its value. The man wrote poems as well as plays, and did the best thing possible with both : of a poem the road to a little fame and profit was the printing press ; of a play the way to great fame and profit was the theater ; readers were very few, playgoers numer- ous beyond belief ; observe, then, his good sense — he prints his poems in 1594, al- most as soon as he can afford to do it : of his plays he prints a few, one at a time, and never till each play has been well worn in the theater. Observe his prob- it\' ; he was a sharing author, and his fel- low shareholders had an equitable lien on •230 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. his plays. To gratify his vanity by whole- sale publication of his plays would have been unfair to them. This is connected with my subject thus : In his will, par- ticular as it is, he did not bequeath his plays to any one. Therefore, prima facie they would go to his residuary legatee. But they did not go to her. Created by a shareholder in the Globe, and hand- somely paid for year by year, they re- mained, by current equity, tin' property of the theater. The shareholders kept them to the boards for seven years after his death, and then printed them. His first editors. Hemming and Condell. had been his joint shareholders m the Globe. Now observe how the men of thai day commented by anticipation on the roman- tic canl of recent pettifoggers, thai cent- uries ago if any one printed a Ms., he resigned all the rights he held while it was in Ms. ! The copyright in Shakes- peare's plays — it was not violated at all. The stage-righl -it was not violated for some years alter the plays were printed ; but, as printing and publishing plays facilitate dramatic piracy, though they do not make it honest, some companies plucked up courage in 1627, and began to perform Shakespeare's dramas from the printed book. Then tin; holders of the stage-righl went to the licenser of plays, and he stopped the company of the Red Bull Theater in that act of piracy. See "Collier's Annals of the Stage," vol. ii., p. 8. The Chamberlain's decision, in this matter, is of no legal value : but it shows historically that the moral sense and equity, which in the present day govern stage-right and copyright, were not in- vented by recent Parliaments: and the proof is accumulative, for ten years hit it — namely, in 1637 — another Chamberlain is found acting on the same equity, and in terms worth noting. On application from the shareholders of the Cockpit in Drury Lane, the Chamberlain gave solemn notice to other companies not to represent certain plays, twenty-four in number, which " did all and every of them properly, and of right, belong to that company." and he "requires all masters and governors of playhouses, and all others whom it concerns, to take notice and forbear to impeach the said William Bieston (who represented the shareholders of the Cockpit) in the prem- ises." Of these twenty-four plays some were in MS., and some printed. The no- tice is worded by a lawyer, and the de- clared object is to protect property. Malone in Prolegomena to Shakespeare, vol. hi., p. 15S. Soon after this the theaters were closed ; and t hat made the readers of plays a hun- dred, where one had been, and deranged forever the equitable custom that pre- vailed before the Civil War. As soon as the theater reopened, dramatists made other and better terms, and those terms were uniform: they never sold their manuscripts out and out to the theater ; from 1662 to 1694 they divided their stage- righl from then- copyright; they took from the t heater the overplus of the third Dighl generally at double prices, and they always sold the copyrighl to the book- sellers. Testibus Downes, Pepys, Malone, ( 'oilier, and many o1 hers. The following figures can be relied on: Stage-righl — In 1694 Southerne obtained another night, the sixth. In 1705 Far- quhar obtained a third night, the ninth, and authors held these three nights about a century. Dryden, under the one-night system, used to receive for stage-right about £100. and for copyrighl £20— £25. But his plays were not very popular. Southerne. for "The Fatal Marriage," A.D. 1694, stage-right two nights' over- plus. £260, copyright £3G. Rowe's "Jane Shore," stage-right three nights, copy- right £50 15s. Rowe : s "Jane Grey," stage-right three nights, copyright £75. Southerne's " Spartan Dame," stage-right not known, copyright £120, a.d. 1719. Cibber's "Non-Juror" and Smythe's, ".Rival Modes." stage-right three nights each, copyright a hundred guineas apiece from Bookseller Lintot. Fenton's " Mari- anne." sta.ire-risht and copyright, total £1,000, a.d. 1723. "George Barnwell." by Lillo, stage-right the overplus of three nights, copyright £105. This copyright Lillo assigned to Bookseller Gray and his heirs forever, on the 25th of November, RE A DIANA. 281 1735. The assignment is to be seen to this day, printed in full, in the edition of 1810. Dr. Young's "Busiris," stage- right three nights, copyright £84. Lintot. Copyright alone of Addison's " Drummer" (failed at the time on stage), £50. Dr. Young's ''Revenge,'' stage-right large, copyright £50. " Beggar's Opera, " stage-right £1,600, copyright £400. "Polly," by the same author, rep- resentation stopped by the Chamber- lain, copyright £1,200. This proves little ; it was published by subscription. " The Brothers," by Dr. Young, stage-right and copyright £1,000, the proportions not ascertained. "The Follies of a Day," by Holcroft, stage-right £600, copyright £300. " Road to Ruin," stage-right £900, copyright £400. Goldsmith's " Good- natured Man," stage-right £300, copy- right £200. "She Stoops to Conquer," stage-right £500, copyright £300. Now the other branch of fiction had but one market, copyright : yet the copyright of a story in prose or verse was less valu- able than the copyright of a play. Mil- ton's " Paradise Lost " was sold in 1657 for £5 per edition, which was rather less than the copyright of a play in 1662, and 80 per cent' less than the stage-right. Defoe did not receive £105 for " Robinson Crusoe." Pope's "Rape of the Lock," first edition, £7. Second edition. £15. Dr. Johnson's " Irene," a very bad play, brought him £315. " Rasselas," an ex- quisite tale, only £100; and his true nar- ratives, and best work, " The Lives of the Poets," only £200. Goldsmith's " Vicar of Wakefield," only £60, which compare with the copyrights of Goldsmith's plays ; that were nevertheless less remunerative than his stage-rights. Of the two prop- erties in a play, both so largely remuner- ated, neither could have been an empty sound ; book-copyright, far less valuable, was, we know, secure; nor is it creditable that the stage-right was legally dissolved, if the author went into print : otherwise, the managers would have objected to the dramatist going into print, and the man- agers were clearly masters of the situa- tion. Macklin v. Richardson — a. d. 1770. Mack! in, author of a MS. farce, used to play it, but never printed. Richardson took it down shorthand from .the actor's lips, and printed it. Macklin filed an in- junction. Defendant tried the reasoning of Mr. Justice Yates : " Plaintiff had flown his bird ; had given his ideas to the public, and no member of the public could be restrained from doing' what he liked with them." This piece of thieves' cant failed, and the injunction was made per- petual. This is a pure copyright case; stage-right never entered the discussion. Coleman v. Wathen, and Murray v. Ellis- ton, were neither copyright, nor stage- right, but bastard, cases, where the wrong plaintiff came into court. They arose out of an imperfect vocabulary. " Words are the counters of wise men, but the money of fools," says Lord Bacon : the sole right of printing being represented by a good hard substantive, any mind could realize that right, but the sole right of representation not being represented by a substantive, the soft heads of little lawyers could not realize its distinct existence and heterogeneous character. One has only to supply the substantive, stage-right, and the fog flies. Coleman v. Wathen. — O'Keefe wrote a plaj r ; by this act he created two proper- ties assignable to distinct traders — a com- mon-law right, stage-right ; and a statu- tory right, copyright. He assigned the copyright to Coleman in terms that could not possibly convey the stage-right. Wathen played the play piratically at Richmond. This was an infraction of O'Keefe's stage-right, but not of Cole- man's copyright : yet bad legal advisers sent not O'Keefe, but Coleman, into court as plaintiff. Murray v. Eliiston. The same error. Lord Byron, by writing " Sardanapalus," created stage-right at common -law, and copyright by statute. He assigned the copyright to Murray. He could have assigned the stage-right to Morris. By not assigning it to anybody he retained it. " Expressum facit cessare taciturn." Eliiston played " Sardanapalus." If Mur- ray had been well advised, he would have sent off a courier to Lord Byron, and ob- 282 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. tained an assignment of the common-law right of representation. Instead of that, this assignee of the copyright went to Eldon, and asked him to restrain a piracy upon the author's stage-right, which was actually at that moment the author's property and not Murray's. Xow it is sworn in the Blue-book of 1832 that Lord Eldon never refused an injunction to a manager, who had purchased a stage- right. But of course when not a man- ager, but a publisher, the assignee of a statutory copyright, came to him to re- strain an infringement of common-law stage-right, he declined to interfere, and sent the plaintiff to Westminster. The judges decided against this plaintiff, bul did not give their reasons. That is very unusual; but how could they give their reasons? The poor dear souls had nut got the words to explain with. Existing language was a mere trap. They had go< one word for two distinct properties: so they very wisely avoided their vehicle of confusion, language, and acted the jusl distinction they could not speak for want of a substantive. There is no reason to suppose thai they would have denied the title of a theatrical manager armed with an assignment of the stage-righl in "Sar- danapalus." There was a side question of abridgment in Murray v. Elliston, bui that was for a jury. The judges had nothing to do with that : what they de- nied was Murray's right to bring an ac- tion; and they were right.: he was no more the plaintiff than my grandmother was. Harris v. Kelly. — This is the only stage-right case in the books. Mi.rn>. manager of the Haymarket Theater, was not a dealer in copyrights, but stage- rights. He produced, not an assignment of O'Keefe's copyright, as Coleman had done, but good prima facie evidence that he had purchased O'Keefe's stage-right. The very same judge, who declined to assist the assignee of Byron's copyright in a case of piratical representation, granted an injunction with downright alacrity when the assignee of O'Keefe's stage-right stood before him. The play, whose performance was thus restrained, had been in print ever so long. There- fore, the theory that under the common law stage-right exists in a MS., but expires if the play is printed, received no counte- nance from that learned and wary judge, Lord Eldon. I knew the plaintiff, Mor- ris : he was a most respectable man ; he has sworn before Parliament that Lord Eldon constantly granted injunctions in support of a manager's stage -right. Morris's evidence is incidentally con- firmed by " Godson on Patents : " he mentions an injunction, Morris v. Har- ris, which is not reported. The sworn deposition of Morris, and the support given to it by the two re- corded cases, Morris v. Kelly, and the unreported case mentioned by Godson, would be meager evidence, if opposed ; but there is nothing at all to set against that evidence — not a case, not a dictum; ami it accords with the prices of plays, play-books, and story-books in prose and verse, for 150 j-ears, 1657 — 1810. Stage- right, therefore, in unprinted plays was, by admission, a creature of the common law and the natural product of common justice: the immense publicity given to the author's ideas by representation did not justify the public in carrying away the words to represent them in another theater. Printings play would greatly facilitate piracy: bu1 the powerto misap- propriate i> oot the right, to misappro- priate. That printing a play could actu- ally forfeit so heterogeneous a property as stage-right is a conjecture. What little evidence there is runs against the forfeit- ure. Up to the Commonwealth, the Cham- berlain, alleging property, stopped viola- tion of stage-right in plays, whether they were printed or not. After the Restora- tion we have only the evidence of prices for 150 years, ami Lord Eldon 's judgment. He protected stage-right after publica- tion, and his is the only judicial decision that touches stage-right at common-law, either in MSS. or play -books. If, therefore, we are to go by impartial principles of law and the best direct evi- dence we can get, and superior weight of judicial authority, speaking obiter in Donaldson v. Becket, and ad rem in RE AD I AN A. 283 Morris v. Kelly, stage - right in MSS., and even in printed plays, was like copy- right, a creature of common sense, com- mon justice, and common law ; but, like copyright, is now a nursling of statutes, thanks to a sudden onslaught by pirates. For, if law be ever so clear, but carry no penalty for breach, property is the sport of accident ; so, on the close of the war in 1815, monopoly and piracy fell upon the dramatist, and destroyed him. Two theaters got the sole right to play legiti- mate pieces in London, and this made the author their slave. They robbed him of his three nights' overplus, and threw him a few pounds for a drama worth thou-* sands. As to the provincial theaters, a single pirate drove all the dramatists clean out of them. Here is a copy of his public advertisement — and please observe it is imprinted plays he pirates whole- sale : — '•' Mr. Kenneth, at the corner of Bow Street, will supply any gentleman with any manuscript on the lowest terms" — and here is an example: — Mr. Douglas Jerrold gives evidence to the Parliamentary Commission, Blue-book, p. 156: — "'The Rent Day ' was played in the country a fortnight after it was produced at Drury Lane, and I have a letter in my pocket in which a provincial manager said he would willingly have given me £5 for a copy, had he not before paid £3 for it to some stranger " (mean- ing Kenneth). The method of this caitiff is revealed in another quarter. "Ken- neth went to the theater with a short- hand writer, who took the words down and the mise-enscene. He had copyists ready at home to transcribe, and the stolen goods were on their way to the provincial theaters in a few hours." But the London theaters also pirated the au- thor. Moncrieff deposed that he produced "Giovanni," a musical piece, at a minor theater. Drury Lane, one of the two theaters that had a monopoly in legiti- mate pieces, sent into Surrey, stole this illegitimate piece, and played it in the teeth of the author. The manager made thousands by it, and brought out Madame Vestris in it, and she made thousands. It was only the poor author that was swindled for enriching both manager and actor. That victim of ten thousand wrongs dared not resist this piece of scoundrelism ; the managers would have excluded him altogether from the mar- ket, narrowed by monopoly. But piracy has also its indirect effects. Even honest people will not give much for a property they see others stealing. By " The Rent Day " the theater cleared twenty thousand pounds ; but the author only £150; and for " Black-eyed Susan," which saved Manager Elliston from bank- ruptcy and made him flourish like a green bay-tree, the author received only £60 ; whereas the actor, Cooke, who played a single part in it, cleared £4,000 during its first run, and afterward made a fortune out of it in the country theaters, which did not pay the author at all. The Commissioners proceeded fairly. They heard the authors relate their wrongs, the monopolists defend their monopolies, and the pirates prove their thefts pure patriotisms as usual : and they reported to Parliament a deep de- cline of the British drama, and denounced as its two causes, the monstrous monopoly of the managers, and the insecurity of the author's property ; on the latter head these are their instructive words : " A dramatic author at present is subjected to indefensible hardship and injustice, and the disparity of the protection af- forded to his labors, when compared even with that granted to authors in any other branch of letters, seems alone suffi- cient to divert the ambition of eminent and successful writers from that depart- ment of intellectual exertion." Thereupon Parliament, in the interest of justice and sound national policy, took away from the two patent theaters their wicked monopoly, and secured the prop- erty of a dramatist by a stringent enact- ment. The last link in the evidence is the statute itself. 3 & 4 Will. IV. did not create a property ; it found one ; and it found a law, but ineffectual. The title, which is evidence, when not contradicted in the body of an Act, runs thus : — " An Act to amend the laws relating to dramatic literary property." Then, as to the Act 284 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. itself, it protects the dramal ist so sharply that if Parliament had been oreating a right they would certainly have fixed a term. But they respected the common- law right they were nursing and left it perpetual; and this, to my personal knowledge, they did because of the grow- ing disgust to the spoliation authors had suffered from preceding Parliaments. What this Parliament thought was, thai stage-right existed forever in unprinted dramas: and they labored to extend the right to its just consequences, and pro- tect it forever by special provisions. When the right had been a statutory right for ten years, it got curtailed : hut Parliament, that took it from the com- mon law, did not curtail it. This is the mere legal history of two sacred properties up to the dates when Parliament, after profound consideration, and full discussion at wide intervals, did. without baste, or prejudice, or any of those perturbing influences with which Lord Camden corrupted lie- peers in his day, declare both these properties to be not monopolies, bu1 personal properl ies. The full statutory definition amounts to this — "They are personal properties, so sacred during the term of their stal utory existence that they carry a main feature of real property : t he very propriel or cannot, convey them to another, by word of mouth: and indeed a bare license 1" print, or to perform in a theater, con- currently with the proprietor, is void, unless given in writing.'' This distinct recognition of property was a return, in principle, to the common law. and the principle was too just and healthy not to grow and expand. Exceptional law is bad law. and stands still. Good law is of wide application, and therefore grows. When one nation takes wider views of justice or durable policy than other na- tions, we do not say like our forefathers. " That nation is hare-brained." We say, nowadays. "That nation is before the rest : " implying that we shall be sure to follow, soon or late : and we always do. France saw thirty years ago that children must not be starved, and so murdered, by adulterated milk. She enlisted science ; detected, fined, imprisoned, the adultera- tors, and made them advertise their own disgrace in several journals. She was not mad. nor divine ; she was human, but ahead. Prussia saw long ago that the minds of children must be protected, like their other reversionary interests. If, therefore, parents were so wicked as to bring children into the world and not educate them, she warned, she fined, she imprisoned, the indulgent and self-indul- gent criminals. She was before other nations, that is all. England was the first to see free trade. She was before the resl of Europe, that is all. France saw. ages ago, that if A creates by labor ;i new intellectual production, and B makes one of its vehicles, the paper, and C and D set ap, and work, the type, which is another vehicle, and print 1 lie sheets, and E (the publisher) sells the intellectual production, together with its s, in volumes to F (the retail book- seller), and F sells them to the public, all these workers and traders must be remu- nerated in some proportion to what they contribute; and that the nationality either of A. P.. ('. 1». H. or F is equally irrelev an1 ; and it is monsl rous to pick o'it A. whose contribution to the value is the largest, ami say, You are a for- eigner, and therefore you can claim nei- ther property, nor wages, nor profit in France, though the smaller contributors, B, C D, E, and F, have a right to be re- munerated, ic In- flu r lluij ure foreigners nr not. French jurists, with the superior logic of their race, saw this years ago, and in 1851 we all began to follow the hading nation, according to our lights : and they were blinkers ; because we were not Latins, but Anglo-Saxons : God has not made us jurists : so the devil steps in, whenever we are off our guard, and makes us pettifoggers. I am going to ask Brother Jonathan a favor. I want him to cast a side glance, but keen — as himself — at what passed between France and England from 1851- 1 b?5 inclusively, and then ask himself honestly whether the European things I shall relate do not appeal to his own READIANA. 285 sense of justice and true public policy. The United States of America can teach us, and have taught us, many things. We can teach them a few things ; not that we are wiser, but that we are older. Age alone brings certain experiences. In the United States piracy says, "I will get you a constant supply of good cheap books and dramas : it is your in- terest to encourage me, and not to foster literary poverty." Piracy says this in the United States, and is believed. Why not ? It looks like a self-evident truth. But piracy has said this in Europe many times, and in many generations, and in many countries, and has been believed, and believed, and believed. But Euro- pean nations have, by repeated trials, at sundry times, ami in divers places, found out whether what piracy says is a durable truth, or a plausible lie. Thus, what in America is still a matter of intelligent conjecture, has become, in Europe, a matter of absolute, proved, demonstrated certainty; and, on this account, I ask American statesmen, for the first time in their lives, to bring the powers of their mind really to bear on the European facts I shall relate, and am ready to depose to on oath either before an American Congress or a Brit- ish Parliament. Charles Reade. FIFTH LETTER. Sir — International Copyright and Stage-Right, a.d. 1851-52. It is instructive to look back and see how this great advance in justice and public policy was received by different classes. 1. The managers of our theaters, and the writers of good French pieces into bad English ones, showed uneasiness and hostility. 2. The British publishers, dead apathy. M. Paguerre, President of the " Cercle de la Libraire," came to London to invite their hearty co-operation ; " but found them indifferent, except as regards America. To the moral bearings of the question they appeared tolerably callous." — Athenoeum, September 20, 1851. This was afterward proved by the prodigious silence of their organs. On this, the greatest literary event of modern times, the Quarterly Revieiv, the Edinburgh, the •British Quarterly, London and West- minster, Blackwood, Eraser, the New Monthly, North British, Christian Ob- server, Eclectic Revieiv, Dublin Re- view, Dublin University Review, deliver- ed no notice nor comment, not one syllable. They shut out contemporary daylight, and went on cooking the stale cabbage of small old ages, by the light of a farthing candle. 3. This phenomenal obtuseness was not shared by the journals and weeklies. The journalists, though they have little per- sonal interest in literary property, being- remunerated in a different way, uttered high and disinterested views of justice and public policy. They welcomed the treaty unanimously. Accept a few ar- ticles as index to the rest. Examiner, 1851, November 29; 1852, January 24, September 4, October 30. Leader, 1851, November 15, November 29. Sunday Times, December 7, 1851. Era, same date. Critic, 1851, March 15, February 2,1852. The Times, 1851, November 19 and November 26 : also December 1, p. 4, col. 6. Illustrated London News, 1851, May 24. Literary Gazette, 1851, May 24, July 5, November 15, November 22, December 13. Athenceum, 1851, January 18, March 15 and 29, June 7, August 2, September 20. November 22. Art Jour- nal, 1851, September and November. The New York Literary World, March, 1851. It would be agreeable to my own feelings to go through these articles ; they bristle with hard facts proving that piracy upon foreigners is a mere blight on literature, and a special curse to the nation the pirate lives in. But, per- haps, a reader or two, like those St. Paul calls noble, will search the matter, and, to save time, the" rest may believe me, writ- ing with the notes before me. I will, however, select a good specimen. A let- 286 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ter from Cologne, by an old observer of piratical translations in Germany, states that thirty years before date, good tran- lations of Scott came into the German market; Bulwer followed, then Dickens. They were read with avidity ; so, not be- ing property, rival translations came out by the dozen. This cut down the profits, and the rival publishers were obliged to keep reducing the pay of the translators — till at last it got to £6 for translating 3 vols. Act 1. Act 2. Bad translations, by incompe- tent hands, bad type, bad paper :. value- less as literature ; yet, by English repu- tation and cheapness, under-selling the German inventor. Death to the German novelist; a mere fraud on the German public— bad translations being counter- feit coin — and no good to any German publisher, because they all tore the specu- lation to rags at the firsl symptom of a sale. Literaii/ Gazette, November 15, 1851. The Times, November 36, 1851, sup- ported the proposed treaty in a leader taking the higher ground of morality, justice, and humanity, but omitting sound national policy. The leader con- tains such observations as these: — "In- tellectual produce lias been the only de- scription of goods excluded from equitable conditions of exchange."- -i Genius has been outlawed. The property it should have owned has. by the comity of nat urns, been treated as the goods of a convicted felon." After giving examples of French, English, and American genius pillaged. the writer goes on thus: — "Still worse, copies were multiplied at a cheap rale in Brussels, and disseminated all over the Continent.'" ''There has long existed a profound immorality of thought with regard to the productions of genius.'" " How short-sighted the policj- has been, the example of Belgium evinces. The effect of its habitual piracy has simply been the extinction of literacy genius throughout Belgium." The Illustrated London Neivs, May 24, 1851, welcomed international justice, and put the logic of international larceny rather neatl}- : — " An English book was treated like any other commodity pro- duced by skill and industry, and so was a foreigner's watch ; but not a foreigner's book." In a word, the British journalists, all those years ago, showed rare enlighten- ment, and personal generosity ; for there are no writers more able, and indeed few so surprising to poor Me, as the first-class journalist, whose mind can pour out treasures with incredible swiftness, and at any hour, however unfavorable to composition; bed-time, to wit, or even digestion-time. Yet these remarkable men. in their business, sacrifice personal reputation, and see it enjoyed by moder- ate writers of books : this would sour a petty mind, and the man would say, like Lord Camden. ' Let authors be content with the reputation they gain : and what is literary property to me? /have no stake in it." But these gentlemen showed themselves higher-minded than Lord Camden; they silenced egotism, and rose unanimously to the lofty levels of international justice ami sound policy; and it would ill become me, and my fel- lows, in Gnat Britain and America, to forgel tins good deed, or to pass it by without a word of gratitude and esteem. 4. With less merit, because we were interested, every author worthy of the name hailed the new morality with ardor. The American authors in particular con- ceived hopes that justice and sound policy would cross a wider water than the ditch which bad hitherto obstructed the march of justice in Europe; and they organized a club to support the movement, with Mr. Bryant for president. I myself had glorious hopes I now look back on with bitter melancholy. I was one of the very few men who foresaw a glorious future for the British drama. It was then so thoroughly divorced from lit- erature, and so degraded, that scholars in general believed it could never again rear its head, which once towered above all nations. But I was too well read in its pre- vious fluctuations, and. above all, in their causes, to mistake a black blight on the leaves for a decayed root. England is by nature the most dramatic country in the READIANA. 287 world ; piracy, while it lasts, has always been able to overpower nature, and al- ways will : but, piracy got rid of, nature revives. The condition of the theater, in 1851, was this — a province of France, governed by English lieutenants, writers without genius, petty playwrights, pub- lic critics, who could get their vile ver- sions of a French play publicly praised by the other members of their clique. The manager was generally an actor thirsting for this venal praise. If he pro- duced an original play, he was pretty sure not to get it : but, by dealing with the clique for stolen goods, he secured an article that suited him to a T ; it was cheap, nasty, praised. The first-class theaters, whose large receipts qualified them to encourage the British inventor, barred him out with new French plays, or old English ones — anything they could steal; yet they could spend £80 a night for actors and singers. Haymarket Theater, 1851. Opened with Macready's farewells. Began its pieces, February 4, with " Good for Nothing " (French) : February 6, '• Pre- sented at Court" (French); March 3, " Don Cassar de Bazan " (French) ; March 8. " Othello ; " March 25, " Tartuffe " (French) ; March 27, " Make the Best of It" (French); April 21. " Arline " (a piratical burlesque of an English opera) ; May 3, "Retired from Business" (En- glish, perhaps) ; May 26, " Crown Dia- monds" (French) ; June 18, "The Cadi" (French); June 23, "John Dobbs " (French) ; June 24, Mr. Hackett, an American actor, in FalstafT, etc.; July 1, " Grimshaw, Bagshaw, and Brad- shaw " (French); July 7, "Son and Stranger" (German); August 13, "The Queen of a Day " (I don't know whether original or French); August 21. "His First Champagne" (French); "Tar- tuffe" and "The Serious Family " (both French); September 10, " Grandmother Grizzle" (French); October 11, "La Sonnambula " (Italian). "Grandmother Grizzle" (French), and "Grimshaw," etc.; October 14, '•Sonnambula" and "Mrs. White" (French); November 17, "Charles the Second" (French), " God Save the King " — a Jacobite song, the words and treble by Henry Carey, the bass by Smith (Carey sang " God Save King James " till the tide turned against the Stuarts, and carried this melody with it, lines and all) — " Rough Diamond "(French) ; November IS, "The Ladies' Battle " (French) ; November 25, "The Two Bonnycastles " (French) ; No- vember 26, "The Beggar's Opera" (Old English) ; December 9, " The Man of Law " (French) ; December 2, " The Princess Radiant" (doubtful). The Lyceum. January 1 to March 24, " King Charming " (French story dram- atized), and farces ; March 24, " Cool as a Cucumber" (French); April 21, "Queen of the Frogs" (French fairy tale) ; May 20, " Only a Clod " (French) ; June 4, "Court Beauties" (French); October 2, " Game of Speculation " (French), "Forty and Fifty" (French), "Practical Man" (English, I think); December 26, "Prince of Happy Land" (French story dramatized). This is no selection, but the whole business of these first-class London theaters, and a true picture of the drama in the City of Shakespeare. I comprehended the entire situation, and saw that the new treaty was a god- send, and might give England back her drama, if supported heartily. I visited France, and many of her dramatists; we hailed the rising sun of justice together, and, as good words without, deeds are rushes and reeds, I gave Auguste Maquet £40 for his new drama, " Le Chateau de Grantier." The promised Act of Parliament came out. Alas ! — what a disappointment ! A penny dole, clogged with a series of ill- natured conditions. It was like a moth- er's conscience compelled to side with a stranger against the child of her heart — " Oh, they all tell me he is a blackguard ; but he is such a darling." It was full of loopholes for the sweet pirate : full of gins, and springes, and traps for authors and honest traders. International Copyright. — The State sells to the foreign author the sole right of translation and sale in England, for a 288 WORKS OF CHARLES RE AVE. petty period, on cruel conditions. 1. He must notify on the title-page of the orig- inal work that lie reserves the right of translation. 2. He must register the original work at our Stationers' Hall — a rat-hole in the City — and deposit a copy gratis within three months after first publication. 3. Must publish authorized translation in England within one year. 4. Must register that translation, and deposit a copy in our rat-hole, within a certain time. — 15 & 16 Vict. cap. 12. In short, the State is "alma mater" to the rascal, "injusta noverca'' to the honest trader. The poor wretch, protected after this fashion, glares and trembles, and says to himself, "Incedo per ignes." The firsl stipulation is reasonable, and all-suffi- cient; the rest are utterly superfluous, vexatious, oppressive, ill-natured. If tin- foreign author and his assignee escape by a miracle all these gins, springes, and author-traps, the State secures them for five years only what was t heir own for- ever jure 'liriiio, and bt/ the law of France, and by the universal human law of productive, unsalaried labor, without any gins, spri _■■■ or ill-natured, catch-penny conditions whatever. International stage-right, 15 & 16 Viet. cap. 12. Stipulations L, 2, and 1, same as above. 3. Must publish the authorized trans- lation in England within three months of registering original play. etc. In this clause, and indeed in Xo. 2, you see the old unhappy confusion of stage- right with copyright. Why. in the name of common sense, is the dramatist, be- cause he objects to be swindled in a thea- ter, to be compelled to publish ? Pub- lication is not a dramatist's market. There is no sale for a play-book in En- gland nowadays. How can the poor wretch afford to translate and publish a translated play, of which the public would not take six copies, though he should spend £100 advertising? Such imbecile legislation makes one's blood boil. Was ever so larcenous a tax on honesty ? It is a pecuniary premium on Theatrical Piracy ; that kind of pirate does not print ; he merely steals and sells to the Theater: so his '"alma mater," and our " injusta noverca."' does not per- secute him with any tyrannical and irrel- evant tax applicable to copyright, but not to stage-right. It only bleeds the everlasting victim, the honest author. But there was worse behind. When the victim of ten thousand wrongs has been bled out of all the money it costs to publish an unsalable translation, and has escaped the gins, springes, author- traps, and probity-scourges, and looks for his penny dole, his paltry live years' stage-right, then he is encountered with a perfidious pro\ iso. "Nothing herein contained shall be so construed as to prevent fair imitation or adaptation to the English stage of any dramatic piece or musical composition published in any foreign country, bul only of piral ical t ranslations." Now, the English theater has seldom played a translation; the staple piracy from 1662 to 1852, and long after, was by altering the names of men and places from French to English, shortening and vulgarizing the dialogue, and sometimes combining two French pieces, and some- times altering the sex of a character or two; sometimes, though very rarely, adding a character, as Mawworm in "The Hypocrite" adapted from "Tar- tuU'e." But whether servile or loose, the versions from French pieces were adapta- tions, not honest translations; and all the more objectionable, since here a dunce gratifies his vanity as well as his dis- honesty, and shams originality, which is a fraud on the English public as well as on the French writer: moreover, it is t he- adaptation swindle that turns French truths into English lies. The Legisla- ture, therefore, appeared to say this: — "The form of piracy most convenient to the English dramatic pirate seems to be not direct reproduction : but colorable piracy. We will profit by thai ex- perience. We will compel the honest dealer to translate literally ; we will put the poor devil to the expense of publishing his literal translation. No manager will ever play his literal trans- READIANA. 289 lation. However, to make sure of that, we now legalize piracy in the established and fashionable form of fair adaptation or imitation." This, after one's experiences of the Anglo-Saxon pettifogger, seemed to re- veal that animal at work defiling the scheme of the Latin jurists, and ensnar- ing his favorite victim, an author's prop- erty : and so it turned out to be. We soon learned how the trick had been done ; a piratical manager had employed a piratical writer to crawl up the back stairs of the House of Commons, and earwig Lord Palmerston, and get this proviso inserted to swindle the French dramatist. The Minister, I need hardly say, did not realize what a perfid3' he was lending himself to, and the French Government had no chance of divining the swindle, because this thief's cant of "fair adaptations and imitations" is entirely English ; the Frenchmen did not even know what the words meant, nor are they translatable; ''imitations faites de bonne foi " has quite a different sense from "fair imitations; " and how could they suspect that a great nation, treat- ing with them on professedly higher views of national justice than had here- tofore prevailed, could hold out its right hand to receive protection of its main intellectual export — magazines, reviews, histories, biographies, novels — yet with its left hand slyly filch away the main intellectual export of the nation it was dealing with, in time of peace and in de- clared amity. History, thank God, offers few ex- amples of such turpitude. But why? It is only because legislators, in pro- tecting any other class of property, are never so weak as to take advice of pirates — a set of God-abandoned mis- creants, whose advice to us, and to you, Brother Jonathan, and to any other nation on the globe, is always a compound of Newgate and Bedlam. When the French did find the Satanic juggle out, they concealed neither their disgust nor their contempt. They re- minded each other that their fathers had used a certain phrase, " Perfide Ekade — Vol. IX. Albion," which we had treated as a jest. Was it such a jest, after all? Could we discover a more accurate epitaph for this piece of dastardly jug- gling ? Here is a distich they applied : Comptez done sur les traites signes par le mensonge. Ces actes solennels avec art prepares ; and here a quatrain on the "fair imita- tions " that our Legislature protected and secured gratis as soon as ever it had decoyed the poor honest gull into the expense of publishing the transla- tion that no creature could try to read nor theater would play : Quoiqu'en disent certains railleurs, J'imite, et jamais je ne pit le. Vous avez raison, Monsieur Drille : Oui, vous imitez — les voleurs. The Satanic proviso that disgraced us in the eyes of a noble nation recoiled, as it always does and always will, Brother Jonathan, upon the nation that had been inveigled into legalizing piracy. It post- poned the great British drama for an- other quarter of a century. Colorable piracy of French pieces being legalized instead of crushed, drove the native dramatist off the boards. The shops were limited by monopoly (6 and 7 Vic- toria), and piracy enabled a clique of uninventive writers to monopolize the goods. If, by a miracle, a genuine dramatist got a play played, then pi- racy punished him in another way. The price was not a remuneration, but a pun- ishment, of labor and skill. I saved a first-class theater from bankruptcy, with a drama. I received only £110; and the last ten pounds I had to county-court the manager for: gratitude is too good a thing to waste on that etherial vapor, ycleped an author. For "Masks and Faces," a comedy which has survived a thousand French pieces, and more, Mr. Taylor and I received £150. In France it would have been £4,000. For "Two Loves and a Life," a drama that has been played throughout Anqlo-Sax- "10 290 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ony, and is played to this day, we re- ceived £100. In France it would have heen worth £5,000. The reason is. a manager was — through bad legislation — a fence, or receiver of stolen goods, and he would only pay fence's prices eveD to inventors. I am known, I believe, as a novelist ; but my natural gift was for the drama : my greatest love was for the drama ; yet the Satanic proviso, and the colorable piracy it inflicted on the nation. di'ove me off the boards, and many other men of similar caliber. 1 beg attention to this, not as a per- sonal wrong : in i hal lighl 1 should be ashamed to lay il before l he \\y\-_ American public, but as one of a thou- sand useful examples, that nature gives way before piracy. Ahle men always did, and always must , turn from their natural market, choked, defiled and low- ered, by piracy, bo some other less con- genial business, where there is fair play. This is how American literature is even now depopulated. I invite eviden American authors. The Satanic proviso injured the drama. \ French truth. I repeat, may be an English lie ; and. as ; ter puis English names of men and p : French pieces, this happened eternally. The maids and wives presented on the English stage were called Mrs. and Miss; but the situatioi - I iments were French. Thus the women of England were habitually misrepresented. Now the public gets tired of a shop that keeps selling false pictures of familiar objects. The Satanic proviso injured our drama m a third way. Property never blocks the theater: piracy always. "The Courier of Lyons " was played in nearly every London theater, one year. 1855; and made the theater unpopular by mo- notony. "The Corsican Brothers" was played in every London theater without exception, and in many of them at the same time. In the drama's healthy day each theater played its own pieces. But, under the hoof of piracy, variety is crushed : in one month, viz.. May, 1852, the Princess's Theater played " The Corsican Brothers," Surray Theater " Corsican Brothers," Hay market " O Gemini ! " — a burlesque on the subject, and Olympic " Camberwell Brothers." Adelphi, which had played "The Cor- sican Brothers," was playing " The Queen of the Market" ("La Dame de la Halle"'): Strand. "The Lost Hus- band" ("La Dame de la Halle"'): Ly- ceum. "Chain of Events" ("La Dame de la Halle"). As for "Don Caesar de Kazan" that piece entirely blocked the lss London theaters for months: and I, who write these lines, fled to Paris, where "Don Caesar" was property, bo get away from the doomed city, where "Don Caesar," not being property, had become a monotony- scourge, and an emptier of theaters into music-halls, public-houses and Bap- tist chapels. In 1859. though I had Left the theater il -pair. I still thought it my duty to 1 he Satanic proviso for the bene- fit of the nation and of other dramatists, whom it would otherwise stifle, as it had 1 wrote a book denouncing it on tin 1 two grounds of justice and public policy: and I appealed, in that book, to the commercial probity and v.-<^^\ sense of the House of Commons, and the sense of honor in legal matters which resides, I tally, in the bosom of the Peers. ed : and it fell among stones. I hope for better luck this time. But were I sure to fail, and fail, as long as I live, I would still sow the good seed, thai cannot wholly die: for it is truth immortal. There being, at that 1 hue, a great out- cry against American piracy. I publicly denied that the United States had ever been guilty of any act so dishonest, dis- loyal and double-faced, as Greal Britain had committed by treating with France for international rights, and contriving, under cover of that treaty, to steal the main intellectual property of that em- pire ; and I offered to bet £70 to £40 this was so. "' The Eighth Commandment," p. 156. I refer to that now, because it is a fair proof I am one, who can hold the balance between my native country and EEADIANA. 291 the United States ; and such, I think, are the men to whom that great Republic should lend an ear ; for such men are somewhat rare : they have some claim to be called citizens of the world, and are as incapable of deliberate injustice, as sham patriots are incapable either of national justice, or national wisdom. In 1S66 I was examined, before the House of Commons, by Mr. Goschen, and cross-examined by members rather hostile to my views. I answered 150 questions, most of them judiciously put ; and full a third of them bore on the effects of national piracy in injuring the nation that pirates. Cross-examination trebles the value of evidence ; and there- fore I recommend it with some confidence to the study of those, who care enough for the truth in these matters, to prefer the sunlight of experience to that jack- o'lantern, « priori reasoning. I have no time to quote more than one answer : "If you strike out that clause (the Sa- tanic proviso), I pledge you my honor as a gentleman that you will see a great drama arise in England." (Report of the Select Committee on Theatrical Li- censes. Price 3s. Sd. Index 9d. Han- sard, Great Queen Street, London.) 1875. — Parliament has rescinded the Satanic proviso, and thereby laid the first stone of a great British drama, as time will show. Between 1852 and 1875 I felt, with many others, that the American Legis- lature is cruel and unjust to authors ; but I have never urged it with any spirit, because mj r noble ardor was chilled by a precept of the highest pos- sible authority — to say nothing of its morality and good sense. I think it runs to this effect, errors excepted: "Take out first the beam that is in thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to take out the mote in Brother Jonathan's eye." Now this year, Parliament having at last taken the beam out of my eye, I do see my way to addi*ess a remonstrance to that great nation, which hang-s aloof from modern progress, and selects for hatred, contempt, and outlawry, while living, those superior men, whose dead bones it worships. Charles Readk. SIXTH LETTER. Sir — International Copyright with America : — The question has been mooted for forty years, and various British Gov- ernments have made languid movements toward obtaining justice for British and American authors. These have failed : languor often does : so now faint-hearted souls say "Oh, it is no use : you might as well appeal to the Andes against snow, or to a hog in his neighbor's garden for clemency to potatoes, as ask the Ameri- cans for humanity to British authors." Before I can quite believe this, they must write out of my head, and my heart, that this American people, torn by civil war, and heart-sore at what seemed our want of principle and just sympathy, sent over a large sum of money to relieve the British cotton-spinners, whom that war, and their own imprudent habits, had brought low. Moreover, I can never de- spair of a cause, because it has been bungled for forty years. There is a key to every lock ; and. if people will go on trying the wrong keys for forty years, that is no proof that the right key will fail for forty more. To find the right- key, we must survey — for the first time — the whole American situation. It com- prises five parties ; the judges — the Legis- lature — the authors — the publishers — the people. The judges — what, in speaking to a Frenchman, we call the law of England, is, in America, the common law of both countries : our common ancestors grew it : the American colonists carried it in their breasts across the Atlantic ; and it has the same authority in the States as here : it bows to legislative enactments : but, wherever they are silent, it is the law of the land. An American lawyer, who cites it with the reverence it really de- serves, does not pay us any compliment. 292 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. He is going back to the wisdom and jus- tice of his own ancestors. Now Congress not having meddled with international copyright or stage-right, an English au- thor's copyright in New York. a.d. 1875, is what it was in London before the Statute of Queen Anne, and his stage- right what it was before 3 and 4 William IV. Half our battle is won in the courts; for the American judges concede to an English author stage-right in imprinted dramas. "Keener. Wheatley ; " 9 Ameri- can Law Reg. 23. " Crowe v. Aitken ; " 4 Am. Law Review, 23, and other cases. And they concede copyright in unpub- lished manuscripts ("Palmer v. De W itt," etc.). If, under the latter bead, they tied the sole right of printing to the paper and handwriting of the manuscript, our case would be hopeless. But they disown this theory, and give .a British author the incorporeal right, I b.a1 is. | tie sole righl to print his composition, though tin- pirate vkii/ be in as lawful possession of a copy as is the public purchaser of a printed book. I shall now prove thai full inter- national copyright is included in tl mission. There are three theories of copyright at common law : The washerwoman's theory. The lawyer's theory. The mad sophist *s theory. The Washerwoman's Theory. — That there can be no incorporeal to property at common law. An author's manuscript is property. If another misappropriates it, and prints the words, that is unlaw- ful : but the root of the offense is misap- propriating the material object, the author's own written paper. Thus, if a hen is taken unlawfully, to sell ti she lays after misappropriation is unlaw- ful. The lawyer's and the sophist's theory both rest on a fundamental theory op- posed to the above — viz., that an author's mental labor, intellectual and physical, creates a mixed property, words on paper ; that the words are valuable as vehicles of ideas, and are a property distinct from the paper; and only the author has a right to print them under any circum- stances. Examples: Pope wrote letters to various people: they paid the postage; the paper, and the inked forms of the letters, became theirs, and ceased to lie Pi pe's. Curll possessed this corporeal property lawfully. Yet Pope restrained the printing. "Pope v. Curll." Lord Clarendon gave a written copy of the famous history to a friend. That gentleman's son inherited it. Had Lord Clarendon's heir misappropriated this written paper, he could have been in- dicted, and sent to jail. Yet. when the lawful possessor of the transcript .sent it to press, with the words on il not written bj the author's hand, bul conveying the author's ideas, Lord Clarendon's heir sued him. nearly a century after the history was composed, and obtained heavy damages: ••Duke of Queensberry w. Shebbeare." There are many other cases, including •• Macklin v. Richardson," and " Palmer v. De Witt," lately uied in New York. ]iui t his peculiar posit ion in " Queens- berry v. Shebbeare " is the besl to scruti- nize. A is the lawful possessor, by in- heritance, of a transcript. B is the a ui bor's heir. If B steals A's i ranscript, he can be indicted; if A prints his own transcript, he violates the pure incor- poreal copyrighl of B, and cannot be in- dicted, but can be sued on the case for violation of a property as incorporeal and d from paper and all other ma- substance, as any thai was con- firmed to an author Iry Queen Anne's Statute, or the Acts of Congress in re. The Lawyer's Theory. — When an author exerts this admitted incorporeal right, by printing and publishing, anew party enters, the public purchaser: he acquires new rights, which have to be weighed against the author's existing right strengthened by possession ; for the author has created a large material property under his title, which would be destroyed as property if his copyright was forfeited by publication. How our ancestors dealt with this situ- EX A DIANA. 293 ation is a simple matter of history; there- fore we distrust speculation enth'ely and go by the legal evidence. The Mad Sophist's Theory rejects with us the washerwoman's theory, and concedes that an author has, at common law, intellectual property, or copyright, thus abridged — he has the sole right, under any circumstances whatever, to print his imprinted words. But, when he publishes, he sells the volumes without reserve : he cannot abridg-e his contract with the reader, and retain the sole right under which he printed. He has aban- doned his copyright by the legal force of his act, and this is so self-evident that the sophist declines to receive evidence against it. Whether copyright in printed books existed before Queen Anne's Act, he decides in a later age, whose modes of thinking are different, by a priori reason- ing, and refuses to inquire how old the word "copy " is. or what is meant under the Tudor and Stuart Princes, in acts of State, licensing Acts, and legal assign- ments, or to look into the case of " Roper v. Streater," ''Eyre v. Walker," or any other legal evidence whatever. This was the ground taken by Justice Yates in " Millar v. Taylor."' He founded a school of copyright sophists, reasoning a priori against a four-peaked mountain of evidence. He furnished the whole artillery of falsehood, the romantic and alluring phrases, " a gift to the public," etc., the equivoques, and confusions of ideas, among which the very landmarks of truth are lost to unguarded men. Since it is this British pettifogger who, in the great Republic, stands between us and the truth — between us and law — be- tween us and morality — between us and humanity— between us and the eighth commandment of God the Father — be- tween us and the golden rule of God the Son, Judge Yates becomes, like Satan, quite an important equivocator, and I must undeceive mankind about Judge Yates and his fitness to rule the Anglo- Saxon mind. In "Millar v. Taylor," the case that has given Judge Yates so great a tem- porary importance in England and America, the main question was a simple historical fact : did copyright in printed books, which preceded legislation in France and Holland, also precede in England a certain enactment called Queen Anne's Statute ? No a priori reasoning was needed here. The Latin jurists used none to ascertain the identical fact in their own country, and therefore, with no better evidence than we have, they are unanimous. We are divided by a priori reasoning on fact. In "Millar v. Taylor " two modes of searching truth encountered each other on the narrow ground, each party reject- ing the washerwoman's theory, and ad- mitting pure copyright, but disputing whether in England it was forfeited by publication. One method is by a priori reasoning, and was the method of the Greek sophists, and medieval schoolmen. The other is by observation, and evi- dence, and is the method of Lord Bacon and his pupils. Scholars sometimes permit themselves to talk as if the former method was uni- versal in the ancient world. That state- ment is excessive. Plain men, in their business, anticipated the Baconian method thousands of years ago, as the jury in "Millar v. Taylor" followed it. The Greek sculptors anticipated it, and their hands reached truth, while the philoso- phers, their contemporaries, where roam- ing after their will-o'-the-wisp, And found no end in wandering- mazes lost. There was the pity of it ; those, who, by learning, leisure, and ability, were most able to instruct mankind, were en- ticed by bad example and the arrogance of the intellect, into a priori reasoning, and diverted from docile observation ; and so they fell into a system, that kept the sun out and the door shut. The other system, in 250 years, has en- lightened that world, which lay in dark- ness. To test the systems, take any period of 400 years before Lord Bacon, and esti- 294 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. he progress of the world in knowl- edge and useful discoveries. Then take the 250 years after Lord Bacon. I vary the figures, out of justice, to allow for in- creased population. Lord Bacon was the savior of the human intellect. He discouraged plausible con- jecture, or a priori reasoning, and taught humble, close observation. Thereby he gave the key of the heavens to Newton, and the key of Nature, and her fo the physical investigator, and the prying trie. Man began to culti\ a humble but wise faculty of observation : by cultivation, and taught him how to wrestle with Nature for crets, and extort them. Thi a branch of useful learning, that method has not improved 500 per cent. Of course, even since Lord Bacon, prejudice lias, in holes and corners, resisted observation : but the final result is sure. -1 priori rea- soning bled people to death with the lan- cet for two centuries after Bacon: but Bacon has . the lancet. A handful of Jesuits will tell you that the historical query, whether one Bishop of Rome has contradicted another in faith, must not be learned from contemporary ed by internal thoughl a thousand years afterward. Well, that medieval crotchet will go, and Bacon stay. And so it must be, sooner or later, with everything, copyright at common law — the national expediency of piracy — the infallibility of men with miters — everything. The world has tasted It will never eat cobwebs again for long. To put the matter in another form — Such of our common ancestors. Brother Jonathan, as invented phrases, were near- ly always acute observers. They called a a prodigal "a spendthrift." having ob- served how often that character dissi- pated the savings of another man. A quarrel, with almost divine sagacity, they called not '.' a difficulty,'* which is a brainless word, but a misunderstanding, and they called a madman [a man out of his senses. Why not out of his reason? Well, they had observed. The madman who did not fly at their throats, but gave them time to study him, did nothing but reason all day, and not illogically ; but, blinded by some preconceived idea, could . nor hear, nor observe. Intelli- gent madmen have busy minds, and often argue speciously, but start from some d contradicted by their senses. iv the great gates of wisdom, and to the lunatic these gates are always more or less closed by prepossession. Not eVents distant by space or time can- not be seen nor heard by us, but by per- sons present. Where they get recorded at Hie time, the senses of the eye wit- nesses have spoken: and the pupil of Lord Bacon must have recourse to the ■id report of those persons. Into that evidence he peers, and even cross- examines it. if he can : and he can some- times: for. when a dead witness makes an admission, it has the effed and value of a truth extracted from a living witness against his will. Where contemporary evidence is abundant, and maniform. it, is very reliable, and the man, who opposes (i priori reasoning, or preconceived ideas, to it. IS A LUNATIC IN THE SECOND I feel that I am giving a Large key to unlock a small box; but small keys have failed; and Cicero says well, " Errare, falli. labi. tarn turpe est quam decipi." 1 will, therefore, in my next give The Ba- conian method v. the method of the an- cients, or Millar v. Taylor, showing how an English judge proved, out of the of his inner consciousness, that copyright at common law could not have existed, even as a waggish Oxford pro- fessor proved, by the same method, that ■a Bonaparte could never have existed. Charles Reade. SEVENTH LETTER. Sir — The poet Thomson, in 1729, as- signed the copyright of ••The Seasons" to Millar, his heirs and assigns forever. In 1763 Taylor printed "The Seasons'' and Millar sued him : the case, as ban- READIANA. 295 died, turned mainly on whether copy- right in printed books was before Queen Anne's statute. This being- a mixed question of law and fact, the opinion of the jury was taken upon documentary evidence, the records of Stationers' Hall, anil many ancient assignments of copy- right drawn up by lawyers long before the statute, and others long after it. The defendant had powerful counsel ; so this evidence doubtless was sifted, and kept within the rules. The jury brought a special verdict, in which are these words — "And the said jurors, upon their oath, further say that before the reign of her majesty Queen Anne, it was usual to purchase from authors the perpetual copyright of their books, and assign the same for valuable considerations, and to make the same the subject of family set- tlements." The jury here were within their province ; they swore not to a matter of law, but to a custom, in which, however, lawyers at different epochs had taken a part b} 7 drawing the legal assignments. Most of this evidence has melted away. but the sworn verdict of twelve unpreju- diced men of the world remains, and, by the law of England and America, over- powers and indeed annuls, all judicial conjectures in this one matter of fact. On this basis the judges discussed the law, and Lord Mansfield, Mr. Justice Willes, and, above all, Mr. Justice Aston, uttered masterpieces of learning, wisdom, close reasoning, and common sense, that the instructors of youth in Harvard, Ox- ford, etc., would do well to rescue from their dusty niche, and make them teach- ers of logic, law. and morals, in universi- ties and schools They built on all the rocks : 1st, on the voice of conscience ; on Meum and Tuum ; on the sanctity of productive labor ; on the title of laborer A to the fruits of A's labor, and the primd facie absence of a title in B to the fruits of A*s labor without a just equivalent. 2d, on the universal admis- sion that an author alone has a right to print his written words, and on the legal consequence that by exercising- this sole right and creating a large material prop- erty under it, he keeps the right alive, not dissolves it, since common law abhors divestiture of an admitted right, and loss of property created by invitation of law. From these principles they went, 3dly, to special evidence, and traced the history of the exclusive right to print pub- lished books ; showed it at a remote period called by the very technical and leg-al name the statute adopted centuries later ; proved the recognition of this right by name in proclamations and decrees, and Republican ordinances, and three par- liamentary licensing Acts under three dif- ferent sovereigns prior to Queen Anne's statute ; the entire absence of dissent in the old judges, and their uniform concur- rence when speak they did: their dicta in re, and their obiter dicta. — as that "the statute of Charles II. did not give the right (copyright), but the action :" and •• of making title to a copyright," and of " a copy " being a property para- mount to the king's g - rant, and so on — and then they cited law cases in a series, beginning with "Roper v. Streater,"long before the statute, and continued in equity long after the statute upon titles created long before the statute, as "Eyre v. Walker,'* where the assignment of the copyright was in writing dated 165*7, and "Tonson v. Walker," where the assign- ment (Milton's "Paradise Lost") was dated 1667: " Motte v. Falkner." etc. They also cited the preamble, or histori- cal preface, of the statute itself, and other matters. This reveals the Baconian method, and the true legal method, which goes by principles resting on large induction, and applicable to all citizens, impartially ; and by the best direct evi- dence accessible. Against the Washer- woman's theory they cited "Pope v. Curl," and "Queensbury v. Shebbeare." Judg - e Yates accepted, though rather sul- lenly, "Pope v. Curl," and "Queensbury v. Shebbeare," and, in stating his own theory, foreswore the washerwoman. He admitted that, before tiie statute, if any person printed an author's words without his express consent to print them, he acted unlawfully, although he came by them by legal means, as by loan or devo- 296 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. lution. The word "devolution" he used expressly to keep within "Queensbury v. Shebbeare" (4 Burroughs, 2379). But from that point he parted com- pany with the judges and the jury, and undertook to prove, out of the depths of his inner consciousness, that the incor- poreal right, which in " Queensberry v. Shebbeare," prevailed againsl sixty years' lawful possession of a written copy, could not possibly have continued against five minutes' lawful possession of a printed copy: — (risum teneatis, amid.) Yules. — "Goods must be capable of possession, and have some visible sub- stance: for. without that, nothing is capable of actual possession." "Noth- ing can be an objecl of property which has not a corporeal substance," etc. This proposition repeated about six tin •■ The am hor's unpublished manuscript is corporeal. Bui after publication by the true proprietor, the mere intellect- ual ideas iii a book are totally incor- poreal, and therefore incapable of any distind separate possession: li- ned her We " seized, forfeited, nor pos- sessed, etc.," and this discovery he re- peated often, and rang the changes. "Can the sentiments themselves, apart from the paper, be taken in execution for adebt? Incase df treason, can they tie forfeited ? If they cannot bi sole right of publishing them cannot be confined to the author. There ran be no property where there can be no forfeit- ure." etc.. etc. Behold the lunatic inthesecond degreeJ His senses, if he had not been oul of them, revealed that copyrighl in printed books existed by law while lie spoke, and yet that ideas were incorporeal and could not be seized nor forfeited ; nor the sentiments taken in execution. The nat- ure of ideas throughout creation was the same before and after Queen Anne's little trumpery statute : yet here is a lunatic in the second degree, who either says Queen Anne's Parliament had repealed God Almighty in this particular, or says nothing at all : for the sole point in dis- pute is, Did copyright in printed books exist among English human beings, before Queen Anne's statute, as it did among French human beings, before any special enactment — or did it exist in written works only ? Who but a lunatic in the second degree cannot see that t lie sole right of printing unpublished ideas, is the very same property in the ideas as the sole right of reprinting the same ideas, and that all publication can do is to let in anoi her claimani to the right of printing, viz., the public purchaser. As to all his •■ galimat ias " t here can be no property detached from a visible substance — the fool has gone and blun- dered into THE WASHERWOMAN'S THEORY, and blundered out of t he insane sophist 's. The insane sophist began with disown- in:.'' the washerwoman. She, poor w retell, is contradicted not only by "Roper v. Streater." but by "Queensberry v. Sheb- beare," and "Pope v. Curl." the cases Fates admits. But Lord Mansfle hired the insane sophist and would-be washerwoman on this, and literally pul- verized his washerw an's twaddle, with fifteen sledge-hammer sentences begin- ning thus :—" It lias all along been ex- pressly admit t ed." a nd ending '•under a commiss on of bankruptcy." I do not cite the pulverizing para- graphs, because there is no need. Yates's attempt to smuggle in the washerwo- man's theory under the insane sophist's is self-evident, and has failed utterly; for to "Pope v. Curl." and •• Queensberry v. Shebbeare." are since added " Macklin V. Richardson," and "Palmer v. De Witt," both death-blows to the washerwoman's theory. rainier v. De Witt. — Robert- son. English dramatist, wrote a comedj . ." and played it all over England, but did not publish. He assigned the copyright, and stage-right, at common law. to Palmer, an American citizen. De Witt published "Caste" in New York. Palmer sued him, and the case was set- tled, by judgment for Palmer, who was. in law, the English author. (New York- Court of Appeals, Feb. 27, 1872.) The judgment lies before me. There was no violation whatever of the manuscript. READIANA. 297 Nothing' was misappropriated but the linked right to print and publish a corn. position, to which enormous publicity lias been given by twenty prompt copies and fifty sets of parts, and representation in fifty theaters at least. Therefore this American court of very high authority has gone with Lord Mansfield, and other great lawyers, and swept the very main- stay of Judge Yates's sophistry away forever. This narrows the question to forfeiture, or non-forfeiture, by publication, of copy- right at common law. Now this soi- clisant forfeiture, Queen Anne's Parlia- ment treat, in the preamble, or historical prelude, as a malpractice, a violation of property ; they say it is unjust — cruel — and neiv ; which is prestatutory evidence in the statute itself. Yates gives Queen Anne's Parliament the lie, and under- takes to prove, out of the depths of his inner consciousness, that this malpractice was — at the very moment when Parlia- ment denounced it, and prepared, in imi- tation of preceding Acts, to punish it as a misdemeanor — just, reasonable, and old. Having set this very Parliament above the Creator, he now sets it below Yates. However, his argument runs thus : he says that we authors put for- ward ideas and sentiments, as the direct object of property at common law in old times, and insult common sense and jus- tice in pretending that we could publish our ideas, yet reserve the right of print- ing those ideas for publication. This is plausible, and paves the way for his romantic phrases that have intoxicated ordinary minds, such as "the act of pub- lication, when voluntarily done by the author himself, is virtually and neces- sarily a gift to the public.'" Then hand- ling it no longer as a donation but under the head of implied contracts, which is a much sounder view of the author's sale to the public purchaser, he says, neatly enough, the seller delivers it without re- striction, and the buyer receives it with- out stipulation. Then he jumps to this droll inference : "Nothing less than leg- islative power can restrain the use of anything." This, however, is a purehy chimerical distinction ; the common law was founded partly on Royal statutes, largely conceived, and resembling max- ims ; and limited uses are not altog-ether unknown to it; every river is a highway, over which the public can pass, and even bathe in it, without infringing property ; but not always fish ; and a right of way obtained by use, or leased to the churchwardens, under which the public can lead its cow across a freeholder's field, gives no right to graze her upon the path ; and, if I let the public into my tea-garden at sixpence a head to eat all the fruit they can, no express stipula. tion is required to reserve the fruit trees. Moreover, Yates's position is too wide; it lets in other nations ; now the French and Dutch common law give it the lie direct in copyright itself ; so, if we must reason a priori, the chances are fifty to one the English common law gave it the lie too. But this is our direct reply— for the multiplying power of the press is so unique, it excludes all close comparisons — so far from claiming a property in ideas, that is the very thing the holders of copj^right at common law did not claim. That is the claim of the patentees alone, as I shall show in the proper place. So far from ideas becoming incorporeal after publication, etc., which statement of Yates's is a " galimatias," and an idiotic confusion, ideas are incorporeal only at a period long antecedent to pub- lication — viz., while the} 1 - lie in the au- thor's mind. An author connects his ideas with mat- ter once, and forever, when he embodies them in a labored sequence of words marked by his hand on paper. These w r ritten words are matter, by collocation, labored sequence, and the physical strokes of a pen with a black unguent ; matter, as distinct from the paper as gas is from the pipe, and, though they convey men- tal ideas, the written words themselves are not so fine a material as gas, which yet is measured and. sold by the foot. ' The phrase "intellectual labor" is an equivoque and a snare that has deluded ten thousand minds. It applies some- 298 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. what loosely to study ; but an author's productive labor is only one species of skilled labor ; it is physical, plus intellec- tual, labor, and those compositions which led to common-law rights were the re- sult of long', keen labor, intellectual and physical, proved to be physical by the vast time occupied — whereas though! is instantaneous— and by shortening the life of the author's body, through its on the blood vessels of the brain, which are a part, not of the mind but of the body. The said vessels get worn author's productive Labor, and give way. Tins, even in our short experience, has killed Dickens, Thackeray, and perhaps Lytton. The shorl life of aul general is established by statistics. See Neison's "Vital Statist The words are the material /chicle of is : Hi,, paper is the material ve- hicle Of the WOl The author has. by admission of Yates. the sole right to do as follows, and does it: — He takes the written words, which his ideas, to the print- ing compositor, and the compositor takes printed letters identical with the author's, though differing a little in shape — but that is a mere incidenl of the day : in the infancy of printing they were id ntical in shape, only worse formed — he sets the letters in forms, and passes them to the pressman. For this the compositor charges say 628. With the pressman, and not with the eomposit or. who is a copyist for the Press, begins the Press. Now comes the mechanical miracle which made copyright necessary and inevit able ; the Press can apply different si the same metal letters conveying the com- position : thus a thousand different paper volumes are created in which the letters and the author's composition are one, but the volumes of paper a thousand. The volumes are now ready, but not is- sued : and I beg particular attention to the author's admitted position at com- mon law one moment before publication. He has still, by law (Yates assenting), the sole right to print, and publish ; he has created, for sale, a thousand volumes, under an exclusive legal right to create volumes for sale : he has added to his original legal right three equities : — 1st, priority of printing, which is nothing against a legal title, but something against a rhapsodical title: 2d, the peculiar expense of setting type from written words: 3d, occupancy: and the equitable right to sell again the thousand volumes, a large material prop- erty created under an exclusive legal title founded on morality and universal law, and conceded by Judge Yates. For the force of occupancy added to title, see Law. passim ; and for the fi ove special equity, see "Sweet r. Cator." Well, the man in possession of the legal right, and also of the additional equities, and also of the material volumes, now does a proper and rational act, by which the public profits confessedly, an act such as no man was ever lawfully punished for; he publishes, or sets in cir- culation, his one composition contained in many paper vehicles, lie sells each volume say for six shillings to the trade, eight .shillings to the public reader. What, he intends to sell to the public reader for eight shillings, is — paper and binding, two shillings; printers' work, sixpence; useful or entertaining knowledge, alias his own labor, four shillings; the right of he ideas in many v. plagiarizing and printing them re-worded, _ it of selling again t he very thing the purchaser bought — the one material volume with its men tents. Prima facie, the contract, so un- derstood, is not an unjust one to the buyer, nor an extortionate one for the seller. His profit, on these terms, does not approach the retail trader's, who, in practice, is the seller to the public, yet for- feits nothing by the sale. Now- it is a maxim of the common law, that where two interpretations of a contract, ex- pressed or implied, are possible, one that gives no great advantage to either party, and the other that gives a monstrous advantage to one party, the fairer inter- pretation is to be preferred, since men, meeting in business, are presumed by the law to exchange equivalents : and this BEAD! AX A. 299 rule, established b}- cases, applies espe- cially where a whole class of contracts is to be interpreted. Please observe that the ground I am upon, viz., of implied con- tracts, was selected by Yates, and I ask which interpretation, Yates's or ours, agrees with the undisputed common-law doctrine of equivalents ? The purchase of books is a lottery. But there are a host of prizes. Lord Bacon's works gave the public purchas- er a great deal more than a thousand million pounds' worth of knowledge and power ; yet he made no extra charge to justify a claim on his copyright founded on purchase of his volumes. The great books balance the little : and the buyer has the choice. Colonel Gardiner was converted in an afternoon, from vicious courses, not by a vision, but a duodecimo ; and that is a fact attested b3 T Jupiter Carlyle. — I didn't find it in my intestines, where Yates looks for facts. Many men, about the very time of " Millar v. Tay- lor," ascribed the salvation of their souls to a copy of Doddridge's " Rise and Prog- ress of Religion in the Soul." If a pupil of Yates, before purchase of Doddridge, that would be a great improvement in a reader's prospects — for 8s. Besides, after he has been converted from Yates's reading of the 8th of Anne, to Doddridge's reading of the 8th of Moses, and his soul saved, etc., he can lend or sell the volume. Then why pil- lage Doddridge for un-Yatesing him, and saving his soul dirt cheap ? Find me the party to any other contract, who can eat his cake, yet sell it afterward, like the honest purchaser of a good volume. Charles Reade. EIGHTH LETTEB. Sir — The next intellectual article the insane sophist opposes to evidence is vituperation, or mendacity trading upon popular prejudice. " It is a monopoly opposed to the great laws of property," etc., repeated ten times. Now gauge his logic. He says : 1. The sole right of printing a man's own composition is a perpetual property at common law. 2. If the proprietor exerts that perpetual right lawfully, to the benefit of himself and the community, and law-, mistaking him for a felon, divests him of it. the g-ood citizen forfeits his property. 3. If law declines to abjure its abhorrence of forfeitures, and does not divest him of his sacred property, the sacred property becomes monopoly . How? by bare re- tention ? by non-forfeiture ? by continu- ation ? Did ever continuation or non-for- feiture of a property metamorphose that property into a monopoly ? So then if my hen and her chickens run upon a common, and law, having- imbibed a spite against feathered property, lets the public in to scramble for them, I can scramble with the lot, but lose pay prop- erty in my hen and chickens. But if law declares they are mine still, though my blind confidence has made it very easy to pirate them, then my property in my hen and my chickens becomes a monopoly — which word means the sole right to sell any hens or any chickens whatever. Is this a lunatic, or a liar ? — or both ? I have no theory of my own about mo- nopoly : I merely appfy settled truths that idiots repeat like cuckoos but cannot ap- ply. Monopoly is defined in the law books, and justly defined, to be "an ex- clusive right to sell any species of mer- chandise " — ''genus quoddam merca- turse." Property is a wider right over a nar- rower object. It is the sole right of keep- ing, destroying-, leasing, or selling, not a species of merchandise, but only that individual specimen of merchandise, or those individual specimens, which happen to be the man's own by law. One well- known historical feature of monopoly is that it was the creature of Royal pre- rogative ; another that it has always clashed in trade with undoubted prop- erty. In this kingdom are now no liter- ary monopolies, but there is one dramatic monopoly, viz., the exclusive right of the 300 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. licensed managers to represent any play whatever — yours, mine, or theirs (6 and ; Victoria). But literary monopolies in- fested the ages Anachronist Yates mis- represents ; and those men of the com- mon law he underrates — and they were great masters of logic compared with him — always called them by their righl name, " Patents." Under Henry VIII., one Saxton had the sole right to sell printed maps and charts, and. under Elizabeth, Tallis and Bird, to sell music. Both were vetoes on a species — nature, monopoly — name, a patent — root, pre- e. The owners of copyright groaned publicly, again and again, under these infractions of their property by prerogative patents; and, after the sec- ond revolution, when prerogative was staggering under repeated blows, liter- ary property, or copyright, took a lit- erary patent, or monopoly boldly by the throat, in " Eloper v. Streater." Streater, lute patentee, had. from the Crown, the sole righl to sell law reports by whom- writtt a. This poly — an exclusive right to sell a species of liter- ary composition. Roper bought of Judge Croke's executor the copyright or sole right to reprint Judge Croke's reports, and line his trunk with t hem or sell them — which is property. And this muddle-head Yates could look with his moon-ca >' "Roper v. Streater," yet call literary property in a man's own (by purchase) printed com- position, a monopoly, even when he saw literary monopoly and literary property cheek by jowl in a court of law — fight ing each other as rival suitors — and the mo- nopoly in a sjjecies of books declaring its nature, its distinctive title. " patent." and its root in prerogative; and the literary property declaring its nature, its dis- tinctive title, copyright, and its root in common law. So that, in "Roper v. Streater." the plaintiff gives Yates the lie on behalf of property: the defendant gives him the lie on behalf of monopoly ; and the judges give him the lie in the name of the common law, when he calls copyright in a man's own printed book " a monopoly contrary to the great laics of property." In my very first letter I offered the statesmen and lawyers Yates has gulled with this fallacy a bet of £150 to £50 a man's copyright in his own printed book is property, and not mo- nopoly ; yet of all the men who are so ready to swindle authors at home and abroad out of a million pounds by means of this pettifogger's lie, not one has had the honesty nor the manhood to risk £50 of his own against £150 of an author's, upon the-lie. I hope the world will see through this, and loathe it. and despise 1 do. To sum up the bag of moonshine — To any man who has nvul history at us Mansfield and Blackstone did, Yates's whole picture of old En- gland is like an historical novel written by an unlettered girl, she undertakes, like lam. 1., present antiquity; and what she does portray is the little bit of her own age she has picked up. its thoughts and phrases. Under the Tudors and the S1 tarts her characters are impregnated with modern views of liberty, and rhap- sodize accordingly: they nave even a smattering of "pi on y " and let you know it : and they say "the Sab- bath " — •' illusions " — "developments " — "to burke an inquiry " — " the fact of my being so and -,,." meaning " t lie circum- stance of my being so and so." — and her counsel address the jury for a criminal, and you may thank your stars if Lady Jane Grey does not lay down her Longi- QUS (of whom there was not a copy m tic kingdom) and waltz with the Spanish dor. The sentiments and the phrases Judge Yates ascribes to men under the Tudors, the Stuarts, the Com- monwealth, and the Dutchman, are all pure anachronisms quite as barefaced to any scholar as those in a virgin's novel. Old England never personified "the pub- lic," as Yates fancies it did, and "Fur Publicola," or the patriot thief of copy- right, was yet unborn. The men who built seven gables to one house, and breakfasted on ale, had no such extrava- gant anticipations of liberty as to despoil private property in its sacred name. In- deed "copy" was a word oftener used READIANA. 301 than "liberty," under James I., and even when liberty began to struggle, it was against power in high places, not prop- erty in low ones. It cut down preroga- tives ; it did not run away with fig-trees because the proprietor sold it the figs. The tall talk, the bombastical mendacity, "publication of a volume being a gift of the copyright to the public" — "a prop- erty in ideas," etc., all this rhapsodical rubbish emanated from romantic petti- foggers, gilding theft, at a known date — namely, between 1740 and 1765 — and the ideas were not a month older than the varnish, for they were all invented, not by judges, but by counsel for the defense of post-statutory piracies. Find me this slip-slop defiling the mouths of the old judges. So much for & priori, reasoning against evidence. What else was to be expected ? The system of reasoning that kept the world dark for ages, it would be odd in- deed if that system could not darken a single subject, and turn so small a thing as a pettifogging judge into so common a thing as a lunatic. The Baconian Method v. the Method op the Dark Ages. [ Evidence on one line may mislead : but concurrent evidence — never. By concur- rent evidence I mean veins of evidence starting from different points, but con- verging- to one center. Three distinct coincidences pointing to one man as a murderer have always hanged him in my day. I have many examples noted. Al- most the greatest concurrence of hetero- geneous evidence on any historical fact ivhatever, is that which proves copyright at law in printed books before Queen Anne ; which also proves an Englishman has full copyright in the United States. . First let me ask — What is a word ? The insane sophists seem to fancy it is a thing, or else air. It is neither. It is de- fined, and justly, by the logicians, "the current sign of an established thing." It can never precede the thing signified. We all know the work-making process; for we have all seen it. There was no word more wanted than "telegram," yet it was not coined till years after the thing signified. I saw the verb "to burke" created. It w T as coined about six months after Burke, who smothered folk for the anatomists, was hanged ; but it took years to penetrate the kingdom. When a word gets to be used by different classes, gov- erning and governed, that is the voice of the nation, and its currencj 7 shows the thing to be full-blown and long-estab- lished. It is simply idiotic to look, with moon-calf eye, at an ancient popular word, and bay the moon with conjectures that no ancient thing was signified. Heads of the evidence against forfeiture of copj'right by publication. 1. The word "copy" from the Tudor princes to Queen Anne's statute, and in the statute, and after the statute, always used to signify the sole right of printing before and after publication. That alone bars Yates's theory that publication dis- solves the property. 2. The ancient use of this technical word in disconnected things and places, yet always to denote property and occu- pation. Example ^4. — Entries of sales and transfers of copyright, from 155S to 1709, at Stationers' Hall, by occupiers. Proviso in 1582 that, where the king had licensed any individual to print, the license should nevertheless be void, if the copy- right belonged to another. B. — -Recogni- tion of "copy" as property in Acts of the Star Chamber, and Republican ordi- nances, both valid as historical evidence, and in the licensing Acts of Parliament 13 and 14 Charles II., 1 James II., c. 7, 4 William and Mary, c. 24, which are evi- dence, and something more, since, in all these, Royal Parliaments, having the same power as Queen Anne's, protected, by severe penalties, that very property at law in published books which Yates divines out of his inside had expired by publication. Either these licensing Acts were copyright Acts — which is absurd — or they protected copyright as it existed forever at common law. Here "copy," or "copyright," might very well imitate Des Cartes, and say, " Protegor ; ergo sum." C. — Use of the old word " copy," in Queen Anne's statute. The first stat- 302 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. ute on any matter is written under the common law. Even this truism has es- caped the babblers on copyright. In Queen Anne's Act, the word " copy " is used six times in its common-law sense; and it is first applied, viz., in sect. 1, not to manu- scripts on the eve of publication, but to printed books; and the preference antiq- uity had for the printed book over the MS. is here continued; twenty-one years the minimum term to a published book, fourteen to a MS. on the eve of put tion. Is that how Yates talks about the MS. and the book? D. — Recognition of the word, and thing, in business. Public and notorious sales of ancienl copj rights, some of them famous: "The V* Duty of Man ; " Dryden's copyrights, bol h dramatic, and epic : Milton's, Southern's, Rowe's, and some of Defoe's, Swift's, and Addison's. /•.'. — Several as- signments of "copy" forever, thai now survive only in the verdict of the jury. ■ Millar v. Taylor." A vast nui drawn after the statute upon the per- petual common-law right : one. referred to in a former letter, survives in print, "George Barnwell." ed. 1810. F.— The of the word ['by lawyers" in these pre-statutory agreements, also in the declaration " Ponder v. Bradyl," an ac- tion on the case brougb.1 for piratical printing of -'The Pilgrim's Progress," " of which " — so runs the plaint — "the plaintiff was, and is, the true proprii wherehy he losl lit of his 'copy." " This brief and technical statement of the grievance is not like a pleader groping Ids way by periphrasis to a doubtful right. The pleader is mi a beaten track. 3. The terms on which Milton leased the copy qf "Paradise Lost"' to Sim- mons, in 1667. £5 for the first edition, £5 for the second edition, £5 for the third. (See Todd's "Life of Milton.") This contradicts Yates, and his theoi'y of for- feiture by publication, as precisely as A can contradict B in advance. When the liar speaks first, true men can fit the con- tradiction to the lie, in terms ; but, when the honest men speak first, the liar can evade their direct grip, by choice of terms; fur he has the last word. Put yourself in the place of Simmons ; if you were a publisher, and publication forfeited copyright, would you agree to give an author the very same sum for the second edition, and the third, as for the first :' I am quite content to refer Simmons's treaty with Milton to Messrs. Harper &i Co.. Messrs. Osgood, Ticknor & Co., Messrs. A.ppleton & Co., Messrs. Shel- don cv: Co.. New York publishers. They shall decide between Yates and me. Mr. Justice Yates say-. Simmons's was an agreement with Milton, under the com- mon law. for the mere sale of early sheets, y Mr. Justice Yat( s is a roman- cer. Now multiply this evidence by a, hundred. We only know this business (Milton and Simmons) through the acci- dental celebrity of the book; hut the jury, in 1769, hail a pile of examples before them. 4. The subsequent history of " Paradise Lost." Paid by Simmons to John Milton £5 in 1667. In 1669. £5 lor the se< ond edition. In 1<>74. £5 for the third edition, paid to Milton's widow. In 1680, sale of the copyright, for £8, Dame Milton to Simmons. Simmons, in two years, sold the copyright to Aylmer lor £25: and Ayliner, 1683. sold half to Tonson, and, in 1690, the other half, for a consider- able sum. Soon after that a vast public i in : yet Tonson held the copy- right undisturbed. The temptation was strong: but so was the common law. It was never pirated till 1730. seventy- two years after first publication. It was no sooner pirated than Tonson moved the court. It had no protection under the Act. That protection expired in 1731. A judge, who was a ripe lawyer before Queen Anne's statute, and knew the pre- cedent common-law right, restrained the piracy at once under the common law, " Tonson v. Walker." Legal History — 1667-1710, protected by common law alone, and never pirated. 1710-1731, protected by common law and statute. 1732 to 1774. by common law only. Protected by injunction, 1739, and' again in 1751. 5. The verdict of the special jury in EE AD I AN A. 303 ** Millar v. Taylor." They were not men blinded by any preconceived notion; they were twelve men of the world ; they sifted the evidence, and found disjunc- tive]}' that it was " usual, before Queen Anne, to purchase from authors perpetual copyrights, and to assign the same from hand to hand, and to make them the subject of family settlements : " all those disjunctive finding's are equally good against the public claimant, unless Yates can prove it was also the custom before Queen Anne to settle Bag-shot Heath, and Wimbledon Common, and ten turnpike roads upon son Dick, with a mortgage to nephew Tom, and a remain- der to cousin Sal. His legal objection that custom short of immemorial cannot make a legal title is specious. But he forgets ; the root of our title is not in anything so short as what lawyers call immemorial custom. Our title is ac- quired by productive labor, and is per- sonal property — a legal right six times as old as the British nation. The narrow question of fact the jury dealt with was this — was it usual for the act of publication to dissolve in one mo- ment the perpetual right Judge Yates admits, a right acquired not by custom, if you please, but by productive labor and universal law ? For its modest office of interpreter of law applied to so narrow a matter as non-forfeiture of an admitted right, the custom of two hundred years (solidified by a law case or two), and con- tradicted by no elder nor concurrent custom, is more than sufficient — "consue- tudo interpres legum." The special jury were educated men ; impartial men ; sworn men ; many men ; unanimous men ; Yates was one unsworn man, with a bee in his bonnet. The twelve jurors were the constitutional tribunal, chosen of old by the Kingdom, and still chosen by the great Republic to try such issues. The one Yates was, as respects this issue, an unconstitutional tribunal appointed by himself, and no more sworn to try that issue than Dr. Kenealy was sworn to try the issues in the "Queen v. Baker." The verdict of that jury is law; and the usage of the kingdom for ages before Queen Anne is proved to be non-forfeiture by publication, and proved on evidence since dispersed ; and therefore proved to THE END OF TIME. G. The preamble of the statute. This is pre-statutoiy evidence, and Yates says it accords with his views. The reader shall judge. I will draw a preamble honestly embodying his views — as every candid mind shall own — and I will place it cheek by jowl with Queen Anne's pre- lude. Preamble a la Yates. Whereas, for the great- er encouragement of writers and other learned men, to produce labori- ous and useful books of lasting benefit to man- kind, it is expedient to restrict,for certain times, and under certain condi- tions, that just liberty, which the subjects of this realm have hitherto enjoyed, of reprinting and publishing all such works as by publication have become common property ; be it enacted, etc. Preamble of the Act 8th Anne. Whereas printers,book- sellers, and other per- sons, have of late fre- quently taken the liberty of printing, reprinting, and publishing, books, and other writings, with- out the consent of the authors, or proprietors of such books and writings, to their very great detri- ment and too often to the ruin of them and their families ; for preventing therefore such practices for the future, be it enact- ed, etc. I make no comment. I but invite ripe men to inspect this as intelligently as girls do Sir Octopus. Eyes and no eyes have muddled copyright long enough. 7. Lawcases. A.— "Roper v. Streater," King's Bench. Alias copyright, or liter- ary property, v. monopoly. Judgment of the whole Bench for copj'- right at law against monopoly and pre- rogative. B. — "Roper v. Streater." House of Lords. The Lords admitted perpetual copyright at law, but declared the king had a pay- master's claim to Judge Croke's reports because he paid the judges and acquired a copy right in their decisions. Thus they smuggled him in as proprietor at common law. Yates's theory of forfeiture by publication never occurred to the mind of any judge, either in the King's Bench or the House of Lords. C— The injunctions soon after the statute. Here there are two things to be considered. 1st. A judge does not roll out of his cradle on to the woolsack. Sir Joseph Jekyl was a ripe lawyer in 1700, 304 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. when "Roper v. Streater" was tried in the Lords. He saw the common-law right long before the statute, and went by it after the statute, and against the literal words of the statute ; for they affix a term, and so could never suggest a new perpetual right. In 1735 he re- strained ;i piracy on "The Whole Duty of Man," published in 165? ("Eyre v. Walker"). 2d. In those days an injunction really meant "an injunction to stay waste of some property not disputable at law." Where there was a shadow of doubt at Westminster no equity judge would ever grant an injunction. This is notorious: con- sequently the injunctions granted on the perpetual common-law right, byju timid, are evidence no1 only oi their own adhesion to the perpetual common-law right, but proofs that all the contempo- rary judges at Westminster concurred tacitly. Agreeably to tins Lord Mans- field distinctly declares that the first doubt, which ever arose about the per- petual right, was in " Tonson v. Collins ;" and the Court of Chancery, on hearings mere whisper of that doubt down at minster, instantly refused the in- junction, because of the doubt, though they did nol share it. 1 myself knowfrom quite another source that they even sus- pended their proceedings in "Macklin v. Richardson " because "Millar v. Taylor" was pending in the King's Bench. There- fore t he chain of injunctions 1 hey granted between 1735 and 1751, on the perpetual common-law right, were post-statutory acts by pre-statutory minds represent- ing the whole judicial opinion of the nation l<( forr ami after the statute. s. Admissions. — This is the highest kind of evidence. A. — Milton attacked a parliamentary licensing Act with great spirit. When a man falls upon a measure in the heat of controversy he is seldom nice. Yet this polemic and great enthu- siast for liberty drew the rein at private property, and solemnly approved the con- stitutional clause in the Act, the severe protection of copyright. B. — The peti- tioners to Parliament in 1703. It was their interest to make a strong case for parliamentary interference. Yet they ad- mitted they had an action on the case against pirates, and had no fears of a ver- dict ; but could not get sufficient damages, nor enforce them, because the pirates were paupers. The force of this unwilling evidence has never been justly appreci- ated. C. — A Legal Phenomenon. — Judge Yates had a peek at several minor cases, but never once, in a discourse thai lasted t hive hours, did he dare to touch " Roper v. Streater," either in the King's Bench or the House of Lords. Now when a law- yer dare not call his own principal \\ h uess, we all know fact, is dead against him : and. when he affects to ignore the leading case againsl him, that means be cannot gel over the law of that case, and knows it. Of course a more honest judge would have faced it. and either got over it. or else given into it. Indeed, there is no other recorded instance in which a dis- sentient puisne judge ever shirked the _ ease relied on by the chief of his court and the other puisnes in any case so fully reported as " .Millar y. Taylor." It is phenomenal. Every practical lawyer knows in Ins heart what it means, and it is a game thai only pays with dull or in- experienced men. To us, who know courts of law. and the tact of counsel m gliding, with a face of vi t til ine innocence, over what they cannot encounter, it is but shallow art; for it blows the gaff; and the critic goes at once to the ignored case, to see whyit was ignored. Well, Yates •■_ "Roper V. Streater" because ho wanted people to believe two infernal falsehoods (1) that perpetual copyright at law in printed books did not exist before Queen Anne, and (?) that, had it existed, it would have been a monopoly opposed to property. Now, in both these particulars, Roper, or property, gave him the lie — Streater, or monopoly, gave him the lie — and all the judges, in both courts, gave him the lie. That is why he evaded "Roper v. Streater," and the unprece- dented evasion is evidence that he knew it smashed him. Thus "Palmer v. De Witt." and the other cases, backed by common sense and READIANA. 305 universal law, prove a man's perpetual incorporeal property in the fruit of his own skilled labor. That law, deviating' from all its habits, divested a man of so sacred a right because he exercised it, is a chimera supported only by a priori reasoning and romantic phrases born about 1750, and unknown to the old judges. i First Ave answer a fool accord- ing to his folly, and pull his chimera to pieces. Then we answer him not accord- ing to his folly, but on the great Baconian method. And now this is clear; either Bacon was an idiot, or Yates was an idiot. We prefer Bacon, and to go, in a matter of fact, by the general usage, and the sense of the old kingdom, sworn to on evidence by a jury, and confirmed and solidified by a chain of reported law cases, beginning before the statute and continu- ing by the force of common law after the statute, in a perfect catena ; also the obiter dicta of the old judges, and their dictaad rem, all which heterogeneous evi- dence is "uncontradicted by any usage, book, judgment, or sa3'ing." Teste Lord Mansfield. So then "Robertson v. De Witt" and the complete proof supra of non-forfeiture by publication at common law give us copyright in printed books in the United States. We claim it from the judges at Washington, should we be driven to fight it in that form, and meantime we appeal to their consciences to back us with the Legislature of their country. For, if Robertson, making twenty copies of " Caste," and fifty sets of parts, which is multiplication of copies in a way of trade, and handing the parts to two hun- dred different actors — a reading public — and delivering- the words for money to about a million spectators who pay, can- not by the common law be pillaged of his sole right to print and publish, what a farce it is to pretend on grounds of com- mon law that another British writer, for publishing a book and selling one hundred copies in Great Britain, can be lawfully despoiled in the United States of his sole right, in spite of Blackstone and Mans- field, and on the ground of a mere varia- tion in the mode of publicity and the way of selling. By such reasoning law is di- vorced from common sense and from all ancient interpretation and usage, and from even the shadow of morality. Now law exists, not for the sake of law, but of morality. Chakles Reade. NINTH LETTER. Sir — The power of judges is often crip- pled by precedents, that revolt their consciences and their sense ; but a Legis- lature is happier ; the justice it sees, that it can do. Now, when literary property was first seriously discussed in the States, the question whether copyright is a prop- erty or a monopoly, a natural right or a creature of prerogative, had just been discussed in England, and the Legisla- ture of Massachusetts read "Millar v. Taylor" and "Donaldson v. Becket," and decided between the dwarf sophist Yates, and the great lawyer Mansfield, in very clear terms. I beg particular attention to this, that Justice Yates pointed to the title of Queen Anne's statute, as "an Act for the encourage- ment of learning, by vesting the copies (copyrights) of printed books in the au- thors or purchasers," and said very fairly that the term "vested " implied that the right did not exist before, in the opinion of Parliament. To this Lord Mansfield replied that the title of an Act is no part of an Act j and that in the body of the Act the word "to vest" is not used, but the word "to secure," and that the pre- amble would decide the question, even if a title could be cited against the body of an Act, for the preamble is full and clear in its recognition of the then existing property. In March. 1783, the Legislature of Mas- sachusetts gave judgment on this ques- tion of title v. body and preamble, as precisely as if Mansfield and Yates had referred it to them. They passed their first Copyright Act under this title — - " An Act for the purpose of securing to authors the exclusive right and benefit 306 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. of publishing their literary productions for twenty-one years.' - Having elected between ••vest'' and -'secure" in their title, they passed to the second point; and, to leave no shadow of a doubt as to their views, drew such a preamble, as even Mr. Justice Yates, who affects to misunderstand Queen Anne's preamble, could hardly twist from its meaning : and I shall be grateful to any American critic, who will do American and E authors so much justice as to inspect the comparative preambles I put together in my last and compare hoth with this which I now cite : •• Whereas the improvement of knowl- edge, the progress of civilization, the public weal of the community, and the advancement of human happi depend on the efforts of learned and in- genious persons in the various arts and 5: As the principal encourage- menl such persons can nave to make great and beneficial exertions of this nature must depend on the 1 of t le- fruits of 1 heir study and ii to themselves; and. as such security is one of the natural rights of all men. there being no property more peculiarly a man's own than that which is produced by the labor of his mind, therefore to encourage learned and ingenious | to write useful books for the benefit of mankind. Be it enacted." etc. 1 Mass. Laws. 94, e,l. L801. The other States followed this example and these sentiments ; all avoid the word " vest " ami employ the word ••secure." and all. or most of them, recognize the security of an author's properly a- '-a right perfectly agreeable to the princi- ples of natural justice and equity." See the excellent work on copyright of G. T. Curtis, an American jurist, p. ". The very idea of "monopoly *' is absent from all these Acts: they emanated from men who were lovers of liberty and constitutional rights, and had shown how well they could fight for them . whereas canting Camden illustrated his peculiar views of the common law by not uttering one word of objection in the House of Lords to a parliamentary tax upon the colonies for the benefit of England : an usurpation it would be as difficult to And in the law of England as it is easy to find copyright here. From these sound principles of justice and national policy the Legislature of the United States has fallen away, and list- ened this many years to cant, and the short-sighted greed of a Venetian oli- garchy sticking like a fungus on the fair trunk of the Republican tree. But I dare say not one member of Congress knows how unjust and unwise is the present state of statute law, as regards British ami American authors. It is not only injustice we writhe under, but bitter, and biting, and inconsistent partiality. Even little lawyers, though their men- tal vision is too weak to see tie' essential difference between patent-right and copy- right, have a sort of confused notion that copyrighl is a trifle more sacred, and ut with common law. than the various and distinct monopolies, just and unjust, which the narrow vocabulary of law huddles together under the term patent-right. Yet. m this great and enlightened Republic, international copy- right and stage right, by statute, are re- fused, and international patent-righl es- i ed. -i Lncl ion is a masti rpiece of par- tiality, immorality, and inconsistency. The patenl on new subs.tances discovered or imported is a monstrous, unconstitu- tional restraint of just liberty, and will be abolished whenever Legislature rises to a science. The patent of invention s salutary. It is the exclusive right to carry out and embody, by skilled labor, one or two bare and fleshless ideas, but sometimes of prodigious value to the world: oftener, of course, not worth a button. The patent of invention is a mild mo- nopoly in a species or sub-species of ideas : but copyright in bare ideas does not exist. Copyright cannot arise until the bare and fleshless ideas of the author, infinitely more numerous than a paten- tee's, have been united with matter, and wrought out by the mental and physical labor of the writer, which physical labor EEADIAXA. 307 accelerates the death of his body. An author's physical posture, when at work, is the same as a printing - compositor's physical posture — see the famous portrait of Dickens at work — and his physical labor is similar, and equally bad for the body, whereas thinking' and sweating' at the same time are healthy. The author does the intellectual and physical labor not onl}' of the architect or the mechan- ical inventor, but also of the builder or of the skilled constructor, and his writ- ten manuscript corresponds not with the specification of a patent, or the plan of a house, but with the wrought article, and the built house. The printing press adds nothing to the author's production ; it does not even alter the vehicles, but only improves them, and that only of late years, since running hand. The modern manuscript is paper with a certain labori- ous sequence of words marked on it in ink by skilled labor; the book is paper with the same laborious sequence of words marked on it by mere mechani- cal labor taking little time. Let A read from the manuscript and B from the book, and both readers deliver the same complete production, corresponding with the patented or patentable article, not with the bare specification. This object of property, the author's material web of words, has not, in itself, the value of a patentable article. Its value lies in its unique power of self-re- production by means of the actor or the press. Mechanical articles of very mod- erate value are more valuable per se than any author's MS., but mechanical articles have no power of self-reproduction. There is no magic machine with which three quiet idiots, without an atom of construc- tive skill, can reproduce steam-engines, power presses, and sewing machines. But three quiet idiots, with the printing- press, can, without one grain of the original author's peculiar art, skill, and labor, re- produce exactly his whole composition, and can rob him of the entire value in his object of property, because, without the sole right of printing, his object of prop- erty has not the value of a deal shaving, whereas an article that might be patented. but is not, is worth riinety-two per cent of the same article patented . Thus the American Legislature outlaws t lie complete, executed, wrought out property of a Briton, and protects his inchoate monopoly or exclusive right to go and work upon certain bare intellect- ual ideas, provided they are bare ideas applicable to mechanics. Take this specification to a Patent Office. " I have invented a young man and two sisters in love with him. They were amiable till he came, but now they undermine each other to get the young man ; and they reveal such faults that he marries an artful jade who praised every- body." You apply for a patent or monopoly of these bare ideas, this little sub-species of story. You are refused, not because there is no invention in the thing — there is mighty little, but there is as much as in nine patents out of ten : where is the author who could not sit on a sofa and speak Patents ? — but because the common law, whose creature copyright is, protects in an author, not invention, but construc- tive labor ; gives him no property in bare ideas, but only in a labored sequence of written words which convey ideas, but are produced by physical and intellectual labor mixed, and are distinctly material in nature and character, though they carry an intellectual force and value. The piratical imitation of a patented sewing machine is only imitation by skilled workmen of the patentee's ideas ; it is not identical reproduction of his wrought-out and embodied ideas, by mere mechanics working a stealing machine. To pirate a patented article you must em- ploy the same kind of constructive skill the patentee, or his paid constructors employ, and then you only mimic ; but to pirate an author and steal his identical work, none of an author's skill or labor is required. All the brains required to re- produce mechanically that sequence of words, which is an author's object of property, are furnished to this day by John of Gutenberg, who invented the machine, by which an author lives or dies, as law protects him, or lets thieves rob 308 WORKS OF CHARLES READS. him with a stealing instrument worked 03- mere mechanics. So then the American Legislature pro- tects a foreigner's monopoly, and steals a foreigner's property. The monopoly this great Republic protects is the creat- ure of the British Crown, to which the great Republic owes nothing, and the properly i( outlaws is a property that arose in the breast and brain ami con- science of our common ancestors. They, whose wisdom and justice founded this property m England, were just as much Americans as English, and we all sprang from those brave, just, and honest men. To swindle poor. weak, deserving, pri- vate men of a kindred nation out of tins sacred property, which our common an- cestors created and venerated and de- fended againsl 1 he ( Iroto a in " Roper v. Streater," as the United States defended their rights againsl a Parliament usurp- ing Russian prerogatives, a pi which Milton revered, whose heart was with the Pilgrim Fathers, and all just liberty whatever; and to protect a Bri- fcon's monopoly, the mere creature of arbitrary prerogative — this double in- iquity. 1 say. is legislation that li- the name of legislation and national sen- timent ; it is a prodigy of injustice, par- tiality, and inconsistency. What ! I spend two thousand hours" labor on a composition ; to be sold it must be wedded to vehicles, paper, type, bind- ing, and it must be advert ised. I pa\ the paper-makers, the printers, the bind- ers. I pay the advertisements: the re- tail trader takes twenty-five per cenl of my gross receipts: the publisher justly shares my profits. The book succeeds. I cross the water with it. and its reputa- tion earned by my labor, and my adver- tisements ; I ask a trifling share of the profits from an American publisher, who profits by me as much as ever my British publisher did. " You ! " says he, "you ai'e nobody in this business. I shall pay for the vehicles, but not for the pro- duction that sells the vehicles. I shall pay the paper-makers, and also the print- ers and binders. Britons or not. But I shall take your labor gratis, on the pre- tense that you are a Briton."" The Ameri- can public pays a dollar for the book ; fifty-five cents of the value is contributed by the English author. The various lab- orers, who are all paid, make up the forty-five cents among them. He who alone contributes fifty-five per cent is the one picked ou1 of half-a-dozen work- men eoncerned to be swindled out of every cent, and the Legislature never even sus- iat by so doing it disgraces legis- lature and mankind. An Englishman wiiii-s a play, mixing labor with inven- tion. The stage carpenter contributes a petty mechanical idea suggested by the scene: he u-es wavy glass at an angle under limelight to represent the water. The play crosses the Atlantic; anybody steals it for all the Legislature cares. but. if they toucb my carpenter's demi- semi-invention, his bare fteshless inti ual idea of placing an old substance, glass, at an angle under another old thing, lime- lighl — " Ealte la ne touchez pas a la Reine ! " The creature of Crown Pre- rogative protects in New Fork and Bos- ton the naked half idea of the British carpenter. No American glass and lime- lighl honestly bought must be wedded to that bare idea : and the idea taken gratis. Only the property can be stolen — because il belongs to the everlasting victim of man's beast l\ cruelly and injustice: the dirty little British monopoly is secure. The British actormust be paid four times his British price for delivering the Brit- ish author's property in a New York or Boston theater; the fiddlers, Britons or not. for fiddling to n ; the door-keepers for letting in the public to see it, etc. Only the one imperial workman, who created the production, and inspired the carpenter with his lucrative demi-semi- idea. and set the actors acting, and the fiddlers fiddling, and the public paying-. and the thief of a manager jingling an- other man's money, is singled out of about eighty people, all paid out of his one skull, to be swindled of every cent, on the pretense that he is a Briton ; but really because he is an author. The world— wicked and barbarous as it READIANA. 309 is — affords no parallel to this. It is not the injustice of earth ; it is the injustice of hell. Charles Reade. TENTH LETTER. Sir — I ask leave to head this letter The Fivefold Iniquity. The outlawry of British authors and their property is a small portion of the injustice. The British Legislature has for years offered the right hand of in- ternational justice ; it is therefore the American Legislature that robs the Amer- ican author in England. That is No. 2. But the worst is behind. The United States are a stiff protectionist nation. The American chair -maker, carriage- maker, horse-breeder, and all producers whatever are secured by heavy imposts against fair competition with foreigners. Also the American publisher, and the American stationer. The tariff taxes pa- per, I think, and is severe on English books. But turn to the American au- thor. — He cannot write a good work by machinery ; like the English author, he can only produce it by labor, intellectual and physical, of a nature proved to shorten life more or less. While he is writing it, debt must accumulate. When written, how is this laborious producer in a protectionist nation protected ? Are imported compositions paid for like any other import, and also taxed at the ports to protect the native producer? On the contrary, the foreign literary composi- tion is the one thing not taxed at the ports, and also the one thing stolen. And the State, which dances this double shuffle on the author's despised body at home, robs him of his property abroad. The enormity escapes the judgment of the American public in a curious way, which T recommend to the notice of meta- physicians. It seems that men can judge things only by measurement with similar things. But the world offers no parallel to this compound iniquity, and so, com- parison being impossible, the unique vil- lainy passes for no villainy. I will try and remove that illusion. Let us suppose a fast-trotting breed of horses, valueless in trade without a car and harness. You must yoke the horse to car and harness, and then they run together, and are valuable ; but they don't melt together, because they are heterogeneous properties ; and so are the author's composition and its vehicles het- erogeneous properties ; you may mix the two, but you cannot confound them as you can flour and mustard, by mixing - . An American citizen breeds a horse, at considerable expense, for the dealers. They supply the cart and harness, and have virtually a, monopoly in the trade. Carts and harness, to be imported, must be bought and taxed. But the Legislature permits the dealer, and trade monopolist, to steal foreign horses, and also import them untaxed. How can the American breeder com- pete with this double iniquity ? The analogy is strict. This is the so- cial, political, and moral position of the American author, in a protectionist na- tion, and he owes it to his own Legisla- ture. Our Legislature offers to treat him as a man, not a beast. Now does this poor devil pay the national taxes ? He does. What for ? The State has no claim on him. The State has outlawed him ; has disowned his citizenship, and even his humanity. Is he expected not to take any property he can lay his hand on ? Stuff and nonsense ! Laiv is only a mutual compact betiveen man and man. In the American author's case, the Repub- lic, through its representatives, has dis- solved that mutual compact, and broken the public faith with the individual sub- ject. The man is now reduced to a state of nature, and may take anything he can lay his hands on. There is not a casuist, alive or dead, who will deny this. Earth offers no parallel to this quintuple in- iquity. 1. British monopoly respected. 2. British propertj' stolen. 3. American author struck out of the national system, 310 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Protection. 4. Crushed under the compe- tition of foreign stolen goods. 5. Robbed of his natural property, and his rights of man, in England. A property founded, as the sages of Massachusetts justly say, on the natural rights of man to the fruits of his labor, cannot be property in one country and no property in another. It can beprotected in one country and stolen in another : but it is just as much property in the country where it is stolen, as in the country w here it is protected. Geographical probity — local morality — Thou shalt not .steal — pi from a British author out of bounds — Do unto your neighbor as you would he should do to you — unless he is a British am hoi- out of bounds — all these are vain endeavors to geographical amendments upon God's laws, and on the old common law, and on the greal ungeographica) consi ol civilized mankind. The l si man spurns these provincial frauds, plain cs <>f t lie savage ; and 1 he pirate takes them, with a sneer, as stepping- stones to i he t hing withheld. In proof of this 1 give a few u consequences of the fivefold iniquity. I. Mutilation and forgery. — The same people that steal a foreign author's prop- erty mutilate it. and forge his nai what he never w rote : and t hey can- nol be hindered, except by international copyright. A. — Tom Taylor and Charles Reade write a comedj r called " The K Rival." Here Nell < rwynne, a frail w oman with a good heart, plays a respectable part, because her faults are no1 paraded, and her good qualities appear in action. The comedy concludes in the king's closet ; be forgives his cousin, the Duke of Rich- mond, and Frances Stuart: the ci doors are thrown open, the queen and court appear, and the king introduces duke and duchess as a newly married couple, and the curtain falls, because the suspense has ceased : and that is a g rule. The character of Nell Gwynne was admirably played, and we arranged for the actress (Mrs. Seymour) to show- one hand, and a frolic face at a side-curtain, unseen, of course, by the queen and the court, who occupy the whole back- ground. Our Transatlantic thief was not satis- fied with this, nor with stealing our brains. He brings Nell Gwynne out of her sly corner into the very center of the stage, and gives her a dialogue with the king, during which the queen is mute. perhaps with astonishment. The twaddle of the speakers ends with the king inviting the company to adjourn to the playhouse, and receive another lesson from Mistress Gwynne. That lady, who in the play had shown a great deal Less vanity than char- it tresses in general, now replies pedantically for the first time : "It is our .i.'sii-e. your majesty, while we amuse, to improve the mind. Our aim is — By nature's study to portray most clear From B. a ii n ( r, Jonson, immortal How kings mid princes by our mimic art ad applaud the actor's pari . Won in t hat prolifii i thoughts upon the enduring- page." Is h possib " Precepts in that powerful work we find To improve the morals and instruct the mind. There he holds, as 'twere, a mirror up to Nature. Shows Scorn her own image. Virtue her own feature. To-night, king, queen, lords, and ladies act their part, Each prompted by the workings of the And Ndly hopes they will not lose their Cau8( — Nor will they — if favored — by your applause." This is how dunces and thieves improve writers. Though she is the king's mis- i ress, this unblushing hussy stands in the verj center of the stage, with the king between her and his wife, the queen of England ; and though she is an actress who had delivered the lines of Shake- speare. Fletcher, and other melodious poets, she utters verses that halt and waddle, but do not scan. The five-foot line is attempted, but there are four-foot lines and six-foot lines, and lines unscan- nable. Now there is no surer sign of an uneducated man than not knowing how to READIANA. 311 scan verses. We detect the uneducated actor in a moment by this. Our self- imposed collaborateur forges the name of a Cambridge scholar and an Oxford scholar to a gross and stupid indelicacy, showing the absence both of sense and right feeling, and also to verses that do not scan. He lowers us, as writers and men, in the United States, which is a very educated country with universities in it; and. as these piratical books are always sent into England, in spite of our teeth, he enables the home pirate to swindle us out of our property, and also out of our credit as artists, scholars, and gentlemen, at home. The humbugs who, following Yates and Camden, say an author should write only for fame, will do well to ob- serve that, wherever our property' is out- lawed, our reputation and credit as artists are sure to be niched away as well. The Publishers' Circular, a publication singu- larly gentle and moderate, has had to re- monstrate more than once on the double villainy of taking an historical or scien- tific treatise, using the British author's learning, so far as it suited, and then falsifying his conclusions with a little new matter, and still forging his name to the whole for trade purposes. If this is not villain}-, set open the gates of Newgate and Sing-Sing, for no greater rogues than these are in any convict prison. B. — Fitzball, an English playwright, dramatized a novel of Cooper's. Fitzball coolly reversed the sentiments, and so, without a grain of invention, turned the American inventor's genius inside out, and made him write the Briton up and the colonist down. Such villainy, in time of war, would make a soldier blush. What is it in time of peace? The British Legislature is willing to put this out of any FitzbalPs power. 2. Recoil of Piracy. — I have the pro- vincial right in a corned y, "Masks and Faces.'' Many years ago I let the book run out of print, because I found it facili- tated piratical representation. Instantly piratical copies, published in New York, were imported ; and, on the most moder- ate calculation, the American Legislature has enabled British managers, actors, and actresses to swindle me, in my own coun- try, out of eight hundred pounds in the last fourteen years on this single property. I have stopped the piratical version by injunction. But I can only stop its sale in shops. It penetrates into theaters like a weasel or a skunk ; and no protection short of international copyright and stage-right is any protection. America saps British morality by example; Brit- ish actresses are taught, by Congress, to pillage me in the States. They come over here and continue the habit the American Legislature has taught them. At this very moment I have to sue a .Glasgow manager, because an English actress brought over a piratical American book of "Masks and Faces," in spite of the injunction, and they played it in Glasgow ; and I can see the lady thinks it hard, since she had a right to pil- lage her countryman in the States, that she should not be allowed to pillage him also in his own country. That is how all local amendments on the eighth com- mandment operate. They make the whole eighth commandment seem un- reasonable and inconsistent. 3. A Dublin editor pirated my story, ".It is Never too Late to Mend," under the title of " Susan Merton : a Tale of the Heart." This alarmed me greatly ; it threatened a new vein of fraud on copyrights. I moved the Irish Court of Chancery at once. The offender pleaded ignorance, and produced, to my great surprise, an American paper, in which the story was actually published under the title " Susan Merton : a Tale of the Heart " — and the English author's name suppressed. So careful of an author's fame, my Lord Camden, are those supe- rior spirits who set him an example of nobility by despising his property. " It is Never too Late to Mend " is an ideaed title. "Susan Merton" is an unideaed title. I never saw an American idiot yet, so I apprehend this ingenious customer altered the title for the worse, and sup- pressed my name, in order to defraud his own countrymen, bj T passing .-the thing off as a novelty in some sequestered nook of the Union. Well, this lie, on the top 312 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. of the piracy, jeopardized my property in England, and cost me a sum of money ; for the defendant could not pay the costs. The piratical proprietor of two Irish newspapers paid £1 per week for a little while, and then disappeared. He wenl to the States no doubt. I hope he did ; for there he'll meet his match. 4. "Foul Play," a drama, was pro- duced in New York. 1 was on shares with Mr. Boucicault. In course of the representation there was a dispute, the grounds of which, as reported, 1 could not understand. However, the sheriff came on the stage with his men. There was resistance. Shots were Bred, ami two humble persons employed in the theater, an old man and a boy, were wounded. I fell very sorry for these poor fellows, who had uo interest in the quarrel. Also I fell hair guilty, since it happened in connect ion wil b t hat parti< u- lar play. 1 sent out CIO for them, to m.\ friends .Messrs. Harper: they were g i enough to take charge of the matter ami saw the sufferers got it. Now I don't set up for a sweel . benevolent soul : 1 in- tended this as a fair percentage to Amer- ican sufferers, I o lie paid out of A a profits. Bui t he Yankee in charge of t he receipts deranged my arithmetic. He Levanted with the receipt-, ami my whole commercial transaction is represented in my books by a paymenl of that small. but solid percentage upon — air. The American saw the Britisher recog- nize our common humanity and not draw geographical distinctions; but he de- spised my example: for why, he had Hie example of his 1/ . which says. "When you catch a British author here, show your hospitality. Swindle him up hill and down dale — and then goto church and • pray ' to our common Father." An actress calls on me from Illinois. tall, dark, graceful, handsome, and talks well, as all American ladies do. She wants a new part. Says she has been to another author, and he demanded the price down, because she was an Ameri- can. Of course I put on a face of won- der at that other author; so inseparable is politeness from insincerity. I let her have •Philippa" and "The Wandering Heir " in the States for ten dollars per night, which is a mere nominal price. Subsequently two English actresses of the very highest merit and popularity asked leave to play the piece in the Tinted Slates. But the Britisher stood loyal to' his Illinois girl. Well, she sent me a very small sum from California. She then wenl to Australia, played the piece repeatedly: wrote to me eight months lling me she only withheld pay- ments because she was coming to En- gland : and novel- came to England, nor made me any remittance. The pari is invaluable to an actress. It has been played by three actresses, in England, and in each case has proved valuable to the pei-foriner. In the United States I am done out of it as property, and done mil of all returns, because 1 trusted an American woman m a matter of literary property. 5. My lii'st Letter announced that I con- sidered the American author the head victim, and I even suggested how difficult Ue f,u- a no\ ice, even if a man of genius, to get before tin- public a1 all. 1 have now advices from young American authors sending me details. They say that ii is very hard to gel MSS. read: 1 hat . when they bring- a pictureof Ameri- can hfe.it i- slighted, and thej are ad- vised lo imitate some British writer or other : and that . in fact . servile imitation of British styles is a young writer's best chance. Bui they tell me something I did not divine — that I h rs keep copying machines, and Hie rejected nianu- scripl often bears the marks of Hie ma- chine: and the subject-matter is. in due piratically used. Look this cruel thing- all round. It be- comes the old to feel for the young; let me trace that poor young author's heart. -ung, and the young are sanguine : he is young, and the young are slow to suspect cold-blooded villainy and greed in men that are rich, and need not cheat to live, and live in luxury. He takes his MS. in good faith to a respectable man. He is told that it shall be read! There are delays. The poor j'oung man, or READIANA. 313 young' woman, is hot and cold by turns ; but does not like to show too much impa- tience. However, in time, he begins to fear he is befooled. He calls, and will hare an answer one way or other. Then a further short delay is required to re- peruse, or to consider. That delay is really wanted to copy the MS. by a ma- chine. The manuscript is returned with a compliment ; but the author is told he is not yet quite ripe for publication : he is paternally advised to study certain models (British) and encouraged to bring another MS. improved by these counsels. Ods Nestor ! it reads like criticism, and paternal advice. The novice yields his own judgment; sighs many times if he is a male, if female has a little gentle cry that the swine earth is tenanted by are not asked to pity nor even comprehend ; and the confiding' American youth, think- ing gray hairs and grave advice must be trustworthy, sets to work to discover the practical merit that must lie somewhere or other at the bottom of British medi- ocrity and "decent debility;" he never suspects that the sole charm of these mediocre models lies not in the British platitudes and rigmarole, but in the Latin word gratis. While thus employed, he sees, one fine day, some sketches of life in California, Colorado, or what not, every fact and idea of which has been stolen from his rejected MS., and diverted from its form, and rewoi'ded, and printed ; while he, the native of a mighty conti- nent, has been sent away, for mundane instruction, to the inhabitants of a pen- insula on the north coast of France. The poor novice had contributed a real, though crudish, novelty to literature, as any American can by opening his eyes in earnest, and writing all he sees. It was rejected for reasons that sounded well, but were all trade pretexts stereotyped these manj r years, though new to each novice in his turn ; and now the truth comes out ; it was not worth buying cheap; but it was well worth stealing in a nation where the Legislature plays the part of Satan and teaches men the habit of stealing from authors, a habit which, once acquired, is never dropped nor restrained within any fixed limits. What must be the feelings of the poor young man, or woman, so bubbled, so swindled, and so basely robbed, because he trusted a trader well-to-do, and did not take him for a ticket-of-leave man turned out of Sing Sing into a store? And now go behind the swindle, and see how the geographical amendment of the eighth commandment, and the local va- riation of the golden rule prepare Dives for heaven in spite of parables. '•' Rob the British author of his compo- sition, by machinery," says Congress. " We will stop his volumes at our ports : but we will connive at one volume pass- ing, for the use of theft, for theft is all sanctifying ; and you have but to take this one volume and wed his stolen com- position to bought vehicles, for mind you must only swindle the British author ; you must not swindle a Briton unless he is an author, nor an author unless he is a Briton. As for God Almighty, we have a great respect for Him — in the proper place, and that- is church ; but out of church He has not looked into these lit- tle matters so closely as we have. He is addicted to general rules; and local distinctions have escaped Him. We are more discriminating." But observe the result. The publisher goes on; "Excelsior" is his motto. Taught to pillage the British author by a miraculously clever machine, the press, he invents another machine and pillages the native author. That machine is also a kind of press, and a clever one : for, like the compositor and the press com- bined, it separates the author's words from his paper, and steals them with a view to wedding the cream of the compo- sition gratis to other pieces of paper honestly bought, and selling the bought paper and the stolen ideas of the author without regard to his nationality. What does this poor boy gain by being an American at home ? He would be safer out of bounds. No British publisher would so abuse his confidence. Miss Leclercq, an English actress, set- tled in the United States, purchased not 314 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. long - ago an original play of an American author. She had not played it many nights when it was stolen by means of shorthand writers, and manuscripts sold. When she came to tour the Union with her new American piece honestly paid for, she found it was valueless, being stolen and stale. No Legislature can place un- natural limits to fraud, and say to theft, "Thus far shalt thou come and no far- ther, and here shall thy dirty wa stayed."' You produce a drama in England ; it is taken down shorthand for the United An Englishman's unpublished play only escapes theft or colorable pi- racy m the Males by failure. Meril is rewarded by pillage. But I hope enough has been shown to prove that a legislature and its judges launch its people into illimitable fraud, when they pass geographical amendments upon the eighth commandment and the golden rule, and defile aon law with pettifogging distinctions, the fruil of corruption and sophistry, which are bad in law, grossly immoral, revolting to common sense and the impartial men. and contradicted by the usage of the old kingdom, and thi and the words, of our common ancestors. I leave that, and go to public expedi- ency. Ishallprpve the fivefold iniquity is bad public policy; thai the American reading public is between two robbed of fre swell the taxes, and robbed of a national literature. and a national drama, to gratify one of the smallest cliques in the nation; and this without oil her the nation or th< gaining or saving one single cent. So that the thing is suicidal kleptomania. And this I say is one of the bitterest wrongs of authors — that sooner than not pillage them, men will hurt themselves, and will cut their own throats, to wound an author. Charles Reade. ELEVENTH LETTER. THE FOUR Foes. Sir — Outside these letters and Mr. Reverdy Johnson's, international copy- right and stage-right are shrouded in four thick fogs — legal, moral, verbal, arithmetical. 1 read what is written over the water, and grope for an idea. In vain: it is all verbal and arithmetical fog. Verbal fog .1 — They can't get along without calling copyright and stage- right monopolies ; but they dare no1 risk 650 to £150 upon that fallacy, anil il is an a Ql fallacy tii international patent-righl is a monopoly : and it cannot be used to defend tin- American Legisla- ture, because that Legislature, for the last hundred years, has declared copy- i be property, in the laws of the separate States and the laws of I public, which these ignorant citizens had begin to read. B. — But a more delicious piece ofverbal fog is this — they say, " We shall not give up free trade in books to please tin' Brit- ishers." Free t rade in i ks, quotha ! why it does not exist in the Free -, not freebooting. Free trade buying and selling, unburdened by Now there is thirty per cent duty on foreign books at the A : ports, and freebooting in copyrights can never supply the place of free trade, for copyright is. in money, only seven per cent on retail prio and as for stage- right, that does not take a cent from the public. The prices of an Anierican theater are jusl the same whena play is paid for ii. By theft of a foreigner's stage- right the American public has lost a na- tional drama ; but it has never gained nor saved the millionth of a cent since the country was colonized. International stage-right is not offered by those who object to internal ional copj'- right. These arithmeticians draw no dis- tinction. Against international copy- right and stage-right every one of their arguments rests on the notion that the main expense of a book, or of a seat in a theater, is the dramatist's fee, and the BEADIANA. 315 fee which copyright enables a book au- thor to extort directly from the publisher anil indirectly from the public purchaser. Of course, so impudent a falsehood is never stated. But why ? Statement is not the weapon of a liar, nor of a self-deceiver. Both these personages convey — insinuate — suggest — assume. They never state. Clear statement and detail are anti- dotes to the subtle poison of vague fal- lacies. But just test their public argu- ments, and see if you can find one which does not convey, in a fog of words and figures, that the author's fee is the main expense of a book. One salaried writer not only takes this ground, but, as piracy has deprived Americans of their own judgment, and made them provincial fog- echoes of British muddleheads, he re- peats, with true provincial credulity, Macaulay's Fog Epigram, for the in- struction of his countrymen. This done, and very old London fog offered to New York for modern sunshine, he infers fairly enoug-h — because the inference is his own — that if domestic copyright is so heavy a tax on the public, a State should hesitate to extend the injustice to foreign nations. Very well, young gen- tleman : I have no quarrel w r ith you. If Macaulay is right, you are right. A second rate rhetorician may be a babe in logic. Macaulay, in this very speech, called copyright "' a monopoly in hooks," and that is verbal fog, as I have shown. The only monopoly in books nowadays is a trade monopoly held by publishers, and established by custom, not law. As for copyrig-ht, it is a singu- larly open property ; w 7 hy every man, woman, and child, in the Republic or the Empire, who can fill a sheet of paper, can create, enjoy, and bequeath a copy- right, though a minor, and in case of co- heirs it is distributable like other personal property. It is a property bounded only by nature. Fog epigrams are for our amusement, not our instruction, and Macaulay "s is bottled essence of arithmetical fog. "Copyright," says he, ''is a tax on readers to give a bounty to authors." Now we will let in a srleam of arithmet- ical sunshine on this. Writers are hu- man beings with stomachs. They cannot write masterpieces, as Duns Scotus copied the Bible, during the throes of starvation. They must be paid, copyright or no copy- right ; and an author's copyright has a special operation on a pirate, hut none on the reader. Whether an author is paid by wages or \>y copyright, his re- muneration must equally fall on the pub- lic purchaser. Macaulay, therefore, has taken a distinction where there is no dif- ference. The Anglo-Saxon muddlehead is always doing this. It is his great in- tellectual excellence, and makes him the ridicule of Europe. However, the great vice of his fog epi- gram is " FKAUDULENT SELECTION." It picks out of many legitimate profits a single one, and conceals the others. If just profits on human labor, etc., were taxes, which they are not, every edition of a work would represent the following taxes — 1. The rag-picker's profit. 2. The paper- merchant and his men. 3. The printer and his men. 4. The binder and his men. 5. The publisher and his staff. 6. The author. 7. The retail bookseller. 8. The advertising column. These are all taxes and bounties, as much as is the author's remuneration, be it wages or copyright. To be sure, if any one of these characters makes an excessive profit, compared with the others, that might be called a bounty. And that reminds me — was not Macau- lay's Fog Epigram preceded by another which said. "Publishers drink their wine out of authors skulls ? " Well, if any one gets a bounty, or ex cessive profit, it is not the copyrighted author, and I don't think it is the pub- lisher — epigram apart. The public re- sult of these copyright transactions is this — The paper merchants are rich. The printers are rich. The hinders are well-to-do, but few. The publishers are well-to-do. But I deny that they owe that to books. The author's are the poorest creators of valuable property on the face of the ea ith. To descend to details. The retail dealer 316 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. gets twenty-five per cent of the retail price. All that authors of books, as a class, extort by means of copyright, is seven per cent on the retail price, which is 10 per cent on the publisher's net re- turns. So much for the comparative tax the reader pays to the author and seven more trailers. Now for the bounty. This can only be ascertained by measuring the work done against the remuneration. Price of a book to the oppressed reader — say 1 dollar, or 4s. Value of the paper, printing, binding, advertisements, 45c, or thereabouts; of the composition, 55c. Sole creator of the composition, the au- thor; his remuneration i per cent, his share of t he producl ion wort h 55 per cent . Droll bounty this '. For passing the book tli rough his hands, often on sale or return, the retailer gets 25 percent. What the other traders and workmen get, I cannot say, nor is it necessary. Enoug they are all richer than the authors. Now compare the arithmetical fog of ,\ and ins Transatlantic echo with this gleam of arithmetical sunshine. The American Legislature now knows the worst. Seven percent on the retail price does domestic cbpyrighl enable authors, one with another, to screw out of a book. Seven per cent is all we ex- pect, or hope, or ask, from the greal Republic, and all the American author will ever gel in England. The misfortune of authors is thii — they cannot, as a class, secure any remunera- tion at ail except through copyright. But copyright effects this just end by unpopular means, li stops a. I sal.' till it secures a modest remuneration. Then men, forgetting that the stoppage of sale is not the end. but only thai severe means to a just end which theheart less dishonesty of mankind makes necessary, fail into needless fear of the tyrannical means that leads to a mild result. This sentiment it is which leads to a misgiving in the United States that international copy- right would be abused to enhance the prices of English books. Americans do not really know our book trade, and are led to natural but erroneous notions of English prices by seeing the three-volume novel advertised at 31s. 6d. But the truth is we have a rotteu trade for the upper ten thousand, and a healthy trade lor the nation. The rotten trade is the hiring trade : of course, it operates on books just as it does on pianofortes — it reduces the customers *to a handful, and artificial prices become a necessity of that one narrow market. The 31s. 3d. is all humbug, the public does not buy a copy, the sale is confined to the libraries, and the real price is 15s. to 18s., if by a popu- lar author, but otherwise 9s. to 12s. But it is a calamitous system, encourages the writing of rubbish, and enables the libra- rian, whose customers are a class born to be humbugged, to hold back the good book, and substitute the trash, with dis- honest excuses, in tin- credulous country customer's parcel. But so far from cling- ing to tins rotten trade, intelligent authors ami publishers in this country would gladly see it done away with, and the universal habit of buying books re- stored : and I. for one. look to the American publishers to help us in this with their sounder system : for under just laws, when a sound system en- counters an unsound, it is always the un- sound that gives way. Below the above rotten trade lies the true trade of the country — good books at moderate prices — and some books and periodicals at wonderfully small prices. These vfry novels, sold to the libraries at fabulous price-, are sold to the public in one volume at 6s., 5s., and 2s. At 2s. they are in boards, with an illustration out side, and a vignette. To show what a bugbear copyright is in books of durable sale. American pub- lishers can't produce such a volume for 50c, by stealing the composition, as the English publishers do, paying copyright. 1 submit to you specimens of cheap publications under copyright, and I chal- lenge the American publishers to match them with cheap piratical books or papers. However, there is nothing new under the sun. The fear that British authors or the assignees of their American copy- rights might stand out for our library READIAXA. 317 prices in the United States is an old mis- giving which has had its day in England. Queen Anne's Parliament had much such a fear. Well! What did they do ? Why, provided against it in a section giving a right of complaint to several great func- i ii ma ries, or any one of them, and invest- ing those dignitaries with special powers to compel the publication on reasonable terms. The precaution proved quite superfluous ; for not one single human being was so perverse as to lock up a good book, or sell it at a price the public could not afford. The section was a dead letter, and is now repealed. However, if the Legislature of 1 the United States is uneasy on this head, it is not for us, who ask a great boon, to make childish diffi- culties. Here is the cure in a stroke of the pen : " And that the price of books written by British subjects, but papered, printed, and bound in the United States, as here- inbefore enacted, may not be unduly en- hanced, be it enacted that the proprietor of the copyright in any such work shall be compelled to publish, or cause the same to be published, in the United States, within the times hereinbefore specified, at a reasonable price, not exceeding the highest price that is demanded for a book of the same character, size, and quality, written by an American citizen, and pub- lished at, or about, the time ; and the price of such work shall be duly notified and advertised in three journals of large circulation seven days before publication, and, should the price so advertised appear excessive, it shall be lawful for any person to lodge a complaint with [here enumerate the functionaries], and the on the said complainant giving security for costs and offering evidence, shall have authority to suspend the pub- lication and hear the evidence without delay, and, if the price advertised be ex- cessive, shall affix a just and reason- able price, provided always that in those cases where the book shall be published for the foreign proprietor by an agent be- ing a native of the United States, the agent, or proprietor, shall be allowed to add the reasonable fee of the agent to the price of the said book." Add a clause giving various and large discretionary powers to the said judges. If, with all these safeguards to the American public, to the stationers, and the public, international stage - light, against which no objection has ever been offered, and international copyright, both properties that belong to us by common law, are both refused to the American and British author, while international patent-right is enacted, and yields a bal- ance of £300,000 a year, British money, to American citizens, then justice is noth- ing, fair play is nothing, humanity to those men living, whom the Republic worships dead, is nothing, and a national literature is nothing, and it is nothing lor a great nation which, in the heat and misery of its war, could find pity and substantial generosity for one set of Brit- ish subjects, and by so doing has covered itself with glory — it is nothing, I say, for that noble nation to single out another set of British subjects less improvident, and more deserving, and make war upon those worthy, weak, and unarmed men in time of peace. Could I gain the ear of one Ulysses Grant, I think he would side with the weak ; and if he did the quintuple iniquity would soon fall ; for it is not so well de- fended as Richmond was. Charles Reade. TWELFTH LETTER. Sik — Permit me to head this short letter THE IMPENITENT THIEF. This is a character disapproved in Jewish history. But he has it all his own way with us in Anglo-Saxony. One of his traits is to insult those whom he pillages. He puts one hand in our pockets, and shakes the other fist in our faces. As an example I note some sneers by a Mr. Pas- coe, and other professors of moral and 318 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. arithmetical fog-, that authors, in asking for international copyright, show an ex- cessive love of money. That remark ap- plies more to those who covet the prop- erty of others, than to those who only covet their own. It is a sneer that comes as ill from salaried writers, who cannot be pillag toes from pensioned law- yers; and it is a heartless sneer: for they know by history — if they know any- ■ : brough centuries of pa | misery, and dation, and have only arrived a1 competence and decent poverty. Popu- lar authors and even their in- come docs not ap] of the pros- perous lawyer, divmc. physician, a . There arc two actors about, who ■..eh made one hundred and fifty thousand pounds by playing a single part in two plays, for which the two authors have no; received two thousand pounds. The pamtcr has two greal markets, his picture and his copyright. The author has hui one. Internationa] copyright will merely give him two. ami rai to the painter's commercial level. No aid hor has ever lei't a foil une made by writing. Dickens, the sole apparent ex- ception, was a reader and a publisher. As a rule, w hen a respectable author dies, either he had independent means, or the hat goes round. If authors are to be re- i in Anglo-Saxony, they must not be poor : they musl have better terms at home, or international copyright, ' the tremendous advance of price in the necess iri< s of life. Three or fou individuals, such as Milton and S nd dignified. But they were n Dignified poverty in a class is a chimera. It never existed. The ber of a class is the character of the majority in that class: now no ma- jority has ever resisted a strong tempta- tion, and that is why all greatly tempted 3 fall as classes. Johnson knew more than Camden, and he says, '•Poverty is the worst of all temptations ; it is inces- sant, and leads, soon or late, to loss of self-respect, and of the world's respect." The hypocrite Camden demanded an au- thor with aspiring genius and no eye to the main chance. The model he demanded crossed his path in Oliver Goldsmith ; but the hypocrite Camden treated his beau- ideal with cold hauteur, because his beau- ideal was poor : the same hypocrite was to be seen arm-in-arm with Garrick, for lie had lots of money. Oliver Goldsmith, next to Voltaire, greatest genius in Europe: on the news of his death Burke burst into ud Reynolds laid down his brush and devoted the day to tender regrets. I now cite a passage verbatim from the ■ n Goldsmith in the "Biographia ica : " — " It was at first in to bury him in Westminster Abbey : and his pall was to have been supported by the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Louth. Sir Joshua Reynolds. Mr. Burke and Mr. Garrick. But a slight inspect ion of his lowed the impropriety of incurring >■• :se. Hi' was ps V I ' uiple burial-ground, at- tended by Mr. Hugh Kelly, .Mr. llawcs, . Joseph Palmer, and a lev, acquaintances." [f the deceased genius was poor, Rey- and < iarnck. and the rest , were rich. They could have secured him the place he deserved in the national temple. But no : he was poor : and ohscn . re ready to lay genius in West- Abbey had it been wealthy, would Hot even follow it to the Temple I when they found it was poor. The fact is, that great immortal genius was thing into the earth like a dog. and to t ! nobody knows where he lies. I now cite verbatim from the " Life of Mrs. Oldfield : "— " The corpse of Mrs. Hdfield was carried from tier house in Grosvenor Street to the Jerusalem Chamber, where it lay in state, and after- ward to the Abbey, the pall being sup- ported by the Lord Delawar,Lord Harvey, the Right Honorable Bubb Doddington, and other men of ton." This lady was a good actress, and had lived in open shame with Mr. Maynwar- ing and Brigadier Churchil, and had lots of money. Therefore this artist was buried in the Abbey, and the greater BEAD! AX A. 319 artist. Goldsmith, being pure, but poor, had the grave of a dog. In these two extracts you see the world unmasked by its own hand, not mine. This, my Lord Camden, is that dirty world, of which you were a gilt lump. This is the real world as it is, and was, and always will be. Many authors are womanish ; so they listen to the flatteries that cost nothing, and, when they find it all humbug, they sit down and whine for a world less hollow and less hard. But authors, who are men, take the world as as fchey find it, see its good sense at the bottom of its brutality, and grind their teeth, and swear that the public weasel shall not swindle them into that unjust poverty, which the public hog despises in an author, and would in an apostle. Charles Reade. THIRTEENTH LETTER. Sir — An egotist has been defined a man who will burn his neighbor's house down to cook himself two eggs. If it be true that two or three American publishers are the sole obstacle to inter- national stage-right and copyright, the definition applies, so great is the injury they do; so little, if any, the advantage to themselves. How would international stage-right injure them ? Yet it is they who crush it, and demoralize theatrical business, and kill the national drama. How would even international copyright, on the conditions I have offered, injure them ? It could not hurt them at present ; it must improve their condition in the end. The professors of arithmetical fog call it "a, present to British authors." The idots ! is it any more a boon to English than to American authors ? It is a present to neither. On the contrary, it offers the publisher his highest remunera- tion for his smallest outlay. Take a popular English novel — it is not unusual to sell 120,000 copies at a dollar. Under piracy by law established, one publisher does not get the sale. Often the thing is torn to pieces ; but let us limit the publi- cation to four persons ; assuming that each sells about 30,000 copies at a profit of 25 cents, that gives $7,500. I admit that under international copyright ? per cent must be deducted for the British right. But then the publisher who pays the Briton, will sell all the books. Now 120,000 copies at a profit of 25 cents minus 7= 18 gives a total of $21,600. And here you may see the reason why copyrighted books can be sold cheaper than pirated books, yet yield a g-ood iirofit. Publication of books is in a general way a poor business. Men of enterprise and talent would not descend to it but for the great prizes. I therefore reason fairly in taking a book of large sale for trade sample ; not that 120,000 copies is a very large sale in the United States ; I know books that have quadrupled that figure in a year's sale. Under international copyright the American publisher, dealing either by purchase or otherwise with British copy- right, could also levy a just and moderate tariff on the 400 or 500 newspapers that now steal any popular British book. So much for the American side. But the American publisher would also, by his position and intelligence, secure many of the American copyrights in England, and, even if he contented himself with an author's percentage there, that would be at least a set-off. though it needs no set- off. But if, on the contrary, he should take the public advice I have given him, and have a place of business in London — which is the great game — all manner of lucrative combinations would arise under international copyright. That great boon would not change the nature of authors and make them, as a class, hard bargain- ers or even good men of business. They deserve 7 per cent in each market, but they would not be sharp enough to get it one time in thirty. When you add to all this that inter- national copyright would relieve the American author of the competition of stolen goods which is stifling him, and make the most intellectual country in 320 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. the world a hotbed of intellectual pro- ductions, by which the American pub- lishers must necessarily profit most, their opposition to international justice and public policy will, I hope, cease; for it would be egotism beyond the definition supra ; it would be the blind egotism, thai sacrifices national honor and the clear interests of all producers, and of the public reader, to one sham interest. Wit h this letter I send one to a power- ful American firm, offering- them again what I offered them years ago, that, mi(l< i- internal iona I ci i>. rig a.1 . they shall be my London publishers, if they please, and publish my books, if they please, on the very terms 1 will demand of them in New York : 7 per cent on the retail price, which is 10 per cent on the trade sale price. As I am popular in America, and perhaps ao writer under international copyrighl could make better bargains, and as 1 pass for a screw, this should bend to convince reasonable Americans thai international copyright, though a great boon to authors and honesl pub- lishers mi bo1 1> sides the water, is qo1 a tax upon any one. Consider— for pas my books through their hands in London I offer an American firm all I will ask in New fork for having written those bo for having written those books I will ask no more in the United states than I of- fer them fer jusl passing the books through their hands in London. PI bring your minds to bear on this, you that possess a mind. So much for petty expediency and finan- cial fog. < lug bo stand in the way of national justice, national impar- tiality, and a national literature ? < >Ugh1 classes so import a nt as the American au- thor, the American spectator of plays. and the American reader, to be mocked with the title of Republicans, yet mis- governed and outlawed by a Venetian oligarchy, a mere handful of short-sighted traders, clinging blindly to piracy as some men cling to drink, not that it does them an atom of good, but just because they have got into the habit ? Those medisevals whose lofty method — conjecture v. evidence — Sir Joseph Yates follows in copyright, discovered that witches who rode upon the whirlwind and led the storm could be arrested in their furious career by two straws placed across. When I consider with what piti- able reasons the fivefold iniquity has been defended, and is even now defended, against Mr. Reverdy Johnson, and these letters. 1 seem to see the men of the dark ages laying down their straws. Ah! and so you think national justice, iionor, and humanity are three old bedlams thai will never pass your straws ? 1 deem mere no- bly than you do of the nation you disgrace and mislead. The people that were in trouble yet relieved the British cotton- spinners musl have a hearl nol bounded by the ocean : the nation thai could, at a cost of blood and treasure, forego the two-legged beast of burden and makethe negro a man, must have a cons and our turn will come, please God, though my head and hearl may both have ceased to ache a1 man's bad Logic, and man's injustice. Yes. t he grea t Re- public has raised its negro to the level of a man : it will one day admit its authors to i he level of a negro. Farewell, you four fogs, farewell you rogues and fools who made them : I leave the pett dogger who reasons a priori against evidence, and divines thai the common law abhors forfeit lire of a rigtli — unless it is held by an author — and reads implied contracts as " exchange of equivalents " unless one of t he parties is an author, and if an author gives a writ- ten copy without reserve, and abandons, My years, his right to publish, -ays that is no gift of the right to pub- lish : but If, instead of laches and neglect and all that really forfeits a right, he adds possession to title and sells one copy to a man. says that sale is a gift of the right of publication. I leave the liars, idiots, and beasts, who reason thus against evidence, and call it law, with one remark : the greatest asses God has ever made are little lawyers. Your little lawyer is a man who has parted with the good sense of the layman, and has not advanced one inch toward the science of a Mansfield or a Story. RE AD I AN A. 321 I leave the men of verbal fog, the poor addlepates, who call a mail's sole right to sell his own composition " monopoly," and his sole right to sell his own hen and her chickens, his own seed and its great increase, " property ; " and call free-boot- ing- in copyright with a 30 per cent tax on books " free trade in books." I leave the ranting rogues, the roman- tic pickpockets, who say that an author is to work only for praise (against which dispraise and foul scurrility are not to weigh, of course), but that a judge and an archbishop are to work for money as well as credit — in a word, I leave the whole tribe of gorillas and chimpanzees, in whose hands I found this subject, to recommence their incurable gibbering and chattering; reason they never did, and never will. As for me, I shall take leave to rise, for a little wdiile, above their dunghill in a fog, and speak as a man who by long study of the past has learned to divine the future, and is fit to advise nations. 1. Justice to authors is the durable policy of nations. 2. The habit of inventing is a richer national treasure than a pyramid of stolen inventions. 3. Invention is on the average the highest and hardest form of mental labor. It is the offspring of necessity, and nursed by toil. 4. Hence it follows that in whatever country invention can be appropriated by direct theft, or adaptation, or any easy process except purchase, the habit of in- vention is discouraged, and each act of invention undersold and the inventor pun- ished. 5. Therefore, by pirating from foreign authors, a nation scratches the foreign author's finger, but cuts the native au- thor's throat, and turns its own intellec- tual sun into a moon, and robs itself of the habit of inventing, which is a richer national treasure than a pyramid of stolen inventions. This is a universal truth : the experience of Europe in every age confirms it, and in the United States it is a special truth, for the Republic has put justice and injustice side by side, so Reade— Vol. IX. that even a child may see Avhich is the more enduring policy. Of international jDatent right the result has been rapid and remarkable. The States were be- hind us in invention ; they soon advanced upon us, and caught us, and now they head us far. International justice be- gan with a trade balance in our fa- vor: yet now the States draw an enor- mous balance from Europe, and about three hundred thousand a year from Great Britain. Europe teems with the material products of American genius. American patents print English news- papers and sew Englishmen's shirts; a Briton goes to his work by American clocks, and is warmed by American stoves and cleansed by American dust collectors ; whereas my housemaid, when she dusts with a British broom, only drives it from pillar to post. In a word, America is the leading nation in all mat- ters of material invention and construc- tion, and no other nation rivals nor ap- proaches her. It is " Eclipse first, and the rest nowhere." . ,— Now do but turn an eye to the opposite experiment. What is the position in the world of the American author? Does he keep pace with the American patentee? Why, it is a complete contrast ; one is up, the other is down; one leads old nations, the other follows them : one is a sun diffusing his own light over his hemisphere and ours, the other a pale moon lighted by Europe. Yet the American mechanical inventor has only the forces and materials our mechanical inventor can command ; whereas the American author has larger, more varied, and richer materials than ours. Even in fiction, what new material has the English artist compared with that gold mine of nature, incident, passion, and character — life in the vast Ameri- can Republic ? Here you may run on one rail from the highest civilization to the lowest, and inspect the intervening phases, and write the scale of man. You may gather in a month amid the noblest scenes of nature the history of the human mind, and note its progress. Here are red man. black man, and white "11 322 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. man. With us man is all of a color, and nearly all of a piece ; there con- trasts more piquant than we ever see spring- thick as weeds ; larger and more natural topics ring through the land, dis- cussed with broader and freer eloquence In the very Senate, the passions of well- dressed men break the bounds of conven- tion ; and nature and genuine character speak out in places, where with us eti- quette has subdued them to a whisper. Land of fiery passions, and humors in- finite, you offer such a garden of fruits as Moliere never sunned himself in, nor Shakespeare neither. And what food for poetry and romance were the feats of antiquity, compared with the exploits of this people? Fifty thousand Greeks be- sieged a Phrygian city, fighting for a rotten leaf ; the person of an adulteress without her mind. This ten years' waste of time is a fit subject for satire; only genius has perverted it into an epic; what: cannot genius do? But what is it in itself, and what were the puny wars of Pompey and Caesar, compared with a cival war. where nol a few thou- sand soldiers met- on either side to set one 'Pompey up, one Caesar down; but armies like those "f Xerxes encountered again and again, lighting not for the posses- sion of a wanton, nor the pride of a gen- eral, hut the integrity of a nation and the rights of man. Yet the little old things sound great and the great new things sound small, carent fit him. He never told the jury what precise evidence the law de- mands against a man who has made a niggardly contracl contemplating, by its very niggardliness, the indefinite life of the victim, ere a jury is to pronounce thai he did " procure, counsel, command and abet *' the murder of that person. (if course no lawyer will pretend that a man living out of the house of murder can be accessory at tin- fact, or what the text-books call "a principal in the first degree; " nor will any lawyer deny that if he lives out of the house, but pro- cures, counsels, commands, or abets the murder, beyond iiht, he ran be an ac- cessory before the fact, or a principal in the second degree. But there must be high evidence, and direel evidence, and if spoken or written words are relied on they musl be addressed to the very person who does the murder, and must be une- quivocal. A doubtful phrase addressed to Rhodes, who took no part in the murder, is not at all the kind of evidence required by till the books and all the cases. See the word "accessory" in any text-book or report whatever. The Facts. In our Criminal Court, where the pris- oners, the only people who really know the ins and outs of the case, are not allowed to open their lips, and correct any of the shallow guess work that is going on about them in their astonished ears, one great abuse like that I de- nounced in my last letter is sure to let in many more. Clara Brown, the one RE A DIANA. (39 witness on whom the case for the Crown really depends, was allowed by the judge to swear she had destroyed a letter, and yet to cite so much of it, correctly or in- correctly, as fitted the two horns of the prosecution. That abuse led at once to another. This model witness was al- lowed another privilege the rules of evi- dence do Dot grant — viz., to argue the case. For this the defendants are in- debted to their counsel. He asked whether she understood the sentence about Harriet being '• out of the way " to refer to her death. To this question she replied "Yes." French counsel surprised bj r a prosecu- tion would immediately have had a per- sonal conference with the prisoners, and would have asked, the girl questions that would have greatly benefited the prison- ers. The jury, hearing a witness swear to an interpretation of a doubtful phrase, were not aware this was not evidence, and ought severely to be re- jected from their minds. So one abuse led to another, and it is not too much to say that this imaginary letter with the witness's black-hearted interpretation is the rope that is to hang Louis Staun- ton. Well, such a rope of sand has never hanged an Englishman in my day. It is pitiable to see how little, if anything, that can even by c,ourtesy be called mental power, was brought to bear by twelve men of the world on this quotation of a letter without its contents, one of the stalest frauds in the world and also in literature of eveiy kind, especially con- troversial theology. Permit me to test this imaginary ex- tract from what was proved, I think, to be a real letter, by one or two sure methods of which I am not the in- ventor. Have those twelve gentlemen counted the number of words a young servant girl swore she had remembered in their exact order for nine months or more, though she had burned the letter, and the subject had never been recalled to her mind till she fell into the hands of the prosecution ? The words are sixty-two in number : ' ■ My own Darling — I was very sorry to see you cry when I left you. It seems as though it never must be, but there will be a time when Harriet will be out of the way, and we shall be happy to- gether. Dear Alice, you must know how I love you by this time. We have been together two years now." Now, sir, even if those fatal words about a time when Harriet will be out of the way were ever written without some explanatory context, I think the jury ought to have been throughout solemnly warned and guarded against the illogical interpretation of them. The just rule of interpretation is that you should always prefer a literal to a vague or metaphori- cal interpretation. The words "out of the way " mean out of the way ; they don't mean dead. A man can say "dead," and if Rhodes was projecting murder with him, why should he not have said so ? The next rule is, that you prefer, the interpretation which the writer himself confesses by his own act, and the next is, that you prefer the interpretation that is first fulfilled in order of time. Now, it was Louis, the writer of the words, who took a farm soon after, settled Harriet with Patrick, and so got her out of the way, and lived in smooth adultery with Rhodes, whereas it was other people who killed Harriet Staunton, and nine months afterward. But I shall now show the ex- tract as sworn to was never written. 1st objection. — It is too long, and too short, which two traits can never meet in a genuine extract. A. Too long for a servant girl to re- member, word for word, nine months after hearing it. B. Too short. Louis Staunton was not preparing his own prosecution. It was not on the cards of mere accident that he should furnish in sixty-two words two equivocal expressions — one establishing a long adulterous intercourse of which there is no corroborative proof, but the reverse, and another quibble projecting 340 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. distant murder, of which there is no corroborative proof, since Harriet was well used for months after. 2. The iine reminding her she had been his mistress for two years is worded by a woman, and not bv Staunton or any man. Decent women like Clara Brown have a delicate vocabulary un- known to men. "We have been to- gether," which means everything- the prosecution wanted, but says nothing at all, is a. woman's word for criminal con- nection. 3. The statement itself is not true, and from that you must argue backward against the genuineness of the quot.it ion. since he would not say this to a girl who knew better.* 4. The witness could remember nothing but, her lesson: sixty-two consecutive words, all neat and telling, and meeting the two great views of the prosecution; hut, that done, a blank — a total blank; not six consecutive words. This is bare- faced. Daniel Defoe would have man- aged better. He would have armed the witness with ten consecutive words on some matter quite foreign to the objects of the prosecution. The quotation is fabricated. The process has not him,- exceptional in it, nor is there any one to blame. the court, for letting in parole evidence aboul a written document destroyed by the wit ness herself. Allow 10,000 such witnesses, and, if the case is ably prepared, you must, in the very nature of things, have 10.000 inac- curate quotations, all leaning toward the side that calls the witness. The people who get up a prosecution have hut one way of dealing with such a witness. She comes to them remember- ing a word here or there. She is advised to speak the truth and take time. But. as the conference proceeds, she is asked whether she happens to remember any- thing of such a kind? She is very duc- tile, and forces her memory a bit in the direction she instinctively sees is desired. * Since this letter was written, it lias been proved to be a falsehood. The criminal connec- tion was hardly one year old. The very person who is examining her with an ex parte view does not see that she is so wax-like as she is. Add a small grain of self-deception on both sides, and a mixture of truth and falsehood comes into the unwary and most inconsistent court, which stops Louis Staunton's mouth, yet lets in a worse kind of evidence than the prison- er's own. viz., this horrible hodge-podge of memory, imagination and prompting, which, in the very nature of tilings, and by flu' mere infirmity of the human mind, must he a lie. That a man should die only because he is tried in England. Bring your minds to bear on this, my countrymen. If an ignorant man, like this Staunton, is de- fendant in a suit for fifty-one pounds, lie can go into the witness box and explain all the errors of the plaintiff, if any ; but, if lie is tried for his life, which is dearer to every man than all the money in the world, he is not allowed to say one word t-o the jury, if he has counsel. Now. in Prance he may speak after his counsel have done muddling his case, but here with heart- less mockery, when Ignorance till round has hanged liiin, he is allowed to speak — To whom? To the judge. On what? The nice quibbles of the law, but not on facts i r motives — that being the one thing he can never do, and this being the thing he could generally do, and Hood the grop- irl with light, especially as to his true motives and the extenuating circum- stances of his case. By this system the blood-thirsty murderer, who chooses his tune, and slays swiftly in the dark, gains ;m advantage he cannot have in the wiser courts of Europe. But God help the malefactor who is not an habitual criminal, or one of the deepest dye, but a mixed sinner, who has glided from folly into sin, and from sin into his first crime, and who has been fool as well as villain. His mouth is closed, and all the extenu- ating circumstances that mouth could al- ways reveal are hidden with it, or, as in this case, grossly and foully perverted into aggravating circumstances. This is very unfair. The Nation will see it some day. At present what is to READIANA. 341 be done? After all, thank God, it is a free country, and one in which bad law is sometimes corrected by just men. To all such I appeal against the rope of sand I have had to untwist in this letter. The Post has enabled me to do some- thing more: to resist foul play and gar- bled quotations and those most dangerous of all lies, equivoques in language, such as " Harriet out of the way," the very kind of lies Holy Writ ascribes to Satan, and the great poets of every age have de- scribed as hellish, which they are. I resolved to give Louis Staunton, what that den of iniquity and imbecility, the Central Criminal Court, did not give him, one little chance of untwisting that rope of sand, although he has the misfortune not to be a Frenchman. I conveyed a short letter to Mr. Louis Staunton through the proper authorities, requesting him to tr3 r and remember the entire matter of a certain letter he had unquestionably written to Alice Rhodes in August, 1S76, and to send it to me verbatim. Some delay took place while my letter was sub- mitted to authorities outside the jail, but Fair Play prevailed, and I now append the letter to my own, which is of less value. I send it all the same, because I have looked narrowly into that of Staun- ton's, and I don't see any of that self- evident mendacity I have felt it my duty to point out in the garbled quotation the rope of sand.- This letter, at all events, may be true. For here I see youth, with its selfish vices, not looking months and months ahead, either for good or bad, but getting Harriet out of the w-ay without a metaphor, to enjoy the sweet vice his self-indulgent soul was filled with, and not with long cold-blooded schemes of murder such as belong to more hardened natures than this, who, we learn from the Crown itself, and on oath, sat clown and cried because his wife upset the house. The following is Louis Staunton's Letter. Maidstone Jail, October Uth, 1877. Sir — I duly received your letter of the 9tb inst., and now beg to reply to it. The letter in question I wrote to Alice Rhodes on or about August 17, 1876. The facts are these: I had several times promised to. take Alice Rhodes down to Brighton for a week, but had been prevented from doing so. But on Saturday, August 14, Mrs. Staunton, Alice Rhodes, and mj-self, went down to Cudham, for the purpose of leaving Mrs. Staunton there, that we might go to Brighton on the Tuesdaj' ; but on the Monday I received a telegram to say my father was worse. My brother and myself immediately came up to Lon- don, leaving Alice Rhodes and Mrs. Staunton at Cudham. I then wrote her this letter : "My own Darling -I know you will be sorry to hear that my poor dear father passed away yesterday. This is a sad blow to me, but we all have our troubles. Our trip must now be put off again. It seems as if it is not to be ; but I will ar- range another time to get Harriet out of the way; so you must not be disap- pointed. I shall have to remain dow'n home for a few days, so Harriet had better stop down with you." I believe I have now given you word for word what I said in this letter. I have thought well over it, and cannot remember saying anything more. What I meant by " It seems as if it is not to be," was our going to Brighton, and of getting " Harriet out of the way," that she might not know anything about it. This is the whole truth of the letter. I am. sir. Yours obediently, Louis Staunton. Charles Reade, Esq. The Public is to understand that I deal fairly with the Powerful Journal which has done me the honor to allow me to ex- press boldly my unalterable convictions. I do not write letters and say " Thus said Staunton ;" I tender you bis handwriting, begging you to do me the honor to keep it, and show it to few or many as you think proper. I do not lead witnesses as I think Clara Brown was led — uncon- sciously, no doubt. My short letter, to 342 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. which this is a reply, lies in Maidstone Jail. I can't remember what I write, like this young sinner, nor imagine what other people write — like Miss Brown plus an attorney's clerk. But I am sure it is a short line, just asking the man to send the truth. He looks on himself as a dying man ; has no hope of saving him- self : and I think he has come pretty near the truth in his letter. Yours faithfully, Charles Reade. P.S. — Now that I have opened the dumb creature's mouth, which that beastly court, the disgrace of Europe, had closed. who doubt s the real meaning of the lei t er, and that the writer had Adultery in view, and had not Homicide ? THE LEGAL VOCABULARY. To the Editor of the " Pall Mall Gazette." Sir — Now those swift-footed hares, my eloquent contemporaries, have galloped over Diblanc's trial, may I ask you, in the name of humanity, to let the tortoise crawl over it with his microscopic eye? Where female culprits are to he judged, a patient drudge, who has studied that sex profoundly in various walks of life, in- cluding Diblanc's, is sometimes a surer exponent of facts than is a learned law- yer. I will keep strictly within the limits of the legal defense. The Crown used Diblanc as its witness to the killing, and this, by a rule of law which is inexorable, and governs alike a suit oran indictment, let in the prisoner's explanations as evi- dence. But there are degrees of evidence; what she said against herself was first- class evidence ; what she said favorable to herself was low evidence, to be received when it is contradicted neither by a living witness nor a clear fact. I keep within this circle, traced by the judge himself, simply premising that I have seen many a prisoner acquitted on his own explanation of motives, thus made ad- missible, though poor evidence, by the prosecutor. Now did the criminal seek the victim, or the victim her ? Where was the crime committed ? In the kitchen. And what is the kitchen ? It is a poor man's cottage on the ground-floor of a gentleman's house. No paper— no carpet- stone floor — it is made like a servant's home out of contempt; hut the result of that con- tempt is, that the female domestic feels at home in it, soul and body. It is the servant's house, and the cook's castle and workshop. To come and insult her there galls her worse than in the gentlefolk's part. What a lady feels if a cook walks up into the drawing-room to affront her, thai the cook feels if the mistress comes down into her cast le to affront her. But a kitchen is something else— it is an arsenal of deadly weapons, with every one of which the cook is familiar. The principal an — a hatchet to chop wood, a rolling-pin, a steel to sharpen knives, a, cleaver, an enormous poker, a bread knife, carving knife, etc. Into this cook's castle and arsenal of lethal weapons comes Diblanc's mistress on a Sunday forenoon, when even a cook is entitled to a little bit of peace and some little reduc- tion of her labor, if possible, and gives an inconsiderate order. The cook says there's no need for that ; dinner is not till seven. This offends the mistress, and she threat- ens to discharge her on the spot. The cook says she will £-o directly if her month's wages are paid her. "No,'" says the mistress, "I will keep you your time ; but I will make you suffer." Here there is a lacuna : but the climax was that the mistress called this poor hard-working woman, in her castle and workshop, a prostitute, and dwelt upon the epithet. Then the cook, goaded to fury, took, not one of the murderous weapons close at hand, but sprang at her mistress's throat, and griped it with such fury that she broke the poor creature's jaw and throttled her on the spot, and probably killed her on the spot, whatever she may have said to the cent rary. The deed done, READIANA. 343 the criminal is all amazement, vacillation. and uncertainty in word and deed. Her deeds : She carries the body wildly here and there ; she puts a rope round its neck in a mad attempt to pass the act off for suicide; she resolves on flight; she has not the means ; she casts her eyes round, and sees the safe with money in it ; she breaks it open, and takes enough for her purpose ; she does not pillage ; she steals the means of flight ; she robs in self-defense. Her words : " I leave for Paris this evening." Then a horror falls on her like a thunderclap. "No, I shall never see Paris again, not even my parents.*' Is there nothing human in this sudden cry of a poor savage awaking to her crime? "I shall tr} r to leave for America." So, then, she goes out intend- ing to sail to America, and goes just where she did not mean to go — to Paris. She gets there, and instantly pays a just debt with the money she no longer needed to save her life. In other words, she is no more a real thief than a real murderer, as the common-sense of mankind under- stands the words. With the light thus reflected by her subsequent conduct, all vacillation and inability to carry out a design, I return to the homicide and its true interpretation. Fact goes by precedent as well as law, and, strange to say, lawyers, those slaves of precedent, often forget this. Now, what does experience or precedent teach us with regard to the murder of adults by adults? Is the open hand the weapon murder selects ? It is the weapon cold- blooded robbery has often selected to avoid murder. But is it the weapon murder has often selected ? Certainly not. But Diblanc's defense rests on far stronger ground. The point of her de- fense is this : She stood in an arsenal of deadly weapons, and yet avoided them, and used the non-lethal weapon — her bare hands — being maddened to fury and burning for revenge, but not positively intending to murder either before the attack or at the moment of the attack. These facts, minutety examined, tear the theory of " premeditation " up by the roots ; but you cannot tear that theory up by the roots without displacing the theor3' of " intention," and letting in the defendant's evidence that she did not in- tend to kill Madame Riel. And this brings me naturally to the nature and extent of the provocation that stung her to fury. Mr. Baron Channell says that no mere words can by provocation reduce willful killing to manslaughter. Granted ; but I think this applies only to killing with lethal weapons. Where two things com- bine — where A receives a foul provoca- tion in language from B, and avoiding the lethal weapons close to his hand, kills B with the bare hand, I think the jury have a right to call that man- slaughter if they please. A calls B a liar ; B knives him. Murder. B calls C a liar ; C fells him with a blow, and kills him. Manslaughter. Oh, but throttling is worse than striking. Ay, worse in a man, but not in a woman, because women do not fight with the fist; they always go at each other with the claws, and no murder done one time in a thousand. If we are to judge women we really must not begin by being pig-headed idiots, and con- founding them entirely, mind and limbs, with men. The truth is, language con- tains no word with which a man can strike a man to the heart, in his own per- son, as a woman can strike a woman with a word. It is at once stupid and cruel the way in which this poor creature's provocation has been slurred over. The evidence is all in favor of her continence. When out of place in Paris she fell in debt directly ; a plain proof labor was her only way of getting bread. Here in London it comes out that her wages were every- thing to her. She wanted to go, but could not for want of a little money. Why, her very strength, about which so much twaddle was been uttered, was not the strength of the individual, it was only the strength that comes to women of her age by an honorable, laborious, and continent life. And is it a small thing that to such a woman, working in her kitchen for her bread, another woman, whose life was not laborious and honorable like hers, should come and say, You are a prostitute. "Facile, judicat qui pauca considerat." 344 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. We must consider not the insult only, but the quarter whence it carae ; and we shall find the utmost limits of verbal provoca- tion have been reached in Diblanc's case. The time— Sunday morning-, when the world gets peace, and even cooks hope for it. The place — her own kitchen. The in- sult — the most intolerable the mind can conceive; and a lie. The result — honest labor and continence used none of the lethal weapons at hand, but took luxury and foul-mouthed slander by the throat. Luxury's arm was pithless against insulted labor and continence, and a crime was consummated, when between two work- ing women there would only have been a fight. It is the misfortune of women that few- men, except one or two writers of Bc1 ion. can put themselves in a woman's place, and so qualify themselves to judge her in these obscure cases. Bui let me put a man. as nearly as I can. in this woman's place. A man is with his wife, whom he loves as dearly as Diblanc loves herself. Another man comes and calls thai woman a prostitute to her face and his ; there's a hatchet on one side of the husband, a carving knife on the other. The husband takes neither, but seizes the slanderer b\ the throat and squeezes the life out of him. Would that man be indicted for murder? I doubl it. Would Baron Channell ask a conviction for murder? I doubt it. If he did, no jury in England would convict. Yet here the provocation is purely verbal, and the killing identical with Diblanc's. Let me now, without blaming any liv- ing person, draw the attention of public men to the stei-eolyped trickery and equiv- ocation by means of which the death of Marguerite Diblanc has been compassed — in theory : for she is not to die, I con- clude. Some lawyer, in the name of a humane sovereign, draws a bloodthirsty, exaggerated indictment, and says Diblanc slew Madame Riel willfully and with mal- ice aforethought. The evidence contra- dicts the malice and the aforethought, which a,re the very sting of the indict- ment, and the jury demur. "Oh, let that flea stick in the wall/' says the judge, " we don't go by Johnson's Dic- tionary here ; ' aforethought,' that means 'contemporaneous' in our vocabulary, and 'malice' means rage, passion, any- thing you like — except malice, of course. All you have got to do is to disregard the terms of the indictment, and if she killed the woman at all say she killed her with malice aforethought." The jury, who are generally novices and easi'y overcome by the picture of a gentleman thatched with horsehair, assent with re- luctance, and recommend the prisoner to mercy, thereby giving their verdict the lie: for if the indict ment was not an im- pudent falsehood and their verdict an- other she would be a most unfit subject for mercy. This bastard verdict which says " Yes " with a trumpet and "No" with a penny whistle being obtained by sion, the judge goes coolly back to Dr. Johnson, whom lie has disowned for a time in order to get a verdict, and condemns the woman to death for having killed her fellow-creature wilh malice aforethought, as Johnson understands the words. But, as he too knows it is all humbug, and a verbal swindle in- vented by dead fools and forced upon him, he takes measures to refer it to a layman called the Some Secretary, who is to find straightforwardness, sense, manhood, and. above all, English for the whole lot. Now, sir, I agree with the writer of your able article of the 15th of June, that the way out of this is to enlarge, purify, and correct the legal vocabulary. The judges are in a hole. With two words — •" manslaughter" and " murder" — they are expected to do the work of three or four words ; and how can they? It is impossible. Enlarge this vocabu- lary, and the most salutary consequences will flow in. Sweep away "manslaugh- ter." which is an idiotic word meaning more than murder in etymology, and less in law. and divide unlawful killing into three heads — homicide, willful homicide, murder. Then let it be enacted that henceforward it shall be lawful for juries to understand all words used in indict- ments, declarations, pleadings, etc., in READIANA. 345 their plain and grammatical sense, and to defy all other interpretations what- ever. Twelve copies of every indictment ought to be in the jury box, and every syllable of those indictments proved whether bearing on fact or motive, or else the prisoner acquitted. Neither the Crown nor the private suitor should be allowed to exaggerate without smarting for it in the verdict, just as in the world overloaded invective recoils upon the shooter. I am, sir, Yours faithfully, Charles Reade. Magdalen College, Oxford, June 11th, 1872. COLONEL BAKER'S SENTENCE. To the Editor of the "Daily Telegraph." Sir — A great many journals and week- lies have told the public that an English judge has passed too lenient a sentence on Colonel Baker because he belongs to the upper classes. Some have added that the same judge had inflicted a severe sentence on certain gas stokers, and so we have a partial judge upon the Bench. This is a grave conclusion, and, if true, would be deplorable. You would yourself regret it, and therefore will, I am sure, permit me to show you, by hard facts, that all this is not only untrue, but the exact opposite of the truth in every particular. Fact 1. The proceedings against Baker commenced with an application for delay and a special jury. Here was an opportunity to favor him. The judge rejected the application, and he was tried by a com- mon jury. 2. On the trial the prosecut- ing counsel attacked him with a severity that is now unusual, and used a false comparison to lead the jury further than the evidence warranted. 3. In contrast to this, Baker was defended with strict moderation. In France the accused speaks as well as his counsel, but in England his own mouth is closed, and we must assume instructions and give him the credit or discredit due to his line of defense. Now, there was a point in the plaintiff's evidence which to my mind is womanly and charming, but still, be- fore a common jury, Mr. Hawkins could have clone almost what he liked with it. It appeared that when the young lady was on the doorstep she told her assail- ant he must hold her or she would fall. They little know the power of counsel who doubt that, hj a series of sly ironi- cal questions on this point, the case could have been weakened by ridicule, and the plaintiff tortured. Since the lower orders have been dragged into this, it should be considered that every one of them would have so defended himself, except those who had got rid of the case before by shoving the girl off the step instead of holding her. " That is the sort of men they are." My brilliant contemporaries know nothing about them. How should they, being- in an exalted sphere ? 4. The common jury cleared him of a criminal assault, and found him guilty of an indecent assault. My brilliant contem- poraries hanker after the higher issue, and would like to see it in the judgment, though it was not in the verdict. But that would be to juggle with the con- stitutional tribunal, and be inexcusable in a judge. 5. Mr. Justice Brett dwelt on the enormity of the offense, and ad- mitted only one palliating circumstance — viz., that the culprit, when he found the lady would risk her life sooner than be insulted, came to his senses, and showed a tardy compunction. This was so; and Colonel Baker's line of defense before the magistrates and before the court entitled him to this small pallia- tion. 6. Witnesses were called to charac- ter, with a view to mitigating punishment. Now, when a culprit of the lower orders can do this effectually, it always reduces punishment — sometimes one-half, or more. Were it to go for nothing where a gentle- man has committed his first public crime, there would be gross partiality in favor of the lower orders, and an utter de- fiance of precedent. 7. The punishment 346 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. inflicted was a fine, £500, and a year's imprisonment as a first-class misdemean- ant. My brilliant contemporaries think that a poor man would have been much worse punished. Now let us understand one another. Do they mean a pool 1 man who had so assaulted a lady, or a poor man who had so assaulted a poor woman ? Their language only fits the latter view. Very well, then. My brilliant contempo- raries have eaten the insane root that takes the reason prisoner. Every day in the year men of the lower orders com- mit two thousand such assaults upon women of the lower orders, and it is so little thought of that the culprits are rarely brought to justice at all. When they are, it is a police magistrate, and not a jury, the women apply to. It is dealt with on the spot by a small fine or a very short imprisonment. Colonel Baker, had lie been a navvy, would have got one month. My brilliant con- temporaries go to their imagination for their facts. 1. poor drudge, go to one out of twenty folio notebooks in which 1 have entered, alphabetically, the curious facts of the day for many a year. The fines for indecent assaults range from five pounds to twenty. Among the exam- ples is one that goes far beyond Maker's case, for the culprit had recourse to choloroform. I call this a criminal as- sault. The magistrate, however, had a doubt, and admitted the culprit to bail. At the expiration of the bail the Lucre- tia in humble life walked into the court on Tarquin's arm, and begged to with- draw the plaint. She had married him in that brief interval. And that, oh, too imaginative contemporaries, " is the sort of women they are." The magistrate scolded them both, and said it was col- lusion to defeat the law. He lacked humor, poor man. When a lady or a gentleman is one of the parties, that immediately elevates the offense. I have a case in my list that resembles Baker's in some respects. It was a railway case — the offender a gentleman, the plaintiff a respectable milliner. This was dealt with at quarter sessions; fine £200, no imprisonment. In Craft's case the parties were reversed. Craft, a car- penter, at Farringdon, kissed by force the daughter of a neighboring clergy- man. She took him before a jury, and he got six months. But her majesty re- mitted three months of this sentence. I am informed there was a case the other day, and a bad one — punishment two months. But I will not be sure, for I have not seen it. Of this I am ab- solutely sure, that Baker's sentence is severe beyond all precedent. His fine is more than double the highest previous fine. His imprisonment, if not short- ened, will be four times the term of , ami about twelve times what, if the female had been in humble life, a blackguard by descent and inheritance would have got, and he is both lined and imprisoned. I think it most proper a gentleman should he mure severely pun- ished for so heinous an offense. But it is not proper that facts should lie turned clean topsy-turvy, and the public hum- bugged into believing that the lower order of people are treated more severely in such cases, when, on the contrary, they are treated with gross partiality; still less is it proper , that these prodigious errors of fact should be used to cast, a slur upon the just reputation of a very sa- gacious, careful, and independent judge. To drair the gas stokers' case into this question is monstrous. Law has many branches, and a somewhat arbitrary scale of punishments that binds the judges more or less. As a rule it treats offenses against the person more lightly than offenses against property — ay, even when marks of injury have been left upon the person for months. Now, the law of England abhors conspiracy, and Mr. Jus- tice Brett found the law ; he did not make it, nor yet did his grandfather. The gas stokers' sentence had nothing on earth to do with their birth and parent- age. They were representative men — the ring-leaders of a great conspiracy, and the only offenders nailed in a case where our jails ought to have been filled with the blackguards. It was a heartless, egotistical, and brutal conspiracy ; its object a fraud, and its instrument a pub- READIANA. 347 lie calamity. The associated egotists inflicted darkness on a great city during' the hours of traffic. They not only in- commoded a vast public cruelly ; they also added to the perils of the city, and most likely injured life and limb. The judge who punished these delib- erate and combined criminals severely was the mouth-piece of an offended and injured public, and not of any clique whatever ; for no clique monopolizes light nor can do without it, least of all the poor. He gave his reasons at the time, and the press approved them, as anybody can see by turning to the files. To these facts, sir, I beg to add a grain of common sense. What is there in a British colonel to dazzle a British judge ? The judge is a much greater man in society and in the coun- try; and in court he is above the princes of the blood, for he represents the person and wields the power of the sovereign. Class distinctions do not much affect the judges of our daj*. They sit too high above all classes. One or two of them, I see, share the universal foible, and truckle a little to the press. If a modern judge is above that universal weakness, he is above everything but his conscience and his God. Perhaps my brilliant contempo- raries have observed that solitary foible in our judges, and are resolved that Mr. Justice Brett shall not overrate their ability to gauge his intellects or his character. If that was their object, they have written well. Charles Reade. August mil, 1875. PROTEST AGAINST THE MUR- DER AT LEWES JAIL. To the Editor of the " Daily News." Sir — I claim the right of a good citizen to disown, before God and man, a wicked and insane act just committed in the name of the country, and therefore in mine, unless I publicly dissent. An Englishman named Murdock was killed yesterday at Lewes by the minis- ters of the law, for a crime the law of England does not visit with death. The crime was manslaughter. It is not pos- sible that even an English judge could so mistake the law as really to take the man's crime for murder. It was desti- tute, not of one, two, or three, but of all the features that the law requires in murder. On the other hand, it had all the features that distinguish manslaugh- ter. There was no murderous weapon — there was no weapon at all; no premedi- tation, no personal malice. The act was done in the confusion, hurry, and agita- tion of a struggle, and that struggle was commenced, not by the homicide but the victim. . As respects the animus at the time, it is clear the violence was done alio intui- tu ; the prisoner was fighting, not to kill but to escape ; and that he never from first to last aimed at killing appeared further by his remaining in the neighbor- hood, and his surprise and ignorance of his victim's death. In a word, it was manslaughter in its mildest form. I have seen a boy of eighteen hanged for stealing a horse. It was a barbarous act, but it was the law. I have seen a forger hanged. It was cruel, but it was the law. But now, for the first time (while murderers are constantly escaping the law), I have seen an English head fall by the executioner in defiance of the law. I wash this man's blood from my hands, and from my honorable name. I disown that illegal act, and the public will follow me. I cannot say to-day where the blame lies, and in what proportions ; but I will certainly find out ; and as certainly all those concerned in it populo responde- bunt et mihi. Charles Reade. 348 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. STARVATION REFUSING PLENTY. To the Editor of the "Daily Telegraph." Sir — The journals recorded last week the death by starvation of a respectable seamstress. Now, the death by starva- tion of a single young working- woman is a blot upon civilization and a disgrace to humanity. It implies also great misery and much demi-starvation in the class that furnishes tin' extreme example. The details in this case were pitiable, and there were some comments in the Daily Telegraph well adapted to make men feel and think even if they never knew hunger personally. They have set me thinking for one, and I beg to offer my thoughts. I have observed, in a general way, thai the world is full of live counterparts, by which I mean people thai stand m need t>f other people, who stand equally in need ol them; only these two live counterparts of the social system cannot find each other out. Distance and ignorance keep them apart. Of late the advertisement sheet has done much to cure that, and is an incalculable boon to mankind. But as there are counterpart individuals. so t here arc counterpart classes, and I shall ask your assistance to bring two of these classes together and substitute for starva- tion repletion. I see before me, say. two thousand honest, virtuous, industrious young women, working hard and half starved : and I see before me at least twenty thousand other women holding out plenty in both hands, and that plenty rejected with scorn by young women of very little merit, or, if not rejected, in- cepted only under vexatious and galling conditions imposed by the persons to be benefited. Aid me then, sir, to introduce to a starving class an oppressed and insulted and pillaged class which offers a clean healthy lodging and no rent to pay, butcher's meat twice a day. food at all hours, tea. beer, and from £12 to £18 a year pocket-money, in return for a few hours of healthy service per day. To speak more plainly, domestic servants have become rare, owing to wholesale and most injudicious exportation ; and although their incapacity in their business has greatly increased— especially the in- capacity of cooks — they impose not only higher wages, but intolerable conditions. The way the modest householder is ground down by these young ladies is a grievance too large to be dealt with under this head, and will probably lead to a masters and mistresses' league. Suffice it here to say that full forty thousand domestic servants are now engaged yearly in London on written characters, and thirty thousand withoul a i haracter ; and I speak within hounds when I say that there are good places by the dozen open to any respect- able seamstress. There are mistresses by the thousand who. in the present dearth of -.oil and civil servants, would try a respectable novice. Arespectable seamstress lias always half a character, for she is trusted with materials and does no; steal them ; and the oppressed mis- i in tii. est ion would forgive a few faults in housework at first, starting in a woman who could compensate them by skill with the needle — no mean addition to a servant's value. I now turn to the seamstresses. Why do they sit hungry to the dullest of all labor, and hold aloof from domestic service, at a time when ladies born are beginning to recognize how much better off is the rich housemaid than the poor lady ? I suspect the seam- Stresses are deluded by two words, " lib- erty " and " wages." They think a, fe- male servant hns no liberty, and that her principal remuneration, also, is her •• wages." I address myself to these two errors. Owe (emimonde t he mosl interesl ing female character, if not technically the heroine. B. — I have thrown her vulgarity into ckground. C. — I have thrown her uiuieanness background, and praised her by faint blame, etc., etc. o B. It is a direct falsehood. How dm"- this writer know that Ethoda Somerset was vulgar ? He knows it only from me. My fearless honesty has put an oath into the woman's mouth, and plenty of Billingsgate beside. Lie 1. C. — Behold the " prurient prude." This word •■ uncleanness." applied to vice, is one of his sure signs. Illicit connections are vicious, but they are no more unclean than matrimonial connections. To apply a term which is nasty, without being strictly appropriate, betrays to a philos- opher's eye the prurient prude. When- ever in a newspaper you see the word ••filth" applied to adultery or other READIANA. 355 frailty, the writer is a lewd hypocrite, a prurient prude. Remember that : it is well worth remembering - . Divested of that false and repulsive expression, what does this charge come to ? That I have but coldly stated the illicit connection between Rhoda Somerset and Sir Charles Bassett ; I have gratified this prurient prude's real taste with no amorous scenes, no pictures of frailty in action. This is quite true. I have given the virtuous loves of Sir Charles and Bella Bruce in full detail, to gain my reader's sympa- thy with virtue : and the vicious connec- tion I have coldly stated, like a chroni- cler. Mine is an art that preaches by pictures. I draw the illicit love, with decent reserve; I paint the virtuous love in the purest and sweetest colors I can command. Who but a prurient prude. with no relish for my scenes of virtuous love, would distort this to my discredit ? What writer has ever produced seems purer and sweeter than the innocent loves of Ruperta and Compton Bassett in this book? Yet how have the prurient prudes, one and all, received t hem ? With marked distaste ; they call the scenes a bore. Poor shallow hypocrites ! These scenes of virgin snow are incon- venient : they do but fidget and obstruct a dirty fellow groping the soil for the thing he denounces and loves. Is daylight breaking in ? A. — This is a double falsehood.' In the first place I have made Lady Bassett by far the most interesting character. Were Rhoda Somerset cut out, the deeper in- terest 'would still remain, and the story be still rather a strong story. In the next place, Rhoda Somerset is not one character all through the book, as this anonymuncule infers. She is first a frail woman — then a penitent woman. Now it is only in the latter character I admit her to the second place of interest. Even Ruperta Bassett is more interesting than Somerset impenitent. Let any lover of truth studj- the book, and he will find that no sympathy is conceded to Somer- set until her^ penitence commences, and that the sympathy enlarges as the wo- man gets better and better. Yet here is an anonymuncule who utterly ignores a woman's penitence in summing up her character. Is there one precedent for this reasoning that has stood the test of time and reason ? No doubt some con- temporary females and contemporary I criticasters reviled Mary Magdalene to her dying day, and said, " Once a harlot, always a harlot." But what has been the verdict of posterity? And what, in any case, is the verdict of posterity, but the verdict that contemporaries might, and ought to, have arrived at? If fifteen years' penitence are to go for nothing, in summing up Rhoda Somerset, for how much less than nothing ought ten minutes' penitence to count for in that thief, whom, nevertheless, a vener- able Church has summed up a saint ? John Bunyan was a blaspheming black- guard. He repented, and wrote a novel that has done more g-ood to men's souls than most sermons. Would this anony- muncule sum him up a blaspheming black- guard ? Kotzebue's Mrs. Hailer is an adulteress less excusable than Rhoda Somerset, a low girl with mercenary parents. Do Mrs. Haller's years of penitence go for nothing? Or does Kotzebue being dead, and Reade being alive, make the penitent adulteress a penitent, and the penitent Anonyma an unmitigated Anonyma ? Yet, divest the argument of this idiotic blunder, and that part of the libel falls to earth. D. — He says I have made Sir Charles Bassett the model man of the book. That is untrue. I have not pretended that he was ever much worse than many other young men of fortune ; but I have openly disapproved his early life — have repre- sented him as heartily regretting it, so soon as the virtuous love dawned on him ; and yet I have shown some consequences of his early frailties following him for years. If this is not fiction teaching morality in its own unobtrusive way — what is ? E. — He says that there is a strain of the Somerset through the whole book, and that a nurse giving suck is described more sexually than it ought to be. This 356 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. is a deliberate falsehood. That great maternal act is described, not sensually, but poetically ; and attention is fixed, not on that which the prurient prude was itching: for", but on the exquisite expres- sion of the maternal face while nursing- — a poetical beautj' the sculptors, Chantrey and all, have missed, to their discredil as artists. F. — He says Lady Bassett was on the brink of adultery. This is another delib- erate falsehood. Mr. Angelo may have been in danger ; but it bakes two to com- mit adultery ; and it is clear the woman was never in danger for a moment. The anonymuncule then proceeds to say that 1 have given a true picture; thai in England the "kept mistress" has be- come an institution: that Anonynia did beckon our countesses and duchesses across the park, and they followed her, etc.: in short, he delivers a complete de- fense of the man he has just slandered; for vices are like diseases— to cure them you must ventilate them. Well. 1 have vent ilat ml the English concubine in my way, and my anonymuncule has slan- dered me, and imitated me, in t hi column of the same newspaper. Having detected himself in this latter act, he catches a faint glimpse of his own con- duct, drops the slanderer, and announces that he is going to discourse artistically. Well, when he gets out of slander he is like a lish out of water: I wander through a waste of syllables, hunting, fishing, and diving for an idea: and at last 1 deted the head of an idea in one paragraph, and the tail in another— these scribblers never can articulate their topics — and I drag its disjuncta membra together "with oxen and wainropes," and so get to this — Whatever a publisher publishes from week to week, the author must have so composed : ergo, Mr. Reade writes so many feet per week, and that makes him a crude accumulator of nothings. Now, where did he get his major premise ? From the depths of his inner conscious- ness. If he knew anything about au- thors, as distinct from scribblers and anonvmuncula, he would be aware that we never write, as they do. from hand to mouth. Between the publication of my last novel and the issue of the first weekly number of the tale, eleven months elapsed. The depths of this man's inner conscious- ness inform him that I did not write one line of the story in those eleven months. Well, they tell him a lie, for I wrote it all — except a few chapters — in those eleven months : and it was all written, copied, and corrected before the Cana- dian public saw the first line of it. He now carries the same system, the criticaster's, into a matter of more gen- eral importance. He says thai I found my fictions on fait, and so tell lies: and that the chiefs of Fiction did not found tiet ions on fact, and so told only truths. Now, where does he discover that the chiefs of Fiction did not found their fig- ments upon facts? Where? — why. in that little asylum of idiots, the depths of his inner consciousness ! It could be proved in a court of law that Shakespeare founded his fictions on fact, wherever he could gel hold of fact. Fact is that writer's idol. It was his misfortune to live in an age when the supplies of fact were miserably meager. Could he be resuscitated, and a copy of the Toronto Globe handed him at the edge of the grave, he would fall on his knees, and thank God for that mar- vel, a newspaper, and for the rich vein of ore, whose value to the theater he would soon show us, to our utter amazement. Living in that barren age, he did his best. He ransacked Belleforest, Baker, Hol- linshed, for facts. He transplanted •whole passages from the latter bodily into " Macbeth," and from Plutarch into his " Coriolanus." His historical dramas are crammed with facts, or legends he believed to be fact. Wol- sey's speech interwoven with his own — Fact : Henry the Eighth's interjections — Fact; the names of Pistol, Bardolph, and a dozen more — Fact : you may see them on the court-rolls of Stratford-on- Avon any day you like. His Dogberry and Verges — Fact — from Cricklade in Gloucestershire ; his charnel-house in •' Romeo and Juliet " — Fact — from Stratford-on-Avon, etc. This anony- READIANA. 357 muncule can put some limits to his ig- norance in twenty-four hours, by read- ing- the " Prolegomena " to Malone's edition, and a few of the notes. Shake- speare habitually interweaves fact with fiction; so this anonymuncule has culled him a liar ! As for Scott, he is one mass of facts. I know this from various sources — my own mediaeval researches, Scott's biography, and Scott's own notes to his own works. He was forty years collecting facts before he wrote a novel. Pure imagination is most ardent in youth; why then did he not pass his youth in writing? He would, if he had held this anonymuncule 's theoiy. He employed that imaginative period in col- lecting facts : he raked the Vale of Et- trick for facts: he ransacked the Advo- cates' Library for facts ; and so far from disguising his method, lie has revealed it fully in his notes. His ability is his own, but his plan, though not his genius, is mine. Now I will substitute the method of the critic for the method of the criti- caster and sift this question in the person of a single artist. Daniel Defoe wrote a narrative on the plan this anonymuncule praises, and says it never leads to lying ; it is called "The Apparition of Mrs. Veal." He also wrote a narrative on the method I have adopted, called " Robinson Crusoe." Now, the private history of the latter composition is truly instruc- tive. Daniel Defoe came to his work armed with facts from three main sources : 1. Facts derived in conversa- tion from Selkirk, or Selcraig, who spent some months in London on his way to Largo, and was what we now call a lion ; 2. The admirable narrative of Selkirk, by Woodes Rogers; 3. Dampier's Voy- ages, in which book, and not in his im- agination, he found the Mosquito Indian Friday, and certain moral reflections he has put into Robinson Crusoe's mouth. With these good hard facts he wrote a volume beyond praise. His rich store- house of rare facts exhausted, he still went on — peopled his island, and produced a mediocre volume, such as anybody could write in his age, or ours. The immortal volume dragged its mediocre brother about with it, as men were attached to corpses under the good King Mezen- tius. The book was so great a success that its author tried my anonymuncule's theory : he took the field armed with his imagination only, unadulterated by facts. What was the result ? The same writer produced another " Robinson Crusoe," which the public read for its title, and promptly damned upon its merits : it has literally disappeared from literature. "The Apparition of Mrs. Veal" is written on a plan which, according to my anonymuncule, breeds general truths, and no lies. What ! The sham certifi- cate of the magistrate, and the sham apparition, minutely related with a single dishonest purpose, to trepan the public into buying the dead stock of •■ Drelin- court on Death" — these are not lies? I congratulate him on both branches of his theory. The charge of public criminality my anonymuncule rests on this — " That I went upon a single case of habitual cruelty, and traduced a whole system and all the officials, and did all I could to make a great social experiment mis- carry." This is one tissue of falsehoods. That no sanguinary abuses existed, ex- cept in one jail, is a lie. The ordinary Bluebooks, written with rosewater, to please Colonel Jebb the Jail King, re- vealed a shocking number of suicides, and a percentage of insanity, which, in a place where the average rate was re- duced by stoppage of spirituous liquors, gave me just alarm. I had also person- ally inspected many jails, and discovered terrible things : a cap of torture and in- fection in one northern jail : in a south- ern jail the prisoners were wakened several times at night, and their reason shaken thereby. In another jail I found an old man sinking visibly to his grave under the system ; nobody doubted it, nobody cared. In another, the chaplain, though a great enthusiast, let out that a woman had been put into the "black hole " by the jailer, against his advice, and taken out a lunatic, and was still a lunatic, and the visiting justices had treated the case with levity. Then I 358 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. studied the two extraordinary Blue- books, viz., the Royal Commissioners'' Report on Birmingham Jail, and also on Leicester Jail, of which last this impudent, ignorant person has evident- ly never heard. Then I conversed with one of the Royal Commissioners, and he told me the horrors of Leicester Jail had so affected one of the Commissioners that it had made him seriously ill for in ore than a month. Enlightened by all these studies, and being also a man qualified to see deeper into human nature than the Jail King, or any of his military dinates, I did what the anonymous had done on a vast, scale without re- proach from any anonymuncule : I struck in defense of oul r iged law and outraged humanity. But unlike the Press, to whom the prison ru unknown, 1 did not confound the sys- tem with all its abuses j on the con- trary, 1 conducted the case thus: I placed before the reader no1 ot ernmenl official, but two — the jailer and the chaplain: the jailer eternally breaking the prison rules, and the ii eternally appealing to the prison rules. A1 last, after inflicting many miseries by repeated breaches of the prison rules, the jailer does a poor boy to death : and thenlbring in a third government offi- cial, who dismisses the jailer. Now, since the prison rules were t lie condi- tions of the national experimi .1 ly supported the national experiment in most particulars. 1 admit that, in two respects. 1 did try hard to modify the ex- periment : I urged on practical men its extreme liability to abuse, and I wrote down the crank, and gave my rea- sons. This irritated government officials for months: but at last they saw I was right, and abolished the crank, which was a truly hellish invention to make labor contemptible and unremun- erative, and theft eternal. They have since conceded to me other points I had demanded : and. in virtue of these im- provements, I am, on a small scale, a public benefactor, and have modified, not disturbed, the national experiment. Now let any one examine the files of September, 1853, and see what an on- slaught a hundred anonymous writers made on the jails. How is it that not one of these is dubbed a national male- factor ? Simply, because my anonymun- cule is not jealous of them. They, like me. did their duty to the nation: they lashed that Birmingham Hell, which dis- graced, not England only, but human nature, and eighteen months afterward they lashed the English judges for not - a propel' punishment on the criminal jailer. These men. like me, wrote humanity, philosophy, sound law, and good gospel, in a ease that cried aloud to God and man for all four. To they wrote on sand, I w rot l brass. But those immortal things are not changed by sand or brass. Whether you print them didactically or dramatic- ally makes no moral difference. I was a national benefactor, one of many. Le1 me go with the rest, undistinguished. Whoever singles me out, and calls one benefactor a aat iona I criminal, is a liar and a scoundrel. I beg pardon. he would be, if he was a man: but youi anonymuncule is not a man. as I under- stand the word — he is a creature with no genuine convictions whatever. He will write againsl barbarity in prisons, asy- lums, hospitals, p and all dark places: and, if a man with higher powers writes more effectually againsl those bar- barities, he will eat his own words, and defend Hell. There are several anony- muncula of this sorl in England, who would deny their God on the spol if they caught Mr. Eteade singing a hymn. 1 begin to suspect this is one of them strayed into an honester country, and disgracing it. His objections to "Put Yourself in His Place " are a tissue of lies. He says I have attacked Trades Unions. A direct falsehood. I have distinctly defended them, and do defend them. He intimates I draw a vital dist i between my club and an Union. A direct falsehood. I have plainly disowned all such distinctions. He says I have slurred the faults of the BEADIAXA. 359 masters. A lie. I have detailed and de- nounced them again and again. He intimates I have not read the Blue- books on Mines and Factories. A mis- take. I am deeply versed in them, as he will And, if I live. He complains that I have not taken into account the diseases and short lives of the Sheffield cutlers. A falsehood. I have gone more rninutety into them than any living- man but Dr. Hall ; have pointed out the remedies, and blamed the masters for not employing their superior intelligence to save the. men. "You call your men 'Hands,'"' say I: "learn to see they are men." Understand me, I would not apply harsh terms to my anonymuncule, if these several mistakes were advanced in a literary notice. But the whole article is an indictment ; and in an indictment a falsehood is a lie. He has either been to the depths of his inner consciousness to learn the contents of my book, or else he has employed another anonymuncule, or some inaccurate woman, to read it for him, and so between two fools — you know the proverb. " Put Yourself in His Place " is at issue with this writer on one point only. I am not so sloppy-minded as to confound the Manchester district with the town of Manchester. That dis- trict numbers two million people, is in- fected with trade outrage, is losing its sympathy with the law even in face of murder, and is ceasing to be England. Nothing is more shallow than the frivol- ity with which Mr. Harrison and other one-sided men dismiss this terrible phe- nomenon as exceptional. He wdio has studied human nature and the Bluebooks so deeply as I have, and searched the provincial journals, knows that not two but forty trades have committed outrages, and that the exceptional ruffianism of certain Manchester trades is not a gen- uine exception, but only the uneducated workman's ruffianism carried fairly out. That the Sheffield outrages were stale when I wrote — is a lie. They have never intermitted. Bluebook exposure did not affect them for a moment. The town turned Roebuck out of Parliament, for not burking the exposure ; and went on with their petards, and other deadly practices ; see the journals passim. Last year they knocked a whole row of non- union houses to pieces, and tried to slaughter the inmates. Were the mis- creants at Thornclitfe cutlers ? I thought they were this anonymuncule's pets, the miners. The fact is that the Union miners' hands, from John o' Groat's to Lizard Point, are red with the blood of non-union men. In the United States the trades are alreadj 7 steeped in hu- man blood. Is America Sheffield, or Mancliesi er ? The masters are just as egotistical as the men ; but, unlike the men, they have never had recourse to violence. How long will that last? Does this dreamer imagine that capital cannot buy fighting agents, and ten thousand Colt revolvers, and a million grapeshot ; and kill lawless ruffians by the hundred, when they com- mit felony by the hundred ? When we come to this, and when the Unions have upset the British Constitution through the servility of the Commons and the blindness of the Peers, let it be remem- bered that a thinking novelist, a lover of his kind, encouraged the workmen in law- ful combination, but wrote against their beastly ignorance and dirt, and their bloody violence and foul play. In such a case it is either books or bayonets. I have tried a book. Others will try bayonets, and anonymuncula will cry "Bravo!** — unless they catch sight, of a popular author in the front ranks. The author of "Put Yourself in His Place " is, in a very small way, a public benefactor. Whoever calls him a public criminal is a liar and a scoundrel. That in "Hard Cash " I painted all asylums as abodes of cruelty — is a lie. One of my asylums is governed by a most humane person, though crotchety. The solitary asylum in "A Terrible Tempta- tion "is also a stronghold of humanity. Even in "Hard Cash " the only cruel asylum is governed, not by a physician, but a pawnbroker. As to the abuses pointed out in "Hard Cash," they really existed, and exist. 360 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Can any man offer a fairer test of a book's veracity than I did ? I said, in my preface to " Hard Cash," that the whole thing rested on a mass of legal evidence — Bluebooks, pamphlets, news- papers, private letters, diaries of alleged lunatics, reports of tried cases. I offered, in print, to show these, at my own house, to any anonymous writer who might care to profit by my labor — the labor of Her- cules. I lived eighty yards from Pica- dilly. a great fashionable thoroughfare, down which many of these gentry pass every fine day. How many do you sup- pose accepted this infallible fcesl of men- dacity or veracity in my book ? Not one ! Not one of these hypocrites, who pre- tend to love truth, would walk yards to reap a whole harvest of truth with next to no t rouble. No, t hey preferred to lie, unshackled by evidence, and to accuse me of being a Liar Like t hemsel This aiiniix muncule lias read that printed challenge, and knows it was shirked. Yet he repeats the ■ porary Lie — which is new a greater Lie than ever; for fresh evidence lias poured in, both public and private. A gentleman in Dublin has recently been incarcerated, on certificates, in an asylum ; has gone to the court with a habeas corpus, and been at once pronounced sane. A Manx drunk- ard has just been cajoled into Scotland, and incarcerated, on a medical certificate, as insane These are public cases : so is Hall v. .s< m/ili . w liere a turbulent and drunk- en wife bought a doctor, and incarcer- ated her husband. Husband has sued doctor, and got damages. Add private cases. A tradesman in the North had a pretty wife. She went to a magistrate, and said lie was mad : "And do, please, lock him up for me." " My pretty dear," says the magistrate, "I can't do that, unless you are sure he is mad." "Mad as a March hare ! "' replies that fair and tender spouse. Thereupon the magistrate issues his warrant, and the man is locked up. He was no more insane than his neighbors. He got his discharge, and came to me directly. I employed him in several matters. A respectable tradesman in Chelten- ham was incarcerated by his wife, and kept eleven years, while she maintained an illicit connection. He made his escape, and came to me. I lent him a solicitor, and told the parties interested to let him alone. They have never laid a finger on him since. The man is perfectly sane, and always was. At Hanwell Asylum alone the keepers have murdered three lunatics, by break- ing from eigtrl to ten ribs, and the breast- bone. The doctor, in every case, has told the coroner that the science he pro- fesses does net enable him to say posi- tively that till these ribs were not broken by t he man slipping down in a room : and 1 say that. H' medicine was a science, it would possess the statistics of falls; -i atistics are at present confined to my notebooks, and these reveal, that in mere tumbles, men break the projecting belies before they bivak the rilis: and that during the Lasl twenty years only one man has broken so many a- four of his own ribs, and heft ll VZOfeet. I told the public, in the I'ull Mall (iir.iflc the precise i le in which luna- tics are murdered at Hanwell — viz., by the keepers walking up and down the victim on their knees, and pressing on him with then- knees. A month later. two keepers were indicted for killing a man in Lancaster Asylum. The doctors puzzled a bit over his broken ribs, and conjectured that nine ribs were broken by pressure on the breast-bone: which is simply idiotic, as will be found by experi- ment on a skeleton. A wi1 ms> went into the box. ami swore he had seen the man murdered by repeated blows of the keepers' knees. For once, thank God, we nailed these miscreants, and they got seven years' penal servitude. The author of " Hard Cash " is a pub- lic benefactor, in a small way. Whoever, after this, calls him a public criminal, is a liar and a scoundrel. The last charge is trifling. Here is an ill-natured egotist accusing me of good- natured egotism. The charge, made READIANA. 361 with moderation, might perhaps have been sustained ; but his malice and men- dacity have overshot the mark, and given me a right to correct him. He begins with the Sham-Sample- Swindle. He cites a single passage from my letter to Bushnan. That passage, so taken, is egotistical, but not if you con- sider the context and its purpose. Bush- nan was a humbug, who wrote at me pub- licly, and said there were no abuses in asyla. You will smile, perhaps, when I tell j'ou that, at that moment, there were abuses in his own asylum so serious, that, very soon after, he was turned out of it. Well, I knocked Bushnan on the head with a lot of examples this anony- muncule hasread and shirked, the better to repeat Bushnan 's falsehood. From that list of facts I could not afford to ex- clude my own experience — it was too good evidence to suppress. Yes, at a time when my income was not large, I did, for love of justice, humanity, and law, protect an injured fellow-citizen, in whom I had no other interest. He was a sane man, unjustly incarcerated. 1 fed him, clothed him, backed him, and, after a bitter and costly struggle, got him an annuity of £100 a year for life from those who incarcerated him. Perhaps, if an anonymuncuie were capable of such an action, he might mention it spontaneously and more than once. It was dragged out of me by a liar, and I never repeated it in my own person. For an author to introduce his own character into a novel looks like egotism ; but it is not so uncommon as this illiter- ate person imagines. Eccentric characters are rare and valuable to the artist ; and this eccentric character was intruded not egotistically but artistically. It fitted the occasion and forced itself on me. "Oh, but," says the anonymuncuie, " your sketch is one strain of eulogy on the person and mind of Rolfe." Was ever so impudent a lie as this ? It is the exact opposite of the truth. It should be remembered that, in fiction, I am not a satirist ; I am one who sees the bright side of a mixed character, and I dare say Rolfe has benefited a little by that, along with a score more characters that I have drawn. But compare Rolfe with his pred- ecessors in his own line of business — with Mr. Eden, Dr. Sampson, Dr. Amboyne. Have I ever handled him with the rever- ence, the affection, the gusto I have shown them ? Have I disguised his foibles ? Have I not let Dr. Suaby get the better of him in dialogue ? Who gets the better of Eden or Amboyne ? " But,"' says my anonymuncuie, "you have said the best judges adore his works. ' ' This is an impudent lie ; I never said a syllable of the kind. " Personally he is most striking and in- teresting," etc. This whole sentence is an impudent lie. I have described the man as personally uninteresting and common- place : an unwieldly person, a rolling gait, commonplace features, a mild brown eye, not bright. I have told the truth pro and co)i. just as I should of anj T other person I was inspecting with an artist's eye. But the best possible answer to this falsehood is to republish the comment of an American critic, that has come to me : " It is alleged that in this character Reade has intended to represent himself, and a cry of horror is raised, by those who have never read ' Copperfield,' ' Pen- dennis,' or 'Amelia,' and never seen Raphael's portrait of himself. We are inclined to think that Rolfe and Reade are one, because the novels of the latter could scarcely be as perfect as they are, without the patient, unremitting drudg- ery ascribed to the former, and also be- cause the character is drawn in a pitiless fashion, which Reade never elsewhere employs toward his virtuous personages. The plain exterior of the man, and his self-conceit, all his foibles, are kept per- sistently before the reader, in a style which seems to indicate conscientious self- analysis, and in gratitude for the picture we fail to blame the artist." — The Charles - ton Courier. One of these writers is clearly tamper- ing with truth. Let the book itself decide which. Two virulent critiques on my work6, in Canadian papers, end rather suspiciously with the same suggestion. This indicates 3»;2 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. the same hand, and is an abuse of the anonymous. See my preliminary remark in voce anonymuncule. The suggestion ot which the anonymuncule is so proud is this, that Mr. Rolfe, previously identified with -Mr. Reade, may perhaps end his days in a madhouse. That shall be as God pleases. Ho gave me whatever good gifts I have, my hatred of inhumanity and injustice and my loathing of everything that is dastard- ly and mean, from a British anonymuncule up to a Carolina skunk ; and He can take these gifts away in a moment, by taking my reason. 1 shall be no nearer thai calamity for this writer's suggestion, and he will be no furl her oil it . since such suggestions some- times offend God, as well as disgust men. But this is certain : should he ever transplanl into any business Less base and belov the law's lash than anonymous de- traction, the morals and practices ho has shown in slandering me, he will, soon or late, find his way, not to an asylum, but a jail Four obedienl servant, Charles Reads. < 'ctober, 1871. This letter was written in reply to a malicious and defamatory libel by Mr. Q-oldwin Smith in the Toronto Globe. The character of that libel can be divined by the reply. I sent it to the Globe, but. as criticasters dare not encounter superior writers, on fair terms, il was suppressed. C. R. Auytist 5, 1888. A SUPPRESSED LETTER. The Athenceum has lately published some critiques on dramatic authors, sign- ed "Q.,"' and written with more confi- dence than knowledge. The article on Mr. Tom Taylor shocked Mr. Charles Reade's sense of justice and propriety, and he wrote a letter to the editor of the Athe- nceum. That gentleman suppressed the letter. Mr. Reade objects to this as doubly unfair, and requests the editor of the paper to which this is sent to give the letter, and its suppression, duo publicity. To the Editor of the " Athen.eum." i Albert Terrace, Kxiohtsbridge. AprilZ5th, 1871. Sir — An article appeared in last week's Athenaeum entitled "Mr. Tom Taylor," and written by one "Q." The article is unjust and needlessly discourteous to a writer of merit, and I must appeal to your sense of jusl ice \<> let a disinterested correel your "Q." and undeceive your public. I will take the two writers in their in- I i.al order. Mr. T<>m T wlor first distinguished himself as a. scholar: a fellowship at Trinity College, Cambridge. "Mutatis Studiis" he wrote tor the theater; and his early pieces were all original, though, at that time, originality was rarer than now. Between the years 1852 and L856 I had myself the honor of working with him on four original dramas. I found him rich in knowledge, ferule m in- vention, and rapid in execution. ( )| late years he has 1 a a very bus\ man : he is the head of a public office, and the na- tion takes the cream of his day: he is a steady contributor to the Times and to Punch, has published two biographies of great research, and yet lias contrived to write many good dramas in prose and verse. The mind is finite, so is the day ; and I observe that, writing for the stage in the mere fragments of his time, he now invents less, and imitates more, than lie did some years ago. But, taking his whole career, the title of a dramatic in- ventor cannot be honestly denied him. He may not be a dramatist of the highest class — what living Englishman is ? — but he resembles the very highest in this, t hat he sometimes adapts or imitates, without READIAXA. 363 servility, and sometimes invents. This accomplished writer in so many styles is the only man who of late years has filled a theater by poetical dramas. His last is ■• Joan of Arc." Is not this a remarkable man, as times go, and entitled to decent respect from the mere shrimps and minnows, who write about literature, because they can- not write literature? Mr. Q. is a variety of the literary insect "Criti- caster." He has been good enough to reveal his method. He went to the Queen's Theater to see " Joan of Arc," and weigh the author's lines, and the author himself, in his little balance. He qualified himself as follows : he turned his back on the stage, and fell to talking with another criticaster — the illustrious P. ? — about other plays of Mr. Taylor. They did not talk improvingly, for they merely played off a stale literary fraud which I exposed two years ago under the title of the "' Sham Sample Swindle." For all that, this part of Q.'s narrative is in- teresting to me : I have long been asking- myself to what class of society, and to what depths of the human intellect, be- long those chattering snobs who always spoil a play for poor me, whenever I go to the public part of a theater. " Revealed the secret stands of Nature's work." They are criticasters ; sent in there, by too confiding editors, to hold their ton- gues, and to give their minds to the play. At the last scene it suddenly occurred to "Q." that he must not go away know- ing nothing of the play he was sent there to know all about, and this led to a dialogue I reproduce verbatim, simply remarking that to me, who am a critic, it reads like bad fiction. " 'May I venture to ask,' said T. ' if you have reason to suppose that the drama we are now witnessing is derived from any foreign original ? ' My friend was expanding his crush-hat. 'Certainly not,' he replied with emphasis, pointing to the stage, whereon they were roast- ing Mrs. Rousbv : ' I know no other dramatic author who, left to himself, would conceive the notion of presenting before an audience such brutal realism as that.' And my friend left." Now "P." never uttered those words. Every nation has two languages ; the spoken, and the written ; so uncouth and involved a sentence never flowed from a bad writer's mouth, it could only wriggle from a bad writer's pen. How- ever, there it is — a monument of impu- dence, insolence, and ignorance. What these poor gropers in the back slums of the drama stigmatize as unprecedented realism has been enacted before admiring Europe, by the most poetical actress of the century, in 1he first theater, and the most squeamish, of the civilized world. 'Joan of Arc ' w T as one of Rachel's char- acters, and, in her hands, was burned to was death night after night. The burning represented with what a critic would call "terrible fidelity," a criticaster, " brutal realism." She stood on a small working- platform arranged to fall about two feet to a stop. The effect was truthful, but appalling; for, when the fire had burned a little time, the great actress, who did nothing by halves, turned rigid, and seemed to fall like a burned log from her supports. It conveyed, and was intended to convey, that the lower extremities had been burned away and the figure dropped into the flames. Of course the curtain fell like lightning then, and, up to the moment preceding that awful incident, the face of the actress shone like an angel's, and was divine with the triumph of the great soul over the very flames that were destroying the mortal body. Believe me, sir, no author. French or English, can give this actress a nobler opportunity than this of rising to the level of Poeti-y and History. As to the notion that death by fire is unfit to be presented coram populo, this is the chimera of a few Anglo - Saxon dunces, afflicted with the known intel- lectual foible of their race — the trick of drawing distinctions without a difference: in other words, the inability to general- ize. Death by fire is neither more nor less fit to be presented faithfully than 364 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. death by poison, or cold steel. On\y the death of " Joan a" Arc " by fire, with her rapt eyes fixed on the God she is going; to, is of a grander and more poetical nat- ure than the death of " Hamlet " or of "Macbeth." That the performance of this great scene at the Queen's Theater sujs nothing nobler and more poetic to "P." and •' Q." than an actress roasted, is not the faull of Mr. Taylor, nor of history, which dictated the situation. No Frenchman was ever the hog to comment on the same situation in a -mil- iar spirit, and I am therefore driven re- luctantly to the conclusion, thai the brutal nation, which burned the maid of <>rle;n!s. i- -nil. in some respects, al the bottom of mankind. Of course, if the part was vilely acted there would lie some excuse fur " ['." and "Q."' But, on the contrary. 1 he r ,l is well acted. Tin' fault then lies with the criticasters. It is the old, "Id ston : Parvis omnia parva. When little men. with little heads, little hearts, HI tie knowl- edge, little sensibility, and greal vanity, go into a theater, not to take in knowl- edge and humanity, but to give out igno- rance and malice, not to profit by t heir mental superior, bu1 to disparage him, the\ arc steeled againsl ennobling influ- ences, and bonded to beauties however obvious. But the retribution is sure. ••'Depreciation" is the writer's road to ruin. Men see, in our difficull art, by the divine gift, and the amiable habit, of ap- preciation: to appreciate our gifted con- temporaries is to gather unconsciously a thousand flowers for our own basket. The depredator despises his gifted con- temporaries, and so gathers nothing but weeds and self-deception. The apprecia- tor makes a name, a fortune, and a sig- nature. The depredator tickles his own vanity, but gets to admire nothing, feel nothing, create nothing and be nothing — but a cipher signed by an Initial. I am. sir, Your obedient servant. Charles Reade. " FOUL PLAY." To the Editor of the "Examiner and Times." Sir — The Manchester Examiner, of June 25, contains some remarks upon the above drama, which amount to this, that it is respectably written, but poorly acted, at the Theater Royal. This sum- mary is calculated to mislead the public, and to wound artists of merit. Permit me. then, to correct the error. A dramatist is entirely at the mercy of nis actors; let him write like an angel, they can reduce him to the level of Poor Poll. You may. therefore, lay it down as a mat hen iat ical certainty that a drama is very well acted if it holds an audience tighl for three hours and forty minutes, eliciting- laughter, tears, applause, ami few or no yawns. To go into detail, which is the surest way, Mr. Coleman plays Robert Penfold with the varia- tions of manner that difficult character requires. EaSJ and natural in the pro- logue, he warms w il h 1 he ad\ ancing act inn. His manner of dealing with the difficult tirade in the fourth act shows a thorough knowledge of his art. and he works the act up tn a climax with a fire that is invaluable to me. and rare on any stage. On the whole, ins is an earnest, manly performance. Miss Henrietta Simms is an actress — young in years. but old in experience — who has often played leading business at the Adelphi Theater. London. She has presence and dignity, yet can be sprightly without effort. She lacks neither fire, t er- ness, nor variety; and, as one example how far she can carry those three quali- ties, lei me point to four speeches she delivers in the principal island scene. They follow upon Robert Penfold 's de- fense, and might be profitably studied both by actors and critics. But elocu- tion is only a part of the great histrionic art. In fact, what reveals the true artist at once, is his dumb play ; by which \ mean the play of his countenance while another actor is speaking. The faces of second-rate actors become less expressive when they are silent, but the dumb play READIANA. 365 of first-rate actors never intermits, and is in as high a key as their play. Now in this branch of her art Miss Simms has hardly a living rival. Let anybody who cares to test this statement watch the changes of her countenance when Robert Penfold and the others are speaking to her. Let him observe her when Arthur Wardlaw places in her hands the pearl from Godsend Island, gradually her eyes dilate, her lips part, and, long before she speaks the commonplace line I have given her, all the sweet memories of love and Godsend Island seem to flow into her face, and elevate it with a tenderness that has really something divine. Such strokes of g'enius as this partake of in- spiration, and are the glory of that en- chanting art, which is so plentifully written about, but, alas ! so little com- prehended. Now for the smaller parts, which, as your contributor seemed to think, play themselves. I know the London stage by heart, and there is not an actor on it who can look and play Wylie as well as Mr. Horsman does. Mrs. Horsman's performance has, upon the whole, breadth and geniality. Mr. Edwards is a tragedian, who plays a part he dislikes, to oblige us. The part contains few of those strong effects which suit him, but he never misses one. The fourth act of this play reveals a sailor lying on a bank, sick, and near his end. He is left alone, and has a soliloqu}' of eight lines. With these eight lines, and the business that belongs to them, an actor holds a large audience hushed and breathless, and draws many a tear from men and women. And who is this ma- gician ? It is Mr. Royce, the low come- dian of Mr. Coleman's company. Is it usual in this city for low comedians to draw more tears with eight lines than our tragedians draw with eight plays ? If not, why pass over Mr. Royce as if I had written him along with the lines he delivers so exquisitely ? Mr. Chute, a manager, and a veteran actor, plays the little part of Wardlaw Senior to oblige me, and I begin to fear he plays it too well. The purity, the quiet dignity, and gentlemanly ease with which he invests it are too rare upon the stage to be promptly appreciated. All I can say is, that since Dowton's time I have seen nothing of this class so easy, natural, and perfect. I fear, sir, I have trespassed on your courtesy ; but I am sure you would not willingly lend yourself to an injustice, and I even think and hope that, should 3 r our critic revisit the theater, he will come round to my opinion — viz., that "Foul Play " owes a large share of its success to the talent and zeal of the performers, and especially of those who play the small characters. I am, sir, Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. Palatine Hotel, June 26th, 1868. THE SHAM SAMPLE SWINDLE. "FOUL PLAY." The world is so wicked and so old, that it is hard to invent a new knavery. Nev- ertheless, certain writers are now prac- ticing an old fraud with a new face, and gulling the public and the Press. Nothing baffles the literary detective so much as a nameless knavery. I begin, therefore, by depriving the fraud in ques- tion of that unfair advantage, and I call it— THE SHAM SAMPLE SWINDLE. Examples. — 1. A farmer prepares his sample of wheaten grain for market. His duty is to put his two hands fairly into the bulk and so fill his sample-bag. But one day, in my experience, a Berk- shire farmer picked his grain for show ; that is, he went through the sample, and merely removed the inferior grains. He 366 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. stood in the market with the sham sam- ple, and readily sold twenty load of grain at more than its value. The fraud was sd, and the farmer driven out of the market. 2. Suppose some malicious rogue had access to a farmer's sample-bag", and were to remove the fine grains, and leave the inferior — that would destroy Hie farmer's sale and be also a sham sample swindle. Of course nothing so wicked was ■ lie in agriculture ; bu1 there is a baser trade in the world than agriculture, and plied by dirtier hands than those which seal ter dung upon our fields. 3. I read one day an article in a Quar- terly Review, in which these two expres- sions occurred more than once, "the author of ' Robinson Crusoe,'" and "the author of the • Lily and the Bee.' " Now, I >efoe « rote several stupid si oi i one masterpiece ; Warren wrote several powerful stories ami one foolish rhapsody ; e, in t he name of science i for cril i- cism is science, or it is nothing) is War- ren defined by ins exceptional failure, and Defoe by ins exceptional success; and thai is one form of the sham sample swindle. [N.B. The dead are apt to get i,n\ side of this swim h\ ing i he windy side.] 1. A writer produces a great book. With all its beauties it is sure i * . have Haws, being written h\ man. who is an imperfect creature. The sham sample swindler picks oul the flaw or Haws. quotes them bodily, whii an air of honesty, and then says. " IIY could give a host of <<1h show the general charai the work." The swindle lies in the words italicized. They declare a sham sample to be a true sample: and. observe, this is a falsehood that cannot fail to deceive the reader. For why ? The grain of truth that sup- port s the falsehood is shown ; the mass of truth that contradicts the falsehood is hidden. ■ >. A great work of fiction is written : it is rich in invention and novel combina- tion ; but, as men of genius have a singu- larly keen appreciation of all that is good, and can pick out pearls where obscure scribblers could see nothing but rubbish, the author has, perhaps, borrowed one or two things from other written sources, ami incorporated them happily with the bulk of his invention. If so. they ought to be pointed out to the public, and are, of course, open to stricture from un- learned critics, who do not know to what an extent Shakespeare, Virgil, Moliere, Corneille, Defoe, Le Sage, Scott, Dumas. etc.. have pursued this very method, and how much tin' public gain by it. But the sham sample swindler is not content to point out the borrowed portion, and say . so and so is not original, Hie rest may be. His plan is to quote the plagiarism, and then add. ■■Ami that pari of Hi' work we do not quote is nil mi from tin same cloth." lie tells 1 his lie in cold blood, with his eyes upon the truth: and. as I said be- :s a fraud thai can never fail on I he spol . because t he borrowed part of the work is in sight, the hulk of the work- is out of sighl . So much by way of general descrip- tion, I come now to a remarkable example : Several journalist- no) blessed with much i reasoning on literary subjects are repeating that " Foul Play," a three volume novel, which originally appeared in this magazine, is a servile copy of an obscure French drama, called "Le Porte- Eeuille Rouge." Not to waste time on echoes, I have traced this rumor to its source, a monthly magazine, called the Mask. Here, the writer, in a form, the modesty and good taste of which I shall leave to the judge in whose court 1 may select to try the proprietors of the Mask for the libel, conveys to the public a comparison of the two works, and contemptuously comments upon the more brilliant and important of the two. He conducts the comparison on a two- fold plan. First he deals with the inci- dents of the two works. Secondly, with the dialogue. But how ? In the first branch of comparison he supresses Aths of the striking incidents in "Foul Play," READIAXA. 367 and at least Aths of the strong incidents in " Le Portefeuille Rouge," and, then, bj r slightly twisting the few incidents that survive this process, and by arbitra- rily wording this double sham sample swindle in similar language (which lan- guage is his, not ours), he makes the two works appear much alike in incident, al- though they are on the whole quite unlike in incident. Secondly, he comes to the dialogue. And here he is met by a difficulty none of the sham samplers who preceded him had to face. He could not find a line in " Foul Play " that had been suggested by a line in "Le Portefeuille Rouge."' What was to be done ? He hit upon the drollest expedient. He selected a dialogue from " Le Portefeuille Rouge " and set it cheek by jowl, not with parallel passages in "Foul Play," which was what his argu- ment demanded, but with a lame and in- correct translation of itself. Here is a specimen of his method : : LE PORTEFEUILLE ROUGE." THE PLACE WHERE " FOUL PLAY ■• OUGHT TO BE. KERVEGUEN. KERVEGUEX. Pour rien au monde, je n'aurais voulu For nothing in the world I would not vous laisser seul ici ; mais, d'un autre wish to leave 3 T ou ; but, on the other cote, quels risques n'auriez-vous pas cou- hand, what risks would you not run in rus en vous embarquant avec nous ? . . . your embarking with us ? Quoi! mon pere, auriez-vous done 1'idee What, ray lather, had you then the de parti sans lui ? idea to go without him? KERVEGUEN. KERVEGUEX. Le batiment que je monte apparment a The ship which I mount belongs to the l'Etat, et je ne saurais prendre avec moi State, and I should not know how to take un homme condamne par les lois fran- with me a man condemned by the French gaises. laws. Injustement condamne, mon pere; M. Maurice est innocent. HELEXE. Unjustly condemned, 1113- father. KERVEGUEX. KERVEGUEX. Dieu m'est temoin que je le souhaite de Heaven is my witness that I hope it toute mon ame ! with all my soul. And so on for seventy speeches. By this method it is craftily insinuated to the reader that seventy speeches of " Foul Play " could be quoted to prove the plagiarism, though not one speech is quoted. Curious, that a maneuver so transparent should succeed. But it has succeeded — for a time. Unfortunately for truth and justice, the sham sample swindle, being founded on suppression, has the advantage of brevi- ty ; whereas its exposure must always be long and tedious. But. since in this case it has attacked not my ability only, but my probity in business, I hope my read- ers will be patient, and consider for once how hard it is, after many months of ardent and successful labor and invention to be not only decried, but slandered and insulted for my pains I I know no positive antidote to a dis- honest comparison, except an honest com- parison. A novel is not the same thing as a drama; but no doubt they have three essentials in common. 1. Charac- ters. 2. Incidents. 3. Dialogue. Let us, then, compare the two works on that treble basis. 368 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. CHARACTERS IN • LE PORTE- CHARACTERS IN "FOUL PLAY." FEUILLE ROUGE." 1. Durome, a banker and loose-liver. 2. De Folbert, a daring-, middle-aged ruffian, fearing nothing, loving nothing. The trite monster of Melodrama, that never existed in nature. 3. Maurice, a young layman, interest- ing by his sufferings and adventures, but as to character, utterly commonplace. 4. Faustin. Durome's servant. 5. Bouquin, a sailor. 6. Le Pere Lajoie. 7. Daniel. 8. Gamier, a surgeon. 9. Vest ris. 10. Chasse. 11. Le Comte de KLerveguen, captain of a vessel — who has got a daughter. 12. Helene, daughter of I he preceding — a weak, amiable girl, who parts with her virtue the flrsl fair opportunity. This character is undistinguishable from a. thousand others in French fiction. 13. Madame Delaunay, aunt to the pre- ceding. 14. Miss Deborah, Helene's gouver- nante. 15. Jacqueline, Fausl in's \\ ife. L6, Mademoiselles Dufrene, Duth6, and Fel, \ oung Ladies i1 may be as well not to describe too minutely . IT. Ursule, a lady's-maid. 18. .Marcel, a French Cockney, who gets senl to sea, an admirable character : indeed, the only new character in the drama. 19. An ape. 1. Old Wardlaw, an honorable mer- chant . 2. Young Wardlaw. a weak youth, led into crime by cowardice ; a knave tort- ured by remorse and rendered human by an earnest love. 3. Michael Penfold, a worthy timid old man, cashier to Wardlaw. Senior. 4. Robert Penfold, his son. a clergy- man, and a man of rare gifts, muscular. learned, inventive, patient, self-denying, delicate-minded : a marked character, new in fiction. 5. General Rolleston, governor of a penal settlement, and a soldier, who, however, has gol a daughter. 6. Helen (daughter of the preceding), a young lady of marked character, hard to win and hard to lose, virtuous under temptation, ami distinguished by a te- nacity of purpose which is rarely found in her s,'\. Upon the whole, a character almost new in Motion. 7. Hiram Hudson, captain of the Pros- erpine, a good seaman, who has been often employed to cast away ships. When drunk, he descants on his duty to his employers. This character is based on reality, and is entirely new in fiction. 8. Joseph Wylie, his male, a man of physical strength, yet cunning : a rogue, hut a manly one. goaded by avarice, but stung by remorse. 9. Cooper, a taciturn sailor, with an antique friendship for talkative Welch. to. Welch, a talkative sailor, with an antique friendship for taciturn Cooper. These two sailors are characters entirely new in fiction. So are their adventures and their deaths. 11. Joshua Fullalove. a character cre- ated by myself in " Hard Cash '* and reprof duced in "Foul Play" with the consent o- my collaborator. 12. Burt, a detective. 13. Undercliffe, an expert ; a character READIANA. 369 based on reality, but entirely new in fic- tion. He reads handwriting 1 wonderfully, but cannot read circumstances. 14. Mrs. Undercliffe, mother to the ex- pert, a woman who has no skill at hand- writing', but reads faces and circum- stances keenly. 15. Tollemache, a barrister. 16. Meredith, a barrister of a different stamp. 17. Sarah Wilson. 18. A squinting barber, who sees a man in trouble, and so demands 10s. for shav- ing him. 19. Adams, a bill broker. 20. Somebody, an underwriter. 21. Nancy Rouse, a lodging-house keeper and washerwoman, and a charac- ter new in fiction. Now it is an axiom in literary criticism that to invent incidents is a lower art than to invent characters ; and the writer in the Mask fires off this axiom at me. So be it. I find nineteen distinct characters in "Le Portefeuille Rouge," and, out of the nineteen, fifteen bear no shadow of resemblance, in act or word, to any character in " Foul Play : "* yet of these fifteen many are the very engines of the play. I find twenty-one distinct characters in " Foul Play," and, of these, seventeen bear no resemblance, either in deed or word, to any character in "Le Portefeuille Rouge." Yet these seven- teen are busy characters, and take a large share in the plot. As to the small bal- ance of four persons, the two heroines are so opposite in characters that no writer, whose eye was on the French Helene, could possibly have created the English Helen. The same remark applies to De Folbert and Arthur Wardlaw : they are both rogues ; but then they are opposite rogues. Why, they differ as widely as a bold highwayman and an anonymous slanderer. Setting aside Incident, which awaits its turn in this comparison, I can find no character — except that of General Rolles- ton — which resembles a character in '■ Foul Play." Kerveguen is a sailor and the captain of a ship ; so far he corre- sponds, not with General Rolleston, but with the Captain Hudson of " Foul Play." But then this sailor has also a resolute character and a daughter, and she is the heroine of the drama. Now the soldier Rolleston has also a resolute character, and a daughter who is the heroine of " Foul Play." The plagiarism of charac- ter, if any, is manifestly confined to the heroine's father, one character out of thirty-eight and more, who act, and speak, and think, and feel in the two works. How far does this correspond with the impression the sham sampler has sought to create ? We come now to the incidents of the two works, and these, handled on the above honest method, yield precisely the same result. But to work this out on paper would take a volume. Something, however, may be done in a shorter com- pass by the help of figures. "Foul Play," then, is contained in 25 numbers of Once a Week. And these numbers average, I believe, 14 columns each, or rather more. The first number is very busy, and deals with crime and love. The prologue of the French drama does not deal with love at all, and with crime of quite another character. In the story the crime is forgery: and that crime remains part of the plot to the end. In the drama the true generative incident is murder. That murder is committed by a villain who had. previously, forged : but the previous forgery could be omitted without affecting the plot. The funda- mental incident of the drama is mur- der. The two fundamental incidents 370 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. of "Foul Play" are forgery, and the scuttling- of a ship to defraud the un- derwriters. From No. 1 to No. 4, '-Foul Play,'' though full of incidents, has not an idea in common with the drama. In the fourth number the two works have tins in common, that the hero and heroine are on board one ship, and thai ship gets lost. But in the drama the father is there, and m the story lie is not; the hero and heroine arc brought on board by entirely different incidents in the two works, and the French ship is fired by mere accident. Not so the English ship: thai is scuttled by order of the heroine's lover: and so the knave is made the means of throwing the woman he loves upon the protection of the friend he has ruined, This is invention and combina- t inn of a high order. Hut calling upon an unforeseen accident to effed a solitary e, and t hen dismissing t he a forever, is jnsl \\ h.,t an\ foi any moment, and it is all the authors of the French drama have attempted to do in i hat sit ua1 urn. From I he it b number to the last page but one of the L7th num- ber, •■ Foul 1'lay" diverges entirely from I he drama, i I he drama from " F< ul Play." The existence of those thirteen numbers (more l han one half of thi story) is virtually denied by the sham sampler in these words: "Construction and incidents are French, and taken from the defendant's drama." Yet these thirteen numbers are the most admired of the whole. They arc the poem of the work. They deal with the strange, the true, the terrible, and the beautiful. Here are to be found the only numbers which I received complete in form as well as in substance from my accomplished collaborateui-, and it was this half of the work which drew in one week forty notices from . 1 merican jour- nals. Those journals, commenting on the adventures and contrivances of certain persons wrecked on the Auckland Isl- ands, remarked that History was imi- tating fiction, and so sent their readers to 'Foul Play." History will never " Le Portefeuille Rouge," anj more than 1 have descended to imitate "Le Portefeuille Rouge." At the end of the 17th number of " Foul Flay." I ten- era] Rolleston lands on the unknown island, and finds his daughter and the mvict Living a lone I ogel her. And m the 9th scene of the 2d act of •■ Portefeuille Rouge," Cerveguen comes wit b 01 her characters, and finds his daughter, the innocenl convict, and .Marcel. This is a good and generative sii nat ion. and looks like plagiarism in t he novel. Bu1 the momenl we come to the treatment, the acts and the words of ail the i hree interlocutors are so remarkably differenl in the two works, that no honesl and discerning man can believe the writer of t hat scene ill ■• Foul Flay " had Ins eye on the drama. In the story the father and daughter meet alone with wild rap- equal to 1 he occasion ; a sacred scene. In the play they meet before wit- nesses, and la- Fl et Cb nraniat ists with very bad judgment have allowed the low comedian to be present. He opens his mouth, and of bourse the scene goes to t he devil at once. In the subsequent dialogue and busi- ness, I find great variations. IN THE DRAMA IN THE NOVEL Helene sides at once with Maurice, and argues the case with her father, and Maurice is almost passive. Maurice is never master of the situation. On the contrary, he tries to follow Helene on board, and is shot like a dog in the at- tempt. Helene never undertakes to clear him. All is left to accident. Helen puts Robert Penfold on his defense, and on his convincing her he is innocent. declares her love. Then Robert Penfold becomes master of the situation, and it is by his own will, and high sense of honor. he remains, and the parting is affected. And Helen and her father undertake to clear him in England : which promise, on Helen's part, with its many consequences, is the very plot of the sequel. EEADIANA. 371 From this to the end of the work, we have seven numbers of " Foul Play," and two acts of " Portefeuille Rouge," and not an idea in common between the two. So that twenty-three numbers out of twenty-five, ''Foul Play," have not an idea in common with the French drama ; two numbers out of twenty-five have each a bare situation which looks like one in the drama, but on closer in- spection prove to be handled so differently that the charge of plagiarism is unten- able. "Foul Play" is illustrated by Mr. Du Maurier. The said Du Maurier is a good actor, and has dramatic tendencies. He is sure to have picked out some of the more dramatic situations in " Foul Play " for illustration, and, if the incidents of '•Foul Play" came from the ''Porte- feuille Rouge," Mr. Du Maurier's sketches would serve to illustrate that drama. I have examined his illustrations, twelve in number; I cannot find one that fits any scene or incident in the French drama. If they were all pasted into the "Portefeuille Rouge," no reader of that drama would be able to apply any one of them to anything- in the whole composi- tion. Bring your minds to bear on this fact. It is worth study. And now I come to the dialogue of the works. Here the comparison is a blank. There is nothing to compare. The writer in the Mask dared not put seventy speeches from "Foul Play" by the side of his seventy speeches from "Porte- feuille Rouge." He dared not deal thus honestly with even seven speeches. And shall I tell you why ? Because there is not one line in "Foul Play" that cor- responds with a line in " Portefeuille Rouge." Shakespeare, in the " Merry Wives of Windsor," has the following line : " I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome." And Moliere, in his " Bourgeois Gentil- homme," has this line : "J'aime mieux etre incivil qu'importun." I can find no such apparent plagiarism in all the pages of "Foul Play" and "Le Portefeuille Rouge." I conclude this subject with the follow- ing statements of matters known to me : — 1. I have carefully examined all the MS. contributed to " Foul Play " by Mr. Dion Boucicault. This MS. consists of two or three numbers complete in form as well as in substance; and also of a great many plans of numbers, sketches, materials and inventive ideas of singular merit and value. In all this MS. I find only one word that can have come from •• Portefeuille Rouge," and that word is — Helen. 2. I myself never saw " Le Portefeuille Rogue " until after the article in the Mask appeared — never saw it nor heard of it. 3. The one valuable situation the two works contain in common may have come to me from Mr. Boucicault, but if so it came in conversation, along with many other tlungs quite as good, and the guilt, if any, of selecting the naked idea, which is all we have used, lies with me, who never saw the "Portefeuille Rogue." ■i. I handled, treated, and wrote every line, on which the charge of unprincipled plagiarism has been founded, and I have got my MS. to prove it. 5. Any person connected with literature can compare the "Portefeuille Rouge" and "Foul Play" at my house; and I shall be grateful to any literary brother who may have the honesty and patience to do it. 6. The writer in the Mask has done this, and having done it, he must have known that his charge of unprincipled plagiarism was false and disingenuous. Yet, knowing this, he was not content to do me a moderate injury ; it was not enough to defraud an honored writer of his reputation as an inventor ; he must attack my character as a gentleman, and as a fair dealer with publishers and man- agers. On this account I am going to make an example of him. I shall sue him for libel, and. when we meet in the Court of Common Pleas. I shall repeat upon my oath as a Christian all the statements, which now I make in these columns upon my honor as a gentleman. I shall ask leave to return to the sham 3?2 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. sample swindle on some other occasion, and in a way that will he less egotistical and more interesting- to your readers. It is the most potent swindle in creation, and all honest writers should combine to expose it. Charles Reade. 2 Albert Terrace, Kmghtsbridge, August V-'.th, 1868. IT IS NEVER TOO MEND." LATE TO From the "Reader," October 28th, 1865. Sir — You have published (inadvertent- ly, I hope) two columns of intemperate abuse aimed at my drama, and menda- cious persona lil ies leveled a1 mj self. The author of this spite is nol ashamed to sympathize with the heartless rohbers from whom justice and law have rescued my creation and my properly. (Query — Was he nol sel on i>\ those very robbers?) He evm eulogizes a ruffian who. on the 4th October, raised a disturbance in the Princess's Theater, and endeavored to put down my play by clamor, bu1 was called to order- by the respectable portion of the audience. Have you any sense of justice and fair play where the party assailed is only an author of repute, and the assailant has the advantage of being an obscure Scrib- bler? If so. you will give me a hearing in my defense. I reply in one sentence to two columns of venom and drivel. I just beg to inform honest men and women that your anonymous contributor, who sides with piratical thieves against the honest inventor, and disparages Charles Reade, and applauds one Tomlins — is Tomlins. I am, Your obedient servant. Charles Reade. 92 St. George's Road, South Belgravia, October 21st. 1865. THE " EDINBURGH REVIEW" AND THE "SATURDAY REVIEW." A LETTER. Saturday Review — You have brains of your own. and good ones. Do not you echo the bray of such a very small ass as the Edinburgh Review. Be more just to yourself and to me. Relied ! 1 must be six times a greater writer than ever lived, ere 1 could exaggerate suicide, despair, and the horrors thai drove young and old to them ; or (to vary your own phrase) write •• a libel upon hell." Yours sincerely. Charles Reade. GaRIUCK ( III'.. Juli/ 82d, 1857. THE PRURIENT PRUDE, Sir — There is a kind of hypocrite that has never been effectually exposed, for want of an expressive name. I beg to supply that defect in our language, and introduce to mankind the Prurient Pride. Modesty in man or woman shows itself by a certain slowness to put a foul construction on things, and also by unob- trusively shunning indelicate matters and discussions. The "Prurient Prude," on the contrary, itches to attract atten- tion by a parade of modesty (which is the mild form of the disease), or even by rashly accusing others of immodesty (and this is the noxious form). "Doctor Johnson." said a lady, " what I admire in your dictionary is that you have inserted no improper words." ' ; What ! you looked for them, madam?" said the doctor. READIAXA. 373 Here was a "Prurient Prude."' that would have taken in an ordinary lexi- cographer. The wickeder kind of " Prurient Prude *' lias committed great ravages in our English railways, where the carriages, you must know, are small and seldom filled Respectable men found themselves alone with a shy-looking female, addressed a civil remark to her, were accused at the end of the journey of attempting her vii'tue, and punished unjustly, or else had to buy her off : till at last, as I learn from an article in the Saturday Review, many worthy men refused to sit in a car- riage where there was a woman only ; such terror had the "Prurient Prude'" inspired in manly breasts. The last of these heroines, however, came to grief ; her victim showed fight ; submitted to trial, and set the police on her : she proved to be, as any one versed in human nature could have foretold, a woman of remark- ably loose morals ; and she is at this mo- ment expiating her three P's — Prudery, Prurience, and Perjury — in one of her majesty's jails. Some years ago an English baronet was nearly ruined and separated from his wife by one of these ladies. He was from the country, and by force of habit made his toilet nearer the window than a Londoner would. A "Prurient Prude'' lurked opposite, and watched him repeatedly ; which is just what no modest woman would have done once ; and, interpreting each unguarded action by the light of her own foul imagination, actually brought a criminal charge against the poor soul. The chai'ge fell to the ground the moment it was sifted ; but in the meantime, what agony had the " Prurient Prude " in- flicted on an innocent family ! Unfortunately the " Prurient Prude " is not confined to the female sex. It is not to be found among men of masculine pursuits ; but it exists among writers. Example : a divorce case, unfit for publi- cation, is reported by all the English journals. Next day, instead of being al- lowed to die, it is renewed in a leader. The writer of this leader begins by com- plaining of the courts of law for giving publicity to Filth. — (N.B. the ridiculous misuse of this term, where not filth but crime is intended, is an infallible sign of a dirty mind, and marks the "Prurient Prude.") After this flourish of prudery, Pruriens goes with gusto into the details, which he had just said were unfit for pub- lication. Take down your file of English journals and you will soon lay your hand on this variet3^ of the "Prurient Prude. - ' A harmless little humbug enough. But, as among women, so among writers, the "Prurient Prude" be- comes a less transparent and more dan- gerous impostor, when, strong in the shelter of the Anonymous, which hides from the public his own dissolute life and obscene conversation, he reads his neigh- bor by the light of his own corrupt imag- ination, and so his prurient prudery takes the form of slander, and assassinates the fair fame of his moral, intellectual, and social superior. Now the five or six " Prurient Prudes " who defile the American Press, have late- ly selected me, of all persons, for their victim. They are trying hard to make the American public believe tw r o mon- strous falsehoods : first, that they are pure-minded men ; secondly, that I am an impure writer. Of course, if these five or six " Prurient Prudes " had the courage to do as I do, sign their names to their personalities, their names and their characters would be all the defense I should need. But, by withholding their signatures they give the same weight to their statements that an honest man gives by appending his signature, and compel me, out of respect to the American public, whose esteem I value, to depart from the usual practice of authors in my position, and to honor mere literary vermin with a reply. The case, then, stands thus. I have produced a story called " Griffith Gaunt, or Jeal- ousy." This story has, ever since De- cember, 1 865, floated The Argosy, an En- glish periodical, and has been eagerly read in the pages of The Atlantic Monthly. In this tale I have to deal, as an artist and a scholar, with the very period Henrv Fielding has described — to the sat- 374 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. isf action of "Prurient Prudes "; a period in which manners and speech were some- what blunter than nowadays ; and I have to portray a great and terrible passion. Jealousy, and show its manifold conse- quences, of which even Bigamy (in my story) is one, and that without any rio- lation of probability. Then I proceed to show the misery inflicted on tbree per- sons by Bigamy, which I denounce as a crime. In my double character of moral- : artist, I present, not the delusive shadow of Bigamy, but its substance. The consequence is. thai instead of shed- ding a mild luster over Bigamy, 1 lill my 3 wit h a horror of Big again si my princi- pal male character, so far as 1 have show n him. ( )t course " < J-riffil h < taunt," like ••Hard Cash.*' is no1 a child's book, nor e giri*s book : ii is an ambitious story, in which I pres< i a1 pas- sions i iiat poets ha v e sung wii b applause m all ages; it is nol a boatful <>f pap; bu1 1 am not paid the price of pap. By the very nature of my theme 1 have been compelled now and then to tread on deli- cate ground: bu1 I have trodden lightly and passed on swiftly, and so will all the pure-minded men and women who read me. No really modest woman will ever sutler any taint by reading "G Gaunt," miles-, indeed, she returns to its perusal, unsexed, and filled with prurient curiosity, by the foul interpret;! the "Prurient, Prudes.*' Then come a handful of scribblers, win- loose and their conversation ol they take my text, and read it. not by its own light, but by the light of their own foul imaginations ; and. having so defiled it by mixing their own filthy minds with it . they sit in judgment on tlie compound. To these impostors I say no more. The two words, "Prurient Prude.'* will soon run round the Union, and render its citi- zens somewhat less gullible by thai class of impostor. One person, however, has slandered me so maliciously and so busily, that I am compelled to notice him in- dividually, the more so as I am about to sue an English weekly for merely quoting him. The editor of a New York weekly called The Round Table has printed a mass of scurrility direct and vicarious to this purport : 1. That "Griffith Gaunt** is an in- decent publication : 2. That it is immoral ; 3. That, like other novelists, the author deals in adultery, bigamy, and nameless social crimes ; 4. But that, unlike the majority of my predecessors, I side with the crimes I depict : 5. Thai the modesty and purity of women cannot survive the perusal of "Griffith daunt " ; 6. That this story was declined by some of the lowesl sensational weekly papers of New York, on the ground flmf they did not dare to undertake its publication. ;. Passing from personal to vicarious nder, he prints the letter of an animal calling itself < '. S. 11 .. who si - t hal some interior writer ■ •• Griffith < 'aunt .'" and that 1 leni my name to m for a foreign market, and so he and I combined . indie the Boston publish- This. in England, felony. Now. sir, 1 have often known so scure dunce, who had the advanl concealing his nameless name, treat an esteemed author with lofty contempt in the columns of a journal, and call his masterpiece a sorry production. I myself am well accustomed to that sort of iu- and insolence from scribblers, who could not write my smallest chapter, to save their carcasses from the gallows, and their souls from premature damnation. But the spite and vanity of our inferiors in the great, profound, and difficult art of writing, are generally satisfied by call- ing us dunces, and bunglers, and cox- combs, and that sort of thing. In all my experience I never knew the Press guilty of such a crime as the editor of The Round Table has committed. It is a deliberate attempt to assassinate the moral character of an author and a gentleman, and to stab the ladies of his own family to the heart, under pre- READIANA. 375 tense of protecting the women of a nation from the demoralizing- influence of his pen. Yon will see at once that I could not hold any communication with The Round Table or its editor, and I must, therefore, trust to American justice and generosity, and ask leave to reply in respectable columns. In answer to statements 1,2, 4, and 5, I pledge the honor of a gentleman that they are deliberate and intentional false- hoods, and I undertake to prove this before twelve honest American citizens, sworn to do justice between man and man. As to No. 3, I really scarce know what my slanderer means. Griffith Gaunt, under a delusion, commits Bigamy : and of course Bigamy may by a slight perver- sion of terms be called Adultery. But no truthful person, attacking character, would apply both terms to a single act. Is Bigamy more than Polygamy ? And is Polygamy called that, and Adultery too, in every district of the United States ? As to "the nameless social crimes," what does the beast mean ? Did he find these in' his own foul imagination, or did he find them in my text ? If it was in the latter, of course he can point to the page. He shall have an opportunity. Statement 6, is a lie by way of equivo- cation. The truth is, that before '•Grif- fith Gaunt " was written, an agent of mine proposed to me to sound some news- paper proprietors, who had hitherto stolen my works, as to whether they would like to buy a story of me, instead of stealing it. I consented to this pre- liminary question being put, and I don't know what they replied to my agent. Probably the idea of buying, where they had formed a habit of stealing, was dis- tasteful to them. But this you may rely on, that I never submit a line of manu- script to the judgment of any trader whatever, either in England or in America, and never will. Nothing is ever discussed between a trader and me ex- cept the bulk and the price. The price is sometimes a high one ; but always a fair one, founded on my sales. If he has not the courage to pay it, all the worse for him. If he has, the bargain is signed, and then and not till then, he sees the copy. I never intrusted a line of "Griffith Gaunt "to an agent. I never sent a line of it across the Atlantic to any human being, except to the firm of Ticknor & Fields : and even to that respectable firm, one of the partners in which is my valued friend, I did not send a line of it until they had purchased of me the right to publish it in the United States. And this purchase was made on the basis oi' an old standing agreement. Compare these facts with the impres- sion a miserable prevaricator has sought to create, to wit, that the proprietor of some low journal was allowed to read the manuscript, or unpublished sheets, of •' Griffith Gaunt," and declined it on the score of morality. Statement ?, which accuses me of a literary felony, is a deliberate, inten- tional falsehood. The Argosy is sold in New York in great numbers, price six- pence. The editor of The Round Table is aware of this, and has seen " Griffith Gaunt " in it, with my name attached ; yet he was so bent on slandering me by hook or by crook, that he printed the let- ter of G. S. H. without contradiction, and so turned the conjecture of a mere fool into a libel and a lie. I shall only add that I mean to collar the editor of The Round Table, and drag him and his slanders before a jury of his countrymen. He thinks there is no law, justice, or humanity for an Englishman in the great United States. We shall see. Pending the legal inquiry, I earnestly request my friends in the United States to let me know who this editor of The Round Table is, and all about him, that so we may meet on fair terms before the jury. All editors of American journals who have any justice, fair play, or common humanity to spare to an injured stranger, will print this letter, in which one man defends himself against many ; and will 376 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. be good enough to accept my thanks for the same in this writing. Charles Reade. 3 Albert Terrace. Hyde Park, London. P. S. — I demand as my right the un- divided honor of all the insults that have been misdirected against Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, of Boston. Those gentlemen have had no alternative: they could not bow to slander, and discontinue " < rriffith Gaunt " in The Atlantic Monthly, with- out breaking faith with me, and driving their subscribers to The Argosy. The whole credit, and discredit, of " Griffith Gaunt," my masterpiece, belongs to me, its sole author, and original vender. SECOND-HAND LIBEL To Till EDITOB "1 Till ■ I rLOBE." Sir — You have read my letter to the American Press, cited one paragraph, and perverted that from its true inten- tion, by surpressing its context. By this means you exaggerate my arrogance, and stir the bile of the publishers. I must request you to be more scrupu- lous, and to print the whole truth. The Round Table had stated that '"Griffith Gaunl ' was declined by some of the lowest sensational weekly papers of New York, on the ground that they did not dare to undertake its publication.'" This was a monstrous piece of insolence; and I had to show a distant public that it must be a falsehood. But this I had no means whatever of doing, except by re- vealing my real way of treating with traders at home and abroad. You are welcome to blarney the publishers by telling them that artists (penny-a-liners excepted) write for money, but publishers publish for glory. I cannot go quite this length with you, not wanting their ad- vertisements ; but still I do not wish to affront these gentlemen without provoca- tion, and so I insist on your printing this explanation, which your own disingenu- ousness has rendered necessary. On the 17th October " Griffith Gaunt " was. published in three volumes; on the 19th a copy was probably in your hands. On that day you revived and circulated a slander that tends to injure its sale very seriously, and to destroy the personal character of its author: you announced in your columns that "an American critic declares the story to be indecent and immoral; and that, on this point, hav- ing vainly attempted to read it, i/ou of- ft r ii" opinion." Now it may be very polite of cold hashed niuiidii to affecl a singular con- tempt for venison : but in your case it is in. t reasonable; you are familiar with drudgery; you contrive 1<> read dozens of novels that are the very offal of the human mind; ay, and to praise them i<>". Sou know why. Now, advertisements area line thing; but justice is a liner, whatever you may think. And just ire required of you either to hold your tongue about "'Griffith Gaunt," or else to read it. I!ut even assuming thai you really had not tin' brains to read "Griffith Gaunt" for pleasure, nor yet the self-respect and prudence to wade through it before lend- ing your columns to its defamation, at least you have read my letter to the American press : and, having read that, you cannot but suspect this charge of immorality and indecency to be a libel and a lie. Yet you have circulated the calumny all the same, and suppressed the refutation. I am afraid the truth is. you have got into your head that the law will allow you to indulge a perverse disposition, by defaming and blackening the moral char- acter of a respected author, provided you use another man's blacking. Pure chime- ra ! The law draws no such distinction. It serves tale-bearers with the same sauce as tale-makers ; it protects honest men alike against the originators and the READIAXA. 377 reckless circulators of calumny. Believe me, your only chances to avoid very serious consequences are two : you must either meet me before a jury, and justify the American libel you have Anglicized and circulated ; or else you must contra- dict it at once, and apologize to the man you have wronged. I offer j - ou three days, to read " Griffith Gaunt " and de- cide upon your course. If, at the end of that time, you do not distinctly and cate- gorically state that ; ' Griffith Gaunt " is not an indecent and immoral book — and apologize to its author -I shall sue the proprietor of the Globe, as I am suing the proprietor of the London Review, for composing and printing an American libel with English type, and then publish- ing and selling it in English columns ; in other words, for collecting foreign dirt with English hands, and flinging it upon the personal character of an Engligh citizen. Charles Reade. 5 Albert Terrace, October 22d. 1866. The editor of the Globe having made public comments on this letter, yet kept the letter private, the writer requests less unscrupulous editors to repair this injustice. " FACTS MUST BE FACED," To the Editor of the •■ Times." Sir— The Times of the 24th of August contains a notice of "A Terrible Temp- tation," done upon a new T plan. It is a careful synopsis of all the main incidents in my story, only my abridger has di- vested them of every charm. It is rather hard my name should be attached to a bad story told by another man when I have told a goodish one with the same materials ; but I console myself by re- flecting that the same ingenious process applied to " Homer's Iliad " would prove it a contemptible work. There is some! lung more serious, reflecting on me both as a writer and a man, which I cannot leave uncontradicted in columns so powerful as yours. My abridger has said that I have written about things which should not be spoken of, much less written about — alluding to my sketch of Rlioda Somerset — and that innocent girls ought not to be informed on such subjects. He even hints t hat mothers would do well to forbid my first volume to their unmarried daugh- ters. You must admit, sir, this is a very serious thing to say in print, and very cruel to a writer of my age ; then do, please, give me fair play for once, and let me be heard in reply. The character of Rhoda Somerset was not invented by me, but copied from a master hand. It was you who first introduced her, ponies and all, to the public, on the third day of July, 1862, in an admirable letter, headed "Anonyma." On another occasion you discussed the whole subject, day after day, in leaders and avast correspondence, so that for one lady who knows about the demi-monde from my pages, twenty know a great deal more from yours. Should this lose you the esteem of my abridger, permit me to offer you, as a small substitute, the thanks of a bet- ter judge. You did your duty to the public in 1862, as you had often done it before, and were true to your own in- valuable maxim, " Facts must be faced." For 18 years, at least, the journal you conduct so ably has been my preceptor, and the main source of my works — at all events of the most approved. A noble passage in the Times of September 7 or S, 1853, touched my heart, inflamed my imagination, and was the germ of my first important work, " It is Never Too Late to Mend." That column, a monument of head, heart, and English, stands now dramatized in my pages, and embellishes the work it had inspired. Some years later you put forth an able and eloquent leader on private asylums, and detailed the sufferings there inflicted on persons known to you. This took root in me, and 378 WORKS OF CHARLES READS. brought forth its fruit in the second vol- ume of " Hard Cash." Later still, your hearty and able, but temperate leaders, upon trades unions and trade outrages incited me to an ample study of that great subject, so fit for fiction of the higher order, though not adapted to the narrow minds of bread-and-butter misses, nor of the criticasters who echo those young ladies" idea of fiction and its limits, and thus "Put Yourself in His Place'" was written. Of "A Terri- ble Temptation," the leading idea came to me from the limes — viz., from the re- port of a certain trial, with the comments of counsel, and the remarkable judgment delivered by Mr. Jus: ice Byles. The ber of Rhoda Somerset 1 culled from your pages, and having observed with what firmness, j 3S, you t reated thai .1 have kept your method in view, and. ai all events, tried to imitate it. W warmth 1 have shown is in the scenes of virtuous love: iii the Somerset's scenes I am cold and sarcastic. Up to the period Of her repentance QOW do 1 t re :, I tins character? Do I whitewash the hussy. or make her a well-bred, delicate-minded woman, as your refined and immoral writers would? T present her ill coarse, vain, with good impulses, a bad temper, and a Billings-ate bongue. In close contrasl to this unattractive photo- graph I am careful bo place my portrail of an English virgin, drawn in the sweet- est colors my rude art can command, thai every honest reader may see on which side my sympathies lie. and be at- tracted bo virtue by the road of compari- son. Believe me, sir. a thousand innocent girls are at this moment being corrupted by writers of their own sex. with novels instinctively adapted to the female reader, to her excessive sexuality, and her sense of propriety. These writers, being wo- men, know how to work on the former without alarming the latter, and so, by fine degrees and with soft insidious per- tinacity, they reconcile their female readers to illicit love, and shed a mild luster over adultery itself. Yet so desti- tute of the true critical faculty are the criticasters of the day that these canny corruptersof female youth escape ci it has gone astray after a writer in whose hands vice startles and offends, not cap- tivates. My pen has never corrupted a soul ; it never will, it never can, till water shall run uphill. Should this argument fall into abler hands than an abridger'Sj 1 expect to be told, not that it is the duly of all writers to ignore certain \ ices, and so do their hestto perpetuate them, hut that many subjects open to the journalist at-e closed to the novelist. This is true and reason- i is- journals must . of necessity, report in their small type some crimes ami vices quite unfit to be men- ii a novel : 1ml 1 hal a journalist lias any right to put into his leaded type an, i to ampnly. discuss, and dwell upon any subject whatever, and that the poet or the novelist has not an equal right to deal with thai subject in fiction, this is monstrous and the mere delusion of a rabid egotism. . 1 have taken Anonynia from your hands and have presented her in no voluptuous scenes, and have made her a repulsive character until she repents, no mother need forbid my book to her daughter: at all events, until she litis forbidden her daughters to enter Hyde Park and the Times u> enter her draw- ing-room, and has locked up every Bible on her premises. 1 have t he honor to be Your obedient servant and pupil, Charles Beade. 2 Albert Terrace. Knightsbridge, it 26th, 1871. Sir— Those who read the late contro- versy between the Times and me must, I think, have been surprised and somewhat shocked — if they admire the Times as much as I do — at its rude and ungener- ous reply to a courteous letter, in which I taught it that great lesson of superior minds— appreciation. A retort so con- READIAXA. 379 ceited, so silly, and so rude, entitled me to a reply. I sent a short one ; it is sup- pressed. This is foul play : and, as En- glishmen in general abhor foul play, I venture to ask you to give publicity to these few lines, which, mild as they are, the editor of the Times had not the cour- age to face. "FACTS MUST BE FACED." Sir — My generous tribute to the Times referred to those able men who write in the Times on public questions — not to the small fry, who write about literature be- cause they cannot write literature. I touched my hat to the Tritons of the Times, not to the minnows : yet one of these latter has coolly adopted the com- pliment, and actually made it a handle for impertinence that out.rag-es truth and common decency. This is base ; and I wonder you could be betrayed into lend- ing your name to it. Where gentlemen are concerned, appreciation on the one side begets decent civility on the other. I shall not descend to bandy invectives with my inferior, but shall pick his one grain of argument out of his peck of scur- rility. I have driven him from his first position, which was, that nobody ought to print anything about Anonyma. Now that he finds who first introduced her to the public, he sings quite another song. " Journals," says he, " deal in such facts as these, but not in fictions." This is a distinction without a difference. It does not matter one straw whether a young lady reads facts about Anonyma, or fig- ments founded on facts, for the effect on her mind is precisely the same in both cases. The distinction is not only mud- dle-headed, but inapplicable ; for the Times has done a little fiction in this thing. .Of the letters printed in the Times about the Demi-monde, a good many were written to order by the staff of the Times., though signed "Pater- familias," "A Belgravian Mother," or what not. Xow that is fiction — fiction as pure as anything in " A Terrible Temptation.'" The late Mr. Joseph Ad- dison did mightily affect this form ; he wrote himself letters from coquettes and other sprightly correspondents, and so enlivened his didactic columns ; for Fiction improves whatever it touches. Your re- viewer now hangs to his chimera by one thread. "Ours," says he, "are public duties; his are private." So much for young gentlemen writing about litera- ture with no knowledge of the business. "Private!" Why, my English circula- tion is larger than that of the Times ; and in the United States three publishers have already sold three hundred and seventy thousand copies of this novel — which, I take it, is about thirty times the circulation of the Times in the United States, and nearly six times its English circulation. Writing for so vast a variety of human beings, for more than one great nation, and for more than one generation. I cannot afford to adopt novel and narrow views of my great art ; I cannot consent to make myself, by artificial contraction, smaller than the journalists. The world is big enough for a few creators as well as for a shoal of commentators. I do not howl because two thousand journalists deal, in their leaded type, with Lunacy, Prisons, Trades Unions, Divorce, Murder, Anonyma, and other great facts ; and those who aspics to represent so large a body of sensible men, should bridle their egotism, discourage their pitiable jeal- ousy, and cease to howl because five or six masters of Fiction have the judgment and the skill to weave the recorded facts, and published characters, of this great age, into the forms of Art. Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A JUDGE AND A JAILER. To the Editor op the " Daily Telegraph." Sir — At Christmas imagination runs rife ; Pantomimes threaten, wherein Wis- 380 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. dom will be kept within bounds by Fancy; and even in your columns I have just read a Dream, and found it interesting-. .May I then profit by your temporary leniency and intrude into the sacred Tele- graph a dialogue ? It is imaginary, but not idle : it may do good, and make Power think instead of thinking it thinks — a common but hurtful habit. Scene— 77/*' Old Bailey. The Judge. Is the jailer presenl ? Mr. Holdfast. Eere, my lord. Judge. I sentence this man to four months' imprisonment, with hard labor: you understand ? Holdfast. Perfectly, my lord. You mean unwholesome labor, as much as he can do and a little more. So then, when be falls short, we reduce his diet to in- crease tiis strength, since it has proved unequal ; I his to be conl inued in a circle, and take his bed every now and i le1 him Lie on a plank. Judge. What : hard labor, yet short diet, with the addition of cold at nighl and broken rest ! Why, this is not De- tention, it is Destruction— either to man -• , No. sir. I do not condemn this man to imprisonment for lift — he is no! a murderer — I give him just four months. no more, no less : and in that sentence it is clearly implied thai at the end of four months he is to co out, improved in his habits by labor, and in his body by regular meals, of simple, nourishing food, with no alcohol. Holdfast. Excuse me, my lord : the Act of Parliament authorizes a jailer to reduce a prisoner's diet, and inflict other punishments. Judge. Ay. at safe intervals: but not in quick repetition, nor in unreasonable conjunction — bard labor on the heels of privation, and cold on the top of both. These things united soon exhaust the body. Your Act of Parliament contains no clause, that can be road in a court of law. to repeal the law of England regard- ing so great a matter as homicide. That immortal law. which was here before these little trumpery Acts of Parliament, made to-day to be repealed to-inorrow, and will be here after Parliament itself has run its course, deals with the case thus : If A, having the legal charge of B, and keeping him in dures.se. so that he cannot possibly obtain the necessaries of life elsewhere, subjects him to priva- tion of food, rest, etc., and otherwise so shortens his life directly or indirectly by sheer exhaustion of the body, or by any Lsease which is a natural result of mul- tiplied privations and hardships, A can be indicted for a felony : and be will be tried, not by an\ officer of State assum- ing unconstitutional powers, tint consti- tutionally, by the queen in the person of lei' judge, and bj the country in the person of its jury. Holdfast. They would never find a jailer guilty, not if a dozen of the scum died in their term of imprisonment. Judge. It is not for me to say. They are getting more intelligent, like the rest of us. Certainly it, would be their duty to demand good evidence, and the true facts are hard to gel at in a jail. Acton and Fleetwood destroyed many prisoners, vet were acquitted on trial. But at all events dismiss from your mind that a jailer can plead the Act of Parliament, ■ a- any purelj legal defense, to bloodless destruction of a British subject in du- resse. Keep strictly to my sentence. It is not only the sentence of the queen and the law, but it is expressly propor- tioned to the verdict of the country. Four months in a house of detention, not destruction, a house of correction, not a subtle shambles. The sentence has two limits, both equally absolute. If, during the four months, you turn this man into the street, you are indictable for a misdemeanor: if. during the four months, you thrust him eannily, into his grave, you are indictable for a felony r ; and, should I be the judge to try you, it will be my duty to tell the jury that you took this prisoner, not from the clouds, nor from any Government offi- cial, with no power to sentence man, woman, nor child, where I sit, but from me ; and that I sentenced him, in your READIANA. 381 hearing - , to four months' imprisonment, and not to imprisonment for life. I am, sir, Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. Knightsbridge, Christmas Day. NOTE TO A SICK FRIEND. My friend, with age come grief and care To every son of man, Sickness or sorrow, hard to hear, Though life is but a span. Since last we met, my heart has bled, And will bleed till I die ; And you, confined to a sick bed, In pain and languor lie. We all should do the best we may To cheer a friend in need. Expect to-morrow, or next day, A visit from Charles Reade. 19 Albert Gate, Knightsbridge. A BAD FALL. To the Editor of " Fact." Sir — I sometimes get provoked with the British workman — and say so. He comes into my house to do a day's work, and goes out again to fetch the tool he knew he should want, and he does not come back till after breakfast. Then I think I have got him. But no ; he sharp- ens his tools and goes out for a whet. Even when he is at work he is always go- ing into the kitchen for hot water, or a hot coal, or the loan of a pair of tongs, or some other blind. My maids, who, be- fore he came, were all industry and mock modesty, throw both these virtues out of window, and are after him on the roof, when he is not after them in the kitchen. They lose their heads entirely, and are not worth their salt, far less their wages, till he is gone, and that is always a terri- bly long time, considering - how little he has to do. For these reasons, and be- cause whenever he has been out on my roof, the rain comes in next heavy shower, 1 have permitted myself to call him in print •'' the curse of families." Then he strikes, and combines, and speechifies, and calls the capital, that feeds him, his enemy ; and sometimes fights with the capital of a thousand against the capital of a single master, and overpowers it, yet calls that a fight of labor against capital. Then he de- mands short time, which generally means more time to drink in, and higher wages, which often means more money to drink with. Thereupon I lose my temper, rush into print, and call the British workman the British talk-man and the British drink- man. But it must be owned all this is rather narrow and shallow. "Where there's a multitude there's a mixture," and a private gentleman in my position does not really know the mass of the workmen, and their invaluable qualities. One thing is notorious — that in their bargains with capital they are very len- ient in one respect, they charge very little for their lives ; yet they shorten them in many trades, and lose them right away in some. Even I, who have been hard on them in some things, have already pointed out that instead of labor and capital the trades ought to speechify on life, labor, and capital ; and dwell more upon their risks, as a fit subject of remuneration, than their professed advocates have clone. Is it not a sad thing - to reflect, when you see the scaffolding prepared for some great building to be erected either for pious or mundane purposes, that out of those employed in erecting it some are sure to be killed ! All this prolixity is to usher in a simple fact, which interests me more than the 382 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. petty proceedings of exalted personages, and their "migrations from the blue bed to the brown '* ; and some of your readers aresure to be of my mind. The Princess's Theater. Oxford Street, is being reconstructed. The walls, far more substantial than they build nowa- days, are to si and. but the old interior is demolished, and the roof heightened. Sullivan, a young carpenter, was at work with his fellows on a stage properly secured. They wanted some ropes that lay on another stage, and sent him for them. Between the stage was a plank, w hich he naturally I houghl had be to walk on. He stepped on it — it was only a half-mch board. It snapped Ins weight Like a carrot, and be fell through in a momenl . He caught at a projection, but merely tore his fingers, and descended into space with fearful velocity. The heighl was fifty feel rru at The i Inn-- he fell on w as a hard board, on ham ground. Tie him fall, and hearu his one cry of horror, had no I I king up anvt bing from hut a battered corpse with broken back, fractured ski shal bered ribs. Thirty-five feet below the place he fell from, a strong holt, about an inch in diameter, and four feet long, prot ruded from the wall almost at right angles, but with a slight declension downward. The outer end of this protruding iron just caught Sullivan by the seat, ripped up his clothes, and tore his back, and partly broke his fail. Nevertheless, such was its violence that he bounded up from the board he eventually fell upon, and was found all of a heap in a hollow place close by, senseless, and almost pu - He was taken to the Middlesex Hos- pital. There he came to his senses and his trouble. His pulse was soon over 10b. His temperature 108 — a very alarming feature. This, however, has subsided, and they have go1 his pulse to 98, bul lie can- not eat ; his eyes cannot bear the light. There are one or more severe wounds upon his back parts, and much reason to fear injury to the spinal column. He is in danger: and, if he survives, which I think very possible, it is to be feared lie will never lie aide to walk and work again. These, sir. are the dire realities of life; and very lit to be admitted into your graver columns. Here is a sad fact and a curious fact. Sullivan was a handsome young fellow, jnsi beginning t he world. In a moment there be lies a cripple and a wreck, and thai is a s;ol thing for any feeling heart to think of. The bolt which saved him from immediate death is a curious fact. It is still to be seen dangling from the wall as it did, when it ripped up the workman's clothes, furrowed his back, and broke his fall. Will it prove his friend or his enemy, thai pieceofiron? The enemy of his body if it makes him a cripple instead of a corpse; but the friend of his soul if he i-. .-a n storj righl ; w berefore I hope some servant of God will goto Ins bedside with the t rue balm of < Mead. 1 am sir. Yours faithfully, Chaki.es Reads July, 1880. A DRAMATIC MUSICIAN. To the Editor of the "Era." Sir — There died the other day in Lon- don a musician, who used to compose, good music to orchestral instru- ments, and play it in the theater with spirit and taste, and to watch the stage with one eye and the orchestra with an- other, and so accompany with vigilant delicacy a mixed scene of action and dia- logue; to do which the music must be full when the actor works in silence, but subdued promptly as often as the actor speaks. Thus it enhances the action with- out drowning a spoken line. EEADIANA. 383 These are varied gifts, none of them common, and music is a popular art. One would think, then, that such a composer and artist would make his fortune nowa- days. Not so. Mr. Edwin Ellis lived sober, laborious, prudent, respected, and died poor. He was provident and insured his life ; he had a family and so small an income that he could not keep up the in- surance. He has left a wife and nine children utterly destitute, and he could not possibly help it. The kindest-hearted profession in the world — though burdened with many charitable claims — will do what it can for them : but I do think the whole weight ought not to fall upon actors and musicians. The man was a better ser- vant of the public than people are aware, and therefore I ask leave to say a few words to the public and to the press over his ill-remunerated art, and his un- timely grave. Surely the prizes of the theater are dealt too unevenly, when such a man for his compositions and his performance receives not half the salary of many a third class performer on the stage, works his heart out, never wastes a shilling, and dies without one. No individual is to blame ; but the sys- tem seems indiscriminating and unjust, and arises from a special kind of igno- rance, which is very general, but I think and hope is curable. Dramatic effects are singularly com- plex, and they cannot really be under- stood unless they are decomposed. But it is rare to find, out of the Theater, a mind accustomed to decompose them. The writer is constantly blamed for the actor's misinterpretation, and the actor for the writer's feebleness. Indeed, the general inability to decompose and so discriminate goes so far as this — You hear an author gravely accused by a dozen commentators of writing a new play four hours long. Of those four hours the stage carpenter occupied one hour and thirty minutes. Yet they as- cribe that mechanic's delay to the lines and delivery, when all the time it was the carpenter, who had not rehearsed his part, and therefore kept the author and the actors waiting just as long as he did the audience. Where the habit of decomposing effects is so entirely absent, it follows, as a mat- ter of course, that the subtle subsidiary art of the able leader is not distinguished, and goes for nothing in the public esti- mate of a play. I suppose two million people have seen Shaun the Post escape from his prison by mounting the ivied tower, and have panted at the view. Of those two million how many are aware that they saw with the ear as well as the eye, and that much of their emotion was caused by a mighty melody, such as effeminate Italy never produced — and never will till she breeds more men and less monks — being played all the time on the great principle of climax, swelling higher and higher, as the hero of the scene mounted and surmounted ? Not six in the two million spectators, I be- lieve. Mr. Ellis has lifted scenes and situations for me and other writers scores of times, and his share of the effect never been publicly noticed. When he had a powerful action or impassioned dialogue to illustrate he did not habitually run to the poor resource of a "hurry" or a nonsense "tremolo," but loved to find an appropriate melody, or a rational se- quence of chords, or a motived strain, that raised the scene or enforced the dialogue. As to his other qualities, it was said of Caesar that he was a general who used not to say to his soldiers "go " but "come," and that is how Mr. Ellis led an orchestra. He showed them how to play with spirit by doing it, himself. He was none of your sham leaders with a baton, but a real leader with a violin, that set his band on fire. A little while before he died he tried change of air, by the kind permission of Messrs. Gatti, and he helped me down at Liverpool. He entered a small orchestra of good musicians that had become languid. He waked them up directly, and they played such fine music and so finely that the entr'acte music became at once a feature of the entertainment. A large theater used to ring nightly with the performance of fifteen musicians only : and the Lan- 384 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. cashire lads, who know what is good, used to applaud so loudly and persist- ently that Mr. Ellis had to rise nightly in the orchestra and bow to them before the curtain could be raised. Then I repeat that there must be some- thing wrong in the scale of remunera- tion, when such a man works for many years and dies in need, without improvi- dence. In all other professions there are low rewards and high rewards. On what false principles does such a man as Ellis receive the same pittance as a mediocre leader, who doses a play with tremolo, and "hurries," and plays you dead with polkas between the acts, and, though playing to a British audience rarely plays a British melody bu1 to destroy it by wrong time, wrong rhythm, coarse and slovenly misinterpretation, plowing immortal airs, not playing t hem ? I respectfully invite the Press over this sad grave, to look into these matters — to adopt the habit of decomposing all the complex effects of a theater: to iirnore nobody, neither artist nor mechanic, who affects the public : to time the carpenters' delays on a first night and report them to a second: to lime the author's lines and report their time to a minute; to criticise as an essential part of tin' per- formance the music, appropriate or in- appropriate, intelligent or brainless, thai accompanies the lines and action: not even to ignore the quality and execu- tion of the entr'acte music. A thousand people have to listen to it three-quarters of an hour, and those thousand people ought not to be swindled out of a part of their money by the misinterpretation of Italian overtures or by the everlasting performance of polkas and waltzes. These last are good musical accompaniments to the foot, but to seated victims they are not music, but mere rhythmical thumps. There is no excuse for this eternal trash. since the stores of good music are in- finite. If the Press will deign to take a hint from me, and so set themselves to de- compose and discriminate, plays will soon be played quicker on a first night, and accomplished artists like Edwin Ellis will not work hard, live soberly, and die poor. Meantime, I do not hesitate to ask the public to repair in some degree the injustice of fortune. Millions of peo- ple have passed happy evenings at the Adelphi Theater. Thousands have heard Mr. Ellis accompany "The Wandering Heir" and between the acts play his "Songs without Music " at the Queen's. I ask them to believe me that this de- serving-ana unfortunate musician caused much of their enjoyment though they were not conscious of it at the time. Those spectators, ami all who favor me with their confidence in matters of char- ity, I respectfully invite to aid the Theat- rical and Musical Professions in the efforl they are now- making to save from dire destitution the widow and children of that accomplished artist and worthy man. I am, sir, Yours respectfully, Charles Reade. THE STORY OF THE BOAT RACE OF 1872. To the Editor of the " Observer." Tins greal annual race has become a national event. The rival crews are watched by a thousand keen eyes from the moment they appear on the Thames; their trials against time or scratch crews are noted and reported to the world : criticism and speculation are uninterniit- tent. and the Press prints two hundred volumes about the race before ever it is run. When the day comes England suspends her liberties for an hour or two. makes her police her legislators; and her river, though by law a highway, becomes a race course : passengers and commerce are both swept off it not to spoil sacred sport ; London pours out her myriads • READIANA. 385 the country flows in to meet them ; the roads are clogged with carriages and pedestrians all making- for the river ; its banks on both sides are blackened by an unbroken multitude Ave miles long; on all the bridges that command the race people hang and cluster like swarming bees : windows, seats, balconies, are crammed, all glowing with bright col- ors (blue predominating), and sparkling with brighter eyes of the excited fair ones. The two crews battle over the long- course under one continuous roar of a raging multitude. At last — and often after fluctuations in the race that drive the crowd all but mad — there is a puff of smoke, a loud report, one boat has won, though both deserve ; and the victors are the true kings of all that mighty throng ; in that hour the Premier of England, the Primate, the poet, the orator, the phi- losopher of his age, would walk past un- heeded if the Stroke oar of the victorious boat stood anywhere near. To cynics and sedentary students all this seems childish, and looks like pay- ing to muscle a homage that is never given by acclamation to genius and virtue. But, as usual, the public is not far wrong ; the triumph, though loud, is evanescent, and much has been done and endured to earn it. No glutton, no wine- bibber, no man of impure life could live through that great pull ; each victor abstinuit venere et vino, sudavit et alsit. The captain of the winning boat has taught Government a lesson; for in select- ing his men he takes care of Honor, and does not take care of Dowb, for that would be to throw the race away upon dry land ; but the public enthusiasm rests on broader and more obvious grounds than these. Every nation has a right to admire its own traits in individuals, when those traits are honorable and even inno- cent. England is not bound to admire those athletes, who every now and then proclaim their nationality by drinking a quart of gin right off for a wager ; but we are a nation great upon the water, Eeade— Vol. IX. and great at racing, and we have a right to admire these men, who combine the two things to perfection. This is the king of races, for it is run by the king of animals working, after his kind, by com- bination, and with a concert so strong, yet delicate, that for once it eclipses ma- chinery. But, above all. here is an ex- ample, not only of strength, wind, spirit, and pluck indomitable, but of pure and crystal honor. Foot races and horse races have been often sold, and the bet- tors betrayed : but this race never — and it never will be. Here, from first to last, all is open, because all is fair and glorious as the kindred daylight it courts. We hear of shivering stable boys sent out on a frosty morning to try race-horses on the sly, and so give the proprietors pri- vate knowledge to use in betting. Some- times these early worms have been pre- ceded by earlier ones, who are watching behind a hedge. Then shall the trainer whisper one of the boys to hold in the faster horse, and so enact a profitable lie. Not so the University crews ; they make trials in broad daylight for their own information : and those trials are al- ways faithful. The race is pure, and is a strong corrective annually administered to the malpractices of racing. And so our two great fountains of learning are one fount of honor, God be thanked for it ! So the people do well to roar their applause, and every nobleman who runs horses may be proud to take for his ex- ample these high-spirited gentlemen, who nobly run a nobler creature, for they run themselves. The recent feature of this great race has been the recovery of Cam- bridge in 1870 and 1871. after nine suc- cessive defeats ; defeats the more remark- able that up to 1861 Oxford was behind her in the number of victories. The main cause of a result so peculiar was that sys- tem of rowing Oxford had invented and perfected. The true Oxford stroke is slow in the water but swift in the air ; the rower goes well forward, drops his oar clean into the water, goes well back- ward, and makes his stroke, but, this done, comes swiftly forward all of a piece, hands foremost. Thus, though a slow ■13 386 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. stroke, it is a very bus\ T one. Add to this a clean feather, and a high sweep of the oars to avoid rough water, and you have the true Oxford stroke, which is simply the perfection of rowing, and can. of course, be defeated by superior strength or bottom : but. cafiri.s paribus, is al- most sure to win. Nine defeats were endured by Cam- bridg'e with a fortitude, a patience, and a temper that won every heart, and in 1870 she reaped her reward. She sent up a crew, led by Mr. Goldie — who had I n defeated the year before by Darbishire's Oxford eight — and coached by Mr. Mor- rison. This Cambridge crew pulled the Oxford stroke or nearly, drove Oxford in the race to a faster stroke that does not suit her, and won the race with some- thing to spa iv. though stuck to indomita- bly by 1 >arbishire and an inferior crew. In 1871 Oxford sent up a heavy crew, with plenty of apparent strength, but not the precision and form of Mr. Goldie's eight. Cambridge took the lead and kept it. Tins year Oxford was ratlin- unlucky in advance. The city was circumnaviga- ble by little ships, and you mighl have tacked an Indiaman in Magdalen College meadow; but this was unfavorable to eight-oar practice. Then Mr. Lesley, the stroke, sprained his side, and resigned his post to Mr. Houblon. a very elegant oars- man, hut one who pulls a quick stroke, not healthy to Oxford on Fat her Thames his bosom. Then their boat was found to he not, so lively as the Cambridge boat built by Clasper. A new boat was or- dered, and she proved worse in another way than Salter's. In a word Oxford came to the scratch to-day with a good stiff boat, not lively, with twenty pound more dead weight inside the coxswain's jacket, and with a vast deal of pluck and not a little Hemiplegia. The betting was five to two against her. Five minutes before the rivals came out it was snowing so hard that the race bade fair to he invisible. I shall not de- scribe the snow, nor any of the atmos- pheric horrors that made the whole busi- ness purgatory instead of pleasure. I take a milder revenge ; I only curse them. Putney roared ; and out came the Dark Blue crew ; they looked strong and wiry, and likely to be troublesome attendants. Another roar, and out came the Light Line. So long as the boats were station- ary one looked as likely as the other to win. They started. Houblon took it rather easy at first : and Cambridge obtained a lead directly, and at the Soap Works was half a length ahead. This was re- duced by Mr. Hall's excellent steering a foot or two by the tune they shot Ham- mersmith Bridge. As the boats neared Chiswick Eyot, where many a race has changed, Oxford gradually reduced the lead to a foot or two; and if this could have been done with the old. steady, much-enduring stroke, 1 would not have given much for the leading boat's chance. I'.;i! it was achieved by a stroke of full thirty-nine to the minute, and neither form nor time was perfect. Mr. Goldie now called upon Ins crew, and the Clasper heat showed greal qualities; it shot away visibly, like a horse suddenly spurred: tins spurt proved that Cambridge had greal reserves of force, and Oxford had very little. Houblonand hisgallanl men struggled nobly and unflinchingly on; hut . bet ween Larncs Bridge and Moil lake, Goldie pu1 the steam on again, and in- creased the lead to about a length and a half clear water. The gun was fired, and Cambridge won the race of 1872. In this race Oxford, contrary to her best tradil ions, pulled a faster st roke than Cambridge: the Oxford coxswain's ex- perience compensated for his greater weight. The lighter coxswain steered his boat in and out a bit, and will run some risk of being severely criticised by all our great contemporaries — except Zig-Zag. As for me, my fifty summers or fifty winters — there is no great difference in this island of the blessed, they are neither of them so horrible as the spring— have disinclined me to thunder on the young. A veteran journalist perched on the poop of a steam vessel has many advantages. He has a bird's-eye view of the Thames, READIANA. 387 and can steer Clasper's boat with his mind far more easily than can a youngster squatted four inches above the water, with eight giants intercepting- his view of a strange river, and a mob shouting in his ears like all the wild beasts of a thousand forests. Mr. Goldie has done all his work well for months. He chose his men impartially, practiced them in time, and Anally rowed the race with perfect judgment,. He took an experimental time, and finding he could hold it, made no premature call upon his crew. He held the race in hand, and won it from a plucky opponent without distressing his men needlessly. No man is a friend of Oxford, who tells her to overrate accidents, and underrate what may be done by a wise president before ever the boats reach Putney. This Lon- don race was virtually won at Cambridge. Next year let Oxford choose her men from no favorite schools or colleges, lay aside her prejudice against Clasper, and give him a trial ; at all events, return to her swinging stroke, and practice till not only all the eight bodies go like one, but all the eight rowlocks ring like one; and the spirit and bottom that enabled her to han£- so long on the quarter of a first-rate crew in a first-rate boat will be apt to land her a winner in the next and many a hard-fought race. Charles Reade. BUILDERS' BLUNDERS. To the Editor of the " Pall Mall Gazette. FIRST LETTER. Sir — Amid the din of arms abroad and petty politics at home, have you a corner for a subject less exciting, but very im- portant to Englishmen ? Then let me expose that great blot upon the English intellect, the thing we call A house, es- pecially as it is built in our streets, rows, and squares. To begin at the bottom — the drains are inside and hidden ; nobody knows their course. A foul smell arises : it has to be groped for, and half the kitchen and scul- lery floors taken up — blunder 1. Drains ought to be outside : and, if not, their course be marked, with the graving tool, on the stones, and a map of the drains deposited with a parish officer ; overlying boards and stones ought to be hinged, to facilitate examination. Things capable of derangement should never be inacces- sible. This is common sense ; yet, from their drains to their chimneypots, the builders defy this maxim. The kitchen windows are sashes, and all sash-windows are a mistake. They are small ; they ought to be as large as possible. The want of light in kitchens is one of the causes why female servants — though their lot is a singularly happy one — are singularly irritable. But, not to dwell on small errors, the next great blunder in the kitchen is the plaster ceiling. The plaster ceiling may pass, with Lon- don builders, for a venerable antiquity that nothing can disturb, but to scholars it is an unhappy novelty, and, in its pres- ent form, inexcusable. It was invented in a tawdry age as a vehicle of florid orna- mentation ; but what excuse can there be for a plain plaster ceiling ? Count the objections to it in a kitchen. 1. A kitchen is a low room, and the ceiling makes it nine inches lower. 2. White is a glaring color, and a white ceiling makes a low room look lower. 3. This kitchen ceiling is dirty in a month's wear, and filthy in three months, with the smoke of gas, and it is a thing the servants cannot clean, -t. You cannot hang things on it. Now change all this : lay out the prime cost of the ceiling, and a small part of its yearly cost, in finishing your joists and boards to receive varnish, and in varnish- ing them with three coats of good copal. Your low room is now nine inches higher, and looks three feet. You can put in hooks and staples galore, and make the WORKS OF CHARLES READE. roof of this business-room useful ; it is, in color, a pale amber at starting-, which is better for the human eye than -white glare, and, instead of getting uglier every day, as the plaster ceiling does, it improves every month, every year. every decade, every century. Clean deal, under varnish, acquires in a few years a beauty oak can never attain to. So mach for the kitchen. The kitchen stairs, whether of stone or wood, ought never to be laid down with- out a protecting nozzle. The brass noz- zle c>sts some money, the lead nozzle hardly any: no nozzle can be dear: for it saves the steps, and they are dearer. See how the kitchen steps are cut to pieces for want of thai little hit of fore- thought in the builder. We are now on the lii-t floor. Over our heads is a blunder, the plaster ceiling, well begrimed with the smoke from the gaselier, and not cleanable by the serv. ants: and we stand upon another blun- der: here are a set of hoards, not joined together. They ace nailed down loose, and being of green wood they gape : now the blunder immediately below, the plas- ter ceiling of the kitchen, lias provided a receptacle of duM several inches deep. This rises when you walk upon the floor, rises in clouds when your children run : and that dust marks your carpet in black lines, and destroys it before its time. These same hoards are laid down without varnish; by this means they rot. and do not last one-half. nor. indeed, one-quar- ter, of their time. Moreover, the unvar- nished hoards get filthy at the sides before you furnish, and thus you lose the cleanest and most beautiful border possible to your carpet. So the householder is driven by the incapacity of the builder to pitiable substitutes — oil cloth. Indian matting, and stained wood, which last gets uglier every year, whereas deal boards varnished clean improve every year, every decade, every century. I am, sir. Yours very truly, Charles Reade. SECOND LETTER. Sir — "When last seen I was standing on the first floor of the thing they call a house, with a blunder under my feet — unvarnished, unjoined boards; and a blunder over my head — the oppressive, glaring, plaster ceiling, full of its in- evitable cracks, and foul with the smoke of only three months' gas. This room has square doors with lintels. Now all doors and doorways ought to he arched, for two reasons — first, the arch is incom- bustible, the lintel and breast-summer are combustible : secondly, the arch, and arched dm r, are beautiful; Hie square hole in the wall, and square door, are hideous. Sash Windows. This room is lighted by what may be defined "the unscientific winflow." Here in this single structure you may see mosl of the intellectual vices that mark the unscientific mind. The scientific way is ah\ :i\ s t he simple way ; so here you have complication on complication: one-half the window is to go up. the other half is to come down. The maker of it goes out of his way to struggle with Nature's laws: he grapples insanely with gravita- tion, and therefore he must use cords, and weights, and pulleys, and build boxes to hide them in— he is a greal bider. His wooden frames moveupand down wooden grooves open to atmospheric influence. What is the consequence ? The atmos- phere becomes humid : the wooden frame sticks in the wooden box, and the un- scientific window is jammed. What ho ! Send for the curse of families, the British workman ! Or one of the cords breaks (they are always breaking) — send for the curse of families to patch the blunder of the unscientific builder. Now turn to the scientific window; it is simply a glass door with a wooden frame : it is not at the mercy of the atmosphere; it enters into no contest with gravitation: it is the one rational window upon earth. If a small window, it is a single glass door, if a large window, it is two glass doors, each READIANA. 389 calmly turning' on three hinges, and not fighting against God Almighty and His laws, when there is no need. The scientific window can be cleaned by the householder's servants without difficulty or danger, not so the unscien- tific window. How many a poor girl has owed broken bones to the sash-window ! Nowadays humane masters afflicted with unscien- tific windows, send for the CURSE OP families whenever their windows are dirty ; but this costs seven or eight pounds a year, and the householder is crushed under taxes enough without hav- ing to pa\ r this odd seven pounds per annum for the nescience of the builder. We go up the stairs — -between two blunders : the balusters are painted, whereas they ought to be made and varnished in the carpenter's shop, and then put up ; varnished wood improves with time, painted deteriorates. On the other side is the domestic calamity, foul wear, invariable, yet never provided for : furniture mounting the narrow stairs dents the wall and scratches it ; sloppy housemaids paw it as they pass, and their dirty gowns, distended by crinoline, defile it. What is to be done then ? must the whole staircase be repainted every year, because five feet of it get dirty, or shall brains step in and protect the vulnerable part ? The cure to this curse is chunam ; or encaustic tiles, set five feet high all up the stairs. That costs money ! Granted ; but the life of a house is not the life of a butterfly. Even the tiles are a cheap cure, for repeated paintings of the whole surface mighty soon balance the prime cost of the tiles set over a small part. The water-closet has no fire-place. That is a blunder. Every year we have a few days' hard frost, and then, without a fire in the water-closet, the water in the pan freezes, the machinery is jammed, and the whole family endure a degree of discomfort, and even of degradation, be- cause the builder builds in summer and forgets there is such a thing as winter. The drawing-room presents no new feature ; but the plaster ceiling is par- ticularly objectionable in this room, be- cause it is under the bedrooms, where water is used freely. Xow if a. man spills but a pint of water in washing or bath- ing, it runs through directly and defiles the drawing-room ceiling. Perhaps this blunder ought to be equally divided be- tween the ceiling and the floor above, for whenever bedroom floors shall be prop- erly constructed they will admit of buckets of water being sluiced all over them; and, indeed, will be so treated, and washed as courageously as are sculleries and kitchens only under the present benighted system. I pass over the third floor, and mount a wooden staircase, a terrible blunder in this pai*t of the house, to the rooms under the roof. These rooms, if the roof was open-timbered, would give each in- mate a great many cubic feet of air to breathe ; so the perverse builder erects a plaster ceiling, and reduces him to a very few cubic feet of air. This, the maddest of all the ceilings, serves two characteris- tic purposes; it chokes and oppresses the poor devils that live under it, and it hides the roof : now the roof is the part that oftenest needs repairs, so it ought to be the most accessible part of the house, and the easiest to examine from the out- side and from the inside. For this very reason Perversity in person hides it ; whenever your roof or a gutter leaks, it is all groping and speculation, because your builder has concealed the inside of the roof with that wretched ceiling, and has made the outside accessible only to cats and sparrows, and the "curse of families." N. B. — Whenever that curse of families goes out on that roof to mend one hole, he makes two. Why not ? thanks to the perverse builder, you can't watch him, and he has got a friend a plumber. We now rise from folly to lunacy ; the roof is half perpendicular. This, in a modern house, is not merely silly, it is disgraceful to the human mind ; it was all very well before gutters and pipes were invented : it was well designed to shoot off the water by the overlapping 390 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. eaves : but now we run our water off by our gutters and pipes, and the roof mere- ly feeds them ; the steep roof feeds them too fast and is a main cause of overflows. But there are many other objections to slanted roofs, especially in streets and ro Iv s : 1st. The pyramidal roof, by blocking up the air, necessitates high stacks of chimneys, which are expensive and dangerous, 2d. The pyramidal roof presses later- alls- againsl the walls, which llicse pre- cious builders make thinner the higher they raise them, and subjects the whole st rud ure to danger. 3d. It cobs the family of a whole floor, and give- it to cats and sparrows. I say that a five-story house with a pyramidal roof is a five-story house, and with a flat roof is a six story house. 41b. It robs the poor cockney of his country view. It is astonishing how much of the country can be seen from the roofs of si London streets. A pool' fellow who works all day in a bole, might smoke his evening pipe, and sec a wide trad of verdure — but the builders have denied lii iii that; they build the roofs for cats, and il curse of fami- lies," they do not build it for the man whose bread they eat. 5th. It robs poor families of their dry- ing-ground. 6th. This idiotic blunder, slightly aided by a subsidiary blunder or two, murders householders and their families wholesale. destroys them by the most terrible of all deaths — burning alive. And I seriously ask you. and any mem- ber of either House, who is not besot ted with little noisy things, to consider how greal a mat tec this is. though no politi- cal squabble can be raised about it. Mind yon. the builders are not to blame that a small, high house is, in its nature, a fire trap. This is a misfortune insepa- rable from the shape of the structure and the nature of that terrible element. The crime of the builders lies in this, that they make no intelligent provision against a danger so evident, but side with the fire, not the familv. Prejudice and habitual idiocy apart, can anything be clearer than this, that, as fire mounts and smoke stifles, all per- sons who are above a fire ought to be enabled to leave the house by way of the roof, as easily and rapidly as those be- low /In- fire can. go out by the street door. Now what do the builders do ? They side with fire: they accumulate combus- tible materials on the upper floors, and they construct a steep roof most difficull and dangerous to gel about on, but to the aged and infirm impossible. Are then the aged and infirm incombustible? This horrible dangerous roof the merciless wretches make so hard of access that few are the cases, as well they know by the papers, in which a life is saved by their hard road. They open a little trap- door — horizontal, of course: always go against God Almighty and His laws, when you can: that is the idiots" creed. This miserable aperture, scarcely big enough for a dog, is bolted or pad- locked. It is seven feet from the ground. Yet the builder fixes no steps nor stairs to it; no, get at it how you can. What (diance has a mixed family of escaping by this hole in case of fire. Nobody ever goeg on that beastly pyra- mid except in case of lire : ami so the bolt is almost sure to be rusty, or the I. .\ mislaid, or the steps not close; and, even if the poor wretches get the stops to the place, and heave open the trap, in spite of rust, and gravitation, these de- lays are serious; then the whole family is to be dragged up through a dog hole, and that is slow work, and fire is swift and smoke is stifling. A thousand poor wretches have been clean murdered in my time by the build- ers with their trap-door and their pyra- midal roof. Thousands more have been destroyed, as far as the builders were concerned; the fire-men and fire-escape men saved them, in spite of the builders, by means which were a disgrace to the builders. But in my next, sir, I will show you that in a row of houses constructed by READIANA. 391 brains not one of those tragedies could ever have taken place. I am, sir. Yours very truly, Charles Reade. THIRD LETTER. Sir — It is a sure sign a man is not an artist, if, instead of repairing- his defects, he calls in an intellectual superior to counteract them. The fire-escape is cred- itable to its inventor, but disgraceful to the builders. They construct a fire-trap without an escape ; and so their fellow- citizens are to cudgel their brains and supply the builders' want of intelligence and humanity by an invention working from the street. The fire-escape can after all save but a few of the builders' victims. The only universal fire-escape is — The rational roof. To be constructed thus : Light iron staircases from the third floor to top floor and rational roof. Flat roof, or roofs, metal covered, with scarcely perceptible fall from center. Open joists and iron girders, the latter sufficiently numerous to keep the roof from falling in, even though fire should gut the edifice. An iron-lined door, surmounted by a sky- light ; iron staircase up to this door, which opens rationally on to the rational roof. Large cistern or tank on roof with a force-pump to irrigate the roof in fire or summer heats. Round the roof iron rails set firm in balcony, made too hard for bairns to climb, and surmounted by spikes. Between every two houses a par- tition gate with two locks and keys com- plete. Bell under cover to call neighbor in fire or other emergency. Advantages offered by " the rational roof :" 1. High chimney stacks not needed. 2. Nine smoking chimneys cured out of ten. There are always people at hand to make the householder believe his chimney smokes by some fault of construction, and so they gull him into expenses, and his chimney smokes on — because it is not thoroughly swept. Send a faithful serv- ant on to the rational roof, let him see the chimney-sweep's brush at the top of every chimney before you pay a shilling, and good-by smoking chimneys. Sweeps are rogues, and the irrational roof is their shield and buckler. 3. The rails painted chocolate and the spikes gilt would mightily improve our gloomy streets. 4. Stretch clothes' lines from spike to spike, and there is a drying-ground for the poor, or for such substantial people as are sick of the washerwomen and their villainy. These heartless knaves are now rotting fine cambric and lace with soda and chloride of lime, though borax is nearly as detergent and injures noth- ing. 5. A playground in a purer air for chil- dred that cannot get to the parks. There is no ceiling to crack below. G. In summer heats a blest retreat. Ir- rigate and cool from the cistern : then set four converging poles, stretch over these from spike to spike a few breadths of awn- ing; and there is a delightful tent and perhaps a country view. If the Star and Garter at Richmond had possessed such a roof, they would have made at least two thousand a year upon it, and perhaps have saved their manager from a terrible death. 7. On each roof a little flagstaff and streamer to light the gloom with sparks of color, and tell the world is the master at home or not. This would be of little use now ; but, when once the rational roof be- comes common, many a friend could learn from his own roof whether a friend was at home, and so men's eyes might save their legs. 8. In case of fire, the young and old would walk out by a rational door on to a rational roof, and ring at a rational gate. Then their neighbor lets them on to his rational roof, and they are safe. Meantime, the adult males, if any, have time to throw wet blankets on the sky- light and turn the water on to the roof. The rational roof, after saving the family 392 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. which its predecessor would have de- stroyed, now proceeds to combat the fire. It operates as an obstinate cowl over the fire ; and, if there are engines on the spot, the victory is certain. Compare this with the whole conduct of the irra- tional roof. First it murdered the in- mates ; then it fed the fire ; then it col- lapsed and fell on the ground floor, destroying more property, and endan- gering the firemen. I am. Yours very truly, Charles Reade. FOURTH LETTER. Sir — The shoe pinches all men more or less; but, on a calm survey. 1 think it pinches the householder hardest. A house is as much a necessary of life as a loaf ; yei this article of necessity has been lately raised to a fancy price by t lie I rade conspiraci ss of I tie build eratives — nol so much by their legitimate strikes for high wages as by their con- spiring never to do for any amount of wages an honest day's work — and the fancy price thus created strikes the householder first in the form of rent. But this excessive rent, although it is an outgoing, is taxed as income: its figure is made the basis of all the imperial and parochial exactions, that crush the house- holder. One of i hese is singularly unfair : I mean "the inhabited house duty." What is this but the property tax re- baptized and levied over again, but from the wrong person? the property tax is a percentage on the rent, levied in good faith, from the person whom the rent en- ables to pay that percentage : but the in- habited house duty is a similar percentage on the rent, levied, under the disguise of another name, from him whom the rent disables. In London the householder constantly builds and improves the freehold : in- stantly parochial spies raise his rates. He has employed labor, and so far coun- terbalanced pauperism ; at the end of his lease the house will bear a heavier burden ; but these heartless extortioners they bleed the poor wretch directly for improving parochial property at his own expense. At the end of his lease the rent is raised by the landlord on account of these taxed improvements, and the tenant turned out with a heavier griev- ance than the Irish farmer; yet he does not tumble his landlord, nor even a brace of vestrymen. The improving ten- ant, while awaiting the punishment of virtue, spends twenty times as much money in pipes as the water companies do, yei he has to pay them for water a price so enormous, that they ought to bring it into his cisterns, and indeed into his mouth, for 1 he money. lie pays through the nose for gas. lie Meeds ftic 1 he vices of the working classes : since in our we s, nine- tenths of the pauperism is simply waste and inebriety. Be often pays temporary o an improvident workman, whose annual income exceeds his own. but who will never put by a shilling for a slack time. In short . the respei table householder of moderate means is so ground down and oppressed that, to my knowledge, he is on the road to despondency and. ripening for a revolul ion. Now, I can hold him out no hope of relief from existing taxation; but his intolerable burden can be lightened by other means: the simplest is to keep down his bill lor repairs and decorations, which at present is made monstrous by original misconstruction. The irrational house is an animal with ITS MOUTH ALWAYS OPEN. This need not be. It arises from causes most of which are removable; viz., 1st, from unscientific construction; 2d, plas- ter ceilings; 3d, the want of provision for partial wear ; 4th, the abuse of paint ; 5th. hidden work. Under all these heads I have alread3' given examples. I will add another un- der head 3. The dado or skirting board i- to keep furniture from marking the wall; but it is laid down only one inch READIANA. 393 thick, whereas the top of a modern chair overlaps the bottom an inch and a half. This the builders do not, or will not, ob- serve, and so every year in London fifty thousand rooms are spoiled by the marks of chair-backs on the walls, and the owners driven to the expense of paint- ing or papering- sixty square yards, to clear a space that is less than a square foot, but fatal to the appearance of the room. Under head 4 let me observe that God's woods are all very beautiful ; that only FOOLS ARE WISER THAN GOD ALMIGHTY ; that varnish shows up the beauty of those woods, and adds a gloss ; and that house- paint hides their beauty. Paint holds dirt, and does not wash well : varnish does. Paint can only be mixed by a work- man. Varnish is sold fit to put on. Paint soon requires revival, and the old paint must be rubbed off at a great expense, and two new coats put on. Varnish stands good for years, and, when it re- quires revival, little more is necessary than simple cleaning, and one fresh coat, which a servant or anybody can lay on. 5. Hidden work is sure to be bad work, and so need repairs, especially in a roof, that sore tried part; and the repairs are the more expensive that the weak place has to be groped for. I have now, I trust, said enough to awaken a few householders from the lethargy of despair, and to set them thinking a little and organizing a defense against the extraordinary mixture of stu- pidity and low instinctive trade cunning of which they are the victims : for a gen- tleman's blunders hurt himself, but a. tradesman's blunders always hurt lus customers ; and this is singularlj' true of builders' blunders ; they all tend one way — to compel the householder to be always sending for the builder, or that bungling rascal the plumber, to grope for his hidden work, or botch his bad work, or clean his unscientific windows, or whitewash his idiotic ceilings, or rub his nastj' unguents off God's beautiful wood, and then put some more nasty odo- riferous unguents on, or put cowls on his ill-cleaned chimneys; or, in short, to repair his own countless blunders at the expense of his customer. Independently of the murderous and constant expense, the bare entrance into a modest household of that loose, lazy, drunken, dishonest drink-man and jack- man, who has the impudence to call him- self "the British workman," though he never did half a clay's real work at a stretch. in all his life, is a serious calam- ity, to be averted by every lawful means. I am, sir, Yours faithfully. Charles Reade. OUR DARK PLACES. To the Gentlemen of the Press. No. I. Gentlemen — On Friday last, a tale was brought to me that a sane prisoner had escaped from a private madhouse, had just baffled an attempt to recapture him by violent entry into a dwelling-house, and was now hiding in the suburbs. The case was grave : the motives al- leged for his incarceration were sinister ; but the interpreters were women, and consecpiently partisans, and some, though not all, the parties concerned on the other side bear a fair character. Humanity said " look into the case ! " Prudence said, "look at it on both sides." I in- sisted, therefore, on a personal interview with Mr. . This was conceded, and we spent two hours together : all which time I was of course testing his mind to the best of my ability. I found him a young gentleman of a healthy complexion, manner vif, but not what one would call excited. I noticed however that he liked to fidget string and other trifles between his finger and thumb at times. He told me his history for some years past, specifying the dates of several events : he also let me know he 394 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. had been subject for two years to fits, which he described to me in full. I recog- nized the character of these fits. His conversation was sober and reasonable. But had I touched the exciting- theme ? We all know there is a class of madmen who are sober and sensible till the one false chord is struck. I came therefore to that delusion which was the original ground of \s incarceration ; his no- tion thai certain of his relations are keep- ing money from him that is his due. This was the substance of his hallucina- tion as he revealed it to me. His father was member of a firm with his uncle and others. Shortly before his death Ins father made a will leaving him certain personalties, the interesl of £5,000, and, should he live to be twenty-four, the prin- cipal of ditto, and the reversion, after his mother's death, of another considerable sum. Early last year he began to inquire why the principal due to him was not paid. lhs uncle then told him there were no assets to his father's credit, and never had been. ( )n this, he admit s, he wrote " abomi- nably passionate" letters, and demanded to inspect the books. This was refused him, but a balance sheet was sent him, which was no evidence to his mind, and did not bear the test of Addition, being £40,000 out on the evidence of its own figures. This was his tale, which might be all bosh for aughl I could tell. Not being clever enough to distinguish truth from fancy by divination. I took cab. and olT to Doctors' Commons, determined to bring some of the above to book. Well, gentlemen, I found the will, and I discovered thai my maniac has under- stated the interest lie takes under it. I also find, as he told me I should, his uncle's name down as one of the wit- nesses to the will. Item, I made a little private discovery of my own. viz., that is residuary legatee, subject to his mother's life interest, and that all his interest under the will q-oes to five rela- tions of the generation above him should he die intestate. I now came to this conclusion, which I think you will share with me, that "s delusion may or may not be an error, but cannot be a hallucination, since it is sim- ply good logic founded on attested facts. For on which side lies the balance of cred- ibility ? The father makes a solemn statement that he lias thousands of pounds to bequeath. The uncle assents in writing while the father is alive, but gives the father and himself the lie when the father is no longer on earth to contra- dict him. They say in law. "Allegans contraria mm est audiendus." Being now satisfied that the soi-disant delusion mighl be error but could not be alienation of judgment, I subjected him to a new class of proofs. I asked him if he would face medical men of real emi- iience. and not in league villi madhouse doctors. ••He would with pleasure. It was his desire." We went first to Dr. Dicks,, ii. who has great experience, and has effected some remarkable cures of mania. Dr. Dickson, as may well be sup- posed, did not take as many seconds as I had taken hours. lie laughed to scorn the very notion that the man was mad. "He is as sane as we are." said Dr. Dickson. From Bolton Street we all three go to Dr. Ruttledge, Hanover Square, and. on the road, Dr. Dickson and I agree to applj a test to Dr. Rut- tledge, which it would have been on many accounts unwise to apply to a man of ordinary skill. Dr. Dickson intro- duced and me thus : — " One of these is insane, said to be. Which is it ? " Dr. Ruttledge took the problem mighty coolly, sat down by me first, with an eye like a diamond : it went slap into my marrow-bone. Asked me catching ques- tions, touched my wrist, saw my tongue, and said quietly, "This one is sane." Then he went and sal down by and drove an eye into him, asked him catch- ing questions, made him tell him in order all he had done since seven o'clock, felt pulse, saw tongue : " This one is sane, too." Dr. Dickson then left the room, after telling him what was 's sup- posed delusion, and begged him to ex- amine him upon it. The examination lasted nearly half an hour, during which related the circumstances of his mis- BE A DIANA. 395 understanding, his capture, and his es- cape, with some minuteness. The result of all this was a certificate of sanity ; copy of which I subjoin. The original can be seen at my house by any lady or gentleman connected with literature or the press. " We hereb} 7 certify that we have this day, both conjointly and separately, ex- amined Mr. , and we find him to be in every respect of sound mind, and labor- ing under no delusion whatever. More- over, we entertain a very strong opinion that the said Mr. has at no period of his life labored under insanity. " He has occasionally had epileptic fits. '• (Signed) James Ruttledge. M.D. S. Dickson, M.D. " 19 George Street. Hanover Square, 9tk August, 1858. This man, whose word I have no reason to doubt, says the keeper of the mad- house told him he should never go out of it. This, if true, implies the absence of all intention to cure him. He was a cus- tomer, not a patient : he was not in a hospital, but in a jail, condemned to im- prisonment for life, a sentence so awful that no English judge has ever yet had the heart to pronounce it upon a felon. is an orphan. The law is too silly, and one-sided, and slow, to protect him against the prompt and daring men who are now even hunting him. But while those friends the God of the fatherless has raised him concert his defense, you can aid justice greatly by letting daylight in. I will explain why this is in my next. I am, gentlemen, Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. Garrick Club, \0th August, 1858. No. II. Gextlemex— In England "Justice " is the daughter of "Publicity." In this, as in every other nation, deeds of villainy are done every day in kid gloves ; but they can only be done on the sly : here lies our true moral eminence as a nation. Our judges are an honor to Europe, not because Nature has cut them out of a different stuff from Italian judges : this is the dream of babies : it is because they sit in courts open to the public, and "' sit next day in the neicspapers." * Legislators who have not the brains to appreciate the Public, and put its sense of justice to a statesmanlike use, have yet an instinctive feeling that it is the great safeguard of the citizen. Bring your understandings to bear on the following sets of proposi- tions in lunacy law : — First grand divis- ion — Maxims laid down by Shelf ord. "'a. The law requires satisfactory evidence of insanity. B. Insanity in the eye of the law is nothing less than the prolonged departure, without an adequate external cause, from the state of feeling, and modes of thinking, usual to the indi- vidual when in health, c. The burden of proof of insanity lies on those assert- x ng its existence. D. Control over per- sons represented as insane is not to be assumed without necessity, e. Of all evidence, that of medical men ought to be given with the greatest care, and re- ceived with the utmost caution. F. The medical man's evidence should not merely pronounce the party insane, but give suf- ficient reasons for thinking so. For this purpose it behooves him to have investi- gated accurately the collateral circum- stances. G. The imputations of friends or relations, etc., are not entitled to any weight or consideration in inquiries of this nature, but ought to be dismissed from the minds of the judge and jury, who are bound to form their conclusions from impartial evidence of facts, and not to be led astray by any such fertile sources of error and injustice." The second class of propositions is well known to your readers. A relative has only to buy two doctors, two surgeons, or even two of those "whose poverty though not their will consents." and he can clap in a madhouse any rich old fel- * We are indebted to Lord Mansfield for this phrase. 396 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. low that is spending his money absurdly on himself, instead of keeping' it like a wise man for his heirs : or lie can lock up any eccentric, bodily-afflicted, trouble- some, account-sifting' young- fellow. In other words, the two classes of peo- ple, who figure as suspected witnesses in one set of clauses, are made judge, jury, and executioner, in another set of clauses, one of which, by a refinement of injustice, shifts the burden of proof from the ac- cusers to the accused in all open proceed- ings subsequent to his wrongful imprison- ment. — Shelford, 56. Now what is the clew to this apparent contradiction — to this change in the weather-cock of legislatorial morality? It is mighty simple. The maxims, No. 1, are the practice and principle thai govern whal are called "Commissions <>f Luna- cy.'" At these the newspaper reporters are present. No. 2 are the practice and principle legalized, where no newspaper reporters are present. Light and dark- ness. Since then the Law de Lunatico has herself told us thai she is an idiol and a rascal when she works in the dark, but that she is wise, cautious, humane, and honesl in the light, my orphan and my- self should indeed be mad 1o disregard her friendly hinl as to her double charac- ter. This, gentlemen, is why we come to you firsl : you must give us publicity, or refuse us justice. We will go to the Com- missioners in Lunacy, bul not before their turn. We dare not abjure experience. We know the Commissioners: we know them intus et in cute : we know them bet- ter than they know themselves. They are of two kinds, one kind I shall dissect elsewhere ; the rest are small men afflicted with a common malady, a commonplace conscience. These soldiers of Xerxes won't do their duty if they can help it ; if they can't, they will. With them justice depends on Publicity, and Publicity on you. Up with the lash ! ! I am now instructed by him who has been called mad. but whose intelligence may prove a match for theirs, to propose to his enemies to join him in proving to the public that their convictions are as sincere as his. The wording of the chal- lenge being left to me, I invite them to an issue, thus : •• My lads, you were game to enter a dwelling-house kept by women. and proposed to break open a woman's chamber-door, till a woman standing on the other side with a cudgel, threatened •to split your skulls," and that chilled your martial ardor. Vosetenim juvenes animum geritis muliebrem Ilia virago viri. '• And now you are wasting your money (and you will want il a 11), dressing up policemen, setting spies, and in short, doing the Venetian business in England ; and all forwhat? You want our orphan's body. Well, it is to be had without all this dirty maneuvering, and silly small treachery. Go to Jonathan Weymouth, Esq., of Clifford's Inn. He is our or- phan's solicitor, duly appointed and in- structed : he will accept service of a writ de lunatico inquirendo, and on the writ being served, Mr. Weymouth will enter into an undertaking with you to produce the body of E. P. P. in court, to abide the issue of :i daylighl investigation. If you prove trim mad, you will take him away with you: if you fad to make him out mad before a disinterested judge, at all events you will prove yourselves to be honest, though somewhat bard-hearted, men and women." Should tins proposal be accepted, the proceedings of our opponents will then assume a respectability that is wanting at present, and in that case these letters will cease. Subjudice lis erit. I am, gentlemen. Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. No. III. Garkick Club. October. Gentlemen— My last letter concluded by inviting the person, who had incarcer- ated my orphan on the plea of insanity, to prove that, whether mistaken or not, he was sincere. No such evidence has READIANA. 39? been offered.- He has therefore served a writ upon this person, and will proceed to trial with all possible expedition, subject, of course, to the chances of demurrer, or nonsuit.* It would not be proper to say more, pendente lite. But, some shallow com- ments having- been printed elsewhere, it seems fair that those Editors, who had the humanity, the courtesy, and, let me add, the intelligence, to print my letters, should possess this proof that their columns have not been trifled with by Their obliged And obedient servant, Charles Reade. No. IV. "Cunctando restituit rem." Gentlemen — When, four months ago, I placed my orphan under the wing of the law, I hoped I had secured him that which is every Englishman's right, a trial by judge and jury ; and need draw no further upon your justice and your pity. I have clung to this hope in spite of much sick- ness of heart, month after month : but at last both hope and faith are crushed in me, and I am forced to see, that without a fresh infusion of publicity, my orphan has no reasonable hope of getting a public trial till he shall stand with his opponents before the God of the fatherless. I do not say this merely because his trial has been postponed, and postponed, but be- cause it has been thrice postponed on grounds that can be reproduced three hundred times just as easily as thrice, unless the light of publicity is let in. Let me premise that the matters I have to relate are public acts, and as proper for publication and criticism as any other judicial proceedings, and that they will make the tour of Europe and the United States in due course. When the day of * Individually I entertain no apprehension on this score. The constitutional rights of English- men are safe in the hands of the present judges ; and trial by jury, in a case of this character, is one of those lights — provided, of course, the proper Defendant has been sued. trial drew near in November last, defend- ant's attornej' applied to have trial post- poned for a month or two, for the follow- ing sole reason : — He swore, first, that a Mr. 3 Stars, dwelling at Bordeaux, was a witness without whom defendant could not safelj- proceed to trial ; and he swore, second, that said 3 Stars had written to him on the 18th November, that, owing to an accident on the railway, he was then confined to his room, and had little hope of being able to leave Bordeaux under a month. No. 1, you will observe, is legal evidence : but No. 2 is no approach to- ward legal evidence. Nothing is here sworn to but the fact that there exists an unsworn statement by a Mr. 3 Stars. On this denii-semi-affidavit, unsupported by a particle of legal evidence, a well-mean- ing judge, in spite of a stiff remonstrance, postponed the trial, nominally for one month, really for two months. I fear my soul is not so candid as the worthy judge's, for on the face of this docu- ment, where he saw veracity, I saw dis- ingenuousness, stand out in alto relievo. So I set the French police upon Mr. 3 Stars, and received from the Prefect of La Gironde an official document, a copy of which is inclosed herewith. By it we learn, first, that the accident or incident was not what plain men understand by an accident on a railway. The man hurt a leg getting down from a railway car- riage, just as he might from his own gig. Second, that it was not quite so recent as his suppression of date might lead a plain man to presume, but was three weeks old when he wrote as above ; third, that he must have been well long before the 9th of December, for, writing on that day, the prefect describes him as having made frequent excursions into Medoc since his incident. Unfair inaccuracy once proved in so important a statement, all belief is shaken. In all human probability. Mr. 3 Stars was convalescent on the 18th Nov- ember, viz., three weeks after his railway incident. But it is certain he was well on or about the 1st December, and that, consequently, he could with ease have at- tended that trial, which his statement that he could not move till about the 18th 398 WORKS OF CHARLES READE. December caused to be put off for two months. What man who knows the world can help suspecting that the arbi- trary period of a month was arranged between him and the attorney, not so much with reference to the truth as to the sittings of the court at Westminster upon special jury cases ? So much for abjuring the experience of centuries, and postponing an alleged lun- atic's trial for two months, upon indirect testimony that would be kicked out of a County Court, in a suit fora wheelbarrow: hearsay stuccoed, nursery evidence ; not legal evidence. Well, gentlemen, tin' weary months crawled on, and the lame, old, broken winded, loitering beldame, British jus- tice, hobbled up to the scratch again at last. Sir. 3 Stars was now in England. That sounded well. But he soon showed Us t hat " Cocluni tioo animani mutant qui trans mare currunt." His health still fluctuated to order: pret- ty well as to the wine trade ; very sick as to the Courl of Queen's Bench. He comes from Bordeaux to London (and that is a good step), burning, we are told, to attend the trial at Westminster. The trial draws near: he whips off— to Hampstead ? No; — to Wales, Arrived there, he writes, in due course, to his late colleague in affidavit, that he can't travel. This time the gentleman that does the interlocutory swearing for the defendant (let us call him Fabius), doubt- ing whether the li Stars malady would do again by itself, associated with his "ma- lade affidavitaire '" two ladies, whom, un- til they compel me to write a fifth let- ter, I will call Mrs. Plausible and Mrs. Brand. Non-legal evidence as before. Fabius swears, not that 3 Stars is ill; that might have been dangerous; but that 3 Stars says he is ill : which is t rue. Item, that Mrs. Brand cannot cross the ditch that parts France from England, because she has had an operation per- formed. This turns out to have been twelve monthsago. Item, Fabius swears that Mrs. Plausible says the little Plausi- bles have all got scarlatina ; and, there- fore. Fabius swears that Mrs. Plausible thinks the constitutional rights of the English people ought to remain in doubt and suspense, in the person of our orphan, till such time as the said scarlatina lias left her nursery (and the measles not ar- rived ?), "A tout bambin tout honueur." All which conjectural oaths, ami sworn conjectures, and nursery dialectics, they took to Mr. Justice Erie, of all gentlemen in the world ; and moved to postpone the trial indefinitely. Early in the argument, their counsel having. I think, gone through the schools at Oxford, took a distate to the Irish syllogism that gleamed on his brief; videlicet, no wit- ness «ho has scarlatina can come to Westminster and stand cross-examina- tion by Q. C. Little b, c. and d are not witnesses but have got scarlatina. ErgO, capital A can't COtlie to West- minster and stand cross-examination by Q. C. ( '< sel threw over Mis. Plausible and Hibernian logic generally, ami stood on the :'. Stars malady, second edition, and the surgical operation that was only twelve months old. But Mr. Justice Erie declined to postpone human justice till sickness and shamming should lie no more. He refused to ignore t he plaint iff, held the balance, and gave them a just and reasonable delay, to enable them to examine their "malades affida vita ires" upon commission. He was about to fix Saturday, Jan. .">. for the trial. They then pleaded hard for Monday. This was referred to plaintiff's attorney, who conceded that point. Having accepted this favor, which was clearly a conditional one. anil only part of the whole arrangement, they were, I THINK, bound by professional good faith not to disturb the compact. They held otherwise : they instantly set to work to evade Mr. Justice Erie's order, by tinker- ing the Irish syllogism. In just, the time that it would take to send Mrs. Plausible a letter, and say it is no use the little Plausibles having scarlatina ; you must have it yourself, madam ; you had bet- ter have it by telegraph — Mrs. Plausible announces the desired malady, but not READIANA. 39'J upon oath. "Scarlatina is easily said." II va sans dire que they don't venture hefore Mr. Justice Erie again with their tinkered affidavit. They slip down to Westminster, and surprise a fresh judge, who lias had no opportunity of watching the rise and progress of disease. Their counsel reads the soldered affidavit. Plaintiff's counter affidavits are then in- trusted to him to read. What does he do ? He reads the preamble, but burks the affidavits. The effect was inevitable. Even bastard affidavits cannot be met by rhetoric. They can only be encountered by affidavits. Judges decide, not on phrases, but on the facts before them. Plaintiff's facts being silenced, and defend- ant's stated, the judg-e naturally went de- fendant, and postponed the trial. (No. 3.) Now, gentlemen, I am the last man in the world to cry over spilled milk. I don't come to you to tinker the untinker- able past, but, for the future, to ask a limit to injustice in its worst form, trial refused. Without your help, this alleged lunatic is no nearer the term of his sufferings ; no nearer the possibility of removing that frightful stigma, which is not stigma only, but starvation ; no nearer to trial of his sanity by judge and jury, than he was four months ago. True, there are now three judges who will not easily be induced to impede the course of justice in this case; but there are other uninformed judg'es who may be surprised into doing it general. Fabius can at any day of any month stvear that some male or female witness says she wants to come into the witness-box, and can't. And so long as "Jack swears that Jill says" is con- founded with legal evidence, on inter- locutory motions, justice can be defeated to the end of time, under color of post- ponement. Gentlemen, it is a known fact •among- lawyers that, in nine cases out of ten, postponement of trial has no other real object but evasion of trial b}- tiring out the plaintiff, or breaking his heart, or ruining him in expenses. I see little reason whatever to doubt that this is a principal object here. De- fendants have a long purse. Plaintiff is almost a pauper in fact, whatever he may be in law. Mr. 3 Stars, sworn to as an essential witness, has not seen the boy for years. How can he, therefore, be a very essential witness to his insanity at or about the period of his capture ? Dr. Pillbox and Mr. Sawbones must be better cards so far : in a. suit at law the evidence of insanity^, like that of sanity, cannot be spread out thin over disjointed years, like the little bit of butter on a schoolboy's bread. Mr. 3 Stars may be an evidence as to flg-ures : but then the books are to be in court subpoena, ; and nobody listens much to any of us swearing arithmetic, when a ledger is speaking. The lady I have called Mrs. Plausible, would not, in my humble opinion, go into a witness-box if she were paid a hundred pounds a minute. I mean this anything but dis- courteously. I implore all just and honest men, es- pecially those who are in the service of the State, to try and realize the fright- ful situation in which postponement of trial keeps an alleged lunatic. The blood- hounds are hunting him all this time. There were several men looking after him the very last clay he lost his hopes of im- mediate trial. Suppose that, on unsub- stantial grounds, and illegal evidence, time should be afforded to find him out and settle the questions of fact and law, by brute force, what complexion would these thoughtless delays of justice assume then in the eye of the nation ; ay, and to do them justice, in the consciences of those whose credulity would have made the bloodhounds of a lunatic asyium mas- ters of an argument that lias been now for many months referred to the Lord Chief Justice of England and a special jury. Mind, the constitution has been tampered with; "habeas corpus" has been suspended by the boobies that framed the Lunacy Acts. The judges have power to impede justice, but none to impede in- justice. In these peculiar cases, I am advised, they can't order a sane man out of n lunatic asylum into the witness-box. Justice hobbles, but injustice flies to its mark. I declnre to y r ou that I live in mortal terror lest some evil should befall 400 iVORKS OF CHARLES READE. this man, under the very wing of the court — not of course from the defendant — but from some member or members of the gang of stupid ruffians I am assured are still hanging about the skirts of the de- fense; men some of whom have both bloodshed and reasonshed on their hands already. My verj housemaids have been tampered with to discover where ••the pursuer/' as the Scotch call him. is hiding and quaking. Is such an anomaly to I..' borne!-' Is a man to be a1 the same time run from with affidavits and chased with human blood-hounds? Is this a slate of things to be prolonged, without making our system the scorn ami laughing-stock of all the citizens and law\ ers of Europe ': Fletcher v. Fletcher only wants realiz- ing. But some people are so stupid they can realize nothing that they have not got Ln their hands, their mouths, or their bellies. This is no common case ; uo com- mon situation. Tins particular English- man sues not merely lor damages, but to recover lost rights dearer tar than money, of which rights \\e says he is unjust ly robbed ; his right, to walk in daylight on the soil of his native land, without being seized and chained up for life like a nigger or a dog : his footing in society, his means of earning bread, and his place among mankind. For a lunatic is a beast in the law's eye and society's; and an alleged lunatic is a lunatic until a jury pronounces him sane. I appeal to you. gentlemen, is not such a suitor sacred in all good men's minds:-' Is he not defendant as well as plaintiff? Why his stake is enormous compared with the nominal defendant's ; and, if I know right from wrong, to postpone his trial a fourth time, without a severe necessity, would be to insult Divine just ice, and trifle with human misery, and shock the com- mon sense of nations. I am. Your obedient servant, Charles Reade. With this a copy is inclosed of the French prefect's letter, and other creden- tials. These documents are abandoned to your discretion. Nothing in the above letter is to be construed as assuming that the defend- ant has a bad case. He may have a much better one than the plaintiff. I am not asking for the latter a verdict to which he may have no right: but a trial, to which he has every right. Bordeaux, le 9 Decembre, 1858. Monsieur — En reponse a la lettre que vous m'avez adressee, a la date du 26 Novembre dernier, j'ai 1'bonneur de vous t ransmet t re les renseignements qui m'ont etc'' fournis sur le S r Cunliffe, sujet anglais. Le S' < lunliffe demeure a Bordeaux, rue Cone, 43. 11 est negotiant en vins el par. hi jouir de l'estime des personnes qui le connaissent. II est vrai qu'un accidenl lui est arrive, il y a mi mois ei demi, sur le chemin de fer; il est tombe en descendant el s'esl blesse a une jambe ; par suite il a garde le chambre pendant quelque temps, inais aujourd'hui il parail etre retabli ; vaque a ses occupations ordinaires el fail m.h- vent (les excursions dans le Medoc a fjuel- ques lieues de Bordeaux. Recevez, monsieur, l'assurance de ma parfaite considerat ion, Le Prefet de la Grironde, (Signed) a MONsnsi R (11 IRLES RE lDE. 6 Bolton Row, JJavi-.uk. Londres. In spite of letter four: the trial was postponed twice more. At last it came and is reported in The Times of July 8, 1859. The court was filled with low repulsive faces of mad- house attendants and keepers, all ready to swear the man was insane. He was pul into the witness-box, examined and cross-examined eight hours, and the de- fendant succumbed without a struggle. The coming damages wen' compounded for an annuity of £100 a year. £50 cash. and the costs. As bearing upon this subject, my let- ter to the Pall JIall Gazette of January ' 17, 1870, entitled "How Lunatics' Ribs get Broken," should be read. This let- ter is now reprinted at the beginning of '•Hard Cash." END OF VOLUME NINE. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS W.LL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN ?H,S BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY W.U. >NCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO *I.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. AUG 14 1933 •JAR * 9 Wi tfTD JUL 1*« "inn «« inn inn inn mil mil mil ii mil mi mi CD310Tflni MBMBWM| 552 480 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY