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 Foul Play. 
 
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 Love Me L iffle , Love Me Long 
 
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 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 Never too Late to Mend. 
 Peg Woffington, Christie 
 
 Johnstone, etc. 
 Put Yourself in his Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
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 Claries Heme's Morfc^ 
 
 ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON, CHRISTIE 
 JOHNSTONE, Etc., 
 
 AND 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknok & Fields, and Fiklds, Osgood, & Co. 
 1876.
 
 author's edition. 
 
 University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Peg Woffington 5 
 
 Curistie Johnstone 97 
 
 Clouds and Sunshine 185 
 
 Art : a Dramatic Tale 2:31 
 
 Propria qu.e Maribus 267 
 
 The Box Tunnel 295 
 
 Jack of all Trades 303
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON, 
 CHRISITE JOHNSTONE, 
 
 ETC,
 
 TO 
 T. TAYLOR, ESQ., 
 
 MY FRIEND, AND COADJUTOR IN THE COMEDY OF 
 
 "MASKS AND FACES," 
 
 TO WHOM THE READER OWES MUCH OF THE REST MATTER IN THIS TALE I 
 
 i 
 
 AND 
 
 TO TIIE MEMORY OF MARGARET WOEFINGTON, 
 falsely summed up until to-day, 
 
 THIS 
 
 "dramatic Gtorn" 
 
 IS INSCRIBED by 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 LoSDOS, December 15, 1852.
 
 PEG WOFFMGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ABOUT the middle of the last 
 century, at eight o'clock in the 
 evening, in a large but poor apartment, 
 a man was slumbering on a rough 
 coach. His rusty and worn suit of 
 black was of a piece with bis uncarpet- 
 cd room, the deal table of borne manu- 
 facture, and its slim nnsnuil'ed candle. 
 
 The man was Triplet, scene paint- 
 er, actor, and writer of sanguinary 
 plays, in which what ought to be, viz. 
 truth, plot, situation, and dialogue, 
 were not ; and what ought not to be, 
 were : scilicet, small talk, big talk, fops, 
 ruffians, and ghosts. 
 
 His three mediocrities fell so short 
 of one talent, that he was sometimes 
 impransus. 
 
 He slumbered, but uneasily; the 
 dramatic author was uppermost, and 
 his "Demon of the Hayloft" hung 
 upon the thread of popular favor. 
 
 On his uneasy slumber entered from 
 the theatre .Mrs. Triplet. 
 
 She was a lady who in one respect 
 fell behind her husband; she lacked 
 bis variety in ill-doing, but she re- 
 covered herself by doing her one thinp 
 a shade worse than lie did any of his 
 three. She was what is called in prim 
 sport an actress; she had just cast her 
 mite of discredit on royalty by playing 
 the Queen, and had trundled home 
 the moment the breath was outofher 
 royal body. She came in rotatorj 
 with fatigue, and fell, gristle, into a 
 chair ; she wrenched from her brow 
 
 a diadem and eyed it with contempt, 
 took from her pocket a Bausage, and 
 
 1* 
 
 contemplated it with respect and affec- 
 tion, placed it in a frying-pan on the 
 fire, and entered her bedroom, mean- 
 ing to don a loose wrapper, and de- 
 throne herself into comfort. 
 
 But, the poor woman was shot walk- 
 ing by Morpheus, and subsided alto- 
 gether; for dramatic performances, 
 amusing and exciting to youth seated 
 in the pit, convey a certain weariness 
 to those bright beings who sparkle 
 on the stage for bread and cheese. 
 
 Royalty, disposed of, still left its 
 trail of events. The sausage began 
 to " spit." The sound was hardly 
 out of its body, when poor Triplet 
 writhed like a worm on a hook. 
 " Spitter, spittest," went the sausage. 
 Triplet groaned, and at last his in- 
 articulate murmurs became words : 
 "That's right, pit, now that is so 
 reasonable to condemn a poor fellow's 
 play before you have heard it out." 
 Then, witli a change of tone, " Tom," 
 muttered he, "they are losing their 
 respect for spectres; if they do. hun- 
 ger will make a ghost of me." Next, 
 he fancied the clown or somebody bad 
 got into his ghost's costume. 
 
 "Dear," said the poor dreamer, 
 "the clown makes a very pretty spec- 
 tre, with bis ghastly white face, and 
 bis blood hollered cheeks and nose. 
 1 never saw the fun of aclown before, 
 no ! no ! no ! it is not the clown, it is 
 worse, much worse; () dear, uub!" 
 and Triplet rolled oil' the couch like 
 Richard the Third, lie sat a moment 
 on the floor, with a finger in each eye ; 
 and then, finding be was neither daub- 
 ing, ranting, nor deluging earth with
 
 10 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 " acts," he accused himself of indo- 
 lence, and sat down to write a small 
 tale of blood and bombast; he took his 
 seat at the deal table with some alacrity, 
 for he had recently made a discovery. 
 
 How to write well, rim <jue ecla. 
 
 " First, think in as homely a way 
 as you can ; next, shove your pen un- 
 der the thought, and lift it by poly- 
 syllables to the true level of fiction " ; 
 
 triplet's facts. 
 
 A farthing dip is on the table. 
 
 It wants snuffing. 
 
 He jumped up, and snuffed it with 
 his fingers. Burned his fingers, and 
 swore a little. 
 
 Before, however, the mole Triplet 
 could undermine literature and level 
 it with the dust, various interruptions 
 and divisions broke in upon his de- 
 sign, and sic nos servavit Apollo. As 
 he wrote the last sentence, a loud rap 
 came to his door. A servant in livery 
 brought him a note from Mr. Vane, 
 dated Covcnt Garden. Triplet's eyes 
 sparkled, he bustled, wormed himself 
 into a less rusty coat, and started off 
 to the Theatre Royal, Covcnt Gar- 
 den. 
 
 In those days, the artists of the pen 
 and the brush ferreted patrons, instead 
 of aiming to be indispensable to the 
 public, the only patron worth a single 
 gesture of the quill. 
 
 Mr. Vane had conversed witli Trip- 
 let, that is, let Triplet talk to him in 
 a coffee-house, and Triplet, the most 
 tauguine of unfortunate men, bad al- 
 ready built a series of expectations 
 upon that interview, when this note 
 arrived. Leaving him on his road 
 from Lambeth to Covcnt Garden, we 
 must introduce more important per- 
 Bonages. 
 
 Mr. Vane was a wealthy gentleman 
 from Shropshire, whom business had 
 called to London four months ago, 
 and now pleasure detained. Business 
 
 (when done, find a publisher — if you 
 can). "This," said Triplet, "insures 
 common sense to your ideas, which 
 does pretty well for a basis," said 
 Triplet, apologetically, " and elegance. 
 to the dress they wear." Triplet, 
 then casting his eyes round in search 
 of such actual circumstances as could 
 be incorporated on this plan with fic- 
 tion, began to work thus : — 
 
 triplet's fiction. 
 
 A solitary candle cast its pale gleams 
 around. 
 
 Its elongated wick betrayed an own- 
 er steeped in oblivion. 
 
 He rose languidly, and trimmed it 
 with an instrument that he had by his 
 side for that purpose, and muttered a 
 silent ejaculation. 
 
 still occupied the letters he sent now 
 and then to his native county; but it 
 ' had ceased to occupy the writer. He 
 I was a man of learning and taste, as 
 times went ; and his love of the Arts 
 had taken him some time before our 
 tale to the theatres, then the resort of 
 all who pretended to taste ; and it 
 was thus he had become fascinated 
 by Mrs. Woffineton, a lady of great 
 beauty, and a comedian high in favor 
 with the town. 
 
 The first night, he saw her -\vas an 
 epoch in the history of this gentle- 
 man's mind. He had learning and 
 refinement, and he had not great 
 practical experience, and such men 
 are most open to impression from the 
 stage. He saw a being, all grace and 
 bright nature, move like a goddess 
 among the stiff puppets of the scene ; 
 her glee and her pathos were equally 
 catching, she held a golden key at 
 which all the doors of the heart Hew 
 open. Her face, too, was as full of 
 goodness as intelligence, — itwas like 
 no other face; the heart bounded to 
 meet it. 
 
 He rented a box at her theatre. 
 He was there every night before the 
 curtain drew up; and, 1 am sorry to 
 say, he at last took half a dislikts to
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 11 
 
 Sunday, — Sunday "which knits up 
 the ravelled slcave of care," Sunday 
 " tired nature's sweet restorer," 'be- 
 cause on Sunday there was no Peg 
 Woffington. At first he regarded 
 her as a being of another sphere, an 
 incarnation of poetry and art ; but by 
 degrees his secret aspirations became 
 bolder. She was a woman ; there 
 were men who knew her; some of 
 them interior to him in position, and, 
 he flattered himself, in mind. He had 
 even heard a tale against her charac- 
 ter. To him her face was its confuta- 
 tion, and he knew how loose-tongued 
 is calumny ; but still — ! 
 
 At last, one day he sent her a let- 
 ter, unsigned. This letter expressed 
 his admiration of her talent in warm 
 but respectful terms; the writer told 
 her it had become necessary to his 
 heart to return her in some way his 
 thanks for the land of enchantment to 
 which she had introduced him. Soon 
 alter this, choice flowers found their 
 way to her dressing-room every night, 
 and now and then verses and precious 
 stones Mingled with her roses and 
 eglantine. And O, how he. watched 
 the great actress's eye all the night; 
 how he tried to discover whether she 
 looked oftener towards his box than 
 the corresponding box on the other 
 side of the house. 
 
 Did she notice him, or did she not ? 
 What a point gained, if she was con- 
 scious of bis nightly attendance: she 
 would feel he was a friend, not a mere 
 auditor. He was jealous of the pit, 
 on whom .Mrs. Woffington lavished 
 her smiles without measure. 
 
 At last, one day he sent her a wreath 
 pf flowers, and implored her, if am 
 word he had said to her had pleased 
 or interested her, to wear this wreath 
 that night. After ho had done this 
 he trembled : he had courted a flecis- 
 
 ion, when, perhaps, his safety lay in 
 patience and time. She made her 
 tiilrc'i- ; he turned cold as she glided 
 into sight from the prompter's side ; 
 lie raisl d his eyes slowly and fearfully 
 from her feet to her head ; her head was 
 bare, wreathed only by its own rich 
 
 glossy honors. " Fool ! " thought 
 he, " to think she would hang frivoli- 
 ties upon that glorious head for me." 
 Yet his disappointment told him he 
 had really hoped it ; he would not 
 have sat out the play but for a lead- 
 en incapacity of motion that seized 
 him. 
 
 The curtain drew up for the fifth 
 act, and — could he believe his eyes ? 
 — Mrs. Woffington stood upon the 
 stage with his wreath upon her grace- 
 ful head. She took away his breath. 
 She spoke the epilogue, and, as the 
 curtain fell, she lifted her eyes, he 
 thought, to his box, and made him 
 a distinct, queen-like courtesy; his 
 heart fluttered to his mouth, and he 
 walked home on wings and tiptoe. 
 In short — 
 
 Mrs. Woffington, as an actress, jus- 
 tified a portion of this enthusiasm ; 
 she was one of the truest artists of 
 her day ; a fine lady in her hands was 
 a lady, with the genteel affectation of 
 a gentlewoman, not a harlot's affecta- 
 tion, which is simply and without ex- 
 aggeration what the stage commonly 
 gives us for a fine lady ; an old wo- 
 man in her hands was a thorough 
 woman, thoroughly old, not a cack- 
 ling young person of epicene gender. 
 She played Sir Harry Wildair like a 
 man, which is how he ought to be 
 played (or, which is better still, not 
 at all), so that Garrick acknowledged 
 her as a male rival, and abandoned 
 the part he no longer monopolized. 
 
 Now it very, very rarely happens 
 that a woman of her age is high 
 enough in art and knowledge to do 
 these things. In players, vanity crip- 
 ples art at every step. The young 
 actress who is not a Woffington aims 
 to display herself by means of her 
 part, Which is vanity ; not to raise 
 her part by sinking herself in it, which 
 is art. It has liecti my misfortune to 
 
 sec , and , and , and , 
 
 et ceteras, play the man : Nature, for- 
 give them, if you can, for art never 
 will ; they never readied any idea 
 more manly than a steady resolve to 
 exhibit the points of a woman with
 
 12 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 greater ferocity than they could in a 
 gown. But consider, ladies, a man is 
 not the meanest of the brute creation, 
 so how can he be an unwomanly fe- 
 male 1 This sort of actress aims not 
 to give her author's creation to the 
 public, but to trot out the person in- 
 stead of the creation, and shows sots 
 what a calf it has — and is. 
 
 Vanity, vanity ! all is vanity ! 
 Mesdames les Cbarlatanes. 
 
 Margaret Woffington was of anoth- 
 er mould ; she played the ladies of 
 high comedy with grace, distinction, 
 and delicacy. But in Sir Harry 
 Wildair she parted with a woman's 
 mincing foot and tongue, and played 
 the man in a style large, spirited, 
 and e'lance. As Mrs. Day (com- 
 mittee) she painted wrinkles on her 
 lovely face so honestly that she was 
 taken for tbreescorc, and she carried 
 out tbe design with voice and person, 
 and did a vulgar old woman to the 
 life. She disfigured ber own beauties 
 to show the beauty of her art; in a 
 word, she was an artist! It does not 
 follow she was the greatest artist that 
 ever breatbed ; far from it. Mr. 
 Vane was carried to this notion by 
 passion and ignorance. 
 
 On the evening of our tale he was 
 at his post patiently sitting out one 
 of those sanguinary discourses our 
 rude forefathers thought were tragic 
 plays. Sedet aiternuntaue Sedebit In- 
 felix Theseus, because Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton is to speak tbe epilogue. 
 
 These epilogues were curiosities 
 of the human mind ; they whom, 
 just to ourselves and them, we call 
 out forbears, had an idea their blood 
 and bombast were not ridiculous 
 enough in themselves, so when the 
 curtain had fallen on the de'bris of the 
 dramatis persona, and of common 
 sense, they sent on an actress to turn 
 all the sentiment so laboriously ac- 
 quired into a jest. 
 
 To insist that nothing good or 
 beautiful shall be carried safe from a 
 play out into the street was the big- 
 otry of English horse-play. Was a 
 Lucretia the heroine of the tragedy, 
 
 she was careful in the epilogue to 
 speak like Messalina. Did a king's 
 mistress come to hunger and repent- 
 ance, she disinfected all the petites 
 mattresses in the house of the moral, 
 by assuring them that sin is a joke, 
 repentance a greater, and that she 
 individually was ready for either if 
 they would but cry, laugh, and pay. 
 Then the audience used to laugh, 
 and if they did not, lo ! the manager, 
 actor, and author of heroic tragedy 
 were exceeding sorrowful. 
 
 Whilst sitting attendance on the 
 epilogue, Mr. Vane had nothing to 
 distract him from the congregation 
 but a sanguinary sermon in live heads, 
 so his eyes roved over the pews, and 
 presently he became aware of a famil- 
 iar face watching him closely. The 
 gentleman to whom it belonged find- 
 ing himself recognized left his seat, 
 and a minute later Sir Charles Po- 
 mander entered Mr. Vane's box. 
 
 This Sir Charles Pomander was a 
 gentleman of vice : pleasure he called 
 it. Mr. Vane had made his acquaint- 
 ance two years ago in Shropshire. 
 Sir Charles, who husbanded every- 
 thing except his soul, had turned him- 
 self out to grass for a month. His 
 object was, by roast mutton, bread 
 with some little flour in it, air, water, 
 temperance, chastity, and peace, to be 
 enabled to take a deeper plunge into 
 impurities of food and morals. 
 
 A few nights ago, unseen by Mr. 
 Vane, he had observed him in the 
 theatre ; an ordinary man would 
 have gone at once and shaken hands 
 with him, but this was not an ordi- 
 nary man, this was a diplomatist. 
 First of all, he said to himself : 
 " What is this man doing here '! " 
 Then he soon discovered this man 
 must be in love with some actress ; 
 then it became his business to know 
 who she was ; this too soon betrajed 
 itself. Then it became more than 
 ever Sir Charles's business to know 
 whether Mrs. Woffington returned 
 the sentiment ; and here his penetra- 
 tion was at fault, for the moment; 
 he determined, however, to discover.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 13 
 
 Mr. Vane then received his friend, 
 all unsuspicious how that friend had 
 been skinning him with his eyes for 
 some time past. After the usual 
 compliments had passed between two 
 gentlemen who had been hand and 
 glove for a mouth and forgotten each 
 other's existence for two years, Sir 
 Charles, still keeping in view his de- 
 sign, said : — 
 
 " Let us go upon the stage." The 
 fourth act had just concluded. 
 
 " Go upon the stage ! " said Mr. 
 Vane ; " what, where she — I mean 
 among the actors I " 
 
 " Yes : come into the green-room. 
 There are one or two people of repu- 
 tation there ; I will introduce you to 
 them, it you please." 
 
 " Go upon the stage ! " why, if it 
 had been proposed to him to go to 
 heaven he would not have been more 
 astonished. He was too astonished 
 at first to realize the full beauty of 
 the arrangement, by means of which 
 he might be within a yard of Mrs. 
 Woihngton, might feel her dress rus- 
 tle past him, might speak to her, 
 might drink her voice fresh from her 
 lips almost before it mingled with 
 meaner air. Silence gives consent, 
 and Mr. Vane, though he thought a 
 great deal, said nothing ; so Poman- 
 dc» rose, and tlicy left the boxes to- 
 gether, lie led the way to the stage 
 door, which was opened obsequiously 
 to him ; they then passed through a 
 dismal passage, and suddenly emerged 
 upon that scene of enchantment, 
 the stage, — a dirty platform en- 
 cumbered on all sides with piles of 
 scenery in Hats. They threaded their 
 Way through rusty velvet actors and 
 fustian carpenters, and entered the 
 green-room. At the door of this 
 magic chamber Vane trembled and 
 half wished he could retire. They 
 entered; his apprehension gave way 
 to disappointment, she was not there. 
 Collecting himself, lie was presently 
 introduced to a smart, jaunty, and, to 
 do him justice, dittingu€ old beau. 
 This was Colley Cibber, Esq., poet 
 laureate, and retired actor and drama- 
 
 tist, a gentleman who is entitled to a 
 word or two. 
 
 This Cibber was the only actor 
 since Shakespeare's time who had 
 both acted and written well. Pope's 
 personal resentment misleads • the 
 reader of English poetry as to Gib- 
 ber's real place among the wits of the 
 day. 
 
 The man's talent was dramatic, not 
 didactic, or epic, or pastoral. Pope 
 was not so deep in the drama as in oth- 
 er matters, and Cibber was one of its 
 luminaries ; he wrote some of the 
 best comedies of his day. He also 
 succeeded where Dryden, for lack of 
 true dramatic taste, failed, lie tam- 
 pered successfully with Shakespeare. 
 Colley Gibber's version of " Richard 
 the Third " is impudent and slightly 
 larcenic, but it is marvellously effect- 
 ive. It has stood a century, and 
 probably will stand forever; and the 
 most admired passages in what liter- 
 ary humbugs who pretend they know 
 Shakespeare by the closet, not the 
 stage, accept as Shakespeare's " Rich- 
 ard," are Gibber's. 
 
 Mr. Gibber was now in private life, 
 a mild edition of his own Lord Fop- 
 pington ; he had none of the snob-fop 
 as represented on our conventional 
 sta.^c; nobody ever had, and lived, 
 lie was in tolerably good taste ; but 
 he went ever gold-laced, highly pow- 
 dered, scented, and diamonded, dis- 
 pensing graceful bows, praises of who- 
 ever had the good luck to be dead, and 
 satire of all who were here to enjoy 
 it. 
 
 Mr. Vane, to whom the drama had 
 now become the golden branch of let- 
 ters, looked with some awe on this 
 veteran, for he had seen many Wof- 
 fingtons. lie fell soon upon the sub- 
 ject nearest his heart. He asked Mr. 
 Gibber whit he thought of Mrs. Wof- 
 
 fington. The old gentleman thought 
 
 well of the young lady's talent, espe- 
 cially her comedy ; in tragedy, said he, 
 she imitates Mademoiselle Dumesnil, 
 of the Theatre Francais, and con- 
 founds the sta;, r e rhetorician with the 
 actress. The next question was not
 
 14 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 so fortunate. " Did you ever see so I 
 great and true an actress npon the 
 whole ? " 
 
 Mr. Cibber opened his eyes, a 
 Slight Hush eaine into his wash-leath- 
 er face, and he replied : " I have not 
 only seen many equal, many superior 
 to her, but 1 have seen some half- 
 dozen who would have eaten her up 
 and spit her out again, and not known 
 thev had done anything out of the 
 way." 
 
 Here Pomander soothed the veter- 
 an's dudgeon by explaining in dulcet 
 tones that his friend was not long 
 from Shropshire, and — The critic 
 interrupted him, and bade him not 
 dilute the excuse. 
 
 Now Mr. Vane had as much to say 
 as cither of them, but he had not the 
 habit, which dramatic folks have, of 
 cartying his whole bank in his cheek- 
 pocket, so they quenched him for two 
 minutes. But lovers are not silenced, 
 he soon returned to the attack ; he 
 dwelt on the grace, the ease, the fresh- 
 ness, the intelligence, the universal 
 beauty of Mrs. Woffington. Poman- 
 der sneered, to draw him out. Cibber 
 Smiled, with good-natured superiority. 
 This nettled the young gentleman, he 
 fired up, his handsome countenance 
 glowed, he turned Demosthenes for 
 her he loved. One advantage he had 
 over both Cibber and Pomander, a 
 fair stock of classical learning; on 
 this he now drew. 
 
 "Other actors and actresses," said 
 he, "are monotonous in voice, monot- 
 onous in action, but Mrs. Woffington 's 
 delivery has the compass and variety 
 of nature, and her movements are free 
 from the stale uniformity that dis- 
 tinguishes artifice from art. The 
 others seem to me to have but two 
 dreams of grace, a sort of crawling on 
 stilts is their motion, and an angular 
 stiffness their repose." He then cited 
 the most famous statues of antiquity, 
 and quoted situations in plays where, 
 by her fine dramatic instinct, Mrs. 
 Woffington, he said, threw her person 
 into poStUres similar to these, and of 
 equal beauty ; not that she strikes at- 
 
 titudes like the rest, but she melts from 
 one beautiful statue into another; and, 
 if sculptors could gather from her im* 
 mortal graces, painters too might take 
 from her face the beauties that belong 
 of right to passion and thought, and 
 orators might revive their withered 
 art, and learn from those golden lips 
 the music of old Athens, that quelled 
 tempestuous mobs, and princes drunk 
 with victory. 
 
 Much as this was, he was going to 
 say more, ever so much more, but he 
 became conscious of a singular sort of 
 grin upon every face ; this grin made 
 him turn rapidly round to look for its 
 cause. It explained itself at once ; at 
 his very elbow was a lady, whom his 
 heart recognized, though her back was 
 turned to him. She was dressed in a 
 rich silk gown, pearl white, with flow- 
 ers and sprigs embroidered ; her beau- 
 tiful white neck and arms were bare. 
 She was sweeping up the room with 
 the epilogue in her hand, learning it 
 off by heart ; at the other end of the 
 room she turned, and now she shone 
 full upon him. 
 
 It certainly was a dazzling creature : 
 she had a head of beautiful form, 
 perched like a bird upon a throat mas- 
 sive yet shapely and smooth as a col- 
 umn of alabaster, a symmetrical brow, 
 black eyes full of fire and tenderness, 
 a delicious mouth, with a hundred 
 varying expressions, and that mar- 
 vellous faculty of giving beauty alike 
 to love or scorn, a sneer or a smile. 
 But she had one feature more remark- 
 able than all, her eyebrows, — the 
 actor's feature ; they were jet black, 
 strongly marked, and in repose were 
 arched like a rainbow ; but it was 
 their extraordinary flexibility which 
 made other faces upon the stage look 
 sleepy beside Margaret Woffington's. 
 In person she was considerably above 
 the middle height, and so finely formed 
 that one could not determine the 
 exact character of her figure. At 
 one time it seemed all statclincss, 
 at another time elegance personi- 
 fied, and flowing voluptuousness at 
 another. She was Juno, Psyche, Hebe,
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 15 
 
 by turns, and for aught we know at 
 will. 
 
 It must be confessed that a sort of 
 halo of personal grandeur surrounds 
 a great actress. A scene is set ; half 
 a dozen nobodies are there lost in it, 
 because they are and seem lumps of 
 nothing. The great artist steps upon 
 that scene, and how she fills it in a 
 moment! Mind and majesty wait 
 upon her in the air ; her person is lost 
 in the greatness of her personal pres- 
 ence ; she dilates with thought, and a 
 stupid giantess looks a dwarf beside 
 her. 
 
 No wonder then that Mr. Vane felt 
 overpowered by this torch in a closet. 
 To vary the metaphor, it seemed to 
 him, as she swept up and down, as if 
 the green-room was a shell, and this 
 glorious creature must burst it and be 
 free. Meantime, the others saw a 
 pretty actress studying her business ; 
 and Cibber saw a dramatic school-girl 
 learning what he presumed to be a 
 very silly set of words. Sir C. Po- 
 mander's eye had been on her the 
 moment she entered, and he watched 
 keenly the effect of Vane's eloquent 
 eulogy; but apparently the actress 
 Mas too deep in her epilogue for atiy- 
 thing else. She came in, saying, 
 " Mum, mum, muni," over her task, 
 and she went on doing so. The ex- 
 perienced Mr. Cibber, who had divined 
 Vane in an instant, drew him into a 
 corner, and complimented him on his 
 well-timed eulogy. 
 
 " You acted that mighty well, sir," 
 said he. " Stop my vitals ! if I did 
 not think you were in earnest, till I 
 saw the jade had slipped in among us. 
 It told, sir, — it told." 
 
 Up fired Vane. " What do you 
 mean, sir ! " said he. " Do you sup- 
 pose niv admiration of that lady is 
 feigned?" 
 
 " No need to speak so loud, sir," 
 replied the old gentleman ; " Bhe hears 
 you. These hussies have ears like 
 hawks." 
 
 He then dispensed a private wink 
 and a public bow; with which he 
 strolled away from Mr. Vane, and 
 
 walked feebly and jauntily up the 
 room, whistling " Fair Hebe " ; fixing 
 his eye upon the past, and somewhat 
 ostentatiously overlooking the exist- 
 tence of the present company. 
 
 There is no great harm in an old 
 gentleman whistling, but there are 
 two ways of doing it ; and as this old 
 beau did it, it seemed not unlike a 
 small cock-a-doodle-doo of general 
 defiance ; and the denizens of the 
 green-room, swelled now to a consid- 
 erable number by the addition of all 
 the ladies and gentlemen who had 
 been killed in the fourth act, or whom 
 the buttery-fingered author could not 
 keep in hand until the fall of the cur- 
 tain, felt it as such; and so they were 
 not sorry when Mrs. Woffington, 
 looking up from her epilogue, cast 
 a glance upon the old beau, wait- 
 ed for him, and walked parallel with 
 him on the other side the room, giv- 
 ing an absurdly exact imitation of 
 his carriage and deportment. To 
 make this more striking, she pulled 
 out of her pocket, after a mock search, 
 a huge paste ring, gazed on it with a 
 ludicrous affectation of simple won- 
 der, stuck it, like Cibber 's diamond, on 
 her little finger, and, pursing up her 
 mouth, proceeded to whistle a quick 
 movement, 
 
 " Whicb, by some devilish cantrip sleight," 
 
 played round the old beau's slow 
 movement, without being at vari- 
 ance with it. As for the character 
 of this ladylike performance, it was 
 clear, brilliant, and loud as black- 
 smith. 
 
 The folk laughed ; Vane was 
 shucked. " She profanes herself by 
 whistling," thought he. Mr. Cibber 
 wa.s confounded. He appeared to 
 have no idea whence came this spar- 
 kling adagio. He looked round, placed 
 his hands to his cars, and left off 
 whistling. So did Jus musical accom- 
 plice. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Cibber, with 
 pathetic gravity, " the \\ ind howls 
 most dismally this evening ! J took it 
 for a drunken shoemaker!"
 
 16 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 At this there was a roar of laughter, 
 except from Mr. Vane. Peg Wof- 
 fington laughed as merrily as the 
 others, and showed a set of teeth that 
 were really dazzling ; hut all in one 
 moment, without the preliminaries an 
 ordinary countenance requires, this 
 laughing Venus pulled a face gloomy 
 beyond conception. Down came her 
 black brows straight as a line, and 
 she cast a look of bitter reproach 
 on all present; resuming her study, 
 as who should say, " Are ye not 
 ashamed to divert a poor girl from her 
 
 epilogue 
 
 And then she went on, 
 
 "Mum ! mum ! mum ! " casting off 
 ever and anon resentful glances ; and 
 this made the fools laugh again. 
 
 The Laureate was now respectfully 
 addressed by one of his admirers, 
 James Quiii, the Falstaff of the day, 
 and the rival at this time of Garrick 
 in tragic characters, though the gen- 
 eral opinion was, that he could not 
 long maintain a standing against the 
 younger genius and his rising school 
 of art. 
 
 Off the stage, James Quin was a 
 character; his eccentricities were three, 
 — a humorist, a glutton, and an hon- 
 est man ; traits that often caused as- 
 tonishment and ridicule, especially 
 the last. 
 
 " May we not hope for something 
 from Mr. Gibber's pen after so long a 
 silence?" 
 
 " No," was the considerate reply. 
 *' Who have ye got to play it 1 " 
 
 " Plenty," said Quin ; " there 's your 
 humble servant, there 's — " 
 
 " Humility at the head of the list," 
 cried she of the epilogue. " Mum ! 
 
 muni! mum 
 
 i>> 
 
 Vane thought this so sharp. 
 
 " Garrick,' Barry, Macklin, Kitty 
 Clive here at my side, Mrs. Cibber, the 
 best tragic actress 1 ever saw ; and 
 "Wofhngton, who is as good a come- 
 dian as you ever saw, sir " ; and Quin 
 turned as red as fire. 
 
 " Keep jour temper, Jemmy," said 
 Mrs. Woningtdn, with asevere accent. 
 " Mum ! mum ! mum ! " 
 
 " Vou misunderstand my question," 
 
 replied Cibber, calmly ; "I know your 
 dramatis persona', but where the devil 
 are your actors 1 " 
 
 Here was a blow. 
 
 " The public," said Quin, in some 
 agitation, " would snore, if we acted 
 as they did in your time." 
 
 " How do you know that, sir ? " 
 was the supercilious rejoinder; "you 
 never tried ! " 
 
 Mr. Quin was silenced. Peg "VVof- 
 fington looked off her epilogue. 
 
 " Bad as we arc," said she, coolly, 
 " we might be worse." 
 
 Mr. Cibber turned round, slightly 
 raised his eyebrows. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said he. " Madam ! " 
 added he, with a courteous smile; 
 " will you be kind enough to explain 
 to me how you could be worse ! " 
 
 " If, like a crab, we could go back- 
 wards ! " 
 
 At this the auditors tittered; and 
 Mr. Cibber had recourse to his spy- 
 glass. 
 
 This gentleman was satirical or in- 
 solent, as the case might demand, in 
 three degrees, of which the snuff-bo* 
 was the comparative, and the spy -glass 
 the superlative. He had learned this 
 on the stage ; in annihilating Quin 
 he had just used the snuff weapon, and 
 now he drew his spy-glass upon poor 
 Peggy. 
 
 " Whom have we here ? " said he : 
 then he looked with his spy-glass to 
 see ; " oh ! the little Irish orange- 
 girl ! " 
 
 " Whose basket outweighed Colley 
 Gibber's salary for the first twenty 
 years of his dramatic career," was the 
 delicate reply to the above delicate 
 remark. It staggered him for a mo- 
 ment; however, he affected a most 
 puzzled air, then gradually allowed a 
 light to steal into his features. 
 
 " Eh ! ah ! oh ! how stupid I am ; 
 I understand; you sold something 
 besides oranges ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mr. Vane, and col- 
 ored up to the temples, and cast a 
 look on Gibber, as much as to say, 
 " If you were not seventy-three ! " 
 
 His ejaculation was something so
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 17 
 
 different from any tone any other per- 
 son there present could have uttered, 
 that the actress's eye dwelt on him 
 for a single moment, and in that mo- 
 ment he felt himself looked through 
 and through. 
 
 " I sold the young fops a bargain, 
 you mean," was her calm reply ; " and 
 now I am come down to the old ones. 
 A truce, Mr. Cibber, what do you un- 
 derstand by an actor 1 Tell me ; for 
 I am foolish enough to respect your 
 opinion on these matters ! " 
 
 " An actor, young lady," said he, 
 gravely, " is an artist who has gone 
 deep enough in his art to make 
 dunces, critics, and greenhorns take 
 it for nature ; moreover, he really 
 personates ; which your mere man of 
 the star/e never does. lie has learned 
 the true art of self-multiplication. 
 He drops Betterton, Booth, Wilkes, 
 or, ahem — " 
 
 " Cibber," inserted Sir Charles 
 Pomander. Cibber bowed. 
 
 " In his dressing-room, and comes 
 out young or old, a fop, a valet, a lov- 
 er, or a hero, with voice, mien, and 
 every gesture to match. A grain less 
 than this may be good speaking, tine 
 preaching, deep grunting, high rant- 
 ing, eloquent reciting ; but I '11 be 
 hanged if it is acting! " 
 
 " Then Colley Cibber never acted," 
 whispered Qnha to .Mrs. (Jlive. 
 
 " Then Margaret Woffington is an 
 actress," said M. W. ; " the tine ladies 
 take my Lady Betty for their sister. 
 In Mrs. Day, I pass lor a woman of 
 seventy; and in Sir Harry Wildair I 
 have been taken for a man. I would 
 have told you that licfore, but I 
 diil n't know it was to my credit," said 
 she, slyly, " till Mr. Cibber laid down 
 the law." 
 
 "Proof!" said Cibber. 
 
 " A warm letter from one lady, dia- 
 mond buckles from another, and an 
 oiler of her hand and fortune from a 
 third ; run qut it In." 
 
 Mr. Cibbw eonvcyed behind her 
 back a look of absolute incredulity; 
 flhc divined it. 
 
 " I will not show you the letters," 
 
 continued she, "because Sir Harry, 
 though a rake, was a gentleman ; but 
 here are the buckles " ; and she fished 
 them out of her pocket, capacious of 
 such things. The buckles were grave- 
 ly inspected, they made more than on* 
 eye water, they were undeniable. 
 
 " Well, let us see what we can do for 
 her," said the Laureate. He tapped 
 his box and without a moment's hesi- 
 tation produced the most execrabla 
 distich in the language : — 
 
 " Now who is like Peggy, with talent at will 
 A maid loved her Harry, for want of ft 
 Bill ? 
 
 " Well, child," continued he, after 
 the applause which follows extempo- 
 rary verses had subsided, " take me in. 
 Play something to make me lose sight 
 of saucy Peg Woffington, and I '11 give 
 the world live acts more before the 
 curtain tails on Colley Cibber." 
 
 " If you could be deceived," put in 
 Mr. Vane, somewhat timidly ; " I 
 think there is no disguise through 
 which grace and beauty such as Mrs. 
 Wofnngton's woidd not shine, to my 
 eyes." 
 
 " That is to praise my person at 
 the expense of my wit, sir, is it not 1 " 
 was her reply. 
 
 This was the first word she had 
 ever addressed to him. The tones 
 appeared so sweet to him, that he 
 could not find anything to reply for 
 listening to them; and Cibber re- 
 sumed : — 
 
 " Meantime, I will show you a real 
 actress; she is coming here to-night 
 to meet me. Did ever you children 
 hear <>f Ann Bracegirdle i " 
 
 " Bracegirdle ! " said Mrs. Clivc ; 
 "why, she has been dead this thirty 
 years ; at least I thought so." 
 
 " Dead to the stage. There is 
 more heat in her ashes than in your 
 lire, Kate Clivc! Ah! here comes 
 her messenger," eontintied he, as an 
 ancient man appeared with a letter in 
 his hand. This letter Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton snatched ami read, and at the 
 
 same instant in beamed the call-boy. 
 " Epilogue called," said this urchin,
 
 18 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 in the tone of command which these 
 small try of Parnassus adopt; and, 
 obedient to his high behest, Mrs. Wof- 
 fington moved to the door, with the 
 Bracegirdle missive in her hand, but 
 not before she had delivered its general 
 contents : " The great actress will be 
 here in a few minutes," said she, and 
 she glided swiftly out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 People whose mind or manners 
 possess any feature, and are not as de- 
 void of all eccentricity as half-pounds 
 of butter bought of metropolitan gro- 
 cers, are recommended not to leave a 
 roomful of their acquaintances until 
 the last but one. Yes, they should 
 always be penultimate. Perhaps Mrs. 
 Woffington knew this ; but epilogues 
 are stubborn things, and call-boys un- 
 deniable. 
 
 " Did you ever hear a woman 
 whistle before ? " 
 
 " Never ; hut I saw one sit astride 
 on an ass in Germany ! " 
 
 " The saddle was not on her hus- 
 band, I hope, madam 1 " 
 
 " No, sir ; the husband walked by 
 his kinsfolk's side, and made the best 
 of a bad bargain, as Peggy's husband 
 will have to." 
 
 " Wait till some one ventures on 
 the gay Lotharia, — Mi res triplex; 
 that means he must have triple brass, 
 Kitty." 
 
 " I deny that, sir ; since his wife will 
 always have enough for both." 
 
 " I have not observed the lady's 
 brass," said Vane, trembling with pas- 
 sion ; " bat I observed her talent, and 
 I noticed that whoever attacks her to 
 her face comes badly off." 
 
 " Well said, sir," answered Quin ; 
 "and I wish Kitty here would tell us 
 why she hates Mrs. Woffington, the 
 best-natured woman in the theatre 1 " 
 
 " I don't hate her, I don't trouble 
 my head about her." 
 
 " Yes, you hate her ; for you never 
 miss a cut at her, never ! " 
 
 " Do you hate a haunch of venison, 
 Quin 1 " said the lady. 
 
 " No, you little unnatural monster," 
 replied Quin. 
 
 " For all that, you never miss a cut 
 at one, so hold your tongue ! " 
 
 " Le beau raisonnement ! " said Mr. 
 Cibber. "James Quin, don't inter- 
 fere with nature's laws ; let our ladies 
 hate one another, it eases their minds ; 
 try to make them Christians, and you 
 will not convert their tempers, but 
 spoil your own. Peggy there hates 
 George Anne Bellamy, because she 
 has gaudy silk dresses from Paris, by 
 paying for them, as she could, if not too 
 stingy. Kitty here hates Peggy be- 
 cause Rich has breeched her, whereas 
 Kitty, who now sets up for a prude, 
 wanted to put delicacy off and small- 
 clothes on in Peg's stead, that is 
 where the Kate and Peg shoe pinches, 
 near the femoral artery, James. 
 
 " Shrimps have the souls of 
 shrimps," resumed this censor custi;/(i- 
 torque minorum. "Listen to me, and 
 learn that really great actors are great 
 in soul, and do not blubber like a 
 great school-girl because Anne Bel- 
 lamy has two yellow silk dresses 
 from Paris, as I saw Woffington blub- 
 ber in this room, and would not be 
 comforted ; nor fume like Kitty Clive, 
 because Woffington has a pair of 
 breeches and a little boy's rapier to go 
 a playing at acting with. When I was 
 young, two giantesses fought for em- 
 pire upon this very stage, where now 
 dwarfs crack and bounce like parched 
 peas. They played Roxana and Sta- 
 tira in the " Rival Queens." Rival 
 queens of art themselves, they put out 
 all their strength. In the middle of 
 the last act the town gave judgment 
 in favor of Statira. What did Pox- 
 ana ? Did she spill grease on Statira's 
 robe, as Peg Woffington would ! or 
 stab her, as I believe Kitty here capa- 
 ble of doing ? No ! Statira was never 
 so tenderly killed as that night : she 
 owned this to me. Roxana bade the 
 theatre farewell that night, and wrote 
 to Statira thus : I give you word for 
 word: "Madam, the best judge wo
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 19 
 
 have has decided in your favor. I 
 shall never play second on a stage 
 where I have been first so long, but 
 I shall often be a spectator, and mc- 
 thinks none will appreciate your tal- 
 ent more than I, who have felt its 
 weight. My wardrobe, one of the best 
 in Europe, is of no use to me; if you 
 will honor me by selecting a few of 
 mv dresses, you will gratify me, and I 
 shall fancy I see myself upon the stage 
 to greater advantage than before.' ' : 
 
 "And what did Statira answer, 
 sir ? " said Mr. Vane, eagerly. 
 
 " She answered thus : ' Madam, the 
 town has often been wrong, and may 
 have bjen so last night, in supposing 
 that I vied successfully with your mer- 
 it; but thus much is certain, — and 
 here, madam, I am the best judge, — 
 that off the stage you have just con- 
 quered me. I shall wear with pride 
 any dress you have honored, and shall 
 feel inspired to great exertions by 
 your presence among our spectators, 
 unless, indeed, the sense of your mag- 
 nanimity anil the recollection of your 
 talent should damp me by the dread of 
 losing any portion of your good opin- 
 ion." 
 
 " What a couple of stiff old things," 
 said Mrs. Clive. 
 
 " Nay, madam, say not so," cried 
 Vane, warmly ; " surely, this was the 
 lofty courtesy of two great minds not 
 to be overbalanced by strife, defeat, or 
 victory." 
 
 " What were their names, sir T" 
 
 " Statira was the great Mrs. Old- 
 field. RoxaQB vou will see hero to- 
 night." 
 
 This caused a sensation. 
 
 Colley's reminiscences were inter- 
 rupted by loud applause from the the- 
 atre; the present seldom gives the 
 past a long hearing. 
 
 The old war-horse, cocked his ears. 
 
 " It is Wbffington speaking the epi- 
 logue," said Qmn. 
 
 " < ), she has gut the length of their 
 foot, BOmehOW," said a small actress. 
 
 " And the breadth of their hands, 
 too," said Pomander, waking from a 
 nap. 
 
 " It is the depth of their hearts she 
 has sounded," said Vane. 
 
 In those days, if a metaphor started 
 up, the poor thing was coursed up 
 hill and down dale, and torn limb 
 from jacket ; even in Parliament, a 
 trope was sometimes hunted from one 
 session into another. 
 
 " You were asking me about Mrs. 
 Oldneld, sir," resumed Gibber, rather 
 peevishly. " I will own to you, I 
 lack words to convey a just idea of her 
 double and complete supremacy. But 
 the comedians of this day are weak- 
 strained farceurs compared with her, 
 and her tragic tone was thunder set to 
 music. 
 
 "I saw a brigadier-general cry like 
 a child at her Indiana ; I have seen her 
 crying with pain herself at the wing 
 (for she was always a great sufferer), 
 I have seen her then spring upon the 
 stage as Lady Townley, and in a mo- 
 ment sorrow brightened into joy ; the 
 air seemed to fill with singing-birds, 
 that chirped the pleasures of fashion, 
 love, and youth, in notes sparkling 
 like diamonds and stars and prisms. 
 She was above criticism, out of its 
 scope, as is the blue sky ; men went 
 not to judge her, they drank her, and 
 gazed at Iter, and were warmed at 
 her, and refreshed by her. The fops 
 were awed into silence, and with 
 their humbler betters thanked Heav- 
 en for her, if they thanked it for any- 
 thing. 
 
 " In all the crowded theatre, care 
 and pain and poverty were banished 
 from the memory, whilst Oldfield's 
 face spoke, and her tongue flashed 
 melodies ; the lawyer forgot his quil- 
 lets; the polemic, the mote in his 
 brother's eye ; the old maid, her 
 grudge against the two sexes ; the old 
 man, his gray hairs and his lost hours. 
 And can it be, that all this which 
 should have been immortal, is quite 
 — quite lust, is as though it had 
 never been ! " he sighed. " Can it be 
 that its fame is now sustained by nie ; 
 
 who twang with my poor Inte, cracked 
 
 and old, these feeble praises of a bro- 
 | ken lyre : —
 
 20 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 1 Whose wires were golden, and its heavenly 
 air 
 More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear, 
 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds 
 appear ' ? " 
 
 He paused, and his eye looked back 
 over many years : then, with a very 
 different tone, he added : — 
 
 " And that Jack Fal staff there must 
 have seen her, now I think on 't." 
 
 " Only once, sir," said Quin, " and 
 I was but ten years old." 
 
 " He saw her once, and he was ten 
 years old ; yet he calls Woflington a 
 great comedian, and my son The's 
 wife, with her hatchet face, the great- 
 est tragedian he ever saw ! Jeniiny, 
 what an ass you must be ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Cibber always makes me cry, 
 and t'other always makes me laugh," 
 said Quin, stoutly, " that 's why." 
 
 Ce beau raisonnement met no answer, 
 but a look of sovereign contempt. 
 
 A very trifling incident saved the 
 ladies of the British stage from fur- 
 ther criticism. There were two can- 
 dles in this room, one on each side ; 
 the call-boy had entered, and, poking 
 about for something, knocked down 
 and broke one of these. 
 
 "Awkward imp!" cried a velvet 
 page. 
 
 " I '11 go to the Treasury for anoth- 
 er, ma'am," said the boy, pertly, and 
 vanished with the fractured wax. 
 
 I take advantage of the interruption 
 to open Mr. Vane's mind to the read- 
 er. First, he had been astonished at 
 the freedom of sarcasm these people 
 indulged in without quarrelling; next 
 at the n on -respect of sex. 
 
 " So sex is not recognized in this 
 community," thought he. Then the 
 glibness and merit of some of their 
 answers surprised and amused him. 
 He, like me, had seldom met an im- 
 aginative repartee, except in a play or 
 a book. " Society's " repartees were 
 then, as they are now, the good old 
 tree in various dresses and veils : Tu 
 rjurxjue, tu mentiris, vox damnemini ; but 
 he was sick and dispirited on the 
 whole ; such very bright illusions had 
 been dimmed in these few minutes. 
 
 She was brilliant; but her man- 
 ners, if not masculine, were very dar- 
 ing ; and yet, when she spoke to him, 
 a stranger, how sweet and gentle her 
 voice was ! Then it was clear noth- 
 ing but his ignorance could have 
 placed her at the summit of her 
 art. 
 
 Still he clung to his enthusiasm 
 for her. He drew Pomander aside. 
 " What a simplicity there is in 
 Mrs. Woffington ! " said he ; " the 
 rest, male and female, are all so af- 
 fected ; she is so fresh and natural. 
 They are all hot-house plants ; she 
 is a cowslip with the May dew on 
 
 " What yoti take for simplicity is 
 her refined art," replied Sir Charles. 
 
 " No ! " said Vane, " I never saw a 
 more innocent creature ! " 
 
 Pomander laughed in his face ; this 
 laugh disconcerted him more than 
 words ; he spoke no more, — he sat 
 pensive. He was sorry he had come 
 to this place, where everybody knew 
 his goddess ; yet nobody admired, 
 nobody loved, and, alas ! nobody re- 
 spected her. 
 
 He was roused from his revery by 
 a noise ; the noise was caused by 
 Cibber falling on Garrick, whom 
 Pomander had maliciously quoted 
 against all the tragedians of Colley 
 Cibber's day. 
 
 "I tell you," cried the veteran, 
 " that this Garrick has banished dig- 
 nity from the stage, and given us in 
 exchange what you and he take for 
 fire ; but it is smoke and vapor. His 
 manner is little, like his person, it is 
 all fuss and bustle. This is his idea 
 of a tragic scene: A little fellow 
 comes bustling in, goes bustling about, 
 and runs bustling out." Here Mr. 
 Cibber left the room, to give greater 
 effect to his description, but presently 
 returned in a mighty pother, saying : 
 " ' Give me another horse ! ' Well, 
 where 's the horse ? don't you see I 'm 
 waiting for him? 'Bind tip my 
 wounds ! ' Look sharp now with 
 these wounds. ' Have mercy, Heav- 
 en ! ' but be quick about it, for the pit
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 21 
 
 can't wait for Heaven. Bustle ! bus- 
 tle ! bustle ! " 
 
 The old dog was so irresistibly 
 funny, that the whole company were 
 obliged to laugh ; but in the midst of 
 their merriment Mrs. Woflington's 
 voice was heard at the door. 
 
 " This way, madam." 
 
 A clear and somewhat shrill voice 
 replied : " I know the way better 
 than you, child"; and a stately old 
 lady appeared on the threshold. 
 
 " Bracegirdle," said Mr. Gibber. 
 
 It may well be supposed that every 
 eye was turned on this new-comer, — 
 that Roxana fur whom Mr. Cibbcr's 
 story had prepared a peculiar interest. 
 She was dressed in a rich green vel- 
 vet gown with gold fringe. Cibber 
 remembered it; she had played the 
 " Eastern Qugen, in it. Heaven for- 
 give all concerned ! It was fearful- 
 ly pinched in at the waist and ribs, so 
 as to give the idea of wood inside, not 
 woman. 
 
 Her hair and eyebrows were iron- 
 gray, and she had lost a front tooth, or 
 she would still have been eminently 
 handsome. She was tall and straight 
 as a dart, and her noble port betrayed 
 none of the weakness of age, only it 
 was to be seen that her hands were a 
 little weak, and the gold-headed crutch 
 struck the ground rather sharply, as 
 if it did a little limbs'-duty. 
 
 Such was the lady who marched 
 into the middle of the room, with a 
 " How do, Golley < " and, looking 
 over the company's heads as if she did 
 not see them, regarded the four walls 
 with some interest. Like a cat, she 
 Beemed to think more of places than 
 Of folk. The page obsequiously of- 
 fered her a chair. 
 
 " Not mi clean as it used to be," said 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 
 Unfortunately, in making this re- 
 mark, the old lady graciously patted 
 the page's head for offering her the 
 chair; and this action gave, with 
 some of the ill-constituted minds that 
 are ever on the titter, a ridiculous di- 
 rection to a remark intended, I believe, 
 for the paint and wainscots, ^e. 
 
 " Nothing is as it used to be," re« 
 marked Mr. Cibber. 
 
 " All the better for everything," 
 said Mrs. Cliye. 
 
 " We were laughing at this mighty 
 little David, first actor of this mighty 
 little age." 
 
 Now if Mr. Cibber thought to find 
 in the new-comer an ally of the past 
 in its indiscriminate attack upon the 
 present, he was much mistaken ; for 
 the old actress made onslaught on this 
 nonsense at once. 
 
 " Ay, ay," said she, " and not the 
 first time by many hundreds. "P is a 
 disease you have. Cure yourself, 
 Golley. Davy Garrick pleases the 
 public ; and in trifles like acting, that 
 take nobody to heaven, to please all 
 the world, is to be great. Some pre- 
 tend to higher aims, but none have 
 'em. You may hide this from young 
 fools, mayhap, but not from an old 
 'onian like me. He ! he ! he ! No, 
 no, no, — not from an old 'oman like 
 me." 
 
 She then turned round in her chair, 
 and with that sudden, unaccountable 
 snappishness of tone to which the 
 brisk old are subject, she snarled : 
 " Gie me a pinch of snuff, some of ye, 
 do ! " 
 
 Tobacco dust was instantly at her 
 disposal. She took it with the points 
 of her fingers, delicately, and divest- 
 ed the crime of half its uncleanness 
 and vulgarity, — more an angel could 
 n't. 
 
 " Monstrous sensible woman, 
 though ! " whispered Quin to Clive. 
 
 " llcy, sir! what do you say, sir ' 
 for I 'in a little deaf." (Not very to 
 praise, it seems.) 
 
 "That your judgment, madam, is 
 equal to the reputation of your tal- 
 ent." 
 
 The words were hardly spoken, be- 
 fore the old lady rose upright as a 
 towei-. She then made an oblique 
 preliminary sweep, and came down 
 with such a courtesy as the young had 
 never seen. 
 
 .lames QuiUi not to disgrace his 
 generation, attempted a correspond-
 
 22 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 ing how, for which his figure and 
 apoplectic tendency rendered him un- 
 fit ; and whilst he was transacting it, 
 the graceful Gibber stepped gravely 
 up, and looked down and up the pro- 
 cess with his glass, like a naturalist 
 inspecting some strange capriccio of 
 an orang-outang. The gymnastics 
 of courtesy ended without back-falls, 
 — Cibber lowered his tone. 
 
 " You are right, Bracy. It is non- 
 sense denying the young fellow's tal- 
 ent; but his Othello, now, Bracy! 
 he just, — his Othello ! " 
 
 " O dear ! O dear ! " cried she ; 
 " I thought it was Desdemona's little 
 black boy come in without the tea- 
 kettle." 
 
 Quin laughed uproariously. 
 
 " It made me laugh a deal more 
 than Mr. Quin's Falstaff. O dear! 
 O dear ! " 
 
 "Falstaff, indeed! Snuff!" In 
 the tone of a trumpet. 
 
 Quin secretly revoked his good 
 opinion of this woman's sense. 
 
 " Madam," said the page, timidly, 
 "if you would but favor us with a 
 specimen of the old stvle ! " 
 
 "Well, child, why not? Only 
 what makes you mumble like that? 
 but they all do it now, I see. Bless 
 my soul ! our words used to come out 
 like brandy-cherries ; but now a sen- 
 tence is like raspberry -jam, on the 
 stage and off." 
 
 Cibber chuckled. 
 
 "And why don't you men carry 
 yourself like Cibber here ? " 
 
 " Don't press that question," said 
 Colley, dryly. 
 
 " A monstrous poor actor, though," 
 said the merciless old woman, in a 
 mock aside to the others ; " only 
 twenty shillings a week for half 
 bis life"; and her shoulders went 
 up to her ears, — then she fell into 
 a half-revery. " Yes, we were dis- 
 tinct," said "she; "but I must own, 
 children, we were slow. Once, in 
 the midst of a beautiful tirade, my 
 lover went to sleep, and fell against 
 me. A mighty pretty epigram, 
 twenty lines, was writ on 't by one 
 
 of my gallants. Have ye as man) 
 of them as we used ? " 
 
 " In that respect," said the page 
 " we are not behind our great-grand 
 mothers." 
 
 " I call that pert," said Mrs. Brace 
 girdle, with the air of one drawing 
 scientific distinctions. " Now, is thai 
 a boy or a lad/ that spoke to mc 
 last ? " 
 
 " By its dress, I should say a hoy,' 
 said Cibber, with his glass ; " by its 
 assurance, a lady ! " 
 
 " There 's one clever woman 
 amongst ye; Peg something, plays 
 Lothario, Lady Betty Modish, and 
 what not?" 
 
 " What ! admire Woffington ? ' 
 screamed Mrs. Clive ; " why, she is 
 the greatest gabbler on the stage." 
 
 "I don't care," was the reply 
 " there 's nature about the jade 
 Don't contradict me," added she, with 
 sudden fury ; " a parcel of children. ,: 
 
 " No, madam," said Clive, humbly 
 " Mr. Cibber, will you try and pre- 
 vail on Mrs. Bracegirdle to favor us 
 with a recitation ? " 
 
 Cibber handed his cane with pomj 
 to a small actor. Bracegirdle did the 
 same ; and, striking the attitudes thai 
 had passed for heroic in their day 
 they declaimed out of the " Rival 
 Queens " two or three tirades, which 
 I graciously spare the reader of this 
 tale. Their elocution was neat and 
 silvery ; but not one bit like the way 
 people speak in streets, palaces, fields, 
 roads, and rooms. They had nol 
 made the grand discovery, which Mr. 
 A. Wigan on the stage, and every 
 man of sense off it, has made in our 
 day and nation ; namely, that the 
 stage is a representation, not of stage, 
 but of life ; and that an actor ought 
 to speak and act in imitation of hu- 
 man beings, not of speaking machines 
 that have run and creaked in a stage 
 groove, with their eyes shut upon the 
 world at large, upon nature, upon 
 truth, upon man, upon woman, and 
 upon child. 
 
 " This is slow," cried Cibber ; " let 
 us show these young people how
 
 PEG WOFFIXGTON. 
 
 23 
 
 ladles and gentlemen moved fifty 
 years ago, dansons." 
 
 A fiddler was caught, a beautiful 
 slow minuet played, and a bit of 
 " solemn dancing " done. Certainly, 
 it was not gay, but it must be owned 
 it was beautiful ; it was the dance of 
 kings, the poetry of the courtly sa- 
 loon. 
 
 The retired actress, however, had 
 frisker notions left in her. " This is 
 slow," cried she, and bade the fiddler 
 play, " The wind that shakes the bar- 
 ley," an ancient jig tune ; this she 
 danced to in a style that utterly as- 
 tounded the spectators. 
 
 She showed them what fun was ; 
 her feet and her stick were all echoes 
 to the mad strain ; out went her heel 
 behind, and, returning, drove her four 
 yards forward. She made unaccoun- 
 table slants, and cut them all over 
 in turn if they did not jump for it. 
 Roars of inextinguishable laughter 
 arose, it would have made an oyster 
 merry. Suddenly she stopped, and 
 put her hands to her sides, and soon 
 after she gave a vehement cry of 
 pain. 
 
 The laughter ceased. 
 
 She gave another cry of such agony, 
 that they were all round her in a 
 moment 
 
 " O, help me, ladies," screamed 
 the poor woman, in tones as feminine 
 as they were heart-rending and pite- 
 ous. "O my back! my loins ! I suf- 
 fer, gentlemen," said the poor thing, 
 faintly. 
 
 What was to be done? Mr. Vane 
 offered his penknife to cut her laces. 
 
 " You shall cut my head off soon- 
 er," cried she, with sudden energy. 
 " Don't pity me," said she, sadly, "I 
 don't deserve it"; then, lifting her 
 eyes, she exclaimed, with a sail air of 
 self-reproach : " vanity! do you nev- 
 er leave a woman ? " 
 
 " Nay, madam ! " whimpered the 
 page, wlio was a good-hearted girl ; 
 " 't was your great complaisance for 
 us, not vanity. Oh! oh! oh!" and 
 she began to blubber, to make mat- 
 ters better. 
 
 "No, my children," said the old 
 lady, " 't was vanity. I wanted to 
 show you what an old 'oman could 
 do ; and I have humiliated myself, 
 trying to outshine younger folk. I 
 am justly humiliated, as you see" ; and 
 she began to cry a little.' 
 
 " This is very painful," said Cibber. 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle now raised her 
 e) ? 'es (they had set her in a chair), and 
 looking sweetly, tenderly, and earnest- 
 ly on her old companion, she said to 
 him, slowly, gently, but impressive- 
 ly : " Colley, at threescore years and 
 ten, this was ill done of us ! You 
 audi are here now — for what? to 
 cheer the young up the hill we mount- 
 ed years ago. And, old friend, if we 
 detract from them we discourage them. 
 A great sin in the old ! " 
 
 " Every dog his day." 
 
 " We have had ours." Here she 
 smiled, then, laying her hand tenderly 
 in the old man's, she added, with calm 
 solemnity : " And now we must go 
 quietly towards our rest, and strut 
 and fret no more the few last minutes 
 of life's fleeting hour." 
 
 How tame my cacotype of these 
 words compared with what they were. 
 I am ashamed of them and myself, 
 and the human craft of writing, which, 
 though commoner far, is so miserably 
 behind the godlike art of speech : <Sj 
 ipsam audivisses ! 
 
 These ink scratches, which in the 
 imperfection of language we have 
 called words, till the unthinking act- 
 ually dream they arc words, but which 
 are the shadows of the corpses of 
 words ; these word-shadows then were 
 living powers on her lips, and sub- 
 dued, as eloquence always dors, every 
 heart within reach of the imperial 
 tongue. 
 
 The young loved her, and the old 
 man, softened and vanquished, and 
 mindful of his failing life, was silent, 
 and pressed his handkerchief to his 
 eyes a moment ; then he said : — 
 
 " No, Bracy, no. Be composed, 
 
 I pray you. She is right. Young 
 people, forgive me that 1 love the dead 
 too well, and the days when 1 was
 
 24 
 
 TEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 what von are now. Drat the woman," 
 continued he, half ashamed of his 
 emotion ; " she makes us laugh, and 
 makes us cry, just as she used." 
 
 " What does he say, young wo- 
 man 1 " said the old lady, dryly, to 
 Mrs. Ciive. 
 
 " He says you make us laugh, and 
 make us cry, madam ; and so you do 
 me, I 'm sure." 
 
 " And that 's Peg Woffington's no- 
 tion of an actress ! Better it, Cibber 
 and Bracegirdle, if you can," said the 
 other, rising up like lightning. 
 
 She then threw Colley Gibber a 
 note, and walked coolly and rapidly 
 out of the room, without looking once 
 behind her. 
 
 The rest stood transfixed, looking 
 at one another, and at the empty 
 chair. Then Gibber opened and read 
 the note aloud. It was from Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle: "Playing at tric-trac; 
 so can't play the fool in your green- 
 room to-night. — B." 
 
 On this, a musical ringing laugh 
 was heard from outside the door, where 
 the pseudo Bracegirdle was washing 
 the gray from her hair, and the 
 wrinkles from her face, — ah ! I wish I 
 could do it as easily ! — and the little 
 bit of sticking-plaster from her front 
 tooth*. 
 
 " Why, it is the Irish jade ! " roared 
 Cibber. 
 
 " Divil a less ! " rang back a rich 
 brogue ; " and it 's not the furst time 
 we put the comcther upon ye, Eng- 
 land, my jewal ! " 
 
 One more mutual glance, and then 
 the mortal cleverness of all this began 
 to dawn on their minds ; and they 
 broke forth into clapping of hands, 
 and gave this accomplished mime 
 three rounds of applause; Mr. Vane 
 and Sir Charles Pomander leading 
 with, " Brava, Wofrington ! " 
 
 Its effect on Mr. Vane may be 
 imagined. Who hut she could have 
 done this? This was as if a painter 
 should so paint a man as to deceive 
 his species. This was acting, but not 
 like the acting of the stage. He was 
 in transports, and self-satisfaction at 
 
 his own judgment mingled pleasantly 
 with his admiration. 
 
 In this cheerful exhibition, one 
 joined not, — Mr. Cibber. His the- 
 ories had received a shock (and we all 
 love our theories). He himself had 
 received a rap, and we don't hate our- 
 selves. 
 
 Great is the syllogism ! But there 
 is a class of arguments less vulnera- 
 ble. 
 
 If A says to B, " You can't hit me, 
 as I prove by this syllogism" (here 
 followeth the syllogism), " and B, 
 pour toute re'ponse, knocks A down 
 such a whack that he rebounds into a 
 sitting posture ; and to him the man, 
 the tree, the lamp-post, and the fire- 
 escape become not clearly distinguish- 
 able; this barbarous logic prevails 
 against the logic in Barbara, and the 
 syllogism is in the predicament of 
 Ilumpty Dumpty. 
 
 In this predicament was the Poet 
 Laureate. " The miscreant Proteus 
 (could not) escape these chains ! " So 
 the miscreant Proteus — no bad name 
 for an old actor — took his little 
 cocked hat and marched, a smaller, if 
 not a wiser man. Some disjointed 
 words fell from him : " Mimicry is 
 not acting," &c. ; and with one bitter, 
 mowing glance at the applauders, ra'r- 
 cumferens acriter oculos, lie vanished in 
 the largest pinch of snuff on record. 
 The rest dispersed more slowly. 
 
 Mr. Vane waited eagerly, and 
 watched the door for Mrs. Wofring- 
 ton ; but she did not come. He then 
 made acquaintance with good-natured 
 Mr. Quin, who took him upon the 
 stage and. showed him by what vulgar 
 appliances that mnjestic rise of the 
 curtain he so admired was effected. 
 Returning to the green-room for his 
 friend, he found him in animated 
 conversation with Mrs. Wofrington. 
 This made Vane uneasy. 
 
 Sir Charles, up to the present mo- 
 ment of the evening, had been un- 
 wontedly silent, and now he was talk- 
 ing nineteen to the dozen, and Mrs. 
 Wofflngton was listening with an 
 appearance of interest that sent a
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 25 
 
 pang to poor Vane's heart ; he begged 
 Mr Quin to introduce him. 
 
 Mr. Quin introduced him. 
 
 The lady received his advances 
 with polite" composure. Mr. Vane 
 stammered his admiration of her 
 Bracegirdle; but all he could find 
 words to say was mere general praise, 
 and somewhat coldly received. Sir 
 Charles, on the contrary, spoke more 
 like a critic. " Had you given us the 
 stage cackle, or any of those tradition- 
 ary symptoms of old age, we should 
 have instantly detected you," said he ; 
 " but this was art copying nature, and 
 it may be years before such a triumph 
 of illusion" is again effected under so 
 many adverse circumstances." 
 
 " You are very good, Sir Charles," 
 was the reply. " You natter me. It 
 was one of those things which look 
 greater than they are ; nobody here 
 knew Bracegirdle but Mr. Cibber ; 
 Mr. Cibber cannot see well without 
 his glasses, and I got rid of one of the 
 candles ; I sent one of the imps of the 
 theatre to knock it down. I know 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle by heart. I drink 
 tea with her every Sunday. I had 
 her dress on, and I gave the old boy 
 her words and her way of thinking; 
 it was mere mimicry; it was nothing 
 compared with what I once did; but, 
 a-hem!" 
 
 " Tray tell us ! " 
 
 " I am afraid I shall shock your 
 friend. I see he is not a wicked man 
 like you, and perhaps does not know 
 what gqod-for-notning creatures ac- 
 tresses arc." 
 
 " He is not so ignorant as he 
 looks," replied Sir Charles. 
 
 " That is not quite the answer I 
 expected, Sir Charles," replied this 
 lively lady; "but it serves me right 
 for fishing on dry land. Well, then, 
 you must know a yonng gentleman 
 Courted me. I forget whether I liked 
 him or not; but you will fancy I 
 hated him, for I promised to marry 
 him. Yon must understand, gentle- 
 men, that 1 was sent into the world, 
 not to act, which I abominate, but to 
 chronicle small beer and teach an 
 2 
 
 army of little brats their letters ; so 
 this" word 'wife,' and that word 
 'chimney-corner,' took possession of 
 my mind, and a vision of darning 
 Stockings for a large party, all my 
 own, tilled my heart, and really I felt 
 quite grateful to the little brute that 
 was to give me all this, and he would 
 have had such a wife as men never do 
 have, still less deserve. But one fine 
 day that the theatre left me time to 
 examine his manner towards me, I 
 instantly discovered he was deceiving 
 me. So I had him watched, and the 
 little brute was going to marry anoth- 
 er woman, and break it to me by de- 
 grees afterwards, &c. You know, Sir 
 Charles ? Ah ! I see you do. 
 
 " 1 found her out ; got an introduc- 
 tion to her father; went down to 
 his house three days before the mar- 
 riage, with a little coal-black mus- 
 tache, regimentals, and what not, 
 made up, in short, with the art of my 
 sex, gentlemen, — and the impudence 
 of yours. 
 
 " The first day I flirted and danced 
 with the bride. The second I made 
 love to her, and at night I let her 
 know that her intended was a villain. 
 I showed her letters of his ; protesta- 
 tions, oaths of eternal fidelity to one 
 Peg Woffington, 'who will die,' 
 drawled I, 'if he betrays her.' 
 
 " And here, gentlemen, mark the 
 justice of Heaven. I received a back- 
 handed slap : ' Pes Woffington ! an 
 actress! O, the villain !' cried she; 
 'let him marry the little vagabond. 
 How dare he insult me with his hand 
 that had been offered in such a quar- 
 ter ? ' 
 
 " So, in a fit of virtuous indigna- 
 tion, the little hypocrite dismissed the 
 little brute; in other words, she had 
 fallen in love with me. 
 
 " I have not bad many happy 
 hours, but I remember it was delicious 
 to look out of my window, and at the 
 same moment smell the honeysuckles 
 and see my perfidi dismissed under a 
 heap of scorn and a pile of luggage 
 lie had brought down for his wedding 
 tour.
 
 26 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 " I scampered up to London, laugh- 
 ing all the way ; and when I got 
 home, if I remember right, I cried for 
 two hours. How do you account for 
 that % " 
 
 " I hope, madam," said Vane, 
 gravely, " it was remorse for having 
 trifled with that poor young lady's 
 heart ; she had never injured you." 
 
 " But, sir, the husband I robbed 
 her of was a brute and a villain in his 
 little way, and wicked and good-for- 
 nothing, &c. He would have deceived 
 that poor little hypocrite, as he had 
 this one," pointing to herself. 
 
 " That is not what I mean ; you 
 inspired her with an attachment, nev- 
 er to be forgotten. Poor lady, how 
 many sleepless nights has she passed 
 since then, how many times has she 
 strained her eyes to see her angel 
 lover returning to her ! She will not 
 forget in two years the love it cost 
 you but two days to inspire. The 
 powerful should be merciful. Ah ! I 
 fear you have no heart." 
 
 These words had no sooner burst 
 from Mr. Vane, than he was con- 
 scious of the strange liberty he had 
 taken, and, indeed, the bad taste he 
 had been guilty of; and this feeling 
 was not lessened when he saw Mrs. 
 Woffington color up to the temples. 
 Her eyes, too, glittered like basilisks : 
 but she said nothing, which was re- 
 markable in her, whose tongue was 
 the sword of a matt re d'armes. 
 
 Sir Charles eyed his friend in a sly, 
 satirical manner ; he then said, laugh- 
 ingly : " In two months she married a 
 third! don't waste your sympathy," 
 and turned the talk into another chan- 
 nel ; and soon after, Mrs. Wuihiu:- 
 ton's maid appearing at the door, she 
 courtcsied to both gentlemen and left 
 the theatre. Sir Charles Pomander 
 accompanied Mr. Vane a little way. 
 
 " What becomes of her innocence ? " 
 was his first word. 
 
 " One loses sight of it in her im- 
 mense talent," said the lover. 
 
 " She certainly is clever in all that 
 bears upon her business," was the 
 reply ; " but I noticed you were a 
 
 little shocked with her indelicacy in 
 telling us that story, and still more in 
 having it to tell." 
 
 " Indelicacy 1 No ! " said Vane ; 
 " the little brute deserved it. Good 
 Heavens ! to think that ' a little brute ' 
 might have married that angel, and 
 actually broke faith to lose her; it is 
 incredible, the crime is diluted by the 
 absurdity." 
 
 " Have you heard him tell the 
 story 1 No ? Then take my word 
 for it, you have not heard the facts of 
 the case." 
 
 " Ah ! you are prejudiced against 
 her % " 
 
 " On the contrary, I like her. But 
 I know that with all women the 
 present lover is an angel and the past 
 a demon, and so on in turn. And I 
 know that if Satan were to enter the 
 women of the stage, with the wild idea 
 of impairing their veracity, he would 
 come out of their minds a greater liar 
 than he went in, and the innocent 
 darlings would never know their spir- 
 itual father had been at them." 
 
 Doubtful whether this sentiment 
 and period could be improved, Sir 
 Charles parted with his friend, leaving 
 his sting in him like a friend ; the 
 other's reflections as he sauntered 
 home were not strictly those of a wise, 
 well-balanced mind ; they ran in this 
 style : — 
 
 " When she said, ' Is not that to 
 praise my person at the expense of 
 my wit ? ' I ought to have said, 
 ' Nay, madam ; could your wit dis- 
 guise your person, it would betray 
 itself, so you would still shine con- 
 fessed ' ; and instead of that I said 
 not 1 ling ! " 
 
 He then ran over in his mind all 
 the opportunities he had had for put- 
 ting in something smart, and bitter- 
 ly regretted those lost opportunities ; 
 and made the smart things, and beat 
 the air with them. Then his cheeks 
 tingled when he remembered that he 
 had almost scolded her; and he con- 
 cocted a very different speech, and 
 straightway repeated it in imagina- 
 tion.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 27 
 
 This is lovers' pastime; I own it 
 funny; but it is open to one objec- 
 tion, this single practice of sitting 
 upon eggs no longer chickenable, 
 carried to a habit, is capable of turn- 
 ing a solid intellect into a liquid one, 
 and ruining a mind's career. 
 
 \\ r e leave Mr. Vane, therefore, with 
 a hope that he will not do it every 
 night ; and we follow his friend to 
 the close of our chapter. 
 
 Hey for a definition ! 
 
 What is diplomacy 1 Is it folly in 
 a coat that looks like sagacity ? Had 
 Sir Charles Pomander, instead of 
 watching Mr. Vane and Mrs. Wof- 
 fington, askeil the former whether 
 he admired the latter, and whether 
 the latter responded, straightforward 
 Vane would have told him the whole 
 truth in a minute. Diplomacy there- 
 fore was, as it often is, a waste of time. 
 
 But diplomacy did more in this 
 case, it sapienter descendebat infossarti : 
 it fell on its nose with gymnastic 
 dexterity, as it generally does, upon 
 my word. 
 
 To watch Mrs. Woffington's face 
 vis-h-ris Mr. Vane, Pomander intro- 
 duced Vane to the green-room of the 
 Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. By 
 this Pomander learned nothing, be- 
 cause Mrs. Wollington had, with a 
 wonderful appearance of openness, 
 the closest face in Europe when she 
 chose. 
 
 On the other hand, by introducing 
 this country gentleman to this green- 
 room, he gave a mighty impulse and 
 opportunity to Vane's hive; an Op- 
 portunity Which he forgot the timid, 
 Inexperienced Damon might other- 
 wise never have found. 
 
 Here diplomacy was not policy, for, 
 as my sagacious reader has perhaps 
 divined, Sir Charles Pomander 1008 
 after Iter hintsrlf. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Yr.s, Sir Charles was nfhr Miss 
 Wollington. 1 use that phrase be- 
 
 cause it is a fine generic one, suitable 
 to different kinds of love-making. 
 
 Mr. Vane's sentiments were an in* 
 explicable compound ; but respect, 
 enthusiasm, and deep admiration were 
 the uppermost. 
 
 The good Sir Charles was no enig- 
 ma : he had a vacancy in his estab- 
 lishment, — a very high situation, too, 
 for those who like that sort of thing, 
 — the head of his table, his left hand 
 when he drove in the Park, &c. To 
 this he proposed to promote Miss Wof- 
 fington. She was handsome and witty, 
 and he liked her. But that was not 
 what caused him to pursue her; slow, 
 sagacious, inevitable, as a beagle. 
 
 She was celebrated, and would con- 
 fer great eclut on him. The scandal 
 of possessing her was a burning temp- 
 tation. Women admire celebrity in 
 a man ; but men adore it in a woman. 
 
 " The world," says Philip, " is a famous man ; 
 What will not women love so taught ? " 
 
 I will try to answer this question. 
 The women will more readily for- 
 give disgusting physical deformity for 
 Fame's sake than we. They would 
 embrace with more rapture a famous 
 orang-outang, than we an illustrious 
 chimpanzee; but when it conies to 
 moral deformity the tables are turned. 
 Had the Queen pardoned Mr. Creen- 
 acre and Mrs. Manning, would the 
 great rush have been on the hero, or 
 the heroine? Why, on Mrs. Mac- 
 beth ! To her would the blackguards 
 have brought honorable proposals, 
 and the gentry liberal ones. 
 
 (ireenaere would have found more 
 female admirers than I ever shall ; 
 but the grand stream of sexual admi- 
 ration would have set Mariawards. 
 This ('act is as dark as night; but it 
 is as sure as the sun. 
 
 The next day " the friends " (most 
 laughable of human substantives!) 
 met in the theatre, and again visited 
 the green-room ; and this time Vane 
 determined to do himself more jus- 
 tice. He was again disappointed ; 
 
 the actress's manner was ceremoni- 
 ously polite. She was almost con-
 
 28 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 stantly on the stage, and in a hurry 
 when off it ; and, when there was a 
 word to be got with her, the ready, 
 glih Sir Charles was sure to get it. 
 Vane could not help thinking it hard 
 that a man who professed no respect 
 for her should thus keep the light 
 from him ; and he could hardly con- 
 ceal his satisfaction when Pomander, 
 at night, bade him farewell for a fort- 
 night. Pressing business took Sir 
 Charles into the country. 
 
 The good Sir Charles, however, 
 could not go without leaving his 
 sting behind as a companion to his 
 friend. He called on Mr. Vane, and 
 after a short preface, containing the 
 words " our friendship," " old kind- 
 ness," " my greater experience," he 
 gravely warned him against Mrs. 
 Woffington. 
 
 " Not that I would say this if you 
 could take her for what she is, and 
 amuse yourself with her as she will 
 with you, if she thinks it worth her 
 while. But I see you have a heart, 
 and she will make a football of it, 
 and torment you beyond all you have 
 ever conceived of human anguish." 
 
 Mr. Vane colored high, and was 
 about to interrupt the speaker ; but 
 he continued : — 
 
 " There, I am in a hurry. But 
 ask Quin, or anybody who knows her 
 history, you will find she has. had 
 scores of lovers, and no one remains 
 her friend after they part." 
 
 " Men are such villains ! " 
 
 " Very likely," was the reply ; 
 " but twenty men don't ill-use one 
 good woman : those are not the pro- 
 portions. Adieu ! " 
 
 This last hit frightened Mr. Vane, 
 he began to look into himself; he 
 could not but feel that he was a mere 
 child in this woman's hands; and, 
 more than that, his conscience told 
 him that, if his heart should be made 
 a football of, it would only he a just 
 and probable punishment. For there 
 were particular reasons why he, of all 
 men, had no business to look twice at 
 any woman whose name was Wel- 
 lington 
 
 That night he avoided the green- 
 room, though he could not forego the 
 play ; but the next night he deter- 
 mined to stay at home altogether. 
 Accordingly, at five o'clock, the as- 
 tounded box-keeper wore a visage of 
 dismay, — there was no shilling for 
 him ! and Mr. Vane's nightly shilling 
 had assumed the sanctity of salary in 
 his mind. 
 
 Mr. Vane strolled disconsolate ; he 
 strolled by the Thames, he strolled 
 up and down the Strand ; and, final- 
 ly, having often admired the wisdom 
 of moths in their gradual approach to 
 what is not good for them, he strolled 
 into the green-room, Covent Garden, 
 and sat down. When there he did 
 not feel happy. Besides, she had al- 
 ways been cold to him, and had given 
 no sign of desiring his acquaintance, 
 still less of recognition. 
 
 Mr. Vane had often seen a weather- 
 cock at work, and he had heard a 
 woman compared to it ; but he had 
 never realized the simplicity, beauty, 
 and justice of the simile. He was 
 therefore surprised, as well as thrilled, 
 when Mrs. Woffington, so cool, cere- 
 monious, and distant hitherto, walked 
 up to him in the green-room with a face 
 quite wreathed in smiles, and, with- 
 out preliminary, thanked him for all 
 the beautiful flowers he had sent her. 
 
 "What, Mrs. Woffington, — what, 
 you recognize me f " 
 
 " Of course, and have been foolish 
 enough to feel quite supported by the 
 thought I had at least one friend in 
 the house. But," said she, looking 
 down, " now you must not be angry ; 
 here are some stones that have fallen 
 somehow among the flowers, I am 
 going to give you them hack, because 
 I value flowers, so I cannot have 
 them mixed with anything else; but 
 don't ask me for a flower back," add- 
 ed she, seeing the color mount on 
 his face, " lor I would not give one 
 of them to you, or anybody." 
 
 Imagine the effect of this on a ro- 
 mantic disposition like Mr. Vane's. 
 
 He told her how glad he was that 
 she could distinguish his features
 
 PEG W0FF1NGT0N. 
 
 29 
 
 amidst the crowd of her admirers ; he 
 confessed he had been mortified when 
 he found himself, as he thought, en- 
 tirely a stranger to her. 
 
 She interrupted him. 
 
 " Do you know your friend Sir 
 Charles Pomander ? No ! I am al- 
 most sure you do; well, he is a man 
 I do not like. He is deceitful, besides 
 he is a wicked man. There, to be 
 plain with you, he was watching me 
 all that night, the first time you came 
 here, and, because I saw he was 
 watching me, I would not know who 
 you were, nor anything about you." 
 
 " But you looked as if you had 
 never seen me before." 
 
 " Of course I did, when I had 
 made up my mind to," said the ac- 
 tress, naively. 
 
 " Sir Charles has left London for a 
 fortnight, so, if he is the only obsta- 
 cle, I hope you will know me every 
 night." 
 
 " Why, you sent me no flowers 
 yesterday or to-day." 
 
 " But I will to-morrow." 
 
 " Then I am sure I shall know 
 your face again : good by. Won't 
 you see me in the last act, and tell 
 me how ill I do it ! " 
 
 " yes ! " and he hurried to his 
 box, and so the actress secured one 
 pair of hands for her last act. 
 
 He returned to the green-room, but 
 she did not revisit that verdant bow- 
 er. The next night, after the usual 
 compliments, she said to him, looking 
 down with a sweet, engaging air : — 
 
 "I sent a messenger into the coun- 
 try to know about that lady." 
 
 " What lady ! " said Vane, scarce- 
 ly believing his senses. 
 
 " That you were so unkind to me 
 about." 
 
 " 1, unkind to you? what a brute 
 1 must be ! " 
 
 " My meaning is, you justly re- 
 buked me, only you should not tell 
 an actress she has no heart, — that is 
 
 always understood. Well, Sir Charles 
 Pomander said she married a third in 
 two months ! 
 
 "And did she?" 
 
 " No, it was in six weeks ; that man 
 never tells the truth ; and since then 
 she has married a fourth." 
 
 " I am glad of it ! " 
 
 " So am I, since you awakened my 
 conscience." 
 
 Delicious flattery ! and of all flat- 
 tery the sweetest, when a sweet crea- 
 ture does flattery, not merely utters 
 it. 
 
 After this, Vane made no more 
 struggles ; he surrendered himself to 
 the charming seduction, and as his 
 advances were respectful, but ardent 
 and incessant, he found himself at the 
 end of a fortnight Mrs. Woflington's 
 professed lover. 
 
 They wrote letters to each other 
 every day. On Sunday they went to 
 church together in the morning, and 
 spent the afternoon in the suburbs 
 wherever grass was and dust was not. 
 
 In the next fortnight, poor Vane 
 thought he had pretty well fathomed 
 this extraordinary woman's character. 
 Plumb the Atlantic with an eighty- 
 fathom line, sir ! 
 
 " She is religious," said he, " she 
 loves a church much better than a 
 playhouse, and she never laughs nor 
 goes to sleep in church as I do. And 
 she is breaking me of swearing, — by 
 degrees. She says that no fashion 
 can justify what is profane, and that 
 it must be vulgar as well as wicked. 
 And she is frankness and simplicity 
 itself." 
 
 Another thing that charmed him 
 was her disinterestedness. She or- 
 dered him to buy her a present every 
 day, but it was never to COSt above a 
 shilling. If an article could be found 
 thai cost exactly tenpence (a favorite 
 sum of hers), she was particularly 
 pleased, and these shilling presents 
 
 were received with a (lush of pleasure 
 
 and brightening eyes : but when one 
 day he appeared with a diamond 
 necklace, it was taken very coldly, he 
 was not even thanked for it, and he 
 Was made to feel, once tor all, that 
 
 the tenpenny ones were the best in- 
 vestments towards her favor. 
 
 Then he found out that she was
 
 30 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 very prudent and rather stingy ; of 
 Spartan simplicity in her diet, and a 
 seorner of dress off the stage. To re- 
 deem this she was charitable, and her 
 charity and her economy sometimes 
 had a sore fight, daring which she 
 was peevish, poor little soul. 
 
 One day she made him a request. 
 
 " I can't bear you should think me 
 worse than I am, and I don't want 
 you to think me better than I am." 
 
 Vane trembled. 
 
 " But don't speak to others about 
 me ; promise, and I will promise to 
 tell you my whole story, whenever 
 you are entitled to such a confidence." 
 
 " When shall I be entitled to it ? " 
 
 " When I am sure you love me." 
 
 " Do you doubt that now ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I think you love me, but 
 I am not sure." 
 
 " Margaret, remember I have known 
 you much longer than you have known 
 me." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Yes ! Two months before we 
 ever spoke 1 lived upon your face and 
 voice." 
 
 " That is to say you looked from 
 your box at me upon the stage, and 
 did not I look from the stage at 
 you ? " 
 
 " Never ! yon always looked at the 
 pit, and my heart used to sink." 
 
 "On the 17th of May you first 
 came into that box. I noticed you a 
 little, the next day I noticed you a 
 little more ; I saw you fancied you 
 liked me, after a while I could not 
 have played without you." 
 
 Here was delicious flattery again, 
 and poor Vane believed every word 
 of it. 
 
 As for her request and her promise, 
 she showed her wisdom in both these. 
 As Sir Charles observed, it is a won- 
 derful point gained if you allow a 
 woman to tell her story her own way. 
 
 How the few facts that are allowed 
 to remain get moulded and twisted 
 out of ligly forms into pretty shapes 
 by those supple, dexterous fingers ! 
 
 This present story cannot give the 
 life of Mrs. Wotfington, but only one 
 
 great passage therein, as do the epic 
 and dramatic writers ; but since there 
 was often j^reat point in any sentences 
 spoken on important occasions by this 
 lady, I will just quote her defence of 
 herself. The reader may be sure she 
 did not play her weakest card ; let 
 us give her the benefit. 
 
 One day she and Kitty Clive were 
 at it ding-dong ; the green-room was 
 full of actors, male and female, but 
 there were no strangers, and the ladies 
 were saying things which the men of 
 this generation only think ; at last 
 Mrs. Woffington finding herself rough- 
 ly, and, as she thought, unjustly han- 
 dled, turned upon the assembly and 
 said : " What man did ever I ruin in 
 all my life ? Speak who can ! " 
 
 And there was a dead silence. 
 
 " What woman is there here at as 
 much as three pounds per week even, 
 that has n't ruined two at the very 
 least 'I " 
 
 Report says there was a dead si- 
 lence again, until Mrs. Clive perked 
 up, and said she had only ruined one, 
 and that was his own fault ! 
 
 Mrs. Woffington declined to attach 
 weight to this example. " Kitty 
 Clive is the hook without the bait," 
 said she; and the laugh turned, as it 
 always did, against Peggy's antago- 
 nist. 
 
 Thus much was speedily shown to 
 Mr. Vane, that, whatever were Mrs. 
 Woffington 's intentions towards him, 
 interest had at present nothing to do 
 with them ; indeed it was made clear 
 that, even were she to surrender her 
 liberty to him, it would only be as a 
 princess, forging golden chains for 
 herself with her own royal hand. 
 
 Another fortnight passed to the mu- 
 tual satisfaction of the lovers. To 
 Vane it was a dream of rapture to be 
 near this great creature, whom thou- 
 sands admired at such a distance ; to 
 watch over her, to take her to the 
 theatre in a warm shawl, to stand at 
 the wing and receive her as she came 
 radiant from her dressing-room, to 
 watch her from her rear as she stood 
 like some power about to descend on
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 31 
 
 (he stage, to see her falcon-like stoop 
 upon tlie said stage, and hear the 
 hurst of applause that followed, as 
 the report does the flash ; to compare 
 this with the spiritless crawl with 
 which common artists went on, tame 
 from their first note to their last ; to 
 take her hand when she came off, feel 
 how her nerves were strung like a 
 greyhound's after a race, and her 
 whole frame in a high even glow, with 
 the great Pythoness excitement of 
 art. 
 
 And to have the same great crea- 
 ture leaning her head on his shoulder, 
 and listening with a charming com- 
 placency, whilst he purred to her of 
 love and calm delights, alternate with 
 still greater triumphs; for he was to 
 turn dramatic writer, for her sake was 
 to write plays, a woman the hero, and 
 love was to inspire him, and passion 
 supply the want of pencraft. (You 
 make me laugh, Mr. Vane ! ) 
 
 All this was heavenly. 
 
 And then with all her dash, and 
 fire, and bravado, she was a thorough 
 woman. 
 
 " Margaret ! " 
 
 " Ernest ! " 
 
 " I want to ask you a question. 
 Did you really cry because that Miss 
 Bellamy had dresses from Paris 1 " 
 
 " It does not seem very likely." 
 
 " No, hut tell me; did you I" 
 
 "Who said I did;" 
 
 " Mr. (Jibber." 
 
 "Old fool!" 
 
 " Yes, but did you?" 
 
 " Did I what!" 
 
 "Cry!" 
 
 " Ernest, the minx's dresses were 
 beautiful." 
 
 " No doubt. But did you cry?" 
 
 "And mill!' wen: dirty; 1 don't 
 care about gilt rags, but dirty dress- 
 es, agh ! " 
 
 " Tell me, then." 
 
 "Tell you what?" 
 
 " Did you cry or not ? " 
 
 " Ah! he wants to tindout whether 
 I am a fool, and despise inc." 
 
 ' No, I think I should love you 
 better : for hitherto I have seen no 
 
 weakness in you, and it makes me un- 
 comfortable." 
 
 " Be comforted ! Is it not a weak- 
 ness to like you ? " 
 
 " You are free from that weakness, 
 or you would gratify my curiosity." 
 
 " Be pleased to state, in plain, in- 
 telligible English, what you require of 
 me." 
 
 " I want to know, in one word, did 
 you cry or not ? " 
 
 " Promise to tease me no more 
 then, and I '11 tell you." 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " You won't despise me ? " 
 
 " Despise you ! of course not." 
 
 " Well, then, — I don't remember! " 
 
 On another occasion, they were 
 seated in the dusk, by the side of the 
 canal in the Park, when a little ani- 
 mal began to potter about on an ad- 
 jacent bank. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington contemplated it 
 with curiosity and delight. 
 
 " O you pretty creature ! " said 
 she. " Now you are a rabbit : at least, 
 I think so." 
 
 " No," said Vane, innocently ; "that 
 is a rat." 
 
 "Ah! ah! ah!" screamed Mrs. 
 Woffington, and pinched his arm. 
 This frightened the rat, who disap- 
 peared. tShc burst out laughing: 
 " There 's a fool ! The thing did not 
 frighten me, and the name (lid. De- 
 pend upon it, it 's true what they say, 
 
 — that, off the stage, I am the great- 
 est fool there is. 1 '11 never be so ab- 
 surd again. Ah! ah! ah! here it is 
 again " (scream and pinch, as before). 
 " Do take me from this horrid place, 
 where monsters come from the great 
 deep." 
 
 And she flounced away, looking 
 daggers askant at the place the rat 
 had vacated in equal terror. 
 
 All this was silly, but it pleases us 
 men, and contrast is so charming ! 
 This same fool was brimful of talent, 
 
 — and cunning, too, for that matter. 
 She played late that night, and 
 
 Mr. Vane saw the Barm creature, 
 who dared not stay where she was li- 
 able to a distant rat, spring upon the
 
 32 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 stage as a gay rake, and flash out her 
 rapier, and act valor's king to the 
 life, and seem ready to eat up every- 
 body, King Fear included ; and then, 
 after her brilliant sally upon the pub- 
 lic, Sir Harry Wildair came and 
 stood beside Mr. Vane. 
 
 Her bright skin, contrasted with 
 her powdered periwig, became daz- 
 zling. She used little rouge, but that 
 little made ber eyes two balls of black 
 lightning. Fromher high instep to her 
 polished forehead, all was symmetry. 
 Her leg would have been a sculptor's 
 glory ; and the curve from her waist 
 to her knee was Hogarth's line itself. 
 She stood like Mercury new light- 
 ed on a heaven-kissing hill. She 
 placed her foot upon the ground, as 
 she might put a hand upon her lover's 
 shoulder. We indent it with our 
 eleven undisguised stone. 
 
 Such was Sir Harry Wildair, who 
 stood by Mr. Vane, glittering with 
 diamond buckles, gorgeous with rich 
 satin breeches, velvet coat, ruffles, 
 pidce testis et auri ; and as she bent 
 her long eye-fringes down on him 
 (be was seated), all her fiery charms 
 gradually softened and quivered down 
 to womanhood. 
 
 " The first time I was here," said 
 Vane, " my admiration of you broke 
 out to Mr.'Oibber ; and what do you 
 think he said ? " 
 
 " That you praised me, for me to 
 hear you. Hid you 1 " 
 
 " Acquit me of such meanness." 
 " Forgive me. It is just what I 
 should have done, had I been court- 
 ing an actress." 
 
 " I think you have not met many 
 ingenuous spirits, dear friend ? " 
 " Not one, my child." 
 This was a phrase she often ap- 
 plied to him now. 
 
 " The old fellow pretended to hear 
 what I said, too ; and I am sure you 
 did not, — did you 1 " 
 " Guess." 
 " I guess not." 
 
 " I am afraid I must plead guilty. 
 An actress's ears are so quick to hear 
 praise, to tell you the truth, I did 
 
 catch a word or two, and, 'It told, 
 sir, — it told.' " 
 
 " You alarm me ! At this rate, I 
 shall never know what you see, hear, 
 or think, by your face." 
 
 " When you want to know any- 
 thing, ask me, and I will tell you ; 
 but nobody else shall learn anything, 
 nor even you, any other way." 
 
 " Did you hear the feeble tribute of 
 praise I was paying you, when you 
 came in 1 " inquired Vane. 
 
 " No. You did not say that my 
 voice had the compass and variety of 
 nature, and my movements were free 
 and beautiful, whilst the others when 
 in motion were stilts, and cofi'ee-pots 
 when in repose, did you 1 " 
 
 " Something of the sort, I believe," 
 cried Vane, laughing. 
 
 " I melted from one fine statue into 
 another, I restored the Antinous to 
 his true sex. — Goose ! — Painters 
 might learn their art from me (in my 
 dressing-room, no doubt), and orators 
 revive at my lips the music of Ath- 
 ens, that quelled mad mobs and prin- 
 ces drunk with victory. — Silly fel- 
 low ! — Praise was never so sweet to 
 me," murmured she, inclining like a 
 goddess of love towards him ; and he 
 fastened on two velvet lips, that did 
 not shun the sweet attack, hut gently 
 parted with a heavenly sigh ; while 
 her heaving bosom and yielding 
 frame and swimming eyes confessed 
 her conqueror. 
 
 That morning Mr. Vane had been 
 dispirited, and apparently self-discon- 
 tented; but at night he went home 
 in a state of mental intoxication. 
 His poetic enthusiasm, his love, his 
 vanity, were all gratified at once. 
 And all these, singly, have conquered 
 Prudence and Virtue a million times. 
 She had confessed to him that she 
 was disposed to risk her happiness on 
 him ; she had begged him to submit 
 to a short probation ; and she had 
 promised, if her confidence and es- 
 teem remained unimpaired atthc close 
 of that period, — which was not to be 
 an unhappy one, — to take advantage 
 of the summer holidays, and cross the
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 S3 
 
 water with him, and forget everything 
 in the world with him, but love. 
 
 How was it that the very next 
 morning clouds chased one another 
 across His face 3 Was it that men are 
 happy but while the chase is doubt- 
 ful 1 Was it the letter from Poman- 
 der announcing his return, and sneer- 
 ingly inquiring whether he was still 
 the dupe of Peg Woffington ? or was 
 it that same mysterious disquiet which 
 attacked him periodically, and then 
 gave way for a while to pleasure and 
 her golden dreams ? 
 
 The next day was to be a day of 
 delight. He was to entertain her at 
 his own house ; and, to do her honor, 
 he had asked Mr. (Jibber, Mr. Quin, 
 and other actors, critics, &c. 
 
 Our friend, Sir Charles Pomander, 
 had been guilty of two ingenuities : 
 first, he had written three or four let- 
 ters, full of respectful admiration, to 
 Mrs. Woflington, of whom he spoke 
 slightingly to Vane ; second, he had 
 made a disengenuous purchase. 
 
 This purchase was Pompey, Mrs. 
 Wbffington's little black .slave. It is 
 a horrid fact, but Pompey did not 
 love his mistress : lie was a little en- 
 amored of her, as small boys are apt 
 to be, but, on the whole, a sentiment 
 of hatred slightly predominated in his 
 little black bosom. 
 
 It was not without excuse. 
 
 This lady was subject to two un- 
 pleasant companions, — sorrow and 
 bitterness. About twice a week she 
 would cry for two hours ; and after 
 this class of fit she generally went 
 abroad, and made a round of certain 
 poor or sick proWgdb she had, and re- 
 turned smiling and cheerful. 
 
 Hut other twice a week she might 
 be seen to sit upon her chair, con- 
 tracted into half her size, and look- 
 ing daggers at the universe in gen- 
 eral, the world in particular; and on 
 these occasions, it must be owned, 
 6hc stared at home, and sometimes 
 whipped Pompey. 
 
 Pompey had not the sense to reflect 
 that he ought to have been whipped 
 tvery day, or the esprit ds corps to be 
 2* 
 
 consoled by observing that this sort 
 of thing did his mistress good. What 
 he felt was, that his mistress, who did 
 everything well, whipped him with 
 energy and skill ; it did not take ten 
 seconds, but still, in that brief period, 
 Pompey found himself dusted and 
 polished off. 
 
 The sacred principle of justice was 
 as strong in Mrs. Woffington as in. 
 the rest of her sex ; she had not one 
 grain of it. When she was not in her 
 tantrums, the mischievous imp was as 
 sacred from check or remonstrance as 
 a monkey, or a lap-dog ; and several 
 female servants left the house on his 
 account. 
 
 But Nemesis overtook him in the 
 way we have lunted, and it put his 
 little black pipe out. 
 
 The lady had taken him out of 
 great humanity ; he was fed like a 
 game-cock, and dressed like a Bar- 
 baric prince ; and once when he was 
 ill his mistress watched him, and 
 nursed him, and tended him with the 
 same white hand that plied the ob- 
 noxious whip ; and when he died, 
 she alone withheld her consent from 
 his burial, and this gave him a chance 
 black boys never get, and he came to 
 again ; but still these tarnation lick- 
 ings " stuck in him gizzard." So 
 when Sir Charles's agent proposed to 
 him certain silver coins, cheap at a II i- 
 tlc treachery, the ebony ape grinned 
 till he turned half-ivory, and became 
 a spy in the house of his mistress. 
 
 The reader will have gathered that 
 the good Sir Charles had been quietly 
 in London some hours before he an- 
 nounced himself as /«o<7<< postjuturum. 
 
 Diamond cut diamond; a diplo- 
 matic stole this march upon an ac- 
 tress, and took her black pawn. One 
 for Pomander ! ((Jun.) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TRIPLET, the Cerberus of art. who 
 had the first bark in this legend, and 
 has since been out of hearing, ran 
 c
 
 34 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 from Lambeth to Covent Garden, on 
 receipt of Mr. Vane's note. But ran 
 he never so quick, he had built a full- 
 sized castle in the air before he reached 
 Bow Street. 
 
 The letter hinted at an order upon 
 his muse for amatory verse ; delight- 
 ful task, cheering prospect. 
 
 Bid a man whose usual lot it is to 
 break stones for the parish at ten- 
 pence the cubic yard, — bid such an 
 one play at marbles with some stone 
 taws for half an hour per day, and 
 pocket one pound one, — bid a poor 
 horse who has drawn those stones 
 about, and browsed short grass by the 
 wayside, — bid him canter a few times 
 round a grassy ring, and then go to 
 his corn, — in short, bid Kosinante 
 change with Pegasus, and you do no 
 more than Mr. Vane's letter held out 
 to Triplet. 
 
 The amatory verse of that day was 
 not up-hill work. There was a beat- 
 en track on a dead level, and you fol- 
 lowed it. You told the tender crea- 
 ture, with a world of circumlocution, 
 that, "without joking now," she was 
 a leper, ditto a tigress, item marble. 
 You next feigned a lucid interval, and 
 to be on the point of detesting your 
 monster, but in twenty more verses 
 love became, as usual, stronger than 
 reason, and you wound up your rot- 
 ten yarn thus : — 
 
 You hugged a golden chain. You 
 drew deeper into your wound a 
 barbed shaft, like — (any wild animal 
 will do, no one of them is such an 
 ass, so you had an equal title to all) : 
 and on looking back you saw with 
 horrible complacency that you had 
 inflicted one hundred locusts, five feet 
 long, upon oppressed humanity. 
 
 Wont to travel over acres of canvas 
 for a few shillings, and roods of paper 
 on bare speculation, Triplet knew he 
 could make a thousand a year at the 
 above work without thinking. 
 
 He came therefore to the box-keeper 
 with his eyes glittering. 
 
 " Mr. Vane 1 " 
 
 " Just gone out with a gentleman." 
 
 " I '11 wait then." 
 
 Now Mr. Vane, we know, was in 
 the green-room, and went home by 
 the stage-door. The last thing he 
 thought of was poor Triplet ; the rich 
 do not dream how they disappoint the 
 poor. Triplet's castle fell as many a 
 predecessor had. When' the lights 
 were put out, he left the theatre with 
 a bitter sigh. 
 
 " If this gentleman knew how many 
 sweet children 1 have, and what a 
 good, patient, suffering wife, sure he 
 would not have chosen me to make a 
 fool of! " said the poor fellow to him- 
 self. 
 
 In Bow Street, he turned, and 
 looked back upon the theatre. How 
 gloomy and grand it loomed ! 
 
 " Ah ! " thought he, " if I could but 
 conquer you; and why not 1 All 
 history shows that nothing is uncon- 
 querable except perseverance. Han- 
 nibal conquered the Alps, and I'll 
 conquer you," cried Triplet, firmly. 
 " Yes, this visit is not lost ; here I 
 register a vow : I will force my way 
 into that mountain of masonry, or 
 perish in the attempt." 
 
 Triplet's most unpremeditated 
 thoughts and actions often savored 
 ridiculously of the sublime. Then 
 and there, gazing with folded arms 
 on this fortress of Thespis, the 
 polytechnic man organized his first 
 assault. The next evening he made 
 it. 
 
 Five months previously he had sent 
 the manager three great, large trage- 
 dies. He knew the aversion a theat- 
 rical manager has to rend a manuscript 
 play, not recommended by influential 
 folk; an aversion which always has 
 been carried to superstition. So he 
 hit on the following scheme : — 
 
 He wrote Mr. Rich a letter; in 
 this he told Mr. Rich that he (Trip- 
 let) was aware what a quantity of 
 trash is offered every week to a mana- 
 ger, how disheartening it must be to 
 read it at all, and how natural, after 
 a while, to read none. Therefore, 
 he (Triplet) had provided that Mr. 
 Rich might economize his time, an*" 
 yet not remain in ignorance of tho
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 od 
 
 dramatic treasure that lay ready to 
 his hand. 
 
 " The soul of a play," continued 
 Triplet, "is the plot or fable. A 
 gentleman of your experience can de- 
 cide at once whether a plot or story is 
 one to take the public ! " 
 
 So then he drew out, in full, the 
 three plots. He wrote these plots in 
 verse! Heaven forgive us all, he 
 really did. There were also two 
 margins left ; on one, which was nar- 
 row, he jotted down the locale per 
 page of the most brilliant passages ; 
 on the other margin, which was as 
 wide as the column of the plot, he 
 made careful drawings of the person- 
 ages in the principal dramatic situa- 
 tions ; seroils issued from their mouths, 
 on which were written the words of 
 fire that were flowing from each in 
 these eruptions of the dramatic action. 
 All was referred to pages in the man- 
 uscripts. 
 
 " By this means, sir," resumed the 
 latter, " you will gut my fish in a 
 jiffy ; permit me to recall that expres- 
 sion, with apologies for my freedom. 
 I would say, you will, in a few min- 
 utes of your valuable existence, skim 
 the cream of Triplet." 
 
 This author's respect for the mana- 
 ger's time carried him into further 
 and unusual details. 
 
 " Breakfast," said he, " is a quiet 
 meal. Let me respectfully suggest, 
 that by placing one of my plots on 
 the table, with, say, the BUgar-basin 
 upon it (this, again, is a mere sugges- 
 tion), and the play it appertains to on 
 yourother side ; you can readily judge 
 my work without disturbing the avo- 
 cations of the day, and master a play 
 in tin-, twinkling of a teacup; forgive 
 my facetiousness. This day month, 
 at ten of the clock, 1 shall expect," 
 said Triplet, with sudden severity, 
 " sir, your decision ! " 
 
 Then, gliding back to the courtier, 
 he formally disowned. all special title 
 to the consideration lie expected from 
 Mr. Rich's well-known courtesy; still 
 be begged permission to remind that 
 gentleman, that he had six years ago 
 
 painted for him a lar^e scene, illumi- 
 nated by two great poetical incidents : 
 a red sun, of dimensions never seen 
 out of doors in this or any country ; 
 and an ocean of sand, yellower than 
 up to that time had been attained in 
 art or nature ; and that once, when 
 the audience, late in the evening, had 
 suddenly demanded a popular song 
 from Mr. Nokes, he (Triplet) seeing 
 the orchestra thinned by desertion, 
 and nugatory by iutoxieation, had 
 started from the pit, resuscitated with 
 the whole contents of his snuff-box 
 the bass fiddle, snatched the leader's 
 violin, and carried Mr. Nokes tri- 
 umphantly through ; that thunders 
 of applause had followed, and Mr. 
 Nokes had kindly returned thanks 
 for both ; but that he (Triplet) had has- 
 tily retired to evade the manager's 
 acknowledgments, preferring to wait 
 an opportunity like the present, when 
 both interests could be conciliat- 
 ed, &c. 
 
 This letter he posted at its destina- 
 tion, to save time, and returned trium- 
 phant home. He had now forgiven 
 and almost forgotten Vane ; and had 
 reflected that, after all, the drama was 
 his proper walk. 
 
 " My dear," said he to Mrs. Trip- 
 let, "this family is on the eve of a 
 great triumph ! " Then, inverting 
 that order of the grandiloquent and 
 the homely Which he invented in our 
 first chapter, he proceeded to say : " I 
 have reared in a single day a new ave- 
 nue by which histrionic greatness, hith- 
 erto obstructed, may become accessi- 
 ble. Wife, I think I have done the 
 trick at last. LysimachtiS ! " added he, 
 "let a libation be poured out on so smil- 
 ing an occasion, and a burnt-offering 
 rise to propitiate the celestial powers. 
 Run to the ' Sun,' you dbg. Three 
 pennyworth of ale, and a hap'orth o' 
 tobacco." 
 
 Ere the month was out, I am sorry 
 to say, the Triplets were reduced to a 
 state ofbeggary. Mrs. Triplet's health 
 
 had long been failing; and, although 
 
 her duties at her little theatre were 
 Kghl and occasional, the manager was
 
 36 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 obliged to discharge her, since she 
 could not be depended upon. 
 
 The family had not enough to eat ! 
 Think of that ! They were not warm 
 at night, and they felt gnawing and 
 faintness often by day. Think of 
 that ! 
 
 Fortune was unjust here. The man 
 was laughable, and a goose ; and had 
 no genius either for writing, painting, 
 or acting ; but in that he resembled 
 most writers, painters, and actors of 
 his own day and ours. He was not 
 beneath the average of what men call 
 art, and it is art's antipodes, — tread- 
 mill artifice. 
 
 Other fluent ninnies shared gain, 
 and even fame, and were called ' pen- 
 men,' in Triplet's day. Other rant- 
 ers were quietly getting rich by noise. 
 Other liars and humbugs were paint- 
 ing out o' doors in-doors, and eating 
 mutton instead of thistles for drenched 
 stinging - nettles, yclept trees ; for 
 block-tin clouds ; for butlers' pantry 
 sc;is, and garret-conceived lakes ; for 
 molten sugar-candy rivers ; for airless 
 atmosphere and sunless air ; for carpet 
 nature, and cold, dead fragments of an 
 earth all soul and living glory to every 
 cultivated eye but a routine painter's. 
 Yet the man of many such mediocri- 
 ties could not keep the pot boiling. 
 We suspect that, to those who would 
 rise in life, even strong versatility is a 
 very doubtful good, and weak versa- 
 tility ruination. 
 
 At last, the bitter, weary month 
 was gone, and Triplet's eye bright- 
 ened gloriously. He donned his best 
 suit ; and, whilst tying his cravat, lec- 
 tured his family, i'irst, he compli- 
 mented them upon their deportment 
 in adversity ; hinted that moralists, 
 not experience, had informed him 
 prosperity was far more trying to the 
 character. Put them all solemnly on 
 their guard down to Lucy, cetat five, 
 that they were morituri and ce, and 
 must be pleased to abstain from " inso- 
 lent gladness " upon his return. 
 
 " Sweet are the uses of adversity ! " 
 continued this cheerful monitor. "If 
 we had not been hard up this while, 
 
 we should not come with a full relish 
 to meat three times a week, which, 
 unless I am an ass (and I don't see 
 myself in that light)," said Triplet, 
 dryly, "will, I apprehend, be, after 
 this day, the primary condition of our 
 future existence." 
 
 " James, take the picture with you," 
 said Mrs. Triplet, in one of those 
 calm, little, desponding voices that fall 
 upon the soul so agreeably when one 
 is a cock-a-hoop, and desires, with per- 
 mission, so to remain. 
 
 " What on earth am I to take Mrs. 
 YVoffington's portrait for ? " 
 
 " We have nothing in the house," 
 said the wife, blushing. 
 
 Triplet's eye glittered like a rattle- 
 snake's. 
 
 " The intimation is eccentric," said 
 he. " Are you mad, Jane ? Pray," 
 continued he, veiling his wrath in 
 scornful words, " is it requisite, hero- 
 ic, or judicious on the eve, or more 
 correctly the morn, of affluence to de- 
 posit an unfinished work of art with a 
 mercenary relation ? Hang it, Jane ! 
 would you really have me pawn Mrs. 
 WotHngton to-day ? " 
 
 " James," said Jane, steadily, " the 
 manager may disappoint you, we have 
 often been disappointed ; so take the 
 picture with you. They will give you 
 ten shillings on it." 
 
 Triplet was of those who see things 
 roseate, Mrs. Triplet lurid. 
 
 " Madam," said the poet, " for the 
 first time in our conjugal career, your 
 commands deviate so entirely from 
 reason, that I respectfully withdraw 
 that implicit obedience which has 
 hitherto constituted my principal rep- 
 utation. I 'in hanged if 1 do it, 
 Jane ! " 
 
 " Dear James, to oblige me ! " 
 
 " That alters the case ; you confess 
 it is unreasonable ? " 
 
 " yes ! it is only to oblige me." 
 
 " Enough ! " said Triplet, whose 
 tongue was often a flail that fell on 
 friend, foe, and self indiscriminately. 
 " Allow it to be unreasonable, and I 
 do it as a matter of course, — to please 
 you, Jane."
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 
 Accordingly the good soul wrapped 
 it in sreen baize ; but to relieve his 
 mind he was obliged to get behind his 
 wife, and shrug his shoulders to Ly- 
 simachus and the eldest girl, as who 
 should say voila bien une femme votre 
 mere a vote ! 
 
 At last he was off, in high spirits. 
 He reached Covent Garden at half- 
 past ten, and there the poor fellow 
 was sucked into our narrative whirl- 
 pool. 
 
 We must, however, leave him for a 
 few minutes. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Sir Chart.es Pomander was de- 
 tained in the country much longer 
 than he expected. 
 
 He was rewarded by a little adven- 
 ture. As he cantered up to London 
 with two servants and a post-boy, all 
 riding on horses ordered in relays be- 
 forehand, he came up with an ante- 
 diluvian coach, stuck fast by the road- 
 side. Looking into the window, with 
 tin' humane design of quizzing the 
 elders who should be there, he saw a 
 young lady of surpassing beauty. 
 This altered the case ; Sir Charles in- 
 stantly drew bridle and offered his 
 services. 
 
 The lady thanked him, and bein^c 
 an innocent country lady, she opened 
 those sluices, her eyes, and two tears 
 gently trickled down, while she told 
 him how eager she was to reach Lon- 
 don, and how mortified at this de- 
 lay. 
 
 The #ood Sir Charles was touched. 
 He leaped bis horse over a hedge, gal- 
 loped to a farm-house in sight, and re- 
 turned with ropes and rustic-;. These 
 and Sir ( Iharles's horses soon drew 
 the coach out of some Btiffish elay. 
 
 The lady thanked him, and thanked 
 liiin, and thanked him, with height- 
 ening color and beaming eyes, and he 
 rode away like a hero. 
 
 Before he had f^one five miles he 
 became thoughtful and self-dissatis- 
 fied, finally his remorse came to a 
 
 head ; he called to him the keenest of 
 his servants, Hunsdon, and ordered 
 him to ride back past the carriage, 
 then follow and put up at the same 
 inn, to learn who the lady was, and 
 whither going ; and, this knowledge 
 gained, to ride into town full speed 
 and tell his master all about it. Sir 
 Charles then resumed his complacen- 
 cy, and cantered into London that 
 same evening. 
 
 Arrived there, he set himself in car- 
 nest to cut out his friend with Mrs. 
 Wofiington. He had already caused 
 his correspondence with that lady to 
 grow warm and more tender by de- 
 grees. Keeping a copy of his last, he 
 always knew where he was. Cupid's 
 barometer rose by rule ; and so he ar- 
 rived by just gradations at an artful 
 climax, and made her in terms of 
 chivalrous affection, an offer of a 
 house, &c, three hundred a year, &c., 
 not forgetting his heart, &c. He 
 knew that the ladies of the stage have 
 an ear for flattery and an eye to the 
 main chance. 
 
 The j;ood Sir Charles felt sur~ that, 
 however ^he might flirt with Vane or 
 others, she would not forego a posi- 
 tion for any disinterested penchant. 
 Still, as he was a close player, he de- 
 termined to throw a little cold water 
 on that flame. His plan, like every- 
 thing truly scientific, was simple. 
 
 " 1 '11 run her flown to him, and ridi- 
 cule him to her," resolved this faithful 
 friend and lover dear. 
 
 He began with Vane. He found 
 him just leaving his own house. Af- 
 ter the usual compliments, some such 
 dialogue as this took place between 
 
 Telemachus and pseudo -Mentor: — 
 
 " I trust you are not really in the 
 power of this actress 1 " 
 
 " You are the slave of a word," re- 
 plied Vane. " Would you confound 
 black and white because both arc col- 
 ors ' She is like that sisterhood in 
 nothing but a name. Even on the 
 Btage they have nothing in common. 
 They are puppets, — all attitude ami 
 trick : she is all ease, grace, and 
 i nature."
 
 38 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 "Nature!" cried Pomander. " Txiis- 
 sez-moi tranquilie. They have artifice, 
 — nature's libel. She has art, — na- 
 ture's counterfeit." 
 
 " Her voice is truth told by mu- 
 sic," cried the poetical lover ; " theirs 
 are jingling instruments of false- 
 hood." 
 
 " They are all instruments," said 
 the satirist; " she is rather the best 
 tuned and played." 
 
 " Her face speaks in every linea- 
 ment ; theirs are rouged and wrinkled 
 masks." 
 
 " Her mask is the best made, 
 mounted, and moved ; that is all." 
 
 " She is a fountain of true feel- 
 ing." 
 
 "No; a pipe that conveys it with- 
 out spilling or holding a drop." 
 
 " She is an angel of talent, sir." 
 
 " She 's a devil of deception." 
 
 " She is a divinity to worship." 
 
 " She 's a woman to tight shy of. 
 There is not a woman in London bet- 
 ter known," continued Sir Charles. 
 " She is a fair actress on the boards, 
 and a great actress off them ; but I 
 can tell you how to add a new charm 
 to her." 
 
 " Heaven can only do that," said 
 Vane, hastily. 
 
 " Yes, you can. Make her blush. 
 Ask her for the list of your predeces- 
 sors " 
 
 Vane winced visibly. Pic quick- 
 ened his step, as if to get rid of this 
 gadfly. 
 
 " 1 spoke to Mr. Quin," said he, 
 at last; " and he, who has no preju- 
 dice, paid her character the highest 
 compliment." 
 
 " You have paid it the highest it 
 admits," was the reply. " You have 
 let it deceive you." Sir Charles con- 
 tinued in a more solemn tone : " Pray 
 be Warned. Why is it every man of 
 intellect loves an actress once in his 
 life, and no man of sense ever did it 
 twice ? " 
 
 This last hit, coming after the 
 carte and tierce we have described, 
 brought an expression of pain to Mr. 
 Vane's face. He said abruptly : 
 
 " Excuse me, I desire to be alone for 
 half an hour." 
 
 Macliiavcl bowed ; and, instead of 
 taking offence, said, in a tone full of 
 feeling : " Ah ! I give you pain 1 
 But you are right ; think it calmly 
 over awhile, and you will see I ad- 
 vise you well." 
 
 He then made for the theatre, and 
 the weakish personage he had been 
 playing upon walked down to the 
 river, almost ran, in fact. He want- 
 ed to be out of sight. 
 
 He got behind some houses, and 
 then his face seemed literally to break 
 loose from confinement; so anxious, 
 sad, fearful, and bitter were the ex- 
 pressions that coursed each other over 
 that handsome countenance. 
 
 What is the meaning of these hot 
 and cold fits 1 It is not Sir Charles 
 who has the power to shake Mr. 
 Vane so without some help from 
 within. There is something wiony about 
 this man! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Machiavel entered the green- 
 room, intending to wait for Mrs. 
 Woffington, and carry out the second 
 part of his plan. 
 
 He knew that weak minds cannot 
 make head against ridicule, and with 
 this pickaxe he proposed to clear the 
 way, before he came to grave, sensi- 
 ble, business love with the lady. 
 Machiavel was a man of talent. If 
 he has been a silent personage hither- 
 to, it is merely because it was not his 
 cue to talk, but listen ; otherwise, he 
 was rather a master of the art of 
 speech. He could be insinuating, el- 
 oquent, sensible, or satirical, at will. 
 This personage sat in the green-room. 
 In one hand was his diamond snuff- 
 box, in the other a richly laced hand* 
 kerchief ; his clouded cane reposed 
 by his side. 
 
 There was an air of success about 
 this personage. The gentle reader, 
 however conceited a dog, could not 
 see how he was to defeat Sir Charles-
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 S3 
 
 who was tall, stout, handsome, rich, 
 witty, self-sufficient, cool, majestic, 
 courageous, and in whom were unit- 
 ed the advantages of a hard head, a 
 tough stomach, and no heart at all. 
 
 This great creature sat expecting 
 Mrs. Woffington, like Olympian Jove 
 awaiting Juno. But he was mortal 
 after all ; for suddenly the serenity 
 of that adamantine countenance was 
 disturbed ; his eye dilated ; his grace 
 and dignity were shaken. He hud- 
 dled his handkerchief into one pocket, 
 his snuff-box into another, and for- 
 got his cane. He ran to the door in 
 unaffected terror. 
 
 Where are all his fine airs before a 
 real danger? Love, intrigue, diplo- 
 macy, were all driven from his mind ; 
 for he beheld that approaching, which 
 is the greatest peril and disaster 
 known to social man. He saw a bore 
 coming into the room ! 
 
 In a wild thirst for novelty, Po- 
 mander had once penetrated to Good- 
 man's Fields Theatre; there he had 
 unguardedly put a question to a car- 
 penter behind the scene ; a seedy- 
 black poet instantly pushed the car- 
 penter away (down a trap it is 
 thought), and answered it in seven 
 pages, and in continuation was so 
 vaguely communicative, that he drove 
 Sir Charles hack into the far west. 
 
 Sir Charles knew him again in a 
 moment, and at sight of him bolted. 
 They met at the door. "Ah! Mr. 
 Triplet!" said the fugitive, "en- 
 chanted — to wish yon good morn- 
 ing ! " and he plunged into the hid- 
 ing-places of the theatre. 
 
 " That is a very polite gentleman ! " 
 thought Triplet. He was followed 
 by the call-boy) to whom he was ex- 
 plaining that his avocations, thongh 
 numerous, would not prevent his 
 paying Mr. Rich the compliment of 
 waiting all day in his green-rocfm, 
 sooner than go without an answer to 
 three important propositions, in which 
 the town and the arts were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 " What is your name 7 " said the 
 boy of business to the man of words. 
 
 " Mr. Triplet," said Triplet. 
 
 " Triplet 1 There is something 
 for you in the hall," said the urchin, 
 and went off to fetch it. 
 
 " I knew it," said Triplet to him- 
 self; "they are accepted. There's 
 a note in the hall to fix the reading." 
 He then derided his own absurdity in 
 having ever for a moment desponded. 
 " Master of three arts, by each of 
 which men grow fat, how was it 
 possible he should starve all his 
 days ! " 
 
 He enjoyed a natural vanity for a 
 few moments, and then came more 
 generous feelings. What sparkling 
 eyes there would be in Lambeth to- 
 day ! The butcher, at sight of Mr. 
 Rich's handwriting, would give him 
 credit. Jane should have a new 
 gown. 
 
 But when his tragedies were played, 
 and he paid ! El Dorado ! His chil- 
 dren should be the neatest in the 
 street. Lysimachus and Koxalana 
 should learn the English language, 
 cost what it might ; sausages should 
 be diurnal ; and he himself would 
 not be puffed up, fat, lazy. No ! he 
 would work all the harder, be affable 
 as ever, and, above all, never swamp 
 the father, husband, and honest man 
 in the poet and the blackguard of 
 sentiment. 
 
 Next his reflections took a business 
 turn. 
 
 " These tragedies — the scenery ? 
 O, I shall have to paint it myself. 
 The heroes ? Well, they have no- 
 bodv who will play them as 1 should. 
 (This was true!) It will lie hard 
 work, all this; but then I shall he 
 paid for it. I cannot goon this way : 
 I must and will he paid separately for 
 my branches." 
 
 Just as he came to this resolution, 
 the boy returned with a brown-paper 
 parcel, addressed to Mr. James Trip- 
 let. Triplet weighed it in his hand ; 
 it was heavy. " How is this ! " cried 
 he. " O, 'I sec," said he. " these 
 are the tragedies. He sends them to 
 me for some trilling alterations : man- 
 agers always do." Triplet then do-
 
 40 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. . 
 
 termined to adopt these alterations, 
 if judicious ; for, argued he, sensibly 
 enough : " Managers are practical 
 men : and we, in the heat of composi- 
 tion, sometimes (sic?) say more than 
 is necessary, and become tedious." 
 
 With that he opened the parcel, 
 and looked for Mr. Rich's communi- 
 cation ; it was not in sight. He had 
 to look between the leaves of the man- 
 uscripts for it ; it was not there. He 
 shook them ; it did not fall out. He 
 shook them as a dog shakes a rabbit ; 
 nothing ! 
 
 The tragedies were returned with- 
 out a word. It took him some time 
 to realize the full weight of the blow ; 
 but at last he saw that the manager 
 of the Theatre Royal, Covent Gar- 
 den, declined to take a tragedy by 
 Triplet into consideration or bare ex- 
 amination. 
 
 He turned dizzy for a moment. 
 Something between a sigh and a cry 
 escaped him, and he sank upon a cov- 
 ered bench that ran along the wall. 
 His poor tragedies fell here and there 
 upon the ground, and his head went 
 down upon his hands, which rested 
 on Mrs. Woffington's picture. His 
 anguish was so sharp, it choked his 
 breath ; when he recovered it, his eye 
 bent down upon the picture. " Ah, 
 Jane," he groaned, " you know this 
 villanous world better than I ! " He 
 placed the picture gently on the seat 
 (that picture must now be turned 
 into bread), and slowly stooped for 
 his tragedies ; they had fallen hither 
 and thither ; he had to crawl about 
 for them ; he was an emblem of all 
 the humiliations letters endure. 
 
 As he went after them on all-fours, 
 more than one tear pattered on the 
 dusty floor. Poor fellow! he was 
 Triplet, and could not have died 
 without tingeing the death-rattle with 
 some absurdity ; but, after all, he was 
 a father driven to despair ; a castle- 
 builder, with his work rudely scat- 
 tered ; an artist, brutally crushed and 
 insulted by a greater dunce than him- 
 self. 
 
 Faint, sick, and dark, he sat a mo- 
 
 ment on the seat before he could find 
 strength to go home and destroy all 
 the hopes he had raised. 
 
 Whilst Triplet sat collapsed on the 
 bench, fate sent into the room all in 
 one moment, as if to insult his sor- 
 row, a creature that seemed the god- 
 dess of gayety, impervious to a care. 
 She swept in with a bold, free step, 
 for she was rehearsing a man's part, 
 and thundered without rant, but with 
 a spirit and fire, and pace, beyond 
 the conception of our poor tame ac- 
 tresses of 1852, these lines : — 
 
 " Now, by the joys 
 Which my soul still has uncontrolled pursued, 
 I would not turn aside from my least pleasure, 
 Though all thy force were armed to bar my 
 
 way ; 
 But, like the birds, great Nature's happy 
 
 commoners, 
 Rifle the sweets — " 
 
 "I beg — your par — don, sir!" 
 holding the book on a level with her 
 eye, she had nearly run over " two 
 poets instead of one." 
 
 " Nay, madam," said Triplet, ad- 
 miring, though sad, wretched, but po- 
 lite, "pray continue. Happy the 
 hearer, and still happier the author 
 of verses so spoken. Ah ! " 
 
 " Yes," replied the lady, " if you 
 could persuade authors what we do 
 for them, when we coax good mu- 
 sic to grow on barren words. Are 
 you an author, sir 1 " added she, sly- 
 
 " In a small way, madam. I have 
 here three trifles, — tragedies." 
 
 Mrs. Wofrington looked askant at 
 them, like a shy mare. 
 
 " Ah, madam ! " said Triplet, in 
 one of his insane fits, "if I might but 
 submit them to such a judgment as 
 yours 1 " 
 
 He laid his hand on them. It was 
 as when a strange dog sees us go to 
 take up a stone. 
 
 The actress recoiled. 
 
 " I am no judge of such things," 
 cried she, hastily. 
 
 Triplet bit his lip. He could have 
 killed her. It was provoking, people 
 would rather be hung than read a
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 41 
 
 manuscript. Yet what hopeless trash 
 they will read in crowds, which was 
 manuscript a day ago. Les imbeciles 1 
 
 " No more is the manager of this 
 theatre a judge of such things," cried 
 the outraged quill-driver, bitterly. 
 
 " What ! has he accepted them ? " 
 said needle-tongue. 
 
 " No, madam, he has had them six 
 months, and sec, madam, he has re- 
 turned them me without a word." 
 
 Triplet's lip trembled. 
 
 " Patience, my good sir," was the 
 merry reply. " Tragic authors should 
 possess that, for they teach it to their 
 audiences. Managers, sir, are like 
 Eastern monarchs, inaccessible but to 
 slaves and sultanas. Do you know I 
 called upon Mr. Rich fifteen times 
 before I could see him 1 " 
 
 " You, madam ? Impossible ! " 
 
 " O, it was years ago, and he has 
 paid a hundred pounds for each of 
 those little visits. Well, now, let me 
 see, fifteen times ; you must write 
 twelve more tragedies, and then he 
 will read one ; and when he has read 
 it, he will favor you with his judg- 
 ment upon it ; and when you have 
 got that, you will have what all the 
 world knows is not worth a farthing. 
 He! he! he! 
 
 ' And like the birds, gay Nature's happy 
 
 commoners. 
 Rifle the sweets' — mum — mum — mum."- 
 
 Her high spirits made Triplet sad- 
 der. To think that one word from 
 this laughing lady would secure his 
 work a bearing, and that he dared 
 not ask her. She was up in the 
 world, he was down. She was great, 
 be was nobody, lie felt a sort of chill 
 at this woman, — all brains and no 
 heart. II- took his picture and his 
 plays under his arms and crept sor- 
 rowfully away. 
 
 The actress's eye fell on him as be 
 went off like a fifth act. His Don 
 Quixote face struck her. She had 
 Keen it before. 
 
 " Sir," said she. 
 
 "Madam," said Triplet, at the 
 door. 
 
 " We have met before. There, don't 
 speak, I '11 tell you who you are. 
 Yours is a face that has been good to 
 me, and I never forget them." 
 
 " Me, madam ! " said Triplet, ta- 
 ken aback. " I trust I know what 
 is due to you better than to be good 
 to you, madam," said he, in his con- 
 fused way. 
 
 "To be sure!" cried she, "it is 
 Mr. Triplet, good Mr. Triplet!" 
 And this vivacious dame, putting her 
 book down, seized both Triplet's hands 
 and shook them. 
 
 He shook hers warmly in return 
 out of excess of timidity, and dropped 
 tragedies, and kicked at them convul- 
 sively when they were down, for fear 
 they should be in her way, and his 
 mouth opened, and his eyes glared. 
 
 " Mr. Triplet," said the lady, " do 
 you remember an Irish orange-girl 
 you used to give sixpence to at Good- 
 man's Fields, and pat her on the head 
 and j^ive her good advice, like a good 
 old soul as you were 1 She took the 
 sixpence." 
 
 " Madam," said Trip, recovering 
 a grain of pomp, " singular as it may 
 appear, I remember the young per- 
 son ; site was very engaging. I trust 
 no harm hath befallen her, for mc- 
 thought I discovered, in spite of her 
 brogue, a beautiful nature in her." 
 
 " Go along wid your blarney," an- 
 swered a rich brogue; " an' is it the 
 coniauther ye 'd be putting on poor 
 little Peggy?" 
 
 " Oh ! oh gracious ! " gasped Trip- 
 let. 
 
 " Yes," was the reply ; but into 
 that "yes" site threw a whole sen- 
 tence of meaning. " Fine cha my 
 oranges ! " chanted she, to put the 
 matter beyond dispute. 
 
 "Am I really so honored as to have 
 patted you on that queen-like head ! " 
 and he glared at it. 
 
 " On the same head which now I 
 wear," replied she, pompously. "I 
 
 kept it for the convayniencc hintirely, 
 
 only there s more, in it. Well, Mr. 
 Triplet, you sec what time has done 
 for me; now tell me whether lie has
 
 42 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 been as kind to you : are yon going to 
 speak to me, Mr. Triplet 1 " 
 
 As a decayed hunter stands lean 
 and disconsolate, head poked forward 
 like a goose's, but if hounds sweep by 
 his paddock in full cry, followed by 
 horses who are what he was not, he 
 does by reason of the good blood 
 that is and will be in his heart, dum 
 spiritus hoss regit wins, cock his ears, 
 erect his tail, and trot fiery to his 
 extremest hedge, and look over it, 
 nostril distended, mane flowing, and 
 neigh the hunt onward like a trum- 
 pet ; so Triplet, who had manhood at 
 bottom, instead of whining out his 
 troubles in the ear of encouraging 
 beauty, as a sneaking spirit would, 
 perked up, and resolved to put the 
 best face upon it aJl before so charm- 
 ing a creature of the other sex. 
 
 " Yes, madam," cried he, with the 
 air of one who could have smacked 
 his lips, "Providence has blessed me 
 with an excellent wife and four 
 charming children. My wife was 
 Miss Chatterton : you remember 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes ! Where is she playing 
 now i. " 
 
 " Why, madam, her health is too 
 weak for it." 
 
 " Oh ! — You were scene-painter. 
 Do you still paint scenes 1 " 
 
 " With the pen, madam, not the 
 brush : as the wags said, I transferred 
 the distemper from my canvas to my 
 imagination." And Triplet laughed 
 uproariously. 
 
 When he had done, Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton, who had joined the laugh, in- 
 quired quietly whether his pieces had 
 met with success. 
 
 " Eminent — in the closet ; the 
 stage is to come ! " and he smiled 
 absurdly again. 
 
 The lady smiled back. 
 
 " In short," said Triplet, recapitu- 
 lating, " being blessed with health, 
 and more tastes in the arts than most, 
 and a cheerful spirit, I should be 
 wrong, madam, to repine; and this 
 day, in particular, is a happy one," 
 added the rose colorist, " since the 
 
 great Mrs. Woffington has deigned to 
 remember me, and call me friend." 
 
 Such was Triplet's summary. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington drew out her 
 memorandum-book, and took down 
 her summary of the crafty Triplet's 
 facts. So easy is it for us Triplets to 
 draw the wool over the eyes of women 
 and Woffingtons. 
 
 " Triplet, discharged from scene- 
 painting; wife, no engagement ; four 
 children supported by his pen, — 
 that is to say, starving ; lose no 
 time ! " 
 
 She closed her book; and smiled, 
 and said : — 
 
 " I wish these things were comedies 
 instead of trash-edies, as the French 
 call them ; we would cut one in half, 
 and slice away the finest passages, 
 and then I would act in it : and you 
 would sec how the stage-door would 
 fly open at sight of the author." 
 
 " Heaven ! " said poor Trip, ex- 
 cited by this picture. " I '11 go home, 
 and write a comedy this moment." 
 
 " Stay ! " said she ; " you had bet- 
 ter leave the tragedies with me." 
 
 " My dear madam ! You will 
 read them ? " 
 
 " Ahem ! I will make poor Kich 
 read them." 
 
 " But, madam, he has rejected 
 them." 
 
 " That is the first step. Reading 
 them comes after, when it comes at 
 all. What have you got in that 
 green baize ? " 
 
 " In this green baize ? " 
 
 " Well, in this green baize, then." 
 
 " O madam ! nothing — nothing ! 
 To tell the truth, it is an adventurous 
 attempt from memory. I saw you 
 play Silvia, madam ; I was so 
 charmed, that I came every night. 
 I took your face home with me, — 
 forgive my presumption, madam, — 
 and I produced this faint adumbra- 
 tion, which I expose with diffidence." 
 
 So then he took the green baize oflf. 
 
 The color rushed into her face ; 
 she was evidently gratified. Poor, 
 silly Mrs. Triplet was doomed to be 
 right about this portrait.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 -13 
 
 "I will give you a sitting," said 
 she. " You will find painting dull 
 faces a better trade than writing dull 
 tragedies. Work for other people's 
 vanity, not your own ; that is the art 
 of art. And now I want Mr. Trip- 
 let's address." 
 
 " On the fly-leaf of each work, mad- 
 am," replied that florid author, 
 " and also at the foot of every page 
 which contains a particularly brilliant 
 passage, I have been careful to insert 
 the address of James Triplet, painter, 
 actor, and dramatist, and Mrs. Wof- 
 fington's humble, devoted servant." 
 He bowed ridiculously low, and 
 moved towards the door; but some- 
 thing gushed across his heart, and he 
 returned with long strides to her. 
 " Madam ! " cried he, with a jaunty 
 manner, " you have inspired a son 
 of Thespis with dreams of eloquence, 
 you have tuned in a higher key a 
 poet's lyre, you have tinged a paint- 
 er's existence with brighter colors, 
 and — and — " His mouth worked 
 still, but no more artificial words would 
 come. He sobbed out, " and God in 
 heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington ! " 
 and ran out of the room. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington looked after him 
 with interest, for this confirmed her 
 suspicions; but suddenly her expres- 
 sion changed, she wore a look we 
 have not yet seen upon her, — it was 
 a half-cunning, half-spiteful look ; it 
 was suppressed in a moment, she gave 
 herself to her book, and presently Sir 
 Charles Pomander sauntered into the 
 room. 
 
 " Ah ! what, Mrs. Woffington here ? " 
 said the diplomate. 
 
 " Sir Charles Pomander, I declare ! " 
 said the actress. 
 
 " I have just parted with an ad- 
 mirer of yours." 
 
 " I wish I could part with them 
 all," was the reply. 
 
 " A pastoral youth, who means to 
 win La Wollington by agricultural 
 courtship, — As .shepherds woo in 
 sylvan shades." 
 
 M Willi oaten pili'; the rustic maids," 
 
 quoth the Woffington, improvis- 
 ing. 
 
 The diplomate laughed, the actress 
 laughed, and said, laughingly : " Tell 
 me what he says word fur word ? " 
 
 " It will only make you laugh." 
 
 " Well, and am I never to laugh, 
 who provide so many laughs for you 
 all ? ' S 
 
 " C'est juste. You shall share tho 
 general merriment. Imagine a ro- 
 mantic soul, who adores you for your 
 simplicity ! " 
 
 " My simplicity ! Am I so very 
 simple f " 
 
 " No," said Sir Charles, monstrous 
 dryly. " He says you are out of 
 place on the stage, and wants to take 
 the star from its firmament, and put 
 it in a cottage." 
 
 " I am not a star," replied tho 
 Woffington, "I am only a meteor. 
 And what does the man think I am 
 to do without this (here she imitated 
 applause) from my dear public's 
 thousand hands 1 " 
 
 " You are to have this " (he mim- 
 icked a kiss) " from a single mouth, 
 instead." 
 
 " He is mad ! Tell me what more 
 he says. O, don't stop to invent ; I 
 should detect you ; and you would 
 only spoil this man." 
 
 He laughed conceitedly. " I should 
 spoil him! Well, then, he proposes 
 to be your friend rather than your 
 lover, and keep you from being talked 
 of, he ! he ! instead of adding to your 
 e'/at." 
 
 "And if he is your friend, why 
 don't you tell him my real character, 
 and send him into the country '. " 
 
 She said this rapidly and with an 
 appearance of earnest. The diplo- 
 matist fell into the trap. 
 
 " I do," said he ; " but he snaps his 
 fingers at me and common sense and 
 the world. I really think there is 
 only one way to get rid of him, and 
 with him of every annoyance." 
 
 " Ah ! that would be nice." 
 
 " Delicious ! I had the honor, 
 madam, of laying certain proposals 
 at your feet.
 
 44 
 
 IT.G WOFFINGTON. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, — your letter, Sir 
 Charles. I have only just had time 
 to run my eye down it. Let us ex- 
 amine it together." 
 
 She took out the letter with a won- 
 derful appearance of interest, and the 
 diplomate allowed himself to fall into 
 the absurd position to which she in- 
 vited him. They put their two heads 
 together over the letter. 
 
 " ' A coach, a country-house, pin- 
 money,' — and I 'm so tired of houses 
 and coaches and pins. Oh ! yes, 
 here 's something ; what is this you 
 offer me, up in this corner "? " 
 
 Sir Charles inspected the place 
 carefully, and announced that it was 
 " his heart." 
 
 " And he can't even write it ! " 
 said she. "That word is 'earth.' 
 Ah ! well, you know best. There is 
 your letter, Sir Charles." 
 
 She courtesied, returned him the 
 letter, and resumed her study of Lo- 
 thario. 
 
 " Favor me with your answer, 
 madam," said her suitor. 
 
 " You have it," was the reply. 
 
 " Madam, I don't understand your 
 answer," said Sir Charles, stiffly. 
 
 " I can't find you answers and un- 
 derstandings too," was the lady-like 
 reply. " You must beat my answer 
 into your understanding whilst I beat 
 this man's verse into mine. 
 
 • And like the birds, &c.' » 
 
 Pomander recovered himself a lit- 
 tle ; he laughed with quiet insolence. 
 " Tell me," said he, " do you really 
 refuse ? " 
 
 " My good soul," said Mrs. Wof- 
 fington, " why this surprise ! Are 
 you so ignorant of the stage and the 
 world as not to know that I refuse 
 such offers as yours every week of my 
 life ? " 
 
 " I know better," was the cool re- 
 ply. She left it unnoticed. 
 
 " I have so many of these," con- 
 tinued she, " that I have begun to 
 forget they are insults." 
 
 At this word the button broke off 
 Sir Charles's foil. 
 
 "Insults, madam! They arc the 
 highest compliments you have left it 
 in our power to pay you." 
 
 The other took the button off her 
 foil. 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried she, with well- 
 feigned surprise. " Oh ! I under- 
 stand. To be your mistress could 
 be but a temporary disgrace ; to be 
 your wife would be a lasting dis- 
 credit," she continued. " And now, 
 sir, having played your rival's game, 
 and showed me }'our whole hand " (a 
 light broke in upon our diplomate), 
 " do something to recover the repu- 
 tation of a man of the world. A 
 gentleman is somewhere about in 
 whom you have interested me by 
 your lame satire ; pray tell him 
 I am in the greenroom, with no 
 better companion than this bad 
 poet." 
 
 Sir Charles clenched his teeth. 
 
 " I accept the delicate commis- 
 sion," replied he, " that you may 
 see how easily the man of the world 
 drops what the rustic is eager to pick 
 up" 
 
 " That is better," said the actress, 
 with a provoking appearance of good- 
 humor. " You have a woman's 
 tongue, if not her wit; but, my good 
 soul," added she, with cool hauteur, 
 "remember you have something to 
 do of more importance than anything 
 you can say." 
 
 " I accept your courteous dismis- 
 sal, madam," said Pomander, grind- 
 ing his teeth. " I will send a car- 
 penter for your swain : and I leave 
 you." 
 
 He howed to the ground. 
 
 "Thanks for the double favor, 
 good Sir Charles." 
 
 She courtesied to the floor. 
 
 Feminine vengeance ! He had 
 come between her and her love. All 
 very clever, Mrs. Actress ; but was it 
 wise? 
 
 " I am revenged," thought Mrs. 
 Woffington, with a little feminine 
 smirk. 
 
 " I will be revenged," vowed Po- 
 mander, clenching his teeth.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Compare a November day with a 
 May day. They are not more unlike 
 than a beautiful woman in company 
 with a. man she is indifferent to or 
 averse, and the same woman with the 
 man of her heart by her side. 
 
 At sight of Mr. Vane, all her cold- 
 ness and nonchalance gave way to a 
 gentle complacency ; and when she 
 spoke to him, her voice, so clear and 
 cutting in the 1 ate assaut d'armes, sank 
 of its own accord into the most tender, 
 delicious tone imaginable. 
 
 Mr. Vane and she made love. He 
 pleased her, and she desired to please 
 him. My reader knows her wit, her 
 finesse, her fluency ; but he cannot 
 conceive how godlike was her way 
 of making love. I can put a few of 
 the corpses of her words upon paper, 
 but where are the heavenly tones, — 
 now calm and convincing, now soft 
 and melancholy, now thrilling with 
 tenderness, now glowing with the 
 fiery eloquence of passion ? She told 
 him that she knew the map of his 
 face ; that for some days past he had 
 been subject to an influence adverse 
 to her. She begged him, calmly, for 
 his own sake, to distrust false friends, 
 and judge her by his own heart, eyes, 
 and judgment. He promised her he 
 would. 
 
 " And I do trust you, in spite of 
 them all," said he ; " for your face is 
 the shrine of sincerity and candor. I 
 alone know you." 
 
 Then she prayed him to observe 
 the heartlessness of his sex, and to 
 say whether she had done ill to hide 
 the riches of her heart from the cold 
 and shallow, and to keep them all for 
 one honest man, " who will be my 
 friend, 1 hope," said she, "as well as 
 my lover." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Vane, " that is my 
 Ambition." 
 
 " We actresses," said she, " make 
 good the old proverb, ' Many lovers, 
 but few friends.' And <>, 't is we 
 who need a friend. Will you be 
 mine.?" 
 
 Whilst he lived, he would. 
 
 In turn, he begged her to be gener- 
 ous, and tell him the way for him, 
 Ernest Vane, inferior in wit and ad- 
 dress to many of her admirers, to win 
 her heart from them all. 
 
 This singular woman's answer is, 
 I think, worth attention 
 
 " Never act in my presence ; never 
 try to be eloquent, or clever ; never 
 force a sentiment, or turn a phrase. 
 Remember, I am the goddess of tricks. 
 Do not descend to competition with 
 me and the Pomanders of the world. 
 At all littlenesses, you will ever be 
 awkward in my eyes. And I am a 
 woman. I must have a superior to 
 love, — lie open to my eye. Light 
 itself is not more beautiful than the 
 upright man, whose bosom is open to 
 the day. O yes ! fear not you will 
 be my superior, dear ; for in me hon- 
 esty has to struggle against the habits 
 of my art and lite. Be simple and 
 sincere, and I shall love you, and 
 bless the hour you shone upon my 
 cold, artificial life. Ah, Ernest ! " 
 said she, fixing on his eyes her own, 
 the fire of which melted into tender- 
 ness as she spoke, " be my friend. 
 Come between me and the temptations 
 of an unprotected life, — the reckless- 
 ness of a vacant heart." 
 
 He threw himself at her feet. He 
 called her an angel. He told her 
 he was unworthy of her, but that he 
 would try and deserve her. Then he 
 hesitated, and trembling he said : — 
 
 " I will be frank and loyal. Had I 
 not better tell you everything? You 
 will not hate me for a confession I 
 make myself? " 
 
 "I shall like you better, — oh! so 
 much better ! " 
 
 " Then I will own to you — " 
 
 " O, do not tell me you have ever 
 loved before me ! 1 could not bear to 
 hear it ! " cried this inconsistent per- 
 sonage. 
 
 The other weak creature needed no 
 more. 
 
 " I see plainly I never loved but 
 you," said he. 
 
 " Let me hear that only ! " cried
 
 46 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 she ; " I am jealous even of the past. 
 Say you never loved hut me : never 
 mind whether it is true. My child, 
 you do not even yet know love. Er- 
 nest, shall I make you love, — as 
 none of your sex ever loved, — with 
 heart, and brain, and breath, and life, 
 and soul 1 " 
 
 With these rapturous words, she 
 poured the soul of love into his eyes ; 
 he forgot everything in the world but 
 her ; he dissolved in present happiness 
 and vowed himself hers forever : and 
 she, for her part, bade him but retain 
 her esteem and no woman ever went 
 further in love than she would. She 
 was a true epicure : she had learned 
 that passion, vulgar in itself, is god- 
 like when based upon esteem. 
 
 This tender scene was interrupted 
 by the call-boy, who brought Mrs. 
 Woffington a note from the manager, 
 informing her there would be no re- 
 hearsal. This left her at liberty, and 
 she proceeded to take a somewhat 
 abrupt leave of Mr. Vane. He was 
 endeavoring to persuade her to let 
 him be her companion until dinner- 
 time (she was to be his guest), when 
 Pomander entered the room. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington, however, was not 
 to be persuaded ; she excused herself 
 on the score of a duty which she said 
 she had to perform, and whispering 
 as she passed Pomander, " Keep your 
 own counsel," she went out rather 
 precipitately. 
 
 Vane looked slightly disappointed. 
 Sir Charles, who had returned to 
 see whether (as he fully expected) 
 she had told Vane everything, — and 
 who, at that moment, perhaps, would 
 not have been sorry had Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton's lover called him to serious ac- 
 count, — finding it was not her in- 
 tention to make mischief, and not 
 choosing to publish his own defeat, 
 dropped quietly into his old line, and 
 determined to keep the lovers in sight, 
 and play for revenge. He smiled and 
 said : " My good sir, nobody can hope 
 to monopolize Mrs. Woffington : she 
 has others to do justice to besides 
 you." 
 
 To his surprise, Mr. Vane turned 
 instantly round upon him, and, look- 
 ing him haughtily in the face, said : 
 " Sir Charles Pomander, the settled 
 malignity with which you pursue that 
 lady is unmanly and offensive to me, 
 who love her. Let our acquaintance 
 cease here, if j r ou please, or let her be 
 sacred from your venomous tongue." 
 Sir Charles bowed stiffly, and re- 
 plied, that it was only clue to himself 
 to withdraw a protection so little ap- 
 preciated. 
 
 The two friends were in the very 
 act of separating forever, when who 
 should run in but Pompey, the rene- 
 gade. He darted up to Sir Charles, 
 and said : " Massa Pomannah she in 
 a coach, going to 10, Hercules Build- 
 ings. I 'm in a hurry, Massa Poman- 
 nah." 
 
 " Where ? " cried Pomander. " Say 
 that again. 
 
 " 10, Hercules Buildings, Lambeth. 
 Me in a hurry, Massa Pomannah." 
 
 " Faithful child, there 's a guinea 
 for thee. Fly ! " 
 
 The slave flew, and, taking a short 
 cut, caught and fastened on to the 
 slow vehicle in the Strand. 
 
 " It is a house of rendezvous," said 
 Sir Charles, half to himself, half to 
 Mr. Vane. He repeated in triumph : 
 " It is a house of rendezvous." He 
 then, recovering his sang-froid, and 
 treating it all as a matter of course, 
 explained that at 10, Hercules Build- 
 ings, was a fashionable shop, with en- 
 trances from two streets ; that the best 
 Indian scarfs and shawls were sold 
 there, and that ladies kept their car- 
 riages waiting an immense time in 
 the principal street, whilst they were 
 supposed to be in the shop, or the 
 show - room. He then went on to 
 say that he had only this morning 
 heard that the intimacy between Mrs. 
 Woffington and a Colonel Murtli- 
 waite, although publicly broken off for 
 prudential reasons, was still clandes- 
 tinely carried on. She had, doubtless, 
 slipped away to meet the Colonel. 
 Mr. Vane turned pale. 
 " No ! I will not suspect. I will
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 47 
 
 not dog her like a bloodhound," cried 
 he. 
 
 " I will ! " said Pomander. 
 
 " You ! By what right 1 " 
 
 " The right of curiosity. I will 
 know whether it is you who are im- 
 posed on ; or whether you are right, 
 and all the world is deceived in this 
 woman." 
 
 He ran out ; but, for all his speed, 
 when he got into the street there was 
 the jealous lover at his elbow. They 
 darted with all speed into the Strand; 
 got a coach. Sir Charles, on the box, 
 gave Jehu a guinea, and took the 
 reins, — and by a Niagara of whip- 
 cord they attained Lambeth ; and at 
 length, to his delight, Pomander saw 
 another coach before him with a gold- 
 laced black slave behind it. The 
 coach stopped ; and the slave came to 
 the door. The shop in question was 
 a few hundred yards distant. The 
 adroit Sir Charles not only stopped 
 but turned his coach, and let the 
 horses crawl back towards London ; 
 he also flogged the side panels to 
 draw the attention of Mr. Vane. 
 That gentleman looked through the 
 little circular window at the back of 
 the vehicle, and saw a lady paying the 
 coachman. There was no mistaking 
 her figure. This lady, then, followed 
 at a distance by her slave, walked on 
 towards Hercules Buildings; and it 
 was bis miserable fate to see her look 
 uneasily round, and at last glide in at 
 a side door, close to the silk-mercer's 
 shop. 
 
 The carriage stopped. Sir Charles 
 came himself' to the door. 
 
 " Now, Vane," said he; "before I 
 consent to go any further in this busi- 
 ness, you must promise me to be cool 
 and reasonable! I abhor absurdity ; 
 and there must be no swords drawn 
 for this little hypocrite." 
 
 " I submit to no dictation," said 
 Vane, white as a sheet. 
 
 "You have benefited so far by my 
 knowledge," said the other, politely ; 
 •"' let me, who am gelf-posBessed, claim 
 Borae influence with you." 
 
 "Forgive mel" said poor Vane. 
 
 " Mv ang — mv sorrow that such ah 
 angel should be a monster of deceit. 
 He could say no more. 
 
 They walked to the shop. 
 
 " How she p.eeped, this way and 
 that," said Pomander, " sly little 
 Wofty! 
 
 " No ! on second thoughts," said 
 he, "it is the other street we must 
 reconnoitre ; and, if we don't see her 
 there, we will enter the shop, and by 
 dint of this purse we shall soon untie 
 the knot of the Woffington riddle." 
 
 Vane leaned heavily on his tor 
 mentor. 
 
 " I am faint," said he. 
 
 " Lean on me, my dear friend," 
 said Sir Charles. " Your weakness 
 will leave you in the next street." 
 
 In the next street they discovered 
 
 — nothing. In the shop, they found 
 
 — no Mrs. Woffington. They re- 
 turned to the principal street. Vane 
 began to hope there was no positive 
 evidence. Suddenly three stories up 
 a fiddle was heard. Pomander took 
 no notice, but Vane turned red ; this 
 put Sir Charles upon the scent. 
 
 " Stay ! " said he. " Is not that 
 an Irish tune ? " 
 
 Vane groaned. He covered his 
 face with his hands, and hissed 
 out : — 
 
 " It is her favorite tune." 
 
 " Aha ! " said Pomander. " Fol- 
 low me ! " 
 
 They crept up the stairs. Pomander 
 in advance ; they heard the Bigns of 
 an Irish orgie, — a rattling jig played 
 and danced with the inspiriting in- 
 terjections of that frolicsome nation. 
 These sounds ceased after awhile, and 
 Pomander laid his hand on his friend's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I prepare you," said he, "for 
 what, you are sure to see. This wo- 
 man was an Irish bricklayer's daugh- 
 ter, and ' what is bred in the bone 
 never comes out of the flesh'; you 
 will find her sitting on some Irish- 
 man's knee, whose limbs are ever so 
 much stouter than yours. You are 
 the man of her head, and this is the 
 man of her heart These things
 
 48 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 ■would l>e monstrous, if they were not 
 common ; incredible, if we did not 
 see them every day. But tins poor 
 fellow, whom probably she deceives 
 as well as you, is not to be sacrificed 
 like a dog to your unjust wrath ; he 
 is as superior to her as you are to 
 him." 
 
 " I will commit no violence," said 
 Vane. " I still hope she is inno- 
 cent." 
 
 Pomander smiled, and said he 
 hoped so too. 
 
 " And if she is what you think, I 
 ■will but show her she is known, and, 
 blaming myself as much as her, — O 
 yes ! more than her ! — I will go 
 down this night to Shropshhe, and 
 never speak word to her again in this 
 ■world or the next." 
 
 " Good," said Sir Charles. 
 
 •« ' Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour 
 le sot, 
 L'honnfjte homme trompe s'eloigne et ne 
 dit mot.' 
 
 Are von ready ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then follow me." 
 
 Turning the handle gently, he 
 opened the door like lightning, and 
 was in the room. Vane's head peered 
 over his shoulder. She was actually 
 there ! 
 
 For once in her life, the cautious, 
 artful woman was taken by surprise. 
 She gave a little scream, and turned 
 as red as tire. But Sir Charles sur- 
 prised somebody else even more than 
 he did poor Mrs. Woffington. 
 
 It would be impertinent to tanta- 
 lize my reader, but I flatter myself 
 this history is not written ■with power 
 enough to do that, and I may venture 
 to leave him to guess whom Sir 
 Charles Pomander surprised more 
 than he did the actress, while I go 
 back for the lagging sheep. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 James Triplet, water in his eye, 
 but fire in his heart, went home on 
 
 wings. Arrived there, he anticipated 
 curiosity by informing all hands, he 
 should answer no questions. Only 
 in the intervals of a work, which was 
 to take the family out of all its trou- 
 bles, he should gradually unfold a 
 tale, verging on the marvellous, — a 
 tale whose only fault was, that fiction, 
 by which alone the family could hope 
 to be great, paled beside it. He then 
 seized some sheets of paper, fished out 
 some old dramatic sketches, and a 
 list of dramatis persomv, prepared years 
 ago, and plunged into a comedy. As 
 he wrote, time to his promise, he 
 painted, Triplet-wise, that story which 
 we have coldly related, and made it 
 appear, to all but Mrs. Triplet, that 
 he was under the tutela, or express 
 protection of Mrs. Woffington, who 
 would push his fortunes until the 
 only difficulty would be to keep arro- 
 gance out of the family heart. 
 
 Mrs. Triplet groaned aloud. " You 
 have brought the picture home, I 
 see," said she. 
 
 "Of course I have. She is going 
 to give me a sitting." 
 
 "At what hour, of what day?" 
 said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of 
 meaning. 
 
 " She did not say," replied Triplet, 
 avoiding his wife's eye. 
 
 " I know she did not," was the 
 answer. " I would rather you had 
 brought me the ten shillings than 
 this fine storv," said she. 
 
 " Wife ! " "said Triplet, " don't put 
 me into a frame of mind in which 
 successful comedies are not written." 
 He scribbled away ; but his wife's de- 
 spondency told upon the man of dis- 
 appointments. Then he stuck fast; 
 then he became fidgety. 
 
 " Do keep those children quiet ! " 
 said the father. 
 
 " Hush, my dears," said the moth- 
 er ; " let your father write. Comedy 
 seems to give you more trouble than 
 tragedy, James," added she, sooth- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Yes," was his answer. " Sorrovr 
 comes somehow more natural to me ; 
 but for all that I have got a bright
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 49 
 
 thought, Mrs. Triplet. Listen, all of 
 you. You .see, Jane, they are all at 
 a sumptuous banquet, all the drama- 
 tis personae, except the poet." 
 
 Triplet went on writing, and read- 
 ing his work out : " Music, sparkling 
 wine, massive plate, rose-water in the 
 hand-glasses, soup, fish, — shall I 
 have three sorts of fish 1 I will ; they 
 are cheap in this market. Ah ! For- 
 tune, you wretch, here at least I am 
 your master, and I'll make you know 
 it, — venison," wrote Triplet, with a 
 malicious grin, " game, pickles, and 
 provocatives in the centre of the ta- 
 ble ; then up jumps one of the guests, 
 and says he — " 
 
 " O dear, I am so hungry." 
 
 This was not from the comedy, but 
 from one' of the hoys. 
 
 " And so am I," cried a girl. 
 
 " That is an absurd remark, Ly- 
 simachus," said Triplet, with a suspi- 
 cious calmness. 
 
 " How can a boy be hungry three 
 hours after breakfast ? " 
 
 " Hut, father, there was no break- 
 fast for breakfast." 
 
 " Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet.," ap- 
 pealed the author, " how I am to write 
 comic seines if you let Lvsiniachus 
 and Roxalana here put the heavy 
 business in every five minutes ? " 
 
 " Forgive them ; the poor things 
 arc hungry." 
 
 " Then let them be hungry in an- 
 other room," said the irritated scribe. 
 "They aha' n't cling round my pen, 
 and paralyze it, just when it is going 
 to make all our fortunes; but you 
 women," snapped Triplet the Just, 
 " have no consideration for people's 
 feelings. Send them all to bed; 
 every man Jack of them ! " 
 
 Finding the conversation taking 
 this turn, the brats raised an unani- 
 mous howl. 
 
 Triplet darted a fierce glance at 
 them. " Hungry, hungry," cried he ; 
 " is that a proper expression to use 
 before a lather who is sitting down 
 here, all gayety " (scratching wildly 
 with bis pen j "and hilarity "(scratch) 
 " to write w. coin — com — " he choked 
 3 
 
 a moment ; then in a very different 
 voice, all sadness and tenderness, he 
 said : " Where 's the youngest, — 
 where 's Lucy 7 As if I did n't know 
 you are hungry." 
 
 Lucy came to him directly. He 
 took her on his knee, pressed her 
 gently to his side, and wrote silently. 
 The others were still. 
 
 " Father," said Lucy, aged five, the 
 germ of a woman, "I am not tho 
 very hungry." 
 
 "And I am not hungry at all," 
 said bluff Lysimachus, taking his sis- 
 ter's cue ; then going upon his own 
 tact he added, " I had a great piece of 
 bread and butter yesterday ! " 
 
 " Wife, they will drive me mad ! " 
 and he dashed at the paper. 
 
 The second boy explained to his 
 mother, sotto voce : " Mother, he made 
 us hungry out of his book." 
 
 "It is a beautiful book," said Lucy. 
 " Is it a cookery book ? " 
 
 Triplet roared : " Do you hear 
 that? inquired he, all trace of ill- 
 humor gone. " Wife," he resumed, 
 after a gallant scribble, " I took that 
 sermon I wrote." 
 
 " And beautiful it was, James. 
 I 'm sure it quite cheered me up with 
 thinking that we shall all be dead be- 
 fore so very long." 
 
 " Well, the reverend gentleman 
 would not have it. He said it was too 
 hard upon sin. ' You run at the 
 Devil like a mad bull,' said he. ' Sell 
 it in Lambeth, sir; here calmness and 
 decency are before everything,' says 
 he. ' My congregation expect to go 
 to heaven down hill. Perhaps the 
 chaplain of Newgate might give you 
 a crown for it,' said he," and Triplet 
 dashed viciously at the. paper. "Ah! " 
 sighed he, "if my friend Mrs. Wbffing- 
 ton would but drop these stupid come- 
 dies and take to tragedy, this house 
 would soon he all smiles." 
 
 "O James! " replied Mrs. Triplet, 
 almost peevishly," how can you expect 
 anything but tine words from that 
 woman ' You won't believe what all 
 the world says. You will trust to 
 your own good heart." 
 
 D
 
 50 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 " I have n't a good heart," said the 
 poor, honest fellow. " I spoke like a 
 brute to you just now." 
 
 " Never mind, James," said the wo- 
 man : " I wonder how you put up 
 with me at all, — a sick, useless crea- 
 ture. I often wish to die, for your 
 sake. I know you would do better. 
 I am such a weight round your 
 neck." 
 
 The man made no answer, but he 
 put Lucy gently down, and went to 
 the woman, and took her forehead to 
 his bosom, and held it there ; and af- 
 ter a while returned with silent ener- 
 gy to his comedy. 
 
 " Play us a tune on the fiddle, fa- 
 ther." 
 
 "Ay, do, husband. That helps 
 you often in your writing." 
 
 Lysimachus brought him the fiddle, 
 and Triplet essayed a merry tune ; 
 but it came out so doleful, that he 
 shook his head, and laid the instru- 
 ment down. Music must be in the 
 heart, or it will come out of the fin- 
 gers — notes, not music. 
 
 " No," said he ; " let us be serious 
 and finish this comedy slap off. Per- 
 haps it hitches because I forgot to 
 invoke the comic muse. She must 
 be a black-hearted jade, if she does n't 
 come with merry notions to a poor 
 devil, starving in the midst of his 
 hungry little ones." 
 
 " We are past help from heathen 
 goddesses," said the woman. " We 
 must pray to Heaven to look down 
 upon us .and our children." 
 
 The man looked up with a very 
 bad expression on his countenance. 
 
 " You forget," said he, sullenly, 
 " our street is very narrow, and the 
 opposite houses are very high." 
 
 "James!" 
 
 " How can Heaven be expected to 
 see what honest folk endure in so 
 dark a hole as this 1 " cried the man, 
 fiercely. 
 
 "James," said the woman, with 
 fear and sorrow, "what words arc 
 these ' " 
 
 The man rose, and flung his pen 
 upon the floor. 
 
 " Have we given honesty a fair 
 trial, — yes or no ? " 
 
 " No ! " said the woman, without a 
 moment's hesitation ; " not till we die, 
 as we have lived. Heaven is higher 
 than the sky; children," said she, 
 lest perchance her husband's words 
 should have banned theiryoung souls, 
 " the sky is above the earth, and 
 heaven is higher than the sky; and 
 Heaven is just." 
 
 " I suppose it is so," said the man, 
 a little cowed by her. "Everybody 
 says so. I think so, at bottom, my- 
 self; but I can't see it. I want to see 
 it, but I can't!" cried he, fiercely. 
 " Have my children offended Heaven ? 
 They will starve, — they will die ! If 
 I was Heaven, I 'd be just, and send 
 an angel- to take these children's 
 part. They cried to me for bread, — 
 I had no bread ; so I gave them 
 hard words. The moment I had done 
 that, I knew it was all over. God 
 knows it took a long while to break 
 my heart; but it is broken at last; 
 (mite, quite broken ! broken ! bro- 
 ken ! " 
 
 And the poor thing laid his head 
 upon the table, and sobbed, bej T ond 
 all power of restraint. The children 
 cried round him, scarce knowing 
 why ; and Mrs. Triplet could only 
 say, " My poor husband ! " and 
 prayed and wept upon the couch 
 where she lay. 
 
 It was at this juncture that a lady, 
 who had knocked gently and un- 
 heard, opened the door, and with a 
 light step entered the apartment ; 
 but no sooner had she caught sight of 
 Triplet's anguish, than saying has- 
 tily, " Stay, I forgot something," she 
 made as hasty an exit. 
 
 This gave Triplet a moment to re- 
 cover himself ; and Mrs. Woffington, 
 whose lynx eye had comprehended 
 all at a glance, and who had de- 
 termined at once what line to take, 
 came flying in again, saying : — 
 
 " Was n't somebody inquiring for 
 an angel 1 Here I am. See, Mr. 
 Triplet " ; and she showed him a note, 
 which said : " Madam, you are an
 
 TEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 51 
 
 angel. From a perfect stranger," ex- 
 plained she ; " so it must be true." 
 
 " Mrs. Woffington," said Mr. Trip- 
 let to his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington planted herself in 
 the middle of the floor, and with a 
 comical glance, setting her arms 
 akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle. 
 
 " Now you will see another angel, 
 
 — there are two sorts of them." 
 Pompey came in with a basket ; 
 
 she took it from him. 
 
 " Lucifer, a vaunt ! " cried she, in a 
 terrible tone, that drove him to the 
 wall ; " and wait outside the door," 
 added she, conversationally. 
 
 "I heard you were ill, ma'am, and 
 I have brought you some physic, — 
 black draughts from Burgundy " ; 
 and she smiled. And, recovered from 
 their first surprise, young and old 
 began to thaw beneath that witching, 
 irresistible smile. " Mrs. Triplet, I 
 have come to give your husband a 
 sitting ; will you allow me to eat my 
 little luncheon with you f I am so 
 hungry." Then she clapped her 
 hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent 
 him for a pie she professed to have 
 fallen in love with at the corner of the 
 street. 
 
 " Mother," said Alcibiades, " will 
 the lady give me a bit of her pie ? " 
 
 " Hush ! you rude boy ! " cried the 
 mother. 
 
 " She is not much of a lady if she 
 does not," cried Mrs. Woffington. 
 " Now, children, first let us look at 
 
 — ahem — a comedy. Nineteen dra- 
 )ii<i!in personal! What do you say, 
 children, shall we cut out seven, or 
 nine '. that is the question. You 
 can't bring your armies into our 
 drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger - and- 
 bowl. Are you the Marlborough of 
 comedy? Can you marshal battal- 
 ions on a turkey carpet, and make 
 gentlefolks witty 'in platoons ! What 
 is this in the first act? A duel, and 
 both wounded ! You butcher ! " 
 
 " They are not to die, ma'am !" 
 
 cried Triplet, deprecatingly ; "upon 
 my honor," said lie, rolemnly, spread- 
 ing his hands on his bosom. 
 
 "Do you think I'll trust their 
 lives with you ? No ! Give me a 
 pen ; this is the way we run people 
 through the body." Then she wrote 
 (" business." Araminta looks out 
 of the garret window. Combatants 
 drop their swords, put their hands to 
 their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and 
 P. S.) " Now, children, who helps 
 me to lay the cloth ? " 
 
 "I ! " 
 
 " And I ! " (The children run to 
 the cupboard ) 
 
 Mrs. Triplet (half rising). " Mad- 
 am, I — can't think of allowing 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Woffington replied : " Sit 
 down, madam, or I must use brute 
 force. If you are ill, be ill — till I 
 make you well. Twelve plates, quick ! 
 Twenty-four knives, quicker ! Forty- 
 eight forks quickest ! " She met the 
 children with the cloth and laid it; 
 then she met them again and laid 
 knives and forks, all at full gallop, 
 which mightily excited the bairns. 
 Pompey came in with the pic, Mrs. 
 Woffington took it and set it before 
 Triplet. 
 
 Mrs: Woffinrjton. "Your coat, Mr. 
 Triplet, if you please." 
 
 Mr. Triplet. " My coat, madam ! " 
 
 Mrs. Woffington. " Yes, off with it, 
 — there 's a hole in it, — and carve." 
 Then she whipped to the other end 
 of the table and stitched like wild- 
 fire. " Be pleased to cast your eyes 
 on that, Mrs. Triplet. Pass it to the 
 lady, young gentleman. Fire away, 
 Mr. Triplet, never mind us women. 
 Woffinirton's housewife, ma'am, fear- 
 ful to the eye, only it holds everything 
 in the world, and there is a small 
 space for everything else, — to be re- 
 turned by the bearer. Thank you, 
 sir." (Stitches away like lightning 
 at the coat.) " Fat away, children ! 
 now is your time ; when once I be- 
 gin, the pie will soon end ; 1 do every- 
 thing so quick." 
 
 Roxalana. " The lady sews quicker 
 than you, mother." 
 
 Woffington. " Plcss the child, don't 
 come so near my sword-arm ; the
 
 52 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 needle will go into your eye, and out 
 at the back of your head." 
 
 This nonsense made the children 
 giggle. 
 
 "The needle will be lost, — the 
 child no more, — enter undertaker, — 
 house turned topsy-turvy, — father 
 shows Woffington to the door, — off 
 she goes with a face as long and dis- 
 mal as some people's comedies, — no 
 names, — crying fine cha-ney oran- 
 ges." 
 
 The children, all but Lucy, screeched 
 with laughter. 
 
 Lucy said gravely : — 
 
 " Mother, the lady is very fun- 
 ny." 
 
 " You will be as funny when you 
 are as well paid for it." 
 
 This just hit poor Trip's notion of 
 humor, and he began to choke, with 
 his mouth full of pie. 
 
 " James, take care," said Mrs. 
 Triplet, sad and solemn. 
 
 James looked up. 
 " My wife is a good woman, 
 madam," said he; "but deficient in 
 an important particular." 
 
 " O James ! " 
 
 " Yes, my dear. I regret to say 
 you have no sense of humor ; num- 
 more than a cat, Jane." 
 
 " What ! because the poor thing 
 can't laugh at your comedy 1 " 
 
 " No, ma'am 
 nothing." 
 
 " Try her with one of your trage- 
 dies, my lad." 
 
 " I am sure, James," said the poor, 
 good, lackadaisical woman, " if I 
 don't laugh, it is not for want of the 
 will. I used to be a very hearty 
 laugher," whined she ; " but I have n't 
 laughed this two years." 
 
 " O, indeed ! " said the Woffington. 
 *' Then the next two years you shall 
 do nothing else." 
 
 " Ah, madam ! " said Triplet. 
 " That passes the art, even of the 
 great comedian." 
 
 " Does it ? " said the actress, coolly. 
 
 Laicy. — "She is not a comedy 
 lady. You don't ever cry, pretty 
 lady ? " 
 
 but she laughs at 
 
 Woffinrjton (ironically). — "O, of 
 course not." 
 
 Lucy (confidentially). — " Comedy 
 is crying. Father cried all the time 
 he was writing his one." 
 
 Triplet turned red as fire. 
 
 " Hold your tongue," said he : "I 
 was bursting with merriment. Wife, 
 our children talk too much ; they put 
 their noses into everything, and criti- 
 cise their own father." 
 
 " Unnatural offspring ! " laughed 
 the visitor. 
 
 " And when they tnke up a notion, 
 Socrates could n't convince them to 
 the contrary. For instance, madam, 
 all this morning they thought fit to 
 assume that they were starving. 
 
 " So we were," said Lysimachus, 
 " until the angel came ; and the devil 
 went for the pie." 
 
 " There — there — there ! Now, 
 you mark my words ; we shall never 
 get that idea out of their heads — " 
 
 " Until," said Mrs. Woffington, 
 lumping a huge cut of pie into Roxa- 
 lana's plate, " we put a very different 
 idea into their stomachs." This and 
 the look she cast on Mrs. Triplet 
 fairly caught that good, though som- 
 bre personage. She giggled ; put her 
 hand to her face, and said : " I 'm 
 sure I ask your pardon, ma'am " 
 
 It was no use ; the comedian had 
 determined they should all laugh, 
 and they were made to laugh. Then 
 she rose, and showed them how to 
 drink healths a la Frahgaise'; and keen 
 were her little admirers to touch her 
 glass with theirs. And the pnre 
 wine she had brought did Mrs. Trip- 
 let much good, too; though not so 
 much as the music and sunshine of 
 her face and voice. Then, when 
 their stomachs were full of good food, 
 and the soul of the grape tingled in 
 their veins, and their souls glowed 
 under her great magnetic power, she 
 suddenly seized the fiddle, and showed 
 them another of her enchantments. 
 She put it on her knee, and played a 
 tunc that would have made gout, 
 cholic, and phthisic dance upon their 
 last legs. She played to the eye as
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 53 
 
 we'll as to the car, with such a smart 
 gesture of the bow, and such a radi- 
 ance of face as she looked at them, 
 that whether the music came out of 
 her wooden shell, or her horse-hair 
 wand, or her bright self, seemed doubt- 
 ful. They pranced on their chairs ; 
 they could not. keep still. She 
 jumped up ; so did they. She gave a 
 wild Irish horroo. She put the riddle 
 in Triplet's hand. 
 
 " The wind that shakes the barley, 
 ye divil ! " cried she. 
 
 Triplet went hors de lui ; he played 
 like Pagan ini, or an intoxicated de- 
 mon. Woffington covered the buckle 
 in gallant style ; she danced, the chil- 
 dren danced. Triplet fiddled and 
 danced, and Bung his limbs in wild 
 dislocation; the wineglasses danced; 
 and last, airs. Triplet was observed 
 to be bobbing about on her sofa, in a 
 monstrous absurd way, droning out 
 the tune, and playing her hands with 
 mild enjoyment, all to herself. Wof- 
 fington pointed out this pantomim- 
 ic soliloquy to the two boys, with a 
 glance full of fiery meaning. This 
 was enough : with a fiendish yell, they 
 fell upon her, and tore her, shriek- 
 ing, off the sola. And lo ! when she 
 was once launched, she danced up to 
 her husband, and set to him with a 
 meek deliberation that was as fun- 
 ny as any part of the scene. So then 
 the mover of all this slipped on one 
 side, and let the stone of merriment 
 roll, — and roll it did; there was 
 no swimming, sprawling, or irrel- 
 evant frisking; their feet struck the 
 ground tor every note of the fiddle, 
 pat as its echo, their faces shone, 
 their hearts leaped, and their poor 
 frozen natures came out, and warmed 
 themselves at the glowing melody ; a 
 great sunbeam had come into their 
 abode, and these human motes danced 
 in it. The elder ones recovered their 
 gravity first, they sat down breath- 
 less, and put their hands to their 
 hearts; they looked at one another, 
 and then at the goddess who had re- 
 vived them. Their first feeling was 
 
 wonder; were they the same, who, 
 
 ten minutes ago, were weeping to- 
 gether? Yes! ten minutes ago they 
 were rayless, joyless, hopeless. Now 
 the sun was in their hearts, and sor- 
 row and sighing were fled, as fogs 
 disperse before the god of day. It 
 was magical ; could a mortal play 
 upon the soul of man, woman, and 
 child like this ? Happy Woffington ! 
 and suppose this was more than half 
 acting, but such acting as Triplet 
 never dreamed of; and to tell the 
 honest, simple truth, I myself should 
 not have suspected it ; but children 
 are sharper than one would think, 
 and Aleibiades Triplet told, in after 
 years, that, when they were all dan- 
 cing except the lady, he caught sight 
 of her face, — and it was quite, quite 
 grave, and even sad ; but, as often as 
 she saw him look at her, she smiled 
 at him so gayly, — he couldn't be-- 
 lieve it was the same face. 
 
 If it was art. jxlory be to such art 
 so worthily applied ! and honor to 
 such creatures as this, that come like 
 sunshine into poor men's houses, and 
 tunc drooping hearts to daylight and 
 hope ! 
 
 The wonder of these worthy people 
 soon changed to gratitude. Mrs. 
 Woffington stopped their mouths at 
 once. 
 
 " No, no ! " cried she ; " if you real- 
 ly love me, no scenes: I hate them. 
 Tell these brats to kiss me, and let 
 me go. I must sit for my picture 
 after dinner; it is a long way to 
 Bloomsbury Square." 
 
 The children needed no bidding; 
 they clustered round her, and poured 
 out their innocent hearts as children 
 only do. 
 
 " I shall pray for you after father 
 and mother," said one. 
 
 "I shall pray for you after daily 
 bread," said Lucy, " because we were 
 tlto hungry till you came!" 
 
 "My "poor children!" cried Wof- 
 fington, and hard to grown-up actors, 
 
 as -he called us, but sensitive to chil 
 dren, she fairly melted as she cm- 
 braced them. 
 
 It "a- at this precise juncture that
 
 54 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 the door was unceremoniously opened, 
 and the two gentlemen burst upon 
 the scene ! 
 
 My reader now guesses whom Sir 
 Charles Pomander surprised more 
 than he did Mrs. Woffington. He 
 could not tor the life of him compre- 
 hend what she was doinf, r , and what 
 was her ulterior object. The nil admi- 
 rari of the line gentleman deserted 
 him, and he gazed open-mouthed, like 
 the veriest chaw-bacon. 
 
 The actress, unable to extricate 
 herself in a moment from the children, 
 stood there like Charity, in New Col- 
 lege Chapel, whilst the mother kissed 
 her hand, and the father quietly 
 dropped tears, like some leaden water 
 god in the middle of a fountain. 
 
 Vane turned hot and cold by turns, 
 with joy and shame. Pomander's 
 . genius came to the aid of their embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 " Follow my lead," whispered he. 
 "What! Mrs. Woffington here!" 
 cried he ; then he advanced business- 
 like to Triplet. " We are aware, sir, 
 of your various talents, and are come 
 to make a demand on them. I, sir, 
 am the unfortunate possessor of fres- 
 cos ; time has impaired their indeli- 
 cacy, no man can restore it as you 
 can." 
 
 " Augh ! sir ! sir ! " said the grati- 
 fied goose. 
 
 " My Cupid's bows are walking- 
 sticks, and my Venus's noses are 
 snubbed. You must set all that 
 straight, on your own terms, Mr. 
 Triplet." 
 
 " In a single morning all shall 
 bloom again, sir ! Whom would you 
 wish them to resemble in feature 7 I 
 have lately been praised for my skill 
 in portraiture." (Glancing at Mrs. 
 Woffington.) 
 
 " Oh ! " said Pomander, carelessly, 
 "you need not go far for Venuses 
 and Cupids, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I see, sir : my wife and children. 
 Thank you, sir ; thank you." 
 
 Pomander stared ; Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton laughed. 
 
 Now it was Vane's turn. 
 
 "Let me have a copy of verses 
 from your pen. I shall have five 
 pounds at your disposal for them." 
 
 " The world has found me out ! " 
 thought Triplet, blinded by his vani- 
 ty. " The subject, sir 3 " 
 
 " No matter," said Vane, — " no 
 matter." 
 
 " <), of course, it does not matter 
 to me," said Triplet, with some 
 hauteur, and assuming poetic omnipo- 
 tence. " Only, when one knows the 
 subject, one can sometimes make the 
 verses apply better." 
 
 " Write then, since you are so con- 
 fident, upon Mrs. Woffington." 
 
 "Ah! that is a subject! They 
 shall be ready in an hour ! " cried 
 Trip, in whose imagination Parnassus 
 was a raised counter. He had in a 
 teacup some lines on Venus and Mars, 
 which he could not but feel would fit 
 Thalia and Croesus, or Genius and 
 Envy, equally well. "In one hour, 
 sir," said Triplet, " the article shall 
 be executed, and delivered at your 
 house." 
 
 Mrs. Woffington called Vane to 
 her, with an engaging smile. A 
 month a<;o he would have hoped she 
 would not have penetrated him and 
 Sir Charles ; but he knew her better 
 now. He came trembling. 
 
 " Look mc in the face, Mr. Vane," 
 said she, gently, but firmly. 
 
 " I cannot ! " said he. " How 
 can I ever look you in the face 
 again 1 " 
 
 " Ah ! you disarm me ! But I 
 must strike you, or this will never 
 end. Did I not promise that, 
 when you had earned my esteem, I 
 would tell you, — what no mortal 
 knows, — Ernest, my whole story ? 
 I delay the confession : it will cost 
 me so many blushes, so many tears ! 
 Anil yet I hope, if you knew all, you 
 would pity and forgive me. Mean- 
 time, did I ever tell you a false- 
 hood 1 " 
 
 " no ! " 
 
 " Why doubt me then, when I tell 
 you that I hold all your sex cheap 
 but you ? Why suspect me of Heav
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 55 
 
 en knows what, at the dictation of a 
 heartless, brainless fop, — on the 
 word of a known liar, like the 
 world 1 " 
 
 Black lightning flashed from her 
 glorious eyes, as she administered this 
 royal relmke. Vane felt what a poor 
 creature he was, and his face showed 
 such burning shame and contrition, 
 that he obtained his pardon without 
 speaking. 
 
 " There," said she, kindly, " do not 
 let us torment one another. I forgive 
 you. Let me make you happy, Er- 
 nest. Is that a great favor to ask - ? 
 I can make you happier than your 
 brightest dream of happiness, if you 
 will let yourself be happy." 
 
 They rejoined the others ; but 
 Vane turned his back on Pomander, 
 and would not look at him. 
 
 " Sir Charles," said Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton, gayly ; for she scorned to admit 
 the line gentleman to the rank of a 
 permanent enemy, " you will be of 
 our party, I trust, at dinner % " 
 
 <; Why, no, madam ; I fear I can- 
 not give myself that pleasure to-day." 
 Sir Charles did not choose to swell 
 the triumph. " Mr. Vane, good 
 day!" said he, rather dryly. "Mr. 
 Triplet — madam — your most obe- 
 dient ! " and, self possessed at top, but 
 at bottom crestfallen, he bowed him- 
 self away. 
 
 Sir Charles, however, on descending 
 the stair and gaining the street, caught 
 sight of a horseman, riding uncertain- 
 ly about, and making his horse cur- 
 vet, to attract attention. 
 
 He soon recognized one of his own 
 horses, and upon it the servant he 
 had left behind to dog that poor in- 
 nocent country lady. The servant 
 sprang off his horse and touched his 
 hat. lie informed his master that 
 he had kept with the carriage until 
 ten o'clock tins morning, when he 
 had ridden away from it at Harncf, 
 having duly pumped the servants as 
 opportunity offered. 
 
 " Who i's she ' " cried Sir Charles. 
 
 " Wife of a Cheshire squire, Sir 
 Charles," was the reply. 
 
 " His name 1 Whither goes she 
 in town 7 " 
 
 " Her name is Mrs. Vane, Sir 
 Charles. She is going to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Curious ! " cried Sir Charles. " I 
 wish she had no husband. No ! I 
 wish she came from Shropshire," and 
 he chuckled at the notion. 
 
 " If you please, Sir Charles," said 
 the man, "is not Willoughby in 
 Cheshire ? " 
 
 " No," cried his master ; " it is in 
 Shropshire. What! eh! Five guin- 
 eas for you if that lady comes from 
 Willoughby in Shropshire." 
 
 " That is where she comes from 
 then, Sir Charles, and she is going 
 to Bloomsbury Square." 
 
 " How long have they been mar- 
 ried ! " 
 
 " Not more than twelve months, 
 Sir Charles." 
 
 Pomander gave the man ten guin- 
 eas instead of five on the spot. 
 
 Reader, it was too true ! Mr. Vane 
 — the good, the decent, the church- 
 goer — Mr. Vane, whom Mrs. Wof- 
 fington had selected to improve her 
 morals — Mr Vane was a married 
 man ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 As soon as Pomander had drawn 
 his breath and realized this discovery, 
 he darted tip stairs, and, with all the 
 demure calmness he could assume, 
 told Mr. Vane, whom he met descend- 
 ing, that he was happy to find his en- 
 gagements permitted him to join the 
 party in Bloomsbury Square, lie then 
 Bung himself upon his servant's horse. 
 
 Like Iago, he saw the indistinct 
 outline of a glorious and a most ma- 
 licious plot; it lay crude in his head 
 and heart at present ; thus much he 
 saw clearly, that, if he could tone .Mrs. 
 Vane's arrival so that she should 
 pounce upon the WoffingtOH at her 
 husband's table, he might be present 
 
 at ami enjoy the public discomfiture 
 
 of a man and woman u bo had wound-
 
 56 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 ed his vanity. Bidding his servant 
 make the best of his way to Blooms- 
 bury Square, Sir Charles galloped in 
 that direction himself, intending first 
 to inquire whether Mrs. Vane was 
 arrived, and, if not, to ride towards 
 Islington and meet her. His plan 
 was frustrated by an accident ; gal- 
 loping round a corner, his horse did 
 not change his leg cleverly, and, the 
 pavement being also loose, slipped 
 and fell on his side, throwing his rider 
 upon the trottm'r. The horse got up 
 and trembled violently, but was un- 
 hurt. The rider lay motionless, ex- 
 cept that his legs quivered on the 
 pavement. They took him up and 
 conveyed him into a druggist's shop, 
 the master of which practised chirur- 
 gery. He had to be sent for; and, 
 before he could be found, Sir Charles 
 recovered his reason, so much so, 
 that when the chirurgeon approached 
 with his fleam to bleed him, according 
 to the practice of the day, the patient 
 drew his sword, and assured the other 
 he would let out every drop of blood 
 in his body if he touched him. 
 
 He of the shorter but more lethal 
 weapon hastily retreated. Sir Charles 
 flung a guinea on the counter, and 
 mounting his horse rode him off rath- 
 er faster than before this accident. 
 
 There was a dead silence ! 
 
 " I believe that gentleman to be the 
 Devil ! " said a thoughtful by-stander. 
 The crowd (it was a century ago) as- 
 sented nem. con. 
 
 Sir Charles, arrived in Bloomsbury 
 Square, found that the whole party 
 Mas assembled. He therefore ordered 
 his servant to parade before the door, 
 and, if he saw Mrs. Vane's carriage 
 enter the Square, to let him know, if 
 possible, before she should reach the 
 house. On entering he learned that 
 Mr. Vane and his guests were in the 
 garden (a very fine one), and joined 
 them there. 
 
 Mrs. Vane demands another chap- 
 ter, in which I will tell the reader 
 who she was, and what excuse her 
 husband had for his liaison with Mar- 
 garet Woffington. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mabel Chester was the beauty 
 and toast of South Shropshire. She 
 had refused the hand of half the 
 country squires in a circle of some doz- 
 en miles, till at last Mr. Vane became 
 her suitor. Besides a handsome face 
 and person, Mr. Vane had accom- 
 plishments his rivals did not possess. 
 He read poetry to her on mossy 
 banks an hour before sunset, and 
 awakened sensibilities which her oth- 
 er suitors shocked, and they them. 
 
 The lovely Mabel had a taste for 
 beautiful things, without any excess 
 of that severe quality called judg- 
 ment. 
 
 I will explain. If you or I, reader, 
 had read to her in the afternoon, 
 amidst the smell of roses and eglan- 
 tine, the chirp of the mavis, the hum 
 of bees, the twinkling of butterflies, 
 and the tinkle of distant sheep, some- 
 thing that combined all these sights, 
 and sounds, and smells, — say Mil- 
 ton's musical picture of Eden, p. l., 
 lib. 3, and after that " Triplet on 
 Kew," she would have instantly pro- 
 nounced in favor of " Eden " ; but if 
 ice had read her " Milton," and Mr. 
 Vane had read her " Triplet," she 
 would have, as unhesitatingly pre- 
 ferred " Kew " to " Paradise." 
 
 She was a true daughter of Eve; 
 the lady, who, when an angel was 
 telling her and her husband the truths 
 of heaven in heaven's own music, 
 slipped away into the kitchen, because 
 she preferred hearing the story at sec- 
 ond-hand, encumbered with digres- 
 sions, and in mortal but marital 
 accents. 
 
 When her mother, who guarded 
 Mabel like a dragon, told her Mr. 
 Vane was not rich enough, and she 
 really must not give him so many op- 
 portunities, Mabel cried and embraced 
 the dragon, and said, " mother ! " 
 The dragon, finding her ferocity dis- 
 solving, tried to shake her off, but the 
 goose would cry and embrace the 
 dragon till it melted. 
 
 By and by Mr. Vane's uncle died
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 57 
 
 suddenly and left him the great Sto- j 
 ken Church estate, and a trunk full 
 of Jacobuses and Queen Anne's guin- 
 eas, — his own hoard and his father's, 
 — then the dragon spake comfortably 
 and said : — 
 
 " My child, he is now the richest 
 man in Shropshire. He will not 
 think of you now ; so steel your 
 heart." 
 
 Then Mabel, contrary to all expec- 
 tations, did not cry; but, with flush- 
 ing cheek, pledged her life upon Er- 
 nest's love and honor. And Ernest, 
 as soon as the funeral, &c, left him 
 free, galloped to Mabel, to talk of our 
 good fortune. The dragon had done 
 him injustice; that was not his weak 
 point. So they were married ! and 
 they were very, very happy. But, one 
 month after, the dragon died, and that 
 was their first grief; but they bore it 
 together. 
 
 And Vane was not like the other 
 Shropshire squires. His idea of pleas- 
 fire was something his wife could 
 Eihore. He still rode, walked, and sat 
 with her, and read to her, and com- 
 posed songs for her, and about her, 
 which she played and sang prettily 
 enough, in her quiet, lady-like way, 
 and in a voice of honey dropping from 
 the comb. Then she kept a keen eye 
 upon him ; and, when she discovered 
 what dishes he liked, she superintend- 
 ed those herself; and, observing that 
 he never failed to cat of a certain lem- 
 on-pudding the dragon had originated, 
 she always made this pudding herself, 
 and she never told her husband she 
 made it. 
 
 The first seven months of their 
 marriage was more like blue sky than 
 brown earth ; and if anyone had told 
 Mabel that her husband was a mortal, 
 and not an angel, sent to her, 
 that her <\;\y< and nights might be 
 unmixed, uninterrupted heaven, she 
 could hardly have realized the infor- 
 mation. 
 
 When a vexatious litigant began to 
 Contest the will by which Mr. Vane 
 wis Lord of Stoken Church, and Mr. 
 Vane went up to London to concert 
 
 the proper means of defeating this at- 
 tack, Mrs. Vane would gladly have 
 compounded by giving the man two 
 or three thousand acres, or the whole 
 estate, if he would n't take less, not to 
 rob her of her husband for a month ; 
 but she was docile, as she was amo- 
 rous ; so she cried (out of sight) a 
 week ; and let her darling go, with 
 every misgiving a loving heart could 
 have ; but one ! and that one her own 
 heart told her was impossible. 
 
 The month rolled away, — no symp- 
 tom of a return. For this, Mr. Vane 
 was not, in fact, to blame ; but, to- 
 wards the end of the next month, 
 business became a convenient excuse. 
 When three months had passed, Mrs. 
 Vane became unhappy. She thought 
 he too must feel the separation. She 
 offered to come to him. He answered 
 uncandidly. He urged the length, the 
 fatigue of the journey. She was si- 
 lenced ; but some time later she be- 
 gan to take a new view of his objec- 
 tions. " He is so self-denying," said 
 she. " Dear Ernest, he longs for me : 
 but he thinks it selfish to let me trav- 
 el so far alone to see him." 
 
 Full of this idea, she yielded to her 
 love. She made her preparations, and 
 wrote to him, that, if he did not forbid 
 her peremptorily, he must expect to 
 see her at his breakfast-table in a very 
 few days. 
 
 Mr. Vane concluded this was a jest, 
 and ilid not answer this letter at all. 
 
 Mrs. Vane started. She travelled 
 with all speed ; but, coming to a halt 
 
 at , she wrote to her husband 
 
 that she counted on being with him at 
 four of the clock on Thursday. 
 
 This letter preceded her arrival by 
 a few hours. It was put into bis 
 hand at the same time with a note 
 from Mrs. Woffingtori, telling him 
 she should beat a rehearsal at Covent 
 Garden. Thinking his wife's letter 
 would keep, lie threw it on one side 
 into 8 sort of a tray ; and, after B hur- 
 ried breakfast, went out of bis bouse 
 to the theatre, lie returned, as wo 
 
 are aware, with Mrs. Woffington ; and 
 also, at her request, with Mr. Cibber,
 
 58 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 for whom they called on their way. 
 He had forgotten his wife's letter, 
 and was entirely occupied with his 
 guests. 
 
 Sir Charles Pomander joined them, 
 and found Mr. Colander, the head 
 domestic of the London establish- 
 ment, cutting with a pair of scissors 
 every flower Mrs. Woffington fan- 
 cied, that lady having a passion for 
 flowers. 
 
 Colander, during his temporary ab- 
 sence from the interior, had appointed 
 James Burdock to keep the house, and 
 receive the two remaining guests, 
 should they arrive. 
 
 This James Burdock was a faithful 
 old country servant, who had come up 
 with Mr. Vane, but left his heart at 
 Willoughby. James Burdock had 
 for some time been ruminating, and 
 his conclusion was, that his mistress, 
 Miss Mabel (as by force of habit he 
 called her), was not treated as she de- 
 served. 
 
 Burdock had been imported into 
 Mr. Vane's family, by Mabel ; he had 
 carried her in his arms when she was 
 a child ; he had held her upon a don- 
 key when she was a little girl ; and 
 when she became a woman, it was he 
 who taught her to stand close to her 
 horse, and give him her foot and 
 spring while he lifted her steadily but 
 strongly into her saddle, and, when 
 there, it was he who had instructed 
 her that a horse was not a machine, 
 that galloping tires it in time, and 
 that galloping it on the hard road 
 hammers it to pieces. " I taught the 
 girl," thought James within himself. 
 
 This honest silver-haired old fellow 
 seemed so ridiculous to Colander, the 
 smooth, supercilious Londoner, that 
 he deigned sometimes to converse 
 with James, in order to quiz him. 
 This very morning they had had a 
 conversation. 
 
 " Poor Miss Mabel ! dear heart. A 
 twelvemonth married, and nigh six 
 months of it a widow, or next door." 
 
 " We write to her, James, and en- 
 tertain her replies, which are at con- 
 siderable length." 
 
 " Ay, but we don't read 'cm ! " 
 said James, with an uneasy glance at 
 the tray. 
 
 " Invariably, at our leisure ; mean- 
 time we make ourselves happy 
 amongst the wits and the sirens." 
 
 "And she do make others happy 
 among the poor and the ailing." 
 
 "Which shows," said Colander, 
 superciliously, " the difference of 
 tastes." 
 
 Burdock, whose eye had never been 
 off his mistress's handwriting, at last 
 took it up and said : " Master Colan- 
 der, do if ye please, sir, take this into 
 master's dressing-room, do now ? " 
 
 Colander looked down on the mis- 
 sive with dilating eye. " Not a bill, 
 James Burdock," said he, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " A bill ! bless ye, no. A letter 
 from missus." 
 
 No, the dog would not take it in to 
 his master ; and poor James, with a 
 sigh, replaced it in the tray. 
 
 This James Burdock, then, was 
 left in charge of the hall by Colan- 
 der, and it so happened that the 
 change was hardly effected, before a 
 hurried knocking came to the street 
 door. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " grumbled Burdock, " I 
 thought it would not be long. Lon- 
 don for knocking and ringing all day, 
 and ringing and knocking all night." 
 He opened the door reluctantly and 
 suspiciously, and in darted a lady, 
 whose features were concealed by a 
 hood. She glided across the hall, as if 
 she was making for some point, and 
 old James shuffled after her, crying : 
 " Stop, stop ! young woman. What 
 is your name, young woman? " 
 
 " Why, James Burdock," cried the 
 lady, removing her hood, " have you 
 forgotten your mistress ? " 
 
 " Mistress ! Why, Miss Mabel, I 
 ask your pardon, madam, — here, 
 John, Margery ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried Mrs. "Vane. 
 
 " But where are your trunks, 
 miss ? And where 's the coach, and 
 Darby and Joan < To think of their 
 drawing you all the way here ! I 'U
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 59 
 
 have 'cm into your room directly, 
 ma'am. Miss, you've come just in 
 time." 
 
 " What a dear, good, stupid, old 
 tiling you are, James. Where is 
 Ernest, — Mr. Vane? James, is he 
 well and happy ? I want to surprise 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said James, look- 
 ing down. 
 
 " J left the old stupid coach at 
 Islington, James. The something — 
 pin was loose, or I don't know what. 
 Could I wait two hours there ? So I 
 came on by myself; you wicked old 
 man, you let me talk, and don't tell 
 me how he is." 
 
 " Master is main well, ma'am, and 
 thank you," said old Burdock, con- 
 fused and uneasy. 
 
 " Bat is he happy ? Of course he 
 is. Are we not to meet to-day after 
 six months i Ah ! but never mind, 
 they ore gone by." 
 
 " Lord bless her ! " thought the 
 faithful old fellow. " If sitting down 
 ami crying could help her, I would n't 
 be long." 
 
 By this time they were in the ban- 
 queting-roora, and at the preparations 
 there Mabel gave a start ; she then 
 colored. " O, he has invited his 
 friends to make acquaintance. I had 
 rather we had been alone all this day 
 and to-morrow. But be must not 
 know that. No ; hia friends arc my 
 friends, and shall be too," thought 
 the country wife. She then glanced 
 with some misgiving at her travelling 
 attire, and wished she had brought 
 me trunk with her. 
 
 "James," said she, "where is my 
 room? And, mind, I forbid you to 
 jell a soul I am come." 
 
 " Your room, Miss Mabel?" 
 
 " Well, any room where there is 
 looking-glass and water." 
 
 She t Inn went to a door which 
 opened in fact on a short passage 
 leading to a room occupied by Mr. 
 Vane himself. 
 
 " No, no ! " cried James. " That 
 is master's room." 
 
 " Well, is not master's room mis- 
 
 tress's room, old man 1 But stay ; 
 is he there ? " 
 
 " No ma'am ; he is in the garden, 
 with a power of fine folks." 
 
 " They shall not see me till I have 
 made myself a little more decent," 
 said the young beauty, who knew at 
 bottom how little comparatively the 
 color of her dress could affect her ap- 
 pearance, and she opened Mr. Vane's 
 door and glided in. 
 
 Burdock's first determination was, 
 in spite of her injunction, to tell Co- 
 lander ; but on reflection he argued : 
 " And then what will they do ? They 
 will put their heads together, and de- 
 ceive us some other way. No ! " 
 thought James, with a touch of spite, 
 " we shall see how they will all look." 
 He argued also, th;it, at sight of his 
 beautiful wife, his master must come 
 to his senses, and the Colander fac- 
 tion be defeated ; and perhaps, by the 
 mercy of Providence, Colander him- 
 self turned off. 
 
 Whilst thus ruminating, a thunder- 
 ing knock at the door almost knocked 
 him off his legs. " There ye go 
 again," said he, and went angrily to 
 the door. This time it was Ilunsdon, 
 who was in a desperate hurry to see 
 his master. 
 
 " Where is Sir Charles Pomander, 
 my honest fellow ? " said he. 
 
 " In the garden, my Jack-a-dandy ! " 
 said Burdock, furiously. 
 
 (" Honest fellow," among servants, 
 implies some moral inferiority.) 
 
 In the garden went Ilunsdon. His 
 master — all whose senses were pay- 
 ing sentinel — saw him, and left the 
 company to meet him. 
 
 " She is in the bouse, sir." 
 
 "Good! Go, — vanish!" 
 
 Sir Charles looked into the ban- 
 quet-room ; the haunch was being 
 placed on the table. He returned 
 with the information. lie burned to 
 bring husband and wife together ; he 
 
 counted eaeh second lost that post- 
 poned this (to him) thrilling joy. O, 
 now happy he was! — happier than 
 the serpent, when he saw Eve's white 
 teeth really strike into the apple !
 
 60 
 
 PEG WOFFIXGTON. 
 
 " Shall we pay respect to this 
 haunch, Mr. Quia ? " said Vane, 
 gayly. 
 
 " if you please, sir," said Quin, 
 gravely. 
 
 Colander ran down a by-path with 
 an immense bouquet, which he ar- 
 ranged for Mrs. Wellington in a vase 
 at Mr. Vane's left hand. He then 
 threw open the windows, which were 
 on the French plan, and shut within 
 a foot of the lawn. 
 
 The musicians in the arbor struck 
 up, and the company, led by Mr. 
 Vane and Mrs. Woffiugton, entered 
 the room. And a charming room it 
 was ! — light, lofty, and large, — 
 adorned in the French way with white 
 and gold. The table was an exact 
 oval, and at it everybody could hear 
 what any one said ; an excellent ar- 
 rangement where ideaed guests only 
 are admitted, — which is anoiher ex- 
 cellent arrangement, though I see 
 people don't think so. 
 
 The repast was luxurious and ele- 
 gant. There was no profusion of 
 unmeaning dishes ; each was a bonne- 
 bouche, — an undeniable delicacy. 
 The glass was beautiful, the plates 
 silver : the flowers rose like walls 
 from the table ; the plate massive and 
 glorious ; rose-water in the hand- 
 glasses ; music crept in from the gar- 
 den, deliriously subdued into what 
 seemed a natural sound. A broad 
 stream of southern sun gushed in 
 fiery gold through the open window, 
 and, like a red-hot rainbow, danced 
 through the stained glass above it. 
 Existence was a thing to bask in, — 
 in such a place, and so happy an 
 hour ! 
 
 The guests were Quin, Mrs. Clive, 
 Mr. Cibber, Sir Charles Pomander, 
 Mrs. Woffin^ton, and Messrs. Soaper 
 and Snarl, critics of the day. This 
 pair, with wonderful sagacity, had ar- 
 rived from the street as the haunch 
 came from the kitchen. Good-humor 
 reigned ; some cuts passed, but, as the 
 parties professed wit, they gave and 
 took. 
 
 Quin carved the haunch, and was 
 
 happy ; Soaper and Snarl eating the 
 same, and drinking Toquay, were 
 mellowed and mitigated into human 
 flesh. Mr. Vane and Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton were happy ; he, because his con- 
 science was asleep ; and she, because 
 she felt nothing now could shake her 
 hold of him. Sir Charles was in a 
 sort of mental chuckle. His head 
 burned, his bones ached ; but he was 
 in a sort of nervous delight. 
 
 " Where is she ? " thought he. 
 " What will she do ? Will slic send 
 her maid with a note ? How blue he 
 will look ! Or will she come herself? 
 She is a country wife ; there must be 
 a scene. O, why doesn't she come 
 into this room ? She must know we 
 are here ! is she watching some- 
 where ? " His brain became puzzled, 
 and his senses were sharpened to a 
 point ; he was all eye, ear, and expec- 
 tation ; and this was why he was the 
 only one to hear a very slight sound 
 behind the door we have mentioned, 
 and next to perceive a lady's glove 
 lying close to that door. Mabel had 
 dropped it in her retreat. Putting 
 this and that together, he was led to 
 hope and believe she was there, mak- 
 ing her toilet, perhaps, and her ar- 
 rival at present unknown. 
 
 " Do you expect no one else ? " 
 said he, with feigned carelessness, to 
 Mr. Vane. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Vane, with real 
 carelessness. 
 
 " It must be so ! What fortune ! " 
 thought Pomander. 
 
 Soaper. " Mr. Cibber looks no older 
 than he did five years ago." 
 
 Snarl. " There was no room on his 
 face for a fresh wrinkle." 
 
 Soaper. " He! he ! Nay, Mr. Snarl : 
 Mr. Cibber is like old port ; the more 
 ancient he grows, the more delicious 
 his perfume." 
 
 Snarl. " And the crustier he gets." 
 
 Clive. " Mr. Vane, you should al- 
 ways separate those two. Snarl, by 
 himself, is just supportable ; but, when 
 Soaper paves the way with his hypo- 
 critical praise, the pair are too much; 
 they are a two-edged sword."
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 Gl 
 
 Wofflnr/ton. "Wanting nothing but 
 polish and point." 
 
 I 'am'. " Gentlemen, we abandon 
 your neighbor, Mr, Quin, to you." 
 
 Quin. " They know better. If they 
 don't keep a civil tongue in their 
 heads, no fat goes from here to them." 
 
 Gibber. " Ah, Mr. Vane ; this room 
 is delightful ; but it makes me sad. 
 I knew this house in Lord Longue- 
 ville's time ; an unrivalled gallant, 
 Peggy. You may just remember 
 him, Sir Charles ? " 
 
 Pomander (with his eye on a cer- 
 tain door). " Yes, yes; a gouty old 
 fellow." 
 
 Gibber fired up. " I wish you may 
 ever be like him. the beauty, the 
 wit, the petitssoupers that used to be 
 here ! Longueville was a great crea- 
 ture, Mr. Vane. I have known him 
 entertain a line lady in this room, 
 while her rival was fretting and 
 fuming on the other side of that 
 door." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " said Sir Charles. 
 
 " More shame for him," said Mr. 
 Vane. 
 
 Here was luck ! Pomander seized 
 this opportunity of turning the con- 
 versation to his object. With a mali- 
 cious twinkle in his eye, he inquired 
 of Mr. Cibber what made him fancy 
 the house had lost its virtue in Mr. 
 Vane's bands. 
 
 " Because," said Cibber, peevishly, 
 " you all want the true suvoir faire 
 nowadays, because there is no juste 
 milieu, young gentlemen. The young 
 dogs of tli" day are all either un- 
 principled heathen, like yourself, or 
 Amadi-ses, like our worihy host." 
 The old gentleman's face and man- 
 ners were like those of a patriarch, 
 regretting the general decay of virtue, 
 not the imaginary diminution of a 
 single vice. He concluded with a 
 sign, that, " The true preua dee dames 
 went out with the full periwig; stop 
 mv vitals ! " 
 
 "A bit of fat, Mr. Cibber?" said 
 
 Quin, whose jokes were not polished. 
 "Jemmy, thou art a brute," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " You refuse, sir 1 " said Quin, 
 sternly. 
 
 "No, sir!" said Cibber, with dig- 
 nity : " I accept." 
 
 Pomander's eye was ever on the 
 door. 
 
 " The old are so unjust to the 
 young," said he. " You pretend that 
 the Deluge washed away iniquity, 
 and that a rake is a fossil. What," 
 said he, leaning as it were on every 
 word, "if I bet you a cool hundred, 
 that Vane has a petticoat in that 
 room, and that Mrs. Woffington shall 
 unearth her 1 " 
 
 The malicious dog thought this was 
 the surest way to effect a dramatic ex- 
 posure . because, if Peggy found Ma- 
 bel to all appearances concealed, Peg- 
 gy would scold her, and betray her- 
 self. 
 
 " Pomander ! " cried Vane, in 
 great heat ; then, checking himself, he 
 said coolly: "but you all know Po- 
 mander." 
 
 " None of you," replied that gentle- 
 man. " Bring a chair, sir," said he, 
 authoritatively, to a servant; who, of 
 course, obeyed. 
 
 Mrs. Clive looked at him, and 
 thought : " There is something in 
 this ! " 
 
 " It is for the lady," said he, coolly. 
 Then, leaning over the table, he said 
 to Mrs. Woffington, with an impu- 
 dent affectation of friendly understand- 
 ing : " I ran her to earth in this house 
 not tea minutes ago. Of course I 
 don't know who she is ! But," smack- 
 ing his lips, " a rustic Amaryllis, 
 breathing all May-buds and -Meadow 
 
 sweet." 
 
 "Have her out, Peggy!" shouted 
 Cibber. " I know the run, — there \s 
 the covert ! Hark, forward ! Ila, ha, 
 ha!" 
 
 Mr. Vane rose, and, with a stern- 
 ness that brought the old beau up with 
 a run. he said : " Mr. Cibber, age and 
 infirmity are privileged ; but for you, 
 Sir Charles — " 
 
 " Don't be angry," interposed Mrs. 
 Worhngton, whose terror was lest ho 
 should (piarrel with so practised a
 
 62 
 
 PEG WOFFIXGTON. 
 
 swordsman. " Don't you see it is a 
 jest ! and, as might be expected from 
 poor Sir Charles, a very sorry one." 
 
 " A jest ! " said Vane, white with 
 rage. " Let it go no further, or it 
 will be earnest! " 
 
 Mrs. VVoffington placed her hand 
 on his shoulder, and at that touch he 
 instantly yielded, and sat down. 
 
 It was at this moment, when Sir 
 Charles found himself for the present 
 baffled, — for he could no longer press 
 his point, and search that room ; 
 when the attention of all was drawn 
 to a dispute, which, for a moment, had 
 looked like a quarrel ; whilst Mrs. 
 Woffington's hand still lingered, as 
 only a woman's hand can linger in leav- 
 ing the shoulder of the man she loves ; 
 it was at this moment the door opened 
 of its own accord, and a most beauti- 
 ful woman stood, with a light step, 
 upon the threshold ! 
 
 Kobody's back was to her, except 
 Mr. Vane's. Every eye, but his, was 
 spell-bound upon her. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington withdrew her 
 hand, as if a scorpion had touched 
 her. 
 
 A stupor of astonishment fell on 
 them all. 
 
 Mr. Vane, seeing the direction of 
 all their eyes, slewed himself round in 
 his chair into a most awkward posi- 
 tion, and when he saw the lady, he 
 Mas utterly dumfounded ! But she, 
 ns soon as he turned his face her way, 
 glided up to him, with a little half- 
 sigh, half-cry of joy, and, taking him 
 round the neck, kissed him deheious- 
 ly, while every eye at the table met 
 every other eye in turn. One or two 
 of the men rose; for the lady's beauty 
 was as worthy of homage as her ap- 
 pearing was marvellous. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington, too astonished for 
 emotion to take any definite shape, 
 said, in what seemed an ordinary 
 tone : " Who is this lady ? " 
 
 " I am his wife, madam," said 
 Mabel, in the voice of a skylark, and 
 smiling friendly on the questioner. 
 
 " It is my wife ! " said Vane, like a 
 speaking-machine ; he was scarcely in 
 
 a conscious state. " It is my wife ! '' 
 he repeated, mechanically. 
 
 The words were no sooner out of 
 Mabel's mouth than two servants, 
 who had never heard of Mrs. Vane 
 before, hastened to place on Mr. 
 Vane's right hand the chair Poman- 
 der had provided, a plate and napkin 
 were there in a twinkling, and tho 
 wife modestly, but as a matter of 
 course, courtesicd low, with an air of 
 welcome to all her guests, and then 
 glided into the scat her servants obse- 
 quiously placed for her. 
 
 The whole thing did not take half 
 a minute ! 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Mr. Vane, besides being a rich, 
 was a magnificent man ; when his 
 features were in repose their beau- 
 ty had a wise and stately character. 
 Spaper and Snarl had admired and 
 bitterly envied him. At the present 
 moment no one of his guests envied 
 him, — they began to realize his posi- 
 tion. And he, a huge wheel of shame 
 and remorse, began to turn and whir 
 before his eyes. He sat between two 
 European beauties, and, pale and 
 red by turns, shunned the eyes of 
 both, and looked down at his plate in 
 a cold sweat of humiliation, mortifica- 
 tion, and shame. 
 
 The iron passed through Mrs. 
 Woffington's soul. So ! this was a 
 villain too, the greatest villain of all, 
 — a hypocrite ! She turned very 
 faint, but she was under an enemy's 
 eye, and under a rival's ; the thought 
 drove the blood back from her heart, 
 and with a mighty effort she was 
 Woffington again. Hitherto her liai- 
 son with Mr. Vane had called up the 
 better part of her nature, and perhaps 
 our reader has been taking her for a 
 good woman ; but now all her dregs 
 were stirred to the surface. The mor- 
 tified actress gulled by a novice, the 
 wronged and insulted woman, had but 
 two thoughts; to defeat her rival,—
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 63 
 
 to be reversed on her false lover. 
 More than one sharp spasm passed 
 over her features before she could 
 muster them, and then she became 
 smiles above, wormwood and red-hot 
 steel below, — all in less than half a 
 minute. 
 
 As for the others, looks of keen in- 
 telligence passed between them, and 
 they watched with burning interest 
 for the denouement. That interest was 
 stronger than their sense of the comi- 
 cality of all this (for the humorous 
 view of what passes before our eyes 
 comes upon cool reflection, not often 
 at the time). 
 
 Sir Charles, indeed, who had fore- 
 seen some of this, wore a demure 
 look, belied by his glittering eye. 
 He offered Cibber snuff, and the two 
 satirical animals grinned over the 
 snuff-box, like a malicious old ape 
 and a mischievous young monkey. 
 
 The new-comer was charming ; she 
 was above the middle height, of a full, 
 though graceful figure, her abundant, 
 glossy, bright brown hair glittered 
 here and there like gold in the light ; 
 she had a snowy brow, eves of the 
 piofoundest blue, a cheek like a 
 peach, and a face beaming candor and 
 goodness ; the character of her coun- 
 tenance resembled " the Queen of the 
 May," in Mr. Leslie's famous picture, 
 more than any face of our day I can 
 call to mind. 
 
 " You are not angry with me for 
 this silly trick ! " said she, with some 
 misgiving. " After all I am only two 
 hours before my time; you know, 
 dearest, I said four in my letter, — did 
 I not .' " 
 
 Vane stammered. What could he 
 say ' 
 
 " And you have had three days to 
 prepare you, for I wrote, like a 
 good wife, to ask leave before start- 
 ing ; but he never so much as an- 
 swered my letter, madam." (This 
 she addressed to Mrs. Wellington, 
 who smiled by main force.) 
 
 ■• Win," stammered Vane, "could 
 you doubt ? 1 — I — " 
 
 " No ! Silence was consent, was it 
 
 not ? But I beg your pardon, ladies 
 and gentlemen, I hope you will for- 
 give me. It is six months since X 
 saw him — so you understand — I 
 warrant ine you did not look for me 
 so soon, ladies ? " 
 
 " Some of us did not look for you 
 at all, madam," said Mrs. Woiring- 
 ton. 
 
 " What, Ernest did not tell you ho 
 expected me ? " 
 
 " No ! He told us this banquet was 
 in honor of a lady's first visit to his 
 house, but none of us imagined that 
 lady to be his wife." 
 
 Vane began to writhe under that 
 terrible tongue, whose point hitherto 
 had ever been turned away from him. 
 
 " He intended to steal a march on 
 us," said Pomander, dryly; "and, 
 with your help, we steal one on 
 him " ; and he smiled maliciously ou 
 Mrs. Wotrington. 
 
 " But, madam," said Mr. Quin, 
 " the moment you did arrive, I kept 
 sacred for you a bit of the fat; for 
 which, I am sure, you must be ready. 
 Pass her plate ! " 
 
 " Not at present, Mr. Quin," said 
 Mr. Vane, hastily. " She is about 
 to retire and change her travelling- 
 dress." 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but, you forget, I am 
 a stranger to your friends. Will you 
 not introduce me to them first? " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Vane, in trepida- 
 tion. "It is not usual to introduce 
 in the becai monde." 
 
 " We always introduce ourselves," 
 rejoined Mrs. Woffington ; and she 
 rose slowly, with her eye on Vane. 
 He east a look of abject entreaty on 
 her ; but there was no pity in that 
 curling lip and awful eye. He closed 
 his own eyes, and waited for the blow. 
 Sir Charles threw himself back in his 
 chair, and, chuckling, prepared for the 
 explosion. Mrs. Woffington saw him, 
 and cast on him a look of ineffable 
 scorn; and then she held the whole 
 company fluttering a long while. At 
 length : " The Honorable Mrs. Quick- 
 ly, madam," said she, indicating Mrs. 
 Olive.
 
 64 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 This turn took them all by surprise. 
 Pomander bit his lip. 
 
 "Sir John Brute — " 
 
 " Falstatf," cried Quin ; " hang it." 
 
 " Sir Jolin Brute Falstaff," resumed 
 Mrs. Worfington. " We call him, 
 for brevity, Brute." 
 
 Vane drew a long breath. " Your 
 neighbor is Lord Foppington ; a but- 
 terfly of some standing, and a little 
 gouty. 
 
 " Sir Charles Pomander.' 
 
 " O," cried Mrs. Vane. " It is the 
 good gentleman who helped us out 
 of the slough, near Huntingdon. Er- 
 nest, if it had not been for this gen- 
 tleman, I should not have had the 
 pleasure of being here now." And 
 she beamed on the good Pomander. 
 
 Mr. Vane did not rise and embrace 
 Sir Charles. 
 
 " All the company thanks the 
 good Sir Charles," said Cibber, bow- 
 ing. 
 
 " I see it in all their faces," said 
 the good Sir Charles, dryly. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington continued : " Mr. 
 Soaper, Mr. Snarl ; gentlemen who 
 would butter and slice up their own 
 lathers ! " 
 
 " Bless me ! " cried Mrs. Vane, 
 faintly. 
 
 " Critics ! " And she dropped, as 
 it were, the word dryly, with a sweet 
 smile, into Mabel's plate. 
 
 Mrs. Vane was relieved; she had 
 apprehended cannibals. London they 
 had told her was full of curiosi- 
 ties. 
 
 " But yourself, madam 1 " 
 
 " I am* the Lady Betty Modish ; at 
 your service." 
 
 A four-inch grin went round the 
 table. The dramatical old rascal, 
 Cibber, began now to look at it as a 
 bit of genteel comedy ; and slipped 
 out his note-book under the table. 
 Pomander cursed her ready wit, 
 which had disappointed him of his 
 catastrophe. Vane wrote on a slip of 
 paper: "Pity and respect the inno- 
 cent! "and passed it to Mrs. Wof- 
 fington. He could not have done a 
 more superfluous or injudicious thing. 
 
 " And now, Ernest," cried Mabel, 
 " for the news from Willoughby." 
 
 Vane stopped her in dismay. He 
 felt how many satirical eyes and ears 
 were upon him and his wife. " Pray 
 go and change your dress first, Ma- 
 bel," cried he, fully determined that 
 on her return she should not find the 
 present party there. 
 
 Mrs. Vane cast an imploring look 
 on Mrs. Woffington. "My things 
 are not come," said she. "And, 
 Lady Betty, I had so much to tell 
 him, and to be sent away " ; and the 
 deep blue eyes began to fill. 
 
 Now Mrs. Woffington was de- 
 termined that this lady, who she saw 
 was simple, should disgust her hus- 
 band, by talking twaddle before a 
 band of satirists. So she said warm- 
 ly : " It is not fair on us. Pray, 
 madam, your budget of country 
 news. Clouted cream so seldom 
 comes to London quite fresh." 
 
 " There, you see, Ernest," said 
 the unsuspicious soul. " First, you 
 must know that Gray Gillian is 
 turned out for a brood mare, so old 
 Gcroge won't let me ride her ; old 
 servants are such tyrants, my lady. 
 And my Barbary hen has laid two 
 eggs ; Heaven knows the trouble we 
 had to bring her to it. And Dame 
 Best, that is my husband's old nurse, 
 Mrs. Quickly, has had soup and pud- 
 ding from the Hall every day ; and 
 once she went so far as to say it was 
 n't altogether a bad pudding. She 
 is not a very grateful woman, in a 
 general way, poor thing ! I made it 
 with these hands." 
 
 Vane writhed. 
 
 " Happy pudding ! " observed Mr. 
 Cibber. 
 
 " Is this mockery, sir ? " cried Vane, 
 with a sudden burst of irritation. 
 
 " No, sir ; it is gallantry," replied 
 Cibber, with perfect coolness. 
 
 " Will you hear a little music in 
 the garden ? " said Vane to Mrs. 
 Woffington, pooh-poohing his wife's 
 news. 
 
 " Not till I hear the end of Dame 
 Bess."
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 G5 
 
 "Best, my lady." 
 
 "Dame Best interests me, Mr. 
 Vane." 
 
 "Ay, and Ernest is very fond of 
 her, too, when he is at home. She is 
 in her nice new cottage, dear ; but 
 she misses the draughts that were in 
 her old one, — they were like old 
 friends. ' The only ones I have, I 'm 
 thinking,' said the dear cross old 
 thing ; and there stood I, on her 
 floor, with a flannel petticoat in both 
 hands, that I had made for her, and 
 ruined my finger. Look else, my 
 Lord Foppington ? " She extended 
 a hand the color of cream. 
 
 " Permit me, madam ? " taking 
 out his glasses, with which he in- 
 spected her finger ; and gravely an- 
 nounced to the company : " The 
 laceration is, in fact, discernible. May 
 I be permitted, madam," added he, 
 " to kiss this fair hand, which I 
 should never have suspected of hav- 
 ing ever made itself half so use- 
 ful 1 " 
 
 " Ay, my lord ! " said she, coloring 
 slightly, "you shall, because you are 
 so old ; but I don't say for a young 
 gentleman, unless it was the one 
 that belongs to me; and he docs not 
 ask nie." 
 
 " My dear Mabel ; pray remember 
 we arc not at Willougnby." 
 
 " I see we arc not, Ernest." And 
 the dovelike eyes tilled brimful ; and 
 all her innocent prattle was put an 
 end to. 
 
 " What brntes men are," thought 
 Mrs. Woffington. "They arc not 
 worthy even of a fool like this." 
 
 Mr. Vane once more pressed her 
 to hear a little music in the garden ; 
 and this time she consented. Mr. 
 Vane was far from being unmoved 
 by his wile's arrival, and her true af- 
 fection. Bat she worried him ; he 
 was anxious, above all things, to es- 
 cape from his present position, and 
 separate the rival queens ; and this 
 
 wns the only way he could see to do 
 
 it. lie whispered Mabel, ami bade 
 
 her somewhat peremptoril J rest h'T- 
 sclf for an hoar after her journey, and 
 
 he entered the garden with Mrs. Wof- 
 fington. 
 
 Now the other gentlemen admired 
 Mrs. Vane the most. She was new. 
 She was as lovely, in her way, as Peg- 
 gy ; and it was the young May-morn 
 beauty of the country. They forgave 
 her simplicity, and even her goodness, 
 on account of her beauty ; men are 
 not severe judges of beautiful women. 
 They all solicited her to come with 
 them, and be the queen of the garden. 
 But the good wife was obedient. 
 Her lord had told her she was fa- 
 tigued ; so site said she was tired. 
 
 " Mr. Vane's garden will lack its 
 sweetest and fairest flower, madam," 
 cried Cibber, " if we leave you 
 here. " 
 
 " Nay, my lord, there are fairer 
 than I." 
 
 " Poor Quin ! " cried Kitty Clive; 
 " to have to leave the alderman's walk 
 for the garden-walk." 
 
 " All I regret," said the honest 
 glutton, stoutly, " is that I go with- 
 out carving for Mrs. Vane." 
 
 " You are very good, Sir John ; I 
 will be more troublesome to you at 
 supper-time." 
 
 When they were all gone, she 
 could n't help sighing. It almost 
 seemed as if everybody was kinder to 
 her than he whose kindness alone she 
 valued. " And he must take Lady 
 Betty's hand instead of mine," thought 
 she. " But that is good breeding, I 
 suppose. I wish there was no such 
 thing; we are very happy without it 
 in Shropshire." Then this poor lit- 
 tle soul was ashamed of herself, and 
 took herself to task. " Poor Ernest," 
 said she, pitying the wrong-doer, like 
 a woman, " he was not pleased to be 
 so taken by surprise. No wonder ; 
 they are so ceremonious in London. 
 How good of him not to be angry ! " 
 Then she sighed ; her heart had re- 
 ceived a damp. His voice seemed 
 changed, and he did not meet her eyes 
 
 with the look he wore at Willoughby. 
 
 She looked timidly into the gurden. 
 She saw the gay colors of beaux, as 
 well as of belles, — lor in these days
 
 CG 
 
 PEG W0FF1NGT0N. 
 
 broadcloth had not displaced silk and 
 velvet, — glancing and .shining among 
 the trees ; and she sighed, hut, pres- 
 ently brightening up a little, she said : 
 " I will go and sec that the coffee is 
 hot and clear, and the chocolate well 
 mixed for them." The poor child 
 wanted to do something to please her 
 husband. Before she could carry out 
 this act of domestic virtue, her atten- 
 tion was drawn to a strife of tongues 
 in the hall. She opened the folding- 
 doors, and there was a fine gentleman 
 obstructing the entrance ot a sombre, 
 rusty figure, with a portfolio and a 
 manuscript under each arm. 
 
 The fine gentleman was Colander. 
 The seedy personage was the eternal 
 Triplet, come to make hay with his 
 five-foot rule while the sun shone. 
 Colander had opened the door to him, 
 and he had shot into the hall. The 
 major-domo obstructed the farther 
 entrance of such a coat. 
 
 " I tell you my master is not 
 at home," remonstrated the major- 
 domo. 
 
 " How can you say so," cried Mrs. 
 Vane, in surprise, " when you know 
 he is in the garden 1 " 
 
 " Simpleton ! " thought Colander. 
 " Show the gentleman in." 
 " Gentleman ! " muttered Colan- 
 der. 
 
 Triplet thanked her for her conde- 
 scension ; he would wait for Mr. 
 Vane in the hall. " I came by ap- 
 pointment, madam ; this is the only 
 excuse for the importunity you have 
 just witnessed." 
 
 Hearing this, Mrs. Vane dismissed 
 Colander to inform his master. Co- 
 lander bowed loftily, and walked into 
 the servants' hall without deigning to 
 take the last proposition into consid- 
 eration. 
 
 " Conic in here, sir," said Mabel ; 
 " Mr. Vane will come as soon as he 
 can leave his company." Triplet en- 
 tered in a series of obsequious jerks. 
 " Sit down and rest you, sir." And 
 Mrs. Vane seated herself at the table, 
 and motioned with her white hand to 
 Triplet to sit beside her. 
 
 Triplet bowed, and sat on the edgo 
 of a chair, and smirked and dropped 
 his portfolio, and instantly begged 
 Mrs. Vane's pardon ; in taking it up, 
 he let fall his manuscript, and was 
 again confused ; but in the middle of 
 some superfluous and absurd excuse 
 his eye fell on the haunch ; it straight- 
 way dilated to an enormous size, and 
 he became suddenly silent and ab- 
 sorbed in contemplation. 
 " You look sadly tired, sir." 
 " Why, yes, madam. It is a long 
 way from "Lambeth Walk, and it is 
 passing hot, madam." He took his 
 handkerchief out, and was about to 
 wipe his brow, but returned it hastily 
 to his pocket. " I beg your pardon, 
 madam," said Triplet, whose ideas of 
 breeding, though speculative, were 
 severe, " I forgot myself." 
 
 Mabel looked at "him, and colored, 
 and slightly hesitated. At last she 
 said : " I '11 be bound you came in 
 such a hurry you forgot — you must 
 n't be angry with me — to have your 
 dinner first ! " 
 
 For Triplet looked like an absurd 
 wolf, — all benevolence and starva- 
 tion ! 
 
 " What divine intelligence ! " 
 thought Trip. " How strange, mad- 
 am," cried he, " you have hit it ! 
 This accounts, at once, for a craving 
 I feel. Now you remind me, I recol- 
 lect carving for others, I did forget to 
 remember myself. Not thatl need 
 have forgot it to-day, madam ; but, 
 being used to forget "it, I did not re- 
 member not to forget it to-day, mad- 
 am, that was all." And the author 
 of this intelligent account smiled very, 
 very, very absurdly. 
 
 She poured him out a glass of wine. 
 He rose and bowed ; but peremptorily 
 refused it, with his tongue, — his eye 
 drank it. 
 
 " But you must," persisted this 
 hospitable lady. 
 
 " But, madam, consider I am not 
 entitled to — Nectar, as 1 am a 
 
 man 
 
 The white hand was filling his plate 
 with partridge pie : " But, madam,
 
 PEG WOFFIXGTON. 
 
 67 
 
 you don't consider how you overwhelm 
 me with your — Ambrosia, as 1 am 
 a poet ! " 
 
 " I am sorry Mr. Vane should 
 keep you waiting." 
 
 " By no means, madam ; it is fortu- 
 nate, — I mean it procures me the 
 pleasure of " (here articulation became 
 obstructed) "your society, madam 
 Besides, the servants of the Muse are 
 used to waiting. What we are not 
 used to is " (here the white hand filled 
 his glass) " being waited upon by 
 Hebe and the Twelve Graces, whose 
 health I have the honor " — (Degluti- 
 tion.) 
 
 " A poet ! " cried Mabel ; " oh ! I 
 am so glad ! Little did I think ever to 
 see a living poet ! Dear heart ! I 
 should not have known, if you had 
 not told me. Sir, I love poetry ! " 
 
 " It is in your face, madam." Trip- 
 let instantly whipped out his manu- 
 script, put a plate on one corner of it, 
 and a decanter on the other, and 
 begged her opinion of this trifle, com- 
 
 Sosed, said he, "in honor of a lady 
 r Ir. Vane entertains to-day." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Vane, and col- 
 ored with pleasure. How ungrateful 
 she had been ! Here was an atten- 
 tion ! — For, of course, she never 
 doubted that the verses were in honor 
 of her arrival. 
 
 "'Bright being— '" 
 
 sang out Triplet. 
 
 " N'av, sir, said Mabel ; " I think 
 I know the lady, and it would be 
 hardly proper of me — " 
 
 "O madam 1 " said Triplet, sol- 
 emnly; "strictly correct, madam!" 
 And he spread his hand out over his 
 liu-oin. " Strictly ! — ' Blunderbuss' 
 (my poetical name, madam) never 
 stooped to the taste of the town. 
 
 ' Bright being, thou — ' >* 
 
 "But you must have another p-lass 
 of wine first, and a slice of the 
 haunch." 
 
 " "With alacrity, madam." He laid 
 in a fresh stock of provisions. 
 
 Strange it was to sec them side by 
 
 side ! Iip, a Don Quixote, with cord- 
 age instead of lines in his mahogany 
 face, and clothes hanging upon him ; 
 she, smooth, duck-like, delicious, and 
 bright as an opening rose fresh with 
 dew ! 
 
 She watched him kindly, archly, 
 and demurely ; and still plied him, 
 country-wise, with every mortal thing 
 on the table. 
 
 But the poet was not a boa-con- 
 strictor, and even a boa-constrictor 
 has an end. Hunger satisfied, his 
 next strongest feeling, simple vanity, 
 remained to be contented. As the 
 last morsel went in out came : — 
 
 " ' Bright being, thou whose ra — ' " 
 
 " No ! no ! " said she, who fancied 
 herself (and not without reason) the 
 bright being. " Mr. Vane intended 
 them for a surprise." 
 
 " As you please, madam " ; and the 
 disappointed bore sighed. " But you 
 would have liked them, for the theme 
 inspired me. The kindest, the most 
 generous of women ! Don't you 
 agree with me, madam 1 " 
 
 Mabel Vane opened her eyes. 
 " Hardly, sir," laughed she. 
 
 " If you knew her as I do." 
 
 " I ought to know her better, sir." 
 
 " Ay, indeed ! Well, madam, now 
 her kindness to me, for instance, — a 
 poor devil like me. The expression, 
 I trust, is not disagreeable to you, 
 madam ? If so, forgive me, and con- 
 sider it withdrawn." 
 
 " La, sir ! civility is so cheap, if you 
 go to that." 
 
 " Civility, ma'am ? Why, she has 
 saved me from despair, — from starva- 
 tion, perhaps." 
 
 "Poor thing! Well, indeed, sir, 
 you looked — you looked — what a 
 shame ! and you a poet." 
 
 " From an epitaph to an epic, mad- 
 am. 
 
 At this moment a figuro looked in 
 upon them from the garden, but 
 retreated unobserved. It was Sir 
 Charles Pomander, who had Blipped 
 away, with the heartless ami malicious 
 intention of exposing the husband to
 
 68 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 the wife, and profiting by her indig- 
 nation and despair. Seeing Triplet, 
 he made an extemporaneous calcula- 
 tion that so infernal a chatterbox 
 could not be ten minutes in her com- 
 pany without telling her everything, 
 and this would serve his turn very 
 well. He therefore postponed his pur- 
 pose, and strolled away to a short dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Triplet justified the Baronet's opin- 
 ion. Without any sort of sequeney 
 he now informed Mrs. Vane that the 
 benevolent lady was to sit to him for 
 her portrait. 
 
 Here was a new attention of Er- 
 nest's. How good he was, and how 
 wicked and ungrateful she ! 
 
 " What ! are you a painter too ? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 " From a house front to an histor- 
 ical composition, madam." 
 
 " O, what a clever man ! And so 
 Ernest commissioned you to paint a 
 portrait ? " 
 
 " No, madam ; for that I am in- 
 debted to the lady herself." 
 
 "The lady herself?" 
 
 " Yes, madam ; and I expected to 
 find her here. Will you add to your 
 kindness by informing me whether 
 she lias arrived ? Or she is gone — " 
 
 " Who, sir ? ( dear ! not my 
 portrait! O Ernest !) " 
 
 " Who, madam ! " cried Triplet ; 
 " why, Mrs. Woffington ! " 
 
 " She is not here," said Mrs. Vane, 
 who remembered all the names per- 
 fectly well. " There is one charm- 
 ing lady among our guests, her face 
 took me in a moment ; but she is a 
 titled lady : there is no Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton amongst them." 
 
 " Strange ! " replied Triplet ; " she 
 was to be here ; and in fact that is 
 why I expedited these lines in her 
 honor." 
 
 " In her honor, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam. Allow me : — 
 
 ' Bright being, thou whose radiant brow — ' " 
 
 " No ! no ! I don't care to hear 
 them now, for I don't know the 
 lady." 
 
 "Well, madam, but ?t least you 
 have seen her act? " 
 
 " Act ! you don't mean all this is 
 for an actress ? " 
 
 " An actress ? The actress '. And 
 you have never seen her act 1 What 
 a pleasure you have to come ! To 
 see her act is a privilege ; but to ac*. 
 with her, as 1 once did ! Bi?t shl 
 does not remember that, nor shall i 
 remind her, madam," said Tripleti 
 sternly. " On that occasion I waf 
 hissed, owing to circumstances which, 
 for the credit of our common nature, 
 I suppress." 
 
 " What ! are you an actor too T 
 You are everything." 
 
 " And it was in a farce of my own, 
 madam, which, by the strangest com- 
 bination of accidents, was damned ! " 
 
 "A play-writer? 0, what clever 
 men there are in the world — in Lon- 
 don, at least ! He is a play-writer, 
 too. I wonder my husband comes 
 not. Does Mr. Vane — does Mr. 
 Vane admire this actress ? " said she, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Mr. Vane, madam, is a gentle 
 man of taste," said he, pompously. 
 
 " Well, sir," said the lady, languid- 
 ly, "she is not here." Triplet took 
 tlie hint and rose. " Good by," said 
 she, sweetly ; " and thank you kind' 
 ly for your company, Mr. — Mr. — " 
 
 " Triplet, madam, — James Triplet, 
 of 10, Hercules Buildings, Lambeth. 
 Occasional verses, odes, epithalamia, 
 elegies, dedications, squibs, impromp. 
 tus, and hymns executed with spirit, 
 punctuality, and secrecy. Portraits 
 painted, and instruction in declama- 
 tion, sacred, profane, and dramatic. 
 The card, madam " (and he drew it 
 as doth a theatrical fop his rapier) 
 " of him who, to all these qualifica- 
 tions, adds a prouder still — that of 
 being, 
 
 " Madam, 
 " Your humble, devoted, and grateful 
 servant, 
 
 "James Triplet." 
 
 He bowed in a line from his 
 right shoulder to his left toe, and
 
 TEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 69 
 
 moved off. "But Triplet could not go 
 all at one time out of such company ; 
 he was given to return in real life, he 
 had played this trick so often on the 
 stage. He came back, exuberant 
 with gratitude. 
 
 " The fact is, madam," said he, 
 " strange as it may appear to you, a 
 kind hand has not so often been held 
 out to me, that I should forget it, 
 especially when that hand is so fair 
 and gracious. May I be permitted, 
 madam — you will impute it to grati- 
 tude rather than audacity — I — 
 I — " (whimper), " madam" (with 
 sudden severity), " I am gone ! " 
 
 These last words he pronounced 
 with the right arm at an angle of 
 forty-five degrees, and the fingers 
 pointing horizontally. The stage had 
 taught him this grace also. In his 
 day, an actor who had three words 
 to say, such as, " My lord's carriage 
 is waiting," came on the stage with 
 the right arm thus elevated, delivered 
 his message in the tones of a falling 
 dynasty, wheeled like a soldier, and 
 retired with the left arm pointing to 
 the sky, and the right hand extended 
 behind him like a setter's tail. 
 
 Left to herself, Mabel was uneasy. 
 " Ernest is so warm-hearted." This 
 was the way she put it even to her- 
 self. He admired her acting, and 
 wished to p:iy her a compliment. 
 " What if I carried him the verses ? " 
 She thought she should surely please 
 hiin by showing she was not the least 
 jealous or doubtful of him. The 
 poor child wanted so to win a kind 
 took from her husband; but, ere she 
 could reach the window, Sir Charles 
 Pomander bad enteral it. 
 
 Now Sir Charles was naturally 
 welcome to Mrs. Vane; for all she 
 knew of him was, that be had helped 
 her on the road to her husband. 
 
 Pomander. " What, madam ! all 
 alone here as in Shropshire < " 
 Mabel. " For the moment, sir." 
 Pomander. " Force of habit. .A 
 husband with a wife in Shropshire n 
 so like a bachelor." 
 Mabd. "Sir!" 
 
 Pomander. " And our excellent 
 Ernest is such a favorite ! " 
 
 Mabel. " No wonder, sir." 
 
 Pomander. " Few can so pass from 
 the larva state of country squire to 
 the butterf! v nature of beau." 
 
 Mabd. ""Yes " (sadly), " I find him 
 changed." 
 
 Pomander. " Changed ! Trans- 
 formed. He is now the prop of tho 
 ' Cocoa-Tree,' the star of Ranelagh, 
 the Lauzun of the green-room." 
 
 Mabd. " The green-room ! Where 
 is that ? You mean kindly, sir ; but 
 you make me unhappy." 
 
 Pomander. " The green-room, my 
 dear madam, is the bower where 
 houris put off their wings, and god- 
 desses become dowdies ; where Lady 
 Macbeth weeps over her lap-dog, dead 
 from repletion ; and Belvidera soothes 
 her broken heart with a dozen of oys- 
 ters : in a word, it is the place where 
 actors and actresses become men and 
 women, and act their own parts with 
 skill, instead of a poet's clumsily." 
 
 Mabd. "Actors! actresses! Does 
 Mr. Vane frequent such — " 
 
 Pomandei: " He has earned in six 
 months a reputation many a fine gen- 
 tleman would give his ears for. Not 
 a scandalous journal his initials have 
 not figured in ; not an actress of rep- 
 utation gossip has not given him for 
 a conquest." 
 
 " How dare you say this to me ? " 
 cried Mrs. Vane, with a sudden Hash 
 of indignation, and then the tears 
 streamed over her lovely cheeks ; and 
 even a Pomander might have for- 
 borne to torture her so ; but Sir 
 Charles had no mercy. 
 
 " You would be sure to learn it," 
 said he ; " and with malicious addi- 
 tions. It is better to hear the truth 
 from a friend." 
 
 " A friend ! He is no friend to a 
 house who calumniates the husband 
 to the wife. Is it the part of a friend 
 to distort dear Ernest's kindliness 
 and gayety into ill morals; to pervert 
 his love of poetry and plays into an 
 unworthy attachment t<> actors anil — 
 
 oh ! " and the tear- woidd come. But
 
 70 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 she dried them, for now she hated 
 this man ; with all the little power of 
 hatred she had, she detested him. 
 " Do you suppose I did not know 
 Mrs. Woffington was to come to us 
 to-day 1 " cried she, struggling pas- 
 sionately against her own fears and 
 Sir Charles's innuendoes. 
 
 " What ! " cried he ; " you recog- 
 nized her? You detected the actress 
 of all work under the airs of Lady 
 Betty Modish ? " 
 
 " Lady Betty Modish ! " cried Ma- 
 bel : " that good, beautiful face ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Sir Charles, " I see 
 you did not. Well, Lady Betty was 
 Mrs. Woffington ! " 
 
 " Whom my husband, I know, had 
 invited here to present her with these 
 verses, which I shall take him for 
 her " ; and her poor little lip trem- 
 bled. " Had the visit been in any 
 other character, as you are so base, 
 so cruel as to insinuate, (what have I 
 done to you that you kill me so, you 
 wicked gentleman'?) would he have 
 chosen the day of my arrival 1 " 
 
 " Not if he knew you were coming," 
 was the cool reply. 
 
 " And he did "know, — I wrote to 
 him." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Pomander, fairly 
 "puzzled. 
 
 Mrs. Vane caught sight of her 
 handwriting on the tray, and darted 
 to it, and seized her letter, and said, 
 triumphantly : — 
 
 " My last letter, written upon the 
 road, — see ! " 
 
 Sir Charles took it with surprise, 
 but, turning it in his hand, a cool, sa- 
 tirical smile came to his face. He 
 handed it back, and said, coldly : — 
 
 " Read me the passage, madam, on 
 which you argue." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Vane turned the letter 
 in her hand, and her eye became in- 
 stantly glazed ; the seal was unbro- 
 ken ! She gave a sharp cry of a<jony, 
 like a wounded deer. She saw Po- 
 mander no longer ; she was alone 
 with her great anguish. " I had but 
 my husband and my God in the 
 world," cried she. " My mother is 
 
 gone. My God, have pity on me ! my 
 husband does not love me." 
 
 The cold villain was startled at the 
 mighty storm his mean hand had 
 raised. This creature had not only 
 more feeling, but more passion, than 
 a hundred libertines. He muttered 
 some villain's commonplaces ; while 
 this unhappy young lady raised her 
 hands to heaven, and sobbed in a way 
 very terrible to any manly heart. 
 
 "He is unworthy you," muttered 
 Pomander. " He has forfeited your 
 love : he has left you nothing but 
 revenge. Be comforted. Let me, 
 who have learned already to adore 
 you-" 
 
 " So," cried she, turning on him in 
 a moment (for, on some points, wo- 
 man's instinct is the lightning of wis. 
 dom), "this, sir, was your object? 
 I may no longer hold a place in my 
 husband's heart; but I am mistress 
 of his house. Leave it, sir ! and never 
 return to it whilst I live." 
 
 Sir Charles, again discomfited, 
 bowed reverentially. " Your wish 
 shall ever be respected by me, mad- 
 am ! But here they come. Use the 
 right of a wife. Conceal yourself in 
 that high chair. Sec, I turn it; so 
 that they cannot see you. At least 
 you will* find I have but told you the 
 truth." 
 
 " No ! " cried Mabel, violently. " I 
 will not spy upon my husband at the 
 dictation of his treacherous friend." 
 
 Sir Charles vanished. He was 
 no sooner gone than Mrs. Vane 
 crouched, trembling, and writhing 
 with jealousy, in the large, high- 
 backed chair. She heard her husband 
 and the soi-disant Lady Betty Modish 
 enter. During their absence, Mrs. 
 Woffington had doubtless been play- 
 ing her cards with art ; for it ap- 
 peared that a reconciliation was now 
 taking place. The lady, however, 
 was still cool and distant. It was 
 poor Mabel's fate to hear these 
 words : " You must permit me to go 
 alone, Mr. Vane. I insist upon leav- 
 ing this house alone." 
 
 On this, he whispered to her.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 71 
 
 She answered: " Yoti are not jus- 
 tified." 
 
 " I can explain all," was his reply. 
 " I am ready to renounce credit, char- 
 acter, all the world for you." 
 
 They passed out of the room before 
 the unhappy listener could recover 
 the numbing influence of these deadly 
 words. 
 
 But the next moment she started 
 ■wildly up, and cried as one drowning 
 cries vaguely for help : " Ernest ! oh, 
 no — no! you cannot use me so! 
 Ernest — husband ! O mother ! moth- 
 er ! " 
 
 She rose, and would have made for 
 the door, but nature had been too 
 cruelly tried. At the first step she 
 could no longer see anything; and 
 the next moment, swooning dead 
 away, she fell back insensible, with 
 her head and shoulders resting on the 
 chair. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Mr. Vane was putting Mrs. Wof- 
 fington into her chair, when he 
 thought he heard his name cried. He 
 bade that lady a mournful farewell, 
 and stepped back into his own hall. 
 He had no sooner done so, than he 
 heard a voice, the accent of which 
 alarmed him, though he distinguished 
 no word. He hastily crossed the hall, 
 and Hew into the banquet-room. 
 Coming rapidly in at the folding- 
 doors he almost fell over his wife, ly- 
 1 1 1 i_r insensible, half upon the floor, 
 and half upon the chair. When he 
 saw her pale and motionless, a terri- 
 ble misgiving seized him ; he fell on 
 his knees. 
 
 " Mabel, Mabel!" cried he, "my 
 love! my innocent wife I <> (iod"! 
 what have I done? Perhaps it is the 
 fatigue, — perhaps she has tainted." 
 
 " No, it is not the fatigue I " 
 screamed a voice near him. It was 
 old Janus Burdock, who, with his 
 white hair Streaming, and his eve 
 
 gleaming with fire, shook his li-t in 
 his master's lace, — " no, il is not tin' 
 
 fatigue, you villain ! It is you who 
 have killed her, with your jezebels 
 and harlots, you scoundrel ! " 
 
 " Send the women here, James, for 
 God's sake ! " cried Mr. Vane, not 
 even noticing the insult he had re- 
 ceived from a servant. He stamped 
 furiously, and cried for help. The 
 whole household was round her in a 
 moment. They carried her to bed. 
 
 The remorse-stricken man, his own 
 knees trembling under him, flew, in 
 an agony of fear and self-reproach, 
 for a doctor ! 
 
 A doctor ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 During the garden scene, Mr. 
 Vane had begged Mrs. Woffington to 
 let him accompany her. She peremp- 
 torily refused, and said in the same 
 breath she was going to Triplet, in 
 Hercules Buildings, to have her por- 
 trait finished. 
 
 Had Mr. Vane understood the sex, 
 he would not have interpreted her re- 
 fusal to the letter ; when there was a 
 postscript, the meaning of which was 
 so little enigmatical. 
 
 Some three hours after the scene 
 we have described, Mrs. Woffington 
 sat in Triplet's apartment ; and Trip- 
 let, palette in baud, painted away up- 
 on her portrait. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington was in that lan- 
 guid state which comes to women 
 after their hearts have received a 
 blow. She felt as if life was ended, 
 and hut the dregs of existence re- 
 mained ; but at times a flood of bit- 
 terness rolled over her, and she re- 
 signed all hope of perfect happiness 
 in this world, — all hope ofloving and 
 respecting the same creature ; and at 
 these moments she had but one idea, 
 — to use her own power, and hind 
 her lover to her by chains never to he, 
 broken ; and to close her eyes, and 
 glide down the precipice of the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 " I think vow are master of this
 
 72 
 
 TEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 art," said she, very languidly, to Trip- 
 let, "you paint so rapidly." 
 
 " Yes, madam," said Triplet, gloom- 
 ily ; and painted on. " Confound this 
 shadow ! " added he ; and painted on. 
 
 His soul, too, was clouded. Mi - s. 
 Woffington, yawning in his face, had 
 told him she had invited all Mr. 
 Vane's company to come and praise 
 his work ; and ever since that he had 
 been morne et silencieux. 
 
 " You are fortunate," continued 
 Mrs. Woffington, not caring what 
 she said ; " it is so difficult to make 
 execution keep pace with concep- 
 tion." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am " ; and he painted 
 on. 
 
 "You are satisfied with it? " 
 
 "Anything but, ma'am"; and he 
 painted on. 
 
 " Cheerful soul ! — then I presume 
 it is like ? " 
 
 " Not a bit, ma'am " ; and he paint- 
 ed on. 
 
 Mrs. "Woflington stretched. 
 
 "You can't yawn, ma'am, — you 
 can't yawn." 
 
 " yes, I can. You are such 
 good company " ; and she stretched 
 again. 
 
 " I was just about to catch the turn 
 of the lip," remonstrated Triplet. 
 
 "Well, catch it, — it won't run 
 away." 
 
 " I 'II try,"ma'am. A pleasant half- 
 hour it will bo for me, when they all 
 come here like cits at a shilling ordi- 
 nary, — each for his cut." 
 
 " At a sensitive goose ! " 
 
 " That is as may be, madam. Those 
 critics flay us alive ! " 
 
 " You should not hold so 
 doors open to censure." 
 
 " No, ma'am. Head a little more 
 that way; I suppose you can't sit 
 ffoiet, ma'am 1 — then never mind ! " 
 (This resignation was intended as 
 a stinging reproach.) "Mr. Cibber, 
 with his sneering snuff-box ! Mr. 
 Quin, with his humorous bludgeon ! 
 Mrs. Give, with her tongue! Mr. 
 Snarl, with his abuse ! And Mr. 
 Soaper, with his praise ! — arsenic in 
 
 many 
 
 treacle I call it ! But there, I deserve 
 it all ! For look on this picture, and 
 on this ! " 
 
 " Meaning, I am painted as well as 
 my picture ! " 
 
 " no, no, no ! But to turn from 
 your face, madam, — on which the 
 lightning of expression plays contin- 
 ually, — to this stony, detestable, dead 
 daub ! — I could — And I will, too ! 
 Imposture ! dead caricature of life and 
 beauty, take that ! " and he dashed 
 his palette-knife through the canvas. 
 " Libellous lie against nature and 
 Mrs. Woffington, take that ! " and he 
 stabbed the canvas again ; then, with 
 sudden humility : " I beg your par- 
 don, ma'am," said he, " for this ap- 
 parent outrage, which I trust you will 
 set down to the excitement attendant 
 upon failure. The fact is, I am an 
 incapable ass, and no painter ! Oth- 
 ers have often hinted as much; but 
 I never observed it myself till 
 now ! " 
 
 " Right! through my pet dimple ! " 
 said Mrs. Woffington, with perfect 
 nonchalance. " Well, now I suppose 
 I may yawn, or do what I like 1 ' 
 
 " You may, madam," said Triplet, 
 gravely. " I have forfeited what lit- 
 tle control I had over you, madam." 
 
 So they sat opposite each other, in 
 mournful silence. At length the ac- 
 tress suddenly rose. She struggled 
 fiercely against her depression, and 
 vowed that melancholy should not be- 
 numb her spirits and her power. 
 
 " He ought to have been here by 
 this time," said she to herself. 
 "Well, I will not mope for him: I 
 must do something. Triplet," said 
 she. 
 
 " Madam." 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "No, madam." 
 
 She sat gently down again, and 
 leaned her head on her hand, and 
 thought. She was beautiful as she 
 thought! — her body seemed bristling 
 with mind! At last, her thoughtful 
 gravity was illumined by a smile : she 
 had thought out something excoyilave- 
 rat.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 73 
 
 "Triplet, the picture is quite ru- 
 ined ! " 
 
 " Yes, madam. And a coach-load 
 of criticism coming ! " 
 
 " Triplet, we actors and actresses 
 have often bright ideas." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " When we take other people's ! " 
 
 " He, he ! " went Triplet. " Those 
 are our best, madam ! " 
 
 " Well, sir, I have got a bright 
 idea." 
 
 " You don't say so, ma'am ! " 
 
 " Don't be a brute, dear ! " said the 
 lady, gravely. 
 
 Triplet stared ! 
 
 " When I was in France, taking 
 lessons of Dumesnil, one of the actors 
 of the Theatre Francais had his por- 
 trait painted by a rising artist. The 
 others were to come and sec it. 
 They determined, beforehand, to mor- 
 tify the painter and the sitter, by 
 abusing the work in good set terms. 
 But somehow this got wind, and the 
 patients resolved to be the physicians. 
 They put their heads together, and 
 contrived that the living face should 
 be in the canvas, surrounded by the 
 accessories : these, of course, were 
 painted. Enter the actors, who 
 played their little prearranged farce ; 
 and, when they had each given the 
 picture a slap, the picture rose and 
 laughed in their faces, and discom- 
 fited them! By the by, the painter 
 diil not stop there : he was not con- 
 tent with a short laugh, he laughed at 
 them rive hundred years! " 
 
 " Good gracious, Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton !" 
 
 " lie painted a picture of the whole 
 thing; and as his work is immortal, 
 ours an April snow-flake, he has got 
 tremendously the better of4hose rash 
 little satirists. Well, Trip, what is 
 sauce for the gander is sauce for the 
 goose ; so give me the sharpest knife 
 in the, house." 
 
 Triplet gave her a knife, and 
 looked confused, while, she cut away 
 
 the face of the picture, and by dint of 
 
 Beraping, cutting, and measuring, got 
 her face two parts through the can- 
 
 vas. She then made him take his 
 brush and paint all round her face, 
 so that the transition might not be 
 too abrupt. Several yards of green 
 baize were also produced. This was 
 to be disposed behind the easel, so as 
 to conceal her. 
 
 Triplet painted here, and touched 
 and retouched there. Whilst thus 
 occupied, he said, in his calm, resigned 
 way : " It won't do, madam. I sup- 
 pose you know that ? " 
 
 " I know nothing," was the reply. 
 " Life is a guess. I don't think we 
 could deceive Roxalana and Lucy 
 this way, because their eves are with- 
 out colored spectacles ; but, when peo- 
 ple have once begun to see by preju- 
 dices and judge by jargon, what can't 
 be done with them I Who knows 1 
 do you ? I don't ; so let us try." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madam ; my 
 brush touched your face." 
 
 " No offence, sir ; I am used to 
 that. And I beg, if you can't tone 
 the rest of the picture up to me, that 
 you will instantly tone me down to 
 the rest. Let us be in tune, whatever 
 it costs, sir." 
 
 " I will avail myself of the privi- 
 lege, madam, but sparingly. Failure, 
 which is certain, madam, will cover 
 us with disgrace." 
 
 " Nothing is certain in this life, sir, 
 except that you are a goose. It suc- 
 ceeded in France ; and England can 
 match all Europe for fools. Besides, 
 it will be well done. They say Davy 
 Garrick can turn his eyes into bottled 
 gooseberries. Well, Fe«j Woffington 
 will turn hers into black currants. 
 Haven't you done? I wonder they 
 have not come. Make haste ! " 
 
 " They will know by its beauty I 
 never did it." 
 
 " That is a sensible remark, Trip. 
 But I think they will rather argue 
 backwards ; that, as you did it, it ean- 
 nol lie beautiful, and so cannot he me. 
 Your reputation will he our shield. 
 
 " Well, madam, now you mention 
 it, they are like enough to take that 
 ground. They despise all I do ; if 
 they did not—""
 
 74 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 " You would despise them." 
 
 At this moment the pair were star- 
 tled hy the sound of a coach. Trip- 
 let turned as pale as ashes. Mrs. 
 AVoffington had her misgivings ; hut, 
 not choosing to increase the difficulty, 
 she would not let Triplet, whose self- 
 possession she doubted, see any sign 
 of emotion in her. 
 
 " Lock the door," said she, firmly, 
 "and don't he silly. Now hold up 
 my green baize petticoat, and let me 
 be in a half-light. Now put that 
 table and those chairs before me, so 
 that they can't come right up to me ; 
 and, Triplet, don't let them come 
 within six yards, if you can help it. 
 Say it is unfinished, and so must be 
 seen from a focus." 
 
 " A focus ! I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 " No more do I ; no more will they, 
 perhaps ; and, if they don't, they will 
 swallow it directly. Unlock the 
 door : are they coming 1 " 
 
 " They are only at the first stair." 
 
 " Mr. Triplet, your face is a book, 
 where one may read strange matters. 
 Tor Heaven's sake, compose your- 
 self: let all the risk He in one counte- 
 nance. Look at me, sir. Make 
 your face like the Book of Daniel in 
 a Jew's hack parlor. Volto Sciolto 
 is your cue." 
 
 " Madam, madam, how your tongue 
 goes ! I hear them on the stairs : 
 pray don't speak ! " 
 
 " Do you know what we are going 
 to do ? " continued the tormenting 
 Peggy. " We arc going to weigh 
 goose's feathers ! to criticise criticism, 
 Trip — " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " 
 
 A grampus was heard outside the 
 door, and Triplet opened it. There 
 was Quin leading the band. 
 
 " Have a care, sir," cried Triplet ; 
 " there is a hiatus the third step from 
 the door." 
 
 " A gradus ad Parnasswn a want- 
 ing," said Mr. Cibber. 
 
 Triplet's heart sank. The hole had 
 been there six months, and he had 
 found nothing witty to say about it, 
 
 and at first sight Mr. Cibber had 
 done its business. And on such men 
 he and his portrait were to attempt a 
 preposterous delusion. Then there 
 was Snarl, who wrote critiques on 
 painting, and guided the national 
 taste. The unlucky exhibitor was in 
 a cold sweat. He led the way like a 
 thief going to the gallows. 
 
 " The picture being unfinished, 
 gentlemen," said he, " must, if you 
 would do me justice, be seen from a 
 — a focus : must be judged from here, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Where, sir?" said Mr. Cibber. 
 
 " About here, sir, if you please," 
 said poor Triplet, faintly. 
 
 " It looks like a finished picture 
 from here," said Mrs. Clive. 
 
 " Yes, madam," groaned Triplet. 
 
 They all took up a position, and 
 Triplet timidly raised his eyes along 
 with the rest : he was a little sur- 
 prised. The actress had flattened her 
 lace! She had done all that could 
 be done, and more than he had con- 
 ceived possible, in the way of extract- 
 ing life and the atmosphere of expres- 
 sion from her countenance. She was 
 " dead still ! " 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 Triplet fluttered. At last some of 
 them spoke as follows : — 
 
 Soaper. " Ah ! " 
 
 Quin. " Ho ! " 
 
 Clive. " Eh ! " 
 
 Cibber. ". Humph ! " 
 
 These interjections are small on 
 paper, but as the good creatures 
 uttered them they were eloquent ; 
 there was a cheerful variety of dis- 
 praise skilfully thrown into each of 
 them. 
 
 " Well," continued Soaper, with his 
 everlasting smile. 
 
 Then the fun began. 
 
 " May I be permitted to ask whose 
 portrait this is ? " said Mr. Cibber, 
 slyly. 
 
 " I distinctly told you, it was to be 
 Peg Woffington's," "said Mrs. Clive. 
 " I think you might take my word." 
 
 "Do you act as truly as you paint 1 " 
 said Quin.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 75 
 
 " Your fame runs no risk from me, 
 sir ! " replied Triplet. 
 
 " It is not like Peggy's beauty ! 
 Eh ? " rejoined Quin. 
 
 " I can't agree with you," cried 
 Kitty Clive. " I think it a very 
 pretty face; and not at all like Peg 
 Woffington's." 
 
 " Compare paint with paint," said 
 Quin. " Are you sure you ever saw 
 down to Peggy^s real face ? " 
 
 Triplet had seen with alarm that 
 Mr. Snarl spoke not; many satirical 
 expressions crossed his face, but he 
 said nothing. Triplet gathered from 
 this that he had at once detected the 
 trick. " Ah ! " thought Triplet, " he 
 means to quiz them, as well as expose 
 me. He is hanging back ; and, in 
 point of fact, a mighty satirist like 
 Snarl would naturally choose to quiz 
 six people rather than two." 
 
 " Now I call it beautiful ! " said 
 the traitor Soaper. " So calm and 
 reposeful ; no particular expression." 
 
 "None whatever," said Snarl. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Triplet, "does 
 it never occur to you that the fine 
 arts are tender violets, and cannot 
 blow when tlic north winds — " 
 
 "Blow !" inserted Quin. 
 
 " Arc so cursed cutting ? " continued 
 Triplet. 
 
 " My trood sir, I am never cutting ! " 
 smirked Soaper. " My dear Snarl," 
 whined he, " e.ive us the benefit of 
 your practised judgment. Do jus- 
 tice to this ad-mirable work of art," 
 drawled the traitor. 
 
 " I will ! " said Mr. Snarl ; and 
 placed himself before the picture. 
 
 " What on earrli will he say?" 
 thought Triplet. " I can see by his 
 face, he has found us out." 
 
 M r. Snarl delivered a short critique. 
 Mr. Snarl's intelligence was not con- 
 fined to his phrases ; all critics use in- 
 telligent phrases anil philosophical 
 truths. Hut, this gentleman's manner 
 
 was very intelligent; it was pleasant, 
 
 quiet, assured, and very convincing. 
 
 Had the reader or I liecn there, he 
 WOuld have carried us with him, as 
 he did his hearers ; and as his suc- 
 
 cessors carry the public with them 
 now. 
 
 " Your brush is by no means desti- 
 tute of talent, Mr. Triplet," said 
 Mr. Snarl. " But you are somewhat 
 deficient, at present, in the great 
 principles of your art ; the first of 
 which is a loyal adherence to truth. 
 Beauty itself is but one of the forms 
 of truth, and nature is our finite ex- 
 ponent of infinite truth." 
 
 His auditors gave him a marked 
 attention. They could not but ac- 
 knowledge, that men who go to the 
 bottom of things like this should be 
 the best instructors. 
 
 " Now, in nature, a woman's face 
 at this distance — ay, even at this 
 short distance — melts into the air. 
 There is none of that sharpness ; but, 
 on the contrary, a softness of outline." 
 He made a lorgnette of his two hands ; 
 the others did so too, and found they 
 saw much better — oh, ever so much 
 better ! " Whereas yours," resinned 
 Snarl, "is hard; and, forgive me, 
 rather tea-board like. Then your 
 chiaro scum, my good sir, is very defec- 
 tive ; for instance, in nature, the nose, 
 intercepting the light on one side the 
 face, throws, of necessity, a shadow 
 under the eye. Caravaggio, Vene- 
 tians generally, and the Boloe;nese 
 masters, do particular justice to this. 
 No such shade appears in this por- 
 trait." 
 
 " 'T is so, stop my vitals ! " ob- 
 served Colley Cibber. And they all 
 looked, and, having looked, wagged 
 their heads in assent, — as the fat, 
 white lords at Christie's waggle fifty 
 pounds more out for a copy of Rem- 
 brandt, a brown levitical Dutchman, 
 visible in the pitch-dark by some 
 sleight of sun Newton had not wit to 
 discover, 
 
 Soaper dissented from the mass. 
 
 " Hut, my dear Snarl, if there are 
 no shades, there are lights, loads of 
 lights." 
 
 '• There are," replied Snarl ; "only 
 they are impossible, that is all. You 
 
 have, however," concluded he, with a 
 manner slightly supercilious, " sue'
 
 76 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 ceedcd in the mechanical parts ; the 
 hair and the dress are well, Mr. Trip- 
 let ; but yowr WofBngton is not a wo- 
 man, nor nature." 
 
 They all nodded and waggled as- 
 sent ; but this sagacious motion was 
 arrested as by an earthquake. 
 
 The picture rang out, in the voice 
 of a clarion, an answer that outlived 
 the speaker : " She 's a woman ! for 
 she has taken four men in ! She 's 
 nature! for a fluent dunce doesn't 
 know her when he sees her ! " 
 
 Imagine the tableau ! It was 
 charming! Such opening of eyes 
 and mouths ! Cibber fell by second 
 nature into an attitude of the old 
 comedy. And all were rooted where 
 they stood, witli surprise and incip- 
 ient mortification, except Quin, who 
 slapped his knee, and took the trick 
 at its value. 
 
 Peg Woffington slipped out of the 
 green baize, and, coming round from 
 the hack of the late picture, stood in 
 person before them ; while they looked 
 alternately at her and at the hole in 
 the canvas. She then came at each 
 of them in turn, more dramatico. 
 
 " A pretty face, and not like Wof- 
 fington. I owe you two, Kate 
 Clive." 
 
 " Who ever saw Peggy's real face ? 
 Look at it now if you can without 
 blushing, Mr. Quin." 
 
 Quin~ a good-hnmorcd fellow, took 
 the wisest view of his predicament, and 
 burst into a hearty laugh. 
 
 "For all this," said Mr Snarl, 
 peevishly, " I maintain, upon the un- 
 alterable principles of art — " At 
 this they all burst into a roar, not 
 sorry to shift the ridicule. " Goths ! " 
 cried Snarl, fiercely. " Good morn- 
 ing, ladies and gentlemen," cried Mr. 
 Snarl, avec intention, " I have a criti- 
 cism to write of last night's perform- 
 ance" The laugh died away to a 
 quaver. " I shall sit on your pictures 
 one day, Mr. Brush." 
 
 " Don't sit on them with your head 
 downwards, or you '11 addle them," 
 said Mr. Brush, fiercely. This was 
 the first time Triplet had ever an- 
 
 swered a foe. Mrs. Woffington gave 
 him an eloquent glance of encourage- 
 ment. He nodded his head in in- 
 fantine exultation at what he had 
 done. 
 
 " Come, Soaper," said Mr. Snarl. 
 
 Mr. Soaper lingered one moment 
 to say : " You shall always have my 
 good word, Mr. Triplet." 
 
 " I will try — and not deserve it, 
 Mr. Soaper," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Serve 'em right," said Mr. Cib- 
 ber, as soon as the door had closed 
 upon them ; " for a couple of serpents, 
 or rather one boa-constrictor. Soaper 
 slavers, for Snarl to crush. But we 
 were all a little too hard on Triplet 
 here ; and, if he will accept my apol- 
 ogy— " 
 
 . " Why, sir," said Triplet, half 
 trembling, but driven on by looks 
 from Mrs. Woffington, " ' Gibber's 
 Apology ' is found to be a trifle weari- 
 some." 
 
 " Confound his impertinence ! " 
 cried the astounded laureate. " Come 
 along, Jemmy." 
 
 " O sir," said Quin, good-humored- 
 ly, "we must give a joke and take a 
 joke. And when he paints my por- 
 trait, — which he shall do — " 
 
 " The bear from Hockley Hole shall 
 sit for the head ! " 
 
 " Curse his impudence ! " roared 
 Quin. " I'm at your service, Mr. 
 Cibber," added he, in huge dudgeon. 
 
 Away went the two old boys. 
 
 " Mighty well ! " said waspish Mrs. 
 Clive. " I "did intend you should have 
 painted Mrs. Clive. But after this 
 impertinence — " 
 
 " You will continue to do it your- 
 self, ma'am ! " 
 
 This was Triplet's hour of triumph. 
 His exultation was undignified, and 
 such as is said to precede a fall. He 
 inquired gravely of Mrs. Woffington, 
 whether he had or had not shown a 
 spirit. Whether he had or had not 
 fired into each a parting shot, as they 
 sheered off. To repair which, it might 
 be advisable for them to put into 
 friendly ports. 
 
 " Tremendous ! " was the reply.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 77 
 
 " And when Snarl and Soaper sit 
 on your next play, they won't for- 
 get the lesson you have given them." 
 
 " I '11 be sworn they won't ! " 
 chuckled Triplet. But, reconsidering 
 her words, he looked blank, and 
 muttered : " Then perhaps it would 
 have been more prudent to let them 
 alone ! " 
 
 " Incalculably more prudent ! " was 
 the reply. 
 
 " Then why did you set me on, 
 madam ? " said Triplet, reproachful- 
 
 " Because I wanted amusement, 
 and my head ached," was the cool an- 
 swer, somewhat languidly given. 
 
 " I defy the coxcombs ! " cried 
 Triplet, with reviving spirit. "But 
 real criticism 1 respect, honor, and 
 bow to. Such as yours, madam; or 
 such as that sweet lady's at Mr. Vane's 
 would have been ; or, in fact, any- 
 body's who appreciates me. O mad- 
 am, 1 wanted to ask you, was it not 
 strange your not being at Mr. Vane's, 
 alter all," to-day ! " 
 
 " I was at Mr. Vane's, Triplet." 
 
 " You were '. Why, 1 came with my 
 verses, and she said you were not 
 there ! I Will v;o fetch the verses." 
 
 "No, no! Who said I was not 
 there ? " 
 
 " Did I not tell you ? The charm- 
 ing young lady who helped me with 
 her own hand to everything on the 
 table. What wine that gentleman 
 
 ]Kl<SeS-C"i ! " 
 
 " Was it a young lady, Triplet? " 
 
 " Not more than two-and-twenty, 
 I should say." 
 
 " In a travelling-dress ? " 
 
 "I could not see her dress, madam, 
 for her beauty, — brown hair, blue 
 eyes, charming in conversation — " 
 * "Ah ! What did she tell you?" 
 
 " She told me, madam — Ahem ! 
 
 " Well, what. lid you tell her' And 
 what did she answer ? " 
 
 " 1 told her that 1 came \\ i t li verses 
 for you, ordered by Mr. Vane. 
 That he admired you. 1 descanted, 
 
 madam, on your vinucs, which had 
 
 made hiin j our slave." 
 
 " Go on," said Mrs. Woffington, en- 
 couraging him with a deceitful smile. 
 " Tell me all you told her." 
 
 " That you were sitting to me for 
 your portrait, the destination of which 
 was not doubtful. That I lived at 10, 
 Hercules Buildings." 
 
 " You told that lady all this T " 
 
 " I give my honor. She was so 
 kind, I opened my heart to her. But 
 tell me now, madam," said Triplet, 
 joyously dancing round the Woffing- 
 ton volcano, " do you know this 
 charming lady ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I congratulate you, madam. An 
 acquaintance worthy even of you ; and 
 there arc not many such. Who is she, 
 madam ? " continued Triplet, lively 
 with curiosity. 
 
 " Mrs. Vane," was the quiet, grim 
 answer. 
 
 "Mrs. Vane? His mother? No- 
 am I mad ? His sister ! O, I sec, 
 his — " 
 
 " His wife ! " 
 
 " His wife ! Why, then Mr. Vane 's 
 married ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "O, look there! — O, look here now! 
 Well, but, good Heavens ! she was n't 
 to know von were there, perhaps '. " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But then I let the cat out of the 
 bag ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But, good gracious ! there will be 
 some serious mischief! " 
 
 "No doubt of it." 
 
 " And it is all my fault ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I 've played the deuce with their 
 married happiness ?" 
 
 " Probably" 
 
 " And ten to one if you are not 
 incensed against me too ! " 
 
 Mrs. Woffington replied by looking 
 
 him in the fact", and turning her bark 
 ti]H>n him. She Walked hastily to the 
 window, threw it open, and looked Out 
 of it, leaving pom- Triplet to very 
 unpleasant reflections. She was so 
 ail-TV with him she dared not trust 
 herself to speak.
 
 rr i*> 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTOX. 
 
 " Just my luck," thought he. " I 
 had a patron and a benefactress; I 
 have betrayed them both:" Sudden- 
 ly an idea struck him. " Madam," 
 said he, timorously, " see what these 
 line gentlemen are ! What business 
 had he, with a wife at home, to come 
 and fall in love with you ? I do it for- 
 ever in ray plays — I am obliged — 
 they would he so dull else ; but in real 
 life to do it is abominable." 
 
 " You forget, sir," replied Mrs* 
 Wbffington, without moving, " that I 
 am an actress, — a plaything for the 
 impertinence of puppies and the 
 treachery of hypocrites. Fool ! to 
 think there was an honest man in the 
 world, and that he had shone on me ! " 
 
 With these words she turned, and 
 Triplet was shocked to sec the change 
 in her face. She was pale, and her 
 black, lowering brows were gloomy 
 and terrible. She walked like a ti- 
 gress to and fro, and Triplet dared 
 not speak to her : indeed she seemed 
 but half conscious of his presence. lie 
 went for nobody with her. How lit- 
 tle we know the people we cat and 
 go to church and flirt with ! Triplet 
 had imagined this creature an incar- 
 nation of gaycty, a sportive being, the 
 daughter of smiles, the bride of mirth ; 
 needed but a look at her now to see 
 that her heart was a volcano, her 
 bosom a boiling gulf of (iery lava. 
 She walked like some wild creature ; 
 she flung her hands up to heaven with 
 a passionate despair, before which the 
 feeble spirit of her companion shrank 
 and cowered ; and, with quivering lips 
 and blazing eyes, she burst into a tor- 
 rent of passionate bitterness. 
 
 " But who is Margaret Woffington," 
 she cried, " that she should pretend 
 to honest love, or feel insulted by the 
 proffer of a stolen regard ? And what 
 have we to do with homes, or hearts.or 
 firesides ? Have we not the playhouse, 
 its paste diamonds, its paste feelings, 
 and the loud applause of fops and 
 sots — hearts ? — beneath loads of 
 tinsel and paint ? Nonsense ! The 
 love that can go with souls to heav- 
 en, — such love for us ? Nonsense ! 
 
 These men applaud us, cajole us> 
 swear to us, flai tcr us ; and yet, for- 
 sooth, we would have them respect us 
 too." 
 
 " My dear benefactress," said Trip- 
 let, "they are not worthy of you." 
 
 " I thought this man was not all 
 dross ; from the first I never felt his 
 passion an insult. O Triplet! I 
 could have loved this man, — really 
 loved him ! and I longed so to be 
 good. O God ! O God ! " 
 
 " Thank Heaven, you don't love 
 him ! " cried Triplet, hastily. " Thank 
 Heaven for that ! " 
 
 " Love him ? Love a man who 
 comes to me with a silly second-hand 
 affection from his insipid baby-face, 
 and offers me half, or two thirds, or a 
 third of his worthless heart? I 
 hate him ! — and her ! — and all the 
 world ! " 
 
 " That is what I call a very proper 
 feeling," said poor Triplet, with a 
 weak attempt to soothe her. " Then 
 break with him at once, and all will 
 be well." 
 
 " Break with him ? Are you mad 1 
 No ! Since he plays with the tools of 
 my trade I shall fool him worse than 
 he has me. I will feed his passion 
 full, tempt him, torture him, play 
 with him, as the angler plays a fish 
 upon his hook. And, when'his very 
 life depends on me, then by degrees 
 he shall see me cool, and cool, and 
 freeze into bitter aversion. Then he 
 shall rue the hour he fought with the 
 Devil against my soul, and played 
 false with a brain and heart like 
 mine ! " 
 
 " But his poor wife ? You will 
 have pity on her? " 
 
 " His wife ! Are wives' hearts the 
 only hearts that throb, and burn, and 
 break ? His wife must defend her- 
 self. It is not from me that mercy 
 can come to her, nor from her to me. 
 I loathe her, and I shall not forget 
 that you took her part. Only, if you 
 are her friend, take my advice, don't 
 you assist her. I shall defeat her 
 without that. Let her fight her battle, 
 and / mine."
 
 TEG WOFFINGTON 
 
 70 
 
 "Ah, madam! she cannot fight; 
 she is a dove." 
 
 " You are a fool ! What do you 
 know altout women ? You were with 
 her five minutes, and she turned you 
 inside out. My life on it, whilst I 
 have been fooling my time here, she 
 is in the field, with all the arts of 
 our sex, simplicity at the head of 
 them." 
 
 Triplet was making a futile endeav- 
 or to convert her to his view of her 
 rival, when a knock suddenly came 
 to his door. A slovenly girl, one of 
 his own neighbors, brought him a bit 
 of paper, with a line written in pen- 
 cil. 
 
 " 'T is from a lady, who waits be- 
 low," said the girl. 
 
 Mrs. Woflington went again to the 
 window, and there she saw getting 
 out of a coach, and attended by James 
 Burdock, Mabel Vane, who had sent 
 up her name on the back of an old 
 letter. 
 
 " What shall I do?" said Triplet, 
 as soon as he recovered the first 
 stunning effects of this contretemps. 
 To his astonishment, Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton bade the girl show the lady up 
 stairs. The girl went down on this 
 errand. 
 
 " But yon are here," remonstrated 
 Triplet. " 0, to lie sure, you can go 
 into the other room. There, is plenty 
 of time to avoid her," said Triplet, 
 in a very natural tremor. " This 
 way, madam ! " 
 
 Mrs. YVoHiii'jton stood in the mid- 
 dle of the room like a statue. 
 
 " What does site come here for? " 
 said she, Bternly. "You have not 
 told me all." 
 
 " I don't know," cried poor Triplet, 
 in dismay; "and I think the Devil 
 brings her here to confound me. For 
 Heaven's sake, retire! What will be- 
 come of us all? There will he mur- 
 der, I know then; Mill ! " 
 
 To his horror, Mrs. Wofflngton 
 would not move. " You arc on her 
 side," said she, slowly, with a .concen- 
 tration of s;.ite and suspicion. She 
 looked frightful at this moment 
 
 " All the better for me," added she, 
 with a world of female malignity. 
 
 Triplet could not make " head 
 against this blow; he gasped, and 
 pointed piteously to the inner door. 
 " No ; I will know two things : the 
 course she means to take, and the 
 terms you two are upon." 
 
 By this time Mrs. Vane's light 
 foot was heard on the stair, and Trip- 
 let sank into a chair. " They will 
 tear one another to pieces," said 
 he. 
 
 A tap came to the door. 
 
 He looked fearfully round for the 
 woman whom jealousy had so speedi- 
 ly turned from an angel to a fiend ; 
 and saw with dismay that she had 
 actually had the hardihood to slip 
 round and enter the picture again. 
 She had not quite arranged herself 
 when her rival knocked. 
 
 Triplet dragged himself to the door. 
 Before he opened it, he looked fear- 
 fully over his shoulder, and received 
 a glance of cool, bitter, deadly hostil- 
 ity, that boded ill both for him and 
 his visitor. Triplet's apprehensions 
 were not unreasonable. His benefac- 
 tress and this sweet lady were rivals ! 
 
 Jealousy is a dreadful passion, it 
 makes us tigers. The jealous always 
 thirst for blood. At any moment 
 when reason is a little weaker than 
 usual, they arc ready to kill the thing 
 they hate, or the thing they love. 
 
 Any open collision between these 
 ladies would scatter ill consequences 
 all round. Under such circumstan- 
 ces, wc arc pretty sure to say or do 
 something Avicked, silly, or unreason- 
 able. But what tortured Triplet 
 more than anything was his own 
 particular notion that fate (loomed 
 him to witness a formal encounter 
 between these two women, and of 
 course an encounter of such a nature 
 as we in our day illustrate by " Kil- 
 kenny cats." 
 
 To be sure Mrs. Vane had appeared 
 a dove, but doves can peck on certain 
 occasions, and no doubt she had a 
 spirit at bottom. Her coming to him 
 proved it. And had not the other
 
 80 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 been a dove all the morning and after- 
 noon ? Yet jealousy had turned her 
 to a fiend before his eyes. Then if 
 (which was not probable) no collision 
 took place, what a situation was his ! 
 Mrs. Woffington, (his buckler from 
 starvation) suspected him, and would 
 distort every word that came from 
 Mrs. Vane's lips. 
 
 Triplet's situation was, in fact, that 
 of -(Eneas in the storm. 
 
 " Olim et ha;c meminisse juvabit — " 
 " But, while present, such things don't 
 please any one a bit." 
 
 It was the sort of situation we can 
 laugh at, and see the fun of it six 
 months after, if not shipwrecked on it 
 at the time. 
 
 With a ghastly smile the poor quak- 
 ing hypocrite welcomed Mrs. Vane, 
 and professed a world of innocent de- 
 light that she had so honored his 
 humble roof. 
 
 She interrupted his compliments, 
 and begged him to sec whether she 
 was followed by a gentleman in a 
 cloak. 
 
 Triplet looked out of the window. 
 
 " Sir Charles Pomander ! " gasped 
 he. 
 
 Sir Charles was at the very door. 
 If, however, he had intended to mount 
 the stairs he changed his mind, for he 
 suddenly went off round the corner 
 with a business-like air, real or ficti- 
 tious. 
 
 " He is gone, madam," said Trip- 
 let. 
 
 Mrs. Vane, the better to escape de- 
 tection or observation, wore a thick 
 mantle and a hood, that concealed 
 her features. Of these Triplet debar- 
 rassed her. 
 
 "Sit down, madam " ; and he hastily 
 drew a chair so that her back was to 
 the picture. 
 
 She was pale, and trembled a little. 
 She hid her face in her hands a mo- 
 ment, then, recovering her courage, 
 " she begged Mr. Triplet to pardon 
 her for cominjj to him. He had in- 
 spired her with confidence," she said ; 
 " he had offered her his services, and 
 
 so she had come to him, for she had 
 no other friend to aid her in her sore 
 distress." She might have added, 
 that with the tact of her sex she had 
 read Triplet to the bottom, and came 
 to him, as she would to a benevolent, 
 muscular old woman. 
 
 Triplet's natural impulse was to 
 repeat most warmly his offers of ser- 
 vice. He did so ; and then, conscious 
 of the picture, had a misgiving. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Triplet," began Mrs. 
 Vane, " vou know this person, Mrs. 
 Woffington ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam," replied Triplet; 
 lowering his eyes, " I am honored by 
 her acquaintance." 
 
 " You will take me to the theatre 
 where she acts ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam : to the boxes, I pre- 
 sume ? " 
 
 " No ! O no ! How could I bear 
 that ( To the place where the actors 
 and actresses are." 
 
 Triplet demurred. This Mould be 
 courting that very collision, the dread 
 of which even now oppressed him. 
 
 At the first faint sign of resistance 
 she began to supplicate him, as if he 
 was some great, stern tyrant. 
 
 " O, you must not, you cannot re- 
 fuse me. You do not know what I 
 risk to obtain this. I have risen from 
 my bed to come to you. I have a fire 
 here ! '■ She pressed her hand to her 
 brow. " 0, take me to her! " 
 
 " Madam, I will do anything for 
 you. But be advised ; trust to my 
 knowledge of human nature. What 
 you require is madness. Gracious 
 Heavens ! you two are rivals, and 
 when rivals meet there 's murder or 
 deadly mischief." 
 
 " Ah ! if you knew my sorrow, you 
 would not thwart me. O Mr. Trip- 
 let ! little did I think you were as 
 cruel as the rest." So then this cruel 
 monster whimpered out that he should 
 do any folly she insisted upon. 
 " Good, kind Mr. Triplet ! " said Mrs. 
 Vane. " Let me look in your face 1 
 Yes, I see you are honest and true. 
 I will tell you all." Then she poured 
 in his car her simple tale, unadorned
 
 PEG W0FF1NGT0N. 
 
 8l 
 
 and touching as Judah's speech to 
 Joseph. She told him how she loved 
 her husband ; how he had loved her ; 
 how happy they were for the first six 
 months ; how her heart sank when 
 he left her ; how he had promised she 
 should join him, and on that hope 
 she lived. " But for two months he 
 had ceased to speak of this, and I 
 grew heart-sick waiting for the sum- 
 mons that never came. At last I felt 
 1 should die if I did not see him ; so I 
 plucked up courage and wrote that I 
 must come to him. He did not forbid 
 me, so I left our country home. O 
 sir ! I cannot make you know how 
 my heart burned to be by his side. I 
 counted the hours of the journey ; I 
 counted the miles. At last I reached 
 his house ; I found a gay company 
 there. I was a little sorry, but 1 said : 
 ' His friends shall be welcome, right, 
 welcome. He has asked them to wel- 
 come his wife.' " 
 
 " Poor thing ! " muttered Triplet. 
 
 " O Mr. Triplet ! they were there 
 
 to do honor to , and the wife 
 
 was neither expected nor desired. 
 There lay my letters with their seals 
 unbroken. I know all his letters by 
 heart, Mr. Triplet. The seals un- 
 broken — unbroken! Mr. Triplet." 
 
 " It is abominable ! " cried Triplet, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " And she who sat in my scat — in 
 his house, and in his heart — was this 
 lady, the actress you so praised to 
 me?" 
 
 " That lady, ma'am," said Trip- 
 let, " has been deceived as well as 
 you." 
 
 " I am convinced of it," said Ma- 
 bel. 
 
 "And it is my painful duty to tell 
 you, madam, that, with all her talents 
 and sweetness, she has a fiery temper ; 
 yes, a very fiery temper," continued 
 Triplet, stoutly, though with an un- 
 easy glance in a certain direction ; 
 " and 1 have reason to believe she is 
 angr^, and thinks more of her own 
 ill-usage than yours. Don't you go 
 near her. Trust to my knowledge 
 
 of the sex, madam ; I am a dramatic 
 
 4* 
 
 writer. Did you ever read the ' Rival 
 Queens ' ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I thought not. Well, madam, 
 one stabs the other, and the one that 
 is stabbed says things to the other 
 that are more biting than steel. The 
 prudent course for you is to keep 
 apart, and be always cheerful, and 
 welcome him with a smile — and — 
 have you read ' The Way to keep 
 him'?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Triplet," said Mabel, 
 firmly, "I cannot feign. Were I to 
 attempt talent and deceit, I should 
 be weaker than I am now. Honesty 
 and right are all my strength. I will 
 cry to her for justice and mercy. And 
 if I cry in vain, I shall die, Mr. Trip- 
 let, that is all." 
 
 " Don't cry, dear lady," said Trip- 
 let, in a broken voice. 
 
 " It is impossible ! " cried she, sud- 
 denly. "I am not learned, but I can 
 read faces. I always could, and so 
 could my Aunt Deborah before me. 
 I read you right, Mr. Triplet, and I 
 have read her too. Did not my heart 
 warm to her amongst them all ? 
 There is a heart at the bottom of all 
 her acting, and that heart is good and 
 noble." 
 
 " She is, madam ! she is ! and 
 charitable too. I know a family she 
 saved from starvation and despair. 
 O yes ! she has a heart — to feel for 
 the ]>oor at all events." 
 
 "And am I not the poorest of the 
 poor ? " cried Mrs. Vane. " I have 
 no father nor mother, Mr. Triplet; 
 my husband is all I have in the world, 
 — all I had, I mean." 
 
 Triplet, deeply alVeeted himself, 
 stole a look at Mrs. Wbffington. 
 She was pale ; but her face was com- 
 
 Iiosed into a sort of dogged obstinacy. 
 le was disgusted with her. " Mad- 
 am," said he, sternly, " there is a wild 
 beast more cruel and savage than 
 wolves and bears ; it is called ' a 
 rival,' and don't you get in its way." 
 At this moment, in spite of Trip- 
 let's precaution, Mrs Vane, casting 
 her eye accidentally round, caught 
 F
 
 82 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 sight of the picture, and instantly 
 started up, crying, " She is there ! " 
 Triplet was thunder-struck. "What 
 a likeness !" cried she, and moved 
 towards the supposed picture. 
 
 " Don't go to it ! " cried Triplet, 
 aghast ; " the color is wet." 
 
 She stopped ; but her eye and her 
 very soul dwelt upon the supposed 
 picture ; and Triplet stood quaking. 
 " How like ! It seems to breathe. 
 You arc a great painter, sir. A glass 
 is not truer." 
 
 Triplet, hardly knowing what he 
 said, muttered something about " crit- 
 ics and lights and shades." 
 
 " Then they are blind ! " cried Ma- 
 bel, never for a moment removing her 
 eye from the object. " 'fell me not 
 of lights and shades. The pictures 
 I see have a look of paint ; but yours 
 looks like life. O that she were 
 here, as this wonderful image of hers 
 is. I would speak to her. I am not 
 wise or learned ; but orators never 
 pleaded as I would plead to her for 
 my Ernest's heart." Still her eye 
 glanced upon the picture ; and I sup- 
 pose her heart realized an actual 
 presence, though her judgment did 
 not ; for by some irresistible impulse 
 she sank slowly down and stretched 
 her clasped hands towards it, while 
 sobs and words seemed to break direct 
 from her bursting heart. " yes ! 
 you are beautiful, you are gifted, and 
 the eyes of thousands wait upon your 
 very word and look. What wonder 
 that he, ardent, refined, and genial, 
 should lay his heart at your feet ? 
 And I have nothing but my love to 
 make him love me. I cannot take 
 him from you. O, be generous to 
 the weak ! O, give him back to me ! 
 What is one heart more to you 1 
 You arc so rich, and I am so poor, 
 that without his love I have nothing, 
 and can do nothing but sit me down 
 arid cry till my heart breaks. Give 
 him back to me, beautiful, terrible 
 woman ! for, with all your gifts, you 
 cannot love him as his poor Mabel 
 docs ; and I will love you longer 
 perhaps than men can love. I will 
 
 kiss your feet, and Heaven above will 
 bless you ; and I will bless you and 
 pray for you to my dying day. Ah ' 
 it is alive ! I am frightened ! I am 
 frightened ! " She ran to Triplet and 
 seized his arm. " No ! " cried she, 
 quivering close to him ; " I 'm not 
 frightened, for it was for me she — 
 Mrs. Wofhugton ! " and, hiding her 
 face on Mr. Triplet's shoulder, she 
 blushed, and wept, and trembled. 
 
 What was it had betrayed Mrs. 
 Woffington 1 A tear! 
 
 During the whole of this interview 
 (which had taken a turn so unlooked 
 for by the listener)she might have 
 said with Beatrice, " What fire is in 
 mine ears '? " and what self-reproach 
 and chill misgiving in her heart too. 
 She had passed through a hundred 
 emotions, as the young innocent wife 
 told her sad and simple story. But, 
 anxious now above all things to es- 
 cape without being recognized, — for 
 she had long repented having listened 
 at all, or placed herself in her present 
 position, ^— she fiercely mastered her 
 countenance ; but, though she ruled 
 her features, she could not rule her 
 heart. And when the young wife, 
 instead of inveighing against her, 
 came to her as a supplicant, with 
 faith in her goodness, and sobbed to 
 her for pity, a big tear rolled down 
 her cheek, and proved her something 
 more than a picture or an actress. 
 
 Mrs. Vane, as we have related, 
 screamed and ran to Triplet. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington came instantly 
 from her frame, and stood before 
 them in a despairing attitude, with 
 one hand upon her brow. Tor a sin- 
 gle moment her impulse was to fly 
 from the apartment, so ashamed was 
 she of having listened, and of meeting 
 her rival in this way ; but she con- 
 quered this feeling, and, as soon as 
 she saw Mrs. Vane too had recovered 
 some composure, she said to Triplet, 
 in a low but firm voice : — 
 
 "Leave us, sir. No living creature- 
 must hear what I say to this lady ! " 
 
 Triplet remonstrated, but Mrs. 
 Vane said, faintly : —
 
 PEG WOFFIXGTON. 
 
 83 
 
 " O yes, good Mr. Triplet, I would 
 rather you left me." 
 
 Triplet, full of misgivings, was 
 obliged to retire. 
 
 " Be composed, ladies," said he, 
 piteously. " Neither of you could 
 help it" ; and so he entered his inner 
 room, where he sat and listened ner- 
 vously, for he could not shake off all 
 apprehension of a personal encounter. 
 
 Jn the room he had left there was 
 a long, uneasy silence. Both ladies 
 were greatly embarrassed. It was 
 the actress who spoke first. All 
 trace of emotion, except a certain pal- 
 lor, was driven from her face. She 
 spoke with very marked courtesy, but 
 in tones that seemed to freeze as they 
 dropped one by one from her mouth. 
 
 " I trust, madam, you will do me 
 the justice to believe I did not know 
 Mr. Vane, was married ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it ! " said Mabel, 
 warmly. " I feel you are as good as 
 you are gifted." 
 
 " Mrs. Vane, I am not! " said the 
 other, almost sternly. " You are de- 
 ceived ! " 
 
 " Then Heaven have mercy on me! 
 No ! 1 am not deceived, you pitied 
 me. You speak coldly now; but I 
 know your face and your heart, — you 
 pity me ! " 
 
 " I do respect, admire, and pity 
 you," said Mrs. Wotfington, Badly; 
 "and I could consent nevermore to 
 communicate with vour. — with Mr. 
 Vane." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Mabel ; " Heaven will 
 bless you ! lint will you give me 
 back his heart ? " 
 
 " How can I do that ? " said Mrs. 
 Womngton, uneasily; she had not 
 bargained for this. 
 
 " The m ignet can repel as well as 
 attract. Can yon not break your 
 
 own spell >. What will his presence 
 be to me, if his heart remain be- 
 hind I" 
 
 " Yon ask mnch of me." 
 
 " Alas! 1 do." 
 
 " But I could do even this." She 
 paused for breath. " And perhaps if 
 you, who have not only touched my 
 
 heart, but won my respect, were to 
 say to me, ' Do so,' I should do it." 
 Again she paused, and spoke with 
 difficulty ; for the bitter struggle took 
 away her breath. " Mr. Vane thinks 
 better of me than I deserve. I have 
 
 — only — to make him believe me — 
 
 — worthless — worse than I am' — 
 and he will drop me like an adder — 
 and love you better, far better — for 
 having known — admired — and de- 
 spised Margaret Wotfington." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Mabel, " I shall bless 
 you every hour of my life." Her 
 countenance brightened into rapture 
 at the picture, and Mrs. Woffington's 
 darkened with bitterness as she 
 watched her. 
 
 But Mabel reflected. " Rob you of 
 your good name '. " said this pure 
 creature. "Ah, Mabel Vane! you 
 think but of yourself." 
 
 " I thank you, madam," said Mrs. 
 Wotfington, a littie touched by this 
 unexpected trait ; " but some one 
 must suffer here, and — " 
 
 Mabel Vane interrupted her. 
 "This would he cruel and base." said 
 she, firmly. " No woman's forehead 
 shall be soiled by me. madam! 
 beauty is admired, talent is adored ; 
 but virtue is a woman's crowm. With 
 it, the poor are rich ; without it, the 
 rich are poor. It walks through life. 
 upright, and never hides its head for 
 high or low." 
 
 Her face was as the face of an an- 
 gel now ; and the actress, conquered 
 by her beauty and her goodness, act- 
 ually bowed her head and gently 
 kissed the hand of the country wife 
 whom she had fpiizzcd a few hours 
 ago. 
 
 Frailty paid this homage to virtue! 
 Mabel Vane hardly noticed it ; her 
 
 eye was lifted to heaven, and her 
 heart was gone there for help in a soro 
 Btruggle. 
 
 " Ibis would be to assassinate you ; 
 no less. And so, madam," she 
 sighed, "with God's help, 1 do refuse 
 your offer ; choosing rather, if needs 
 be, to live desolate, but innocent, — » 
 many a better than 1 hath lived so — ■
 
 84 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 ay ! if God wills it, to die, with my 
 hopes and my heart crushed, but my 
 hands unstained ; for so my humble 
 life has passed." 
 
 How beautiful, great, and pure 
 goodness is ! It paints heaven on 
 the face that has it ; it wakens the 
 sleeping souls that meet it. 
 
 At the bottom of Margaret Wof- 
 fington's heart lay a soul, unknown 
 to the world, scarce known to herself, 
 — a heavenly harp, on which ill airs 
 of passion had been played, — but 
 still it was there, in tune with all that 
 is true, pure, really great and good. 
 And now the Hush that a great heart 
 sends to the brow, to herald great ac- 
 tions, came to her cheek and brow. 
 
 " Humble ! " she cried. " Such as 
 you are the diamonds o*" our race. 
 You angel of truth and goodness, you 
 have conquered ! " 
 
 " O yes ! yes ! Thank God, yes ! " 
 
 " What a tiend I must he could I 
 injure you ! The poor heart we have 
 both overrated shall be yours again, 
 and yours forever. In my hands it 
 is painted glass ; in the lustre of a love 
 like yours it may become a priceless 
 jewel." She turned her head away 
 and pondered a moment, then sud- 
 denly offered to Mrs. Vane her hand 
 with nobleness and majesty; "Can 
 you trust me ? " The actress too 
 was divinely beautiful now, for her 
 good angel shone through her. 
 
 " I could trust you with my life ! " 
 was the reply. 
 
 " Ah ! if I might call you friend, 
 dear lady, what would I not do — 
 suffer — resign — to be worthy that 
 title ! " 
 
 " No, not friend ! " cried the warm, 
 innocent Mabel ; " sister ! I will call 
 you sister. I have no sister." 
 
 " Sister ! " said Mrs. Woffington. 
 " O, do not mock me ! Alas ! you do 
 not know what you say. That sa- 
 cred name to me, from lips so pure 
 as yours ; Mrs. Vane," said she, 
 timidly, "would you think me pre- 
 sumptuous if I begged you to — to 
 let me kiss you 1 " 
 
 The words were scarce spoken be- 
 
 fore Mrs. Vane's arms were wreathed 
 round her neck, and that innocent 
 cheek laid sweetly to hers. 
 
 Mrs. Woftington strained her to 
 her bosom, and two great hearts, 
 whose grandeur the world, worship- 
 per of charlatans, never discovered, 
 had found each other out and beat 
 against each other. A great heart is 
 as quick to find another out as the 
 world is slow. 
 
 Mrs. Woffington burst into a pas- 
 sion of tears and clasped Mabel tight- 
 er and tighter, in a half-despairing 
 way. Mabel mistook the cause, but 
 she kissed her tears away. 
 
 " Dear sister," said she, "be com- 
 forted. I love you. My heart 
 warmed to yon the first moment I 
 saw you. A woman's love and grati- 
 tude are something. Ah ! you will 
 never find me change. This is for 
 life, look you." 
 
 "God grant it!" cried the other 
 poor woman. " O, it is not that, it is 
 not that ; it is because I am so little 
 worthy of this. It is a sin to deceive 
 you. I am not good like you. You 
 do not know me ! " 
 
 " You do not know yourself if you 
 say so ! " cried Mabel ; and to her 
 heater the words seemed to come from 
 heaven. " I read faces," said Mabel. 
 " I read yours at sight, and you are 
 what I set you down; and nobody 
 must breathe a word against you, not 
 even yourself. Do you think I am 
 blind ? You are beautiful, you are 
 good, you are my sister, and I love 
 you ! " 
 
 " Heaven forgive me ! " thought 
 the other. " How can I resign this 
 angel's good opinion 1 Surely Heav- 
 en sends this blessed dew to my 
 parched heart ! " And now she burned 
 to make good her promise, and earn 
 this virtuous wife's love. She folded 
 her once more in her arms, and then, 
 taking her by the hand, led her tenderly 
 into Triplet's inner room. She made 
 her lie down on the bed, and placed 
 pillows high for her like a mother, 
 and leaned over her as she lay, and 
 pressed her lips gently to her fore
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 8( 
 
 head. Her fertile brain hart already 
 digested a plan, but she hart resolved 
 that this pure and candid soul should 
 take no lessons of deceit. " Lie 
 there," said she, " till 1 open the door, 
 and then join us. Do you know 
 what I am going to do 1 I am not 
 going to restore you your husband's 
 heart, but to show you it never really 
 left you. You read faces ; well, I 
 read circumstances. Matters are not 
 as you thought," said she, with all a 
 woman's tact. " I cannot explain, 
 but you will see." She then gave 
 Mrs. Triplet peremptory orders not 
 to let her charge rise from the bed 
 until the preconcerted signal. 
 
 Mrs. Vane was, in fact, so exhaust- 
 ed by all she had gone through, that 
 she was in no condition to resist. 
 She cast a look of childlike confi- 
 dence upon her rival, and then closed 
 her eyes, anil tried not to tremble all 
 over and listen like a frightened hare. 
 
 It is one great characteristic of 
 genius to do great things with little 
 things. Paxton could see that so 
 Ismail a matter as a green-house could 
 'dc dilated into a crystal palace, and 
 'with two common materials — glass 
 and iron — he raised the palace of the 
 genii ; the brightest idea and the 
 noblest ornament added to Europe in 
 this century, — the koh-i-noor of the 
 west. Livy's definition of Archimedes 
 goes on the same ground. 
 
 Peg Woffington was a genius in 
 her way. On entering Triplet's stu- 
 dio her eye fell upon three trifle*, — 
 Mrs. Vane's hood and mantle, the 
 hack of an old letter, and Mr. Triplet. 
 (It will be seen how she worked these 
 Blight materials.) On the letter was 
 written, in pencil, simply these two 
 words, " Mabel Vane." Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton wrote above these words tWO more, 
 
 "Alone and unprotected." She put 
 
 this into Mr. Triplet's hand, and hade 
 him take it down stairs and give it 
 Sir Charles Pomander, whose retreat, 
 
 she knew, must have been fictitious. 
 " You will find him round the comer," 
 said she, " or in some shop that looks 
 this way." Whilst uttering these 
 words she had put on Mrs. Vane's 
 hood and mantle. 
 
 No answer was returned, and no 
 Triplet went out of the door. 
 
 She turned, and there he was 
 kneeling on both knees close under 
 her. 
 
 " Bid me jump out of that window, 
 madam ; bid me kill those two gen- 
 tlemen, and I will not rebel. You are 
 a great lady, a talented lady ; you 
 have been insulted, and no doubt 
 blood will flow. It ought, — it is 
 your due ; but that innocent lady, do 
 not compromise her ! " 
 
 " Mr. Triplet, you need not kneel 
 to me. I do not wish to force you to 
 render me a service. I have no right 
 to dictate to you." 
 
 " dear '.'" cried Triplet, " don't 
 talk in that way. I owe you my life, 
 but I think of your own peace of 
 minrt, for you are not one to be hap- 
 py if you injure the innocent ! " lie 
 rose suddenly, and cried : " Madam, 
 promise me not to stir till I come 
 back ! " 
 
 " Where are you going 1 " 
 
 " To bring the husband to his wife'* 
 feet, and so save one angel from, de- 
 spair, and another angel from a great 
 crime." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you are wiser 
 than I," said she. " Hut, if you are 
 in earnest, you had better be quick, 
 for somehow 1 am rather changeable 
 about these people." 
 
 "You can't help that, madam, it is 
 your sex ; yon are mi angel. May I 
 he permitted to kiss your baud '. you 
 are all goodness and gentleness at 
 bottom. I fly to Mr. Vane, and we 
 will be back before you have time to 
 repent, and give the Devil the upper 
 hand again, my dear, good, sweet 
 lady!" 
 
 Away flew Triplet, all unconscious 
 that he was not Mrs. Wbffington's 
 opponent, but puppet. He ran, bo 
 tore, animated by a good action, and
 
 86 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 spurred by the notion that he was in 
 direct competition with the licnd for 
 the possession of his benefactress. 
 
 He had no sooner turned the cor- 
 ner, than Mrs. Woffiugton, looking 
 out of the window, observed Sir 
 Charles Pomander on the watch, as 
 she had expected. She remained at 
 the window with Mrs. Vane's hood 
 on, until Sir Charles's eye in its wan- 
 derings lighted on her, and then, 
 dropping Mrs. Vane's letter from the 
 window, she hastily withdrew. 
 
 Sir Charles' eagerly picked it up. 
 His eye brightened when he read the 
 short contents. With a self-satisfied 
 smile he mounted the stair. He 
 found in Triplet's house a lady who 
 seemed startled at her late hardihood. 
 She sat with her back to the door, 
 her hood drawn tightly down, and 
 wore an air of trembling conscious- 
 ness. Sir Charles smiled again. He 
 knew the sex, at least he said so. ( It 
 is an assertion often ventured upon.) 
 Accordingly Sir Charles determined 
 to come down from his height, and 
 court nature and innocence in their 
 own tones. This he rightly judged 
 m»i st be the proper course to take 
 with Mrs. Vane. He fell down with 
 mock ardor upon one knee. 
 
 The supposed Mrs. Vane gave a 
 little squeak. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Vane," cried he, " be 
 not alarmed; loveliness neglected, and 
 simplicity deceived, insure respect as 
 well as adoration. Ah !" (A sigh.) 
 
 " O, get up, sir ; do, please. Ah ! " 
 (A sigh.) 
 
 " You sigh, sweetest of human 
 creatures. Ah ! why did not a na- 
 ture like yours fall into hands that 
 would have cherished it as it de- 
 serve-;? Had Heaven bestowed on 
 me this hand, which I take — " 
 
 " < ), please, sir — " 
 
 " With the piofoundest respect, 
 woidd I have abandoned such a treas- 
 ure for an actress? — a Wotling'ton ! 
 us artificial and hollow a jade as ever 
 winked at a side box ! " 
 
 " Is she, sir ? " 
 
 " Notorious, madam. Your hus- 
 
 band is the only man in London who 
 does not see through her. How dif- 
 ferent are you ! Even I, who have 
 no taste for actresses, found myself 
 revived, refreshed, ameliorated, by 
 that engaging picture of innocence 
 and virtue you drew this morning ; 
 yourself the bright and central figure. 
 Ah, dear angel ! I remember all 
 your favorites, and envy them their 
 place in your recollections. Your 
 Barbary mare — " 
 
 " Hen, sir ! " 
 
 " Of course I meant hen ; and Gray 
 Gillian, his old nurse — " 
 
 " No, no, no ! she is the mare, sir. 
 He! he! he!" 
 
 "So she is. AndDaniC' — Dame — " 
 
 "Best!" 
 
 " Ah ! I knew it. You see how I 
 remember them all. And all carry 
 me back to those innocent days which 
 fleet too soon, — days when an angel 
 like you might have weaned me from 
 the wicked pleasures of the town, to 
 the placid delights of a rural exist- 
 ence ! " 
 
 " Alas, sir ! " 
 
 " You sigh. It is not yet too late. 
 I am a convert to you ; 1 swear it on 
 this white hand. Ah ! how can I 
 relinquish it, pretty fluttering prison- 
 er ? " 
 
 " sir, please — " 
 
 " Stay awhile." 
 
 " No ! please, sir — " 
 
 " While I fetter thee with a worthy 
 manacle." Sir Charles slipped a 
 diamond ring of great value upon 
 his pretty prisoner. 
 
 " La, sir, how pretty ! " cried in- 
 nocence. 
 
 Sir Charles then undertook to provo 
 that the lustre of the ring was taint, 
 compared with that of the present 
 wearer's eyes. This did not suit in- 
 nocence ; she hung her head and 
 fluttered, and showed a bashful re- 
 pugnance to look her admirer in the 
 face. Sir Charles playfully insist- 
 ed, and Mrs. Wottington was begin- 
 ning to be a little at a loss, when sud- 
 denly voices were heard upon tha 
 stairs.
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 87 
 
 '* My husband! " cried the false 
 Mrs. Vane, and in a moment she 
 rose, and darted into Triplet's inner 
 apartment. 
 
 Mr. Vane and Mr. Triplet were 
 talking earnestly as they came up the 
 stair. It seems the wise Triplet had 
 prepared a little dramatic scene for 
 his own refreshment, as well as for the 
 ultimate benefit of all parties. He 
 had persuaded Mr. Vane to accom- 
 pany him by warm, mysterious prom- 
 ises of a happy denouement ; and 
 now, having conducted that gentle- 
 man as far as his door, he was heard 
 to say : — 
 
 " And now, sir, you shall see one 
 who waits to forget grief, suspicion, 
 — all, in your arms. Behold!" and 
 here he flung the door open. 
 
 " The devil ! " 
 
 " You flatter me ! " said Pomander, 
 who had had time to recover his 
 aplomb, somewhat shaken, at first, by 
 Mr. Vane's inopportune arrival. 
 
 Now it is to be observed that Mr. 
 Vane had not long ago seen his wife 
 lying on her bed, to all appearance 
 incapable of motion. 
 
 Mr. Vane, before Triplet could re- 
 cover bis surprise, inquired of Po- 
 mander why he had sent for liim. 
 " And what/' added he, " is the grief, 
 suspicion, I am, according to Mr. 
 Triplet, to forget in your arms?" 
 
 Mr. Vane added this last sentence 
 in rather a tcstv manner. 
 
 "Why, the 'fact is — " began Sir 
 Charles, without the remotest idea of 
 what the fact was going to be. 
 
 "That Sir Charles Pomander — " 
 interrupted Triplet. 
 
 " But Mr. Triplet is going to ex- 
 plain," said Sir Charles, keenly. 
 
 "Nay, sir; be yours the pleasing 
 duty. But, now 1 think of it," re- 
 sumed Triplet, " why not tell the 
 simple truth ' it is not a play! She 
 I brought you here to see was not Sir 
 Charles Pomander; but — " 
 
 " I forbid you to complete the 
 
 name ! " cried Pomander. 
 
 " I command von to complete the 
 name ! " cried Vane 
 
 " Gentlemen, gentlemen ! how can 
 I do both ? " remonstrated Triplet. 
 
 " Enough, sir ! " cried Pomander. 
 " It is a lady's secret. I am the 
 guardian of that lady's honor." 
 
 " She has chosen a strange guar- 
 dian of her honor ! " said Vane, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " cried poor Trip- 
 let, who did not at all like the turn 
 things were taking, " I give you my 
 word, she does not even know of Sir 
 Charles's presence here ! " 
 
 " Who ? " cried Vane, furiously. 
 " Man alive ! who are you speaking 
 of ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Vane ! " 
 
 " My wife ! " cried Vane, trembling 
 with anger and jealousy. " She here ! 
 and with this man 1 " 
 
 " No ! " cried Triplet. " With 
 me, with me ! Not with him, of 
 course." 
 
 " Boaster ! " cried Vane, contempt- 
 uously. " But that is a part of your 
 profession ! " 
 
 Pomander, irritated, scornfully 
 drew from his pocket the ladies' joint 
 production, which had fallen at his 
 feet from Mrs. Woffington's hand. 
 lie presented this to Mr Vane, who 
 took it very uneasily ; a mist swam 
 before his eyes as he read the words : 
 "Alone and unprotected, — Mabel 
 Vane." lie had no sooner read 
 these words, than he found he loved 
 his wife ; when lie tampered with his 
 treasure, he did not calculate on 
 another seeking it. 
 
 This was Pomander's hour of 
 triumph ! He proceeded coolly to ex- 
 plain to Mr. Vane, that, Mrs. Wof- 
 fington having deserted him for Mr. 
 Vane, and Mr. Vane his wife for 
 Mrs. Wbffingron, the bereaved par- 
 tics had, according to custom, agreed 
 to console each other. 
 
 This soothing little speech was in- 
 terrupted by Mr. Vane's sword flash- 
 ing suddenly out of its sheath ; while. 
 
 that gentleman, white with rage and 
 jealousy, hade him instantly take to 
 his guard, or he run through the In >ly 
 like M>me noxious animal.
 
 88 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 Sir Charles drew his sword, and, 
 in spite of Triplet's weak interfer- 
 ence, half a dozen. passes were rapidly 
 exchanged, when suddenly the door 
 of the inner room opened, and a la- 
 dy in a hood pronounced, in a voice 
 which was an excellent imitation of 
 Mrs. Vane's, the word, " False ! " 
 
 The combatants lowered their 
 points. 
 
 " You hear, sir ! " cried Triplet. 
 
 " You see, sir ! " said Pomander. 
 
 " Mabel ! — wife ! " cried Mr. Vane, 
 in agony. " O, say this is not true ! 
 O, say that letter is a forgery ! Say, 
 at least, it was by some treachery 
 you were lured to this den of iniquity ! 
 O, speak ! " 
 
 The lady silently beckoned to some 
 person inside. 
 
 " You know I loved you ! — you 
 know how bitterly I repent the infat- 
 uation that brought me to the feet of 
 another ! " 
 
 The lady replied not, though Vane's 
 soul appeared to hang upon her an- 
 swer. But she threw the door open 
 and there appeared another lady, the 
 real Mrs. Vane ! Mrs. Woffington 
 then threw oiF her hood, and, to Sir 
 Charles Pomander's consternation, re- 
 vealed the features of that ingenious 
 person, who seemed born to outwit 
 him. 
 
 " You heard that fervent declara- 
 tion, madam ? " said she to Mrs. 
 Vane. " I present to you, madam, 
 a gentleman who regrets that he mis- 
 took the real direction of his feelings. 
 And to you, sir," continued she, with 
 great dignity, " I present a lady who 
 will never mistake cither her feelings 
 or her duty." 
 
 " Ernest ! dear Ernest ! " cried Mrs. 
 Vane, blushing as if she was the cul- 
 prit. And she came forward all love 
 and tenderness. 
 
 Her truant husband kneeled at her 
 feet of course. No ! he said, rather 
 sternly, " How came you here, Ma- 
 bel ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Vane," said the actress, 
 " fancied you had mislaid that weath- 
 ercock, your heart, in Co vent Garden, 
 
 and that an actress had seen in it a 
 fit companion for her own, and had fe- 
 loniously appropriated it. She came 
 to me to inquire after it." 
 
 " But this letter, signed by you ? " 
 said Vane, still addressing Mabel. 
 
 " Was written by me on a paper 
 which accidentally contained Mrs. 
 Vane's name. The fact is, Mr. Vane, 
 
 — I can hardly look you in the face, 
 
 — I had a little wager with Sir 
 Charles here ; his diamond ring — 
 which you may see has become my 
 diamond ring " — a horrible wry face 
 from Sir Charles — "against my left 
 glove, that I could bewitch a country 
 gentleman's imagination, and make 
 him think me an angel. Unfortunate- 
 ly the owner of his heart appeared, 
 and, like poor Mr. Vane, took our 
 play for earnest. It became necessa- 
 ry to disabuse her and to open your 
 eyes. Have I done so ? " 
 
 " You have, madam," said Vane, 
 wincing at each word she said. But 
 at last^ by a mighty effort, he mas- 
 tered himself, and, coming to Mrs. 
 Woffington with a quivering lip, he 
 held out his hand suddenly in a very 
 manly way. " I have been the dupe 
 of my own vanity," said he, " and I 
 thank you for this lesson." Poor 
 Mrs. Woffington's fortitude had well- 
 nigh left her at this. 
 
 " Mabel," he cried, " is this humili- 
 ation any punishment for my folly? 
 any guaranty for my repentance ? 
 Can you forgive me 1 " 
 
 " It is all forgiven, Ernest. But 
 O, you are mistaken." She glided to 
 Mrs. Woffington. " What do we not 
 owe you, sister '? " whispered she. 
 
 " Nothing ! that word pays all," 
 was the reply. She then slipped her 
 address into Mrs. Vane's hand, and, 
 courtesying to all the company, she 
 hastily left the room. 
 
 Sir Charles Pomander followed ; 
 but ho was not quick enough : she 
 got a start, and purposely avoided 
 him, and for three days neither the 
 public nor private friends saw this 
 poor woman's face. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vane prepared to go
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 89 
 
 also ; but Mrs. Vane would thank 
 good Mr. Triplet and Mrs. Triplet 
 for their kindness to her. 
 
 Triplet the benevolent blushed, was 
 confused and delighted ; but sudden- 
 ly, turning somewhat sorrowful, he 
 said : " Mr. Vane, madam, made use 
 of an expression which caused a mo- 
 mentary pang. He called this a den 
 of iniquity. Now this is my studio ! 
 But never mind." 
 
 Mr. Vane asked his pardon for so 
 absurd an error, and the pair left 
 Triplet in all the enjoyment which 
 does come now and then to an honest 
 man, whether this dirty little world 
 will or not. 
 
 A coach was called and they went 
 home to Bloom sbury. Few words 
 were said ; hut the repentant husband 
 often silently pressed this angel to 
 his bosom, and the tears which found 
 their way to her beautiful eyelashes 
 were tears of joy. 
 
 This weakish, and consequently 
 viJlanous, though not ill disposed per- 
 son would have gone down to Wil- 
 loughby that night ; but his wife had 
 great good sense. She would not 
 take her husband off, like a school- 
 hoy caught out of bounds. She 
 begged him to stay while she made 
 certain purchases ; but, for all that, 
 her heart burned to be at home. So 
 in less than a week after the events we 
 have related they left London. 
 
 Meantime, every day Mrs. Vane 
 paid a quiet visit to Mrs. Wotfington 
 (for some days the actress admitted 
 no other visitor), and was with her 
 hut two hours before Bhc left London. 
 On that occasion Bhe found her very 
 .sad. 
 
 " I shall never see you again in this 
 world," said she ; " hut I beg of you to 
 write to me, that my mind may he in 
 contact with yours." 
 
 She then asked Mabel, in her half- 
 sorrowful, half-bitter way, how many 
 months it would be ere she was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Mabel answered by quietly crying. 
 So then they embraced! and Mabel 
 assured her friend she was not one of 
 
 those who change their minds. ''It 
 is for life, dear sister ; it is for life," 
 cried she. 
 
 " Swear this to me," said the other, 
 almost sternly. " But no. I havo 
 more confidence in that candid face 
 and pure nature than in a human be- 
 ing's oath. If you arc happy, remem- 
 ber you owe me something. If you 
 are unhappy, come to me, and I will 
 love you as men cannot love." 
 
 Then vows passed between them, 
 for a singular tie bound these two 
 women ; and then the actress showed 
 a part at least of her sore heart to her 
 new sister; and that sister was sur- 
 prised and grieved, and pitied her tru^ 
 ly and deeply, and they wept on each 
 other's neck ; and at last they were 
 fain to part. They parted ; and true 
 it was, they never met again in this 
 world. They parted in sorrow ; hut 
 when they meet again, it shall be with 
 
 joy- 
 Women are generally such faithless, 
 unscrupulous, and pitiless humbugs 
 in their dealings with their own sex, 
 — which, whatever they may say, 
 they despise at heart, — that I am 
 happy to he able to say, Mrs. Vane 
 proved true as steel. She was a 
 noble-minded, simple-minded crea- 
 ture; she was also a constant crea- 
 ture. Constancy is a rare, a beautiful, 
 a godlike virtue. 
 
 Four times every year she wrote a 
 long letter to Mrs. Woffington ; and 
 twice a year, in the cold weather, she 
 sent her a hamper of country delica- 
 cies, that would have victualled a 
 small garrison. And when her sister 
 left this earthly scene, — a humble, 
 pious, long - repentant Christian, — 
 Mrs. Vane wore mourning for her, and 
 Borrowed over her; hut not as those, 
 who cannot hope to meet again. 
 
 M\ Btory as a work of nrt — good, 
 had, or indifferent — ends with that 
 last sentence. If a reader accompa- 
 nies me further, 1 shall feel Battered, 
 
 and he dOM BO at his o\\ n risk. 
 
 My reader knows that all this befell
 
 90 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 long ago. That Woffington is gay, 
 and Triplet sad, no more. That Ma- 
 bel's, and all the bright eyes of that 
 day, have long been dim, and all its 
 cunning voices hushed. Judge then 
 whether I am one of those happy 
 story-tellers who can end with a wed- 
 ding. No ! this story must wind up, 
 as yours and mine must — to-morrow 
 
 — or to - morrow — or to - morrow ! 
 when our little sand is run. 
 
 Sir Charles Fomander lived a man 
 of pleasure until sixty. He then be- 
 came a man of pain ; lie dragged the 
 chain about eight years, and died 
 miserably. 
 
 Mr. Cibber not so much died as 
 "slipped his wind," — a nautical ex- 
 pression, that conveys the idea of an 
 easy exit. He went off quiet and 
 genteel. He was past eighty, and 
 had lived fast. His servant called 
 him at seven in the morning. " I 
 will shave at eight," said Mr. Cibber. 
 John brought the hot water at eight ; 
 but his master had taken advantage 
 of this interval in his toilet to die ! 
 
 — to avoid shaving 1 
 
 Snarl and Soaper conducted the 
 criticism of their day with credit and 
 respectability until a good old age, 
 anil died placidly a natural death, like 
 twaddle, sweet or sour. 
 
 The Triplets, while their patroness 
 lived, did pretty well. She got a 
 tragedy of his accepted at her theatre. 
 She made him send her a copy, and 
 with her scissors cut out about half; 
 sometimes thinning, sometimes cut- 
 ting bodily away. But, lo ! the in- 
 herent vanity of Mr. Triplet came out 
 strong. Submissively, but obstinately, 
 he fought for the discarded beauties. 
 Unluckily, he did this one day that 
 his patroness was in one of her bitter 
 humors. So she instantly gave him 
 back his manuscript, with a sweet 
 smile owned herself inferior in judg- 
 ment to him, and left him unmolested. 
 
 Triplet breathed freely ; a weight 
 was taken off him. The savage steel 
 (he applied this title to the actress's 
 scissors) had spared his purpura. panni. 
 He was played, pure and intact, a 
 
 calamity the rest of ue grumbling es- 
 cape. 
 
 But it did so happen that the audi- 
 ence were of the actress's mind, and 
 found the words too exuberant, and 
 the business of the play too scanty in 
 proportion. At last their patience 
 was so sorely tried that they supplied 
 one striking incident to a piece defi- 
 cient in facts. They gave the manager 
 the usual broad hint, and in the mid- 
 dle of Triplet's third act a huge veil 
 of green baize descended upon " The 
 Jealous Spaniard." 
 
 Failing here, Mrs. "Woffington con- 
 trived often to befriend him in his 
 other arts, and moreover she often 
 sent Mr. Triplet what she called a 
 snug investment, a loan of ten pounds, 
 to be repaid at Doomsday, with in- 
 terest and compound interest, accord- 
 ing to the Scriptures ; and, although 
 she laughed, she secretly believed she 
 was to get her ten pounds back, 
 double and treble. And I believe so 
 too. 
 
 Some years later Mrs. Triplet be- 
 came eventful. She fell ill, and lay a 
 dying ; but one fine morning, after all 
 hope had been given up, she suddenly 
 rose and dressed herself. She was 
 quite well in body now, but insane. 
 
 She continued in this state a month, 
 and then by God's mercy she recovered 
 her reason ; but now the disease fell 
 another step, and lighted upon her 
 temper, — a more athletic vixen was 
 not to be found. She had spoiled 
 Triplet for this by being too tame, 
 so when the dispensation came they 
 sparred daily. They were now thor- 
 oughly unhappy. They were poor 
 as ever, and their benefactress was 
 dead, and they had learned to snap. 
 A speculative tour had taken this 
 pair to Bristol, then the second city 
 in England. They sojourned in the 
 suburbs. 
 
 One morning the postman brought 
 a letter for Triplet, who was showing 
 his landlord's boy how to plant on- 
 ions. (N. B. Triplet had never plant- 
 ed an onion, but he was one of your 
 a priori gentlemen, and could show
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 01 
 
 anybody how to do anything. ) Trip- 
 let held out his hand for the letter, 
 but the postman held out his hand 
 for half a crown first. Trip's profes- 
 sion had transpired, and his clothes 
 inspired diffidence. Triplet appealed 
 to his good feeling. 
 
 He replied with exultation, " That 
 he had none left." (A middle-aged 
 postman, no doubt.) 
 
 Triplet then suddenly started from 
 entreaty to King Cambyses' vein. 
 In vain ! 
 
 Mrs. Triplet came down, and es- 
 sayed the blandishments of the softer 
 sex. In vain ! And, as there were 
 no assets, the postman marched off 
 down the road. 
 
 Mrs. Triplet glided after him like 
 an assassin, beckoning on Triplet, 
 who followed, doubtful of her designs. 
 Suddenly (truth compels me to relate 
 this) she seized the obdurate official 
 from behind, pinned both his arms to 
 his side, and with her nose furiously 
 telegraphed her husband. 
 
 He, animated by her example, 
 
 I dunged upon the man and tore the 
 etter from his hand, and opened it 
 before his eyes. 
 
 It happened to be a very windy 
 morning, and when he opened the 
 letter an enclosure, printed on much 
 finer paper, was caught into the air. 
 and went down the wind. Triplet 
 followed in kangaroo leaps, like a 
 dancer making a flying exit. 
 
 The postman cried on all good cit- 
 izens for help. Home collected and 
 laughed at him ; Mrs. Triplet ex- 
 plaining that they were poor, and 
 could not pay half a crown tor the 
 freight of half an ounce of paper. 
 She Field him convulsively until Trip- 
 let reappeared. 
 
 That gentleman on his return was 
 ostentatiously calm and dignified. 
 " You are, or were, in perturbation 
 about half a crown, ' said he. 
 " There, sir, is a twenty-pound note, 
 oblige me with nineteen pounds seven- 
 teen shillings and sixpence. Should 
 your resources be unequal to such a 
 demand, meet me at the ' Green 
 
 Cat and Brown Frogs,' after dinner, 
 when you shall receive your halt- 
 crown, and drink another upon the 
 occasion of my sudden accession to 
 unbounded affluence." 
 
 The postman was staggered by the 
 sentence, and overawed by the note, 
 and chose the " Cat and Frogs," and 
 liquid half-crown. 
 
 Triplet took his wife down the road 
 and showed her the letter and enclo- 
 sure. The letter ran thus : — 
 
 "Sir: — 
 
 " We beg respectfully to inform 
 you that our late friend and client, 
 James Triplet, Merchant, of the Mi- 
 nories, died last August, without a 
 will, and that you are his heir. 
 
 " His property amounts to about 
 twenty thousand pounds, besides 
 some reversions. Having possessed 
 the confidence of your late uncle, we 
 should feel honored and gratified if 
 you should think us worthy to act 
 professionally for yourself. 
 
 " We enclose twenty pounds, and 
 beg you will draw upon us as far as 
 five thousand pounds, should you 
 have immediate occasion. 
 " We are, sir, 
 " Your humble servants, 
 "James and John Allmitt." 
 
 It was some time before these 
 children of misfortune could realize 
 this enormous stroke of compensa- 
 tion ; but at last it worked its way 
 into their spirits, and they began to 
 sing, to triumph, and dance upon the 
 king's highway. 
 
 Mrs. Triplet was the first to pause, 
 and take better views. "<) James!" 
 she cried, " we have suffered much ! 
 we have been poor, but honest, and 
 the Almightv has looked upon us at 
 last ! " 
 
 Then they began to reproach them- 
 selves. 
 
 " ( > James ! T have been a pce\ ish 
 woman, — an ill wife to you, this 
 many years ! " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Triplet, with tears 
 in his eyes. " It is I who have been 
 rough and brutal. Poverty tried 03
 
 92 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 too hard; but we were not like the rest 
 of them, — we were always faithful to 
 the altar. And the Almighty has 
 seen us, though we often doubted it." 
 
 " I never doubted that, James." 
 
 So then the poor things fell on 
 their knees upon the public road, and 
 thanked God. If any man had seen 
 them, he would have said they were 
 mail. Yet madder things are done 
 every day by gentlemen with faces as 
 grave as the parish bull's. And then 
 they rose, and formed their little plans. 
 
 Triplet was for devoting four fifths 
 to charity, and living like a prince on 
 the remainder. But Mrs. Triplet 
 thought the poor were entitled to no 
 more than two thirds, and they them- 
 selves ought to bask in a third, to 
 make up for what they had gone 
 through ; and then suddenly she 
 sighed, and burst into tears. " Lucy ! 
 Lucy ! " sobbed she. 
 
 Yes, reader, God had taken little 
 Lucy ! And her mother cried to 
 think all this wealth and comfort had 
 come too late for her darling child. 
 
 " Do not cry. Lucy is richer, a 
 thousand times, than you are, with 
 your twenty thousand pounds." 
 
 Their good resolutions were car- 
 ried out, for a wonder. Triplet 
 lived for years, the benefactor of all 
 the loose fish that swim in and round 
 theatres ; and, indeed, the unfortu- 
 nate seldom appealed to him in vain. 
 He now predominated over the arts, 
 instead of climbing them. In his 
 latter day, he became an oracle, as 
 far as the science of acting was con- 
 cerned ; and, what is far more rare, 
 he really got to know something about 
 it. This was owing to two circum- 
 stances : first, he ceased to run blind- 
 fold in a groove behind the scenes ; 
 second, be became a frequenter of the 
 first row of the pit, and that is where 
 the whole critic, and two thirds of 
 the true actor, is made. 
 
 On one point, to his dying day, 
 his feelings guided his judgment. 
 He never could see an actress equal 
 to his Woffington. Mrs. Abington 
 was grace personified, but so was 
 
 Woffington, said the old man. And 
 Abington's voice is thin, Wotfington's 
 was sweet and mellow. When Jor- 
 dan rose, with her voice of honey, 
 her dewy freshness, and her heavenly 
 laugh, that melted in along with her 
 words, like the gold in the quartz, 
 Triplet was obliged to own her the 
 goddess of beautiful gayety ; but still 
 he had the last word : " YVoffingtoB 
 was all she is, except her figure. 
 Woffington was a Hebe ; your Nell 
 Jordan is little better than a dowdy." 
 Triplet almost reached the presen* 
 century. He passed through great 
 events, but they did not excite him ; 
 his eye was upon the arts. Wheu 
 Napoleon drew his conquering swor(* 
 on England, Triplet's remark was : 
 " Now we shall be driven upon native 
 talent, thank Heaven ! " The storms 
 of Europe shook not Triplet. The 
 fact is, nothing that happened on the 
 great stage of the world seemed real 
 to him. He believed in nothing, where 
 there was no curtain visible. But 
 even the grotesque are not good in 
 vain. Many an eye was wet round 
 his dying bed, and many a tear fell 
 upon his grave. He made his final 
 exit in the year of grace 1 799. And 
 I, who laugh at him, would leave this 
 world to-day to be with him ; for I 
 am tossing at sea, — he is in port. 
 
 A straightforward character like 
 Mabel's becomes a firm character with 
 years. Long ere she was forty, her 
 hand gently but steadily ruled Wil- 
 loughby House, and all in it. She 
 and Mr. Vane lived very happily ; he 
 gave her no fresh cause for uneasi- 
 ness. Six months after their return, 
 she told him what burned in that 
 honest heart of hers, the truth about 
 Mrs. Woffington. The water rushed to 
 his eyes, but his heart was now whol- 
 ly his wife's ; and gratitude to Mrs. 
 Woffington for her noble conduct 
 was the only sentiment awakened. 
 
 " You must repay her, dearest," 
 said he. " I know you love her, and 
 until to-day it gave me pain ; now it
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON 
 
 C3 
 
 giv?s me pleasure. "We owe her 
 much." 
 
 The happy, innocent life of Mabel 
 Vane is soon summed up. Frank as 
 the day, constant as the sun, pure as 
 tlie dew, she passed the golden years 
 preparing herself and others for a 
 still brighter eternity. At home, it 
 was she who warmed and cheered the 
 house, and the hearth, more than all 
 the Christmas fires. Abroad, she 
 shone upon the poor like the sun. 
 She led her beloved husband by the 
 hand to Heaven. .She led her chil- 
 dren the same road ; and she was 
 leading her K ran dchildren when the 
 angel of death came for her ; and she 
 slept in peace. 
 
 Many remember her. For she 
 alone, of all our tale, lived in this 
 present century ; but they speak of 
 her as " old Madam Vane," — her 
 whom we knew so young and fresh. 
 
 She lies in Willoughby Church, — 
 her mortal part ; her spirit is with 
 the spirits of our mothers and sisters, 
 reader, that are pone before us; with 
 the tender mothers, the chaste wives, 
 the loyal friends, and the just women 
 of all ages. 
 
 RESUKGET. 
 
 I come to her last, who went first ; 
 but I could not have stayed by the 
 others, when once I had laid my 
 darling asleep. It seemed for a while 
 as if the events of our tale did her 
 harm ; but it was not so in the end. 
 
 Not many years afterwards, she 
 was enjjaiicd by Mr. Sheridan, at a 
 Tery heavy salary, and went to Dub- 
 lin. Here the little, girl, who had 
 often carried a pitcher on her head 
 down to the Litl'ey, and had played 
 
 Polly Peachum in a booth, became a 
 
 lion ; dramatic, political, and literary, 
 and the centre of the wit of that wit- 
 of cities. 
 
 But the- Dublin ladies and she did 
 not coalesce. They said she was a 
 naughty woman, and not lit for them 
 morally. She said they had but two 
 topics. " silks and scandal," anil were 
 untit for her intellectually. 
 
 This was the saddest part of her 
 history. But it is darkest just before 
 sunrise. She returned to London. 
 Not long after, it so happened that 
 she went to a small church in the 
 city one Sunday afternoon. The 
 preacher was such as we have often 
 heard ; but not so this poor woman, 
 in her day of sapless theology, ere 
 John Wesley waked the snoring 
 church. Instead of sending a dry 
 clatter of morality about their ears, 
 or evaporating the Bible in the thin 
 generalities of the pulpit, this man 
 drove God's truths home to the hearts 
 of men and women. In his hands 
 the divine virtues were thunderbolts, 
 not swans' down. With pood sense, 
 plain speaking, and a heart yearning 
 for the souls of his brethren and his 
 sisters, he stormed the bosoms of 
 many ; and this afternoon, as he rea- 
 soned like Paul of righteousness, 
 temperance, and judgment to come, 
 sinners trembled, — and Margaret 
 Woffington was of those who trem- 
 bled 
 
 After this day, she came ever to 
 the narrow stteet where shone this 
 house of God ; and still new light 
 burst upon her heart and conscience. 
 Here she learned why she was un- 
 happy ; here she learned how alone 
 she could be happy ; here she learned 
 to know herself ; and, the moment she 
 knew herself, she abhorred herself, and 
 repented in dust and ashes. 
 
 This stronp and straightforward 
 character made no attempt to recon- 
 cile two things that an average Chris- 
 tian would have continued to recon- 
 cile. Her interest fell in a moment 
 before her new sense of ripht. She 
 flung her profession from her like a 
 poisonous weed. 
 
 Long before this, Mrs. Vane had 
 begged her to leave the BtagO. She 
 had replied, that it was to her what 
 wine is to weak stomachs. " Hut," 
 added she, " do not fear that 1 will 
 ever crawl down hill, and unravel my 
 own reputation ; nor will 1 ever do 
 as I have seen others. — stand groan- 
 ing at the wing, to go on giggling,
 
 94 
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 nnd come off gasping. No ! the first 
 night the boards do not spring be- 
 neath my feet, and the pulse of the 
 public beat under my hand, I am 
 gone ! Next day, at rehearsal, instead 
 of Woffington, a note will come, to 
 tell the manager that henceforth Wof- 
 fington is herself, — at Twickenham, 
 or Richmond, or Harrow-on-tlie-Hill, 
 far from his dust, his din, and his 
 glare, — quiet, till God takes her : 
 amidst grass, and flowcus, and chari- 
 table deeds." 
 
 This day had not come : it was in 
 the zenith of her charms and her fame 
 that she went home one night after a 
 play, and never entered a theatre, by 
 front door or back door, again. She 
 declined all leave-taking and cere- 
 mony. 
 
 " When a publican shuts up shop 
 and ceases • to diffuse liquid poison, 
 he does not invite the world to put 
 up the shutters ; neither will I. Act- 
 ors overrate themselves ridiculously," 
 added she ; " I am not of that impor- 
 tance to the world, nor the world to 
 me. I (ling away a dirty old glove 
 instead of soiling my finders filling it 
 with more guineas, and the world 
 loses in me, what ? another old glove, 
 full of words ; half of them idle, the 
 rest wicked, untrue, silly, or impure. 
 Rourjissons, taisons-nous, et partons." 
 
 She now changed her residence, 
 and withdrew politely from her old 
 associates, courting two classes only, 
 the good and the poor. She had 
 always supported her mother and sis- 
 ter ; but now charity became her sys- 
 tem. The following is characteris- 
 tic : — 
 
 A gentleman who had greatly ad- 
 mired this dashing actress met one 
 day, in the suburbs, a lady in an old 
 black silk gown and a gray shawl, 
 with a large basket on her arm. She 
 showed him its contents, — worsted 
 stockings of prodigious thickness, — 
 which she was carrying to some of 
 her yyrol€q€&. 
 
 " But surely that is a waste of your 
 valuable time," remonstrated her ad- 
 mirer. " Much better buy them." 
 
 "But, my good soul," replied the 
 representative of Sir Harry YVildair, 
 " you can't buy them. Nobody in 
 this wretched town can knit worsted 
 hose except Woffington." 
 
 Conversions like this are open to 
 just suspicion, and some did not fail 
 to confound her with certain great 
 sinners, who have turned austere self- 
 deceivers when sin smiled no more. 
 But this was mere conjecture. The 
 facts were clear, and speaking to the 
 contrary. This woman left folly at 
 its brightest, and did not become aus- 
 tere : on the contrary, though she 
 laughed less, she was observed to 
 smile far oftener than before. She 
 was a humble and penitent, but cheer- 
 ful, hopeful Christian. 
 
 Another class of detractors took a 
 somewhat opposite ground : they ac- 
 cused her of bigotry for advising a 
 young female friend against the stage 
 as a business. But let us hear herself. 
 This is what she said to the girl : — 
 
 " At the bottom of my heart, I al- 
 ways loved and honored virtue. Yet 
 the tendencies of the stage so com- 
 pletely overcame my good sentiments, 
 that I was for years a worthless wo- 
 man. It is a situation of uncommon 
 and incessant temptation. Ask your- 
 self, my child, whether there is noth- 
 ing else you can do, but this. It is, I 
 think, our duty and our wisdom to fly 
 temptation whenever we can, as it is 
 to resist it when we cannot escape it." 
 Was this the tone of bigotry 1 
 Easy in fortune, penitent, but 
 cheerful, Mrs. Woffington had now 
 but one care, — to efface the memory 
 of her former self, and to give as many 
 years to purity and piety as had gone 
 to folly and frailty. This was not to 
 be ! The Almighty did not permit, 
 or perhaps I should say, did not re- 
 quire this. 
 
 Some unpleasant symptoms had 
 long attracted her notice, but in the 
 bustle of her profession had received 
 little attention. She was now per- 
 suaded by her own medical attendant 
 to consult Dr. Bowdler, who had a 
 great reputation, and had been years
 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. 
 
 95 
 
 ago an acquaintance and an admirer. 
 He visited her, he examined her by 
 means little used in that day, and he 
 saw at once that her days were num- 
 bered. 
 
 Dr. Bowdler's profession and ex- 
 perience had not steeled his heart as 
 they generally do and must do. He 
 could not tell her this sad news, so he 
 asked her for pen and paper, and said, 
 I will write a prescription to Mr. 
 . He then wrote, not a prescrip- 
 tion, but a few lines, begging Mr. 
 
 to convey the cruel intelligence 
 
 by degrees, and with care and tender- 
 ness. " It is all we can do for ber," 
 said he. 
 
 He looked so grave while writing 
 the supposed prescription, that it un- 
 luckily occurred to Mrs. Woffington 
 to look over him. She stole archly 
 behind him, and, with a smile on her 
 face, — read her death-warrant. 
 
 It was a cruel stroke ! A gasping 
 sigh broke from her. At this Dr. 
 Bowdlcr looked up, and to his horror 
 saw the sweet face he had doomed to 
 the tomb looking earnestly and anx- 
 iously at him, and very pale and grave. 
 He was shocked, and, strange to say, 
 she, whose death-warrant he had 
 signed, ran and brought him a glass 
 of wine, for he was quite overcome. 
 Then she gave him her hand in her 
 own sweet way, and bade him not 
 grieve for ber, for she was not afraid 
 to die, and had lone-learned that "life 
 is a walking shadow, a poor, poorplay- 
 cr, who frets and struts bis hour upon 
 the Stage, and then is heard no more." 
 
 But no sooner was the doctor gone, 
 than she wept latterly. Poor soul ! 
 she had set her heart upon living as 
 many years to God as she had to the 
 world, and she had hoped to wipe out 
 
 her former Belf. 
 
 " Alas ! " she said to her sister, " I 
 have done more harm than 1 can ever 
 hope to do good now ; and my long 
 life of folly and wickedness will be re- 
 membered, — will be what they call 
 famous; my -hurt life of repentance 
 who will know, or heed, or take to 
 profit 1 " 
 
 But she soon ceased to repine. She 
 bowed to the will of Heaven, and set 
 her house in order, and awaited her 
 summons. The tranquillity of her 
 life and her courageous spirit were 
 unfavorable to the progress of dis- 
 ease, and I am glad to say she was 
 permitted to live nearly three years 
 after this, and these three years were 
 the happiest period of her whole life. 
 Works of piety and love made the 
 days eventful. She was at home 
 now, — she had never been at home 
 in folly and loose living. All ber bit- 
 terness was gone now, with its cause. 
 
 Reader, it was with her as it is with 
 many an autumn day : clouds darken 
 the sun, rain and wind sweep over 
 all, — till day declines. But then 
 comes one heavenly hour, when all ill 
 things seem spent. There is no more 
 wind, no more rain. The great sun 
 comes forth, — not fiery bright indeed, 
 but full of tranquil glory, and warms 
 the sky with raby waves, and the 
 hearts of men with hope, as, parting 
 with us for a little space, he glides 
 slowly and peacefully to rest. 
 
 So fared it with this humble, peni- 
 tent, and now happy Christian. 
 
 A part of her desire was given her. 
 She lived lontr enough to read a firm 
 recantation of her former self, to show 
 the world a great repentance, and to 
 leave upon indelible record one more 
 proof, what alone is true wisdom, and 
 where alone true joys are to be found. 
 
 She endured some physical pain, as 
 all must who die in their prime. But 
 this never wrung a Bigh from her great 
 heart ; and within she had the peace of 
 Cod, which passes all understanding. 
 
 I am not strong enough to follow 
 her to her last hour; nor is it needed. 
 Enough that her own words carob 
 true. When the great summons rami', 
 it found her full of hope, and peace, 
 
 and joy; sojourning, not dwelling, 
 
 upon earth ; far from dust and din 
 anil vice ; the Bible in her hand, the 
 ('n^s in her heart; quiet; amidst 
 j_'rass, and (lowers, and charitable 
 deeds. 
 
 " NON OMNEM MOKITURAM."
 
 He led her to his boat, which was called 'The Christie Johnstone.' " — See page 118.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 A NOVEL.
 
 I DEDICATE 
 
 ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS WOJUE 
 TO 
 
 MX" MOTHER 
 
 C. R
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 Viscount Ipsden, aged twenty- 
 five, income eighteen thousand pounds 
 per year, constitution equine, was un- 
 happy ! This might surprise some 
 people ; but there are certain blessings, 
 the non-possession of which makes 
 more people discontented than their 
 possession renders happy. 
 
 Foremost among these are " Wealth 
 and Rank " : were I to add " Beauty " 
 to the list, such men and women as 
 go by fact, not by conjecture, would 
 hardly contradict me. 
 
 The fortunate man is he who, born 
 poor, or nobody, works gradually up 
 to wealth and consideration, and, hav- 
 ing got them, dies before he finds they 
 were not worth so much trouble. 
 
 Lord Ipsden started with nothing 
 to win ; and naturally lived for amuse- 
 ment. Now nothing is so sure to 
 cease to please as pleasure, — to 
 amuse, as amusement : unfortunately 
 for himself he could not at this period 
 of his life warm to politics ; so, hav- 
 ing exhausted his London clique, he 
 rolled through the cities of Europe 
 in his carriage, and cruised its shores 
 in his yacht. But he was not hap- 
 py ! 
 
 He was a man of taste, and sipped 
 the arts and other knowledge, as he 
 sauntered Europe round. 
 
 But he was not happy. 
 
 " What shall I do 1 " said Ven- 
 nuyt. 
 
 " Distinguish yourself," said one. 
 
 " How ! " 
 
 No immediate answer. 
 
 " Take a prima donna over," said 
 another. 
 
 Well, the man took a prima donna 
 over, which scolded its maid from the 
 Alps to Dover in the lingua Toscana 
 without the bocca Romana, and sang 
 in London without applause ; because 
 what goes down at La Scala does 
 not generally go down at II Teatro 
 della Regina, Haymarket. 
 
 So then my Lord strolled into 
 Russia ; there he drove a pair of 
 horses, one of whom put his head 
 down and did the work ; the other 
 pranced and capricoled alongside, all 
 unconscious of the trace. He seemed 
 happier than his working brother ; 
 but the biped whose career corre- 
 sponded with this playful animal's 
 was not happy ! 
 
 At length an event occurred that 
 promised to play an adagio upon 
 Lord Ipsden 's mind. lie fell in love 
 with Lady Barbara Sinclair ; and he 
 had no sooner done this than he felt, 
 as we are all apt to do on similar 
 occasions, how wise a thing he had 
 done ! 
 
 Besides a lovely person, Lady Bar- 
 bara Sinclair had a character that ho 
 saw would make him ; and, in fact, 
 Lady Barbara Sinclair was, to an in- 
 experienced eye, the exact opposite 
 of Lord Ipsden. 
 
 Her mental pulse was as plethoric 
 as his was languid. 
 
 She was as enthusiastic as he was 
 cool. 
 
 She took a warm interest in every- 
 thing. 
 
 She believed that government is a
 
 102 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 science, and one that goe8 with copia 
 verborum. 
 
 She believed that, in England, 
 government is administered, not by 
 a set of men whose salaries range 
 from eighty to five hundred pounds a 
 year, and whose names are never 
 heard, but by the First Lord of the 
 Treasury, and other great men. 
 
 Hence she inferred, that it matters 
 very much to all of us in whose hand 
 is the rudder of that state vessel which 
 goes down the wind of public opin- 
 ion, without veering a point, let who 
 will be at the helm. 
 
 She also cared very much who was 
 the new Bishop. Religion — if not 
 religion, theology — would be affected 
 thereby. 
 
 She was enthusiastic about poets ; 
 imagined their verse to be some sort 
 of clew to their characters, and so on. 
 
 She had other theories, which will 
 be indicated by and by ; at present it 
 is enough to say that her mind was 
 young, healthy, somewhat original, 
 full of fire and faith, and empty of 
 experience. 
 
 Lord Ipsden loved her ! it was easy 
 to love her. 
 
 First, there was not, in the whole 
 range of her mind and body, one grain 
 of affectation of any sort. 
 
 She was always, in point of fact, 
 under the influence of some male 
 mind or other, generally some writer. 
 What young woman is not, more or 
 less, a mirror? But she never imi- 
 tated or affected ; she was always 
 herself, by whomsoever colored. 
 
 Then she was beautiful and elo- 
 quent; much too high-bred to put a 
 restraint upon her natural manner, 
 she was often more naive, and even 
 brusque, than your would-be aristo- 
 crats dare to be ; but what a charm- 
 ing abruptness hers was ! 
 
 I do not excel in descriptions, and 
 yet I want to give you some carnal 
 idea of a certain peculiarity and charm 
 this lady possessed ; permit me to call 
 a sister art to my aid. 
 
 There has lately stepped upon the 
 French stage a charming personage, 
 
 whose manner is quite free from the 
 affectation that soils nearly all French 
 actresses, — Mademoiselle Madeleine 
 Brohan ! When you see this young 
 lady play Mademoiselle La Segliere, 
 you see high-bred sensibility person- 
 ified, and you see something like La- 
 dy Barbara Sinclair. 
 
 She was a connection of Lord Ips- 
 den's, but they had not met for two 
 years, when they encountered each 
 other in Paris just before the com- 
 mencement of this " Dramatic Story," 
 " Novel " by courtesy. 
 
 The month he spent in Paris, near 
 her, was a bright month to Lord Ips- 
 den. A by-stander would not have 
 gathered, from his manner, that he 
 was warmly in love with this lady, 
 but, for all that, his Lordship was 
 gradually uncoiling himself,and grace- 
 fully, quietly, basking in the rays of 
 Barbara Sinclair. 
 
 He was also just beginning to take 
 an interest in subjects of the day, — 
 ministries, flat paintings, controversial 
 novels, Cromwell's spotless integrity, 
 &c, — Avhy not ? They interested 
 her. 
 
 Suddenly the lady and her family 
 returned to England. Lord Ipsden, 
 who was going to Rome, came to 
 England instead. 
 
 She had not been five days in Lon- 
 don, before she made her preparations 
 to spend six months in Perthshire. 
 
 This brought matters to a climax. 
 
 Lord Ipsden proposed in form. 
 
 Lady Barbara was surprised ; she 
 had not viewed his graceful attentions 
 in that light at all. However, she 
 answered by letter his proposal which 
 had been made by letter. 
 
 After a few of those courteous words 
 a lady always bestows on a gentleman 
 who has offered her the highest com- 
 pliment any man has it in his power 
 to offer any woman, she came to the 
 point in the following characteristic 
 manner : — 
 
 " The man I marry must have two 
 things, virtues and vices, — you have 
 neither : you do nothing, and never
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 103 
 
 will do anything but sketch and hum 
 tunes, and dance and dangle : forget 
 *.his folly the day after to-morrow, my 
 dear Ipsden, and, if I may ask a favor 
 of one to whom I refuse that which 
 would not be a kindness, he still good 
 friends with her who will always be 
 " Your affectionate Cousin, 
 " Barbara. Sinclair." 
 
 Soon after this effusion she vanished 
 into Perthshire, leaving her cousin 
 stunned by a blow which she thought 
 would be only a scratch to one of his 
 character. 
 
 Lord Ipsden relapsed into greater 
 listleasness than before he had cher- 
 ished these crushed hopes. The 
 world now became really dark and 
 blank to him. He was too languid to 
 go anywhere or do anything; a re- 
 publican might have compared the 
 settled expression of his handsome, 
 hopeless face with that of most day- 
 laborers of the same age, and mod- 
 erated his envy of the rich and titled. 
 
 At last he became so pale as well 
 as languid, that Mr. Saunders inter- 
 fered. 
 
 Saunders was a model valet and 
 factotum ; who had been with his 
 master ever since he left Eton, and 
 had made himself necessary to him in 
 their journeys. 
 
 Tin', said Saunders was really an 
 invaluable servant, and, with a world 
 of obsequiousness, contrived to have 
 his own way on most occasions. He 
 had, I believe, only one great weak- 
 ness, that of imagining a beau-ideal 
 of aristocracy ami then outdoing it in 
 the person of John Saunders. 
 
 Now this Saunders was human, and 
 could not be eight years with this 
 young gentleman and not take some 
 little interest in him. He was flunky, 
 and took a great interest in him, as 
 stepping-stone to his own greatness. 
 So when he saw him turning pale and 
 thin, and reading one letter fifty 
 times, he speculated and inquired 
 what w;ls the matter, lie brought 
 the intellect of Mr. Saunders to bearon 
 the question at the following angle : — 
 
 " Now, if I was a young lord with 
 .€20,000 a year, and all the world at my 
 feet, what would make me in this way ? " 
 
 " Why, the liver ! Nothing else." 
 
 " And that is what is wrong with 
 him, you may depend." 
 
 This conclusion arrived at, Mr. 
 Saunders coolly wrote his convictions 
 to Dr. Aberford, and desired that gen- 
 tleman's immediate attention to the 
 case. An hour or two later, he glided 
 into his lord's room, not without some 
 secret trepidation, no trace of which 
 appeared on his face. He pulled a 
 long histrionic countenance. " My 
 Lord," said he, in soft, melancholy 
 tones, " your Lordship's melancholy 
 state of health gives me great anxiety ; 
 I and, with many apologies to your 
 Lordship, the Doctor is sent for, my 
 Lord." 
 
 " Why, Saunders, you are mad ; 
 there is nothing the matter with me." 
 
 " I beg your Lordship's pardon, 
 your Lordship is very ill, and Dr. 
 Aberford sent for." 
 
 " You may go, Saunders." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord. I couldn't help 
 it ; I 've outstepped my duty, my 
 Lord, but I could not stand quiet and 
 see your Lordship dying by inches." 
 Here Mr. S. put a cambric handker- 
 chief artistically to his eyes, and glided 
 out, having disarmed censure. 
 
 Lord Ipsden fell into a re very. 
 
 " Is my mind or my body disor- 
 dered ? Dr. Aberford ! — absurd ! — 
 Saunders is getting too pragmatical. 
 j The Doctor shall prescribe for him in- 
 stead of me; by Jove, that would 
 ' serve him right." And my Lord 
 | faintly chuckled. " No ! this is what 
 I am ill of," — and he read the fatal 
 note again. " I do nothing ! — cruel, 
 unjust," sighed he. " I could have 
 done, would have done, anything to 
 please her Do nothing ! nobody docs 
 anything now, — things don't come 
 in your way to be done as they used 
 centuries ago, or we should do them 
 just the same ; it is their fault, not 
 i ours," argued his Lordship, somewhat 
 
 < fused ly ; then, leaning his brow 
 
 upon the sofa, be wished to die : for,
 
 104 
 
 CHHISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 at that dark moment, life seemed to 
 this fortunate man an aching void ; a 
 weary, stale, flat, unprofitable tale ; a 
 faded flower ; a ball-room after day- 
 light has crept in, and music, motion, 
 and beauty are fled away. 
 
 "Dr. Aberford, my Lord." 
 
 This announcement, made by Mr. 
 Saunders, checked his Lordship's rev- 
 ery. 
 
 " Insults everybody, does he not, 
 Saunders ? " 
 
 " Yes, my Lord," said Saunders, 
 monotonously. 
 
 " Perhaps he will me ; that might 
 amuse me," said the other. 
 
 A moment later the Doctor bowled 
 into the apartment, tugging at his 
 gloves, as he ran. 
 
 The contrast between him and our 
 poor rich friend is almost beyond 
 human language. 
 
 Here lay on a sofa Ipsden, one of 
 the most distinguished young gentle- 
 men in Europe : a creature incapable, 
 by nature, of a rugged tone or a coarse 
 gesture : a being without the slight- 
 est apparent pretension, but refined 
 beyond the wildest dream of dandies. 
 To him, enter Aberford, perspiring 
 and shouting. He was one of those 
 globules of human quicksilver one 
 sees now and then for two seconds ; 
 they are, in fact, two globules ; their 
 head is one, invariably bald, round, 
 and glittering : the body is another 
 in activity and shape, totus teres atque 
 rotundas; and in fifty years they live 
 five centuries. Horum Rex Aber- 
 ford, — of these our Doctor was the 
 chief. He had hardly torn off one 
 glove, and rolled as far as the third 
 flower from the door on his Lord- 
 ship's carpet, before he shouted : — 
 
 " This is my patient, lolloping in 
 pursuit of health. — Your hand," 
 added he. For he was at the sofa 
 long before his Lordship could glide 
 off it. 
 
 " Tongue. — Pulse is good. — 
 Breathe in my face." 
 
 "Breathe in your face, sir! how 
 can I do that 1 " (with an air of mild 
 doubt.) 
 
 "By first inhaling, and then exhal- 
 ing in the direction required, or how 
 can I make acquaintance with your 
 bowels ? " 
 
 " My bowels ? " 
 
 " The abdomen, and the greater 
 and lesser intestines. Well, never 
 mind, I can get at them another way, 
 give your heart a slap, so. — That 's 
 your liver. — And that's your dia- 
 phragm." 
 
 His Lordship having found the re- 
 quired spot (some people that I know 
 could not) and slapped it, the Aber- 
 ford made a circular spring and lis- 
 tened eagerly at his shoulder-blade ; 
 the result of this scientific pantomime 
 seemed to be satisfactory, for he ex- 
 claimed, not to say bawled : — 
 
 " Hallo ! here is a Viscount as 
 sound as a roach ! Now, young gen- 
 tleman," added he ; " your organs 
 are superb, yet yon are really out of 
 sorts; it follows you have the mala- 
 dies of idle minds, love, perhaps, 
 among the rest ; you blush, a diag- 
 nostic of that disorder ; make your 
 mind easy, cutaneous disorders, such 
 as love, &c, shall never kill a patient 
 of mine with a stomach like yours : 
 so, now to cure you ! " And away 
 went the spherical Doctor, with his 
 hands behind him, not up and down 
 the room, but slanting and tacking, 
 like a knight on a chess-board. He 
 had not made many steps before, 
 turning his upper globule, without 
 affecting his lower, he hurled back, 
 in a cold business-like tone, the fol- 
 lowing interrogatory : — 
 
 " What arc your vices ? " 
 
 " Saunders," inquired the patient, 
 " which are my vices 3 " 
 
 " M' Lord, Lordship has n't any 
 vices," replied Saunders, with dull, 
 matter-of-fact solemnity. 
 
 " Lady Barbara makes the same 
 complaint," thought Lord Ipsden. 
 
 " It seems I have not any vices, 
 Dr. Aberford," said he, demurely. 
 
 " That is bad ; nothing to get hold 
 of. What interests you, then ? " 
 
 " I don't remember." 
 
 " What amuses you 1 "
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 105 
 
 « I forget." 
 
 " What ! no winning horse to gal- 
 lop away your rents ? ' 
 
 " No, sir ! " 
 
 " No Opera Girl to run her foot 
 and ankle through your purse ? " 
 
 " No, sir ! and I think their ankles 
 are not what they were." 
 
 " Stun'! just the same, from their 
 ankles up to their ears, and down 
 again to their morals ; it is your eyes 
 that are sunk deeper into your head. 
 Hum ! no horses, no vices, no dancers, 
 no yacht ; you confound one's notions 
 of nobility, and I oujjht to know 
 them, for I have to patch them all up 
 a bit just before they go to the deuce." 
 
 "But 1 have, Doctor Aberford." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " A yacht ! and a clipper she is 
 too." 
 
 "Ah! — (Now I've got him.)" 
 
 " In the Bay of Biscay she lay half 
 a point nearer the wind than Lord 
 Heavyjib." 
 
 "()ii! bother Lord Heavyjib, and 
 his Bay of Biscay." 
 
 " With all my heart, they have of- 
 ten bothered me." 
 
 " Send her round to Granton Pier, 
 in the Firth of Forth." 
 
 "I will, sir." 
 
 " And writedown this prescription." 
 And away he walked again, thinking 
 the prescription. 
 
 " Saunders," appealed his master. 
 
 " Saunders be hanged.." 
 
 " Sir ! " said Saunders, with dignity, 
 "I thank you." 
 
 " Don't thank me, thank your own 
 deserts," replied the modern Chester- 
 field. " ' Oblige me by writing it your- 
 self, ray Lord, it is all the bodily 
 exercise you will have had to-day, no 
 do.ll.t." 
 
 The young Viscount bowed, seated 
 himself at a desk, and wrote from dic- 
 tation : — 
 
 "Dr. Aijerford's Prescription. 
 
 " Make acquaintance with all the 
 people of low estate who have time to 
 be bothered with vn; learo their 
 
 ways, their minds, and, above all, 
 their troubles." 
 
 "Won't all this bore me?" sug- 
 gested the writer. 
 
 " You will see. Relieve one fellow- 
 creature every day, and let Mr. Saun- 
 ders book the circumstances." 
 
 " I shall like this part," said the pa- 
 tient, laying down his pen. " How 
 clever of you to think of such things ; 
 may not I do two sometimes ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ; one pill per day. — 
 Write, Fish the herring! (that beats 
 deer-stalking.) Run your nose into 
 adventures at sea ; live on tenpence, 
 and earn it. Is it down ? " 
 
 "Yes, it is down, but Saunders 
 would have written it better." 
 
 " If he had n't he ought to be 
 hanged," said the Aberford, inspect- 
 ing the work. " I 'in off, where 's my 
 hat 1 oh, there , where 's my money ? 
 oh, here. Now look here, follow my 
 prescription, and 
 
 You will soon hare Mens Sana in corpore 
 
 sano ; 
 And not care whether the girls say yes or 
 
 say no -, 
 
 neglect it, and — my gloves; oh, in 
 my pocket — you will be blase and 
 ermuye, and (an English participle, 
 that means something as bad) ; God 
 bless you ! " 
 
 And out he scuttled, glided after by 
 Saunders, for whom he opened and 
 shut the street door. 
 
 Never was a greater effect produced 
 by a doctor's visit ; patient and physi- 
 cian were made lor each other. Dr. 
 Aberford was the specific for Lord 
 Ipsden. lie came to him like a shower 
 to a Minting strawberry. 
 
 Saunders, on his return, found his 
 Lord pacing the apartment. 
 
 " Saunders," said he, smartly, 
 " send down to Gravesend, and or- 
 der the yacht to this place, — what is 
 it? " 
 
 " Granton Pier. Yes, my Lord." 
 
 "And, Saunders, take clothes, and 
 books, and violins, and telescopes, and 
 things — and me — to Eustou Square, 
 in an hour.'' 
 
 " Impossible, my Lord, cried Sauu-
 
 106 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 ders, in dismay. " And there is no 
 train for hours." 
 
 His master replied with a hundred- 
 pound note, and a quiet, but wiekedish 
 look ; and the prince of gentlemen's 
 gentleman had all the required items 
 with him, in a special train, within the 
 specified time, and away they flashed, 
 northwards. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It is said that opposite characters 
 m:ike a union happiest ; and perhaps 
 Lord Ipsdea, diffident of himself, felt 
 the value to him of a creature so dif- 
 ferent as Lady Barbara Sinclair ; but 
 the lady, for her part, was not so dif- 
 fident of herself, nor was she in search 
 of her opposite ; on the contrary, she 
 was waiting patiently to find just such 
 a man as she was, or fancied herself, a 
 woman. 
 
 Accustomed to measure men by 
 their characters alone, and to treat 
 with sublime contempt the accidents 
 of birth and fortune, she had been a 
 little staggered by the assurance of this 
 butterfly that had proposed to settle 
 upon her hand — for life. 
 
 In a word, the beautiful writer of 
 the fatal note was honestly romantic, 
 according to the romance of 1848, 
 and of good society ; of course she 
 was not affected by hair tumbling 
 back or plastered down forwards, and 
 a rolling eye went no further with her 
 than a squinting one. 
 
 Her romance was stern, not sickly. 
 She was on the lookout for iron vir- 
 tues ; she had sworn to be wooed 
 with great deeds, or never won ; on 
 this subject she had thought much, 
 though not enough to ask herself 
 whether great deeds are always to be 
 got at, however disposed a lover may 
 be. 
 
 No matter ; she kept herself in re- 
 serve for some earnest man, who was 
 not to come flattering and fooling to 
 her, but look another way and do ex- 
 ploits. 
 
 She liked Lord Ipsden, her cousin 
 
 once removed, buc, despised him fol 
 being agreeable, handsome, clever, 
 and nobody. 
 
 She was also a little bitten with 
 what she and others called the Middle 
 Ages, in fact with that picture of them 
 which Grub Street, imposing on the 
 simplicity of youth, had got up for 
 sale by arraying painted glass, gilt 
 rags, and fancy, against fact. 
 
 With these vague and sketchy no- 
 tices we are compelled to part, for the 
 present, with Lady Barbara : but it 
 serves her right ; she has gone to es- 
 tablish her court in Perthshire, and left 
 her rejected lover on our hands. 
 
 Journeys of a few hundred miles are 
 no longer described. 
 
 You exchange a dead chair for a liv- 
 ing chair, Saunders puts in your hand 
 a new tale like this ; you mourn the 
 superstition of booksellers, which still 
 inflicts uncut leaves upon humanity, 
 though tailors do not send home coats 
 with the sleeves stitched up, nor cham- 
 bermaids put travellers into apple-pie 
 beds as well as damp sheets. You 
 rend and read, and are at Edinburgh, 
 fatigued more or less, but not by the 
 journey. 
 
 Lord Ipsden was, therefore, soon 
 installed by the Firth side, full of the 
 Aberford. 
 
 The young nobleman not only ven- 
 erated the Doctor's sagacity, but half 
 admired his brusquerie and bustle ; 
 things of which he was himself never 
 guilty. 
 
 As for the prescription, that was a 
 Delphic Oracle. Worlds could not 
 have tempted him to deviate from a 
 letter in it. 
 
 He waited with impatience for the 
 yacht ; and, meantime, it struck him 
 that the first part of the prescription 
 could be attacked at once. 
 
 It was the afternoon of the day suc- 
 ceeding his arrival. The Eifeshire 
 hills, seen across the Firth from his 
 windows, were beginning to take their 
 charming violet tinge, a light breeze 
 ruffled the blue water into a sparkling 
 smile, the shore was tranquil, and the 
 sea full of noiseless life, with the craft
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 101 
 
 of all sizes gliding and dancing and 
 conrtesying on their trackless roads. 
 
 The air was tepid, pure, and sweet 
 as heaven ; this bright afternoon, Na- 
 ture had grudged nothing that could 
 give fresh life and hope to such dwell- 
 ers in dust and smoke and vice as 
 were there to look awhile on her 
 clean face and drink her honeyed 
 breath. 
 
 This young gentleman was not in- 
 sensible to the beauty of the scene. 
 He was a little lazy by nature, and 
 made lazier by the misfortune of 
 wealth, but he had sensibilities ; he 
 was an artist of great natural talent ; 
 had he only been without a penny, 
 how he would have handled the brush ! 
 And then he was a mighty sailor; 
 if he had sailed for biscuit a few 
 years, how he would have handled a 
 ship ! 
 
 As he was, he had the eye of a 
 hawk for Nature's beauties, and the 
 sea always came back to him like a 
 friend after an absence. 
 
 This scene, then, curled round his 
 heart a little, and he felt the good 
 physician was wiser than the tribe 
 that go by that name, and strive to 
 build health on the sandy foundation 
 of drugs. 
 
 " Saunders ! do you know what 
 Dr. Aherford means by the lower 
 classes "? " 
 
 " Perfectly, my Lord." 
 
 " Are there any about here 1 " 
 
 " I am sorry to say they are every- 
 where, my Lord." 
 
 " Gel me some " — (cir/arette) . 
 
 Out went Saunders, with his usual 
 graceful empressement, but an internal 
 shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 He mi absent an hour and a half; 
 he then returned with a double expres- 
 sion on his face, — pride at his success 
 in diving to the very bottom of soci- 
 ety, and contempt of what he had 
 fished up thence. 
 
 If- approached his Lord mysterious- 
 ly, and said, solio voce, but impres- 
 sively, " This is low enough, my 
 Lord." Then glided hack, and ushered 
 in, with polite disdain* two lovelier 
 
 women than he had ever opened a 
 door to in the whole course of his per- 
 fumed existence. 
 
 On i\eir heads they wore caps of 
 Dutch cv Flemish origin, with a 
 broad lace border, stiffened and arched 
 over the forehead, about three inches 
 high, leaving the brow and cheeks 
 unencumbered. 
 
 They had cotton jackets, bright red 
 and yellow, mixed in patterns, con- 
 fined at the waist by the apron-strings, 
 but bobtailed below the waist ; short 
 woollen petticoats, with broad vertical 
 stripes, red and white, most vivid in 
 color ; white worsted stockings, and 
 neat, though high-quartered shoes. 
 Under their jackets they wore a thick 
 spotted cotton handkerchief, about 
 one inch of which was visible round 
 the lower part of the throat. 
 
 Of their petticoats, the outer one 
 was kilted, or gathered up towards 
 the front, and the second, of the same 
 color, hung in the usual way. 
 
 Of these young women, one had an 
 olive complexion, with the red blood 
 mantling under it, and black hair, 
 and glorious black eyebrows. 
 
 The other was fair, with a massive 
 but shapely throat, as white as milk; 
 glossy brown hair, the loose threads 
 of which glittered like gold, and a 
 blue eye, which, being contrasted with 
 dark eyebrows and lashes, took the 
 luminous effect peculiar to that rare 
 beauty. 
 
 Their short petticoats revealed a 
 neat ankle, and a leg with a noble 
 swell ; for Nature, when she is in 
 earnest, builds beauty on the ideas of 
 ancient sculptors and poets, not of 
 modern poetasters, who, with their 
 airy-like sylphs and their smoke-like 
 verses, fight for want of flesh in wo- 
 man and want of fact in poetry as 
 parallel beauties. 
 
 They arc, my lads. — Continues t 
 
 These women had a gratid corpo- 
 real trait; they had never known a 
 corset ! so they were straight as 
 javelins ; they could lift their hands 
 above their heads ! — actually ! Their 
 supple Dci>ons moved as Nature in-
 
 108 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 tended ; every gesture was ease, grace, 
 and freedom . 
 
 What with their own radiance, and 
 the snowy cleanliness and brightness 
 of their costume, they^came like me- 
 teors into the apartment. 
 
 Lord Ipsden, rising gently from his 
 scat, with the same quiet politeness 
 with which he would have received 
 two princes of the blood, said, 
 " How do you do ? " and smiled a 
 welcome. 
 
 "Fine! hoow 's yoursel ? " answered 
 the dark lass, whose name was Jean 
 Camie, and whose voice was not so 
 sweet as her face. 
 
 " What'n lord are ye ? " continued 
 she; "are you a juke? I wad like 
 fine to hae a crack wi' a juke." 
 
 Saunders, who knew himself the 
 cause of this question, replied, sotto 
 voce, " His Lordship is a viscount." 
 
 " I didna ken't," was Jean's re- 
 mark. " But it has a bonny soond." 
 
 " What mair would ye hae ? " said 
 the fair beauty, whose name was 
 Christie Johnstone. Then, appealing 
 to his Lordship a3 the likeliest to 
 know, she added, " Nobeelity is just 
 a soond itsel, I 'm tauld." 
 
 The Viscount, finding himself ex- 
 pected to say something on a topic he 
 had not attended much to, answered 
 dryly : " We must ask the republi- 
 cans, they are the people that give 
 their minds to such subjects." 
 
 " And yon man," asked Jean Car- 
 nie, " is he a lord, too ? " 
 
 " I am his Lordship's servant," re- 
 plied Saunders, gravely, not without 
 a secret misgiving whether fate had 
 been just. 
 
 " Na ! " replied she, not to be im- 
 posed upon, " ye are statelier and 
 prooder than this ane." 
 
 " I will explain," said his master. 
 " Saunders knows his value ; a ser- 
 vant like Saunders is rarer than an 
 idle viscount." 
 
 " My Lord, my Lord ! " remonstrat- 
 ed Saunders, with a shocked and most 
 disclamatory tone. " Rather ! " was 
 his inward reflection. 
 
 "Jeau," said Christie, "ye hae 
 
 muckle to laern. Are ye for herrin' 
 the day, Vile Count? " 
 
 " No ! are you for this sort of 
 thing? " 
 
 At this, Saunders, with a world of 
 empressement, offered the Carnie some 
 cake that was on the table. 
 
 She took a piece, instantly spat it 
 out into her hand, and with more en- 
 ergy than delicacy flung it into the 
 fire. 
 
 " Augh ! " cried she, "just a sugar 
 and saut butter thegither ; buy nae 
 mair at yon shoep, Vile Count." 
 
 " Try this, out of Nature's shop," 
 laughed their entertainer ; and he 
 offered them, himself, some peaches 
 and things. 
 
 " Hech ! a medi — cine!" said Chris- 
 tie. 
 
 " Nature, my lad," said Miss Car- 
 nie, making her ivory teeth meet in 
 their first nectarine, " I didna ken 
 whaur ye stoep, but ye beat the other 
 confectioners, that div ye." 
 
 The fair lass, who had watched 
 the Viscount all this time as demure- 
 ly as a cat cream, now approached 
 him. 
 
 This young woman was the think- 
 er ; her voice was also rich, full, and 
 melodious, and her manner very en- 
 gaging ; it was half advancing, half 
 retiring, not easy to resist or to de- 
 scribe. 
 
 " Noo," said she, with a very slight 
 blush stealing across her face, " ye 
 maun let me catecheeze ye, wull ye ? " 
 
 The last two words were said in a 
 way that would have induced a bear 
 to reveal his winter residence. 
 
 He smiled assent. Saunders re- 
 tired to the door, and, excluding every 
 shade of curiosity from his face, took 
 an attitude, half majesty, half obsequi- 
 ousness. 
 
 Christie stood by Lord Ipsden, with 
 one hand on her hip (the knuckles 
 downwards), but graceful as Anti- 
 nous, and be<ran. 
 
 " Hoo muckle is the Queen greater 
 than y' are ? " 
 
 His Lordship was obliged to reflect. 
 
 " Let me see, — as is the moon to
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 109 
 
 a wax taper, so is her Majesty the 
 Queen to you and me, and the rest." 
 
 " An* whaur does the Juke * come 
 in?" 
 
 " On this particular occasion, the 
 Duket makes one of us, my pretty 
 maid." 
 
 "I see ! Are na ye awfu' prood 
 o' being a Lorrd ? " 
 
 " Wliat an idea ! " 
 
 " His Lordship did not go to bed a 
 spinning-jenny, and rise up a lord, 
 like some of them," put in Saunders. 
 
 " Saunders," said the peer, doubt- 
 fully, " eloquence rather bores peo- 
 ple." 
 
 " Then I must n't speak again, my 
 Lord," said Saunders, respectfully. 
 
 " Noo," said the fair inquisitor, 
 "ye shall tell me how ye came to be 
 Lorrds, your faemiiy i " 
 
 " Saunders ! " 
 
 " Na ! ye mauna flee to Sandy for 
 a thing, ye are no a bairn, are ye 3 " 
 
 Here was a dilemma, the Saunders 
 prop knocked rudely away, and 
 obliged to think for ourselves. 
 
 But Saunders would come to his 
 distressed master's assistance. Ho 
 furtively conveyed to him a plump 
 book, — this was Saunders's manual 
 of faith; the author was Mr. Burke, 
 not Edmund. 
 
 Lord Ipsdcn ran hastily over the 
 page, closed the book, and said, 
 " I lore is the story. 
 
 "Five hundred vcars ago — " 
 
 " Listen, Jean," said Christie ; 
 " we 're gatin to get a boeny story. 
 ' Five hundro' years ago,' " added 
 she, with interest and awe. 
 
 " Was a great battle," resumed the 
 narrator, in cheerful tones, ns one 
 larking with history, " between a 
 Kin<_ r <>f England and his rebels. He 
 was in the thick of the fight — " 
 
 " That 's the King, Jean, he was in 
 the thick o't." 
 
 " My ancestor killed a fellow who 
 was sneaking behind him, hut the 
 next moment a man-at-arms prepared 
 a thrust at his majesty, who had his 
 hands full with three a s-ailaiils." 
 * Buccleuch. t \\uUiu«tou. 
 
 " Eh ! that 's no fair," said Chris- 
 tie, " as sure as deeth." 
 
 " My ancestor dashed forward, and, 
 as the king's sword passed through 
 one of them, he .clove another to the 
 waist with a blow." 
 
 " Weel done ! weel done ! " 
 
 Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, 
 her eyes were glittering, and her 
 cheek flushing. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " thought he ; 
 " she believes it ! " So he began to 
 take more pains with his legend. 
 
 " But for the spearsman," con- 
 tinued he, " he had nothing but his 
 body ; he gave it, it was his duty, and 
 received the death levelled at his 
 sovereign." 
 
 " Ilech ! puir mon." And the 
 glowing eyes began to glisten. 
 
 " The battle flowed another way, 
 and God gave victory to the right ; 
 but the king came back to look for 
 him, for it was no common service." 
 
 " Deed no ! " 
 
 Here Lord Ipsden began to turn 
 his eye inwards, and call up the 
 scene. He lowered his voice. 
 
 " They found him lying on his 
 back, looking death in the face. 
 
 " The nobles, by the King's side, 
 uncovered as soon as he was found, 
 for they were brave men, too. There 
 was a moment's silence ; eyes met 
 eyes, and said, this is a stout soldier's 
 last battle. 
 
 " The King could not bid him 
 live." 
 
 " Na ! lad, King Deeth has owcr 
 strong a grrip." 
 
 " But be did what Kings can do, 
 he gave him two blows with his royal 
 sword." 
 
 " O, the robber, and him a deeing 
 mon." 
 
 " Two words from his royal mouth, 
 and he and we were Barons of Ipsden 
 and Hawthorn Glen from that day to 
 this." 
 
 " But the puir dying creature 1 " 
 
 " What poor dying creature 1 " 
 
 " Your Forbear, lad." 
 
 " I don't know why you call him 
 poor, madam ; all the men of that
 
 110 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 day are uust ; they are the gold dust 
 who died with honor. 
 
 " He looked round, uneasily, for 
 his son, — for he had but one, — and 
 when that son knelt, unwounded, hy 
 him, he said, ' Good night, Baron 
 Ipsden ' ; and so he died, fire in his 
 eye, a smile on his lip, and honor on 
 his name forever. I meant to tell 
 you a lie, and I've told you the 
 truth." 
 
 " Laddie," said Christie, half ad- 
 miringly, half reproachfully, " ye gar 
 the tear come in my cen. Hech ! look 
 at yon lassie ! how could you think 
 t' eat plums through siccan a bonny 
 story ? " 
 
 " Hets," answered Jean, who had, 
 in fact, cleared the plate, " I aye lis- 
 ten best when my ain mooth 's stap- 
 pit." 
 
 " But see, now," pondered Chris- 
 tic, " twa words fra a King, — thir 
 titles are just breeth." 
 
 " Of course," was the answer. " All 
 titles are. What is popularit) r 1 ask 
 Aristides and Latnartine : the breath 
 of a mob, — smells of its source, — 
 and is gone before the sun can set on 
 it. Now the royal breath does smell 
 of the Rose and Crown, and stays by 
 us from age to age." 
 
 The story had warmed our marble 
 acquaintance. Saunders opened his 
 eyes, and thought, " We shall wake 
 up the House of Lords some evening, 
 —ice shall." 
 
 His Lordship then added, less 
 warmly, looking at the girls : — 
 
 " I think I should like to be a fish- 
 erman." So saying, my Lord yawned 
 slightly. 
 
 To this aspiration the young fish- 
 wives deigned no attention, doubting, 
 perhaps, its sincerity ; and Christie, 
 with a shade of severity, inquired 
 of him how he came to be a Vile 
 Count. 
 
 " A baron 's no' a Vile Count, I 'm 
 sure," said she ; " sae tell me how ye 
 came to be a Vile Count." 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, " that is by no 
 means a pretty story like the other ; 
 you will not like it, I am sure." 
 
 " Ay, will I, — ay, will I ; 1 'm aye 
 seeking knocwledge." 
 
 " Well, it is soon told. One of us 
 sat twenty years on one seat, in the 
 same house, so one day he got up a 
 — Viscount." 
 
 " Ower muckle pay for ower little 
 wark." 
 
 " Now don't say that ; I would n't 
 do it to be Emperor of Russia." 
 
 " Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' 
 ye ; sae noow I '11 gang, since ye are 
 no for herrin' ; come away, Jean." 
 
 At this their host remonstrated, 
 and inquired why bores are at one's 
 service night and day, and bright peo- 
 ple are always in a hurry ; he was in- 
 formed in reply, " Labor is the lot o' 
 man. Div ye no ken that muckle ? 
 And abunc a' o' women." * 
 
 " Why, what can two such pretty 
 creatures have to do except to be ad- 
 mired 1 " 
 
 This question coming within the 
 dark beauty's scope, she hastened to 
 reply. 
 
 " To sell our herrin', — we hao 
 three hundre' left in the creel." 
 
 " What is the price 1 " 
 
 At this question the poetry died 
 out of Christie Johnstone's face, she 
 gave her companion a rapid look, 
 indiscernible by male eye, and an- 
 swered : — 
 
 " Three a penny, sirr ; they are no 
 plenty the day," added she, in smooth 
 tones that carried conviction. 
 
 (Little liar; they were selling six a 
 penny everywhere.) 
 
 " Saunders, buy them all, and be 
 ever so long about it ; count them, or 
 some nonsense." 
 
 "He's daft! he's daft! O, ye 
 ken, Jean, an Ennglishman and a 
 lorrd, twa daft things thegither, he 
 could na' miss the road. Coont 
 them, lassie." 
 
 " Come away, Sandy, till I count 
 them till ye," said Jean. 
 
 Saunders and Jean disappeared. 
 
 Business being out of sight, curi* 
 osity revived. 
 
 "An' what brings ye here from 
 
 * A local idea, I suspect. — C. 11.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTOXE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "London, if yc please? " recommenced 
 the fair inquisitor. 
 
 " You have a good countenance ; 
 there is something in your (ace. I 
 could find it in my heart to tell you, 
 but I should bore you." 
 
 "De'elafear! Bore me, bore me ! 
 whaat 'a thaat, I wonder? " 
 
 " What is your name, madam ? 
 Mine is Ipsden." 
 
 " They ca' me Christie Johnstone." 
 
 " Well, Christie Johnstone, I am 
 under the doctor's hands." 
 
 " Puir lad. What 's the trouble ? " 
 (solemnly and tenderly.) 
 
 " Ennui ! " (rather piteously.) 
 
 " Ya\vn-we ? I never heerd tell 
 
 t. 
 
 " O you lucky girl," burst out he ; 
 " but the doctor has undertaken to 
 cure me ; in one thing you could as- 
 sist me, if I am not presuming too 
 far on our short acquaintance. I am 
 to relieve one poor distressed person 
 every day, but I must n't do two : is 
 not that a bore ? " 
 
 " Gie 's your hand, gie 's your hand. 
 
 1 'm vexed for ca'ing you daft. Ilech ! 
 what a Baft hand ye hae. Jean, I 'm 
 saying, come here, feel this." 
 
 Jean, who had run in, took the 
 Viscount's hand from Christie. 
 
 " It never wroucht any," explained 
 Jean. 
 
 " And he has bonny hair," said 
 Christie, just touching his locks on 
 the other side. 
 
 " He's*, bonny lad," said Jean, in- 
 specting him scientifically, and point- 
 blank. 
 
 "Ay, is he," said the other. 
 "Aweel, there's Jess Rutherford, a 
 widdy, wi' four bairns, ye mcicht do 
 waur than ware your siller on her." 
 
 " Five pounds to begin ? " inquired 
 his Lordship. 
 
 " Five pund ! Are yc made o' sil- 
 ler 1 Ten sehell'n ! " 
 
 Saunders was rung; for, and pro- 
 duced a one-pound note. 
 
 " The hcrrin' is live and saxpence; 
 it 's four and saxpence I 'm awin yc," 
 said the young fishwife, " and Jess 
 will be a clad woman the neiclit." 
 
 The settlement was effected, and 
 away went the two friends, saying : — 
 
 " Good boye, Vile Count." 
 
 Their host fell into thought. 
 
 " When have I talked so much ? " 
 asked he of himself. 
 
 " Dr. Aberford, you are a wonder- 
 ful man ; I like your lower classes 
 amazingly." 
 
 " Me'fiez vous, Monsieur Ipsden ! " 
 should some mentor have said. 
 
 As the Devil puts into a beginner's 
 hands ace, queen, five trumps, to 
 give him a taste for whist, so these 
 lower classes have perhaps put for- 
 ward one of their best cards to lead 
 you into a false estimate of the strength 
 of their hand. 
 
 Instead, however, of this, who 
 should return, to disturb the equilib- 
 rium of truth, but this Christina John- 
 stone ? She came thoughtfully in, 
 and said : — 
 
 " I 've been taking a thoucht, and 
 this is no what yon gude physeecian 
 meaned ; ye are no to fling your 
 chaerity like a bane till a doeg ; ye '11 
 gang yoursel to Jess Kutherford; 
 Flucker Johnstone, that 's my brother, 
 will convoy ye." 
 
 " But how is your brother to know 
 me?" 
 
 " How ? Because I '11 gie him a 
 sair sair hiding, if he lets ye gang 
 
 by." 
 
 Then she returned the one-pound 
 note, a fresh settlement was effected, 
 and she left him. 
 
 At the door she said : " And I am 
 muckle oblecged to ye for your story 
 and your goodness." 
 
 Whilst uttering these words, she 
 half kissed her hand to him, with a 
 lofty and disengaged gesture, such as 
 one might expect from a queen, if 
 queens did not wear stays ; and was 
 gone. 
 
 When his Lordship, a few minutes 
 after, sauntered out for a stroll, the 
 first object he beheld was an exact 
 human square, a handsome boy, with 
 a body (swelled out apparently to the 
 size of a man'':, with blue flannel, and 
 blue cloth above it, leaning against a
 
 112 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 wall, with his hands in his pockets, — 
 a statuette of insouciance. 
 
 This marine puff-ball was Flucker 
 Johnstone, aged fourteen. 
 
 Stain his sister's face with diluted 
 walnut-juice, as they make the stage 
 gypsy and Red Indian (two animals 
 imagined by actors to be one), and 
 you have Flucker's face. 
 
 A slight moral distinction remains, 
 not to be so easily got over. 
 
 She was the best girl in the place, 
 and he a baddish boy. 
 
 He was, however, as sharp in his 
 way as she was intelligent in hers. 
 
 This youthful mariner allowed his 
 Lordship to pass him, and take twenty 
 steps, but watched him all the time, 
 and compared him with a description 
 furnished him by his sister. 
 
 He then followed, and brought him 
 to, as he called it. 
 
 " I daur say it 's you I 'm to con- 
 voy to yon auld faggitt ! " said this 
 baddish boy. 
 
 On they went, Flucker rolling and 
 pitching and yawing to keep up with 
 the lordly galley, for a fisherman's 
 natural waddle is two miles an hour. 
 
 At the very entrance of Newhaven, 
 the new pilot suddenly sung out, 
 " Starboard ! " 
 
 Starboard it was, and they ascend- 
 ed a filthy " close," or alley ; they 
 mounted a staircase which was out of 
 doors, and, without knocking, Fluck- 
 er introduced himself into Jess Ruth- 
 erford's house. 
 
 " Here a gentleman to speak till ye, 
 wife." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TnE widow was weather-beaten 
 and rough. She sat mending an old 
 net. 
 
 " The gentleman 's welcome," said 
 she ; but there was no gratification in 
 her tone, and but little surprise. 
 
 His Lordship then explained that, 
 understanding there were worthy peo- 
 ple ia distress, he was in hopes he 
 
 might be permitted to assist them, 
 and that she must blame a neighbor 
 of hers if he had broken in upon her 
 too abruptly with this object. He 
 then, with a blush, hinted at ten shil- 
 lings, which he begged she would con- 
 sider as merely an instalment, until 
 he could learn the precise nature of 
 her embarrassments, and the best way 
 of placing means at her disposal. 
 
 The widow heard all this with a 
 lack-lustre mind. 
 
 For many years her life had been 
 unsuccessful labor ; if anything had 
 ever come to her, it had always been 
 a misfortune ; her incidents had been 
 thorns, — her events, daggers. 
 
 She could not realize a human an- 
 gel coining to her relief, and she did 
 not realize it, and she worked away at 
 her net. 
 
 At this, Flucker, to whom his Lord- 
 ship's speech appeared monstrously 
 weak and pointless, drew nigh, and 
 gave the widow, in her ear, his ver- 
 sion, namely, his sister's embellished. 
 It was briefly this : That the gentle- 
 man was a daft lord from England, 
 who had come with the bank in his 
 breeks, to remove poverty from Scot- 
 land, beginning with her. " Sae 
 speak loud aneuch, and ye '11 no want 
 siller," was his polite corollary. 
 
 His Lordship rose, laid a card on a 
 chair, begged her to make use of him, 
 et cetera ; he then, recalling the orac- 
 ular prescription, said, " Do me the 
 favor to apply to me for any little 
 sum you have a use for, and, in return, 
 I will beg of you (if it does not bore 
 you too much) to make me acquainted 
 with any little troubles you may have 
 encountered in the course of your 
 life." 
 
 His Lordship, receiving no answer, 
 was about to go, after bowing to her, 
 and smiling gracefully upon her. 
 
 His hand was on the latch, when 
 Jess Rutherford burst into a passion 
 of tears. 
 
 He turned with surprise. 
 
 " My troubles, laddie," cried she, 
 trembling all over. " The sun wad 
 set, and rise, and set again, ere I could
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 113 
 
 tell ye a' the trouble I hae come 
 through. 
 
 " O, ye need na vex yourself for an 
 auld wife's tears ; tears are a blessin', 
 lad, I shall assure ye. Mony 's the 
 time I hae prayed for them, and could 
 na hae them. Sit ye doon ! sit ye 
 doon ! I '11 no let ye gang fra my 
 door till I hae thankit ye, — but gie 
 me time, gie me time. I canna greet 
 a' the days of the week." 
 
 Flucker, atat. 14, opened his eyes, 
 unable to connect ten shillings and 
 tears. 
 
 Lord Ipsden sat down, and felt very 
 sorry for her. 
 
 And she cried at her ease. 
 
 If one touch of nature make the 
 whole world kin, methinks that sweet 
 and wonderful thing, sympathy, is not 
 less powerful. What frozen barriers, 
 what ice of centuries, it can melt in a 
 moment ! 
 
 His bare mention of her troubles had 
 surprised the widowed woman's heart, 
 and now she looked up, and exam- 
 ined his countenance ; it was soon 
 done. 
 
 A woman, young or old, high or 
 low, can discern and appreciate sensi- 
 bility in a man's face, at a single 
 glance. 
 
 What she saw there was enough. 
 She was sure of sympathy. She 
 recalled her resolve, and the tale of 
 her sorrows burst from her, like a 
 Hood. 
 
 Then the old fishwife told the young 
 aristocrat how she had borne twelve 
 children, and buried six as bairns ; 
 how her man was always unlucky ; 
 how a mast fell on him, and disabled 
 him a whole season ; how they could 
 but just keep the pot boiling by the 
 deep-sea fishing, and he was not al- 
 lowed to dredge foroysters, because his 
 fatherwas not a Newliaveii man. How, 
 when the herring fishing came, to 
 make all right, he never had another 
 man's luck ; how his boat's crew 
 would draw empty nets, and a boat 
 alongside him would lie gunwale down 
 in the water with the fish. How, at 
 last, one morning, the 20th day of 
 
 November, his boat came in to New- 
 haven Pier without him, and when he 
 was inquired for, his crew said, " He 
 had stayed at home, like a lazy loon, 
 and not sailed with them the night be- 
 fore." How she was anxious, and 
 had all the public-houses searched, 
 " For he took a drop now and then, 
 nae wonder, and him aye in tho 
 weather." Poor thing ! when he was 
 alive she used to call him a drunken 
 scoundrel to his face. How, when tho 
 tide went down, a mad wife, whose 
 husband had been drowned twenty 
 years ago, pointed out something un- 
 der the pier, that the rest took for 
 sea-weed floating, — how it was the 
 hair of her man's head, washed about 
 by the water, and he was there, 
 drowned without a cry or a struggle, 
 by his enormous boots, that kept him 
 in an upright position, though he was 
 dead ; there lie stood, — dead, — 
 drowned by slipping from the slippery 
 pier, close to his comrades' hands, in 
 a dark and gusty night ; how her 
 daughter married, and was well to do, 
 and assisted her ; how she fell into a 
 rapid decline, and died, a picture of 
 health to inexperienced eyes. How 
 she, the mother, saw and knew, and 
 watched the treacherous advance of 
 disease and death ; how others said 
 gayly, " Her daughter was better," 
 and she was obliged to say, "Yes." 
 How she had worked, eighteen hours 
 a day, at making nets ; how, when 
 she let out her nets to the other men at 
 the herring fishing, they always cheat- 
 ed her, because her man was gone. 
 How she had many times had to 
 choose between begging her meal and 
 going to bed without it, but, thank 
 Heaven ! she had always chosen the 
 latter. 
 
 She told him of hunger, cold, and 
 anguish. As she spoke they became 
 real things to him ; up to that mo- 
 ment they had been things in a story- 
 book. And as she spoke she rocked 
 herself from side to side. 
 
 Indeed, she was a woman "ac- 
 quainted with grief." She might 
 have said, "Hero I and sorrow sit/ 
 U
 
 114 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 This is my throne, bid kings come 
 and bow to it ! " 
 
 Her hearer felt this, and therefore 
 this woman, poor, old, and ugly, be- 
 came sacred in his eye ; it was with a 
 strange sort of respect that he tried to 
 console her. 
 
 He spoke to her in tones gentle and 
 sweet as the south wind on a summer 
 evening. 
 
 " Madam," said he, " let me be so 
 happy as to bring you some comfort. 
 The sorrows of the heart I cannot 
 heal ; they are for a mightier hand ; 
 but a part of your distress appears to 
 have been positive need ; that we can 
 at least dispose of, and I entreat you 
 to believe that from this hour want 
 shall never enter that door again. 
 Never ! upon my honor ! " 
 
 The Scotch are icebergs, with vol- 
 canoes underneath ; thaw the Scotch 
 ice, which is very cold, and you shall 
 get to the Scotch fire, warmer than 
 any sun of Italy or Spain. 
 
 His Lordship had risen to go. The 
 old wife had seemed absorbed in her 
 own grief; she now dried her tears. 
 
 " Bide ye, sirr," said she, " till I 
 thank ye." 
 
 So she began to thank him, rather 
 coldly and stiffly. 
 
 " He says ye are a lord," said she ; 
 " I dinna ken, an' I dinna care ; but 
 ye 're a gentleman, I daur say, and a 
 kind heart ye hae." 
 
 Then she began to warm. 
 
 " And ye Tl never be a grain the 
 poorer for the siller ye hae gien me ; 
 for he that giveth to the poor lendeth 
 to the Lord." 
 
 Then she began to glow. 
 
 "But it's no your siller; dinna 
 think it, — na, lad, na ! 0, fine ! I 
 ken there 's mony a supper for the 
 bairns and me in yon bits metal ; 
 but I canna feel your siller as I feel 
 your winsome smile, — the drop in 
 your young een, — an' the sweet 
 words ye gied me, in the sweet music 
 o' your Soothern tongue, Gude bless 
 ye! " (Where was her ice by this 
 time?) "Gude bless ye! and I bless 
 ye ! " 
 
 And she did bless him ; and what a 
 blessing it was ; not a melodious gen- 
 erality, like a stage parent's, or papa's 
 in a damsel's novel. It was like the 
 son of Barak on Zophim. 
 
 She blessed him, as one who had 
 the power and the right to bless or 
 curse. 
 
 She stood on the high ground of her 
 low estate, and her afflictions, — and 
 demanded of their Creator to bless the 
 fellow-creature that had come to her 
 aid and consolation. 
 
 This woman had suffered to the 
 limits of endurance; yesterday she 
 had said, " Surely the Almighty does 
 na see me a' these years ! " 
 
 So now she blessed him, and her 
 heart's blood seemed to gush into 
 words. 
 
 She blessed him by land and water. 
 
 She knew most mortal griefs ; for 
 she had felt them. 
 
 She warned them away from him 
 one by one. 
 
 She knew the joys of life ; for she 
 had felt their want. 
 
 She summoned them one by one to 
 his side. 
 
 " And a fair wind to your ship," 
 cried she : " an' the storms aye ten 
 miles to leeward o' her." 
 
 Many happy days, "an' weel spent," 
 she wished him. 
 
 " His love should love him dearly, 
 or a better take her place." 
 
 " Health to his side by day ; sleep 
 to his pillow by night." 
 
 A thousand good wishes came, like 
 a torrent of fire, from her lips, with a 
 power that eclipsed his dreams of hu- 
 man eloquence ; and then, changing 
 in a moment from the thunder of a 
 Pythoness to the tender music of some 
 poetess mother, she ended : — 
 
 " An' O my boenny, boenny lad, 
 may ye be wi' the rich upon the airth 
 a' your days, — and wi' the puir 
 
 IN THE WAHLD TO COME ! " 
 
 His Lordship's tongue refused him 
 the thin phrases of society. 
 
 " Farewell for the present," said he, 
 and he went quietly away. 
 
 He paced thoughtfully home.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 115 
 
 He had drunk a fact with every sen- 
 tence ; and sin idea with every fact. 
 
 For the knowledge we have never 
 realized is not knowledge to us, — only 
 knowledge's shadow. 
 
 With the banished Duke, he now 
 began to feel, " we are not alone un- 
 happy " : this universal world con- 
 tains other guess sorrows than yours, 
 "Viscount, — scilicet than unvarying 
 health, unbroken leisure, and incalcu- 
 lable income. 
 
 Then this woman's eloquence ! 
 bless me ! he had seen folk murmur 
 politely in the Upper House, and 
 drone or hammer away at the Speak- 
 er down below, with more heat than 
 warmth. 
 
 He had seen nine hundred wild 
 beasts fed with peppered tongue, in a 
 menagerie called U Asscmblce Nation- 
 ale. 
 
 His cars had rung often enough, for 
 that matter. 
 
 This time his heart beat. 
 
 He had been in the principal Courts 
 of Europe : knew what a handful of 
 gentlefolks call " the World " : had 
 experienced the honeyed words of 
 courtiers ; the misty nothings of di- 
 plomatists; and the innocent prattle 
 of mighty kings. 
 
 15 ut hitherto he seemed to have 
 undergone gibberish and jargon : — 
 
 Gibberish and jargon — Political ! 
 
 Gibberish and jargon — Social ! 
 
 Gibberish and jargon — Theologi- 
 cal ! 
 
 Gibl>crish and jargon — Positive ! 
 
 1 Vople h:id been prating — Jess had 
 8] ii i ken. 
 
 Hut, it is to he observed, he was 
 under the double etl'eet of eloquence 
 and novelty ; and, so situated, we 
 overrate things, you know. 
 
 That night he made a provision for 
 this poor woman, in case he should 
 die before next week. 
 
 "Who knows?" said he, "she is 
 such an unlucky woman." 
 
 Then he went to bed, and whether 
 from the widow's Messing, or the : » i r 
 of the place, bo slept like a plough- 
 boy. 
 
 Leaving Richard, Lord Ipsdcn, to 
 work out the Aberford problem, — to 
 relieve poor people, one or two of 
 whom, like the Rutherford, were grate- 
 ful, the rest acted it to the life, — to 
 receive now and then a visit from 
 Christina Johnstone, who borrowed 
 every mortal book in his house, who 
 sold him fish, invariably cheated him 
 by the indelible force of habit, and 
 then remorsefully undid the bargain, 
 with a peevish entreaty that " he would 
 not be so green, for there was no do- 
 ing business with him," — to be fas- 
 tened upon by Flacker, who, with 
 admirable smoothness and cunning, 
 wormed himself into a cabin-boy on 
 board the yacht, and man-at-arms 
 ashore. 
 
 To cruise in search of adventures, 
 and meet nothing but disappoint- 
 ments; to acquire a browner tint, a 
 lighter step, and a jacket, our story 
 moves for a while towards humbler 
 personages. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Jess Rotiierford, widow of 
 Alexander Johnstone, for Newhaven 
 wives, like great artists, change their 
 conditions without changing their 
 names, was known in the town only 
 as a dour wife, a sour old carlinc. 
 Whose fault ? 
 
 Uo wooden faces and iron tongues 
 tempt sorrow to put out its snails' 
 horns ? 
 
 She hardly spoke to any one, or 
 any one to her, but four days after the 
 visit we have described people began 
 to bend looks of sympathy on her, to 
 step out of their way to give her a 
 kindly good-morrow ; after a bit, fish 
 and meal used to be placed on be* 
 table by one neighbor or another, 
 when she was out : and so on. She 
 was at first behind-hand in respond- 
 ing to all this, but by degrees she 
 
 thawed to those who wen- thawing to 
 her. Next, Saunders called on her, 
 and Bhowed her n settlement, made 
 for her benefit, on certain lands in
 
 11G 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Lanarkshire. She was at ease for 
 life. 
 
 The Almighty had seen her all these 
 years. 
 
 But how came her neighbors to 
 melt? 
 
 Because a nobleman had visited 
 her. 
 
 Not exactly, dear novel-reader. 
 
 This was it. 
 
 That same night, by a bright fire 
 lighting up snowy walls, burnished 
 copper, gleaming candlesticks, and a 
 dinner-table floor, sat the mistress of 
 the house, Christie Johnstone, and 
 her brother, Flucker. 
 
 She with a book, he with his reflec- 
 tions opposite her. 
 
 " Lassie, hae ye ony siller past ye ? " 
 
 " Ay, lad ; an' I mean to keep it ! " 
 
 The baddish boy had registered a 
 vow to the contrary, and proceeded 
 to bleed his flint (for to do Christie 
 justice the process was not very dis- 
 similar). Fluckcr had a versatile 
 genius for making money ; he had 
 made it in forty different ways, by 
 land and sea, tenpence at a time. 
 
 " I hae gotten the life o' Jess Ruth- 
 erford, till ye," said he. 
 
 " Giest then." 
 
 " I 'm seeking half a crown for 't," 
 said he. 
 
 Now, he knew he should never get 
 half a crown, but he also knew that 
 if he asked a shilling, he should be 
 beaten clown to fourpence. 
 
 So half a crown was his first bode. 
 
 The enemy, with anger at her 
 heart, called up a humorous smile, 
 and saying, " An ye '11 get saxpence," 
 went about some household matter ; 
 in reality, to let her proposal rankle 
 in Flucker. 
 
 Fluckcr lighted his pipe slowly, as 
 one who would not do a sister the 
 injustice to notice so trivial a propo- 
 sition. 
 
 He waited fresh overtures. 
 
 They did not come. 
 
 Christie resumed her book. 
 
 Then the baddish boy fixed his eye 
 on the fire, and said softly and thought- 
 fully to the fire, " Hech, what a heap 
 
 o' troubles yon woman has come 
 through." 
 
 This stroke of art was not lost. 
 Christie looked up from her book ; 
 pretended he had spoken to her, gave 
 a fictitious yawn, and renewed the ne- 
 gotiation with the air of one disposed 
 to kill time. 
 
 She was dying for the story. 
 
 Commerce was twice broken off and 
 renewed by each power in turn. 
 
 At last the bargain was struck at 
 fourteen-pence. 
 
 Then Flucker came out, the honest 
 merchant. 
 
 He had listened intently, with mer- 
 cantile views. 
 
 He had the widow's sorrows all off 
 pat. 
 
 He was not a bit affected himself, 
 but by pure memory he remembered 
 where she had been most agitated or 
 overcome. 
 
 He gave it Christie, word for word, 
 and even threw in what dramatists 
 call " the business," thus : — 
 
 " Here ye suld greet — " 
 
 " Here ye *11 play your hand like a 
 geraffe." 
 
 " Geraffe ? That 's a beast, I 'm 
 thinking." 
 
 " Na ; it 's the thing on the hill that 
 makes signals." 
 
 " Telegraph, ye fulish goloshen ! " 
 
 " Oo ay, telegraph ! Geraffe 's sun- 
 est said for a'." 
 
 Thus Jess Rutherford's life camo 
 into Christie Johnstone's hands. 
 
 She told it to a knot of natives next 
 dav; it lost nothing, for she was a 
 woman of feeling, and by intuition an 
 artist of the tongue. She was the 
 best raconteur in a place where there 
 are a hundred, male and female, who 
 attempt that art. 
 
 The next day she told it again, and 
 then inferior narrators got hold of it, 
 and it soon circulated through the 
 town. 
 
 And this was the cause of the sud- 
 den sympathy with Jess Rutherford. 
 
 As our prigs would 6ay : — 
 
 "Art had adopted her cause and 
 adorned her tale."
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 117 
 
 CHATTER V. 
 
 The fishing village of Newhaven is 
 an unique place ; it is a colony that 
 retains distinct features ; the people 
 seldom intermarry with their Scotch 
 neighbors. 
 
 Some say the colony is Dutch, 
 some Danish, some Flemish. The 
 character and cleanliness of their fe- 
 male costume points rather to the 
 latter. 
 
 Fish, like horse -flesh, corrupts the 
 mind and manners. 
 
 After a certain age, the Newhaven 
 fishwife is always a blackguard, and 
 ugly ; but among the younger speci- 
 mens, who have not traded too much, 
 or come into much contact with larger 
 towns, a charming modesty, or else 
 slyness (such as no man can distin- 
 guish from it, so it answers every pur- 
 pose), is to be found, combined with 
 rare grace and beauty. 
 
 It is a race of women that the north- 
 ern sun peachilics instead of rosewood- 
 izing. 
 
 On Sundays the majority sacrifice 
 appearance to fashion ; these turn 
 out rainbows of silk, satin, and lace. 
 In the week they were all grace, and 
 no stays ; now they seem all stays and 
 no grace. They never look so ill as 
 when they change their " costume " 
 fur " dress." 
 
 The men arc smart fishermen, dis- 
 tinguished from the other fishermen 
 of the Firth chiefly by their " dredging 
 sont;." 
 
 This old song is money to them ; 
 thus : — 
 
 Dredging is practically very stiff 
 rowing for ten hours. 
 
 Now both the Newhaven men and 
 their rivals arc agreed that this 6ong 
 lifts them through more work than 
 untuned fishermen can manage. 
 
 I bare heard the song, and Been the 
 
 work done to it; and incline to think 
 it helps the oar, not only by keeping 
 (he time true, and the .spirit alive, but 
 also by its favorable action on the 
 Lungs. It is Bung in a peculiar way : 
 the sound is, as it were, expelled from 
 
 the chest in a sort of musical ejacula- 
 tions ; and the like, we know, was 
 done by the ancient gymnasts ; and 
 is done by the French bakers, in lift- 
 ing their enormous dough, and by out 
 paviors. 
 
 The song, in itself, does not contain 
 above seventy stock verses, but these 
 perennial lines are a nucleus, round 
 which the men improvise the topics of 
 the day, giving, I know not for what 
 reason, the preference to such as verge 
 upon indelicacy. 
 
 The men and women are musical 
 and narrative ; three out of four can 
 sing a song or tell a story, and they 
 omit few opportunities. 
 
 Males and females suck whiskey 
 like milk, and are quarrelsome in pro- 
 portion : the men fight (round-hand- 
 ed), the women flcicht or scold, in the 
 form of a teapot, — the handle fixed 
 and the spout sawing the air. 
 
 A singular custom prevails here. 
 
 The maidens have only one sweet- 
 heart apiece ! ! ! 
 
 So the whole town is in pairs. 
 
 The courting is all done on Satur- 
 day night, by the lady's fire. It is 
 hard to keep out of a groove in which 
 all the town is running; and tho 
 Johnstone had possessed, as mcro 
 property, — a lad ! 
 
 She was so wealthy that few of 
 them could pretend to aspire to her, 
 so she selected for her chattel a young 
 man called Willy Liston ; a youth of 
 an unhappy turn, — he contributed 
 nothing to hilarity, his face was a kill- 
 joy, — nobody liked him; for this fe- 
 male reason Christie distinguished 
 him. 
 
 He found a divine supper every 
 Saturday night in her house; he ate, 
 and sighed ! Christie fed him, and 
 laughed at him. 
 
 Fluckcr ditto. 
 
 As she neither fed nor laughed at 
 any other man, some twenty were 
 bitterly jealous of Willy Liston, and 
 this gave the blighted youth a cheer- 
 ful moment or two. 
 
 But the bright alliance received a 
 check some months before our tale.
 
 113 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Christie was heluo librorum ! and 
 like others who have that taste, and 
 can only gratify it in the interval of 
 manual exereise, she read very in- 
 tensely in her hours of study. A 
 book absorbed her. She was like a 
 leech on these occasions, non missura 
 cittern : even Jean Carnie, her coadju- 
 tor or " neebor," as they call it, found 
 it best to keep out of her way till the 
 book was sucked. 
 
 One Saturday night Willy Liston's 
 evil star ordained that a gentleman 
 of French origin and Spanish dress, 
 called Gil Bias, should be the John- 
 stone's companion. 
 Willy Liston arrived. 
 Christie, who had bolted the door, 
 told him from the window, civilly 
 enough, but decidedly, " She would 
 excuse his company that night." 
 
 " Vara weel," said Willy, and de- 
 parted. 
 
 Next Saturday, — no Willy came. 
 Ditto the next. Willy was wait- 
 ing the amende. 
 
 Christie forgot to make it. 
 One day she was passing the boats, 
 Willy beckoned her mysteriously ; 
 he led her to his boat, which was 
 called " The Christie Johnstone " ; 
 by the boat's side was a paint pot and 
 brush. 
 
 They had not supped together for 
 five Saturdays. 
 
 Ergo, Mr. Liston had painted out 
 the four first letters of "Christie," he 
 now proceeded to paint out the fifth, 
 giving her to understand, that, if she 
 allowed the whole name to go, a letter 
 every blank Saturday, her image would 
 be gradually, but effectually, obliter- 
 ated from the heart Listonian. 
 
 My reader has done what Liston 
 did not, anticipate her answer. She 
 recommended him, whilst his hand 
 was in, to paint out the entire name, 
 and, with white paint and a smaller 
 brush, to substitute some other female 
 appellation. So saying, she tripped 
 off. 
 
 Mr. Liston on this was guilty of 
 the following inconsistency ; he 
 pressed the paint carefully out of the 
 
 brush into the pot : having thus econ- 
 omized his materia], he hurled the pot 
 which contained his economy at " tie 
 Johnstone," he then adjourned to the 
 " Peacock," and " away at once with 
 love and reason." 
 
 Thenceforth, when men asked who 
 was Christie Johnstone's lad, the an- 
 swer used to be, " She 's seeking ane." 
 Quelle horrewr ! ! 
 
 Newhaven does n't know every- 
 thing, but my intelligent reader sus- 
 pects, and, if confirming his suspicions 
 can reconcile him to our facts, it will 
 soon be done. 
 
 But he must come with us to Edin- 
 burgh ; it 's only three miles. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A little band of painters came 
 into Edinburgh from a professional 
 walk. Three were of Edinburgh : 
 Groove, aged fifty ; Jones and Hya- 
 cinth, young ; the latter long-haired. 
 
 With them was a young English- 
 man, the leader of the expedition, — 
 Charles Gatty. 
 
 His step was elastic, and his man- 
 ner wonderfully animated, without 
 loudness. 
 
 " A bright day," said he. " The 
 sun forgot where he was, and shone ; 
 everything was in favor of art." 
 
 " O dear, no," replied old Groove, 
 " not where I was." 
 
 " Why, what was the matter ? " 
 
 " The flies kept buzzing and biting, 
 and sticking in the work : that 's the 
 worst of out o' doors ! " 
 
 " The flies ! is that all ? Swear the 
 spiders in special constables next 
 time," cried Gatty. " We shall win 
 the day " ; and light shone into his 
 hazel eye. 
 
 " The world will not always put up 
 with the humbugs of the brush, who, 
 to imitate Nature, turn their back on 
 her. Paint an out o' door scene in 
 doors ! I swear by the sun it 's a lie ! 
 the one stupid, impudent lie, that 
 glitters amongst the lies of vulgar art,
 
 CIIRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 119 
 
 like Satan amongst Belial, Mammon, 
 and all those beggars. 
 
 " Now look here ; the barren out- 
 lines of a scene must be looked at, to 
 be done ; hence the sketching system 
 slop-sellers of the Academy ! but the 
 million delicacies of light, shade, and 
 color, can be trusted to memory, can 
 they ■? 
 
 " It 's a lie big enough to shake the 
 earth out of her course ; if any part of 
 the work could be trusted to memory 
 or imagination, it happens to be the 
 bare outlines, and they can't. The 
 million subtleties of light and color; 
 learn them by heart, and say them off 
 on canvas ! the highest angel in the 
 sky must have his eye upon them, and 
 look devilish sharp, too, or he sha' n't 
 paint them : I give him Charles Gat- 
 ty's word for that." 
 
 " That 's very eloquent, I call it," 
 said Jones. 
 
 " Yes," said poor old Groove, " the 
 lad will never make a painter." 
 
 " Yes, I shall, Groove ; at least I 
 hope so, but it must be a long time 
 first." 
 
 " I never knew a painter who could 
 talk and paint both," explained Mr. 
 Groove. 
 
 " Very well," said Gatty. " Then 
 I '11 say but one word more, and it is 
 this. The artifice of painting is old 
 enough to die ; it is time tho art was 
 horn. Whenever it does come into 
 the world, you will see no more dead 
 corpses of trees, grass, and water, 
 robbed of their life, the sunlight, and 
 flung upon canvas in a studio, by the 
 light of a cigar, and a lie — and — " 
 
 " How much do you expect for your 
 picture ' " interrupted Jones. 
 
 "What has that to" do with it? 
 With these little swords " (waving his 
 brush), "we'll fight for nature-light, 
 truth light, and sunlight, against a 
 world in arms, — no, worse, in swad- 
 dling clothes." 
 
 " With these little swerrds," replied 
 pour old (Jmovc, "we shall cut our 
 own throats if we go against people's 
 prejudices." 
 
 The young artist laughed the old 
 
 daubster a merry defiance, and then 
 separated from the party, for his lodg- 
 ings were down the street. 
 
 He had not left them long, before a 
 most musical voice was heard, cry- 
 ing:— 
 
 " A caallerr owoo ! " 
 And two young fishwives hove in 
 sight. 
 
 The boys recognized one of them as 
 Gatty's sweetheart. 
 
 " Is he in love with her ? " inquired 
 Jones. 
 
 Hyacinth the longhaired undertook 
 to reply. 
 
 " He loves her better than anything 
 in the world, except Art. Love and 
 Art are two beautiful things," whined 
 Hyacinth. 
 
 " She, too, is beautiful. I have 
 done her," added he, with a simper. 
 " In oil ? " asked Groove. 
 " In oil 1 no, in verse, here " ; and 
 he took out a paper. 
 
 " Then had n't we better cut 1 you 
 might propose reading them," said 
 poor old Groove. 
 
 " Have you any oysters f " inquired 
 Jones of the Carnie and the John- 
 stone, who were now alongside. 
 
 " Plenty," answered Jean. " Hae 
 ye ony siller? " 
 
 The artists looked at one another, 
 and did n't all speak at once. 
 
 " I, madam," said old Groove, in- 
 sinuatingly, to Christie, "am a friend 
 of Mr. Gatty's ; perhaps, on that ac- 
 count, you would lend me an oyster or 
 two." 
 
 "Na," said Jean, sternly. 
 " Hyacinth," said Jones, sarcastical- 
 ly, "give them your verses, perhaps 
 that will soften them." 
 
 Hyacinth gave his verses, descrip- 
 tive of herself, to Christie. 
 
 This youngster was one of those 
 who mind other people's business. 
 Alienis studiia ddectotm contempsit 
 
 Still III. 
 
 His destiny was to be a bad painter, 
 so he wanted to be an execrable 
 poet. 
 
 All this morning he had been dog- 
 grelling, whet) he ought to have been
 
 120 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 daubing ; and now he will have to 
 sup off a colored print, if he sups at 
 all. 
 
 Christie read, blushed, and put the 
 verses in her bosom. 
 
 " Come awa, Custy," said Jean. 
 
 " Hcts," said Christie, " gie the 
 puir lads twarree oysters, what the 
 waur will we be ? " 
 
 So they opened oysters for them ; 
 and Hyacinth the long-haired looked 
 down on the others with sarcastico- 
 benignant superiority. He had con- 
 ducted a sister art to the aid of his 
 brother brushes. 
 
 " The poet's empire, all our hearts allow ; 
 But doggrel's power was never known till 
 now." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 At the commencement of the last 
 chapter, Charles Gatty, artist, was 
 going to usher in a new state, of things, 
 true art, etc. Wales was to be paint- 
 ed in Wales, not Poland Street. 
 
 He and five or six more youngsters 
 were to be in the foremost files of 
 truth, and take the world by storm. 
 
 This was at two o'clock ; it is now 
 five ; whereupon the posture of affairs, 
 the prospects of art, the face of the 
 world, the nature of things, are quite 
 the reverse. 
 
 In the artist's room, on the floor, 
 was a small child, whose movements, 
 and they were many, were viewed 
 with huge dissatisfaction by Charles 
 Gatty, Esq. This personage, pencil 
 in bund, sat slouching and morose, 
 looking gloomily at his intractable 
 model. 
 
 Things were going on very badly ; 
 he had been waiting two hours for an 
 infantine pose as common as dirt, and 
 the little viper would die first. 
 
 Out of doors everything was noth- 
 ing, for the sun was obscured, and to 
 all appearance extinguished forever. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Groove," cried he, to 
 that worthy, who peeped in at that 
 moment ; " you are right, it is better 
 
 to plough away upon canvas blind- 
 fold, as our grandfathers — no, grand- 
 mothers — used, than to kill ourselves 
 toiling after such coy ladies as Nature 
 and Truth." 
 
 " Aweel, I dinna ken, sirr," replied 
 Groove, in smooth tones. " I didna 
 like to express my warm approbation 
 of you before the lads, for fear of mak- 
 ing them jealous." 
 
 "They be— No!" 
 
 " I ken what ye wad say, sirr, an it 
 wad hae been a vara just an' sprightly 
 observaation. Aweel, between oursels, 
 I look upon ye as a young gentleman 
 of amazing talent and moedesty. Man, 
 ye dinna do yoursel justice ; ye should 
 be in th' Academy, at the hede o' 't." 
 
 " Mr. Groove, I am a poor fainting 
 pilgrim on the road, where stronger 
 spirits have marched erect before me." 
 
 " A faintin' pelgrim ! Deil a frights 
 o' ye, ye 're a brisk and bonny lad. 
 Ah, sirr, in my juvenile days, we 
 didna fash wi nature, and truth, an 
 the like." 
 
 " The like ! What is like nature 
 and truth, except themselves ? " 
 
 " Vara true, sirr ; vara true, and 
 sae I doot I will never attain the 
 height o' profeeciency ye hae reached. 
 An' at this vara moment, sir," contin- 
 ued Groove, with delicious solemnity 
 and mystery, " ye see before ye, sir, 
 a man wha is in maist dismal want — 
 o' ten shellcn ! " (A pause.) "If 
 your superior talent has put ye in pos- 
 session of that sum, ye would obleege 
 me infinitely by a temporary accom- 
 modaation, Mr. Gaattie." 
 
 " Why did you not come to the 
 point at once ? " cried Gatty, brusque- 
 ly, "instead of humbling me with un- 
 deserved praise. There." Groove 
 held out his hand, but made a wry 
 face when, instead of money, Gatty 
 put a sketch into his hand. 
 
 " There," said Gatty, " that is a 
 lie ! " 
 
 " How can it be a lee ? " said the 
 other, with sour inadvertence. " How 
 can it be a lee, when I hae na spo- 
 ken ? " 
 
 " You don't understand me. That
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 121 
 
 sketch is a libel on a poor cow and an 
 unfortunate oak-rice. I did them at 
 the Academy. They liad never done 
 me any wrong, poor things ; they suf- 
 fered unjustly. You take them to a 
 shop, swear they are a tree and a cow, 
 and some fool, that never really looked 
 into a cow or a tree, will give you ten 
 shillings for them." 
 
 " Are ye sure, lad ? " 
 
 " I am sure. Mr. Groove, sir, if 
 you cannot sell a lie for ten shillings, 
 you are not fit to live in this world ; 
 where is the lie that will not sell for 
 ten shillings ? " 
 
 " I shall think the better o' lees all 
 my days ; sir, your words are in- 
 specriting." And away went Groove 
 With the sketch. 
 
 Gatty reflected, and stopped him. 
 
 "On second thoughts, Groove, you 
 must not ask ten shillings ; you must 
 ask twenty pounds for that ruhbish." 
 
 " Twenty pund ! What for will I 
 seek twenty pund ? " 
 
 " Simply because people that would 
 not give you ten shillings for it will 
 offer you eleven pounds for it if you 
 ask twenty pounds." 
 
 " The rales," roared Groove. 
 " Twenty pund ! hem ! " He looked 
 closer into it. " For a'," said he, " I 
 begin to obsairve it is a work of great 
 merit. I '11 seek twenty pund an' 
 I Ml no tak less than fifteen schelln, at 
 present.*' 
 
 The visit of this routine painter did 
 not cheer our artist. 
 
 The small child got a coal, and 
 pounded the floor with it, like a ma- 
 chine incapable of fatigue. So the 
 wished-for pose seemed more remote 
 than ever. 
 
 The day waxed darker, instead of 
 lighter; Mr. Gun's reflections took 
 til -■ > n still more sombre hue. 
 
 " Even Nature spites us," thought 
 he, " because we love her. 
 
 "Then c:\nt, tradition, numbers, 
 slang, and money are against us ; the 
 lc;ist of these is singly a match for 
 truth ; we shall die of despair or paint 
 cobwebs in Bedlam ; and I am taint, 
 weary of a hopeless struggle ; and 
 G 
 
 one man's brush is truer than mine, 
 another's is bolder, — my hand and 
 eye are not in tune. Ah ! no ! I shall 
 never, never, never be a painter." 
 
 These last words broke audibly from 
 him as his head went down almost to 
 his knees. 
 
 A hand was placed on his shoulder 
 as a flake of snow falls on the water. 
 It was Christie Johnstone, radiant, 
 who had glided in unobserved. 
 
 " What 's wrang wi' ye, my lad 1 " 
 
 " The sun is gone to the Devil, for 
 one thing." 
 
 " Heeh ! hech ! ye Tl no be long 
 ahint him ; div ye no think shame." 
 
 " And I want that little brute just 
 to do so, and he 'd die first." 
 
 " O, ye villain, to ca' a bairn a 
 brute ; there 's but ae brute here, an' 
 it's no yon, Jamie, nor me, — is it, 
 my lamb? " 
 
 She then stepped to the window. 
 
 " It 's clear to windward ; in ten 
 minutes ye'll hae plenty sun. Tak 
 your tools noo." And at the word 
 she knelt on the floor, whipped out a 
 paper of sugar-plums, and said to 
 him she had christened " Jamie " : 
 " Heh ! Here 's sweeties till ye." 
 Out went Jamie's arms, as if he had 
 been a machine and she had pulled 
 the right string. 
 
 " Ah, that will do," said Gatty, and 
 sketched away. 
 
 Unfortunately Jamie was quickly 
 arrested on the way to immortality by 
 his mother, who came in, saying: — 
 
 " I maun hae my bairn, — lie canna 
 be aye wasting his time here." 
 
 This sally awakened the satire that 
 ever lies ready in piscatory bosoms. 
 
 " Wasting his time ! ye re no blate. 
 O, ye 'II he for taking him to the 
 college to laern phecsick, — and teach 
 maenners." 
 
 " Ye need na begin on me," said the 
 woman, "I'm no match for New- 
 haven." 
 
 So Baying she cut short the dispute 
 by carrying off the gristle of conten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Another enemy to art," said Gat- 
 ty, hurling away his pencil.
 
 122 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 The young fishwife inquired if there 
 were any more griefs : what she had 
 heard had not accounted, to her rea- 
 son, for her companion's depression. 
 
 " Are ye sick, laddy ? " said she. 
 
 "No, Christie, not sick, but quite, 
 quite down in the mouth." 
 
 She scanned him thirty seconds. 
 
 " What had ye till your dinner ? " 
 
 " I forget." 
 
 " A choep, likely ? " 
 
 " I think it was." 
 
 " Or maybe it was a steak ? " 
 
 " I dare say it was a steak." 
 
 " Taste my girdle cake, that I 've 
 brought for ye." 
 
 She gave him a piece ; be ate it 
 rapidly, and looked gratefully at her. 
 
 " Noo, div ye no think shame to 
 look me in the face ? Ye hae na 
 dined ava." And she wore an in- 
 jured look. 
 
 " Sit ye there ; it 's ower late for 
 dinner, but ye Ml get a cup tea: doon 
 i' the mooth, nae wonder, when nae- 
 thing gangs doon your — " 
 
 In a minute she placed a tea-tray, 
 and ran into the kitchen with a tea- 
 pot. 
 
 The next moment a yell was heard, 
 and she returned laughing, with an- 
 other teapot. 
 
 " The wife had maskit her tea till 
 herseP," said this lawless forager. 
 
 Tea and cake on the table, — beau- 
 ty seated by his side, — all in less than 
 a minute. 
 
 He offered her a piece of cake. 
 
 " Na ! I am no for any." 
 
 "Nor I then," said he. 
 
 " Hets ! eat, I tell ye." 
 
 He replied by putting a bit to her 
 heavenly mouth. 
 
 "Ye 're awfu' opinionated," said 
 she, with a countenance that said noth- 
 ing should induce her, and eating it 
 almost contemporaneously. 
 
 " Put plenty sugar," added she, 
 referring to the Chinese infusion ; 
 " mind, I hae a sweet tooth." 
 
 " You have a sweet set," said he, 
 approaching another morsel. 
 
 They showed themselves by way of 
 6milc, and confirmed the accusation. 
 
 "Aha! lad," answered she; " they ve 
 been the death o' niony a herrin' ! " 
 
 " Now, what does that mean in 
 English, Christie ? " 
 
 " My grinders — (a full stop.) 
 
 "Which you approve — (a full stop.) 
 
 "Have been fatal — (a full stop.) 
 
 " To many fishes ! " 
 
 Christie prided herself on her Eng- 
 lish, which she had culled from books. 
 
 Then he made her drink from the 
 cup, and was ostentatious in putting 
 his lips to the same part of the brim. 
 
 Then she left the table, and in- 
 spected all things. 
 
 She came to his drawers, opened 
 one, and was horror-struck. 
 
 There were coats and trousers, with 
 their limbs interchangeably inter- 
 twined, waistcoats, shirts, and cigars, 
 hurled into chaos. 
 
 She instantly took the drawer bod- 
 ily out, brought it, leaned it against 
 the tea-table, pointed silently into it, 
 with an air of majestic reproach, and 
 awaited the result. 
 
 " I can find whatever I want," said 
 the unblushing bachelor, " except 
 money." 
 
 " Siller does na bide wi' slovens ! 
 hae ye often siccan a gale o' wind in 
 your drawer ? " 
 
 " Every day ! Speak English ! " 
 
 " Aweel ! How do you do? that 's 
 Ennglish ! I daur say." 
 
 " Jolly ! " cried he, with his mouth 
 full. 
 
 Christie was now folding up and 
 neatly arranging his clothes. 
 
 " Will you ever, ever be a painter ? " 
 
 " I am a painter ! I could paint 
 the Devil pea-green ! " 
 
 ' Dinna speak o' yon lad, Chairles, 
 it 's no canny." 
 
 " No ! I am going to paint an an- 
 gel ; the prettiest, cleverest girl in 
 Scotland, ' The Snowdrop of the 
 North.' " 
 
 And he dashed into his bedroom to 
 find a canvas. 
 
 " Hech ! " reflected Christie. " Thir 
 Ennglish hae flattering tongues, as 
 sure as Dcthe ; ' The Snawdrap o' 
 the Nonth ! ' "
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Gatty's back was hardly turned 
 when a visitor arrived, and inquired, 
 " Is Mr Gatty at home ? " 
 
 " What 's your will wi' him ? " was 
 the Scottish reply. 
 
 " Will vou give him this ? " 
 
 " What est 1 " 
 
 "Are you fond of asking ques- 
 tions ? " inquired the man. 
 
 " Ay ! and fules canna answer 
 them," retorted Christie. 
 
 The little document which the man, 
 in retiring, left with Christie John- 
 stone purported to come from one 
 Victoria, who seemed, at first sight, 
 disposed to show Charles Gatty civili- 
 ties. "Victoria — to Charles Gatty, 
 greeting! (salutem)." Christie was 
 much struck with this instance of 
 royal affability ; she read no further, 
 but began to think, " Victoree ! that 's 
 the Queen hersel. A letter fra the 
 Queen to a painter lad ! Picters will 
 rise i' the mairket, — it will be an 
 order to paint the bairns. I bae 
 brought him luck ; I am real pleased." 
 Ami on Gatty's return, canvas in 
 band, she whipped the document be- 
 hind her, and said archly, " I hae 
 sonic thing for ye, a tecket fra a leddy, 
 ye '11 no want siller fra this day." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Ay ! indeed, fra a great leddy ; 
 it 's vara gude o' me to gie ye it ; hell ! 
 tak it." 
 
 He did take it, looked stupefied, 
 looked again, sunk into a chair, and 
 glared at it. 
 
 " Laddyl" said Christie. 
 
 " This is a new step on the down- 
 ward path," said the poor painter. 
 
 " Is it no an orrder to paint the 
 
 Sroung prence?" said Christie, faint* 
 J- 
 " No ! " almost shrieked the victim. 
 
 " It 's a writ ! I owe a lot of 
 money." 
 
 " O Chairles ! " 
 
 " Sec ! I borowed sixty pounds 
 six months a^ r o of a friend, so now I 
 owe eighty ! " 
 
 " All right ! " giggled the unfriend- 
 
 ly visitor at the door, whose departure 
 had been more or less fictitious. 
 
 Christie, by an impulse, not justi- 
 fiable, but natural, drew her oyster- 
 knife out, and this time the man 
 really went away. 
 
 " Hairtless mon ! " cried she, 
 "could he no do his ain dirrty work, 
 and no gar me gie the puir lad th' 
 action, and he likeit me sac weel ! " 
 and she began to whimper. 
 
 " And love you more now," said 
 he ; " don't you cry, dear, to add to 
 my vexation." 
 
 " Na ! I '11 no add to your vexa- 
 tion," and she gulped down her tears. 
 
 " Besides, I have pictures painted 
 worth two hundred pounds ; this is 
 only for eighty. To be sure you 
 can't sell them for two hundred pence 
 when you want. So I shall go to 
 jail, but they won't keep mc long." 
 
 Then he took a turn, and began to 
 fall into the artistic, or true view of 
 matters, which, indeed, was never 
 long absent from him. 
 
 " Look here, Christie," said he, 
 " I am sick of conventional assassins, 
 humbugging models, with dirty 
 beards, that knit their brows, and 
 try to look murder ; they, never mur- 
 dered so much as a tom-cat : I al- 
 ways go in for the real thing, and 
 here I shall find it." 
 
 " Dinna gang in there, lad, for ony 
 favor." 
 
 " Then I shall find the accessories 
 of a picture I have in my head, — 
 chains with genuine rust, and ancient 
 mouldering stones, with the stains of 
 time." His eye brightened at the 
 prospect 
 
 " Vou among fiefs, and chains, and 
 stanes ! Ye '11 break my hairt, laddy, 
 ye '11 no be easy till you break my 
 hairt" : and this time the tears would 
 not be denied. 
 
 " I love you for crying ; don't 
 cry " ; and he fished from the chaotic 
 drawer a cambric handkerchief, with 
 which he dried her tears as they fell. 
 
 It is my firm belief she cried nearly 
 twice aa much as phe really wanted 
 to ; she contrived to make the grief
 
 124 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 hers, the sympathy his. Suddenly 
 she stopped, and said : — 
 
 " I 'm daft ; ye '11 accept a lane o' 
 the siller fra me, will ye no ? " 
 
 "No!" said he. "And where 
 could you find eighty pound ? " 
 
 " Auchty pund," cried she, " it 's 
 no auchty pund that will ding Chris- 
 tie Johnstone, laddy. I hae boats 
 and nets worth twa auchtys ; and I 
 hae forty pund laid by; and I hae 
 seven hundred pund at London, but 
 that I canna meddle. My feyther lent 
 it the King or the Queen, I dinna 
 justly mind ; she pays me the interest 
 twice the year. Sae ye ken I could 
 na be sae dirty as seek my siller, 
 when she pays me th' interest : to the 
 very day, ye ken. She's just the 
 only one o' a' my debtors that 's 
 hoenest, but never heed, ye '11 no gang 
 to jail." 
 
 " I '11 hold my tongue, and sacri- 
 fice my pictures," thought Charles. 
 
 " Cheer up ! " said Christie, mis- 
 taking the nature of his thoughts, 
 " for it did na come fra Vietoree her- 
 sel'. It wad smell o' the musk, ye 
 ken. Na, it 's just a wheen black- 
 guards at London that makes use o' 
 her name to torment puir folk. Wad 
 she pairsecutc a puir lad ? No like- 
 ly-" 
 
 She then asked questions, some of 
 
 which were embarrassing. One thing 
 he could never succeed in making her 
 understand, how, since it was sixty 
 pounds he borrowed, it could be eighty 
 pounds he owed. 
 
 Then once more she promised him 
 her protection, bade him be of good 
 cheer, and left him. 
 
 At the door slie turned, and said : 
 " Chairles, here 's an auld wife seek- 
 ing ye," and vanished. 
 
 These two young people had fallen 
 acquainted at a Newhaven wedding. 
 Christie, belonging to no one, had 
 danced with him all the night, they 
 had walked under the stars to cool 
 themselves, for dancing reels, with 
 heart and soul, is not quadrilling. 
 
 Then he had seen his beautiful 
 partner in Edinburgh, and made a 
 
 sketch of her, which he gave her; 
 and by and by he used to run down 
 to Newhaven, and stroll up and down 
 a certain green lane near the town. 
 
 Next, on Sunday evenings, a long 
 walk together, and then it came to 
 visits at his place now and then. 
 
 And here Raphael and Eornarina 
 were inverted, our artist used to work, 
 and Christie tell him stories the 
 while. 
 
 And, as her voice curled round his 
 heart, he used to smile and look, and 
 lay inspired touches on his subject. 
 
 And she, an artist of the tongue 
 (without knowing herself one), used 
 to make him grave, or gay, or sad, at 
 will, and watch the effect of her art 
 upon his countenance ; and a very 
 pretty art it is, — the viva voce story- 
 teller's, — and a rare one amongst the 
 nations of Europe. 
 
 Christie had not learned it in a day ; 
 when she began, she used to tell them 
 like the other Newhaven people, with 
 a noble impartiality of detail, weari- 
 some to the hearer. 
 
 But latterly she had learned to seize 
 the salient parts of a narrative ; her 
 voice had compass, and, like all fine 
 speakers, she travelled over a great 
 many notes in speaking ; her low 
 tones were gorgeously rich, her upper 
 tones full and sweet ; all this, and her 
 beauty, made the hours she gave him 
 very sweet to our poor artist. 
 
 He was wont to bask in her music, 
 and tell her in return how he loved 
 her, and how happy they were both 
 to be as soon as he had acquired a 
 name, for a name was wealth, he told 
 her. And although Christie Johnstone 
 did not let him see how much she 
 took all this to heart and believed it, 
 it was as sweet music to her as her 
 own honeysuckle breath to him. 
 
 She improved him. 
 
 He dropped cigars, and medical 
 students, and similar abominations. 
 
 Christie's cool, fresh breath, as she 
 hung over him while painting, sug- 
 gested to him that smoking might, 
 peradventure, be a sin against nature 
 as well as against cleanliness.
 
 CHBISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 125 
 
 And he improved her ; she learned 
 from art to look into nature (the usual 
 process of mind). 
 
 She had noticed too little the flick- 
 ering gold of the leaves at evening, 
 the purple hills, and the shifting sto- 
 ries and glories of the sky ; but now, 
 whatever she saw him try to imitate, 
 she learned to examine. She was a 
 woman, and admired sunset, etc., for 
 this boy's sake, and her whole heart 
 expanded with a new sensation that 
 softened her manner to all the world, 
 and brightened her personal rays. 
 
 This charming picture of mutual 
 affection had hitherto been admired 
 only by those who figured in it. 
 
 But a visitor had now arrived on 
 purpose to inspect it, etc., attracted 
 by report. 
 
 A friend had considerately informed 
 Mrs. Gatty, the artist's mother, and 
 she had instantly started from New- 
 castle. 
 
 This was the old lady Christie dis- 
 covered on the stairs. 
 
 Her sudden appearance took her 
 son's breath away. 
 
 No human event was less likely than 
 that she should be there, yet there she 
 was. 
 
 After the first surprise and affection- 
 ate ^rectin^s, a misgiving crossed him, 
 "she must know about the writ," — 
 it was impossible ; but our minds are 
 so constituted, — when we are guilty, 
 we fear that others know what we 
 know. 
 
 Now Gatty was particularly anx- 
 ious she should not know about this 
 writ, for he bad incurred the debt by 
 acting against her advice. 
 
 Last year he commenced a picture 
 in which was Durham Cathedral ; his 
 mother bade him Btayquietly at home, 
 and paint the cathedral and its banks 
 from a print, "as any oilier painter 
 would," observed she. 
 
 But this was not the lad's system ; 
 he spent live months on the spot, and 
 painted his picture, but he had to bor- 
 row sixty pounds to do this ; the con- 
 (litii)ii of this In in wns, that in six 
 mouths he should cither pay eighty 
 
 pounds, or finish and hand over a 
 certain half-finished picture. 
 
 He did neither ; his new subject 
 thrust aside his old one, and he had 
 no money, ergo his friend, a picture- 
 dealer, who had found artists slippery 
 in money-matters, followed him up 
 sharp, as we see. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter, I 
 hope, mother. What is it ? " 
 
 " I'm tired, Charles." He brought 
 her a seat : she sat down. 
 
 " I did net come from Newcastle at 
 my age, for nothing ; you have formed 
 an improper acquaintance." 
 
 " I, who ? Is it Jack Adams ? " 
 
 " Worse than any Jack Adams ! " 
 
 "Who can that be? Jcnkyns, 
 mother, because he does the same 
 things as Jack, and pretends to be 
 religious." 
 
 "It is a female, — a fishwife. 
 my son ! " 
 
 "" Christie Johnstone an improper 
 acquaintance," said he ; " why ! I 
 was good for nothing till I knew her ; 
 she has made me so good, moth- 
 er; so steady, so industrious; you 
 will never have to find fault with me 
 again." 
 
 " Nonsense : — a woman that sells 
 fish in the streets ! " 
 
 " But you have not seen her. She 
 is beautiful, her mind is not in fish ; 
 her mind grasps the beautiful and the 
 good, — she is a companion for prin- 
 ces ! What am I that she wastes a 
 thought or a ray of music on me ? 
 Heaven bless her. She reads out- 
 best authors, and never forgets a 
 word ; and she tells me beautiful sto- 
 ries, — sometimes they make me cry, 
 for her voice is a music that goes 
 straight to my heart." 
 
 "A woman that docs not even wear 
 the clothes of a lady." 
 
 " It is the only genuine costume in 
 these islands not beneath a painter's 
 notice." 
 
 " Look at me, Charles ; at your 
 mother." 
 
 " Yes, mother," said he, nervously. 
 
 " You must part witli her, or kill 
 inc."
 
 126 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 lie started from his seat and began 
 to flutter up and down the room ; 
 
 Eoor excitable creature. " Part with 
 er ! " cried he ; " I shall never be a 
 painter if I do ; what is to keep my 
 heart warm when the sun is hid, when 
 die birds are silent, when difficulty 
 looks a mountain, and success a mole- 
 hill 1 What is an artist without love ? 
 How is he to bear up against his dis- 
 appointments from within, his morti- 
 fication from without \ the great ideas 
 he has and cannot grasp, and all the 
 forms of ignorance that sting him, 
 from stupid insensibility down to clev- 
 er, shallow criticism 1 " 
 
 " Come back to common sense," 
 said the old lady, coldly and grimly. 
 
 He looked uneasy : common sense 
 had often been quoted against him, 
 and common sense had always proved 
 right. 
 
 " Come hack to common sense. 
 She shall not he your mistress, and 
 she cannot bear your name ; you 
 must part some day, because you can- 
 not come together, and now is the 
 best time." 
 
 " Not be together? all our lives, all 
 our lives, ay," cried he, rising into 
 enthusiasm, " hundreds of years to 
 come will we two be together before 
 men's eyes, — I will be an immortal 
 painter, that the world and time may 
 cherish the features I have loved. 1 
 love her, mother," added he, with a 
 tearful tenderness that ought to have 
 reached a woman's heart; then flush- 
 ing, trembling, and inspired, he burst 
 out, "And I wish I was a sculptor 
 and a poet too, that Christie might 
 live in stone and verse, as well as col- 
 ors, and all who love an art might 
 say, ' This woman cannot die, Charles 
 Gatty loved her.' " 
 
 He looked in her face ; he could 
 not believe any creature could be in- 
 sensible to his love, arid persist to rob 
 him of it. 
 
 The old woman paused, to let his 
 eloquence evaporate. 
 
 The pause chilled him; then gently 
 and slowly, but emphatically, she 
 upeke to him thus : — 
 
 " Who has kept yon on her small 
 means ever since you were ten years 
 and seven months old % " 
 
 " You should know, mother, dear 
 mother." 
 
 " Answer me, Charles." 
 
 " My mother." 
 
 " Who has pinched herself, in every 
 earthly thing, to make you an immor- 
 tal painter, and, above all, a gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 " My mother." 
 
 " Who forgave you the little faults 
 of youth, before you could ask par- 
 don ? " 
 
 " My mother ! O mother, I ask 
 pardon now for all the trouble I ever 
 gave the best, the dearest, the tender- 
 est of mothers." 
 
 " Who will go home to Newcastle, 
 a broken-hearted woman, with the one 
 hope gone that has kept her up in 
 poverty and sorrow so many weary 
 years, if this goes on ? " 
 
 " Nobody, 1 hope." 
 
 " Yes, Charles ; your mother." 
 
 " Q mother ; you have been always 
 my best friend." 
 
 "" And am this day." 
 
 " Do not be my worst enemy now : 
 it is for me to obey you ; but it is for 
 you to think well before you drive me 
 to despair." 
 
 And the poorwomanish heart leaned 
 his head on the table, and began to 
 sorrow over his hard fate. 
 
 Mrs. Gatty soothed him. " It need 
 not be done all in a moment: it 
 must be done kindly, but firmly. I 
 will giveyou as much time as you like." 
 
 This bait took : the weak love to 
 temporize. 
 
 It is doubtful whether he honestly 
 intended to part with Christie John- 
 stone ; but to pacify his mother ho 
 promised to begin and gradually un- 
 tie the knot. 
 
 " My mother will go," whispered 
 his deceitful heart, " and, when she is 
 away, perhaps I shall find out that in 
 spite of every effort I cannot resign 
 my treasure." 
 
 He gave a sort of half-promise for 
 the sake of peace.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 127 
 
 His mother instantly sent to the inn 
 ' for her boxes. 
 
 " There is a room in this same 
 house," said she. " I will take it ; I 
 will not hurry you, but until it is 
 done, I stay here, if it is a twelve- 
 month about." 
 
 He turned pale. 
 
 "And now hear the pood news I 
 have brought you from Newcastle." 
 
 Oh ! these little iron wills, how is a 
 great artist to fight three hundred 
 and sixty-five days against such an 
 antagonist'? 
 
 Every day saw a repetition of these 
 dialogues, in which genius made gal- 
 lant hursts into the air, and strong, 
 hard sense caught him on his descent, 
 and dabbed glue on his gauzy wings. 
 
 Old age and youth see life so differ- 
 ently. 
 
 To yotith, it is a story-book, in 
 which we are to command the inci- 
 dents, and be the bright exceptions to 
 one rule after another. 
 
 To age it is an almanac, in which 
 everything will happen just as it has 
 happened so many times. 
 
 To youth, it is a path through a 
 sunny meadow. 
 
 To age, a hard turnpike : 
 
 Whose travellers must be all sweat 
 and dust, when they are not in mud 
 and drenched : 
 
 Which wants mending in many 
 places, and is mended with sharp 
 stones. 
 
 Gatty would not yield to go down 
 to Newhaven, and take a step against 
 his love, but he yielded so far as to 
 remain passive, and sec whether this 
 creature was necessary to his exist- 
 ence or not. 
 
 Mrs. G. scouted the idea. 
 
 " He was to work, and he would 
 soon forget her." 
 
 Poor boy ! be wanted to work; his 
 debt weighed on him ; a week's reso- 
 lute labor might finish bis first picture 
 and satisfy his creditor. The subject 
 was an interior. He set to work, he 
 stuck to work, he glued to work, bis 
 body, — but his heart 1 
 
 Ah, my poor fellow, a much slower 
 
 horse than Gatty will go by you, rid- 
 den as you are by a leaden heart. 
 
 Tu nihil invita facies pingesve Minerva. 
 
 It would not lower a mechanical 
 dog's efforts, but it must yours. 
 
 He was unhappy. He heard only 
 one side for days ; that side was rec- 
 ommended by his duty, tilial affection, 
 and diffidence of his own good sense. 
 
 He was brought to see his proceed- 
 ings were eccentric, and that it is 
 destruction to be eccentric. 
 
 He was made a little ashamed of 
 what he had been proud of. 
 
 He was confused and perplexed; 
 he hardly knew what to think or do ; 
 he collapsed, and all his spirit was 
 fast leaving him, and then he felt in- 
 clined to lean on the first thing he 
 could find, and nothing came to hand 
 but his mother. 
 
 Meantime, Christie Johnstone was 
 also thinking of him, but her single 
 anxiety was to find this eighty pounds 
 for him. 
 
 It is a Newhaven idea that the fe- 
 male is the natural protector of the 
 male, and this idea was strengthened 
 in her case. 
 
 She did not fully comprehend his 
 character and temperament, but she 
 saw, by instinct, that she was to be 
 the protector. 
 
 Besides, as she was twenty-one, and 
 he only twenty-two, she felt the dif- 
 ference between herself, a woman, 
 and him, a boy, and to leave him to 
 struggle unaided out of his difficulties 
 seemed to her heartless. 
 
 Twice she opened her lips to engage 
 the chnritable "Vile Count" in his 
 cause, but shame closed them again ; 
 this would be asking a personal favor, 
 and one on so large a scale. 
 
 Several days passed thus ; she had 
 determined not to visit him without 
 good news. 
 
 She then began to be surprised, she 
 heard nothing from him. 
 
 And now she felt something that 
 prevented her calling on him. 
 
 But Jean Carnie was to be married, 
 and the next day the wedding party
 
 128 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 were to spend in festivity upon the 
 island of Inch Coombe. 
 
 Siie bade Jean eall on him, and, 
 without mentioning her, invite him to 
 this party, from which, he must know, 
 she would not be absent. 
 
 Jean Carnie entered his apartment, 
 and at her entrance his mother, who 
 took for granted this was his sweet- 
 heart, whispered in his ear that he 
 should now take the first step, and 
 left him. 
 
 What passed between Jean Carnie 
 and Charles Gatty is for another chap- 
 ter. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A young Viscount with income 
 and person cannot lie perdu three 
 miles from Edinburgh. 
 
 First one discovers him, then an- 
 other, then twenty, then all the world, 
 as the whole clique is modestly called. 
 
 Before, however, Lord Ipsden was 
 caught, he had acquired a browner 
 tint, a more elastic step, and a stouter 
 heart. 
 
 The Aberford prescription had done 
 wonders for him. 
 
 He caught himself passing one 
 whole day without thinking of Lady 
 Barbara Sinclair. 
 
 Hut even Aberford had misled 
 him ; there were no adventures to be 
 found in the Firth of Forth ; most of 
 the days there was no wind to speak 
 of; twice it blew great guns, and the 
 men were surprised at his Lordship go- 
 ing out, but nobody was in any dan- 
 ger except himself; the fishermen had 
 all slipped into port before matters 
 were serious. 
 
 He found the merchantmen that 
 could sail creeping on with three reefs 
 in their mainsail ; and the Dutchmen 
 lying to and breasting it, like ducks 
 in a pond, and with no more chance 
 &f harm. 
 
 On one of these occasions he did 
 observe a little steam-tug, going 
 about a knot an hour, and rolling like 
 a washing-tub. He ran down to her, 
 
 and asked if he could assist her ; she 
 answered through the medium of a 
 sooty animal at her helm, that she 
 was (like our universities) "satisfied 
 with her own progress " ; she added, 
 being under intoxication, " that, if any 
 danger existed, her scheme was to 
 drown it in the bo-o-owl " ; and two 
 days afterwards he saw her puffing 
 and panting, and fiercely dragging a 
 gigantic three-decker out into deep 
 water, like an industrious flea pulling 
 his phaeton. 
 
 And now it is my office to relate 
 how Mr. Flucker Johnstone comport- 
 ed himself on one occasion. 
 
 As the yacht worked alongside 
 Granton Fier, before running out, the 
 said Flucker calmly and scientifically 
 drew his Lordship's attention to three 
 points : — 
 
 The direction of the wind, — the 
 force of the wind, — and his opinion, 
 as a person experienced in the Firth, 
 that it was going to be worse instead 
 of better ; in reply, he received an or- 
 der to step forward to his place in the 
 cutter, — the immediate vicinity of the 
 jib-boom. On this, Mr. Flucker in- 
 stantly burst into tears." 
 
 His Lordship, or, as Flucker called 
 him ever since the yacht came down, 
 " the Skipper," deeming that the high- 
 er appellation, inquired, with some sur- 
 prise, what was the matter with the 
 boy. 
 
 One of the crew, who, by the by, 
 squinted, suggested, " It was a slight 
 illustration of the passion of fear." 
 
 Flucker confirmed the theory by 
 gulping out : " We '11 never see New- 
 haven again." 
 
 On this the skipper smiled, and or- 
 dered him ashore, somewhat peremp- 
 torily. 
 
 Straightway he began to howl, and, 
 saying, " It was better to be drowned 
 than be the laughing-stock of the 
 place," went forward to his place ; 
 on his safe return to port, this young 
 gentleman was very severe on open 
 boats, which, he said " bred woman- 
 ish notions in hearts naturally daunt- 
 less. Give me a lid to the pot," add-
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 129 
 
 ed he, " and I '11 sail with Old Nick, 
 let the wind blow high or low." 
 
 The Aberford was wrong when he 
 called love a cutaneous disorder. 
 
 There are cutaneous disorders that 
 take that name, but they are no more 
 love than verse is poetry ; 
 
 Than patriotism is love of country ; 
 
 Than theology is religion ; 
 
 Than science is philosophy ; 
 
 Than paintings are pictures ; 
 
 Than reciting on the boards is act- 
 ing ; 
 
 Than physic is medicine ; 
 
 Than bread is bread, or gold gold, 
 - — in shops. 
 
 Love is a state of being ; the be- 
 loved object is our centre ; and our 
 thoughts, affections, schemes, and 
 selves move hut round it. 
 
 We may diverge hither or thither, 
 but the golden thread still liolds us. 
 
 Is fair or dark beauty the fairest ? 
 The world cannot decide; but love 
 shall decide in a moment. 
 
 A halo surrounds her we love, and 
 makes beautiful to us her movements, 
 her looks, her virtues, her faults, her 
 nonsense, her affectation, and herself; 
 and that 's love, doctor ! 
 
 Lord Ipsden was capable of loving 
 like this ; but, to do Lady Barbara 
 justice, she hud done much to freeze 
 J he germ of noble passion ; she had 
 not killed, but she had benumbed 
 it. 
 
 " Saunders," said Lord Ipsden, one 
 morning after breakfast, " have you 
 entered everything in vour diary? " 
 
 " Yes, my Lord." 
 
 " All these good people's misfor- 
 tunes « " 
 
 " Yes, my Lord." 
 
 " Do yon think you have spelt their 
 names nght 1 " 
 
 " Where it was impossible, my 
 Lord, I substituted an English appel- 
 lation, hidentical in meaning." 
 
 " Have you entered and described 
 my first interview with Christie John- 
 Stone, and somebody something? " 
 
 " Most minutely, my Lord." 
 
 " How I turned Mr. Burke into 
 poetrv, — how she listened with her 
 6* 
 
 eyes all glistening, — how they made 
 me talk, — how she dropped a tear, 
 he ! he ! he ! at the death of the first 
 baron, — how shocked she was at the 
 king striking him when he was dying, 
 to make a knight-banneret of the poor 
 old fellow?'" 
 
 " Your Lordship will find all the 
 particulars exactly related," said 
 Saunders, with dry pomp. 
 
 " How she found out that titles are 
 but breath, — how I answered — some 
 nonsense ? " 
 
 " Your Lordship will find all the 
 topics included." 
 
 " How she took me for a madman ? 
 And you for a prig ? " 
 
 *' The latter circumstance eluded 
 my memory, my Lord." 
 
 " But when I told her I must re- 
 lieve only one poor person by day, 
 she took my hand." 
 
 " Your Lordship will find all the 
 items realized in this book, my Lord." 
 
 " What a beautiful book ! " 
 
 " Alba are considerably ameliorat- 
 ed, mv Lord." 
 
 "Alba?" 
 
 " Plural of album, my Lord," ex- 
 plained the refined factotum, " more 
 delicate, I conceive, than the vulgar 
 reading." 
 
 Viscount Ipsden read from 
 
 " Mr. Saunders's Album. 
 
 " To illustrate the inelegance of tho 
 inferior classes, two juvenile vendors 
 of the piscatory tri!>e were this day 
 ushered in, and instantaneously, with- 
 out the accustomed preliminaries, 
 plunged into a familiar conversation 
 with Lord Viscount Ipsden. 
 
 " Their vulgarity, shocking and re- 
 pulsive to myself, appeared to afford 
 his Lordship a satisfaction greater than 
 he derives from the graceful ameni- 
 ties of fashionable association — " 
 
 " Saunders, I suspect you of some- 
 thing" 
 
 " Me, mv Lord ! " 
 "Yes. Writing in an Annual." 
 " 1 do, my Lord," said he, with bo' 
 I
 
 130 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 nipnant hauteur. " It appears every 
 month, — ' The Polytechnic' " 
 
 " I thought so ! you are polysyl- 
 labic, Saunders; en route ! " 
 
 " In this hallucination I fintl it dif- 
 ficult to participate ; associated from 
 infancy with the aristocracy, I shrink, 
 like the sensitive plant, from contact 
 with anything vulgar." 
 
 " I see ! I begin to understand you, 
 Saunders. Order the dog-cart, and 
 "Wordsworth's mare for leader ; we'll 
 give her a trial. You are an ass, 
 Saunders." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord ; I will order Rob- 
 ert to tell James to come tor your 
 Lordship'scommands about your Lord- 
 ship's vehicles. ( What could he intend 
 by a recent observation of a discour- 
 teous character ? ) " 
 
 His Lordship soliloquized. 
 
 " I never observed it before, but 
 Saunders is an ass ! La Johnstone is 
 one of Nature's duchesses, and she has 
 made me know some poor people that 
 ' will be richer than the rich one day : 
 and she has taught me that honey is to 
 be got from bank-notes, — by merely 
 giving them away." 
 
 Amongst the objects of charity Lord 
 Ipsden discovered was one Thomas 
 Harvey, a maker and player of the 
 violin. This man was a person of 
 great intellect; he mastered every 
 subject ho attacked. By a careful ex- 
 amination of all the points that vari- 
 ous (ine-toncd instruments had in com- 
 mon, he bad arrived at a theory of 
 sound ; he made violins to correspond, 
 and was remarkably successful in in- 
 suring that which had been too hastily 
 ascribed to accident, — a fine tone. 
 
 This man, who was in needy cir- 
 cumstances, demonstrated to his Lord- 
 ship that ten pounds would make his 
 fortune ; because with ten pounds he 
 could set up a shop, instead of work- 
 ing out of the world's sight in a room. 
 
 Lord Ipsden gave him ten pounds ! 
 
 A week after, be met Harvey, more 
 ragged and dirty than before. 
 
 Harvey had been robbed by a friend 
 whom he had assisted. Poor Harvey ! 
 
 Lord Ipsden gave him ten pomiCts 
 more ! 
 
 Next week, Saunders, entering Har- 
 vey's house, found him in bed at noon, 
 because he had no clothes to wear. 
 
 Saunders suggested that it would bo 
 better to give his wife the next money, 
 with strict orders to apply it usefully. 
 
 This was done ! 
 
 The next day, Harvey, finding his 
 clothes upon a chair, his tools re- 
 deemed from pawn, and a beefsteak 
 ready for his dinner, accused his wife 
 of having money, and meanly refusing 
 him the benefit of it. She acknowl- 
 edged she had a little, and appealed 
 to the improved state of things as a 
 proof that she knew better than he the 
 use of money. He demanded the 
 said money. She refused, — lie leath- 
 ered her, — she put him in prison. 
 
 This was the best place for him. 
 The man was a drunkard, and all the 
 riches of Egypt would never have 
 made him better off. 
 
 And here, gentlemen of the lower 
 classes, a word with you. How can 
 you, with your small incomes, hope 
 to be well off, if you are more extrava- 
 gant than those who have large ones? 
 
 " Us extravagant 1 " you reply. 
 
 Yes ! your income is ten shillings 
 a week ; out of that you spend three 
 shillings in drink ; ay ! you, the sobei- 
 ones. You can't afford it, my boys. 
 Find me a man whose income is a 
 thousand a year ; well, if he imitates 
 you, and spends three hundred upon 
 sensuality, I bet you the odd seven 
 hundred he does not make both ends 
 meet ; the proportion is too great. 
 And two thirds of the distress of the 
 lower orders is owing to this, — that theu 
 are more mad/// prodigal than the rich ; 
 in the, worst, lowest, and most dangerous 
 item of all human prodigal it// ! 
 
 Lord Ipsden went to see Mrs. Har- 
 vey ; it cost him much to go ; she 
 lived in the Old Town, and he hated 
 disagreeable smells ; he also knew from 
 Saunders that she had two black eyes, 
 and he hated women with black eyes 
 of that sort. But this £ood creature 
 did go; did relieve Mrs. Harvey;
 
 CHk^T:E JOHNSTONE. 
 
 131 
 
 and bare-headed suffered himself to be 
 bedewed ten minutes by her tearful 
 twaddle. 
 
 For once Virtue was rewarded : 
 returning over the North Bridge, he 
 met somebody whom, but for his 
 charity, he would not have met. 
 
 He came in one bright moment 
 plump upon — Lady Barbara Sin- 
 clair. She flushed, he trembled, and 
 in two minutes he had forgotten ev- 
 ery human event that had passed 
 since he was by her side. 
 
 She seemed pleased to see him, 
 too; she ignored entirely his obnox- 
 ious proposal ; he wisely took her 
 cue, and so, on this secret understand- 
 ing, they were friends. He made his 
 arrangements, and dined with her fam- 
 ily. It was a family party. In the 
 evening Lady Barbara allowed it to 
 transpire that she had made inquiries 
 about him. 
 
 (lie was highly flattered.) And she 
 had discovered he was lying hid some- 
 where in the neighborhood. 
 
 "Studying the guitar?" inquired 
 she. 
 
 " No," said he, " studying a new 
 class of the community; Do you 
 know any of what they call the 
 ' bwer classes ' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Monstrous agreeable people, are 
 they not? " 
 
 " No, very stupid ! I only know 
 two old women, — except the servants, 
 who have no characters. They imi- 
 tate 11-, I suspect, which does not say 
 much for their taste." 
 
 " But some of my friends are young 
 women ; that makes all the difference." 
 
 " It does ! and you ought to be 
 ashamed. If you want a low order of 
 mind, why desert our own circle f " 
 
 " Mv t minis are only low in sta- 
 tion ; they have rather lofty minds, 
 some of them." 
 
 " Well, amuse yourself with these 
 lofty minds. Amusement is the end 
 of being, yon know, and the aim of 
 all the men of this day." 
 
 " We imitate the ladies," said he, 
 slyly. 
 
 " You do," answered she, very dry- 
 ly ; and so the dialogue went on, and 
 Lord Ipsden found the pleasure of 
 being with his cousin compensate him 
 fully for the difference of their opin- 
 ions ; in fact, he found it simply 
 amusing that so keen a wit as his 
 cousin's could be entrapped into the 
 humor of decrying the time one hap- 
 pens to live in, and admiring any 
 epoch one knows next to nothing 
 about, and entrapped by the notion of 
 its originality, above all things ; the 
 idea being the stale commonplace of 
 asses in every age, and the manner of 
 conveying the idea being a mere imi- 
 tation of the German writers, not the 
 good ones, Lien entemhi, but the quill- 
 drivers, the snobs of the Teutonic 
 pen. 
 
 But he was to learn that follies are 
 not always laughable, that eadem sen- 
 tire is a bond, and that, when a clever 
 and pretty woman chooses to be a 
 fool, her lover if he is wise will be a 
 greater, — if he can. 
 
 The next time they met, Lord Ips- 
 den found Lady Barbara occupied 
 with a gentleman whose first sen- 
 tence proclaimed him a pupil of Mr. 
 Thomas Carlyle, and he had the mor- 
 tification to find that she had neither 
 an ear nor tin eye for him. 
 
 Human opinion has so many shades, 
 that it is rare to find two people 
 agree. 
 
 But two people may agree wonder- 
 fully, if they will but let a third think 
 for them both. 
 
 Thus it was that these two ran so 
 smoothly in couples. 
 
 Antiquity, they agreed, was the 
 time when the world was old, its hair 
 gray, its head wise. Every one that 
 said, " Lord, Lord ! " two hundred 
 years ago was a Christian. There 
 were no earnest men now ; Williams, 
 tho missionary, who lived and died 
 for the Gospel, was not earnest in re- 
 ligion ; but Cromwell, who packed a 
 jury, and BO murdered his prisoner, — 
 Cromwell, in whose month was heav- 
 en, and in his heart temporal sover- 
 eignty, — was the pattern of earnest
 
 132 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 religion, or, at all events, second in 
 sincerity to Mahomet alone, in the 
 absence of details respecting Satan, of 
 whom we know only that his mouth 
 is a Scripture concordance, and his 
 hands the hands of Mr. Carlyle's 
 saints. 
 
 Then they went back a century or 
 two, and were eloquent about the 
 great antique heart, and the beauty of 
 an age whose samples were Abbot 
 Sampson and Joan of Arc. 
 
 Lord Ipsden hated argument; but 
 jealousy is a brass spur, it made even 
 this man fluent for once. 
 
 He suggested " that five hundred 
 years added to a world's life made it 
 just five hundred years older, not 
 younger, — and if older, grayer, — 
 and if grayer, wiser. 
 
 " Of Abbot Sampson," said he, 
 " whom I confess both a great and a 
 good man, his author, who with all 
 his talent belongs to the class muddle- 
 head, tells us that when he had been 
 two years in authority his red hair 
 had turned gray, fighting against the 
 spirit of his age ; how the deuce, then, 
 could he be a sample of the spirit of 
 his age ? 
 
 " Joan of Arc was burnt by accla- 
 mation of her age, and is admired by 
 our age. Which fact identifies an 
 age most with a heroine, to give her 
 your heart, or to give her a blazing 
 fagot and death ? 
 
 " Abbot Sampson and Joan of 
 Arc," concluded he, " prove no more 
 in favor of their age, and no less 
 against it, than Lot does for or against 
 Sodom. Lot was in Sodom, but not 
 of it ; and so were Sampson and Joan 
 in, but not of, the' villauous times 
 they lived in. 
 
 " The very best text-book of true 
 religion is the New Testament, and I 
 gather from it, that the man who for- 
 gives his enemies whilst their axe de- 
 scends on his head, however poor 
 a creature he may be in other respects, 
 is a better Christian than the man 
 who has the God of Mercy forever on 
 his lips, and whose hands are swift to 
 shed blood. 
 
 " The earnest men of former agea 
 are not extinct in this," added he. 
 " Whenever a scaffold is erected out- 
 side a prison-door, if you are earnest 
 in pursuit of truth, and can put up 
 with disgusting objects, you shall see 
 a relic of ancient manners hung. 
 
 " There still exist, in parts of 
 America, rivers on whose banks are 
 earnest men who shall take your 
 scalp, the wife's of your bosom, and 
 the innocent child's of her bosom. 
 
 " In England we are as earnest as 
 ever in pursuit of heaven, and of in- 
 nocent worldly advantages. If, when 
 the consideration of life and death 
 interposes, we appear less earnest in 
 pursuit of comparative trifles such as 
 kingdoms or dogmas, it is because 
 cooler in action we are more earnest 
 in thought, — because reason, expe- 
 rience, and conscience are things that 
 check the unscrupulousness or beast- 
 ly earnestness of man. 
 
 " Moreover, he who has the sense to 
 see that questions have three sides is 
 no longer so intellectually as well as 
 morally degraded as to be able to cut 
 every throat that utters an opinion 
 contrary to his own. 
 
 " If the phrase ' earnest man ' means 
 man imitating the beasts that are deaf 
 to reason, it is to be hoped that civili- 
 zation and Christianity will really ex- 
 tinguish the whole race for the benefit 
 of the earth." 
 
 Lord Ipsden succeeded in annoying 
 the fair theorist, but not in convincing 
 her. 
 
 The mediaeval enthusiasts looked 
 on him as some rough animal that 
 had burst into sacred grounds uncon- 
 sciously, and gradually edged away 
 from him. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Lord Ipsden had soon the mortifi- 
 cation of discovering that this Mr. * * * 
 was a constant visitor at the house ; 
 and, although his cousin gave him 
 her ear in this man's absence, on the 
 arrival of her fellow-enthusiast he had
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 133 
 
 ever the mortification of finding him- 
 self de trofj. 
 
 Once or twice he demolished this 
 personage in argument, and was re- 
 warded by finding himself more de 
 trap. 
 
 But one day Lady Barbara, being 
 in a cousinly humor, expressed a wish 
 to sail in his Lordship's yacht, and 
 tli is hint soon led to a party being or- 
 ganized, and a sort of picnic on the 
 island of Inch Coombe ; his Lordship's 
 cutter being the mode of conveyance 
 to and from that snot. 
 
 Now it happened on that very day 
 Jean Caruie's marriage was cele- 
 brated on that very island by her re- 
 lations and friends. 
 
 So that we shall introduce our read- 
 ers to 
 
 THE RIVAL PICNICS. 
 
 We begin with Lessens conune ilfaut. 
 Picnic No. 1. 
 
 The servants were employed in 
 putting away dishes into hampers. 
 
 There was a calm silence. 
 
 " Hem ! " observed Sir Henry Tal- 
 bot. 
 
 " Eh 1 " replied the Honorable Tom 
 Hitherington. 
 
 " Mamma," said Miss Vcre, " have 
 you brought anv work 7 " 
 
 " No, my dear." 
 
 "At a "picnic," said Mr. Hither- 
 ington, "isn't it the thing for some- 
 body — aw — to do something ? " 
 
 " Ipsden," said Lady Barbara, 
 " there is an understanding between 
 you and Mr. Hitherington. I con- 
 demn vou to turn him into English." 
 
 "Yes, Lady Barbara; I'll tell you, 
 he means, — do vou mean anything, 
 Tom ? " 
 
 Hitherington. " Can't anybody guess 
 what I mean ? " 
 
 Lady Barbara. " Guess first your- 
 self, you can't be suspected of being 
 in the secret." 
 
 Hither. What I mean is, that peo- 
 ple sing a song, or run races, or preach 
 a sermon, or do something funny at 
 a picnic, — aw — somebody gets up 
 and does something." 
 
 Lady Bar. " Then perhaps Misg 
 Vere, whose singing is famous, will 
 have the complaisance to sing to 
 us." 
 
 Miss Vere. "I should be happy, 
 Lady Barbara, but I have not brought 
 my music." 
 
 Lady Bar. " O, we are not critical ; 
 the simplest air, or even a fragment 
 of melody ; the sea and the sky will 
 be a better accompaniment than 
 BroadwoiMl ever made." 
 
 Miss V. "I can't sing a note with- 
 out book." 
 
 Sir H. Talbot. " Your music is in 
 vour soul, — not at your fingers' 
 ends." 
 
 Lord Ipsden, to Lady Bar. " It is in 
 her book, and not in her soul." 
 
 Lady Bar., to Lord Ips. " Th"n it 
 has chosen the better situation of the 
 two." 
 
 l/)s. " Miss Vere is to the fine art of 
 music what the engrossers are to the 
 black art of law ; it all filters through 
 them without leaving any sediment ; 
 and so the music of the day passes 
 through Miss Vere's mind, but none 
 remains — to stain its virgin snow." 
 He bows, she smiles. 
 
 Lady Bar., to herself. " Insolent : 
 and the little dunce thinks he is com- 
 plimenting her." 
 
 Jps. " Perhaps Talbot will come to 
 our rescue, — he is a fiddler." 
 
 Tal. "An amateur of the violin." 
 
 //is. " It is all the same thing." 
 
 lAidy Bar. " I wish it may provo 
 so." 
 
 Tal. 
 
 (Grave.) 
 
 Bis. 
 
 Bis. 
 
 /C\
 
 164 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
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 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 135 
 
 Miss V. " Beautiful." 
 
 Mrs. Verc. "Charming." 
 
 Hither. " Superb ! " 
 
 Ips. " You are aware that good 
 music is a thing to be wedded to im- 
 mortal verse, shall I recite a bit of 
 poetry to match Talbot's strain ? " 
 
 Miss V. "0 yes ! how nice." 
 
 Ips. (rhetor kail;].) "A. B. C. D. 
 E. F. G. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P. 
 Q. R. S. T. U. V. W. X. Y. Z. Y. X. 
 W. V. U. T. S. O. N. M. L. K. J. I. 
 H. G. F. A. M. little p. little t." 
 
 Lady Bar. " Beautiful ! Superb ! 
 Ipsden has been taking lessons on the 
 thinking instrument." 
 
 Hither. " He has been perdu 
 amonjrst vulgar people." 
 
 Tul. " And expects a pupil of Herz 
 to play him tunes ! " 
 
 Lad// Bar. " What arc tunes, Sir 
 Henry?" 
 
 Tid. " Something I don't play, 
 Laily Barbara." 
 
 Lady Bur. " I understand you ; 
 something wc ought to like." 
 
 Ips. " I have a Strailivarius violin 
 nt home : it is yours, Talbot, if you 
 can define a tune." 
 
 Tal. " A tune is — everybody 
 knows what." 
 
 Lady Bar. " A tune is a tune, that 
 is what you meant to say." 
 
 Tal. " Of course it is." 
 
 Lady Bar. " Be reasonable. Ips- 
 den ; no man can do two things at 
 once ; how can the pupil of Hera con- 
 demn a tiling and know what it means 
 contemporaneously ? " 
 
 Ips. " Is the drinking-song in ' Der 
 Freisctratz ' a tune ? " 
 
 Lady Bar. " It is." 
 
 Ips, " And the melodies of Handel, 
 are. they tunes < " 
 
 Lady Bar. [pathetically.) " They 
 are! They are!" 
 
 Ips. " And the ' Russian Anthem,' 
 and the, ' Marseillaise,' ami ' Ah, Per- 
 dona ' ? " 
 
 Tal. " And Yankee Doodle? " 
 
 Lady llu,-. " So that Sir Henry, 
 who prided himself on his ignorance, 
 has a wide field lor its dominion." 
 
 Tal. " All good violin players do 
 
 like me ; they prelude, not plaj* 
 tunes." 
 
 Ips. " Then Heaven be thanked for 
 our blind fiddlers. You like syllables 
 of sound in unmeaning rotation, and 
 you despise its words, its purposes, its 
 narrative feats ; carry out your prin- 
 ciple, it will show you where you are. _ 
 Buy a dirty palette for a picture, and 
 dream the alphabet is a poem." 
 
 Lady Bar., to herself. " Is this my 
 cousin Richard ? " 
 
 Hither. " Mind, Ipsden, you are a 
 man of property, and there are such 
 things as commissions de lunatico." 
 
 Lady Bar. " His defence will be that 
 his friends pronounce him insane." 
 
 Ips. " No ; I shall subpoena Talbot's 
 fiddle, cross-examination will get noth- 
 ing out of that but, do, re, mi, fa." 
 
 Ladij Bar. " Yes, it will ; fa, mi, 
 re.do.'" 
 
 Tal. " Violin, if you please." 
 
 Lady Bar. "Ask Fiddle's pardon, 
 directly." 
 
 Sound of fiddles is heard in the distance. 
 
 Tal. " How lucky for you, there are 
 fiddles and tunes, and the natives you 
 are said to favor, why not join them ? " 
 
 Ips. {shaking his head solemnly.) " I 
 dread to encounter another prelude." 
 
 Hither. " Come, I know you would 
 like ; it is a wedding-party, — two 
 sea monsters have been united. The 
 sailors and fishermen are all blue cloth 
 and wash-leather gloves." 
 
 Miss V. " He ! he!" 
 
 Tal. " The fishwives unite the colors 
 of the rainbow — " 
 
 Lady Bar. " (And wc all know how 
 hideous they are) — to vulgar, bloom- 
 ing cheeks, staring white teeth, and 
 sky-blue eyes. 
 
 Mrs. V. " How satirical you are, 
 especially you, Lady Barbara." 
 
 Here Lord Ipsden, after a word to 
 Lady Barbara, the answer to which 
 did not appear to be favorable, rose, 
 gave a little yawn, looked steadily at 
 
 his companions without seeing them, 
 and departed without seeming awaro 
 that he was leaving anybody behind 
 him.
 
 136 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Hither. " Let us go somewhere 
 where we can quiz the natives with- 
 out being too near them." 
 
 Lady Bar. " I am tired of this un- 
 broken solitude, I must go and think 
 to the sea," added she, in a mock 
 soliloquy ; and out she glided with the 
 same unconscious air as his Lordship 
 had worn. 
 
 The others moved off slowly to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Mamma," said Miss Vere, "I 
 can't understand half Barbara Sinclair 
 says." 
 
 " It is not necessary, my love," 
 replied mamma ; " she is rather eccen- 
 tric, and I fear she is spoiling Lord 
 Ipsden." 
 
 " Poor Lord Ipsden," murmured 
 the lovely Vere, " he used to be so 
 nice, and do like everybody else. 
 Mamma, I shall bring some work the 
 next time." 
 
 " Do, my love." 
 
 Picnic No. 2. 
 
 In a house, two hundred yards 
 from this scene, a merry dance, suc- 
 ceeding a merry song, had ended, and 
 they were in the midst of an interest- 
 ing story ; Christie Johnstone was 
 the narrator. She had found the tale 
 in one of the Viscount's books, — it 
 had made a great impression on her. 
 
 The rest were listening intently : in 
 a room which had lately been all 
 noise, not a sound was now to be 
 heard but the narrator's voice. 
 
 " Aweel, lasses, here are the three 
 wee kists set, the lads are to chusc, — 
 the ane that chuses reicht is to get 
 Porsha, an' the lave to get the bag, 
 and dee baitchelars ; — Flucker John- 
 stone, you that 's sae clever, — are ye 
 for gowd, or siller, or leed ? " 
 
 \st Fishwife. " Gowd for me ! " 
 
 2d ditto. " The white siller 's my 
 taste." 
 
 Flucker. " Na ! there 's aye some 
 deevelish trick in thir lassie's stories. 
 I shall He to, till the ither lads hae 
 chused ; the inair part will put thein- 
 eels out. ane will hit it off rcicbt may- 
 
 be, then I shall gie him a hidin' an' 
 carry off the lass. You-hoo ! " 
 
 Jean Curnie. " That 's you, Fluck- 
 er." 
 
 Christie Johnstone. " And div ye 
 really think we arc gawn to let you 
 see a' the world chuse ? Na, lad, ye 
 are puttcn oot o' the room, like wit- 
 nesses." 
 
 Flucker. " Then I 'd toss a penny ; 
 for gien ye trust to luck, she whiles 
 favors ye, but gien ye commence to 
 reason and argefy— *ye 're done ! " 
 
 Christie. " The suitors had na yom 
 wit, my manny, or maybe they had 
 na a penny to toss, sae ane chused 
 the gowd, ane the siller ; but they got 
 an awfu' affront. The gold kist had 
 just a skull intil 't, and the siller a 
 deed cuddy's head ! " 
 
 Chorus of Females. " He ! he ! he ! " 
 
 Ditto of Males. " Haw ! haw ! haw ! 
 haw ! Ho ! " 
 
 Christie. "An' Porsha puttit the 
 pair of gowks to the door. Then 
 came Bassanio, the lad fra Veencece, 
 that Porsha loed in secret. Veeneece, 
 lasses, is a wonderful city ; the streets 
 o' 't are water, and the carriages are 
 boats, — that 's in Chambers'." 
 
 Flucker. " Wha are ye making a 
 fool o' ? " 
 
 Christie. " What 's wrang ? " 
 
 Flucker. " Yon 's just as big a lee 
 as ever I heerd." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his 
 mouth ere he had reason to regret 
 them ; a severe box on the ear was 
 administered by his indignant sister. 
 Nobody pitied him. 
 
 Christie. " I '11 laern ye t' affront 
 me before a' the company." 
 
 Jean Carnie. " Suppose it 's a lee, 
 there 's nae silver to pay for it, Fluck- 
 er." 
 
 Christie. " Jean, I never telt a lee 
 in a' my days." 
 
 Jean. " There 's ane to begin wi' 
 then. Go ahead, Custy." 
 
 Christie. " She bade the music play 
 for him, for music brightens thoucht; 
 ony way, he chose the leed kist. 
 Open'st and was n't there Porsha's 
 pictur, and a posy, that said.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 137 
 
 •If you be well pleased with this, 
 
 Ami hold your fortune for your bliss ; 
 Turn you where your leddy iss, 
 And greet her wi' a loving — ' " (Pause.) 
 
 " Kess," roared the company. 
 
 Chorus, led by Flwker. " Huiraih ! " 
 
 Christie (pathetically). " Fhicker, 
 behave ! " 
 
 Sandy Liston (drunk). " Hur-raih ! " 
 He then solemnly reflected. " Na ! 
 but it 's na hurraih, decency requires 
 amen first an' hurraih afterwards ; 
 here 's kissin plenty, but I hear nae 
 word o' the minister. Ye '11 obsairve, 
 young woman, that kissin 's the pro- 
 logue to sin, and I 'm a decent mon, 
 an' a gray-headed mon, an' your licht 
 stories arc no for me ; sae if the min- 
 ister 's no expeckit I shall retire, — 
 an' tak my quiet gill my lane." 
 
 Jean (Jamie. " And div ye really 
 think a decent cummer like Custy 
 wad let the lad and lass misbehave 
 thirscls ? Na ! lad, the minister 's at 
 the door, but " (sinking her voice to 
 a confidential whisper) " I daurna let 
 him in, for fear he 'd see ye hue putten 
 ttie enemy in your mooth sae aerly. 
 (That 'sCusty's word.") 
 
 "Jemmy Drysel," replied Sandy, 
 addressing vacancy, for Jemmy was 
 mysteriously at work in the kitchen, 
 " ye hac gotten a thoughtfu' wife." 
 (Then, with a strong revulsion of 
 feeling.) " Dinna let the blakguttrd * 
 in here," cried he, " to spoil the voting 
 folk's sporrt." 
 
 Christie. "Aweel, lassies, comes a 
 letter to Bassanio ; he reads it, and 
 turns as pale as death." 
 
 .1 Fishwife. " Gude help us." 
 
 Christie. "Pooraha behooved token 
 hi^ grief, wha had a better reicht ' 
 ' Hire 's a letter, leddy,' says he, 
 ' the paper 's the boedy of my i'reend, 
 like, and every word in it a gaping 
 wound.' " 
 
 A Fisherman. " Maircy on us." 
 
 Christie. " Lad, it was fra pair An- 
 
 * At present this is a spondee in England, 
 — a trochee In Scotland. The pronunciation 
 of ihi* important word ought to !»• fixed, rep- 
 resenting, as it does, so large ;i portion of the 
 
 community in both couiitri'.-s. 
 
 tonio, ye mind o' him, lasses. Hcch ! 
 the ill luck o' yon man, no a ship 
 come hame ; ane foundered at sea, 
 coming fra Tri-po-lis ; the pirates 
 scuttled another, an' ane ran ashore 
 on the Goodwins, near Bright-helm- 
 stane, that 's in England itsel', I daur 
 say : sae he could na pay the three 
 thoosand ducats, an' Shy lock had 
 grippit him, an' sought the pund o' 
 flesh aff the breest o' him, puir body." 
 
 Sandy Liston. " He would na be 
 the waur o' a wee bit hiding, yon 
 thundering urang-utang ; let the man 
 alane, ye cursed old cannibal." 
 
 Christie. " Poorsha keepit her man 
 but ae hoor till they were united, an' 
 then sent him wi' a puckle o' her ain 
 siller to Veeneece, and Antonio, — 
 think o' that, lassies, — pained on 
 their wedding-day." 
 
 Lizzy Johnstone, a Fishwife, aged 12. 
 " Ilech ! hcch ! it 's lamentable. 
 
 Jean Carnie. " I 'm saying, mair- 
 riage is quick wark, in some pairts, 
 — here there 's an aw fa' trouble to get 
 a man." 
 
 A younq Fishwife. " Ay, is there." 
 
 Omnes' " Haw ! haw ! haw ! " (The 
 fishwife hides.) 
 
 Christie. " Fill your taupscls. lads 
 and lasses, and awa to Veneeee." 
 
 Sandy Liston (sturdily). " I '11 no 
 gang to sea this day." 
 
 Christie. "Noo, we are in the hall 
 o' judgment. Here are set the judges, 
 awl'u' to behold ; there, on his throne, 
 presides the Juke" 
 
 Flacker, " She 's awa to her Enng- 
 lish." 
 
 Lizzy Johnstone. " Did we come to 
 Veeneece to speak Scoetch, ye useless 
 fule ? " 
 
 Christie. " Here, pale and hopeless, 
 but resigned, stands the broken mair- 
 ehant, Antonio ; there, wi' stales and 
 knives, and revenge in his murderin' 
 eye, stands the crewel Jew Shylock." 
 
 " Aweel." muttered Sandy, consid- 
 erately, " I '11 no mak a disturbance 
 on a wedding-day." 
 
 Christii'. "They wait for Bell — I 
 dinna mind Ins mind — a laerned law- 
 yer, ony way ; he 's sick, but sends
 
 138 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 ane mnir laerned still, and, wlien this 
 ane comes, he looks not older nor 
 wiser than mvsel." 
 
 FLwcker. "No possible ! " 
 
 Christie. " Ye needna be sae sarcy, 
 Flacker, for when he comes to his 
 wark he soon lets 'em ken, — runs his 
 een like lightening ower the boend. 
 " This bond 's forfeit. Is Antonio not 
 able to dischairge the money ? ' 
 ' Ay ! " cries Bassanio, ' here 's the 
 sum thrice told.' Says the young 
 judge, in a bit whisper to Shylock, 
 ' Shylock, there 's thrice thy money 
 offered thee. Be mairceful, says he, 
 out loud. 'Wha'll mak me'?' says 
 the Jew body. ' Mak ye ! ' says he ; 
 ' maircy is no a thing ye strain 
 through a sieve, mon ; it droppeth like 
 the gentle dew fra' heaven upon the 
 place beneath ; it blesses him that 
 gives and him that taks ; it becomes 
 the king better than his throne, and 
 airthly power is maist like God's pow- 
 er when maircy seasons justice.' ' 
 
 Robert llaiv) Fisherman. " Dinna 
 speak like that to me, onybody, or I 
 shall gie ye my boat, and fling my 
 nets intil it, as ye sail awa wi' her." 
 
 Jean Carnie. " Sae he let the puir 
 decvil go. Oh ! ye ken wha could 
 stand up against siccan a shower o' 
 Ennglisn as thaat." 
 
 Christie. " He just said, ' My deeds 
 upon my heed. I claim the law,' says 
 he ; ' there is no power in the tongue 
 o' man to alter me. I stay here on 
 my boend.' " 
 
 Sandy Liston. " I hae sat quiet ! — 
 quiet I hae sat against my will, no to 
 disturb Jamie Drysel's weddin' ; but 
 ye carry the game ower far, Shylock, 
 my lad. I '11 just give yon bluidy- 
 minded uiang-titang a hidin', and 
 bring Tony off', the glide, puir-spir- 
 itcd creature : and him, an' me, an' 
 Bassanee, an' Porshee, we '11 all hae 
 a gill thegither." 
 
 He rose, and was instantly seized 
 by two of the company, from whom 
 he burst furiously, after a struggle, 
 and the next moment was heard to 
 fall clean from the top to the bottom 
 of the stairs. Flucker and Jean ran 
 
 out ; the rest appealed against the in- 
 terruption. 
 
 Christie. " Hech ! he 's killed ; Sandy 
 Liston 's brake his neck." 
 
 " What aboot it, lassy '! " said a 
 young fisherman ; " it 's Antonio I 'm 
 feared for; save him, lassy, if poes- 
 sible ; but I doot ye '11 no get him 
 clear o' yon deevelich heathen. 
 
 " Auld Sandy 's cheap sairved," 
 added he, with all the indifference a 
 human tone could convey. 
 
 " O Cursty," said Lizzy Johnstone, 
 with a peevish accent, " dinna break 
 the bonny yarn for naething." 
 
 Flucker (returning). "He's a' 
 reicht." 
 
 Christie. " Is he no dead ? " 
 
 Flucker. " Him deed 1 he 's sober, 
 — that 's a' the change I see." 
 
 Christie. " Can he speak ? I 'm 
 asking ye." 
 
 Flucker. " Yes, he can speak." 
 
 Christie. " What does he say, puip 
 body 1 " 
 
 Flucker. " He sat up, an' sought a 
 gill fra' the wife — puir body ! " 
 
 Christie. " Hech, hech ! he was my 
 pupil in the airt o' sobriety ! — aweel, 
 the young judge rises to deliver the 
 sentence of the coort. Silence ! " 
 thundered Christie. A lad and a 
 lass that were slightly flirting were 
 discountenanced. 
 
 Christie. " A pund o' that same 
 mairchant's flesh is thine ! the coort 
 awards it, and the law does give it." 
 
 A young Fishwife. " There, I thoucht 
 sae ; he 's gaun to cut him, he 's gaun 
 to cut him; I'll no can bide." (Ex- 
 ibat. ) 
 
 Christie. " There 's a fulish golo- 
 shen. ' Have by a doctor to stop tho 
 blood.' — 'I see nae doctor in the 
 boend,' says the Jew body." 
 
 Flucker. " Bait your hook wi' a 
 boend, and ye shall catch yon carle's 
 saul, Satin, my lad." 
 
 Christie (with dismal pathos). "O 
 Flucker, dinna speak evil o' deegne- 
 ties — that's maybe fishing for your- 
 sel' the noo ! — ' An' ye shall cut the 
 flesh frae off his breest' — ' A sen- 
 tence,' says Shylock, ' come, prepare.' "
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 139 
 
 Christie made a dash en Shyloch, 
 and the company trembled. 
 
 Christie. " ' Bide a wee,' says the 
 judge, ' this boend gies ye na a drap 
 o' bluid ; the words expressly are, a 
 puiid o' flesh ! ' " 
 
 (A Dramatic Pause.) 
 
 Jean Carnie (drawing her breath). 
 "That's into your mutton, Shylock." 
 
 Christie (with dismal pathos). "O 
 Jean ! yon 's an awfu' voolgar expras- 
 sion to come fra' a woman's mooth." 
 
 " Could ye no hae said, ' intil his 
 bacon ' t " said Lizzy Johnstone, con- 
 firming the remonstrance. 
 
 Christie. " Then tak your boend, 
 an' your pund o' flesh, but in cutting 
 o' 't, if thou dost shed one drop of 
 Christian bluid, thoudiest!" 
 
 Jean Carnie. " Hech ! " 
 
 Christie. " Thy goods are by the 
 laws of Veneece con-fls-cate, confis- 
 cate ! " 
 
 Then, like an artful narrator, she 
 began to wind up the story more rap- 
 idly. 
 
 " Sae Shylock got to be no sae 
 saucy : ' Pay the boend thrice,' Says 
 he, ' and let the puir deevil go.' — 
 ' Here it 's,' says Bassanio. — Na ! the 
 young judge wadna let him. — 'He 
 has refused it in open court ; no a 
 bawbee for Shylock but just the for- 
 feiture; an' hedaur na tak it.' — ' I'm 
 awa',' says he. • ' The deivil tak ye 
 a'.' — Na ! he wasna to win clear sae ; 
 ance they 'd gotten the Jew on the 
 hep, they worried him, like good 
 Christians, that's a fact. The judge 
 bad 8 law that fitted him, for conspir- 
 ing ■gainst the life of a citizen ; an' 
 he behooved to give up boose an' lands, 
 and be a Christian ; yon was a soor 
 drap, — he tamed no weel, puir auld 
 villain, an' scairtit ; an' the lawyers 
 sent ane o' their weary parchments 
 till his hoosc, and the mux aulil hea- 
 then signed awa' his siller, an' Abra- 
 ham, an' Isaac, an' Jacob, on the heed 
 o' 't. I pity him, an auld, auld man ; 
 and his dochter had rin off wi' a 
 Christian lad, — they ca' her Jessica, 
 
 and did n't she steal his very diamond 
 ring that his ain lass gied him when 
 he was young, an' maybe no sae hard- 
 hairted'?" 
 
 Jean Carnie. " O the jaud ! sup- 
 pose he was a Jew, it was na her busi- 
 ness to clean him oot." 
 
 A young Fishwife. " Aweel, it was 
 only a Jew body, that 's my comfort." 
 
 Christie. " Ye speak as a Jew was 
 na a man ; has not a Jew eyes, if ye 
 please ? " 
 
 Lizzy Johnstone. " Ay, has he ! — 
 and the awfuest langneb atweenem." 
 
 Christie. " Has not a Jew affections, 
 paassions, organs 1 " 
 
 Jean. "Na! Christie; thir lads 
 comes fr' Italy ! " 
 
 Christie. " If you prick him, does 
 he not bleed 1 if you tickle him, does 
 na he laueh 1 " 
 
 A young Fishwife [pertly). " I never 
 kittlet a Jew, for my pairt, — sae I '11 
 no can tell ye." 
 
 Christie. " If you poison him, does 
 he not die t and if you wrang him," 
 (with fury,) " shall he not revenge? " 
 
 Lizzy Johnstone. " Oh ! but ye 're a 
 fearsome lass." 
 
 Christie. " Wha '11 give me a sang 
 for my bonny yarn 1 " 
 
 Lord Ipsden, who had been an un- 
 observed auditor of the latter part of 
 the tale, here inquired whether she had 
 brought her book. 
 
 " What'n buik ? " 
 
 " Your music-book ! " 
 
 "Here 's my music-book," said Jean, 
 roughly tapping her head. 
 
 "And here's mines," said Christie, 
 bird-ly, touching her bosom. 
 
 " Richard," said she, thoughtfully, 
 I wish ye may no hae been getting in 
 voolgar company : div ye think we 
 hae minds like rinning water 1 " 
 
 Fluch r (avec malice). "And tongues 
 like the mill-clack abune it? Be- 
 cause if ye think sae, captain, — ye 're 
 no far wrang ! " 
 
 ( 'Inistie. " Na ! we hae na muckle 
 gowd maybe ; but our minds are 
 gowden vessels." 
 
 Jean. "Aha! lad." 
 
 Christie. " They arc not saxpenny
 
 140 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 sieves, to let music an' metre through, 
 and leave us none the wiser or better. 
 Diima gang in low voolgar company, 
 or you a lost laddy." 
 
 Ipsden. " Vulgar, again ! every- 
 body has a different sense for that 
 word, I think. What is vulgar ? " 
 
 Christie. " Voolgar folk sit on an 
 chair, ane, twa, whiles three hours, 
 eatin' an' abune a' drinkin', as still as 
 hoegs, or gruntin' puir every-day 
 clashes, goessip, rubbich ; when ye are 
 aside them, ye might as weel be aside 
 a cuddy ; they canna gie ye a sang, 
 they canna gie ye a story, they canna 
 think ye a thoucht, to save their use- 
 less lives ; that 's voolgar folk." 
 
 She sings. "A caaller herrin' ! " 
 
 Jean. " A caaller herrin' ! " 
 
 Omnes. 
 
 " Come buy my bonny caaller herrin', 
 Six a penny caaller from the sea," &c. 
 
 The music chimed in, and the mo- 
 ment the song was done, without 
 pause, or anything to separate or chill 
 the succession of the arts, the fiddles 
 diverged with a gallant plunge into 
 " The Dusty Miller." The dancers 
 found their feet by an instinct as rap- 
 id, and a rattling reel shook the floor 
 like thunder, jean Carnie assumed 
 the privilege of a bride, and seized his 
 Lordship ; Christie, who had a mind 
 to dance with him too, took Flucker 
 captive, and these four were one reel ! 
 There were seven others. 
 
 The principle of reel dancing is ar- 
 ticulation ; the foot strikes the ground 
 for every accented note (and, by the 
 by, it is their weakness of accent 
 which makes all English reel and 
 hornpipe players such failures). 
 
 And in the best steps of all, which 
 it has in common with the hornpipe, 
 such as the quick " heel and toe," 
 " the sailor's fling," and the " double 
 shuffle," the foot strikes the ground 
 for every single note of the instrument. 
 
 All good dancing is beautiful. 
 
 But this articulate dancing, com- 
 pared with the loose, lawless diffluence 
 of motion that goes by that name, 
 gives me (I must confess it) as much 
 
 more pleasure as articulate singing \* 
 superior to tunes played on the voice 
 by a young lady : 
 
 Or the clean playing of my mother 
 to the piano-forte splashing of my 
 daughter ; though the latter does at- 
 tack the instrument as a washerwoman 
 her soapsuds, and the former works 
 like a lady. 
 
 Or skating to sliding : 
 
 Or English verse to dactyls in Eng- 
 lish : 
 
 Or painting to daubing : 
 
 Or preserved strawberries to straw- 
 berry jam. 
 
 What says Goldsmith of the two 
 styles ? 
 
 " They swam, sprawled, frisked, 
 and languished ; but Olivia's foot 
 was as pat to the music as its echo." 
 — Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 Newhaven dancing aims also at 
 fun ; laughter mingles with agility ; 
 grotesque, yet graceful gestures are 
 flung in, and little inspiring cries 
 Aunty out. 
 
 His Lordship soon entered into the 
 spirit of it. Deep in the mystery of 
 the hornpipe, he danced one or two 
 steps Jean and Christie had never 
 seen, but their eyes were instantly on 
 his feet, and they caught in a minute 
 and executed these same steps. 
 
 To see Christie Johnstone do the 
 double-shuffle with her arms so sau- 
 cily akimbo, and her quick elastic 
 foot at an angle of forty-five, was a 
 treat. 
 
 The dance became inspiriting, in- 
 spiring, intoxicating; and, when the 
 fiddles at last left off, the feet went on 
 another seven bars by the enthusias- 
 tic impulse. 
 
 And so, alternately spinning yarns, 
 singing songs, dancing, and making 
 fun, and mingling something of heart 
 and brain in all, these benighted crea- 
 tures made themselves happy instead 
 of peevish, and with a day of stout, 
 vigorous, healthy pleasure, refreshed, 
 indemnified, and warmed themselves 
 for many a day of toil. 
 
 Such were the two picnics of Inch 
 Coombe, and these rival cliques,
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 141 
 
 Igreeing in nothing else, would have 
 agreed in this : each, if allowed (but 
 We won't allow either) to judge the 
 Dther, would have pronounced the 
 lame verdict : — 
 
 " lis ne savent pas vivre ces gens-la." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Two of our personages left Inch 
 Coombe less happy than when they 
 came to it. 
 
 Lord Ipsden encountered I>.dy 
 Barbara with Mr. * * * , who h-xl 
 joined her upon the island. 
 
 He found them discoursing, as usu- 
 al, about the shams of the present 
 day, and the sincerty r jt Cromwell 
 and Mahomet, and ^' found himself 
 de trop. 
 
 They made him, for the first time, 
 regret the loss of those earnest times 
 when, " to avoid the inconvenience of 
 both addressing the same lady," you 
 tould cut ». rival's throat at once, and 
 be smiled on by the fair and society. 
 
 That i book-maker should blas- 
 pheme high civilization, by which 
 alone he exists, and one of whose 
 diseases and Hying pains he is, neither 
 (Surprised nor moved him ; but that 
 nny human being's actions should be 
 affected by such tempestuous twaddle 
 •vas ridiculous. 
 
 And that the witty Lady Barbara 
 Should be caught by this chaff' was in- 
 tolerable ; he began to feel bitter. 
 
 He had the blessings of the poor, 
 the good opinion of the world ; every 
 living creature was prepossessed in 
 Ins favor but one, and that one de- 
 spised him; it was a diabolical preju- 
 dice ; it was the spiteful caprice of his 
 fate. 
 
 His heart, for a moment, was in 
 danger of deteriorating. He was mis- 
 erable; the Devil suggested to him, 
 "make others miserable too"; and 
 ho listened to the advice. 
 
 There was a fine freeze, but in- 
 stead of sailing on a wind, as he might 
 
 have done, he made a series of tacks, 
 and all were ill. 
 
 The earnest man first ; and Fluck- 
 er announced the skipper's insanity to 
 the whole town of Newhaven, for, of 
 course, these tacks were ^11 marine 
 solecisms. 
 
 The other discontented Picnician 
 was Christie Johnstone. Gatty never 
 came; and this, coupled with five or 
 six days' previous neglect, could no 
 longer pass nnnoticed. 
 
 Her gaycty failed her before the 
 afte*~;oon was ended ; and the last 
 t-*o hours were spent by her alone, 
 .patching the water on all sides for 
 him. 
 
 At last, long after the departure of 
 his Lordship's yacht, the Newhaven 
 boat sailed from Inch Coombe with 
 the wedding party. There was now 
 a strong breeze, and the water every 
 now and then came on board : so the 
 men set the foresail with two reefs, 
 and drew the mainsail over the wo- 
 men ; and there, as they huddled to- 
 gether in the dark, Jean Carnie dis- 
 covered that our gay story-teller's 
 eyes were wet with tears. 
 
 Jean said nothing; she embraced 
 her ; and made them flow faster. 
 
 But, when they came alongside the 
 pier, Jean, who was the first to get 
 her head from under the sail, whipped 
 it back again, and said to Christie : — 
 
 " Here he is, Christie ; dinna speak 
 till him." 
 
 And sure enough there was, in the 
 twilight, with a pale face and an un- 
 easy look, — Mr. Charles Gatty ! 
 
 He peered timidly into the boat, 
 and, when he saw Christie, an " Ah ! " 
 that seemed to mean twenty different 
 things at once, burst from his bosom. 
 He held out his arm to assist her. 
 
 She cast on him one glance of mute 
 reproach, and, placing her foot on tho 
 boat's gunwale, sprang like an ante- 
 lope upon the pier, without accepting 
 bis assistance. 
 
 Before f^oinj; further, we must go 
 back for this boy, and conduct him 
 from where wc left him up to the 
 present point.
 
 142 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 The moment he found himself alone 
 with Jean Carnie, in his own house, 
 he began to tell her what trouble he 
 was in ; how his mother had convinced 
 him of his imprudence in falling in 
 love with Christie Johnstone ; and 
 how she insisted on a connection be- 
 ing broken off, which had given him 
 his first glimpse of heaven upon earth, 
 and was contrary to common sense. 
 
 Jean heard him out, and then, with 
 the air of a lunatic-asylum keeper to 
 a rhodomontading patient, told him 
 " he was one fool, and his mother 
 was another." First she took him up 
 on the score of prudence. 
 
 " You," said she, " are a beggarly 
 painter, without a rap ; Christie has 
 houses, boats, nets, and money ; you 
 are in debt ; she lays by money every 
 week. It is not prudent on her part 
 to take up with you, — the better 
 your bargain, my lad." 
 
 Under the head of common sense, 
 which she maintained was all on the 
 same side of the question, she calmly 
 inquired : — 
 
 " How could an old woman of six- 
 ty be competent to judge how far 
 human happiness depends on love, 
 when she has no experience of that 
 passion, and the reminiscences of her 
 youth have become dim and dark ? 
 You might as well set a judge in 
 court, that has forgotten the law, — 
 common sense," said she, " the old 
 wife is sixty, and you are twenty, — 
 what can she do for you the forty years 
 you may reckon to outlive her? Who 
 is to keep you through those weary 
 years but the wife of your own choice, 
 not your mother's ? You English 
 does na read the Bible, or ye 'd ken 
 that a lad is to ' leave his father and 
 mother, and cleave until his wife,' " 
 added she; then with great contempt 
 she repeated, " common sense, in- 
 deed ! ye 're fou wi' your common 
 sense ; ye hae the name o' 't pat cneuch, 
 — but there 's na muckle o' that mair- 
 chandisc in your hams." 
 
 Gatty was astonished : what ! was 
 there really common sense on the side 
 of bliss 1 and when Jean told him to 
 
 join her party at Inch Coombe, ot 
 never look her in the face again, scales 
 seemed to fall from his eyes ; and, with 
 a heart that turned in a moment fiom 
 lead to a feather, he vowed he would 
 be at Inch Coombe. 
 
 He then begged Jean on no account 
 to tell Christie the struggle he had 
 been subjected to, since his scruples 
 were now entirely conquered. 
 
 Jean acquiesced at once, and said : 
 " Indeed, she would be very sorry to 
 give the lass that muckle pain." 
 
 She hinted, moreover, that her nee- 
 bor's spirit was so high, she was quite 
 capable of breaking with him at once 
 upon such an intimation ; and she, 
 Jean, was " nae mischief-maker." 
 
 In the energy of his gratitude, he 
 kissed this dark-browed beauty, pro- 
 fessing to see in her a sister. 
 
 And she made no resistance to this 
 way of showing gratitude, but mut- 
 tered between her teeth, " He 's just a 
 bairn ! " 
 
 And so she went about her business. 
 
 On her retreat, his mother returned 
 to him, and, with a sad air, hoped 
 nothing that that rude girl had said 
 had weakened his filial duty. 
 
 " No, mother," said he. 
 
 She then, without explaining how 
 she came acquainted with Jean's ar- 
 guments, proceeded to demolish them 
 one by one. 
 
 " If your mother is old and experi- 
 enced," said she, " benefit by her age 
 and experience. She has not forgot- 
 ten love, nor the ills it leads to, when 
 not fortified by prudence. Scripture 
 says a man shall cleave to his wife 
 when he has left his parents ; but in 
 making that, the most important step 
 of life, where do you read that he is to 
 break the fifth commandment ? But I 
 do you wrong, Charles, you never 
 could have listened to that vulgar girl 
 when she told you your mother was 
 not your best friend." 
 
 '• N — no, mother, of course not." 
 
 " Then you will not go to that place 
 to break my heart, and undo all you 
 have done this week." 
 
 " I should like to go, mother."
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 143 
 
 "You will break my heart if you 
 ao." 
 
 " Christie will feel herself slighted, 
 and she has not deserved this treat- 
 ment from me." 
 
 " The other will explain to her, and 
 if she is as good a girl as you say — " 
 
 " She is an angel ! " 
 
 " How can a fishwife be an angel ? 
 Well, then, she will not set a sou to 
 disobey his mother." 
 
 " I don't think she would ! but is 
 all the goodness to be on her side ? " 
 
 " No, Charles, you do your part ; 
 deny yourself, be an obedient child, 
 and your mother's blessing and the 
 blessing of Heaven will rest upon 
 you." 
 
 In short, he was not to go to Inch 
 Coombe. 
 
 He stayed at home, his mother set 
 him to work ; he made a poor hand 
 of it, he was so wretched. She at last 
 took compassion on him, and in the 
 evening, when it was now too late for 
 a Bail to Inch Coombe, she herself 
 recommended a walk to him. 
 
 The poor hoy's feet took him to- 
 wards Newhaven, not that he meant 
 to go to his love, but he could not for- 
 bear from looking at the place which 
 held her. 
 
 He was about to return, when a 
 spacious blue jacket hailed him. 
 Somewhere inside this jacket was 
 Master Flacker, who had returned in 
 the yacht, leaving his sister on the isl- 
 and. 
 
 Gatty instantly poured out a flood 
 of questions. 
 
 The bad dish boy reciprocated flu- 
 ency : he informed him " that his sis- 
 ter had been the star of a goodly com- 
 pany, and that, her own lad having 
 stayed away, she had condescended to 
 make a conquest of the skipper him- 
 self. 
 
 " He had come in quite at the tao:- 
 end of one of her stories, but it had 
 been sufficient to do his business, — 
 he had danced with her, had even 
 whistled whilst she snug. (Ilech, it 
 was boiiny ! ) 
 
 " And when the cutter sailed, lie, 
 
 Flucker, had seen her perched on 
 a rock, like a mermaid, watching their 
 progress, which had been slow, be- 
 cause the skipper, infatuated with so 
 sudden a passion, had made a series 
 of ungrammatical tacks." 
 
 For his part he was glad, said the 
 gracious Flucker ; the lass was a pridc- 
 i'ul hussy, that had given some twenty 
 lads a sore heart and him many a sore 
 back ; and he hoped his skipper, with 
 whom he naturally identified himself 
 rather than with his sister, would 
 avenge the male sex upon her." 
 
 In short, he went upon this tack till 
 he drove poor Gatty nearly mad. 
 
 Here was a new feeling superadded ; 
 at first he felt injured, but on reflection 
 what cause of complaint had he 1 
 
 He had neglected her ; he might 
 have been her partner, — he had left 
 her to find one where she could. 
 
 Fool, to suppose that so beautiful a 
 creature would ever be neglected — 
 except by him ! 
 
 It was more than he could bear. 
 
 He determined to see her, to ask her 
 forgiveness, to tell her everything, to 
 beg her to decide, and, for his part, ho 
 would abide by her decision. 
 
 Christie Johnstone, as wo have al- 
 ready related, declined his arm, sprang 
 like a deer upon the pier, and walked 
 towards her home, a quarter of a mile 
 distant. 
 
 Gatty followed her, disconsolately, 
 hardly knowing what to do. 
 
 At last, observing that she drew 
 near enough to the wall to allow room 
 for another on the causeway, he had 
 just nous enough to creep alongside, 
 and pull her sleeve somewhat tim- 
 idly. 
 
 " Christie, I want to speak to you." 
 
 " What can ye hae to say till me ? " 
 
 " Christie, I am very unhappy ; and 
 I want to tell you why, but I have 
 hardly the Btrength or the courage." 
 
 " Ye shall come hen my boose if yo 
 are unhappy, and we '11 hear your sto- 
 ry ; come away." 
 
 " He had never been admitted into her 
 bouse before. 
 
 They found it clean as a snowdrift.
 
 144 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 They found a bright fire, and Fluck- 
 er frying innumerable steaks. 
 
 The baddish boy had obtained them 
 in his sister's name and at her ex- 
 pense, at the flesher's, and claimed 
 credit for his affection. 
 
 Potatoes he had boiled in their jack- 
 ets, and so skilfully, that those jackets 
 hung by a thread. 
 
 Christie laid an unbleached table- 
 cloth, that somehow looked sweeter 
 than a white one, as brown bread is 
 sweeter than white. 
 
 But lo, Gatty could not eat ; so then 
 Christie would not, because he refused 
 her cheer. 
 
 The baddish boy chuckled, and ad- 
 dressed himself to the nice brown 
 steaks with their rich gravy. 
 
 On such occasions a solo on the 
 knife and fork seemed better than a 
 trio to the gracious Flucker. 
 
 Christie moved about the room, do- 
 ing little household matters ; Gatty's 
 eye followed her. 
 
 Pier beauty lost nothing in this small 
 apartment ; she was here, like a bril- 
 liant in some quaint, rough setting, 
 which all earth's jewellers should de- 
 spise, and all its poets admire, and it 
 should show off the stone and not 
 itself. 
 
 Her beauty filled the room, and al- 
 most made the spectators ill. 
 
 Gatty asked himself whether he 
 could really have beeu such a fool as 
 to think of giving up so peerless a 
 creature. 
 
 Suddenly an idea occurred to him, 
 a bright one, and not inconsistent with 
 a true artist's character, — he would 
 decline to act in so doubtful a case : 
 he would float passively down the tide 
 of events, — he would neither desert 
 her, nor disobey his mother ; he would 
 take everything as it came, and to be- 
 gin, as he was there, he would for the 
 present say nothing but what he felt, 
 and what he felt was that he loved her. 
 
 lie told her so accordingly. 
 
 She replied, concealing her satisfac- 
 tion, " that, if he liked her, he would 
 not have refused to eat when she asked 
 him." 
 
 But our hero's appetite had returned 
 with his change of purpose, and he in- 
 stantly volunteered to give the re- 
 quired proof of affection. 
 
 Accordingly two pound of steaks fell 
 before him. 
 
 Poor boy, he had hardly eaten a 
 genuine meal for a week past. 
 
 Christie sat opposite hiin, and every 
 time he looked off his plate he saw 
 her rich blue eyes dwelling on him. 
 
 Everything contributed to warm his 
 heart, he yielded to the spell, he be- 
 came contented, happy, gay. 
 
 Flucker ginger-cordialled him, his 
 sister bewitched him. 
 
 She related the day's events in a 
 merry mood. 
 
 Mr. Gatty burst forth into singing. 
 
 He sung two light and sombre tri- 
 fles, such as in the present day are 
 deemed generally encouraging to spir- 
 its, and particularly in accordance 
 with the sentiment of supper, — they 
 were about Death and Ivy Green. 
 
 The dog's voice was not very pow- 
 erful, but sweet and round as honey 
 dropping from the comb. 
 
 His two hearers were entranced, for 
 the creature sang with an inspiration 
 good singers dare not indulge. 
 
 He concluded by informing Christie 
 that the ivy was symbolical of her, and 
 the oak prefigured Charles Gatty, Esq. 
 
 He might have inverted the simile 
 with more truth. 
 
 In short, he never said a word to 
 Christie about parting with her, but 
 several about being buried in the same 
 grave with her, sixty years hence, for 
 which the spot he selected was West- 
 minster Abbey. 
 
 And away he went, leaving golden 
 opinions behind him. 
 
 The next day Christie was so affect- 
 ed with his conduct, coming as it 
 did after an apparent coolness, that 
 she conquered her bashfulness and 
 called on the " Vile Count," and with 
 some blushes and hesitation inquired, 
 " Whether a painter lad was a fit sub- 
 ject of charity." 
 
 " Why not 7 " said his Lordship. 
 
 She then told him Gatty's case, and
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 145 
 
 he instantly promised to see that art- 
 ist's pictures, particularly ane " awfu' 
 bonny ane " ; the hero of which she 
 described as an English minister 
 blessing the bairns with one hand, 
 and giving orders to kill the puir 
 Scoetch with the other. 
 
 " C'est egal," said Christie in 
 Scotch, " it 's awfu' bonny." 
 
 Gatty reached home late ; his moth- 
 er had retired to rest. 
 
 But the next morning she drew 
 from him what had happened, and 
 then ensued another of those dialogues 
 which I am ashamed again to give the 
 reader. 
 
 Suffice it to say, that she once more 
 prevailed, though with far greater dif- 
 ficulty ; time was to be given him to 
 unsew a connection which he could 
 not cut asunder, and he, with tearful 
 eyes and a heavy heart, agreed to 
 take some step the very first opportu- 
 nity. 
 
 This concession was hardly out of 
 his mouth, ere his mother made him 
 kneel down and bestowed her blessing 
 upon him. 
 
 He received it coldly and dully, and 
 expressed a languid hope it might 
 prove a charm to save him from de- 
 spair ; and sad, bitter, and dejected, 
 breed himself to sit down and work 
 on the picture that was to meet his 
 unrelenting creditor's demand. 
 
 He was working on his picture, and 
 his mother, with her needle at the ta- 
 ble, when a knock was heard, and gay 
 as a lark, and fresh as the dew on the 
 shamrock, Christie Johnstone stood in 
 person in the apartment. 
 
 She was evidently the bearer of 
 good tidings ; but, before she could 
 express them, .Mrs. Gatty beckoned 
 hereon aside, and announcing, " she 
 should be within hearing," bade bins 
 take the occasion that so happily pre- 
 sented itself, and make the first Step. 
 
 At another time, Christie, who had 
 learned from Jean the arrival of Mis. 
 
 Gatty, would have been •track with 
 th' old lady's silence-; but she came 
 to bell the depressed painti r thai the 
 
 charitable Viscount was about to visit 
 7 
 
 him and his picture; and she was so 
 full of the good fortune likely to en- 
 sue, that she was neglectful of minor 
 considerations. 
 
 It so happened, however, that cer- 
 tain interruptions prevented her from 
 ever delivering herself of the news in 
 question. 
 
 First, Gatty himself came to her, 
 and, casting uneasy glances at the 
 door by which his mother had just 
 gone out, said : — 
 
 " Christie ! " 
 
 " My lad ! " 
 
 " I want to paint your likeness." 
 
 This was for a souvenir, poor fellow ! 
 
 " Hech ! I wad like fine to be paint- 
 ed." 
 
 " It must be exactly the same size 
 as yourself, and so like you, that, 
 should we be parted, I may seem not 
 to be quite alone in the world." 
 
 Here he was obliged to turn his 
 head away. 
 
 " But we '11 no pairt," replied Chris- 
 tie, cheerfully. " Suppose ye 're puir, 
 I 'm rich, and it 's a' one ; dinna be 
 so cast down for auchty pund." 
 
 At this, a slipshod servant entered, 
 and said : — 
 
 " There 's a fisher lad, inquiring for 
 Christie Johnstone." 
 
 " It will be Flucker,"said Christie; 
 " show him ben. What 's wrang the 
 noo, I wonder ! " 
 
 The baddish boy entered, took up 
 a position, and remained apparently 
 passive, hands in pockets. 
 
 < 'hristie. " Awed, what est ? " 
 Flucker. " Custy." 
 
 Christie. " What 's your will, my 
 inanny 1 " 
 
 Flucker. " Custy, I was at Inch 
 Keith the day." 
 
 Christie. " And hac ye really come 
 to Edinbro' to tell me thaat 1 " 
 
 Flucker (dryly). " Oh ! ye ken the 
 lasses are a hantle wiser than we are, 
 — will ye hear me? South Inch Keith, 
 I played a howl i' the water, just for 
 divaiiMon, — ami I eatched twarree 
 fish!" 
 
 < 'hristie. " Floonders, I bet." 
 Flucker. " Does floonders swim 
 
 J
 
 146 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 high 1 I '11 let you see his gills, and 
 if ye are a reieht fishwife ye '11 smell 
 bluid." 
 
 Here he opened his jacket, and 
 showed a bright little fish. 
 
 In a moment all Christie's noncha- 
 lance gave way to a fiery animation. 
 She darted to Flucker's side. 
 
 " Ye hae na been sac daft as tell ? " 
 asked she. 
 
 Flucker shook his head contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 " Ony birds at the island, Flucker ? " 
 
 " Sea-maws, plenty, and a bird I 
 dinna ken ; he moonted sae high, then 
 doon like thunder intil the sea, and 
 gart the water flee as high as Hainan, 
 and porpoises as big as my boat." 
 
 " Forr-poises, fulish laddy, — ye hae 
 seen the herrin whale at his wark, and 
 the solant guse ye hae seen her at 
 wark ; and beneath the sea, Flucker, 
 every coedfish and doegfish, and fish 
 that has teeth, is after them ; and half 
 Scotland wad be at Inch Keith Island 
 if they kenned what ye hae tell 't me, 
 — dinna speak to me." 
 
 During this, Gatty, who did not 
 comprehend this sudden excitement, 
 or thought it childish, had tried in 
 vain to win her attention. 
 
 At last he said, a little peevishly, 
 " Will you not attend to me, and tell 
 me at least when you will sit to me 1 " 
 
 " Set ! " cried she. " When there 's 
 nae wark to be done stanning." 
 
 And with this she was gone. — At 
 the foot of the stairs, she said to her 
 brother : — 
 
 " Puir lad ! I '11 sune draw auchty 
 punds fra' the sea for him, with my 
 feythcr's nets." 
 
 As she disappeared, Mrs. Gatty ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " And this is the woman whose 
 mind was not in her dirty business," 
 cried she. 
 
 " Docs not that open your eyes, 
 Charles ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Charles," added she, ten- 
 derly, " there 's no friend like a moth- 
 er." 
 
 And off she carried the prize, — 
 his vanity had been mortified. 
 
 And so that happened to Christie 
 Johnstone which has befallen many 
 a woman, — the greatness of her love 
 made that love appear small to her 
 lover. 
 
 " Ah ! mother," cried he, " I must 
 live for you and my art ; I am not so 
 dear to her as I thought." 
 
 And so, with a sad heart, he turned 
 away from her ; whilst she, with a 
 light heart, darted away to think and 
 act for him. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was some two hours after this 
 that a gentleman, plainly dressed, but 
 whose clothes seemed a part of him- 
 self (whereas mine I have observed 
 hang upon me ; and the liev. Josiah 
 Splitall's stick to him), — glided into 
 the painter's room, with an inquiry 
 whether he had not a picture or two 
 disposable. 
 
 " I have one finished picture, sir," 
 said the poor boy ; " but the price is 
 high ! " 
 
 He brought it, in a faint-hearted 
 way ; for lie had shown it to five 
 picture-dealers, and all five agreed it 
 was hard. 
 
 He had painted a lime-tree, distant 
 fifty yards, and so painted it that it 
 looked something like a lime-tree fifty 
 yards off. 
 
 " That was mesquin," said his 
 judges ; " the poetry of painting re- 
 quired abstract trees, at metaphysi- 
 cal distance, not the various trees of 
 nature, as they appear under positive 
 accidents." 
 
 On this Mr. Gatty had deluged 
 them with words. 
 
 " When it is art, truth, or sense 
 to fuse a cow, a horse, and a critic 
 into one undistinguishable quadruped, 
 with six legs, then it will be art to 
 melt an ash, an elm, and a lime, 
 things that differ more than quadru- 
 peds, into what you call abstract trees, 
 that any man who has seen a tree, as 
 well as looked at one, would call 
 drunken stinging-nettles. You, who
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 147 
 
 never look at nature, how can you 
 judge the arts, which are all but cop- 
 ies of nature ? At two hundred yards' 
 distance, full-grown trees are more 
 distinguishable than the animal tribe. 
 Paint me an abstract human being, 
 neither man nor a woman," said he, 
 " and then I will agree to paint a 
 tree that shall be no tree; and, if no 
 man will buy it, perhaps the father of 
 lies will take it off my hands, and 
 hang it in the only place it would not 
 disgrace." 
 
 In short, he never left off till he had 
 crushed the non-buyers with eloquence 
 and satire; but he could not crush 
 them into buyers, — they beat him at 
 the passive retort. 
 
 Poor Gatty, when the momentary 
 excitement of argument had subsided, 
 drank the bitter cup all must drink 
 awhile, whose hark is alive and strong 
 enough to stem the current down 
 which the dead, weak things of the 
 world are drifting, many of them into 
 safe harbors. 
 
 And now he brought out his pic- 
 ture with a heavy heart. 
 
 " Now," said he to himself, " this 
 gentleman will talk me dead, and 
 leave me no richer in coin, and poorer 
 in time and patience." 
 
 The picture was placed in a light, 
 the visitor sat down before it. 
 
 A long pause ensued. 
 
 " Has he fainted ? " thought Gatty, 
 ironically ; " he does n't gabble." 
 
 " If you do not mind painting be- 
 fore me," said the visitor, " I should 
 be glad if you would continue whilst 
 I look into this picture." 
 
 Gatty painted. 
 
 The visitor held his tongue. 
 
 At first the silence made the artist 
 uneasy, but by degrees it began to 
 j^ive him pleasure ; whoever this was, 
 it was not one of the flies that had 
 hitherto stung him, nor the jackdaws 
 that hail chattered hitn dead. 
 
 Glorious silence I he began to paint 
 under its influence like one inspired. 
 
 Half an hour passed thus. 
 
 " What is the price of this work of 
 art '( " 
 
 " Eighty pounds." 
 
 " I take it," said his visitor, quietly. 
 
 What, no more difficulty than 
 that? He felt almost disappointed 
 at gaining his object so easily. 
 
 " I am obliged to you, sir ; much 
 obliged to you," he added, for he re- 
 fleeted what eighty pounds were to 
 him just then. 
 
 " It is my descendants who are 
 obliged to you," replied the gentle- 
 man ; " the picture is immortal ! " 
 
 These words were an epoch in the 
 painter's life. 
 
 The grave, silent inspection that 
 had preceded them, the cool, deliber- 
 ate, masterly tone in which they were 
 said, made them oracular to him. 
 
 Words of such import took him by 
 surprise. 
 
 He had thirsted for average praise 
 in vain. 
 
 A hand had taken him, and placed 
 him at the top of the tree. 
 
 He retired abruptly, or he would 
 have burst into tears. 
 
 He ran to his mother. 
 
 " Mother," said he, " I am a paint- 
 er; I always thought so at bottom, 
 but I suppose it is the height of my 
 ideas makes me discontented with my 
 work." 
 
 " What has happened ? " 
 
 " There is a critic in my room. I 
 had no idea there was a critic in the 
 creation, and there is one in my room." 
 
 " lias he bought your picture, my 
 poor boy ? " said Mrs. Gattv, distrust- 
 fully. 
 
 To her surprise he replied : — 
 
 "Yes! he has got it; only eighty 
 pounds for an immortal picture." 
 
 Mrs. Gatty was overjoyed, Gatty 
 was a little sad ; but, reviving, he 
 professed himself glad ; the picture 
 was going to a judge. 
 
 " It is not much money," said he, 
 " but the man has spoken words that 
 are ten thousand pounds to me." 
 
 He returned to the room ; his vis- 
 itor, hat in hand, was about to go; a 
 few winds were spoken about the art 
 of painting, this led to a conversation* 
 ami then to a short discussion.
 
 148 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 The new-comer soon showed Mr. 
 Charles Gatty liis ignorance of facts. 
 
 This man had sat quietly before a 
 multitude of great pictures, new and 
 old, in England. 
 
 He cooled down Charles Gatty, 
 Esq., monopolist of nature and truth. 
 
 He quoted to him thirty painters in 
 Germany, who paint every stroke of a 
 landscape in the open air, and forty 
 in various nations who had done it in 
 times past. 
 
 " You, sir," he went on, " appear 
 to hang on the skirts of a certain 
 clique, who handle the brush well, 
 but draw ill, and look at nature 
 through the spectacles of certain igno- 
 rant painters who spoiled canvas four 
 hundred years ago. 
 
 " Go no further in that direction. 
 
 " Those boys, like all quacks, have 
 one great truth which they disfigure 
 With more than one falsehood. 
 
 " Hold fast their truth, which is a 
 truth the world has always possessed, 
 though its practice has been confined 
 to the honest and laborious few. 
 
 " Eschew their want of mind and 
 taste. 
 
 " Shrink with horror from that pro- 
 fane culte de luideur, that ' love of the 
 lop-sided,' they have recovered from 
 the foul receptacles of decayed art.' " 
 
 He reminded him further, that 
 " Art is not imitation, but illusion ; 
 that a plumber and glazier of our day 
 and a mediaeval painter are more 
 alike than any two representatives of 
 general styles that can be found ; and 
 for the same reason, namely, that with 
 each of these art is in its infancy ; 
 these two sets of bunglers have not 
 learned how to produce the illusions 
 of art." 
 
 To all this he added a few words of 
 compliment on the mind, as well as 
 mechanical dexterity, of the purchased 
 picture, bade him good morning, and 
 glided away like a passing sunbeam. 
 
 "A mother's blessing is a great 
 thing to have, and to deserve," said 
 Mrs. Gatty, who had rejoined her 
 son. 
 
 " It is, indeed," said Charles. He 
 
 could not help being struck by the 
 coincidence. 
 
 He had made a sacrifice to his 
 mother, and in a few hours one of his 
 troubles had melted away. 
 
 In the midst of these reflections ar- 
 rived Mr. Saunders with a note. 
 
 The note contained a check for one 
 hundred and fifty pounds, with these 
 lines, in which the writer excused 
 himself for the amendment : "I -am a 
 painter myself," said he, " and it is 
 impossible that eighty pounds can 
 remunerate the time expended on this 
 picture, to say nothing of the skill." 
 
 We have treated this poor boy's pic- 
 ture hitherto with just contempt, but 
 now that it is gone into a famous collec- 
 tion, mind, we always admired it ; we 
 always said so, we take our oath we 
 did ; if we have hitherto deferred fram- 
 ing it, that was merely because it was 
 not sold. 
 
 Mr. Gattt's Picture, at present 
 in the Collection of Lord Irs> 
 den ! 
 
 There was, hundreds of years ago, 
 a certain Bishop of Durham, who used 
 to fight in person against the Scotch, 
 and defeat them. When he was not 
 with his flock, the northern wolves 
 sometimes scattered it ; but when the 
 holy father was there, with his prayers 
 and his battle-axe, England won the 
 day ! 
 
 This nettled the Scottish king, so he 
 penetrated one day, witli a large band, 
 as far as Durham itself, and for a 
 short time blocked the prelate up in 
 his stronghold. This was the period 
 of Mr. Gatty 's picture. 
 
 Whose title was : — 
 
 " Half Church of God, half Tower 
 against the Scot." 
 
 In the background was the cathe- 
 dral, on the towers of which paced to 
 and fro men in armor, with the west- 
 ern sun glittering thereon. In the 
 centre, a horse and cart, led by a boy, 
 were carrying a sheaf of arrows, tied 
 with a straw band. In part of the 
 foreground was the prelate, in a half-
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 149 
 
 suit of armor, but* bareheaded; he 
 was turning away from the boy to 
 whom his sinking hand had indicated 
 his way into the holy castle, and his 
 benignant glance rested on a child, 
 whom its mother was holding up for 
 his benediction. In the foreground 
 the afternoon beams sprinkled gold ok 
 a long grassy slope, corresponding to 
 the elevation on which the cathedral 
 stood, separated by the river Wear 
 from the group; and these calm beau- 
 tics of Nature, with the mother and 
 child, were the peaceful side of this 
 twofold story. 
 
 Such are the dry details. But the 
 soul of its charm no pen can fling on 
 paper. For the stately cathedral stood 
 and lived ; the little leaves slumbered 
 yet lived ; and the story floated and 
 lived, in the potable gold of summer 
 afternoon. 
 
 To look at this painted poem was 
 to feel a thrill of pleasure in bare ex- 
 istence ; it went through the eyes, 
 where paintings stop, and warmed the 
 depths and recesses of the heart with 
 its sunshine and its glorious air. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " What is in the wind this dark 
 night ? Six Newhavcn boats and 
 twenty hoys and hobbledehoys, hired 
 by the Johnstones at half a crown 
 each for a night's job." 
 
 " Secret service ! " 
 
 " What is it for ? " 
 
 " 1 think it is a smuggling lay," 
 suggested Flucker, " but we shall 
 know all in good time." 
 
 " Smuggling ! " Their counte- 
 nances fell ; they had hoped for some- 
 thing more nearly approaching the il- 
 
 lcgaf." 
 
 " Maybe she has fand the hcrrin'," 
 said a ten-year-old. 
 
 " Haw! 'haw ! haw ! " went the oth 
 ers. " She lind the hcrrin', when 
 there's five lunched fishermen after 
 then uai.h sides the Firnh." 
 
 The youngster was discomfited. 
 
 In fact the expedition bore no signs 
 of fishing. 
 
 The, six boats sailed at sundown, 
 led by Flucker: he brought to on the 
 south side of Inch Keith, and nothing 
 happened for about an hour. 
 
 Then such boys as were awake saw 
 two great eves of light coming up 
 from Granton ; rattle went the chain 
 cable, and Lord Ipsden's cutter swung 
 at anchor in four fathom water. 
 
 A thousand questions to Flucker. 
 
 A single puff of tobacco-smoke was 
 his answer. 
 
 And now crept up a single eye of 
 light from Leith; she came among 
 the boats ; the boys recognized a cra- 
 zy old cutter from Leith harbor, with 
 Christie Johnstone on board. 
 
 " What is that brown heap on her 
 deck ? " 
 
 " A mountain of nets, — fifty stout 
 herring-nets." 
 
 Tunc manifesto, fides. 
 
 A yell burst from all the boys. 
 
 " He 's gaun to tak us to Dunbar." 
 
 " Half a croown i ye 're uo Mate." 
 
 Christie ordered the boats alongside 
 her cutter, and five nets were dropped 
 into each boat, six into Flucker's. 
 
 The depth of water was given them, 
 and they were instructed to shoot their 
 nets so as to keep a fathom and a half 
 above the rocky bottom. 
 
 A herring net is simply a wall of 
 meshes twelve feet deep, fifty feet 
 long; it sinks to a vertical position 
 by the weight of net twine, and is 
 kept from sinking to the bottom of 
 the sea by bladders or corks. These 
 nets are tied to one another, and paid 
 out at the stern of the boat. Boat and 
 nets drift with the tide ; if, therefore, 
 the nets touched the rocks they would 
 be torn to pieces, and the fisherman 
 ruined. 
 
 And this saves the herring, — that 
 fish lies hours and hours at the very 
 bottom of the sea like a stone, and the 
 poor fisherman shall drive with his 
 nets a yard or two over a square mile 
 of flgh, ami not catch a herring tail ; 
 on the other hand, if they rise to play
 
 150 
 
 CHRISTIE JOIINSTOXE. 
 
 for five minutes, in that five minutes 
 they shall fill seven hundred boats. 
 
 At nine o'clock all the boats had 
 shot their nets, and Christie went 
 alongside his Lordship's cutter; he 
 asked her many questions about her- 
 ring fishery, to which she gave clear 
 answers, derived from her father, who 
 had always been what the fishermen 
 call a lucky fisherman ; that is, he had 
 opened his eyes and judged for himself. 
 
 Lord Ipsden then gave her blue 
 lights to distribute among the boats, 
 that the first which caught herring 
 might signal all hands. 
 
 This was done, and all was expec- 
 tation. 
 
 Eleven o'clock came, — no signal 
 from any boat. 
 
 Christie became anxious : at last 
 she went round to the boats ; found 
 the boys all asleep except the baddish 
 boy ; waked them up, and made them 
 all haul in their first net. The nets 
 came in as black as ink, no sign of a 
 herring. 
 
 There was hut one opinion ; there 
 was no herring at Inch Keith ; they 
 had not been there this seven years. 
 
 At last, Flucker, to whom she came 
 in turn, told her he was going into 
 two fathom water, where he would let 
 out the bladders and drop the nets on 
 their cursed backs. 
 
 A strong remonstrance was made 
 by Christie, but the baddish boy in- 
 sisted that he had an equal right in 
 all her nets, and, setting his sail, he 
 ran into shoal water. 
 
 Christie began to be sorrowful ; in- 
 stead of making money, she was going 
 to throw it away, and the neer-do-weel 
 Flucker would tear six nets from the 
 ropes. 
 
 Flucker hauled down his sail, and 
 unstepped his mast in two fathom 
 water ; but he was not such a fool as 
 to risk his six nets ; he devoted one 
 to his experiment, and did it well ; 
 he let out his bladder line a fathom, 
 so that one half his net would liter- 
 ally be higgledy-piggledy with the 
 rocks, unless the fish were there en 
 mouse. 
 
 No long time .was required. 
 
 In five minutes he began to haul in 
 the net ; first, the boys hauled in the 
 rope, and then the net began to ap- 
 proach the surface. Flucker looked 
 anxiously down, the other lads in- 
 credulously ; suddenly they all gave 
 a yell of triumph, — an appearance of 
 silver and lightning mixed had glanced 
 up from the bottom ; in came the first 
 two yards of the net, — there were 
 three herrings in it. These three 
 proved Flucker's point as well as 
 three million. 
 
 They hauled in the net. Before 
 they had a quarter of it in, the net 
 came up to the surface, and the sea 
 was alive with molten silver. The 
 upper half of the net was empty, but 
 the lower half was one solid mass of 
 fish. 
 
 The boys could not find a mesh, 
 they had nothing to handle but fish. 
 
 At this moment the easternmost 
 boat showed a blue light. 
 
 " The fish are rising," said Flucker, 
 " we '11 na risk nae mair nets." 
 
 Soon after this a sort of song was 
 heard from the boat that had showed 
 a light. Flucker, who had got his net 
 in, ran down to her, and found, as he 
 suspected, that the boys had not pow- 
 er to draw the weight of fish over the 
 gunwale. 
 
 They were singing, as sailors do, 
 that they might all pull together ; he 
 gave them two of his crew, and ran 
 down to his own skipper. 
 
 The said skipper gave him four men. 
 
 Another blue light! 
 
 Christie and her crew came a little 
 nearer the boats, and shot twelve nets. 
 
 The yachtsmen entered the sport 
 with zeal, so did his Lordship. 
 
 The boats were all full in a few min- 
 utes, and nets still out. 
 
 Then Flucker began to fear some 
 of these nets would sink with the 
 weight of fish; for the herring die 
 after a while in a net, and a dead her- 
 ring sinks. 
 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 They got two boats alongside the 
 (ntter, and unloaded them into her as
 
 CKRISTIK JOHNSTONE. 
 
 151 
 
 well as they could; but before they 
 could half do this the other boats 
 bailed them. 
 
 They came to one of them ; the 
 boys were struggling with a thing 
 which no stranger would have 
 dreamed was a net. 
 
 Imagine a white sheet, fifty feet 
 long, varnished with red-hot silver : 
 there were twenty barrels in this sin- 
 gle net. By dint of fresh hands they 
 got half of her in, and then the mesh- 
 es began to break ; the men leaned 
 over the gunwale, and put their arms 
 round blocks and masses of fish, and 
 so Hung them on board ; and the cod- 
 fish and dog-fish snapped them almost 
 out of the men's hands like tigers. 
 
 At last, they came to a net, which 
 was a double wall of herring; it had 
 been some time in the water, and 
 many of the fish were dead ; they 
 tried their best, but it was impracti- 
 cable ; they laid hold of the solid her- 
 ring, and when they lifted up a hun- 
 dred-weight clear of the water, away 
 it all tore, and sank back again. 
 
 They were obliged to cut away this 
 net, with twenty pounds sterling in 
 her. They cut away the twine from 
 the head-ropes, and net and fish went 
 to the bottom. 
 
 All hands were now about the cut- 
 ter ; Christie's nets were all strong 
 and new ; they had been some time 
 in the water; in hauling them up her 
 side, quantities offish fell out of the 
 net into the water, but there were 
 enough left. 
 
 She averaged twelve barrels a net. 
 
 Sued of the yawls as were not quite 
 full crept between the cutter and the 
 nets, and caught all they wanted. 
 
 The projector of this fortunate spec- 
 ulation suddenly announced that she 
 was very sleepy. 
 
 Flacker rolled her up in a sail, and 
 she slept the sleep of infancy on board 
 her cutter. 
 
 When she awoke it was seven 
 o'clock in the morning, and her cut- 
 ter was creeping with a smart breeze, 
 about two miles an hour, a mile from 
 Newhaven pier. 
 
 The yacht had returned to Gran- 
 ton, and the yawls, very low in the 
 water, were creeping along like snails, 
 with both sails set. 
 
 The news was in Edinburgh long 
 before they landed. 
 
 They had been discerned under 
 Inch Keith at the dawn. 
 
 And the manner of their creeping 
 along, when there was such a breeze, 
 told the tale at once to the keen, ex- 
 perienced eyes that are sure to be 
 scanning the sea. 
 
 Donkey-carts came rattling down 
 from the capital. 
 
 Merchants came pelting down to 
 Newhaven pier. 
 
 The whole story began to be put 
 together by bits, and comprehended. 
 
 Old Johnstone's cleverness was re- 
 called to mind. 
 
 The few fishermen left at Newhaven 
 were ready to kill themselves. 
 
 Their wives were ready to do the 
 same good office for La Johnstone. 
 
 Four Irish merchants agreed to 
 work together, and to make a show 
 of competition, the better to keep the 
 price down within bounds. 
 
 It was hardly fair, four men against 
 one innocent unguarded female. 
 
 But this is a wicked world. 
 
 Christie landed, and proceeded to 
 her own house ; on the way she was 
 met by Jean Carnie, who debarrassed 
 her of certain wrappers, and a hand- 
 kerchief she had tied round her head, 
 and informed her she was the pride 
 of Newhaven. 
 
 She next met these four little mep 
 chants, one after another. 
 
 And since we ought to dwell as lit- 
 tle as possible upon scenes in which 
 unguarded innocence is exposed to 
 artful conspiracies, we will put a page 
 or two into the brute form of dramatic 
 dialogue, and so sail through it quick' 
 er. 
 
 \st Merchant. "Where are ye go- 
 ing, Meggie 1 " 
 
 ( 'hristie .Johnstone. " If onybody 
 asks ye, say ye dinna ken." 
 
 1st M,r." " Will ye sell your fish 1 " 
 
 Christie. " Suner than gic them."
 
 152 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 1st Mer. " You will be asking fif- 
 teen sliillin' the cran." 
 
 Christie. " And ten to that." 
 1st Mer. " Good morning." 
 2rf Mer. " Would lie not go over 
 fifteen shillings ? O, the thief o' the 
 world ! — I '11 give sixteen." 
 
 3d Mer. " But I 'II give eighteen." 
 2d Mer. " More fool you ! Take 
 him up, my girl." 
 
 Christie. " Twenty-five is my price 
 the day." 
 
 3d Mer. " You will keep them till 
 Sunday week and sell their bones." 
 
 [Exeunt the three Merchants. 
 Enter 4th Merchant. 
 
 4th Mer. " Are your fish sold ? 
 I'll give sixteen shillings." 
 
 ( hristie. " I 'm seeking twenty- 
 five, an' I'm olFered eighteen." 
 
 4th Mer. " Take it." [Exit. 
 
 Christie. " They hae putten their 
 heads thegither." 
 
 Here Flucker came up to her, and 
 told her there was a Leith merchant 
 looking for her. " And, Custy," said 
 he, there 's plenty wind getting up, 
 your fish will be sair hashed ; put 
 them off your hands, I rede ye." 
 
 Christie. " Ay, lad ! Flucker, hide, 
 an' when I play my hand sae, ye '11 
 run in an' cry, ' Cirsty, the Irishman 
 will pic ye twenty-two schellin the 
 cran.' " 
 
 Flucker. " Ye ken mair than 's in 
 the catechcesm, for as releegious as ye 
 are." 
 
 The Leith merchant was Mr. Mil- 
 ler, and this is the way he worked. 
 
 Miller (in a mellifluous voice). " Are 
 ye no fatigued, my doear ? " 
 
 Christie (affecting fatigue). " Indeed, 
 sir, and I am." 
 
 Miller. " Shall I have the pleasure 
 to deal wi' ye 7 " 
 
 Christie. " If it 's your pleasure, 
 sir. I 'm seekin' twenty-five schel- 
 lin." 
 
 Miller (pretending not to hear). " As 
 you are a beginner, I must offer fair ; 
 twenty schellin you shall have, and 
 that 's three shillings above Dunbar." 
 
 Christie. " Wad ye even carted 
 
 hcrrin with my fish caller fra' the sea? 
 and Dunbar, — O fine ! ye ken there 's 
 nae herrin at Dunbar the morn ; this 
 is the Dunbar schule that slipped 
 westward : I 'm the mairket, ye '11 
 hae to buy o' me or gang to your 
 bed " (here she signalled to Flucker). 
 " I '11 no be oot o' mine lang." 
 
 Enter Flucker hastily, crying : " Cirs- 
 ty, the Irishman will gie ye twenty- 
 two schellin." 
 
 " I '11 no tak it," said Christie. 
 
 " They are keen to hae them," said 
 Flucker ; and hastily retired, as if to 
 treat further with the small mer- 
 chants. 
 
 On this, Mr. Miller, pretending to 
 make for Leith, said, carelessly, 
 " Twenty-three shillings, or they are 
 not for me." 
 
 " Tak the cutter's freight at a hun- 
 dre' cran, an' I 'm no caring," said 
 Christie. 
 
 " They are mine ! " said Mr. Miller, 
 very sharply. " How much shall I 
 give you the day ? " 
 
 " Auchty pund, sir, if you please, — 
 the lave when you like; I ken ye, 
 Mr. Miller." 
 
 Whilst counting her the notes, the 
 purchaser said slyly to her : — 
 
 "There's more than a hundred 
 cran in the cutter, my woman." 
 
 "A little, sir," replied the vendor; 
 " but, ere I could count them till ye 
 by baskets, they would lose seven or 
 eight cran in book,* your gain, my 
 loss." 
 
 " You are a vara intelligent young 
 person," said Mr. Miller, gravely. 
 
 " Ye had measured them wi' your 
 walking-stick, sir; there's just ae 
 scale ve didna wipe off, though ye are 
 a caiefu' mon, Mr. Miller ; sae I laid 
 the bait for ye an' fine ye took it." 
 
 Miller took out his snuff-box, and 
 tapping it said : — 
 
 " Will ye go into partnership with 
 me, my dear ? " 
 
 " Ay, sir ! " was the reply. " When 
 I 'm aulder an' ye 're younger." 
 
 At this moment the four merchants, 
 belie vmg it useless to disguise their 
 
 *Eulk.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 153 
 
 co-operation, returned to see what 
 could be done. 
 
 " We shall give you a guinea a 
 barrel." 
 
 " Why, ye offered her twenty-two 
 shillings before." 
 
 " That we never did, Mr. Miller." 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! " went Flucker. 
 
 Christie looked down and blushed. 
 
 Eyes met eyes, and without a word 
 spoken all was comprehended and si- 
 lently approved. There was no non- 
 sense uttered about morality in con- 
 nection with dealing. 
 
 Mr. Miller took an enormous pinch 
 of snuff", and drew for the benefit of 
 all present the following inference : — 
 
 Mr. Miller's Apothegm. 
 
 "Friends and neighbors! when a 
 man's heed is gray with age and 
 thoucht (pause), he 's just fit to go 
 to schule to a young lass o' twenty." 
 
 There was a certain middle-aged 
 fishwife, called Becny Liston, a tenant 
 of Christie Johnstone's ; she had not 
 paid her rent for some time,, and she 
 bad not been pressed for it; Whether 
 this, or the whiskey she was in the habit 
 of taking, rankled in her mind, certain 
 it is she had always an ill word for her 
 landlady. 
 
 She now met her, envied her suc- 
 cess, and called out in a coarse 
 tone : — 
 
 "<>, ye 're a gallant quean; ye '11 
 be waur than ever the noo." 
 
 " What 's wrang, if ye please ? " 
 said the Johnstone, sharply. 
 
 Header, did you ever see two fallow 
 bucks commence a duel ? 
 
 They si rut round, eight yards apart, 
 tails up, look carefully another way to 
 make the other think it all means 
 nothing, and, being both equally sly, 
 their horns come together as if by 
 concert. 
 
 Even so commenced this duel of 
 tongues between these two heroines. 
 
 Becny Liston, looking at everybody 
 out Christie, addressed the natives 
 who were congregating thus : — 
 
 " Did ever ye hear o' a decent lass 
 taking the lieirin' 001 o' the men's 
 7* 
 
 mooths'? — is yon a woman's pairt, 
 I 'm asking ye ? " 
 
 On this, Christie, looking carefully 
 at all the others except Beeny, in- 
 quired with an air of simple curiosi- 
 ty : — 
 
 " Can onybody tell me wha Liston 
 
 Carnie's drunken wife is speakin' till ? 
 no to ony decent lass, though. Na ! 
 ye ken she wad na hae th' impu' 
 denee ! " 
 
 " 0, ye ken fine I 'm speakin' till 
 yoursel'." 
 
 Here the horns clashed together. 
 
 " To me, woman ? " (with admirably 
 acted surprise.) " Oo, ay! it will be 
 for the twa years' rent you 're awin 
 me. Giest ! " 
 
 Beeny Liston. " Ye 're just the im- 
 pudentest girrl i' the toon, an' ye hae 
 proved it the day " (her arms akimbo), 
 
 Christie (arms akimbo). " Me, im- 
 pudent 1 how daur ye speak against 
 my charackter, that 's kenned for de- 
 cency o' baith sides the Firrth." 
 
 Beeny (contemptuously). "0, ye 're 
 sly enough to beguile the men, but we 
 ken ye." 
 
 Christie. " I 'm no sly, and " (draw- 
 in/ near and hissing the words) "I'm no 
 like the woman Jean an' I saw in Rose 
 Street, dead drunk on the causeway, 
 while her mon was working for her at 
 sea. If ye 're no ben your hoose in 
 ac minute, I '11 say that will gar Lis- 
 ton Cairnie fling ye ower the pier-head, 
 ye fool-moothed drunken leear — 
 Scairt!"* 
 
 If my reader has seen and heard 
 Mademoiselle Rachel utter her famous 
 Soric:, in " Virginie," he knows ex- 
 actly with what a gesture and tone 
 the Johnstone uttered this word. 
 
 Beeny (in a voice of whining sur- 
 prise). "Hech! what a spite Flucker 
 Johnstone's dochtcr has taen against 
 us." 
 
 ( bristle. " Scairt ! " 
 
 Beeny (in a coaxing voice, and mov- 
 ing n step). "Aweel! what's a' your 
 paession, my boenny woman ! " 
 ( 'hristie. '" Scairt ! " 
 
 * A local word ; a corruption from ilia 
 li Sortez.
 
 154 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Beeny retired before the thunder 
 and lightning of indignant virtue. 
 
 Then all the fishboys struck up a 
 dismal chant of victory. 
 
 " Yoo-hoo — Custy's won the day 
 
 — Beeny 's sc&irlit," going up on the 
 last syllable. 
 
 Christie moved slowly away towards 
 her own house, but before she could 
 reach the door she began to whimper, 
 
 — little fool. 
 
 Thereat chorus of young Athenians 
 chanted : — 
 
 " Yu-hoo ! come back, Beeny, ye '11 
 maybe win yet. Custy 's away gree- 
 tin" (f/ointj vp on the last syllable). 
 
 " I m no greetin, ye rude bairns," 
 said Christie, bursting into tears, and 
 retiring as soon as she had effected 
 that proof of her philosophy. 
 
 It was about four hours later ; 
 Christie had snatched some repose. 
 The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, 
 had grown into a very heavy gale, 
 and the Firth was brown and boil- 
 ing. 
 
 Suddenly a clamor was heard on 
 the shore, and soon after a fishwife 
 made her appearance, with rather a 
 singular burden. 
 
 Her husband, ladies ; rien que cela. 
 
 She had him by the scruff of the 
 neck ; he was dos-a-dos, with his boot- 
 ed legs kicking in the air, and his fists 
 making warlike but idle demonstra- 
 tions, and his mouth uttering ineffect- 
 ual bad language. 
 
 This worthy had been called a cow- 
 ard by Sandy Liston, and being about 
 lo fight with him, and get thrashed, 
 Mis wife had whipped him up, and 
 carried him away; she now flung 
 him down, at some risk of his equilib- 
 rium. 
 
 " Ye are not fit to feicht wi' Sandy 
 Liston," said she ; " if ye arc for feicht- 
 in, here 's for ye." 
 
 As a comment to this proposal, she 
 tucked up the sleeves of her short 
 gown. He tried to run by her; she 
 caught him by the bosom, and gave 
 him a violent push, that sent him sev- 
 eral paces backwards ; he looked half 
 fierce, half astounded; ere he could 
 
 quite recover himself, his little servant 
 forced a pipe into his hand, and he 
 smoked contented and peaceable. 
 
 Before tobacco the evil passions fall, 
 they tell me. 
 
 The cause of this quarrel soon ex- 
 plained itself ; up came Sandy Liston, 
 cursing and swearing. 
 
 " What ! ye hae gotten till your 
 wife's ; that 's the place for ye ; — to 
 say there 's a brig in distress, and ye '11 
 let her go on the rocks under your 
 noses : but what are ye afraid o' 1 
 there 's na danger? " 
 
 " Nae danger ! " said one of the re- 
 proached, " are ye fou ? " 
 
 " Ye are fou wi' fear yoursel* ; of 
 a' the beasts that crawl the airth, a 
 cooward is the ugliest, I think." 
 
 " The wifes will no let us," said 
 one, sulkily. 
 
 " It 's the woman in your hairts 
 that keeps ye," roared Sandy, hoarse- 
 ly ; '.' curse ye, ye are sure to dee ane 
 
 day, and ye are sure to be ! " (a 
 
 past participle) " soon or late, what 
 signifies when 1 Oh ! curse the hour 
 ever I was born amang sic a cooard- 
 ly crew." ( Gun at sea.) 
 
 "There!" 
 
 " She speaks till ye, hersel' ; she 
 cries for maircy ; to think that, of a' 
 that hear ye cry, Alexander Liston is 
 the only mon mon enough to answer." 
 (Gun.) 
 
 " You are mistaken, Mr. Alexander 
 Liston," said a clear, smart voice, 
 whose owner had mingled unobserved 
 with the throng ; " there are always 
 men to answer such occasions ; now, 
 my lads, your boats have plenty of 
 beam, and, well handled, should live 
 in any sea ; who volunteers with Al- 
 exander Liston and me ? " 
 
 The speaker was Lord Ipsden. 
 
 The fishwives of Newhaven, more 
 accustomed to measure men than poor 
 little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw in 
 this man what in point of fact he 
 was, — a cool, daring devil, than whom 
 none more likely to lead men into 
 mortal danger, or pull them through 
 it, for that matter. 
 
 They recognized their natural ene»
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 155 
 
 my, and collected together against him, 
 like hens at the sight of a hawk. 
 
 " And would you really entice our 
 men till their death ? " 
 
 " My life 's worth as much as theirs, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " Nae ! your life ! it 's na worth a 
 button ; when you dee, your next kin 
 will dance, and w ha '11 greet ? but our 
 men hae wife and bairns to look till." 
 ( Gun at sea. ) 
 
 " Ah ! I did n't look at it in that 
 light," said Lord Ipsden. He then 
 demanded paper and ink; Christie 
 Johnstone, who had come out of her 
 house, supplied it from her treasures, 
 and this cool hand actually began to 
 convey a hundred and fifty thousand 
 pounds away, upon a sheet of paper 
 blowing in the wind ; when he had 
 named his residuary legatee, and dis- 
 posed of certain large bequests, he 
 came to the point, — 
 
 " Christie Johnstone, what can these 
 people live on ? two hundred a year t 
 living is cheap here, — confound the 
 wind ! " 
 
 " Twa hundred ? Fifty ! Vile 
 Count." 
 
 " Don't call me Vile Count. I am 
 Ipsden, and my name 's Richard. 
 Now, then, lie smart with yournames." 
 
 Three men stepped forward, gave 
 their names, had their widows provided 
 lor, and went for their sou'westers, 
 &c. 
 
 " Stay," said Lord Ipsden, writing: 
 "To Christina Johnstone, out of re- 
 speet for her character, one thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 " Richard ! dinna gang," cried 
 Christie, " 0, dinna gang, dinna gang, 
 dinna gang ; it 's no your business." 
 
 " Will yon lend me your papa's 
 Flashing jacket and sou'wester, my 
 d ear ! If I was sure to be drowned, 
 1 'd go ! " 
 
 Christie ran in for them. 
 
 In the mean time, discomposed by 
 
 the wind, and by feelings whose exist- 
 ence neither he, nor I, nor any one 
 
 suspected, Saunders, after a sore strug- 
 gle between the frail man and the per- 
 fect domestic, blurted out : — 
 
 " My Lord, I beg your Lordship's 
 pardon, but it blows tempestuous." 
 
 " That is why the brig wants us," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " My Lord, I beg your Lordship's 
 pardon," whimpered Saunders. 
 
 " But, O my Lord, don't go ; it 's 
 all very well for fishermen to be 
 drowned ; it is their business, but not 
 yours, my Lord." 
 
 " Saunders, help me on with this 
 coat." 
 
 Christie had brought it. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord," said Saunders, 
 briskly, his second nature reviving. 
 
 His Lordship, whilst putting on the 
 coat and hat, undertook to cool Mr. 
 Saunders's aristocratic prejudices. 
 
 " Should Alexander Lis ton and I be 
 drowned," said he, coolly, " when our 
 bones come ashore, you will not know 
 which are the fisherman's, and which 
 the Viscount's." So saying, he joined 
 the enterprise. 
 
 " I shall pray for ye, lad," said 
 Christie Johnstone, and she retired for 
 that purpose. 
 
 Saunders, with a heavy heart, to the 
 nearest tavern, to prepare an account 
 of what he called " Heroism in High 
 Life," large letters, and the usual signs 
 of great astonishment !!!!!! for the 
 " Polytechnic Magazine." 
 
 The commander of the distressed 
 vessel had been penny-wise. He had 
 declined a pilot off the Isle of May, 
 trusting to tall in with one close to the 
 port of Leith ; but a heavy gale and 
 fog had come on ; he knew himself in 
 the vicinity of dangerous rocks ; and, 
 to make matters worse, bis ship, old 
 and sore battered by a long and 
 stormy voyage, was leaky; and, unless 
 a pilot came alongside, his fate would 
 be, either to founder, or run upon the 
 rocks, where he must expect to go to 
 pieces in a quarter of an hour. 
 
 The Newhaven boat lay in com- 
 paratively' smooth water, on the leo 
 side of the pier. 
 
 Our adventurers got into her, 
 Stepped the mast, set a small sail, and 
 ran out! Sandy Lis ton held the sheet, 
 passed once round the belaying-pin,
 
 156 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 and whenever a larger wave than 
 usual came at them, he slacked the 
 sheet, and the boat, losing her way, 
 rose gently, like a cork, upon seas that 
 had seemed about to swallow her. 
 
 But seen from the shore it was 
 enough to make the most experi- 
 enced wince ; so completely was this 
 wooden shell lost to sight, as she de- 
 scended from a wave, that each time 
 her reappearance seemed a return 
 from the dead. 
 
 The weather was misty, — the boat 
 was soon lost sight of; the story re- 
 mains ashore. 
 
 CHAPTER, XIV. 
 
 It was an hour later ; the natives of 
 the New Town had left the pier, and 
 were about their own doors, when 
 three Buckhavea fishermen came 
 slowly up from the pier ; these men 
 had arrived in one of their large tish- 
 ing-boats, which defy all weather. 
 
 The men came slowly up ; their 
 petticoat trousers were drenched, and 
 their neck - handkerchiefs and hair 
 were wet with spray. 
 
 At the foot of the New Town they 
 stood still and whispered to each 
 other. 
 
 There was something about these 
 men that drew the eye of Newhaven 
 upon them. 
 
 In the first place a Buckhaven man 
 rarely communicates with natives of 
 Newhaven, except at the pier, where 
 he brings in his cod and liiijj from the 
 deep sea, flings them out like stones, 
 and sells them to the fishwives ; then 
 up sail and away for Fifeshire. 
 
 But these men evidently came 
 ashore to speak to some one in the 
 town. 
 
 They whispered together ; some- 
 thing appeared to be proposed and 
 demurred to ; but at last two went 
 slowly back towards the pier, and the 
 eldest remained, with a fisherman's 
 long mackintosh coat in his hand 
 which the others had given him as 
 they left hi in. 
 
 With this in his hand, the Buckha- 
 ven fisherman stood in an irresolute 
 posture ; he looked down, and seemed 
 to ask himself what course be should 
 take. 
 
 " What 's wrang 1 " said Jean Car- 
 nie, who, with her neighbors, had ob- 
 served the men ; " I wish yon man 
 may na hae ill news." 
 
 " What ill news wad he hae ? " re- 
 plied another. 
 
 "Are ony freends of Liston Carnie 
 here 1 " said the fisherman. 
 
 " The wife 's awa' to Granton, 
 Beeny Liston they ca' her, — there 's 
 his house," added Jean, pointing up 
 the row. 
 
 " Ay," said the fisherman, " I ken 
 he lived there." 
 
 " Lived there ! " cried Christie 
 Johnstone : " O, what 's this 1 " 
 
 " Freends," said the man, gravely, 
 " his boat is driving keel uppermost 
 in Kircauldy Bay ; — we passed her 
 near enough to read the name upon 
 her." 
 
 " But the men will have won to 
 shore, please God ? " 
 
 The fisherman shook his head. 
 
 " She '11 hae coupit a mile wast 
 Inch Keith, an' the tide rinning aff the 
 island an' a heavy sea gaun. This is 
 a' Newhaven we '11 see of them " (hold- 
 ing up the coat) " till they rise to the 
 top in three weeks' time." 
 
 The man then took the coat, which 
 was now seen to be drenched with 
 water, and hung it up on a line not 
 very far from its unfortunate owner's 
 house : then, in the same grave and 
 subdued tone in which he had spoken 
 all along, he said, " We are sorry to 
 bring siccan a tale into your toon," 
 and slowly moved off to rejoin his 
 comrades, who had waited for him at 
 no great distance. They then passed 
 through the Old Town, and in five 
 minutes the calamity was known to 
 the whole place. 
 
 After the first stupor, the people in 
 the New Town collected into knots, 
 and lamented their hazardous calling, 
 and feared for the lives of those that 
 had just put to sea in this fatal gale
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 15? 
 
 for the rescue of strangers, and the 
 older ones failed not to match this 
 present sorrow with others within 
 their recoUection. 
 
 In the middle of this, Flucker 
 Johnstone came hastily in from the 
 Old Town, and told them he had 
 seen the wife, Becny Liston, coming 
 through from Granton. 
 
 The sympathy of all was instantly 
 turned in this direction. 
 
 " She would hear the news." 
 
 " It would fall on her like a thun- 
 der-clap." 
 
 " What would hecome of her 1 " 
 
 Every eye was strained towards 
 the Old Town, and soon the poor wo- 
 man was seen about to emerge from 
 it ; but she was walking in her usual 
 way, and they felt she could not cany 
 her person so if she knew. 
 
 At the last house she was seen to 
 stop and speak to a fisherman and his 
 wife that stood at their own door. 
 
 " They are telling her," was then 
 the cry. 
 
 Becny Liston then proceeded on 
 her way. 
 
 Every eye was strained. 
 
 No ! they had not told her. 
 
 She came gayly on, the unconscious 
 object of every eve and every heart. 
 
 The hands of this people were hard, 
 and their tongues rude, but they 
 shrunk from telling this poor woman 
 of her bereavement, — they thought 
 it kinder she should know it under 
 her own roof, from her friends or 
 neighbors, than from comparative 
 strangers. 
 
 She drew near her own door. 
 
 And now a knot collected round 
 Christie Johnstone, and urged her to 
 Undertake the sad task 
 
 " You that speak sa learned, Chris- 
 tie, vc should tell her; we daur na." 
 
 " How can I tell her ? " said Chris- 
 tic, taming pale. "How will I tell 
 her ? I se try." 
 
 She took one trembling step to 
 meet the woman. 
 
 Beeny's eye fell upon her. 
 
 " Ay ! here 'a the Queen o' New- 
 ha' en," cried she, in a loud and rather. , 
 
 coarse voice. " The men will hat. ta 
 leave the place now y' are turned fish- 
 erman, I daur say." 
 
 " O, dinna fleicht on me ! dinna 
 fleicht on me ! " cried Christie, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 " Maircy on us," said the other, 
 " auld Flucker Johnstone's doehter 
 turned humble. What next 1 " 
 
 " I 'm vexed for speaking back till 
 ye the morn," faltered Christie. 
 
 " Hett," said the woman, carelessly, 
 " let yon flea stick i' the wa'. I fancy 
 I began on ye. Aweel, Cirsty," said 
 she, falling into a friendlier tone ; 
 " it 's the place we live in spoils us, — 
 Newhaven 's an impudent toon, as 
 sure as deeth. 
 
 " I passed through the Auld Toon 
 the noo, — a place I never speak in ; 
 an' if they did na glower at me as I 
 had been a strange beast. 
 
 " They cam' to their very doors to 
 glower at me ; if ye '11 believe me, I 
 thoucht shame. 
 
 " At the hinder end my paassion got 
 up, and I faced a wife East-by, and I 
 said, ' What gars ye glower at me 
 that way, ye ignorant woman ? \ ye 
 would na think it, she answered like 
 honey itsel' : ' I 'm askin' your paarr- 
 don,' says she ; and her mon by her 
 side said, ' Gang hame to your aim 
 boose, my woman, and Gude help ye, 
 and help us a' at our need,' the decent 
 mon. ' It 's just there I 'm for,' said 
 I, ' to get my mon his breakfast.' " 
 
 All who heard her drew their 
 breath with difficulty. 
 
 The woman then made for her own 
 house, but in goiny; up the street she 
 parsed the wet coat hanging on the 
 line. 
 
 She stopped directly. 
 
 They all trembled, — they had for- 
 gotten the coat, — it was all" over ; the 
 coat would tell the talc. 
 
 " Aweel," said she, " I could sweer 
 that 's Liston Carnie's coat, a droukit 
 wi' the rain " ; then she looked again 
 at it, and added, slowly, " if 1 did na 
 ken he has bis away wi' him at the 
 piloting." And in another moment 
 she wad in her own house, leaving
 
 158 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE, 
 
 them all standing there half stupe- 
 fied. 
 
 Christie had indeed endeavored to 
 speak, but her tongue had cloven to 
 her mouth. 
 
 Whilst they stood looking at one 
 another, and at Beeny Liston's door, 
 a voice that seemed incredibly rough, 
 loud, and harsh jarred upon them ; 
 it was Sandy Liston, who came in 
 from Lcith, shouting : — 
 
 " Fifty pounds for salvage, lasses ! 
 is na thaat better than staying cooard- 
 like aside the women '? " 
 
 " Whisht ! whisht ! " cried Christie. 
 " We are in heavy sorrow ; puir Lis- 
 ton Cairnie and his son Willy lie deed 
 at the boitom o' the Firrth." 
 
 " Gude help us ! " said Sandy, and 
 his voice sank. 
 
 " An', O Sandy, the wife does na 
 ken, and it 's hairt breaking to see 
 her, and hear her ; we carina get her 
 tell 't ; ye 're the auldest nion here ; 
 ye '11 tell her, will ye no, Sandy 
 
 " No, me, that 1 will not ! " 
 
 " O yes ; ye are kenned for 
 stoot heart, an' cooragc ; ye 
 fra'. facing the sea an' wind in 
 yawl." 
 
 " The sea and the wind," cried he, 
 
 contemptuously ; " they be , I 'm 
 
 used wi' them ; but to look a woman 
 i' the face, an' tell her her mon and 
 her son are drowned since yestreen, I 
 hae na coorage for that." 
 
 All further debate was cut short by 
 the entrance of one who came ex- 
 pressly to discharge the sad duty all 
 hid found so difficult- It was the 
 Presbyterian clergyman of the place ; 
 he waved them "back. " I know, I 
 know," said he, solemnly. 
 
 " Where is the wife ? " 
 
 She came out of her house at this 
 moment, as it happened, to purchase 
 something at Drysale's shop, which 
 was opposite. 
 
 " Beeny," said the clergyman, " I 
 have sorrowful tidings." 
 
 " Tell me them, sir," said she, un- 
 moved. " Is it a deeth ? " added she, 
 quietly. 
 
 " It is ! — death, sudden and tcrri- 
 
 ? " 
 
 your 
 come 
 a bit 
 
 ble; in your own house I must tell it 
 you — (and may God show me how 
 to break it to her)." 
 
 He entered her house. 
 
 " Aweel," said the woman to the 
 others, "it maun be some far- awa cous- 
 in, or the like, for Liston an' me hae 
 nae near freends. Meg, ye idle hizzy," 
 screamed she to her servant, who was 
 one of the spectators, " your pat is no 
 on yet ; div ye think the men will no 
 be hungry when they come in fra' the 
 sea 1 " 
 
 " They will never hunger nor thirst 
 ony mair," said Jean, solemnly, as 
 the bereaved woman entered her own 
 door. 
 
 There ensued a listless and fearful 
 silence. 
 
 Every moment some sign of bitter 
 sorrow was expected to break forth 
 from the house, but none came ; and 
 amidst the expectation and silence the 
 waves dashed louder and louder, as it 
 seemed, against the dike, conscious 
 of what they had done. 
 
 At last, in a moment, a cry of ago- 
 ny arose, so terrible that all who 
 heard it trembled, and more than one 
 woman shrieked in return, and fled 
 from the door; at which, the next 
 moment, the clergyman stood alone, 
 collected, but pale, and beckoned. 
 Several women advanced. 
 
 " One woman," said he. 
 
 Jean Carnie was admitted ; and 
 after a while returned. 
 
 " She is come to hersel'," whis- 
 pered she ; " I am no weel mysel'." 
 And she passed into her own house. 
 
 Then Flucker crept to the door to 
 see. 
 
 "O, dinna spy on her," cried 
 Christie. 
 
 "O yes, Flucker," said many 
 voices. 
 
 " He is kneelin'," said Flucker. 
 " He has her hand, to gar her kneel 
 tae, — she winna, — she does na see 
 him, nor hear him ; he will hae her. 
 He has won her to kneel, — he is 
 prayin, an' grcetin aside her. I can- 
 na see noo, my een 's blinded." 
 
 " He 's a gude mon," said Christie,
 
 CHRISTIE JOHXSTONE. 
 
 159 
 
 " O, what wad we do without the 
 ministera .' " 
 
 Sandy Liston had been leaning sor- 
 rowfully against the wall of the next 
 house ; he now broke out : — 
 
 " An auld shipmate at the whale- 
 fishing ! ! ! an' noow we '11 never lift 
 the dredging sang thegither again, in 
 yon dirty deteh that 's droowned him ; 
 I maun hae whiskey, an' forget it a'." 
 
 He made for the spirit-shop like a 
 madman ; but ere he could reach the 
 door a hand was laid on him like a 
 vice. Christie Johnstone had literally 
 sprung on him. She hated this hor- 
 rible vice, — had often checked him ; 
 and now it seemed so awful a moment 
 for such a sin, that she forgot the wild 
 and savage nature of the man, who 
 had struck his own sister, and serious- 
 ly hurt her, but a month before, — 
 she saw nothing but the vice and its 
 victim, and she seized him by the 
 collar, with a grasp from which he 
 in vain attempted to shake himself 
 loose. 
 
 " No ! yc '11 no gang there at siccan 
 a time." 
 
 " Hands off, yc daft jau 1," roared 
 he, " or there '11 be another deeth i' 
 the toon." 
 
 At the noise Jean Carnie ran in. 
 
 " Let the ruffian go," cried she, in 
 dismay. "0 Christie, dinua put your 
 hand on a lion's mane." 
 
 "Yes, I'll put my hand on his 
 mane, ere I '11 let him mak a beast 
 o' himselV 
 
 " Sandy, if ye hurt her, I '11 find 
 twenty lads that will lay yc deed at 
 her feet." 
 
 " Hand your whisht," said Christie, 
 very sharply, " lie 's no to be threat- 
 ened." 
 
 Sandy Liston, black and white with 
 rage, ground his teeth together, and 
 said, lifting his hand, " Wull ye let 
 mc go, or must I tak my hand till 
 yc > " 
 
 "No!" said Christie, " I '11 no let 
 ye go, sae look me ? the face; Mucker 'a 
 dochter, your auld comrade, that saved 
 your life at Holy lsle,thinko' his face, — 
 an' look in mines, — ob»' strike mc .' .' .' " 
 
 They glared on one another, — ha 
 fiercely and unsteadily; she firmly aud 
 proudly. 
 
 Jean Carnie said afterwards, " Her 
 eyes were like coals of fire." 
 
 " Ye are doing what nae mon i' 
 the toon daur ; ye are a bauld, un- 
 wise lassy." 
 
 " It 's you mak me bauld," was the 
 instant reply. " I saw ye face the 
 mad sea, to save a ship fra' the rocks, 
 an' will I fear a mon's hand, when 
 I cau save " (rising to double her 
 height) " my feyther's auld freend 
 fra' the puir mon's enemy, the enemy 
 o' mankind, the cursed, cursed drink ? 
 O Sandy Liston, hoow could ye think 
 to put an enemy in your mooth to 
 steal awa your brains ! " 
 
 " This 's no Newhaven chat ; w ha 
 Iairns ye sic words o' power ? " 
 
 " A deed mon !" 
 
 " I would na wonder, y' are no 
 canny ; she 's ta'en a' the poowcr oot 
 o' my body, I think." Then sudden- 
 ly descending to a tone of abject sub- 
 mission, "What's your pleesure, 
 Flucker Johnstone's dochter'? " 
 
 She instantly withdrew the offen- 
 sive grasp, and, leaning affectionately 
 on his shoulder, she melted into her 
 rich Ionic tones. 
 
 " It 's no a time for sin ; ye '11 sit 
 by my fire, an' j^et your dinner ; a 
 bonny haggis hae I for you an' Fluck- 
 er, an' we '11 improve this sorrowfu' 
 judgment; an' ye '11 tell me o' auld 
 times, — o' my feyther dear, that likeit 
 ye weel, Sandy, — o' the storrms yo 
 liac weathered, side by side, — o' the 
 muckle whales ye killed Greenland 
 way, — an', abune a', o' the lives ye 
 hae saved at sea, by your daurin an' 
 your skell ; an', O Sandy, will na 
 that be better as sit an' poor leequid 
 damnation doown your throat, an' gio 
 awa the sense an' feeling o' a mon for 
 a sair heed and an ill name ? " 
 
 " I 'se gang, my lamb," said the 
 rou^h man, quite subdued ; " I daur 
 say whiskey will no pass my teeth t ho 
 day." 
 
 And so lie went quietly away, and 
 sat by Christie's fireside.
 
 1G0 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Jean and Christie went towards the 
 boats. 
 
 Jean, after taking it philosophically 
 for half a minute, began to whimper. 
 " What 's wrang 1 " said Christie. 
 " Div ye think my hairt 's no in my 
 mooth wi' you gripping yon fierce 
 robber 1 " 
 
 Here a young fishwife, with a box 
 in her hand, who had followed them, 
 pulled Jean by the coats. 
 
 " Ilets," said Jean, pulling herself 
 free. 
 
 The child then, with a pertinacity 
 these little animals have, pulled Chris- 
 tie's coats. 
 
 " Hets," said Christie, freeing her- 
 self more gently. 
 
 " Ye suld mairry Van Amburgh," 
 continued Jean ; " ye are just such a 
 lass as he is a lad." 
 
 Christie smiled proudly, was silent, 
 but did not disown the comparison. 
 
 The little fishwife, unable to attract 
 attention by pulling, opened her hox, 
 and saying, " Lasses, I '11 let ye see 
 my presoner : heeh ! he 's boenny ! " 
 pulled out a mouse by a string fastened 
 to his tail, and set him in the midst for 
 friendly admiration. 
 
 " I dinna like it, — I dinna like it ! " 
 screamed Christie ; " Jean, put it 
 away, — it fears me, Jean ! " This 
 she "uttered (her eyes almost starting 
 from her head with unaffected terror) 
 at the distance of about eight yards, 
 whither she had arrived in two bounds 
 that would have done no discredit to 
 an antelope. 
 
 " Het," said Jean, uneasily, " hae 
 ye coowed yon savage, to be scared at 
 the wee beastie 1 " 
 
 Christie, looking askant at the ani- 
 mal, explained : " A moose is an 
 awesome beast, — it 's no like a mon ! " 
 and still her eye was fixeil by fascina- 
 tion upon the four-footed danger. 
 
 Jean, who had riot been herself in 
 genuine tranquillity, now turned sav- 
 agely on the little Wombwclless : " An' 
 div ye really think ye are to come here 
 wi' a' the beasts i' the Airk 1 Come, 
 awa ye go, the pair o' ye." 
 
 Tliesc severe words, and a smart 
 
 push, sent the poor little biped off roar- 
 ing, with the string over her shoulder, 
 recklessly dragging the terrific quadru- 
 ped, which made fruitless grabs at the 
 shingle. — Moral. Don't terrify big- 
 ger folk than yourself. 
 
 Christie had intended to go up to 
 Edinburgh with her eighty pounds, 
 but there was more trouble in store 
 this eventful day. 
 
 Flucker went out after dinner, and 
 left her with Sandy Liston, who was 
 in the middle of a yarn, when some 
 one came running in and told her 
 Flucker was at the pier crying for her. 
 She inquired what was the matter. 
 " Come, an' ye '11 see," was all the 
 answer. She ran down to the pier. 
 There was poor Flucker lying on his 
 back ; he had slipped from the pier 
 into a boat that lay alongside ; the fall 
 was considerable ; for a minute he had 
 becu insensible, then he had been 
 dreadfully sick, and now he was be- 
 ginning to feel his hurt ; he was in, 
 great anguish ; nobody knew the ex- 
 tent of his injuries ; he would let no- 
 body touch him ; all his cry was fbi 1 
 his "sister. At last she came ; they atf 
 made way for her ; he was crying fot 
 her as she came up. 
 
 " My bairn ! my bairn ! " crietr 
 she, and the poor little fellow smiled, 
 and tried to raise himself toward* 
 her. 
 
 She lifted him gently in her arms, 
 — she was powerful, and affection 
 made her stronger ; she carried him in 
 her arms all the way home, and laid 
 him on her own bed. Willy Liston, 
 her discarded suitor, ran for the sur- 
 geon. There were no bones broken, 
 but his ankle was severely sprained, 
 and he had a terrible bruise on the 
 loins; his dark, ruddy face was 
 streaked and pale ; but he never com- 
 plained after he found himself at 
 home. 
 
 Christie hovered round him, a min- 
 istering angel, applying to him with a 
 light and loving hand whatever could 
 ease his pain ; and he watched her 
 with an expression she had never no- 
 ticed in his eye before. (
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 161 
 
 At last, after two hours' silence, he l 
 made her sit in full view, and then he | 
 spoke to her; and what think you 
 was the subject of his discourse ? 
 
 He turned to and told her, one after 
 another, without preface, all the lov- 
 ing tilings she had done to him ever 
 since he was five years old. Poor boy, 
 he had never shown much gratitude, 
 but he had forgotten nothing, literally 
 nothing. 
 
 Christie was quite overcome with 
 this unexpected trait ; she drew him 
 gently to her bosom, and wept over 
 him ; and it was sweet to see a broth- 
 er and sister treat each other almost 
 like lovers, as these two began to do, 
 
 — they watched each other's eye so 
 tenderly. 
 
 This new care kept the sister in her 
 own house all the next day; but to- 
 wards the evening, Jean, who knew 
 her other anxiety, slipped in and of- 
 fered to take her place for an hour by 
 Fiucker's side ; at the same time she 
 looked one of those signals which are 
 too subtle for any but woman to un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Christie drew her aside, and learned 
 that Gatty and his mother were just 
 coming through from Leith ; Christie 
 ran for her eighty pounds, placed them 
 in her bosom, cast a hasty glance at 
 a lookinji-gla s, little larger than an 
 oyster-shell, and ran out. 
 
 " Hech ! What pleased the auld 
 wife will be to see, he has a lass that 
 can mak auchty pund in a morning." 
 
 This was Christie's notion. 
 
 At si^ht of them she took out the 
 bank-notes, and with eyes glistening 
 and checks flushing she cried : — 
 
 " O Chairles, ye 'II no gang to jail, 
 
 — I hae the siller!" and she offered 
 him the money with both hands, and 
 a look of tenderness and modesty 
 that embellished human nature. 
 
 Ere he could speak, his mother put 
 out her hand, and nor rudely, but very 
 coldly, repelling Christie's arm, said 
 in a freezing manner : — 
 
 " We are much obliged to you, but 
 my son's own talents have rescued him 
 from his little embarrassment." 
 
 " A nobleman has bought my pic- 
 ture," said Gatty, proudly. 
 
 " For one hundred and fifty 
 pounds," said the old lady, meaning 
 to mark the contrast between that sum 
 and what Christie had in her hand. 
 
 Christie remained like a statue, 
 with her arms extended, and the 
 bank-notes in her hand ; her features 
 worked, — she had much ado not to 
 cry ; and any one that had known the 
 whole story," and seen this unmerited 
 repulse, would have felt for her ; but 
 her love came to her aid, she put the 
 notes in her bosom, sighed, and said: — 
 
 " I would hae likeit to hae been tho 
 first, ye ken, but I 'm real pleased." 
 
 " But, mother," said Gatty, " it was 
 very kind of Christie all the same. 
 O Christie ! " said he, in a tone of 
 despair. 
 
 At this kind word Christie's forti- 
 tude was sore tried ; she turned away 
 her head ; — she was far too delicate 
 to let them know who had sent Lord 
 Ipsden to buy the picture. 
 
 Whilst she turned away, Mrs Gat- 
 ty said in her son's ear : — 
 
 " Now, I have your solemn prom- 
 ise to do it here, and at once ; you 
 will find me on the beach behind these 
 boats, — do it." 
 
 The reader will understand that 
 during the last few days Mrs. Gatty 
 hail improved her advantage, and that 
 Charles had positively consented to 
 obey her ; the poor boy was worn out 
 with the struggle, — he felt he must 
 have peace or die; he was thin and 
 pale, and sudden twitches came over 
 him ; his temperament was not fit for 
 BUCh a battle ; and, it is to be observed, 
 nearly all the talk was on one side. 
 He had made one expiring struggle, 
 — he described to his mother an art- 
 ist's nature, his strength, his weak- 
 ness, — he besought her not to be a 
 slave to general rules, but to inquire 
 what sort of a companion the indi- 
 vidual Gatty needed ; he lashed with 
 true but brilliant satire the sort of wife 
 his mother was ready to see him sad- 
 dled with, — a stupid, unsympnthi/.ing 
 creature, whose ten children would,
 
 1G2 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 by nature's law, be also stupid, and 
 so be a weight on him till his dying 
 day. He painted Christie Johnstone, 
 mind and body, in words as true and 
 bright as his colors ; he showed his 
 own weak points, her strong ones, and 
 how the latter would fortify the for- 
 mer. 
 
 He displayed, in short, in one min- 
 ute more intellect than his mother 
 had exhibited in sixty years ; and 
 that done, with all his understanding, 
 wit, and eloquence, he succumbed 
 like a child, to her stronger will, — he 
 promised to break with Christie John- 
 stone. 
 
 When Christie had recovered her 
 composure and turned round to her 
 companions, she found herself alone 
 with Charles. 
 
 " Chairles," said she, gravely. 
 " Christie," said he, uneasily. 
 " Your mother does na like me. 
 O, ye need na deny it ; and we are na 
 together as we used to be, my lad." 
 
 " She is prejudiced, but she has 
 been the best of mothers to me, Chris- 
 tie." 
 " Aweel." 
 
 " Circumstances compel me to re- 
 turn to England." 
 
 (Ah, coward ! anything but the real 
 truth ! ) 
 
 " Aweel, Chairles, it will no be for 
 lang." 
 
 " I don't know ; you will not be so 
 unhappy as I shall, — at least I hope 
 not." 
 
 " Hoow do ye ken that 1 " 
 " Christie, do you remember the 
 first night we danced together t " 
 " Ay." 
 
 " And we walked in the cool by the 
 seaside, and I told you the names of 
 the stars, and you said those were not 
 their real names, but nicknames we 
 give them here on earth. I loved you 
 that first night." 
 
 " And I fancied you the first time I 
 set eyes on you." 
 
 " ilow can I leave you, Christie? 
 What shall I do ? " 
 
 "I ken what I shall do," answered 
 Christie, coolly ; then, bursting into 
 
 tears, she added, "I shall dee! I 
 shall dee ! " 
 
 " No ! you must not say so ; at 
 least I will never love any one but 
 you." 
 
 " An' I '11 live as I am a' my davs 
 for your sake. O England ! I hae 
 likeit ye sae weel, ye suld na rob me 
 o' my lad, — he 's a' the joy I hae ! " 
 
 " I love you," said Gatty. " Do you 
 love me ? " 
 
 All the answer was, her head upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " I can't do it," thought Gatty, 
 "and I won't! Christie," said he, 
 " stay here, don't move from here." 
 And he dashed among the boats in 
 great agitation. 
 
 He found his mother rather near 
 the scene of the late conference. 
 
 " Mother," said he, fiercely, like a 
 coward as he was, " ask me no more, 
 my mind is made up forever ; I will 
 not do this scoundrelly, heartless, 
 beastly, ungrateful action you have 
 been pushing me to so long." 
 
 " Take care, Charles, take care," 
 said the old woman, trembling with 
 passion, for this was a new tone for 
 her son to take with her. " You had 
 my blessing the other day, and you 
 saw what followed it; do"not tempt 
 me to curse an undutiful, disobedient, 
 ungrateful son." 
 
 " I must take my chance," said he, 
 desperately : " for I am under a 
 curse any way ! I placed my ring on 
 her finger, and held up my" hand to 
 God and swore she should be my 
 wife ; she has my ring and my oath, 
 and I will not perjure myself even for 
 my mother." 
 
 " Your ring ! Not the ruby ring I 
 gave you from your dead father's fin- 
 ger, — not that ! not that ! " 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! I tell you yes ! and 
 if he was aiive, and saw her, and knew 
 her goodness, he would have pity on 
 me, but I have no friend ; you see 
 how ill you have made me, but you 
 have no pity; I could not have be- 
 lieved it ; but, since you have no mer- 
 cy on me, I will have the more mercy 
 on myself; I marry her to-morrow,
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 1G3 
 
 and put an end to all this shuffling 
 and manoeuvring against an angel ! 
 I am not worthy of her, but I '11 mar- 
 ry her to-morrow. Good by." 
 
 " Stay ! " said the old woman, in a 
 terrible voice ; " before you destroy 
 me and all I have lived for, and suf- 
 fered, and pinched for, hear me ; if 
 that ring is not off the hussy's finger 
 in half an hour, and you my son 
 again, I fall on this sand and — " 
 
 " Then God have mercy upon me, 
 for I '11 see the whole creation lost 
 eternally, ere I '11 wrong the only 
 creature that is an ornament to the 
 world." 
 
 He was desperate ; and the weak, 
 driven to desperation, are more furious 
 than the strong. 
 
 It was by Heaven's mercy that 
 neither mother nor son had time to 
 speak again. 
 
 As they faced each other, with 
 flaming eyes and faces, all self-com- 
 mand gone, about to utter hasty 
 words, and lay up regret, perhaps for 
 all their lives to come, in a moment, 
 as if she had started from the earth, 
 Christie Johnstone stood between 
 them ! 
 
 Gatty's words, and, still more, his 
 hesitation, had made her quick intel- 
 ligence suspect : she had resolved to 
 know the truth ; the boats offered ev- 
 ery facility for listening, — she had 
 heard every word. 
 
 She stood between the mother and 
 son. 
 
 They were confused, abashed, and 
 the hot blood began to leave their 
 faces. 
 
 She stood erect like a statue, her 
 cheek pale as ashes, her eyes {.'litter- 
 ing like basilisks, she looked at neither 
 of them. 
 
 Sir slowly raised her left hand, she 
 withdrew a ruby rin^ from it, and 
 dropped the ring on the sand between 
 the two. 
 
 She turned on her heel, and was 
 gone as she had come, without a word 
 spoken. 
 
 They looked at one another, stupe- 
 fied at first ; after a considerable pause 
 
 the stern old woman stooped, picked 
 up the ring, and, in spite of a certain 
 chill that the young woman's majestic 
 sorrow had given her, said, placing it 
 on her own finger, " This is for vour 
 wife ! ! ! " 
 
 " It will be for my coffin, then," 
 said her son, so coldly, so bitterly, 
 and so solemnly, that the mother's 
 heart began to quake. 
 
 " Mother," said he, calmly, " for- 
 give me, and accept your son's arm." 
 
 " I will, my son ! " 
 
 " We are alone in the world now, 
 mother." 
 
 Mrs. Gatty had triumphed, but she 
 felt the price of her triumph more than 
 her victory. It had been done in one 
 moment, that for which she had so 
 labored, and it seemed that had she 
 spoken long ago to Christie, instead 
 of Charles, it could have been done at 
 any moment. 
 
 Strange to say, for some minutes 
 the mother felt more uneasy than her 
 son ; she was a woman, after all, and 
 could measure a woman's heart, and 
 she saw how deep the wound she had 
 given one she was now compelled to 
 respect. 
 
 Charles, on the other hand, had 
 been so harassed backwards and for- 
 wards, that to him certainty was re- 
 lief; it. was a great matter to be no 
 longer called upon to decide. His 
 mother had said, " Part," and now 
 Christie had said, " Part " ; at least 
 the affair was taken out of his hands, 
 and his first feeling was a heavenly 
 calm. 
 
 In this state he continued for about 
 a mile, and he spoke to his mother 
 about his art, sole object now; but 
 after the first mile he became silent, 
 distrait ; Christie's pale face, her mor- 
 tified air, when her generous offer was 
 coldly repulsed, filled him with re- 
 morse : finally, unable to bear it, yet 
 not daring to speak, he broke sudden- 
 ly from his mother without a word, 
 and ran wildly back to Ncwhaven ; 
 be looked back only once, and thero 
 stood his mother, pale, with her hands 
 piteously lifted towards heaven.
 
 164 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 By the time he got to Newhaven 
 he was as sorry for her as for Chris- 
 tie. He ran to the house of the lat- 
 ter; Flueker and Jean told him she 
 was on the beach. He ran to the 
 beach ! he did not see her at first, but, 
 presently looking back, he saw her, 
 at the edge of the boats, in company 
 with a gentleman in a boating-dress. 
 He looked — could he believe his eyes ? 
 he saw Christie Johnstone kiss this 
 man's hand, who then, taking her head 
 gently in his two hands, placed a kiss 
 upon her brow, whilst she seemed to 
 yield lovingly to the caress. 
 
 Gatty turned faint, sick; for a mo- 
 ment everything swam before his eyes ; 
 lie recovered himself, they were gone. 
 
 He darted round to intercept them ; 
 Christie had slipped away somewhere; 
 he encountered the man alone ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Christie's situation requires to be 
 explained. 
 
 On leaving Gatty and his mother, 
 she went to her own house. Flueker 
 
 — who after looking upon her for years 
 as an inconvenient appendage, except 
 at dinner-time, had fallen in love with 
 her in a manner that was half pathetic, 
 half laughable, all things considered 
 
 — saw by her face she had received a 
 blow, and, raising himself in the bed, 
 inquired anxiously, " What ailed 
 l>er?" 
 
 At these kind words, Christie John- 
 stone laid her cheek upon the pillow 
 beside Flucker's, and said : — 
 
 " O my laamb, be kind to your 
 puir sister fra' this hoor, for she has 
 naething i' the warld noo but your- 
 sel'." 
 
 Flueker began to sob at this. 
 
 Christie could not cry ; her heart was 
 like a lump of lead in her bosom ; but 
 she put her arm round his neck, and 
 at the sight of his sympathy she pant- 
 ed heavily, but could not shed a tear, 
 
 — she was sore stricken. 
 
 1 rescntly Jean came in, and. as the 
 
 poor girl's head ached as well as her 
 heart, they forced her to go and sit in 
 the air. She took her creepie and sat, 
 and looked on the sea; but, whether 
 she looked seaward or landward, all 
 seemed unreal ; not things, but hard 
 pictures of things, some moving, some 
 still. Life seemed ended, — she had 
 lost her love. 
 
 An hour she sat in this miserable 
 trance ; she was diverted into a better, 
 because a somewhat less dangerous 
 form of grief, by one of those trifling 
 circumstances that often penetrate to 
 the human heart, when inaccessible to 
 greater things. 
 
 Willy the fiddler and his brother 
 came through the town, playing as they 
 went, according to custom ; their 
 music floated past Christie's ears like 
 some drowsy chime, until, all of a sud- 
 den, they struck up the old English 
 air, " Speed the Plough." 
 
 Now it was to this tune Charles 
 Gatty had danced with her their first 
 dance the night they made acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Christie listened, lifted up her hands, 
 and crying, — 
 
 " 0, what will I do ? what will I 
 do ? " burst into a passion of grief. 
 
 She put her apron over her head, 
 and rocked herself, and sobbed bitter- 
 
 iy- 
 
 She was in this situation when Lord 
 Ipsden, who was prowling about, ex- 
 amining the proportions of the boats, 
 discovered her. 
 
 " Some one in distress, — that was 
 all in his way." 
 
 " Madam ! " said he. 
 
 She lifted up her head. 
 
 " It is Christie Johnstone. I 'm so 
 glad ; that is, I 'm sorry you are cry- 
 ing, but I 'm glad I shall have the 
 pleasure of relieving you " ; and his 
 Lordship began to feel for a check- 
 book. 
 
 " And div ye really think siller 's a 
 cure for every grief!" said Christie, 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I don't know," said his Lordship; 
 " it has cured them all as yet." 
 
 " It vill na cure me, then ! " and
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 1G5 
 
 she covered her head with her apron 
 again. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said he ; " tell 
 me" (whispering), "what is it? poor 
 little Christie ! " 
 
 " Dinna speak to me ; I think 
 shame; ask Jean. O Richard, I'll no 
 be lang in this warld ! ! ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, "I know too well 
 what it is now ; I know, by sad expe- 
 rience. But, Christie, money will cure 
 it in your case, and it shall, too ; only, 
 instead of rive pounds, we must put a 
 thousand pounds or two to your bank- 
 er's account, and then they will all see 
 your beauty, and run after you." 
 
 " How daurye even to me that I'm 
 seekin a lad ? " cried she, rising from 
 her stool ; " I would na care suppose 
 there was na a lad in Britain." And ' 
 off she flounced. 
 
 " Offended her by ray gross want of 
 tact," thought the Viscount. 
 
 She crept back, and two velvet lips 
 touched his hand. That was because 
 she had spoken harshly to a friend. 
 
 " O Richard," said she, despairingly, 
 " I '11 no be lang in this warld." 
 
 He was touched ; and it was then 
 he took her head and kissed her brow, 
 and said: "This will never do: my 
 child, go home and have a nice cry, 
 and I will speak to Jean ; and, rely 
 upon me, I will not leave the neigh- 
 borhood till I have arranged it all to 
 your satisfaction." 
 
 Anil so she went, — a little, a very, 
 very little, comforted by his tone and 
 words. 
 
 Now this was all very pretty ; but 
 then seen at a distance of fifty yards 
 it looked very ngly ; and Gatty, who 
 had never before known jealousy, the 
 strongest and worst of human pas- 
 sions, was ripe for anything. 
 
 lie met Lord Ipsden, and said at 
 once, in his wise, temperate way : — 
 
 " Sir, you are a villain ! " 
 
 Imden. " Phnt-il?" 
 
 Gatty. " You are a villain ! " 
 
 Ipsaefi. " How do you make that 
 cut « " 
 
 Gatty. " But, of course, you arc 
 not a coward, too." 
 
 Ipsden (ironically). "You surprise 
 me with your moderation, sir." 
 
 Gatty. " Then you will waive your 
 rank, — you are a Lord, I believe, — 
 and give me satisfaction." 
 
 Ipsden. " My rank, sir, such as it 
 is, engages me to give a proper an- 
 swer to proposals of this sort ; I am 
 at your orders." 
 
 Gatty. " A man of your character 
 must often have been called to an ac- 
 count by your victims, so — so — " 
 (hesitating) " perhaps you will tell 
 me the proper course." 
 
 Ipsden. " /shall send a note to the 
 castle, and the Colonel will send me 
 down somebody with a mustache ; I 
 shall pretend to remember mustache, 
 mustache will pretend he remembers 
 me ; he will then communicate with 
 your friend, and they will arrange it 
 all for us." 
 
 Gatty. " And, perhaps, through 
 vour licentiousness, one or both of us 
 "will be killed." 
 
 Ipsden. " Yes ! but we need not 
 trouble our heads about that, — the 
 seconds undertake everything." 
 
 Gatty. " I have no pistols." 
 
 Ipsden. " If you will do me the 
 honor to use one of mine, it shall be 
 at your service." 
 
 Gatty. " Thank you." 
 
 Ipsden. " To-morrow morning ? " 
 
 Gutty. " No. I have four days' 
 painting to do on my picture, I can't 
 die till it is finished ; Friday morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Ipsden. " (He is mad.) I wish to 
 ask you a question, you will excuse 
 my curiosity. Have you any idea what 
 we are agreeing to differ about 1 " 
 
 Gatty. " The question does you 
 little credit, my Lord ; that is to add 
 insult to wrong." 
 
 He went oil' hurriedly, leaving Lord 
 Ipsden mystified. 
 
 Ih' thought Christie Johnstone was 
 somehow connected with it; but, con- 
 scious of no wrong, he felt little dis- 
 posed to put up with any insult, es- 
 pecially from this boy, to whom ho 
 had been kind, he thought. 
 
 His Lordship was, besides, one of
 
 166 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 those pood, simple-minded creatures, 
 educated abroad, who, when invited 
 to right, simply bow, and load two 
 pistols, and get themselves called at 
 six ; instead of taking down tomes of 
 casuistry and puzzling their poor 
 brains to find out whether they are 
 game-cocks or capons, and why. 
 
 As for Gatty, he hurried home in a 
 fever of passion, begged his mother's 
 pardon, and reproached himself for 
 ever having disobeyed her on account 
 of such a perfidious creature as Chris- 
 tie Johnstone. 
 
 He then told her what he had seen, 
 as distance and imagination had pre- 
 sented it to him ; to his surprise the 
 old lady cut him short. 
 
 " Charles," said she, " there is no 
 need to take the girl's character away ; 
 she has but one fault, — she is not in 
 the same class of life as you, and such 
 marriages always lead to misery ; but 
 in other respects she is a worthy 
 young woman, — don't speak against 
 her character, or you will make my 
 flesh creep ; you don't know what her 
 character is to a woman, high or 
 low." 
 
 By this moderation, perhaps she 
 held him still faster. 
 
 Friday morning arrived. Gatty 
 had, by hard work, finished his pic- 
 ture, collected his sketches from na- 
 ture, which were numerous, left by 
 memorandum everything to his moth- 
 er, and was, or rather felt, as ready to 
 die as live. 
 
 He had hardly spoken a word, or 
 eaten a meal, these four days ; his 
 mother was in anxiety about him. 
 He rose early, and went down to 
 Leith ; an hour later, his mother, find- 
 ing him gone out, rose, and went to 
 seek him at Newhaven. 
 
 Meantime Flucker had entirely re- 
 covered, but his sister's color had left 
 her checks ; and the boy swore ven- 
 geance against the cause of her dis- 
 tress. 
 
 On Friday morning, then, there 
 paced on Leith Sands tvvo figures. 
 
 One was Lord Ipsden. 
 
 The other seemed a military gen- 
 
 tleman, who having swallowed the 
 mess-room poker, and found it insuf- 
 ficient, had added the ramrods of his 
 company. 
 
 The more his Lordship reflected on 
 Gatty, the less inclined he had felt to 
 invite a satirical young dog from 
 barracks to criticise such a rencontre ; 
 he had therefore ordered Saunders to 
 get up as a Field -Marshal, or some 
 such trifle, and what Saunders would 
 have called incomparable verticality 
 was the result. 
 
 The Painter was also in sight. 
 
 Whilst he was coming up, Lord 
 Ipsden was lecturing Marshal Saun- 
 ders on a point on which that worthy 
 had always thought himself very su- 
 perior to his master, — " Gentleraanly 
 deportment." 
 
 " Now, Saunders, mind and behave 
 like a gentleman, or we shall be found 
 out." 
 
 " I trust, my Lord, my conduct — " 
 
 " What I mean is, you must not be 
 so overpoweringly gentleman-like as 
 you are apt to be ; no gentleman is so 
 gentleman-like as all that ; it could 
 not be borne, e'est snffoquant ; and a 
 white handkerchief is unsoldier-like, 
 and nobody ties a white handkerchief 
 so well as that ; of all the vices, 
 perfection is the most intolerable." 
 His Lordship then touched with his 
 cane the Generalissimo's tie, whose 
 countenance straightway fell, as 
 though he had lost three successive 
 battles. 
 
 Gatty came up. 
 
 They saluted. 
 
 " Where is your second, sir ? " said 
 the Marechal. 
 
 " My second ? " said Gatty. " Ah ! 
 I forgot to wake him, — does it mat- 
 ter 1 " 
 
 " It is merely a custom," said Lord 
 Ipsden, with a very slightly satirical 
 manner. " Savanadero," said he, 
 " do us the honor to measure the 
 ground, and be everybody's second." 
 
 Savanadero measured the ground, 
 and handed a pistol to each comba- 
 tant, and struck an imposing attitude 
 apart.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 167 
 
 " Are you ready, gentlemen 1 " said 
 this Jack-o'-both-sides. 
 
 " yes!" said both. 
 
 Just as the signal was about to be 
 given, an interruption occurred. "I 
 beg you pardon, sir," said Lord 
 Ipsden to his antagonist ; " I am go- 
 ing to take a liberty, — a great liberty 
 with, you, but I think you will rind 
 your pistol is only at half cock." 
 
 " Thank you, my Lord ; what am 
 I to do with the thing "? " 
 
 " Draw back the cock so, and be 
 ready to fire ? " 
 
 - So ? " Bang ! 
 
 He had touched the trigger as well 
 as the cock, so off went the barker ; 
 and after a considerable pause the 
 Field-Marshal sprang yelling into the 
 air. 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried Mr. Gatty. 
 
 "Ali! oh! I'm a dead man," 
 whined the Genera!. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Ipsden, after a 
 moment of anxiety. " Give yourself 
 no concern, sir," said he, soothingly, 
 to his antagonist, — "a mere acci- 
 dent. — Mare'chal, reload Mr. Gatty 's 
 pistol." 
 
 " Excuse me, my Lord — " 
 
 " Load his pistol directly," said his 
 Lordship, sternly : " and behave like 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " My Lord ! my Lord ! but where 
 shall I" stand to he safe ? " 
 
 " Behind me ! " 
 
 The Commander of Division ad- 
 vanced reluctantly for Gatty's pistol. 
 
 " No, my Lord ! " said Gatty, " it 
 is plain I am not a fit antagonist; I 
 shall but expose myself, — and my 
 mother has separated us ; I have lost 
 her, — if you do not win her, some 
 worse man may ; but oh ! if you are 
 a man, use her tenderly." 
 
 " Whom 1 " 
 
 " Christie Johnstone ! O sir, do 
 not make her regret me too much ! 
 She was my treasure, my consolation, 
 — she was to be my wife, she would 
 have cheered thfl road of life, — it is a 
 It DOW. I loved her — I — I — " 
 Here tie' poor fellow choked. 
 
 Lord Ipsden turned round, and 
 
 threw his pistol to Saunders, saying, 
 " Catch that, Saunders." 
 
 Saunders, on the contrary, by a 
 single motion changed his person from 
 a vertical straight line to a horizon- 
 tal line, exactly parallel with the 
 earth's surface, and the weapon sang 
 innoxious over him. 
 
 His Lordship then, with a noble 
 defiance of etiquette, walked up to his 
 antagonist and gave him his hand, 
 with a motion no one could resist; 
 for he felt for the poor fellow. 
 
 " It is all a mistake," said he. 
 " There is no sentiment between La 
 Johnstone and niebut mutual esteem. 
 I will explain the whole thing : / ad- 
 mire her for her virtue, her wit, her 
 innocence, her goodness, and all that 
 sort of thing ; and she, what she 
 sees in me, I am sure I don't know," 
 added he, slightly shrugging his aris- 
 tocratic shoulders. " Do me the hon- 
 or to breakfast with me at Newha- 
 ven." 
 
 " I have ordered twelve sorts of fish 
 at the ' Peacock,' my Lord," said 
 Saunders. 
 
 " Divine ! (I hate fish) I told Saun- 
 ders all would be hungry and none 
 shot ; by the by, you are winged, I 
 think you said, Saunders ? " 
 
 " No, my Lord ! but look at my 
 trousers." 
 
 The bullet had cut his pantaloons. 
 
 " I see, — only barked ; so go aud 
 see about our breakfast." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord " (faintly). 
 
 " And draw on me for fifty pounds 
 worth of — new trousers." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord " (sonorously). 
 
 The; duellists separated, Gatty tak- 
 ing the short cut to Newhaven ; he 
 proposed to take his favorite swim 
 there, to refresh himself before break- 
 fast ; and he went from his Lordship 
 a little cheered by remarks which fell 
 from him, and which, though vague, 
 sounded friendly; — poor fellow, ex- 
 cept when he had brush in hand ho 
 wis a dreamer. 
 
 This Viscount, who did not seem 
 to trouble his head about class dig- 
 nity, was to convert hid mother from
 
 1GS 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 her aristocratic tendencies or some- 
 thing. 
 
 Que sais-je? what will not a dream- 
 er hope '( 
 
 Lord Ipsden strolled along the 
 sands, and judge his surprise, when, 
 attended by two footmen, lie met at 
 that time in the morning Lady Bar- 
 bara Sinclair. 
 
 Lord Ipsden had been so disheart- 
 ened and piqued by this lady's con- 
 duct, that for a whole week lie had 
 not been near her : this line of beha- 
 vior sometimes answers. 
 
 She met him with a grand display 
 of cordiality. 
 
 She inquired, " Whether he had 
 heard of a most gallant action, that, 
 coupled with another circumstance " 
 [here she smiled) " had in part recon- 
 ciled her to the age we live in ? " 
 
 He asked for further particulars. 
 
 She then informed him " that a 
 ship had been ashore on the rocks, 
 that no fisherman dared venture out, 
 that a young gentleman had given 
 them his whole fortune, and so bribed 
 them to accompany him ; that he had 
 saved the ship and the men's lives, 
 paid away his fortune, and lighted an 
 odious cigar, and gone home, never 
 minding, amidst the blessings and ac- 
 clamations of a maritime population." 
 
 A beautiful story she told him ; so 
 beautiful, in fact, that until she had 
 discoursed ten minutes he hardly rec- 
 ognized his own feat; but when he 
 did he blushed inside as well as out 
 with pleasure. Oh ! music of music, 
 — praise from eloquent lips, and those 
 lips the lips we love. 
 
 The next moment he felt ashamed ; 
 ashamed that Lady Barbara should 
 praise him beyond his merits, as he 
 conceived. 
 
 He made a faint hypocritical en- 
 deavor to moderate her eulogium ; 
 this gave matters an unexpected turn, 
 Lady Barbara's eyes flashed defiance. 
 
 " I say it was a noble action, that 
 one nursed in effeminacy (as you all 
 are), should teach the hardy seamen 
 to mock at peril, — noble fellow ! " 
 
 " He did a man's duty, Barbara." 
 
 "Ipsden, take care, you will makft 
 me hate you, if you detract from ;. 
 deed you cannot emulate. This gen- 
 tleman risked his own life to save 
 others, — he is a hero ! I should 
 know him by his face the moment I 
 saw him. O that I were such a man, 
 or knew where to find such a crea- 
 ture ! " 
 
 The water came into Lord Ipsden's 
 eyes ; he did not know what to say 
 or do ; he turned away his head. 
 
 Lady Barbara was surprised; her 
 conscience smote her. 
 
 " O dear," said she, " there now, I 
 have given you pain — forgive me ; 
 we can't all be heroes ; dear Ipsden, 
 don't think I despise you now as I 
 used. O no ! I have heard of your 
 goodness to the poor, and I have more 
 experience now. There is nobody I 
 esteem more than you, Richard, so 
 you need not iook so." 
 
 " Thank you, dearest Barbara" 
 
 " Yes, and if you were to be such a 
 goose as to write me another letter 
 proposing absurdities to me — " 
 
 " Would the answer be different ? " 
 
 " Very different." 
 
 " Barbara, would you accept ? " 
 
 " Why, of course not ; but I would 
 refuse civilly ! " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " There, don't sigh ; I hate a sigh- 
 ing man. I '11 tell you something 
 that I know will make you laugh." 
 She then smiled saucily in his face, 
 and said, " Do you remember 
 Mr. ***'!" 
 
 L'effwnte'e ! this was the earnest 
 man. 
 
 But Ipsden was a match for her 
 this time. 
 
 " I think I do," said he ; "a gen- 
 tleman who wants to make John Bull 
 little again into John Calf; but it 
 won't do." 
 
 Her ladyship laughed. " Why did 
 you not tell us that on Inch Coombe ? " 
 
 " Because I had not read ' The 
 Catspaw ' then." 
 
 '■' ' The Catspaw ? ' Ah ! I thought 
 it could not be you. Whose is it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Jerrold's."
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 169 
 
 " Then Mr. Jen-old is cleverer than 
 you." 
 
 " It is possible." 
 
 " It is certain ! Well, Mr. Jerrold 
 and Lord Ipsden, you will both be 
 glad to hear that it was, in point of 
 fact, a bull that confuted the advo- 
 cate of the Middle Ages ; we were 
 walking ; he was telling me manhood 
 was extinct except in a few earnest 
 men who lived upon the past, its 
 associations, its truth ; when a horrid 
 bull gave — — such a bellow ! and 
 came trotting up. I screamed and 
 ran — I remember nothing hut arriv- 
 ing at the stile, and lo, on the other 
 side, offering me his arm with em- 
 pressement across the wooden barrier 
 was — " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well ! don't you see ? " 
 
 "No — — yes, I see ! — fancy — 
 ah ! Shall I tell you how he came to 
 get first over? He ran more earnest- 
 ly than you." 
 
 " It is not Mr. Jerrold this time, I 
 presume," said her satirical Ladyship. 
 
 " No ! you cannot always have 
 him. I venture to predict your Lady- 
 ship on your return home gave this 
 medieval personage his conge'." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " No '< " 
 
 "I gave it him at the stile! Let 
 us be serious, if you please ; I have 
 a confidence to make you, Ipsden. 
 Frankly, I owe you some apology for 
 my conduct of late ; I meant to be 
 reserved, — I have been rude, — but 
 you shall judge me. A year ago you 
 made me some proposals ; I rejected 
 them because, thongh I like you — " 
 
 " Vim like me ' " 
 
 " I detest your character. Since 
 then, my West India estate, has been 
 turned into specie ; that specie, the 
 bulk of my fortune, placed on board 
 a vessel ; that vessel lost, at least we 
 think so, — she has not been heard 
 of." 
 
 " My dear cousin." 
 
 " Do you comprehend that now I 
 am cooler than ever to all young 
 gentlemen who have large incomes, 
 8 
 
 and " (holding out her hand like an 
 angel) " I must trouble you to for- 
 give me." 
 
 He kissed her lovely hand. 
 
 " I esteem you more and more," 
 said he. 
 
 " You ought, for it has been a hard 
 struggle to me not to adore you, 
 because you are so improved, mon 
 cousin." 
 
 " Is it possible ? In what respect ? " 
 
 " You are browner and charitabler ; 
 and I should have been very kind to 
 you, — mawkishly kind, I fear, my 
 sweet cousin, if this wretched money 
 had not gone down in the ' Tisbe.' " 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried the Viscount. 
 
 "Ah!" squeaked Lady Barbara, 
 unused to such interjections. 
 
 " Gone down in what ? " said Ips- 
 den, in a loud voice. 
 
 " Don't bellow in people's ears. 
 The ' Tisbe,' stupid," cried she, 
 screaming at the top of her voice. 
 
 " Ri turn, ti turn, ti turn, turn, turn, 
 tiddy, iddy," went Lord Ipsden, — 
 he whistled a polka. 
 
 Lady Barbara {inspecting him grave- 
 ly). "I have heard it at a distance, 
 but I never saw how it was done be- 
 fore. It is very, verp pretty ! ! .' ! " 
 
 Ipsden. " Polkez-vous, madame?" 
 
 Lady Barb. " Si, je police, Mon- 
 sieur /<■ Vicitmte." 
 
 They polked for a second or two. 
 
 " Well, I dare say I am wrong," 
 cried Lady Barbara, " but I like you 
 better now you are a downright — 
 ahem! — than when you were only 
 an insipid non-intellectual — you are 
 greatly improved." 
 
 //«. " In what respects? " 
 
 Lady Booh. "Did I not tell you? 
 browner and more impudent; but 
 tell me," said she, resuming her sly, 
 satirical tone, "how is it that you, 
 who used to be the pink of courtesy, 
 dance and sing over the wreck of my 
 fortunes ?" 
 
 "Because they are not wrecked." 
 
 " I thought I told you my specie is 
 gone down in the ' Tisbe.' ' 
 
 Ipsden. " But the ' Tisbe ' has not 
 gone down."
 
 170 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Lady Barb. " I tell you it is." 
 
 Ipsden. " I assure you it is not." 
 
 Lad,/ Barb. " It is not ? " 
 
 Ipsden. " Barbara ! I am too hap- 
 py, I begin to nourish such sweet 
 hopes once more. O, I could fall on 
 my knees and bless you for something 
 you said just now." 
 
 Lady Barbara blushed to the tem- 
 ples. 
 
 " Then why don't you ? " said she. 
 " All you want is a little enthusiasm." 
 Then recovering herself, she said : — 
 
 " You kneel on wet sand, with 
 black trousers on; that will never 
 be ! ! ! " 
 
 These two were so occupied that 
 they did not observe the approach of 
 a stranger until he broke in upon 
 their dialogue. 
 
 An Ancient Mariner had been for 
 Bome minutes standing off and on, 
 reconnoitring Lord Ipsden; he now 
 bore down, and with great rough, 
 roaring cordiality, that made Lady 
 Barbara start, cried out : — 
 
 " Give me your hand, sir, — give 
 me your hand, if you were twice a 
 Lord. 
 
 " I could n't speak to you till the 
 brig was safe in port, and you slipped 
 away, but I 've brought you up at 
 last ; and — give me your hand again, 
 sir. I say, is n't it a pity you are a 
 Lord instead of a sailor ? " 
 
 Ipsden. " But I am a sailor." 
 
 Ancient Mariner. " That ye are, 
 and as smart a one as ever tied a true- 
 lover's knot in the top ; but tell the 
 truth, — you were never nearer losing 
 the number of your mess than that 
 day in the old ' tisbe.' " 
 
 Duly Barb. " The old ' Tisbe ' ! 
 Oh!" 
 
 Ipsden. " Do you remember that 
 nice little lurch "she gave to leeward 
 as we brought her round 1 " 
 Lady Barb. " O Richard ! " 
 Ancient Mariner. " And that reel 
 the old wench gave under our feet, 
 north the pier-head. I would n't 
 have given a washing-tub for her at 
 that moment." 
 
 Ipsden. " Past danger becomes 
 
 pleasure, sir. Olim et hmc meminissd 
 — I beg your pardon, sir." 
 
 Ancient Mariner (taking off his hat 
 with feeling). " God bless ye, sir, and 
 send ye many happy days, and well 
 spent, with the pretty lady I see 
 alongside ; asking your pardon, miss, 
 for parting pleasanter company, — so 
 I '11 sheer off." 
 
 And away went the skipper of the 
 "Tisbe," rolling fearfully. In the 
 heat of this reminiscence, the skipper 
 of the yacht (they are all alike, blue wa- 
 ter ouce fairly tasted) had lost sight 
 of Lady Barbara ; he now looked 
 round. Imagine his surprise ! 
 Her Ladyship was in tears. 
 " Dear Barbara," said Lord Ipsden, 
 " do not distress yourself on my ac- 
 count." 
 
 " It is not your fe-feelings I care 
 about; at least, I h-h-hope not ; but 
 I have been so unjust, and I prided 
 myself so on my j-ju-justice." 
 " Never mind ! " 
 
 " Gh ! if you don't, I don't. I hate 
 myself, so it is no wonder you h-hate 
 me." 
 
 " I love you more than ever." 
 " Then you arc a good soul ! Of 
 course you know I always /-esteemed 
 you, Richard." 
 
 " No ! I had an idea you despised 
 me!" 
 
 " How silly you are ! Can't you 
 see 1 When I thought you were not 
 perfection, which you are now, it 
 vexed me to death ; you never saw 
 me affront any one but you 1 " 
 
 "No, I never did ! What does 
 that prove ? " 
 
 " That depends upon the wit of him 
 that reasons thereon." (Coming to 
 herself. ) 
 
 " I love you, Barbara ! Will you 
 honor me with your hand ? " 
 
 " No ! I am not so base, so selfish : 
 you are worth a hundred of me, and 
 here have I been treating you de haut 
 en bas. Dear Richard, poor Richard. 
 Oh ! oh ! oh ! " (A perfect flood of 
 tears.) 
 
 " Barbara ! I regret nothing ; this 
 moment pays for all."
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 171 
 
 " Well, then, I will ! since you keep 
 pressing me. There, let me go; I 
 must be alone ; I must tell the sea 
 how unjust I was, and how happy I 
 am, and when you see me again you 
 shall see the better side of your cousin 
 Barbara." 
 
 She was peremptory. " She had 
 her folly and his merits to think over," 
 she said ; but she promised to pass 
 through Newhaven, and he should 
 put her into her pony-phaeton, which 
 would meet her there. 
 
 Lady Barbara was only a fool by 
 the excess of her wit over her experi- 
 ence ; and Lord Ipsden's love was not 
 misplaced, for she had a great heart 
 which she hid from little people. I 
 forgive her! 
 
 The resolutions she formed in com- 
 pany with the sea, having dismissed 
 Ipsden, and ordered her flunky into 
 the horizon, will probably give our 
 Viscount just half a century of conju- 
 gal bliss. 
 
 As he was going, she stopped him 
 and said : " Your friend had browner 
 hands than I have hitherto conceived 
 possible. To toll the truth, I took them 
 for the claws of a mahogany table 
 when he grappled you, — is that the 
 term ? Cest egal — I like him — " 
 
 She stopped him again. " Ips- 
 den, in the midst of all this that 
 poor man's ship is broken. I feel 
 it is ! You will buy him another, 
 if vou really love me, — for I like 
 him." 
 
 And so these lovers parted for a 
 time ; and Lord Ipsden with a bound- 
 ing heart returned to Newhaven. He 
 went to entertain his late ris-a-vis at 
 the " Peacoek." 
 
 Meantime a shorter and less pleasant 
 rencontre had taken place between 
 Leith and that village. 
 
 Gatty felt he should meet his lost 
 sweetheart ; and sun- enough, at a 
 turn of the road, Christie and Jean 
 eame suddenly upon him. 
 
 .h : i t i nodded, bnt Christie took no 
 BOtice of him ; they j>;i>~c<l him ; lie 
 turned and followed them, and said, 
 "Christie!" 
 
 " What is your will wi' me ? " said 
 she, coldly. 
 
 "I — I — How pale you are ! " 
 
 " I am no very weel." 
 
 " She has been watching over 
 muckle wi' Flucker," said Jean. 
 
 Christie thanked her with a look. 
 
 " I hope it is not — not — " 
 
 " Nae fears, lad," said she, brisk- 
 ly ; "I dinna think that muckle o' 
 ye." 
 
 " And I think of nothing but you," 
 said he. 
 
 A deep flush crimsoned the young 
 woman's brow, but she restrained 
 herself, and said icily : " Thaat 's very 
 gude o' ye, I 'm sure." 
 
 Gatty felt all the contempt her 
 manners and words expressed. He 
 bit his lips : the tear started to his 
 eye. " You will forget me," said 
 he : "I do not deserve to be remem- 
 bered, but I shall never forget you. 
 I leave for England : I leave New- 
 haven forever, where I have been so 
 happy. I am going at three o'clock 
 by the steamboat : won't you bid me 
 good by 1 " he approached her timid- 
 
 "Ay ! that wull do," cried she ; 
 " Gude be wi' ye, lad ; I wish ye nae 
 ill." She gave a commanding ges- 
 ture of dismissal ; he turned away, 
 and went sadly from her. 
 
 She watched every motion when his 
 back was turned. 
 
 " That is you, Christie," said Jean ; 
 " use the lads like dirt, an' they think 
 a' the mair o' ye." 
 
 " ( ) Jean, my bairt 's broken. I 'm 
 just deeing for him." 
 
 " Let me speak till hitn then," said 
 Jean ; " 1 'II sane bring hint till his 
 marrow-banes " ; and she took a busty 
 Step to follow him. 
 
 Christie held her fast. "I'd dee 
 ere I 'd give in till them. O Jean ! 
 I 'm a lassie clean Hung awa ; he has 
 neither hairt nor spunk ava, yon 
 lad!" 
 
 Jean began to make excuses for 
 him: Christie inveighed against him: 
 Jean spoke up for him with more 
 earnestness.
 
 172 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Now observe, Jean despised the 
 poor boy. 
 
 Christie adored him. 
 
 So Jean spoke for him, because wo- 
 men of every degree are often one sol- 
 id mass of tact ; and Christie abused 
 him, because she wanted to hear him 
 defended. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Richard, Lord Viscount Ipsden, 
 having dotted the sea-shore with sen- 
 tinels, to tell him of Lady Barbara's 
 approach, awaited his guest in the 
 " Peacock " ; but, as Gatty was a little 
 behind time, he placed Saunders sen- 
 tinel over the " Peacock," and strolled 
 eastward ; as be came out of the " Pea- 
 cock," Mrs. Gatty came down the lit- 
 tle hill in front, and also proceeded 
 eastward ; meantime Lady Barbara 
 and her escort were not far from the 
 New Town of Newhaven, on their way 
 from Leith. 
 
 Mrs. Gatty came down, merelj- 
 with a vague fear. She had no rea- 
 son to suppose her son's alliance with 
 Christie either would or could be re- 
 newed, but she was a careful player 
 and would not give a chance away; 
 she found he was gone out unusually 
 early, so she came straight to the 
 only place she dreaded ; it was her 
 son's last day in Scotland. She had 
 packed his clothes, and he had in- 
 spired her with confidence by arrang- 
 ing pictures, &c, himself; she had no 
 idea he was packing for his departure 
 from this life, not Edinburgh only. 
 
 She came then to Newhaven with 
 no serious misgivings, for, even if her 
 son had again vacillated, she saw that, 
 with Christie's pride and her own 
 firmness, the game must be hers in 
 the end ; but. as I said before, she was 
 one who plaj-cd her cards closely, and 
 such seldom lose. 
 
 But my story is with the two young 
 fishwives, who, on their return from 
 Leith, found themselves at the foot 
 of the New Town, Newhaven, soma 
 
 minutes before any of the other per- 
 sons who, it is to be observed, were 
 approaching it from different points ; 
 they came slowly in, Christie in par- 
 ticular, with a listlessness she had 
 never known till this last week ; for 
 some days her strength had failed her, 
 — it was Jean that carried the creel 
 now, — before, Christie, in the pride of 
 her strength, would always do more 
 than her share of their joint labor: then 
 she could hardly be forced to eat, and 
 what she did eat w r as quite tasteless 
 to her, and sleep left her, and in its 
 stead came uneasy slumbers, from 
 which she awoke quivering from head 
 to foot. 
 
 Oh ! perilous venture of those who 
 love one object with the whole heart. 
 
 This great but tender heart was 
 breaking flay by day. 
 
 Well, Christie and Jean, strolling 
 slowly into the New Town of New- 
 haven, found an assemblage of the 
 natives all looking seaward ; the fish- 
 ermen, except Sandy Liston, were 
 away at the herring fishery, but all 
 the boys and women of the New 
 Town were collected ; the girls felt a 
 momentary curiosity ; it proved, how- 
 ever, to be only an individual swim- 
 ming in towards shore from a greater 
 distance than usual. 
 
 A little matter excites curiosity in 
 such places. 
 
 The man's head looked like a spot 
 of ink. 
 
 Sandy Liston was minding his own 
 business, lazily mending a skait-nct, 
 which he had attached to a crazy old 
 herring-boat hauled up to rot. 
 
 Christie sat down, pale and lan- 
 guid, by him, on a creepie that a lass 
 who had been baiting a line with 
 mussels had just vacated ; suddenly 
 she seized Jean's arm with a convul- 
 sive motion ; Jean looked up, — it 
 was the London steamboat running 
 out from Leith to Granton Pier to 
 take up her passengers for London. 
 Charles Gatty was going by that 
 boat ; the look of mute despair the 
 poor girl gave went to Jean's heart ; 
 she ran hastily from the group, and
 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 173 
 
 cried out of sight for poor Chris- 
 tie. 
 
 A fishwife, looking through a tel- 
 escope at the swimmer, remarked : 
 " He 's coming in fast ; he 's a gallant 
 swimmer yon — " 
 
 " Can he dee 't 1 " inquired Chris- 
 tie of Sandy Liston. 
 
 " Fine thaat," was the reply ; " he 
 does it aye o' Sundays when ye are 
 at the kirk." 
 
 " It 's no oot o' the kirk-window 
 ye '11 hae seen him, Sandy, my mon," 
 said a young fishwife. 
 
 " Kin for my glass ony way, Fluck- 
 er," said Christie, forcing herself to 
 take some little interest. 
 
 Flucker brought it to her, she put 
 her hand on his shoulder, got slowly 
 up, and stood on the creepie, and ad- 
 justed the focus of her glass; after a 
 short view, she said to Fluckcr: — 
 
 " Rin and see the nock." She then 
 levelled her glass again at the swim- 
 mer. 
 
 Fluckcr informed her the nock said 
 "half eleven," — Scotch for "half 
 past ten." 
 
 Christie whipped out a well- 
 thuinljed almanac. 
 
 " Yon nock 's aye ahint," said 
 she. She swept the sea once more 
 with her glass, then brought it to- 
 gether with a click, and jumped off the 
 stool : her quick intelligence viewed 
 the matter differently from all the 
 others. 
 
 " Noow," cried she, smartly, " wha 
 '11 lend me his yawl I " 
 
 "llets! dinoa lie sac interfcrin, 
 lassie," said a fishwife. 
 
 " Hae uaiie o' ye ony spunk?" 
 said Christie, taking no notice of the 
 woman. " Speak, laddies ! " 
 
 " M' uncle's yawl is at the pier- 
 head ; ye '11 get her, my woman," 
 said a boy. 
 
 "A schell'n for wha 's first on 
 board," said Christie, holding up the 
 coin. 
 
 " Come awa', Fluckcr. we '11 hae 
 her schell'n " ; and ihe-.e twu worthies 
 instantly < ffected a foil o i tart. 
 
 " It 's no under your jackets," said 
 
 Christie, as she dashed after them 
 like the wind. 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! haw ! " laughed San- 
 dy. 
 
 " What s her business picking up 
 a mon against his will i " said a wo- 
 man. 
 
 " She 's an awfu' lassie," whined 
 another. 
 
 The examination of the swimmer 
 was then continued, and the crowd 
 increased ; some would have it he 
 was rapidly approaching, others that 
 he made little or no way. 
 
 " Wha est ? " said another. 
 
 " It 's a lummy," said a girl. 
 
 " Na ! it 's no a lummy," said 
 another. 
 
 Christie's boat was now seen stand- 
 ing out from the pier. Sandy Lis- 
 ton, casting a contemptuous look on 
 all the rest, lifted himself lazily in- 
 to the herring-boat and looked sea- 
 ward. His manner changed in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " The Deevil ! " cried he ; " the 
 tide 's turned ! You wi' your glass, 
 could you no see yon man 's drifting 
 oot to sea ? " 
 
 " Hech ! " cried the women, " he 'II 
 be drooned, — he '11 be drooned ! " 
 
 " Yes ; he '11 be drooned ! " cried 
 Sandy, " if yon lassie does na come 
 alongside him deevelich quick, — he 's 
 sair spent, I doot." 
 
 Two spectators were now added to 
 the scene, Mrs. Gatty and Lord Ips- 
 den. Mrs. Gatty inquired what was 
 the matter. 
 
 " It 's a mon drooning," was the 
 reply. 
 
 'I he poor fellow, whom Sandy, by 
 aid of his glass, now discovered to bo 
 in a worn-out condition, was about 
 half a mile east of Ncwhavcii pier- 
 head, anil unfortunately the wind was 
 nearly <U\v cast. Christie was stand- 
 ing north-northeast, her boat-hook 
 jammed against the sail, which stood 
 as Hat as a knife. 
 
 The natives of the Old Town were 
 now seen pouring down to tie' ]>i' I 
 
 and the beach, and strangers were 
 
 collecting like bees.
 
 1/4 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 " After wit is everybody's wit ! ! ! " 
 — Old Proverb. 
 
 The affair was in the Johnstone's 
 hands. 
 
 " That boat is not going to the 
 poor man," said Mrs. Gatty, " it is 
 turning its back upon him." 
 
 " She canna lie in the wind's eye, 
 for as clever as she is," answered a 
 fishwife. 
 
 " I ken wha it is," suddenly 
 squeaked a little fishwife ; " it 's 
 Christie Johnstone's lad ; it 's yon 
 daft painter fr' England. Hecti ! " 
 cried she, suddenly, observing Mrs. 
 Gatty, "it 's your son, woman." 
 
 The unfortunate woman gave a 
 fearful scream, and, flying like a tiger 
 on Liston, commanded him " to go 
 straight out to sea and save her 
 son." 
 
 Jean Carnie seized her arm. *' Div 
 ye see yon boat 1 " cried she ; " and div 
 ye mind Christie, the lass wha 's hairt 
 ye hae broken 1 aweel, woman, — it 's 
 just a race between deeth and Cirsty 
 Johnstone for your son." 
 
 The poor old woman swooned 
 dead away ; they carried her into 
 Christie Johnstone's house, and laid 
 her down, then hurried back, — the 
 greater terror absorbed the less. 
 
 Lady Barbara Sinclair Avas there 
 from Leith ; and, seeing Lord Ipsdcn 
 Standing in the boat with a fisherman, 
 she asked him to tell her what it 
 was ; neither he nor any one answered 
 her. 
 
 " Why doesn't she come about, 
 Liston 1 " cried Lord Ipsden, stamp- 
 ing with anxiety and impatience. 
 
 " She '11 no be lang," said Sandy ; 
 "but they'll mak a mess o' 't wi' 
 ne'er a man i' the boat." 
 
 " Ye 're sure o' thaat ? " put in a 
 woman. 
 
 " Ay, about she comes," said Lis- 
 ton, as the sail came down on the 
 first tack. He was mistaken; they 
 dipped the lug as cleverly as any man 
 in the town could. 
 
 " Hech ! look at her hauling on the 
 rope like a mon," cried a woman. 
 The sail flew up on the other tack. 
 
 " She 's an awfu' lassie," whined 
 another. 
 
 " He 's awa," groaned Liston, " he 'a 
 doon ! " 
 
 " No ! he 's up again," cried Lord 
 Ipsden ; " but I fear he can't live till 
 the boat comes to him." 
 
 The fisherman and the Viscount 
 held on by each other. 
 
 " He does na see her, or maybe he 'd 
 tak hairt." 
 
 " I 'd give ten thousand pounds if 
 only he could see her. My God, the 
 man will be drowned under our eyes. 
 If he but saw her ! ! ! " 
 
 The words had hardly left Lord 
 Ipsden's lips, when the sound of a 
 woman's voice came like an ^Eolian 
 note across the water. 
 
 " Hurraih ! " roared Liston, and 
 every creature joined the cheer. 
 
 " She '11 no let him dee. Ah ! 
 she 's in the bows, hailing him an' 
 waving the lad's bonnet ower her 
 head to gie him coorage. Gude bless 
 ye, lass ; Gude bless ye ! " 
 
 Christie knew it was no use hail- 
 ing him against the wind, but the mo- 
 ment she got the wind she darted into 
 the bows, and pitched in its highest 
 key her full and brilliant voice ; 
 after a moment of suspense she re- 
 ceived proof that she must be heard 
 by him, for on the pier now hung 
 men and women, clustered like bees, 
 breathless with anxiety, and the mo- 
 ment after she hailed the drowning 
 man, she saw and heard a wild yell 
 of applause burst from the pier, and 
 the pier was more distant than the 
 man. She snatched Fluckcr's cap, 
 plan-ted her foot on the gunwale, held 
 on by a rope, hailed the poor fellow 
 again, and waved the cap round and 
 round her head, to give him courage ; 
 and in a moment, at the sight of this, 
 thousands of voices thundered back 
 their cheers to her across the water. 
 Blow, wind, — spring, boat, — and 
 you, Christie, still ring life towards 
 those despairing ears, and wave hope 
 to those sinking eyes ; cheer the boat 
 on, you thousands that look upon 
 this action ; hurrah ! from the pier ;
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 175 
 
 hurrah ! from the town ; hurrah ! from 
 the shore ; hurrah ! now, from the 
 very ships in the roads, whose crews 
 are swarming on the yards to look ; 
 five minutes ago they laughed at yon ; 
 three thousand eyes and hearts hang 
 upon you now ; ay, these are the mo- 
 ments we live for ! 
 
 And now dead silence. The boat 
 is within fifty yards, tliey are all three 
 consulting together round the mast ; 
 an error now is death ; his forehead 
 only seems above water. 
 
 " If they miss him on that tack ? " 
 said Lord Ipsden, significantly, to 
 Liston. 
 
 " He '11 never see London Brigg 
 again," was the whispered reply. 
 
 They carried on till all on shore 
 thought they would run over him, or 
 past him ; but no, at ten yards dis- 
 tant they were all at the sail, and had 
 it down like lightning ; and then 
 Thicker sprang to the bows, the other 
 hoy to the helm. 
 
 Unfortunately, there were but two 
 Johnstoncs in the boat ; and this boy, 
 in his harry, actually put the helm to 
 port, instead of to starboard. Chris- 
 tie, who stood amidships, saw the er- 
 ror; she sprang aft, flung the boy 
 from the helm, and jammed it hard- 
 a-starboard with her foot. The boat 
 answered the helm, but too late for 
 Flucker ; the man was four yards 
 from him as the boat drifted by. 
 
 " He 's a deed nion ! " cried Liston, 
 on shore. 
 
 The boat's length gave one more 
 little chance; the after part must 
 drift nearer him, — thanks to ( 'hristic. 
 Flucker flew aft; flung himself on 
 hi.- hack, and seized his sister's pet- 
 ticoats. 
 
 " Fling yourself ower the gun- 
 wale," ■creamed he. " Ye '11 no hurt ; 
 J Ve hand ye." 
 
 She flung herself boldly over the 
 gunwale; the man was sinking, her 
 nails touched his hair, her fingers 
 entangled themselves in it, she gave 
 him a powerful wrench and brOBght 
 him alongside ; the boys pinned him 
 like wild-catB. 
 
 Christie darted away forward to 
 the mast, passed a rope round it, 
 threw it the boys, in a moment it was 
 under his shoulders. Christie hauled 
 on it from the fore thwart, the boys 
 lifted him, and they tumbled him, 
 gasping and gurgling like a dying 
 salmon, into the bottom of the boar, 
 and flung net and jackets and sail 
 over him, to keep the life in him. 
 
 Ah ! draw your breath all hands at 
 sea and ashore, and don't try it again, 
 young gentleman, for there was noth- 
 ing to spare ; when you were missed 
 at the bow two stout hearts quivered 
 for you ; Lord Ipsden hid his face in 
 his two hands, Sandy Liston gave a 
 groan, and, when you were grabbed 
 astern, jumped out of his boat, and 
 cried : — 
 
 "A gill o' whiskey for ony favor, 
 for it 's turned me as secck as a doeg." 
 He added : " He may bless yon lassie's 
 fowr bancs, for she s taen him oot o' 
 Death's maw, as sure as Gude's in 
 heaven ! " 
 
 Lady Barbara, who had all her life 
 been longing to see perilous adven- 
 tures, prayed, and trembled, and cried 
 most piteously; and Lord Ipsden's 
 back was to her, and he paid no atten- 
 tion to her voice; but when the battle 
 was won, and Lord Ipsden turned and 
 saw her, s] K < clung to his arm and 
 dried her tears ; and then the < >ld 
 Town cheered the boat, and the New 
 Town cheered the boat, and the towns 
 cheered each other; and the John- 
 stones, lad and lass, set their sail, 
 and swept back in triumph to the 
 pier ; so then Lady Barbara's blood 
 mounted and tingled in her veins like 
 fire. "O, how noble ! " cried she. 
 
 " Yes, dearest," said Ipsden. " You 
 have seen something great done at 
 last; and by a woman, too!" 
 
 " yes,'' said Barbara, " how beauti- 
 ful ! oh ! how beautiful it all is ; only 
 the next one I see 1 should like the 
 danger to be over first, that is all." 
 
 The boys and Christie, the moment 
 they had saved Catty, op sail again 
 lor Xewliaven ; they landed IB about 
 three minutes at the pier.
 
 176 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Time. 
 From Newhaven town to pier on 
 
 loot 1 m. 30 sec. 
 
 First tack .... 5 30 
 Second tack, and getting him on 
 
 board ..... 4 
 
 Back to the pier, going free . 3 30 
 
 Total 
 
 . 14 
 
 30 
 
 They came in to the pier, Christie 
 sitting quietly on the thwart after her 
 work, the boy steering, and Flucker 
 standing against the mast, hands in 
 his pockets; the deportment this 
 young gentleman thought fit to as- 
 sume on this occasion was "complete 
 apathy " ; he came into port with the 
 air of one bringing home the ordinary 
 results of his day's fishing ; this was, 
 I suppose, to impress the spectators 
 with the notion that saving lives was 
 an every-day affair with La Famillc 
 Johnstone ; as for Gatty, he came to 
 himself under his heap of nets and 
 jackets, and spoke once between 
 Death's jaw and the pier. 
 
 "Beautiful!" murmured he, and 
 was silent. The meaning of this ob- 
 servation never transpired, and never 
 will in this world. Six months after- 
 wards, being subjected to a searching 
 interrogatory, he stated that he had 
 alluded to the majesty and freedom 
 of a certain pose Christie had adopted 
 whilst hailing him from the boat ; but, 
 reader, if be had wanted you and me 
 to believe it was this, he should not 
 have been half a year finding it out, 
 — inereduli odimus ! They landed, 
 and Christie sprang on shore ; whilst 
 she was wending her way through 
 the crowd, impeded by greetings 
 and acclamations, with every now 
 and then a lass waving her kerchief 
 or a lad his bonnet over the hero- 
 ine's head, poor Mrs. Gatty was re- 
 ceiving the attention of the New 
 Town ; they brought her to, they told 
 her the good news, — she thanked 
 God. 
 
 The whole story had spread like 
 wildfire ; they expostulated with her, 
 they told her, now was the time to 
 show she had a heart, and bless the 
 young people. 
 
 She rewarded them with a valuable 
 precept. 
 
 " Mind your own business ! " said 
 she. 
 
 " Hech ! y' are a dour wife ! " cried 
 Newhaven. 
 
 The dour wife bent her eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 The people were still collected at 
 the foot of the street, but they were 
 now in knots, when in dashed Flucker, 
 arriving by a short cut, and crying : 
 " She does na ken, she does na ken, 
 she was ower moedest to look, I daur 
 say, and ye Tl no tell her, for he 's a 
 blackguard, an' he's just making a 
 fule o' the pair lass, and if she kens 
 what she has done for him, she '11 be 
 fonder o' him than a coow o' her 
 cauf." 
 
 " O Flucker ! we maun tell her, 
 it 's her lad, her ain lad, she saved," 
 expostulated a woman. 
 
 " Did ever my feyther do a good 
 turn till ye ? " cried Flucker. " Aweel, 
 then, ye Tl no tell the lassie, she 's 
 weel as she is ; he 's gaun t' Enngland 
 the day. I cannie gie ye a' a hidin," 
 said he, with an eye that flashed vol- 
 umes of good intention, on a hundred 
 and fifty people ; " but I am feyther- 
 less and motherless, an' I can fa' on 
 my knees an' curse ye a' if ye do us 
 sic an ill turn, an' then ye '11 see 
 whether ye '11 thrive." 
 
 " We Tl no tell, Flucker, ye need 
 na curse us ony way." 
 
 His Lordship, with all the sharp 
 authority of a skipper, ordered Master 
 Flucker to the pier, with a message to 
 the yacht ; Flucker qua yachtsman 
 was a machine, and went as a matter 
 of course. " I am determined to tell 
 her," said Lord Ipsden to Lady Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 " But," remonstrated Lady Barbara, 
 " the poor boy says he will curse us if 
 we do." 
 
 " He won't curse me." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 "Because the little blackguard's 
 grog would be stopped on board the 
 yacht if he did." 
 
 Flucker had not been gone many
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 177 
 
 minutes before loud cheering was 
 heard, and Christie Johnstone ap- 
 peared convoyed by a large detach- 
 ment of the Old Town ; she had tried 
 to slip away, but they would not let 
 her. They convoyed her in tri- 
 umph till "they saw the New Town 
 people, and then they turned and left 
 her. 
 
 She came in amongst the groups, a 
 changed woman, — her pallor and her 
 listlessness were gone, — the old light 
 was in her eye, and the bright color in 
 her cheek, and she seemed hardly to 
 touch the earth. 
 
 " I 'm just droukit, lasses," cried 
 she, gayly, wringing her sleeve. 
 Every eve was upon her ; did she 
 know, or did she not know, what she 
 had done ? 
 
 Lord Ipsden stepped forward; the 
 
 Eeople tacitly accepted him as the ve- 
 icle of their curiosity. 
 
 " Who was it, Christie 1 " 
 
 " I dinna ken, for my pairt ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gatty came out of the house. 
 
 " A handsome young fellow, 1 hope, 
 Christie?" resumed Lord Ipsden. 
 
 " Ye maun ask Flucker, was the 
 reply. "I could no tak muckle no- 
 tice, ye ken," putting her hand before 
 her eye, and half smiling. 
 
 " Well ! I hear he is very good look- 
 ing ; and I hear you think so too." 
 
 She glided to him, and looked in his 
 face. He gave a meaning smile. The 
 poor girl looked quite perplexed. Sud- 
 denly she gave a violent start. 
 
 '• Christie ! where is Christie ? " had 
 cried a well-known voice, lie had 
 learned on the pier who had sa'.ed 
 
 him, — he had slipped up among the 
 
 boats to find her, — he could not find 
 h's hat, — he could not wait lor it, — 
 hia dripping hair showed where he had 
 been, — it was her lovewhom she had 
 jnM saved out of Death's very jaws. 
 
 She gave a cry of love that went 
 through every heart, high or low, 
 young or old, that heard it. And 
 she went to him, through the air it 
 seemed ; hut, quick a> she was, another 
 was ag quick ; the mother had seen 
 him firs:, and she was there. Christie 
 
 8* 
 
 saw nothing. With another cry, the 
 very key-note of her great and loving 
 heart, she flung her arms round — 
 Mrs. Gatty, who was on the same er- 
 rand as herself. 
 
 " Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent ; 
 Hearts are not flint, and flint is rent." 
 
 The old woman felt Christie touch 
 her. She turned from her son in a 
 moment, and wept upon her neck. 
 Her lover took her hand and kissed it, 
 and pressed it to his bosom, and tried 
 to speak to her ; but all he could do 
 Mas to sob and choke, — and kiss her 
 hand again. 
 
 " My daughter ! " sobbed the old 
 woman. 
 
 At that word Christie clasped her 
 quickly ; and then Christie began to 
 cry. 
 
 " I am not a stone," cried Mrs. Gat- 
 ty. " I gave him life ; but you have 
 saved him from death. O Charles, 
 never make her repent what she has 
 doue for you." 
 
 She was a woman after all ; and 
 prudence and prejudice melted like 
 snow before her heart. 
 
 There were not many dry eyes, — 
 least of all the heroic Lady Bar- 
 bara's. 
 
 The three whom a moment had 
 made one were becoming calmer, ami 
 taking one another's hands for life, 
 when a diabolical sound arose, — and 
 what was it. but Sandy Liston, who, 
 after furious resistance, was blubber- 
 ing with explosive but short-lived vi- 
 olence ' Having done it, he was the 
 first to draw everybody's attention to 
 the phenomenon ; and affecting to 
 consider it a purely physical attack, 
 like a ciii/i <}<■ solii/, or so on, he pro- 
 ceeded instantly to Drysel's for his 
 panacea. 
 
 Lady Barbara enjoined Lord Tps- 
 den to watch these people, and not to 
 lose a word they said ; and, after she 
 had insisted upon kissing Christie, 
 she went oil' to her carriage. And 
 she too was so happy, she cried three 
 distinct times on her way to Edin 
 burgh.
 
 178 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Lord Ipsden, having reminded 
 Gatty of his engagement, begged him 
 to add his mother and Christie to the 
 
 Earty, and escorted Lady Barbara to 
 er phaeton. 
 
 So then the people dispersed by 
 degrees. 
 
 " That old lady's face seems famil- 
 iar to me," said Lord Ipsden, as he 
 stood on the little natural platform 
 by the " Peacock." "Do you know 
 Who she is, Saunders ? " 
 
 " It is Peggy, that was cook in your 
 Lordship's uncle's time, my Lord. 
 She married a green-grocer," added 
 Saunders, with an injured air. 
 
 "Hech! hcch!" cried Flucker, 
 " Christie has ta'en up her head wi' 
 a cook's son." 
 
 Mrs. Gatty was ushered into the 
 " Peacock," with mock civility, by 
 Mr. Saunders. No recognition took 
 place, each being ashamed of the oth- 
 er as an acquaintance. 
 
 The next arrival was a beautiful 
 young lady, in a black silk gown, a 
 plain but duck-like plaid shawl, who 
 proved to be Christie Johnstone, in 
 her Sunday attire. 
 
 When they met, Mrs. Gatty gave a 
 little scream of joy, and said : " O 
 my child ; if I had seen you in that 
 dress, I should never have said a 
 word against you." 
 
 " Pars minima est ipsa puella sui ! ' 
 
 His Lordship stepped up to her, 
 took off his hat, and said : " Will 
 Mrs. Gatty take from me a commis- 
 sion for two pictures, as big as her- 
 self, and as bonny ? " added he, doing 
 a little Scotch. He handed her a 
 check ; and, turning to Gatty, add- 
 ed, " At your convenience, sir, bien 
 entendu." 
 
 " Hcch ! it 's for five hundred pund, 
 Chairles." 
 
 " Good gear gangs in little book," * 
 said Jean. 
 
 " Ay, does it," replied Flucker, as- 
 suming the compliment. 
 
 " My Lord ! " said the artist, " you 
 treat Art like a prince ; and she shall 
 
 * Bulk. 
 
 treat you like a queen. When tha 
 sun comes out again, I will work for 
 you and fame. You shall have two 
 things painted, every stroke loyally 
 in the sunlight. In spite of gloomy 
 winter and gloomier London, I will 
 try if I can't hang nature and sum- 
 mer on your walls forever. As for 
 me, you know I must go to Gerard 
 Dow and Cuyp, and Pierre de Hoogh, 
 when my little sand is run ; but my 
 handwriting shall warm your chil- 
 dren's children's hearts, sir, when 
 this hand is dust." His eye turned 
 inwards, he walked to and fro, and 
 his companions died out of his sight, 
 — he was in the kingdom of art. 
 
 His Lordship and Jean entered the 
 " Peacock," followed by Flucker, 
 who merely lingered at the door to 
 moralize as follows : — 
 
 " Hech ! hech ! isna thaat lamenta- 
 ble ? Christie's mon 's as daft as a 
 drunk weaver." 
 
 But one stayed quietly behind, and 
 assumed that moment the office of her 
 life. 
 
 " Ay ! " he burst out again, " the 
 resources of our art are still unfathamed ! 
 Pictures are yet to be painted that shall 
 refresh men's inner soiils, and help their 
 hearts against the artificial world ; and 
 charm the fiend away, like David's 
 harp ! I The world, after centuries of 
 lies, will give nature and truth a trial. 
 What a paradise art will be, when 
 truths, instead of lies, shcdl be told on pa- 
 per, on marble, on canvas, and on the 
 boards! ! J" 
 
 " Dinner 's on the boarrd," mur- 
 mured Christie, alluding to Lord 
 Ipsden's breakfast ; " and I hae the 
 charge o' ye," pulling his sleeve, hard 
 enough to destroy the equilibrium of 
 a flea. 
 
 " Then don't let us waste our time 
 here. O Christie ! " 
 
 " What est, my laddy ? " 
 
 " I 'm so preciously hungry ! ! ! ! " 
 
 " C-way * then ! " 
 
 Off they ran, hand in hand, sparks 
 of beauty, love, and happiness flying 
 all about them. 
 
 * Come away.
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " There is nothing but meeting 
 and parting in this world ! " and you 
 may be sure the incongruous person- 
 ages of our tale could not long be to- 
 gether. Their separate paths had 
 met for an instant, in one focus, fur- 
 nished then and there the matter of 
 an ecentric story, and then diverged 
 forever. 
 
 Our lives have a general current, 
 and also an episode or two ; and the 
 episodes of a commonplace life are 
 often rather startling ; in like manner 
 this tale is not a specimen, but an 
 episode of Lord Ipsden and Lady 
 Barbara, who soon after this married 
 and lived like the rest of thebeau monde. 
 In so doing, they passed out of my 
 hands ; such as wish to know how 
 Viscounts and Viscountesses feed, and 
 Bleep, and do the domestic (so called), 
 and the social (so called), are referred 
 to the fashionable novel. To Mr. 
 Saunders, for instance, who has in 
 the press one of those eerberus-levia- 
 thans of fiction, so common now ; 
 incredible as folio to future ages. 
 Saunders will take you by the hand, 
 and lead you over carpets two inches 
 thick, — under rosy curtains, — to 
 dinner-tables. He will fete you, and 
 opera you, and dazzle your young 
 imagination with €pergnes, and sal- 
 vers, and buhl, and ormolu. No fish- 
 wives or painters shall intrude upon 
 his polished scenes ; all shall be as 
 genteel as himself. Saunders is a 
 good authority ; he is more in tfw so- 
 ciety, and far more in the confidence 
 of the great, than most fashionable 
 novelists. Mr. Saunders's work will 
 be in three volumes ; nine hundred 
 and ninety pages !!!!!! 
 
 In other words, this single work, of 
 this ingenious writer, will equal in 
 bulk the aggregate of all the writings 
 extant by Moses, David, Solomon, 
 Isaiah, and St. Paal ! ! ! 
 
 I shall not venture into competition 
 with this behemoth of the s'llon ; I 
 will evaporate in thin generalities. 
 
 Lord Ipsdcn then lived very happi- 
 
 ly with Lady Barbara, whose hero he 
 straightway became, and who nobly 
 and poetically dotes upon him. He has 
 gone into political life to please her, 
 and will remain there — to please him- 
 self. They were both very grateful to 
 Newhaven ; when they married they 
 vowed to visit it twice a year, and min- 
 gle a fortnight's simple life with its 
 simple scenes ; but four years have 
 passed, and they have never been 
 there again, and I dare say never will ; 
 but when Viscount Ipsden falls in 
 with a brother aristocrat, who is 
 crushed by the fiend ennui, he remem- 
 bers Aberford, and condenses his fa- 
 mous recipe into a two-edged hex- 
 ameter, which will make my learned 
 reader laugh, for it is full of wis- 
 dom : — 
 
 " Diluculo snrgas ! miseris succurrere dis- 
 cas ! ' " 
 
 Flucker Johnstone meditated dur- 
 ing breakfast upon the five hundred 
 pounds, and regretted he had not 
 years ago adopted Mr. Gatty's profes- 
 sion ; some days afterwards he invit- 
 ed his sister to a conference. Chairs 
 being set, Mr. Flucker laid down 
 this observation, that near relations 
 should be deuced careful not to cast 
 discredit upon one another ; that now 
 his sister was to be a lady, it was re- 
 pugnant to his sense of right to be a 
 fisherman and make her ladyship 
 blush for him ; on the contrary, he 
 felt it his duty to rise to such high 
 consideration that she should be proud 
 of him. 
 
 Christie acquiesced at once in this 
 position, but professed herself embar- 
 rassed to know how such a " ne'er-do- 
 weel " was to be made a source of 
 pride ; then she kissed Flucker, and 
 said, in a tone somewhat inconsistent 
 with the above, " Tell me, my 
 laamb!" 
 
 Her lamb informed her that the 
 sea has many paths ; some of them 
 disgraceful, such as line or net Sail- 
 ing, and the periodical laying down, 
 on rocky shoals, and taking up again, 
 of lobster-creels ; others, superior tu
 
 180 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 anything the dry land can offer in 
 importance and dignity and general 
 estimation, such as the command of 
 a merchant vessel trading to the East 
 or West Indies. Her lamb then sug- 
 gested that if she would be so good 
 as to launch him in the merchant- 
 service, with a good rig of clothes 
 and money in his pocket, there was 
 that in his head which would enable 
 him to work to windward of most of 
 his contemporaries. He bade her 
 calculate upon the following results : 
 in a year or two he would be sec- 
 ond mate, and next year first mate, 
 and in a few years more skipper ! 
 Think of that, lass ! Skipper of a 
 Vessel, whose rig he generously left 
 his sister free to determine ; premis- 
 ing that two masts were, in his the- 
 ory of navigation, indispensable, and 
 that three were a great deal more 
 like Cocker than two. This led to a 
 general consultation ; Flucker's am- 
 bition was discussed and praised. 
 That modest young gentleman, in 
 spite of many injunctions to the con- 
 trary, communicated his sister's plans 
 for him to Lord Ipsden, and affected 
 to doubt their prudence. The bait 
 took ; Lord Ipsden wrote to his man 
 of business, and an unexpected blow 
 fell upon the ingenious Flucker. He 
 was sent to school ; there to learn a 
 little astronomy, a little navigation, a 
 little seamanship, a little manners, 
 &c. ; in the mysteries of reading and 
 writing his sister had already per- 
 fected him by dint of " the taws." 
 This school was a blow ; but Fluck- 
 er was no fool ; he saw there was no 
 way of getting from school to sea 
 without working. So he literally 
 worked out to sea. His first voyage 
 Was distinguished by the following 
 peculiarities : attempts to put tricks 
 Upon this particular novice generally 
 ended in the laugh turning against 
 the experimenters ; and instead of 
 drinking his grog, which he hates, 
 he secreted it, and sold it for various 
 advantages. He has been now four 
 voyages ; when he comes ashore, in 
 stead of going ti> bnvata of tolly and 
 
 vice, he instantly bears up for his 
 sister's house, — Kensington Gravel- 
 pits, — which he makes in the follow- 
 ing manner : he goes up the river, 
 — Heaven knows where all, — this he 
 calls running down the longitude ; 
 then he lands, and bears down upon 
 the Gravel-pits ; in particular knowl- 
 edge of the names of streets he is 
 deficient, but he knows the exact 
 bearings of Christie's dwelling. He 
 tacks and wears according as mason- 
 ry compels him, and he arrives at 
 the gate. He nails the house, in a 
 voice that brings all the inhabitants 
 of the row to their windows, includ- 
 ing Christie; he is fallen upon and 
 dragged into the house. The first 
 thing is, he draws out from his boots, 
 and his back, and other hiding-places, 
 China crape and marvellous silk hand- 
 kerchiefs for Christie ; and she takes 
 from his pocket a mass of Oriental 
 sugar - plums, with which, but for 
 this precaution, she knows by expe- 
 rience he would poison young Char* 
 ley ; and soon he is to be seen sity 
 ting with his hand in his sister's, 
 and she. looking like a mother upon 
 his handsome, weather - beaten face, 
 and Gatty opposite, adoring him as 
 a specimen of male beauty, and some- 
 times making furtive sketches of him. 
 And then the tales he always brings 
 with him ; the house is never very 
 dull, but it is livelier than ever when 
 this inexhaustible sailor casts anchor 
 in it. 
 
 The friends (chiefly artists) who 
 used to leave at 9-30, stay till eleven ; 
 for an intelligent sailor is better com- 
 pany than two lawyers, two bishops, 
 three soldiers, and four writers of 
 plays and tales, all rolled together. 
 And still he tells Christie he shall 
 command a vessel some day, and 
 leads her to the most cheering in- 
 ferences from the fact of his prudence 
 and his general width-awake ; in par- 
 ticular he bids her contrast with him 
 the general fate of sailors, eaten up by 
 land-sharks, particularly of the female 
 gender, whom he demonstrates to be 
 ths rors* enemies poor Jack has ; he
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 181 
 
 catts these sunken rocks, fire-ships, 
 and other metaphors. He concludes 
 thus : " You are all the lass I mean 
 to have, till I 'm a skipper, and then 
 I '11 bear up alongside some pretty, 
 decent lass, like yourself, Christie, 
 and we'll sail in company all our 
 lives, let the wind blow high or low." 
 Such is the gracious Flucker become 
 in his twentieth year. Last voyage, 
 with Christie's aid, he produced a 
 sextant of his own, and " made it 
 twelve o'clock " (with the sun's con- 
 sent, I hope), and the eyes of authori- 
 ty fell upon him. So, who knows ? 
 perhaps ho may one day sail a ship ; 
 and, if he does, he will be prouder 
 and happier than if we made him 
 monarch of the globe. 
 
 To return to our chiefs ; Mrs. Gat- 
 ty gave her formal consent to her son's 
 marriage with Christie Johnstone. 
 
 There were examples. Aristocracy 
 had ere now condescended to wealth ; 
 earls had married women rich by tal- 
 low-importing papas ; and no doubt, 
 had these same earls been consulted in 
 Gatty's case, they would have decided 
 that Christie Johnstone, with her real 
 and funded property, was not a vil- 
 lanous match for a green grocer's son, 
 without a rapp* ; but Mrs. Gatty did 
 not reason so, did not reason at all, 
 luckily, her heart ran away with her 
 judgment, and, her judgment ceasiug 
 to act, she became a wise woman. 
 
 The case was peculiar. Gatty was 
 an artist /mr sunt/, — and Christie, 
 who would not have been the wife for 
 a petit until n-, was the wife of wives 
 for him. 
 
 lie wanted a beautiful wife to em- 
 bellish his canvas, disfigured hitherto 
 by an injudicious selection of models; 
 a virtuous wife to be his crown ; a 
 prudent wile to save him from ruin ; 
 a cheerful wife to sustain his spirits, 
 drooping at times by virtue of his 
 artist's temperament; an intellectual 
 wife to preserve his children from 
 being born dolts, and bred dunces, and 
 to keep his own mind from sharpening 
 to one point, and so contracting and be- 
 * A diminutive Ckrniau coin. 
 
 coming monomaniacal : and he found 
 all these qualities, together with the 
 sun and moon of human existence, 
 — true love and true religion, — in 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 
 In similar cases, foolish men have 
 set to work to make, in six months, 
 their diamond of nature, the exact 
 cut and gloss of other men's pastes, 
 and, nervously watching the process, 
 have suffered torture ; luckily Charles 
 Gatty was not wise enough for this ; 
 he saw nature had distinguished her 
 he loved beyond her fellows ; here, as 
 elsewhere, he had faith in nature, — 
 he believed that Christie would charm 
 everybody of eye, and car, and mind, 
 and heart, that approached her ; he 
 admired her as she was, and left her 
 to polish herself, if she chose. He 
 did well ; she came to London with a 
 fine mind, a broad brogue, a delicate 
 ear ; she observed how her husband's 
 friends spoke, and in a very few 
 months she had toned down her 
 Scotch to a rich Ionic coloring, which 
 her womanly instinct will never let 
 her exchange for the thin, vhegar 
 accents that are too prevalent in Eng- 
 lish and French society ; and in 
 other respects she caught, by easy 
 gradation, the tone of the new society 
 to which her marriage introduced her, 
 without, however, losing her charm- 
 ing self. 
 
 The wise dowager lodges hard by, 
 having resisted an invitation to be in 
 the same house; she comes to that 
 house to assist the young wife with 
 her experience, anil to be welcome, — 
 not to interfere every minute, and 
 tease her; she loves her daughter-in- 
 law almost as much as she does her 
 son, and she is happy because he bids 
 fair to be an immortal painter, and, 
 above all, a gentleman ; and she, a 
 wifely wife, a motherly mother, and, 
 above all, a lady. 
 
 This, then, is a happy couple. 
 Their life is full of purpose and in- 
 dustry, yet lightened by gayety ; they 
 go to operas, theatres, and balls, for 
 they are young. They have plenty 
 of society, real society, not the ill-as-
 
 182 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 sorted collection of a predetermined 
 number of bodies, that blindly assumes 
 that name, but the rich communica- 
 tion of various and fertile minds ; 
 they very, very seldom consent to 
 squat four mortal hours on one chair 
 (like old hares stiffening in their hot 
 forms), and nibbling, sipping, and 
 twaddling, in four mortal hours, 
 what could have been eaten, drunken, 
 and said, in thirty-five minutes. They 
 are both artists at heart, and it shocks 
 their natures to see folks mix so very 
 largely the inutile with the insipidum, 
 and waste, at one huge but barren 
 incubation, the soul, and the stomach, 
 and the irrevocable hours, things 
 with which so much is to be done. 
 But they have many desirable ac- 
 quaintances, and not a few friends ; 
 the latter are mostly lovers of 
 truth in their several departments, 
 and in all things : among them are 
 painters, sculptors, engineers, writers, 
 conversers, thinkers ; these acknowl- 
 edging, even in England, other gods 
 besides the intestines, meet often chez 
 Gatty, chiefly for mental intercourse ; 
 a cup of tea with such is found, by 
 experience, to be better than a stalled 
 elk where chit-chat reigns over the 
 prostrate hours. 
 
 This, then, is a happy couple ; the 
 very pigeons and the crows need not 
 blush for the nest at Kensington 
 Gravel-pits. There the divine institu- 
 tion Marriage takes its natural colors, 
 and it is at once pleasant and pood 
 to catch such glimpses of Heaven's 
 design, and sad to think how often 
 this grent boon, accorded by God to 
 mnn and woman, must have been 
 abused and perverted, ere it could 
 have sunk to be the standing butt 
 of firce-writers, and the theme of 
 weekly punsters. 
 
 In this pair we see the wonders a 
 male and female can do for each oth- 
 er in the sweet bond of holy wedlock. 
 In that blessed relation alone two in- 
 terests are really one, and two hearts 
 lie safe at anchor side by side. 
 
 Christie and Charles are friends, — 
 for they arc man and wife. 
 
 Christie and Charles are lovers still, 
 — for they are man and wife. 
 
 Christie and Charles are one for. 
 ever, — for they are man and wife. 
 
 This wife brightens the house, from 
 kitchen to garret, for her husband; 
 this husband works like a king for 
 his wife's comfort, and for his own 
 fame, — and that fume is his wife's 
 glory. When one of these expresses 
 or hints a wish, the other's first im- 
 pulse is to find the means, not the 
 objections. 
 
 They share all troubles, and, by 
 sharing, halve them. 
 
 They share all pleasures, and, by 
 sharing, double them. 
 
 They climb the hill together now, 
 and many a canty day they shall have 
 with one another ; and when, by the 
 inevitable law, they begin to descend 
 towards the dark valley, they will still 
 go hand in hand, smiling so tenderly, 
 and supporting each other, with a 
 care more lovely than when the arm 
 was strong and the foot firm. 
 
 On these two temperate lives old 
 age will descend lightly, gradually, 
 gently, and late, — and late upon 
 these evergreen hearts, because they 
 are not tuned to some selfish, isolated 
 key ; these hearts beat and ring with 
 the young hearts of their dear chil- 
 dren, and years hence papa and mam- 
 ma will begin life hopefully, wishfully, 
 warmly again with each loved novice 
 in turn. 
 
 And when old age does come, it 
 will be no calamity to these, as it is to 
 you, poor battered beau, laughed at 
 by the fair ninnies who erst laughed 
 with you ; to you, poor follower of sal- 
 mon, fox, and pheasant, whose joints 
 are stiffening, whose nerve is gone, — 
 whose Golgotha remains ; to you, 
 poor faded beauty, who have staked 
 all upon man's appetite, and not ac- 
 cumulated goodness or sense for your 
 second course ; to you, poor drawing- 
 room wit, whose sarcasm has turned 
 to venom and is turning to drivel. 
 
 What terrors has old age for this 
 happy pair 1 it cannot make them 
 ugly, for, though the purple light of
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 183 
 
 youth recedes, a new kind of tran- 
 quil beauty, the aloe-blossom of many 
 years of innocence, comes to, and sits 
 like a dove upon, the aged faces, where 
 goodness, sympathy, and intelligence 
 have harbored together so long ; and 
 where evil passions have flitted (for 
 wc are all human), but found no rest- 
 ing-place. 
 
 Old age is no calamity to them : 
 it cannot terrify them ; for ere they 
 had been married a week the woman 
 taught the man, lover of truth, to 
 search for the highest and greatest 
 truths in a book written for men's 
 souls by the Author of the world, 
 the sea, the stars, the sun, the soul; 
 and this book, Dei gratia, will, as the 
 good bishop sings, 
 
 " Teach them to live that they may dread 
 The grave as little as their bed." 
 
 It cannot make them sad, for, ere it 
 
 comes, loved souls will have gone 
 from earth, and from their tender bo- 
 som, but not from their memories ; and 
 will seem to beckon them now across 
 the cold valley to the golden land. 
 
 It cannot make them sad, for on. 
 earth the happiest must drink a sor- 
 rowful cup more than once in a long 
 life, and so their brightest hopes will 
 have come to dwell habitually on 
 things beyond the grave; and the 
 great painter, jam Senex, will chiefly 
 meditate upon a richer landscape, and 
 brighter figures than human hand has 
 ever painted; a scene whose glories 
 he can see from hence but by glimpses 
 and through a glass darkly ; the great 
 meadows on the other side of Jordan, 
 which are bright with the spirits of the 
 just that walk there, and are warmed 
 with an eternal sun, and ring with the 
 triumph of the humble and the true, 
 and the praises of God forever.
 
 184 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This story was written three years ago, and one or two topics in it are 
 not treated exactly as they would be if written by the same hand to-day. 
 But if the author had retouched those pages with his colors of 1853, he 
 would (he thinks) have destroyed the only merit they have, viz. that of 
 containing genuine contemporaneous verdicts upon a cant that was flourish- 
 ing like a peony, and a truth that was struggling for bare life, in the year 
 of truth 1850. 
 
 He prefers to deal fairly with the public, and, with this explanation and 
 apology, to lay at its feet a faulty but genuine piece of work
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT is the London Season ! Come 
 into the country ! It is hot, and 
 dusty, and muddy here; and this 
 opening of all the drains, which is to 
 hridle all the disorders by and by, 
 poisons us dead meanwhile, O Board 
 of Health ! Come into the country ! 
 
 In Oxfordshire, about two miles 
 from the Thames, and on the skirts of 
 the beech forest that lies between Wal- 
 lingford and Hendley, stands an ir- 
 regular farm-house; it looks like two 
 houses forced to pass for one ; for one 
 part of it is all gables, and tile, and 
 chimney-corners, and antiquity ; the 
 other is square, slated, and of the 
 newest cut outside and in. The 
 whole occupies one entire side of its 
 own farmyard, being separated from 
 the straw only by a small Rubicon of 
 gravel and a green railing ; though 
 at its back, out of the general view, 
 is a pretty garden. 
 
 In this farm-house and its neigh- 
 borhood the events of my humble 
 story passed, a very few years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield, proprietor of the 
 farm, had built the new part of the 
 house for herself, though she did 
 little more than sleep in it. In the 
 antique part lived her cousin, old 
 Farmer Hathorn, with his wife and 
 his son Robert. Hathorn was him- 
 self proprietor of a little land two 
 miles off, but farmed Mrs. Mayfield's 
 acres upon some friendly agreement, 
 which they contrived to understand, 
 but few else could, least of all a 
 shrewd lawyer. 
 
 The truth is, the inmates, like the 
 house, were a little behind their age : 
 they had no relations that were not 
 contained within these four walls, and 
 the feeling and tie of blood was very 
 strong between them all. 
 
 The Hathorns had one son, Rob- 
 ert, a character; he was silent, and 
 passed with some for sulky ; but he 
 was not sulky, only reserved and 
 thoughtful ; he was, perhaps, a little 
 more devoid of all levity than be- 
 comes a young man. He had great 
 force and weight of character ; you 
 might see that in his brow, and his 
 steady manner, free from flourishes. 
 With the Hathorns lived Mr. Case- 
 nowcr, a retired London tradesman. 
 This gentleman had been bought out 
 of a London firm for his scientific 
 way of viewing things : they had lost 
 such lots of money by it. 
 
 He had come to the Hathorns for a 
 month, and had now been with them 
 a year, with no intention, on either 
 side, of parting yet awhile. This 
 good accord did not prevent a perpet- 
 ual strife of opinions between Case- 
 nower and old Hathorn. Casenower, 
 the science-bitten, had read all the 
 books chemists wrote on agriculture, 
 and permitted himself to believe ev- 
 ery word. Hathorn read nothing on 
 agriculture, but the sheep, the soil, 
 the markets, and the clouds, &c, and 
 sometimes read them wrong, but not 
 so very often. 
 
 Rose Mayfield was a young widow, 
 fresh, free, high-spirited, and jovial ; 
 she was fond of company, and its life 
 and soul wherever she was. She loved
 
 188 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 flirtation, and she loved work ; and 
 when she could not combine them 
 she would take them by turns ; she 
 would leave the farm every now and 
 then, go to a friend at Oxford, Read- 
 ing, or Abingdon, and flirt like wild- 
 fire for a fortnight ; then she would 
 return to the farm, and men, boys, 
 horses, and work would seem to go 
 more lively before she had been back 
 an hour. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield was a grazier. 
 Though she abandoned her arable 
 land to her cousin's care, she divided 
 with him her grass acres, and bred 
 cattle, and churned butter, and made 
 cheeses, and showed a working arm 
 bare till dinner-time (one o'clock) six 
 days in the week. 
 
 This little farm-house then held a 
 healthy, happy party ; but one was 
 not quite content. Parents are mat- 
 rimonial schemers ; they cannot help 
 it; it 's no use talking. OldHathorn 
 wanted Rose Mayfield to marry his 
 son Robert, and so make all sure. 
 The farmer was too wise to be always 
 tormenting the pair to come together, 
 but he secretly worked towards that 
 end whenever he could without being 
 seen through by them. 
 
 Their ages were much the same ; 
 and finer specimens of rustic stature 
 and beauty in either sex were not to 
 be seen for miles. But their disposi- 
 tions were so different, that when, 
 upon a kind word or a civility passing 
 between them, old Hathorn used to 
 look at Mrs. Hathorn, Mrs. Hathorn 
 used to shake her head, as much as to 
 say, " Maybe, but I doubt it." 
 
 One thing the farmer built on was 
 this ; that, though Mrs. Mayfield was 
 a coquette, none of her beaux followed 
 her to the farm. " She won't have 
 them here," argued Hathorn, " and 
 that shows she has a respect for Rob- 
 ert at bottom." 
 
 The good farmer's security was 
 shaken by a littlo circumstance. Bix 
 Farm, that lay but a mile from our 
 ground, was to let, and, in course of 
 time, was taken by a stranger from 
 Berkshire. Coming into a farm is a 
 
 business of several months ; but the 
 new tenant, a gay, dashing young 
 fellow, came one day to look over his 
 new farm ; and, to Hathorn's surprise, 
 called on him, and inquired for Mrs. 
 Mayfield. At sight of the new-comer, 
 that lady colored up to the eyes, and 
 introduced him to her cousin as Mr. 
 Hickman. The name, coupled with 
 her manner, struck Hathorn, but he 
 said nothing to Rose. He asked his 
 wife who this Hickman was. " He is 
 a stranger to me," was the reply, 
 " ask Rose ; I hear he was her beau 
 out Abingdon way." 
 
 Here was a new feature. The good 
 farmer became very uneasy ; but coun- 
 try-folks have plenty of tact. He 
 said little, — he only warned Robert 
 (who did not seem dismayed by the 
 intelligence), and held himself on his 
 guard. 
 
 That same evening the whole fam- 
 ily party were seated together, towards 
 sundown, in Hathorn's dining-room, 
 — the farmer smoking a clay pipe, 
 Mrs. Hathorn sewing, Mrs. Mayfield 
 going in and out, making business ; 
 but Robert was painfully reading 
 some old deeds he had got from Mrs. 
 Mayfield the week before. This had 
 been the young man's occupation for 
 several evenings, and Mrs. Mayfield 
 had shrugged her shoulders at him 
 and his deeds more than once. 
 
 On the present occasion, finding 
 the room silent and reposeful, a state 
 of things she abhorred, she said to 
 Mrs. Hathorn, in a confidential whis- 
 per, so bell-like, that they all heard it, 
 as she meant them, " Has your Rob- 
 ert any thoughts of turning lawyer at 
 present ? " 
 
 The question was put so demurely, 
 that the old people smiled and did not 
 answer, but looked towards Rohert to 
 answer. The said Robert smiled, and 
 went on studying the parchment. 
 
 " Pie does n't make us much the 
 wiser, though ; does he ? " continued 
 Mrs. Mayfield. " Silence ! " cried the 
 tormentor, the next moment, "he is 
 going to say something. He is only 
 waiting till the sun goes down."
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 189 
 
 "TTc is only waiting: till he has got 
 something to say," replied Robert, in 
 his quiet way. 
 
 " Ah ! " was the reply ; " that is a 
 trick you have got. I say, Jane, if I 
 was to wait for that, what would 
 become of the house 1 " 
 
 " It would not be so gay as it is, I 
 dare say, Rose." 
 
 "And that would be a pity, you 
 know. Well, Bob, Avhen do you look 
 to have something to say ? to-morrow 
 night, — if the weather holds ? " 
 
 " I think I shall have something 
 to say as soon as I have read this 
 through." He examined the last leaf, 
 — then laid it down. " I have some- 
 thing to say." 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn laid down her work. 
 
 " Cousin Mayfield," said Robert, 
 " what do you think of Uxmoor 
 Farm ? " 
 
 Cousin Mayfield, who had been all 
 expectation, burst into a fit of laugh- 
 ter that rang through the room like a 
 little peal of bells. Mrs. Hathorn 
 looked vexed, and Robert colored for 
 a moment; but he resumed coolly: 
 " Why, it is two hundred acres, most- 
 ly good soil, and it marches with your 
 up-hill land. Squire Phillips, that 
 has just got it, counts it the cream of 
 his estate." 
 
 " And what have I to do with 
 Squire Phillips and Uxmoor? " 
 
 " Why, this, Rose. I think Ux- 
 moor belongs to you." 
 
 "Nonsense, — is the boy mad? 
 Why, Squire Phillips got it along 
 with Hurley, and Norton, .and all the 
 Lydalls' farms. Of course they are 
 all mine l>y ri^ht of blood, if every 
 one bad their own ; but they were ail 
 willed away from us fifty years ago. 
 Who docs n't know that ? No : Squire 
 Phillips is rooted there too fast for us 
 to take him up." 
 
 " It does not belong to Squire Phil- 
 lips," was the cool reply. 
 
 " To whom, then ? " 
 
 "To you, Rose ; or, if not to you, 
 to father yonder, — but, unless I am 
 much mistaken, it belongs to you. I 
 am no great discourser," continued 
 
 Robert ; " so I haVx. written it down to 
 the best of my ability, here. I wish 
 you would look at this paper, and 
 you might read it over to father and 
 mother, if you will be so good. I am 
 going my rounds " ; and out strolled 
 Mr. Robert, to see that every cow 
 was foddered, and every pig had his 
 share of the trough. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield took Robert's paper, 
 and read what he had written, — some 
 score of little dry sentences, each of 
 them a link in a chain of fact, — and 
 this was the general result : Fifty 
 years ago Mrs. Mayfield's father's fa- 
 ther had broken off all connection 
 with his son, and driven him out of 
 his house and disinherited him, and 
 adopted in his stead the father of 
 Squire Phillips. The disinherited, be- 
 ing supplied with money by his moth- 
 er, had got on in the world, and con- 
 soled himself for the loss ©f his father's 
 farms by buying one or two of his 
 own. He died before his father, and 
 bequeathed all he possessed to his 
 daughter Rose. At last the old fel- 
 low died at an immense age, and under 
 his will Squire Philips took all his lit- 
 tle estates : but here came in Robert's 
 discovery. Of those four little es- 
 tates, one had come into the old fel- 
 low's hands from his wife's father, 
 and through his wife ; and a strict set- 
 tlement, drawn so long ago that all, 
 except the old fellow who meant to 
 cheat it, had forgotten it, secured the 
 Uxmoor estate, after his parents' 
 death, to Rose Mayfield's father, who 
 by his will had unconsciously trans- 
 ferred it to Rose. 
 
 This, which looks clear, had been 
 patiently disentangled from a mass 
 of idle words by Robert Hathorn, and 
 the family began to fall gradually into 
 his opinion; The result was, Mrs. 
 Mayfield went to law with Squire 
 Phillips, and the old fanner's hopes 
 revived ; for he thought, and with 
 reason, that all this must lie another 
 link between Robert and Rose ; and 
 so the months glided on. The fate 
 of Uxmoor was soon to be tried at 
 the Assizes. Mr. Hickman camo
 
 190 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 over now and then, preparatory to set- 
 tling on B-ix. Mrs. Mayfield made 
 no secret that she found him " very 
 good company," — that was her 
 phrase, — and he courted her openly. 
 Another month brought the great 
 event of the agricultural year, "the 
 harvest." This part of Oxfordshire 
 can seldom get in its harvest without 
 the assistance of some strange hands, 
 and Robert agreed with three Irish- 
 men and two Hampshire lads the 
 afternoon before the wheat harvest. 
 *' With these and our own people we 
 shall do well enough, father," said he. 
 
 Just before the sun set, Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn was seated outside her own 
 door with her work, when two people 
 came through the farm-yard to speak 
 to her ; a young woman and a very 
 old man. The former stood a little 
 in the rear ; and the old man came up 
 to Mrs. Hathorn, and, taking off his 
 hat, begged for employment in the 
 fields. 
 
 " Our number is made up, old 
 man," was the answer. 
 
 The old man's head drooped ; hut 
 he found courage to say : " One more 
 or one less won't matter much to you, 
 and it is the bread of life to us." 
 
 "Poor old man," said Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn, " you are too old for harvest 
 work, I doubt." 
 
 "No such thing, dame," said the 
 old man, testily. 
 
 " What is it, mother 1 " cried Rob- 
 ert from the barn. 
 
 " An old man and his daughter 
 tome for harvest work. They beg 
 hard for it, Robert." 
 
 " Give them their supper, mother, 
 and let them go." 
 
 " I will, Robert ; no doubt the 
 poor things are hungry and weary 
 and all " : and she put down her work 
 to go to the kitchen, but the old man 
 stopped her. 
 
 " We are here for work, not for 
 charity," said he; "and won't take 
 anything we don't earn." 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn looked surprised, and 
 a little affronted. The girl stepped 
 nearer. 
 
 " No need to speak so sharp, grand- 
 father," said she, in a clear, cold, but 
 winning voice ; " charity is not so 
 common. We thank you, dame. He 
 is an old soldier, and prouder than 
 becomes the like of us. Good even, 
 and good luck to your harvest ! " 
 
 They turned to go. 
 
 " Stop, girl ! " said Mrs. Hathorn. 
 " Robert," cried she, " I wish you 
 would come here." 
 
 Robert put on his coat, and came up. 
 
 " It is an old soldier, Robert ; and 
 they seem decent folk, the pair of 
 them." 
 
 " An old soldier ! " said Robert, 
 looking with some interest at the old 
 man, who, though stiff in the joints, 
 was very erect. 
 
 " Ay ! young man," said the other, 
 boldly, " when I was your age I 
 fought for the land ; and now, you 
 see, I must not work upon it ! " 
 
 Robert looked at his mother. 
 
 " Come, Robert," said she, " we 
 may all live to be old if it pleases 
 God." 
 
 " Well," said Robert, " it seems 
 hard to refuse an old soldier ; but he 
 is very old, and the young woman 
 looks delicate ; I am sure I don't 
 know how to bargain with them." 
 
 " Count our two sickles as one, 
 sir," said the girl, calmly. 
 
 " So be it," said Robert ; "anyway, 
 we will give you a trial " ; and he re- 
 turned to his work. And Corporal 
 Patrick, for that was the old soldier's 
 name, no longer refused the homely 
 supper that was offered him, since he 
 could work it out in the morning. 
 
 The next morning at six o'clock 
 the men and women were all in the 
 wheat : Robert Hathorn at the head 
 of them, for Robert was one of the 
 best reapers in the country-side. 
 
 Many a sly jest passed at the ex- 
 pense of Patrick and his grand- 
 daughter Rachael. The old man of- 
 ten answered, but Rachael hardly 
 ever. At the close of the day, they 
 drew apart from all the rest, and 
 seemed content when they were alone 
 together.
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 191 
 
 In the course of a day or two, the 
 reapers began to observe that Rachael 
 was very handsome ; and then she 
 became the object of much coarse 
 admiration. Rachael was as little 
 affected by this as by their satire. 
 She evaded it with a cold contempt, 
 which left little more to be said ; and 
 then her rustic admirers took part 
 with the women against her. 
 
 Rachael was pale ; and perhaps 
 this was one reason why her beauty 
 did not strike the eye all at once ; but, 
 when you came to know her face, she 
 was beautiful. Her long eyelashes 
 were heavenly ; her eye was full of 
 soul ; her features were refined, and 
 her skin was white and transparent, 
 and a slight blush came readily to it, 
 at which moment she was lovely. It 
 must be owned she did not appear to 
 advantage in the field among the reap- 
 ers ; for there she seemed to feel at ' 
 war ; and her natural dignity degener- i 
 ated into a certain doggedness. After 
 a while Mrs. Hathorn took a fancy 
 to her ; and when she was beside this 
 good, motherly creature, her asperity 
 seemed to soften down, and her cold- 
 ness turned to a not unamiahlc pen- 
 siveness. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn said one evening to 
 Robert : " Hubert, look at that girl. 
 Do try and liud out what is the mat- 
 ter with her. She is a good girl as 
 ever broke bread ; but she breaks my I 
 heart to look at her ; she is like a 
 marble statue. It is not natural at 
 her years to be so reserved." 
 
 " Oli ! " answered Robert, " let her [ 
 alone, there are talkers enough in the 
 world. She is a modest girl, — the 
 only one in the field, I should say, — j 
 and that is a great ornament to all j 
 women, if the}- would but see it." 
 
 " Well, Robert, at all events, have 
 your eye on them ; they are stran- 
 gers, and the people about here are 
 vulgar - behaved to strangers, you 
 know." 
 
 " I '11 take care ; and, as for Ra- 
 chael, she knows bow to answer the 
 
 fools, — [ noticed that the first day." 
 
 Sunday evening came; the villa- 
 
 gers formed in groups about the ale- 
 house, the stocks, and the other 
 points of resort, and their occasional 
 laughter fell discordantly upon the 
 ear, so holy and tranquil seemed the 
 air and the sky. Robert Hathorn 
 strolled out at the back of the house 
 to drink the Sabbath sunset after a 
 week of toil : at the back of the 
 largest barn was a shed, and from 
 this shed, as he drew near to it, there 
 issued sounds that seemed to him as 
 sweetly in unison with that holy sun- 
 set as the villagers' rude mirth was 
 out of tune. He came to the back of 
 the shed, and it was Rachael reading 
 the Bible aloud to her grandfather. 
 The words were golden, and fell like 
 dew upon all the spirits within their 
 reach, — upon Robert, who listened 
 to them unseen ; upon Patrick, whose 
 testy nature was calmed and soothed ; 
 and upon Rachael herself, who seemed 
 at this moment more hopeful, and 
 less determined to shrink within her- 
 self. Her voice, always sweet and 
 winning, became richer and mellower 
 as she read ; and when she closed the 
 book, she said, with a modest fervor 
 one would hardly have suspected her 
 of, " Blessed be God for this book, 
 grandfather ! I do think it is the 
 best thing of all the good things he 
 has given the world, and it is very 
 encouraging to people of low condi- 
 tion like us." 
 
 " Ay," said the old man, " those 
 were bold words you read just now, 
 ' Blessed are the poor.' ' 
 
 " Let us take them to heart, old 
 man, since, strange as they r sound, 
 they must be true." 
 
 Corporal Patrick pondered awhile 
 in silence, then said he was weary : 
 " Lei us bless the good people whoso 
 bread we have eaten this while, anil 
 I will go to sleep ; Rachael, my child, 
 if it was not for you, I could wish not 
 
 to wake again." 
 
 Poor old man, he was aweary ; he 
 had seen better days, and fourscore, 
 year- is a great age; and he bad been 
 a soldier, and fought in great battles 
 head erect, and now, in his feeble days,
 
 192 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 it was hard to have to bow the hack 
 and bend over the sickle among l>oys 
 and girls who jeered him, and whose 
 peaceful grandsires he had defended 
 against England's enemies. 
 
 Corporal Patrick and his grand- 
 daughter went into the barn to sleep, 
 as heretofore, on the straw. Robert 
 Hat horn paced thoughtfully home, 
 and about half an hour after this a 
 cow-boy came into the barn to tell Cor- 
 poral Patrick there were two truckle- 
 beds at his service in a certain loft, 
 which he undertook to show him. So 
 the old soldier and Kachael bivouacked 
 no longer in the barn. 
 
 •' Who sent you 1 " said Raehael to 
 the boy. 
 
 " Mistress." 
 
 After this Robert Hathorn paid 
 considerable attention both to Patrick 
 and Rachael, and she showed by de- 
 grees that she was not quite ice to 
 a man that could respect her; not 
 that her manner was inviting even to 
 him, but at least it was courteous, 
 and once or twice she even smiled on 
 him, and a beautiful smile it was when 
 it did come ; and, whether from its 
 beauty or its rarity, made a great im- 
 pression on all who saw it. 
 
 It was a fine harvest-time, upon the 
 whole, and with some interruptions 
 the work went merrily on ; the two 
 strangers, in spite of hard labor, im- 
 proved in appearance. Mrs. Hathorn 
 set this down to the plentiful and 
 nourishing meals which issued twice a 
 clay from Iter kitchen ; and, as they had 
 always been her favorites, she drew 
 Robert's attention to the bloom that 
 began to spread over Rachael's cheek, 
 and the old soldier's brightening 
 eye, as her work in a great measure. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield was away, and dur- 
 ing her absence Hickman had not 
 come once to visit his farm or Ha- 
 tborn's. This looked ugly. 
 
 " Wife," said the farmer, one day, 
 " what makes our Robert so moody of 
 late ? " 
 
 " O, you have noticed it, have you ? 
 Then I am right ; the boy has some- 
 thing on his mind." 
 
 " That is easy to be seen, and 1 
 think I know what it is." 
 
 " Do you, John ? what ? " 
 
 " Why, he sees this Hickman is in 
 a fair way to carrv oft' Rose May- 
 field." 
 
 " It is not that." 
 
 " Why, what else can it be ? " 
 
 " It is a wonder to me," said Mrs. 
 Hathorn, "that a man shouldn't 
 know his own son better than you 
 seem to know Robert. They are very 
 good friends ; but what makes you 
 think Robert would marry her ? Have 
 you forgotten how strict he is about 
 women i Why did he part with 
 Lucy Blackwood, the only sweetheart 
 he ever had ? " 
 
 " Handed if I remember." 
 
 " Because she got herself spoken of 
 flirting at Oxford races once in a way ; 
 and Rose does mostly nothing else. 
 And they do say that once or twice 
 since her husband died, ahem ! — " 
 
 " She has kicked over the traces 
 altogether ? Fiddlestick ! " 
 
 "Fiddlestick be it ! She is a fine, 
 spirity woman, and such are apt to 
 set folk talking more than they can 
 prove. Well, Robert would n't marry 
 a woman that made folk talk about 
 her." 
 
 " 0, he is not such a fool as to 
 fling the farm to a stranger. When 
 does Rose come home ? " 
 
 " Next week, as soon as the Assizes 
 are over, and the Uxmoor cause set- 
 tled one way or other." 
 
 " Well, when she comes back, you 
 will see him clear up directly, and 
 then I shall know what to do. They 
 must come together, and they shall 
 come together; and, if there is no 
 other way, I know one that will 
 bring them together, and I'll work 
 that way if I 'm hanged for it." 
 
 "With all my heart," said Mrs. 
 Hathorn, calmly. " You can but try." 
 
 " I mil try all I know." 
 
 Will it be believed, that, while ho 
 was in this state of uneasiness about 
 his favorite project, Mr. Casenower 
 came and invited him to a friendly 
 conference; aunounced to him that
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 193 
 
 he admired Mrs. Mayfield beyond 
 measure, and had some reason to 
 think she was not averse to him, and 
 requested the farmer's co-operation i 
 
 " Confound the jade," thought Ha- 
 thorn, " she has been spreading the 
 net for this one, too, then ; she will 
 break my heart before I have done 
 with her." 
 
 lie answered demurely, " that he 
 did not understand women ; that his 
 mind was just now in the harvest ; 
 and he hoped Mr. C. would excuse 
 him, and try his luck himself, — along 
 with the rest," sard the old boy, rather 
 bitterly. 
 
 The harvest drew towards its close; 
 the barns began to burst with the 
 golden crops, and one fair rick after 
 another rose behind them, like a rear- 
 guard, until one tine burning-hot day 
 in September there remained nothing 
 but a small barley-field to carry. 
 
 In the house Mrs. Hathorn and the 
 servants were busy preparing the 
 harvest-home dinner; in the farm- 
 yard, Cascnower and old Hathorn 
 were arguing a point of husbandry ; 
 the warm haze of a September (lav- 
 was over the fields; the little pigs 
 toddled about contentedly in the straw 
 of the farm-yard, rooting here, and 
 grunting there; the pigeons sat upon 
 the barn tiles in flocks, and every now 
 and then one would come shooting 
 down, and settle, with flapping wings, 
 upon a bit of straw six inches higher 
 t!i. in the level ; and every now and 
 then was heard the thunder of the 
 horses' feel as they came over the 
 oak floor of a barn, drawing a loaded 
 WagOIl into it. Suddenly a halloo 
 was heard down the road; .Mr. Ca-e- 
 nowcr and Hathorn looked over 
 tlio wall, and it was Mis. Mayficld's 
 boy Tom, riding home full pelt, and 
 hurrahing as he came alone 
 
 " We have won the day, farmer," 
 Shouted he; "you may dine at (Jx- 
 moor if you like. La bless you, the 
 judge wouldn't hear a word against 
 US. Hurrah ! here comes the mis- 
 tress ; hurrah!" And, sure enough, 
 Mrs. Mayfield was seen in her hat 
 i) 
 
 and habit, riding her bay mare up at 
 a hand-gallop on the grass by the 
 roadside. Up she came ; the fwo 
 men waved their hats to her, which 
 salute she returned on the spot, in the 
 middle of a great shy, which her mare 
 made as a matter of course ; but, be- 
 fore they could speak, she stopped 
 their mouths. " Where is Robert 1 
 Not a word till he is by. I have not 
 forgot to whom I owe it." She 
 sprang from the saddle, and gave a 
 hand to each of the men ; but before 
 they could welcome her, or congratu- 
 late her, she had the word again. 
 " Why of course y r ou are ; you are 
 going to tell me you have been as 
 dull as ditch-water since I went, as if 
 I did n't know that ; and as for Ux- 
 moor, we will all go there together in 
 the afternoon, and I '11 kiss your 
 Robert then and there; and then he 
 will faint away, and we '11 come home 
 in the cool of the evening. Is barley 
 cart done yet? " 
 
 "No, you are just in time; they 
 are in the last field." 
 
 " Well, I must run in and cuddle 
 Jane, and help them on with the din- 
 ner a bit." 
 
 " Ay, do, Rose ; put a little life 
 into them." 
 
 In about ten minutes Mrs. Mayfield 
 joined them again ; and old Hathorn, 
 who had spent that period in a brown 
 study, began operations upon her, 
 like a cautious general as he was. 
 
 His first step might be compared to 
 reconnoitring the ground; and here, 
 if any reader of mine imagines that 
 country people are simple and devoid 
 of art, for Heaven's sake let him re- 
 sign that notion, which is entirely 
 founded on pastorals written in met- 
 ropolitan garrets, 
 
 Country people look simple; but 
 that is a part of their profound art. 
 They are the squarc-nosc-d sharks of 
 terra firma. Their craft is smooth, 
 plausible, and unfathomable. You 
 don't believe me, perhaps. Well, 
 then, my sharp cockney. <_ r o, live, and 
 do business in the country, and tell 
 me at the year's end whether you 
 M
 
 194 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 have not found humble unknown 
 Practitioners of Humbug, Flattery, 
 Overreaching, and Manoeuvre, to 
 whom thieves in London might go to 
 school. 
 
 We hear much, from such as write 
 with the but-cnd of their grandfather's 
 flageolet, about simple swains and 
 downy meads ; but, when you get 
 there, you find the natives are at 
 least as downy as any part of the 
 concern. 
 
 " I thought you would be home 
 to-day, Rose." 
 
 " Did you ? Why ? " 
 
 " Because Richard Hickman has 
 been here twice this morning." 
 
 "Richard Hickman! what was his 
 business here 1 " 
 
 " Well, they do say you and he arc 
 to go to church together one of these 
 days, — the pair of you." 
 
 " Well, if the pair of us go to 
 church, there will be a pair of wed- 
 dings that day." 
 
 " How smooth a lie do come off a 
 woman's tongue, to be sure ! " thought 
 Mr. Hathorn. 
 
 Mr. Casenower put in his word. 
 " I trust I shall not offend you by my 
 zeal, madam, but I hope to see you 
 married to a better man than Hick- 
 man." 
 
 " With all my heart, Mr. Cas — 
 hem ! You find me a better man, 
 and I won't make two bites at him, 
 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " He bears an indifferent character, 
 
 — ask the farmer here." 
 
 " O," said the farmer, with an os- 
 tentation of candor, " I don't believe 
 all I hear." 
 
 " I don't believe half, nor a quar 
 ter," said Mrs. Mayfield ; " but, for 
 Heaven's sake, don't fancy I am 
 wrapped up in Richard Hickman, or 
 in any other man ; but he is as good 
 company as here and there one, and 
 he has a tidy farm nigh hand, and 
 good land of his own out Newbury 
 way by all accounts." 
 
 " Good land," shouted the farmer; 
 " did you ever see it '1 " 
 
 " Not I." 
 
 "Rose," said Hathorn, solemnly 
 (he had never seen it cither), " it is 
 as poor as death ! covered with those 
 long docks, I hear, and that is a sure 
 sign of land with no heart in it, just 
 as a thistle is a good sign. Do your 
 books tell you that ? " said he, sud- 
 denly turning to Casenower. 
 
 " No," said that gentleman, with 
 incredulous contempt. 
 
 " And it is badly farmed ; no won- 
 der, when the farmer never goes nigh 
 it himself, trusts all to a sort of bailiff. 
 Mind your eye, Rose. Why does he 
 never go there ? tell me that." 
 
 " Well, you know, of course ; he 
 tells me he left it out of regard for 
 me." 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! haw ! why, he has 
 known you but six months, and he 
 has not lived at home this five years. 
 What do you think of it, Mr. Case- 
 nower ? Mind your eye. Rose." 
 
 " I mean to," said Rose ; and if 
 you had seen the world of suppressed 
 fun and peeping observation in the 
 said eye, you would have felt how 
 capable it was of minding itself, and 
 of piercing like a gimlet even through 
 a rustic Machiavel. 
 
 Mr. Casenower whispered to Ha- 
 thorn, " Put in a word for me." He 
 then marched up to Rose, and, taking 
 her hand, said, with a sepulchral ten- 
 derness, at which Rose's eye literally 
 danced in her head : " Know your 
 own value, dear Mrs. Mayfield, and 
 do not throw yourself away on an un- 
 worthy object." He then gave Ha- 
 thorn a slight wink and disappeared, 
 leaving his cause in that simple rus- 
 tic's hands. 
 
 " It is all very fine, but if I am to 
 wait for a man without a fault, I shall 
 die an old — fool." 
 
 "That is not to be thought of," 
 said Hathorn, smoothly; "but what 
 you want is a fine, steady young man, 
 — like my Robert, now — " 
 
 " So you have told me once or twice 
 of late," said the lady, archly. " Rob- 
 ert is a good lad, and pleases my eye 
 well enough, for that matter ; hut he 
 has a fault that would n't suit me,
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 195 
 
 no- any •woman, I should think, with- 
 out she was a fool." 
 
 " Why, what is wrong about the 
 boy 1 " ' 
 
 " The boy looks sharper after 
 women than women will bear. He 
 reads everything we do with magni- 
 fying -glasses, and I like fun, always 
 did, and always shall ; and then he 
 would be jealous, — and then I 
 should leave him the house to him- 
 self, that is all." 
 
 " No, no ! you would break him 
 into common sense." 
 
 " More likely he would make a 
 slave of me ; and, if I am to be one, 
 let me gild the chain a bit, as the say- 
 ing is." 
 
 "Now, Rose," said the tactician, 
 " you know very well a woman can 
 turn a man round her finger if he 
 loves her." 
 
 " Of course I know that ; but Rob- 
 ert does not happen to love me." 
 
 " Does n't love you ! Ay, but he 
 docs ! " 
 
 " What makes you think that ? " 
 
 "O, if you are blind, I am not. 
 He tries to hide it, because you are 
 rich, and he is poor and proud." 
 
 "Otic! don't talk nonsense. AVhat 
 signifies who lias the money ? " 
 
 "The way I first found it out is, 
 wh !l| they speak of your marrying 
 that Hickman, he trembles all over 
 like. Here comes his mother ; you 
 ask her," added the audacious 
 schemer. 
 
 "No, no!" cried Mrs. Mayfield; 
 " none of your nonsense before her, if 
 you please" ; and she ran off, with a 
 heightened color. 
 
 "I shall win the day," cried Ha- 
 thorn to his wife. " I have made her 
 believe Robert loves her, and now I Ml 
 tell him she dotes on him. Why, 
 what is the matter with you ? You 
 seem put out. What ails you ? " 
 
 " I have just seen Robert, and I 
 don't like ins looks, lie is like a 
 man in a dream this morning, — 
 worse than ever " 
 
 " Whv, what can bo the matter 
 w'.th him ? " 
 
 " If I was to tell you my thought, 
 it would n't please you, — and, after 
 all, I may be wrong. Hush ! here 
 he is. Take no notice, for Heaven's 
 sake." 
 
 At this moment the object of his 
 father's schemes and his mother's 
 anxiety sauntered up to them, with 
 his coat tied round his neck by the 
 arms, and a pitchfork over his shoul- 
 der. " Father," said he, " you may 
 tap the barrel ; the last wagon is com- 
 ing up the lane." 
 
 "Ay," was the answer; "and you 
 go and offer your arm to Rose, — she 
 is come home, — and ask her to dance 
 with you." 
 
 " I am not in the humor to galli- 
 vant," was the languid answer. " I 
 leave that to you, father." 
 
 " To me, — at my time of life ! Is 
 that the way to talk at eight-and- 
 twenty ? And Rose Mayfield, — the 
 rose-tree in full blossom ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but too many have been 
 smelling at the blossom for me ever 
 to plant the tree in my garden." 
 
 " What does the boy mean ? " 
 
 " To save time and words, father ; 
 because you have been at me about 
 her once or twice of late." 
 
 " AVhat ! is it because she likes 
 dancing and diversion at odd times ? 
 Is that got to be a crime, Parson 
 Bob 1 " 
 
 " No ! but I won't have a wife I 
 could n't trust at those pastimes," was 
 the resolute answer. 
 
 " <), if you are one of the jealous- 
 minded ones, don't you marry any 
 one, my poor chap ! " 
 
 " Father, there arc the strange 
 reapers to pay. Shall I settle with 
 them for you '. " said Robert, quietly. 
 
 " No! Let them come here; I'll 
 pay them," answered Ilathorn, senior, 
 rather sullenly. 
 
 If you want to be crossed, and 
 thwarted, and vexed, set your heart, 
 not on a thing you can (jo yourself, 
 but on something somebody else is to 
 do: if you want to be tormented to 
 death, let the wish of your heart de- 
 pend upon two people, a man and a-
 
 196 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 woman, neither of them yourself. 
 Now do try this recipe; you will find 
 it an excellent one. 
 
 Old Hathorn, seated outside his 
 own door, with a table and money- 
 bags before him, paid the Irishmen 
 and the Hampshire lads, and invited 
 each man to the harvest-home dinner. 
 He was about to rise and put up 
 his money-baps, when Mrs Hathorn 
 cried to him from the house, " Here 
 are two more that have not been 
 paid " ; and the next minute oid Pat- 
 rick and Rachael issued from the 
 house, and came in front of the table. 
 Robert, who was going in to dress, 
 turned round and leaned against the 
 corner of the house, with his eyes 
 upon the ground. "Let me see," 
 said Hathorn, " Avhat are you to 
 have ? " 
 
 " Count yourself," replied Patrick ; 
 " you know what you give the oth- 
 ers." 
 
 " What I give the others ! but you 
 can't have done the work — " 
 
 " Not of two ; no, we don't ask the 
 wages of two." 
 
 " Of course you don't." 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed Robert's 
 face at this discussion, but he re- 
 mained with his eyes upon the 
 ground. 
 
 " Where 's the dispute," said the 
 old soldier, angrily; "here are two 
 that ask the wages of one; is that 
 hard upon you ? " 
 
 " There is no dispute, old man," 
 said Robert, steadily. " Father, twen- 
 ty-five times five shilling is six pounds 
 five ; that is what you owe them." 
 
 " Six pound five for a man of that 
 age ? " 
 
 "And my daughter; is she to go 
 for nothing'? " 
 
 "Your daughter, your daughter; 
 she is not strong enough to do much, 
 I 'm sure." 
 
 Rachael colored : her clear, con- 
 vincing voice fell upon the disputants. 
 " We agreed with Master Robert to 
 keep a ridge between ns, and we have 
 done it as well as the best reaper. 
 Pay us as one good reaper then. " 
 
 " That 's fair ! that is fair ! If you 
 agreed with my son, a bargain is a 
 bargain ; but, for all that, one good 
 arm is better than two weak ones, 
 and — " 
 
 This tirade received an unexpected 
 interruption. Robert walked up to 
 the table, without lifting his eyes from 
 the ground, and said : " I ask your 
 pardon, father; your bad leg has kept 
 you at home this harvest ; but I 
 reaped at the head of the band, and I 
 assure you the young woman did a 
 man's share ; and every now and then 
 the old man took her place ; and so, 
 resting by turns, they kept ahead of 
 the best sickle there. And therefore I 
 say," continued Robert, raising his 
 eyes timidly, " on account of their 
 poverty, their weary limbs, and their 
 stout heart for work, you cannot pay 
 them less than one good reaper." 
 
 " What is it, Robert ? " said Mrs. 
 Hathorn, who had come out to see 
 the meaning of all this. 
 
 " Rut if he would be justcr still, 
 mother, like him that measures his 
 succor to the need, he would pay them 
 as one and a half. I 've said it." 
 
 Hathorn stared with ludicrous won- 
 der. " And why not as two ? Are 
 you mad, Robert ! taking their part 
 against me? " 
 
 " Enough said," answered Patrick, 
 with spirit. " Thank you, Master 
 Robert, but that would be an alms, 
 and we take but our due. Pay our 
 two sickles as one, and let us go." 
 
 " You see, father," cried Roherr, 
 " these arc decent people ; and, if you 
 had seen how they wrought, your 
 heart would melt as mine docs. O 
 mother ! it makes me ill to think there 
 are poor Christians in the world so 
 badly off they must bow to work be- 
 yond their age and strength to bear. 
 Take a thought, father. A man 
 that might be your father, — a man 
 of fourscore years, — and a delicate 
 woman, — to reap, the hardest of all 
 country work, from dawn till sun- 
 down, under this scorching sun and 
 wind, that has dried my throat and 
 burnt my eyes, — let alone theirs. It
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 197 
 
 is hard, father ; and, if you have a feel- 
 ing heart, you can't show it better 
 than here." 
 
 " There ! there ! " cried the farmer, 
 "say no more ; it is all right. (You 
 have made the girl cry, Bob.) Rob- 
 ert doesn't often speak, dame, so Ave 
 are bound to listen when he does. 
 There is the money. I never heard 
 that chap say so in a ay words be- 
 fore." 
 
 "We thank you all," said Patrick; 
 " my blessing be on your grain, good 
 folks ; and that won't hurt you from 
 a man of fourscore." 
 
 " That it will not, Daddy Patrick," 
 said Mrs. Hathorn. " You will stay 
 for harvest-home, both of you ? Ra- 
 chael, if you have a mind to help ine, 
 wash some of the dishes." 
 
 " Ay ! " cried the farmer : " and it 
 is time you were dressed, Bob." And 
 so the party separated. 
 
 A few minutes later Rachael came 
 to the well, and began to draw a 
 bucket of water. This well worked 
 in the following manner. A chain 
 and rope were passed over a cylinder, 
 and two buckets were attached to the 
 several ends of the rope, so that the 
 empty bucket descending helped in 
 some slight degree the full bucket to 
 mount. This cylinder was turned 
 bj an iron handle. The well was a 
 hundred feet deep. Rachael drew the 
 bucket up easily enough until the 
 last thirty feet ; and then she found 
 it hard work. She had both hands 
 on the iron handle, and was panting 
 a little, like a tender fawn, when a 
 deep bat gentle voice said in her ear: 
 " Let go, Rachael"; and the handle 
 was taken out of her hand by Robert 
 Hathorn. 
 
 " Never mind me, Master Robert," 
 said Rachael, giving way reluctantly. 
 
 " Always at some hard work or 
 other," said he; "you will not be 
 easy till you kill yourself." And 
 with this he whirled the. handle round 
 like lightning with one hand, and the 
 bucket ciiiuc up in a few moments. 
 II' then Riled the pitcher P>r her, 
 which she tojk up, ami was about to 
 
 go into the house with it. " Stay one 
 minute, Rachael." 
 
 " Yes, Master Robert." 
 
 " How old are you, Rachael ? " 
 Robert blushed after he had put this 
 question ; but he was obliged to say 
 something, and he did not well know 
 how to begin. 
 
 " Twenty-two," was Rachael's an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Don't go just yet. Is this your 
 first year's reaping ? " 
 
 " No, the third." 
 
 " You must be very poor, I am 
 afraid." 
 
 " Very poor indeed, Master Rob- 
 ert" 
 
 " Do you live far from here ? " 
 
 " Don't you remember I told you 
 I came twenty miles from here ? " 
 
 " Why, Newbury is about that dis- 
 tance." 
 
 " I think your mother will want 
 me." 
 
 " Well, don't let me keep you 
 against your will." 
 
 Rachael entered the Ilathorns' 
 side. 
 
 Robert's heart sank. She was so 
 gentle, yet so cold and sad. There 
 was no winning her confidence, it ap- 
 peared. Presently she returned with 
 an empty basket, to fetch the linen 
 from Mrs. Mayfield's side. As sin; 
 passed Robert, who, in despair, had 
 determined not to try any more, but 
 who looked up sorrowfully in her 
 face, she gave him a smile, a very 
 faint one, but still it did express some 
 slight recognition and thanks. lis 
 resolve melted at this one little ray of 
 kindly feeling. 
 
 " Rachael," said he, " have you any 
 relations your way ? " 
 
 " Not now ! " and Rachael was a 
 beautiful statue again. 
 
 '• Hut you have neighbors who are 
 good to you 1 " 
 
 " We ask nothing of them." 
 
 "Would it not be better if you 
 could both li\ e near us '! " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " Why ! my mother has a good 
 heart"
 
 198 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 " Indeed she has." 
 
 " And Mrs. Mayfield is not a bad 
 one either." 
 
 " I hear her well spoken of." 
 
 " And yet you mean to live on, so 
 far away from all of us ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I must go for the linen." 
 She waited a moment as it were for 
 permission to leave him, and, nothing 
 more being said, she entered Mrs. 
 Mayfield's side. 
 
 Robert leaned his head sorrowful- 
 ly on the rails, and fell into a revery. 
 
 " I am nothing to her," thought 
 he ; " her heart is far away. How 
 good, and patient, and modest she is, 
 but O, how cold ! She turns mv 
 heart to stone. I am a fool ; she has 
 some one in her own country to 
 whom she is as warm, perhaps, as 
 she is cold to us strangers, — is that 
 a fault 1 She is too beautiful, and 
 too good, not to be esteemed by oth- 
 ers besides me. Ah ! her path is one 
 way, mine another, — worse luck, — 
 would to God she had never come 
 here ! Well, may she be happy ! 
 She can't hinder me from praying she 
 may be happy, happier than she is 
 now. Poor Rachael ! " 
 
 A merry but somewhat vulgar 
 voice broke incredibly harsh and loud, 
 as it seemed, upon young Ha thorn's 
 revery. 
 
 " Good day, Master Robert." 
 
 Robert looked up, and there stood 
 a young farmer in shooting-jacket 
 and gaiters, with a riding-whip in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Hickman." 
 
 " The mistress is come home, I 
 bear, and it is your harvest-home to- 
 day, so I '11 stop here, for I am tired, 
 and so is my horse, for that matter." 
 Mr. Hickman wasted the latter part 
 of this discourse on vacancy, for 
 young Ilathorn went coolly away 
 without taking any further notice of 
 him. 
 
 "I call that the cold shoulder," 
 thought Hickman; "but it is no 
 wonder; that chap wants to marry 
 her himself, of course he does. Not 
 if I know it, Bob Ilathorn." 
 
 I It was natural that Hickman, whose 
 great object just now was Rose May- 
 field, should put this reading on Rob- 
 ert's coldness : but in point of fact it 
 was not so ; the young man had no 
 feeling towards Hickman but the 
 quiet repugnance of a deep to a shallow 
 soul, of a quiet and thoughtful to a 
 rattling fellow. Only just now gay- 
 ety was not in his heart, and as Hick- 
 man was generally gay, and always 
 sonorous, he escaped to his own 
 thoughts. Hickman watched his re- 
 treat, with an eye that said, " You 
 arc my rival, but not one I fear ; I 
 can outwit you." And it was with a 
 smile of triumphant conscious superi- 
 ority that Richard Hickman turned 
 round to go into Mrs. Mayfield's 
 house, and found himself face to face 
 with Rachael, who was just coming 
 oittof it with the basket full of linen 
 in her hand. Words cannot paint 
 the faces of this woman and this man, 
 when they saw one another. They 
 both started, and were red and white 
 by turns, and their eyes glared upon 
 one another; yet, though the sur- 
 prise was equal, the emotion was not 
 quite the same. The woman stood, 
 her bosom heaving slowly and high, 
 her eye dilating, her lips apart, her 
 elastic figure rising higher and higher. 
 She stood there, wild as a startled 
 panther, uncertain whether to fight or 
 to fly. The man, after the first start, 
 seemed to cower under her eye, and 
 half a dozen expressions that chased 
 one another across his face left one 
 fixed there, — Fear ! abject fear ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 They eyed one another in silence : 
 at last Hickman looked down upon 
 the ground and said, in faltering, ill- 
 assured tones, " II — how d' ye do, 
 Rachael ? I — I did n't expect to see 
 you here." 
 
 " Nor I you." 
 
 " If you are busy, don't let me stop 
 you, you know," said Hickman, awk-
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 199 
 
 wardly and confused, and, like one 
 with no great resources, compelled to 
 utter something'. 
 
 Then Rachael, white as a sheet, 
 took up licr basket again, and moved 
 away in silence ! The young farmer 
 eyed her apprehensively, and, being 
 clearly under the influence of some 
 misgiving as to her intentions, said : 
 "If you blow me, it will do me harm 
 and you no good, you know, Rachael. 
 Can t we be friends? " 
 
 " Friends ! — you and I ? " 
 
 " Don't be in such a hurry, — let us 
 talk it over. I am a little better off 
 than I used to be in those days." 
 
 " What is that to me ? " 
 
 " Plenty ; if you won't be spiteful, 
 and set others against me in this 
 part " : by " others," doubtless Hick- 
 man intended Mrs. Mayfield. 
 
 " I shall neither speak nor think of 
 you," was the cold answer. 
 
 Had Richard Hickman been capa- 
 ble of fathoming Rachael Wright, or 
 even of reading her present marble 
 look and tone aright, he would have 
 seen that he had little to apprehend 
 from her beyond contempt, a thing he 
 would not in the least have minded; 
 but he was cunning, and, like the cun- 
 ning, shallowish ; so he pursued his 
 purpose, feeling his way with her to 
 the best of his ability. 
 
 " I have had a smart bit of money 
 left me lately, Rachael." 
 
 " What is that to me?" 
 
 " What is it? why, a good deal, 
 because I could assist you now, may- 
 be." 
 
 " And what right have you to assist 
 me »""• t " 
 
 " Confound it, Rachael, how proud 
 you are ! — why, you are not the same 
 girl. <), l see! as for assisting you, 
 1 know you would rather work than 
 be in debt to any one; but thru there 
 is another besides you, vou know." 
 
 " What other ! " said Rachael, los- 
 ing her impassibility, and trembling 
 
 all over at this simple word. 
 
 " What other i " why, confound it, 
 who ever saw a girl fence like this ! 
 I suppose you think I am not man 
 
 enough to do what 's right ; I am, 
 though, now I have got the means." 
 
 " To do what ? " 
 
 "Why, to do my duty by him, — to 
 provide for him." 
 
 " For whom ? " cried Rachael, wild- 
 ly, "whi:n he is dead!" 
 
 " Dead ? " 
 
 " Dead ! " 
 
 " Don't say so, Rachael ; don't say 
 so." 
 
 " He is dead ! " 
 
 " Dead ! I never thought I should 
 have cared much ; but that word do 
 seem to knock against my heart. I 'd 
 give a hundred pounds to any one 
 would tell me it is not true, — poor 
 thing! I 've been to blame ; I've been 
 to blame." 
 
 " You were not near us when he 
 came into the world ; you were not 
 near us when he went out of it. He 
 lived in poverty, with me ; he died in 
 poverty, for all I could do, and it is 
 against my will if I did not die with 
 him. Our life or our death gave you 
 no cares. While he lived, you re- 
 ceived a letter every six months from 
 me, claiming my rights as your wife." 
 
 Hickman nodded assent. 
 
 " Last year you had no letter." 
 
 "No more there was." 
 
 " And did not that tell you ? Poor 
 Rachael had lost her consolation ami 
 her hope, and had no more need of 
 anything ! " 
 
 "Poor Rachael!" cried the man, 
 Stung with sudden remorse. " Curse 
 it all ! Curse you, Dick Hickman ! " 
 Then, suddenly recovering his true 
 nature, and, like us men, never at a 
 loss for an excuse against a woman, 
 he said, angrily : " What is the use of 
 letters? — why did n't you come and 
 tell me you were so badly off? " 
 
 " Me come after you ! The wrong- 
 doer?" 
 
 " O, confound your pride ! Should 
 have sent the old man to mc, then." 
 
 " .My grandfather, an obi soldier as 
 
 proud as lire! Sent him to the man 
 who robbed mc of my good name by 
 cheating the law! You are a fool! 
 Three times he left our house with
 
 200 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 his musket loaded to kill you, — three 
 times I got him home again ; but 
 how ? — by prayers, and tears, and 
 force, all three, or you would not be 
 here in life." 
 
 " The Devil ! what an old Tartar ! 
 I say, is he here alone with you 1 " 
 
 " O, you need not fear," said Ra- 
 chael, with a faint expression of scorn, 
 " he is going directly, and I am going 
 too ; and when I do go from here, I 
 shall have lost all the little pleasure 
 and hope I have in the world," said 
 Rachael, sorrowfully ; and, as she said 
 this, she became unconscious of Hick- 
 man's presence, and moved away with- 
 out looking at him ; but that prudi-nt 
 person dared not part with her so. He 
 was one of those men who say, " I 
 know the women," and, in his sagaci- 
 ty, he dreaded this woman's tongue. 
 He determined, therefore, to stop her 
 tongue, and not to risk Rose Mayfield 
 and thousands for a tew pounds. 
 
 " Now, Rachael, listen to me. 
 Since the poor child is dead, there is 
 only you to think of. We can do 
 one another good or harm, you and 
 I ; better good than harm, I say. 
 Suppose I offered you twenty pounds, 
 now, to keep dark ? " 
 
 " You poor creature ! " 
 
 " Well, thirty, then ? " 
 
 " 0, hold your tongue, — you make 
 me ashamed of myself as well as you." 
 
 " I see what it is, you want too 
 much ; you want me to be your hus- 
 band." 
 
 " No ; while my child lived, I 
 claimed my right for his sake: but 
 not now, not now " ; and the poor 
 girl suddenly turned her eyes on Hick- 
 man, with an indescribable shudder, 
 that a woman would have interpreted 
 to the letter ; but no man could be ex- 
 pected to read it quite aright, so many 
 things it said. 
 
 Hickman the sagacious chose to 
 understand by it pique and personal 
 hostility to him, and desire of ven- 
 geance ; and, having failed to bribe 
 her, he now resolved to try and out- 
 face her. 
 
 It so happened that at this very 
 
 moment merry voices began to sound 
 on every side. The clatter was heard 
 of tables being brought out of the 
 kitchen, and the harvest-home people 
 were seen coming towards the place 
 where Rachael and Hickman were; 
 so Hickman said, hastily, " Any way, 
 don't think to blow mc, — for, if yon 
 do, 1 '11 swear you out, my lass, I '11 
 swear you out." 
 
 " No doubt you know how to lie," 
 was the cold reply. 
 
 " There, liachael," cried Hickman, 
 piteously, lowering his tone of defi- 
 ance in a moment, " don't expose me 
 before the folk, whatever you do. 
 Here they all come, confound them ! " 
 
 Rachael made no answer. She 
 retired into the Uathorns' house, and 
 in a few minutes the tables were set, 
 just outside the house, and loaded 
 with good cheer, and the rustics began 
 to ply knife and fork as zealously as 
 they "had sickle, and rake, and pitch- 
 fork ; and so, on the very spot of earth 
 where Rachael had told Hickman her 
 child was dead, and with him her 
 heart, scarce five minutes afterwards 
 came the rattle of knives and forks, 
 and peals of boisterous laughter and 
 huge feeding. And thus it happens 
 to many a small locality in this world, 
 — tragedy, comedy, and farce are act- 
 ed on it by turns, and all of them in 
 earnest. So harvest -home dinner 
 proceeded with great zeal; and after 
 the solids the best ale was served 
 round ad libitum, and intoxication, 
 sanctified by immemorial usage, fol- 
 lowed in due course. However, as 
 this symptom of harvest was a long 
 time coining on upon the present oc- 
 casion, owing to peculiar interrup- 
 tions, the reader will not have to follow 
 us so far, which let us hope he will 
 not regret. 
 
 Few words worthy of being em- 
 balmed in an immortal story, warrant- 
 ed to live a month, were uttered dur- 
 ing the discussion of the meats, for 
 when the fringes comumere nati are let 
 loose upon beef, bacon, and pudding, 
 among the results dialogue on a largo 
 scale is not.
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 201 
 
 *' Yet shall the Muse " embalm a 
 conversation that passed on this oc- 
 casion between the brothers Messen- 
 ger, laborers aged about fifty, who had 
 been on this farm nearly all their 
 lives. 
 
 Bob Messenger was carving a loin 
 of veal. Jem Messenger sat opposite 
 him, eating bacon and beans on a 
 very large scale. 
 
 Bob (aiming at extraordinary po- 
 liteness). "Wool you have some veal 
 alonu; with vouv bacon, Jem? " 
 
 Jem. " that I wool not, Bob " 
 (with a reproachful air, as one whom 
 a brother had sought to entrap). 
 
 When the table was cleared of the 
 viands, the ale-mugs and horns were 
 filled, and Mrs. Mayfield and the Ha- 
 thonis took part in the festive cere- 
 mony, that is, they did not sit at 
 the table, but they showed themselves 
 from time to time, and made their 
 humble guests heartily welcome by 
 word, and look, and smile, as their 
 forefathers bad done at harvest-time, 
 each in their century and generation. 
 
 Presently Bob Messenger arose 
 solemnly, with his horn of ale in his 
 hand. The others rose after him, 
 knowing well what he was going to 
 do, and chanted with him the ancient 
 harvest-home stave : — 
 
 " Ilere 's a health unto our master, 
 The founder of the feast, 
 Not only to our master, 
 But to our mistress. 
 Two voices. Then drink, boys, drink, 
 
 And see as you do not spill, 
 For if yon do, you shall drink to 
 Our health with a free good- 
 will. 
 Chorus. Then drink, boys, drink," &c. 
 
 Corporal Patrick and Racnael left 
 
 the table. They bad waited only to 
 take part in this compliment to their 
 entertainers, and now they left. The 
 reason was, one or two had jeered 
 them before grace. 
 
 The corporal had shaved and made 
 himself very clean, and be bad put on 
 bis faded red jacket, which be always 
 carried about, and Etachael bad 
 washed bis neck-handkerchief, and 
 tied it neatly about bis neck, and bad 
 U* 
 
 put on herself a linen collar and linen 
 wristbands, very small and plain, but 
 white and starched ; and at this their 
 humble attempt to be decent and nice 
 one or two (who happened to be dirty 
 at the time) could not help sneering. 
 Another thing, Rachael and Patrick 
 were strangers. Some natives cut a 
 jest or two at their expense, and 
 Patrick was about to answer by fling- 
 ing his mug at one man's head ; but 
 Rachael restrained him, and said : 
 " Be patient, grandfather. They were 
 never taught any better. When the 
 fanner's health has been drunk we 
 can leave them." 
 
 People should be able to take jests, 
 or to answer them in kind, not to 
 take them to heart ; but Rachael and 
 Patrick had seen better days (they 
 were not so very proud and irritable 
 then), and now Patrick, naturally 
 high-spirited, was sore, and could not 
 bear to be filliped, and Rachael was 
 become too cold and bitter towards 
 all the vulgar natures that blundered 
 up against her, not meaning her any 
 good, nor much harm, either, poor 
 devils ! 
 
 A giggle greeted their departure ; 
 but it must be owned it was a some- 
 what uneasy giggle. 
 
 There was in the company a cer- 
 tain Timothy Brown John, who was 
 naturally a shoemaker, but was 
 turned out into the stubble annually 
 at harvest-time. The lad had a small 
 rustic genius for music, which he il- 
 lustrated by playing the clarionet in 
 church, to the great regret of the 
 clergyman. Now after the chorus one 
 or two were observed to be nudging 
 this young man, and he to be making 
 those mock-modest difficulties which 
 are part of a singer, in town or coun- 
 try. 
 
 " Ay, Tim," cried Mrs. Mayfield, 
 "you sing us a song." 
 
 " lie have got a new one, mis- 
 tress ! " put in a carter's lad, with 
 saucer eyes. 
 
 " What is it about, boy ? " 
 
 " Well," replied the youngster, "it 
 [s about love" (at which the girls
 
 202 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 giggled) ; " and I think it is about 
 you, Dame Mayfield." 
 
 " About me ! then it must be nice." 
 
 Chorus of Rustics. " Haw ! haw ! 
 haw ! " 
 
 "Come, Mr. Brown John, I will 
 trouble you for it, directly. I can see 
 the bottom of some of their mugs, 
 Jane." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Brown John, 
 looking down, " I don't know what 
 to say about it. Mayhap you 
 might n't like it quite so well before 
 so much company." 
 
 " Why not, pray ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, dame, I am 
 afeard I shall give yon a red face, like, 
 with this here song." 
 
 " If you do, I '11 give you one with 
 this here hand." 
 
 Chorus. " Haw, haw ! Ho ! " 
 
 " Drat the boy, sing, and have done 
 with it." 
 
 " I '11 do my best, ma'am," replied 
 Tim, gravely. 
 
 On this, Mr. Brown John drew 
 from his pocket a diminutive flute, 
 with one key, and sounded his G at 
 great length. He then paused, to let 
 his G enter his own mind and those 
 around ; he then composed his fea- 
 tures like a preacher, and was about 
 to enter on his undertaking, when 
 the whole operation was suddenly, 
 and remorselessly, and provokingly 
 interrupted by Mr. Casenower, who, 
 struck as it appeared with a sudden, 
 irresistible idea, burst upon them all 
 with this question : — 
 
 " Do any of you know one Rebecca 
 Beid, in this part of the world 1 " 
 
 The company stared. 
 
 Some, to whom this question had 
 been put by him before, giggled ; oth- 
 ers scratched their heads ; others got 
 no further than a stricken look. A 
 few mustered together their wits, and 
 assured Mr. Casenower they had 
 never heard tell of " the wench." 
 
 " How devilish odd ! " cried Case- 
 nower, " it is not such a common 
 combination of sounds, one would 
 think." 
 
 " I know Hannah Rcid," squeaked 
 
 a small cow-boy ; he added with en. 
 thusiasm, " she is a capital slider, she 
 is ! ! ! " and he smiled at some remi- 
 niscence, perchance of a joint somer- 
 sault upon the ice, last winter. 
 
 "Hannah does not happen to be 
 Rebecca, young gentleman," object- 
 ed Casenower ; " sing away, John 
 Brown." 
 
 " I 'm a going, sir. G — g — g — 
 g — " and he impressed the key-note 
 once more upon their souls. Then 
 sang Brown John the following song, 
 and the rest made the laughing cho- 
 rus, and, as they all laughed in differ- 
 ent ways, though they began laugh- 
 ing from their heads, ended in laugh- 
 ing from their hearts. It was pleas- 
 ant and rather funny, and proved so 
 successful, that after this // Maestro 
 Brown John and his song were asked 
 to all the feasts in a circle of seven 
 miles. There were eight verses : we 
 will confine ourselves to two, because 
 paper is not absolutely valueless, what- 
 ever the trivoluminous may think. 
 
 " When Richard appeared, how my heart 
 pit-a-pat 
 With a tenderly motion, with which it 
 was seized ! 
 To hear the young fellow's gay, innocent 
 chat 
 I could listen forever, dear ! I 'm so 
 pleased ! 
 I 'm so pleased ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 I 'm so pleased ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 I'm a going to be married, — dear ! 
 
 I 'm so pleased ! 
 I 'm a going to be married, — dear ! 
 I 'm so pleased ! 
 
 Chorus. I 'm so pleased, &c. 
 
 " sweet is the smell of the new-mown hay, 
 And sweet are the cowslips that spring in 
 
 May ; 
 But sweeter 's my lad than the daisied 
 
 lawn, 
 Or the hay, or the flower, or the cows at the 
 dawn. 
 
 i 'm so pleased," &c. 
 
 We writers can tell " the what," but 
 not so very often " the how," of any- 
 thing. I can give Tim's bare words, 
 but it is not in my power nor any 
 man's to write down the manner of 
 // Maestro in singing. How he dwelt 
 on the short syllables, and abridged
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 203 
 
 the Ion::,-- his grave face till he came 
 to his laugh, — and then the enor- 
 mous mouth that ilew suddenly open, 
 and the jovial peal that came ringing 
 through two rows of teeth like white 
 chess pawns, — and with all this 
 his quaint, indescribable, dulcet, rustic 
 twang, that made his insignificant 
 melody ring like church bells heard 
 from the middle of a wood, and taste 
 like metheglin come down to us in a 
 yew-tree cask from the Druids ! 
 
 During the song, one Robert Man- ! 
 day and his son, rural tiddlers, who ; 
 by instinct nosed festivities, appeared 
 at the gate, each with a green bag. 
 A shriek of welcome greeted them ; 
 they were set in a corner, with beef 
 and ale galore, and soon the great ta- 
 ble was carried in, the ground cleared, 
 the couples made, and the fiddles 
 toning. 
 
 The Messrs Munday made some 
 preliminary flourishes, like hawks hov- 
 ering uncertain where to pounce, and 
 then, like the same bird, they sud- 
 denly dashed into " The day in 
 June." 
 
 Their style was rough, and bore a 
 family likeness to ploughing, but it 
 was true, clean, and spirited; the 
 notes of the arpeggio danced out like 
 starry sparks in fireworks. 
 
 Moreover, the Messrs. Munday 
 played to the foot, which is precisely 
 what your melted-butter-violinist al- 
 ways fails to do, whether he happens 
 to be washing out the soul of a wait/., 
 or of a polka, or of a reel. 
 
 They also played BO as to raise the 
 spirits of all who heard them, young 
 or old, which is an artistic effect of 
 the very highest order, however at- 
 tained, and never is and never will 
 be attained by the melted-butter-vio- 
 linist. 
 
 The fiddlers bein^ merry, the dan- 
 cers were merry ; the dancers being 
 merry, the fiddlers said to themselves, 
 "Aha! we have not missed tire," 
 
 and so grew merrier still. And thus 
 tlie electric lire of laughter and music 
 
 darted to and fro. Dance, sons and 
 daughters of toil ! None had ever a 
 
 better right to dance than you have 
 this sunny afternoon in clear Sep- 
 tember. It was you that painfully 
 ploughed the stiff soil ; it was you 
 that trudged up the high, incommod- 
 ing furrow, and painfully cast abroad 
 the equal seed. You that are women 
 bowed the back, and painfully drilled 
 holes in the soil, and poured in the 
 seed ; and this month past you have 
 all bent, and, with sweating brows, 
 cut down and housed the crops that 
 came from the seed you planted. 
 Dance ! for those yellow ricks, tro- 
 phies of your labor, say you have a 
 right to ; those barns, bursting with 
 golden fruit, swear you have a right 
 to. Harvest-tide comes but once a 
 year. Dance ! sons and daughters 
 of toil. 
 
 Exult over your work, smile with 
 the smiling year, and, in this bright 
 hour, O cease, my poor soul, to envy 
 the rich and great ! Believe me, 
 they arc never, at any hour of their 
 lives, so cheery as you are now. How 
 can they be ? With them dancing is 
 tame work, an cvery-day business, — 
 no rarity, no treat. Don't envy 
 them, — God is just, and deals the 
 sources of content with a more equal 
 hand than appears on the surface of 
 things. Dance, too, without fear; 
 let no Puritan make you believe it is 
 wrong ; things are wrong out of 
 season, and right in season ; to dance 
 in harvest is as b 'coming as to be 
 grave in church. The Almighty has 
 put it into the hearts of insects to 
 dance in the afternoon sun, and of 
 men and women in every age and 
 every land to dance round the gath- 
 ered crop, whether it be corn, or oil, 
 or wine, or any other familiar mir- 
 acle that springs up sixty-fold and 
 nurtures and multiplies the lite of 
 man. More fire, fiddlers! play to 
 the foot, — play to the heart the 
 sprightly " Day in June." Ay, foot 
 it freely, lads and lasses ; my own 
 heart is warmer to think you are 
 merry once <>r twice in your year of 
 labor. Dance, my poor brothers and 
 sisters, sons and daughters of toil !
 
 204 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 After several dances, Mrs. May- 
 field, who had been uneasy in her 
 mind at remaining out of the fun, 
 could hear inaction no longer; so she 
 pounced on Eobert Hathorn and 
 drew him into the magic sqtiare. 
 Robert danced, but in a very listless 
 way ; so much so, that his mother, 
 Avho stood by, took occasion to give 
 him a push and say: "Is that the 
 way to dance ? " at which poor Robert 
 tried to do better, but his limbs, as 
 well as his face, showed how far his 
 heart was from his heels. 
 
 Now, in the middle of this dance, 
 suddenly loud and angry sounds 
 were heard approaching, and the 
 voice of old Patrick was soon dis- 
 tinguished, and the next moment he 
 was seen following Mr. Hickman, 
 and hanging on his rear, loading 
 him with invective. Rachael was by 
 his side, endeavoring, in vain, to 
 soothe him, and to end what to her 
 was a most terrible scene. At a. ges- 
 ture from Mrs. Mayfield, the fiddlers 
 left off, and the rustics turned, all 
 curiosity, towards the interruption. 
 " There are bad hearts in the world," 
 shouted Patrick to all present, — " ver- 
 min that steal into honest houses and 
 file * them, — bad hearts, that rob the 
 poor of that which is before life; O 
 yes, far before life ! " and, as he ut- 
 tered these words, Patrick was ob- 
 served to stagger. 
 
 " The old man is drunk," said 
 Hickman. " I don't know what he 
 means." 
 
 Rachael colored high and cried : 
 " No, Master Robert, I assure you 
 he is not drunk, but he is not him- 
 self ; he has been complaining this 
 hour past ; see ! look at his eye. 
 Good people, my grandfather is ill " ; 
 and, indeed, as she said these words, 
 Patrick, who, from the moment he 
 had staggered, had stared wildly and 
 confusedly around him, suddenly 
 bowed his head and dropped upon 
 his knees; he would have fallen on 
 his face, but Rachael's arm now held 
 him up. 
 
 * For defile. 
 
 In a moment several persons came 
 round them ; amongst the rest, Rob- 
 ert and Mrs. Mayfield. Robert 
 loosened his neckcloth, and, looking 
 at the old man's face and eye, he said, 
 gravely and tenderly : " Rachael, I 
 have seen the like of this before — in 
 harvest." 
 
 " O Master Robert, what is it ? " 
 
 " Rachael, it is a stroke of the 
 sun ! " He turned to his mother : 
 " God forgive us all, the old man was 
 never fit for the work we have put 
 him to." 
 
 " Come, don't stand gaping there," 
 cried Mrs. Mayfield ; " mount my 
 mare and gallop for the doctor, — 
 d&n't spare her, — off with you ! 
 Betsy, get a bed ready in my "gar- 
 ret." 
 
 "Eh, dear!" said Mrs. Hathorn, 
 " I doubt the poor thing's troubles 
 are over " ; and she put up her apron 
 and began to crv. 
 
 " O no ! " cried Rachael. " Grand- 
 father, — don't leave me ! — don't 
 leave me ! " 
 
 Corporal Patrick's lips moved. 
 
 " I can't see ye ! I can't see 
 any of ye ! " he said, half fretfully. 
 " Ah ! " he resumed, as if a light had 
 broken in on him. " Yes ! " said he, 
 very calmly, "I think I am going"; 
 but the next moment he cried in 
 tones that made the by-standers thrill, 
 so wild and piteous they were : 
 " My daughter ! my daughter ! — she 
 will miss me ! " 
 
 Robert Hathorn fell on his knees, 
 and took the old hand with one of 
 those grasps that bring soul in con- 
 tact with soul ; the old soldier, who 
 was at this moment past seeing or 
 hearing, felt this grasp, and turned to 
 it as an unconscious plant turns to 
 the light. " I can't see you," said he, 
 faintly ; "but, whoever you are, take 
 care of my child ! — she is such a good 
 child ! " The hands spoke to one an- 
 other still ; then the old soldier almost 
 smiled, and the anxious, frightened 
 look of his face began to calm. 
 " Thank God," he faltered, " they are 
 going to take care of my child ! " And
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 205 
 
 almost with these words he lost all 
 sense, and lay pale, and calm, and 
 motionless at their feet, and his hand 
 could grasp Robert's no more. There 
 was a moment of dead silence and in- 
 quiring looks. Robert looked into 
 his face gravely and attentively. 
 
 When he had so inspected him a 
 little while, he turned to them all, 
 and he said, in a deep and almost a 
 stern voice : — 
 
 "Hats off!" 
 
 They all uncovered, and stood look- 
 ing like stricken deer at the old sol- 
 dier as he lay. The red jacket had 
 nothing ridiculous now. When it 
 was new and bright it had been in 
 great battles. They asked themselves 
 now, Had they really sneered at this 
 faded raj; of England's glory, and as 
 that withered hero ? 
 
 " Did n't think the old man was a 
 going to leave us like that," said one 
 of these rough penitents, "or I'd 
 never ha wagged my tongue again 
 on." 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield gave orders to have 
 him carried up to her garret, and four 
 stout rustics, two at his head and two 
 at his feet, took him up the stairs, 
 and laid him there on a decent bed. 
 When Rachael saw the clean floor, 
 the little carpet round the foot of the 
 bed, the bright walls and windows, 
 and the snowy sheets, made ready for 
 her grandfather, she hid her face and 
 wept, and said but two words, — 
 " Too late ! too late ! " 
 
 As Rachael was following her 
 grandfather up the stairs, she met 
 Hickman : that worthy had watched 
 this sorrowful business in silence; he 
 had tears in his eyes, and, coming to 
 her, in- whispered in her ear, " Ra- 
 chael, don't fret, — I will not desert you 
 now." On the landing, a moment 
 alter, Rachael met Robert Hathotrn : 
 he said to her, " Rachael, your grand- 
 father trusted you to me.' 
 
 When Hickman said that to her, 
 Rachael turned and looked at him. 
 
 When Robert said that to her, 
 she lowered her eyes away from 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The poor battered soldier lay some 
 hours between life and death. Just 
 before sunrise Rachael, who had 
 watched him all night, and often 
 moistened his temples with vinegar; 
 opened the window, and, as the morn- 
 ing air came into the room, a change 
 for the better was observed in the 
 patient, — a slight color stole into his 
 pale cheeks, and he seemed to draw 
 a fuller breath, and his heart beat 
 more perceptibly; Rachael kneeled 
 and prayed for him, and then she 
 prayed to him not to leave her 
 alone ; the sun had been up about 
 an hour, and came fiery bright into 
 the white-washed room ; for it looked 
 towards the east, and Corporal Pat- 
 rick's lips moved, but without uttering 
 a sound. Rachael prayed for him 
 again most ferventlv. About nine 
 o'clock his lips moved, and this time 
 he spoke: — 
 
 " — Rear rank, right wheel ! — " 
 
 The next moment, a light shot 
 into his eye. His looks rested upon 
 Rachael : he smiled feebly, hut con- 
 tentedly, then closed his eyes and 
 slumbered again. 
 
 Corporal Patrick lived. But it 
 was a near tiling, a very near thing, 
 — he was saved by one of those acci- 
 dents we call luck, — when Mrs. 
 Mayfield's Tom rode for the doctor, 
 the doctor was providentially out. 
 Had he been in, our talc would bo 
 now bidding farewell to Corporal 
 Patrick, — for this doctor was one of 
 the pi<j-stieking ones. He loved to 
 stab men and women with a tool that 
 has slain far more than the sword in 
 modern days ; it is called " the lan- 
 cet." Had he found a man insensi- 
 ble, he Would have stabbed him, poor 
 man ! he always Btabbed a fellow- 
 creature when he caught it insensible: 
 not very generous, was it? — now, 
 had he drawn from those old veins 
 one tablespoonfu] of that red fluid 
 which is the lite of a man, the age<C 
 man would have come to his senses 
 only to sink the next hour, and die for
 
 20 G 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 want of that vital stream stolen from 
 him by rule. 
 
 As it was, he breathed, and came 
 back to life by slow degrees. At 
 first his right arm was powerless ; 
 then he could not move the right leg ; 
 but at last he recovered the use of his 
 limbs, but remained feeble, and his 
 poor head was sore confused : one mo- 
 ment he would he quite himself; an- 
 other, his memory of recent events 
 would be obscured, — and then he 
 would shake his head and sigh. But 
 nature was strong in him ; and he got 
 better, — but slowly. 
 
 As soon as he was able to walk, 
 Rachael proposed to Mrs. Mayfield 
 to return home, but Mrs. Hatliorn 
 interposed, and requested Rachael to 
 take her own servant's place for an- 
 other week, in order to let the ser- 
 vant visit her friends. On these 
 terms, Kachael remained, and did the 
 work of the llathorns' house, and it 
 was observed that during th:s period 
 more color came to her cheek, and 
 her listlcssness and languor sensibly 
 diminished. 
 
 She was very active and zealous in 
 her work, and old Hathorn was so 
 pleased with her, that he said one day 
 to Mrs. Hathorn : " I don't care if 
 Betsy never comes back at all ; this 
 one is worth a baker's dozen of her, 
 this Rachael." 
 
 " Betsy will serve our turn as well 
 in the long run," said Mrs. Hathorn, 
 somewhat dryly and thoughtfully. 
 
 "Betsy!" replied the former, con- 
 temptuously ; " there is more sense in 
 this Rachael's forefinger than in that 
 wench's whole carcass." 
 
 It. was about two days after this 
 that the following conversation took 
 place between Robert Hathorn and 
 his mother : — 
 
 " Is it true, what I hear, that Mr. 
 Patrick talks about going next 
 week ? " 
 
 " Have not they been here long 
 enough, Robert '( I wish they may 
 not have been here too long." 
 
 " Why too long, when you asked 
 them to stay yourself, mother ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did, and I doubt I did 
 very wron^. But it is hard for a 
 mother to deny her son." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, moth- 
 er, but I don't remember that ever I 
 asked you." 
 
 " No ! no. I don't say that you 
 ever spoke your mind, Robert ; but 
 you looked up in my face, and showed 
 your wish plain enough to my eye ; 
 and yon sec a poor foolish body like me 
 does n't know how to say no to her 
 boy that never vexed her. I should 
 have been a better friend to you if I 
 had turned my head away, and made 
 believe not to sec what is in your 
 heart." 
 
 Robert paused awhile, then, in a 
 low, anxious voice, he whispered : 
 " Don't you like her, mother '( ' 
 
 "Yes! I like her, my poor soul. 
 What is there to dislike in her 1 But 
 I don't know her." 
 
 " But 1 know her as well as if Ave 
 had been seven years acquainted." 
 
 " You talk like a child ! How can 
 you know a girl that comes from a 
 strange part 1 " 
 
 " I 'd answer for her, mother." 
 
 " I would n't answer for any young 
 wench of them all ! I do notice she 
 is very close ; ten to one if she has 
 not an acquaintance of some sort, good 
 or bad." 
 
 " A bad acquaintance, mother ! 
 Never ! If you had seen her through 
 all the harvest-month, as I did, re- 
 spect herself and make others respect 
 her, you would sec that girl never 
 could have made a trip in her life." 
 
 " Now, Robert, what makes you so 
 sad, like, if you have no misgivings 
 about her 1 " 
 
 " Because, mother, I don't think 
 she likes me so well as I do her." 
 
 "All the better," said Mrs. Ha 
 thorn, dryly ; " make up your mind 
 to that." 
 
 " Do not say so ! do not say so ! " 
 said Robert, piteously. 
 
 " Well, Robert, she does not hate 
 you, you may be sure of that. Why 
 is she in such a hurry to go away ? ' 
 
 " Because she has some one in hef
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 207 
 
 own country she likes better than 
 me." 
 
 " Ay ! that is the way you boys 
 read women. More likely she is 
 afraid of liking you too well, and 
 making mischief in a family." 
 
 " O mother, do you think it is 
 that ? " 
 
 " There, I am a fool to tell you 
 such things." 
 
 " no, no, no ! There is no 
 friend like a mother." 
 
 " There is no fool like a mother, 
 that is my belief." 
 
 " No, no ! Give me some comfort, 
 mother ; tell me you see some signs 
 of liking in her." 
 
 " Well, then, when she is quite 
 sure you are not looking her way, I 
 can see her eye dwell upon you as if 
 it was at home." 
 
 " 0, how happy you make me ! 
 But, mother, how you must have 
 watched her ! " 
 
 " ( )f course I watched her, and you 
 too; I have seen a long while how 
 matters were going." 
 
 " Hut you never spoke to Rose, or 
 my father ? " 
 
 " If I had, she would have been 
 turned out of the house, and a good 
 job too; but you would have fretted, 
 you know"; and Mrs. Hathorn sighed. 
 
 "Mother, I must kiss you. I shall 
 have courage to speak to father about 
 it now." 
 
 " Take a thought, Robert. His 
 heart is set upon your marrying your 
 cousin. It would be a hitter pill to 
 the poor old man, and his temper is 
 very hasty. Fur 1 leaven's sake take 
 a thought I don't know what to do, 
 I am sure." 
 
 " I must do it soon or late." said 
 Robert, resolntely. " No time so good 
 as now. Father is hasty, and he will 
 he angry, no doubt ; but after a while 
 he will give in, I don't ask him fa- 
 vors every day. Do you consent, 
 mother ? '' 
 
 " <) Robert, what is the use asking 
 me whether I consent? I have only 
 one son, and he is a good one. I am 
 afraid I could not say no to your hap- 
 
 piness, suppose it was my duty to say 
 no ; but your father is not such a lool 
 as I am, and I am main doubtful 
 whether he will ever consent. I wish 
 you could think better of it." 
 
 " I will try him, mother, no later 
 than to-day. Why, here he comes. 
 O, there is Mr. Casenower with him ; 
 that is unlucky. You get him away, 
 mother, and I'll open my mind to 
 father." 
 
 Old Hathorn came past the win- 
 dow, and entered the room where 
 Robert and Mrs. Hathorn were. The 
 farmer stumped in, and sat down with 
 some appeam nee of fatigue. Mr. 
 Casenower sat down opposite him. 
 
 That gentleman had in his hand a 
 cabbage. He was proving to the 
 farmer that this plant is more nutri- 
 tious than the potato. The theory was 
 German in the first instance. " There 
 are but three nourishing principles in 
 all food," argued Mr. Casenower, 
 " and of those, what we call ' fihrine ' 
 is the most effective. Now, see, I 
 put my T nail to this stalk, and it 
 readily reduces itself to a bundle of 
 little fibres ; sec, those are pure fi- 
 brine, and, taken into the stomach, 
 make the man muscular. Can any- 
 thing be clearer ? " 
 
 Mr. Hathorn, who had shown 
 symptoms of impatience, replied to 
 this effect : " That he knew by per- 
 sonal experience that cabbage turns 
 to nothing hut hot water in a man's 
 belly." 
 
 " There are words to come out of a 
 man's mouth!" objected Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn. 
 
 " Better than cabbage going into 
 it," grunted the fanner. 
 
 " Ah, you know nothing of chemis- 
 try, my e-ood friend." 
 
 " Well, sir, you say there is a deal 
 of heart in a cabbage?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 "Then I tell you what T '11 do with 
 you, sir. There is some fool has 
 been and planted half an acre of cab- 
 bagea in my barley-field — " 
 
 " It was not a fool," put in Mrs. 
 Hathorn, sharply, "it was me."
 
 208 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 " It was not a fool, you see, sir ; it 
 was a woman," responded Hathorn, 
 mighty dryly. " Well, sir, you train 
 on the Dame's cabbages for a month, 
 and all that time I '11 eat nothing 
 stronger than beef and bacon, and at 
 the end of the month I'll fight you 
 for a pot of beer, if you are so mind- 
 ed." 
 
 " This is the way we reason in the 
 country, eh, Mr. Robert 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir, it would serve father 
 right if you took him up, sir, with his 
 game leg ; but I don't bold with cab- 
 bages for all that ; a turnip is watery 
 enough, but a cabbage and a sponge 
 are pretty much one, it seems to me." 
 
 " Mr. Casenower,"put in Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn, " did n't you promise to show 
 me a pansy in your garden, that is to 
 win the ne"xt prize at Wallingford ? " 
 
 " I did, ma'am, but you should not 
 call it ' Tansy ' ; ' Heart's-ease ' is bad 
 enough, without going back to ' Pan- 
 sy.' Viola tricolor is the name of the 
 flower, — the scientific name." 
 
 " No," said old Hathorn, stoutly. 
 
 " No ! What do you mean by 
 
 no 
 
 i " 
 
 "What are names for? To re- 
 member things by ; then the seientif- 
 ickest name must be the one that it 
 is easiest to remember. Now, pansy 
 is a deal easier to remember than 
 ' vile tricolor.' " 
 
 " I am at your service, Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn ; come along, for Heaven's 
 sake"; and off bustled Mr. Casc- 
 nower towards the garden with Mrs. 
 Hathorn. 
 
 " Father," said Robert, after an 
 uneasy pause, " I have something to 
 say to you, vci-y particular." 
 
 ""Have you, though? well, out 
 with it, my lad ! " 
 " Father ! — " 
 
 At this moment, in bustled Mr. 
 Cascnower again. " O Mr. Robert, 
 I forgot something. Let me tell you, 
 DOW 1 think of it. I want you to 
 find out this Rebecca Reid for me. 
 She lives somewhere near, within a 
 few miles. I don't exactly know bow 
 inany. Can't you lind her out ? " 
 
 "Why, sir," said Robert, "it is 
 like looking for one poppy in a field 
 of standing wheat." 
 
 " No, no ! When you go to mar- 
 ket, ask all the farmers from different 
 parishes whether they know her." 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! " went Hathorn, 
 senior. "-Yes, do, Robert. Ho, 
 ho!" 
 
 " Have you any idea what he is 
 laughing at ? " said Mr. Cascnower, 
 dryly. 
 
 " Father thinks you will make mo 
 the laughing-stock of the market, 
 sir," said Robert, with a faint smile ; 
 " but never mind him, sir, I shall try 
 and oblige you," 
 
 " You are a good fellow, Robert. 
 I must go back to Mrs. Hathorn " ; 
 and off he bustled again. 
 
 " Father," began Robert ; but be- 
 fore he could open his subject, voices 
 were heard outside, and Mrs. May- 
 field came in, followed by Richard 
 Hickman. 
 
 " Tic ! tic ! tic ! " said poor Robert, 
 peevishly, for he foresaw endless in- 
 terruptions. 
 
 Mr. Hickman bad been for some 
 minutes past employed in the agree- 
 able occupation of bringing Mrs. May- 
 field to the point ; but, for various 
 reasons, Mrs. Mayficld did not want 
 to be brought to the point that fore- 
 noon. One of those reasons was, 
 that, although she liked Hickman 
 well enough to marry him, she liked 
 somebody else better, and she was 
 not yet sure as to this person's in- 
 tentions. She wanted, therefore, to 
 be certain she could not have Paid, 
 before she committed herself to Peter. 
 Now, certain ladies, when they do 
 not want to be brought to the point, 
 have ways of avoiding it that a man 
 would hardly hit upon. One of 
 them is, to 'be constantly moving 
 about ; for, they argue, " If he can't 
 pin my body to any spot, he can't pin 
 my soul, for my soul is contained in 
 my body " ; and there is a certain vul- 
 gar philosophy in this. Another is, 
 to be absorbed in some small mat- 
 ter, that just thc» they cannot do
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 209 
 
 JNStice to the larger question, and so 
 modestly postpone it. 
 
 " Will I be yours till death us do 
 part ? now, how can I tell you just 
 now ? such a question demands at 
 least some attention ; and look at 
 this hole in my lace collar, which I 
 am mending ; if I don't give my 
 whole soul to it, how can I mend it 
 properly ? " 
 
 Mr. Hickman had no sooner shown 
 Mrs. Mayfield that he wanted to 
 bring her to the point, than he found 
 himself in for some hard work ; twice 
 he had to cross the farmyard with 
 her ; he had to take up a sickly chick- 
 en and pronounce upon its ailment, 
 lie had to get some milk in a pail 
 ami give one of her calves a drink. 
 He had to bring one cow from pud- 
 dock to stall, and another from stall 
 to paddock. Heaven knew why ; 
 and when all this and much more was 
 done, the lady caught sight of our 
 friends in the Hathorns' kitchen, and, 
 crying briskly, " Come this way," 
 led Mr. Hickman into company where 
 she knew he could not press the in- 
 opportune topic. 
 
 •' Curse her!" muttered the enam- 
 ored one, as he followed her into 
 the Hathorns' kitchen. 
 
 After the usual greetings, the farm- 
 er, observing Robert's impatience, said 
 to Hickman: " If you will excuse J 
 me for a minute, farmer, Robert 
 wants to speak to me; we are going 
 towards the b.irn." He then beck- 
 oned Mrs. Mayfield, and whispered 
 in her ear : "Don't let this one set 
 you against my Robert, that is worth 
 a hundred of him." 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield whispered in return : 
 " And don't let your Robert shilly- 
 shally so, because this one does not 
 — you understand — " 
 
 "" All right," replied Hathorn ; 
 " ten to one if it is not you he wants 
 to ipeak to me about." 
 
 Hathorn and his son then saun- 
 tered into the farm-yard, and 1 1 i< k- 
 man gained what he had been trying 
 for >o long, a quiet tete-h-t&te with 
 Mrs. Mayfield ; for all that, if a ' 
 
 woman is one of those that have a 
 wish, it is dangerous to drive her to 
 the point. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Mayfield," said he, 
 quietly but firmly, " I am courting 
 you this six months, and now I 
 should be glad to have my answer. 
 ' Yes,' or ' no,' if you please." 
 
 Mrs. Mayheld sidled towards the 
 window ; it commanded the farm- 
 yard. Robert and his father were 
 walking slowly up and down by the 
 side of the farm-yard pond. Mrs. 
 Mayfield watched them intently, then, 
 half turning towards Hickman, she 
 said slowly : " Why, as to that, Mr. 
 Hickman, you have certainly come 
 after me awhile, and I '11 not deny I 
 find you very good company ; but I 
 have been married once and made a 
 great mistake, as you have heard, I 
 dare say ; so now I am obliged to be 
 cautious." 
 
 " What, are you afraid of my tem- 
 per, Rose ? I am not reckoned a 
 bad-tempered one, any more than 
 yourself." 
 
 " () no ! I have no fault to find 
 with you, — only we have not been 
 acquainted so very long." 
 
 " That is a fault will mend every 
 day." 
 
 " Of course it will ; well, when yon 
 are settled on Bix, we shall see you 
 mostly every day, and then we shall 
 know one another better; for, if you 
 have no faults, I have; and then you 
 will know better what sort of a bar- 
 gain you are making: and then — ■ 
 we will see about it." 
 
 " Better tell tin' truth," said the 
 all-observant Hickman. 
 
 "The truth!" 
 
 " Ay, that the old man wants you 
 to marry Bob Hathorn. O, 1 am 
 down upon him this many a day." 
 
 "Robert Hathorn is nothing to 
 
 me," replied the Mayfield ; " but, since 
 you put him in my head, I confess I 
 might do worse." 
 
 " How conld you do worse than 
 many a lad who has nothing but his 
 two arms ' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfidd, looking slyly through 
 N
 
 210 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 the window, observed Robert and bis 
 father to be in earnest conversation ; 
 this somewhat colored her answer. 
 She replied quickly, " Better poor and 
 honest, than half rich and three parts 
 of a rogue ! " 
 
 " Is that for me, if you please ? " 
 said Hickman, calmly but firmly. 
 
 " No ! I don't say it is," replied the 
 lady, fearful she had gone too far; 
 " but still I wonder at your choosing 
 this time for pressing me." 
 
 " Why not this time, as well as 
 another, pray 1 " and Hickman eyed 
 her intently, though secretly. 
 
 " Why not ! " said she, and she 
 paused ; for the dialogue between Ha- 
 thorn and his son was now so ani- 
 mated, that the father's tones reached 
 even to her ear. 
 
 " Ay ! why not ? " repeated Hick- 
 man. 
 
 The lady turned on him, and, with 
 a sudden change of manner, said very 
 sharply, " Ask your own conscience." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean ! " 
 
 " I '11 tell you. This old Patrick 
 was miscalling you, when he fell ill. 
 They say it was a stroke of the sun, 
 — maybe it was : but I should say 
 passion had something to do with it 
 too ; the old man said words to you 
 that none of the others noticed, but I 
 did. He said as much as that you 
 had robbed some one of what is before 
 life in this world." 
 
 " Ay, and what is before life, I won- 
 der ? " said the satirical Hickman. 
 
 " Why, nothing," replied the frank 
 Mrs. Mayfield, " if you go to that ; 
 but it is a common saying that a 
 ' good name is before life,' and that is 
 what the old man meant." 
 
 " I wonder you should take any no- 
 tice of what that old man says, and 
 above all his daughter." 
 
 " His daughter, Mr. Hickman ! 
 Why, I never mentioned his daugh- 
 ter, for my part. You have been and 
 put your own bricks on my founda- 
 tion." 
 
 Hickman looked confused. 
 
 " You arc a fool, Richard Hick- 
 man ! You have told me more than 
 
 I knew, and I see more than you tell 
 me. You have led that girl astray, 
 and deserted her likely, you little 
 scamp ! " (Hickman was five foot ten.) 
 
 " Nonsense ! " put in Hickman. 
 " That Rachael shall never come be- 
 tween you and me ; but I '11 tell you 
 who the girl stands between : you and 
 your Robert, that the farmer wants to 
 put in the traces with } r ou against his 
 will." 
 
 " You are a liar ! " cried Rose 
 Mayfield, coloring to her temples. 
 
 Hickman answered coolly : " Thank 
 you for the compliment, Rose. No, 
 it is the truth. You see, when a man is 
 wrapped up in a woman, as I am in 
 you, he finds out everything that con- 
 cerns her; and your boy, Tom, tells 
 me that Robert is as fond of her as a 
 cow of a calf." 
 
 " He fond of that Rachael ? No ! " 
 
 " Why, Rachael is a well-looking 
 lass, if you go to that." 
 
 " And so she is," pondered Mrs. 
 Mayfield ; and in a moment many lit- 
 tle circumstances in Robert's conduct 
 became clear by this new light Hick- 
 man had given her. She struggled, 
 and recovered her outward composure. 
 " Well," said she, stoutly, " what is it 
 to me ? " 
 
 " Why, not much, I hope. Give 
 me your hand, Rose ; / don't fancy 
 any girl but you. And name the day, 
 if you will be so good." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Rose Mayfield, 
 nearly drying with vexation. " I 
 won't marry any of you, — a set of 
 rogues and blockheads. And, if it is 
 true, I don't thank you for telling me. 
 You are a sly, spiteful dog, and I 
 don't care how often you ride past my 
 house without hooking bridle to the 
 gate, Dick Hickman." 
 
 Hickman bit his lips, but he kept 
 his temper. " What ! all this because 
 Bob Hathorn's taste is not so good as 
 mine ! Ought I to suffer for his fol- 
 ly?" 
 
 " O, it is not for that, don't think 
 it ! But I don't want a lover that 
 has ruined other women ; it is not 
 lucky, to say the least."
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 211 
 
 "What, all this, because a girl 
 
 1'umped into my arms one day ? Why, 
 ; am not so hard upon you. I hear 
 tales about you, you know, but I only 
 laugh, — even about Frank Fairfield 
 ami you." (Mrs. Maytield gave a lit- 
 tle start.) " Neither you nor I are an- 
 gels, you know. Why should we be 
 hard on one another ? " 
 
 Mrs. Maytield, red as fire, inter- 
 rupted him. " My faults, if I have 
 any, have hurt me only ; but yours 
 never hurt you, and ruined others ; 
 and you say no more about me than 
 you know, or you will get a slap in 
 the mouth, and there 's my door ; you 
 take it at a word, and I '11 excuse any 
 further visits from you, Mr. Hick- 
 man." 
 
 These words, with a finger pointing 
 to the door, and a flashing eye, left 
 nothing for Hickman but to retire, 
 which he did, boiling with indignation, 
 mortification, and revenge. " This is 
 all along of ltachael. hhe has blown 
 me," muttered he, between his teeth. 
 " I have got the bag ; you sha' n't gain 
 anything by it, Rachael ! " 
 
 It will be remembered that when 
 Patrick lay dying or dead, as he sup- 
 posed, this Hickman had a good im- 
 pulse, and told Kachael he w r ould 
 never desert her : in this he was per- 
 fectly sincere at the moment. People 
 utterly destitute of principle abound 
 in impulses. They have good im- 
 pulses, which generally come to noth- 
 ing or next to nothing ; and bad 
 impulses, which they put iu prac- 
 tice. 
 
 Mr. Hickman had time to think 
 over his good impulse, and, according- 
 ly, he thought better of it, and found 
 that Rose Maytield was too great a 
 prize to resign, lie therefore kept 
 out of the way more than a week (a 
 suspicions circumstance, which Mis. 
 Maytield did not fail to couple with 
 old Patrick's words), and his pity for 
 Kachael evaporated in all that time. 
 " What the worse is sin- tor me now? 
 Hang her, I offered her money, and 
 what not ; but I suppose nothing will 
 serve her turn but hooking me for 
 
 life, or else having her spite out, and 
 spilling my milk for me here." 
 
 It was a fixed notion in this man's 
 mind that Rachael would do all she 
 could to ruin his suit with Mrs. May- 
 field, and when he got the " sack," or, 
 as he vulgarly called it, " the bag," 
 he attributed it, in spite of Rose May- 
 field's denial, to some .secret revela- 
 tion on Rachael's part, and a furious 
 impulse to be revenged on her took 
 possession of him. 
 
 Now this bad impulse, unlike his 
 good one, had no time to cool. As 
 he went towards the stable, the Devil 
 would have it he should meet Robert 
 Hathorn. At sight of him our worthy 
 acted upon his impulse. Robert, who 
 was coming hastily from his father, 
 with his brow knit and his counte- 
 nance flushed, would have passed 
 Hickman with the usual greeting, 
 but Hickman would not let him off so 
 easily. 
 
 " What, so you have got my old 
 lass here still, Master Robert?" 
 
 " Your old lass ! Not that I know 
 of." 
 
 " Rachael Wright, you know." 
 
 " Rachael Wright your lass ! " 
 
 " Ay ! and a very nice lass too, till 
 we fell out. She gave me a broad 
 hint just now, but I am for higher 
 game. You could not lend me a spur, 
 could you, Mr. Robert ? Mine is 
 broken." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Never mind ; good morning ! 
 good morning ! " 
 
 Hickman's looks and contemptuous 
 tones had eked out the few word? 
 with which lie had stabbed Robert, 
 and, together with the libertine char- 
 acter of the man, had effectually 
 blackened Kachael in Robert's eyes. 
 
 This done, away went the poisoner, 
 and chuckled as he vent. 
 
 Robert Ha thorn stood pale as death, 
 looking after him. To this stupefac- 
 tion succeeded a feeling of sickness, 
 and a sense of despair, and Robert sat 
 down upon the shaft of an empty 
 cart, and gazed with stony eye upon 
 the ground at his feet. His feelings
 
 212 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 were inexpressibly bitter. Where 
 was he to hope to find a woman he 
 could respect, if this paragon was a 
 girl of loose conduct 1 Then came re- 
 morse : for this Hachael he had this 
 moment all but quarrelled with his 
 father, — their first serious misunder- 
 standing. After a fierce struggle 
 with himself, he forced himself to see 
 that she must be wrenched out of his 
 heart. He rose, pale but stern, after 
 a silent agony that lasted a full hour, 
 though to him it seemed but a minute, 
 and went and looked after his father. 
 He found him in the barn watching 
 the threshers, but like one who did 
 not see what he was looking at. His 
 countenance was fallen and sad ; the 
 great and long-cherished wish of his 
 heart had been shaken, and by his 
 son ; and then he had given that son 
 bitter and angry words, and threatened 
 him ; and that son had answered re- 
 spectfully, but firmly as iron, and the 
 old man's heart began to sink. 
 
 He looked up, and there was Rob- 
 ert, pale and stern, looking steadfast- 
 ly at him, with an expression he 
 quite misunderstood. ■ Old Hathorn 
 lifted his head, and said sharply and 
 bitterly to his son : " Well ? " 
 
 "Father," said Robert, in a lan- 
 guid voice, " I am come to ask your 
 pardon." 
 
 Fanner Hathorn looked astonished. 
 Robert went on. 
 
 " I '11 marry any woman you like, 
 father, — they are all one to me now." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, Bob '? 
 that is too much the other way." 
 
 "And if I said anything" to vex 
 you, forgive me, father, if you 
 please." 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! " cried old Hathorn, 
 " no more about it, Bob ; there was 
 no one to blame but my hasty temper, 
 — no more about it. Why, if the 
 poor chap hasn't taken it quite to 
 heart, has n't a morsel of color left in 
 his cheek ! " 
 
 " Never mind my looks," gasped 
 Robert. 
 
 " And don't you mind my words 
 either, then. Robert, you have made 
 
 me happier than I have been any 
 time this twenty years ! " 
 
 " I am glad of it," gasped Robert. 
 " I '11 look to this, if you have any- 
 thing else to do." He wanted to he 
 alone. 
 
 " Thank you, Bob ; I want to go 
 into the village ; keep up your heart, 
 my lad. She is the best-looking wo- 
 man I know, with the best heart 
 / ever met, and I am older than you, 
 and you see the worst of her the first 
 day ; her good part you are never at 
 the bottom of; it is just the contrary 
 with the sly ones. There, there ! I '11 
 say no more. Good by." And away 
 went the old farmer, radiant. 
 
 "Be happy," sobbed Robert; "I 
 am glad there is one happy." And 
 he sat down cold as a stone in his fa- 
 ther's place. After a while he rose 
 and walked listlessly about, till at last 
 his feet took him through habit into 
 his father's kitchen ; on entering it, 
 his whole frame took a sudden thrill, 
 for he found Rachael there tying up 
 her bundle for a journey. She had 
 heard his step, and her head wa» 
 turned away from the door ; but neat 
 her was a small round old-fashioned 
 mirror, and, glancing into this, Rob. 
 ert saw that tears were stealing down 
 her face. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Old Hathorn paced down the vil- 
 lage, with his oak stick, a happy man ; 
 but for all that he was a little mysti- 
 fied. But two hours ago Robert had 
 told him he loved Rachael, and had 
 asked his leave to marry her, and in an- 
 swer to his angry, or, to speak more 
 correctly, his violent refusal, had told 
 him his" heart was bound up in her, 
 and he would rather die than marry 
 anv other woman. What could have 
 worked such a sudden change in the 
 young man's mind ? " Maybe I shall 
 find out," was his concluding reflec- 
 tion ; and he was right; he did find 
 out, and the information came from 
 a most unexpected quarter. As he
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 213 
 
 I 
 
 passed the village public-house he was 
 hailed from the parlor window ; he 
 looked up, and at it was Farmer Hick- 
 man, mug in hand. Now, to tell the 
 truth, Hathorn was not averse to ale, 
 especially at another man's expense, 
 and, thought he, " Farmer is getting 
 beery, looks pretty red in the face ; 
 however, I '11 see if I can't pump some- 
 thin"- out of him and Rose." So he 
 joined Hickman ; and in about half 
 an hour he also was redder in the face 
 than at first. 
 
 If the wit is out when the wine is 
 in, what must it be when the beer is in 1 
 
 Old Hathorn and Hickman were 
 much freer over their glass than they 
 had ever been before, and Hathorn 
 nimped Hickman ; hut inasmuch as 
 Iickman desired to be pumped, and 
 was rather cunninger half drunk than 
 sober, the old farmer drew out of him 
 nothing about Rose, but he elicited 
 an artful and villanous mixture of 
 truth and falsehood about Rachael 
 Wright; it was not a vague sketch 
 like that with which he had destroyed 
 Robert's happiness ; it was a long, 
 circumstantial history, full of discol- 
 ored truths and equivokes, and embel- 
 lished with one or two good honest 
 lies ; hut of these there were not many ; 
 poor Richard could not be honest 
 even in dealing with the Devil, — a 
 great error, since that personage is 
 not to be cheated ; honesty is your 
 only card in any little transaction with 
 him. The symposium broke up. 
 Hickman's horse was led round, he 
 mounted, bade Hathorn good day, 
 and went of. In passing the form 
 his red face turned black, and he 
 shook his list at it, and said, " Fight 
 it out now amongst ye." And the 
 poisoner cantered away. 
 
 In leading Robert Hathorn and 
 others so far, we have shot ahead of 
 some little matters which must not 
 be left behind, since without them the 
 general posture which things had 
 reached when Robert foand Rachael 
 tying up her bundle could hardly he 
 understood. 
 
 When Mrs. Mayfield gave Hickman 
 
 " the sack," or, as that coarse young 
 man called it," the bag," she was in 
 a towering passion ; and, not being 
 an angel, but a female with decided 
 virtues and abominable faults, she 
 was just now in anything but a Chris- 
 tian temper, and woe to all who met 
 her. 
 
 The first adventurer was Mr. Case- 
 nower : he saw her at a distance, for 
 she had come out of the house, in 
 which she found she coidd hardly 
 breathe, and came towards her with 
 a face all wreathed in smiles. Mr. 
 Casenower had of late made many 
 tenders of his affection to her, which 
 she had parried, by positively refus- 
 ing to see anything more than a jest 
 in them ; but Casenower, who was 
 perfectly good-humored and light- 
 hearted, had taken no offence at this, 
 nor would he consider this sort of 
 thing a refusal ; in short, he told her 
 plainly that it gave him great pleasure 
 to afford her merriment, even at his 
 own expense ; only he should not 
 leave off hoping until she took his 
 proposal into serious consideration ; 
 that done, and his fate seriously pro- 
 nounced, he told her she should find 
 he was too much of a gentleman not 
 to respect a lady's will ; only, when 
 the final " No " was pronounced, he 
 should leave the farm, since he could 
 not remain in it and see its brightest 
 attraction driven to another. Here he 
 caught her on the side of her good- 
 nature, and she replied, " Well, I am 
 not anybody's yet." She said to her- 
 self, " The poor soul seems happy 
 here, with his garden, and his form 
 of two acres, and his nonsense, and 
 why drive the silly goose away before 
 the time ! " so she suspended the final 
 "No," and he continued to otter ad- 
 miration, and she to laugh at it. 
 
 It must be owned, moreover, that 
 she began at times to have a sort of 
 humorous terror of this man. A 
 
 woman knows by experience that it is 
 
 the fate of a woman not to do what 
 she would like, and to do just what, 
 she would rather not, and often, 
 though apparently free, to be fettered
 
 214 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 by sundry cobwebs, and driven into 
 some unwelcome corner by divers 
 whips of gossamer. One day Mes- 
 dames Hathorn and Mayfield had 
 looked out of the parlor window into 
 the garden, and there they saw Mr. 
 Casenower, running wildly among the 
 beds, with his hat in his hand. 
 
 " What is up now r i " said Mrs. 
 Mayfield, scornfully. 
 
 " I dare say it is a butterfly," was 
 the answer ; " he collects them." 
 
 " What a fool he is, Jane." 
 
 " He is a good soul for all that." 
 
 " Fools mostly are, Jane ! " said 
 Mrs. Mavfield, very solemnly. 
 
 "Yes, Rose!" 
 
 " Look at that man ; look at him 
 well, if you please. Of all the men 
 that pester me, that is the one that is 
 the most ridiculous in my eye. Ha ! 
 ha ! the butterfly has got safe over the 
 wall, I 'm so glad ! — Jane ! " 
 
 " Well ! " 
 
 " You mark my words, — I sha' n't 
 have the butterfly's luck. " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " That man is to be my husband ! — 
 that is all." 
 
 " La, Rose, how can you talk so ! 
 you know he is the last man you 
 will ever take." 
 
 " Of course he is, and so he will take 
 me ; I feel he will ; I can't bear the sight 
 of him, so he is sure to be the man. 
 You will see ! you will sec ! " and, 
 casting on her cousin a look that was 
 a marvellous compound of fun and 
 bitterness, she left the room bruscpicly, 
 with one savage glance flung over her 
 shoulder into the garden. 
 
 1 do not say that such misgivings 
 were frequent ; this was once in a 
 way ; still it was characteristic, and 
 the reader is entitled to it. 
 
 Mr. Casenower then came to Mrs. 
 Mayfield, and presented her a clove- 
 pink from his garden ; he took off his 
 hat with a flourish, and said, with an 
 innocent, but somewhat silly playful- 
 ness, " Accept this, fair lady, in token 
 that some day you will accept the 
 grower." 
 
 The gracious lady replied by knock- 
 
 ing the pink out of his hand and say- 
 ing, " That is how I accept the pair." 
 
 Mr. Casenower colored very high, 
 and the water came into his eyes ; but 
 Mrs. Mayfield turned her back on him, 
 and flounced into her own house. 
 When there, she felt she had been 
 harsh, and looking out of the window 
 she saw poor Casenower standing de- 
 jected on the spot where she had left 
 him ! she saw him stoop and pick up 
 the pink ; he eyed it sorrowfully, 
 placed it in his bosom, and then 
 moved droopingly away. 
 
 " What a brute I am!" was the 
 Mayfield's first reflection. "I hate 
 you ! " was the second. 
 
 So then, being discontented with 
 herself, she accumulated bitterness, 
 and in this mood flounced into the gar- 
 den, for she saw Mrs. Hathorn there. 
 When she reached her, she found that 
 her cousin was looking at Rachael, 
 who was cutting spinach for dinner ; 
 while the old corporal, seated at some 
 little distance, watched his grand- 
 daughter ; and as he watched her his 
 dim eye lighted every now and then 
 with affection and intelligence. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield did not look at the 
 picture ; all she saw was Rachael ; 
 and after a few trivial words she said 
 to Mrs. Hathorn in an undertone, but 
 loud enough to be heard by Rachael : 
 " Are these two going to live with us 
 altogether ? " 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn did not answer ; she 
 colored and cast a deprecating look at 
 her cousin : Rachael rose from her 
 knees, and said to Patrick in an un- 
 dertone, the exact counterpart of Mrs. 
 Mayfield's : " Grandfather, we have 
 been here long enough, come " ; and 
 she led him into the house. 
 
 There is a dignity in silent, unob- 
 trusive sorrow, and some such dignity 
 seemed to belong to this village girl, 
 Rachael, and to wait upon all she said 
 or did ; and this seemed to put every- 
 body in the wrong who did or said 
 anything against her. When she led 
 off her grandfather with those few 
 firm, sad words, in the utterance of 
 which she betrayed no particle of
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 215 
 
 anger or pique, Mrs. Hathom cast a 
 glance of timid reproach at her cousin, 
 and she herself turned paler directly ; 
 but she replied to Mrs. Hathorn's look 
 only by a disdainful toss of the head ; 
 and, not choosing to talk upon the sub- 
 ject, she flounced in again and shut 
 herself up in her own parlor ; there 
 she walked up and down like a little 
 hyena. Presently she caught sight of 
 the old farmer, standing like a statue, 
 near the very place where llobert had 
 left him after announcing his love 
 for llachael, and his determination to 
 marry no other worn. in. At sight of 
 the farmer, an idea struck Mrs. May- 
 field : " That Hickman is a liar, after 
 all ; don't let me be too hasty in be- 
 lieving all this about Robert and that 
 girl. 1 'II draw the farmer." 
 
 " I '11 draw the farmer ! " My refined 
 reader is looking to me to explain the 
 lady's phraseology. That which in 
 country parlance is called " drawing " 
 is also an art, O pencil! — men that 
 have lived thirty or forty years, and 
 done business in this wicked world, 
 learn to practise it at odd times. Wo- 
 rn n have not to wait for that; it is 
 born with most of them an instinct, 
 no; an art. It works thus ; you sus- 
 pect something, but you don't know : 
 you catch some one who does know, 
 and you talk to him as if you knew all 
 about it. Then, if he is not quite on 
 his guard, he lets out what you want- 
 ed to know. 
 
 .Mrs. Mayfield 'walked up to Ha- 
 thoni with a great appearance of 
 unpremeditated wrath, and said to 
 
 him: "A tine fool you h;i\e Imvii 
 
 making of me, pretending your Rob- 
 ert looked my way, when he is over 
 head and ears in Love with that Ra- 
 chael!" 
 
 '• O," cried the farmer, " what, the 
 fool has been and told you too I 
 
 " So it is true, then ! " cried the 
 .Maylield, sharply. 
 
 Machiavel No. •> saw his mistake 
 
 too late, and tried to hark hack. 
 
 "No! he ia not over head and ears; 
 it is all nonsense and folly ; it will 
 pan ; you set your hack to mine,, and 
 
 we will soon bring the ninny to his 
 senses." 
 
 " I back you to force your son my 
 way ! " cried Rose, in a fury ; " what 
 do I care for your son or you either, 
 you old fool ! let him marry his 
 Rachael ! the donkey will find wheth- 
 er your mock-modest ones are bet- 
 ter or worse than the frank ones, — 
 ha ! ha ! " 
 
 "Tiose," cried the farmer, illumi- 
 nated with sudden hope ; " if you know 
 anvthing against her, you tell me, 
 and I '11 tell Robert." 
 
 " No ! " said she, throwing up her 
 nose into the air in a manner pretty 
 to behold, " I am no scandal-monger, 
 — it is your affair, not mine ; let him 
 marry his Rachael, ha ! ha ! oh ! " 
 and off she went, laughing with mal- 
 ice and choking with vexation. 
 
 There now remained to insult only 
 Robert and Mrs. Hathorn. But the 
 virago was afraid to scold Mrs. Ha- 
 thorn, who she knew would burst 
 out crying at the first hard word, and 
 then she would have to beg the poor 
 soul's pardon : and Robert she could 
 not find just then. Poor fellow ! at 
 this very moment he was writhing 
 under Hickman's insinuations, and 
 tearing his own heart to pieces in his 
 efforts to tear Rachael from it. 
 
 So the Mayfield ran np stairs to 
 her own bedroom and locked herself 
 in, for she did not want sense, and 
 she began to see and feel that she was 
 hardly safe to be about. 
 
 .Meantime Rachael had come to 
 take leave of Mrs. Hathorn; that 
 <;ood lady remonstrated, but feebly ; 
 she felt that there would never he 
 peace now till the poor girl was ironc ; 
 but she insisted upon one thing ; the 
 old man in his weak state should not 
 go on foot. 
 
 " You are free to go or stay for me, 
 Rachael," said she, " but, if you go, 
 1 will not have any harm come to tho 
 poor old man within ten miles of 
 this door." 
 
 So, to get away, Rachael consented 
 
 to take a horse and cart of the farm- 
 er's, and this is how it came about
 
 21G 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 that Robert found Rachael tying up 
 her bundle of clothes. Her tears 
 fell upon her little bundle as she tied 
 it. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Robert Hathorn had found in 
 Hickman's insinuation a natural so- 
 lution of all that had puzzled him 
 in Rachael. She was the deserted 
 mistress of a man whom she still 
 loved, — acting on this he had apol- 
 ogized to his lather, had placed his 
 future fate with heart-sick indifference 
 in that father's hands, and had de- 
 spaired of the female sex, and re- 
 feigned all hope of heart-happiness in 
 this world. But all this time Rachael 
 had been out of sight. She stood 
 now before him in person, and the 
 sight of her, beautiful, retiring, sub- 
 missive, sorrowful, smote his heart 
 and bewildered his mind. Looking 
 at her, he could not see the possibility 
 of this creature having ever been 
 Hickman's mistress. He accused him- 
 self of having been too hasty ; he 
 would have given worlds to recall the 
 words that had made his father so 
 happy, and was even on the point of 
 leaving the kitchen to do so ; but on 
 second thoughts he determined to 
 try and learn from Rachael herself 
 whether there was any truth in Hick- 
 man's scandal, and, if there was, to 
 think of her no more. 
 
 " What are you doing, Rachael ? " 
 
 " I am tying" up my things to go, 
 Master Robert." 
 
 " To go 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! we have been a burden to 
 vour mother some time ; still, as I 
 did the work of the house, I thought 
 my grandfather would not be so very 
 much in the way ; but I got a plain 
 hint from Mrs. Mavfield just now." 
 
 " Confound her !*" 
 
 " No, sir ! we are not to forget 
 months of kindness for a moment of 
 ill-humor. So I am going, Mr. Rob- 
 ert, and now I have only to thank 
 you for all your kindness and civility. 
 
 We are very grateful, and wish we 
 could make a return ; but that is not 
 in our power. But grandfather is an 
 old man near his grave, and he shall 
 pray for you by name every night, 
 and so will I ; so then, as we are very 
 poor and have no hopes but from 
 Heaven, it is to be thought the Al- 
 mighty will hear Us and bless you 
 sleeping and waking for being so good 
 to the unfortunate." 
 
 Robert hid his face in his hands a 
 moment ; this was the first time she 
 had ever spoken to him so warmly 
 and so sweetly, and at what a moment 
 of dark suspicion did these words 
 come to him ! Robert recovered him- 
 self, and said to Rachael, " Are you 
 sure that is the real cause of your 
 leaving us so sudden ? " 
 
 Rachael looked perplexed. " In- 
 deed, I think so, Mr. Robert. At 
 least I should not have gone this very 
 day but for that." 
 
 " Ah ! but you know very well yau 
 had made up your mind to go before 
 that % " 
 
 " Of course, I looked to go, some 
 day ; we don't belong here, grandfa- 
 ther and I." 
 
 " That is not it, either. Rachael, 
 there is an ill report sprung tip about 
 you." 
 
 " What is that, sir ? " said Rachael, 
 with apparent coldness. 
 
 " What is it ? How can I look in 
 your face and say anything to wound 
 you 1 " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Robert. I am 
 glad there is one that is inclined to 
 show me some respect." 
 
 " Do something for me in return, 
 dear Rachael ; tell me your story, 
 and I '11 believe your way of telling 
 it, and not another's ; but, if you will 
 tell me nothing, what can I do but 
 believe the worst, impossible as it 
 seems ? Why are you so sorrowful ? 
 Why are you so cold, like 1 " 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you, Mr. 
 Robert ; if any 07ie has maligned mo, 
 may Heaven forgive them ; if you be- 
 lieve them, forjjet me. I am going 
 away. Out of sight, out of mind."
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 217 
 
 " What ! can a girl like yon, that 
 has won all our respects, go away 
 and leave scandal behind her ? No ! 
 stay and face it out, and let us put it 
 down forever." 
 
 " Why should I trouble myself to 
 do that, sir ? " 
 
 " Because, if you do not, those who 
 love you can love you no more." 
 
 Rachael sighed, but she wrapped 
 herself in her coldness, and replied, 
 "But I want no one to love me." 
 
 " You don't choose that any one 
 should ever marry you, then ? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Robert, I do not." 
 
 " You would not answer Richard 
 Hickman so ! " 
 
 " Richard Hickman ! " said Ra- 
 chael, turning pale. 
 
 When she turned pale, Robert 
 turned sick. 
 
 " He says as much as that you 
 could not say ' No ' to him." 
 
 " Richard Hickman speaks of me 
 to you ! " cried Rachael, opening her 
 eyes wildly. Then in a moment she 
 was ice aeain. " AVell, I do not 
 speak of him ! " 
 
 " Rachael," cried Robert, "what is 
 all this ? For Heaven's sake, be 
 frank with me. Don't make me tear 
 the words out of you so; give me 
 something to believe, or something to 
 forgive. I should believe anything 
 you told me : I am afraid I should 
 forgive anything yon had done." 
 
 " I do not ask you to do either, 
 sir." 
 
 " She will drive me mad ! " cried 
 Robert, frantically. " Kachacl, hear 
 mo. I love you more than a woman 
 was ever loved before ! Vou talk of 
 being grateful to me. I don't know 
 why you should, but you say so. If 
 you are, be generous, he merciful ! I 
 leave it to you. Be my wife ! and 
 then, perhaps, you will not lock your 
 henft and your story from your hus- 
 band. I cannot believe ill of you. 
 You may have been maligned, or yon 
 may have heeu deceived, bttl vmi can- 
 not !>e guilty. There ! " cried he, 
 wildly, "no word but one! Will 
 you he my wife, Rachael ' " 
 10 
 
 Rachael did not answer, at least in 
 words ; she wept silently. 
 
 Robert looked at her despairingly. 
 At last he repeated his proposal al- 
 most fiercely : " I ask you, Rachael, 
 will you be my wife ? " 
 
 As he repeated this question, who 
 should stand in the doorway but Mrs. 
 Mayfield. She was transfixed, petri- 
 fied, at these words of Robert ; but, 
 being a proud woman, her impulse 
 was to withdraw instantly, and hear 
 no more. Ere she was out of hear- 
 ing, however, Rachael replied. 
 
 " Forgive me, Mr. Robert ! I must 
 refuse you ! " 
 
 " You refuse to be my wife ! " 
 
 " I do, sir ! " but still she wept. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield, as she retreated, 
 heard the words, but did not see the 
 tears. Robert saw the tears, but 
 could not understand them. He gave 
 a hasty, despairing gesture, to show 
 Rachael that he had no more to say to 
 her, and then he flung himself into a 
 chair, and laid his brow on the table. 
 Rachael glided softly away. At the 
 door she looked back on Robert, with 
 her eyes thick with tears. She had 
 hardly been gone a minute when Rose 
 Mayfield returned, and came in and 
 sat gently down opposite Robert, and 
 watched him intently, wit* a counte- 
 nance in which the most opposite feel- 
 ings might be seen struggling for the 
 mastery. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Roueut lifted his head, and saw 
 Mrs. Mayfield He spoke to her sul- 
 lenly. " So you turn away our ser- 
 vants ? " 
 
 " Not I," replied Mr9. Mayfield, 
 sharply. 
 
 " It is not wo that send away Ra- 
 chael, it is you." 
 
 " I tell you no ; do you believe that 
 e,irl before me ? " 
 
 " You affronted her. What hail 
 she done to you 1 " 
 
 " I only just asked her how long 
 she meant to stay here, or something
 
 218 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 like that. Hang me if I remember 
 what I said to her ! They are a bad 
 breed, all these girls ; haughty and 
 spiteful ; you can't say a word but 
 they snap your head off." Mrs. May- 
 field said no more, for at that moment 
 Rachael came into the room with her 
 grandfather and Mrs. Hathorn, who 
 appeared to he smoothing matters 
 down. 
 
 " No, Daddy Patrick," said she, in 
 answer to some observation of the old 
 man's, " nobody sends you away ; 
 you leave us good friends, and you 
 are going to drink a cup of ale with 
 us before you go." 
 
 A tray was then brought in and a 
 jug of ale, and Patrick drank his mug 
 of ale slowly ; but Rachael put hers to 
 her lips and set it down again. 
 
 Then Robert went and sat on the 
 window-seat, and there he saw them 
 bringing round the wagon to carry 
 away Rachael and* her grandfather. 
 His heart turned dead-sick within 
 him. He looked round for help, and 
 looking round he saw Mrs. May field 
 bending on him a look in which he 
 seemed to read some compassion, 
 blended with a good deal of pique. 
 In his despair he appealed to her : 
 " There, they are really going ; is it 
 fair to send away like that folk that 
 have behaved so well, and were mind- 
 ed to go of themselves only mother 
 asked them to stay ? See how that 
 makes us look ; and you that were al- 
 ways so kind-hearted, Mrs. Mayfield. 
 Rose, dear Hose ! " 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield did not answer Rob- 
 ert, whose appeal was made to her in 
 an undertone ; but she said to Mrs. 
 Hathorn : " Jane, the house is yours ; 
 keep them if it suits you, I am sure 
 it is no business of mine." 
 
 " O, thank you, Rose ! " cried Rob- 
 ert ; but his thanks were cut short by 
 the voice of the elder Hathorn, who 
 had just come in from the yard. 
 " They are going," said he, " I make 
 no complaint against them. There 
 is no ill-will on either side ; but I 
 say they ought to go, and go they 
 shall." 
 
 " Go they shall ! " said the old cor. 
 poral, with a mystified look. 
 
 The farmer spoke with a firmness 
 and severity, and even with a certain 
 dignity ; and all felt he was not in q 
 mood to be trifled with. 
 
 Robert answered humbly : " Fa- 
 ther, you are master here, — no one 
 gainsays you ; but you are a just 
 man. If you were to be cruel to the 
 poor and honest, you would be sorry 
 for it all your days." 
 
 Before the farmer could answer, 
 Rose Mayfield put in hastily : " There, 
 bid them stay, — you see your son 
 holds to the girl, and you will have 
 to marry them one day or other, and 
 so best, — that will put an end to all 
 the nonsense they talk about the boy 
 and me. I dare say Robert is fool 
 enough to think I wanted him for 
 myself." 
 
 " 1, Mrs. Mayfield 1 never. What 
 makes you fancy that "i " 
 
 " And," cried Mrs. Mayfield, as if 
 a sudden light broke in upon her, 
 " what are we all doing here ? we 
 can't help folks' hearts. Robert loves 
 her. Are we to persecute Hobert, 
 an innocent lad, that never offended 
 one of us, and has been a good son 
 to you, and a good friend and brother 
 to me ever since we could walk 1 I 
 think the Devil must have got into 
 my heart ; but I shall turn him out, 
 whether he likes or no. I say he shall 
 have the girl, old man ; and, more 
 than that, I have got a thousand 
 pounds loose in Wallingford Bank ; 
 they shall have it to stock a farm ; 
 it is little enough to give Robert, — 
 I owe him more than that for Ux- 
 moor, let alone years of love and 
 | good-will. There now, he is going 
 to cry, I suppose. Bob, don't cry, 
 for Heaven's sake ; I can't abide to 
 see a man cry." 
 
 " It is you make me, Rose, prais- 
 ing me just when everybody seemed 
 to turn against me." 
 
 " You are crying yourself, Hose," 
 whimpered Mrs. Hathorn. 
 
 " If I am, I don't feel it," replied 
 Mrs. Mayfield.
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 219 
 
 Rachael trembled ; but she said in 
 her low, firm voice : " We are going 
 away of our own accord, Mistress 
 Mayfield, and we thank you kindly 
 for this, and for all, — hut we are 
 goin^ away." 
 
 " You don't love Robert, then ? " 
 " No, Mrs. May field," said Ra- 
 chael, with the air of one confessing 
 theft or sacrilege, " I don't love Mr. 
 Robert ! " and she lowered her eyes 
 with their long lashes, and awaited 
 her sentence. 
 
 "Tell that to the men," replied 
 Rose, " you can't draw the wool over 
 a sister's eye, young lady." 
 
 "The young woman is the only 
 one among you that has a grain of 
 sense," said old Hathorn, roughly. 
 " Why don't you let her alone, — she 
 would thank you for it." 
 
 " Can you read a woman's words, 
 you old ass ? " was the contemptuous 
 answer. 
 
 " I am not an ass, young woman," 
 said Hathorn, gravely and sternly, 
 " and I am in my own house, which 
 you seem to forget," — Rose colored 
 up to the eyes, — "and I am the 
 master of it, so long as it is your 
 pleasure I should be here." 
 
 " John ! " cried Mrs. Hathorn, with 
 a deprecating air. 
 
 " And I am that young man's fa- 
 ther, and it is his duty to listen to 
 me, and nunc not to let him make 
 a fool of himself. I don't pretend 
 to be so particular as Robert is, — 
 used to lie, I mean, — and I was tell- 
 ing him only yesterday, that supposo 
 vmi have kicked over the traces a 
 bit, as you have never broken your 
 knees, leastways to OUT knowledge, 
 Rose, it did not much matter." 
 
 "Thank you, Daddy Hathorn; 
 much obliged to you, I am sure." 
 
 " Hut there's reason in masting of 
 Cggs ; this one has been off the 
 course altogether, and therefore, I say 
 again, she shows seme by going home, 
 and yon show no Bensfl by trying to 
 keep lea- here." 
 
 " Father," -aid Robert, " you 'j'> too 
 far; we know nothing against Eta- 
 
 chael, and till I know I won't believe 
 anything." 
 
 " Why, Bob, I thought Hickman 
 had told you all about it, — I under- 
 stood him so, — ay, and he must too, 
 or why did you come to me in the 
 yard and eat humble pie 1 " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by 
 telling me all about it, father : he hint- 
 ed as much as that he and Racliael 
 had been too familiar once upon a 
 time." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well ! how often has he told thq 
 same lie of a dozen others .' that is a 
 common trick of Dick Hickman's, to 
 pretend he has been thick with a girl, 
 that perhaps does not know his faco 
 from Adam's. Father, 1 can't believe 
 a known liar's tongue against such 
 a face as that." 
 
 " Face as that J It is a comely one, 
 but seems to me it does not look us 
 so very straight in the face just now : 
 and there 's more than a liar's tongus 
 on t'other side, there 's chapter and 
 verse, as the saying is." 
 
 " I don't understand your hints, 
 and I don't believe that blackguard's. 
 I am not so old as you, but I have 
 learned that truth does not lie in 
 hints." 
 
 " I 'm older than you, and a wo 
 man's face can't make me blind ami 
 deaf to better witnesses." 
 
 "There are no better witnesses! 
 For shame, father! Hickman is no 
 authority with Hathorn." 
 
 " Hut the Parish Register is an au- 
 thority," said the old m:wi sternly, 
 and losing all his patience. 
 
 "The Parish Register!" 
 
 "And if you look at the Parish 
 Register of Long Compton, you will 
 find the name of a child she is the 
 mother of, ami no father to show." 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 "Ask herself! — you sec she does 
 n't deny it." 
 
 All eves turned and fastened upon 
 Rachael ; and those who saw her at 
 this moment will carry her face and
 
 220 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 her look to their graves, so fearful 
 was the anguish of a high spirit, 
 ground into the dust and shame ; her 
 body seemed that moment to be 
 pierced with a hundred poisoned ar- 
 rows. She rose white to her very 
 lips, and stood in the midst of them 
 quivering like an aspen-leaf, her eyes 
 preternaturally bright and large, and 
 she took one uncertain step forwards, 
 as if to fling herself on the weapons 
 of scorn that seemed to hem her in ; 
 and she opened her mouth to speak, 
 but her open lips trembled, and trem- 
 bled, and no sound came. And all 
 the hearts round, even the old farm- 
 er's, began now to freeze and fear 
 at the siirht of this wild agony ; and 
 at last, after many efforts, the poor 
 soul would have said something, God 
 knows what, but a sudden and most 
 xinexpected interruption came. Cor- 
 poral Patrick was by her side, nobody 
 saw how ; and, seizing her firmly by 
 the arm, he forbade her to speak. 
 
 " Silence, girl ! " cried the old sol- 
 dier, fiercely. " I dare you to say a 
 word to any of them ! " 
 
 Then Kachael turned and clung 
 convulsively to his shoulder, and 
 trembled and writhed there in silence. 
 All this while they had not observed 
 the old man, or they would have seen 
 that the mist had gradually cleared 
 away from his faculties ; his mind, 
 brightened by his deep love for Ra- 
 chael, was keenly awake to all that 
 concerned her ; and so her old cham- 
 pion stood in a moment by her side 
 with scarce a sign left of age or weak- 
 ness, upright and firm as a tower. 
 
 " Silence, girl ! I dare you to say a 
 word to any of them ! " 
 
 " There," sobbed Mrs. Hathorn, 
 " you thought the poor old man was 
 past understanding, and now you 
 make him drink the bitter cup, as 
 well as her." 
 
 " Yes ! I must drink my cup too," 
 said old Patrick. " I thought I was 
 going to die soon, and to die in peace ; 
 but I '11 live and lie young again, if it 
 is but to tell ye ye are a pack of curs. 
 The Parish Register'- does the Parish 
 
 Register tell you the man married 
 her with a wife living in another part ? 
 Is it wrote down along with that 
 child's name in the Parish Register, 
 how his father fell on his knees to his 
 mother, a girl of seventeen, and 
 begged, for the dear life, she would n't 
 take the law of him and banish him 
 the country ? What was she to think ? 
 could she think that, when his sick 
 wife died, he 'd reward her for spar- 
 ing him by flying the country, not to 
 do her right 1 The Parish Register ! 
 You welcome this scoundrel to your 
 house, and you hunt his victim out 
 like a vagabond, ye d — d hypocrites ! 
 Come, Rachael, let us crawl away 
 home, and die in peace." 
 
 " No ! no ! you must not go like 
 that," cried Mrs. Hathorn, and Rob- 
 ert rose, and was coming to take his 
 hand ; but he waved his staff" furious- 
 ly over his head. 
 
 " Keep aloof, I bid ye all," he cried ; 
 " I have fought against Bonaparte, 
 and I despise small blackguards." 
 He seized Rachael and drew her to the 
 door : then he came back at them 
 again : " 'T is n't guilt you have 
 punished ; you have insulted inno- 
 cence and hard fortune; you have in- 
 sulted your own mothers, for you 
 have insulted me, and I fought for 
 them before the best and oldest of you 
 was born, — no skulking before the en- 
 emy, girl," — for Rachael was droop- 
 ing and trembling, — " right shoul- 
 ders forward, march ! " and he almost 
 tore her out of the house. He was 
 great, and thundering, and terrible, in 
 this moment of fury; he seemed a 
 giant and the rest but two feet high. 
 His white hair streamed, and his eyes 
 blazed defiance and scorn. He was 
 great and terrible by Ins passion and 
 his age, and his confused sense of past 
 battles and present insult. They fol- 
 lowed him out almost on tiptoe. He 
 lifted Paehael into the wagon, placed 
 her carefully on a truss of hay in the 
 wagon, and the carter came to the 
 horses' heads, and looked to the house 
 to know whether he was to start now. 
 
 Robert came out and went to Ra-
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 221 
 
 chad's side of the wagon, but she 
 turned her head away. 
 
 " Won't you speak to me, Ra- 
 chael i " said Robert. 
 
 Rachael turned her head away, and 
 was silent. 
 
 " Very well," said Robert quietly, 
 very quietly. 
 
 " Go on," cried old Hathom. 
 
 The next moment there was a fear- 
 ful scream from the women, and Rob- 
 ert was seen down among the horses' 
 feet, and the carter was forcing them 
 back, or the wagon would have been 
 over him ; the carter dragged him up, 
 — he was not hurt, but very pale ; he 
 told his mother, who came running 
 to him, that he had felt suddenly faint 
 and had fallen, and he gave a sickly 
 smile, and bade her not be frightened, 
 he was better. 
 
 Rose Mayheld was as white as a 
 sheet. 
 
 " Go on," cried the farmer, again, 
 and at a word from the carter the 
 horses drew the wagon out of the 
 yard, and went away down the lane 
 with Rachael and Patrick. 
 
 They were gone. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Corporal Patrick was correct in 
 his details ; the Parish Register gave 
 a very vajjuc outline of Kachael 
 Wright's history. Mr. Hickman had 
 gone through the ceremony of marry- 
 ing her; nay, more, ;it tbe time, he 
 had firmly intended the ceremony 
 slinnld be binding, for his wife lay dy- 
 ing a hundred miles olf, and Rachael 
 had at this period great expectations 
 from her aunt, Mis. Clayton. This 
 Mrs. Clayton was the possessor of 
 Pix Farm. Sin' was a queer-tem- 
 pered woman, and a seven' economist ; 
 this did not prevent her allowing l'at- 
 riik and Rachael a yearly SUnS, which 
 
 le Iped to maintain them in homely 
 
 comfort And she used to throw out 
 mysterious hints that, at her death, 
 
 the pair would be belter oil' than other 
 
 relations of hers who dressed finer 
 and held their heads higher at present. 
 Unfortunately for Rachael, this aunt 
 was alive at the period when Hick- 
 man's bigamy was discovered by old 
 Patrick. The said aunt had never 
 done anything of the kind herself, 
 nobody had ever married her illegally, 
 and she could not conceive how such 
 a thing could take place without the 
 woman being in fault as well as the 
 man ; so she was very cross about it, 
 and discontinued her good offices. 
 The Corporal wished to apply the 
 law at once to Hickman ; but he 
 found means to disarm Kachael, and 
 Kachael disarmed the old soldier. 
 Kachael, young, inexperienced, and 
 honest, was easily induced to believe 
 in Hickman's penitence, and she never 
 doubted that, upon his wife's death, 
 who was known to be incurably ill, 
 Richard would do her ample right. 
 So meantime she agreed to do herself 
 injustice. 
 
 Mrs. Hickman died within a short 
 time of the exposure ; but, unfortu- 
 nately for Rachael, another person 
 died a week or two before her, and 
 that person was Rachael's aunt. No 
 will appeared, except an old one, 
 which was duly cancelled by the old 
 lady herself, in the following man- 
 ner : First, all the words were inked 
 out with a pen; secondly, most of 
 them were scratcbed out with a knife ; 
 lastly, a formal document was affixed 
 and witnessed, rendering the said in- 
 strument null as well as illegi- 
 ble. This unfortunate testament be- 
 queathed Bix Farm to Jack White, 
 her graceless nephew, lie had of- 
 fended her after the will was made, so 
 she annulled the will. The graceless 
 nephew could afford to smile at these 
 evidences of wrath ; he happened to 
 lie her heir-at-law, and succeeded to 
 Kix in the absence of all testament to 
 the contrary. 11 iekman was with his 
 dying wife in Somersetshire. The 
 news about Bix reached him, and he 
 
 secretly resolved to have nothing more 
 to do with Rachael. To carry out 
 this with more security, the wretch
 
 222 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 wrote her affectionate letters from 
 time to time, giving plausible excuses 
 for remaining in Somersetshire ; and 
 so he carried on the game for three 
 months after his wife was dead ; he 
 then quietly dropped the mask and 
 wrote no more. 
 
 So matters went on for some years, 
 until one day the graceless nephew, 
 finding work a bore, announced Bix 
 Farm to let. Poor Hickman had set 
 his heart upon this Bix, and, as he 
 could not have it for his own, he 
 thought he should like to rent it ; so 
 he came up and made his offer, and 
 was accepted as tenant. The rest the 
 reader knows, I believe; but what 
 iron passed through the hearts of Ra- 
 chael and the old soldier all this time, 
 that let me hope he knows not. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The events we have recorded had 
 no sooner taken place, than a great 
 change seemed to come over Mrs. 
 Mayfield. She went about her avo- 
 cations as usual, but not with the 
 same alacrity ; and her spirits were 
 so unstrung, that every now and then 
 she burst into tears. The female ser- 
 vants, honest country wenches that 
 were not sublimely indifferent, like 
 London domestics, to everybody in 
 the house but themselves, seeing the 
 gloom of the house, and Mrs. Mayfield 
 continually crying who never cried 
 before, began to whimper for sympa- 
 thy, and the house was a changed 
 house. Robert had disappeared ; and 
 they all felt it was a charity not to 
 ask where, or to go near him for a 
 while • all but the mother, who could 
 not resist the yearnings of a mother's 
 nature; she crept silently at a dis- 
 tance, and watched her boy, lest per- 
 chance evil should befall him. 
 
 .Mrs. Mayfield then, after many ef- 
 forts to go through her usual duties, 
 gave wny altogether, and sat herself 
 down in her own parlor, and cried 
 
 over all the sorrow that had come on 
 the farm ; and as all generous natures 
 do, if you give them time to think, she 
 blamed herself more than any one else, 
 and wished herself dead and out of the 
 way, if by that means the rest could 
 only be made happy as they used to be. 
 While she was in this mood, her head 
 buried in her hands, she heard a slight 
 noise, and, looking up, saw a sorrow- 
 ful face at the door : it was Mi - . 
 Casenower. 
 
 "I am come to bid you good by, 
 Mrs. Mayfield." 
 
 " Come to bid me good by 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; all my things are packed up 
 except this, which I hope you will do 
 me the favor to accept, since I am 
 going away, and shall never tease you 
 again." 
 
 " You never teased me, that I 
 know," said Mrs. Mayfield, very 
 gently. " What is it, sir ? " 
 
 " It is my collection of birds' eggs : 
 will you look at it ? " 
 
 " Yes. Why, here arc a hundred 
 different sorts, and no two kinds 
 alike." 
 
 " No two kinds 1 I should think not. 
 No two eggs, you mean." 
 
 " How beautiful they look when you 
 see them in such numbers ! " 
 
 "They are beautiful. Nature is 
 very skilful ; we don't take half as 
 many hints from her as we might. 
 PJo you observe these eggs all of one 
 color, — these delicate blues, these ex- 
 quisite drabs'? If you ever wish to 
 paint a room, take one of these eggs 
 for a model, and yon will arrive at 
 such tints as no painter ever imagined 
 out of Ins own head, I know. 1 once 
 hoped we should make these experi- 
 ments together ; but it was not to be. 
 Good by, dear Mrs. Mayfield ! " 
 
 " O Mr. Casenower ! I did not think 
 you came to quarrel with me." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! But you love 
 somebody else." 
 
 " No : I don't." 
 
 " Yes : you know you do ,* and you 
 rejected me this morning." 
 
 " I remember I was rude to you, 
 sir; I knocked a flower out of your
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 223 
 
 hand. Docs that rankle in your heart 
 so long ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Mayfield, it is for your sake 
 J am going, not out of anger ; you 
 know that very well." 
 
 " I know no such thing, it is out of 
 spite, and a pretty time to show your 
 spite, when ray heart is breaking. If 
 you went to please me, you woidd 
 wait till 1 hid you go." 
 
 " You don't bid me go, then 1 " 
 
 "It does n't seem like it." 
 
 " You bid me stay 1 " 
 
 " Not I, sir. Don 't let me keep yon 
 here against your will." 
 
 " But it is not against my will ; only 
 you seemed to hale me this morning." 
 
 " What signifies what I did this 
 morning 1 " cried Mrs. Mayfield, 
 sharply; " it is afternoon now. This 
 morning they put me out; I wanted 
 somebody to quarrel with ; you came 
 in my way, so I quarrelled with you. 
 Now I have made you all unhappy, so 
 I am miserable myself, as I deserve ; 
 and now I want somebody to comfort 
 me, and you come to me : hut, instead 
 of comforting me, all you can think of 
 is to quarrel with me, — oh ! oh ! oli ! " 
 This speech was followed by a flood 
 of tears. 
 
 Casenower drew his chair close to 
 hers, and took her hand, and promised 
 to console her, — to die for her, if 
 necessary. 
 
 " Tell me your trouble," said he, 
 "and you shall see how soon I will cure 
 it, if a friend can cure it. Mrs. May- 
 field, — Rose, — what is the matter?"" 
 
 " Dear Mr. Casenower, Robert is in 
 love wiili that Raohael, — the farmer 
 lias insulted her, and sent her and her 
 grandfather away, — Robert is break- 
 ing his heart ; — and all this began 
 With a word of mine, though that 
 blackguard Hickman is more to blame 
 still. But I am a woman that likes to 
 make people happy about me; I may 
 B81 I five lor that ; and now they are 
 all unhappy : and if I knew where to 
 8hd a dose of poison 1 would not he 
 long before I would take it 'his day. 
 1 can 't bear to make people unhappj , 
 — oh! oh! oh!" 
 
 "Don't cry, clearest," said Case- 
 nower; "you shall have your wish; 
 you shall make everybody happy 1" 
 
 " O no, no ! that is impossible 
 now." 
 
 " No such thing, — there is no mis- 
 chief that can't be cured. Look here, 
 Hose, the old farmer is very fond of 
 money ; Raehael is poor ; well, I am 
 rich. I will soon find Robert a 
 thousand pounds or two, and he shall 
 have the girl he likes." 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Casenower, if money 
 could do it I should have settled it 
 that way myself. O, what a good 
 creature you are ! I love you, — no, 
 I don't, I hate you, because I sec 
 how all this is to end. No, no ! wc 
 have insulted the poor things and 
 set their hearts against us, and we 
 have set poor Robert against the 
 girl, who is worth the whole pack of 
 us twice counted. They are gone, 
 and the old man's curse hangs like 
 lead upon the house and all in it." 
 
 " Where are they gone 1 " 
 
 " Newbury way." 
 
 " How long 1 " 
 
 " An hour and a half." 
 
 " In two hours I '11 have tnem 
 back here." 
 
 " Don't be a fool now, talking 
 nonsense." 
 
 " Will yon lend me your mare ? " 
 
 " Yes ! no ! The old farmer would 
 kill us." 
 
 "Hans the old fanner! Who 
 cares for him ? Is this your house 
 or his ' " 
 
 " Mine, to be sure." 
 
 " Then I shall bring them to this 
 house." 
 
 "Yes, but — but — " 
 
 " You have a right to do what you 
 like in your own house, I suppose. 
 Why, how seared you look! Where 
 is all your spirit '. You have plenty 
 of it sometime--." 
 
 "Dear Mr. Casenower, don't tell 
 anybody, I have not a grain of real 
 spirit. I am the most chicken-hearted 
 
 creature in the world, only 1 hide it 
 when 1 fall in with other cowards, 
 and so then 1 can bully them, yOU
 
 224 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 know. I have hectored it over you 
 more than once, and so I would 
 again ; but it would be a shame, you 
 are so good, — and besides you have 
 found me out." 
 
 " Well, I am not afraid of any- 
 body, if I can please you. I will 
 ride after them and fetch them here, 
 and, if you are afraid to give them 
 house-room, I will hire that empty 
 house at the end of the lane, and this 
 very night they shall be seated in a 
 good house, by a good fire, before a 
 good supper, within fifty yards of 
 your door." 
 
 " Let me go with you. You don't 
 know the way." 
 
 " Thank you, I should be sure to 
 lose the way by myself ; go and get 
 your habit on. Lose no time. I will 
 saddle the horses." 
 
 " How a man takes the command 
 of us," thought Mrs. Mayficld. " I 
 shall have to marry you for this, I 
 suppose," said she, gayly, shining 
 through her late tears. 
 
 " Not unless you like," said Case- 
 nower, proudly. " I don't want to 
 entrap you, or take any woman 
 against her will." 
 
 The Mayficld colored up to her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You had better knock me down," 
 said she. " I know you would like 
 to " ; and, casting on her companion 
 a glance of undisguised admiration, 
 she darted up stairs for her habit. 
 
 Ten minutes later she was in the 
 saddle, and, giving her mare the rein, 
 she went after our poor travellers 
 like a flash of lightning. 
 
 Casenower followed as he might. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was a glorious evening-: the 
 Bun, gigantic and red, had just be- 
 gun to tip the clouds with gold, and 
 rubies, and promises of a fine day 
 to-morrow ; the farm was quiet ; the 
 farmer's homely supper was set on a 
 table outside the door, and he and 
 
 his wife sat opposite each other in 
 silence. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn helped herself to a 
 morsel ; but she did not care to cat 
 it, and, in fact, she only helped her- 
 self to encourage her husband to eat. 
 She did not succeed ; Fanner Ha- 
 thorn remained in a brown study, his 
 supper untasted before him. 
 " Eat your supper, husband." 
 " Thank you, wife ; I am not hun- 
 
 gry" 
 
 " Take a drop of beer, then." 
 
 " No, Jane, I am not dry." 
 
 " You are ill, then, John ; you 
 don't look well." 
 
 " I 'm well enough, I tell you." 
 
 " You arc in trouble, like many 
 more in this house." 
 
 " Me 1 No ; I never was happier 
 in my life! " 
 
 " Indeed ! What is there to be 
 happy about ? " 
 
 " Come, now, what is it ? " cried the 
 farmer, angrily. " Out with it, and 
 don't sit looking at me with eyes like 
 an adder's." 
 
 " My man, you see your conscience 
 in your wife's eyes ; that is all the 
 venom they have." 
 
 " You had better tell me Robert is 
 in his senses to love that girl. I 
 would cut my arm off at the shoulder 
 sooner than consent to it." 
 
 " Would you cut your son off soon- 
 er 1 " said Mrs. Hathorn, with forced 
 calmness. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " You take very little notice of what 
 passes, John." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Did n't you see what Robert tried 
 for Avhen the wagon started with 
 them % " 
 
 " 0, about his fainting ! I could 
 have kicked the silly fool if I had n't 
 been his father." 
 
 " Don't you think it is very odd he 
 should faint like that, — just under 
 the wheel of a wagon 1 " 
 
 " O, when a chap swoons away, he 
 can't choose the bed he falls on." 
 
 " A moment more, the wheel would 
 have been on his head; if Thomas
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 225 
 
 hart n't been lightsome and stopped 
 the horses all in a minute, Robert 
 Ha thorn would have been a corpse in 
 this house." 
 
 " Well ! " 
 * "Well!" 
 
 The old man lowered his voice : 
 " You had better tell me you think he 
 did it on purpose ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn leaned over the table 
 to him. 
 
 " I don't think it, John ; I am sure 
 of it. Robert never fainted at all; he 
 was as white as his shirt, but he knew 
 what he was about, from first to last. 
 He chose his time ; and when Rachael 
 turned her head from him, he just 
 said, ' Very well then,' and flung him- 
 self under the wheel. YV hat did Thom- 
 as sav, who dragged him up from the 
 horse's' feet ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said old Hathorn, 
 half sulkily, half tremhling. 
 
 " He said, ' That is flying in the 
 face of Heaven, young master.' 
 Jane heard him say it ; and you 
 know Thomas is a man that speaks 
 but little. What did Rose Maytield 
 say, as she passed him next minute ? 
 ' Would you kill your mother, Rob- 
 ert, and break all our hearts ? ' You 
 cried out, 'Go on, — goon.' Robert 
 said his foot had slipped ; and made 
 as though he would smile at me. Ah ! 
 what a smile, John ! If you had been 
 as near it as I was, you would n't 
 sleep this night." And .Mrs. II at horn 
 began to sob violently, and rocked 
 herself to and fro. 
 
 " Then Bead for them back," cried 
 the fanner, suddenly starting up 
 " Send, before worse ill comes, — con- 
 found them ! " 
 
 " They will never come back here. 
 They are poor, but honest and proud ; 
 and we have stung them too bitterly, 
 reproaching them with their hard 
 lot." 
 
 " Where is he?" 
 
 " In the barn ; with his face buried 
 in the straw, like one who would n't 
 speak, or see, or hear the world 
 again." 
 
 "p. i a !•'■'> i " 
 
 10* 
 
 " No, he is not asleep." 
 
 " Give him time ; he '11 come to 
 when he has cried his bellyful." 
 
 " He shed tears ? no ! it is too 
 deep for that ; he will die by his own 
 hand, or fret to death. He won't be 
 long here, I doubt : look for dark 
 days, old man ! " 
 
 " Wife," said Hathorn, trembling, 
 " you are very hard upon me : to hear 
 you, one would say I am a bad father, 
 and am killing my son." 
 
 "No, — no, — John! But we were 
 too ambitious, and we have humbled 
 the poor and the afflicted ; and Heav- 
 en does not bless them that do so, and 
 never will." 
 
 " I don't know what to do, Jane." 
 
 " No more do I, except pray to 
 God : that is my resource in dangers 
 and troubles," 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! that can do no harm any 
 way." 
 
 While the old couple sat there, with 
 gloomy and foreboding hearts, sud- 
 denly a cheerful cry burst upon their 
 ears. It was Mrs. May field's voice; 
 she came cantering up the lane with 
 .Mr. Casenower: she dismounted, 
 flung him the bridle, and ran into her 
 own house, where she busied herself 
 in giving orders, and preparing two 
 rooms for some expected visitors. 
 A few minutes more, and, to the as- 
 tonishment of Hathorn and delight 
 of his wife, the wagon hove in sight 
 with Rachael and Patrick. 
 
 They descended from the wagon, 
 and were led by Mr. Casenower into 
 Mrs. Mayfield's house, and there, after 
 all this day's fatigues and sorrows, 
 they found a weleonie and bodily re- 
 pose. Rut Rachael showed great 
 uneasiness; she had been very reluc- 
 tant to return ; but Mrs. Maytield 
 had begged them both so hard, with 
 the tears in her eyes, and Patrick had 
 shown .so strong a wish to come back, 
 that she had yielded a passive con- 
 sent. When the news of their return 
 was brought to Robert by his mother, 
 be betrayed himself to her ; he threw 
 bis arms round her neck like a girl, 
 — but in bis downcast look, and dog' 
 u
 
 22G 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 ged manner, none of the others could 
 discover whether he was glad or sorry. 
 He went about his work next morn- 
 ing, as usual, and did not even make 
 an inquiry about Rachael. 
 
 It was about twelve o'clock the next 
 day, that Mrs. Mayfield observed him 
 return from the field and linger longer 
 than usual in the neighborhood of the 
 house. She invited Rachael to come 
 and look at her pet calf, and walked 
 her most treacherously right up to 
 Robert. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried she, " you must ex- 
 cuse me, here is Robert, he will do 
 as well. Robert, you take and show 
 her my calf, the red and white one, 
 that 's a good soul, they want me in- 
 doors." And in a moment she was 
 gone, and left Robert and Rachael 
 looking alternately at each other and 
 the ground. 
 
 When Rose left these two together, 
 she thought, innocently enough, that 
 the business was half done, as far as 
 they were concerned. She had not 
 calculated the characters of the par- 
 ties, and their pride. They were 
 little nearer each other now than at 
 twentv miles distant, 
 
 "Well, Rachael," said Robert, 
 " I am glad you are here again ; they 
 were wrong to insult you, and now 
 they are right to bring you back ; but 
 it is no business of mine." 
 
 " No, Master Robert," said Rachael, 
 quietly, " and it is against my will I 
 am here." 
 
 With these words she was moving 
 away, when Robert intercepted her, 
 and, intercepting her, said : "O, I don't 
 hinder you to stay or to go. The 
 folk say a heap of things about you 
 and me ; but did I ever say a word 
 to you more than civility ? " 
 
 " No ! nor would I have suffered it." 
 
 " O, you are proud ! it suits your 
 situation," said Robert, bitterly. 
 
 " A man and a Christian would 
 think twice ere he reminded me of 
 my situation," cried Rachael, with 
 flashing eyes; "and, since you can't 
 feel for it, why speak to me at all 1 " 
 
 " I did not mean to affront you," 
 
 said Robert, with feeling. "I pity 
 you." 
 
 " Keep your pity for one that ask9 
 it," was the spirited reply. 
 
 " What ! are we to worship you 1 " 
 
 "Misfortune that does not com,* 
 plain should meet some little respect, 
 I think." 
 
 " Yes, Rachael, but it would he 
 more respected if you had not kept it 
 so close." 
 
 " Master Robert," answered Ra- 
 chael, in what we have already de- 
 scribed as her dogged manner, " poor 
 folk must work, and ought to Avork ; 
 and as they won't let a girl in my 
 situation, as you call it, do work or 
 be honest, I concealed my fault, - — if 
 fault it was of mine." 
 
 " And I call it cruel to let a man 
 love you, and hide your story from 
 him." 
 
 " Nay, but I never encouraged any 
 man to love me ; so I owe my story 
 to no man." 
 
 " Keep your secrets, then," said 
 Robert, savagely; "nobody wants 
 them, without it is Richard Hickman. 
 I hear his cursed voice in the air 
 somewhere." 
 
 " Richard Hickman ! " gasped Ra- 
 chael. " 0, why did I come to this 
 place to be tortured again 1 " 
 
 Richard Hickman had come here 
 expressly to have a friendly talk with 
 Mr. Patrick. Mr. Patrick owed this 
 honor to the following circumstance. 
 
 As the wagon returned to the farm, 
 Thomas had stopped at a certain way- 
 side public-house, in which Mr. Hick' 
 man happened to be boozing. Patrick 
 was breathing threats against Hick- 
 man, and insisting on Rachael's tak- 
 ing the law of him, and sending him 
 out of the country. Rachael, to get 
 rid of the subject, yielded a languid 
 assent ; and Hickman, who was in- 
 tently listening, trembled in his shoes. 
 To prevent this calamity, the prudent 
 Richard determined to make a pseu- 
 do-spontaneous offer of some sort to 
 the Corporal, and hush up the whole 
 affair. 
 
 At the sight of Hickman, the Cor-
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 227 
 
 poral was for laying on, as our elder 
 dramatists have it ; but Mr. Casenow- 
 er, who was there, arrested his arm, 
 and proposed to him to hear what the 
 man had to say. 
 
 "Well," cried Patrick, "let him 
 speak out then before them all, — 
 they have all seen us affronted through 
 his villany. Where is Kachael ? " 
 
 So then the Corporal came round 
 to where Kachael stood, pale as 
 death ; and Robert sat pale, too, but 
 clenching his teeth like one who 
 would die sooner than utter a cry, 
 though many vultures, called pas- 
 sions, were gnawing the poor lad's 
 heart at this moment ; and, to make 
 matters worse, both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hathorn, seeing this assemblage, 
 were drawn by a natural curiosity to 
 join the group. 
 
 And lure Mr. Hickman's brass en- 
 abled him to cut a more brilliant fig- 
 ure than his past conduct justified ; 
 he cast a sly, satirical look at them 
 all, especially at poor Robert, and, 
 Betting his hack to the railings, he 
 opened the ball thus : — 
 
 " I come to speak to Mrs. Mayfield ; 
 she says, ' Speak before all the rest.' 
 With all my heart. I come to say 
 three words to Mr. Patrick ; ' Speak 
 before all the rest,' says he; well, 
 why not ? it is a matter of taste. 
 Mr. Patrick, I have done you wrong, 
 and I own it ; but you have had your 
 revenge. You have told the story 
 your way, and the very hoys are for 
 throwing stones at nic here, and you 
 have set Mrs. Mayfield against mc, 
 that used to look at me as a cat docs 
 at cream." 
 
 " As a cat docs at water, you 
 mean, — you impudent, ngly dog. 
 
 "Keep your temper, my darling; 
 you were for having everything said 
 in public, yon know. Well, now let 
 us two make matters smooth, old 
 man. How much will you take to 
 keep vonr tongue between your teeth 
 alt ■r'this ? " 
 
 Patrick's reply came in form of a 
 question addressed to ihe company in 
 general. 
 
 " Friends, since Corporal Patrick 
 of the 47 th Foot was ill amongst you, 
 and partly out of his senses, has he 
 done any dirty action, that this fel- 
 low comes and offers him money in 
 exchange for a £ood name 1 " 
 
 " No, Mr. Patrick," said Robert, 
 breaking silence for the first time. 
 " You are an honest man, and a bet- 
 ter man than ever stood in Dick 
 Hickman's shoes." 
 
 Hickman bit his lip, and cast a 
 wicked glance at Robert. 
 
 " And your daughter is as modest 
 a lass as ever broke bread, for all her 
 misfortune," cried Mrs. Hathorn. 
 
 " And none but a scoundrel would 
 hope to cure the mischief he has done 
 with money," cried the Mayfield. 
 
 " Spare me, pood people," said 
 Hickman, ironically. 
 
 " Ay, spare him," said Patrick, 
 simply. " I have spared him this five 
 years for Rachael's sake ; but my pa- 
 tience is run out," roared the old 
 man ; and, lifting his staff, he made a 
 sudden rush at the brazen Hickman. 
 Cascnower and Old Hathorn inter- 
 posed. 
 
 " Let him alone," said Hickman ; 
 " you may be sure I sha' n't lift my 
 hand against fourscore years. I '11 
 go sooner," and he began to saunter 
 off. 
 
 " What ! you arc a coward as well, 
 are you ? " roared Patrick. " Then 
 I pity you. Begone, ye lump of dirt, 
 with your idleness, your pride, your 
 meanness, your money, and the shame 
 of havinjr offered it to a soldier like 
 mc, that has seen danger and glorv." 
 
 " Well done, Mr. Patrick ! " cried 
 Hathorn ; " that is an honor to :\ 
 poor man to be able to talk like that." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Patrick, that was well 
 said." 
 
 " Tt is well said, and well done." 
 
 Every eye was now bent with ad- 
 miration on Patrick, and from him 
 they turned with an universal move- 
 ment of disdain to Hickman. The 
 man writhed for a moment under this 
 human lightning, difficult to resist, 
 and then it was he formed a sudden
 
 228 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 resolution that took all present by 
 surprise, Conscience pricked him a 
 little, Rachacl's coldness piqued him, 
 jealousy of Robert stung him, gen- 
 eral disdain annoyed him, and he 
 longed to turn the tables on them all. 
 Under this strange medley of feelings 
 and motives, he suddenly wheeled 
 round, and faced them all, with an 
 air of defiance that made him look 
 much handsomer than they had seen 
 him yet, and he marched into the 
 middle of them. 
 
 " I '11 show you all that I am not 
 so bad as you make me out, — you 
 listen, old man. Rachael, you say 
 that you love me still, and that 'tis 
 for my sake you refuse Bob Hathorn, 
 as I believe it is, and the Devil take 
 me if I won't marry you now, for all 
 that is come and gone." He then 
 walked slowly and triumphantly past 
 Robert Hathorn, on whom he looked 
 down with superior scorn, and he 
 came close up to Rachael, who was 
 observed to tremble as he came near 
 her. " Well, Rachael, my lass, I am 
 Richard Hickman, and I offer you 
 the ring before these witnesses, — say 
 yes, and you are mistress of Bix 
 Farm, and Mrs. Hickman. O, I know 
 the girl I make the offer to," add- 
 ed he, maliciously ; " if you could 
 not find out what she is worth, I 
 could. Where are you all now 1 — 
 name the day, Rachael, here is the 
 man." 
 
 Rachael made no answer. 
 
 It was a strange situation, so 
 strange that a dead silence followed 
 Hickman's words. Marriage offered 
 to a woman before a man's face who 
 had tried to kill himself for her but 
 yesterday, and offered by a man who 
 had neglected her entirely for five 
 years, and had declined her under 
 more favorable circumstances. Then 
 the motionless silence of the woman 
 so addressed, — they all hung upon 
 her lips, poor Mr. Casenower not ex- 
 cepted, who feared that, now Rachael 
 was to be Mrs. Hickman, Robert 
 might turn to Mrs. Mayfield and crush 
 his new-raised hopes. 
 
 As for Robert, he did everything 
 he could to make Rachael say " yes " 
 to Hickman. He called up a dogged 
 look of indifference, and held it on 
 his face by main force. It is to be 
 doubted, though, whether this im- 
 posed on Rachael. She stole a sin- 
 gle glance at him under her long 
 lashes, and at last her voice broke 
 softly, but firmly, on them all, and it 
 sounded like a bell, so hushed were 
 they all, and so highly strung was 
 their attention and expectation. 
 
 " I thank you, Richard Hickman ; 
 but I decline your offer." 
 
 "Are you in earnest, little girl ? " 
 
 "Rachael," said Patrick, "think, 
 — are you sure you know your own 
 mind ? " 
 
 " Grandfather, to marry a man, I 
 must swear in the face of Heaven to 
 love and honor him. How could J 
 respect Richard Hickman ? If he was 
 the only man left upon the earth, I 
 could not many him, and I would 
 not. I would rather die ! " 
 
 Robert drew a long breath. 
 
 " You have got your answer," said 
 Patrick, " so now, if I was you, I 'd 
 be off." 
 
 " If I don't I 'm a fool. I shall 
 go to my uncle, he lives ninety miles 
 from here, and you '11 see I shall get 
 a farm there and a wife and all, if so 
 be you don't come there a reaping, 
 Mr. Patrick." 
 
 " Heaven pardon you, then," said 
 the old man, gravely. " You are but 
 young ; remember it is not too late 
 to repair your ill conduct to us by 
 good conduct to others, — so now 
 good afternoon." 
 
 " Good afternoon, Daddy Patrick," 
 said Hickman, with sudden humility. 
 " Your servant, all the company," 
 added he, taking off his hat. So say- 
 ing, he went off. He had no sooner 
 turned the corner than he repented 
 him of the manner of his going ; so, 
 putting his hands in his pockets, he 
 whistled the first verse of " The 
 Ploughboy," until out of hearing. 
 As these last sounds of Hickman 
 died away, they all looked at one
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 229 
 
 another in silence. Old Hathorn was 
 the first to speak. 
 
 " That was uncommon spirity to 
 refuse Hickman," said he, bluntly; 
 " hut von have too much pride, both 
 of you ! " 
 
 " No, not I, farmer," said the old 
 man, sorrowfully ; " I have been 
 proud, and high-spirited, too ; but it 
 is time that passed away from me. 
 I am old enough to see from this 
 world into another, and from this 
 hour to my last (and that won't be 
 long, I hope), I am patient ; the sky 
 is above tlie earth ; my child has had 
 wrong, — cruel, bitter, undeserved 
 wrong ; but we will wait for Heaven's 
 justice, since man has none for us, 
 and we will tuke it when it comes, 
 here or hereafter." 
 
 The fiery old man's drooping words 
 brought the water into all their eyes, 
 and Kobert, in whose mind so sore a 
 struggle had been raging, sprang to 
 his feet. 
 
 " You spe;ik well," he cried ; "you 
 are a rigliteous man, and my ill pride 
 falls before your words ; it is my turn 
 to ask your daughter of you. Rachael, 
 you take me for husband and friend 
 for life. I loved you well enough to 
 die for you, and now I love you well 
 enough to live for you ; Rachael, be 
 my wife, — if you please." 
 
 " She won't" say ' No ! ' this time," 
 cried Rose May field, archly. 
 
 " Thank you, Robert,' said Ra- 
 chael, mournfully. " 1 am more your 
 friend than to say ' Yes ! ' " 
 
 "Rachael," cried Mrs Hathorn, 
 " if it is on our account, I never saw 
 a la-- I would like' -o well for a 
 daughter-in-law as yourself," 
 
 "No, mother," said Robert; "it is 
 on account of father. Father, if you 
 will not be offended, I shall put a 
 question to you that I never thought 
 to put to my father. Have I been a 
 (good -on or a bad son to you these 
 eight-and-twenty yean ' " 
 
 " Kobert ! " cried the old man, in a 
 quivering tone, that showed these 
 simple words had gone through and 
 through his heart. Then he turned 
 
 to Rachael : " My girl, I admire your 
 pride ; but have pity on my poor boy 
 and me." 
 
 " And on yourself," put in Mrs. 
 Mayfield. 
 
 " May Heaven bless you, Mr. Ha' 
 thorn ! " said Rachael. " If I say 
 ' No ! ' to Robert, I have a reason 
 that need offend no one. Folk would 
 never believe I was not in fault ; they 
 would east his wife's story in his teeth, 
 and sting us both to death, for he is 
 proud, and I am proud too. And 
 what I have gone through, — O, it 
 has made me as bitter as gall! — as 
 bitter as gall !" 
 
 " Kachael Wright," cried the old 
 Corporal, sternly, " listen to me ! " 
 
 '♦Rachael Wright," yelled Case- 
 n< >wer. ' U gracious Heavens ! — Ra- 
 chael Wright, — it is — it must be. 
 I knew it was an odd combination, — 
 I got it into mv head it was ' Rebecca 
 Reid.' Is this Rachael Wright, sir ? " 
 
 " Of course it is," said the Corporal, 
 peevishly. 
 
 " Then I have got something for 
 her from my late partners. Ill find 
 it, — it is at the bottom of my seeds," ; 
 and away scampered Casenower. 
 
 He presently returned, and inter- 
 rupted a rebuke Mr. Patrick was ad- 
 ministering to Rachael, by giving her 
 a long envelope. She opened it with 
 some surprise, and ran her eye over 
 it, for she was what they call in the 
 country a capital scholar. Now, as 
 she read, her face changed and 
 changed like an April sky, and each 
 change was a picture and a story. 
 They looked at her in wonder as well 
 as curiosity. At last a lovely red 
 mantled in her pale cheek, and a 
 smile like a rainbow, a smile those 
 present had never seen on her face, 
 eatue back to her from the past. The 
 paper dropped from her hands as she 
 Itretched them out, like some benign 
 goddess or nymph, all love, delicacy, 
 
 and grace. 
 
 " Kobert," she cried, and she need 
 have s-tj,| do more, for the little word 
 " Robert," as she said it, was a vol- 
 ume of love, — "Robert, I love, I
 
 230 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 always loved you. I am happy — 
 happy — happy!" and she threw her 
 arm round Robert's neck, and cried 
 and sobbed, and, crying and sobbing, 
 told him again and again how happy 
 she was. 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried Hathorn, cheerful- 
 ly, " wind has shifted in your favor, 
 apparently, Bob." 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield picked up the paper. 
 " This has done it," cried she, and 
 she read it out pro bono. The paper 
 contained the copy of a will made by 
 Rachael's aunt, a year before she 
 died. The sour old lady, being wroth 
 with Rachael on account of her mis- 
 conduct in getting victimized, but not 
 quite so wroth as with her graceless 
 nephew, had taken a medium course. 
 Sbc had not destroyed this will, as 
 she did the other, by which graceless 
 nephew was to benefit, but she hid it 
 in the wall, safe as ever magpie hid 
 thimble, and, dying somewhat sudden- 
 ly, she died intestate to all appear- 
 ance. This old lady was immeasura- 
 bly fond of the old ramshacklv house 
 she lived in. So after a while, to 
 show his contempt of her, graceless 
 nephew had the house pulled down; 
 the workmen picked out of the wall 
 the will in question. An old servant 
 of the lady, whom graceless nephew 
 had turned off, lived hard by, and was 
 sorrowfully watching the demolition 
 of the house, when the will was 
 picked out. Old servant read the 
 will, and found herself down for 
 £ 100. < )ld servant took the will to a 
 firm of solicitors, no other than Case- 
 nower's late partners. They sent 
 down to Rachael's village ; she and 
 Patrick were gone; a neighbor said 
 they were reaping somewhere in Ox- 
 fordshire. The firm sent a copy of 
 the will to Casenower as a forlorn 
 hope, and employed a person to look 
 out for Rachael s return to her own 
 place, as the best chance of doing 
 business with her. By the will, 
 £ 2,000 and Bix Farm were be- 
 queathed to Rachael. 
 
 " Bix Farm ! Three hundred 
 acres ! " cried Hathorn. 
 
 " Bix Farm, — the farm Hickman 
 is on," cried Rose Mayfield. " Kick 
 him out, he has no lease. If you 
 don't turn him out neck and crop be- 
 fore noon to-morrow, I am a dead 
 woman." 
 
 " The farm is Robert's," said 
 Rachael ; " and so is all I have to 
 give him, if he will accept it." And, 
 though she looked at Mrs. Mayfield, 
 she still clung to Robert. 
 
 Robert kissed her, and looked so 
 proudly at them all ! " Have I cho- 
 sen ill ? " said Robert's eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When everybody sees how a story 
 will end, the story is ended. 
 
 Robert and Rachael live on their 
 own farm, Bix; Corporal Patrick sits 
 by their fireside. 
 
 People laugh at Mr. Oascnower's 
 eccentricities ; but it is found unsafe 
 to laugh at them in presence of Mrs. 
 Casenower, late Mayfield. 
 
 I think I cannot conclude better 
 than by quoting a few words that 
 passed between Mrs. Hathorn and 
 Corporal Patrick, as they all sat 
 round one table that happy evening. 
 
 " Rose," said this homely, good 
 creature, " I do notice that trouble 
 comes to all of us at one time or 
 other ; and I think they are the hap- 
 piest that have their trouble (like 
 these two children) in the morning of 
 their days." 
 
 " Ay, dame," said the Corporal, 
 taking up the word, " and after that 
 a bright afternoon, and a quiet even- 
 ing, — as mine will be now, please 
 God ! " 
 
 Friendly reader (for I have friend- 
 ly as well as unfriendly readers), I 
 do not wish you a day without a 
 cloud, for you are human, and I, 
 though a writer, am not all humbug. 
 But, in ending this tale, permit me 
 to wish you a bright afternoon, and 
 a tranquil evening, and, above all, a 
 clear sky when the sun goes down.
 
 ART: 
 
 A DRAMATIC TALE
 
 ART: 
 
 A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 EARLY in the last century, two 
 young women were talking to- 
 gether in a large apartment, richly 
 furnished. One of these was Susan, 
 cousin and dependant of Mrs. Anne 
 < Mdlield ; the other was a flower-girl, 
 whom that lady had fascinated by her 
 scenic talent. The poor girl was hut 
 one of many persons over whom Mrs. 
 Oldtield had cast a spell ; and yet this 
 actress had not reached the zenith of 
 her reputation. 
 
 The town, which does not always 
 know its own mind ahout actors, ap- 
 plauded one or two of her rivals more 
 than her, and fancied it admired them 
 more. 
 
 Oldtield was the woman (there is 
 always one) who used the tones of 
 nature upon the stage, in that day ; 
 she ranted at times like her neigh- 
 bors, but she never ranted out of tune 
 like them ; her declamation was na- 
 ture, alias art, — thundering ; theirs 
 was artifice, — raving. Her treat- 
 ment of words was as follows : she 
 mastered them in the tone of house- 
 hold ipeeeb ; she thru gradually built 
 up these simple tones into a gorgeous 
 edifice of music and meaning ; but 
 though dilated, heightened, and embel- 
 lished, they never lost their original 
 truth. Her rivals started from a lie, 
 so, the higher they soared, the further 
 
 they left truth behind them ; — they 
 do the same thing now, pretty univer- 
 sally. 
 
 The public is a very (rood judge ; 
 and no judge at all of such matters : I 
 will explain. 
 
 Let the stage voice and the dramat- 
 ic voice, — the artificial and the ar- 
 tistic, — the bastard and the legiti- 
 mate, — the false and the true, — be 
 kept apart upon separate stages, and 
 there is no security that the public 
 will not, as far as hands go, applaud 
 the monotone, or lie, more than the 
 melodious truth. But set the lie and 
 the truth side by side, upon fair terms, 
 and the public becomes what the crit- 
 ics of this particular art have never 
 been, — a critic ; and stage bubbles, 
 that have bubbled for years, are lia- 
 ble to burst in a single night. 
 
 Mrs. Oldtield was wise enough, 
 even in her generation, to know that 
 the public's powers of comparison re- 
 quire that the things to be compared 
 shall be placed cheek by jowl before it ; 
 and this is why she had for some time 
 manoeuvred to play, foot to foot, 
 against Mrs. Bracegirdle, the cham- 
 pion of the stage. 
 
 Bracegirdle, strong in position, tra- 
 dition, face, figure, and many qual- 
 ities of an actor, was by no means 
 sorry of an opportunity to quench a 
 rising rival; and thus the two ladies 
 were to act together in " The Rival 
 Queens," within a few days of our 
 story. 
 
 /'iinnia . . Mits. BftACKomnLE. 
 Statira . . Mils. Oi.uiield. 
 
 The town, whose heart at that, 
 epoch was in the theatre, awaited this 
 
 singular Btruggle iii m state of burning 
 exeiteineiit we can iki longer realize. 
 Susan Oldtield, first cousin of tho
 
 234 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 tragedian, was a dramatic aspirant. 
 Anne's success having travelled into 
 the provinces, her aunt, Susan's 
 mother, said to Susan, who was mak- 
 ing a cream-cheese, " You go an' act 
 too, lass ! " 
 
 " I will," said Susan, a making of 
 cream-cheese. 
 
 Anne's mother remonstrated, " She 
 can't do it." 
 
 " Why not, sister 1 " said Susan's 
 mother, sharply. 
 
 Then ensued some reasoning. 
 
 " Anne," said the tragedian's 
 mother, " was born clever. I can't 
 account for it. She was always mim- 
 icking. She took off the exciseman, 
 and the farmers, and her grandmoth- 
 er, and the very parson, — how she 
 used to make us laugh ! Mimicking ! 
 why, it was like a looking-glass, and 
 the folks standing in front of it, and 
 speaking behind it, all at one time. 
 Once I made her take me off; she 
 was very loath, poor lass. I think 
 she knew she could not do it so well 
 as the rest ; it was n't like, though it 
 made them all laugh more than the 
 others ; but the others were as like as 
 fagot to fagot. Now, Susan, she can't 
 take off nothing, without 'tis the 
 scald cream from the milk, and I 'vc 
 seen me beat her at that ; I 'm not 
 bragging." 
 
 To this piece of ratiocination, Su- 
 san's mother opposed the follow- 
 ing:— 
 
 " Talent is in the blood," said she. 
 (This implies that great are all the 
 first cousins of the great.) 
 
 Anne's mother might have weak- 
 ened this by examples at her own 
 door, to wit, the exciseman, who was 
 a clever fellow, and his son an ass. 
 But she preferred keeping within her 
 own line of argument, and as the la- 
 dies floated, by a law of their nature, 
 away from that to which lawyers 
 tend, mi issue, they drifted divaguely 
 over the great pacific ocean of fem- 
 inine logic. At last a light shot into 
 Anne's mamma : she found terra 
 Jirma, i. e. an argument too strong 
 for refutation. 
 
 " Besides, Jane," said she, " I want 
 your Susan to churn ! So there 's 
 an end ! " 
 
 Alas ! she had underrated the rival 
 disputant. Susan's mother took ref- 
 uge in an argument equally irrefra- 
 gable : she packed up the girl's things 
 that night, and sent her off by coach 
 to Anne next morning. 
 
 Susan arrived, told her story and 
 her hopes on Anne's neck. Anne 
 laughed, and made room for her on 
 the third floor. The cousins went to 
 the theatre that evening, the aspirant 
 in front. 
 
 Susan passed through various emo- 
 tions, and when Belvidera " gazed, 
 turned giddy, raved, and died," she 
 ran to the stage door, with some mis- 
 givings whether she might not be 
 wanted to lay her cousin out. In 
 Anne's dressing-room she found a 
 laughing dame, who, whilst wiping 
 off her rouge, told her she was a fool, 
 and asked her rather sharply, " how 
 it went." 
 
 " The people clapped their hands ! 
 I could have kissed them," said Susan. 
 
 " As if I could not hear that, child," 
 said Anne. " I want to know how 
 many cried where you were — " 
 
 " Now, how can I tell you, cousin, 
 when I could not see for crying my- 
 self?" 
 
 " You cried, — did you ? I am 
 very glad of that ! " 
 
 " La, cousin ! " 
 
 " It does not prove much, but it 
 proves more than their clapping of 
 hands. You shall be my barber's 
 block, — you don't understand me, — 
 all the better, — come home to sup- 
 per." 
 
 At supper, the tragedian made the 
 dairymaid tell her every little village 
 event ; and, in her turn, recalled all 
 the rural personages ; and, reviving 
 the trick of her early youth, imitated 
 their looks, manners, and sentiments, 
 to the life. 
 
 She began with the exciseman, and 
 ended with the curate, — a white- 
 headed old gentleman, all learning, 
 piety, and simplicity. He had seen
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 235 
 
 in tills beautiful and gifted woman 
 only a lamb that he was to lead up 
 to heaven, — please God. 
 
 The naughtiest things we do are 
 sure to be the cleverest, and this im- 
 itation made Susan laugh more than 
 the others. 
 
 But in the midst of it the mimic 
 suddenly paused, and her eye seemed 
 to turn inwards : she was quite sileut 
 for a moment. 
 
 Ah ! Oldneld, in that one moment 
 I am sure your heart has drunk 
 many a past year. It is away to the 
 banks of Trent, to grass and flowers, 
 and days of innocence, to church-bells 
 and a cottage porch, and your moth- 
 er's bosom, my poor woman, — prin- 
 cess of the stage. 
 
 She faltered out: "But he was a 
 good man. O yes ! yes ! yes ! he 
 was a good man ; he admired me 
 more then than he would now ! None 
 like him shine on my path now." 
 And she burst into a fit of crying. 
 
 Susan cried with her, without in 
 the least knowing what was the mat- 
 ter. And these most dissimilar be- 
 ings soon learned to love one another. 
 The next day Anne took the gauge 
 of Susan's entire intellects ; and, by 
 way of comment on the text of Su- 
 san, connected her with dramatic po- 
 etry, as Mrs. Oldfield's dresser. 
 
 Susan then had been installed about 
 three months, when she was hold- 
 ing that conversation with the flower- 
 girl, which I have too long interrupt- 
 ed. 
 
 " It is an odd thing to say, hut I 
 think vou are in love with my cousin 
 Anne.'" 
 
 " I don't know," was the answer. 
 " I am drawn to her by something I 
 cannot resist: I followed her borne 
 for three months before I spoke to 
 you. Will she not be angry at my 
 presumption V 
 
 " La ! Of course not : it is not as 
 if you were one of these impudent 
 men that follow her about, and slip 
 notes into every mortal thing, — her 
 carriage, her prayer-book." 
 
 Now Susan happened to be laying 
 
 out the new dress for Statira, which 
 had just come in ; and, in a manner 
 singularly apropos, no less than two 
 nice little notes fell out of it as she 
 spoke. 
 
 The girls looked at them, as they 
 lay on the floor, like deer looking 
 askant at a lapdog. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the votary of Flora ; 
 "they ought to be ashamed." 
 
 " So they ought," cried Susan. 
 "I'd say nothing," added she, "if 
 some of them were for me. But I 
 shall have them when I am an ac- 
 tress." 
 
 " Are you to be that ? Ah ! you 
 will never be like her .' " 
 
 " Why not ? She is only my 
 mother's sister's daughter, bless you. 
 Anne was only a country lass like 
 me, at first starting, and that is why 
 my mother sent me here, because, 
 when talent is in a family, don't let 
 one churn all the butter, says she." 
 
 " But can you act ? " interposed the 
 other. 
 
 " Can't 1 1 " was the answer. 
 
 " Ilis fame survives the world in deathless 
 story, 
 Nor heaven and earth combined can match 
 his glory." 
 
 These lines, which in our day 
 would be thought a leetle hyperboli- 
 cal, Susan recited with gestures 
 equally supernatural. 
 
 " Rless you," added she, compla- 
 cently : " I could act fast enough, if 
 I could but get the words off. Can 
 you read ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 "Handwriting? Tell the truth, 
 now ! " 
 
 " Yes ! I can indeed." 
 
 "Handwriting is hard, is it not?" 
 said Susan; "but a part beats all: 
 did ever vou sec a part ? " 
 
 " No ! '" 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell ye, girl ! there 
 COmes a great scratch, and then some 
 words: but don't you go for to say 
 those words, because they belong to 
 another gentleman, and be might n't 
 like it. Then you come in, and then
 
 23G 
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 another scratch. And I declare it 
 ■would puzzle Old Scratch to cleur the 
 curds from the whey — " 
 
 Susan suddenly interrupted herself, 
 for she had caught sight of a lady 
 slowly approaching from an adjoining 
 room, the door of which was open. 
 "Hush!" cried Susan; "here she 
 is ! alack, she is not well ! O dear ! 
 she is far from well ! " And, in point 
 of fact, the lady slowly entered the 
 apartment, laboring visibly under a 
 weight of disease. The poor flower- 
 girl, naturally thinking this no time 
 for her in traduction , d ropped a bouquet 
 on the table and retreated precipitately 
 from the den of the sick lioness. 
 
 Then the lady opened her lips, 
 and faltered forth the following sen- 
 tence : — 
 
 "I go no further, let me rest here, 
 CEnone ! " 
 
 " Do, cousin ! " said Susan, con- 
 solingly. 
 
 " I droop, I sink, my strength 
 abandons me ! " said the poor invalid. 
 
 " Here 's a chair for y', Anne," 
 cried Susan. " What is the mat- 
 ter 1" 
 
 On this, the other, fixing her filmy 
 eyes upon her, explained, slowly and 
 faintly, that, " ' Her eyes were daz- 
 zled with returning day ; her trem- 
 bling limbs refused their wonted stay.' 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed she, and tottered 
 towards the chair. 
 
 "She's going to faint, — she's 
 going to faint!" cried poor Susan. 
 " O dear ! Here, quick ! smell to 
 this, Anne." 
 
 "That will do, then," said the 
 other, in a hard, unfeeling tone. " I 
 am fortunate to have satisfied your 
 judgment, madam," added she. 
 
 Susan stood petrified, in the act of 
 hurrying with the smelling-bottle. 
 
 " That is the way I come on in that 
 scene," explained Mrs. Oldfield, yawn- 
 ing in Susan's sympathetic face. 
 
 " Acting, by jingo ! " screamed 
 Susan. " You ought to be ashamed ; 
 I thought you were a dead woman. 
 I wish you would n't," cried she, 
 flying at her like a hen ; " torment- 
 
 ing us at home, when there 's no- 
 body to see." 
 
 " It is my system, — I aim at 
 truth. You are unsophisticated, and 
 I experiment on you," was the cool 
 excuse. 
 
 " Cousin, when am / to be an ac- 
 tress '? " inquired Susan. 
 
 " After fifteen years' labor, per- 
 haps," was the encouraging response. 
 
 " Labor ! I thought it was all in — 
 spi — ration ! " 
 
 " Many think so, and find their er- 
 ror. Labor and Art are the founda- 
 tion, — Inspiration is the result." 
 
 " O Anne," cried Susan, "now do 
 tell me your feelings in the theatre." 
 
 " Well, Susan, first, I cast my eyes 
 around, and try to count the house." 
 
 " No, no, Anne, I don't mean that." 
 
 " Well, then, child, at times upon 
 the scene, — mind, I say at times, — 
 the present does fade from my soul, 
 and the great past lives and burns 
 again ; the boards seem buoyant air 
 beneath me, child ; that sea of Eng- 
 lish heads floats like a dream before 
 me, and I breathe old Greece and 
 Home. I ride on the whirlwind of 
 the poet's words, and wave my sceptre 
 like a queen, — ay, and a queen I am ! 
 
 — for kings govern millions of bodies, 
 but I sway a thousand hearts ! But, 
 to tell the truth, Susan, when all is 
 over, I sink back to woman, — and 
 often my mind goes home, dear, to 
 our native town, where Trent glides 
 so calmly through the meadows. I 
 pine to be by his side, far from the 
 dust of the scene, and the din of life, 
 
 — to take the riches of my heart from 
 flatterers, strangers, and the world, 
 and give them all, all, to one faithful 
 heart, large, full, and loving as my 
 own ! Where 's my dress for Statira, 
 hussy ? " She snapped this last with 
 a marvellous quick change of key, and 
 a sudden sharpness of tone peculiar to 
 actresses when stage-dresses are in 
 question. 
 
 " Here it is. 0, is n't it superb ? " 
 " Yes, it is superb," said Oldfield, 
 dryly ; " velvet, satin, and ostrich- 
 feathers, for an Eastern queen. The
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 237 
 
 game costume for Belvidera, Statira, 
 Clytcmnestra, and Mrs. Dobbs. O 
 prejudice ! prejudice ! The stage has 
 always been fortified against common 
 sense"! Velvet Greeks, periwigged lio 
 mans, — the audience mingling with 
 the scene, — past and present blun- 
 dered together ! — English fops in the 
 Itoman forum, taking snuff under a 
 Eoman matron's nose (that's me), 
 and cackling out that she does it noth- 
 ing like (no more she does) — noth- 
 ing like Peggy Porteous, — whose 
 merit was that she died thirty years 
 ago, whose merit would have been 
 greater had she died fifty years ago, 
 and much greater still had she never 
 lived at all." 
 
 Here Susan offered her half a dozen 
 tetters, including the smuggled notes; 
 but the sweet-tempered soul (being 
 for the moment in her tantrums) 
 •would not look at them. " I know 
 •what they are," said she ; " vanity, 
 in marvellous thin disguises ; my 
 ilatterers are so eloquent, that they 
 will persuade me into marrying poor 
 old Mannering, — every morning he 
 writes me four pages, and tells me my 
 duty ; every evening he neglects his 
 own, and goes to the theatre, which 
 is unbecoming his age, I think." 
 
 " He looks a very wise gentleman," 
 observed Susan. 
 
 " Hi' docs," was the rejoinder, " but 
 his folly reconciles me in some degree 
 to his wisdom ; so, mark my words, 
 I shall marry my silly sage. There, 
 burn all the rest but his — no! don't 
 burn the letter in verse ! " 
 
 " In verse ? " 
 
 "Ye* I I won't have him burnt 
 either, — for he loves me, poor boy! 
 Find it, Susan ; he never misses a 
 day. I think I should dike to know 
 that one." 
 
 " I thltik this is it," said Susan. 
 
 " Then read it out expressively, 
 whilst I mend this collar. So then I 
 shall estimate your progress to the 
 temple of Fame, nia'ain." 
 
 It is not easy to do justice on paper 
 to Susan's recitative; but, in fact, 
 she read it much us school boys scan, 
 
 and what she read to her cousin for a 
 poet's love hopped thus : — 
 
 " ' Excuse — me dear — est frit-nd — if I — 
 should appear 
 Too press— lug but — at my — years one 
 
 — has not 
 Much time — to lose — 5,nd your — good 
 Sense — I feel — ' " 
 
 " My good sense ! " cried Mrs. Old- 
 field, " how can that be poetry ? " 
 
 "It is poetry, I know," remon- 
 strated Susan. " See, cousin, it 's all 
 of a length." 
 
 " All of a length with your wit, — 
 that is the Mannering prose." 
 
 " Drat them, if they write in lines, 
 how is one to know their prose from 
 their verse ? " said Susan, spitefully. 
 
 " I '11 tell you, Susan," said the 
 other, soothingly ; " their prose is 
 something as like Mannering as can 
 be, their verse is something in this 
 style : — 
 
 " You were not made to live from age to age ; 
 The dairy yawns for you, — and not the 
 stage ! " 
 
 " He ! he ! " 
 
 She found what she sought, and, 
 reading out herself the unknown 
 writer's verses, she said, with some 
 feminine complacency, " Yes ! this is 
 a heart I have really penetrated." 
 
 " I 've penetrated one, too," said 
 Susan. 
 
 " Indeed ! " was the reply ; " how 
 did you contrive that, — not with the 
 spit, I hope ? " 
 
 Thus encouraged, Susan delivered 
 herself most volubly of a secret that 
 had long burned in her. She pro- 
 ceeded to relate how she had observed 
 a young gentleman always standing 
 by the stage-door as they got into 
 their chariot, and when they reached 
 home, somehow, he was always stand- 
 ing there too. " It was not for you, 
 this one," said Susan, hastily, " be- 
 cause you are so wrapped up he could 
 not see you." Then she told her 
 cousin how, once, when they were walk- 
 ing separately, this same young gentle- 
 man had said to her, most tenderly, 
 " Madam, you are in the service of
 
 238 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield?" and, on another 
 occasion, he had got as far as, " Mad- 
 am," when unfortunately her cousin 
 looked round, and lie vanished. Su- 
 san, then throwing off the remains of 
 her reserve, and clasping her hands 
 together, confessed she admired him 
 as much as he did her. Susan gave 
 this reason for her affection : " He is, 
 for all the world, like one of the 
 young tragedy princes, and you know 
 what ducks they are." 
 
 " I do, to my cost," was the caustic 
 reply. " I wish, instead of talking 
 about this silly lover of yours, who 
 must be a fool, or he would have made 
 a fool of you long ago, you would 
 find out who is the brave young gen- 
 tleman who risked his life for me 
 last month. Now I think of it, I am 
 quite interested in him." 
 
 " Risked his life ! — and you never 
 told me, Anne ! " 
 
 " Robert told you, of course." 
 " No, indeed ! "" 
 
 " Did he not 1 — then I will tell you 
 the whole story. You have heard me 
 speak of the Duchess of Tadcaster ? " 
 " No, cousin, never ! " 
 " I wonder at that ! Well, she and 
 Lady Betsy Bertie and I used to stroll 
 in Richmond Park with our arms 
 round one another's waists, like the 
 Graces, more or less, and kiss one 
 another, ugh ! and swear a deathless 
 friendship, like liars and fools as we 
 are. But her Grace of Tadcaster had 
 never anything to do, and I had my 
 business, so I could not always be 
 plagued with her ; so for this the little 
 idiot now aspires to my enmity, and, 
 knowing none but the most vulgar 
 ways of showing a sentiment, she bids 
 her coachman drive her empty car- 
 riage against mine, containing me. 
 Child, I thought the world was at an 
 end : the glasses were broken, the 
 wheels locked, and all my little sins 
 began to appear such big ones to me; 
 and the brute kept whipping the horses, 
 and they plunged so horribly, when a 
 brave young gentleman sprang to their 
 heads, tore them away, and gave her 
 nasty coachman such a caning." Here 
 
 Oldfield clinched a charming white 
 fist ; then, lifting up her eyes, she said 
 tenderly, " Heaven grant no harm be- 
 fell him afterwards, for I drove off, 
 and left him to his fete ! " 
 
 Charming sensibility ! an actress's J 
 In return for this anecdote, Susan 
 was about to communicate some fur- 
 ther particulars on the subject which 
 occupied all her secret thoughts, when 
 she was interrupted by a noise and 
 scufHe in the anteroom, high above 
 which were heard the loud, harsh 
 tones of a stranger's voice exclaiming, 
 " But I tell ye I will see her, ye saucy 
 Jack." 
 
 Before this personage bursts upon 
 Mrs. Oldfield, and the rest of us, I 
 must go back and take up the other 
 end of my knot in the ancient town of 
 Coventry. 
 
 Nathan Oldworthy dwelt there ; a 
 flourishing attorney ; he had been a 
 clerk; he came to be the master of 
 clerks ; his own ambition .was satis- 
 fied, but his son Alexander, a youth of 
 I parts, became the centre of a second 
 ambition. Alexander was to embrace 
 the higher branch of the legal profes- 
 I sion : was to be, first pleader, then bar- 
 j rister, then King's counsel, — lastly, a 
 judge ; and contemporaneously with 
 this final distinction, the old attorney 
 was to sing " Nunc Dimittis," and 
 " Capias " no more. 
 
 By-standers are obliging enough 
 to laugh at such schemes ; but why ? 
 The heart is given to them, and they 
 are no laughing matter to those who 
 form them : such schemes destroyed, 
 the flavor is taken out of human lives. 
 When Nathan sent his son to Lon- 
 don, it was a proud, though a sad 
 day for him ; hitherto he had looked 
 upon their parting merely as the first 
 step of a glorious ladder ; but when 
 the coach took young Alexander out 
 of sight, the father found how much 
 he loved him, and paced very, very 
 slowly home, while Alexander glided 
 contentedly on towards London. 
 
 Now, " London " means a different 
 thing to every one of us ; to one, it is 
 the Temple of Commerce ; to another,
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 239 
 
 of Themis ; to a third, of Thcspis ; 
 and to a fourth, of the Paphian Ve- 
 nus ; and so on, because we are all 
 much narrower than men ought to 
 bei To Nathan Old worthy it was 
 the sacred spot where grin the courts 
 of law. To Alexander it was the sa- 
 cred spot where ( being from the coun- 
 try) he thought to find the nine 
 Muses in bodily presence, — his fa- 
 vorite Melpomene at their head. Na- 
 than knew next to nothing about his 
 own son, a not uncommon arrange- 
 ment. Alexander, upon the whole, 
 rather loathed law, and adored poetry. 
 In those days youths had not learned 
 " to frown in a glass, and write odes 
 to despair," and be dabbed a duck by 
 tender beauty confounding sulks with 
 sorrow. Alexander had to woo the 
 Muse clandestinely, and so wooed her 
 sincerely. He went with a manuscript 
 tragedy in his pocket called " Bere- 
 nice," which he had rewritten and 
 reshaped flirce several times ; with a 
 head full of ideas, and a heart turned 
 to truth, beauty, and goodness. Ar- 
 rived there, he was installed in the 
 neighborhood, and under the secret 
 surveillance, of hi-; father's friend, 
 Timothy Batem&n, Solicitor of Gray's 
 Inn. 
 
 It' you had asked Alexander Old- 
 worthy, upon the coach, who is the 
 greatest of mankind, his answer would 
 hive been instantaneous, a true poet! 
 But the li i - s t evening he spent in Lon- 
 don raised a doubt of this in his mind, 
 for lie discovered a being brighter, no- 
 bler, truer, greater, than even a poet. 
 
 At tour Alexander reached Lon- 
 don. At five he was in his first the- 
 atre. 
 
 That sense of the beautiful which 
 belongs to genius made him see 
 beauty in the semicircular sweep of 
 
 the glowing boxes; in gill ornaments 
 glorious with light; and, above .ill, 
 in human beings gayly dressed, and 
 radiant, witli expectation. And all 
 these things arc beautiful ; only gross, 
 
 rustic senses c.iunot Bee it, anil blunt- 
 ed town senses can sec it no longer. 
 Before the play begun, music at- 
 
 tacked him on another side ; and all 
 combined with youth and novelty to 
 raise him to a high key of intellectual 
 enjoyment ; and when the ample cur- 
 tain rose, slowly and majestically, 
 upon Mr. Otway's tragedy of " Ven- 
 ice Preserved," it was an era ic this 
 young life. 
 
 Poetry rose from the dead before 
 his eyes this night. She lay no long- 
 er entombed in print. She floated 
 around the scene, ethereal, but pal- 
 pable. She breathed and burned in 
 heroic shapes, and godlike tones, and 
 looks of tire. 
 
 Presently there glided among the 
 other figures one that by enchant- 
 ment seized the poet's ey r e, and made 
 all that his predecessors had ever writ 
 in praise of grace and beauty seem 
 tame by comparison. 
 
 She spoke, and his frame vibrated 
 to this voice. All his senses drank 
 in her great perfections, and lie 
 thrilled with wonder and enthusiastic 
 joy, that this our earth contained such 
 a being. He seemed to see the Eve 
 of Milton, with Madonna's glory 
 crowning her head, and immortal 
 music gushing from her lips. 
 
 The lady was, in point of fact, Mrs. 
 Oldfield, — the Belvidcra of the play. 
 
 Alexander thought he knew " Ven- 
 ice Preserved " before this ; but he 
 found, as the greatest wits must sub- 
 mit to discover, that in the closet a 
 good play is but the corpse of a play; 
 the stage gives it life. (The printed 
 words of a play are about one third, 
 of aplay ; the tones and varyingmelo- 
 dies of beautiful and artful speech are 
 another third ; and the business, ges- 
 ture, and that great visible story, the 
 expression of the speakine-, and the 
 dumb play of the silent actors, arc 
 another third.) 
 
 Belvidora's voice, full, sweet, rich, 
 piercing, and melodious, and still in 
 its vast compass true to the varying 
 
 sentiment of all she uttered, seemed 
 to impregnate every line with double 
 meaning and treble beauty. Her au- 
 thor dilated into giant size and god- 
 like beauty at the touch of that voice.
 
 240 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 And when she was silent she still 
 spoke to Alexander's eye, for her face 
 was more eloquent than vulgar 
 tongues are. Her dumb-play from the 
 first to the last moment of the scene 
 was in as high a key as her elocution. 
 Had she not spoken one single word, 
 still she would have written in the air 
 by the side of Otway's syllables a 
 great pictorial narrative, that tiiled all 
 the chinks of his sketch with most 
 rare and excellent colors of true fiesh- 
 tint, and made that sketch a picture. 
 
 Here was a new art for our poet ; 
 and as, by that just arrangement 
 which pervades the universe, " act- 
 ing " is the most triumphant of all the 
 arts, to compensate it for being the 
 most evanescent, what wonder that he 
 thrilled beneath its magic, and wor- 
 shipped its priestess? 
 
 He went home tilled with a new 
 sense of being, — all seemed cold, 
 dark, and tame, until he could return 
 and see this poetess-orator-witch and 
 her enchantments once more. 
 
 In those days they varied the enter- 
 tainments in London almost as they 
 do in the provinces now ; and Alex- 
 ander, who went to the theatre six 
 nights a week, saw Mrs. Oldtield's 
 beauty and talent in many shapes. 
 Her power of distinct personation was 
 very great. Her Andromache, her Is- 
 mena, and Bclvidera were all differ- 
 ent beings. Also each of her tragic 
 personations left upon the mind a 
 type. One night young Oldworthy 
 saw majesty, another tenderness, an- 
 other fiery passion pcrsonilied and cm- 
 bodied in a poetic creation. 
 
 But a fresh surprise was in store 
 for him : the next week comedy hap- 
 pened to be in the ascendant ; and 
 Airs. Oidfield, whose etttre'e in charac- 
 ter was always the key-note of her 
 personation, sprang upon the stage 
 as Lady Townley, and in a moment 
 the air seemed to fill with singing 
 birds that chirped the pleasures of 
 youth, beauty, and fashion, in notes 
 that sparkled like diamonds, stars, 
 and prisms. Her genuine gashing 
 gayety wanned the coldest and 
 
 cheered the forlorncst heart. Nor 
 was she less charming in the last 
 act, where Lady Townley's good 
 sense being at last alarmed, and her 
 good heart touched, she bowed her 
 saucy head, and begged her Lord's 
 pardon, with tender, unaffected peni- 
 tence. The tears stood thick in Alex- 
 ander's eyes during that charming 
 scene, where in a prose comedy the 
 author has had the courage and the 
 beauty to spread his wings and rise in 
 a moment into verse with the rising 
 sentiment. 
 
 To this succeeded Maria in " The 
 Conjuror," and Indiana in what the 
 good souls of that day were pleased 
 to call the comedy of " The Conscious 
 Lovers," in the course of which com- 
 edy Indiana made Alexander weep 
 more constantly, continuously, and 
 copiously than in all the tragedies of 
 the epoch he had as yet witnessed. 
 
 So now Alexander Oldworthy lived 
 for the stage ; and, as the pearl is the 
 disease of the oyster, so this Siren be- 
 came Alexander's disease. The en- 
 thusiast lost his hold of real life. 
 Real life became to him an interlude, 
 and soon that followed which was to 
 be expected : the poor novice, who 
 had begun by adoring the artist, end- 
 ed by loving the woman, and he loved 
 her like a novice and a poet; he 
 looked into his own heart, confounded 
 it with hers, and clothed her with 
 every heroic quality. He believed 
 her as great in mind and as good 
 in heart, as she was lovely in 
 person, and he would have given 
 poems to be permitted to kiss her 
 dress, or to lay his neck for a moment 
 under her foot. Burning to attract 
 her attention, yet too humble and tim- 
 id to make an open attempt, he had 
 at last recourse to his own art. 
 Every day he wrote verses upon her, 
 and sent them to her house. Every 
 night after the play he watched at the 
 stage door for a glimpse of her as she 
 came out of the theatre to her carriage, 
 and, being lighter of foot than the car- 
 riage-horses of his century, he gener- 
 ally managed to catch another glimpse
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 241 
 
 of her as she stepped from her car- 
 riage into her own house. 
 
 But all this led to no results, and 
 Alexander's heart was often very cold 
 and sick. Whilst he sat at the play he 
 was in Elysium ; but when, after seeing 
 this divinity vanish, he returned to his 
 lodgings and looked at his attach- 
 ment by the light of one candle, de- 
 spondency fell like a weight of ice upon 
 him, and he was miserable till he had 
 written her some verses. The verses 
 writ, he was miserable till play-time. 
 
 One night he stood as usual at the 
 stage door after the performance, 
 watching for Mrs. Oldfield, who, in a 
 general Way, was accompanied by her 
 cousin Susan. This night, however, 
 she was alone ; and, having seen her 
 enter her chariot, Alexander was 
 about to start for her house to see her 
 get down from it, when suddenly 
 another carriage came into contact 
 with Mrs. Oldfield's. The collision 
 was violent, and Mrs. Oldtield 
 screamed with unaffected terror, at 
 which scream Alexander sprang to 
 the horses of the other carriage, and, 
 seizing one of them just above the 
 curb, drew him violently back. To 
 his surprise, instead of co-operating 
 with him, the adverse coachman 
 whipped both his horses, and, whether 
 by accident or design, the lash fell 
 twice on Alexander. Jehu never 
 made a worse investment of whip- 
 cord. The young man drew himself 
 back upon the pavement, and sprang 
 with a single bound upon the neat 
 horse's quarters : from thence to the 
 eo i-h-box. Contemporaneously with 
 his arrival there, he knocked the 
 coachman out of his seat on to the 
 roof of his carriage, and then seizing 
 his whip, broke it in one moment into 
 a stick, and belabored the prostrate 
 eh irioieer till the blood poured from 
 him in torrents. Then, springing to 
 the ground with one bound, he turned 
 the horses' heads, belabored them 
 with the mutilated whip, and off they 
 
 trotted gently home. 
 
 Alexander ran to Mrs. Oldfield's 
 •arriage window, his checks burning, 
 11 
 
 his eyes blazing. " They are gone, 
 madam," said he, with rough timidity. 
 The actress looked at him, and smiled 
 on him, and said, " So I see, sir, and 
 I am much obleeged to you." She 
 was then about to draw back to her 
 corner, but suddenly she reflected, 
 and, half beckoning Alexander, who 
 had drawn back, she said, "My dear, 
 learn for me whose carriage that was." 
 Alexander turned to gain the infor- 
 mation, but it was volunteered by 
 one of the by-standers. 
 
 " It is the Duchess of Tadcaster's, 
 Mrs. Oldtield." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Mrs. Oldfield, "the 
 little beast ! " (this polite phrase she 
 uttered with a most majestic force of 
 sovereign contempt) ; " thank you, 
 sir; bid Robert drive me home, my 
 child" (this to Alexander) ; on which 
 a by-stander sang out, " You arc to 
 drive home, Robert, — Buckingham 
 Gate, the corner house." 
 
 At this sally Mrs. Oldfield smiled 
 with perfect composure, but did not 
 look at the speaker. As the carriage 
 moved, she leaned gently forward, 
 and kissed her hand like a queen to 
 Alexander, then nestled into her cor- 
 ner and went to sleep. 
 
 Alexander did nothing of the sort 
 that night. He went home on wings. 
 He could not go in. He walked up 
 and down before his door three hours, 
 before he could go to so vulgar a thing 
 as bed. As a lover will read over 
 titty times six lines of love from the 
 beloved hand, so Alexander acted 
 over and over the little scene of this 
 night, and dwelt on every tone, word, 
 look, and gesture of the great creature 
 who had at last spoken to him, 
 smiled on him, thanked him. () how 
 happy he was ! he could hardly real- 
 ize his bliss. "My dear," — but had 
 not his ears deceived him, — hail she 
 
 really called him "my dear," and 
 what was he to understand by so un- 
 expected an address ! was it on ac- 
 count of the service he had just done 
 
 lua-, or might he venture to hope she 
 had noticed his face in the theatre, 
 sitting, as he always did, at one place, 
 
 l'
 
 242 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 at the side of the second row of the 
 pit ? but no ! he rejected that as im- 
 possible. Whatever she meant by it, 
 his blood was at her service as well 
 as his heart. He blessed her with 
 tears in his eyes for using such heav- 
 enly words to him in any sense, — 
 " my dear," " my child." He framed 
 these words in his heart. 
 
 Alas ! he little thought that " my 
 dear" meant literally nothing; he 
 was not aware that calling every liv- 
 ing creature " my dear " is one of the 
 nasty little tricks of the stage, — like 
 their swearing without anger, and 
 their shovelling snuff into the nose 
 without intermission, in the innocent 
 hope of making every sentence intel- 
 lectual, by a dirty thing done mechan- 
 ically, and not intellectually. As for 
 "my child," that was better, — that 
 was at least a trick of the lady's 
 own, partly caught from her French 
 acquaintances. 
 
 For some days Alexander was in 
 heaven. He fell upon his tragedy, he 
 altered it by the light the stage had 
 given him ; above all, he heightened 
 and improved the heroine, he touched 
 her, and retouched her with the colors 
 of Oldfield, — and this done, with 
 trembling hands he wrapped it in 
 brown paper, addressed it, and left it 
 at her own house, and no sooner had 
 Susan's hand touched it than he fled 
 like a guilty thing. 
 
 Yon see it was his first love, — and 
 she he loved seemed more than mortal 
 to him. 
 
 And now came a reaction. Days 
 and days rolled by, and no more ad- 
 ventures came, no means of making 
 acquaintance with one so high above 
 his reach. 
 
 He was still at the stage door, but 
 she did not seem to recognize him, 
 and he dared not recall himself to her 
 recollection. His organization was 
 delicate, — he began to fret and lose 
 his sleep, and at last his pallor and 
 listlessness attracted the not very keen 
 eye of Timothy Bateman. Mr. Bate- 
 man asked him twenty times if any- 
 thing was the matter, — twenty times 
 
 he answered, No ! At last good, wor- 
 thy, commonplace Bateman, after din- 
 ner and deep thought, said one day, 
 " Alexander, I 've found out what it 
 is." Alexander started. 
 
 " Money melts in London, yours is 
 gone quicker than you thought it 
 would, — my poor lad, don't you fret. 
 I've got £20 to spare, here 'tis. 
 Your father will never know. I 've 
 been young as well as you." Alexan- 
 der grasped the good old fellow's hand 
 and pressed it to his heart. He never 
 looked at the note, but he looked half 
 tenderly, half wildly into the old 
 man's eyes. 
 
 Bateman read this look aright. 
 " Ay, out with it, young man," he 
 cried, " never keep a grief locked up 
 in your heart, whilst you have a friend 
 that will listen to it; that is an old 
 man's advice." 
 
 On this poor Alexander's story 
 gushed forth. He told Bateman the 
 facts I have told you, only his soul, 
 and all the feelings he had gone 
 through, gushed from his heart of 
 hearts. They sat till one in the 
 morning, and often as the young heart 
 laid bare its enthusiasm, its youth, its 
 anguish, the dry old lawyer found out 
 there was a soft bit left in his own, 
 that sent the woman to the door of 
 his eyes ; for Alexander told his story 
 differently, and I think on the whole 
 better than I do. I will just indicate 
 one difference between us two as nar- 
 rators, — he told it like blood and fire, 
 I tell it like criticism and ice, and be 
 hanged to me. 
 
 Perhaps, had Alexander told the 
 tale as I do, Bateman, man of the 
 world, would have sneered at him, or 
 sternly advised him to quit this folly 
 and whim ; but as it was, Bateman 
 was touched, and mingled pity with 
 good, gentle, but firm advice, and 
 poor Alexander was grateful. The 
 poet revered the commonplace good 
 man, as a poet ought, and humbly 
 prayed him to save him by his wis- 
 dom. He owned that he was mad ; 
 that he was indulging a hopeless pas- 
 sion ; that he knew the great trage-
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 243 
 
 dian, courted by the noble and rich of 
 the land, would never condescend 
 even to an acquaintance with him. 
 And bursting into a passion of tears, 
 " good Mr. Bateman ! " cried he, 
 " the most unfortunate hour of my 
 life was that in which I first saw her, 
 for she will be my death, for she will 
 never permit me to live for her, and 
 without her life is intolerable to me." 
 
 This last feature decided Timothy 
 Bateman; the next morning he 
 wrote to Nathan Oldworthy a full ac- 
 count of all. " Come up and take 
 him home a^ain, for Heaven's sake." 
 
 It fell like a thunderbolt on the 
 poor father, but he moved promptly ; 
 in two hours he was on the road to 
 London. 
 
 Arrived there, he straight invaded 
 Alexander. The poet, luckily for 
 himself, was not at home. He then 
 went to Bateman : he was in a tower- 
 ing passion. 
 
 The old Puritanical leaven was 
 scotched, but not killed, in Coventry. 
 
 In a genera] way, Nathan looked 
 on love as no worse than one of the 
 Evil One's many snares, to divert 
 youth from law, — but love of an ac- 
 tress ! If you had asked Coventry 
 whether the Play-House or the Pub- 
 lic-House ruins the manners, moral- 
 ity, and intellect of England, Coven- 
 try was capable of answering, " The 
 Fray-House." He raged against the 
 fool" and the jade, as he succinctly, 
 and not inaptly, described a dramatic 
 poet and an actress. 
 
 His friend endeavored to stop the 
 current of his wrath, in vain ; the at- 
 tempt only diverted its larger cur- 
 r'lit from Alexander to th" Siren who 
 ha l fascinated him. In vain Bateman 
 assured him that affairs had proceed- 
 ed to no length between the parties; 
 tile other snubbed him, called him a 
 fool, said he knew nothing of the 
 world, and assured him that, if any- 
 thing came uf it, she should have 
 
 nothing from the Oldworthys but 
 
 thirty pence per week, the parish al- 
 lowance (Nathan's ideas of 1<>VC were 
 
 as primitive as Alexander's were po- 
 
 etic), and lastly, bouncing up, he an- 
 nounced that he was going to see the 
 hussy, and force her to give up her 
 Delilah designs. 
 
 At this poor Bateman was in dis- 
 may ; he represented to this mad bull 
 that Mrs. Oldfield was " on the 
 windy side of the law," that there 
 were no proofs she had done any- 
 thing more than every woman would 
 do if she was clever enough, viz. turn 
 every man's head ; he next reminded 
 him of her importance, and implored 
 him at least to be prudent. " My 
 dear friend," said he, " there are at 
 least a score of gentlemen in this 
 town, who would pass their swords 
 through an old attorney, as they 
 would through a mad dog, only to 
 have a smile or a compliment from 
 this lady." 
 
 This last argument was ill chosen. 
 The old Puritan was game to the 
 backbone; he Hung Mrs. Oldfield's 
 champions a grim grin of defiance, 
 and marched out to invade that lady, 
 and save his offspring. 
 
 Now, the said Mrs. Oldfield, wish- 
 ing to be very quiet, because she was 
 preparing to play for the champion- 
 ship of the stage, and was studying 
 Statira, had given her footman or- 
 ders to admit no living soul, upon 
 any pretence. 
 
 Oldworthy, who had heard in Cov- 
 entry that people in London arc al- 
 ways at home if their servants say 
 they are out, pushed past the man ; 
 the man followed him remonstrating. 
 When they reached the antechamber, 
 he thought it was time to do more, so 
 he laid his hand on the intruder's 
 collar; — then ensued a short but 
 very bri>k scaillle ; the ladies heard, to 
 their dismay, a sound as of a foot- 
 man falling from the top to the bot- 
 tom of a staircase ; and the next mo- 
 ment, in jackboots, splashed with 
 travel, an immense hat of a fashion 
 
 long gone by, his dark cheek flushed 
 with anger, and his eyes shooting 
 sombre lightning from under their 
 
 thick brows, Nathan Oldworthy 
 strode like wildfire into the room.
 
 214 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 Susan screamed, and Anne turned 
 pale, but, recovering herself, she said, 
 with a wonderful show of spirit, 
 " How dare you intrude on me ? — 
 Keep close to me, stupid ! " was her 
 trembling aside to Susan. 
 
 " I 'm used to enter people's houses, 
 whether they will or not," was the 
 gruff" reply. 
 
 " Your business, sir ? " said Mrs. 
 Oldfield, with affected calmness. 
 
 " It is not tit for that child to hear," 
 was the answer. 
 
 Anne Oldfield was wonderfully in- 
 telligent, and even in this remark she 
 saw the man, if a barbarian, was not 
 a ruffian at bottom. She looked to- 
 wards Susan. 
 
 Susan, interpreting her look, de- 
 clined to leave her alone " with, 
 with — " 
 
 " A brute, I suppose," said Nathan, 
 coarsely. 
 
 The artist measured the man with 
 her eye. 
 
 " He who feels himself a brute is on 
 the way to be a man," said she, with 
 genuine dignity ; so saying, she dis- 
 missed Susan with a gesture. 
 
 "You are the play-acting woman, 
 aren't you ? " said he. 
 
 " I am the tragedian, sir," replied 
 she, " whose time is precious." 
 
 " I '11 lose no time, — I 'm an at- 
 torney, — the first in Coventry. I 'm 
 Nathan Oldworthy. My son's educa- 
 tion has been given him under my 
 own eye, — I taught him the customs 
 of the country, and the civil law. He 
 is to be a sergeant at-law, and a scr- 
 geant-at-law he shall be — " 
 
 " I consent, for one," said Oldfield, 
 demurely. 
 
 " And then we can play into one 
 another's hands, as should be." 
 
 " I have no opposition to offer to 
 this pretty little scheme of the Old 
 Somethings, — father and son." 
 
 " Oldworthys ! no opposition ! 
 when he has n't been once to West- 
 minster, and every night to the play- 
 house." 
 
 " < >h ! " said the lady, " I see '. the 
 old story. " 
 
 " The very day the poor boy camo 
 here," resumed Nathan, " there was a 
 tragedy play; so, because a woman 
 sighed and burned for sport, the fool 
 goes home and sighs and burns in ear- 
 nest, can't eat his victuals, flings away 
 his prospects, and thinks of nothing 
 but this Nance Oldfield." 
 
 He uttered this appellation with 
 rough contempt; and had the actress 
 been a little one, this descent to Nance 
 Oldfield would have mortified or en- 
 raged her. But its effect on the great 
 Oldfield was different, and somewhat 
 singular ; she opened her lovely eyes 
 on him. "Nance Oldfield !'* cried 
 she ; " O sir ! nobody has called me 
 that name since I left my little native 
 town." 
 
 "Have n't they, though?" said 
 the rough customer, more gently, re- 
 sponding to her heavenly tones, rath- 
 er than to the sentiment, which he in 
 no degree comprehended. 
 
 "No!" said Oldfield, with an ill- 
 used j'Eolian-harp note. 
 
 Here the attorney began to suspect 
 she was diverting him from the point, 
 and with a curl of the lip, and a fine 
 masculine contempt for all subter- 
 fuges not on sheepskin, — " You had. 
 better say you do not know all this," 
 cried he. 
 
 "Not I," was the reply. "My 
 good sir, your son has left you to con- 
 fide to me the secret of his attach- 
 ment : you have discharged the com- 
 mission, Sir Pandarus of Troy," add- 
 ed she, with a world of malicious fun 
 in her jewel-like eye. 
 
 " Nathan Oldworthy of Coventry, 
 I tell ye ! " put in the angry sire. 
 
 " And it is now my duty to put 
 some questions to you," resumed 
 the actress. " Is your son hand- 
 some ? " said she, in a sly half-whis- 
 per. 
 
 " Is not he ? " answered gaunt 
 simplicity, " and well built too, — he 
 is like me, they say." 
 
 " There is a point on which I am 
 very particular. Has he nice teeth ? 
 — upon your honor, now." 
 
 " White as milk, ma'am ; and a
 
 AET: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 215 
 
 smile that warms your heart up ; fresh 
 color; there's not such a lad in 
 Coventry." Here the old boy caught 
 sight of a certain poetical epistle, 
 which, if you remember, was in Mrs. 
 Oldfield's' hands. 
 
 "And pray, madam," said he, with 
 smooth craft, " does Alexander Old- 
 worthy never write to you ? " 
 
 " Never ! " was her answer. 
 
 " She says never ! " thundered Na- 
 than, " and there is his letter in her 
 very hand, — a superb handwriting ; 
 what a waste of talent to write to you 
 with it, instead of engrossing ; what 
 does the fool say ? " and he snatched 
 the letter rudely from her, and read 
 out poor Alexander, with the lungs 
 of a Stentor. 
 
 Gracious me ! if I was puzzled to 
 show the reader how Susan read the 
 Mannering prose, how on earth shall 
 I make him hear and see Old worthy 
 Pere read Oldworthy Fils, his rhymes; 
 but I will attempt a faint adumbra- 
 tion, w r herein, Glorious Apollo ! from 
 on high befriend us ! 
 
 " My soul hangs trembling," — 
 (full stop.) "On that matjic voice, 
 grieves with your woe," — (full stop.) 
 " Exults when you rejoice. A gold- 
 en chain," — (Here he cast a look of 
 perplexity.) " I feel but cannot see," 
 — (here lie began to suspect Alexan- 
 der of insanity.) " Binds earth to 
 Heaven," — (of impiety, ditto.) " It 
 ties my heart to thee like a sunflow- 
 er." And now the reader wore the 
 ill-used look of one who had been 
 betrayed into a labyrinth of unmean- 
 ing syllables ; but at tins juncture, 
 thanks to his sire, Alexander Old- 
 worthy began to excite Mrs. old- 
 field's interest. 
 
 "And that poetry is his?" said 
 the actress. 
 
 " Poetry ? no ! How could my son 
 write poetry ? I '11 be banged if 't 
 isn't though, for all the lines begin 
 wilii a capital letter." 
 
 Oldfield took the paper from him. 
 
 " Listen," said she. and, with a heav- 
 enly cadence and expression, she 
 spoke the lines thus : — 
 
 " My soul hangs trembling on that magic 
 voice, 
 
 Grieves with your woe, exults when you re- 
 joice ; 
 
 A golden chain I feel, but cannot see, 
 
 Binds earth to Heaven, — it ties my heart 
 to thee, 
 
 Like a sunflower, etc., etc. 
 
 " What do you call that, eh ? " 
 
 " Why, honey dropping from the 
 comb," said the astounded lawyer, to 
 whom the art of speech was entirely 
 unknown, until that moment, as it is 
 to millions of the human race. " It 
 is honey dropping from the comb," 
 repeated Nathan. " I see, he has 
 been and bought it ready made, and 
 it has cost him a pretty penny, no 
 doubt. So now his money's going 
 to the dogs, too." 
 
 " And these sentiments, these ac- 
 cents of poetry and truth, that have 
 reached my heart, this daily homage; 
 that would flatter a queen, do 1 owe 
 it to your son ? O sir ! " 
 
 " Good gracious heavens ! " roared 
 the terrified fattier; "don't yob, go 
 and fall in love with him; and, now 
 I think on 't, that is what / have been 
 Working for ever since I came here. 
 Cut it short. I came for my son, and 
 I will have him back, if you please. 
 Where is he?" 
 
 " How can I know ? " said the lady, 
 pettishly. 
 
 " Why, he follows you every- 
 where." 
 
 " Except here, where he never will 
 follow me, unless his father teach s 
 him housebreaking under the head of 
 civil law." 
 
 At this sudden thrust, Oldworthy 
 blushed. "Well, ma'am!" stam- 
 mered he, "I was a little precipitate ; 
 but, my good lady, pray tell me, 
 when did you last see him '. " 
 
 " I never saw him at all, which I 
 regret," added she, satirically; "be- 
 cause you sav he resembles' his fa- 
 ther." Nathan was a particularly 
 ugly ddg. 
 
 "She is very polite," thought Na- 
 than. " But, Objected he, civilly, 
 " you must have learned from his let- 
 ters."
 
 246 
 
 AItT: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 " That they are not signed ! " said 
 she, handing the poetical epistle to 
 him, with great significance. 
 
 Mr. Nathan Oldworthy began now 
 to doubt whether he was sur le bon 
 terrain in ins present proceedings ; 
 and the error in which lie had detect- 
 ed himself made him suddenly sus- 
 pect his judgment and general re- 
 port on another head. " What an 
 extraordinary thing ! " said he, blunt- 
 ly. "Perhaps you arc an honest wo- 
 man after all, ma'am ! " 
 
 " Sir ! " said Oldliehl, with a most 
 tragic air. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, ma'am ! I 
 ask your pardon ! " cried the other, 
 terrified by the royal pronunciation 
 of this monosyllable. " Country man- 
 ners, ma'am ! that is all ! We do 
 speak so straightforward down in Cov- 
 entry." 
 
 " Yes ! but if you speak so straight- 
 forward here, you will he sent to Cov- 
 entry." 
 
 " I '11 take care not, madam ! I '11 
 take great care not ! " said the other, 
 hastily. Then he paused, — a light 
 rose gradually to his eyes. " Sent to 
 Coventry ! ha ! haw ! ho ! But, mad- 
 am, this love will be his ruin : it Mill 
 rob him of his profession, which he 
 detests, and of a rich heiress whom 
 he can't abide ! Since I came here, I 
 think better of play-actors; but, con- 
 sider, madam, we don't like our blood 
 to come down in the world ! " 
 
 " It would be cruel to lower an attor- 
 ney," replied the play-actress, looking 
 him demurely in the face. 
 
 " You are considerate, madam ! " 
 replied he, gratefully. He added, 
 with manly compunction, " More so, 
 I fear, than I have deserved." 
 
 " Mais ! il me desarme cet homme ! " 
 cried the sprightly Oldfield, ready to 
 scream with laughter. 
 
 " Arc you speaking to me, ma'am ? " 
 said Nathan, severely. 
 
 " No, that was an ' aside.' Go on, 
 my good soul ! " 
 
 •' Then forgive the trouble, the agi- 
 tation, of a father : his career, his 
 happiness, is in danger." 
 
 "Now, why did you not begin with 
 that ? it would have saved your time 
 and mine. Favor me with your at- 
 tention, sir, for a moment," said th« 
 fine lady, with grave courtesy. 
 
 " I will, madam," said the other, 
 respectfully. 
 
 " Mr. Oldworthy, first you are to 
 observe, that I have, by the constitu- 
 tions of these realms, as much right 
 to fall in love with your son, or even 
 with yourself, as he or you have to do 
 with me." 
 
 " So you have, I never thought of 
 that ; but don't ye do it, for Heaven's 
 sake, if 't is n't done already." 
 
 "But I should have been inclined, 
 even before your arrival, to waive that 
 right, out of regard for my own inter- 
 est and reputation, especially the for- 
 mer : and now you have won my 
 heart, and I enter into your feelings, 
 and place myself at your service — " 
 
 " Yon are very good, madam ! 
 Now, why do they go and run play- 
 actors down so 1 " 
 
 " You are aware, sir, that we play- 
 actors have not an idea of our own in 
 our skulls : our art is to execute 
 beautifully the ideas of those who 
 think : now, you are a man of busi- 
 ness ; you will therefore be pleased to 
 give me your instructions, and you 
 shall see those instructions executed 
 better than they are down in Coven- 
 try. You want me to prevent your 
 son from lovin<j me ! I consent. 
 Tell me how to do it." 
 
 " Madam ! " said Nathan ; " you 
 have put your finger on the very 
 point ! What a lawyer you would 
 have made! Madam, I thank you' 
 Very well, then you must — hut, no, 
 that will make him worse, perhaps. 
 And ajj^ain, you can't leave off play- 
 ing, can you ? because that is your 
 business you know, — dear me ! Ah ! 
 I '11 tell you how to bring it about. 
 Let me see — no ! — yes! — no! drat 
 it!" 
 
 " Your instructions are not suffi- 
 ciently clear, sir!" suggested Mrs. 
 Oldfield. 
 
 " Well, madam ! it is not so easy
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 2-17 
 
 as I thought, and I don't sec what 
 instructions I am to give you, until 
 
 — until — " 
 
 " Until I tell you what to tell me, 
 
 — that 's fair. Well, give me a day 
 to think. I am so busy now. I 
 must play my best to-night ! " 
 
 " But he '11 be there," said Nathan, 
 in dismay ; " you '11 play your best : 
 you '11 burn him to a cinder. I '11 go 
 to him." He ran to the window, in- 
 forming his companion that, for the 
 first time in his life, he was going to 
 take a coach. But he had no sooner 
 arrived at the window, than he made 
 a sudden point, and beckoned the lady 
 to him, without removing his eyes 
 from some object on which he glared 
 down, with a most singular expression 
 of countenance. She came to his 
 side. He directed her eyes to the ob- 
 ject. " Look there, ma'am ! look 
 there!" She peeped, ami, standing 
 by a hosier's shop, at the corner of 
 the street, she descried a young man, 
 engaged as follows: His hat was in 
 his hand, and on the hat was a little 
 piece of paper. He was alternately 
 writing on this, and looking upward 
 for inspiration. 
 
 " Is that he > " whispered Mrs. Old- 
 field 
 
 " Yes ! that 's your man, — bare- 
 headed, looking up into the sky, and 
 does n't sec how it rains." 
 
 " But he 's very handsome, Mr. 
 Oldworihv, and you said he was like 
 — hem ! yes, he is very handsome." 
 
 " L n't he, madam !" 
 
 He was handsome, — his rich chest- 
 nut curls (lowed down his neck in 
 masses ; his face was oval ; his eyes 
 full of color and sentiment ; and in 
 him the purple li:_ r ht of youth was 
 brightened by the electric light of ex- 
 prcssion ami charming sensibility. 
 
 The strangely assorted pair in our 
 scene held on by one another, the 
 better to inspeel tile yOUng poet, who 
 little thought what a pair of critics 
 were in store lor him. 
 
 •' What a bright, intelligent look 
 the silly goose has ! " said the ac- 
 tress. 
 
 "Hasn't he? the dear — idiot!" 
 said the parent. 
 
 " Is he waiting for you, sir 1 " said 
 she, with affected simplicity. 
 
 "No," replied he, with zeal; "it's 
 you he is waiting for." 
 
 Alexander began to walk slowly 
 past the house, looking up to heaven 
 every now and then for inspiration, 
 and then looking down and scribbling 
 a bit, like a hen drinking, you know ; 
 and, thus occupied, he stalked to and 
 fro, passing and repassing beneath 
 the criticising eyes, — at sight of 
 which pageant a father's fingers bc- 
 gan to work, and, " Madam," said he, 
 witli a calmness too marked to be 
 genuine, " do let me fling one little 
 — chair at his silly head." 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 " A pillow, then ? " 
 
 "0 Lud, no! — you don't know 
 these boys, sir ! he would take that as 
 an overture of affection from the 
 house. Stay : will you obey me, or 
 will you not ? " 
 
 " Of course I will ! — how can I 
 help ? " and he grinned with horrible 
 amiability. 
 
 " Then I will cure your son." 
 
 " You will, you promise me ? " 
 
 " On the honor of — a play-actor ! " 
 and she offered him, with a world of 
 grace, the loveliest hand going at 
 that era. 
 
 " Of an angel, I think," said the 
 subjugated barbarian. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield then gave him a 
 short sketch of the idea that had oc- 
 curred to her. " Your son, sir," said 
 she, " is in love by the road of imagi- 
 nation and taste, — he has seen upon 
 the stair'" a being more like a poet's 
 dream than any young woman down 
 in Coventry, — and he overrates her; 
 1 will contrive that in ten minutes he 
 shall underrate her. I will also find 
 means to wound his vanity, which is 
 inordinate in all his sex, and gigantic 
 in the versifying part of it; and 
 then, Bir, I promise you that your 
 soli'- love, so fresh, so fiery, so lofty, 
 so humble, will cither turn' to hatred 
 ot contempt, or else quietly evap-
 
 248 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 orate like a mist, and vanish like a 
 morning dream. Ah!" — (and she 
 could not help sighing a little). 
 
 Susan was then called, and directed 
 to show Mr. Nathan Oldworthy out 
 the back way, that he might avoid 
 the encounter of his son. The said 
 Nathan, accordingly, marched slap 
 away, in four great strides ; but the 
 next moment the door burst open, 
 and he returned in four more, — he 
 took up a position opposite his fair 
 entertainer, and, with much gravity, 
 executed a solemn, but marvellously 
 grotesque bow, intended to express 
 gratitude and civility; this done, he 
 recovered body, and strode away 
 again, slap-dash. 
 
 Spirits like Alexander's are greatly 
 depressed and greatly elevated with- 
 out proportionate change in the ex- 
 ternal causes of joy and grief. It is 
 theirs to view the same set of facts, 
 rose-color one day, lurid another. 
 Two days ago, Alexander had been 
 in despondence; to-day hope was in 
 the ascendant, and his destiny ap- 
 peared to him all bathed in sunshine. 
 He was rich in indistinct but gay 
 hopes ; these hopes had whispered to 
 him that, after all, an alliance be- 
 tween a dramatic poet and a tragedian 
 was a natural one, — that perhaps, on 
 reflection, she he loved might not 
 think it so very imprudent. He felt 
 convinced she had read " Berenice," 
 — she would see the alterations in 
 the heroine's part, and that love had 
 dictated them. She would find there 
 was one being that comprehended 
 her. That, and his verses, would 
 surely plead his cause. Then he 
 loved her so, — who could love her 
 as he did ? Some day she would feel 
 that no heart could love her so, — 
 and then he would say to her, " I am 
 truth and nature, — you are beauty 
 ami music; united, we should con- 
 quer the world, and be the world to 
 one another ! " Poor boy ! 
 
 He was walking and dreaming thus 
 beneath her window, when his ear 
 
 caught the sound of that window 
 opening ; he instantly cowered against 
 the wall, hoping this happy day to 
 see the form he loved, himself unseen, 
 when, to his immeasurable surprise, 
 a beautiful girl put her head out of 
 the window, and calUxl softly to him. 
 He took no notice, because it was in- 
 audible. She had to repeat the call 
 before he could realize his good for- 
 tune ; the signal, however, was un- 
 mistakable, and soon after the door 
 1 opened, and there was pretty Susan, 
 blushing. Alexander ran to her, she 
 opened the door wider, he entered, 
 believing in magic for the first time. 
 Susan took him up stairs, — he said 
 nothing, — he could not, — she did 
 not speak, because she thought he 
 ought to. At last they reached a 
 richly furnished room, where Statira's 
 dress lay upon a chair, and a theatrical 
 diadem upon a table. Alexander's 
 heart leaped at sight of these ; he 
 knew, then, where he was ; he turned 
 hot and cold, and trembled violently. 
 The first word Susan said did not 
 calm his agitation. " There is a lady 
 here," said she, " who has something 
 to say to you." 
 
 Now it must be remembered that 
 Susan considered Alexander her un- 
 doubted property ; and when she was 
 told to introduce him, she could not 
 help thinking how kind it was of her 
 cousin to take her part, and bring to 
 the point a young gentleman who, 
 charming in other respects, appeared 
 to her sadly deficient in audacity. 
 " Sit down," said Susan, smiling. 
 
 no ! he could not sit down here ! 
 Susan pitied his timidity and his 
 discomposure ; and, to put both him 
 and herself out of pain the sooner, 
 she left him and went to announce 
 his presence to her cousin and guar- 
 dian, as she now considered her. 
 
 Alexander was left alone, to all 
 appearance; in reality, he was in a 
 crowd, — a crowd of " thick-coming 
 fancies." He was to breathe the 
 same air as she, to be by her side, 
 whom the world adored at a distance ; 
 he was to see her burst on him like/
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 249 
 
 the sun, and to feel more strongly 
 than ever how far bis verse fell short 
 of the goddess who inspired it ; he 
 half wished to retreat from his too 
 great happiness. Suddenly a rustle 
 in the apartment awakened him from 
 his rich revery ; he looked up, and 
 there was a lady with her eyes fixed 
 on him. 
 
 The lady had on what might, with- 
 out politeness, but with truth, be 
 called a dressing-gown ; it was os- 
 tentatiously large everywhere, espe- 
 cially at the waist. The lady's hair, 
 or what seemed her hair, was rough, 
 and ill done up, and a great cap of 
 flaunty design surmounted her head. 
 On her feet were old slippers. 
 
 " Good day, sir ! " said she, dryly. 
 
 Alexander bowed. " Madam, I 
 wait Mrs. Oldfield." 
 
 " Tete-a-tete with your muse." 
 Alexander's poetical works were in 
 her hand. 
 
 " She is my muse, madam ! " re- 
 plied he ; " she alone. Are you not 
 proud of her, madam ? for I see by 
 your likeness that you are some rela- 
 tion." 
 
 The lady burst out laughing. 
 '"' That 's a compliment to my theatri- 
 cal talent ; I am the party." 
 
 " You Mrs. Oldfield ! the great 
 Mrs. ( Mdfield ! " 
 
 " Why not? What, you come 
 from the country, I suppose, and 
 think we arc to be always on the 
 stilts, when we are not paid for it. 
 
 You look as if you were afraid <>t 
 
 «... '» 
 me 
 
 "() no, madam ; and, as you say, 
 it shows how great your talent is.'' 
 
 " You want to speak to me, my 
 lad." 
 
 Alexander blushed to the temples. 
 " Tea, madam ! " faltered he, " you 
 have divined my ambition. I have 
 been presumptuous, — but 1 saw you 
 on the tragic ^ci.-\>v — the admiration 
 you inspired, — I (ear 1 hare impor- 
 tuned yon, — but my hope, my irre- 
 sistible desire — " 
 
 "There, I know what yoti mean," 
 •laid she, with an fl bf 
 
 Jl 
 
 good nature, " you want an order for 
 the pit ? " 
 
 " I want an order for the pit ? " 
 gasped Alexander, faintly. 
 
 " Well, ain't I going to give you 
 one," answered she, as sharp as a 
 needle; "but mind, you must — " 
 here she imitated vehement ap- 
 plause. 
 
 " madam ! I need no such in- 
 junction," cried Alexander; " each of 
 your achievements on the stage seems 
 to be greater than the last." Then, 
 trembling, blushing, and eloquent as 
 fire, he poured out his admiration of 
 her, and her great art : " The others 
 are all puppets, played by rule around 
 you, the queen of speech and poetry ; 
 your pathos is so true, your sensibility 
 so profound ; yours arc real tears ; 
 you lead our sorrow in person ; you 
 fuse your soul into those great char- 
 acters, and art becomes nature. You 
 arc the thing you seem, and it is plain 
 each lofty emotion passes through that 
 princely heart ou its way to those 
 golden lips ! " 
 
 Oldfield, with all her self-command, 
 could not quite resist the eloquence of 
 the heart and brain. She, too, now 
 blushed a little, and her lovely bosom 
 heaved slowly, but hi<rh, as the poet 
 poured the music of his praise into 
 her ears ; then she stole a look at him 
 from under her long lashes, and sipped 
 his beauty and his freshness. She 
 could not help looking at this forbid- 
 den fruit. As 1 she looked, she did feel 
 how hard', how cruel it was, that she 
 was not to be allowed to play with this 
 young, fresh heart; to see it throb 
 with hopes and fears, and love, jeal- 
 ousy, anguish, joy, and finally to break 
 it, and fling the pieces to the Devil; 
 but she was a singular character, — 
 she was the concentrated essence of 
 female in all points, except one: she 
 was a woman of her word, Of, as some. 
 brutes would say, no woman at all 
 in matters of good faith. She stood 
 pledged to the attorney, and therefore, 
 recovering herself, she took up Alex- 
 ander thus : — 
 
 " No, thank you, emotions pass
 
 250 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 through my — what 's the name — 
 well, you are green — you don't come 
 from the country — you are from 
 Wales. I must enlighten you ; sit 
 down, sit down, I tell you. The tears 
 my boy, are as real as the rest, — as 
 the sky, and that 's pasteboard, — as 
 the sun, and he is three candles, 
 smirking upon all nature, which is 
 canvas, — they are as real as our- 
 selves, the tragedy queens, with our 
 cries, our sighs, and our sobs, all 
 measured out to us by the five-foot 
 rule. lleality, young gentleman, 
 that begins when the curtain falls, — 
 and we wipe off our profound sensibil- 
 ity along with our rouge, our whiting, 
 and our beauty spots." 
 
 " Impossible ! " cried the poet ; 
 " those tears, those dew-drops on the 
 tree of poetry ! " 
 
 He was requested not to make her 
 " die of laughing " with his tears ; 
 his common sense was appealed to. 
 " Now, my good soul, if I was to vex 
 myself night after night for Clytem- 
 nestra and Co., don't you see that I 
 should not hold together long ? No, 
 thank you ! I 've got ' Nance Old- 
 field ' to take care of, and what 's 
 Hecuba to her ? For my part," con- 
 tinued this frank lady, " I don't un- 
 derstand half the authors give us to 
 say." 
 
 " O yes, you do ! you write upon 
 our eyes and cars more than half ot 
 all the author gains credit for, — the 
 noblest sentiments gain more from 
 your tongue than the pen, great as it 
 is, could ever fling upon paper, — I 
 am unworthy to be your companion ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! do you really think I 
 am like those black parrots of trage- 
 dy ? — fine company I should be ! — 
 he, he ! No ! we are like other wo- 
 men, you can court us without get- 
 ting a dagger stuck into you." She 
 then informed him that the represen- 
 tatives of Desdemona, Belvidcra, Cor- 
 delia, and Virgin Purity in general 
 bad all as many beaux as they could 
 lay their hands on, — that she had 
 twenty at the present moment : that 
 he could join that small but select 
 
 band, if he chose, secure of this, that, 
 whether a fortunate or unfortunate 
 lover, there would be companions of 
 bis fate. Then, suddenly interrupting 
 her disclosures, she offered him a snuff- 
 box, and said dryly, " D' ye snuff? " 
 
 Alexander's eye dilated with hor- 
 ror. She observed him, and explained, 
 " There 's no doing without it, in our 
 business, we get so tired ! " Here she 
 yawned as only actresses yawn, — 
 like one going out of the world in 
 four pieces. " We get so tired of the 
 whole concern ; this is the real source 
 of our inspiration," said she, taking 
 a pinch, " or how should we ever rise 
 to the poet's level, and launch all 
 those awful execrations they love so ? 
 as, for instance, — Ackishoo ! — God 
 bless you ! " 
 
 Alexander groaned aloud. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " thought his tormen- 
 tor, " how he takes it to heart ! " 
 
 " Why, ma'am, a fall from heaven 
 to earth is a considerable descent." 
 
 " You look pale, my child," re- 
 sumed the tormentor. " No break- 
 fast, perhaps. I 'd offer you some in 
 a minute, but the fact is, you must 
 forgive me ; but I look to every pen- 
 ny ; when the rainy day comes I shall 
 be ready " ; and she brought both 
 hands down upon her knees, in a 
 way the imitated vulgarity of which 
 would have made any one scream 
 with laughter that had seen her 
 game ; but it was all genuine to our 
 poor poet, and crushed him. 
 
 Having opened this vein of self-de- 
 preciation, she proceeded to work it. 
 She poked him with one finger, and, 
 looking slyly with half-shut eye at 
 him, she announced herself the au- 
 thoress of some very curious calcula- 
 tions, the object of which was to dis- 
 cover, by comparing the week's salary 
 with the lines in the night's perform- 
 ance, the exact value of poetical 
 passages, generally supposed to be 
 invaluable. " Listen," said she : — 
 
 " ' Come ! come, you spirits 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex m« 
 here ! ' 
 
 They arc just worth tenpence ! "
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 251 
 
 Alexander, who had been raised by 
 the poetry, was depressed greatly by 
 its arithmetic. 
 
 She recommenced : — 
 
 "That my keen knife see not the wound it 
 makes, 
 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of 
 the dark, 
 
 To cry. Hold ! hold ! — Great Glamis ! wor- 
 thy Cawdor ! " 
 
 Making the point on " Great Gla- 
 mis," at Macbeth's entrance, not on 
 " Hold," which is done nowadays, 
 and is coo cruel silly. 
 
 " Ah ! you are yourself again," 
 cried the poet. 
 
 " Yes ; I am myself again ! " was 
 the dry answer : " those bring me in 
 2s. 8<l. every time." 
 
 And this was the being he had 
 adored! He had invested this creature 
 with his own prismatic hues, and 
 taken her for a rainbow. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield told afterwards that 
 she felt herself cutting his heart away 
 from her at every sentence. " But it 
 was to be done, she continued. " So 
 now you know my trade, tell me 
 what is yours ? " 
 
 " One I used to despise, — an advo- 
 cate." 
 
 "Ah! a little long robe; they arc 
 actors, too, only bad ones ; but tell 
 me," said she, with a silly coquettish 
 manner, borrowed from the comedy 
 of the day, " what do you want of 
 mc? You have not followed me so 
 perseveringly for nothing ! Speak, 
 what have you to tell me ! " 
 
 Alexander blushed ; he had no 
 longer the Btimulus to tell her all he 
 had felt and Imped ; he hesitated and 
 
 stammered ; at last he bethought him 
 of hi.-> tragedy; so he said: "I sent 
 you a tragedy, madam!" 
 
 " What, do they do that in War- 
 wickshire f " 
 " Yes, madam ! I composed it by 
 
 stealth in inv father's office." 
 
 Oldfield Bmiled. 
 
 Alexander continued : " It is 
 
 called, from the heroine of the play, 
 Berenice ! " 
 
 " Berenice ! " cried the actress, with 
 a start. 
 
 Now this tragedy had pleased Mrs. 
 Oldfield more than any manuscript 
 she had seen these three years ; but, 
 above all, the part of " Berenice " had 
 charmed her ; it fitted her like a glove, 
 as she poetically expressed herself; it 
 was written in Alexander's copper- 
 plate hand, so she had not identified 
 it with the author of her diurnal 
 verses. 
 
 " Berenice ! is it possible ? " 
 
 " A epieen, madam, who, captured 
 by the Romans — " 
 
 " What, sir ! you the author of 
 that work ? " said she, with sudden 
 respect. 
 
 " Favor me with your opinion," 
 said the sanguine poet. 
 
 Tremble, Nathan, you had only 
 her womanly weakness to dread hith- 
 erto; but now the jade's interest is 
 against you. Strange to say, her 
 promise carried the day ; she was true 
 as steel to Nathan, and remorseless 
 as steel to Alexander. She saw at 
 once that no middle course was now 
 tenable ; so she turned on the poor 
 poet, not without secret regret, and, 
 with a voice of ice, she said : " The 
 town is tired of Romans, my good 
 sir, you had better go into Tartary ; 
 besides," added she, jumping at the 
 commonplaces of dramatic censure, 
 " your fable does not march, your 
 language wants lire ; let me give you 
 a word of advice, or rather a line of 
 advice, ' Plead, Alexander, plead, and 
 rhyme no morel" She then added 
 hastily, in a very different tone and 
 manner, " Forgive me, my poor child, 
 you will make more money, and be 
 mure respected." 
 
 The reason of this rapid change of 
 manner was this : when we have 
 given dreadful pain, more pain than 
 we calculated on, and see it, wc are 
 apt to try and qualify it with a little 
 weak, empty good-nature. Now at 
 her verdict, and her witty line, Alex- 
 ander had turned literally as pale as 
 ashes ! The drop of oil she poured 
 on the deadly wounds she had given
 
 232 
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 was no comfort to him ; he rose, he 
 tried to speak to her, but his lip 
 trembled so violently he could not 
 articulate ; at last he gasped out : 
 " Thank you for undeceiving me ; 
 you have taught me your own v — 
 value; and m — mine, forgive me, the 
 time I have made you waste upon a 
 d — dunce." And then, in spite of all 
 he could do, the tears forced them- 
 selves through the poor boy's eyes, 
 and, casting one look of shame and 
 half-reproach upon her, he put his 
 hand to his brow, and went discon- 
 solately from the room, and out of 
 the house. 
 
 Poor fellow ! she had made him 
 ten years older than when, ten min- 
 utes before, he entered that room, all 
 faith, and poetry, and hope, and love. 
 
 Slowly and disconsolately, he 
 dragged his heavy steps and heavy 
 heart home. His father followed, 
 and entered his small apartment with- 
 out ceremony. Nathan found his 
 son sitting with his eyes fixed on the 
 ground ; in a few abrupt words he 
 told him he knew all about his amor- 
 ous folly, and had come up to cure 
 it. 
 
 " It is cured," said Alexander ; 
 "she has cured me herself." 
 
 " Then she is an honest woman," 
 cried Nathan. " So now, since that 
 nonsense is over, take my arm and we 
 will go down to Westminster." 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 They went to Westminster ; they 
 entered a court of law, and were so 
 fortunate as to hear an interesting 
 trial. Counsel for the plaintiff was 
 just opening a crim. con. case. 
 
 The advocate dwelt upon the sa- 
 cred feelings outraged by the seducer, 
 on the irremediable gap that had been 
 made in a house and in a human 
 heart ; the pitiable doubt that had 
 been cast over those sacred parental 
 affections, which were all that now 
 remained to the bereaved husband. 
 He painted the empty chamber, the 
 vacant place by the hearth, and the 
 father dagger-struck by little voices 
 lisping, " Papa, where is mamma 
 
 gone 1 " and all that sort of thing. 
 His speech was rich in topic and 
 point, and as for emphasis, it was all 
 emphasis. He concluded in this 
 wise : " Such injuries as these can 
 never be compensated by money ; it 
 is ridiculous to talk of money where a 
 man has been laid desolate, and there- 
 fore I hope, gentlemen of the jury, you 
 will give my unfortunate client three 
 thousand pounds damages at the very 
 least." 
 
 At each point the orator made, Na- 
 than nudged Alexander, as if to say, 
 " That is how you must do it some 
 day." 
 
 As they returned homewards, At- 
 torney asked Poet how he had been 
 charmed by Mr. Eithersidc's elo- 
 quence. 
 
 "Eloquence," said Alexander, wak- 
 ing from his revery. " I heard no el- 
 oquence." 
 
 "No eloquence! why, he worked 
 the defendant like a man beating a 
 carpet." 
 
 Nathan recapitulated Mr. Either- 
 sidc's points. 
 
 " Well, father," was the languid 
 reply, " this shows me that people 
 who would speak about the heart 
 should speak from the heart. I heard 
 something like a terrier dog barking, 
 that is all I remember." 
 
 " A terrier dog ! one of the first 
 counsel in the land ! But there, you 
 come to your dinner. I won't be in 
 a passion with you, if I can help, be- 
 cause — you '11 be better after din- 
 ner." 
 
 Nathan's satisfaction at his son's 
 sudden cure was soon damped. Al- 
 exander was not better after dinner : 
 to be sure this might have been ow- 
 ing to his having eaten none ; he 
 could not eat, and never volunteered 
 a word, only, when spoken to three 
 times, he shook himself and answered 
 with a visible effort, and then nestled 
 into silence again. The next and 
 following days matters were worse. 
 Spite of all Nathan could do to move 
 him, he sank inro a cold, listless 
 melancholy. About five o'clock
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 253 
 
 (play-time) he used to be very rest- 
 less and nervous for a little while, 
 and then relapse into stone. And 
 now Nathan began to ask himself 
 what the actress had done to his son 
 during that short interview between 
 them. He began greatly to doubt 
 the wonderful cure, or rather to fear 
 that the first poison had been at- 
 tacked by a stronger, in the way of 
 antidote, which had left his son in 
 worse case than before. 
 
 Hitherto he had thought it wisest 
 to avoid the subject, and silently ex- 
 pel the hoy's folly by taking him and 
 Bhaking him, and keeping him from 
 thinking of it. Hut now one even- 
 ing, as he looked at Alexander's pal- 
 lid, listless countenance, his anxiety 
 got the better of his plan, and he 
 could not help facing the obnoxious 
 topic. 
 
 After a vain attempt or two to in- 
 terest the poet in other matters, he 
 suddenly burst out: "What is the 
 matter, Alexander? What has she 
 done to you now ? " 
 
 Alexander winced. 
 
 " Tell me, my boy," said Nathan, 
 more gently. 
 
 Alexander €data. 
 
 " She has deceived me. She has 
 robbed my heart of all its wealth. 
 (), I would rather have gone on be- 
 lieving her all that is great and good, 
 though inaccessible to me ! But to 
 find my divinity a mean, heartless 
 slattern. To find that I have poured 
 nil my treasures away forever upon 
 an unworthy object. () father! I do 
 not grieve so much that she is worth- 
 less, hut that I thought her worthy. 
 To me she was the jewel of the earth. 
 I know her now fur a vile counterfeit, 
 and 1 have wasted my affections on 
 this creature, and now I have none 
 left tin- any worthy Object ; scarcely 
 for my father. See my conduct to 
 you all this week. Heaven forgive 
 me, — and you forgive me, sir. I 
 feel I an i no sou to you. I am lost ! 
 1 am lost ! " 
 
 " Alexander, don't be a fool," 
 roared Nathan ; " get up off your 
 
 knees, or I '11 kee — kee — kick you into 
 the fi — fire ! " gulped he ; " that is 
 right, — that 's a dear boy : now tell 
 me what has the poor lady r done 1 I 
 can't think she is such a very bad 
 one." 
 
 " She has robbed herself and me 
 of the tints with which I had invest- 
 ed her, and shown herself to me in 
 her true colors." 
 
 " Why, you mustn't tell me she 
 paints her face without 't is with cold 
 water." 
 
 " no ! not that, but off the stage 
 she is a mean, vulgar, bad woman." 
 
 " I can't think that of her, Alexan- 
 der." 
 
 " Father, I have no words to tell 
 you her vulgarity, her avarice, her 
 stupidity, — as for her beauty, it is 
 all paint and artifice, father. I saw 
 her this day se'night in her own 
 house ; she is vulgar, and dirty, and 
 almost ugly." 
 
 " you deceitful young rascal, 
 you know she is beautiful as an an- 
 gel ! " 
 
 " Is n't she, sir ! — ah ! you have 
 only seen her on the stage — " 
 
 " I see her on the stage ! What, 
 do you tell me I go to the playhouse ! 
 I never was in a playhouse in my 
 life." 
 
 " Then how do yon know she is 
 beautiful ? Where have you seen 
 her, if not on the stage ' " 
 
 Mr. ( Mdworthy senior hesitated. 
 Be did not choose his son to know 
 he had visited the play-actress, and 
 enlisted her in his cause. 
 
 Alexander saw his hesitation, and 
 misinterpreted it ludicrously. 
 
 " Ah, father," cried he, •' do not be 
 ashamed of it." 
 
 " I am not, — ashamed of what q " 
 
 " Would I were worthv of all this 
 affection ! " 
 
 " What affection ? " 
 
 " That you have for the unfortu- 
 nate." 
 
 " I have no affection for the un- 
 fortunate; it 's always their own 
 fault." 
 
 " If you know how I honor you Car
 
 251 
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 this, you would not deny or be 
 ashamed of it." 
 
 " Of what ? Are we talking rid- 
 dles ? " 
 
 " Do not attempt to disguise what 
 gives you a fresh title to my grat- 
 itude, — it was curiosity to see my 
 destroyer drew you thither. Ah, it 
 must have been the day before yester- 
 day. I remember you disappeared 
 after dinner. Well, father," contin- 
 ued Alexander, with a sad, sweet, 
 melancholy accent, " you saw her 
 play ' Monimia ' that night, and hav- 
 ing seen her you can forgive my in- 
 fatuation." 
 
 " No ! 1 can't forgive your infatua- 
 tion, obstinate toad! that will tell me 
 I have been to the playhouse, — to 
 the Devil's own shop parlor, that is." 
 
 " You have seen her, — you call 
 her beautiful, therefore it is clear you 
 have seen her at the theatre, for at 
 home she is anything but beautiful or 
 an angel." 
 
 " Alexander, you will put me in a 
 passion ; but I won't be put in a 
 passion." So saying, the old gentle- 
 man, who was in a passion, marched 
 slap out of the house into the moon- 
 light and cooled himself therein. 
 
 On his return he found his son sit- 
 ting in a sort of collapse by the fire, 
 and all his endeavors to draw him 
 from brooding over his own misery 
 proved unavailing. The next day he 
 was worse, if possible ; and when 
 play-time had come and gone, and 
 Nathan was in the middle of a long 
 law-case that he was relating for his 
 son's amusement, Alexander, who 
 had not spoken for hours, quietly 
 asked Nathan what he thought about 
 suicide, and Avhethcr it was really a 
 crime to die when hope was dead, 
 and life withered forever. Nathan 
 gave a short, severe answer to this 
 query ; hut it troubled him. 
 
 He began to be frightened : he con- 
 sulted Bateman. Bateman was equal- 
 ly puzzled ; but at last the latter hit 
 upon an idea. " Go to the actress 
 again," said he; "it seems she can 
 do anything with him. She made 
 
 him love her, — she made him hate 
 her ; ask her to make him to do 
 something between the two." 
 
 " Why, you old fool ! " was the 
 civil retort, " you are as mad as he is. 
 No ! she almost bewitched me, for as 
 old as 1 am ; and I won't go near her 
 again." 
 
 But Alexander got worse and 
 worse. He drooped like a tender 
 flower. He had lost appetite and 
 sleep ; and without them the body 
 soon gives way. 
 
 His grief was of the imagination. 
 But the distinction muddlchcads draw 
 between real and imaginary griefs is 
 imaginary. Whatever robs a human 
 unit of rest, nourishment, and life, is 
 as real to him as anything but eter- 
 nity itself is real. 
 
 The old men saw a subtle disorder 
 creeping over the young man. It 
 was incomprehensible to them ; and 
 after ridiculing it awhile, they began 
 to be more frightened at it than if 
 they had comprehended it. 
 
 At last, one fine morning, a new 
 phase presented itself. A great desire 
 for solitude consumed our poor poet. 
 All human beings were distasteful to 
 him, and, his mind being in a diseased 
 state, Nathan and Timothy bored him 
 like red-hot gimlets, — the truth must 
 be told. Well, this particular morn- 
 ing they would not let him alone, — 
 and so he wanted just to be left in 
 peace, — and partly from nervousness, 
 partly from irritation, partly from 
 misery, the poet lost all self-command, 
 and, I am sorry to say, cursed and 
 swore, and vowed he would kill him- 
 self, and called his friends his tor- 
 mentors, and wept and raved and 
 cursed the hour he was born. And 
 at the end of this most unbecoming 
 tirade he was for dashing out of the 
 house ; but his father caught him by 
 the collar, and whirled him back into 
 his room, and locked him into it. 
 Alexander fell into a chair, and buried 
 his face in his hands ; presently he 
 heard something that made him feel 
 how selfish his grief had been. Ho 
 heard a deep sigh just outside the
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 255 
 
 door, and then a heavy step went 
 down the stair. 
 
 " Father ! " cried he, " forgive me ! 
 0, forgive me ! " 
 
 It was too late. All who give a 
 parent pain repent ; but how often it 
 is too late ! 
 
 The poor old man was gone, as un- 
 happy as his son, and with more solid 
 reason. He went into the street, 
 without knowing what he should do 
 or where he should go. 
 
 It happened at this moment that 
 Bateman's advice came into his head. 
 He was less disposed to scout it now. 
 
 " It can do no harm," thought he, 
 "and I am quite at a loss. She has 
 a good heart, I think, and at all events 
 she seems to know how to work on 
 him, and I don't. I '11 risk it." 
 
 So, hanging his head, with no very 
 good will, he slowly wended his way 
 toward- Mrs. Oldlield's house. 
 
 When Alexander left .Mrs. Oldfield, 
 that lady took off her vulgar cap and 
 the old wig with which she had dis- 
 guised her lovely head, and, throwing 
 herself into a chair, laughed at the 
 piece of comedy she had played off on 
 our poor poet. 
 
 Her laugh, however, was not sin- 
 cere; it soon died away into some- 
 thing more like a sigh. 
 
 The next morning there was no 
 letter in verse, and she missed it. She 
 had become used to them, and was 
 vexed to think she had put an end to 
 them. ' in returning from the theatre 
 she looked from her carriage to see if 
 he was standing as usual by the Btage 
 door. No, he was not there; no 
 more letters, — no more Alexander. 
 She felt sorry she had Lost so genuine 
 an admirer; and the moment the 
 sense of his loss touched herself, she 
 began to pity him, and think what a 
 shame it was to deceive him so. 
 
 " 1 could have liked him better 
 than all the rest," said she. 
 
 Bui this lady's profession is one un- 
 favorable to the growth of regrets, or 
 of affection for any object not in sight. 
 She had to rehearse from ten tiil one, 
 then to come home, then to lay out 
 
 her clothes for the theatre, then to 
 dine, then to study, then to go to the 
 theatre, then to dress, then to act with 
 all the intoxications of genius, light, 
 multitude, and applause, then to un- 
 dress, sup, etc. ; and all this time she 
 was constantly flattered and courted 
 by dozens of beaux and wits. Had 
 she been capable of a deep attach- 
 ment, it could not have monopolized 
 her as Alexander's did his. However, 
 she did thus much for our poor poet ; 
 when she found she had succeeded in 
 banishing him, she went into her tan- 
 trums, and snapped at and scratched 
 everybody else that was kind to her. 
 She also often invited Susan to speak 
 of him, and after a while snubbed her 
 and forbade the topic. 
 
 To-day, then, as Mrs. Oldfield sat 
 studying " The Rival Queens," sud- 
 denly she heard a sob, and there was 
 Susan, with the tears quietly and 
 without effort streaming from her 
 eyes, like the water running through 
 a lockgate. Susan had just returned 
 from a walk. 
 
 " What have you done ? " whined 
 Susan. " I have just met him, and 
 he said to me, 'Ah, madam!' he 
 always calls me madam, and he has 
 lost his beautiful color, — he is mis- 
 erable, — and I am miserable." 
 
 " Well ! " snapped Anne, " and am 
 I not miserable too ! Why, Susan," 
 cried she, for a glimmering of light 
 burst on her, " surely you are not 
 such a goose as to fancy yourself in 
 love with my Alexander." 
 
 My Alexander, — good! She has 
 declined him for herself, but she will 
 not let you have him any the more 
 for that, — other women ! 
 
 " Your Alexander 1 No! I am too 
 fond of mv own! Here's your one's 
 hook " ; and Susan thrust ft duodecimo 
 towards her cousin. 
 
 " Mv one's hook," said Mrs. Old- 
 field, with a mystified air. 
 
 •'Yes! Robert says it belong to 
 the young gentleman who saved you 
 from the Dnehess's carriage; he 
 
 picked it Up after the battle." 
 
 Mrs. Oldlield opened the book with
 
 256 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 interest ; judge her surprise when the 
 first page discovered verses in Alex- 
 ander's well-known hand : in the next 
 page was a spirited drawing of Mrs. 
 Oldfield as " Sophonisba " ; under 
 it was written, in gold letters, " Not 
 one base word of Carthage on thy 
 soul," — a line the actress used to 
 speak with such majesty and fire that 
 the audience always burst into a round 
 of applause. And so on, upon every 
 page, poetry or picture. The verses 
 were more tender than those he had 
 sent her by letter. The book was his 
 secret heart ! 
 
 It was Alexander, then, who had 
 saved her, — his love surrounded her. 
 And how had all his devotion been 
 repaid? She became restless, — bit 
 her lips ; the book she held became a 
 bo'k of mist, and she said to Susan, 
 in bitter accents : " They had better 
 not let the poor boy come near me 
 again, or they will find 1 am a woman, 
 in spite of my nasty blank verse and 
 bombast. Oh! oh! oh!" and the 
 tragedian whimpered a little, much as 
 a housemaid whimpers ; it was not at 
 all like the " real tears " that had so 
 affected Alexander. 
 
 On the fly-leaf of this little book 
 was written : " Alexander Oldwor- 
 thy ! Should I die, — and I think I 
 shall not live, for my love consumes 
 me, — I pray some good Christian 
 to take this book to the great Mrs. 
 Oldheld ; it will tell her what I shall 
 never dare to tell her : and if departed 
 spirits are permitted to watch those 
 they have loved, it is for her sake I 
 shall revisit this earth, which, but for 
 her, I should leave without regret." 
 
 " I am a miserable woman ! " cried 
 the dealer in fictitious grief. " This 
 is /ore! I never was loved before, 
 and mine must be the hand to stab 
 him ; they make me turn his goddess 
 to a slut, — his love to contempt; 
 and I do it, madwoman that I am ! 
 For what ' to rob myself of the solace 
 Heaven hail sent to my vacant heart, 
 — of the only real treasure the earth 
 contains " ; and she burst into a pas- 
 sion of tears. 
 
 At this Susan's dried themselves t 
 the grief of the greater mind swallowed 
 up her puny sorrow, as the river ab- 
 sorbs the brook that joins it. Anne 
 frightened her, and at last she stole 
 from the room in dismay. Her ab- 
 sence, however, was short; she re- 
 turned in about ten minutes, and 
 announced a visitor. 
 
 " I will not see him ! " said Mrs. 
 Oldricld, almost fiercely, looking off 
 the part she had begun to study. 
 
 " It is the rough gentleman," said 
 Susan. 
 
 " What ! Alexander's father 1 Ad- 
 mit him. He is come to thank me, 
 and well he may. Cruel wretches 
 that we both are ! " 
 
 Nathan entered, but with a face so 
 rueful, that Mrs. Oldfield saw at once 
 gratitude had not brought him there. 
 
 " What have you done, madam ?" 
 was his first word. 
 
 "Kept my word to you, like a fool," 
 was the answer ; " I hope you are 
 come to reproach me, — it would not 
 be complete without that ! " And 
 the Oldfield shed a few tears, which 
 this time were half bitter vexation, 
 half fiction. 
 
 Nathan had come with that inten- 
 tion, but he was now terror-struck, 
 and afraid to do anything of the kind. 
 He proceeded, however, in mournful 
 tones, to tell her that Alexander had 
 fallen into a state of despondency and 
 desperation which had made him — 
 the father — regret that more inno- 
 cent madness he had hitherto been so 
 anxious to cure. 
 
 " He says he will kill himself," said 
 Nathan. " And if he does he will kill 
 me. Poor boy ! all his illusions are 
 kicked head over heels ; so he says, 
 however." 
 
 " A good job, too ! " said Mrs. Old- 
 field. 
 
 " How can you say a good job, when 
 it will be a job for Bedlam 1 " 
 
 " Bedlam ! " 
 
 " Yes ; he is mail ! " 
 
 " What makes you think he is 
 mad 1 " 
 
 " He says you are not beautiful !
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 257 
 
 'She has neither heart, grace, nor wit,' 
 says he : in a word, he is insane. 
 I "reasoned calmly with him," contin- 
 ued the afflicted father. " I told him 
 he was an idiot ; but, I am sorry to 
 say, he answered my affectionate re- 
 monstrance with nonsense and curses, 
 ami a lot of words, without head or 
 tail to them : h<> is mad ! " 
 
 " You cruel old man ! " cried Mrs. 
 Oldfield : " have you done nothing to 
 soothe the poor child ? " 
 
 " O yes ! " said the cruel old man, 
 resenting the doubt cast upon his ten- 
 derness ; " I shoved him into a room, 
 and double-locked him in : and came 
 straight to you for advice about him, 
 you are so clever." 
 
 " So it seems ! " said she ; " I have 
 made everybody unhappy, — you, Al- 
 exander, and most of all myself." 
 And tears began to well out of her 
 lovely eve-. 
 
 " 6 dear ! — dear ! — dear ! — 
 don't you vex yourself so, my lamb." 
 
 But the lamb, aOaa crocodile, insist- 
 ed upon patting her head gracefully 
 upon Nathan's shoulder, and crying 
 meekly awhile. On this (a man's 
 heart being merely a lump of sugar 
 that melts when woman's eye lets 
 fall a drop of warm water upon it) 
 Nathan loved her : it was intended he 
 should. 
 
 " I would give my right arm if you 
 would make him love you again ; at 
 all events a little, — a very little in- 
 deed. Poor Alexander, he is a foul, 
 a scatter-brain, and, fur aqght I know, 
 a versifier: but he is my sun. I have 
 but him. If he goes mad or dies, his 
 
 father will lie down ami die too." 
 
 Si 
 
 gaid the actress, with sud- 
 
 den cheerfulness, and drying her eyes 
 with suspicious rapidity : " bring him 
 to me ; and " (patting him slyly on the 
 arm) "you shall see me make him 
 love ma more than ever, — ten times 
 mure, if you approve, dear air I 
 
 " Here! he won't 
 at you ; you 
 is mad ! my 
 son-, this 
 rhymes." 
 
 come ; he rails 
 ire his aversion. < >, he 
 son is deprived of rea- 
 comes of those cursed 
 
 A pause ensued : Oldfield broke it. 
 " I have it ! " cried she : " he is an 
 author : they are all alike ! " (What 
 did she mean by that ?) " Speak to 
 him of ' Berenice.' " 
 
 " Whom am I to talk to him 
 about ? " 
 
 " Berenice ! " 
 
 " What, is he after another woman 
 now ? " 
 
 " No, — his tragedy ! " 
 
 " His tragedy ! " 
 
 " Ah ! I forgot," said she, coolly : 
 "you are not in the secret ; he com- 
 posed it by stealth in your office." 
 She then seated herself at a side-table, 
 and wrote a note with theatrical ra- 
 pidity. 
 
 " Give him this," said she. 
 
 Receiving no answer, she looked 
 up, a little surprised, and there was 
 Nathan apoplectic with indignation ; 
 his two cheeks, red as beet-root, were 
 puffed out ; paternal tenderness was 
 in abeyance : finally he exploded in : 
 " So, this was how my brief-paper 
 went ! " and marched off impetuous- 
 ly, throwing down a chair. 
 
 " Where are you going 1 " remon- 
 strated his companion. 
 
 " He is an author," was the reply ; 
 " he is no son of mine. I '11 unlock 
 him and kick him into the wide 
 world." 
 
 " What, for consecrating your brief- 
 paper to the Muse f " 
 
 "Yes; did you ever know a de- 
 cent, respectable character write po- 
 etry ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " No ! that vou never did ! AVho, 
 now ? " 
 
 "David! he wrote Hebrew poetry, 
 — the Psalms ; and very beautiful 
 poetry, too." 
 
 Poor Nathan! he was like a bull, 
 which, in the middle of a gallant 
 charge, receives a bullet in a vital 
 part, and so pulls up, and looks 
 mighty s'.upid for a moment ere ho 
 tails. ' 
 
 But Nathan did not fall ; ho 
 
 red reproach on Mrs. Oldfield for 
 
 I having said u thing, which, though it
 
 258 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 did not exactly admit of immediate 
 confutation, was absurd as well as pro- 
 fane, thought he, and resolved to serve 
 Alexander out' for it ; he told her as 
 much. So then ensued a little piece 
 of private theatricals : Mrs. Oldfield, 
 clasping her hands together, began to 
 po, gracefully, down on her knees, an 
 inch at a time (nothing but great 
 practice enabled her to do it), and re- 
 mind Nathan that he was a father, 
 — that his son's life was more pre- 
 cious than anything, — that to be 
 angry with the unhappy was cruel, — 
 " Save him ! save him ! " 
 
 Poor Nathan took all this stage 
 business for an unpremeditated ef- 
 fusion of the heart ; and, with a tear 
 in his eye, raised the queen of the 
 crocodiles, and with a hideously ami- 
 able grin, " I'll forgive him !•" said 
 he : " to please you, I 'd forgive Old 
 Nick." 
 
 With this virtuous resolve and 
 equivocal compliment, he vanished 
 from the presence-chamber, and hur- 
 ried towards Alexander's retreat. 
 
 Oldfield retired hastily to her bed- 
 room, and, having found " Berenice," 
 ran hastily through it once more, and 
 began to study a certain scene which 
 she thought could be turned to her 
 purpose. Having what is called a 
 very quick study, she was soon mis- 
 tress of the twenty or thirty lines. 
 She then put on a splendid dress, ap- 
 propriate (according to the ideas of 
 the day) to an Eastern queen. That 
 done, she gave herself to Statira, the 
 part she was to play upon this im- 
 portant evening ; but Susan observed 
 a strange restlessness and emotion in 
 her cousin. 
 
 " What is the matter, Anne 1 " said 
 she. 
 
 " It is too bad of these men," was 
 the answer. " I ought to be all 
 Statira to-day; and, instead of a 
 tragedy-queen, they make me feel like 
 a human being! This will not do: 
 I cannot have my fictitious feelings, 
 in which thousands are interested, en- 
 dangered for such a trifle as my real 
 ones " ; and, by a stern effort, she 
 
 glued her eyes to her part, and was 
 Statira. 
 
 Meanwhile Nathan had returned to 
 Alexander; and, giving him Mrs. 
 Oldfield's note, bade him instantly 
 accompany him to her house. 
 
 Alexander had no sooner read the 
 note, than the color rushed into his 
 pale face, and his eye brightened ; 
 but on reflection he begged to be 
 excused from going there. But 
 his father, who had observed the 
 above symptoms, which proved to 
 him the power of this benevolent 
 enchantress, would take no denial ; 
 so they returned together to her 
 house. It was all very well the first 
 part of the road ; but at sight of the 
 house poor Alexander was seized 
 with a combination of feelings that 
 made it impossible for him to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 "I feel faint, father." 
 " Lean on me." 
 
 " Pray excuse me, — I will go back 
 to Coventry with you, — to the world's 
 end, — but don't take me to that 
 house." 
 
 " Come along, ye soft-hearted — " 
 " Well, then, you must assist me, 
 for my limbs fail me at the idea." 
 
 " Mine shall help you," — and he 
 put an arm under his son's shoulder, 
 and hoisted him along in an undeni- 
 able manner. And so, in a few min- 
 utes more, the attorney was to be seen 
 half drawing, half dragging the poet 
 into the abode of the Siren, which he 
 had first entered (breathing fire and 
 fury against play-actors) to drag his 
 son out of. It was, indeed, a curious 
 reversal of sentiments in a brace of 
 bosoms. 
 
 " No, father ! no ! " sighed Alexan- 
 der, as his father pulled him into her 
 saloon. 
 
 " Hut I tell you it is for your trag- 
 edy," remonstrated the parchment to 
 the paper hero. " It 's business," 
 said he, reproachfully. " Now 't is 
 writ, let us sell it — to greater fools 
 than ourselves, — if we can find 
 them." 
 
 The tone in which he uttered tho
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 259 
 
 last sentence conveyed no very san- 
 guine hope, on his part, of a pur- 
 chaser. 
 
 " Why did you bring me here, dear 
 father ? " sighed the disillusion^. " It 
 was here my idol descended from her 
 pedestal. reality ! you are not 
 worth the pain of living, — the toil 
 of breathing." 
 
 " Poor boy ! " thought Nathan ; 
 " he is in a bad way, — the toil of 
 breathing! — well, I never! — Your 
 tragedy, lad, your tragedy," insinuat- 
 ed be, biting his lips not to be in a 
 rage. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Alexander, perking 
 up, " it is the last tie that holds me to 
 life. She says in this note that she 
 took it for another, and that mine has 
 merit." 
 
 " No doubt ! no doubt ! " said the 
 other, humoring the absurdity. 
 " How came the Muse (that is the 
 wench's name, I believe) into my of- 
 fice 1 " 
 
 " She used ever to come in," began 
 be, in rapt tones, " when you went 
 out," he added, mighty dryly. 
 
 Alexander's next casual observa- 
 tion was to this effect, — that once he 
 had a soul, but that now his lyre was 
 broken. 
 
 " That 's soon mended," said his 
 rough comforter ; " well, since your 
 luir is cracked — " 
 
 " I said broken, father, — and forme 
 the business of life is ended." 
 
 " Well," said the parent, whose 
 good-humor at this <-ri>is appears to 
 have been inexhaustible, "since your 
 liar is broken, — smashed, I hope, — 
 ami your business done, or near it, 
 turn to amusement a bit, my poor 
 lad." 
 
 Alexander looked at him, surveyed 
 him from top to toe. 
 
 " Amusement ! " winnied the incon- 
 solable one, with a ghastly chuckle, 
 — " amusement ! Where can broken 
 hearts find amusement ! " 
 
 "In tiii: l.\w!" roared Nathan, 
 with cheerful, hopeful, healthy tone 
 and look. " I do," added lie ; then, 
 seeing bitter incredulity on the jtoet, 
 
 he explained, sotto voce, "'T is n't as 
 if we were clients, ye fool." 
 
 " Never ! " shrieked Alexander. 
 
 Poor Nathan had commanded his 
 wrath till now, but this energetic 
 " Never ! " set him in a blaze. 
 
 " Never ! you young scamp," shout- 
 ed he; "but — but — don't put me 
 in a passion, — when I tell ye the ex- 
 ciseman's daughter won't have you 
 on any other terms." 
 
 " And I won't have her on any 
 terms, — she is a woman." 
 
 " Well, she is on the road to it, — 
 she is a girl, and a very tine one, 
 and you are to make her a woman, 
 — and she will make a man of you, 
 I hope." 
 
 " No more women for me," object- 
 ed the poet. He then confided to an 
 impatient parent his future plan of ex- 
 istence. It was simple, very simple; 
 he purposed to live in a garret in 
 London, hating and hated; so this 
 brought matters to a head. 
 
 " I have been too good to you ! you 
 are mad ! and, by virtue of parental 
 authority, I seize your body, young 
 man." 
 
 But the body had legs, and, for 
 once, an attorney failed to effect a 
 seizure. 
 
 He slipped under his father's arm, 
 and, getting a table between them, 
 gave vent to his despair. 
 
 " Since you are without pity," 
 cried he, "lam lost. Farewell for- 
 ever ! " and he rushed to the door, 
 which opened at that instant. 
 
 The father uttered a deprecatory 
 en, which died off into a semiquaver 
 of admiration, — for, at this moment, 
 a lady of dazzling beauty, arrayed in 
 a glorious robe that swept the ground, 
 crossed the poet's path, before ho 
 could reach the door, and, with a 
 calm, but queen-like gesture, rooted 
 
 him to the spot. 
 
 She uttered but one word, but that 
 wind. as she spoke it, seemed capable 
 of stilling the waves of the sea. 
 
 " Hold !" 
 
 No louder than you and I speak, 
 reader, but irresistibly. Such majesty
 
 260 
 
 AKT; A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 and composure came from her, upon 
 them, with this simple monosyllable. 
 They stood spellbound. Alexander 
 thought no more of flight ; nor Nathan 
 of pursuit. 
 
 At last, by one of those inspirations 
 that convey truth more surely than 
 human calculation is apt to, the poet 
 cried out : " This is herself, the other 
 was a personation ! " 
 
 " Berenice " took no notice of this 
 exclamation. She continued, with 
 calm majesty : — 
 
 " Listen to a queen, whose steadfast will 
 In chains is royal, in Rome uucouquered 
 
 still ; 
 O'er my bowed head though waves of sorrow 
 
 roll, 
 I still retain the empire of my soul." 
 
 Her two hearers stood spellbound. 
 And then did Alexander taste the 
 greatest pleasure earth affords, — to 
 be a poet, and to love a great actress, 
 and to hear the magic lips he loved 
 speak his own verse. Love, taste, 
 and vanity were all gratified at once. 
 With what rich flesh and blood she 
 clothed his shadowy creation ; the 
 darling of his brain was little more 
 than a skeleton. It was reserved for 
 the darling of his heart to complete 
 the creation. And then his words, O 
 what a majesty and glory they took 
 from her heavenly tongue ! They 
 were words no more, — they were 
 thunderbolts of speech, and sparks of 
 audible soul. He wondered at him- 
 self and them. 
 
 Oldfield spoke this line, 
 
 " O'er my bowed head though waves of sor- 
 row roll," 
 
 with a grand, though plaintive swell, 
 like the sea itself: it was really won- 
 derful. 
 
 Alexander had no conception he or 
 any man had ever written so grand a 
 line as " O'er my bowed head though 
 waves of sorrow roll." He was in 
 heaven. A moment like this is be- 
 yond the lot of earth, and compen- 
 sates the smart that is apt to be in 
 store, all in pood time, for the poet 
 that loves a great actress, that is to 
 
 say, a creature with the tongue of an 
 angel, the principles of a weasel, and 
 the passions of a fish ! 
 
 " And have those lips graced words 
 of mine ? " gasped Alexander. " My 
 verses, father ! " 
 
 " His verses ! no ! " said Nathan, 
 addressing the actress ; " can he write 
 like the sound of a trumpet ? " 
 
 " Yes ! Alexander, I like your play, 
 particularly a scene where this poor 
 queen sacrifices her love to the bar- 
 barous prejudices of her captors." 
 
 " My favorite scene ! my favorite 
 scene ! Father, she likes my favorite 
 scene ! " 
 
 " Gentlemen, be so good as to lend 
 yourselves to the situation a moment. 
 Here, Susan ! " In came Susan, her 
 eyes very red ; she had been employed 
 realizing that Alexander was not to 
 be hers. 
 
 " You, sir ! " continued Mrs. Old- 
 field, addressing Nathan, " are the 
 Consul, — the inexorable father." 
 
 "0, ami'?" 
 
 " Yes ! you must stand there, — on 
 that flower, — like a marble pillar, — 
 deaf to all my entreaties. You are 
 about to curse your son." 
 
 " I curse my boy % Never ! " 
 
 " Father, for Heaven's sake, do 
 what she bids you." 
 
 " Dress the scene," continued she, 
 — " farther off, Susan, — this is trag- 
 edy, don't huddle together as they do 
 in farce." 
 
 "But I am in such trouble, Anne." 
 
 " Of course you are, — you are 
 Tibulla, — you are jealous. You spy 
 all our looks, catch all our words. 
 Now, mind your business. The stage 
 is mine. I speak to my Tiberius." 
 She kicked her train adroitly out of 
 the way, and flowed like a wave on a 
 calm day towards Tiberius, who stood 
 entranced, almost staggering under 
 the weight of his own words, as they 
 rolled over him : — 
 
 " Obey the mandate of unfeeling Rome ; 
 Make camps your hearth, the battle-field 
 
 your home ; 
 Fly vain delights, fight fora glorious name, 
 Forget that e'er we met, and live for Fame."
 
 ART : A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 2G1 
 
 (In this last line she Logan to falter 
 a little.) 
 
 " Alas ! I, whom lost kingdoms could not 
 move, 
 
 Am mistress of myself uo more. I love ! 
 
 I love you, yet we part ; — my race pro- 
 scribe, 
 
 My royal hand disdain this barbarous tribe. 
 
 This diadem, that all the nations prize, 
 
 Is an unholy thing in Koman eyes." 
 
 She did not merely speak, she 
 acted these lines. With what a world 
 of dignity and pathos she said, " My 
 royal hand disdain ! " and in speak- 
 ing of the " diadem " she slowly 
 raised both hands, one somewhat high- 
 er than the other, and pointed to her 
 coronet, for one instant. The pose 
 would have been invaluable to Sculp- 
 tor or Painter. 
 
 " We are in the wrong," began 
 Nathan, soothingly, for the Queen 
 had slightly indicated him as one of 
 "the barbarous tribe." "A lady 
 like you. — The Romans are fools- 
 asses-dolts-and-bcasts," cried Nathan, 
 running the four substantives into 
 one. 
 
 " Hush ! father ! " cried the author, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " And you, young maid, kill not my wounded 
 hearlf, 
 Ah ! bid me not from my Tiberius part." 
 
 (Tears seemed to choke her utter- 
 ance. ) 
 
 "Ono! cousin," drawled out Su- 
 san, "sooner than you should die of 
 grief — it is a blow, but I give him 
 up — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Susan ! you 
 pur me out." 
 
 " Now it is too melting," whined 
 Nathan; "leave off, — there, do ye 
 leave off, — it is too melting." 
 
 " Is n't it ? " said Alexander, rayon- 
 iiinit. " Go on ! go on ! You whose 
 dry eve, — you whose dry eye, Mrs. 
 Ofdfield." 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield turned full on Nathan, 
 and, sin king hervoice intoadeeper key, 
 
 she drove the following lines, slowjy 
 and surely, through and through his 
 poor, unresisting, buttery heart : — 
 
 " You whose dry eye looks down on all our 
 
 tears, 
 Pity yourself, — ah ! for yourself have 
 
 fears. 
 Alone upon the earth, some bitter day, 
 You '11 call your son your trembling steps to 
 
 stay. 
 Old man ! regret, remorse, will come too 
 
 late ; 
 In vain you '11 pity then our sad, sad fate." 
 
 " But, my good sir, you don't bear 
 me out by your dumb play, — you are 
 to be the unrelenting sire — " 
 
 "Now, how ca-ca-ca-ean I, when 
 you make me blubber ? " gulped out 
 he " whose dry eyes," etc. 
 
 " And me ! " whined Susan. 
 
 " Aha ! " cried Alexander, with a 
 hilarious shout, " I 'vemade them cry 
 with my verses !" 
 
 A smile, an arch smile, wreathed 
 the Tragic Queen's countenance. 
 
 Alexander caught it, and, not be- 
 ing yet come to his full conceit, 
 pulled himself up short. " No," cried 
 he, "no! it was you who conquered 
 them with my weak weapon ; you 
 whose face is spirit, and whose voice is 
 music. Enchantress — " 
 
 Now Alexander, who was grace- 
 fully inclining towards the charmer, 
 received a sudden push from the excit- 
 ed Nathan, and fell plump on his 
 knees. 
 
 " Speak again," cried he, " for you 
 arc my queen. I love you. What is 
 to be my fate ? " 
 
 " Alexander," said Anne, fluttering 
 as she had never fluttered before, 
 " you have so many titles to my es- 
 teem. no! that won't do. See, 
 sir, he does it almost as well as I 
 do. 
 
 " Live, for I love you ; 
 My life is his who saved that life from harm ; 
 This pledge attests the valor of your arm." 
 
 Here look ! " And she returned him 
 hi> pocket-book. 
 
 " His pocket-book I" said Nathan, 
 his eyes glazed with wonder. " Why, 
 how did his tragedy eome in his pock- 
 et-book 1 I mean, his pocket-book in 
 his tragedy f which is the true part, 
 and w'hich is the lie? () dear! the 
 dog has made his father cry, and, now
 
 2G2 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 I have begun, I don't like to leave off 
 somehow." Then, before his several 
 queries could be answered, he contin- 
 ued, " So this is play-acting, and it 's 
 a sin ! Well, then, I like it." And he 
 dried his eyes, and cast a look of bril- 
 liant satisfaction on all the company. 
 
 He was then silent, but Alexander 
 saw him the next minute making 
 signals to him to put more fire and 
 determination into his amorous pro- 
 posals. 
 
 Before he could execute these in- 
 structions, a clock on the chimney- 
 piece struck three. 
 
 The actress started, and literally 
 bundled father and son out of the 
 house, for in those day plays began at 
 five o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield, however, invited 
 them to sup with her, conditionally ; 
 if she was not defeated in " The Rival 
 Queens." " If I am," said she, "it 
 will be your interest to keep out of my 
 way ; for of course I shall attribute it 
 to the interruptions and distractions 
 of this morning." 
 
 She said this with an arch, and, at 
 the same time, rather wicked look, 
 and Alexander's face burned in a 
 moment. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried he, " I should be 
 miserable for life." 
 
 " Should you 1 " said Anne. 
 
 " You know I must." 
 
 " Well then " (and a single gleam 
 of lightning shot from her eyes), "I 
 must not be defeated." 
 
 At five o'clock, the theatre was 
 packed to the ceiling, and the curtain 
 rose upon " The Rival Queens," about 
 which play much nonsense has been 
 talked. It is true, there is bombast in 
 it, and one or two speeches that 
 smack of Bedlam ; but there is not 
 more bombast than in other plays of 
 the epoch, and there is ten times as 
 much fire. The play has also some 
 excellent turns of language and some 
 great strokes of nature ; in particular 
 the representation of two different na- 
 tures agitated to the utmost by the 
 
 same passion, jealousy, is full of 
 genius. 
 
 " The Rival Queens " is a play for 
 the stage, not the closet. Its author 
 was a great reader, and the actors 
 who had the benefit of his reading 
 charmed the public in all the parts, 
 but in process of time actors arose 
 who had not that advantage, and 
 " Alexander the Great " became too 
 much for them. They could not 
 carry off his smoke, or burn with his 
 fire. The female characters, however, 
 retained their popularity for many 
 years after the death of the author, 
 and of Betterton, the first " Alexan- 
 der." They are the two most equal 
 female characters that exist in tragedy. 
 Slight preference is commonly given 
 by actors to the part of " Roxana " ; 
 but when Mrs. Bracegirdle selected 
 that part, Mrs. Oldiield took " Sta- 
 tira " with perfect complacency. 
 
 The theatre was full, the audience 
 in an unusual state of excitement. 
 
 The early part of the first act re- 
 ceived but little attention. At length 
 Statira glided on the scene. She was 
 greeted with considerable applause; 
 in answer to which, she did not duck 
 and grin, according to rule, but, 
 sweeping a rapid, yet dignified courte- 
 sy, she barely indicated her acknowl- 
 edgments, remaining Statira. 
 
 " Give me a knife, a draught of poison, 
 flames ! 
 Swell, heart ! break, break, thou stubborn 
 thing ! " 
 
 Her predecessors had always been 
 violent in this scene. Mrs. Oldfield 
 made distress its prominent sentiment. 
 The critics thought her too quiet, but 
 she stole upon the hearts of the audi- 
 ence, and enlisted their sympathy on 
 her side before the close of the act. 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, who stood at the 
 wing during the scene, turned round 
 to her toady, and said, shrugging her 
 shoulders : " O, if that is all the lady 
 can do ! " 
 
 In the third act Mrs. Bracegirdle 
 made her entree with great spirit, 
 speaking, as she came on, the line, 
 
 '* 0, you have ruined me ! I shall be mad ! "
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 2C3 
 
 She was received with great ap- 
 plause, on which she instantly 
 dropped Roxana, and became Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle, all wreathed in smiles ; 
 the applause being ended, she returned 
 to Roxana as quickly as it is possible 
 to do after such a deviation. She 
 played the scene with immense spirit 
 and tire, and the applause was much 
 greater than Statira had obtained in 
 the first act. 
 
 Applause is the actor's test of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 The two queens now came into 
 collision, and their dialogue is so 
 dramatic, that I hope I may be ex- 
 cased for quoting it, with all its 
 faults : — 
 
 Roxana. Madam, I hope you will a queen 
 
 forgive ; 
 Roxana weeps to see Statira grieve ; 
 How noble is the brave resolve you make, 
 Tu quit the world for Alexander's sake ! 
 Vast is your mind, you dare thus greatly die, 
 And yield the king to one so mean as I ; 
 'T is a revenge will make the victor smart, 
 And much I fear your death will break his 
 
 heart. 
 Statira. You counterfeit, I fear, and 
 
 know too well 
 How much your eyes all beauties else excel : 
 Roxana, who, though not a princess born, 
 In chains could make the mighty victor 
 
 mourn. 
 Forgetting power when wine had made him 
 
 warm, 
 And senseless, yet even then you knew to 
 
 charm : 
 l'reserve him by those arts that cannot fail, 
 While I the loss of what I love bewail. 
 
 Roxana. I hope your majesty will give 
 
 me leave 
 To wait you to the grove, where you would 
 
 grieve ; 
 Where, like the turtle, you the loss will moan 
 Of that dear mate, and murmur all alone. 
 Statira. No, proud triumpher o'er my 
 
 falling state, 
 Thou shall not stay to fill me with my fate •, 
 (io to the conquest which your wiles may boast, 
 And tell the world you left Slatira lost. 
 
 Oo seize my faithless Alexander's hand, 
 Both hand and heart were once at my com- 
 mand ; 
 Grasp his loved neck, die on his fragrant 
 
 breast, 
 Love him like me whose love can't be ex- 
 pressed. 
 He must be happy, and you more than blest, 
 While I in darkness hide me from the day, 
 
 Thai With my mind T may bis form BUrvejT, 
 And think so long, till 1 think lift away. 
 
 Roxana. No, sickly virtue, no, 
 Thou shalt not think, nor thy love's loss be- 
 moan, 
 Nor shall past pleasures through thy fancy 
 
 run ; 
 That were to make thee blest as I can be ; 
 But thy no-thought 1 must, I will decree ; 
 As thus, 1 '11 torture thee till thou art mad. 
 And then no thought to purpose can be had. 
 Statira. How frail, how cowardly, is 
 
 woman's mind ! 
 We shriek at thunder, dread the rustling 
 
 wind, 
 And glittering swords the brightest eyes" will 
 
 blind ; 
 Yet when strong jealousy inflames the soul, 
 The weak will roar, and calms to tempests 
 
 roll. 
 Rival, take heed, and tempt me not too 
 
 far; 
 My blood may boil, and blushes show a 
 
 war. 
 Roxana. When you retire to your ro- 
 mantic cell, 
 I '11 make thy solitary mansion hell ! 
 Thou shalt not rest by day, nor sleep by 
 
 night, 
 But still Boxana shall thy spirit fright ; 
 Wanton in dreams if thou dar'st dream of 
 
 bliss, 
 Thy roving ghost may think to steal a kiss ; 
 But when to his sought bed thy wandering 
 
 air 
 Shall for the happiness it wished repair, 
 How will il groan to find thy rival there f 
 How ghastly wilt thou look when thou shalt 
 
 see, 
 Through the drawn curtains, that great man 
 
 and me, 
 Wearied with laughing joys shot to the soul, 
 While thou shalt grinning stand, and gnash 
 
 thy teeth, and howl '. 
 Statira. barbarous rage ! my tears I 
 
 cannot keep, 
 But my full eyes in spite of me will weep. 
 Roxana. The king and I in various pic- 
 tures drawn, 
 Clasping each other, shaded o'er with lawn, 
 Shall be the dally presents 1 will send, 
 To help thy sorrow to her journey's end : 
 And when we hear at last thy hour draws 
 
 nigh, 
 My Alexander, my dear love, and I, 
 Will come and hasten on thy lingering fates, 
 And smile and kiss thy soul out through the 
 
 grates. 
 Statira. "T is well, I thank thee ; thou 
 
 hast waked a rage, 
 Whoso boiling now no temper can assuage ; 
 I meet thy tides of jealousy with more, 
 Dare thee to duel, and dash thee o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 Rarima. What would you dare ? 
 Statira, Whatever you dare do, 
 .My warring thoughts the bloodiest tracts pur* 
 
 BUG ; 
 I iin hy love a fury made, like you ; 
 Kill or be killed, thus acted by despair-
 
 2G4 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 Roxana. Sure the disdained Statira does 
 
 not dare '. 
 Statira. Yes, towering proud Roxana, but 
 
 I dare. 
 Roxana. I tower indeed o"er thee •, 
 Like a fair wood, the shade of kings I stand, 
 "While thou, sick weed, dost but infest the 
 
 land. 
 Statira- No, like an ivy I will curl thee 
 
 round, 
 Thy sapless trunk of all its pride confound, 
 Then, dry and withered, bend thee to the 
 
 ground. 
 "What Sysigambis' threats, objected fears, 
 My sister's sighs, and Alexander's tears, 
 Could not effect, thy rival rage has done ; 
 My soul, whose start at breach of oaths be- 
 gun, 
 Sli all to thy ruin violated run. 
 I '11 see the king in spite of all I swore, 
 Though cursed, that thou mayst never see 
 
 him more. 
 
 In this female duel Statira appeared 
 to great advantage. She exhibited 
 the more feminine character of the 
 two. The marked variety of senti- 
 ment she threw into each speech con- 
 trasted favorably with the other's 
 somewhat vixenish monotony ; and 
 every now and then she gave out vol- 
 canic flashes of great power, all the 
 more effective for the artful reserve 
 she had hitherto made of her physical 
 resources. The effect was electrical 
 when she, the tender woman, sudden- 
 ly wheeled upon her opponent with 
 the words, " Rival, take heed," etc. 
 And now came the climax ; now it 
 was that Mrs. Braccgirdle paid for 
 her temporary success. She had gone 
 to the end of her tether long ago, but 
 her antagonist had been working on 
 the great principle of Art, — Climax. 
 She now put forth the strength she 
 had economized ; at each speech she 
 rose and swelled higher, and higher, 
 and higher. Her frame dilated, her 
 voice thundered, her eyes lightened, 
 and she swept the audience with her 
 in the hurricane of her passion. 
 There was a moment's dead silence, 
 and then the whole theatre burst into 
 acclamations, which were renewed 
 again and again ere the play was suf- 
 fered to proceed. At the close of the 
 scene Statira had overwhelmed Rox- 
 ana; and, as here she had electrified 
 the audience, so in the concluding 
 
 passage of the play she melted them 
 to tears, — the piteous anguish of her 
 regret at being separated by death 
 from her lover ; — 
 
 "What, must I lose my life, my lord, for- 
 ever? " 
 
 And then her pitying tenderness 
 for his sorrow ; and then her prayer 
 to him to live; and, last, that exqui- 
 site touch of woman's love, more an- 
 gelic than man's, — 
 
 " Spare Roxana's life ; 
 " 'T was love of you that caused her give me 
 death " ; 
 
 and her death, with no thought but 
 love, love, love, upon her lips ; — all 
 this was rendered so tenderly and so 
 divinely, that no heart was untouched, 
 and few eyes were dry now in the 
 crowded theatre. Statira died ; the 
 other figures remained upon the 
 stage, but to the spectators the play 
 was over ; and when the curtain fell 
 there was but one cry, " Oldfield ! " 
 " Oldfield ! " 
 
 In those days people conceived 
 opinions of their own in matters dra- 
 matic, and expressed them then and 
 there. Roma locuta est, and Nance 
 Oldfield walked into her dressing- 
 room the queen of the English stage. 
 
 Two figures in the pit had watched 
 this singular battle with thrilling in- 
 terest. Alexander sympathized al- 
 ternately with the actress as well as 
 the queen. Nathan, to tell the truth, 
 after hanging his head most .sheep- 
 ishly for the first five minutes, yield- 
 ed wholly to the illusion of the stage, 
 and was " transported out of this ig- 
 norant present " altogether ; to him 
 Roxana and Statira were bona fide 
 queens, women, and rivals. The 
 Oldworthys were seated in Critics' 
 Row ; and after a while, Nathan's en- 
 thusiasm and excitement disturbed 
 old gentlemen who came to judge 
 two actresses, not to drink poetry all 
 alive O. 
 
 His neighbors proposed to eject 
 Nathan ; the said Nathan on this 
 gave them a catalogue of actions, any 
 one of which, he said, would re-estab-
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 205 
 
 lish his constitutional rights, and 
 give him his remedy in the shape of 
 damages ; lie wound up with letting 
 them know he was an attorney at law. 
 On this they abandoned the idea of 
 meddling with him as hastily as boys 
 drop the baked half-pence in a scram- 
 ble provided by their philanthropieal 
 seniors. So now Mrs. Oldfield was 
 queen of the stage, and Alexander 
 had access to her as her admirer, and 
 Nathan had a long private talk with 
 her, and then with some misgivings 
 went down to Coventry. 
 
 A story ought to end with a mar- 
 riage : ought it not ? Well, this one 
 does not, because there are reasons 
 that compel the author to tell the 
 truth. The poet did not marry the 
 actress, and beget tragedies and com- 
 edies. Love does not always end in 
 marriage, even behind the scenes of a 
 theatre. But it led to a result, the 
 value of which my old readers know, 
 and my young ones will learn, — it 
 led to a very tender and lifelong 
 friendship. And O, how few out of 
 the great aggregate of love affairs 
 bail to so high, or so good, or so af- 
 fectionate a permanency as is a ten- 
 der friendship ! 
 
 One afternoon Mrs. Oldfield wrote 
 rather a long letter thus addressed in 
 the fashion of the day : — 
 
 To Mr. Nathan Oldworthy, 
 Attorney at Law, 
 In the Town of Coventry, 
 
 At his house therein the .Market Street. 
 This, with all despatch. 
 
 Nathan read it, and said, "God 
 forgive me for thinking ill of any 
 people, because of their business!" 
 
 anil his eye-, filled. 
 
 Tin- letter described to Nathan an 
 
 interview the actress had with Al- 
 exander. That interview (several 
 months after our tale) was a lonjx, 
 and, at some moments, a distressing 
 one, especially to poor Alexander; 
 but it had been long meditated, and 
 was firmlj carried onl ; in thai inter- 
 view this generous woman conferred 
 one of the greatest benefactions on 
 12 
 
 Alexander one human being can 
 hope to confer on another. She per- 
 suaded a Dramatic Author to turn 
 Attorney. He was very reluctant 
 then ; and very grateful afterwards. 
 These two wefe never to one another 
 as though all had never been. They 
 were friends as long as they were on 
 earth together. This was not so very 
 long. Alexander lived to eighty-six ; 
 but the great Oldfield died at forty- 
 seven. Whilst she lived, she always 
 consulted her Alexander in all diffi- 
 culties. One day she sent for him ; 
 and he came sadly to her bedside ; it 
 was to make her will. He was sad- 
 der than she was. She died. She 
 lav in state like a royal queen ; and 
 noblemen and gentlemen vied to hold 
 her pall as they took her to the home 
 she had earned in Westminster Ab- 
 bey. Alexander, faithful to the last, 
 carried out all her last requests ; and 
 he tried, poor soul, to rescue her 
 Fame from the cruel fate that awaits 
 the great artists of the scene, — ob- 
 livion. He wrote her epitaph. It is 
 first-rate of its kind ; and priine Latin 
 for once in a way : — 
 
 Hie juxta requiescit 
 
 Tot inter Poetarum laudata nomina 
 
 ANNA OLDFIELD. 
 
 Nee ipsa minore laude digna. 
 
 Nunquain internum idem ad partes 
 
 diverBissimas nobllius luit. 
 
 Ita tamen ut ad singulas 
 
 non facta Bed Data esse videretur. 
 
 In Trageediis 
 
 Formaj splendor, oris Uignitas, incessus 
 
 maji'stas, 
 
 Tanta vocis BUavitate temperabantur 
 
 Ut nemo esset tam agrestis tarn durus 
 
 spectator. 
 Quin in admiratiotum totus raperetur. 
 In Comcedia autem 
 Tanta vis, tam venusta liilaritas, 
 
 Tam curiOBB felicitas, 
 Ut Deque Bufficerent spectando ocull, 
 Neque plaudeudo uaanus. 
 
 There, brother, T have dune what I 
 can for your sweetheart, and I have 
 reprinted your Epitaph, after one 
 hundred years. 
 
 But neither you nor I, nor all our 
 pens, can fight against the laws that 
 rule the Arts. Each of the great 
 Arts fails in something, is unap-
 
 266 
 
 ART: A DRAMATIC TALE. 
 
 proachably great in others (of that 
 anon). The great Artists of the 
 Scene are paid in cash ; tliey cannot 
 draw bills at fifty years' date. 
 
 They are meteors that blaze in the 
 world's eye, — and vanish. 
 
 We are farthing candles that cast 
 a gleam all around four yards square, 
 for hours and hours. 
 
 Alexander lived a life of business, 
 honest, honorable, and graceful too; 
 for the true poetic feeling is ineradi- 
 cable ; it colors a man's life, — is 
 not colored by it. And when he had 
 reached a great old age, it befell that 
 Alexander's sight grew dim, and his 
 spirit was weary of the great city, 
 and his memory grew weak, and he 
 forgot parchments, and dates, and re- 
 ports, and he began to remember, as 
 though it was yesterday, the pleasant 
 
 fields, where he had played among 
 the lambs and the buttercups in the 
 morning of his days. And the old 
 man said calmly, " Vixi ! There- 
 fore now 1 will go down, and see 
 once more those pleasant fields ; and 
 I will sit in the sun a little while ; 
 and then I will lie beside my father 
 in the old churchyard." And he did 
 so. It is near a hundred years ago 
 now. 
 
 So Anne Oldfield sleeps in West- 
 minster Abbey, near the poets whose 
 thoughts took treble glory from her, 
 while she adorned the world. And 
 Alexander Oldworthy lies humbly 
 beneath the shadow of the great old 
 lofty spire in the town of Coventry. 
 
 Requiescant in pace ! 
 
 " And all Christian souls, I pray 
 Heaven."
 
 PROPRIA QUiE MARIBUS. 
 
 A JEU D'ESPKIX.
 
 NOTE, 
 
 This jeu d'esprit was written some years ago, before the Author was so for- 
 tunate as to establish friendly relations with American Publishers, and, may 
 he venture to say ? with the American Public He has a reason for wishing 
 
 this to be known. 
 
 C. R. 
 
 Losdos, September, 1857.
 
 PROPRIA QUiE MARIBUS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JOHN COURTENAY was the son 
 of Richard Courtenay. Richard 
 was the younger son of a good Devon- 
 shire family : his elder brother inher- 
 ited four thousand a year, — he fifteen 
 hundred pounds down, from the same 
 relative, his father, — vive V Angleterre ! 
 
 His fifteen hundred pounds would n't 
 do in a genteel country like England : 
 so he went to America and commerce. 
 He died richer than the owner of 
 Courtenay Court. 
 
 John, Ins son, was richer still by 
 the same honorable means. 
 
 He was also a stanch republican : 
 the unparalleled rise and grandeur of 
 the United States might well recom- 
 mend their institutions to any candid 
 mind ; and John Courtenay spent his 
 leisare moments in taking the gloss 
 off John Hull's hide : he was not so 
 spiteful against him as some of those 
 gentry who owe their cleverness to 
 themselves, but their existence to 
 Hull, and forget it : his line was rath- 
 er cool contempt ; the old country was 
 worn out and decayed : progressing 
 like a crab instead of going ahead, 
 etc., etc., etc., etc. 
 
 For all this, one fine dnv something 
 seemed to crack inside John Courte- 
 nay's bosom, when he saw an an- 
 nouncement from the modest pen of 
 Rohins that Courtenay Court was in 
 the market. 
 
 He did not think such an adver- 
 tise men t would have interested him 
 
 air. more than Consols '.)f> and a half, 
 — lint it did. 
 
 This gentleman was at the moment 
 working a loan at 5 per cent with 
 Kentucky, and he had promised him- 
 self to be in it to the tune of £ 50,000 ; 
 but all this day he took more snuff 
 than was good for him, and the next 
 day, after breakfast and a revery, he 
 suddenly burst out, " Pshaw ! the worst 
 investment, in the worst country; a 
 sinking interest in a sinking kingdom." 
 
 " Papa ! " said a musical voice, 
 " your paying me no attention will, I 
 fear, end in your being worried." 
 
 This worrying meant a certain vio- 
 lent system of kissing, with which the 
 speaker used to fall upon John Courte- 
 nay when he was very good, or very 
 bad : she used it indifferently as a re- 
 ward or punishment. 
 
 This time, to her surprise, the old 
 gentleman answered her smiling threat 
 by opening his arms in a minute, and 
 saying, "My child ! " 
 
 In another moment Caroline Courte- 
 nay was in his arms ; he pressed his 
 lips to her brow and said, " I will do 
 it ! I will do it ! " 
 
 " What will you do, papa? " 
 
 " That is my business, I reckon," 
 said he, recovering the statesman and 
 man of business with rather a brusque 
 reaction : and off he bustled to Wall 
 Street, " where merchants most do 
 congregate." Shakespeare hem ! 
 
 Caroline stood irresolute and had a 
 mind to whimper. She thought her 
 affection had been for once half re- 
 pulsed. 
 
 Caroline! doubt anything — every- 
 thing — but a parent's love for his 
 only child.
 
 272 
 
 PKOPBIA QILE MAEIBUS. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 In three weeks after this the ham- 
 mer came to Courtenay Court; and 
 that hammer was wielded (I use 
 the term he would have selected) 
 by the St. George of the auction- 
 room. 
 
 Need I say the wood and water of 
 the estate had previously been painted 
 in language as flowing as the one and 
 as exuberant as the foliage of the 
 other ? 
 
 In the large hall were two fire- 
 places, where piles of beech log blazed 
 and crackled. 
 
 Mr. Robins made his bow and up 
 went Courtenay Court, manor, and 
 lordship, in a single lot. 
 
 There were present, besides farmers, 
 some forty country gentlemen, many 
 of whom looked business : they had 
 not examined their own horizon, as 
 John Courtenay, merchant, had. 
 Land was in vogue with them. 
 
 I don't wonder at it. Certainly a 
 landed estate is " an animal with its 
 mouth always open." But compare 
 the physical perception and enjoyment 
 of landed wealth with that of consols 
 and securities. 
 
 Can I get me rosy cheeks, health, 
 and good-humor riding up and down 
 my Peruvian bonds ? can I go out 
 shooting upon my parchment, or in 
 summer sit under the shadow of my 
 mortgage deed and bob for commas 
 and troll for semicolons in my river of 
 ink that meanders through my mead- 
 ow of sheepskin ? 
 
 Wherefore I really think land will 
 always tempt even the knowing ones, 
 until some vital change shall take 
 place in society ; for instance, till the 
 globe makes its exit in smoke, and 
 the blue curtain comes down on the 
 creation. 
 
 Three or four gentlemen held the 
 bidding up till about thirty thousand 
 pounds ; it then became flat. 
 
 And now one Adam Eaves, a farm- 
 er, pushed sheepishly forward, made 
 an advance on the bidding, and looked 
 ashamed. 
 
 Why lookest thou ashamed, O yeo- 
 man, Bulwark of our Isle 1 
 
 This is why 1 Adam Eaves farmed 
 two farms ; and he had for three years 
 been praying both his landlords for 
 decrease of rent, upon grounds that 
 nowise tallied with his little offer of 
 thirty thousand one hundred pounds 
 down on the nail for Courtenay Man- 
 or; and therefore looked he ashamed, 
 the simple-minded yeoman, Bulwark 
 of our Isle. 
 
 Joshua Tanner, linen-draper in the 
 market-town, he whose cry for ten 
 years had been the decay of retail 
 trade, was so surprised at this, that, 
 thrown off his guard, he bid an hun- 
 dred more ; hut, the mask once thrown 
 off, he blushed not, but sprinkled in- 
 sulting arrogance on all around. 
 
 Both these worthies, who, unlike us 
 writers, had for years announced 
 themselves beneath their true value, 
 gave way to heavier metal, and the 
 estate began to reach its real worth ; 
 it was at £ 38,000. 
 
 There was a pause. St. George 
 looked jocose, and felt uneasy. Were 
 they running cunning like their own. 
 hounds, these south country gentle- 
 men 1 
 
 He now looked carefully all round 
 the room : a long, attenuated figure 
 with a broad-brimmed hat on, stand- 
 ing by a distant window, met his eye, 
 and, as if to oblige him, now for the 
 first time made a cool, nonchalant 
 bid by nodding his head ; round went 
 all the company on their heels with 
 their backs to the auctioneer, as when, 
 in the last row of the Pit, two person- 
 ages of this our day go to fisticuffs, I 
 have seen the audience turn its hack 
 on the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius, 
 or Melantius and Amyntor. 
 
 Forty two, three, four thousand were 
 reached ; two country gentlemen bid- 
 ders turned red and white, — the pin 
 bid on, rythmically, at measured in- 
 tervals, like a chaff-cutting machine, 
 unconscious of opposition, indifferent 
 to result. 
 
 The estate was now at thirty years 
 purchase ; a hum that went round tho
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 273 
 
 room announced this fact without a 
 word spoken. All the hounds had 
 tailed off but one. He went on ; the 
 two bidders were strangely contrast- 
 ed ; it seemed odd they could both 
 want the same thing. In shape one 
 was like a pin ; the other a pin-cush- 
 ion. 
 
 Our friend at the window was all 
 one color, like wash-leather, or an act- 
 or by daylight ; the other, with his 
 head of white hair as thick as a boy's, 
 and his red brown cheeks, and his 
 bright eye, reflected comfort as bright- 
 ly as Hampton Court with its red 
 brick and white facings, and cheered 
 the eye like old Sun and old Frost bat- 
 tling for a December day. 
 
 At last the thin and sallow person- 
 age uttered these words : " Forty- sev- 
 en thousand pounds ! " in a nasal 
 twang, that seemed absurdly unjust 
 to the grand ideas such words excite 
 in elegant minds conscious how many 
 refined pleasures can be had for 
 £47,000. 
 
 His antagonist's head sunk for a 
 moment. 
 
 lie sighed, and, instead of bidding 
 higher, or holding his tongue, the two 
 business alternatives open to him, he 
 said, " Then it will never be mine! " 
 
 He said this so simply, yet with so 
 much pain, that some of those good 
 souls, who, unless they have two days 
 to think it over with their wives or 
 sisters, arc sure to take the pathetic 
 for the ludicrous, horse-laughed at 
 him. 
 
 He turned away. Mr. Robins did 
 not waste a second in idle flourishes ; 
 " When a tiling is settled, end it," 
 thought he ; he knocked the lot down 
 now as lie would a china teapot in a 
 sale of 200 lots, — and the old oaks 
 of Courtenay bowed their heads to a 
 Yankee merchant. 
 
 The buyer stepped up to the auc- 
 tioneer. 
 
 Mr. Ralph Seymour, the last bid- 
 der, made for the door : at the door 
 he buttoned with difficulty Ms coat 
 
 over his breast, for his heart was 
 swelling and Ins eye glistened, — it 
 
 l •_• • 
 
 was a bitter disappointment, — we 
 who live in towns can hardly think 
 how bitter. Such sales do not come 
 every day in the country : his estate 
 marched for a mile and a half with 
 the Courtenays. He had counted on 
 no competition but that of his neigh- 
 bors : he had bought it from them : 
 but a man who happened to want an 
 estate had come from Loudon, or, as 
 it was now whispered, from New York. 
 Any other estate would have suited 
 him as well, but he would have this. 
 
 Poor old gentleman ! He had told 
 Mrs. Seymour she should walk this 
 evening under the great birch-trees 
 of the Courtenays, — and they be 
 hers ! 
 
 They had been married 40 years, 
 and he had never broken his word to 
 her before. 
 
 The auctioneer read the buyer's 
 card. 
 
 " Sold to Mr. Jonathan Sims," 
 said he, responding to the open curi- 
 osity of the company. 
 
 " Ugh ! " went one or two provin- 
 cials, and then dead silence. 
 
 "Acting," continued the auction- 
 eer, " for Mr. John Courtenay of New 
 York." 
 
 There was a pause, — a hurried 
 buzz, — and then, to Mr. Sims's sur- 
 prise, a thundering" Hurrah ! " hurst 
 out that made the rafters ring and the 
 windows rattle. 
 
 " It 's Master Richard's son," 
 shouted Adam Eaves ; " My father 's 
 ridden many 's the time with Master 
 Richard, he rode the mule, and father 
 the jenny-ass after Squire Courte- 
 nay 's hounds, hurra in ! " 
 
 Omnes. " Hurraih ! " 
 
 The thorough-bred old John Bull 
 at the door, Mr. Ralph Seymour, 
 seethed glad of an excuse to get rid 
 of some bile foreign to his nature. 
 In three strides be was alongside 
 Jonathan, and had he been French 
 it was plain he would have said some- 
 thing worth repeating, but as he was 
 only English he grasped Mr. Simp's 
 hand like a vice, and — asked him to 
 
 dinner I 
 
 K
 
 274 
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 That is the English idea, — you 
 must ask a gentleman to dinner, and 
 you must give a poor man a day's 
 work, — that wins him. 
 
 John Courtenay came home : I 
 coolly omit the objections he took 
 chemin faisant to things in the old 
 country. They would fill a volume 
 with just remonstrance. 
 
 He came to his own lodge gate, — 
 the old mau who opened it sung 
 out : — 
 
 " Oh ! Master John, how like you 
 be to Master Richard, sure///." 
 
 Courtenay was astonished ; he 
 found this old boy had been thinking 
 of him all that way off for sixty years, 
 ever since his birth transpired. 
 
 The old housekeeper welcomed him 
 with tears in her eyes. 
 
 He dined in a room enriched with 
 massive old carvings ; he walked after 
 dinner under his avenue of birches 
 with silver stems of gigantic thick- 
 ness and patriarchal age. The house- 
 keeper put him in a bed his father had 
 slept in when a boy. 
 
 Soon the country gentlemen made 
 acquaintance with him. The strong 
 idea of distributive justice he had 
 brought from Commerce, and his 
 business habits, caused him to be con- 
 sulted and valued. 
 
 It is a fact that after some months 
 in Devonshire he developed a trait or 
 two of Toryism ; but they could not 
 make him believe that nations are 
 the property of Kings, and countries 
 their home farms. They did all they 
 could think of to corrupt him. They 
 made him perforce a justice of the 
 peace ; he remonstrated and pooh- 
 poohed, but was no sooner one than 
 he infused fresh blood into the with- 
 ered veins of justice in his district. 
 
 He became a referee in all nice 
 matters of rural equity. In short his 
 neighbors had all overcome any little 
 prejudice, and had learned his value 
 when — they lost him. His time was 
 come to close an honorable life by a 
 peaceful death. 
 
 Short as had been his career among 
 them, the whole county followed him 
 
 to his resting-place among the Courto 
 nays in Conyton Church vault. 
 
 He left all his land and all his 
 money by will to his daughter ; to 
 his will he attached a paper contain- 
 ing some requests. 
 
 One was that she would provide for 
 the aged housekeeper, and lodge-keep- 
 er, who knew her father and welcomed 
 him home, — he called it home ! But 
 there was nothing about where he 
 wished her to live : he did not de- 
 cide the great little question, is Amer- 
 ica or England the right place for us 
 globules to swell and burst in ? 
 
 In other words, when he wrote 
 these memoranda, John Courtenay 
 was dying, and thoughtless about the 
 kingdom whence came his root, or the 
 state where his flowers had bloomed, 
 than of a country he had learned to 
 look towards by being neither Yankee 
 nor Briton so much as an honest, God- 
 fearing man. So his thoughts were 
 now upon a land, older than Little 
 England, broader than the Great Unit- 
 ed States ; a land where Americans 
 and English are brothers. 
 
 And I warn them, and all men, to 
 be brothers here, lest they never see 
 that land. 
 
 Caroline Courtenay remained at 
 New York. There was little to tempt 
 her to leave her birthplace, and visit 
 the country which seemed to her to 
 have robbed her of her father. 
 
 It happened, however, almost three 
 years after Mr. Courtenay's death, 
 that a fresh circumstance changed her 
 feeling in that respect. 
 
 Young Reginald Seymour, who had 
 come to see the States, had brought 
 letters of introduction to her, and had 
 prolonged his stay from a fortnight 
 to eight months : and he was eloquent 
 in praise of Courtenay Court, arid of 
 his father's place which adjoined it ; 
 and what Reginald praised Caroline 
 desired to see. 
 
 Miss Courtenay combined two qual- 
 ities which are generally seen in op- 
 position, — beauty and wit. On her 
 wit, however, she had latterly cast 
 some doubt by a trick she had fallen
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBCS. 
 
 275 
 
 into. She had heen detected thinking 
 for herself, — ay, more than once. 
 This came of being- left an orphan, 
 poor thing ; she had no one to warn 
 her day by day against this habit, 
 which is said always to lead her sex 
 into trouble, — when they venture up- 
 on it : luckdy they don't do it very 
 often. 
 
 Wealth, wit, and beauty, meeting 
 with young blood, were enough to 
 spoil a character : all they had done 
 in this case was to give her a more 
 decided one than most young ladies 
 of her age have, or could carry with- 
 out spilling. 
 
 It so happened one day that a ques- 
 tion much agitated in parts of the 
 United States occupied a semicircle 
 of ladies, of whom Miss Conrtenay 
 was one. This was a new costume, 
 introduced by a highly respectable 
 lady, the editor of a paper called the 
 " Lily," and wife of a lawyer of some 
 eminence at Seneca Falls. 
 
 The company generally were very 
 severe on this costume, and proceeded 
 upwards from the pantalets to the 
 morals of the inventor, which, though 
 approved at Seneca by simple obser- 
 vation, were depreciated at New York 
 by intelligent inference. 
 
 When the conversation began, Miss 
 Conrtenay looked down on the Bloom- 
 er costume with supercilious contempt. 
 
 But its vitnperators shook her opin- 
 ion, by a very simple process, — they 
 gave their reasons ! ! ! ! 
 
 "It is awkward and absurd," said 
 one, as by way of contrast she glided 
 majestically to the piano to sin^ : as 
 she spoke her foot went through her 
 dress to the surprise of — nobody. 
 
 "It is highly indelicate to expose 
 any portion of the — in short — the, 
 the, the — ankle," continued the lady 
 Beating herself. 
 
 "It is! Miss Jemima," purred a 
 smooth, deferential gentleman, look- 
 ing over her ; his eve dwelt compla- 
 cently on two snowy hemispheres. 
 
 A little extravagance injures a good 
 cause. 
 
 At last Miss Courtenay, fired by 
 
 opposition and unreasonable reasons, 
 began to favor the general theory of 
 Bloomer. 
 
 Next she converted several friends ; 
 still to the theory only. This got 
 wind, and a general attack was made 
 on her by her well-wishers. Their 
 arguments and sneers completed the 
 business ; and she was bloomerized at 
 heart, when the following scene took 
 place in her own kitchen. 
 
 Eliza the cook was making pastry 
 on the long oak table ; her face was 
 redder than her work accounted for. 
 
 " Well, Eliza," said Mrs. Primmer, 
 the housekeeper, " your tongue won't 
 stop of itself; of course not; so I '11 
 stop it." 
 
 "Do, ma'am," suggested Eliza, with 
 meek incredulity. 
 
 " You sha' n't wear them here," said 
 Mrs. Primmer. 
 
 " La', ma'am," said the housemaid 
 Angelina, " she had better wear them 
 in the house than in the street with 
 two hundred boys at her heels." 
 
 " That is not my meaning," an- 
 swered Mrs. Primmer. " I hired you 
 for a female cook, and the moment 
 you put on — things that don't belong 
 to a woman, — our bargain's broke, 
 and you go." 
 
 " Well, it is an indelicate dress," ob- 
 served Angelina : then turning to John 
 Giles, Eliza's sweetheart, who was eat- 
 ing pork at the dresser, "don't you 
 think so, Mr. Giles ? " inquired she, 
 affectedly. 
 
 " I does ! " said Giles, with his 
 mouth full. Giles was a Briton in the 
 suite of young Seymour. 
 
 " Vulgar ! " suggested Angelina. 
 
 "And no mistake," said Giles, — 
 " it 's as vulgar as be blowed," added 
 he, clenching the nail with his polished 
 hammer. 
 
 " And who asked your opinion 1 " 
 inquired Eliza, sharply. 
 
 " Angelina 1" refilled Giles, — Giles 
 was matter-of-fact. 
 
 Eliza. " T mean to wear it for as vul- 
 gar as 't i-." 
 
 Giles. "Then you had better look 
 out for another man." (Applause.)
 
 276 
 
 PROPRIA QUJE M AMBUS. 
 
 Eliza. " O, they are always to lie had 
 without looking out : so long as there 's 
 pickled pork in the kitchen, they '11 
 look in." 
 
 Angelina. " Well, I think a woman 
 should dress to gratify the men " (with 
 an osi/lade at Giles) : "not to imitate 
 them." 
 
 Eliza. " The men ! so long as we 
 sweep the streets for them with our 
 skirts, they are all right. You talk of 
 delicacy : is dirt delicacy ? " 
 
 On this she whipped off a chair by 
 thc fire a gown that had met with a 
 misfortune : it had been out walking 
 on a wet day. Eliza put it viciously 
 under Angelina's nose, who recoiled. 
 An accurate description of it would 
 soil these pages. 
 
 " Is that pretty 1 " continued cook, 
 " to carry a hundred-weight of muck 
 wherever you go 1 " 
 
 " Dirt can't be helped," retorted 
 Primmer. " Indecency can." 
 
 " Indecent ? " cried Eliza, with a 
 face like scarlet. " Who 's going to be 
 indecent in this kitchen 1 " 
 
 " The gals," suggested Angelina, 
 " who wear — who wear — " 
 
 " Small-clothes," put in Giles. 
 
 A grateful glance repaid him for ex- 
 tricating the fair from a conventional 
 difficulty. 
 
 " What, it 's indecent because it 
 shows your instep, I suppose. You 
 go into the drawing-room this evening, 
 and the young ladies shall show you 
 more than ever a Bloomer will. ' Wo- 
 men's delicacy ' ! " said Eliza, putting 
 her hand under the paste and bringing 
 it down on the reverse with a whack. 
 " Gammon ! Fashion is what we care 
 for, not delicacy. If it was the fash- 
 ion to tie our right foot to our left ear, 
 wouldn't you do it 1 ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Angelina, with her lit- 
 tle hesitation. 
 
 " Then I would ! " cried Eliza, sac- 
 rificing herself to her argument. 
 " What did they wear last year," con- 
 tinued this orator. " Eh 1 answer me 
 that whisking to and fro as they 
 walked and drawiilg everybody's atten- 
 tion." 
 
 In speaking, Eliza was worse than 
 I am in writing, she never punctuated 
 at all. 
 
 " So you mean to wear them ? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Primmer, coming back 
 from the argument to the point. 
 
 Eliza. " Yes, I do ! " 
 
 Observe ! at the beginning of the 
 argument she had no such intention. 
 
 Mrs. Primmer. " Then I give you 
 a month's warning, here (and now), • 
 Eliza Staunton ! " 
 
 Eliza. " And I won't take it from 
 you Mrs. Primmer." 
 
 Mrs Primmer. " Who will you take 
 it from then 1 " 
 
 Eliza. " The mistress or nobody." 
 
 Angelina. " La ! Lisa ! You know 
 she never speaks to a servant." 
 
 Eliza. " She speaks to Mrs. Prim- 
 mer, don't she 1 " 
 
 Mis. Primmer. " Am I a servant, 
 hussy 1 Am I a servant ? " 
 
 Eliza. " Yes ! you are ; we are all 
 servants here : some is paid for doing 
 the work, and other some for look" 
 ing on and interrupting it here and 
 there." 
 
 Mrs. Primmer (gasping). "Leave 
 the kitchen, young woman." 
 
 Eliza. " The kitchen 's mine and 
 the housekeeper's room is yours old 
 woman." 
 
 " Go to the mistress and tell her I 
 want to come and speak to her ! " 
 gasped the insulted housekeeper, de- 
 prived of motion by her fury. 
 
 Angelina took but one step before 
 Eliza caught her, held the roller high 
 ahove her head, and saying, " If you 
 offer to go there I '11 roll ye up into 
 my paste," pushed her down into a 
 chair, where she roared and blub- 
 bered. 
 
 " O you rude, brutal-behaved wo- 
 man," cried Primmer, " I shall 
 faint." 
 
 Helps have an insolence all their 
 own : they say the most cutting things 
 with a tone of extra sweetness and 
 courtesy, that has the effect of fire 
 quenched with sweet oil, or brandy 
 softened with oil of vitriol. 
 
 With such sweet and measured
 
 moPKIA QUE MAR1BUS. 
 
 277 
 
 tones Eliza said, half under her breath : 
 " Giles ! you go — into the house- 
 keeper's room — and look behind the 
 door — and you'll find the biggest 
 brandy bottle you ever did see : Mrs. 
 Primmer wants it ! ! ! ! ! " 
 
 This dry little speech was harts- 
 horn : some spring seemed to have 
 been pressed, so erect bounced Mrs. 
 Primmer ! 
 
 She bustled up to Eliza, and, with 
 a spite that threatened annihilation, 
 gave her an infinitesimal pat on the 
 back of her head, and retired precipi- 
 tately with a face in which misgiving 
 already took the place of fury. 
 
 Eliza put down the roller quite lei- 
 surely, and cleaned her lingers slowly 
 of the dough. 
 
 " It is lucky for you," said she, firm- 
 ly, " that you are the same age as my 
 mother, or down vou 'd go on those 
 bricks. Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! " and 
 down went she on a chair opposite 
 Angelina, and her apron over her 
 head : for these women who are go- 
 ing to tear the house down and to 
 stand like Mercury on the debris (in 
 a Bloomer), with a finger pointing to 
 truth and a toe to futurity, are just 
 two shades more faint-hearted at bot- 
 tom than the others. 
 
 So Eliza and Angelina kept up the 
 bawl with great want of spirit, burst- 
 ing out in turns, after the manner of 
 strophe and antistrophe, — 
 
 " Et uluUirc pares et rfespondcre parata." 
 
 Meantime the manofoneideaatatirae, 
 Giles, was obeying orders, and going 
 after the bottle specified by Elba, and 
 had his hand on the door of the house- 
 keeper's room. 
 
 " Giles ! " screamed the proprietor ! 
 He stood petrified. " There is no 
 such thing in my room," said she, 
 with sudden calmness. 
 
 Giles returned to the dresser. 
 
 The present scene had lately re- 
 ceived an addition that made it per- 
 fect, — a satirical spectator. 
 
 The pantry window which looked 
 into the kitchen was opened by a foot- 
 man, whose head had been previously 
 
 seen bobbing wildly up and down as 
 he cleaned his plate. 
 
 This footman had admired Eliza, 
 but, outweighed by the solid virtues 
 and limbs of Giles, was furtively look- 
 ing out for a chance of disturbing the 
 balance. 
 
 Eliza and Angelina were now sob- 
 bing placidly. 
 
 Mr. Giles stretched his legs slowly 
 out before him, and said very slowly, 
 and with really an appearance of re- 
 flection, "Now all this here — bob- 
 bery — comes from a woman — mak- 
 ing up her mind — to wear — the — 
 B— ughahah oh, oh ! Ugh ! " 
 
 Eliza had bounced up in a rage and 
 dabbed the paste right over his mouth, 
 nose, eyes, face, and temples. He 
 should have spoken quicker. 
 
 It was nearly his death. However, 
 with horrible noises and distortions he 
 got clear of it. 
 
 The footman roared with laughter : 
 he thought he never had seen so truly 
 funny a thing done in his life, — none 
 of your vulgar jokes, — " legitimate 
 humor" thought John. (Giles bang 
 my rival.) Turning suddenly grave 
 he said : — 
 
 " Well, you ai - e drawing it mild, you 
 are, — here's the mistress coming to 
 sec who's cat 's dead." So saying 
 he slammed the window, and his head 
 went bobbing again over his spoons. 
 
 At this announcement histrionics 
 commenced. " Mrs. Primmer, mad- 
 am," began Eliza, demurely, with a 
 total change of manner, "I'm sure 
 ma'am you would n't take away a 
 poor girl's place that 's three thousand 
 miles away from home — all for a 
 word ma'am ! " 
 
 " You may pack up your box Eliza 
 for you won't sleep in this house," 
 \va< the grim answer. 
 
 "O Mrs. Primmer," remonstrated 
 Eliza, tearfully, " if you have no heart 
 for poor servants, where do you ex- 
 pect to gO to ! " 
 
 " I shall go nowhere," replied the 
 dignitary, " 1 shall stay here, it 's you 
 that shall march." Then, hearing a 
 light step approach, she astonished
 
 278 
 
 PROPRIA QtLE MAPJBUS. 
 
 them all by suddenly rising into a wild, 
 sonorous recitative. 
 
 " I have my mistress's confidence, 
 and will deserve it." 
 
 Miss Courtenay stood on the thresh- 
 old. 
 
 Mrs. Primmer's game was not to 
 see her. She intoned a little louder. 
 
 " No woman shall stay a day in this 
 house." 
 
 " Well I never ! "gasped Angelina, 
 looking towards the door. 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! no woman 
 shall stay a day in this house, who 
 thinks to put on that immoral, ondel- 
 icate, ondecent — Ah ! ah ! ah ! " 
 Primmer screamed, put her nose out 
 straight in the air, put on her specta- 
 cles and screamed again. 
 
 Miss Courtenay stood at the door 
 in a suit of "propria qute maribus." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Propria quae maribus tribuuntur, mascula 
 Uicas." 
 
 Eton Latin Grammar. 
 
 The world up to that moment had 
 never seen so smart a fella * as caused 
 Primmer's recitative to die in a qua- 
 ver. g {j}e stood on the threshold erect 
 yet lithe ; the serpentine lines of youth- 
 ful female beauty veiled yet not dis- 
 guised in vest and pantaloons of mar- 
 vellous cut, neat little collar ; dapper 
 shoes, and gaiters : delicious purple 
 broadcloth. 
 
 " Giles ! " groaned Mrs. Primmer, 
 "you may go for what Eliza said. 
 Anybody may do anything now ! I 
 nursed her on these knees," whined 
 the poor woman, with the piteous tone 
 that always accompanies this favorite 
 statement. 
 
 "Primmer!" said the Courtenay, 
 coldly, "theatrical exhibitions amuse, 
 but do not deceive ; be yourself." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," answered Primmer, 
 coldly, dropping her histrionics direct- 
 ly, and taking up her tact. 
 
 " Hearing cries of distress from my 
 
 * Observe the female termination. 
 
 household, I came to see if I could i*j 
 of any service to you : what is tho 
 matter ? " 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," put in 
 Eliza, hastily, " it is all along of Mrs. 
 Primmer being so hard upon the 
 Bloomers, ma'am." 
 
 A short explanation followed. 
 
 Eliza was asked why she had de- 
 fended this costume. 
 
 Eliza, having found such a backer, 
 was fluent in defence of the new cos- 
 tume. 
 
 The rest looked unutterable things, 
 but could say nothing. 
 
 In the middle of one of her long 
 sentences, her mistress cut her short, 
 congratulated her demurely on her 
 sense, informed her that she wished 
 one of the servants to assist her in a 
 little scheme for recommending the 
 dress; that she should have hesitated 
 to propose it, but, having found one 
 already so disposed, would use her 
 services. 
 
 " On my bed you will find — a cos- 
 tume : put it on immediately, and 
 come to me for further instructions." 
 So saving, she vanished with a slight 
 smile. 
 
 Eliza watched her departing form 
 with a rueful face. She discovered 
 when too late that she had never for 
 a moment intended to wear the thing, 
 and had only defended it out of con- 
 trariness ; she moved towards the door 
 like a lamb to sacrifice. 
 
 " Ahem ! " said Mrs. Primmer, 
 " you can go into the street dressed 
 like a hobbadehoy if you like, Miss 
 Staunton ; but, if I might ask a favor, 
 it is that you won't tell the people 
 what house you came out of: because, 
 you sec, I come of decent people in 
 the neighborhood that might feel hurt 
 and leave the town, owing to such a 
 thing being seen come out of the 
 house where I am ; that 's all, ma'am ; 
 and I am a regular attendant on pub- 
 lic and family worship." 
 
 This was said very politely. 
 
 "Well, ma'am," answered Eliza, 
 beginning as politely, but heating so 
 much per sentence. " I don't know
 
 PROPRIA QU/E MARIBUS. 
 
 279 
 
 as Bloomers are so like what you 
 mention, ma'am, as your own gown 
 would be, ma'am, if it was a bit clean- 
 er, ma'am : but whenever I meet 
 a new-married couple coming from 
 church, I '11 step up to the bride, and 
 I '11 say, ' Mrs. Primmer requests 
 you would be so good as not to put 
 on your nightgown before supper 
 next time — she 's turned so devilish 
 modest all of a sudden.' " 
 
 So saying, Eliza flounced out in a 
 rage, and, her blood being put up, 
 burned now to go through with it. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Reginald Seymour was a hand- 
 some, gentlemanly fellow, heir appar- 
 ent of the unsuccessful bidder for 
 Courtenay Court. 
 
 He had been for six months the 
 declared lover of the heiress ; and his 
 sister Harriet, warmly invited by Miss 
 Courtenay, had at length taken ad- 
 vantage of an escort offered by an 
 English family, and was a guest of the 
 Jiaiicci . 
 
 If Reginald had a fault, it was too 
 Strong a consciousness of the antiqui- 
 ty and importance of the Seymours ; 
 and, as that was combined with a de- 
 termination to hand down their name 
 as pure as they had received it, it was 
 a very excusable weakness. 
 
 lie was perhaps rather more formal 
 ami stately than suited Ids youth. 
 
 It was in the dusk of the evening, 
 Harriet Seymour, full dressed, came 
 into a Bort of antechamber with a 
 bouquet of choice (lowers in her hand, 
 and there encountered Caroline, for 
 whom in fact she was looking. At 
 Bight of her friend, Harriet did not 
 at first comprehend : all she realized 
 was that Caroline was not the thing. 
 
 "What! not dressed yet, Caro- 
 line ? " said she, " it is very late." 
 
 " I am dressed, dear." 
 
 " Why, of course, I see you have 
 some clothes on for fun, — he, he, — 
 but it is to be a ball, dear ! " 
 
 " My feet will be as unembarrassed 
 as yours, dear ! " replied Caroline, 
 quietly. 
 
 Harriet gave her the bouquet, and 
 said with much meaning : " Reginald 
 sends you these. Of course you did 
 not know he was returned." 
 
 " Of course I did," was the reply ; 
 " he is to be here." 
 
 Harriet. " 0, Reginald loves you, 
 Caroline." 
 
 Caroline. " So he pretends." 
 
 Harriet. " He loves you with all 
 the force of an honest heart, — and I 
 love you for his sake and your own : 
 give me the privilege of a sister : lefc 
 me advise you." 
 
 Caroline. " With all my heart." 
 
 Harriet. " Yes ! but advice is ap^ 
 to be ill received." 
 
 Caroline. " That is because it is 
 given hastily and harshly; but true 
 friends like you ! and me, — O fie ! " 
 
 Harriet. " Promise then not to be 
 angry with me." 
 
 Caroline. " Certainly ; only you 
 must promise not to be angry it I am 
 too silly or self-willed to take it." 
 
 Harriet. " I should not be angry, 
 love, though I might be grieved on 
 your own account." 
 
 Caroline. " Well, then, dear." 
 
 Harriet. "Well, then, dear, — do 
 not receive society in this costume. 
 I will never tell Reginald ; and do 
 not you let him know you ever woro 
 it." 
 
 Caroline. " But how can I help it, 
 when he is going to see inc in it 1 " 
 
 Harriet. "It is for your delicacy, 
 vour feminine qualities, he has loved 
 you." 
 
 ( 'aroline. " Has he i " [looking down.) 
 " Well, those qualities reside in our 
 souls, not our — habiliments." 
 
 Harriet. " Not in such habiliments 
 as those, lie will be shocked." 
 
 Carolirn . " Xo, only surprised a lit- 
 tle, lie! be ! " 
 
 Harriet. " He will be grieved, Car- 
 oline." 
 
 dunlin,. "I shall console him." 
 
 Harriet {with color heightening). "He 
 will be indignant."
 
 280 
 
 PROPRIA QILE MAEIBUS. 
 
 Caroline (ivith color rising). " I shall 
 laugh at him." 
 
 Harriet. " He will be disgusted." 
 
 Caroline. " Ah, — then I shall dis- 
 miss him." 
 
 Harriet. " I see I speak to no pur- 
 pose, Miss Courtenay. 
 
 Caroline. " To very little, Miss 
 Seymour." 
 
 Harriet. " I shall say no more, mad- 
 am." 
 
 Caroline. " You have said enough, 
 madam." 
 
 Harriet. " Since you despise my 
 advice, please yourself." 
 
 Caroline. " I shall take your ad- 
 vice at present." 
 
 Harriet. " But you will never be 
 my brother's wife." 
 
 Caroline, " Then I shall always be 
 mistress in my own house." 
 
 Harriet, who was at the door, re- 
 turned as if to speak, but she was too 
 angry ; gave it up, and retired half 
 choking. 
 
 A sacred joy filled Caroline's bo- 
 som, — she had had the last word ! 
 
 As she was about to pass out of the 
 room, who should enter hastily but 
 Reginald Seymour ? — her back was 
 towards him. 
 
 He called to her : " Can you tell 
 me where I shall find Miss Courte- 
 nay, sir % " 
 
 Caroline bit her lips, but she turned 
 sharply round, and said : " She is in 
 this room, madam ! " 
 
 "Oh!" said Reginald. He add- 
 ed, " Caroline ! " and looked 
 pained. 
 
 Caroline blushed, and if heavenly 
 looks and little female artifice could 
 have softened censure, they were not 
 wanting. 
 
 " What beautiful flowers you have 
 sent me ! " said she. " See, I threw 
 •away my formal bouquet for your 
 nosegay." 
 
 " You do mc honor," said the 
 youn^ gentleman, uneasily. 
 
 "Honor! — no! but justice; a sin- 
 gle violet from you deserves to be 
 preferred to roses and camellias." 
 
 "Dear Caroline! I withdraw, — 
 
 you are not dressed yet, and people 
 will soon arrive." 
 
 Caroline saw there was no real way 
 of escape, so with great external calm- 
 ness she said sweetly : — 
 
 " I am dressed, dear Reginald." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said he, as 
 not understanding her. 
 
 " I forgive you," said the sly thing, 
 taking him up, " there are so many 
 who do not see the beauty of — all 
 this : I have promised to wear it to- 
 night," continued she (not allow- 
 ing him to get in a word), "and to 
 compare it calmly and candidly with 
 other costumes ; you will be so 
 amused ; and we shall arrive at a real 
 judgment instead of violent preju- 
 dices, which you are above ; at least I 
 give you credit. I should not admire 
 you so much as I do if I doubted 
 that." 
 
 " Caroline ! " said the young gen- 
 tleman, gravely. 
 
 " Yes, Reginald ! " 
 
 " Dear Caroline, do you believe I 
 love you % " 
 
 " Better than I deserve, I dare say," 
 said Caroline. 
 
 " No ! as you deserve. I will not 
 own my love inferior even to your 
 merit. Do you believe that when we 
 are one my life will be devoted to your 
 happiness ? " 
 
 " I am sometimes goose enough to 
 hope so," murmured Caroline, avert- 
 ing her head. 
 
 " Shall you think ill of me then, if, 
 before marriage, I ask a favor, per- 
 haps a sacrifice, of you 1 I feel I shall 
 not be ungrateful." 
 
 " There," thought Caroline, " I am 
 not to wear it, — that is plain." 
 
 Reginald continued: "If you wear 
 this dress, you will give me pain be- 
 yond any pleasure you can derive." 
 
 " Reginald," said the poor girl, " I 
 wish to wear it, — now and then ; in- 
 deed, I had set my heart on making a 
 few, a very few — converts to it ; see 
 how pretty it is," (no answer) ; "but 
 for your sake, when I take it off to- 
 night, I will give it away ; and it shall 
 never, never olfeud any more."
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 281 
 
 Reginald kissed her hand. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Caroline," said he, stammering, 
 '• you do not quite understand me ; 
 it is to-day I beg you on no account to 
 wear it." 
 
 " O, to-day," said she, hastily, "I 
 have promised to wear it." 
 
 " I entreat you," said he ; " con- 
 sider ; if you once show yourself to 
 people from every part of New York 
 in this costume, what more remains 
 to be done ? " 
 
 " Reginald ! be reasonable," said 
 Caroline, more coldly. " I stand en- 
 gaged to some sixty persons to wear 
 this dress to-night. I have made you 
 a concession, and with pleasure, be- 
 cause I make it to you. It is your turn 
 now : you must think of me as well as 
 of yourself, dear Reginald. I am afraid 
 you must shut your eyes on me for a 
 few hours : that will spoil all my pleas- 
 ure ; or you must fancy, as many a 
 lover has been able to do, that I con- 
 secrate a dress, not that a dress has 
 power to lower me." 
 
 " O Caroline, do you value my re- 
 spect ? " 
 
 " Yes ! and therefore I shall keep 
 my word, and so you will feel sure I 
 shall keep my word to you too, if ever 
 I promise something about" (blushes 
 and smiles) " Love — honor — and 
 obey." 
 
 A battle took place in the young 
 man's mind. 
 
 He took several strides backwards 
 and forwards. 
 
 At last he hurst out : " There arc 
 feelings too strong to be conquered by 
 on]- wishes. 
 
 " I cannot bear that my wife should 
 do what three fourths of her sex think 
 indelicate. We never differed in opin- 
 ion before, we never shall again. 4 If 
 we do, be assured I will bow to you. 
 1 would yield here if I could : but I 
 cannot. 1 think you can ; if yon can, 
 have pity on m<\ and add one more 
 claim to iiiv life — k>njf gratitude/' 
 
 The balance trembled : the tears 
 wore in Caroline's eyes ; her bosom 
 Quite red ; wlu n th« Demon of Discord 
 
 inspired her proud nature with this 
 idea. 
 
 " He loves his prejudices better than 
 you," said Discord ; " and this is tyr- 
 anny, — coaxing tyranny if you will, 
 but still tyranny." 
 
 On this hint spake Caroline. 
 
 " I find I have rivals." 
 
 " Rivals ? " 
 
 " In your prejudices ! Reginald, nei- 
 ther person nor thing shall ever be my 
 rival. Show me at once which you 
 love with the deeper affection, Mr. Sey- 
 mour's prejudices, or Caroline Courtc- 
 nay. I shall wear this dress to-night, 
 — only for a few hours, — consider! 
 you will be here and keep me in coun- 
 tenance, — or you don't love me." 
 
 " No ! Caroline ! " said Reginald, 
 sadly and firmly. " I have spoken ; 
 our future life now rests in your hands. 
 I shall not come, — I shall arrange so 
 that if you degrade yourself (I still 
 cling to the hope you will not) I shall 
 hear of it, and leave the country that 
 minute. Were I to see it, by Heaven I 
 should leave the world." He said this 
 in great heat, but, recovering himself, 
 said : " Forgive me ! " kissed her hand, 
 and went despondently away. 
 
 Caroline, on his departure, wished 
 he had gone away in a pet instead of 
 sorrowful ; wished he had been her 
 husband to cut the matter short by 
 carrying her in his arms and securing 
 her in his dressing-room till the ball 
 was over ; wished she had never seen 
 the Bloomer costume ; wished she 
 could hide and cry in an attic till all 
 was over. 
 
 On her meditations entered a plum]) 
 figure with all manner of expressions 
 chasing one another over her counte- 
 nance : this was Eliza, who courtesied 
 to attract attention, and, failing, pre- 
 sumed that her deportment had not 
 corresponded with her costume: so 
 bowed instead, and ducked, and as a 
 hist resource gave a poll at the top of 
 her head, 
 
 Caroline. "Weill " 
 
 Elitta. " If you please ma'am, — 
 but if yon please ma'am am I to say 
 ma'am or sir now ma'am ? "
 
 282 
 
 PROPRIA QtLE MARIBUS. 
 
 Caroline. "Madam will do for the 
 present." 
 
 Eliza. " If you please, ma'am, Kitty 
 the housemaid, that was to wear the 
 short-waistcd gown before the compa- 
 ny, says she won't put it on for a 
 double dollar." 
 
 Caroline. " Promise her four dollars 
 then." 
 
 Eliza. "Yes-m." 
 
 Caroline. " The girl's mother would 
 have been as loath to wear a long 
 waist." 
 
 Eliza. "Yes-m." 
 
 Caroline. " And to-morrow morning 
 tell Primmer to discharge her." 
 
 Eliza. " Yes-m ! Oho," thought 
 Eliza, " then now is the time to trim 
 that old fagot Primmer." 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, I have the 
 greatest respect for Mrs. Primmer, be- 
 cause she has been here longer than I 
 have, and is a good servant, ma'am, 
 there 's no denying it ; but, if you 
 please, 'm, there's no putting Mrs. 
 Primmer out of her turnpike road, as 
 the saying is. She says, if I don't 
 make the jellies and blamonge, she '11 
 make you turn me off, ma'am, now 
 how can I when I 've got to learn off 
 all those words you gave me if you 
 please, ma'am, am I to take your or- 
 ders or Mrs. Primmer's-m 1 " 
 
 Caroline. " Now I must ask you a 
 question, — who are you ? " 
 
 Eliza. " La, ma'am ! I am Eliza, 
 mum ! Cook, mum ! I make the 
 Guava jelly that you like so, ma'am." 
 
 Caroline. " Very well ! then, Eliza 
 Cook, for six hours you are my lieu- 
 tenant here, and queen in the kitchen ; 
 give your orders, and discharge Prim- 
 mer, and every man and woman in 
 the house that disobeys you, and I '11 
 confirm all you do." 
 
 Eliza. " Yes-m " (with flashing 
 eyes). 
 
 Caroline. " And, if you abuse your 
 authority, you shall be the first vic- 
 tim ! " 
 
 Eliza. "Yes-m" (crestfallen). 
 
 " There," said Eliza to herself, as 
 she absconded with a modest rever- 
 ence, " I 'vc been and given you a dig 
 
 in your old ribs with my rolling-pin, 
 Mrs. Primmer." 
 
 " Until to-day," thought her mis- 
 tress, " a look from me was law, and 
 now every creature high and low 
 thwarts and opposes me, — ever since 
 I put these vile things on." 
 
 Now some would have carried the 
 reasoning out thus — ergo — take 
 these vile things off! 
 
 But this sweet creature never 
 dreamed of that path of inference. 
 
 " Of this there can be but one 
 consequence," said she, " I shall do 
 it ten times the more." 
 
 She then burst out crying ; which 
 was an unfair advantage the Bloomer 
 took over poor Reginald ; for after a 
 shower of tears pretty flowers are in- 
 vigorated. 
 
 Rat a tat ! tat a tat, tat ! tat ! tat ! 
 tat! 
 
 The guests arrived. We shall only 
 particularize one : Mr. Fitzpatrick, an 
 Irish gentleman, who had retained the 
 delightful qualities of his nation, and 
 rubbed off its ignorance and down its 
 prejudices. 
 
 Handsome, gay, and, though not 
 varnished, polished, he was as charm- 
 ing a companion as either a man or 
 woman could desire. 
 
 Fitzpatrick's flattery was agreeable 
 to the ladies ; it was so very sincere, 
 — he really saw en beau both them 
 and all their ways. 
 
 At sight of Miss Courtenay in a 
 Bloomer, he was ravished. 
 
 " O Miss Caroline, but that 's a beau- 
 tiful costoome ye 'vc invented ; the 
 few of us that 's left standing will fall 
 to-night : ye've no conscience at all." 
 
 " I did not invent the hideous 
 thing ; it is Bloomer." 
 
 'I Bloomer '] ye 're joking. What ! 
 is it this that they 've been running 
 down 1 O the haythen barbarians ! ! ! ! 
 Ye were a rainbow at the last ball, 
 but now ye 're a sunbeam, — ye '11 
 not be for dancing the first dance with 
 an uncouth Celt "? " 
 
 " You will not be for waiting till 
 the seventh, Mr. Fitzpatrick ! "
 
 PROPRIA QU2E MARIBUS. 
 
 283 
 
 "Is it only six ye 're engaged? 
 O but I 'm in luck to-night." 
 
 Mr. Fitzpatrick had been for some 
 time puzzled which he loved most, — 
 Harriet Seymour or Caroline Courte- 
 nay ; but last week he had decided iu 
 favor of the latter, without prejudice 
 to the former. 
 
 The dancing was kept up with some 
 spirit for two hours ; and then Caro- 
 line's associates were observed to steal 
 out and to make for various apart- 
 ments in her very large house on the 
 doors of which their respective names 
 were written in chalk. 
 
 Results, not processes, are for the 
 public eye. 
 
 Suffice it to say at present, in excuse 
 of Caroline's obstinacy, that she had 
 been at no small trouble and expense 
 to carry out her little idea. She had 
 also read, drawn, composed, and writ- 
 ten. Others that saw the work had 
 given her credit for some talent, great 
 talent of course they said ; anil she was 
 mortified to think her lover would not 
 give her this opportunity of showing 
 him her wit, on which she secretly val- 
 ued herself more than on her beauty. 
 
 A polka concluded. A tide of ser- 
 vants poured in. A semicircle of 
 seats sprung up. A pulpit rose like 
 an exhalation, and, almost before her 
 guests could seat themselves, Caro- 
 line was a lecturer wearing over her 
 Bloomer a 13. C. L. gown from Ox- 
 ford, and the four-cornered cap of that 
 University on her head. 
 
 L'EffronUet Of whom think you 
 she had borrowed this two days be- 
 fore ? Of Reginald! 
 
 The optimist Fitzpatrick was en- 
 chanted. 
 
 Sin: was more beautiful in this than 
 even in a Bloomer. Ami indeed it 
 become her ; the gravity of the dress 
 made a keen contrast with her arch- 
 ness. She was like a vivid flower 
 springing unexpectedly from some 
 time-stained wall, — dancing, vanity, 
 wit, pique at Reginald, and the Mat- 
 tery of others, maile her check flush, 
 her eves Hash. 
 
 " Ahem ! " said she, in the dry-as- 
 
 dust tone of a lecturer. "Ladies and 
 gentlemen : as you will have to bear 
 with many costumes this evening, 
 permit me to begin with this : — 
 
 " I wear it, ladies and gentlemen, be- 
 cause it is supposed to confer a right 
 to be tedious, ahem ! 
 
 " I am here to attack two principal 
 errors. 
 
 " One is that such fashions as em- 
 barrass the limbs are of a nature to 
 last upon earth. 
 
 " The other is that pantaloons are 
 essentially masculine, and sweeping 
 robes feminine. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, we women 
 can only predict the Future by exam- 
 ining the Past, — moles and rabbits 
 may have some other way, though I 
 think not. Eliza, 
 
 ' Call back past facts with lessons fraught ' 
 To teach us, — if we cau be taught.' " 
 
 Eliza opened the door. 
 
 Miss Spilman the musical associate, 
 splashed a magnificent chord on the 
 piano, and in sailed Queen Elizabeth ! 
 I mean a lady in the exact costume in 
 which that queen went into the city 
 to return thanks for the destruction 
 of the Spanish Armada. 
 
 Set a stomacher three feet long be- 
 tween two monstrous jelly bags, upon 
 a bloated bell, and there you have 
 this queen and her successor in New 
 York. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said the 
 lecturer. 
 
 " Common sense fell flatter than 
 Spain, the day Royalty appeared 
 thus ! 
 
 " Could a duck make a doll, this 
 would be the result. 
 
 " Yet this costume, as much admired 
 once as ours is now, is only the prin- 
 ciple of our own carried a step fur- 
 ther : at the head of our principle is 
 the sack, in which rustics jump at a 
 fair, — next comes Queen Bess, and 
 then come we. 
 
 " With us motion is embarrassed. 
 
 " With Queen Bess motion is im- 
 /i, ih <l. 
 
 " With the sack motion is obstructed.
 
 284 
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 " In rational and therefore perma- 
 nent costumes motion is free, — Vide 
 Time and the World." 
 
 A CHORD. 
 
 With a multiplicity of affectation 
 in came a courtier the point of whose 
 shoes touched his knees, and he 
 seemed proud of them. 
 
 No remark was made : this thing 
 spoke for itself. 
 
 Next a noise was heard, and with 
 infinite difficulty a lady was squeezed 
 in who wore the genuine hoop. 
 
 Two short-waisted ladies came in. 
 
 Everybody laughed at the sight of 
 them. 
 
 Her success taking this form, one of 
 them burst out a crying : this was 
 Kitty, who was instantly attempted 
 to be consoled (as the papers phrase 
 it) by Mr. Fitzpatrick; he told her 
 nothing could disguise her comeli- 
 ness ; and really thought so at the 
 moment. 
 
 This dress set people talking; those 
 who had worn it confessed to the 
 younger ones that they had thought 
 it beautiful, and had anticipated the 
 destruction of Nature as soon as the 
 demise of this phase of the unnatural. 
 
 Then followed jigot sleeves. 
 
 Two chords were struck on the 
 piano, and Miss Courtenay resumed 
 her lecture thus : — 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 " All these pood people when they were here 
 thought they must bo here forever. 
 
 Or as long as men and women and Prim- 
 rose Hill and the Mississippi River. 
 
 But they proved more like the flower than 
 the hill that bears its name. 
 
 And, instead of the great Mississippi, they 
 were bubbles floating down that same." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Such fashions are like poppies spread : 
 You seize the flower, the bloom is fled : 
 Or like a snow-flake on a river, 
 A moment seen then gone forever." 
 
 " We have shown you the costumes 
 that could not stand the shock of 
 time ; you shall now see what sort of 
 costumes have stood the brunt of cen- 
 
 turies : compare the Bloomers with 
 each in turn, and you will be on the 
 path of truth." 
 
 Armenian, Polish, and Sicilian 
 peasants were tben introduced, whose 
 limbs were free enough, goodness 
 knows : they ranged themselves in a 
 line opposite their stiff competitors, 
 and a Bloomer took up the recitative. 
 
 " All these, unlike the Bloomer, confine the 
 limbs and make the ribs to crack. 
 
 All those, like Bloomers, free the mind, the 
 body, and the back. 
 
 So hail to great Amelia, who takes a sex out 
 of a sack." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " For grace is motion unconfined, 
 Like rippling sea or sweeping wind, 
 Free as the waves of yellow corn 
 That bows to greet the breezy morn." 
 
 The applause had but just subsided, 
 when a clear, rich, quaint voice arose, 
 and to the surprise of the company 
 trilled forth the following stanza to 
 some fossil tune, — Chevy chase, we 
 really believe. 
 
 " The ass with four legs has the wit 
 None of those four to tether, 
 But there 's a greater ass with two 
 That ties those two together." 
 
 While the others sat aghast at this 
 stanza, Fitzpatrick was gratified. 
 " Now that was like honey dropping 
 from the comb," observed he. 
 
 " Now you know, Mr. Fitzpatrick, it 
 was like vinegar distilling from a 
 cruet," replied Miss Courtenay. 
 
 " There was an agreeable acidula- 
 tion, compared with yours. Miss 
 Courtenay, but, in itself, delicious ! " 
 retorted the optimist. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," said the 
 modern Portia, " the first head of my 
 lecture is before you. I am now to 
 prove that pantaloons are not neces- 
 sarily masculine, nor long skirts femi- 
 nine." 
 
 On this entered two Persian women 
 in gorgeous costume and very spa- 
 cious trousers. 
 
 They salaamed to Caroline and the 
 Bloomers, but seemed staggered by
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 285 
 
 the other figures. "Whilst they whis- 
 pered and eyed the company, Caro- 
 line lectured. 
 
 "Ladies, this costume is worn hy 
 half the well-dressed women in the 
 world ; and we must not flatter our- 
 selves we are more feminine than 
 Mussulwomen. On the contrary, these 
 pantalooned females practise a reserve, 
 compared with which the modesty of 
 Europe is masculine impudence." 
 
 A Lady. " Make them speak. I 
 don't think they arc women at all." 
 
 Caroline. " They are women, I as- 
 sure you, Miss White ; forone of them 
 has just borrowed a pin of me." 
 
 Miss \V. " Then why don't they 
 talk i " 
 
 Caroline. " He ! he ! the inference 
 is just. They arc going to speak un- 
 less they have forgotten all I — " 
 
 Zuleima. " They have feet and even 
 legs. Holy Prophet, here are wo- 
 men who inutile their feet, and reveal 
 their necks to the gaze of man." 
 
 Fatima. " What dirt has this peo- 
 
 5 tie eaten ? Can this be the great 
 Trank nation whose ships subdue ev- 
 ery sen, and whose wisdom and prob- 
 ity are such that the evil spirit him- 
 self cannot get the better of them in 
 making bargains ? are these sea-kings 
 sprung from lunatics, who hide their 
 feet which were made for show and 
 motion, and reveal their faces and 
 necks, which is unlawful '. " 
 
 Znh inid. " Daughter of the Com- 
 mander of the Faithful, vour slave 
 has an idea !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 
 
 Fatima (started). "Biamillah! In 
 the name of the Prophet, let me hear 
 it." 
 
 Ztili ima. " Three revolutions of the 
 moon are compleicd since we sailed 
 in ships from Istanboul : in the mean 
 time Sheitan has doubtless obtained 
 permission to derange this people's 
 intellects, that so they may be con- 
 verted to the true faith, the faith of 
 [slam. Thus, their brains being con- 
 founded, they muffle their feel mid re- 
 veal their necks without shame to the 
 gaze of man. Your slave has spo- 
 ken ! ! " 
 
 Fatima. " It is well spoken : it is 
 also a nation which sups on opium, 
 and drinks hot wine as a camel sucks 
 water in the desert. We will there- 
 fore sit on ottomans and laugh." 
 
 Zuleima. " Bechishm ! on my eyes 
 be it." 
 
 Fatima. " Seven days." 
 Zuleima. " And seven nights." 
 Fatima. "At these children." 
 Zuleima. " Of burnt fathers." 
 Fatima and Zuleima. " We will 
 laugh — 
 
 Seven days 
 And seven nights 
 At these children 
 Of burnt fathers ! " 
 They then sat like little tailors on 
 two ottomans opposite each other, and, 
 nodding like mandarins, laughed me- 
 chanically, as became people who 
 were going to make seven nights of 
 it. 
 
 Caroline. " Adsis, O Cato ! Call 
 him, Eliza." 
 
 Eliza. "If you please, 'urn, would 
 you say them words again." 
 Caroline. "Adsis, Cato." 
 Eliza. " Assist us, old King Cole ! " 
 Cato swept in with a magnificent 
 toga. 
 
 " Adsum," said he, " quis me vo- 
 cat ? " 
 
 Caroline. "Be pleased, sir, to tell 
 us which are the most masculine and 
 which the most feminine of these 
 souls." 
 
 Cato folded his arms and took three 
 antique strides. " These cackling 
 creatures," said he, " are Persian wo- 
 men, this " (Eliza) " is a native I be- 
 lieve of some barbarous country not 
 yet under the dominion of Koine." 
 
 Eliza. " Nor don't mean to." 
 
 <'n!o. "These with black plaster 
 stuck to them arc of the genus siinii, 
 or apes. The rest with toga' but no 
 beards are, I suppose, of the Epicene 
 gender, — dismiss me." 
 
 A CIIOKI). 
 
 Cato. "Abeo" [chord) " excedo " 
 (chord) " evado " (chord) "erumpo."
 
 286 
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 Four strides, one for each verb, took 
 him out with a sharp and pleasing ef- 
 fect. 
 
 This ended the lecture ; and a dance 
 of all ages and climes was proposed. 
 
 "I can't hop, as you do nowa- 
 days," remonstrated the hoop. " I 
 was taught to dance." 
 
 " Grace was in all my steps," said 
 the courtier. 
 
 Said Caroline: "Dance in your own 
 way, dress in your own way, and let 
 your neighbors have their way ; that 
 is the best way ! " 
 
 A dance was then played with no 
 very marked accent; and mighty 
 pleasant it was to see couples polk- 
 ing, couples gavotting with all the 
 superstition of antiquated grace, — and 
 waltzes and jigs and tarantula : the 
 sanctified solemnity with which polite 
 people frisk was for this once ex- 
 changed for sty gravity and little 
 bursts of merriment. Boom ! 
 
 A gun at sea. 
 
 The great steamer was starting for 
 England. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight. There 
 was a general move to the supper- 
 room, which had four windows look- 
 ing seaward. 
 
 One old lady lingered a moment to 
 convey to her host her opinion of the 
 lecture. 
 
 " You are a very clever young lady ! 
 your lecture was very ingenious." 
 
 " I am fortunate in your friendly 
 consideration of it, madam," said Car- 
 oline. 
 
 " The women in trousers were fun- 
 ny!" 
 
 " If it gave my friends a smile, Miss 
 Ruth." 
 
 " It will make Bloomers, I believe. 
 It was as good as a play, Miss Courte- 
 nay ; and I shall never enter your 
 house again, madam ! " With this 
 conclusion, Miss Ruth became a ver- 
 tical rod and marched off. 
 
 The next moment a servant brought 
 Caroline a letter ; she opened it. A 
 smile with which she was listening to 
 Fitzpatrick's admiration became a 
 stone smile, as her eyes fixed them- 
 
 selves on the paper. She gave a cry 
 like one wounded, and, stretching out 
 her hands with a tender helplessness 
 that at once gave the lie to her dress, 
 she sank insensible into Mr. Fitzpat- 
 rick's arms. 
 
 The steamboat was taking Reginald 
 past her window to England. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Several months after this event, 
 a young gentleman was seated in a 
 study, book in hand, but by no effort 
 could he give his mind to the book : 
 he sighed; turned the leaves, and 
 gave it up in despair, — this was Regi- 
 nald Seymour, whose offended digni- 
 ty and delicacy had borne him stiffly 
 up for five months, but could support 
 him no longer. 
 
 He had now had leisure to remem- 
 ber the many high qualities of her 
 whose one fault he had thought un- 
 pardonable. He had flung away a 
 jewel for a single flaw : jewels are 
 rare : he began to think he had been 
 a fool, and to know he was wretched. 
 
 What was to be done ? he had 
 been silent so long, that now he was 
 ashamed to write, and when he had 
 with a great struggle determined to 
 make the first overtures, a letter from 
 his sister had given him a mysterious 
 hint that it would now be too late to 
 attempt an accommodation. 
 
 Reginald was not one of those who 
 babble their griefs, and cure them- 
 selves in ten days by tormenting all 
 their friends. 
 
 He was silent, distracted, reserved. 
 
 His own family, who guessed the 
 cause of his low spirits, respected him 
 too much to approach the subject, or 
 to let strangers into the secret. 
 
 They permitted him to be misera- 
 ble in peace. 
 
 lie thanked them in his heart, and 
 availed himself to the full of their 
 kind permission. 
 
 He took possession of a room whose 
 windows looked on Courtenay Court,
 
 PROPRIA QUiE MARIBUS. 
 
 287 
 
 and in that room, in the company of 
 the immortal dead, — il s'eunuijail. 
 
 One of these painful reveries was 
 interrupted by a visitor, an old gen- 
 tleman in black gaiters and a white 
 head ; it was the Reverend James 
 Tremaine, Perpetual Curate of Cony- 
 ton. An old and true friend of both 
 houses, and Reginald's tutor for many 
 years, Mr. Tremaine had not seen his 
 depression without interest. He was 
 acquainted with the cause. The Sey- 
 mours had few secrets from hitn. 
 Certain features in every story vary 
 according to the side we hear it from ; 
 and Mr. Tremaine secretly congratu- 
 lated Reginald on his escape from a 
 strong-minded woman ; he called, not 
 to keep his pupil's mind fixed on the 
 subject, but to divert him from it. 
 
 After noticing with regret the 
 ■young man's depression, he asked 
 permission to be his physician. 
 
 " I see," said he, " what it is, you 
 want some fixed intellectual pursuit ; 
 will vou allow me to recommend you 
 one?'" 
 
 "As many as you like, dear sir," 
 said Reginald, " for I am wearied of 
 my life. 1 have nothing to do," add- 
 ed he, thinking he was throwing dust 
 in his mentor's eyes. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine took his cue, and 
 then and there proposed to his late 
 pupil's attention an interesting pur- 
 suit, — suited to that part of the coun- 
 try, — Geology. "It is a science," 
 said he, " which lifts you out of this 
 ignorant present, and transports you 
 into various stages of this earth's ex- 
 istence ; vou barn on its threshold 
 what a mushroom in this world's great 
 story is the author of the Pyramids. 
 
 " Vou find that the earth was red- 
 hot for millions of years, and spouted 
 liqtml stone like a whale, — in that 
 stone look for no si^us of vegetation, 
 and still fewer of life. Then for mil- 
 lions of years the upper crust has been 
 Cooling, and water depositing rubbish 
 
 which lias coagulated into stone; and 
 in this Btratifled stone you shall find 
 things that lived or grew very hue in 
 the world's history, in fact within a 
 
 few million years of mammoths, who 
 preceded man by a few thousand years 
 only ; at least I think so, since the flesh 
 of mammoths has been found in ice in 
 our own day." 
 
 The old gentleman then hinted, 
 with a twinkle of the eye, that this 
 science has also its prose ; that, by 
 breaking stones with iron in them, 
 men have repaired their shattered for- 
 tunes ; that coal, silver, iron, and 
 even gold are as common as dirt, 
 only not quite so superficial ; and that 
 geology, really mastered, would teach 
 its proficient the signs of their pres- 
 ence, that it would be better to circu- 
 late over the face of Devonshire with 
 hammer and book, than to be a prey 
 to weariness without the excuse of 
 work. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine had not observed 
 what we have, that snobs in fustian 
 jackets, without a single hard word to 
 their backs, find all the gold and all 
 the coal that is found, and science 
 finds the crustaciorii dun culm. 
 
 As for botany, Mr. Tremaine rec- 
 ommended it only as a relaxation of 
 the more useful study ; at the same 
 time he hinted it was amusing to be 
 able to classify plants, not by their 
 properties, bat their petuls, and to call 
 everything by its long name that lie- 
 iongs to twenty other things as well, 
 instead of knowing each by a peculiar 
 title, as the vulgar unscientific do. 
 
 "0, le plaisant projet!" exclaims 
 my reader, " he knows the boy is in 
 love, and prescribes geology and bot- 
 any." 
 
 Well, is not one folly best cured by 
 another? But is this sort of thing 
 folly, especially in a youth born to 
 fortune ? 
 
 Experience is our onl}' safe guide 
 in all things, — and experience proves 
 that geology and botany are roads to 
 happiness. 
 
 ( >thcr things are constantly tried in 
 vain, — these seldom fail. 
 
 Ambition is raging agitation fol- 
 lowed by bitter disappointment. 
 
 Wit, an unruly engine, recoils on 
 li i in that plays it.
 
 288 
 
 PROPRIA QtLE MARIBUS. 
 
 Politics, love, theology, — art, are 
 full of thorns ; but when you see a 
 man perched like a crow on a rock, 
 chipping it, you see a happy dog. 
 You who are on the lookout for 
 beauty find irregular features or lack- 
 lustre dolls, — you who love wit are 
 brained with puns or ill-nature, the 
 two forms of wit that exist out of 
 books : but the hammerist can jump 
 out of his gig at any turn of the 
 road and find that which his soul 
 desires ; the meanest stone a boy 
 throws at a robin is millions of years 
 older than the Farncse Hercules, 
 and has a history and a sermon to 
 it. 
 
 Stones arc curious things. If a 
 man is paid for breaking them he is 
 wretched : but if he can bring his 
 mind to do it gratis he is at the sum- 
 mit of content. 
 
 With these men life is a felicitous 
 dream, — they are not subject to low 
 spirits ; they smile away their human 
 day ; and when they are to die they 
 are content. Is it because they can 
 take anything easy by giving it a hard 
 name ? is the grave to them a creta- 
 ceous or argillaceous or ferrugineous 
 bed? 
 
 No ! It is because their hobbies 
 have been innocent ; and other men's 
 hobbies are often full of vice. 
 
 They have broken stones, while 
 egotists have been breaking human 
 hearts. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine was enlarging on 
 such topics with more eloquence and 
 method than I, when his patient be- 
 came animated with a sudden expres- 
 sion of surprise, hope, joy. 
 
 He looked out of the window. 
 
 The old gentleman looked too. 
 " Ah " cried he, " I see ! Yes ! 
 Reginald ! that is better than science 
 and beyond the power of art." 
 
 " Yes," said Reginald. 
 
 " That glorious breadth of golden 
 sunlight that streams across that 
 foliage" continued the savant. 
 
 " Sunshine and leaves ! " cried Regi- 
 nald " it is something of more impor- 
 tance I am looking at." 
 
 " More importance than sunshine," 
 said the old gentleman, faintly. 
 
 " Yes ! see ! the smoke from those 
 chimneys ! ! " 
 
 Mr. Tremaine looked, and Courte- 
 nay Court was smoking from a dozen 
 chimneys at once. He was taken off 
 his guard. 
 
 "She must be come home," said 
 he, " or coming." 
 
 Reginald seized him by the hand. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine was right, Caro- 
 line was expected at Courtenay Court. 
 The next day she arrived, bringing 
 Miss Seymour, who went to her fa- 
 ther's house. 
 
 They had been escorted across the 
 water by Mr. Fitzpatrick, but he re- 
 mained in town. Before they left 
 New York this gentleman had de- 
 clared himself Caroline's professed 
 admirer. Caroline asked him with 
 some archness which he loved best, 
 her or Miss Seymour. The question 
 staggered him for a moment, — but 
 he said, " Can you ask ? " Cross- 
 examined however, he was brought to 
 this, that he liked Caroline a shade 
 better than Harriet. 
 
 During the voyage home Mr. 
 Fitzpatrick lost a portion of his gay- 
 ety, and was seen at times to be 
 grave and perplexed, — novel phe- 
 nomenon. 
 
 Harriet Seymour and Caroline had 
 got over their tiff, and indeed Harriet 
 for months past had sided rather 
 with her friend than her brother. 
 " Caroline was wrong," said she ; 
 " but Reginald was more wrong. He 
 ought to hive forgiven a woman a 
 caprice." Harriet therefore spent the 
 evening of her arrival at home, but 
 early next morning she rode over to 
 Courtenay Court to bear her friend 
 company. She was the more eager 
 to lend her her countenance because 
 others were so hard upon her. For 
 the evening of her arrival Caroline
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 289 
 
 was discussed at Seymour Hall. The 
 old people, including Mr. Tremaine, 
 spoke of her with honor. Tomboy, 
 vixen, and even strong-minded wo- 
 man, from which Heaven defend 
 males! They congratulated them- 
 selves and Reginald on his escape from 
 her. Reginald maintained a dogged 
 silence. But when Harriet stoutly 
 defended his late sweetheart, and 
 declared that her faults were only on 
 the surface, he cast a look of gratitude 
 at her, that she caught and compre- 
 hended. Nor was her defence quite 
 lost on others. Mr. Tremaine asked 
 her quietly : " Has Miss Courtenay 
 really anything good about her ? " 
 " Judge for yourself" replied Harriet, 
 with a toss of the head ; " call ou 
 her, — she is your parishioner." 
 
 "Humph! 1 don't like strong-mind- 
 ed women; they say she can swim 
 into the bargain ; but I certainly will 
 call on her." 
 
 To return, Caroline and Harriet were 
 walking in the grounds of Courtenav 
 Court, at some distance from the 
 house : Harriet was lionizing the mis- 
 tivss, showing her her beauties, the 
 famous old yew-tree, the narrow but 
 deep water that meandered through 
 her grounds, and each admired view 
 and nook. It was charming ; and 
 both ladies did loud admiration, and 
 did not care a button for it all. 
 
 Harriet. " Is Mr. Fitzpatrick com- 
 ing to-day ? " 
 
 Caroling. " I don't know. What a 
 curious bridge 1 It looks like a long 
 gate, — shall we cross it ? " 
 
 Harriet " Not for the world, — the 
 water is ever BO deep." 
 
 Caroline. " 1 do not mean cross the 
 water, only the bridge." 
 
 Harriet. " Rut see bow crazy it is : 
 the wood is go old. Nobody has lived 
 here ever so long : and then it is so 
 bard to keep on it too." 
 
 Caroline looked wistfully at the prim- 
 ilive bridge. " If I bad mv liloomer 
 on I would soon be over it,'' said 
 she; "but this appendage would catch 
 my feet and draggle in the water at 
 every step." 
 
 13 
 
 Harriet implored her friend never to 
 mention that word again. "Bloomer! 
 It is the cause why we are all unhap- 
 
 py" 
 
 " What, are you unhappy ? What 
 about? O, he will be here to-day, 
 dear, — ten to one." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Mr. Fitzpatrick ! " 
 
 " Mr. Fitzpatrick is your lover, not 
 mine," said Harriet, coloring all over. 
 
 " So he is : I forgot ! O, look at 
 the tail of your gown, — three straws, 
 two sticks, and such a long brier." 
 
 Harriet. " Put your foot on it, dear ! 
 These lawyers are the plague of this 
 county." 
 
 Caroline. " Lawyers ? " 
 
 Harriet. " I forgot, you don't know 
 our country terms : we call these long 
 briers lawyers, because when onco 
 they get hold of you — " 
 
 Caroline. " I understand. All to 
 be avoided by a little Bloomer." 
 
 Harriet. " Now, Caroline, don't ! I 
 wish the woman hail never been born ! 
 Let us go into the shade." 
 
 An observer of the sex might have 
 noticed the same languor and the 
 same restlessness in both these ladies, 
 though one was Yankee and one Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 At last they fell into silence. It was 
 Caroline who broke this silence. 
 
 " Nobody comes to welcome me, or 
 even sends. How hospitable these 
 British are ! If I had quarrelled with 
 any one in their own country, ami tin n 
 they came to mine, I should be gen- 
 erous : I should make that an excuse, 
 for holding out the baud, and being 
 friends any way, if I could be nothing 
 more. But the people here are not 
 of my mind. All the worse for them. 
 Much I care. I shall go ami sec w here, 
 they have buried my father (I don't 
 believe he would have died if he bail 
 not come here), and then I shall go 
 back home across the water to my 
 country, where men know how to 
 quarrel, ay, and fight too. and then 
 drop it when it is done with." 
 
 Thus spake the Yankee girl. Tlio 
 English girl colored up : but she did
 
 290 
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 not answer back, except by turning 
 brimming eyes and a look of gentle 
 reproach on her. 
 
 On this, partly because she was un- 
 happy, partly because this mild look 
 pricked her' great though wayward 
 heart, the Yankee girl began to cry 
 bitterly. 
 
 On this, the English girl flung her 
 arms round the Yankee girl's neck, 
 and cried with her. 
 
 " Dearest, he loves you still." 
 
 " Still, — he never loved me, Har- 
 riet ! O no, he never loved me ! Oh ! 
 oh ! " 
 
 " You forget, — I have been home 
 — I have seen him. He is pale — he 
 is sad " 
 
 " That is a c-c-comfort, — I w-w- 
 wish he was at d-d-death's door ! " 
 
 " He is far more unhappy than you 
 are." 
 
 " I am so glad, I don't believe it." 
 
 " You may believe it. I have seen 
 it." 
 
 At this moment a servant was seen 
 approaching : he came up, touched his 
 hand tu Caroline with a world of ob- 
 sequiousness, and informed her the 
 parson had called to see her and was 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 " The parson i " 
 
 " The Reverend Mr. Trcmainc, 
 miss." 
 
 " A great friend of our family," ex- 
 plained Harriet. 
 
 " Ah, tell me all about him as we 
 go along." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine. " Will she receive 
 me in a Bloomer? " 
 
 Harriet. "I don't know. I hope 
 not. She was decent a minute ago." 
 
 Tremaine. " Perhaps she has gone 
 to put one on." 
 
 Harriet gave a start, and had a mis- 
 giving, Caroline being a devil. "Heav- 
 en forbid," she cried, " I will go and 
 see." 
 
 The next minute a young lady of 
 
 singular beauty and grace glided into 
 the room. She was dressed richly, but 
 very plainly. Mr. Tremaine looked 
 at her with surprise. " Are you Miss 
 Courtenay '? " 
 
 She smiled sweetly and told him 
 she was Miss Courtenay. She added 
 that Mr. Tremaine was no stranger 
 to her, — she had often heard of him 
 and his virtues, in happier days. 
 After that she thanked him for being 
 the first to welcome her home. 
 
 " We shall all feel flattered at your 
 calling it home, Miss Courtenay : we 
 must try and keep you here after 
 that." 
 
 In about ten minutes the intelligent 
 young beauty had not only dissolved 
 Mr. Tremaine's prejudices against her, 
 but had substituted a tolerably strong 
 prejudice in her favor. 
 
 " This quiet, lady-like, dignified, 
 gentle, amiable, beautiful young wo- 
 man a tomboy ? " said he to himself. 
 " I don't believe it. It surpasses be- 
 lief: it is false." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," began the old 
 gentleman, "your late father during 
 the short time he was among us gained 
 the respect of the whole country. I 
 cannot help thinking you will be his 
 successor in our esteem as well as in. 
 Courtenay Court." 
 
 Miss Courtenay bowed with quiet 
 dignity. 
 
 " The worst of it is, we are an 
 old-fashioned people here in Devon- 
 shire. We are strait-laced, perhaps too 
 strait-laced — ahem ! in short, shall I 
 be presuming too far on our short ac- 
 quaintance if (pray give me credit 
 for friendly motives) I ask permission 
 to put you a question 1 But no, — 
 when I look at you, — it is impossi- 
 ble." 
 
 " What is impossible, sir 1 " 
 
 " That you can ever have — by the 
 by, they say you can swim, Miss 
 Courtenay "; and the old gentleman 
 colored a bit. 
 
 " A little, not worth boasting of," 
 replied Caroline, modestly. " I think
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIDUS. 
 
 2C1 
 
 I could make shift to swim across this 
 room, if the sea was in it." 
 
 " 0, no farther than that ? well, 
 there is not much harm in that. Cut 
 they do say you have done us the 
 honor, ahem, to wear male habili- 
 ments. Is that true ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Tremaine, I have. 
 Let — me — see! I think it was at a 
 fancy ball ; in my own house ; at 
 New York." The words were said 
 with assumed carelessness and candor. 
 
 " What, on no other occasion 1 " 
 " On no other public occasion. 
 Why ? " 
 
 " Then really I think too much has 
 been made of it. But you are said to 
 advocate the Bloomer costume." 
 
 " I have often advocated it in words, 
 sir, but wearing it is a different matter, 
 you know." 
 
 " Very different, very different in- 
 deed," said Tremaine, hastily. 
 
 " I could not help advocating it, 
 its adversaries argued so weakly 
 against it. Shall 1 repeat their argu- 
 ments, and my own 1 " 
 
 "If you please." 
 
 Caroline then, with the calm indif- 
 ference of a judge, stated the usual 
 arguments pro and con, and did not 
 fail to dwell upon the trousers of 
 Eastern women. Mr. Tremaine took 
 her up : " There is a flaw in your rea- 
 soning, I think." said he. " Those 
 Eastern women distinguish themselves: 
 from men by a thick veil. They all 
 wear a thick veil. 
 
 " It appears to me that the true ar- 
 gument against Bloomer has never 
 been laid before you. It is this. In 
 every civilized nation the entire sex is 
 distinguished by some marked cos- 
 tume. But Bloomer proposes that 
 one third of the women should be at 
 variance with the other two thirds." 
 
 " O no, sir, she is for dressing them 
 all in Bloomer." 
 
 "No. Excuseme: how would old 
 \\omen and fat women look in a 
 Bloomer ? how would young matrons 
 look at that period when a woman i> 
 next a woman' Xo ; the dress of 
 Women must clearly be some dress 
 
 that becomes all women, at all times 
 and occasions of life. There are 
 plenty of boys of sixteen or seventeen, 
 who could be dressed as women and 
 eclipse all the women in a ball-room : 
 but it would be indelicate and unman- 
 ly ; you, with your youthful symmet- 
 rical figure, could eclipse most young 
 men in their own habiliments : but it 
 would be indelicate and unwomanly. 
 Forgive me, — I distress you." 
 
 "No, sir, but you convince me, and 
 that is new to me. I admit this argu- 
 ment at once, and so I would have done 
 six months ago ; but no one had the 
 intelligence to put the master to me 
 so," said the sly thing. 
 
 " You seem to be a very reasonable 
 young lady." 
 
 '• I try to be : it is the only merit I 
 have." 
 
 " There I must contradict you 
 again, and stoutly. Well, then, sinca 
 the Bloomer difficulty is despatched, 
 let me have the honor and happiness* 
 of reconciling an honorable young 
 man to the most charming young 
 lady I have met with this manya day." 
 The charming young lady froza 
 directly. 
 
 " I will not affect to misunderstand 
 you, sir. But the difference between 
 Mr. Seymour and myself lies deeper 
 than this paltry dress, — lies too deep 
 for you to cure. The Bloomer was a 
 mere pretext. Mr. Seymour did not 
 love me." 
 
 " Excuse me. I know better." 
 " Whet.' we love people, we forgive 
 their faults. We forgive their virtues 
 even." 
 
 Mr. Trcmaino looked at her with 
 some surprise ! The Devonshire ladies 
 had not tongues so pointed as the fail- 
 Yankees. 
 
 "lie did love you; ho docs love 
 you ! " 
 
 "No, Mr. Tremaine! no! Was 
 that a fault for any one, who really 
 loved me, to quarrel out and out with 
 a spoiled child for '. " Here two tears, 
 the one real, the Other crocodile, rail 
 down her lovely cheeks and did thfl 
 
 poor old gentleman's business entirely.
 
 292 
 
 PROPRIA QVM MARIEUS. 
 
 " He deserves to be hanged," cried 
 he, jumping up in great heat. " Young 
 fool ! hut he does love you, tenderly, 
 sincerely ! He has never been happy 
 since. He never will be happy, till 
 you are reconciled to him. He is wait- 
 ing in great anxiety for ray return. 
 I shall tell him to ride over here, 
 and just go down — on — his — knees 
 to you and ask your forgiveness. If 
 he does, will you foryive him 1 " 
 
 " I will try, sir," said Caroline, 
 doubtfully ; " but he owes much to his 
 advocate, and so you must tell him." 
 
 " I shall he vain enough to tell him 
 so, you may depend " ; and away 
 went Mr. Tremaine, Caroline's devot- 
 ed champion through thick and thin 
 from this hour. As he rode away, 
 zeal and benevolence shining through 
 him, Caroline said dryly to herself: 
 " I am your friend for life, old boy." 
 Harriet came in and heard the news. 
 She was delighted. Reginald will be 
 here as fast as his horse's feet can 
 carry him. Mr. Tremaine is all-pow- 
 erful in our house. 
 
 " So I concluded from what you 
 told me," said Caroline, demurely, 
 " and I — hem — will you excuse me 
 for half an hour ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, you will find me on the 
 lawn." 
 
 Full three quarters of an hour had 
 elapsed, and Harriet was beginning 
 to wonder what had become of her 
 friend, when a musical laugh rang be- 
 hind her. She turned round and be- 
 held a sight that made her scream 
 with terror and dismay, — there stood 
 Caroline in propria quae maribus, as 
 bold as brass. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The face of uneasy defiance Caro- 
 line got up, when Harriet faced her, 
 was truly delicious. " It is all over," 
 gasped Harriet, "you are incurable." 
 
 " He loves me," explained Caro- 
 line. " When I felt like giving in, I 
 did n't think he loved me." 
 
 Harriet made no reply. She marched 
 off stiffly. The Bloomer followed, 
 and tried to appease her by reminding 
 her how hard it was to give in as long 
 as a chance of victory remained. 
 " Hard ? it is impossible, — it hurts ! " 
 No answer. 
 
 '• It was all that dear old man's 
 fault, for letting out that he loves me 
 still, and is unhappy : so then he is 
 in my power, and I can't give in now ; 
 and I won't. No ! let us see whether 
 it is me or my clothes he loves. Ah ) 
 ah. O my dear girl, here he comes ! 
 let me get behind you. O dear, I wish 
 I had n't ! " 
 
 Sure enough Reginald was coming 
 down to the other side of the stream. 
 
 Caroline got half behind Harriet. 
 
 Reginald came along the bridge to 
 join them. 
 
 " I wish it would break down," said 
 Caroline, " and then I 'd run home, 
 and I know what I would do." 
 
 The words were out of her mouth 
 and no more, when some portion of 
 the rotten wood gave way, and splash 
 went Reginald into the water. Har- 
 riet screamed. Caroline laughed; bu'; 
 her laughter was soon turned to dis- 
 may. Reginald sank. He came up 
 and struggled towards the wood-work, 
 but in vain : the current had carried 
 him a yard or two from it, and even 
 that small space he could not recover. 
 He was too proud to cry for help, but 
 he was drowning. 
 
 " He can't swim," cried Caroline, 
 and she dashed into the stream like a 
 water-spaniel : in two strokes she was 
 beside him and seized him by the 
 hair. One stroke took her to the rem- 
 nant of the bridge ; " Lay hold of 
 that, Reginald," she cried ; he obeyed, 
 and while she swam ashore he worked 
 alon^ the wooden bridge to the bank. 
 The moment she saw him safe she be- 
 gan to laugh again, and then what 
 does my lady do but sets off running 
 home full pelt before he could say a 
 word to her? He followed her, crying, 
 " Caroline, Caroline ! " It was no 
 use, she was in her Bloomer, and ran 
 like a doe.
 
 PROPRIA QILE MARIBUS. 
 
 293 
 
 " O Reginald, go home and change 
 your clothes," cried the tender Har- 
 riet. 
 
 " What, go home, before I have 
 thanked my guardian angel, — my 
 beloved 1 " 
 
 " Your guardian angel must change 
 her clothes (they are spoiled forever 
 now, that is one comfort), and you 
 must change yours, — you will catch 
 your death." 
 
 "At least tell her she shall wear 
 what she pleases — tell her — " 
 
 " I will tell her nothing ; come and 
 tell it her yourself iu dry clothes ; 
 frightening me so ! " 
 
 Reginald ran to the stables, got his 
 horse, galloped home ; dressed him- 
 self and galloped back, and came 
 into Caroline's drawing-room, open- 
 mouthed: " Wear what you like, dear 
 Caroline ; why, where is the Bloomer 
 gone ? you 're in a gown ! No mat- 
 ter — forgive mc — (J forgive me — I 
 have been ungrateful once — I never 
 will again, my beloved — what, did I 
 not owe you enough before, that you 
 must save my life ? Caroline ! one 
 word ! can the devotion of a life re- 
 store me the treasure I once had and 
 trifled with ? " Then he fell to kiss- 
 ing her hands and her gown. 
 
 Then she, seeing him quite over- 
 came, turned all woman. 
 
 " Reginald," she murmured, and 
 sank upon his neck, all her archness 
 dissolving for one sacred moment in 
 tears and love. 
 
 " What did you say about Bloom- 
 er, Reginald, dear? " 
 
 " I said you should wear whatever 
 you liked, sweet one." 
 
 " ( ), then we are never to agree ; for 
 I mean to wear whatever you like." 
 
 This was " the way to take her," 
 one of that sort. 
 
 They are to be made slaves of just 
 as easily as the hen-hearted ones. 
 But ye must not show them the chain. 
 
 Mr. Fitzpatrick came in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Caroline. " Mr. Fitzpatrick, will 
 you come here i " 
 
 Fitzpatrick. "1 will." N. B. An 
 Irishman always consents, and never 
 says " Yes." 
 
 Caroline (with a twinkle in her eye). 
 " Will vou do me a favor 1 " 
 
 Fitz. "I will." 
 
 Carol. " Do you see that lady sit- 
 ting there ? " (Harriet.) 
 
 Fitz. "I do" (coloring). 
 
 Carol. " Go and marry her." And 
 she gave him a push that seemed less 
 than a feather, but somehow it pro- 
 pelled Fitz all across the room and 
 sent him down on his knees before 
 Harriet. There were only these three 
 in the room. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine married two couples 
 in one day : Reginald and Caroline, 
 Fitzpatrick and Harriet. I ought to 
 explain to those who have not seen it 
 that during the voyage Fitz had dis- 
 covered it was Harriet he loved a shade 
 the best of the two. 
 
 At the wedding breakfast, arrayed 
 in white and adorned with wreaths, 
 both the Yankee and the English beau- 
 ty, were intolerably lovely. No one 
 seemed more conscious of this double 
 fact than Fitz. Caroline observed his 
 looks and said to him confidentially : 
 " Would n't you like to have married 
 both ladies now 1 tell the truth ! ! ! ! " 
 " Indeed and I would," replied the 
 candid Celt, unconscious of any satire 
 in the question. 
 
 America takes two hundred thou- 
 sand English every year : we have got 
 this one Yankee in return, and wo 
 mean to keep her. 
 
 A year after they had been married, 
 she wanted to give her Bloomer to one 
 of the stable boys. 
 
 " What, the dress you saved my life 
 in ? " cried Reginald. " I would not 
 part with it to a princo for the prico 
 of a kind's random." 
 
 Lads and lasses, this story is what I 
 have called it, a jeu cTespnt : written 
 for vour ainuseinent, and intended not 
 to improve you, instruct you, or ele- 
 vate your morals. Receive it so ! 
 and, when next wc meet, majora ca- 
 niunus !
 
 THE BOX TUNNEL 
 
 A FACT.
 
 THE BOX TUNNEL. 
 
 THE 10.15 train glided from Pad- 
 dington, May7, 1847. In the left 
 compartment of a certain first-class 
 carriage were four passengers ; of these, 
 two were worth description. The lady 
 had a smooth, white, delicate brow, 
 Strongly marked eyebrows, long lash- 
 es, eves that seemed to change color, 
 and a good-sized delicious mouth, with 
 teeth as white as milk. A man could 
 not see her nose for her eyes and 
 mouth, her own sex could ami would 
 have told us some nonsense about it. 
 She wore an unpretending grayish 
 dress, buttoned to the throat, with loz- 
 enge-shaped buttons, and a Scotch 
 shawl that agreeably evaded the re- 
 sponsibility of color. She was like a 
 duck, so tight her plain feathers fit- 
 ted her ; and there she sat, smooth, 
 snug, and delicious, with a book in 
 her hand and a saupgw of her snowy 
 wrist just visible as she held it. II r 
 opposite neighbor was what I call a 
 good style of man, — the more to his 
 credit, since he belonged to a corpora- 
 tion that frequently turns oat the worst 
 imaginable style of young man. He 
 was a cavalry officer aged twenty-five, 
 lie had a mustache, but not a repul- 
 sive one ; not one of those sub nasal 
 fog-tails, on which soup is suspended 
 ike dew on a shrub ; it was short, 
 thick, and black as a coal. His teeth 
 had not yet been turned by tobacco 
 smoke to the color of tobacco juice, his 
 clothes did not stick to nor bang on 
 him, they sat on him ; he had an engag- 
 ing smile, and, what 1 liked the dog for, 
 his vanity, which was inordinate, was 
 in its proper place his heart, not in his 
 13* 
 
 face, jostling mine and other people's, 
 who have none : — in a word, he was 
 what one oftener hears of than meets, 
 a young gentleman. He was conversing 
 in an animated whisper with a com- 
 panion, a fellow-officer, — they were 
 talking about, what it is far better not 
 to do, women. Our friend clearly did 
 not wish to be overheard, for he cast, 
 ever and anon, a furtive glance at his 
 fair vis-a-vis and lowered his voice. She 
 seemed completely absorbed in her 
 book, and that reassured him. At last 
 the two soldiers came down to a whis- 
 per, and in that whisper (the truth 
 must be told) the one who got down 
 at Slough, and was lost to posterity, 
 bet ten pounds to three, that he who 
 was going down with us to Bath and 
 immortality, would not kiss either of 
 the ladies opposite upon the road. 
 " Done ! Done ! " Now I am sorry 
 a man I have hitherto praised should 
 have lent himself, even in a whisper, 
 to such a speculation ; but "nobody is 
 wise at all hours," not even when the 
 clock is striking iive-and-twenty ; and 
 you are to consider his profession, hid 
 good looks, and the temptation, — teu 
 to three. 
 
 After Slough the party was reduced 
 to three : at Twyford one lady dropped 
 her handkerchief; Captain Dolignan 
 fell on it like a tiger and returned it 
 like a lamb ; two or three words wcra 
 interchanged on that occasion. At 
 Reading the Marlborough of our talo 
 made one of the safe investments of 
 that day ; he bought a " Times " iwA 
 a " Punch " ; the latter was full of 
 steel-pen thrusts and wood-cuts. Yal-
 
 298 
 
 THE COX TUNNEL. 
 
 or and beauty deigned to laugh at 
 some inflated humbug or other punc- 
 tured by Punch. Now laughing to- 
 gether thaws our human ice ; long 
 before Swindon it was a talking 
 match, — at Swindon who so devoted 
 as Captain Dolignan, — he handed 
 them out, — he souped them, — he 
 tough-chickened them, — he brandied 
 and cochinealed* one, and he bran- 
 died and burnt-sugared the other ; on 
 their return to the carriage, one lady 
 passed into the inner compartment to 
 inspect a certain gentleman's seat on 
 that side the line. 
 
 Reader, had it been you or I, the 
 beauty would have been the deserter, 
 the average one would have stayed 
 with us till all was blue, ourselves in- 
 cluded ; not more surely does our 
 slice of bread and butter, when it es- 
 capes from our hand, revolve it ever 
 so often, alight face downwards on the 
 carpet. But this was a bit of a fop, 
 Adonis, dragoon, — so Venus re- 
 mained in tete-a-tete with him. You 
 have seen a dog meet an unknown 
 female of his species ; how hand- 
 some, how empresse, how expressive 
 he becomes : such was Dolignan af- 
 ter Swindon, and, to do the dog jus- 
 tice, he got handsomer and ' hand- 
 somer ; and you have seen a cat con- 
 scious of approaching cream, — such 
 was Miss Haythorn ; she became de- 
 murer and demurer : presently our 
 Captain looked out of window and 
 laughed ; this elicited an inquiring 
 look from Miss Haythorn. " We 
 are only a mile from the Box Tun- 
 nel." — "Do you always laugh a 
 mile from the Box Tunnel ? " said the 
 lady. 
 
 " Invariably." 
 
 " What for ? " 
 
 " Why ! hem ! it is a gentleman's 
 joke." 
 
 " O, I don't mind its being silly, if 
 it makes me laugh." Captain Dolig- 
 nan, thus encouraged, recounted to 
 
 * This is supposed to allude to two decoc- 
 tions called port and sherry, and imagined by 
 one earthly nation to partake of a vinous na- 
 ture. 
 
 Miss Haythorn the following : " A 
 lady and her husband sat together 
 going through the Box Tunnel,- — 
 there was one gentleman opposite ; it 
 was pitch-dark ; after the Tunnel the 
 lady said, ' George, how absurd of you 
 to salute me going through the tun- 
 nel!' — 'I did no such thing ! ' — ' You 
 did n't V — ' No ! why 1 ' — ' Why, 
 because somehow I thought you 
 did ! ' " Here Captain Dolignan 
 laughed, and endeavored to lead his 
 companion to laugh, but it was not to 
 be done. The train entered the tunnel. 
 Miss Haythorn. " Ah ! " 
 Dolignan. " What is the matter ? " 
 Miss Haythorn. " I am frightened." 
 Dolignan (moving to her side). 
 " Pray do not be alarmed, I am near 
 you."" 
 
 Miss Haythorn. " You are near me, 
 very near me indeed, Captain Dolig- 
 nan." 
 
 Dolignan. " You know my name ! " 
 Miss Haythorn. " I heard your friend 
 mention it. I wish we were out of this 
 dark place." 
 
 Dolignan. " I could be content to 
 spend hours here, reassuring you, 
 sweet lady." 
 
 Miss Haythorn. " Nonsense ! " 
 Dolignan. " Pweep ! " (Grave read- 
 er, do not put your lips to the cheek, 
 of the next pretty creature you meet, 
 or you will understand what this 
 means.) 
 
 Miss Haythorn. " Ee ! Ee ! Ee ! " 
 Friend. '" What is the matter ? " 
 Miss Haythorn. " Open the door ! 
 open the door ! " 
 
 There was a sound of hurried whis- 
 pers, the door was shut and the blind 
 pulled down with hostile sharpness. 
 
 If any critic falls on me for putting 
 inarticulate sounds in a dialogue as 
 above, I answer with all the insolence 
 I can command at present, " Hit 
 boys as big as yourself," bigger per- 
 haps, such as Sophocles, Euripides, 
 and Aristophanes ; they began it, and 
 1 learned it of them, sore against my 
 will. 
 
 Miss Haythorn's scream lost a part 
 of its effect because the engine whis-
 
 THE BOX TUNNEL. 
 
 299 
 
 tied forty thousand murders at the 
 same moment ; and fictitious grief 
 makes itself heard when real can- 
 not. 
 
 Between the tunnel and Bath our 
 young friend had time to ask himself 
 whether his conduct had been marked 
 by that delicate reserve which is sup- 
 posed to distinguish the perfect gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 With a long face, real or feigned, 
 he held open the door, — his late 
 friends attempted to escape on the 
 other side, — impossible! they must 
 pass him. She whom he had insulted 
 (Latin for kissed) deposited some- 
 where at his foot a look of gentle 
 blushing reproach ; the other, whom 
 he had not insulted, darted red-hot 
 daggers at him from her eyes, and so 
 they parted. 
 
 It was, perhaps, fortunate for Do- 
 liguan that he had the grace to be 
 friends with Major Hoskyns of his 
 regiment, a veteran laughed at by the 
 youngsters, for the Major was too apt 
 to look coldly upon billiard balls and 
 cigars ; he had seen cannon balls and 
 linstocks-. He had also, to tell the 
 truth, swallowed a good bit of the 
 mess-room poker, but with it some 
 sort of moral poker, which made it as 
 impossible for Major Hoskyns to de- 
 si end to an ungcntlemanlike word or 
 action as to brush his own trousers 
 below the knee. 
 
 ( 'aptain Dolignan told this gentle- 
 man his story in gleeful accents ; but 
 Major Hoskyns heard him eoldlv,and 
 
 a- coldly answered that he had known 
 a man lose liis life for the same thing. 
 '• 'Hint is nothing," continued the 
 Major, "hut Unfortunately he de- 
 served to lose it." 
 
 At this the blood mounted to the 
 younger man's temples, mid his se- 
 nior added: " I mean to say he was 
 thirtv-rive; you, I presume, are twen- 
 ty-one ! •' 
 ' " Twenty-five." 
 
 " That is much the same thing , 
 will you he advised by me ! " 
 
 " If you will advise me." 
 
 " Speak to no one of this, and send 
 
 White the £ 3 that he may think you 
 have lost the bet." 
 
 " That is hard when I won it ! " 
 
 " Do it for all that, sir." 
 
 Let the disbelievers in human per- 
 fectibility know that this dragoon 
 capahle of a blush did this virtuous 
 action, albeit with violent reluctance : 
 and this was his first damper. A week 
 after these events, he was at a ball. 
 He was in that state of factitious dis- 
 content which belongs to us amiable 
 English. He was iooking, in vain, 
 for a lady, equal in personal attrac- 
 tions to the idea he had formed of 
 George Dolignan as a man, when 
 suddenly there glided past him a most 
 delightful vision ! a lady whose beauty 
 and symmetry took him by the e\x-^, 
 
 — another look : " It can't be ) — 
 Yes, it is ! " Miss Haythorn ! (not 
 that he knew her name!) but what 
 an apotheosis ! 
 
 The duck had become a pea-hen, 
 
 — radiant, dazzling, she looked twice 
 as beautiful and almost twice as large 
 as before. He lost sight of her. He 
 found her again. She was so lovely 
 she made him ill, — and he, alone, 
 must not dance with her, speak to 
 her. If he had been content to begin 
 her acquaintance the usual way, it 
 might have ended in kissing, but hav- 
 ing begun with kissing it must end in 
 nothing. As she danced, sparks of 
 beauty fell from her on all around, 
 but him, — she did not see him; it 
 was clear she never would see him, — 
 one gentleman was particularly as- 
 siduous ; she smiled on his assiduity; 
 he was ugly, but she smiled on him. 
 Dolignan was surprised at his success, 
 his ill taste, his ugbness, his imperti- 
 nence. Dolignan at last found him- 
 self injured. " Who was this man ! 
 and what right had he to go on 
 so ? He bad never kissed her, I 
 suppose," said Dolly. Dolignan 
 could not prove it, but he felt that 
 somehow the rights of property were 
 invaded. lie went home and dreamed 
 of Miss llavthorn, and hated all the 
 ugly successful.* He spent a fort- 
 
 * When our successful rival is ugly (he
 
 300 
 
 THE BOX TUNNEL. 
 
 night trying to find out who this 
 beauty was, — he never could encoun- 
 ter her again. At last he heard of her 
 in this way ; a lawyer s clerk paid him 
 a little visit and commenced a little 
 action against him, in the name of 
 Miss Haythorn, for insulting her in a 
 railway train. 
 
 The young gentleman was shocked ; 
 endeavored to soften the lawyer's clerk; 
 that machine did not thoroughly com- 
 prehend the meaning of the term. 
 The lady's name, however, was at 
 least revealed by this untoward inci- 
 dent ; from her name to her address 
 was but a short step ; and the same 
 day our crestfallen hero lay in wait 
 at her door, and many a succeeding 
 day, without effect. But one fine af- 
 ternoon she issued forth quite natu- 
 rally, as if she did it every day, and 
 walked briskly on the nearest Parade. 
 Dolignan did the same, he met and 
 passed her many times on the Parade, 
 and searched for pity in her eyes, but 
 found neither look, nor recognition, 
 nor any other sentiment; for all this 
 she walked and walked, till all the 
 other promenaders were tired and 
 gone, — then her culprit summoned 
 resolution, and taking off his hat, 
 with a voice tremulous for the first 
 time, besought permission to address 
 her. She stopped, blushed, and nei- 
 ther acknowledged nor disowned his 
 acquaintance. He blushed, stammered 
 out how ashamed he was, how he de- 
 served to be punished, how he was 
 punished, how little she knew how 
 unhappy he was ; and concluded by 
 begging her not to let all the world 
 know the disgrace of a man who was 
 already mortified enough by the loss 
 of her acquaintance. She asked an 
 explanation ; he told her of the action 
 that had been commenced in her name; 
 she gently shrugged her shoulders, and 
 said, " How stupid they are." Em- 
 boldened by this, he begged to know 
 whether or not a life of distant un- 
 pretending devotion would, after a 
 
 blow is doubly severe, crushing, — we fait by 
 bludgeon : we who thought the keenest ra- 
 pier might perchance thrust at us in vain. 
 
 lapse of years, erase the memory of Mi 
 madness, — his crime ! 
 
 " She did not know! 
 
 " She must now bid him adieu, as 
 she had some preparations to make 
 for a ball in the crescent, where every- 
 body was to be." They parted, and Do- 
 lignan determined to be at the ball, 
 where everybody was to be. He was 
 there, and after some time he obtained 
 an introduction to Miss Haythorn, and 
 he danced with her. Her manner was 
 gracious. With the wonderful tact 
 of her sex, she seemed to have com- 
 menced the acquaintance that even- 
 ing. That night, for the first time, 
 Dolignan was in love. I will spare 
 the reader all a lover's arts, by which 
 he succeeded in dining where she 
 dined, in dancing where she danced, 
 in overtaking her by accident, when 
 she rode. His devotion followed her 
 even to church, where our dragoon 
 was rewarded by learning there is a 
 world where they neither polk nor 
 smoke, — the two capital abominations 
 of this one. 
 
 He made acquaintance with her 
 uncle, who liked him, and he saw at 
 last, with joy, that her eye loved to 
 dwell upon him, when she thought he 
 did not observe her. 
 
 It was three months after the Box 
 Tunnel, that Captain Dolignan called 
 one day upon Captain Haythorn, R. 
 N., whom he had met twice in his 
 life, and slightly propitiated by vio- 
 lently listening to a cutting-out expe- 
 dition ; he called, and in the usual 
 way asked permission to pay his ad- 
 dresses to his daughter. The worthy 
 Captain straightway began doing 
 Quarter-Deck, when suddenly he was 
 summoned from the apartment by a 
 mysterious message. On his return 
 he annouueed, with a total change of 
 voice, that, " It was all right, and his 
 visitor might run alongside as soon 
 as he chose." My reader has divined 
 the truth ; this nautical commander, 
 terrible to the foe, was in complete 
 and happy subjugation to his daugh- 
 ter, our heroine. 
 
 As he was taking leave, Dolignan
 
 THE BOX TUNNEL. 
 
 301 
 
 saw liis divinity glide into the draw- 
 ing-room. He followed her, observed 
 a sweet consciousness which encour- 
 aged him ; that consciousness deep- 
 ened into contusion, — she tried to 
 laugh, she cried instead, and then she 
 smiled again ; and when he kissed her 
 hand at the door, it was " George," 
 and " Marian," instead of Captain 
 this, and Miss the other. A reasona- 
 ble time after this (for my tale is mer- 
 ciful and skips formalities and tortur- 
 ing delays), these two were very 
 happy, — they were once more upon 
 the railroad, going to enjoy their hon- 
 eymoon all by themselves. Marian 
 Dolignan was dressed just as before, 
 — duck-like, and delicious; all bright, 
 except her clothes : but George sat 
 beside her this time instead of oppo- 
 site; and she drank him in gently from 
 under her long eyelashes. " Marian," 
 said George, " married people should 
 tell each other all. Will you ever for- 
 give me if I own to you — no — " 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! " 
 
 " Well, then ! you remember the 
 Box Tunnel " (this was the first al- 
 lusion he had ventured to it), " I 
 am ashamsd to say I had bet £3 to 
 £10 with White, I would kiss one of 
 you two ladies " ; and George, pathetic 
 externally, chuckled within. 
 
 " I know that, George ; I over- 
 heard you," was the demure reply. 
 
 " 0, you overheard me ? impossi- 
 ble." 
 
 " And did you not hear me whisper 
 to my companion ? I made a bet with 
 her." 
 
 " You made a bet, how singular ! 
 What was it 1 " 
 
 " Only a pair of gloves, George." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but what about 
 it?" 
 
 " That, if you did, you should be my 
 husband, dearest." 
 
 " Oh ! — but stay — then you could 
 not have been so very angry with me, 
 love; why, dearest, then who brought 
 that action against me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dolignan looked down. 
 
 " I was afraid you were forgetting 
 me ! George, you will never forgive 
 me?" 
 
 " Sweet angel, why, here is the 
 Box Tunnel ! " 
 
 Now, reader, — fie ! — no ! no such 
 thing ! You can't expect to be in- 
 dulged in this way, every time we 
 come to a dark place, — besides, it is 
 not the thing. Consider, two sensible 
 married people, — no such phenome- 
 non, I assure you, took place. No 
 scream issued in hopeless rivalry of 
 the engine — this time !
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 A MATTER-OF-FACT ROMANCE.
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 THERE arc nobs in the world, and 
 there are snobs. 
 
 I regret to say I belong to the lat- 
 ter department. 
 
 There are men that roll through 
 life, like a tire-new red ball going 
 across Mr. Lord's cricket ground on 
 a sunshiny day ; there is another sort 
 that have to rough it in general, and, 
 above all, to tight tooth and nail for 
 the quartern-loaf, and not always win 
 the battle. I am one of tins lot. 
 
 One comfort, folk are beginning to 
 take an interest in us. I see nobs of 
 the first water looking with a fatherly 
 eye into our affairs, — our leaden taxes 
 and feather incomes j our fifteen per 
 cent on undeniable security when the 
 rich pay but three and a half; our 
 privations and vexations ; our dirt 
 and distresses ; and one day a liter- 
 ary gent, that knows my horrible 
 story, assured me that my ups and 
 downs would entertain the nobility, 
 gentry, and commonalty of these 
 realms. 
 
 " Instead of grumbling to me," says 
 he, " print your troubles, and I prom- 
 ise you all the world will read them, 
 and laugh at them." 
 
 "No doubt, sir," said I, rather 
 ironical ; "all the world is at leisure 
 for that." 
 
 " Why, look at the signs of the 
 times," say- be ; " can't you B66 work- 
 men are up i so take us while we are 
 in the humor, and that is now. We 
 sh:ill not always be for Squeezing hon- 
 ey out of Weeds, shall we ' " " Not 
 likely, sir," says I. Says be, " How 
 nice it will be to growl wholesale to a 
 
 hundred thousand of your country- 
 men (which they do love a bit of a 
 growl), instead of growling retail to 
 a small family that has got hardened 
 to you ! " And there he had me ; 
 for I am an Englishman, and proud 
 of it, and attached to all the national 
 habits except' delirium tremens. In 
 short, what with him inflaming my 
 dormant conceit, and me thinking, 
 " Well, I can but say my say, and 
 then relapse into befitting silence," I 
 did one day lay down the gauge and 
 take up the pen, in spite of my wife's 
 sorrowful looks. 
 
 She says nothing, but you may see 
 she does not believe in the new tool, 
 and that is cheerful and inspiriting to 
 a beginner. 
 
 However, there is a something that 
 gives me more confidence than all my 
 literary friend says about " workmen 
 being up in the literary world," and 
 that is that I am not the hero of my 
 own story. 
 
 Small as I sit here behind my wife's 
 crockcrv and my own fiddles, in this 
 thundering hole, Wardour Street, I 
 was for many years connected with 
 one of the most celebrated females of 
 modern times. Her adventures run 
 side by sidi' with mine. She is the 
 bit of romance that colors my humble 
 hie, and my safest excuse for intruding 
 on the public. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FxTHBB and mother lived in King 
 Street, Boho : he was a fiddle-maker, 
 t
 
 306 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 and taught mc the A B C of that sci- 
 ence at odd times ; for I had a reg- 
 ular education, and a very good one, 
 at a school in West Street. This part 
 of my life was as smooth as glass. 
 My troubles did not begin till I was 
 thirteen : at that age my mother died, 
 and then I. found out what she had 
 been to me : that was the first and the 
 worst grief; the next I thought bad 
 enough. Coming in from school one 
 day, about nine months after her 
 death, I found a woman sitting by the 
 fire opposite father. 
 
 I came to a stand in the middle of 
 the floor, with two eyes like saucers, 
 staring at the pair ; so my father in- 
 troduced me. 
 
 " This is your new mother. Anne, 
 this is John ! " 
 
 " Come and kiss me, John," says 
 the lady. Instead of which John 
 stood stock-still, and burst out roar- 
 ing and crying without the least leav- 
 ing off staring, which to be sure was 
 a cheerful, encouraging reception for 
 a lady just come into the family. I 
 roared pretty hard for about ten sec- 
 onds, then stopped dead short, and 
 savs I, with a sudden calm, the more 
 awful for the storm that had raged be- 
 fore : " I '11 go and tell Mr. Paley ! " 
 and out I marched. 
 
 Mr. Paley was a little humpbacked 
 tailor, with the heart of a dove and 
 the spirit of a lion or two. I made 
 his acquaintance through pitching in- 
 to two boys that were queering his pro- 
 tuberances all down Princes Street, 
 Soho ; a kind of low humor he- de- 
 tested ; and lie had taken quite a fan- 
 cy to me. We were hand and glove, 
 the old man and me. 
 
 I ran to Paley and told him what 
 had befallen upon the house. He was 
 not struck all of a heap, as I thought 
 he would be ; and ho showed me it 
 was Legal, of which I had not an 
 idea ; and his advice was : " Put a 
 good face on it, or the house will 
 soon hi too hot to hold you, boy." 
 
 He was right. I don't know wheth- 
 er it was my fault or hers, or both's, 
 but we could never mix. I had seen 
 
 another face by that fireside, and 
 heard another voice in the house, that 
 seemed to me a deal more melodious 
 than hers, and the house did become 
 hotter, and the inmates' looks colder 
 than agreeable ; so one day I asked 
 my father to settle me in some other 
 house not less than a mile from King 
 Street, Soho. He and step-mother 
 jumped at the offer, and apprenticed 
 me to Mr. Dawes. Here I learned 
 more mysteries of guitar- making, 
 violin-making, etc., etc., and lived in 
 tolerable comfort nearly four years ; 
 there was a ripple on the water, 
 though. My master had a brother, a 
 thickset, heavy fellow, that used to 
 bully my master, especially when he 
 was groggy, and less able to take his 
 own part. My master being a good 
 fellow, I used to side with him, and 
 this brought me a skinful of sore 
 bones more than once, I can tell you. 
 But one night, after some months 
 of peace, I heard a terrible scrim- 
 mage, and, running down into the 
 shop parlor, I found Dawes junior 
 pegging into Dawes senior no al- 
 lowance, and him crying blue mur- 
 der. 
 
 I was now an able-bodied youth 
 between sixteen and seventeen years 
 of age, and, having a little score of 
 my own with the attacking party, I 
 opened quite silent and business-like 
 with a one, two, and knocked him in- 
 to a corner flat perpendicular. He 
 was dumfoundered for a moment, 
 but the next he came out like a 
 bull at me. I stepped on one side, 
 and met him with a blow on the side 
 of the temple, and knocked him flat 
 horizontal ; and when he offered to 
 rise I shook my fist at him, and 
 threatened him he should come to 
 grief if he dared to move. 
 
 At this time he went on quite a dif- 
 ferent lay. He lay still, and feigned 
 dissolution with considerable skill, to 
 frighten us ; and I can't say I felt 
 easy at all ; but my master, who 
 took cheerful views of everything in 
 his cups, got the enemy's tumbler of 
 brandy and water, and with hiccoughs
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 $07 
 
 and absurd smiles, and a teaspoon, 
 deposited the contents gradually on 
 the various parts of his body. 
 
 " Lez revive 'm ! " said he. 
 
 This was low life to come to pass 
 in a respectable tradesman's hack par- 
 lor. But, when grog comes in at 
 the door, good manners walk to the 
 window, ready to take leave if re- 
 quested. Where there is drink there 
 is always degradation of some sort 
 or degree ; put that in your tumblers 
 and sip it ! 
 
 After this no more battles. The 
 lowly apprentice's humble efforts 
 (pugilistic) restored peace to his mas- 
 ter's family. 
 
 Six months of calm industry now 
 rolled over, and then 1 got into trou- 
 ble by niv own fault. 
 
 Looking hack upon the various 
 fancies, and opinions, and crotchets 
 that have passed through my head 
 at one time or another, I find that, 
 between the years of seventeen and 
 twenty-four, a strange notion beset 
 me; it was this: that women are all 
 angels. 
 
 For this chimera I now began to 
 suffer, and continued to at intervals 
 till the error was rooted out, — with 
 their assistance. 
 
 . There were two women in my 
 master's house, — his sister, aged 
 twenty-fonr, and his cook, aged thirty- 
 seven. With both these I fell ardent- 
 ly in love; and SO, with my senti- 
 ments, I should have with six, had 
 the house held half a dozen. Un- 
 luckily, my affections were not ac- 
 companied with the discretion so 
 ticklish a situation called for. The 
 ladies found one another nut, and I 
 fell a victim to the virtuous indigna- 
 tion that fired three bosoms. 
 
 The cook, in virruous indignation 
 that an apprentice should woo his 
 master's sister, told my master. 
 
 The young lady, in virtuous indig. 
 that a boy Bhould make a fool of 
 
 "that old woman," told my master, 
 who, unluckily for me, was now the 
 quondam Dawes junior; Dawes sen 
 jor having retired from the active 
 
 business, and turned sleeping and 
 drinking partner. 
 
 My master, whose v. i. was the 
 strongest of the three, since it was him 
 1 had leathered, took me to Bow Street, 
 made his complaint, and forced me to 
 cancel my indentures; the cook, with 
 tears, packed up my Sunday suit ; 
 the young lady opened her bedroom 
 door three inches, and shut it with a 
 don't-come-anigh -me slam ; and I 
 drifted out to London with eighteen- 
 petice and my tools. 
 
 On looking back on this incident 
 j of my life, I have a regret, — a poign- 
 j ant one ; it is, that some good Chris- 
 tian did not give me a devilish good 
 ! hiding into the bargain then and there. 
 
 I did not feel quit strong enough in 
 the spirits to go where I was sure to 
 be blown up, so I skirted King Street 
 and entered the Seven Dials, and went 
 to Mr. Paley and confessed my sins. 
 
 How differently the same thing is 
 seen by different eyes ! All the morn- 
 ing I had been called a young vil- 
 lain, first by one, then by another, 
 till at last I began to see it. Mr. 
 Paley viewed me in the light of 
 martyr, and I remember 1 fell into 
 his views on the spot. 
 
 Paley was a man that had bis little 
 theory about women, and it differed 
 from my juvenile one. 
 
 He held that women are at bottom 
 the seducers, men the seduced. " The 
 men court the women, I grant you, 
 bat so it is the fish that runs after 
 the bait," said he. " The women 
 draw back ? yes, and so docs the an- 
 gler draw back the bait when the 
 fish are shy, don't he? and then the 
 silly gudgeons misunderstand the 
 move, and make a rush at it, and get 
 hooked, — like you." 
 
 Holding Mich rile sentiments, ho 
 
 shifted all the blame off my shoul- 
 der-. He turned to and abused the 
 whole gang, as he called the family 
 in Litchfield Street | had just left, 
 instead of reading me the lesson tor 
 
 tin' day, which he Ought, and 1 should 
 
 have listened to from him, — perhaps. 
 "' .Now, then, don't hang your head
 
 308 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 like that," shouted the spunky little 
 fellow, " snivelling and whimpering 
 at your time of life ! We are going 
 to have a jolly good supper, you and 
 I, that is what we are going to do ; 
 and you shall sleep here. My daugh- 
 ter is at school ; you shall have her 
 room. I am in good work, — thirty 
 shillings a week, — that is plenty for 
 three, Lucy and you and me " (him- 
 self last). " Your father is n't worth 
 a hone hutton, and your mother is n't 
 worth the shank to it ; I 'm your fa- 
 ther, and your mother into the bar- 
 gain, for want of a better. You live 
 with me, and snap your fingers at 
 Dawes and all his crew, — ha ! ha ! a 
 fine loss, to be sure. The boy is a fool, 
 — cooks, and coquettes, and fiddle- 
 touters, rubbish not worth picking up 
 out of a gutter, — they be d — d." 
 
 And so I was installed in Miss 
 Paley's apartment, Seven Dials ; and 
 nothing would have made my adopted 
 parent happier than for me to put my 
 hands in my pockets, and live upon 
 goose and cabbage. But downright 
 laziness was never my character. I 
 went round to all the fiddle-shops, 
 and offered, as bold as brass, to make 
 a violin, a tenor or a bass, and bring 
 it home. Most of them looked shy at 
 me, for it was necessary to trust me 
 with the wood, and to lend me one 
 or two of the higher class of tools, 
 such as a turning-saw and a jointing- 
 plane. 
 
 At last I came to Mr. Dodd, in 
 Berners Street. Here my father's 
 name stood me in stead. Mr. Dodd 
 risked his wood and the needful tools, 
 and in eight days I brought him, with 
 conceit and trepidation mixed in equal 
 part, a violin, which I had sometimes 
 feared would frighten him, and some- 
 times hoped would charm him. He 
 took it up, gave it one twirl round, 
 satisfied himself it was a fiddle, good, 
 bad, or indifferent, put it in the win- 
 dow along with the rest, and paid for 
 it as he would for a penny roll. I 
 timidly proposed to make another for 
 Li in ; he granted a consent, which it 
 did not seei.u to me a rapturous one. 
 
 Mi'. Metzler also ventured to give me 
 work of this kind. For some months 
 I wrought hard all day, and amused 
 myself with my companions all the 
 evening, selecting my pals from the 
 following classes : small actors, show- 
 men, pedestrians, and clever discon- 
 tented mechanics ; one lot I never 
 would have at any price, and that was 
 the stupid ones, that could only booze, 
 and could not tell me anything I did 
 not know about pleasure, business, 
 and life. 
 
 This was a bright existence ; so it 
 came to a full stop. 
 
 At one and the same time Miss 
 Paley came home, and the fiddle- 
 trade took one of those chills all 
 fancy trades are subject to. 
 
 No work — no lodging without 
 paying for it — no wherewithal. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 John Beard, a friend of mine, 
 was a painter and graincr. His art 
 was to imitate oak, maple, walnut, 
 satin-wood, etc., etc., upon vulgar deal, 
 beech, or what not. 
 
 This business works thus: first, a 
 coat of oil-color is put on with a 
 brush, and this color imitates what 
 may be called the background of the 
 wood that is aimed at ; on this oil- 
 background the champ, the fibre, the 
 grain and figure, and all the incidents 
 of the superior wood, are imitated by 
 various manoeuvres in water-colors, 
 or, rather, in beer-colors, for beer is 
 the approved medium. A coat of 
 varnish over all gives a unity to the 
 work. 
 
 Beard was out of employ ; so was 
 I : bitter against London ; so was I. 
 He sounded me about trying th<j 
 country, and I agreed ; and this wa» 
 the first step of my many travels. 
 
 We started the next day, — he witli 
 his brushes, and a few colors, and on* 
 or two thin panels painted by way of 
 advertisement, and I with hope, inex- 
 perience, and threepence. On the
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 309 
 
 road we spout this and his fivcpence, 
 and entered the town of Brentford 
 toward nightfall as empty as drums 
 anil as hungry as wolves. 
 
 What was to be done ? After a 
 long discussion, we agreed to go to 
 the mayor of the town and tell him 
 our case, and offer to paint his street 
 door in the morning if he would save 
 our lives for the night. 
 
 We went to the mayor ; luckily for 
 us, he had risen from nothing, as we 
 were going to do, and so he knew 
 exactly what we meant when we 
 looked up in his face and laid our 
 hands on our saneage-grinders. He 
 gave us eighteen-pence and an order 
 on a lodging-bouse, and put bounds 
 to our gratitude by making us prom- 
 ise to let bis street door alone. We 
 thanked him from our hearts, supped 
 and went to bed, and agreed the 
 country (as we two cockneys called 
 Brentford) was chock-full of good fel- 
 lows. 
 
 The next day up early in the 
 morning, and away to llounslow. 
 Here Beard sought work all through 
 the town, and just when we were in de- 
 spair he got one door. We dined 
 and slept on this door, but we could 
 hot sup off it ; we bad twopence over, 
 though, for the morning, and walked 
 on a penny roll each to Maidenhead, 
 line, as we entered the town, we 
 passed a little house with the door 
 painted oak, and a brass plate an- 
 nouncing a plumber and glazier, and 
 house-painter. Beard pulled up be- 
 fore this door in sorrowful contempt. 
 " Now look here, John," says be, 
 "here is a fellow living among the 
 woods, and you would iwear be never 
 saw an oak plank in his life to look 
 ;it his work." 
 
 Before bo very long we came to 
 another Specimen : this w:is maple, 
 and further from Nature than a law- 
 \er from heaven, as the ^:i \- i 1 1 lt i-. 
 
 "There, that will do," says Heard. 
 "I 'II tell you what it is, we must try 
 a different move; it is no use looking 
 for work; folks will only employ 
 their own tradesmen ; we must teach 
 
 the professors of the art at so much a 
 panel." 
 
 " Will they stomach that 1 " said I. 
 
 " I think they will, as Ave are 
 strangers and from London. You go 
 and see whether there is a fiddle to be 
 doctored in the town, and meet me 
 again in the market-place at twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 I did meet him, and forlorn enough 
 I was. My trade had broke down in 
 Maidenhead ; not a job of any sort. 
 
 " Come to the public-house ! " was 
 his first word. That sounded well, I 
 thought. 
 
 We sat down to bread and cheese 
 and beer, and he told his tale. 
 
 It seems he went into a shop, told 
 the master lie was a painter and 
 grainer from a great establishment in 
 London, and was in the habit of trav- 
 elling and instructing provincial art- 
 ists in the business. The man was a 
 pompous sort of a customer, and told 
 Heard be knew the business as well 
 as he did, better belike. 
 
 Beard answered : " Then you are 
 the only one here that does ; for I 've 
 been all through the town, and any* 
 I thine- wider from the mark than their 
 oak and maple I never saw." Then 
 he quietly took down bis panels and 
 spread them out, and, looking out 
 sharp, he noticed a sudden change 
 come over the man's face. 
 
 " Well," says the man, " we reckon 
 ourselves pretty pood at it in this town. 
 However, I shouldn't mind seeing 
 how you London chaps do it : what 
 do you charge for a specimen > " 
 
 " Mv charge is two shillings a pan- 
 el What wood should you like to 
 gain a notion of? " said Beard, as dry 
 as a chip. 
 
 " Well, — satin-wood." 
 
 Heard painted a panel of satin- 
 wood before his eyes, and, of course, 
 it wa> done with great ease, and on a 
 better system than had reached Maid- 
 enhead lip to that time. " Now." 
 says Heard, " I must go to dinner.' 1 
 
 " Well, come back again, my lad," 
 says the man, " and we will go in for 
 something else." So Beard took his
 
 310 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 two shillings and met me as afore- 
 said. 
 
 After dinner he asked for a private 
 room. " A private room," said I ; 
 "hadn't you better order our horse 
 juid gig out, and go and call on the 
 rector ? " 
 
 " None of your chaff," says he. 
 
 When we got into the room he 
 opened the business. 
 
 " Your trade is no good ; you must 
 take to mine." 
 
 " What ! teach painters how to 
 paint, when I don't know a stroke 
 myself! " 
 
 " Why not 1 You 've only got it to 
 learn ; they have got to unlearn all 
 they know ; that is the only long 
 process about it. 1 11 teach you in 
 live minutes," says lie : " look here." 
 He then imitated oak before me, and 
 made me do it. He corrected my 
 first attempt; the second satisfied 
 him : we then went on to maple, and 
 so through all the woods he could 
 mimic, lie then returned to his cus- 
 tomer, and I hunted in another part 
 of the town, and before nightfall I act- 
 ually gave three lessons to two pro- 
 fessors : it is amazing, but true, that 
 I, who had been learning ten minutes, 
 taught men who had been all their 
 lives at it — in the country. 
 
 Ono was so pleased with his tutor 
 that he gave me a pint of beer besides 
 my fee. I thought he was poking 
 fun when he first offered it me. 
 
 Beard and I met again triumphant. 
 We had a rousing supper and a good 
 bed, and the next day started for Hen- 
 ley, where we both did a small stroke 
 of business, and on to Reading for the 
 night. 
 
 Our goal was Bristol. Beard had 
 friends there. But as we zigzagged 
 for the sake of the towns, we were 
 three weeks walking to that city ; but 
 we reached it at last, having dissem- 
 inated the science of graining in many 
 cities, and got good clothes and money 
 in return. 
 
 At Bristol we parted. He found 
 regular employment the first day, and 
 I visited the fiddle-shops and offered 
 
 my services. At most I was refused ; 
 at one or two I got trifling jobs ; but 
 at last I went to the right one. The 
 master agreed with me for piece-work 
 on a large scale, and the terms were 
 such that by working quick and very 
 steady I could make about twenty-five 
 shillings a week. At this I kept two 
 years, and might have longer, no 
 doubt, — but my employer's niece 
 came to live with him. 
 
 She was a woman ; and my theory 
 being in full career at this date, mu- 
 tual ardor followed, and I asked her 
 hand of her uncle, and instead of that 
 he gave me what the Turkish ladies 
 get for the same offence, — the sack. 
 Off to London again, and the money I 
 had saved by my industry just landed 
 me in the Seven Dials and sixpence 
 over. 
 
 I went to Palcy, crestfallen as usu- 
 al, lie heard my story, compliment- 
 ed me on my energy, industry, and tal- 
 ent, regretted the existence of woman, 
 and inveighed against her character 
 and results. 
 
 We went that evening to private 
 theatricals in Berwick Street, and 
 there I fell in with an acquaintance in 
 the firework line. On hearing my 
 case, he told me I had just fallen from 
 the skies in time ; his employer want- 
 ed a fresh hand. 
 
 The very next day behold me grind- 
 ing, and sifting, and ramming powder 
 at Somers Town, and at it ten months. 
 My evenings, when I was not undo- 
 ing my own work to show its brillian- 
 cy, were often spent in private theat- 
 ricals. 
 
 I hear a row made just now about a 
 dramatic school. 
 
 " We have no dramatic schools," is 
 the cry. Well, in the day I speak of 
 there were several ; why, I belonged 
 to two. We never brought to light 
 an actor, but we succeeded so far as to 
 ruin more than one lad who had brains 
 enough to make a tradesman, till we 
 heated those brains and they boiled all 
 away. 
 
 The way we destroyed youth was 
 this : of course nobody would pay a
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 311 
 
 shilling at the door to see us running 
 wild among Shakespeare's lines like 
 pigs broken into a garden, so the ex- 
 penses fell upon the actors, and they 
 paid according to the value of the part 
 each played. Richard the Third cost 
 a puppy two pounds ; Richmond, fif- 
 teen shillings ; and so on ; so that 
 with us, as in the big world, dignity 
 went by wealth, not merit. I remem- 
 ber this made me sore at the time ; 
 still, there are two sides to every- 
 thing : they say poverty urges men to 
 crime ; mine saved me from it. If I 
 could have afforded, I would have mur- 
 dered one or two characters that have 
 lived with good reputation from Queen 
 Bess to Queen Victoria ; but, as 1 
 could n't afford it, others that could 
 did it for me. 
 
 Well, in return for Ids cash Rich- 
 ard, or Hamlet, or Othello command- 
 ed tickets in proportion ; for the 
 tickets were only gratuitous to the 
 spectators. 
 
 Consequently, at night, each im- 
 portant actor played not only to a 
 most merciful audience, but a large 
 band of devoted friendly spirits in it, 
 who came, not to judge him, but ex- 
 press to carry him through trium- 
 phant, — like an election. Now when 
 a vain, ignorant chap hears a lot of 
 hands clapping, he has not the sense 
 to say to himself " paid for ! " No, it 
 is applause, and applause stamps his 
 own secret opinion of himself. He 
 was off his Balance before, and now 
 he tumbles heel over tip into the no- 
 tion that he is a genins; throws his 
 commercial prospects after the two 
 pounds that went in Richard or Bev- 
 erley, and crosses Waterloo Bridge 
 spouting, 
 
 " A fico for the shop and poplins base ! 
 Counter, avaunt ! I on his southern bank 
 Will lire the Thames." 
 
 Noodle, thus sinking, goes over the 
 water. But they won't have him at 
 the Surrey or the Vic, so lie takes to 
 the country; and, while his money 
 
 lasts, and he can pay the misiuanauer 
 of a small theatre, he gets leave to 
 
 play with Richard and Hamlet. But 
 when the money is gone, and ho 
 wants to be paid for Richard & Co., 
 they laugh at him, and put him in 
 his right place, and that is a utility, 
 and perhaps ends a " super " ; when, 
 if he had not been a coxcomb, he 
 might have sold ribbon like a man to 
 his dying day. 
 
 We and our dramatic schools ruined 
 more than one or two of this sort by 
 means of his vanity in my young 
 days. 
 
 My poverty saved me. The conceit 
 was here in vast abundance, but not 
 the funds to intoxicate myself with 
 such choice liquors as Hamlet & Co. 
 Nothing above old Gobbo (five shil- 
 lings) ever fell to my lot and by my 
 talent. 
 
 When I had made and let off fire- 
 works for a few months, I thought I 
 could make more as a rocket-master 
 than a rocket-man. I had saved a 
 pound or two. Most of my friends 
 dissuaded me from the attempt ; but 
 Paley said : " Let him alone now ; 
 don't keep him down ; he is born to 
 rise. I '11 risk a pound on him." So, 
 by dint of several small loans, I got 
 the materials and made a set of tire- 
 works myself, and agreed with the 
 keeper of some tea-gardens at II amp- 
 stead for the spot. 
 
 At the appointed time, attended by 
 a trusty band of friends, I put them 
 up ; and, when I had taken a toler- 
 able sum at the door, I let them all 
 off. 
 
 But they did not all profit by the 
 permission. Some went, but others, 
 whose supposed destination was the 
 sky, soared about as high as a house, 
 then returned and forgot their wild 
 nature, and performed the office of 
 our household fires upon the clothes 
 of my visitors ; and some faithful 
 spirits, like old domestics, would not, 
 leave their master at any price, — 
 would not take their discharge. Then 
 there was a row, and I should have 
 been mauled, but my guards rallied 
 round me and brought me off with 
 whole bones, and inarched back to
 
 '12 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 London with me, quizzing mc and 
 drinking at my expense. The pub- 
 lican refused to give me my prom- 
 ised fee, and my loss by ambition 
 -was twenty-eight shillings and my 
 reputation, — if you could call that a 
 loss. 
 
 Was not I quizzed up and down 
 the Seven Dials ! Paley alone con- 
 trived to stand out in my favor. 
 "Nonsense! a first attempt," said 
 he ; " they mostly fail. Don't you 
 give in for those fools ! I '11 tell you 
 a story. There was a chap in prison 
 
 — I forget his name. He lived in the 
 old times a few hundred years ago. 
 I can't justly say how many. He 
 had failed, — at something or other, 
 
 — I don't know how many times, 
 and there he was. Well, Jack, one 
 day he notices a spider climbing up a 
 thundering great slippery stone in 
 the wall. She got a little way, then 
 down she fell ; up again, and tries it 
 on again ; down again. Ah ! says 
 the man, you will never do it. But 
 the spider was game. She got six 
 falls, but, by George, the seventh trial 
 she got up. So the gentleman says, 
 ' A man ought to have as much heart 
 as a spider : I won't give in till the 
 seventh trial.' Bless you, long be- 
 fore the seventh he carried all before 
 him, and got to be King of England 
 
 — or something." 
 
 " King of England ! " said I ; " that 
 was a move upward out of the stone 
 jog* 
 
 " Well," said Paley the hopeful, 
 " you can't be Kin^ of England, but 
 you may be the fire-king — he! he! 
 
 — if you are true to powder. How 
 much money do you want to try 
 again? " 
 
 I was nettled at my failure ; and, 
 fired by Paley and his spider, I 
 scraped together a few pounds once 
 more, and advertised a display of fire- 
 works for a certain Monday night. 
 
 On the Sunday afternoon Paley 
 and I happened to walk on the 
 Hampstead Road, and near the Adam 
 and Eve we fell in with an announce- 
 ment of fireworks. On the bill ap- 1 
 
 peared in enormous letters the follow- 
 ing:— 
 
 "No CONNECTION WITH THE DIS- 
 GRACEFUL EXHIBITION THAT TOOK 
 PLACE LAST FRIDAY WEEK 1 ! " 
 
 Paley was in a towering passion. 
 " Look here, John," says he ; " but 
 never you mind; it won't be here 
 long, for I '11 tear it down in about 
 half a moment." 
 
 " No, you must not do that," said 
 I, a little nervous. 
 
 " Why not, you poor-spirited muff?" 
 shouts the little fellow : " let me alone 
 — let me get at it — what are you 
 holding me for ? " 
 
 "No ! no ! no ! Well, then — " 
 
 "Well, then, what?" 
 
 " Well, then, it is mine." 
 
 " What is yours ? " 
 
 " That advertisement." 
 
 " How can it be yours, when it in- 
 sults you ? " 
 
 " O, business before vanity." 
 
 " Well, I am blessed ! Here 's » 
 go. Look here, now " ; and he begair 
 to split his sides laughing ; but all 
 of a sudden he turned awful grave: 
 " You will rise, my lad ; this is genu- 
 ine talent ; they might as well try to 
 keep a balloon down." In short, my 
 friend, who was as honest as the day 
 in his own sayings and doings, ad. 
 mired this bit of rascality in mc, and 
 augured the happiest results. 
 
 That district of London which ia 
 called the Seven Dials was now di- 
 vided into two great parties ; one au- 
 gured for me a brilliant success next 
 day, the other a dead failure. The 
 latter party numbered many names 
 unknown to fame, the former consist- 
 ed of Paley. I was neuter, distrust- 
 ing, not my merits, but what I called 
 my luck. 
 
 On Monday afternoon I was busy 
 putting out the fireworks, nailing 
 them to their posts, etc. Toward 
 evening it began to rain so heavily 
 that they had to be taken in, and the 
 whole thing given up ; it was post- 
 poned to Thursday. 
 
 On Thursday night we had a good
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 313 
 
 assembly ; the sum taken at the doors 
 exceeded my expectation. 1 had my 
 misgivings on account of the rain that 
 had fallen on my kickshaws Monday 
 evening, so I began with those articles 
 I had taken in tirst out of the rain. 
 They went off splendidly, and my per- 
 sonal friends were astounded ; but soon 
 my poverty began to tell. Instead of 
 having many hands to save the fire- 
 works from wet, I had been alone, 
 ami of course much time had been 
 lost in getting them under cover. 
 We began now to get among the 
 damp lot, and science was lost in 
 chance ; some would and some would 
 n't, and the people began to goose me. 
 
 A rocket or two that fizzled them- 
 selves out without rising a foot in- 
 flamed their angry passions ; so I an- 
 nounced two fiery pigeons. 
 
 The fiery pigeon is a pretty fire- 
 work enough. It is of the nature of 
 a rocket, but, being on a string, it 
 travels backward and forward be- 
 tween two termini, to which the string 
 is fixed. When tlierc are two strings 
 and two pigeons, the fiery wings race 
 one another across the ground, and 
 charm the gazing throng. One of 
 my termini was a tree at the extrem- 
 ity of the gardens. Up this tree I 
 mounted in my shirt-sleeves with my 
 birds. The people surrounded the, 
 tree, and were dead silent. I could 
 see their final verdict and my fate 
 hung on these pigeons. I placed 
 them, and with a beating heart light- 
 ed their matches. To my horror, one 
 did not move. I mi^ht as well have 
 tried to explode green sticks. The 
 other started and went off with great 
 resolution and accompanying cheers 
 toward the opposite side. But mid- 
 way it suddenly Btoppcd, and the 
 cheers with it it did not come to an 
 end all at once, but the lire oozed 
 gradually out of it like water. A 
 howl of derision was burled up into 
 the tree at me ; hut, worse than that, 
 looking down, I saw in the moonlight 
 
 a hundred stern faces, with eves like 
 red-hot emeralds, in which I read my 
 fate. They were waiting for me to 
 14 
 
 come down, like terriers for a rat in a 
 trap, and 1 felt by the look of them 
 that they would kill me, or near it. I 
 crept along a l>ough, the end of which 
 cleared the wall and overhung the 
 road. I determined to break my 
 neck sooner than fall into the hands 
 of an insulted public. An impatient 
 orange whizzed by my ear, and an ap- 
 ple knocked my hat out of the prem- 
 ises. I crouched and clung; luckily, 
 I was on an ash-bough, long, taper- 
 ing, and tough ; it bent with me like 
 a rainbow. A stick or two now 
 whizzed past my ear, and it began to 
 hail fruit I held on like grim death 
 till the road was within six feet of me, 
 and then dropped and ran off home, 
 like a dog with a kettle at his tail. 
 Meantime a rush was made to the 
 gate to cut me off; but it was too 
 late. The garden meandered, and 
 my executioners, when they got to 
 the outside, saw nothing but a flit- 
 ting spectre — me in my shirtsleeves 
 making for the Seven Dials. 
 
 Mr. and Miss Palcy were seated by 
 their fire, and, as I afterward learned, 
 Paley was recommending her to me 
 for a husband, and explaining to her 
 at some length why I was sure to rise 
 in the world, when a figure in shirt- 
 sleeves, begrimed with gunpowder, 
 and no hat, burst into the room, and 
 shrank without a word into the corner 
 by the fire. 
 
 " Miss Paley looked up, and then be- 
 gan to look down and snigger. Her 
 father stared at me, and after a while 
 I could see him set his teeth and nerve 
 his obstinate old heart for the coining 
 struggle. 
 
 " Well, how did it happen ? " said 
 he, at last. " Where is your coat? " 
 
 I told him the whole story. 
 
 Mi>^ Paley had her hand to her 
 mouth all the time, afraid to give vent 
 to the feelings proper to the occasion 
 because of her father. 
 
 "Now answer me one question. 
 Have you got their money ' " savs 
 Paley. ' 
 
 " S'es, I have got their money, for 
 that matter."
 
 314 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 "Well, then, what need you care? 
 You are all right ; and if they had 
 gone off they would have heen all over 
 by now, just the same. He wants his 
 supper, Lucy. Give us something 
 hot, to make us forget our squibs and 
 crackers, or we shall die of a broken 
 heart, all us poor fainting souls. 
 Such a calamity ! The rain wetted 
 them through, — that is all ; you 
 couldn't fight against the elements, 
 could you? Lay the cloth, girl." 
 
 " But, Mr. Paley," whined I, " they 
 have got my new coat, and you may 
 be sure they have torn it limb from 
 jacket." 
 
 " Have they ? " cried he ; " well, 
 that is a comfort, any way. Your 
 new coat, eh ? Lucy, it hung on the 
 boy's back like an old sack. Do you 
 see this bit of cloth ? I shall make 
 you a Sunday coat with this, and then 
 you '11 sell. Fetch a quart to-night, 
 girl, instead of a pint : the fire-king 
 is goinff to do us the honor. Che-er 
 up 
 
 1 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was now time that Miss Paley 
 should suffer the penalty of her sex. 
 She was a comely, good-humored, and 
 sensible girl. We used often to walk 
 out together on Sundays, and very 
 friendly we were. I used to tell her 
 she was the flower of her sex, and 
 she used to laugh at that. One Sun- 
 day I spoke more plainly, and laid 
 my heart, my thirteen shillings, the 
 fruit of my last imposture on the pub- 
 lic, and my various arts, at her feet, 
 out walking. 
 
 A proposal of this sort, if I may 
 trust the stories I read, produces 
 thrilling effects. If agreeable, the 
 ladies cither refuse in order to torment 
 themselves, which act of virtue justi- 
 fies them, they think, in tormenting 
 the man they love, or else they show 
 their rapturous assent by bursting 
 out crying, or by fainting away, or 
 their lips turning cold, anil other signs 
 proper to a disordered stomach ; if it is 
 
 to be "no," they are almost as mu *■ 
 cut up about it, and say no like yet. 
 which has the happy result of leaving 
 him hope and prolonging his pain. 
 Miss Paley did quite different. She 
 blushed a little, and smiled archly and 
 said : " Now, John, you and I are 
 good friends, and I like you very 
 much, and I will walk with you and 
 laugh with you as much as you like ; 
 but I have been engaged these two 
 years to Charles Hook, and I love 
 him, John." 
 
 " Do you, Lucy ? " 
 
 " Yes," under her breath a bit. 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " So, if we are to be friends, you 
 must not put that question to me 
 again, John. What do you say ? we 
 are to be friends, are we not 1 " and 
 she put out her hand. 
 
 " Yes, Lucy." 
 
 " And, John, you need not go for 
 to tell my father ; what is the use 
 vexing him ? He has got a notion, 
 but it will pass away in time." 
 
 I consented, of course, and Lucy 
 and I were friends. 
 
 Mr. Paley somehow suspected which 
 way his daughter's heart turned, and 
 not long after a neighbor told me he 
 heard him quizzing her unmerciful 
 for her bad judgment. As for harsh- 
 ness or tyranny, that was not under 
 his skin, as the saying is. He wound 
 up with telling her that John was a 
 man safe to rise. 
 
 " I hope he may, father, I am 
 sure," says Lucy. 
 
 " Well, and can't you see he is the 
 man for you 1 " 
 
 " No, father, I can't see that, — 
 he! he!" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I don't think I have been penniless 
 not a dozen times in my life. When 
 I get down to twopence or three- 
 pence, which is very frequent indeed, 
 something is apt to turn up and raise 
 me to silver once more, and there I 
 stick. But about this time I lay out
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 315 
 
 of work a long time, and was reduced 
 to the lowest ebb. In this condition, 
 a friend of mine took me to the 
 " Harp," in Little Russell Street, to 
 meet Mr. Webb, the manager of a 
 strolling company. Mr. Webb was 
 beating London for recruits to com- 
 plete his company which lay at Bish- 
 ops Stortford, but which, owing to 
 desertions, was not numerous enough 
 to massacre five-act plays. I instant- 
 ly offered to go as carpenter and scene- 
 shifter. To this he demurred : he 
 was provided with them already ; he 
 wanted actors. To this I objected, 
 not that I cared to what sort of work 
 I turned my hand, but in these com- 
 panies a carpenter is paid for his day's 
 work according to his agreement, but 
 the actors are remunerated by a share 
 in the night's profits, and the profits 
 are often written in the following fig- 
 ures, — .CO Os. Oil. 
 
 However, Mr. Webb was firm ; he 
 had no carpenter's place to offer me, 
 so I was obliged to lower my preten- 
 sions. I agreed then to be an actor. 
 1 was cast as Father Philip, in the 
 " Iron Chest," next evening, my 
 share of the profits to be one eighth. 
 I borrowed a shilling, and my friend 
 Johnstone and I walked all the way 
 to Bishops Stortford. We played the 
 " Iron Chest " and divided the profits. 
 Hitherto I had been in the mechan- 
 ical arts ; this was my first step into 
 the fine ones. Father Philip's share 
 of the " Chest " was 2$d. 
 
 Now this might be a just remuner- 
 ation for the performance ; I almost 
 think it was ; but it left the walk, 
 thirty miles, not accounted for. 
 
 Tlir next night I was cast in 
 "Jerry Sneak." 1 had no objection 
 to the party only, under existing cir- 
 cumstances, the place to play it 
 Seemed to me to be the road to Lon- 
 don, not the hoard -i of liishops Stort- 
 ford ; so I sneaked off toward the Sev- 
 en Dials. JohnBtone, though cast for 
 the hero, was of Jerry's mind, and 
 sneaked away along with him. 
 
 We had made but twelve miles 
 when the manager and a constable 
 
 came up with us. Those were per- 
 emptory days ; they offered us our 
 choice of the fine arts again, or prison. 
 After a natural hesitation, we chose 
 the arts, and were driven back to 
 them like sheep. Night's profits 5d. 
 In the morning the whole company 
 dissolved away like a snowball. 
 Johnstone and I had a meagre break- 
 fast, and walked on it twenty-six 
 miles. He was a stout fellow, — 
 shone in brigands, — he encouraged 
 and helped me along; but at last I 
 could go no farther. 
 
 My slighter frame was quite worn 
 out with hunger and fatigue. " Leave 
 me," I said ; " perhaps some charita- 
 ble hand will aid me, and if not, why, 
 then I shall die ; and I don't care if I 
 do, for I have lost all hope." 
 
 " Nonsense," cried the fine fellow. 
 " I '11 carry you home on my back 
 sooner than leave you. Die '. that is 
 a word a man should never say. 
 Come ! courage ! only four miles 
 more." 
 
 No. I could not move from the 
 spot. I was what I believe seldom 
 really happens to any man, dead 
 beat body and soul. 
 
 I sank down on a heap of stones. 
 Johnstone sat down beside me. 
 
 The sun was just setting. It was a 
 bad lookout, — starving people to lie 
 out on stones all night. A man can 
 stand cold, and he can fight with 
 hunger ; but put those two together, 
 and lite is soon exhausted. 
 
 At last a rumble was heard, and 
 presently an empty coal-wagon came 
 up. A coal-heaver sat on the shaft, 
 and another walked by the side. 
 Johnstone went to meet them ; they 
 Stopped ; I saw him pointing to me, 
 and talking earnestly. 
 
 The men came up to me ; they 
 took hold of me, and Bhot me into the 
 cart like a hundred-weigh) of coal. 
 " Why, he is Btarving with cold," said 
 one 01 them, and lie tinner half a doz- 
 en empty sacks over me, and on 
 we went. At the first public the 
 wngon stopped, and soon one of my 
 new friends, with a cheerful voice,
 
 316 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 brought a pewter flagon of porter to 
 me. I sipped it. " Don't be afraid 
 of it," cried lie ; " down with it; it is 
 meat and drink, that is." And, in- 
 deed, so I found it. It was a heaven- 
 ly solid liquid to me ; it was " stout" 
 by name and " stoixt " by nature. 
 
 These good fellows, whom men do 
 right to call black diamonds, carried 
 me safe into the Strand, and thence, 
 being now quite my own man again, 
 I reached the Seven Dials. Paley 
 was in bed. He came down directly 
 in his nightgown, and lighted a fire, 
 and pulled a piece of cold beef out of 
 the cupboard, and cheered me as usu- 
 al, but in a fatherly way this time ; 
 and of course, at my age, I was soon 
 all right again, and going to take the 
 world by storm to-morrow morning. 
 He left me for a while and went up 
 stairs. Presently he came down 
 again. 
 
 " Your bed is ready, John." 
 
 " Why," said I, " you have not 
 three rooms." 
 
 " Lucy is on a visit," said he ; then 
 he paused. " Stop a bit ; I '11 warm 
 your bed." 
 
 He took me up stairs to my old 
 room and warmed the bed. I, like a 
 thoughtless young fool, rolled into it 
 half gone with sleep, and never woke 
 till ten next morning. 
 
 I don't know what the reader will 
 think of me when I tell him that the 
 old man had turned Lucy out of her 
 room into his own, and sat all night 
 by the fire that I might lie soft after 
 my troubles. Ah ! he was a bit of 
 steel. And have you left me, and can 
 I share no more sorrow or joy with 
 you in this world ? Eh ! dear, it 
 imikes me misty to think of the old 
 man, — after all these years. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I fsed often to repair and doctor a 
 violin for a gent whom " shall call 
 Chaplin. He played in the orchestra 
 
 of the Adelphi Theatre. Mr. Chap- 
 
 lin was not only a customer, but a 
 friend. He saw how badly ofl* I was, 
 and had a great desire to serve me. 
 Now it so happened that Mr. Yates, 
 the manager, was going to give an 
 entertainment he called his " At 
 Homes," and this took but a small 
 orchestra, of which Mr. Chaplin was 
 to be the leader ; so he was allowed 
 to engage the other instruments, and 
 he actually proposed to me to be a 
 second violin. 
 
 I stared at him. " How can I do 
 that ? " 
 
 " Why, I often hear you try a vio- 
 lin."^ 
 
 " Yes, and I always play the same 
 notes ; perhaps you have observed 
 that too ? " 
 
 " I notice it is always a slow move- 
 ment — eh ? Never mind, this is the 
 only thing I can think of to serve 
 you ; you must strum out something; 
 it will be a good thing for you, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well," said I, " if Mr. Yates will 
 promise to sing nothing faster than 
 ' Je-ru-sa-lem, my hap-py home,' I'll 
 accompany him." 
 
 No, he would not be laughed out 
 of it ; he was determined to put 
 money in my pocket, and would take 
 no denial. " Next Monday you will 
 have the goodness to meet me at the 
 theatre at six o'clock with your fiddle. 
 Play how you like, play inaudible for 
 what I care ; but play and draw your 
 weekly salary you must and shall." 
 
 " Play inaudible," — these words 
 sunk to the very bottom of me, — 
 " play inaudible." 
 
 I fell into a brown study : it lasted 
 three days and three nights ; finally, 
 to my good patron's great content, I 
 consented to come up to the scratch, 
 and Monday night I had the hardi- 
 hood to present myself in the music- 
 room of the Adelphi. My violin was 
 a ringing one. I tuned up the loud- 
 est of them all, and Mr. Chaplin's 
 eye rested on me with an approving 
 glance. 
 
 Time was called. We played an 
 overture, and accompanied Mr. Yates
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 317 
 
 in his recitatives and songs, and per- 
 formed pieces and airs between the 
 acts, etc. The leader's eye often fell 
 on me, and when it did, he saw the 
 most conscientious workman of the 
 crew ploughing every note with singu- 
 lar care and diligence. 
 
 In this same little orchestra was 
 James Bates, another favorite of Mr. 
 Chaplin, and an experienced fiddler. 
 
 This young man was a great chum 
 of mine. lie was a fine honest young 
 fellow, but of rather a satanine tem- 
 per. He was not movable to mirth 
 at any price. He would play without 
 a smile to a new pantomime, — stuck 
 there all night, like Solomon cut in 
 black marble with a white choker, as 
 .solemn as a tomb, with hundreds 
 laughing all around. 
 
 Once or twice while we were at 
 work I saw Mr. Chaplin look at Bates, 
 knowing we two were chums, and 
 whenever he did it seems the young 
 one bit his lips and turned as red 
 as a beet-root. After the lights were 
 out Mr. Chaplin congratulated me 
 before Bates. " There, you see, it 
 is not so very hard ; why, hang me 
 if you did not saw away as well as 
 tlie best ! ! ! " At these words Bates 
 gave a sort of yell and ran home. 
 Mr. Chaplin looked after him with 
 surprise. " There's some devil's 
 delight uj) between you two," said 
 he. " I shall find it out." 
 
 Next night in the tuning-room my 
 fiddle was so resonant ir attracted at- 
 tention, and one or two asked leave 
 to try it. " Why not! " said I. 
 
 During work Mr. Chaplin had one 
 eye on me and one on Bates, and 
 caught the perspiration running down 
 my face, and him simpering for the 
 first time in the history of the Adel- 
 phi. 
 
 " AA hat has come over Jem Bates ? " 
 said Mr. Chaplin tome; "the lad is 
 all changed. You have put some of 
 
 your late gunpowder into him ; there 
 is something up between you two." 
 After the pfaj he gol us together, 
 and he looked Rates in the face, and 
 
 just said to him " Eh ?" 
 
 At this wholesale interrogatory 
 Bates laid hold of himself tight. 
 " No, Mr. Chaplin, sir, I can't ; it 
 will kill me when it does come out of 
 me." 
 
 " When what comes out ? You 
 young rascals, if you don't both of 
 you tell me, I '11 break my fiddle over 
 Bates, and Jack shall mend it free of 
 expense gratis for nothing, that is how 
 I '11 serve mutineers ; come, out with 
 it." 
 
 " Tell him, John," said Bates, de- 
 murely. 
 
 " No," said I, " tell him yourself, if 
 you think it will gratify him." I had 
 my doubts. 
 
 *' Well," said Bates, " it is ungrate- 
 ful to keep you out of it, sir, so — he ! 
 he ! — I '11 tell you, sir — this second 
 violin has two bows in his violin- 
 case." 
 
 " Well, stupid, what is commoner 
 than that for a fiddler ? " 
 
 " But this is not a tiddler," squeaked 
 Bates ; " he 's only a bower. Oh ! 
 oh! oh!" 
 
 " Only a bower 1 " 
 
 " No ! Oh ! Oh ! I shall die ; it 
 will kill me." I gave a sort of ghast- 
 ly grin myself. 
 
 " You unconscionable scoundrels !" 
 shouted Mr. Chaplin ; " there, look 
 at this Bates ; he is at it again ; a fel- 
 low that the very clown could never 
 raise a laugh out of, and now I seo 
 him all night smirking, and grinning, 
 and looking down like a jackdaw that 
 has got his claw on a thimble. If 
 you don't speak out, I '11 knock yonr 
 two tormenting skulls together till 
 they roll otV down the gutter side 
 by side, chuckling and giggling all 
 day and all night." At this direful 
 mysterious threat Bates composed 
 himself. "The power is all out 
 of my body, sir, so now I can tell 
 you.'' 
 
 He then in faint tones gave this ex- 
 planation, which my guilty looks con- 
 tinued. " ( )ne of his hows is rcsincd, 
 sir, — that one is the tuner. I don't 
 know whether you have Observed, 
 but he tunes rather louder than any
 
 318 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 two of us. O dear, it is cominjr 
 again. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, now. Yes, I 
 have noticed that." 
 
 " The other bow, Mr. Chaplin, sir, 
 the other bow is soaped — well soaped, 
 sir, for orchestral use. Ugh ! ugh ! " 
 
 " O, the varmint ! " 
 
 Bates continued. " You take a 
 look at him, — j r ou see him fingering 
 and bowing like mad, — but as for 
 sound, you know what a greasy bow 
 is ? " 
 
 "Of course I do. I don't wonder 
 at your laughing — ha! ha! ha! O, 
 the thief, — when I think of his dili- 
 gent face, and him shaking his right 
 wrist like Viotti." 
 
 "Mind your pockets, though; he 
 knows too much." 
 
 It was now my turn to speak. " I 
 am glad you like the idea, sir," said 
 I, "for it comes from you." 
 
 " How can you say that 1 " 
 
 " What did you tell me to do? " 
 
 "I didn't tell you to do that. I 
 don't remember what I told him, 
 Bates, — not to the letter." 
 
 " Told me to play inaudible ! ! ! " 
 
 " Well, I never," said Mr. Chaplin. 
 
 " Those were your words, sir ; they 
 did not fall to the ground, you see." 
 
 My position in this orchestra, and 
 the situations that arose out of it, 
 were meat and drink to my two 
 friends. With the gentry, whose lives 
 are a succession of amusements, a joke 
 soon wears out, no doubt ; but we 
 poor fellows can't let one go cheap. 
 How do we know how long it may 
 he before Heaven sends us another? 
 A joke falling among us is like a rat 
 in a kennel of terriers. 
 
 At intricate passages the first violin 
 used to look at the tenor, and then at 
 me, and wink, and they both swelled 
 with innocent enjoyment, till at last 
 unknown powers of gayety budded in 
 Bates. With quizzing his friend he 
 learned to take a jest, so much so that 
 one night, Mr. Yates beiny; funnier 
 than usual if possible, a single horse- 
 laugh suddenly exploded among the 
 fiddles. This Was Bates gone of? all 
 
 in a moment after his trigger bein« 
 pulled so many years to no purpose. 
 Mr. Yates looked down with gratified 
 surprise. 
 
 " Halloo ! Brains got in the or- 
 chestra ; after that, anything ! " 
 
 But do you think it was fun to me 
 all this ? 1 declare I suffered the tor- 
 ture of the — you know what. I never 
 felt safe a moment. I had placed 
 myself next to an old fiddler who was 
 deaf, but he somehow smelt at times 
 that I was shirking, and then he used 
 to cry, " Pull out, pull out; yon don't 
 pull "out." 
 
 " How can you say so 1 " I used to 
 reply, and then saw away like mad ; 
 when, so connected are the senses of 
 sight and hearing apparently, the old 
 fellow used to smile and be at peace. 
 He saw me pull, and so he heard me 
 pull out. Then sometimes friends of 
 the other performers would be in the 
 orchestra, and peep over me, and say 
 civil things, and I wish them farther, 
 civilities and all. But it is a fact that 
 for two months I gesticulated in that 
 orchestra without a soul finding out 
 that I was not suiting the note to the 
 action. 
 
 At last wo broke up, to my great 
 relief, but I did not leave the theatre. 
 Mr. Widget, Mr. Yates's dresser, got 
 me a place behind the scenes at nine 
 shillings per week. 
 
 I used to dress Mr. Reeve, and run 
 for his brandies and waters, which 
 kept me on the trot, and do odd jobs. 
 
 But I was now to make the ac- 
 quaintance that colored all my life, or 
 the cream of it. My time was come 
 to move in a wider circle of men and 
 things, and really to do what so many 
 fancy they have done, — to see the 
 world. 
 
 In the month of April, 1828, Mr. 
 Yates, theatrical manager, found his 
 nightly receipts fall below his nightly 
 expenses. In this situation, a mana- 
 ger falls upon one of two things, — a 
 spectacle or a star. Mr. Yates pre- 
 ferred the latter, and went over to 
 Paris aud engaged Mademoiselle 
 Djek.
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 319 
 
 Mademoiselle Djek was an elephant 
 of great size and unparalleled sa- 
 gacity. She had been for some time 
 performing in a play at Franconi's, 
 and created a great sensation in 
 Paris. 
 
 Of her previous history little is 
 known. But she was first landed 
 from the East in England, and was 
 shown about merely as an elephant 
 by her proprietor, an Italian called 
 Polito. The Frenchmen first found 
 out her talent. Her present owner 
 was a M. Huguet, and with him Mr. 
 Yates treated. She joined the Adel- 
 phi company at a salary of £ 40 a 
 week and her grub. 
 
 There was great expectation in the 
 theatre for some days. The play in 
 which she was to perform, " The Ele- 
 phant of th" Kitiir of Siam," was cast 
 and rehearsed several times ; a wooden 
 house was budt for her at the back of 
 the stage, and one fine afternoon, 
 sure enough, she arrived with all her 
 train, one or two of each nation, viz., 
 her owner, M. Huguet (French) ; her 
 principal keeper, Tom Elliot (Eng- 
 lish) ; her subordinates, — Bernard, 
 (French), and an Italian nicknamed 
 Pippin. She arrived at the stage 
 door in Maiden Lane, and soon after 
 the messenger was sent to Mr. Yates's 
 house. 
 
 " Elephant 's come, sir." 
 
 " Well, let them put her in the 
 place built for her, and I '11 come and 
 scr her." 
 
 " They can't do that, sir." 
 
 " Why not '? " 
 
 "La! bless you, sir, she might 
 get her foot into the theatre, but how 
 is her body to come through the stage 
 door ! Why, she is almost as big as 
 the bouse." 
 
 Down comes Mr. Yates, and there 
 was the elephant Standing all across 
 Maiden Lane, — all traffic interrupted 
 except what could pass under her 
 belly, — ami such a crowd, — my 
 eye ! 
 
 .Mr. Yates put bis hands in his 
 
 pockets .uid took a quiet look at the 
 state of affairs. 
 
 " You must make a hole in the 
 wall," said he. 
 
 Pickaxes went to work, and made 
 a hole, or rather a frightful chasm, in 
 the theatre, and when it looked about 
 two thirds her size, Elliot said, 
 " Stop ! " He then gave her a sharp 
 order, and the first specimen we saw 
 of her cleverness was her doubling 
 herself together and creeping in 
 through that hole, bending her fore 
 knees, and afterward rising and 
 dragging her hind legs horizontally, 
 and she disappeared like an enor- 
 mous mole burrowing into the thea- 
 tre. 
 
 Mademoiselle Djek's bills were 
 posted all over the town, and every- 
 thing done to make her take, and on 
 the following Tuesday the theatre was 
 pretty well filled by the public ; the 
 manager also took care to have a 
 strong party in the pit. In short, 
 she was nursed as other stars are 
 upon their debut. 
 
 Night came ; all was anxiety be- 
 hind the lights and expectation in 
 front. 
 
 The green curtain drew up, and 
 Mr. Yates walked on in black dress- 
 coat and white kid gloves, like a pri- 
 vate gentleman just landed out of a 
 bandbox at the Queen's ball. He 
 was the boy to talk to the public ; 
 soft sawder, — dignified reproach, — 
 friendly intercourse, — he had them 
 all at his fingers' ends. This time it 
 was the easy tone of refined conver- 
 sation upon the intelligent creature 
 he was privileged to introduce to 
 them. I remember his discourse as 
 well as if it was yesterday. 
 
 " The elephant," said Mr. Yates, 
 '• is a marvel of Nature. We arc 
 now to have the pleasure of showing 
 
 her to you as taking her place in art." 
 
 Then he praised the wi.Mloni and 
 beneficence of creation. " Among 
 the small animals, such as eats and 
 men, there is to be found such a thing 
 as spite ; treachery ditto, and lo\ e ot 
 mischief, and even cruelty at odd 
 times ; but here is a creature with the 
 power to pull down our bouses about
 
 320 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 our cars like Samson, but a heart 
 that will not let her hurt a fly. Prop- 
 erly to appreciate her moral charac- 
 ter, consider what a thing power is ; 
 see how it tries us, — how often in 
 history it has turned men to demons. 
 The elephant," added he, " is the 
 friend of man by choice, not by neces- 
 sity or instinct ; it is born as wild as 
 a lion or buffalo, but, the moment an 
 opportunity arrives, its kindred intel- 
 ligence allies it to man, its only supe- 
 rior or equal in reasoning power. 
 We are about," said Mr. Yates, " to 
 present a play in which an elephant 
 will act a part, and yet act but her- 
 self, for the intelligence and affec- 
 tionate disposition she will display 
 on these boards as an actress are 
 merely her own private and domestic 
 qualities. Not every one of us actors, 
 gentlemen, can say as much." 
 
 Then there was a laugh, in which 
 Mr. Yates joined. In short, Mr. 
 Yates, who could play upon the pub- 
 lic ear better than some fiddles (I 
 name no names), made his debutante 
 popular before ever she stepped upon 
 the scene. He then bowed with in- 
 tense gratitude to the audience for 
 the attention they had honored him 
 with, retired to the prompter's side, 
 and, as he reached it, the act drop 
 flew up and the play began. It com- 
 menced on two legs ; the elephant 
 did not come on until the second 
 scene of the act. 
 
 The drama was a good specimen 
 of its kind. It was a story of some 
 interest, and length, and variety, and 
 the writer had been sharp enough 
 not to make the elephant too common 
 in it. She came on only three or 
 four times, and always at a nick of 
 time, and to do good business, — as 
 theatricals say, i. e. for some impor- 
 tant purpose in the story. 
 
 A king of Siam had lately died, 
 and the elephant was seen taking her 
 part in the funeral obsequies. She 
 deposited his sceptre, etc., in the 
 tomb of his fathers, and was seen no 
 more in that act. The rightful heir 
 to this throne was a young prince, to 
 
 whom the elephant belonged. A 
 usurper opposed him, and a battle 
 took place ; the rightful heir was 
 worsted and taken prisoner; the 
 usurper condemned him to be thrown 
 into the sea. In the next act, this 
 sentence was being executed : four 
 men were discovered passing through 
 a wood carrying no end of a box. 
 Suddenly a terrific roar was heard ; 
 the men put down the box rather 
 more carefully than they would in 
 real life, and fled, and the elephant 
 walked on to the scene alone like any 
 other actress. She smelt about the 
 box, and presently tore it open with 
 her probosi is, and there was her mas- 
 ter, the rightful heir, but in a sad ex- 
 hausted state. When the good soul 
 sees this, what does she do but walk 
 to the other side, and tear down the 
 bough of a fruit-tree and hand it to 
 the sufferer? He sucked it, and it 
 had the effect of stout on him: it 
 made a man of him, and they marched 
 away together, the elephant trumpet- 
 ing to show her satisfaction. 
 
 In the next act the rightful heir's 
 friends were discovered behind the 
 bars of a prison at a height from the 
 ground. The order for their execu- 
 tion arrived, and they were down up- 
 on their luck terribly. In marched 
 the elephant, tore out the iron bars, 
 and squeezed herself against the wall, 
 half squatting in the shape of a tri- 
 angle ; so then the prisoners glided 
 down her to the ground slantendicu- 
 lar one after another. 
 
 When the civil war had lasted long 
 enough to sicken both sides, and 
 enough widows and orphans had 
 been made, the Siamese began to ask 
 themselves, But what is it all about ? 
 The next thing was, they said, 
 "What asses we have been ! Was 
 there no other way of deciding be- 
 tween two men but bleeding the whole 
 tribe ? " Then they reflected and 
 said, We are asses, that is clear; but 
 we hear there is one animal in the 
 nation that is not an ass; why, of 
 course, then she is the one to decide 
 our dispute. Accordingly, a grand
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 321 
 
 assembly was held, the rival claim- 
 ants were compelled to attend, and 
 the elephant was led in. Then the 
 high-priest, or some such article, hav- 
 ing first implored Heaven to speak 
 through the quadruped, bade her de- 
 cide according to justice. No soon- 
 er were the words out of his mouth 
 than the elephant stretched out her 
 proboscis, seized a little crown that 
 glittered on the usurper's head, and, 
 waving it gracefully in the air, de- 
 posited it gently and carefully on the 
 brows of the rightful heir. So then 
 there was a rush made on the wrong- 
 ful heir. He was taken out guarded, 
 and warned off the premises ; the 
 rightful heir mounted the throne, and 
 grinned and bowed all round, — the 
 elephant trumpeted, — Siam hurrahed, 
 — Djek's party in the house echoed 
 the sound, and down came the cur- 
 tain in thunders of applause. Though 
 the curtain was down, the applause 
 continued most vehemently, and after 
 a while a cry arose at the back of the 
 pit, " Elephant ! Elephant ! " That 
 part of the audience that had paid at 
 the door laughed at this, but their 
 laughter turned to curiosity when, in 
 answer to the cry, the curtain was 
 raised, and the stage discovered empty. 
 Curiosity in turn gave way to sur- 
 prise, for the elephant walked on from 
 the third grooves alone, and came 
 slap down to the float. At this, the 
 astonished public literally roared at 
 her. Rut how can I describe the ef- 
 fect, the amazement, when, in return 
 for the compliment, the debutante 
 slowly bent her knees and couriered 
 twice to the British public, and then 
 retired backward* as the curtain once 
 more fell ? People looked at one 
 another, and seemed to need to read 
 in their neighbors' eyes whether such 
 a thing was real ; and then followed 
 that buzz which tells the knowing 
 One« behind the curtain that the nail 
 has gone home ; that the theatre will 
 be crammed to the ceiling to-morrow 
 night, and perhaps for eighty nights 
 
 after. 
 Mr. Yates fed Mademoiselle Djek 
 U* 
 
 with his own hand that night, crying, 
 " you duck ! " 
 
 The fortunes of the Adelphi rose 
 from that hour, — full houses without 
 intermission. 
 
 Mr. Yates shortened his introduc- 
 tory address, and used to make it a 
 brief, neat, and, I think, elegant en* 
 logy of her gentleness and affection* 
 ate disposition ; her talent " the pub« 
 lie are here to judge for themselves," 
 said Mr. Yates, and exit P. S. 
 
 A theatre is a little world, and 
 Djek soon became the hero of ours. 
 Everybody must have a passing peep 
 at the star that was keeping the the- 
 atre open all summer, and providing 
 bread for a score or two of families 
 connected with it. Of course, a mind 
 like mine was not among the least 
 inquisitive. Cut her head-keeper, 
 Tom Elliot, a surly fellow, repulsed 
 our attempts to scrape acquaintance. 
 " Mind your business, and I '11 mind 
 mine," was his chant. He seemed 
 to be wonderfully jealous of her. He 
 could not forbid Mr. Yates to visit 
 her, as he did us, but he always in- 
 sisted on being one of the party ev(yi 
 then. He puzzled us; but the strong- 
 est impression he gave us was that 
 he was jealous of her, — afraid that 
 she would get as fond of some others 
 as of him, and so another man might 
 be able to work her, and his own 
 nose lose a joint, as the saying is. 
 Later on we learned to put a different 
 inteqiretation on his conduct. Pip- 
 pin the Italian, and Bernard the 
 Frenchman, used to serve her with 
 straw and water, etc., but it was quite 
 a different thing from Elliot. They 
 were like a tine lady's grooms and 
 
 running footmen, but Elliot was hot 
 
 body-servant, groom of the bedcham- 
 ber, or what not. He used always 
 to sleep in the straw close to her. 
 Sometimes, when he was drunk, he 
 would roll in between her logs ; and 
 if she had not been more careful of 
 him than any other animal ever was 
 (especially himself), she most have 
 crushed him to death three nights in 
 the week. Next to Elliot, but a long 
 
 U
 
 322 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 way below him, M. Huguet seemed 
 her favorite. He used to come into 
 her box, and caress her, and feed her, 
 and make much of her ; but she nev- 
 er went on the stage without Elliot 
 in sight ; and, in point of fact, all she 
 did upon our stage was done at a 
 word of command given then and 
 there at the side by this man and no 
 other, — going down to the float, 
 courtesying, and all. 
 
 Being mightily curious to know 
 how he had gained such influence 
 with her, I made several attempts to 
 sound him, but, drunk or sober, he 
 was equally unfathomable on this 
 point. 
 
 I then endeavored to slake my cu- 
 riosity at No. 2. I made bold to ask 
 M. Huguet how he had won her af- 
 fections. The Frenchman was as 
 communicative as the native was re- 
 served. He broke plenty of English 
 over me. It came to this, that the 
 strongest feeling of an elephant was 
 gratitude, and that he had worked on 
 this for years ; was always kind to 
 her, and seldom approached her with- 
 out giving her lumps of sugar, — car- 
 ried a pocketful on purpose. This 
 tallied with what I had heard and 
 read of an elephant ; still the problem 
 remained, Why is she fonder still of 
 this Tom Elliot, whose manner is not 
 ingratiating, and who never speaks 
 to her but in a barsh, severe voice 1 
 
 She stood my friend, any way. A 
 good many new supers were engaged 
 to play with her, and I was set over 
 these, looked out their dresses, and 
 went on with them and her as a slave : 
 nine shillings a week for this was 
 added to my other nine which I drew 
 for dressing an actor or two of the 
 higher class. 
 
 The more I was about her, the 
 more I felt that we were not at the 
 bottom of this quadruped, nor even 
 of her bipeds. There were gestures 
 and glances and shrugs always pass- 
 ing to and fro among them. 
 
 One day at the rehearsal of a farce 
 there was no Mr. Yates. Somebody 
 inquired loudly for him. 
 
 " Hush ! " says another; " have n'l 
 you heard ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You must n't talk of it out of 
 doors." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Half killed by the elephant this 
 morning." 
 
 It seems he was feeding and coax- 
 ing her, as he had often clone before, 
 when all in a moment she laid hold of 
 him with her trunk and gave him a 
 squeeze. He lay in bed six weeks 
 with it, and there was nobody to de- 
 liver her eulogy at night. Elliot was 
 at the other end of the stage when 
 the accident happened. He heard 
 Mr. Yates cry out, and ran in, and 
 the elephant let Mr. Yates go the mo- 
 ment she saw him. 
 
 We questioned Elliot. We might 
 as well have cross examined the Mon- 
 ument. Then I inquired of M. 
 Huguet what this meant. That gen- 
 tleman explained to me thatDjck had 
 miscalculated her strength ; that she 
 wanted to caress so kind a manager, 
 who was always feeding and court- 
 ing her, and had embraced him too 
 warmly. 
 
 The play went on, and the ele- 
 phant's reputation increased. Bat 
 her popularity was destined to receive 
 a shock as far as we little ones behind 
 the curtain were concerned. 
 
 One day while Pippin was spread- 
 ing her straw, she knocked him down 
 with her trunk, and, pressing her 
 tooth against him, bored two frightful 
 holes in his skull before Elliot could 
 interfere. Pippin was carried to St. 
 George's Hospital and we began to 
 look in one another's faces. 
 
 Pippin's situation was in the mar- 
 ket. 
 
 One or two declined it. It came 
 down to me. I reflected, and accept- 
 ed it: another nine shillings; total, 
 twenty-seven shillings. 
 
 That night two supers turned tail. 
 An actress also, whose name 1 have 
 forgotten, refused to go on with her. 
 " I was not engaged to play with a 
 brute," said this lady, '-'and I won't."
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 323 
 
 Others went on as usual, but were not 
 so sweet on it as before. The rightful 
 heir lost all relish for his part, and, 
 above all, when his turn came to be 
 preserved from harm by her, I used 
 to hear him crying out of the box 
 to Elliot, " Arc you there ? are you 
 sure you arc there 1 " and, when she 
 tore open his box, Garrick never act- 
 ed better than this one used to now, 
 for you see his cue was to exhibit fear 
 and exhaustion, and he did both to 
 the life, because for the last five min 
 utes he had been thinking, "O dear: 
 ( ) dear ! suppose she should do the 
 foot business on my box instead of the 
 proboscis business." 
 
 These, however, were vain fears. 
 She made no mistake before the public. 
 
 Nothing lasts forever in this world, 
 and the time came that she ceased to 
 fill the house. Then Mr. Yates re- 
 engaged her for the provinces, and, 
 having agreed with the country man- 
 agers, sent her down to Bath and 
 Bristol first. He had a good opinion 
 of me, and asked me to go with her and 
 watch his interests. I should not cer- 
 tainly have applied for the place, but 
 it was nut easy to say no to Mr. Yates, 
 and I felt I owed him some reparation 
 for the wrong I had done that great 
 artist in accompanying his voice with 
 my gestures. 
 
 In short, we started, Djek, Elliot, 
 Bernard, I, and Pippin, on foot (he 
 wnsjust out of St. George's). Messrs. 
 Haguet and Yates rolled in their car- 
 riage to meet us at the principal 
 towns where we played. 
 
 As we could not afford to make 
 her common, our walking was all 
 night-work, and introduced me to a 
 rouarh life. 
 
 'lip' average of night weather is 
 wetter and windier than day, and 
 many a vile night we tramped through 
 when wise men were abed : and we 
 never knew tor certain where we 
 should pass the night, lor it depended 
 on Djek. She was bo enormous. that 
 
 half the inns could not find us a 
 
 place big enough for her. Our first 
 
 evening stroll was to Bath ami Bris- 
 
 tol ; thence we crossed to Dublin, 
 thence we returned to Plymouth. 
 We walked from Plymouth to Liver- 
 pool, playing with good success at all 
 these places. At Liverpool she laid 
 hold of Bernard and would have set- 
 tled his hash, but Elliot came between 
 them. 
 
 That same afternoon in walks a 
 young gentleman dressed in the 
 height of Parisian fashion, — glossy 
 hat, satin tie, trousers puckered at the 
 haunches, — spruccr than any poor 
 Englishman will be while the world 
 lasts, and who was it but Mons. Ber- 
 nard come to take leave 1 We endeav- 
 ored to dissuade him. He smiled and 
 shook his head, treated us, nattered us, 
 and showed us his preparations for 
 France. 
 
 All that day and the next he saun- 
 tered about us dressed like a gentle- 
 man, with his hands in his pockets, 
 and ah ostentatious neglect of his late 
 affectionate charge. Before he left he 
 invited me to drink something at his 
 expense, and was good enough to say I 
 was what he most regretted leaving. 
 
 " Then why go ? " said I. 
 
 " I will tell you, mon pauvre gar- 
 con," said Mons. Bernard. " We old 
 hands have all got our orders to say 
 she is a duck. Ah ! you have found 
 that out of yourself. Well, now, as I 
 bave done with her, I will tell you a 
 part of her character, for I know her 
 well. Once she injures you she can 
 never forgive you. So long as she has 
 never hurt you there's a fair chance 
 she never will. I have been about her 
 for years, anil she never molested me 
 till yesterday. But, if she once attacks 
 a man, that man's death-warrant is 
 signed. I can't altogether account for 
 it, but trust my experience, it is so. 
 I would have stayed with you all my 
 life if she had not shown me my fete, 
 but not now. Merci ! 1 have a wife 
 and two children in France. I have 
 saved some money out of her. I re- 
 turn to the bosom of my family ; and 
 if Pippin stays with her after the hint 
 she gave him in London, why, you 
 will seo the death of Pippin, my lad,
 
 52i 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 roila tout, that is if you don't go first. 
 Qu'est que 9a te fait a la fin ? tu es 
 garcon toi — barons ! " 
 
 The next day he left us, and left me 
 sad for one. The quiet determination 
 with which he acted upon positive ex- 
 perience of her was enough to make a 
 man thoughtful ; and then Bernard 
 was the flower of us : he was the drop 
 of mirth and gayety in our iron cup. 
 He was a pure, unadulterated French- 
 man ; and, to be just, where can you 
 find anything so delightful as a 
 Frenchman — of the rig-lit sort? 
 
 He fluttered home singing, 
 
 " Les doux yeux de ma brunet — te, 
 Tout — e mignonett — e — tout — e — geutil- 
 lett— e." 
 
 and left us all in black. 
 
 God bless you, my merry fellow. 
 I hope you found your children 
 healthy, and your brunette true, and 
 your friends alive, and that the world 
 is just to you, and smiles on you, as 
 you do on it, and did on us. 
 
 From Liverpool wc walked to Glas- 
 gow, from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and 
 from Edinburgh on a cold starry mid- 
 night we started for Newcastle. 
 
 In this interval of business let me 
 paint you my companions Pippin and 
 Elliot. The reader is entitled to this, 
 for there must have been something 
 out of the common in their looks, 
 since I was within an ace of being 
 killed along of the Italian's face, and 
 was imprisoned four days through the 
 Englishman's mug. 
 
 The Italian whom we know by the 
 nickname of Pippin was a man of im- 
 mense stature and athletic mould. 
 His face, once seen, would never be 
 forgotten. His skin, almost as swar- 
 thy as Othello's, was set off by daz- 
 zling ivory teeth, and lighted by two 
 glorious large eyes, black as jet, bril- 
 liant as diamonds ; the orbs of black 
 lightning gleamed from beneath eye- 
 brows that many a dandy would have 
 bought for mustaches at a high valu- 
 ation. A nose like a reaping-hook 
 completed him. Perch him on a tol- 
 erable-sized rock, and there you had 
 a black eagle. 
 
 As if this was not enough, Pippia 
 would always wear a conical hat; 
 and, had he but stepped upon the 
 stage in " Masanielk) " or the like, all 
 the other brigands would have sunk 
 down to a rural police by the side of 
 our man. But now comes the ab- 
 surdity. His inside was not different 
 from his out ; it was the exact oppo- 
 site. You might turn over twenty 
 thousand bullet heads and bolus eyes 
 before you could find one man so 
 thoroughly harmless as this thunder- 
 ing brigand. He was just a pet, a 
 universal pet of all the men and wo- 
 men that came near him. He had the 
 disposition of a dove and the heart of 
 a hare. He was a lamb in wolfs 
 clothing. 
 
 My next portrait is not so pleasing. 
 
 A MAN TURNED BRUTE. 
 
 Some ten years before this, a fine 
 stout young English rustic entered 
 the service of Mademoiselle Djtik. 
 He was a model for bone and muscle, 
 and had two cheeks like roses. When 
 he first went to Paris he was looked 
 on as a curiosity there. People used 
 to come to Djek's stable to see her, 
 and Elliot, the young English Samson. 
 Just ten years after this voung Elliot 
 had got to be called "old Elliot." 
 His face was not only pale, it was col- 
 orless ; it was the face of a walking 
 corpse. This came of ten years' bran- 
 dy and brute. I have often asked 
 people to guess the man's age, and 
 they always guessed sixty, sixty-five, 
 or seventy, — oftenest the latter. 
 
 He was thirty-five, — not a day 
 more. 
 
 This man's mind had come down 
 along with his body. He understood 
 nothing but elephant ; he seldom 
 talked, and then nothing but ele- 
 phant. He was an elephant-man. 
 I will give you an instance which I 
 always thought curious. 
 
 An elephant, you may have ob- 
 served, cannot stand quite still. The 
 great weight of its head causes a 
 nodding movement, which is perpet- 
 ual when the creature stands erect. 
 Well, this Tom Elliot when he stood
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 325 
 
 np, used always to have one foot ad- 
 vanced, and his eyes half closed, and 
 his head niddle-nodding like an ele- 
 phant all the time ; and, with it all, 
 such a presence of brute and absence 
 of soul in his mug, enough to <;ivc 
 a thoughtful man some very queer 
 ideas about man and beast 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 My office in this trip was merely 
 to contract for the elephant's food at 
 the various places ; but 1 was getting 
 older and shrewder, and more design- 
 ing than I used to be, and I was 
 i|iiite keen enough to see in this ele- 
 phant the means of bettering my for- 
 tunes, if I could hut make friends with 
 her. But how to do this I She was 
 like a coquette, strange admirers 
 welcome ; but when you had courted 
 her awhile she got tired of you, and 
 then nothing short of your demise sat- 
 isfied her caprice. Her heart seemed 
 inaccessible except to this brute El- 
 liot, and be, drunk or sober, guarded 
 the secret of his fascination by some 
 instinct, for reason he possessed in a 
 very small degree. 
 
 1 played the spy on quadruped and 
 biped, and I found out the fact, but 
 the reason beat me. I saw that she 
 was more tenderly careful of him than 
 a mother of her child. I saw him 
 roll down Ptupid drunk under her 
 belly, and I saw her lift first one foot 
 and then the other, and draw them 
 slowly and carefully back, trembling 
 witli fear lest she might make a mis- 
 take and hurt him. 
 
 But why she was a mother to him 
 and a stepmother to the rest of us, 
 that 1 could not learn. 
 
 One day, between Plymouth and 
 Liverpool, having left Elliot and her 
 together, I happened to retain, and I 
 found the elephant alone and in a 
 state of excitement, and locking in I 
 observed some blood upoa the straw. 
 
 His turn has come at last, was my 
 
 first notion ; but, looking round, there 
 was Elliot behind me. 
 
 " I was afraid she had tried it on 
 with you," I said. 
 
 " AVho 1 " 
 
 " The elephant." 
 
 Elliot's face was not generally ex- 
 pressive, but the look of silent scorn 
 he gave me at the idea of the elephant 
 attacking him was worth seeing. 
 The brute knew something I did not 
 know, and could not find out ; and 
 from this one piece of knowledge he 
 looked down upon mc with a sort of 
 contempt that set all the Seven Dials' 
 blood on fire. 
 
 " I will bottom this," said I, " if 1 
 die for it." 
 
 My plan now was to feed Djck 
 every day with my own hand, but 
 never to go near her without Elliot 
 at my very side and in front of the 
 elephant. 
 
 This was my first step. 
 
 We were noAv drawing toward 
 Newcastle, and bad to lie at Morpeth, 
 where we arrived late, and found Mr. 
 Yates and M. Huguet, who had come 
 out from Newcastle to meet us ; and 
 at this place I determined on a new 
 move which I had long meditated. 
 
 Elliot, I reflected, always slept 
 with the elephant. None of the 
 other men had ever done this. Now 
 might there not he some magic in 
 this unbroken familiarity between the 
 two animals ! 
 
 Accordingly, at Morpeth, I pre« 
 tended there was no bed vacant in 
 the inn, and asked Elliot to let me lie 
 beside him : he grunted an ungracious 
 assent. 
 
 Not to overdo it at first, I got 
 Elliot between mc and Djck, so (hat 
 if she was offended at my intrusion 
 she mast pass over her darling to re- 
 sent it. We had tramped a good 
 many miles, and were soon fast 
 asleep. 
 
 About two in the morning I was 
 awoke by a shout and a crunching, 
 and felt myself dropping into the 
 straw out of the elephant's month. 
 She had strctehed her proboscis over
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES 
 
 him, — had taken me up so delicately 
 that I felt nothing, and when Elliot 
 shouted I was in her mouth. At his 
 voice, that rung in my ears like the 
 last trumpet, she dropped me like a 
 hot potato. I rolled out of the straw, 
 giving tongue a good one, and ran 
 out of the shed. I had no sooner got 
 to the inn than I felt a sickening pain 
 in my shoulder and fainted away. 
 
 Her huge tooth had gone into my 
 shoulder like a wedge. It was my- 
 self I had heard being crunched. 
 
 They did what they could for me, 
 and I soon came to. When I re- 
 covered my senses I was seized with 
 vomiting ; but at last all violent 
 symptoms abated, and I began to 
 suffer great pain in the injured part, 
 and did suffer for six weeks. 
 
 Ami so I scraped clear. Somehow 
 or other, Elliot was not drunk, or 
 nothing could have saved me. For a 
 second wonder, he, who was a heavy 
 sleeper, woke at the very slight noise 
 she made eating me : a moment later, 
 and nothing could have saved me. I 
 use too many words, — suppose she 
 had eaten me, — what then ? 
 
 They told Mr. Yates at breakfast, 
 and he sent for me, and advised me 
 to lie quiet at Morpeth till the fever 
 of the wound should be off me; but I 
 refused. She was to start at ten, and 
 I told him I should start with her. 
 
 Running from grim death like that, 
 I had left my shoes behind in the 
 shed, and M. Huguet sent his servant 
 Baptiste, an Italian, for them. 
 
 Mr. Yates then asked me for all the 
 particulars, and, while I was telling 
 him and M. Huguet, we heard a com- 
 motion in the street, and saw people 
 running, and presently one of the 
 waiters ran in and cried : — 
 
 " The elephant has killed a man, 
 or near it." 
 
 Mr. Yates laughed and said : — 
 
 " Not quite so bad as that ; for here 
 is the man." 
 
 " No, no," cried the waiter, " it is 
 not him ; it is one of the foreigners." 
 
 Mr. Yates started up all trembling. 
 He ran to the stable. I followed him 
 
 as I was, and there we saw a sight to 
 make our blood run cold. On the 
 corn-bin lay poor Baptiste crushed 
 into a mummy. How it happened 
 there was no means of knowing ; but, 
 no doubt, while he was groping in 
 the straw for my wretched shoes, she 
 struck him with her trunk, perhaps 
 more than once ; his breast-bones 
 were broken to chips, and every time 
 he breathed, which by God's mercy 
 was not many minutes, the man's 
 whole chest-frame puffed out like a 
 bladder with the action of his lungs: 
 it was too horrible to look at. 
 
 Elliot had run at Baptiste's cry, 
 but too late to save his lite this time. 
 He had drawn the man out of the 
 straw as she was about to pound him 
 to a jelly, and there the poor soul lay 
 on the corn bin, and by his side lay 
 the things he had died for, — two old 
 shoes. Elliot had found them in the 
 straw, and put them thereof all places 
 in the world. 
 
 By this time all Morpeth was out. 
 They besieged the doors and vowed 
 death to the elephant. M. Huguet 
 became greatly alarmed. He could 
 spare Baptiste, but he could not spare 
 Djek. He got Mr. Yates to pacify 
 the people. " Tell them something," 
 said he. 
 
 " What on earth can I say for her 
 over that man's bleeding body ? " said 
 Mr. Yates. " Curse her ! would to 
 God I had never seen her ! " 
 
 " Tell thein he used her cruel," 
 said M. Huguet. 
 her off with that before now 
 
 Well, my sickness came on again, 
 partly, no doubt, by the sight and the 
 remorse, and I was got to bed, and 
 lay there some days ; so I did not see 
 all that passed, but I heard some, and 
 1 know the rest by instinct now. 
 
 Half an hour after breakfast-time 
 Baptiste died. On this the elephant 
 was detained by the authorities, and a 
 coroner's inquest was summoned, and 
 sat in the shambles on the victim, 
 with the butcheress looking on at the 
 proceedings. 
 
 Pippin told me she took off a jury- 
 
 " I have brought
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 327 
 
 m?n's hat during the investigation, 
 ■waved it triumphantly in the air, and 
 plaeed it cleverly on her favorite's 
 head, old Tom. 
 
 At this inquest two or three persons 
 deposed on oath that the deceased had 
 ill used her more than once in 
 France ; in particular, that he had 
 run a pitchfork into her two years 
 ago; that he had been remonstrated 
 with, but in vain ; unfortunately, she 
 had recognized him at once, and 
 killed him out of revenge for past 
 cruelty, or to save herself from fresh 
 outrages. 
 
 This cooled the ardor against her. 
 Some even took part with her against 
 the man. 
 
 " Run a pitchfork into an elephant ! 
 O, for shame ! no wonder she killed 
 him at last. How good of her not 
 tii kill him then and there, — what for- 
 bearance, — forgave it for two years, 
 ye see." 
 
 There is a fixed opinion among men 
 that an elephant is a good kind crea- 
 ture. The opinion is fed by the pro- 
 prietors of elephants, who must nurse 
 the notion or lose their customers, and 
 so a set talc is always ready to clear 
 the guilty and criminate the sufferer ; 
 and this tale is greedily swallowed by 
 the public. You will hear and read 
 many such tales in the papers before 
 you die. Every such tale is a lie. 
 
 How curiously things happen ! 
 Last year, i. e. more than twenty 
 years after this event, my little jrirl 
 went for a pound of batter to Newport 
 Street. She brought it wrapped up 
 in a scrap uf a very old newspaper; 
 in unrolling it, my eye, by mere Acci- 
 dent, fell upon these words : "An in- 
 quest." 1 had no sooner read the 
 paragraph than 1 put the scrap of pa- 
 
 pev away in m\ desk : it lies before 
 me now, and I am copying it. 
 
 " An inquest was held at the Phoe- 
 nix Inn, Morpeth, on the 27th ultimo, 
 on view of the body of an Italian 
 
 named Baptiste Bernard, who was one 
 of the attendants on the female ele- 
 phant which lately performed at tin' 
 Adelphi. It appeared from the evi- 
 
 dence that the man had stabbed the 
 elephant in the trunk with a pitchfork 
 about two years ago while in a state 
 of intoxication, and that on the Tues- 
 day previous to the inquest the animal 
 caught hold of him with her trunk 
 and did him so much injury that he 
 died in a few hours. Verdict, died 
 from the wounds and bruises received 
 from the trunk of an elephant. Deo- 
 dand, 5s." 
 
 Well, this has gone all abroad, for 
 print travels like wind ; and it is not 
 fair to the friends and the memory 
 of this Baptiste Bernard to print that 
 he died by his own cruelty, or fault, 
 or folly, so take my deposition, and 
 carry it to Milan, his native city. 
 
 I declare upon oath that the above 
 is a lie ; that the man was never an 
 attendant upon the female elephant ; 
 he was an attendant on the female 
 Hague t ; for he was that lady's 
 footman. His first introduction to 
 Mademoiselle Djek was her killing 
 him, and he died, not by any fault 
 of his own, but by the will of God 
 and through ignorance of the real 
 nature of the fuU-grown elephant, the 
 cunninfrest, most treacherous and 
 bloodthirsty beast that ever played 
 the butcher among mankind. 
 
 What men speak dissolves in the 
 air, what they print stands fast and 
 will look them in the face to all eter- 
 nity. I print the truth about this 
 man's death ; so help me God. 
 
 Business is business. As soon as 
 we had jrot the inquest over and 
 stamped the lie current, hid the truth 
 and buried the man, we marched 
 south and played our little play at 
 Newcastle. 
 
 Deodand for a human soul sent by 
 murder to its account, five bob. 
 
 After Newcastle we walked to York, 
 and thence to Manchester. I crept 
 along thoroughly crestfallen. Months 
 and months 1 had watched, and spied, 
 
 and tried to pluck out the heart of 
 this Tom Elliot's mystery ; 1 had 
 failed. Months and months I had 
 
 tried to gain some influence over 
 
 Djek; 1 had failed. But for Elliot,
 
 328 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 it was clear I should not live a single 
 day within reach of her trunk ; this 
 brute was my superior. I was com- 
 pelled to look, up to him, and I did 
 look up to him. 
 
 As I tramped sulkily along, my 
 smarting shoulder reminded me that 
 in elephant, as in everything else I 
 had tried, I was Jack, not master. 
 
 The proprietors had their cause 
 of discontent too. We had silenced 
 the law, but we could not silence 
 opinion. Somehow suspicion hung 
 about her in the very air wherever 
 she went. She never throve in the 
 English provinces after the Morpeth 
 job, and, finding this, Mr. Yates 
 said : " O, hang her, she has lost her 
 character here; send her to Amer- 
 ica." So he and M. Huguet joined 
 partnership and took this new spec- 
 ulation on their shoulders. America 
 was even in that day a great card 
 if you went with an English or 
 French reputation. 
 
 I had. been thinking of leaving 
 her and her old Tom in despair ; 
 but, now that other dangers and in- 
 conveniences were to be endured be- 
 sides her and her trunk, by some 
 strange freak of human nature, or 
 by fate, I began to cling to her like 
 a limpet to a rock the more you pull 
 at him. 
 
 Mr. Yates dissuaded me. " Have 
 nothing to do with her, Jack ; she 
 will serve you like all the rest. 
 Stay at home, and I '11 find something 
 for you in the theatre." 
 
 I thought a great deal of Mr. 
 Yates for this, for he was speaking 
 against his own interest. I was a 
 faithful servant to him, and he need- 
 ed one about her. Many a five- 
 pound note I had saved him al- 
 ready, and well he deserved it at my 
 hands. 
 
 " No, sir," I said, " I shall be of 
 use, and I can't bear to he nonplushed 
 by two brutes like Elliot and her. I 
 have begun to study her, and I must 
 go on to the word ' finis ' ! " 
 
 Messrs. Yates and Huguet insured 
 the elephant lor £ 2U,0U0, and sent us 
 
 all to sea together in the middle of 
 November, a pretty month to cross 
 the Atlantic in. 
 
 This was what betters call a hedge, 
 and not a bad one. 
 
 Our party was Queen Djek ; Mr. 
 Stevenson, her financier; Mr. Gallott, 
 her stage-manager and wrongful heir ; 
 Elliot, her keeper, her lord, her king ; 
 Pippin, her slave, always trembling 
 for his head ; myself, her commis- 
 sariat ; and one George Hindc, from 
 Wombwell's, her man-of-all-work. 
 
 She had a stout cabin built upon 
 deck for her. It cost £ 40 to make ; 
 what she paid for the accommodation 
 Pleaven knows, but I should think a 
 good round sum, for it was the curse 
 of the sailors and passengers, and 
 added fresh terrors to navigation. 
 The steersman could not see the 
 ship's head until the sea took the 
 mariners' part and knocked it into 
 toothpicks. 
 
 Captain Scbor had such a passage 
 with us as he had never encountered 
 before. He told us so, — and no won- 
 der ; he never had such a wholesale 
 murderess on board before, — contrary 
 winds forever, and stiff" gales too. 
 At last it blew great guns ; and one 
 night, as the sun went down crimson 
 in the Gulf of Florida, the sea run- 
 ning mountains high, I saw Captain 
 Sebor himself was fidgety. He had 
 cause. That night a tempest came 
 on ; the " Ontario " rolled fearfully 
 and groaned like a dying man ; about 
 two in the morning a sea struck her, 
 smashed Djek's cabin to atoms, and 
 left her exposed and reeling ; another 
 such would now have swept her over- 
 board, but her wits never left her for 
 a moment. She threw herself down 
 flatter than any man could have con- 
 ceived possible ; out went all her four 
 legs, and she glued her belly to the 
 deck ; the sailors passed a chain from 
 the weather to the lee bulwarks, and 
 she seized it with her proboscis, and 
 held on like grim death. Poor thing, 
 her coat never got not to say dry ; she 
 was like a great water-rat all the rest 
 of the voyage.
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 329 
 
 The passage was twelve weeks of 
 foul weather. The elephant begun 
 to be suspected of being the cause of 
 this, and the sailors often looked 
 askant at her, and said we should 
 yiever see port till she walked the 
 plank into the Atlantic. If her un- 
 derwriters saved their twenty thou- 
 sand pounds, it was touch and go 
 more than once or twice. Moreover, 
 she ate so little all the voyage that 
 it was a wonder to Elliot and me how 
 she came not to die of sickness and 
 hunger. I suppose she survived it 
 all because she had more mischief to 
 do. 
 
 As the pretty little witches sing 
 in Mr. Locke's opera of " Macbeth," 
 
 She must, she; must, she must, she 
 must, she must shed — much — 
 more — blood. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Our preposterous long voyage de- 
 ranged all the calculations that had 
 been made for us in England, and 
 we reached New York just at the 
 wrong time. We found Master Burke 
 playing at the Park Theatre, and we 
 were forced to treat with an inferior 
 house, the Bowery Theatre. We 
 played there with but small success 
 compared with what we had been 
 used to in Europe. Master Burke 
 filled the house, — we did not (ill ours, 
 — so that at last she was actually 
 eclipsed Ivy a human actor ; to be sure 
 it was a boy, not a man, and child's 
 play is .sometime-- preferred by the 
 theatre-going world even to horse- 
 play. 
 
 The statesmen were cold to us ; 
 they bad not at. this time learned to 
 form an opinion of their own at 
 Bight on such matters, ami we did not 
 bring them an overpowering Euro- 
 pean verdict to which they bad noth- 
 ing to do but sign their names. 
 There was m> groove cut for the 
 mind to run in, ami while they hes- 
 itated the Speculation halted. I 
 think she would succeed there now ; l 
 
 but at this time they were not ripe for 
 an elephant. 
 
 We left New York, and away to 
 Philadelphia on foot and steamboat. 
 
 There is a place on the Delaware 
 where the boat draws up to a small 
 pier. Down this we marched, and 
 about ten yards from the end the 
 floor gave way under her weight, and 
 Djek and her train fell into the sea. 
 I was awoke from a revery, and found 
 myself sitting right at top of her, 
 with my knees in Chesapeake Bay. 
 Elliot had a rough Benjamin on, and 
 as he was coming thundering down 
 with the rest of the rubbish, alive and 
 dead, it caught in a nail, and he hung 
 over the bay by the shoulder like an 
 Indian fakir, cursing and swearing 
 for all the world like a dog barking. 
 I never saw such a posture, — and O, 
 the language ! 
 
 I swam out, but Djek was caught 
 in a trap between the two sets of piles. 
 The water was about two feet over 
 her head, so that every now and then 
 she disappeared, and then striking the 
 bottom she came up again, plunging, 
 and rolling, and making waves like a 
 steamboat. Her trunk she kept ver- 
 tical, like the hose of a diving-bell, 
 and 0, the noises that came up from 
 the bottom of the sea through that 
 flesh-pipe ! For about four hours she 
 went up and down the gamut of " O 
 Lord, what shall I do ' " more than a 
 thousand times, I think. We brought 
 ropes to her aid, and boats and men, 
 and tried all we knew to move her, 
 but in vain ; and when we had ex- 
 hausted our sagacity she drew upon 
 a better bank, — her own. Talk of 
 brutes not being able to reason, — 
 gammon. Djek could reason like 
 Solomon ; for each fresh difficulty 
 she found a fresh resource. On this 
 occasion she did what 1 never saw her 
 
 do before or since: she took her enor- 
 mous skull, and used it as a battering- 
 ram against the piles ; two of tliem 
 resisted — no wonder — they were 
 about eight inches in diameter ; the 
 third snapped like glass, and sho 
 plunged through and waddled on
 
 330 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 shore. I met her with a bucket of 
 brandy and hot water — stiff. 
 
 Ladies, who are said to sip this 
 compound in your boudoirs while 
 your husbands are smoking at the 
 clubs, but I don't believe it of you, 
 learn how this lady disposed of her 
 wooden tumbler full. She thrust her 
 proboscis into it. Whis — s — s — s — p ! 
 now it is all in her trunk. Whis — s 
 — s — sh ! now it is all in her abdo- 
 men : one breath drawn and exhaled 
 sent it from the bucket home. This 
 done, her eye twinkled, and she trum- 
 peted to the tune of " All is well that 
 ends well." 
 
 I should weary the reader were I 
 to relate at length all the small inci- 
 dents that befell us in the United 
 States. 
 
 The general result was failure, loss 
 of money, our salaries not paid up, 
 and fearful embarrassments staring 
 us in the face. AVe scraped through 
 without pawning the elephant, but 
 we were often on the verge of it. All 
 this did not choke my ambition. 
 Warned by the past, I never ventured 
 near her (unless Elliot was there) for 
 twelve months after our landing ; but 
 I was always watching Elliot and her 
 to find the secret of his influence. 
 
 A fearful annoyance to the leaders 
 of the speculation was the drunken- 
 ness of Old Tom and George Hinde : 
 these two encouraged one another and 
 defied us, and of course they were 
 our masters, because no one but El- 
 liot could move the elephant from 
 place to place, or work her on the 
 stage. 
 
 One night Elliot was so drunk that 
 he fell down senseless at the door of 
 her shed on his way to repose. I was 
 not near, but Mr. Gallott it seems 
 was, and he told us she put out her 
 proboscis, drew him tenderly in, laid 
 him on the straw, and flung some 
 straw over him or partly over him. 
 Mr. Gallott is alive, and a public 
 character ; you can ask him whether 
 this is true : I tell this one thing on 
 hearsay. 
 
 Not long after this, in one of the 
 
 American towns, I forget which, 
 passing by Djek's shed, I heard a 
 tremendous row. I was about to call 
 Elliot, thinking it was the old story, 
 somebody getting butchered ; but, I 
 don't know how it was, something 
 stopped me, and I looked cautiously 
 in instead, and saw Tom Elliot walk- 
 ing into her with a pitchfork, she 
 trembling like a school-boy with her 
 head in a corner, and the blood 
 streaming from her sides. As soon 
 as he caught sight of me he left off 
 and muttered unintelligibly. 1 said 
 nothing. I thought the more. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 We had to go by water to a place 
 called City Point, and thence to Pitts? 
 ville. I made a mistake as to the 
 hour the boat started, and Djek and 
 Co. went on board without me. 
 
 Well, you will say I could follow 
 by the next boat. But how about 
 the tin to pay the passage? My 
 pocket was dry, and the treasurer 
 gone on. But I had a good set of 
 blacking-brushes ; so solcl them, and 
 followed on with the proceeds — got 
 to City Point. Elephant gone on to 
 Pittsville ; that I expected. Twenty 
 miles or so I had to tramp on an 
 empty stomach. And now does n't 
 the Devil send me a fellow who shows 
 me a short cut through a wood to' 
 Pittsville : into the wood I go. I 
 thought it was to be like an English 
 wood, — out of the sun into a pleasant 
 shade, and, by then you are cool, 
 into the world again. Instead of that, 
 "the deeper, the deeper you are in 
 it," as the song of the bottle says, the 
 farther you were from getting out of it. 
 Presently two roads instead of one, and 
 then 1 knew I was done. I took one 
 road : it twisted like a serpent. I 
 had not been half an hour on it be- 
 fore I lost all the points of the compass. 
 Says I, I don't know whether I ever 
 shall see daylight again ; but if I do, 
 City Point will be the first thing I
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 331 
 
 Bhall see. You mark my words, 
 said I, 
 
 So here was I lost in what they 
 call a wood out there, but we should 
 call a forest at home. And now, 
 being in the heart of it, I got among 
 the devil ishest noises, and nothing to 
 be seen to account for them ; little 
 feet suddenly pattering and scurrying 
 along the ground, wings Happing out 
 of trees ; but what struck most awe 
 into a chap from the Seven Dials 
 was the rattle, — the everlasting rat- 
 tle, and nothing to show. Often I 
 have puzzled myself what this rattle 
 could be. It was like a thousand 
 rattlesnakes, and did n't I wish I was 
 in the Seven Dials, though some get 
 lost in them for that matter. After 
 ail, I think it was only insects, but 
 insects by billions ; you never heard 
 anything like it in an English wood. 
 
 Just as I was losing heart in this 
 enchanted wood, I heard an earthly 
 pound, the tramp of a horse's foot. It 
 was music. 
 
 But the leaves were so thick I 
 could not see where the horse was ; 
 he seemed to get farther off, and then 
 nearer. At last the sound came so 
 close I made a run, burst through a 
 lot of green leaves, and came out 
 plump on a man riding a gray cob. 
 He up with the but-end of his whip 
 to fell me, but seeing I was respecta- 
 ble, " Halloo ! stranger," say r s he, 
 " jrucss you sort o' startled me." 
 "Beg pardon, sir," says I, "but I 
 have lost my way." " I see you are 
 a stranger, said he. 
 
 So then hi' asked me where I was 
 bound for, and 1 told him Pittsville. 
 
 I won't insult the reader by telling 
 him what he said about the course I 
 
 had been taking through the wood. I 
 might as well tell him his A U C, or 
 which side his bread and butter falls 
 
 in the dust <>n. Then he asked me 
 
 who I was. So I told him I was one 
 of the elephant's domestics, least- 
 ways 1 did not word it so candid : 
 "I was in charge of the elephant, 
 
 and had taken a short cut." 
 
 Now he had heard of Djek, and 
 
 seen her bills up, so he knew it was 
 all right. " How am I to find my 
 way out, sir 1 " said I. " Find your 
 way out 1 " said he. " You will never 
 find your way out." Good news, 
 that. 
 
 He thought a bit ; then he said : 
 " The best thing you can do is to 
 come home with me, and to-mor- 
 row I will send you on." 
 
 I could have hugged him. 
 
 " You had better walk behind me," 
 says he; "my pony bites." So I 
 tramped astern ; and on we went, 
 patter, patter, patter through the 
 wood. At first I felt as jolly as a 
 sandboy marching behind the pony ; 
 but when we had pattered best part 
 of an hour, I began to have my mis- 
 givings. In all the enchanted woods 
 ever I had read of, there was a small 
 trifle of a wizard or ogre that took 
 you home and settled your hash. Fee 
 faw fum, I smell the blood of an Eng- 
 lishmun, etc. 
 
 And still on we pattered, and the sun 
 began to decline, and the wood to 
 darken, and still we pattered on. I 
 was just thinking of turning tail and 
 slipping back among the panthers, and 
 mosquitoes, and rattlesnakes, when, (> 
 be joyful, we burst on a clearing, and 
 there was a nice house in the middle 
 of it, and out came the dogs jumping 
 to welcome us, and niggers no end 
 with white eyeballs and grinders like 
 snow. 
 
 They pulled him off his horse, and 
 in we went. There was his good 
 lady, and his daughter, — a beautiful 
 girl, and stub a dinner. We sat 
 down, and I maintained a modest 
 taciturnity for some minutes : " The 
 silent hog eats the most acorns." 
 After dinner he shows mo all manner 
 of ways of mixing the grog, and I 
 show him one way of drinking it, — 
 when yon can get it. Then he innst, 
 hear about the elephant. So I tell 
 him the jade's history, hut bind him 
 in secrecy. 
 
 Then the young lady puts in. 
 " So you are really an Englishman t '* 
 and Sue looks me all over.
 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 " That you may take your oatli of, 
 jniss/' says I. 
 
 " Oh ! " says she, and smiles. I 
 did not take it up at first, hut I see 
 what it was now. Me standing five 
 feet four, I did not come up to her no- 
 tion of the Father of all Americans. 
 " Does this great people spring from 
 such a iittle stock as we have here 1 " 
 thinks my young lady. I should 
 have up and told her the pluck makes 
 the man, and not the inches ; but I 
 Jost that chance. Then, being pressed 
 with questions, I told them all my 
 Adventures, and they hung on my 
 words. It was a new leaf to them, I 
 could see that. 
 
 The young lady's eyes glittered 
 like two purple stars at a stranger 
 with the gift of the gab that had seen 
 jo much life as I had, and midnight 
 tame in on time. Then I was ushered 
 to bed. Now up to that time I had 
 always gone to roost without pomp 
 or ceremony ; sometimes with a mould 
 candle, but oftener a farthing dip, 
 which I have seen it dart its beams 
 out of a bottle instead of a flat candle- 
 stick. 
 
 This time a whole cavalcade of us 
 went up the stairs : one blackie 
 marched in my van with two lights, 
 two blackies brought up my rear. 
 They showed me into a beautiful 
 room, and stood in the half-light with 
 eyes and teeth like red-hot silver, 
 glittering and diabolical. I thought, 
 of course, they would go away now. 
 Not they. Presently one imp of dark- 
 ness brings me a chair. 
 
 I sit down, and wonder. Other 
 two lay hold of my boots and whip 
 them off. This done, they buzz about 
 me like black and white fiends, fidget- 
 ing, till I longed to punch their heads. 
 They pull 7ny coat off and my trou- 
 sers ; then they hoist me into bed : 
 this done, first one makes a run and 
 tucks me in, and grins over me dia- 
 bolical; then another comes like a 
 battering-ram, and tucks me in tight- 
 er. Fiend 3 looks at the work, and 
 puts the artful touches at the corners, 
 and behold me wedged, and then the 
 
 beneficent fiends mizzled with a 
 hearty grin that seemed to turn them 
 all ivory. I could not believe my 
 senses : I had never been tucked in 
 since my mother's time. 
 
 In the morning, struggled out, and 
 came down to breakfast. Took leave 
 of the good Samaritan, who appoint- 
 ed two of my niggers to see me out 
 of the wood ; made my bow to the 
 ladies, and away with a grateful heart. 
 The niggers conducted me clear of the 
 wood and set me on the broad road. 
 Then came one of the pills a poor 
 fellow has to stomach. I had made 
 friends with the poor darkies, and 
 now I had not even a few pence to 
 give them, and such a little would 
 have gone so far with them ! I have 
 often felt the bitterness of poverty, 
 but never I do think as when I parted 
 with my poor niggers at the edge of 
 the wood, and was forced to see them 
 go slowly home without a farthing. 
 
 I wish these few words could travel 
 across the water, and my good host 
 might read them, and see I have not 
 forgotten him all these years. But, 
 dear heart ! you may be sure he is 
 not upon the earth now. It is years 
 ago, and a man that had the heart to 
 harbor a stranger and a wanderer, 
 why, he would be one of the first to 
 go. 
 
 We steamed and tramped up and 
 down the United States of America. 
 On our return to Norfolk she broke 
 loose at midnight, slipped into the 
 town, took up the trees on the Bou- 
 levard and strewed them flat, went 
 into the market, hroke into a vegeta- 
 ble shop, munched the entire stock, 
 next to a coachmaker's, took off* a 
 carriage - wheel, opened the door, 
 stripped the cushions, and we found 
 her eating the stuffing. 
 
 One day at noon we found our- 
 selves fourteen miles from the town, 
 I forget its name, we had to play in 
 that very night. Mr. Gallott had 
 gone on to reheatse, etc., and it be- 
 hooved us to be marching after him. 
 At this juncture, old Tom, being 
 rather drunk, feels a strong desire to
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 333 
 
 be quite drunk, and refuses to stir 
 from his brandy and water. Our ex- 
 chequer was in no condition to he tri- 
 fled with thus : if Elliot & Co. be- 
 came helpless for an hour or two, we 
 should arrive too late for the night's 
 performance, and Djck eating her 
 nead off" all the while. 1 coaxed and 
 threatened our two brandy sponges, 
 but in vain ; they stuck and sucked. 
 I was in despair, and, being in de- 
 spair, came to a desperate resolution : 
 I determined to try and master her 
 myself then and there, and to defy 
 these drunkards. 
 
 I told Pippin my project. He 
 started back aghast. He viewed me 
 in the light of a madman. " Are 
 you tired of your life ? " said he. 
 But I was inflexible. Seven Dials 
 pluck was up. I was enraged with 
 my drunkards, and I was tired of 
 waiting so many years the slave of a 
 quadruped whose master was a brute. 
 
 Elephants are driven with a rod of 
 steel sharpened at the end ; about a 
 foot from the end of this weapon is a 
 large hook ; by sticking this hook 
 into an elephant's ear, and pulling it, 
 you make her sensible which way 
 you want her to go, and persuade her 
 to comply. 
 
 Armed with this tool, I walked up 
 to Djek's shed, and, in the most 
 harsh and brutal voice I could com- 
 mand, bade her come out. She 
 moved in the shed, but hesitated. I 
 repeated the command still more re- 
 pulsively, and out she came toward 
 me very slowly. 
 
 With luasts such as "lions, tigers, 
 and elephants, great promptitude is 
 the thing. Think fur them! don't 
 give them time to think, or their 
 thought* may he evil. I had learned 
 
 this much, so I introduced myself by 
 driving tlic steel into Djek's ribs, and 
 then hooking her ear, while Pippin 
 looked down from a first-story win- 
 dow. If Djck had knowti how my 
 heart was beating she would have 
 killed me then and there ; but, ob- 
 serving no hesitation on my part, she 
 took it all as a matter of course, and 
 
 walked with me like a lamb. I 
 found myself alone with her on the 
 road, and fourteen miles of it before 
 us. It was a serious situation, but I 
 was ripe for it now. All the old wo- 
 men's stories and traditions about an 
 elephant's character had been driven 
 out of me by experience and washed 
 out with blood. I had fathomed El- 
 liot's art. I had got what the French 
 call the riddle-key of Mademoiselle 
 Djck, and that key was " steel " ! 
 
 On we marched, the best of friends. 
 There were a number of little hills 
 on the road, and as we mounted one, 
 a figure used to appear behind us on 
 the crest of the last between us and 
 the sky : this was the gallant Pippin, 
 solicitous for his friend's fate, but de- 
 sirous of not partaking it if adverse. 
 And still the worthy Djck and I 
 marched on the best of friends. 
 About a mile out of the town, she 
 put out her trunk and tried to curl it 
 round me in a caressing way. I met 
 this overture by driving the steel into 
 her till the Llood squirted out of her. 
 If I had not, the siren would have 
 killed me in the course of the next 
 five minutes. Whenever she relaxed 
 her speed I drove the steel into her. 
 When the afternoon sun smiled glo- 
 riously on us, and the poor thing felt 
 nature stir in her heart, and began to 
 frisk in her awful clumsy way, 
 pounding the great globe, I drove 
 the steel into her ; if I had not, I 
 should not be here to relate this 
 sprightly narrative. 
 
 Meantime, at , her stage-man- 
 ager and financier wen in great dis- 
 tress and anxiety; tour o'clock, and 
 no elephant. At last they get so 
 (Tightened, they came out to meet us, 
 and presently, to their amazement 
 and delight, Djek strode op with her 
 new general. Their ecstasy was great 
 
 to think that the whole business was 
 no longer at a drunkard's mercy. 
 " But how did you manage 1 How 
 
 ever did ye win her heart ! " " With 
 tlii>," said 1, and showed them the 
 
 bloody steel. 
 
 We had not been in the town half
 
 334 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 an hour before Tom and George 
 came in. They were not so drunk 
 but what they trembled for their situ- 
 ations after my exploit, and rolled 
 and zigzagged after us as fast as they 
 could. 
 
 By these means I rose from mad- 
 emoiselle's slave to be her friend and 
 companion. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 This feat kept my two drunkards 
 in better order, and revived my own 
 dormant ambition. I used now to 
 visit her by myself, steel in hand, to 
 feed lier, etc., and scrape acquaint- 
 ance with her by every means, — steel 
 in hand. One day I was feeding her, 
 when suddenly I thought a house had 
 fallen on me. I felt myself crashing 
 against the door, and there I was ly- 
 ing upon it in the passage with all tlie 
 breath driven clean out of my body. 
 Pippin came and lifted me up and 
 carried me into the air. I thought I 
 should have died before breath could 
 get into my lungs again. She had 
 done this with a push from the thick 
 end of her proboscis. After a while I 
 came to. I had no sooner recovered 
 my breath than I ran into the stable, 
 and came back with a pitchfork. Pip- 
 pin saw my intention and implored me, 
 for Heaven's sake, not to. I would 
 not listen to him : he flung his arms 
 round me. I threatened to turn 
 the fork on him if he did not let me 
 
 " Havk!" said he; and sure enough, 
 there she was snorting and getting up 
 her rage. " I know all about that," 
 said I ; " my death-warrant is drawn 
 up, and if I don't strike it will be 
 signed. This is how she has felt her 
 way with all of them before she has 
 killed them. I have but one chance 
 of life," said I, " and I won't throw it 
 away without a struggle." I opened 
 the door, and, with a mind full of mis- 
 givings, I walked quickly up to her. 
 I did not hesitate to raise the question 
 which of us two was to suffer, I knew 
 
 that would not do. I sprang upon 
 her like a tiger, and drove the pitch- 
 fork into her trunk. She gave a jell 
 of dismay and turned a little from me ; 
 I drove the fork into her ear. 
 
 Then came out her real character. 
 
 She wheeled round, ran her head 
 into a corner, stuck out her great but- 
 tocks, and trembled all over like a 
 leaf. I stabbed her with all my force 
 for half an hour till the blood poured 
 out of every square foot of her huge 
 body, and, during the operation, she 
 would have crept into a nutshell if she 
 could. I tilled her as full of holes as 
 a cloved orange. 
 
 The blood that trickled out of her 
 saved mine ; and, for the first time, I 
 walked out of her shambles her mas- 
 ter. 
 
 One year and six months after we 
 had lauded at New York to conquer 
 another hemisphere, we turned tail 
 and sailed for England again. We 
 had a prosperous voyage, with the 
 exception of one accident. George 
 Hinde, from incessant brandy, had 
 delirium tremens, and one night, in a 
 fit of it, he had just sense enough to 
 see that he was hardly to be trusted 
 with the care of himself. " John," 
 said he to me, " tie me to this mast 
 hand and foot." I demurred ; but he 
 begged me for Heaven's sake, so I 
 bound him hand and foot as per order. 
 This done, some one called me down 
 below, and while I was there it seems 
 George got very uncomfortable; and 
 began to halloo and complain. Up 
 comes the captain, — sees a man 
 lashed to' the mast. " What game is 
 this 1 " says he. " It is that little 
 blackguard John," says Hinde; "he 
 caught me sleeping against the mast, 
 and took a mean advantage ; do loose 
 me, captain ! " The captain made 
 sure it was a sea-jest, and loosed him 
 with his own hands. " Thank you, 
 captain," says George, "you are a 
 good fellow. God bless you all ! " 
 and with these words he ran aft and 
 jumped into the sea. A Yankee 
 sailor made a grab at him and just 
 touched his coat, but it was too late
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 on - 
 
 to save him, and we were going before 
 the wind ten knots an hour. Thus 
 George Hinde fell by brandy ; his 
 kindred spirit, old Tom, seemed 
 ready to follow, without the help of 
 water, salt or fresh. This man's face 
 was now a uniform color, white, with 
 a scarce perceptible bluish-yellowish 
 tinge. He was a moving corpse. 
 
 Drink forever ! it makes men 
 thieves, murderers, asses, and pau- 
 pers ; but what about that ? so long as 
 it sends them to an early grave with 
 "beast" for their friends to write 
 over their tombstones, unless they 
 have a mind to tell lies in a church- 
 yard, and that is a common trick. 
 
 We arrived at the mouth of the 
 Thames. 
 
 Some boats boarded us with fresh 
 provisions and delicacies ; among the 
 rest, one I had not tasted for many a 
 day : it is called soft-tommy at sea, 
 and on land bread. The merchant 
 stood on tiptoe and handed a lonf to- 
 ward me, and I leaned over the bul- 
 warks and stretched down to him 
 with a shilling in my hand. But, as 
 ill luck would have it, the shilling 
 slipped from my finders and fell. If 
 it bad been some men's it would have 
 fallen into the boat, others' into the 
 si a, slap ; but it was mine, and so it 
 fell on the boat's very rim, and then 
 danced to its own music into the wa- 
 ter. I looked after it in silence ; a 
 young lady with whom I had made 
 some little acquaintance during the 
 voyage happened to be at my elbow, 
 and she laughed most merrily as the 
 Shilling went down. I remember be- 
 ing astonished thai she laughed. 
 
 The man Still held OUt (be bread, but 
 1 shook my bead. " I must go with- 
 out now," said I ; the young lady 
 was quite surprised. " Why, it is 
 worth a guinea," cried she. "Yes, 
 miss," said I, sheepishly, "but we 
 can't always have what we like, you 
 see; I ought to have held my shilling 
 tighter." 
 
 " Your shilling," cries she "Oh !" 
 and she dashed her hand into her 
 pocket and took out her purse, and 1 
 
 could see her beautiful white fingers 
 tremble with eagerness as they dived 
 among the coin. She soon bought 
 the loaf, and, as she handed it to me, 
 1 happened to look in her face, and 
 her cheek was red and her eyes quite 
 brimming. Her quick woman's 
 heart had told her the truth, that it 
 was a well-dressed and tolerably well- 
 behaved man's last shilling, and he 
 returning after j r ears of travel to his 
 native land. 
 
 I am sure, until the young lady felt 
 for me, I thought nothing of it; I 
 had been at my last shilling more 
 than once. But when I saw she 
 thought it hard, I began to think it 
 was hard, and I remember the water 
 came into iny own eyes. Heaven 
 bless her, and may she never want a 
 shilling in her pocket, nor a kind 
 heart near her to show her the world 
 is not all made of stone. 
 
 We had no money to pay our 
 passage, and we found Mr. Yates 
 somewhat embarrassed. We had c< >st 
 him a thousand or two, and no re- 
 turn ; so, while he wrote to Mons. 
 Huguct, that cametopassin England 
 which we had always just contrived 
 to stave oft' abroad. 
 
 The elephant was pawned. 
 
 And now I became of use to the 
 proprietors. I arranged with the 
 mortgagees, and they made the spout 
 a show-place. I used to exhibit her 
 and her tricks, and with the proceeds 
 1 fed her and Elliot and myself. 
 
 We bad been three weeks in pledge, 
 when, one fine morning, as I was 
 showing oil' seated on the elephant's 
 back, 1 beard a French exclamation 
 of surprise and joy ; I looked down, 
 
 and there was M. Huguct. I came 
 down to him, and he, whose quick 
 eye saw a way through me out of 
 drunken Elliot, gave a loose to his 
 feelings, and embraced me a la Kran- 
 
 paise, " which made the common peo- 
 ple very much to admire," as tl:e 
 Ming has it ; also a polite bowl of dc- 
 
 rision greeted our Continental affec- 
 tion. M- Huguet put his band into 
 
 bis pocket, and we got out of limbo.
 
 336 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 anil were let loose upon suffering hu- 
 manity once more. 
 
 They talk as if English gold did 
 everything ; but it was French gold 
 bought us off, I know that, for I saw 
 it come out of his pocket. 
 
 As soon as we were redeemed, we 
 took an engagement at Astley's, and, 
 during this engagement, cadaverous 
 Tom, finding we could master her, 
 used to attend less and less to her 
 and more and more to brandy. 
 
 A certain baker, who brought her 
 loaves every morning for breakfast, 
 used to ask me to let him feed her 
 himself. He admired her, and took 
 this way of making her fond of him. 
 One day I had left these two friends 
 and their loaves together for a min- 
 ute, when I heard a fearful cry. I 
 knew the sound too well by this time, 
 ami, as I ran back, I had the sense 
 to halloo at her : this saved the 
 man's life. At the sound of my 
 voice she dropped him from a height 
 of about twelve feet, and he rolled 
 away like a ball of worsted. I dashed 
 in, up with the pitchfork, and into 
 her like lightning, and, while the 
 blood was squirting out of her from a 
 hundred little prong-holes, the poor 
 baker limped away. 
 
 Any gentleman or lady who wish- 
 es to know how a man feels when 
 seized by an elephant, preparatory to 
 being srpielchcd, can consult this per- 
 son ; he is a respectable tradesman ; 
 his name is Johns ; he lives near Ast- 
 ley's Theatre, or used to, and for ob- 
 vious reasons can tell you this one 
 anecdote out of many such better 
 than I can ; that is if he has not for- 
 gotten it, and 1 dare say he has n't — 
 ask him ! 
 
 After Astley's, Drury Lane engaged 
 us to play second to the Lions of My- 
 sore ; rather a down-come ; but we 
 went. In this theatre we behaved 
 wonderfully. Notwithstanding the 
 number of people continually buzz- 
 ing about us, we kept our temper, 
 and did not smash a single one of 
 these human gnats, so trying to our 
 little female irritability and feeble 
 
 nerves. The only thing we did 
 wrong was, we broke through a gran- 
 ite mountain and fell down on to the 
 plains, and hurt our knee, and broke 
 one super, — only one. 
 
 The Lions of Mysore went a star- 
 ring to Liverpool, and we accompa- 
 nied them. While we were there the 
 cholera broke out in England, and M. 
 Huguet summoned us hastily to 
 France. We brushed our hats, put 
 on our gloves, and walked at one 
 stretch from Liverpool to Dover. 
 There we embarked for Boulogne : 
 Djek, cadaverous Tom, wolf-skin- 
 lainb Pippin, and myself. I was 
 now in Huguet's service at fifty 
 francs a week as coadjutor and suc- 
 cessor of cadaverous Tom, whose de- 
 mise was hourly expected even by us 
 who were hardened by use to his ap- 
 pearance, which was that of the ghost 
 of delirium tremens. We arrived off 
 Boulogne Pier ; but there we were 
 boarded by men in uniforms and 
 mustaches, and questions put about 
 the cholera, which disease the civic 
 authorities of Boulogne were deter- 
 mined to keep on the other side of the 
 Channel. The captain's answer 
 proving satisfactory, we were allowed 
 to run into the port. 
 
 In landing anywhere Djek and her 
 attendants had always to wait till 
 the other passengers had got clear, 
 and we did so on this occasion. At 
 length our turn came ; but we had no 
 sooner crossed the gangway and 
 touched French ground than a move- 
 ment took place on the quay, and a 
 lot of bayonets bristled in our faces, 
 and " Ilalte la ! " was the word. We 
 begged an explanation ; in answer, 
 an oilicer glared with eyes like sau- 
 cers, and pointed with his >finger at 
 Elliot. The truth flashed on us. 
 The Frenchmen were afraid of 
 cholera coining over from England, 
 and here was a man who looked 
 plague, cholera, or death himself in 
 person. We remonstrated through 
 an interpreter, but Tom's face was 
 not to be refuted by words. Some 
 were for sending us back home to so
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES* 
 
 337 
 
 diseased a country as this article 
 must have come out of; but milder 
 measures prevailed. They set apart 
 for our use a little corner of the quay, 
 and there they roped us in and senti- 
 nelled us. And so for four days, in 
 the polished kingdom of France, we 
 dwelt in a hut ruder far than any on 
 the banks of the Ohio. Drink for- 
 ever ! At last, as Tom Coffin got 
 neither a worse nor a better color, 
 they listened to reason, and let us 
 loose upon the nation at large, and 
 away we tramped for Paris. 
 
 Times were changed with us in one 
 respect : we no longer marched to 
 certain victory ; our long ill-success 
 in America had lessened our arro- 
 gance, and we crept along toward 
 Paris. But, luckily for us, we had 
 now a presiding head, and a good 
 otic. The soul of business is puffing, 
 and no man puffed better than our 
 chief, M. Huguet. Half-way between 
 Boulogne and Paris we were met by 
 a cavalier earning our instructions 
 how we were to enter Paris ; and, 
 arrived at St. Denis, instead of going 
 straight on, we skirted the town, and 
 made our formal entry by the Bois 
 de Boulogne and the Arch of Tri- 
 umph. Huguet had come to terms 
 with Franconi, and, to give Djek's 
 engagement more importance, F'ran- 
 coui's whole troop were ordered out to 
 meet us and escort us in. They 
 
 taraded up and down the Champs 
 ;i\se'es first, to excite attention and 
 inquiry, and when the public were 
 fairly agog our cavalcade formed 
 OUtSlde the harrier, anil came glitter- 
 ing and prancing through the. arch. 
 An elephant has In t tips and downs 
 
 like th«' rest. Djek, the despised of 
 Kentucky and Virginia, hurst on 
 Paris the centre of a shining throng. 
 Pranconi's bright amazons and ex- 
 t[ ti i - i t<- cavaliers rode to and fro our 
 line, carrying sham messages with 
 
 earnest fans ; Djek was bedecked with 
 ribbons, and seemed to tread more 
 majestically, and our own hearts heat 
 higher, as amid grace, and beauty, 
 and pomp, .sun shining — hats waving 
 15 
 
 — feathers bending — mob cheering 
 
 — trumpets crowing — and flints strik- 
 ing fire, we strode proudly into the 
 great city, the capital of pleasure. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 These were bright days to me. I 
 was set over old Tom, — fancy that ; 
 and my salary doubled his. I had 
 fifty francs a week, and cleared as 
 much more by showing her privately 
 in her stable. 
 
 Money melts in London, — it evap- 
 orates in Paris. Pippin was a great 
 favorite both with men and women 
 behind the scenes at JYanconi's. He 
 introduced me to charming compan- 
 ions of both sexes ; gayety reigned, 
 and tin and morals " made them- 
 selves air, into which they vanished." 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Toward the close of her engage- 
 ment Djek made one of her mistakes ; 
 she up with her rightful heir and 
 broke his ribs against the side scenes. 
 
 We nearly had to stop her per- 
 formances ; we could not mend our 
 rightful heir by next night, and sub- 
 stitutes did not pour in. "I won't 
 go on with her," "I won't play with 
 her," was aery that even the humblest 
 and neediest began to raise. I am hap- 
 py to say that she was not under my 
 supcrintendenee when this rightful 
 heir came to grief. 
 
 And now the cholera came to Paris, 
 and theatricals of all sorts declined, 
 for there was a real tragedy playing 
 in every street. The deaths were 
 very numerous, and awfully sudden ; 
 people wen' struck down in the streets 
 as if by lightning ; gloom and terror 
 hung over all. 
 
 When this terrible disease is better 
 known it will be found to be of the na- 
 ture of strong poison, and its cure, if 
 any, will be strychnine, belladonna, 
 or, likelier still, some quick and deadly 
 mineral poison that kills the healthy 
 with cramps and discoloration. 
 
 Ill its rapid form cholera is not to 
 V
 
 338 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 be told from quick poison, and hence 
 sprung up among the lower order in 
 Paris a notion that wholesale poison- 
 ing was on foot. 
 
 Pippin and I were standing at the 
 door of a wine-shop, waiting for our 
 change. His wild appearance attract- 
 ed first one and then another. Little 
 knots of people collected and eyed us ; 
 then they began to talk aud murmur, 
 and cast suspicious glances. " Come 
 away," said Pippin, rather hastily. 
 We walked off; they walked after us, 
 increasing like a snowball, and they 
 murmured louder and louder. I asked 
 Pippin what the fools were gabbling 
 about. He told me they suspected us 
 of being the poisoners. At this I 
 turned round, and, being five feet 
 four, and English, was for punching 
 some of their heads ; but the athletic, 
 pacific Italian would not hear of it, 
 much less co-operate ; and now they 
 surrounded us just at the corner of 
 one of the bridges, lashing themselves 
 into a fury, and looking first at us, 
 and then at the river below. Pip- 
 pin was as white as death, and I 
 thought it was all up myself, when by 
 good luck a troop of mounted gen- 
 darmes issued from the palace. Pip- 
 pin hailed them ; they came up, and, 
 after hearing both sides, took us under 
 their protection, and oft' we marched 
 between two files of cavalry, followed 
 by the curses of a superficial populace. 
 Extremes don't do. Pippin was the 
 color of ink, Elliot of paper ; both 
 their mugs fell under suspicion, and 
 nearly brought us to grief. 
 
 Eranconi closed, and Djek, Huguet, 
 and Co. started on a provincial tour. 
 
 They associated themselves on this 
 occasion with Michclet, who had some 
 small wild animals, such as lions, ti- 
 gers, and leopards. 
 
 Our first move was to Versailles. 
 Here wc built a show- place and exhib- 
 ited Djek, not as an actress, but as a 
 private elephant, in which capacity 
 she did the usual elephant business, 
 besides a trick or two that most of 
 them have not brains enough for, 
 whereof anon. 
 
 Michelet was the predecessor of 
 Van Amburgh and Carter, and did 
 everything they do a dozen years be- 
 fore they were ever heard of; used to 
 go into the lions' den, pull them about, 
 and put his head down their throats, 
 and their paws round his neck, etc., 
 etc. 
 
 I observed this man, and learned 
 something from him. Besides that 
 general quickness and decision which 
 is necessary with wild animals, I no- 
 ticed that he was always on the look- 
 out for mischief, and always punished 
 it before it came. Another point, he al- 
 ways attacked the offending part, and 
 so met the evil in front ; for instance, 
 if one of his darlings curled a lip and 
 showed a tooth, he hit him over the 
 mouth that moment and nowhere else ; 
 if one elongated a claw, he hit him 
 over the foot like lightning. He read 
 the whole crew as I had learned to 
 read Djek, and conquered their malice 
 by means of that marvellous cowardice 
 which they all show if they cau see 
 no signs of it in you. 
 
 There are no two ways with wild 
 beasts. If there is a single white spot 
 in your heart, leave them, for your 
 life will be in danger every mo- 
 ment. If you can despise them, and 
 keep the rod always in sight, they are 
 your humble servants ; nobody more 
 so. 
 
 Our exhibition, successful at first, 
 began to flag ; so that the fertile brain 
 of M. Huguet had to work. He pro- 
 posed to his partner to stand a tiger, 
 and he would stand a bull, and " we 
 will have a joint-stock fight like the 
 King of Oiide." Michelet had his 
 misgivings, but Huguet overruled 
 him. That ingenious gentleman then 
 printed bills advertising for a certain 
 day a fight between a real Bengal ti- 
 ger and a ferocious bull that had just 
 gored a man to death. This done, he 
 sent me round the villages to find and 
 hire a bull. " Mind you get a mild 
 one, or I shall have to pay for a hole 
 in the tiger's leather." I found one 
 which the owner consented to risk for 
 so much money down, and the dam-
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 339 
 
 age he should sustain from tiger to be 
 valued independently by two farmers 
 after the battle. 
 
 The morning of the fight Pippin 
 and I went for our bull, and took 
 him out of the yard towards Versailles ; 
 but when we had gone about two 
 hundred yards, he became uneasy, 
 looked round, snitfed about, and final- 
 ly turned round spite of all our efforts, 
 and paced home again. We remon- 
 strated with the proprietor. " O," 
 said he, " I forgot ; he won't start 
 without the wench." 80 the wench 
 in question was sent for (his com- 
 panion upon amatory excursions). 
 She went with us, and launched us 
 toward Versailles. This done, she 
 returned home, and we marched on ; 
 but before we had gone a furlong 
 Taurus showed symptoms of uneasi- 
 ness ; these increased, and at last he 
 turned round and walked tranquilly 
 home. We hung upon him, thrashed 
 him, and bullied him, all to no pur- 
 pose. His countenance was placid, 
 but his soul resolved, and — he walked 
 home, slowly, but inevitably ; so then, 
 there was nothing for it but to let him 
 have the wench all the way to the 
 tiger, and she would not go to Ver- 
 sailles till she had put on some new 
 finery, — short waist, coal-scuttle bon- 
 net, etc. More time lost with that ; 
 and, when we did arrive in the arena, 
 the spectators were tired of waiting. 
 The hull stood in the middle, con- 
 fused and stupid. The tiger was in 
 his cage in a corner ; we gave him 
 time to observe his prey, and then we 
 opened the door of his cage, 
 
 A shiver ran through the audience 
 (they were all Bested in boxes looking 
 down on the area). 
 
 A moment more, and the furious 
 animal would spring upon his victim, 
 and his fangs and claws sink deep 
 into its neck, etc., etc. Vide books 
 of travels. 
 
 One moment succeeded to another, 
 and nothing occurred. The ferocious 
 animal lav quiet in his cage, and 
 showed no si^'ii ; so then we poked 
 the ferocious animal. He snarled, 
 
 hut would not venture out. When 
 this had lasted a long time, the spec- 
 tators began to doubt his ferocity, and 
 to goose the ferocious animal. So I 
 got a red-hot iron and nagged him 
 behind. He gave a yell of dismay, 
 and went into the arena like a shot. 
 He took no notice of the bull. All 
 he thought of was escape from the 
 horrors that surrounded him. Winged 
 by terror, he gave a tremendous 
 spring, and landed his fore paws on 
 the boxes, stuck fast, and glared in 
 at the spectators. They rushed out 
 yelling. He dug his hind claws into 
 the wood-work, and by slow and pain- 
 ful degrees clambered into the boxes. 
 When he got in, the young and act- 
 ive were gone home, and he ran down 
 the stairs among the old people that 
 could not get clear so quick as the 
 rest. He was so frightened at the peo- 
 ple that he skulked and hid himself 
 in a cornfield, and the people were so 
 frightened at him that they ran home 
 and locked their street doors. So one 
 coward made many. 
 
 They thought the poor wretch had 
 attacked them, and the journal next 
 day maintained this view of the trans- 
 action, and the town to this day be- 
 lieves it. We netted our striped cow- 
 ard with four shutters, and kicked 
 him into his cage. 
 
 The bull went home with " the 
 wench," and to this day his thick 
 skull has never comprehended what 
 the deuce he went to Versailles for. 
 
 This was how we competed with 
 Oriental monarchs. 
 
 We marched southward, through 
 Orleans, Tours, etc., to Bordeaux, and 
 were pretty well received in all these 
 places except at one small place whose 
 name I forget. Here they hissed her 
 out of the town at sight. It turned 
 out she had been there before and 
 pulverized a brushniaker, a popular 
 man among them. 
 
 Soon after Bordeaux she had words 
 with the lions. They, in their infer- 
 nal conceit, thought themselves more 
 attractive than J)jek. It is vice ven- 
 act, and by a long chalk, said Djek
 
 340 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 and Co. The parties growled a bit, 
 then parted to meet no more in this 
 world. 
 
 From Bordeaux we returned by 
 another route to Paris ; for we were 
 only starring it in the interval of our 
 engagement as an actress with Fran- 
 coni. We started one morning from 
 
 with light hearts, our faces turned 
 
 toward the gay city, Elliot, Pippin, 
 and I. Elliot and I walked by the side 
 of the elephant, Pippin walking some 
 forty yards in the rear. He never trust- 
 ed himself nearer to her on a march. 
 
 We were plodding along in this 
 order, when, all in a moment, without 
 reason or warning of any sort, she 
 spun round between us on one heel 
 like a thing turning on a pivot, and 
 strode back like lightning at Pippin. 
 He screamed and ran ; but, before he 
 could take a dozen steps, she was 
 upon him, and struck him down with 
 her trunk and trampled upon him ; 
 she then wheeled round and trudged 
 back as if she had merely stopped to 
 brush off a fly or pick up a stone. 
 After the first moment of stupefaction, 
 both Elliot and I had run after her 
 with all the speed we had ; but so 
 rapid was her movement, and so in- 
 stantaneous the work of death, that 
 we only met her on her return from 
 her victim. I will not shock the read- 
 er by describing the state in which we 
 found our poor comrade; but he was 
 crushed to death. He never spoke, 
 and I believe and trust he never felt 
 anything for the few minutes that 
 breath lingered in his body. We 
 kneeled down and raised him, and 
 spoke to him, but he could not hear 
 us. When Djek got her will of ow 
 of us, all our hope used to be to see the 
 man die ; and so it was withpoordcar 
 Pippin ; mangled, and life impossible, 
 we kneeled down and prayed to God 
 for his death ; and, by Heaven's mer- 
 cy, I think in about four minutes from 
 the time he got his death-blow his 
 spirit passed away, and our well-be- 
 loved comrade and friend was noth- 
 ing now but a lump of cMy on aur 
 hands. 
 
 We were some miles from any 
 town or village, and did not know 
 what to do, and how to take him to a 
 resting-place. At last we were obliged 
 to tie the body across the proboscis, 
 and cover it as well as we could, and 
 so we made his murderess carry him 
 to the little town of La Palice, — yes, 
 La Palice. Here we stopped, and a 
 sort of inquest was held, and M. Hu- 
 guet attended and told the old story : 
 said the man had been cruel to her, 
 and she had put up with it as long as 
 she could. Verdict, " Served him 
 right " ; and so we lied over our poor 
 friend's murdered body, and buried 
 him with many sighs in the little 
 churchyard of La Palice, and then 
 trudged on, sad and downcast, toward 
 the gay capital. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 I think a lesson is to be learned 
 from this sad story. Too much fear 
 is not prudence. Had poor Pippin 
 walked with Elliot and me alongsido 
 the elephant, she dared not have at- 
 tacked him. But through fear he 
 kept forty yards in the rear, and she 
 saw a chance to get him by himself; 
 and, from my knowledge of her, I 
 have little doubt she had meditated 
 this attempt for months before she 
 carried it out. Poor Pippin ! 
 
 We arrived in Paris to play with 
 Franconi. Now it happened to be 
 inconvenient to Franconi to fulfil his 
 engagement. He accordingly declined 
 us. M. Huguet was angry, — threat- 
 ened l«jgal proceedings. Franconi an- 
 swered, " Where is Pippin ? " Huguet 
 shut up. Then Franconi followed 
 suit ; if hard pressed, he threatened 
 to declare in open court that it was 
 out of humanity alone he declined to 
 fulfil his engagement. This stopped 
 M. Huguet's mouth altogether. He 
 took a place on the Boulevard, and 
 we showed her and her tricks at three 
 prices, and did a rattling business. 
 Before we had been a fortnight in
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 341 
 
 Paris, old Tom Elliot died at the 
 Hospital Dubois, and I became her 
 vizier at a salary of one hundred francs 
 per week. 
 
 Having now the sole responsibility, 
 I watched her as you would a powder- 
 magazine lighted by gas. I let no- 
 body but M. Huguet go near her in 
 my absence. This gentleman contin- 
 ued to keep her sweet on him with 
 lumps of sugar, and to act as her 
 showman when she exhibited public- 
 ly- 
 One day we had a message from 
 the Tuileries, and we got the place 
 extra clean ; and the king's children 
 paid her a visit, — a lot of little chaps. 
 I ilid not know their names, but 1 
 suppose it was Prince Joinville, Au- 
 male, and cetera. All I know is that 
 while these little Louis Philippes were 
 coaxing her, and feeding her, and cut- 
 ting about her, and sliding down her, 
 and I was telling them she was a duck, 
 the perspiration was running down 
 my back one moment and cold shiv- 
 ers the next, and I thanked Heaven 
 devoutly when the young gents went 
 back to their papa and mamma, and no 
 bones broken. The young gentlemen 
 reported her affability and my lies to 
 the king, and he engaged her to per- 
 forin gratis in the Champs Elysees 
 during the three days' fete. Fifteen 
 hundred francs for this. 
 
 Put Bngnet was penny-wise and 
 pound-foolish to ajrrec, for it took her 
 elo^s off. Showed her gratis to half 
 the city. 
 
 Among Djek's visitors came one 
 day a pretty VOVng lady, a nursery 
 governess to some nobleman's chil- 
 dren, whose name I forget, but he 
 was English. The children were 
 highly amused with Djek, and quite 
 loath to go. The young lady, who had 
 a mattering of English as I had of 
 French, put several questions to me. 
 1 answered then more polite than 
 usual on account of her being pretty, 
 and I used a privilege I had and gave 
 her an order for free admission some 
 other day. She came, with oiilv one 
 child, which luckily was otic ol those 
 
 deeply meditative ones that occur but 
 rarely, and otdy bring out a word 
 every half-hour ; so mademoiselle and 
 I had a chat, which I found so agree- 
 able that I rather neglected the gen- 
 eral public for her. I made it my 
 business to learn where she aired the 
 children, and, one vacant morning, 
 dressed in the top of the fashion, I 
 stood before her in the garden of the 
 Tuileries. She gave a half-start and 
 a blush, and seemed very much struck 
 with astonishment at this rencounter. 
 She was a little less astonished next 
 week when the same thing happened, 
 but still she thought these coinciden- 
 ces remarkable, and said so. In short, 
 I paid my addresses to Mademoiselle 
 
 . She was a charming brunette 
 
 from Geneva, greatly my superior in 
 education and station. I was perfectly 
 conscious of this, and instantly made 
 this calculation : " All the better for 
 me if I can win her." But the reader 
 knows my character by this time, and 
 must have observed how large a por- 
 tion of it effrontery forms. I wrote 
 to her every day, sometimes in the 
 French language — no, not in the 
 French language, in French words. 
 She sometimes answered in English 
 words. She was very pretty and very 
 interesting, and I fancied her. When 
 a man is in love he can hardly see dif- 
 ficulties. I pressed her to marry nie, 
 and I believed she would consent. 
 When I came to this point the young 
 lady's gaycty declined, and when I 
 was painting her pictures of our con- 
 jugal happiness, she used to Bigh in- 
 stead of brightening at the. picture. 
 At last I pressed her so hard that she 
 consented to write to Geneva and ask 
 her parents' consent to our union. 
 When the letter went 1 was in tower- 
 ing spirits. I was now in the zenith 
 (it my prosperity. The risks I had 
 run with Djek ware rewarded by a 
 heavy salary and the post of honor 
 near her, and. now that I was a little 
 weary of roaming the world alone 
 with an elephant, fate had thrown in 
 my way a charming companion who 
 would cheer the weary road.
 
 342 
 
 JACK OF al:- trades. 
 
 Dreams. 
 
 The old people at Geneva saw my 
 position with another eye. " He is a 
 servant liable to lose his place at any 
 moment by any one of a hundred ac- 
 cidents, and iiis profession is a discred- 
 itable one : why, he is a showman." 
 
 They told her all this in language 
 so plain that she would never show 
 me the letter. I was for defying their 
 advice and authority, but she would 
 not hear of it. I was forced to tem- 
 porize. " In a month's time," said I 
 to myself, " her scruples will melt 
 away." But in less than a fortnight 
 the order came for us to march into 
 Flanders. I communicated this cruel 
 order to my sweetheart. She turned 
 pale, and made no sceret of her at- 
 tachment to me, and of the pain she 
 felt at parting. Every evening before 
 we left Paris I saw her, and implored 
 her to trust herself to me and leave 
 Paris as my wife. She used to smile 
 at my pictures of wedded happiness, 
 and cry the next minute because she 
 dared not give herself and me that 
 happiness ; but, with all this, she was 
 firm, and would not fly in her parents' 
 face. 
 
 At last came a sad and bitter hour : 
 hat in hand, as the saying is, I made 
 a last desperate endeavor to persuade 
 her to be mine, and not to let this 
 parting take place at all. She was 
 much agitated, but firm ; and, the 
 more I said, the firmer she became. 
 So at lastlgrewfrantic and reproached 
 her. I called her a cold-hearted co- 
 quette, and we parted in anger and de- 
 spair. 
 
 Away into the wide world again, 
 not as I used to start on these pil- 
 grimages, with a stout heart and iron 
 nerves, but cold, and weary, and worn 
 out before the journey had begun. As 
 we left Paris behind us I had but one 
 feeling, that the best of life was at an 
 end for me. My limbs took me along 
 like machinery, but my heart was a 
 lump of ice inside me, and I would 
 have thanked any man for knocking 
 me on the head and ending the mo- 
 notonous farce of my existence; ay, 
 
 gentlefolks, even a poor mechanic cart 
 feel like this when the desire of his 
 heart is balked forever. 
 
 Trudge ! trudge ! trudge ! for ever 
 and ever. 
 
 Tramp ! tramp '. tramp ! for evei 
 and ever. 
 
 A man gets faint and 'veary of it aj 
 last, and there comes a time when ha 
 pines for a hearth-stone, and a voica 
 he can believe, a part, at least, of 
 what it says, and a Sunday of semi 
 sort now and then ; and my time waJ 
 come to long for these things, and foi 
 a pretty and honest face about me to 
 stand for the one bit of peace and the 
 one bit of truth in my vagabond char- 
 latan life. 
 
 I lost my appetite and sleep, and 
 was very nearly losing heart altogeth- 
 er. My clothes hung about me like 
 bags, I got so thin. It was my infer- 
 nal occupation that cured me after 
 all. Djek gave me no time even for 
 despair. The moment I became her 
 sole guardian I had sworn on my 
 knees she should never kill another 
 man ; judge whether I had to look 
 sharp after her to keep the biped from 
 perjury and the quadruped from mur- 
 der. I slept with her — rose early — ■ 
 fed her — walked twenty miles with 
 her, or exhibited her all day, some- 
 times did both, and at night rolled 
 into the straw beside her, too deadly 
 tired to feel all my unhappiness ; and 
 so, after awhile, time and toil blunted 
 my sense of disappointment, and I 
 trudged and tramped, and praised 
 Djek's moral qualities in the old rou- 
 tine. Only now and then, when I 
 saw the country lads in France and 
 Belgium going to church dressed in 
 their best with their sweethearts, and 
 I in prison in the stable with my four- 
 legged hussy, waiting perhaps till 
 dark to steal out and march to somo 
 fresh town, I used to feel as heavy as 
 lead and as bitter as wormwood, and 
 wish we were all dead together by way 
 of a change. 
 
 A man needs a stout heart to go 
 through the world at all, but most of 
 all he needs it for a roving life; don't
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 343 
 
 you believe any other, no matter who 
 tells you. 
 
 With this brief notice of my feel- 
 ings I pass over two months' travel. 
 All through I spare the reader much, 
 though I dare say he does n't see it. 
 
 Sir, the very names of the places I 
 have visited would fill an old-fash- 
 ioned map of Europe. 
 
 Talk of Ulysses and his travels ! 
 he never saw the tenth part of what 
 I have gone through. 
 
 I have walked with Djek farther 
 than round the world during the 
 eleven years I have trudged beside 
 her ; it is only 24,000 miles round the 
 world. 
 
 After a year's pilgrimage we found 
 ourselves at Doncheray, near Sedan. 
 
 Here we had an incident. Mons. 
 Huguet was showing her to the pub- 
 lic with the air of a prince and in his 
 Marechal of France costume, glitter- 
 ing with his theatrical cross of the 
 Legion of Honor. He was not par- 
 ticular what he put on, so that it 
 shone and looked well. He sent mo 
 for something connected with the per- 
 formance, — a pistol, I think. I had 
 hardly ten steps to go, but during the 
 time I was out of her sight I heard a 
 man cry out and the elephant snort. 
 1 ran back hallooing as I came. As 
 I ran in I found the elephant feeling j 
 for something in the straw with her 
 foot, and the people rushing out of 
 the doors in dismay. The moment 
 Bhe saw me she affected innocence, 
 but trembled from head to foot. I 
 drew out from the straw a thing you 
 would have Mken for a scarecrow or 
 a bundle of rags It w;is my master, 
 M. Hngnet, liis glossy hat battered, 
 his glossy coat stained ami torn, and 
 his arm broken in two places ; a mo- 
 ment moffl and her fool would have 
 been on him, and his soul crushed 
 Out of his body. 
 
 The ptfople were surprised when 
 thev saw the furioUS slimline; nion-ter 
 creep into a corner to escape a little 
 fellow five feet four, who got to the 
 old weapon, pitchfork) and drove it 
 into every part of her but her head. 
 
 She hid that in the corner the mo 
 ment she saw blood in my eye. 
 
 We got poor M. Huguet to bed, 
 and a doctor from the hospital to 
 him, and a sorrowful time he had of 
 it ; and so, after standing good fof 
 twelve years, lump sugar fell to the 
 ground. Pitchfork held good. 
 
 At night more than a hundred peo- 
 pie came to see whether I was really 
 so hardy as* to sleep with this fero- 
 cious animal. To show them my 
 sense of her, I lay down between hef 
 legs. On this she lifted her fore feet 
 singly, and with the utmost care and 
 delicacy drew them back over my 
 body\ 
 
 As soon as M. Huguet's arm was 
 set and doing well, he followed us 
 (we had got into France by this 
 time), and came in along with tho 
 public to admire us, and, to learn 
 how the elephant stood affected to- 
 ward him now, he cried out, in his 
 most ingratiating way, — in sugared 
 tones, — "Djek, my boy! Djek!" 
 At this sound Djek raised a roar of 
 the most infernal rage, and Huguet, 
 who knew her real character well 
 enough, though he pretended not to, 
 comprehended that her heart was now 
 set upon his extinction, malt/re twelve 
 years of lump sugar. 
 
 He sent for me, and with many 
 expressions of friendship offered mo 
 the invaluable animal for thirty thou- 
 sand francs. 1 declined her without 
 thanks. " Then 1 shall have the pleas- 
 ure of killing her to-morrow,'' said 
 the Frenchman, " and what will be- 
 come of your salary, mon pauvro 
 gavcoal " 
 
 In short, ho had me in a fix, and 
 used his power. I bought her of him 
 for 20,000 francs, to be paid by in- 
 stalments. I f^ave him the first 
 instalment, a live-franc piece, and 
 walked out of the wine-shop her solo 
 proprietor. 
 
 The sense of p ro pe r ty is pleasant, 
 even when wc have not paid for tho 
 article. 
 
 That night I formed my plans. 
 
 There, was no time to lose, because J
 
 344 
 
 JACK OF ALL TEADES. 
 
 had only a thousand francs in the 
 world, and she ate a thousand francs 
 a week, or nearly. I determined to 
 try Germany, — a poor country, but 
 one which, being quite inland, could 
 not have become callous to an ele- 
 phant, perhaps had never seen one. 
 I shall never forget the fine, clear 
 morning I started on my own ac- 
 count. The sun was just rising, the 
 birds were tuning, and all manner of 
 sweet smells came from the fields and 
 the hedges. Djek seemed to step out 
 more majestically than when she was 
 another man's ; my heart beat high. 
 Eleven years ago I had started the 
 meanest of her slaves. I had worked 
 slowly, painfully, but steadily up, and 
 now I was actually her lord and mas- 
 ter, and half the world before me with 
 the sun shining on it. 
 
 The first town I showed her at as 
 mine was Verdun, and the next day I 
 
 wrote to Mademoiselle at Paris 
 
 to tell her of the change in my for- 
 tunes. This was the only letter I 
 had sent, for we parted bad friends. 
 I received a kinder answer than the 
 abrupt tone of my letter deserved. 
 She congratulated me, and thanked 
 me for remembering that whatever 
 good fortune befell me must give her 
 particular pleasure, and in the post- 
 script she told me she was just about 
 to leave Paris and return to her par- 
 ents in Switzerland. 
 
 Djek crossed into Prussia, tramped 
 that country, and penetrated into the 
 heart of Germany. As I had hoped, 
 she descended on this nation with all 
 the charm of novelty, and used to 
 clear the copper * out of a whole vil- 
 lage. I remember early in this trip 
 being at a country inn. I saw rus- 
 tics, male and female, dressed in their 
 Sunday clothes, coming over the hills 
 from every side to one point. I 
 thought there must be a fair or some- 
 thing. I asked the landlord what 
 they were all coming for. He said, 
 " Why, you, to be sure." They never 
 
 * Germany is mostly made of copper. A 
 bucketful of farthings was a common thing 
 for me to have in my carriage. 
 
 saw such a thing in their lives, and 
 never will again. 
 
 In fact, at one or two small places 
 we were stopped by the authorities, 
 who had heard that we carried more 
 specie out of little towns than the 
 circulating medium would bear. 
 
 In short, my first coup was success- 
 ful. After six months' Germany, 
 Bavaria, Prussia, etc., I returned to 
 the Rhine at Strasbourg with eight 
 thousand francs. During all this time 
 she never hurt a soul, I watched her 
 so fearfully close. So, being debarred 
 from murder, she tried arson. 
 
 At a place in Bavaria her shed was 
 suddenly observed to be in flames, 
 and we saved her with difficulty. 
 
 The cause never transpired until 
 now, but I saw directly how it had 
 been done. I had unwarily left my 
 coat in her way. The pockets were 
 found emptied of all their contents, 
 among which was a lucifer-box, frao;- 
 ments of which I found among the 
 straw. She had played with this in 
 her trunk, hammering it backward 
 and forward against her "knee, drop- 
 ping the lighted matches into the 
 straw, when they stung her, and very 
 nearly roasted her own beef, the mis- 
 chievous, uneasy devil. 
 
 My readers will not travel with an 
 elephant, but business of some sort 
 will fall to the lot of some of them 
 soon or late, and, as charlatanry is the 
 very soul of modern business, it may 
 not be amiss to show how the humble 
 artisan worked his elephant. 
 
 We never allowed ourselves to drop 
 casually upon any place, like a shower 
 of rain. 
 
 A man in bright livery, green and 
 gold, mounted on a showy horse, 
 used to ride into the town or village, 
 and go round to all the inns, making 
 loud inquiries about their means of 
 accommodation for the elephant and 
 her train. Four hours after him, the 
 people being now a little agog, anoth- 
 er green and gold man came in on a 
 trained horse, and inquired for No. 1. 
 As soon as he had found him, the two 
 rode together round the town, — No.
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 345 
 
 2 blowing a trumpet and proclaiming 
 the elephant ; the nations she had in- 
 structed in the wonders of nature ; 
 the kings she had amused ; her gran- 
 deur, her intelligence, and, above all, 
 her dovelike disposition. 
 
 This was allowed to ferment for 
 some hours, and, when expectation 
 was at its height, the rest of the cav- 
 alcade used to heave in sight, Djek 
 bringing up the rear. Arrived, I 
 used to shut her in out of sight, and 
 send all my men and horses round, 
 parading, trumpeting, and pasting 
 bills, so that at last the people were 
 quite ripe for her, and then we went 
 to work ; aud thus the humble arti- 
 san and his elephant cut a greater 
 dash than lions and tigers, and 
 mountebanks, and quacks, and drew 
 more money. 
 
 Here is one of my programmes : 
 only I must remark that I picked up 
 my French where I picked up the sin- 
 cerity it embodies, in the circuses, 
 coulisses, and cabarets of French 
 towns, so that I can patter French as 
 fast as you like ; but, of course, I 
 know no more aliout it than a pig, — 
 not to really know it. 
 
 Par permission de M. le Maire, 
 Lc grand 
 ELEPHANT 
 du Koi de Siam, 
 Du Cirque Olympiquc Franconi. 
 Mile. Djek, 
 Elephant colossal, de onzc pieds dc 
 hauteur et du poida dc nenf mille 
 liv., est le plus grand elephant qui 
 Ton ait vu en Europe. 
 
 M. H. B. Lott, naturaliste, pour- 
 voyeur des menageries dea diverges 
 cours d'Europe, actionnaire du Cirque 
 Olympiquc et proprie'taire de ee mag- 
 niliquc elephant, qn'il a dressii an 
 point de lc presenter au public dans 
 
 une piece theatrak qui hit creee pour 
 
 Mad lie. Djek il y a trois ans et dciui, 
 
 et qui a en mi u grand succes, sous le 
 nom de 1' Elephant du Uoi de Siam. 
 
 Le proprie'taire, dans son voyage 
 nntour du monde. eat occasion d'achc- 
 ter cct cnorme quadrupede, qui le prit 
 15 : 
 
 en affection, et qui, depuis onzc ans 
 qu'il le possede, ne s'est jamais demen- 
 ti, se plait a e'eouter son maitre et ex- 
 ecute avec punctuality tout cc qu'il 
 lui indique de faire. 
 
 Mile. Djek, qui est dans toute la 
 force dc sa taille, a maintenant cent 
 vingt-cinq ans ; elle a onzc pieds de 
 hauteur — et pese neuf mille livres. 
 
 Sa consommation dans les vingt- 
 quatrc heures exeede deux cent livres 
 — quarante livres de pain pour son 
 dejeuner ; a midi, du son et de l'a- 
 voinc ; le soir, des pommes de terrc 
 ou du rizcuit : et la nuit du foiu et de 
 la paille. 
 
 C'est le meme elephant qui a com- 
 battu la lionne de M. Martin. Cette 
 lionne en furie, qu'une imprudence fit 
 sortir de sa cage, s'e'lance sur M. 11. B. 
 Lott qui se trouvait aupres deson ele'- 
 phant ; voyant le danger il se refugie 
 dcrricrc une des jambes dc ce bon 
 animal, qui releve sa trompc pour le 
 piotegcr.* La lionne allait saisir 
 M. II. B. Lott ; l'c'le'phant la voit, ra- 
 bat sa trompe, t'enveloppe, l'e'toufle, 
 la jctte au loin, et Taurait e'erasee, si 
 son maitre ne lui eut dit dc ne pas 
 continuer. 
 
 Elle a ensuite allonge sa trompe, 
 frappc' du pied, criant et temoi- 
 gnant la satisfaction, quelle e'prouvait 
 d'avoir sauve son ami d'une mort cer- 
 tainc, comme on a pu voir dans les 
 journaux en fe'vricr 1832. 
 
 Dans les cours des se'anccs, on lui 
 fera faire tous ses grands exerckvs 
 qui sont dignes d'admiration, dont le 
 grand nombre ne permet pas d'en 
 donner Fanalyse dans cette afliche, et 
 qu'il faut voir pour Ten faire une 
 idee juste. 
 
 Prix d'entre'e : Premieres 
 Secondes Les militaires et les 
 
 enfants, moitic\ 
 
 I don't think but what my country - 
 inen will understand every word of 
 the above ; but, as there arc a great 
 
 * I am a dull fellow now, cs you aw. But 
 you must allow 1 i*ave beo»> a mar if imagi- 
 nation.
 
 346 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 number of Frenchmen in London 
 who will read this, I think it would 
 look unkind not to translate it into 
 English for their benefit. 
 
 By permission of the Worshipful the 
 Mayor, 
 the great 
 ELEPHANT 
 of the King of Siam, 
 from Franconi's Olympic Circus. 
 Mademoiselle Djek, 
 Colossal Elephant, eleven feet high 
 and weighs nine thousand pounds. 
 The largest elephant ever seen in 
 Europe. 
 
 Mr. H. B. Lott, naturalist, who 
 supplies the menageries of the various 
 courts of Europe, shareholder in the 
 Olympic Circus, and proprietor of 
 this magnificent elephant, which he 
 has trained to such a height that he 
 will present her to the public in a dra- 
 matic piece which was written for her 
 three years and a half ago, and had 
 a great success under the title of the 
 Elephant of the King of Siam.* 
 
 The proprietor, in his voyage round 
 the globe, was fortunate enough to 
 purchase this enormous quadruped, 
 which became attached to him, and 
 has been eleven years in his posses- 
 sion, during which time she has never 
 once forgotten herself, and executes 
 with obedient zeal whatever he bids 
 her. 
 
 Mile. Djek has now arrived at her 
 full growth, being one hundred and 
 twenty-five years of age ; she is eleven 
 feet high, and weighs nine thousand 
 pounds. Her daily consumption ex- 
 ceeds two hundred pounds. She takes 
 forty pounds of bread for her break- 
 fast, at noon barley and oats, in the 
 evening potatoes or rice cooked, and 
 at night hay and straw. 
 
 * My literary gent and me nearly had 
 words over this bit. " Why, it is all nomina- 
 tive case," says he. "Well," says I, "you 
 can't have too much of a pood thing. Can 
 you better it ? " says I. " Better it ! " says 
 he ; " why, I could not have come within a 
 miie of it " -, and he grinned. So I shut him 
 up — for once. 
 
 This is the same elephant that fought 
 with Mr. Martin's lioness. The lion- 
 ess, whom the carelessness of the at- 
 tendants allowed to escape from her 
 cage, dashed furiously at Mr. II. B. 
 Lott; fortunately he was near his ele- 
 phant, and, seeing the danger, took 
 refuge behind one of the legs of that 
 valuable animal. She raised her 
 trunk in her master's defence. The 
 lioness made to seize him ; but the 
 elephant lowered her trunk, seized 
 the lioness, choked her, flung her a 
 distance, and would have crushed her 
 to death if Mr. Lott had not com- 
 manded her to desist. After that she 
 extended her trunk, stamped with her 
 foot, trumpeting and showing her sat- 
 isfaction at having saved her friend 
 from certain death, full accounts of 
 which are to be seen in the journals 
 of February, 1832. 
 
 In the course of the exhibition she 
 will go through all her exercises, 
 which are wonderful, and so numer- 
 ous that it is impossible to enumerate 
 them in this bill : they must be seen 
 to form a just idea of them. 
 
 Prices : F"irst places Second 
 Soldiers and children half price. 
 
 Djek and I used to make our bow 
 to our audiences in the following fash- 
 ion. I came on with her, and said, 
 " Otez mon chapeau pour saluer " ; 
 then she used to take off my hat, wave 
 it gracefully, and replace it on my 
 head. She then proceeded to pick up 
 twenty five-franc pieces, one after an- 
 other, and keep them piled in the ex- 
 tremity of her trunk. She also fired 
 pistols, and swept her den with a 
 broom, in a most painstaking and lu- 
 dicrous way. 
 
 But perhaps her best business in a 
 real judge's eye was drinking a bottle 
 of wine. The reader will better esti- 
 mate this feat if he will fancy himself 
 an elephant, and lay down the book 
 now, and ask himself how he would do- 
 it, and read the following afterward. 
 
 The bottle (cork drawn) stood be* 
 fore her. She placed the finger and 
 thumb of her proboscis on the mouth,
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 317 
 
 made .1 vacuum by suction, and then, 
 suddenly inverting the bottle, she re- 
 eeived the contents in her trunk. The 
 difficulty now was to hold the bottle, 
 which she would not have broken for 
 a thousand pounds (my lady thought 
 less of killing ten men than breaking 
 a saucer), and yet not let the liquor 
 run from her flesh-pipe. She rapidly 
 shifted her hold to the centre of the 
 bottle, and worked it by means of the 
 wrinkles in her proboscis to the bend 
 of it. Then she griped it, and at the 
 same time curled round her trunk to 
 a sloping position, and let the wine 
 run down her throat. This done, she 
 resumed the first position of her trunk 
 and worked the bottle back toward 
 her finger, suddenly snapped hold of 
 it by the neck, and handed it grace- 
 fully to me. 
 
 With this exception, it was not her 
 public tricks that astonished me most. 
 The principle of all these tricks is one. 
 An animal is taught to lay hold of 
 things at command, and to shift them 
 from one place to another. You vary 
 the thing to be laid hold of, but the 
 act is the same. In her drama, which 
 was so effective on the stage, Djefe did 
 nothing out of the way. She merely 
 went through certain mechanical acts 
 at a word of command from her keep- 
 er, who was unseen or unnoticed ; i. e. 
 he was cither at the wing in his fustian 
 jacket, or on the Stage with her in gim- 
 crack and gold, as one of a lot of slaves 
 or courtiers, or what not. Between 
 ourselves, a single trick I have several 
 times caught her doing on her own ac- 
 count proved more for ber intelligence 
 than all these. She used to put her 
 
 eve, to a keyhole. Ay, thai she would, 
 
 and so wateh for hours to see what 
 devil's trick she could do with impu- 
 nity, — she would see me out of the 
 WSTjr, and then fro to work. Where 
 there wafl no keyhole I have seen her 
 pick the knot out of a deal board, and 
 squint through the little hole she hail 
 thus made. 
 
 A dog comes next to an elephant, 
 
 but he is not up to looking through a 
 
 keyhole or a crack, lie can think of 
 
 nothing better than snuffing under the 
 door. 
 
 At one place, being under a grana- 
 ry, she worked a hole in the ceiling no 
 bigger than a thimble, and sucked 
 down sackfuls of grain before she was 
 found out. Talk of the half-reasoning 
 elephant : she seldom met a man that 
 could match her in reasoning, — to a 
 bad end. Her weak points were her 
 cruelty and cowardice, and by this lat- 
 ter Tom Elliot and I governed her 
 with a rod of iron, vulgarly called a 
 pitchfork. If a mouse pattered about 
 the floor in her stable, Djek used to 
 tremble all over, and whine with ter- 
 ror till the little monster was gone. 
 A ton shaken by an ounce. 
 
 I have seen her start back in dismay 
 from a small feather floating in the 
 air. If her heart had been as stout as 
 her will to do mischief was strong, 
 mankind must have risen to put her 
 down. 
 
 Almost all yon have ever heard 
 about the full-grown elephant's char- 
 acter is a pack of falsities. They are 
 your servants by fear, or they are your 
 masters. Two years ago an elephant 
 killed bis keeper at Liverpool or Man- 
 chester, I forget which. Out came 
 the " Times " : he had pronged him 
 six weeks before. How well I knew 
 the old lie ; it seldom varies a syllable. 
 That man died, not because he had 
 pronged the animal, but because he 
 had n't, or not enough. 
 
 Spare the pitchfork, spoil the ele- 
 phant. 
 
 There is another animal people mis- 
 construe just as bad, — the hyena. 
 
 Terrible fierce animal, the hyena, 
 s:ivs Bufl'on and Co., and the world 
 echoes the chant. 
 
 Fierce, are they ? Yon get a score 
 of them together in a yard, and you 
 shall see nie walk into the lot with 
 nothing hut a switch, and them try to 
 get between the brick and the mortar 
 with the funk, — that is how fierce they 
 are; and they are not only cowardly, 
 but innocent, and affectionate into the 
 bargain, is the fierce hyena of FnfToii 
 and Co. ; but, indeed, wild animals
 
 348 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 are sadly misunderstood ; it is pitia- 
 ble ; and those that have the best 
 character deserve it less than those 
 that have the worst. 
 
 In one German town I met with 
 something I should like to tell the 
 sporting gents, for I don't think there 
 is many that ever fell in with such a 
 thing. But it is an old saying that 
 what does happen has happened before 
 and may again, so I tell this to put 
 them on their guard, especially in 
 Germany. Well, it was a good town 
 for business, and we stayed several 
 days ; but before we had been there 
 many hours my horses turned queer. 
 Restless they were, and uneasy. 
 Sweated of their own accord. Stamped 
 eternally. One, in particular, began 
 to lose flesh. We examined the hay. 
 It seemed particularly good, and the 
 oats not amiss. Called the landlord in, 
 and asked him if he could account for 
 it. He stands looking at them ; this 
 one, called Dick, was all in a lather. 
 " Well, I think I know now,'" said he ; 
 " they are bewitched. You see there 
 is an old woman in the next street 
 that bewitches cattle, and she rides on 
 your horses' backs all night, you may 
 take your oath." Then he tells us a 
 lot of stories, whose cow died after 
 giving this old wench a rough word, 
 and how she had been often seen to go 
 across the meadows in the shape of a 
 hare. " She has a spite against me, 
 the old sorceress," says he. " She 
 has been at them : you had better send 
 for the pastor." " Go for the farrier^ 
 Jem," says L So we had in the far- 
 rier. He sat on the bin and smoked 
 his pipe in dead silence, looking at 
 them. " They seem a little fidgety," 
 says he, after about half an hour. So 
 I turned him out of the stable. And I 
 was in two minds about punching his 
 head, I was. " Send for the veteri- 
 nary surgeon, No. 1." He came. 
 " They have got some disorder," says 
 he, " that is plain ; nostrils are clear, 
 too. Let me see them eat." They 
 took their food pretty well. Then he 
 asked where we came from last. I 
 told him. " Well," said he, cheerful- 
 
 ly, " this is a murrain, I think. In this 
 country we do invent a new murrain 
 about every twenty years. We are 
 about due now." He spoke English, 
 this one, — quite a fine gentleman. 
 One of the grooms put in, " I think 
 the water is poisoned." "Any way," 
 says another, " Dick will die if we stay 
 here." So then they both pressed me 
 to leave the town. " You know, gov- 
 ernor, we can't afford to lose the 
 horses." Now I was clearing ten 
 pounds a day in the place, and all ex- 
 penses paid : so I looked blank. So 
 did the veterinary. " I would n't go," 
 says he ; " wait a day or two ; then 
 the disease will declare itself, and 
 we shall know what we are doing." 
 You see, gents, he did not relish my 
 taking a murrain out of his town ; ho 
 was a veterinary. " Whatever it is," 
 says he, "you brought it with you." 
 " Well, now," said I, " my opinion is 
 I found it here. Did you notice any- 
 thing at the last place, Nick?" 
 " No " : the grooms botli bore me out. 
 " Oh ! " says the vet., " you can't go 
 by that : it had not declared itself." 
 Well, if you will believe me (I often 
 laugh when I think of it), it was not 
 two minutes after he said that that it 
 did declare itself. It was Sunday morn- 
 ing, and Nick had got a clean shirt on. 
 Nick was currying the very horso 
 called Dick, when all of a sudden the 
 sleeve of his white shirt looked dirty. 
 " What now ? " cries he, and comes 
 to the light. " I do believe it is ver- 
 min," says he, " and if it is they are 
 eaten up with it." "Vermin? What 
 vermin can that be?" said I; "have we 
 invented a new vermin, too 1 " They 
 were no bigger than pins' points, — 
 looked like dust on his shirt. " What 
 do you say, sir, — is it vermin ? " 
 " Not a doubt of it," says the vet. 
 " These are poultry-lice, unless I am 
 mistaken. Have you any hens any- 
 where near ? " Both the grooms 
 burst out, " Hens 1 why, there are full 
 a hundred up in the hay-loft." So 
 that was the murrain. The hens had 
 been tumbling in the hay ; the hay 
 came down to the rack all alive with
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 319 
 
 their vermin ; and the vermin were 
 eating the horses. We stopped that 
 supply of hay ; and what with curry- 
 ing, and washing with a solut. the vet. 
 gave us, we cured that murrain, — 
 chicken-pox, if any. We had a little 
 scene at going away from this place. 
 Landlord had agreed to charge noth- 
 ing for the use of stabling, we spent so 
 much in other ways with him. In 
 spite of that, he put it down at the 
 foot of the list. I would not pay. 
 " You must." " I won't." " Then 
 you sha' n't go till you do " ; and with 
 that he and his servants closed the 
 great gates. The yard was entered 
 by two great double doors like barn 
 doors, secured outside by a stout beam. 
 So there he had us fast. It got wind, 
 and there was the whole population 
 hooting outside, three thousand strong. 
 Then it was, " Come, don't be a fool." 
 
 " Don't you be a fool." 
 
 " Stand dear," said I to the man ; 
 " we will alter our usual line of march 
 this time ; I '11 take Djek from the 
 rear to the front." So they all formed 
 behind me and Djek, two carriages, i 
 and six horses, all in order. " Now," 
 said I, " landlord, you have had your 
 joke, open the door, and let us part 
 friends ; we have been with you a 
 week, you know, and you have had 
 one profit out of us, and another out 
 of the townsfolk we brought to your 
 bar. Open the door." 
 
 " Pay me my bill, and I '11 open," 
 says lie. " If I turned away one trav- 
 eller from my stahlc for you I 've 
 turned away twenty." 
 
 " A bargain is a bargain. Will 
 you open before she knocks your door 
 into toothpicks ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I '11 risk my door if you '11 
 risk your beast. No, I won't open 
 till I am paid." 
 
 " ( Mice, will you open ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Twice, will you open 1 Thrice ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Djek — Go!" 
 
 She walked lazily at the door, as if 
 she did not see it. The moment she 
 touched it both doors were in the 
 
 road ; the beam was in half in the 
 road. Most times one thing stands, 
 another goes ; here it all went bodily 
 on all sides like paper on a windy 
 day, and the people went fastest of all. 
 There was the yell of a multitude un- 
 der our noses, then an empty street 
 under our eyes. Wc marched on calm, 
 majestical, and unruffled, beneath the 
 silent night. 
 
 Doors and bolts, indeed, to a lady 
 that had stepped through a brick wall 
 before that day, — an English brick 
 wall. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 From Strasbourg I determined to 
 go into Switzerland ; ahove all, to 
 Geneva. I could not help it. In 
 due course of time and travel I ar- 
 rived near Geneva, and sent forward 
 my green and gold avant-couricrs ; 
 but, alas ! they returned with the 
 doleful news that elephants were not 
 admitted into that ancient city. The 
 last elephant that had been there had 
 done mischief, and, at the request of 
 its proprietor, Madlle. Gamier, a 
 young lady whose conscience smote 
 her, for she had another elephant that 
 killed one or two people in Venice, 
 was publicly executed in the fortress.* 
 
 Fortunately (as I then thought), I 
 had provided myself with testimonials 
 from the mayor and governors of 
 some score of towns through which 
 we had passed. I produced these, and 
 made friends in the town, particularly 
 with a Dr. Mayo. At last we wero 
 admitted. Djek was proved a dove 
 by such overpowering testimony. I 
 had now paid M. Iluguct six thousand 
 franca and found myself possessed of 
 five thousand more. Business was 
 very good in Geneva. Djek was very 
 popular. Her intelligence and amia- 
 bility hecame a by-word. 1 had but 
 one bitter disappointment, though. 
 
 * They jrave this elephant an ounce of 
 pruasic acid and an ounce of arsenic ; neither 
 of these sedatives producing any effect, they 
 (lred u cauuou-ball through Iter neck.
 
 350 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 Madllc. never came to see us, and 
 
 I wai too sulky and too busy to hunt 
 for her. Besides, I said to myself, 
 " All the world can find me, and if 
 she cared a button for me she would 
 come to light." I tried to turn it off 
 with the old song, 
 
 " Now get ye gone, ye scornful dame ; 
 If you are proud, I 'II be the same. 
 ; I make no doubt that I shall find 
 As pretty a girl uato my mind." 
 
 Behold me now at the climax of 
 prosperity, dressed like a gentleman, 
 driving a pair of horses, proprietor of 
 a whole cavalcade and of an elephant, 
 and, after clearing all expenses, mak- 
 ing at the rate of full £ 600 per annum. 
 There was a certain clergyman of the 
 place used to visit us about every day, 
 and bring her cakes and things to cat, 
 till he got quite fond of her, and be- 
 lieved that she returned his affection. 
 I used to beg him not to go so close 
 to her. On this, his answer was, 
 " Why, you say she is harmless as a 
 chicken " ; so then I had no more to 
 say. Well, one unlucky day I turned 
 my back for a moment ; before I 
 could get back there were the old 
 sounds, a snort of rage, and a cry of 
 terror, and there was the poor minis- 
 ter in her trunk. At sight of me she 
 dropped him, but two of his ribs were 
 broken, and he was quite insensible, 
 and the people rushed out in terror. 
 We raised the clergyman and carried 
 him home, and in half an hour a mob 
 was before the door, and stones as big 
 as your fists thrown in at the win- 
 dows : this, however, was stopped by 
 the authorities. But the next (lay my 
 lady was arrested and walked off to 
 the fortress, and there confined. I 
 remonstrated, expostulated, in vain. 
 I had now to feed her and no return 
 from her : ruin stared me in the face. 
 So I went to law with the authorities. 
 Law is slow, and Djck was eating all 
 the time. Ruin looked nearer still. 
 The law ate my green and gold ser- 
 vants and horses, and still Djck re- 
 mained in ijnod. Then I refused to 
 feed her any longer, and her expenses 
 fell upon the town. Her appetite and 
 
 their poverty soon brought matters to 
 a climax. They held a sort of mu- 
 nicipal tribunal, and tried her for an. 
 attempt at homicide. I got counsel to 
 defend her, for I distrusted my own 
 temper and French. 
 
 I can't remember half the fine things 
 he said, but there was one piece of 
 common sense I do remember. He 
 said : " The animal, I believe, is un- 
 conscious of her great strength, and 
 has committed a fatal error rather 
 than a crime ; still, if you think she is 
 liable to make such errors, let her die 
 rather than kill men. But how do 
 you reconcile to your consciences to 
 punish her proprietor, to rob him of 
 his subsistence '? He has committed 
 no crime, he has been guilty of no 
 want of caution. If, therefore, you 
 take upon yourselves to punish the 
 brute, be honest ! buy her of the man 
 first, and then assert your sublime 
 office, — destroy an animal that has 
 offended morality. But a city should 
 be above wronging or robbing an in- 
 dividual." When he sat down I 
 thought my homicide was safe, for I 
 knew Geneva could not afford to buy 
 an elephant without it was out of a 
 Noah's ark. 
 
 But up gets an orator on the other 
 side and attacked me ; accused me of 
 false representations, of calling a de- 
 mon a duck. " We have certain in- 
 formation from France that this ele- 
 phant has been always wounding and 
 killing men up and down Europe 
 these twenty years. Mons. Lott 
 knew this by universal report, and 
 by being an eye-witness of more than 
 one man's destruction." Here there 
 was a sensation, I can tell you. " He 
 has, therefore, forfeited all claims to 
 consideration." Then he thundered 
 out : " Let no man claim to be wiser 
 than Holy Writ ; there we are told 
 that a lie is a crime of the very deep- 
 est dye, and here we see how for years 
 falsehood has been murder." Then I 
 mind he took just the opposite line to 
 my defender. Says he : " If I hesitate 
 for a moment, it is not for the man's 
 sake, but lor the brute's ; but I do not
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 OJl 
 
 hesitate. I could wish so majestic a 
 creature might be spared for our in- 
 struction," says he, " that so wonder- 
 ful a specimen of the Creator's skill 
 might still walk the earth; but rea- 
 son, and justice, and humanity say 
 *' No.' There is an animal far small- 
 er, yet ten times more important, tor 
 he lias a soul ; and this, the king of 
 all the animals, is not safe while she 
 lives ; therefore she ought to die. 
 Weaker far than her in his individ- 
 ual strength, he is a thousand times 
 stronger by combination and science, 
 — therefore she will die." 
 
 When this infernal chatterbox shut 
 up, my heart sunk into my shoes. He 
 was a prig, but an eloquent one, and 
 he walked into Djek and me till we 
 were not worth half an hour's pur- 
 chase. 
 
 Eor all that, the council did not 
 come to a decision on the spot, and I 
 believe that if Djek had but been con- 
 tent to kill the laity as heretofore, we 
 should have scraped through with a 
 fine ; but the fool must go and tear 
 black doth, and dig her own grave. 
 
 Two days after the trial, out came 
 the sentence, — Death ! 
 
 With that modesty and good feel- 
 ing which belongs to most foreign 
 governments, they directed me to exe- 
 cute their sentence. 
 
 My answer came in English. " I '11 
 see you d — d, and double d — d first, 
 and then I won't." 
 
 Meantime Huguet was persecuting 
 poor heart-sick me for the remainder 
 of her purchase - money, and, what 
 with the delay, the expenses, and the 
 anxiety, I was so down and so at the 
 end of my wits and m y patience, that 
 her sentence fell on me like a blow on 
 a chap that is benumbed, — produced 
 l<^s effect upon me at the time than it 
 does when I think of it now. 
 
 Well, — curse them! — one fine 
 morning they ran a cannon up to the 
 gate, loaded it and bade me call the 
 elephant, and bring her into a favora- 
 ble position for being shot. I refused 
 point-blank in English as before. 
 They threatened me lor my contuma- 
 
 cy. I answered they might shoot me 
 if they liked, but I would not be the 
 one to destroy my own livelihood. 
 
 So they had to watch their oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 It was not long of coming. 
 
 She began to walk about, and pres- 
 ently the poor fool marched right up 
 to the cannon's mouth, and squinted 
 down it. Then she turned, and at 
 last she crossed right before it. The 
 gunner took the opportunity, applied 
 his linstock, and fired. There was a 
 great tongue of flame, and a cloud of 
 smoke, and through the smoke some- 
 thing as big as a house was seen to go 
 down ; the very earth trembled at the 
 shock. 
 
 The smoke cleared in a moment, 
 and there lay Djek. She never moved. 
 The round shot went clean through 
 her body, and struck the opposite wall 
 with great force. It was wonderful 
 and sad to see so huge a creature 
 robbed of her days in a moment by a 
 spark. There she lay, — poor Djek. 
 
 In one moment I forgot all her 
 faults. She was an old companion of 
 mine in many a wet day and dreary 
 night. She was reputation to me, and 
 a clear six hundred a year ; and then 
 she was so clever ! We shall never see 
 her like again ; and there she lay. I 
 mourned over her, right or wrong, and 
 have never been the same man since 
 that shot was fired. 
 
 The butchery done, I was informed 
 by the municipal authorities that the 
 carcass was considered, upon the 
 whole, to be my property. The next 
 moment I had two hundred applica- 
 tions for elephant steaks from the 
 pinch-gut natives, who, I believe, 
 knew gravy by tradition and romances 
 that had come all the way from Paris. 
 Knives and scales went to work, and, 
 with the tears running down my 
 checks, I sold her beef at four sous 
 per pound for about .£40 sterling. 
 
 This done, all my occupation was 
 gone. Geneva was no placo for me, 
 and as the worthy Huguet, whose life 
 I had saved, threatened to arrest mo, 
 I determined to go back to England
 
 '352 
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 and handicraft. Two days after Djek's 
 death I was hanging sorrowfully over 
 the bridge, when some one drew near 
 to me and said, in a low voice, Mons. 
 Lott. I had no need to look up. I 
 knew the voice; it was my lost sweet- 
 heart. She spoke very kindly, blushed, 
 and welcomed me to her native coun- 
 try. She did more ; she told me she 
 lived five miles from Geneva, and in- 
 vited me to visit her mother. She 
 took occasion to let me know that her 
 father was dead : " My mother re- 
 fuses me nothing," she added, with 
 another blush. This was all like a 
 dream to me. The next day I visited 
 her and her mother, and was cordially 
 received ; in short, it was made clear 
 to me that my misfortune had en- 
 deared me to this gem of a girl in- 
 stead of repelling her. An uncle, too, 
 had died, and left her three hundred 
 pounds, and this made her bolder 
 still ; and she did not conceal her re- 
 gard for me. She told me she had 
 seen me once in Geneva driving two 
 showy horses in a carriage, and look- 
 ing like a nobleman, and so had hesi- 
 tated to claim the acquaintance ; but 
 hearing the elephant's execution, and 
 guessing that I could no longer be on 
 the high-road to fortune, she had obeyed 
 her heart, and been the first to remind 
 me I had once esteemed her. 
 
 In short, a Pearl. 
 
 I made her a very bad return for so 
 much goodness. I went and married 
 her. We then compounded with Hu- 
 guet for three thousand francs, and 
 sailed for England to begin the world 
 again. 
 
 The moment I got to London, I 
 made for the Seven Dials to see my 
 friend Paley. 
 
 On the way I met a mutual ac- 
 quaintance ; told him where I was go- 
 ing, — red-hot. 
 
 He shook his head and said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 A chill came over me. If you had 
 stuck a knife in me I should n't have 
 bled. I gasped out some sort of in- 
 quiry. 
 
 " Why, you know he was not a 
 
 young man," says he ; and he looked 
 down. 
 
 That was enough for such an un- 
 lucky one as me. I began to cry di- 
 rectly. " Don't ye take on," says he. 
 " Old man died happy. Come home 
 with me ; my wife will tell you more 
 about it than I can." 
 
 I was loath to go ; but he persuad- 
 ed me. His wife told me the old gen- 
 tleman spoke of me to the last, and 
 had my letters read out, and boasted 
 of my success. 
 
 " Did n't I tell you he would rise ? " 
 he used to say ; and then, it seems, he 
 made much of some little presents I 
 had sent him from Paris, and them 
 such trifles compared with what I owed 
 him : " Does n't forget old- friends, 
 now he is at the top of the tree " ; and 
 then burst out praising me, by all ac- 
 counts. 
 
 So, then, it was a little bit of com- 
 fort to think he had died while I was 
 prosperous, and that my disappoint- 
 ment had never reached his warm and 
 feeling heart. 
 
 A workman has little time to grieve 
 outwardly; he must dry his eyes 
 quickly, let his heart be ever so sad, 
 or he '11 look queer when Saturday 
 night comes. You can't make a work- 
 manlike joint with the tear in your 
 eye ; one half the joiners can't do it 
 with their glasses on. And I was a 
 workman once more ; I had to end as 
 I began. 
 
 I returned to the violin trade, and, 
 by a very keen attention to its mys- 
 teries, I made progress, and, having a 
 foreign connection, I imported and 
 sold to English dealers, as well as 
 made, varnished, and doctored violins. 
 But soon the trade, through foreign 
 competition, declined to a desperate 
 state. I did not despair, but, to eke 
 out, I set my wife up in a china and 
 curiosity shop in Wardour Street, and 
 worked at my own craft in the hack 
 parlor. I had no sooner done this 
 than the writers all made it their busi- 
 ness to sneer at Wardour Street, and 
 now nobody dares buy in that street ; 
 so, since I began this tale, we have
 
 JACK OF ALL TRADES. 
 
 353 
 
 closed the shop, — it only wasted their 
 time, — they are much better out walk- 
 ing, and getting fresh air, at least, for 
 their trouble. I attend sales, and nev- 
 er lose a chance of turning a penny ; 
 at home I make, and mend, and doc- 
 tor fiddles ; I carve wood ; I clean 
 pictures and gild frames ; I cut out 
 fruit and flowers in leather ; I teach 
 ladies and gentlemen to gild at so 
 much a lesson ; and by these and a 
 score more of little petty arts I just 
 keep the pot boiling. 
 
 I am, as I have been all my life, so- 
 ber, watchful, enterprising, energetic, 
 and unlucky. 
 
 In early "life I played for a great 
 stake, — affluence. 
 
 I think I may say I displayed in the 
 service of Djek some of those qualities 
 by which, unless books are false, men 
 have won campaigns and battles, and 
 
 reaped fortunes and reputations : re- 
 sult in my case, a cannon-shot fired in 
 a dirty little village, calling itself a city, 
 in a country that Yorkshire could eat 
 up and spit out again, after all the 
 great kingdoms and repubs. had ad- 
 mired her and forgiven her her one 
 defect — a tongue of fire — a puff of 
 smoke — and all the perils, labor, 
 courage, and perseverance of eleven 
 years blown away like dust to the 
 four winds of Heaven. 
 
 I am now playing for a smaller 
 stake ; but I am now, as usual, play- 
 ing my very best. I am bending all 
 my experience of work and trade, all 
 my sobriety, activity, energy, and care, 
 all my cunning of eye and hand, to one 
 end, — not to die in the workhouse. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, the workman 
 has said his say, and I hope the com- 
 pany have been amused. 
 
 THE END.
 
 A SIMPLETON.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A YOUNG lady sat pricking a 
 framed canvas in the drawing- 
 room of Kent Villa, a mile from 
 Gravesend. She was making, at a 
 cost of time and tinted wool, a chair- 
 cover, admirably unfit to be sat up- 
 on — except by some peevish artist 
 bent on obliterating discordant col- 
 ors. To do her justice, her mind 
 was not in her work; for she rustled 
 softly with restlessness as she sat, 
 and she rose three times in twenty 
 minutes, and went to the window. 
 Thence she looked down over a 
 trim flowery lawn, and long sloping 
 meadows, on to the silver Thames, 
 alive with steamboats ploughing, 
 white sails bellying, and great ships 
 carrying to and fro the treasures of 
 the globe. From this fair landscape 
 and epitome of commerce she retired 
 each time with listless disdain. She 
 was waiting tor somebody. 
 
 Yet she was one of those whom 
 few men care to keep waiting. Ko- 
 s;i Lusignan was a dark but dazzling 
 beauty, with coal-black hair and 
 glorious dark eyes that seemed to 
 beam with soul all day long ; her 
 eyebrows, black, Btraightish, and 
 
 rather thick, would have been majes- 
 tic, and too severe, had the other 
 features followed Suit ; but her black 
 brows were Miccceiled by lone; silky 
 lashes, a sweet oval face, two pout- 
 
 ing lips studded with ivory, and an 
 exquisite chin, as feeble as any man 
 could desire in the partner of his 
 bosom. Person straight, elastic, 
 and rather tall. Mind, nineteen. 
 Accomplishments, numerous : a poor 
 French scholar, a worse German, a 
 worst English ; an admirable dancer, 
 an inaccurate musician, a good rider, 
 a bad draughtswoman ; a bad hair- 
 dresser, at the mercy of her maid ; a 
 hot theologian, knowing nothing ; a 
 sorry accountant, no housekeeper, 
 no seamstress, a fair embroideress, 
 a capital geographer, and no cook. 
 
 Collectively, namely, mind and 
 body, the girl we kneel to. 
 
 This ornamental member of soci- 
 ety now glanced at the clock once 
 more, and then glided to the window 
 for the fourth time. She peeped at 
 the side a good while with superflu- 
 ous slyness, or shyness ; and present- 
 ly she drew back, blushing crimson : 
 then she peeped again, still more 
 furtively, then retired softly to her 
 frame, and, lor the first time, set to 
 work in earnest. As she plied her 
 harpoon, smiling now, the large and 
 vivid blush that had suffused her 
 lace and throat turned from carna- 
 tion to rose, and melted away slowly 
 but perceptibly, and ever so sweetly ; 
 and somebody knocked at the street- 
 door. 
 
 The blow seemed to drive her 
 deeper into her work. She leaned
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 over it, graceful as a willow, and so 
 absorbed she could not even see the 
 door of the room open, and Dr. 
 Staines come in. 
 
 All the better ; her not perceiving 
 that slight addition to her furniture 
 gives me a moment to describe him. 
 
 A young man, five feet eleven 
 inches high, very square-shouldered 
 and deep-chested, but so symmetrical 
 and light in his movements that his 
 size hardly struck one at first. He 
 was smooth shaved, all but a short, 
 thick auburn whisker ; his hair was 
 brown. His features no more than 
 comely; the brow full ; the eyes wide 
 apart and deep-seated ; the lips rath- 
 er thin, but expressive ; the chin 
 solid and square. It was a face of 
 power, and capable of harshness, but 
 leavened by an eye of an unusual 
 color, between hazel and gray, and 
 wonderfully tender. In complexion 
 he could not compare with ltosa : his 
 cheek was clear but pale ; for few 
 young men had studied night and 
 day so constantly. Though but 
 twenty-eight years of age, he was lit- 
 erally a learned physician, deep in 
 hospital practice, deep in books, es- 
 pecially deep in German science, — 
 too often neglected or skimmed by 
 English physicians. He had deliv- 
 ered a course of lectures at a learned 
 university with general applause. 
 
 As my reader has divined, Rosa 
 was preparing the comedy of a cool 
 reception ; but, looking up, she saw 
 his pale cheek tinted with a lover's 
 beautiful joy at the bare sight of her, 
 and bis soft eye so divine with love 
 that she had not the heart to chill 
 him. She gave him her hand kind- 
 ly, and smiled brightly on him in- 
 stead of remonstrating. She lost 
 nothing by it; for the very first thing 
 he did was to excuse himself eagerly. 
 " I am behind time : the fact is, just 
 as I was mounting my horse, a poor 
 man came to the gate to consult me. 
 He had a terrible disorder I have 
 sometimes succeeded in arresting. 
 I attack the cause instead of the 
 6ymptums ; which is the old practice 
 
 and so that detained me. You for- 
 give me ? " 
 
 " Of course. Poor man ! Only 
 you said you wanted to see papa, 
 and he always goes out at two." 
 
 When she had been betrayed into 
 saying this, she drew in suddenly, 
 and blushed with a pretty conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 " Then don't let me lose another 
 minute," said the lover. " Have you 
 prepared him for — for what I am 
 going to have the audacity to say ? " 
 
 Rosa answered, with some hesita- 
 tion, " I must have, a little. When 
 I refused Col. Bright — you need not 
 devour my hand quite; he is for- 
 ty." 
 
 Her sentence ended ; and away 
 went the original topic, and gram- 
 matical sequence along with it. 
 Christopher Staines recaptured them 
 both. " Yes, dear, when you re- 
 fused Col. Bright — 
 
 " Well, papa was astonished ; for 
 everybody says the colonel is a 
 most eligible match. Don't you 
 hate that expression 1 I do. Eligi- 
 ble ! " 
 
 Christopher made due haste, and 
 recaptured her. " Yes, love, your 
 papa said " — 
 
 " I don't think I will tell you. 
 He asked me was there anybody 
 else ; and of course I said, ' No.' " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing ! I had not 
 time to make up my mind to tell the 
 truth. I was taken by surprise; and 
 you know one's first impulse is to 
 fib — about that." 
 
 " But did you really deceive 
 him ? " 
 
 "No. I blushed; and he caught 
 me : so he said, ' Come now, there 
 was.' " 
 
 " And you said, ' Yes, there is,' 
 like a brave girl as you are." 
 
 " What ! plump like that? No : 
 I was frightened out of my wits, 
 like a brave girl as I am not, and 
 said I should never marry any one 
 he could disapprove ; and then — 
 oh ! then I believe I began to cry.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Christopher, I'll tell you something. 
 1 liad people leave off teasing you 
 when you cry — gentlemen, I mean. 
 Ladies go on all the more. So then 
 dear papa kissed me, and told me I 
 must not be imprudent and throw 
 myself away, that was all ; and I 
 promised him I never would. I said 
 he would be sure to approve my 
 choice, and he said he hoped so. 
 And so he will." 
 
 Dr. Staines looked thoughtful, 
 and said he hoped so too. " But 
 now it comes to the point of asking 
 him for such a treasure, I feel my 
 deliciencies." 
 
 " Why, what deficiencies ? You 
 arc young and handsome and good, 
 and ever so much cleverer than oth- 
 er people. You have only to ask for 
 me, and insist on having me. Come, 
 dear, go and get it over." She add- 
 ed, mighty coolly, " There is noth- 
 ing so dreadful as suspense." 
 
 " I'll go this minute," said he, 
 and took a step toward the door ; 
 but he turned, and in a moment was 
 at her knees. He took both her 
 h inds in his, and pressed them to 
 his beating bosom, while his beauti- 
 ful eyes poured love into hers point 
 blank. " May I tell him you love 
 me '. Oh! I know you cannot love 
 me as I love you ; but I may say 
 you love me a little, may I not ? 
 That will go farther with him than 
 any thing else. May I, liosa, may 
 I?— a little?" 
 
 His passion mastered her. She 
 drooped her head sweetly on his 
 shoulder, and murmured, " You 
 know you may, my own. Who 
 would not love you ? " 
 
 He parted lingering!? from her, 
 then marched away, bold with love 
 and hope, to demand her hand in 
 marriage. 
 
 Rosa leaned back in her chair, 
 and quivered a little with new emo- 
 tions. Christopher was right : she 
 was not capable of loving like him ; 
 hut still tiic actual contai t of BO 
 
 strong a passion made her woman's 
 nature vibrate. A dewy tear hung 
 
 on the fringes of her long lashes ; 
 and she leaned back in her chair, 
 and fluttered a while. 
 
 That emotion, almost new to her, 
 soon yielded, in her girlish mind, to 
 a complacent languor, and that, in 
 its turn, to a soft reverie. So she 
 was going to be married ! To be 
 mistress of a house, settle in Lon- 
 don ( that she had quite determined 
 long ago ) ; be able to go out into 
 the streets all alone, to shop or visit ; 
 have a gentleman all her own, whom 
 she could put her finger on any 
 moment, and make him take her 
 about, even to the opera and the 
 theatre ; to give dinner-parties her 
 own self, and even a little ball once 
 in a way; to buy whatever dresses 
 she thought proper, instead of being 
 crippled by an allowance ; have the 
 legal right of speaking first in soci- 
 ety, even to gentlemen rich in ideas 
 but bad starters, instead of sitting 
 mum-chance and mock-modest ; to 
 be mistress instead of miss — con- 
 temptible title ; to be a woman in- 
 stead of a girl ; and all this rational 
 liberty, domestic power, and social 
 dignity were to be obtained by mere- 
 ly wedding a dear fellow who loved 
 her, and was so nice: and the bright 
 career to be ushered in with several 
 delights, each of them dear to a 
 girl's very soul, — presents from all 
 her friends; as many beautiful new 
 dresses as if she was changing her 
 body or her hemisphere instead of 
 her name ; &hd : going to church, 
 which is a good English girl's thea- 
 tre of display and temple of vanity, 
 and there famine, delightful publicity 
 and whispered admiration, in a heav- 
 enly long veil, which she could not 
 wear even once if she remained sin- 
 gle. 
 
 This bright variegated picture of 
 holy wedloek and its essential fea- 
 tures, as revealed to young ladies by 
 feminine tradition, though not enu- 
 merated in the Hook of Common 
 Prayer composed by males, so en- 
 tranced her that time llew by un- 
 heeded, and Christopher Staineo
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 came back from her father. His 
 step was heavy : he looked pale and 
 deeply distressed ; then stood like a 
 statue, and did not come close to her, 
 but cast a piteous look, and gasped 
 out one word, that seemed almost to 
 choke him, — "Refused ! " 
 
 Miss Lusignan rose from her chair, 
 and looked almost wildly at him with 
 her great eyes. " Refused ? " said 
 she faintly. 
 
 "Yes," said he sadly. "Your 
 father is a man of business; and he 
 took a mere business view of our 
 love : he asked me directly what pro- 
 vision I could make for his daughter 
 and her children. Well, I told him 
 I had three thousand pounds in the 
 Funds, and a good profession ; and 
 then I said I had youth, health, and 
 love, boundless love, the love that 
 can do or suffer, the love that can 
 conquer the world." 
 
 " Dear Christopher ! And what 
 could he say to all that 1 " 
 
 " He ignored it entirely. There, 
 I'll give you his very words. He 
 said, ' In that case, Dr. Staines, the 
 simple question is, what does your 
 profession bring you in per an- 
 num 1 ' " 
 
 " Oh ! There, I always hated 
 arithmetic ; and now I abominate 
 it." 
 
 " Then I was obliged to confess I 
 had scarcely received a hundred 
 pounds in fees this year; but I 
 told him the reason : this is such 
 a small district, and all the ground 
 occupied. London, I said, was my 
 sphere." 
 
 " And so it is," said Rosa eagerly ; 
 for this jumped with her own little 
 designs. " Genius is wasted in the 
 country. Besides, whenever any- 
 body worth curing is ill down here, 
 they always send to London for a 
 doctor." 
 
 " I told him so, dearest," said the 
 lover. " But he answered me di- 
 rectly, then I must set up in Lon- 
 don ; and, as soon as my books 
 showed an income to keep a wife 
 and servants and children, and 
 
 insure my life for five thousand 
 pounds " — 
 
 "Oh, that is so like papa ! He is 
 director of an insurance company ; 
 so all the world must insure their 
 lives." 
 
 " No, dear, he was quite right 
 there : professional incomes are most 
 precarious. Death spares neither 
 young nor old, neither warm hearts 
 nor cold. I should be no true phy- 
 sician if I could not see my own 
 mortality." He hung his head, and 
 pondered a moment ; then went on 
 sadly, "It all comes to this: until 
 1 have a professional income of eight 
 hundred a year at least, he will not 
 hear of our marrying : and the cruel 
 thing is, he will not even consent to 
 an engagement. But," said the re- 
 jected, with a look of sad anxiety, 
 "you will wait for me without that, 
 dear Rosa ? " 
 
 She could give him that comfort ; 
 and she gave it him with loving 
 earnestness. " Of course I will ; 
 and it shall not be very long. While 
 you are making your fortune to 
 please papa, I will keep fretting and 
 pouting and crying till he sends for 
 you." 
 
 " Bless you, dearest. Stop ! not 
 to make yourself ill ! not for all the 
 world," There spoke the lover and 
 the physician. 
 
 He came, all gratitude, to her 
 side ; and they sat, hand in hand, 
 comforting each other; indeed, part- 
 ing was such sweet sorrow that they 
 sat, and very close to one another, 
 till Mr. Lusignan, who thought five 
 minutes quite enough for rational 
 beings to take leave in, walked into 
 the room and surprised them. At 
 sight of his gray head and iron- 
 gray eyebrows, Christopher Staines 
 started up and looked confused : he 
 thought some apology necessary, so 
 he faltered out, " Forgive me, sir ; 
 it is a bitter parting to me, you may 
 be sure." 
 
 Rosa's bosom heaved at these sim- 
 ple words. She flew to her father, 
 and cried, " papa ! papa ! you
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 5 
 
 were never cruel before," and hid 
 her burning face on his shoulder ; 
 and then burst out crying, partly for 
 Christopher, partly because she was 
 now ashamed of herself for having 
 taken a young man's part so openly. 
 
 Mr. Lusignan looked sadly dis- 
 composed at this outburst ; she had 
 taken him by his weak point; he 
 told her so. " Now, Rosa," said he, 
 rather peevishly, " you know I hate 
 a noise." 
 
 Rosa had actually forgotten that 
 trait for a single moment; but, being 
 reminded of it, she reduced her sobs 
 in the prettiest way, not to offend a 
 tender parent who could not bear 
 noise. Under this homely term, you 
 must know he included all scenes, 
 disturbances, rumpuses, passions, 
 and expected all men, women, and 
 things in Kent Villa to go smoothly, 
 or go elsewhere. 
 
 " Come, young people," said he, 
 "don't make a disturbance. Where's 
 the grievance ? Have I said he 
 should never marry you ? Have I 
 forbidden him to correspond, or even 
 to call, say twice a year 3 All I say 
 is, no marriage, nor contract of mar- 
 riage, until there is an income." 
 Then he turned to Christopher. 
 " Now, if you can't make an income 
 without her, bow could you make 
 one with her, weighed down by the 
 load of expenses a wife entails ? I 
 know her better than you do. She 
 is a good girl, but rather luxurious 
 and sclf-indulent. She is not cut 
 out. for a poor man's wife ; and pray 
 don't po and fancy that nobody lores 
 my child but von. Mine is not so 
 hot as yours, of course ; but believe 
 me. sir, it is lest selfish. You would 
 expose her to poverty and misery ; 
 hut I say no. Jt is my duty to pro- 
 tect her from all chance of them ; 
 and, in doing it, I am as much your 
 friend as hers, if you could but see it. 
 Come, Dr. Staines, be a man, and 
 see the world as it is. I have told 
 you how to earn my daughter's hand 
 and my esteem : you must gain both 
 or neither. 
 
 Dr. Staines was never quite deaf 
 to reason : he now put his baud to 
 his brow, and said, with a sort of 
 wonder and pitiful dismay, "My love 
 for Rosa selli.di ! Sir, your words 
 are bitter and hard." Then, after a 
 struggle, and with rare and touching 
 candor, " Ay, but so are hark and 
 steel ; yet they are good medicines." 
 Then, with a great glow in his heart, 
 and tears in his eyes, " My darling 
 shall not be a poor man's wife, — she 
 who would adorn a coronet, ay, or 
 a crown. Good-by, Rosa, for the 
 present." He darted to her, and 
 kissed her hand with all his soul. 
 " Oh, the sacrifice of leaving you ! " 
 he faltered : " the very world is dark 
 to me without you. Ah, well, I 
 must earn the right to come again ! " 
 He summoned ail his manhood, and 
 marched to the door. There lie 
 seemed to turn calmer all of a sud- 
 den, and said, firmly yet humbly, 
 " I'll try and show you, sir, what 
 love can do." 
 
 "And I'll show you what love 
 can suffer," said Rosa, folding her 
 beautiful arms superbly. 
 
 It was not in her to have shot such 
 a bolt except in imitation ; yet how 
 promptly the mimic thunder came, 
 and how grand the beauty looked, 
 with her dark brows and flashing 
 eyes and folded arms ! much grand- 
 er and more inspired than poor 
 Staines, who had only furnished the 
 idea. 
 
 But between these two fipures, 
 swelling with emotion, the represent- 
 ative of common sense, Lusignan 
 pere, stood cool and impassive: lie 
 shrugged bis shoulders, and looked 
 on both lovers as a couple of rant- 
 ing novices he was saving from eaeh 
 other and almshouses. 
 
 For all that, when the lover had 
 torn himself away, papa's compos- 
 ure was suddenly disturbed by a 
 misgiving. lie stepped hastily to 
 the stairhead, and gave it vent. 
 "Dr. Staines," said he, in a loud 
 whisper (Staines was hall-way 
 down the stairs: he stopped), "I
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 trust to you, as a gentleman, not to 
 mention this ; it will never transpire 
 here. Whatever we do, no noise ! " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Rosa Lusignan set herself pin- 
 ing as she had promised, and she did 
 it discreetly for so young a person ; 
 she was never peevish, but always 
 sad and listless. By this means site 
 did not anger her parent, but only 
 made him feel she was unhappy, and 
 the house she had hitherto bright- 
 ened exceeding dismal. 
 
 By degrees this noiseless melan- 
 choly undermined the old gentle- 
 man ; and he well nigh tottered. 
 
 But one day, calling suddenly on 
 a neighbor with six daughters, he 
 heard peals of laughter, and found 
 Rosa taking her full share of the 
 senseless mirth. She pulled up 
 short at sight of him, and colored 
 high ; but it was too late, for he 
 launched a knowing look at her on 
 the spot, and muttered something 
 about seven foolish virgins. 
 
 He took the first opportunity 
 when they were alone, and told her 
 lie was glad to find she was only dis- 
 mal at home. 
 
 But Rosa had prepared for him. 
 " One can be loud without being 
 gay at heart," said she, with a lofty, 
 languid air. " I have not forgotten 
 your last words to him. We were 
 to hide our broken hearts from the 
 world. I try to obey you, dear pa- 
 pa ; but, if I had my way, I would 
 never go into the world at all. I 
 have but one desire now, — to end 
 my days in a convent." 
 
 " Please begin them first. A con- 
 vent ! Why, you'd turn it out of 
 window. You are no more fit to be 
 a nun than — a pauper." 
 
 Not having foreseen this facer, 
 Rosa had nothing ready : so she re- 
 ceived it with a sad, submissive, 
 helpless sigh, as one who should say, 
 "Hit me, papa? I have no friend 
 
 now." So then he was sorry he 
 had been so clever; and, indeed, 
 there is one provoking thing about 
 " a woman's weakness," it is in- 
 vincible. 
 
 The next minute what should 
 come but a long letter from Dr. 
 Staines, detailing his endeavors to 
 purchase a practice in London, and 
 his ill-success. The letter spoke the 
 language of love and hope, but the 
 facts were discouraging ; and indeed 
 a touching sadness pierced through 
 the veil of the brave words. 
 
 Rosa read it again and again, and 
 cried over it before her father, to 
 discourage him in his heartless be- 
 havior. 
 
 About ten days after this, some- 
 thing occurred that altered her 
 mood. 
 
 She became grave and thoughtful, 
 but no longer lugubrious. She seem- 
 ed desirous to atone to her father for 
 having disturbed his cheerfulness. 
 She smiled affectionately on him, 
 and often sat on a stool at his knee, 
 and glided her hand into his. 
 
 He was not a little pleased, and 
 said to himself, "She is coming 
 round to common sense." 
 
 Now, on the contrary, she was 
 farther from it than ever. 
 
 At last he got the clew. One af- 
 ternoon he met Mr. Wyman coining . 
 out of the villa. Mr. Wyman was 
 the consulting surgeon of that part. 
 
 " What ! any body ill 1 " said Mr. 
 Lusignan : " one of the servants 1 " 
 
 " No : it is Miss Lusignan." 
 
 "Whv, what is the matter with 
 her?" * 
 
 Wyman hesitated. "Oh, noth- 
 ing very alarming ! Would you 
 mind asking her "i " 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " The fact is, she requested me 
 not to tell you, — made me promise." 
 
 "And I insist upon your telling 
 me." 
 
 " I think you are quite right, sir, 
 as her father. Well, she is troubled 
 with a little spitting of blood."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Mr. Lusignan turned pale. "My 
 child ! spitting of blood ! God for- 
 bid ! " 
 
 " Oh, do not alarm yourself! It 
 is nothing serious." 
 
 " Don't tell me," said the father. 
 " It is always serious. And she kept 
 this from me ! " 
 
 Masking his agitation for the 
 time, he inquired how often it had 
 oeeurreil, — this grave symptom. 
 
 " Three or four times this last 
 month. But I may as well tell you 
 at once, I have examined her care- 
 fully, and I do not think it is from 
 the lungs." 
 
 " From the throat, then ? " 
 
 "No, from the liver. Every thing 
 points to that organ as the seat of 
 derangement: not that there is any 
 lesion ; only a tendency to conges- 
 tion. I am treating her according- 
 ly, and have no doubt of the result." 
 
 " Who is the ablest physician 
 hereabouts ? " asked Lusignan ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 "Dr. Snell, I think." 
 
 "Give me his address." 
 
 " I'll write to him if you like, and 
 appoint a consultation." He ad- 
 deil, with vast but rather sudden 
 alacrity, " It will be a great satisfac- 
 tion to my own mind." 
 
 "Then send to him, if yon please, 
 and let him be here to-morrow 
 morning; if not, I shall take her to 
 London for advice at once." 
 
 ( >n this understanding they part- 
 ed ; and Lusignan went at once to 
 his daughter. "O my child!" said 
 he, deeply distressed, " how could 
 Mm hide this Iroin rac ? " 
 
 " Elide what, papal " said the 
 girl, looking the picture of uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 " That you have been spitting 
 blood." 
 
 " Who told you that? " snid she 
 sharply. 
 
 " Wyiuan ; he is attending you." 
 
 Rosa colored with anger. " Chat* 
 terbox ! He promised nie faithfully 
 nut to." 
 
 "But why, in Heaven's name? 
 
 What ! would you trust this terri- 
 ble thing to a stranger, and hide it 
 from your poor father? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Rosa quietly. 
 
 The old man would not scold her 
 now : he only said sadly, " I see 
 how it is : because I will not let you 
 marry poverty, you think I do not 
 love you." And he sighed. 
 
 " O papa ! the idea ! " said Ro- 
 sa. " Of course I know you love 
 me. It was not that, you dear, dar- 
 ling, foolish papa. There, if you 
 must know, it was because I did not 
 want you to be distressed. I thought 
 I might get better with a little phy- 
 sic ; and if not, why then I thought, 
 ' Papa is an old man ; la ! I dare 
 say I shall last his time ; ' and so, 
 why should I poison your latter 
 days with worrying about me? " 
 
 Mr. Lusignan stared at her, and 
 his lip quivered ; but he thought the 
 trait hardly consistent with her su- 
 perficial character. He could not 
 help saying, half-sadly, half-bittcrly, 
 " Well, but of course you have told 
 Dr. Staines." 
 
 Rosa opened her beautiful eyes 
 like two suns. " Of course I have 
 done nothing of the sort. He has 
 enough to trouble him without that. 
 Poor fellow ! there he is, worrying 
 and striving to make his fortune 
 and gain your esteem : ' they go 
 together,' you know you told him 
 so." (Young cats will scratch 
 when least expected.) "And for 
 me to go and tell him I am in dan- 
 ger! Why, he would go wild; he 
 would think of nothing but me and 
 my health ; he would never make 
 his fortune ; and so then, even when 
 I am gone, he will never get a wife, 
 because he has only got genius and 
 goodness and three thousand pounds. 
 No, papa, I have not told poor 
 Christopher. I may tease those I 
 love; I have been teasing you this 
 ever so long : but frighten them and 
 make them miserable i No." 
 
 And here, thinking of the anguish 
 that was perhaps in store for thoso 
 she loved, she wanted to cry; it al-
 
 8 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 most choked her not to. But she 
 fought it bravely down : she re- 
 served her tears for lighter occasions 
 and less noble sentiments. 
 
 Her father held out his arms to 
 her ; she ran her footstool to him, 
 and sat nestling to his heart. 
 
 "Please forgive me my miscon- 
 duct. I have not been a dutiful 
 daughter ever since you — Put 
 now I will. Kiss me, my own papa. 
 There ! Now we are as we always 
 were." 
 
 Then she purred to him on every 
 possible topic but the one that now 
 filled his parental heart, and bade 
 him good-night at last with a cheer- 
 ful smile. 
 
 Wyman was exact; and ten min- 
 utes afterward Dr. Snell drove up in 
 a carriage and pair. He was inter- 
 cepted in the hall by Wyman, and, 
 after a few minutes' conversation, 
 presented to Mr. Lusignan. 
 
 The father gave vent to his pater- 
 nal anxiety in a few simple but 
 touching words, and was proceeding 
 to state the symptoms as he had 
 gathered them from his daughter ; 
 but Dr. Snell interrupted him polite- 
 ly, and said he had heard the prin- 
 cipal symptoms from Mr. Wyman. 
 Then, turning to the latter, he said, 
 " We had better proceed to examine 
 the patient." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mr. Lusignan. 
 " She is in the drawing-room ; " and 
 he led the way, and was about to en- 
 ter the room, when Wyman informed 
 him that it was against etiquette for 
 him to be present at the examina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh, very well ! " said he. " Yes, 
 I see the propriety of that. But 
 oblige me by asking hor if she lias 
 any thing on her mind." 
 
 Dr. Snell bowed a lofty assent; 
 for to receive a hint from a layman 
 was to confer a favor on him. 
 
 The men of science were closeted 
 full half an hour with the patient. 
 She was too beautiful to be slurred 
 over, even by a busy doctor : he felt 
 her pulse, looked at her tongue, and 
 
 listened attentively to her lungs, to 
 her heart, and to the organ suspected 
 by Wyman. He left her at last with 
 a kindly assurance that the case was 
 perfectly curable. 
 
 At the door they were met by the 
 anxious lather, who came, with 
 throbbing heart, and asked the doc- 
 ter's verdict. 
 
 He was coolly informed that could 
 not be given until the consultation 
 had taken place ; the result of that 
 consultation would be conveyed to 
 him. 
 
 " And pray why can't I be pres- 
 ent at the consultation ? The 
 grounds on which two able men 
 agree or disagree must be well 
 worth listening to." 
 
 "No doubt," said Dr. Snell; 
 "but," with a superior smile, "my 
 dear sir, it is not the etiquette." 
 
 " Oh, very well ! " said Lusignan. 
 Put he muttered, " So, then, a father 
 is nobody." 
 
 And this unreasonable person 
 retired to his study, miserable, and 
 gave up the dining-room to the con- 
 sultation. 
 
 They soon rejoined him. 
 
 Dr. Snell's opinion was commu- 
 nicated by Wyman. " I am happy 
 to tell you, that Dr. Snell agrees 
 with me entirely ; the lungs are not 
 affected, and the liver is congested, 
 but not diseased." 
 
 " Is that so, Dr. Snell 1 " asked 
 Lusignan anxiously. 
 
 " It is so, sir." He added, " The 
 treatment has been submitted to me, 
 and I quite approve it." 
 
 He then asked for a pen and pa- 
 per, and wrote a prescription. He 
 assured Mr. Lusignan that the case 
 had no extraordinary feature what- 
 ever ; he was not to alarm himself. 
 Dr. Snell then drove away, leaving 
 the parent rather puzzled, but, on 
 the whole, much comforted. 
 
 And here I must reveal an extra- 
 ordinary circumstance, — ■ 
 
 Wyman's treatment was by 
 drugs. 
 
 Dr. Snell's was by drugs.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 D 
 
 Dr. Sncll, as you have seen, en- 
 tirely approved Wyman's treat- 
 ment. 
 
 His own had nothing in common 
 with it. The arctic and antarctic 
 poles are not farther apart than was 
 his prescription from the prescrip- 
 tion he thoroughly approved. 
 
 Amiable science ! In which com- 
 plete diversity of practice did not 
 interfere with perfect uniformity of 
 opinion. 
 
 All this was kept from Dr. 
 Staines ; and he was entirely occu- 
 pied in trying to get a position that 
 might lead to fortune and satisfy 
 Mr. Lusignan. He called on every 
 friend he had, to inquire where 
 there was an opening. He walked 
 miles and miles in the best quarters 
 of London, looking for an opening; 
 he let it be known in many quarters 
 that he would give a good premium 
 to any physician who was about to 
 retire, and would introduce him to 
 his patients. 
 
 No ; he could hear of nothing. 
 
 Then, after a great struggle with 
 himself, he called upon his uncle, 
 Philip Staines, a retired M.D., to 
 sec if he would do any thing for 
 him. He left this to the last, for a 
 very good reason ; Dr. Philip was 
 an irritable old bachelor, who had 
 assisted most of his married rela- 
 tives ; but, finding no bottom to the 
 well, had turned rusty and crusty, 
 and now was apt to administer 
 kicks instead of checks to all who 
 wore near and dear to him. How- 
 ever, Christopher was the old gen- 
 tleman's favorite, ami was now des- 
 perate; so he mustered courage and 
 went. lie was graciously received, 
 — warmly indeed. This gave him 
 great hopes, and he told his talc. 
 
 The old bachelor sided with Mr. 
 Lusignan. " What!" said he, "do 
 yon want to marry, ami propagate 
 pauperism? I thought you had 
 more sense. Confound it all ! I 
 had just one nephew who. e knock 
 at my Btrcct-door did not make mc 
 tremble : he was a bachelor and a 
 
 thinker, and came for a friendly 
 chat ; the rest are married men, 
 highwaymen, who come to say, 
 ' Stand and deliver ; ' and now even 
 you want to join the giddy throng. 
 Well, don't ask me to have any 
 hand in it. You are a man of prom- 
 ise; and you might as well hang a 
 mdlstone around your neck as a 
 wife. Marriage is a greater mistake 
 than ever now; the women dress 
 more, and manage worse. I met 
 your cousin Jack the other day and 
 his wife, with seventy pounds on her 
 back, and next door to paupers. 
 No ; while you are a bachelor, like 
 me, you are my favorite, and down 
 in my mil for a lump. Once mar- 
 ry, and you join the noble army of 
 footpads, leeches, vultures, paupers, 
 gone coons, and babblers about 
 brats, and I disown you." 
 
 There was no hope from old 
 Crusty. Christopher left him, 
 snubbed and heart-sick. At last he 
 met a sensible man, who made him 
 see there was no short-cut in that 
 profession. He must be content to 
 play the up-hill game; must settle 
 in some good neighborhood, marry 
 if possible, since husbands and fath- 
 ers of families prefer married physi- 
 cians ; and so be poor at thirty, 
 comfortable at forty, and rich at fif- 
 ty — perhaps. 
 
 Then Christopher came down to 
 his lodgings at Gravcsend, and was 
 very unhappy; and, after some days 
 of misery, he wrote a letter to Rosa 
 in a moment of impatience, de- 
 spondency, and passion. 
 
 Rosa Lusignan got worse and 
 worse. The slight but frequent 
 hemorrhage was a drain upon her 
 system, and weakened her visibly. 
 She began to lose her rich complex- 
 ion, and sometimes looked almost 
 
 sallow ; and a alight circle showed it- 
 self under her eyes. These symp- 
 toms were unfavorable ; nevertheless 
 
 Dr. Sncll and Mr. Wyman accepted 
 them cheerfully, as fresh indication i 
 that nothing was affected but the
 
 10 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 liver. They multiplied and varied 
 their prescriptions ; the malady ig- 
 nored those prescriptions, and went 
 steadily on. Mr. Lusignan was ter- 
 rified, but helpless ; Rosa resigned 
 and reticent. 
 
 But it was not in human nature 
 that a girl of this age could always, 
 and at all hours, be mistress of her- 
 self. One evening in particular she 
 stood before the glass in the draw- 
 ing-room, and looked at herself a 
 long time with horror. " Is that 
 Rosa Lusignan ? " said she aloud. 
 " It is her ghost." 
 
 A deep groan startled her. She 
 turned ; it was her father. She 
 thought he was fast asleep ; and so 
 indeed he had been : but he was just 
 awaking, and heard his daughter 
 utter her real mind. It was a thun- 
 der-clap. " O my child ! what 
 shall I do ? " he cried. 
 
 Then Rosa was taken by surprise 
 in her turn. She spoke out. " Send 
 for a great physician, papa. Don't 
 let us deceive ourselves ■ it is our 
 only chance." 
 
 " I will ask Mr. Wyman to get a 
 physician down from London." 
 
 " No, no ; that is no use : they 
 will put their heads together ; and he 
 will say whatever Mr. Wyman tells 
 him. La, papa ! a clever man like 
 you not to. see what a cheat that 
 consultation was ! Why, from what 
 you told me, one can see it was 
 managed so that Dr. Snell could 
 not possibly have an opinion of his 
 own. No; no more echoes of Mr. 
 Chatterbox. If you really want to 
 cure me, send for Christopher 
 Staines." 
 
 "Dr. Staines ! He is very 
 young." 
 
 " But he is very clever, and he is 
 not an echo. He won't care how 
 many doctors he contradicts when I 
 am in danger. Papa, it is your 
 child's one chance." 
 
 " I'll try it," said the old man 
 eagerly. " How confident you look ! 
 your color has come back. It is an 
 inspiration. Where is he ? " 
 
 " I think by this time ho must be 
 at his lodgings in Gravesend. Send 
 to him tomorrow morning." 
 
 " Not I. I'll go to him to-night. 
 It is only a mile, and a fine clear 
 night." 
 
 " My own, good, kind papa ! Ah, 
 well, come what may, I have lived 
 long enough to be loved. Yes, dear 
 papa, save me. I am very younj; to 
 die ; and he loves me so dearly." 
 
 The old man bustled away, to put 
 on something warmer for his night 
 walk ; and Rosa leaned back, and 
 the tears welled out of her eyes, 
 now he was gone. 
 
 Before she had recovered her com- 
 posure, a letter was brought her ; and 
 this was the letter from Christopher 
 Staines alluded to already. 
 
 She took it from the servant with 
 averted head, not wishing it to be 
 seen she had been crying ; and she 
 started at the handwriting. It 
 seemed such a coincidence that it 
 should come just as she was sending 
 for him. 
 
 "My own beloved Rosa, — I 
 now write to tell you, with a heavy 
 heart, that all is vain. I cannot 
 make or purchase a connection, ex- 
 cept as others do, by time and pa- 
 tience. Being a bachelor is quite 
 against a young physician. If I 
 had a wife, and such a wife as you, 
 I should be sure to get on. You 
 would increase my connection very 
 soon. What, then, lies before us ? 
 I see but two things : to wait till we 
 are old, and our pockets are filled, 
 but our hearts chilled or soured ; or 
 else to marry at once, and climb the 
 hill together. If you love me as I 
 love you, you will be saving till the 
 battle is over ; and I feel I could 
 find energy and fortitude for both. 
 Your father, who thinks so much 
 of wealth, can surely settle some- 
 thing on you ; and I am not too poor 
 to furnish a house and start fair. I 
 am not quite obscure, — my lectures 
 have given me a name ; and to 
 you, my own love, I hope I may
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 11 
 
 say that I know more than many of 
 my elders, thanks to good schools, 
 good method, a genuine love of my 
 noble profession, and a tendency to 
 study from my childhood. Will 
 you "not risk something on my abil- 
 ity ? If not, God help me ! for I 
 shall lose you ; and what is life, or 
 fame, or wealth, or any mortal thing 
 to me, without you. I cannot ac- 
 cept your father's decision : you 
 must decide my fate. 
 
 " You see, I havekept away from 
 you until I can do so no more. All 
 this time the world to me has 
 seemed to want the sun ; and my 
 heart pines and sickens for one sight 
 of you. Darling Rosa, pray let me 
 look at your face once more. 
 
 " When this readies you, I shall 
 be at your gate. Let me see you, 
 though but for a moment, and let 
 me hear my fate from no lips but 
 yours. 
 
 " My own love, 
 
 " Your heart-broken lover, 
 " Christopher Staines." 
 
 This letter stunned her at first. 
 Her mind of late had been turned 
 away from love to such stern reali- 
 ties. Now she began to be sorry 
 she had not told him. " Poor 
 thing!" she said to herself; "he 
 little thinks that now all is changed. 
 Papa, I sometimes think, would 
 deny mc nothing now. It is I who 
 would not marry him, to be buried 
 by him in a month or two. Poor 
 Christopher ! " 
 
 The next moment she started up 
 in dismay. Why, her father would 
 miss him. No, perhaps catch him 
 waiting for her. What would he 
 think ! What would Christopher 
 think - ? That she had shown her 
 papa his letter. 
 
 She rang the bell hard. The 
 footman came. 
 
 " Send Harriet to mc this instant. 
 Oh ! and ask papa to come to me ! " 
 
 Thru Bhc sat down, and dashed 
 oft' a line to Christopher. This was 
 for Harriet to take out to him. Any 
 
 thing better than for Christopher to 
 be caught doing what was wrong. 
 
 The footman came back first. 
 " If you please, miss, master has 
 gone out." 
 
 " Run after him, the road to 
 Gravesend." 
 
 " Yes, miss." 
 
 " No. It is no use. Never mind." 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 Then Harriet came in. "Did 
 you want me, miss ? " 
 
 " Yes. No, never mind now." 
 
 She was afraid to do any thing, 
 for fear of making matters worse. 
 She went to the window and stood 
 looking anxiously out, with her 
 hands working. Presently she 
 uttered a little scream, and shrank 
 away to the sofa. She sank down 
 on it, half-sitting, half-lying, hid her 
 face in her hands, and waited. 
 
 Staines, with a lover's impatience, 
 had been more than an hour at the 
 gate, or walking up and down close 
 by it, his heart now burning with 
 hope, now freezing Avith fear that 
 she would decline a meeting on these 
 terms. 
 
 At last the postman came, and 
 then he saw his mistake; but now 
 in a few minutes Rosa would have 
 his letter, and then he should soon 
 know whether she would come or 
 not. He looked up at the drawing- 
 room windows. They were full of 
 light. She was there, in all proba- 
 bility. Yet she did not come to 
 them. But why should she, if she 
 was coming out 1 
 
 He walked up and down the road. 
 She did not come. His heart 
 drooped ; and perhaps it was owing 
 to this that he almost ran against a 
 gentleman who was ((lining the 
 other way. The moon shone bright 
 on both faces. 
 
 "Dr. Staines!" said Mr. Lusig- 
 nan, surprised. Christopher Uttered 
 an ejaculation more eloquent than 
 words. 
 
 They stared at each other. 
 
 " You were coining to sec us ? "
 
 12 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 "N — no," stammered Christo- 
 pher. 
 
 Lusignan thought that odd ; how- 
 ever, he said, politely, " No matter ; 
 it is fortunate. Would you mind 
 coming in ? " 
 
 "No," faltered Christopher, and 
 stared at him ruefully, puzzled more 
 and more ; but beginning to think, 
 after all, it might be a casual meet- 
 ing. 
 
 They entered the gate ; and in one 
 moment he saw Rosa at the window, 
 and she saw him. 
 
 Then he altered his opinion again. 
 Rosa had sent her father out to him. 
 But how was this 1 The old man 
 did not seem angry. Christopher's 
 heart gave a leap inside him, and 
 he began to glow with the wildest 
 hopes. For what could this mean 
 but relenting? 
 
 Mr. Lusignan took him first into 
 the study, and lighted two candles 
 himself. He did. not want the ser- 
 vants prying. 
 
 The lights showed Christopher a 
 change in Mr. Lusignan. He looked 
 ten years older. 
 
 "You are not well, sir," said 
 Christopher gently. 
 
 "My health is well enough, but 
 I am a broken-hearted man. Dr. 
 Staines, forget all that passed here 
 at your last visit. All that is over. 
 Thank you for loving my poor girl 
 as you do. Give me your hand. 
 God bless you ! Sir, I am sorry to say 
 it is as a physician I invite you now. 
 She is ill, sir, — very, very ill ! " 
 
 " 111, and not tell me ? " 
 
 " She kept it from yon, my poor 
 friend, not to distress you ; and she 
 tried to keep it from me, but how 
 could she ? For two months she has 
 had some terrible complaint : it is 
 destroying her. She is the ghost of 
 herself. Oh, my poor child ! my 
 child!" 
 
 The old man sobbed aloud. The 
 young man stood trembling and ashy 
 pale. Still, the habits of his profes- 
 sion and the experience of dangers 
 overcome, together with a certain 
 
 sense of power, kept him up; but, 
 above all, love and duty said, " Be 
 firm." He asked tor an outline of 
 the symptoms. 
 
 They alarmed him greatly. 
 
 "Let us lose no more time," said 
 he : "I will see her at once." 
 
 " Do you object to my being 
 present 1 " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Shall I tell you what Dr. Snell 
 says it is, and Mr.Wyman ? " 
 
 " By all means, after I have seen 
 her." 
 
 This comforted Mr. Lusignan. 
 He was to get an independent judg- 
 ment, at all events. 
 
 When they reached the top of the 
 stairs, Dr. Staines paused, and leaned 
 against the baluster. " Give me a 
 moment," said he. " The patient 
 must not know how my heart is beat- 
 ing ; and she must see nothing in 
 my face but what I choose her to 
 see. Give me your hand once more, 
 sir; let us both control ourselves. 
 Now announce me." 
 
 Mr. Lusignan opened the door, 
 and said, with forced cheerfulness, 
 " Dr. Staines, my dear ! come to 
 give you the benefit of his skill." 
 
 She lay on the sofa, just as we left 
 her, only her bosom began to heave. 
 
 Then Christopher Staines drew 
 himself up ; and the majesty of 
 knowledge and love together seemed 
 to dilate his noble frame. He fixed 
 his eye on that reclining, panting 
 figure, and stepped lightly but firmly 
 across the room, to know the worst, 
 — like a lion walking up to levelled 
 lances. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 The young physician walked stead- 
 ily up to his patient, without taking 
 his eye off her, and drew a chair to 
 her side. 
 
 Then she took down one hand, — 
 the left, — and gave it to him, avert- 
 ing her face tenderly, and still cover-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 12 
 
 in,L r it with the right, "For," said she 
 to herself, " I am such a fright now." 
 This opportune reflection, and her 
 heaving bosom, proved that she at 
 least felt herself something more 
 than his patient. Her pretty con- 
 sciousness made his task more diffi- 
 cult : nevertheless, he only allowed 
 himself to press her hand tenderly 
 with both his palms one moment, 
 and then he entered on his functions 
 bravely. " I am here as your physi- 
 cian." 
 
 " Very well," said she softly. 
 
 He gently detained the hand, and 
 put his finger lightly to her pulse; 
 it was palpitating, and a fallacious 
 test. Oh, how that beating pulse, 
 by love's electric current, set his own 
 heart throbbing in a moment ! 
 
 He put her hand gently, reluctantly 
 down, and said, " Oblige me by 
 turning this way." She turned: and 
 he winced internally at the change 
 in her ; but his face betrayed nothing. 
 He looked at her full ; and, after 
 a pause, put her some questions ; 
 one was as to the color of the hem- 
 orrhage. She said it was bright red. 
 
 " Not a tinge of purple ? " 
 
 " No," said she hopefully, mistak- 
 ing him. 
 
 He suppressed a sigh. 
 
 Then he listened at her shoulder- 
 blade and at her chest, and made 
 her draw her breath while he was 
 listening. The net-; were simple and 
 usual in medicine ; but there was a 
 deep, patient, silent intensity about 
 his way <>f doing them. 
 
 Mr. Lnsignan crept nearer, and 
 stood with both hands on a table, 
 and his old bead bowed, awaiting, 
 yet dreading the verdict. 
 
 Up to this time Dr. Staines, in- 
 stead of tapping and squeezing and 
 palling tin; patient about, bail never 
 touched her with bis hand, and only 
 grazed her with bis car : but now he 
 said, " Allow me," and put both 
 hands to her waist, more lightly and 
 reverently than I can describe : 
 " now draw a deep breath, if you 
 please." 
 
 2 
 
 " There ! " 
 
 " If you could draw a deeper 
 still," said he insinuatingly. 
 
 " There, then," said she a little 
 pettishly. 
 
 Dr. Staines's eye kindled. 
 
 "Hum!" said he. Then, after 
 a considerable pause, " Are you 
 better or worse after each hemor- 
 rhage ? " 
 
 " La ! " said Rosa ; " they never 
 asked me that. Why, better." 
 
 " No faintness ? " 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 " Rather a sense of relief, 
 perhaps 1 " 
 
 " Yes. I feel lighter and better. " 
 
 The examination was concluded. 
 
 Dr. Staines looked at Rosa, and 
 then at her father. The agony in 
 that aged face, and the love that 
 agony implied, won him ; and it was 
 to the parent he turned to give his 
 verdict. 
 
 " The hemorrhage is from the 
 lungs " — 
 
 Lusignan interrupted him : 
 " From the lungs 1 " cried he in 
 dismay. 
 
 " Yes : a slight congestion of the 
 lungs." 
 
 " But not incurable ! Oh ! not 
 incurable, doctor ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! It is curable 
 — easily — by removing the cause." 
 
 " And what is the cause 1 " 
 
 The 
 
 cause 
 
 He hesitated, 
 
 and looked rather uneasy. " Well, 
 the cause, sir, is — tight stays." 
 
 The tranquillity of the meeting 
 was instantly disturbed. " Tight 
 stays ! Me ! '' cried Rosa. " Why, 
 I am the loosest girl in England ! 
 Look, papa ! " and, without any 
 apparent effort, she drew herself in, 
 and poked her little list between her 
 Bash and her Ljown. " There ! " 
 
 Dr. Staines smiled sadly and a 
 little sarcastically : he was evidently 
 shy of encountering the lady in this 
 argument ; but he was more at his 
 ca<c with her father; so be turned 
 toward him, and lectured him freely. 
 
 " That is wonderful, sir ; and
 
 14 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 the first four or five female patients 
 that favored me with it made me 
 disbelie.e my other senses; but 
 Miss Lusignan is now about the 
 thirtieth who has shown me that 
 marvellous feat, with a calm counte- 
 nance that belies the Herculean 
 effort. Nature has her every-day 
 miracles : a boa-constrictor, diameter 
 seventeen inches, can swallow a 
 buffalo ; a woman, with her stays 
 bisecting her almost, and lacerating 
 her skin, can yet for one moment 
 make herself seem slack, to deceive 
 a juvenile physician. The snake is 
 the miracle of expansion ; the woman 
 is the prodigy of contraction." 
 
 " Highly grateful for the compar- 
 ison," said Rosa. " Women and 
 snakes ! " 
 
 Dr. Staines blushed, and looked 
 uncomfortable. " I did not mean 
 to be offensive : it certainly was a 
 very clumsy comparison." 
 
 " What does that matter ? " said 
 Mr. Lusignan impatiently. " Be 
 quiet, Rosa, and let Dr. Staines and 
 me talk sense." 
 
 " Oh ! then I am nobody in the 
 business ! " said this wise young lad y. 
 
 "You are everybody," said 
 Staines soothingly. "But," sug- 
 gested he obsequiously, " if you 
 don't mind, I would rather explain 
 my views to your father — on this 
 one subject." 
 
 " And a pretty subject it is." 
 
 Dr. Staines then invited Mr. 
 Lusignan to his lodgings, and 
 promised to explain the matter ana- 
 tomically. " Meantime," said he, 
 " would you be good enough to put 
 your hands to my waist, as I did to 
 the patient's." 
 
 Mr. Lusignan complied ; and the 
 patient began to titter directly, to 
 put them out of countenance. 
 
 " Please observe what takes place 
 when I draw a full breath." 
 
 " Now apply the same test to the 
 
 Saticnt. Breathe your best, please, 
 liss Lusignan." 
 The patient put on a face full of 
 6aucy mutiny. 
 
 " To oblige us both." 
 
 " Oh, how tiresome ! " 
 
 " I am aware it is rather laborious/' 
 said Staines a little dryly; " but to 
 oblige your father ! " 
 
 "Oh, any thing to oblige papa!" 
 said she spitefully. " There ! And 
 I do hope it will be the last. La ! 
 no ; I don't hope that, neither." 
 
 Dr. Staines politely ignored her 
 little attempts to interrupt the argu- 
 ment. " You found, sir, that the 
 muscles of my waist, and my lower 
 ribs themselves, rose and fell with 
 each inhalation and exhalation of 
 air by the lungs." 
 
 " 1 did ; but my daughter's waist 
 was like dead wood, and so were her 
 lower ribs." 
 
 At this volunteer statement, Rosa 
 colored to her temples. " Thanks, 
 papa ! Pack me off to London, and 
 sell me for a big doll ! " 
 
 " In other words," said the lectur- 
 er, mild and pertinacious, " with us 
 the lungs have room to blow, and the 
 whole bony frame expands elastic 
 with them, like the wood-work of a 
 blacksmith's bellows ; but with this 
 patient, and many of her sex, that 
 noble and divinely-framed bellows is 
 crippled and confined by a powerful 
 machine of human construction ; so 
 it works lamely and feebly : conse- 
 quently too little air, and of course 
 too little oxvgen, passes through 
 that spongy organ whose very life is 
 air. Now mark the special result in 
 this case : being otherwise healthy 
 and vigorous, our patient's system 
 sends into the lungs more blood than 
 that one crippled organ can deal 
 with. A small quantity becomes ex- 
 travasated at odd times. It accumu- 
 lates, and would become dangerous ; 
 then Nature, strengthened by sleep 
 and by some hours' relief from the 
 diabolical engine, makes an effort, 
 and flings it off ; that is why the 
 hemorrhage comes in the morning, 
 and why she is the better for it, feel- 
 ing neither faint nor sick, but relieved 
 of a weight. This, sir, is the ration- 
 ale of the complaint ; and it is to you
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 15 
 
 I must look for the cure. To judge 
 from my other female patients, and 
 from the lew words Miss Lusignan 
 has let fall, I fear we must not count 
 on any very hearty co-operation from 
 her ; but you are her father, and 
 have great authority. I conjure you 
 to use it to the full, as you once used 
 it, to my sorrow, in this very room. 
 I am forgetting my character. I 
 was asked here only as her physi- 
 cian. Good-evening." 
 
 lie gave a little gulp, and hurried 
 away, with an abruptness that 
 touched the father, and offended the 
 sapient daughter. 
 
 However, Mr. Lusignan followed 
 him, and stopped him before he left 
 the house, and thanked him warmly, 
 and, to his surprise, begged him to 
 call again in a day or two. 
 
 " Well, Rosa, what do you say } " 
 
 " I say that I am very unfortunate 
 in my doctors. Mr. Wyman is a 
 chatter-box, and knows nothing. 
 Dr. Snell is Mr. Wyman's echo. 
 Christopher is a genius, and they are 
 always full of crotchets. A pretty 
 doctor ! Gone away and not pre- 
 scribed for me ! " 
 
 Mr. Lusignan admitted it was 
 odd. " But, alter all," said he, " if 
 medicine docs you no good 1 " 
 
 " Ah ! but any medicine he had 
 prescribed would have done me 
 good ; and that makes it all the 
 unkinder." 
 
 "If you think so highly of his 
 skill, why not take his advice? it 
 can do DO harm." 
 
 " No harm ! Why, if I was to 
 leave them off, I should catch a 
 dreadful cold; and that would be 
 sure to settle on my chest, and carry 
 inc off in my present delicate state. 
 Besides, it is so unfeminine not to 
 wear them." 
 
 This staggered Mr. Lusignan, 
 and he was afraid to press the 
 point ; l>ut what Staines had said 
 fermented in his mind. 
 
 Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman continu- 
 ed their visits and their prescriptions. 
 
 The patient got a little worse. 
 
 Mr. Lusignan hoped Christopher 
 would call again ; but he did not. 
 
 When Dr. Staines had satislied 
 himself that the disorder was easily 
 curable, then wounded pride found 
 an entrance even into his loving 
 heart. That two strangers should 
 have been consulted before him ! 
 He was only sent for because they 
 could not cure her. 
 
 As he seemed in no hurry to 
 repeat his visit, Mr. Lusignan called 
 on hitn, and said, politely, he had 
 hoped to receive another call ere 
 this. " Personally," said he, " I was 
 much struck with your observations : 
 but my daughter is afraid she will 
 catch cold if she leaves off her corset ; 
 and that, you know, might be very 
 serious." 
 
 Dr. Staines groaned. And, when 
 he had groaned, he lectured. " Fe- 
 male patients are wonderfully 
 monotonous in this matter : they 
 have a programme of evasions ; and, 
 whether the patient is a lady or a 
 house-maid, she seldom varies from 
 that programme. You find her 
 breathing life's air with half a bel- 
 lows, and you tell her so. ' Oh, no ! ' 
 says she, and does the gigantic feat 
 of contraction we witnessed that 
 evening at your house. But, on 
 inquiry, you learn there is a raw red 
 line plowed in her flesh by the cruel 
 stays. ' What is that ? ' you ask, 
 and flatter yourself you have pinned 
 her. Not a bit. 'That was the 
 last pair. I changed them because 
 they hurt me.' Driven out of that 
 by proofs of recent laceration, they 
 say, • If I leave them off, I should 
 Catch my death of Cpldj' which is 
 equivalent to saying there is no flan- 
 nel in the shops, no common-sense 
 nor needles at home." 
 
 He then laid before him some 
 large French plates, showing the or- 
 gans of the human trunk, and bade 
 him observe in how small a space 
 and with what skill the Creator has 
 packed SO many large yet delicate 
 organs, so that they shall be free
 
 16 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 and secure from friction, though so 
 close to each other. He showed 
 him the liver, an organ weighing 
 four pounds and of a large circum- 
 ference ; the lungs, a very large or- 
 gan suspended in the chest, and im- 
 patient of pressure; the heart, the 
 stomach, the spleen, all of them too 
 closely and artfully packed to bear 
 any further compression. 
 
 Having thus taken him by the 
 eye, he took him by the mind. 
 
 " Is it a small thing for the crea- 
 ture to say to her Creator, ' I can 
 pack all this egg-china better than 
 you can/ and thereupon to jam all 
 those vital organs close by a power- 
 ful, a very powerful and ingenious 
 machine ? Is it a small thing for that 
 sex, which, for good reasons, the 
 Omniscient has made larger in the 
 waist than the male, to say to her 
 Creator, ' You don't know your 
 business ; women ought to be 
 smaller in the waist than men, and 
 shall be throughout the civilized 
 world ? ' " 
 
 In short, he delivered so many 
 true and pointed things on this trite 
 subject that the old gentleman was 
 convinced, and begged him to come 
 over that very evening and con- 
 vince Rosa. 
 
 Dr. Staines shook his head dole- 
 fully ; and all his fire died out of him 
 
 at havino: to face the fair. 
 
 Rea- 
 
 son will be wasted. Authority is 
 the only weapon. My profession 
 and my reading have both taught 
 me that the whole character of her 
 sex undergoes a change the mo- 
 ment a man interferes with their 
 dress. From Chaucer's day to our 
 own, neither public satire nor pri- 
 vate remonstrance has ever shaken 
 any of their monstrous fashions. 
 Easy, obliging, pliable, and weaker 
 of will than men in other things, do 
 but touch their dress, however ob- 
 jectionable, and rock is not harder, 
 iron is not more stubborn, than 
 these soft and yielding creatures. 
 It is no earthly use my coming. 
 VII come." 
 
 He came that very evening, and 
 saw directly she was worse. " Of 
 course," said he sadly, " you have 
 not taken my advice." 
 
 Rosa replied with a toss and an 
 evasion, " I was not worth a pre- 
 scription ? " 
 
 " A physician can prescribe with- 
 out sending his patient to the drug- 
 gist ; and, when he does, then it is 
 his words are gold." 
 
 Rosa shook her head with an air 
 of lofty incredulity. 
 
 He looked ruefully at Mr. Lusig- 
 nan, and was silent. Rosa smiled 
 sarcastically ; she thought he was at 
 his wit's end. 
 
 Not quite : he was cudgelling his 
 brains in search of some horribly 
 unscientific argument that might 
 prevail ; for he felt science would 
 fall dead upon so fair an antagonist. 
 At last his eye kindled : he had hit 
 on an argument unscientific enough 
 for anybody, he thought. Said he, 
 ingratiatingly, " You believe the 
 Old Testament?" 
 
 " Of course I do. Every syllable." 
 
 " And the lessons it teaches ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then let me tell you a story 
 from that book. A Syrian general 
 had a terrible disease. He consult- 
 ed Elijah by deputy. Elijah said, 
 ' Bathe seven times in a certain 
 river, Jordan, and you will get 
 well.' The general did not like this 
 at all : he wanted a prescription ; 
 wanted to go to the druggist ; 
 didn't believe in hydropathy to 
 begin, and, in any case, turned up 
 his nose at Jordan. What, bathe 
 in an Israelitish brook, when his 
 own country boasted noble rivers, 
 with a reputation for sanctity into 
 the bargain ? In short, he preferred 
 his leprosy to such irregular medi- 
 cine. But it happened, by some im- 
 mense fortuity, that one of his ser- 
 vants, though an Oriental, was a 
 friend instead of a flatterer ; and 
 this sensible fellow said, 'If the 
 prophet told you to do some great 
 and difficult tiling to get rid of this
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 17 
 
 fearful malady, would not you do it, 
 however distasteful ? and can you 
 hesitate when he merely says, 
 " Wash in Jordan, and be healed ? " ' 
 The general listened to good sense, 
 and cured himself. Your case is 
 parallel. You would take quanti- 
 ties of foul medicine, you would sub- 
 mit to some painful operation, if 
 life and health depended on it; 
 then why not do a small thing for a 
 great result ? You have only to 
 take off an unnatural machine, 
 which cripples your growing frame, 
 and was unknown to every one of 
 the women whose forms in parian 
 marble the world admires. Off 
 with that monstrosity, and your 
 cure is as certain as the Syrian gen- 
 eral's ; though science, and not in- 
 spiration, dictates the easy remedy." 
 
 Rosa had listened impatiently, 
 and now* replied with some warmth, 
 " This is shockingly profane. The 
 idea of comparing yourself to Elijah, 
 and me to a horrid leper ! Much 
 obliged. Not that I know what a 
 leper is." 
 
 " Come, come, that is not fair," 
 said Mr. Lusignan. " He only 
 compared the situation, not the 
 people." 
 
 "But, papa, the Bible is not to be 
 dragged into the common affairs of 
 life." 
 
 " Then what on earth is the use 
 of it?" 
 
 " papa ! Well, it is not Sun- 
 day ; but I have had a sermon. 
 This is tlie clergyman, and you arc 
 the commentator, Hel he! And so 
 now let ns go back from divinity to 
 medicine. I repeat " (this was the 
 firm tini*' she had said ir) " that my 
 other doctors give me real prescrip- 
 tions, written in hieroglyphics. You 
 
 can't look at them without feeling 
 there mutt be something ill then)." 
 An angry spot rose on Christo- 
 pher's cheek ; but he only said, 
 " And arc your other doctors satis- 
 fied with the progress your disorder 
 is making under their superintend- 
 ence I " 
 
 2* 
 
 "Perfectly. Papa, tell him what 
 they say ; and I'll find him their pre- 
 scriptions." She went to a drawer 
 and rummaged, affecting not to 
 listen. 
 
 Lusignan complied. " First of 
 all, sir, I must tell you they are 
 confident it is not the lun^s, but the 
 liver." 
 
 " The what ? " shouted Christo- 
 pher. 
 
 "Ah?" screamed Rosa. "Oh, 
 don't ! — bawling ! " 
 
 " And don't you screech/'said 
 her father, with a look of misery 
 and apprehension impartially dis- 
 tributed on the resounding pair. 
 
 "You must have misunderstood 
 them," murmured Staines, in a voice 
 that was now barely audible a yard 
 off. "The hemorrhage of a bright 
 red color, and expelled without 
 effort or nausea'? " 
 
 " From the liver, they have as- 
 sured me again and again, " said 
 Lusignan. 
 
 Christopher's face still wore a look 
 of blank amazement, till Rosa her- 
 self confirmed it positively. 
 
 Then he cast a look of ngony 
 upon her, and started up in a pas- 
 sion, forgetting, once more, that his 
 host abhorred the sonorous. " Oh, 
 shame ! shame ! " he cried, " that 
 the noble profession of medicine 
 should be disgraced by ignorance 
 such as this!" Then he said stern- 
 ly : " Sir, do not mistake my mo- 
 tives ; but I decline to have any 
 thing further to do with this case 
 until those two gentlemen have 
 been relieved of it ; and as this is 
 verv harsh, and on my part unpre- 
 cedented, I will give you one reason 
 out of many I could give you. Sir, 
 there is no road from the liver to 
 the throat by which blood can travel 
 in this way, defying the laws of 
 gravity ; and they knew from the 
 patient that no strong expellant 
 force has ever been in operation. 
 Their diagnosis, therefore, implies 
 agnosis, or ignorance too great to 
 be forgiven. I will not share my
 
 18 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 patient with two gentlemen who 
 know so little of medicine, and 
 know nothing of anatomy, which is 
 the ABC of medicine. Can I see 
 their prescriptions ? " 
 
 These were handed to him. 
 " Good heavens ! " said he, " have 
 you taken all these ? " 
 
 " Most of them." 
 
 " Why, then, you have drunk 
 about two gallons of unwholesome 
 liquids, and eaten a pound or two of 
 unwholesome solids. These med- 
 icines have co-operated with the 
 malady. The disorder lies not in 
 the hemorrhage, but in the prece- 
 dent extravasation; that is, a 
 drain on the system. And how is 
 the loss to be supplied 1 Why, by 
 taking a little more nourishment 
 than before. There is no other 
 way ; and probably Nature, left to 
 herself, might have increased your 
 appetite to meet the occasion. But 
 those two worthies have struck that 
 weapon out of Nature's hand ; they 
 have peppered away at the poor 
 ill-used stomach with drugs and 
 draughts, not very deleterious, I 
 grant you, but all more or less indi- 
 gestible, and all tending not to whet 
 the appetite, but to clog the stomach, 
 or turn the stomach, or pester the 
 stomach, and so impair the appetite, 
 and so co-operate, indirectly, with 
 the malady." 
 
 " This is good sense," said Lusig- 
 nan. " I declare I — I wish I knew 
 how to get rid of them." 
 
 " Oh, I'll do that papa ! " 
 
 " No, no : it is not worth a 
 rumpus." 
 
 " I'll do it too politely for that. 
 Christopher, you are very clever, 
 terribly clever. Whenever I threw 
 their medicines away, I was always a 
 little better that day. I will sacri- 
 fice them to you. It is a sacrifice. 
 They are both so kind and chatty, 
 and don't grudge me hieroglyphics : 
 now you do.' 
 
 She sat down and wrote two sweet 
 letters to Dr. Snell and Mr. Wy- 
 man, thanking them for the great 
 
 attention they had paid her : hut 
 finding herself getting steadily 
 worse, in spite of all they had done 
 for her, she proposed to discontinue 
 her medicines for a time, and try 
 change of air. 
 
 "And suppose they call to see 
 whether you arc changing the air 1 " 
 
 "hi that case, papa. 'Not at 
 home.' " 
 
 The notes were addressed and 
 despatched. 
 
 Then Dr. Staines brightened up, 
 and said to Lusignan," I am now 
 happy to tell you that I have over- 
 rated the malady. The sad change 
 I see in Miss Lusignan is partly 
 due to the great bulk of unwhole- 
 some esculents she has been eating 
 and drinking under the head of 
 medicines. These discontinued, she 
 might linger on for years, existing, 
 though not living : the tight-laced 
 cannot be said to live. But, if she 
 would be healthy and happy, let her 
 throw that diabolical machine into 
 the fire. It is no use asking her to 
 loosen it ; she can't. Once there, 
 the temptation is too strong. Off 
 with it : and, take my word, you 
 will be one of the healthiest and 
 most vigorous young ladies in 
 Europe." 
 
 Rosa looked rueful, and almost 
 sullen. 
 
 She said she had parted with her 
 doctors for him, but she really could 
 not go about without stays. " They 
 are as loose as they can be. See ! " 
 
 " That part of the programme is 
 disposed of," said Christopher. 
 " Please go on to No. 2. How about 
 the raw red line where the loose ma- 
 chine has sawed your skin 1 
 
 "What red line? Oh! oh! oh! 
 Somebody or other has been peep- 
 ing in at my window. I'll have the 
 ivy cut down to-morrow." 
 
 " Simpleton ! " said Mr. Lusig- 
 nan, angrily. " You have let the 
 cat out of the bag. There is such a 
 mark, then ; and this extraordinary 
 young man has discerned it with the 
 eye of science."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 19 
 
 " He never discerned it at all," said 
 Rosa, red as fire; "and, what is 
 more, he never will." 
 
 " I don't want to. I should be 
 very sorry to. I hope it will be 
 gone in a week." 
 
 " I wish you were gone now, ex- 
 posing me in this cruel way," said 
 Rosa, angry with herself for having 
 said an idiotic thing, and furious 
 with him for having made her 
 say it. 
 
 " O Rosa ! " said Christopher, 
 in a voice of tenderest reproach. 
 
 But Mr. Lusignan interfered 
 promptly. " Rosa, no noise. I will 
 not have you snapping at your best 
 friend and mine. If you are ex- 
 cited, you had better retire to your 
 own room and compose yourself. I 
 hate a clamor." 
 
 Rosa made a wry face at this re- 
 buke, and then began to cry quietly. 
 
 Every tear was like a drop of 
 blood from Christopher's heart. 
 " Pray don't scold her, sir," said he, 
 ready to snivel himself. " She 
 meant nothing unkind: it is only 
 her pretty, sprightly way ; and she 
 did not really imagine a love so rev- 
 erent as mine" — 
 
 " Don't yon interfere between my 
 father and me," said this reasonable 
 young lady, now in an ungoverna- 
 ble state of feminine irritability. 
 
 " No, Rosa," said Christopher 
 humbly. " Mr. Lusignan," said he, 
 " I hope you will tell her that from 
 the very first I was unwilling to en- 
 ter on this subject with her. Nei- 
 ther she nor I can forget my double 
 ch iracter. I have not said half as 
 much to her as I ought, being her 
 physician ; and yet you see I have 
 said more than she can bear from 
 me, who, she knows, loves her and re- 
 
 veres her. Thru, once for all, do pray 
 
 let me put this delicate matter into 
 your hands : it is a case for parental 
 authority." 
 
 " Unl'atherly tyranny, that means," 
 said Rosa. " What business have 
 
 gentlemen interfering in such 
 
 tilings J It is unheard of. I 
 
 will not submit to it even from 
 papa." 
 
 " Well, you need not scream at 
 me," said Mr. Lusignan; and he 
 shrugged his shoulders to Staines. 
 " She is impracticable, you see. If 
 I do my duty, there will be a dis- 
 turbance." 
 
 Now this roused the bile of Dr. 
 Staines. " What, sir," said he, 
 " you could separate her and me by 
 your authority, here in this very 
 room ; and yet, when her life is at 
 stake, you abdicate. You could 
 part her from a man who loved her 
 with every drop of his heart, and she 
 said she loved him, or at all events 
 preferred him to others, and you 
 cannot part her from a miserable 
 corset, although you see in her poor 
 wasted face that it is carrying her to 
 the churchyard. In that case, sir, 
 there is but one thing for you to do : 
 withdraw your opposition, and let me 
 marry her. As her lover, I am 
 powerless ; but invest me with a 
 husband's authority, and good-by 
 corset ! You will soon see the roses 
 return to her cheek, and her elastic 
 figure expanding, and her eye 
 beaming with health and physical 
 happiness.'' 
 
 Mr. Lusignan made an answer 
 neither of his hearers expected. 
 He said, " I have a great mind to 
 take you at your word. I am too 
 old and fond of quiet to drive a 
 simpleton in single harness." 
 
 This contemptuous speech, and 
 above all the word "simpleton," 
 which had been applied to her pretty 
 freely by young ladies at school, and 
 always galled her terribly, inflicted 
 so intolerable a wound on Rosa's van- 
 ity that she was ready to burst: on 
 that, of course, her stays contributed 
 their might of physical uneasiness. 
 Thus irritated, mind and body, sho 
 burned to strike in return ; and, as 
 she could not slap her father in the 
 presence of another, she gave it to 
 Christopher backhanded. 
 
 " You can turn me out of doors," 
 said she, " if you are tired of your
 
 20 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 daughter; but I am not such a sim- 
 pleton as to marry a tyrant. No : he 
 has shown the cloven foot in time. 
 A husband's authority, indeed ! " 
 Then she turned her hand, and gave 
 it him direct. " You told me a 
 different story when you were pay- 
 ing your court to me ; then you 
 were to be my servant, — all hypocrit- 
 ical sweetness. You had better go 
 and marry a Circassian slave. They 
 don't wear stays, and they do wear 
 trowsers ; so she will be unfeminine 
 enough even tor you. No English 
 lady would let her husband dictate 
 to her about such a thing. I can 
 have as many husbands as I like, 
 without falling into the clutches of a 
 tyrant. You are a rude, indelicate 
 — And so please understand it is 
 all over between you and me." 
 
 Both her auditors stood aghast ; 
 for she uttered this conclusion with 
 a dignity of which the opening gave 
 no promise, and the occasion, 
 weighed in masculine balances, was 
 not worthy. 
 
 " You do not mean that. You 
 cannot mean it," said Dr. Staines 
 aghast. 
 
 " I do mean it," said she firmly ; 
 "and, if you are a gentleman, you 
 will not compel me to say it twice, — 
 three times, I mean." 
 
 At this dagger-stroke, Christopher 
 turned very pale ; but he maintained 
 his dignity. "I am a gentleman," 
 said he quietly, " and a very unfor- 
 tunate one. Good-by, sir ; thank 
 you kindly. Good-by, Rosa ; God 
 bless you ! Oh, pray take a thought ! 
 Remember, your life and death are 
 in your own hand now. I am pow- 
 erless." 
 
 And he left the house in sorrow, 
 and just, but not pettish, indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 When he was gone, father and 
 daughter looked at each other ; and 
 there was the silence that succeeds 
 a storm. 
 
 Rosa, feeling the most uneasy, 
 was the first to express her satisfac- 
 tion. " There, he is gone ; and I am 
 
 glad of it. Now you and I shall 
 never quarrel again. I was quite 
 right. Such impertinence ! Such 
 indelicacy ! A fine prospect for me 
 if I had married such a man ! How- 
 ever, he is gone ; and so there's an 
 end of it. The idea ! telling a 
 young lady, before her father, she is 
 tight-laced. If you had not been 
 there, I could have forgiven him. 
 But I am not ; it is a story. Now," 
 suddenly exalting her voice, " I knoW 
 you believe him ! " 
 
 " I say nothing," whispered papa, 
 hoping to still her by example. This 
 ruse did not succeed. 
 
 " But you look volumes," cried 
 she ; " and I can't bear it ; I won't 
 bear it. If you don't believe me, 
 ask my maid." And, with this feli- 
 citous speech, she rang the bell. 
 
 "You'll break the wire, if you 
 don't mind," suggested her father 
 piteously. 
 
 "All the better! Why should 
 not wires be broken as well as my 
 heart ? Oh, here she is ! Now, Har- 
 riet, come here." 
 " Yes, miss." 
 
 " And tell the truth. Am I tight- 
 laced 1 " 
 
 Harriet looked in her face a 
 moment, to see what was required of 
 her, and then said, " That you are 
 not, miss. I never dressed a young 
 lady as wore'em easier than you do." 
 " There, papa. That will do, 
 Harriet." 
 
 Harriet retired as far as the key- 
 hole : she saw something was up. 
 
 "Now," said Rosa, "you see I 
 was right ; and, after all, it was a 
 match you did not approve. Well, 
 it is all over; and now you may 
 write to your favorite, Colonel 
 Bright. If he comes here, I'll box 
 his old ears. I hate him. I hate 
 them all. Forgive your wayward 
 girl. I'll stay with you all my days. 
 I dare say that will not be long, now 
 I have quarrelled with my guardian 
 angel : and all for what ? Papa ! 
 papa ! how can you sit there and not 
 speak me one word of comfort'?
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 21 
 
 * Simpleton!' Ah! that I am, to 
 throw away a love a cfueen is scarce- 
 ly worthy of: and all for what? 
 Really, if it wasn't for the ingrati- 
 tude and wickedness of the thing, it 
 is too laughable. Ha ! ha ! — oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 And off she went into hysterics, 
 and began to gulp and choke fright- 
 fully. 
 
 Her father cried for help, in dis- 
 may. In ran Harriet, saw, and 
 screamed, but did not lose her head. 
 This veracious person whipped a 
 pair of scissors off the table, and cut 
 the young lady's stay-laces directly. 
 Then there was a burst of impris- 
 oned beauty; a deep, deep sigh of 
 relief came from a bosom that would 
 have done honor to Diana; and the 
 scene soon concluded with fits of 
 harmless weeping, renewed at inter- 
 vals. 
 
 When it had settled down to this, 
 her father, to soothe her, said he 
 would write to Dr. Staines, and 
 bring about a reconciliation if she 
 liked. 
 
 "No," said she, "you shall kill 
 
 me sooner. I should die of shame." 
 
 She added, " Oh, pray, from this 
 
 hour never mention his name to 
 
 me!" 
 
 And then she had another cry. 
 Mr. Lusignan was a sensible man : 
 he dropped the subject for the pres- 
 ent; but he made up his mind to 
 one thing, — that he would never 
 part with Dr. Staines as a physi- 
 cian. 
 
 N<xt day Rosa kept her own room 
 Until dinner-time, and was as un- 
 happy as she deserved to be. She 
 Spent her time in sewing on still' 
 flannel linings, and crying. She 
 half-hoped Christopher would write 
 to her, bo that she might write back 
 that she forgave him. But not a 
 line. 
 
 At half-past six. her volatile mind 
 took a turn, real or affected. She 
 WOnld cry no more tor an ungrate- 
 ful fellow, — ungrateful for not see- 
 ing through the stone walls how she 
 
 had been employed all the morning, 
 and making it up ; so she bathed 
 her red eyes, made a great alteration 
 in her dress, and came dancing into 
 the room, humming an Italian 
 ditty. 
 
 As they were sitting together in 
 the dining-room after dinner, two let- 
 ters came by the same post to Mr. 
 Lusignan, — from Mr. Wyman and 
 Dr. Sncll. 
 
 Mr. Wyman's letter. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I am sorry to hear 
 from Miss Lusignan that she intends 
 to discontinue medical advice. The 
 disorder was progressing favorably, 
 and nothing to be feared, under 
 proper treatment. 
 
 " Yours, etc." 
 
 Dr. Snell's letter. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — Miss Lusignan 
 has written to me somewhat impa- 
 tiently, and seems disposed to dis- 
 pense with my visits. I do not, 
 however, think it right to withdraw 
 without telling you candidly that 
 this is an unwise step. Your daugh- 
 ter's health is in a very precarious 
 condition. 
 
 " Yours, etc." 
 
 Rosa burst out laughing. " I 
 have nothing to fear ; and I'm on 
 the brink of the grave. That comes 
 of writing without a consultation. 
 If they had written at one table, I 
 should have been neither well nor 
 ill. Poor Christopher!" and her 
 sweet face began to work piteously. 
 
 " There, there : drink a glass of 
 wine." 
 
 She did, and a tear with it, that 
 ran into the glass like lightning. 
 
 Warned by this that grief sat very 
 near the bright hilarious surface, 
 Mr. Lnsignail avoided all emotional 
 subjects lor the present. Next day, 
 however, be told her she might dis- 
 miss her lover ; but no power should 
 make him dismiss his jut physician, 
 unless her health improved. 
 
 " 1 will not give you that ^xcuso
 
 22 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 for inflicting him on me again," said 
 the young hypocrite. 
 
 She kept her word. She got 
 better and better, stronger, brighter, 
 gayer. 
 
 She took to walking every day, 
 and increasing the distance, till she 
 could walk ten miles without fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 Her favorite walk was to a certain 
 cliff that commanded a noble view 
 of the sea : to get to it, she must pass 
 through the town of Gravesend; 
 and we may be sure she did not 
 pass so often through that city with- 
 out some idea of meeting the lover 
 she had used so ill, and eliciting an 
 apology from him. Sly puss ! 
 
 When she had walked twenty 
 times or thereabouts through the 
 town and never seen him, she began 
 to fear she had offended him past 
 hope. Then she used to cry at the 
 end of every walk. 
 
 But by-and-l>y bodily health, van- 
 ity, and temper combined to rouse 
 the defiant spirit. Said she, " If he 
 really loved me, he would not take 
 me at my word in such a hurry. 
 And, besides, why does he not 
 watch me, and find out what I am 
 doing and where I walk 1 " 
 
 At last she really began to per- 
 suade herself that she was an ill-used 
 and slighted girl. She was very 
 angry at times, and disconsolate at 
 others, — a mixed state, in which 
 hasty and impulsive young ladies 
 commit life-long follies. 
 
 Mr. Lusignan observed the sur- 
 face only. He saw his invalid 
 daughter getting better every day, 
 till at last she became a picture of 
 health and bodily vigor. Relieved of 
 his fears, he troubled his head but lit- 
 tle about Christopher Staines. Yet 
 he esteemed him, and had got to like 
 him ; but Rosa was a beauty, and 
 could do better than marry a strug- 
 gling physician, however able. He 
 launched out into a little gayety, 
 resumed his quiet dinner parties, 
 and, after some persuasion, took 
 his now blooming daughter to a 
 
 ball given by the officers at Chat- 
 ham. 
 
 She was the belle of the ball be- 
 yond dispute, and danced with ethe- 
 real grace and athletic endurance. 
 She was madly fond of waltzing; 
 and here she eucountered what she 
 was pleased to call a divine dancer. 
 It was a Mr. Reginald Falcon, a 
 gentleman who had retired to the 
 sea-side to recruit his health and 
 finances, sore tried by London and 
 Paris. Falcon had run through his 
 fortune, but had acquired, in the 
 process, certain talents, which, as 
 they cost the acquirer dear, so they 
 sometimes repay him, especially if 
 he is not overburdened with princi- 
 ple, and adopts the notion, that, the 
 world having plucked him, he has a 
 right to pluck the world. He could 
 play billiards well, but never so well 
 as when backing himself for a heavy 
 stake. He could shoot pigeons well ; 
 and his shooting improved under 
 that which makes some marksmen 
 miss, — a heavy bet against the gun. 
 He danced to perfection ; and being 
 a well-bred, experienced, brazen, 
 adroit fellow, who knew a little of 
 every thing that was going, he had 
 always plenty to say : above all, he 
 had made a particular study of the 
 fair sex ; had met with many suc- 
 cesses, many rebuffs, and at last, by 
 keen study of their minds, and a 
 habit he had acquired of watching 
 their faces, and shifting his helm 
 accordingly, had learned the great 
 art of pleasing them. They ad- 
 mired his face : to me the short 
 space between his eyes and his hair, 
 his aquiline nose, and thin straight 
 lips, suggested the bird of prey a 
 little too much ; but to fair doves, 
 born to be clutched, this similitude 
 perhaps was not very alarming, even 
 if they observed it. 
 
 Rosa danced several times with 
 him, and told him he danced like an 
 angel. He informed her that was 
 because, for once, he was dancing 
 with an angel. She laughed and 
 blushed. He flattered deliciously,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 23 
 
 and it cost him little ; for he fell in 
 love with her that night deeper than 
 he had ever been in his whole life 
 of intrigue. He asked leave to call 
 on her : she looked a little shy at 
 that, and did not respond. He in- 
 stantly withdrew his proposal, with 
 an apology and a sigh that raised 
 her pity. However, she was not a 
 forward girl, even when excited by 
 dancing and charmed with her part- 
 ner; so she left him to lind his own 
 way out of that difficulty. 
 
 He was not long about it. At 
 the end of the next waltz, he asked 
 her if lie might venture to solicit an 
 introduction to her father. 
 
 " Oh, certainly !" said she. "What 
 a selfish i^irl I am ! this is terribly 
 dull for him." 
 
 The introduction being made, 
 and Rosa being engaged for the 
 next three dances, Mr. Falcon sat 
 by Mr. Lusignan and entertained 
 him. For this little piece of appar- 
 ent self-denial, he was paid in vari- 
 ous coin : Lusignan found out he 
 was the son of an old acquaintance, 
 and so the door of Kent Villa open- 
 ed to him. Meantime, Rosa Lusig- 
 nan never passed him, even in the 
 arms of a cavalry officer, without 
 bestowing a glance of approval and 
 gratitude on him. " What a good- 
 hearted young man ! " thought she. 
 " How kind of him to amuse papa ! 
 and now I can stay so much 
 longer." 
 
 Falcon followed up the dance by 
 a call, and was infinitely agreeable; 
 followed up the call by another, and 
 admired Rosa with so little disguise 
 that Mr. Lusignan said to her, " I 
 think you have made a conquest, 
 His father had considerable estates 
 in Essex. I presume he inherits 
 them." 
 
 "Oh, never mind his estates!" 
 said Kosa. "He dances like an 
 angel, and gossips charmingly, and 
 it so nice." 
 
 Christopher Staines pined for this 
 girl in silence ; his lino frame got 
 thinner, his pale cheek paler, as she 
 
 got rosier and rosier ; and how 1 
 
 Why, by following the very advice 
 
 she had snubbed him for giving her. 
 
 At last he heard she had been the 
 
 belle of a ball, and that she had been 
 
 seen walking miles from home, and 
 
 blooming as a Hebe. Then his 
 
 deep anxiety ceased, his pride stung 
 
 him furiously ; he began to think 
 
 of his own value, and to struggle 
 
 with all his might against his deep 
 
 love. Sometimes he would even 
 
 inveigh against her, and call her a 
 
 fickle, ungrateful girl, capable of no 
 
 strong passion but vanity. Many 
 
 a hard term he applied to her in his 
 
 sorrowful solitude, but not a word 
 
 when he had a hearer. He found 
 
 it hard to rest : he kept dashing up 
 
 to London and back. He plunged 
 
 furiously into study, lie groaned 
 
 and sighed, and fought the hard and 
 
 bitter fight that is too often the lot 
 
 of the deep that love the shallow. 
 
 Strong, but single-hearted, no other 
 
 lady could comfort him. He turned 
 
 from their female company, and 
 
 shunned all for the fault of one. 
 
 The inward contest wore him. 
 He began to look very thin and wan, 
 and all for a simpleton. 
 
 Mr. Falcon prolonged his stay in 
 the neighborhood, and drove a hand- 
 some dog-cart over twice a week to 
 visit Mr. Lusignan. 
 
 He used to call on that gentleman 
 at four o'clock ; for at that hour .Mr. 
 Lusignan was always out, and his 
 daughter always at home. 
 
 She was at home at that hour, 
 because she took her long walks in 
 the morning. While her new ad- 
 mirer was in bed, or dressing, or 
 breakfasting, she was Springing 
 along the road with all the elasticity 
 of youth and health and native 
 vigor, braced by daily exereise. 
 
 Twenty-one of these walks did 
 she take with no other result than 
 health and appetite ; but the twenty- 
 second was more fertile, extremely 
 fertile. Starting later than usual, 
 she passed through Gravesend while 
 Reginald Falcon was smoking at
 
 24 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 his front window. He saw her, and 
 instantly doffed his dressing-gown 
 and donned his coat to follow her. 
 He was madly in love with her ; and, 
 being a man who had learned to 
 shoot pigeons and opportunities fly- 
 ing, he instantly resolved to join her 
 in her walk, get her clear of the 
 town, by the sea-beach, where beauty 
 melts, and propose to her. Yes, 
 marriage had not been hitherto his 
 habit ; but this girl was peerless. 
 He was pledged by honor and grati- 
 tude to Phoebe Dale ; but hang all 
 that now. " No man should marry 
 one woman when he loves another ; 
 it is dishonorable." He got into the 
 street, and followed her as fast as he 
 could without running. 
 
 It was not so easy to catch her. 
 Ladies are not built for running ; 
 but a fine, tall, symmetrical girl, who 
 has practised walking fast, can cover 
 tlie ground wonderfully in walking 
 — if she chooses. It was a sight to 
 see how Rosa Lusignan squared her 
 shoulders and stepped out from the 
 loins, like a Canadian girl skating, 
 while her elastic foot slapped the 
 pavement as she spanked along. 
 
 She had nearly cleared the town 
 before Falcon came up with her. 
 
 He was hardly ten yards from her 
 when an unexpected incident oc- 
 curred. She whisked round the cor- 
 ner of Bird Street, and ran plump 
 against Christopher Staines ; in fact, 
 she darted into his arms, and her 
 face almost touched the breast she 
 had wounded so deeply. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Rosa cried, " Oh ! "and put up her 
 hands to her face in lovely confu- 
 sion, coloring like a peony. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Chris- 
 topher stiffly, but in a voice that 
 trembled. 
 
 " No," said Rosa : " it was I ran 
 against you. I walk so fast now. 
 Hope I did not hurt you." 
 
 " Hurt me ? " 
 
 " Well, then, frighten you ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Oh, please don't quarrel with me 
 in the street ! " said Rosa, cunningly 
 implying that he was the quarrel- 
 some one. " I am going on the 
 beach. Good-by." This adieu she 
 uttered softly, and in a hesitating 
 tone, that belied it. She started off, 
 however, but much more slowly than 
 she was going before; and, as she 
 went, she turned her head with in- 
 finite grace, and kept looking askant 
 down at the pavement two yards 
 behind her : moreover, she went 
 close to the wall, and left room at 
 her side for another to walk. 
 
 Christopher hesitated a moment ; 
 but the mute invitation, so arch yet 
 timid, so pretty, tender, sly, and 
 womanly, was too much for him, 
 as it has generally proved for males ; 
 and the philosopher's foot was soon 
 in the very place to which the sim- 
 pleton with the mere tail of her eye 
 directed it. 
 
 They walked along side by side in 
 silence, Staines agitated, gloomy, con- 
 fused ; Rosa radiant and glowing ; 
 yet not knowing what to say for 
 herself, and wanting Christopher to 
 begin. So they walked along with- 
 out a word. 
 
 Falcon followed them at some 
 distance, to see whether it was an 
 admirer or only an acquaintance; 
 a lover, he never dreamed of, she 
 had shown such evident pleasure in 
 his company, and had received his 
 visits alone so constantly. 
 
 However, when the pair had got 
 to the beach,and were walking slow- 
 er and slower, he felt a pang of rage 
 and jealousy, turned on his heel 
 with an audible curse, and found 
 Phcebe Dale a few yards behind him 
 with a white face and a peculiar 
 look. He knew what the look meant. 
 He had brought it to that faithful 
 face before to-day. 
 
 You are better, Miss Lusig- 
 
 nan.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 25 
 
 "Better, Dr. Staines? I am 
 health itself, thanks to — Hem!" 
 
 " Our estrangement has agreed 
 with you ? " This very bitterly. 
 
 " You know very well it is not 
 that. Oh, please don't make me 
 cry in the streets ! " 
 
 This humble petition, or rather 
 meek threat, led to another long si- 
 lence. It was continued till they 
 had nearly reached the shore. But 
 meantime, Rosa's furtive eyes scan- 
 ned Christopher's face ; and her con- 
 science smote her at the signs of 
 sutfering. She felt a desire to beg 
 his pardon with deep humility ; but 
 she suppressed that weakness. She 
 hung her head with a pretty, sheep- 
 ish air, and asked him if he could 
 not think of something agreeable to 
 say to one after deserting one so 
 long. 
 
 "I am afraid not," said Christo- 
 pher bluntly. " I have an awk- 
 ward habit of speaking the truth; 
 and some people can't bear that, not 
 even when it is spoken for their 
 good." 
 
 " That depends on temper and 
 nerves and things," said Rosa dep- 
 recatingly ; then softly, "I could 
 bear any thing from you now." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Christopher, 
 grimly. " Well, then, I hear you 
 had no sooner got rid of your old 
 lover, for loving you too well, and 
 telling you the truth, than you took 
 up another, — some flimsy man of 
 fashion, who will tell you any lie 
 you like." 
 
 " It is a story, a wicked story," 
 cried Rosa, thoroughly alarmed. 
 " Me, a lover? He dances like an 
 angel. I can't help that." 
 
 " Are his visits at your house like 
 angels', few and far between ? " 
 Ami the true lover's brow lowered 
 black upon her lor the lirst time. 
 
 Rosa changed color ; and her eyes 
 fell a moment " Ask papa," said 
 she. " His father was an old friend 
 of papa's." 
 
 " Boss, you are prevaricating. 
 Young men do not call on old gen- 
 3 
 
 tlemen when there is an attractive 
 young lady in the house." 
 
 The argument was getting too 
 close, so Rosa operated a diversion. 
 " So," said she, with a sudden air 
 of lofty disdain, swiftly and adroit- 
 ly assumed, " you have had me 
 watched." 
 
 " Not I : I only hear what people 
 say.'^ 
 
 "Listen to gossip, and not have 
 me watched ! That shows how little 
 you really cared for me. Well, if 
 you had, you would have made a 
 little discovery ; that is all." 
 
 " Should I ? " said Christopher 
 puzzled. " What ? " 
 
 " I shall not tell you. Think 
 what you please. Yes, sir, you 
 would have found out that I take 
 long walks every day, all alone; and 
 what is more, that I walk through 
 Gravesend hoping, like a goose, 
 that somebody really loved me, and 
 would meet me, and beg my pardon ; 
 and, if he had, I should have told 
 him it was only my tongue and my 
 nerves and things. My heart was 
 his, and my gratitude ; and, after 
 all, what do words signify when I 
 am a good, obedient girl at bottom ? 
 So that is what you have lost by not 
 condescending to look after me. 
 Fine love! Christopher, beg my 
 pardon." 
 
 " May I ask for what ? " 
 " Why, for not understanding 
 me ; for not knowing that I should 
 be sorry the moment you were gone. 
 I took them off the very next day, 
 to please you." 
 
 " Took off whom ? Oh, I under- 
 stand ! You did ? Then you are 
 a good girl." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you I was ? A 
 good obedient girl, and any thing 
 but a flirt." 
 
 " I don't say that." 
 
 " But I do. Don't interrupt. It 
 is to your good advice I owe my 
 health ; and to love anybody but 
 you, when I owe you my love and 
 my life, I must be a heartless un- 
 grateful, worthless — O Chris-
 
 2G 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 topher forgive me ! No, no ; I 
 moan, beg my pardon." 
 
 "I'll do both," said Christopher, 
 taking her in his arms. "I beg 
 your pardon, and I forgive you." 
 
 Rosa leaned her head tenderly on 
 his shoulder, and began to sigh. 
 " Oh, dear, dear, I am a wicked, 
 foolish girl, not fit to walk alone!" 
 
 On this admission, Christopher 
 spoke out, and urged her to put an 
 end to all these unhappy misunder- 
 standings, and to his new torment, 
 jealousy, by marrying him. 
 
 " And so I would this very min- 
 ute, if papa would consent. But," 
 said she shyly, " you never can be 
 so foolish to wish it. What ! a 
 wise man like you marry a simple- 
 ton ! " 
 
 " Did I ever call you that 1 " 
 asked Christopher, reproach fully. 
 
 "No, dear; but you are the only 
 one who has not; and perhaps I 
 should lose even the one, if you 
 were to marry me. Oh, husbands 
 are not so polite as lovers ! I have 
 observed that, simpleton or not." 
 
 Christopher assured her that he 
 took quite a different view of her 
 character: he believed her to be 
 too profound for shallow people to 
 read all in a moment ; he even 
 intimated that he himself had ex- 
 perienced no little difficulty in 
 understanding her at odd times. 
 " And so," said he, " they turn 
 round upon you, and instead of 
 saying, ' We are too shallow to 
 fathom you,' they pretend you are 
 a simpleton." 
 
 This solution of the mystery had 
 never occurred to Rosa, nor, indeed, 
 was it likely to occur to any creature 
 less ingenious than a lover. It pleased 
 her hugely : her fine eyes sparkled ; 
 and she nestled closer still to the 
 strong arm that was to parry every 
 ill, from mortal disease to galling epi- 
 thets. 
 
 She listened with a willing ear to 
 all his reasons, his hopes, his fears ; 
 and, when they reached her father's 
 door, it was settled that he should 
 
 dine there that day, and urge his 
 suit to her father after dinner. She 
 would implore the old gentleman to 
 listen to it favorably. 
 
 The lovers parted ; and Christo- 
 pher went home like one who has 
 awakened from a hideous dream to 
 daylight and happiness. 
 
 He had not gone far before he 
 met a dashing dog-cart driven by an 
 exquisite. He turned to look after 
 it, and saw it drive up to Kent 
 Villa. 
 
 In a moment, he divined his rival ; 
 and a sickness of heart came over 
 him. But he recovered himself di- 
 rectly, and said, " If that is the fel- 
 low, she will not receive him 
 now." 
 
 She did receive him, though : at 
 all events, the dog-cart stood at the 
 door, and its master remained in- 
 side. 
 
 Christopher stood and counted 
 the minutes : five — ten — fifteen — 
 twenty minutes ; and still the dog- 
 cart stood there. 
 
 It was more than he could bear. 
 He turned savagely, and strode back 
 to Gravesend, resolving that all this 
 torture should end that night, one 
 way or other. 
 
 Phcebe Dale was the daughter of 
 a farmer in Essex, and one of the 
 happiest young women in England 
 till she knew Reginald Falcon, 
 Esq. 
 
 She was reared on wholesome 
 food, in wholesome air, and used to 
 churn butter, make bread, cook a 
 bit now and then, cut out and sew 
 all her own dresses, get up her own 
 linen, make hay, ride any thing on 
 four legs, and, for all that, was a 
 great reader, and taught in the Sun- 
 day school to oblige the vicar ; wrote 
 a neat hand, and was a good arith- 
 metician ; kept all the house ac- 
 counts and farm accounts. She was 
 a musician too — not profound, but 
 very correct ; she would take her 
 turn at the harmonium in church, 
 and when she was there you never
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 27 
 
 heard a wrong note in the bass, nor 
 an inappropriate flourish, nor bad 
 time. Siie could sing too, but never 
 would, except her part in a psalm. 
 Her voice was a deep contralto ; and 
 she chose to be ashamed of this 
 heavenly organ because a pack of 
 envious girls had giggled, and said 
 it was like a man's. 
 
 In short, her natural ability, and 
 the range and variety of her useful 
 accomplishments, were considerable ; 
 not that she was a prodigy, but she 
 belonged to a small class of women 
 in this island who are not too high 
 to use their arms, nor too low to 
 cultivate their minds; and, having a 
 faculty ami a habit deplorably rare 
 among her sex, viz., attention, she 
 had profited by her miscellaneous 
 advantages. 
 
 Her figure and face both told her 
 breed at once : here was an old 
 English pastoral beauty; not the 
 round-backed, narrow-chested cotta- 
 ger, but the well-fed, erect rustic, 
 with broad, full bust and massive 
 shoulder, and arm as hard as a rock 
 with health and constant use; a 
 hand finely cur, though neither small 
 ii.ir very white, and just a little hard 
 inside compared with Luxury's soft 
 palm ; a face honest, fair, and rather 
 large than small ; not beautiful, but 
 exceedingly comely; a complexion 
 not pink and white, but that deli- 
 cately blended, brick-dusty color 
 which tints the whole cheek in fine 
 gradation, outlasta other complex- 
 ions twenty years, and beautifies the 
 true Northern even in old age. 
 Gray, limpid, honest, point-blank, 
 searching cms ; hair true nut brown, 
 without a shade of red or black, and 
 a high smooth forehead, full of 
 Bense, Across it ran one deep wrin- 
 kle that did not belong to her youth ; 
 that wrinkle was the brand of 
 trouble, the line of agony. It hnd 
 come of loving above her, yet below 
 ber, and of loving an egotist. 
 
 Three years before our tale com- 
 
 menced a gentleman's horse ran 
 
 away with him, and threw him on a 
 
 heap of stones by the roadside, not 
 very far from Farmer Dale's gate. 
 The farmer had him taken in : the 
 doctor said he must not be moved. 
 He was insensible; his cheek like 
 delicate wax ; his fair hair like silk 
 stained with blood. He became 
 Phcebe's patient, and, in due course, 
 her convalescent: his pale, hand- 
 some face and fascinating manners 
 gained one charm more from weak- 
 ness ; his vices were in abeyance. 
 
 The womanly nurse's heart 
 yearned over her child, for he was 
 feeble as a child ; and when he got 
 well enough to amuse his weary 
 hours by making love to her, and 
 telling her a pack of arrant lies, she 
 was a ready dupe. He was to marry 
 her as soon as ever his old uncle 
 died and left him the means, etc., 
 etc. At last he got well enough to 
 leave her, and went away, her open 
 admirer and secret lover. He bor- 
 rowed twenty pounds of her the day 
 he left. 
 
 He used to write her charming 
 letters, and feed the flame : but one 
 day her father sent her up to Lon- 
 don, on his own business, all of a 
 sudden ; and she called on Mr. Fal- 
 con at his feigned address. She 
 found he did not live there — only 
 received letters. However, half a 
 crown soon bought his real address, 
 and thither Phoebe proceeded, with a 
 troubled heart; for she suspected 
 that her true lover was in debt or 
 trouble, and obliged to bide. Well, 
 be must be got out of it, and hide at 
 the farm meantime. 
 
 So the loving girl knocked at the 
 door, asked for Mr. Falcon, and was 
 shown in to a lady rather showily 
 dressed, who asked her business, and 
 introduced herself as Mrs. Falcon. 
 
 Phoebe Dale stared at her, and 
 then turned pale as allies. She was 
 paralysed, and could not find her 
 tongue. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter now 1 " 
 said the other sharply. 
 
 " Are vou married fo Reginald 
 Falcon ! "
 
 28 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " Of course I am. Look at my 
 wedding-ring." 
 
 " Then I am not wanted here," 
 faltered Phcebe, ready to sink on the 
 floor. 
 
 " Certainly not, if you arc one of 
 the by-gones," said the woman 
 coarsely ; and Phcebe Dale waited to 
 hear no more, but found her way, 
 Heaven knows how ! into the street, 
 and there leaned, half fainting, on a 
 rail, till a policeman came and told 
 her she had been drinking, and sug- 
 gested a cool cell as the best cure. 
 
 " Not drink ; only a breaking 
 heart," said she, in her low mellow 
 voice that few could resist. 
 
 He got her a glass of water, drove 
 away the boys that congregated di- 
 rectly, and she left the street. But 
 she soon came back again, and wait- 
 ed about for Reginald Falcon. 
 
 It was night when he appeared. 
 She seized him by the breast, and 
 taxed him with his villany. 
 
 What with her iron grasp, pale 
 face, and flashing eyes, he lost his 
 cool impudence, and blurted out ex- 
 cuses. It was an old and unfortu- 
 nate connection ; he would give the 
 world to dissolve it, if he could do it 
 like a gentleman. 
 
 Phcebe told him to please himself ; 
 he must part with one or the other. 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense," said this 
 man of brass. " I'll un-Falcon her 
 on the spot." 
 
 " Very well," said Phoebe. " I 
 am going home, and if you are not 
 there by to-morrow at noon " — 
 She said no more, but looked a 
 great deal. Then she departed, and 
 refused him her hand at parting. 
 " We will see about that by and 
 by," said she. 
 
 By noon my lord came down to the 
 farm, and, unfortunately for Phoebe, 
 played the penitent so skilfully for 
 about a month that she forgave him, 
 and loved him all the more for hav- 
 ing so nearly parted with him. 
 
 Her peace was not to endure long. 
 He was detected in an intrigue in 
 the very village. 
 
 The insult struck so home that 
 Phoebe herself, to her parents' satis- 
 faction, ordered him out of the house 
 at once. 
 
 But when he was gone she had 
 fits of weeping, and could settle to 
 nothing for a long time. 
 
 Months had elapsed, and she was 
 getting a sort of dull tranquillity, 
 when one evening, taking a walk 
 she had often taken with him, and 
 mourning her solitude and wasted 
 affection, he waylaid her, and clung 
 to her knees, and shed crocodile 
 tears on her hands, and after a long 
 resistance, vio.ent at first, but faint- 
 er and fainter, got her in his power 
 again, and that so completely that 
 she met him several times by night, 
 being ashamed to be seen with him 
 in those parts by day. 
 
 This ended in fresh promises of 
 marriage, and in a constant corre- 
 spondence by letter. This pest knew 
 exactly how to talk to a woman, and 
 how to write to one. His letters fed 
 the unhappy flame : and, mind yon, 
 he sometimes deceived himself and 
 thought he loved her; but it was 
 only himself he loved. She was an 
 invaluable lover, a faithful, disinter- 
 ested friend : hers was a vile bargain; 
 his an excellent one, and he clung to 
 it. 
 
 And so they went on. She de- 
 tected him in another infidelity, and 
 reproached him bitterly ; but she 
 had no longer the strength to break 
 with him. Nevertheless, this time 
 she had the sense to make a straggle. 
 She implored him on her very knees 
 to show her a little mercy in return 
 for all her love. " For pity's sake, 
 leave me ! " she cried. " You are 
 strong, and I am weak. You can 
 end it forever; and pray do. You 
 don't want me ; you don't value mc : 
 then leave me once and for all, and 
 end this hell you keep me in." 
 
 No ; he could not or he would not 
 leave her alone, Look at a bird's 
 wings ! — how like an angel's ! Yet 
 so vile a thing as a bit of bird-lime 
 subdues them utterly : and such was
 
 A SIMr^fcTOH". 
 
 29 
 
 the fascinating power of this rr,ea:i 
 man over this worthy woman. She 
 was a reader, a thinker, a model of 
 respectability, industry, and sense; 
 a business woman, keen and practi- 
 cal ; could encounter sharp hands in 
 sharp trades ; could buy or sell 
 hogs, calves, or beasts with any far- 
 mer or butcher in the country ; yet 
 no match for a cunning fool. She 
 had enshrined an idol in her heart; 
 and that heart adored it and clung 
 to it, though the superior head saw 
 through it, dreaded it, despised it. 
 
 No wonder three years of this had 
 drawn a tell-tale wrinkle across the 
 polished brow. 
 
 Phoebe Dale had not received a 
 letter lor some days : that roused her 
 suspicion and stung her jealousy; 
 she came up to London by fast train, 
 and down to Gravesend directly. 
 
 She had a thick veil that concealed 
 her features ; and, with a little in- 
 quiring and bribing, she soon found 
 out that Mr. Falcon was there with 
 a showy dog-cart. " Ah ! " thought 
 I'll ibe, " he has won a little money 
 at play or pigeon-shooting ; so now 
 he has no need of inc." 
 
 She took lodgings opposite him, 
 but observed nothing till this very 
 morning, when she saw him throw 
 off his dressing-gown all in a hurry, 
 and fling on his coat. She tied on 
 her bonnet as rapidly, and followed 
 him until she discovered the object 
 of his pursuit. It was a surprise to 
 her, and a puzzle, to see another man 
 step in, as if to take her part. But, 
 as Reginald still followed the loiter- 
 ing pair, she followed Reginald, till 
 be tiinird and found her at his heels, 
 white and lowering. 
 
 She confronted him in threaten- 
 ing silence tor some time, during 
 which he prepared his defence. 
 
 " So it is 11 /(«/'/ this time," said 
 she, in her low, rich voice, sternly. 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 " Yes, and I should say site is be- 
 spoke. That tall, line-built gentle- 
 man. But I suppose you care no 
 a* 
 
 more for his feelings than you do 
 for mine." 
 
 " l J hcebe," said the egotist, " I will 
 not try to deceive you. You have 
 olten said you are my true friend." 
 "And I think I have proved it." 
 " That you have. Well, then, be 
 my true friend now. I am in love 
 — really in love — this time. You 
 and I only torment each other; let 
 us part friends. There are plenty 
 of farmers in Essex that would 
 jump at you. As for me, I'll tell 
 you the truth ; I have run through 
 every farthing ; my estate mortgaged 
 beyond its value — two or three 
 writs out against me — that is wdiy 
 I slipped down here. My only 
 chance is to marry Money. Her fa- 
 ther knows I have land, and he 
 knows nothing about the mortga- 
 ges; she is his* only daughter. Don't 
 stand in my way, that is a good 
 girl ; be my friend as you always 
 were. Hang it all, riioebe, can't 
 you say a word to a fellow that is 
 driven into a corner, instead of 
 glaring at me like that: there, I 
 know it is ungrateful — but what 
 can a fellow do ? I must live like a 
 gentleman, or else take a dose of 
 prussic acid ; you don' t want to 
 drive me to that. Why, you pro- 
 posed to part, last time, yourself." 
 
 She gave him one majestic, inde- 
 scribable look, that made even his 
 callous heart quiver, and turned 
 away. 
 
 Then the scamp admired her for 
 despising him, and could not bear 
 to lose her. lie followed her. and 
 put forth all those powers of per. 
 suading and soothing which had so 
 often proved irresistible. But this 
 time it was in vain. The insult was 
 too savage and his egotism too bru- 
 tal for honeyed phrases to blind her. 
 After enduring it a long time with 
 a silent shudder, she turned and 
 shook him fiercely off her, like some 
 
 poisonous reptile. 
 
 " Do you want me to kill you .' 
 I'd liever kill myself fir loving Blich 
 a thing as l/iuu. Go thy ways, man,
 
 30 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 and let me go mine." In her pas- 
 sion, she dropped her cultivation for 
 one ■, and went back to the thou and 
 thou of her grandam. 
 
 He colored up, and looked spite- 
 ful enough ; but he soon recovered 
 his cynical egotism, and went off 
 whistling an operatic passage. 
 
 She crept to her lodgings, and 
 huried her face in her pillow, and 
 rocked herself to and fro for hours 
 in the bitterest agony the heart can 
 feel, groaning over her great affec- 
 tion wasted, thing into the dirt. 
 
 While she was thus, she heard a 
 little commotion. She came to the 
 window and saw Falcon, exquisite- 
 ly dressed, drive off in his dog-cart, 
 attended by the acclamations of 
 eight boys. She saw at a glance he 
 was going courting. Her knees gave 
 way under her; and, such is the 
 power of the mind, this stalwart 
 girl lay weak as water on the sofa, 
 ami had not the power to go home, 
 though just then she had but 011°, 
 wish, one hope, to see her idol's face 
 no more, nor hear his wheedling 
 tongue, that had ruined her peace. 
 
 The exquisite Mr. Falcon was re- 
 ceived by liosa Lusignan with a cer- 
 tain tremor that flattered his hopes. 
 He told her, in charming lan<ruaii;e, 
 how he had admired her at first sight, 
 then esteemed her, then loved her. 
 
 Site blushed and panted, and 
 showed more than once a desire to 
 interrupt him, but was too polite. 
 She heard him out, with rising dis- 
 may, and he offered her his hand 
 and heart. 
 
 But, by this time, she had made up 
 her mind what to say. " O Mr. 
 Falcon ! " she cried, " how can you 
 speak to me in this way ? Whv, 
 I'm engaged ! Didn't you know %" 
 
 " No ; and I am sure you are 
 not, or you would never have given 
 mc the encouragement you have." 
 
 " Oh, all engaged young ladies 
 flirt, — a little ! and everybody here 
 knows I am engaged to Dr. 
 Staines." 
 
 " Why, I never saw him here ! " 
 
 Rosa's tact was a quality that 
 came and went ; so she blushed and 
 faltered out, " We had a little tiff, 
 as lovers will." 
 
 " And you did me the honor to 
 select me as cat's-paw, to bring him 
 on again. Was not that rather 
 heartless ? " 
 
 Rosa's fitful tact returned to 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, sir ,do not think so ill of 
 me ! I am not heartless, I am only 
 unwise. And you are so superior 
 to the people about you I could not 
 help appreciating you : and I 
 thought you knew I was engaged ; 
 and so I was less on my guard. I 
 hope I shall not lose your esteem, 
 though I have no right to any 
 thing more. Ah ! I see by your 
 face I have behaved very ill : pray 
 forgive me." 
 
 And with this she turned on the 
 waters of the Nile, better known to 
 you perhaps as " crocodile tears." 
 
 Falcon was a gentleman on the 
 surface, anil knew he should only 
 make matters worse by quarrelling 
 with her. So he ground his teeth, 
 and said, " May your own heart 
 never feel the pangs you have in- 
 flicted ! I shall love you and re- 
 member you till my dying day." 
 
 He bowed ceremoniously, and left 
 her. " Ay," said he to himself, " I 
 will remember you, you heartless 
 jilt, and the man you have jilted 
 
 me for. Staines is his d d 
 
 name, is it ? " 
 
 He drove back crest-fallen, bitter, 
 and, for once in his life, heart-sick, 
 and drew up at his lodgings. Here 
 he found attendants waiting to re- 
 ceivo him. 
 
 A sheriffs officer took his dog- 
 cart and horse under a judgment; 
 the disturbance this caused collected 
 a tidy crowd, gaping and grinning, 
 and brought Phoebe's white face and 
 eyes swollen with weeping to the 
 window. 
 
 Falcon saw her, and brazened it 
 out. " Take them," said he, with
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 31 
 
 an oath. " I'll have a better turn- 
 out by to-morrow, breakfast-time." 
 
 The crowd cheered him for his 
 spirit. 
 
 He got down, lit a cigar, chaffed 
 the officer and the crowd, and was, 
 on the whole, admired. 
 
 Then another officer, who had 
 been hunting him in couples with 
 the other, stepped forward and took 
 him for the balance of a judgment 
 debt. 
 
 Then the swell's cigar fell out of 
 his mouth, and he was seriously 
 alarmed. " Why, Cartwright," said 
 he, " this is too bad ! You promised 
 not to see me this month. You 
 passed me full in the Strand." 
 
 "You are mistaken, sir," said 
 Cartwright, with sullen irony, "I've 
 got a twin brother > a many takes 
 him for mi-, till they finds the differ- 
 ence." Then, lowering his voice, 
 " What call had you to boast in 
 your club you had made it right 
 with Bill Cartwright, and he'd never 
 see you 1 That got about, and so I 
 was bound to see you or lose my 
 bread. There's one or two I don't 
 sec; but then they are real gentle- 
 men, and thinks of me as well as 
 theirselves, anil doesn't blab." 
 
 " I must have been drunk," said 
 Falcon apologetically. 
 
 " .More likely blowing a cloud. 
 When you young gents gets a-smok- 
 in<r together, you'd tell or. your own 
 mothers. Come along, colonel ; oil' 
 we ge to Merrima-hee." 
 
 " Why, it is only twenty-six 
 pounds. I have paid the rest." 
 
 "More tli in that; there's the 
 costs." 
 
 " Come in, ami I'll settle it." 
 
 "All right, sir; .Jem, watch the 
 hack." 
 
 " Oh, I shall not try that game 
 with a >harp hand like you, Cart- 
 wright!" 
 
 " You had better not, sir," said 
 Cartwright; but he was softened ft 
 little by the compliment. 
 
 When thej were alone. Falcon be- 
 gan by saying it was a bad job for hist. 
 
 " Why, I thought you was a-go- 
 ing to pay it all in a moment ! " 
 
 " I can't : but I have got a friend 
 over the way that could, if she 
 chose. She has always got money 
 somehow." 
 
 " Oh ! if it is a she, it is all right " 
 " I don't know. She has quar- 
 reled with me ; but give me a little 
 time. Here, have a glass of sherry 
 and a biscuit, while I try it on." 
 
 Having thus muffled Cartwright, 
 this man of the world opened his 
 window and looked out. The crowd 
 had followed the captured dog-cart, 
 so he had the street to himself. He 
 beckoned to Phoebe ; and, after con- 
 siderable hesitation, she opened her 
 window. 
 
 "Phcebe," said he, in tones of 
 tender regret, admirably natural and 
 sweet, " I shall never offend you 
 again ; so forgive me this once. I 
 have given that girl up." 
 
 " Not you," said Phoebe sullenly. 
 " Indeed I have. After our quar- 
 rel I started to propose to her, but I 
 had not the heart : I came back and 
 left her." 
 
 " Time will show. If it is not 
 her, it will be some other, you false, 
 heartless villain." 
 
 " Come, I say, don't be so hard 
 on me in trouble. I am going to 
 prison." 
 
 " So I suppose." 
 
 "Ah, but it is worse than you 
 think ! I am only taken for a pal- 
 try thirty pounds or so." 
 
 " Thirty-three, fifteen, five," sug- 
 gested Cartwright, in a muffled 
 whisper, his mouth being full of 
 biscuit. 
 
 " Hut once they got me to a 
 sponging-housc, detainers will pour 
 in, and my cruel creditors will con- 
 fine me for life." 
 
 "It IS the best place for you. It 
 will pat a stop to your wickedness, 
 and I shall lie at peace. That's 
 what I have never known, night or 
 day, this three years." 
 
 " But you will not be happy if 
 you see me go to prison before your
 
 32 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 eyes. Were you ever inside a 
 prison 1 Just think what it must 
 be to be cooped up in those cold 
 grim cells all alone ; for they use a 
 debtor like a criminal now." 
 
 Phoebe shuddered ; but she said 
 bravely, " Well, tell them you have 
 been a-courting. There was a time 
 I'd have died sooner than see a hair 
 of your head hurt ; but it is all over 
 now : you have worn me out." 
 Then she began to cry. 
 Falcon heaved a deep sigh. " It 
 is no more than I deserve," said he. 
 " I'll pack up my things and go 
 with the officer. Give me one kind 
 word at parting ; and I'll think of it 
 in my prison night and day." 
 
 He withdrew from the window 
 with another deep sigh, told Cart- 
 wright, cheerfully, it was all right, 
 and proceeded to pack up his traps. 
 Meantime Phcebe sat at her win- 
 dow and cried bitterly. Her words 
 had been braver than her heart. 
 
 Falcon managed to pay the trifle 
 he owed for the lodgings ; and pres- 
 ently he came out with Cartwright, 
 and the attendant called a cab. 
 His things were thrown in, and 
 Cartwright invited him to follow. 
 Then he looked up and cast a gen- 
 uine look of terror and misery at 
 Phoebe. He thought she would have 
 relented before this. 
 
 Her heart gave way : I am afraid 
 it would, even without that piteous 
 and mute appeal. She opened the 
 window, and asked Mr. Cartwright 
 if he would be good enough to come 
 and speak to her. 
 
 Cartwright committed his prison- 
 er to the subordinate, and knocked 
 at the door of Phoebe's lodgings. 
 She came down herself and let him 
 in. She led the way upstairs, mo- 
 tinned him to a seat, sat down by 
 him, and began to cry again. She 
 was thoroughly unstrung. 
 
 Cartwright was human, and mut- 
 tered some words of regret that a 
 poor fellow must do his duty. 
 
 "Oh, it is not that!"* sobbed 
 Phcebe ; " I can find the money. 
 
 I have found more for him than 
 that many's the time." Then, dry- 
 ing her eyes, " But you must know 
 the world ; and I dare say you can 
 see how 'tis with me." 
 
 " I can," said Cartwright grave- 
 ly. " I overheard you and him ; and, 
 my girl, if you take my advice, 
 why, let him go. He is a gentle- 
 man skin deep, and dresses well, 
 and can palaver a girl, no doubt; 
 but, bless your heart ! I can see at a 
 glance he is not Avorth your little 
 finger, — an honest, decent young 
 woman like you. Why, it is like 
 butter fighting with stone ! Let him 
 go ; or I will tell you what it is, you 
 will hang for him some day, or else 
 make away with yourself." 
 
 "Ay, sir," said Phoebe, "that's 
 likelier ; and, if I was to let him go 
 to prison, I should sit me down and 
 think of his parting look : and I 
 should fling myself into the wr.ter 
 for him before I was a day older." 
 
 " Ye mustn't do that, any way. 
 While there's life there's hope." 
 
 Upon this, Phoebe put him a ques- 
 tion, and found him ready to do any 
 thing for her, in reason, — provided 
 he was paid for it. And the end of 
 it all was, the prisoner was convey- 
 ed to London. Phcebe got the re- 
 quisite sum ; Falcon was deposited 
 in a third-class carriage bound for 
 Essex. Phoebe paid his debt, and 
 gave Cartwright a present; and 
 away rattled the train conveying 
 the handsome egotist into temporary 
 retirement, to wit, at a village five 
 miles from the Dales' farm. She 
 was too ashamed of her young gen- 
 tleman and herself to be seen with 
 him in her native village. On the 
 road down, he was full of little prac- 
 tical attentions ; she received them 
 coldly. His mellifluous mouth was 
 often at her ear, pouring thanks and 
 praises into it; she never vouch- 
 safed a word of reply. All she did 
 was to shudder now and then, and 
 cry at intervals. Yet, whenever he 
 left her side, her whole body became 
 restless ; and, when he came back to
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 33 
 
 her, a furtive thrill announced the 
 insane complacency his bare contact 
 gave her. Surely of all the forms 
 in which love torments the heart, 
 this was the most terrible and pitia- 
 ble. 
 
 Mr. Lusignan found his daughter 
 in tears. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter now ? " 
 said he, a little peevishly. " We 
 have had nothing of this sort of 
 thing lately." 
 
 "Papa, it is because I have mis- 
 conducted myself. I am a foolish, 
 imprudent girl. I have been flirting 
 with Mr. Falcon ; and he has taken 
 a cruel advantage of it, — proposed 
 to me, this verv afternoon, actu- 
 ally ! " 
 
 " Has he ? Well, he is a fine 
 fellow, and has a landed estate in 
 Norfolk. There's nothing like land. 
 They may well call it real property : 
 there is something to show. You 
 can walk on it, and ride on it, and 
 look out of window at it : that is 
 property." 
 
 " O papa ! What arc you say- 
 ing? Would you have me marry 
 one man, when I belong to anoth- 
 er?" 
 
 " But you don't belong to any 
 one, except to me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do ! I belong to my 
 dear Christopher." 
 
 " Why, you dismissed him before 
 my very eyes ; and very ill you be- 
 haved, begging your pardon ! The 
 man was your able physician and 
 your best friend, and said nothing 
 that was nut for your good ; and 
 you treated him like a dog." 
 
 ' Yea, but he has apologized." 
 
 " What for 9 for being treated 
 like a (Jog I" 
 
 " Oh, don't say so, papa! At all 
 events, he has apologised, as a gen- 
 tleman should whenever — when- 
 ever " — 
 
 " Whenever a lady is in the 
 wrong." 
 
 " Don't, papa ; and I have a>ked 
 him to dinner." 
 
 " With all my heart. I shall be 
 downright glad to see him again. 
 You used him abominably." 
 
 " But you need not keep saying 
 so," whined Rosa. " And that is 
 not all, dear papa; the worst of it 
 is, Mr. Falcon proposing to me has 
 opened my eyes. I am not fit to be 
 trusted alone. I am too fond of 
 dancing ; and flirting will follow 
 somehow. Oh, think how ill I was 
 a few months ago, and how unhappy 
 you were about me ! They were 
 killing me. He came and saved me. 
 Yes, papa, I owe all this health and 
 strength to Christopher. I did take 
 them off the very next day, and see 
 the effect of it, and my long walks. 
 I owe him my life, and, what I value 
 far more, my good looks. La ! I 
 wish I had not told you that ; and, 
 after all this, don't I belong to my 
 Christopher? How could I be 
 happy, or respect myself, if I mar- 
 ried any one else? And O papa! 
 he looks wan and worn. He has 
 been fretting for his simpleton. Oh, 
 dear! I mustn't think of that; it 
 makes me cry ; and you don't like 
 scenes, do you ? " 
 
 " Hate 'cm ! " 
 
 " Well, then," said Rosa coax- 
 ingly, " I'll tell you how to end them. 
 Marry your simpleton to the only 
 man who is fit to take care of her. 
 O papa! think of his deep, deep 
 affection for me, and pray don't 
 snub him if — by any chance — 
 after dinner — he should happen to 
 ask you — something." 
 
 "Oh ! then it is possible that, by 
 the merest chance, the gentleman 
 you have accidentally asked to din- 
 ner may, by some strange fortuity, 
 l>e surprised into asking me a sec- 
 ond time for something very much 
 resembling my daughter's hand, 
 eh >. " 
 
 Rosa colored high. "He might, 
 you know. How can I tell what 
 
 gentlemen will say when the ladies 
 have retired, and they are left alone 
 with — with " — 
 
 " With the bottle. Ay, that's
 
 34 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 true ! when the wine is in, the wit 
 is out." 
 
 Said Rosa, " Well, if he should 
 happen to be so foolish, pray think 
 of vie ; of all we owe him, and how 
 much I love him, and ought to love 
 him." She then bestowed a propi- 
 tiatory kiss, and ran off to dress for 
 dinner : it was a much longer opera- 
 tion to-day than usual. 
 
 Dr. Staines was punctual. Mr. 
 Lusignan commented favorably on 
 that. 
 
 " He always is," said Rosa eager- 
 
 They dined together. Mr. Lusig- 
 nan chatted freely ; but Staines and 
 Rosa were under a feeling of re- 
 straint, Staines in particular : he 
 could not help feeling that before 
 long his fate must be settled. He 
 would either obtain Rosa's hand, or 
 have to resign her to some man of 
 fortune who would step in ; for 
 beauty such as hers could not long 
 lack brilliant offers. Longing, 
 though dreading, to know his fate, 
 he was glad when dinner ended. 
 
 Rosa sat with them a little while 
 after dinner, then rose, bestowed 
 another propitiatory kiss on her 
 father's head, and retired with a 
 modest blush, and a look at Chris- 
 topher that was almost divine. 
 
 It inspired him with the courage 
 of lions ; and he commenced the at- 
 tack at once. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "Mr. Lusignan," said he, "the 
 last time I was here, you gave me 
 some hopes that you might he pre- 
 vailed on to trust that angel's health 
 and happiness to my care." 
 
 " Well, Dr. Staines, I will not 
 beat about the bush with you. My 
 judgment is still against this mar- 
 riage : you need not look so alarmed ; 
 it does not follow I shall forbid it. 
 I feel I have hardly a right to ; for 
 my Rosa might be in her grave 
 
 now but for you. And another 
 thing, when I interfered between 
 you two, I had no proof you were a 
 man of ability : I had only your 
 sweetheart's word for that ; and I 
 never knew a case before where a 
 young lady's swan did not turn out 
 a goose. Your rare ability gives 
 you another chance in the profes- 
 sional battle that is before you ; in- 
 deed, it puts a different face on the 
 whole matter. I still think it pre- 
 mature. Come, now, would it not be 
 much wiser to wait, and secure a good 
 practice before you marry a mere 
 child ? There — there — I only ad- 
 vise ; I don't dictate : you shall 
 settle it together, you two wiseacres. 
 Only I must make one positive 
 condition : I have nothing to give 
 my child during my lifetime; but 
 one thing I have done for her ; 
 years ago I insured my life for six 
 thousand pounds ; and you must do 
 the same. I will not have her thrown 
 on the world a widow, with a child 
 or two perhaps, to support, and not 
 a farthing ; you know the insecu- 
 rity of mortal life." 
 
 " I do, I do. Why, of course I will 
 insure my life, and pay the annual 
 premium out of my little capital 
 until income flows in ! " 
 
 " Will you hand me over a sum 
 sufficient to pay that premium for five 
 years ? " 
 
 " With pleasure." 
 
 " Then I fear," said the old gen- 
 tleman with a sigh, " my opposition 
 to the match must cease here. I 
 still recommend you to wait : but, 
 there I might just as well advise fire 
 and tow to live neighbors, and keep 
 cool." 
 
 To show the injustice of this 
 simile, Christopher Staines started 
 up, with his eyes all asrlow, and 
 cried out, rapturously, " sir ! may 
 I tell her?" 
 
 "Yes, you may tell her," said 
 Lusignan with a smile. " Stop ! 
 what are you going to tell her? " 
 
 " That you consent, sir. God 
 bless you ! God bless you! Oh!"
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 35 
 
 " Yes, but that I advise you to 
 wait. " 
 
 "I'll tell her all," said Staines, 
 and rushed out even as he spoke, 
 and upset a heavy chair with a loud 
 thud. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! " cried the old gentle- 
 man in dismay, and put his fingers 
 in his cars. " Too late. I see," 
 said he, " there will be no peace 
 and quiet now till they are out of 
 the house." He lighted a soothing 
 cigar, to counteract the fracas. 
 
 "Poor little Rosa! — a child but 
 yesterday, and now to encounter 
 the cares of a wife, and perhaps a 
 mother. Ah! she is but young, 
 but young." 
 
 The old gentleman prophesied 
 truly ; from that moment he had 
 no peace till he withdrew all sem- 
 blance of dissent, and even of pro- 
 crastination. 
 
 Christopher insured his life for 
 six thousand pounds, and assigned 
 the policy to his wile. Four hun- 
 dred pounds was handed to Mr. Lu- 
 signan to pay the premiums until 
 the genius of Dr. Staines should 
 haVe secured him that large pro- 
 fessional income, which does not 
 come all at once even to the rare 
 physician, who is Capax Efficax 
 Sagax. 
 
 The wedding-day was named. 
 The bridemaids were selected, the 
 quests invited. None refused hut 
 Uncle Philip. lie declined, in his 
 fine hold hand, to countenance in 
 on an act of folly he disapproved. 
 Christopher put his letter away with 
 a momentary sigh, and would not 
 show it Rosa, All other letters 
 they read together, — charming pas- 
 time of that happy period. Pres- 
 ents poured in. Silver tea-pots, 
 coffee-pots, suL r ai--h.asitis, cream-jujrs, 
 fruit-dishes, rilver-gilt inkstands, 
 alliums, photograph-books, little 
 candlesticks, choice little services of 
 china, shell salt-cellars in a ca8e 
 lined with maroon velvet ; a Bible, 
 superb in binding and clasps and 
 every thing, hut the text, — that 
 
 was illegible ; a silk scarf from Ben- 
 ares ; a gold chain from Delhi, six 
 feet long or nearly ; a maltese neck- 
 lace ; a ditto in exquisite filigree, 
 from Genoa ; English brooches, a 
 trifle too big and brainless : apostle- 
 spoons ; a treble-lined parasol, with 
 ivory stick and handle ; an ivory 
 card-case, richly carved ; work-box 
 of sandal-wood and ivory, &e. 
 Mr. Lusiguan's city friends, as usu- 
 al with these gentlemen, sent the 
 most valuable things. Every day 
 one or two packages were delivered ; 
 and, on opening them, Rosa invaria- 
 bly uttered a peculiar scream of de- 
 light, and her father put his fingers 
 in his ears ; yet there was music in 
 this very scream — if he would only 
 have listened to it candidly, instead 
 of fixing his mind on his vague 
 theory of screams — so formed was 
 she to please the ear as well as 
 eye. 
 
 At last came a parcel she 
 opened and stared at, smiling : and 
 coloring like a rose, but did not 
 scream, being too dumb-foundered 
 and perplexed ; forlo! a tea-put of 
 some base material, but .simple and 
 elegant in form, being an exact re- 
 production of a melon ; and inside 
 this tea-pot a canvas hag containing 
 ten guineas in silver, and a wash- 
 leather bag containing twenty guin- 
 eas in gold, and a slip of paper, 
 which Rosa, being now half recov- 
 ered from her stupefaction, read out 
 to her father and Dr. Staines. 
 
 " People that buy presents blind- 
 fold give duplicates and triplicates ; 
 and men seldom choose to a woman's 
 taste: so be pleased to accept the 
 enclosed tea-leaves, and buy for 
 yourself. The tea-pot you can put 
 on the hob ; for it is nickel." 
 
 Rosa looked sore puzzled again. 
 "Papa," said she timidly, "have 
 we any friend that is — a little — 
 deranged 1 " 
 
 " A lot." 
 
 " Oh, then, that accounts ! " 
 i " Why no, love," said Christo-
 
 SG 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 plier. " I have heard of much 
 learning making a man mad, but 
 never of much good sense." 
 
 " What ! Do you call this sensi- 
 ble ? " 
 
 " Don't you ? " 
 
 " I'll read it again," said Rosa. 
 " Well — yes — I declare — it is 
 not so mad as I thought; but it is 
 very eccentric." 
 
 Lusignan suggested there was 
 nothing so eccentric as common- 
 sense, especially in time of wedding. 
 " This," said he, " comes from the 
 city. It is a friend of mine, some 
 old fox: he is throwing dust in 
 your eyes witli his reasons. His real 
 reason was that his time is money ; 
 it would have cost the old rogue a 
 band-red pounds' worth of time — 
 you know the city, Christopher — 
 to go out and choose the girl a pres- 
 ent ; so he has sent his clerk out 
 with a check to buy a pewter teapot, 
 ami till it with specie." 
 
 " Pewter ! " cried Rosa. " No 
 such thing ! It's nickel. What is 
 nickel, I wonder ? " 
 
 The handwriting afforded no 
 clew, so there the discussion ended : 
 but it was a nice little mystery, and 
 very convenient, made conversa- 
 tion. Rosa had many an animated 
 discussion about it with her female 
 friends. 
 
 The wedding-day came at last. 
 The sun shone — actual///, as Rosa 
 observed. The carriages drove up. 
 The bridemaiils, principally old 
 School-fellows and impassioned cor- 
 respondents of Rosa, were pretty, 
 and dressed alike, and delightfully : 
 but the bride was peerless ; her 
 southern beauty literally shone in 
 that white satin dress and veil, and 
 her head was regal with the crown 
 of orange blossoms. Another crown 
 she had, true virgin modesty. A 
 low murmur burst from the men the 
 moment they saw her ; the old wom- 
 en forgave her beauty on the spot, 
 and the young women almost par- 
 doned it; she was so sweet and 
 
 womanly, and so sisterly to her own 
 sex. 
 
 When they started for the church, 
 she began to tremble, she scarce 
 knew why ; and when the solemn 
 words were said, and the ring was 
 put on her finger, she cried a little, 
 and looked half-imploriugly at her 
 bridemaids once, as if scared at 
 leaving them for an untried and 
 mysterious life with no woman near. 
 
 They were married. Then came 
 the breakfast, that hour of uneasi- 
 ness and blushing to such a bride as 
 this ; but at last she was released. 
 She sped up stairs, thanking good- 
 ness it was over. Down came her 
 last box. The bride followed in a 
 plain travelling dress, which her glo- 
 rious eyes and brows and her rich 
 glowing cheeks seemed to illumine. 
 She was handed into the carriage ; 
 the bridegroom followed. All the 
 young guests clustered about the 
 door, armed with white shoes, — 
 slippers are gone by. 
 
 They started : the ladies flung 
 their white shoes right and left with 
 l-eligious impartiality, except that 
 not one of their missiles went at the 
 object. The men, more skilful, 
 sent a shower on to the roof of the 
 carriage, which is the lucky spot. 
 The bride kissed her hand, and 
 managed to put off crying, though 
 it cost her a struggle. The party 
 hurrahed. Enthusiastic youths gath- 
 ered fallen shoes, and ran and hurled 
 them again with cheerful yells ; and 
 away went the happy pair, the bride 
 leaning sweetly and confidingly with 
 both her white hands on the bride- 
 groom's shoulder, while he dried the 
 tears that would run now at leaving 
 home and parent forever, and 
 kissed her often, and encircled her 
 with his strong arm, and murmured 
 comfort and love and pride and 
 joy and sweet vows of life-long ten- 
 derness into her ears, that soon 
 stole nearer his lips to hear, and 
 the fair cheek grew softly to his 
 shoulder.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 37 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Dr. Staines and Mrs. Staines 
 visited France, Switzerland, and 
 the Rhine, and passed a month of 
 Elysium, before they came to London 
 to face their real destiny and right 
 the battle of life. 
 
 And here, methinks a reader of 
 novels may, perhaps, cry out and 
 say, " What manner of man 
 is this, who marries his hero 
 and heroine, and then, instead of 
 leaving them happy for life, and at 
 rest from his uneasy pen, and all 
 their other troubles, flows coolly on 
 with their adventures ? " 
 
 To this I can only repty that the 
 old English novel is no rule to me, 
 and life is ; and I respectfully pro- 
 pose an experiment : catch eight 
 old married people, four of each 
 sex, and say unto them, " Sir," or 
 " Madame, did the more remarka- 
 ble events of your life come to you 
 before marriage or after ? " Most 
 of them will say " after," and let 
 that be my excuse for treating the 
 marriage of Christopher Staines and 
 Rosa Lusignan as merely one inci- 
 dent in their lives, — an incident 
 which, so far from ending their 
 story, led by degrees to more strik- 
 ing events than any that occurred 
 to them before they were man and 
 wife. 
 
 They returned then from their 
 honey-tour ; and Staines, who was 
 methodical, and kejjt a diary, made 
 the following entry therein : — 
 
 " We have now a lilc of endurance 
 and self denial and economy before 
 08: we have to rent a house, anil 
 furnish it, and live in it, until profes- 
 sional income shall How in and make 
 all things easy ; ami we have two 
 thousand five hundred pounds left to 
 do it with." 
 
 They came to a family hotel ; and 
 Doctor Staines went out, directly 
 after breakfast, to look for a house. 
 Acting on a friend's advice, he visit- 
 ed the streets and places north of 
 Oxford Street, looking (or a good 
 
 commodious house adapted to his 
 business. He found three or four at 
 fair rents, neither cheap nor dear, 
 the district being respectable ami 
 rather wealthy, but no longer fash- 
 ionable. He came home with his 
 notes, and found Rosa, beaming in a 
 crisp peignoir, and her lovely head its 
 natural size and snaps, high-bred and 
 elegant. He sat down, and with her 
 hand in his, proceeded to describe the 
 houses to her, when a waiter threw 
 open the door — "Mrs. John Cole." 
 
 " Florence ! " cried Rosa, starting 
 up. 
 
 In flowed Florence : they both ut- 
 tered a little squawk of delight, and 
 went at each other like two little ti- 
 gresses, and kissed in swift alterna- 
 tion with a singular ardor, drawing 
 their crests back like snakes, and 
 then darting them forward and in- 
 flicting what, to the male philoso- 
 pher looking on, seemed hard kisses, 
 violent kisses, rather than the tender 
 ones to be expected from two tender 
 creatures embracing each other. 
 
 " Darling," said Rosa, " I knew 
 you would be the first. Didn't I tell 
 you so, Christopher ? My husband, 
 my darling Florry ! Sit down, love, 
 and tell me every thin<r : he has just 
 been looking out for a house. Alt ! 
 you have "0t all that over long ago : 
 she has been married six months. 
 Florry, you are handsomer than ev- 
 er; and what a beautiful dress! Ah, 
 London is the place. Heal Brussels, 
 I declare ; " and she took hold of 
 her friend's lace and gloated on it. 
 
 Christopher smiled good-natured- 
 ly, and said, " I dare say you ladies 
 have a good deal to say to each oth- 
 er." 
 
 " Oceans ! " said Rosa. 
 
 " I will jro and hunt houses ajrain." 
 
 "There's a jxnod husband," said 
 Mrs. Cole, as soon as the door closed 
 on him; "and such a line man. 
 Why, he must be six feet I Mine is 
 rather short. Rut he is very j^ood ; 
 refuses me nothing. My will is law." 
 
 " That is all rijrbt, you are so sen- 
 sible ; but I want governing a little:
 
 3S 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 and I like it — actually. Did the 
 dressmaker find it, dear 1 " 
 
 "Oil, no ! I had it by me. I 
 bought it at Brussels, on our wed- 
 ding-tour : it is dearer there than in 
 London." 
 
 She said this, as if "dearer" and 
 " better " were synonymous. 
 
 " But about your house, Rosie 
 dear ? " 
 
 " Yes, darling, I'll tell you all 
 about it. I never saw a moire this 
 shade before ; I don't care for them 
 in general; but this is so distingue." 
 
 Florence rewarded her with a kiss. 
 
 " The house," said Rosa. " Oh ! 
 he has seen one in Portman Street, 
 and one in Gloucester Place." 
 
 " Oh, that will never do ! " cried 
 Mrs. Cole. " It is no use being a 
 physician in those out-of-the-way. 
 places. He must be in Mayfair." 
 
 " Must he 1 " 
 
 " Of course. Besides, then my 
 Johnnie can call him in, when they 
 are just going to die. Johnnie is a 
 general prac, and makes two thou- 
 sand a year ; and he shall call your 
 one in : but he must live in Mayfair. 
 Why, Rosa, you would not be such 
 a goose as to live in those places ! 
 they are quite gone by." 
 
 " I shall do whatever you advise 
 me, dear. Oh, what a comfort to 
 have a dear friend ! and six months 
 married, and knows things. How 
 richly it is trimmed ! Why, it is 
 nearly all trimmings ! " 
 
 " That is the fashion." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 And, after that big word, there was 
 no more to be said. 
 
 These two ladies in their conver- 
 sation gravitated toward dress, and 
 fell flat on it every half minute. 
 That great and elevating topic held 
 them by a silken cord : but it al- 
 lowed them to flutter upward into 
 other topics ; and in those intervals, 
 numerous though brief, the lady who 
 had been married six months found 
 time to instruct the matrimonial nov- 
 ice with great authority, and even a 
 shade of pomposity. " My dear, the 
 
 way ladies and gentlemen get a 
 house — in the first place, you don't 
 go about yourself like that, and you 
 never go to the people themselves, 
 or you are sure to be taken in, but 
 to a respectable house-a^ent." 
 
 " Yes, dear, that must be the best 
 way, one would think." 
 
 " Of course it is ; and you ask for 
 a house in Mayfair; and he shows 
 you several, and recommends you 
 the best, and sees you are not cheat- 
 ed." 
 
 " Thank you, love," said Rosa : 
 " now I know what to do ; I'll not 
 forget a word. And the train is so 
 beautifully shaped ! Ah, it is only 
 in London or Paris they can make a 
 dress flow behind like that," &c., 
 &c. 
 
 Dr. Staines came back to dinner 
 in good spirits : he had found a 
 house in Harewood Square ; good 
 entrance hall, where his gratuitous 
 patients might sit on benches ; good 
 dining-room, where his superior pa- 
 tients might wait, and good library, 
 to be used as a consulting-room. 
 Rent only £85 per annum. 
 
 But Rosa told him that would 
 never do ; a physician must be in 
 J;he fashionable part of the town. 
 
 " Eventually," said Christopher ; 
 " but surely at first starting ; and 
 you know they say little boats should 
 not go too far from shore." 
 
 Then Rosa repeated all her friend's 
 arguments, and seemed so unhappy 
 at the idea of not living near her, 
 that Staines, who had not yet said 
 the hard word " No " to her, gave in, 
 consoling his prudence with the re- 
 flection that, after all, Mr. Cole could 
 put many a guinea in his way ; for 
 Mr. Cole was middle-aged — though 
 his wife was young — and had really 
 a very large practice. 
 
 So next day the newly-wedded 
 pair called on a house-agent in May- 
 fair, and his son and partner went 
 with them to several places. The 
 rents of houses equal to that in Hare- 
 wood Square were £300 a year at 
 least, and a premium to boot.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 39 
 
 Christopher told him these were 
 quite beyond the mark. " Very 
 well," said the agent. " Then I'll 
 show you a Bijou." 
 
 Rosa clapped her hands. " That 
 is the thing for us. We don't want 
 a large house, only a beautiful one, 
 and in Mayfair." 
 
 " Then the Bijou will be sure to 
 suit you." 
 
 He took them to the Bijou. 
 
 The Bijou had a small dining- 
 room with one very large window in 
 two sheets of plate-glass, and a pro- 
 jecting balcony full of flowers'; a 
 still smaller library, which opened 
 on a square yard enclosed. Here 
 were a great many pots, with flow- 
 ers dead or dying from neglect. On 
 the first floor a fair-sized drawing- 
 room, and a tiny one at the back ; 
 on the second floor one good bed- 
 room, and a dressing-room, or little 
 bedroom ; three garrets above. 
 
 Rosa was in ecstasies. " It is a 
 nest," said she. 
 
 " It is a bank-note," said the 
 agent, simulating equal enthusiasm, 
 after Ins fashion, " You can always 
 sell the lease again for more mon- 
 ey." 
 
 Christopher kept cool. "I don't 
 want a house to sell, but to live in, 
 and do my business ; I am a physi- 
 cian. Now, the drawing-room is 
 built over the entrance to a mew. 
 The back-rooms all look into a 
 mew : we shall have the eternal 
 noise and smell of a mew. My 
 wife's rest will be broken by the car- 
 riages rolling in and out. The hall 
 is fearfully small and stuffy. The 
 rent is abominably high ; and what 
 is the premium for, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Always a premium in Mayfair, 
 >ir. A lease is property here : the 
 gentleman is not acquainted with 
 this part, madam." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he is! " said Rosa, as 
 boldly as a six years' wife; "he 
 knows every thing." 
 
 "Then he knows that a house of 
 this kind at £130 a year, in Mayfair, 
 is a bank-note.'' 
 
 Staines turned to Rosa. " The 
 poor patients, where am I to re- 
 ceive them ? " 
 
 " In the stable," suggested the 
 house-agent. > 
 
 " Oh ! " said Rosa, shocked. 
 
 " Well, then, the coach-house. 
 Why, there's plenty of room for a 
 brougham and one horse, and fifty 
 poor patients at a time. Beggars 
 mustn't be choosers. If you give 
 them physic gratis, that is enough : 
 you ain't bound to find 'cm a palace 
 to sit down in, and hot coffee and 
 rump-steaks all around, doctor." 
 
 This tickled Rosa so that she 
 burst out laughing, and thencefor- 
 ward giggled at intervals, wit of this 
 refined nature having all the charm 
 of novelty for her. 
 
 They inspected the stables, which 
 were indeed the one redeeming fea- 
 ture in the horrid little Bijou : and 
 then the agent would show them the 
 kitchen and the new stove. He ex- 
 patiated on this to Mrs. Staines. 
 " Cook a dinner for thirty people, 
 madam." 
 
 " And there's room for them to 
 eat it, — in the road," said Staines. 
 
 The agent reminded him there 
 were larger places to be had by a 
 very simple process ; namely, pay- 
 ing for thetn. 
 
 .Staines thought of the large com- 
 fortable house in llarewood Square* 
 ".£130 a year for this pokey little 
 hole 1 " he groaned. 
 
 " Why, it is nothing at all for a 
 Bijou." 
 
 " But it is too much for a band- 
 box." 
 
 Rosa laid her hand on his arm, 
 with an imploring glance. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I'll submit to 
 the rent, but I really cannot give 
 the premium ; it is too ridiculous. 
 He Otight to bribe me to rent it, not 
 I him." 
 
 " Can't be done without, sir." 
 
 " Well, I'll give .C10U. and no 
 more." 
 
 " Impossible, sir." 
 
 " Then good-morning. Now, dear-
 
 40 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 est, just come and see the house at 
 Harewood Squa.e ; £85 and no pre- 
 mium." 
 
 " Will you oblige me with your 
 address, doctor I " said the agent. 
 
 " Dr. Staines, Moriey's Hotel." 
 
 And so they left Mayfair. 
 
 Rosa sighed, and said, " Oh, the 
 nice little place ! and we have lost it 
 for £200." 
 
 " Two hundred pounds is a great 
 deal for us to throw away." 
 
 " Being near the Coles would soon 
 have made that up to you : and such 
 a cosey little nest." 
 
 " Well, the house will not run 
 away." 
 
 "But somebody is sure to snap it 
 up. It is a Bijou." She was disap- 
 
 Eointed, and half-inclined to pout, 
 lut she vented her feelings in a let- 
 ter to her beloved Florry, and ap- 
 peared at dinner as sweet as usual. 
 
 During dinner, a note came from 
 the agent, accepting Dr. Staines's 
 offer. He glozed the matter thus : 
 he had persuaded the owner it was 
 better to take a good tenant at a 
 moderate loss than to let the Bijou 
 be uninhabited during the present 
 rainy season. An assignment of the 
 lease, which contained the usual 
 covenants, would be prepared im- 
 mediately ; and Doctor Staines could 
 have possession in forty-eight hours, 
 by paying the premium. 
 
 Ilosa was delighted ; and as soon 
 as dinner was over, and the waiters 
 gone, she came and kissed Christo- 
 pher. He smiled, and said, " Well, 
 you are pleased ; that is the princi- 
 pal thing. I have saved £200, and 
 that is something. It will go toward 
 furnishing." 
 
 " La, yes ! " said Rosa ; " I forgot. 
 We shall have to get furniture now. 
 How nice ! " It was a pleasure the 
 man of forecast could have willingly 
 dispensed with ; but he smiled at 
 her, and they discussed furniture. 
 And Christopher, whose retentive 
 memory had picked up a little of 
 every thing, said there were wholesale 
 upholsterers in the city, who sold 
 
 cheaper than the West End houses ; 
 and he thought the best way was 
 to measure the rooms in the Bijou, 
 and go to the city with a clear 
 idea of what they wanted, ask the 
 prices of various necessary articles, 
 and then make a list, and demand 
 a discount of fifteen per cent on the 
 whole order, being so considerable, 
 and paid for in cash. 
 
 Rosa acquiesced, and told Chris- 
 topher he was the cleverest man in 
 England. 
 
 About nine o'clock Mrs. Cole 
 came in to condole with her friend, 
 and heard the good news. When 
 Rosa told her how they thought of 
 furnishing, she said, " Oh, no ! you 
 must not do that ; you will pay 
 double for every thing ! That is the 
 mistake Johnnie and I made ; and, 
 after that, a friend of mine took me 
 to the auction-rooms, and I saw 
 every thing sold. Oh, such bargains ! 
 — half, and less than half, their 
 value. She has furnished her house 
 almost entirely from sales ; and 
 she has the loveliest things in the 
 world, — such ducks of tables, and 
 jardinieres and things, and beauti- 
 ful rare china : her house swarms 
 with it, for an old song. A sale is 
 the place, and then so amusing." 
 
 " Yes, but," said Christopher, " I 
 should not like my wife to encoun- 
 ter a public room." 
 
 " Not alone, of course ; but with 
 me. La ! Dr. Staines, they are too 
 full of buying and selling to trouble 
 their heads about us." 
 
 " O Christopher ! do let me go 
 with her. Am I always to be a 
 child?" 
 
 Thus appealed to before a stran- 
 ger, Staines replied warmly, " No, 
 dearest, no ; you cannot please me 
 better than by beginning life in 
 earnest. If you two ladies together 
 can face an auction-room, go by all 
 means ; only I must ask you not to 
 buy china, or ormolu, or any thing 
 that will break or spoil, but only 
 solid, good furniture." 
 
 " Won't you come with us ? "
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 41 
 
 " No, or yon might feel yourself 
 in leading-strings. Remember the 
 Bijou is a small house : ehoose your 
 furniture to tit it ; and then we shall 
 save something by its being so 
 small." 
 
 This was Wednesday. There was 
 a weekly sale in Oxford Street on 
 Friday ; and the ladies made the 
 appointment accordingly. 
 
 Next day, after breakfast, Chris- 
 topher was silent and thoughtful a 
 while, and at last said to liosa, " I'll 
 show you I don't look on you as a 
 child : I'll consult you on a delicate 
 matter." 
 
 Rosa's eyes sparkled. 
 " It is about my Uncle Philip. 
 He has been very cruel : he has 
 wounded me deeply ; he has wounded 
 me through my wife. I never 
 thought he would refuse to come to 
 our marriage.'' 
 
 "And did he? You never showed 
 me his letter." 
 
 " You were not my wife then. I 
 kept an affront from you ; but now, 
 you see, I keep nothing." 
 " Dear Christie ! " 
 " I am so happy, I have got over 
 that sting — almost ; and the mem- 
 ory of many hind acts come back to 
 me ; and — I don't know what to do. 
 It seems ungrateful not to visit him : 
 it seems almost mean to call." 
 
 "I'll tell you ; take me to sec him 
 directly. He won't hate us forever, 
 if he sees us often. We may as well 
 begin at once. Nobody hates me 
 long." 
 
 Christopher was proud of his 
 wife's eoarage and wisdom. lie 
 kissed her, Begged her to put on 
 the plained dress she could ; and 
 they went together to call on Uncle 
 Philip. 
 
 When they got to his house in 
 Gloucester Place, 1'ortman Square, 
 Rosa's heart began to qnake; ami 
 she was right glad when the servant 
 said, " Not at home." 
 
 They left their cards and address ; 
 and she persuaded Christopher to take 
 her to the salesroom to see the things. 
 
 A lot of brokers were there, like 
 vultures ; and one after another 
 stepped forward and pestered them 
 to employ him in the morning. Dr. 
 Staines declined their services civilly 
 but firmly; and he and Rosa looked 
 over a quantity of furniture, and 
 settled what sort of things to buy. 
 
 Another broker came up, and, 
 whenever the couple stopped before 
 an article, proceeded to praise it as 
 something most extraordinary-. 
 Staines listened in cold, satirical 
 silence, and told his wife, in French, 
 to do the same. Notwithstanding 
 their marked disgust, the impudent, 
 intrusive fellow stuck to them, and 
 forced his venal criticism on them, 
 and made them uncomfortable, and 
 shortened their tour of observa- 
 tion. 
 
 " I think I shall come with you 
 to-morrow," said Chrstopher, " or 
 I shall have these blackguards pes- 
 tering you." 
 
 " ( )h, Florry will send them to 
 the right about ! She is as brave as 
 a lion?' 
 
 Next day Dr. Staines was sent 
 for into the city at twelve, to pay 
 the money, and, receive the lease of 
 the Bijou"; and this and the taking 
 possession occupied him till four 
 o'clock, when he came to his hotel. 
 
 Meantime, his wife and Mrs. Cole 
 had gone to the auction-room. 
 
 It was a large room, with a good 
 sprinkling of people, but not crowded, 
 except about the table. At the head 
 Of this table, full twenty feet long, 
 was the auctioneer's pulpit ; and 
 the lots were brought in turn to the 
 other end of the pulpit for sig,ht and 
 sale. 
 
 " We must try and get a scat," 
 said the enterprising Mrs. Cole, and 
 pushed boldly in. The timid Rosa 
 followed strictly in he* wake, and so 
 evaded the human waves her leader 
 clove. They were importuned at 
 every step by brokers thrusting cat- 
 aloging on them, with oilers of their 
 services, yet they SOOn got to the 
 table. A" gentleman resigned one
 
 42 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 chair, a broker another, and they 
 were seated. 
 
 Mrs. Staines let down half her 
 veil ; but Mrs. Cole surveyed the 
 company point-blank. 
 
 The broker who had given up his 
 scat, and now stood behind Rosa, 
 offered her his catalogue. "No, 
 thank you," said Rosa, " I have 
 one ; " and she produced it, and 
 studied it, yet managed to look fur- 
 tively at the company. 
 
 There were not above a dozen pri- 
 vate persons visible from where 
 Rosa sat ; perhaps as many more 
 in the whole room. They were easily 
 distinguishable by their cleanly ap- 
 pearance. The dealers, male and 
 female, were more or less rusty, 
 greasy, dirty, aquiline. Not even 
 the amateurs were brightly dressed : 
 that fundamental error was confined 
 to Mesdamcs Cole and Staines. The 
 experienced, however wealthy, do 
 not hunt bargains in silk and satin. 
 
 The auctioneer called " Lot 7." 
 Four sauce-pans, two trays, a kettle, 
 a boot-jack, and a towel-horse." 
 
 These were put up at two shillings, 
 and speedily knocked down for five, 
 to a fat old woman in a greasy vel- 
 vet jacket ; blind industry had sewed 
 bugles on it, not artfully, but agri- 
 culturally. 
 
 " The "lady on the left ! " said the 
 auctioneer to his clerk. That meant, 
 " Get the money." 
 
 The old lady plunged a huge paw 
 into a huge pocket, and pulled out 
 a huge handful of coin, — copper, 
 silver, and gold, and paid for the 
 lot ; and Rosa surveyed her dirty 
 hands and nails with innocent dis- 
 may. " Oh, what a dreadful crea- 
 ture ! " she whispered ; " and what 
 can she want with those old rubbishy 
 things ? I saw a hole in one from 
 here." The broker overheard, and 
 said, " She is a dealer, ma'am ; and 
 the things were given away. She'll 
 sell them for a guinea, easy." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you ? " said Mrs. 
 Cole. 
 
 Soon after this, the superior lots 
 
 came on ; and six very neat bedroom 
 chairs were sold to all appearance 
 for fifteen shillings. 
 
 The next lot was identical ; and 
 Rosa hazarded a bid, " Sixteen 
 shillings." 
 
 Instantly some dealer, one of the 
 hooked-nosed that gathered round 
 each lot as it came to the foot of the 
 table, cried, " Eighteen shillings." 
 
 " Nineteen," said Rosa. 
 
 " A guinea," said the dealer. 
 
 " Don't let it go," said the bro- 
 ker behind her. " Don't let it go, 
 ma'am." 
 
 She colored at the intrusion, and 
 left off bidding directly, and ad- 
 dressed herself to Mrs. Cole. " Why 
 should I give so much, when the last 
 were sold for fifteen shillings'.' " 
 
 The real reason was, that the first 
 lot was not bid for at all except by 
 the proprietor. However, the brok- 
 er gave her a very different solution ; 
 he said, " The trade always runs up 
 a lady or a gentleman. Let me bid 
 for you : they won't run me up ; 
 they know better." 
 
 Rosa did not reply, but looked at 
 Mrs. Cole. 
 
 " Yes, dear," said that lady, " you 
 had much better let him bid for you." 
 
 " Very well," said Rosa. " You 
 can bid for this chest of drawers, — 
 Lot 25." 
 
 When Lot 25 came on, the broker 
 bid in the silliest possible way, if 
 his object had been to get a bargain : 
 he began to bid early and ostenta- 
 tiously ; the article was protected by 
 somebody or other there present, 
 who now, of course, saw his way 
 clear. He ran it up audaciously ; 
 and it was purchased for Rosa at 
 about the price it could have been 
 bought for at a shop. 
 
 The next thing she wanted was a 
 set of oak chairs. 
 
 They went up to twenty-eight 
 pounds ; then she said, " I shall give 
 no more, sir." 
 
 " Better not lose them," said the 
 agent; "they are a great bargain," 
 and bid another pound for her on
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 43 
 
 his own responsibility. They were 
 still run up ; and Rosa peremptorily 
 refused to give any more. She lost 
 them accordingly, by good luck. 
 Her faithful broker looked blank; 
 so did the proprietor. 
 
 But, as the sale proceeded, she 
 being young, the competition, 
 though most of it sham, bjing art- 
 ful and exciting, and the traitor she 
 employed constantly pulling every 
 article, she was drawn into wishing 
 for things, and bidding by her feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Then her traitor played a game 
 that has been played a hundred 
 times, and the perpetrators never 
 once lynched, as they ought to be, 
 on the spot : he signalled a con- 
 federate with a hooked nose. The 
 Jew rascal bid against the Christian 
 scoundrel ; and so they ran up the 
 more enticing things to twice their 
 value und^r the hammer. 
 
 Rosa got flushed; and her eye 
 gleamed like a gambler's, and she 
 bought away like wild-fire. In 
 which sport she caught sight of an 
 old gentleman with little black eyes, 
 that kept twinkling at her. 
 
 She complained of these eyes to 
 Mrs. Cole. 
 
 " Why docs he twinkle so ? I 
 can see it is at me, I am doing 
 something foolish — I know I 
 am." 
 
 Mrs. Cole turned and fixed a 
 haughty stare on the old gentleman. 
 Would you believe it ? Instead of 
 sinking through the floor, he sat his 
 ground, and retorted with a cool, 
 clear grin. 
 
 But now, whenever Rosa's agent 
 bid for her, and the other man of 
 straw against him, the black eyes 
 twinkled ; and Kosa's courage be- 
 gat) to ooze away. At last she 
 said, — 
 
 " That is enough for one day. I 
 shall go. Who could bear those 
 eyes ? " 
 
 The broker took her address ; so 
 did the auctioneer's clerk. The 
 auctioneer asked her for no deposit ; 
 
 her beautiful, innocent, and high- 
 bred face was enough for a man 
 who was always reading faces and 
 interpreting them. 
 
 And so they retired. 
 
 But this charming sex is like that 
 same auctioneer's hammer, it can- 
 not go abruptly. It is always go- 
 ing — going — going — a long time 
 before it is gone. I think it would 
 perhaps loiter at the door of a 
 jail, with the order of release in 
 its hand, after six years' confine- 
 ment. Getting up to go quenches 
 in it the desire to go. So these la- 
 dies, having got up to go, turned 
 and lingered, and hung fire so long 
 that at last another set of oak chairs 
 came up. "Oh! I must see what 
 those go for," said Rosa, at the 
 door. 
 
 The bidding was mighty languid 
 now Rosa's broker was not stimu- 
 lating it ; and the auctioneer was 
 just knocking down twelve chairs 
 — oak and leather — and two arm- 
 chairs, for twenty pounds, when, 
 casting his eyes around, he caught 
 sight of Rosa looking at him rather 
 excited. He looked inquiringly at 
 her. She nodded slightly ; he 
 knocked them down to her at twenty 
 guineas, and they were really a 
 great bargain. 
 
 "Twenty-two," cried a dealer. 
 
 " Too late," said the auction- 
 eer. 
 
 " I spoke with the hammer, 
 sir." 
 
 " After the hammer, Isaacs." 
 
 " S'help me God, we was togeth- 
 er." 
 
 One or two more of his tribe con- 
 firmed this pious falsehood, and 
 clamored to have them put up 
 again. 
 
 "Call the next lot," said the auc- 
 tioneer peremptorily. " Make up 
 your mind a little quicker next time, 
 Mr. Isaacs ; you have been long 
 enough at it to know the value of 
 oak and morocco." 
 
 Mrs. Staines and her friend now 
 started for Morley's Hotel, but went
 
 44 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 round by Recent Street, whereby 
 they got glued at Peter Robinson's 
 window and nine other windows ; 
 and it was nearly five o'clock when 
 they reached Morley's. As they 
 came near the door of their sitting- 
 room, Mrs. Staines heard somebody 
 laughing and talking to her husband. 
 The laugh, to her subtle ears, did 
 not sound musical and genial, but 
 keen, satirical, unpleasant : so it was 
 with some timidity she opened the 
 door; and there sat the old chap 
 with the twinkling eyes. Both par- 
 tics stared at each other a moment. 
 
 " Why, it is them ! " cried the 
 old gentleman ; " ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 ha!" 
 
 Rosa colored all over, and felt 
 guilty somehow, and looked mis- 
 erable. 
 
 " Rosa dear," said Doctor Staines, 
 " this is our Uncle Philip." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Rosa, and turned red 
 and pale by turns : for she had a 
 great desire to propitiate Uncle 
 Philip. 
 
 " You were in the auction-room, 
 sir," said Mrs. Cole severely. 
 
 " I was, madam. He ! he ! " 
 
 " Furnishing a house ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am. I go to a dozen 
 6ales a week ; but it is not to buy : I 
 enjoy the humors. Did you ever 
 hear of Robert Burton, ma'am ? " 
 
 " No. Yes, a great traveller, 
 isn't he? Discovered the Nile — or 
 the Niger — or something." 
 
 This majestic vagueness stag- 
 gered old Crusty at first ; but he re- 
 covered his equilibrium, and said, 
 " Why, yes, now I think of it, you 
 are right ; he has travelled farther 
 than most of us ; for about two cen- 
 turies ago he visited that bourn 
 Whence no traveller returns. Well, 
 when he was alive — he was a stu- 
 dent of Christ Church — he used to 
 go down to a certain bridge over the 
 Isis and enjoy the chaff of the barge- 
 men. Now there arc no bargemen 
 left to speak of: the mantle of 
 Bobby Burton's bargees has fallen 
 on the Jews and deiui-scmi-Chris- 
 
 tians, that buy and sell furniture at 
 the weekly auctions : thither I re- 
 pair, to hear what little coarse wit is 
 left us : used to go to the House of 
 Commons, but they are getting too 
 civil by half for my money. Be- 
 sides, characters come out in an auc- 
 tion. For instance, only this very 
 day I saw two ladies enter, in gor- 
 geous attire, like heifers decked for 
 sacrifice, and reduce their spolia- 
 tion to a certainty by employing a 
 broker to bid. Now, what is a bro- 
 ker ? A fellow who is to be paid a 
 shilling in the pound for all articles 
 purchased. What is his interest then? 
 To buy cheap % Clearly not. He is 
 paid in proportion to the dearness of 
 the article." 
 
 Rosa's face began to work pite- 
 ously. 
 
 " Accordingly, what did the bro- 
 ker in question do ? He winked to 
 another broker, and these two bid 
 against one another, over their vic- 
 tim's head, and ran every thing she 
 wanted up at least a hundred per 
 cent above the value. So open and 
 transparent a swindle I have seldom 
 seen, even in an auction-room. Ha ! 
 ha! ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 His mirth was interrupted by 
 Rosa going to her husband, hiding 
 her head on his shoulder, and meekly 
 crying. 
 
 Christopher comforted her like a 
 man. "Don't you cry, darling," 
 said he ; " How should a pure crea- 
 ture like you know the badness of 
 the world all in a moment ? If it 
 is my wife you are laughing at, Un- 
 cle Philip, let me tell you this is the 
 wrong place. I'd rather, a thousand 
 times, have her as she is, than armed 
 with the cunning and suspicions of a 
 hardened old worldling like you." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Uncle 
 Philip, who, to do him justice, could 
 take blows as well as give them ; 
 "but why employ a broker? why 
 pay a scoundrel five per cent to 
 make you pay a hundred per cent ? 
 why pay a noisy fool a farthing to 
 I open his mouth for you when you
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 45 
 
 have taken the trouhle to be there 
 yourself, and have got a mouth of 
 your own to bid discreetly with 1 
 Was ever such an absurdity ? " He 
 began to get angry. 
 
 " Do you want to quarrel with 
 me, Uncle Philip?" said Christo- 
 pher firm": up ; " because sneering 
 at my Uosa is the way, and the only 
 way, and the sure way." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Rosa interposing. 
 " Uncle Philip was right. I am 
 very foolish and inexperienced ; but 
 I am not so vain as to turn from 
 good advice. I will never employ a 
 broker again, sir." 
 
 Uncle Philip smiled, and looked 
 pleased. 
 
 Mrs. Cole caused a diversion by 
 taking leave, and Rosa followed her 
 down stairs. <)n her return she 
 (bund Christopher telling his uncle 
 all about the bijou, and how he had 
 taken it for £130 a year and £100 
 premium, and Uncle Philip staring 
 fearfully. 
 
 At last he found his tongue. "The 
 bijou ! " said he. " Why, that is 
 a name they gave to a little den in 
 Dear Street, May fair. You haven't 
 been and taken that! Built over a 
 
 mews." 
 
 Christopher groaned. " That is 
 the place, I fear." 
 
 " Why, the owner is a friend of 
 mine ; an old patient. Stables 
 stunk him out. Let it to a man ; 
 I forget bis name. Stables stunk 
 him out. lie said, 'I shall go.' 
 'Von can't,' said my friend; 'you 
 have taken a lease.' ' Lease be 
 
 d d,' said the other; 'I never 
 
 took your house ; line's quite a large 
 stench not specified in your descrip- 
 tion of the property : it eomft be (m 
 game place: Hung the base at his 
 head, and cut like the wind to Foreign 
 parts Lets udoi il'erous. I'd have got 
 you the hole for ninety ; but you are 
 like your wife, you must go BO an 
 agent. What ! don't you know that 
 an agent is a man acting for you 
 
 with an interest opposed to years 1 
 
 Employing an agent. It is like u 
 
 Trojan seeking the aid of a Greek. 
 You needn't cry, Mrs. Staines; your 
 husband has been let in deeper than 
 you have. Now you are young peo- 
 ple beginning life : I'll give you a 
 piece of advice. Employ others to 
 do what you can't do, and it must 
 be done ; but never to do any thing 
 you can do better for yourselves. 
 Agent! the word is derived from a 
 Latin word, ' agere,' to do : and 
 agents act up to their etymology ; 
 for they invariably do the nincom- 
 poop that employs them, or deals 
 with them in any mortal way. I'd 
 have got you that beastly little bijou 
 for £90 a" year." 
 
 Uncle Philip went away crusty, 
 leaving the young couple finely mor- 
 tified and discouraged. 
 
 This did not last very long. Chris- 
 topher noted the experience and 
 Uncle Phil's wisdom in his diary, 
 and then took his wife on his knee, 
 and comforted her, and said, " Never 
 mind ; experience is worth money, 
 and it always has to be bought. 
 Those who cheat us will die poorer 
 than we shall, if we are honest and 
 economical. I have observed that 
 people are seldom ruined by the vices 
 of others ; these may hurt them, of 
 course ; but it is only their own faults 
 and follies that can destroy them." 
 
 " Ah, Christie ! " said Rosa, "you 
 are a man. Oh, the comfort of bring 
 married to a man .' A man sees the 
 best side. I adore men. Dearest, I 
 will waste no more of your money. I 
 will go to no move sales." 
 
 Christopher saw she was deeply 
 mortified ; and be said quietly, " < >n 
 ibe contrary, you will go to the very 
 next. Only take Uncle Philip's ad- 
 vice ; employ no broker, and watch 
 the prices things fetch when you are 
 not bidding, and keep cool." 
 
 She caressed his ears with both her 
 white hands, and thanked him for 
 giving her another trial. So that 
 trouble melted in the sunshine of 
 contstgal love. 
 
 Notwithstanding the agent's sol- 
 emn assurance, the bijou was out of
 
 46 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 repair. Doctor Staines detected in- 
 ternal odors, as well as those that 
 flowed in from the mews. He was 
 not the man to let his wife perish by 
 miasma; so he had the drains all up 
 and actually found brick drains and 
 a cesspool ; he stopped that up, and 
 laid down new pipe-drains, with a 
 good fall, and properly trapped. 
 The old drains were hidden, after 
 the manner of builders. He had 
 the whole course of his new drains 
 marked upon all the floors they 
 passed under and had several stones 
 and boards hinged, to faciliate ex- 
 amination at any period. 
 
 But all this, with the necessary 
 cleaning, whitewashing, painting, 
 and papering, ran away with money. 
 Then came Rosa's purchases, which, 
 to her amazement, amounted to 
 £190, and not a carpet, curtain, or 
 bed, among the lot. Then there 
 was the carriage home from the 
 auction-room, an expense one avoids 
 by buying at a shop, and the broker 
 claimed his shilling in the pound. 
 This, however, Staines refused. The 
 man came and blustered. Rosa, 
 who was there, trembled. Then, 
 for the first time, she saw her hus- 
 band's brow lower ; he seemed trans- 
 figured, and looked terrible. " You 
 scoundrel," said he, " you set another 
 villain like yourself to bid against 
 you, and you betrayed the innocent 
 lady that employed you. I could 
 indict you and your confederate for 
 a conspiracy : I take the goods out 
 of respect of my wife's credit, but 
 you shall gain nothing by swindling 
 her. Be off, you heartless miscreant, 
 or I'll " — 
 
 " I'll take the law if you do." 
 
 " Take it, then : I'll give yon 
 something to howl for ; " and he 
 seized him with a grasp so tremen- 
 dous that the fellow cried out in 
 dismay, " Oh ! don't hit me sir ; 
 pray don't." 
 
 On this abject appeal, Staines 
 tore the door open with his left hand, 
 and spun the broker out into the 
 passage with his right. Two move- 
 
 ments of the angry Hercules, and 
 the man was literally whirled out of 
 sight with a rapidity and swiftness 
 almost ludicrous; it was like a trick 
 in a pantomime : a clatter on the 
 stairs betrayed that he had gone 
 down the first steps in a wholesale 
 and irregular manner, though he had 
 just managed to keep his feet. 
 
 As for Staines, he stood there still 
 lowering like thunder, and his eyes 
 like hot coals ; but his wife threw 
 her arms around him, and begged 
 him consolingly not to mind. 
 
 She was trembling like an as- 
 pen. 
 
 "Dear me," said Christopher, 
 with a ludicrous change to marked 
 politeness and respect ; " I forgot 
 you in my righteous indignation." 
 Next he becomes uxurious. " Did 
 they frighten her, a duck - ? Sit on. 
 my knee, darling, and pull my hair 
 for not being more considerate — 
 there — there." 
 
 This was followed by the whole 
 absurd soothing process as practised 
 by manly husbands upon quivering 
 and somewhat hysterical wives ; and 
 ended with a formal apology. " You 
 must not think that I am passionate ; 
 on the contrary, I am always practis- 
 ing self-government. My maxim is, 
 Aninutm irrje. qui nisi paret imprint ; 
 and that means, Make your temper 
 your servant, or else it will be your 
 master. But to ill-use my dear lit- 
 tle wife, it is unnatural, it is 
 monstrous, it makes my blood 
 boil." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! don't go into another. 
 It is all over. I can't bear to see 
 you in a passion ; you are so terri- 
 ble, so beautiful. Ah ! they are 
 fine things, courage and strength. 
 There is nothing I admire so 
 much." 
 
 " Why, they are as common as 
 dirt. What I admire is modesty, 
 timidity, sweetness ; the sensitive 
 cheek that pales or blushes at a word, 
 the bosom that quivers, and clings 
 to a fellow whenever any thing goes
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 47 
 
 " Oh, that is what you admire, is 
 it ? " said Rosa dryly. 
 
 " Admire it ? said Christopher, 
 not seeing the trap ; " I adore 
 it." 
 
 " Then, Christie dear, you arc a 
 simpleton : that is all. And we are 
 made for one another." 
 
 The house was to he furnished 
 and oeeupied as soon as possible ; so 
 Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Cole went to 
 another sale-room. Mrs. Staines re- 
 membered all Uncle Philip had said, 
 and went plainly dressed ; but her 
 friend declined to sacrifice her showy 
 dress to her friend's interests. Rosa 
 thought that a little unkind, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 In this auction-room they easily 
 got a place at the table: but they 
 did not find it heaven ; for a num- 
 ber of second-hand carpets were in 
 the sale, and these, brimful of dust, 
 were all shown on the table, and 
 the dirt choked and poisoned our 
 fair friends. Brokers pestered 
 them, until, at last, Rosa, smarting 
 under her late exposure, addressed 
 
 the auctioneer quietly, in her silvery 
 
 tones : " Sir, these gentlemen are 
 
 annoying me by forcing their services 
 on me. I do not intend to buy 
 
 at all unless I can be allowed to bid 
 
 for myself." 
 
 When Rosa, blushing and amazed 
 
 at her own boldness, uttered these 
 
 words, she little foresaw their effect. 
 
 She had touched a popular sore. 
 " You are right, madam," said a 
 
 respectable tradesman opposite her. 
 
 " What right have these dirty fellows, 
 
 without a shilling in their pocket, 
 
 to go and force themselves on a 
 
 lady against her will "? " 
 
 " It has been complained of in 
 
 the paj)crs again and again," said 
 
 another. 
 
 " What, mayn't we live as well as 
 
 you?" retorted a broker* 
 
 " Yes, but not to force yourself on 
 
 a lady. Why, she'd give you in 
 
 charge of the police if you tried it 
 
 on outside." 
 
 Then there was a downright clam- 
 mor of discussion and chaff. 
 
 Presently uprises very slowly a 
 countryman so colossal that it seem- 
 ed as if he never would have done 
 getting up, and gives his experien- 
 ces. He informed the company, in a 
 broad Yorkshire dialect, that he 
 did a bit in furniture, and at first 
 startiti": these brokers buzzed about 
 him like flies, and pestered him. 
 " Ah damned 'em pretty hard," 
 said he, " but they didn't heed any. 
 So then ah spoke 'em civil, and ah 
 said, ' Well, lads, ah dinna come fra 
 Yorkshire to sit like a dummy and 
 let you buy wi' my brass : the first 
 that pesters me again ah'll just fell 
 him on t' plaace, like a caulf, and 
 ah'm not very sure he'll get up 
 again in a hurry.' So they dropped 
 me like a hot potato ; "never pestered 
 me again. But if they won't give 
 over pestering you, mistress, ah'll 
 come round, and just stand behind 
 your chair, and bring neive with me," 
 showing a fist like a leg of mutton. 
 
 " No, no," said the auctioneer, 
 " that will not do. I will have no 
 disturbance here. Call the police- 
 man." 
 
 While the clerk went to the door 
 for the bobby, a gentleman reminded 
 the auctioneer that the journals had 
 repeatedly drawn attention to the 
 nuisance. 
 
 "Fault of the public, not mine, 
 sir. Policeman, stand behind that 
 lady's chair, and, if anybody annoys 
 her, put him quietly into the street." 
 "This auction-room will be to let 
 soon," said a voice at the end of the 
 table. 
 
 " This nuction-room," said the 
 auctioneer, master of the gay or 
 grave at a moment's notice, "is 
 supported by the public and the 
 trade; it is not supported by 
 paupers." 
 
 A Jew upholsterer put in his word. 
 " I do my own business ; but I like 
 to let a poor man live." 
 
 "Jonathan," said the auctioneer 
 to one of his servants, " after this
 
 48 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 sale you may put up the shutters ; 
 we have gone and offended Mr. 
 Jaeobs. He keeps a shop in Blind 
 Allev, Whitechapel. Now then, 
 Lot 69." 
 
 ltosa bid timidly for one or two 
 lots, and bought them cheap. 
 
 The auctioneer kept looking her 
 way, and she had only to nod. 
 
 The obnoxious broker got oppo- 
 site her, and ran her up a little out 
 of spite; but as he had only got 
 half a crown about him, and no 
 means of doubling it, he dared not 
 go far. 
 
 On the other side of the table was 
 a figure to which Rosa's eyes often 
 turned with interest : a fair young 
 boy about twelve years old ; he had 
 golden hair, and was in deep mourn- 
 ing. His appearance interested 
 Kosa, and she wondered how he 
 came there, and why : he looked 
 like a lamb wedged in among wolves, 
 a flower among weeds. As the lots 
 proceeded, the boy seemed to get 
 uneasy ; and at last, when Lot 73 
 was put up, anybody could see in 
 his poor little face that he was there 
 to bid for it. 
 
 " Lot 73, an arm-chair covered in 
 morocco. An excellent and most 
 useful article. Should not be at all 
 surprised if it was made by Gillow." 
 
 " Gillow would, though," said 
 Jacobs, who owed him a turn. 
 
 Chorus of dealers. — " Haw ! 
 haw ! " 
 
 The auctioneer. — "I like to hear 
 some people run a lot down ; shows 
 they are going to bid for it in ear- 
 nest. Well, name your own price. 
 Five pounds to begin ? " 
 
 Now, if nobody had spoken, the 
 auctioneer would have gone on, 
 " Well, four pounds then, three, 
 two, whatever you like," and at 
 last obtained a bona fide offer of 
 thirty shillings; but the moment 
 he said, " Five pounds to begin," 
 the boy in black lifted up his child- 
 ish treble, and bid thus, "Five 
 pound ten," — " six pounds," — 
 "six pound ten," — "seven pounds," 
 
 — " seven pound ten," — " eight 
 pouuds," — "eight pound ten," — 
 " nine pounds," — " nine pound 
 ten," — "ten pounds!" without 
 interruption, and indeed, almost in 
 a breath. 
 
 There was a momentary pause of 
 amazement, and then an outburst 
 of chaff. 
 
 " Nice little boy ! " 
 
 " Didn't he say his lesson well ? " 
 
 "Favor us with your card, sir. 
 You are a gent as knows how to 
 buy." 
 
 " What did he stop for 1 If it's 
 worth ten, it is worth a hundred." 
 
 " Bless the child ! " said a female 
 dealer kindly, " what made you go 
 on like that? Why, there was no 
 bid against you ! you'd have got it 
 for two pounds, — a rickety aid 
 thing." 
 
 Young master began to whimper. 
 " Why, the gentleman said, ' Five 
 pounds to bet/in.' It was the chair 
 poor grandpapa always sat in, and 
 all the things are sold, and mamma 
 said it would break her heart to loso 
 it. She was too ill to come, so she 
 sent me. She told me I was not to 
 let it be sold away from us for less 
 than ten pounds, or she sh — should 
 be m — m — miserable," and the 
 poor little fellow began to cry. Kosa 
 followed suit promptly but unobtru- 
 sively. 
 
 " Sentiment always costs money," 
 said Mr. Jacobs gravely. 
 
 " How do you know ? " asked Mr. 
 Cohen. " Have you got any on 
 hand "? I uever seen none at your 
 shop." 
 
 Some tempting things now came 
 up, and Mrs. Staines bid freely ; but 
 all of a sudden she looked down the 
 table, and there was Uncle Philip 
 twinkling as before. " Oh, dear ! 
 what am I doing now ? " thought 
 she. " I have got no broker." 
 
 She bid on, but in fear and trem- 
 bling because of those twinkling 
 eyes. At last she mustered cour- 
 age, wrote on a leaf of her pocket- 
 book, and passed it down to him.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 49 
 
 " It would be only kind to warn me. 
 What am I doing wrong 1 " 
 
 He sent her back a line directly : 
 "Auctioneer running you up him- 
 self. Follow his eye when he bids ; 
 you will see there is no bona Jide 
 bidder at your prices." 
 
 Rosa did so, aud found that it 
 was true. 
 
 She nodded to Uncle Philip ; and, 
 with her expressive face, asked him 
 what she should do. 
 
 The old boy must have his joke. 
 So he wrote back, " Tell him, as you 
 Bee he has a fancy for certain arti- 
 cles, you would not be so discourte- 
 ous as to bid against him." 
 
 The next article but one was a 
 drawing-room suit Rosa wanted ; 
 but the auctioneer bid against her; 
 so, at eighteen pounds, she stopped. 
 
 " It is against you, madam," said 
 the auctioneer. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Rosa ; " but as 
 yon are the only bidder, and you 
 have been so kind to me, I would 
 not think of opposing you." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of 
 her mouth when they were greeted 
 with a roar of Homeric laughter that 
 literally shook the room, and this 
 time not at the expense of the inno- 
 cent speaker. 
 
 " That's into your mutton, gov- 
 ernor." 
 
 " Sharp's the word this time." 
 
 " I say, governor, don't you want 
 a broker to bid for ye 1 " 
 
 " Wink at me next time, sir; I'll 
 do the oitice for you." 
 
 " No gri i 'idioms left now." 
 
 "That lady won't give a ten-pound 
 note for her grandfather's arm- 
 chair." 
 
 " Oh, yes, she will, if it's Stuffed 
 with bank-notes ! " 
 
 " Put the next lot up with the 
 owner's name aud the reserve price. 
 Open business." 
 
 " And sing a psalm at starting." 
 
 " A little less noise in Jud.ea, if 
 you please," said the auctioneer, 
 who had now recovered from the 
 blow. " Lot 97." 
 
 This was a very pretty marque- 
 terie cabinet ; it stood against the 
 wall, and Rosa had set her heart 
 upon it. Nobody would bid. She 
 had muzzled the auctioneer effectu- 
 ally. 
 
 " Your own price." 
 
 " Two pounds," said Rosa. 
 
 A dealer offered guineas, and it 
 advanced slowly to four pounds and 
 half a crown, at which it was about 
 to be knocked down to Rosa, when 
 suddenly a new bidder arose in the 
 broker Rosa had rejected. They 
 bid slowly and sturdily against each 
 other, until a line was given to Rosa 
 from Uncle Philip. 
 
 " This time it is your own friend, 
 the snipe-nosed woman. She tele- 
 graphed a broker." 
 
 Rosa read, and crushed the note. 
 " Six guineas," said she. 
 
 " Six-ten." 
 
 " Seven." 
 
 " Seven-ten." 
 
 "Eight." 
 
 " Eight-ten." 
 
 " Ten guineas," said Rosa ; and 
 then, with feminine cunning, steal- 
 ing a sudden glance, caught her 
 friend leaning back and signalling 
 the broker not to give in. 
 
 " Eleven pounds." 
 
 " Twelve. ' 
 
 " Thirteen." 
 
 "Fourteen." 
 
 " Sixteen." 
 
 " Eighteen." 
 
 "Twenty." 
 
 " Twenty guineas." 
 
 " It is yours, my faithful friend," 
 said Rosa, turning suddenly round 
 on Mrs. Cole with a magnificent 
 glance no one would have thought 
 her capable of. 
 
 Then she rose, and stalked away. 
 
 Duinfounilered )br the moment, 
 Mrs. Cole followed her, and stopped 
 her at the door. 
 
 " Why, Hosie dear, it is the only 
 thing I have bid for. There I've 
 sat by your side like a mouse." 
 
 Rosa turned gravely toward her. 
 " You know it is not that. You
 
 50 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 had only to tell me you wanted it. 
 I would never have been so mean as 
 to bid against you." 
 
 " Mean, indeed ! " said Florence, 
 tossing her head. 
 
 " Yes, mean ; to draw back and 
 hide behind the friend you were with, 
 and employ the very rogue she had 
 turned off. But it is my own fault. 
 Cecilia warned me against you. 
 She always said you were a treach- 
 erous girl." 
 
 " And I say you are an impudent 
 little minx. Only just married, and 
 going about like two vagabonds, 
 and talk to me like that ! " 
 
 " We are not going about like 
 two vagabonds. We have taken a 
 house in Mayfair." 
 
 " Say a stable." 
 
 " It was by your advice, you false- 
 hearted creature." 
 
 " You are a fool." 
 
 " You arc worse : you are a trait- 
 ress." 
 
 " Then don't you have any thing 
 to do with me." 
 
 " Heaven forbid I should. You 
 treacherous thing. " 
 
 " You insolent — insolent — I 
 hate you." 
 
 " And I despise you." 
 
 " I always hated you at bottom." 
 
 "That's why you pretended to 
 love me, you wretch." 
 
 " Well, I pretend no more. I am 
 your enemy for life. 
 
 " Thank you. You have told 
 the truth for once in your life." 
 
 "I have. And he shall never 
 call in your husband ; so you may 
 leave Mayfair as soon as you like." 
 
 " Not to please you, madam. We 
 can get on without traitors." 
 
 And so they parted, with eyes 
 that gleamed like tigers. 
 
 Rosa drove home in great agita- 
 tion, and tried to tell Christopher, 
 but choked, and became hysterical. 
 The husband physician coaxed and 
 and scolded her out of that; and 
 presently in came Uncle Philip, full 
 of the humors of the auction-room. 
 He told about the little boy with a 
 
 delight that disgusted Mrs. Staines ; 
 and then was particularly merry on 
 female friendships. " Fancy a man 
 going to a sale with his friend, and 
 bidding against him on the sly." 
 
 " She is no friend of mine. We 
 are enemies for life." 
 
 " And you were to be friends till 
 death," said Staines with a sigh. 
 
 Philip inquired who she was. 
 
 '• Mrs". John Cole." 
 
 " Not of Curzon Street 1 " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you have quarrelled with 
 her ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, but her husband is a 
 general practitioner." 
 
 " She is a traitress." 
 
 " But her husband could put a 
 good deal of money in Christopher's 
 way." 
 
 " I can't help it. She is a trait- 
 ress." 
 
 " And you have quarrelled with 
 her about an old wardrobe." 
 
 " No, for her disloyalty, and her 
 base good-for-nothingness. Oh ! oh ! 
 oh!" 
 
 Uncle Philip got up, looking sour. 
 " Good-afternoon, Mrs. Christo- 
 pher," said he very dryly. 
 
 Christopher accompanied him to 
 the foot of the stairs. 
 
 Wcll,Christopher," said he, " mat- 
 rimony is a blunder at the best ; 
 and you have not done the thing by 
 halves. You have married a simple- 
 ton. She will be your ruin." 
 
 " Uncle Philip, since you only 
 come here to insult us, I hope in 
 future you will stay at home." 
 
 " Oh ! with pleasure, sir. Good- 
 by." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Christopher Staines came back 
 looking pained and disturbed. 
 " There," said he, " I feared it would 
 come to this. I have quarrelled with 
 Uncle Philip." 
 
 "Oh ! how could you?"
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 51 
 
 " lie affronted me." 
 "What about?" 
 
 " Never you mind. Don't let us 
 say any thing more about it, darling. 
 It is a pity, a sad pity — he was a 
 good friend of mine once." 
 
 He paused, entered what had 
 passed in his diary, and then sat 
 down with a gentle expression of 
 sadness on his manly features. Rosa 
 hung about him, soft and pitying, 
 till it cleared away, at all events for 
 the time. 
 
 Next day they went together to 
 clear the goods Rosa had purchased. 
 While the list was being made out 
 in the office, in came the fair-haired 
 boy with a ten-pound note in his 
 very hand. Rosa caught sight of it, 
 and turned to the auctioneer with a 
 sweet, pitying face : " < )h ! sir, sure- 
 Iv you will not take all that money 
 from him, poor child, for a rickety 
 old chair." 
 
 The auctioneer stared with amaze- 
 ment at her simplicity, and said, 
 " What would the vendors say to 
 me ' " 
 
 She looked distressed, and said, 
 " Well, then, really we ought to 
 raise a subscription, poor thing ! " 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said the auction- 
 eer, "he i^n't hurt: the article be- 
 longed to his mother and her sister; 
 the brother-in-law isn't on good 
 terms; so he demanded a public 
 sale. She will get hack lour pun 
 ten out of it.'' Here the clerk put 
 in his word. "And there's five 
 pounds paid, I forgot to tell you." 
 
 "Oh! left a deposit, did he '." 
 
 " No, sir. Hut the Laughing Hy- 
 ena gave you five pounds at the end 
 of the sale." 
 
 " The Laughing Hyena, Mr. 
 Jones ' " 
 
 "Oh! beg pardon: that is what 
 
 we call him in the room. lie has 
 got such a curious laugh." 
 
 "Oh! 1 know the gent. He is a 
 
 retired doctor. I wish he'd laugh 
 
 uid buy more: and he gav< you 
 
 five pounds toward the young (jen- 
 
 tleman's arm chair ! Well, I should 
 
 as soon have expected blood from a 
 flint. You have got rive pounds to 
 pay, sir: so now the chair will cost 
 your mamma ten shillings. Give 
 him the order and the change, Mr. 
 Jones." 
 
 Christopher and Rosa talked this 
 over in the room while the men 
 were looking out their purchases. 
 " Come," said Rosa ; " now I for- 
 give him sneering at me: his heart 
 is not really hard, you see." Staines, 
 on the contrary, was very angry. 
 " What ! " he cried, " pity a hoy who 
 made one bad bargain, that, after all, 
 was not a very bad bargain ; ami he 
 had no kindness, nor even common 
 humanity, for my beautiful Rosa, in- 
 experienced as a child, and buying 
 for her husband, like a good, affec- 
 tionate, honest, creature, among a lot 
 of sharpers and hard-hearted cynics 
 
 — like himself." 
 
 " It was cruel of him," said Rosa, 
 altering her mind in a moment, and 
 half inclined to cry. 
 
 This made Christopher furious. 
 " The ill-natured, crotchety, old — 
 The fact is, he is a misogynist." 
 
 "Oh, the wretch!" said" Rosa 
 warmly. " And what is that ? " 
 
 " A woman-hater." 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ? Why, so do I 
 
 — after that Florence Cole. Wo- 
 men are mean, heartless things. 
 Give me men ! they are loyal and 
 true." 
 
 "All of them?" inquired Chris- 
 topher a little satirically. "Read 
 the papers:" 
 
 " Every soul of them," said Mrs. 
 Staines, passing loftily over the pro- 
 posed test. "That is, all the ones 
 / care about ; and that is my own, 
 own one." 
 
 Disagreeable creatures to havo 
 about one — these simpletons! 
 
 Mrs. Siaines took Christopher to 
 mops to buy the remaining requi- 
 sites: and in three days more the 
 house was furnished, two female ser- 
 vants engaged, and the couple took 
 their llf_"_ r a'_ r e over to the BijOU. 
 
 Ro a was excited and happy at
 
 '52 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 the novelty of possession and au- 
 thority, and that close sense of house 
 proprietorship which belongs to wo- 
 man. By dinner-time she could 
 have told you how many shelves 
 there were in every cupboard, and 
 knew the Bijou by heart in a way 
 that Christopher never knew it. All 
 this ended, as running- about and ex- 
 citement generally does, with my 
 lady being exhausted, and lax with 
 fatigue. So then he made her lie 
 down on a little couch, while he 
 went through his accounts. 
 
 When he had examined all the 
 bills carefully he looked very grave, 
 and said, " Who would believe this ? 
 We began with £3000. It was to 
 last us several years — till I got a 
 good practice. Rosa, there is oidy 
 £1440 left." Oh, impossible ! " said 
 llosa. " Oh dear ! why did I ever 
 enter a sale-room ? " 
 
 "No, no, my darling; you were 
 bitten once or twice, but you made 
 some good bargains too. Remem- 
 ber there was £400 set apart for my 
 life policy." 
 
 " What a waste of money ! " 
 
 " Your father did not think so. 
 Then the lease ; the premium ; re- 
 pairs of the drains that would have 
 poisoned my Rosa; turning the 
 coach-house into a dispensary; paint- 
 ing, papering and furnishing; china 
 and linen and every thing to buy. 
 We must look at this seriously. 
 Only £1440 left. A slow profes- 
 sion. No friends. I have quar- 
 relled with Uncle Philip : you with 
 Mrs. Cole; and her husband would 
 have launched me." 
 
 " And it was to please her we set- 
 tled here. Oh, I could kill her: 
 nasty cat ! " 
 
 " Never mind ; it is not a case for 
 despondency, but it is for prudence. 
 Ail we have to do is to look the thing 
 in the face, and be very economical 
 in every thing. I had better give 
 you an allowance for housekeeping ; 
 and I earnestly beg you to buy things 
 yourself while you are a poor man's 
 wife, and pay ready money for every 
 
 thing. My mother was a great 
 manager, and she always said, 
 ' There is but one way ; be your own 
 market-woman, and pay on the 
 spot ; never let the tradesmen get 
 you on their books, or what with 
 false weight, double charges, and 
 the things your servants order that 
 never enter the house, you lose more 
 than a hundred a year by cheat- 
 ing.' " 
 
 Rosa yielded a languid assent to 
 this part of his discourse, and it 
 hardly seemed to enter her mind ; 
 but she raised no objection, and in 
 due course he made her a special al- 
 lowance for housekeeping. 
 
 It soon transpired that medical 
 advice was to be had gratis at the 
 Bijou from eight till ten, and there 
 was generally a good attendance. 
 But a week passed, and not one pa- 
 tient came of the class this couple 
 must live by. Christopher set this 
 down to what people call the " Tran- 
 sition period : " his Kent patients 
 had lost him ; his London patients 
 not found him. He wrote to all his 
 patients in the country, and many 
 of his pupils at the university, to let 
 them know where he was settled ■ 
 and then he waited. 
 
 Not a creature came. 
 
 Rosa bore this very well for a 
 time, so long as the house was a 
 novelty ; but, when that excitement 
 was worn out, she began to be very 
 dull, and used to come and entice 
 him out to walk with her : he would 
 look wistfully at her, but object that 
 if he left the house he should be 
 sure to lose a patient. 
 
 " Oh, they won't come any more for 
 our staying in — tiresome things ! " 
 said Rosa. 
 
 But Christopher would kiss her, 
 and remain firm, " My love," said 
 he, " you do not realize how hard a 
 fight there is before us. How should 
 you 1 You are very young. No, 
 for your sake, I must not throw a 
 chance away. Write to your female 
 friends : that will while away an 
 hour or two."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 53 
 
 "What, after that Florence 
 Cole ? " 
 
 " Write to those who have not 
 made such violent professions." 
 
 " 80 I will, dear. Especially to 
 those that are married and come to 
 London. Oh, and I'll write to that 
 cold blooded th'ng, Lady Cicely Tre- 
 herne ! Why do you shake your 
 head % " 
 
 " Did I ? I was not aware. Well, 
 dear, if ladies of rank were to come 
 here, I fear they might make you 
 discontented with your lot." 
 
 " All the women on earth could 
 not do that. However, the chances 
 are she will not come near me ; she 
 left the school quite a big girl, an 
 immense girl, when I was only 
 twelve. She used to smile at my 
 capriceios, and once she kissed me 
 — actually. She was an awful 
 Sawney, though, and so aflected. I 
 think I will write to her." 
 
 These letters brought just one 
 lady, a .Mrs. Turner, who talked to 
 Rosa very glibly about herself, and 
 amused Rosa twice : at the third 
 visit Rosa tried to change the con- 
 versation. Mrs. Turner instantly 
 got up and went away. She could 
 not bear the sound of the human 
 voice, unless it was talking about 
 her and her affairs. 
 
 And now Staines began to feel 
 downright uneasy. Income was 
 steadily going out : not a shilling 
 coming in. The lame, the blind, 
 and the sick frequented bis dispen- 
 sary, ami got his skill out of him 
 gratis, and sometimes a little physic, 
 a little wine, and other things that 
 cost him money : but of the patients 
 that pay, not one came to bis front- 
 door. 
 
 He walked round and round his 
 little yard, like a hyena in its cage, 
 waiting, waiting, waiting : and oh ! 
 how be envied the lot of those who 
 
 can hunt for work, instead of hav- 
 ing to stay at home, and wait for 
 others to come, whose will they can 
 not influence. Hi> liearl began to 
 sicken with hope deferred and dim 
 
 5* 
 
 forebodings of the future; and he 
 saw, with grief, that his wile was 
 getting duller and duller, and that 
 her days dragged more heavily far 
 than his own ; for he could study. 
 
 At last his knocker began to show 
 signs of life : his visitors were phy- 
 sicians. His lectures on "Diagno- 
 sis " were well known to them ; and 
 one after another found him out. 
 They were polite, kind, even friend- 
 ly; but here it ended: these gentle- 
 men, of course, did not resign their 
 patients to him ; and the inferior 
 class of practitioners avoided his 
 door like a pestilence. 
 
 Mrs. Staines, who had always 
 lived for amusement, could strike 
 out no fixed occupation ; her time 
 hung like lead ; the house was small ; 
 and in small houses the faults of 
 servants ran against the mistress, 
 and she can't help seeing them, and 
 all the worse for her. It is easier to 
 keep things clean in the country, 
 and Rosa had a high standard, which 
 her two servants could never quite 
 attain. This annoyed her, and she 
 began to scold a little. They an- 
 swered civilly, but, in other re- 
 spects, remained imperfect beings : 
 they laid out every shilling they 
 earned in finery ; and this, I am 
 ashamed to say, irritated Mrs. 
 Staines, who was wearing out her 
 wedding garments, and had no ex- 
 cuse for buying] and Staines bad 
 be<nj'ed her to be economical. Tho- 
 rn ore they dressed, the more she 
 scolded ; they began to answer. Shu 
 gave the cook warning; the other, 
 though not on good terms with the 
 cook, had a gush of rs/nit (In corps 
 directly, and gave Mrs. Staines 
 warning. 
 
 Mis Staines told her husband all 
 this: be took her part, though with- 
 out openly interfering ; and they bad 
 two new servants, not as good as the 
 last. 
 
 This worried Rosa sadly; but it 
 was a flea-bite to the deeper nature 
 and more forecasting mind of lu r 
 husband, still doomed 10 pace that
 
 m 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 miserable yard, like a hyena, chafing, 
 Becking, longing for the patient that 
 never came. 
 
 Rosa used to look out of his dress- 
 ing-room window, and see him pace 
 the yard. At first tears of pity 
 stood in her eyes. By and by she 
 got angry with the world ; and at 
 last, strange to say, a little irritated 
 with him. It is hard for a weak 
 woman to keep up all her respect for 
 the man that fails. 
 
 One day, after watching him a 
 long time unseen, she got excited, 
 put on her shawl and bonnet, and 
 ran down to him. She took him by 
 the arm : " If you love me, come 
 out of this prison, and walk with 
 me ; we are too miserable. I shall 
 be your first patient if this goes on 
 much longer." He looked at her, 
 saw she was very excited, and had 
 better be humored ; so he kissed her, 
 and just said, with a melancholy 
 smile, " How poor are they that 
 have not patience ! " Then lie put 
 on his hat, and walked in the Park 
 and Kensington Gardens with her. 
 The season was just beginning. 
 There were carriages enough, and 
 gay Amazons enough, to make poor 
 Kosa sigh more than once. 
 
 Christopher heard the sigh, and 
 pressed her arm, and said, " Cour- 
 age, love : I hope to see you among 
 them yet." 
 
 " The sooner the better," said she 
 a little hardly. 
 
 "And, meantime, which of them 
 all is as beautiful as you 1 " 
 
 "All I know is, they are more at- 
 tractive. Who looks at me ? walk- 
 ing tamely by." 
 
 Christopher said nothing : but 
 these words seemed to imply a thirst 
 for admiration, and made him a 
 little uneasy. 
 
 By and by the walk put the swift- 
 changing Rosa in spirits, and she 
 began to chat gayly, and hung prat- 
 tling and beaming on her husband's 
 arm, when they entered Curzon 
 Street. Here, however, occurred 
 an incident, trifling in itself, but un- 
 
 pleasant. Dr. Staines saw one of 
 his best Kentish patients get feebly 
 out of his carriage, and call on Dr. 
 Bar. He started, and stopped. 
 Kosa asked what was the matter. 
 He told her. She said, " We are 
 unfortunate." 
 
 Staines said nothing; he only 
 quickened his pace, but he was 
 greatly disturbed. She expected him 
 to complain that she had dragged 
 him out, and lost him that first 
 chance. But he said nothing. 
 When they got home he asked the 
 servant had anybody called. 
 
 " No, Sir." 
 
 " Surely you are mistaken, Jane. 
 A gentleman in a carriage ! " 
 
 " Not a creature have been since 
 you went out, sir." 
 
 "Well, then, dearest," said he 
 sweetly, "we have nothing to re- 
 proach ourselves with." Then he 
 knit his brow gloomily. "It is worse 
 than I thought. It seems even one's 
 country patients go to another doc- 
 tor when they visit London. It is 
 hard. It is hard." 
 
 Rosa leaned her head on his shoul- 
 der, and curled round him, as one 
 she would shield against the world's 
 injustice; but she said nothing; 
 she was a little frightened at his eye 
 that lowered, and his noble frame 
 that trembled a little, with ire sup- 
 pressed. 
 
 Two days after this a brougham 
 drove up to the door, and a tallish, 
 fattish, pasty-faced man got out, and 
 incpiircd for Dr. Staines. 
 
 He was shown into the dining- 
 room, and told Jane he had come to 
 consn.t the doctor. 
 
 Rosa had peeped over the stairs, 
 all curiosity ; she glided noiselessly 
 down, and with love's swift foot gol 
 into the yard before Jane. " He is 
 come! he is come! Kiss me." 
 
 Dr. Staines kissed her first, and 
 then asked who was come. 
 
 " Oh, nobody of any consequence ! 
 Only the first patient. Kiss me 
 again." 
 
 Dr. Staines kissed her again, and
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 55 
 
 then was for going to the first pa- 
 tient. 
 
 " No," said she ; " not yet. I met 
 a doctor's wife at Dr. Mayne's, and 
 she told me things. Yon must al- 
 ways keen them waiting, or else 
 they think nothing of you. Such a 
 funny woman! 'Treat 'em like 
 dogs, my dear,' she said. But I told 
 her they wouldn't come to be treated 
 like dogs or any other animal." 
 
 " You had better have kept that 
 to yourself, I think." 
 
 •' Oh ! if you are going to be dis- 
 agreeable, good-by. You can go to 
 your patient, sir. Christie dear, if 
 he is very, very ill — and I'm sure I 
 hope he is — oh, how wicked I am ! 
 
 — may I have a new bonnet? " 
 " If you really want one." 
 
 On the patient's card was "Mr. 
 Pettigrew, 47 Manchester Square." 
 
 As soon as Staines entered the 
 room the first patient told him who 
 and what he was, a retired civilian 
 from India; but he had got a son 
 there still, a very rising man ; want- 
 ed to be a parson, but he would not 
 stand that : bad profession ; don't 
 rise by merit ; very hard to rise at 
 all — no, India was the place. " As 
 lor me, I made my fortune there in 
 ten years. Obliged to leave it now 
 
 — invalid this many years; no 
 tone. Tried two or three doctors in 
 this neighborhood ; heard there was 
 a new one, had written a book on 
 something. Thought I would try 
 him." 
 
 To stop him, Staines requested to 
 feel his pulse, and examine his 
 
 tongue atld eye. 
 
 " You are suffering from indiges- 
 tion," said he. "I will write you 
 a prescription ; but, if you want to 
 gel well, you must simplify your 
 diet very much." 
 
 While he was writing the pre- 
 scription, olf went this patient's 
 
 tongue, and ran through the topics 
 ol th • day, and into his family his- 
 tory again. 
 
 StainCS listened politely. lie 
 
 could afford it, having only thif one-. 
 
 At last the first patient, having 
 delivered an octavo volume of noth- 
 ing, rose to go ; but it seems that 
 speaking an infinite deal of noth- 
 ing exhausts the body, though 
 it does not att'ect the mind ; for the 
 first patient sank down in his chair 
 again. " I have excited myself too 
 much — feel rather faint." 
 
 Staines saw no signs of coming 
 syncope; he rang the bell quietly, 
 and ordered a decanter of sherry to 
 be brought; the first patient filled 
 himself a glass; then another; 
 and went off, revived, to chatter 
 elsewhere. But at the door he said, 
 " I had always a running account 
 with Dr. Mivar. I suppose you 
 don't object to that system. Dou- 
 ble fee the first visit, single after- 
 ward." 
 
 Dr. Staines bowed a little stiffly; 
 he would have preferred the money. 
 However, he looked at the Blue- 
 Book, and lbtmd his visitor lived at 
 47 Manchester Square ; so that re- 
 moved his anxiety. 
 
 The first patient called every other 
 day, chattered nineteen to the dozen, 
 was exhausted, drank two glasses of 
 sherry, and drove away. 
 
 Soon after this a second patient 
 called. This one was a deputy pa- 
 tient — Collett, a retired butler — 
 kept a lodging-house, and waited at 
 parties; he lived close by, but had 
 a married daughter in Chelsea. 
 Would the doctor visit her, and he 
 would lie responsible ? 
 
 Staines paid the woman a visit or 
 two, and treated her so effectually 
 
 thai Boon hervisits were paid to 
 
 him. She was cured, and Staines, 
 who by this time wanted to see 
 
 money, sent to Collett. 
 
 Collett did not answer. 
 Staines wrote warmly. 
 Colletl dead silent. 
 Staines employed a solicitor. 
 
 < lollett said he. had recommended 
 
 the patient, that was all; he had 
 never said he would pay her debts. 
 That was her husband's business. 
 Now, her husband was the mate
 
 m 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 of a ship ; would not be in England 
 for eighteen months. 
 
 The woman, visited by lawyer's 
 clerk, cried bitterly, and said she 
 and her children had scarcely 
 enough to eat. 
 
 Lawyer advised Staines to aban- 
 don the case, and pay him two 
 pounds fifteen shillings, expenses. 
 He did so. 
 
 " This is damnable," said he. " I 
 must get it out of Pettigrew : by 
 the by, he has not been here this two 
 days." 
 
 He waited another day for Petti- 
 grew, and then wrote to him. No 
 answer. Called. Pettigrew gone 
 abroad. House in Manchester 
 Square to let. 
 
 Staines went to the house-agent 
 with his tale. Agent was impene- 
 trable at first, but at last, won by 
 the doctor's manner and his unhap- 
 piness, referred him to Pettigrew's 
 solicitor; the solicitor was a respect- 
 able man, and said he would for- 
 ward the claim to Pettigrew in 
 Paris. 
 
 But by this time Pettigrew was 
 chatting and guzzling in Berlin ; 
 and thence he got to St. Petersburg. 
 In that stronghold of gluttony he 
 gormandized more than ever, and, 
 being unable to chatter it off the 
 stomach, as in other cities, had apo- 
 plexy, and died. 
 
 But, long before this, Staines saw 
 his money was as irrecoverable as 
 his sherry; and he said to Rosa. "I 
 wonder whether I shall ever live to 
 curse the human race ? 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" said Rosa. 
 " Oh ! they use you cruelly, my poor, 
 poor Christie'? " 
 
 Thus for months the young doc- 
 tor's patients bled him, and that 
 was all. 
 
 And Rosa got more and more 
 moped at being in the house so 
 touch, and pestered Christopher to 
 take her out, and he declined ; and, 
 being a man bard to beat, took to 
 writing on medical subjects, in 
 hopes of getting seme money from 
 
 the various medical and scientific 
 publications ; but he found it as 
 hard to get the wedge in there as to 
 get patients. 
 
 At last Rosa's remonstrance be- 
 gan to rise into something that 
 sounded like reproaches. One Sun- 
 day she came to him in her bonnet, 
 and interrupted his studies to say he 
 miglft as well lay down the pen and 
 talk. Nobody would publish any 
 tiling he wrote. 
 
 Christopher frowned, but con- 
 tained himself; and laid down the 
 pen. 
 
 " I might as well not be married 
 at all as to be a doctor's wife. You 
 are never seen out with me, not 
 even to church. Do behave like a 
 Christian, and come to church with 
 me now." 
 
 Dr. Staines shook his head. 
 
 " Why, I wouldn't miss church 
 for all the world. Any excitement 
 is better than always moping. 
 Come over the water with me. 
 The time Jane and I went, the cler- 
 gyman read a paper that Mr. Brown 
 had fallen down in a fit. There 
 was such a rush directly, and I'm 
 sure fifty ladies went out — fancy, 
 all Mrs. Browns! Wasn't that 
 fun ? " 
 
 " Fun ? I don't sec it. W T cll, 
 Rosa, your mind is evidently better 
 adapted to diversion than mine is. 
 Go you to church, love; and I'll 
 continue my studies." 
 
 " Then all I can say is, I wish I 
 was back in my father's house. 
 Husband! friend! companion! — 
 I have none." 
 
 Then she burst out crying vio- 
 lently ; and being shocked at what 
 she had said, and at the agony it 
 had brought into her husband's lace, 
 she went off into hysterics; and as 
 his heart wotdd not let him bellow 
 at her, or empty a bucket on her as 
 he could on another patient, she had 
 a good long bout of them, and got 
 her way ; for she broke up his stud- 
 ies for that day, at all events. 
 
 Even after the hysterics were got
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 57 
 
 under, she continued to moan and 
 sigh very prettily, with her lovely, 
 languid head pillowed on her hus- 
 band's arm; in a word, though the 
 hysterics were real, yet this inno- 
 cent young person had the presence 
 of mind to postpone entire convales- 
 cence, and lay herself out to be 
 petted all day. But fate willed it 
 otherwise. While she was sighing 
 and moaning, came to the door a 
 scurrying of feet, and then a sharp, 
 persistent ringing that meant some- 
 thing. The moaner cocked eve and 
 car, and said, in her c very-day 
 voice, which, coming so suddenly, 
 sounded very droll, " What is that, 
 1 wonder ? " 
 
 Jane hurried to the street-door, and 
 Rosa recovered by magic; and, pre- 
 ferring gossip to hysterics, in an al- 
 most gleeful whisper ordered Chris- 
 topher to open the door of the study 
 The Bijou was so small that the 
 following dialogue rang in their 
 ears : — 
 
 A boy in buttons gasped out, 
 " Oh ! if you please, will you ast the 
 doctor to come round directly? 
 there's a haecident." 
 
 " La, bless me ! " said Jane ; and 
 never budged. 
 
 " Yes, miss. It's our missus's 
 little girl fallen right off an i chair, 
 and cut her head dreadful, and 
 smothered in blood." 
 
 " La, to be sure ! " Ami she wait- 
 ed steadily for more. 
 
 " Ay, and nii>>us she fainted 
 right olf ; and I've been to the reg- 
 ler doctor, which he's out ; and 
 Sarah, the house-maid, said I had 
 better come here : you was only 
 just gel up, she said ; you wouldn't 
 have mi much to do, says she." 
 
 " That is all the knows," said 
 .lane. " Why, our master they 
 nulla him in pieces which is to have 
 him fust." 
 
 " What an awful liar! " " Oh, 
 you good girl ! " whispered Dr. 
 Staines and Rosa in one breath. 
 
 " Ah, well ! " Buid Buttons, "any 
 way, Sarah says she knows you are 
 
 clever, cos her little girl as lives 
 with her mother, and calls Sarah 
 aunt, has bin to your 'spensary 
 with ringworm, and you cured 
 her right off." 
 
 " Ay, and a good many more," said 
 Jane loftily. She was a house- 
 maid of imagination ; and while 
 Staines was putting some lint and 
 an instrument into his pocket, she 
 proceeded to relate a number of 
 miraculous cures. Doctor Staines 
 interrupted them by suddenly 
 emerging, and inviting Buttons to 
 take him to the house. 
 
 Mrs. Staines was so pleased with 
 Jane for cracking up the doctor, 
 that she gave her five shillings ; and 
 alter that used to talk to her a 
 great deal more than to the cook, 
 which in due course set all three by 
 the ears. 
 
 Buttons took the doctor to a fine 
 house in the same street, and told 
 him his mistress's name on the way, 
 — Mrs. Lucas. He was taken up 
 to the nursery, and found Mrs. 
 Lucas seated, crying and lament- 
 ing, and a woman holding a little 
 girl of about seven, whose brow had 
 been cut ojxm by the tender, on 
 which she had fallen from a chair ; 
 it looked very ugly, and was even 
 now bleeding. 
 
 Dr. Staines lost no time; he ex- 
 amined the wound keenly, and then 
 said kindly to Mrs. Lueas, " 1 am 
 happy to tell you it is not serious." 
 lie then asked for a large basin and 
 some tepid water, and bathed it so 
 softly and soothingly that the child 
 
 soon became composed ; and the 
 mother discovered the artist at once. 
 He compressed the wound, and ex- 
 plained to Mis. Lucas that the prin- 
 cipal thing really was to avoid an 
 Ugly scar. "There is no danger," 
 said he. He then bound the wound 
 neatly up, and had the girl put to 
 lied. " Von will not wake her at 
 any particular hour, nurse. Let 
 her sleep. Have a little Btrong 
 beef tea remly, and give it her at 
 any hour, night or day, she asks lor
 
 5S 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 it. But do not force it on her, or 
 you will do her more barm than 
 good. She had better sleep before 
 she eats." 
 
 Mrs. Lucas begged him to come 
 every morning ; and, as he was go- 
 ing, she shook bands with him, and 
 the soft palm deposited a hard sub- 
 stance wrapped in paper. He took 
 it with professional gravity and 
 seeming unconsciousness; but, once 
 outside the house, went home on 
 wings. He ran up to the drawing- 
 room, and found his wife seated, 
 and playing at reading. He threw 
 himself on his knees, and the fee 
 into her lap ; and, while she unfolded 
 the paper with an ejaculation of 
 pleasure, he said, " Darling, the 
 first real patient — the first real fee. 
 It is yours to buy the new bonnet." 
 "Ob, I'm so glad!" said she, 
 with her eves glistening. '' But I'm 
 afraid one can't get a bonnet fit to 
 wear — for a guinea." 
 
 Dr. Staines visited his little pa- 
 tient every day, and received his 
 guinea. Mrs. Lucas also called him 
 in for her own little ailments, and 
 they were the best possible kind of 
 ailments : being almost imaginary, 
 there was no limit to them. 
 
 Then did Mrs. Staines turn jealous 
 of her husband. " They never ask 
 me," said she ; " and I am moped to 
 death." 
 
 " It is hard," said Christopher 
 sadly. " But have a little patience. 
 Society will come to you long before 
 practice comes to me." 
 
 About two o'clock one afternoon 
 a carriage and pair drove up, and a 
 gorgeous footman delivered a card, 
 " Lady Ciceiy Treherne." 
 
 Of course Mrs. Staines was at 
 home, and only withheld by propri- 
 ety from bounding into the passage 
 to meet her school-fellow. However, 
 she composed herself in the drawing- 
 room ; and presently the door was 
 opened, and a very tall young wo- 
 man, richly but not gayly dressed, 
 drifted into the room, and stood 
 there a statue of composure. 
 
 Rosa had risen to fly to her ; but 
 the reverence a girl of eighteen 
 strikes into a child of twelve hung 
 about her still ; and she came timid- 
 ly forward, blushing and sparkling, 
 a curious contrast in color and 
 mind to her visitor; for Lady 
 Cicely was Languor in person — 
 her hair white-brown, her face a 
 fincoval, but almost colorless; her 
 eyes a pale gray, her neck and hands 
 incomparably white and beautiful — 
 a lymphatic young lady, a live anti- 
 dote to emotion. However, Rosa's 
 beauty, timidity, and undisguised 
 atfeetionateuess were something so 
 different from what she was used to 
 in the world of fashion that she ac- 
 tually smiled, and held out both her 
 hands a little way. Eosa seized 
 them and pressed them ; they let 
 her, and remained passive and 
 limp. 
 
 "0 Lady Cicely!" said Eosa, 
 "how kind of you to come ! " 
 
 "How kind of yon to send to 
 me," was the polite but perfectly 
 cool reply. " But how you are 
 gwown, and — may I say impwoved ? 
 — you la petite Lusignan ! It is 
 incwediblc," lisped her ladyship 
 very calmly. 
 
 " I was only a child," said Eosa. 
 " You were always so beautiful and 
 tall, and kind to a little monkey 
 like me. Oh, pray sit down, Lady 
 Cicely, and talk of old times." 
 
 She drew her gently to the sofa, 
 and they sat down hand in hand; 
 but Lady Cicely's high-bred reserve 
 made her a very poor gossip al >out 
 any thing that touched herself and 
 her family; so Eosa, though no 
 egotist, was drawn into talking 
 about herself more than she would 
 have done had she deliberately 
 planned the conversation. But 
 here was an old school-fellow, and a 
 singularly polite listener ; and so 
 out came her love, her genuine hap- 
 piness, her particular griefs, and es- 
 pecially the crowning grievance, no 
 society, moped to death, &c. 
 Lady Cicely could hardly under-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 59 
 
 stand the sentiment in a woman 
 who so evidently loved her husband. 
 " Society ! " said she, after due re- 
 flection, '' why, it is a DDa." (And 
 here I may as well explain that 
 Lady Cicely spoke certain words 
 falsely, and odiers allectedly ; and 
 as for the letter r, she could say it 
 if she made a hearty effort, but was 
 generally too lazy to throw her leg 
 over it.) "Society! I'mdwenched 
 to death with it. If I could only 
 catch fiah like other women, and 
 love somebody, I would rather have 
 a tete-a tile with him, than to go 
 teawing about all day and all night, 
 from one unintwisting cwowd to 
 another. To be sure," said she, 
 puzzling the matter out, " you are 
 a beauty, and would be more looked 
 at." 
 
 " The idea ! anri, — oh, no ! no ! it 
 is not that. But even in the coun- 
 try we had always some society." 
 
 " Well, dyali believe me, with 
 your appeawanee, you can have as 
 much society as you please ; but it 
 will boa you to death, as it does me, 
 and then you will long to be left 
 quiet with a sensible man who loves 
 you." 
 
 Said Eosa, " When shall I have 
 another tetp-a tete witli yo'i, I won- 
 der i oh, it lias been such a com- 
 fort to me ! Bless you for coining. 
 There — I wrote to Cecilia, and 
 Emily, and .Mr-. Hosanquest that i< 
 now, and all my sworn friends, and 
 to think of you being the one to 
 come, — you that never kissed me 
 but once, ami an earl's daughter 
 into the bargain." 
 
 " Ha! ha! ha! " Lady Cicely 
 actually laughed for one" in a way, 
 and she did not lee! the effort. ' As 
 for kissing," said she, " if I fall 
 shawt, fawgive me. I was nevaa 
 
 vewy demonstrative." 
 
 "No; ami I have had a lesson. 
 That Florence Cole — Florence 
 Whiting that was, you know — was 
 always kissing me, and she has 
 turned out a traitor. I'll I'll you 
 all about her." Ami she did. 
 
 Lady Cicely thought Mrs. Staines 
 a little too unreserved in her con- 
 versation, but was so charmed with 
 her sweetness and freshness that she 
 kept up the acquaintance, and called 
 on her twice a week during the sea- 
 son. At first she wondered that In r 
 visits were not returned ; but Rosa 
 let out that she was ashamed to 
 call on loot in Grosvenor Square. 
 
 Lady Cicely shrugged her beauti- 
 ful shoulders a little at that ; but 
 she continued to do the visiting, 
 and to enjoy the simple, innocent rap- 
 ture with which she was receiv- 
 ed. 
 
 This lady's pronunciation of many 
 words was false or affected. She 
 said " good-murning " for "good- 
 morning," and turned other vowels 
 into diphthongs, and played two or 
 three pranks with her "r's." But 
 we cannot be all imperfection : 
 with her pronunciation her folly 
 came to a full stop. I really be- 
 lieve she lisped less nonsense and 
 bad taste in a year, than some of us 
 articulate in a clay. To be sure, 
 folly is generally uttered in a hurry, 
 and she was too deplorably la/.y 
 to speak fast on any occasion what- 
 ever. 
 
 < me day Mrs. Staines took her up 
 stairs, and showed her from the 
 back window her husband pacing 
 the yard wailing for patients. Lady 
 Cicely folded her arms, and contem- 
 plated him at first with a sort of zo- 
 ological curiosity. Gentleman pa- 
 cing back yard like hyena she had 
 never seen before. 
 
 At last she opened her mouth in a 
 whisper, " What is he doing ! " 
 
 " Waiting lor patients." 
 " Oli ! Waiting— for— patients 1 " 
 "For patients thai never come, 
 and never will come." 
 
 " Cuwious ! — How little I know 
 
 Of life!" 
 
 " It is that all day, dear, or else 
 writing " 
 
 Lady Cicely, with her eyes fixed 
 on Staines, made a motion with her 
 band thai she was attending.
 
 CO 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " And they won't publish a word 
 he writes." 
 
 " Poor man ! " 
 
 " Nice for me, is it not ? " 
 
 " I begin to understand," said 
 Lady Cicely quietly, and soon after 
 retired with her invariable compo- 
 sure. 
 
 Meantime Dr. Staines, like a good 
 husband, had thrown out occasional 
 hints to Mrs. Lucas that he had a 
 wife, beautiful, accomplished, moped. 
 More than that, he went so far as to 
 regret to her that Mrs. Staines, be- 
 ing in a neighborhood new to him, 
 saw so little society ; the more so as 
 she was formed to shine, and had 
 not been used to seclusion. 
 
 All these hints fell dead on Mrs. 
 Lucas. A handsome and skilful 
 doctor was welcome to her : his 
 wife — that was quite another mat- 
 ter. 
 
 But one day Mrs. Lucas saw Lady 
 Cicely Trehcrne's carriage standing 
 at the door. The style of the whole 
 turn-out impressed her. She won- 
 dered whose it was. 
 
 On another occasion she saw it 
 drive up, and the lady get out. She 
 recognized her; and the very next 
 day this parvenus said adroitly, 
 " Now, Dr. Staines, really you can't 
 t)2 allowed to hide your wife in this 
 way." (Staines stared.) "Why 
 not introduce her to me next Wednes- 
 day ? It is my night. I would give 
 a dinner expressly for her, but I 
 don't like to do that while my hus- 
 band is in Naples." 
 
 When Staines carried the invita- 
 tion to his wife she was delighted, 
 and kissed him with childish frank- 
 ness. 
 
 But the very next moment she 
 became thoughtful, uneasy, de- 
 pressed. " Oh, dear ! I've nothing 
 to wear." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Rosa ! Your 
 wedding outfit." 
 
 " The idea ! I can't go as a 
 bride. It's not a masquerade." 
 
 " But you have other dresses." 
 
 "All j£one by, more or less; or 
 
 not fit for such parties as site gives. 
 A hundred carriages ! " 
 
 " Bring them down, and let me see 
 them." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" And the lady who 
 had nothing to wear paraded a very 
 fair show of dresses. 
 
 Staines saw something to admire 
 in all of them " Mrs. Staines found 
 more to object to in each. 
 
 At last he fell upon a silver-gray 
 silk, of superlative quality. 
 
 " That ! It is as old as the 
 hills," shrieked Rosa. 
 
 "It looks just out of the shop. 
 Come, tell the truth : how often 
 have you worn it 1 " 
 
 "I wore it before I was mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Ay, but how often 1 " 
 
 " Twice. Three times, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " I thought so. It is as good as 
 new." 
 
 " But I have had it so long by 
 me. I had it two years bclbre I 
 made it up." 
 
 " What does that matter ? Do 
 you think the people can tell how 
 long a dress has been lurking in 
 your wardrobe 1 This is childish, 
 Rosa. There, with that dress as 
 good as new, and your beauty, you 
 will be as much admired, and per- 
 haps hated, as your heart can de- 
 sire." 
 
 "I am afraid not," said Rosa 
 naively. "Oh, how I wish I had 
 known a week ago ! " 
 
 " I am very thankful you did not," 
 said Staines dryly. 
 
 At ten o'clock Mrs. Staines was 
 nearly dressed ; at quarter past ten 
 she demanded ten minutes ; at half 
 past ten she sought a reprieve ; at 
 a quarter to eleven, being assured 
 that the street was full of carriages 
 which had put down at Mrs. Lucas's 
 she consented to emerge ; and in a 
 minute they were at the house. 
 
 They were shown first into a cloak- 
 room, and then into a tea-room, and 
 then mounted the stairs. One ser-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 61 
 
 vant took their names, and bawled 
 them out to another four yards off, 
 he to another about as near, and so 
 on ; and they edged themselves into 
 the room, not yet too crowded to 
 move in. 
 
 They had not taken many steps, 
 on the chance of finding their hos- 
 tess, when a slight buzz arose, and 
 seemed to follow them. 
 
 Rosa wondered what that was, 
 but only for a moment ; she observed 
 a tall, stout, aquiline woman fix an 
 eye of bitter, diabolical, malignant 
 hatred on her ; and, as she advanced 
 ugly noses were cocked disdainfully, 
 and scraggy shoulders elevated at 
 the risk of sending the bones through 
 the leather, and a titter or two shot 
 after her. A woman's instinct gave 
 her the key at once ; the sexes had 
 complimented her at sight, each in 
 its way — the men with respectful 
 admiration, and the women with 
 their inflammable jealousy, and ready 
 hatred in another of the quality 
 they value most in themselves. But 
 the country girl w is too many for 
 them : lor she would neither sec nor 
 h ar, but moved sedately on, and 
 calmly crushed them with her south- 
 ern beauty. Their dry powdered 
 faces would not live by the side of 
 her glowing skin, with Nature's del- 
 icate gloss upon it, and the rich blood 
 mantling below it. The got-up 
 beauties — >'. c, the majority — 
 seemed literally to fade and wither as 
 she passed. 
 
 Mrs. Lucas got to her, suppressed 
 a slight maternal pang, having 
 daughters to marry, and took her 
 line in a moment ■ here was a de- 
 coy-duck. Mrs. Lucas was all gra- 
 ciousness, made acquaintance, and 
 took a little turn with her, introdu- 
 cing her to one or two persons; 
 among the rest, to the malignant 
 woman, Mrs. Barr. Mrs. Barr, on 
 this, ceased to look daggers, and 
 substituted icicles; hut, on the hate- 
 ful beauty moving away, dropped 
 the icicles, and resumed the poniards. 
 
 The rooms filled ; the beat bc- 
 
 I) 
 
 came oppressive, and the mixed 
 odors of flowers, scents, and per- 
 spiring humanity, sickening. Some, 
 unable to bear it, trickled out of the 
 room, and sat all down the stairs. 
 
 llosa began to feel faint. Up 
 came a tall, sprightly girl, whose 
 pertness was redeemed by a certain 
 bonhomie, and said, "Mrs. Staines, 
 I believe ? I am to make myself 
 agreeable to you. That is the or- 
 der from head-quarters." 
 
 " Miss Lucas," said Staines. 
 
 She jerked a little off-hand bow 
 to him, and said, " Will you trust 
 her to me for five minutes ? " 
 
 " Certainly." But he did not 
 much like it. 
 
 Miss Lucas carried her oft', and 
 told Dr. Staines, over her shoulder, 
 now he could flirt to his heart's 
 content. 
 
 " Thank you," said he dryly. 
 " I'll await your return." 
 
 " Oh ! there are some much 
 greater flirts here than I am," said 
 the ready Miss Lucas ; and, whis- 
 pering something in Mrs. Staines's 
 ear, suddenly glided with her be- 
 hind a curtain, pressed a sort of 
 button fixed to a looking-glass door. 
 The door opened, and behold they 
 were in delicious place, for which I 
 can hardly find a word, since it was 
 a boudoir and a conservatory in 
 one : a large octagon, the walls 
 lined from floor to ceiling with 
 looking-glasses of moderate width 
 at intervals, and with creepers that 
 covered the intervening spaces of 
 the wall, and were trained so as to 
 break the outline of the glasses 
 without greatly clouding the reflec- 
 tion. Ferns, in great variety, were 
 grouped in a deep crescent, and in 
 the bight of this green bay were a 
 small table and chairs. As there 
 were no hot-house plants, the tem- 
 perature was very cool, compared 
 with the reeking oven they had es- 
 caped; and a little fountain bub- 
 bled and fed a little meandering 
 gutter that trickled away among 
 the ferns ; it ran crystal clear over
 
 G2 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 little bright pebbles and shells. It 
 did not always run, you understand ; 
 but Miss Lucas turned a secret tap, 
 and started it. 
 
 " Oh, how heavenly ! " said Rosa, 
 with a sigh of relief, "and how 
 good of you to bring me here ! " 
 
 " Yes : by rights I ought to have 
 waited till you fainted ; but there 
 is no making acquaintance among 
 all those people. Mamma will ask 
 such crowds ; one is like a fly in a 
 glue-pot." 
 
 Miss Lucas had good nature, 
 smartness, and animal spirits ; 
 hence arose a vivacity and fluency 
 that were often amusing, and passed 
 for very clever. Reserve she hid 
 none ; would talk about strangers 
 or friends, herself, her mother, her 
 God, and the last buffoon singer, in 
 a breath. At a hint from Rosa she 
 told her who the lady in the pink 
 dress was, and the lady in the vio- 
 let velvet, and so on ; for each lady 
 was defined by her dress, and, more 
 or less, quizzed by the show -woman, 
 not exactly out of malice, but be- 
 cause it is smarter and more natu- 
 ral to decry than to praise, and a 
 little m&lisance is the spice to gossip, 
 belongs to it, as mint-sauce to lamb. 
 So they chattered away, and were 
 pleased with each other, and made 
 friends, and there, in cool grot, 
 quite forgot the sufferings of their 
 fellow-creatures in the adjacent 
 Turkish bath, yclept Society. It 
 was Rosa who first recollected her- 
 self. " Will not Mrs. Lucas be an- 
 gry with me if I keep you all to 
 myself? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! but I am afraid we 
 must go into the hothouse again. 
 I like the greenhouse best, with 
 such a nice companion." 
 
 They slipped noiselessly into the 
 throng again, and wriggled about, 
 Miss Lucas presenting her new 
 friends to several ladies and gentle- 
 men. 
 
 Presently Staines found them, 
 and then Miss Lucas wri^lcd 
 away ; and, in due course, the room 
 
 was thinned by many guests driv- 
 ing off home, or to balls and other 
 receptions, and Dr. Staines and 
 Mrs. Staines went home to the 
 Bijou. Here the physician pre- 
 scribed bed; but the lady -would 
 not hear of such a thing until she 
 had talked it over. So they com- 
 pared notes, and Rosa told him 
 how well she had got on with Miss 
 Lucas and made a friendship. 
 '• But for that," said she, " I should 
 be sorry I went among those people, 
 such a dowdy." 
 
 " Dowdy ! " said Staines. " Why, 
 you stormed the town ; you were 
 the- great success of the night, and, 
 for all I know, of the season." 
 The wretch delivered this with un- 
 becoming indifference. 
 
 " It is too bail to mock me, 
 Christie. Where were your eyes ? " 
 
 " To the best of my recollection 
 they were one on each side of my 
 nose." 
 
 " Yes, but some people are eyes, 
 and no eyes." 
 
 " I scorn the imputation ; try 
 me." 
 
 " Very well. Then, did you see 
 that lady in sky-blue silk, embroid- 
 ered with flowers and flounced 
 with white velvet, and the corsage 
 point lace; and oh! such emer- 
 alds ? " 
 
 "I did; a tall, skinny woman, 
 with eyes resembling her jewels in 
 color, though not in brightness." 
 
 "Nevermind her eyes; it is her 
 dress I am speaking of. Exqui- 
 site; and what a coiffure! Well, 
 did you see her in the black velvet, 
 trimmed so deep with Chan til ly 
 lace, wave on wave, and her head- 
 dress of crimson flowers, and such a 
 riviere of diamonds ; oh, dear ! oh, 
 dear ! " 
 
 " I did, love. The room was an 
 oven, but her rubicund face and 
 suffocating costume made it seem a 
 furnace." 
 
 "Stuff! Well, did you see the 
 lady in the corn-colored silk, and 
 poppies in her hair ? "
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 63 
 
 "Of course I did. Ceres in per- 
 son. She made me feel very hot 
 too; but I cooled myself at her pale, 
 sickly face." 
 
 " Never mind their faces ; that is 
 not the point." 
 
 " Oh, excuse me ! it is always a 
 point with us benighted males, all 
 eyes and no eyes." 
 
 " Well, then, the lady in white, 
 
 with cherry velvet bands, and a 
 
 white tunic looped with crimson, 
 
 ami head-dress of white illusion a la 
 
 , I think they call it." 
 
 " it was very refreshing, and 
 adapted to that awful atmosphere. 
 It was the nearest approach to nu- 
 dity I ever saw, even among fash- 
 ionable people." 
 
 " It was lovely ; and then, that 
 superb figure in white illusion and 
 gold, with all those narrow flounces 
 over her slip of white silk glace and 
 a wreath of white flowers, with ^ r old 
 wheat-cars among them, in her hair ; 
 and oh ! oh ! oh ! her pearls, Orien- 
 tal, and as big as almonds ! " 
 
 "And oh! oh! oh! her nose! 
 reddish, and as long as a wood- 
 cock- " 
 
 "Noses! noses! stupid! That is 
 not what strikes you first in a 
 woman dressed like an angel." 
 
 " Well, if you were to run up 
 against that one, as I nearly did, her 
 nose would he the thing that would 
 strike you first. Nose! it was a 
 rostrum ! the spear head of Goliath." 
 
 "Now don't, Christopher. Tins 
 is no laughing matter. Do you 
 mi, in \ou were not ashamed of 
 your wile ' 1 was." 
 
 " No, I was not : you had bill 
 one rival — a very young lady, wise 
 I) ifore her age, a blonde, with violet i 
 eyes, sin- was dressed in light 
 mauve-colored -ilk, without a sin- 
 gle flounce, or any other tomfoolery 
 to fritter away the sheen and color 
 of an exquisite material j her gunny 
 
 hair was another wave of color, 
 wreathed with a thin line of white. 
 jasmine flowers closely woven, that 
 scented the air. This girl was the 
 
 moon of that assembly, and you 
 were the sun." 
 
 " I never even saw her." 
 
 " Eyes, and no eyes. She saw 
 you, and said, ' Oh, what a beautiful 
 creature ! ' for I heard her. As for 
 the old stagers, whom you admire 
 so, their faces were all clogged with 
 powder, the pores stopped up, the 
 true texture of the skin abolished. 
 They looked downright nasty when- 
 ever you or that young girl passed 
 by them. Then it was you saw to 
 what a frightful extent women are 
 y;ot up in our day, even young 
 women, and respectable women. 
 No, Rosa, dress can do little for you ; 
 you have beauty — real beauty." 
 
 "Beauty! That passes unnoticed 
 unless one is well dressed." 
 
 " Then what an obscure pair 
 the Apollo Belvidere and the Venus 
 de Medicis must be !" 
 
 " Oh ! they are dressed — in 
 marble." 
 
 Christopher Staines then smiled. 
 
 " Well done," said he admiring- 
 ly. " Tli.it is a knock-down blow. 
 So now you have silenced your 
 husband, go you to bed directly. I 
 can't afford you diamonds; so I 
 will take care of that little insignifi- 
 cant trifle, your beamy." 
 
 Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Lucas ex- 
 changed calls, and soon .Mrs. Staines 
 could no longer complain she was 
 out of the world. Airs. Lucas in- 
 vited her to every party, because her 
 beauty was an instrument of attrac- 
 tion she knew how to use ; and Miss 
 Lucas took a downright fancy to her ; 
 drove her in the Park, and on Sun- 
 days to the Zoological Gardens, 
 ju>-t beginning to be fashionable. 
 
 The Lucases rented a box at the 
 opera ; and it' it was not let at the 
 library by six o'clock, and if other 
 
 engagements permitted, word was 
 sent round to .Mrs. Staines, as a 
 matter of course, ami she was taken 
 to the opera. She began almost to 
 live at the Lucases, and to be 
 
 oftcner fatigued than moped.
 
 04 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 The usual order of things was in- 
 verted ; the maiden lady educated 
 the matron ; for Miss Lucas knew 
 all about everybody in the Park, 
 honorable or dishonorable ; all the 
 scandals, and all the flirtations ; 
 and whatever she knew, she related 
 point-blank. Being as inquisitive 
 as voluble, she soon learned how 
 Mrs. Staines and her husband were 
 situated. She took upon her to ad- 
 vise her in many things, and espe- 
 cially impressed upon her that Dr. 
 Staines must keep a carriage if he 
 wanted to get on in medicine. 
 This piece of advice accorded so 
 well with Rosa's wishes that she 
 urged it on her husband again and 
 again. 
 
 lie objected that no money was 
 coming in, and therefore it would 
 be insane to add to their expenses. 
 Rosa persisted, and at last worried 
 Staines with her importunity. He 
 began to give rather short answers. 
 Then she quoted Miss Lucas against 
 him. He treated the authority 
 with marked contempt ; and then 
 Rosa tired up a little. Then 
 Staines held bis peace ; but did not 
 buy a carriage to visit his no 
 patients. 
 
 So at last Rosa complained to 
 Lady Cicely Treherne, and made her 
 the judge between her husband and 
 herself. 
 
 Lady Cicely drawled out a prompt 
 hut polite refusal to play that part. 
 All that could be elicited from her, 
 and that with difficulty, was, " Why 
 quail with your husband about a 
 cawwige? He is your best friend." 
 
 " Ah, that he is ! " said Rosa ; " but 
 Miss Lucas is a good friend, and she 
 knows the world. We don't; neither 
 Christopher nor I." 
 
 So she continued to nag at her 
 husband about it, and to say that 
 he was throwing his only chance 
 away. 
 
 (jailed as he was by neglect, this 
 was iritating, and, at last, he could 
 not help telling her she was unrea- 
 fconable. " You live a gay life, and I 
 
 I a sad one. I consent to this, and 
 let you go about with these Lucases, 
 because you were so dull ; but you 
 shouid not consult them in our pri- 
 vate affairs. Their interference is 
 indelicate and improper. I will not 
 set up a carriage till I have patients 
 to visit. I am sick of seeing our 
 capital dwindle, and no income creat- 
 ed. I will never set up a carriage 
 till I have taken a hundred-guinea 
 fee." 
 
 " Oh ! Then we shall go splash- 
 ing through the mud all our days." 
 
 " Or ride in a cab," said Christo- 
 pher, with a quiet doggedness that 
 left no hope of his yielding. 
 
 One afternoon Miss Lucas called 
 for Mrs. Staines to drive in the Park, 
 but did not come up stairs ; it was 
 an engagement, and she knew Mrs. 
 Staines would be ready, or nearly. 
 Mrs. Staines, not to keep her wait- 
 ing, came down rather hastily, and, 
 in the very passage, whipped out of 
 her pocket a little glass, and a little 
 powder-puff, and puffed her (ace all 
 over in a trice. She was then soing 
 out; but her husband called her into 
 the study. " Rosa, my dear," said 
 he, " you were going out with a dirty 
 face." 
 
 " Oh," cried she, " give me a 
 glass ! " 
 
 " There is no need of that. All 
 you want is a basin and some nice 
 rain-water. I keep a little reservoir 
 of it." 
 
 He then handed her the same with 
 great politeness. She looked in his 
 eye, and saw he was not to be trifled 
 with. She complied like a lamb, 
 and the heavenly r color and velvet 
 gloss that resulted were admirable. 
 
 He kissed her, and said, " Ah ! 
 now you are my Rosa again. 
 Oblige me by handing over that 
 powder-puff to me." She looked 
 vexed, but complied. " When you 
 come back I will tell you why." 
 
 " You are a pest," said Mrs. 
 Staines, and so joined her friend, 
 rosy with rain water and a rub. 
 " Dear me, how handsome you
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 65 
 
 look to day ! " was Miss Lucas's first 
 remark. 
 
 Rosa never dreamed that rain- 
 water and a rub could be the cause 
 of her looking so well. 
 
 " It is ray tiresome husband," said 
 she. " He objects to powder, and he 
 has taken away my puff." 
 
 " And you s"tood that % " 
 
 " Obliged to." 
 
 " Why, )'ou poor-spirited little 
 creature. I should like to see a 
 husband presume to interfere with 
 me in those things. Here, take 
 mine." 
 
 Rosa hesitated a little. " Well — 
 no' — I think not." 
 
 Miss Lucas laughed at her, and 
 quizzed her so on her allowing a man 
 to interfere in such sacred things as 
 dress and cosmetics that she came 
 back irritated with her husband, 
 and gave him a short answer or two. 
 Then he asked what was the matter. 
 
 " You treat me like a child — tak- 
 ing away my very puff.?' 
 
 " I treat you like a beautiful flower 
 that no bail gardener shall wither 
 while I am here." 
 
 " What nonsense ! How could 
 that wither me ? It is only violet 
 powder — what they put on babies." 
 
 " And who are the llerods that 
 put it on babies 1 " 
 
 " Their own mothers, that love 
 them ten times more than the fathers 
 
 do." 
 
 " And kill a hundred of them for 
 one a man ever kills. Mothers! — 
 the most wholesale homicides in the 
 nation. We will examine your vio- 
 let powder. Bring it down here." 
 
 VVhile she was gone, he sent for a 
 
 breakfast-cupful of Hour; and when 
 
 Bhecame bark he had his scales out, 
 
 and begged her to put a teaspoonftil 
 
 of lluur into one scale, and of vio- 
 let powder into another. The flour 
 kicked the beam, as Homer expr 
 
 himself 
 
 " Put another spoonful of flour." 
 The one spoonful of violet powder 
 outweighed the two of (lour. 
 
 " Now," said Staines, " does not 
 
 0* 
 
 that show you the presence of a min- 
 eral in your vegetable powder ? I 
 suppose they tell you it is made of 
 white violets dried, and triturated in 
 a diamond mill. Let us find out 
 what metal it is. Wc need not go 
 very deep into chemistry for that." 
 He then applied a simple test, and 
 detected the presence of lead in large 
 quantities. Then he lectured her : 
 " Invisible perspiration is a process 
 of nature necessary to health and to 
 life. The skin is made porous for 
 that purpose. You can kill anybody 
 in an hour or two by closing the 
 pores. A certain infallible ass, called 
 Tope Leo XII., killed a little boy in 
 two hours by gilding him to adorn 
 the pageant of his first procession as 
 pope. But what is death to the 
 whole body must be injurious to a 
 part. What madness, then, to clog 
 the pores of so large and important 
 a surface as the face, and check the 
 invisible perspiration : how much 
 more to insert lead into your system 
 every day of your life : accumulative 
 poison, and one so deadly and mi 
 subtle that the Sheffield file-cutters 
 die in their prime from merely ham- 
 mering on a leaden anvil. ^\ihI 
 what do you gain by this suicidal 
 habit? No plum has a sweeter 
 bloom or more delicious texture than 
 the skin of your young face ; but 
 this mineral tilth hides that delicate 
 texture, and substitutes a dry, uni- 
 form appearance, more like a certain 
 kind of leprosy than health. Na- 
 ture made your face the rival of 
 peaches, rosc<, lilies; and you say, 
 ' No ; I know better than my Crea- 
 tor and my God ; my face shall he 
 like a dusty miller's. Go into any 
 flour-mill, and there you shall see 
 men with faces exactly like your 
 friend Mi>s Lucas's. I'.nt before a 
 miller goes to bis sweetheart, he al- 
 ways washes his f.\ci\ You ladies 
 would never get a miller down to 
 your level in brains. It is a miller's 
 
 dirty face our monomaniacs of wo- 
 men imitate, not the face a miller 
 goes-a-eourting with."
 
 GG 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " La ! what a fuss about noth- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " About nothing ! Is your health 
 nothing ? Is your beauty nothing ? 
 Well, then, it will cost you nothing 
 to promise me never to put powder 
 on your face again." 
 
 " Very well, I promise. Now, 
 what will you do for me ? " 
 
 " Work for you — write for you 
 — suffer for you — be self-denying 
 for you — and even, give myself the 
 pain of disappointing you now and 
 then — looking forward to the time 
 when I shall be able to say 'Yes' 
 to every thing you ask me. Ah, 
 child ' you little know what it costs 
 me to say ' No ' to you." 
 
 Rosa put her arms around him, 
 and acquiesced. She was one of 
 those who go with the last speaker ; 
 but, for that very reason, the eternal 
 companionship of so flighty and 
 flirty a girl as Miss Lucas was injuri- 
 ous to her. 
 
 One day Lady Cicely Treherne 
 was sitting with Mrs. Staines, smil- 
 ing languidly at her talk, and occa- 
 sionally drawling out a little plain 
 good sense, when in came Miss Lu- 
 cas, with her tongue well hung, as 
 usual, and dashed into twenty topics 
 at once. 
 
 This young lady, in her discourse, 
 was like those oily little beetles you 
 see in small ponds, whose whole life 
 is spent in tacking — confound them ! 
 — generally at right angles. What 
 they are in navigation was Miss Lu- 
 cas in conversation : tacked so eter- 
 nally from topic to topic that no man 
 on earth, and not every woman, 
 could follow her. 
 
 At the sight and sound of her, 
 Lady Cicely congealed and stiffened. 
 Easy and unpretending with Mrs. 
 Staines, she was all dignity, and even 
 majesty, in the presence of this chat- 
 terbox ; and the smoothness with 
 which the transfiguration was accom- 
 plished marked that accomplished 
 actress the high-bred woman of the 
 World. 
 
 Rosa, better able to estimate the 
 
 change of manner than Miss Lucas 
 was, who did not know how little 
 this Sawney was afflicted with mis- 
 placed dignity, looked wistfully and 
 distressed at her. Lady Cicely smiled 
 kindly in reply, rose, without seem- 
 ing to hurry — catch her condescend- 
 ing to be rude to Charlotte Lucas — 
 and took her departure, with a pro- 
 found and most gracious courtesy to 
 the lady who had driven her away. 
 
 Mrs. Staines saw her down stairs, 
 and said ruefully, " I am afraid you 
 do not like my friend Miss Lucas. 
 She is a great rattle, but so good-na- 
 tured and clever." 
 
 Lady Cicely shook her head. 
 " Clevaa people don't talk so much 
 nonsense before stangaas." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said Rosa. " I was 
 in hopes you would like her." 
 
 " Do you like her." 
 
 " Indeed I do ; but I shall not, if 
 she drives an older friend away." 
 
 " My dyah, I'm not easily dwiven 
 from those I esteem. But you un- 
 darstand that is not a woman for me 
 to mispwonowncc my ' all's ' befaw 
 
 NOR FOR YOU TO MAKE A BO- 
 SOM friend of — Rosa Staines." 
 
 She said this with a sudden mater- 
 nal solemnity and kindness that con- 
 trasted nobly and strangely with her 
 yea-nay style, and Mrs. Staines re- 
 membered the words years after they 
 were spoken. 
 
 It so happened that, after this, 
 Mrs. Staines received no more visits 
 from Lady Cicely for some time, and 
 that vexed her. She knew her sex 
 enough to be aware that they are 
 very jealous, and she permitted her- 
 self to think that this high-minded 
 Sawney was jealous of Miss Lucas. 
 
 This idea, founded on a general 
 estimate of her sex, was dispelled by 
 a few lines from Lady Cicely, to say 
 her family and herself were in deep 
 distress : her brother, Lord Aycough, 
 lay dying from an accident. 
 
 Then Rosa was all remorse, and 
 ran down to Staines to tell him. 
 She found him with an open letter 
 in his hand. It was from Or. Barr,
 
 A SIMPLETON - . 
 
 67 
 
 and on the same subject. The doc- 
 tor, who had always been friendly 
 to him, invited him to come down 
 at once to Hallowtree Hall, in 
 Huntingdonshire, to a consultation. 
 There was a friendly intimation to 
 start at once, as the patient might 
 die any moment. 
 
 Husband and wife embraced each 
 other in a tumult of surprised thank- 
 fulness. A few necessaries were 
 thrown into a carpet-bag, and Dr. 
 Staines was soon whirled into Hunt- 
 ingdonshire. Having telegraphed 
 beforehand, he was met at the sta- 
 tion by the earl's carriage and peo- 
 ple, and driven to the Hall. He 
 was received by an old silver-haired 
 butler, looking very sad, who con- 
 ducted him to a boudoir, and then 
 went and tapped gently at the door 
 of the patient's room. It was 
 opened ami shut, very softly, and La- 
 dy Cicely, dressed in black, and look- 
 ing pajer than ever, came into the 
 room. 
 
 " Dr. Staines, I think ? " 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 " Thank you for coming so 
 promptly. Dr. Barr is gone. I fear 
 he thinks — he thinks — O Dr. 
 Staines, no sign of life but in his 
 poor hands, that keep moving day 
 and night." 
 
 Staines looked very grave at that. 
 
 Lady Cicely observed it, and, 
 faint at heart, could say no more, 
 but led the way to the sick-room. 
 
 There, in a spacious chamber, 
 lighted by a grand oriel-window and 
 two side windows, lay rank, title, 
 wealth, and youth, stricken down in 
 a moment by a common accident. 
 The sufferer a face was bloodless his 
 eyes fixed, and no signs of life but 
 in his thumbs, and they kept work- 
 ing with strange regularity. 
 
 In the room were a nurse and 
 the surgeon ; the neighboring physi- 
 cian, who had called in Dr Hair, 
 had just paid his visit and gone 
 away. 
 
 Lady Cicely introduced Dr 
 Staines and Mr White, and then 
 
 Dr Staines stood and fixed his eyes 
 on the patient in profound silence. 
 
 Lady Cicely scanned his counte- 
 nance searekingly, and was struck 
 with the extraordinary power and 
 intensity it assumed in examining 
 the patient ; but the result was not 
 encouraging. Dr. Staines looked 
 grave and gloomy. 
 
 At last, without removing his eye 
 from the recumbent figure, he said 
 quietly to Mr. White, " Thrown 
 from his horse, sir ? " 
 
 " Horse fell on him, Dr. Staines." 
 
 " Any visible injuries ? " 
 
 " Yes. Severe contusions, and a 
 rib broken and pressed upon the 
 lungs. I replaced and set it. Will 
 you see ? " 
 
 " If you please." 
 
 He examined and felt the pa- 
 tient, and said it had been ably 
 done. 
 
 Then he was silent and search- 
 ing. 
 
 At last he spoke again. " The 
 motion of the thumbs corresponds 
 exactly with his pulse." 
 
 " Is that so, sir i " 
 
 "It is. The case is without a 
 parallel. How long has he been 
 so ! " 
 
 " Nearlv a week." 
 
 " Impossible 1" 
 
 "It is so, sir." 
 
 Lady Cicely confirmed this. 
 
 "All the better," said Staines, 
 upon reflection. " Well, sir," said 
 lie, " the visible injuries having been 
 ably relieved, I shall look another 
 way for the cause." Then, after 
 another pause, " I must have his 
 head shaved." 
 
 Lady Cicely demurred a little to 
 this; but Dr. Staines stood linn, 
 and his lordship's valet undertook 
 th • job. 
 
 Staines directed him where to 
 
 begin ; and when he had made a 
 circular tonsure on the top of the 
 bead, had it sponged with tepid 
 water 
 
 •• I thought so," said be. " Here 
 is the mischief; "and he pointed to a
 
 GS 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 very slight indentation on the left 
 side of the pia mater. " Observe," 
 said he, " there is no corresponding 
 indentation on the other side. Un- 
 derneath this trifling depression a 
 minute piece of bone is doubtless 
 pressing on the most sensitive part 
 of the brain. He must be trephined." 
 
 Mr. White's eyes sparkled. 
 
 " You are a hospital surgeon, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Staines. I have no 
 fear of the operation." 
 
 " Then I hand the patient over 
 to you. The case at present is 
 entirely surgical." 
 
 White was driven home, and soon 
 returned with the requisite instru- 
 ments. The operation was neatly 
 performed, and then Lady Cicely 
 was called in. She came trembling ; 
 her brother's fingers were still work- 
 ing, but not so regularly. 
 
 " That is only habit," said Staines ; 
 " it will soon leave off, now the cause 
 is gone." 
 
 And truly enough, in about five 
 minutes the fingers became quiet. 
 The eyes became human next, and 
 within half an hour after the opera- 
 tion the earl gave a little sigh. 
 
 Lady Cicely clasped her hands, 
 and uttered a little cry of delight. 
 
 " This will not do," said Staines. 
 " I shall have you screaming when 
 he speaks." 
 
 " O Dr. Staines ! will he ever 
 speak .-" 
 
 " I think so ; and very soon. So 
 be on your guard." 
 
 This strange scene reached its 
 climax soon after by the earl say- 
 ing quietly, — 
 
 " Are her knees broke, Tom 1 " 
 
 Lady Cicely uttered a little 
 scream, hut instantly suppressed it. 
 
 '•No, my lord," said Staines 
 smartly ; " only rubbed a bit. You 
 can go to sleep, my lord. I'll take 
 care of the mare." 
 
 " All rii^ht," said his lordship, 
 and composed himself to slumber. 
 
 Dr. Staines, at the earnest request 
 of Lady Cicely, staid all night ; 
 
 and in course of the day advised 
 her how to nurse the patient, since 
 both physician and surgeon had done 
 with him. 
 
 He said the patient's brain might 
 be irritable for some days, and no 
 women in silk dresses, or crinoline, 
 or creaking shoes, must enter the 
 room. He told her the nurse was 
 evidently a clumsy woman, and 
 would be letting things fall. She 
 had better get some old soldier used 
 to nursing. "And don't whisper 
 in the room," said he; " nothing ir- 
 ritates them worse; and don't let 
 anybody play a piano within hear- 
 ing ; but in a day or two you may 
 try him with slow and continuous 
 music on the flute or violin, if you 
 like. Don't touch his bed suddenly ; 
 don't sit on it or lean on it. Dole 
 sunlight into his room by degrees ; 
 and ,when he can bear it, drench him 
 with it. Never mind what the old 
 school tell you. About theso. things 
 they know a good deal less than 
 nothing." 
 
 Lady Cicely received all this like 
 an oracle. 
 
 The cure was telegraphed to Dr. 
 Barr, and he was requested to settle 
 the fee. He was not the man to 
 undersell the profession, and was 
 jealous of nobody, having a large 
 practice and a very wealthy wife. 
 So he telegraphed back — " Fifty 
 guineas, and a guinea a mile from 
 London." 
 
 So, as Christopher Staines sat at 
 an early breakfast, with the carriage 
 waiting to take him to the train, two 
 notes were brought him on a 
 salver. 
 
 They were both directed by Lady 
 Cicely Trchcrne. One of them 
 contained a few kind and feeling 
 words of gratitude and esteem ; the 
 other a check, drawn by the earl's 
 steward, for one hundred and 
 thirty guineas. 
 
 He bowled up to London, and 
 told it all to Rosa. She sparkled 
 with pride, affection, and joy. 
 
 " Now, who says you are not a
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 69 
 
 genius ? " she cried. " A hundred 
 and thirty guineas for one fee ! 
 Now, it' you love your wife as she 
 loves you, you will set up a 
 brougham." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Dr. Staines begged leave to dis- 
 tinguish : he had not said he would 
 set up a carriage at the first one 
 hundred guinea fee, but only that 
 he would not set up one before. 
 Th re are misguided people who 
 would call this logic; but Rosa 
 said it was equivocating, and 
 urged him so warmly that at last he 
 burst out, " Who can go on forever 
 saying ' No ' to the only creature he 
 loves?" — and caved." In forty- 
 ei^ht hours more, a brougham 
 waited at Mrs. Staines's door. The 
 servant engaged to drive it was An- 
 drew Pearmin, a bachelor, and 
 hiih;rto an iindergroom. He read- 
 ily consented to be coachman, and 
 do certain domestic work, as well. 
 So Mrs. Staines ha 1 a man-servant 
 as well a? a carriage. 
 
 Ere long three or four patients 
 called or wrote, one after the other. 
 These Rosa set down to brougham, 
 and crowed. She even crowed to 
 Lady Cicely Treherne, to whose in- 
 fluence, and not to brougham's, 
 every one of these patients was 
 Owing. Lady Cicely kissed her, 
 and demurely enjoyed the poor soul's 
 self-satisfaction. 
 
 Stain as himself, while he drove 
 to or from these patients, felt more 
 san- nine, and, buoyed as lie was by 
 
 the consciousness of ability, began 
 
 to hope that he had turned the cor- 
 ner. 
 
 II ■ sent an account of Lord Ay- 
 coogh's case to a medical magazine; 
 
 and SO full is the world of llunkyisni 
 that this article, though he with- 
 held the name, retaining only the 
 title, ant th" literary wedge in for 
 him at once; and in due course he 
 
 became a paid contributor to two 
 medical organs, and used to study 
 and write more, and indent the little 
 stone yard less, than heretofore. 
 
 It was about this titne ; circumstan- 
 ces made him acquainted with Phoebe 
 Dale. Her intermediate history I 
 will dispose in fewer words than it de- 
 serves. Her Ruin, Mr. Reginald 
 Falcon, was dismissed from his club 
 for marking high cards on the back 
 with his nail. This stopped his re- 
 maining resource — borrowing ; so 
 he got more and more out at elbows 
 till at last he came down to hang- 
 ing about billiard-rooms, and mak- 
 ing a little money by concealing his 
 game ; from that, however, he rose 
 to be a marker. 
 
 Having culminated to that, he 
 wrote and proposed marriage to 
 Miss Dale, in a charming letter. 
 She showed it to her father with 
 pride. 
 
 Now if his vanity, his disloyalty, 
 his falsehood, his ingratitude, and 
 his other virtues, had not stood in 
 the way, he would have done this 
 three years ago, and been jumped 
 at. 
 
 But the offer came too late ; not 
 for Phu'be — she would have taken 
 him in a moment — but for her 
 friends. A bated hook is one thine;, 
 a bare hook is another. Farmer 
 Dale, had long discovered where 
 Phoebe's money went : he said not 
 a word to her, but went up to town 
 like a shot; found Falcon out, and 
 told him he mustn't think to eat 
 his daughter's bread. She should 
 marry a man who could make a 
 decent livelihood ; and if she W8S 
 to run away with him, why they'd 
 starve; together. The farmer was 
 resolute, and spoke very loud, like 
 
 one that expects opposition, and 
 comes prepared to quarrel. Instead 
 of that, this artful rogue addressed 
 him with deep respect and an affect- 
 ed veneration that quite puzzled the 
 old man ; acquiesced in every word, 
 expressed contrition lor his past 
 misdeeds, and told the farmer he
 
 70 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 had quite determined to labor with 
 his hands. " You know, farmer," 
 said he, " I am not the only gentle- 
 man who has come to that in the 
 present day. Now, all my friends 
 who have seen my sketches assure 
 me I am a born painter; and a 
 painter I'll be — for love of 
 Phome." 
 
 The farmer made a wry face. 
 "Painter! that is a sorry sort of 
 a trade." 
 
 " You are mistaken. It's the 
 best trade going. There are gen- 
 tlemen making their thousands a 
 year by it " 
 
 "Not in our parts, there hain't. 
 Stop a bit. What be ye going to 
 paint, sir 1 Housen, or folk ? " 
 
 " Oh, hang it ! not houses. Fig- 
 ures, landscapes." 
 
 " Well, ye might just make a shift 
 at it, I suppose, with here and there 
 a signboard. They are the best 
 paid, our way ; but, Lord bless ye, 
 they wants head-piece! Well, sir, 
 let me see your work. Then we'll 
 talk further." 
 
 "I'll go to work this afternoon," 
 said Falcon eagerly ; then, with af- 
 fected surprise, " Bless me ! I for- 
 got. I have no palette, no canvas, 
 no colors. You couldn't lend me a 
 couple of sovereigns to buy them, 
 could you ? "' 
 
 " Ay, sir, I could, but I won't. 
 I'll lend ye the things, though, if 
 you have a mind to go with me and 
 buy 'em." 
 
 Falcon agreed, with a lofty smile, 
 and the purchases were made. 
 
 Mr. Falcon painted a landscape 
 or two out of his imagination. The 
 dealer to whom he took them de- 
 clined them ; one advised the gen- 
 tleman painter to color tea-boards ; 
 "That's your line," said he. 
 
 " The world has no taste," said 
 the gentleman painter; "but it has 
 got lots of vanity : I'll paint por- 
 traits." 
 
 He did — and formidable ones. 
 His portraits were, amazingly like 
 the people, and yet unlike men and 
 
 women, especially about the face. 
 One thing, he didn't trouble with 
 lights and shades, but went slap at 
 the features. 
 
 His brush would never have kept 
 him : but he carried an instrument 
 in the use of which he was really an 
 artist, viz., his tongue. By wheed- 
 ling and underselling — for he only 
 charged a pound tor the painted 
 canvas — he contrived to live ; then 
 he aspired to dress as well as live. 
 With this second object in view, he 
 hit upon a characteristic expedient. 
 
 He used to prowl about ; and 
 when he saw a young woman sweep- 
 ing the afternoon streets with a long 
 silk train, and, in short, dressed to 
 ride in the park, yet parading the 
 streets, he would take his hat off to 
 her with an air of profound respect, 
 and ask -permission to take her por- 
 trait. Generally he met a prompt 
 rebuff; but if the fair was so unlucky 
 as to hesitate a single moment, he 
 told her a melting tale : he had once 
 driven his four-in-hand, but by in- 
 dorsing his friend's bills was reduced 
 to painting likenesses — admirable 
 likenesses in oils, only a guinea 
 each. 
 
 His piteous tale provoked more 
 jibes than pity ; but as he had no 
 shame, the rebuffs went for nothing. 
 He actually did get a few sitters by 
 his audacicy, and some of the sitters 
 actually took the pictures and paid 
 for them ; others declined them with 
 fury as soon as they were finished. 
 These he took back with a piteous 
 sigh that sometimes extracted half 
 a crown. Then he painted over the 
 rejected one, and let it dry ; so that 
 sometimes a paid portrait would 
 present a beauty enthroned on the 
 drills of two or three rivals, and 
 that is where few beauties would ob* 
 ject to sit. 
 
 All this time he wrote nice letters 
 to Phoebe, and adopted the tone of 
 the struggling artist, and the true 
 lover, who wins his bride by patience, 
 perseverance, and indomitable indus- 
 try; a babbled of "Self-help."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 71 
 
 Meantime Phoebe was not idle ; 
 an excellent business woman, she 
 took immediate advantage of a new 
 station that was built near the farm 
 to send up milk, butter, and eggs to 
 London. Being genuine, they sold 
 like wild-fire. Observing that, she 
 extended her operations by buying 
 of other farmers and forwarding to 
 London ; and then, having, of 
 course, an eye to her struggling art- 
 ist, she told her father she must 
 have a shop in London, and 
 somebody in it she could depend 
 upon. 
 
 " With all my heart, wench," said 
 he ; " but it must not be thou. I 
 can't spare thee." 
 
 " May I have Dick, father? " 
 
 " Dick ! He is rather young." 
 
 " But he is very quick, father, 
 and minds every word I tell him." 
 
 " Ay, he is as fond of thee as ever 
 a cow was of a calf. Well, you 
 can try him." 
 
 So the love-sick woman of busi- 
 ness set up a little shop, and put her 
 brother Dick in it, and all to see 
 more of her struggling artist. She 
 staid several days, to open the little 
 shop and start the business. She 
 advertised pure milk, and challenged 
 scientific analysis of everv tiling she 
 sold. This came of her being a 
 reader. She knew, by the journals, 
 that we live in a sinful and adulter- 
 ating generation; and any thing 
 pin-'' must be a Godsend to the poor 
 poisoned public. 
 
 Now Dr. Staines, thoucrh known 
 to the profession as a diagnost, was 
 
 also an analyst, and this challenge 
 brought him down on Phoebe Dale. 
 He told her he was a physician, and 
 in search of pore food for his own 
 family — would she really submit 
 the milk to analysis ? 
 
 Phoebe smiled an honest country 
 smile, ami said, " Surely, sir.'' She 
 trave him every facility, and he ap- 
 plied those simple tests which are 
 commonly used in France, though 
 hardly known in England. 
 
 lie found it perfectly pure, and 
 
 told her so ; and gazed at Phtebe 
 for a moment, as a phenomenon. 
 
 She smiled again at that, her 
 broad country smile. " That is a 
 wonder in London, I dare say. It's 
 my belief half the children that die 
 here are perished with watered milk. 
 AVell, sir we sha'n't have that on 
 our souls, father and I : he is a 
 farmer in Essex. This comes a 
 many miles, this milk." 
 
 Staines looked in her face with 
 kindly approval marked on his own 
 eloquent features. She blushed a 
 little at so fixed a regard. Then he 
 asked her if she would supply him 
 with mdk, butter, and eggs. 
 
 " Why, if you mean sell you them, 
 yes, sir, with pleasure. But for 
 sending them home to you in this 
 big town, as some do, 1 can't, for 
 there's only brother Dick and me: 
 it is an experiment like." 
 
 " Very well," said Staines . " I 
 will send for them." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir I hopo 
 you won't be offended, sir ; but we 
 only sell for ready money." 
 
 " All the better : my order at 
 home is, no bills." 
 
 When he was gone, Phcebe, assum- 
 ing vast experience, though this was 
 only her third day, told Dick that 
 was one of the right sort. "And 
 O Dick ! " said she, " did you notice 
 his eye ? " 
 
 "Not partieklar, sister." 
 
 "There, now! the boy is blind. 
 Why, 'twas like a jewel. Such an 
 eye I never saw in a man's head, 
 nor a woman's neither." 
 
 Staines told his wife about Phoebe 
 and her brother, and spoke of her 
 with a certain admiration that raised 
 Uosa's curiosity, and even that sort 
 of vague jealousy thaNires at bare 
 prai>e. "I should like to see this 
 phenomenon,'' said she. "You 
 shall," said he- "I have, to call on 
 Mrs. Manly. She lives near. I 
 will drop you at the little shop, and 
 come back for you." 
 
 lie did so. anil that pave Bosa a 
 quarter of an hour to make her pur-
 
 72 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 chases. When he came back he 
 found her conversing with Phoebe 
 as if they were old friends, and Dick 
 glaring at his wife with awe and 
 admiration. He could hardly get 
 her away. 
 
 She was far more extravagant in 
 her praises than Dr. Staines had 
 been. " What a good creature ! " 
 said she. " And how clever ! To 
 think of her setting up a shop like 
 that all by herself; for her Dick is 
 only seventeen." 
 
 Dr. Staines recommended the 
 little shop wherever ho went, and 
 even extended its operations. He 
 asked Phoebe to get her own wheat 
 ground at home, and send the flour 
 up in bushel bags. " These assas- 
 sins, the bakers," said he, *" are put- 
 ting copper into the flour now as 
 well as alum. Pure flour is worth a 
 fancy price to any family. With 
 that we can make the bread of life. 
 What you buy in the shops is the 
 bread of death." 
 
 Dick was a good, sharp boy, 
 devoted to his sister. He stuck to 
 the shop in London, and handed the 
 money to Phoebe when she came for 
 it. She worked far it in Essex, and 
 extended her country connection for 
 supply as the retail business 
 increased. 
 
 Staines wrote an article on pure 
 food, and incidentally mentioned 
 the shop as a place where flour, 
 milk, and butter were to be had 
 pure. This article was published 
 in the Lancet, and caused quite a 
 run upon the little shop. By and 
 by Ph<ebe enlarged it, for which 
 there were great capabilities, and 
 made herself a pretty little parlor, 
 and there she and Dick sat to Fal- 
 con for their portraits ; here, too, 
 she hung his rejected landscapes. 
 They were fair in her eyes ; what 
 mutter whether tiny were like na- 
 ture ? his hand had painted them. 
 She knew from him that everybody 
 else had rejected them. With all 
 the more pride and love did she 
 have them framed in gold, and hung 
 
 up with the portraits in her little 
 sanctum. 
 
 For a few months Phcebe Dale 
 was as happy as she deserved to be. 
 Her lover was working, and faithful 
 to her — at least she saw no reason 
 to doubt it. He came to see her 
 every evening, and seemed devoted 
 to her ; would sit quietly with her, or 
 walk with her, or take her to a play, 
 or a music-hall — at her expense. 
 
 She now lived in a quiet ehsium, 
 with a bright and rapturous "dream 
 of the future ; for she saw she had 
 hit on a good vein of business, and 
 should soon be independent, and 
 able to indulge herself with a hus- 
 band, and ask no man's leave. 
 
 She sent to Essex for a dairy- 
 maid, and set her to churn milk 
 into butter, coram populo, at a cer- 
 tain hour every morning. This 
 made a new sensation. At other 
 times the woman was employed to 
 deliver milk and cream to a few 
 favored customers. 
 
 Mrs. Staines dropped in now and 
 then, and chatted with her. Her 
 sweet face and her naivete won 
 Pluebe's heart; and one day, as 
 happiness is apt to be communica- 
 tive, she let out to her, in reply to a 
 feeler or two as to whether she was 
 quite alone, that she was engaged 
 to be married to a gentleman ; " but 
 he is not rich, ma'am," said Phoebe 
 plaintively; "he has had trouble — 
 obliged to work for his living, like 
 me ; he painted these pictures, every 
 one of them. If it was not making 
 too free, and you could spare a 
 guinea — he charges no more for 
 the picture, only you must go to 
 the expense of the frame." 
 
 " Of course I will," said Rosa 
 warmly, " I'll sit for it here any day 
 you like." 
 
 Now, Rosa said this out of her 
 ever-ready kindness, not to wound 
 Phoebe ; but, having made the 
 promise, she kept clear of the place 
 for some days, hoping Phoebe would 
 forget all about it. Meantime she 
 sent her husband to buy.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 73 
 
 In about a fortnight she called 
 again, primed with evasions if she 
 should be asked to sit ; but nothing 
 of the kind was proposed, Phuebe 
 was dealing when she went in. The 
 customers disposed of, she said to 
 Mrs. Staines, " ma'am ! I am 
 glad you arc come. I have some- 
 thing I should like to show you." 
 She took her into the parlor, and 
 made her sit down ; then she opened 
 a drawer, and took out a very 
 small substance that looked like a 
 tear of ground glass, and put it on 
 the table before her. " There, 
 ma'am," said she, "that is all he 
 has had for painting a friend's 
 picture." 
 
 " Oh ! what a shame ! " 
 
 " His friend was going abroad — 
 to Natal ; to his uncle that farms 
 out there, and does very well. It is 
 a first-rate part, if you take out a 
 little stock with you, and some 
 money ; so my one gave him credit, 
 and when the letter came with that 
 postmark he counted on a five-pound 
 note ; but the letter only said he 
 had got no money yet, but sent him 
 something as a keepsake ; and there 
 was this little stone. Poor fellow ! 
 he flung it down in a passion; he 
 was so disappointed." 
 
 Phoebe's great gray eyes filled; 
 and Rosa gave a little coo of sym- 
 
 fiathy that was very womanly and 
 ovable. 
 
 Phoebe leaned her cheek on her 
 hand and said thoughtfully, " I 
 picked it up, and brought it away ; 
 for, after all, don't you think, 
 ma'am, it is very strange that a 
 friend should send it all that way if 
 it \\a< worth nothing at all ? " 
 
 " It is impossible, lie could not 
 be so heartless." 
 
 "And do you know, ma'am, when I 
 take it up in my fingers it doesn't feel 
 like a thing that is worth nothing." 
 "No more it does ; it makes my 
 fingers tremble. May I take it home 
 and show it to my husband? he is 
 a great physician and knows every 
 thing." 
 
 7 
 
 " I am sure I should be much 
 obliged to you, ma'am." 
 
 Rosa drove home on purpose to 
 show it to Christopher. She ran 
 into his study. " O Christopher ! 
 please look at that. You know that 
 good creature we have our flour and 
 milk and things of. She is engaged, 
 and he is a painter. Oh, such daubs ! 
 He painted a friend, and the friend 
 sent that home all the way from 
 Natal ; and he dashed it down, and 
 she picked it up, and what is it ? 
 ground glass, or a pebb'e, or what ? " 
 
 " Humph ! by its shape, and the 
 great — brilliancy, — and refraction 
 of light upon this angle, where the 
 stone has got polished by rubbing 
 other stones in the course of ages, 
 I'm inclined to think it is — a dia- 
 mond." 
 
 " A diamond ! " shrieked Rosa. 
 " No wonder my fingers trembled. 
 Oh ! can it be ? Oh, you good, cold- 
 blooded Christie! Poor thing! 
 Come along, Diamond ! Oh, you 
 beauty ! Oh, you duck ! " 
 
 " Don't be in such a hurry. I 
 only said I thought it was a dia- 
 mond. Let me weigh it against 
 water, and then I shall know." 
 
 He took it to his little laboratory, 
 and returned in a few minutes, and 
 said, " Yes. It is just three times 
 and a half heavier than water. It 
 is a diamond.'' 
 
 " Are you positive ? " 
 
 " I'll stake my existence." 
 
 " What is it worth 1 " 
 
 "My dear, I'm not a jeweller; 
 but it is very large and pear-shaped, 
 and I see no flaw : I don't think you 
 could buy it for less than three hun- 
 dred pounds." 
 
 " Three hundred pounds ! It is 
 worth £300." 
 
 " ( )r sell it for more than .£l">o." 
 
 " A hundred and fifty ! It is 
 worth E150." 
 
 " Why, my dear, one would 
 think you had invented ' the dia- 
 mond. 1 Show me how to crystal- 
 lize carbon, and I will share "your 
 enthusiasm."
 
 74 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " Oh ! I leave you to carbonize 
 crystal. I prefer to gladden hearts; 
 and 1 will do it this minute, with 
 my diamond." 
 
 " Do, dear ; and I will take that 
 opportunity to finish my second ar- 
 ticle on Adulteration." 
 
 Rosa drove oil' to Phoebe Dale. 
 
 Now, Phoebe was drinking tea 
 with Reginald Palcon, in her little 
 parlor. " Who is that, I wonder ? " 
 she said, when the carriage drew 
 
 U P- . 
 
 Reginald drew back a corner of 
 
 the gauze curtain which had been 
 
 drawn across the little glass door 
 
 leading from the shop. 
 
 " It is a lady, and a beautiful — 
 Oh ! let me get out. " And he 
 rushed out at the door leading to 
 the kitchen, not to be recognized. 
 
 This sot Phcebc all in aflutter; 
 and the next moment Mrs. Staines 
 tapped at the little door, then open- 
 ed it;' and peeped. " Good news ! 
 may I come in ? " 
 
 " Surely," said Phoebe, still 
 troubled and confused by Reginald's 
 strange agitation. 
 
 "there! It is a diamond!" 
 screamed Rosa. " My husband 
 knew it directly. He knows every 
 thing. If ever you are ill, go to 
 him and nobody else — by the re- 
 fraction, and the angle, and its be- 
 ing three times and a half as heavy 
 as water. It is worth £300 to buy, 
 and .£150 to sell." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " So don't you go throwing it 
 away, as he did." (In a whisper) 
 " Two tea-cups ! Was that him ? 
 I have driven him away. I am so 
 sorry. I'll go ; and then you can 
 tell him. Poor fellow ! " 
 
 "0 ma'am, don't go yet!" said 
 Phfebc, trembling. " I haven't half 
 thanked you." 
 
 " ( )h, bother thanks ! Kiss me : 
 that is the way." 
 
 " May I ? " 
 
 " You may, and must. There — 
 and there — and there. Oh, dear, 
 what nice things good luck and 
 
 happiness are, and how sweet to 
 bring them lor once ! " 
 
 Upon this Phoebe and she had a 
 nice little cry together, and Mrs. 
 Staines went off refreshed thereby, 
 and as gay as a lark, pointing siyly 
 at the door, and making faces to 
 Phcebe that she knew he was there, 
 and she only retired, out of her admi- 
 rable discretion, that they might en- 
 joy the diamond together. 
 
 When she was gone, Reginald, 
 whose eye and ear had been at the 
 key-hole, alternately gloating ou the 
 face and drinking the accents of the 
 only woman he had ever really 
 loved, came out, looking pale and 
 strangely disturbed, and sat down 
 at Jie table without a word. 
 
 Phoebe came back to him full of 
 the diamond, " Did you hear what 
 she said, my dear '? It is a diamond ; 
 it is worth £150 at least. Why, 
 what ails you ? Ah ! to be sure ! 
 you know the lady." 
 
 " I have cause to know her. Curs- 
 ed jilt ! " 
 
 " You seem a good deal put out 
 at the sight of her." 
 
 " It took me by surprise, that is 
 all." 
 
 " It takes me by surprise too. I 
 thought you were cured. I thought 
 my turn had conic at last." 
 
 Reginald met this in sullen silence. 
 Then Phoebe was sorry she had said 
 it; for, after all, it wasn't the man's 
 fault if an old sweetheart had run 
 into the room, and given him a 
 start. So she made him some fresh 
 tea, and pressed him kindly to try 
 her home-made bread and but- 
 ter. 
 
 My lord relaxed his frown and 
 consented; and, of course, they 
 talked diamond. 
 
 He told her loftily, he must take a 
 studio ; and his sitters must come to 
 him, and must no longer expect to 
 be immortalized for .£1. It must 
 be £2 for a bust, and £3 for a kit-cat. 
 
 " Nay, but, my dear," said Phoebe, 
 "they will pay no more because you 
 have a diamond."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 75 
 
 " Then they will have to go un- 
 painted," said Mr. Falcon. 
 
 This was intended for a threat. 
 Phiebe instinctively felt that it 
 might not be so received ; she coun- 
 selled moderation. "It is a great 
 thing to have earned a diamond," 
 said she : " but 'tis only once in a 
 life. Now, be ruled by me : go on 
 just as you are. Sell the diamond, 
 and give me the money to keep for 
 you. Why, you might add a little 
 to it, and so would I, till we made 
 it up £200. And if you could only 
 show £200 you had made and laid by 
 father would let us marry, and I 
 would keep this shop — it pays well, 
 1 can tell you — and keep my gen- 
 tleman in a sly corner : you need 
 never be seen in it." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said he, " that is the 
 small game. But I am a man that 
 have always preferred the big game. 
 I shall set up ray studio, and make 
 enough to keep us both. So give 
 me the stone, if you please. I shall 
 take it round to them all, and the 
 rogues won't get it out of me for a 
 hundred and fifty ; why, it is as big 
 as a nut." 
 
 "No, no, Reginald. Money has 
 a' ways made mischief between you 
 and me. You never had fifty pounds 
 vet, you didn't fall into temptation. 
 5 )o pray let me keep it for you ; or 
 e'se sell it — I know how to sell ; 
 nobody better — and keep the 
 money for a good occasion." 
 
 " Is it yours, or mine 1 " said he 
 snlki v. 
 
 " Why, yours, dear ; you earned 
 it." 
 
 " Then give it me, please." And 
 he almost forced it out of her 
 hand. 
 
 So now she sat down and cried 
 over this piece of good luck, 
 for her heart filled with forebod- 
 ings. 
 
 He laughed at her. But, at last, 
 had the grafi€ to console her, and 
 
 asanre her she was tormenting her- 
 self for nothing. 
 
 " Time will show," said she sadly. 
 
 Time did show. 
 
 Three or four days he came, as usu- 
 al, to laugh at her for her forebodings. 
 But presently his visits ceased. She 
 knew what that meant : he was liv- 
 ing like a gentleman, melting his 
 diamond, and playing her false 
 with the first pretty face he met. 
 
 This blow, coming after she had 
 been so happy, struck Phoebe Dale 
 stupid with grief. The line on her 
 high forehead deepened ; and at 
 night she sat with her hands he- 
 fore her, sighing, and sighing, and 
 listening lor the footsteps that never 
 came. 
 
 " O Dick ! " she said, " never 
 you love any one. I am aweary of 
 my life. And to think that, but 
 for that diamond — oh, dear ! oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear ' " 
 
 Then Dick used to try and com- 
 fort her in his way, and often put 
 his arm round her neck, and gave 
 her his rough but honest sympathy. 
 Dick's rare affection was her one 
 drop of comfort : it was something 
 to relieve her swelling heart. 
 
 " Dick ! " she said to him one 
 night, " I wish I had married 
 him." 
 
 " What, to be ill-used 1 " 
 
 " He couldn't use me worse. I 
 have been wife and mother and 
 sweatheart and all to him, and to 
 be left like this. He treats me 
 like the din beneath his feet." 
 
 " 'Tia your own fault. Phoebe, 
 partly. You say the word, and I'll 
 break e*ery bone in his carcass." 
 
 " What, do him a mischief! Why, 
 I'd rather die than harm a hair of 
 his bead. You must never lift 
 a hand to him, or I shall hate 
 you. " 
 
 " Hate me, Phoebe? " 
 
 "Ay, boy, I should. God for- 
 give me, 'tis no use deceiving our- 
 selves ; when a woman loves a man 
 she despises, never you come between 
 them : there's no reason in her love, 
 so it is incurable. One comfort ; it 
 can't go on forever; it must kill me 
 before my time, and so best. If I
 
 76 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 was only a mother, and had a little 
 Reginald to dandle on my knee and 
 gloat upon till he spent his money 
 and came back to me. That is why 
 I said I wished I was his wife. Oh ! 
 why does God fill a poor woman's 
 bosom with love, and nothing to 
 spend it on but a stone 1 for sure 
 his heart must be one. If I had 
 on.y something that would let me 
 always love it — a little toddling 
 thing at my knee, that would always 
 let ine look at it, and love it — 
 something too young to be false to 
 me, too weak to run away from my 
 long — ing arms — and — yearn — 
 ing heart ! " Then came a burst of 
 agony, and moans of desolation, 
 till poor Dick blubbered loudly at 
 her grief, and then her tears flowed 
 in streams. 
 
 Trouble on trouble. Dick him- 
 self got strangely out of sorts, and 
 complained of shivers. Phoebe sent 
 him to bed early, and made him 
 some white wine whey very hot. In 
 the morning he got up, and said he 
 was better ; but after breakfast he 
 was violently sick, and suffered sev- 
 eral returns of nausea before noon. 
 " One would think I was poisoned," 
 said he. 
 
 At one o'clock he was seized with 
 a kind of spasm in the throat that 
 lasted so long it nearly choked 
 him. 
 
 Then Phoebe got frightened, and 
 sent to the nearest surgeon. He 
 did not hurry, and poor Dick had 
 another frightful spasm just as he 
 euine in. 
 
 " It is hysterical," said the sur- 
 geon. " No disease of the heart is 
 there. Give him a little sal volatile 
 every half hour." 
 
 In spite of the sal volatile these 
 terrible spasms seized him every 
 half hour ; and now he used to 
 spring off the bed with a cry of ter- 
 ror when they came; and each one 
 hit him weaker and weaker; he had 
 to be carried back by the women. 
 
 A sad, sickening fear seized on 
 
 Phcebe. She left Dick with the 
 maid, and, tying on her bonnet in a 
 moment, rushed wildly down the 
 street, asking the neighbors for a 
 great doctor, the best that could be 
 had for money. One tent her east 
 a mile, another west, and she was 
 almost distracted, when, who should 
 drive up but Doctor and Mrs. 
 Staines, to make purchases. She 
 did not know his name, but she 
 knew he was a doctor. She ran to 
 the window, and cried, " O doctor, 
 my brother ! Oh, pray, come to 
 him ! Oh ! oh ! " 
 
 Doctor Staines got quickly but 
 calmly out, told his wife to wait, 
 and followed Phcebe up stairs. She 
 told him, in a few agitated words, 
 how Dick had been taken, and all 
 the symptoms ; especially what had 
 alarmed her so, his springing off the 
 bed when the spasm came. 
 
 Doctor Staines told her to hold 
 the patient up. He lost not a mo- 
 ment, but opened his mouth reso- 
 lutely, and looked down. 
 
 " The glottis is swollen," said he : 
 then he felt his hands, and said, with 
 the grave, terrible calm of experi- 
 ence, " He is dying." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no ! O doctor, save 
 him ! save him ! " 
 
 " Nothing can save him, unless we 
 had a surgeon on the spot. Yes, I 
 might save him, if you have the 
 courage : opening his windpipe be- 
 fore the next spasm is his one 
 chance." 
 
 " Open his windpipe ! O doc- 
 tor, it will kill him ! Let me look 
 at you." 
 
 She looked hard in his face. It 
 gave her confidence. 
 
 " Is it the oidy chance ? " 
 
 " The only one : and it is flying 
 while we chatter." 
 
 '• Do IT." 
 
 He whipped out his lancet. 
 
 " But I can't look on it. I trust 
 to you and my Saviour's mercy." 
 
 She fell on her knees, and bowed 
 her head in prayer. 
 
 Staines seized a basin, put it by
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 77 
 
 the bedside, made an incision in the 
 windpipe, and got Dick down on his 
 stomach, with his face over the bed- 
 side. Some blood ran, but not 
 much. " Mow ! " he cried cheerfully, 
 " a small bellows ! There's one in 
 your parlor. Run." 
 
 Phoebe ran for it, and, at Dr. 
 Staines direction, lifted Dick a little, 
 while the bellows, duly cleansed, 
 were gently applied to the aperture 
 in the windpipe, and the action of 
 the lungs delicately aided by this 
 primitive but effectual means. 
 
 He showed Phoebe how to do it, 
 tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, 
 wrote a hasty direction to an able 
 surgeon near, and sent his wife off 
 with it in the carriage. 
 
 Phoebe and he never left the pa- 
 tient till the surgeon came with all 
 the instruments required ; among 
 the rest, with a big, tortuous pair of 
 nippers, with which he could reach 
 the glottis and snip it. But they 
 consulted, and thought it wiser to 
 continue the surer method ; and so 
 a little tube was neatly inserted into 
 Dick's windpipe, and his throat ban- 
 daged ; and by this aperture he did 
 his breathing for some little time. 
 
 Phoebe nursed him like a mother; 
 and the terror anil the joy did her 
 good ; and made her less desolate. 
 
 Dick was only just well when both 
 of them were summoned to the farm, 
 and arrived only just in time to re- 
 ceive their father's blessing and his 
 last sigh. 
 
 Their elder brother, a married 
 man, inherited the farm, and was 
 executor. Phoebe and Dick were 
 left £1500 apiece, on condition of 
 their leaving England and going to 
 Natal. 
 
 They knew directly what that 
 meant. Phoebe was to be parted 
 from a bad man ; and Dick was to 
 comfort her for the loss. 
 
 When this part of the will was 
 rcail to Phoebe, she tamed faint, and 
 only her health and bodily vigor 
 kept her from swooning right away. 
 
 But she yielded. " It is the will 
 "7* 
 
 of the dead," said she ; " and I will 
 obey it ; for, oh, if I had but listened 
 to him more when he was alive to 
 advise me, I should not sit here now, 
 sick at heart and dry -eyed, when I 
 ought to be thinking only of the 
 good friend that is gone." 
 
 When she had come to this, she be- 
 came feverishly anxious to he gone. 
 
 She busied herself in purchasing 
 agricultural machines, and stores, 
 and even stock ; and, to see her 
 pinching the beasts' ribs to find their 
 condition, and parrying all attempts 
 to cheat her, you would never have 
 believed she could be a lovesick 
 woman. 
 
 Dick kept her up to the mark. 
 He only left her to bargain with the 
 master of a good vessel ; for it was 
 no trifle to take out horses, and 
 cows, and machines, and bales of 
 cloth, cotton, and linen. 
 
 When that was settled they came 
 into town together, and Phoebe 
 bought shrewdly, at wholesale houses 
 in the city, for cash, and would have 
 bargains : and the little shop in 
 
 Street was turned into a 
 
 warehouse. 
 
 They were all ardor, as colonists 
 should be: and, what pleased Dick 
 most, she never mentioned Falcon ; 
 yet he learned from the maid that 
 worthy had been there twice, look- 
 ing very seedy. 
 
 The day drew near. Dick was in 
 high spirits. 
 
 " We shall soon make our fortune 
 out there," he said : " and I'll get 
 you a good husband." 
 
 She shuddered, but said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 The evening before they went to 
 sail, Phoebe sat alone, in her black 
 dress, tired with work, and asking 
 herself, sick at heart, could she ever 
 really leave England, when the door 
 
 opened softly, and Reginald Falcon, 
 shabbily dressed, came in, and threw 
 himself into a chair, 
 
 She started up with a scream, 
 then sank down again, trembling, 
 and turned her face to the wall.
 
 78 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " So you are going to run away 
 from me ? " said he savagely. 
 
 " Ay, Reginald," said she meek- 
 
 " This is your fine love ; is it ? " 
 
 "Yon have worn it out, dear," 
 she said softly, without turning her 
 head. 
 
 " I wish I could say as much : 
 but, curse it, every time I leave you, 
 I learn to love you more. I am 
 never really happy but when I am 
 with you." 
 
 " Bless you for saying that, dear. 
 I often thought you must find that 
 out one day ; but you took too 
 long." 
 
 " Oh, better late than never, 
 Phoebe ! Can you have the heart to 
 go to the Cape, and leave me all 
 alone in the world with nobody that 
 really cares for me ? Surely you 
 are not obliged to go ? " 
 
 " Yes ; my father left Dick and 
 me £\ ,590 apiece to go : that was the 
 condition. Poor Dick loves his un- 
 happy sister. He won't go without 
 me — I should he his ruin — poor 
 Dick that really loves me ; and he 
 lay a-dying here, and the good doc- 
 tor and me — God bless him ! — we 
 brought him back from the grave. 
 Ah ! you little know what I have 
 gone through. You were not here. 
 Catch you being near me when I am 
 in trouble. There, I must go. I 
 must go. I will go; if I fling my- 
 self into the sea half-way." 
 
 "And if you do, I'll take a dose 
 of poison ; for I have thrown away 
 the truest heart, the sweetest, most 
 unselfish, kindest, generous — oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! " 
 
 And he began to howl. 
 
 This set Phoebe sobbing. " Don't 
 cry, dear," she murmured through 
 her tears : " if you have really any 
 love for me, come with me." 
 
 " What, leave England, and go to 
 a desert ? " 
 
 " Love can make a desert a gar- 
 den." 
 
 " Phoebe, I'll do any thing else. 
 I'll swear not to leave your side, 
 
 I'll never look at any other face but 
 yours. But I can't live in Africa." 
 
 " I know you can't. It takes a 
 little real love to go there with a 
 poor girl like me. Ah, well, I'd 
 have made you so happy. We are 
 not poor emigrants. I have a horse 
 for you to ride, and guns lo shoot ; 
 and me and Dick would do all the 
 work for you. But there are others 
 here you can't leave for me. Well, 
 then, good-by, dear. In Africa or 
 here I shall always love you ; and 
 many a salt tear I shall shed for you 
 yet; many a one I have, as well you 
 know. God bless you ! Pray for 
 poor Phcebe, that goes against her 
 will to Africa, and leaves her heart 
 with thee." 
 
 This was too much even for the 
 selfish Reginald. He kneeled at her 
 knees, and took her hand and kissed 
 it, and actually shed a tear or two 
 over it. 
 
 She could not speak. He bad no 
 hope of changing her resolution : 
 and presently he heard Dick's voiee 
 outside ; so he got up to avoid him. 
 " I'll come again in the morning be- 
 fore you go." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " she gasped ; " un- 
 less you want me to die at your feet. 
 I am almost dead now." 
 
 Reginald slipped out by the kitch- 
 en. 
 
 Dick came in, and found his sister 
 leaning with her head hack against 
 the wall. " Why, Phoebe," said he, 
 " whatever is the matter 1 " and he 
 took her by the shoulder. 
 
 She moaned, and he felt her all 
 limp and powerless. 
 
 " What is it, lass ? Whatever is 
 the matter ? Is it about going 
 away ? " 
 
 She would not speak for a long 
 time. 
 
 When she did speak, it was to say 
 something for which my male reader 
 perhaps may hardly be prepared. 
 
 " Dick, forgive me ! " 
 
 " Why, what for ? " 
 
 " Forgive me, or else kill me : I 
 don't care which."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 79 
 
 " I do, though. There, I forgive 
 you. Now what's the crime ? " 
 
 " I can't go. Forgive me." 
 
 " Can't go ? " 
 
 "I can't. Forgive me." 
 
 " I'm blest if I don't believe that 
 vagabond has been here tormenting 
 of you again." 
 
 " Oh ! don't miscall him. He is 
 penitent. Yes, Dick, he has been 
 here crying to me — and I can't 
 have him. I can't — I can't. Dear 
 Dick, you are young and stout- 
 hearted ; take all the things over, 
 and make your fortune out there ; 
 and leave your poor foolish sister be- 
 hind. I should only fling myself 
 into the salt sea if I left him now, 
 and that would be peace to me, but 
 a grief to thee." 
 
 " Lord sake! Phoebe, don't talk so. 
 I can't go without you. And do 
 but think. Why the horses are on 
 board now, and all the gear. I'ts 
 my belief a good hiding is all you 
 want to bring you to your senses ; 
 but I hain't the heart to give you 
 one, worse luck ! Blessed if I know 
 ■what to say or do." 
 
 "I won't £0 ! " cried Phoebe, 
 fuming violent all of a sudden. 
 "No, not if I am dragged to the 
 ship by the hair of my head. For- 
 give me." And with that word 
 she was a mouse again. 
 
 "Eh, but women are kittle cattle 
 to drive," said poor Dick ruefully. 
 And down he sat at a nonplus, and 
 very unhappy. 
 
 Phcebe s it opposite, sullen, heart- 
 sick, Wretched to the core, but de- 
 termined not to leave Reginald. 
 
 Then came an event that might 
 have been foreseen, yet it took them 
 both by surprise. 
 
 A li:ht Btep was heard, and a 
 graceful, though seedy, figure en- 
 tored the room, with a set speech in 
 his mouth : *' Phoebe, you are right. 
 I owe it to your long and faith- 
 ful affection to make a sacrifice 
 for you. I will go to Africa with 
 you. 1 will go tn the end of the 
 world sootier than you shall say I 
 
 care for any woman on earth but 
 you." 
 
 Both brother and sister were so 
 unprepared for this that they could 
 hardly realize it at first. 
 
 Phcebe turned her great, inquiring 
 eyes on the speaker; and it was a 
 sight to see amazement, doubt, and 
 happiness animating her features, 
 one after another. 
 
 " Is this real 1 " said she. 
 
 " I'll sail with you to-morrow, 
 Phcebe ; and I will make you a good 
 husband, if you will have me." 
 
 " That is spoke like a man," said 
 Dick. " You take him at his word, 
 Phcebe ; and if he ill-uses you out 
 there, I'll break every bone in his 
 skin," 
 
 " How dare you threaten him ? " 
 said Phcebe. " You had best leave 
 the room." 
 
 Out went poor Dick, with the tear 
 in his eye at being snubbed so. 
 While he was putting up the shut- 
 ters, Phcebe was making love to her 
 pseudo-penitent. " My dear," said 
 she, " trust yourself to me. You 
 don't know all my love yet ; for I 
 have never been your wife, and I 
 would not be your jade ; that is the 
 only thing I ever refused you. Trust 
 yourself to me. Why, you never 
 found happiness with others ; try it 
 with me. It shall be the hot day's 
 work you ever did, going out in the 
 ship with me. You don't know how 
 happy a loving wife can make her 
 husband. I'll pet you out there as 
 man was never petted. And besides, 
 it isn't for life; Dick and me will 
 soon make a fortune out there, and 
 then I'll bring you home, and see 
 you spend it any way you like but 
 one. Oh, how I love you! do you 
 love me a little ? I worship the? 
 ground you walk cm. I adore every 
 hair of your head! " Her noble arm 
 went round his neck in a moment, 
 am! the grandeur of her passion elec- 
 trified him so far that he kissed her 
 affectionately, if not quite so warmly 
 as she did him : and so it was all 
 settled. The maid was discharged
 
 80 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 that night, instead of the morning;, 
 am! Reginald was to occupy her bed. 
 Phoebewent up stairs with her heart 
 literally on tire, to prepare his sleep- 
 ing-room, and so Dick and Reginald 
 had a word. 
 
 " I say, Dick, how long will this 
 voyage be 1 " 
 
 " Two months, sir, I'm told." 
 
 " Please to cast your eyes on this 
 suit of mine. Don't you think it is 
 rather seedy — to go to Africa with ? 
 Why, I shall disgrace you on board 
 the ship. I say, Dick, lend me three 
 govs., just to buy a new suit at the 
 slop-shop." 
 
 " Well, brother-in-law," said Dick, 
 " I don't see any harm in that. I'll 
 go and fetch them for you." 
 
 What does this sensible Dick do 
 but go up stairs to Phcebe, and say, 
 " He wants three pounds to buy a 
 suit; am I to lend it him? " 
 
 Phcebe was shaking and patting 
 her penitent's pillow. She dropped 
 it on the bed in dismay. "O Dick, 
 not for all the world ! Why, if lie 
 had three sovereigns he'd desert me 
 at the water's edge. O God help 
 me, how I love him ! God forgive 
 me, how I mistrust him! Good 
 Dick ! kind Dick ! say we have 
 suits of clothes, and we'll fit him like 
 a prince, as he ought to be, on board 
 ship: but not a shilling of money; 
 and, my dear, don't put the weight 
 on me. You understand ? " 
 
 " Av, mistress. I understand." 
 
 " Good Dick ! " 
 
 "Oh, all right! and then, don't 
 you snap this here good, kind Dick's 
 nose off at a word again." 
 
 " Never. I get wild if anybody 
 threatens him. Then I'm not my- 
 self. Forgive my hasty tongue. 
 You know I love you, dear ! " 
 
 " Oh, ay ! you love well enough. 
 But seems to me your love is pre- 
 cious like cold veal; and your love 
 for that chap is hot roast beef." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " Oh ! ye can laugh now, can 
 ye?" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Well, the more of that music 
 the better for me." 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but go and tell 
 him." 
 
 Dick went down, and said, " I've 
 got no money to spare, till I get to 
 the Cape ; but Pbcebe has got a box 
 full of suits, and I made her prom- 
 ise to keep it out. She will dress 
 you like a prince, you may be sure." 
 
 " Oh ! that is it, is it ? " said Bcgi- 
 nald dryly. 
 
 Dick made no reply. 
 
 At nine o'clock they were on 
 board the vessel ; at ten she weighed 
 anchor, and a steam-vessel drew her 
 down the river about thirty miles, 
 then cast off, and left her to the 
 southeasterly breeze. Up went sail 
 after sail ; she nodded her lofty head, 
 and glided away for Africa. 
 
 Phcebe shed a few natural tears at 
 leaving the shores of Old England : 
 but they soon dried. She was de- 
 murely happy, watching her prize, 
 and asking herself had she really 
 secured it, and all in a few hours? 
 
 They bad a prosperous voyage : 
 were married at Cape Town, and 
 went up the country, bag and bag- 
 gage, looking out for a <rood bargain 
 in land. Reginald was mounted on 
 an English horse, and allowed to 
 zigzag about, and shoot, and play, 
 while his wife and brother-in-law 
 marched slowly with their caval- 
 cade. 
 
 What with air, exercise, whole- 
 some food, and smiles of welcome, 
 and delicious petting, this egotist en 
 joyed himself finely. He admitted 
 as much. Says he one evening, to 
 his wife, who sat by him for the 
 pleasure of seeing him feed, " It 
 sounds absurd ; but I never was so 
 happy in all my life." 
 
 At" that, the celestial expression of 
 her pastoral face, and the maternal 
 gesture with which she drew her pet's 
 head to her queenly bosom, was a 
 picture for celibacy to gnash the 
 teeth at.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 81 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 During this period, the most re- 
 markable tilings that happened to 
 Dr. and Mrs. Staines were really 
 those which I have related as con- 
 necting them with Phoebe Dale and 
 her brother ; to which I will now 
 add that Dr. Staines detailed Dick's 
 case in a remarkable paper, entitled 
 tE/lcnia of the Glottis, and showed 
 how the patient had been brought 
 back from the grave by tracheotomy 
 and artificial respiration. He re- 
 ceived a high price for this article. 
 
 To tell the truth, he was careful 
 not to admit that it was he who had 
 opened the windpipe ; so the credit 
 of the whole operation was ^iven to 
 Mr. Jenkyu ; and this gentleman 
 was naturally pleased, and threw a 
 good many consultation fees in 
 Staines's way. 
 
 The Lucases, to his great com- 
 fort — for he had an instinctive aver- 
 sion to Miss Lucas — left London 
 for Paris in August, and did not 
 return all the year. 
 
 In February he reviewed his year's 
 work and twelve months' residence 
 in the Bijou. The pecuniary result 
 was — outgoings, £950; income, 
 from fees, .£'280 ; writing, .£90. 
 
 He showed these figures to Mrs. 
 Staines, and asked her if she could 
 suggest any diminution of expendi- 
 ture. Could she do with less house- 
 keeping money ? 
 
 "Oli, impossible! You cannot 
 think how the servants eat; and 
 they won't touch our home-made 
 bread." 
 
 " The fools ! Why 7 " 
 
 " Oh ! because they think it costs 
 us less. Servants Beem to me al- 
 ways to hate the people whose bread 
 
 they eat." 
 
 " More likely it is their vanity. 
 Nothing that isnol paid before their 
 eyes seems good enough for them. 
 Well, dear, the bakers will revenue 
 
 us. I'.ui is there any other item we 
 eould reduce ! Dress ! " 
 
 " Dre.^.s ! Why, I spend nothing." I 
 
 " Forty-five pounds this year." 
 
 " Well, I shall want none next 
 year." 
 
 " Well, then, Rosa, as there is 
 nothing we can reduce, I must write 
 more, and take more fees, or we 
 shall be in the wrong box. Only 
 £860 left of our little capital ; and, 
 mind, we have not another shilling 
 in the world. One comfort, there is 
 no debt. We pay ready money for 
 every thing." 
 
 Rosa colored a little, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 Staines did his part nobly. He 
 read ; he wrote ; he paced the yard ; 
 he wore his old clothes in the house. 
 He took off his new ones when he 
 came in. He was all genius, drudg- 
 ery, patience. 
 
 How Phoebe Dale would have 
 valued him, co-operated with him, 
 and petted him, if she had had the 
 good luck to be his wile ! 
 
 The season came back, and with 
 
 it Miss Lucas, towing a biilliaitt 
 bride, Mrs. Vivian, young, rich, 
 pretty, and gay, with a waist you 
 could span, and a thirst for pleasure. 
 
 This lady was the first that ever 
 made Rosa downright jealous. She 
 seemed to have every thing the fe- 
 male heart could desire ; and she 
 was No. 1 with Miss Lucas this year. 
 Now, Rosa was No. 1 last season, 
 and had weakly imagined that was 
 t<> lastforever. But Miss Lucas had 
 always a sort of female flame, and 
 it never lasted two seasons. 
 
 l{os :l did not care so very much 
 for Miss Lucas before, except as a 
 convenient friend ; but now she was 
 mortified to tears at finding Miss 
 Lncafl made more fuss with another 
 than with her. 
 
 This foolish feeling spurred her 
 to attempt a rivalry with Mrs. Vivi- 
 an in the very things where rivalry 
 
 was hopeless. 
 
 Miss Lucas gaVe both ladies tick- 
 ets tor a Sower-show, where all the 
 
 grcal folk were to be, princes and 
 priiiccs-es, &c.
 
 82 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 "But I have nothing to wear," 
 sighed Rosa. 
 
 " Then you must get something, 
 and mind it is not pink, please ; for 
 we must not clash in color. You 
 know I'm dark, and pink becomes 
 me." (The selfish young brute was 
 not half as dark as Rosa.) " Mine 
 is coming from Worth's, in Paris, 
 on purpose. And this new Madam 
 Cie, of Regent Street, has such a 
 duck of a bonnet, just come from 
 Paris. She wanted to make me one 
 from it ; but I told her I would have 
 none but the pattern bonnet — and 
 she knows very well she can't pass 
 a copy off on me. Let me drive 
 you up there, and you can see mine, 
 ami order one if you like it." 
 
 "Oh, thank you ! let me just run 
 and speak to my husband first." 
 
 Staines was writing for the bare 
 life, and a number of German books 
 about him, slaving to make a few 
 pounds, when in comes the buoyant 
 figure and beaming face his soul 
 delighted in. 
 
 He laid down his work, to enjoy 
 the sunbeam of love. 
 
 " darling ! I've only come in 
 for a minute. We are going to a 
 flower-show on the 13th; every- 
 body will be so beautifully dressed 
 — especially that Mrs. Vivian. I 
 have got ten yards of beautiful blue 
 silk in my wardrobe, but that is not 
 enough to make a whole dress. 
 Every thing takes so much stuff 
 now. Madame Cie does not care to 
 make tip dresses unless she finds 
 the silk, but Miss Lucas says she 
 thinks, to oblige a friend of hers, 
 she would do it for once in a way. 
 You know, dear, it would only take 
 a few yards more, and it would last 
 as a dinner-dress for ever so long." 
 Then she clasped him round the 
 neck, and leaned her head upon his 
 shoulder, and looked lovingly up 
 into his face. "I know you would 
 like your Rosa to look as well as 
 Mrs. Vivian." 
 
 " No one ever looks as well — in 
 my eyes — as my Rosa. There, the 
 
 dress will add nothing to your 
 beauty; but go and get it, to pfeasa 
 yourself: it is very considerate of 
 you to have chosen something of 
 which you have ten yards already. 
 See, dear, I'm to receive twenry 
 pounds for this article; if research 
 was paid, it ought to be a hundred. 
 I shall add it all to your allowance 
 for dresses this year. So no debt, 
 mind ; but come to me for every- 
 thing." 
 
 The two ladies drove off to Mad- 
 ame Cie's, a pretty shop, lined with 
 dark velvet and lace draperies. 
 
 In the back room they were pack- 
 ing a lovely bridal dress, going off, 
 the following Saturday, to New 
 York. 
 
 " What ! send from America to 
 London ! " 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes ! " exclaimed Mad- 
 ame Cie. " The American ladies 
 are excellent customers. They buy 
 every thing of the best and the" most 
 expensive." 
 
 " I have brought you a new cus- 
 tomer," said Miss Lucas ; " and I 
 want you to do a great favor, and 
 that is to match a blue silk, and 
 make her a pretty dress for the 
 flower-show on the 13th." 
 
 Madame Cie produced a white 
 muslin polonaise, which she was just 
 going to send home to the Princess 
 
 , to be worn over mauve. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty and simple ! " 
 exclaimed Miss Lucas. 
 
 " I have some lace exactly like 
 that," said Mrs. Staines. 
 
 " Then, why don't you have a 
 polonaise ? The lace is the only ex- 
 pensive part, the muslin is a mere 
 nothing: ; and it is such a useful 
 dress, it can be worn over any silk." 
 It was agreed Madame Cie was 
 to send for the blue silk and the 
 lace, and the dresses were to be tried 
 on on Thursday. 
 
 On Thursday, as Rosa went 
 gayly into Madame Cie's back 
 room to have the dresses tried on, 
 Madame Cie said, " You have a 
 beautiful lace shawl, but it wants
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 83 
 
 arranging : in five minutes I could 
 astonish you with what I could do 
 to that shawl." 
 
 " Oh, pray do ! " said Mrs. Staines. 
 
 The dress-maker kept her word. 
 By the time the hlue dress was tried 
 on, Madame Cie had, with the aid of" 
 a few pins, plaits, and a bow of hlue 
 ribbon, transformed the half-lace 
 shawl into one of the smartest and 
 most clistiniptc tilings imaginable; 
 but when the bill came in at Christ- 
 mas for that five minutes' labor 
 and distinrjiie'touch, she charged one 
 pound eight. 
 
 Before they left, Mrs. Staines 
 ordered a bonnet like the pattern 
 bonnet from Paris; and Madame 
 Cie, with oily tongue, persuaded her 
 to let her send home the pink bon- 
 net, which was so becoming to her; 
 it was only slightly soiled, and there 
 were certainly two good wears out 
 of it, and they would not quarrel 
 about the price, which the Simple- 
 ton understood to mean the price 
 was to be small; whereas it meant 
 this, " I, in my brutal egotism, can- 
 not conceive that you object to any 
 price I charge, however high/' 
 
 Madame Cie then told the ladies, 
 in an artfully confidential tone, she 
 had a quantity of black silk coming 
 home, which she had purchased con- 
 siderably below cost price ; and that 
 she should like to make them each a 
 dress — not for her own sake, but 
 theirs — as she knew they would 
 never meet such a hargain again. 
 
 " You know, Miss Lucas," she 
 continued, "we don't want our 
 money when we know our customer. 
 Christmas is soon enough for us." 
 
 "Christmas is a long time off," 
 thought the young wife, "nearly 
 tin months. I think I'll have a 
 black dre->, Madame Cie; but I 
 must not say any thing to the doc- 
 tor about it just yet, or he might 
 
 think me extravagant." 
 
 " No one can ever think a lady 
 extravagant for buying a black 
 silk ; it's such a useful dress ; lasts 
 forever — almost." 
 
 Days, weeks, and months rolled 
 on, and with them an ever-rolling 
 tide of flower-shows, dinners, at- 
 homes, balls, operas, lawn-parties, 
 concerts, and theatres. 
 
 Strange that in one house there 
 should be two people who loved 
 each other, yet their lives ran so 
 far apart, except while they wcra 
 asleep: the man all industry, self- 
 denial, patience; the woman all frivo- 
 lity, self-indulgence, and amusement ; 
 both chained to an oar, only one in 
 a working-boat, the other in a 
 painted galley. 
 
 The woman got tired first, and 
 her charming color waned sadly. 
 She came to him lor medicine to 
 set her up. " I feel so languid ! " 
 
 " No, no," said he ; " no medi- 
 cine can do the work of wholesome 
 food and rational repose. You 
 lack the season of all natures, sleep. 
 Dine at home three days running, 
 and go to bed at ten." 
 
 On this the doctor's wife went to 
 a chemist for advice. He gave her 
 a pink stimulant ; and, as stimulants 
 have two effects, viz., first, to stim- 
 ulate, and then to weaken, this did 
 her no lasting j;ood. Doctor Staines 
 cursed the London season, and 
 threatened to migrate to Liver- 
 pool. 
 
 But there was worse behind. 
 
 P»cturnin<; one day to his drcss- 
 ing-room, just alter Rosa had come 
 
 down stairs, he caught sight of a 
 red stain in a washhand-basin. He 
 examined it ; it was arterial blood. 
 
 He went to her directly, and ex- 
 pressed his anxiety. 
 
 " < )h, it is nothing ! " said she. 
 
 "Nothing! Pray how often has 
 it occurred ! " 
 
 " Once or twice. I must take 
 vour advice, and be quiet, that is 
 all." 
 
 Staines examined the house- 
 maid ; she lied instinctively at first, 
 seeing he was alarmed ; but, being 
 urged to tell the truth, said she had 
 seen it repeatedly, and had to'.d tho 
 cook.
 
 84 
 
 A SIMPLETON - . 
 
 He went down stairs, and sat 
 down, looking wretched. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said Kosa. " What 
 is the matter now ? " 
 
 " Rosa," said he very gravely, 
 " there are two people a woman is 
 mad to deceive, — her husband and 
 her physician. You have deceived 
 both." 
 
 I suspect Dr. Staines merely 
 meant to say that she had concealed 
 from him an alarming symptom for 
 several weeks ; but she answered in 
 a hurry, to excuse herself, and let 
 the cat out of the bag — excuse my 
 vulgarity. 
 
 "It was all that Mrs. Vivian's 
 fault. She laughed at me so for not 
 wearing them ; and she has a waist 
 you can span — the wretch ! " 
 
 " Oh ! then, you have been wear- 
 ing stays clandestinely ? " 
 
 " Why, you know I have. Oh, 
 what a stupid! I have let it all 
 out." 
 
 " How could you do it, when you 
 know, by experience, it is your 
 death ? " 
 
 " But it looks so beautiful — a 
 tiny waist." 
 
 " It looks as hideous as a Chinese 
 foot, and, to the eye of science, far 
 more disgusting; it is the cause of 
 so many nasty diseases." 
 
 " Just tell me one thing. Have 
 you looked at Mrs. Vivian ? " 
 
 " Minutely. I look at all your 
 friends — with great anxiety, know- 
 ing no animal more dangerous than 
 a fool. Vivian — a skinny woman, 
 with a pretty face, lovely hair, good 
 teeth, dying eyes — yes, lovely. A 
 sure proof of a disordered stomach 
 — and a waist pinched in so unatur- 
 ally, that I said ^o myself, ' Where 
 on earth does this idiot put her 
 liver 1 ' Did you ever read of the 
 frog who burst trying to swell to an 
 ox ? Well, here is the rivalry re- 
 versed. Mrs. Vivian is a bag of 
 bones in a balloon ; she can machine 
 herself into a wasp ; but a fine young 
 woman like you, with flesh and 
 muscle, must kill yourself three or 
 
 four times before you can make your 
 body as meagre, hideous, angular, 
 and unnatural as Vivian's. But all 
 you ladies are monomaniacs. One 
 might as well offer the truth to a 
 gorilla. It brought you to the edge 
 of the grave. I saved you. Yet you 
 could go and — God grant me 
 patience ! So I suppose these un- 
 principled women lent you their 
 stays, to deceive your husband ? " 
 
 " No. But they laugh at me so 
 that — O Christie ! I'm a wretch ; 
 I kept a pair at the Lucases', and a 
 pair at Madame Cie's, and I put 
 them on now and then." 
 
 " But you never appeared here in 
 them " 
 
 " What, before my tyrant ? Oh, 
 no, I dared not ! " 
 
 " So you took them off before you 
 came home ? " 
 
 Rosa hung her head, and said, 
 " Yes," in a reluctant whisper. 
 
 " You spent your daylight dress- 
 ing^ You dressed to go out ; dressed 
 again in stays ; dressed again without 
 them ; and all to deceive your hus- 
 band, and kill yourself, at the bid- 
 ding of two shallow, heartless wom- 
 en, who would dance over your 
 grave without a pang of remorse, or 
 sentiment of any kind, since they 
 live, like midges, only to dance in the 
 sun, and suck some worker's blood! " 
 " Christie ! I'm so easily led, 
 I am too great a fool to live. Kill 
 me!" 
 
 And she kneeled down, and re- 
 newed the request, looking up in his 
 face with an expression that might 
 have disarmed Cain ipsum. 
 
 He smiled superior. " The ques- 
 tion is, Are you sorry you have been 
 so naughty ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear. Oh ! oh ! " 
 " Will you be very good, to make 
 up?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Only tell me how, for 
 it does not come natural to poor 
 me." 
 
 " Keep out of those women's way 
 for the rest of the season." 
 " I will."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 85 
 
 " Bring your stays home, and 
 allow mc to do what I like with 
 them." 
 
 " Of course. Cut them in a mil- 
 lion pieces." 
 
 " Till you are recovered you must 
 be my patient, and go nowhere with- 
 out me." 
 
 " That is no punishment, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " Punishment ! Am I the man 
 to punish you 1 I only want to 
 save you." 
 
 '• Well, darling, it won't be the 
 first time." 
 
 " No ; but I do hope it will be the 
 last." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Sublata causa tollitur effectus. The 
 stays being gone, and dissipation 
 moderated, Mrs. Staines bloomed 
 again, and they gave one or two 
 unpretending little dinners at the 
 Bijou. Dr. Staines admitted no 
 false friends to these. They never 
 went beyond eight; five gentlemen, 
 three ladies. By this arrangement 
 the terrible discursiveness of the fair, 
 and man's cruel disposition to work 
 a subject threadbare, were controlled 
 and modified, and a happy balance 
 of conversation established. Lady 
 Cicely Treherne was always invited, 
 and always managed to come ; for 
 she said, "They were the most ag- 
 weeable little paaticsin London, and 
 the host and hostess both bo intewest- 
 ing." In the autumn Staines 
 worked double tides with the pen, 
 and found a vehicle for medical nar- 
 ratives id a weekly magazine that did 
 not profess medicine. 
 
 This new vein put him in heart. 
 His fees, toward the end of the year, 
 were less than last year, because 
 there was DO hundred guinea fee; 
 but there was a marked increase in 
 the small fees, and the Unflagging 
 pen had actually earned him £200, 
 or nearly. So be was in good spirits, 
 
 a 
 
 Not so Mrs. Staines ; for some 
 time she had been uneasy, fretful, 
 and like a person with a weight on 
 her mind. 
 
 One Sunday she said to him, " Oh, 
 dear, I do feel so dull ! Nobody to 
 go to church with me, nor yet to the 
 Zoo." 
 
 " I'll go with you," said Staines. 
 
 " You will ? To which ? " 
 
 " To both : in for a penny, in for 
 a pound." 
 
 So to church they went; and 
 Staines, whose motto was " Hoc 
 age," minded his book. Rosa had 
 some intervals of attention to the 
 words, but found plenty of time to 
 study the costumes. 
 
 During the Litany in bustled 
 Clara, the housemaid, with a white 
 jacket on so like her mistress's that 
 Rosa clutehed her own convulsively 
 to see whether she had not been 
 skinned of it by some devilish sleight 
 of hand. 
 
 No, it was on her back; but 
 Clara's was identical. 
 
 In her excitement Rosa pinched 
 Staines, and with her nose, that 
 went like a water-wagtail, pointed 
 out the malefactor. Then she whis- 
 pered, " Look ! How dare she ? 
 My very jacket ! Ear-rings too, and 
 brooches, aud dresses her hair like 
 mine." 
 
 " Well, never mind," whispered 
 Staines. " Sunday is her day. AVe 
 have got all the week to shine. 
 There, don't look at her. 'From 
 all evil Speaking, lying, and slan- 
 dering'"— 
 
 " I can't keep my eyes off her." 
 
 "Attend to the Litany. Do you 
 know, this is really a beautiful com- 
 position ! " 
 
 " I'd rather do the work fifty times 
 over myself." 
 
 " Bush! people will hear you." 
 
 When they walked home, after 
 church, Staines tried to divert her 
 from the consideration of her 
 wrongs; but no — all other topics 
 were too flat by comparison. 
 
 She 'mourned the hard fate of
 
 8G 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 mistresses — unfortunate creatures 
 that could not do without servants. 
 
 " Is not that a confession that ser- 
 vants are good, useful creatures, 
 with all their faults ? Then, as to 
 the mania for dress, why, that is not 
 confined to them. It is the mania 
 of the sex. Are you free from it 1 " 
 
 " No, of course not. But I am a 
 lady." 
 
 " Then she is your intellectual 
 inferior, and more excusable. Any 
 way, it is wise to connive at a thing 
 we can't help." 
 
 " What, keep her, after this 1 — no, 
 never." 
 
 " My dear, pray do not send her 
 away, for she is tidy in the house, 
 and quick, and better than any one 
 we have had this last six months ; 
 and you know you have tried a great 
 number." 
 
 " To hear you speak, one would 
 think it was my fault that we have 
 so many bad servants." 
 
 "I never said it was your fault ; 
 hut I think, dearest, a little more for- 
 bearance in trifles " — 
 
 " Trifles ! trifles — for a mistress 
 and maid to be seen dressed alike in 
 the same church 1 You take the 
 servant's part against me, that you 
 do." 
 
 " You should not say that, even in 
 jest. Come now, do you really 
 think a jacket like yours can make 
 the servant look like you, or detract 
 from your grace and beauty 1 There 
 is a very simple way : put your 
 jacket by for a future occasion, and 
 wear something else in its stead at 
 church." 
 
 " A nice thing, indeed, to give in 
 to these creatures ! I won't do it." 
 
 " Why won't you, this once ? " 
 
 " Because I won't — there ! " 
 
 "That is unanswerable," said he. 
 
 Mrs. Staines said that, but, when 
 it came to acting, she deferred to her 
 husband's wish ; she resigned her in- 
 tention of sending for Clara and giv- 
 ing her warning ; on the contrary, 
 when Clara let her in, and the white 
 jackets rubbed together in the nar- 
 
 row passage, she actually said noth- 
 ing, but stalked to her own room, 
 and tore her jacket off, and flung it 
 on the floor. 
 
 Unfortunately, she was so long 
 dressing for the Zoo, that Clara 
 came in to arrange the room. She 
 picks up the white jacket, takes it in 
 both hands, gives it a flap, and pro- 
 ceeds to hang it up in the wardrobe. 
 
 Then the great feminine heart 
 burst its bounds. 
 
 " You can leave that alone. I 
 shall not wear that again." 
 
 Thereupon ensued an uneven en- 
 counter, Clara being one of those of 
 whom Scripture says, " The poison 
 of asps is under their tongues." 
 
 "La, ma'am," said she, "why, 
 t'ain't so very dirty." 
 
 " No ; but it is too common." 
 
 " Oh ! because I've got one like it. 
 Ay, missises can't abide a good- 
 looking servant, nor to see 'em 
 dressed becoming." 
 
 "Mistresses do not like servants 
 to forget their place, nor wear what 
 does not become their situation." 
 
 My situation ! Why, I can pay 
 my way, go where I will. I don't 
 tremble at the tradesman's knock, 
 as some do." 
 
 " Leave the room ! Leave it this 
 moment." 
 
 " Leave the room, yes — and I'll 
 leave the house too, and tell all the 
 neighbors what I know about it." 
 
 She flounced out, and slammed 
 the door, and Kosa sat down, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 Clara rushed to the kitchen, and 
 there told the cook and Andrew 
 Pearman how she had given it to the 
 mistress, and every word she had 
 said to her, with a good many more 
 she had not. 
 
 The cook laughed, and encour- 
 aged her. 
 
 But Andrew Pearman was wroth, 
 and said, " You to affront our mis- 
 tress like that ! Why, if I had 
 heard you, I'd ha^e twisted your 
 neck for ye." 
 
 " It would take a better man than
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 87 
 
 you to do that. You mind your 
 "own business. Stick to your one- 
 horse shay." 
 
 " Well, I'm not above my place, 
 for that matter. But you gals must 
 always be aping your betters." 
 
 " 1 have got proper pride, that is 
 all, and you haven't. You ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself to do two 
 men's work, — drive a brougham 
 and wait on a horse, and then come 
 in and wait at table. You are a 
 tea-kettle groom, that is what you 
 are. Why, my brother was coach- 
 man to Lord Fitz-James, and gave 
 his lordship notice the first time he 
 had to drive the children. Says he, 
 ' I don't object to the children, my 
 lord, but with her* ladyship in the 
 carriage.' It's such servants as you 
 as spoil places. No servant as 
 knows what's due to a servant 
 ought to know you. They'd scorn 
 your 'quaintance, as I do, Mr. 
 Pcarman." 
 
 " You are a stuck-up hussy and a 
 soldier's jade," roared Andrew. 
 
 "And you arc a low tea-kettle 
 groom." 
 
 This expression wounded the 
 great equestrian heart to the quick ; 
 the rest of Sunday he pondered on 
 it. The next morning lie drove the 
 doe! or as usual, but with a very 
 heavy soul. 
 
 Meantime the cook made haste 
 and told the baker, Pcarman had 
 "got it hot" from the housemaid, 
 and she had called him a tea-kettle 
 groom ; and in Less than half an 
 hour after that it was in every sta- 
 ble in the mews Why, as Pearman 
 was taking the horse out of the 
 brougham, didn't two little red- 
 headed urchins call out, " Here, 
 come ami see the tea-kettle groom I " 
 
 and at night some mischievous boy 
 chalked on the black door of the 
 Stable a lar^e white tea-kettle, and 
 next morning a drunken, idle fellow, 
 with a <lay pipe in his mouth, and 
 a dirty pair of corduroy browsers, 
 no coat, but a shirt very open at the 
 chest, showing iutlamcd skin, the 
 
 effect of drink, inspected that work 
 of art with blinking eyes and vacil- 
 lating toes, and said, " This comes 
 of a chap doing too much. A few 
 more like you and work would be 
 scarce. A fine thing for gentlefolks 
 to make one man fill two places ! 
 but it ain't the gentlefolks' fault, it's 
 the man as humors 'em." 
 
 Pearman was a peaceable man, 
 and made no reply, but went on 
 with his work, only during the day 
 he told his master that he should be 
 obliged to him if he would fill his 
 situation as soon as convenient. 
 The master inquired the cause ; and 
 the mau told him, and said the 
 mews was too hot for him. 
 
 The doctor offered him five pounds 
 a year more, knowing he had a 
 treasure ; but Pearman said, with 
 sadness and firmness, that he had 
 made up his mind to go, and go he 
 would. 
 
 The doctor's heart fairly sank at 
 the prospect of losing the one crea- 
 ture he could depend upon. 
 
 Next Sunday evening Clara was 
 out, and fell in with friends, to whom 
 she exaggerated her grievance. 
 
 Then they worked her up to 
 fury, after the. manner of servants' 
 friends. She came home, packed 
 her box, brought it down, and then 
 flounced into the room to I)oet*.r 
 and Mrs. Staines, and said," I sha'n't 
 Bleep another night in this house." 
 
 Rosa was about to speak, bnt Hr. 
 Staines forbade her : he said, " You 
 had better think twice of t.at. You 
 arc a good servant, though' for 
 once you have been betr ayed into 
 speaking disrespectfully. Why for- 
 feit your character and three weeks' 
 wages 1 " 
 
 " I don't care for my wages. I 
 won't stay in such a house as this." 
 
 " Come, you must not be imper- 
 tinent." 
 
 "I don't mean to, sir," said she, 
 lowering her voice suddenly ; then, 
 raising it as suddenly, "There are 
 my key-, ma'am, and you can search 
 
 my box."
 
 88 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " Mrs. Staines will not search 
 your box; mid you will retire at 
 once to your own part of the house." 
 
 '• I'll go farther than that," said 
 she, and soon after the street-door 
 was slammed ; the Bijou shook. 
 
 At six o'clock next morning she 
 came for her box. It had heen put 
 away for safety. Pearman told her 
 she must wait till the doctor came 
 down. She did not wait, but went 
 at eleven, a.m., to a police magistrate, 
 and took out a summons against 
 ])r. Staines, for detaining a box 
 containing certain articles specified 
 — value under fifteen pounds. 
 
 When Dr. Staines heard she had 
 been for her box, but left no address, 
 he sent Pearman to hunt for her. 
 lie could not find her. She avoided 
 the house, but sent a woman for 
 her diumal love-letters. Dr. Staines 
 sent the woman back to fetch her. 
 She came, received her box, her 
 letters, and the balance of her wages, 
 which was small, for Staines deducted 
 the three weeks' wages. 
 
 Two days afterward, to his sur- 
 prise, the summons was served. 
 
 Out of respect for a court of jus- 
 tice, however humble, Dr. Staines 
 attended next Monday, to meet the 
 summons. 
 
 The magistrate was an elderly 
 man, with a face shaped like a hog's, 
 but much richer in color, being pur- 
 ple and pimply : so foul a visage 
 Staines had rarely seen, even in the 
 lowest class of the community. 
 
 Clara swore that her box had been 
 opened, and certain things stolen 
 out of it ; and that she had been 
 refused the box next morning. 
 
 Staines swore that he had never 
 opened the box, and that if any one 
 else had, it was with her consent, 
 for she had left the keys for that 
 purpose. He bade the magistrate 
 observe, that if a servant went away 
 like this, and left no address, she 
 put it out of the master's power to 
 send her box after her; and he 
 proved he had some trouble to force 
 the box on her. 
 
 The pig-faced beak showed a 
 manifest leaning toward the ser- 
 vant ; but there wasn't a leg to 
 stand on ; and he did uot believe, 
 nor was it credible, that any thing 
 had been stolen out of her box. 
 
 At this moment Pearman, sent 
 by Rosa, entered the court with an 
 old gown of Clara's that had been 
 discovered in the scullery, and a 
 scribbling-book of the doctor's, 
 which Clara had appropriated and 
 written amorous verses in, very 
 superior — in number — to those 
 that have come down to us from 
 Anacreon. 
 
 " Hand me those," said the pig- 
 faced beak. " What are they, Dr. 
 Staines 1 " 
 
 " I really don't know. I must 
 ask my servant." 
 
 " Why, more things of mine that 
 have been detained," said Clara. 
 
 " Some things that have been 
 found since she left," said Staines. 
 
 " Oh ! those that hide know where 
 to find." 
 
 " Young woman," said Staines, 
 do not insult those whose bread you 
 have eaten, and who have given you 
 many presents besides your wages. 
 Since you are so ready to accuse 
 people of stealing, permit me to say, 
 that this book is mine, and not 
 yours; and yet, you see, it is sent 
 after you because you have written 
 your trash in it." 
 
 The purple, pig-faced beak went 
 instantly out of the record, and 
 wasted a great deal of time reading 
 Clara's poetry, and trying to be 
 witty. He raised the question 
 whose book this was. The girl 
 swore it was given her by a lady 
 who was now in Pome. Staines 
 swore he bought it of a certain sta- 
 tioner, and, happening to have his 
 pass-book in his pocket, produced 
 an entry corresponding with the 
 date of the book. 
 
 The pig-faced beak said that the 
 doctor's was an improbable story, 
 and that the gown and the book 
 were quite enough to justify the
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 89 
 
 summons. Verdict, one guinea 
 costs. 
 
 " What, because two things she 
 never demanded have been found 
 and sent after her? This is mon- 
 strous. I shall appeal to your supe- 
 riors." 
 
 " If you are impertinent, I'll fine 
 you five pounds." 
 
 " Very well, sir. Now hear me : 
 if this is an honest judgment, I 
 pray God I may be dead before the 
 year's out ; and if it isn't, I pray 
 God yo.i may be." 
 
 Then the pig-laced beak fired up, 
 and threatened to fine him tor blas- 
 pheming. 
 
 He deigned no reply, but paid the 
 guinea, and Clara swept out of the 
 court with a train a yard long, and 
 leaning on the arm of a scarlet sol- 
 di t, who avenged Dr. Staines with 
 military promptitude. 
 
 Christopher went home raging 
 internally, for hitherto he "had 
 never seen so gross a case of injustice. 
 
 One of his humble patients fol- 
 lowed him, and said, "1 wish I had 
 known, sir; you shouldn't have 
 come here to he insulted. Why, 
 no gentleman can ever get justice 
 against a servant-girl when //■■ is 
 siiting. It is notorious, and that 
 makes these hussies so bold. I've 
 seen that jade here with the same 
 story twice afore." 
 
 Staines reached home more dis- 
 composed than he could have him- 
 self believed. The reason was that 
 barefaced injustice in a court of 
 justice shook his whole faith in 
 man. He opened the street-door 
 with his latch-key, and found two 
 men standing in the passage, lie 
 inquired what they wanted. 
 
 " Well, sir," said one of them 
 civilly enough, " we only want our 
 due. 
 
 " For what ? " 
 
 " For goods delivered at this 
 boose, sir. Balance of account." i 
 And he handed him a butcher's 
 bill, .£S8 ll.v. 5W. 
 
 " You must be mistaken ; we run / 
 a* 
 
 no bills here. We pay ready money 
 for every thing." 
 
 "Well, sir," said the butcher* 
 "there have been payments; but 
 the balance has always been gain- 
 ing; and we have been put oil' so 
 often, we determined to see the mas- 
 ter. Show you the books, sir, and 
 welcome." 
 
 " This instant, if you please." 
 He took the butcher's address, who 
 then retired, and the other trades- 
 man, a grocer, told him a similar 
 tale ; balance, sixty pounds odd. 
 
 He went to the butcher's, sick at 
 heart, inspected the books, and saw 
 that, right or wrong, they were 
 incontrovertible ; that debt had 
 been gaining slowly but surely al- 
 most from the time he confided the 
 accounts to his wife. She kept 
 faith with him about five weeks, no 
 more. 
 
 The grocer's books told a similar 
 tale. 
 
 The debtor put his hand to his 
 heart, and stood a moment. The 
 very grocer pitied him, and sai I, 
 " Tin re's no hurry, doctor ; a tritle 
 on account, if settlement in full is 
 not convenient just now. I see you 
 have been kept in the dark." 
 
 " No, no," said Christopher ; " I'll 
 pay every shilling." He gave one 
 gulp, and hurried away. 
 
 At the fishmonger's the same 
 story, only for a smaller amount. 
 
 A bill of nineteen pounds at the 
 very pastry-cook's ; a p ace she had 
 promised him, as her physician, 
 never to enter. 
 
 At the draper's, thirty-seven 
 pounds odd. 
 
 In short, wherever she bad dealt, 
 the same system. — partial pay- 
 ments, and ever-growing debt. 
 
 Remembering Madame Cie, he 
 drove in a cab to Regent Street, 
 and asked for Mrs. Staines's ac- 
 count. 
 
 " Shall I send it, sir 1 " 
 
 " No : I will take it with me." 
 
 " Miss Edwards, make out Mrs. 
 Staines's account, if you please."
 
 90 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Miss Edwards was a pood while 
 making it out ; but it was ready at 
 last. He thrust it into his pocket, 
 without daring to look at it then ; 
 but he went into Vcrrey's, asked for 
 a cup of coffee, and then pursued 
 the document. 
 
 Mus. Dr. Staines, 
 
 To Madame Cie, Dr. 
 
 £ s. d. 
 
 To 1 black silk costume 23 8 
 
 To 1 costume of reseda fallie, with 
 
 cashmere polonaise 20 10 
 
 To 1 bonnet of pink velvet, with 
 
 plume 5 5 6 
 
 To making trained dress of blue 
 
 gros grain 5 
 
 To 12 yards of gros grain for do., 
 
 with trinmings 19 
 
 To draping lace shawl 8 
 
 To I Sicilenne Dolman 8 3 6 
 
 To 1 round hat of fallie and crape 4 
 
 To l cashmere morningdress 8 5 
 
 To 2 camisoles 3 2 6 
 
 To 1 crinoline bustle 16 
 
 Total 99 8 6 
 
 He went home, and into his studio, 
 and sat down on his hard beech 
 chair ; he looked round on his books 
 and his work, and then, for the first 
 time, remembered how long and 
 how patiently he had toiled for every 
 hundred pounds he had made ; and 
 he laid the evidences of his wife's 
 profusion and deceit by the side of 
 those signs of painful industry and 
 self-denial, and his soul rilled with 
 bitterness. " Deceit ! Deceit ! " 
 
 Mrs. Staines heard he was in the 
 house, and came to know about the 
 trial. She came hurriedly in, and 
 caught him with his head on the 
 table, in an attitude of prostration, 
 quite new to him ; he raised his 
 head directly he heard her, and re- 
 vealed a face pale, stern, and wretch- 
 ed. 
 
 " Oh ! what is the matter now ? " 
 saiil she 
 
 " The matter is what it has always 
 been, if I could only have seen it. 
 You have deceived me, and dis- 
 graced yourself. Look at those 
 bills." 
 
 " What bills ? —oh ! " 
 
 " You have had an allowance for 
 housekeeping." 
 
 " It wasn't enough." 
 
 " It was plenty, if you had kept 
 faith with me, and paid ready money. 
 It was enough for the first five 
 weeks. I am housekeeper now, and 
 I shall allow myself two pounds a 
 week less, and not owe a shilling, 
 either." 
 
 " Well, all I know is, I couldn't 
 do it ; no woman could." 
 
 " Then you should have come to 
 me and said so ; and I should have 
 shown you how. Was I in Egypt, 
 or at the North Pole, that you could 
 not find me, and treat me like a 
 friend ? You have ruined us ; these 
 debts will sweep away the last shil- 
 ling of our little capital ; but it isn't 
 that, oh, no ! it is the miserable de- 
 ceit." 
 
 Rosa's eye caught the sum total 
 of Madame Cie's bill, and she 
 turned pale. "Oh, what a cheat 
 that woman is ! " 
 
 But she turned paler when Chris- 
 topher said, " That is the one hon- 
 est bill, for I gave you leave. It is 
 these that part us ; these ; these. 
 Look at them, false heart ! There, 
 go and pack up your things. We 
 can live here no longer : we are 
 ruined. I must send you back to 
 your father." 
 
 " I thought you would, sooner or 
 later," said Mrs. Staines, panting, 
 trembling, but showing a little 
 fight. "He told you I wasn't fit to 
 be a poor man's wife." 
 
 " An honest man's wife, you 
 mean : that is what you are not fit 
 for. You shall go home to your 
 father, and I shall go into some hum- 
 ble lodging to work for you. I'll 
 contrive to keep you and find you a 
 hundred a year to spend in dress, — 
 the only thing your heart can really 
 love. But I won't have an enemy 
 here in disguise of a friend ; and I 
 won't have a wife about me I must 
 treat like a servant and watch like a 
 traitor." 
 
 The words were harsh, but the 
 agony with which they were spoken 
 distinguished them from vulgar vi- 
 tuperation.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 91 
 
 They overpowered poor Rosa : she 
 bad Imx'ii ailing a little for some time ; 
 and from remorse and terror, cou- 
 pled with other causes, nature gave 
 way. Her lips turned white, she 
 gasped inarticulately, and with a 
 little piteous moan, tottered, and 
 swooned dead away. 
 
 He was walking wildly about, 
 ready to tear his hair, when she 
 tottered ; he saw her just in time to 
 save her, and laid her gently on the 
 floor and kneeled over iier. 
 
 Away went anger and every other 
 feeling but love and pity for the 
 poor weak creature, that, with all 
 her faults, was so lovable and so 
 loved. He applied no remedies at 
 first ; he knew they were useless 
 and unnecessary ; he laid her head 
 quite low, and opened door and 
 window, and loosened all her dress, 
 sighing deeply all the time at her 
 condition. 
 
 While he was thus employed, 
 suddenly a strange cry broke from 
 him ; a cry of horror, remorse, joy, 
 tenderness, all combined ; a cry 
 compared with which language is 
 inarticulate. Ilia swift and praetical 
 eye had made a discovery. 
 
 lie kneeled over her, with his 
 eyes dilating and his hands clasped, 
 — a picture of love and tender re- 
 morse. 
 
 She stirred. 
 
 Then he made haste and applied 
 his remedies, and brought her slowly 
 back to life: he lifted her up and 
 carried her in his arras quite away 
 from the bills and things, that when 
 she came too she might see nothing 
 to revive her distress. Be carried 
 her to the drawing-room, and kneeled 
 down, and rocked her in his arms, and 
 ed her again and again gently 
 
 to his heart, and cried over her. 
 "Oh, my dove, in v dove! the tender 
 
 creature God gave me to love and 
 cherish, and I bare used it har-Mv ' 
 
 If I had only known ! ill had only 
 known ! " 
 
 While hi- was thus bemoaninL: 
 her, and blaming himself, aud cry- 
 
 ing over her like the rain, — he, 
 whom she had never seen shed a 
 tear before in all his troubles, — she 
 was coming to entirely, and her 
 quick ears caught his words, and 
 she opened her lovely eyes upon 
 him 
 
 " I forgive you, dear," she said 
 feebly. "But I hope you will 
 
 BE A KINDER FATHER THAN A 
 HUSBAND." 
 
 These quiet words, spoken with 
 rare gravity and softness, went 
 through the great heart like a 
 knife. 
 
 He gave a sort of shiver, hut sail 
 not a word. 
 
 But that night he made a solemn 
 vow to God that no harsh word 
 from his lips should ever again strike 
 a being so weak, so loving, and so 
 beyond his comprehension. Why 
 look for courage and candor in a 
 creature so timid and shy she could 
 not even tell her husband tluit until, 
 with her subtle sense, she saw he 
 had discovered it ? 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 To be a father ; to have an image 
 of his darling Kosa and a fruit 
 of their love to live and work 
 for: this gave the sore heart a hea- 
 venly glow, and elasticity to 
 bear. Should this dear object bo 
 born to an inheritance of debt, of 
 poverty 1 Never. 
 
 He began to act as if he was even 
 now a father, lie. entreated Rosa 
 not to trouble or vex herself; he 
 would look into their finances, and 
 set all straight. 
 
 Be paid all the bills, and put by 
 a quarter's rent and taxes. Then 
 there remained of his little capital 
 just eia 
 
 Be went to his printers, and had 
 
 a thousand order-checks printed. 
 These forms ran thus ; 
 
 "Dr. Staines, <.f 13 Dear Street, 
 Mayfair (blank for date), orders of
 
 92 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 (blank here for tradesman and goods 
 ordered), for cash. Received same 
 time (blank for tradesman's re- 
 ceipt). Notice. — Dr. Staines dis- 
 owns all orders not printed on this 
 form, and paid ibr at date of or- 
 der." 
 
 He exhibited these forms, and 
 warned all the tradespeople before 
 a witness whom he took round for 
 that purpose. 
 
 He paid off Pearman on the spot. 
 Pearman had met Clara, dressed 
 like a pauper, her soldier having 
 emptied her box to the very dregs ; 
 and he now offered to stay, but it 
 was too late. 
 
 Staines told the cook Mrs. Staines 
 was in delicate health, and must 
 not be troubled with any thing. 
 She must come to him for all orders. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said she. But she no 
 sooner comprehended the check sys- 
 tem fully than she gave warning. 
 It put a stop to her wholesale pilfer- 
 ing. Her cooks had made full .£100 
 out of Rosa among them since she 
 began to keep accounts. 
 
 Under the male housekeeper every 
 article was weighed on delivery ; and 
 this soon revealed that the butcher 
 and the fishmonger had habitually 
 delivered short weight from the 
 first, besides putting down the same 
 thing twice. The things were sent 
 back that moment, with a printed 
 form, stating the nature and extent of 
 the fraud. 
 
 The washer-woman, who had 
 been pilfering wholesale so long as 
 Mrs. Staines and her sloppy-headed 
 maids had counted the linen, and 
 then forgot it, was brought up with 
 a run, by triplicate forms, and by 
 Staines counting the things before 
 two witnesses, and compelling the 
 washer-woman to count them as 
 well, and verify or dispute on the 
 spot. The laundress gave warning, 
 — a plain confession that stealiug 
 had been a part of her trade. 
 
 He kept the house well for .£3 a 
 week, exclusive of coals, candles, 
 and wiae. His wife had had £5, 
 
 and whatever she asked for dinner- 
 parties, yet found it not half enough 
 upon her method. 
 
 He kept no coachman. If he 
 visited a patient, a man in the yard 
 drove him at a shilling per hour. 
 
 By these means, and by working 
 like a galley-slave, he dragged his 
 expenditure down almost to a level 
 with his income. 
 
 Rosa was quite content at first, 
 and thought herself lucky to escape 
 reproaches on such easy terms. 
 
 But by and by so rigorous a sys- 
 tem began to gall her. One day she 
 fancied a Bath bun ; sent the new 
 maid to the pastry-cook's. Pastry- 
 cook asked to see the doctor's order. 
 Maid could not show it, and came 
 back bunless. 
 
 Kosa came into the study to com- 
 plain to her husband. 
 
 "A Bath bun," said Staines. 
 " Why, they arc colored with an- 
 natto, to save an egg, and annatto 
 is adulterated with chroma tes that 
 are poison. Adulteration upon 
 adulteration. I'll make you a real 
 Bath bun." Off coat, and into the 
 kitchen, and made her three, pure, 
 but rather heavy. He brought them 
 her in due course. She declined 
 them languidly. She was off the 
 notion, as they say in Scotland. 
 
 " If I can't have a thing when I 
 want it, I don't care for it at all." 
 Such wss the principle she laid 
 down for his future guidance. 
 
 lie sighed, and went back to his 
 work ; she cleared the plate. 
 
 One day, when she asked for the 
 carriage, he told her the time was 
 now come for her to leave the car- 
 riage exercise. She must walk 
 with him every day instead. 
 
 "But I don't like walking." 
 
 " I am sorry for that. But it is 
 necessary to you, and by and by 
 your life may depend on it." 
 
 Quietly, but inexorably, he 
 dragged her out walking every day. 
 
 In one of those walks she stopped 
 at a shop window, and fell in love 
 with some baby's things. " Oh ! I
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 93 
 
 must have that," said she. " I must. 
 I shall die ill don't; you'll see now." 
 
 " You shall," said he, " when I 
 can pay for it," and drew her away. 
 
 The tears of disappointment stood 
 in her eyes, and his heart yearned 
 over her. But he kept his head. 
 
 He changed the dinner-hour to six, 
 and used to go out directly after- 
 ward. 
 
 She began to complain of his leav- 
 ing her alone like that. 
 
 "Well, but wait a bit," said he; 
 " suppose I am making a little 
 money by it, to buy you something 
 you have set your heart on, poor 
 darling ! " 
 
 In a very few days after this, he 
 brought her a little box with a slit 
 in it. He shook it, and money rat- 
 tled ; then he unlocked it, and poured 
 out a little pile of silver. " There," 
 said he, " put on your bonnet, and 
 come and buy those things." 
 
 She put on her bonnet, and on the 
 way she asked how it came to be all 
 in silver. 
 
 " That is a puzzler," said he, 
 "isn't it?" 
 
 " And how did you make it, dear ; 
 bv writing ? " 
 " " No." 
 
 " By fees from poor people? " 
 
 " What, undersell my brethren ! 
 Hang it, no! My dear, I made it 
 honestly, and gome day I will tell 
 you how I made it; at present, all I 
 will tell you is ibis: I saw my dar- 
 ling longing for something she had 
 
 a right to long for; I SAW the tears 
 in her sweet eyes, and — oh, come 
 
 along, do ! I am wretched till 1 see 
 
 you with the things in your hand." 
 They weal to the shop ; and 
 Staines sat and watched Kosa buy- 
 ing baby clothes. Oh ! it was ;i 
 pretty Bight to mm- this modest young 
 creature, little more than a child ber- 
 Belf, anticipating maternity, but 
 blushing every now and then, and 
 looking askant at her lord and mu- 
 ter. How his very bowels yearned 
 over her ! 
 And when they got home, she 
 
 spread the things on the table, and 
 they sat hand in hand, and looked 
 at them, and she leaned her head on 
 his shoulder, and went quietly to 
 sleep there. 
 
 And yet, as time rolled on, she be- 
 came irritable at times and impa- 
 tient, and wanted all manner of 
 things she could not have, and made 
 him unhappy. 
 
 Then he was out from six o'clock 
 till one, and she took it into her head 
 to be jealous. So many hours to 
 spend away from her ! Now that 
 she wanted all his comfort. 
 
 Presently Ellen, the new maid, 
 got gossiping in the yard, and a 
 groom told her her master had a 
 sweetheart on the sly, he thought; 
 for he drove the brougham out every 
 evening himself; "and," said the 
 man, " he wears a mustache at 
 night." 
 
 Ellen ran in, brimful of this, and 
 told the cook ; the cook told the 
 washer-woman ; the washer-woman 
 told a dozen families, till about two 
 hundred people knew it. 
 
 At last it came to Mrs. Staines in 
 a round-about way, at the very 
 moment when she was complaining 
 to Lady Cicely Treherne of her hard 
 lot. She had been telling her she 
 was nothing more than a lay figure 
 in the house. 
 
 " My husband is housekeeper 
 now, and cook and all, and makes 
 me delicious dishes, I can tell you ; 
 SW& curries ! I couldn't keep the 
 house with five pounds a week, so 
 now he does it with three : and I 
 never get the carriage, because walk- 
 ing is best for me ; and he takes it 
 out every night to make money. 1 
 don't understand it." 
 
 Lady Cicely suggested that per- 
 haps Dr. Staines thought it best lor 
 her to be relieved of all worry, ami 
 so undertook the house-keeping. 
 
 " No, no, no," said Bosa ; " 1 used 
 to pay them all a part of their bills, 
 and tbtii a little more, and so I kept 
 
 getting deeper; and I was ashamed 
 t0 tell Christie, so that he calls de-
 
 04 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 ccit; and oh, he spoke to mf so cru- 
 elly once ! But he was ve y sorry 
 afterward, poor dear ! Why are 
 girls brought up so silly ? a piano, 
 and no sense ; and why are men sil- 
 lier to go and marry such silly 
 tilings ? A wife ! I am not so much 
 as a servant. Oh ! I am finely humil- 
 iated, and," with a sudden hearty 
 naivete all her own, "it se. ves me 
 just right." 
 
 While Lady Cicely was puzzling 
 this out, in came a letter Rosa 
 opened it, read it, and gavt a cry 
 like a wounded deer. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, " I am a misera- 
 ble woman. What will become of 
 me?" 
 
 The letter informed her bluntly 
 that her husband drove his brough- 
 am out every night to pursue a 
 criminal amour. 
 
 While Rosa was wringing her 
 hands in real anguish of heart, Lady 
 Cicely read the letter carefu'<y. 
 
 " I don't believe this," said she 
 quietly. 
 
 " Not true ! Why, who would be 
 so wicked as to stab a poor, inoffen- 
 sive wretch like me if it wasn't 
 true ? " 
 
 " The first ugly woman would, in 
 a minute. Don't you see the writer 
 can't tell you where he goes ? 
 Dwives his hougham out ! That is 
 all your infaumant knows." 
 
 " Oh, my dear friend, bless you ! 
 What have I been complaining to 
 you about ? All is light except to 
 lose his love. What shall I do ? I 
 will never tell him. I will never 
 affront him by saying I suspected 
 him." 
 
 " Wosa, if you do that, you will 
 always have a serpent gnawing you. 
 No ; you must put the letter quietly 
 into his hand, and say, ' Is there any 
 twuth in that ? ' " 
 
 " Oh, I could not ! I haven't the 
 courage. If I do that, I shall know 
 by his face is there any truth in it." 
 
 " Well, and you must know the 
 twuth. You shall know it. I want 
 U) know it too ; for, if he does not 
 
 love you twuly, I will nevaa twust 
 myself to any thing so deceitful as a 
 man." 
 
 Rosa, at last, consented to follow 
 this advice. 
 
 After dinner she put the letter into 
 Christopher's hand, and asked him 
 quietly was there any truth in that : 
 then her hands trembled, and her 
 eyes drank him. 
 
 Christopher read it, and frowned ; 
 then he looked up, and said, " No, 
 not a word. What scoundrels there 
 are in the world ! To go and tell 
 you that, now ! Why, you little 
 goose, have you been silly enough 
 to believe it? " 
 
 " No," said she irresolutely. " But 
 do you drive the brougham out every 
 night ? " 
 
 "Except on Sunday." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " My dear wife, I never loved yon 
 as I love you now, and if it was not 
 for you I should not drive the 
 brougham out of nights. That is all 
 I shall tell you at present ; but some 
 day I'll tell you all about it." 
 
 He took such a calm high hand 
 with her about it, that she submitted 
 to leave it there ; but from this mo- 
 ment the serpent doubt nibbled 
 her. 
 
 It had one curious effect, though. 
 She left off complaining of trifles. 
 
 Now, it happened one night that 
 Lady Cicely Treherne and a friend 
 were at a concert in Hanover Square. 
 The other lady felt rather faint, and 
 Lady Cicely offered to take her 
 home. The carriage had not yet 
 arrived, and Miss Macnamara said 
 to walk a few steps would do her 
 good. A smart cabman saw them 
 from a distance, and drove up, and, 
 touching his hat, said, " Cab, la- 
 dies ? " 
 
 It seemed a very superior cab, and 
 Miss Macnamara said, " Yes " 
 directly. 
 
 The cabman bustled down and 
 opened the door ; Miss Macnamara 
 got in first, then Lady Cicely ; her 
 eye fell on the cabman's face, which
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 
 was lighted full by a street lamp, 
 and it was Christopher Siaines ! 
 
 He started and winced, but the 
 woman of the world never moved a 
 muscle. 
 
 " Where to 1 " said Staines, avert- 
 ing his head. 
 
 She told him where, and, when 
 they got out, said, " I'll send it you 
 by the servant." 
 
 A flunky soon after appeared with 
 half a crown, and the amateur coach- 
 man drove away. He said to him- 
 self, " Come, my mustache is a bet- 
 ter disguise than I thought." 
 
 Next day, and the day after, he 
 asked Rosa, with affected careless- 
 ness, had she heard any thing of 
 Lady Cicely. 
 
 " No, dear : but I dare say she 
 will call this afternoon ; it is her 
 day." 
 
 She did call at last, and, after a 
 few words with Rosa, became a 
 little restless, and asked if she might 
 consult Dr. Staines. 
 
 " Certainly, dear ; come to his 
 studio." 
 
 " No ; might I see him here ? " 
 " Certainly." She rang the bell, 
 and told the servant to ask Dr. 
 Staines if he would be kind enough 
 to step into the drawing-room. 
 
 Dr. Staines came in, and bowed 
 to Lady Cicely, and eyed her a little 
 uncomfortably. 
 
 She began, however, in a way 
 that put him quite at his ease. " You 
 remember the advice you gave us 
 about mv little cousin Tadeastah." 
 " Perfectly ; his life is very pre- 
 carious ; he is bilious, consumptive, 
 and, if not watched, will be cpilcpti- 
 cal ; and he has a fond, weak mother, 
 who will let him kill himself." 
 
 " Exactly : and you wecommended 
 a sea-voyage, with a medical attend- 
 ant to watch his diet, and contwol 
 his habits. Well, she took other 
 advice, anil the youth is worse ; so 
 now she is frightened, and a month 
 ago she asked me to pwopose to you 
 to sail about with Tadeastah; and 
 she offered me a thousand pounds 
 
 a year. I put on my stiff look, and 
 said, ' Countess, with every desiah 
 to oblige you, I must decline to 
 cawwy that offah to a man of genius, 
 learning, and weputation, who has 
 the ball at his feet in London.' " 
 
 "Lord forgive you ! Lady Cicely." 
 
 " Lortl bless her! for standing up 
 for my Christie." 
 
 Lady Cicely continued : " Now, 
 this good lady, you must know, is 
 not exactly one of us ; the late earl 
 mawwied into cotton, or wool, or 
 something. So she said, ' Name 
 your price for him. I shwugged my 
 shoulders, smiled affably, and as 
 affectedly as you like, and changed 
 the subject. But since then things 
 have happened. I am afwaid it is 
 my duty to make you the jud^e 
 whether you choose to sail about 
 with that little cub — Rosa, 1 can 
 beat about the bush no longer. Is 
 it a fit thing that a man of genius, 
 at whose feet we ought all to be sit- 
 ting with reverence, should drive a 
 cab in the public streets 1 Yes, 
 Rosa Staines, your husband drives 
 his brougham out at night, not io 
 visit any other lady, as that anony- 
 mous wretch told you, but to make 
 a few miserable shillings for you." 
 
 " O Christie ! " 
 
 " It is no use, Dr. Staines ; I must 
 and will tell her. My dear, he drove 
 me three nights ago. He had a cab- 
 man's badge on his poor arm. If 
 vim knew what I Buffered in those 
 five minutes ! lndei d, it .seems cruel 
 to speak of it — but I could not beep 
 it from Rosa, and the reason I mus- 
 ter courage [o say it before you, Sir, 
 is because I know she has other 
 friends who keep you out of their 
 consultations ; and after all it is I lie 
 world that ought to blush, and not 
 you." 
 
 Her ladyship's kindly bosom 
 heaved, and she wanted to cry ; so 
 
 she took her handkerchief out of 
 
 her |ioeket without the least hurry, 
 and pressed it delicately to her eyes, 
 and did cry quietly, but without 
 
 any disguise, like a brave lady, who
 
 9G 
 
 A SIMrLETON. 
 
 neither cried nor did any thing else 
 she was ashamed to be seen at. 
 
 As for Rosa, she sat sobbing 
 round Christopher's neck, and 
 kissed him with all her soul. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Christopher. 
 " You are both very kind. But, 
 begging your pardon, it is ' much 
 ado about nothing." 
 
 Ludy Cicely took no notice of 
 that observation. " So, Rosa dear," 
 said she, " I think you are the per- 
 son to decide whether he had not 
 better sail about with that little cub, 
 than— Oh!" 
 
 " I will settle that," said Staines. 
 "I have one beloved creature to 
 provide for. I may have another. 
 I must make money. Turning a 
 brougham into a cab, whatever you 
 may think, is an honest way of 
 making it, and I am not the first 
 doctor who has coined his brougham 
 at night. But, if there is a good 
 deal of money to be made by sailing 
 with Lord Tadeaster, of course I 
 should prefer that to calj-driving, 
 for I have never made above twelve 
 shillings a night." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, she shall give 
 you fifteen hundred a year." 
 
 "Then I jump at it." 
 
 " What ! and leave me ! " 
 
 " Yes, love : leave you — for your 
 good ; and only for a time. Lady 
 « icely, it is a noble offer. My dar- 
 ling Rosa will have every comfort — 
 ay, every luxury, till I come home, 
 and then we will start afresh, with 
 a good balance, and with more ex- 
 perience than we did at first." 
 
 Lady Cicely gazed on him with 
 wonder. She said, " Oh, what stout 
 hearts men have! No, no; don't 
 let him go. See, he is acting. His 
 great heart is torn with agony. I 
 will have no hand in parting man 
 arid wife — no not for a day." And 
 she hurried away in rare agitation. 
 
 Rosa fell on her knees, and asked 
 Christopher's pardon for having 
 been jealous ; and that clay she was 
 a flood of divine tenderness. She 
 
 repaid him richly for driving the 
 cab. But she was unnaturally cool 
 about Lady Cicely ; and the exqui- 
 site reason soon come out. " Oh, 
 yes ! She is very good, very kind ; 
 but it is not for me now ! No, you 
 shall not sail about with her cub of 
 a cousin, and leave me at such a 
 time." 
 
 Christopher groaned. 
 
 " Christie, you shall not see that 
 lady again. She came here to part 
 us. She is in love with you. I was 
 blind not to see it before." 
 
 Next day, as Lady Cicely sat alone 
 in the morning-room thinking over 
 this very scene, a footman brought 
 in a card and a note. " Dr. Staines 
 beijs particularly to see Lady Cicely 
 Treherne." 
 
 The lady's pale cheek colored; 
 she stood irresolute a single mo- 
 ment. " I will see Dr. Staines," 
 said she. 
 
 Dr. Staines came in, looking pale 
 and worn ; he had not slept a Avink 
 since she saw him last. 
 
 She looked at him full, and 
 divined this at a glance. She mo- 
 tioned him to a seat and sat down 
 herself, with her white hand pressing 
 her forehead, and her head turned a 
 little away 1'rom him. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 He told her he had come to thank 
 her for her great kindness, and to ac- 
 cept the offer. 
 
 She sighed. " I hoped it was to 
 decline it. Think of the misery of 
 separation, both to you and her." 
 
 "It will be misery. But we are 
 not happy as it is ; and she cannot 
 bear poverty. Nor is it fair she 
 should, when I can give her every 
 comfort by just playing the man 
 for a year or two." He then told 
 Lady Cicely there were more rea- 
 sons than he chose to mention : go 
 he must and would; and he im-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 97 
 
 plored her not to let the affair drop. 
 In short, he was sad but resolved, 
 and she found she must go on with 
 it, or break faith with him. She 
 took her desk, and wrote a letter 
 concluding the bargain for him. 
 She stipulated for half the year's 
 fee in advance. She read Dr. Staines 
 the letter. 
 
 "You are a friend," said he. "I 
 should never have ventured on that : 
 it will bo a godsend to my poor 
 Rosa. You will be kind to her 
 when I am gone 1 " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " So will Uncle Philip, I think. 
 I will see him before I go, and shake 
 hands. He has been a good friend 
 to me ; but he was too hard on Iter, 
 and I could not stand that." 
 
 Then he thanked and blessed her 
 again, with the tears in his eyes, and j 
 left her more disturbed and tearful 
 than she had ever been since she 
 grew to woman. " Oh, cruel Pov- 
 erty ! " she thought ; " that such a 
 man should be torn from his home, 
 and thank me for doing it — all for 
 a little money — and here are we 
 poor commonplace creatures rolling 
 in it." 
 
 Staines hurried home and told 
 his wife. She clung to him convul- 
 sively, and wept bitterly ; she made 
 no direct attempt to shake his reso- 
 lution : she saw by his iron look 
 that she could only afflict, not turn 
 him. 
 
 Next day came Lady Cicely to 
 see her. Lady Cicely was very 
 uneasy in her mind, and wanted to 
 know whether Rosa was reconciled 
 to the separation. 
 
 Bom received her with a forced 
 politeness and an icv coldness that 
 petrified her. she could not 
 stay long in face of such a reception. 
 At parting, she said sadly. " You 
 look on me as an enemy.' 
 
 " What else can you expect, 
 wheB you part my husband and 
 me?" said Rosa with quiet stern-, 
 ness. 
 
 " J meant well," said Lady Cicely , 
 9 
 
 sorrowfully ; " hut I wish I had 
 never interfered." 
 
 " So do I;" and she began to cry. 
 
 Lady Cicely made no answer. 
 She went quietly away, hanging her 
 head sadly. 
 
 llosa was unjust, hut she was not 
 rude nor vulgar; and Lady Cicely's 
 temper was so well governed that it 
 never blinded her heart. She with- 
 drew, hut without the least idea of 
 quarrelling with her afflicted friend, 
 or abandoning her. She went 
 quietly home, and wrote to Lady 
 
 , to say that she should be glad 
 
 to receive Dr. Staines's advance as 
 soon as convenient, since Mrs. 
 Staines woidd have to make fresh 
 arrangements and the money might 
 be useful. 
 
 The money was forth-coming di- 
 rectly. Lady Cicely brought it to 
 Dear Street, and handed it to Dr. 
 Staines. His eyes sparkled at the 
 sight of it. 
 
 " Give my love to Rosa," said 
 she softly, and cut her visit very 
 short. 
 
 Staines took the money to Rosa, 
 and said, " See what our best friend 
 has brought ns. You shall hare 
 four hundred, and I hope after the 
 bitter lessons you have had you will 
 he able to do with it for some 
 months. The two hundred I shall 
 keep as a reserve fund for you to 
 draw on." 
 
 "No, no ! " said Rosa. "I shall 
 go and live with my father, and 
 never spend a penny. O Christie, 
 If you knew how I hate myself for 
 the folly that is parting us! Oh, 
 why don't they teach trirls sense 
 and money, instead of music and 
 the globes I " 
 
 But Christopher opened a bank- 
 ing account for her, ami gave her a 
 cheek-book, ami estreated her to 
 pay every thing by cluck, and run 
 
 no bills whatever ; ami she prom- 
 ised, lie. also advertised the Bijou, 
 and put a hill in the window : " The 
 lease of this house and furniture to 
 bo sold."
 
 98 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Rosa cried bitterly at the sight of 
 it, thinking how high in hope they 
 were when they had their first din- 
 ner there, and also when she went 
 to the first sale to buy the furniture 
 cheap. 
 
 And now every thing moved with 
 terrible rapidity. The Amphitrite 
 was to sail from Plymouth in five 
 days ; and meantime there was so 
 much to be done that the days seem- 
 ed to gallop away. 
 
 Dr. Staines forgot nothing. He 
 made his will in duplicate, leaving 
 all to his wife ; he left one 
 copy at Doctors' Commons, and 
 another to his lawyer : inventoried 
 all his furniture and effects in dupli- 
 cate too ; wrote to Uncle Philip, and 
 then called on him to seek reconcilia- 
 tion. Unfortunately Dr. Philip was 
 in Scotland. At last this sad pair 
 went down to Plymouth together, 
 there to meet Lord Tadcaster, and 
 go on board H. M. S. Amphitrite, 
 lying at anchor at Hamoaze, under 
 orders for the Australian station. 
 
 They met at the inn, as appointed, 
 and sent word of their arrival on 
 board the frigate, asking to re- 
 main on shore till the last min- 
 ute. 
 
 Dr. Staines presented his patient 
 to Rosa; and after a little while 
 drew him apart and questioned him 
 professionally. He then asked for 
 a private room. Here he and Rosa 
 really took leave ; for what could 
 the poor things say to each other on 
 a crowed quay 1 He begged her 
 forgiveness on his knees for having 
 once spoken harshly to her ; and she 
 told him, with passionate sobs, he 
 had never spoken harshly to her ; 
 her folly had parted them. 
 
 Poor wretches ! they clung to 
 each other with a thousand vows of 
 love and constancy. They were to 
 pray for each other at the same 
 hours ; to think of some kind words 
 or loving act at other stated hours ; 
 and so they tried to fight with their 
 Buffering minds against the cruel 
 Separation : and if either should 
 
 die, the other was to live 
 wedded to memory, and never listen 
 to love from other lips ; but no ! 
 God was pitiful ; he would let them 
 meet again ere long, to part no 
 more. They rocked in each other's 
 arms ; they cried over each other — 
 it was pitiful. 
 
 At last the cruel summons came ; 
 they shuddered, as if it was their 
 death-blow. Christopher, with a 
 face of agony, was yet himself, and 
 w r ould have parted then : and so 
 best. But Rosa could not. She 
 would see the last of him, and be- 
 came almost wild and violent when 
 he opposed. 
 
 Then he let her come with him to 
 Milbay Steps, but into the boat he 
 would not let her step. 
 
 The ship's boat lay at the steps, 
 manned by six sailors, all seated, 
 with their oars tossed in two verti- 
 cal rows. A smart middy in charge 
 conducted them, and Doctor Staines 
 and Lord Tadcaster got in, leav- 
 ing Rosa, in charge of her maid, on 
 the quay. 
 
 " Shove off"—" Down "— " Give 
 way." 
 
 Each order was executed so swiftly 
 and surely, that, in as many seconds, 
 the boat was clear,the oars struck the 
 water with a loud splash, and the 
 husband was shot away like an ar- 
 row, and the wife's despairing cry 
 rang on the stony quay, as many a 
 poor woman's cry had rung be- 
 fore. 
 
 In half a minute the boat shot 
 under the stern of the frigate. 
 
 They were received on the quarter- 
 deck by Capt. Hamilton : he in- 
 troduced them to the officers — a 
 torture to poor Staines, to have his 
 mind taken for a single instant from 
 his wife — the first lieutenant came 
 aft, and reported, " Ready for mak- 
 ing sail, sir." 
 
 " Staines seized the excuse, rushed 
 to the other side of the vessel, leaned 
 over the taffrail, as if he would fly 
 ashore, and stretched out his hnnds to 
 his beloved Rosa ; and she stretched
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 90 
 
 out her hands to him. They were 
 so near he could read the expression 
 of her face. It was wild and trou- 
 bled, as one who did not yet realize 
 the terrible situation, but would not 
 be long first. 
 
 " Hands make sail — way 
 aloft — up anchor," rang in 
 Christopher's ears as if in a dream. 
 All his soul and senses were bent on 
 that desolate young creature. How 
 voung and amazed her lovely face ! 
 Vet this bewildered child was 
 sibout to become a mother. Even a 
 si ranger's heart might have yearned 
 with pity for her : how much more 
 her miserable husband's ! 
 
 The capstan was manned, and 
 worked to a merry tune that struck 
 chid to the bereaved ; yards were 
 braced for casting, anchor hove, cat- 
 ted, and fished, s;til was spread with 
 amazing swiftness, the ship's head 
 dipped, and slowly and gracefully 
 paid off toward the Breakwater, and 
 she stood out to sea under swiftly 
 swelling canvas and a light north- 
 westerly breeze. 
 
 Staines only felt the motion: his 
 body was in the ship, his soul with 
 bis Rosa. He gazed, he strained his 
 eves to Bee her eyes, as the ship glid- 
 ed from England and her. While 
 he was thus gazing and trembling 
 all over, up cam ■ to him a smart 
 second lieutenant, with a brilliant 
 voice that struck him like a sword : 
 " ( 'aptaiu's orders to show you berths. 
 Please choose for Lord Tadcaster 
 and yourself." 
 
 The man's wild answer made the 
 young officer stare. "Oh, sir! not 
 now — try and do my duty when I 
 have quite lost her — my poor wife 
 
 — a child — a mother — there — sir 
 
 — on the Steps — there ! — there ! " 
 Now, this officer always went to 
 
 sea Binging " < >h, be joyful ! " Bui 
 a strong man's agony, who can 
 make light of it ' It was a revela- 
 tion to him, but he took it quickly. 
 The first thing he did, being a man 
 of action, was to dash into his cabin, 
 •ml come back with a short, power- | 
 
 ful, double glass. " There ! " said 
 he, roughly but kindly, and shoved 
 it into Staines's hand. He took it, 
 stared at it stupidly, then used it, 
 without a word of thanks, so wrapped 
 was he in his anguish. 
 
 This glass prolonged the misery 
 of that bitter hour. When Rosa 
 could no longer tell her husband 
 from another, she felt he was really 
 gone, and she threw her hands aloft 
 and clasped them above her head, 
 with the wild abandon of a woman 
 who could never again be a child ; 
 and Staines saw it, and a sharp sigh 
 burst from him, and he saw her maid 
 and others gather round her. He 
 saw the poor young thing led away, 
 with her head all down, as he had 
 never seen her before, and supported 
 to the inn ; and then he saw her no 
 more. 
 
 His heart seemed to go out of his 
 bosom in search of her, and leave 
 nothing but a stone behind : he hung 
 over the taffrail like a dead thing. 
 A steady footfall slapped his ear. 
 He raised his white face and filmy 
 eyes, and saw Lieut. Fitzroy 
 marching to and fro like a sentinel, 
 keeping everybody away from the 
 mourner, with the steady, resolute, 
 business-like face of a man in whom 
 sentiment is confined to action ; its 
 phrases and its flourishes being lit- 
 erally terra incognita to the honest 
 fellow. 
 
 Staines staggered toward him, 
 holding out both hands, and gasped 
 out, "God bless you! Hide me 
 
 somewhere — must not be seen so — 
 got duty to do — Patient — can't do 
 it yet — one hour to draw my breath 
 — oh, my God, my God! — one 
 hour, sir. Then do my duty if I 
 dii as you would." 
 
 Fitzroy tore him down into his 
 own cabin, shut him in. and ran to 
 the fir^t lieutenant, with a tear in 
 his eye. " Can I have a gentry, 
 sir I "" 
 
 •Sentry? What for ? " 
 
 " The doctor — awfully cut up at 
 
 [< a\ ing liis \\ ife ; got him in my
 
 100 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 cabin. Wants to have his cry to 
 himself." 
 
 " Fancy a fellow crying at going 
 to sea ! " 
 
 " It is not that, sir ; it is leaving 
 his wife." 
 
 " Well, is he the only man on 
 board has got a wife ? " 
 
 " Why, no, sir. It is odd, now I 
 think of it. Perhaps he has only 
 got that one." 
 
 " Curious creatures, landsmen," 
 said the lirst lieutenant. " However, 
 you can stick a marine there." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And I say, show the youngster 
 the berths, and let him choose, as the 
 doctor's aground." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 So Fitzroy planted his marine, 
 and then went after Lord Tadcaster : 
 he had drawn up alongside his cou- 
 sin, Capt. Hamilton. The cap- 
 tain, being an admirer of Lady Cice- 
 ly, was mighty civil to his little 
 lordship, and talked to him more 
 than was his wont on the quarter- 
 deck ; for though he had a good flow 
 of conversation, and dispensed with 
 ceremony in his cabin, he was apt to 
 be rather short on deck. However, 
 he told little Tadcaster he was for- 
 tunate ; they had a good start, and, 
 if the wind held, might hope to be 
 clear of the Channel in twenty-four 
 hours. " You will see Eddystone 
 Lighthouse about four bells," said 
 he. 
 
 " Shall we go out of sight alto- 
 gether ? " inquired his lordship. 
 
 " Of course we shall, and the 
 sooner the better." He then ex- 
 plained to the novice that the only 
 danger to a good ship was from the 
 land. 
 
 While Tadcaster was digesting 
 this paradox, Capt. Hamilton pro- 
 ceeded to descant on the beauties of 
 blue water, and its fine medicinal 
 qualities, which, he said, were partic- 
 ularly suited to young gentlemen with 
 bilious stomachs; but presently, 
 catching sight of Lieut. Fitzroy 
 standing apart, but with the manner 
 
 of a lieutenant not there by accident, 
 he stopped, and said, civilly but 
 sharply, " Well, sir." 
 
 Fitzroy came forward directly, sa- 
 luted, and said he had orders from 
 the first lieutenant to show Lord 
 Tadcaster the berths. His lordship 
 must be good enough to chose, be- 
 cause the doctor — couldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Brought to, sir — for the pres- 
 ent — by — well, by grief." 
 
 " Brought to by Grief! Who the 
 deuce is Grief? No riddles on the 
 quarter-deck, if you please, sir." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ! I assure you he is 
 awfully cut up, and he is having his 
 cry out in my cabin." 
 
 " Having his cry out ! why, what 
 for?" 
 
 " Leaving his wife, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't wonder," cried 
 little Tadcaster warmly. " She is, 
 oh, so beautiful ! " and a sudden 
 blush overspread his pasty cheeks. 
 " Why on earth didn't we bring her 
 along with us here ? " said he, sud- 
 denly opening his eyes with aston- 
 ishment at the childish omission. 
 
 " Why, indeed ? " said the captain 
 comically, and dived below, attended 
 by the well-disciplined laughter of 
 Lieut. Fitzroy, who was too 
 good an officer not to be amused at 
 his captain's jokes. Having acquit- 
 ted himself of that duty — and it is a 
 very difficult one sometimes — he 
 took Lord Tadcaster to the main- 
 deck, and showed him two comfort- 
 able sleeping-berths that had been 
 screened off for him and Dr. Staines. 
 One of these was fitted with a stand- 
 ing bedplace, the other had a cot 
 swung in it. Fitzroy offered him 
 the choice, but hinted that he him- 
 self preferred a cot. 
 
 "No, thank you," says my lord 
 mighty dryly. 
 
 "All right," said Fitzroy cheer- 
 fully. " Take the other, then, my 
 lord." 
 
 His little lordship cocked his eye 
 like a jackdaw, and looked almost
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 101 
 
 as cunning. " You see," said he, 
 "I have been reading up for this 
 voyage." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Logarithms ? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Why. Peter Simple, to be sure." 
 
 " Ah, ha ! " said Fiteroy, with a 
 chuckle that showed plainly he had 
 some delicious reminiscences of youth- 
 ful study in the same quarter. 
 
 The little lord chuckled too, and 
 put one finder on Fitzioy's shoulder, 
 and pointed at the cot with another. 
 " Tumble out the other side, you 
 know — slippery hitches — cords cut 
 — down you come flop in the middle 
 of the night." 
 
 Fitzroy's eye flashed merriment, 
 but only tor a moment. His counte- 
 nance "fell the next. " Lord bless 
 you ! " said he sorrowfully, " all that 
 game is over now. Her majesty's 
 ship! — it is a church afloat. The 
 service is going to the devil, as the 
 old fogies say." 
 
 " Ain't you sorry ? " says the little 
 lord, cocking his eye again just like 
 the bird hereinbefore mentioned. 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 " Then I'll take the standing bed." 
 
 " All right. I say, you don't 
 mind the doctor coming down with 
 a run, eh ? " 
 
 "He is not ill — I am. He is 
 paid to take care of me — I am not 
 paid to take care of him," said the 
 young lord sententiously. 
 
 "I understand," replied Fitzroy 
 dryly. " Well, every one tor himself, 
 ami Providence for us all, as the ele- 
 phant said when he danced among 
 the chickens." 
 
 Here my lord was summoned to 
 dinner with the captain. Staines 
 was not there, but he had not forgot- 
 ten bis duty. In the midst of his 
 grief In' bad written a note to the 
 captain, hoping that a bereaved hus- 
 band might not seem to desert Ins 
 
 post if In' hid lor a lew hours tin' 
 
 sorrow he felt himself unable to con- 
 trol. Meantime hewould be grateful 
 
 if Capt. Hamilton would give or- 
 U* 
 
 ders that Lord Tadcaster should eat 
 no pastry, and drink only six ounces 
 of claret, otherwise he should feel that 
 he was indeed betraying his trust. 
 
 The captain was pleased and 
 touched with this letter. It recalled 
 to him how his mother sobbed when 
 she launched her little middy, swell- 
 ing with Lis first cocked hat and 
 dirk. 
 
 There was champagne at dinner, 
 and little Tadcaster began to pour 
 out a tumbler. " Hold on ! " said 
 Capt. Hamilton. " You are not 
 to drink that; "and he quietly re- 
 moved the tumbler. " Bring him 
 six ounces of claret." 
 
 While they were weighing the 
 claret with scientific precision, Tad- 
 caster remonstrated ; and being told 
 it was the doctor's order, he squeaked 
 out, " Confound him ! why did he 
 not stay with his wife 1 She is beau- 
 tiful. " Nor did he give it up without 
 a struggle, " Here's hospitality ! " 
 said he. " Six ounces." 
 
 Receiving no reply, he inquired of 
 the third lieutenant, which was gen- 
 erally considered the greatest author- 
 ity in a ship — the captain or the 
 doctor 1 
 
 The third lieutenant answered 
 not, but turned his head away, and, 
 by violent exertion, succeeded in not 
 splitting. 
 
 " I'll answer that," said Ham- 
 ilton politely. " The captain is the 
 highest in his department, and the 
 doctor in his. Now, Dr. Stain* s 
 is strictly within his department) 
 and will be supported by me and 
 my officers, "ion are bilious and 
 epileptical, and all the rest of it; 
 and you are to be cured by diet and 
 blue water." 
 
 Tadcaster was inclined to snivel. 
 However, he subdued that weakness 
 with a visible effort, and in due 
 course returned to the charge. 
 " How would you look," quavered 
 lie " if there was to be a mutiny in 
 this ship of yours, and I was to 
 
 head it?" 
 
 "Well, I should look sharp —
 
 102 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 hang all the ringleaders at the yard- 
 arm, clap the rest under hatches, 
 and steer for the nearest prison." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Tadcaster, and di- 
 gested this scheme a bit. At last 
 he perked up again, and made his 
 final hit. " Well, I shouldn't care, 
 for one, if you didn't Hog us." 
 
 "In that case," said Capt. 
 Hamilton, "I'd flog you — and 
 stop your six ounces." 
 
 " Then curse the sea ; that is all 
 I say." 
 
 " Why, you have not seen it ; 
 you have only seen the British 
 Channel." It was Mr. Fitzroy who 
 contributed this last observation. 
 
 After dinner all hut the captain 
 went on deck, and saw the Eddy- 
 stone light-house ahead and to lee- 
 Avard. They passed it. Fitzroy 
 told his lordship its story, and that 
 of its unfortunate predecessors. 
 Soon after this Lord Tadcaster 
 turned in. 
 
 Presently the captain observed a 
 change in the thermometer, which 
 brought him on deck. He scanned 
 the water and the sky ; and as these 
 experienced commanders have a 
 subtle insight into the weather, 
 especially in familiar latitudes, he 
 remarked to the first lieutenant that 
 it looked rather unsettled; and, as 
 a matter of prudence, ordered a reef 
 in the topsails, and the royal yards 
 to be sent down. Ship to be steered 
 W. by S. This done, he turned in, 
 but told them to call him if there 
 was any change in the weather. 
 
 .During the night the wind grad- 
 ually headed ; and at four bells in 
 the middle watch, a heavy squall 
 came up from the southwest. 
 
 This brought the captain on deck 
 again ; he found the officer of the 
 watch at his post, and at work. 
 Sail was shortened, and the ship 
 made snug for heavy weather. 
 
 At 4, a.m. ; it was blowing hard, 
 and, being too near the French 
 coast, they wore the ship. 
 
 Now. this operation was bad for 
 little Tadcaster. While the vessel 
 
 was on the starboard tack, the side 
 kept him snug ; but when they wore 
 her, of course he had no lee board 
 to keep him in. The ship gave a 
 lee lurch, and shot him clean out of 
 his bunk into the middle of the 
 cabin. 
 
 He shrieked and shrieked, with 
 terror and pain, till the captain and 
 Staines, who were his nearest neigh- 
 bors, came to him, and they gave 
 him a little brandy, and got him to 
 bed again. Here he sutfercd noth- 
 ing but violent sea-sickness for some 
 hours. 
 
 As for Staines, he had been swing- 
 ing heavily in his cot ; but such was 
 his mental distress that he would 
 have welcomed sea-sickness, or any 
 reasonable bodily suffering. He was 
 in that state when the sting of a 
 wasp is a touch of comfort. 
 
 Worn out with sickness, Tadcas- 
 ter would not move. Invited to 
 breakfast, he swore faintly, and in- 
 sisted on dying in peace. At last 
 exhaustion gave him a sort of sleep, 
 in spite of the motion, which was 
 violent, for it was now blowing 
 great guns, a heavy sea on, and the 
 great waves dirty in color and crested 
 with raging foam. 
 
 They had to wear ship again, 
 always a ticklish manoeuvre iD 
 weather like this. 
 
 A tremendous sea stuck her quar- 
 ter, stove in the very port abreast 
 of which the little lord was lying, 
 and washed him clean out of bed 
 into the lee scuppers, and set all 
 swimming round him. 
 
 Didn't he yell, and wash about 
 the cubia, and grab at all the chairs 
 and tables and things that drifted 
 about, nimble as eels, avoiding his 
 grasp ! 
 
 In rushed the captain, and in 
 staggered Staines. They stopped 
 his '* voyage au tour de sa chambre," 
 and dragged him into the after- 
 saloon. 
 
 He chins to them by turns, and 
 begged, with many tears, to be put 
 ou the nearest land ; a rock would do.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 103 
 
 " Much obliged," said the captain ; 
 " now is the very time to give rocks 
 a wide berth " 
 
 "A dead whale, then — a light- 
 house — any thing but a beast of a 
 ship." 
 
 They pacified him with a little 
 brandy, and for the next twenty-four 
 hours he scarcely opened his mouth, 
 except for a purpose it is needless to 
 dwell on. We can trust to our ter- 
 restrial readers' personal reminis- 
 cences of lee lurches, weather rolls, 
 and their faithful concomitant. 
 
 At last they wriggled out of the 
 channel, and soon after the wind 
 abated, and next day veered round 
 to the northward, and the ship sailed 
 almost on an even keel. The mo- 
 tion became as heavenly as it had 
 been diabolical, and the passengers 
 came on deck. 
 
 Staines had suffered one whole 
 day from seasickness, but never 
 complained. I believe it did his 
 mind more good than harm. 
 
 As for Tadcastcr, he continued to 
 sutler, at interval^, for two days 
 more ; but, on the fifth day out, he 
 appeared with a little pink tinge on 
 his cheek, anil a wolfish appetite. 
 Dr. Staines controlled his diet 
 severely as to quality and, when 
 they had been at sea just eleven 
 days, the physician's heavy heart 
 was not a little lightened by the 
 marvellous change in him. The 
 unthinking, who believe in the drag 
 system, should have seen what a 
 physician can do with air and food, 
 when circumstances enable him to 
 enforce the dirt he enjoins. Money 
 will sometimes buy even health, if 
 you ewoiii drugs entirely, and go an- 
 other road. 
 
 Little Tadcaster went on board 
 pasty, dim-eyed, ami very subject 
 to lits, because bis stomach was 
 constantly overloaded with indigest- 
 ible trash, find the blood in his 
 brain-vessels was always either gal- 
 loping or creeping;, under the first 
 or second eflfecl of stimulants admin- 
 istered at first by thoughtless physi- 
 
 cians. Behold him now — bronzed, 
 pinky, bright-eyed, elastic; and 
 only one fit in twelve days. 
 
 The quarter-deck was hailed from 
 the " lookout " with a cry that is 
 sometimes terrible, but, in this lat- 
 itude and weather, welcome and 
 exciting. " Land, lio ! " 
 
 " Where away 1 " cried the officer 
 of the watch. 
 
 " A point on the lee bow, sir." 
 
 It was the Island of Madeira : 
 they dropped anchor in Fnnchal 
 Roads, furled sails, squared yards, 
 and fired a salute of twenty-one 
 guns for the Portuguese flag. 
 
 They went ashore, and found a 
 good hotel, and were no longer 
 dosed, as in former days, with oil, 
 onions, garlic, eggs. But the wine 
 queer, and no Madeira to be got. 
 
 Staines wrote home to his wife: 
 he told her how deeply he had felt 
 the bereavement, but did not dwelt 
 on that, his object bein^ to cheer 
 her. He told her it promised to be 
 a rapid and wonderful cure, and one 
 that might very well give him a 
 fresh start in London. They need 
 not be parted a whole year, he 
 thought, lie sent her a very long 
 letter, and also such extracts from 
 his sea journal as he thought might 
 please her. After dinner they in- 
 spected the town ; and what struck 
 them most was to find the streets 
 paved with flag-stones, and most of 
 the carts drawn by bullocks on 
 sledges. A man every now and then 
 would run forward and drop a greasy 
 cloth in front of the sledge to lubri- 
 cate the way. 
 
 Next day, after breakfast, they 
 
 ordered horses — these, on inspec- 
 tion, proved to be of excellent breed, 
 either from Australia or America — 
 rery rough shod, lor tie' Btony road. 
 Started lor the Grand Canal — 
 peeped down that mighty chasm, 
 which has the appearance of an 
 
 immense mass having I n blown 
 
 out of the cent re of the mountain. 
 
 They lunched under the Great 
 i Dragon-Tree near its brink, then
 
 104 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 rode back, admiring the bold moun- 
 tain scenery. Next morning, at 
 dawn, rode on horses up the hill to 
 the convent. Admired the beauti- 
 ful gardens on the way. Remained 
 a short time ; then came down in 
 the hand-sled — little baskets slung 
 on sledges, guided by two natives ; 
 these sledges run down hill with 
 surprising rapidity, and the men 
 guide them round corners by stick- 
 ing out a foot to port or starboard. 
 
 Embarked at 11.30, a.m. 
 
 At 1.30, the men having dined, 
 the ship was got under way for the 
 Cape of Good Hope, and all sail 
 made for a southerly course, to get 
 into the N.E. trades. 
 
 The weather was now balmy and 
 delightful, and so genial that every- 
 body lived on deck, and could hard- 
 ly be got to turn .in to their cabins, 
 even tor sleep. 
 
 Dr. Staines became a favorite with 
 the officers. There is a great deal of 
 science on board a modern ship of 
 war; and of course, on some points, 
 Staines, a Cambridge wrangler, and 
 man of many sciences and books, was 
 an oracle. On others he was quite 
 behind, but a ready and quick pupil. 
 He made up to the navigating offi- 
 cer, and learned, with his help, to 
 take observations. In return, he 
 was always at any youngster's ser- 
 vice in a trigonometrical problem ; 
 and lie amused the midshipmen and 
 young lieutenants with analytical 
 tests ; some of these were applicable 
 to certain liquids dispensed by the 
 paymaster. Under one of them the 
 port-wine assumed some very droll 
 colors, and appearances not proper 
 to grape juice. 
 
 One lovely night that the ship 
 clove the dark sea into a blaze of 
 phosphorescence, and her wake 
 streamed like a comet's tail, a wag- 
 gish middy f;ot a bucketful hoisted 
 on deck, and asked the doctor to 
 analyze that. He did not much like 
 it, but yielded to the general request ; 
 and by dividing it into smaller ves- 
 sels, and dropping in various chemi- 
 
 cals, made rainbows and silvery 
 flames and what not. But he 
 declined to repeat the experiment : 
 " No, no; once is philosophy ; twice 
 is cruelty. I've slain more than 
 Samson already/' 
 
 As for Tadcaster, science had no 
 charms for him ; but fiction had ; 
 and he got it galore ; for he cruised 
 about the forecastle, and there the 
 quartermasters and old seamen spun 
 him yarns that held him breathless. 
 
 But one day my lord had a fit on 
 the quarter-deck, and a bad one; 
 and Staines found him smelling 
 strong of ram. He represented this 
 to Capt. Hamilton. The captain 
 caused strict inquiries to be made ; 
 and it came out that my lord had 
 aone among the men with money in 
 both pockets, and bought a little of 
 one man's grog and a little of an- 
 other, and had been sipping the fur- 
 tive but transient joys of solitary 
 intoxication. 
 
 Capt. Hamilton talked to him 
 seriously ; told him it was suicide. 
 
 " Never mind, old boy," said the 
 young monkey ; " a short life and a 
 merry one." 
 
 Then Hamilton represented that 
 it was very ungcntlemanlike to go 
 and tempt poor Jack with his money 
 to offend discipline and get flogged. 
 " How will you feel, Tadcaster, when 
 you see their backs bleeding under 
 the cat ? " 
 
 " Oh ! d — n it all, George, don't 
 do that," says the young gentleman, 
 all in a hurry. 
 
 Then the commander saw he had 
 touched the right chord. So he 
 played on till he got Lord Tadcas- 
 ter to pledge his honor not to do it 
 again. 
 
 The little fellow gave the pledge, 
 but relieved his mind as follows: 
 " But it is a cursed tyrannical hole, 
 this tiresome old ship. You can't 
 do any thing you like in it." 
 
 " Well, but' no more you can in 
 the crave; and that is the agreeable 
 residence you were hurrying to but 
 for this tiresome old ship."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 105 
 
 " Lord ! no more you can," said, 
 Tadcaster, with sudden candor. " / 
 forgot that." 
 
 The airs were very light ; ship 
 hardly moved. It was beginning to 
 get d"ull, when one day a sail was 
 sighted on the weather how, stand- 
 ing to the eastward. On nearing 
 her, she was seen by the cut of her 
 sails to be a man-of-war, evidently 
 homeward bound ; so Capt. Ham- 
 ilton ordered the main-royal to be 
 lowered (to render signal more visi- 
 ble) and the " Demand " hoisted. 
 No notice being taken of this, a gun 
 was tired to draw her attention to 
 the signal. This had the desired 
 effect ; down went her main-royal 
 and up went hex " Number." On 
 referring to the signal-book she 
 proved to be the Vindictive, from 
 the Pacific station. 
 
 This being ascertained, Capt. 
 Hamilton, being that captain's sen- 
 ior, signalled, " Close, and prepare to 
 receive letters : " in obedience to this 
 she bore up, ran down, and rounded 
 to; the sail in AmphitriU was also 
 shortened, the main top-sail laid to 
 the mast, and a boat lowered. The 
 captain having finished his dis- 
 patches, they, with the letter-bags, 
 were handed into the boat, which 
 shoved off, pulled to the lee side of 
 the Vindictive, and left the despatch- 
 es, with Capt. Hamilton's compli- 
 ments. On its return, both ships 
 made sail on their respective course, 
 exchanging " Bon voyage " by sig- 
 nal ; and soon the upper sails of the 
 homeward-bounder wen- seen dip- 
 ping below the horizon : longing 
 eyes followed her, on hoard the .!//<- 
 philrite. 
 
 How many hurried missives had 
 been written and despatched in that 
 hour! Hut as for Staines, he was 
 a man of forethought, and had a 
 volume ready for his dear wife. 
 
 Lord Tadcaster wrote to Lady 
 
 Cicely Treheine. Hi, epistle, though 
 
 brief, contained :> plum or two. 
 lie wrote : " Whnl with sailing, 
 
 roast meat, I'm quite another 
 man." 
 
 This amused her ladyship a little, 
 but not so much as the postscript, 
 which was indeed the neatest thing 
 in its way she had met with, aud she 
 had some experience too. 
 
 "P.S. — I say, Cicely, I think I 
 should like to marry you. Would 
 you mind ? " 
 
 Let us defy time and space to 
 give you Lady Cicely's reply : " I 
 should enjoy it of all things, faddy. 
 But, alas ! " I am too young." 
 
 N.B. — She was twenty-seven, and 
 Tad sixteen. To be sure, Tad was 
 four feet eleven, and she was only 
 five feet six and a half. 
 
 To return to my narrative (with 
 apologies), this meeting of the ves- 
 sels caused a very agreeable excite- 
 ment that day ; hut a greater was 
 in store. In the afternoon Tadcas- 
 ter, Staines, and the principal offi- 
 cers of the ship, being at dinner in 
 the captain's cabin, in came the 
 officer of the watch, and reported a 
 large spar on the weather bow. 
 
 " Well, close it if you can ; and 
 let me know if it looks worth pick- 
 ing up." 
 
 lie then explained to Lord Tad- 
 caster, that, on a cruise, he never 
 liked to pass a spar, or any thing 
 that might possibly reveal the fate 
 of some vessel or other. 
 
 In the middle of his discourse the 
 officer came in again, but not in the 
 same cool, business way : he ran in 
 excitedly, and said, " Captain, the 
 signal-man reports it alivt I " 
 
 "Alive? — a spar! What do 
 yon mean '. Something alive on it, 
 eh ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; alive itself." 
 
 " How can that be > Hail him 
 again. Ask him what it is." 
 
 The Officer went out, and hailed 
 the signal-man at the mast-head. 
 •• What is it ! " 
 
 " Bea-sarpint, I think." 
 
 This hail reached the captain's 
 
 ears faintly. However, he waited 
 
 and fishing, and eating nothing but | quietly till the officer cane: in and
 
 106 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 reported it ; then he hurst out, " Ab- 
 surd ! — there is no such creature in 
 the universe. What do you say, 
 ])r. Staines ? It is in your depart- 
 ment." 
 
 " The universe in my depart- 
 ment, captain ? " 
 
 "Haw! haw! haw!" went Fitz- 
 roy and two more. 
 
 " No, you rogue, the serpent." 
 
 Dr. Staines, thus appealed to, 
 asked the captain if he had ever 
 seen small snakes out at sea. 
 
 " Why, of course. Sailed through 
 a mile of them once in the Archi- 
 pelago." 
 
 " Sure they were snakes ? " 
 
 " Quite sure : and the biggest was 
 not eight feet long " 
 
 " Very well, captain ; then sea- 
 serpents exist, and it becomes a mere 
 question of size. Now, which pro- 
 duces the larger animals in every 
 kind, land or sea 1 The grown ele- 
 phant weighs, I believe, about two 
 tons. The very smallest of the 
 whale tribe weighs ten; and they go 
 as high as forty tons. There are 
 smaller fish than the whale that are 
 lour times as heavy as the elephant. 
 " Why doubt, then, that the sea can 
 breed a snake to eclipse the boa-con- 
 strictor? Even if the creature had 
 never been seen, I should, by mere 
 reasoning from analogy, expect the 
 sea to produce a serpent excelling 
 the boa-constrictor, as the lobster 
 excells the cray-fish of our rivers. 
 See how large things grow at sea ! 
 The salmon born in our rivers weighs 
 in six months a quarter of a pound, 
 or less ; it goes out to sea, and comes 
 back in one year weighing seven 
 pounds. So far from doubting the 
 large sea-serpents, I believe they ex- 
 ist by the million. The only thing 
 that puzzles me is, why they should 
 ever show a nose above water ; they 
 must be very numerous, I think." 
 
 Capt. Hamilton laughed, and 
 said, " Well, this is new. Doctor, 
 in compliment to your opinion, we 
 will go on deck and inspect the rep- 
 tile you think so common." He 
 
 stopped at the door, and said, "Doc- 
 tor, tile salt-cellar is by you. Would 
 you mind bringing it on deck ? We 
 shall want a little to secure the ani- 
 mal." 
 
 So they all went on deck right 
 merrily. 
 
 The captain went up a few rat- 
 lines in the mizzen rigging, and 
 looked to windward, laughing all 
 the time ; but all of a sudden there 
 was a great change in his manner. 
 
 " Good Heavens, it is alive — 
 luff ! " 
 
 The helmsman obeyed ; the news 
 spread like wild-fire. Mess kids, 
 grog kids, pipes, were all let fall, 
 and soon three hundred sailors clus- 
 tered on the rigging like bees, to 
 view the long-talked-of monster. 
 
 It was soon discovered to be mov- 
 ing lazily along, the propelling part 
 being under Avater, and about twen- 
 ty-five feet visible. It had a small 
 head for so large a body ; and, as 
 they got nearer, rough scales were 
 seen, ending in smaller ones farther 
 down the body. It had a mane, 
 but not like a lion's, as some have 
 pretended. If you have ever seen a 
 pony with a hog-mane, that was 
 more the character of this creature's 
 mane — if mane it was. 
 
 They got within a hundred yards 
 of it, and all saw it plainly, scarce 
 believing their senses. 
 
 When they could get no nearer 
 for the wind, the captain yielded to 
 that instinct, which urges man 
 always to kill a curiosity, " to en- 
 courage the rest," as saith witty 
 Voltaire. " Get ready a gun. Hot 
 shot in the ship lay and fire it." 
 
 This was soon done. Bang went 
 the gun ; the shot struck the water 
 close to the brute, and may have 
 struck him under water, for aught 
 I know. Anyway, it sorely disturb- 
 ed him ; for he reared into the air a 
 column of serpent's flesh that looked 
 as thick as the main-topmast of a 
 seventy-four, opened a mouth that 
 looked capacious enough to swallow 
 the largest bacoy anchor in the ship,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 101 
 
 ami, with a strange grating noise 
 between a bark and a hiss, dived, 
 and was seen no more. 
 
 When he was pone they all looked 
 at one another, like men awakening 
 from a dream. 
 
 Staines alone took it quite coolly. 
 It did not surprise him in the least. 
 He had always thought it incredible 
 that the boa constrictor should be 
 larger than any sea-snake. That 
 idea struck him as monstrous and 
 absurd. He noted the sea-serpent 
 in his journal, but with this doubt, 
 " Scmblc — more like a very large 
 eel." 
 
 Next day they crossed the line. 
 Just before noon a young gentleman 
 burst into Staines's cabin, apologiz- 
 ing for want of ceremony ; but if 
 Dr. Staines would like, to sec the 
 line, it was now in sipht from the 
 mizzen-top. 
 
 " Glad of it, sir," said Staines ; 
 " collect it for me in the ship's 
 buckets, if you please. I want to 
 send a line to friends at home." 
 
 Younppentleman buried bis hands 
 in his pockets, walked out in solemn 
 silence, and resumed his position on 
 the lee side of the quarter-deck. 
 
 Nevertheless, the opening, coupled 
 with what he had beard and read, 
 made Staines a little uneasy, and he 
 went to his friend Fitzroy, and 
 said, — 
 
 "Now look here: I am at the 
 service of you experienced and hu- 
 morous mariners. 1 plead guilty at 
 once to the crime of never having 
 ed tin' line ; "-<> make ready your 
 swabs, and lather me; your ship's 
 scraper, and shave me : and let us 
 gel it nver. Hut Lord Tadcastcr is 
 nervous, sensitive, prouder than he 
 seem-, and I'm not going to have 
 him driven into a tit lor all the Nep- 
 tunes and A mphitrites in creation." 
 
 Fitzroy heard him out, then burst 
 out laughing, " Why, there is none 
 of that panic in the Royal Navy," 
 said he. " Hasn't been this twenty 
 years." 
 
 " I'm so sorry ! " said Dr. Staines. 
 
 " If there is a form of wit I revere, 
 it is practical joking." 
 
 " Doctor, you are a satirical beg- 
 gar." 
 
 Staines told Tadcaster, and he 
 went forward and chaffed his friend 
 the quartermaster, who was one of 
 the forecastle wits. " I say, quar- 
 termaster, why doesn't Neptune 
 come on board ? " 
 
 Dead silence. 
 
 " I wonder what has become of 
 poor old Nep 1 " 
 
 " Gone ashore ! " prowled the sea- 
 man. "Last seen in the Ratcliff 
 Highway. Got a shop there — lends 
 a shilling in the pound on seamen's 
 advance tickets." 
 
 "Oh! and Amphitrite?" 
 
 " Married the sexton at Wap- 
 ping." 
 
 "And the Nereids?" 
 
 "Neruds ! " (scratching his head) 
 "I harn't kept my eye on them 
 small craft. But I believe they are 
 sellinp oysters in the port of Leith." 
 
 A light breeze carried them across 
 the equator ; but soon after they 
 pot becalmed, and it was dreary 
 work, and the ship rolled, gently 
 but continuously, and upset Lord 
 Tadcaster's stomach again, ami 
 quenched his manly spirit. 
 
 At last they were fortunate enough 
 to catch the S.E. trade, but it was 
 bo languid at first that the ship 
 barely moved through the water, 
 though they set every stitch, and 
 studding-sails alow and aloft, till 
 really she was acres of canvas. 
 
 While she was so creeping along, 
 a man in the mizzen-top noticed an 
 enormous shark gliding steadily in 
 her wake. This may seem a small 
 incident, yet it ran through the 
 ship like wildfire, and caused more 
 or less uneasiness in three hundred 
 stout hearts : so mar is every sea- 
 man to death, and so stroiii the 
 persuasion in their superstitious 
 minds, that a shark does BOl follow 
 a ship pertinaciously without -.: 
 prophetic instinct of calamity. 
 
 I nfortunatcly, the quarter mas-
 
 108 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 ter conveyed this idea to Lord Tad- 
 caster, and continued it by numer- 
 ous examples, to prove that there 
 was death at hand when a shark fol- 
 lowed the ship. 
 
 Thereupon Tadcaster took it into 
 his head that he was under a relapse, 
 and the shark was waiting for his 
 dead body. He got quite low-spirit- 
 ed. Staines told Fitzroy. Fitzroy 
 said, " Shark be hanged ! I'll have 
 him on deck in halt' an hour." He 
 got leave from the captain. A hook 
 was baited with a large piece of 
 pork, and towed astern by a stout 
 line, experienced old hands attend- 
 ing to it by turns. 
 
 The shark came up leisurely, sur- 
 veyed the bait, and, I apprehend, 
 ascertained the position of the hook : 
 at all events, he turned quietly on 
 his back, sucked the bait oif, and re- 
 tired to enjoy it. 
 
 Every officer in the ship tried him 
 in turn, but without success ; for if 
 they got ready for him, and the mo- 
 ment he took the bait jerked the 
 rope hard, in that case he opened 
 his enormous mouth so wide that the 
 bait and hook came out clear. But 
 sooner or later, he always got the 
 bair, and left his captors the hook. 
 
 This went on for days, and his 
 huge dorsal fin always iii the ship's 
 wake. 
 
 Then Tadcaster, who had watched 
 these experiments with hope, lost 
 his spirit and his appetite. 
 
 Staines reasoned with him, but in 
 vain. Somebody was to die; and 
 althongh there were three hundred 
 and more in the ship, he must be 
 the one. At last he actually made 
 his will, and threw himself into 
 Stain s's arm3, and gave him mes- 
 sages to his mother and Lady Cicely, 
 and ended by fri-htening himself 
 into a fit. 
 
 This roused Staines's pity, and 
 also put him on his mettle. What, 
 science be beaten by a shark ! 
 
 He pondered the matter with all 
 his might, and at last an idea came to 
 imn. 
 
 He asked the captain's permission 
 to try his hand. This was accorded 
 immediately, and the ship's stores 
 placed at his disposal very polite- 
 ly, and with a sly, comical grin. 
 
 Dr. Staines got from the carpen- 
 ter some sheets of zinc and spare 
 copper and some flannel. These he 
 cut into three-inch squares, and 
 soaked the flannel in acidulated wa- 
 ter. He then procured a quantity 
 of bell-wire, the greater part of 
 which he insulated by wrapping it 
 round with hot gutta-percha. So 
 eager was he that he did not turn 
 in all night. 
 
 In the morning he prepared what 
 he called an electric fuse. lie filled 
 a soda-water bottle with gunpowder, 
 attaching some cork to make it 
 buoyant, put in the fuse and bung, 
 made it water-tight, connected and 
 insulated his main wires, enveloped 
 the bottle in pork, tied a line 
 to it and let the bottle over- 
 board. 
 
 The captain and officers shook 
 their heads mysteriously. The tars 
 peeped and grinned from every rope 
 to see a doctor try and catch a 
 shark with a soda-water botble and no 
 hook ; but somehow the doctor 
 seemed to know what he was about, 
 so they hovered around, and waited 
 the result, mystified bat curious, and 
 showing their teeth from ear to ear. 
 
 "The only thing I fear," said 
 Staines, " is that the moment he 
 takes the bait, he will cut the wire 
 before I can complete the circuit and 
 fire the fuse." 
 
 Nevertheless, there was another 
 objection to the success of the ex- 
 periment. The shark had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 "Well," said the captain, "at all 
 events you have 
 away." 
 
 " No," said little Tadcaster, white 
 as a ghost : " he is only under 
 water, I know; waiting — wait- 
 ing." 
 
 " There he is ! " cried one in the 
 ratlines. 
 
 frightened him
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 109 
 
 There was a rush to the taffrail 
 — great excitement. 
 
 " Keep clear of me," said Staines, 
 quietly but firmly. "It can only 
 be done at the moment before he 
 cuts the wire." 
 
 The old shark swam slowly round 
 the bait. 
 
 He saw it was something 
 new. 
 
 He swam round and round it. 
 
 " He won't take it," said one. 
 
 " He suspects something." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! he will take the meat 
 somehow, and leave the pepper. 
 Sly old fox." 
 
 " He has eaten many a poor Jack, 
 that one." 
 
 The shark turned slowly on his 
 back, and, instead of grabbing the 
 bait, seemed to draw it by gentle 
 suction into that capacious throat, 
 ready to blow it out in a moment 
 if it was not all right. 
 
 The moment the bait was drawn 
 out of sight, Staines completed the 
 circuit : the bottle exploded with a 
 fury that surprised him and every- 
 body who saw it ; a ton of water 
 flew into the air, and came down in 
 spray, and a gory carcass floated 
 belly uppermost, visibly staining 
 the blue water. 
 
 There was a roar of amazement 
 and applause. 
 
 The carcass was towed alongside, 
 at Tadeaeter'a urgent request, and 
 then the power of the explosion was 
 Been. Conlincd, first by the bottle, 
 than by tin' meat, then by the fish, 
 and lastly by the water, it had ex- 
 ploded with Untold power, had 
 blown the brute's head into a million 
 atoms, and had oven torn a greal 
 furrow in its carcass, exposing three 
 feet of tin' backbone. 
 
 Taddy gloated on his enemy, and 
 began to pick up again from that 
 hour. 
 
 The wind improved, and, as usu- 
 al in that latitude, scarcely varied a 
 point. They bad a pleasant time. 
 Private theatricals, and other 
 
 10 
 
 amusements, till they got to latitude 
 26° S., and longitude 27°. Then 
 the trade-wind deserted them. 
 Light and variable winds succeed- 
 ed. 
 
 The master complained of the 
 chronometers, and the captain 
 thought it his duty to verify or 
 correct them : and so shaped his 
 course for the island of Tristan 
 d'Acunha, then lying a little way 
 out of his course. I ought, perhaps, 
 to explain to the general reader 
 that the exact position of this 
 island, being long ago recorded, 
 it was an infallible guide to go by 
 in verifying a ship's chronome- 
 ters. 
 
 Next day the glass fell all day, 
 and the captain said he should 
 double reef-topsails at night-fall, for 
 something was brewing. 
 
 The weather, however, was fine, 
 and the ship was sailing very fast, 
 when, about half an hour before 
 sunset, the mast-head man hailed 
 that there was a balk of timber in 
 sight, broad on the weather-bow. 
 
 The signal-man was sent up, and 
 said it looked like a raft. 
 
 The captain, who was on deck, 
 levelled his glass at it, and made it 
 out a raft, with a sort of rail to 
 it, and the stump of a mast. 
 
 He ordered the officer of the 
 watch to keep the ship as close to 
 the wind as possible. He should 
 like to examine it if he could. 
 
 The master represented respect- 
 fully that it would be (inadvisable to 
 beat to windward for that. "I 
 have no faith in our chronometers, 
 sir, and it is important to make the 
 jf him! before dark 
 suddenly." 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Bolt: then I 
 suppose we must let the raft 
 go." 
 
 "Man on the raft to wind- 
 ward!" hailed the signal-man. 
 
 This electrified the ship. The 
 captain ran up the mizzen rigging 
 and scanned the raft, now marly 
 abeam. 
 
 fogs rise here so
 
 110 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " It is a man ! " he cried, and 
 was about to alter the ship's course 
 when, at that moment the signal 
 man hailed again : 
 "It is a corpse." 
 
 " How d'ye know 1 " 
 "By the gulls." 
 
 Then succeeded an exciting dia- 
 logue between the captain and the 
 master, who, being in his depart- 
 ment, was very firm ; and went so 
 far as to say he would not answer 
 for the safety of the ship if they 
 did not sight the land before 
 dark. 
 
 The captain said, " Very well/' 
 and took a turn or two. But at 
 last he said, " No. Her Majesty's 
 ship must not pass a raft with a 
 man on it, dead or alive." 
 
 He then began to give the neces- 
 sary orders, but before they wereout 
 of his mouth, a fatal interruption o'c- 
 cured. 
 
 Tad caster ran into Dr. Staines's 
 cabin, crying, " A raft with a corpse 
 close by ! " 
 
 Staines sprang to the quarter- 
 port to see ; and, craning eagerly 
 out, the lower port chain, which had 
 not been well secured, slipped, the 
 port gave way, and, as his whole 
 weight rested on it, canted him 
 headlong into the sea. 
 
 A smart seaman in the fore-chains 
 saw the accident, and instantly 
 roared out, " Man overboard ! " 
 a cry that sends a thrill through a 
 ship's very ribs. 
 
 Another smart fellow cut the life- 
 buoy adrift so quickly that it struck 
 the water within ten yards of 
 Staines. 
 
 The officer of the watch, without 
 the interval of half a minute, gave 
 the right orders in the voice of a 
 Stentor : — 
 
 " Let go life-buoy. 
 
 "Life-boat's crew away. 
 
 " Hands shorten sail. 
 
 "Mainsail up. 
 
 " Main-topsail to mast." 
 
 These orders were executed with 
 admirable swiftness. Meantime 
 
 there was a mighty rush of feet 
 throughout the frigate, every hatch- 
 way was crammed with men eager 
 to force their way on deck. 
 
 In five seconds the middy of the 
 watch and half her crew were in the 
 lee cutter fitted with Clifibrd's ap- 
 paratus. 
 
 " Lower away ! " cried the excit 
 ed officer; " the others will come 
 down by the pendants." 
 
 The man stationed, sitting on the 
 bottom boards, eased away roundly, 
 when suddenly there was a hitch — 
 the boat would go no farther. 
 
 " Lower away there in the 
 cutter! Why don't you lower? 
 screamed the captain, who had 
 come over to leeward expecting to 
 see the boat in the water. 
 
 " The rope has swollen, sir, and 
 pendants won't unreeve," cried the 
 middy in agony. 
 
 " Volunteers for the weather- 
 boat ! " shouted the first lieutenant ; 
 but the order was unnecessary, for 
 more than the proper number were 
 in her already. 
 
 " Plug in — lower away." 
 
 But mishaps never come singly. 
 Scarcely had this boat gone a foot 
 from the davit than the volunteer 
 who was acting as cockswain, in 
 reaching out for something, inad- 
 vertently let go the line which, in 
 Kynaston's apparatus, keeps the 
 tackles hooked ; consequently, down 
 went the boat and crew twenty feet, 
 with a terrific crash; the men were 
 struggling for their lives, and the 
 boat was stove. 
 
 But meantime, more men having 
 been sent into the lee cutter, their 
 weight caused the pendants to ren- 
 der, and the boat got afloat, and was 
 soon employed picking up the strug- 
 gling crew. 
 
 Seeing this, Lieut. Fitzroy 
 collected some hands, and lowered 
 the life-boat gig, which was fitted 
 with common tackles, got down into 
 her himself by the falls, and, pulling 
 round to windward, shouted to the 
 signal-man for directions.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 1H 
 
 The signal-man was at his post, 
 and had fixed his eye on the man 
 overboard, as his duty was : bat his 
 messmate was in the stove boat, and 
 he had cast one anxious look down 
 to see if he was saved, and, sad to 
 relate, in that one moment he had 
 lost sight of Staines : the sadden 
 darkness — there was no twilight — 
 confused him more, and the ship 
 had increased her drift. 
 
 Fitzroy, however, made a rapid 
 calculation, and palled to windward 
 with all his might. He was followed 
 in abonta minute by the other sound 
 boat powerfully manned ; and both 
 boars melted away into the night. 
 
 There was a long and anxious 
 suspense, during which it became 
 pitch dark, and the ship burned 
 blue-lights to mark her position 
 more plainly to the crews that were 
 groping the sea for that beloved 
 passenger. 
 
 Capt. Hamilton had no doubt 
 that the fate of Staines was decided, 
 one way or other, long before this ; 
 but he kept quiet until he saw the 
 plain signs of a squall at hand. 
 Then, as he was responsible for the 
 safety of boats and ship, he sent up 
 rockets to recall them. 
 
 The cutter came alongside first. 
 Lights were poured on her ; and 
 quavering voices asked, " Have you 
 got hi tn ' " 
 
 The answer was dead silence, and 
 sorrowful, drooping heads. 
 
 Sadly and reluctantly was the 
 order given to hoist the boat in. 
 
 Then the gi^ came alongside. 
 Fitzroy seated in her, with his hands 
 before his face ; the men gloomy 
 and sad. 
 
 "Goxk! Gokb!" 
 
 Soon the ship was battling a heavy 
 squall. 
 
 At midnight all quiet again, and 
 hove tn. Then, at the request <>t 
 many, the bell was tolled, and the 
 ship's company mustered bare- 
 headed, and many a stunt seaman in 
 tears, as the last service was read for 
 Christopher Staines. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Rosa fell ill with grief at the 
 hotel, and could not move for some 
 days ; but, the moment she was 
 strong enough, she insisted on leav- 
 ing Plymouth : like all wounded 
 things, she must drag herself home. 
 
 Put what a home! How empty 
 it struck, and she heart-sick and 
 desolate ! Now all the familiar 
 places wore a new aspect : the little 
 yard, where he had so walked and 
 waited, became a temple to her ; and 
 she came out and sat in it, and now 
 first felt to the full how much he 
 had suffered there — with what for- 
 titude ! She crept about the house, 
 and kissed the chair he had sat in, 
 and every much-used place and thing 
 of the departed. 
 
 Her shallow nature deepened and 
 deepened under this bereavement, 
 of which, she said to herself with a 
 shudder, she was the cause. And 
 this is the course of nature : there 
 is nothing like suffering to enlighten 
 the giddy brain, widen the narrow 
 mind, improve the trivial heart. 
 
 As her regrets were tender and 
 deep, so her vows of repentance 
 were sincere. Oh, what a wife she- 
 would make when he came bark ! 
 how thoughtful ! how prudent ! how 
 loyal! and never have a secret. She 
 who had once said, " What is the 
 use of your writing? nobody will 
 publish it," now collected and pe- 
 rused every written scrap. With 
 simple affection she even looked up 
 his very waste-paper basket, full of 
 fragments he had torn, or useless 
 papers he had thrown there before he 
 wiit to Plymouth. 
 
 In the drawer of his writing- 
 table' she found his diary. It was a 
 thick quarto : it began with their 
 marriage, and ended with his leav- 
 ing home — for then be took another 
 volume. This diary became her 
 Bible : she studied it daily, till her 
 
 tears hid his lines. The entries 
 
 were very miscellaneous, veryexact.
 
 112 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 It was a map of their married life. 
 But what she studied most was his 
 observations on her own character, 
 so scientific, yet so kindly ; and his 
 scholar-like and wise reflections. 
 Tue book was an unconscious pic- 
 ture of a great mind she had hith- 
 erto but glanced at : now she saw it 
 all plain before her ; saw it, under- 
 stood it, adored it, mourned it. 
 Such women are shallow, not for 
 want of a head upon their shoulders, 
 but of attention. They do not really 
 study any thing ; they have been 
 taught at their schools the bad art 
 of skimming ; but let their hearts 
 compel their brains to think and 
 think, the result is considerable. 
 The deepest philosopher never fath- 
 omed a character more thoroughly 
 than this poor child fathomed her 
 husband when she had read his 
 journal ten or eleven times, and 
 bedewed it with a thousand tears. 
 
 One passage almost cut her more 
 intelligent heart in twain : — 
 
 " This dark day I have done a 
 thing incredible. I have spoken 
 with brutal harshness to the inno- 
 cent creature I have sworn to pro- 
 tect. She had run into debt, through 
 inexperience, and that unhappy 
 timidity which makes women con- 
 ceal an error until it ramifies, by 
 concealment, into a fault ; and I 
 must storm and rave at her till 
 she actually fainted away. Brute! 
 Ruffian! Monster'? And she, how 
 did she punish me, poor Lamb? 
 By soft and tender words — like a 
 lady, as she is. Oh, my sweet Rosa, 
 I wish you could know how you 
 are avenged! Talk of the scourge 
 — the cat ! I would be thankful 
 for two dozen lashes. Ah ! there is 
 no need, I think, to punish a man 
 who has been cruel to a woman. 
 Let him alone. He will punish 
 himself more than you can, if he 
 really is a man." 
 
 From the date of that entry this 
 self-reproach and self-torture kept 
 cropping up every now and then in 
 the diary; and it appeared to have 
 
 been not entirely without its influ 
 ence in sending Staines to sea, 
 though the main reason he gave was 
 that his Rosa might have the com- 
 forts and luxuries she had enjoyed 
 before she married him. 
 
 One day, while she was crying 
 over this diary, Uncle Philip called, 
 but not to comfort her, I promise 
 you. He burst on her, irate, to take 
 her to task. He had returned, 
 learned Christopher's departure, 
 and settled the reason in his own 
 mind. That uxorious iool was 
 gone to sea, by a natural re-action ; 
 his eyes were open to his wife at 
 last, and he was sick of her 
 folly; so he had fled to distant 
 climes, as who would not that 
 could ? 
 
 " So, ma'am," said he, " my 
 nephew is gone to sea, I find — all 
 in a hurry. Pray, may I ask what 
 he has done that for ? " 
 
 It was a very simple question, yet 
 it did not elicit a very plain answer. 
 She only stared at this abrupt in- 
 quisitor, and then tried piteously, 
 " O Uncle Philip ! " and burst out 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " You will hate me now. He is 
 gone to make money for me ; and I 
 would rather have lived on a crust. 
 Uncle, don't hate me. I'm a poor, 
 bereaved, heart-broken creature, that 
 repents." 
 
 " Repents ! heigho ! why, what 
 have you been up to now, ma'am ? 
 No great harm, I'll be bound. 
 Flirting a little — with some fool 
 — eh 1 " 
 
 " Flirting ! Me ! a married wo- 
 man ! " 
 
 " Oh, to be sure ! I forgot. Why, 
 surely he has not deserted you." 
 
 " My Christopher desert me ! 
 He loves me too well ; far more 
 than I deserve, but not more than 
 I will. Uncle Philip, I am too con- 
 fused and wretched to tell you 
 all that has happened ; but I know 
 you love him though you had a tiff. 
 Uncle, he called on you, to shake
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 115 
 
 hands and ask your forgiveness, 
 poor fellow ! He was so sorry you 
 were away. Please read his diary : 
 it will tell you all, better than his 
 poor foolish wife can. I know it 
 by heart. I'll show you where you 
 and he quarrelled about me. There, 
 see." And she showed him the 
 passage with her finger. " He never 
 told me it was that, or I would 
 have come and begged your par- 
 don on my knees. But see how 
 sorry he was. There, see. 
 
 "And now I'll show you another 
 place, where my Christopher speaks 
 of your many, many acts of kind- 
 ness. There, see. And now please 
 let me show you how he longed 
 for reconciliation. There, see. And 
 it is the same through the book. And 
 now I'll show you how grieved he was 
 to go without your blessing. I told 
 him I was sure you would give him 
 that, and him going away. Ah, 
 me ! will he ever return ? Uncle 
 dear, don't hate me. You are his 
 only relative ; and what shall I do, 
 now he is gone, if you disown me ! 
 Why, you are the only Staines left 
 me to love." 
 
 " Disown you, ma'am ! that I'll 
 never do. You are a good-hearted 
 young woman, I find. There, run 
 and dry your eyes, and let me 
 read Christopher's diary all through. 
 Then I shall see how the land lies. " 
 
 Rosa complied with this propo- 
 sal; and left him alone while she 
 bathed her eyes, and tried to com- 
 pose herself, for she was all trem- 
 blii)L r at this sudden irruption. 
 
 Wle'ii Bhe returned to the draw- 
 ing-room he was walking about 
 looking grave and thoughtful. 
 
 " It is the old story," said he 
 rather gently : " a misunderstanding. 
 How wise our ancestors were that 
 first ased that word to meat a 
 
 quarrel! for look into twenty quar- 
 rels, and you shall detect a score 
 of mis-under-standings. Yet our 
 American cousins must go and 
 substitute the unideaed word, ' diffi- 
 culty ; ' that is wonderful. I had 
 10* 
 
 no quarrel with him ; delighted to 
 sec either of you. But 1 had called 
 twice on him ; so I thought he 
 ought to get over his temper, and 
 call on a tried friend like me. A 
 misunderstanding! Now, my dear, 
 let us have no more of these 
 misunderstandings. You will always 
 be welcome at my house ; and I 
 shall often come here, and look 
 after you and your interests. 
 What do you mean to do, I won- 
 der 1 " 
 
 " Sir, I'm to go home to my 
 father, if he will be troubled with 
 me. I have written to him." 
 
 " And what is to become of the 
 Bijou 1 " 
 
 " My Christie thought I should 
 like to part with it and the fur- 
 niture ; but his own writing-desk 
 and his chair, no, I never will ; and 
 his little clock. Oh ! oh ! oh ! But 
 I remember what you said about 
 agents, and I don't know what to do ; 
 for I shall be away." 
 
 " Then leave it to me. I'll come 
 and live here with one sen-ant : 
 and I'll soon sell it for you." 
 
 "You, Uncle Philip!" 
 
 " Well, why not 1 " said he 
 roughly. 
 
 " That will he a great trouble 
 and discomfort to you, I'm afraid." 
 
 " If I find it so, I'll soon drop it. 
 I'm not the fool to put myself out 
 for anybody. When you are ready 
 to go out, send me word, and I'll 
 come in." 
 
 Soon after this he bustled off. 
 He gave her a hurried ki>s at part* 
 rag, as if he was ashamed of it, 
 and wanted it over as quickly as 
 possible, 
 
 Next day her father came, con- 
 doled with her politely, assured her 
 there was nothing to cry about ; 
 husbands were asort of functionaries 
 that always went to pea at some 
 part of their career, and no harm 
 ever came of it. On the contrary, 
 " Absence makes the heart grow 
 fonder," said this judicious par- 
 ent.
 
 114 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 This sentiment happened to be 
 just a little too true, and set the 
 daughter crying bitterly; but she 
 fought against it. " Oh, no ! " said 
 she. " / mustn't. I will not be 
 always crying in Kent Villa." 
 
 " Lord "forbid ! " 
 
 "I shall get over it in time — a 
 little." 
 
 " Why, of course you will. But 
 as to your coining to Kent Villa, I 
 am afraid you would not be very com- 
 fortable there. You know, I am 
 superannuated. Only get my pen- 
 sion now." 
 
 " I know that, papa ; and — 
 why, that is one of the reasons. I 
 have a good income now ; and 
 I thought if we put our means 
 together." 
 
 " Oli ! that is a very different 
 thing. You will want a carriage, 
 I suppose. I have put mine 
 down." 
 
 " No carriage, no horse, no 
 footman, no luxury of any kind, 
 till my Christie comes back. I ab- 
 hor dresj, I abhor expense ; I detest 
 every thing I once liked too well! 
 I hate every folly that has parted us ; 
 and I hate myself worst of all. Oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! Forgive me for crying 
 so." 
 
 " Well, I think you had better 
 come at once. I dare say there are 
 associations about this place that 
 upset you. I shall go and make 
 ready for you, dear ; and then you 
 can come as soon as you like." 
 
 He bestowed a paternal kiss on 
 her brow, and glided doucely away 
 before she could possibly cry a^aiti. 
 
 The very next week Rosa was at 
 Kent Villa, with the relics of her 
 husband about her: his chair, his 
 writing-table, his clock, his waste- 
 paper basket, a very deep and large 
 one. She had them all in her bed- 
 room at Kent Villa, 
 
 Here the days glided quietly but 
 heavily. Shu derived some com- 
 fort from Uncle Philip, His rough 
 friendly way was a tonic, and braced 
 her. He called several times about 
 
 the Bijou ; told her he had put up 
 enormous boards all over the house, 
 and purled it finely. " I have had 
 a hundred agents at me," said he ; 
 " and the next thing, I hope, will 
 be one customer ; that is about the 
 proportion." At last he wrote her 
 he bad hooked a victim, and sold 
 the lease and furniture for nine 
 hundred guineas. Staines had as- 
 signed the lease to Rosa, so she had 
 full powers ; and Philip invested 
 the money, and two hundred more 
 she gave him, in a little mortgage at 
 six per cent. 
 
 .Now came the letter from Ma- 
 deira. It gave her new life. Chris- 
 topher was well, contented, hopeful. 
 His example should animate her. 
 She would bravely bear the present, 
 and share his hopes of the future. 
 With these brighter views, nature 
 co-operated. The instincts of ap- 
 proaching maternity brightened the 
 future. She fell into gentle rever- 
 ies, and saw her husband return, 
 and saw herself place their infant 
 in his arms with all a wife's, a 
 mother's, pride. 
 
 In due course came another long 
 letter from the crpiator, with a full 
 journal, and more words of hope. 
 Home in less than a year, with 
 reputation increased by this last 
 cure : home, to part no more. 
 
 Ah ! what a changed wife he 
 should find ! how frugal, how can- 
 did, how full of appreciation, admi- 
 ration, and love of the noblest, 
 dearest husband that ever breathed ! 
 
 Lady Cicely Trehcrne waited 
 some weeks, to let kinder sentiments 
 return. She then called in Dear 
 Street, but found Mrs. Staines was 
 jrone to Gravesend. She wrote to 
 her. 
 
 In a few days she received a re- 
 ply, studiously polite and cold. 
 
 This persistent injustice morti- 
 fied her at last. She said to her- 
 self, " Does she think his departure 
 was no loss to me ? It was to her 
 interests, as well as his, I sacrificed
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 115 
 
 my own selfish wishes. I will write 
 to her no more." 
 
 This resolution she steadily main- 
 tained. It was shaken for a mo- 
 ment, when she heard, by a side 
 wind, that Mrs. Staines was fast 
 approaching the great pain and 
 peril of women. Then she wa- 
 vered. But no : she prayed for her 
 by name in the liturgy, but she 
 troubled her no more. 
 
 This state of things had lasted 
 some six weeks, when she received 
 a letter from her Cousin Tadcaster, 
 close on the heels of his last, to 
 which she had replied as I have in- 
 dicated. She knew his handwrit- 
 ing, and opened it with a smile. 
 
 That smile soon died off her 
 horror-stricken face. The letter 
 ran thus : — 
 
 " Tristan d'Acunha, Jan. 6. 
 
 "Dear Cicely, — A terrible 
 thing has just happened. We sig- 
 nalled a raft, with a body on it ; and 
 poor Dr. Staines leaned out of the 
 pptt-hole, and fell overboard. Three 
 boats were let down after him ; but 
 it all went wrong somehow, or it 
 was too late. They could never 
 find him; he was drowned; and 
 the funeral service was read for the 
 poor fellow. 
 
 " We are all sadly cut up. Every- 
 body loved him. It was dreadful, 
 next day at dinner, when his chair 
 was empty. The very sailors cried 
 at not finding him. 
 
 " First of all, I thought I ought 
 
 to write to his wife. I know where 
 she lives ; it is called Kent Villa, 
 Gravesend. Hut I was afraid: it 
 might kill her ; and you are so 
 (rood ami sensible, I thought I had 
 better write to you, and perhaps 
 you conld break it to her by de- 
 crees, before it. get! in all the pa- 
 pers. 
 
 "I send this from the island, by 
 a small vessel, and paid him tei: ' 
 pounds to take it. 
 
 " Your aflectionate cousin, 
 
 " Tadcaster." 
 
 Words are powerless to describe 
 a blow like this : the amazement, 
 the stupor, the reluctance to be- 
 lieve, — the rising, swelling, sur- 
 ging horror. She sat like a woman 
 of stone, crumpling the letter. 
 "Dead! dead!" 
 
 For a long time this was all her 
 mind could realize, — that Christo- 
 pher Staines was dead. He who had 
 been so full of life and thought and 
 genius, and worthier to live than 
 all the world, was dead ; and a 
 million nobodies were still alive, and 
 he was dead. 
 
 It revealed to her, in one wither- 
 ing flash, that she loved him. 
 She loved him, and he was dead. 
 
 She lay back on the sofa, and 
 all the power left her limbs. She 
 could not move a hand. 
 
 But suddenly she started up ; 
 for a noble instinct told her this 
 blow must not fall on the wife 
 as it had on her, and in her time of 
 peril. 
 
 She had her bonnet on in a mo- 
 ment, and, for the first time in her 
 life, darted out of the house with- 
 out her maid. She flew along the 
 streets, scarcely feeling the ground. 
 She got to Dear Street, and ob- 
 tained Philip Staines's address. 
 She flew to it, and there learned he 
 was down to Kent Villa. Instantly 
 she telegraphed to her maid to come 
 down to her at Gravesend, with 
 things for a short visit, and wait 
 for her at the station ; and she went 
 down by train to Gravesend. 
 
 Hitherto she had walked on air, 
 driven by one overpowering im- 
 pulse Now, as she sat in the train, 
 she thought a little of herself. 
 What was before her? To break 
 to Mrs. Staines that her husband 
 was dead. To tell her all her mis- 
 Lrivintrs were more than justified. 
 To encounter her cold civility, and 
 let her know, inch by inch, it must be 
 exchanged for curses and tearing of 
 
 hair : her husband was dead. To 
 tell her this, ami in the telling of it, 
 
 perhaps reveal that it was her great
 
 116 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 bereavement, as well as the wife's ; 
 for she had a deeper affection for 
 him than she ought. 
 
 Well, she trembled like an aspen- 
 leaf — trembled like one in an ague, 
 even as she sat ; but she perse- 
 vered. 
 
 A noble woman has her courage ; 
 not exactly the same as that which 
 leads forlorn hopes against bastions 
 bristling with rifles, and tongued 
 with flames and thunderbolts, yet 
 not inferior to it. 
 
 Tadcaster, small and dull, but no- 
 ble by birth and instinct, had seen the 
 right thing for her to do ; and she 
 of the same breed, and nobler far, 
 had seen it too ; and the great soul 
 steadily drew the recoiling heart 
 and quivering body to this fiery 
 trial, this act of humanity, to do 
 which was terrible and hard, to 
 shirk it cowardly and cruel. 
 
 She reached- Gravesend, and drove 
 in a fly to Kent Villa. 
 
 The door was opened by a 
 maid. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Staines at home ? " 
 
 " Yes ma'am, she is at home ; 
 but" — 
 
 " Can I see her 1 " 
 
 " Why, no, ma'am : not at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 " But I must see her. I am an 
 old friend. Please take her my 
 card. Lady Cicely Treherne." 
 
 The maid hesitated, and looked 
 confused. "Perhaps you don't 
 know, ma'am. Mrs. Staines, she 
 is — the doctor have been in the 
 house all day." 
 
 " Ah, the doctor ! I believe Dr. 
 Philip Staines is here." 
 
 " Why, that is the doctor, ma'am. 
 Yes, he is here." 
 
 "Then pray let me sec him — or 
 no ; 1 had better see Mr. Lusignan." 
 
 " Master have gone out for the 
 day, ma'am; but, if you'll step in 
 the drawing-room, I'll tell the 
 doctor." 
 
 Lady Cicely waited in the draw- 
 injr-room some time, heart-sick and 
 trembling. 
 
 At last Doctor Philip came in, 
 with her card in his hand, looking 
 evidently a little cross at the inter- 
 ruption. " Now, madam, please 
 tell me, as briefly as you can, what 
 I can do for you." 
 
 " Are you Dr. Philip Staines ? " 
 " I am, madam, at your service 
 — for five minutes. Can't quit my 
 patient long, just now." 
 
 " O sir, thank God I have 
 found you ! Be prepared for ill 
 news — sad news — a terrible calam- 
 ity — I can't speak. Read that, 
 sir." And she handed him Tad- 
 caster's note. 
 
 He took it and read it. 
 He buried bis face in his hands. 
 f Christopher! my poor, poor 
 boy ! " he groaned. But suddenly 
 a terrible anxiety seized him. " Who 
 knows of this ! " he asked. 
 
 " Only myself, sir. I came here to 
 break it to her." 
 
 " You are a good, kind lady, for 
 being so thoughtful. Madam, if this 
 gets to my niece's ears it will kill her, 
 as sure as we stand here." 
 
 " Then let us keep it from her. 
 Command me, sir. I will do any 
 thing. I will live here — take 
 the letters in — the journals — any 
 thing." 
 
 " No, no ; you have done your 
 part, and God bless you for it. I 
 must stay here. Your ladyship's 
 very presence, and your agitation, 
 would set the servants talking, and 
 some idiot-fiend among them bab- 
 bling ; there is nothing so terrible 
 as a fool." 
 
 " May I stay at the inn, sir, just 
 one night V 
 
 " Oh, yes, I wish you would ! and 
 I will run over, if all is well with 
 her — well with her 1 poor unfor- 
 tunate girl ! " 
 
 Lady Cicely saw he wished her 
 gone, and she went directly. 
 
 At nine o'clock that same evening, 
 as she lay on a sofa in the best room 
 of the inn, attended by her maid. 
 Dr. Philip Staines came "to her. 
 She dismissed her maid.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 117 
 
 Dr. Philip was too old — in other 
 words, had lost too many friends — 
 to be really broken down by a be- 
 reavement ; but he was strangely 
 subdued. The loud tones were out 
 of him, and the loud laugh, and 
 even the keen sneer. Yet he was 
 the same man, but with a gentler 
 surface ; and this was not without 
 its pathos. 
 
 " Well, madam," said he grave- 
 ly and quietly, " it is as it always has 
 been. ' As is the race of leaves, so 
 that of man.' When one falls, 
 another comes. Here's a little 
 Christopher come, in place of him 
 that is gone — a brave, beautiful 
 boy, ma'am ; the finest but one I 
 ever brought into the world. He is 
 come to take his father's place in 
 our hearts, — I see you valued his 
 poor father, ma'am, — but he comes 
 too late for me. At your age, 
 ma'am, friendships come naturally; 
 they spring like loves in the soft heart 
 of youth : at seventy, the gate is not 
 BO ojxmi ; the soil is more sterile. 
 I shall never care tor another Chris- 
 topher ; never see another grow to 
 man's estate." 
 
 " The mother, sir," sobbed Lady 
 Cicely : " the poor mother? " 
 
 "Like them all, poor creature! 
 in heaven, madam ; in heaven. 
 New life! new existence! a new 
 character. All the pride, irlory, rap- 
 ture, and amazement of maternity 
 — thanks to her ignorance, which 
 we must prolong, or I would not 
 give one straw lor her life, or her 
 son's. I shall never leave the boUBC 
 till she does know it, ami, come 
 when it may, I dread the hour. 
 She is not framed by nature to bear 
 so deadly a shock." 
 
 " Her father, sir, — weald he not 
 be the besl person to break it to her '. 
 He was out to-dav " 
 
 " Her father, ina'am ? I shall 
 get no help from him. He is one of 
 those soft, gentle creatures that 
 COmC into the world with what your 
 
 canting fools call a mission ; and 
 
 his mission is to take care of num- 
 
 ber one. Not dishonestly, mind 
 you, nor violently, nor rudely, but 
 doucely and calmly. The care a 
 brute like me takes of his vitals, 
 that care Lusignan takes of his outer 
 cuticle. His number one is a sensi- 
 tive plant. No scenes, no noise : 
 nothing painful — by the by, the 
 little creature that writes in the 
 papers, and calls calamities painful, 
 is of Lusignan's breed. Out to-day ! 
 of course he was out, ma'am : he 
 knew from me his (laughter would 
 be in peril all day, so he visited a 
 friend. He knew his own tender- 
 ness, and evaded paternal sensibili- 
 ties : a self-defender. I count on no 
 help from that charming man." 
 
 " A man ! I call such men wep- 
 tiles ! " said Lady Cicely, her ghast- 
 ly cheek coloring for a moment. 
 
 " Then you give them false im- 
 portance." 
 
 In the course of this interview, 
 Lady Cicely accused herself sadly of 
 having interfered between man and 
 wife, and, with the best intentions, 
 brought about this cruel calamity. 
 " Judge, then, sir," said she, " how 
 grateful I am to you for undertak- 
 ing this cruel task. I was her 
 school-fellow, sir, and I love her 
 dearly ; but she has turned against 
 me, and now, oh, with what horror 
 she will regard me ! " 
 
 "Madam," said the doctor, " there. 
 is nothing more mean and unjust 
 than to judge Others by events that 
 none could foresee. Your conscience 
 is clear. You did your best for my 
 pool - niece: she has many virtues, 
 but justice is one you must not 
 look for in that quarter. Justice 
 
 requires brains. It's a virtue the 
 heart does not deal in. You must 
 be content with your own good con- 
 science, and an old man's esteem. 
 You did all for the best ; and ibis 
 very day you have done a good kind 
 action. God bless you for it ! 
 
 Then he left her ; and next day 
 she went sadly home, ami lor many 
 a k>ng day the hollow world saw 
 nothing oi' Cicely Trcherue.
 
 118 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 When Mr. Lusignan came home 
 that night, Dr. Philip told him the 
 miserable story, and his fears. 
 He received it not as Philip had ex- 
 pected. The bachelor had counted 
 without his dormant paternity. 
 He was terror-stricken — abject — 
 fell into a chair, and wrung his 
 hands, and wept piteously. To 
 keep it from his daughter till she 
 should be stronger seemed to him 
 chimerical, impossible. However, 
 Philip insisted it must be done; 
 and he must make some excuse for 
 keeping out of her way, or his man- 
 ner would rouse her suspicions. 
 He consented reauily to that, and, 
 indeed, left all to Dr. Philip. 
 
 Dr. Philip trusted nobody, not 
 even his own confidential servant. 
 He allowed no journal to come into 
 the house without passing through 
 his hands; and he read them all 
 before he would let ony other soul 
 in the house see them. He asked 
 Eosa to let him be her secretary, 
 and open her letters, giving as a 
 pretext that it would be as well she 
 should have no small worries or 
 trouble just now. 
 
 " Why," said she, " I was never 
 so well able to bear them. It must 
 be a great thing to put me out now. 
 I am so happy, and live in the fu- 
 ture. Well, clear uncle, you can 
 if you like — what does it matter? 
 — only there must be one excep- 
 tion : "my own Christie's letters, you 
 know." 
 
 " Of course," said he wincing in- 
 wardly. 
 
 The very next day came a letter 
 of condolence from Miss Lucas. 
 Dr. Philip intercepted it, and locked 
 it up, to be shown her at a more fit- 
 ting time. 
 
 Put how could he hope to keep 
 so public, a thing as this from enter- 
 ing the house in one of a hundred 
 newspapers ? 
 
 He went into Gravesend, and 
 searched all the newspapers, to see 
 what he had to contend with. To 
 his honor, he found it in several 
 
 dailies and weeklies, and in two 
 illustrated papers. He sat aghast 
 at the difficulty and the danger. 
 
 The best thing he could think of 
 was to buy them all, and cut out 
 the account, lie did so, and brought 
 all the papers, thus mutilated, into 
 the house, and sent them into the 
 kitchen. He said to his old servant, 
 " These may amuse Mr. Lusignan's 
 people, and I have extracted all 
 that interests me." 
 
 By these means he hoped that 
 none of the servants would go and 
 buy any more of these same papers 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Notwithstanding these precau- 
 tions, he took the nurse apart, and 
 said, " Now, you are an experienced 
 woman, and to be trusted about an 
 excitable patient. Mind, I object 
 to any female servant entering Mrs. 
 Staines's room with gossip. Keep 
 them outside the door for the pres- 
 ent, please. Oh! and nurse, if any 
 thing should happen likely to grieve 
 or worry her, it must be kept from 
 her entirely : can I trust you'?" 
 
 " You may, sir." 
 
 " I shall add ten guineas to your 
 fee if she gets through the month 
 without a shock or disturbance of 
 any kind." 
 
 She stared at him inquiringly. 
 Then she said, — 
 
 " You may rely on me, doctor." 
 
 " I feci I may. Still, she alarms 
 me. She looks quiet now, but she 
 is very excitable." 
 
 Not all these precautions gave 
 Dr. Philip any real sense of security ; 
 still less did they to Mr. Lnsignan. 
 He was not a tender father, in small 
 things ; but the idea of actual danger 
 to his only child was terrible to him ; 
 and he now passed his life in a con- 
 tinual tremble. 
 
 This is the less to be wondered 
 at when I tell you that even the 
 stout Philip began to lose his nerve, 
 his appetite, his sleep, under this 
 hourly terror and this hourly tor- 
 ture. 
 
 Well did the great imagination
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 119 
 
 of antiquity feign a torment too 
 great for the mind long to endure, 
 in the sword of Damocles suspend- 
 ed by a single hair over his head. 
 Here the sword hung over an inno- 
 cent creature, who smiled beneath 
 it fearless ; but these two old men 
 must sit and watch the sword, and 
 ask themselves how long before that 
 subtle salvation shall snap. 
 
 " 111 news travel fast," says the 
 proverb. " The birds of the air 
 shall carry the matter," says Holy 
 Writ ; and it is so. No bolts 
 nor bars, no promises nor precau- 
 tions, can long shut out a great 
 calamity from the ears it is to blast, 
 the heart it is to wither. The very 
 air seems full of it, until it falls. 
 
 Rosa's child was more than a 
 fortnight old, and she was looking 
 more beautiful than ever, as is often 
 the case with a very young mother, 
 and Dr. Philip complimented her 
 on her looks. " Now," said he, 
 "you reap the advantage of being 
 good and obedient, and keeping 
 quiet. In another ten days or so, 
 1 may take you to the sea-side for 
 a week. I have the honor to in- 
 form you that from about the fourth 
 to the tenth of March there is always 
 a week of fine weather, which takes 
 everybody by surprise except me 
 It does not astonish me, because I 
 observe it is invariable. Now, what 
 would you say if I gave you a week 
 at Heme Bay, to set you up alto- 
 get her ? " 
 
 " As you please, dear uncle," said 
 Mrs. Staines, with a sweet smile. 
 " I shall l>e very happy to go or 
 to stay. I shall be happy every- 
 where with my darling boy and the 
 thought of my husband. Why, I 
 count the days till he shall come 
 back to me. No, to us — to us, my 
 pet. How dare a naughty mammy 
 Bay ' to me,' as if me ' was half the 
 " portance of oo, a precious pets." 
 
 Dr. Philip was surprised into a 
 sigh. 
 
 " What is the matter, dear?" 
 _said Kosa very quickly. 
 
 " The matter'? " 
 
 "Yes, dear, the matter. You 
 sighed — you, the laughing philoso- 
 pher." 
 
 "Did I? " said he, to gain time. 
 " Perhaps I remembered the un- 
 certainty of human life, and of all 
 mortal hopes. The old will have 
 their thoughts, my dear. They 
 have seen so much trouble." 
 
 " But, uncle dear, he is a very 
 healthv child." 
 
 " Vejy." 
 
 " And you told me yourself care- 
 lessness was the cause so many chil- 
 dren die." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 She gave him a curious and rath- 
 er searching look ; then, leaning 
 over her boy, said, "Mammy's not 
 afraid. Beautiful Pet was not born 
 to die directly. He will never leave 
 his mamma. No, uncle, he never 
 can. For my life is bound in his 
 and his dear father's. It is a triple 
 cord : one go, go all." 
 
 She said this with a quiet resolu- 
 tion that chilled Uncle Philip. 
 
 At this moment the nurse, who 
 had been bending so pertinaciously 
 over some work that her eyes were 
 invisible, looked quickly Up, cast a 
 furtive glance at Mrs. Staines, and, 
 finding she was employed for the mo- 
 ment, made an agitated signal to 
 Dr. Thilip. All she did was to 
 clinch her two hands and lilt them 
 hall-way to her face, and then 
 cast a frightened look toward the 
 door; but Philip's senses were so 
 sharpened by constant alarm and 
 watching that he saw at once 
 something serious was the matter. 
 Hut, as be asked himself what he 
 should do in case of some sudden 
 alarm, he merely gave a nod of 
 intelligence to the nurse, scarcely 
 perceptible, then rose quietly from 
 Ids scat, and went to the window. 
 " Snow coming, I think," said he. 
 " For all that, WO shall have the 
 March summer in ten days. You 
 mark my words." He then went 
 leisurely out of the room. At the
 
 120 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 door he turned, and, with, alt the cun- 
 ning he was master of, said, "Oh ! 
 by the by, come to my room, nurse, 
 when you are at leisure." 
 
 " Yes, doctor/' said the nurse, 
 but never moved. She was too 
 bent on hiding the agitation she 
 really felt. 
 
 " Had you not better go to him, 
 nurse 1 " 
 
 " Perhaps I had, madam." 
 
 She rose with feigned iudifference, 
 and left the room. She walked 
 leisurely down the passage, then 
 casting a hasty glance behind her, 
 for fear Mrs. Staines should be 
 watching her, burst into the doctor's 
 room. They met at once in the 
 middle of the room ; and Mrs. Bris- 
 coe burst out, " Sir, it is known all 
 over the house ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! What is 
 known ? " 
 
 " What you would give the whole 
 world to keep from her. Why, 
 sir, the moment you cautioned me, 
 of course I saw there was trouble ; 
 but little I thought — sir, not a 
 servant in the kitchen or the stable 
 but knows that her husband — poor 
 thing ! poor thing ! Ah ! there goe3 
 the house-maid — to have a look at 
 her." 
 
 " Stop her ! " 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe had not waited for 
 this ; she rushed after the woman, 
 and told her Mrs. Staines was 
 sleeping, and the room must not 
 be entered on any account. 
 
 " Oh, very well ! " said the maid 
 rather sullenly. 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe saw her return to 
 the kitchen, and came back to Dr. 
 Staines : he was pacing the room in 
 torments of anxiety. 
 
 " Doctor," said she, " it is the 
 old story : ' Servants' friends, the 
 master's enemies.' An old servant 
 came here to gossip with her friend 
 the cook (she never could abide her 
 while they were together, by all 
 accounts), and told her the whole 
 story of his being drowned at sea," 
 
 Dr. Philip groaned. " Cursed 
 
 chatterbox ! " said he. " What is to 
 be done % Must we break it to her 
 now ? Oh, if I could only buy a 
 few days more ! The heart to be 
 crushed while the body is weakl 
 It is too cruel. Advise me, Mrs. 
 Briscoe. You are an experienced 
 woman, and I think you are a kind- 
 hearted woman." 
 
 " Well, sir, " said Mrs. Bris- 
 coe, "I had the name of it when 
 I was younger, before Briscoe 
 failed, and I took to nursing; 
 which nursing hardens, sir, by use, 
 and along of the patients them- 
 selves ; for sick folk are lumps 
 of selfishness : we see more of them 
 than you do, sir. But this I will 
 say, 'tisn't selfishness that lies now 
 in that room, waiting lor the blow 
 that will bring her to death's door, 
 I'm afraid, but a sweet, gentle, 
 thoughtful creature, as ever supped 
 sorrow : for I don't know how 'tis 
 doctor, nor why 'tis, but an angel 
 like that has always to sup sor- 
 row." 
 
 But you do not advise me," said 
 the doctor, in agitation, " and some- 
 thing must be done." 
 
 " Advise you, sir ! it is not for 
 me to do that. I am sure I'm at my 
 wits' end, poor thing! Well, sir, 
 I don't see what you can do but try 
 and break it to her. Better so than 
 let it come to her like a clap of thun- 
 der. But I think, sir, I'd have a 
 wet-nurse ready before I said much; 
 for she is very quick, and ten too 
 one but the first word of such a 
 thing turns her blood to gall. Sir, 
 I once knew a poor woman — she 
 was a carpenter's wife — a-nursing 
 her child, in the afternoon ; and 
 in runs a foolish woman, and tells 
 her he was killed dead, off a scaf- 
 fold. 'Twas the man's sister told 
 her. Well, sir, she was knocked 
 stupid like; and she sat staring, and 
 nursing of her child, before she 
 could take it in rightly. The child 
 was dead before supper-time, and 
 the woman was not long «fter. 
 The whole family was swept away ;
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 121 
 
 sir, in a few hours, and I mind the 
 table was not cleared he had dined 
 on when they came to lay them out. 
 Well-a-day, nurses see sorrow ! " 
 
 " We all see sorrow that live long, 
 Mrs. Briscoe. I am heart-broken 
 myself; I am desperate. You are 
 a good soul, and I'll tell you. 
 When my nephew married this poor 
 girl I was very anjjry with him, 
 and I soon found she was not fit 
 to be a struggling man's wife, and 
 then I was very an<sry with her. 
 She had spoiled a first-rate physi- 
 cian, I thought. But since I knew 
 her better it is all changed, she is 
 so lovable. How I shall ever tell 
 her this terrible thing, God knows. 
 All I know is, that 1 will not throw 
 a chance away. Her body shall be 
 stronger before I break her heart. 
 Cursed idiots, that could not save a 
 single man with their boats in a 
 calm sea ! Lord forgive me for 
 blaming people when I was not 
 there to see ! I say I will give 
 her every chance. She shall not 
 know it till she is stronger — no, 
 not if I live at her door, and sleep 
 there, and all. Good God ! inspire 
 me with something. There is al- 
 ways something to be done, if one 
 could but see it." 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe sighed and said, 
 " Sir, I think any thing is better 
 than for her to hear it from a ser- 
 vant ; and they are sure to blurt 
 it out. Young women are such 
 fools." 
 
 "No, no : I see what it is," said 
 Dr. Philip. " I have gone all wrong 
 from the first. I have l>een acting 
 like a woman, when I should have 
 acted like a man. Why, I only trust- 
 cil i/nu by halves. There was a fool 
 for you. Never trust people by 
 halves." 
 
 " That is true, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, now I shall go at it 
 like a man. I have a vile opinion 
 of servants, but no matter. I'll 
 try them : tiny are human, I sup- 
 pose. I'll hit them between the eyes 
 like a man. Go to the kitchen, 
 11 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe, and tell them I wish 
 to speak to all the servants, in-doors 
 or out." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 She stopped at the door, and said, 
 " I had better get back to her as 
 soon as I have told them." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And what shall I tell her, sir ? 
 Her first word will be to ask me 
 what you wanted me for. I saw 
 that in her eye. She was curious : 
 that is why she sent me after you so 
 quick." 
 
 Doctor Philip groaned. He felt 
 he was walking among pitfalls. 
 He rapidly flavored some distilled 
 water with orange-flower, then tint- 
 ed it a beautiful pink, and bottled it. 
 " There," said he : "I was mixing 
 a new medicine. Table-spoon four 
 times a day : had to filter it. Any 
 lie you like." 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe went to the kitchen 
 and gave her message, then went 
 to Mrs. Staines with the mixture. 
 Dr. Philip went down to the 
 kitchen, and spoke to the servants 
 very solemnly. He said, " My good 
 friends, I am come to ask your help 
 in a matter of life and death. There 
 is a poor young woman up stairs : 
 she is a widow, and does not know 
 it, and must not know it yet. If 
 the blow fell now, I think it would 
 kill her : indeed, if she hears it all 
 of a sudden at any time, that might 
 destroy her. We are in so sore a 
 strait that a feather may turn the 
 scale. So we must try all we can 
 to gain a little time, and then trust 
 to God's mercy after all. Well, 
 now what do you say ! Will you 
 help me keep it from her till the 
 tenth of March, say ? and then I 
 will break it to her by degrees. 
 Forget she is your mistress. Mas- 
 ter and servant, that is all very 
 well at a proper time ; but this is 
 the time to remember nothing but 
 that we are all one flesh and blond. 
 We lie down together in the church- 
 yard, and we hope to rise together 
 where there will be do master
 
 122 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 and servant. Think of the poor 
 unfortunate creature as your own 
 flush and blood, and tell me, will 
 you help me try and save her under 
 this terrible blow 1 " 
 
 " Ay, doctor, that we will," said 
 the footman. " Only you give us 
 our orders, and you will see." 
 
 " I have no right to give you 
 orders ; but I entreat you not to 
 show her, by word or look, that ca- 
 lamity is upon her. Alas ! it is only 
 a reprieve you can give to her and 
 to me. The hitter hour must come 
 when I must tell her she is a widow, 
 and her boy an orphan. When 
 that day comes, I will ask you all' 
 to pray for me that I may find 
 words. But now I ask you to give 
 me that ten days' reprieve. Let 
 the poor creature recover a little 
 strength before the thunder-bolt of 
 affliction falls on her head. Will 
 you promise me 1 " 
 
 They promised heartily ; and 
 more than one of the women began 
 to cry. 
 
 "A general assent will not sat- 
 isfy me," said Dr. Philip. " I want 
 every man and every woman to 
 give me a hand upon it; then I 
 shall feel sure of you." 
 
 The men gave him their hands 
 at once. The women wiped their 
 hands with their aprons, to make 
 sure they were clean, and gave 
 him their hands too. The cook 
 said, " If any one of us goes from 
 it, this kitchen will be too hot to 
 hold her." 
 
 " Nobody will go from it, cook," 
 said the doctor. " I'm not afraid 
 of that ; and now, since you have 
 promised me, out of your own 
 good hearts, I'll try and he even 
 with you. If she knows nothing 
 of it by the tenth of March, five 
 guineas to every man and woman 
 in this kitchen. You shall see, 
 that, if you can be kind, we can 
 be grateful." 
 
 He. then hurried away. He 
 found Mr. Lusignan in the draw- 
 ing-room, and told him all this. 
 
 Lusignan was fluttered, but grate- 
 ful. " Ah, my good friend," said 
 he, " this is a hard trial to two old 
 men like you and me." 
 
 " It is," said Philip. " It has 
 shown me my age. I declare I am 
 trembling, — I, whose nerves were 
 iron. Put I have a particular 
 contempt lor servants. Mercenary 
 wretches! I think Heaven inspired 
 me to talk to them. After all, 
 who knows 1 perhaps we might 
 find a way to their hearts, if we 
 did not eternally shock their vanity, 
 and forget that it is, and must be, 
 far greater than our own. The 
 women gave me their tears, and 
 the men were earnest. Not one 
 hand lay cold in mine. As for 
 your kitchen-maid, I'd trust my 
 "life to that girl What a grip she 
 gave me ! What strength ! What 
 fidelity was in it ! My hand was 
 never (/rasped before. I think we 
 are sale for a few days more." 
 
 Lusignan sighed. " What docs 
 it all come to? We are pulling 
 the trigger gently, that is all." 
 
 "No, no ; that is not it. Don't 
 let us confound the matter with 
 similes, please. Keep them for 
 children." 
 
 Mrs. Staines left her bed, and 
 would have left her room, but 
 Dr. Philip forbade her strictly. 
 
 One day, seated in her arm-chair, 
 she said to the nurse, before Dr. 
 Philip, " Nurse, why do the servants 
 look so curiously at me 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Briscoe cast a hasty glance 
 at Dr. Philip, and then said, " I 
 don't know, madam. I never 
 noticed that." 
 
 " Uncle, why did nurse look at 
 you before she answered such a 
 simple question 1 " 
 
 " I don't know. What ques- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " About the servants." 
 
 " Oh, about the servants ! " said 
 he contemptuously. 
 
 "You should not turn up your 
 nose at them, ibr they are all most
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 123 
 
 kind and attentive. Only I catch 
 tliem looking at me so strangely ; 
 really — as if they " — 
 
 " iiosa, you are taking me quite 
 out of my depth. The looks of 
 servant-girls ! Why, of course a 
 lady in your condition is an object 
 of especial interest to them. I dare 
 say they are saying to one another, 
 ' I wonder when my turn will come ? ' 
 A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous 
 kind ; that is a proverb, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " To be sure. I forgot that." 
 
 She said no more, but seemed 
 thoughtful, and not quite satisfied. 
 
 On this, Dr. Philip begged the 
 maids to go near her as little as 
 possible. " You are not aware of 
 it," said he ; " but your looks and 
 your manner of speaking rouse her 
 attention ; and she is quicker than 
 I thought she was, and observes 
 very subtlely." 
 
 This was done ; and then she 
 complained that nobody came near 
 her. She insisted on coming down 
 st.iirs : it was so dull. 
 
 Dr. Philip consented, if she would 
 be content to receive no visits for 
 a week " 
 
 She assented to that ; and now 
 passed some hours every day in the 
 drawing-room. In her morning 
 wrappers, so fresh and crisp, she 
 looked lovely, and increased in 
 health and strength every day. 
 
 Dr. Philip used to look at her, 
 and his very tlesh to creep at the 
 thought, that, ere long, he must 
 hurl tlii-i fair creature into the dust 
 of affliction ; must, with a word, 
 
 take tin- ruby from her lips, the 
 rose from her cheeks, the sparkle 
 from her glorious eyes, — eye., that 
 
 beamed on him with sweel affec- 
 tion, and a mouth that never opened 
 but to show some simplicity of the 
 mind or some pretty burst of the 
 sensitive heart. 
 
 He put off, and put off: and 
 at last cowardice began to whisper, 
 
 " Why tell her tie- whole truth at 
 all? Why not take her through 
 
 stages of doubt, alarm, and, after 
 all, leave a grain of hope till her 
 child gets so rooted in her heart 
 that" — But conscience and good 
 sense interrupted this temporary 
 thought, and made him see to what 
 a horrible life of suspense he should 
 condemn a human creature, and 
 live a perpetual lie, and be always 
 at the edge of some pitfall or 
 other. 
 
 One day, while he sat looking 
 at her, with all these thoughts, and 
 many more, coursing through his 
 mind, she looked up at him, and 
 surprised him. " Ah ! " said she 
 gravely. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " said she cun- 
 ningly. 
 
 " Uncle dear," said she pres- 
 ently, " when do we go to Heine 
 Bay" ? " 
 
 Now, Dr. Philip had given that 
 up. He had got the servants 
 at Kent Villa on his side, and 
 he felt safer here than in any 
 strange place ; so he said, "I don't 
 know: that all depends. There 
 is plenty of time." 
 
 " No, uncle, " said Posa gravely. 
 " I wish to leave this house. I 
 can hardly breath in it. " 
 
 " What ! your native air? " 
 
 " Mystery is not my native air, 
 and this house is full" of mystery. 
 Voices whisper at my door, and 
 the people don't come in. The 
 maids east strange glances at me, 
 and hurry away. I scolded that 
 pert girl, Jane, and she answered 
 me as mail as .Moses. I catch you 
 looking at me, with love, and 
 something r]^r. What is that some- 
 thing ! It is pity : that is what 
 it is. Do you think, because I am 
 called a simpleton, that I have no 
 
 eyes, nor ears, nor Bense ' What 
 
 is this secret which you are all 
 hiding from one person, and that 
 is me i Ah ! Christopher has not 
 written this five weeks. Tell me 
 the truth, for I will know it." and 
 
 tarted up in wild excitement
 
 121 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Then Dr. Philip saw the hour 
 was come. 
 
 He said, " My poor girl, you 
 have read us aright. I am anxious 
 about Christopher, and all the ser- 
 vants know it. " 
 
 "Anxious, and not tell me — 
 his wife — the woman whose life 
 is bound up in his ! " 
 
 "Was it for us to retard your 
 convalescence, and set you fretting, 
 and perhaps destroy your child ? 
 Rosa, my darling, think what a 
 treasure Heaven has sent you, to 
 love and care for." 
 
 " Yes, " said she, trembling, 
 " Heaven has been good to me ; 
 I hope Heaven will always be as 
 good to me. I don't deserve it ; 
 but I tell God so. I am very 
 grateful, and very penitent. I never 
 forget that if I had been a good 
 wile, my husband — five weeks is 
 a long time. Why do you tremble 
 so? Why are you so pale — a 
 strong man like you? Calamity! 
 calamity ! " 
 
 Dr. Philip hung his head. 
 She looked at him, started 
 wildly up, then sank back into 
 her chair. So the stricken deer 
 leaps, then falls. Yet even now 
 she put on a deceitful calm, and 
 said, " Tell me the truth. I have 
 a right to know." 
 
 He stammered out, " There is 
 a report of an accident at sea." 
 
 She kept silence. 
 " Of a passenger drowned — 
 ont of that ship. This, coupled 
 with his silence, fills our hearts 
 with fear." 
 
 " It is worse — you are breaking 
 it to me — you have gone too far 
 to stop. One word, is he alive ? 
 Oh, say he is alive ! " 
 
 Philip rang the bell hard, and 
 said, in a troubled voice, " Rosa, 
 think of your child." 
 
 "Not when my husband — is 
 he alive, or dead ? " 
 
 " It is hard to say, with such 
 
 a terrible report about, and no 
 letters, " faltered the old man, his 
 courage failing him. 
 
 "What are you afraid of? Do 
 you think I can't die, and go to 
 him ? Alive, or dead ? " and she 
 stood before him, raging and 
 quivering in every limb. 
 
 The nurse came in. 
 
 " Fetch her child," he cried. 
 " God have mercy on her ! " 
 
 " Ah, then, he is dead, " said 
 she, with stony calmness. " I drove 
 him to sea, and he is dead. " 
 
 The nurse rushed in, and held 
 the child to her. 
 
 She would not look at it. 
 
 " Dead ! " 
 
 " Yes, our poor Christie is gone; 
 but his child is here, the im- 
 age of him. Do not forget the 
 mother. Have pity on his child 
 and yours." 
 
 " Take it out of my sight ! " she 
 screamed. "Away with it, or I 
 shall murder it, as I have murdered 
 its father. My dear Christie, before 
 all that live ! I have killed him. 
 I shall die for him. I shall go 
 to him." She raved and tore her 
 hair. Servants rushed in. Rosa 
 was carried to her bed, screaming 
 and raving, and her black hair all 
 down on both sides, a piteous 
 sight. 
 
 Swoon followed swoon ; and that 
 very night, brain-fever set in with 
 all its sad accompaniments. A 
 poor bereaved creature, tossing 
 and moaning ; pale, anxious, but 
 resolute faces of the nurse and 
 the kitchen-maid watching ; on one 
 table a pail of ice, and on another, 
 alas ! the long, thick, raven hair of 
 our poor simpleton, lying on clean 
 silver paper. Dr. Philip had cut 
 it all off with his own hand; and 
 he was now folding it up, and 
 crying over it ; for he thought to 
 himself, " Perhaps in a few days 
 more, only this will be left of her 
 on earth."
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Staines fell head-foremost into 
 the sea with a heavy plunge. Be- 
 ing an excellent swimmer, he struck 
 out the moment he touched the 
 water ; and that arrested his dive, 
 and brought him up with a slant, 
 shocked and panting, drenched and 
 confused. The next moment he 
 saw, as through a fog — his eyes be- 
 ing full of water — something fall 
 from the ship. He breasted the big 
 waves, and swam toward it : it rose 
 on the top of a wave, and he saw it 
 was a life-buoy. Encumbered with 
 wet clothes, he seemed impotent in 
 the big waves ; they threw him up 
 so high, and down so low. 
 
 Almost exhausted, he got to the 
 lite-buoy, and clutched it with a 
 fierce grasp and a wild cry of delight. 
 Jle got it over his head, and, placing 
 his arms round the buoyant circle, 
 stood with his breast and head out 
 of water, gasping. 
 
 He now drew a long breath, and 
 got his wet hair out of his cya^, 
 already smarting with salt-water, 
 and, raising himself on the buoy, 
 looked out for help. 
 
 He saw, to his great concern, the 
 ship already at a distance. She 
 seemed to have flown ; and she was 
 still drifting fast away from him. 
 
 He saw no signs of help. His 
 beart began to turn as cold as his 
 drenched body. A horrible fear 
 crossed him. 
 
 Hut presently he saw the wcather- 
 boal filled, and fall into the water; 
 and then a wave rolled between him 
 and the ship, and he ouly saw her 
 topmast. 
 
 The next time he rose on a migh- 
 ty wave, he saw the boats together 
 astern of the vessel, but not coming 
 his way ; and the gloom was thick- 
 ening, the Bhip becoming indistinct, 
 
 and all was doubt anil horror. 
 
 A life of agony passed in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 He rose and fell like a cork on 
 11* 
 
 the buoyant waves, — rose and fell, 
 and saw nothing but the ship's lights, 
 now terribly distant. 
 
 But at last, as he rose and fell, 
 he caught a few fitful glimpses of a 
 smaller light rising and tailing like 
 himself. " A boat ! " he cried, and, 
 raising himself as high as he could, 
 shouted, cried, implored, for help. 
 He stretched his hands across the 
 water. " This way, this way ! " 
 
 The light kept moving ; but it 
 came no nearer. They had greatly 
 underrated the drift. The other boat 
 had no light. 
 
 Minutes passed of suspense, hope, 
 doubt, dismay, terror. Those min- 
 utes seemed hours. 
 
 In the agony of suspense the 
 quaking heart sent beads of sweat 
 to the brow, though the body was 
 immersed 
 
 And the gloom deepened, and the 
 cold waves flung him up to heaven 
 with their giant arms, and then 
 down again to hell ; and still that 
 light, his only hope, was several hun- 
 dred yai'ds from him. 
 
 Only for a moment at a time 
 could his eyeballs, straining with 
 agony, catch this will-o'-the-wisp, — 
 the boat's light. It groped the sea 
 up and down, but came no nearer. 
 
 When what seemed days of agony 
 had passed, suddenly a rocket rose 
 in the horizon : so it seemed to 
 him. 
 
 The lost man gave a shriek of 
 joy ; so prone arc we to interpret 
 things hopefully. 
 
 Misery ! The next time he saw 
 that little light, that solitary spark 
 of hope, it was not quite so near as 
 before. A mortal sickness fell on 
 his heart. The ship had recalled 
 the boats by rocket. 
 
 He shrieked, he cried, he screamed, 
 he raved, " O Rosa, Rosa ! for her 
 sake, men, men, do not have me. I 
 am here, here! " 
 
 In vain. The miserable man saw 
 the boat's little light retire, recede, 
 and melt into the ship's larger light J 
 and that light glided away.
 
 126 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Then a cold, deadly stupor fell on 
 him. Then Death's icy claw seized 
 his heart, and seemed to run from 
 it to every part of him. He was a 
 dead man. Only a question of 
 time. Nothing to gain by float- 
 ing. 
 
 But the despairing mind could 
 not quit the world in peace; and 
 even here in the cold, cruel sea the 
 quivering body clung to this frag- 
 ment of life, and winced at Death's 
 touch, though more merciful. 
 
 He despised this weakness; he 
 raged at it ; he could not overcome 
 it. 
 
 Unable to live or to die, condemn- 
 ed to float slowly, hour by hour, 
 down into Death's jaws. 
 
 To a long, death-like stupor suc- 
 ceeded frenzy. Fury seized this 
 great and long-suffering mind. It 
 rose against the cruelty and injustice 
 of his fate. He cursed the world, 
 whose stupidity had driven him to 
 sea ; he cursed remorseless nature ; 
 and at last he railed on the God 
 who made him, and made the cruel 
 water that was waiting for his body. 
 " God's justice ! God's mercy ! 
 God's power ! they arc all lies," he 
 shouted, " dreams, chimeras, like 
 him, the all-powerful and good, 
 men babble of by the fire. If there 
 was a God more powerful than the 
 sea, and only half as good as men 
 arc, he would pity my poor Rosa 
 and mc, and send a hurricane to 
 drive those caitiffs back to the 
 wretch they have abandoned. 
 Nature alone is mighty. Oh ! if I 
 could have her on my side, and onlv 
 God against me ! But she i ; as 
 deaf to prayer as he is, as mechan- 
 ical and remorseless. I am a bubble 
 melting into the sea. Soul I have 
 none : my body will soon be nothing, 
 nothing. 80 ends an honest, loving 
 life. I always tried to love my fel- 
 low-creatures. Curse them ! curse 
 them ! Curse the earth ! Curse 
 the sea ! Curse all nature ! there is 
 no other God for me to curse." 
 
 The moon came out. 
 
 He raised his head and staring 
 eyeballs, and cursed her. 
 
 The wind began to whistle, and 
 flung spray in his face. 
 
 He raised his fallen head and 
 staring eyeballs, and cursed the 
 wind. 
 
 While he was thus raving, he 
 became sensible of a black object to 
 windward. 
 
 It looked like a rail, and a man 
 leaning on it. 
 
 He stared ; he cleared the wet hair 
 from his eyes, and stared again. 
 
 The thing being larger than him- 
 self, and partly out of water, was 
 drifting to leeward faster than 
 himself. 
 
 He stared and trembled ; and at 
 last it came nearly abreast, black, 
 black. 
 
 He gave a loud cry, and tried to 
 swim toward it; but, encumbered 
 with his life-buoy, he made little 
 progress. The thing drifted abreast 
 of him but ten yards distant. 
 
 As they each rose high upon the 
 waves, he saw it plainly. 
 
 It was the very raft that had been 
 the innocent cause of his sad fate. 
 
 He shouted with hope, he swam, 
 he struggled ; he got near it, but not 
 to it ; it drifted past, and he lost his 
 chance of intercepting it. lie strug- 
 gled after it. The life-buoy would 
 not let him catch it. 
 
 Then he gave a cry of agony, 
 rage, despair, and flung off the life- 
 buoy, and risked all on this one 
 chance. 
 
 He gains a little on the raft. 
 
 He loses. 
 
 He gains. He cries, "Rosa, 
 Rosa ! " and struggles with all bis 
 soul, as well as his body : he gains. 
 
 But, when almost within reach, a 
 wave half drowus him, and he 
 loses. 
 
 He cries, " Rosa, Rosa ! " and 
 swims high and strong. " Rosa, 
 Rosa, Rosa ! " 
 
 He is near it. lie cries, "Rosa, 
 Rosa ! " ami, with all the energy of 
 love and life, flings himself almost
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 127 
 
 out of the water, and catches hold 
 ot the nearest thin;; on the raft. 
 
 It was the dead man's leg. 
 
 It seemed as if it would come away 
 in his grasp. He dared not try to 
 pull himself up by that. But he 
 held on by it, panting, exhausting, 
 faint. 
 
 This faintness terrified him. "Oh," 
 thought he, " if I faint now, all is 
 over." 
 
 Holding by that terrible and 
 strange support, he made a grasp, 
 and caught hold of the wood-work 
 at the bottom of the rail. He tried 
 to draw himself up. Impossible. 
 
 He was no better off than with 
 his life-buoy. 
 
 But in situations so dreadful men 
 think fast. He worked gradually 
 round the bottom of the raft by his 
 hands, till he got to leeward, still 
 holding ou. There he found a solid 
 block of wood at the edge of the 
 raft. lie pried himself carefully 
 up : the rait in that part then sank 
 a little. He got his knee upon the 
 timber of the raft, and, with a wild 
 cry, seized the nearest upright, and 
 threw both arms round it, and clung 
 tight. Then first he. found breath 
 to speak. "Thank God!" he 
 cried, kneeling on the timber, and 
 grasping the upright post, — "Oh, 
 
 THANK GOH, THANK OOD ! " 
 
 CHATTER, XV. 
 
 " Thank I led 1 '' why, according 
 to his theory, if should have 1 u 
 
 " Thank Nature." But I observe, 
 that, in sueli cases, even philosophers 
 
 are ungrateful to the, mistress they 
 worship. 
 
 I Mir philosopher not only thanked 
 God, but, being on bis knees, prayed 
 forgiveness for his late ravings, — 
 prayed hard, with one arm curled 
 round the upright, lest the sea, which 
 ever and anon rushed over the 
 bottom of the raft, should swallow 
 bun up in a moment. 
 
 Then he rose carefully, and 
 wedged himself into the corner of 
 the raft opposite to that other figure, 
 ominous relic of the wild voyage 
 the new-comer had entered upon. 
 He put both arms over the rail, and 
 stood erect. 
 
 The moon was now up ; but so 
 was the breeze. Fleecy clouds flew 
 with vast rapidity across her bright 
 face, and it was by fitful though 
 vivid glances Staines examined the 
 raft and his companion. 
 
 The raft was large, and well made 
 of timbers tied and nailed together ; 
 and a strong rail ran round it resting 
 on several uprights. There were 
 also some blocks of a very light wood 
 sen wed to the horizontal timbers; 
 and these made it float high. 
 
 But what arrested and fascinated 
 the man's gaze was his dead com- 
 panion, — sole survivor, doubtless, of 
 a horrible voyage ; since the raft was 
 not made for one, nor by one. 
 
 It was a skeleton, or nearly, 
 whose clothes the sea-birds had torn, 
 and pecked every limb in all the 
 fleshy parts : the rest of the body 
 had dried to dark leather on the 
 bones. The bead was little more 
 than an eyeless skull; but, in the 
 fitful moonlight, those huge hollow 
 caverns seemed gigantic lamp-like 
 eyes, and glared at him fiendishly, 
 appallingly. 
 
 lie sickened at the sight. He 
 tried not to look at it; but it would 
 be looked at, and threaten him in 
 the moonlight with great lack-lustre 
 eyes- 
 
 The wind whistled, and lashed his 
 face with spray torn off the big waves; 
 anil the water was nearly always up 
 to his knees ; and the raft tOBSed 60 
 wildly, it. was all he could do to hold 
 
 on in bis corner. In which struggle 
 
 still those monstrous lack-lustre eyes, 
 like lamps of death, glared at him ill 
 
 the moon, and all else dark, except 
 the fiery crests of the black mountain 
 billows, tumbling and raging all 
 around. 
 
 What a night!
 
 128 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 But before morning the breeze 
 sank, the moon set, and a sombre 
 quiet succeeded, with only that grim 
 figure in outline dimly visible. Ow- 
 ing to the motion still retained by the 
 waves, it seemed to nod and rear, and 
 be ever preparing to rush upon him. 
 
 The sun rose glorious on a lovely 
 scene ; the sky was a very mosaic of 
 colors sweet and vivid, and the tran- 
 quil, rippling sea, peach-colored to 
 the horizon, with lines of diamonds 
 where the myriad ripples broke into 
 smiles. 
 
 Staines was asleep, exhausted. 
 Soon the light awoke him, and he 
 looked up. What an incongruous 
 picture met his eye ! — that Heaven 
 of color all above and around, and 
 right before him, like a devil stuck 
 in mid-heaven, that grinning corpse, 
 whose fate foreshadowed his own. 
 
 But daylight is a great strength- 
 cner of the nerves. The figure no lon- 
 ger appalled him, a man who had 
 long learned to look with Science's 
 calm eye upon the dead. When the 
 sea became like glass, and from 
 peach-color deepened to rose, he 
 walked along the raft, and inspected 
 the dead man. He found it was a 
 man of color, but not a black. The 
 body was not kept, in its place, as 
 lie had supposed, merely by being 
 jammed into the angle caused by the 
 rail : it was also lashed to the corner 
 upright by a Ion;;, stout belt. 
 Staines concluded this had kept the 
 body there, and its companions had 
 been swept away. 
 
 This was not lost on him. He re- 
 moved the belt for his own use : he 
 then found it was not only a belt, but 
 a receptacle. It was nearly full of 
 small hard substances that felt like 
 stones. 
 
 When he had taken it off the body, 
 he felt a compunction. "Ought 
 he to rob the dead, and expose it to 
 be swept into the sea at the first 
 wave, like a dead dog ? " 
 
 He was about to replace the belt, 
 when a middle course occurred to 
 him. He was a man who always 
 
 carried certain useful little things 
 about him ; viz., needles, thread, scis- 
 sors, and string. He took a piece 
 of string, and easily secured this poor 
 light skeleton to the raft. The belt 
 he strapped to the rail, and kept for 
 his own need. 
 
 And now hunger gnawed him. 
 No food was near. There was noth- 
 ing but the lovely sea and sky, mo- 
 saic with color, and that grim, omi- 
 nous skeleton. 
 
 Hunger comes and goes many 
 times before it becomes insupporta- 
 ble. All that day and night, and 
 the next day, he suffered its pangs ; 
 and then it became torture, but the 
 thirst maddening. 
 
 Toward night fell a gentle rain. 
 He spread a handkerchief and caught 
 it. He sucked the handkerchief. 
 
 This revived him, and even al- 
 layed in some degree the pangs of 
 hunger. 
 
 Next day was cloudless. A hot 
 sun glared on his unprotected head, 
 and battered down his enfeebled 
 frame. 
 
 He resisted as well as he could. 
 He often dipped his head, and as 
 often the persistent sun, with cruel 
 glare, made it smoke again. 
 
 Next day the same ; but the 
 strength to meet it was waning. He 
 lay down and thought of Rosa, and 
 wept bitterly. He took the dead 
 man's belt, and lashed himself to the 
 upright. That act, and his tears for 
 his beloved, were almost his last acts 
 of perfect reason ; for next day came 
 the delusions and the dreams that 
 succeed when hunger ceases to tor- 
 ture, and the vital powers begin to 
 ebb. He lay and saw pleasant 
 meadows, with meandering streams, 
 and clusters of rich fruit that courted 
 the hand, and melted in the mouth. 
 
 Ever and anon they vanished, and 
 he saw grim Death looking clown 
 on him with those big cavernous 
 eyes. 
 
 By and by — whether his body's 
 eye saw the grim skeleton, or his 
 mind's eye the juicy fruits, green
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 129 
 
 meadows, and pearly brooks — all 
 was shadowy. 
 
 So in a placid calm, beneath a 
 lil ii" sky, the raft drifted dead, with 
 its dead freight, upon the glassy pur- 
 ple ; and he drifted, too, toward the 
 world unknown. 
 
 There carnc across the waters to 
 that dismal raft a thing none too 
 common by sea or land, — a good 
 man. 
 
 He was tall, stalwart, bronzed, and 
 had hair like snow, before his time ; 
 for he had known trouble. He com- 
 manded a merchant steamer bound 
 for Calcutta, on the old route. 
 
 The man at the mast-head de- 
 scried a floating wreck, and hailed 
 the deck accordingly. The captain 
 altered his course without one mo- 
 ment's hesitation, and brought up 
 alongside, lowered a boat, and 
 brought the dead and the breathing 
 man on board. 
 
 A young middy lifted Staines in 
 his arms from the wreck to the boat. 
 He whose person I described in 
 Chapter I. weighed now no more 
 than that. 
 
 Men are no* always rougher than 
 women. Their strength and nerve 
 enable them now and then to lie gen- 
 tler than butter-lingered angels, who 
 drop frail things through sensitive 
 agitation, and break them. These 
 rough men saw Staines was hover- 
 ing between life and death, and they 
 handled him like a thing the ebbing 
 life might be shaken out of in a mo- 
 ment. It was pretty to see howgin- 
 j:erly the sailors carried the sinking 
 man up the ladder; and one fetched 
 sw. ib~, and the others laid him down 
 softly on them at their captain's 
 
 leet. 
 
 " Well done, men ! " said ha 
 "Poor fellow! Pray Heaven we 
 may not have come too late. Now 
 stand aloof a bit. Scud the surgeon 
 all." 
 
 The surgeon came, and looked, 
 and fell tllO heart. He shook his 
 head, and called for brandy. He 
 
 had Staines's head raised, and got 
 half a spoonful of diluted brandy 
 down bis throat. But there was an 
 ominous gurgling. 
 
 After several such attempts at in- 
 tervals, he said plainly the man's life 
 could not be saved by ordinary 
 means. 
 
 " Then try extraordinary," said 
 the captain. " My orders are that 
 he is to be saved. There is life in 
 him. You have only got to keep it 
 there. He must be saved ; he shall be 
 saved." 
 
 '• I should like to try Dr. Staines's 
 remedv," said the surgeon. 
 
 " Try it, then : what is it ? " 
 
 " A bath of beef-tea. Dr. Staines 
 says he applied it to a starved child 
 — in the Lancet." 
 
 " Take a hundred-weight of beef, 
 and boil it in the coppers." 
 
 Thus encouraged, the surgeon 
 went to the cook, and very soon beef 
 was steaming on a scale and at a 
 rate unparalleled. 
 
 Meantime Capt. Dodd had the 
 patient taken to his own cabin ; and 
 he and his servant administered 
 weak brandy and water with great 
 caution and skill. 
 
 There was no perceptible result. 
 But, at all events, there was life and 
 vital instinct left, or he could not 
 have swallowed. 
 
 Thus they hovered about him for 
 some hours, and then the bath was 
 ready. 
 
 Tiic captain took charge of the 
 patient's clothes; the surgeon and 
 a sailor bathed him in lukewarm 
 beef-tea, and then covered him very 
 warm with blankets next the skin. 
 Guess hoW near a thing it seemed 
 to them when I tell you they dared 
 not rub him. 
 
 Just before sunset his pulse .became 
 perceptible. The surgeon adminis- 
 tered half a spoonful of egg-flip. 
 The patient swallowed it. 
 
 By and by he sighed. 
 
 " lie must not be left dav or 
 night," said tho captain. "I don't 
 know who or what he is ; but he is a
 
 130 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 man ; and I could not bear Iiim to 
 die now." 
 
 That night Capt. Dodd over- 
 hauled the patient's clothes, and 
 looked for marks on his linen. 
 There were none. 
 
 " Poor devil ! " said Capt. Dodd. 
 " He is a bachelor." 
 
 Capt. Dodd found his pocket- 
 book, with bank-notes £200. He 
 took the numbers, made a memoran- 
 dum of them, and locked the notes 
 up. 
 
 He lighted his lamp, examined the 
 belt, unripped it, and poured out the 
 contents on his table. 
 
 They were dazzling. A great many 
 large pieces of amethyst, and some 
 of white topaz and rock-crystal, a 
 large number of smaller stones, car- 
 buncles, chrysolites, and not a few 
 emeralds. Dodd looked at them 
 with pleasure, sparkling in the lamp- 
 light. 
 
 " What a lot ! " said he. " I won- 
 der what they are worth." He sent 
 lor the first mate, who, he knew, did 
 a little private business in pre- 
 cious stones. " Mastcrton," said lie, 
 "oblige me by counting these stones 
 with me, and valuing them." 
 
 Mr. Mastcrton stared, and his 
 mouth watered. However, he named 
 the various stones, and valued them. 
 He said there was only one stone, a 
 large emerald without a flaw, that 
 was worth a heavy sum by itself; 
 but the pearls, very fine; and, look- 
 ing at the great number, they must 
 be worth a thousand pounds. 
 
 Capt. Dodd then entered the 
 whole business carefully in the ship's 
 log. The living man he described 
 thus, "About five feet six in height, 
 ami about fifty years of age." Then 
 he described the notes and the stones 
 very exactly, and made Mastcrton, 
 the valuer, sign the log. 
 
 Staines took a good deal of egg- 
 flip that night, and next day ate solid 
 food ; but they questioned him in 
 vain. His reason was entirely in 
 abeyance : he had become an eater, 
 and" nothing else. Whenever they 
 
 gave him food, he showed a sort of 
 fawning animal gratitude. Other 
 sentiment he had none; nor did 
 words enter his mind any more than 
 a bird's. And, since it is not pleas- 
 ant to dwell on the wreck of a fine 
 understanding, I will only say that 
 they landed him at Cape Town, 
 out of bodily danger, but weak, and 
 his mind, to all appearance, a hope- 
 less blank. 
 
 They buried the skeleton, read the 
 service of the English Church over 
 a Malabar heathen. 
 
 Dodd took Staines to the hospital, 
 and left twenty pounds with the gov- 
 ernor of it to cure him. But he de- 
 posited Staines's money and jewels 
 with a friendly banker, and begged 
 that the principal cashier might see 
 the man, and be able to recognize 
 him should he apply for his own. 
 
 The cashier came and examined 
 him, and also the ruby ring on his 
 finger, — a parting gift from Rosa, — 
 and remarked this was a new way 
 of doing business. 
 
 " Why, it is the only one, sir," 
 said Dodd. " How can we give you 
 his signature 1 He is not in his 
 right mind." 
 
 " Nor never will be." 
 
 " Don't say that, sir. Let us 
 hope for the best, poor fellow." 
 
 Having made these provisions, 
 the worthy captain weighed anchor 
 with a warm heart and a good con- 
 science. Yet the image of the man 
 he had saved pursued him ; and ho 
 resolved to look after him next time 
 he should coal at Cape Town, home- 
 ward bound. 
 
 Staines recovered his strength in 
 about two months; but his mind 
 returned in fragments, and very 
 Slowly. For a long, long time he 
 remembered nothing that had pre- 
 ceded his great calamity. His mind 
 started afresh, aided only by certain 
 fixed habits ; for instance, he could 
 read and write. But, strange as it 
 may appear, he had no idea who he 
 was ; and, when his memory cleared
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 131 
 
 a little on that head, he thought his 
 surname was Christie; but he was 
 not sure. 
 
 Nevertheless, the presiding phy- 
 sician discovered in him a certain 
 progress of intelligence, which gave 
 him <rreat hopes. In the fifth month, 
 having shown a marked interest in 
 the other sick patients, coupled with 
 a disposition to he careful and atten- 
 tive, they made him a nurse, or 
 rather a sub-nurse under the specical 
 orders of a responsible nurse I really 
 believe it was done at first to avoid 
 the alternative of sending him adrift, 
 or transferring him to the insane 
 ward of the hospital. In this con- 
 genial pursuit he showed such watch- 
 fulness and skill that by and by they 
 found they had got a treasure. Two 
 months after that, he began to talk 
 about medicine, and astonished them 
 still more. He became the puzzle 
 of the establishment. The doctor 
 and surgeon would converse with 
 him, and try and lend him to his 
 past life ; but, when it came to that, 
 he used to put his hands to bis head, 
 with a face of great distress ; and it 
 was clear some impassable harrier 
 lay between his growing intelligence 
 and the past events of his life. In- 
 deed, on one occasion, he said to his 
 kind friend the doctor, " The past ! 
 — a black wall, a black wall!" 
 
 Ten months after his admission 
 he was promoted to be an attendant, 
 with a salary. 
 
 lie put by every shilling of it ; for 
 he said, "A voire from the dark past 
 tells me money is every thing in 
 this world." 
 
 A discussion was held by the 
 authorities as to whether he should 
 be informed he had money and jew- 
 el.-; at I he bank or not. 
 
 Upon the whole, it was thought 
 advisable to postpone this informa- 
 tion, lest he should throw it away. 
 But they told him he had been picked 
 up at sea, and both money and jew- 
 els found on him- they were in sate 
 bands; only the person was away 
 for the time. Si ill he was nut to 
 
 look upon himself as cither friend- 
 less or moneyless. 
 
 At this communication he showed 
 an almost childish delight, that con- 
 firmed the doctor in his opinion he 
 was acting prudently, and for the 
 real benefit of an amiable and af- 
 flicted person not yet to be trusted 
 with money and jewels. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Ix his quality of attendant on the 
 | sick, Staines sometimes conducted a 
 ; weak but convalescent patient into 
 the open air ; and he was always 
 I pleased to do this, for the air of the 
 Cape carries health and vigor on its 
 wings He had seen its line rccrea- 
 I tive properties; and he divined, some- 
 j how, that the minds of convalescents 
 j ought to be amused ; and so he often 
 begged the doctor to let him take a 
 ' convalescent abroad. Sooner than 
 ! not, he would draw the patient sev- 
 ! eral miles in a Bath chair. He 
 rather liked this ; for he was a Her- 
 cules, and had no egotism or false 
 pride where the sick were concerned. 
 Now. these open-air walks exerted 
 a beneficial intluence on his own 
 . darkened mind. It is one thing to 
 j struggle from idea to idea; it is an- 
 I other when material objects mingle 
 | with the retrospect, they seem to 
 I supply stepping-stones in the grad- 
 | ual resuscitation of memory and 
 j reason. 
 
 The ships going out of port were 
 ! such a stepping-stone to him ; and a 
 1 vague consciousness came back to 
 him of having been in a ship. 
 
 Unfortunately, along with this 
 reminiscence came a desire to go in 
 on.' again ; and this sowed discon- 
 tent in his mind ; and, tic more that 
 mind enlarged, the more he b 
 to dislike the hospital and its con- 
 : fincment. The reeling urew, and 
 bid" fair to disqualify him for his 
 humble office. The authorities could 
 I not fail lo heat' of this; and they
 
 132 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 hail a little discussion about parting 
 ■with him; but they hesitated to turn 
 him adrift, and they still doubted 
 the propriety of trusting him with 
 money and jewels. 
 
 While matters were in this state, 
 a remarkable event occurred. He 
 drew a siek patient down to the quay 
 one morning, and watched the busi- 
 ness of the port with the keenest in- 
 terest. A ship at anchor was un- 
 loading, and a great heavy boat was 
 sticking to her side like a black leech. 
 Presently this boat came away, and 
 moved sluggishly toward the shore, 
 rather by help of the tide than of the 
 two men, who went through the form 
 of propelling her with two monstrous 
 sweeps, while a third steered her. 
 She contained English goods : agri- 
 cultural implements, some cases, 
 four horses, and a buxom young 
 woman with a thorough English 
 face. The woman seemed a little 
 excited ; and, as she neared the land- 
 ing-place, she called out in jocund 
 tones to a young man on the shore, 
 " It is all right, Dick : they are beau- 
 tics." And she patted the beasts as 
 people do who are fond of them. 
 
 She stepped lightly ashore ; and 
 then came the slower work of land- 
 ing her imports. She bustled about 
 like a hen over her brood, and wasn't 
 always talking, but put in her word 
 every now and then, never crossly, 
 and always to the point. 
 
 Staines listened to her, and exam- 
 ined her with a sort of puzzled look ; 
 but she took no notice of him, her 
 whole soul was in the cattle. 
 
 They got the things on board well 
 enough ; but the horses were fright- 
 ened at the gangway, and jibbed. 
 Then a man was for driving them, 
 and poked one of them in the quar- 
 ter : he snorted and reared directly. 
 
 " Man alive ! " cried the young 
 woman, " that is not the way. They 
 are docile enough, but frightened. 
 Encourage 'em, and let 'em look at 
 it. Give 'em time. More haste, less 
 speed, with timorsome cattle." 
 
 " That is a very pleasant voice," 
 
 said poor Staines, rather more dic- 
 tatorially than became the present 
 state of his intellect. He added 
 softly, "A true woman's voiec;" 
 then, gloomily, " a voice of the past, 
 — the dark, dark past." 
 
 At this speech intruding itself 
 upon the short sentences of business, 
 ! there was a roar of laughter ; and 
 j Phccbe Falcon turned sharply round 
 to look at the speaker. She stared 
 J at him ; she cried " Oh ! " and clasped 
 i her hands, and colored all over. 
 ', " Why, sure," said she, "I can't be 
 I mistook. Those eyes — 'tis you, 
 ! doctor, isn't it?" 
 
 " Doctor ! " said Staines with a 
 ! puzzled look. " Yes : I think they 
 called mc doctor once. Pm an at- 
 tendant in the hospital now " 
 
 "Dick ! " cried Phoebe in no little 
 agitation "Come here this minute i" 
 
 " What, afore I get the horses 
 ashore ? " 
 
 " Ay, before you do another thing, 
 or say another word. Come here 
 now ! " So he came ; and she told 
 him to take a good look at the man. 
 "Now," said she, "who is that ? " 
 
 " Blest if I know," said he. 
 
 "What, not know the man that 
 saved your own life ! Dick ! 
 what arc your eyes worth ? " 
 
 This discourse brought the few 
 persons within hearing into one band 
 of excited starers. 
 
 Dick took a good look, and said, 
 " I'm blest if I don't, though. It is 
 the doctor that cut my throat." 
 
 This strange statement drew forth 
 quite a shout of ejaculations. 
 
 " Oh ! better breathe through a slit 
 than not at all," said Dick. " Saved 
 my life with that cut, he did — didn't 
 he Pheeb?" 
 
 " That he did, Dick ! Dear heart, 
 I hardly know whether I am in my 
 senses or not, seeing him a-looking 
 so blank. You try him." 
 
 Dick came forward. " Sure you 
 remember me, sir. Dick Dale. You 
 cut my throat, and saved my life." 
 
 " Cut your throat ! Why, that 
 would kill you."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 133 
 
 "Not the way you done it. Well, 
 sir, you ain't the man you was, that 
 is clear: but you was a good friend 
 to me ; and there's my hand." 
 
 " Thank you, Dick," said Staines, 
 and took his hand. "I don't remem- 
 ber you. Perhaps you are one of the 
 past. The past is a dead-wall to 
 me, — a dark dead-wall." And he 
 put his hands to his head with a 
 look of distress. 
 
 Everybody there now suspected 
 the truth ; and some pointed myste- 
 riously to their own heads. 
 
 Phoebe whispered an inquiry to 
 the sick person. 
 
 He said a little pettishly, "All I 
 know is, he is the kindest attendant 
 in the ward, and very attentive." 
 
 "Oh ! then he is in the public hos- 
 pital." 
 
 "Of course he is." 
 
 The invalid, with the selfishness 
 of his class, then begged Staines to 
 take him out of all this bustle down 
 to the beach. Staines complied at 
 once with the utmost meekness, and 
 said, "Good-by, old friends; forgive 
 me for not remembering you. It is 
 my great allliction that the past is 
 gone from me, — gone, gone." And 
 he went sadly away, drawing his 
 sick charge like a patient mule. 
 
 Phoebe Falcon looked after him, 
 and began to cry- 
 
 " Nay, nay, Phoebe,'* said Dick : 
 "don't ye take on about it." 
 
 "I wonder at you," sobbed Phoebe. 
 "Good peoples, I'm fonder of my 
 brother than he is of himself, it 
 seems; for I can't take it bo easy. 
 Well, the world is full of trouble. 
 Lei us do what we are here for. 
 But I slmll pray lor the poor soul 
 every night, that bis mind may be 
 given back to him." 
 
 So then Bhe bustled, and gave 
 herself to getting the cattle on shore, 
 and the things put on board her 
 wagon. 
 
 But, when this was done, she said 
 to her brother, " Diek, I did not 
 think any thing on earth could take 
 
 my heart off the cattle and the 
 
 12 
 
 things we have got from home ; but 
 I can't leave this without going, to 
 the hospital about our poor dear 
 doctor ; and it is late for making a 
 start, any way. And you mustn't 
 forget the newspapers for Reginald, 
 he is so fond of them; and you 
 must contrive to have one sent out 
 regular after this ; and I'll go to the 
 hospital." 
 
 She went, and saw the head doc- 
 tor, and told him he had got an at- 
 tendant there she had known in 
 England in a very different condi- 
 tion. And she had come to see if 
 there was any thing she could do for 
 him ; for she felt very grateful to 
 him, and grieved to see him so. 
 
 The doctor was pleased and sur- 
 prised, and put several questions. 
 
 Then she gave him a clear state- 
 ment of what he had done for Dick 
 in England. 
 
 " Well," said the doctor, " I be- 
 lieve it is the same man ; for, now 
 you tell me this — yes, one of the 
 nurses told me he knew more medi- 
 cine than she did. His name, if you 
 please." 
 
 " His name, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, his name. Of course you 
 know his name. Is it Christie ? " 
 
 " Doctor," said Phoebe, blushing, 
 " I don't know what you will think 
 of me; but I don't know his name. 
 Laws forgive me, I never had tbe 
 sense to ask it." 
 
 A shade of suspicion crossed the 
 doctor's face. 
 
 Phoebe saw it, and colored to the 
 temples. "O sir!" she cried pite- 
 ously, "don't go for to think I 
 have told you a lie ! Why should I ! 
 And indeed I am not of that son, 
 nor Dick neither. Sir, I'll bring him 
 to you, and he will say tbe same. 
 Well, we were all in terror and con- 
 fusion, and I met him accidentally in 
 the -treet. lb' was only a custom- 
 er till then, and paid ready money : 
 so that is how I never knew bis 
 name; but, if I hadn't been the 
 
 greatest fool in England, I should 
 
 have asked his wife."
 
 134 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 "What! he has a wife?" 
 
 " Ay, sir, the loveliest lady you 
 ever clapped eyes on, and he is 
 almost as handsome: has eyes in 
 his head like jewels ; 'twas by them 
 I knew him on the quay ; and I think 
 he knew my voice again, — said as 
 good as he had heard it in past 
 times." 
 
 " Did he ? Then we have got 
 him," cried the doctor energetically. 
 
 " La, sir." 
 
 " Yes : if he knows your voice, 
 you will he able, in time, to lead his 
 memory back : at least, I think so. 
 Do you live in Cape Town ? " 
 
 "Dear heart, no! I live at my 
 own farm, a hundred and eighty 
 miles from this." 
 
 " What a pity ! " 
 
 " Why, sir 1 " 
 
 " Well — hum ! " 
 
 " Oh ! if you think I could do the 
 poor doctor good by having him 
 with me, you have only to say the 
 word, and out he goes with Dick 
 and me to-morrow morning. We 
 should have started for home to- 
 night but for this." 
 
 " Are you in earnest, madam ? " 
 said the doctor, opening his eyes. 
 " Would you really encumber your- 
 self with a person whose reason is 
 in suspense, and may never return 1 " 
 
 " But that is not his fault, sir. 
 Why, if a dog had saved my broth- 
 er's life, I'd take it home, and keep 
 it all its days ; and this is a man, 
 and a worthy man. O sir ! when 
 I saw him brought down so, and 
 his beautiful eyes clouded like, my 
 very bosom yearned over the poor 
 soul. A kind act done in dear old 
 England — who could see the man 
 in trouble here, and not repay it, ay, 
 if it cost one's blood ? But, indeed, 
 he is strong and healthy, and hands 
 always scarce our way ; and the 
 odds are he will earn his meat one 
 way or t'other ; and, if he doesn't, 
 why, all the better for me: I shall 
 have the pleasure of serving him for 
 nought that once served mc for 
 neither money nor reward." 
 
 " You are a good woman," said 
 the doctor warmly. 
 
 " There's better, and there's 
 worse," said Phcebe quietly, and 
 even a little coldly. 
 
 "More of the latter," said the doc- 
 tor dryly. " Well, Mrs."— 
 
 " Falcon, sir." 
 
 " We shall hand him over to your 
 care ; but first, — just for form, — if 
 you are a married woman, we 
 shou'd like to sec Dick here : he is 
 your husband, I presume." 
 
 Phcebe laughed merrily. " Dick 
 is my brother ; and he can't be 
 spared to come here Dick ! he'd 
 say black was white if I told him to." 
 
 " Then let us see your husband 
 about it, — just for form." 
 
 " My husband is at the farm. I 
 could not venture so far away, and 
 not leave him in charge." If she 
 had said, " I will not bring him into 
 temptation," that would have been 
 nearer the truth. " Let that fly 
 stick on the wall, sir. What I do 
 my husband will approve." 
 
 " I see how it is. You rule the 
 roost." 
 
 Phoebe did not reply point-blank 
 to that : she merely said, " All my 
 chickens are happy, great and 
 small ; " and an expression of lofty, 
 womanly, innocent pride illumi- 
 nated her face, and made it superb 
 for a moment. 
 
 In short, it was settled that 
 Staines should accompany her next 
 morning to Dale's Kloof Farm, if 
 he chose. On inquiry, it appeared 
 that he had just returned to the hos- 
 pital with his patient. He was sent 
 for, and Phoebe asked him sweetly 
 if he would go with her to her house, 
 one hundred and eighty miles away, 
 and she would he kind to him. 
 
 "On the water?" 
 
 "Nay, by land; hut 'tis a fine 
 country, and you will see beautiful 
 deer, and things running across the 
 plains, and " — 
 
 " Shall I find the past again, the 
 past again 1 " 
 
 " Ay, poor soul, that wc shall,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 135 
 
 God willing. You and I, we will 
 hunt it together." 
 
 He looked at her, and gave her 
 his hand. " 1 will go with you. 
 Your lace belongs to the past, so 
 does your voice." 
 
 He then inquired, rather abruptly, 
 had she any children. She smiled. 
 
 " Ay, that I have, the loveliest 
 little boy you ever saw. When you 
 arc as you used to be, you will be 
 his doctor, won't you ? " 
 
 "Yes, 1 will nurse him, and you 
 will help me find the past." 
 
 Phbcee then begged Staines to he 
 ready to start at six in the morning. 
 She and 1 )ick would take him up on 
 their way. 
 
 While she was talking to him, the 
 doctor slipped out ; and, to tell the 
 truth, he went to consult with 
 another authority whether he should 
 take this opportunity of telling 
 Staines that he had money and 
 jewels at the bank. He himself was 
 half inclined to do so; but the other, 
 who had not seen Phoebe's face, 
 advised him to do nothing of the 
 kind. " They are always short of 
 money, these colonial farmers." said 
 he : '• she would get every shilling 
 out of him.'' 
 
 '■ Most would; but this is such an 
 honest face ! " 
 
 " Well ; but she is a mother, you 
 say." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, what mother could be just 
 to a lunatic with her own sweet 
 angel babes to provide for "? " 
 
 'That is true," said Dr. . 
 
 " Maternal love is apt to modify 
 the conscience." 
 
 " What I would do, I would take 
 her addn m, and make her promise 
 to write if h" gets well; and, if he 
 does get well, then write to him 
 and tell him all about it." 
 
 Dr. acted on this shrewd ad- 
 vice, and ordered a bundle to he 
 made up for the traveller out of the 
 hospital Btores: it contained a nice 
 light summer suit, and two changes 
 of iiucu. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Next morning Staines and Dick 
 Dale walked through the streets of 
 Cape Town side by side. Dick felt 
 the uneasiness of a sane man, not 
 familiar with the mentally afflicted, 
 who suddenly finds himself alone 
 with one. Insanity turns men o'ten- 
 est into sheep and hares ; but it docs 
 now and then make them wolves and 
 tigers ; and that has saddled the in- 
 sane in general with a character for 
 ferocity. Young Dale, then, cast 
 many a suspicious glance at his com- 
 rade as he took him along. These 
 glances were re-assuring. Christo- 
 pher's face had no longer the mobil- 
 ity, the expressive chane.es, that 
 mark the superior mind. His 
 countenance was monotonous; but 
 the one expression was engaging. 
 There was a sweet, patient, lamb- 
 like look, the glorious eye a little 
 troubled and perplexed, but wonder- 
 fully mild. Dick Dale looked and 
 looked : and his uneasiness vanished. 
 And the more he looked the more 
 did a certain wonder creep over him, 
 and make him scarce believe the 
 thing he knew : viz., that a learned 
 doctor had saved him from the jaws 
 of death by rare knowledge, saga- 
 city, courage, and skill combined, 
 and that mighty man of wisdom was 
 brought down to this lamb, and 
 would go north, south, east, or west, 
 witli sweet and perfect submission, 
 even as he, Die!; Dale, should ap- 
 point. With these reflections hon- 
 i ' Dick felt his eyes get a little 
 misty ; and to use those words of 
 Scripture, which nothing can sur- 
 pass or equal, Ins bowels yearned 
 over the man. 
 
 As for Christopher, he looked 
 straight forward, ami said not a 
 word till they chared the town ; but 
 when he saw the vast flowery vale, 
 an I the tar oil' violet hills, like Scot- 
 land glorified, he turned to Dick 
 with an ineffable expression of sweet- 
 ness and good-fellow.- hip, and .-aid,
 
 136 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 " Oh, beautiful ! We'll hunt the 
 past together." 
 
 " We — will — so," said Dick with 
 a sturdy, and indeed almost a stern 
 resolution. 
 
 Now, this he said, not that he 
 cared for the past, nor intended to 
 waste the present by going upon its 
 predecessor's trail ; but he had come 
 to a resolution — full three minutes 
 ago — to humor his companion to 
 the top of his bent, and say " Yes " 
 with hypocritical vigor to every 
 thing not directly and immediately 
 destructive to him and his. 
 
 The next moment they turned a 
 corner, and came upon the rest of 
 their party, hitherto hidden by the 
 apricot hedge and a turning in the 
 road. A biue-blaek Caffre with two 
 yellow Hottentot drivers, man and 
 boy, was harnessing, in the most 
 primitive mode, four horses on to 
 the six oxen attached to the wagon ; 
 and the horses were flattening their 
 cars, and otherwise resenting the 
 incongruity. Meantime a fourth 
 figure, a colossal young Caffre wo- 
 man, looked on superior with folded 
 arms like a sable Juno, looking 
 down with that absolute composure 
 upon the struggles of man and other 
 animals, which Lucretius and his 
 master Epicurus assigned to the 
 divine nature. Without jesting, the 
 grandeur, majesty, and repose of 
 this figure, were unsurpassable in 
 nature, and such as have vanished 
 from sculpture two thousand years 
 and more. 
 
 Dick Dale joined the group imme- 
 diately, and soon arranged the mat- 
 ter. Meantime Phoebe descended 
 from the wagon, and welcomed 
 Christopher very kindly, and asked 
 him if he would like to sit beside 
 her, or to walk. 
 
 He glanced into the wagon : it was 
 covered and curtained, and dark as 
 a cupboard. " I think," said he 
 timidly, " I shall see more of the 
 past out here." 
 
 " So you will, poor soul," said 
 Phcebe kiudly, " and better for your 
 
 health. But you must not go far 
 from the wagon, for I'm a fidget ; 
 and I have got the care of you now, 
 you know, for want of a better. 
 Come, Ucatella, you must ride with 
 me, and help me sort the things : 
 they are ail higgledy-piggledy." 
 So those two got into the wagon 
 through the back curtains. Then 
 the Calfre driver flourished his kam- 
 bok, or long whip, in the air, and 
 made it crack like a pistol, and the 
 horses reared, and the oxen started, 
 and slowly bored in between them, 
 for they whinnied and kicked, and 
 spread out like a fan all over the 
 road : but a flick or two from the ter- 
 rible kambok soon sent them bleed- 
 ing and trembling, and rubbing 
 shoulders, and the oxen mildly but 
 persistently gorging their recalci- 
 trating haunches, the intelligent 
 animals went ahead, and revenged 
 themselves by breaking the harness ; 
 but that goes for little in Cape 
 travel. 
 
 The body of the wagon was long 
 and low and >ery stout. The tilt 
 strong and tight made. The roof 
 inside, and most of the sides, lined 
 with green baize. Curtains of the 
 same to the little window and the 
 back. There was a sort of hold 
 literally built full of purchases, a 
 small fire-proof safe, huge blocks of 
 salt, saws, axes, pickaxes, adzes, 
 flails, tools innumerable, bales of 
 wool and linen stuff, hams, and two 
 hundred empty sacks strewn over 
 all. In large pigeon-holes fixed to 
 the sides were light goods, groceries, 
 collars, glaring cotton handkerchiefs 
 for Pha'be's aboriginal domestics, 
 since not every year did she go to 
 (/ape Town, — a twenty-days' jour- 
 ney by wagon : things dangled from 
 the very roof; but no hard goods 
 there, if you please, to batter one's 
 head in a spill. Outside were latticed 
 grooves with tent, tent-poles, and 
 rifles. Great pieces of cork and bags 
 of hay and corn hung dangling from 
 mighty hooks; the latter to feed 
 the cattle, should they be compelled
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 137 
 
 to camp out on some sterile spot in 
 the Veldt, and, methinks, to act as 
 buffers, should the whole concern 
 roll down a nullah, or little precipice, 
 — no very uncom non incident in the 
 blessed region they must pass to 
 reach Hale's Kloof. 
 
 Harness mended ; fresh start. 
 The Hottentots and Caffre vociferated 
 and yelled, and made the unearthly 
 row of a dozen wild beasts wran- 
 gling. The horses drew the bullocks, 
 they the Wagon : it crawled and 
 creaked, and its appendages wabbled 
 finely. 
 
 Slowly they creaked and wabbled 
 past apricot-hedges and detached 
 houses and huts, and got into an 
 open country without a tree, but here 
 and there a stunted camel-thorn. 
 The soil was arid, and grew little 
 foid for man or beast, yet, by a sin- 
 gular freak of nature, it put forth 
 abundantly things that, here at homo 
 we find it harder to raise than 
 homely grass and oats. The ground 
 was thickly clad with flowers of de- 
 lightful hues ; pyramids of snow or 
 rosecolor bordered the track; yel- 
 low and crimson stars bejewelled the 
 ground ; and a thousand bulbous 
 plants burst into all imaginable col- 
 or-, and spread a rainbow carpet to 
 the foot of the violet hills : and all 
 this glowed and gleamed and glit- 
 tered in a son shining with incredible 
 brightness and purity of light, but, 
 somehow, without giving a headache, 
 or making the air sultry. 
 
 Christoph -r fell to gathering flow- 
 ers, and interrogating the past by 
 means of them ; tor he had studied 
 botany. The past <x&\e him back 
 some pitiably vague ide is. II ■ slgh- 
 cd. " Never mind," said he to I Hck, 
 and tapped his forehead : it is here : 
 it is only locked up 
 
 "All right," Baid Dick : "nothing 
 is lost when you know where 'tis." 
 
 " This Is a beautiful country," 
 
 suggested Christopher. " It is all 
 flowers. It is like the garden of — 
 the garden of — Locked op." 
 
 "It is de— light— ful," replied 
 12* 
 
 the self-compelled optimist sturdily. 
 But here nature gave way. He 
 was obliged to relieve his agricultural 
 bile by getting into the cart, and com- 
 plaining to his sister. " 'Twill take 
 us all our time to cure him. He 
 have been bepraising this here soil, 
 which it is only fit to clean the wo- 
 men's kettles. 'Twouldn't feed three 
 larks to an acre, I know ; no, nor 
 half so many." 
 
 " Poor soul ! Mayhap the flow- 
 ers have took his eye. Sit here a 
 bit, Dick. I want to talk to you 
 about a many things." 
 
 While these two were conversing, 
 Ucatella, who was very fond of 
 Phoebe, but abhorred wagons, step- 
 ped out, and stalked by the side like 
 an ostrich, a camclopard, or a Tng- 
 lioni ; nor did the effort with which 
 she subdued her stride to the pace 
 of the procession appear: it was the 
 poetry of walking. Christopher ad- 
 mired it a moment ; but the noble 
 expanse tempted him, and he strode 
 forth like a giant, his lungs inflating 
 in the glorious air, and soon left I lie 
 wagon far behind. 
 
 The consequence was, that when 
 they came to a halt, ami Dick and 
 Phoebe got out to release and water 
 the cattle, there was Christopher's 
 figure retiring into space. 
 
 " Hanc rem a'gre tulit Phnbe," 
 as my old friend Livy would say. 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear ! If he strays 
 so far from us, he will be eaten up 
 at nightfall by jackals or lions or 
 something. One of you must go 
 after him." 
 
 " Me go, missy," said Ucatella 
 zealously, pleased with an excuse lor 
 stretching her magnificent limbs. 
 
 " Ay ; but mayhap he will not come 
 back with you : will he, Dick ! " 
 
 " That he will, like a lamb." 
 Dick wanted to look after the cattle. 
 
 " Yuke, my girl," said Phoebe, 
 "listen. lie lias been a good friend 
 of ours in trouble ; and now heis not 
 quite right hm . So be very kind to 
 him ; but be sure and bring him back, 
 or keep biui till wecoiuc."
 
 133 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " Me bring him back alive, certain 
 sure," said Ucatella, smiling from 
 ear to ear. She started with a sud- 
 den glide, like a boat taking the 
 water, and appeared almost to saun- 
 ter away, so easy was the motion ; 
 but, when you looked at the ground 
 she was covering, the stride, or glide, 
 or whatever it was, was amazing — 
 
 "She seemed in walking to devour the 
 way." 
 
 Christopher walked fast, but noth- 
 ing like this ; and as he stopped at 
 times to botanize, and gaze at the 
 violet hills, and interrogate the past, 
 she came up with him about rive 
 miles from the halting-place. 
 
 She laid her band quietly on his 
 shoulder, and said with a broad, ge- 
 nial smile and a musical chuckle, 
 " Ucatella come for you. Missy 
 want to speak you." 
 
 " Oh ! very well ;" and he turned 
 back with her directly ; but she took 
 him by the hand to make sure ; and 
 they marched hack peaceably, in 
 silence, and band in hand. But be 
 looked and looked at her ; and at last 
 he stopped dead short, and said a lit- 
 tle arrogantly, " Come ! I know 
 you. You are not locked up :" and 
 he inspected her point-blank. She 
 stood like an antique statue, and 
 faced the examination. " You are 
 ' the noble savage,' " said he, having 
 concluded his inspection. 
 
 " Nay," said she. " I be the house- 
 maid." 
 
 "The house-maid ! " 
 
 "Iss, the house-maid, Ucatella. 
 So come on." And she drew him 
 along, sore perplexed. 
 
 They met the cavalcade a mile 
 from the halting-place; and Phoebe 
 apologized a Utile to Christopher. 
 " 1 hope you'll excuse me, sir," said 
 she ; " hut I am just for all the world 
 like a hen with her chickens : if but 
 one strays, I'm all in a flutter till I 
 get him hack." 
 
 ".Madam," said Christopher, " I 
 am very unhappy at the way things 
 ure locked up. Please tell me truly, 
 
 is this 'the house-maid,' or the ' noble 
 savage 1 ' " 
 
 " Well, she is both, if you go to 
 that, and the best creature ever 
 breathed." 
 
 "Then she is the ' noble savage.' " 
 
 " Ay, so they call her, because she 
 is black." 
 
 "Then, thank Heaven!" said 
 Christopher, " the past is not all 
 locked up." 
 
 That afternoon they stopped at 
 an inn. But Dick slept in the cart. 
 At three in the morning they took 
 the road again, and creaked along 
 supernaturally loud under a purple 
 firmament studded with huge stars, 
 all bright as moons, that lit the way 
 quite clear, and showed black things 
 innumerable flitting to and fro: these 
 made Phoebe shudder, but were no 
 doubt harmless ; still Dick carried 
 his double rifle, and a revolver in his 
 belt. 
 
 They made a fine march in tho 
 cool, until some slight mists gath- 
 ered, and then they halted, and break- 
 fasted near a silvery kloof, and wa- 
 tered the cattle. While thus em- 
 ployed, suddenly a golden tinge 
 seemed to fall like a lash on the va- 
 pors of night ; they scudded away 
 directly, as jackals before the lion. 
 The stars paled ; and with one in- 
 credible bound the mighty sun leaped 
 into the horizon, and rose into the 
 sky. In a moment all the lesser 
 lamps of heaven were out, though 
 late so glorious ; and there was noth- 
 ing but one vast vaulted turquoise, 
 and a great flaming topaz mount- 
 ing with eternal ardor to its centre. 
 
 This did not escape Christopher. 
 " What is this ? " said he. " No twi- 
 light. The tropics!" He managed 
 to dig that word out of the past in a 
 moment. 
 
 At ten o'clock the sun was so hot 
 that they halted, and let the oxen 
 loose till sundown. Then they 
 began to climb the mountains. 
 
 The way was steep and rutrged ; 
 indeed, so rough in places, that tli3
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 139 
 
 cattle had to jump over the holes, and, 
 as the wagon could not jump so 
 cleverly, it jolted appallingly, and 
 many a scream issued forth. 
 
 Near the summit, when the poor 
 beasts were dead heat, they got into 
 clouds and storms ; and the wind 
 rushed howling at them through the 
 narrow pass with such fury, it flat- 
 tened the horses' ears, and bade fair 
 to sweep the whole cavalcade to the 
 plains below. 
 
 Christopher and Dick walked close 
 behind under the lee of the wagon. 
 Christopher said in Dick'sear, "D'ye 
 hear that 1 Time to reef topsails, 
 captain." 
 
 " It is time to do something," said 
 Dick. He took advantage of a jut- 
 ting rock, drew the wagon half behind 
 it and across the road, propped the 
 wheels with stones ; and they all 
 huddled to leeward, man and beast 
 indiscriminately , 
 
 " Ah ! " said Christopher approv- 
 ingly : "we are lying to, — a very 
 proper course." 
 
 They huddled and shivered three 
 hours ; and then the sun leaped into 
 the sky, and, lo ! a transformation 
 scene. The cold clouds were first 
 rosy fleeces, then golden ones, then 
 gold-dust, then gone: the rain was 
 big diamonds, then crystal sparks, 
 then -one : the rocks and the bushes 
 sparkled with gem-like drops, and 
 shone and smiled. 
 
 The shivering party bustled, and 
 toasted the potent luminary in hot 
 coffee ; for Phoebe's wagon had a 
 
 stove and chimney ; and then they 
 
 yoked their miscellaneous cattle 
 again, and breasted the hill. With 
 
 many a jinn|i and bump and jolt, 
 
 and scream from inside, they reached 
 the summit, and looked down on a 
 vast slope flowering but arid, — 
 a region i>f gaudy sterility. 
 
 The descent was more tremendous 
 than the ascent ; and Phoebe got out, 
 and told Christopher she would liev- 
 er cross the ocean twice than this 
 dreadful mountain once, 
 
 The Hottentot with the reins was 
 
 now bent like a bow all the. time, 
 keeping the cattle from flowing 
 diverse over precipices, and the Cafl're 
 with his kanibok was here and there 
 and everywhere, his whip flicking 
 like a lancet, and cracking like a 
 horse-pistol, and the pair vied like 
 Apollo and Pan, not which could 
 sing sweetest, but swear loudest. 
 Having the lofty hill for some hours 
 between them and the sun, they 
 bumped and jolted, and stuck in 
 mud holes, and flogged and swore 
 the cattle out of them again, till at 
 last they got to the bottom, where 
 ran a turbid kloof, or stream. It 
 was fordable ; but the recent rains 
 had licked away the slope : so the 
 existing hank was two feet above the 
 stream. Little recked the demon 
 drivers or the parched cattle : in they 
 plunged promiscuously, with a flop 
 like thunder, followed by an awful 
 splashing. The wagon stuck fast 
 in the mud, the horses tied them- 
 selves in a knot, and, rolled about 
 in the stream, and the oxen drank, 
 imperturbable. 
 
 " Oh the salt ! the salt ! " 
 screamed Phoebe; and the rocks re- 
 echoed her lamentations. 
 
 The wagon was inextricable, the 
 cattle done up, the savages lazy : so 
 they staid for several hours. Chris- 
 topher botaui/.ed, but not alone. 
 Phoebe drew Ucatella apart, and ex- 
 plained to her, that, when a man is a 
 little wrong in the head, it makes a. 
 child of him. " So," said she, " you 
 mu.-t think he is your child, and 
 never let him out of your sight." 
 
 "All right," said the sable Juno, 
 who spoke English ridiculously 
 
 well, and rapped out idioms, espe- 
 cially " Come on," and " All right." 
 About dusk what the drivers had 
 
 foreseen, though they had not the 
 sense to explain it, took place : the 
 
 kloof dwindled to a men' gutter, 
 and the wagon Btuck high .and dry. 
 Phoebe waved her handkerchief to 
 Ucatella Ucatella, who had dogged 
 Christopher about four hours with- 
 out a word, now took his hand,
 
 140 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 and said, "My child, missy wants 
 us ; come on ; " and so led him un- 
 resistingly. 
 
 The drivers, flogging like devils, 
 cursing like troopers, and yelling 
 like hyenas gone mad, tried to get 
 the wagon oft'; but it was last as a 
 rock. Then Dick and the Hotten- 
 tot put their shoulders to one wheel, 
 and tried to pry it up, while the 
 Caffre encouraged the cattle with his 
 thong. Observing this, Christopher 
 went in, with his sable custodian at 
 his heels, and heaved at the other 
 embedded wheel. The wagon was 
 lifted directly, so that the cattle 
 tugged it out, and they got clear. ( >n 
 examination, the salt had just es- 
 caped 
 
 Says Ucatella to Phcebe a little 
 ostentatiously, " My child is strong 
 and useful ; make little missy a 
 good slave." 
 
 "A slave ! Heaven forbid ! " said 
 Phoebe. " He'll be a father to us all, 
 once he gets his head back; and I 
 do think it is coming — but very 
 slow." 
 
 The next three days offered the 
 ordinary incidents of African travel, 
 but nothing that operated much on 
 Christopher's mind, which is the 
 true point of this narrative ; and, as 
 there are many admirable books of 
 African travel, it is the more proper 
 I should confine myself to what 
 may be called the relevant incidents 
 of the journey. 
 
 On the sixth day from Cape 
 Town they came up with a large 
 wagon stuck in a mudhole. There 
 was (juite a party of Boers, Hotten- 
 tots, Caftres, round it, armed with 
 whips, kamboks, and oaths, lashing 
 and cursing without intermission, 
 or any good effect ; and there were 
 the wretched beasts straining in 
 vain at their choking yokes, moan- 
 ing with anguish, trembling with 
 terror* their poor mild eyes dilated 
 with agony and fear; and often, 
 when the blows of the cruel kamboks 
 cut open their bleeding flesh, they 
 
 bellowed to Heaven their miserable 
 and vain protest against this devil's 
 work. 
 
 Then the past opened its stores, 
 and lent Christopher a word. 
 
 "Barbarians !" he roared, and 
 seized a gigantic Caffre by the throat, 
 just as his kambok descended for 
 the hundredth time. There was a 
 mighty struggle, as of two Titans ; 
 dust Mew round the combatants in 
 a cloud; a whirling of big bodies, 
 and down they both went with an 
 awful thud, the Saxon uppermost, 
 by Nature's law. 
 
 The Caffre s companions, amazed 
 at first, began to roll their eyes and 
 draw a knife or two ; but Dick ran • 
 forward, and said, " Don't hurt 
 him : he is wrong here.'" 
 
 This representation pacified them 
 more readily than one might have 
 expected. Dick added hastily, 
 "We'll get you out of the hole our 
 way, and cry quits." 
 
 The proposal was favorably re- 
 ceived ; and the next minute Chris- 
 topher and Ucatella at one wheel, 
 and Dick and the Hottentot at the 
 other, with no other help than two 
 pointed iron bars bought for their 
 shepherds, had effected what sixteen 
 oxen could not. To do this Dick 
 Dale had bared his arm to the 
 shoulder. It was a stalwart limb, 
 like his sister's ; and he now held 
 it out all swollen and corded, and 
 slapped it with his other hand. 
 " Look'ee here, you chaps," said 
 he. " The worst use a man can put 
 that there to is to go cutting out a 
 poor beast's heart for not doing 
 more than he can. You are good 
 fellows, you Caffres ; but I think you 
 have sworn never to put your 
 shoulder to a wheel. But, bless 
 your poor silly hearts ! a little 
 strength put on at the right place is 
 better than a deal at the wrong." 
 
 " You hear that, you Caffre 
 chaps ? " inquired Ucatella a little 
 arrogantly — tor a Caffre. 
 
 The CatTres, who bad stood quite 
 silent to imbibe these remarks,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 141 
 
 bowed their heads with all the I 
 dignity and politeness of Roman 
 senators, Spanish grandees, &c. ; and 
 one of the said party replied gravely, 
 " The words of the white man are 
 always wise." 
 
 " And his arm blanked ' strong," 
 said Christopher's late opponent, 
 from whose mind, however, all re- 
 sentment had vanished. 
 
 Thus spake the Cafl'res, yet to this 
 day never hath a man of all their 
 tribe put his shoulder to a wheel, so 
 strong is custom in South Africa, 
 probably in all Africa ; since I re- 
 mem ber St. Auyustin found it 
 stronger than he liked at Carthage. 
 
 Ueatella went to Phoebe, and 
 said, "Missy, my child is good and 
 brave." 
 
 " Bother you and your child ! " 
 said poor Phoebe. " To think of his 
 flying at a giant like that, and you 
 letting of him. I m all of a tremble 
 from head to foot;" and Phoebe 
 relieved herself with a cry. 
 
 " Oh, missy !" said Ueatella. 
 
 " There, never mind me. Do go 
 and look after your child, and keep 
 him out of more mischief. I wish 
 we were safe at Dale's Kloof, I do." 
 
 Ueatella complied, and went bot- 
 anizing with Dr. Staines; bat that 
 gentleman, in the course of his 
 scientific researches into camomile 
 flowers and blasted Death, which 
 were all that lovely region afforded, 
 
 suddenly succumbed, and stretched 
 out his limbs, and said sleepily, 
 "Good-night, I — cat" — and was 
 off into the land of Nod. 
 
 The wagon, which, by the way, 
 had passed the larger but slower 
 vehicle, found him fast asleep, and 
 Ueatella st. Hiding by him, :is or- 
 dered, motionless and' grand! 
 
 "Oh. dear! what now!" said 
 
 l'luiiie; bat being a sensible woman, 
 
 though in the ben and chickens line, 
 she said, " ' Tis the fighting and the 
 
 excitement. ' I'will do bim more 
 good than harm, I think ; " and she 
 
 ' I take this very naeful expn 
 from a delightful veluuic by Mr. Boyle. 
 
 had him bestowed in the wagon, and 
 never disturbed him night nor day. 
 He slept thirty-six hours at a 
 stretch; and, when he awoke, she 
 noticed a slight change in his eye. 
 lie looked at her with an interest 
 he had not shown before, and said, 
 " Madam, I know you." 
 
 "Thank Cod for that!" said 
 Phccbe. 
 
 " You kept a little shop in the 
 other world." 
 
 Pheebe opened her eyes with some 
 little alarm. 
 
 " You understand — the world 
 that is locked up — for the present." 
 
 "Well, sir, so I did, and sold you 
 milk and butter. Don't you mind I " 
 
 "No — the milk and butter — 
 they are locked up." 
 
 The country became wilder, the 
 signs of life miserably sparse ; about 
 every twenty miles the farm-house 
 or hut of a degenerate Boer, whose 
 children and slaves pigged together, 
 and all ran jostling, and the mistress 
 screamed in her shrill Dutch, and 
 the Hottentots all chirped together, 
 and confusion reigned for want of 
 method : often they went miles, and 
 saw nothing but a hut or two, with 
 a nude Hottentot eating flesh burned 
 a little, but not cooked, at the 
 door; and the kloofs became deeper 
 and more turbid ; and Phoebe was in 
 agony about her salt ; and Christo- 
 pher "advised her to break it in big 
 lumps, and hang it all about the 
 Wagon in sacks; and she did, and 
 
 Hoatella said profoundly, "My 
 
 child is wise;" and they Regan to 
 draw near home, and Phoebe to 
 fidget ; and she said to Christopher, 
 
 " < )h, dear ! I hope they are all alive 
 and well :once you leave home, you 
 dott't know what may have hap- 
 pened by then you come back. One 
 
 Comfort, I've gOl Sophy : she is very 
 dependable, and no beauty, thank 
 my stars I " 
 
 'That night, the last they had to 
 travel, was cloudy for a wonder, 
 and they groped with lanterns. 
 I Vatella aud her child brought
 
 142 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 up the rear. Presently there was a 
 light pattering- behind them. The 
 swift-cared Ucatella clutched Chris- 
 topher's arm, and, turning round, 
 pointed back, with eyeballs white 
 and rolling. There were full a 
 dozen animals following them, 
 whose bodies seemed colorless as 
 shadows, but their eyes little balls of 
 flaming lime-light. 
 
 " Gun ! " said Christie, and gave 
 the Caflre's arm a pinch. She 
 flew to the caravan : he walked 
 backward, facing the foe. The 
 wagon was halted; and Dick ran 
 back with two loaded rifles. In his 
 haste he gave one to Christopher, 
 and repented at leisure ; but 
 Christopher took it, and handled it 
 like an experienced person, and 
 said with delight, " Volunteer" 
 But with this the cautious animals 
 had vanished like bubbles. But 
 Dick told Christopher they would 
 be sure to come back. He ordered 
 Ucatella into the wagon, and told 
 her to warn Phcebe not to be fright- 
 ened if guns should be fired. This 
 soothing message brought Phoebe's 
 white face out between the curtains ; 
 and she implored them to get into 
 the wagon, and not tempt Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 " Not till I have got thee a kaross 
 of jackal's fur." 
 
 " I'll never wear it ! " said Phoebe 
 violently, to divert him from his 
 purpose. 
 
 " Time will show," said Dick 
 dryly. " These varmint are on and 
 oil' like shadows, and as cunning as 
 old Nick. We two will walk on 
 quite unconcerned like; and, as soon 
 as ever the varmint are at our heels, 
 you give us the office ; and we'll 
 pepper their fur, won't we, doctor?" 
 
 " We — will — pepper — their 
 fur," said Christopher, repeating 
 what to him was a lesson in the 
 ancient and venerable English 
 tongue. 
 
 So they walked on expectant ; 
 and by and by the four-footed shad- 
 ows with large lime-light eyes came 
 
 stealing on ; and Phoebe shrieked, 
 and they vanished before the men 
 could draw a bead on them. 
 
 "Thou's no use at this work, 
 Pheeb," said Dick. " Shut thy 
 eyes, and let us have Yuke." 
 
 " Iss, master : here I be." 
 
 " You can bleat like a lamb ; for 
 I've heard ye." 
 
 " Iss, master. I bleats beauti- 
 ful ;" and she showed snowy teeth 
 from ear to ear. 
 
 "Weil, then, when the varmint 
 are at our heels, draw in thy woolly 
 head, and bleat like a young lamb. 
 They won't turn from that, I know, 
 the vagabonds." 
 
 Matters being thus prepared, they 
 sauntered on; but the jackals were 
 very wary. They came like shad- 
 ows, so departed, — a great many 
 times ; but at last, being re-enforced, 
 they lessened the distance, and got 
 so close that Ucatella withdrew her 
 head, and bleated faintly inside the 
 wagon. The men turned, levelling 
 their rifles, and found the troop 
 within twenty yards of them. They 
 wheeled directly ; but the four bar- 
 rels poured their flame, four loud 
 reports startled the night, and one 
 jackal lay dead as a stone, another 
 limped behind the flying crowd, and 
 one lay kicking. He was soon des- 
 patched, and both carcasses flung 
 over the patient oxen ; and good-by, 
 jackals, for the rest of that journey. 
 
 Ucatella, with all a Caffre's love 
 of lire-arms, clapped her hands with 
 delight. " My child shoots loud 
 and strong," said she. 
 
 " Ay, ay," replied Phoebe : 
 " they are all alike. Wherever 
 there's men, look for quarrelling and 
 firing off. We had only to sit quiet 
 in the wagon." 
 
 " Ay," said Dick, " the cattle es- 
 pecially, — for it is them the varmint 
 were after, — and let 'em eat my 
 Hottentots." 
 
 At this picture of the cattle inside 
 the wagon, and the jackals supping 
 on cold Hottentot alongside, Plue- 
 be, who had no more humor than a
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 u: 
 
 cat, but a heart of gold, shut up, 
 and turned red with confusion at 
 her false estimate of the recent 
 transaction in fur. 
 
 When the sun rose, they found 
 themselves in a tract somewhat less 
 arid and inhuman ; and at last, at 
 the rise of a gentle slope, they saw, 
 half a mile before them, a large 
 farmhouse partly clad with creepers, 
 and a little plot of turf, the fruit 
 of eternal watering ; item, a flower 
 bed ; item, snow-white palings ; 
 item, an air of cleanliness and neat- 
 ness scarcely known to those dirty 
 descendants of clean ancestors, the 
 Boers. At some distance a very 
 large dam glittered in the sun, and 
 a troop of snow-white sheep were 
 watering at it. 
 
 "England ! " cried Christopher. 
 
 " Ay, sir," said Phoebe ; " as 
 ni<_'h as man can make it." But 
 soon she began to fret. " Oh, dear ! 
 where are they all 1 If it was me, 
 I'd he at the door looking out. Ah, 
 there goes Yuke to rouse them up." 
 
 " Come, Pheeb, don't von fidget," 
 said Dick kindly. " Why, the lazy 
 lot are scarce out of their beds by 
 this time." 
 
 "More shame for 'em ! If they 
 were away from me, and coming 
 home, I should be at the door day 
 and night, I know. Ah ! " 
 
 She uttered a scream of delight; 
 forjust then out came (Jcatella, with 
 little Tommy <>n her shoulder, and 
 danced along to meet her. As she 
 cam'' close, she raised the chubby 
 child high in the air, ami he crowed ; 
 and then she lowered him to his 
 mother, who rushed at him, seized 
 and devoured him with a hundred 
 inarticulate cries of joy and love 
 unspeakable. 
 
 "Natdhb!" said Christopher 
 
 dogmatically, recognizing an old 
 acquaintance, and booking it as one 
 more conquest gained over the past. 
 But there was too much excitement 
 
 Over tin' cherub to attend to him. 
 
 So he watched the women gravely, 
 
 and begnn to moralize with all his 
 
 might. " This," said he, " is what 
 we used to call maternal love ; and 
 all animals had it, and that is why 
 the noble savage went for him. It 
 was very good of you, Miss Savage," 
 said the poor soul sententiously. 
 
 " Good of her ! " cried Phoebe. 
 " She is all goodness. Savage ! 
 Find me a Dutchwoman like her. 
 I'll give her a good cuddle for it." 
 And she took the Caffre round the 
 neck, and gave her a hearty kiss, 
 and made the little boy kiss her too. 
 
 At this moment out came a colly- 
 dog, hunting Ucatella by scent 
 alone, which process landed him 
 headlong in the group. He gave 
 loud barks of recognition, fawned 
 on Phoebe and Dick, smelled poor 
 Christopher, gave a growl of suspi- 
 cion, and lurked about, squinting, 
 dissatisfied, and lowering his tail. 
 
 " Thou art wrong, lad, for once," 
 said Dick ; " for he's an old friend, 
 atid a good one." 
 
 " After the clog, perhaps some 
 Christian will come to welcome us," 
 said poor Phoebe. 
 
 Obedient to the wish, out walked 
 Sophy, the English nurse, a scraggy 
 woman, with a very cocked nose 
 and thin pinched lips, and an air of 
 respectability and pertness mingled. 
 She dropped a short courtesy, shot 
 the glance of a basilisk at Ucatella, 
 and said stiffly, " You arc welcome 
 home, ma'am." Then she took 
 the little boy as one having author- 
 ity. Not that Phoebe would have 
 surrendered him, but jusf then Mr. 
 Falcon strolled out with a cigar in 
 his mouth ; and Phoebe, with her 
 heart in her mouth, Hew to meet him. 
 There was a rapturous conjugal 
 
 embrace, followed by mutual inqui- 
 ries, and the wagon drew up at the 
 door. Then, for the first time, Fal- 
 con observed Staines, saw at once 
 he was a gentleman, and touched 
 
 his hat to him, to which Chris tO- 
 
 pher responded in kind, and remem- 
 bered he had done so in the locked- 
 up past. 
 
 Phojhe instantly drew her bus-
 
 144 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 band apart by the sleeve. " Who 
 do you think that is 1 You'll never 
 guess. 'Tis the great doctor that 
 saved Dick's life in England with 
 cutting of his throat. But oh, my 
 dear, he is not the man he was. He 
 is afflicted. Out of his mind partly. 
 Well, we must cure him, and squire 
 the account for Dick. I'm a proud 
 woman at finding him, and bringing 
 him here to make him all right 
 again, I can tell you. Oh ! I am 
 happy, I am happy. Little did I 
 think to be so happy as I am. And, 
 my dear, I have brought you a 
 whole sackful of newspapers old 
 and new." 
 
 " That is a good girl. But tell 
 me a little more about him. What 
 is his name ? " 
 
 " Christie." 
 
 "Dr. Christie?" 
 
 " No doubt. He wasn't an apoth- 
 ecary or a chemist, you may be sure, 
 but a high doctor, and the cleverest 
 ever was or ever will be. And isn't 
 it sad, love, to see him brought down 
 so ? My heart yearns for the poor 
 man : and then his wife — the sweet- 
 est, loveliest creature you ever — 
 oh ! " 
 
 Phcebe stopped very short, for 
 she remembered something all of a 
 sudden ; nor did she ever again give 
 Falcon a chance of knowing that 
 the woman whose presence had so 
 disturbed hiin was this very Dr. 
 Christie's wife. " Curious ! " thought 
 she to herself, " the world to be so 
 large, and yet so small." Then 
 aloud, " They are unpacking the 
 wagon ; come, dear. 1 don't think 
 I have forgotten any thing of yours. 
 There's cigars and tobacco, and 
 powder and shot and bullets, and 
 every thing to make you comforta- 
 ble, as my duty 'tis ; and — oh, but 
 I'm a happy woman ! " 
 
 Hottentots big and little clus- 
 tered about the wagon. Treasure 
 after treasure was delivered with 
 cries of delight. The dogs found out 
 it was a .joyful time, and barked 
 about the wheeled treasury ; and the 
 
 place did not quiet down till sun- 
 set. 
 
 A plain but tidy little room was 
 given to Christopher ; and he slept 
 there like a top. Next morning his 
 nurse called him up to help her water 
 the grass. She led the way with a tub 
 on her head, and two buckets in it. 
 She took him to the dam : when she 
 got there, she took out the buckets, 
 left one on the bank, and gave the 
 other to Christie. She then went 
 down the steps till the water was up 
 to her neck, and bade Christie fill 
 the tub. He poured eight bucket- 
 fuls in. Then she came slowly out, 
 straight as an arrow, balancing this 
 tub full on her head. Then she 
 held out her hands for the two buck- 
 ets. Christie tilled them, wonder- 
 ing, and gave them to her. She 
 took them like toy buckets, and 
 glided slowly home with this enor- 
 mous weight, and never spilled a 
 drop. Indeed, the walk was more 
 smooth and noble than ever, if possi- 
 ble. 
 
 When she reached the house, she 
 hailed a Hottentot ; and it cost the 
 man and Christopher a great effort 
 of strength to lower her tub between 
 them. 
 
 " What a vertebral column you 
 must have ! " said Christopher. 
 
 " You must not speak bad words, 
 my child," said she. " Now you 
 water the grass and the flowers." 
 She gave him a watering-pot, and 
 watched him maternally, but did 
 not put a band to it. She evident- 
 ly considered this part of the busi- 
 ness as child's play, and not a fit 
 exercise of her powers. 
 
 It was only by drowning that 
 little oasis twice a day, that the grass 
 was kept green and the flowers alive. 
 
 She found him other jobs in course 
 of the day ; and, indeed, he was al- 
 ways helping somebody or other, 
 and became quite ruddy, bronzed, 
 and plump of cheek, and wore a 
 strange look of happiness, except at 
 times when he got apart, and tried 
 to recall the distant past. Then he
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 145 
 
 would knit his brow, and look per- 
 plexed and sad. 
 
 They were getting quite used to 
 him, and he to them, when one day 
 he did not eome in to dinner. Phoe- 
 be sent out tor him ; but they could 
 not rind him. 
 
 The sun set. Phoebe became 
 greatly alarmed ; and even Dick was 
 anxious. 
 
 They all turned out with guns 
 and dogs, and hunted for him be- 
 neath the stars. 
 
 Just before daybreak, Dick Dale 
 saw a fire sparkle by the side of a 
 distant thicket. He went to it; and 
 there was Ucatella seated, calm and 
 grand as antique statue, and Chris- 
 topher lying by her side with a 
 shawl thrown over him. As Dale 
 came hurriedly up, she put her finder 
 to her lips, and said, " My child 
 sleeps. Do not wake him. "When 
 he sleeps, he hunts the past, as 
 Colly hunts the springbok. 
 
 " Here's a go ! " said Dick. Then, 
 hearing a chuckle, he looked up, and 
 was aware of a comical appendage 
 to the scene. There hung, head 
 downward, from a branch, a Caffre 
 boy, who was in fact the brother of 
 the stately Ucatella, only went far- 
 ther inio antiquity for his models of 
 deportment; for, as she imitated the 
 antique marbles, he reproduced the 
 habits of that epoch when man 
 roosted, and was arboreal. Wheel 
 somersaults, and, above all, swing- 
 ing head downward from a branch, 
 were the sweetness of his existence. 
 
 " Oli ! you are there, are you 1 " 
 said Dick. 
 
 " las," said Ucatella. " Tim 
 good boy. Tim found my child." 
 
 •' Well/' said Dick, " he has cho- 
 sen a nice place. This is the clump 
 the last lion came out of: at least 
 they say so. For my part, I never 
 saw an African lion. Falcon says 
 they've all took ship, and gone 
 
 to England. However, 1 shall stay 
 here with my rifle till daybreak 
 'Tis tempting Providence to lie 
 
 down ou the skirt of the wood for 
 13 
 
 Lord knows what to jump out on 
 ye unawares." 
 
 Tim was sent home for Hottentots ; 
 and Christopher was carried home, 
 still sleeping, and laid on his own 
 bed. 
 
 He slept twenty-four hours more ; 
 and, when he was fairly awake, a 
 sort of mist seemed to clear away in 
 places, and he remembered things at 
 random. He remembered being at 
 sea on the raft with the dead body : 
 that picture was quite vivid to him. 
 He remembered, too, being in the 
 hospital, and meeting Phoebe, and 
 every succeeding incident ; but, as 
 respected the more distant past, he 
 could not recall it by any effort of his 
 will. His mind could only go into 
 that remoter past by material step- 
 ping-stones ; and what stepping- 
 stones he had about him here led 
 him back to general knowledge, 
 but not to his private history. 
 
 In this condition he puzzled them 
 all strangely at the farm : his mind 
 was alternately so clear, and so ob- 
 scure. He would chat with Phoebe, 
 and sometimes give her a good prac- 
 tical hint, but the next moment 
 helpless for want of memory, — that 
 great (acuity without which judg- 
 ment cannot act, having no mate- 
 rial. 
 
 After some days of this he had 
 another great sleep. It brought him 
 back the distant past in chapters, 
 — his wedding-day, bis wife's face 
 and dress upon that day, his part- 
 ing with her, his whole voyage out ; 
 but, strange to say, it swept away 
 one-half of that which he had recov- 
 ered at his last sleep, and he no 
 longer remembered clearly how he 
 came to be at Dale's Kloof. 
 
 Thus his mind might be compared 
 to one climbing a slippery place, who 
 gains a foot or two, then slips back, 
 but, on the whole, gains more than 
 he loses. 
 
 He took a great liking to Falcon. 
 That gentleman had the art of pleas- 
 ing, and the tact never to offend. 
 
 Falcon affected to treat the poor
 
 146 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 soul's want of memory as a common 
 infirmity ; pretended he was himself 
 very often troubled in the same way, 
 and advised him to read the news- 
 papers. " My good wife." said he, 
 '• has brought me a whole file of the 
 Cape Gazette. I'd read them if I was 
 you. The deuse is in it, if you don't 
 rake up something or other." 
 
 Christopher thanked him warmly 
 for this : he got the papers to his own 
 little room, and had always one or 
 two in his pocket for reading. At 
 first he found a good many hard 
 words that puzzled him; and he 
 borrowed a pencil of Pheebe, and 
 noted them down. Strange to say, 
 the words that puzzled him were 
 always common words, that his un- 
 accountable memory had forgotten : 
 a hard word — he was sure to re- 
 member that. 
 
 One day he had to ask Falcon 
 the meaning of " spendthrift." Fal- 
 con told him briefly. He could 
 have illustrated the word by a strik- 
 ing example ; but he did not. He 
 added, in his polite way, "No fellow 
 can understand all the words in a 
 newspaper. Now, here's a word 
 in mine, 'Anemometer:' who the 
 deuse can understand such a word ? " 
 "Oh, that is a common word 
 enough," said poor Christopher. 
 "It means a machine for measur- 
 ing the force of the wind." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " said Falcon ; but 
 did not believe a word of it. 
 
 One sultry day Christopher had 
 a violent headache, and complained 
 to Ucatclla. She told Phoebe, and 
 they bound his brows with a wet 
 handkerchief, and advised him to 
 keep in-doors. He sat down in the 
 coolest part of the house, and held 
 his head with his hands, for it seemed 
 as if it would explode into two great 
 fragments. 
 
 All in a moment the sky was 
 overcast with angry clouds, whirl- 
 ing this way and that. Huge drops 
 of hail pattered down, and the next 
 minute came a tremendous flash of 
 lightning, accompanied, rather than 
 
 followed, by a crash of thunder 
 close over their heads. 
 
 This was the opening. Down 
 came a deluge out of clouds that 
 looked mountains of pitch, and 
 made the day night but for the fast 
 and furious strokes of lightning 
 that fired the air. The scream of 
 wind and awful peals of thunder 
 completed the horrors of the scene. 
 In the midst of this, by what 
 agency I know no more than science 
 or a sheep does, something went off 
 inside Christopher's head, like a 
 pistol-shot. He gave a sort of 
 scream, and dashed out into the 
 weather. 
 
 Phoebe heard his scream and his 
 flying footstep, and uttered an 
 ejaculation of fear. The whole 
 household was alarmed, and, under 
 other circumstances, would have 
 followed him ; but you could not see 
 ten yards. 
 
 A chill sense of impending mis- 
 fortune settled on the house. Phoebe 
 threw her apron over her head, and 
 rocked in her chair. 
 
 Dick himself looked very grave. 
 Ucatclla would have tried to fol- 
 low him ; but Dick forbade ber. 
 " 'Tis no use," said he " When it 
 clears, we that be men will go for 
 him." 
 
 " Pray Heaven you may find him 
 alive." 
 
 " I don't think but what we shall. 
 There's nowhere he can fall down 
 to hurt himself, nor yet drown him- 
 self, but our dam; and he has not 
 gone that way. But " — 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " If we do find him, we must take 
 him back to Cape Town, before he 
 does himself, or some one, a mis- 
 chief. Why, Phoebe, don't you see 
 the man has j«one ravinir mad ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The electrified man rushed out 
 into the storm ; but he scarcely felt
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 147 
 
 it in his body : the effect on his mind 
 overpowered hailstones. The light- 
 ning seemed to light up the past; 
 tiie mighty explosions of thunder 
 seemed cannon-strokes knocking 
 down a wall, and letting in his whole 
 life. 
 
 Six hours the storm raged ; and 
 before it ended he had recovered 
 nearly his whole past. Except his 
 voyage with Capt. Dodd — that, 
 indeed, he never recovered — and 
 the things that happened to him in 
 the hospital before he met Phoebe 
 Falcon and her brother ; and, as 
 soon as he had recovered his lost 
 memory, his body began to shiver at 
 the hail and rain, lie tried to find 
 his way home, but missed it; not so 
 much, however, but that he recov- 
 ered it as soon as it began to clear : 
 and, just as they were coming out 
 to look for him, lie appeared before 
 them, dripping, shivering, very pale 
 ond worn, with the handkerchief 
 still about his head. 
 
 At sight of him, Dick slipped back 
 to his sister, and said rather roughly, 
 " There now, you may leave off cry- 
 ing : he is come home ; and to-mor- 
 row I take him to Cape Town." 
 
 Christopher crept in, a dismal, 
 sinister figure. 
 
 "() sir ! " said Phcebe, " was this 
 a day for a Christian to be out in ? 
 How could you go and frighten us 
 so ? " 
 
 " Forgive me, madam," said 
 Christopher humbly. "I was not 
 myself* 
 
 " The best thing you can do now 
 is to e.o to bed, and let us send you 
 up something warm." 
 
 " You are very good," said Chris- 
 topher, and retired with the air 
 of one too full of great amazing 
 thoughts to gossip 
 
 lb- slept thirty hours at a stretch ; 
 and then, awaking in the dead of 
 night, he saw the past even more 
 clear and vivid, lie lighted his can- 
 dle, ami began, to grope in the < 'n/" 
 to d ites, he now re- 
 membered when he had sailed from 
 
 England, and also from Madeira. 
 Following up this clew, he found in 
 the (jdzette a notice that H. M. ship 
 Ampliptrite had been spoken oif the 
 Cape, and had reported the mel- 
 ancholy loss of a promising physi- 
 cian and man of science, Dr. Staines. 
 
 The account said every exertion 
 had been made to save him, but in 
 vain. 
 
 Staines ground his teeth with rage 
 at this. " Every exertion ! the false- 
 hearted curs ! they left me to drown 
 without one manly effort to save me. 
 Curse them, and curse all the 
 world ! " 
 
 Pursuing his researches rapidly, 
 he found a much longer account of 
 a raft picked up by Capt. Dodd, 
 with a while man on it and a dead 
 body, the white man having on him 
 a considerable sum in money and 
 jewels. 
 
 Then a new anxiety chilled him. 
 There was not a word to identify 
 him with Dr. Staines. The idea had 
 never occurred to the editor of the 
 (Jape Gazette. Still less would it 
 occur to any one in England. At 
 this moment his wife must be mourn- 
 ing for him. ''Poor, poor Rosa!" 
 
 But perhaps the fatal news might 
 not have reached her. 
 
 That hope was dashed away as 
 soon as found. Why, these were 
 all old newspapers. That gentle- 
 manly man who had lent them to 
 him had said so. 
 
 Old ! yet they completed the year 
 L8G7. 
 
 lie now tore through them for the 
 dates alone, and soon found they 
 went to 1868. Yet they were old 
 papers. He had sailed in May, 
 1807. 
 
 " My God!" he cried in agony, 
 
 "I II \\V. LOST A. YKAIS." 
 
 This thought crushed him. By 
 and by he began to carry this awful 
 thought into delai.s. " My UoSa 
 
 has worn mourning fur me, and put 
 it off again. 1 am dead to her ami 
 
 to all the world.'' 
 
 lie wept long and bitterly.
 
 148 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Those tears cleared his brain still 
 more. For all that, he was not yet 
 himself, at least I doubt it : his in- 
 sanity, driven from the intellect, 
 fastened one lingering claw into his 
 moral nature, and hung on by it. 
 His soul filled with bitterness and a 
 desire to be revenged on mankind 
 for their injustice ; and this thought 
 possessed him more than reason. 
 
 He joined the family at breakfast, 
 and never a word all the time. But 
 when he got up to go he said in a 
 strange, dogged way, as if it went 
 against the grain, " God bless tha 
 house that succors the afflicted ! " 
 Then he went out to brood alone. 
 
 " Dick," said Phoebe, " there's a 
 change, I'll never part with him : 
 and look, there's Colly following 
 him, that never could abide him." 
 
 " Part with him 1 " said Reginald. 
 " Of course not. He is a gentleman, 
 and they are not so common in 
 Africa." 
 
 Dick, who hated Falcon, ignored 
 this speech entirely, and said, " Well, 
 Phoebe, you and Colly are wiser 
 than I am. Take your own way, 
 and don't blame me if any thing 
 happens." 
 
 And soon Christopher paid the 
 penalty of returning reason, lie 
 suffered all the poignant agony a 
 great heart can endure. 
 
 So this was his reward for his 
 great act of self-denial in leaving 
 his beloved wife, lie had lost his 
 patient ; he had lost the income from 
 that patient ; his wife was worse off 
 than before, and had doubtless suf- 
 fered the anguish of a loving heart 
 bereaved. His mind, which now 
 seemed more vigorous than ever 
 after its long rest, placed her before 
 his very eyes, pale and worn with 
 grief, in her widow's cap. 
 
 At the picture he cried like the 
 rain. He could give her joy by writ- 
 ing ; but he could not prevent her 
 from suffering a whole year of mis- 
 cry. 
 
 Turning this over in connection 
 with their poverty, his evil genius 
 
 whispered, " By this time she has 
 received the six thousand pounds 
 for your death. She would never 
 think of that : but her father has ; 
 and there is her comfort assured, in 
 spite of the caitiff's who left her hus- 
 band to drown like a dog." 
 
 " I know my Rosa," he thought. 
 " She has swooned — ah, my poor 
 darling ! — she has raved, she has 
 wept," — he wept himself at the 
 thought, — " she has mourned every 
 indiscreet act as if it was a crime. 
 But she has done all this. Her good 
 and loving but shallow nature is 
 now at rest from the agonies of be- 
 reavement, and nought remains but 
 sad and tender regrets. She can 
 better endure that than poverty, 
 cursed poverty, which has brought 
 her and me to this, and is the only 
 real evil in the world but bodily 
 pain." 
 
 Then came a struggle that lasted 
 a whole week, and knitted his brows 
 and took the color from his cheek ; 
 but it ended in the triumph of love 
 and hate over conscience and com- 
 mon sense. His Rosa should not 
 be poor ; and he would cheat some 
 of those contemptible creatures called 
 men, who had done him nothing but 
 injustice, and at last had sacrificed 
 his life like a rat's. 
 
 When the struggle was over, and 
 the fatal resolution taken, then he 
 became calmer, less solitary, and 
 more sociable. 
 
 l'hube, who was secretly watch- 
 ing him with a woman's eye, ob- 
 served this change in him, and with 
 benevolent intentions invited him 
 one day to ride round the farm with 
 her. He consented readily. She 
 showed him the fields devoted to 
 maize and wheat, and then the sheep- 
 folds. Tim's sheep were apparent- 
 ly deserted ; but he was discovered 
 swinging, head downward, from the 
 branch of a camel-thorn, and, seeing 
 him, it did strike one, that, if he had 
 had a tail, he would have been swing- 
 ing l>y that. Phabe called to him. 
 He never answered, but set off' run-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 149 
 
 ning to her. and landed himself un- 
 der her nose in a wheel somersault, 
 
 "I hope you are watching them, 
 Tim," said his mistress. 
 
 "Iss, missy, always washing 'em." 
 
 " Why, there's one straying to- 
 ward the wood now." 
 
 " He not go far," said Tim coolly. 
 The young monkey stole off a little 
 way, then Cell flat, and uttered the 
 cry of a jackal with startling pre- 
 cision. Back went the sheep to his 
 comrades post-haste ; and Tim af- 
 fected a somersault and a chuckle. 
 
 " You arc a clever boy," said 
 Phoebe. " So that is how you man- 
 age them." 
 
 "Dat one way, missy," said Tim, 
 not earing to reveal all his resources 
 at oner. 
 
 Then Phoebe rode on, and showed 
 Christopher the ostrich pan. It was 
 a large basin, a form the soil often 
 takes in these parts; and in it strut- 
 ted several full grown ostriches and 
 their young, bred on the premises 
 There was a little dam of water, and 
 plenty of food ;ihout. They were 
 herded l>y a Caffre infant of ahout 
 six, black, glossy, Bit, and clean, 
 being in the water six times a day. 
 
 Sometimes one of the older birds 
 would show an inclination to stray 
 out of the pan. Then the infant 
 rolhd after her, and tapped her an- 
 kles with a wand. She instantly 
 came hack, but without any loss of 
 dignity ; for she strutted with her 
 nose in the air, affecting completely 
 to ignore the inferior little animal, 
 that was nevertheless controlling her 
 movements. ''There's a fane." 
 said Phoebe. "But yon would not 
 believe the money they cost me, nor 
 the money they bring me in. Grain 
 will not 'sell here For a quarter its 
 
 value : and we can't afford to send it 
 to Cape Town, twt nty days and 
 back : hut finery, that sells every- 
 where I gather sixty pounds the 
 year off those poor fowls' hacks — 
 cl( ar profit." 
 
 She showed him the granary, and 
 
 told him there wasn't such another 
 
 la* 
 
 in Africa. This farm had belonged 
 to one of the old Dutch settlers, and 
 that breed had been going down this 
 many a year. "You see, sir, Dick 
 and I being English, and not down- 
 right in want of money, we can't 
 bring ourselves to sell grain to the 
 middle-men for nothing : so we store 
 it, hoping for better times, that may 
 be will never come. Now I'll show 
 you how the dam is made." 
 
 They inspected the dam all round. 
 " This is our best friend of all," said 
 she. " Without this the sun would 
 turn us all to tinder, — crops, flowers, 
 beasts, and folk." 
 
 •'Oh, indeed!" said Staines. 
 " Then it is a pity you have not 
 built it more scientifically. I must 
 have a look at this." 
 
 "Ay, do, sir, and advise us if you 
 see any thing wrong. But hark ! it 
 is milking-time. Come and see that." 
 So she led the way to some sheds ; 
 and there they found several cows 
 being milked, each by a little calf 
 and a little Hottentot at the same 
 time, and both lighting and jostling 
 each other for the udder. Now and 
 then a young cow, unused to incon- 
 gruous twins, would kick impatient- 
 ly at both animals, and scatter 
 them. 
 
 " That is their way," said Phoebe. 
 "They have got it into their silly 
 Hottentot heads as kye won't yield 
 their milk if tin- calf is taken away ; 
 and it is no use arguing with 'em: 
 they will have their own way. But 
 they an- very trusty and honest, 
 poor things. Wc soon found that 
 out. When we came here lirst, it 
 
 was in a lured wagon, and Hotten- 
 tot drivers: so, when wc came to 
 settle, I made ready for a bit of a 
 
 wrangle. But my maid Sophy, 
 
 that is nurse now, and a great 00- 
 spiscr of In athi as, she saj a, ' 1 >on't 
 
 you trouble; them nasty ignorant 
 blacks never (barges more than their 
 due.' ' I forgive 'em,' says 1. ' 1 
 wish all white folk was as nice.' 
 However, 1 did give them a trifle 
 over lor luck : and then they got
 
 150 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 together, and chattered something 
 near the door, hand in hand. ' La, 
 Sophy,' says I, ' what is up now 2 ' 
 Says she, ' They arc blessing of us. 
 Things is conic to a pretty pass for 
 ignorant Musiinmen heathen to be 
 blessing Christian folk.'—' Well,' 
 says I, ' it won't hurt us any.' — ' I 
 don't know,' says she.. ' 1 don't 
 want the devil prayed over me.' 
 Ho she cocked that long nose of hers, 
 and followed it in-doors." 
 
 By this time they were near the 
 house; and Phoebe was obliged to 
 come to her postscript, for the sake 
 of which, believe me, she had ut- 
 tered every syllable of this varied 
 chat. " Well, sir," said she, af- 
 fecting to proceed without any con- 
 siderable change of topic, "and how 
 do you find yourself i Have you 
 discovered the past I " 
 
 "I have, madam. I remember 
 every leading incident of my life." 
 
 " And has it made you happier 1 " 
 said Phoebe soitly. 
 
 "No," said Christopher gravely. 
 "Memory has brought me misery." 
 
 " I feared as much ; for you have 
 lost your fine color, and your eyes arc 
 hollow, and lines on your poor brow 
 that were not there before. Arc you 
 not sorry you have discovered the 
 past ■? " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Falcon. Give me the 
 sovereign gift of reason, with all the 
 torture it can inflict. I thank God 
 for returning memory, even with the 
 misery it brings." 
 
 Phoebe was silent a long time : 
 then she said in a low, gentle voice, 
 and with the indirectness of a truly 
 feminine nature, " I have plenty of 
 writing-paper in the house ; and the 
 post goes south to morrow, such as 
 'tis." 
 
 Christopher struggled with his 
 misery, and trembled. 
 
 He was silent a long time. Then 
 he sail, "No. It is her interest 
 that I should be dead," 
 
 "Weil, but sir — take a though!." 
 
 "Not a word more, I implore 
 you. I am the most miserable man 
 
 that ever breathed." As he spoke, 
 two bitter tears forced their way. 
 
 Phoebe cast a look of pity on him, 
 and said no more; but she shook 
 her head. Her plain common-sense 
 revolted. 
 
 However, it did not follow he 
 would be in the same mind next 
 week : so she was in excellent spirits 
 at her protv/e's recovery, and very 
 proud of her cure, and celebrated 
 the event with a roaring supper, in- 
 cluding an English ham and a bot- 
 tle of port-wine ; and, ten to one, 
 that was English too. 
 
 Dick Dale looked a little incredu- 
 lous ; but he did not spare the ham 
 any the more for that. 
 
 After supper, in a pause of the 
 conversation, Staines turned to 
 Dick, and said rather abruptly, 
 " Suppose that dam of yours were 
 to burst, and empty its contents, 
 would it not be a great misfortune 
 to you ? " 
 
 " Misfortune, sir ! Don't talk of 
 it. Why, it would ruin us, beast 
 and body." 
 
 " Well, it will burst if it is not 
 looked to." 
 
 " Dale's Kloof dam burst ! — the 
 biggest and strongest for a hundred 
 miles round." 
 
 " You deceive yourself. It is not 
 scientifically built, to begin ; and 
 there is a cause at work that will 
 infallibly burst it if not looked to 
 in time." 
 
 " And what is that, sir ? " 
 " The dam is full of crabs." 
 " So 'tis ; but what of them ? " 
 " I detected two of them that had 
 perforated the dike from the wet 
 side to the dry ; and water was tric- 
 kling through the channel they had 
 made. Now, for me to catch two 
 that had come right through, there 
 must be a great many at work 
 honey-combing your dike. Those 
 channels, once made, will be en- 
 larged by the permeating water; 
 and a mere cupful of water forced 
 into a dike by the great pressure of 
 a heavy column has an expansive
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 151 
 
 power qnitc out of proportion to 
 the quantity forced in. Colossal 
 dilo g have been burst in thi.s way 
 with disastrous effects. Indeed, it 
 is only a question of time ; and I 
 would not guarantee your dike 
 twelve hours. It is full, too, with 
 the heavy rains." 
 
 " Here's a go," said Dick, turn- 
 ing pale. " Weil, if it is to burst, 
 it must." 
 
 " Why so ? You can make it safe 
 in a few hours. You have got a 
 clumsy contrivance for letting off 
 the exce>s of water : let us go and 
 relieve the dam at once of two feet 
 of water. That will make it safe 
 for a day or two : and to-morrow we 
 will puddle it afresh, and demolish 
 those busy excavators." 
 
 lie spoke with such authority 
 and earnestness, that tin y all got up 
 from table. A horn was blown that 
 soon brought the Hottentots ; and 
 they all proceeded to the dam. 
 With infinite difficulty they opened 
 the waste sluice, lowered the water 
 two feet, and so drenched the arid 
 soil, that in forty-eight hours flowers 
 unknown sprang up. 
 
 Next morning, under the doctor's 
 orders, all the black men and boys 
 wen- diving with lumps of stiff clay, 
 and puddling the endangered wa 1 
 with a thick coat of it. This took 
 all the people the whole day. 
 
 Next day, the clay wall was car- 
 ried two feet higher; and then the 
 doctor made them work on the other 
 side, and buttress the dike with sup- 
 ports bo enormous as seemed ex- 
 travagant to Dick and Phoebe; but, 
 after all, it was as well to be on the 
 safe side, they thought. And soon 
 they were sure of it ; for the whole 
 work was hardly finished, when 
 news come in thai the dil •■ of a 
 neighboring Boer, ten miles oil', had 
 exploded like a cannon, and emp- 
 tied itself in five minutes, drowning 
 the farm-yard, and floating the fur- 
 niture, but leaving them all to perish 
 of drought. And. indeed, the Boer's 
 cart caine every day, with empty 
 
 barrels, for some time, to beg water 
 of the Dales. Ueatella pondered 
 all this, and said her doctor child 
 was wise. 
 
 This brief excitement over, 
 Staines went back to his own 
 gloomy thoughts ; and they scarcely 
 saw him, except at supper-time. 
 
 One evening he surprised them 
 all by asking if they would add to 
 all their kindness by lending him a 
 horse and a spade and a few pounds, 
 to go to the diamond fields. 
 
 Dick Dale looked at his sister. 
 She said, " We had rather lend them 
 you to go home with, sir, if you must 
 leave us. But, dear heart, 1 was half 
 in hopes — Dick and I were talking- 
 it over only yesterday — that you 
 would go partners like with us; 
 ever since you saved the dam." 
 
 " 1 have too little to oiler for that, 
 Mrs. Falcon, and, besides, I am 
 driven into a corner. I must make 
 money quickly, or not at all : the 
 diamonds are only three hundred 
 miles off. For Heaven's sake, let 
 me try my luck." 
 
 They tried to dissuade him, and 
 told him not one in fifty did any 
 good at it. 
 
 " Ay ; but / shall," said he. 
 " Great bad luck is followed by 
 great good luck, and I feel my turn 
 is come. Not that I rely on luck. 
 An accident directed my attention 
 to the diamond a few \ ears ago ; and 
 I read a number of prime works 
 ujkjii the subject, that told me things 
 not known to the miners. It is 
 clear, from the Cape journals, that 
 they are looking lor diamonds in 
 the river only. Now. 1 am sure 
 that is a mistake. Diamonds, like 
 gold, have their matrix; and it is 
 comparatively few gems that get 
 
 washed into the river. 1 am confi- 
 dent that I shall find the volcanie 
 matrix, and perhaps make my for- 
 tune in a w ek or two." 
 
 Win n the dialogue took this turn, 
 
 Reginald Falcon's cheek began to 
 Hush, and bis eyes to glitter, 
 
 Christopher continued, " You
 
 152 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 who have befriended me so will not 
 turn back, 1 am sure, when I have 
 such a chance before me> and, as lor 
 the small sum of money I shall re- 
 quire, 1 will repay you some day, 
 even if — 
 
 " La, sir, don't talk so. If you 
 put it that way, why, the best horse 
 we have, and fifty pounds in good 
 English gold, they are at your ser- 
 vice to-morrow." 
 
 " And pick and spade to boot," 
 said Dick, " and a double rifle ; for 
 there are lions, and Lord knows 
 what, between this and the Vaal 
 River."' 
 
 " God bless you both ! " said 
 Christopher. "I will start to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " And I'll go with you," said Regi- 
 nald Falcon. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " IIeavex forbid ! " said Phoebe. 
 "No, my dear, no more diamonds 
 for us. We never had but one ; and 
 it brought us trouble." 
 
 " Nonsense, Phoebe ! " replied Fal- 
 con: "it was not the diamond's 
 fault. You know I have often 
 wanted to go there ; but you ob- 
 jected. You said you were afraid 
 some evil would befall me. But 
 now Solomon himself is going to 
 the mines, let us have no more of 
 that nonsense. We will take our 
 rifles and our pistols." 
 
 " There, there, rifles and pistols ! " 
 cried Phoebe: "that shows." 
 
 " And we will be there in a week, 
 stay a month, and home with o;ir 
 pockets full of diamonds." 
 
 " And find me dead of a broken 
 heart." 
 
 " Broken fiddlestick ! We have 
 been parted longer than that ; and 
 yet here we are all right." 
 
 " Ay ; but the pitcher that goes 
 too often to the well gets broke at 
 last. No, Reginald, now I have 
 tasted three years' happiness and 
 
 peace of mind, I cannot go through 
 what I used in England. doc- 
 tor ! have you the heart to part man 
 and wife that have never been a day 
 from each other all these years'? " 
 
 " Mrs Falcon, I would not do it 
 for all the diamonds in Brazil. No, 
 Mr. Falcon, I need hardly say how 
 charmed I should be to have your 
 company, but that is a pleasure I 
 shall certainly deny myself, after 
 what your good wife has said. I 
 owe her too much to cause her a 
 single pang." 
 
 " Doctor,'' said the charming 
 Reginald, "you are a gentleman, 
 and side with the lady. Quite ri^ht. 
 It adds to my esteem, if possible. 
 Make your mind easy : I will go 
 alone. I am not a farmer. I am 
 dead sick of this monotonous life ; 
 and, since I am compelled to speak 
 my mind, a little ashamed, as a 
 gentleman, of living on my wife and 
 brother, and doing nothing lor my- 
 self So I shall go to the Vaal 
 River, and see a little life : here 
 there's nothing but vegetation, 
 and not much of that. Not a word 
 more, Phoebe, if you please. I am 
 a good, easy, affectionate husband ; 
 but I am a man, and not a child 
 to be tied to a woman's apron- 
 strings, however much 1 may love 
 and respect her." 
 
 Dick put in his word. " Since 
 you are so independent, you can walk 
 to the Vaal River. I can't spare a 
 couple of horses." 
 
 This hit the Sybarite hard ; and 
 he cast a bitter glance of hatred at 
 his brother-in-law, and fell into a 
 moody silence. 
 
 But when he got Phoebe to him- 
 self he descanted on her selfishness, 
 Dick's rudeness, and his own 
 wounded dignity, till he made her 
 quite anxious he should have his 
 own way. She came to Staines 
 with red eyes, and said, " Tell me, 
 doctor, will there be any women up 
 there — to take care of you 1 " 
 
 " Not a petticoat in the place, I 
 believe. It is a very rough life ; and
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 153 
 
 how Falcon could think of leaving 
 you and sweet little Tommy, and 
 this life of health and peace and 
 comfort" — 
 
 " Yet yon do leave us, sir " 
 
 " I am the most unfortunate man 
 upon the earth : Falcon is one of the 
 happiest. Would I leave wife and 
 child to go there ! Ah, me! I am 
 dead to those I love. This is my 
 one chance of seeing my darling 
 again for many a long year perhaps. 
 Oh ! I must not speak of litr it un- 
 mans me. My good, kind friend, 
 I'll tell you what to do. When we 
 arc all at supper, let a horse be sad- 
 dled and left in the yard for me. 
 I'll bid you all good-night, and I'll 
 put fifty miles between us before 
 morning. Even then he need not 
 be told 1 am yone . he will not fol- 
 low me." 
 
 " You are very good, sir," said 
 Phiebc ; " but no. Too much has 
 been said. I can't have him hum- 
 bled by my brother, nor any one. 
 lie says I am selfish. Perhaps I 
 am ; though 1 never was called so. 
 I can't bear he should think me self- 
 ish He will go ; and so let us have 
 no ill blood about it. Since he is to 
 go, of course I'd much liever he 
 should go \vi: b you than by himself. 
 You are sure there are no women 
 up there — to take care of — you — 
 l)oth ' You must be purse-bearer, 
 sir, and look to ev< rv penny, lie 
 is too generous when he has got 
 money to sjn'iid " 
 
 In short, Reginald had played so 
 upon her heart, thai Bho now urged 
 the joint expedition , only she asked 
 a delay of a day or two to equip 
 them, and steel herself to the sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 Staines did not share those vague 
 
 fears that overpowered the wife, 
 whose bitter - xp Ticnces were un- 
 known to him; but he felt uncom- 
 fortable -t her condition, — for now 
 she was often in tears, — and he said 
 all he could to comfort her; and he 
 a'soadvi ■ i| h< '• how loprofl! bythese 
 U rri 1 '!-- di ' , i:i her way. lie 
 
 pointed out to her that her farm lay 
 right in the road to the diamonds ; 
 yet the traffic all shunned her, pass- 
 ing twenty miles to the westward. 
 Said he, " You should profit by all 
 your resources. You have \\ ood, a 
 great rarity in Africa. Order a por- 
 table lbrge ; run up a building where 
 miners can sleep, another where 
 they can feed ; the grain you have, 
 so wisely refused to sell, — grind it 
 into flour. ' 
 
 " Dear heart ! why, there's neither 
 wind nor water to turn a mill." 
 
 " But there are oxen. I'll show 
 you how to make an ox-mill. Semi 
 your Cape cart into Cape Town for 
 iron lathes, for coffee and tea and 
 groceries by the hundred-weight. 
 The moment you are ready, — lor 
 success depends on the order in 
 which we act, — then prepare great 
 boards, and plant them twenty miles 
 south. Write or paint on them, 
 very large. ' The nearest way to the 
 Diamond Mines, through Dale's 
 Kloof, where is excellent accommo- 
 dation for man and beast. Tea, cof- 
 fee, home-made bread, fresh butter, 
 &c., &c..' Do this, and you will 
 soon leave off decrying diamonds. 
 This is the sure way to coin them. 
 I myself take the doubtful way ; 
 but I can't help it. I am a dead 
 man ; and swift good fortune will 
 give me life You can afford to go 
 the slower road and the surer." 
 
 Then he drew her the model of 
 an ox-mill, and of a miners' dormi- 
 tory, the partitions six feet six apart, 
 so that these very partitions formed 
 the bedstead ; the bed-sacking being 
 
 hooked to the uprights, lie drew 
 his model for twenty bedrooms. 
 
 The portable forge and the ox-mill 
 pleased I >ick Dale most ; but the 
 partitioned bedsteads charmed Phoe- 
 be. She said, "() doctor! how 
 can one man's head hold BO many 
 things? If there's a man on carta I 
 can trust my husband with, 'tis you. 
 But, if things go cross up there, 
 promise mo you wi!l come back at 
 once and cast in your lot with us.
 
 154 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 We have got money and stock, and 
 you have got head-piece : we might 
 do very well together. Indeed, in- 
 deed, we might. Promise me. Oh, 
 do, please promise me ! " 
 
 " I promise you." 
 
 And on this understanding Staines 
 and Falcon were equipped with rifles, 
 pickaxe, shovels, water-proofs, and 
 lull saddle-bags, and started, with 
 many shakings of the hand and 
 many tears from Phcebe, for the 
 diamond washings. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PnrEBii's tears at parting made 
 Staines feel uneomfortable; and he 
 said so. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! " said Falcon : 
 " crying for nothing does a woman 
 good." 
 
 Christopher stared at him. 
 
 Falcon's spirits rose as they pro- 
 ceeded. He was like a boy let loose 
 from school. His fluency and charm 
 of manner served, however, to cheer 
 a singularly dreary journey. 
 
 The travellers soon entered on a 
 vast and forbidding repion that 
 wearied the eye : at their feet a dull 
 rusty carpet of dried grass and wild 
 camomile, with pale red sand peep- 
 ing through the burned and scanty 
 herbage. On the low mounds, that 
 looked like heaps of sifted ashes, 
 struggled now and then into sickli- 
 ness a ragged, twistetl shrub. There 
 were flowers too, but so sparse, that 
 they sparkled vainly in the color- 
 less waste which stretched to the 
 horizon. The farm-houses were 
 twenty miles apart; and nine out of 
 ten were new ones built by the 
 Boers since they degenerated into 
 white savages, — mere huts with 
 domed kitchens behind them. In 
 the dwelling-house the whole family 
 pigged together, with raw flesh dry- 
 ing on the rafters, stinking skins in 
 a corner, parasitical vermin of all 
 sorts blackening the floor, and par- 
 
 ticularly a small, biting, and odoriF- 
 erous tortoise, compared with which 
 the insect a London washer-wonum 
 brings into your house in her basket 
 is a stroke with a feather; and all 
 this without the excuse of penury; 
 for many of these were shepherd 
 kings, sheared four thousand fleeces 
 a year, and owned a hundred horses 
 and horned cattle. 
 
 These Boers are compelled, by 
 unwritten law, to receive travellers, 
 and water their cattle. But our 
 travellers, after one or two experi- 
 ences, ceased to trouble them ; for, 
 added to the dirt, the men were sul- 
 len ; the women moody, silent, brain- 
 less ; the whole reception churlish. 
 Staines detected in them an uneasy 
 consciousness that they had descend- 
 ed, in more ways than one, from a 
 civilized race; and the superior bear- 
 ing of a European seemed to remind 
 them what they had heen, and might 
 have been, and were not : so, after 
 an attempt or two, our adventurers 
 avoided the Boers, and tried the 
 Caffres. They found the savages 
 socially superior ; though their moral 
 character does not rank high. 
 
 The Caffre cabins they entered 
 were caves, lighted only by the door, 
 but delieiously cool, and quite clean ; 
 the floors of puddled clay or ants' 
 nests, and very clean. On entering 
 these cool retreats, the flies, that hail 
 tormented them, shirked the cool 
 grot, and buzzed off to the nearest 
 farm to batten on congenial foul- 
 ness. On the fat, round, glossy ba- 
 bies not a speck of dirt: whereas the 
 little Boers were cakes thereof. The 
 Caffre woidd meet them at the door, 
 his clean black 'ace all smiles ami 
 welcome. The women and grown 
 ^irls would fling a spotless handker- 
 chief over their shoulders in a mo- 
 ment, and display their snowy teeth 
 in unaffected joy at sight of an Eng- 
 lishman. 
 
 At one of these huts one evening, 
 they met with something St. Paul 
 ranks above cleanliness even ; viz., 
 Christianity. A neighboring lion
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 155 
 
 had just eaten a Hottentot /hide de 
 mienjc ; and these good Caffrcs want- 
 ed the Europeans not to go on at 
 nighty and be eaten for dessert. But 
 they could not speak a word of Eng- 
 lish ; and pantomimic expression ex- 
 ists in theory alone. In vain the wo- 
 men held our travellers by the coat- 
 tails, and pointed to a distant wood. 
 In vain Catfre/Jt're went on all-tours, 
 and growled sore. But at last a sav- 
 age youth ran to the kitchen, — for 
 they never oook in the house, — and 
 came back with a brand, and sketch- 
 ed on the wall of the hut a lion 
 with a mane down to the ground, 
 and a saueer-eyc not loving. The 
 creature's paw rested on a hat and 
 coat, and another fragment or two 
 of a European. The rest was fore- 
 shortened, or else eaten. 
 
 The picture completed, the fe- 
 males looked, approved, and raised 
 a dismal howl. 
 
 " A lion on the road," said Chris- 
 topher gravely. 
 
 Then the undaunted Falcon seized 
 the charcoal, and drew an English- 
 man in a theatrical attitude, — left 
 foot well forward, firing a gun, and 
 a lion rolling head over heels like a 
 buck rabbit, and blood squirting out 
 of a hole in his perforated car* i>>. 
 
 The Bavages saw, and exalted. 
 They were so off their guard as to 
 confound representation with fact. 
 They danced round the white war- 
 rior, and launched him to victory. 
 
 " Aha! " said Falcon. "I took 
 the shine out of their lion, didn'l I '" 
 
 " You did. And one there was a 
 sculptor who showed a lion his mar- 
 ble (froup,— a man trampling a lion, 
 extracting his tongne, ami so on ; 
 but report says it did not convince the 
 
 " Why, no, a lion is not an ns. 
 But, for your comfort, there are no 
 lions in this part ef the world. They 
 act myths. There were lions in 
 Africa. But now they are all at the 
 Zoo. And I \v i - 1 1 1 was there too." 
 
 " In what character, — oft discon 
 tented auimal, with every blessing ' 
 
 They would not take you in ; too 
 common in England. Halloo ! this is 
 something new. What lots ol bush- 
 es ! We should not have much 
 chance with a lion here." 
 
 " There are no lions : it is not the 
 Zoo," said Falcon ; but he spurred 
 on faster. 
 
 ■ The country, however, did not 
 change its feature: bushes and little 
 acacias prevailed, and presently dark 
 forms began to glide across at inter- 
 vals. 
 
 The travellers held their breath, 
 and pushed on : but at last their 
 horses nagged : so they thought it 
 best to stop and light a fire, and 
 stand upon their guard. 
 
 They did so ; and Falcon sat with 
 his rifle cocked, while Staines boiled 
 coffee, and they drank it, and, after 
 two hours' halt pushed on. And at 
 last the bushes got more scattered, 
 and they were on the dreary plain 
 again. Falcon drew the rein with 
 a sigh of relief ; and they walked their 
 horses side by side. 
 
 " Well, what is become of the 
 lions?" said Falcon jauntily. Ho 
 turned in bis saddle, and saw a large 
 animal stealing behind them with its 
 belly to the very earth, and eyes hot 
 coals. He uttered an eldrich screech, 
 Bred both barrels, with no more aim 
 than a baby, and spurred away, yell- 
 ing like a demon. The animal fled 
 another way, in equal trepidation at 
 those tongues of flame and loud re- 
 ports; and Christopher's horse reared 
 and plunged, ami deposited him 
 promptly on the sward : but he held 
 the bridle, mounted again, and rode 
 after his companion. A stern chose 
 is a long chase, and, for that or sonic 
 other reason, he could never catch 
 
 him again till sunrise ; being caught, 
 he ignored the lioness with cool 
 hauteur. He said he had ridden on 
 to find comfortable quarters, and 
 craved thanks. 
 
 This was literally the only inci- 
 dent worth recording that the com- 
 panions met with in three hundred 
 miles.
 
 156 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 On the sixth clay out, toward 
 afternoon, they found, by inquiring, 
 they were near the diamond wash- 
 ings ; and the short route was point- 
 ed out by an exceptionally civil 
 Boer. 
 
 But Christopher's eye had light- 
 ed upon a sort of chain of knolls, or 
 little round hills, devoid of vegeta- 
 tion ; and he told Falcon he would 
 like to inspect these before going 
 farther. 
 
 " Oh," said the Boer, " they are 
 not on my farm, thank goodness ! 
 they are on my cousin Buiteel's ; " 
 and he pointed to a large white house 
 about four miles distant, and quite 
 off the road. Nevertheless, Staines 
 insisted on going to it. But first 
 they made up to one of these knolls, 
 and examined it. It was about thirty 
 feet high, and not a vestige of herb- 
 age on it: the surface was composed 
 of sand and of lumps of gray lime- 
 stone, very hard, diversified with lots 
 of quartz, mica, aud other old forma- 
 tions. 
 
 Staines got to the top of it with 
 some difficulty, and examined the 
 surface all over. He came down 
 again, and said, " All these little hills 
 mark hot volcanic action, — why, 
 they arc like boiling earth-bubbles, — 
 which is the very thing, under certain 
 conditions, to turn carbonate of lime 
 into diamonds. Now, here is plenty 
 of limestone unnaturally hard ; and, 
 being in a diamond country, I can 
 fancy no place more likely to be the 
 matrix than these earth-bubbles. 
 Let us tether the horses, and use our 
 shovels." 
 
 They did so, and found one or two 
 common crystals, and some jasper, 
 and a piece of chalcedony, all in little 
 bobbles, but no diamonds. Falcon 
 said it was wasting time. 
 
 Just then the proprietor, a gigan- 
 tic, pasty colonist, came up, with his 
 pipe, and stood calmly looking on. 
 Staines came down, and made a sort 
 of apology. Bulteel smiled quietly, 
 and asked what harm they could do 
 him, raking that rubbish. " Hake 
 
 it all avay, mine vrienils," said he: 
 " ve shall thank you moeh." 
 
 He then invited them languidly to 
 his house. They went with him ; 
 and, as he volunteered no more re- 
 marks, they questioned him, and 
 learned his father had been a Hol- 
 lander, and so had his vrow's. This 
 accounted for the size and compara- 
 tive cleanliness of his place. It was 
 stuccoed with the lime of the country 
 outside, and was four times as large 
 as the miserable farm-houses of the 
 degenerate Boers. For all this, the 
 street door opened on the principal 
 room, and that room was kitchen 
 and parlor, only very large and 
 wholesome. " But Lord " — as poor 
 dear Pepys used to blurt out — " to 
 see how some folk understand clean- 
 liness ! " The floor was made of 
 powered ants' nests, and smeared 
 with fresh cow-duug every day. 
 Yet these people were the cleanliest 
 Boers in the colony. 
 
 The vrow met them, with a snow- 
 white collar and cuff's of Hamburg 
 linen ; and the brats had pasted faces 
 round as pumpkins, but shone with 
 soap. The vrow was also pasty- 
 faced, but gentle, and welcomed 
 them with a smile, languid but un- 
 equivocal. 
 
 The Hottentots took their horses 
 as a matter of course. Their guns 
 were put in a coiner. A clean cloth 
 was spread; and they saw they were 
 to sup and sleep there, though the 
 words of invitation were never spo- 
 ken. 
 
 At supper, sun-dried flesh, cab- 
 bage, and a savory dish the travel- 
 lers returned to with gusto. Staines 
 asked what it was. The vrow told 
 him, — locusts. They had stripped 
 her garden, and filled her very 
 rooms, and fallen in heaps under 
 her walls : so she had pressed them, 
 by the million, into cakes, -had salt- 
 ed them lightly, and stored them; 
 and they were excellent baked. 
 
 After supper, the accomplished 
 Reginald, observing a wire guitar, 
 tuned it with some difficulty, aud
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 157 
 
 so twanged it and sang ditties to it, 
 that the flabby giant's pasty face 
 More a look of dreamy content over 
 his everlasting pipe. And in the 
 morning, after a silent breakfast, he 
 paid, " Aline mends, stay here a year 
 or two, and rake in mine rubbish. 
 Yen you are tired, here are spring- 
 bok and antelope-:, and you can 
 shoot id i t your rifles, and ve vill 
 cook them, and you shall zing us 
 zongs of Vaderland." 
 
 They thanked him heartily, and 
 said they would stay a few days at 
 all events. 
 
 The placid Boer went a-farming ; 
 and the pair shouldered their pick 
 and shovel, and worked on their 
 heap all day, and found a number 
 of pretty stones, but no diamond. 
 
 " Come, "said Falcon : " we must 
 go to the river ; " and .Staines acqui- 
 esced. "I bow to experience," 
 said he. 
 
 At the threshold they found two 
 of the little Bulteels playing with 
 pieces of quartz, crystal, &c., on the 
 door-stone. One of these stones 
 caught Staines's eye directly. It 
 sparkled in a different way from the 
 others. He examined it : it was the 
 size of a white haricot bean, and one 
 side of it polished by friction. He 
 looked at it, and looked, and saw 
 that it refracted the light He felt 
 convinced it was a diamond. 
 
 "Give the boy a penny for it," 
 said the ingenious Falcon on re- 
 ceiving the information. 
 
 "Oil! " said Staines. "Take 
 
 advantage of a child i " 
 
 He borrowed it of the boy, and 
 laid it on the table alter supper. 
 " Sir," .said lie, " ibis is what we 
 
 were raking in your kopjes for, and 
 could not find it. It belongs to lit- 
 tle Hans. Will yon sell it us ' 
 We are not experts; but we think 
 it may be a diamond. We will risk 
 ten pounds on it." 
 
 " Ten pounds ! " said the farmer. 
 '• \:iv, we rob not travellers, mine 
 vriend " 
 
 " Bllt, if il i- a diamond, it is 
 
 worth a hundred. See how it gains 
 fire in the dusk ! " 
 
 In short, they forced the ten 
 pounds on him, and the next day 
 went to work on another kopje. 
 
 But the simple fanner's conscience 
 smote him. It was a slack time : so 
 he sent four Hottentots, with shov- 
 els, to help these friendly maniacs. 
 These worked awaygayly; and the 
 white men set up a sorting table, 
 and sorted the stuff, and hammered 
 the nodules, and at last found a lit- 
 tle stone as big as a pea, that refract- 
 ed the light. Staines showed this 
 to the Hottentots; and their quick 
 eyes discovered two more that day, 
 only smaller. 
 
 'Next day nothing but a splinter 
 or two. 
 
 Then Staines determined to dig 
 deeper, contrary to the general im- 
 pression. He gave his reason : 
 " Diamonds don't fall from the sky. 
 They work up from the ground ; 
 and clearly the heat must he great- 
 er farther down." 
 
 Acting on this, they tried the next 
 Strata, but found it entirely barren. 
 After that, however, they came to a 
 fresh layer of carbonate; and lure, 
 Falcon hammering a large lump of 
 conglomerate, out leaped, all of a 
 sudden, a diamond big as a nut, 
 that ran along the earth, gleaming 
 like a star. It had polished angles 
 and natural facets; and even a nov- 
 ice with an eye in his bead could see 
 it was a diamond of the purest 
 water. Staines and Falcon shouted 
 with delight, and made the blacks a 
 present on the spot. 
 
 They showed the prize at night, 
 and begged the farmer to take to 
 digging. There was ten times 
 more money beneath his soil than 
 on it. 
 
 Not be. He was a fanner: did 
 not believe in diamonds. 
 
 Two days afterward another 
 
 great find. Seven small diamonds. 
 
 Next day a stone as large as a 
 cob nut, and with strange and beau- 
 tiful streaks. Thej carried it home
 
 15S 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 to dinner, and set it on the table, 
 and told the family it was worth a 
 thousand pounds. Bui teel scarcely 
 looked at it ; but the vrow trem- 
 bled, and all the young (oik glow- 
 ered at it. 
 
 In the middle of dinner it explod- 
 ed like a cracker, and went liter- 
 ally into diamond-dust. 
 
 " Dere goes von tousand pounds," 
 said Bultcel, without moving a mus- 
 cle. 
 
 Falcon swore. But Staines show- 
 ed fortitude. " It was laminated," 
 said he ; " and exposure to the air 
 was fatal." 
 
 Owing to the invaluable assist- 
 ance of the Hottentots, they had in 
 less than a month collected four 
 large stones of pure water, and a 
 wine-glassful of small stones, when 
 one fine day, going to work calmly 
 after breakfast, they found some 
 tents pitched, and at least a score of 
 dirty diggers, bearded like the pard, 
 at work on the ground. Staines 
 sent Falcon back to tell Bulteel, and 
 suggest that he should at once 
 order them off, or, better still, make 
 terms with them. The phlegmatic 
 Boer did neither. 
 
 In twenty-four hours it was too 
 late. The place was rushed. In 
 other words, diggers swarmed to 
 the spot, with no idea of law but 
 diggers' law. 
 
 A thousand tents rose like mush- 
 rooms ; and poor Bulteel stood, 
 smoking and staring, amazed, at 
 his own door, and saw a veritable 
 procession of wagons, Cape carts, 
 and powdered travellers, file past 
 him to take possession of his hil- 
 locks. Him, the proprietor, they 
 simply ignored : they had a com- 
 mittee, who were to deal with all 
 obstructions, landlords and tenants 
 included. They themselves meas- 
 ured out Rulteel's farm into thirty- 
 foot claims, and went to Work 
 with shovel and pick. They held 
 Staines's claim sacred : that was 
 diggers' law ; but they confined it 
 strictly to thirty feet square. 
 
 Had the friends resisted, their 
 brains would have been knocked 
 out. However, they gained this, 
 that dealers poured in, and, the 
 market being not yet glutted, the 
 price was good. Staines sold a few 
 of the small stones for two hundred 
 pounds. He showed one of the 
 larger stories. The dealer's eye 
 glittered, but he offered only three 
 hundred pounds, and this was so 
 wide of the ascending scale on which 
 a stone of that importance is priced 
 that Staines reserved it for sale at 
 Cape Town. 
 
 Nevertheless he afterward doubt- 
 ed whether he had not better have 
 taken it ; for the multitude of dig- 
 gers turned out such a prodigious 
 number of diamonds at Bultcel's 
 pan that a sort of panic fell on the 
 market. 
 
 These dry diggings were a reve- 
 lation to the world. Men began to 
 think the diamond, perhaps, was a 
 commoner stone than any one had 
 dreamed it to he. 
 
 As to the discovery of stones, 
 Staines and Falcon lost nothing by 
 being con fined to a thirty-foot claim. 
 Compelled to dig deeper, they got 
 into richer strata, where they found 
 garnets by the pint, and some small 
 diamonds, and at last, one lucky 
 day, their largest diamond. It 
 weighed thirty-seven carats, and 
 was a rich yellow. Now. when a 
 diamond is clouded or off color, it 
 is terribly depreciated ; but a dia- 
 mond with a positive color is called 
 a fancy stone, and ranks with 
 the purest stones. 
 
 " I wish I had this in Cape 
 Town," said Staines. 
 
 " Why, I'll take it to Cape Town, 
 if yon like," said the changeable 
 Falcon. 
 
 " You will ? " said Christopher, 
 surprised. 
 
 " Why not ? I'm not much of a 
 digger. I can serve our interest 
 better by selling. I could get a 
 thousand pounds for this at Capo 
 Town."
 
 A SIMPLETON - . 
 
 159 
 
 " We will (alk of that quietly," 
 6aid Christopher. 
 
 Now the fact is, Falcon as a dig- 
 ger, was not worth a pin. He could 
 not sort. His eyes would not bear 
 the blinding glare of a tropical sun 
 upon lime and dazzling bits of mica, 
 quartz, crystal, white topaz, &c., in 
 the midst of which the true glint of 
 the royal stone had to be cauyht in 
 a moment. He could not sort, and 
 he had not the heart to dig. The 
 only way to make him earn his half 
 was to turn him into the travelling 
 and selling partner. 
 
 Christopher was too generous to 
 tell him this ; hut he acted on it, 
 and said he thought his was an ex- 
 cellent proposal : indeed, he had 
 hitter take all the diamonds they 
 had got to Dale's Kloof first, and 
 show them to his wife for her con- 
 solation. "And perhaps," said 
 he, " in a matter of this importance, 
 she will go to (Jape Town with you, 
 and try the market there." 
 
 "All right," said Falcon. 
 
 He sat and brooded over the mat- 
 ter a Ion;; time, and said, " Why 
 make two bites of a cherry 1 They 
 will only give us half the value at 
 Cape Town. Why not go by the 
 steamer to Englapd, before the Lon- 
 don market is glutted, and all the 
 world finds out that diamonds are 
 as common as dirt ! " 
 
 "Go to En-land ! What, with- 
 out your wife ! I'll never he a 
 party to that. Me. part man and 
 wife! If you knew my own 
 story " — 
 
 "Why, who wants you?" said 
 
 inald. " You don't understand. 
 Phoebe is dying to vi-it England 
 again ; but she has got no excuse 
 If you like in -ive hep one, she will 
 
 hi' much obliged to you, 1 can tell 
 you." 
 
 " < ih. that is a very different mat- 
 ter ! If Mrs. Falcon can leave her 
 farm " — 
 
 •oh! that brute of a brother of 
 hers i- a very honest fellow, for 
 that matter. IShe can trust the 
 
 farm to him. Besides, it is only a 
 month's voyage by the mail steam- 
 er." 
 
 This suggestion of Falcon's set 
 Christopher's heart bounding, and 
 his eyes glistening. But be restrain- 
 ed himself, and said, "This takes 
 me by surprise : let nie smoke a 
 pipe over it." 
 
 He not only did that; but he lay 
 awake all night. 
 
 The fact is, that, for some time 
 past, Christopher had felt sharp 
 twinges of conscience, and deep mis- 
 givings, as to the course he had pur- 
 sued in leaving his wife a single day 
 in the dark. Complete convales- 
 cence had cleared his moral senti- 
 ments ; and perhaps, after all, tho 
 discovery of the diamonds had co- 
 operated : since now the insurance 
 money was no longer necessary to 
 keep his wife Irani starving. 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, " faith is a great 
 quality ; and how I have lacked it ! " 
 
 To do him justice, he knew his 
 wiles excitable nature, and was not 
 without fears of some disaster, should 
 the news be communicated to her 
 unskilfully. 
 
 But this proposal of Falcon's 
 made the way clearer. Mrs. Fal- 
 con, thpugh not a lady, had all a 
 lady's delicacy, and all a woman's 
 tact and tenderness. He knew no 
 one in the world more fit to ho 
 trusted with the delicate task of 
 breaking to his ttosa that thegravc, 
 for once, was. baffled, anil her hus- 
 band lived. II" now became quite 
 
 anxious lor Falcon's departure, and 
 ardently hoped that worthy bad not 
 deceived himself as to Mrs Falcon's 
 desire to visil Rngland. 
 
 In short, it wis settled that Fal- 
 con should start for Dale's Kloof, 
 tal ii i-_r with him the diamond-, be- 
 lieved to be Worth alto-ether three 
 
 thousand pounds at Capo Town, 
 
 and nearly as much auain in Eng- 
 land, and a long letter lo Mrs. Fal- 
 con, in which Staines revealed his 
 
 true story, told her where to find bis 
 wile, or hear of her, viz., at Kent
 
 1G0 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Villa, Gravesend, and sketched an 
 outline of instructions as to the way, 
 and cunning degrees by which the 
 joyful news should be broken to 
 her. With this he sent a long let- 
 ter to be given to Rosa herself, but 
 not till she should know all ; and in 
 this letter he enclosed the ruby ring 
 she had given him. That ring had 
 never left his finger, by sea or land, 
 in sickness or health. 
 
 The letter to Rosa was sealed. 
 The two letters made quite a packet ; 
 for in the letter to his beloved Rosa 
 he told her every thing that had bc- 
 fa'len him. It was a romance, and 
 a picture of love, — a letter to lift a 
 loving woman to heaven, and almost 
 reconcile her to all her bereaved 
 heart had suffered. 
 
 This letter, written with many 
 tears from the heart that had so 
 Buffered, and was now softened by 
 good fortune, and bounding with 
 joy, Staines intrusted to Falcon, 
 together with the other diamonds, 
 and, with many warm shakings of 
 the hand, started him on his way. 
 
 " But mind, Falcon," said Chris- 
 topher. " I shall expect an answer 
 from Mrs. Falcon in twenty days 
 at farthest. I do not feel so sure as 
 you do that she wants to go to Eng- 
 land, and, if not, I must write to 
 Uncle Philip. Give me your solemn 
 promise, old follow, — an answer in 
 twenty days, if you have to send a 
 Caffre on horseback." 
 
 " I give you my honor," said Fal- 
 con superbly. 
 
 " Send it to me at Bultcel's 
 Farm." 
 
 "All right. 'Dr. Christie, Bul- 
 tcel's Farm.' " 
 
 "Well, — no. Why should I 
 conceal my real name any longer 
 from such friends as you and your 
 wife ? Christie is short for Christo 
 pher : that is my Christian name ; 
 but my surname is Staines. Write 
 to ' Dr. Staines.'" 
 
 " Dr. Staines ! " 
 
 " Yes. Did you ever hear of 
 me?" 
 
 Falcon wore a strange look. " I 
 almost think I have. Down at 
 Gravesend, or somewhere." 
 
 " That is curious. Yes, I married 
 my Rosa there — poor thing ! God 
 bless her; God comfort her. She 
 thinks mc dead." 
 
 His voice trembled ; he grasped 
 Falcon's cold hand till the hitter 
 winced again; and so they parted ; 
 and Falcon rode off muttering 
 " Dr. Staines ! so, then, you are 
 Dr. Staines." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Eosa Staines had youth on her 
 side ; and it is an old saying that 
 youth will not be denied. Youth 
 struggled with death for her, and 
 won the battle. 
 
 But she came out of that terrible 
 fight weak as a child. The sweet, 
 pale face, the widow's cap, the suit 
 of deep black — it was long ere these 
 came down from the sick-room. 
 And, when they did, oh the dead 
 blank ! the weary, listless life ! 
 the days spent in sighs and tears 
 and desolation. Solitude, solitude ! 
 Her husband was gone ; and a strange 
 woman plaj^ed the mother to her 
 child before her eyes. 
 
 Uncle Philip was devotedly kind 
 to her, and so was her father ; but 
 they could do nothing for her. 
 
 Months rolled on, and skinned 
 the wound over. Months could not 
 heal. Her boy became dearer and 
 dearer ; and it was from him came 
 the first real drops of comfort, how- 
 ever feeble. 
 
 She used to read her lost one's 
 diary every day, and worship in 
 deep sorrow the mind she had scarce- 
 ly respected until it was too late. 
 She searched in this diary to find 
 his will ; and often she mourned that 
 he had written on it so few things 
 she could obey. Her desire to obey 
 the dead, whom living she had often 
 disobeyed, was really simple and
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 1G1 
 
 touching. She would mourn to her 
 father that there were so few com- 
 mands to her in his diary. " But,'' 
 said she, "memory brings me back 
 Li- will in many things ; and to obey 
 h now the only sad comfort I 
 have." 
 
 It was in this spirit she now forced 
 herself to keep accounts. No fear 
 of her wearing stays now, no pow- 
 der, no trimmings, no waste. 
 
 After the usual delay, her father 
 told her she should instruct a soli- 
 citor to apply to the insurance com- 
 pany for the six thousand pounds. 
 She refused with a buret of agony. 
 " The price ofhis life," she screamed. 
 "Never! I'd live on bread and wa- 
 ter sooner than touch that vile 
 money." 
 
 Hr father remonstrated gently. 
 But she was immovable. "No. It 
 would be like consenting to his 
 death." 
 
 Then Uncle Philip was sent for. 
 
 He set her child on her knee, and 
 gave her a pen. " Come," said he 
 sternly, " lie a woman, and do your 
 duty to little Christie." 
 
 She kissed the boy, cried, and did 
 her duly meekly. Hut, when the 
 money was brought her, she flew 
 to Uncle Philip, and said, " There, 
 ther ■ ! " an I threw it all before him, 
 and cried as if her hear I would break. 
 lie waited patiently, and asked her 
 what he was to do with all that : 
 invest it ' 
 
 " Yes, yes, for my little Christie." 
 
 " And pay you the interest quar- 
 terly ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, no! Dribble ns out a 
 little as we want it. That is the 
 way to he truly kind to a simpleton. 
 1 hate that word " 
 
 " And suppose I run off with it? 
 Such eoulidii! its you corrupt 
 
 a man." 
 
 " I shall never corrupt you. 
 Crusty people iire the soul of 
 honor.' 
 
 "Crusty people!" cried Philip, 
 affecting amazement. " What are 
 th. p ! " 
 
 14* 
 
 She bit her lip, and colored a little, 
 but answered adroitly, " They arc 
 people that pretend not to have 
 e;ood hearts, hut have the best in the 
 world, — far better ones than your 
 smooth ones: that's crusty people." 
 
 " Very well," said Philip; " and 
 I'll tell you what simpletons are. 
 They are little transparent-looking 
 creatures, that look shallow, but are 
 as deep as old Nick, and make, you 
 love them in spite of your judgment. 
 They are the most artful of their 
 s 'X ; for they always achieve its 
 great object, — to be loved, — the 
 very thing that clever women some- 
 times fail in." 
 
 " Well, and, if we arc not to be 
 loved, why live at all, — such useless 
 things as I am 1 " said Rosa amply. 
 
 So Philip took charge of her 
 money, and agreed to help her save 
 money for her little Christopher. 
 Poverty should never destroy him, 
 as it had his father. 
 
 As months rolled on, she crept out 
 into public a little, but always on 
 foot, and a very little way from 
 home. 
 
 Youth and sober life gradually 
 restored her strength, but not her 
 color nor her buoyancy. 
 
 Yet she was, perhaps, more beau- 
 tiful than ever ; for a holy Borrow 
 chastened and sublimed her features : 
 it was now a sweet, angelic, pensive 
 beauty, that interested every feeling 
 person at a glance. 
 
 She would visit no one; but, a 
 twelvemonth after her bereavement, 
 she received a few chosen visitors. 
 
 One day a young gentleman 
 called, and Bent up his caid, " Lord 
 Tadcaster," with a note from I ads- 
 Cicely Treherue, lull of kindly reel- 
 ing. ' Uncle Philip had reconciled 
 her to Lady Cicely; bat they had 
 never met. 
 
 Mrs. Staines was much agitated 
 nt the very name of Lord Tadcaster ; 
 
 bat she would not have missed Bce- 
 ' ing him for the world. 
 
 She received him. with her beau- 
 tiful eyed wide o[icu, to drink iu
 
 1G2 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 every lineament of one who had 
 seen the last of her Christopher. 
 
 Tadeaster was wonderfully im- 
 proved : he had grown six inches 
 out at sea, and, though still short, 
 was nut diminutive, lie was a small 
 Apollo, a model of symmetry, and 
 had an engaging, girlish lieauty, 
 redeemed from downright effemina- 
 cy bv a golden mustaehe like silk, 
 and "a tanned cheek that became 
 him wonderfully. 
 
 He seemed dazzled at first by 
 Mrs. Staines, but murmured that 
 Lady Cicely had told him to come, 
 or he would not have ventured. 
 
 " Who can be so welcome to me 
 as you 1 " said she ; and the tears 
 came thick in her eyes directly. 
 
 Soon, he hardly knew how, he 
 found himself talking of Staines, 
 and telling her what a favorite he 
 was, and all the clever things he 
 had done. 
 
 The tears streamed down her 
 cheeks, but she begged him to go on 
 telling her, and omit nothing. 
 
 He complied heartily, and was 
 even so moved by the telling of his 
 friend's virtues, and her tears and 
 sobs, that he mingled his tears with 
 hers. She rewarded him by giving 
 him her hand as she turned away 
 her tearful face to indulge the fresh 
 burst of grief his sympathy evoked. 
 
 When he was leaving, she said in 
 her simple way, " Bless you ! " — 
 " Come again," she said : " you 
 have done a poor widow good." 
 
 Lord Tadeaster was so interested 
 and charmed, he would gladly have 
 come hack next day to see her ; but 
 ho restrained that extravagance, 
 and waited a week. 
 
 Then he visited her again. He 
 had observed the villa was not rich 
 in flowers, and he took her down a 
 magnificent bouquet cut from his 
 lather's hothouses. At sight of 
 him, or at sight of it, or both, the 
 color rose for once in her pale check; 
 and her pensive face wore a sweet 
 expression of satisfaction. She 
 took his ilowers, and thanked him 
 
 for them and for coming to see 
 her. 
 
 Soon they got on the only topic she 
 cared for; and, in the course of this 
 second conversation, he took her into 
 his confidence, and told her he owed 
 every thing to Dr. Staines. " I was 
 on the wrong road altogether, and 
 he put me right. To tell you the 
 truth, I used to disobey him now 
 and then while he was alive, and I 
 was always the worse for it ; now 
 he is gone, I never disobey him. I 
 have written down a lot of wise, 
 kind things he said to me ; and I 
 never go against any one of them. 
 I call it my book of oracles. Dear 
 me, I might have brought it with 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! why didn't you 1 " ra- 
 ther reproachfully. 
 
 " I will bring it next time." 
 
 "Pray do." 
 
 Then she looked at him with her 
 lovely swimming eyes, and said 
 tenderly, " And so here is another 
 that disobeyed him living, but obeys 
 him dead. What will you think 
 when I tell you that I, his wife, who 
 now worship him when it is too late, 
 often thwarted and vexed him when 
 he was alive ? " 
 
 "No, no ! He told mo you were 
 an angel, and I believe it." 
 
 " An angel ! A good-for-nothing, 
 foolish woman, who sees every 
 thing too late." 
 
 " Nobody else should say so he- 
 fore me," said the little gentleman 
 grandly. " I shall take his word 
 before yours on this one subject. If 
 ever there was an angel, you are 
 one ; and oh ! what would I give if I 
 could but say or do any thing in the 
 world to comfort you ! " 
 
 " You can do nothing for me, dear, 
 but come and sec me often, and talk 
 to me as you do, on the one sad 
 theme my broken heart has room 
 for." 
 
 This invitation delighted Lord 
 Tadeaster; and the sweet word 
 " dear " from her lovely lips entered 
 his heart, and ran through all his
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 163 
 
 veins like some rapturous but dan- 
 gerous elixir. He did not say to 
 himself, "She is a widow with a 
 child, feels old with grief, and looks 
 on nie as a boy who has been kind 
 to her." Such prudence and wari- 
 ness were hardly to be expected from 
 his age. He had admired her at first 
 sight, very nearly loved her at their 
 first interview; and now this sweet 
 word opened a heavenly vista. The 
 generous heart that beat in his small 
 frame burned to console her with a 
 life-long devotion and all the sweet 
 offices of love. 
 
 Me ordered his yacht to Graves- 
 end (for he had become a sailor) ; 
 and then he called on Mrs. 
 Staines, and told her, with a sort of 
 sheepish cunning! that now, as his 
 yacht hdfijii aid to be at Gravcsend, 
 he could come and sec her very 
 often. He watched her timidly to 
 sec how she would take that propo- 
 sition. 
 
 She said with the utmost simpli- 
 city, " I'm very slat! of it." 
 
 Then he produced his oracles ; 
 and she devoured them. Such pre- 
 cepts to Tadcaster as she could ap- 
 ply to her own case she instantly 
 noted in her memory ; and they 
 became her law from that moment. 
 
 Then in her simplicity she said, 
 "And I will show you some things 
 in his own hand-writing that may 
 be good for you. I Jut I can't show 
 you the whole book : some of it is 
 sacred from every eye but his wile's. 
 His wife's ? Ah, me ! his widow's.'' 
 
 Then Bhe pointed <>ut passages in 
 the diary that she thought might 
 be for Ill's good i and he nestled to 
 her side, and followed her white 
 finger with loving eyes, and was in 
 an Kly-iuiii, which she would cer- 
 tainly have put a stop to at that 
 time had she divined it. Bat all 
 wisdom dues not come at once to an 
 unguarded woman. Rosa Staines 
 was wiser about her husband than 
 she had been ; but Bhe had plenty to 
 
 learn. 
 
 Lord Tadcaster anchored oil' 
 
 Gravcsend, and visited Mrs. Staines 
 nearly every day. She received him 
 with a pleasure that was not at all 
 lively, but quite undisguised He 
 could not doubt his welcome ; for 
 onee, when he came, she said to t lie 
 servant, "Not at home," — a plain 
 proof she did not wish his visit to be 
 cut short by any one else. 
 
 And so these visits and devoted 
 attentions of every kind went on 
 unobserved by Lord Tadcasler's 
 friends, because h'osa would never 
 go out, even with him; but at last 
 Mr Lusignan saw plainly how this 
 would end, unless he interfered. 
 
 Well, he did not interfere : on the 
 contrary, he was careful to avoid 
 putting his daughter on her guard. 
 He said to himself, " Lord' Tad- 
 caster does her good. I'm afraid 
 she would not marry him if he was 
 to ask her now; but in time she 
 might. She likes him a great deal 
 better than any one else." 
 
 As for Philip, he was abroad for 
 his health, somewhat impaired by 
 his own long and faithful attend- 
 ance on Posa. 
 
 So now Lord Tadcaster was in 
 constant attendance on Posa. She 
 was languid, but gentle and kind; 
 and as mourners, like invalids, are 
 apt to be egotistical, she saw noth- 
 ing but that he was a comfort to Iter 
 in her affliction. 
 
 While matters were so, the Earl 
 of .Milt -hire, who had long been 
 sinking, died; and Tadcagtcr suc- 
 ceeded to his honors and estates. 
 
 Rosa heard of it, and, thinking it 
 was a great bereavement, wrote him 
 
 one of those exquisite letters of con- 
 dolence a lady alone can \\ rite. He 
 took il to I ady ('icely, and showed 
 Li to her. She highly ap| roved it.. 
 He said, "The only thing — it 
 make, hi' ashamed I do not fee] my 
 poor father's death more; but you 
 know it has been so long expected." 
 Tie n he was -iletit n long time ; 
 and then ho asked her if ,-uch a wo- 
 man as that would not make him 
 happy, if he could win her.
 
 1C4 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 It was on her ladyship's tongue 
 to say, " She did not make her iirst 
 hajipy;" bat she forbore, and said 
 coldly, that was maw than she could 
 say. 
 
 Tadcaster seemed disappointed 
 by that, and by and by Cicely took 
 herself to task. She asked herself 
 what were Tadcaster's chances in the 
 lottery of wives. The heavy army 
 of scheming mothers, and the light 
 cavalry of artful daughters, rose be- 
 fore her cousinly and disinterested 
 eyes, and she asked herself what 
 chance poor little Tadcaster would 
 have of catching a true love, with a 
 hundred female artists manoeuvring, 
 wheeling, ambuscading, and char- 
 ging upon his wealth and titles. She 
 returned to the subject of her own 
 accord, and told him she saw but 
 one objection to such a match, — the 
 lady had a son by a man of rare 
 merit and misfortune. Could he, 
 at bis age, undertake to be a father 
 to that son ? " Othahwise," said 
 Lady Cicely, " maak my words, you 
 will quail over that poor child ; and 
 you will have two to quail with, be- 
 cause I shall be on her side.'' 
 
 Tadcaster declared to her that the 
 child should be quite the opposite 
 of a bone of contention. "I have 
 thought of that," said he ; ' ; and I 
 mean to be so kind to that boy, I 
 shall make her love me for that. ' 
 
 On these terms Lady Cicely gave 
 her consent. 
 
 Then he asked her should he 
 write, or ask her in person. 
 
 Lady Cicely reflected. "If you 
 write, I think she will say No." 
 
 " But if I go 1 " 
 
 " Then it nil I depend on how you 
 do it. Bo-a Staines is a true 
 mourner. Whatever you may think, 
 I don't believe the idea of a second 
 union has ever entered her head. 
 But then she is very unselfish; and 
 she likes you better than any one 
 else, I dare say. I don't think your 
 title or your money will weigh with 
 her now. But, if you show her your 
 happiness depends on it, she may 
 
 perhaps cry and sob at the very 
 idea of it, and then, after all, say, 
 ' Well, why not, if I can make the 
 poor soui happy ? ' " 
 
 So, on this advice, Tadcaster 
 went down to Gravescnd, and Lady 
 Cicely felt a certain self-satisfaction ; 
 for her well-meant interference hav- 
 ing lost Bosa one husband, she was 
 pleased to think she had done 
 something to give her anotber. 
 
 Lord Tadcaster came to Bosa 
 Staines. He found her seated with 
 her head upon her white hand, 
 thinking sadly of the past. 
 
 At sight of him in deep mourn- 
 ing she started, and said, " Oh ! " 
 
 Then she said tenderly, " We 
 are of one color now," and gave 
 liiin her hand. 
 
 He sat down beside her, not know- 
 ing how to begin. 
 
 " 1 am not Tadcaster now. I am 
 Earl of Miltshire." 
 
 "Ah, yes! I forgot," said she 
 indifferently. 
 
 '• This is my first visit to any one 
 in that character." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " It is an awfully important visit 
 to me. I could not feel myself in- 
 dependent, and able to secure your 
 comfort and little Christie's, with- 
 out coming to the lady, the only 
 lady I ever saw, that — O Mrs. 
 Staines, Rosa 1 who could see 
 you as I have done, mingle his 
 tears with yours as I have done, 
 and not love you, and long to offer 
 you his love '< " 
 
 " Love ! to me a broken-hearted 
 woman, with nothing to live for but 
 his memory and his child ! " 
 
 She looked at him with a sort of 
 scared amazement. 
 
 " His child shall be mine. His 
 memory is almost as dear to me as 
 to you " 
 
 " Nonsense, child, nonsense ! " 
 said she almost sternly. 
 
 " Was he not my best friend ? 
 Should I have the health I enjoy, 
 or even be alive, but for him 1 
 Mrs. Staines, Ilosa! you will not
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 165 
 
 live all your life unmarried ; and 
 who will love you as I do ? You 
 are my first and only love : my 
 happiness depends on you." 
 
 " Your happiness depend on mc ! 
 Heaven forbid 1 — a woman of my 
 age, that feels so old, old, old." 
 
 " You are not old : you are 
 young and sad and beautiful, and 
 my happiness depends on you." 
 She began to tremble a little. Then 
 he kneeled at her knees, and im- 
 plored her ; and his hot tears fell 
 upon the hand she put out to stop 
 him, while she turned her head 
 away, and the tears began to run. 
 
 Oh ! never can the cold dissecting 
 pen tell what rushes over the heart 
 that has loved and lost, when an- 
 other true love first kneels and im- 
 piotvs for love or pity, or any tiling 
 the bereaved can gi\e. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 When Falcon went, luck seemed 
 to desert their claim. Day after day 
 went by without a find ; and the dis- 
 coveries on every side made this the 
 nmre mortifying. 
 
 By this time, the diners at Bui 
 tcel's pan were as miscellaneous as 
 tiie audience at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 only mixed more closely : the gal- 
 lery folk and the stalls worked cheek 
 by jowl. Here a gentleman with an 
 led lisp, and close by an honest 
 fellow who could not deliver a sen- 
 tence without an oath, or some still 
 more horrible expletive that meant 
 nothing at all in reality, but served 
 to make respectable flesh creep ; in- 
 terspersed with these, Hottentots, 
 Caff res, and wild blue-blacks gayly 
 
 clad in ; Strict] feather, a scarlet 
 
 ribbon, and a Tower musket sold 
 them by some good Christian for a 
 modern rifle. 
 On one side of Staines were two 
 
 Swells, who lay on their backs, 
 and talked opera half ihe day, but 
 
 seldom condescended to work with- 
 out linding a diamond of some sort. 
 
 After a week's deplorable luck, his 
 Cafi're boy struck work on account 
 of a sore in his leg : the sore was due 
 to a very common cause, — the burn- 
 ing sand bad got into a scratch, and 
 festered. Staines, out of humanity, 
 examined the sore ; and, proceeding 
 to clean it before bandaging, out 
 popped a diamond worth forty 
 pounds even in the depreciated mar- 
 ket. Staines quietly pocketed it, 
 and bandaged the leg. This made 
 him suspect his blacks bad been 
 cheating him on a large scale ; and he 
 borrowed Hans Bulteel to watch 
 them, giving him a third, with which 
 Master Hans was mightily pleased. 
 But they could only find small dia- 
 monds ; and by this time prodigious 
 slices of luck were reported on every 
 side. CaffreS and Boers, that would 
 not dig, but traversed large tracts of 
 ground when the sun was shining, 
 stumbled over diamonds. One Boer 
 pointed to a wagon and eight oxen, 
 and said that one lucky glance on 
 the sand had given htm that lot; 
 but day after day Staines returned 
 home, covered with dust, and almost 
 blinded, yet with little or nothing to 
 show for it. 
 
 One evening, complaining of his 
 change of luck, Bulteel quietly pro- 
 posed to him migration. " I am 
 going," said he resignedly; "and 
 you can come with me." 
 
 " You leave your farm, sir ? Why, 
 they pay you ten shillings a claim, 
 and that must make a large return : 
 tin- pan is fifteen acre-.." 
 
 " Yes, mine vriend,"said the poor 
 Hollander, " dey pay ; but deir mon- 
 ey it COSt too dear. Verc is mine, 
 
 peace ! 1 Ms farm is six tousand 
 acres. II' de cursed diamonds was 
 
 farther oil', den it vas veil. Hud dev 
 are too near. < dice I could smoke 
 
 in peace, and sleep. Now diamonds 
 is come, and zleep and peace i- lied 
 1 ►ere is four tousand tent*, and to 
 each tent a dawg : dal dawg bark at 
 fonr tousand oder dawgs .all night; 
 
 and dey bark at him and at each oder. 
 Don de masters of de dawgs dey get
 
 1G6 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 angry, and fire four tousand pistole 
 at de four tousand dawgs, and make 
 my bed shake wid de trembling of 
 mine vrow. My vamily is wid dia- 
 monds infected. Dey vill not vork. 
 Dey takes long valks, and always 
 looks on de ground. Mine childre 
 shall be hump-backed, round-sboul- 
 dered, looking down tor diamonds. 
 Dey shall forget Gott. He is on 
 high : deir eyes are always on de 
 earth. De diggers found a diamond 
 in mine plaster of mine wall of mine 
 house. Dat plaster vas limestone ; 
 it come from dose kopjes de good 
 Gott made in his anger against man 
 for his vickedness. I zay so. Dey 
 not believe me. Dey tink dem 
 abominable stones grow in mine 
 house, and break out in mine plaster 
 like de measle : dey vaunt to dig in 
 mine wall, in mine garden, in mine 
 floor. One day dey shall dig in mine 
 body. I vill go. Better I love peace 
 dan money. Here is English com- 
 pany make me offer for mine varm. 
 Dey forgive de diamonds." 
 
 " You have not accepted it 1 " 
 cried Staines in alarm. 
 
 " No, but I vill. I have said I 
 shall tink of it. Dat is my vay. So 
 I say yah." 
 
 " An English company ? They 
 will cheat you without mercy. No, 
 they shall not, though ; for I will 
 have a hand in the bargain." 
 
 He set to work directly, added up 
 the value of the claims, at ten shil- 
 lings per month, and amazed the 
 poor Hollander by his statement of 
 the value of those fifteen acres, cap- 
 italized. 
 
 And, to close. this part of the sub- 
 ject, the obnoxious diamonds ob- 
 tained him three times as much 
 money as his father had paid for the 
 whole six thousand acres. 
 
 The company got a great bargain ; 
 but Bultcel received what for him 
 was a large capital, and, settling far 
 to the south, this lineal descendant 
 of " le philosophe sans le savoir " 
 carried his godliness, his cleanliness, 
 and his love of peace, out of the tur- 
 
 moil, and was happier than ever ; 
 since now he could compare his 
 placid existence with one year of 
 noise and clamor. 
 
 But, long before this, events more 
 pertinent to my story had occurred. 
 
 One day a Hottentot came into 
 Bulteel's farm, and went about 
 among the diggers till he found 
 Staines. The Hottentot was one 
 employed at Dale's Kloof, and knew 
 him. He brought Staines a let- 
 ter. 
 
 Staines opened the letter, and an- 
 other letter fell out : it was directed 
 to " Reginald Falcon, Esq." 
 
 "Why," thought Staines, "what 
 a time this letter must have been on 
 the road ! So much for private mes- 
 sengers." 
 
 The letter ran thus : — 
 
 "Dear Sir, — This leaves us all 
 well at Dale's Kloof, as I hope it 
 shall find you and my dear husband 
 at the diggings. Sir, I am happy to 
 say I have good news for you. 
 When you got well, by God's mercy, 
 I wrote to the doctor at the hospital, 
 and told him so. I wrote unbeknown 
 to you, because I had promised him. 
 Well, sir, he has written back to say 
 you have two hundred pounds in 
 money, and a great many valuable 
 things, such as gold and jewels. 
 They are all at the old bank in Cape 
 Town ; and the cashier has seen you, 
 and will deliver them on demand. 
 So that is the first of my good news, 
 because it is good news to you. But, 
 dear sir, I think you will be pleased 
 to hear that Dick and I are thriving 
 wonderfully, thanks to your good ad- 
 vice. The wooden house it is built, 
 and a great oven. But, sir, the traffic 
 came almost before we were ready, 
 and the miners that call here, com- 
 ing and going, every day, you would 
 not believe, likewise wagons and 
 carts. It is all bustle, morn till night ; 
 and dear Reginald will never be dull 
 here now. I hope you will be so kind 
 as tell him so ; for I do long to see 
 you both home again.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 1G7 
 
 " Sir we are making our fortunes. 
 The grain we could not sell at a fair 
 price we sell as bread, and higher 
 than in England ever so much ! Tea 
 and coffee the same ; and the poor 
 things praise us, too, for being so 
 moderate. So, sir, Dick bids me say 
 that we owe this to you, and, if so be 
 you are minded to share, why noth- 
 ing would please us better. Head- 
 piece is always worth money in these 
 parts ; and, if it hurts your pride to 
 be our partner without money, why 
 you can throw in what you have at 
 the Cape, though we don't ask that. 
 And, besides, we are offered dia- 
 monds, a bargain every day, but are 
 afraid to deal for want of experience ; 
 but if you were in it with us, you 
 must know them well by this time, 
 and we might turn many a good 
 pound that way. Dear sir, I hope 
 you will not be offended ; but I think 
 this is the "only way we have, Dick 
 and I, to show our respect and good- 
 will. 
 
 " Dear sir, digging is hard work, 
 and not fit for you and Reginald, 
 that are gentlemen, among a lot of 
 rough fellows, that their talk makes 
 my hair stand on end ; though 1 
 dare say they mean no harm. 
 
 "Your bedroom is always ready, 
 sir. I never will let it to any one of 
 them, hoping now to see you every 
 day. Von that know every tiling 
 can gneSS how I long to see you both 
 home. My very good-fortune seems 
 not to taste like good-fortune, with- 
 out those I love and esteem to share' 
 it 1 shall count how many (lavs this 
 letter will take to reach you ; arid 
 
 then I shall pray for your Bafety 
 harder than ever till the blessed hour 
 
 comes when I see my hu.-band and 
 
 my good friend, never to part again, 
 I hop" iu this world. 
 
 " 1 am, sir your dutiful servant 
 and friend, Pnoiti; Dai. is. 
 
 " I'.S. — There is regular trav- 
 elling to and from Cape Town, and 
 a post now toPniel ; but I thought it 
 surest to send by one that knows 
 you." 
 
 Staines read this letter with great 
 satisfaction. He remembered his 
 two hundred pounds ; but his gold 
 and jewels puzzled him. Still it was 
 good news, and pleased him not a lit- 
 tle. Phoebe's good-fortune gratified 
 him too, ami her offer of a partner- 
 ship, especially in the purchase of 
 diamonds from returning diggers. 
 He saw a large fortune to be made ; 
 and wearied and disgusted with re- 
 cest ill luck, blear-eyed, and almost 
 blinded with sorting in the blazing 
 sun, he resolved to go at once to 
 Dale's Kloof. Should Mrs. Falcon 
 be gone to England with the dia- 
 monds, he would stay there, and 
 Rosa should come out to him ; or he 
 would go and fetch her. 
 
 He went home and washed him- 
 self, mid told Bulteel he had had good 
 news, and should leave the diggings 
 at once. He gave him up the claim, 
 and told him to sell it by auction. 
 It was worth two hundred pounds 
 still. The good people sympathized 
 with him ; and he started within an 
 hour. He left his pickaxe and 
 shovel, and took only his double 
 rifle, — an admirable one, — some 
 ammunition, including conical bul- 
 lets and projectile shells given him 
 by Falcon, a bag full of carbuncles 
 and garnets he had collected for 
 Ucatella, a few small diamonds, and 
 one hundred pounds, — all that re- 
 mained to him, since he had been 
 paying wages and other things for 
 months, and had given Falcon twen- 
 ty for his journey. 
 
 lie rode away, and soon put twen- 
 ty miles between him and the dig- 
 gings. 
 
 He came to a little store that 
 bought diamonds, ami sold groceries 
 and tobacco. He haltered bis horse 
 to a hook, and went in. He offered 
 a small diamond for sale. The 
 master WOS out ; and the assistant 
 said there was a glut of these small 
 stone-: he did not care to give mon- 
 ey for it. 
 
 " Well, give mc three dozen ci- 
 gars."
 
 1GS 
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 While they were chaffering, in 
 walked a Hottentot, and said, 
 " Will you buy this 1 " and laid a 
 clear, glittering stone on the counter 
 as large as a walnut. 
 
 " Yes," said the young man. 
 " How much 1 " 
 
 " Two hundred pounds." 
 
 " Two hundred pounds ! Let ns 
 look at it." He examined it, and 
 said he thought it was a diamond; 
 but these large stones were so deceit- 
 ful he dared not give two hundred 
 pounds. " Come again in an hour," 
 said he; "then the master will be 
 in." 
 
 " No," said the Hottentot quietly, 
 and walked out. 
 
 Staines, who had been literally 
 perspiring at the sight of this stone, 
 mounted his horse, and followed the 
 man. When he came npto him, he 
 asked leave to examine the gem. 
 The Hottentot quietly assented. 
 
 Staines looked at it all over. It 
 had a rough side and a polished 
 side ; and the latter was of amazing 
 softness and lustre. It made him 
 tremble. He said, " Look here, I 
 have only one hundred pounds in 
 my pocket." 
 
 The Hottentot shook his head. 
 
 " But, if you will go back with me 
 to Bulteel's farm, I'll borrow the 
 other hundred." 
 
 The Hottentot declined, and told 
 him he could get four hundred 
 pounds for it by going back to Pniel. 
 " But," said he, "my face is turned 
 so ; and, when Squat turn his face 
 so, he going home. Not can bear 
 go the other way then;" and he 
 held out his hand for the dia- 
 mond. 
 
 Staines gave it him, and was in 
 despair at seeing such a prize so near, 
 yet leaving him. 
 
 I le made another effort. " Well, 
 but," said he, "how far arc you go- 
 ing this way ? " 
 
 " Ten days." 
 
 " Why, so am I. Come with me 
 to Dale's Kloof, and I will give the 
 other hundred. See, I am in ear- 
 
 nest ; for here is one hundred, at all 
 events." 
 
 Staines made this proposal, 
 trembling with excitement. To his 
 surprise and joy, the Hottentot as- 
 sented, though with an air of indif- 
 ference ; and on these terms they 
 became fellow-travellers, and Staines 
 gave him a cigar. They went on 
 side by side, and halted for the 
 night forty miles from Bulteel's 
 farm. 
 
 They slept in a Boer's outhouse ; 
 and the vrow was civil, and lent 
 Staines a jackal's skin. In the 
 morning he bought it for a diamond, 
 a carbuncle, and a score of garnets ; 
 for a horrible thought had occurred 
 to him, — if they stopped at any place 
 where miners were, somebody might 
 buy the great diamond over his 
 head. This fear, and others, grew 
 on him ; and, with all his philoso- 
 phy, he went on thorns, and was 
 the slave of the diamond. 
 
 He resolved to keep his Hottentot 
 all to himself if possible. He shot 
 a springbok that crossed the road ; 
 and they roasted a portion of the 
 animal, and the Hottentot carried 
 some on with him. 
 
 Seeing he admired the rifle, 
 Staines offered it him for the 
 odd hundred pounds ; but, though 
 Squat's eye glittered a moment, he 
 declined . 
 
 Finding that they met too many 
 diggers and carts, Staines asked his 
 Hottentot was there no nearer way 
 to reach that star, pointing to one 
 he knew was just over Dale's Kloof. 
 
 Oh, yes ! he knew a nearer way, 
 where there were trees and shade 
 and grass, and many beasts to 
 shoot. 
 
 "Let us take that way," said 
 Staines. 
 
 The Hottentot, ductile as wax, 
 except about the price of the dia- 
 mond, assented calmly ; and next 
 day they diverged, and got into 
 forest scenery ; and their eyes were 
 soothed with green glades here and 
 there, wherever the clumps of trees
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 ICO 
 
 Sheltered the grass frora the panting 
 sun. Animals abounded, and were 
 tame. Staines, an excellent marks- 
 man, shot the Hottentot his supper 
 without any trouble. 
 
 Sleeping iu the woods, with not a 
 creature near but Squat, a sombre 
 thought struck Staines. Suppose 
 this Hottentot should assassinate 
 him for his money, who would ever 
 know ? The thought was horrible ; 
 and he awoke with a start ten times 
 that night. The Hottentot slept 
 like a stone, and never feared for 
 his own life and precious booty. 
 Staines was compelled to own to 
 himself he had less faith in human 
 goodness than the savage had. He 
 said to himself, " He is my superior. 
 He is the master of this dreadful 
 diamond, and I am its slave." 
 
 Next day they went on till noon ; 
 and then chey halted at a really de- 
 lightful spot. A silver kloof ran 
 along a bottom ; and there was a 
 little dump of three aeacia-trees 
 that lowered their long tresses pin- 
 ing for the stream, and sometimes 
 getting a cool, grateful kiss from it 
 when the water was high. 
 
 They haltered the horse, hathed 
 in the stream, and lay luxurious 
 under the acacias All was delicious 
 languor and enjoyment of life. 
 
 The Hottentot made a fin 1 , and 
 burned the remains of a little sort 
 of kangaroo Staines had shot him 
 the evening before ; bat it did not 
 suffice Lis maw; am!, looking about 
 him, he saw three elands leisurely 
 feeding about three hundred yards 
 oil'. They were cropping the rich 
 herbage close to the shelter of a 
 wood. 
 
 The Hottentot suggested (hat 
 this was an excellent opportunity. 
 He would borrow Staines s rifle, steal 
 into the wood, crawl on his belly 
 elos ■ ii]. to them, and send a bullet 
 through one. 
 
 Stames did not relish the propo- 
 sal, lie hail sen ill- savages eye 
 itedly gloat on the rifle, and 
 not without hopes he might 
 15 
 
 even yet relent, and give the great 
 diamond for the hundred pounds 
 and this rifle ; and he was so de- 
 moralized by the diamond, and filled 
 with suspicions, that he feared the 
 savage, if he once had the rifle in his 
 possession, might cut, and be seen 
 no more, in which ease he, Staines, 
 still the slave of the diamond, might 
 hang himself on the nearest tree, 
 and so secure his Kosa the insurance 
 money, at all events. In short, he 
 he had really diamond on the 
 brain. 
 
 He hemmed and hawed a little at 
 Squat's proposal, and then got out 
 of it by saying, " That is not 
 necessary. I can shoot it from 
 here." 
 
 " It is too far,'' ohjected Blacky. 
 
 " Too far ! This is an Enfield rifle. 
 I could kill the poor beast at three 
 times that distance." 
 
 Blacky was amazed. " An Enfeel 
 rifle," said he, in the sofr, musical 
 murmur of his tribe, which is (he 
 one charm of the poor Hottentot; 
 ''and shoot three times so far." 
 
 " Yes," said Christopher Then, 
 seeing his companion's hesitation, 
 he conceived a hope. " If I kill that 
 eland from here, will you give me 
 the diamond for my horse and the 
 wonderful rifle ? No Hottentot has 
 such a rifle." 
 
 Sqnat became cold directly. 
 " Tiie price of the diamond is two 
 hundred pounds." 
 
 Staines groaned with disappoint- 
 ment, and thought to himself, with 
 rage, "Anybody but me would 
 club the rifle, give the obstinate 
 black brute a stunner, ami take the 
 diamond — < lod forgive me ! 
 
 Says the Hottentot cunningly, "I 
 can't think so far as white man. 
 Let me see the eland dead, and then 
 1 shall know how far the rifle shoot." 
 
 •' Very Well," said Staines. Hut 
 he felt sure the BHVagC only wanted 
 his meal, and would never part with 
 
 the diamond except for the odd 
 
 money. 
 
 However, he loaded his left barrel
 
 170 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 with one of the explosive projectiles 
 Falcon had given him : it was a 
 little fulminating .shell with a steel 
 point. It was with this barrel he 
 had shot the murcat overnight ; and 
 he had found he shot better with 
 this barrel than the other. He 
 loaded his right barrel then, saw 
 the, powder well up, capped it, 
 and cut awaj a strip of the acacia 
 with his knife to see clear, and 
 lying down in volunteer fashion, 
 elbow on ground, drew his bead 
 steadily on an eland that presented 
 him her broadside, her back being- 
 turned to the wood. The sun shone 
 on her soft coat, and never was a 
 fairer mark ; the sportsman's deadly 
 eye being in the cool shade, the 
 animal in the sun. 
 
 He aimed long and steadily. But, 
 just as he was about to pull the 
 trigger, Mind interposed ; and he 
 lowered the deadly weapon. " Poor 
 creature ! " he said, "I am going to 
 take her life — for what ? for a single 
 meal. She is as big as a pony ; and 
 I am to lay her carcass on the plain, 
 that we may eat two pounds of it. 
 This is how the weasel kills the 
 rabbit ; sucks an ounce of blood for 
 his food, and wastes the rest. So 
 >'ae demoralized sheep-dog tears out 
 i he poor creature's kidneys, and 
 v/istes the rest. Man, armed by 
 science with such powers of slaying, 
 should be less egotistical than wea- 
 sels and perverted sheep-dogs. I 
 will not kiil her. I will not lay that 
 beautiful body of hers low, and 
 glaze thos e tender, loving eyes that 
 never gleamed with hate or rage at 
 man, and fix those innocent jaws 
 that never bit the life out of any 
 thing, not even of the grass she feeds 
 on, and dors it more good than 
 harm. Feed on, poor innocent. 
 And you be blanked, — you and your 
 diamond, that I begin to wish 1 had 
 never seen ; for it would corrupt an 
 angej." 
 
 Squat understood one word in 
 ti'n ; lmt he managed to reply. 
 "Thia is nousense-tulk," said he 
 
 gravely. " The life is no bigger in 
 that than in the murcat you shot 
 last shoot." 
 
 ''No more it is," said Staines. 
 " I am a fool. It is come to this, 
 then, — Catires teach us theology, 
 and Hottentots morality. I bow to 
 my intellectual superior. I'll shoot 
 the eland." He raised his rifle 
 again. 
 
 "No, no, no, no, no, no ! " mur- 
 mured the Hottentot, in a sweet 
 voice scarcely audible, yet so keen 
 in its entreaty, that Staines turned 
 hastily round to look at him. His 
 face was ashy, his teeth chattering, 
 his limbs shaking. Before Staines 
 could ask him what was the matter, 
 he pointed through an aperture 
 of the acacias into the wood hard by 
 the elands. Staines looked, and saw 
 what seemed to him a very long- 
 dog, or some such animal, crawling 
 from tree to tree. He did not at all 
 share the terror of his companion, 
 nor understand it. But a terrible 
 explanation followed. This crea- 
 ture, having got to the skirt of the 
 wood, expanded, by some strange 
 magic, to an incredible size, and 
 sprang into the open with a growl, 
 a mighty lion : he seemed to ricochet 
 from the ground, so immense was 
 his second bound, that carried him 
 to the eland ; anil he struck her one 
 blow on the head with his terrible 
 paw, and felled her as if with a thun- 
 der-bolt. Down went her body, 
 with all the legs doubled, and her 
 poor head turned over, and the nose 
 kissed the ground. The lion stood 
 motionless. Presently the eland, 
 who was not dead, but stunned, be- 
 gan to recover, and struggle feebly 
 up. Then the lion sprang on her 
 with a roar, and rolled her over, 
 and, with two tremendous bites and 
 a shake, tore her entrails out, and 
 laid her dying, lie sat composedly 
 down, and contemplated her last 
 convulsions without touching her 
 again. 
 
 At his roar, though not loud, the 
 horse, though he had never heard
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 171 
 
 or seen a Hon, trembled, and pulled 
 at his halter. 
 
 Blacky crept into the water, and 
 Staines was struck with such an awe 
 as he had never felt. Nevertheless, | 
 the king of beasts being at a distance, 
 and occupied, and Staines a brave 
 mail, and out of sight, he kept his 
 ground and watched, and by those 
 means saw a sight never to be for- 
 gotten. The lion rose up, and stood 
 in the sun, incredibly beautiful as 
 well as terrible. His was not the 
 mangy hue of the caged lion, but a 
 skin tawny, golden, glossy as a ' 
 race-horse, and of exquisite lint that 
 shone like pure gold in the sun ; bis 
 eye a lustrous jewel of richest hue, 
 and his mane sublime. He looked 
 toward the wood, and uttered a full 
 mar. This was so tremendous, that 
 the horse shook all over as it in an I 
 ague, and began to lather. Staines 
 recoiled, and his flesh crept; and the 
 Hottentot went under water, and 
 did not emerge for ever so long. 
 
 After a pause, the lion roared 
 again ; and all the beasts and birds 
 of prey seemed to know the meaning 
 of that terrible roar. Till then the 
 place had been a solitude ; but now 
 it began to till in the strangest way, 
 as if the lord of the fores! could call 
 all his subjects together with a 
 trumpet roar. First came two lion 
 cubs, to whom, in fact, the roar had 
 been addressed. The lion rubbed 
 himself several times against the 
 eland, but did not cat a morsel ; and 
 the cobs went in, and feasted on the 
 prey. The lion politely and pater- 
 nally dnw back, and watched the 
 young people en oying themselves. 
 
 Meantime approached on tiptoe, 
 jackals and hyenas, but dared DOl 
 Come too near. Slate-eolored vul- 
 tures settled at a little distance ; but 
 not a soul dared interfere with the 
 
 cubs. They saw the lion tvas acting 
 sentinel, and they knew better than 
 come near. 
 
 After a time, papa feared for the 
 digestion of those brats, or else his 
 
 own mouth watered ; lor be came 
 
 up, knocked them head over heels 
 with his velvet paw, and they took 
 the gentle hint, and ran into the 
 wood double-quick. 
 
 Then the lion began tearing away 
 at the eland, and bolting huge mor- 
 sels greedily. This made the rab- 
 ble's mouth water. The hyenas and 
 jackals and vultures formed a circle 
 ludicrous to behold; and that circle 
 kept narrowing as the lion tore away 
 at his prey. They increased in num- 
 bers ; and at last hunger overcame 
 prudence. The rear rank shoved 
 on the front, as among men ; and 
 a general attack seemed imminent. 
 
 Then the lion looked up at these 
 invaders, uttered a reproachful 
 growl, and weut at them, patting 
 them right and left, and knocking 
 them over. lie never touched a vul- 
 ture, nor, indeed, did he kill an 
 animal. He was a lion, and only 
 killed to eat : vet he soon cleared 
 the place, because he knocked over 
 a few hyenas and jackals ; and the 
 i rest, being active, tumbled over the 
 vultures before they could spread 
 their heavy wings. After this warn- 
 ing, they made a respectful circle 
 again, through which, in due course, 
 the gorged lion stalked into the 
 wood. 
 
 A savage's sentiments change 
 quickly ; and the Hottentot, fearing 
 little from a full lion, was now gig- 
 gling at Staines's side. Staines 
 asked him which he thought was 
 the lord of all creatures, — a man, or 
 lion. 
 
 " A lion," said Blacky, amazed at 
 such a shallow question. 
 
 Staines now got up, ami proposed 
 to continue their journey. But 
 Blacky was for waiting till the lion 
 was gone to sleep after his meal. 
 
 While tiny discussed the question, 
 the lion burst out of the wood within 
 hearing of their voices, a.- hi- pricked- 
 
 ep Ban showed, and made straight 
 for them at a distance of scarcely 
 
 thirty yards. 
 
 Now, the chances are, tin 1 lion 
 knew nothing about them, and only
 
 171 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 came to drink at the kloof after his 
 meal, and perhaps lie under the 
 acacias ; bnt who can think calmly 
 when his first lion bursts out on 
 him a few paces off"? Staines 
 shouldered his rine, took a hasty, 
 Hurried aim, and sent a bullet at 
 him. 
 
 If he had missed him, perhaps the 
 report might have turned the lion ; 
 but he wounded him, and not mortal- 
 ly. Instantly the enraged beast ut- 
 tered a terrific roar, and came at him 
 with his mane distended with rage, 
 his eyes glaring, his mouth open, and 
 his whole body dilated with fury. 
 
 At that terrible moment, Staines 
 recovered his wits enough to see 
 that what little chance he had was 
 to fire into the destroyer, not at him. 
 lie kneeled, and levelled at the centre 
 of the lion's chest, and not till he 
 was within five yards did he fire. 
 Through the smoke he saw the lion 
 in the air above him, and rolled 
 shrieking into the stream, and 
 crawled Hke a worm under the bank, 
 by one motion, and there lay trem- 
 bling. 
 
 A few seconds of sick stupor 
 passed : all was silent. Had the lion 
 lost him ? Was it possible he 
 might yet escape ? 
 AH was silent. 
 
 He listened, in agony, for the 
 sniffing of the lion, puzzling him 
 out by scent. 
 
 No : all was silent. 
 Staines looked round, and saw a 
 woolly head, and two saucer eyes, 
 and open nostrils close by him. It 
 was the Hottentot, more dead than 
 alive. 
 
 Staines whispered him, " I think 
 he is gone." 
 
 The Hottentot whispered, " Gone 
 a little way to watch. He is wise 
 as well as strong." With this he 
 disappeared beneath the water. 
 
 Still no sound but the screaming 
 of the vultures, and snarling of the 
 hyenas and jackals over the eland. 
 " Take a look," said Staines. 
 " Yes," said Squat ; " but not to- 
 
 day. Wait here a day or two. 
 Hen he forget and forgive." 
 
 Now, Staines, having seen the 
 lion lie down and watch the dying 
 eland, was a great deal impressed 
 by this ; and, as he had now good 
 hopes of saving his life, he would 
 not throw away a chance. He kept 
 his head just above water, and never 
 moved. 
 
 In this freezing situation they re- 
 mained. 
 
 Presently there was a rustling 
 that made both crouch. 
 
 It was followed by a croaking 
 noise. 
 
 Christopher made himself small. 
 The Hottentot, on the contrary, 
 raised his head, and ventured a little 
 way into the stream. 
 
 By these means he saw it was 
 something very foul, but not terrible. 
 It was a large vulture that had set- 
 tled on the very top of the nearest 
 acacia. 
 
 At this the Hottentot got bolder 
 still, and, to the great surprise of 
 Staines, began to crawl cautiously 
 into some rushes, and through them 
 up the bank. 
 
 The next moment he burst into a 
 mixture of yelling and chirping and 
 singing, and other sounds so mani- 
 festly jubilant, that the vulture 
 flapped heavily away, and Staines 
 emerged in turn, but very cautiously. 
 Could he believe his eyes ? There 
 lay the lion, dead as a stone, on his 
 back, with his four legs in the air, 
 like wooden legs, they were so very 
 dead ; and the valiant Squat dancing 
 about him, and on him, and over 
 him. 
 
 Staines, unable to change his 
 sentiments so quickly, eyed even 
 the dead body of the royal beast 
 with awe and wonder. What, had 
 he really laid that terrible monarch 
 low, and with a tube made in a 
 London shop by men who never saw 
 a lion spring, nor heard his awful 
 roar shake the air ? He stood with 
 his heart still beating, and said not 
 a word. The shallow Hottentot
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 lto 
 
 whipped out a large knife, and began 
 to skin the king of beasts. Staines 
 wondered he could so profane that 
 masterpiece of nature. He felt more 
 inclined to thank God for so great a 
 preservation, and then pass rever- 
 ently on, and leave the dead king un- 
 descended. 
 
 He was roused from his solemn 
 thoughts by the reflection that there 
 might lie a lioness about, since there 
 were cubs. lie took a piece of paper, 
 emptied his remaining powder into 
 it, and proceeded to dry it in the 
 sun. This was soon done ; and then 
 he loaded both barrels. 
 
 By this time the adroit Hottentot 
 had flayed the carcass sufficiently to 
 reveal the mortal injury. The pro- 
 jcctile had entered the chest, and, 
 slanting upward, had burst among 
 the vitals, reducing them to a gory 
 pulp. The lion must have died in 
 the air, when he hounded on receiv- 
 ing the fatal shot. 
 
 The Hottentot uttered a cry of 
 admiration. " Not the lion king of 
 all, nor even the white man," he 
 said, " but Enfccl rifle!" 
 
 Staines's eyes glittered. " You 
 shall have it and the hoise for your 
 diamond," said he eagerly. 
 
 The black seemed a little shaken, 
 but did not reply. He got out of it 
 by going on with his lion ; and 
 Staines eyed him, and was bitterly 
 dia appointed at not getting tin; dia- 
 mond even on these terms, lie 
 mi to feel he should never get it. 
 They were mar the high-road ; he 
 I not keep the Hottentot to him- 
 niuch longer, lie felt sick at 
 heart. He had wild and wicked 
 thoughts ; halt' hoped the lioness 
 would come and kill the Hottentot, 
 and liberate the jewel that possessed 
 his soul. 
 
 At last the skin was oil'; and the 
 Hottentot said, " Mo take this to my 
 
 kraal, and dev all say, ' Squat a 
 
 great shooter; kill urn lion.' " 
 Then Staines saw another chance 
 
 lor him, anil summoned all his ail 
 
 ireas for a last effort. " No, Squat," 
 
 10* 
 
 said he, " that skin belongs to me. 
 I shot the lion with the only rifle 
 that can kid a lion like a cat. Yet 
 you would not give me a diamond, — 
 a paltry stone for it. No, Squat, if 
 you were to go into your village 
 with that lion's skin, why, the old 
 men would bend their heads to you, 
 and say, ' Great is Squat ! He 
 killed the lion, and wears his skin.' 
 The young women would all tight 
 which should be the wife of Squat. 
 Squat would be king of the village." 
 
 Squat's eyes began to roll. 
 
 " And shall I give the skin and 
 the glory that is my due to an 
 ill-natured fellow who refuses me his 
 paltry diamond for a good horse — 
 look at him ; and for the rifle that 
 kills lions like rabbits — behold it ; 
 and a hundred pounds in good gold 
 and Dutch notes — see; and for the 
 lion's skin and glory and honor and 
 a rich wife, and to be king of Africa ? 
 Never." 
 
 The Hottentot's hands and toes 
 began to work convulsively. " Good 
 master, Squat ask pardon. Squat 
 was blind. Squat wi 1 give the dia- 
 mond, the great diamond of Africa, 
 for the lion's skin, and the king rifle, 
 and the little horse, and the gold, 
 and Dutch notes every one of tin m. 
 Dat make just two hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 ".More like four hundred," cried 
 Staines very loud. "And how do 
 I know it is a diamond ! These 
 large stones are the most deceitful. 
 Show it me this instant," said he 
 imperiously. 
 
 " Lss, master," said the crushed 
 Hottentot, with the voire of a mouse, 
 and put the stone into his hand with 
 a child-like faith that almosl melted 
 Staines; but he saw he must lie 
 firm. " Where did you find it ' " 
 he bawled. 
 
 " Master," said poor Squat, in 
 deprecating tones, " my little master 
 
 at the farm wanted plaster, lie 
 send to Bulteel's Jiin i dere was 
 
 large lumps, Squat say to miners, 
 ' May we lake tie large lumps .' '
 
 174 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Dey say, ' Yes : take de cursed 
 lumps we no can break.' We took 
 de cursed lumps. We ride 'em in 
 de cart to farm, twenty milses. I 
 beat 'em with my hammer. Dey is 
 very hard. More dey break my 
 heart dan I break deir cursed heads. 
 One day I use strong words, like 
 white man, and I hit one large 
 lump too hard : he break, and out 
 come de white clear stone. Iss, him 
 diamond. Long time we know him 
 in our kraal, because he hard. Long 
 time before ever white man know 
 him, tousand years ago, we find him, 
 and he make us lilly hole in big 
 stone for make wheat dust. Him a 
 diamond, blank my eyes ! " 
 
 This was intended as a solemn 
 form of asseveration adapted to the 
 white man's habits. 
 
 Yes, reader, he told the truth ; 
 and, strange to say, the miners 
 knew the largest stones were in 
 those great lumps of carbonate. But 
 then the lumps were so cruelly hard, 
 they lost all patience with them ; 
 and so, finding it was no use to break 
 some of them, and not all, they re- 
 jected them all, with curses ; and 
 thus this great stone was carted away 
 as rubbish from the mine, and 
 found, like a toad in a hole, by 
 Squat. 
 
 " Well," said Christopher, " after 
 all, you are an honest fellow, and 
 I think I will buy it. But first you 
 must show me out of this wood : I 
 am not going to be eaten alive in it 
 for want of the king of rifles." 
 
 Squat assented eagerly ; and they 
 started at once. They passed the 
 skeleton of the eland : its very bones 
 were polished, and its head carried 
 into the wood ; and, looking bark, 
 they saw vultures busy on the lion. 
 They soon cleared the wood. 
 
 Squat handed Staines the dia- 
 mond, — when it touched his hand 
 as his own, a bolt of ice seemed to 
 run down his buck, and hot water 
 to follow it, — and the money, horse, 
 rifle, and skin were made over to 
 Squat. 
 
 "Shake hands over it, Squat," 
 said Staines. "You are hard; but 
 you are honest." 
 
 " Iss, master, I a good much hard, 
 and honest," said Squat. 
 
 " Good-by, old fellow ! " 
 
 " Good-by, master ! " 
 
 And Squat strutted away, with 
 the baiter in his hand, horse follow- 
 ing him, rifle under his arm, and 
 the lion's skin over his shoulders, 
 and the tail trailing, a figure sublime 
 in his own eyes, ridiculous in crea- 
 tion's. So vanity triumphed even 
 in the wilds of Africa. 
 
 Staines hurried forward on foot, 
 loading his revolver as he went ; for 
 the very vicinity of the wood alarm- 
 ed him now he had parted with his 
 trusty rifle. 
 
 That night he lay down on the 
 open veldt, in his jackal's skin, 
 with no weapon but his revolver, 
 and woke with a start a dozen times. 
 Just before daybreak, he scanned 
 the stars carefully, and, noting 
 exactly where the sun rose, made a 
 rough guess at his course, and fol- 
 lowed it till the sun was too hot ; 
 then he crept under a ragged bush, 
 hung up his jackal's skin, and 
 sweated there, parched with thirst, 
 and gnawed with hunger. When it 
 was cooler, he crept on, and found 
 water, but no food. He was in 
 torture, and began to be frightened ; 
 for he was in a desert. lie found 
 an ostrich-egg, and ate it ravenous- 
 
 !y- 
 
 Next day hunger took anew form, 
 — faintness. He could not walk for 
 it : his jackal's skin oppressed him. 
 lie laydown, exhausted. Ahorror 
 seized his dejected soul. The dia- 
 mond ! — it would be his death. No 
 man must so long for any earthly 
 thing as he had for this glittering 
 traitor. " Oh, my good horse ! 
 my trusty rifle ! " he cried. " For 
 what have I thrown you away ? 
 For starvation. Misers have been 
 found stretched over their gold ; 
 and some day my skeleton will be 
 found, and nothing to tell the base
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 175 
 
 death I died of, and deserved, — 
 nothing but the cursed diamond 
 Ay, fiend ! glare in my eyes, do ! " 
 He felt delirium creeping over him ; 
 and at that a new terror froze him. 
 His reason, that he had lost once — 
 was he to lose it again ? He prayed, 
 he wept, lie dozed, and forgot all. 
 When he woke again, a cool air 
 was fanning his cheeks, it revived 
 him a little. It became almost a 
 breeze. 
 
 And this breeze, as it happened, 
 carried on its wings the curse of 
 Africa. There loomed in the 
 north-west a cloud of singular den- 
 sity, that seemed to expand in size 
 as it drew nearer, yet to be still 
 more solid, and darken the air. It 
 seemed a dust-storm. Staines took 
 out his handkerchief, prepared to 
 wrap his face in it, not to be sti- 
 fled. 
 
 Hut soon there was a whirring 
 and a whizzing; and hundreds of 
 locusts flew over his head : they 
 were followed by thousands, — the 
 swiftest of the mighty host. They 
 thickened and thickened, till the air 
 looked solid, and even that glaring 
 sun was blackened by the rushing 
 mass. Birds of all sorts whirled 
 above, and swooped among them. 
 They peppered Staines all over like 
 shot. They stuck in his beard, anil 
 all over him : they clogged the 
 bushes, carpeted the ground ; while 
 the darkened air sang 08 with the 
 whirl of machinery. Every bird in 
 the air, am! beast of the field, j_ r ra- 
 nivoroue or carnivorous, was gorged 
 with them; and to these animals 
 was added man, for Staines, being 
 famished, and remembering the 
 vrow I'.ulicel, lighted a tire, and 
 roasted a handful or two on a flat 
 
 Stone: they were delicious. The 
 lire once lighted, they cooked them- 
 selves ; for they kepi flying into it 
 Three hoars, without interruption, 
 
 did they darken nature, and before 
 the column ceased all the beasts of 
 the field came alter, gorging them 
 80 recklessly, that Staines could 
 
 have shot an antelope dead wit 
 his pistol within a yard of him. 
 
 But, to tell the horrible truth, the 
 cooked locusts were so nice, that he 
 preferred to gorge on them along 
 with the other animals. 
 
 He roasted another lot for future 
 use, and marched on with a good 
 heart. 
 
 But now he got on some rough, 
 scrubby ground, and damaged his 
 shoes, and tore his trousers. 
 
 This lasted a terrible distance ; 
 but at the end of it came the usual 
 arid ground ; and at last he came 
 upon the track of wheels and hoofs. 
 He struck it at an acute angle, and 
 that showed him he had made a 
 good line. He limped along it a 
 little way slowly, being foot-sore. 
 
 By and by, looking back, he saw 
 a lot of rough fellows swaggering 
 aloni: behind him. Then he was 
 alarmed, terribly alarmed, for his 
 diamond. He tore a strip off his 
 handkerchief, and tied it cunningly 
 under his arm-pit as he hobbled on. 
 
 The men came up with him. 
 
 " Halloo, mate ! Come from the 
 diggins ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What luck ? " 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 "Haw, haw! What, found a 
 fifty carat? Show it us." 
 
 " We found five big stones, my 
 mate and me. He is gone to Cape 
 Town to sell them. 1 had no luck 
 when he left me, so I have cut it ; 
 going to turn farmer. Can yoa tell 
 me how far it is to Dale's Kloof?" 
 
 No, they could not tell him that. 
 They swung on; and to Staines 
 their backs were a cordial, as we 
 sa\ in Scotland. 
 
 However, his travels were, near 
 an end. Next morning he saw 
 
 Dale's Kloof in tin' distance; and, 
 as Boon as the heat moderated, he 
 
 pushed on with one shoe and tat- 
 tered tronsers ; and, half an hour 
 before sunset, he hobbled up to tho 
 
 place 
 
 It was all bustle. Travellers at
 
 176 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 the door; their wagons and carts 
 uiidL-r a long shed. 
 
 Ucatella was the first to see him 
 coming, and canje and fawned on 
 him with delight. Her eyes glisten- 
 ed, her teeth gleamed. She patted 
 both his cheeks, and then his shoul- 
 ders, and even his knees, and then 
 flew indoors, crying, " My doctor 
 child is come home ! " This amused 
 three travellers, and brought out 
 Dick with a hearty welcome. 
 
 " But Lordsake, sir, why have 
 you come afoot, and a rough road 
 too? Look at your shoes! Halloo! 
 What is come of the horse ? " 
 
 " I exchanged him for a dia- 
 mond." 
 
 " The deuse you did ! And the 
 rifle ? " 
 
 " Exchanged that for the same 
 diamond." 
 
 " It ought to be a big un." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 Dick made a wry face. " Well, 
 sir, you know best. You are wel- 
 come, on horse or afoot. You are 
 just in time : Phoebe and me are 
 just sitting down to dinner." 
 
 He took him into a little room 
 tiny had built lor their own privacy, 
 for they liked to be quiet now and 
 then, being country bred ; and 
 Phoebe was putting their dinner on 
 the table when Staines limped in. 
 
 She gave a joyful cry, and turned 
 red all over. " O doctor!" Then 
 his travel-torn appearance struck 
 her. " But, dear heart ! what a 
 figure ! Where's Reginald ? Oh, 
 he's not far off, /know ! " 
 
 And she nun<j open the window, 
 and almost Hew through it in a mo- 
 ment to look lor her husband. 
 
 " Reginald 1 " said Staines. 
 Then, turning to Dick Dale, " Whv, 
 he is here; isn't he 1 " 
 
 " No, sir ; not without he is just 
 come with you." 
 
 " With me ? — no. You know, 
 we parted at the di^jritrs. Come, 
 Mr. Dale, he may not be here now ; 
 but he lias been here: he must 
 have been here." 
 
 Phoebe, who had not lost a word, 
 turned round, with all her hijjh 
 color gone, and her checks getting 
 paler and paler., "O Dick! 
 what is this 1 " 
 
 " I don't understand it, "said Dick. 
 "Whatever made you think he was 
 here, sir '] " 
 
 " Why, I tell you he left me to 
 come here." 
 
 " Left you, sir ! " faltered Phoebe. 
 "Why, when, where ? " 
 
 " At the diggings, — ever so long 
 ago." 
 
 " Blank him ! That is just like 
 him, the uneasy fool ! " roared Dick. 
 
 "No, Mr. Dale, you should not 
 say that. He left me, with my con- 
 sent, to come to Mrs. Falcon here, 
 and consult her about disposing of 
 our diamonds." 
 
 " Diamonds, diamonds ! "cned 
 Phoebe " Oh ! they make me trem- 
 ble. How could you let him go 
 alone ? You didn't let him go on 
 foot, I hope ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Mrs. Falcon. He had 
 his horse and his rifle, and money 
 to spend on the road." 
 
 " How long ago did he leave you, 
 sir ? " 
 
 "I — I am sorry to say it was 
 five weeks ago." 
 
 " Five weeks, and not come yet. 
 Ah ! the wild beasts ! the dig- 
 gers ! the murderers ! He is 
 dead ! " 
 
 " God forbid ! " faltered Staines ; 
 but his own blood began to run 
 cold. 
 
 " He is dead. He has died be- 
 tween this and the dreadful dia- 
 monds. I shall never see my dar- 
 ling again. He is dead ; he is 
 dead." 
 
 She rushed out of the room and 
 out of the house, throwing her arms 
 above her head in despair, and ut- 
 tering those words of agony again 
 and again in every variety of an- 
 guish. 
 
 At such horrible moments women 
 always swoon — if we are to believe 
 the dramatists. I doubt if there is
 
 A SIMPLETON - . 
 
 177 
 
 one grain of truth in this. Women 
 seldom swoon at all, unless their 
 boilies are unhealthy, or weakened 
 by the re-action that follows so ter- 
 rible a shock as this. At all events, 
 Phcebe, at first, was strong and 
 wild as a lion, and went to and fro 
 outside the house, unconscious of 
 her body's motion, frenzied with ag- 
 ony, and but one word on her lips, 
 " lie is dead ; he is dead ! " 
 
 Dick followed her, crying like a 
 child, but master of himself: he got 
 his people about her, and half car- 
 ried her in again ; then shut the door 
 in all their laces. 
 
 He got the poor creature to sit 
 down ; and she began to rock and 
 moan, with her apron over her head, 
 and her brown hair loose about her. 
 
 " Why should he be dead ? " said 
 Dick. "Don't give a man up like 
 that, Phoebe. — Doctor, tell us more 
 about it. O man ! how could you 
 ht lu'm out of your siirht ? You 
 knew how fond the poor creature 
 was of him." 
 
 "But that was it, Mr. Dale." 
 6aid Staines. " I knew his wile 
 must pine (or him ; and we had 
 found six large diamonds, and a 
 handful of small ones. But the mar- 
 ket was glutted ; and, to get a better 
 price, lie wanted to go straight to 
 CajKj Town. But I said, 'No: go 
 and show them to your wife, anil Bee 
 whether she will go to Cape Town.' " 
 
 Phoebe began to listen, as was evi- 
 dent by her moaning more softly. 
 
 "Might he not have gone straight 
 to Cane Town '." Staines hazarded 
 thi- timidly. 
 
 " Why should lie do that, sir? 
 
 Dale's Kloof i- On the road." 
 
 " < >nlv on line road. Mr. Dale, 
 he was well armed with rifle and re- 
 volver: and I cautioned him not to 
 show a diamond on [he mad Who 
 would molest him ' Diamonds don't 
 show, like gold. Who was to know 
 he had three thousand pounds bid- 
 
 di n under his armpits and in two 
 barrek of his revolver ' " 
 " Three thousand pound* ! " cried 
 
 Dale. " You trusted Aim with three 
 thousand pounds ? " 
 
 " Certainly. They were worth 
 about three thousand pounds in 
 Cape Town, and half as much again 
 in " — 
 
 Phcebe started up in a moment. 
 " Thank God ! " she cried. " There's 
 hope for me. O Dick ! he is not 
 
 dead : HE HAS ONLY DESEHTEDME." 
 
 And with these strange and pitia- 
 ble words, she fell to sobbing, as if 
 her great heart would burst at last. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 There came a re-action ; and 
 Phoebe was prostrated with grief and 
 
 alarm. Her brother never doubted 
 now that Reginald had run to Cape 
 Town for a lark. But Phcebe, 
 though she thought so too, could 
 not be sure ; and so the double agony 
 of bereavement and desertion tor- 
 tured her by turns, and almost to- 
 gether. For the first time theso 
 many years, she was so crushed she 
 could not go about her business, but 
 lay on a little sofa in her own room, 
 and had .the blinds down; for her 
 head ached so she could not bear the 
 light. 
 
 Site conceived a bitter resentment 
 against Staines, and told Dick never 
 to ht him into her sight, if he did 
 not want to be her death. 
 
 In vain Dick made excuses for 
 him : she would hear none. For 
 once she was as unreasonable, as any 
 other living woman. She could BOS 
 nothing but that she had beiii happy, 
 alter years of misery, ami should be 
 happy now if this man had never 
 entered her house. " Ah, Colly ! " 
 she cried, " you were wiser than I 
 was, Vim as good as told me he 
 would make me smart for lodging 
 and curing him. And 1 wa- go 
 hanpyl " 
 
 I lata communicated this as deli- 
 cately as he could to Staines Chri - 
 topher was deeply grieved and
 
 178 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 wounded. He thought it unjust ; 
 hut he knew it was natural. He 
 said humbly, " I feel guilty myself, 
 Mr. Dale ; and yet, unless I had 
 possessed omniseience, what could I 
 do 1 I thought of her in all, — poor 
 thing, poor tiling ! " 
 
 The tears were in his eyes ; and 
 Pick Dale went away scratching his 
 head, and thinking it over. The 
 more he thought, the less he was in- 
 clined to condemn him. 
 
 Staines himself was much trou- 
 bled in mind, and lived on thorns. 
 He wanted to be off to England ; 
 grudged ever}' day, every hour, he 
 spent in Africa. But Mrs. Falcon 
 was his benefactress : he had been 
 for months and months garnering 
 up a heap of gratitude toward her. 
 He bad not the heart to leave her 
 bad friends, and in misery. He 
 kept hoping Falcon would return or 
 write. 
 
 Two days after his return, he was 
 seated, disconsolate, gluing garnets 
 and carbuncles on to a broad taper- 
 ing bit of lambskin, when Ucatella 
 came to him and said, " My doctor 
 child sick ? " 
 
 " No, not sick, but miserable." 
 And he explained to her, as well as 
 he could, what had passed. " But," 
 said he, " I would not mind the loss 
 of the diamonds now, if I was only 
 sure he was alive. I think most of 
 poor, poor Mrs. Falcon." 
 
 While Ucatella pondered this, but 
 with one eye of demure curiosity on 
 the coronet he was making, lie told 
 her it was for her : he had not for- 
 got her at the mines. " These 
 stones," said he, " are not valued 
 there ; but see how glorious they 
 
 are 
 
 I " 
 
 In a few minutes he had finished 
 the coronet, and gave it her. She 
 ottered a chuckle of delight, and, 
 with instinctive art, bound it, in a 
 turn of her hand, about her brow ; 
 and then .Staines himself was struck 
 dumb with amazement. The car- 
 buncles gathered from those mines 
 look like rubies, so full of fire are 
 
 they, and of enormous size. The 
 chaplet had twelve great carbuncles 
 in the centre, and went off by gra- 
 dations into smaller garnets by ihe 
 thousand. They flashed their blood- 
 red flames in the African sun ; and 
 the head of Ucatella, grand before, 
 became the head of the Sphinx, en- 
 circled with a coronet of fire. She 
 bestowed a look of rapturous grati- 
 tude on Staines, and then glided 
 away, like the stately Juno, to ad- 
 mire herself in the nearest glass, like 
 any other coquette, black, brown, 
 yellow, copper, or white. 
 
 That very day, toward sunset, she 
 burst upon Staines quite suddenly, 
 with her coronet gleaming on her 
 magnificent head, and her eyes like 
 coals of fire, and under her magni- 
 ficent arm, hard as a rock, a boy 
 kicking and struggling in vain. She 
 was furiously excited, and, for the 
 first time, showed signs of the savage 
 in the whites of her eyes, which 
 seemed to turn the glorious pupils 
 into semi-circles. She clutched 
 Staines by the shoulder with her left 
 band, and swept along with the pair, 
 like dark Fate, or as potent justice 
 sweeps away a pair of culprits, and 
 carried them to the little window, 
 and cried, " Open, open ! " 
 
 Dick Dale Mas at dinner. Phcebe 
 lying down. Dick got up rather 
 crossly, and threw open the window. 
 " What is up now ? " said he 
 crossly. He was like two or three 
 more Englishmen, — hated to be 
 bothered at dinner-time. 
 
 " Dar," screamed Ucatella, set- 
 ting down Tim, but holding him 
 tight by the shoulder: "now, you 
 tell what you sec that night, you 
 lilly Caffir trash : if you not tell, I 
 kill you dkad. And she showed the 
 whites of her eyes, like a wild beast. 
 
 Tim, thoroughly alarmed, quiv- 
 ered out that he had seen lilly mas- 
 ter ride up to the gate one bright 
 night, and look in, and Tim thought 
 be was going in ; but he changed his 
 mind, and galloped away that way: 
 and the monkey pointed south.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 170 
 
 "And why couldn't you tell us 
 this before ? " questioned Dick. 
 
 " Me mind de sheep," said Tim 
 apologetically. " Me not mind de 
 lilly master : jackals not eat him." 
 
 " You no more sense dan a sheep 
 yourself," said Ucatella loftily. 
 
 "No.no! God bless you both," 
 cried poor Phcebe. " Now I know 
 the worst;" and a great burst of 
 tears relieved her suffering heart. 
 
 Dick went out softly. When he 
 got outside the door, he drew them 
 all apart, and said, " Yuke, you are 
 a good-hearted girl. I'll never for- 
 get this while I live. And, Tim, 
 there's a shilling for thee ; but don't 
 you go and spend it in Cape smoke: 
 that is poison to whites, and destruc- 
 tion to blacks." 
 
 "No, master" said Tim. "I 
 shall buy mm h bread, and make my 
 tomachtiff;" then, with a glance 
 of reproach at the domestic, caterer, 
 Ucatella, " I almost never have my 
 tomach tiff." 
 
 Dick left his sister alone an hour 
 or two, to have her cry out. 
 
 When he went back to her there 
 was a change. The brave woman no 
 longer lav prostrate. She went 
 about her business; only she was 
 always either crying, or drowning 
 her tears. 
 
 He brought Dr. Staines in. 
 Phcebe instantly turned her back on 
 him with a shudder there was no 
 mistaking. 
 
 " I had better go," said Staines 
 
 "Mrs. Falcon will never forgive me." 
 "She will have to quarrel with me 
 
 else," said Diek steadily. " Sit you 
 
 dow it, doctor. Honest folk like you 
 and me and Phoebe wasn'l made to 
 quarrel for want of looking a thing 
 all round. My Bister, she hasn't 
 
 looked it all round, and I have. — 
 ( 'mnc, l'hecb, 'tis mi use your blind- 
 ing yourself. How was the poor 
 doctor to know your husband is a 
 blackguard ! " 
 
 " He is not a bfookgnard. How- 
 dare vou say that to my face'! " 
 
 " lie is ablackguard, and always 
 
 was ; and now he is a thief to hoot. 
 He has stolen those diamonds : you 
 know that very well." 
 
 "Gently, Mr. Dale; you forget : 
 they are as much his as mine." 
 
 " Well, and if half a sheep is mine, 
 and I take the whole and sell him, 
 and keep the money, what is that 
 but stealing 1 Why, I wonder at 
 you, Pheeb ! You was always honest 
 yourself; and yet you see the doctor 
 robbed by your man, and that does 
 not trouble you. What has he done 
 to deserve it ? He has been a good 
 friend to us. He has put us on the 
 road. We did little more than keep 
 the pot boiling before he came — 
 well, yes, we stored grain : but whose 
 advice Ikis turned that grain to fjold, 
 I might say ! Well, what's bis of- 
 fence '. lie trusted the diamonds to 
 your man, and sent him to you. Is 
 he the first honest man that has 
 trusted a rogue ? How was he to 
 know? Likely he judged the hus- 
 band by the wife. Answer me one 
 thing, Pheeb. If he makes away 
 with fifteen hundred pounds that is 
 his, or partly yours, — for he has 
 eaten your bread ever since I knew 
 him, — and fifteen hundred more 
 that is the doctor's, where shall we 
 find fifteen hundred pounds all in a 
 moment to pay the doctor back his 
 own ?" 
 
 " .My honest friend," said Staines, 
 "you are tormenting yourself with 
 shadows. I don't believe Mr. Fal- 
 con will wrong me of a shilling; and, 
 if he does, 1 shall quietly repay my- 
 self out of the big diamond. Yes, 
 my dear friends, I did not throw 
 away your horse, nor your rifle, nor 
 your money ; I gave them all, and 
 tin' lion's skin — I gave them all — 
 for this." 
 
 And he laid the big diamond on 
 tin- table. 
 
 It was as big as a walnut, and of 
 tbr puresl water. 
 
 Dick Dale glanced at it stupid's. 
 Phoebfl turned her back on it with 
 a cry of horror, and then came 
 slowly refund by degrees; und her
 
 180 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 eyes were fascinated by the royal 
 gem . 
 
 " Yes," said Staines sadly, " I 
 had to strij) myself of all to buy it ; 
 and, when I had got it, how proud I 
 was ! and how happy I thought we 
 should all be over it ! for it is half 
 yours, half mine. Yes, Mr. Dale, 
 there lies six thousand pounds that 
 belong to Mrs. Falcon." 
 
 " Six thousand pounds ! " cried 
 Dick. 
 
 " I am sure of it. And so, if 
 your suspicions are correct, and 
 poor Falcon should yield to a sud- 
 den temptation, and spend all that 
 money, I shall just coolly deduct it 
 from 3'our share of this wonderful 
 stone : so make your mind easy. 
 But no : if Falcon is really so wicked 
 as to desert his happy home, and so 
 mad as to spend thousands in a 
 month or two, let us go and save 
 him." 
 
 "That is my business," said 
 Phcebe. " I am going in the mail- 
 cart to-morrow." 
 
 " "Well, you won't go alone," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " Mrs. Falcon," said Staines im- 
 ploringly, " let me go with you." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. My brother 
 can take care of me." 
 
 Mc 
 
 You had better not take 
 
 me. If I catch hold of him, by 
 
 I'll break his neck, or his back, or 
 his leg, or something : he'll never 
 run away from you again if I lay 
 hands on him," replied Dick. 
 
 " I'll »o alone. You are both 
 against me." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Falcon. I am not," 
 said Staines. " My heart bleeds 
 lor you." 
 
 " Don't you demean yourself, 
 praying her," said Dick. " It's a 
 public conveyance : you have no 
 need to ask her leave." 
 
 " That is true : I cannot hinder 
 folk from going to Cape Town the 
 same day," said Phcebe sullenly. 
 
 " If I might presume to advise, I 
 Would take little Tommy." 
 
 " What ! all that road ! Do you 
 
 want me to lose my child as well as 
 my man ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Falcon ! " 
 
 " Don't speak to her, doctor, to 
 get your nose snapped otf: give her 
 time. She'll come to her senses be- 
 fore she dies." 
 
 Next day Mrs. Falcon and Staines 
 started for Cape Town. Staines 
 paid her every attention when op- 
 portunity offered. But she was sul- 
 len and gloomy, and held no con- 
 verse with him. 
 
 He landed her at an inn, and then 
 told her he would go at once to the 
 jeweller's. He asked her piteously 
 would she lend him a pound or two 
 to prosecute his researches. She 
 took out her purse without a word, 
 and lent him two pounds. He be- 
 gan to scour the town. The jewellers 
 he visited could tell him nothing. 
 At last he came to a shop, and there 
 he found Mrs. Falcon making her 
 inquiries independently. She said 
 coldly, " You had better come with 
 me, and get your money and 
 things." 
 
 She took him to the bank, — it 
 happened to be the one she did busi- 
 ness with, — and said, " This is Dr. 
 Christie, come for his money and 
 jewels." 
 
 There was some demur at this : 
 but the cashier recognized him ; and, 
 Phcebe making herself responsible, 
 the money and jewels were handed 
 over. 
 
 Staines whispered Phcebe. "Are 
 you sure the jewels are mine % " 
 
 " They were found on you, sir." 
 
 Staines took them, looking con- 
 fused. He did not know what to 
 think. When they got into the 
 street again, he told her it was very 
 kind of her to think of his interest 
 at all. 
 
 No answer. She was not going 
 to make friends with him over such 
 a trifle as that. 
 
 By degrees, however, Christopher's 
 zeal on her behalf broke the ice ; and 
 besides, as the search proved un- 
 availing, she needed sympathy ; and
 
 A SIMPLETOX. 
 
 181 
 
 he gave it her, and did not abuse her 
 husband, as Dick Dale did. 
 
 One day, in the street, after a long 
 thought, she said to him, " Didn't 
 you sav, sir, you gave him a letter 
 for mc \ " 
 
 " I gave him two letters : one of 
 them was to you." 
 
 " Could you remember what you 
 said in it ? " 
 
 " Perfectly. I begged you, if you 
 should go to England, to break the 
 truth to my wife. She is very ex- 
 citable ; and sudden joy has killed ere 
 now. I gave you particular in- 
 structions." 
 
 " And you were very wise. But 
 whatever could make you think I 
 would go to England 1 " 
 
 " He told me you only wanted an 
 excuse ." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " When he told me that, I caught 
 at it, of course. It. was all the world 
 to mc to get my Rosa told by such 
 a kind, good, sensible friend as you : 
 and, Mrs. Falcon, I had no scruple 
 about troubling you ; because 1 
 knew the stones would sell for at 
 least a thousand pounds more in 
 England than here, and that would 
 paj your expenses." 
 
 " I see, sir ; I see. 'Twas very 
 natural : you lore your wife." 
 
 "Better than my lile." 
 
 "And he told you I only wanted 
 an excuse to go to England i " 
 
 " lie did, indeed. If was not 
 true 1 " 
 
 " It was any thing but true. I 
 had suffered so in England! I had 
 been so happy here ! — too happy to 
 last. Ah ! well, ir is all over. Let 
 u- think of the matter in hand. 
 Sure that was not the onlv letter 
 yon gave my husband ! Didn't von 
 write to /i.r'f" 
 
 "Of course I did; but, that was 
 enclosed to you, and not to In- given 
 to her until you had broken the joy- 
 ful news to her. Ye-. Mrs. Falcon, 
 I wrote, and told her every thing, — 
 my 1' \ ; bow I was saved, 
 
 after, by yoar kindness; our jour- , 
 
 1G 
 
 neys — from Cape Town, and then 
 to the diggings ; my sudden good- 
 fortune, my hopes, my joy. O 
 my poor Rosa ! and now I suppose 
 she will never get it. It is too cruel 
 of him. I shall go home by the next 
 steamer. I can't stay here any 
 longer, for you or anybody. Oh! 
 and I enclosed my ruby ring, that 
 she gave me ; for I thought she 
 might not believe von without 
 that." 
 
 "Let me think," said Phoebe, 
 turning ashy pale. " for mercy's 
 sake, let me think." 
 
 " He has read both those letters, 
 sir. .She will never see hers, any 
 more than I shall see mine." 
 
 She paused again, thinking harder 
 and harder. 
 
 " Wc must take two places in the 
 next mail-steamer. I must look after 
 my husband, and you after 
 
 YOUR WIFE." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Mrs. Falcon's bitter feeling 
 against Dr. Staines did not subside : 
 it merely went out of sight a little. 
 They were thrown together by po- 
 tent circumstances, and, in a man- 
 ner, connected by mutual obliga- 
 tions; and an open rupture seemed 
 too unnatural. Still Phoebe was a 
 woman, and, blinded by her love for 
 her hu.-band, could not forgive the 
 innocent eau-e of their present un- 
 happy separation ; though the fault 
 
 lay entirely With Falcon. 
 
 Staines took her on board the 
 Steamer, and paid her every atten- 
 tion. She was also civil to him ; 
 but it was a cold and constrained 
 civility. 
 
 About a hundred miles from land. 
 the strainer stopped; and the pas- 
 Ben gers soon learned there was some- 
 thing wrong with her machinery.
 
 181 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 In fact, after due consultation, the 
 captain decided to put back. 
 
 This irritated and distressed Mrs. 
 Falcon so, that the captain, desirous 
 to oblige her, hailed a fast schooner 
 that tacked across her bows, and 
 gave Mrs. Falcon the option of 
 going back with him, or going on in 
 the schooner with whose skipper he 
 was acquainted. 
 
 Staines advised her on no ac- 
 count to trust to sails, when she 
 could have steam with only a de- 
 lay of four or five days. But she 
 said, " Any thing, sooner than go 
 back. I can't, I can't, on such an 
 errand." 
 
 Accordingly, she was put on 
 board the schooner ; and Staines, 
 after some hesitation, felt bound to 
 accompany her. 
 
 It proved a sad error. Contrary 
 winds assailed them the very next 
 day, and with such severity, that 
 they had repeatedly to lie to. 
 
 On one of these occasions, with 
 a ship reeling under them like a 
 restive horse, and the waves running 
 mountains high, poor Phoebe's ter- 
 rors overmastered both her hostility 
 and her reserve. " Doctor," said 
 she, "I believe 'tis God's will we 
 shall never see England. I must 
 try and die more like a Christian 
 than I have lived, forgiving all who 
 have wronged me, and you, that 
 have been my good friend and my 
 worst enemy ; but you did not mean 
 it. Sir, what has turned me against 
 you so — your wife was my hus- 
 band's sweetheart before he mar- 
 ried me." 
 
 "My wife your husband's — you 
 are dreaming." 
 
 " Nay, sir : once she came in my 
 shop, and I saw directly I was no- 
 thing to him, and he owned it all to 
 me. He had courted her, and she 
 jilted him. So he said. Why should 
 he tell me a lie about that ? I'd lay 
 my life 'tis true. And now you have 
 sent him to her your own self; and, 
 at sight of her, I shall be nothing 
 again. Well, when this ship goes 
 
 down, they can marry, and I hope 
 he will be happy, happier than I can 
 make him, that tried my best, God 
 knows." 
 
 This conversation surprised 
 Staines not a little. However, he 
 said, with great warmth, it was 
 false. His wife had danced and 
 flirted with some young gentleman 
 at one time, when there was a brief 
 misunderstanding between him and 
 her ; but sweetheart she had never 
 had, except him. He had courted her 
 fresh from school. " Now, my good 
 soul," said he, " make your mind 
 easy. The ship is a good one, and 
 well handled, and in no danger what- 
 ever ; and my wife is in no danger 
 from your husband. Since you'and 
 your brother tell me that he is a vil- 
 lain, I am bound to believe you. P>ut 
 my wife is an angel. In our miser- 
 able hour of parting she vowed not to 
 marry again, should I be taken from 
 her. Marry again ! what am I talk- 
 ing of? Why, if he visits her at 
 all, it will be to let her know I am 
 alive, and give her my letter. Do 
 you mean to tell me she will listen 
 to vows of love from him, when her 
 whole heart is in rapture for me ? 
 Such nonsense ! " 
 
 This burst of his did not affront 
 her, and did comfort her. 
 
 At last the wind abated ; and, after 
 a wearisome calm, a light breeze 
 came, and the schooner crept home- 
 ward. 
 
 Phoebe restrained herself for seve- 
 ral days ; but at last she came back 
 to the subject : this time it was in 
 an apologetic tone at starting. " I 
 know you think me a foolish wo- 
 man," she said ; " but my poor Re- 
 ginald could never resist a pretty 
 face ; and she is so lovely ! And you 
 should have seen how he turned 
 when she came in to my place, oh, 
 sir ! there has been more between 
 them than you know of ; and, when 
 I think that he will have been in 
 England so many months before we 
 get there, O doctor ! sometimes I 
 feel as I should go mad. My head
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 183 
 
 it is like a furnace, and see, my brow 
 is all wrinkled again." 
 
 Then Staines tried to comfort 
 her; assured her she was torment- 
 ing herself idly : her husband would, 
 perhaps, have spent some of the 
 diamond money on his amusement; 
 but what if lie had, he should deduct 
 it out of the big diamond, which was 
 also their joint property ; and the 
 loss would hardly be felt. " As to 
 my wife, madam, 1 have but one 
 anxiety, — lest he should go blurting 
 it out that I am alive, and almost 
 kill her with joy." 
 
 " He will not do that, sir. He is 
 no fool." 
 
 " 1 am glad of it ; for there is 
 nothing else to fear." 
 
 " Man, I tell you there is every 
 thing to fear. You don't know 
 him as I do, nor his power over 
 women." 
 
 " Mrs. Falcon, are you bent on 
 affronting me ? " 
 
 " No, sir : Heaven forbid ! " 
 
 " Then please to close this subject 
 forever. In three weeks we shall 
 be in England." 
 
 "Ay; but he has been there six 
 months." 
 
 lie bowed stiffly to her, went to his 
 cabin, and avoided the poor foolish 
 woman as much as he could with- 
 out seeming too unkind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Mns. Staim.s made one or two 
 movements — to stop Lord Tadcas- 
 ter — with her hand, that expressive 
 feature with which, at such times, 
 a sensitive woman can do all but 
 speak . 
 
 When, at last, he paused for her 
 reply, she laid, " Me marry again ! 
 ( m, for Bhame ! " 
 
 ■ Mr i. Staines, Rosa, yen will 
 marry again some flay." 
 
 " Never. Me lake another hus- 
 band after such a man as 1 have 
 
 lost ! I should be a monster. Be- 
 sides " — 
 
 " Besides what 1 " 
 
 " Xo matter. O Lord Tadcas- 
 ter ! you have b"en so kind to me, 
 so sympathizing ! You made mo 
 believe you loved my Christopher 
 too ; and now you have spoiled all. 
 It is too cruel." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Staines, do you think 
 me capable of feigning ! don't you 
 see my love for you has taken me 
 by surprise 1 But how could 1 visit 
 you, look on you, hear you, 
 mingle my regrets with yours ( 
 Yours were the deepest, of course; 
 but mine were honest." 
 
 " I believe it." And she gave him 
 her hand. He held it, and kissed it, 
 and cried over it, as the young will, 
 and implored her, on his knees, not 
 to condemn herself to life-long wi- 
 dowhood, and him to despair. 
 
 Then she cried too ; but she was 
 firm, and by degrees she made him 
 see that her hear; was inaccessible. 
 
 Then, at last, he submitted, with 
 tearful eyes, but a valiant heart. 
 
 She offered friendship timidly. 
 
 But he was too much of a man to 
 fall into that trap. " No," he said : 
 " I could not, I could not. Love, 
 or nothing." 
 
 " You are right," said she pity- 
 ingly. "Forgiveme Inmyselfisb.- 
 ness and my usual folly, I did not see 
 this coming on, or I would h ave 
 spired you this mortification." 
 
 " Never mind that,'' gnlpcd the 
 little carl. " I shall always bo 
 proud 1 knew you, and proud I 
 loved you, and offered you my 
 baud."" 
 
 Then the magnanimous lit tic fal- 
 low hissed her, and lefl her, and 
 discontinued his vi its. 
 
 Mr. 1 .11 -i :n;in found her crying, 
 and L r ot the truth out of Ik t. lie, 
 
 hi despair He remonstrated 
 kindly, but (Irmly. Truth compels 
 me to suy that she polil >ly i mm d 
 him. He observed thai phenomenon, 
 
 and said, " Verv well, then, 1 shall 
 
 telegraph for Uucte Philip,"
 
 184 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " Do," said the rebel. " He is 
 always welcome." 
 
 Philip telegraphed ; came down 
 that evening ; likewise his little black 
 bag. He found them in the draw- 
 ing-room ; papa with the Pall Mall 
 Gazette, liosa seated, sewing, at a 
 lamp. She made little Christie's 
 clothes herself; fancy that ! 
 
 Having ascertained that the little 
 boy was well, Philip, adroitly hiding 
 that he had come down torn with 
 anxiety on that head, inquired, with 
 a show of contemptuous indifference, 
 whose cat was dead. 
 
 " Nobody's, " said Lusignan 
 crossly. " Do you see that young 
 lady, stitching there so demurely 1 " 
 
 Philip put on his spectacles. 
 
 " I see her," said he. " She does 
 look a little too innocent. None of 
 them are really so innocent as all 
 that. Has she been swearing at the 
 nurse, and boxing her ears 1 " 
 
 " Worse than that. She has 
 been and refused the Earl of Tad- 
 caster." 
 
 "Refused him? What! has that 
 little monkey had the audacity ? " 
 
 " The condescension, you mean 1 " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And she has refused him 1 " 
 
 "And twenty thousand a year." 
 
 " What immorality ! " 
 
 " Worse. What absurdity ! " 
 
 " How is it to be accounted for ? 
 Is it the old story : ' I could never 
 love him ' ? No : that's inadequate ; 
 for they all love a title and twenty 
 thousand a year." 
 
 Kosa sewed on in demure and ab- 
 solute silence. 
 
 " She ignores us," said Philip. 
 "It is intolerable. She does not 
 appreciate our politeness in talking 
 al her. Let us arraign her before 
 our sacred tribunal, and have 
 her into court. Now, mistress, the 
 Senate of Venice is assembled ; and 
 you must be pleased to tell us why 
 you refused a title and twenty thou- 
 sand a year, with a small but sym- 
 metrical carl tacked on." 
 
 liooa laid down her work, and 
 
 said quietly, " Undo, almost the 
 last words that passed between me 
 and my Christopher, we promised 
 each other solemnly never to marry 
 again till death should us part. You 
 know how deep my sorrow has been 
 that I can find so few wishes of my 
 lost Christopher to obey. Well, 
 to-day 1 have had an opportunity at 
 last. I have obeyed my own lost 
 one. It has cost me a tear or two ; 
 but, for all that, it has given me one 
 little gleam of happiness. Ah, 
 foolish woman, that obeys too late ! " 
 
 And with this the tears began to 
 run. 
 
 All this seemed a little too high- 
 flown to Mr. Lusignan. " There," 
 said he, " sec on what a straw her 
 mind turns ! So, but for that, you 
 would have done the right thing, aud 
 married the carl? " 
 
 " 1 dare say I should — at the time 
 — to stop his crying." 
 
 And, with this listless remark, 
 she quietly took up her sewing 
 again. 
 
 The sagacious Philip looked at 
 her sadly. He thought to himself 
 how piteous it was to see so young 
 and lovely a creature that had given 
 up all hope of happiness for herself. 
 These being his real thoughts, he 
 expressed himself as follows : " We 
 had better drop this subject, sir. 
 This young lady will take us potent, 
 grave, and reverend signors out of 
 our depth, if we don't mind." 
 
 But the moment he got her alone 
 he kissed her paternally, and said, 
 " Rosa, it is not lost on me, your 
 fidelity to the dead. As years roll 
 on, aud your deep wound first closes, 
 then skins, then heals " — 
 
 " Ah, let me die first " — 
 
 " Time and nature will absolve 
 you from that vow ; but bless you 
 for thinking this can never be. Rosa, 
 your folly of this day has made you 
 my heir : so never let money tempt 
 you, for you have enough, and wdl 
 have more than enough when I 
 go." 
 
 He was as good as his word;
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 183 
 
 altered his will next day, and made 
 Rosa his residuary legatee. 
 
 When he. had done this, foreseeing 
 no fresh occasion for his services, he 
 prepared for a long visit to Italy. 
 He was packing up his things to 
 go there, when he received a line 
 from Lady Cicely Treherne, asking 
 him to call on her professionally. 
 As the lady's servant brought it, 
 he sent back a line to say he no 
 longer practised medicine, but would 
 call on her as a friend in an hour's 
 tiiii". 
 
 He found her reclining, the pic- 
 ture of lassitude. " How good of 
 you to come ! " she drawled. 
 
 'What's the matter?" said he 
 brnskly. 
 
 "I wish to eawnsnlt you about 
 myself. I think, if anybody can 
 brighten mc op, it is you I feel 
 siuh a languor ! such a want of 
 spirit! and I tret palaa, and that is 
 not desiwable." 
 
 He examined her tongue and the 
 white of her eye, and told her, in 
 his blunt way, she ate and drank 
 too much, 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," said she stiffly. 
 
 " I mean too often. Now, let's 
 see. Cup of tea in bed, of a morn- 
 tag?" 
 
 " Yaas." 
 
 " Dinner at two? " 
 
 " We call it luncheon." 
 
 " Are vou a ventriloquist ? " 
 
 "Nu."' 
 
 " Then it is only your lips call it 
 luncheon. Your poor stomach. 
 could it speak, would call it dinner. 
 Afternoon tea ? " 
 
 " Vaas " 
 
 " At half-past seven another din- 
 ner. Tea after that, Your poor 
 unhappy stomach gets no rest. You 
 eat pastry ' " 
 
 " I confess it." 
 
 " And ragar in a do/.en forms?" 
 
 She aodded. 
 
 " Well, sugar is a poison bo your 
 temperament Now, I'll set you op, 
 if you can obey. Give up your 
 morning dram, or " — 
 16* 
 
 " What dwam ? " 
 
 " Tea in bed, before eating. 
 Can't you see that is a dram I 
 Animal food twice a day. No wine 
 but a little claret and water ; no 
 pastry, no sweets, and play battle- 
 door with one of your male subjects. " 
 
 " Battledaw ! Won't a lady' do for 
 that ? " 
 
 " No : you will get talking, and 
 not play od sudort m." 
 
 " Ad sudawem ! what is that ? " 
 
 " In earnest." 
 
 " And will sudawem and the 
 west put me in better spiwits, and 
 give me a tinge ? " 
 
 " It will incarnadine the lily, and 
 make you the happiest young lady 
 iu England, as you are the best." 
 
 " Oh, dear! 'l should like to be 
 much happier than I am good, if 
 we could manage it among us." 
 
 " We will manage it among us; 
 for, if the diet allowed should not 
 make you boisterously gay, I have 
 a remedy behind, sailed to your 
 temperament I am old-fashioned, 
 and believe in the temperament-." 
 
 " And what is that wcniedy 3 " 
 
 " Try diet and hard exercise 
 first." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! but let me know that 
 wemedy." 
 
 " I warn you it is what we call in 
 medicine an heroic one." 
 
 " .Never mind. I am despewate." 
 
 " Well, then, the heroic remedy 
 — to be used only as a desperate 
 resort, mind — you must marry an 
 Irishman." 
 
 This took the lady's breath 
 away. 
 
 " Muwwy an ice man ! " 
 " A nice man ; no ! That means 
 a fool. Marry scientifically, — a 
 thing eternally neglected. Marry an 
 Hibernian gentleman, a being as 
 mercurial as yon are lymphatic." 
 " Mercurial ! lymphatic ! " — 
 " Oh ! hard words break nobODCS, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " No. sir. And it is very curious. 
 
 No, I won't tell you. Yes, I will. 
 
 I Hem ! — 1 think I have noticed one."
 
 186 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 " One what ? " 
 
 " One Iwishman dangling after 
 me." 
 
 " Then your ladyship has only 
 to tighten the cord, and lie's done 
 for."' 
 
 Having administered this pre- 
 scription, our laughing philosopher 
 went off to Italy ; and there fell in 
 witli some countrymen to his mind : 
 so he accompanied them to Egypt 
 and Palestine. 
 
 His absence, and Lord Tadcas- 
 tcr's, made Rosa Staines's life ex- 
 tremely monotonous. Day followed 
 day, and week followed week, each 
 so unvarying, that, on a retrospect, 
 three months seemed like one 
 day. 
 
 And I think, at last, youth and 
 nature began to rebel, and secretly 
 to crave some little change or in- 
 cident to ruffle the stagnant pool. 
 Yet she would not go into society, 
 and would only receive two or three 
 dull people at the villa: so she 
 made the very monotony which was 
 beginning to tire her, and nursed a 
 sacred grief she had no need to 
 nurse, it was so truly genuine. 
 
 She was in this forlorn condition, 
 when, one morning, a carriage drove 
 to the door, and a card was brought 
 up to her — "Mr. Reginald Fal- 
 con." 
 
 Falcon's history, between this 
 and our last advices, is soon disposed 
 of. 
 
 When, after a little struggle with 
 his hetler angel, he rode past his 
 wife's gate, he intended, at first, 
 only to go to Cape Town, sell the 
 diamonds, have a lark, and bring 
 home the balance; but, as he rode 
 smith, his views expanded. He 
 could have ten times the fun in 
 London, and cheaper : since he 
 could sell the diamonds for more 
 money, and also conceal the true 
 price. This was the Bohemian's 
 whole mind in the business. He 
 had no designs whatever on Mrs. 
 Staines, nor did he intend to steal 
 
 the diamonds, but to embezzle a 
 portion of the purchase-money, and 
 enjoy the pleasures and vices of 
 the capital lor a few months ; then 
 back to his milch cow, Phcebe, and 
 lead a quiet life till the next un- 
 controllable fit should come upon 
 him along with the means of satis- 
 fying it. 
 
 On the way, he read Staines's 
 letter to Mrs. Falcon very carefully. 
 He never broke the seal of the letter 
 to Mrs. Staines. That was to be 
 given her when he had broken the 
 good news to her ; and this he de- 
 termined to do with such skill as 
 should make Dr. Staines very un- 
 willing to look suspiciously or ill- 
 naturedly into money accounts. 
 
 He reached London, and, being 
 a thorough egotist, attended first to 
 his ojivn interests. He never went 
 near Mrs. Staines until he had 
 visited every diamond merchant and 
 dealer in the metropolis. He showed 
 the small stones to them all ; but he 
 showed no more than one large 
 stone to each. 
 
 At last he got an offer of 1,200/. 
 for the small stones, and the same for 
 the large yellow stone, and 900/. 
 for the second largest stone. He 
 took this 900/., and instantly wrote 
 to Phoebe, telling her he had a sud- 
 den inspiration to bring the dia- 
 monds to England, which he could 
 not regret, since he had never done a 
 wiser thing. He had sold a single 
 stone for 800/., and had sent the 
 doctor's 400/. to her account in Cape 
 Town ; and, as each sale was effect- 
 ed, the half would be so remitted. 
 She would see by that he was wiser 
 than in former days. He should 
 only stay so long as might be neces- 
 sary to sell them all equally well. 
 His own share he would apply to 
 paying off mortgages on the family 
 estate, of which he hoped some day 
 to see her the mistress, or he would 
 send it direct to her, whichever she 
 might prefer. 
 
 Now, the main object of this art- 
 ful letter was to keep Phcebe quiet,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 187 
 
 and not nave her coming after him, 
 of which he felt she was verv capa- 
 ble. 
 
 The money got safe to Cape 
 Town ; but the letter to Phoebe mis- 
 carried. How this happened was 
 never positively known ; but the 
 servant of tbe lod^in^-house was 
 afterwards detected cutting stamps 
 off a letter : so, perhaps, she had 
 played that game on this occasion. 
 
 By this means, matters took a 
 curious turn. Falcon, intending to 
 lull his wife into a false security, 
 lulled himself into that state in- 
 stead. 
 
 When he had taken care of him- 
 self, and got 500/. to play the fool 
 with, then he condescended to re- 
 member his errand of mercy ; and 
 he came down to Gravesend to see 
 Mrs. Staines. 
 
 On the road, he gave his mind 
 seriously to the delicate and danger- 
 ous task. It dy.1 not, however, dis- 
 quiet him as it would you, sir, or 
 you, madam. He had a great ad- 
 vantage over you. He was a liar, — 
 a smooth, ready, accomplished liar, 
 — and he knew it. 
 
 This was the outline he had traced 
 in his in i lit I lie should appear 
 very subdued and sad ; should wear 
 an air of condolence. But, after a 
 while, should say, "Ami yet men 
 have been lost like that, and escaped. 
 A man was picked up on a raft in 
 those very latitudes, and brought 
 into Cape Town. A friend of mine 
 saw him, months after, at the hospi- 
 tal. His memory was shaken ; 
 could not tell his name : hut in 
 other respect! he was all right 
 again." 
 
 If Mrs. Staines took fire at this, 
 he would say his friend knew all the 
 particulars, and he would ask him, 
 ami bo leave that to rankle till next 
 vi>it. And, having planted his 
 germ of hope, he would grow it 
 
 and w.iter it, by visits and corre- 
 spondence, till he could throw 
 oil' the mask, anil say he was con- 
 vinced Staines was alive ; and from 
 
 that, by other degrees, till he could 
 say, on his wile's authority, that 
 the man picked up at sea, and cured 
 at her house, was the very physi- 
 cian who had saved her brother's 
 life, and so on to the overwhelm- 
 ing proof he carried in the ruby 
 ring and the letter. 
 
 I am afraid the cunning and 
 dexterity, the subtlety and tact, re- 
 quired, interested him more in the 
 commission than did the benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 He called, sent up his card, and 
 composed his countenance for his 
 part, like an actor at the wing. 
 
 "Not at home." 
 
 He stared with amazement. 
 
 The history of a " Not at home," 
 is not, in general, worth recording ; 
 but this is an exception. 
 
 On receiving Falcon's card, Mrs. 
 Staines gave a little start, and col- 
 ored faintly. She instantly re- 
 solved not to sec him. What ! the 
 man she had tlirted with, almost 
 jilted, and refused to marry — he 
 dared to be alive when her Chris- 
 topher was dead, and had come 
 there to show her he was alive ! 
 
 She said " Not at home " with a 
 tone of unusual sharpness and de- 
 cision, which left the servant in no 
 doubt he must be equally decided at 
 the hall door. 
 
 Falcon received the sudden freezer 
 with amazement. "Nonsense," said 
 he, " Not at home at this time of 
 the morning — to an old friend !" 
 
 "Not at home! "said the man 
 doggedly. 
 
 "Oh, very w.d! ! " said Falcon 
 with a bitter sneer, and returned to 
 London. 
 
 lie felt sure she was at home; 
 and, being a tremendous egotist, be 
 said, " Oh ! all right. If she would 
 rather not know her husband is 
 alive, it is all one to me." And he 
 actually took no more notice other 
 
 for full a week, and never thought 
 of her except to chuckle over the 
 
 penalty she was paying lor daring 
 to ailiout hi. nuuty.
 
 185 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 However, Sunday came. He saw 
 a dull day before him ; and so he 
 relented, and thought he would give 
 her another trial. 
 
 He went down to Gravescnd by 
 boat, and strolled towards the villa. 
 
 When he was about a hundred 
 yards from the villa, a lady, all in 
 black, came out with a nurse and 
 child. 
 
 Falcon knew her figure all that 
 way off, and it gave him a curious 
 thrill that surprised him. He fol- 
 lowed her, and was not very far 
 behind her when she reached the 
 church. She turned at the porch, 
 kissed the child earnestly, and gave 
 the nurse some directions; then 
 entered the church. 
 
 " Come," said Falcon, " I'll have 
 a look at her, any way." 
 
 He went into the church, and 
 walked up a side aisle to a pillar, 
 from which he thought he might be 
 able to see the whole congregation. 
 And, sure enough, there she sat a 
 few yards from him. She was 
 lovelier than ever. Mind had 
 grown on her face with trouble. An 
 angelic expression illuminated her 
 beauty ; he gazed on her, fascinated. 
 He drank and drank her beauty two 
 mortal hours ; and when the church 
 broke up, and she went home, he 
 was half afraid to follow her, lor he 
 felt how hard it would be to say 
 any thing to her but that the old 
 love had returned on him with 
 double force. 
 
 However, having watched her 
 home, he walked slowly to and fro, 
 composing himself for the inter- 
 view. 
 
 He now determined to make the 
 process of informing her a very long 
 one. He would spin it out, and so 
 secure many a sweet interview with 
 her : and, who knows 1 he might 
 fascinate her as she had him, and 
 ripen gratitude into love, as he 
 understood that word. 
 
 He called ; he sent in his card. 
 The man went in, and came back 
 with a sonorous " Not at home." 
 
 " Not at home 1 Nonsense. Why 
 she is just come in from church." 
 
 "Not at home," said the man, 
 evidently strong in his instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 Falcon turned white with rage at 
 this second affront. " All the worse 
 for her," said he, and turned on his 
 heel. 
 
 He went home raging with dis- 
 appointment and wounded vanity ; 
 and — since such love as his is sel- 
 dom very far from hate — he swore 
 she should never know from him 
 that her husband was alive. He 
 even moralized. " This comes of 
 being so unselfish," said he. " I'll 
 give that game up forever " 
 
 By and by a mere negative re- 
 venge was not enough for him ; and 
 he set his wits to work to make her 
 smart and sec it. 
 
 He wrote to her from his lodg- 
 ings : — 
 
 " Dear Madam* — What a pity 
 you are never at home to me. I 
 had something to say about your 
 husband, that I thought might in- 
 terest you. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " R. Falcon." 
 
 Imagine the effect of this abomi- 
 nable note. It was like a rock 
 Hung into a placid pool. It set Rosa 
 trembling all over. What could he 
 mean % 
 
 She ran with it to her father, and 
 asked him what Mr. Falcon could 
 mean. 
 
 " I have no idea," said he. " You 
 had better ask him, not me." 
 
 " I am afraid it is only to get to 
 sec me. You know he admired inc 
 once. Ah, how suspicious I am 
 getting ! " 
 
 Rosa wrote to Falcon : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Since my be- 
 reavement I see scarcely anybody. 
 My servant did not know you : so 
 I hope you will excuse me. If it is 
 too much trouble to call airain,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 189 
 
 would you kindly explain your note 
 to me by letter. 
 
 " Yours respectfully, 
 
 "Kosa Staines." 
 
 Falcon chuckled bitterly over this. 
 " No, my lady," said he, " I'll serve 
 you out. You shall run after me 
 like a little dog. I have got the 
 bone that will draw you." 
 
 He wrote back coldly to say that 
 the matter he had wished to com- 
 municate was too delicate and im- 
 portant to put on paper ; that he 
 would try andgetdown loGravesend 
 again some day or other, but was 
 much occupied, and had already 
 put himself to inconvenience. He 
 added, in a postscript, that he was 
 always at home from four to five. 
 
 Next day he got hold of the ser- 
 vant, and gave her minute instrue 
 tiona and a guinea. 
 
 Then the wretch got some tools, 
 and bored a hole in the partition- 
 wall of his sitting-room. The paper 
 had large ilowers. He was artist 
 enough to conceal the trick with 
 watiT-colors. In his bedroom the 
 hole came behind the curtains. 
 
 That very afternoon, as he had 
 foreseen, Mrs. Staines called on him. 
 The maid, duly instructed, said Mr. 
 Falcon was out, but would soon 
 return, and she could wait liis re- 
 turn. The maid being so very civil, 
 Mrs. Staines said she would wait a 
 little while, and was immediately 
 ushered into Falcon's sitting-room. 
 There she sat down, but was evi- 
 dently ill at ease, restless, flushed. 
 She could not sit quiet, and at lust 
 began to walk up and down the 
 room, almost wildly. Her beauti- 
 ful eyes glittered, and the whole 
 woman seemed on lire. The eni- 
 tiif. who was watching her, saw and 
 gloated on all this, and enjoyed to 
 the full her beauty and agitation, 
 and his revenge for her " Not at 
 homes." 
 
 Hut, after a long time, there whs 
 a re-action. She sal down, and ut- 
 tered some plaintive sounds inarti- 
 
 culate, or nearly; and at last she 
 began to cry. 
 
 Then it cost Faclon an effort not 
 to come in and comfort her; but he 
 controlled himself, and kept quiet. 
 
 She rang the bell. She asked 
 for writing paper; and she wrote 
 her unseen tormentor a humble 
 tiote, begging him, for old acquaint- 
 ance, to cali on her, and tell her 
 what his mysterious words meant 
 that had filled her with agitation. 
 
 This done, she went away, with 
 a deep sigh ; and Falcon emerged, 
 and pounced upon her letter. 
 
 He kissed it ; he read it a dozen 
 times. He sat down where she had 
 sat; and his baseless passion over- 
 powered him. Her beauty, her agi- 
 tation, her fear, her tears, all com- 
 bined to madden him, and do the 
 devil's work in his false, selfish heart, 
 so open to violent passions, so dead 
 to conscience. 
 
 For once in his life he was vio- 
 lently agitated, and torn by conflict- 
 ing feelings. He walked about the 
 room more wildly than his victim 
 had; and if it be true, that in cer- 
 tain great temptations, good and had 
 angels tight for a man, here you 
 might have seen as tierce a battle of 
 that kind as ever was. 
 
 At last he rushed out into the 
 air, and did not return till ten 
 o'clock at night. lie came back 
 pale and haggard, and with a look 
 of crime in his face. 
 
 True Bohemian as he was, he 
 sent for a pint of brandy. 
 
 So, then, the die was cast; and 
 something was to be done tiiat 
 needed brandy. 
 
 He bolted himself in, and drank a 
 
 wine-glass ofit neat; then another; 
 
 then another. 
 
 Now his pale che k is Hashed, 
 and his eye glitters. Drink for- 
 ever! great ruin of English souls, 
 as well as bodies. 
 
 lie put the poker in the fire, ami 
 
 healed il red hot. 
 
 He brought Staines's letter, and 
 softened the sealing-wax with the
 
 190 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 hot poker ; then, with hispen-knife, 
 made a neat incision in the wax, 
 and opened the letter. He took 
 out the ring, and put it carefully 
 away. Then he lighted a cigar, 
 and lead the letter, and studied it. 
 Many a man, capable of murder in 
 heat of passion, could not have 
 resisted the pathos of this letter. 
 Many a Newgate thief, after reading 
 it, would have felt such pity for the 
 loving husband who had suffered to 
 the verge of death, and then to the 
 brink of madness, and for the poor 
 hereaved wife, that he would have 
 taken the letter down to Gravesend 
 that very night, though he picked 
 two fresh pockets to defray the ex- 
 penses of the road. 
 
 But this was an egotist. Good- 
 nature had curbed his egotism a 
 little while ; but now vanity and 
 passion had swept away all unselfish 
 feelings, and the pure egotist alone 
 remained. 
 
 Now, the pure egotist has been 
 defined as a man who will burn 
 down his neigltbvr's house to cook 
 himself an egg. Murder is but ego- 
 tism carried out to its natural cli- 
 max. What is murder to a pure 
 egotist, especially a brandied one 1 
 
 I knew an egotist who met a 
 female acquaintance in Newhaven 
 village. She had a one-pound note, 
 and offered to treat him. She 
 changed this note to treat him. 
 Fish she gave him, and much whis- 
 key. Cost her four shillings. He 
 ate and drank with her at her ex- 
 pense ; and, his principal blood-ves- 
 sel being warmed with her whiskey, 
 he murdered her for the change, — 
 the odd sixteen shillings. 
 
 I had the pleasure of seeing that 
 egotist hung, with these eyes. It 
 was a slice of hick, that, I grieve to 
 say, has not occurred again to me. 
 So much for a whiskeyed egotist. 
 His less truculent, but equally 
 remorseless, brother in villany, the 
 brandied egotist, Falcon, could read 
 that poor husband's letter without 
 blenching. The love and the antici- 
 
 pations of rapture — these made him 
 writhe a little with jealousy; but 
 they roused not a grain of pity. He 
 was a true egotist, blind, remorse- 
 less. 
 
 In this his true character he stud- 
 ied the letter profoundly, and mas- 
 tered all the facts, and digested 
 them well. 
 
 All manner of diabolical artifices 
 presented themselves to his brain, 
 barren of true intellect, yet fertile 
 in fraud, but in that, and all low 
 cunning and subtlety, far more than 
 a match for Solomon or Bacon. 
 
 His sinister studies were persisted 
 in far into the night. Then he 
 went to bed ; and his unbounded 
 egotism gave him the sleep a grand- 
 er criminal would have courted in 
 vain on the verge of a monstrous 
 and deliberate crime. 
 
 Next day he went to a fashiona- 
 ble tailor, and ordered a complete 
 suit of black. This was made in 
 forty-eight hours : the interval was 
 spent mainly in concocting lies to be 
 incorporated with the number of mi- 
 nute facts he had gathered from 
 Staines's letter, and in making close 
 imitations of his handwriting. 
 
 Thus armed, and crammed with 
 more lies than the" Mcnteur" of 
 Corneille, but not such innocent 
 ones, he went down to Gravesend, all 
 in deep mourning, with crape round 
 his hat. 
 
 He presented himself at the villa. 
 
 The servant was all obsequious- 
 ness. Yes, Mrs. Staines received 
 few visitors ; but she was at home 
 to him. He even began to falter 
 excuses. " Nonsense," said Falcon, 
 and slipped a sovereign into his 
 hand. " You are a good servant," 
 and obey orders." 
 
 The servant's respect doubled ; 
 and he ushered the visitor into the 
 drawing-room, as one whose name 
 was a passport. " Mr. Reginald 
 Falcon, madam." 
 
 Mrs. Staines was alone. She 
 rose to meet him. Her color came 
 and went. Her full eye fell on him,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 191 
 
 and took in all at a glance, — that 
 he was all in black, and that he 
 had a beard, and looked pale, and ill 
 at ease. 
 
 Little dreaming that this was the 
 anxiety of a felon about to take the 
 actual plunge into a novel crime, 
 she was rather prepossessed by it. 
 The beard gave him dignity, and 
 hid his cruel mouth. His black 
 suit seemed to say he, too, had lost 
 some one dear to him ; and that 
 was a ground of sympathy. 
 
 She received him kindly, and 
 thanked him for taking the trouble 
 to come again. She begged him to 
 lie seated, and then, woman-like, 
 she waited for him to explain. 
 
 But he was in no hurry, and 
 waited for her. He knew she would 
 speak if he was silent. 
 
 She could not keep him waiting 
 long. " Mr. Falcon," said she, hesi- 
 tating a little, " you have something 
 to say to me about him I have lost." 
 
 " Yes," said he softly. " I have 
 something I could say ; and I think 
 I ought to say it : but I am afraid ; 
 because I don't know what will be 
 the result. I fear to make you more 
 unhappy." 
 
 " Me *! more unhappy ? Me, whose 
 dear husband lies at the bottom of 
 the ocean. Other poor wounded 
 creatures have the wretched comfort 
 of knowing where he lies, of carry- 
 ing flowers to his tomb; but I — 
 <) Mr. Falcon! I am bereaved of 
 all: even his poor remains lost, 
 lost." She CO 111 d say no more. 
 
 Even that craven heart began to 
 quake at what he was doing, — 
 quaked, yet persevered ; but his own 
 voice quivered, and his cheek grew 
 ashy pale. No wonder. If ever 
 
 God condescended to pour his light- 
 ning on a skunk, surely now was 
 the time. 
 
 Shaking and sweating with ter- 
 ror at his own act, he stammered 
 out. " Would it be tli" least comfort 
 to you to know that you are not 
 
 denied that poor consolation ! Sup- 
 pose ho died not so miserable as you 
 
 think ? Suppose he was picked up 
 at sea, in a dying state ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " Suppose he lingered, nursed by 
 kind and sympathizing hands, that 
 almost saved him ? Suppose he was 
 laid in hallowed ground, and a 
 great many tears shed over his 
 grave i " 
 
 " Ah, that would indeed be a com- 
 fort ! And it was to say this you 
 came. I thank you ! I bless you ! 
 But my good, kind friend, you are 
 deceived. You don't know my 
 husband. You never saw him. lie 
 perished at sea." 
 
 " Will it be kind, or unkind, to 
 tell you why I think he died as I 
 tell you, and not at sea? " 
 
 " Kind, but impossible. You de- 
 ceive yourself. Ah! I se°. You 
 found some poor sufferer, and were 
 good to him ; but it was not mv 
 poor Christie. Oh, if it were, I 
 should worship you! But I thank 
 you, as it is. It was very kind to 
 want to give mc this little, little 
 crumb of comfort; for I know I did 
 not b have well to you, sir : but you 
 are generous, and have forgiven a 
 poor heart-broken creature that 
 never was very wise." 
 
 He jrave her time to cry, and then 
 said to her, " I only wanted to be 
 sure it would be any comfort to you. 
 Mrs. Staines, it is true I did not 
 even know his name, nor yours. 
 When I met, in this very room, the 
 great disappointment that his sad- 
 dened my own life, I left England 
 
 directly. 1 collected funds, went to 
 
 Natal, and turned landowner and 
 farmer. I have made a large fori line ; 
 but I need not tell you I am not 
 happy. Well, I had a yacht, and, 
 Bailing from Cape Town to A 
 Bay, I picked up a rait with a Ay- 
 ing man on it. lie was perishing 
 
 Of exhaustion and exposure. I 
 
 a little brandy between his lips, and 
 
 kept him alive. I landed \, ilh him 
 at once : ;unl we nursed him on 
 shore. We had to be very cant ions. 
 I !c improvi I. We gol him to take
 
 192 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 egg-flip. He smiled on us at first, 
 and then he thanked us. I nursed 
 him day and night for ten days. 
 He got much stronger. He spoke 
 to me, thanked me again and again, 
 and told mc his name was Chris- 
 topher Staines. He told me he 
 should never get well. I implored 
 him to have courage. He said lie 
 did not want for courage ; hut 
 nature had heen tried too hard. We 
 got so fond of each other. Oh ! " — 
 and the caitiff pretended to break 
 down ; and his feigned grief mingled 
 with Rosa's despairing sobs. 
 
 He made an apparent effort, and 
 said, " He spoke to me of his wife, 
 his darling Rosa. The name made 
 me start fbut I could not know it 
 was you. At last he was strong 
 enough to write a few lines ; and he 
 made me promise to take them to 
 his wife." 
 
 " Ah 1 " said Rosa. " Show them 
 me." 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " This moment ! " And her hands 
 began to work convulsively. 
 
 " I cannot," said Falcon. " I have 
 not brought them with me." 
 
 Rosa cast a keen eye of suspicion 
 and terror on him. His not bring- 
 ing the letter seemed monstrous ; 
 and so, indeed, it was. The fact is, 
 the letter was not written. 
 
 Falcon affected not to notice her 
 keen look. lie flowed on, " The ad- 
 dress he put on that letter astonished 
 me. ' Kent Villa.' Of course I 
 knew Kent Villa : and he called 
 you » Kosa.' " 
 
 " How could you come to me 
 without that letter ? " cried Rosa, 
 wringing her hands. " How am I to 
 know 1 It is all so strange, so in- 
 credible ! " 
 
 "Don't you believe mc?" said 
 Falcon sadly. " Why should I de- 
 cisive you ? The first time I came 
 down to tell yon all this, I did not 
 know who Mrs. Staines was. 1 sus- 
 pected, hut no more. The second 
 time, I saw you in the church; and 
 
 then I knew, and followed you, to 
 try and tell you all this ; and you 
 were not at home to me." 
 
 "Forgive me," said Rosa care- 
 lessly : then, earnestly, " The letter 
 — when can I see it ? " 
 
 " I will send or brinjT it." 
 
 " Bring it ! I am in agony till I 
 see it. O my darling ! my dar- 
 ling ! It can't be true. It was not 
 my Christie. He lies in the depths 
 of ocean. Lord Tadcaster was in the 
 ship, and he says so : everybody 
 says so." 
 
 " And I say he sleeps in hallowed 
 ground ; and these hands laid him 
 there." ■ 
 
 Rosa lifted her hands to heaven, 
 and cried piteously, " I don't kuow 
 what to think. You would not will- 
 ingly deceive me. But how can this 
 be 1 Uncle Philip ! why are j'ou 
 away from me'? Sir, you say he 
 gave you a letter." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh ! why, why, did you not 
 briny- it ? " 
 
 " Because he told me the contents ; 
 and I thought he prized my poor 
 efforts too highly. . It did not oc- 
 cur to mc you would doubt my 
 word." 
 
 " Ob, no ! no more I do. But I 
 fear it was not my Christie." 
 
 "I'll go for the letter at once, 
 Mrs. Staines." 
 
 "Oh, thank you ! Bless you ! 
 Yes, this minute ! " 
 
 The artful rogue did not go ; 
 never intended. 
 
 He rose to go, but had a sudden 
 inspiration ; very sudden, of course. 
 " Had he nothing about him you 
 could recognize him by ? " 
 
 " Yes, he had a ring I gave him " 
 
 Falcon took a 
 lope out of his pocket 
 
 "A ruby ring," said she, begin- 
 ning to tremble at his epiiet ac- 
 tion. 
 
 " Is that it 1 " and he handed her 
 a ruby ring. 
 
 nack-edged enve-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Mrs. Staines uttered a sharpen-, 
 and seized the ring. Her eyes di- 
 lated over it, and she began to trem- 
 ble in every limb ; and at last she 
 sank slowly back, and her head 
 fell on one side like a broken lily. 
 The sudden sight of the ring over- 
 powered her almost to fainting. 
 
 Falcon rose to call for assistance ; 
 hut she made him a feeble motion 
 not to do si i. 
 
 She got the better of her faint- 
 ness ; and then she fell to kiss- 
 ing the ring in an agony of love, 
 and wept over it, and still held it, 
 and gazed at it through her blinding 
 tears. 
 
 Falcon eyed her uneasily. 
 
 But he soon found he had noth- 
 ing to (ear. For a long time she 
 seemed scarcely aware of his pres- 
 ence ; and, when she noticed him, 
 it was to thank him almost passion- 
 ately. 
 
 " It was my Christie you were so 
 good to. May Heaven bless you for 
 it ! And you will bring me his letter ; 
 will von not '? " 
 
 " Of course I will." 
 
 " ( >h ! do not go yet. It is all so 
 Strange, so sad ! I seem to have 
 lo>t my poor Christie again, since 
 lie did not die at sea. But no : I am 
 ungrateful to God, and ungrateful 
 to the kind friend that nursed him 
 to the last, Ah, I envy you that! 
 Tell me all. Never mind my cry- 
 ing, I have seen the time I could 
 not cry. It was worse then than 
 HOW. I shall always cry when 1 
 speak of him ; ay, to my dying day. 
 Tell me, tell me all." 
 
 Her passion frightened the ego- 
 tist, but did not turn him. He had 
 gone too far. He told her, that, 
 after raising all their hopes, Dr. 
 
 Staines had suddenly changed lor 
 the wor-t. ami sunk rapidly; that 
 his last words had been about her ; 
 
 and he had said, " My poor ROM : 
 
 vho will proteel her ! " That, to 
 
 Comfort him, he had said he would 
 
 17 
 
 protect her. Then the dying man 
 had managed to write aline or two, 
 and to address it. Almost his last 
 words had been, " Be a father to 
 my child." 
 
 " That is strange." 
 
 " You have no child ? Then it 
 must have been you he meant. He 
 spoke of you as a child more than 
 once." 
 
 " Mr. Falcon, I have a child, but 
 born since I lost my poor child's 
 father." 
 
 " Then I think he knew it. They 
 say that dying men can see all over 
 the world ; and I remember, when 
 he said it, his eyes seemed fixed 
 very strangely, as if on something 
 distant. Oh, how strange this ail 
 is ! May I sec his child, to whom I 
 promised " — 
 
 The artist in lies left his sentence 
 half completed. 
 
 Rosa rang, and sent for her little 
 boy. 
 
 Mr. Falcon admired his beauty, 
 and said quietly, " I shall keep my 
 vow." 
 
 He then left her with a promise 
 to come back early next morning 
 with the letter. 
 
 She let him go only on those con 
 ditions. 
 
 As soon as her. father came in, 
 she ran to him with this strange 
 story. 
 
 "I don't believe it," said he. 
 " It is impossible." 
 
 She showed him the proof, — 
 the ruby ring. 
 
 Then he became very uneasy, anil 
 begged her not to tell a soul. Ho 
 dd not tell her the reason; but he 
 feared the insurance office would hear 
 of it, and require proofs of < Ihristo- 
 pher's decea e : whereas they had 
 accepted it without a murmur, on 
 
 the evidence Ol I !apt Hamilton and 
 
 I wphitrite's log-book. 
 
 As tor Falcon, be went carefully 
 
 through Staines's two letters ; and, 
 
 wherever he found a word that 
 
 suited his purpose, he traced it by 
 I the usual process ; and so, in tho
 
 194 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 course of a few hours, he concoct- 
 ed a short letter, all the words in 
 which, except three, were facsimiles, 
 only here and there a little shaky. 
 The three odd words he had to imi- 
 tate by observation of the letters. 
 The signature he got to perfection 
 by tracing. 
 
 He inserted this letter in the origi- 
 nal envelope, and scaled it very 
 carefully, so as to hide that the seal 
 had been tampered with. 
 
 Thus armed, he went down to 
 Gravesend. There he hired a horse, 
 and rode to Kent Villa. 
 
 Why he hired a horse, he knew 
 how hard it is to forge handwriting ; 
 and he chose to have the means of 
 escape at hand. 
 
 He came into the drawing-room, 
 ghastly pale, and almost immedi- 
 ately gave her the letter ; then 
 turned his back, feigning delicacy. 
 In reality, he was quaking with 
 fear, lest she should suspect the 
 handwriting. But the envelope was 
 addressed by Staines, and paved the 
 way for the letter. She was unsus- 
 picious and good ; and her heart 
 cried out for her husband's last 
 written words. At such a moment 
 what chance had judgment and sus- 
 picion in an innocent and loving 
 soul ? 
 
 Her eloquent sighs and sobs soon 
 told the craven he had nothing to 
 fear. 
 
 The letter ran thus : — 
 
 " My own Rosa, — 
 
 " All that a brother could do for 
 a beloved brother Falcon has done. 
 He nursed me night and day. But 
 it is vain. I shall never see you 
 again in this world. I send you a 
 protector, and a father to your child. 
 Value him. He has promised to 
 be your stay on earth ; and my spirit 
 shall watch over you. 
 
 " To my last breath, 
 " Your loving husband, 
 
 "Christopher Staines." 
 
 Falcon rose, and began to steal 
 "^n tiptoe out of the room. 
 
 Rosa stopped him. " You need 
 not go," said she. " You are our 
 friend. By and by I hope I shall 
 find words to thank you." 
 
 " Fray let me retire a moment," 
 said the hypocrite. "A husband's 
 last words ; too sacred — a stran- 
 ger." And he went out into the 
 garden. There he found the nurse- 
 maid Emily, and the little boy. 
 
 He stopped the child, and made 
 love to the nursemaid ; showed her 
 his diamonds (he carried them all 
 about him) ; told her he had thirty 
 thousand acres in Cape Colony, and 
 diamonds on them ; and was going 
 to buy thirty thousand more of the 
 government. " Here, take one," 
 said he. "Oh! you needn'theshy. 
 They are common enough on my 
 estates. I'll tell you what, though, 
 you could not buy that for less than 
 thirty pounds at any shop in Lon- 
 don. Could she, my little duck 1 
 Never mind, it is no brighter than 
 her eyes. Now, do you know what 
 she will do with that, Master Chris- 
 tie'? She will give it to some duff- 
 er to put in a pin." 
 
 " She won't do nothing of the 
 kind," said Emily, flushing all over. 
 " She is not such a fool." She then 
 volunteered to tell him she had no 
 sweetheart, and did not trouble her 
 head about young men at all. He 
 interpreted this to mean she was 
 looking out for one. So do I. 
 
 "No sweetheart!" said he ; "and 
 the prettiest girl I have seen since 
 I landed. Then I put in for the sit- 
 uation." 
 
 Here, seeing the footman coming, 
 he bestowed a most paternal kiss on 
 little Christie, and saying, " Not a 
 word to John, or no more diamonds 
 from me," he moved carefully away, 
 leaving the girl all in a flutter 
 with extravagant hopes. 
 
 The next moment this wolf in the 
 sheepfold entered the drawing-room. 
 Mrs. Staines was not there. He 
 waited and waited, and began to 
 get rather uneasy, as men will who 
 walk among pitfalls.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 195 
 
 Presently the footman came to 
 say that Mrs. Staines was with her 
 father, in his study ; but she would 
 come to him in five minutes. 
 
 This increased his anxiety. 
 "What ! She was taking advice of 
 an older head. He began to be 
 very seriously alarmed, and indeed 
 had pretty well made up his mind 
 to go down and gallop off, when 
 the door opened, and Rosa came 
 hastily in. Her eyes were very red 
 with "weeping. She came to him 
 with both hands extended to him. 
 He gave her his timidly. She 
 pressed them with such earnestness 
 and power as he could not have mis- 
 
 Iiccted ; and thanked him and 
 ilessed him with such a torrent of 
 eloquence, that he hung his head 
 witli shame. And being unable to 
 lace it out, villain as he was, yet 
 still artful to the core, he pretended 
 to burst out crying, and ran out of 
 the room, and rode away. 
 
 Ilr waited two days, and then 
 called again. Rosa reproached him 
 tiv for going before she had 
 half thanked him. 
 
 "All the better," said he. "I 
 have been thanked a great deal too 
 much already. Who would not do 
 his best for a dying countryman, 
 and fight night and day to save 
 him for his wile and child at home ? 
 If I had succeeded, then I would 
 be greedy of praise: but now it 
 makes me blush; it makes me very 
 bad " 
 
 " You did your best," said Rosa 
 tearfully. 
 
 "Ah"! that I did. Indeed 1 was 
 ill for weeks after myself, through 
 the strain upon niv mind, and tin' 
 disappointment, and going so many 
 nights without Bleep. But don't 
 
 Irl OS talk of that." 
 
 " Do you know what my darling 
 savs to mi' in my letti r ' " 
 
 " \o." 
 
 "Would you like to see it ' " 
 " Indeed 1 should ; but I have no 
 right." 
 
 •' Every right. It is the only 
 
 mark of esteem, worth any thing, I 
 can show you." 
 
 She handed him the letter, and 
 buried her own face in her hands. 
 
 He read it, and acted the deepest 
 emotion. 
 
 He handed it back without a 
 word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 From this time Falcon was al- 
 ways welcome at Kent Villa. He 
 fascinated everybody in the house. 
 He renewed his acquaintance with 
 .Mr. Lusignan, and got asked to 
 stay a week in the house. He 
 showed Rosa and her father the 
 diamonds ; and, the truth must lie 
 owned, they made Rosa's eyes 
 sparkle for the first time this eight- 
 een months. He insinuated, rather 
 than declared, his enormous wealth. 
 
 In reply to the old man's eager 
 questions, as the large diamonds 
 lay glittering on the table, and 
 pointed every word, he said that a 
 few of his Hottentots had found 
 these for him. lie had made them 
 dig on a diamond! ferous part of his 
 estate, just by way of testing the 
 matter ; and this was the result, — 
 this, anil a much larger stone, for 
 which he had received eight thou- 
 sand pounds from l'osno. 
 
 " II I was a young man," said 
 Lusignan,"] would go out direct- 
 ly, and dig on your estate." 
 
 "I would not let you do any 
 thing so paltry," said " le menteur. 
 '• Why, my dear sir, there are no 
 fortunes to he made by grubbing for 
 diamonds. The fortunes me made 
 
 out of the diamonds, hut not in that 
 way. Now, I have thirty thousand 
 aetes, und .unjust concluding a bar- 
 gain for thirty thousand more, <>n 
 
 which I happen to know there are 
 
 diamonds in a sly corner. Well, on 
 
 my t bitty thousand tried acres, a 
 hundred o:dy are diainondife' 
 Bul 1 have lour thousand thirty-
 
 196 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 foot claims, leased at ten shillings 
 per month. Count that up." 
 
 " Why, it is twenty-four thou- 
 sand pounds a year." 
 
 " Excuse me : you must deduct a 
 thousand a year for the expenses of 
 collection. But that is only one 
 
 fhase of the business. I have a 
 arge inn upon each of the three 
 great routes from the diamonds to 
 the coast; and these inns are sup- 
 plied with the produce of my own 
 farms. Mark the effect of the dia- 
 monds on property. My sixty 
 thousand acres which arc not dia- 
 mond iterous will very soon be 
 worth as much as sixty thousand 
 English acres, say two pounds the 
 acre, per annum. That is under 
 the mark ; because, in Africa, the 
 land is not burdened with poor- 
 rates, tithes, and all the other ini- 
 quities that crush the English land- 
 owner, as I know to my cost. But 
 that is not all, sir. Would you be- 
 lieve it 1 Even after the diamonds 
 were declared, the people put there 
 had so little foresight, that they 
 allowed me to buy land all round. 
 Port Elizabeth, Natal, and Cape 
 Town, the three ports through 
 which the world gets at the dia- 
 monds, and the diamonds get at the 
 world, — I have got a girdle of land 
 round those three outlets, bought 
 by the acre : in two years I shall 
 sell it by the yard. Believe me, sir, 
 English fortunes, even the largest, 
 are mere child's play, compared 
 with the colossal wealth a man can 
 accumulate, if he looks beyond 
 these great discoveries to their con- 
 sequences, and lets others grub for 
 him. But what is the use of it all 
 to me ? " said this Bohemian with 
 a sigh. " I have no taste for luxu- 
 ries, no love of display. I have 
 not even charity to dispense on a 
 large scale ; for there are no deserv- 
 ing poor out there. And the pover- 
 ty that springs from vice — that I 
 never will encourage." 
 
 John heard nearly all this, and 
 took it into the kitchen ; and hence- 
 
 forth Adoration was the only word 
 for this prince of men, this rare 
 combination of the Adonis and the 
 millionnaire. 
 
 He seldom held such discourses 
 before Rosa, but talked her father 
 into an impression of his boundless 
 wealth, and half reconciled him to 
 Rosa's refusal of Lord Tadcaster; 
 since here was an old suitor, who, 
 doubtless, with a little encourage- 
 ment, would soon come on again. 
 
 Under this impression, Mr. Lu- 
 signan gave Falcon more than a lit- 
 tle encouragement ; and, as Rosa 
 did not resist, he became a con- 
 stant visitor at the villa, and was 
 always there from Saturday to Mon- 
 day. 
 
 He exerted all his art of pleasing; 
 and he succeeded. He was welcome 
 to Rosa, and she made no secret of 
 it. 
 
 Emily threw herself in his way, 
 and had many a sly talk with him 
 while he was pretending to be en- 
 gaged with young Christie. He 
 flattered her, and made her sweet 
 on him, but was too much in love 
 with Rosa, after his fashion, to flirt 
 seriously with her. He thought he 
 might want her services : so he 
 worked upon her after this fashion, 
 — asked her if she would like to 
 keep an inn. 
 
 "Wouldn't I just?" said she 
 frankly. 
 
 Then he told her, that, if all went 
 to his wish in England, she should 
 be landlady of one of his inns in the 
 Cape Colony. " And you will get 
 a good husband out there directly," 
 said he. " Beauty is a very uncom- 
 mon thing in those parts. But I 
 shall ask you to marry somebody 
 who can help you in the business, 
 or not to marry at all." 
 
 " I wish I had the inn ! " said 
 Emily. " Husbands are soon got 
 when a girl hasn't her face only to 
 look to." 
 
 " Well, I promise you the inn," 
 said he, "and a good outfit of 
 clothes, and money in both pockets,
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 197 
 
 if you will do me a good turn here 
 in England." 
 
 " That I would, sir. But laws, 
 what can a pour girl like me do for 
 a rich gentleman like you ? " 
 
 " Can you keep a secret, Emily ? " 
 
 '• Nobody better. You try me, 
 sir." 
 
 He looked at her well ; saw she 
 was one of those who could keep a 
 secret if she chose ; and he resolved 
 to risk it. 
 
 " Emily, my girl," said he sadly, 
 "I am an unhappy man." 
 
 "You, sir! Why you didn't 
 ought to be." 
 
 " I am, then. I am in love, and 
 cannot win her." 
 
 Then he told the girl a pretty 
 tender tale, that he had loved .Mrs. 
 Staines when she was Miss Lusig- 
 nan ; had thought himself beloved 
 in turn, but was rejected. And now, 
 though she was a widow, he had 
 not the courage to court her : her 
 heart was in the grave. He spoke 
 in such a broken voice that the girl's 
 good nature Fought against her little 
 pique at finding bow little he was 
 Smitten with her; and Falcon soon 
 found means to array her cupidity 
 on the side of her good nature. lie 
 gave her a five-pound note to buy 
 glove-, and promised her a fortune ; 
 and she undertook to be s crct as 
 the grave, and Bay certain things 
 adroitly to Mrs. Staines. 
 
 Accordingly, this young woman 
 omitted no opportunity of dropping 
 a word in favor of Falcon. For 
 one thing, she s.iid to Mrs. Staines, 
 " Mr. Falcon inust be very fond of 
 children, ma'am. Why, lie worships 
 Master Christie." 
 
 " Indeed ! 1 have not observed 
 that." 
 
 ■• Why, no, nui'ani. lie is rather 
 shy over it; hut, when he sees us 
 alone, he is sure to come to us, and 
 say, ' Let me look at my child, 
 nurse : ' unci he do seem lit to I it 
 him. Oust he says to me, 'This 
 hoy is niv heir, nurse ' What did 
 he mean by that, ma'am '.' " 
 17' 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Is he any kin to you, ma'am ? " 
 
 " None whatever. You must have 
 misunderstood hitn. You should 
 not repeat all that people say." 
 
 " No, ma'am : only I did think it 
 so odd. Poor gentleman ! I don't 
 think he is happy, for all his money." 
 
 " He is too good to be unhappy 
 all his life." 
 
 " So I think, ma'am." 
 
 These conversations were always 
 short ; for Rosa, though she was too 
 kind and gentle to snub the girl, was 
 also too delicate to give the least en- 
 couragement to her gossip. 
 
 But Bosa's was a mind that could 
 be worked upon ; and these short but 
 repeated eulogies were not altogether 
 
 without effect. 
 
 At last, the insidious Falcon, by 
 not making his approaches in a way 
 to alarm her, acquired her friendship 
 as well as her gratitude; and, in 
 short, she got used to him, and liked 
 him. Not being hound by any limit 
 of fact whatever, he entertained her, 
 and took her out of herself a little 
 by extemporaneous pictures. He 
 told her all his thrilling adventures 
 by tlood and field, not one of which 
 had ever occurred; yet he made them 
 all sound like truth. lie invented 
 strange characters, and set them 
 talking. lie went after great whales, 
 and harpooned one, which slapped* 
 his l>oat into fragments with one 
 stroke of its tail, then died; and he 
 hung on by the harpoon protruding 
 from the carcass till a ship came ami 
 picked him up. He shot a lion that 
 was carrying off his favorite Hot- 
 tentot, lie encountered another ; 
 Bounded him with i oth barrel- \ wa i 
 seized, and dragged along th : ground, 
 and gave himself up for lost ; but 
 kept firing his revolver down the 
 monster's throat, till at last he siek- 
 
 elieil that one, Illnl SO escaped OUt 
 
 of death's maw. He did not* say how 
 he ha I fired in the air, and ridden 
 
 fourteen miles on end al the bare 
 sight of a lion's cub; but, to com- 
 pel] ate thai one n l r\e, ; lu
 
 198 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 into a raging torrent, and saved a 
 drowning woman by her long hair, 
 which he caught in his teeth. He 
 rode a race on an ostrich against a 
 friend on a zebra, which went faster, 
 hut threw his rider, and screamed 
 with rage at not being able to eat 
 him ; he, Falcon, having declined to 
 run unless his friend's zebra was 
 muzzled. He fed the hungry, 
 clothed the naked, and shot a wild 
 elephant in the eye ; and all this 
 he enlivened with pictorial descrip- 
 tions of no mean beauty, and as like 
 South Africa as if it had been feu 
 George Robins advertising the Con- 
 tinent for sale. 
 
 In short, never Mas there a more 
 voluble and interesting liar by word 
 of mouth; and never was there a 
 more agreeable creature interposed 
 between a bereaved widow and her 
 daily grief and regrets. He took 
 her a little out of herself, and did 
 her good. 
 
 At last, such was the charm of 
 infinite lying, she missed him on 
 the days he did not come, and was 
 brighter when he did come and 
 lie. 
 
 Things went smoothly, and so 
 pleasantly, that he would gladly 
 have prolonged this form of court- 
 ship tor a month or two longer 
 sooner than risk a premature decla- 
 ration. But more than one cause 
 drove him to a bolder course, — his 
 passion, which increased in violence 
 by contact with its beautiful object, 
 and also a great uneasiness he felt 
 at not hearing from Phoebe. This 
 silence was ominous. He and shi 
 knew each other, and what the other 
 was capable of. He knew she was 
 the woman to cross the seas after 
 him, if Staines left the diggings, and 
 any explanation took place that 
 might point to his whereabouts. 
 
 These double causes precipitated 
 matters ; and at last he began to 
 throw more devotion into his man- 
 ner. And, having so prepared her 
 for a few days, ho took his oppor- 
 tunity, and said one day, "YVc arc 
 
 both unhappy. Give me the right 
 to console you." 
 
 She colored high, and said, " You 
 have consoled me more than all the 
 world. But there is a limit ; always 
 will be." 
 
 One less adroit would have 
 brought her to the point ; but this 
 artist only sighed, and let the arrow 
 rankle. By this means he out- 
 fenced her ; for now she had listened 
 10 a declaration, and not stopped 
 it short. 
 
 lie played melancholy for a day 
 or two; and then he tried her another 
 way. lie said, " I promised your 
 dying husband to be your protector, 
 and a father to his child. I see but 
 one way to keep my word ; and that 
 gives me courage to speak : without 
 that, I never could. Rosa, I loved 
 you years ago : I am unmarried for 
 your sake. Let me be your hus- 
 band, and a father to your child." 
 
 Rosa shook her head. " I could 
 not marry again. I esteem you; I 
 am very grateful to you ; and I 
 know I behaved ill to you before. 
 If I could marry again, it would be 
 you. But I cannot. Oh, never, 
 never ! " 
 
 " Then we are both to be un- 
 happy all our days." 
 
 "1 shall, as I ought to be. You 
 will not, I hope. I shall miss you 
 sadly; hut, for all that, I advise 
 you to leave me. You will carry 
 my everlasting gratitude, go where 
 you will : that and my esteem are 
 all I have to give." 
 
 " I will go," said he ; " and I hope 
 he who is gone will forgive my 
 want of courage." 
 
 " He who is gone took my prom- 
 ise never to marry again." 
 
 " Dying men see clearer. I am 
 sure he wished — no matter. It is 
 too delicate." He kissed her hand 
 and went out, a picture of dejec- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. Staines shed a tear for him. 
 
 Nothing was heard of him lor 
 several days ; and Bosa pitied him 
 more and more, and felt a certain
 
 A SIMPLETON". 
 
 199 
 
 discontent with herself, and doubt 
 whether she had done right. 
 
 Matters were in tin's state, when, 
 one morning, Emily came scream- 
 in,; in from the garden, "The 
 child ! Master Christie ! Where is 
 he 1 Where is he I " 
 
 The house was alarmed. The 
 garden searched, the adjoining pad- 
 dock. The child was gone. 
 
 Emily was examined, and owned, 
 with many sobs and hysterical cries, 
 that she had put him down in the 
 summer-house for a minute, while 
 she went to ask the gardener for 
 some balm, balm-tea being a favor- 
 ite drink of hers. " But there was 
 nobody mar, that 1 saw," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 Further inquiry proved, however, 
 that a toll gypsy woman had been 
 seen prowliny about that morning; 
 and suspicion instantly fastened on 
 her. Servants were sent out right 
 and [eft, but nothing discovered ; 
 and the agonized mother, terrified 
 out of her wits, had Falcon tele- 
 graphed to immediately. 
 
 He came galloping down that very 
 evening, and heard the story. He 
 galloped into Gravesend, and, alter 
 seeing the police, sent word out he 
 should advertise. He placarded 
 Gravesend with rewards, and a re- 
 ward of a thousand pounds; the 
 child to be brought to him, and DO 
 questions asked. 
 
 Meantime, the police and many 
 of the neighboring gentry came 
 about the miserable mother with 
 their vague ideas. 
 
 Down comes Falcon again next 
 
 day ; tells what he has done, and 
 
 them all with contempt 
 
 " Don'tyou be afraid, Mrs. Staines," 
 
 said he. - v.,,, win get him back. 
 
 1 have taken the sure way. This 
 sort of rogues dan not e.o near the 
 police; and the police can't find 
 them. You have no enemies : it is 
 
 only some woman that has fancied 
 
 a beautiful child. Well, she can 
 have them by the score for a t ho it- 
 Band poui 
 
 He was the only one with a real 
 idea: the woman saw it, and clung 
 to him. He left late at night. 
 
 Next morning, out came the ad- 
 vertisements ; and he sent her a 
 handful by special messenger. His 
 zeal and activity kept her bereaved 
 heart from utter despair. 
 
 At eleven that night came a tele- 
 graph : — 
 
 " 1 have got him. Coming down 
 by special train." 
 
 Then what a hurst of joy and 
 gratitude! The very walls' of the 
 house seemed to ring with it as a 
 harp rings with music. A special 
 train too! He would not let the 
 mother yearn all night. 
 
 At one in the morning, he drove 
 up with the child and a hired nurse. 
 
 Imagine the scene! — the moth- 
 er's screams of joy, her furious 
 kisses, her cooing, her tears, and all 
 the miracles ot nature at such a 
 time. The servants all mingled 
 with their employers in the general 
 rapture; and Emily, who was palo 
 as death, cried and sobbed and said, 
 " O ma'am ! Ill never let him out 
 of my sight again, no, not for one 
 minute." falcon made her a sig- 
 nal, and went out. She met hint 
 in the garden. 
 
 She was much Rgitated, and cried, 
 " < >h, you did well to brine him to- 
 day. I could not have kept it an- 
 other hour. I'm a wretch ! " 
 
 " You are a good kind girl ; and 
 lure's the fifty pounds 1 promised 
 you." 
 
 " Well, antl I have earned it." 
 " Of coarse. you have. Meet me 
 in tin: garden to-morrow morning, 
 
 and I'll show von you have done a 
 
 kind thine to your mistress, as well 
 as me. And, us tor the fifty pounds, 
 that is nothing ; do you hear ' It is 
 
 nothing at all, compared with what 
 I will do tor you, if you will be true 
 to tin-, and hold your lQngU8." 
 
 " ( Mi ! as tor that, my tongue 
 sha'n't betray yon, nor shame »"• 
 You are a gi nth man, and I do
 
 200 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 think you love her, or I would not 
 help you." 
 
 So she salved her nursemaid's 
 conscience with the help of the fifty 
 pounds. 
 
 The mother was left to her rap- 
 ture that night. In the morning 
 Falcon told his tale. At two, p.m., 
 a man had called on him, and had 
 produced one of his advertisements, 
 and had asked him if that was all 
 square, — no bobbies on the lurk. 
 " ' All square, my fine fellow,' said 
 I. 'Well/ said he, 'I suppose 
 yon arc a gentleman.' — 'I atn of 
 that opinion too,' said I. ' Well, 
 sir,' says he, ' I know a party as 
 has found a young gent as comes 
 werry nigh your advertisement.' > — 
 ' It will be a very lucky find to 
 that party,' I said, ' if he is on the 
 square.' — ' Oh ! we are always on 
 the square, when the blunt is put 
 down.' — 'The blunt for the child, 
 when you like, and where you like,' 
 said I. ' You are the right sort,' 
 said he. ' I am,' replied I. ' Will 
 you come and see if it is all right ? ' 
 ^aid he. ' In a minute,' said I. 
 Stepped into my bedroom, and load- 
 ed my six-shooter." 
 
 " Whait is that ? " said Lusignan. 
 
 " A revolver with six barrels : by 
 the by, the very same I killed the 
 lion with. Ugh ! I never think of 
 that scene without feeling a little 
 quiver; and my nerves are pretty 
 good too. Well, he took me into 
 an awful part of the town, down a 
 filthy close, into some boozing den, 
 — I beg pardon, some thieves ' pub- 
 lic-house." 
 
 " Oh, my dear friend ! " said Rosa, 
 " were you not frightened 1 " 
 
 " Shall I tell you the truth, or 
 play the hero ? I think I'll tell you 
 the truth. I felt a little frightened, 
 lest they should get my money and 
 my life without my getting my 
 godson : that is what I call him 
 now. Well, two ugly dogs came 
 in, and said, ' Let us see the flim- 
 sies before you sec the kid.' " 
 
 " ' That is rather sharp practice, 
 
 I think,' said I ; ' however, here's 
 the swag, and here's the watch- 
 dog.' So I put down the notes, 
 and my hand over them, with my 
 revolver cocked, and ready to fire." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Rosa panting* 
 ly. " Ah, you were a match lor 
 them ! " 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Staines, if I was 
 writing you a novel, I suppose I 
 should tell you the rogues recoiled ; 
 but the truth is they only laughed, 
 and were quite pleased. ' Swell's 
 in earnest,' said one. 'Jem, show 
 the kid.' Jem whistled ; and in 
 came a great, tall, black gypsy wo- 
 man, with the darling. My heart 
 was in my mouth; but I would not 
 let them see it. I said, ' It is all 
 right. Take half the notes here, 
 and half at the door.' They 
 agreed, and then I did it quick, — 
 walked to the door; took the child; 
 gave them the odd notes ; and made 
 off as fast as I could ; hired a nurse 
 at the hospital ; and the rest you 
 know." 
 
 "Papa," said Rosa with enthu- 
 siasm, " there is but one man in 
 England who would have got me 
 back my child ; and this he." 
 
 When they were alone, Falcon 
 told her she had said words that 
 had gladdened his very heart. 
 " You admit I can carry out one- 
 half of his wishes ? " said he. 
 
 Mrs. Staines said " Yes ; " then 
 colored high; then, to turn it off, 
 said, "But I cannot allow you to 
 lose that large sum of money. You 
 must let me repay you." 
 
 " Large sum of money ! " said 
 he. " It is no more to me than 
 sixpence to most people. I don't 
 know what to do with my money ; 
 and I never shall know, unless you 
 will make a sacrifice of your own 
 feelings to the wishes of the dead. 
 Mrs. Staines, Rosa ! do pray con- 
 sider that a man of that wisdom 
 sees the future, and gives wise ad- 
 vice. Sure am I, that, if you could 
 overcome your natural repugnance 
 to a second marriage, it would be
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 201 
 
 the host thing for your little boy 
 (I love him already as if he were my 
 own), and in time would bring 
 you peace and comfort, and some 
 day, years hence, even happiness. 
 You are my only love ; yet I should 
 never have come to you agafn if he 
 had not sent me. Do consider how 
 strange it all is, and what it points 
 to, and don't let me have the mis- 
 ery of losing you again, when you 
 can do no better now, alas ! than 
 reward my fidelity." 
 
 She was much moved at this art- 
 ful appeal, and said, " If I was sure 
 I was obeying his will. But how 
 can I feel that, when we both prom- 
 ised never to wed again ? " 
 
 "A man's dying words are more 
 sacred than any other. You have 
 his letter." 
 
 " Yes ; but he does not say ' mar- 
 ry again.' " 
 
 " That is what he meant, though." 
 
 "How can you say that? How 
 can you know ! " 
 
 " Because I put the words he 
 said to me together with that short 
 line to you. Wind, I don't say 
 that he did not exaggerate my poor 
 merits : on the contrary, I think he 
 did; but I declare to you that he 
 did hope I should t;ike charge of 
 you and your child. Right or 
 Wrong, it was his wish : so pray do 
 not deceive yourself on that point." 
 
 This made more impression on 
 her than any thing else he could 
 say; and she said. " I promise you 
 one thing, — I will never marry any 
 man bill you." 
 
 Instead of pressing her further, 
 as an inferior artist would, he 
 broke into raptures, kissed her hand 
 tenderly, and was In such high 
 
 spirits, and so Voluble all day, that 
 she smiled sw.-ctly on him, and 
 thought to herself, " Poor soul I how 
 happy I could make him with a 
 word*! " 
 
 As he WM always watching her 
 
 — a practice he carried further 
 
 than any male person living, — he 
 
 divined that sentiment, and wrought 
 
 upon it so, that at last he tormented 
 her into saying she would marry 
 him some day. 
 
 When he had brought her to that, 
 he raged inwardly to think he had 
 not two years to work in ; for it 
 was evident she would marry him 
 iu time : but no, it had taken him 
 more than four months, close siege, 
 to bring her to that. No word from 
 Phcebe. An ominous dread hung 
 over his own soul. His wife would 
 be upon him, or, worse still, her 
 brother Dick, who, he knew, would 
 beat him to a mummy on the spot, 
 or, worst of all, the husband of 
 llosa Staines, who would kill hitn, 
 or fling him into a prison. He must 
 make a push. 
 
 In this emergency he used his 
 ally, Mr. Lusignan. He told him 
 Mrs. Staines had promised to marry 
 him, but at some distant date. This 
 would not do: he must look alter 
 his enormous interests in the colo- 
 ny, and he was so much in love, ho 
 could not leave her. 
 
 The old gentleman was desperate- 
 ly fond of Falcon, and hent on the 
 match ; and he actually consented 
 to give his daughter what Falcon 
 called a little push. 
 
 The little push was a very great 
 one, I think. 
 
 It consisted in directing the cler- 
 gyman to call in church the banns 
 td marriage between Reginald fal- 
 con ami Rosa St.iines. 
 
 They were both iu church to- 
 gether when this was done. Rosa 
 all but screamed, and then turned 
 red as lire, and white as a ghost, by 
 turns. Site never Mund up again 
 
 all the service ; and. iu going home, 
 
 refused Falcon's arm, and walked 
 swiftly home by herself Not that 
 
 she bad tbc slightest intention of 
 
 passing tlii^ monstrous thing by in 
 
 silence. I >n the contrary, her wrath 
 
 was boiling over, and so hot, that 
 
 she knew ghe should make a scene 
 in the street if she said a word 
 there. 
 
 Once inside the house, she turned
 
 202 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 on Falcon, with a white cheek and 
 a flashing eye, and said, "Follow 
 me, sir, if you please." She led the 
 way to her father's study. "Papa," 
 said she, " I throw myself on your 
 protection. Mr. Falcon has affront- 
 ed me." 
 
 "O Rosa '."cried Falcon, affect- 
 ing utter dismay. 
 
 "Publicly, publicly. He has had 
 the banns of marriage cried in the 
 church without my permission." 
 
 " Don't raise your voice so loud, 
 child. All the house will hear 
 you." 
 
 " I choose all the house to hear 
 me. I will not endure it. I will 
 never marry you now, — never ! " 
 
 " Rosa, my child," said Lusignan, 
 " you need not scold poor Falcon ; 
 for I am the culprit. It was I who 
 ordered the banns to he cried." 
 
 " O papa ! you had no right to 
 do such a thing as that." 
 
 " I think I had. . I exercised pa- 
 rental authority for once, and for 
 your good and for the good of a 
 true and faithful lover of yours, 
 whom you jilted once, and now you 
 trifle with his affection and his in- 
 terests. He loves you too well to 
 leave you ; yet you know his vast 
 estates and interests require his su- 
 pervision." 
 
 " That for his vast estates ! " said 
 Rosa contemptuously. " I am not 
 to be driven to the altar like this, 
 when my heart is in the grave. 
 Don't you do it again, papa, or I'll 
 get up and forbid the banns ; affront 
 for affront." 
 
 " I should like to see that," said 
 the old gentleman dryly. 
 
 Rosa vouchsafed no reply, hut 
 swept out of the room with burn- 
 ing cheeks and glittering eyes, and 
 was not seen all day ; would not 
 dine with them, in spite of three 
 humble, deprecating notes Falcon 
 sent her. 
 
 " Let the spiteful cat alone," said 
 old Lusignan. " You and I will 
 dine together in peace and quiet." 
 
 It was a dull dinner; but Falcon 
 
 took advantage of the opportunity, 
 impregnated the father with his 
 views, and got him to promise to 
 have the banns cried next Sunday. 
 He consented. 
 
 Rosa learned next Sunday morn- 
 ing that this was to be done ; and 
 her courage failed her. She did not 
 go to church at all. 
 
 She cried a great deal, and sub- 
 mitted to violence, as your true 
 women arc too apt to do. They 
 had compromised her, and so con- 
 quered her. The permanent feel- 
 ings of gratitude and esteem caused 
 a re-action after her passion ; and she 
 gave up open resistance as hopeless. 
 
 Falcon renewed his visits, and was 
 received with the mere sullen languor 
 of a woman who has given in. 
 
 The banns were cried the third 
 time. 
 
 Then the patient Rosa bought 
 laudanum enough to re-unite her to 
 her Christopher in spite of them 
 all, and, having provided herself 
 with this resource, became more 
 cheerful, and even kind and caress- 
 ing. 
 
 She declined to name the day at 
 present ; and that was awkward. 
 Nevertheless the conspirators felt 
 sure they should tire her out into 
 doing that before long; for they 
 saw their way clear : and she was 
 perplexed in the extreme. 
 
 In her perplexity she used to talk 
 to a certain beautiful star she called 
 her Christopher. She loved to fancy 
 he M-as now an inhabitant of that 
 bright star; and often, on a clear 
 night, she would look up, and beg 
 for guidance from this star. This 
 I consider foolish : but then I am 
 old and sceptical; she was still 
 young and innocent, and sorely puz- 
 zled to know her husband's real 
 will. 
 
 I don't suppose the star had any 
 thing to do with it, except as a focus 
 of her thoughts ; but one fine night, 
 after a long inspection of Christo- 
 pher's star, she dreamed a dream. 
 She thought that a lovely wedding-
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 203 
 
 dress hung over a chair; that a crown 
 of diamonds as large as an almond 
 sparkled ready for her on the dress- 
 ing-table, and she was undoing her 
 black gown, and about to take it 
 off, when suddenly the diamonds 
 began to pale, and the white satin 
 dress to melt away; and in its place 
 there rose a pale face and a long 
 beard, and Christopher Staines 
 stood before her, and said quietly, 
 " Is this how you keep your vow ! " 
 Then he sank slowly ; and the white 
 dress was Mack, and the diamonds 
 were jet: and she awoke with his 
 gentle words of remonstrance, and 
 his very tours, ringing in her ear. 
 
 This dream, co-operating with her 
 previous agitation and misgivings, 
 shook Ilia - very much. She did not 
 come down stairs till near dinner- 
 time ; and both her father and Fal- 
 con, who came as a matter of course 
 to spend his Sunday, were struck 
 with her appearance. She was pale, 
 gloomy, morose, and had an air of 
 desperation about her. 
 
 Falcon would not see it. He knew 
 that it is salest to let her sex alone 
 when they look like that, and the 
 storm sometimes subsides of itself. 
 
 After dinner Rosa retired early; 
 and, soon after, she was heard walk- 
 ing rapidly up and down the dress- 
 ing-room. 
 
 This was quite unusual, and made 
 a noise. 
 
 Papa Lusignan thought it incon- 
 siderate ; and after a while, remark- 
 ing gently that he was not particu- 
 larly fond of noise, he proposed they 
 should smoke the pipe of peace on 
 th ■ lawn. 
 
 They did so; hut after a while, 
 finding thai Falcon was not smok- 
 ing, he -aid, " Don't let me detain 
 ROSS i- alone." 
 
 Falcon took the hint, anil went 
 to the drawing-room. Rosa nut 
 him on thr Btairs, with a scarf over 
 her shoulders. " I uiu.-t speak to 
 
 papa," said -he. " Where i- In- ' " 
 
 " Mr is mi the lawn, d< ar Rosa," 
 said Falcon in his most dulcet 
 
 1 tones. He was sure of his ally, and 
 very glad to use him as a buffer to 
 receive the first shock. 
 
 So he went into the drawing-room, 
 where all the lights were burning, 
 and quietly took up a book. Hut 
 he did not read a line : lie was too 
 occupied in trying to read his own 
 future. 
 
 The mean villain who is incapa- 
 ble of remorse is, of all men, most 
 capable of fear. His villain- had, 
 to all appearance, readied the goal ; 
 for he felt sure that all Rosa's strng- 
 gles would, sooner or later, succumb 
 to her sense of gratitude and his 
 strong will and patient temper. 
 Hut, when the victory was won, 
 what a life ! He must fly with her 
 to some foreign country, pursued 
 from pillar to post by an enraged 
 husband and by the offended law. 
 And, if he escaped the vindictive foe 
 a year or two, how could he escape 
 that other enemy he knew and 
 dreaded, — poverty ? lie foresaw lie. 
 should come to hate the woman be 
 was about to wrong, and she would 
 instantly revenue herself by mak- 
 ing him an exile, and, soon or late, a 
 prisoner or a pauper. 
 
 While these misgivings battled 
 with his base but ardent pas-ion, 
 strange things were going on out 
 of doors, which, however, will be 
 best related in another sequence of 
 events, to which, indeed, they fairly 
 belong. 
 
 CIIAFTER XXIII. 
 Staines and Mrs. Falcon landed 
 
 at Plymouth, and went up to town 
 by I he same train. They parted in 
 London, — Staines to go down to 
 (nave-end, Mr-. Falcon to vi.-it her 
 husband's old haunts, and see if gho 
 could find him. 
 
 She ilid not find him ; but she 
 heard of him, and learned thai be. 
 always went down to (irave-end 
 from Saturday till Monday.
 
 204 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Notwithstanding all she had said 
 to Staines, the actual information 
 startled her, and gave her a turn. 
 She was obliged to sit down;- for her 
 knees seemed to give way. It was 
 but a momentary weakness. She 
 was now a wife and a mother, and 
 had her rights. She said to herself, 
 " My rogue has turned that poor 
 woman's head long before this, no 
 doubt. But I shall go down, and 
 just bring him away by the ear." 
 
 For once her bitter indignation 
 overpowered every other sentiment, 
 and she lost no time, but, late as it 
 was, went down to Gravesend, or- 
 dered a private sitting-room and 
 bedroom for the night, and took a 
 fly to Kent Villa. 
 
 But Christopher Staines had the 
 start of her. He had already gone 
 down to Gravesend with his carpet 
 bag, left it at the inn, and walked 
 to Kent Villa that lovely summer 
 night, the happiest husband in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 His heart had never for one in- 
 stant been disturbed by Mrs. Fal- 
 con's monstrous suspicion. He 
 looked on her as a monomaniac, a 
 sensible woman insane on one point, 
 — her husband. 
 
 When he reached the villa, how- 
 ever, he thought it prudent to make 
 sure that Falcon had come to Eng- 
 land at all, and discharged his com- 
 mission. He would not run the 
 risk, small as he thought it, of 
 pouncing unexpected on his Rosa, 
 being taken for a ghost, and terrify- 
 ing her, or exciting her to mad- 
 ness. 
 
 Now, the premises of Kent Villa 
 were admirably adapted to what 
 they call in war a reconnoissance. 
 The lawn was studded with lau- 
 rustinas and other shrubs that had 
 grown magnificently in that Kent- 
 ish air. 
 
 Staines had no sooner set his foot 
 on the lawn than he heard voices. 
 He crept towards them from bush to 
 bush ; and, standing in impenetra- 
 ble shade, he saw in the clear moon- 
 
 light two figures, — Mr. Lusignan 
 and Reginald Falcon. 
 
 These two dropped out only a 
 word or two at intervals ; but what 
 they did say struck Staines as odd. 
 For one thing, Lusignan remarked, 
 " I suppose you will want to go back 
 to the Cape. Such enormous es- 
 tates as yours will want looking 
 after." 
 
 " Enormous estates ! " said Staines 
 to himself. " Then they must have 
 grown very fast in a few months." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said Falcon ; " but 
 I think of showing her a little of 
 Europe first." 
 
 Staines thought this still more 
 mysterious. He waited to hear more ; 
 but the succeeding remarks were of 
 an ordinary kind. 
 
 He noticed, however, that Falcon 
 spoke of his wife by her Christian 
 name, and that neither party men- 
 tioned Christopher Staines. He 
 seemed quite out of their little world. 
 
 Staines began to feel a strange 
 chill creep down him. 
 
 Presently Falcon went off to join 
 Rosa ; and Staines thought it was 
 quite time to ask the old gentleman 
 whether Falcon had executed his 
 commission, or not. 
 
 He was only hesitating how to do 
 it, not liking to pounce in the dark 
 on a man who abhorred every thing 
 like excitement ; when Rosa herself 
 came flying out in great agitation. 
 
 Oh the thrill he felt at the sight 
 of her ! With all his self-possession, 
 he would have sprung forward, and 
 taken her in his arms with a mighty 
 cry of love, if she had not immedi- 
 ately spoken words that rooted him 
 to the spot with horror. But she 
 came with the words in her very 
 mouth, " Papa, I am come to tell 
 you I cannot and will not marry 
 Mr. Falcon." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! you will, my dear." 
 
 "Never! I'll die sooner. Not 
 that you will care for that. I tell 
 you I saw my Christopher last night, 
 — in a dream. He had a beard ; 
 but I saw him, oh, so plain ! and he
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 205 
 
 6aid, ' Is this the way you keep your 
 promise? ' That is enough for me. 
 1 have prayed again and again to 
 lii's star for light. I am so per- 
 plexed and harassed by you all, and 
 you make me believe what you like. 
 Well, I hare had a revelation. It is 
 not my pour lost darling's wish I 
 should wed again. 1 don't believe 
 Mr. Falcon am more. I hear noth- 
 ing but lies by day. The truth 
 comes to my bedside at night. I 
 will not marry this man." 
 
 " Consider, Rosa, your credit i< 
 pledged. You must not be always 
 jilting him heartlessly. Dreams ! 
 nonsense. There — I love peace. 
 It is no use your storming at me. 
 1> tve to the moon an 1 the stars, it' 
 you like, and, when you have done, 
 do pray come in and behave like a 
 rational woman, who has pledged 
 her faith to an honorable man, and 
 a man of vast estates, — a man that 
 nursed your husband in his last ill- 
 ness, found your child, at a great 
 expense, when you had lost him, 
 and merits eternal gratitude, not 
 eternal jilting. I have no patience 
 with you." 
 
 The old gentleman retired in high 
 dudgeon. 
 
 Staines stood in the black shade 
 of bis cedar-tree, rooted to theground 
 by this revelation of male villany 
 and female credulity. 
 
 He did not know what on earth to 
 do. He wanted to kill Falcon, but 
 not to terrify his own wife to death. 
 It was now too char she thought he 
 was dead. 
 
 Ron watched her father's retiring 
 figure out of right. " Very well." 
 
 said she, clinching her teeth. Then 
 suddenly she tuned, and looked up 
 to heaven. "Do yon hear .'" said 
 •he. "My Christie's star! I am 
 a ]>oor perplexed creature. 1 asked 
 yon for a sign; and that reiy night 
 
 I saw him in a dream. Why should 
 
 I marry out of gratitude '. Why 
 
 should [many one man when I love 
 another ' What does it m liter bis 
 
 being dead ? I love him too well to 
 18 
 
 be wife to any living man. They 
 persuade me, they coax me, they pull 
 me, they push me. I see they will 
 make me ; but I will outwit 
 them. See, see ! " and she held 
 up a little ph'al in the moon- 
 light. " This shall cut the knot for 
 me : this shall keep me true, to my 
 ( hristie, and save me from breaking 
 promises I ought never to have 
 made. This shall unite me once 
 more with him 1 killed and loved." 
 She m "ant she would kill herself 
 the night before the wedding ; which 
 perhaps she would not, and perhaps 
 she would. Who can till ! The 
 weak are violent. But Christopher, 
 seeing the jioison so near her lips, 
 was perplexed, took two strides, 
 wrenched it out of her hand with a 
 snarl of rage, and instantly plunged 
 into the shade again. 
 
 Kosa uttered a shriek, and flew 
 into the bouse. 
 
 The farther she got, the more ter- 
 rified she became; and soon Christo- 
 pher heard her screaming in the 
 drawing-room in an alarming way. 
 They were like the screams of liio 
 insane. 
 
 He got terribly anxious, and fol- 
 lowed her. A 11 the doors were open, 
 As he went up stairs, he heard 
 her cry, "His ghost, his ghost! I 
 have seen his ghost ! No, no ! I 
 feel his hand upon my arm now. A 
 beard ! and so he had in the dream. 
 He is alive. My darling is alive. 
 You have deceived me. You arc an 
 impostor, a villain. Out of the 
 house this moment, or he shall kill 
 you." 
 
 '• Are you mad 1 " cried Falcon. 
 " How can he be alive when 1 saw 
 him dead ' " 
 
 This was too much. Staines gave 
 the door a blow with his arm, and 
 strode into the apartment, looking 
 white and tremendous. 
 
 Falcon saw death in his face ; 
 gave B shriek, drew hi- re\ol\ er, and 
 tired at him with as little aim as lie 
 had at the Lioness; then made for 
 the open window. Staines seized a
 
 206 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 chair, followed him, and hurled it at 
 him ; and l lie chair and the man went 
 through the window together, and 
 then there was a strange thud heard 
 outside. 
 
 llosa gave a loud scream, and 
 swooned away. 
 
 Staines laid his wife flat on the 
 floor, got the women about her ; and 
 at last she began to give the usual 
 signs of returning life. 
 
 Staines said to the oldest woman 
 there, " If she sees me, she will go 
 off again. Carry her to her room, 
 and tell her, by degrees, that I am 
 alive." 
 
 All this time Papa Lusignan had 
 sat trembling and whimpering in a 
 chair, moaning, " This is a painful 
 scene, veiy painful." But at last 
 an idea struck him, — " Why, you 
 
 HAVE KOB15KD THE OFFICE !" 
 
 Scarcely was Mrs. Staines out of 
 the room, when a fly drove up ; and 
 this was immediately followed by 
 violent and continuous screaming 
 close tinder the window. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " sighed Papa Lusig- 
 nan. " But never mind." 
 
 They ran down, and found Fal- 
 con impaled at full length on the 
 spikes of the villa, and Phoebe 
 screaming over him, and trying in 
 vain to lift him off them. He had 
 struggled a little, in silent terror, 
 but had then fainted from fear and 
 lo-s of blood ; and lying rather inside 
 the rails, which were high, he could 
 not be extricated from the outside. 
 
 As soon as his miserable condi- 
 tion was discovered, the servants ran 
 down into the kitchen, and so" up to 
 the rails by the area steps. These 
 rails hid caught him : one had gone 
 clean through his arm; the other 
 had penetrated the fleshy part of 
 the thigh; and a third through his 
 car. 
 
 They got him off; but he was in- 
 sensible, and the place drenched with 
 his Mood. 
 
 Phoebe clutched Staines by the 
 arm. " Let me know the worst," 
 said she. " Is he dead 1 " 
 
 Staines examined him, and said, 
 "No." 
 
 " Can you save him ? " 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes. Who can, if you cannot ? 
 Oh, have mercy on me ! " And she 
 went on her knees to him, and put 
 her head on his knees. 
 
 lie was touched by her simple 
 faith ; and the noble traditions of 
 his profession sided with his grati- 
 tude to this injured woman. "My 
 poor friend," said he, " I will do my 
 best, for your sake." 
 
 He took immediate steps for 
 stanching the blood ; and the fly 
 carried Phoebe and her villain to 
 the inn at Gravesend. 
 
 Falcon came to on the road, but, 
 finding himself alone with Phoebe, 
 shammed unconsciousness of every 
 thing but pain. 
 
 Staines, being thoroughly en- 
 raged witli Rosa, yet remembering 
 his solemn vow never to abuse her 
 again, saw her father, and told him 
 to tell her he should think over 
 her conduct quietly, not wishing to 
 be harder upon her than she de- 
 served. 
 
 Rosa, who had been screaming 
 and crying for joy ever since she 
 came to her senses, was not so 
 much afflicted at this message as 
 one might have expected. He was 
 alive ; and all things else were trifles. 
 
 Nevertheless, when day after day 
 went by, and not even a line from 
 Christopher, she began to fear he 
 would cast her off entirely ; the 
 more so as she heard he was now 
 and then at Gravesend to visit Mrs. 
 Falcon at the inn. 
 
 While matters were thus, Uncle 
 Philip burst on her like a bomb. 
 " He is alive ! he is alive ! he is 
 alive ! " And they had a cuddle 
 over it. 
 
 " O Uncle Philip ! Have you 
 seen him ? " 
 
 " Seen him ? Yes. He caught 
 me on the hop, just as I came in 
 from Italy. I took him for a 
 ghost."
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 207 
 
 " Oh ! weren't you frightened ? " 
 
 " Not a bit. I don't mind ghosts. 
 I'd have half a dozen to dinner 
 every day, if I might choose 'em. 
 I couldn't stand Stupid ones. But 
 I say, his temper isn't improved by 
 all this dying. He is in an awful 
 rage with you; and what for? " 
 
 " O uncle ! what for ? Because 
 I'm the vilest of women." 
 
 " Vilest of fiddlesticks ! It's his 
 fault, not yours. Shouldn't have 
 died. It's always a dangerous ex- 
 periment." 
 
 " / shall die if he will not forgive 
 me He keeps away from me and 
 from his child." 
 
 " I'll tell you. He heard in 
 Gravescnd your banns had been 
 cried : that has moved the peevish 
 fellow's bile." 
 
 It was done without my con- 
 sent : papa will tell you so. And 
 oh, uncle ! if you knew the arts, the 
 forged letter in my darling's hand, 
 tin way he wrought on me. O 
 villain, villain ! Uncle, forgive 
 your poor silly niece, that the world 
 is too wicked and too clever for her 
 to live in it." 
 
 " Because you arc too good 
 and innocen f ," said Uncle Philip 
 " There, don't you be downhearted. 
 I'll soon l>ririLr you two together 
 again, — a couple of ninnies. I'll 
 tell you what is the first thing. 
 You must come and live with me. 
 Come at once, bag and baggage. 
 He won't show here, the Bulky 
 brut.." 
 
 Philip Staines had a large house 
 in Cavendish Square, a crusty old 
 
 fatient, like himself, had left him. 
 t was his humor to live in a Corner 
 
 of this mansion ; though the whole 
 was capitally furnished by his judi- 
 cious purchases at auctions. 
 
 He gave Rosa, and her boy, and 
 bis nurse, the entire first floor, and 
 told her Bhe was there for life. 
 
 " Look here." slid he, " this last 
 
 affair has opened my eyes. Such 
 
 wo n as you arc the sweeteners 
 
 of existence. You have my roof 
 
 no more. Your husband will make 
 the same discovery. Let him run 
 about and be miserable a bit. He 
 will have to come to book." 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 " My Christopher will never say 
 a harsh word to me. All the worse 
 for me. He will quietly abandon 
 a creature so inferior to him." 
 
 "Stuff!" 
 
 Now she was always running to 
 the window in hope that Christo- 
 pher would call on his uncle, and 
 that she might see him ; and one 
 day she gave a scream so eloquent, 
 Philip knew what it meant. " Oct 
 you behind that screen, you and 
 your boy," said he, " and be as still 
 as mice. Stop — give me that letter 
 the scoundrel forged, and the ring." 
 
 This was hardly done, and Rosa 
 out of sight, and trembling from 
 head to foot, when Christopher 
 was announced. Philip received him 
 very affectionately, but wasted no 
 time. " Been to Kent Villa yet ? " 
 
 " No," was the grim reply. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because I have sworn never to 
 say an angry word to her again ; 
 and, if I was to go there, I should 
 say a good many angry ones. Oh ! 
 when 1 think that her folly drove 
 me to sea, to do my best for her, 
 and that I was nearer death for 
 that woman than ever man was, 
 and lost my reason for her, and 
 went through toil, privations, hun- 
 ger, exile, mainly for her; and then 
 to find the banns cried in open 
 church with that scoundrel — say 
 no more, uncle. I shall ie\ er re- 
 proach her, and never forgive her." 
 
 " She was deceived." 
 
 " I don't doubt that ; but nobody 
 has a right to be so great a fool as 
 all that." 
 
 "It was not her folly, but her in- 
 nocence, that was imposed on. You 
 a philosopher, and not know that 
 wisdom itself is sometimes imposed 
 on and deceived by cunning folly 1 
 Have you forgotten your Mil- 
 ton '.—
 
 208 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 ". At "Wisdom's gate Suspicion sleeps, 
 And deems no ill where no ill seems." 
 
 Conic, come : are you sure you are 
 not a little to blame'? Did you 
 write home the moment you found 
 you were not dead 1 " 
 
 Christopher colored high. 
 
 "Evidently not," said the keen 
 old man. " Aha 1 my fine fellow, 
 have I found the flaw in your own 
 armor ? " 
 
 " I did wrong ; but it was for her. 
 I sinned — for her. I could not 
 bear her to be without money ;_ and 
 I knew the insurance. I sinned 
 for her. She has sinned uyainst 
 me" 
 
 " And she had much better have 
 sinned against God, hadn't she 1 
 He is more forgiving than we per- 
 fect creatures, that cheat insurance 
 companies. And so, my fine fellow, 
 you hid the truth from her for two 
 or three months.'* 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Strike off" those two or three 
 months : would the banns have ever 
 been cried 1 " 
 
 "Well, uncle," said Christopher, 
 hard pressed, " I am glad she has 
 got a champion ; and I hope you 
 will always keep your eye on her." 
 
 " I mean to." 
 
 " Good-morning:." 
 
 " No : don't be in a hurry. I 
 have something else to say, not so 
 provoking. Do you know the arts 
 by which she was made to believe 
 you wished her to marry again ? " 
 
 " I wished her to marry again ! 
 Are you mad, uncle ? " 
 
 "Whose handwriting is on this 
 envelope? " 
 
 " Mine, to be sure." 
 
 " Now read the letter." 
 
 Christopher read the forged let- 
 ter. 
 
 " Oh, monstrous ! " 
 
 " This was given her with your 
 ruby ring, and a tale so artful that 
 nothing we read about the devil 
 comes near it. This was what did 
 it. The Earl of Tadcaster brought 
 her title and wealth and love." 
 
 " What, he too ! The little cub 
 I saved, and lost myself for. Blank 
 him ! blank him ! " 
 
 " Why, you stupid ninny ! you 
 forget you were dead. And he could 
 not help loving her : how could he ? 
 Well, but you see she refused him ; 
 and why j Because he came without 
 a forged letter from you. Do you 
 doubt her love for you ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. She never 
 loved me as I loved her." 
 
 '• Christopher, don't you say that 
 before me, or you and I shall quar- 
 rel. Poor girl ! she lay, in my 
 sight, as near death for you as you 
 were for her. I'll show you some- 
 thing." 
 
 He went to a cabinet, and took 
 out a silver paper : he unpinned it, 
 and laid Rosa's beautiful black hair 
 upon her husband's knees. " Look 
 at that, you hard-hearted brute!" 
 he roared to Christopher, who sat, 
 any thing but hard-hearted, his eyes 
 filling fast at the sad proof of his 
 wife's love and suffering. 
 
 Rosa could bear no more. She 
 came out with her boy in her hand. 
 " O uncle ! do not speak harshly 
 to him, or you will kill me quite." 
 
 She came across the room, a pic- 
 ture of timidity and penitence, with 
 her whole eloquent body bent for- 
 ward at an angle. She kneeled at 
 his knees, with streaming eyes, nnd 
 held her boy up to him. "Plead 
 for your poor mother, my darling : 
 she mourns her fault, and will nev- 
 er excuse it." 
 
 The cause was soon decided. All 
 Philip's logic was nothing, com- 
 pared with mighty nature. Chris- 
 topher gave one great sob, and took 
 his darling to his heart without one 
 word ; and he and Rosa clung to- 
 gether, and cried over each other. 
 Philip slipped out of the room, and 
 left the restored ones together. 
 
 I have something more to say 
 about my hero and heroine, but 
 must first deal with other charac- 
 ters, not wholly uninteresting to 
 the reader, I hope.
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 209 
 
 Dr. Staines directed Phoebe Fal- 
 con how to treat her husband. No 
 medicine, no stimulants ; very 
 wholesome food, in moderation, and 
 the temperature of the body regulat- 
 ed by tepid water. Under these in- 
 structions, the injured but still de- 
 voted wife was the real healer, 
 lie pulled through, but was lame 
 for life, and ridiculously lame ; for he 
 went with a spring halt, a sort of 
 hop-and-go-one that made the girls 
 laugh, aud vexed Adonis. 
 
 Phoebe found the diamonds, and 
 Offered them all to Staines in expi- 
 ation of his villany. " See," she 
 said, "he has only spent one." 
 
 Staines said he was glad of it 
 for her sake ; for he must he just to 
 his own family. He sold them for 
 three thousand two hundred pounds. 
 But for the big diamond he got 
 twelve thousand pounds ; and I 
 helieve it was worth double the 
 money. 
 
 Counting the two sums, and de- 
 ducting six hundred for the stone 
 Mr. Falcon had embezzled, he gave 
 her over seven thousand pounds. 
 
 She stared at him, aud changed 
 color at so large a sum. " But I 
 have no claim on that, sir." 
 
 " That is a good joke," said he. 
 " Why, you and I are partners in 
 tlic whole thing, — you and I and 
 Dick. Why, it was with his horse 
 and rifle I bought the big diamond. 
 Poor, dear, honest, manly Dick. 
 No, the money is hone.-tly yours, 
 Mrs. Falcon ; but don't trust a pen- 
 ny to your husband." 
 
 " He will neve, see it, sir. I 
 shall take him back, and give him 
 all his heart can a-k for, with this ; 
 hut he will he little more than a 
 servant in the house now, u> long 
 as Dick is single: I know that." 
 And -he could :-till cry at the humi- 
 liation of her villain. 
 
 St. tines made her promise to 
 
 write to him ; and she did wi ile 
 him a sweet womanly letter, to B8J 
 that they wen- making an enormous 
 fortune, and hoped to end their days 
 18» 
 
 in England. Dick sent his kind 
 love and thanks. 
 
 I will add, what she only said by 
 implication, that she was happy, 
 after all. She still contrived to love 
 the thing she could not respect. 
 Once, when an officious friend pit- 
 ied her for her husband's lameness, 
 she said, " Find me a face, like his. 
 The lamer the better : he can't run 
 after the girls, like some." 
 
 Dr. Staines called on Lady Cicely 
 Treherne. The footman stared. He 
 left his card. 
 
 A week afterwards she called on 
 him. She had a pink tinge in her 
 cheeks, a general animation, and her 
 face full of brightness and archness. 
 
 "Bless me!" said he bluntly, 
 " is this you ? How you are im- 
 proved ! " 
 
 " Yes," said she. " And I am come 
 to thank you for your pwesewiption. 
 I followed it to the lettaa." 
 
 " Woe is me ! I have forgotten it." 
 
 " You diwected me to mawwy an 
 ice man." 
 
 " Never : I hate a nice man." 
 
 " No, no, an Lvishman ; and I 
 have done it." 
 
 " Good gracious ! you don't 
 mean that ! I must be more cau- 
 tious in my prescriptions. After 
 all, it seems to agree." 
 
 " Admiwablv." 
 
 " Ile loves vim ? " 
 
 "To distwaction." 
 
 " He amuses you 1 " 
 
 " Pwodigiously. Come and see." 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Staines live with 
 Uncle Philip. The insurance mon- 
 ey is returned ; but the diamond 
 money makes them very easy. 
 Staines follows bis profession now 
 uniler great advantages, — a noble 
 bouse, i 'ii t free ; the curiosity that 
 attaches to a man who hap been 
 canted out of a ship in mid ocean, 
 and lives to idl it. And then Lord 
 Tadcaster, married into another 
 noble hOUSe, swears by him. and 
 talks of him : so does Lady Cicely
 
 210 
 
 A SIMPLETON. 
 
 Minister, late Treherne ; and, when 
 such friends as these are warm, it 
 makes a physician the centre of an 
 important clienteUe; but his best 
 friend of all is his unflagging indus- 
 try, and his truly wonderful diagno- 
 sis, which resembles divination. 
 He has the ball at his feet, and, 
 above all, that without which worldly 
 success soon palls, — a happy home, 
 a fireside warm with sympathy. 
 
 Mrs. Staines is an admiring, sym- 
 pathizing wife, and an admirable 
 housekeeper. She still utters inad- 
 vertencies now and then, commits 
 new errors at odd times, but never 
 repeats them when exposed. Ob- 
 serving which docility, Uncle Philip 
 has been heard to express a fear, 
 that, in twenty years, she will be 
 the wisest woman in England. 
 " But, thank Heaven ! " he adds, " I 
 shall be gone before that." 
 
 Her conduct and conversation 
 affords this cynic constant food for 
 observation ; and he has delivered 
 himself oracularly at various stages 
 of the study : but I cannot say that 
 his observations, taken as a whole, 
 present that consistency which en- 
 titles them to be regarded as a body 
 of philosophy. Examples : in the 
 second month after Mrs. Staines 
 came to live with him, he delivered 
 himself thus : " My niece Posa is an 
 anomaly. She gives you the impres- 
 sion she is shallow. Mind your eye : 
 in one moment she will take you out 
 of your depth, or any man's depth. 
 She is like those country streams I 
 used to fish for pike when I was 
 young. You go along, seeing the 
 bottom everywhere; but presently 
 you come to a corner, and it is fif- 
 teen feet deep all in a moment, 
 and souse you go over head and 
 ears : that's my niece Posa." 
 
 In six months he had got to this, 
 — and, mind you, each successive 
 dogma was delivered in a loud, ag- 
 gressive tone, and in sublime obliv- 
 ion of the preceding oracle, " My 
 niece Posa is the most artful woman. 
 
 (You may haw, haw, haw! as 
 much as you like. You have not 
 found out her little game : I have.) 
 What is the aim of all women 1 To 
 be beloved by an unconscionable 
 number of people. Well, she sets 
 up for a simpleton, and so disarms 
 all the brilliant people, -and they 
 love her. Everybody loves her. 
 Just you put her down in a room 
 with six clever women, and you will 
 see who is the favorite. She looks 
 as shallow as a pond, and she as 
 deep as the ocean." 
 
 At the end of the year he threw 
 ofTthe mask altogether. " The ijreat 
 sweetener of a man's life," said he, 
 " is a simpleton. I shall not go 
 abroad any more : my house has 
 become attractive : I've got a sim- 
 pleton. When I have a headache, 
 her eyes fill with tender concern, 
 and she hovers about me, and 
 pesters me with pillows. When 
 I am cross with her, she is afraid I 
 am ill. When I die, and leave her 
 a lot of money, she will howl for 
 months, and say, ' I don't want his 
 money : I waw-waw-waw-waw-want 
 my Uncle Philip, to love me and 
 scold me.' One day she told me, 
 with a sigh, I hadn't lectured her 
 for a month. ' I am afraid I have 
 offended you,' says shs, 'or else 
 worn you out, dear.' When I am 
 well, give me a simpleton, to make 
 me laugh. When I am ill, give me 
 a simpleton, to soothe me with her 
 innocent tenderness. A simpleton 
 shall wipe the dews of death, and 
 close my eyes ; and, when I cross the 
 river of death, let me be met by a 
 band of the heavenly host, who 
 were all simpletons here on earth, 
 and too good for such a hole, so 
 now they are in henven, and their 
 garments always white — because 
 there are no laundresses there." 
 
 Arrived at this point, I advise the 
 Anglo-Saxon race to retire, grin- 
 ning, to fresh pastures, and leave 
 this champion of " a simpleton " to 
 thunder paradoxes in a desert.