^L^TFOR^ SERIES, Tiie Oderton 7ieeiter. Ghapactep Sketcli&s for Recitailois^ By RobeH Overton. Edited ly JIlfBed H.„ Mites. CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM .Ir .and !-;r s . Wm . P . E . Gurl ey Cornell UnWerally Library Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031680956 THE OVERTON RECITER. TENTH THOUSAND. THE OVERTON RECITER. CHARACTER SKETCHES FOR RECITATION. ROBERT OVERTON, AUTHOR OF "A ROUND DOZEN, "gUEER FISH," "20," ETC., ETC. EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES. : : jflemfng 'BJ. TRevcU : j New Yohk : I Chicago ; 12 BIBLE HOUSE, A8TOR PLACE, I 14B AND 160 MADI&ON STREET. PREFACE. AMONG the platform successes of the past few years must be classed the clever sketches of life and character written by Mr. Robert Overton. Full of genuine humour, unaffected , pathos, and natural dramatic force, they combine all the elements of platform success, and it is not remarkable that when suitably render.ed they should awaken sympathy and call forth applause. The Editor recalls with pleasure and satisfaction the fact that several of these stories were originally written for him, and that some of the earlier of Mr. Overton's sketches found publication under his hands ; under such circumstances, he has had peculiar pleasure in fnaking a selection from Mr. Overton's pieces, and issuing them in a collected form. In publishing this volume, the Editor wishes to ac- knowledge his obligations to Messrs. Dean and Son of 160A, Fleet Street, for their assent to the use of " Our Pardner," "The Three Parsons," "Me and Bill," and " One More," from a volume of Mr. Overton's sketches, entitled " Queer Fish," published by them ; and to Mr. Henry J. Drane of Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row, for the same favour regarding " Love and Buttons," / vi Preface. " Joe Bangletoops," " Killing no Murder," and " The King's Colours," from " 20," a collection published by him. Of the other sketches and poems, "The Idiot Lad," "Caged," "All for Her," "Jim a Hero," and "All Along the Line," are from "A Round Dozen,' also published by Messrs. Dean and Son, while the two sketches, " Slo Jorker's Eye," and "Twice Saved," and the 'poem " Our Baby," appear for the first time in this volume. The Editor's thanks are also due to Mr. Robert Overton for the readiness with which he responded to the suggestion to issue this volume, and for kind and valuable assistance in its compilation. London, September ut, 1889, INDEX. PAGE Our Pardner. 5, Skippa'e (STtorg 13 The Three Parsons. ^ Beaton's .Stora 23 Me and Bill. Jin fflUi Jft«ftmiwn'« ,Steg 31 The Idiot Lad. 3L (StoTB in "^txet 39 Killing NO Murder. 31. '^tabtUefe §tot^ 43 Love and Buttons. 31 Jfootnwtt'a cStoTB 33 Joe Bangletoops. gl ffiijattttmmatr'a ^torf ..... 65 The King's Colours! 31 "Cottmt'a ,§:toxB . ' 75 viii Contents. FACE Caged. gl (Saol-gttb'e ^Storg . . . • . . .80 "All for Her" Jim, a Hero. 31 etttratt'a ^torg 100 All Along the Line ! gt gatteb of tlu.gliiwritan ffiibil Sfflffr . . .106 Slo Jorker's Eye. gl (iwentolch ffitsimtar'a .Stors . . . ,110 Twice Saved. ^ §zxsziixd-Sii»jot's ^tors 117 Forgery. gl ^«rst #;isto»s'« cStBra . . , .122 "Our Babt.' 3, domestic gallab 135 " Pour Les Pauvres ! " Si, CUrfl2m»n'« ^torg . .... 141 SKETCHES LIFE AND CHARACTER. ROBERT OVERTON. OUR PARTNER. i^UESS we was about as rough a sample of human natur' up at Gubbin's Creek Mining Camp as 'most any part could show. For profanity, 'ard work, dirt an' rags we should ha' took the prize at any show. There was four * on us workin' the ' same claim — me, Tory Bill, Sam Coley, an' a great big African nigger called Juberlo Tom. To begin with me. I was a English workin' man as 'ad come out to the gold fields for to try my luck, and Sam Coley were a mate wot 'ad come out with me. Tory Bill were a rather haristocratic young party as 'ad chummed in with me an' Sam on our way up from Adelaide. He told us he was the son of a parish beetle wot 'ad got into redooced circumstances through refusing — on religious grounds — a. invitation to dine with the Harchbishop o' Canterbury, as 0,R, I Our Pardner. 'ad took offence, an' spoke again 'im to the War Office an' the Prime Minister. Tory Bill were ,a cut above me an' Sam in the way of usin' uncommon long words an' in 'is manner like ; but he turned out a good 'ard-workin' pardner, an' when we took up our claim all together we got on without usin' our shootin' irons anythink to speak of, exceptin' wen wisitin' neighbours, or friends, or sich like. Now about Juberlo Tom. It come about in rather a strange way. Things 'ad been goin' very wrong at our lot. We 'ad bored, an' dug, an' shovelled, standin' sometimes for hours with the water up to our waists, but for all our 'ard labour, an' sweaAn' an' strainin' we'd got nothink but 'urt backs an' rheumatics. No gold — none of the precious stuff we'd come so far for to get. "None of the -precious stuff," says Tory Bill one day, "as keeps up bishops an' harchbishops, kings, gaols, queens, an' work-'ouses, judges an' 'orse races, main socage an' the 'Ouse of Lords. None of the precious stuff," he 'oilers, gettin' excited, " as keeps up the Bank of Hingerland an' the solar system, trial by jury an' the Lord Mayor's show, Roole Britannia an' the monument, oyster stalls an' the rights of women, habeas crokus an' the 'ome for lost dawgs, parish beetles an' the constitootion ! " " Yus," said Sam Coley, as were wot Tory Bill called a sigh-nick ; " but the question is, wot's to keep hus up ? The on'y thing up about hus is that we're just about done up, an' chawed up, an' smashed up." " It ain't no manner o' use for to give up," I says. " No, it ain't," says Sam, " not wen you ain't got nothink to give up." " We Want more tools, an' better tools," says Tory Bill. " An' we ain't got -no money, an' we ain't got no credit," Sam answers. " We're in a 'ole, that's where we are." Then we ail pulls 'ard at our pipes, an' sits lookin' at A Gold-Digger's Story. each other. All of a sudden we 'eerd somebody comin' along towards our tent, 'ollerin' an' roarin' like a wild bull— "Oh, de ransom will be paid, An' free men de darkjes made, In de year ob Juberlol" " It's a nigger," says Tory Bill, lookin' out ; " we've got too many cussed niggers prowlin' about this camp. Just 'eave somethink at 'im, Sam." Sam stoops down an' picks up a lump o' ore, an' 'eaves it where, the voice come from. But it didn't fetch our darkey, for he kep' comin' on, 'ollerin' " De year ob Juberlo ! " Next minute he shoves 'is 'ead in nt the tent, smilin' kinder benevolent, showin' all 'is gitat, white, gleamin' teeth. "Wot the thunder do yer-want 'ere?" says Tory BjU, 'eavin' a mutton bone at the darkey's 'ead; "go an' 'ave yer Juberlo with some o' yer own cussed black brothers, can't yer, an' don't come intrudin' on white folks.'' " Yus," says Coley, emptying our last drop o' whisky down 'is throat an' chuckin' the bottle at the smilin' stranger, "don't come disturbin' our dewotions with yer Juberlo." I didn't say nothink, but so's' not to 'urt the nigger's feelin's by appearin' not to notice 'im, I awailed myself of a pause in the conversation to shy a camp-stool at 'im. The darkey smiled so benevolent I thought 'is face would ha' cracked, an' then he walks straight into the tent — a great, black, wooUy-'eaded giant of a' chap — picks up the stool I'd used for to shy at 'im, an' sot down. " How you do, gem'men, eh ? My name Tom, Juberlo Tom. You want nuffer partner in dis yer claim, eh ? " says the wisitor, smilin' all round like a archangel. " Dis yer's a good claim, but you kinder don't work it right, want more tools, new tools." Tory Bill looks at me an' Sam, an' then he growls, " Wot Qur Pardner. the thunder do you know about gold minin', an' wot tools ha' you got as we ain't got a'ready ? " Juberlo Tom put 'is 'and in 'is boot an' lugged up a brown paper parcel. Undoin' the parcel he 'eld out a double- 'andful of bright, shinin' yeller boys. Up we all jumps, our eyes shinin' like the gold in the nigger's black 'and. "He'll do," shouts Tory Bill ; "nevermind 'is black hide. Juberlo Tom's a pardner in this yer lot.'' " Juberlo Tom," says- Sam Coley, " if so be as I 'urt either your feelin's or your 'ead when I chucked that bottle at yer just now, let bygones be bygones. "Jine this yer fam'ly succle, an' we'll all have a Juberlo together." " Juberlo Tom," I says, " wen I went for yer with that stool as you're now sittin' on, my only reason were that yer was standing in yer own light, an' I couldn't see yer properly, an' which I felt so much interested in wot I did see that I wanted yer to get out o' the light, so's I could see yer better." From that night Juberlo Tom was one of us, an' every- think went better at once. I never see sich a 'andy feller in my life. That very night he made us all a reg'lar good supper by stooin' the mutton bone as Toiy Bill shied at 'im, an' the bottle wot Sam chucked at 'im he took an' brought back full o' whisky, stole from a neighbour. As for work, nothink stopped Im. We bought better tools, an' Juberlo Tom struck out a fresh lode. He was workin' away one mornin' roarin' out 'is Juberlo 'ymn, when all of a sudden he stops. "What's up with Juberlo TOm ? " says Coley. " He's gone mad," says I, for he was jumpin' an' roarin' an' 'oldin' 'is sides. "He's made a find ! " shouts Tory Bill, as we all run up to the nigger. " Gold, by Heaven ! " True enough, Juberlo Tom 'ad struck a vein, an' by the A Gold-Digger's Story. time we'd worked out that claim, every one of us 'ad made a pile — and a good tall pile, too. Gold worth thousands o' bright, shinin', glitterin' yeller boys did we bring out o' that claim as we thought at one time would ha' bin no good. At last, one night, Tory Bill makes a speech, and he says, "Boys," he says, "guess our time at Gubbin's Creek is about up, an' as for me, I'm goin' to make tracks for the old country. We're a rough lot up 'ere, all on us, an' it's a good job as us four didn't bring no sorter bloom on us wen we fetched these yer diggin's, 'cos 'twould ha' bin kinder wasted. But away in the old country I've got a father — a. parish beetle in redooced circumstances, as you may 'ave 'eerd me mention — likewise a old mother, as always give me more than my share of the family spankin' wen whippin' was goin' round. Boys, I'm goin' home ! " Then Sam Coley, the sigh-nick, ups an' speaks. " Boys, leastways Tory Bill and Jack, when we knowed each other fust we was 'ard up. When Juberlo Tom come along we was done up, chawed up, smashed up. We've 'ad luck, and now we're rich men to the end of our lives. Tory Bill's bin a good pardner to all on us. I ain't got no father, parish beetle or otherwise, an' I ain't got no mother, spankin' or otherwise, but there's a little village down in Essex as I ain't seen for many a long day, with a little churchyard, where some one's sleepin' as used to love me very true an' very dear, long afore I was a drinkin', swearin' digger. An' I'm a-goin' 'ome with Tory Bill. An' wot the blazes am I cryin' about ? " he says, as he drawed 'is, sLeve across 'is eyes. I smoked my pipe outj an' then I says, " Boys," I says, " 'ear to me a minute. Tory Bill, likewise Sam Coley, like- wise Juberlo Tom, I feel as though as we've all bin together in a-gettin' of our dust we shouldn't be parted now we've got our dust. I feel like 'avin' a roarin' old Juberlo together in the old country, an' I'm a-goin' 'ome along of Tory Bill Our Pardner. an' Sam Coley. Juberlo Tom, are you goin' to jine the fam'ly succle ? " ' Then we all looks at Juberlo Tom for a answer. He were a strange chap, this darkey, an' 'ad never told us anythink about 'isself since we knowed 'im, which were uncommon strange in a nigger. He sot with 'is face buried in 'is 'ands. "Juberlo Tom," says Tory Bill, "are you^comin' along o' yer old pardners ? " Then Juberlo Tom 'as 'is say, still keepin' 'is woolly 'ead buried in 'is 'ard black 'ands. "'Way down ole Virginny I was a slave. I ran away But 'way down ole Virginny is de girl dat I love — a slave. I got money now, plenty money, to buy de freedom ob de girl I love, like Sam Coley love de girl dat am sleepin' in de English churchyard. Juberlo Tom goin' 'way down ole Virginny.'' We all knowed wot he meant. " Juberlo Tom," said Sam Coley, with clean lines down 'is face where the tears was washin' the dirt away, " Juberlo Tom, shake 'ands — hang yer ! " The next day we made tracks for Adelaide. Wen we jot there we found a fast ship ready to sail for London. " Juberlo Tom," says Sam Coley, " ship along of us 'stead o' waitin' for a ship to take you to ole Virginny the straight route. Then I'll leave England with yer for ole Virginny, an' the lives of a 'undred' slave-owners sha'n't stand 'tween you an' the girl." Sam meant it, an' we all four left aboard the Boomerang, Cap'n Richard Preece, 'omeward bound. Afore we left, nothink would satisfy Juberlo Tom but changin' all the property he could into bright gold pieces ; an' with these sovereigns he filled a large, wide, leather pouch, shaped like a belt, to buckle round the waist, like I've seen a good many diggers use for safety's sake. A Gold-Digger's Story. This belt Tom never took off, but always wore buckled safely round him. i Soon as we got fairly off, Juberlo Tom seemdd to get mad frisky with joy an' excitement. He used to laugh an' romp an' play like a boy, an' as for 'is Juberlo 'ymn, he become quite a unbearable nuisance. Fust he took to roarin' it on deck, but Cap'n Preece ordered 'im to 'old 'is row, an' chucked a swab at 'im. Then he got up aloft an' roared " De year ob Juberlo " from the" yardarm j but the sailors trimmin' the sails throwed 'im down. 'Arf an hour arter- wards we 'eerd a awful rumblin' noise down in the 'old, an' it turned out to be Juberlo Tom singin' 'is 'ymn down amongst the ballast — " Oh, de ransom will be paid, An' free men de darkies made, In de year ob Juberlo." But the rummiest thing was the nigger with the cap'n's little daughter. He Come up to us one day an"^ says, " You come see de piccaninny — :de cap'n's piccaninny — my little piccaninny." An' he walked tiptoe to where she' was lyin', coiled up on a soft seat Juberlo Tom 'ad made for 'er under, the 'awin'. She was fast asleep — a little four-year-old child, with 'er tiny white 'ands 'oldin' a picter Tom 'ad drawed for 'er ; 'er lips a little open, showin' 'er tiny white teeth, an' with 'er 'air playin' about 'er little 'ead an' sweet, laughin' face in ,soft, shiny, sunny 'curls. I'd often seen Tom lift a weight none of the others could 'oist, but 'is 'and was like a woman's 'and, gentle an' tender, as he raised one of little Annie's curls an' kissed it. " Dis my piccaninny," he said, " my little piccaninny." Cap'n Preece come along just then, an' see 'im — an' he never chucked no more swabs at Juberlo Tom arter that. Fust thing in the mornin' she used to call for Juberlo Tom, 'an all day long sometimes she'd be with 'im, prattlin' away to 'im, an' climbin' on his knee; an' sometimes Our Pardner. (jlimbin' on to 'is mighty broad shoulder for a ride along the deck. We was all four pacin' about together one evenin' wen we over'eered th6 cap'n 'earin' Annie say 'er prayers. " God bless papa, an' dear mamma away home," says the cap'n ; an' little Annie says it arter 'im. " God bless papa, an' dear mamma away home," an' then she says, " an' please God bless Juberlo Tom." ****** Me an' Tory Bill an' Sam Coley all lives near each other now, an' oftentimes in the evenin' Tory Bill comes round to me an' Sam, an' we all sits smokin' an' talkin' about old days, wen we was diggin* for gold together. An' sometimes he brings with 'irn a very, very old man, which is 'is father, the parish beetle, as was once in redooced circumstances. ' Ail' wen we all meets like that, an' ha' bin talkin' over the old days, we never gives a name to the last toast we drink, but we always drink it in silence, on'y lookin' at each other as we clink our glasses, for we all knows the toast is, "Juberlo Tom;" an' our thoughts go back to our old dead pardner, an' the Boomerang, an' the cap'n's little daughter. An' when he sees us drinkin' that toast, Tory Bill's old, old father takes 'is long clay pipe out of 'is mouth, an' says, very quiet an' soft, " He's gone 'way down ole Virginny." An' w©t the old man means wen he says that, an' why it IS our eyes is not quite dry, an' our voices is a bit 'usky ^1■en we says " good-night " arter the toast, is what I'm goin' for to tell yer. For a time arter leavin' Adelaide, the Boomerang 'ad fair win^s an' fair weather. Then a change comes to foul winds an' foul weather. Afore long we got beaten 'ere an' there at the mercy of the winds an' the seas for weeks, an' 'ad got drove, the cap'n said, a long way out of our course. Wen the weather cleared again we was short of water, an' A Gold-Digger's Story. short of fresh pervisions an' vegetables, an' the poor old Boomerang showed signs of beiri' damaged. One morn^ ing a cry was raised, ^ Land a-'ead ! " " Where away ? " roars Cap'n Preece. " Starboard bow, sir," 'oilers the sailor ; an' in a few hours' time we anchored off a beautiful island. I don't know where it was, for the matter o' longitoode an' lati- toode I couldn't never make out; but I know the whole place seemed to me like wot I guess the Garden of Heden was afore the little misunderstandin' arose with Satan an' a apple. The sea, wot we'd seen so black an' wild an' cruel, was like a sheet o' painted glass, glowin' an' gleamin' with all manner o' colours. We could see it breakin' in little tiny ripples on the white beach of the island ; an' on the island we could see great green trees wavin' gentle to an' fro, an' bright, gaudy flowers, all bright an' beamin' in the wonderful sunshine. Off to the right, away from our island, as we called it, we made out another island. A boat was lowered — our only sound boat, for the others had got stove in or washed away in the storms — an' sent ashore j an' the men come back with glorious news to the ship — which the cap'n had anchored a long way off the shore, fpr fear o' rocks or currents or sich like — for they'd found fresh water an' fruit, an' no savages on the island, or wild beasts. So Cap'n Preece decided for to stop where we was for a few days, to lay in water an' green food, an' repair damages. Now little Annie 'ad bin very ill durin' all" the bad wea- ther, an' 'ad bin lyin' in the cap'n's cabin, with Tom 'angin' around like a great watch-dog. On the second day arter we reached the island, Juberlo Tom come on deck with the piccaninny in 'is arms. An' wen she see the smilin' island she clapped 'er little white 'ands for joy, an' begged of the cap'n to let Juberlo Tom take 'er ashore. The nigger looks at Cap'n Preece with wistful eyes. lo Our Pardner. " Me take de piccaninny ashore, cap'n," he says, " me take de little piccaninny ashore, an' show 'er de trees an' de flowers ? " Cap'n Preece could never say no to the little"un ; an' he says, " Yes, Tom, take her ashore." So Tom jumps in the boat alongside, an' 'olds out 'is long, black arms for the piccaninny, 'is eyes glistenin' with pleasure. Then the boat rowed away, leavjn' only the cap'n an' me an' two sailors aboard. We see the boat touch the shore, an' spe Juberlo Tom jump out with little Annie in 'is arms ; an' we could just see 'er runnin' about amongst the flowers, ketchin' tight 'old of Juberlo Tom's 'and. Then we turried to our work. It all seemed to 'appen in a moment. Some savages from the other island must ha' landed in the night an' 'idden, for sudden, without a sound of warnin', a 'orde of them sprung out, shoutin' an' yellin'. Our 'andful of men make for the boat, the savages crowdin' on be-'ind them. Tom an' the child are a little way from the rest — the dis- ; tance to the boat is too far — an' between it an' poor Juberlo Tom an' the sailors some of the blacks are rurinin'. They've seen 'im, an' are makin' straight for 'im — straight for. 'im an' the child, with their spears raised (or blood. He gives one wild shout to the others ; they see 'im, but can give no 'elp. A moment the darkey stands,, an' then, with 'is arms' closed tight round little Annie, he runs, with great wide bounds, to the water's edge. Then 'is mighty black arms'cleave the surf, an' he strikes out for the distant ship. But from little coves dart out canoes, an' on come savages in pursuit, sendin' a little cloud of spears an' arrows arter poor strugglin' Tonv Thank God for the brave 'eart within Juberlo Tom's black body. A Gold-Diggei^s Story, ii We on board 'ear shots from the shore, an' run to the ship's'side. We can see a commotion ' on the beach, an' arter a bit this is the scene between us an' the island. Our fellows 'ave managed to get at their boat, an' are rowin' away with might an' main, leavin' a crowd of natives on the beach. Away to the left is Juberlo Tom swimmin' with the child, an' be-|ind 'ini the canoes in chase. The ship's boat is pull- in' 'ard across to 'im, but they've got wounded men aboard, an' some of their oars are broken, so they move but slowly, row as they will. Poor Cap'n Preece, with an awful groan, as he see 'is child's danger, was for plungin' into the water, but a better thought struck 'im, an' he ran into the cabin, comin' back with rifles ; an' we all stood on the bulwarks ready to fire over Tom's 'ead into the savages be-'ind soon as 'twas safe to. do so. - , • Thank God kgain for the brave 'eart in Juberlo Tom's black body, for he swims on, an' on, an' on. But at last he seems to almost stop. " He's sinking ! Oh, my God, he's sinking ! " groans Cap'n Preecet But we kpowed arterwards wot it was. Some of the nrrows 'ad struck 'im. Blood was stainin' the water round 'im ; he was getting weak an' faint ; the ship seemed so far off, death so very near. The, belt round 'is waist with the gold ; the gold to buy the freedom of the girl he loved 'way down ole Virginny ; the girl he'd waited for, an' worked for so long an' so wearily I But 'is arm is gettin' so weak now, 'is eyes are growin' misty, an' 'is mighty 'eart is sinkin' at last. Which must he cast away? The weight 'is left arm supports^ — the little child whose blue eyes are so full of feat ah' djispair ?— or the weight around 'is waist ? 12 Our Pardner, The gold or the child ? 'Is right 'and seeks 'is waist. The long sailor's knife he wears is clasped in 'is fingers. A sharp, strong cut, an' ^fathoms .deep in the blue water lies all poor Juberlo Tom's bright gold ! He can swim on now, slowly an' painfully, weak an' wounded, an' almost faintin'. But he swims on, an' now crash go our bullets over 'is 'ead into the midst of the canoes. An' at, last the ship's side is reached. Our eager 'ands pull 'im aboard, an' he puts the child in 'er father's arms. He stands tremblin', but upright, says — " Lose de gold, but I save de piccaninny ! " an' falls bleedin' at our feet. ^J ^ ^ # 'Sff • Wen night come we all stood on deck. The boat 'ad got back safe to , the ship, an' me an' my mates was together — together round our dyin' pardner. The spears an' the arrows 'ad done their work, an' he'd asked us to bring 'im on deck to die. We stood close to 'im, Tory Bill an' me 'oldin' 'is 'ands, an' Sam Coley standin' by with red eyes. A little way off was the cap'n an' the crew. "Bring me de piccaninny." They brought little Annie to 'im, an' he just put 'is great, coarse, rough 'and on 'er little, soft 'ead, oh, so very gentle, 'an so very tender, an' so very lovin' ! Then he laid 'is wounded, achin' 'ead back again, with 'is eyes shut close, an' arter a bit he says,, low, an' soft, an' dreamy — "Boys, I'm goin' . . . goin' 'way down ole Virginny ! " Then he opened 'is eyes, an' a strange light seemed to glow on 'is black face. Just afore he died he looked up, like as though he see somethink we couldn't see ; an' he says — " De ransom's paid It's de year ob Juberlo ! " "ONE MORE." KNOWED puffectly well all along that he were after something of the sort. It began by him a-seeing of her home one night from a concert. What there is iri these here new-fangled con- certs I can't see ; none of yer squalling, screechy haltoes and tenners and falsetterses for me. Give me a good roaring old chorus, with everybody a-clinking their glasses, and where it don't signify what toone you likes to work in — the more the merrier. But, as I said^ it began along of one of these concerts. Katie — that's my daughter ; and a pretty, well-fitted, trim-built little craft as ever I see, tho' I says it — ^had been to sing one of her songs — the "Old Grey Robin " I think they call it — no ; " Old Robin Grey," that's it — and just on account of it a-coming on to rain a bit, he must conwoy her into harbour. I 'eered the knock, and I went to the door myself. " Oh, thank you, papa dear," says Katie, giving me a kiss and a hug, " this is Mr. Charlie Hall, who has been so kind as to see me home." " Good-evening, Captain Quarters," he says, a-'ailing me. " Good-evernin', Mn 'AH," I says, a-'ailin' him back. " I daresay my daughter," I says, " could have fetched port all right without none of your conwoy," I says ; " but as you are here," I says, very polite^ *'(;^st anchor for a spell," I says. 14 " One More." "Do you mean come in?" he asks laughing, and in he comes very quick. I'd beien having a glass of grog, or maybe five or six, whilst I was waiting for Katie to come in ; and I see Katie up with the tray and put everything in the cupboard soon as we got in the room. That was always the one weak point in that girl's character. Soon as ever I give up the sea and settled ashore to watch over her, which was when her mother went on the last cruise of all, poor lass! — that wench began a-limitin' ™y g^'og- She wasn't nasty about it ; but, when she thought I'd had enough, off went the tray ; and, if I said I wanted some more, she used to come and kiss me, and say — " I don't think you do, papa dear, do you ? " and some- how I never did want no more then. Well, just as we all three got settled round the fire that evernin' — Katie by the table and me and young 'All, one to port and t'other to starb'd of the coals — I fills up my pipe and hands over another long clay to him, along of some nice black tobaccy. He fills his pipe, but, as to smokin' it — well, he puffed and gasped and coughed, and grew black and green and blue in the face ; and at last he said he'-remembered he had promised his widdered mother never to smoke cavendish. " He's a milksop," I says to myself. Not that he were a bad-looking sort of lubber. He stood somewhere about six feet, and had a fine navy-blue sort of a heye, and a figure- head as was neat and smart. Soon I wanted another glass of grog — wanjpd it bad. Of course if young 'All had a glass, I should be forced to drink one with him, so, when Katie wasn't looking, I says in a 'usky voice, " Awast ! " I says. "What's the matter. Captain?" he says, bending forrard. I jerks my thumb to Katie, and winks very deep and artful, thinking he'd understand what I ~ was driving at. An Old Skipper's Story. I J Then I says, " Katie, my dear, I think Mr. 'All would like a drop of grog ! " 1But I fancy that artful girl must have give him a look, for I'm blowed if he didn't say, "No, Captain, thanks — I'm a— sort of teetotaler ! " " He's a lubberly, chicken-hearted milksop," I says ; and I set my face agin him from that very first evernin'. The excuses that young man made for a-coming to my house after that was something awful ; and by-and-by I noticed Katie and him was a outrageous long time in sayin' "good-bye" at th^ front dpor.. I says so to her one night, and she says, " I'm afraid there is a swelling in the wood in that front door, papa — it doesn't shut at all easy ! " I must say that when young 'All put the matter to me it were done shipshape and proper'. " Captain," he says, " I love her ; I'm a-getting on very well, and have you any objection to our being engaged ?" " What are yer ? " I says. " I'm- something in the City," he answers. " Werry good," I says, " I must have a court-martial on this, here matter," I says ; " ring that bell." He rings the bell, and in comes our ugly little servant girl. " I want Miss Katie," I says, " and some rum and hot water." When Katie come in, looking so sweet and timid and bashful, I thought of her mother — the poor dead lass I loved so deep and tender — and I felt a choking come up from my poor old heart into my throat, but I only says to 'em as they stood afore me, " I sha'n't have no engagement just yet," I says ; " I can't spare my little girl till I've seen more of the man who wants to take her from me. But you can come here, mate, occasional," I says to young 'All, " only I sha'n't have no engagement just yet " But I'm afraid they didn't quite catch hold of my mean- ing about no engagement, for they was such a time at the 1 6 *'One Morel' front door that night that I stepped into the passage to look after that swelling of the wood, and I 'eerd what young 'All said. He says to her, says he, " One More ! " he says. And after that, he come in occasional every night, and the swelling of the wood in the front door got worse and worser. One morning at breakfast, as I helped myself to another rumpsteak, I made a remark that the postman was very late in passing. " He's got caught in a squall, I expect," says I, " or got throwed on his beam ends by the ice." "Why, don't you know, papa," says Katie, "this is Valentine's Day ? and of course the poor postman has such a lot of letters to deliver, he's sure to be a little late. I expect a letter myself this morning," she says. "Who from?" I asks. " Have another egg, papa dear," ^she answers. Sure enough there come a valentine for Katie, from the young man she were not engaged to. It was a hijeous thing — a lot of flowers and verses ; and a lubber with a torch, as Katie said were a hymaii, standing by ready to set fire to the whole lot ; and at the top was a Cupid, in the most undelicatest clothes I ever see. He wore nothing but a bow and harrer. " Isn't it lovely ? " says Katie. " Oh ! pa, isn't it lovely ! " " No," I says. " I don't see no sense in sending a thing like that; and that Cupid," I says, "ought to be ashamed of hisself Now, there'd a-been some sense," I says, " if he'd sent you say the picture of a ship, with you and him a-stepping on board, saloon passengers, passage paid ; and a picture of me at the top as a gardening hangel, a-super- intending everything. But understand me," I says, "in proper clothes, not to catch my death of cold like that undelicate Cupid." I remember that day well, because that was the time I had a row with Charlie 'AH, and forbid him the house. An Old Skipper's Story. 17 We was sitting together in the parlour that night, Katie away getting supper ready. All of a sudden he says, " Caiptain, what made you so awfully bald ? " Now, I never liked bis laughing, ridiculing ways ; and I answers very short, — "Dooty." " How do you mean ? " he says. " We was in the China seas, one time when I was a cabin boy on board the Morton Bay.'' " Yes," he says ; " go on." " We was attacked by pirates," I says ; " and the Captain ordered me to stand forrard, and never to leave a certain spot on deck till he gave me leave. They carried cannon, them pirates did, and they opened fire at me." "You didn't move?" he says. " Not a inch," I answers, looking at him steady ; " but a cannon ball hit me on the port side of the head." " You never stirred ? " "Not a inch," I says again; "only the cannon ball carried off all the hair that side. I think them pirates got the range after that shot," I says. "Why? "asks young 'All. " Because there come a second ball and hit me on the starb'd side of the head and carried oif all the hair that side." We didn't talk no more for a spell, and then he says, very serious, " And how did you lose the top ? " "I was afraid there'd come a third ball," I says, "and the top came oif in the fright." " You've seen a deal of life. Captain ? " he says after a bit. " Yes," I answers, pleased like. " Most of you old travellers have," he observes " Aye, aye," I answers. " Some of you," he says, " have not only experienced a great deal, but you also remember a great deal." 0.-R. 2 1 8 "One More:' " Cert'nly," I replies. " Don't you think that, sometimes, some old travellers remember a little more than they experienced ? " he says. I got up to go out soon after that ; and just as I got in the passage, when he thought I'd closed the door, I 'eerd him say, "The bald-headed old impostor!" laughing to himself as he said it. Now to be called a impostor would have been bad enough ; to be called a old impostor was worse ; and to be called by such a epitaph as a bald-headed old impostor was unbearable. I turned round into the room again, and there was a awful row. One word led to another ; and at last I told him never to come aboard my house no more. And I says, " Don't send no more of your Valentines here," I says, " with undelicate Cupids, to my daughter, as have been brought up stvic' religious ! " He tried to calm me down, but it was no use. " May I see Katie before I go ? " he says "No." Then he turned to the door, flung it open, and walked away with never a word. He come round a few days after, but the raging squall in my stupid old heart hadn't died dovyn, and I refused to alter what I'd said to him. If a live lord from the Admirality had come after Katie I don't believe I should have thought him good enough — at all events, if he couldn't smoke cavendish and wouldn't join in a friendly glass. I never knew properly how it happened ; but I did find out after- wards that he met Katie and asked her to marry him right off. She wouldn't leave me like that, stupid and cruel as I was ; and then young 'AH threatened to go away and enlist for a soldier. She clung to him and begged him to stand by till the storm went down ; but he was mad with love, I suppose, for he swore she didn't care for him^ and in An Old Skipper's Story. 19 his love and anger, he kept his word, and he left her and enlisted. Almost before we knowed what he'd done, his regiment was ordered off — ordered to the Crimea, and away he went. It was bad weather in our little home after that. I wouldn't own to being wrong ; but in my heart I knowed I was ; and I used to sit lonely, night after night, Mnokiii' an' thinkin' — thinkjn' about young 'All, with his neat, shapely figurehead, and bright eyes and fair hair, and straight body — thinkin' of him away in the dreadful trenches, with the bitter snow falling on the livin', and the dyin', and the dead. Katie said never a word — never a word ; but, oh ! the awful look of pain in her bonnie, winsome face, growing so thin and so pale. And one evernin' I broke down. I was looking at Katie sitting by the table, just where she sat that first night young 'AH come in. I was looking at her, and thinkin' of her mother — my dear lass who sailed safe into harbour so many years ago — and I knowed by the look on her face that her thoughts wasn't in our bright, cosy, warm little sitting-room, but away across the seas, where ^ the soldiers was, out in the cold snow that awful winter; and I cried, " Oh ! my poor wench, what hava I done ? " And my darling come to me, and threw her arms round my neck, and laid her poor little face against the tears on iny cheek. And I said, " Oh ! my darling, I've made many a mistake as I've sailed thro' life; and now I know that when I sent away your bonnie lad I made One More." The weeks passed slowly away and we got no news from Charlie or of him, till one night Katie come into the room with an open letter in her hand ; and all the light had gone from her winsome eyes and her pretty face as she sank with a low cry at my feet, and hid her head upon my knees. I took the paper from her ' poor little fluttering, trembling hand. It was a letter from the Captain of Charlie's company, dated " Before Sebastogol." 20 " One More." This is a part of it : "A fierce attack was made by the Russians last night upon our treriches. The night was bitterly cold and very dark, and snow was falling thickly when the attack was commenced. The enemy crept on us through the dairkness and the snow, so silently, that we had very short notice. The fighting was very desperate, and we were almost driven out. Eventually the enemy slowly retired, and in pursuing them b§,yond our entrenchments, I got detached from the gallant fellows who were following me. Suddenly the Russians made a steady stand, and renewed the attack. One of the enemy disarmed me ; my sword was lying broken at my feet ; he had seized me by the throat. I was powerless in his grasp, and his sword was raised high for my death-stroke, when suddenly a soldier of my company, his arms hanging powerless by his side, for he was already sorely wounded, staggered up to us, and deli- berately threw himself between my bared head and the Russian blade, and the stroke intended for me fell upon his own noble and gallant head. We fell together ; I staggered to my feet, and, help arriving, the Russian fled. . . The dawn was just breaking when I knelt beside the man whose heroic devotion had saved my life. He was lying in the snow, holy with his own brave blood, a ray of the rising sun shining round his head like a halo of glory. He spoke only once as I raised him into the litter which bore him to the hospital, and the few words that my gallant comrade, iCharles Hall, uttered bade me write to you. ..." An awful mist was in my eyes, and I could read no more. Then Katie put her hand into het bosom and drew out a paper, and she pointed, still without a word, but with still that awful look upon her face, to a list of soldiers' deaths j and the first name I see was Charles Hall. " Oh, my darling, my poor darling, what have I done ? " She only clung to me tighter, and bowed her poor little head lower, as she sobbed out, "You didn't mean it— oh An Old Skipper's Story. 21 no, you did not mean it, my father. I have often and often thought of how many broken hearts there must be in the world, and it's only, father, that now there is One More ! " Days and weeks passed by— I can't bear to think of that time, much less to speak about it — and one night\ (I re- member it same as though 'twas five minutes ago) I 'eerd a step. Katie 'eerd it too, and for a moment a bright colour leaped into her face, and a light into her eyes, but only for a moment, to leave her paler than before. P'raps you'll guess what's coming, the old tale of a mistake, and miscarried letters, for our brave boy had recovered from that awful blow. Katie goes to the door — that swelling in the wood hadn't been noticed lately — I hears the click of the lock, and then one long, loud scream. "Charlie!" I burst into the passage, and there, fainting, was Katie, clasped tight and close in the arms of young 'AH. I've always believed as that sight sent me for a few minutes clean out of my mind. I tore back into the parlour like a raving luniac, mistook the cat for a lump o' coal and jammed her on top of the fire, and couldn't make out what she was yowling about, till qur ugly little servant come flying into the room like a Yankee schooner before the wind. I took hold of her, and give her a roaring kiss, not knowing what I was doing. But she did seem to know, for she says, "Oh, Capting!" and falls a-fainting into my arms I throwed her under the table, and shouted, "Fire!" I needn't tell you what the end was. When, looking so grand in his sergeant-major's uniform, with the medals on his great big chest, Charlie took my little Katie to church, her looking so fair and beautiful in her white bride's dress, with the orange blossoms round her head, my heart was near to burstin' with joy and pride and thankfulness. When it come to my part in the service to give a answer 22 "One More." out loud, my feelings overcome me, though they'd been ' laying it into me for weeks past as I must be very careful to say nothing except t*he few words in the parson's log- book, and Katie had locked up all the grog since the night afore. The parson asked very solemn who give her away. "I do, mate," I says; "and I'll be scuttled if I could give her to a better man ! " When Charlie left the army, and Katie and him settled down here, I come to end my days along of 'em, and along of the dear little children, the little Katies and the little sergeant-majors who keep on a-comin' to town. God bless 'em ! Bless the little voices that is such sweet music to my old ears ! the little hands that stroke my face, and the little soft lips that kiss my rough old cheeks. I say again, God bless my children's little children ! " Well, nurse ? " " Which I begs . your parding, Capting ; but which, is you'll please open this little bundle, you'll see what have just arrove ; and which, if you please, Capting, it's One Morel" THE THREE PARSONS. , ; IIICH I don't belong to the 'Stablished Qiurch, myself, sir, as am a Independent, a-beggin' your pardon, as I know for to, be a Church parson. But yer see what I says is this : you take a lot o' men like us fisherfolk, as works 'ard all the week, and mostly under command, a-doin' what the skipper tells us — 'aulin in ropes, settin' sail, draggin' nets, and one thing and another as you naterally don't know nothing about — with nobody for to feel authority over like, 'ceptin' maybe a boy or two what anybody can knock about ; well, now, if so be as we chaps go in for the 'Stablished Church, we ain't nobody no more at Church than aboard the boats; we ain't got no woice in what's to be done, and we ain't got no sort of power or command like. But if we goes in for the Metho- dies or the Baptists, why we get made a lot of — some being stooards, some deacons, and' some a-takin' round the 'at. You should see me and old Cockles foller our minister out o' the westry o' Sundays, or a-makin' the collection arterwards, and our names called out sometimes from the pulpit, " Brother Cockles and Brother Coleman." Then, again, if we don't 'old with what our minister preaches, or if we seem to want a change, we c&n tell 'im to look out for a call to some other place; and afore we 24 The Three Parsons. engages a hand, we have a lot down on trial. We pays our money and we takes our choice. " Now, gen'rally speaking, when we're on the look-out for a minister, we have one chap down one Sunday, another on the follerin' Sunday, and so on till we're satisfied — one done, t'other come on. But it so happened, one time we wanted a minister, we all seemed most dreadful particular — ^we couldn't satisfy ourselves. We had six down runnin', but none of 'em didn't suit. At last, by some little misunder- standin', we had three come down to preach their trial sermons on the same Sunday ; and we arranged it that the Rev. Paul Duster should preach in the mornin', the Rev. Halgernon Sydney Crackles in the arternoon, and the Rev. John Brown in the evenin'. When the Sunday came when we was to try 'em, we was all a-gog like. " You mark my words, mate," says Cockles to me in the westry, " there'll be some close sailin'. I'm rather inclined," he continners wery thoughtful, " to bet on the old gentl'm'n wot's got the runnin' this morning, as is strict orthodox, and appears to me to carry a deal of canvas." '"Ere he comes," I says, and sure enough he were just tacking across the road under convoy of Bill Tubbs, the butterijian, as was understood to have took 'im in hand. A dreadful severe-looking man were Mr. Duster, with a himmense head and face, both on 'em bald and shining, and his 'ead all over bumps. He certainly were awful himpres- sive to look at. The sermon he preached were severe orthodox, and the language quite as uncommon as you could ha' got in a 'Stablished Church — Greek and Latin, and all sorts. " 'Ere's words," I says to Cockles. " Words, and sound doctrine too, mate," says Cockles — as was wery particular about doctrine. A Deacon's Story. 25 And surelie we got enough about doctrine that mornin', for all the sermon was a-up'oldin' of all as our sec' believes, and a-showin' 'ow all other sectises is wrong. The Latin quotations went down himmense, and I see several ladies overcome by the Greek. The sermon, in fact, caused a tremenjious sensation, and Tubbs trotted 'is man away in high sperits, and lookin' proud and triumphant, as though the whole thing, was finished and 'is man engoge. In the arternoon we meets for to hear the second preacher, as turned out so wery poetical and 'eart-breakin' that he seemed fairly like takin' the wind out of the other's sails. His woice had a beautiful shivery-shakery in it, arid he wep' that copious I thought sometimes we should have to bale the pulpit out, and ask 'im to weep over the side. Lor ! how he shot about that blessed pulpit ! first one side, then t'other, 'is eyes a-roUin' and 'is face purple, a-gurglin' and a-yellin', and a-whisperin' and a-shoutin'. He were a lean, pale man, regular jioetical-looking, with long hair, and a nose a trifle red at the knob. At half arter six, we meets for to hear the last preacher. Only a few on us saw 'im before he got into the pulpit j but we quite agreed that let alone 'is name, which were dead agin 'im, he wasn't the man for our money, and I see at once as he didn't go down like with the congregation. He were only about twenty-five, and a trifle under-sized, and at first sight didn't look anything at all out o' the common ; but somehow I fancied there was a something in 'is eye and hangin' about 'is mouth that showed he'd got good stuff in 'im. Howsomdever, I didn't think he'd do for us, whatever he'd got stowed away. Well, he preached his sermon — a short straightaway sermon, what everybody could understand. It wasn't doctrinal, nor it were not poetical, but just practical, a-tellin' us as l;ow everybody in the world had dooties to perform, from queen to pauper, and then a-going on about our dooties, and how we should 26 The Three Parsons. stick "to 'em and "never say die" like — sort o' standin' by the ship, however the winds might roar and the sea rage. Arter the meeting we had a httle gatherin' in the westry — ^just a few on us to talk matters over, don't yer know — and the only question seemed to be, should we go in for doctrine and elect the doctrinal chap, or wote for the poetical bloke ? We seemed about equally diwided on the point, nobody sayin' nothih' about the young chap what had just preached. Words got rather 'igh at last; and Tubbs got so excited about Cockles backin' the other man, that I believe if Tubbs hadn't been small and unnateral fat, he would ha' struck Cockles. On the Wednesday night there was to be a Church Meet- ing to settle about electin' one on 'em ; but none of us knowed when we separated that Sunday night how wery soon our choice was to be made. I reckon that Sunday night will never be forgotten, mister, so long as this 'ere place has got a boat on the water, or a house on the shore ; the night of the great storm, we call it, when the Spanish San Pedro went to pieces. I 'ad a look out to sea accordin' to custom afore I turned in, and I see a wessel in the offing, which I made out to be a London-bound ship. I didn't much like the look of things, and I said a bit of a prayer for all poor chaps afloat and in danger that night. Well, sir, an old sailor like me always sleeps with one eye open, so when the winds began to gather strong, and the waves to tumble and roll, and dash against the jetty there, I woke up. By-and-by the wind got higher and higher, rattlin' the winder-pdnes, shriekin' and 'owlin', and the sound of the risin' waves got louder and louder. All of a sudden I thought of that ship I 'ad seen passing, and qut I jumped from my bunk into my clothes,- clapped on a sou'-wester, and made for the beach. A Deacon's Story. 27 Lord save us, what a night it was ! You see the black rock out there, sir ? Well, you've never seen thp,t covered since you've been 'ere, I know, and you might stop for years and never see it covered; but that night the great black waves were beatin' right" over the top, and bang across the jetty. The sky was just as black as ink, and'the wind blowin' at last fit to wake the dead. By-and-by, crack, blaze, crack went the lightnin', and boom, boom, boomj followed the thunder, the awful sound pealin' above our heads, and seemin' to roll away over that dreadful sea. Almost all the men and women in the place were on the beach, and even little chil'len 'ad crept away from home, and were clingin' to their mothers' gowns. The first flash had showed us an awful sight — a ship, part of 'er riggin' all entangled on 'er deck, driftin' straight on for the rocks. Nought on earth could help 'err^there she was — a noble, handsome craft, drivin' right ashore, drivin' fast and sure into the jaws of death ! • Only the Hand of God itself put out from heaven could keep 'er off. The women and chil'len were weepin'-^weepin' for brave men to die, for sailors' wives to be made widows, and sailors' little ones made orphans that night ; and many a man's true heart, as we stood there grimly silent, was wild with sorrow at its own 'elplessness. Just as another flash of lightnin' lit up the scene, she struck with a great shiverin' shock ; wild cries from the wreck were borne to the shore, and the women shuddered and fell on their knees, while from man to man went the question : " Can we do nothing — nothing — to help them now ? " But what could we do ? We hadn't got no life- boat then, sir, or no rockets or such-like apparatus, and we knowed .that none of our boats could live in a sea like that : while as to swimming off to the wreck — no wonder that even brave hearts quailed a bit, though a rope 'ad been fetched and was lying handy. All at once I heard a noise 2 8 TIw Three Parsons. behind and turns round. A lot of lanterns had been lit, and I could see everything pretty plainly. Clingin' together in the background was still the women and chil'len, between them and us was two of the parsons — the poetical one on 'is knees, and t'other one, 'is hat blown clean away and 'is bumps all wisible, was 'oldin' on tight to a jetty post, and" giving went to the doctrine that it was God Almighty's Will the poor fellows in the wreck should perish. As I said afore, every hale man in the place seemed on the beach ; but I didn't see the young preacher chap of that evenin', as I found arterwards had gone to a farm a little way up country. But just as I was thinkin' of 'im I see 'im comin', makin' with quick, hasty strides towards the water. With a light spring he jumps down on to the beach and straight on, 'is mouth set firm and steady, and all 'is face glowin' with a light which wasn't on it in the pulpit — straight on, lookin' neither to port nor starboai'd, but straight for'ard. " Stand aside, women 1 '' Calm and cool he orders them, and to right and left they scatter. Straight on he comes — past the poetical parson on 'is knees, and the doctrindl one a-'angirtg to the jetty-post — on to where we men was standin' — and then off he flings 'is hat and coat and boots, and takes 'old of the rope : as though in a moment he understands all. " Lads, bear a hand ! " But now we crowd round 'im, crying, " Sir, you shall not go ! " With 'is own hands he fixes on the rope to 'is body, Wavin' us off as we press round 'im, and then givin' one look towards the wreck, and one look — bright and quick — up to heaven, he takes a step back, and then: "Stand aside, lads ! " With a great rush everybody presses for'ard to the water's edge, and with bated breath and strainin' eyes we watch the A Deacon's Story. 29 strugglin' swimmer. Beaten, buffeted, bruised, tossed hither and thither — can he ever reach the ship ? To us on shore it seems impossible. But God Himself, sir, must have filled that brave young man with strength for 'is daring deed — for see ! strugglin' hard, though not so strongly as at first, for 'is limbs must be all numb and weary now, and per'aps even 'is heart is giving way — see, he's getting a little nearer. Nearer still — O God, support 'im ! Still nearer, still a little nearer ; and the poor foreign fellows on the San Pedro are crowdin' over the side, cheerin' 'im on with wild and thankful cries. But we on shore are silent still, for our hearts are too full for word or shout. But at last we break that silence — break it with a shout I can almost hear yet — such a " Hurrah ! " as I never heard afore or since — for at last the swimmer has reached the ship, and a great wave flings 'im almost on board ; and we make out many hands stretched forth to help 'im over the ship's side. The women were cry in' for joy now — aye, and many a rough fisher-chap drawed 'is sleeve across 'is eyes to brush away tears he need never ha' been ashamed of. Well, sir, every man on that wessel, which turned out to be a London-bound Spaniard — was saved. One arter another they come ashore, and such a set-out I never did see, for blest if they didn't want to kiss and ug as though we 'ad all been a parcel of women together. Bruised and pale, with blood still a-trickling from a great gash in 'is head, where he must ha' struck the rocks, at last there came ashore young Parson Brown, and men, women, and chil'len, all eager to see 'is face or touch 'is hand, crowded round 'im. " Lads," says old Cockles, " I can't say much, but what I do say is" — and he takes 'old tight o' young Brown's hahd — " God bless our minister ! " " Hooroar ! God bless our minister | " 30 The Three Parsons, " Hooroar ! " I yells, and then, dreadful excited, I walks up to the Reverend Halgernon Sydney Crackles, and I says : "Po'try beblowed! Hooroar!" Just then I caught sight o' that there Tubbs. He also were labourin' under dreadful emotion, 'is little fat body ETheavin', and puffin', and tremblin'. i^ll of a sudden he starts for'ard, pantin', and makin' straight for poor Duster, he shakes. 'is little fist in the gentl'man's face, and hollers — " Doctrine be blowed ! " " God bless our minister ! Hooroar I " That was the way we elected a parson that time, sir. ME, AND BILL. E was more like brothers than anything else, me and Bill. And if we Aad drawed from the same breast, God knows w? couldn't ha' loved each other better and more hearty than we did. Many a night we slept under one of these 'ere old boats together, when the drink were in my father and he turned me out, and the drink were in Bill's father and he turned him out. And many a time we young warmints made wows as 'ow I were to 'eave Bill'si father overboard, and Bill were to 'eave my father overboard, when we growed up — because you see, as Bill said, 'it would be sort of unnatural for a bloke to 'eave his own old 'un overboard. But Provi- dence took that ere job out of our hands, for one squally night the old gentl'men went out and got drownded of theirselves, just as me and Bill were beginning for to pick up a little rhino on board the smacks. " Well," says me and Bill, " their loss is our gain, which is Scripter ; and it ain't no manner o' use for to repine." So we goes in steady for 'ard work, to keep up the homes for our mothers and the little ones ; and boys as we was, wq managed to bring enough shot to the locker, till there came a very bad sea- son, and then me and Bill determined to go sailorin' to- gether to furrin parts. So we went up to London and shipped for a long cruise aboard the City of I>ui/in,> a.nd was away two or three years, always sticking close to eacli 32 Me and Bill. other, and came back to the old place more like brothers than ever we was, and growed to that extent as our old mates scarcely knowed us again. " A noble-lookin' young chap were Bill — straight and broad and stout-lookin', with arms and 'ands like iron, and heart of oakj The old place seemed to me very much the same as it was afore we went away, and so did most of the people; but there was one exception, and that were Mary Wilson, the coastguardsman's daughter. When I knowed her afore, she were a little pale girl, with nothing uncommon special about her, but when I come back, I found her a fine strapping lass, likely enough to turn the 'eads of a whole fleet's crew, with her sweet face and winsome ways. Accordin', old Wilson and me became great chums, and \ used to sit for hours in his little room yonder, a-talkin' to him and lookin' at her. Somehow me and Bill used to meet there sometimes, but I never give it a thought that Bill was beginnin' for to love the girl as I had give my heart to, till one night me and him was sittin' at the winder of my little cottage, havin' a quiet glass and pipe together, and talkin' about our plans for the future. *' Bill," I says, " I'll give you a toast," says I ; " I'll give yer the lass whose colours I've run up to the masthead, never to be hauled down again; the girl of my heart — Mary Wilson." Then poor Bill turned quite pale, and I see his great 'and tremblin' as he raised it ; and I saw how 'twas. Neither of us spoke a word for a bit, and then I says — " Shipmate." " Aye, aye, Ben," says he. " Do you love her too, shipmate ? " " By Heaven, I do ! " he bursts out, and we stands up and looks at each other straight. By-and-by I 'olds out my 'and, and Bill takes 'old on it tight. An Old Fisherman's Story. 33 " Brother," says I, " you speak to her fust." " No, no," says he ; but after a bit he consented. Next morning he starts off for the purpose, and I didn't see nothing of him till nightfall. I was walkin' along the shore looking at the ships out at sea, and the stars shining up aloft, and thinking about Mary, and how I should do 'case of her and Bill agreeing to sail in company, when Bill come up very quietly and says in a choky sort of voice — " Shipmate, she don't love me ; and God bless you and her ! " Now it -came to my turn to speak, I must say I felt in a choppy sea with a 'ead wind. In fact it waren't till some evenings afterwards that I plucked up courage to make for the little house on the cliff where Mary and her father lived. When I did go I cert'nly were rigged out un- common smart — new paint, colours a-flyin', and "Rule Britannia." I sailed steady, but under short canvas, till I arrove at the cottage, where I brought to for a bit, and then tacked cautious round and round, takin' a look in now and then through the winders, till I see Mary a-sittin' by herself in the little front parlour, lettin' out a reef in a old dress. At last, with a tremendous effort, I pulls myself together, and steers straight in. " Good-evenin', Polly," I says, a-'ailin' her. She gave a start like and coloured up and replied — "Oh, good-evenin', Mr. Bunting." " I were takin' a walk," says I, " and thought I'd 'eave to a bit, don't yer know ? " " Father'll be very glad to see you," she answers ; " he'U be in directly. Won't you take a seat ? " By this time I were breathin' rather 'ard, but I says — " Well, I don't mind if I do cast anchor for a spell." So down I sits, while Mary goes on lettin' out that leef. O.R. 3 34 Me and Bill. We keeps like that for maybe a quarter of an hour, and then I says : " 'Ot," says I. " I beg your pardon, Mr. Bunting ? " she says. " 'Ot," I says again. She seemed rather confused, I thought, but she answered— "Oh, certainly.". I didn't pay out no further conversation; but set quiet for another spell, and then I says — " Well' I must be startiii' 'ome again — ^good-bye, Polly." She wanted me to wait till her father come in, but I felt I'd done pretty well, all things considered, so I started on the return passage. But when I got back, nxy sister Alice, as was very anxious about the matter, she called me a 'ulkin' lubber, and other most unbecomin' epitaphs, for not speakin' up better, and started me off again next day rigged out flasher than ever, tellin' me she'd never forgive me if I made a fool of myself a second time, which I felt rather 'ard. Nothing could keep her neither, though I knowed all along it were a mistake, from puttin' me inside father's old collar, which were unnateral stiff and steep. I got to Polly's house again, and fixed myself in the same seat as afore, feeling dreadful unhappy, all along of that blessed collar. Screwing up my courage till I felt ready to burst, I says — " Polly I have made up my mind leastways me and Bill as is a able seaman of well-beknown character for steadiness and soberiety as everybody in this place man woman and child do know him for to be brave as a lion and gentle as a lamb and which any lass might be proud on and happy along of and God bless him ! " All this I says in one breath, with that ridiklous collar working into my flesh steady. I was so surprised at the bust of eloquence as had flowed from me that I didn't see A7t Old Fishermaris Story. 35 till I was baled out of words that it were a rum thing to go talkin' about Bill when what I wanted to say was to ask the young woman to be my wife. " Is it to speak for Bill ? " says Polly, tossing up her 'ead, though I ^ee her lips tremble and her eyes fill, " that you have come ? " Then I ups and speaks out like a rrian.' "No, Polly; I came to tell you that I love you hearty and true, and to ask you — if so be as you think you could ever come to care for a rough chap like ine — to be my wife, to be sheltered and protected so far as my heart and 'and can do it through all the storms of life, to be loved and cherished till death, so help me God." And then, all blushing and beautiful, she did the proper thing, and I was happy, tKough that confounded collar had settled well into my gills long afore. Me and Bill had a reg'lar long confab that night about our plans for the futut'', and we made it out clear that we'd better take another cruise together afore I settled down; and so a few days arter Polly had promised to be my wife, rhe and him run up to London again, and found our old ship. City of Dublin, in the docks, almost ready for sea; so we signed articles aboard her, shipmates once more. We had a splendid run, and I got a nice little stock of yellow boys ready for the time when Polly and me was to begin housekeeping. Many a time, as I kept the night-watch, I thought of her waitin', lovin' and patient, till I got home from sea ; and many a time, when I got tempted to drink with other chaps, I seemed to feel her bright eyes drawin' me away. So, though many a niile of blue water parted us one from t'other, I never felt away from her quiet, gentle influence. At last our long voyage drew to a close, till one night we fetched the Channel, with a good wind and a threatening 36 Me and Bill. sky. Me and Bill had our watch together, and he says to me, lookin' away to the land — "Ben, we shall pass the old place soon, if the wind don't change, and maybe we shall see the light from the little house on the cliff." His voice was so quiet and low that I only answered, " Aye, aye. Bill." By-and-by he comes up to me again, and he says, still very quiet, " Do you know, Ben,, I often have a feeling that if I am to go down like so many brave chaps 'ave done afore us, I should like it to be near the old place, Ben, where you and me growed up together, and where I could see as I went down the lights along the beach where we used to play together, us two little 'uns, Ben — ^and the light in the winder of Polly's cottage." " Why, Bill," I says, " whatever has put these ideas into your 'ead to-tiight ? " " Look above," he says. Sure enough, the sky was getting frightfully black, and the water risin' in a way as we knowed meant no good, while the wind was blowing 'arder every minute. Afore we had time for another word, the skipper's voice rang out above the gathering storm — " All hands aloft ! " In another hour, such a storm was raging that the oldest tars on board looked glum, and the skipper himself grew thoughtful and anxious. Blacker and blacker the sky, 'igher and 'igher the waters, and at last the inky clouds were rent open and blindin' flashes of lightnin' played upon the strugglin' ship. On, on she strove with her rich cargo and galknt crew. Only another good ship doomed to destruction; only another victim for the 'ungry sea. Brighter flashed the lightnin', showin' the dim outline of a craggy coast : ani with a mighty crash, quiverin' her from stem to stern, she struck a hidden rock. *'Ben," says Bill hastily, "she's on the Black Rock An Old Fisherman's Story. 37 off the point, look, look — there are the lights of the old town." Loud but steady the skipper shouts, " Lads, clear the decks.'' 'Twas the last command he ever give, for a great wave broke over the ship, and swept him and five or six other brave souls into the boilin' ocean. A boat was un- lashed and speedily filled, but before six strokes could be taken she was swamped, all aboard her lost. At last the storm grew a trifle less violent, and then we could make out a commotion amongst the folks on the beach ; and sure enough the plucky fishermen were mannin' a boat to attempt a rescue. What a cheer went up from us poor fellows on the deck of the City of Dublin, already beginnin' to break up ! Sometimes above us, on the summit of some angry wave, sometimes hidden from our sight, sometimes driven back, the boat our strainin' eyes were fixed on came slowly closer, and at last she reached us ; and several mates and old friends did me and Bill make out as she came along- side. Quickly the boat filled with her livin' load, threatenln' any minute to capsize. At last every man was off the sinking ship but me and Bill, and the cry was raised — such a wild and weird one it seemed — " There's room for one man more ! " We knowed it well, me and Bill — that only one of us could gpt aboard that boat, and that afore she could return tfte poor old ship, which had carried us safe so many thousands of miles only to be wrecked in sight of home, must perish, and one of us with her. One must |)e taken and the other left- " Bill," I says,, "tell Polly I were faithful and true to her to the last. Jump in, brother \ " ' But straight and fast stood he, and his voice was quite cheery and calm, and his eye didn't flinch, nor his face pale. 38 Me and Bill. , "No, Ben, no; your life must be saved — for she loves you. I shall go down, you see, after all, in sight of the light, on the cliff; " and he pointed to where, dim and faint in the distance, shone the light from Mary's winder. " Jump in, mate, and God bless you." I never heard his voice -again, for at that momerft the fragment of an entangled spar come crushing on my 'ead and felled me to the deck, stunned. But they told me afterwards that he gathered me in his great strong arms, gentle and tender like a woman, and lowered me into the friendly 'ands stretched out from the boat, first bendin' his noble 'ead over my face and kissin' me. After the storm I see him again, washed ashore — stretched on the wild sea-beach, the willin' 'ands idle for ever, his great brave heart for ever cold and still. And I fell down and wept as I see the cold mornin' light streamin' on the dear dead face. of the man who had lost his life to save mine. So me and Bill was parted at last ; but I don't think I shall be coming down to the beach much longer to watch the boats put out to sea and the children at their play ; and I 'umbly hopes that when the great Cap'en do call me, we shall meet again, nfever, never to part no more — me and Bill ! THE IDIOT LAD. $, ^turg in Wast. f HE vesper hymn had died away, And the benison had been said, But one remained in church to pray, With a bowed and reverent head. He could not frame in words the prayer . Which reached tjje Throne of Grace, But the Love and Pity present there Saw the pleading of his face. In many curls hung his hair of gold Round a brow of pearly white ; His face was cast' in a graceful mould. And his eyes were strangely bright. Gentle his white hand's touch — his smile Was tender and sweet and sad : Nought knew the heart of fraud and guile Of poor Dick, the idiot lad. "My boy," I said, "the tired sun Sinks low on the west sea's breast; The shades which fall when the day is done Woo the weary earth to rest. In the vesper zephyr's gentle stir The sleepy tree-tops nod — Why wait you here ? " And he said, " Oh, sir, I would see ,the Face of God ! 40 The Idiot Lad. " If the sun is so fair in his noon-day pride, And the moon in the silver night; If the stars which by angels at eventide Are lighted can shine so bright ; ^If wood and dell, each flow'r ' and tree. And each grass of the graveyard sod, Are so full of beauty. Oh, what must it be To look on the Face »pf God ! "I have sought for the vision wide and near, And once, sir, I travell'd far, To a mighty city long leagues from here, Where men of the great world are. But the faces I saw were false and mean, And cruel, and hard, and bad ; And none like the Face the saints have seen Saw poor Dick, the idipt lad. " In the night, sir, I wander away from home ; Down the lanes and the fields I go — Through the silent and lonely woods I roam, Patient, and praying, and slow. In the early morn on the hills I stand, Ere yet the mists have past ; And I eagerly look o'er sea and land Fof the wonderful vision at last. "When fhe lightnings flash and the thunders roar. And the ships fly in from the g£Oe ; When the waves beat high on the shrinking shore. And the fishing boats dare not sail; • I seek It still, in the storm and snow, Lest it may happen to be, That then it will please the great God to show His beautiful Face to me. A Story in Verse. , 41 "I seek It still when God's gleaming pledge In the bright'ning sky appears, And from tree and flower and sparkling, hedge Earth is weeping her happy tears; For I sometimes think that I may behold, After yearning years of pain, The Face of my God in the quivering gold Of the sunshine • that follows rain. "When the fishers return on the homeward tide, I ask them nothing but this : ' Have you seen It out there on the ocean wide, Where the sky and the waters kiss ? ' But they smile, and 'Poor Dick' I hear them say. And they answer me always ' No '■^~ So I think It must be still farther away Than even the fishing boats go." ii m * ii * * That night while the simple fisher-folk slept, From the dreams of the mighty free, Down to the beach the Idiot crept, And launched on the summer sea. And the boat sped on, and on, and on. From the ever-receding shore. And brighter and brighter the moonbeams shone. Which for him were to shine no more. Far out at sea his boat was found. And the tide which bore to land The village fleet from the fishing ground Laid softly upon the sand The white wet face of the idiot boy — Not yearning and wistful now, For perfect peace, and rest, and joy Were written upon his brow. .42 The Idiot Lad. In the poor lad's eyes seem'd still the glow Of a new and a wondrous light; And down on the beach the women knelt low While they gaz'd on the holy sight. As the fishermen walk'd to the smiling dead, Softly their rough feet trod ; And bared was each head, as one slowly saiJ, "He has look'd on the,. Face of Godl" KILLING NO MURDER. KILLED Gerald Scott. He fell by my hand ; it was drenched with his heart's blood. Un- armedy defenceless, he stood before me. Coolly, unhurriedly, unerringly, .1 fired the shot which stretched him, bleeding and in the agony of death, at my feet. He took from me all that made life worth having — I tbok from him life itself. I killed Gerald Scott. But I did not murder him. I loved him once. We were schoolfellows and playmates. He was my first, almost my only friend. Whenever I think of him now I would, if I could, forget what he became, and remember him only as the merry, idle, clever, curly-headed schoolboy with whom I spent my boy-life. But for him that life would have been very gloomy and very hard to bear. I had no home, and no parents ; no brothers and no sisters; no relatives of whom I had any knowledge. In place of parents, I had three grim trustees, each a lawyer, and each apparently dead to anything that could not be appropriately expressed in tautological language upon margined parchment in stiff handwriting without punctua- tion, with seals' to all signatures,, said seals and signatures necessarily affixed in the presence of witnesses. In place of brother, or sister, or relatives, I had Gerald Scott. He had parents who doted on him, brothers, and sisters, and friends, who loved him. His home was a very beautiful and a very happy one. He took me there once to spend a vacation with him. I shall never forget the touch of his 44 Killing no Murder. mother's hand upon ijiy head, and her kiss as she gathered me to her. I shall never forget that the tears were in her voice, as well as in her eyes, as she said, " Poor orphaned child ! » For years afterwal-ds I cried at the recollection. When schooldays were over we went to Oxford together. Here, as at school, he was almost my only /riend. I was too cold and stern and taciturn (or such appeared my character) to be liked as gay, careless Gerald Scott was liked. What I might have been had not my early life been so devoid of brightness, I do not know, but the brightness of Gerald's young days seemed to grow with his growth, filling his •heart and sparkling in his merry blue eyes. I could see no fault in him. When others called him vain and selfish — there were one or two who did — I imputed the charge to jealousy; to envy of his brilliant abilities, and handsome face, and Apollo-like figure. How could he be selfish who spent money so lavishly in giving dinners and "wines" which were unsurpassed in the traditions of the college ? Shortly after leaving Oxford I went abroad. Save that I loved travel, I had no particular reason for going; being abroad, I had no other reason for remaining away for fifteen long years. But I did so remain. Farther in the Wild West than any white men had then settled I made my way ; and for six years the spell of the mysterious Nile held me in thrall. With a small band of reckless souls around me, for six years I explored the interior of the-Dark Continent. I visited India, China, Australasia; voyaged among the wondrous Isles of Southern Seas — in fact, when I at last returned to Europe I found .that my fame as a traveller had preceded me, by means of the journals I had from time to time sent home to various learned Societies. I had, indeed, seen much and learnt much in my long, far travels — but I had never learnt what love is ; for me the love-light had never kindled in woman's eyes. From a A Traveller's Story. 45 seemingly cold, reserved boy I had developed into a stern- faced, reticent, resolute man. Men feared without loving me; they deemed me harsh, morose; as, indeed, I had been always deemed before. In the company of ladies I took no pleasure. I think I should have done, had it not seemed to me that they shunned and avoided my society. Is it true that to every man love comes once ? I think it must be fated so, for otherwise how should love have come to me ? Not in hot youth, when the heart is as susceptible to passion as the .^Eolian harp to every zephyr that flutters through its tuneful strings — but when my years numbered more than half the allotted span. Standing in a cottage porchway, in a little English village — the light of a fading summer sun gleaming on her hair and face and bare white arms; her hands full of roses; roses twined in girlish fun around her head in a circlet of white and red ; roses in the garden at her feet and hanging in garlands from the porch above her ; roses in the white- ness of her snowy flesh, the pink of rosebuds in her cheeks — it was thus, in the country of roses, that I saw first the only rose of love that ever bloomed for me. With her very memory comes still the scent of roses. What matters it who she was, what other name than Rose she bore ? What matters it how I wooed her ? If those who thought me hard and harsh could only have seen me,, heard me, as I pleaded my love ! Men plead hard for life, but never man pleaded yet so hard for life as I for love. The pent-up emotions of all my life burst the barriers that had pressed them down so tightly. I think that deep down into my heart, through the thick crust of years, had sunk the poetry of Orient sunsets on sapphire seas, such as I had seen a thousand times; the poetry which clings in purple mist around the mountain peaks of Ind, and struggles for utterance in the' surging of Africa's mighty rivers: the weird poetry of desert and 46 Killing no Murder, prairie, jungle and forest ; and that the light of my love's sweet eyes thawed it all into living streams of joy and hope. The roses had not faded when I sought to gather for myself the Queen of the " Rosebud garden of girls " ; the token, the true-love pledge, her little fingers put into my greedy hand was a pure white rose she had taken first from me, and worn in her whiter bosom. I have it still. My God ! I have the dust of every petal even now. I was strangely shy, with this new thing that had come into my life. It was to me so precious and holy that I could not bear the thought of others knowing of it who would not deem it so. Gerald Scott was living near the village which was now to me the sweetest spot in all the wide world I had travelled over so long. But even to him I could not tell my secret, and not till weeks had passed did he guess it, though I was staying with him all the time — save for the hours I spent with Rose. One evening, at an informal garden, party in Gerald's beautiful grounds, an al fresco concert was started by a few enthusiasts.' ' Gradually most of us gatliered round the piano, which had been brought from the house and placed in the cool shadow of a wide-spreading tree. Some of the songs stirred deeply my newly-awakened heart, and when my turn came I sang, with unwonted pathos, to a very old and simple, plaintive air — "HER ROSE!" ' » " What did you tell her, pale white rose, As you warm'd on her breast of snow ? , Did you breathe my name to her list'ning heart, And the tale we three only know ? Did you tell her over and over again, ' He loves you — loves for aye : In the light of your eyes the darkest night Is to him as the noon of day 7 . A Traveller's Story. 47 '■ VVliat is the message, flow'r of love, You bring from the living shrine Where for ever is kept in holy charge The soul that was once in mine ? What will you tell me, rare white rose. Of her throbbing heart's reply ? Or did you, to garden too fair remov'd,, In languor of rapture die? " Ah ! the snowy petals fade and droop, And their first sweet scent has flown ; Eut the rose has whisper'd a message sweet. And the words are for me alone. I place the relic in silk and gold, From aught else ever apart — For none may see the rose that felt The throbbing of her heart 1 " A silence followed the song — I think a silence of surprise at the light which I felt was gleaming in my face, or at the trembling of my voice and lips as I finished. I had sung the words from a tiny scVoll of manuscript — not that I needed it. As I finished, the manuscript fluttered to the ground. Gerald raised it and handed it to me, his eyes falling upon it as he did so. I felt that he suspected half my secret, and that night I told him all. When I took him to Rose — my one friend to my one love — I felt proild of the flush of surprise which came into his face as he gazed upon her rare and wondrous beauty. I quickly arranged to give up all my wanderings, and to settle in England for the new life which was to be so different from the old. For about a year it was absolutely necessary that I should go again abroad. Upon my returri, my darling was to choose her home and mine, and become my wife. No year of my life had ever seemed so long — my heart was so very dark without her^hope was there, but an infinite yearning was there also, which was near akin tu pain. Oh, I was so lonely without her ! When at last the twelve weary months of separatipn were 48 Killing no Murder. over, and I returned, my love was lying beneath the green grass sod, and by her side was lying a blighted bud of life — her child. The name of her betrayer-^her murderer — the name of the father of her child— was Gerald Scott. ^ Ik ^ * * * Twice afterwards Gerald Scott and I met— each time met face to face. The first meeting was one of my own deter- mined seeking ; when we met for the second and last time, Fate sent him across my path. When I sought him it was to murder him — and I did not. When I saw him last, I had not sought him — ^but I killed him. My only object, when for weeks and months I followed up his trail, was to take his life, anyhow, anywhere. If I met him asleep, sick, helpless, dying, I still meant that his soul should go to judgment by my hand. My mind was fevered, my body worn and wasted with the long search before I found him. But in a little garrison town in the South of France I came up with him at last. If I could have got at him I would have killed him like a dog, and without warning. But I cared little that by the interposition of French officers, his friends, a formal meeting was arranged. I cared little, for I had no fear and no doubt, though the fever of my passion seemed scorching my heart, and burn- ing with fierce flames within my throbbing, whirling head. The blue waves were leaping joyously in the light of the newly-risen sun as Gerald Scott and I, rapiers in hand, faced each other on the white cliffs above the still slumbering town. I saw nothing but the set, pale face of the man I had come out to slay in the sunrise of that beautiful Sabbath day — ^I. heard nothing but the clashing of our weapons as they spit out angry sparks of fire. That we were fighting furiously I knew, but as to the flight of the minutes I had no idea. At last, with one strong, fierce lunge I struck the sword from his hand. Over the steep cliff, down into the A Traveller's Story, 49 smiling sea beneath, plunged the weapon with which he had parried death from hisi treacherous heart. An awful whiteness came into his face, and he fell, fainting, at my feet, with his quivering eyes turned up to the morning sky. My arm was raised high for his death-stroke. As I raised it, I saw for the first time, upon the summit of a rising ridge a few yards oif, a large wooden cross — erected by the pious fisher-folk of the little town below us. Jhe Sabbath sunbeams were shining upon the Calvary-^— shining upon the thorn-crowned head of the Figure in its. midst — shining upon the pleading, dying eyes and on the outstretched hands. I know not what power worked within mej I know not what mystic influence at that instant calmed the raging of my heart, and lulled the throbbing fever in my brain. But suddenly the form of Gerald Scott on the ground before me became as that of the merry, laughing, careless, curly-headed schoolboy of the bygone times. I felt the touch of his mother's gentle hand upon my head, her kisses on my face 1 heard her voice — her voice with the tears in it — saying, with an infinite tenderness, " Poor orphaned child ! " Floating, as from far over the water, I heard the chiming of church- going bells. And the thorns around the Figure's bleeding brows blossomed into roses such as grew around my darling when I saw her first — the air in which my sword hung poised for Gerald's heart was filled with the fragrance of summer roses. For a second I thrilled in the trance-like vision from head to foot. I looked again upon him — he lay in the shadow of the cross. That shadow fell upon him, as though to hide his guilt, and shelter his cowering hea;d from my vengeful hand. He was in the shadow of the cross ! With both hands I grasped the thirsty steel, snapped it across my knee, and flung blade and hilf into the sea beneath. Then, without a look or wordj I turned upon iiiy heel and walked away. O.R. 4 50 Killing no Murder. As God is my witness, I left behind me every thought of vengeance for ever. As God will be my Judge, no thought of vengeance against Gerald Scott ever entered my soul ag^in. That I forgave him, I do not say ; but that from that moment I left him wholly, fully, unreservedly to the judgment of Heaven alone. Heaven Itself be my witness ! * » ' * » » * Ten years separated that from our next and final meeting this side the grave. For ten years I had not set foot in England or in Europe ; only once or twice in all that timo had I even been in touch with civilisation.^ I might never have left the threadless mazes of hidden Africa had net ' duty called me home. I believed that I had solved pro- blems which had baffled geographers century after century. I had at least knowledge which I had no right to hide, and I obeyed the call to return and reveal the results of my • exploring. On a dark and lowering night, the ship in which I had taken passage set sail for England, bearing on board more than three hundred souls. When morning dawned we were out of sight of land, and, though with shortened sail, were making terrific speed, for we were running before the wind, which rapidly blew into a gale. When night again came down upon the waste of heaving, foam-crested waves, the storm was higher still. For days it continued, with such violence that scarcely a passenger dared to venture above the hatches. The sailors were at last lashed to their posts. Dauntless as any martyr at the stake, the skipper kept to his place day and night. The seventh day passed : the sea as wild, the wind as high, the heavens as black. In the midnight watch an awful cry was raised — a cry to make the boldest heart quake, the bravest face grow pale. The ship was on fire ! Three hundred souls between flame and water — death in the sky above, for hghtning was quivering round the A Traveller's Story. S ^ doomed ship, the artillery of heaven was loosing its bolts upon us — death in the black hungry billows beneath, which now, as though sure of their prey, were heaving their cruel heads less high — death in the tongues of fjame leaping through the thick smoke which shrouded the ship like a pall from stem to stern ! The hatches were burst open and the passengers rushed on deck — men, women, and children. Some few were sternly silent, others shrieking, weeping, praying in loud agony. More awful than shrieks and screams, from some few poor women — mad with horror — ^rose peal on peal of demoniac-sounding laughter. , May these eyes see never such a sight again, these ears hear never again such sounds ! In obedience to the captain's trumpet-shouted orders, the gallant sailors made an almost hopeless attempt to restore discipline amongst the seething mass of maddened mortals. As the flames gathered strength, the smoke became less dense ; and, at length, a boat was lowered and launched ; but swamped before a soul could board her. But not before several of the male passengers had made a rush to the ship's side, with the. too evident intention of seeking the chance of safety for their own lives first, and leaving women and children to their fate on the burning vessel. In the boats — for the waves continued to fall — there was, at least, a chance — on the ship they saw none. How, as . by a miracle, we were saved, it is not in my purpose to tell ; what I have to tell occurred before the hand of Heaven was stretched out for our relief. The cowards who had rushed for the swamped boat were thrus't back, and two groups of sailors stood by the lashings of two other boats, waiting the captain's signal. - " Lower away, my lads." As he gave the order, the captain stepped to my side. I had been with him through most of the storm, and in that 52 Killing no Murder. moment of peril — almost of despair — each felt that he could trust the other. " lA.re you armed ? " he asked. " My arms ai'e below." He. placed a revolver in my hand, and closed his own fingers round another, quietly remarking, — ' " Every chamber is loaded. My sailors I can trust — ^will you shoot the first male passenger who steps towards the boat on your left ? " " I will." And I turned to the boat he indicated. The captain moved towards the other, and in a loud voice, heard above all the din, he gave the warning, — " I guard this boat. This man " (pointing to me) " guards the other. For the women and the children, who must be saved first. You see we are both armed. The first man who steps towards either boat will be shot dead without a word of further warning. So help me God ! " "So help me God ! " I said. The boat I watched rode the water first. As she dipped safely into the sea, a man half-tottered, half-rushed, between her and me — a man whose face was ghastly pale — a man with shaking lips and haggard, hunted eyes. He sprang for the boat. The man was Gerald Scott. I knew him, I recognised him as certainly as though we had never parted, or as though we were in the old, far-away happy days when I loved him so. But no ripple of passion rose in my heart as I did my duty. Not a nerve in my face moved, not a muscle of my body quivered, as, getting a quick sight* for my fire from the light which was blazing in the hunted eyes into which I had gazed so often and so fondly, I pulled the trigger. Reeling, he sunk on the deck without a groan, touching with his bleeding body as he did so the hand by which he fell, the hand by which, he died. So I killed Gerald Scott. But I did not murder him. LOVE AND BUTTONS. Place, a goodly kitchen, such as modern builders know not even in their dreams ; Time, Christmas Eve ; Present, sinking for once V all the social distinctions vifhich ordinarily divide them, the whole body of servants, upper, middle, and lower ; Topic receiving the luminous benefit of general discussion, the religious and social influences of what James Higgles, the new footman and chief speaker, denominated the " Festive Seasing." Thoughtfully he remarked, — HIGH we have bin speakin' of Chrismiss sermings. Far be hit from me — a Hagnostic though hi ham, what thinks that nobody does not know nothink — to bring my persition and hihfluence to bear agin Chrismiss sermings. On the contrairy, Hi consider that Chrismiss sermings, combined with sperits and water, is one of the chief means of per- doocin' the true Chrismiss feelin' of forgiveableness and sociabihtiveness all round what we have bin a-talkin' of this evenin'. There i^ p'ints about Chrismiss which, as a Hagnostic, I cannot fall in with ; but nevertheless I feels a- stealin' over me even now the real Chrismissy feelin'. I feel like forgivin' anybody what has done me hany hevil — alivays exceptin' one indiwiddle. As regards that one indiwiddle, Chrismiss hor no Chrismiss, sermings hor no sermings, Hagnostikism hor no Hagnostikism, I could only hespress my feelin's by gore. Which I am sorry for to cause screams from the hearts of the ladies gathered round here in this Chrismissy fashion; but as regards that one indi- 54 Love and Buttons, widdie, my feelin's, I repeat, is gore. Hunderstand me, not my gore, but that indiwiddle's. In a-tellin' of you the story, I must 'arrow hup the hemotions of my soul. If, as I get along, any lady or gennelman sees tears a-tricklin' into my whisky, manly though salt, kindly do nqt say nofhink, but silently drop in a hextra piece of sugar for to correct the flaviour. For a long time past it have bin^hobvious to all heyes that I have bin rapidly a-fallin' off. You all know I ham a poet, but for many months my werses have bin 'eavy and my bile bad. One after another, four buttings have had to be took in ; my harms is wasted and the metre of my pomes irreg'lar. I do not like to say it before ladies, especially sich as is present here, because it is not quite bongy tongy, but the fac' is — my legs is not what they was. My body and my mind is both shook. There is some present who have seen me a-servin' hyster sauce with the cheese, and spillin' gravy down old ladies' necks plentiful, which is hot only painful to the old ladies but to me. All is owin' to the indiwiddle whose gore I have allooded to. The beginning of the whole story, ladies and brother gennelmen, is Love. The continuation of it is the Indi- widdle. That indiwiddle was a buttings, a page boy. The lover was me ; and the hobjeck of my feelin's was one of the maids livin' with old Lady Spangles. It was on a visit to Lady Spangles I met her first, when me and Sir Peter Boots, the gennelman I used to live with; was stayin' near Lady Spangleses' in Hessex. I saw as she were naturally struck with my legs and character. My own feelin's were hes- pressed in werse as follers, which I struck off just before we left. • Let nie teH you that in true po'try there's nothink like cxhasperatin' the haitch and bother. letters. " JTaid of Spangles, hare we part, Let me tell thou what Hi art I A Footman's Story. 55 I'm a man as loves thee fond, I ham dark and you are blonde, And I feel like a-drownin' of myself in the pond. " IIo how bright thy squintless heye, Like a diamind hin the sky t In its bright and squenchless glow, Blissness all my life I'd know. And even my calves (as I have every reason to be satisjied with already) would larger grow, " Deep my love has tooken roots, And I'm livin' with Sir P. Boots ! Hif thou returnest this love of mine^ Don't lose no time in makin' ha sign,' Which the same I leave in your hands, my dear, but would suggest a-droppin' hof me ha line." After the hexhaustion of this hode, after the strain had wore off the 'system — and let me tell you nobody knows what this sort of thing means but a poet — the next question was, how to get it placed properly before the young lady I adored? I knew. that old Lady Spangles were very par- tickler about all the ladies and gennelmen in the 'ousehold ; " no follerers " was strictly the rule. Somehow I didn't like to send the werses through the post ; I wanted a more tenderer and a more romanticker way of sending sich werses as mine was to the tender boosim of Hamelia Bottikins, which I will not go for to deny that sich was her name and liappleation. For severeal weeks I slep' with them werse^ under my pillow, a-thinkin' and a-ponderin' every night how best for to send them. Although we was stayin', me and Sir Peter, only a few miles from Lady Spangleses' place, Sir Peter didn't seem disposed, notwithstandin' all my 'ints, to repeat his visit to her. Now Sir Peter Boots were a very careless man about religion, as were shown by his lankwich and the wages he paid to the gennelmen in his service, like me; Mid what with this fac', and me bein' a Hagnostic, I'd never bin to 56 Love and Buttons. church since we'd bin in Hessex. But it come to my know- ledge that Lady Spangleses' hestablishment attended reg'lar the hafternoon service at the church of Lowville-hatte-Hole. Accordin', I makes hup my mind that on the follerirf Sunday hafternoon I would take the parson and hall the congeregation by surprise, and go to church myself. It were necessary to mention this to Sir Peter. So on the Sunday morning, " Sir Peter," I says, " I wish for to hattend worship at the church of Lowville-hatte-Hole this afternoon." " HuUoa ! James," he says, " what's the matter now ? I thought you a little bit in the Hagnostic line," he says, laughing. He were always very free-and-easy in his man- ners. " Sir Peter," I replies, very solermn, " what me and 'Uxley and hothers really thinks in our hintellecks is one thing, our dooty to serciety is hanother. And I beginsi for to feel. Sir Peter," I says, more solermner than ever, " as life is very short ; and I have also hascertained as the service is short, and the distance to the church very short likewise ; also that there is no hoffertory hor collection on the Sunday hafternoon ; and a-puttin' of these four things together. Sir Peter, I wishes for to go." Sir Peter of course hassented, and I made my arrange- ments accordingly. Soon aftef the service begun that hafternoon, I walks slow and stately up the haisle, and I knowed and felt hall heyes was hon me. But just as quiet and humble as a farmer hor a tradesman, I sits down in the best and most comfortable pew I could see, and I noticed the service were not stopped on my haccount. After a few minutes I raises my heyes and looks about me, and then I see the pew where the Spangleses' hestablishment was a- sittin'. And Ho ! at the corner of the pew sat my Hameha — my hown, my loved Hamelia. What my feelin's was through that Sunday hafternoon rcr\ ice will never be known. Every now and then I caught her heye fixed upon me, with a look as almost made me cry A Footman's Story, 57 hout to the old parson to put hup the bands there and then. I threw back glances more tenderer and even more hespres- siver than the ones she gave me, and at last I made hup my mind to take from my manly boosim the little pome I had writ, and slip it into Hamelia's hand as she left the church. With this hidea in my head and the werses in my hand^ I got to the hend seat of the pew, close where the party from the Spangleses' pew must pass as they walked to the porch. The serming came to a hend at last, and soon after out of ' the pew walked Hamelia and the bothers. I throwed my hand hover the door of the pew where I was sittin', the paper just showin' through my lingers. Wbuld she see it, and hunderstand? It was a tryin' momint. Closer they came, all the Spangleses' party, walking two and two. Himagine my feelin's, if you can, when I see as Hamelia was walking on the 'wrong side of the haisle from my pew. She gave me one look as she passed, but didn't make no move for to take the werses ; in fac', she couldn't have done so, becos of the lady a-walking with her. I was froze with disapp'intment, and still kep' my harm hover the pew- door. Suddingly I felt the, pome was took. Took ! But who had took it ? Starting to my feet, I see that the rear' of the Spangleses' party was brought hup by a little hijeous, wild-beast, broke-out-all-over-buttings page boy. This page boy it were who had took my werses. As I was standiii', gaspin' for breath, he turned round, wunk — actually wank, to use a stronger hespression — towards Hamelia, winkin' and noddin' of his beastly little curly head in her direction, to my very face. Then he holds out the werses in one hand, and with the bother (disregardless of me and the sacred hedifice) he made one of the signs of the Freemasons ; as Shakespeare so beautifully hespresses of it : — " He put his thumb hunto his nose, And spread his ^ngers hout," 58 Love and Buttons, By the time I'd pulled myself together, and got outside the church, the Spangleses' party was hout of sight. A few days hafterwards, I was a-givin' way to drink in the pantry, when a hunder servint come and told me there was a wisitor waitin' to see me. "Who is it?" I says* " The page boy from Lady Spangleses'," was the hanswer, " but he says as how his business is of the most privatest, most particklerest, and most delicatest character, and can't be told to nobody but you yerself." Ladies and gennelmen, the plot thickens. Soon you will hunderstand it all. * When I went into the room, there sure enough was the hijeous buttings what took my werses the previous Sunday haftemoon. I drawed, myself hup, and stood gazing at him with a look fit to freeze him. But it didn't seem to hurt him ; on the contrairy, he comes hup close to me grinnin' from hear to hear, and his heyes all twinkling, and he says, — " It's all right, James^t's all right, ■ ■ my boy ! " " What's all right ? " I says. " Hamelia," he hanswers; and then he shoves a letter into my hand. 'Evings I with what hemotions ,did I hopen it ! "I gave Hamelia the werses," says Buttings, "and that's the hanswer, that is," he says. This is what the letter said, addressed to me in full, all correct. " Miss Hamelia Bottikins received Mr. Miggleses' beautiful piece of pottery, which is lovely. Whifch I am sorry as how our old lady is too strict for to allow of Miss Bottikins meeting Mr. Higgles, or correspondencing with him as might be wished, but please write me some more lovely pottery, and always give it to the yciung gennelman what brings this note, as is my hag^nt. We are always at church on Sunday haftemoon. — Your Hamelia." On reading this note I were so overcome that I didn't notice as the writing were very scraggy. I put the note in A ' Footman's Story. 5 g my boosim, blew my nose for to keep down my hemotion, and then seized Hamelia's hagent in my harms, and wep' on him that copious he had to dry hisself hall hover. Like a fldsh of lightening my hintelleck perceived as the way were hopen to Hamelia's heart — a short, clear road, with no hork'ard p'ints or turnin's. Soon as the page boy went, arid I'd got time for to bring my thoughts together in one large 'eap, as it might be, I sits down to cogertate. And hafter a hour or two, a grand and a dazzlin' hidea come into me. I see my way clear for a great cowp der tatty. Hamelia was willing; Buttings were her app'inted hagent ; hall now depended upon me. Was I the sort of man to fail ? Never ! Were I not calcilated for to win hany woman's love and hadmiration? Certingly! Were I not discharged from severeal good app'intments owin' to being too, too hattractive for the young ladies of the fam'ly, and to drink ? Yes, I were. My po'try, hadded to the shape of my legs, were hall sufficient. I smiles, retires to the pantry for a brief drink, and returns with my plans hall laid. Which they were as follows. Hon Sunday week there- was to be at Lowville Church a 'Arvest Festivial. The nobs was hall to be there, and of course the Spangleses inclooded. Hamelia would be there : I would be there; It was to be a tip-top, haristocratic, bongy tongy haffair. The page boy would be on the look hoiit for some more werses ; and, in a manner of speakin', and beggin' the ladies' pardons here present, I resolved for to bust myself in one grand hepic pome for Hamelia that day ; werses as should be tender, but not too 'eavy hor deep — sorter throbbing werses, but light and pleasin'. Now to make the rest of this here story plain, I must tell a little about the parson and the clerk at Lowville Church. The parson was very haged and very deaf, and, like me, he were a poet. In fac', he were a perfect old hidiot, and the clerk were worse. The lankwich is stronr^, but you'll soon 6o , Love and Buttons. see it is not too strong, when I make free to remark that that clerk were a drunkin parrot. The parson were always a-writin' 'y™'^s, and these 'yrans were occasional sung in church. I am agin' singin' original werses in church. None of mine was ever sung that way, and I wouldn't demean myself to it, as a Hagnostic, if hall the Bench of Bishops was to go hon their knees before me. What's more, I believe it's agin the Roo^ericks, and I ain't sure as I sha'n't write to the Harchbishop about it yet. Howsum- ever, this parson were a-doin' of it continual, and every time the drunkin clerk, what had got quite used to the rubbish, used to go hon a-readin' hout the words just like a parrot, never knowin' hor caring what they was. Now all this, which you must be careful for to bear in mind, I found hout afterwards. The hend is coming fast, so — to quote from one of my hown werses — "You what have tears to drop, Prepare for to hear 'em a-splashin' now." The day harrove. My hepic hode were done. The bells were a-ringin' for Sairey. No, no ! for the 'Arvest Festivial, I mean, but my thoughts gets mixed when I think of that hawful day. Let me 'urry hon. Foller me hattentive, and you will soon know hall. The church was almost full. The nobs was almost hall there, incloodin' me, and even Sir Peter Boots, as were most hexceptional. Hup the haisle — ho, my heart, be still ! — comes the Spangleses' lot. Hamelia is «again the wrong side of the haisle, but the buttings, grinnin' from head to foot, as you might say, again brings hup the rear. My werses is slipt into that wretched boy's fingers, and hon they go. Just before the service begins," the clerk drops a big book from his desk. What follers is hawful. Again I say A Footman's . Story. 6 1 let me 'urry hon. Inside that book were a oiiginal 'ymn by the parson for the 'Arvest Festivial, writ special. That willaineous page boy rushes bout from his seat, shoves the parson's werses into his pocket as he kneels for to pick hup the book, and ^uts my werses inside in their place I Then he hands hup the book to the clerk, with a hinnercent and smilin' face, sweet as a hangel's, and resoomes his seat. No burning heye saw the deed, but the consesquences was soon apparient, and hearthquakes and tornadoses is not in the runnin' with what them consesquences was. It were already known as a 'ymn by the parson were to be used, and at last the same was hannounced for to be sung. The horgan rolled hout the solermn notes which was to accompany the words, and hall was 'ushed, and calm, and still, as the clerk shot hup for to give hout the words. Only the choir had copies, and the congeregation sat listenin', heager, while the deaf old parson sat beamin' with pride on hall below. Wiolent that clerk blowed his nose, for to give hextra power to the 'y™") ^i^d deeper feelin'. Ho 'Evings ! this were the first werse he read, loud and strong and straight hon like a parrot, with hall the proper haspireations, hannouncing first as the words was wrote by the Reverend Doctor Didymus Theophilus Cameron, for the occasion. " To-day hin church I shall see my girl, Ho! what ha hafternoon ! With a pull-back dress and her hair in curl, Ho ! what ha hafternoon I Across the pews hour heyes will reach, For to communicate heach with heach, Whilethe deaf hold parson continues to preach, Ho 1 what ha hafternoon 1 " Hoceans of words could give no hespression to my feelin's as this first werse of my hode was give cut in church. The 62 Love and Buttons. congeregation was rooted to their seats in horror and amnze- ment, evidentially a-thinking as the words was not suitable, while the parson, deaf as a hadder, still sat smilin' and noddin' his head, pleased and 'appy. Hon went the clerk with the second werse, as must have bin intosticated, but able to read through long 'abit. " Ilcr lovely heyes will perpose my ho>^'e, Ho I what ha hafternoon ! Eoots and Spangles both be blowcd, Ho ! what ha hafternoon 1 I'm a rather Hagnostikal turn of mind, But a man like me you won't easily find, I can leave hold Boots a long way behin.l, Ho ! what ha hafternoon ! " Sir Peter Boots fell down in a happleopleckticle fit, and seving ladies were took hout faintin'. General movement amongst hall the congeregation. " Harrange for toiiieet me as soon as you like, Ho ! what ha hafternoon ! Let the place be along of the hold turnpike, ' Ho ! what ha hafternoon 1 Hamelia ! hi love you and you alone, And hif you love me, your affection hown, • By a-blowin' of your nose in a soft monotone. Ho I what ha hafternoon 1 " « No more of my beautiful pome were ever heard in that church, for with faintin's and fits, and hysterics, and shrieks of the wild laughter of reasons as was giving way, the con- geregation broke hup. ' ' Hall was hover between me and Hamelia. That page boy were never her hagent at hall — it were hall a 'oax. I were dismissed from my app'intment, and my life is a howl- ing wilderness. And I repeats that Chrismiss hor no Chrismiss, ser- mings hor no sermings, I can honly forgive .that low and A Footman's Story. 63 lying and willaineous buttings after I've d^bbleJ in his gore. * » « « , ' « # . A sudden and loud ringing and knocking disturbed the expressions of sympathy which were unsparingly lavished upon the luckless Higgles, and it was speedily known in the kitchen that two unexpected visitors had iarrived, and that two servants — a maid and a boy — accompanied them. These servants were shortly afterwards conducted down- stairs — a pretty, comely maid, and an impudent-looking page boy in bright buttons. A frightful, spasmodic change passed over the features of James Higgles. He uttered one word — " Hamdia ! " — and promptly proceeded to take off his coat, with massacre writteh upon his face, his vengeful glance fixed upon the page. " It is him ! " he exclaimed. " It is him what I have bin a-tellin' you hof. Gore ! " And James Higgles, in the attitude of an avenging angel, advanced towards the page boy. At this- critical moment he was forcibly held back, and an excited conversation took place between the others, at the end of which Amelia Bottikins, pointedly addressing the upper chamljer-maid, and keeping her eyes carefully averted from Hr. Higgles^ made the following remarks, — " Which I will not deny as how I were' aware of Hr. Miggleses' feelin's at the time he have bin speakin' of, and which I will also not deny as he were treated shameful by the boy what were then page at Lady Spangleses'. I lost my app'intment, as well as the page ; but we found our- selves together in another establishment, and which he have expressed to me frequent his sorrow for what he done. Which Hr. Higgles have mentioned gore, as is not the thing to shed on a Christmas Heve, and among strangers." 64 Love and Buttons, Encouraged by general indications of assent, she con- tinued, with a very becoming blush, — "Which it is painful to a lady's feelin's to speak sich before company; but if Mr. Miggleses' feelin's is not changed, and he will shake hands with the young gentle- man instead of a-sheddin' of his gore, I am willin' to — to— to " "Go hon, Hamelia!" cried the excited Higgles, "go hon ! Willin' to do what ? " Miss Bottikins gazed iixedly at the chamber-maid,' and said sweetly, — , " Willin' for to say ' yes.' " " Buttings," exclaimed the agnostic, putting on his coat, " your hand ! " And the hands of James Higgles and the page boy were clasped together. "Hamelia!" "James!" A warmer embrace took place ; and gazing around in a triumphant manner, and addressing no one in particular and the Universe in general, James Higgles raised his disengaged hand and arm as he said, — "Put hup the bands !" So the peace of the Christmas Annual Season reigned in the Servants' Kitchen. JOE BANGLETOOPS. gi €astttmavistx's ^tats. ; HO'S Joe Bangletoops ? Well, I'll tell yer. Joe Bangletoops is now a angel, and before that he were in the dog-stealin' perfession, with a interval between the two. Wants to write it down for a Chrismus story, do yer? All right, sir ; but look 'ere, this ain't quite the right sort o' story for one o' them speshill numbers wot comes out at Chrismus time. It ain't quite wot yer might call a hortho- dox story. Accordin' to them Annooals, Chrismus is a time \?'en everybody feels like bustin' with all manner o' goodness, like a stuffed goose. There ain't enough selfish- ness, and stickih'-up-fer-yer-own-sectiveness, and bad feelin' an' meanness in 'em for to be true to life. The Chrismus bells don't ring peace and blankets, and religion combined with wittles, in the ears and 'earts of everybody, I can tell yer. It ain't everybody as busts into tears w'en the Chrismus bells ring out, and then goes cavortin' around in the General Forgiveness line o' business, and a-emptyin' of 'is pockets indiscriminate. It's very nice o' them gehnelmen wot writes the tales to make it all out so overpowerin' fine, but it ain't true. Some of them gennelmen don't seem to know no more o' broken 'eaxts and starvin' little chill'ren, and starvin' men and women, -and cold and misery, than a fash'nable parson. But if yer wants for to know the story, maybe it don't so niuch matter, becos Joe Bangletoops 'isself were cert'nly not o.ii. 5 66 Joe Bangletoops. horthoddx. In fac', 'e were no schollard, and wouldn't 'a- known wot the word meant, unless somebody told 'im accidental, like me. And though the story ain't horthodox in one way it is in another, as you'll see, sir ; for if ever a tale of goodness and unselfishness stronger than the love of life was told, the tale of Joe Bangletoops is one. Fust I'll tell yer 'ow I met 'im, and 'ow we got mixed up together, and then I'll tell yer wot 'e done, Wery early one mornin', a good many years ago now, me and the barrer — I was then in the 'awkin' line — was on the way to Covent Garding Market. Things was goin' pretty Well with me just then — ^wegetables was steady at fair prices, and pottin' flowers was on the rise. So me and the barrer trots along pretty gay, and w'en we gets to my reg'lar cawfiee shop in Clare Market, I leaves the barrer outside and in I goes. I'd just* ordered the young lady wot was waiter to bring me a cup o' cawifee and two slices of thick with a dab, w'en another gennelman comes in and takes a seat- oppersite me ; and this were the fust time I see Joe Bangletoops, for 'im it were. 'Ow to tell yer wot 'e were like I 'ardly know. Maybe 'a was about forty years old or more, wery thin, wery pale, wery starved-lookin', with 'is 'air cut wery, wery close — ^wery close indeed. I'd bin in trouble once or twice myself, and I knowed wot 'is 'air meant. 'Is features was as irreg'ler as railway trains on Bank 'Olidays. 'E were not wot yer might call a 'an'some man, but more in the Chamber of 'Orrers department. 'E looked the same as thousands of others looks— as though the world 'ad bin too 'ard and cruel for 'im; as though 'e'd 'ad too many tracks and not enough food ; not enough lovin' words and too many kicks ; too much justice and not enough mercy. The young lady'brings my cawffee and the two slices o' thick, and the gennelman oppersite smells the 'ot cawffee wery 'ard as she puts it afore me, and 'e looks wery mourn- A Costermonger's Story. 6y fui and longin' and sad at my two slices of thick, as I goes on a-butterin' 'em with my dab o' cart grease. Then 'e sorter pulls 'imself together, and says to the young lady, " A slice o' dry thick, miss, please." " One ? " she says. " Yus," 'e answers ; " and I don't care for no champagne with it this mornin', thank yer all the same." " Things bad ? " says I. " Last 'a'p'ny," says the stranger, as he planks it down. As I mentioned just now, trade was pretty brisk just then, and I knowed wot trouble was myself. So I didn't make no remarks, but shoves my cup over to 'im, and tells the young lady for to bring some more, and some more slices. 'Is mouth were too full for the next ten minutes for 'im to speak, but then we got into a little talk. The shop was empty excep' for us, so we spoke free. "Wot's yer line?" I says. " I've bin a little bit o' most things," says 'e ; " but until a month or so ago I'd bin dewotin' myself more especial to dog-stealin'. And even that," 'e says, " ain't wot it was, owin' to Germing compertition and hyjerphobier a-kgepin' of the number down. And if dog-stealin'," 'e says emphatic, " if dog-stealin' goes — as used to be as good and genteel a line as any gennelman could foUer — if dog-stealin' goes, wot is there left for a honest unemployeder to turn 'is 'and to ? " We 'ad a long talk, and, to cut this part of my story short, me and Joe Bangletoops met again. Wot it was drawed me to 'im, or drawed 'im to me, I don't know, but I give 'im a bit of a 'elpin' 'and like, by gettin' 'im took on by a pal o' mine wot worked in the market. And by-and-by Joe rose up to 'ave a barrer in the world, and 'e worked honest and steady and 'ard. And at last we worked to- gether and lived together. About twelve months arter fust meetin' each other, a wery sing'ler, and wery rummy, and wery most extryord'n^y Joe Bangletoops, thing took place. I can't tell this part properly becos I never understood it properly. But the fac' is, Joe Bangk- toops got a attack of religion. I don't mean trumpet-blowin' and drum-beatin' and collecticHis. I don't mean shoutin' and 'ollerin' and 'owlin' — that's more like Hashihatic cholera than' religion, that sort o' thing is. 'E didn't go In for no- think o' that, but I see a sorter change in 'im. 'E worked j'arder and more steadier than ever, and the way 'e 'oUered " Sprouts " made me feel proud of 'is acquaintiance, and brought the tears to my eyes. But 'e took to never usin' no bad language, and to sayin' a bit of a prayer afore 'e went to roost at night. And by-and-by 'e got a bit of a Bible, and took to spellin' it out to 'imself wery quiet and thoughtful. Once or twice 'e begun speakin' of it, but I didn't take no notice, thinkin' as 'is religion would pass orf with the hend of the cauliflower season. But September and October come and didn't make no difference, exceptin' that things was all. goin' wrong with me and Joe in the way o' trade. We worked our 'ardest, but every think seemed to go against us. . Day arter day got worse and wusser, and me and Joe poorer and poorer. At last our barrers 'ad to go, and that seemed to me to be the beginnin' o' the hend. The fust o' the winter found us worse orf than ever. Cold and snow and slush set in Wery early, and we was 'ungry and badly clothed, and 'ad scarce a bare bed to lie on.' We was croonin' one night over our wretched little bit of a fireplace without no fire, w'en Joe makes a little bit of a speech. " Jack Scoops," 'e says, " I wants fof to 'ave a talk with yer." " Go on," I says ; " only talk about somethink pleasant. Yer might make a few remarks about this 'an'somely furnished hattic of ours — every conwenience — patent wenti- lation by a 'ole bunged in the roof — cats admitted free arter nightfall — no extry charge for continool supply o' rain-water A Costermongei^s Story. 69 and snow," I says, sarcasticationalistical, a-throwin' out a few ideas. " Or yer might work up a horation," I continners, " about me and you, and our 'opes for the future. Two gennelmen, prime o' life, served occasional in Her Majersty's employ — • Oakum branch of the Civil Service — wagrancy and dog- stealin' — open for private secretairyships or pocket-pickin' — distance no objec' — pamesand addresses bin sometimes wanted by the perleece, not necessairily as a guarantee o' good faith but for publication — a good 'ome not so much a objec' as grub — 'ighly rekimmended by each other — ask for 'em and see that yer get 'em — keep, 'em in yer 'omes — don't be impoged on by worthless substitoots — address next week till further notice, the Wuk-'ouse^ — enclose several stamps for reply." Joe sat with 'is 'ead down, so I didn't see 'ow 'e took my obserwations. But arter a bit, with 'is voice tremblin' aYid 'is 'and shakin', 'e stands up, and puts 'is 'and on my shoulder, and says, — ^ "Jack, mate, things is bad, as yer say, and it's partly about that subjec' as I wants to talk with yer. It's 'ard to keep straight and honest. Jack, with sich dogs runnin' about as I see now almost every day. But come wot will, Jack, I'll try 'ard not to go back to the old life. I never told yer 'ow I got 'old of the little bit 'o religion as I'm tryin' to stick to ; but it's through a lady wot we served with sprouts reg'ler. She didn't give me no tracks or sich-like, Jack, but she told me a few' things out o' the Bible, and I'm sorter just stumblin' on with 'em like. I can't make it all out, by a long way ; but I feel some'ow that there is some- think, after all, in religion and the Bible, and livin' honest and good. The lady 'ave p'inted out severed texts for me to learn, Jack; and, though I ain't got 'em right by no means, they're a wonderful 'elp. Jack, in keepin' a feller straight in these 'ere 'ard times. Only to-day I see a French 70 Joe Bangletoops. poodle as my fingers itched for. I bends my 'ead down for to say a text to keep away the temptation. I meant to say, ' Thou shall not steal,' but in the 'urry of the moment I says the wrong text. ' Honour thy father an'd thy mother,' I says; But it didn't make no difference, for, a-bendin' my 'ead, that French poodle thought I were goin' to chuck a stone at 'im, and- away 'e run, and I were saved from stealin' im. " But yer kep' honest for months afore yer learnt them texts," I says. " I did, Jack," 'e goes on, " thanks to you for a-puttin' me on to a honest job ; but times was better then. Jack, and I couldn't stand it ndw. Mate," 'e says, "I sha'n't never forget as it was you wot fust stood by me. You stood by me, and, come wot will, God knows I'll stand by you. If I'd ever 'ad a mother or a father or anybody for to speak kind and loving and gentle to me, maybe I should a-growed up wery different. Jack, and marjy a little dog might never 'a bin stole from 'is 'appy 'ome, and sold at a 'eavy sacrifice where it were not safe to go to be 'an'somdy rewarded. If I'd 'ad somebody for to speak kind and tender to me w'en I was a little starvin', thievin' child, runnin' about the streets, the perleece force might 'a bin redooced, Jack. Nobody never stood by me till I met you, Jack, and I wants to tell yer as my 'eart is full, though the rest o' my inside isn't, for we ain't 'ad no food lately. Wot I means for to say is I loves yer, and if yer won't come with me, I'll stop 'ere by yer if I dies o' starvation. If yer won't come with me I won't go, and there's a hend of it ! " " Go where ? " I 'oilers. " Australia," 'e says. " Australia ! " says I, ' " Yus," says Joe. " The lady as I've bin tellin' about, in connection with sprouts and religion, give me the name of a gennelman wot sends coves out a-emigratin', and 'e's willin' A Costermonger's Story. 71 to send me out, so's I can leave all the old life and the dogs be'ind me, and not be tempted so easy by starvation. To send me where there's a fair day's wage waiting for a fair day's work, and where there's a chance for a bloke to get a 'ome of 'is own. It's thousands of miles orf, Jack — maybe millions, I don't know — but if you'll come with me I'll take yer to the gennelman, and we'll see if we can go together. Jack, to the noo world and the noo life — 'eart and 'and together, shoulder to shoulder, mate." Tears was in our eyes as we shakes 'ands. Down the racketty old stairs we go — orf to see the gennelman. . We see 'im ; and in a day or two 'e arranged It all for us ; and not long arterwards me and Joe set sail for Australia. We 'adn't no 'eavy luggage to pack, and we 'adn't no per- tickler friends to say good-bye to, exceptin' the gennelman and the lady wot sent Joe to 'im. She gave my mate a noo Bible, and likewise me, and the Sunday night afore we left she took us to 'ear a serming. We 'adn't no friends to 'ug us, and wave their 'an'kerchiefs as the great ship moved orf, same as the other passengers 'ad, and lumps come in our throats a bit. But we gave a fast look at the people cryin' and cheerin' on the wharf, and then we both walks steady to the bows of the wessel. And Joe says, — "Jack, we're standin' as we ought to — our backs on the old life and our faces to the noo ! " Oh ! little we thought then of wot was the noo life into which Joe was soon to be born — ^the noo life wot will never know death — the noo life wot is all light and brightness and rest and peace — the noo life where 'e's found the key o' wot Ipuzzles us down 'ere — the noo life where all 'is texts is 'made clear to 'im — the noo life where all 'is stealin' and sufferin' and starvin' is over for evermore. With a fair strong wind be'ind 'er,, the Good Hope stood 72 Joe Bangletoops, down the Channel. It were all wery well for the Good Hope to stand down the Channel, as the sailors said, but I couldn't. I were obligated for to lie down. I sorter felt the wanity of everythink, Australia included, and wittles especial. Day arter day passed on and the wind still 'eld good, and on and on through the water flew the Good < Hope. Day arter day we was leavin' the old Jife farther be'ind us — day arter day was comin' nearer to the noo life before us. Mister, I've told yer 'ow Joe Bangletoops, and me met each other, and 'ow we got mixed up along of each other, and likewise 'ow we sailed away for the noo life in the noo world together. Now I'ye got to tell yer the last part. I've told yer all I knowed o' Joe afore this last part. Now I've got to tell yer wot 'e done. If I speaks 'usky and low and tremblin', you'll escuse me — w'en yer know wot 'e done. If I 'urries over some ' parts o' the rest b' this tale, you'll, escuse me, sir, w'en yer know wot 'e done. If the tears is in rny woice and in my eyes now, you'll escuse me, sik, w'en yer know wot 'e done. Afore we'd left the old country a month, Joe and me and four sailors was adrift in a open boat on the wild, wild sea, for a fire broke out on the poor old Good Hope, and she burned to the water's edge. Adrift in a open boat — six starvin' men. Six starvin' men — wore out by work that brought us no nearer to 'elp or shore or life — six starvin' men adrift on a cruel sea that knowed no pity — six starvin' men, famished for want o' food, mad for want o' drink, bjroken-'earted for want of 'ope. I knowed afore wot want and privation was, only too well ; but all we'd suffered together — ^me and Joe — was nothink to this. 'Tis no use, sir, for you to try to understand it — it can't be done. You can't understand wot the awful A Costermongef's Story. 73 question means, " Who shall die that the others may 'ave a chance to live ? " But to that awful question it come at last, and as the sun was settin' one night the lots was drawn. One must die that the others may live I If no ship or no land was sighted w'en next the sun rose, a man must die. One of us six must die. A blank page was tore from Joe's Bible, which 'e'd saved from the. burnin' wreck, and which was in 'is pocket w'en the boat picked 'irii and me from the water. Six folded slips of the white paper was mixed together, and on one of 'em was scratched a rough cross. The man who drew the paper with the cross must die w'en the sun rose. And the lot fell on me I The night passed away. Shinin' bright and glorious over all the waste o' wide waters, the sun rose. Bright in the clear sky it shined, bright on the dancin' waves, brighter and brighter still on the sails of the ship wot saved us — saved us on that Noo Year's mornin' — for they told us arterwards as the night we drew lots was the last night of the old year, and the day we was saved was Noo Year's Day. Oh ! never did any sun shine so bright as the sun wot glittered on the great white sails of the ship that saved us — white, glistenin' sails, wot looked to us like the wings of angels sent from 'Eaven to save us. But besides the clear sky, and the blue waves, and the white sails of the ship, that Nop Year's sunrise shined on somethink else. It shined on the body of Joe, my friend, my mate, my brother, wot died to save me. 'Is eyes was open — and there was peace in 'is eyes. 'Is lips was smilin' — and there was peace in 'is smile. 'Is soul 'ad gone — ^gone up to the noo life beyond the sunshine. And I know that in 'is soul was Peace. In 'is 'eart was still the knife 'is own right 'and 'ad planted 74 Jo^ Bangletoops. there. Clutched in 'is left 'and was 'is Bible. In the inside of the cover 'e 'ad scribbled, — "^The Lord will forgive me for doing this, becos ifs the only way to save the life of Jack Scoops, my mate, wot stood by me." Stained with 'is own life-blood, I read these words on one o' the pages o' the Book I took, from the dead 'and of Joe Bangletoops : — " Greater love hath no man than this.'' THE KING'S COLOURS! WALK'D in the shadow'd minster, With the verger by my side, And I gaz'd on a sculptur'd statue Standing in lonely pride. "What is the story, tell me, Of this mounted Cavalier? What deed of gallant daring Is kept in memory here ? Why holds he a dripping banner?" To the waiting guide I said. Then from a book he brought me This tale of the Knight I read. « » « « « Royal in the glitter of armour. Royal in soldier mien ; Royal in the shimmer of sunlight On sword and on halberdine ; Royal in the flashing of pennons, Bright as the wild bird's wing; Royal in the banner they carry — The Colours of Charles the King— p With never an eye that flinches. With never a heart that fears, On to the leaguer'd city Ride the Royal Cavaliers. Around her walls the Roundheads A year have sat them down, / JS The Kin^s Colours I With blood her stout defenders Pay tribute to the Crown. Starving and worn and dying, Oh ! eager eyes have scanned, From the rise of sun till the day was done, O'er all the wasted land, For sight of the goodly troopers Who are only coming now; The troopers who ride with steady stride Over the far hill brow. Over the hill, across the plain, With never a rank that breaks ; Never a man who dreads the fight. Never a hand that shakes ; With white plumes nodding proudly O'er heads held proudly high, On to the town the troops march down. To rescue or to die. And the stateliest form among them, In manhood's young bright spring, Is Reginald, Lord de L'Arge, who bears The Colours of Charles the King. On past the flooded river. Which rolls its swoU'n tide Fast to the sea between the cliffs Which frown on either side — . On they come, and the citizens now Behold the brave array; And the men begin to man the walls, ' While the -women begin to pray. And the crop-ear'd rebels see them. And form on left and right ; In silence stern their ranks they turn, And move to oifer fight. A Tourists Story. 77 Then Lord de L'Arge his Colours Clutches with tightening hold. As, rear'd aloft in the summer breeze. Shakes every gleaming fold. He turns to the list'ning soldiers Who wait for the word to charge; In ringing tone these words alone Speaks Reginald, Lord de L'Arge — "If ever a heart be flinching, If horse or rider lag. Think of the King and your, honour — Cavaliers, follow the flag I" Then in the shock of battle Meet rebels and the leal ; For every man a man goes down By musket, gun, or steel. None asks for mercy — no one Evades his death by flight; "We'll save the town ere the sun goes down, For the Kjng and for the Right ! " So cry King Charles's soldiers — Scornful the one reply : "Ye shall surely yield, and this bloody field Shall tell the reason why ! " Brighter and brighter above them God's blessfed sunlight gleams; The trampled heath their feet beneath Is red with life-bl6od streams. Wherever the fight is fiercest, Wherever the maddest charge — Where Death reaps the thickest harvest — Rides Reginald, Lord de L'Arge. 78 The Kin^s Colours! And tho', torn and shot, his banner Is now but a fluttering rag, Still rises high his battle cry, ^^ Cavaliers, follow the flag I" But, alas ! who are left to follow ? For still the foe close round. And quicker and thicker fall man and horse On the redly-oozing ground. Till, with a shout for Cromwell, Is made the last attack,) And the day is lost, for the Cavaliers Can move not, front or back. Now to De L'Arge the rebels In boastful triumph cry, " The Lord has given thee up to us — Yield us thy flag or die." One piteous gaze around him, One piteous stifled moan — . 'Midst comrades dead and living foes Stands young De L'Arge alone. Then flames his eye with passion, His cheek with hot blood burns j With gasp of wild defiance, His charger's head he turns. He kisses once the Colours, Then flaunts them high in air ; Gives rein with the shouted challengCj "Follow the flag who dare/" Oh !' never man rode so madly, Ne'er follow'd pursuit so fast j On and on, up hill, down dale, Till the Cavalier at last, Panting, reaches the river bank, Where the black waves hiss and surge j A Tourisfs Story. 79 The thud of the rebels' hurrying hoofs Seems , beating his funeral dirge. Nearer and nearer and nearer yet, From his gallant hand to drag The Colours of Charles the King — but hark! — " Rebels, follow, the flag! " And as rings out the haughty challenge, He, drives his spurs well home ; And down plunge charger and gallant Into the river's foam. Is there a rebel to follow? No ! no ! — see, the colours wave On the crest of the black deep billows Which bear to his ocean grave The first in a host of heroes, The last of a noble race — With the Colours press'd against his breast, And a smile upon his face. My heart beat high within me. As I laid the book aside j And I raised a hand that trembled. My swimming tears to hide. And tho' old to him the story, Yet methought the verger's heart — Tho' it beat in a rugged bosom — Bore with my own a part In the pray'r I breath'd for the spirit Of the brave young Lord De L'Arge : For he bow'd his head as he slowly said, " There ain't no reg'ler charge." CAGED ! I HE shades of night 'ad closed round Saving Dials, an' the public 'ouses was about for to foller their example. I 'ad been a-doin' a little bit on my 'ead at Clerkenwell-^" three months with" — in consequence of a little misunderstandin' about a silk 'andkerchief. I 'ad been let out that day ; not a nice sort of a day to be turned into the streets, even out of a prison ! Snow fallin' everywhere, thicker as the night come on, an' the wind blowin' colder an' colder every minute, freezin' the 'eaps of slushy snow. As I walked along, the winders was all bright with the warm fires a-blazin' within the swells' 'ouses. I could 'ear the 'appy blokes inside laughin', an' dancin', an' makin' merry, and I knowed they all 'ad plenty to eat an' drink. The theaytres- was all ablaze with light, an' a-comin' out of 'em into their carriages was people as any thief what wasn't a rank outsider could have made a month's livin' out of in two minutes. I 'ad likewise noticed as there seemed a extra show on at the churches, an' by-an'-by out crashed the bells, ringin' thro' the cold air, thick with the fallin' snow, an' some people passin' me as I slouched against the wall says to each other, wery cheery, " A merry Christmas to you — A merry Christmas." " Oh," I says to myself, " it's merry Christmas, is it ? I shouldri't 'a thought it. I ain't pertickler merry myself — A Gaol-Bird's Story, 8 1 not what yer might call downright roarin' boisterous — so I s'pose that's why I forgot as it was merry' Christmas." "Now, then," says a perleeceman, a-comin' up to me, "what do yer want 'angin' about 'ere, eh?" "Well, guv'ner," I says, "I want a good many things. I won't go so far as to say that I couldn't do with a bit of a fire an' a bit of a bed ) and I've sorter got a dim idea as I want a bit o' supper. Between you an' me," I says, "I could make a fool of about 'alf a roast bullock, with baked pertaters. But don't let it go no further," I says, " becos it might 'urt the feelin's o' some o' these 'ere Christian people a-comin' out of church." "You'll 'ave to go further yerself," says the perleece- man. "None o' yer nonsense 'ere. I know yer. 'Ow would Buckin'ham Palace, or Marlboro' 'Ouse do for yer?" " I might put up with 'em for a night or two till my town 'ouse is in order," 1 says ; " but I've left my dress soot be'ind me. Besides, I ain't expected till the next Droring Room, an' I wouldn't care for to take 'em unawares like. It might inconwenience 'em, don't yer know. Maybe they wouldn't 'a 'ad the chimbley swep'." " Move on," 'e' says. " I know yer. Come, move on." The perleeceman were quite right in one thing — it were quite true 'e knowed me, for 'e'd run me in many a time. So I couldn't be offended at 'is winnin' ways. I 'stepped from the wall across the slippery pavement, an' I didn't know, till I come to move, 'ow cold an' numbed I was. But as I stepped into the road I must 'a stumbled. I remember the blaze of two bright lights, a loud cry, the swerve of a pair of frightened 'orses, an' the 'orrid pain of a 'eavy wheel on my body ; an' then the lighted 'ouses, an' churches, an' theaytres, an' the gay crowds of people, an' the fallin' snow an' the bitter cold, my 'unger an* thirst, an' the kind perleeceman all faded away. OM. 6 82 Coiged! When I opened my eyes again I was in a 'orspital. A clean white pillow was under my 'ead, an' clean white sheets covered my wounded limbs, an' I was lyin' on somethink so soft an' easy that I thought at fust the doctors must 'a took out all my bones in some operiatioris ; an', as I was always a bony chap, I began thinkin' as I did ought to be allowed the price o' them bones. I just opened my eyes, an' looked once down the long room, an' see a whole line o' little white beds, all like mine — some with curtains drawed round 'em. I closed my eyes again, an' sorter dozed off. Presently I 'card a woice — a woman's woice — oh! sich a low, an' sweet, an' soft, an' gentle woice — talkin' to the poor chap in the bed next to mine, an' readin' to 'im out of a Book. An' what she read was all about a Woman an' a Child. I'd 'card somethink about it before, but I never took it in till I 'card about it then, lyin' weak an' 'elpless. I couldn't understand it all, not bein' a schollard, but only Jack Scraggs, the gaol-bird ; but I could make out enough of it to 'ang on by. Before she finished I knowed who the Woman was, an' I knowed who was the Child. When she stopped speakin' I 'eld out my 'and an' beckoned 'er to come to me. An' when she' come an' sat down by my bedside, I says, '!Tell it to me." An' she went over all the story again, talkin' so simple an' easy I could make out almost all she said. When she rose to go away, evernin' 'ad come, for I see through the top of the winder a great star shinin' ; an' I wondered whether 'twas like the star that was a-shinin' long ago above the Woman an' the Child. Every day she used to come an' talk to me, an' she told me more an' more every time ; till I used to watch for 'er as anxious as the perleece used to watch for me sometimes. Everybody was wery kind to me in the 'orspital — the doctors, an' the nurses, an' the kind lady what used to come to read to us. A Gaol-Bird's Story. 83 The mornin' I was discharged two doctors come an' pulled me about a bit ; an' one of 'em said I were all right now, exceptin' that 'e rather suspected hincipient valvular hagglomerations in my 'eart; I were told afterwards as 'e must 'a meant some complaint, but I didn't know it at the time, and I felt 'urt like. I didn't know what 'e meant, but it sounded bad. "Mister," I says, "you're wrong. Don't go suspectin' me of sich a thing as that. I know," I says, " as my 'eart is full of all manner o' bad feelin's an' wickedness ; but I ain't got no hincipient , thingummy — indeed I ain't, sir. Far from it," I says. " I'm a-goin' for to try to lead a honest life. I'm a-goin' for to try to turn over a noo leaf, please God, ' — blowed if I ain't ! " Some'ow I don't mind talkin' about, myself, an' a-tellin' all manner o'l things about myself; but when it comes to speakin' about little .Charlie, I feels took aback like. There- comes a ugly sort o' lump into my throat, an' my woice gets sorter 'usky, an' I can't see quite clear through my eyes. I think, maybe, it's that hincipient what's-'is-name comin' on. Ver see I never 'ad nobody for to love, nor nobody for to love me, exceptin' little Charlie. I never 'ad no father an' no mother worth speakin' about ; I never 'ad no little brother or sister to look after. I never 'ad nobody to care for, nor nobody to care for me, like Charlie — little Charlie — the poor little tired urchin I found forsook in the Park. I can't tell about it properly, but all my life, so rough an' so wicked . as it 'ad always been, seemed to grow into my poor, wee, iovin' Charlie. It was in the Park I found 'im, soon after I was discharged from the 'orspital. I 'ad been tryin' 'ard to hve honest, but it -were 'arder work than the treadmill. One dark night, after I'd being tryjn' to get a job for a night's lodgin' Without earnin' a copper, an' after bein' turned away from 84 Caged ! the Work-'ouse becos' they was a-doin' of sich a roarin' trade they was like the homberlebusses in wet weather — " full inside," — I got into the Park, an' made for one of the benches. There was scarcely any moon or stars that night — only a dim gaslight 'ere an' there among the trees. In the reg'ler season for sleepin' in the Park I 'ad a favourite pertickler bench which I always patteremized, an' though it was too bitter -cold for to be the reg'ler season now — far from it — I made straight for my usual seat. When I gets up to it, I finds somebody a-lyin! on it already, an' in my most specialist an' most perticklerest corner. It were too dark to see clear, but I could make out right enough that somebody was there, an' I didn't like it. " Mate," I says, speakin' wery calm an' perlite to the bundle in the corner — " Mate," I says, " escuse me, but that 'ere corner where you are a-snoozin' is my own special an' pertickler corner, what I 'as reg'ler. If yer doubts my word," I says, " ask any lady or gen'l'man as is in the 'abit o' sleepin' 'ere. I'm well beknown to 'em all," I says ; " an' if yer want any other references, there ain't a perleeceman in this 'ere metrolopus as don't know me." The bundle didn't make no answer. "Escuse me, mate," I says again, "but there ain't no other gen'l'man as uses this Park as wouldn't reckernise my right to that 'ere corner, an' be'ave as sich. I knows a good deal about the Tawrs of this country," I continners, " for no man 'as broke more of 'em than me ; an' my opinion is as the lawr itself would give me the persession of that corner, in «Msideration of length of tenner. 'Ave yer," I says, " any objection, religious or otherwise, to go to some other bench, or at least for to move into the other corner ? We'll share the clothes,'! I says, sarcasticational, "between us, a»' sleep together; an' I only 'opes as yer won't want to get out of bed to say yer prayers, and that yer don't kick." Still 1 didn't get no answer, an' I steps quietly up to the A Gaol-Bird's Story. 85 silent bundle an' turned aside the ragged old shawl that 'id whatever was underneath. Just at the moment some o' the dark clouds partly cleared away, an' the moon shone out, an' by its faint, glimmerin' light I see that the shawl was coverin' — not a great, coarse, rough chap like me, but a little child. A little child of, maybe, seven or eight years old, with white, starved flesh, an' thint worn, wee 'ands. Fallin' 'alf over 'is pale, pinched face was curls of sich beautiful hair as I had never seen before — hair that looked ai though it 'ad been all dipped in gold, or been kissed some summer's evernin' by the settin' sun. One 'and was lyin' on 'is breast, like as though 'e 'ad put it there for warmth, an' iij it was nestlin' a little yeller canary bird. As I looked down upon this 'elpless young 'un in my corner, with the bird 'eld so close to 'im, tears come into my eyes for the fust time I could remember. I thought of the tale about the Child I 'ad 'eard in the " 'orspital, an' I wondered whether the Child what was on earth no more knowed about this little 'un sleepin' that bitter winter's night on a bench in the^;old Park. Just as I was thinkin' that, the little 'un opened 'is eyes — big, timid eyes — an' see me bendin' over 'im — a rough, dirty fellow— a gaol-bird. But 'e didn't shrink froin me — e' didn't cry, or 'ide 'isself from me. No ; but 'e stretched out 'is little arm, and 'is poor little 'and slipped into my bony fingers. ,0h, often an' often I feel it there, white an' cold, an' so small an' tender, laid in my wicked 'and. Then 'is little lips opened an' 'e says, "I'm Charlie. Who are you?" " My name's Jack, Uttle 'un," I says, wery 'usky. " Haven't you got any home. Jack ? " " No," I says, " I ain't got no home, Charlie." "Then you're like me," says Charlie. "I haven't got any home either. Mother died— oh, such ajong time ago it seems — an'>father's gone away now. So I came into the 86 Caged! Park to sleep, because I don't like to sleep with the others under the arches. So I came here — I and the little bird, Jack — the bird that used to sing to mother. Father used to say he'd kill it, but, oh ! I'm so glad he never did, because there's nobody to love me now but the little bird that mother loved. Jack. You won't 'urt us, Jack, will you ? " An' 'e raised my 'and to 'is little lips, and kissed it. Theni like as though there'd been a river there dammed up all my life, my 'eart overflowed, an' I threw off my coat, an' wrapped it round little Charlie. An' soon, in my arms, 'e fell asleep; an' when the mornin' broke I carried 'im tout o' the Park. Not to a Work-'ouse or a hunsectarian Board School, but to a little bit of a room, where they took us in — me, an' my boy, an' 'is little bird. That's 'ow me an' Charlie begun to live together. I tried wery, wery 'ard to get a livin', turnin' my 'and to anythink that come in my way. But times was bad, an' often, as I went back to Charlie without no money in my pocket, I thought of goin' back to my old life ; but I know'd if I did I might get parted from the little feller what loved tne so dear, an' what would 'a become of 'im without me ? When the summer come, we done a little bit better. Sometimes me an' Charlie used to get out into the country a bit, an' used to see the green fields, an' the flowers, an' the great trees, with the blue sky over all. An' always Charlie brought the little bird with 'im. We'd bought a little cage ; an' before we went back we always put in some cool, sweet, green grass, an' then Dicky would sing all the sweeter an' louder, an' 'op about so pleased, with 'is eyes so bright an' beamin' that Charlie used to clap 'is 'ands for joy. I often think o' them walks in the country, an' of all Charlie used to say, an' 'ow 'e used to love to run among the flowers. But when the days grew shorter again, an' all the flowers was dyin' an' the leaves fadin', everythink went bad again. God knows I tried 'ard — I tried my 'ardest — ^but every A Gaol-Bird's Story. 87 man's 'and seemed against me, an' I got poorer an' poorer, an' work scarcer an' scarcer, till at last, as the winter set in once more, we was starvin'. We could scarcely even give a crumb to the poor little bird in 'is cage. An' then Charlie was took ill — ill becos I couldn't give 'im food an' drink, an' warm clothes. 'E'd been tryia' to sell matches in the streets for a bit, but at last 'e 'ad to give that up, for 'e was too sick to move. 'E used to lie so pale an' thin in 'is rough bed, while 'is bird 'opped about the pillow an' sang to 'im. I want to tell all the rest quickly, for 'tis 'ard to tell. It all 'appened becos of one thing — we was starvin'. Oh ! I wish I could put it into all the bells that will be a-ringin' again this Christmas. I wish I could put it into all the sermons as will be preached again this Christmas. We was starvin' — like so many others are now. I'd been out all day, an' brought back nothink. Charlie was lyin' in 'is bit of a bed— th^ last time I ever see 'im again but one — the last time but one that ever I see 'is dear little pale face, or put my 'and on the curls that was all so soft an' golden. There was no fire in the room, an* one wee white 'and was pressed inside 'is ragged shirt for warmth, an' the little bird nestled in it — just like when I found 'em in the Park. I closed the door, crep' down the stairs, an' out into the lighted streets, full o' people 'urryin' along to their comfort' able 'omes, to their warm fires, an' groanin' tables. An' that night I went back on the good resolves I'd made, for I stole. But 'twas only food I stole — only food — food for poor starvin' little Charlie, as was lyin' sick in that lonely garret, with 'is little bird pressed to 'is dyin' 'eart. I stole. But 'twas only food — only food for little Charlie. The touch of the perleeceman's 'and was on my shoulder again that night — the old touch ; an' 'e says, with a smile, 88 caged/ " Up to the old game again, Jack, eh ? Thought we should 'ave yer again before long. I know yer. Come along. Yer know the way." Once more I stood before the Beak, an' for once in my life I asked for mercy. " I did it, sir. I took it But 'twas not for me ; 'twas for my little dyin' Charlie. I left 'im starvin', sir, an' 'e loves me, an' I never 'ad nobody else for to love me but Charlie. The world's so full o' plenty, it can't be right that 'e should die o' want. There's somethink all wrong,"sir. Let me go, sir — let me go back to 'im. Some people 'as all they want, an' I've only got little Charlie. 'E's sich a little feller, an' 'e's so thin, an' pale, an' weak ; an' 'e loves me, an' 'is 'air's all soft an' golden. I can't 'elp it, sir — escuse me — I've got a hincipient somethink in my 'eart, an' it's a-comin' on." An' I put my face in my trembin' 'ands, an' cried. Then the Beak says, " Six weeks." Caged again ! j((' ^ V V V V Again 'twas the day before Christmas as I was let out of gaol. Again there was slush, an' snow, an' piercin' wind, an' bitter cold. Again the warm 'ouses, an' gay theaytres, an' lighted churches as I trudged along to the garret where I'd left Charlie six weeks before. 'E'd gone ! Got up an' went away with 'is matches and 'is bird soon after I 'ad been took away from 'im. Out of the 'ouse I came, an' on,, an' on, an' on I walked, searchin' for my poor lost Charlie. Under the arches where the black, dark river flowed, in ■ the streets, at the stations — everywhere I searched for 'im, an' nowhere I found 'im. At last somethink came oyer me — I don't know what — to go to the Park— to the place where I fust see 'im, that night what seemed so long ago, A Gaol-Bird's Story. 89 Into the Park I got, an' straight on to the old seat I went. An' there, crouched on the bench, I found 'im at last ; an 'ugged to 'is poor, cold bosom was the cage with 'is little bird. The snow 'ad been fallin' thick on 'im — thick on 'is shiverin' body, thick on 'is starved face, thick oh 'is beau- tiful 'air. Thick it lay now even on 'is little 'ands an' the tired, worn, weary feet what was never to run about the streets no more. "Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!" Open at last came the big, blue, timid eyes, an' again. I 'card 'is woice, but so faint an' weak. "Jack! — I — ^was a-comin' — to meet you — at the prison gates. They told me — where — you was caged, — and I walked across — the Park, — an' I rested 'ere, becos — I — got tired, an'— so weak — ^an' I think I fell asleep. Jack — Jack — do you hear the bells — the Christmas bells ? " " Yes, Charlie ; 'tis Christmas morning." "Jack, tell me — once more — the tale you 'eard — in the 'orspitai — about the Woman an' — the Child." An' I told 'im. The little 'ands on the cage loosed their clutch, an' down it fell. As it fell, the door come open, an' up, up, through the snow went Charlie's bird. An' up through the snow — free at last — went the soul of little Charlie — up to the Child Jesus. Down on my knees I fell ; an' one 'and I raised towards the little flyin' bird, an' one 'and I laid on Charlie's white brow. An' I cried, " Flown— My God ! " "ALL FOR HER." |HIS here is a little bit of a love story, and I want for to tell it just straight away and straightfortud, without no tacking or beating about. Bring this here gen'tl'man the rum and 'ot water. All right, sir, all right. Let 'em bring it now; I'll drink the rum, and you can have the 'ot water. Love's a very peculiar sort of thing, sir. In my opinion, there ain't nothing as throws a man on 'is beam ends — nothing as blows out 'is riggin' and shifts 'is ballast — like bein' in love. Now in every love story as I ever 'eard, there's always a woman mixed up. Gen'rally speakin', it's a young woman, and unearthly beautiful and unearthly good, till about ten days after the weddin'. It's a very strange thing, but there's nothing changes a woman's looks and her general sailin' like the weddin' ceremony. Ask any married man you know. As usual, there's a' young woman mixed up in this yam I'm a-goin' for to spin. I'^ better start from the first beginnin' of it, all fair and shipshape. At the time I'm a-goin' to talk about, I was mate of the poor old Oeean Belle, who went to pieces on a coral reef in the Pacific. I landed in London after a good long cruise, with my heart full of spirits and my pockets full of money. I stayed long enough to get rid of some of the money; and then, as it was nigh on to Christmas-time, and havin' A Sailor's Story. 91 nobody else to pay a visit to, I decided to run up to Whitby to spend Christmas with an old uncle and aunt I'd got livin' there. . Accordin', I fetclied Whitby one cold, dark night after a 'eavy passage. The old folks were partickler glad to see me, and got up a party a few days before Christmas for to celebrate my visit. This party was where it all begun. As soon as I tacked into the room where the company was anchored, I see a pretty' little brown-eyed, brown-haired lass sittin' very quiet and thoughtful near the fire ; and near her, eyein' her in a way as I didn't like the look of, was a young linen-draper chap with long hair and the name of Faggles, as served in a shop in the town. The little brown-eyed lass I never see before; but I knowed Faggles, as were a lubber who put werses into the town paper fit to sink a whole fleet with fright. " Ben," says my old aunt, takin' 'old of the lass's hand, "This is Rosie Deane — my wild young nephew, Ben Beam." Seein' as that poetical lubber's eyes was on me, I draws my left foot back, and makes a bow as perlite as a dancin' master, and then I takes a chair between Rosie and Faggles as we slewed up to the table ; and I tries to look easy, though red. "You have just returned from sea, Mr. Beam?" says Rosie — and I shall never forget 'ow sweet and soft and gentle her voice was. " Yes," I says, bashful, and then I turns round to Faggles, and says, " Any new poems out lately ? " "'No," says the linen-draper, "not lately. My last hode," he says with a mournful smile, " 'as been too much for me." And he stretches out 'is hand for another crumpet. " I think, mate," I says friendly, for I knowed I didn't 92 "All For Herr ought to have no grudge agin 'im,, "I think you eat too much. That's what it is. Leastways, I've always 'eard as food was a very bad thing for gen'tl'men afflicted your way." I didn't mean no offence, but the observation were took amiss, and I thought there'dha' been a bit of a squall ; and as for Rosie Deane, I thought she'd ha' died thro' tryin' to stop laughing. But it blowed« over by her a-askin' of me to tell about my voyage. "^ I was too nervous like to say much then, but .later on in the evenin' I got more at home with her ; and she listened, with her sweet brown eyes glistenin' and wonderin', and her bonnie face lit up with light, while I told her about the great wonderful sea, and all the strange lands and strange people I'd seen. Her shy brown eyes was raised to mine, and her little hand rested in mine a moment, as we said good-bye that night. And' many and many a time since that I've seen them dear brown ^yes as they looked into mine that night ; in drivin' wind and blindin' snow — in the black, black night, with the good ship groanin' in the heaving waves, I've seen them. I've seen them when the mornin' sun has broke thro' the clouds, and sunk to rest at night. I've seen them when stars have been shinin' as they never shine 'ere — I've seen them, bx;ighter to me than any light which ever shone on land or sea. And I've felt the restin' of that little hand in mine — them little white fingers in my strong and 'orny grasp, in many a peril, in many a deadly danger, since that time when I first said to her, '*Good-bye, good- night ! " The next mornin', as I was a-beating about like, I found myself drifted close to the fairm-'ouse where Rosie's father and mother lived. Her father come out, and the end of it was I found myself settlin' down inside, smokin' a pipe with 'im. The next day was the same, and the next. The wind A Sailor's Story. 93 always blowed towards Dingle Farm. Old Deane was a nice sort of feller, though 'asty and very 'ot-tempered. Now I found during these 'ere visits that Rosie was very fond of music ; and accbrdin', I sailed on to a splendid idea. I'd read in a good many love tales about different lubbers serenadin' their young women, and I made up my mind as when Christmas Eve came round, I'd make a quiet run out to Dingle Farm, and do a reg'lar ship-shape proper serenade under Rosie's berth — leastways window. The difficulty was, I know'd I'd never played anything but the Jew's-harp and the drum, and somehow they didn't seem quite the things for to run a serenade with ; though the Jew's harp is pleasin', and the drum cert'nly is a rousin' instrument. I thought I might just squeeze through with a concertina, but I knowed I could only play " Yankee Doodle, diddle-dum-da," and was very shaky on the top notes. These reflections took me aback for a bit, but I soon got under weigh with a good notion. I went to a music-shop to see what they could do for me, and I come across a small barril-horgan, easy enough to carry. " The very thing ! " I says to myself. " Mate," says I to the shopman, " does this play sekerler or sacred toones ? " " Bothj sir," he says. " The fact is, it belonged to a strange old gen'tFman 'ere, who 'ad it made for 'im. It got a bit out of order, and he brought it 'ere in a pet, and told us to sell it. You've only to handle it this way," he says, fumbling about the stops, "and the toones soon get in proper order. 'Eire it goes, just when I set it off." Sure enough out busts the barril-horgan, playin' beautiful, '"Ark! the 'Erild Hangels sing." When I 'eard that; " Name your price ! " I 'oilers, for a more lovely toone to go a-serenadin' with on a Christmas Eve I felt I couldn't hav& 94 "All For Her? The next night was Christmas Eve. I was very nervous all day long ; but when the night come, off I started with the barril-horgan for Dingle Farm. It was very dark, and I lost my bearings once or twice, but about eleven o'clock I brought up near the farm. I went along very quiet, with the bsirril-horgan under my arm, till I got about a quarter of a knot from the 'ouse. All of a sudden, I 'eard some lubber walkin' be'ind me. I didn't take no notice, nor I didn't 'ail 'im. But he seemed to foUer close in my wake, and when I ported my hel'm and turned into the lane leadin' up to the 'ouse, he ported 'is hel'm almost at the same time, and ran 'is 'ead down the lane. Then I broached to and lay, by close in to the hedge. It was Faggles the poet, with a trumpet big enough to float a ship in. " Faggles ! " I says. " Beam ! " says he. " Faggles ! " I 'oilers. " Beam ! " shouts he. " Yes," I makes answer and says, " Beam it is." " Yes," he says, " Faggles it is." " With a Jericho trumpet ? " says I. " With a cornet-ar-piston," he replies, lofty. " Beam with a beer-barrel under 'is arm ? " "With a little barril-horgan," I says, 'aughty. I knowed what he'd come for, and I knowed he knowed - what I'd come for. We was both runnin' in the serenadin' ' line. ."I thought matters would come to a krikis between us ■ before long," says Faggles. " And now it's come," I says, " And a neat httle thing in ■ the way of krikisses it is. As neat a little krikis as ever I see. Come on," I says, puttin' down the barril-horgan and taking off my coat. " Come on," I says, " and I'll give you a krikis - on the nose. Come on ! " A Sailor's Story. 95 But Faggles 'ad got under weigh, all canvas spread, and by the time I bore down on 'im we was close under the windows of Dingle Farm. All was very quiet and still and dark. I takes up a position near the water-butt, and Faggles stands close to the wall the other side of the window. I fixed my little barril-horgan, and Faggles raises 'is trumpet to 'is mouth. " Faggles," I says, " will you go away ? " " No," he says, " I'm Mowed if I do ? " " Then, Faggles," says I, " we'll each take a hinderpendent course till later on ; only," I says, solemn, " only, Faggles, remember this — your blood, Faggles, be on your own 'ead ! " I touches the spring for " 'Ark ! the 'Erild Hangels sing." Out busts that plaguey horgan, rattlin' and roarin' and crashin', "We won't go home till mornin'!" at the very instant that a awful blast come from Faggles's trumpet, a-playin' " Come where my love lies sleepin' ! " in a minor key. The result was awful. Four dogs flew at us,' barkin' like mad — other dogs took up the alarm — Faggles kep' on a-blowin' — the horgan went on with " We won't go home till mornin' ! " — I was swearin' and 'oUerin' at the dogs — Bedlam seemed to be let loose — and in the middle of it all old Deane tiirew up the window, and looked out, with a gun in 'is hand ; Mrs. Deane standin' at 'is elbow. " My dear," he says, " fire I will. It's no use to tell me it's cats. I know cats don't go home till mornin', but they don't play barril-horgans about it, and their loves don't lie sleepin'." And up went the gun to 'is shoulder. Life is sweet. I made one plunge for the water-butt, and in I jumped. Faggles dashed 'is trumpet to the ground, and got into a dog's kennel. "Speak at once," 'oilers the old man, "whoever you are, or I'll fire ! " g6 "All For Her!* " Mr. Deane," 'oilers Faggles from the kennel, " it isn't me. It's the sea-farin' gen'tl'man in the water-butt." " Water-butt? " says old Deane. " Yes, sir," I says, gettin' out. " Bring me a spade, sir, so's I can bury this infernal horgan, for I can't stop it — and then I'll explain everything." Down come the farmer, and in went me and Faggles, exceptin' what the dogs 'ad bit out of us, leavin' the horgan still a-playin'. Things was explained as well as they could be, and all was forgiven on the condition that nothing of the sort should ever occur again, and that me and Faggles should shake hands. As we walked back together that night, Faggles says, " I sha'n't go no more where my loye lies sleepin', unless I know the dogs is not only sleepin' too, but chained up." And says I, very mournful, " Faggles, no more of the 'Erild Hangels for me. There's too much of the water-butt about 'em." » * » » « » The next mornin' — Christmas mornin' — I see Rosie at church, and spoke to her comin' out. I see her in church, kneelin' and prayin' all peaceful and calm, with the light from the painted window fallin' softly on her glossy 'ead and folded hands. I 'eard her dear sweet voice joinin' in hymn and litany. I spoke to her comin' out, and 'eld her hand in mine again as I wished her a Merry Christmas. And I longed to throw my arms around her, and draw her close, close to the rough 'eart that loved her so dear. That night — that Christmas night — I told her 'ow dear she was to me. I'd spent the evenin' at Dingle Farm, and she'd come to the door to see me off. The moon and stars was shinin' very bright and very peaceful over all the sleepin' woods and fields and hills. I took in mine the little hand that would ha' been so A Sailor's Story. 97 mighty to guide my life; and as simple and manly as I could I told her just the plain story of 'ow very dear I loved her, and I pnly asked her was there any hope ? Oh, so pale grew my. poor darling's face ! Oh, so piteously her hand trembled — trembled like a shiverin' ship — ^as she tried to withdraw it from my grasp. ■ " Oh, no, no — I'm so sorry — I'm so sorry ! " I kep' back all the feelin's that rose like a mighty flood in my 'eart — and I only asked her, " My dear, there is some pne else yqu love ? " And low and soft she whispered, " Yes." " Rosie ? " "Yes?" " It . . . it . , , it isn't the g'ntl'man what blowed the trumpet last night, is it?" " Oh, no, no, no ! " And then, with the moonlight fallin' sweetly, and brightly, and softly on her dear brown curls, she laid her little 'ead on the rough sleeve of my coat, and cried as though her 'eart would break. I laid my 'ard, strong hand on her little bowed, troubled 'ead; and for the first time for many a long year I found a prayer a-goin' up from my 'eart — that I might be able to 'elp my darling in her sorrow, for nothing now could be half so sweet to me as to do that. " Rosie," I says, 'usky, but very iirm, " I'm only a rough sailor, and I've knowed all along as I could never be worthy to join company along of you. I'm only a rough sort of a fellow, but ril do my duty — I'll stand by to 'elp you, my dear, whilst I've got a rag flying. I love you so dear that I want you to trust me, and let me try to 'elp you. I ain't got no other th9ught in my 'eart now, but to 'elp you, God knows. And if. there's aught wrong between you, and . . . and ... and tlie man you loves, I'll try to 'elp you, Rosie, if you let me. I will, my dear". . . because I do love yoot O.R. i 98 "All For Her." so very tender and true, that . . . I . . . only want to see you happy." And by-and-by she told me 'ow she'd sent away from her a man who loved her — sent 'im away long ago because she thought she didn't care for 'im, and 'ow when he'd gone away, no one knew where, somewhere across th^ blue waters, she found, too late, that all her 'eart 'ad turned to 'im, all her 'eart was 'is, all her 'eart was pain within her till he could come to claim it, and bring into it the sunshine of 'is love again. This was my poor girl's secret, and no brother and no sister 'ad she to share it with. And like as a brother might ha' done, I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it— kissed it, only once in all my life — kissed it slow and lovin' and gentle, as I said to myself, " I will find 'im if I roam the wide world over." And before I left her — never to see her again, never, never to see her no more — the name of the man she loved, and every line of 'is face — for she carried 'is portrait in her breast — was written in my broken 'eart. » « ae iK « « i found 'im at last. Far away from home, far away from the girl who loved 'im, I found 'im. And he come back to her, back across the waters, back to the light of Rosie's bonny brown eyes, back to the sweet- ness of her lips, back to the joy of callin' her wife, and her children sons and daughters, back to the tender arms and gentle 'eart of the girl who loved 'im. He was lyin' sick, and weak, and 'elplesj in a gold-digger's tent out in Australia. As I see 'im for the first time, and bent over the rough bed on which he was lyin,' 'is mind was wandering far away. He was mutterin' the name what was so dear to both of us, 'oldin' out longin' hands for her in 'is fever and pain and loneliness. I watched by 'im day and night, and always he called her name, always he 'eld out 'is A Sailor's Story, gg thin, worn hands in longin' to draw her to 'im. Of the English fields and lanes and trees and flowers he used to talk sometimes — ^but only as though she was walkin' with 'im there. Of the moonlight upon the gleamin' waters and white beach near Rosie's home — but only as though she was standin' by 'is side. Of the old dim church, the churcli where I saw her kneelin' that Christmas mornin', with its painted windows and old carved pews — but always as though she was kneelin' by 'is side. Of the gabled farm 'ouse,. where me and poor Faggles went serenadin', but only as though she was waitin' for' im there. At last there come a night when he could hear and understand. And I told 'im all. For hours and hours we sat, for always when I left off he cried, " She loves me — she loves me — tell me again and again that she loves me ! " I couldn't 'elp it — I couldn't 'elp 'im knowin' as I loved her too, so dear, and so deathless, and 'ow I'd been searchin' for 'im for to send 'im back to her, so's she could be happy. And the names he called me is unfit for publication. The sudden Australian sunrise broke in upon us — and j remembered it was the sunrise of another Christmas Day. " Mate," I says, " it's Christmas mornin' — God bless yer ! It's Christmas mornin', and soon it'll be Christmas in dear old England] and the bells will be ringin' out, and the people will be gatherin' in church. And she'll be there, and she'll be ptayin' for you, mate, and -maybe she'll even be puttin' in a word for me. Prayers ain't in my line," I says, " far from it ; but give us yer hand, mate ; lefs think of a bit of a prayer for Rosie / " After that I got thinkin' some'ow about ' Erild Hangels, and I couldn't 'elp wonderin' whether that unfort'nate barril-horgan 'ad stopped yet. JIM: A HERO. HERO, truly, but such a queer one ! Somehow the idea of a hero is always associated in the popular mind with the ring of rifles and the booming of cannon ; with the clash of martial steel, and the fierce, wild cry of battle. We make graven images of our successful warriors, and stick them on the summit of high monuments, and scatter them about St. Paul's Cathedral, that all men may pay them homage. How ap- propriate to rear in the House of God the images of men who have led armies, and won battles ; who have destroyed towns and cities and shed human blood 1 But poor Jim was not anything of that sort. He was not even respectable, he didn't dress properly— he wore awfully tattered clothes, had a battered old hat, and only one boot and a half. Be- sides, he only went ,to church once in his life, so of course Jie was not respectable. In fact, if I could have held him up to inspection^ — this poor, wretched, half-starved, vulgar boy — everybody would have exclaimed, " Take him away to prison, or the reformatory, or to an unsectarian board-school, " or something of that sort ; what a nasty, dirty little fellow ! " And yet there is an altar in the corner of my heart where I perpetually offer the incense of fervent veneration for the memory of this ragamuffin gutter-boy. I started from home one Sunday evening, uncertain on what subject to preach that night to the congregation I was A Curate's Story. lol to address. The winter had not yet passed, and the wind blew cold and keen. The doors of churches and chapels were already open, but none save well-dressed people were entering. I passed a large Fine Art Museum, which on week-days was crowded with working men and their families, but being Sunday it was now, of course, shut up j while the gin-palaces, being, equally of course, open, were doing a roaring trade. I could see, through the bright windows of these gaudy hell-traps, fashionably-attired men, young and old, intelligent mechanics, ragged beggar-men. I could see lost women — idare I call them women ? — with evil eyes made bright, and painted cheeks made hot, with the light and warmth of wine. What goodly souls, in very truth, are. wrecked amid the dangers of this wicked London life ! And suddenly I thought to myself, "I will speak to the people to-night about the Life of Christ ; I will preach to-night of the Perfect Life." I felt strangely dejected as I thought of the terrible dis- tance which separates us all from that truly " higher life ; " when I thought how far short fall the best of lives when compared with the life of Him who lived not for Himself. These mournful thoughts were still with me as I ascended .the pulpit. The parish, where my church was situated was a very poor one, but not so the congregation. Poor people have been frightened away from religion by its intense respectability. So, as I gazed around my " dear brethren," everybody was looking comfortable and self-satisfied. When we knelt for the General Confession, there was quite a loud rustling of silk and satin from the female " dearly beloved " behind me, and they said they were miserable offenders so sweetly and so nicely. There were no nasty, dirty labouring men present. Oh no ! — no threadbare coats, no tattered dresses. But stay, I am saying too much; for just as, I was about to announce my text I saw in a draughty seat near the porch a live London arab ! a boy in rags and tatters, a boy 102 Jim: a Hero. with thin, pale, dirty face and dirty hands, with wild unkempt hair — nervous, restless eyes. How he came there I know not, save that God sent him. Passionately in earnest did I feel that night, full was my heart, and involuntary were the tears which flooded my eyes, as we went through the scenes of the one Life of absolute unselfishness. Turning over my diary I see almost the very words I used as I brought my sermon to a close ; will you forgive me, my reader, if I re-produce them here ? " Have I moved one single soul here to live in future above self, nearer to the life we have studied? Have I inspired one,heart with the resolution, in however humble and quiet a sphere, to emulate the great example ; or even to accomplish, if God see fit to give the opportunity, some high and holy deed — some great, grand act of heroism which shall elevate the life-history of Him who achieves it closer to the sublime life on earth of the Hero of heroes, the Man of men ? " A loud rustle of clothes followed the last word ; it was the congregation "waking up from the sermon." I did not think I had reached the heart of one man or woman there. Before leaving the church I made inquiries of the " pew- opener " as to the ragged boy I had noticed ; I only dis- covered that he was at present a crossing-sweeper, and that he said his name was " Jim." w * * » « w " Fire ! fire ! " Loud through the deserted midnight streets rang the sudden alarm. " Fire ! fire ! fire ! " — and past the vicarage house dashed the engine. I threw a cape over my shoulders and joined the crowd gathering in the wake of the fast-speeding vehicle. A house on fire. Fierce flames, leaning from the burning A Curate's Story, 103 window, were reflected brightly in the winter sky, and poured red light on the ground and the eager faces of the crowd watching the scene. Suddenly above the roar of the flames rises a scream of anguish, " My child— O God, — my child 1 " It is a woman's voice J and there we see her kneeling on the ground, weep- ing and wringing her hands. She was the last rescued, un- conscious, from the doomed house ; but we know, seeing her thus, that her child has been forgotten; we know by the gaze of her eyes that her child is in that burning upper room. A tremor runs through the crowd. There are brave men and true among that crowd, men whose daily toil brings them face to face with danger and with death ; but as they look up to that flaming chamber and see how far short their one ladder reaches, each heart grows sick with despair ; what can they do, even though they count their lives as nothing ? "My child— O God— my child!" The poor mother weeps not alone now ; women and even men are cryirig with her. A slight movement causes me to turn my head ; and just by my side is that ragged boy, still in the tatters in which I saw him first. But a strange light is on the pale face now ; a strange light glows in his eyes, fixed where the tearful gaze of the mother is fixed ; a light like that which must have filled the eyes of Horatius when he stood 'for\)rard to keep the bridge ; a light like that which must have glowed in the eyes of the men of the Light Brigade as they charged into the "valley of death." Without a word he springs forward, the light still on his face, still glowing in his eyes. One wild deafening cheer rings out from the crowd ; and then with throbbing hearts and bated breath we watch the daring boy. Quickly he springs up the ladder and steps out on the window-ledge ; and then with dizzy eyes we see him clinging to the thick pipe which runs down the front of the house. IQ4 Jim: a Hero. As by a miracle he reaches the room. G God ! how the seconds linger. But at last we see him again, standing at one of the windows. Then another wild cheer bursts from each heart, for in his arms he bears the child. The gesture he makes is understood ; to descehd further is .impossible.: so strong arms are stretched out to receive the child as he lets it fall. E^ger fingers unwrap the -thick covering which envelops it, and the mother's arms close aroiind her darling — saved ! • A cry is raised that further help is coming ; but, alas ! it comes too late, for with a great crash the house falls in. Sorely : wounded, almost. dead, we find poor little Jim, and bear him' from the scene of his glorious deed to a quiet chamber in the vicarage. All that could be done for him had been done; his broken Umbs had been set, and his scorched, burnt flesh had been anointed and bound up. AH day long some one had kept watch by his side; and now the night had come, and we knew that it would be the last night on earth . for the dying hero. I was waiting with him — waiting for the coming of the hour. It was very quiet outside; the din and bustle hushed. A beautiful night ; just such a night, 1 thought, as I should like to pass away in if we could choose the time of, our departure. The sky was clear and calm, bright with the light of a million stars, shedding on the snow so beautiful . a radiance that I could well-nigh have believed that the Golden Gates had been opened for a space, and that a reflection of the light of the Celestial City was shining down ■ upon this time-worn, weary world. Inside the chamber only the restless movement of the dying boy broke the silence. At last, he fell into an uneasy sleep. . I held the light above him and gazed into his face, looking almost child-like now, but with the hand of death already there. A Curate's Story, lOj Suddenly his eyes opened with a dreamy, far-away look in them. I took his hand in mine and knelt by the bedside, placing my ear close to his white and trembling lips. He was murmuring words of which he seemed unconscious, from which I learnt the inspiration of his grand, heroic act — speaking in broken language of Christ, of His life, and His love, and His self-sacrifice. Poor Jim, how well you learnt the lesson I had striven to teach that previous Sabbath evening — the lesson which needs such strenuous teaching in this selfish and cynical and luxurious age. A softer light came into his eyes, and a softer smile played about his lips. Closer still I bent my head He was speaking now of the early scenes in the story, at Bethlehem and Nazareth. When full consciousness returned, he recognised me; and we spoke and prayed together. Then I sprinkled water upon the forehead of this nameless Christian. Just as the cold grey dawn was breaking, the light of eternity broke upon the spirit of poor little Jim. As I folded his hands and closed his eyes, sightless for evermore to things of earth, I prayed for the same spirit as that which had inspired the heart of that brave dead boy, who knew so little and did so much. ALL ALONG THE LINE! S isUaJr of tl^t ^malcsa ®M War. !iHE Sabbath bells were chiming in our dear homes far away, As o'er the list'ning field rang out the sum- mons for the fray: Oh, brightly in the morning sun our spangled banners gleam'd. And fearless every warrior's eye with dauntless courage .. ^ybeam'd; For tho' the foe in strong array had mustered for the fight. We knew we fought in Freedom's cause — for Freedom and the Right— And Glory follows close where'er the Flag of Freedom goes — As moved our Van of Battle on loud cheer on cheer arose All along the Line. Hard'by a rugged ridge we men of Vermont had to stay, The ground to hold till orders came — ours only to obey — But as the battle's tide swept on, and regiments hurried past, As thro' the drifting smoke we saw our comrades falling fast, And heard their piercing death-shrieks rise above the con- flict's din. Hard work our leader had to hold the Boys of Vermont in. Att Along the Line! 107 In strong, extended ranks we stood that rising ridge to keep, But burned our hearts so fiercely that rose murmurs loud and deep All along the Line. At last, O God ! we see our men are falling, falling back. The Southern hosts are stealing on, our guns are firing slack ! But now across the reeking field a mounted soldier rides. His panting charger wild with fear, a red stream down his sides. ^ With eager, throbbing, burning hearts, our eager eyes we strain. As on, still on, the rider comes across the bloody plain. '"Tis Colonel Gray!" is shouted, "from the Staff our orders brings — Our. orders come at last — Hurrah ! " and joyous shouting rings All along the Line. We know him well, and love him well, this brave young Colonel Gray, Our ranks triumphant he has led on many a well-fought day. On, on he comes until we see his face is ghastly white — His steed is close upon us now; why checks he not his flight ? The charger halts, and at our feet, fast streaming life's red tide, The Colonel falls, a lifeless corse, with one white hand stretched wide. A paper, see ! that dead hand clasps, with these words, written large — " The General bids you ride and tell the Boys of Vermont charge All along the Line 1 " io8 All Along the Line! The words were read ; one look upon the dead man's face we gave — • Then " Charge ! " our leader shouted, and a glittering long white wave Ran down the rising ridge which we throughout the day had kept, As forward, forward, on, on, on, our line impetuous swept ; To roll the tide of battle back, to win th& half-lost field — To win it yet, or every man resolved dear life to yield. It seem'd as though that dead white face our fearful on- slaught led. And soon our bright steel's rolling wave bore crest of bloody red, All along the Line. And as we charged our troops re-formed, and joined on every hand^ — Our charge was like the whirlvyind that sweeps Death across the land ; Anci ere upon the western heights the sunset glow was seen, The Stars and Stripes waved proudly where the rebel camp had been ! When we death's roll have answer'd, and our children's sons are old, The gallant deeds of North and South that' day will still be told, For long 'twill be before the fame of such brave deeds shall fade- But, chief of all, they'll tell the charge we men of Vermont made, All along the Line. All Along the Line! 109 Next eve, when peaceful starbeams gleam'd the field of battle o'er, The corse of gallant Colonel Gray with tender hands we bore : A soldier's hasty sepulchre some sad-faced warriors made — Where friend and foe together lie our vaUant dead we laid. No costly monument we rear'd to mark his place of rest. But just these words we wrote upon the, slab above his breast : "He, being dead, yet speaketh" — and our meaning well they know Who hear how by a dead man's word we chlarged against the foe All along the Line. My brothers who are fighting for the Right against the Wrong, My brothers in 'the battle for the Weak against the Strong, My brothers who are fighting for the Rights God gave to all, , When those who give our orders, in the raging struggle fall. No dimmer in our stricken hearts must glow Faith's sacred flame — The Foe is still before us, and the Cause remains the same. In death our leaders speak to us as plainly as in life — "Charge, comrades. Charge! close up your ranks, and carry on the strife All along the Line ! " SLO JORKER'S EYE. gt &tttxilxiltTi ^tmsiaxin'i ^tat^, I, there ! you ain't got a screw o' baccy about yer, , pVaps, or even another o' them cigars you're sinoking? No? and ain't even got any small change about yer — well, I'm blowed — here, just you come off the grass, will yer? Can't yer see that board? Wisitors ain't allowed to walk on the grass. You dt'dn'f see the notice ? 'pears to me I can see as much with my one eye as some lubbers can with two. Yes, I did lose my lar-b'd eye in the sarvice, and in the sarvice under a one-eyed Admiral too — lost it under Nelson years afore you caused yer mother any concarn. Why don't I get a glass one? Reasons enough. The women run after me ^uite enough as it is, for I ain't ninety till next birthday, and it 'ud never do to make my figurehead up pretty. And if you knowed the trouble about the glass eye as I did fix myself put with years ago you'd never a-asked such a question. Why, the great case o' Slo Jorker's Eye is in all the great logs of the Law Co^rts^t become a pre- sident. I'm Slo Jorker, Slo being short for Solomon, and the Eye was the glass 'un I sported. It was my old woman as led me into getting it — she's up aloft since. When I was invalided out o' the sarvice — which the same was when old Boney was picked, and they didn't want me no more — I gave chase to Sallie Barlow, the prettiest wencb in Poplar. She wouldn't agree to sail in A Greenwich Pensioner's Story. ill company, along of my having only one eye ; and a second- hand lubber of a German-Jew as dealt in anything by which he could turn a dishonest penny bamboozled me into letting him get me a glass substitoot. When Sallie heard of the idea, she consented that the bands should be put up, conditional on Moses Melchisedeck insertin' the pane o' glass in my figurehead, It was done accordirf, and we was spliced. Well, I started a httle bit of a business with pallia over Poplar way, her native shore. Salhe's department was to attend to the customers inside — my department was more especial to drink with 'em outside. The business soon got under full sail, pertickler my department, and we was cheery enough till the great law case about my eye crossed our bows. I'd been attending to a customer outside one day, and we'd drifted a knot or two from our bearings. We parted company near the docks, and I headed without convoy for Sallie^ home, and supper.^ I steered a steady course — considerin' — till I was brought up sudden by a street scrimmage. With his back well grounded agin a brick wall, stood a square-built hefty chap surrounded by a score or so waterside loafers and other characters. He looked like the skipper of a tradin' barge — strong and stout and stiff, as he Stood there defyin' the lot of 'em. Thinking as it might be a private family fight, and if so not wishing to introode, I was just standing past him with a friendly "Yoi, yoi!" when the bargee-skipper alters his tactics altogether. He leaves his moorings sudden and unexpected, and sails into the crowd like a Admiral Nelson, his broadsides doin' heavy damage. For every blow, port and star-b'd as they says now — lar-b'd and star-b'd as it is — a man went down. He surrounded hisself with a reg'lar ocean of bleedin' noses and black eyes. " Hooroar ! " I 'oilers sympathetic, when up he comes to nie, bows on, and strikes me deliberate fair and square 112 Slo Jorker's Eye. on the glass optic. For a few seconds I reels like a ship struck by a sudden squall, then I founders. When I picked myself up again, I see my eye in the gutter. Looking round, I takes the following reckoning : the bargee skipper had gone astarn again to his moorings agin the wall J most of the crowd had sheered off for the dispensary, but . about half a dozen, all more or less damaged, stood round him, just out o' reach of his fists. Having knocked down about twenty men, partially killed a dozen of 'em, and inflicted Sewere damage on the enemy in general, incloodin' knocking out my eye, the gennelman with his back agin the wall inquires, — "What's the matter?" "Matter enough," says I, picking my eye out o' the gutter, and going up to him with the same in my hand — I mean the eye, not the gutter. " Matter enough," I. says, showin' him the eye in my hand; "you've knocked this eye out o' my head, and '11 have to stand damages according." "These lubbers," says the wictorious bargee, alloodin' to the crowd, " set on me to rob me." " That may be," I answers ; " but no satisfaction to me for getting this paneo' glass knocked out o' my figurehead and split " — a-showin' him a crack right across the optical deloosion. He looks at me and the eye steady, and then he says, says he, — » " You're a impostor. That eye in your hand I must ha' knocked out o' some other gennelman's head." " Why so, and wherefore ? " I asks. " Because that ain't your eye. That eye in your hand is a bright navy-bloo heye — the eye in your head is a tar- black heye. People ain't born with eyes o' different and diwerse colours, mate." " Colour be scuttled," I says. " Do you suppose when I A Greenwich Pensioner's Story. 1 1 3 was a-buyin' a glass eye I could afford to be pertickler to a shade ? " We argified like sea-lawyers for about half an hour, but he wpuldn't give in to pay damages, or buy me another eye. When I told him I should go to law about it, he defied all the P'leece courts and County courts' in the kingdom, with the bench o' Bishops, and the 'Ouse of Lords, and the 'Ome for lost dogs throwed in additional without extry charge. In one p'int he behaved honourable — he give me his name and address, which the same was Silas Grigsby of Limehouse, owner koA. skipper of the tradin' barge Pretty Poll. Well, I talked it over with Sallie, and we called in that Jew-German lubber, Moses Melchisedeck, and he takes us to a German-Jew lawyer, who adwised me to go on with the case, and we gets warious dockyments sarved on Silas Grigsby, and goes through all manner o' bad weather in the way of worry and anxiousness and neglectin' of the business — except my department — till the day o' the Great Trial come on, which it took place at Bow County Court. When me and Sallie and Moses and our lawyer arrove in dompstny outside the Court-house, I expected to see the muingtary drawn up to keep order, but they was otherwise engaged, and warn't there. The inside o' the Bow County Court showed a expres- sive scene. In the middle of the bench sat the Lord Chief Justice. ' On the lar-b'd side of him was the Harchbishop o' Canterbury, with the fust Lord o' the Admirality to the star-b'd. How do I know who they was? Am I spinning this yarn or you? Keep off the edge o' that grass, please. I have always so regarded the three judges as stated, and shall continue so for to regard them. Silas Grigsby was ' there, alongside of his mates, and right in front was our different lawyers. Grigaky was calm and cool, but I were excited and O.R. 8 114 ^^0 Jor kef's Eye. breathin' wonderful hard. , As we drawed nearer to the fatal moment when our case was to be called, I got more exciteder, and breathed harder still. So much so that when the husher roared out, "Jorker versus Grigsby," up I stands, and, addressin' of the Lord Chief Justice, I says, — " Guilty, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul." I was stood down immediate^ and it looked for a bit as though I'd be tried and executed on the spot for Contemp' of Court, but my lawyer snioothed it over somehow, and begun for to state my case. He put it so straight and shipshape that I soon saw he was bound to win, and as he brought to at last by demanding costies and damages for my ruined eye and lackerated feelin's, I was near breakin' out into Contemp' of Court again by singing " Roole Britannia." I backed up the German-Jew lawyer by giving my own evidence manly and straightfor'rud, only bein' threatened with bein' sent to prison for Contemp' seventeen times. When I set down I glared round, proud and triumphant, with my nateral optic. Up gets Grigsby's lawyer, and addressin' hisself quite supercecilious to the Lord Chief justice, the Harchbishop, and the fust Lord o' the Admirality, he says, — " I calls Moses Melchisedeck." " Maybe yer won't get him," I reinarks ; but sure eiiough up climbs into the box that traitory lubber that sold me the eye. "The plaintiff obtained that eye from you?" says the lawyer, pointing to my cracked navy-bloQ eye on the clerk's desk. " Yes," says Moses, opening his mouth but speaking with , his nose. " On what terms ? " asks the lawyet. "Price agreed on," replies Moses's nose, "two pounds j fifteen shillings down, and sixpence a week till paid oflFi" A Greenwich Pensioner's Story, 115 "Are any instalments still due?" goes on Grigsby's lawyer. " Yes," says Moses, " three : three sixpences, eighteen- pence." "Then," says the lawyer, addressin' the Bench, "when the cause o' this action arose, that eye was not the property of the plaintiff, and his action against my client the defendant must be dismissed with costs. That's my case. The plaintiff's eye not bein' his prpperty he can't claim; it was siiriply loaned out on the hire-purchase system." And before five policemen removed me from the Court, sich were the judgment give by the Lord Chief Injustice, the Ha^chbishop o' Canterbury, and the fust Lord o' the Admirality. This is how the figures mapped out : paid Moses Melchisedeck cash down fifteen shillings; by instalments up to the date o' the grealt trial twenty-three shillings and sixpence; instalments paid in the lobby o' the Court in default o' returning the glass eye uninjured, one and sixpence. Grigsby's costs paid by me, thirty seven pounds, six shillings and / eightpence. My costs twenty-two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence. Fine for wiolently assaulting Moses Melchisedeck in the lobby, one pound or fourteen days. Fine for punching the head of my lawyer, one pound or fourteen days. Fine for battery o' Silas Grigsby's lawyer, the same alloodin' chiefly to his nose, one pound or fourteen days. Fines for assaults and batteries on all sich witnesses as waited long enough to receive 'em, three pounds five, or forty-eight days. Fine for dancin' a 'ornpipe on the body o' Silas Grigsby in the gutter, having previous knocked down the said body for the conwenience of sich 'ornpipe, one pound ten or twenty-one days. Fine for bein' wrongful accused o' bein' drunk and incapable on the night o' the great trial, two pounds or twenty-eight, days. All along o' my glass eye 1 And now here you comes 11 6 Slo Jorkef's Eye. down to Greenwich 'Orspital a-walkin' on the grass, without no baccy and no change, and a-askin' me why I don't get a glass eye mounted in my figurehead ! Shiver my timbeiB ! Why, I half a yeller boy ! Beg yer honour's pardon. You can walk on the grass. TWICE SAVED. ■ NSIGN TRAVERS lost them. I brought them back. Sister Grace saved them a second time, and I did salute that Sister of Mercy whose appearance you smiled at as she passed us just now, and if she passed me a thousand times I should salute her a thousand times, in memory of what that other black- dressed Sister did. She saved them a second time. The Colours of the 47th Regiment 1 It -was at Inkerman. Very cold and gloomy was the dawn of that fifth of November of which so many gallant fellows never saw the sunset, and a thick and cold and gloomy fog hung over the camp. Muffled in the misty veil, the enemy's guns boomed an awful warning of the unexpected fight. Then the drums throbbed and the trumpets sounded — guns wer6 limbered and chargers mounted, and swords and rifles and bayonets grasped in eager haste, as from tent to tent, from man to man, rang the cry, " TAe Russians are on us I" Almost before we had time to arm and form, we heard the solid tramp of marching men, and saw, through the yellow mist, closing in around us the grey-coated masses of. the foe. Then it was bayonet to bayonet, sword to sword, man to man. In such a fight as fell to the 47th's share that day, hours Ii8 Twice Saved. pass like minutes, and how long we had been fighting before we lost the Colours I don't know. But I know we had been getting fewer and fewer. We had managed to keeii pretty well together, close to the Colours carried by Ensign Travers, but many had been beaten back, and many ■ a poor comrade had lost the number of his mess. At last only eighty or a hundred Of us remained together, when a mounted ofiScer dashed nip crying,— " Look out, 47th — the enemy's cavalry is on you !" Even as he shouted we heard the thunderous thud of hoofs upon the turf, and the jingling of spurs and bits. A moment afterwards they were close upon us — a. small hut solid square kneeling round the Colours. A volley emptied many a saddle, but like a whirlwind they were on lis. Our square was broken, and the Russian troopers rode, in — rode on- us, and over us. Sword in one hand and the Colours in the other, grasped as with the grasp of death, his crisp curly hair fringing his bared and smoke-grimed forehead, a passionate light glaring on his face, stood Travers. A couple of months before he was the pet of ladies' drawing- rooms — a curled and scented darling of the parks and Rotten Row — a budding dandy with a fine taste in gloves and neckties. But there was no fear in his eyes, no trem- bling of his lips, no shaking of his hands, as he stood there facing death. He had grown since then. | He was^ man now ! Only for a second he stood, for like a lightning flash fell a sabre, cutting a ghastly wound across his head. He fell, and the man who smote .him carried off the Colours ! With a red rain, -of blood dripping frbm his brows, he raised his woundpd head from the sodden grass, and stretched blindly out his twitching, eager hands. " Bring me back the Colours ! " All around him lay helpless the faithful fellows who would have died a dozen deaths to place that flag in his hands again — ^wounded, dying, dead — never to "receive A Sergeant-Major's Story. iig cavalry charge " any more. Who was there to bring back the blazoned silk that bore the recoi;d of our regiment's honour? Only one man reipained unwounded of the square over which the Russian horsemen had ridden — that man myself. Again the cry, again with the same agony and despair : " Bring me back the Colours, or " — ^reaching out for his broken sword — " kill me ! " But before the words were finished I had leaped upon a riderless steed hard by, and thrust the jagged point of a bayonet into his side. On, on after the flying troops — a mad, wild chase to win the Colours back or die. A sudden fire from the French guns (for our allies were now in the field) played upon the Russian horsemen, and the sight of a British cavalry regiment, preparing • to charge, dispersed them in every direction, and the man who had taken the Colours — our Colours — was cut off from his comrades. Wild with hope, I, tore on — nearer and nearer, stride by stride, foot by foot, to the man I pursued — till at length we were level. A short, sharp struggle, and the Colours were mine, the Russian trooper dead. Then I rode back, and put them, torn and tattered and bloodstained, into the hands of Ensign Travers. Some one was kneeling by his side, bathing and dressing the poor boy's wounded head, staunching the blood which was pouring down his fair young face, wiping it-^Oh, so tenderly, so gently — from the brave blue eyes and away from the white, pain-shivering lips which said so fervently as his eager fingers took the Colours from me, " God bless you. Sergeant-major ! " Her eyes were full of pity, but they didn't turn from the * sight of his gaping wound ; her face was full of holy light like an angel's, pure and delicate, but it didn't flinch, though it whitened, at sight of the blood ; her hands were 120 Twice Saved. frail and very small, but they didn't tremble as she bound up the torn flesh. Under her black and ugly dress beat the bravest heart of all the brave hearts, living and dead, on the field. of Inkerman. She was a Sister of Mercy. She wai Sister Grace. Travers got hold of my hand. Poor boy — he — I don't like to tell you — he kissed it ! Looking at me as he did so, and feeling something falling upon him, he cried out in sudden terror : " Sergeant-major, you're wounded ! " "I know I am, sir," I saidj and fell by his side as helpless as he was. Good God ! what is that ? Two Russian cavalry oflScers are riding for us — they must have seen the flag re-captured, and they're coming to take it from us once more. What do they care for the risk they run ? — the Colours of the English 47th Regiment are worth any risk ! Look, look ! They're spurring — on they come, on over the bodies of friend and foe — on7 on — coolly, steadily on. Look at the triumph in their eyes — look at the light in their faces, the smile on their lips. We're cut off from help — we're both wounded — we can't fight ; we can't rise. Curse them ! they know it. Their tired chargers are spurred again, and now they're on us ! Travers clutched his splintered sword, and tried to struggle to his knees. " The Colours are theirs again," he moaned j " but they shall kill me for them ! " " No, they sha'n't ! " Oh the light on the pale face of Sister Grace as she said it I Snatching them from the arms of Ensign Travers, she tore the Colours from the broken flagstaff, and bound them round her body — folded them tightly rounTher heart ; and the crucifix she wore around her neck gleamed upon A Sergeant-Majoi^s Story, 121 them. Then she took a few steady paces from our bodies, and halted as the Russian officers drew rein. " They are mine, and you shall not take them ! " I can see it all again, just as my straining eyes saw it then. I can see her face, and her black nun'5 dress with the Colours wrapped round it, and I can see those two uplifted sabres above her gallant head. " They are mine, and you shall not take them from me ! " How long it was those two threatening sabres were upheld to strike I don't know ; — nor how long it was before that strange look came into the fierce faces of the two Russians ; — but I know that all the time she didn't flinch. I know that she fixed steady eyes on the angry men who grasped the shining blades, and that with steady hands she pressed the Colours tighter and closer to her heart. And I know that, none the less were those two officers of the enemy's cavalry brave soldiers and gallant gentlemen when they lowered their sabres and turned and rode away — not from a park of artillery, mot from a cavalry charge, not from, a bristling line of British bayonets — but from Sister Grace and — her Colours ! Yes, sjr j I won the Victoria Cross. And Sister Grace ? The veneration of every man, the love of every soldier, who hears her story — and the highest place for ever in the history of the 47th Regiment of the Line. , FORGERY. HOPES as your tea is agreeable, Mrs. McScrew ? Which it all happened years ago — a good many years ago now — but well I remembers it, and a thousand pounds I did ought to have had as 'sure as sure. A thousand pounds is what them placards offered, and, whatever they may say, I'd got my hand on that there forgerist. When I tells the story, which it is seldom I does, bein' never one to put myself forward, I likes to do it circumstantial. So first I'll tell about the forgery, and then how I found the forgerist and were done out of the money. Now the forgery — or I should say a whole lot of 'em ■ — was done in London, and the gennelman who did 'em did 'em bold and free— rso extensive, that when it all come out a reward* of a thousand pounds was offered for the gennelman's discovery, being the head forgerist and prime mover in 'em. That's about all I know of the forgeries themselves— they was done in London, and what with being so large and the reward so large, was the talk of the country. I kep' the village post-ogice at Great Slushington at the time — a many miles away — with my sister Jemimy here assistin' in the shop, as though my elder, which the same you can see for yourselves, was always uncompetent, and the business were my own. In consequence of them noo-fangled telegraphts being took A Post Mistress's Story. 123 over by the Govingment and laid on through our village, a young man from -town was'app'inted for to work 'em — a bold young man he was, as would ha' made free if I'd give him any encouragement. Poor Jemimy ! how she did deceive herself along of that young man to be sure — not as he ever give her reason to, but far from it, and quite the contrairy. But I mustn't go a-flyin* off on tangants and sich like things in a-tellin' my tale,' so let's get back to the ;^i,ooo reward. • One of the placards was brought into my shop, and as I hangs it up in the winder, I thinks what a grand thing it would be for me to get the money. I'd give up the shop, post-office and all, and start in business as a lady. I'd never desert Jemimy and old friends, but only a little distant, though not 'aughty. The idea so growed upon me that I found myself, whenever I walked through the village, a-lookin' about for to catch that forgerist. Why shouldn't he run off to our village, where he was quite unbeknown, as likely as to any other village? The bills said as he were a tall, thin, aristocrakic young man, about thirty, rather sailer, and clean shove. So that was the sort of forgerist I was lookin' for. If Jemimy sndlres again, Mrs. Scadgers, would you kindly give her one in the middle of ' the back ? I know she've heard it before, but is no reason for unpoliteness in sleeping and snoring. Well, the days passed on, and nothing happened in regard to me and the ;^i,ooo reward, excep' that I thought of it continual by day and counted up the money — right to a severing — in beautiful dreams at night. But about a fortnight after I'd put up the bill, in the middlfe of the day, when Jemimy was in the kitchen a-bilin' the pertaters, and our young man had gone out to examine the wires, which it is my opinion he were in the " King's Arms " — in the middle of the day, as I was saying, when I was in the shop all lonesome by myself, which a easy conscience is the best 124 Forgery, thing to have 'andy in sich circumstances, and were not without, I hears footprints on the pavement outside. When they gets to the shop they stops, and then, a-saying hordible, " Post-office — that's all right," in walks a tall, thin, aristo- crakic young man, about thirty, rather sailer, and clean shove. I knowed by heart what the bill in the winder said about the forgerist, for often enough I'd read it, and as the gennelman steps in I clutches myself with one hand and the counter by the other, and I gasps for breath. Who were it, Mrs. Scadgers ? The Forgerist hisself, Mrs. McScrew I And I says, " The money's mine / " I was just going to call out for Jemimy when the stranger u^s and speaks — " I wish to despatch a message," he says. Then I whispers to myself, " You must play with your fish, Charlotte, afore you lands him ; " and says out loud — " Certingly, sir. We can send off the telegraphts from this office as neat and quick as anybody in the business." Then he writes out a message and hands it over to me. It was addressed to London — of course to one of his pardners in the forgeries — and was in these identical words — " Murder by all means if you feel it necessary, but think myself forgery sufficient. Send draft soon as possible addressed ' Kin^s Arms,' Great Slushington.'' The " King's Arms," in the same street as my own post- office! My dears, I thought I should ha' fell to the berth. I was that overcome I couldn't do nothing. I took his money, give 'im the change, and let 'im walk right out of the shop, with a hicy stare in my eyes and a cold shiver runnin' down my back. "Murder if necessary I" The forgery admitted and thought sufficient, but another " draft " — for more forgery — to be sent through my post-office as soon as possible ! — ^and A Post Mistres^s Story. 125 a-walkin' hisself right in with the message as bold as brass. It took me hours to collect my thoughts, but one thing my mind never lost 'old of all the time was that the thou- sand pounds was mine. I was so full of 'em, and what I was going to do with 'em, that I refused, quite 'aughty, to give a little gal four farthings for a penny, and was sooper- cecilious in servin' a reg'ler customer with a cake o' brown Windior. Our young man had come in and sent off the message soon after the forgerist went, and just after the brown Windsor walked out of the shop there come a tingle-tangle signal for to receive a telegraphtic message. I flies to the instrument and reads it as the young man takes it down. It was from the London forgerist as my forgerist had telegraphted to in the middle of the day, and these were the words — " On reconsideration agree that forgery probably sufficient sensation : murder abandoned -for the present : shall post you notes to-night : if good idea for hiding spoils and proofs tele- graph!' Sufficient sensation, and murder give u^ for the present, and part of the sp'il posted in bank notes that very night, and a 'int wanted for a-hidin' of the sp'il ! The sensation was rather too sufficient for me — I trembled like an asping leaf. The telegrapht was addressed to Arthur Sinclair at the " King's Arms," and whilst it was being took there off I goes to the perleeceman's, knowing I did ought to ha' gone to fetch 'im at the first, but was that flustered. When I got to the perleeceman's, what did I find but that he was special engaged killin' pigs some miles away, and wouldn't be home till after dark. I heser- tated as to whether to wait for 'im or go. and interrupt the pig-killin', but made up my mind to wait, being unusual fond of pork, pertickler fresh killed with ing'iiis. " Then," I says to myself, " we'll go to the hinn, and take him after 126 Forgery. dark;" of course in alloosions to the forgerist Sinclair. Which Sinclair was not the name on the bills, but I see through that in a hinstant — I can see as fur through a milestone as most people, Mrs. Scadgers — he couldn't Sin- clair me, Mts. McScrew. Oh dear no, Jemimy ! — if you wakes up so sudden as that again you'll make Mrs. McScrew swaller her saucer, which the same were cheap at four-and- ninepence the set through selling off, and do not desire it sp'ilt by one a-missin' in a lady-friend's inside. As I was saying when Jemimy interrupted me, I put Sinclair down as quick as i^t^&'^^ss&aassoqmed name. Now as I walked home I felt as the burding laid upon me in this forging secret was gettin' more than I could bear all by myself. The more time I had for thinkin' it over the more I see the need o' caution, and p'raps of advice. But who could I trust in ? The telegrapht young man, as would want the money hisself? Never. Jemimy? Neverer ! At last I thinks of old Mr. and Mrs. Goodies, as used to be the schoolmaster and schoolmistress, but were now retired, and quite time too, 'im being about eighty and a-lookin' of it, and she seventy, though deniging it. "At their age," I says, " motives of a meircesnary character won't actiwate 'em : they'll listen patient, talk it all over with me, 'elp me if they can, and liever think of askin' me for none of the money." But 'I were very much mistook. After I'd called in upon 'em, set down, and took 'em. into my confidence, the first words of old Mr. Goodies was, " Gharlotte, you've done a wise thing in a-comin' to me about this here matter. What's wanted in an important matter like this here is the wiwacity o' youth combined along of the esperience of mature age, and I've got 'em. I shall 'elp you, Gharlotte," he con- tinues; "that is, I and my old woman, and as for the thousand pounds not one farthing mere than half of it will A Post Mis treses Story. 127 we take. More than five hundred pounds do not offer us, Charlotte, for our feelings is tehder and it might pain us to refuse to take more." " Now look here," he goes on, " you've only come to me just in time. You were just going to make a fatal mistake," he says. " How so, Mr. Cooflles ? " I inquires. "Why," he answers, "in a-tellin' the perleeceman. It .must be kep' from 'im till the last moment, or he'll want to share in our money."^ " My money, Mr. Goodies," I says. " Our money, Charlotte," he says, firm. " You can't expect to get adwice and 'elp without sharin'," he says. "We're pardners — me and my old woman and you. By rights," he goes on thoughtful, " the money did ought to be split into three equal parts — a third for each of us pardners." Sorry I was I'd come to 'im at all, but it could not be deniged that old Goodies were right about not lettin' the perleeceman know too soon. The longer I stopped along of the old couple the more excited they become, and at last they begun quarrellin' serious between theirselves what they should do with their five hundred pounds when they got 'em. The evenin' was getting well on when I got back to my home and post-office. There was no one in the shop but our young man. From 'im I learned that soon after I went out the following message was sent away by that villain Sinclair to his ■ pardner in crime and .forgery and barefaced imperence and telegraphting. " Proceeds of forgery and evidences of guilt hidden in trunk of great oak in SqUire's Fark." Asping leaves was still compared to me with excitement as I flops into my arm-cheer in the back room, and I believe I should akshally have fainted, being rather give to it on 128 Forgery. my mother's side, but for a drop or two which I took immediate. The akshal proceeds, the sp'ils of sin, and the akshal evidences, the proofs, all hid away in the trunk of the great old oak in the Squire's Park ! Why, I knowecj well the very tree, as had played under it when a child many's the time. The old Squire's Park — not two miles away ! When a young man, and before he lost his wife, the, Squire was wonderful free and kind, and throwed the park open to a'most anybody, but of late years he'd got wonderful, stric', and cared much more about preserving game than he did for the villagers and tenints. With only dear Miss Grace, his daughter, and a lot of gamekeepers and servants, he shut hisself up in the Hall and the grounds, and lived a grumpy life all by hisself, and if it hadn't been for Miss Grace and her kind h^art and bountiful ways we might as well ha' had no Squire at all. Saving of myself from faintin' away, I come to a bold despyrate resolootion. Without the perleeceman, without no humingheye to be a-watchin' me, unbeknown to Jemimy, all by myself, without nobody with me, I'd get into the Squire's Park at night — that very night. I'd go straight to the big oak tree, and in its 'oiler trunk I'd coUar the lot — the wrong-begot money, proofs and evidences. The money I'd hand over to the Govingment for to restore to the proper parties, but I'd keep the proofs till I were paid the thousand pounds reward. Once having got all the proofs safe, I'd give the forgerist Sinclair in charge the first thing in the morning. But then come thoughts of old Mr. Goodies and his wife. Having took 'em into my confidence, and them having took theirselves into pardnership, could I desert 'em so soon? Didn't he combine the wiwacity o' youth along of the esperience of mature age ? I'd made no pro- mises, and shouldn't miss five shillings between 'em out A Post Mistres^s Story., 1 29 of a thousand pounds. I hesertated a little while, and then decided as old Goodies should come, at all events, for witness and company. In the dead of the night, when the village was 'ushed in sleeps and slumbers — long past eight o'clock— I lets myself out as quiet as a mouse into the street, having previous put a note for Jemimy on her bedroom table, which I left, her in the sittin'-room, and made believe I was going straight to bed. " Dear Jemimy," I said, " dear Jemimy, seek not to foller me ; don't put yourself to stand between me and a thousand ■ pounds. Your futur', Jemimy, shall ever be my constant care. If I surwive the dangers of this ewentful night, all shall be made beknewed to you. Till then, Jemimy, fare- well. Which I have fed the cat -as ^ usual, and am karm and determined. If I falls, I leave you a sister's blessing and the business." As I passes the Coodles's cottage I see a light in the bedroom winder, and knowed as they must ha' been sittin' up late a-talkin' over my startlin' revelations. Like a reg'lar Guy Fox conspiriator, I chucks a stone up and hits the pane. Goodies looks out, sees it was me, and down he comes and lets me in. I told 'im of the final turn affairs had took, and without waitin' to be asked he at once enounced as he was comin' with me. " So will I," said Mrs. Goodies. " No," I says, " Mrs. Goodies ; far be it from me to take you out on sich a adventure at your age and at sich a time o' night," but come she would and did. In a few minutes we was all ready, and Off we starts for the Squire's park. How I got over the palings will never be Unowed, for I don't know myself. I remembers awful pains and- clingings-on for dear life and a thousand pounds, and wigorous pushing from the two Goodleses, and a remark- able sudden flop and wet grass. 9 130 Forgery. " We can never do it," says Coodles. " Never ! " I says ; " go round and get in by the south side where the pahngs is low, and join me at Ihe oak." Then up I gets and awa.y I goes by myself. I seems to remember all the rest of that night in snatches, and the next thing I remember vivid was when I got about a quarter of a mile from the oak tree. I see the forgerist ! He'd got inside the park — there he' was, just ahead of me, walking on cool and 'quiet, lost in thought, and as slow as though he was on the way to perform some religious dOoty.* I felt at once as he must be going to the oak tree to see if what he'd put there was all right, or even, p'raps, for to remove 'em. There was only one thing to do — I must get there first. Into the thicket I plunges, and makes what the French call a "day tour," though night. The next snatch I remember is comin' out again on the green grass near the oak. , Too late ! the forgerist see me ! He rushes forward, claspies me tight, like a wice, in his* arms, presses me on to his boosum, gives me a kiss — a reg'lar lingerer — right on my lipses, and esclaims — " My darling ! " I throwed 'im from me indignant, and run screamin' away like a 'unted deer, just as he moved the shawl from my face and see it unmistakable, and uttered the startlin' esfclamation — "Great Scott!" How fur I run is not beknown to me. ^ What I remember is a snappin' sound and ten thousand Sawmills a-holdin' my leg in their teeth. I were caught in a man-trap set for poachers ! Men was comin' — they shouts out something, and a gun esplodes itself. I gives one squawk as hechoed for miles around, and faints away. A Post Mistress s Story. 131 When I come to, the scene was fit for Drury Lane Theaytre, or the pantymine where Mister Irving plays the part of Mister Mefistofiles, with the bells a-ringin' in the snow scene, and the Jew as is being murdered says, " Hold — enough ! " ' Let loose from the man-trap, I'd been stuck up agin a tree. Men with lanterns stood around. In the centre was the old Squire hisself: a little way off was Miss Grace in the arms of the forgerist, as was lookin' daggers and — and man-traps at her own natural born father. Near 'em was old Goodies and his wife. " What's the meaning of all this ? " gasps the Squire. " Meaning enough ! " I says, takin' on me at once to explain matters ; " meaning enough and to spare," I says, excited; and, pointin' to the forgerist — "the bills is out, the reward's offered — arrest that man and the money's mine ! " With a 'asty jerk of his hand, the Squire sends away the keepers and other servants (which the moon was now, ' quite enough without their lanterns), and he says — " This woman is mad ! " "Of that," says the forgerist, confident, "there can be no doubt whatever." "Oh, indeed," I says, "mad I may be in the opinions of some as is no judge ; but at least I ain't in the forgerist line, and don't send discriminating telegraphts as leads to detection in oak trees and 'oiler trunkses, and innocent people into traps as were never set for ladies but the contrairy seek, and am thankful my petticoats was likewise caught, or blood would ha' been drawed." Just then there come a cracklin' sound from the bushes round us, and out springs Jemimy and our young man. "Oh, my poor sister," cries Jemiirfy, "come home. Oh, sir," she says to the Squire, "we've tracked her all the way here j make her come home, sir. I've feared her 1 3 2 Forgery. mind was -going a long time, and now it's gone, poor cree'ter ! " " So it's mad you all thinks me, is it ? " I says. " Now jus,t listen — ^and I appeals to this we'nerable man," a-pointin' to Goodies, " as combines the esperience o' youth with the wiwacity of mature age, to' see as my words is tested, to speak up for me and to stand by me. From information which I've received, I say as t|iis man Sinclair is the great London forgerist ; from information likewise similarly received I , say as the money, and the evidences, and the proofs is all hid away in the 'oiler trunk of the great oak in this here very park." Old Sir Peter looks 'ard at me, turns round, and walks off towards the oak tree, all of us follering 'im, Miss Grace turning very pale but saying nothing. The Squire puts his hand into the holler trunk, me close behind his shoulder. There were nothing else there, though he searched well, but sujre enough he pulls out a piece of paper. On it was wrote : " To-night meei me at the old time and the old place. — Grace." " Did you write this ? " says he, very white and stern, to his daughter, apperiently forgettin' in his passion that strangers was present ^ ,"Yes, father.'' " To this man ? " with his finger at Sinclair. "Yes." " Precede me into the house, both of you " — Miss Grace and the forgerist walked on slowly ahead^ — " and as for this mad woman "^ — which he referred to me, my dear — " take her home, and all of you get out of my grounds this instant.'' " Do you call this combining wiwacity wjth esperience," I says to C6odles, as we all nwves oflF — " a-remainin' silent when my reason and character was being took away ? Not one penny of the money shall you have now," I says. " Shame on you .' " I says. A Post Mistress's Story. 133 "Enough of that," says Mrs. Goodies, "you bold woman, you, as it is my opinion were leadin' my husband into evil all along, and that never a farthing of a thousand pounds will there be to be diwided. It's all a 'oax," she says, "and nightmares and rheumatics will be the con- sesquences." "To nightmares and rheumatics," I says, "you are- welcome, and many of 'em." Then old Goodies begins to espostul^te, but I stops him dignified. " We was pardners,'' I says ; " I've been caught in man- traps, kissed by forgerists, and called unsane — in the hour of danger I was forsook by you, with never a word spoke up in my faviour — the pardnership is resolved, and I bids you good-evernin'." And off I goes with my sister and our young man. I draws a wale over the scene between me and Jemimy, as forgot herself, and will bring my anecdote to a end. You've heard almost all my story — how listen to the story told by the forgerist in explanation of the telegraphts (which I went up to the Hall myself the next morning with exact copies), and Miss Grace, and the oak tree. First, as to the telegraphts, he said he was a dramakik author as were writin' a drammy for the theaytres in coUobburation along of another dramakik author in London, and the messages all referred to the plot, as one. dramakik author rather wanted the 'eavy willain to shed gore, and the other one wanted forgery, as simpler and not makin' such a mess. What was he doin' in Great Slushington ? Well, that was along of Miss Grace. He'd met her in London, and fell violent in love with her. Though a dramakik author, he was a genrielman and a gennelman's son, but the old Squire wouldn't hear of it, and forbid Miss Grace to carry on with 'im, but which the same she did in secret and clandestinine. He come to the village to see her, and they used to meet in the park secret, a-usin' the 'oiler trunk of 134 Forgery, the oak tree for letters, which this it was which give 'im the idea, so he said, of the hiding-place for the papers in the play. In the shadders he mistook me for Miss Grace, but met the right party just afterwards, and before he'd got to the tree where her letter was a-waitin' for 'im. He'd come to the park that night in hopes, and she was- out to meet 'im a little before the time. Lovers is so anxious ! There was a awful row, but "ultimate the old Squire give in along of the forgerist being a gennelman, and they was married. Now sich were his story, and let them believe it all, say I, as Hkes for to do so. What I thinks I thinks, but doesn't say, exceptin' that maybe as the man they caught for the forgeries and convicted were caught and convicted wrong- ful. And anyway, after all I went through, incloodin' a esplodin' gun and mantraps, I. did ought to have received the Thousand Pounds Reward ; but, my dears, I never did — not a farthing — and might hd' turned Dissenter in consesquence, to wex the Govingment for not a-takin' of the matter up. Another cup, Mrs. McScrew ? Certingly, Mrs. Scadgers ! Is the kettle a-b'ilin', Jemimy ? 'OUR BABY/' YEAR since the bells for our wedding Chorused their throbbing chime — A year to a day — and from business I came home before my time. I sprang to my wife to kiss her, As I kissed her when a bride : And I noticed some work with her needle She hastily put aside. And I asked her what she was making, ■ That her husband might not see ? Soft slippers, perhaps, for the Curate, Or something intended for me ? If not for some other fellow. Why should she blush and start ? When she whispered what she was making She hid her head on my heart. I waited below in the parlour, With heart full of hope and dread ; Till the doctor came, and took me Upstairs to my darling's bed. And she turned her dear face to me, White as the pillows were white ; But her eyes, through the tears that filled them. Were full of a- wonderful light. 136 Our Baby. Then she moved with feeble fingers The clothes from her snowy breast : And there — ah ! fondly and closely — Our little one was press'd : With mother's tight arms around him — Her life on the fount of life — And I murmured, " Our Father ! I tha,nk Thee," As, kneeling, I kissed my wife. He lay with his rosebud fingers Outspread — like pink leaves on snow : And I couldn't tell till I saw him That I loved his niother so. With a trembling hand I lifted The hair from my darling's brow ; And I whispered, " I never loved you As, ' mother,' I love you now." And the little house was flooded With a glow that was not of earth, As. down to our little parlour I walked from the room of birth. From my eyes the gladness in me Distilled in happy rain. For my heart was overflowing With the joy whose twin is pain. With the growing months our Baby Grew bonny and firm and stout : Ah ! he was the merriest rascal That ever crawled about. A Domestic Ballad. I37 ' There was fun in his very cooing, There was glee in his mirthful eyes ; But most we laughed when most he looked Oddly and quaintly wise. And hard as I worked in the City, Where I earned my scanty wage, As I plodded and toiled through the figures, There was light on the ledger page. For his face peered within the columns. And divided the pounds from the pence : I should see him. at night — and my headache Was a thing, of no consequence. The Circus was not worth seeing When the boy began to walk ; An Oration was not worth hearing When that boy began to tg,lk. We watched the heave of his bosom As he lay in his cot asleep — And the finest sights in London Were things that would always keep. Oh ! it wasn't the glow of the sunset That flushed our Baby's brow : It wasn't in play that his fingers — Like crumpled rose leaves now — His poor Uttle restless fingers — Twitched close to his tiny palm : It wasn't the peace of the gloaming Filled the room with an awful calm. 138 Our Baby. The sighs of the young night fluttered The leaves of the summer trees, And the window-pane was open, But to us it was not the breeze That Hfted the curls so gently From his poor little fevered head — But the wings of the white Death-Angel That brooded above his'»bed. There was God in the room — and our Baby, Death, and my wife and I : Low bowed, for the Christ of the children We knew was passing by. When He came a little nearer. Our Baby's pain would cease ; To our bleeding hearts come healing, With the fall^f His feet fall peace. And a scene was mirrored before me. When He, in a place afar. Said that who would enter the Kingdom Must become what the children are. I thought of His words to the children, The touch of His blessing hand : And I cried, " My darling, our Baby Will be soon in the Children's Land ! " We gathered together his playthings, His frocks and his little shoes : ' Not a thing that belonged to Baby Would we for a fortune lose. And we put them near the coffin, Where he lay in his ermine -shroud: And over our Christ-touched treasure In speechless prayer we bowed. A Domestic Ballad. 139 But though in our souls' sore sorrow No words our lips could say, To the Heart of the Heavenly Father There is surely an open way For the prayer of only anguish, The petition of wordless pain — For on dry dumb hearts He sendeth The showers of His rain. Oh, late to some of the wakeful It comes, and to some so soon ; But sweet ifit come at night, or before The burden and heat of noon. And I cried, " The world grows weary, Where we all must ' work and weep ' : It is well with our Baby — ' the sooner Ifs over the sooner to sleep 1 ' " For I looked at his wee hands folded — So white and for ever still — Nevermore to clutch at the sunbeams That danced on the window-sill. And I thought, as the years passed o'er him. In the battle each fights alone, With the labour of life's long struggle. How tired they would have grown. And the feet that lay close together — The feet that we taught to run. That had only trodden on roses In the journey scarce begun— 14° Our Baby. Would have been so sorely wounded, In the path where the thorn-plants groiv- Would have been so worn and weary In the road he'd have had to go. And the sweet fair face on the pillow Would have borne the furrowed stain Of the plough whose shares remorseless Are Time and Sin and Pain. And long ere the curls we fondled Grew grey o'er our Baby's brow, His throbless heart might have broken— My God ! as my heiart breaks now. "•'POUR LES PAUVRES!" YEAR or two ago I — a curate, the Reverend Lindsay Max, M.A., Oxon., as the Church notices had it — was appointed to a large London parish church in a poor district. AH the souls I had to cure were poor souls. You gene- rally get less money for curing poor souls than rich ones. Winter came — severe winter. Many of my poor fellows were out of work, and as time went on the condition of hundreds of my flock became worse and worse. Men suffered, women suffered, and the little children suffered, from want and cold and fever. My poor parish was close to a very rich garish. I sought and obtained permission to preach in one of the churches of this rich parish one Sunday morning on behalf of my starving sheep. It was arranged that not only was I to appropriate the offertory for them, but to make a " visiting collection " afterwards amongst the principal members of the congregation. For the starving unemployed and those dependent on them ! I shall never forget that Sunday. So that I migl}t have ample time to get all my notes in proper order, and thus avoid the risk of catastrophe, and be quite calm and cool, I arrived at the church very early, and was ushered into the vestry by the most awfuRooking pew-opener I ever saw in 142 "Pour les Pauvres!" my life. A tall, lean being, attired in, the most funereal black clothes that were ever manufactured. When I remarked pleasantly, "A cold morning, is it not?" he replied, "It is, sir," in a rumbling sepulchral whisper. I am convinced he would not have spoken above a whisper in that vestry to save his life — or anybody else's life at all events. Everything about that man — the impressive way he hung up my hat and the devotional manner in which he blew his nose — was calculated to inspire feelings of rever- ence and awe. We had a large, well-dressed congregation ; my hopes of a good collection rose rapidly. My dearly beloved brethren wore rich, warm winter clothing,* and the ladies made a brave display of fur and sealskin, and called themselves bad names from the Prayer Book very prettily. The subject of my sermon was the parable of the good Samaritan; the lesson I tried to drive home through the top-coats and sealskins was " go and do likewise.'' When I told of the scenes of misery and wretchedness which daily came before me, of the sick and destitute and dying to whom it was my lot to minister, many of the ladies were greatly affected, and brought out handkerchiefs — silk ones — wherewith to wipe their eyes, and the mingled odours of Ea,u-de-Cologne and Frangipani floated up to the pulpit. After the sermon, as I watched the fat, comfortable-look- ing churchwardens taking round the money bags, I felt so confident of a good collection that I found myself quite cheerful and smiling, till I caught tlie stern pew-opener's eye fixed upon me disapprovingly. As sopn as the service was over I -slipped into the vestry, where the money was to be counted. One sovereign, and one half-sovereign, a moderate pile of half-crowns and two-shilling pieces ; a tall pile of shillings and sixpences, and, oh ! such a lot of threepenny pieces ; A Clergyman's Story. 143 a pile of pennies and halfpence from the school children ; two farthings, one button, ahd a small peg-top. Total £6 IS. "j^d., one button, ditto peg-top (small). Less than ten pounds by almost half! Poor, rich, miserable, stingy souls ! However, I took comfort in the hope that when I made my " visiting collection " I stfould get the amount greatly augmented, and — determined to lose no time — I started on. my mission the following morning. The first name on my list was that of Sir Norman Goyle. This individual resided in so grand a house that, as a humble curate, I felt almost afraid as I Wi^lked up the steps, and more so when I confronted, the gaudy creature who opened the door. Said gorgeous being having taken my card in to his master, I heard the great man say in a dignified voice — a sort of voice which seemed to imply, " If what I am saying were printed, it would have to be set up in Large Capital Type " — ' " Show the Rev. Lindsay Max in." Sir Norman Goyle was a tall, thin man, eminently aristo- cratic in appearance ; cold grey eyes, aquiline nose and bloodless complexion. Although I say he looked bloodless, I have no doubt he possessed an allowance of the sanguinary fluid somewhere; and what is more, I know that he had blue blood — very blue blood — for Sir Norman was descended from no end of awful ancestors, the portraits of some of whom (from beholding which I venture the adjective " awful ") appeared to glare at me from the walls of the room into which I had been ushered. " Take aw seat, pray." I took " aw " seat. "I have ventured to intrude upon you, Sir Norman," I began rather timidly, for I felt a little frightened, " for the purpose of bringing under your notice the lamentable con- dition of the poor of my parish, who are in a condition of 1 44 " Pour les Pauvres ! " misery which must, I would fain think, appeal irresistibly to the hearts of those whom God has blessed with wealth." "Aw," said Sir Norman, "quite right; you did well to call upon me. Men of position are indeed, aw, as you say, bound to, aw, alleviate prevalent distress. Men of position have many duties, many duties — -bound to pay some con- sideration to their inferior, aw, or unfortunate fellow- creatures, aw. Pray put down my name for a donation of half-a-guinea." So the name of Sir Norman Goyle, a forty thousand a year man, was entered for ten" shillings and sixpence. I then called upon some half-dozen houses or more in the neighbourhood with indifferent success. At last I came to the name and house of Mrs. Plantagenet Snuffer, a lady residing in a less fashionable region. I was shown into the waiting-roorn, and left there to freeze for half an hour. By the time the process was com- plete^ — so far as my hands and feet were concerned — Mrs. P. Snuffer entered, an amiable-looking old lady of some sixty years, attired in an elegant black silk dress. In her hand she carried, I observed, one or two numbers of (what I will call) the Cannibal Reformer and the Negro's Companion. " Pray do excuse me, sir," she began in a rather gaspy voice, "for keeping you waiting so long, but" (this she said so confidentially) " I have received this morning from the ■vyifp of a dear friend of mine who is labouring most acceptably amongst the poor dear heathen in the Buggya- poopookop Islands — I daresay you knqjy all about the work there, sir, being a clergyman — such an interesting account of the conversion of a great chief— a party by the name of Eaglebeak, of the Bloodyscalp tribe, not the Chickabiddy tribe, sir — the Bloodyscalps, I can assure you, have no con- nection whatever with the Chickatobidies, who, sir, I am given to understand on good authority, have fallen into the A Clergyman s Story 145 hands of the Dissenters— the Dissenters, sir ! — and given way to habits of general inebriation and dissipation^— that really, sir, as I was saying, I have been delayed in such a Bless my soul ! there's the cat's-meat man already." Good gracious ! here was a woman. She actually, with a hurried "Pray excuse me, my dear sir, one moment," bounced out of the room to superiritend the purchase' of the cat's meat, The awful truth was apparent — I had fallen into the hands of that Philistine of Philistines, a female missionary maniac. Re-entering the room, looking more amiable than ever, and with just the slightest possible suspicion of cat's-meat odour about her — " Now, my dear sir," she said unctuously, " I really cannot let this opportunity slip. I really must enlist your sympathies on behalf of these poor dear Buggyapoopookops. I will just give you a few particulars of the work that is being done." " My dear madam," I hastily interrupted, " I " " One moment, I have it now," said Mrs. Snuffer, open- ing a letter ; " now just pay attention while I read you this extract of a letter from the wife of that devoted missionary I mentioned, who has been labouring in the vineyard many years, bearing the heat and burden of the day, as one may say." With a mournful sigh I sank into a chair, while Mrs. PMntagenet Snuffer deliberately put on her spectacles and began as follows, — " My dear Selina " ("my Christian name "), " With pious joy I hasten to inform you of the conversion of a heathenj through the patient exertions, now continued for more than ten years, of my dear husband. The name of the interest- ing savage is Eaglebeak, of the Bloodyscalp tribe, my dear — a most terrific man, who has doubtless devoured thousands in his time. Eaglebeak was formerly the terror of the ' 10 I 146 ** Pour les Pauvres f" whole neighboilrhood. He used to come outside our house of a night, accompanied by a lot of other savages, intoxi- cated, and with the bulk bf their clothes, my love, left at home, and perform the most awful dances you can imagine while we were sapng our prayers. " But one evening about three weeks ago, Eaglebeak, dressed in one pair of trousers and a hat, and — only fancy, dear, how nice — a large cotton umbrella, marched into our house and said, — " ' Eaglebeak bad man no more — no more drinky ginny ; no more sweary and fighty. Eaglebeak good man.' " Oh, how rejoiced we were ! We took him with us to church, where the earnest solicitude he manifested as to the safety of his hat and umbrella was touching in the extreme, and reminded us of dear old England. Please, my dear Selina, tell all inqiuiring friends of our success. May we — oh ! may we, make another convert." " There, sir ! " exclaimed Mrs. Snuffer triumphantly, " what do you think of that, eh ? " " My dear madam," I began again, " I really " But she once more interrupted me. " I may as well ask you at once what I shall put down your name for ! I am collecting, of course." " I don't know much about your heathen, Mrs. Snuffer ; but I called here to ask your assistance for my Christian — the suffering unemployed and their destitute families." And then I gave a short description, falling far short of the reality. I grew warm as I dwelt on the s,ubject, ahd confess that all thoughts of Mrs. Snuffer's pet Buggyapoo- pookops vanished: But she cut me short. " You need trouble no more, sir ; while the poor Buggya- poopookops are in such a lamentablb condition, I confess that it seems to me a strange thing for a clergyman to press such claims as yours. The mission of Christianity, sir, let me remind you, is to convert the whole world." A Clergyman's Story, 147 " And let me remind you, madam," I exclaimed angrily, as I snatched up my hat, " that in order to accomplish that object we had better first get converted ourselves." Sad, weary, disappointed, I returned home that night. I had collected little more than ten pounds. I thought bitterly of the hundreds of families I wanted to relieve — of the perishing bodies, as well as the perishing souls, I wanted to save — and I had about, in all, twenty pounds. ****** My day's work was not yet over. After evening prayers I had to conduct a little service at a mission we had established for our outcast sisters. Just before commencing I glanced around the hall, and saw, timidly entering, a young Woman of perhaps some twenty years. Taking the first seat she came to, I observed that — ^possibly from an impulse begotten of a memory of the dead past — she prayerfully bent her head. When she raised her face again, I could not help thinking how fair, how wonderfully fair, it must once have been. As I raised my hand to pronounce the benediction — and surely there was no impropriety in riiy doing so, for were there not hearts there that sorely heeded blessing ? — and where man judges of parts God knows the whole — she rose from her seat and silently left the place. On the evening of the last day of that week I was in my study, busily preparing my sermon for the following morning, when my worthy old landlady, against my strict orders, knocked at the door, and, entering, laid before me a rather dirty card, whereon was scribbled "Amos Clare." Before I had time to expostulate, the old lady vanished, giving place to the owner of the name on the card. A rpugh sort of man, clad in a thick pilot coat; a man with bronzed, weather-beaten, determined face — such briefly was the person standing in „the middle of my room, nervously twirUng his cap. Seeing that my visitor was somewhat 148 "Pour les Pauvres !" » embarrassed, I offered him my hand and requested him to be seat|ed. Then, rather ruefully, I closed my writing case, and prepared to give him my undivided attention. "Can I be' of any use to you, my friend?" I asked; "are you in difficulty or in sorrow ?" , " I am indeed in sorrow, sir," was the reply ; and then I listened to Amos, Clare's story, not a new one even in my brief experience. He told me of a humble, happy, country home. He told me of the wife. who had been the brightness of that little home, of their only child — the " one ewe lamb " as he called her,, with a trembling pathos in his voice. He told me how, tempted by the thought of making a rapid fortune, he had gone to the diamohd fields, leaving his wife and daughter in the dear old home. For awhile all .seemed well; the home news was cheering, and his prospects were quickly improving. Then came a long silence, until at last he hastened back to England. " Thank God," he said, " I found my poor wife dead, for Nellie, our child, had gone," I knew it all then. Amos Clare drew a packet from his breast pocket, and placed before me the photograph of a girl with delicate, sensitive features^tender, mobile lips, and clear, laughing, happy, innocent eyes. Though the smile had left her lips," and the light had all gone from her eyes, the girl whose pallid, beautiful features I had noticed with so sad an interest in the mission hall was Nellie Clare. Rising from his seat Amos Clare stretched out his hand towards roe. " I have heard of the works you are trying to do in this wretched, wicked London. ''Sir, will you help me to find my daughter ? " * * * ■ * » « Silently, arm-in-arm, we walked through the quiet, de- serted streets — ^Amos Clare and I. The snow had been falling thickly, and the ground was covered ; but now, at midnight on Sunday, the sky was clear and bright. Almost A Clergymaiis Story. 1 49 without a word we reached our destination — the little chapel where I had seen Nellie Clare. , * The simple service was almost over ; the last hymn had been sung, the last prayer ofifered, when, quietly as before, with the same timid, noiseless step, Nellie entered. In trembling tones, and with another prayer in my heart, again I spoke the benediction. Then as the little congregatio'n separated Amos Clare and I stepped out into the starlit street, and followed the retreating form of his lost child. " God grant she will come with me," said Amos ; " what is all my wealth now without her ? " From street to street, keeping always in sight that one figure — a wistful light in the face of my companion — we followed. As we approached the centre of the city we lost her. Hurrying on, we paced quickly up the slight ascent leading to London Bridge. The moon was shining even clearer than before, and gleamed, silvery-bright, on the flowing waters. Then we saw her again. On the parapet ! Her eyes raised appealingly to heaven, her" hands out- stretched. With an awful cry Amos Clare sprang forward. Just in time he reached her. Just in time his strong right arm. was round her ; just in time he drew her to his bosom. Just in time — but just too late ! " Nellie, come home ! gome home ! " I gazed into the still, pale face, laid my hand over th^ heart, erewhile quivering so wildly, and took in mine the. .white, cold fingers. From my heart ascended a wordless prayer that to Him who knows all things the coldness of her folded hands, the pallor of her lips, the ashy grey of her once dimpled cheek, and the awful look in the eyes which used to be so bright, might all be as a prayer for blessing and for pardon; for Nellie Clare was dead. Again that sad, despairing, passionate cry, — " Oh, Nellie, come home ! come home ! " . " She can never come now," I said, speaking almost ISO '^ Pour les Pauvres !" as to a child ; " but God will find her room somewhere in the Home above ! For whether these poor lips moved in penitent prayer or not, surely to His Heart the way is open for the speechless Prayer of Pain." A few weeks afterwards, on the deck of an outward- bound vessel, I parted from Amos Clare. As I held one hand in a lastjiearty grip, he slipped into my pocket a sealed envelope, and when I opened it I found a draft for two thousand pounds. He had only written on the slip which covered it, " For the poor." Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. WORKS BY ROBERT OVERTON. QUEER FISH. (Fourth Edition.) With a Preface by Mrs. Stirling. Price One Shilling. Mrs. Stirling says :— " I should hke to add a few words to the many notices Robert Ov^ton's writings have received. 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