i—cnH ■Aig
mmmmm
MISS BROWN
A UOMANCE;
AND OTHER TALES
IN
PROSE AND YERSE.
BY
ROBERT B. BROUGH,
AUTHOE OF "iTARSTON LYNCH,  DLF THE MI.YSTEEL,
ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS EROM DESIGNS
BY W. M'CONNELL, KENNY MEADOWS, H. G. HINE,
AND T. MACQUOED.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK, 158, ELEET STREET.
MDCCCLX.
■oy ,/isnno anoO'iHM5iHi ko ij (liiiKisidHii
CONTENTS.
Miss Beowx
Page
Chapter 1.—Jasper Morrison's Will.. .. .. 1
„ 2.—A Railway Accident .. .. .. 6
„ 3.—An Unlicensed Practitioner .. .. 15
„ 4.—Inside Rose Cottage .. .. .. 25
„ 5.—A Nugget of Lead .. .. .. 32
„ 6.—Jones and his Mission .. .. .. 39
„ 7.—The Mission of Jones concluded .. 51
„ 8.—What brought Colon el Morrison to Esher f>0
9.—Fair Time at Esher .. .. .. 07
„ 10.—His Fortunes .. .. .. .. 73
11.—The Major's Friend from the City .. 86
„ 12.—A Dose of Laudanum, and a few of its
Consequences .. .. ... 93
13.—In which Oscar T. Jones has a
had Night of it' .. .. .. 100
„ 14.—Miss Brown yields .. .. .. 105
„ 15.—After the Storm .. .. .. 112
„ 16.—Miss Brown finds Friends .. .. H6
„ 17.—Miss Brown in Custody .» . • 125
18.—Found ! 130
„ 19.—Drawing to a Close .. • • 140
„ 20.—Fall of the Curtain .v .. .. 145
ii CONTENTS.
Anti-Rhyme Law League, The .. .. • • • •
Bertha .. .. .. .. .. •• •• ^55
Bill, The ..261
Captive, The .. .. .. .. .. • • •'*
Christmas Complaint, A .. .. .. • • ■ • ^9
Doctor Johnson .. .. .. .. • • • • ^10
Early Christian, An .. .. .. .. • • • • 272
Female Smuggler, The .. .. .. • • • • 303
Glaucus .. .. .. .. .. • • * • SIB
Haunted Bachelor, The .. .. .. • • • • 245
King Harold's Cairn.. - .. .. .. • • ■ • 139
Les Trous Judas .. .. .. .. • • • • 309
Low-Kecked Dress, The .. .. .. • • • • 310
Lyttel Gestes of Robyn Hoode .. .. . • • • 225
Moonlight on the Bosphotus .. .. .. •• 174
' Naval's Gentleman's Story, The .. .. .. . • 273
Newfoundland and Bull-Dog Story, A .. .. .. 256
Oddities of Great Men:—
Cowper and his Hares .. .. .. .. .. 184
Vice-Chancellor Shadwell's Hydropathic Injunction.. 220
Thomson and the Peaches .. .. .. .. 252
Stewart and Mackintosh balancing Peacock's Feathers 300
On the Great  Nothing to Wear Question .. .. 311
On the Stage.. .. .. .. .. .. .. 236
Over the Bridge and Down the Stream .. .. .. 325
Parson's Work, The .. .. .. .. .. .. 265
Peeps at the Paper .. .. .. .. .. .. 315
Plea for the Old Times, A .. .. .. .. .. 329
Recollections of a New Comedy .. .. .. .. 316
Scottish Knight's, The, Lesson in Good Breeding .. 175
Sir Isaac Newton's Tobacco-Stopper .. .. .. 312
Sir Lancelot of the Lake .. .. .. .. .. 220
Teetotal Harvest Home, A .. .. .. 307
Tent-maker's Story, The .. .. .. .. .. 157
To Robert Stephenson .. .. .. .. .. 219
Wanted a Curate .. .. .. .. .. .. 305
Tbe Wayward Heart .. .. .. .. .. 188
MISS BROWN.
CHAPTEE I.
jasper Morrison's will.
There are few things more difficult to get at than a
human motive. Old Jasper Morrison's for instance, the
eccentric Liverpool shipbroker—in crippling his really
handsome bequest of eight thousand a year, to his nephew,
the East Indian Colonel, with the irksome condition of
matrimony. What could that have been ? Jasper had no
grudge against his nephew. It was notorious that he loved
the young man as his own son, (I call Arthur Morrison a
young man, now, because I am turned of thirty-one and
have grey hairs in my beard; ten years ago I should have
spoken of such a man as an oldish person: the Colonel's
age was really thirty eight,) having brought him up,
educated him liberally, and launched him in military life at
his own expense. It was also well known (to Jasper as
well as to many of his contemporaries) that the Colonel
had avowedly set his face against matrimony, his heart
having been soured in early life by a grievous disappoint-
ment. There was no family title to keep up, and the
1
2
MISS BROWN.
name of Morrison was common enough, to dissipate any
possible fears of its becoming extinct. Moreover, Jasper
in his own practice, had displayed no remarkably enthusi-
astic desire for the name's preservation, seeing that he
himself died a bachelor. Why then should he have insisted,
as he did, by his last will and testament, upon his nephew
either committing matrimony before the age of forty, or
waiving the comfortable possession of eight thousand a
year in favour of certain uninteresting schools and
hospitals ? Why indeed.
I don't believe myself that Jasper had a motive—that
is, in our ordinary acceptation of the term. I am inclined
to think that he obeyed a superior instinct, prompting him
to devise means for the rescue of a good fellow from a life
of solitude and despondency ; from brooding on an unpro-
fitable past that could neither be recalled nor remedied.
Dying men are apt to see things with marvellous clearness
and comprehension. In former times their prophecies were
considered infallible. It is my opinion that old Jasper,
by the light of one of those intermittent flashes, which
the expiring lamp of the human intellect will occasionally
give forth, saw the life of his dear dead brother's only
son, as it was, and as it seemed destined to continue, vividly
contrasted with what it yet remained in his power to make
it. He felt the importance to society of a brave large-
hearted man like Arthur Morrison. To tempt such a man
—by the irresistible bait of means to spread happiness
among his fellow creatures—to shake off old corroding
despondencies and assume an active part in the business
and responsibilities of life, appeared to him a virtuous
course. And the bait must be offered at once ere the man
should grow old and careless. There was no time to be
lost either by testator or legatee. So old Jasper Morrison
(as good a man as his nephew, than whom a better never
existed) acted upon the prompt decision that it was politic
to leave the bulk of his fortune to his brother's son, on the
condition-that the latter should take unto himself a wife
before completing his fortieth year. The latter stipulation
MISS BKOWN.
3
was somewhat arbitrary perhaps. But old Jasper had a
very keen sense of the value of time when he made it,
having in fact only about five-and-twenty minutes to live.
The above is my theory on the subject; I daresay as
erroneous as that of the relatives not mentioned in the old
gentleman's will, who pronounced it the instrument of a
madman, and prepared themselves hotly to dispute its
validity. Or as the theory prevalent among the unmarried
female population of Anglo-Indian  society  throughout
the three Presidencies, who were unanimous in the belief
that old Jasper had acted nobly in their especial behalf, by
holding out to his nephew such forcible temptation for
fulfilling the legitimate destiny of all marriageable warriors
and civilians whatsoever. The Colonel was a handsome
man, and a very pattern of bravery, gentleness and good
breeding; a little melancholy and  Wertlier-faced, per-
haps, but this only served to render him the more interest-
ing. Upon his mere officer's pay he had been charming.
With eight thousand a year he would be irresistible.
The news of his kind old uncle's death and of his own
problematical fortune reached the Colonel, in the form of
a letter, one afternoon in the broiling summer of 1855, as
he sat in his bungalow (I forget the name of the station
where he was located at the time), enjoying his cheroot
with a brother officer. The missive was delivered by a
civily spoken native orderly, who looked the last man in
the world to harbour thoughts of rebellion against consti-
tuted authority, and who probably has been blown away
from the mouth of a gun by this time.
The Colonel dropped a tear upon the document as he
read it. It was a tribute to his benefactor's memory. A
smile followed the tear as he handed the letter to his guest.
"By Jove! said the latter, when he had perused the
epistle.  Morrison, old boy, I congratulate you. You'll
leave the service and go to England, of course ?
 No—I think not.
 Why, surely you don't mean to marry any woman out
here ?
4
MISS BKOWN.
 I never intend to marry at all. I have told you so
often.
 Yes, to be sure. But the eight thousand a year—!
 I don't want it. It will be much better employed by
the school and hospital people mentioned in the old gen-
tleman's will.
 What a rum fellow you are. You have nothing but
your pay to live on—have you ?
"Next to nothing. But what then?
 Oh! Nothing of course. What the deuce could
have been the old fellow's motive in ordering you to
many ?
 A good one, no doubt. I never knew him to act upon
any other. I only regret that it is impossible for me to
fulfil his dying wishes, I don't think I can reproach my-
self with any act of disobedience in his lifetime.
 You'll alter your mind in another hour or two, old
chap; take my word for it. Eight thousand a-year isn't
stumbled across every day in a man's life. You'll be as
dutiful as a tame spaniel before post time.
 It may be so; but I think not.
 Well, we'll see. What's the other letter about ?
 The other letter! I have not looked at it. The
news of the old man's death so upset me for the moment,
that—
 Here you are!
The Colonel took the  other letter from his friend's
hand. He changed countenance as he glanced at the su-
perscription. When he had mastered its contents, he said,
in a sad voice—
 You were right, Markwell. I shall have to quit the
service, and go to England.
 And marry ?
 Perhaps even that; though Heaven knows, not for my
own gratification.
 You'll send us cards, at all events!
 Certainly.
 And a slice of the wedding-cake !
MISS BROWN.
5
 Pounds of it, if you like.
 Ah ! I thought you'd come round.
The Colonel quitted the service, and started for England.
The unmarried ladies of the three Presidencies at once
changed their opinion of the late Jasper Morrison, whom
they pronounced an old idiot, for not compelling his nephew
to marry in India.
6
miss brown.
CHAPTER II.
a railway accident.
One afternoon in the month of October, 1855, there
happened a railway accident at the unpretending road-side
station of Esher and Claremont, in Surrey. Do not be
alarmed, reader. There were no lives lost or bones broken.
The extent of the calamity was as follows. The  down
train had just stopped and yielded up as many of its
passengers as Esher and Claremont could reasonably expect
to be favoured -with. The last to emerge from the car-
riages was a good-looking, sun-bumt, middle-aged gentle-
man, to whom Railway travelling was evidently an unac-
customed exercise. This was manifest in the nervous
tenacity with which he clung to the door of the carriage as
* he descended; iu his various unsuccessful feints at stepping
on to the platform; and finally in the benign smile ol
triumph—peculiar to people who have successfully gone
through an unfamiliar ordeal in the presence of witnesses—
with which he looked around him on finding himself
actually landed on terra firma.
The middle-aged traveller was about to follow up his
success by walking into the station-master's private apart-
ment, under the impression that it was the way out, when
he suddenly caught sight of a young man, dressed in black,
wearing spectacles, and carrying a blue bag, who was in
the act of delivering up his ticket to the gatekeeper ; and
who speedily disappeared down the flight of steps leading
to the high road, at a brisk pace.
ME. OSCAR T. JONES HAS THE SATISEACTION OE ASSISTING A
BROTHER OEFICER.
MISS BROWN.
9
The middle-aged traveller turned all manner of colours,
assumed all kinds of expression, and struck every descrip-
tion of attitude indicative of the utmost astonishment.
The situation was too intense for words. He made a feeble
attempt to call after the young man, with the blue bag;
but the monosyllable  Hi!  died on his lips.
Failing in speech, our excited traveller promptly de-
cided upon action, and made a precipitate rush towards the
gate in pursuit of the unconscious cause of his emotion.
He was stopped by the Cerberus in office, with a not un-
reasonable demand for a sight of his ticket.
As ill luck would have it—and as ill luck generally will
have it in such cases—the traveller could not find his ticket.
He felt in every pocket for it; looked in his purse; in his
pocket-book; in the fining of his hat even; went back and
searched the boards of the platform; swore a little, and
apologised a good deal for so forgetting himself; and at
last discovered the required document in his left hand glove.
Released from Railway custody he darted down the stair-
case, clearing the first score or so of steps at the rate of four
at a time. The remainder he descended much more ra-
pidly, for he missed his footing, and rolled neck and crop
over to the bottom; where he remained for some seconds
prostrate and incapable of motion.
He soon found himself raised to a sitting posture by a
strong but no ungentle hand, as a jovial, cheery voice ad-
dressed him with the inquiry,
 Haven't hurt yourself, I hope, old chap ?
"Not much, I think. But, pardon me—I cannot see
who you are. Would you do me the greatest favour to run
after that young man walking along the road with a blue
bag in his hand, and stop him, if you can ?
 Rather a stand and deliver sort of commission, said
the stranger.  What's he been and done ?
 Nothing. You quite mistake me. I wish merely to
make sure whether or not he is the person I' take him to
be. I have hurt myself in trying to overtake him. It is
a matter of the highest importance, I assure you. Merely
10
MISS BROWN.
ask him if his name is Alfred Thorne ; and if so, when he
is going to—. He is turning the corner ! Pray mak e haste,
and I shall be eternally obliged to you !
The stranger whistled a few bars of a popular melody,
as he eyed his self-constituted employer with some interest.
 Military man, I think? he inquired.
 I am. Put what has that to do with it ?
 Nothing in particular. Only I thought you seemed
rather pat at giving the word of command. Quite enough !
I've been in the service myself. Sit where you are, and
I'll run your man down in a jiffy.
The good-natured stranger took to his heels with sur-
prising swiftness, considering his physical proportions,
which were rather of the elephantine pattern. The fallen
man, who was no other than Colonel Arthur Morrison,
looked after his retreating bulk with deep interest. The
Colonel was too much absorbed in the probable issue of
the chase to pay much attention to the personality of the
hunter. Still, he could not help observing that his oddly
chosen emissary was remarkable not merely by his colossal
dimensions, but also by a singularly dazzling costume,
composed of many colours, and of a cut and arrangement
to the Colonel wholly inexplicable.
"Been in the service himself! mused the Colonel.
 What coidd the fellow mean ? I should have taken him
for a mountebank. But I am sure I am very much
obliged to him. Surely that cannot be Alfred: Yet if
not, it is the most extraordinary resemblance I ever saw in
my life. Ha! he has caught him!
The corpulent and floridly-attired stranger had, in fact,
just overtaken the bearer of the blue bag, at the comer of
the Hampton Court and Kingston roads. A brief parley
ensued between them, it would seem not of the most
amicable nature. The young man turned abruptly on his
heel and continued his course, leaving the stout unknown
shaking his fist in the air, and apparently uttering un-
heeded expressions of defiance. The latter then retraced
his steps moodily Towards the spot where he had left the
Colonel seated.
MISS BROWN.
II
He was a wonderful looking personage that extempore
ambassador of the Colonel's. His appearance was such as
to render any possible theory with regard to his position in
the social scale absolutely hopeless. There was a touch of
the Calabrian brigand about him, a strong dash of the
Parisian chasseur, and a conspicuous element of the
Astley's ring master. He was a big fat fellow, as has
been stated, with an intensely good-humoured and by no
means unintelligent countenance, the beaming glories of
which were, in a great measure, obscured by a curtain-like
moustache of extraordinary dimensions and unnatural
blackness. He wore a highly braided coat of military cut,
sky-blue trousers, with a gold lace stripe on the exterior of
either leg, and a curiously embossed waistcoat of white and
gold, that looked something like the moulding in front of
an opera box. A rakish  wide-awake, with a deep band
and a large jewelled buckle, preposterous brass spurs and
buckskin gauntlets, completed his costume. His right
arm was slung, as if wounded, in a black silk neckerchief;
but the imprisoned member, from its restlessness and
activity, seemed to have been long past all reasonable
necessity for surgical attendance. A. shrewd look of sar-
castic humour in his twinkling black eyes, served to stamp
the oddity with an irresistible cachet of attractiveness.
"A band master most likely, said the Colonel to him-
self, as the dazzling vision approached him.  They allow
them to dress in all sorts of ridiculous uniforms now-a-days,
I am told.
 Really, sir, he said aloud, as the stout man arrived
within colloquial distance;  I do not know how to thank
you, I am sure, for so much trouble. What did he say?
 Well, if you come to that, not much, dear child, But
a word to the wise—you kno\v. What he did say was to
the point. And, though a little riled at first, I have to
thank him for putting me up to a really valuable move.
Not original—but practical in the highest degree.
 He told you—?
 To mind my own business.
12
MISS BROWN.
 I am sure I owe you a thousand apologies for submit-
ting you to such a humiliation. But I really felt unable
to move at the time, and the matter was one of such very
great importance—or it appeared to me so at the moment
—that at any hazards—
"Don't mention it. Entre militaires, as our brave
allies, the Drench, say.
 I beg your pardon, do I understand you that you have
served in the army?
 I was engaged at Alma, Inkerman, and at the taking
of the Eedan.
The Colonel raised his hat instinctively, and said,
 Porgive me. I was led to ask the question not being
familiar with your uniform. I commenced life myself in
the Queen's service seventeen years ago, but I have lived
in India almost ever since; and I daresay there have been
many important changes since my time.
 No end of them, depend upon it, old cockalorum
said the ornamental stranger, discreetly closing the dis-
cussion.  But how do you feel—eh? able to walk?
 I think so. If I could further encroach upon your
kindness to lend me your arm till we can reach a house or
a conveyance—
 My blessed infant, I'd carry you on my back, for
miles if necessary—-such is my devotion to the service.
In the Cavalry, I think ?
 I have served in the Cavalry. Why do you ask ?
 Only I am fond of tracing effects to causes. You
gave me the idea of a man accustomed to order his animal
round to the door when wanted. I am glad to find I was
not in error.
 You are a wag, I perceive sir, said the Colonel,
smiling.
 Precisely so, comrade. I owe my promotion to the
exercise of that profession, as you, no doubt, owe yours to
the practice of bravery, self-devotion, and all the rest of
it. Am I right in addressing you as a major ?
 No,'I am a colonel.
MISS BROWN.
13
"Excuse me for saying that you don't look like a
colonel. There is an air of disappointment and resigna-
tion about you, strongly suggestive of a man who has
attained his majority, and never expects to get beyond it.
There is generally a hopeful look about a captain, and a
satisfied one about a colonel; but a major gives me the
idea of a man who feels himself dead-beat in the last round
but two of a fight. You look uncommonly like a major,
I assure you.
The colonel laughed heartily as he said to his strange
associate,
 I really cannot say what you look like. But I feel
sincerely indebted to you for your kindly attention and
sympathy. I should like to know the name of a man to
whom I am under such obligations. My own name is
Arthur Morrison; I am a colonel in the Company's
cavalry service.
 I have heard of you, sir. I am called Jones, myself
—Oscar T. Jones, of—of quite a different branch of the
military service. It is not impossible that you may have
heard of me ?
 I once knew a Peregrine Jones in the Eighth
Dragoons.
 A different person altogether, said Mr. Oscar Jones,
with a magnificent wave of the hand.  And no relation
whatever.
"A humbug, I am afraid, said the Colonel in his
heart of hearts ;  but a good, kindly fellow, evidently.
 Have you far to go, Colonel ? Mr. Oscar Jones
inquired, offering his arm.
 I think not. Rose Cottage, Esher, is the address I
am in search of.
 God bless my soul, how extraordinary ! I am going
there too. A friend of Major Gaveston's may I ask ?
 N—not precisely ; but my business is at the Major's
house. Are you acquainted with him ?
 Picked him up from under a cannon at Inkerman.
 He does not talk like a liar, thought the Colonel;
14
MISS BROWN.
 but I really wisb I bad. met bim in mufti. Tbose blue
pantaloons and tbe picture-frame waistcoat are enough to
subject an angel to suspicion.
 Take your time, Colonel, said. Mr. Oscar Jones, con-
siderately halting in bis pace, as they turned into a road-
side lane, on tbe discovery that bis companion moved along
with obvious pain and difficulty.  My time is of no im-
portance ; I have only a simple message to deliver. I can
spend tbe day here as well as anywhere else.
 A gentleman, evidently, thought the Colonel. "But
of an odd pattern. They have changed everything since
my time.
miss brown.
15
CHAPTER III.
an unlicensed peact1tioner.
We, too, are bound, for Rose Cottage, reader. And as we
stall have businessof some importance to transact when weget
there, we had better lose no time in reaching our destination.
We will, therefore, if you please, turn our backs for a while
upon Colonel Arthur- Morrison and his inexplicable guide,
to accompany the quicker movements of the traveller with
the blue bag, from whose lips Mr. Oscar T. Jones received
that significant lecture upon the duties of individual
citizenship, recorded in our last chapter. The Colonel
and his new acquaintance can follow at their leisure.
The young man with the blue bag is in a very great hurry
indeed. He looks neither to the right nor to the left. To
be sure, the route from the railway station to the village of
Esher is not particularly rich in objects of interest. There
is the mysterious monumental edifice at the junction of the
two high roads already mentioned—something between an
obelisk and a pump, but answering no perceptible useful
purpose—which might afford some little occupation to the
more desperate class of archaeologists. Or the student of
natural history might be edified by an interview with the
celebrated goat Billy (corruption of William), who has
occupied the adjacent common ever since my acquaintance
with the district—a cream-coloured animal, standing
apparently in black stockings, and with a Jewish cast of
feature, who enjoys the enviable reputation of being the
/oldest and largest goat in the world; or with his particular
16
MISS BROWN.
friend and abettor in all sorts of irregularities, thd antique
mouse-coloured pony with the hog-mane, whom I suspect
to be well connected, but to have gone wrong in early life,
necessitating on his friends' part the policy of hushing him
up on a modest retiring pension. There are some good
representative geese, too, resident on Esher Common, and
a donkey or so, entitled to passing observation. But the
itinerary, upon the whole, must be pronounced barren.
Yet, if the bleak, white turnpike road had been skirted,
not by a mere uninteresting patch of English village moor-
land, but by the garden of the Lotos eaters, or by the
Valley of the Shadow of Death; if the Syrens had been
singing to him, or the stones mocking him, as in the
Arabian fable, it might be almost assumed that our traveller
would have continued his impetuous headlong course—
blind and deaf to wayside allurements or terrors. Eor his
teas a headlong course. If he looked neither to the right
nor to the left, it is also true that he did not look particu-
larly straight before him. This manner of proceeding was
positively bovine. He rushed on, rather than walked,
with his chin resting on his bosom, his brows knitted, his
lips firmly set, and his eyes fixed on the ground. A
thoughtful observer would have read in his demeanour
the explanation of an irresolute man, hastening to the
fulfilment of a determination he fears to be diverted
from.
He was a handsome young fellow enough—tall, and
well set—with classic features, enhanced by the matchless
beauty of intellect. But there was a look of desperatiou
and of ill-humour on his face, that marred'its normal
attractions. The man was, evidently, out of temper with
himself; and such a man as he looked could scarcely be so
without sufficient cause. He was clearly bent upon some-
thing he was ashamed of.
He was dressed in a plain suit of black, was closely
shaven, and (as has been already stated) wore spectacles
and carried a blue bag. But he never looked through the
spectacles—always under or over them, while the porterage
THE MOCK LAWYER'S DISMISSAL,
MISS BROWN.
19
of the bag gave him obvious inconvenience. It might be
seen that he was not used to the exercise.
He hurried on till he reached Esher—one of the few
really beautiful old English villages that remain (at all
events, within easy access of our metropolis) uncontami-
nated by the smoke of railways. The quiet loveliness of
the village made no more impression on him than the
barrenness of the heath he had just traversed. He turned
abruptly into a lane leading from the high road, and
stopped in front of a small rose-covered cottage—an edifice
that might have been constructed for a working-man's
abode, but which a few trifling indications of neatness and
elegance proved to be in the occupation of people belong-
ing to what we, who are privileged to read, write, and lie
late in the mornings, are pleased to term  the superior
classes.
This was Rose Cottage.
The young man touched the handle of the gate-bell, and
then stood hesitating—looking more ashamed of himself
than ever. He did not ring the bell. He bit his lps,
muttered a few words to himself, and seemed on the point
of abandoning his resolution at the last moment, when (as
will be the case in most critical situations) accident deter-
mined his course for him.
A red-faced, middle-aged man, wearing a striped linen
jacket and regimental trousers, cramming his head wrath-
folly into a footman's cockaded hat, rushed out of the
house in a violent state of excitement—nearly oversetting our
traveller, as the latter stood coquetting with the gate-bell.
 I beg your pardon, sir, said the excited individual,
 but don't stop me, please. It ain't safe. I'm flying
from temptation, I am.
 Why, Thomas ! what's the matter ? Don't you know
r>9 9
me r
 My eye! Mr. Alfred, is that you ? What have you
been and done with your beard?
 Disposed of it,'Thomas—for a consideration. Never
mind that. What's the matter ? 
20
miss brown.
 The okl game, sir, I'm being pushed 011 to it every
hour I stop in the place. I shall tilt him yet.
 Tilt him ! whom do you mean? the Major?
 That's the man, or rather the beast, sir. Cut and run
is the only escape from it. I must go. If you stop me
you must take the share of his blood on your head, and
much good may it do you.
 A moment, Thomas ! Explain the process of tilting?
 Don't you know that the beast—call him man I won't
any longer—has got a bullet right over his heart—least-
ways the bullet's there; I won't be answerable for the
heart ?
 Calm yourself, Thomas, and don't be funny. Of
course, I know all about the Major's wound. Haven't
they got at the bullet yet?
 Not they! Catch him letting them do anything of
the sort. He'd have to behave something like a reason-
able being, if they got him out of that scrape. It's his
excuse, that bullet is, for making everybody miserable
about him. The doctors say the least movement might be
fatal. Well, do you suppose I can stand seeing him go on
as he does—knowing that by just tilting him out of his
easy chair—pretending it was accident, of course—I could
rid society of a nuisance ? I ought to do it; only I don't
want to have it on my conscience. He nearly got it just
now for bullying Miss Brown ; and he '11 have it yet, if I
stop another day on the premises ? So I'd better hook it
at once.
 Don't be in a hurry, Thomas. Let us turn the corner.
But first tell me who is Miss Brown?
 Hospital nurse. Saved his life in the Crimea—I don't
say that that entitles her to the Victoria medal—and now
she's come back, volunteers to attend on him, understand-
ing his complaint. No accounting for tastes ! Wages not
so much an object as a comfortable home. Hope she's
got it. A mopy sort of a woman, and what you may call
distant. Wants affability with fellow-servants; but gives
no trouble; and I can't abide to see her put upon by him
and her.
MISS BROWN.
21
"Who is 'her,' Thomas?
 Why, the Lieutenant-Colonel, of course, and be blowed
to her.
"I am not acquainted with the female officer in ques-
tion, Thomas. Who is she?
 His unmarried sister. Come here since your time, I
think.
"But why Lieutenant-Colonel?
 Oh! a bit of fun, that is. Some of our fellows came
over from Aldershott, and I was allowed to see them in
the kitchen (about all I was allowed to treat 'em with),
and one of the rum 'uns nick-named her the Lieutenant-
Colonel, because we agreed she was a grade above the
Major. A scaly lot.
 Thomas, I want you to do me a few favours.
 All right, sir; name them. I'm your man, for you
are a gentleman, you are.
 In the first place, pocket your grievances and
this.
"This represented a crown-piece, which Thomas dis-
creetly slipped into his waistcoat, winking playfully as he
did so. The grievances of Thomas were evidently not
very deeply seated. He was by no means an implacable
looking man, this Thomas. He had a good-humoured,
bottle-nosed countenance that seemed to have been de-
tached from a picture by Teniers. You could perceive
that he had served in the army; but there was little indi-
cation of military stiffness in his appearance, if we except
the inflexible fabric of his black trousers and a rather dan-
gerous sort of stock for a man with an obvious predisposi-
tion to apoplexy. Viewed as a warrior, Thomas suggested
thoughts of the canteen rather than of the tented field: the
corkscrew, not the bayonet, would seem to have been his
favourite weapon. On the present occasion, it is more
than probable that his contemplated scheme of desertion
would have carried him no farther than the nearest ale-
house. With the receipt of the crown-piece every trace of
disaffection vanished from his countenance.
22
MISS BROWN.
"As many favours of that kind as you please, Mr.
Thorne, he said.  What's the next to he ?
 In the first place, I should tell you that I am no
longer Mr. Thorne.
"You surprise me, sir! said Thomas, with impertu-
bable gravity— and who may you have got to be by this
time ?
 I have accepted the situation of Mr. Eowcroft's con-
fidential clerk.
Thomas elevated his eyebrows, and whistled.
 Don't expect to be congratulated on that promotion,
I hope, sir ! Rather a drop towards the ranks, ain't it?
"You don't quite comprehend me, Thomas. I will
explain. You know Mr. Dowser ?
 Swipy gent from Eowcroft's ! Yes, I should think I
knew him.
 Then you know a martyr, Thomas. I met that
atflicted man this morning in a dreadful state of suffering.
 Old complaint, I suppose ? Thomas inquired, rais-
ing his hand to his mouth, and imitating the act of
drinking, with the skill of a practised artist.
 A very bad attack of it indeed. He was coming here
from Eowcroft's on business of the greatest importance,
when he was taken dreadfully ill. Just then I met him.
In a spirit of unsolicited confidence, peculiar to patients
suffering from his disorder—he volunteered to tell me all
the particulars of the business he'd been despatched upon.
It was business of great interest to me. And as the
poor gentleman was not in a fit state to transact it himself,
I easily persuaded him to let me take his place. So I've
borrowed his bag and spectacles, altered my face as you
have observed, and now you understand all about it. So
look sharp and announce me as a gentleman from Eow-
croft's. That's my five shillings-worth. No name mind.
Thomas looked exceedingly grave, and shook his head
reprovingly—
 Mr. Alfred, it's no go. You might have known it.
You've been and sacrificed an uncommon fine beard, and
MISS BROWN.
23
imposed on a helpless party for nothing. I could'nt do it.
It's more than my place is worth.
 That can't amount to much I should say, in the
present circumstances of the family. Besides, who's to
know me P
 Well, I didn't at first, to be sure; but then, I was
flustered at the time. But they'll find you out in a brace
of shakes, depend upon it.
.  Who ? I don't want to meet the Major!
 Few people do, as I know of; except, perhaps, here
and there a creditor. ' But the Lieutenant-Colonel's as
sharp as a needle.
 I have told you the lady and myself are perfect
strangers.
"Well, then ! there's Miss Clara; she' 11 know you of
course. But I suppose you want her to ?
 Precisely. It is just for a few moments' interview
with her that I have taken all this trouble.
Thomas reflected a few moments, and then said—
 I'll chance it. I daresay I shall get my discharge for
it, but I'm not particularly attached to the service. The
Lieutenant-Colonel's too much for me, and the temptation
to tilt that beast out of his chair, and bring on his shock
Whew ! Thomas stopped as if struck by an alarming
inspiration.  Talking about that, suppose he finds us
out, and gets into one of his tantrums ?
 Let him get out of it again.
 But it might bring on the shock you know ; and that
would be as bad, every bit, as tilting him—would it not ?
 A soldier, and afeared, Thomas ? said the young
man in a bantering tone.
 Why it is not exactly fear, sir,"—here the small eyes
of Thomas twinkled roguishly.  But suppose the awful
event was to come off ?'-'
 What then ? though X don't believe in its possibility.
"Well, the wear and tear of conscience, agonies of
remorse, and all that—you would'nt think a poor fellow
properly paid at five shillings, would you ?
24
MISS BllOWN.
 Thomas you are an extortionate villain! Here's
another half-crown to cover all emergencies. And now
look sharp.
 Step this way, sir, said Thomas, in a loud voice, as
they approached the cottage.  I don't think you will be
able to see the Major : but Miss Gaveston's in, and Miss
Clara.
MISS BROWN.
25
CHAPTER -IY.
inside rose cottage.
Thomas ushered his visitor into a remarkably luxurious-
looking parlour. There was not a costly article of furni-
ture in the room—scarcely a sound one even—most cer-
tainly not a new one. But the fairy touch of a woman's
hand had been wandering all over the place, causing flowers
of comfort and loveliness to spring up in every corner,
thick as the grapes and roses that clustered on the porch
and walls outside.
Here Mr. Alfred Thome was left to his own reflections.
They were not pleasant ones, being of the self-reproachful
order. It is not the custom for English gentlemen, otf
the stage, to think aloud. The late good Duke of Cam-
bridge attempted to introduce the practice, by his example
at places of public amusement and elsewhere. It had a
pleasing effect upon the lips of royalty. But somehow or
other, whether from timidity or want of appreciation, the
British public (out of the lunatic asylums) were backward
in adopting the notion, and continued to hold their tongues
when alone much as heretofore. So that when I give you
the following as a soliloquy by Mr. Alfred Thorne, you
will be pleased to understand that it is a mere editorial
digest of that gentleman's reflections, and not a verbatim
report of an oration actually delivered by him to the chairs,
ottomans, and chimney ornaments of Rose Cottage.
 Why on earth did I venture on this mad freak ? the
young gentleman inquired of himself.  Because I was
28
MISS BROWN.
determined not to live another day without seeing Clara
on some pretext or other, and jumped at the readiest.
Will that do for a reason ? Not very well, I am afraid.
I have an instinctive knowledge that, after this, I must
consent to live a great many days without hoping for a
repetition of that pleasure—that is, if the kind of existence
I lead deserves to be called- living. Because, though all is
over between us,—I could, not deny myself the pleasure
of being the first to bring the news of her unexpected good
fortune ? Sophistry—number two. My afflicted friend
Dowser, in his worst condition, would have given far less
pain than my presence will. Let me see ; I had another
excuse—quite a consoling one—as I came along; What
was it ? I remember. It was to ascertain, by her manner
of receiving the news, whether or not, the barrier of poverty
being removed, there would be any hope of a renewal of .
Bah ! a reprobate turned fortune-hunter! a very pretty
recommendation! There is only one solution of the
problem. I am here because I was a headstrong, selfish,
dissipated, unreflecting idiot.
It is not impossible that Mr. Thorne may have been
right in his conclusion. At any rate he had no time to
re-consider it, for a door opened, and he found himself,
bowing and terror-stricken, in the formidable presence of
the Lieutenant-Colonel.
There was no mistaking the identity. A handsome,
queen-like woman of some thirty-seven years of age, but
looking like a queen whose subjects have burnt down
her palace, stopped her supplies, and soured her
temper.
 Looks the dignity, every inch of it, thought the
visitor.  1 wish I was well out of this.
"From Mr. Bowcroft's office, I believe? the lady
inquired, with a scarcely perceptible bend of the neck.
 I am, Madame, as this letter will inform you.
 On no unpleasant business, I trust ?
 On the contrary—I am happy to say.
Miss Gaveston took the letter, and sat down majestically
MISS BROWN.
27
to read it, leaving tlie bearer standing. (You see he
carried a blue bag in his hand, and was supposed to be
only a clerk.)
TVhen the letter had been carefully perused, the lady
rose from her seat, and said, calmly,  This letter an-
nounces a bequest of thirty thousand pounds to my brother's
late wife ?
 So I understand, Madame.
 Which it appears my brother himself, Major Gaveston,
cannot touch. Why is that?
Mr. Alfred Thorne was more flurried than ever. He
had not contemplated being called on for a legal opinion.
Fortunately he was up in the case.
"Why, Madame, you see, he faltered— the late
Mrs. Gaveston having been—if I may use the term—un-
fortunate.
 You mean depraved. Proceed.
 The testator, her relation, appears to have thought
not; but, on the contrary, that there has been some in-
justice and misrepresentation, which—
 That is quite sufficient. My niece Clara then will
inherit this money ?
"As her late mother's heiress—naturally.
 She is just eighteen—
 On the twenty-fourth of last month.
 How do you. know that ? the Lieutenant-Colonel
asked sharply.
Mr. Thorne felt grateful for the protection of his spec-
tacles. The scrutinizing gaze of this particular command-
ing officer was formidable.
 Ahem !—I don't know—I suppose I must have picked
it up at the office.
Miss Gaveston looked him down cruelly for a few seconds,
and resumed:
"Would not my brother, as his daughter's natural
guardian, have the control of her fortune until she came of
age ?
Mr. Thorne found the atmosphere of Hose Cottage grow-
ing very hot indeed.
28
MISS BROWN.
 Well—I really am not sure—T should say there would
be executors or official assignees, or something of the kind
appointed—as is usual.
Miss Gaveston looked at him contemptuously for a
moment, and turned from him towards the bell-pull, saying
in a chilling voice,
 You are not Mr. Rowcroft's clerk. Who you are I
will soon ascertain.
Alfred Thorne felt very sorry he had met with his afflicted
friend Dowser that morning.
At this moment a pair of folding doors, at the hack of
the apartment, were slowly and noiselessly opened. Miss
Gaveston made a movement of'vexation, dropped the bell-
handle, and whispered hurriedly to her visitor,
 Silence ! they are bringing my brother this way. You
may have heard of the danger apprehended from a violent
shock to him. I will make some excuse to get rid of
you.
"A veiy pleasant situation, indeed, thought Alfred
Thorne.
The folding doors were opened to their full width, and
two women appeared, wheeling an invalid's chair in which
a sick man was dozing. This was of course the Major
Gaveston of whom we have heard so much. He was
wrapped in flannels and dressing-gowns. Little was per-
ceptible of him but a cruel handsome face—the very
counterpart of his sister's—save that it bore deeper
traces of age, suffering, disappointment, and wicked-
ness.
His attendants were a prim, pinched looking woman, of
no clearly discernible age—dressed in a nun-like costume
of black and white ; and a lovely girl of seventeen—tall,
slight, golden-haired, and wide-browed.
The prim nun-like woman was Miss Brown, the nurse.
The girl was Clara Gaveston.
They wheeled their helpless charge gently towards the
open window. They performed their mutual task with
equal care and adroitness, but apparently in very different
MISS B110W1N.
29
spirits. The young girl was evidently accomplishing a
labour of the most anxious love; with the nurse, it was
seemingly a matter of the most uninteresting routine duty.
But there was no expression in her face to tell you that or
anything else. Miss Brown took up her post behind the
chair, like a sentinel, gazing at vacancy. The sick man
seemed to have quite fallen asleep.
 Clara ! step this way, said Miss Gaveston.
Clara obeyed, and was confronted with Alfred Thorne.
Her white forehead turned crimson, and her large blue
eyes flashed indignantly as she recognised him.
 I see you know this young man? said her aunt.
 I do.
 He is not Air. Kowcroft's clerk ? 
 His name is AJfred Thome, my rejected lover.
 Leave this house, sir—and as noiselessly as possible.
 Clara—Aliss Gaveston—believe me—
 If you have taken this step to prove to me how un-
worthy you are of esteem or regret, said Clara, with a
visible effort, • I must thank you.
 I have deserved this, Alfred said, bowing to take his
departure.  Madam—
Miss Gaveston stopped him, and pointing to the letter
he had brought, asked,  Am I to understand that this is
a fabrication?
 No—it is real. The clerk who should have brought
it, agreed, for a mere thoughtless frolic—
 Enough. His master shall hear of it. Good even-
"A thoughtless frolic, said Clara, turning away with
a bitter sigh ;  he is changed indeed !
 You are talking to a man, there, growled the Major
from his chair.  Who is it ?
 Merely a tradesman, brother: some instructions I
had to give—
 Don't tell me a lie. He has a lawyer's bag in his
hand, Erom Rowcroft's, is he ?
 No—yes—
30
WISS BSOWN.
"Are there any more writs out ?
"Nothing of the kind. The young man was merely
sent by his employer to say your business is going on
satisfactorily, and to inquire after your health—that is all.
Knowing how the mere mention of legal business irritates
you, we would not disturb you.
 Ugh ! How cursedly careful you all are of me, said
the Major, with an unpleasant wheezing laugh.  Luckily
for me you are all interested in keeping me alive. If I
had anything to leave behind me, I should have a poor
look out of it.
He dozed off again. Miss Brown bathed his forehead
with a sponge, and stood motionless.
 May I hope to be forgiven for this folly ? Alfred
asked 011 the threshold of the door.
"Never! was Clara's answer.
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed,
with a very sorry attempt at gaiety,  After all, it's no
hanging matter. Ladies, good evening.
Alfred Thorne was bowed out of the room. Clara
Gaveston maintained a rigid attitude till he had departed,
and then fainted away quietly on the nearest sofa.
Miss Brown flew from her post at the invalid's chair,
caught the falling girl in her arms, and hastily proceeded
to administer restoratives to her, displaying extreme ex-
citement as she did so. Miss Gaveston regarded the
woman with astonishment.
 Pray attend to your patient, nurse, said she, with
some asperity.  My niece requires no assistance from
you.
 I beg your pardon, Ma'rm, I'm sure, for the liberty,
said Miss Brown, suddenly becalmed, and retiring with a
very humble curtsey.
Clara Gaveston recovered without assistance, as all sensi-
ble girls who are weak enough to give way to fainting fits
(as they may be permitted to do on trying emergencies only)
will always make haste to do.
Miss Brown stood behind the Major's chair rubbing her
elbows, and gazing at vacancy.
MISS BROWN.
31
 Either that woman is insane or she drinks, said Miss
Gaveston to herself.
Miss Brown looked more immovable than ever. Eub-
bing her elbows, and bathing her patient's forehead from
time to time, seemed to occupy the whole of her atten-
tion.
32
miss brown.
CHAPTER V.
a nugget of lead.
The advantages of having an inaccessible bullet lodged
in the immediate vicinity of one's heart, with the best
authority of believing that the slightest disturbance of the
unwelcome guest will be attended with instant death to its
unwilling entertainer, would not, at first, seem easy of de-
monstration. They do not, in fact, lie on the surface; and
it requires a philosopher of peculiar calibre to extract, and,
more especially, to apply them properly. Such a philoso-
pher was Major Ralph Gaveston, who, at the commence-
ment of our story, had astonished the enlightened world by
living for many weeks, not merely with a bullet in his
breast, but on it into the bargain, for the same period; and
that (as old Pepys says of Sir Harry Yane going to be
hanged)  as comfortably as coidd be expected of a gen-
tleman in his situation.
The Major had not at first received his leaden visitor—
origiually introduced to him on the field of Inkerman—
with anything like forbearance-, still less cordiality. He
had resented its intrusion very savagely, as an unwarrant-
able liberty with his beau ideal of a fine gentleman and a
gallant officer. It cannot be said that he was even yet on
good terms with the bullet—familiarity- had not bred
esteem; or that he submitted to its presence with any re-
markable amount of stoicism. The Major's peculiar philo-
sophy did not lie in that direction. He cursed the bullet
night and day, (whenever he could spare time from cursing
MIS8 BROWN ASKS A THOUSAND PARDONS,
MISS BROWN.
85
the living members of his family), whined at it, stormed at
it, moaned at it; and, in short, hated it as cordially as if
it had been a human being who had given him mortal
offence, or received the same at his hands. But there is
mo revenge on our enemies so sweet as that of turning
them to our own advantage. The Major speedily dis-
covered how the bullet might be made serviceable in various
ways, and was prompt in utilising its resources.
The first good turn the bullet did the Major was to make
him comparatively a respectable man. He had left Eng-
land with his regiment—to which he was considered no
very shining ornament by his brother officers—bearing a
peculiarly unsavoury reputation—a black-legged, gull-flee-
cing, wife-betraying, child-neglecting sort of reputation.
 Good riddance and not  God speed had been the
salutation universally greeting his departure. The hope
that Major (then Captain) Gaveston woidd speedily become
food for powder was deeply felt, but not openly expressed,
in many quarters. But the bullet had changed all that,
Major Gaveston, the hero of Alma and Inkerman, return-
ing home, under such peculiarly interesting circumstances,
was a very different person to the Captain Gaveston who,
a few months before, had been glad of a professional excuse
for flying the country, to escape from an intolerable load
of debt and disgrace. His exploits at the Crimean Shrews-
bury had glozed over the rascalities of many a London
Gadshill. He was, perhaps, not the only distinguished
-officer so benefited by the campaign.
Then, the bullet provided him with a home. The Major
was worse than penniless. He was overwhelmed with
debts, a great number of which would not particularly well
bear the light of investigation as to their origin. His pay
was a mere drop in the ocean of his necessities. It was
clearly the duty of those nearest to him to provide for the
comforts of such a martyr at any sacrifice. One of the
. earliest uses the Major made of his bullet was to aim at his
daughter's heart. He had commanded that young lady—
: not absolutely in words, but by holding the terrors of the
36
MISS BROWN.
Damocles bullet over lier bead—do cancel a matrimonial
engagement she had been permitted to form with a highly-
gifted and meritorious gentleman — (our friend Alfred
Thome, in fact, before he had parted with his beard and
self-respect)—and to accept the addresses of a man of what
is called  doubtful character, which generally means a
character whose unmitigated rascality has long been placed
beyond all question or doubt whatever—who was possessed
of the means, and apparently the inclination, to rescue the
Major from his embarrassments. Clara Gaveston, upon
whom her father had never expended a single penny or a
single caress (she had been educated by some kindly distant
relatives of her mother), consented to the sacrifice as a
duty: an injustice, to herself, Alfred Thorne, and the
human species generally, she had assuredly never com-
mitted if she had not been frightened into it by the inexor-
able bullet.
But wherein the Major found the bullet a real blessing
was by the chronic privilege it afforded him of grumbling,
tyrannizing, and proclaiming himself ill-used. He had
been ill-used, to be sure—by the bullet. But bullets are
notoriously without feeling, and the Major was not the
man to let valuable indignation ran to waste. So he
visited the bullet's offences vicariously upon his ungrateful
country—his daughter, his nurse, his servants, and more
especially on his sister.
Miss Margaret Gaveston—otherwise the Lieutenant-
Colonel—was a person in many respects to be pitied.
She had inherited a handsome fortune, which this very
brother had, by some flaw of legal arrangement, got into
his possession and squandered. A woman of haughty
temper and unbounded ambition, she had found herself
reduced in early life to a state of dependence. The ex-
citing pursuit of husband-hunting—sorely against her
pride—she had followed for some years; but without
success. Her personal charms—at one time considerable,
in a harsh, majestic sort of way—were now rapidly on the
wane. She had pretty well exhausted the patience of all
MISS BROWN.
37
her conventional friends, in prolonged and repeated tres-
passes on their hospitality—{real friends she somehow
wanted the faculty of winning); and, at the age of thirty-
seven, she found herself without a home, and in a position
little better than that of a needy adventuress. She had no
alternative but to offer her services as a housekeeper to
her invalid brother, whom she very reasonably detested.
The Major accepted her as an inmate of his cottage—it
would not be too much to say for the sheer pleasure of
tormenting her. It is a very true proverb that we can
never forgive those whom we have injured.
The Major took a fiendish delight in rendering his sister's
life intolerable by the most relentless sarcasms. The
lady, on her side (for the family resemblance between them,
as has been already stated, was very striking) never
omitted an opportunity of repaying her injuries in kind.
Such scenes as the following would occur between
them—
 Hah ! a pleasant life this for a man who has fought at
Alma and Inkerman,"—(the reader must picture to him-
self the Major, in his invalid chair, receiving small doses of
beef-tea from the automaton hand of Miss Brown,)— half
blind, bound hand and foot, and fed like a child! Oh!
it's all right, I have no doubt.
 Be thankful for the blessings you enjoy, Miss Mar-
garet snaps from an adjacent worktable.
 Including a devoted sister. I am, I assure you, my
dear Margaret. The weight of your affection is really too
much for a man in my weak state. You must moderate
the dose, or you will be the death of me. Think of your
unprotected condition.
 I am reminded of it often enough. Not that I have
forgotten its origin.
 Just so : but it is of such importance, you see. Do
you suppose I could die comfortably knowing that a
beloved sister, nearly my own age—very nearly my own
age, my dear Margaret—would, in the absence of anything
else in her pocket, be compelled to put her pride there,
38
MISS BROWN.
and become By the way, my dear Margaret, what is
there you could become ?
The Lieutenant-Colonel bites her lips> and plies her
embroidery-needle rapidly, saying nothing. Her brother
continues—
 You are certainly not suited to our friend Miss Brown's
profession. That requires a little gentleness and forbear-
ance. Tor a housekeeper's situation you would want a
character for civility from your last place, Plain sewing
would never do, for your eyesight is by no means what it
used to be. And surely you could, never bend that
haughty spine to the level of a washing-tub. Ha ! ha !
After these verbal encounters the Major would generally
fall asleep—apparently much relieved in his mind.
A. word more with regard to the Major's serviceable
bullet. As surgical science is not infallible, it is just pos-
sible that the eminent practitioners who had pronounced
judgment on this unusual, but by no means unprecedented
case, may have been in error as to its imminent perils.
Nevertheless, their solemn warnings and prognostications
had been sufficient to impress a household of inexperienced
women with a terrible sense of danger and responsibility.
It was as implicitly believed in the domestic circle of Bose
Cottage, that to thwart, alarm, or otherwise suddenly to
agitate the Major, would cause his immediate death, as
that, if you held the pendulum of the kitchen clock, it
would immediately cease ticking. The Major knew this,
and took advantage of it to indulge in his wildest caprices.
He was a brave warrior undoubtedly, but as whimsical a
domestic tyrant as the most delicate lady in want of a new
bonnet, and with an available reserve of hysterics in case
of refusal; or as the little boy in Mr. Leech's wonderful
caricature, who threatens to swallow the handful of cherry-
stones unless his grandmamma will immediately give him
sixpence. It was really a valuable bullet, you see, and the
Major ought to have prized it more highly than he did.
But he was not of a thankful disposition.
Let us now resume the thread of our story.
miss brown.
39
CHAPTEB VI.
jones and his mission.
Lieutenant-Colonel Margaret Gaveston (unattached)
was one of those unamiable persons to whom the task of
conveying good news is positively repugnant. She hesi-
tated to inform Clara the contents of the lawyer's letter
she held in her hand. Still Miss Gaveston had an intense
respect for wealth; and her niece, being now a wealthy
heiress, possessed a new-bom interest in her eyes. The
Lieutenant-Colonel showed unwonted tenderness in coaxing
the younger lady out of the last remains of her fainting fit;
and led her, with much display of solicitude, to their com-
mon sleeping apartment—whither, of course, we dare not
penetrate.
The two ladies remained closeted for some half an hour.
At the end of that time the Lieutent-Colonel opened the
bed room door, close to which she discovered Miss Brown,
in a crouching attitude. If the nurse had shown the
slightest disconcertment, Miss Gaveston would certainly
have accused her of listening at the keyhole. But Miss
Brown's countenance was as blank as ever. She rose
composedly from her stooping position—merely as if she
had been interrupted in the middle of a premature curtsy—
which she now completed with the utmost serenity.
"What are you doing here, nurse?
"Nothing, ma'am. I was just going to knock to see if
there was anything I could do for Miss Clara. He got
rather fractious, so I gave him the composing draught.
MISS BROWN
I've wrapped him up well, and shut the window, lie
won't wake for some time; and if there's anything 1 can
do—
 How often am I to tell you that your only business in
this house is to attend to my brother?
 Thank you, ma'am—I do my best. Only I thought,
having a few minutes to spare, and Miss Clara not seeming
well 
 Miss Clara is quite well. If she were not, I am sure
that one invalid is quite as much as you are fit to attend
to.
 That is very true, indeed, ma'am. Quite one person's
work, as you observe. Excuse the liberty.
Miss Brown curtsied again, and descended the stair-
case—looking remarkably composed, angular, and "pre-
Baphaelesque.
The Lieutenant-Colonel followed the nurse down stairs,
and re-entered the sitting-room, which was occupied only
by her sleeping brother.
A gentle tap at the door heralded the appearance of
Thomas, whose fine Flemish countenance was unusually
flushed—a phenomenon no doubt attributable to Mr. Alfred
Thome's too liberal gratuity.
"What is it, Thomas ?
 Two gentlemen stopping at the Bear, ma'am, our
friend answered, with ominous deliberation over each word,
 want to know if they can wait on the Major.
 Their names ?
Thomas plunged his hands nervously into all his pockets
in succession, getting very hot over the operation.
 Very odd, to be sure. I must have left their cards on
the—the—. Thomas was about to add— bar counter;
but seeing the Lieutenant-Colonel's eye sternly fixed upon
him, he mendaciously, but with creditable presence of
mind, substituted the  knife-board.  But I recollect
their names—that is to say, one of them. Jones is the
name. The other is a Colonel something.
"A Colonel?
MISS BROWN.
41
 Yes. I forgot. It's only the other gentleman wants
to see the Major. The Colonel wishes to know if he can
pay his respects to you.
 To me?
Miss Gaveston instinctively arranged her flounces, and
glanced at the chimney-glass.
■c Yes, 'm.
 And you do not remember his name ?
 Worst hand in the world at names, 'm; but if you let
me run back as far as the—knife-board 
 You can tell the gentleman that I will see him. But
say that my brother is strictly forbidden to receive
visitors.
"Yes, 'm.
Thomas departed.
 A Colonel! and to wait on me! the spinster won-
dered to herself.  Who bn earth can it be ?
Whoever the Colonel might turn out to be, his visit was
clearly an event entitled to some ceremony of preparation.
Miss Gaveston flew to her room, bent upon a hasty toilette.
But, you see, Miss Gaveston was thirty seven : and it is
sad to reflect that the female hair at that age will not rea-
dily fall into such massive ringlets, or be coaxed into such
glossy bands, as it will in earlier life. There is an obsti-
nacy, too, about the female waist (unless confirmed scrag-
giness has actually set in) at the Lieutenant-Colonel's stage
of existence, which always leads to protracted misunder-
standings with all manner of stays, cinctures, and buckles.
Miss Gaveston's toilette occupied her more time than she
intended it should. She had contemplated clearing the
sitting room of her brother and other litters before giving
audience to her unknown visitor. She was somewhat dis-
concerted on rustling into the apartment, bent upon the
accomplishment of that design, to discover that the visitor
had already arrived, and was sitting in a remarkably pic-
turesque attitude, contemplating the slumbering figure of
the Major with a countenance expressive of the deepest
sympathy.
42
MISS BROWN.
 Great heavens ! said the stranger, wrapt in his study
of the invalid, and apparently unconscious of the lady's
arrival in the room.  And is that my poor friend Ralph
Gaveston ! Has he come to this ? Well! well 1
The stranger smote his forehead cruelly with the palm
of his left hand (his right was slung in a silk neckerchief),
and then buried his face—an unusually capacious one—in
the interior of a wide-awake^ hat which had been con-
structed large enough for that purpose—seemingly over-
come by his emotions.
Miss Gaveston announced her presence by a cough.
The stranger (but why make a stranger of him?—it
was Jones, of course) started up from his seat, fluttered a
highly filagreed pocket-handkerchief before his eyes, and
made a most elaborate bow.
"Madam, pardon me, he said, in broken accents, "but
the sight of my old friend and brother officer—in this
condition—a passing weakness merely. It is over. I
presume I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Gaveston ?
 Pray be seated, Colonel ?
Mr. Jones gave a momentary start, but it was unob-
served. He repressed a chuckle, concealed his face as
before, and sighed deeply.
 A fine looking man, thought Miss Gaveston, "but
a very singular uniform. I wonder who he is and what he
wants.'
 Pardon me, Colonel, she said aloud,  but I did not
exactly catch your name. Oar stupid servant mislaid your
card.
 Just like them. Madam, when my esteemed friend
and comrade, your brother, shall awake and recognise me,
you will hear a name that, I flatter myself, will not be
wholly unfamiliar to your ears.
 As you please, Colonel, said Miss Gaveston, win-
ningly ; by this time thoroughly convinced that her visitor
was an officer of distinction—privileged by his rank to be
eccentric with impunity.  I am fond of agreeable sur-
prises. Only I should wrarn you that surprises of any kind
MISS BROWN.
43
may be dangerous to my brother. It was, in fact, injudi-
cious to show you into the room with him lying here alone.
I wonder where that nurse can be ?
 Poor fellow! We must break it to him gently. I
cannot describe to you the shock it occasioned me to
hear of his precarious condition. But the chances of war,
you know, madam—
 You do not appear to have passed scathless through
them yourself.
"My wound! said Jones—waving' his imprisoned
limb contemptuously.  A mere scratch, madam—posi-
tively nothing. I am indeed one of the lucky ones, and,
when I compare myself with yon martyr, have much to be
thankful for.
All this was agreeable enough; but the stranger's im-
mediate business with Miss Gaveston was not yet apparent.
The Lieutenant-Colonel proceeded to throw out a few
feelers.
 You are recently from the Crimea, I presume ?
 Quite recently—scarcely a week. But, as you can
imagine, the delivery of despatches, the constant attend-
ance upon boards^ and the winding-up of things in general,
have as yet interfered with my obeying the most sacred
dictates of friendship. '
This was not coming to the point. There was a slight
pause: after which Miss Gaveston resumed her experi-
ments. (
"You are not of my brother's regiment, I think.
No ; Mr. Jones had not that honour.
Miss Gaveston had thought not—perceiving a marked
difference in the uniforms. _ :
 This uniform, madam, the visitor explained,  is
new—quite new—made in obedience to orders only issued
a few days ago. It is confined exclusively to that depart-
ment of the staff with which I have the honour to be
connected.
Come—a staff officer ! that was something definite.
Miss Gaveston began to be exceedingly charmed with her
44
MISS BE OWN.
guest, when a peevish exclamation from the chair an-
nounced that the invalid was awake.
The Lieutenant-Colonel tripped noiselessly to her
brother's side, and, bending over him a face that positively
beamed with sisterly affection and solicitude, asked him in
a sweet voice,—
 My dear, do you feel well enough to receive the visit
of a brother officer ?
 Ugh! they come here seldom enough, was the
gracious reply.  Who is it ?
"A gentleman recently arrived from the Crimea?
"Not Brett? the sick man asked, with sudden anima-
tion and alarm depicted on his features; and then he
added, musingly,  Pshaw ! he's dead—killed at the Kedan:
it was in the papers.
 Too true, Major, said Jones, coming forward,  I
was there and saw it.
 Ha, Jones,"—said the Major, recognising the voice,
and bestowing a nod of insolent patronage on the speaker
— Is that you ? What the devil is the meaning of that
mountebank dress ?
What was this that the proud Margaret Gaveston heard?
 Jones, and  Mountebank ! Whom had she been
committing herself by talking to ?
 My right to the uniform which attracts your admira-
tion, Major, replied Mr. Jones, not one whit abashed,
 is an unpretending one, but an indisputable one. I
bought it and paid for it.
 And what's all that tomfoolery about your hand ?
 A wound, Major, earned like your own in the con-
scientious exercise of my profession. I cut my thumb,
experimenting upon a new invention of mine—a patent
self acting pie-crust crimper—an early specimen of which
I trust your charming sister will do me the favour to
accept.
Mr. Jones addressed one of his most elegant bows to
the Lieutenant-Colonel, who recoiled from him in horror,
not knowing whether to faint or scream.
MISS BROWN.
45
"As for the military make up, Mr. Jones pursued,
 it's humbug, I admit, but it goes down and gets the
invention talked of. I have a new Malakoff tea-cake
coming out shortly (between ourselves, nothing but the
original Sally Lun, in a castellated mould) which is
expected to create a great sensation. I'll send you a case.
The room was swimming round with the Lieutenant-
Colonel.
 There—I'm too ill to laugh, said the Major.  Mar-
garet, you are fond of knowing distinguished personages.
Allow me to introduce you to the illustrious Jones, our
regimental baker.
The world was surely coming to an end. She, the
proud, the Juno-like Margaret Gaveston, had been wast-
ing her blandishments on a baker !
 Inventor of the celebrated Pannikin Oven, Mr.
Jones continued the description of himself—"for baking
a loaf in three minutes—largely patronised by her Majesty's
forces, and our gallant allies—a copy of which I will do
myself the honour of forwarding for Miss Gaveston's
acceptance. It has been most favourably noticed in the
public press.
The Lieutenant-Colonel was furious. Your haughty,
magnificent natures have seldom much sense of the ridi-
culous—and can very rarely, indeed, appreciate a harmless
pleasantry at their own expense. Miss Gaveston almost
whimpered with vexation, as she complained, like a great
school girl—
 He had the impudence to introduce himself to me as
a friend and brother officer of yours, from the Crimea.
 Madam, said Mr. Jones with his courtliest bow, "I
have enjoyed the distinguished honour of your brother's
friendship for some months. With regard to the Crimea,
it is already a matter of history that I went over to that
country with the flour of the British army.
Jones laid immense emphasis on the word  flour. It
was his favourite witticism, which he never missed an
opportunity of firing off.
46
MISS BKOWN.
 But you announced yourself as a colonel.
 Pardon me, madam, you yourself—through, some mis-
conception doubtless—conferred that distinguished rank
upon me. Promotion from such queen-like lips could not
.be refused while it lasted.
"At any rate you said you were connected with the
staff.
 The staff of life, madam, Mr. Jones explained,
almost bursting with satisfaction, and bowing to the very
ground.
The Lieutenant-Colonel could not have done Mr. Jones
a more acceptable service. She had unconsciously led up
to his second best joke which he had begun to fear he
would not have a chance of slipping into the conversation.
Jones was in the seventh heaven of ecstacy; and the
Lieutenant-Colonel for the time enfoncee.
"At your old hoaxing tricks, Jones, said the Major.
 Take care. It was all very well encouraging you to sing
comic songs, and tell queer stories, to while away the time
in the trenches. But you mustn't presume on it in Eng-
land, or you may get kicked down more stairs than you
ever got up. What do you want here ?
All traces of buffoonery vanished from Mr. Jones's face
at this rude address. His cheeks flushed angrily. He
rose from the chair he had just taken, and answered with
a dry kind of dignity :
 In the first place a little civility, if you please; if you
have such a thing on the premises.
 How now, fellow!
 And how now, fellow, back again ! But there—I
beg your pardon—I forgot I was addressing a sick man.
I came here at considerable inconvenience to do you a
gratuitous service. I did not expect to be paid for it,,
even in the coin I have just mentioned—usually a scarce
one in your exchequer, as' I have reason to know. My
errand will not detain you many minutes. In the mean-
.time, you can be as insolent as you please.
The Lieutenant-Colonel experienced a sudden revulsion
MISS BROWN.
47
of feeling in Mr. Jones's favour. She could not help
respecting a man who thus dared to rebuke her tyrannical
brother.
At this juncture Miss Brown glided noiselessly into the
room, and took up her customary post behind the sick
man's chair, rubbing her elbows and gazing at nothing, as
usual.
 There was no offence meant, the Major apologised
sulkily. "You needn't fly out in that manner. What
is it ?
"I am the bearer of a letter from the late Captain
Brett.
 Give it me—quick—into my hands—not to any of
the rest. The sick man spoke with sudden excitement,
and extended a trembling hand, the fingers of which clutched
the air in nervous expectation.
Miss Brown bathed the patient's forehead, which she
continued to smooth gently with both hands, as a hint
that he was to keep himself calm.
 Just one moment, Mr. Jones said, producing a letter
frem his breast pocket.  This letter is addressed, not to
you, but to your late lamented lady.
"Ha!
■ The Major's trembling arm dropped powerless by his
side.
Miss Brown's hands released the patient's forehead, and
fell to their accustomed exercise of elbow-rubbing.
"How strange! Margaret Gaveston mused, "that
every event of this day should seem to have reference to
that dead woman !
Mr. Jones continued his revelations.
 Captain Brett, as I find you have heard, met with his
death-wound at- the attack on the Bedan. He survived
but a few minutes, >and gave this letter into my hands.
 Into yours ? the Major inquired, with much astonish-
ment.  Why, what were you doing there?
Mr. Jones actually blushed as he replied, with some-
confusion,
4S
MISS BKOWN.
 I am not in the habit of boasting—except for fun, of
imaginary exploits. But I believe you have seen me under
fire before now.
 Give the devil his due. So I have. Well ?
 Suppose I was near at hand to do any good that
might fall in my way ; that's my business. At any rate
I was near enough to see him hit and help to carry him
beyond gun-shot. With his last breath he implored me
to deliver a letter I should find about him into the hands
of the lady addressed. I remember his words perfectly :
£ Do this for the love of God and justice,' he said, ' for it
contains tardy reparation of a grievous wrong done to her
character.' 
"Just so—quite like Brett—a conscientious fellow—let
me have it—quick !
 A moment more! (Mr. Jones was in some measure
a professional story-teller ; hence a slight conventionality
in his phrases, and a pardonable weakness for dwelling on
what he considered the effective points of his J narrative.
 As a man of honour and a slave to the sex,"—Mr. Jones
bowed profoundly to Miss Gaveston, a serious and im-
pressive bow this time, not a facetious one— I accepted
the mission as a sacred duty. On my arrival in England
I made inquiries as to where the lady was to be found.
I learnt that—pardon my alluding to a painful subject—
 That I was a widower—yes, yes—that's some years
ago now.
 I was naturally perplexed how to act. But a little
reflection convinced me that as the letter had reference to
some injury done to the lady's reputation, it must also
concern her husband, into whose hands I decided on de-
livering it unopened.
 To be sure—to be sure—I am the proper person, of
course. The decision does you credit, Jones. Where is
the letter ?
 It is here.
Jones presented the letter, which the Major was about
to clutch eagerly from his hands, when the ghost-like
MISS BROWN.
49
figure of Miss Brown, suddenly gliding from behind the
invalid's chair, stood between them.
 I'm not sure that I can permit it, the nurse said, in
cold authoritative tones. "The Major's eyes are not
equal to small handwriting ; and anything in the shape of
a surprise I've strict orders not to allow.
Sudden and spasmodic was the change that came over
the recently dignified and sentimental Jones. He tossed
the letter contemptuously over his head; and, seizing the
nurse by both hands, forced that sedate personage to join
him in a kind of ecstatic pas de deux, as he exclaimed—
 Bless my soul! Miss Brown ! I really did not know
you. Who would have thought of seeing you ? Here of
all places in the world ! And how are you ?
 Nicely, sir, thank you, the nurse replied, releasing
herself with some difficulty, and applying restorative
friction to her all but dislocated elbows.  Not so active
as I could wish. But you will excuse me. My time isn't
my own.
 And if it was—you would be giving it away in charity
to some undeserving object. No offence to you, Major.
The idea of Miss Brown!
 There! never mind the woman, said the Major.
 She knows her own business and minds it. Tor all that,
give me the letter.
The letter had been picked up by Miss Gaveston, who
was deliberately proceeding to open it.
"The nurse's observations do credit to her good sense,
that lady remarked.  I will read this letter for you, brother,
and communicate its contents to you when we are alone.
 Take it from her—quick! said the Major, violently
agitated.  Snatch it out of her hands. She must not
see a line of it.
Miss Brown made a sudden spring—like the bound of a
cat—and seized the letter from the hands of the astonished
Miss Gaveston. Having secured the document, she
dropped an abject curtsy, and said, in tones of the deepest
humility—
4
50
MISS BROWN.
 Asking you a thousand pardons, ma'am; but I have
the doctor's orders not to let the Major be thwarted in
anything he has set his mind on ; that is, anytliing in
reason. You'll excuse me, I'm sure.
 Come! I am glad to see there is one woman in the
house that knows her duty, the Major said ;  give me the
letter, nurse.
 Really, sir, I don't know that I ought; you are very
much excited.
"I will excite myself a little more if you do not.
Come!
The nurse showed a curious reluctance to part with the
letter; she clutched and manipulated it nervously, turn-
ing it over and over in her hand many times as she slowly
presented it to her patient. More than once she seemed
on the point of withholding it altogether, but an imperious
gesture of the Major at length decided her. She gave it
to him.
With feverish eagerness the Major thrust the letter into
the breast of his dressing-gown—folding his arms tightly
over it, and resting his chin on his arms.
Miss Brown watched the paper curiously as long as
there was even a corner of it to be seen. When it had
finally disappeared, she resumed her old post and de-
meanour: only it was noticed that she breathed heavily,
and trembled with great violence—the result, no doubt, of
her recent exertion.
MISS BKOWN IS TEMPTED.
miss bkown,
53
CHAPTEE YIT.
the mission op jones concluded.
S it The Major was getting drowsy; his eyes closed, and
his head fell heavily forward. But as sleep overcame him,
he seemed instinctively to guard the precious letter in his
bosom with the greater jealousy.
 A letter of no great importance, I daresay, he mur-
mured.  I shall read it when and where I choose. I like
disappointing inquisitive people. I should have asked
you to read it for me, he said, suddenly opening his eyes,
and turning them on his sister with a cunning leer,  but
you were in too much of a hurry ; and I shall punish you
by not telling you what it is about, perhaps ha ! ha !
for a day or two. You see I enforce discipline in my
garrison, Jones. Does them good.
 May the difference of opinion never sever friendship,
Mr. Jones observed, with impressive solemnity.
 They'll give you something to eat, if you ask them,
said the sick man, in a low churlish growl. This graceful
effort of hospitality seemed to exhaust the speaker, for he
dropped off to sleep immediately.
 When I ask for bite or sup in your house, said Jones,
with unmistakable disgust,  my most fervent aspirations
are—that it may agree with me.
"He was disturbed out of his nap, you see, Miss
Brown gently observed. "He is liable to be peevish at,
such times. I was wrong to let him see visitors. But if
he says, wheel me here, or wheel me there—what is to be
54
MISS BROWN.
done P May I trouble yon to hold the bed-room doors
open, ma'am?
Miss Gaveston did as she was requested. Miss Brown
proceeded slowly, by an inch at a time, to wheel the in-
valid towards the inner apartment.
 Miss Brown, said the gallant Jones, officiously thrust-
ing the nurse aside ;  I couldn't permit it in my presence.
Pray allow me?
"You are very kind, sir, but it is no trouble, and I am
used to it. It is a peculiar kind of chair, you see, and I
understand guiding it.
 But as a personal favour, Miss Brown, Jones insisted
magniloquently,  permit me to boast that I once had the
honour of assisting a Crimean nurse—one of the noblest
of the least pretending of all the birds in our Nightingale's
nest—in her work of mercy.
 Eeally, you make Miss Brown out to be a person of
importance, Mr. Jones, the Lieutenant-Colonel observed,
in a half-amused bantering tone.
 May I ask if the Major has not already represented
her in that light ? Pew men have had greater opportuni-
ties of judging of her merits.
 I am afraid, then, he has wanted the power to appre-
ciate them. He has certainly not led us to look on Miss
Brown otherwise than as a very useful and attentive
servant.
Mr. Jones removed his hand from the back of the
wonnded man's chair.
 In that case Miss Brown, he said,  I must deny
myself the pleasure I proposed. Wheel him yourself. If
you were to trust me half a yard with him, I am afraid the
result would be a bump against the door-post, which
might be attended with disagreeable consequences.
Mr. Jones followed up his speech with a muttered ex-
clamation which, to the ears of Miss Gaveston, sounded like
the words  (something) ungrateful brute!
"You are very kind, Mr. Jones, Miss Brown observed,
MISS BllOWN.
00
with her usual placidity. C! But I'm honourably paid for
wha/fc I do. I am quite satisfied with my position. I must
wish you good afternoon.
She wheeled the slumbering Major into the adjoining
apartment, with great circumspection, and closed the fold-
ing doors slowly behind them.
 Miss Gaveston, said the military baker, throwing all
his courtly energies into the performance of a farewell bow,
 I have the honour to wish you a very good day, and a
speedy improvement to your eyesight.
 Sir !
"That you may be able, at a future time, to penetrate
through the disguise of an angel who may honour your
family roof by dwelling under it.
 If you allude to Miss Brown, you must admit that she
has been at particular pains to conceal her wings.
 Ah! they were visible and active enough at Scutari
and Balaklava, as many a score poor fellows who owe their
lives to her—men of a different way of feeling to your
exemplary brother there—could tell you.
Miss Gaveston thought her visitor a more ridiculous
person than ever. His preposterous uniform and practical
jokes had been highly offensive; but his display of feeling
was positively amusing.
 Keally, Mr. Jones, the Lieutenant-Colonel remarked,
with a smile,  I shall begin to suspect that the secret
object of your visit here was a rendezvous with Miss
Brown.
Jones knit his eyebrows, and his fine Boman counte-
nance flushed angrily as he commenced in reply,
 Pardon me, madam. I am an excessively impudent
fellow 
 I cannot contradict you, said the Lieutenant-Colonel.
 You dare \iot, madam. You have already seen me
presume to humbug you, and snap my fingers at your
brother. But even I am obliged to stop at certain limits;
and I candidly admit, that to believe a sainted creature
56
MISS BROWN.
like Miss Brown would condescend to look at a fellow like
myself—except out of1 sheer humanity and compassion—I
have not the impudence. No, madam, I don't mind chaf-
fing you from morning till night; but with regard to Miss
Brown, I must be allowed to depart from my usual line of
conduct.
Jones bowed again, and looked extremely radiant.
Oscar's pet weakness was a delight in the sound of his own
voice, uttering what he believed to be well-rounded sen-
tences. He was highly satisfied with his eloquence on the
present occasion.
Let us do the Lieutenant-Colonel the justice to state,
that she had quite got over her ill-temper, and had forgiven
Mr. Jones his costume, his profession, and even his per-
sonal liberties. She bowed to him quite graciously as she
said—
 At any rate, Mr. Jones, we are much obliged to you
for the trouble you have taken, which more than compen-
sates for the little pleasantries you have chosen to indulge
in.
 A fine woman, and quite the lady, Jones mentally
observed—(susceptibility to female charms was another of
Oscar's excusable foibles)—"but she under-rates Miss
Brown, and that won't do at any price.
 Madam, he continued aloud,  pray don't mention it.
Having accomplished my errand I will take my leave.
But, bless my soul, what am I saying? I have done
nothing of the kind. I have a message for you.
"For me?
 For your private ear alone.
 Indeed! and from whom, pray ?
 From my old—that is to say, my esteemed friend,
Colonel Arthur Morrison.
Crash! a wine-glass fell on to the carpet, shattered into
innumerable pieces. It had dropped from the hand of
Miss Brown, who had re-entered the room unobserved in
her usual noiseless manner.
MISS BKOWN.
57
 What are you about, nurse? Miss Gaveston inquired
petulantly—herself greatly agitated by the mention of
Arthur Morrison's name.
 Picking up the pieces, ma'am, the nurse replied,
suiting her actions to her words.  It's only one of the
common glasses, and there was nothing in it. I am
extremely sorry, but I '11 make it good.
Miss Brown carefully collected the fragments of broken
glass, and carried them out of the room.
"Arthur Morrison? Miss Gaveston inquired. "What
can he possibly have to say to me?
 That, my dear madam, I could not take the liberty of
inquiring. My friend has done me the honour of dining
with me at the adjacent Bear,—a very comfortable hostelry,
with a tolerable bottle of old port. He would have waited
on you, himself; but hearing that the Major was, to a
certain extent, up and about, and having apparently some
reasons for wishing to avoid an interview with him, he
deputed me as ambassador—to see if the coast was, in
short, clear.
Miss Gaveston appeared plunged in deep reflection.
Her harsh, handsome face assumed a gentler, more
womanly expression, than was its wont, as she replied,
 It will give me sincere pleasure to see Colonel Morrison,
for the sake of old acquaintance. Pray tell him so from
me.
 I will do so, madam; and if it does not plunge my
gallant friend into the seventh heaven of what-you-may-
call-it, I can only say that the result will be considerable
astonishment to Oscar T. Jones.—Yours truly.
 Good afternoon, Mr. Jones. Miss Gaveston rang the
bell, which was answered in hot haste by Thomas—(that
instant returned from a fresh visit to the knife-board, and
fearful lest his absence should have been noted).  I will
make a point of studying your friend Miss Brown more
carefully.
"Well, upon the whole, do you know, I dont think
you'd find yourself any worse for it. My Mend, the
MISS BROWN.
Colonel, will be with you in a few minutes; for he s
burning with the what's-his-name's own impatience. John,
lead the way! Once more, madam, adieu!
Mr. Oscar T. Jones shook the dust of Rose Cottage
from the soles of his elaborately varnished boots.
"How strange! Margaret Graveston mused, when she
had been left alone.  There must be a fatality or Provi-
dence in these things. Why should every succeeding hour
of this day, so strange an exception to our usually ,in-
supportable monotonous life, bring with it some fresh
reminder of that dead woman, whom I never saw, but who
has had such an influence on my life, and upon whose life
I ! Is it possible I have done her an injustice ?
That the stories to which I lent so ready an ear, and spread
so mercilessly, were indeed1 calumnies ? I could not have
been just to her; for I hated her. The man I loved,
loved her. Why does he come now, from another hemis-
pliere, and after fifteen years of absence, except to prate
his constancy to her memory, and to tax me with my un-
dying hate ?
The sun had newly set behind the dark-green elms and
the brown half-stripped chesnuts, as Margaret Graveston
stood at her window putting those qustions to herself. In
the genial equalizing autumn twilight she saw approach
the cottage the figure of a man, whom she at once recog-
nized—a young man, as it seemed to her in the favouring
light, unchanged by fifteen years of absence and suffering—
whose appearance brought vividly back the sweetest
recollections of her own fruitless youth. She glanced
hastily at the mirror. Why was she so changed, and
Arthur Morrison still so like his former self ? The fact
was, Arthur Morrison was not a man to make needless
parade of his grey hairs, his wrinkles, and his sorrows.
He could bear age and sorrow much better than Miss
Margaret Graveston. It was requisite to know him very
intimately indeed, in face, heart, and intellect, ere you
could ascertain how old and how unhappy he really
was.
MISS BBOWN.
59
 I have loved nothing for fifteen years, said Margaret
Gaveston ;  but here comes a man whom I can remember
loving.
Colonel Morrison rang the gate hell, and was soon
ushered into the presence of Margaret Gaveston.
miss brown.
CHAPTER Till.
what brought colonel morrison to esiier
 I fear you have forgotten me, Miss Gaveston, said
the new visitor, when the formal civilities of reception had
been interchanged.
 The name of Colonel Morrison is too painfully asso-
ciated with the history of my family to make that probable,
the lady rejoined.
"True. I hope you will believe that I have not
willingly sought this interview, and that the motives that
could induce me to cross your brother's threshold are of
no ordinary character. May I therefore beg, that during
the short time I shall detain you you will consider the
painful past in abeyance
 It was already half forgotten, Miss Gaveston
answered graciously,  in the pleasure of seeing one who
was once a friend so like his former self.
 Come, that is kindly spoken, said the Colonel,
rising from his seat and extending his open hand.  Mar-
garet Gaveston, will you shake hands with me?
"What should deter me? the lady asked, frankly
accepting the cordial challenge.
"Because for fifteen years I have harboured ungenerous
thoughts towards you.
 Just ones, perhaps. But if otherwise they are for-
given.
"Nay; I must shroud myself in surliness again, or I
shall neglect my embassy. Madam, the old fable of the
MISS BROWN.
61
Syrens pales in comparison with the effect of the first
words of kindness addressed by an English lady to the
Anglo Indian on his first return to his native country.
 Then I will be as unamiable as you please, Colonel.
 Well! a truce to pleasantry. You can guess the
motive of my visit ?
 Partially.
"Thai is to say, wholly. I have, as you know, a
nephew.
 I have seen him to-day, for the first time.
"Where?
 In this room.
 Where can I find bim ?
 Judging from the manner and occasion of his visit,
Miss Gaveston answered, with sudden acidity,  I should
say in the nearest tavern.
 It is possible, said her visitor, bowing his head sadly.
 I have as yet only sought him in places where he is to
be found. What he has become, I see you know, May
I ask if you know what he was six months back?
 1 cannot say that I know anything to his credit. He
made the acquaintance of my niece clandestinely, and
sought her affections—well knowing that an insurmount-
able barrier existed to their union.
 In his poverty ?
 In his relationship to a man who ; pardon me.
 A man who was implicated in a calumny which
blighted the existence of a woman whose child he had been
taught—by me—to reverence and watch over.
"It is your duty, as what the world calls a man of
honour, to defend the character of my brother's late wife—
even by unfounded accusations.?'
 By Heaven! by the love I still bear to that lady's
memory, she was innocent of the charge from which I
could not free her. To what pitch of desperation she may
have been driven by the persecution of a man who married
her by an unworthy stratagem that he might possess him-
self of her wealth and cast her from him .
62
MISS BROWN.
 You are speaking of my brother ?
 Your pardon. I fear I have set myself an impossible
task. What I have to propose will necessarily compel me
to admit that I hold your brother in no very high esteem.
 I will listen to all that may become me.
"This lad, Alfred Thorne—my sister's boy, and the
only remaining tie I have on earth—a year ago presented
the glorious spectacle of a man of genius—an artist—with
a great future before him ; hope, industry, and enthusiasm
to help him to realise it. You have now told me, no
doubt with reason, that I shall probably find him in the
nearest tavern. Why is this ?
 I am not an authority on such subjects.
"I am. Eighteen years ago I had his aspirations—not
his powers: but that is neither here nor there. They
were crushed by the discovery that the woman I loved had
been cajoled into marriage with another whom she could
not possibly respect. I was fast becoming a hopeless re-
probate myself, when I was recalled to a sense of human
duty by an unworthy trap set to involve the lady in ques-
tion in a scandal with myself. But the mischief was done.
It merely changed me from a profligate to a misanthrope.
I wish to save my nephew—a better and an abler man
than myself—from a similar fate. I was wrong to mix
him up with my foolish romantic old story. I asked him
to watch over her child, to protect and love her for my
sake and her mother's. I might have foreseen the result.
He fell in love with her. He was rejected by her father
on the plea of his relationship to myself.
"Avery sound one, I think, Miss Gaveston said.
 A false one, utterly. Your brother wants money—
pardon me for looking ugly facts full in the face—and I
am convinced that if he saw in Alfred Thorne a rich man,
instead of a needy one, he would discreetly waive the point
of his connection with the supposed seducer of Clara's
mother. Eorgive me speaking plainly.
There was so much sound reason in what the Colonel
MISS BROWN.
63
said, tliat Mass Gaveston could not controvert it. She
merely remarked,
"You forget that my niece is engaged to be mariied.
 To a man of infamous reputation.
 Sir!
 Who, I am willing to hope, has no greater hold on
your brother than pecuniary obligation. Now, I have it
in my power to do as much for him as this Jew attorney—
(the name of Lascelles I presume to have been originally
Lazarus)—with the additional advantage of giving him a
gentleman for a son-in-law. Don't laugh, pray. I have
nothing to depend on but my pay ; but at the same time,
I can conomand a handsome fortune at a moment's notice,
by a sacrifice which you will consider ridiculous—looking
at my grizzled locks and parchment cheeks. I can claim
eight thousand a year by the simple process of getting
married.
"Not very surprising, Miss Gaveston said, "at your
age, and with your enviable reputation.
 Do not misunderstand me. I am not aware of any
heiress to that extent who is anxious to throw herself into
my arms. An old bachelor uncle, repenting too late of
his own celibacy, and desirous, I suppose, of repressing
that vice in the family, has left me eight thousand a year,
conditionally on my marrying before I am forty. I was
thirty-nine on the sixth of last month.
 And you have come to England to look for a wife ?
 To take one, at all events. I lit a cheroot with the
letter announcing my good fortune, when a second made
me understand that the wealth I had been about to reject
might be made the means of securing the happiness of two
deserving young people.
"The young people shall not be the only gainers by
the arrangement, if I can help it, Miss Gaveston said to,
herself.  I am not yet a liouseless beggar, Xlalph
Gaveston. This man wants a wife, and I will endeavour
to help him to find one without quitting this neighbour-
hood.
64
MISS BROWN.
 And may I be permitted to ask, Colonel, she re-
sumed aloud,  if you have yet fixed on a young lady ?
 Miss Gaveston, said the colonel, frankly,  I could
no more speak to a young lady than I could fly. I am in
my fortieth year. I have lived for fifteen years in a burn-
ing climate, with nothing to brood over but a grumpy
old romance. I know I have no personal attractions, and
I have seen quite enough of the miseries of forcing young
folks into matrimony for the sake of money or position. I
had sworn never to marry, except one woman. Were she
alive and free, and could clear her reputation 
"You think my brother's wife, then, guilty ?
 By Heaven, I do not! But Ave are cowards, all of
us, and the fearful weight of calumny is so ' crushing,'—
so destructive of all faith and hope But we are not
alone, I perceive.
 Ideally, Miss Brown, I wish you would knock before
coming into the room, Miss Gaveston said snappishly to
the nurse, who was discovered dropping her habitual
curtsy in the back-ground.
 I was fearful of disturbing the Major, ma'am, he
being extremely irritable this evening; I have only stepped
in for the mixture—begging your pardon for the intra-
sion.
Miss Brown curtsied and disappeared, rubbing her
elbows.
"No young heart shall suffer for me or mine, the
Colonel resumed.  My intention is to look out for some
sympathetic soul, of nearly my own age, who will accept
what is left of me in heart and fortune, for the sake of an
honourable name, a comfortable journey down the hill of
life, and the pleasures of making others happy. But I
must first make sure that, by doing so, I can remove all
obstacles to the marriage of your niece and my nephew.
 I think you are right in supposing them not insur-
mountable, said Miss Gaveston.  My brother has been
greatly dependent on this Mr. Lascelles,
MISS BROWN.
65
"We may be able to get rid of him on the very day of
my marriage.
 When you can fix on a lady.
Arthur Morrison took Margaret Gaveston's hand, and
gazing with admiration into the handsome, and now really
winning face, that was turned towards his own, replied
slowly—
 The lady I shall fix upon, Margaret, will be the one
whom I find honest and true enough to help me in the
work I have undertaken. I would rather an old friend
than a new one as a colleague. Do you know such an old
friend? ,
"You take me by surprise, Arthur, said the handsome
spinster, with a very becoming blush, and her head droop-
ing as she spoke;  let us meet again to discuss the ques-
tion.
 I shall not leave the neighbourhood till it is answered,
Colonel Morrison responded.
*****
 If you please, ma'am, I should like to leave.
Miss Brown was the speaker—some half an hour after
the departure of Colonel Morrison from Bose Cottage.
 Leave! What for ?  Miss Gaveston inquired, indig-
nantly.
Well Miss Brown confessed she was not up to her
work. Her nerves were not what they used to be, and she
would rather go if Miss G. had no objection.
Miss G. had no fundamental objection to the proposed
removal. She merely wished to know when Miss Brown
intended taking her departure.
 Now—if you please, ma'am.
 Now! preposterous. ( The woman is clearly in-
toxicated, Miss Gaveston thought.)  You cannot think
of leaving the house till some one else is engaged in your
place.
Miss Brown was very sorry indeed. But she implored
as a special favour that she might not be expected to enter
the Major's apartment again. She couldn't do it. She
66
MISS BROWN.
was afraid there was something- wrong in her head. She
had been subject to fits of giddiness lately.
Miss Gaveston (occupied with her own thoughts and
projects) was savagely incensed at this derangement in
what she had been in the habit of considering a useful
piece of domestic machinery. She would not hear of it.
The nurse was acquainted with the Major's ways; she had
been trained and schooled to submit to the caprices of
invalids. It was her business. If the patient was more
than ordinarily troublesome it would be made up to her.
Miss Brown was very pale, and her thin trembling lips
looked even unusually blue as she propounded the meek
request—
 Might Miss Clara be permitted to sit up with her for
that one night?
Certainly not! the Lieutenant-Colonel replied; Miss
Clara was now in a position requiring the greatest care
and attention. The nurse was peremptorily ordered to
continue her duties, and to let Miss Gaveston hear no
more of such nonsense.
Miss Gaveston heard no more of the nonsense in ques-
tion; but she might have seen a little of it—developed in
a singular phase—had she stepped out of her bed-room at
any hour in the ensuing night, and applied her watchful
eye to the keyhole of her brother's sleeping apartment, she
would then have seen Miss Brown—wild-eyed, dishevelled,
frantic almost, with the prim mob cap thrown back, and a
perfect cataract of unsuspected, luxuriant brown tresses
rolling from beneath it-—altogether quite a different sort of
Miss Brown to the demure official personage with whom
our artist has familiarized us—glaring fiercely at the slum-
bering figure of the Major; clutching the air nervously
with her hands, as if to restrain them from obeying an
almost invincible impulse; now grasping her throat; now
smiting her forehead: and anon falling abjectly on her
knees by the bed-side, praying aloud—
'  Oh, God! save me from this cruel temptation.
m1s3 brown.
67
CHAPTER IX.
fair time at es'her.
On tlie mere grounds that a man is a great scoundrel,
we should not entirely exclude him from our sympathies in
his hour of suffering. My Uncle Toby (that is to say,
Mr. Sterne's Uncle Toby—would that he were indeed
mine !) had no hesitation in expressing his hea:tfelt com-
passion for the plight of a certain arch-criminal condemned
for the magnitude of his offences to a thousand years'
solitary confinement in quarters of unusual discomfort.
On the same humane principle—applied to a greatly
reduced scale—we are bound to pity the condition of
Major Ralph Gaveston (detesting him as much as we
please in the mean time) when, on the morning after the
events recorded in the foregoing chapters, he woke up and
found himself in torment.
Eor a fair was to be held in Esher on that day. Also,
there was a great crickeUmatch to be played in the village.
Whether either event was a consequence of the other, or
whether the two were accidentally coincident, I am not
prepared to state. The fair might have been extemporised
by watchful speculators, in anticipation of the influx of
visitors likely to be attracted-by the cricket-match; or, the
cricket-match might have been expressly appointed to con e
off on Fair-day, in order that the players should have an
opportunity,of distinguishing themselves in the eyes of a
larger representative portion of Europe than wotdd other-
wise have been collected around their wickets. As far r.s
68
MISS BROWN.
my powers of elucidation are concerned, the curious in
cause and effect must remain unsatisfied upon this question
—one to me as inscrutable as the historic problem of Colonel
Davy Crockett's dog : whether that famous quadruped was
specially created for the purpose of hunting bears, or
whether bears were specially created for the purpose of
being hunted by Colonel Crockett's dog P
At any rate, the two events were decreed to occur
simultaneously; and a terrific row they made about it in
the village between them. They were at it from an hour
before day-break: carts rumbling; planks toppling over;
hammers knocking; hoarse voices shouting; experimental
drums, trombones, and trumpets, thundering and braying
out their premature rehearsals in a manner to distress
stronger and better regulated nerves than those of a sufferer
like the unfortunate Major, who had, by long and harassing
tortures, grown to look upon himself less in the light of a
man than in that of an interesting field for surgical specu-
lation. It is true that Rose Cottage stood at some distance
from the centre of commotion. But the pure air in that
most wholesome portion of Surrey is a marvellous conductor
of sound: and the practice of soft-speaking is unfamiliar
to mechanics accustomed to carry on conversations from
either extremity of a five-storey ladder; equally so to
itinerant artists in the habit of expressing themselves
through the medium of a speaking-trumpet.
So it is not to be wondered at that Major Gaveston—
never at any time a promising disciple of the patriarch
Job—should, on the morning in question, finding his last
forlorn hope of sleep utterly discomfited by the allied
forces of carpentery and cricket, have comported himself
with even more than his usual unamiability. A better
man than the Major (frankly, it would be difficult to con-
ceive a worse,) might have been excused for displaying an
equal amount of irritation. A fit of tooth-ache, with a
leading article to write, and a band of Ethiopian Serenaders
yelping under your window, is bad enough. Eancy a
heaped accumulation of bodily ailments, of which a bullet
MISS BKOWN.
69
trembling over your heart and threatening you with death
at any moment, forms the apex! Imagine this state of
things, I repeat, aggravated by the horrors of pecuniary
difficulties; a guilty conscience; and the simultaneous
erection of refreshment-tents for the Eleven Surrey Swift
Bowlers and the All-Middlesex Catchemout Club, with
some half-dozen menageries, peepshows, and temples of the
legitimate drama, going on within two or three hundred
yards of your sick bed! Having realised this, you are
requested to decide whether so frail a human vessel as
Major Graveston should be blamed for being in an ill temper
under parallel circumstances.
In an ill temper he certainly was. There was ample
evidence to prove it. Miss Brown, gliding into the kitchen
to make preparations for her patient's breakfast—looking
wondrously neat and composed, but unusually worn and
pale—remarked, in answer to a stereotyped inquiry from
the cook, that the Major was "extremely fractious and
irritable. Miss Brown further confessed, that she feared
the newly-commenced day would prove a very trying one
to the invalid. She regretted that they had not known
beforehand what was going to take place. It would have
been advisable to remove him from the noise at any cost.
But they led such a secluded life, that they heard nothing
that was going on around them. Still she could not help
blaming Thomas—who must have acquaintances in the
village—for not having apprised them of the coming
festivities. It was mere want of thought on his part,
doubtless.
The speech of which the foregoing is the substance, is
the longest recorded as having escaped the lips of Miss
Brown since her residence at Bose Cottage.
Thomas—unaware of the gentle slur that had been cast
upon his reputation—emerging from the sick room with
an empty coal-scuttle, corroborated the nurse s testimony.
In the familiar imagery of Thomas, the Major was
"more like a bear with a sore head than ever. Our
liveried friend—evidently smarting under some new out-
70
miss brown.
rage—proceeded to express a hope that "either the fair or
the cricket-match would kick up row enough in the course
of the day to bring on the shock between them. He
expressed his confidence in the Big Drum of a Wild Beast
Show in the course of erection, as an agency qualified to
bring about the desired commotion—volunteering to stand
a pot (strongly emphasised) to the performer on that in-
strument in the event of success.
Miss Brown mildly rebuked this unchristian display of
animosity, and returned to her charge.
She found the so-called patient cursing and writhing.
His right ear was planted tightly against his pillow. The
left ear he pressed with its corresponding hand, as if to
shut out the intolerable din that showered in through the
open window from every side.
But the nurse observed that he Icept his right hand, firmly
clutching something, buried in the folds of his dressing-gown ;
as he had kept it, sleeping or waking, throughout the
troubled night.
"The noise is too much for you, said Miss Brown;
 Shall I close the window, sir?
 Curse you, no ! I told you to leave it open! did I not ?
Wheel me nearer to it.
The nurse obeyed.
 Can 1 get you anything, sir? she inquired.
 Yes—good eyesight. Can you get me that ? I have
a letter here that I want to read—that no meddling people
about me must know the contents of. But I am. as blind
as a bat, and the days get dark—so dark !
 Perhaps it would be as well to let me read it for you,
sir. I can read handwriting—leastways if it's plain hand-
writing, and not too small.
Miss Brown spoke like a frozen washerwoman. Her
manner was as destitute of emotion as of refinement.
The sick man turned his head eagerly towards her, and
gazed searchingly in her face. It was as blank as un-
written paper.
 I think I can trust you? he said, doubtingly.
MISS BROWN.
71
 As you please, sir. Tours is a trying case. I have
to get my living by my profession. I depend upon obey-
ing doctor's instructions—certificates in difficult cases
being valuable. Implicit obedience to your wishes when
reasonable is what I am instructed in the present case.
Please yourself, sir.
Miss Brown rubbed her elbows, and looked serenely out
of the window.
"The woman is a mere automaton, the invalid
reasoned— and a perfect fool. I am sure I can trust
her. Here! read this for me, and then give it me
back.'
He drew a letter—it is needless to say, the one that had
been delivered into his hands by Jones—from his bosom,
and presented it mistrustfully to the nurse.
Miss Brown betrayed herself. Trembling all over, she
snatched at the letter with a too eager hand. The cautious ,
Major was too quick for her. He thrust the paper hastily
back into his bosom, where he clutched it as carefully
as before.
 I will not trust you, he said, in surly tones; "not
even yon. I thought you merely a good-natured, dutiful
fool. But I see my sister has talked you over—bribed
you, I daresay. You shall not see the letter.
Miss Brown controlled herself by a powerful effort, as
she replied, with more than her usual slowness.
 Just as you please, sir. Provided I give you no cause
to complain to the medical men—my living depending upon
their recommendations.
Miss Brown was her stolid unconcerned self again. She
looked out of the window with some faint show of interest
in the erection of a neighbouring circus, and tittillated her
elbows as usual.
 Bah! said the Major to himself.  A mere senseless
puppet, evidently. But we cannot be too cautious. As
the sun gets higher I shall be able to make the thing out
myself, and destroy it if necessary. In the meantime it is
quite safe here.
72
MISS BROWN.
The Major was very tired. He had scarcely slept ten
minutes in succession during the night. He was overcome
with fatigue, and now dozed oft' into a kind of half
slumber.
He had barely lost consciousness, when he was aroused
by the sensation of a human hand tremulously fumbling in
his bosom.
He was wide awake in an instant, and glanced round
him.
Miss Brown stood at his side—her face unearthily
blanched, and her thin lips quivering, just perceptibly,—■
no more. Her hands were concealed behind,her. Had
they been visible, they would have been seen to tremble
violently.
 What are you at ? the Major inquired, fiercely.
 I was trying to button your dressing-gown without
waking you. You would have the window open, which is
quite dangerous, with the winter coming on. Please to
absolve me if the medical men should ask questions. That
is all I require, my instructions being to let you have your
way when practicable.
The Major clutched his right hand nervously. The
letter was still there.
 I thought you were trying to take this letter from me.
Don't attempt it, that's all.
 I shan't, sir. I should like to ; that, I won't deny,
seeing that it causes you much irritation. But if I was to
remove it agen your will, it might bring on fatal violence,
and in that case I should be ruined. Good-by to em-
ployment that would be. But it's trying, you must
own.
 What an infernally selfish she-devil! mentally ejacu-
lated the Major—himself so exemplary a specimen of human
disinterestedness— she evidently looks upon my life as a
mere article of her stock-in-trade. Well, it's like the
world !
So it was, undoubtedly. Very like the world, as illus-
trated by countless of its inhabitants—such men as Major
Gaveston for instance!
miss brown.
78
CHAPTER X.
visitors in fair time.
Misfortunes are proverbially gregarious. The dawn-
ing horrors of the Fair and the Cricket Match were only
ominous of greater evils to come. It was indeed fated to
be a trying day for the Major. As early as two o'clock in
the morning two of his doctors were with him.
I say "two of the Major's doctors advisedly, for their
name was Legion. The Major, from the peculiar nature
of his case, had become a sort of pet, or rather a Lion
Invalid. He was quite the fashion of the faculty. It was
rather mauvais ton than otherwise for an eminent prac-
titioner not to have given an opinion upon a case so
eminently popular. They came from far and near—by rail,
on horseback, in carriages, singly, and in groups—to try
conclusions upon the model patient, with the same sort of
enthusiasm that leads amateur bell-ringers to perform
prodigious journeys for the satisfaction of ringing triple
bob-majors in some celebrated steeple. Man, in his medical
capacity, takes strange liberties with his fellow-man. They
pulled the Major about, those eminent practitioners ; they
punched and pinched him all over, listened at his chest,
cut him open, sewed him up again, blistered him, bled
him, drugged him, starved him, fattened him, and, in short,
did everything that professional ingenuity could devise but
cure him.
The visitors on the present occasion were an eminent
74
MISS BROWN.
physician and an eminent surgeon. They were bosom
friends in private lite, but with a mutual contempt for each
other professionally. The physician—forbidden by etiquette
to interfere in merely surgical cases—almost ignored the
presence of the bullet in the Major's breast, and treated
the patient constitutionally. In the surgeon's eyes, the
invalid was merely a vile body, upon whom slashing
experiments—overruled by a combination of professional
ignorance and rivalry—should be made in the interests of
science.
On their present visit, they agreed upon one point only—
namely, that the Major had been guilty of unseemly trifling
with the dignity of science, by keeping alive so persistently,
in defiance of the most orthodox prognostications. They
served him out for this, by pronouncing him much worse;
prescribing him some singularly unpalateable mixtures, and
docking him of a few comforts. They also exercised the
Chinese justice of punishing the offending man's house-
hold, by heightening their alarms and enjoining more
rigorous discipline of surveillance than ever. Having ac-
complished this duty, the two gentlemen set off gaily to see
the Cricket Match,
The Major had not yet been apprised of his daughter's
good fortune. The knowledge had been wdthheld from
him by a master-stroke of policy on the part of the Lieu-
tenant-Colonel.
That experienced campaigner had shrewdly divined that
her only chance of victory with Arthur Morrison lay in a
decisive coup de main. But the difficulty was, to clear
the ground for action. Directly her brother should learn
that his daughter was a wealthy heiress, able to support
him in comfort and luxury, he might be disposed to declare
her the mistress of her own hand. There was no reason
to believe he entertained the slightest regard for the Mr.
Lascelles to whom Clara, with misplaced heroism, had en-
gaged herself. The Major had a positive talent for kicking
down ladders behind him; and the pecuniary assistance of
Mr. Lascellas being no longer required, that capitalist
THOMAS, UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF THE KNIFE-BOARD, BETRAYS FAMTLY SECRETS,
miss brown.
77
would doubtless be shown to the door on his next visit.
The sacrifice Arthur Morrison proposed making of his
liberty, would be no longer needed when he should learn
that Clara was a rich woman without his assistance. Mar-
garet's object was to keep the matter a secret, both from
her brother and Morrison, until such time as the latter
should have irrevocably committed himself to promises
matrimonial. She had therefore easily persuaded Clara to
keep her own counsel, until such time as the good news
should be readily confirmed: till the physicians should
have pronounced their patient able to bear the sudden in-
telligence—tidings of unexpected relief being often more
startling and intolerable than those of misfortune, &c. Sec.
The unfavourable reports of the two doctors gave Mar-
garet a colourable excuse for pleading for a further exten-
sion of time. Another day might make all the difference.
Morrison was still in the neighbourhood. He was evi-
dently well-disposed towards her. Margaret's plan was to
secure him while his Indian susceptibilities were yet fresh,
and before contact with younger and more engaging rivals
should have dimmed his admiration of her autumnal
charms.
Clara had slept but little that night. She had been too
happy. When we have suffered long and hopelessly, in
what we believe a good cause, what relief can equal the
intervention of a Deus ex machina ? Fancy the joy of a
steadfast martyr reprieved at the very stake, with a
conscience satisfied and a faith unsullied ! Clara had the
haziest possible notion of the value of the thirty thousand
pounds. But she divined instinctively that it could pur-
chase for her every blessing she coveted. That is to say,
a happy home—a beloved father restored to health, and
perhaps—a little more remotely—a reformed and loving
husband, into whose lap she could shower wealth, and upon
whose brow she could weave laurels.
She had fallen asleep at dawn. The noises in the village
disturbed her not. She slept late into the day. She was
dreaming perhaps of such a future as I have pictured, when
78
MISS BROWN.
she was awakened by the touch of human lips upon her
forehead.
Her first movement was an angry one. Possibly, be-
cause the lips were not the ones she had been dreaming
of.
 Who is that ? she inquired, turning peevishly on her
pillow, and confronting the intruder.
It was only Miss Brown: trembling very much and cur-
tysing as if she would sink into the floor.
 A thousand pardons, Miss Clara"—Miss Brown's life
seemed one prolonged and continuous apology— for taking
the very great liberty. But you looked so beautiful in your
sleep (excuse me,) reminding me so much of a—a younger
sister that we lost early, that I really could not help it. I
hope you will overlook it.
 Kiss me again, nurse. I am sure you are a good
creature.
Clara liked Miss Brown, but thought her an inexpli-
cable oddity, as did the rest of the household.
The nurse obeyed the summons with startling alacrity.
She pressed the young girl tightly to her bosom, covering
the golden head, wondering face, and snowy neck with
rapturous kisses. This done, she fell back into her usual
apologetic attitude as if waiting to be rebuked for exceeding
a privilege.
"Has my father sent you to me? Clara inquired,
lost in astonishment at the behaviour of her strange com-
panion.
 Well, Miss. Not precisely. He is asleep. The
doctors have been here and do not give very good accounts.
But there is a matter on which I have taken the liberty to
consult you myself. It appears, Miss, you have come into
some property,
 How did you learn that, nurse ?
 Ahem—from Thomas and the servants. Things get
talked about you see. And it seems the Major is not
aware of it yet.
 My aunt thinks great care should betaken in breaking
the news to him.
MISS BROWN.
79
 My own opinion precisely. But it occurs to me that
—as all the village knows it already—it might come upon
him sudden; and it would be much better for you to break
it to him at once in your gentle way. I should take it as
a great favour. I am sure it would make him easy in
his mind—and peace of mind is a great thing, Miss
Clara.
 It is, indeed, nurse. I have felt it this night for the
first time for many, many weeks. But I must consult my
aunt upon what you say.
 On no account, Miss, if you please. Miss Margaret
is affectionate, but headstrong, She has set her mind on
keeping it a secret for the present. Besides, Mr. Lascelles
has arrived.
 Mr. Lascelles!
A cold shudder passed through Clara's frame as she
echoed the detested name.
 Yes, Miss. Thomas just saw him drive up to the
Bear in his four-wheel. It is possible he may have heard
the news, and will break it abruptly.
 How should he have heard of it?
 Gentlemen connected with law business have a many
ways of hearing of such matters. It would be better to
come from you ; take my word for it.
The Lieutenant-Colonel entered the room.
"What are you doing here, nurse? that officer in-
quired, authoritatively.
 The Major has sent me up to ask Miss Clara to step
down to him, the nurse replied, with the coolest men-
dacity.
 I will follow you, nurse, Clara said.
 Directly, if you please, Miss, not to hurry you too
much. He is unusually fractious.
Miss Brown curtsied and left the room, placing a finger
on her lips as a parting signal.
 Our poor sufferer is worse to-day,' said the Lieutenant-
Colonel, with very fair histrionic assumption of feeling.
 You must on no account break the news to him for the
present.
80
MISS BROWN.
 1 will bear in mind wbat yon say, aunt, said Clara,
evasively. Miss Brown's advice had made a deep impres-
sion on her.
A few minutes afterwards she decended to the sitting-
room, into which the invalid had just been wheeled. Miss
Brown met her at the door, and whispered rapidly—
 Tell him at once. That man will be here directly.
And he does know.
 Papa, said Clara, when she had kissed the Major,
arranged his hair, bathed his forehead, and cajoled him
into some semblance of serenity by a score of indescribable
filial attentions,— will you promise to answer me a few
questions without exciting yourself?
 Let me hear them? the Major growled.
 Tou know my sole motive for consenting to become
the wife of Mr. Lascelles?
 Is it to be a list of sacrifices ?
 No, no! there is no sacrifice. That is all past and
over. It was that you might be restored to health, and be
relieved from your embarrassments, and live in such com-
fort and style as you have been used to, and are entitled
to.
 How many times a day am I to have this thrown into
my teeth?
 I do not mean that. You know it is my only wish,
all I care for in life. But if it should so chance that it
was in my power to do all this, or much of it, without the
necessity of marrying a man older than you, and whom I
can never love 
Beads of perspiration broke out on the Major's fore-
head. His wan cheeks flushed, and his lip trembled as he
said,
 What does all this mean? What do I hear? Not
marry Lascelles?
 If I could make you happy without 
 But I say you cannot, said the sick man, wildly
excited, and with a face the picture of terror.  I have
set my mind on it. He is my»only friend. I am indebted
MISS BROWN.
81
to him for the roof over my head—for the liberty to groan
here instead of in a debtor's prison. I won't hear of it.
I '11 have no ingratitude and promise-breaking in my
family. You have given your word; I have given mine.
I say you must marry him, and be all he wishes, or he will
transport me.
An exclamation, something between a groan and a gasp,
burst from the lips of Miss Brown, who dropped powerless
into the nearest chair.
 What have you said, father? Clara inquired, with
livid cheeks.
 Said ! nothing, the Major answered, correcting him-
self confusedly— I meant that I would rather Lascelles
should transport, or even hang me, than charge me with
such black ingratitude.
 Mr. Wolfe Lascelles, Thomas announced.
Mr. Wolfe Lascelles made his appearance.
The mere sight of this man, viewed in his probable
relation with a being so guileless and exquisite as Clara
Gaveston, would have sickened the most careless spectator.
He was fifty at the very least; short, puffy, and over-
dressed, with curled and dyed whiskers serving as frame-
work to a countenance that was simply repulsive. It
required no heraldic research to trace the character of
Mr. Lascelles's pedigree. Some doubt might exist as to
which of the lost tribes he belonged to. But the Hebrew
origin of Mr. Lascelles was unmistakeable.
This ornament to society had a nose like an overgrown
sausage, which would have occupied the superficial area of
an ordinary countenance had it not been kept within
bounds by two enormous flabby cheeks in the semblance of
batter puddings. The pressure of these served also to
squeeze a pair of loose leathery lips into a state of chronic
openness—a peculiarity which, with the overhanging pro-
boscis, gave Mr. Lascelles an elephantine expression that
was not attractive. The eyes of Mr. Lascelles were
scarcely perceptible; but \^hat there was of them leered
villainouslytfrom under beetling brows, and above two
82
MISS BROWN,
flaccid protuberance's resembling tlie throat of an iguana
lizard. There was a cold blooded reptile look about Mr.
Lascelles altogether. His hands, which were small and
fat, seemed to curl up with constitutional torpor into the
recesses of his coat sleeves-—suggesting the bizarre notion,
that when they Wanted to grasp anything they would ex-
pand like the gullet of a boa-constrictor. Mr. Lascelles
wore a very handsome wig, which had at any rate the
advantage of concealing some of its proprietor's rascally
forehead.
But what was least to be endured in the aspect of Mr.
Lascelles was a detestable smirk of self satisfaction. There
was something revoltingly illogical in this. Such a man
should at least have had the grace to feel ashamed of his
existence.
Mr. Lascelles brought with him a prodigiously expensive
bouquet—clasped in a jewelled band—which he presented
to Clara, with the highly original remark of  Sweets to
the sweet, venturing to kiss the recipient's fair hand as
he did so.
Clara shuddered perceptibly under the infliction, but
tried to smile and murmur a few words of civil acknow-
ledgment.
"Andhow is the sick lion? said Mr. Lascelles, seat-
ing himself and rubbing his thighs.  Still in the net, eh?
Ah ! we'll soon have you out of it. The mouse has been
nibbling away for you famously, sir, I can tell you that.
And the gnats shan't worry you any longer. Ha ! ha!
JEsop's fables, you know.
 Leave us alone—together, said the Major, waving
his hand sulkily; "we have business to dispose of.
"I am not sure that I can permit it, Miss Brown
observed, hesitatingly.  I have orders to keep the Major
very quiet to day.
"Leave him to me, nurse. I'll pacify him. I've
brought a composing draught with me, and no mistake.
Miss Clara, I never saw you looking so charming. Upon
my soul—never. But, business first—pleasure afterwards.
Au revoir !
MISS BROWN.
83
Mr. Lascelles kissed the tips of his reticent fingers, and
smirked insufferably as he bowed Clara out of the room.
Miss Brown accompanied her young mistress.
The Major and Mr. Lascelles, his friend, remained
closeted together for some time. The particulars of their
conversation have not reached the present historian. Cir-
cumstantial evidence must be resorted to in order to arrive
at a notion of its purport. Materials for this even, are,
unfortunately, scanty. It should be recorded, however,
that on the evening of the eventful day under notice—a
day rendered imperishable in the annals of Surrey Swift
Bowling, by the utter discomfiture ofMiddlesex' Catchem-
out principles—our friend Thomas made his appearance
—(for about the twentieth time since day break) at the
bar of the Knife-board, and requested change for a ten
pound note.
 What, another, Thomas! exclaimed the obliging
landlady, unlocking her till.
"Yes, another, Mrs. Watkins. And another after that,
perhaps; and a many more others before bed-time, What
then ? We're beginning to show that we can pay our way
at last. Let 'em all come, one after another. We're
ready for 'em.
Thomas had made some spirited bets on the side of
Swift Bowling. Fortune had favoured his boldness, and
he had been enabled to patronise the Knife-board liberally
during the afternoon. The general tendency of the Knife-
board was to render Thomas boastful. Under its influence
■—being a modest man, and conscious of little to brag of
in his own humble career—it was the loyal custom of
Thomas to brag for his master, whom, under less exciting
circumstances, he most cordially detested.
 Yes ! Thomas continued,  let the coals come ; or
the butcher ; or the vegetables ; or the rent and taxes; or
the whole boiling of 'em together—and see if we don't
meet 'em. We live in a small house to be sure. We
have been under a cloud. We are invalids. But we have
served a grateful country for 'all that, and are beginning to
84
MISS BROWN.
reap the benefits, enabling us to snap our fingers at the
enemy. Thank you, Mrs. Watkins. It is perfectly cor-
rect. I will take another small glass qualified with bitters,
if you please ?
"The fortune of war seems to favour your garrison
comrade, said a husky voice in the vicinity of Thomas's
elbow.
Thomas looked round stupidly for the speaker, who
proved to be a haggard evil-loOking man, in a tattered
soldier's jacket. He was drinking with a companion of
even more disreputable appearance—a swarthy, greasy-
haired gipsy fellow, with a bundle of sticks under his arm.
The village had swarmed with such characters during the
day.
 What regiment ? Thomas inquired.
 The 108th Toot, was the reply.
 Bless my soul, how extraordinary. Quartered with
ours in the Crimea. Why, we must have met somewhere.
I know your face. Where was it ?
 At the Hallma, probably. Was you there, cumrade ?
 Grot my wound there. [This was one of Thomas's
Knife-board hallucinations. He had never been in active
service.]  What will you take ?
"Hanythink with a brother in arms, and ahold Crimean.
A friend of mine here will join us. Things haven't pros-
pered so well with all of us you see. I was at the Hallma
myself, and the 'ights of Hinkerman, where I earned my
corporal's stripes. Now you see where I am.
 Hard up.
 Dreadful.
 The Major shall hear or it. We're in funds now, and
can help others.
"What Major's that, cumrade?
 My respected employer, said Thomas, maudlin.
 I've left the service to devote myself to him. Here's his
improved health. Major Gaveston! A better officer
never existed!
The man in the soldier's jacket suddenly spilt his glass
MISS BROWN.
85
of liquor on the floor, muttering something very like a
curse.
"Not Ralph Gaveston, surely ?
 That's him. Come round to the house with me—put
it into him, and I'll see that it's all right. He's rolling in
tin. •
"You're very kind, comrade, the soldier said; "but
the fact is, there's a outstanding account between that
there Major and me.
 Then I advise you to send it in at once. He's
fairly padded with bank-notes.
 No; is he really ? Well, to be sure, he do owe me a
trifle.
 Ain't it the other way, mate? put in the gipsy man
with the bundle of sticks.
 How do you mean?
 Don't you owe him summut ?
 As how ?
 Weren't it him as made you a present of that there
cat? the gipsy asked, with a grim facetiousness.
 You're right, mate. Uncommon odd we should meet
like this to be sure. And him living in this neighbour-
hood ! and in feather ! Mayhap, cumrade, you would'nt
mind taking a glass with us?
 Not the least, said Thomas, affably.  Mrs. Wat-
kins, another round, if you please ? and we'll drink to the
British Army.
86
miss brown.
CHAPTEE XI.
the major's friend from the city.
The Major's friend—Lascelles—who should have been,
and most likely was, Lazarus—emerged from his unre-
ported interview with the invalid—his fat, ill-favoured
countenance radiant with satisfaction—and expressed a
desire to pay his respects to the ladies of Eose Cottage.
In obedience to this request, he was ushered into a
little side-room, which the most sangine architect could
scarcely have expected to pass muster for a tolerably-sized
pantiy, but which the stylish instincts of Margaret, and
the tasteful ones of Clara Gaveston, had converted into a
sort of miniature boudoir, or withdrawing-room, of aspect
rather coquettish than otherwise.
He found the aunt and the niece awaiting him; both
looking pale and anxious. Each lady was deeply interested
in the issue of the recent interview.
 Has he told my father that I am a rich woman ? And
has that knowledge imparted absolved me from the dread-
ful necessity of becoming his wife? These were the
questions Clara put to herself as Mr. Lascelles entered the
room.
She glanced eagerly at the visitor's face for their answer.
She read an unfavourable one instantly Mr. Lascelles
looked more triumphant, more patronising, and more evil,
than she had ever known him. Clara's quick feminine
perceptions at once divined that she was more in his power,
MISS BROWN.
87
and a more valuable prize—therefore less likely to be re-
-linquished by him—than ever.
 Can he have told my brother the secret of the inherit-
ance P. was the question Margaret Gaveston put to her-
self, as she also looked hard at Mr. Lascelles for a solution
of her misgivings.
Miss Gaveston read the countenance of that exemplary
capitalist more favourably than her niece had done.
 No ! she answered herself (the wish being, doubtless,
father to the thought).  He looks too well satisfied.
Even if he had known of it, would he have been idiot
enough to divulge a secret that would have been ruin to
his hopes as well as to mine ? He evidently thinks him-
self in the same position as formerly. I must keep him
mystified.
Mr. Lascelles advanced on the tips of his varnished
toes, and bowed his fat body to Miss Gaveston with a
ponderous assumption of sprightliness, quite reversing the
fable of the bull and the frog. He then turned towards
Clara, whose trembling hand he seized and kissed in the
manner of an indifferent clown burlesquing harlequin.
Having accomplished this, and delivered himself of the
barely appropriate quotation  two lovely berries moulded
on one stem, Mr. Lascelles seated himself, rubbing his
knees, and glanced round the room, with considerable
eagerness, breathing (not to say snorting), somewhat
heavily.
The character of Mr. Lascelles having been pretty clearly
indicated in foregoing chapters, some passing wonder may
be excited by an explanation of his present anxiety, which
had really a sentimental origin. Mr. Lascelles was uneasy
■ as to the reception and disposition of the bouquet he had
presented to Clara. He discovered it, to be sure, placed
in a vase on a side table. This was something like an
attention. But the jewelled clasp had not been removed
from the collection and appropriated by Clara for her own
personal ornament of hair or waistband. Mr. Lascelles
accordingly felt hurt.
88
MISS BROWN.
Does this delicate irritation in such a person appear
paradoxical or improbable ? Suppose we reason it out.
Mr. Lascelles—to be frank at once—was an attorney who
had been struck off the Rolls; now a money lender, and,
as uncompromising rumour would have it, a bill-stealer.
There was scarcely a kind of villainy, within safe pale of
the law, with which he had not been notoriously and pro-
fitably associated. Could such a man, then, be susceptible
of the tender passion, and sensitive to the countless vari-
ations of breezes that blow hot or cold in its capricious
climate ? Dear reader, oblige me by breaking down that
conventional, but most illogical distinction between the
glutton and the epicure. The greater compromises the less
in all matters. It is your genuine hard-feeding Alderman
who cares most about the tit-bits of the turtle and the
choicest fry of white-bait, and who insists most exactingly
upon the purest damask napkin, the most elaborately-chased
plate, the most careful distribution of choice wines arid
liqueurs at the proper moments of the feast; who, in short,
will have the rarest quality in the largest available quan-
tity, or, woe betide the poor knaves in waiting! It is
your frugal poetical appetite alone that can, thankfully,
put up with a hard crust and cheese, with or without an
onion! This obese City Sultan Lascelles, had been pleased
to throw his handkerchief to Clara Gfaveston. He had
purchased the fair Odalisque with all her ornaments—
\beauty, intelligence, affection, and fortune. Every attribute
,was to be his, or he would certainly proceed against the
original salesman for breach of contract, to the utmost
rigour of the law, which had so often plied the bowstring
at Sultan Lascelles's behest.
However, if Mr. Lascelles was oriental in his rapacity,
he had some Eastern philosophy to keep that sentiment in
constant balance. His Sultana might pout a little ; but
at any rate she could not escape the harem. There was a
piquancy in the situation, at all events. Mr. Lascelles
smiled as he said,
 Well, ladies, I hope I shall be on a more popular footing
MISS BROWN.
89
in the establishment henceforth. I have been overcoming
difficulties all my life. A self-made man as you know.
Have hewed my fortune out of my own head. Plenty of
wood left to make another you will say. Ha ! ha ! Never
mind that. I hope I have now got over the last obstacle
to my being a thoroughly accepted visitor in my friend
Balph's house. Miss Clara, you might have thought me
unkind with my means—in keeping your father so long in
this painful position—living in a mere hovel—nothing else f
It's a wretched place.
 My father's assurance that you have been the means of
saving him from worse discomforts, sir, quite satisfies me,
Clara answered.,
 Just so; thank you. That has been one of my trials.
It has had an air of meanness ; and anything mean is what
I abhor next to anything dishonourable. But I have been
obliged to keep expenses down, you see, having a future to
think of, and more liabilities for the common cause to be dis-
posed of than you can imagine. But to-day I have squared
everything. I haye put money into his hands that will enable
him to show himself where he ought to, and hold up his head
with the best. The mouse has been nibbling, you see,
Miss Clara, on the quiet, and the lion is free. It has been
hard work, I can tell you, but I've had serious disadvan-
tages to contend with all my life, and have had to struggle
to all the prizes I have won. I'm turned of forty-three.
Ha! ha! It wants something like self-devotion and
honourable good friendship—don't it ?—to qualify one for
the position I aspire to. I don't say I've earned it yet;
but something on account, you know.
Mr. Lascelles kissed his hand, and looked very much
pleased with himself and Clara.
"Mr. Lascelles! Clara said in calm, measured tones,
rising from her seat as she spoke.
 My dear Clara—pardon me, Miss Clara, for the pre-
sent—I am all ears.
[This was glaringly untrue; there being so much of Mr.
Lascelles that was nose and mouth.]
90
MISS BROWN.
 There was never any disguise as to the motive for the
engagement I have entered into with you?
 Never. It was not flattering originally, but frank in
the extreme. And I respect frankness; being an honour-
able fellow myself, and open above all things.
Clara continued,  Are you aware that no such motive
any longer exists ?
Mr. Lascefles looked down on each side of his extensive
nose, and considered. Upon reflection—No, he was not
aware.
 I have inherited what I suppose is a very large fortune.
The acting of Mr. Lascefles on receiving this intelli-
gence was slightly overdone. He looked so tremendously
astonished that Clara was convinced he knew the whole
truth of the case.
 Bless my soul! he exclaimed,  I am sincerely de-
lighted—for your sake, for both our sakes—for the sake
of those to—That is premature I am aware. Excuse the
warmth of my feelings. But you don't suppose I'd touch
a penny of it—whatever it is ? I don't inquire the amount,
mind.
 I agreed to marry you, Clara pursued, quietly,  only
for the sake of wealth, to save my dear father's life. I
told you so. You accepted the conditions. You will
scarcely insist upon the contract now that the necessity no
longer exists ?
Mr. Lascefles applied an embroidered cambric handker-
chief to his piggish eyes as he whimpered,
 Really—to a man who has behaved honourable, and
hoped, by devotion and sacrifice, and all that, to make up
for slight disparity and unfavourable impression at the
outset—
1  If you have really acted from affection for me, Mr.
Lascefles, you will not refuse a greater sacrifice than any
'you have made to leave me in peace and solitude—a
sacrifice (if it be one) which will earn the esteem and
'gratitude of a life.
 Miss Clara, I couldn't do it. You've led me on too
MISS BROWN.
91
far. I'm a man of strong feelings: equally affectionate
and vindictive. I couldn't answer for myself under such
a disappointment.
 I would make any amends. I shall have ample means.
Take half my fortune—
"Half? Mr. Lascelles inquired, with a knowing leer.
"It would be all yours if I became your wife, I am
aware.
"By no means. A settlement on yourself, heirs, ex-
ecutors, administrators or assigns. I'm an honourable
fellow above all things, and the last to take advantage.
Hating anything meaa.
"But if I were to refuse altogether?
"In that case"—Mr. Lascelles nursed his fat chin as
he looked evilly into the eyes of his coveted bride— I'm
afraid you'd bring on a shock to your respected father,
almost worse than the one we've been trying to ward oft'
from the beginning. I am greatly in his confidence, and
know more of his suffering condition than you may be
aware of.
 You threaten me ?
 I adore you, Miss Clara. That is nearer the size of
it. Lord bless your soul! a man of my temperament
would be capable of anything rather than lose a being like
you. The home I've pictured to myself, with you at the
head of it! The position I might give you! Think of
how I love the ground you tread on! Think of what I've
done for your father-—only in the idea that he was to
occupy the same position one day in a legal sense towards
myself. I'm a selfish man. I make no disguise of that.
I want my own interest. You are my interest. Think of
what I could leave off doing for your father, and how bad
that would be for all of us—supposing, I mean, I happened
to be blighted in my heart's affections, and lose the control
over myself I am desirous of maintaining.
 You speak as if my father were a criminal, and in your
power? Clara said, at once frightened and indignant.
"Do I? Mr. Lascelles chuckled disagreeably. "I am
92
MISS BROWN.
not my own master, you see. You have so wounded me.
It may be so. Yes! it is possible that I did speak to that
effect. I am the most honourable fellow in the woiid, and
affectionate; but excitable in the extreme, and vindictive.
 Then I fear there is no help for me, said Clara, de-
spairingly.
"Do not say that, Clara! said Margaret, whose cold
but never dishonest nature had been thoroughly roused by
contemplating this unequal combat between devotion and
cynicism.  Let the two villains prey one upon the other;
you shall not sacrifice yourself to your wicked father, or to
me.
 Aunt, what is this I hear ? You my fiiend!
Clara fell weeping upon Margaret's neck, and Margaret
felt a strange sensation of goodness and consequent happi-
ness within her: was, in fact, for once in her life, on the
threshold of feeling herself a heroine.
At this juncture the sitting-room door was burst open,
and the flushed head of Thomas presented itself.
 Here's a go, neither! exclaimed the excited serving
man,  Miss Brown have been and took lodnum or some-
think. She's as dead as a door nail.
[In order to keep the several threads of our story un-
tangled, it may be necessary to state that this announcement
was made some two hours previous to the behaviour of
Thomas in front of the knife-board recorded in the last
chapter.]
MISS BROWN,
93
CHAPTER XII.
a dose of laudanum, and a few of its
consequences.
The alarming statement of Thomas proved to be correct.
Miss Brown had taken laudanum. That eccentric and
inexplicable female was discovered in an up-stairs room
(nominally her own sleeping apartment, though her un-
ceasing attention on the Major rarely gave her an opportunity
of visiting it), lying on the floor in a state of perfect un-
consciousness—an empty phial beside her, bearing the
superscription, "Laudanum: poison.
Eor once in his life (perhaps the only once) Mr. Lascelles
was the means of doing good service to a fellow creature.
He deluged Miss Brown with an extempore shower-bath
of cold water from the washing-jug, lifted her on to her
legs, requested the two ladies who had accompanied him
to pinch, push, puncture, and otherwise torture the body
of the somnolent nurse, while Thomas went for medical
assistance.
Thomas speedily returned, without medical assistance.
The nearest resident surgeon had recently quitted the
Cricket-ground in superintendence of a martyr to the cause
of swift bowling, who had fallen upon the field of glory
with a contused countenance. The village apothecary was
busy with a few of the broken heads always incidental to
the Arcadian simplicity of a British Pair.
94
MISS BROWN.
In lieu of authorised practitioners Thomas brought with
him three persons whom he had encountered somewhat
unexpectedly assembled together. These were no other
than our acquaintances Colonel Arthur Morrison; Alfred
Thorne, his nephew; and Oscar T Jones—baker,
mountebank, humbug, citizen of the world, and good
fellow generally.
Alfred Thorne had remained in the neighbourhood con-
taining such powerful attractions for him; the Cricket-
Match had served him as the shadow of an excuse for
keeping within sight of Clara's window. Alfred was him-
self a swift bowler, and well known to the principal
members of both contending interests. He had encountered
his Uncle Arthur, quite by accident, on the field of action.
They had barely had time to exchange affectionate greet-
ings (for they loved each other like father and son, brother
and brother—or perhaps I ought to say friend and friend),
when Thomas happened to run against them, loudly
clamouring the news of Miss Brown's attempt at suicide,
and his inability to obtain proper counsel and as-
sistance.
"Miss Brown taken poison, John? You don't mean
that! exclaimed Oscar Jones, who formed one of the
group. Oscar had struck up an intense friendship with
Colonel Morrison, who was himself honest and humble
enough to make a friend of a scavenger who might show
signs of good fellowship.  Colonel, oblige me by lending
a hand; and ask your nephew ? Let us run. That is not
a woman to be lost. Follow me as hard as your legs can
carry you!
Oscar T. Jones skimmed over the Cricket ground like
an obese Camilla, driving Thomas before him. Arthur
Morrison and Alfred Thome followed as swiftly as they
could.
 Pardon me, madam! said Oscar, pushing into the
house, and addressing himself to Margaret Gaveston, who
stood at the foot of the staircase.  I hear my valued
friend Miss Brown is in danger. My friend Colonel
OSCAB T. JONES MARVELS "WHAT LIGHT THROUGH YONDEB
"WINDOW BBEAKS.
MISS BROWN.
9.7,
Morrison and his nephew have kindly undertaken to assist
me. We old campaigners understand these matters. Pray
let us see the patient.
 It seems a matter of life and death, Margaret, said
the Colonel.  Can we be of service ?
 I hope so, Arthur, Margaret answered; "it is like
you to be always thoughtful of others' sufferings. My
brother need not know that you are here,—or you,
sir.
The last words were addressed, with an encouraging bend
of the head, to Alfred Thorne,
 Don't come up, said Jones, from above the bannisters.
 She's all right—quite recovered, in fact—or next door to
it. She doesn't mind me, as an old friend; but would
rather not see strangers. This gentleman and I can manage
her.
"This gentleman was, of course, Mr. Lascelles, whose
feelings our friend Jones had deeply outraged by ordering
him to "look alive, to "mind what he was about, and
so forth—>in the attempt to keep Miss Brown from sue-
cumbing to the narcotic she had swallowed.
In a few minutes Mr. Lascelles descended to the little
side room, looking somewhat ruffled, and explaining that
Miss Brown was quite well, and wide awake. She had
confessed to a habit of taking opium- lately, as a sedative
for an internal malady from which she suffered, and had
been imprudent enough to take an overdose upon that
occasion. It was an occurrence she had requested Mr.
Lascelles to inform Miss Gaveston should on no account
happen again.
 It was laudanum, of course, said Mr. Lascelles,
humorously;  but I think there must have been a little
brandy or gin at the bottom of it.
 That is unjust, Mr. Lascelles, said Margaret Gaves-
ton, anxious to appear very amiable in the eyes of Arthur
Morrison.  The poor woman's life is a continued martyr -
dom to her duty. I am only rejoiced to hear that her
7
98
MISS BltCWN.
imprudence has had no more fatal results. If it were even
as you hint, I could forgive and honour her.
 That was nobly said, Margaret, said Colonel Mor-
rison, enthusiastically.  I love and honour you for it.
Miss Brown was in the room when he said this—curtsy-
ing, trembling, and apologising.
 It shall not happen again, ma'am, said the nurse.
 It was brought on by fatigue ; and I am deeply obliged
to you for treating it so leniently. I am quite myself
now.
* * $ «- -*
 I had no idea she was such a beautiful woman!
Oscar Jones was the speaker, as he whiffed a moonlight
cigar in company with Colonel Morrison and Arthur.
 Well, she certainly is handsome, the Colonel answered.
 A little austere, perhaps; and, as some might think, too
all.
 Too tall! What, Miss Brown?
 Miss Brown! ridiculous. I was spesking of Miss
Gaveston.
 All! You wouldn't if you'd seen Miss Brown with
her cap off, as I did, when I was helping to keep her
awake. I've known that woman these two years, and
thought her middle-aged and ordinary. By Jove, she's
young and beautiful. 1 'm in love with that woman,
sir.
 Pardon me, Mr. Jones? the Colonel asked, with a
smile,  have you not been brewing too many curious
drinks, and suggesting too many ingenious dishes to the
exhausted cricketers in the course of the day?
« Why?
 Nothing; only your mistaking that poor nurse for a
handsome young woman seems to indicate a rather excited
imagination,
 Does it ? All right! I think I knotv a hawk from a
handsaw—for all that. And I shall go and serenade Miss
Brown under her window. You haven't such a thing as a
guitar about you, have you?
MISS BROWK.
90
 Not at present.
 Then I '11 do without it, An revoirJ
Mr. Jones returned to the vicinity of Eose Cottage,
where he amused himself by gazing rapturously at the
light from what he believed to be Miss Brown's window.
There, for the present, we will leave kirn
100
MISS BROWN.
CHAPTEE XIII.
IN WHICH CSC All T. JONES HAS A BAD NIGHT
OP IT.
Oltr friend Oscar T. Jones remained under wliat he
supposed to be Miss Brown's window, doubling the parts,
as it were, of Borneo and the Apothecary (he was certainly
fat enough for both together)— that is to say, half actuated
by a sudden and maudlin attack of the tender passion, and
half by a genuine anxiety as to the condition of his lauda-
Bum patient—until the light in the casement was extin-
guished. Our stricken baker then suddenly reflected that
he had been all that time looking at the wrong window—
that the chamber in which he had been privileged to attend
Miss Brown -was situated at another side of the house.
Highly disgusted with the surmise that he had been wasting
much valuable sentiment (and some choice mental quota-
tion) upon the chamber-candlestick of a cook-maid—per-
haps even of Thomas!—our friend proceeded to make a
circuit of the premises, determined to commence his devo-
tions afresh at the proper shrine, provided he should find a
lamp still burning on the altar of his divinity.
Bose Cottage was built on a rather abrupt acclivity, the
summit of which was faced by Miss Brown's chamber.
Jones was disappointed to find the upper part of the house,
on that side, in total darkness. A light, however, was
burning on the ground-floor. Oscar ascended the hill a
few paces, in order to get a full view over a tall wild-briar
hedge, and discovered this to proceed from a pair of lawn
windows reaching to the ground, and opening into a little
MISS BROWN.
101
patch of garden more secluded than that in front of th
house. These windows, in fact, belonged to the inne
parlour of the cottage, which had been converted, as w
know, into a sleeping apartment for the Major's accomo-
dation.
The blind was down; but our portly swain was inex-
pressibly delighted to see it occasionally darkened by a
Hitting shadow, in the outline of which he easily recognised
the (to him) graceful proportions of Miss Brown.
It was a lovely night—unseasonably calm and sultry—
more like the middle of July than the commencement of
October. Had Mr. Jones been in full possession of his
rellective powers, it is probable he would have been Avea-
therwise enough to know that it was a bad sort of night
for a liglitly-clad traveller to be out in : the unnatural heat
and stillness portending an inevitable storm. But, truth
to tell, the badinage of Colonel Arthur Morrison, as to the
experiences of Jones had mingled with the cricketers, and
for them. The curious drinks which his professional skill
had enabled him to compound for their refreshment he had
partaken of, not wisely, ■ but too well. The result was,
that, at this actual one o'clock in the morning, Oscar found
himself in a condition, not of physical unsteadiness—his
chest had never been more expansive or his step more
assured and majestic—but in a state of mental serenity
that rendered him indifferent to any but surrounding cir-
cumstances. He was oblivious of the past and reckless of
the future. He was conscious only of the joyous present.
The night was calm, the air perfumed, and the shadow of
Miss Brown flitted to and fro on the window-blind in front
of him.
With true Sybarite economy our friend looked carefully
around him for an advantageous position before fully yield-
ing himself to the soothing influences of the situation.
Fortune was decidedly in his favour. A giant elm had
been cut down only the day before, and the rustling
branches had not yet been removed from it. One of these
lying near the ground afforded Oscar a natural arm-chair,
102
MISS BROWN.
that oscillated pleasantly under his by no means inconsi-
derable weight. Having taken possession of this, our
hero, for the time being, ignited a cigar, and luxuriously
gave himself up to meditation.
Under the circumstances that have been enumerated—
including the cricket-match, the balmy air, the lateness of
the hour, and, last not least, the extempore elm-tree cradle
—is it to be wondered that, in a very few minutes, Oscar
had slipped from his perch fast asleep, and lay snoring
ignominiously amid the long grass; with a sheltering
canopy of foliage murmuring lullabys above him.
How long he had slept he could not tell. But he awoke,
amid what seemed the yelling and screeching of all Pan-
demonium let loose. The impending storm had burst.
The boughs writhed, moaned, and clattered above the
awakened sleeper's head, as if the giants had returned to
earth and were plying their clubs again. Torrents of rain
descended upon his up-turned face. The lightning blinded
and the thunder deafened him. The crash of falling trees
was heard on every side, and several branches whizzed like
black rockets through the air.
His first sensation was naturally of abject, unreasoning
terror. It was impossible at once for him to realize his
actual position. Pie was drenched to the skin and be-
numbed with cold. He tried to call out, but there seemed
a vice pressing at his throat;—to rise, but he was one
continuous cramp from head to foot. Moreover, he was
fairly lashed to the earth by the strong grass and brush-
wood that ram had beaten around him. He hoped that it
was a hideous dream.
Gradually, consciousness returned to him. He was able
to raise his head, and saw—a few yards below him—the
Major's cottage, with the light still burning in the window.
He remembered now. He would have made a desperate
effort to rise and fly to shelter—when all his senses were
again paralyzed by a wonder more startling than any of
the tempest terrors.
It was the sound of a human voice, speaking, in a lull
MISS BUOWN.
103
of the storm, apparently within a yard or two of his
face.
"Well, mate ! if you call this anight for business, give
me pleasure, say I.
 "What are you grumbling at? said another voice, in
the same immediate vicinity.  I didn't make the weather,
did I ? We should have caught it anywheres else, just the
same, coming on so sudden as it did. Hook it if you've
a mind.
 I didn't say that; only, I don't see there's anything
to be done. The woman don't mean to go to bed. There's
her shadder again!
 Well, it's worth waiting a bit for. We're just as well
here as anywheres. We can't get no wetter.
By this time the listener had divined that the speakers
were watching the cottage from behind the trunk of the
elm in front of which he had fallen asleep.
 But I tell you it's no use, the first speaker continued;
"the woman's on the lay before us. I see her as plain as
can be try to take it out of his bosom.
 Ah! but did she get it ?
 Well, not that timehe woke up. But she's on to it,
take my word.
 But did you see the flimsies ?
 Well, I can't say it was flimsies : but it was papers;
and precious tight hold he kept on 'em. Hows'ever, if it
was, we 've only the Johnny's word for the amount—and
he was awful lusliy, and, as like as not, putting the pot on
for a bounce.
 He'd changed three on 'em at the bar—and said there
was twenty in all; and he see the Major put 'em in his
bosom. Hows'ever it's my game. You need'nt be in it
if you don't like. 'Taint only the flimsies I do it for.
 I say mate, mind, there's to be none of — 
■  Don't you be afeared. I ain't going to touch him.
Only, if he's so easy frightened to death as they say,
maybe the sight of Corporal Tom Morris, coming on him
sudden, will do it as well as anything else; and thus
101
MISS BROWN.
there '11 be no tales tolcl. I'd like a parting word with
him. for old times' sake.
 Look! what's that rolling down the hill ?
 I don't see nothing. Bough of a tree most likely.
Hell! how it's blowing.
The object rolling down the hill was no other than
Jones, who had shrewdly chosen this lateral mode of loco-
motion to escape observation. He soon rolled himself into
a shady hollow, when he rose with much difficulty and
crept on his hands and knees, by a circuitous route,
through some sheltering brushwood to the back of the
cottage.
What was to be done ? Should he alarm the inhabitants?
That seemed the most obvious course. But a timely
reflection upon the Major's perilous condition, and con-
sideration for the ladies, checked its adoption.
Jones was a man of prompt decision, and as brave as
Ajax. He argued that the ruffians would not make their
attempt for some minutes. The hotel was not half a-mile
distant. Oscar ran at the top of such speed as he could
command—all benumbed and aching as he was—till he
reached it. He then threw a shower of stones at Morrison's
and Alfred Thome's windows, and shouted to them to
follow him at once to Bose Cottage, with any assistance or
weapons they could procure.
Having accomplished this, the valiant Jones returned
alone and unarmed to the scene of danger.
MISS BROWN.
105
CHAPTEE XIY.
MISS BROWN YIELDS.
Meanwhile a strange scene was enacting inside Eose
Cottage, in that same lighted chamber with the lawn
windows.
The personages were Major Gaveston and his unfailing
attendant Miss Brown.
The arrival of Mr. Lascelles had thrown the invalid into
a state of great excitement. The pecuniary solace brought
by the capitalist—acceptable as it was—had been more
than counterbalanced by the effect of some of his com-
munications. The Major had been in a high state of fever,
with a tendency to delirium. His mind evidently wandered,
He talked incessantly, with more or less coherence; some-
times muttering and chuckling to himself, sometimes
declaiming fiercely and distinctly.
Mr. Lascelles, his future son-in-law, was the favourite
object of his bitterest invectives.
 The rascal! the low—sixty—eighty—twenty thousand
per cent. Jew thief! he exclaimed, over and over again.
"To aspire to the hand of my child—Ealph Gaveston's
child—and she an heiress. With the alliance I could
claim through her! And to go to him ! If he were only
a gentleman, and I could find an excuse to shoot him; or
if he had not got me—
At this passage, or one to the same effect, the Major's
soliloquy on this subject would die awav in confused
grumblings.
10G
MISS BROWN.
He derived great consolation from the fact, that he had
been able during tiie day to decipher some passages in the
letter which he had so jealously guarded since the day
before. He read these repeatedly, and chuckled over them
like a delighted schoolboy over a conquered puzzle.
 Ha, ha ! he would say, "there is some sight left in
these smoke-dried eyes yet. We'll see our way vet.
Good Jones! Worthy Jones! The blundering booby,
with his tom-fool sense of honour ! To give me the letter,
above all people. Oh rare ! And poor Brett! to repent
at the last moment of the trick we have so often laughed
at together. I can't make it all out yet. But it seems
like a full confession of the letter to invite that milksop
Morrison to her chamber—the plot to surprise them, and
all the rest of it. I must destroy it, of course. But there
is more in it that I must spell out. Meantime it is safe—
safe here.
Again and again did the Major take the letter from his
breast, read, and replace it, till the reiteration amounted
almost to a monomania.
It happened, however, that on this stormy night he
woke up—at about the same time that Oscar Jones was
so unceremoniously aroused by the elements from his
Arcadian couch—and exclaimed angrily, but in a firm,
strong voice,—
 I think all the devils are in the air to torment me !
I will get this over. Nurse, bring me a taper.
Miss Brown was at her usual post in her usual dress,
but scarcely with her usual humble demeanour. She stood
rigidly erect, while there was a fire in her eyes not accus*
tomed to dwell there.
She handed a lighted taper to her master.
He drew the letter from his pocket, and was about to
thrust it into the flame.
Miss Brown's hand trembled violently, and the candle-
stick fell to the ground.
 Curse your stupidity ! said the Major !  can't you
hold a candlestick properly ? Light it again.
MISS BEOWN SHOWS THE MAJOE A GHOST.
MISS BROWN.
109
Strange to say, Miss Brown made no movement to obey
the command.
 Why, what is the matter with you ? Is it that
laudanum fit I hear of? or is it true that you do drink ?
Miss Brown made no answer. She might have been a
statue, but that she pressed her lips convulsively, and her
breath came thickly.
 Curse you! have you no tongue ?
Miss Brown had none for present use at any rate.
With an irresolute hand, the Major thrust the letter
back into its former resting-place, muttering— Perhaps
it is as well.
He then glanced furtively round in the direction of the
nurse. He had evidently some motive for conciliation, for
he made two or three feints at addressing her—resulting
in the (for him) unusually gracious apology,
 I beg your pardon, nurse, for speaking to you harshly ;
but I know you are a sensible woman, and can overlook
it. I—I want to ask you a bit of professional advice ; for,
after all, you are worth all the doctors together.
 What is it, sir ? Miss Brown inquired, in a scarcely
audible voice.
 You have attended scores of our fellows, of course, in
all sorts of cases. Now, when they get fever from an old
wound like mine, how do they generally behave ? What's
the matter, nurse ? Are'nt you well ?
 They act variously, sir, said the nurse, after a pause,
and with an effort.  It depends upon the nature of the
case.
 They rave and rant, I suppose, and let out secrets?
 Occasionally.
 And, no doubt, imagine ridiculous things, absurd
lies, and impossibilities ?
 Frequently,.
 I have felt some symptoms of that kind myself lately.
I have one particular vision that haunts me. I can't think
""hat. it means. If you should hear me talk about it, don't
lau°-k at me, that's all—though it is very ridiculous.
110
MISS BROWN.
 I will not, sir ; be assured.
There was a pause : but the Major had not done with
his subject. He resumed, with affected carelessness—
 What is that old story—a stupid thing in rhyme—
about the French officer who had injured a girl—a nun—
and thought he always saw her sitting in a chair beside
his bed; and when they brought in a real nun, like the
woman he had described, cried out, 'there are two !' and
fell dead ?
 I do not know the story, said Miss Brown, faintly;
falling back a pace or two, and resting on the back of a
chair.
 It's all ridiculous nonsense of course, said the Major;.
 but fortunately—Ha ! ha!-—there is no such danger in
my case. For the woman that haunts me—I told you it
was a woman, I think—is a purely imaginary personage—
purely imaginary. If she did exist, indeed,"—here the
Major's voice fell and trembled, and there was a wild look
of terror in his eye— and they were to bring her before
me, then the doctors would have something—Ha ! ha !—
to crow about, and I should collapse like the French
Mousquetaire. I know I should !
Why did Miss Brown's eyes glare so wildly, and why
did she clasp her forehead so convulsively, as she stood
behind the Major's chair P
 I'll describe the woman to you, if you like Miss
Brown. She is always before me when I get light-headed.
Yery attentive of her, isn't it ? A slight pale w Jinan, with
large grey eyes, bareheaded—
Why did Miss Brown whisk off her cap so suddenly and
throw it behind her ?
 With quantities of streaming brown hair falling about
her neck and bosom—
Away went Miss Brown's combs, and down came her
glorious cataracts of chesnut tresses about her shoulders.
 As if she had been suddenly surprised in her night-
dress or deshabille—
With one convulsive wrench, Miss Brown tore down the
MISS BROWN.
Ill
upper portion of her homely black dress, and hastily dis-
arranged her white under-garments.
 With a red mantle, or something—I know it was
red—thrown, as if hastily, over her shoulders—
Miss Brown glanced quickly round the room, and seized
a red cloth from a side table, which she huddled about her
shoulders as a drapery.
 Bare white arms—very white—
Swiftly Miss Brown rolled up her short white sleeves,
baring her arms to the very shoulders.
 One of them is always extended—proudly, as if
ordering a presumptuous lover away—or denouncing a
villain—a conspirator—a traitor. Very angry eyes ; and,
though she never speaks, her lips always moving, as if to.
say—
 Liar and Dastard ! shrieked Miss Brown, as she
suddenly stood before the Major—the very living woman
he had described, in all her indignant fury.
The Major uttered no sound. He glared stupidly at
the startling vision. The muscles of his face stiffened;
his jaw dropped lower and lower, and his'head fell forward
on his breast.
 My God ! it is done! exclaimed the affrighted woman.
 Let me not see him.
She drew her disordered clothes about her—burst open
the lawn windows, and, without cloak or head-covering,
hurled herself out into the tempest—wilder than the storm
itself.
112
miss broavn.
CHAPTER XV.
after the storm.
The frantic woman flew she knew not whither. She
hurried, now, along the saturated high road; now pad-
dling through marshy lanes ; now struggling through the
dripping tangled grass of pathless fields. The place was
strange to her. She had no guide, and she needed none.
She had no goal to reach—no haven in view. Hers was
flight for flight's sake. She ran but to escape from an
unsightly presence—whither, she cared not.
She was brain-sore and weary. And, as will often hap-
pen in the dull reaction consequent upon excessive cerebral
excitement, she found herself curiously analysing her own
mental condition, as if she had been an indifferent observer
of its workings. She knew that she had committed a
crime—a heinous one, as she believed—and she felt the
bitterest remorse for it undoubtedly. But was it not
strange, she asked herself, that this remorse should be so
largely tempered—almost absorbed—by a sense of light-
ness and relief ? How was this ? Was she utterly de-
praved and hard-hearted—was she a woman who could sin
and not suffer? No; she would not have that. Eor
occasional glimpses of the dead man she had left behind
her—with a mental panorama of the full consequences of
her crime—revealed to her, as by a flash of the lightning
that played around her—seemed to wither her heart within
her, and make her feel as one of the truly lost. Was she
vindictive—had she sought the death of her destroyer—
MISS BROWN.
113
did she exult in it ? No ! she would have called Heaven
to witness—had she dared—that she had struggled long
against the temptation—that she had served him when
merely to withhold her hand would have been his destruc-
tion—that she would now endure unheard-of tortures—
make impossible sacrifices to restore him to life and health
—and would at any time have given up every hope to see
him a penitent, harmless man.
This did not explain to our fugitive her comparative
state of serenity.
 It is because the thing is done, she said to herself;
 and suspense is at an end. Even an evil deed is well
over.
Then she found herself half smiling at a little pharisaic
boasting with which she had sought to console herself.
 I have not sinned selfishly, she had reasoned.  The
letter that would have re-established me in fame and for-
tune—restored me to an honest man's love—I have not
touched. I shall gain nothing by it but despair and death.
His life was a blight and a curse upon innocent lives.
With a wave of my hand I have been enabled to brush it
away. He would never have recovered—never repented.
I have but anticipated a bad man's death, perhaps, by a
few hours. Within those hours what irrevocable miser}
could he not have caused.
Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she fell on her
knees, beating her breast cruelly, and calling upon Heaven
—not to pardon her for her great guilt in sending an un-
repentant sinner to judgment, but madly imploring to be
allowed to make atonement by taking his place and penal-
ties at the Great Day.
 I wonder if very great temptations are taken into
account ? she aslced, as she once more hurried along her
unknown course.  If so, mine will surely be taken into
account. I have been grievously wronged—too sorely
tempted. But there ! Self—self again. I think only of
my perils—not his, with his heap of unrepented sins.
She had now wandered several miles, and the day was
8
114
MISS BROWN.
already breaking. The storm had ceased, and the heavy,
black clouds rolled away to give place to a genial morning
sky. The poor outcast found herself on the bank of what
seemed a tplerably wide river, bordered by a hedged path
on one side (the side on which she stood), and a thick
wood on the other. This was, in reality, a mere brook
that had been swollen to unusual dimensions by the burst-
ing of a dam in consequence of a storm during the night.
Like all nervous excitable people, Miss Brown (we will
continue to call her so) was greatly susceptible to atmos-
pheric influences. The sudden lull in the storm, and the
appearance of the calm, not yet brilliant, morning, exer-
cised a soothing etfect upon her. She sat tranquilly clown
on a large stone, and began idly plaiting her streaming
tresses into fantastic shapes as she gazed upon the swift
but silent waters flowing at her feet.
 The end of a storm ! she mused.  Is it not fit that
the storm of my life should end here too ! Yes . The
act is not yet complete. It can never be atoned—I fear
not pardoned ; but it can at least be completed. If I have
killed this man for the happiness of others, let their hap-
piness at least be assured by it. Let it not be dimmed by
the knowledge of my existence. They must never know
who I am. They must only think of me as poor crazy
Miss Brown, the nurse, who first tried to poison and
then drowned herself. They will enter upon their inheri-
tance of wealth and love, and well doing, never knowing
by what sacrifice it has been purchased for them. I have
chosen to commit a crime. I must not shrink from
punishment.
She made a step towards the gurgling, rapid stream,
now one sheet of silver beneath the morning sky.
A moment—Had she a right to dispose of her own life
to execute justice upon herself any more than upon the
criminal she had already sent to his account ? There
seemed cowardice and injustice in this. She had taken
away the life of another, to remove him from the power of
injuring those most dear to her. She now scrupled to
MISS BROWN.
115
take her own life—partly forfeited, as she considered,—the
preservation of which would have utterly frustrated the
object of her strange deed. They would discover her.
She would betray herself. In some evil moment those
dear ones would learn the truth—and they would go sadly
to their grayes haunted by the spectre of a murdered man,
and the presence of his murderess, whom they would feel
bound to cherish—forgive ; and, what was worse than all,
warp their true, honest consciences in striving to excuse.
It was not for this that Miss Brown had yielded to the
tempter!
The sun had risen, and shot forth golden rays across the
stream. The moist trees glittered brilliantly against the
light. A thousand birds clamoured on every bough. It
was the presage of a glorious day !
And the noble face of Arthur Morrison seemed to beam
with love and encouraging pity upon the poor suicide.
And Clara Gaveston's large full eyes and fondly twining
arms seemed to draw her back to life and hopefulness.
And everything around and within her seemed to say—
 Live, hope, and be pardoned.
But the inexorable self judge would accept no such
leniency. Bright mornings and happy futures were not
for her. She clasped her eyes convulsively with both
hands, as if to shut out the light; and passionately ex-
claiming,  God protect my child, and, if it may be so,
pardon me!"—leapt headlong into the stream, in the
swift eddies of which her frail body was whirled around
and around, like a faded leaf, or a broken flower.
116
miss' brown.
CHAPTER XVI.
miss brown finds friends.
A good many respectable novels on the evils of pro-
crastination would suffer serious depreciation on their
application to the case of Miss Brown's attempted suicide.
Had that distracted female literally taken  a leap i' the
dark, it is to be feared she would have been heard of no
more in the land of the living. But she had postponed
the rash act until the bright autumnal sun had come out,
tempting all animated nature to follow his example.
Amongst living creatures so tempted, and who had yielded
to the temptation, were an old man, and a boy of fourteen,
belonging to what may be called the  upper ten thousand
of the labouring million; that is to say, comfortable, well-
fed cottagers. These two—Grandfather and grandson—
had been lured from their beds at an unusually early hour
by curiosity as to the probable effects of the storm, which
they were now bent on investigating.
 My ! it's a fine sight, grandfather, said the boy—an
intelligent, black-eyed, ruddy-faced fellow—as they reached
the brow of a hillock, overlooking the running waters
already described, and commanding a wide view of the sur-
rounding country. Trees were rent asunder, or uprooted,
on every side of them ; plantations were beaten down;
streams were swollen. But the clear October sun- was
gilding everything, and nature looked like a ruffled beauty
laughing herself out of a fit of anger.
"A fine sight, indeed! said the old man, querulously.
.MISS BliOWN.
117
 I wonder if Mr. James the miller thinks his dam burst a
tine sight, or whether Squire Larkins thinks them young
poplars pulled up like so many spring onions, a fine sight.
There's no fine sight to me that means destruction of pro-
perty. That's some of your novel books and romarnces—
that is.
 I don't see what they have to do with it, grandfather,
said the boy.
■'But I do. They teach all sorts of good-for-nothing
shiftless ways—make people above their work, and what
not.
"They don't make grandmother above her work, do
they ? She's as fond of reading them as me.
 Ahem! The old gentleman adroitly hedged the
question.  Your grandmother is a woman in years, and
has a right to amuse herself as she likes. But I should
like to know what good they do you ?
 Make me want to ride out and see the world, grand-
father ; make a fortune, fight dragons, and marry the king's
daughter, replied the boy, archly.
 Lord help us !  said the old man with a groan.
 Why, look, said the grandson Bobin, in a madcap
mood, pointing to a sitting figure on the brink of a stream.
 There's the king's daughter herself! You can't see the
dragon or the giant—but they is somewhere at hand, de-
pend upon it, with the wicked enchanter looking on from
the castle turret.
"What gibberidge is this boy talking?
 Now, you shall see me couch my lance, grandfather,
put the monsters to flight, and propose marriage at once.
Don't you grumble. I'll make you governor of a province
at least. My gracious, look ! What is she doing?
The sitting figure had risen, and was standing irreso-
lately on the brink of the stream, thrusting her hair back
and bending over the waters,
 Ah! my lad! said the old man, alarmed. _  There's
something more serious there than your idle stories. Stop
her! Shout to her! Good Lord 1 We are too late.
118
MISS BROWN.
The woman had plunged into the water, and was lost
to sight.
 Not a bit of it, grandfather, shouted Robin, as he
scampered down the hill as hard as he could tear. The
old man tottered after liim in a state of great agitation.
In a second or two Robin also had plunged into the
stream, and was battling with its powerful current.
 My poor lad, my deary, the old man gasped.  And
me taking him to book not a minute ago. He'll be lost.
I shall never see him again!
Rut Robin was very soon seen again, dragging the in-
animate figure of Miss Brown to a little island in the
middle of the stream,
 She's all right, grand-dad, the boy shouted, gleaming
with exultation at this providential chance of a genuine
romantic adventure.
 She's hit her head against something, I think, and it's
stunned her a bit. Run home as quick as your old legs will
let you, and tell Gran to get a warm bed for her, and some-
thing hot. I'll bring her along.
•' Can you manage her weight, my deary ? the old man
asked, doubtingly.
 And yours to the back of it, if you like, Robin
answered, with the bounce of a true Gascon.  Run
along.
The old man, yielding to the prompt authority of the
boy, trotted off in the direction of their cottage, which was
about two or three hundred yards distant.
Robin was a little embarrassed as to the course he ought
to adopt with regard to his rescued prize. He felt that
the orthodox thing would be to kneel by her side, holding
her up in his arms, and imprint a respectful kiss on her
forehead, which should cause her to awaken up and exclaim,
 Where am I? or words to that significant effect. But
the side of Miss Brown's head was streaming with blood
from a recent wound, and she was deadly cold and motion-
less. Robin at once saw the expediency of conveying hei
to warm quarters without delay, and proceeded' to charge
ROBIN BELIEVES HE HAS RESCUED A KING'S DAUGHTER.
MISS BROWN.
121
his right shoulder with his inanimate burden, after the
graceful manner of theatrical rescuers or abductors. To
his unspeakable chagrin, he discovered this attitude to be
impracticable. He was fain to huddle his precious charge
into a remarkably unpicturesque bundle, which he could
only carry in front of him like an overgrown baby. Even
then, Miss Brown's weight, slight as it was, proved almost
too much for him.
But Bobin was not to be daunted. He waded down the
edge of the stream, Miss Brown in his arms, till he reached
a shallow fording. Then he commenced a laborious pil-
grimage homewards, growing redder in the face and weaker
in the knees at every step.
His grandfather and grandmother (a tall, gentle-looking
old woman, but many years younger than her husband)
advanced from the cottage to meet liim.
 Why, my brave boy, the old woman said, with a de-
lighted face,  my own noble deary, what is this you have
been doing?
 Such an adventure, Gran ! A real one, I can tell you !
Such a beautiful lady ! Help me with her indoors while I
run for Doctor Barnes.
Kobin had soon accomplished his errand. Doctor
Barnes would be there presently. In the mean time our
rustic hero was delighted to find that his princess had been
comfortably put to bed, and had shown signs of conscious-
ness, although she had now relapsed into insensibility.
"She's very beautiful, isn't she, grandmother?
Bobin inquired, gently fondling the patient's golden tresses,
and timidly admiring the wan, delicate hand that lay
stretched on the coverlid.
 Well, she have been, no doubt, poor dear, the old
lady answered;  and she's a pretty creature even yet.
 Even yet 1 How do you mean? Bobin asked, turn-
ing very red, and somewhat crestfallen.  She's what you
may call young, isn't she—older than me, of course—by
half a dozen years perhaps ?
 Half a dozen, my darling ! There's small deep lines
122
MISS BROWN.
on her pretty face, that shows she must have suffered many
and many a year before you were born.
"Why, how old do you take her to be ? Robin asked,
with great reluctance and hesitation, as if dreading the
answer.
 I should guess thirty-live, or thirty-seven—my deary
—thereabouts, as far as forty. These delicate fair creatures
bear age and trouble wonderfully.
Robin groaned. The Fates had dealt hardly with him.
He had rescued a beautiful lady (he would stick to that
position) from imminent death; fallen in love with her as
a matter of course—built a rapid romance, combining all
the essential details of overcoming the charmer's own
scruples as to the slight disparity between their ages; also
those of her high-born father, as to his obscure origin (the
latter, by the usual process of hewing a path to fame,
fortune, and the favour of his sovereign); and now it
turned out that his enslaver was more than old enough, by
perhaps ten years, to be his own mother !
Such events as these are tragedies in a boy's life, which
men only laugh at when they have forgotten them. I
myself have a painfully retentive memory for such matters.
I recollect, at the immature age of nine, deing desperately
in love with a stalwart ship-master's daughter, turned of
twenty-two—(I say desperately, not hopelessly, for I clung
to a lingering irrational belief that the apparently hostile
destinies would somehow reconcile themselves in my favour)
—and how I went nearly mad when she married a bald-
headed maltster, whom I believe I should hate now if I were
to meet him alive.
Doctor Barnes arrived according to promise. He was
one of those affable, gossiping practitioners who win their
way to success, as a rule, by agreeing with whatever their
patients or their friends may propose. He pronounced the
treatment of the patient in the present case to have been
unexceptionable; authorised Mrs, Jackman (such was the
family name of our new friends) to continue it; prescribed
a simple draught for form's sake, and promised to look
round again in the afternoon.
MISS BROWN.
123
Miss Brown had spoken several times; but feebly and
incoherently. Once or twice she had become petulant and
restive, and shown a disposition to escape from the friendly
custody in which she so unexpectedly found herself. But
she was weak and irresolute, and had easily yielded to the
gentle compulsion of her kind nurses.
Dr. Barnes returned in the afternoon. The patient was
dozing. The medical man approved of everything as usual,
and disposed himself for a friendly chat.
 Well, Bobin, said the Doctor, addressing the boy,
who had just come into his tea, which he was discussing
with much dejection in the corner of the cottage sitting-
room, where an extempore bed had been prepared for Miss
Brown's accommodation.  Things in your fine are looking
up in the neighbourhood.
 How do you mean my line, Mr. Barnes ?
 Eomantic adventure, and so forth—hair-breadth 'scapes
in the imminent breach of peril, and all the rest of it.
You're our great authority upon those sulijects, you
know.
 I think Grandfather's right, said the disappointed
one.  A fellow might employ himself better than in
minding such things. May lead to no good.
 What, my Bobin ! is that you ? inquired the old
lady-
 After rescuing lovely woman in distress in that manner
this morning ? said the Doctor, bantering.  I'm ashamed
of you, Bobin. You're a disgrace to knighthood. But,
as I was going to say, they beat us hollow down at Esher.
We have to put up with attempted suicide; but they've
been doing a little first-class murder down there.
"Murder!—at Esher?
Miss Brown's eyes were wide open.
 Yes, and a very desperate one. That unfortunate
Major Gaveston—most interesting surgical case of the day
—was murdered last night in his bed.
 Gracious Heavens, Doctor, how was that ?
 A burglary, it appears. Two notorious scoundrels
1*24
MISS BROWN.
well known to the police, are in custody for it, and fully
committed.
 They are innocent, said Miss Brown, in a loud, clear
voice.
 I beg your pardon, madam ; did you speak ? asked
the astonished Doctor.
 Yes ; I must save those men. Let me get up and go
at once.
 On no account, madam;—at present, at all events.
 I will not be thwarted; I have important statements
to make.
"Not a doubt of it. But all in good time. T am
responsible for you at present.
 But I have heard you say that some persons are charged
with the murder of—of Major Gaveston.
 More than a charge, I assure you. The case is
proved.
 It is false. I call upon all here to witness that I alone
am guilty of that man's murder.
The listeners were horror-struck—all but the Doctor, who
tapped his forehead significantly, and remarked,
 A little touched here. Quite natural—fever, of course.
Brom all I can learn, the business has been proved against
the fellows as clear as noon day.
 I hear you, said Miss Brown.  But I am perfectly
conscious and rational. I will save those innocent
men.
miss brown.
125
CHAPTER XVII.
miss brown in custody.
The patient was resolute. She would not be kept in
bed by living nurse or doctor. Her determination was
fixed—to rise, dress herself, and proceed to the nearest
magistrate's, with a view to giving herself up to justice,
and making a formal confession of the crime with which
she had so startlingly accused herself. She declared herself
fully equal to the physical exertion, and insisted that her
mental faculties were perfectly under her control. Doctor
Barnes was puzzled.
"Are you quite sure, my poor creature, he inquired,
compassionately, "that you are in earnest?
"Bitterly in earnest. I was distracted then—when I
yielded to the temptation—when it was done. I am not
so now.
Doctor Barnes looked at the mistress of the house for
guiding counsel. But the simple-minded old peasant
woman had been so shocked at the bare thought of having
harboured a murderess that she could only wring her hands,
rock herself to and fro, and cast intermittent glances at the
ceiling.
The doctor was reduced to the disagreeable and un-
wonted necessity of deciding for himself.
 You must remain here for the night, at all events. A
night's rest may drive these wild fancies away from your
brain—for fancies I still believe them to be. In the mean
time, to set your mind at rest, I will go round myself to
126
MIgS BROWN.
the nearest magistrate's—Mr. Austin's—and tell him what
I have heard—
 No! that will not do. You do not believe my story
yourself. You would only tell it to a third person to laugh
over it together, as the raving of a mad women. I must
go myself—or it may be too late!
"Too late for what?
"Man; have you not told me that there are innocent
men accused for my crime?
 But you can do them no good till the morning!
"No good! What is he saying? Were you ever
accused wrongfully—of a great sin? Do you know the
importance of hours; nay,. of minutes—seconds, at such a
time? I see you do not. You believe, no doubt, in the
trash that the consciousness of innocence will sustain and
console under injustice and oppression ? I tell you, it is a
goad to madness—a burning coal of fire! Conscious guilt
is far more tolerable. I have known both. I have been
branded, cast forth, pointed at, trampled, spat upon—when
I had never sinned in thought even. Do you suppose I
was chastened or bettered by the rough lesson? It
blighted me at once—hurried me on through hatred, re-
venge, mistrust of all good on earth, and mercy in Heaven,
till it brought me to the door of crime—which I have at
length passed. I am guilty now—to the last degree of
guilt. And you see I am prepared calmly, and even
thankfully, to meet the punishment that is my due. I
must save those men to-night! Oh! if those through
whose guilt I suffered had but been so merciful as to re-
lease me while there was yet time !
The above was spoken with great rapidity, and in accents
betraying the most intensely passionate excitement, but at
the same time with perfect distinctness and coherence.
There were no signs of madness there, Doctor Barnes
thought. But he was prepossessed in his strange patient's
favour, and loth to give credence to her terrible self-
accusation.
"What had we better do, Bobin? the medical man
MISS BROWN.
127
inquired, turning to that embryo paladin, in the dearth of
more experienced advisers.
Poor Eobin's heart had been choking with a variety of
rapidly-shifting emotions. The shock of Mi§s Brown's
startling confession had at first stunned and paralysed him.
He had partly—in a sullen and reluctant manner—forgiven
his rescued princess for the outrage she had perpetrated
on his feelings by turning out a middle-aged woman; but
the idea that he had served, and sympathised with an
actual criminal, was intolerable to the lad's ingenuous na-
ture. It was an ugly view of the romantic question he
had not bargained for. The Doctor's hypothesis of Miss
Brown's madness offered a solution to the problem that
Eobin was only too eager to seize upon. The patient's
flashing eyes, passionate words, and excited manner, helped
out the welcome theory. She was still worthy of his
esteem, and more entitled to his championship than ever;
for was she not afflicted—had she not been wronged ?
 I don't care if she's sixty, thought Eobin;  or if
she was as ugly as Sin—which she isn't. I'll stand by her.
It would seem that the influence of the romances and
story-bocks—so bitterly inveighed against by Eobin's
grandfather—had not had a very pernicious effect upon
our young friend's magnanimous nature. But we are too
often apt to blame the food when it is the digestion that is
in fault!
"Well, Eobin? the Doctor repeated, nursing his chin.
 Why, if you ask me, sir, Eobin answered, blushing
with a sense of responsibility, "as her mind seems bent
on it, I think we'd better take her along to Mr Austin's.
 We! Ahem! Doctor Barnes did not quite relish
the idea of being made an amateur policeman, or of escort-
ing a murderess through the village.  Hadn't you better
run round and ask Mr. Austin to send an officer?
No; Miss Brown decisively objected to this. It would
be a loss of time. She would go herself. If no one would
show her the way, she would find it.
 Look here, Mr. Barnes, said Eobin—who was prompt
128
MISS BROWN.
and business-like by nature, for all bis literary propensities
— suppose you go first and tell Mr. Austin all about it;
and I'll bring her—the lady—round in the pony-cart.
Grandfather '11 let me, I'm sure. She won't take cold
that way, and I '11 take care she don't do herself a mischief.
This solved the difficulty at once. The Doctor departed,
rather pleased with his mission than otherwise, now that
it could be accomplished without sacrifice of dignity.
The consent of grandfather (who soon made his appear-
ance, and was rapidly put in possession of the necessary
particulars) to the proposed employment of the pony and
cart was obtained with some difficulty, The old gentleman
was disposed to look upon the whole business as an offshoot
of the great story-book grievance, and to argue that it
would bring them all to trouble. But his wife humoured
him by pointing out that the heroic conduct of their beloved'
Bobin—quite in accordance with the teachings of his
chosen form of education—would probably bring him into
•the notice of great people, and lead to his worldly advance-
inent. Upon this, the old gentleman relented.
The pony was put to ; and Miss Brown, carefully
wrapped and muffled by her kind old hostess—whose
humanity was of that simple comprehensive kind that
recognizes no distinction between sufferers—took her
place in the spring-cart by the side of her young guardian.
 God help thee, my poor creature ! said the old lady.
 Thou dost not look like a sinner. I hope it is only thy
poor brain that misleads thee !
 No—no—do not hope that. Do not strive to think
well of me. I will have my punishment in full. Thank
you! thank you a thousand times over. I would bless
you—if I thought my blessing would avail. Do not
touch my hand. It is a murderer's hand.
 Then God pardon thee, thou poor lost lamb.
 Yes, yes—that is better. He may—he will. Fare-
well.
Kobin touched the pony with his whip, and the vehicle
departed with its strange burden.
MISS BROWX.
129
A few minutes brought them to the door of the Justice's
mansion. They were evidently expected. Two or three
men-servants stood at the gate—one of whom, apparently
in obedience to orders, assisted, the voluntary prisoner to
alight. With much deference she entered the house, fol-
lowed by her faithful squire, with perfect composure and
self-possession, and was ushered into a little parlour, where
sat Mr. Austin and the doctor awaiting her arrival.
 Don't leave the room, Robin, said the magistrate.
 We shall want you. And you, Madam, pray be seated.
Miss Brown declined the proffered civility. She was
bent upon self-cliastisement, and preferred the discomfort
of standing. It was a mere atom of penance, to be sure.
Still it was something.
130
MISS BROWN.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FOUND !
£c As you please, Madam ! said the worthy magistrate
(the conventional epithet in his case was no misnomer,
Mr. Austin being a kind-hearted, intelligent gentleman).
"We will hear this strange story of yours. Your name,
if you please?
 Edith Gaveston.
 Related, I presume, to the unfortunate gentleman
who—
 Has been murdered. I was his wife.
The magistrate and the doctor exchanged glances of
surprise.
 Indeed! said the former. "I understood that the
deceased Major was a widower.
 He thought so himself. I have been believed to have
been dead for many years.
 May I ask where you have been residing?
 Eor the last few weeks in his own house, under a dis-
guise which no one succeeded in penetrating. I attended
him as a nurse.
 The woman whose unaccountable disappearance they
spoke of, no doubt, said the magistrate, aside, to his
friend. He then resumed, addressing the self-accused—
 And am I really to understand that you charge your-
self with having caused the death of Major Gaveston ?
MISS BROWN.
131
 With murdering him? Yes.
The magistrate, who had pen, ink, and paper before
/him, made careful notes of all the woman's statements.
At the last, he laid down his pen, and tooking at her
searcliingly, inquired,
 How did you kill him ?
The prisoner (if she should be called so) was painfully
agitated by this question. She mastered her emotion,
however, and replied with much deliberation,
 It is a difficult thing to explain. He—the man who
is dead — was suffering from a gun-shot wound; the
bullet had not been extracted. It was well known that
any violent shock or surprise would cause his death.
 Celebrated case ! Doctor Barnes remarked, paren-
thetically.
 I have understood that. And you ?
 Appeared suddenly before him last night, with the
deliberate intention of bringing on the fatal shock, in my
own person—uttering certain words that caused him to
recognise me, or to think I was my own spectre.
 And you believe that caused his death ?
 I know it did.
 You are satisfied now, I hope, Doctor? the magistrate
asked, sotto voce.
 As a hatter ! replied Doctor Barnes, in similar tones,
touching his forehead.
<£ My poor lady, Mr. Austin resumed,  I feel both
pain'and pleasure in assuring you that you labour under a
strange mental hallucination. I cannot wonder at it,
knowing that within the last forty-eight hours you have
made two separate attempts at suicide—from what motive,
of course, I caimot guess. Your mind has been evidently
upset by some great tribulation which I will not pretend
to penetrate. But if you will try to fix your attention
carefully on what I am about to say, I believe I shall dis-
abuse you of what seems to be now your most painful
illusion. I was present this morning at the meeting of
132
MISS BROWN.
magistrates, who examined the real murderers of your late
husband (if he Avas your ^husband, and you are not deceiving
yourself in that as in other matters). Major Gaveston
Avas brutally assassinated by one of two burglars who
had broken into his house—a disbanded soldier named
Morris.
 No, no! he Avas dead before they could have arrived.
I tell you I killed him myself in the manner I have
described.
"You have dreamed this. The deed was witnessed by
no less than three gentlemen, who arrived too late to pre-
vent the bloAv.
 The blow ?
 The Major had been aAvakened from his sleep, and
Avas screaming for help and struggling Avith the ruffian
aaIio had taken some valuable papers from his bosom, and
Avho stabbed him to the heart, in order to silence him. He
and his accomplice Avere seized immediately, and made no
attempt to conceal their crime.
Miss Brown—or Edith Gaveston—had fallen in a con-
fused heap on the floor, burying her face in her hands and
sobbing hysterically.
 Can Heaven be so merciful, she exclaimed, pas-
sionately,  that my attempt failed ? But, no—no ! There
is no mercy for me. I Avas guilty in thought, and only
left the deed incomplete to tempt more souls to perdition.
I should have killed him, and borne it all!
 Calm yourself, said the magistrate, calmly raising her
gently to a seat.
 But you are deceiving me, said the woman, after a
pause, with a glare of fierce suspicion in her eyes. "You
think I am mad, and Avant humouring. Who were those
witnesses ?
 I can tell you directly. Here is an evening paper—
if you are able to read it—Avith a full report of the exami-
nation. They Avere a Colonel Morrison, Mr. Thorne, his
nephew, and a person named Jones. I had a long conver-
MISS BROWN.
133
sation with them all myself. I am not deceiving; vou,
indeed.
 Then I have betrayed myself in vain, and brought
misery on their beads for nothing. Let me go.
She tried to burst from the room. But a sign from the
magistrate was sufficient to make the watchful Bobin bar
her passage.
 Let me go, I say ! Destroy all traces of what I have
said, or my curses light on you !
 Nay, the magistrate expostulated,  convinced as I
am of your innocence, remember my official capacity. I
am bound to detain you for a short time. Doctor, oblige
me by remaining with your patient. Bobin, my lad,
follow me.
The magistrate left the room, followed by Bobin. Mr.
Austin entered his private study, where he wrote a hasty
letter, enclosing the notes he had taken of the late singular
examination.
"Now, Bobin, my lad, he said, giving the missive into
the young rustic's hand,  here's more work for you.
Drive off as fast as the pony can carry you to the Bear at
Esher. Give this to Colonel Morrison. If he asks any
questions about this poor creature you are the fittest to
answer them. If she is what she represents herself, the
sooner her friends have the care of her the better. You're
a brave fellow, Bobin, and we '11 make a great man of you
one of these days.
Bobin drove off post-haste, radiant with honest pride
and importance. His romantic investments were beginning
to realize. His princess was elderly—there could be no
doubt about that. But he had saved her life, and helped
to establish her innocence. Perhaps she had a young and
lovely sister, daughter, or niece, resembling her, who would
be happy to reward his devotion in the orthodox manner
by vicarious process.
Poor Miss Brown (we cannot dismiss the familiar title)
spent two long hours in anxious custody. Her fit of vio-
134
MISS BROWN.
lence had soon terminated, and she made no further effort
to escape. The doctor resigned her to the charge of some
kind, sympathetic women of the household, who strove by
many gentle devices to soothe and comfort the sufferer.
But the self-tormenting creature would not be comforted.
She had been spared the great sin she had contemplated,
and, in belief, ^ accomplished. But how had this great
relief been purchased? By the knowledge that all her
struggles, trials, and, last of all, her intended crime had
been vain. The man's liif—that had been the stumbling-
block and barrier-stone to the happiness of those for whom
she risked all in both worlds had been removed without
her assistance—not without her guilt. She had confessed
her crime, published her identity. Tho'se she would have
perished for would now live to curse her. Could she ever
embrace her child, having openly confessed to the world
that she had attempted the life of that child's father?
And Arthur Morrison—who had so idolized her mem.ory—
would he now as much as press her hand? Was he not
irrevocably engaged to that harsh-minded woman—to save
him from whose tyranny had been one of her chief motives
for the deed that had not been done, but that could never
be expiated? Was she even sure that she had saved her
child from marriage with that hateful man ? In short,
had anything been gained but the saving of her own worth-
less life, and the possession of a paltry heap of wealth ?
Poor Miss Brown ! She had the misfortune to possess
a tender conscience. People so afflicted should never put
themselves in the way of temptation. It is true that they
are very apt to get thrust into it by the wickedness of
others. And then, if they fall, Heaven help them !
She had been perfectly calm and tractable for some time,
and they left her alone. But as the hours wore on, and
she felt that every moment hastened the publication of her
secret—which meant the shame of her dear ones—she grew
restless and apprehensive.
She would have given worlds to be out bareheaded,
MISS BROWN.
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE TULGETGH THE CLCUBS.
battling with the midnight storm once more. She wished
herself on the brink of the swollen stream again, with no
officious Eobin to interfere between her and her most fit-
ting destiny. How would she face them ? What would
they say to her? Would they reproach, pity, forgive, or
simply look coldly on her? Was there not yet time to
MISS BROWN.
137
avoid them, and bury herself once more in some such
twilight as had hidden her and her unprovoked shame for
the last fifteen years ?
The problems were soon solved. A buzz of voices, a
hurrying of footsteps, were heard outside. The door was
thrust open, and Kobin appeared, ushering in a group of
well-known forms, with fond, radiant faces, the sight of
which oppressed her poor jaded brain like too much light.
 Pound! found! said a full manly voice, that trem-
bled with emotion; and Arthur Morrison stood before her
with open arms.
She could not resist it. Her half-crazed head had
rested upon no loving breast for fifteen years. Deserve it
or not, she must enjoy this once priceless boon. She flung,
herself into the arms of her old, faithful, grey-headed lover,
and hung listlessly and half-fainting about his neck.
Nor was this all. A hand that she had let fall heavily
by her side was seized convulsively, and covered with
tender kisses from a pair of soft lips, whose touch she
divined, as a sweet and well-known voice murmured,
 Mamma! dear, dear mamma! And I not to have
known you all these long months ! Oh! forgive me and
love me!
For a few brief, blissful moments she yielded herself to
the ecstacy of this bewildering surprise, rigidly shutting
her heart's hearing to the voice of that merciless consci-
ence that Avould have told her she had no right to it. For
a few brief moments only ! She burst frantically from the
loving embraces that entwined her, and thrusting the
masses of her hair from her forehead, exclaimed wildly—
"Do not come near me, Arthur; dear, faithful friend,
my touch is contamination. Clara Gaveston, I am your
father's murderer.
They only smiled pityingly, placed her in a seat, fondled
her parched hands, and bathed her feverish forehead.
 Dear mamma, said Clara,  they have told us of this
strange fancy of yours. But we know better—sadly,
bitterly we have learnt it.
138
MISS BROWN.
 But I tell you I did it—in thought if not in deed—
and only prepared the way for others to finish what I had
begun.
 You are distracted, my poor Edith, said Arthur;
 this terrible occurrence has unsettled your poor wits, for
the time. But we are all free now to restore you to health,
and compensate you for the bitter past.
 The past! No, no; it cannot be.
 It can—it shall.
 Free, you say! You will not marry that cruel woman,
Arthur?
 I cannot, Edith, by my oath, while you are
alive.
 And vou, Clara ? You are not tied to that
man?
 Not now, mamma. It was only for his sake. I am
free to marry Alfred. He will be here presently.
 Lead me to that couch, said Edith, vacantly.  I
think I am dying; and I hope so. I feel as though I
were forgiven. I should not be allowed this happiness if
it were not so.
 Mamma, what have you done that requires forgiveness ?
They found a letter at the time of the—the robbery—quite
exonerating you from the blame that has been so cruelly
attached to you. It was read publicly.
 It is time to die, then. A fair name left behind me—
a loving child happy, and a true Mend! Arthur, hold my
hand; and, Clara, kiss me many, many times: I have
known so few of your kisses. Heaven is very merciful!
I am happier than I have ever deserved to be.
A convulsive sob was heard in the direction of the door-
way. It proceeded from the chest of Oscar T. Jones—
who had stood respectfully in the background during the
above conversation. The manly pectoral development
alluded to was on this occasion encased in unwonted vest-
ments. The resplendent outfit of Oscar had come to
incurable grief during the storm of the preceding night,
MISS BBOWN.
139
and our stout friend, in the borrowed ornaments of a
watchman's coat and tarpaulin hat, presented the unpre-
possessing appearance of a washed-out-coal-heaver.
The emotion of Oscar found response in the sympathetic
bosom of Robin, who blubbered incontinently.
140
MISS BROWN.
CHAPTER XIX.
drawing to a close.
Be not distressed, kind reader, Miss Brown did not die.
Perhaps I should better fulfil my present intention—which
is that of relieving you from any possible suspense as to
the fate of a poor sinned-against sinner in whom I have
endeavoured to interest you—by the employment of another
tense, and by assuring you that Miss Brown has not died
yet—nay, that (arguing from the latest bulletins) there
seems no likelihood of her taking that irremediable step
for some years "to come. As we are about to part com-
pany, finally, with the variously-starred gentlewoman whose
good and evil fortunes have occupied so much of our
attention, it may be satisfactory to know that we leave her
in the enjoyment—not merely of earthly existence, but,
furthermore, of a much greater share of peace of mind,
comfort, prosperity, and consideration than she can be
brought by any device of logic or casuistry, to admit to be
her due. By what process so merciful a change could
have been brought about, it will be the business of these
concluding chapters to inform you.
Edith Graveston probably owed the preservation of her
life to the cruel kindness of a dangerous and lingering
brain-fever, which declared itself immediately after the
events recorded in our last chapter. The shock of unex-
pected sympathy and affection had been too much for her
to bear. After the years she had known of withering con-
tempt, injustice, and isolation, its effect upon her moral
MISS BROWN.
141
system proved analogous to that of wholesome food reck-
lessly administered to a starving man. For many days
her life hung as by a doubtful thread. But, as the merci-
ful caprice of her malady would have it, her mind was
spared from the pain of dwelling upon the more recent
past—remembrance of which might have changed to a
brief and agonising delirium what was permitted to be
little more than a protracted stupor—rarely broken by
active signs of harmless aberration—as free from violence
as from coherence. The few scarcely audible words she
uttered from time to time (when they conveyed any mean-
ing at all) seemed to have reference to the earlier and
happier portion of her existence. The names of her hus-
band and daughter, or any allusion to events subsequent to
her ill-starred marriage, never passed her lips. She spoke
frequently of Arthur Morrison, but it was the Arthur
Morrison of twenty years ago : a young impetuous lover,
by no means free from the caprices of his order; one to be
scolded, pouted at, driven away and coaxed back again;
not the ever-watchful, long-suffering friend, whose care-
worn brow and grizzled locks were never for many minutes
together absent from her bed-side. It was evident she
thought herself once more a spoiled and petted girl—with
a future all hope and happiness before her.
There was nothing surprising in this-. For full half the
number of years she had lived she had known no touch or
accent of sympathy or fondness. She was now surrounded
011 all sides by every soothing device that the most search-
ing affection, aided by lavish generosity, could contrive.
It was natural that her poor, shaken, half-clouded brain
should revert to a happier time, when such blessings had
been mere matter-of-course incidents in the routine of her
every-day existence.
At any rate, the beneficent hallucination facilitated her
physical recovery. But her anxious guardians saw little
comfort in this. The mind had been more rudely shaken
than the body; and of the fellow-sufferers in the conflict,
it seemed but too probable that one only would survive,
142
MISS BROWN.
A worse fate than death was apprehended for Edith Gaves-
ton—that of lingering^ mildness vegetation.
It will not surprise the reader to learn her strange con-
fession before the magistrate was universally regarded as a
groundless hallucination. Our three friends, Morrison,
Alfred Thoine, and Oscar Jones, had witnessed the death-
blow of Major Gaveston—(who had in truth struggled and
shouted for his life, with a vigour not by any means sug-
gestive of a man disposed to die easily)—administered by
the vindictive and rapacious hand of Corporal Thomas
Morris. Still the deposition of the soi-disante Miss Brown,
with the collateral evidence of our young friend Bobin and
his grand-parents, were taken into judicial consideration,
and pronounced serviceable to the ends of justice. The
facts evolved thereby explained how the Major had been
left in a temporarily unprotected condition, and how the
burglars (the lawn windows being left open by the nurse,
in her insane flight) had been enabled to effect an entrance.
The counsel for Corporal Morris's defence attempted to
establish complicity between Miss Brown and the actual
criminals. But our friend Oscar's vivid recollection and
almost verbatim report of the conversation behind the
elm-tree, served to dissipate this untenable theory to the
winds.
The fate of ex-Corporal Morris is already a matter of
history. He was hanged by the neck till he was dead. 1
do not remember that the Home Secretary for the time
being was troubled with any petitions praying for a miti-
gation of his sentence. Either the tide of humanitariasm
had rolled back a wave or so—for the Corporal's express
inconvenience—or else his case was considered a particu-
larly bad one since not a single philanthropic voice was
raised in his favour. I myself am of quaint John Wilkes's
way of thinking, and believe that the worst use to which
you can put a man—in the abstract—is to hang him.
But there are exceptions to every rule; and I recollect,
that so long as Corporal Morris was lying under sentence
of death, whenever the subject of Legal Homicide was
MISS BUOWN.
143
broached 1 had a fancy for changing the conversation. As
soon as the Corporal was hanged, I Returned openly to my
former principles, and have been a consistent advocate of
the abolition of capital punishments ever since—stipu-
lating only for the hanging of a few more people I know
of, before the much-desired reform shall come into actual
operation.
The shocking want of sympathy experienced by the
Corporal, in his hours of trial and expiation, may be attri-
buted to the discovery that he had been an incorrigibly
black-hearted ruffian from his earliest known antecedents;
that he had been drammed out of the army for an act of
heinous rascality, aggravated by an attempt to fix the
crime upon an innocent comrade—and that the previous
flogging which Major Gaveston had been so actively instru-
mental in causing him to undergo (little knowing at the
risk of what penalty!) was universally looked on in the
service as one of the few redeeming features in the deceased
officer's not particularly meritorious career. It did seem
hard that the Major, who had so many sins to answer for,
should have been put to death for having once performed
a creditable action! It was a punishment to him, per-
haps, for going out of his own line. Ne sutor ultra
cupidam.
The Corporal's gipsy associate got off easier. It was
proved, by the three witnesses, that he had striven to ward
off the fatal blow—-a severe wound from his comrade's
knife remaining to corroborate their evidence. Oscar
Jones, moreover, testified to his previous remonstrances
with the actual murderer against anything like violence.
The capital sentence, in the case of this subordinate rascal,
was commuted to transportation for life.
But how, it has doubtless been asked, ere this—with all
the pother that had been made-about the Damocles-bullet
trembling over the Major's heart, and the inevitably fatal
consequences, guaranteed by the elite of surgical wisdom,
of any sud.len or unusual violence to his nervous system-—
how came it to pass that Miss Brown did not kill the
144
MISS BliOWiV.
Major after all ? "Was it consistent with logic or ortho-
doxy, that a man, whose departure from this life had been
so systematically arranged for him, should not merely sur-
vive the terror of what he must have considered an apparition
from beyond the tomb—a terror which, as we know, had
for the time deprived him of all consciousness and outward
sign of vitality—but should have been so far revived by
the action of fresh air, or rough handling, as to struggle
and shout vigorously for the life which he clearly ought to
have forfeited ten minutes previously. How was this ?
Well; it will never be quite cleared up. There was a
post-mortem examination of the body, it is true, which—
for the purposes of justice, as establishing the manner in
which the deceased had met his death—was perfectly open
and satisfactory. But a discreet silence was observed with
regard to the celebrated bullet and its destination. Con-
flicting theories were ripe upon the subject. By some it
was asserted that the bullet had taken quite an opposite
direction to that which had been prognosticated, and had
been discovered in some unexpected comer of the Major's
anatomy, where its presence was perfectly harmless. Others,
chiefly youthful scoffers on the lower forms of the medical
and surgical schools—went so far as to hint that no bullet
had been discovered at all, and that the Major's undoubtedly
waning condition had been merely the result of an ill-spent
life, hastened to its close by a complication of wounds and
privations which a healthier man might easily have battled
through. At any rate, one thing is certain—the bullet was
not produced in Court. The best of us are prone to
error!
miss brown.
145
CHAPTER XX.
fall of the curtain.
A moment, reader, ere you put on your hat and over-
coat, crumple up your play-bill, and slam the box-door
behind you. The play is not quite over. You foresee the
end of it of course; and are impatient to go home to
supper. But, in mercy to the author—who has his mana-
ger to face before he leaves the theatre—do sit out the last
scene or two with as little noise and impatience as may be.
They are very short ones; and the actors have had especial
orders to  hurry on with the business, and get it over.
Of course, Edith Gaveston recovered her health and
sanity. I have told you that she is still alive, and blessed
far beyond what she considers her deserts. But her name
is no longer Edith Gaveston. The ci-devant Miss Brown
is now Mrs. Arthur Morrison.
'• Hey day ! exclaims that particular and exceptional
reader whom I find it so difficult to esteem, from his utter
want of resemblance to you, the proverbially humane and
indulgent, whom I am now personally addressing.  Is
this, then the end of our penitent sinner—our self-chasten-
ing culprit, who discovers after all that she has not been
found out—and thinks she had as well make herself com-
fortable, just as if nothing had happened ? Married and
settled forsooth ? Would not the discipline of a convent
cell, a wire scourge, and a horse-hair garment—or some
latter day substitute for that primitive form of self-correc-
tion—have been a more fitting termination ?
10
146
MISS BROWN.
I am not an advocate, but a recorder. I will_ not at-
tempt to defend Miss Brown (the pen slips instinctively
into the old habit) for daring to live, and, in the attempt
to shed happiness round others, bask in a strong gleam of
it herself now and then. I will simply transcribe a con-
versation in which will be found set forth some of the
reasons—1valid or otherwise—which induced her to adopt
that line of conduct.
Some five months have elapsed since the commencement
of our story. Edith Graveston—pale, almost fleshless, and
sorely disfigured by the loss of her beautiful hair—sits pen-
sively on a couch. The room is a spacious parlour in a
country house, furnished splendidly; but in a slightly
antiquated style.
It is the house in which she was bom. They brought
her here, weeks ago, when she was unconscious, that she
might awaken to life and reason, surrounded by the familiar
objects of her infancy, so that the pleasing dream of het
phrenzy might not be too rudely dispelled. Arthur Mor-
rison had done this. He had bought the house; and, with
infinite research and diligence, had collected the various
objects of furniture calculated to give as nearly as possible
the appearance it had worn in the days which the sick
woman "believed it to be still passing. It had broken the
shock of her recovery, as he had expected.
The fever dream had been long over. Edith has re-
gained her full consciousness. The memory of. latter days
is now ever vividly before her.
Arthur Morrison enters the room—booted, spurred, and
gloved. He carries a travelling-coat on his arm. There
is much lumbering, as of heavy trunks and packages, down
the adjacent staircase.
 You are really going, Arthur ?  Edith inquires, look-
ing up with large sad eyes.
 Yes, it appears so. The ship sails to-morrow mom-
ing.
 And it is I who have driven you away ?
 Ho; it is you who will not detain me here.
MISS BROWN.
147
 Oh, Arthur, if I dared—
 If you would—
 But I must not dream of such happiness.
 Nor I either, it appears. Don't know what I have
done to deserve the contrary either.
Colonel Morrison's tones were drily sarcastic. He was
not half the good-tempered, gentle-looking being he had
been a few weeks ago.
 Do you reproach me, Arthur?
"Well, candidly, if you ask me—Yes—I do. We are
both too old in years and suffering to afford this idle tug-
ging at one another's heart-strings. You refuse to marry
me—Why ?
 I am unworthy of you, Arthur.
 Allow me to be the best judge of that. An imagi-
nary crime which you never committed, and which if you
even contemplated, it was under the influence of mental
aberration, which I myself can bear witness to.
 No; no, Arthur—do not attempt to delude me.. I
remember it all too well—the temptation—the resistance,
the yielding. Do not try to cheat me into self complacency.
Indeed, indeed, I wish to do it. Nay, to my own heartfelt
conviction and remorse—I did it. I can never be your
wife, Arthur. Leave me, and forget me.
 You are getting old, circumspect, and Pharisaic, Edith,
You never loved me very much, I see.
 Oh, Arthur, I have loved you all my life through—
when they drove me mad with the lie that you were false
to me—when you came that night, and I saw that you
thought me vile and worthless, all through the lonely
unknown years—more than ever that last fearful night
when I had seen you and heard your voice after so many
years, and knew that if that man's life continued, you
would be sacrificed. If you had not come, I should have
been sane, calm, and self controlling. My fair fame—my
child even—nothing would have tempted me, but my love
for you.
 You believe you were tempted to do a wicked action
for my sake?
148
MISS BROWN.
 Yes—Oli! I was mad—was I not ? Tell mc that—
again and again.
 Will you do a good one now to atone for it ?
 Oh ! yes—yes. That is what I must do. I must go
away, hide myself again—succour poor people—warn
waverers from temptation. That is the life I must lead.
Help me Arthur.
 I will do so. Hide yourself with me. Save me from
becoming morose and broken hearted. Keep me from
going back to India. Nay, be commonly honest. Sup-
pose you were as bad as you think yourself—as worn-out,
hideous, and jaded as you are constantly telling me you
are; is not that all the more reason for making any sacri-
lice to a love that has been faithful to you through years
of evil report—through belief in death itself, and which is
now willing to accept you as if never an evil thought had
entered your brain, and not a wrinkle crossed your fore-
head ?
 Arthur, it cannot be. "You try to persuade me that
it would be for your sake ; but I feel it would only be for
my own—a selfish clutching at happinesss I have no right
to. If I could believe that it was an act of duty—
A quaint half serious smile passed over Arthur Morri-
son's face as he said,
 Suppose I were to prove to you, that unless you marry
me, 1 become a beggar on my next birthday ?
Edith had been hitherto kept in ignorance of the con-
ditions of Old Jasper's eccentric will: our sentimental
Colonel had refrained from alluding to it, considering the
subject alien, and possibly detrimental to the revival he
contemplated of his boyhood's romonce. The time had
now come for explaining it. Edith listened in astonish-
ment.
 But you can marry some one more worthy of you
Arthur.
 My oath forbids me, during your lifetime. Either
starve me, or marry me. Which you like.
 I have a fortune of my own, Arthur. Take it all.
THE TKIPLE WEDDING.
MISS BROWN.
151
"And rob the young folks—thank you. Am I to go
to India or not ?
The answer was a silent one. There was a long pause
in the conversation, interrupted only by convulsive sobs.
"You will be leaguing yourself to a wretched existence,
Arthur.
 Then, I'm hanged if I put up with it! Colonel
Morrison exclaimed, with a naif burst of schoolboy-like
indignation.  I maintain I've a right to the best looks
and the cheerfullest looks you can put on. If you've done
anything that ought to make you miserable, I haven't. Do
you suppose Providence meant us to spend all these years
—me, in loving a shadow, you, in doing humble good to
your fellow creatures, loving your enemies, and blessing
those who had cursed you, for the whole scheme of our
future happiness to be knocked over by a mere fit of mid-
summer madness, or a dose of laudanum ? I don't find
that in my view of the Christian religion, Miss Brown, I
can tell you.
 Arthur, I will live and be happy, for your sake, said
Edith, falling passionately into her staunch true lover's
arms—but seeing a reproach lurking in his eyes, she
added—"No, for my own—for my own ! I will not re-
pulse Heaven's love and mercy any more than yours.
* * % * *
There were three weddings one day, within a month or
so after the above conversation, at a quiet village church in
one of the midland counties, some hundred miles away
from Esher and its associations, so painful to many of our
characters. Yet was the familiar Surrey district repre-
sented among the spectators that thronged the churchyard.
Bobin Jackman was there in a resplendent new outfit, with
a silver watch and appurtenances, the gift of Colonel
Morrison, who had adopted Bobin almost as his own son 5
had placed him at a crack London school, and was for
sending him to College, to the Bar, into the Army or
Parliament, as the developed inclinations of the protege
might suggest. No destiny could be too high for the
152
miss brown.
young liero who had saved Miss Brown's life, Hobin s
grandfather and grandmother were of the number -the
former now wholly reconciled to the romantic dispensation,
and looking favourably on circulating libraries. Thomas
was present also—disgracefully inebriated. There are
Knife-boards even in the midland counties.
The three newly married couples marched out of church
in the following order of procession :—
1. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Morrison.
2. Mr. and Mrs. Oscar T. Jones.
3. Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Thorne.
Who and what, it will be asked, was Mrs. Oscar T.
Jones ? The  what is easily answered—a fine dashing
woman of about Mr. Jones's own middle time of life,
rustling with the stiffest silks, floating in the cloudiest laces,
and beaming with the sunniest smiles. But the  who ?
Can it be possible—those flashing eyes ! that commanding,
mien! It is the Lieutenant-Colonel!
You see, as the late Mr. Ducrow once remarked to his
stage-manager, who complained that they had no white
paper in the theatre to cut up into flakes for a snow-
storm,— If you can't snow white, you must snow
brown.
The Lieutenant-Colonel was in her thirty-eighth year,
and aristocratic suitors were at a hopeless premium. Jones,
albeit an unmistakable plebeian, and something of a char-
latan to boot, was good-looking, warm-hearted, and pros-
perous (the Pannikin oven had turned out a decided hit).
Having a valuable supply of the tender passion lying by
him, as it were, idle—his fleeting attachment to Miss
Brown having proved a misfit—Oscar had offered his
capacious heart and proportionate hand to Miss Ga vest on,
a decided bargain. The Lieutenant-Colonel, by this time
fully acquainted with the stricken Oscar's excellent qualities
and prospects, was far too old a soldier to reject so advan-
tageous a proposition.
You would hardly know Mrs. Oscar Jones, if you were
to meet her now—as you are liable to from time to time,
MISS BROWN.
153
supposing you to reside in the British metropolis—either
dashing along the road by herself in the nattiest of pony-
chaises, which she drives to perfection ; or, more frequently,
by her gallant husband's side, in the most dazzling of mail
phaetons (the harnesses of which have been objected to by
the fastidious as smacking somewhat too stronglyof Astley's,
and which, indeed, appear to have been founded on the
leading idea of the proprietor's memorable white and gold
waistcoat); nestling luxuriously in the cosiest of opera
boxes; occupying the best seats at morning concerts;
elbowing duchesses and bishops' wives at  private views 
of fine art galleries (for Oscar has a mysterious gift of
knowing everybody, and obtaining admission everywhere) ;
at Horticultural Betes; at Epsom on the Derby, and
Ascot on the Cup days; at Greenwich in the Whitebait
season; at Bichmond in the hot, lazy summer afternoons ;
in the Arcade of Covent Garden Market when asparagus
is at the largest, when peaches and grapes are at their
ripest—in short, wherever good, honest, mundane, enjoy-
ment of the most recherche description is to be had for
love and money. Within a reasonable circuit of Charing-
cross, there you are liable to meet Mrs. Oscar Jones; in
which case, depend upon it, Mr. Oscar Jones will not be
very far ofl\ I have said you would scarcely know the
lady, she looks so much younger, and is (well, there is no
other adequate expression) so much fatter. She declares
herself the happiest wofnan alive; and, bating a somewhat
unjustifiable tendMicy to rail at the upper classes, and to
ridicule all pretensions of birth or social caste, has become,
among her numerous acquaintances, a very proverb of
good nature and easy-going toleration. The winter of
Margaret's spinsterly discontent has indeed been made a
glorious summer by the sun of Jones.
You would scarcely know Alfred Thorne, either, if you
only make his acquaintance with the second chapter of this
history. He is a changed man for the better. The ample
means, bestowed upon him by his uncle and his bride's
father, he has accepted, not as a windfall to be squandered,
154
MISS BKOWN.
but as a trust to be utilised and accounted for. He works
night and day at his art, and we shall hear of him at the
lioyal Academy yet.
Whether you would know Mrs. Alfred Thome or not is
a question which I do not pretend to decide. It is, how-
ever, an experiment which (unless you are very intimate
with the family) cannot be tested just at present; for the
knocker of the maison Thome has been tied up in a kid
glove the last day or two. It is the second time such an
accident has happened in the establishment.
Should you recognise Miss Brown, do you suppose ?
Frankly, I think not. There is a placid, middle-aged
gentlewoman, whom we have known by that name, and
who resides in that midland county already alluded to,
where* the triple wedding took place—about whose de-
meanour there is little to remind you, either of the prim
sick-nurse of our early chapters, still less of the poor half-
crazed being whose troubled fortunes we have more recently
followed.
Very little is known of this lady's life in the district,
except that it is mainly devoted to unceasing efforts to
comfort the afflicted, sustain the wavering, and reclaim the
erring of every degree of rank and merit among those
surrounding her. In this beneficent course she is aided
and encouraged by a thoughtful, grey-headed husband, out
of whose society she is rarely, if ever, seen. For want of
more definite ground of objection, it is rumoured in the
neighbourhood that the kind-hearted i^dy of the Manor
House is a little wrong in her head, ana requires constant
looking after.
I had positively almost forgotten Mr. Lascelles, That
hapless capitalist was by no means disposed to admit the
Major's death as a valid reason for cancelling his engage-
ment with Clara. He first of all pleaded his unalterable
attachment, This being rejected, he hinted at an Action
for Breach of Promise of Marriage, and damages for the
wear and tear of his heart's affections, This exciting some
risibility, Mr. Lascelles lost his excellent temper, and
MISS BROWN.
155
became abusive. He told Clara she was the child of a
forger and a swindler (which was quite true), whom, during
his lifetime, it had been in his (Lascelles's) power to trans-
port at any moment. He threatened exposure of this
delicate family secret, used very objectionable language,
and in a general way forgot himself. It awkwardly
happened that Alfred Thorne was present at this scene.
He followed Mr. Lascelles out of the room, and said—
"Do you know what I am going to do to you, sir?
"What d'ye mean?
"I have considered the only means of punishing a
scoundrel of your description. The law is your own
weapon. Public opinion you are perfectly callous to; and
conscience you have none. Tour bloated carcase is the
only vulnerable part of your system. And I mean to take
advantage of your having insulted a lady in my presence,
by giving you the soundest thrashing you ever received.
When you have had it, you can give me into custody, or
bring your action.
Mr. Lascelles—when he had had it (and he had it very
severely indeed)—did both. Alfred was fined for a com-
mon assault in the first instance. At the action for
damages (hindrance from business, surgical aid, &c.) Mr.
Lascelles recovered fifty pounds. Alfred paid both sums
cheerfully, as the price of an undoubted bargain.
But a few more words, 'reader, and we part company for
the present. Have I made sufficiently clear to you Edith
Gaveston's motives for disguising her identity and encou-
raging the belief in her death ? If not, let me hasten to
do so while there is yet time. The report of her death had
originated in an accident, which she had taken advantage
of in order to pursue, unsuspected, the best means of re-
establishing her fair repute. She had joined the noble
band of hospital nurses from a mixture of motives—the
desire to good to her fellow-creatures, and that of main-
tabling a constant espionage upon the only men in whose
power it was to set her right with the world—namely, her
husband and his accomplice Brett. The temptation of
156
MISS BROWN.
being near her own child had been her principal induce-
ment for accepting the trying and dangerous position in
which we first made her acquaintance.
One more question. Was Edith Gaveston a responsible
being when she attempted her deliberate scheme of terri-
ving her betrayer to death—the recollection of which mil
haunt her mercilessly to her dying day? I myself am in-
clined to think she was not. But I have told you all that
I know positively in connection with the matter. An revoir.
157
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY*
I.
I was her husband, sure enough,
And that's her portrait—(look at it so !
'Tis more herself as the sun gets low,
And the canvas catches the fading glow)—
Home-made work, unskilled and rough—
But't was meant for use and not for show.
And it serves me well!
No tongue can tell
It's fealty's worth as the dull years go.
The artist ? None—if you ask me that—
Eor I did it myself. I never was pat
At catching the lines of a human face;
Elowers and filagree work to trace,
I learnt, in the way of my craft, years back,
And was held, as a boy, to have some knack
Of prettily planning the tints and twirls
With which the fishermen (vain as girls !)
Of our Adrian coasts delight to view
Their sail-cloths flaunting—orange and blue,
Purple, green, crimson—what harm if they do ?
I never could see, myself, the crime
In making things pretty and strong at a time.
* See the eighth novel of tl.e Fourth Day of Boccaccio's
 Decamerone.
158
THE TENT-MAKEK'S STORY.
Nay, I will even go tlie length.
Of holding Beauty the mother of Strength.
Look at those towering chestnut ranks,
Baining down food for the labourer's thanks,
And with timber enough for a fleet's best planks :
Stalwart trunk, and sheltering leaf,
Fruit, the balm for the cankering grief
Of hunger's wound! had these been known,
But for some earlier tree o'ergrown
With clusters of rosy or milk-white cone ?
I know in my brief, sweet wedded life,
Each ornament trifle that decked my wife,
Devised or fitted by thought of mine,
Did a sunbeam's work on a backward vine,
Winning forth tendril, bud and shoot—
Not for the cost—for a cap or lute,
A glove, a ribbon, a wild wood flower,
(From the right tree plucked at the favouring hour,)
To the warmth of my heart would bend her stem,
As well as the rays of an Eastern gem.
There ! I grow poet—a trade to shun !
Stout Fra Giacomo vows I'm one.
You know Giacomo—full of his fun !
Giacomo holds, by the way, with me,
And merit in ugliness will not see.
Shaving his locks he considers a waste,
And votes hair-shirts in the worst of taste.
Bare Fra Giacomo ! risen and sunk:
Fligh as a painter—low as a monk !
That picture grew in a curious way;
When my heart, was crashed on that fatal day,
My wits went wandering all astray
Nothing would serve me except to scrawl,
With a charcoal brand,
In a trembling hand,
Shapeless things on the canvas wall.
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY,
159
Whatever I scratched I effaced as soon;
But I clung to my task from noon to noon,
Best declining and food refusing,
Sail-cloth damaging, charcoal using,
Every hour my arm's strength losing,
So meaningless seemed each shadow and line,
In a madman's cell they had made me pine;
But a friend was by,
With a friend's keen eye,
Who saw in the Chaos a dawned Design.
Griacomo watched my scrawls and blurs,
And whispered,  The face you would draw is hers.
It is not a task you are fit for now;
Yet a thing to be done—I will teach you how.
My soul grew calm as he pressed my hand,
And the storm was lulled—though it had not ceased—
By a word from one I of late had banned
As a turbulent, riotous, scapegrace priest,
Wasting in holiday, wassail, and feast,
Noble faculties given of God;
A sumptuous alms the tolls to pay
Of the road Cimabue and Giotto trod— ■
Little I knew till that healing day,
Where Era Giacomo's real gifts lay !
Giacomo's trade is to heal sore hearts,
And few for the calling possess such parts;
Pictures unfinished, and rules infringed,
Properties shocked, and health unhinged;
These are results of diverting a man
Erom the path marked out on his destiny's plan,
Such as might happen to me or to you
Forced to strange tasks with our own to do.
They can't make Giacomo pray or paint,
160
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY.
He will skulk from a mass, or a half-drawn saint;
He would singe the Pope's robe with a censor swinging,
Or fall asleep while an anthem singing.
But tell of a poor soul, bleeding and bruised,
And the surgeon's aid is never refused;
Prom the glowing bowl, he will rise and fly,
(Or the warmer lure of a coal-black eye)
To his place by the side of the poor soul sick,
And remedies fit—as he runs—will pick,
Prom anything—e'en though a fiddle-stick!
He was the leech who doctored me
With the marvellous balm of sympathy;
He won me back to reason and life
By making me paint my twice-lost wife.
Tenderly, patiently, forth he drew
My memory's tale of the shape and hue
Of her beautitul face, as he showed me how
To pencil an eye and shadow a brow,
As a master teaches a boy to spell
Who has joys of his own or sorrows to tell.
But he never would give me the slightest hint
To alter, or add to, my own heart's print;
Of Salvestra's face (though he knew her well,
How his coming would waken the silver bell
Of her guileless laugh !) if I asked his view
Of a look forgotten, a curve, or hue,
He would shake his head, and would say,  Put by
Your task to-day, and to-morrow try.
I am the porter, blind as a bat,
(Strong in the legs, though,—bear in mind that,)
You are the cripple astride my back,
Whose eye must discover our journey's track;
We have voyaged enough for a single day;
We are lost if we travel in twilight gray,
With the morning's sun we can make fresh way.
THE TENT-MAKE It's STORY. 101
Tlius spoke Giacomo : Long- we toiled,
Many a canvas and panel we spoiled.
There's the result—that picture—mine!
'Twould scarce in Lorenzo's gallery shine,
But to me 'tis Salvestra's self divine;
And thus, at least, she is mine—mine—mine !
Pardon an old man's rhapsody . . .
 Go on painting ! I' faith, not I.
I'm not o'er fond of the smell of paint;
Oil and turpentine make me faint.
I worked at that—as a house I'd build
To save me from being scorched and chilled
In summer and winter, as you would do
For yourself, not me—I wouldn't for you.
That picture, there (but I've told you so),
Was painted for use and not for show.
And I couldn't well ask Fra Giacomo
To incur the pain
Of guiding again
My fingers to copy what's drawn in my brain;
Besides, 'tis the only face I know.
II.
Ill at their ease,
The chestnut trees
Are moaning against a northward breeze.
'Tis a wind will last (you may trust to me:
I was born in the city that stands in the sea),
And your dark-hulled ship now laden and manned
Will carry you soon to your strange north land.
Bright-haired friend, from those realms afar—
Though scarcely knowing what man you are,
Though we met as trader and shipman meet,
For an envious tilt with money and wares:
Since at my board you have held a seat,
You have won my heart, and will take my prayers
II
102
THE TEKT-MATCEll's STORY.
To your distant isle, where the sun, they say,
Hath never a chance to obtrude his ray :
So his envious brand can never place
On the rival charms of a human face.
Here, with never a cloud to shield,
We stand at his mercy, scorched and peeled,
Blackened and wrinkled before our time.
You of the free and sunless clime,
No jealous heavens begrudge to you
Radiant locks and eyes of blue.
Here, in spite of the Gospel page,
We are still the slave of Apollo's rage ;
Our lives he sways and our blood he fires,
As when there were neither crypts or spires.
We are more like plants that blossom and shoot
At the tyrant's will, we may not dispute,
Than men, responsible, resolute, grand,
Like the bright-faced sons of your cold north land.
You have done me service: my garrulous tongue
Hath wagged as it did when the theme was young,
When I blazoned my grief to the rude world's ear,
Unknowing the poison of scoff or jeer;
And I have not been stung by a single smile,
You have listened pitying all the while
With eye dilating and reverend brow
(Hah ! there's a tear on your eyelash now !)
Most of my visitors, fox or goose,
When they hear me speak of a picture's use,
In bark or cuckle, their mirth let loose.
Ho me another kindness yet:
We may meet, perchance, upon earth no more
I think you will not my name forget;
And would have you bear to your island shore
An impress true of my heart's life-sore.
THE TENT-MAKER5S STORY,
163
It may wile the time on the bleak, salt water,
To tell of the Florentine tailor's daughter,
Who married the tent-maker churl—and died !
The story hath travelled far and wide ;
But, with outline broken, and tarnished hue,
Not in such case should it journey with you—
Let me the picture's thits renew.
III.
Here is the sin I atone through life—
I went to market and bought a wife ;
The father of lies was at hand to prove
'Twas an honest bargain, of beauty for love,
With health in the scale, good looks, and youth—
But the ducats did it, and that's the truth.
I had watched my chance—like a jockeying knave,
Who, seeing a knight, in the tourney, thrown,
Makes merit, the palfrey lamed, to save
From the angry gash of its master's glaive,
By bidding the price of hide, muscle, and bone.
The maid I sought (though as pure as gold,
Fresh from the crucible poured in the mould),
Was maimed with sorrow, and pierced with scorn—
The poor soul's butterfly wings were torn;
Shivering, helpless, lone, and cold,
The first warm hand that would catch and fold,
Was a welcome nest to the bird forlorn!
A workman's child, she had won the love
Of a youth stepped down from a rank above.
Think not to hear the hackneyed tale
Of the Prince disguised in the shepherd's vale,
Wooing the maid with the milking pail.
The lad was only a trader's son,
Who sold the cloth that her father stitched—
Mean, unlettered, and scarce enriched
164
THE TEXT-MAKER'S STORY.
With, ducats twain to the tailor's one !
Of all the lunacies' earth can boast,
The one that must please the devils the most,
Is pride reduced to the whimsical terms
Of causing the slugs to despise the worms.
If a daughter of Medici's house should wed
With a Paduan leech (their line, 'tis said,
Owns such a source for its fountain head),
Scarce more heart-burn, sorrow, and strife,
To the folks concerned, could ever accrue
Than arose from the grief I am telling to you;
That the son of some chapman of cloth in bales
Should have fallen in love with and sought for his wife,
The child of a man who made gowns and veils
From the stuffs that gave them their means of life !
But there ! 'tis an honour to shear warm flocks,
Or to grow tall trees for the shipyard's stocks,
But a shame to fashion a shapely coat,
Or to nail a plank in a stout sea boat!
Well! they were rudely wrenched apart:
There was too much noise upon either side
(For the workman, too, has his pig's skin pride,
And the scornful ones were with scorn defied)
For the cry to be heard of a young soul's smart,
Or the falling drops from a bleeding heart.
They sent the lad to be cured in France,
With books and commerce to try the chance,
In the wintry chill of their marts and schools,
Of freezing his love—the thrice-dyed fools !
And then came I, with my huckster suit,
To blight my half of the sundered fruit.
So well had they taught their lesson of lies,
Salvestra's love, in her own pure eyes,
Had taken a pestilent, shameful guise.
She owned it a sin to have given her heart,
Without consent on her kinsfolk's part ;
THE TENT-MAKElt's STOItY, IU5
She bowed to the creed that marriage with me,
Was the happiest chance she could live to see ;
'Twas her first of duties, in decent pride,
To prove herself worthy to rank the bride
Of a man with a few more ducats to show
Than the arrogant kith of Girolamo;
That love in time from respect would grow,
That a parent's heart was the safest judge
Of a daughter's happiness. Pah ! you know
The twang of the stale, detestable fudge.
I helped the lie in my dense conceit—
Because I was young and stood six feet,
Had curling locks o'er a fairish skin,
And a book or two had, forsooth, peeped in,
Could pen a letter, and tune a lay,
(The ducats I carefully banished away
From the list of my charms as I ran tlieiu over),
I thought I could manage a heart to win
That was given away beyond recover !
took her hand with never a pang :
At my marriage feast I laughed and sang,
With a lover's joy and a bridegroom's pride;
But when the revel had waned and died,
And they left me alone by her virgin side,
A voice, whose sound
The bells had drowned,
In the chamber's stillness a hearing found ;
And it whispered clear
On my conscience' ear,
"You have stolen away another man's bride.
IV.
We dwelt together for two sweet years,
And that whispering voice was no longer heard.
Her brightening face had calmed my fears ;
So well had she striven to keep her rvord
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY.
Of paying me love for the love I gave—
She had twined her fetters with wreaths, poor slave!
And sung in her prison as sings a bird,
Careless of freedom, remembering none,
But glad that its cage has been hung in the sun.
So well had her docile mind been schooled
To stifle each spark of the burning past,
Methought I might dwell in her heart at last;
And o'er the volcano, not quenched but cooled,
I built my castles and trimmed my flowers.'
Little I knew how a few short hours
Would see them flying in red hot showers !
She sought me out at my work one day,
When her eye first flashed with an angry ray.
She said, "lam hurt, offended sore;
A man, for the past three days or more,
Hath paced our street; and I may not look
From my casement forth, but I needs must brook
The insolent stare of his shameless eyes,
And my ear is vexed by his moans and sighs.
'Tis an insult, sure, to a wedded dame,
With a loving spouse, and a spotless name.
By his strange-cut beard and outlandish guise,
I judge him one from a distant shore,
I would not tell you of this before;
But he will not cease
To distiu'b my peace—
See where he walks by the garden door !
An ominous shudder my whole frame thrilled,
And that joy-drowned voice, that had never been stilled,
Said  He has come to claim his own !
But a chuckle of Self the smart appeased,
As her flashing eye and her voice displeased
Proved that her lover she had not known.
I said,  He has come on a bootless chace—
She does not remember his very face;
So I in her heart have alone a place.
GIK01AM0 AT THE TEKT-MAKEB'S DOOl
SALYESTEA.
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY,
171
I had never a need of her finger's guide
To see where Girolamo walked outside,
1 knew he was there, but I feared him not,
So I carelessly glanced at the pointed spot—
'Twas he—I was right;
But, oh God ! the sight
That darkened an instant the entering light—
A tottering boy, with locks half white !
His back was bent and his cheek was wan,
And the seal of death was his brow stamped on;
With movement painful, heavy, and slow,
He passed the door ! As I watched him go,
I asked:  Is it I who have struck the blow ?
Saivestra stood with a cheek of flame
And averted eyes. And I then well knew
That she had not seen him—the rage and shame
Of an outraged wife had obscured her view.
Had she but looked, she had known him too !
The short-lived pride from my heart had flown,
And I asked me :  How, when the truth is known,
When she knows 'tis Girolamo come for his own ?
Soon, in the town, I contrived to learn
The tale of my rival's sad return,
Broken in health, but in love unchanged—
How that the news had his mind deranged >
Of Saivestra's marriage—and how—and how
I felt the brand, as I feel it now,
Of the murderer Cain on my selfish brow.
Y.
That night she awoke me out of my sleep,
With hurried words and with hoarse tones deep :—
 I have had a dream. Speak not, nor move,
Till your thought of this horrible dream I prove.
172
THE TENT-MAKElt'S STORY.
I dreamt that a man who had loved me long,
But who never had planned or wished me wrong,
Whom I left in the pride of his manhood strong—
Shattered in heart, in reason, and frame,
Here—this night—to our bedside came !
(How, I know not) lay down by my side,
Kissed me—my pardon implored—and died !
A horrible dream ! but an it were true,
Tell me—What should my husband do ?
I knew the truth, as I camly said,
With motionless limb and unturned head,
 I would cany the man to whence he came
To shield from the blast my pure wife's fame,
And would add to her sorrow no thought of blame.
A stifling sob her thanks expressed,
As she placed my hand, where I knew it would rest,
On the icy flesh of a dead man's breast.
I rose more calm than I sit here now,
And printed a kiss on her guileless brow :
I lifted the body—so light and thin,
And his fallen mantle I wrapped him in;
Silently, tenderly, down the stair
1 bore him out through the cold night air,
To his mother's door, and I left him there!
VI.
The morning saw me a widowed man,
(lone was the dream of my whole life's plan:
Salvestra lived, but was dead to me.
The source of her love, we had long thought dried,
Had been loosed by the touch of that dead heart's tide
And it rushed as the rivulet runs to the sea,
When the first spring kiss from the river's mouth,
Has touched it with warmth from the burning south,
THE TENT-MAKER'S STORY.
Melting tlie ice that had chained it still,
And it gallops in cataract, torrent, and rill,
Eagerly flying through valley and plain,
To meet the tide and be kissed again.
As the new-thawed spring to the sun-warmed wave,
Went Salvestra's heart to Grirolamo's grave.
She dressed herself in her duteous way,
And set to her tasks of the vulgar day,
But I bade her go forth and learn aright,
What the town said of the doings last night.
. . I did for the best. I knew they would show
The body of poor Girolamo,
In the square exposed; so I bade her go,
That a parting look she might yet enjoy
Of the wronged, the heart-broken, innocent bov.
I felt she was his by right—not mine,
And my chapman's claim I must needs resign.
She went, she saw him .... I cannot go on,
TKey he in one tomb in the crypt of St. John;
She died on his breast—let leeches say
What heart-string burst or what cell gave way.
I saw them, lying together, there !
And durst not their bodies asunder tear.
And when comes the day
My bones to lay,
It must be in a grave long yards away,
Eor I may not venture their tomb to share.
iis & & $ $
Here comes Giacomo up the lane,
Out of the convent locked again !
Punish him ? Pshaw ! in the entrance-hall
Of the new-built palace of Cardinal Paul
There's a  Holy Family, scarce begun,
(He'll have lived his time who shall see it done)
174
moonlight on the bosphorus.
That the Cardinal would not allow to be touched
By the ablest hand that e'er pencil clutched,
Save Giacomo's own. So the Prior may chafe
At the breach of his rules, but Giacomo's safe.
What mishap hath he met with now ?
There's a blood-stained kerchief about his brow,
They have broken his pate in some wine-shop brawl,
I must run to his help; he is like to fall.
MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS.
imitated from victor hugo.
The moon was calm, and danced above the wave,
And through her lattice opened to the West,
Tim Sultan's darling watched the billows lave
The jet black islets tipped with silv'ry crest.
Her careless fingers the guitar let slip,
She listens—hark ! a dull recurring sound ;
Is it the lab'ring of some Turkish ship,
Prom Cos or Scio o'er the Greek seas bound ?
Is't but the Cormorants that cleave the spray,
Hurling it from their wings in pearly showers;
A djinn accursed—tossing in fiendish play,
Into the sea, stones from the ruined towers ?
What in the harem's sacred neighbourhood
Ruffles the quiet scene ? No sea-bird's flight:
No fall of ruined fragments breaks the flood:
No lab'ring vessel's moan disturbs the night.
Those are huge sacks whence human groans escape ;
Could we but penetrate their open grave
We should perceive them writhe in human shape:
The moon was calm, and danced above the wave.
175
THE SCOTTISH KNIGHT'S LESSON IN GOOD
BREEDING*
a historic ballad.
We were six of Old Aymer's choosing,
Each heading a goodly troop ;
We pounced on a border castle,
As kites on a dove might swoop ;
(Though our dove had a beak and talons,
And could peck and claw right well,
$.s many a screaming cockscomb
And shattered wing could tell.)
Well! we stormed the place and took it;
Yet, to give the fiend his due,
We never had turned a pebble,
Or shaken a single screw
Of the stout old walls and posterns,
With all our valour and pride,
Had not a few grim Scotsmen
Bought on the English side.
They were rough, tall fellows, and churlish,
Though many of gentle blood,
(But your Scot will christen as Palace
What we term Hovel of mud.)
Men, without home or country,
And without a care, we thought,
An it were for Edward Longshanks,
Or Satan himself they fought.
* Founded on an incident narrated in Sir W. Scott's Tales of
a Grandfather.
THE SCOTTISH KXIGH'f's LESSOX
Still, fig-lit tliey did like tigers,
And the stronghold quickly tell;
Chief thanks to these valiant traitors,
Who knew their own land so well.
Urged, nathless, on by the fury
Of their feudal rancours hot;
For never could hungry wolf hate wolf,
As can hungry Scot hate Scot.
To note the horns and the shouting,
The tossing of caps in air,
The waste of the well-fledged arrows,
And the quarrels trimmed so fair,
In wanton glee shot idly—
You had thought we visitors brave
Had sure recover'd the Holy Shrine
And carried the Soldan slave !
And what was our goodly caption ?
A swamp in the Ettrick vale,
With scarcely grass for a black-faced sheep,
Or soil for a head of kale !
And a donjon flank'd with turrets,
Like a moor-hen 'mid her young !
And yet we shouted and blew our horns,
And our caps in the air we flung.
You see this warring in Scotland,
Though an emprise not to scom,
Was a goodly sample of seeking wool
And coming back home all shorn ;
There were store of foes to cope with,
And towns enow to take,
But never a cask of wine to broach,
Or a measure of meal to bake.
IN GOOD BREEDING. 177
And the guerdon fair of valour,
The conquer'd nation's spoil,
Was a plant that we found not growing
On this bleak, uncourteous soil;
THE FAIT HEEL APOSTACV.
12
THE SCOTTISH KNIGHT'S LESSON
We, in Tonraine and Gascony,
For whom the rich vines had hied !
These beaten Scots had a knavish trick,
Of spoiling their lords instead !
Though the towns were mean and slavish,
And acknowledged Edward's sway;
Yet the hill, the moss, and the border
Were our foes, as they are to day !
No marvel too (though I say it)
For of Wallace's blood the crust
On the iron Hammer of Scotland
Was fresh with a crimson rust.
But this is an old man's treason;
I speak of my younger day,
When I rode with Aymer de Yalence,
To mow down the Scots like hay;
And I hated these border rascals,
Who harrassed our march like flies,
And pilfered our wines and dainties,
From under our very eyes.
This castle in Ettrick valley,
(If I have not forgot its name!)
Belonged to a stout freebooter
Mighty well known to fame;
■Hamilton—Hepburn—Douglas—
"Something of these I think,
No matter ! he liked fair English cates,
And was prone to Gascon drink.
For scarcely a sumpter waggon
O'er the border could we bring
(An it were not strongly guarded
By an escort from the king),
IN GOOD BREEDING.
As by mother wit or magic,
He would scent it upon the road;
hall on it with his varlets,
And lighten it of its load.
Stout young fellows and hungry,
We, of old Aymer's band,^
Teamed for the goodly viands,
The wines of our southern land;
Hated this Border Mischief,
Who, to starve us, could contrive,
Yowed we would check and crush him,
Master him dead or alive.
I have said we took his stronghold,
But the bird from the nest, had flown:
He had left his mate "behind him
Brooding but not alone.
Two eaglets fair, beside her—
Delicate maids I mean—
One of a blooming twenty,
One of a sweet sixteen!
When we had told the wounded,
Watch on the captives set,
Counted the castle treasure,
(Little of that we met!)
All we could dream or think of,
We of Old Aymer's band,
Was which, in these fair maid's graces,
Highest and best would stand.
There was combing of beards and ringlet
Trimming of gloves and plumes;
Cursing for lack of mirrors,
Essences and perfumes.
180
THE SCOTTISH KNIGHT'S LESION
But we made ourselves line as miglit be,
And our chivalrous bent so proved,
That to sit at their victors' table
The ladies, at length, were moved.
But the hireling Scots were sulky,
They would neither wash nor trim;
They sat at the board in armour
Late stained by the carnage grim.
We were vexed at one, especial,
Who, in silence, took his seat,
And never opened his mouth at all,
Except, like a hog, to eat.
And our hatred all the stronger
May have been that in the fray
He had proved himself the champion
And the hero of the day.
A rough-bearded chain-clad giant,
With a tall and knitted brow—
I know, if I had the limner's art,
I could paint his picture now !
We prated of England's glory,
We sang our Provencal lays,
We won bright looks from the Scottish maids
By our courtly acts of praise.
Still, our gloomy Scot sat eating
And drinking enough for ten,
With never a smile for the gracious gifts
Of Lord Aymer's gentlemen.
He swallow'd the wine by goblets,
Lie tore the meat with his teeth;
Llis armour was worn and rusty,
With never a shirt beneath.
IN GOOD "BREEDING.
181
His hands from the fight were crimson,
Where they were not black from mud.
Said a young knight, "Lo! where a Scot eats
bread,
Mixed with his native blood /
Then the Scot laid down his goblet,
Crushing it flat in his hand ;
I can see his blue eyes staring,
And his jaws wide open stand.
'Twas a frenzy fit of passion,
Which at once he overcame,
As he said, for the first time speaking low,
 My lords, I am much to blame.
 I am but a Scot and a savage,
And your blame deserve, I wis,
In a company of English knights
To -sit in a plight like this.
But a man may mend his manners,
So I pray you let me go ;
I will strive my best in more seemly guise
Before you next, to show.
He rose from his seat, and bowed him
With reverence deep to all,
We, young men, laughed; but our leader said,
 Sir Scot, leave not the hall;
Eor a mad-cap's jest he shall pay for;
Thou hast helped King Edward's bands,
Like a liegeman true— But the Scotsman smiled,
 I go but to wash my hands
None dare impede his egress,
To smile or frown none knew;
When our leader (Balph de Warrenne,
Aymer's own kinsman true),
182 THE SCOTTISH KNIGHT'S LESSON
Exclaimed,  Bun after the Scotchman;
Eor a paltry jest like this,
The help of so brave a warrior
'Twere a shame and folly to miss.
We sought him down in the courtyard,
Out in the marsh below,
His steed was there in the stable,
No one had seen him go.
We named him a fiend or warlock,
Who had vanished up in the air ;
The wines were good and the ladies kind—
Why for one Scotsman care ?
Till a terror-struck page came gliding
Into the banquet hall,
He had been in the chapel' hiding
Behind a pillar'd wall;
He had seen the Scotch knight enter
(With a face that made him gasp),
And hug the steps of the altar
With impassioned, feverish clasp.
Had heard him pray the Yirgin
To cleanse his traitorous hand
From the hideous stain, ne'er shown till now,
The blood of his native land !
With writhing self-abasement,
He had heard the Scotsman swear
That soul and body to purify,
No penance would he spare—
That so long as a tyrant foeman,
With his heel on Scotland trod,
He would ne'er draw sword except to fight,
For his country and his God !
IN GOOD BREEDING.
 Find him at once ! cried Warrenne,
 Whether as friend or foe,
'Tis a man too good for wasting,
He is free to stay or go;
Eight in our ranks or at them,
Eor or against his land,
I would not let such a hero slip
Without a grasp o' the hand.
Boot and spur and saddle,
Over the moss and fen,
After the unwashed giant,
Yarlets and gentlemen!
Late in the night we hunted,
But the game had stol'n away—
And ne'er has he grasped an English hand
In friendship since that day.
"No news of him ? Well, somewhat, t
There were tidings of him afloat,
The first, perhaps, worth noting—
He had cut knave Comyn's throat;
A very good deed (to deny it,
At my time of life, what use !)
He is now the old King of Scotland,
And they call him Bohert the Bruce
184
ODDITIES OE GREAT MEN.
DRAWN BY KENNY MEADOWS.
COWPER AND HIS HARES.
The "ingenious Mr. Meadows, as he would have been
called in that eighteenth century which is so great a
favourite with him, might not inaptly have named his pre-
sent amusing series the "Amiable Weaknesses, instead of
merely the  Oddities, of Great Men. Hitherto, at all
events, he has confined himself to such exhibitions of
eccentricity as are calculated rather to elevate than to
degrade his heroes in the estimation of previous admirers.
And in no instance, we think, has he made so happy a
selection of  loveable weakness  as in his subject of the
present week—the well-known affection of poor Cowper for
his three tame hares, Bess, Tiney, and Puss. The reputa-
tion of these oddly selected pets is as firmly established for
what we call immortality, as that of the horse Bucephalus,
of the dog Argus, of Saint Anthony's pig, or of Doctor
Johnson's cat. Who has not read, or who, having read,
can have forgotten the poor sick poet's playfully fond, and
fondly observant analysis of the diversity of character
existing between these three animals, whom no stranger
could distinguish apart from one another P Eirst of all,
the grateful Puss, who was  tamed by gentle usage,
during an illness, and grew to love the society of his
human preserver more than those of his species (for Puss
and^Co., you must understand, were all gentlemen, in
spite of their somewhat femininely-sounding titles). Puss,
on the fine days, was as anxious for his master to  Come
into the garden, as if the poet had been a leporine Maud;
would dram impatiently on his knee, and even pull him by
the skirts of his coat till he had fairly got out of the
house.
COWPER AND HIS HARES.
ODDITIES OP GREAT MEN.
187
A hare of a very different colour was old Tiney, de-
scribed in his epitaph as—
 The surliest of his kind,
whom no arts of kindness could civilize. Him, too, the
poet nursed through a serious illness. What did old Tiney
care ? He was not to be cajoled out of his native sulks by
a paltry attention of that kind. If his benefactor took the
liberty to stroke him,  he would grunt, strike with his
fore feetj spring forward, and bite. An amiable hare,
Tiney ! We opine that had he formed one of any Zoologi-
cal collection under our controul, he would have been
brought into contact with forcemeat and currant jelly at a
much earlier stage of his existence than the date of his
actual demise. There appear to have been humorous
points, however, about Tiney. Cowper describes him as
"very entertaining in his way: even his surliness was
matter of mirth, and, in his play, he preserved such an air
of gravity, and performed his feats with such a solemnity
of manner, that in him, too, I had an agreeable companion.
A facetious old brute, doubtless! But, as a matter of
private opinion, we are inclined to think that a little
jugging would have vastly improved him.
Bess was the low comedian and acrobat of the company
— a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss, as we
have seen, was tamed by kindness. Tiney refused to be
tamed at all (a shameful incorrigible old hare that Tiney !)
But Bess  had a coinage and confidence that made him
tame from the beginning. The poet used to treat his
pets to a  carpet dance in the lonely evenings, on which
occasion, "Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless
fancy this of a hare!)  was always superior to the rest,
and proved himself the Vestris of the party. In these
Talking-Pish and Singing-Mouse days, Bess might have
secured a handsome engagement from any enterprising
Barnum.
Bess, we are sorry to say, was cut off in the prime of
life by the baneful influence of a damp bed, but not until.
188
THE WAYWAED HEAET.
he had covered himself with undying glory, by admi
ing an awful thrashing to an over-familiar cat.
Tiney grunted and grumbled on to the respectable age
of nine. Puss survived the old curmudgeon by two years,
solacing his declining days with the friendship of a spaniel
named Marquis, whom Puss took under his dignified
patronage, and who  toadied Puss like a very parasite
and a Boswell as he was.
THE WAYWABD HEART.
IMITATED FBOM ALFEED DE MUSSET.
On ! I said to my heart, to my wayward heart,
Canst not be true to one ?
To change each hour
From flower to flower
Is waste of the morning sun.
My heart replied I would not be true
To a single flower, what e'er its hue;
Changing each day with the changing year
Renders the joys of the past more dear.
Oh! I said to my heart, to my wayward heart,
Have we not journeyed long ,
Enough and more,
To feel full sore
Our pathway's course is wrong ?
My heart replied I would not turn back,
To trudge on constancy's hum-drum track;
Changing each day with the changing year
Renders the woes of the past more dear.
189
KING- HAROLD'S CAIRN.
CHAPTER I.
If we  live people  may be permitted to pay ourselves
the compliment of supposing that disembodied spirits,
being once, as Eothen Kinglake has it,  well out of the
scrape  of earthly existence—give themselves the slightest
concern as to what we may say, do, or think of them; if
we are to believe that, for so much as a moment of their
eternity, they trouble their heads—(their tails, their wings,
or whatever may be the seat of emotion in a more ethereal
state of being)—about the degree of attention or neglect
we may happen to bestow on their memories ; if the monu-
ments we raise, the holidays we devote, the books we
write, the nonsense we talk, and the lies we tell, to, on or
about them—if these operate on their feelings either one
way or the other, in a manner at all corresponding to the
inevitable effect of similar treatment on even the most
philosophical of mortals, not yet emancipated from the
earthly dilemma alluded to—in that case, I can only say
(and it is high time I said it, for this Leviathan sentence,
bristling with parentheses like the rock of Gibraltar with
cannon, is rapidly becoming as unmanageable in my hands
as the Great Eastern in those of its shareholders)—that if
the shade of Harold, son of God-win, and last of the Saxon
Kings—be not satisfied with what has been done for him
(her or it, as the case may be) in the way of sepulchral
and monumental honours, he (I will take the benefit of the
doubt and choose my own gender *) must be the most
unreasonable ghost, in or out of Hades.
* There is a sound precedent for this.  The masculine is
more worthy than the feminine, and the feminine is more worthv
than the neuter."—Lindleg Murray: Grammar of the English
language.
190
KING- HAROLD'S CAIRN.
To begin with—the celebrated "finding of his body
having been duly accomplished—they buried him in two
places at once. Either this is incontestible, or adieu to
all faith in chronicles earlier than the institution of parochial
registers. His princely remains were notoriously claimed
by the Monks of Waltham, and honourably interred in
their own abbey. It is equally certain that the victorious
Duke William, having, with that contempt for sublunary
riches which formed his most conspicuous character through
lite, refused a proffered ransom of the body's "weight in
gold, (rather a larger quantity of the precious metal than
is by some supposed to have existed in the British Isles at
the time), caused it to be buried on the sea beach, sarcas-
tically observing that, as the deceased patriot had guarded
the coast in his lifetime, the trifling accident of death need
not interfere with a continuation of his wardenship.
The remains of Harold, in Waltham Abbey, were sur-.
mounted by a costly tomb, bearing a Latin inscription,
which left no doubt as to their identity, and of which the
following is a familiar English reading :—
A fierce foe thee slew,
Thou a king—he a king in view ;
Both peers, both peerless;
Both feared, and both fearless,
That sad day was mix'd
By Firman and Calixt;
The one helpt thee to vanquish,
The other made thee languish;
Both now for thee to pray,
And thy requiem say.
So let good men all
To God for thee call.
The other burial-place of Harold was marked by a more
simple structure, bearing the more laconic, but equally
sympathetic and unmistakeable legend—■
"HAROLD INFELIX.
You see there can be no doubt whatever of his having
been buried in both places simultaneously.
KING HAKOLD'S CA1KN.
191
The reflection may be galling to some of us envious
common people, for whom  two paces of the vilest earth 
in a single parish churchyard—or, more degrading still, in
a London Joint-Stock Company's cemetery—will, one of
these early fine mornings, be "found sufficient. But
Harold Infelix (who, in spite of Sir Bulwer Lytton's elo-
quent championship, appears to have united to that senti-
mental character some of the most salient points of Harold
Mendax and Harold Improbus) was anything but a com-
mon man. Nobody appears to have felt this more strongly
than his victorious Norman adversary. Whatever political
reasons that intelligent marauder may have felt for de-
grading the memory of Harold in his,own time, the esprit
de corps between the 4wo strong-limbed^ big brained
usurpers (the successful and the vanquished) was powerful
and exacting. Hawks must pick hawks' eyes out occa-
sionally, and Hawk William had been reluctantly com-
pelled to have Hawk Harold's eye picked out in a very
startling and conclusive manner. But they were birds of
a congenial feather after all; and Hawk Harold had no
sooner been stricken down—beyond all power of mischief
to Norman sparrows—than Hawk William proceeded to
have the noble quarry stuffed and preserved in the costliest
glass case the times could afford. What were a mere
brace of tombs—whether one, or both, or neither—con-
tained any of the mortal debris of the illustrious Saxon ?
A nobler monument was wanted to perpetuate the death-
blow of so formidable a rival! I suppose I am not pro-
mulgating a startlingly new theory when I hint that Wil-
liam the Norman was of Scandinavian or Northern descent.
It was a traditionary practice of his, and, indeed of all his
primitive races in the North of Europe, before the arts of
writing and tapestry-working had been introduced among
them, to commemorate every great event, whether crime,
calamity, or benefit, by the erection of a heap of stones,
to which every passer-by was expected to contribute his
pebble.
These "inarticulate, and by no means undebatable
192
king harold's cairn.
monuments were called  cairns."* William was a highly
educated prince for the time—he could even write his name.
But he was faithful to the traditions of his Viking ances-
tors; and he considered that he could not more appropri-
ately do honour to his fallen' foe (and thereby to himself
as the victor), than by the erection, on the spot of his
decease, of the most splendid Cairn that had ever been
raised in the British Islands. Not a mere heap of un-
hewn rock and uncemented shingle, understand, but the
old Bunic idea fancifully elaborated by all the refinements
of what was then modern taste and luxury—no more re-
sembling the old granite mounds of Scotland and Norway,
than the Eeverend Lavender Millflowers resembles Apostle
Peter, the fisherman. With William to resolve was to do.
He piled up such a heap of stones over the spot where
Harold fell, as will serve to remind the world of this event
till—till—till when ? Suppose we say till the next sue-
cessful continental invasion of these islands, which is not
likely to take place in a very great hurry; so you may
join your rifle clubs with the safest impunity.
Some ascetic personages accused Duke William of vain-
gloriousness in the construction of this monument. Gross
injustice ! The worthy man had simply exerted himself—
even to the extent of loosening his purse strings (or the
purse strings he had converted to his use), to erect such an
undying tombstone over a dangerous adversary, as none of
his favoured sons had the decency to build up over the
pile of hot cinders where upon he in his turn came to irre-
mediable grief.
Both the tombstones have succumbed to time; but the
heap of stones—the Cairn—has held its ground for eight
centuries, and is good for eight more at the very least.
*  Cairn, n. [Welsh Cam], a heap of stones. The name
commonly given to those heaps of stones, common in Great
Britain, particularly in Scotland and Wales * * *
Some were erected to commemorate some great event, and others
appear to have been intended for religious rites—BlacTcie'a
Imperial Dictionary.
KING JlAltOLD's CAIUN. 103
Save us from our friends, and commend us to our enemies!
The monument erected by William the Successful in me-
mory of Harold the Unfortunate, will see us all out—aye !
and our great-grand-cliildren's remote posterity.
I have just returned from a visit to King Harold's
Caim, and pronounce it in a most satisfactory state of pre-
servation. The original stones collected by Duke William's
own hand are there still, with heaps and heaps added by
subsequent monarchs who have passed that way since his
time. And a goodly pile, in truth, they have made of it.
The spirit of Harold must be, indeed, a perturbed one, not
to be satisfied with honour done to it (I beg your pardon,
to him: I am forgetting my genders).
There! It is time that the metaphorical mask were
thrown off. You know very well there is no edifice in
England known as  King Harold's Cairn. You know
that I am only speaking of our schoolboy acquaintance,
Battle Abbey, which I have just visited for the first time
in my life. I find that you are angry at my lingering so
long on the threshold of a familiar subject. Still, as Mr.
Brittles (in Oliver Twist) observes, when, with some show
of reason, accused of a tendency to cowardice,  you needn't
take up a man so bounceably. I do mean Battle Abbey.
I have just been there—second-class from Hastings,
return ticket, and no smoking allowed. What then ?
Allow a party to speak.
I had perhaps better proceed more formally. On second
reflection I will. Hastings is a seaport town, situated in
A the county of Sussex. Various and conflicting
1860 °P^ons exist as to its origin and antiquity.
These we will not discuss. Suffice, it that the
present writer, with a view to divesting himself of more
rheumatism than he cares about, and a great deal more bile
than he knows what to do with, at present occupies a
modest lodging in the said township—commencing with
the East Parade, and terminating with a week's notice.
He is subjected to the irresponsible, yet benevolent
despotism of an inexorable landlady, who, in self-compensa-
IB
194
king hakold's cairn.
tion for the privileges of moderate charges and truly
maternal solicitude, asserts the privilege of "editing ' her
lodger as if he were no more than a weekly newspaper.
It is a fact! I dare not eat what I like ! I dare not sit
up late ! She stops my candles at a certain ridiculously
early hour! In vain I plead London usages, and the
capricious necessities of literary inspiration. Her answer
is invariable—
 Piddle! you've come here to get well—and what will
your wife think of me if 1 send you back no better than
you came? Not another candle to-night, if I know it;
and take your broth while it's warm.
I am helplessly malleable in her hands (the worst of it is
she is always right, and I have no rational excuse for
coming to a row). Yesterday she said—
 The mackerel-boats have come in, and you shall eat
one broiled—for lunch (she meant a mackerel, not a boat).
 It's no use your saying you don't care about fish—we'll
soon cure you of that in Hastings—it will do you a world
of good.
I did eat a broiled mackerel for lunch, and it did do me
a world of good—for I seemed, somehow, to digest it.
But I objected to the dictatorial treatment, more especially
when I found it justified by the result. This morning
she knocked me up at eight (my usual hour for rising
is ten). I inquired the reason for the unusual dis-
turbance.
"Why, it's like a summer's morning, and this is the
only day in the week for seeing Battle Abbey. It will take
you a good hour to dress, another to breakfast, and I daresay
there will be a heap of letters to answer. There's only one
train, and that goes at 12Y5. Now, don't go to sleep
again, Sir—if you please.
Prom which I understood that I was expected to devote
this day to the inspection of Battle Abbey, an experience
I had not before contemplated. Docility is my cardinal
virtue. I obeyed, rose, dressed, breakfasted; answered
my letters ; pocketed as many sandwiches as my editress
thought good for me; suffered myself to be wrapped up
king Harold's cairn.
195
in such shawls and overcoats as she approved, and hobbled,
stick in hand, towards the railway station. I was on no
account to travel first or third class; both were ruinous—
the former to purse, the latter to constitution. Also, I was
to be careful to return by the 3"50 train, in time for a hot
dinner, or I should catch it. I bore all these injunctions
carefully in mind, and took my return ticket from Hastings
to Battle.
In less than half an hour, with the maternal admonitions
of my Hastings landlady still ringing, and the dull echoes
of my last week's London existence reverberating in my
ears, I found myself, as by some unexplained magic,
standing in the midst of Battle Abbey and the eleventh
century.
King Harold's Cairn, I have called it! A heap of
stones, to mark the scene of a clever,  plucky fellow's
discomfiture. A huge clialk-mark on Time's slate, to
record the destruction of a great fact. Well! to use the
modern idiom, it was a chalk ; both for William, Harold's
Conqueror, and Time, William's Conqueror, to have
obliterated—or at any rate to have knocked out of shape—
that big, blundering chaos—so pregnant, nevertheless,
with the seeds of the comeliest and strongest of civiliza-
tion's giant sons, known as the Anglo-Saxon Monarchy.
We are in the habit of asking (or certain enterprising
courtly guides are in the habit of asking for us),  Who is
who, in 1860 ? It is a foggy problem, viewed per se,
even with our brilliant modem lights. But the vexed
question of nineteenth century law, rank, and precedence—
appears obvious of solution—even as that still occasionally
debatable proposition that two and«two make four, com-
pared to the Cimmerian darkness, enveloping a parallel
inquiry in the year one thousand and sixty—Who was who
then ? Or for the matter of that—What was what ? Was
the great Anglo-Saxon nation governed by a monarchy, an
oligarchy, a republic, or what ? Had Alfred the Great
any right to the British throne beyond the right divine of
genius and self-devotion ? Had Edward the Elder, his
son, after him? Was the right of Athelstan (his son)
196
king harold's cairn.
any the weaker or the stronger from the fact of his illegiti-
macy ? Was the more or less saintly Dunstan (who noto-
riously touched—it is true with a pair of tongues—some-
thing quite as black as pitch, and could scarcely have
escaped the proverbial defilement incident upon such con-
tact: witness his rapacity and cruelty)—was the hard-headed
and not manifestly soft-hearted Dunstan to blame for riding
rough-shod over the faint land marks and slender ring
fences, indicating that early sketch of the English consti-
tution? Was there any harm—or rather was there not
much good—in strong King Canute, the Dane, throning
himself on the English shore, utilising the waves as an
English monarch should do, but honestly confessing his
inability to control their ebb and flow ? Had Edward the
Confessor any right to bequeath his throne to William the
Baseborn ? Had Harold, son of Godwin the pirate and
murderer (good fellow, to boot, according to the rough
morals of those preparatory times), any original claim to
the disputing of that bequest in his own favour ? Was
Harold right in standing on the hill, where the ruined altar
of Battle Abbey Church now stands, to be pierced in the
eye by an arrow ? And was William, the long-anned and
wide-chested, wrong in having the aforesaid eye fatally
perforated in the manner alluded to, and in bragging of it
afterwards by the perennial granite boast of Battle Abbey ?
The fact is, they were all wrong in a small degree and
right in a great one. Each, in his generation and capacity,
contributed to the huge cairn—built over the ruins of so
many great mistakes—that we know as England; and of
which Battle Abbey remains a not easily destructible type
—the monument of* strong hearts and strong principles
triumphing over weak ones, that had been strong in then*
day—a monument, the scattered and disjointed debris of
which mil strike wonder, admiration, and some little terror
into the hearts of the most distant generations it is possible
for us to conceive existing—and cause the timid New
Zealander, the converted Hindoo, and the established Aus-
tralian citizen to exclaim, in contemplation of the gnarled
roots and hollow trunk of- the noble tree, whence all
king hakold's cairn.
197
their lovely flowers and nutritious fruits shall have been
gathered,
"This was a famous victory.
In the meantime, I have been neglecting Battle Abbey.
My landlady won't allow me to write another line. I am
ordered to bed; aud she has sequestrated my stock of writ-
ing paper. I must defer all description of material expe-
riences, and local associations, to another chapter.
CHAPTEB II.
By the time fighting was over and William had begun
to feel, with something like accuracy, how glad and how
sorry he was for that "hit in the eye. which gave him
England, but at the same time deprived him of Harold—
at once flattering his organ of acquisitiveness with the
richest booty that ever a Norse Pirate  looted, and
paralysing his coinbativeness by depriving him of the only
l'oe worth Ids hitting at—he consulted certain monks,
friends of his, such as all conquerors can command,—
smoothly trimmed Normans, and greasy rough-bearded
Saxons only too eager to be shaved aoeording to the
newly-introduced continental fashion—as to the fitness of
the site he had chosen for their comfort and his glorifica-
tion, which was to include Harold's, as the greater must
comprise the less.
The consulted ecclesiastics had the coolness to demur at
the locality.' Bless their hearts—moderate men as they
were ! There was the best slice out of a fair southern
English county awarded to them. It only stood on a
gently rising ground facing the all-day sun; was comfort-
ably wooded in at the North. Hill-ground swarming with
flying, running, and leaping animal food—as ready to
 come and be killed as those diamond ducks of docility
198
KING HAUOLD'S CA1KN.
attributed to Mrs. Bond in the national ballad! A fat
over-fed mass of valley soil below, languishing merely for
the health-giving phlebotomy of plough and spade, like a
full-blooded country squire, who has not been cupped
lately, but who will be able to ride anything, hunt anything,
and leap over anything, when he shall have been relieved to
the extent of an ounce or so of the vital fluid. A dwelling-
place suited to an easy-going community—as splendidly
commodious as anything ever devised by Eastern King,
Roman Emperor, or Icarian Socialist! Land and beeves
merely for the digging and slaughtering ! Room and
rations for the army of retainers—enough to set up a bold
and intelligent chieftain in the king-making line—on a
scale at least equal to that of the celebrated Warwick & Co.
at the sign of the "Bear and Ragged Staff. But the
monks were not satisfied with the prospect, and, as I have
said, demurred at the choice of locality.
Why ?
On seemingly illogical grounds which I will, neverthe-
less, attempt to prove were at least selfishly rational. They
doubted that the neighbourhood could furnish a good supply
of water.
Now, it will, of course, be asked—what did the monks
of old want with water ? They were not inordinately ad-
dieted to drinking it, and the excellent modern sanitary
invention of washing in it is certainly not indebted to them
for any weight^amount of practical example. Why did the
monks want water then ?
Principally because the worthy men were eminent disci-
pies of that school of Epicurean philosophy whereof the
Lord Mayor's Eool is the undying type and proverb. They
 liked every thing that was goodand the self-denying
view of life adopted by a still more famous wag than the
one just named, Mr. Samuel Weller, who  could eat his
biled mutton without capers, and so long as he got plenty
of beef did not care about horse-radish,"—had no charms
for their eyes. They were like certain guests who when
invited to partake of a mutton chop are rather disappointed
if it doesn't mean three or four—dressed a la Soubise or
king harold's cairn.
199
Maintenon—with a little nice soup and a cut of salmon to
precede the entree, and a bird or so, some pastry, nice ripe
Stilton, a bottle or two of good wine, cigars, Cognac, coffee,
supper, and a bed to follow it. They were not satisfied
that their new palace should contain all the luxuries of the
earth so long as it wanted full and abundant supply of a
simple blessing enjoyable by the meanest anchorite of the
woods. Observe, there was no fear of the supply of water
absolutely failing; but the wise men wanted a good supply
—plenty of it—tuns, rivers, oceans of it, and that ready to
hand, laid on to the premises. They would foresee them-
selves thoroughly comfortable and secure in their new
tenement before taking possession. Suppose the event of
their cloistered retreat being besieged by an enemy! There
would be little danger from without—their Sylvan bower,
the abode of peaceful arts and meditation, being con-
structed as a very Constadt or Gibraltar of those days.
But fancy the cruel position of the superiors of the esta-
blishment, after a protracted blockade, supposing the
court-yard or kitchen to be deprived of a reliable pump or
bucket-well! What would be the feelings of those good
men on being compelled to sacrifice their choice wines to
the thirsty necessities of a pack of varlets with uneducated
palates, armed retainers, yeomen, vassals, lay brethren, and
such like people (of whom the quiet Abbey maintained a
cool thousand or so), the supernumeraries of a monastic
establishment, fellows such as Longfellow describes—
 Who sit at the lower board;
Who cannot distinguish bad wine from good,
And are much better off than if they could;
Being rather the rude disciples of beer,
Than of anything more refined and dear.
Imagine the Lord Abbott's feelings, when, the worst having
come to the worst, he is fain to consent to the broaching
of his last pipe of particular old Gascony, that its contents
may lubricate the leathern gullets of Hob the Woodman
and Jankin the Warrener ! These were horrible- contingen-
cies not to be thought of, but yet possible of occurrence,
200
KING HAROLD'S CAIRN.
in the event of Battle Abbey lacking the most perfect sup-
ply of water. So the monks who had been consulted, after
due consideration, gravely shook their heads and spoke to
the following effect:—
 No ! William the Conqueror. We are very much
obliged to you. Your intentions are honourable and your
offers on a liberal scale. There is no objection to Tribu-
tary Manors, Royal Customs are not to be despised.
Lordships, Curtilages, Tofts, Meadows, Views of Frank-
pledge, Advowsons, Knights' Fees, Rectories, Vicarages,
Jurisdictions, Hundreds, and Courtsleet, are eminently
desirable possessions. Freedom from Tax and Service is
an excellent thing in its way. So is Exemption from
Episcopal Jurisdiction: not a doubt of it. Free Warren
is a great advantage, and it was veiy kind of you to think
of us in the matters of Treasure-trove, and Right of Sane-
tuary. It isn't always desirable to pardon a thief whom
you may meet on his way to the gallows, but we thank
you for putting it in our power to indulge in that privilege,
if at any time we should feel so disposed.- These are all
advantages of which any reasonable monastery ought to be
proud. But once for all, William the Conqueror, we don't
have your Battle x\bbey at any price, unless you can make
us see our way to a good supply of hard and soft water on
the premises. It's no use expostulating—we've made up
our minds.
The monks were very obstinate, but so was William the
Conqueror. He was entete upon the project—not very
clearly explained to himself perhaps—of erecting a tomb
to Harold on the spot where that luckless prince had fallen.
The proposed Abbey should be erected there and nowhere
else. Still an Abbey could be of no particular use without
monks to live-in it: and if these obstinate fellows were
really fixed in their determination, what was to be done ?
With a characteristic flash of genius, but Avitli, for him,
rather an unusual burst of generosity, he hit on a device
for overruling all objections. He swore by the Divine
Splendour that wine from the Royal Bounty should flow
king Harold's cairn.
201
into the cellars of that Abbey in such abundance as to do
away with the slightest necessity for water at all in the
establishment!
Upon this, of course, the monks declared that reason
was reason; that they hoped they were open to convic-
tion ; that it would be ungTacious indeed on their part to
throw any difficulties in the way of William's most lauda-
ble undertaking, and in that case his Majesty need never
mind about the water. They would see about that, which
after all (as the case was now put) was a matter of less
than secondary consequence.
So King Harold's Cairn was built; the monks, its
monks, its custodians, foreshadowing, by their example,
in putting up with wine when they could'nt get water,
that, excellent precept' of the modern princess by which
poor people in want of bread are counselled to resign
themselves contentedly to a cake diet. Peace to their
thirsty souls ! The last of them—whether bon vivant or
ascetic—has been past all craving for jwine or water (I
should hardly think negus could ever have been a favourite
monastic tipple : they were not given to half measures in
this or any other respect) these three centuries !
To return to the modern pilgrim and his pilgrimage.
I believe I saw Battle Abbey, for the first time, under
the most favourable circumstances : that is to say, blazing
in the light of a morning sun, the brilliancy of which was
almost enough to shake one's faith in the Calendar. It
was a January sun, I know. But it might have passed
muster for a May-day sun in any county north of Sussex,
and would have been considered no discreditable illumina-
tion to the Midsummer of some localities I have visited,
even away from this island of eternal fogs. You see Battle
Abbey—as its name and origin should imply—is none of
your timid, retiring—not to say sneaking edifices, of the
same species, whose ruins we come across occasionally,
hiding their pointed noses, like moles, in secluded valleys,
or hanging like slavish parasites on to the protecting skirts
of populous cities. It stands, proudly, in the centre of a
202
KING HAROLD'S CAIRN.
goodly town of its own creation, as the Conqueror's
pavilion might have reared its bannered crest above and
amidst the satellite tents of his encampment on the shores
below—a very chanticleer of bellicose architecture, crowing
defiance to all comers, from the most central eminence of
his own particular walk—his hens and chickens brooding
and pecking peacefully around him. None of your twilight
ex-beauties—your ci-devant  Fair Melroses"—those anti-
quated dowagers (or spinsters) of gothic splendour, whose
faded cheeks shrink from the dreadful scrutiny exercised by
 The gay beams of gladsome day,
and who prefer seeing company by moonlight. Battle
Abbey represents the bowed and decaying limbs—the
prostrate corpse, if you will—of a mighty man of war, who
should be carried to the grave on his shield in the bracing
open air, with the sun flashing upon his brown cheeks,
golden helm, steel axe, and silver beard; warriors shouting
the song of his triumphs as they prepare, slowly, to consign
him to the earth.
A conceited faficy, doubtless, but one that suggested
itself forcibly to me when I found myself fairly through
the old, familiar, castellated gateway, (I recognised it at
once, from my recollections of a primitive woodcut in
Goldsmith's History of England—an excellent work of
reference, which I do not suppose I have consulted for the
last twenty years) standing on a vast table-land of smoothly-
shaven green sward, with the aforesaid anachronism of a
May-day sun in January staring at me over leagues of
undulating lowlands, that rippled down towards the sea,
almost in sight of the very spot of the beach where the
Conqueror sentiled his ships; and surrounded, at wide
intervals, by formidable masses of ruined building, far more
suggestive of battle with Sir Knight, than of orisons with
Sir Priest. There was no possible excuse for feeling sad
or regretful. Here was no failure to lament over. The
scene was merely a pleasant record of a great scheme, well
planned and bravely carried out; an  institution, as we
moderns phrase it, that had fully worked out its design
KING HAKOLD'S CAIRN.
203
and died its natural death, ripe with years and honours.
Sunshine, fertility, and the "bustle of modern life seemed
the proper entourage for such relics of departed success.
I could no more think of getting sentimental over the ruins
of Battle Abbey than I could of shedding tears over the
gigantic shin and thigh-bones which, I am told, they show
you at Aix la Chapelle, as having once supported the huge
body and brain of Charlemagne. I don't believe, myself,
in the extinction of giants—architectural or human—so
why weep unnecessarily over the departed ?
There was only one drawback to my pleasurable emotions
—I was alone! I wanted somebody to talk to—somebody
to whom I might impart my high appreciation of such
advantages to humanity, as are conveyed by courage, re-
sistance, patriotism, progress, constitutional rights, war,
peace, genius, fair scenery, lovely weather, and other bles-
sings, such as some of us are occasionally permitted to
enjoy. But, as I have said before, I was unfortunately
alone, and I didn't like it. Solitude and,moonshine might
be all well enough for such lacrymose failures as your
Melroses and Tinterns; but I felt my Battle Abbey was a
war-horse of another colour, requiring sunshine and com-
panionsliip to bring out his noble points in their proper
light—and I had only the sunshine towards it.
It is true that I was alone in the midst of some three
dozen people—cockney sight-seers like myself. We had
all come from Hastings by the same excursion train, and
had trudged together up the half mile of pleasant hill and
picturesque street leading from the Railway Station to the
Abbey, with that expansive cordiality and trustfulness of
one another, by which English tourists, at home or abroad,
are invariably distinguished. As I did not happen to
know a soul in the party, of course, not a soul spoke to
me. Equally, of course, I, (being as true a Briton as any
present) would almost have died rather than address an
unsolicited word to any of my companions. However, I
confess that, when I found my heart expanding under the
influence of Battle Abbey, and, what seemed to me for the
204
icing harold's cairn.
moment (Pagan as I was) its tutelary deity, the sun—I
did feel disposed to break the "conventional ice, and make
advances to somebody—even at the risk of being taken for
a pick-pocket, the usual penalty one incurs in such cases.
But, alas! among the thirty odd faces (some of them
were very odd faces : excuse the old Joe) surrounding me,
I could only discover one offering the slighest encourage-
ment. This belonged to a tall, graceful, gentle-eyed old
lady, who had a very large wide forehead (I think I must
be a man of keen observation to have discerned this, it
was so concealed by masses of silver hair that would per-
sist in thrusting themselves forward as if they had been
saucy young brown ringlets). The nice old lady was sixty
at the very least. I feel sure I could have made friends
with her, but it unfortunately happened that, she was ac-
companied by a hard-featured damsel of some twenty-two
years, giving herself the conventional airs of  a beauty.
The latter I feared would misconstrue any overtures of
passing intimacy as intended for herself, and say some-
thing disagreeable to me by way of repulse, thereby de-
stroying all my hopes of a friendly understanding with her
far more attractive senior. So I reluctantly gave up the
design. There were some gawky school-boys in charge of
a French Usher, whose appearance was truculent almost to
repulsiveness. His looks were terribly against him at first;
nevertheless, when I saw that his unlicked charges treated
him with jovial familiarity, quite unmixed with contempt,
and that his grim features broke into a positively human
smile, at any exhibition, on their part, of boyish absurdity
or intelligence, I began to think the fierce-looking French
Usher might be a good fellow after all, and was disposed
to make up to him. But I saw him take out a portentous
note-book, which he proceeded to convert, with the aid of
a dirty stump of pencil, into a sort of surveyor's field-
book, laboriously commencing, on one of its pages, a stag-
gering and glaringly incorrect ground plan (I looked over
the man's shoulder), of the Abbey estate. I heard him
ask, from those around him, a series of pedantic and
KING HAROLD'S CAIRN.
205
utterly puerile questions about the building and its origin.
I observed that he noted down every imbecile or irrelevant
answer he received with the most perfect good faith and
precision. I remarked that as soon as the official guide,
(a ruddy-cheeked, good-tempered Sussex farmer-sort of
personage, and not half such a fool as, I believe, the ma-
jority of my fellow-cockneys thought him) made his ap-
pearance with the civil request— Gentlemen as wish to
see the rewins please step this way. The Trench Usher
pinned himself on to that functionary like a fish-hook, and
was evidently disposed to allow the honest man no quarter
from the peines fortes et dures of his broken English and
insatiable note-book. Then, I understood, that the pro-
ject of the French Usher was to get up materials for a
school-room lecture on the Norman invasion and its local
associations—(on which he might possibly prove as sound
an authority as most of his countrymen)—and that I
should find him a nuisance and a bore. So I reluctantly
fell back from his vicinity, for I had begun to like him.
The rest of my companions were hopeless bourgeois with
scarcely a perceptibly salient point about them—always
excepting the genteel, middle aged lady of acerb counte-
nance—(a type scarcely less evitable, in those cases, than
even the fat woman with the sandwich basket also repre-
sented on the occasion)—who turned up her nose at every
one of the honest guide's conned-by-rote explanations:
pretended to know all about the place before hand; and
tried to impress it upon the bystanders—that she was not
an ordinary sightseer like the rest of us, but a privileged
friend of the resident proprietor, who can come there at
any time. Of course, I did not care much about her.
I felt, in short, that my destiny was to "do Battle
Abbey in solitude; and, I hope, I resigned myself to it
manfully. I followed the guide with the rest of his flock,
listening to his primitive explanations with orthodox
wonder and reverence. I looked into the oblong hole
resembling a cistern, which is shown as a stone coffin, and
which is, probably, the place where a relic of that kind
206
king haiiold's cairn.
was once discovered, with interest equaling that of any
one of the gawky school-boys present (I will not attempt
comparison, in this respect, with their Usher). I inspected
every object pointed out to me in the beautifully groined,
manv-pillared crypt, with unimpeachable docility. I had
the self-denial to resist the one opportunity that presented
itself to me of showing off my superior knowledge—supe-
rior to that of my guide, I mean—when he described what
I knew to be the scriptonm in the following terms—
 Chapter Boom, that is : Chapter Boom wheer the Monks
used to read (to  read chapters, of course, he under-
stood it). I scorned to crow over the simple peasant with
my solitary hard fact and hard Latin, word. It would have
hurt the simple peasant's feelings, and I spared them.
Well was I rewarded! It may be that my magnanimity
had imparted a seraphic and winning expression to my
countenance. I am willing to hope so. At any rate, we
had scarcely emerged from the cloistered vaults alluded to,
and stood once more in the upper air, when I was agreeably
surprised by the nice old lady with silver hair making con-
versational overtures to me ! We stood between the roof-
less walls of what had once been the refectory. The old
lady approached me and asked me, with her sweet smile, if I
could give her an idea of the apartment's dimensions. Over-
whelmed with the unexpected honour, I immediately com-
plied with the rapidity of step-mensuration, and hastened to
apprise her of the result. I found the room to be about a
hundred and sixty feet long by forty wide (a statement
which I observed to be devoured with avidity by the insa-
tiable note book of the French Usher). The old ladv
thanked me graciously, and we were friends for the rest of
the visit—though, to be sure, her hard-featured, young
companion continued to exercise a sort of watch-dog cen-
sorship on our acquaintance. However, I did manage to
pick a full-blown rose (yes, reader, a full-blown rose in the
open air in England, in the month of January: there are
scores of them to be seen at this moment on the South
Terrace of Battle Abbey!) which, feloniously obtained
KING HAROLD'S CAIRN.
207
gage d'amitie, I prevailed upon her to accept: and, from
time to time, exchanged a guerilla shot of question and
answer with her, which agreeably enlivened the remainder
of the pilgrimage. This led us through a range of vaulted
cellarage, so vast and admirably constructed (suggesting
an idea of London Docks based upon Parisian Catacombs),
as to leave little doubt on the Spectator's mind that the
Conqueror's magnificent Anti-temperance pledge must have
been honourably redeemed; and through many subterra-
neous passages leading, at present, to nowhere in particular,
but according to our guide's apparently bond fide assertions,
having originally communicated with fabulously distant
localities. In all of those I noticed the gawky schoolboys
groaned in traditionary imitation of ghosts; the young
ladies of the party uttered short screams, and clung to one
another for support; and the fierce French Usher ex-
claimed  Sacre, because he could not see to write. I
am afraid that French Usher's memory was treacherous.
He could not trust it as far as the open air! In one of
the passages we passed a couple of recesses which the
guide awfully indicated as  cells where the monks were
bricked up—them there is ; used to put 'em in there with
nothing put bread and water, and then brick 'em up. A
suggestion of low diet, at which the fat woman with the
sandwich basket, alluded to in a foregoing parenthesis,
groaned audibly.
From the subterraneous part of the ruin, we again
emerged, and retraced many of our steps over the grounds
till our guide made us halt on the brink of an extensive
cavity, profusely strewn with fragments of grass-covered
architecture.
 Eewins of the Abbey Church, ladies and gentlemen.
This is where the altar stood (I was standing imme-
diately over it). "The altar was erected on the precise
spot wheer the body of Harold was found. Eewins of the
Abbey Church, ladies and gentlemen.
1 had heard something of this before, but had forgotten
it. It is generally believed that William did cause the
208
king iiaiiold's cairn.
central altar of his noble monument to be erected on the
very spot whereon his foe had fallen—corroborating my
theory (fantastically put, perhaps, but rigidly believed in
by me), that the magnanimous conqueror meant honour to
the dead as well as to the living—to the vanquished as
well as to the victorious—and that I am right in calling
Battle Abbey  King Harold's Cairn after all. At any
rate it was startling to be told that I stood on the very
spot where, eight hundred years ago, the fatal shaft had
fallen that was to decide the great amalgamation of the
Norman and Saxon nations destined to result in the build-
ing up of what we know as the British nation. The
whole scene rose up before me. I stood amid the clumsy
hurdled fences of the rough improvident Anglo-Saxons.
King Harold's standard, emblazoned with the  Jewelled
lighting Man seemed to wave over my head. I could
see William's terrible  three divisions advancing from
the plains below—the giant minstrel Taillefer far in front,
tossing his battle-axe and shouting the war song of Rou,
till his braggart voice was stilled in sudden death. The
terrible closing of the two armies—the first great historical
demonstration of the value of Yan Saxon "pluck and
muscle against the most refined inventions of  civilized
warfare the laboriously rehearsed retreat of the Normans,
and the terrible denouement "of that most ingeniously plotted
drama. I seemed to go through the whole weary day's
fight, till the stars were blinking over head and the Monks
of Waltham, with their torches, were vainly rummaging
over the mutilated bodies in search of their luckless patron,
till wild-haired, red-eyed Edith came stretching her swan
neck over the mounds of slain, and, with the swift instinct
of Love, at once divined the presence of that which no
mere cold Duty had been able to recognise.
The end of my Battle Abbey Hay Dream brought me
back suddenly to a consciousness of the nineteenth century,
of railway time tables, of dinners waiting, and of land-
ladies exasperate. Just as my exhausted paper now re-
minds me of London post-time and impatient sub-editors.
king harold's cairn.
209
It is time I brought my rhapsody on  King Harold's
Caim to a conclusion.
Not, however, without a significant word or two on the
town of Battle. It is a small town, and a quiet, but—
it may have been from purely fanciful association of ideas
at the outset—I could not help thinking, on emerging
from the Abbey, that the outlying vicinity still preserved
something of its original warlike character. This im-
pression was strengthened by the sight of numerous pla-
cards calling on the inhabitants to co-operate in the
formation of artillery and rifle corps. (Fancy an artillery
and rifle corps in a town not much bigger than Covent-
garden Market !) On my way to the railway station
I came across a formidable body of county police,
being drilled in the  goose-step by an irascible artillery
serjeant.
 Come, I said.  They are still a belligerent people
in the vicinity of Battle. On revient toujours a ses premiers
amours.
I took my seat in a railway carriage. My sole com-
panion was a commercial traveller coming from London.
There was no mistaking his vocation.
 Been to Battle, sir? he inquired.
I replied that I had.
 Ah! dreadfully fallen off of late, hasn't it ?
I admitted that the importance of the place had con-
siderably deteriorated during the last three centuries or
so; but suggested that it had only done so in obedience
to the natural course of things.
He looked at me, at first puzzled, subsequently with
compassion. After which, having indulged in a quiet
whistle, he explained—
 Ah ! but I mean of late years. In trade, you know.
 Trade! Good heavens ! Was there ever any trade
in Battle ?
 Well, I should rather think so.
 Indeed ! May I ask in what commodity ?
 Commodity ! Why, what else but in gunpowder?
14
210 dr. johnson.
What else, indeed ! I might have known it. As if a
town named Battle— could deal in anything else ! Never
was the wisdom of Shakspeare more clearly shown than
when he put the ridiculous inquiry,  What's in a name ?
into the mouth of an inexperienced school-girl!
DOCTOE JOHNSON:
a fairy tale.
told to my daughter on new year's night.
What ! a Christmas fairy rhyme
To the old familiar chime,
How that once upon a time
Dwelt a king,
Who with daughters fair was blest,
Who was rich, and all the rest—
Nay, you ought not to request
Such a thing!
For the Christmas farce is played,
And the Christmas bills arrayed,
Stand impatient to be paid
At the door:
And that seventh year of thine,
Or that thirty-first of mine,
That we knew as 'Fifty-nine,
Is no more!
And my log of joy or grief
(Letts's Diary in brief)
Open stands, with its new leaf
To, be turn'd;
DR. JOHNSON.
And the Christmas Lord Misrule
Must give over playing fool,
Lessons new and hard at school
To get leam'd.
There ! reduce those staring eyes
To their customary size—
Do you think me over-wise,
Or an ass ?
If the latter, you are right,
Lor there's mirth a-blaze to-night,
And we need not of its light
Dim the glass.
With so much to hope from life;
With that mother there, and wife
Who of late has gained a strife
Over Death;
Looking happy, fair, and young;
Shining bright her guests among ;
She whose flame of being hung
On a breath !
With such friends as now I see ;
With a daughter such as thee
Sitting fondly on my knee—
Love and Thought,
Heart and Intellect combined,
Dam and strong, in form and mind,
As to prove me not designed
To be naught!
And those boys with noble heads
(Though they're gaping for their beds)
With the health whites and reds
Of their cheeks—
Fruits from Fortune's garden wall
I ne'er hoped she would let fall
In my lap—though versed in all
Of her freaks.
212
DR. JOHNSON.
Many lips, I see, have smiled
At such language to a child,
Many tongues that language wild.
Doubtless call:
But my daughter does not laugh ;
She can winnow grain from chaff,
And can understand me half,
If not all.
Well she knows, I mean to say,
That this trying New Year's Day
Is a time to fast and pray,
And to toil;
But has also understood
'Tis a time Taith's neighbourhood
With the Wondrous and the Good
Not to spoil.
And would have me tell a tale
How the Hero can prevail
O'er the Dragon's tooth and scale,
And defy
Ev'ry wicked fairy power
That would give us weed for flower.—
In the spirit of the hour,
Let me try.
I would have you, Miss, to know,
In a time, so long ago
That all classes, high or low,
Went about
In the funniest of "figs
Wearing cauliflower wigs
Some with tails behind like pigs
Some without;
Dil. JOHNSON.
213
When each gentleman or lord,
Who the weapon could aflord,
Was obliged to wear a sword
To be smart;
When a lady, on her face,
Sticking-plaster used to place,
As an ornament and grace,
(What a start!)
In this funny age of yore,
At whose follies now we roar,
(I have told you, Miss, before,
'Twas long since!)
Truth's and Wisdom's flag to wave,
The oppressed and weak to save,
There was born a good and brave
Fairy Prince!
And the fairies at his birth,
Who preside o'er human worth
Gave him gifts to visit earth
Good and bad;
An indomitable heart
With a conscience prome to start,
And at Evil's slightest smart
To go mad;
A capacious searching brain,
A contempt for worldly gain,
And a princely true disdain
For a lie;
With a mighty love for all,
Of God's creatures, great or small,
Whether sent on earth to crawl
Or to fly!
But they placed a cruel spell,
(Who shall say it was not well ?
For the fairies best can tell
What is best.)
DR. JOHNSON.
On the Fairy Frince's fate;
That should make him pine and wait,
For a chance of proving great,
By the test.
They decreed that he should wear,
The appearance of a bear,
With a tendency to tear
And to growl;
With the roughness of a hound,
And at times to be spell-bound,
In the sulkiness profound
Of an owl.
While they pinched his giant frame,
With more pains than I can name,
And a pride, that nought could tame,
Made him bear,
With a scorn for lordly gifts,
Through innumerable shifts,
Where, of wintry want, the drifts
Blind the air!
But the spell was to be moved,
When the prince his work had proved,
And his claim to be beloved,
Clearly shown.
Shall I tell you how he wrought,
With what kind of arms he fought,
For the noble end he sought,
All alone ?
Of his gallant deeds, but few,
I have time to tell to you,
But, attend to one or two—
Three or four;
He, a humble dwelling stocked
Where the poorest suff'rers flocked;
To affliction, never locked
Was the door.
JOHNSON AND THE BEGGAR GIRL.
DR. JOHNSON.
An old dame—not over-kind
Of good-tempered—merely blind !
In his home could refuge find.
And respect;
With a simple negro clown,
And a druggist, broken down,
Whom he met in London town,
Sorely wrecked!
Though he kept them all by work
Which the stoutest now would shirk,
On the wages of a clerk—
Less than that!
Ne'er the least complaining word
Was by these dependents heard:
He could e'en respect a bird,
Nay, a cat!
He could snatch from jail a friend,
And his only guinea lend,
Glowing pages e'en he penned
For a thief
And a trickster, doomed to die:—
Lines, a monarch could not buy,
He could lavish, tears to dry,
Shed by grief.
But the greatest of his deeds,
That his loving student reads,
Over which the whole heart bleeds
Of mankind,
Is an act of courage grand
Which you scarce can understand,
Till the truths of life expand
Your young mind.
Yet I'd have you know the fact
In its bearings all exact,
That the greatness of the act
You may grasp;
218
DR. JOHNSON.
When the lessons, none may spurn,
You have been compelled to learn,
And amid the grapes discern
Where's the asp.
When this goodly man was old,
On a night so wet and cold,
As towards his home he strolled,
He espied,
In the bitter London street
Lying, drenched with rain and sleet,
A poor girl with naked feet,
Who had died,
Of the cruel, cruel cold,
If this sage, so worn and old,
Had by accident not strolled
AVhere she lay;
He was. torn by illness' wrack,
His old joints were fit to crack,
But he bore her on his back
Safe away,
Through the streets without a fear—
You must understand, my dear,
That the girl I speak of here
Was not good:
And, for reasons strange to you,
'Twas a daring deed to do,
Bringing consequences, few
Had withstood.
But the Doctor (so he's named),
Ne'er by deed or mercy shamed,
His true Christian heart proclaimed
Scandal braved;
And his noble task performed,
While the bitter tempest stormed,
'Till the girl was lodged and warmed,
Aye, and saved!
TO ROBERT STEPHENSON.
219
Shall I tell you the reward
Of the Christian Greatheart's sword ?
'Twas that sovereign and lord,
Sage and fool,
At his bearing checked their mirth—
Grew to recognise his worth,
As a prince upon the earth,
Fit to rule:
And beneath the bearish skin
Saw the lovely soul within,
And were proud to claim him kin—
Aye, the best!
In their hearts they made him room
And shed tears above the tomb
Where he awaits the crack of doom
With the blest.
Oh ! my little fairy girl,
Of my household chain the pearl,
Of this gentle-hearted churl
Learn the life!
Leam, like him, to stand the test,
And the husband shall be blest,
Born to clasp thee to his breast
As a Wife!
TO ROBERT STEPHENSON:
IN MEMORIAM.
The world had not a better man to spare.
Farewell, great heart! Thou show'st how vain the strife
Of Mind with Fate, since that Brain-engine there,
That oceans bridged, and mountains could uprear,
Yet lacked the strength to clutch a little life !
220
ODDITIES OF GllEAT MEN.
drawn by kenny meadows.
VICE-CHANCELLOR SHADWELL's HYDROPATHIC
INJUNCTION.
The late Yice-Chancellor of England, Sir Lancelot
Shadwell, was as indefatigable a bather as the monk noticed
by Bede. Every morning during the year, during his resi-
dence at Barnes Elms, he might be seen wrestling joyously
with the Thames. It is said that on one occasion a party,
in urgent need of an injunction, after looking for the judge
in a hundred places where he was not to be found, at
length took a boat, and encountered him as he was swim-
ming in the river. There he is said to have heard the case,
listening to the details as the astonished applicants made
them, and now and then performing a frolicsome  sum-
mersault, when they paused for want of breath. The
injunction was granted, it is said; after which the appli-
cants left the judge to continue his favourite aquatic sport
by himself.
SIR LANCELOT OF THE LAKE.*
being the above legend versified : something—
but not much — in the early manner of
tennyson.
On either side the river fly
Excited flunkies, proud and high ;
They scare the fish, and rend the sky,
With questions to the passers-by—
 Wherever have he got ?
* Considering that the incident is reported to have taken place
on the Thames, the  Lake must he apologized for as a nuance of
imaginative water-colouring—not inexcusable, perhaps, in a poet
who likes to view things through a coulewr de rose medium.
VICE■ CHANCELLOR SIIA1»WELL'S HYDROPATHIC INJUNCTION.
ODDITIES OF GREAT MEN.
223
 Three great swells of legal powers,
 Has been waiting here for hours,
 Hunting through the lawns and bowers,
 (Aint they been and picked the flowers ?)
 For good Sir Lancelot.
Cookmaids whiten, housemaids quiver,
Buttoned pages dusk and shiver.
Master, no one can  diskiver;
Had they better drag the river,
Or had they better not ?
Behold each glove—with ne'er a hand—
And there's his hat upon the stand,
He can't have left the house by land,
The good Sir Lancelot!
* * & * *
A furlong from his dwelling place
He splashed among the roach and dace.
The sun burst forth—as for a race—
And shone upon the jolly face
Of good Sir Lancelot.
A learned Knight in Chanc'ry's field,
But now by wig nor gown concealed.
The human being stands revealed,
(Or rather swims)—completely  pealed
As onion or shalot.
His beaming visage glittered free
Like a clew-spangled peony,
Or like a lobster boiled, we see,
Kise steaming from the pot.
He plunged—now rose—then struck out wide
On breast—on back—on either side—
Turned summersaults beneath the tide:
 It's jollier here than Chambers, cried
The good Sir Lancelot.
224
ODDITIES OF GREAT MEN.
Who is this ? and what is here P
What men are these, a boat that steer ?
 Sir Lancelot—at last—oh, dear!
 That you were drowned, we were in fear—
 But since it seems you're not—
 Here's a case, oh, great law-giver!
 Won't take long—I see you shiver—
 If a judgment you '11 deliver.
 Well I'm jiggered ! In the river !
Groaned Sir Lancelot.
They brought a brief and read it through.
The bather's nose was turning blue:
He wished that legal cock-boat's crew
Would also go to Bath—or to
A place, than Bath, more hot.
In vain a summersault he tried
To keep up circulation's tide.
That lawyer's prose his art defied.
 The curse has come upon me! sighed
The good Sir Lancelot.
Only, when fulfilled his function,
When he'd granted an injunction
Did these lawyers show compunction :
Then "good morning they, with unction,
Bade Sir Lancelot.
Sir Lancelot mused a little space,
And said,  If there be time or place
 That's safe from the Attorney race,
 I wish I may be shot!
225
LYTTEL GESTES OF ROB YN HOODE.
I.
robin hoode, hys great shootynge feat.
Bold Robin he lay in Nottingham town,
At the sign of the  Golden Horn.
He was sore distraught, and in doleful plight;
He felt that he hadn't been served a-right—
They had promised him money on Sunday night,
And it now was Thursday morn.
He had only come to Nottingham town,
Intending to dine and sup,
' And to start for the greenwood glade next day;
But the wine was good, and the guests were gay:
So Robin he kept it up.
His purse was clean when he rose at morn,
And a goodly bill was due,
So he wrote to M arion May, his wife,
To send him a pound or two.
He paced the town, and he watch'd the bookes,
And his heels did idly tap,
Till Marion May sent answer back
That she was not worth a rap.
But she hoped to send him a trifling sum
In the course of the following day;
For Arthur-a-Bland had found a buck,
And Midge the miller, and Friar Tuck,
Were out on the kinchin lay.
15
226 LYTTEL GESTES OF ROBYN HOODE.
For five days longer he tapped his heels,
And the money did not come ;
While Robin's account at the  G olden Horn
Had reached to a goodly sum.
 Oh ! what shall I do, bold Iiobin he cried,
 In this state of bondage mean ?
My luggage is there in that hostel low,
My broadsword stout, and my staunch yew bow,
And my Sunday Lincoln green !
 I have given the name of Sir John de Smith;
And they must not think me poor.
Oh ! what shall I do ? bold Robin he cried,
 To get my clothes and my arms outside
That costly tavern's door?
Bold Robin he mused, bold Robin he laughed,
As he hit on a shrewd design:
He had twopence left in his jerkin fob,
So he bought twopenn'orth of twine.
Then he hied him back to the  Golden Horn,
With an easy, jaunty gait;
He asked the landlord his cup to share,
And bad the servants his meal prepare,
And bring him his bill at eight.
Then the host he bragged of his judgment keen
On the marks of gentlemen ;
His guest was one: so he cast forth forthwith
The little account of Sir John de Smith
To the tune of twelve pounds ten.
Bold Robin he flew to his three-pair back,
And his jerkin off he drew,
Which he tied up tight with his Lincoln green,
His velvet hood, and his broadsword keen,
And his matchless1 bow of yew.
lyttel gestes of robyn hoode.
He opened the window, and looked beneath:
'Twas a lone, deserted street,
Which never a roysterer made his haunt,
Or watchman made his beat.
Not a soul was near 'twas dark as pitch-—
Grim silence ruled the town.
He fixed the string to his bundle of goods,
And let it gently down.
Then rush'd down stairs, in his shirt and hose,
And said, "lam faint and ill!
Ho ! open the door; I'm in want of air.
Are the druggists open ? I see one there !
•I must get me a draught and pill.
They opened the door, and they let him out;
He turned him down the lane ;
No pilfering hand had his bundle touched—
The rare deposit with joy he clutched—
They never saw Mm again !
He ran like mad from Nottingham town,
And reached the forest soon.
You've heard of his feats in archery,
But never had known, except from me,
How Robin he shot the Moon !
II.
ye maye daye devyce of lyttel john.
fytte i.
Oh, the hart may bound, and the throstle sing,
And the coney gambol free,
And the snipe may twit, and the hare may flit
Over the merry green lea.
228
LYTTEL GESTES OF ROBYN HOODE.
For never a deadly clothyard shaft
To-day shall bowstring drive—
'Tis the first of May !—a glorious day
For keeping the game alive !
The morning breeze, from the drowsy trees,
Pours dew, like wine from bicker;
While the trees erect, shake off the effect
Of their heavy last night's liquor.
The brook keeps brawling, or idly sprawling,
In ponds o'er the pathway cool,
Polling the pebbles like ivory balls,
As each in his grass-green pocket falls,
Or bounds from the streamlet's mossy walls—
On the first of May !
An appropriate day
For a quiet game at pool!
The white thorn blooms, and the glade perfumes,
While, with aristocratic snigger,
She turns up her delicate angular nose
At her scentless brother, who bears but sloes,
And whom she scorns as a nigger.
The aspens quiver, the breezes shiver,
The rosebuds, long athirst,
Come out to swig of the mountain dew:
'Tis the first of May (as the buds well know)
A glorious day for a burst.
The air is ringing with birds a-singing,
The mavis and finch, and—hark !
That skyward lay 1—'Tis the first of May !
A glorious day for a lark !
The brook kept brawling, and idly falling,
In silvery streak and jet,
Till it reached to the boots of Little John,
And the soles of his feet felt wet.
LYTTEL GESTES OF BOBYN 1IOODE.
Then up he started, and raised a cry,
Betwixt a grunt and a sob :
 These highlows are not waterproof,
And they cost me fifteen bob !
Oh ! bitterly, then, he tore his hair,
And paced him to and fro.
 Oh ! what shall I do on this first of May,
When the birds are up, and the woods are gay,
And the funds alone are low ?
 I have sworn an oath to Robin, our chief,
Some artful plan to lay,
That shall bring us wassail and beef galore,
Ajid wine and mead—as in days of yore—
On this glorious first of May.
 'Tis not that I find these boots are bad—
Tor which I was fain to pay;
But what shall I do to regale the crew,
On this glorious first of May ?
The brook kept brawling, and John kept mawling
His beard and whiskers brown.
He thought of a Joint-stock Banking scheme,
And a raid on Nottingham town.
But the Banking scheme would require a week;
And Nottingham town was strong.
The brook kept brawling, and John kept mawling
His beard and whiskers long.
 I have the scheme ! little John he cries,
As a notion through him shoots.
With joy he leaped on the streamlet's bank,
And he vowed, as up to his knees he sank,
He would pay for no more boots.
330
LYTTEL GESTES OF ROBYN HOODE,
FYTTE II.
Bold Bobin he sat beneath an oak,
On that comely first of May.
He was getting in years, was Bobin the bold;
His liver was touched, and his blood was cold;
And he didn't at all feel gay.
His hair was thinning towards the top,
And had turned to iron gray;
His calves looked small in his dark green hose,
While somewhat too tight were his central clothes,
And some pimples blossomed about his nose,
On that comely first of May.
He had spurned his rasher of bacon brown,
Which never had known him fail;
He had quarrelled with Marion May, his wife,
For mulling his breakfast ale.
 Oh! the times are gone, bold Bobin he mused,
 For the likes of such as me.
There's an end to sport, in the old resort,
Under the greenwood tree !
 The weather is not what I knew it once,
And the nights are terribly damp;
I never am free from the rheumatiz,
Except when I have the cramp.
 O'er Sherwood Forest they've 'gan to build;
And a turnpike road have made;
The rural police are uncommonly strong;
And it's we who, are now afraid.
 There's scarcely game in the forest left
Myself and band to keep;
And poor Will Scarlet has come to grief,.
Sent over the seas, like a vulgar thief,
For finding a paltry sheep !
LYTTEL GESTES OF KOBYN HOODE.
 And Marion's temper is really not
What it ought, and used, to be;
She grows quite vulgar, and dreadfully fat,
And she takes too much—but I don't mind that,
At her time of life, in this swampy flat,
Under the greenwood tree.
 And to think that this is the first of May,
That day of sport and glee,
When we used to wassail, and shoot, and ride,
The terror and joy of the country's side !
Oh ! the times are gone! bold Robin he cried,
"For the likes of such as me !
But hark ! what dulcet strains are those
That along the breezes play ?
Nearer and nearer he hears them come,
'Tis somebody tuning the reeds and drum
To the "Merry Month of May.
What troop is this that meets 'his view,
In leaves and garlands clad ?
First, Allan-a-Dale (who has had some ale)
Comes playing the drum like mad.
The minstrel is drest in fustian vest,
With trunks of velveteen,
White nether stocks, of a doubtful hue,
And lace-up buskins, he shows to view,
And around his hat (which is far from new)
A band of crape is seen.
Oh, the minstrel he battered his drum full sore,
And blew in his pipy reeds;
But what is this beauteous female form
To Allan-a-Dale succeeds ?
232
LYTTEL GESTES OE KOBYN HOODE.
'Tis Marion's self, as the Queen of May,
In flowers and ribbons deck'd;
A ladle sceptre above her head
She waved—in pride—erect.
And who is this with a whitened face
All daubed with reddish brown,
With spotted garments, and turned-in toes ?
'Tis Tuck (who cannot disguise his nose),
In garb of a simple clown.
Then Midge the miller, and Arthur-a-Bland,
With faces darkened (not merely tann'd,
But sooty as climbing boys),
Come dancing, in paper and foil array'd,
Each beating a cudgel against a spade,
And making a fearful noise.
The minstrel he battered his drum like mad,
And his pipy reeds did play,
As the whole troop capered aronnd their chief,
To charm his thoughts from their gloom and grief,
On that comely first of May.
Bold Bobin was fain to smile a smile
At their simple May device;
He thanked them all in a dismal way:
But the choicest word that he had to say
Was "he thought it rather nice !
But, well-a-day ! bold Bobin he quaked
When a grizzly form he saw—
A woodland monster of fearful mien,
All clothed in holly and ivy green,
And hop, and hip, and haw !
lyttel gestes op kobyn hoode.
233
Some eight feet tall was the monster grim,
While his legs were two feet short;
Where the stomach should be was his visage placed;
He had never a head, and never a waist,
And he capered about in the worst of taste,
As of Robin's fear in sport.
Oh! take him away ! bold Robin he cried,
In tones of anguish keen;
 I'm exceedingly sorry for all I've done.
But they told him it was but Little John,
Dressed up as Jack-in-the-green.
pytte nr.
Bold Robin they clad in a scarlet coat
(From a serving-man purloined),
Rich hanging tags did his shoulders grace,
With braids of the daintiest golden lace
The seams were gaily joined.
They padded his chest, and padded his calves,
Encased in snow-white hose,
And into his bosom a nosegay thrust
Of violet, blue, and rose.
They gave him a sceptre of office proud,
A silver-headed cane;
Bold Robin he strutted him to and fro.
And vow'd he had nigh forgotten his woe,
And was half himself again.
Then they bade him kneel on the velvet sward,
And receive the kingly crown;
Bold Robin he spread his handkerchief,
For fear that his stockings should come to grief,
And knelt him humbly down.
234 LYTTEL GESTES OF HOBYN HOODE.
Then Marion May a tall cocked hat,
With pheasants' plumes made gay,
On her husband's brow did place with care,
As, with whoop and lialloo, they hailed him there
The Lord and King of the May.
Then the minstrel hammer'd his sturdy drum,
While his reeds the shouts did drown:
Bold Robin he led them in martial style,
Beating time with his cane, as in single file
They marched to Nottingham town.
They capered and strutted along the road
Till they reached the city wall—
Nor fear from eye of policeman keen,
Their faces for paint could scarce be seen;
Bold Kobin was safe in his motley mien,
While Little John, as Jack-in-the-green,
Did look uncommonly tall.
FYTTE IV.
'Tis merry along the Briggate wide,
When the ladies are out a shopping,
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Marion's dish,
As the halfpence and pence keep dropping.
Bold Allan-a-Dale he battered his drum,
While Arthur and Midge they danced,
And Marion up at the windows high
With a killing expression glanced.
The Briar he crack'd his wittiest Joes,
They were none of them very new,
But they pleased the crowd and they brought in pelf.
And, to do him justice, the friar himself,
He laughed enough for two.
LYTTEL GESTES OF KOBYN HOODE.
But to see the state of Robin the Bold,
In his gold-laced coat and hat,
With his stately step and his bearing proud,
Which forced the remark from the gaping crowd:
 No common man is that.'*
They capered and danced through every street,
At every rich man's door,
(E'en at the Sheriff's—their foe of old)
And they still gain'd silver, and sometimes gold.
There was but one trouble to Robin the Bold,
The boys did harass him sore.
They made remarks on his padded calves,
Which they said were stuffed with straw
They pulled his skirts, and they mocked his strut
But when Robin he tum'd, and said  Now cut,
They shrank away in awe !
Yet another drawback I have to note:
The minstrel, Allan-a-Dale,
Whene'er they approached a tavern door,
He vowed that his lungs could stand no more
Till they brought him out some ale.
Yet they paced the town till the sun went down,
On that glorious first of May;
Then weary of limb, for home they start,
But heavy of purse and light of heart,
(Save Allan-a-Dale, in a yeoman's cart,
Asleep on a truss of hay).
JTis merry, 'tis meny in gay Sherwood,
When the mutton joint is roasting,
When the brown ale creams and the eggflip steam
And the Cheshire cheese is toasting.
236
on the stage.
Bold Bobin has never a cramp or pain,
In spite of the falling dew,
As he pledges the health of Little John,
With a hope, as soon as the cash is gone,
He may hit upon something new.
ON THE STAGE.
Once a year—with the regularity of clockwork over
which Mr. Beckett Denison has no control, and invariably
at this bountiful season—so conducive (by reason, doubt-
less, of its perennially  extraordinary mildness,") to the
development of monstrosity in cabbages, and of longevity
in country workhouses—our venerable acquaintance, the
 Decline of the Drama, may be looked for in the public
journals, as confidently as the effigies of Guy Fawkes, in
the streets, on the anniversary of that liberator's unsuc-
cessful coup d'etat.
The old gentleman has just turned up for the present
season, and is to be congratulated upon his unusually
vigorous appearance, and upon the flattering reception that
has been accorded to him by a much larger audience than
he has been in the habit of appealing to. This is, in a
measure, to be accounted for by the  distinguished pa-
tronage he has been so fortunate as to secure for his
debut. The daily papers have taken him by the hand,
and introduced him to the very best society. Yes—our
old friend has been promoted to the dignity of leading-
article type—positively sharing the honours of publicity
with Napoleon the Third, Doctor Smethurst, and little
Master Mortara.
As the old gentleman happens to be in fashion for the
moment—just as were General Tom Thumb, the Hippo-
COMFOETS OF THE MODERN STAGE.
ON THE STAGE.
239
potamus, and the Talking Eish, in their respective turns—
let us follow the crowd, and have our peep at him with
the rest.
It would be very difficult to say what the Drama has
declined from, or to. It certainly has not declined in
attractiveness ; inasmuch as (putting change of habits and
extended resources for amusement out of the question) the
proportion of theatres to population in this country is
much larger than it was in the time of Shakspeare; and a
tolerably-managed theatre in a good neighbourhood is as
safe a commercial speculation as a gin-palace next door to
a popular pawnbroker's. The taste for dramatic literature
has certainly not declined—witness the countless success-
ful editions of Shakspeare, and a marked reaction among
the studious classes in favour of Elizabethan writers gene-
rally. But these great authors, it will be said, are read as
poets, not as play-wrights. Their works are sought after
in spite, not because of, their dramatic form. How comes
it, then, that Venus and Adonis and the Rape of Lucrece
are sealed books to a generation that knows Hamlet by
heart ? The Sonnets contain some of the sweetest and
most impassioned poetry in our language. But how many,
even among diligent students of our arch-poet in his dra-
matic phase—men who can correct you in a text even from
Pericles or Titus Andronicus—can recite a dozen lines from
the matchless collection of lyric verse alluded to ? How is
it,- that in most libraries you will find the leaves of the
Paerie Queene uncut, and the pages of A New Way to Pay
Old Debts thumbed and blackened? Depend upon it,
with all its arbitrary necessities, the drama, whether  ac-
table or not, will always remain a favourite branch of
literature.
The Cenci—hideous and revolting as it is in subject—'
will find readers when Queen Mab, or The Revolt of Islam,
will continue unknown. Marino Paliero and Werner—(on
the merits of which latter production the public and the
critics are at perpetual issue: I, for one, siding with the
majority, pronounce an admirable play)—keep honourable
240
ON THE STAGE.
pace, in the public esteem, with Childe Harold and the
Corsair. Conscientious, severely-trained people, with
scruples not altgether ill-founded against entering the
walls of a theatre, are glad to encourage their children to
an acquaintance with the pure thoughts and noble examples
scattered with lavish profusion over the jewelled pages of
Sheridan Knowles.
 But first-class men have left off writing for the stage;
it has become a mere refuge for the destitute of wit, or a
rag-fair for the cheap disposal of stolen goods ! Et cetera,
et cetera; and so forth and so on! We lenow all that
side of the question, and, indeed, the whole bearings of it
are pretty obvious. It is as purely one of capital and
labour as the Builders' strike itself. Let managers offer
better prices and they will secure better plays. The reason
of their not being induced to do so is the veiy converse of
what is superficially supposed.
The public appetite for the drama is so excessive as to
over-rale all niceties of palate. In its eagerness for some-
thing, the million will accept anything. They will good-
naturedly tolerate the most senseless blue-fire and basket-
hilted monstrosities at the East, and the weakest tie-wig:
and brocade puerilities at the West Ends, rather than be
sent away hungry. But, try them with quality plus
quantity. Unearth a tolerable Macbeth or a Lady Teazle
above the average, and see what crowds either will attract!
Bob son in a bad farce, or Buckstone in a stale comedy,
will each fill a theatre. What if we could get two such
men together—with a few more in fair subordinate propor-
tions of excellence—in a well-written play, such as might
be made worth the while of our Dickenses, Thackerays,
and Tennysons to set about constructing ?
 But the drama has lost its moral influence. Balder-
dash ! It never had and never was intended to have any.
It stands in the same aesthetic category with music and
painting—far above and away from the sphere of didactic
teaching. What is the direct moral purport of a Beethoven
symphony or a Turner landscape ? Of course, the drama
ON THE STAGE.
241
can be made subservient to satirical purposes—like any
other form of art. Let your modern Aristophanes (when
you can find him) castigate Cleon and libel Socrates, on
the stage, as heartily as he pleases—just as the latter-day
Hogarth (in the unexpected event of hfs turning up) may
be encouraged to employ his pencil in ridiculing crinolines
and exposing corrupt election practices. But such exer-
cises—however admirable in their way—are foreign to the
real province of Art. You roar at Moliere for his glorious
perceptions of the humorous side of humanity: the parti-
cular Marquises or Hypocrites of Louis the Fourteenth's
court, whom he is said to have satirized personally, you
either never heard, or have forgotten, the very names of.
A sleeping ploughboy, a bunch of grapes or of road-side
provisions, by William Hunt, or a bit of quiet street-life
observation by my esteemed friend George Cruikshank, I
consider far more serviceable than the most trenchant tern-
perance morality ever etched by the latter artist, or than
all Mr. Barraud's large-eyed, well-brushed, evangelical
choristers (engaged on the pictorial inculcation of the
Anglican liturgy) in a heap together.
And now comes the great question of  originality, so
violently agitated of late. How is that to be disposed of?
Are our modern play-wrights—if dramatists they may not
be called—-justified in their wholesale and unacknowledged
plunder of their French brethren? In the first place,
broadly—No. But there are two sides even to that ques-
tion. Originality—in the modern, captious, flint-skinning
acceptation of the term—is a literary virtue of com-
paratively recent invention. Formerly it was considered
rather infra dig. to be original—smacking somewhat of the
vulgar and illiterate. Terence boasts of his fidelity to the
original text of Menander and other Greek writers, whose
works he simply translated into Latin. The majority of
Shakspeare's master-pieces were old dramas re-modelled.
His skilful adaptation from Plato of  to be, or not to be,
was long considered his most creditable performance.
Bacine was praised or depreciated in proportion to the
16
242
ON THE STAGE.
closeness with which he adhered to classic models. Moliere
avowedly  ramassait son bien ou il le trouvait, picked up
his livelihood as he could, from Plautus, Terence, Lope de
Yega—from Jack Nokes and Tom Styles, if they happened
to drop anything acceptable in his path. Our own Alex-
ander Pope, when desirous of annihilating an adversary,
considered that  an answer from Horace would have more
dignity than a purely original inspiration of his own
spiteful little muse.
Of course, these precedents do not excuse the modern
English dramaturge for the crime of wholesale and clumsy
appropriation from the works of living foreigners, who, in
most cases, should be entitled, if not to a share of profits,
at any rate to handsome damages for injury done to their
reputation. But dishonesty and stupidity will always bring
their own punishment; and the uns crapulous  adapter
of Erench plays gets it as heartily as his bitterest enemies
could desire, in contempt, disappointment, and under-
payment.
But it is cruelly unjust to class with the offenders in
question some of our abler writers for the modern stage,
who have occasionally borrowed ideas from Erench or other
foreign sources.
Compare the Willow Copse—as purely an English do-
mestic drama, as redolent of our native farmyards and
bye-lanes, as any idyll in the language-—with the Closerie
des Genets of Frederic Soulie (than which a more admirable
drama of its class was never written,) on the skeleton, or
rather the back-bone, of which it was founded. The two
things are as unlike as a Hindoo and an Englishman,
though both traceable to a common origin. Take, again,
Masks and Faces. Compare that charming "jolly Eng-
lish play with the purely French Marquise de Senneterre,
which apparently (though by no means certainly) suggested
the idea of it. Such appropriations as these an honest
Frenchman would no more complain of than the author of
Tristram Shandy would have grudged the transmutation
of his Lefevre, and Trim, into the personalities of Lieutenant
ON THE STAGE.
243
TPortMngton and Corporal Foss in Colman's pleasant
comedy of The Poor Gentleman.
Moreover, those young newspaper critics (I think they
must be very young, most of them) who break out into
such honest indignation about the Decline of the Drama,
attributing that calamity to the cause nearest their vision—
namely, the fatal facility of foreign plunder—seem ignorant
or oblivious of the fact, that the device of  fair adaptation
or imitation is not employed in our time to half the ex-
tent it was in the  palmy days whose loss they so much
deplore.
Our greatest dramatists have been the greatest plagiarists.
They stole all the more unscrupulously that they were ena-
bled to do so with impunity. There were no cheap trips
to Paris—no  foreign correspondents, in those days, to
ventilate the comfortable little secret. At home or abroad
it was just the same. Dryden and his contemporary scribes
kept the works of Shakspeare—(the memory of whose very
name the Puritan revolution had for the time obliterated)—-
as a snug little preserve for them to sport over and profit
by. Dryden did not spoil the Tempest and Antony and
Cleopatra in the vain belief that he could improve upon
Shakspeare. He simply made use of the great man's
works as so much valuable raw material. Shakspeare was
unknown to the play-goer of Charles the Second's time.
Pepys records the revival of Macbeth contemptuously, as a
piece containing  some good singing and dancing, but not
nearly so good as ' Sir Martin MarraV / without an
allusion to the author. Dryden's Tempest, and All for
Love, or the World Well Lost, were produced, and paid
for, as original compositions—just as was his Two Sosias,
which he translated from Moliere's adaptation of Plautus,—-
who had taken the subject from a Greek writer who might
have met with it in some modification of the Sanscrit or
early Egyptian. Otway coolly appropriated the love scenes
in Romeo and Juliet as an underplot to his Caius Marius.
Half of Wycherly's plays are  annexations from Moliere.
All Mrs. Centlivre's comedies are translations from the
244
ON THE STAGE.
French or Spanish. So (with the exception of his bur-
lesques) were Fielding's. The same, with few exceptions-
of Foote's farces. The best scenes in The School for
Scandal (i.e. the front scenes) are imitations from Him-
promptu de Versailles, and Les Precieuses (Ridicules of
Moliere. Pizarro is a literal translation from Kotzebue.
So is The Stranger. The clap-trap, sentimental, but in-
variably humorous comedies of the Younger Colman and
the Elder Morton were composed at a time when we were
too busily engaged, in taking forts and frigates from the
French, to trouble ourselves with appropriating their dra-
matic inventions ; and these plays may be called original.
The same may be said of all the works of Knowles and of
Douglas Jerrold. But here our natural claims to the
debateable virtue of originality may be almost said to
cease. Of noticeable living writers,—Sheridan Knowles
having withdrawn from the craft,—the names only of Bui-
wer Lytton, Bayle Bernard, and Buckstone, can be cited
as those of men largely dependent on their own construe-
tive resources—though all these have frequently availed
themselves of French fertility. Money is an original
comedy; but The Lady of Lyons and Richelieu would
never have been written without certain vital suggestions
from the works of Soulie, De Vigny, and Yictor Hugo.
Not one successful farce in ten, produced in this countiy
during the last forty years, can be pronounced original.
Nay, to go much further back, we find more than the
germ of High Life Below Stairs in Les Precieuses; while
that very model of an old-fashioned English farce, The
Village Lawyer, turns out to have been—not merely
adapted, but—translated, almost word for word, from the
oldest piece on the French stage—H Avocat Patelin, which
was quoted by Babelais in the sixteenth century !
 And pray, what is all this intended to prove ? I am
sure I don't know, reader. But I found a quantity of
people gossiping upon a subject in which I am personally
interested, and I thought I would have my gossip with the
rest of them. I hope you will forgive me, if I have done
the haunted bachelor.
245
wrong. In extenuation of possible offence, let me put in
a plea of eagerness to catch at any excuse for sustaining
that sort of tete-a-tete intimacy with you to which my
recent privilege of narrating the chequered history of Miss
Brown has habituated me. It is not my turn to tell yon
another long story just yet awhile—my place for a few
weeks being engaged by an esteemed contributor who will
make his lirst appearance in our next—suppose I name
him at once—Augustus May hew—but I must be allowed
to say something. I trust that my rambling observations _
on an art—in the permanent vitality of which I believe so
firmly, as to regard its present undeniably suffering condi-
tion as the mere symptoms of a corrective ailment, to be
thrown off as easily as measles or hooping cough by a
healthy child—-will not be considered altogether purpose-
less or irrelevant to the present bent of the public mind.
I believe the drama too good a thing to be lost, and this
belief satisfies me that it will not be lost.
So much has been done for the outward purification of
the stage—so many valid objections to an indulgence in
theatrical amusements have been removed in our own time
—that it would be irrational to despair of the most com-
plete and effective reform of all abuses in connection with
a branch of art in which so large a proportion of the
community is actively and visibly interested.
THE HAUNTED BACHELOR.
I sit in a haunted chamber
('Tis one of a set of three),
In an old and gloomy Temple,
Facing a huge green tree.
A seedy old tree, and dismal,
Hung over with worsted balls,
That bob at my darkened window,
Like tufts upon funeral palls.
U6
THE HAUNTED BACHELOR.
'Tis a black look out on all sides,
Wherever the gaze is met;
The fountain down in the courtyard
Spirts with a ghostlike jet.
There are chimney-sweeping sparrows,
With tails not worth their salt,
The very black wine I am drinking
Was fetched from a neighb'ring vault!
At my cheerless chimney-corner,
All grimy with years and smoke,
I try—with an ardent spirit—-
To kindle a flame from Coke.
Or, by polishing up my Blackstone,
To catch an enlivening spark,
Thrown out by its deep reflections :
But it leaves me still in the dark !
In this gruesome habitation
I am haunted night and day,
By a tempting female vision;
It may be a witch or fay.
I'm a terrible dunce at Elf-lore,
And dare not assign her class,
But I'm sure sure she is'nt a mermaid,
Eor she never looks in the glass.
And her dark hair never wants combing,
'Tis glossy as ebon sheen,
Encased in a snug silk bonnet,
Not coral or sea-weed green.
She can't be a moaning Banshee;
Her voice is too soft to howl!
As she's eating my living heart out,
She can't be a death-fed Ghoul.
I've heard about Gnomes and Kobbolds
Who tempt men under the earth,
With promise of gold and jewels,
Of treasure and treasure's worth.
THE HAUNTED BACHELOR.
Bribes, my familiar syren
Ne'er breathes a word about;
She owns she has not a farthing,
But can live upon love, without.
There's a- drudging kind of Goblin
I have read of in Milton's page,
Who will spread you a famous breakfast
Tor a very modest wage.
One morn when the milk was curdled,
And the coffee a witch's broth—
She came to my ear and whispered,
"You should let me lay your cloth !
Then I thought that she might be kindred
To that dairyman rough and grim;
But I saw that the fair sprite shuddered
To find herself classed with him.
 I would drudge and toil to serve you,
(And her eyes with pearl drops steam);
 Bnt not for a poor night's lodging,
Or a paltry bowl of cream.
One mom I awoke and saw her
Sitting beside my bed,
Mending my old worn slippers
With worsted of green and red.
 Oho ! I cried, • I have caught you,
You Irish Leprahaun!
Mending the holes in a poor man's shoes—
I clutched, and she was gone.
Another awakening vision,—
We had watched in the night too deep;
I had fallen a-bed all weary,
My clothes in a shapeless heap;
Books upon chair and sofa;
Bottles and pipes on floor;
Never a key in padlock;
Never a bolt on door.
248
THE HAUNTED BACHELOR.
Feverish, tossing, groaning,
I lay, till a magic balm
Bathed like a dew my forehead:
Up I arose all calm.
There was my ruffled chamber,
Orderly, prim as new,
As the fair sprite vanished and said with a smile
 Naught to what I can do !
"you should let me lay your cloth.
Syren, Brownie, or Pixie,
Kelpie, Naiad, or Elf,
She will win me away from this gloomy life,
Away from this reckless self.
a christmas complaint.
I will follow where'er she beckons—
Through fire, o'er land or sea;
Tor never was fairy tempter
Like the spirit that beckons me !
postscript.
When her features—I mean the fairy's—
I calmly call to mind,
They resemble my cousin Mary's,
Who to me was always kind.
When a man can't grasp the first good,
The next he had best seize on.
(Mem. Notice to quit at chambers,
And to call upon Uncle John.)
A CHRISTMAS COMPLAINT.
This Christmas time, that's made to look
So vastly gay and comic,
Would better suit my Christmas book,
If not quite so gastronomic.
Though making mouths to raise a smile,
Just now I own my mission,
It plays the Dickens with my style
Of English composition.
I've spent the week at Merton Hall:
(Excuse a long narration—
My presence in this house at all,
Shows but a poor relation !)
250
A CHBISTMAS COMI3LAINT.
A welcome guest 'neatli Gothic roofs,
Illumined by windows oriel,
Where I was set to work at proofs,
By no means editorial!
My second cousin's uncle's son
(I think 'we are thus connected),
The squire of Merton Hall, is one
To ancient ways affected.
With Christmas fare as tough as lead,
He made my peptics grapple :
I long'd to punch his old bore's head,
And choke him with an apple !
On Christmas-eve I sought my room,
To pen a plaintive stanza,
And, here and there, with jokes illume
My last extravaganza.
On toast, egg-flip, he would insist,
With crabs ('was no use fighting)
A crabbed, flippant eg-otist
To prove me in my writing.
He made me sup on toasted cheese
(He is of Welsh extraction);
Those Christmas weights still mar the ease
Of my golden pen's free action.
We breakfasted like Shakspeare's queen,
(A wild boar's tusks from Suabia,
Those steaks had tried !) would Bess had been
The queen of Bess-arabia!
For lunch a ec shoeing horn was thrust,
Strong ale and bacon salted,
A kind of horn I hope and trust,
Will never be exalted.
A CHRISTMAS COMPLAINT.
251
The stirrup cup was next brought forth,
As out we rode together;
A feat which proved the proverb's worth,
That there is "naught like leather.
I did not much enjoy my ride,
Nor quite my Christmas dinner;
The soup—Ude's skill, which had defied,
I should have liked much thinner ;
The beef—! Ah, well!. no English cook
Scarce better could have used it—
No matter—I reviewed a book
That ev'ning—and abused it!
A whole mince-pie I eat, to please
The lady of the mansion,
Which made me on the weak points seize,
And swell to huge expansion)—
Of John Bright's new Reform Bill scheme,
Which strictures had been wasted,
Like those on Tennyson's last dream,
Had I not pudding tasted.
This Christmas time that's made to look
So vastly, gay, and comic,
Would better suit my Christmas book,
If not so gastronomic.
The Nightmare holds me down in bed,
Dyspepsia's slave I own I am,
A writhing martyr at Spit-head,
Or Eryin Pan-de-monium.
252
ODDITIES OE GREAT MEN.
drawn by kenny meadows.
THOMSON AND THE PEACHES.
Tiiey make a most indignant fuss,
Against the Seasons' bard illustrious,
Eor being once discovered thus,
More free and easy than industrious,
Nibbling ripe peaches from the tree;
And moralists fire up like rockets
That he enjoy'd that luxury,
Keeping his hands within his pockets.
I think, myself, the poet's plan
Calls for approval 'stead of pardon;
I'd imitate the gifted man,
Had I such fruit in such a garden.
Such boons as leisure, health, content,
Peace, sunshine, loveliness and plenty,
Surely deserve the compliment
Of an enjoying far niente.
But there are course, ill-mannered churls,
Unworthy guests at Nature's table,
(Who welcomes them in all her pearls !)
Politeness true, to feel unable,
Will gulp her dainties with a jerk,
Her charms and gems ignoring blindly,
Then rush about their dirty work
Without as much as  thank you kindly.
THOMSON IN HIS GABDEN.
255
BERTHA.
IMMITATED FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET,
There's a light in her casement blinking
Still through the village gloom.
Of what is my Bertha thinking,
There, in her silent room ?
As my daring fancy views her,
Sitting with curls untressed,
A wandering, wondering muser,
Staving off prayer and rest;
With her father's good-night blessing
Still in her virgin ear ;
With her mother's kiss still pressing
Her forehead of marble clear;
With a new day's history inking
Its mark on her soul so white—
Of what is my Bertha thinking,
Ere she puts out the light ?
Perchance of the last new novel,
Its heroine's grief and pain,
Of love in a palace or hovel,
A castle in air or in Spain ?
Perchance of the minister's sermon,
, The air of a favourite dance,
Her last week's lesspn in German,
Her bonnet that's coming from Prance?
Perchance of a young girl's dreaming
On words like "mother, and "wife,
A child soul's innocent scheming,
To guess at the riddle of Life ?
Perhaps of her dinner—her brother—
The state of her soul or her shawl;
Perhaps of myself or some other—
Perhaps of nothing at all!
256
A NEWFOUNDLAND AND BULL-DOG STOEY.
The Newfoundland dog's name was Tippoo. _ The bull-
dog's was Boxer. They were neighbours of mine in early
life, and I was personally acquainted with both animals;
though on widely different grounds of intimacy. Tippoo
was my bosom friend, and I loved him. Boxer was
Tippoo's most relentless and cruel enemy, for which reason
I hated him, and would have sought his blood, but that—
being of tender years, and cautious temperament, con-
scious, moreover, of presenting an appetising display of
bare leg, insisted on by the sumptuary laws of the period
—I thought it possible that he might take a fancy to
mine; and so, as a rule, kept discreetly out of his way.
For he was an ugly dog was Boxer, and a vicious; a
bandy-legged, black-muzzled, truculent, nervous-eared,
tight-skinned, implacable, ill-conditioned dog, very like my
beau ideal of what the Champion of England ought to
attention to a somewhat humourous expression of counte-
nance, which has been faithfully preserved by the artist,
and which I can honestly assert to be the only redeeming
characteristic I remember to have noticed in the creature's
generally repulsive appearance.
Tippoo was a very different kind of quadruped. I be-
Eeve him to have been the most perfect gentleman that
ever stood upon four legs, just as I believe Boxer to have
be. I am privileged to annex
% his portrait, so that you will be
enabled to judge for yourselves.
Observe the ferocity of his bead-
like eyes, and the aggressive pro-
I ^/ISp trusion of gladiatorial chest. In
1-pKp justice to the dead (for I am
^ happy to anticipate the announce-
ment of the offensive brute's
demise), I feel bound to call your
a newfoundland and bull-dog story". 257
been the most consummate ruffian that ever was lifted, by
the agency of hemp-cord, from any number of those loco-
motive supports. Tippoo was nearly as tall as myself. I
could just look over his glossy silken-ringletted back, when
cuddling his noble neek. He wore a full suit of black and
white, particularly snowy at the bosom. He was as strong
as a lion, and as gentle as a lamb. Next to playing with
me, (which I am proud to believe was his favourite
pastime), he delighted in nothing so much as the exercise
of carrying in his mouth a favourite cat, attached to the
household of which he was so conspicuous a member, to
the bottom of a steep lawn ; then releasing, and running a
race with her to the top. The cat was generally the winner,
and always seemed to enjoy the triumph immensely. To
this day, I believe Tippoo made a point of running slowly
on purpose, so as gallantly to concede victory to the
weaker vessel. ■ ,
Tippoo belonged to a country gentleman (a sort of
 half-squire, as* they would say in Ireland) who resided
opposite to my father's house. In my opinion, and in
that of a majority of my playmates, Tippoo was the most
important and respectable inhabitant of the village, up to
the advent of Boxer, who came among us unexpectedly,
on a visit to Tippoo's master, in the train of a sporting
lawyer of detestable memory. As soon as that subversive
brute (Boxer—not the sporting lawyer) had made his
appearance, Ave felt much as the loyal servants of King
Louis the Sixteenth must have felt on the outbreak of the
Great Trench Revolution. Monarchy Avas deposed in
favour of blackguardism. But the blackguard was strong
and merciless, Avith a set of terrible Avhite teeth ever eager
to bite. So that Ave poor little partisans of the ancient
rt'tjime Avere fain to clench our impotent fists in secret.
Tippoo had no chance against Boxer. What is the use
of a Avell-dressed gentleman, let him be never so strong or
skilful in the use of his clenched digits, descending from
his cabriolet to do battle with a scavenger armed Avith a
mud-shovel? He sedulously avoided Boxer, aviio, on his
17
25S A NEWFOUNDLAND AND BULL-DOG STOllY.
side, lost 110 opportunity of hunting out and persecuting
Tippoo. Tippoo was losing character dreadfully. He
neglected his food, kept his kennel, and was unanimously
pronounced a coward of the most contemptible stamp.
His very court flatterers (we were no better than the more
matured and ambitious of our species), began to blush for
then sovereign's pusillanimity.
One day the masters of the two dogs stood on the lawn
already alluded to, in amicable converse with a third per-
son, no other than my own father, to whom I am indebted
for the details of this instructive story. Boxer stood be-
tween his proprietor's legs, which, like his own, were
bandy. I have the keenest recollection of those legs—
master's and dog's—and I remember that the whole six
were modelled upon the same pattern, which was one
extremely distasteful to my feelings.
"Holloa! said my father, "here comes Tip! We
shall soon see him sneak away when he discovers Boxer.
Dreadful coward, that big dog of yours, Matthews, to he
sure.
"Well, he used not to be so, said Tippoo's master
reluctantly,  but I must confess that since Wilkins has
been here with his bull, the overgrown cur has made me,
ashamed of him.
 No call for that, said the bull-dog's master,  better
dogs than Tip have funked at the sight of my Boxer. By
Jove, though, he hasn't bolted yet. He'd better, or Boxer
will murder him!
Boxer certainly showed playful indications of a desire to
attempt that experiment, by pricking up his ears and
starting off at a brisk trot in the direction of Tippoo, who,
however, to the astonishment of the spectators, made no
movement tewards recovering the shelter of his easily
accessible kennel. On the contrary, he seemed to wait for
and encourage his aggressor's attack.
 The dog's mad, clearly, said the lawyer.
 Looks like it. Mr. Matthews assented.  He isn't
acting like a dog ill his senses.
A NEWFOUNDLAND AND BULL-DOG STOBY. 259
 Getting very near the water though, for a mad dog,
observed my father:
And, in truth, to get near the water, was the main object
of Tippoo, than whom a more thoroughly sane dog did not
exist at that epoch of canine history.
There was a deep dyke running at the bottom of the
lawn, fed from the reservoir of a neighbouring tin-mill,
and which had been greatly swollen by recent rains.
Tippoo, keeping his large full eyes carefully fixed upon his
approaching foe, sidled in a coquettish, serpentine manner
towards the brink of this artificial stream.
There the bull-dog flew at and pinned him. Tippoo
crouched on the grass prostrate, submitting to the outrage
without a growl.
 Call him off, Wilkins, said Tippoo's master, in ex-
cited tones.  The purest Newfoundland in the county !
I wouldn't have him injured for twenty pounds !
 Hi! Boxer! Here boy! Good dog! Let go ! the
sporting lawyer clamoured, as a shower of sticks and stones
were launched by the trio of spectators to enforce the
command.
But Boxer would not let go, and Tip would not resist
or run. He merely kept on slipping, sideling, and lum-
bering towards the brink of the water, dragging the bull-
dog with him by the mere inert force of his superior weight.
Suddenly a splash was heard, and the triumph of Boxer
was at an end. The combatants had rolled together into
the swift, deep .current of the dyke, and there they speedily
changed places. I say  speedily',' narrating as I do an
actual fact; though I am aware that it may seem to require
some explanation, inasmuch as the grip of a bull-dog is
supposed to be a final affair, lasting the life-time of the
pinner or the pinned. I can only suggest that my gentle-
manly friend Tippoo was from the first so completely on
the alert, as to prevent his ruffianly antagonist from getting
a sure and firm hold. However that may be, Tippoo, re-
leased from custody, in his turn seized his .assailant by the
neck ; held him under the water and drowned him! The
260 A NEWFOUNDLAND AND BULL-DOG STORY.
brave, sagacious water-dog, wrongly imagined to be a
coward, knew his own power in his own element, and had
watched his opportunity. Would that we were all as
wise !
Ere the just execution had been thoroughly accomplished,
Tippoo's glossy, patrician hide was pretty well cut to pieces
by the missiles now hurled at him instead of his aggressor.
But he received them all without a. wince, till he felt that
his enemy under the water was thoroughly dead. Then
/V
he brought the ignoble carcass out of the stream, between
his teeth ; threw it on the grass with a jerk, and with his
fore-paw resting on its flank with a calmly defiant expres-
sion, that might clearly be translated by the words,
 Now, let this dirty, ugly rascal presume to take liberties
with his betters. Make the best of him as he lies
there!
I know this story to be a true one, for my father told it
to me. Moreover, I remember exulting over the sight of
THE BILL.
261
the drowned Boxer's disfigured remains (just the least
thing in the world ashamed of the feeling, perhaps, but
certainly felt it), and doing my best to console my darling
Tippoo for his unsightly wounds, by gifts of stolen refresh-
ment—the best medicine I knew how to offer. I suppose
thai Tippoo, also, is dead by this time. Most of my early
friends are, and it may be my turn next, as likely as not.
I have finished for the present.
THE BILL.
a ballad freely adapted from the leonora of
berger.
A lodger on the quarter day
From restless slumber started :
 Have you a letter for me, pray ?
As down the stairs he darted.
He waited for it until night,
And then was in a pretty plight,
At having had no token
To prove his means unbroken.
And up and down the stairs he flew,
To ask about his letter;
The landlady could give no cue
To satisfy her debtor.
And when the latest post had called
He tore his wig (for he was bald),
To earth his bills all flinging,
The bell in fury ringing.
362
THE BILL.
The servant ran to lhm and cried,
 Why did you please to ring, Sir?
Good heavens, he s mad ! (this is aside),
Can I do anything, Sir ?
 Oh, Mary, I am lost for aye,
The last post now has passed away,
The governor has done me ;
It's deuced hard upon me !
 Your governor should know no rest
Until he does befriend you ;
Bore him, be one continual pest,
And soon some tin he'll send you.
 Oh, Mary, Mary, useless trick!
The governor has done me slick;
Since thus my prayer's unheeded,
His aid shall not be needed.
 Alas, that thus I should be done !
How falsely have I counted !
A bill is now my course alone,
My bill must be discounted.
Oh, Mary, I am lost for aye,
The last post now has passed away,
The governor has done me;
It's deuced hard upon me.
Urged by despair and void of sense,
His rent resolved on paying,
He rushed with mad improvidence
To Mister Levi's, saying
He must have cash. The cash was lent
Upon his bill; full soon't was spent,
And he himself absented
Ere the bill was presented.
* *
Hush ! listen! listen ! tramp—tramp—tramp,
Three heavy steps he counted,
THE BILL.
As up the stairs with clattering stamp
A man most quickly mounted;
And listen at the door a tap,
More and more loudly sounds rap—rap,
And then these words were muttered
With Jewish accent uttered;
 Halloo! undo that door, young man,
Come you've no time for sleeping;
You're cotched at last; so now you can
Give up—you're in my keeping.
"Be off! Who's this so late at night?
I can't come out in such a plight;
So quickly hence be walking,
Nor waste your time with talking.
 'Tis true you're in a precious plight,
By luck you're quite forsaken ;
I thought I'd catch you some fine night,
And now you're safely taken.
"But stop, I think I have some change,
And probably we may arrange—
 Pooh, if I waif for ever,
I'll take you, though so clever.
The young man felt, that he was booked;
He flung a coat around him,
And loosed the door ; the bailiff looked
Delighted to have found him.
Off in a cab they rolled with speed
(Which sorely did distress the steed),
The driver, who'd been drinking,
Lashing away like winking.
And right and left on either side
The drunken cabman blundered,
And oaths he scattered far and wide
As o'er the streets he thundered.
264
THE BILL.
 Your lionouv, I am very dry—
I knows a public-house close by—
I wish you'd stand a pot, Sir;
You know it's very hot, Sir.
Three pots were brought: vanished the beer,
The bailiff his aid lending;
His victim prayed 'twould make him queer;
But no ; the cab was tending
Its proper course, and now the steed
Flies faster still with whistling speed,
The driver, mad with drinking,
Lashing away like winking.
And swiftly towards a massive grave
With tearing speed they hurried;
Descended, reached an iron grate
(The youth felt greatly flurried);
The doors unfolded creaking wide,
The victim spake not, but he sighed,
For now the sun had risen,
And shone not in that prison !
And when he sleeps, unto his glance
Round in a circle scowling,
Linked hancl-in-hand, wild spectres dance,
And with these words are howling:
 Though pressed for rowdy e'er so ill,
Forbear, forbear to give a bill;
From bills thy thoughts all sever,
Or thou art lost for ever!
265
THE PARSON'S WORK.
a custom of the country.
"she knows the wobst.
Some one brought in a sick'ning tale
That froze the laugh on ev'ry lip;
A signal missed—a snapping rail—
An archway's crush—a bank-side slip.
No matter what! a man was killed,
One we had known, a bridegroom glad,
Hastening home—with what hopes thrilled !
The news had sent his young wife mad.
2 CO
the parson's "work.
We sat in angry sullen gloom,
Like plotters fearing to commence
Their treason talk ; each in the room
Doubting of Good and Providence.
Woe without moral, hope or plan !
We lacked a scapegoat to abuse;
Then found one in the luckless man
IVho had not broken well the news.
 The groom was dead: no help for him !
Yet the bride's reason had been saved
Perchance, had hot his spectre grim
Been rudely shown her! So we raved
A South Shields man—a comrade's friend,
In name and person strange to us,
Scarce noticed at the table's end,
For the first time broke silence thus:
 You London gentlefolks, at ease,
Who live and perish for the most,
Are not prepared for haps like these;
We manage better on the coast.
 You many gently-nurtured wives,
Franked by your oaths from mis'ry's glooms
Who count to lead long pleasant lives,
Ending, with yours, in marble tombs.
 Our fishers' wives on Durham's coast,
A different contract make when wed ;
They bargain for a husband lost
In ev'ry fight for next day's bread.
 So for announcing when he died,
(Which means in fishing circles ' drowned,')
A standing method, cut and dried,
Our thoughtful sea-birds long have found.
THE CAPTIVE.
 They tell the parson—who straightway
Proceeds, in form to break the news,
His task to soothe, console, and pray,
A duty few of us would choose !
 I doubt though much good is earned,
For when—a wintry night just past,
The boats o'erdue, not yet returned,
The waves still creaming 'neath the blast—
 Through the gray dawn along the shore,
The widow, at her casement's, frame,
The parson sees approach her door,
She knows the worst! 'Tis much the same !
THE CAPTIYE.
fiiom fc les orientales of victor hugo.
I could love this fair land
If I were not a slave,
With its placid sea strand
And its com meadows' wave;
And it's starry sky's beam
Would be sweet as a dream,
If it lit not a gleam
From the dark Shahi's glaive.
Am I Tartar or Turk
That a slave—black and old—
Should look over my work
And my looking-glass hold ?
THE CAPTIVE.
Par away from this den—
There, at home in the glen.
One could chat with young' men
Nor be censured as bold.
Still, I love a fair clime
Never chilled by the snows,
When in deep winter time
Not a lattice we close.
In the summer, warm rain
Bathes the grass on the plain,
Where the dragon-fly vain
Like an emerald glows.
Like a smiling princess
Is this Smyrna of ours,
All jewels and dress
In her father's strong towers.
In her seas there below
See the islets a-row,
Blue and green, rose and snow,
Like a basket of flow'rs !
Yes, I love her gay Avails—
Love to watch the flag stream
O'er her golden-roof'd halls
That like fairy toys gleam.
And those tents, high in air,
That the elephants bear,
What with these can compare
Lor a lazy day-dream ?
In this palace of fays
My lone heart, prone to song,
Hears the numberless lays
Of the desert-born throng—
THE CArTIVE.
THIS CArTIVJS,
Hears the quarrelsome dins
Of the Peris and Djinns—
Strife that ends and begins
And recurs all night long.
Yes, I love, in this land,
The sweet perfumes of night;
Love the cypresses grand,
With their towering height;
Love the desert-stream's bed,
Where the palm nods its head,
And the vane, golden red,
O'er the minaret white.
On my lute, some home lay,
Some old Spanish romance,
It delights me to play,
For my comrades to dance :
Such a gay, laughing band,
As they whirl hand in hand,
Eound the tent where they stand
From the sun's burning glance
But I love most of all
When the day runs it's span,
And the heavy dews fall
The vast ocean to scan.
With all wondering eyes
As the moon 'gins to rise
And o'er billow and skies
Spreads her bright silver fan.
a 72
AN EARLY CHRISTIAN.
Christians were 011 the earth ere Christ was born,
His laws, not yet a code, were followed still,
By sightless pagans, in the dark forlorn,
Groping towards the light, as blind men will:
Thousands of years ago men dared to die
Loving their enemies—and wondered why !
Who that has read in Homer's truthful page,
Of brave Achilles, brooding o'er the corse
Of Hector sacrificed, (less to his rage,
Than iron custom's law, withouflremorse,
Claiming revenge for mild Patroclus slain !)
Can doubt he wished great Hector lived again ?
Full half the tears he shed were Hector's due,
Whose noble soul he had to Hades sent—
Why ? was Patroclus gainer ? If they knew !
Methinks I see Achilles in his tent,
Beating his breast, and twitching at his hair,
B anting a few words only—the Lord's Prayer !
And more for his, than Priam's sake, I feel
Rejoiced when I am told the good old man
Comes with his simple, fatherly appeal
For Hector's body ;—pointing out a plan
Of kindliness, atonement, and of peace,
That in Achilles' breast Hate's strife may cease.
What joy he must have felt to see a way
To turn him from Revenge's irksome path ;
Like a worn seaman who descries the day,
After a night-watch mid the tempest's wrath.
Methinks I see him, in his huge arms bear,
Great Hector's body, with admiring care ;
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STOltY.
273
And chuckling- to evade the sentries dull,
Convey it through the sleeping camp with glee;
With sense of lightness, new and wonderful,
To grateful Priam's car.  What can it be ? 
I hear him ask, "thus makes my bosom glow,
Showing such weakness to a fallen foe ?
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY.
I lived in Gosport: near the Hard,
My uncle kept a timber yard ;
Which now to think I'm sore inclined,
Was but a superficial blind
To keep suspicion's furnace cool.
I fear he drove a roaring trade,
Discounting Prize money unpaid;
('Twas war time then), and feeing crimps
Who dealt in men like hake or shrimps.
Still were he fifty fiends and imps,
He brought me up and paid my school,
And ne'er from him I learn I'm sure,
Save what was good, and sound, and pure.
I've much to tell, and would be brief,
I loved his daughter ! rest it there :
I ranked, in all the town's belief,
Old Bslirstow's son-in-law and heir;
And so had been: but loi there came
Between me and my Hope, a thief—
A rascal—of our blood and name !
18
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STOEY.
Hard words to one no more I own,
But I admit no dead rogue's claim
To honied lies on tongue or stone,
To save his memory from shame.
In spite of proverbs old or new,
Naught of the dead but what is true!
He was a distant cousin's son—
An orphan—e'en as I was one—
My good old Kinsman (good to me,
 Swear by your ship, we say at sea);
Bound him alone, in want and tears,
A helpless boy of eighteen years.
He brought him home one day, and said,
"Will, here's a friend to share thy bed;
A comrade—schoolmate—fellow clerk—
Give him a pen and teach him work.
This fellow was a very snake,
In movement, hue,—almost in make—
He seemed one undulating line;
His boneless arms as glued or tied,
Would stick for ever to his side,
And with his spineless carcase twine;
Two clammy paws—like ice to shake—
Would deprecating movements make.
But he the reptile never lost,
When elevated from the snake
'Twas to the lizard's rank at most.
A something still in blood and form
Betwixt the crocodile and worm.
I loathed the creature, though I strove
With all my soul to give him love.
It "was a thing was not to be,
He flattered—fawned on—cringed to me,
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY,
His benefactor's chosen heir.
Myself Ms patron, guide, and friend,
Who from my greatness Could descend
For a poor castaway to care.
'Twas I had taught him all he knew,
He said. Thank God, that was not trtie.
I taught him in some shape to read,
And write a sprawling hand, and count,
(My sole accomplishments, indeed),
And I must own he made good speed
In quite exhausting the amount
Of my schoolmaster ship. But I
Ne'er taught him how to fawn and lie—
To rob and perjure.—There, enough!
I ne'er could gulp his loathsome stuff
About my goodness, wit, and grace,
Which showed the dose would not go down.
(Which he would doubtless keep in view,
And hate me that I saw him through).
My claims to honour wealth, renown—
When these he named, in scorn I smiled;
But when he spoke of Bairstow's child,
Of Bertha's form and Bertha's eyes—
How I alone deserved the prize—
I scarce could help but burst his crown.
Well—let's get on: with stealthy tread
I found him walking o'er my head;
Not in old Bairstow's kindly grace—
There still I held th.Q topmost place—
Nor yet in Bertha's heart: (the cur
Had dared to harbour dreams of her ;
I guessed it then, as now I know—
Ah, well; 'twas fifty years ago !)
'Twas as my Uncle's right-hand clerk
I found him, at my cost, make way.
276
tiie naval gentleman's stohy.
Old Bairstow's dealings well might shirk
The scrutiny °f open day.
And Paul, a turn for dirty work
Did from his earliest teens display.
And he the secret'st ledger knew,
Locked up from me by strict "taboo.
 Taboo !—what's that?"-—a South Sea phrase :
The spell that Mumbo Jumbo lays
(I mean his priests) on fruit and flowers.
Monopolising all things rare,
The padlock on the secret lair
Of Mumbo's rites and Mumbo's powers :
The homage Yice, in Britain pays
To Virtue, when a rascal's soil
li e see trained up in Christian ways,
On fruits from knavery's garden won;
The charm, the gamester's child that guards
Prom name of dice or sight of cards;
The talisman, the drunkard's heir,
That bids the festive cup beware;
What's good for me and not for you,
i»o you shan't have it—that's taboo !
Of Bertha's peace and happiness
Entrusted with the sacred charge—
'Twas judged that I with danger less
Might roam a gentleman at large.
Spend money—see the world, and dress,
Then soil my conscience witli the mess
Of Bairstow's secret mine, where he
With Paul in dirt and mystery
Grubbed on—for Bertha and for me.
And so an idle life I led—
Bode, hunted, shot—Aye ! sometimes read ;
(Third-class gentility at best
I fear was mine : while on the head
Of scholarship—the least that's said
Is soonest mended : let that rest):
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STOltr.
While Paul was kept to stock the till
That paid my lordship's tailor's bill.
His labours vast, his wages small;
•But soon his patent crafty skill
Began to work its way with all.
Men gaily shook the hand of Will,
But gravely doffed their hats to Paul.
 Poor Will, I heard them oft declare
 Idas got it here, but wants it there''
(By ' here,' I understand the heart,
By ' there,' the calculating part).
 While Paul—he'd get on anywhere !'
Proving the estimate in vogue,
Of me as fool, and him as rogue.
I thought the world in error then,
On one, at least, of those young men.
Grown wiser now—I back bv oath,
The world's first verdict on them both.
But Life is short, while Art is long,
For fools to learn, who late commence
(I fear some ancient sage I wrong
In twisting thus his proverb's sdnse).
I'd guessed my cousin Paul, in part,
But him to learn—right through my heart
It took me long, and cost me dear!
In his peculiar School of Art
The terms are high, the tasks severe.
As to the other gentleman—
Myself—I know not if I can
Pretend to his acquaintance yet,
I'm apt too high a price to set
Upon his virtues and to scan
His failings with a lenient eye,
His follies I can scarce descry :
His villanies I quite forget!
378
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STOEY.
I know Mm now, at any rate,
Better than then •. my estimate
Of his abilities and worth
Experience has diminished much,
The mountain, 'neath her magic touch,
Dwindling each day, still nearer earth,
Scarce to a mouse has given birth.
But in the time of which I speak
The mountain was a towering peak,
With lions seeming yet unborn,
I laugh—in sadness, not in scorn,
To think how rapidly I grew
In all the pride of twenty-two,
As brave a sample as might be
Of a pert, smug young Pharisee !
With cash to spend, and time to waste,
I hugged myself as something rare,
Because no vice or vulgar taste
I had acquired—great marvel there !
Because I never made a bet,
And was not half-a-crown in debt!
Because, though free to lounge and play,
I sometimes worked—three hours a day!
Because the noisy banquet's lure,
With brain unclouded, footstep sure,
I had the strength to leave betimes,
Long ere the sounding midnight chimes;
Low revels shunned, to end the night
In fireside talk of calm delight,
Crowned with the sweet ennobling bliss
Of a fond virgin's good-night kiss !
They flattered me—that Bertha's self,
More than her father's praise or pelf.
She had such eyes ; and such a heart!
Such cloudless brains ; such sunny hair !
Her lips—and, oh, what lips they were 1
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY.
In silence drooped; in smiles apart,
To me, were ever eloquent
Of love and rapturous content.
'Twas such a priceless diadem
Of budding flower and lasting gem,
Tor mortal man to win and wear!
And it was mine by conquest fair.
Of worth approved. She told me so.
How dared I rate my virtues low ? * *
All this was fifty years ago !
Old Bairstow praised me far and wide;
You see I fed his shopman's pride
By clinking cup, and grasping hand
With men of wealth and breeding high;
Yet showed the ordeal I could stand
Of ample means and liberty;
And still returned to Bertha's side
To find my soul's wish gratified.
There was no limit to his praise—
The stay of his declining days,
His more than son, his darling's choice,
The prudent wit—the virtuous beau,
The phoenix sprung from ashes low—
By sheer expenditure of voice,
He forced the echoes of the street
My wondrous praises to repeat,
Till, on my soul! I scarcely knew
What, with my heaped renown, to do,
So rare a prodigy I grew!
The sunshine was too hot to last,
Cold night was closing o'er me fast;
My fame's quicksilver swift went down,
With Bairstow, Bertha, and the town.
Clouds gathered o'er my uncle's face,
And Bertha's eyes would start and swim
280
the naval gentleman's st01ul
At my approacli; of wrong, no case
Was 'gainst me urged, by her or him.
What had I done ? They would not tell—
They hoped that all might yet prove well.
So hoped, no doubt, the sheepish crew
Of former comrades whom the bell
Hound Slander's neck from me withdrew.
The cheering smile, the hearty grip,
From men esteemed—my friends till now
I found replaced by formal lip,
Averted face, or distant brow.
While—source of pang more galling still,
Than Virtue's scorn, or Friendship's chill—
Vice would accost me, open-palmed
As one upon her seas becalmed—
Knaves I had loathed—and shown it, too,
Would welcome me as of their crew.
Why was I shunned by Worth and Fame?
How dared the Enseals, kindred claim
With one who scorned their lawless guild ?
Who would a charge against me build ?
The only foe in house or street
I found to challenge—ne'er to meet,
Was fiend Suspicion—heard, not viewed,
Who, when by angiy Truth pursued,
Still seeks the clouds, on pinions strong,
Shedding this poison— Something wrong !
I could not fathom it all
Below a certain stratum—Paul!
I swear by Instinct. Do I feel,
From Eeason, hatred to the snake ?
Is't fear that he may bite my heel
That makes me long his skidl to break ?
No ! but a strong antipathy
Existing 'twixt the snake and me
Inspires the snake with eager lust
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY.
281
«ONB BLOW I FELLED HIM TO THE C RC-TTXI).
To bite me with envenomed tooth !
And me without remorse or ruth
To crush him writhiug in the dust!
I felt that Paul had hatched some lie
To blast my nopes eternally;
I wondered  What ?"•—I asked not  why ?
I found it out. The gentle maid
Whose ghost I trust can hear me now,
Believed I for her dov'r had played,
Meanwhile to other arms had strayed;
A worthless rival, pampered, paid
With gold the sweat of Bairstow's brow—■
Pilfered by me, his destined son—
Thief, ingrate, perjurer in one !
The charge was made. A look, a wince—
I know not what—'twas so long since !
A twitching mouth—a shrinking eye,
Proved Paul the father of the lie.
282 THE NATAL GENTLEMAN'S STOEY.
I taxed him with, it 5 blood was warm;
I called him licff, sne&k, and hound!
With slanders fresh he fanned the storm,
Que blow! -T-l felled him to the ground,
His face death-white, with blood streaked o'er,
He picked himself from off the floor;
And—as a cur the lash might kiss—
He whined,  The blow I'll not resent,
Knowing that when your rage is spent,
William—you will repent of this.
It proved my kinsman Paul was right s
A press-gang seized me that same night.
* # * *
I went to sea t Big pens have told
The horrors of a war-ship's ,hold.
See Smollett, Marryatt, and the rest.
To fight afloat was ne'er my luck;
A squadron bore on us—we struck 5
They took us prisoners to Brest.
From English shores and speech estranged,
Long months I pined, then got exchanged.
Eor Portsmouth, ho ! my native sands
I'd thought to leap ashore and kiss;
Grasp welcome in a score of hands—
To laugh and cry and faint with bliss.
The wrongs and slanders of the past
Had seemed mere straws borne on the blast
Mere melted snow-flakes—settled foam!
I only thought of friends and home.
Nearing the shore I grew dismayed
To feel so lonely and afraid I
I'd written oft to Uncle Will
And Bertha; but my letters, still
Unanswered, one and all remained.
the naval gentleman's story.
283
What then? Between the hostile coasts,
Smugglers aa4 privateers (bad pests 0
Were the sole ships that then obtained.
Still to'the hopeful view I'd clung j
A bride expectant j loving, young™—
Aged only ny anxiety,
With wrinkles, soon kissed smooth to be j
A foster sire, yet hale and strong
,4 kinsman gneved he ?d done me wrong,
I dreamed to hud awaiting me!
Such magic tints will distance lend,
E'en Paul I'd grown to think my friend.
And fairly longed his hand to grasp,
In friendship and forgiveness pressed,
Atonement's gift in Pardon's clasp—
Those hopes I'd lived upon in Brest.
Hopes coldly crushed, when Portsmouth town
I reached on a November day:
My clothes were rags, my skin was brown,
My hair was prematurely grey 5
These I forgot, but felt full sore
My lonely landing on the shore.
I passed through many a well-known street,
Old comrades saw on ev'ry hand;
None know me (with my shoeless feet,
How should they ? I, the coxcomb grand,
The dapper sage, the moral beau,
Of scarce a dozen months ago !)
The town looked strange, the day was bleak;
1 felt afraid tbat home to seek,
I'd yearned for as a Paradise:
What if I found the hearthstone ice ?
What if grim death had passed that way ?
Or if not Death—what ?—who could say ?
281 THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY.
I hovered near the homestead nook, *
Yet dared not id its i'ace to look ;
(T'm an arch coward, that's confessed''!.
I argued, "Sunburnt, poor, ill-dressed,
1 stand disguised from friends of yout r,
beneath these rags, this beard and skin,
V bat if I skulk 1o von poor inn,
TV here 1 may learn, by chance, the tmUi?'
learnt it rudely. Bairstow's ease
Two men discussed o'er pipe and pot:
They both agreed, in foremost place,
'Twas pity sore, old Will had noi,
m time, descried the worth of haul—
His true sheet-anchor after ail;
But pinned Ids faith, for good and ill,
On that incorrigible Will;
W ho, proving knave instead, of dolt,
Had robbed, fore/ed bills—then made a bolt.
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN's STORY.
That Paul had saved the firm, was true,
Restored the bus'ness, good as new,
Married his cousin—so far good!
Old Bairstow up for Paul now stood,
Just as for Will in days of yore:
The old man doted on their child—
Things went on smoothly as before.
But, Lord ! if Will had been less wild,
Had kept in bounds, drunk less or played,
What sums the Bairstows might have made;
During the past twelve months of war!
William had much to answer for.
This was enough; but little quest
Sufficed to tell me of the rest:
Bertha was married, and to Paid,—
Old Bairstow sinking to his grave,
Believing me an ingrate knave,
The cause, responsible of all!
I nursed an impulse, stern and dull,
To buy an axe or butcher's knife,
Wherewith to cleave my kinsman's skull.
But thinking of his child and wife,
I bought no axe, I split no head,
But shipped before the mast instead,
Leaving them all to think me dead.
~'S %
I'm wasting time, the night grows late ;
I rose to be a second mate.
I traded off to Portsmouth town,
My hair more gray, my skin more brown
Bach voyage. With an altered name
No living soul remembered me ;
My Bertha's face on earth to see
A blessing proved I might not claim.
Yet long ago—my blemished fame
I might have cleared—the dear old roof
286
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY.
Entered once more a welcome guest,'
My uncle's hand in kindness pressed.
(He lingered still) for amplest proof
I, of my innocence possessed I
A dying rascal had confessed
On board my ship, complicity
"With Paul's black guilt; the villain's plan
Had all revealed, and I was free
To stand a blameless, much-wronged rhan.
Sore tempted I the words to speak,
My name to clear, my vengeance wreak.
Eor Bairstow in his babbling age,
I learnt in fits of childish rage;
Old fond remembrance harb'ring still,
Would help from ev'ry hand refuse,
And those about his bed accuse
Of plots against his darling Will.
"You keep him from my side, he'd say,—
 Lest he, before my dying day,
Should clear his rumoured guilt away,
And claim, ere I in death am cold,
My blessing, pardon, and my gold.
A score of tongues these rumours brought,
'Gainst the temptation still I fought.
It were a proud and joyous tiling
To cleanse the stigma from my life;
My foeman on his knees to bring—
But Bertha was that foeman's wife !
The mother of his children three ;
Whene'er the demons tempted me,
I shut my ears and flew to sea.
They had been married now six years',
And had three girls—an only boy;
I knew them all, the tiny dears,
To romp with, them my foremost joy.
THE NATAL GENTLEMAN'S STORY. 28?
When on the sands they came to play,
(Father and mother safe away):
They marvelled greatly, I dare say;
Who could the sunburnt stranger be,
That dogged their steps unconsciously;
Who loted, cafessed them Giie Slid all,
Although the boy was so like Paul.
'Twas at this time th08® ehlldfOfi's sire,
That mother's spoils®, this Speaker's Gain,
By laws than human irlsdoM higher,
Was sent with me ftfifOSS the maitij
His first and only Od®ati--tiiip}
We journeyed iff the Seif'SBttie ship.
He was the Stif eroBfgd—I
First-mate On hoard s he kfietv me hot.
I shunned his presetice eatefillly •
A meeting might result ill—what ?
No matter—storms began to frown;
The ship was wrecked, all hands went down.
We'd struck a reef, so land was nigh :
I rose and sank, and rose again;
A spar I caught at floating by,
And clung to it with might and main.
My ragged clothes in shreds I tore,
With desp'rate strength, and rudely lashed
Myself to it. I know no more
Till 'mid the deaf'ning tempest's roar,
In blackest night against the shore,
I felt myself with fury dashed.
'Twas fate's decree that I should reach
A sheltered nook of shingled beach.
I thought myself the sole man saved,
And on a rocky desert raved.
Starved, parched, and moaned in helpless pain
Through days and nights, and days again.
2SS
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S STOKY.
"I KNEW THEM ALL, THE TINY DEALS.
The third, or fourth, or fifth long day,
Dawned on nie like a gladsome dream,
I'd staggered to a mountain stream.
I seized a scollop shell to lay
The Demon Thirst. I drank my fill—■
I could have drowned me in the rill.
I looked defiant tow'rds the sea—
When, lo ! a ship awaiting me.
Oh ! I was safe : a palm to climb,
And wave a kerchief in the sun
Was hut a moment's work—'tis done.
My signal they have seen in time.
They come to save and set me free,
I slid like lightning down the tree
To fly—when at the streamlet's brink,
A voice unearthly startled me,
Uttering hoarsely one word— Drink !
THE NAVAL GENTLEMAN'S SX011Y.
A. famished wretch too weak to seize
The scollop shell I had thrown by,
Close in his reach on hands and knees
With tongue out-hanging parched and dry,
Towards the streamlet strove to crawl,
I recognised my kinsman, Paul!
"Drink! he repeated, "Drink! drink! drink
One draught of water, or I sink !
See, there's a ship. I cannot live
To reach its deck—unless one draught
Your hand will give—his head fell back,
And then in hideous tones he laughed;
But still his lips, all parched and black,
And cleft by many a ghastly chink,
Strove to shape out that one word— Drink!
Here was my struggle! Should I save
This rascal for an honoured grave,
When the withholding of my hand
A corpse upon a nameless strand
Would leave him for the sea-birds' meal ?
It made me sicken, Mnt, and reel.
The vengeful thought 1 and then, beside,
Wealth, Future, Fame, perchance a bride •
These, by his death, might yet be mine,
To see him gasp, and writhe, and twine !
Assassin ^of my Hope and Fame !
Thief of my love! The murderer's blame
Should I incur to let him die ?
That moment seemed eternity!
But lo! a boat—no time to think!
A thousand fiends from deepest hell
Infernal counsels seemed to yell—
I shut my ears—picked up the shell,
And gave my cousin Paid to drink !
292
the anti-rhyme law league.
It saved liis life—that service slight—
So tire ship's doctor—people said
Paul, a respected ancient wight,
Died some months hack—Iris wife last night.
And now, my dears, let's get to bed.
THE ANTI-BHYME LAW LEAGUE.
We learn with pleasure that an agitation is on foot
among the poetical working classes of this country, the
object of which is nothing less than to effect (by constitu-
tional means, if possible) the total and unconditional repeal
of the existing Bhyme Laws, the stringency of which
Draconian code becomes daily more oppressive. An as-
sociation has been formed under the above title, and
meetings are being held all over the kingdom. The list of
members already comprises some of the most brilliant
poetical reputations of the next generation, and a few of
inferior calibre of the present.
A monster meeting of the Anti-Bhyme Law League
was held last week at Codger's Hall; Mr. Martin Earquhar
Tupper (Perpetual Grand President of the Association)
in the chair.
The meeting was brilliantly attended. On the platform,
our reporter noticed the following magnates in the Bepublic
of Letters. Mr. Orpheus Bopps, Mr. Turndown Coleridge,
Mr. Byron Scott Montgomery Jones, Mr. Whistle Binhie,
Mr. Lazarus Shadrach (the eminent comic song writer,
and reputed author of the World of Fashion, the Temple of
Taste, and other lyrical collections), the authors of Hello-
ffabalus, or the Boiled Father, Laudanum Lyrics, Snooks
the Apostate, &c. &c.
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE.
293
The ladies' gallery presented a galaxy of rank, beauty,
and genius. Amongst the fair occupants were Lady Pump
Cowper (of Blue Castle, in the Isle of Skye, and the gifted
authoress of Cerulean Draughts), the Honourable Miss
Bobinson (the  Sappho of the Newington Butts Fort-
nightly Gazette), Mrs. Butcher (authoress of the Bleeding
Heart, &c.), Miss Cornelia Higgs, Miss L. E. L. Brown,
Miss Felicia de Stael Smith, Miss Hookey, Miss Walker,
&,c. &c. Stc.
The hall was tastefully decorated with banners and in-
scriptions illustrating the principles and objects of the
association. Prominent among the latter were observed
 Down with Rhyme, or we'll know the Reason ! "No
Turnpikes on the Parnassus Road !  Free Trade in
Prosody.  One word is as good as another, and in some
cases much better, See. Stc.
The Chairman (who was received with loud cheers) said
he would commence the business of the evening by read-
ing some letters he had received from certain poets of
celebrity who had been invited, but were unable to attend
the meeting.
Communications were then read from Messrs. Alfred
Tennyson, Browning, Kingsley, Alexander Smith, Ailing-
ham, and others, strongly disapproving of the objects of
the Anti-Rhyme Law League, and expressing an unani-
mous determination on the part of the writers to have
nothing whatever to do with it.
The perusal of these epistles was received with groans
of disapprobation.
The Chairman begged of the meeting to master their
emotions. This was the sort of thing they must expect at
the outset of their crusade. The writers of the letters he
had just read were all men in power, and personally in-
terested in keeping up the existing state of things. In
every popular movement there were always to be found
such self-seeking opponents to the cause of liberty and
advancement. But they would have, in the long run, to
give way to the majority. (Loud cheers.) He was happy
294
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE.
to say, however, that all great writers of the day were not
so selfishly bigotted. He had received a letter from that
distinguished statesman and poet, Sir Edward Bulwer
Lytton—(Hear!)—who sent in his unqualified adhesion to
the Anti-Bhyme Law League. (Tremendous cheers.)
 The honourable baronet informs me, said the Chairman,
 in language such as he alone is capable of wielding, that
he considers the existing Bhyme Laws as iniquitous and
oppressive—that they chain down the Promethean soul of
the bard with leaden bonds—(sensation)—that Bhyme is
the boy-constructed Cork and Pin cage against which the
bloom is brushed from the butterfly wings of Genius.
(Thunders of applause.) The honourable and gifted baronet
proceeds to inform me, that he has himself suffered severely
from the tyrannous rigour of those laws which we are as-
sembled here to. denounce and overthrow—(cheers)—that
he has even at times sunk under the impossibility of fill-
filling their terrible exactions. And, as he is for the aboli-
tion of everything or everybody that ever did or could put
him to the slightest inconvenience, he strongly advocates
that Bhyme should be done away with altogether. (Tre-
mendous cheering.) The worthy Chairman said he would
not detain the meeting, several abler speakers than himself
having promised to address them on the subject nearest all
their hearts.
No objection being made, to this very reasonable pro-
posal, Mr. Turndown Coleridge rose, and was received'with
the profoundest silence.
Mr. Turndown Coleridge would commence by observing
that his appearance did not create the slightest enthusiasm.
Was he surprised at this ? No. Did he expect it ? Yes.
And why did he expect it ? Because he was unknown
amongst them—unknown! as though the aching heart
which his right-hand now pressed had never beat with a
poet's ardour—unknown! as if the brain beneath the
forehead which his left-hand now slapped despairingly had
never conceived a master-piece pf genius. (Hear! and
murmurs of  how true ! ") And to what did he attribute
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE. 295
this chilling isolation, this killing injustice? To the
tyrannical Laws of Bhyme! which if was impossible for
any man of independent genius to submit to. It had been
touchingly observed by a modern poet (not in rhyme, the
speaker was happy to say), that
 The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
(Hear! from a thousand places.) He himself was a strik-
ing illustration of this truth. But it was the world's fault
for establishing a hateful despotism, which utterly crippled
the expressions of genius. He believed himself capable
of writing better poetry. (Question.) It was the poet's
failing to digress. He would endeavour to confine himself
to the question. The question was this : What would
the British public think when they were informed that a
grand epic poem, in twelve books, on a no less colossal
subject than the Battle of Waterloo, had been lost to them
for ever through the impossibility of finding a rhyme to
the word  month ? Yet so it was! He had conceived
the plan of a poem on the subject and scale alluded to;
he even bought sufficient paper for its completion; he
sought the privacy of his study; and, with all the im-
petuosity of youth and genius, following the rule of
Horace to begin in the middle, he dashed off the following
line—
 'Twas on the fifteenth day of June's bright month.
He had found no difficulty whatever in writing this line,
(indeed he could always write the first line of any poem
with marvellous fluency). But when he came to the second
he found himself at a standstill. He sat up half the night
in attempting to master the difficulty, but all in vain. In
the morning he explained the phenomenon to a more expe-
rienced literary friend. The latter informed him that he
had set himself a hopeless task, inasmuch as there was no
rhyme to  month in the English language, unless,
indeed, his readers would adopt a lisp for the occasion; in
296
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE.
which case such -words as  once and  dunce might be
employed—pronounced  oneth and  dunth. But
where, he asked, in the present age of materialism and
apathy, could he find readers sufficiently devoted to the
interests of poetry to put themselves even to that trifling
inconvenience ? Echo answered, nowhere! The result
was, that the epic of the Battle of Waterloo must remain
unwritten for ever, in consequence of this contemptible
mechanical difficulty at the very outset. If anybody could
illustrate the injurious effects of the Bhyme Laws on the
public welfare by a more striking answer, the speaker
would feel obliged to him. He believed he had said
enough.
The audience entirely concurring in this opinion, Mr.
Coleridge was allowed to sit down without opposition.
Mr. Whistle Binkie could furnish them with a thousand
instances similar to that mentioned by his gifted friend who
had just sat down. (No !) He would content himself
Avith one. (Murmurs of approval.) A friend of his—
Avho—ahem !—Avould, perhaps, not always be nameless—
had commenced an  Ode to Smoke Avith the folloAving—
as it had been considered by some excellent judges—beauti-
ful line:—
 Graceful wreath that mounts my chimney!
and then he had been compelled to stop, OAving to the
barrenness of our language, Avliich, as is Avell knoAvn, offers
no legitimate rhyme to the Avord  chimney.  Nimbly
Avas suggested as allowable to a London audience; but
this the poet refuted Avith the indignant fastidiousness of
genius. The  Ode to Smoke  had finished in the element
Avherein it had been generated. He Avould simply ask if
this sort of thing Avas to continue ?
Mr. Orpheus Bopps said that the empire of Bhyme Avas
already in its decline and fall. It had obeyed the rule of
all despotisms—by tightening its bonds Avith prolonged
impunity—and Avas hastening its oivn fall. Formerly,
Bhyme had been a mild despotism—noAv it ivas an iron
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE.
297
one. Rhymes that were tolerated in the past generation
were now punished as capital literary offences. It was no
longer permitted to rhyme "higher with "fire; "thought
with "short; "manna with "banner; "villain with
"shilling; "window ivith "cinder, &c. The old free
institution of  Rhyme to the eye"—winked at through
two centimes—had been ruthlessly suppressed.  Even
rhyming with "seven, "plough with "tough,
"weight with "height, "roll with "doll, and such
like harmless alliances were now as rigorously forbidden
as marriage with a deceased wife's sister. He was glad to
see this spirit at work. This was the rock on which all
tyrannies, ancient and modern, had split. It was this
ignorance of when to stop that had brought Charles the
Eirst to the block. It was this had opened the path of
return to the Stuarts. It was this that overthrew Louis
the Sixteenth, Robespierre, Napoleon, Charles the Tenth,
and Louis Philippe. He congratulated the League on the
approaching accomplishment of their wishes. The days
of Rhyme were drawing to a close.
Mr. Lazarus Shadrach (who, on rising, was received
with the amount of enthusiasm due to so popular a cha-
racter,) had shoinething to shay on that there head—s'help
him. It was getting downright impossible to write a song
to pleashe peoplesh now-a-days, they was grown so nashty
particular. Yy !—vould the meeting believe it ?—him and
the other gentlemen as was so popular in the comic song
line had one great injustice to complain of. They was no
longer allowed to make use of the  Sir at the end of a
line! P'rapsh the meeting didn't understand him. He
would give them a shpeshimen or two. In a song of his
own writing there occurred the following passage :—
 Some time ago in Bermondsey
There dwelt a scavenger's daughter
Who dealt in greens and cauliflow-ers,
Yich many people bought, Sir.
The  Sir being introduced to make up a rhyme with
 daughter. Again, in a little vork vich was attributed
298 THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE.
to—a friend of his—called Coshtume Cashtle, published by
a distinguished house in the Minories, there was the well-
known couplet—
 There's a fault m the making of some people's trowsers,
Which makes them rip open whenever you how, Sirs.
Now, this vas all very veil in the old times. But vould
they believe him (Mr. Shadrach) that now, if he tried such
rhymes at the Cave of Harmony, the gents hissed him P
And the other day, ven he (he meant his friend) took a
new poem to his publishers in the Minories, where
"wrapper was made to rhyme with "slap, Sir, they
wouldn't give him the money; but said his writing wasn't
up to the taste of the age, and treated him altogether in
the most dishonourable, ungentlemanly, and un-English
fashion. Mr. Shadrach was of opinion that the Bhyme
Laws must be abolished at once and for ever, and de-
clared himself ready—as a poet, a gentleman, and, above
all, an Englishman—to devote himself heart and soul to the
cause!
Mr. Shadrach sat down amidst prolonged cheering.
A nameless individual in the body of the hall rose to
inquire, in the event of Ehyme being abolished, what form
of poetical expression it was intended to adopt in its stead?
The worthy Chairman rebuked the speaker with some
sternness. He said the question was premature, not to
say indecent. (Cries of  Turn him out.") There would
be plenty of time to consider the question of re-building
when the work of demolition had been accomplished.
There were many forms of poetry much better, and in-
finitely easier, than Ehyme. He himself rarely made use
of Ehyme; and when he did it was only to show his con-
tempt and independence of the laws under that tyrannical
dispensation. (Hear.) Many plans of poetical reform had
been suggested; but the object was, first, to secure the
poet's unconditional freedom. In order, however, to assure
the meeting that the future had not been entirely unthought
of, he would call upon his friend, Mr. Drivel, to read a
specimen of his newly-invented Alphabetical Poetry.
THE ANTI-RHYME LAW LEAGUE. 299
Mr. Drivel favoured the company with a reading of the
following effusion, the purport of which was not very clearly
seen during its viva voce delivery, but which, on printed
copies being circulated among the meeting, was hailed
with enthusiasm, as the mark of a new era in poetry:—
What streamlets can the poet's thirst all A
Who pants as for the honey doth the B,
Or as the caged Petrel for the C ?
All idle talk! Upon the Biver D
There dwelt a miller (who so blithe as E P)
Solved the whole problem. Shall we all be d... E
To this most philosophic prodi G
Who did, as say the jocund Irish, t— H—
 I care for not a living soul, not I,
Nor more than for the passing daw or J
Cares living soul for me! Let thrones de K
(A doom which many an ancient state bef........ L,
Leaving on hist'ry's note-hook ne'er am M!)
Let poets, heroes, warriors, gentlem N
Pade from the world to Lethe's realms bel 0,
Yet need Posterity not care a P
Or bean. That miller's tale will give the Q,
Guiding them down the pathways of succ S
Into the regions of prosperi T,
You care for nobody on earth, not U,
Eor nobody will feel la moindre en Y
To care for you. But up will W
When wants or difficulties you perpl X.
This is the Poet's creed. You all know Y
In Zummersetshire phrase the bard has Z
After a few more remarks, not worth reporting, a vote
of thanks was passed to the Chairman; and, with three
groans for Tennyson and the other [Reactionists, the meet-
ing separated;
300
ODDITIES OE GREAT MEN.
drawn by kenny meadows.
STEWART AND MACKINTOSH BALANCING
PEACOCKS' LEATHERS.
The pencil of Kenny Meadows was wanted to give
reality to a ridiculous episode in tlie lives of two Scottish
worthies, wliicli the pen of Patrick Fraser Tytler has
chronicled. Dugald Stewart, Henry M'Kenzie, Sydney
Smith, and Sir James Mackintosh were all welcome guests
at the same happy hoard. The philosopher forgot Irs
academic dignity, and even his natural gravity, amidst the
playful distractions that surrounded him. One morning,
after Breakfast, he and the youthful historian were dis-
covered running round the dining-room, each balancing a
peacock's feather on his nose. The names of the fortunate
individuals who surprised the amateur jugglers are not
recorded. We trust that Sydney Smith was not one of'
them, and that the sober author of the "Elements had
no harsher a critic of his peculiar application of the Phi-
losophy of Common Sense than M'Kenzie, the "Man of
Feeling.
STEWART AND MACKINTOSH BALANCING PEACOCKS' EE AT HERS.
303
THE FEMALE SMUGGLER.
a legend op the thames.
[N.B.—This ballad is a humble attempt to revive what used
to be known as the Wapping School of lyric poetry; a style of
composition that had unfortunately fallen into disuse. The
nautical character of the subject, (for which see The Times of
Tuesday week last), as well as the  Wopping dimensions of the
most conspicuous article connected with it, naturally suggested
the revival.]
Oh ! all you young damsels take warning from me,
And mind what you're at when you travel by sea;
Don't wear crinolines, or, it is my belief,
They will tempt you to deeds that will bring you to grief.
'Tis of a young damsel so lovely and fair,
In spite of her parents to France wQuld repair,
She said,  A short journey from home can't be wrong,
Since to Calais I'm off—I'm not going to Be-long.
In a crinoline splendid she made this here trip,
But she took so much room up she half filled the ship;
Says the Captain,  With she, if there comes on a gale,
We shall have to let steam off, and shorten all sail.
At Calais she landed, this maiden so fair,
And she walked her abroad, and she breathed the fresh air,
When some wicked designers did tempt her to wrong,
Which you'll know all about when you've heard this here
song.
Oh! she came back to London's great city so fine,
And they stopped at the Docks of the famed Catherine;
She was tripping ashore with a hinnocent smile,
When a stern landing-waiter her steps did beguile.
304-
THE FEMALE SMUGGLER.
Oil! rudely lie stopped tliis misguided young lass;
Says lie, "With them what's-o-names, miss, you can't
pass.
Says she, "It's the fashion/from France lately come.
Says he,  Werry like—hut it may conceal rum.
He marched her away, (think of this, pretty dears !)
And handed her over—not minding her tears—
To the hard-hearted searchers, who stripped in a crack
The pretty flounced petticoats off of her back.
Oh, sad to relate! the inside one they found
With the choicest Regalia cigars stitched all round.
So they dragged her, in spite of pray'r, sobbing, and shriek.
To the court of stern Yardley, the Thames Police beak.
So this beak (who's the terror of all jovial tars)
Did find her so guilty of smuggling cigars,
That he felt it his duty this maiden divine
The sum of one hundfed gold sov'reigns to tine.
And he says to the custom-house party, says he,
 When a lady again in such garments you see,
Suspect her intentions, and search her with skill.
Says the custom-house party,  Your worship, I will.
So you see, you young damsels what crinolines wear,
Though your hearts may be pure as your faces are fair,
All who see you encased in your iron-hoop sheath
Will suspect something wrong may be smuggled beneath.
305
WANTED A CUEATE.
I've wanted a Curate an age,
And I wish to the saints he would come;
I'm sure I take trouble enough,
And offer a very fair sum.
Each day, in the Times and the Union,
My wants and my terms are displayed—
I rout up my clerical agents,
Yet no application is made.
'Tis strange—yes, I can't understand it,—
My askings are modest and small,
The duties and qualifications
Are little or nothing at all.
I hate  Evangelical spirits,
To help in a chapel of ease, (?)
To head "young men's Christian assemblies/'
And smile at their brotherly  teas.
I dispense with a  gospel conversion
Still less I require a  call
And I think that long-winded discourses
Amazingly rapidly pall.
My Curate must dress as befits him,-—
His clothes must be quiet and neat;
His waistcoat must button up high,
And his coat must reach down to his feet.
I have but two services daily,
At which he, of course, must appear ;
An adept at  bowing he shall be—
And quote every saint in the year.
"WANTED A CURATE,
He must right-about face to the altar,
And bend on his knees to the cross;
His voice must be good fox intoning—
(He's never allowed to be hoarse).
In Lent, and on Last-days, and Lridays,
He never must taste any meat,
Lor the blessed St. Muggins assures us
'Tis wrong in such seasons to eat.
He must visit and teach at the schools;
He must read to the aged and poor;
He must marry three couples a day,
And christen a dozen or more.
After these, he must sit in his sanctum
And hear the young ladies confess:
No hardship—they're all very pretty,—
Of course he can give them a kiss.
So the duties are nothing, d'ye see,
Though the parish is large, it is true;
Society's very  convivial,
The dinners and parties not few.
For his labours I well will reward him—
Though I scarce can afford it, I fear,
(My income is barely a thousand)—
I offer him sixty a-year.
307
A TEETOTAL HARVEST HOME.
A Mr. Wilson, of Mansfield, has been writing to the
Times, recording the success of an experiment made by
him on his own estate, which we believe to be without
precedent in the annals of agricultural reform. This was
nothing less than the giving of a harvest-home enter-
tainment to his labourers without the hitherto indispensable
assistance of beer. Tea and coffee were the stimulating
liquids substituted on this occasion. Mr. Wilson says the
labourers liked it. We hope they did.
We should like further particulars of this sober merry-
making. How did Mr. Wilson entertain his humble
friends ? Did he lock the farm-yard gate, throw the key over
the wall, and declare that not a man should leave his seat
till the urns, kettles, and water-butts were emptied ? Did
he propose  Speed the Plough and  Success to Agricul-
ture in three times three rounds of buttered toast ? And
how did the rustic convives carry their unaccustomed
liquor ? Did any of them get  lumpy from excessive
indulgence in loaf sugar ? Or could their hospitable en-
tertainer boast that there was not a single man in his com-
pany who went away half teas over ?
Of course they indulged in singing over their cups—and
saucers. But what were the songs ? Most of the bucolic
ditties, usually heard on such occasions, are in praise of
the very fluid the use of which Mr. Wilson takes such
credit to himself for having suppressed. 'Consistency
would forbid their introduction. Can it be that some
hitherto mute inglorious Milton of the neighbourhood dis-
tinguished himself by the foundation of a new school of
ballad literature appropriate to the emergency ? We would
fain believe so, and are pleased to imagine some stentorian
3JS
a teetotal hauvest home.
Hodge or Tummus  giving month. to stanzas like the
following :—
"When I wot bound appventiz
In vamous Z ummerzetsheer,
I spent my yarnings zhamefully
In many a quart o' beer,
Until I took the pledge, my hoys,
As you shall quicker-ly hear,
Yor it's my delight
That I don't get_ tight,
And have given up drinking beer.
Or something in this style :—
 Brandy and gin
Puffs out the skin,
And beer's a pizen to me;
And when either I takes
The taste of it makes
Me wish as how it was tea.
Por I likes a cup o'good tea,
It's the stuff as agrees with me,
And my friends I advise
(If the price "don't rise)
To never drink nothing but tea.
Another specimen, and we have done. The warbling
waggoner of the Wilson estates is supposed to be the
songster on this occasion :—■
 When first I went a waggoning, a waggoning did go,
The use of beer and spirits made me oftentimes cry 'woe!'
But now I sticks to ginger pop, and coffee, and eo-coa,
Gee up, my lads, gee whoa!
G-ee up, my lads, gee whoa !
Then who can lead a life like a sober waggon-er /
On the next festive occasion of this kind we trust
Mr. Wilson will think of us, and forward us an early invi-
tation.
309
LES TROUS JUDAS.
This interesting and delicate invention, said to be so
much in vogue 011 the Continent, has received such
publicity from the Times, and other journals not quite so
particular as ourselves, that we are fortunately spared the
necessity of describing it. It certainly exhibits sleeping
beauty in a new light; and, if its adoption is to become
universal, the feelings of the anxious parent, the absent
husband, or the dreaming lover—with regard to the object
of his affections—will be rather different towards evening
than has been hitherto customary. A new style of serenade;
will be indispensable for the emergency to begin with.
Let us try our hand at one :—
The young May moon is beaming, love,
But you had best put a stop to its streaming, love,
By a cloak or a shawl;
For a hole in the wall
There may be, of which little you're dreaming, love.
Be awake ! extinguish your light, my dear,
Ere a garment you change for the night, my dear,
For a dastardly wretch,
I should so like to catch,
Through a chink may be taken a sight, my dear.
If a noise you hear, ere sleeping, love,
Like a mouse in the corridor creeping, love,
Make sure it is not
One of that precious lot
A. gimlet hole boring for peeping, love.
And if of the hole you get sight, my dear,
Here's a trick you had better not slight, my dear,—
Stick a needle or pin
His eye suddenly m,—
It will serve the young gentleman right, my dear.
310
THE LOW-NECKED DEES3.
after. samuel lover.
[Being the first of a proposed series of Sanitary Songs
for young ladies—very much wanted.]
When first I saw Miss Clara,
A West-End ball 'twas at,
A low-neck'd dress she wore, and near
The open door she sat.
But when that door was thriving oak,
And blown by tempests keen,
Exposed to air,
So much, 'twas ne'er
As the blooming girl I mean,
As she sat in her low-neck'd dress,
Becoming, I must confess,
For of all the men round
Ne'er a one could be found
But "look'd after the Low-neck'd Dress.
The polka's tumults over,
The fondest of mammas
The daughter calls, and hints at shawls,
But scornful  hum's and "ha's
From Clara (artful goddess !)
The kind proposals meet;
Quite faint she feels—
She fairly reels—
She never could bear the heat!
So she sits in her Low-neck'd Dress,
But the heat would have troubled her less;
For long weeks will have roll'd
Ere she's rid of the cold
That she caught from the Low-neck'd Dress.
ON THE GREAT  NOTHING TO WEAR QUESTION. 811
I'd rather see those shoulders
'Neath  dowdy cloak of fur—
Or pilot coat, and round that throat
A ploughman's comforter;
For I'd know that tender bosom
Was safe from climate's ill,
And the heart so sweet
Would much longer beat
Than I now feel sure it will,
While she sticks to her Low-neck'd Dress.
I've proposed, and she answer'd  Yes.
Next week it's to be—
But make sure I shall see
That it's not in a Low-neck'd Dress.
ON THE G-BEAT "NOTHING TO WEAR
QUESTION.
A wipe to dress
In the mode, I guess,
Picks a husband's bones quite clean,
And poor Mr. Spratt
Must cry "No fat!
As his wife will cri-no-line.
312
SIE ISAAC NEWTON'S TOBACCO-STOPPEll.
Sir Isaac having weighed the laws
Of gravitation and attraction,
Their ev'ry  wherefore ? and  because,
Disposed of to his satisfaction,
(Vainglorious of his knowledge clear
On subjects of the Tail and Apple!)
Felt drawn to matrimony's sphere,
And dared with Woman's Love to grapple!
A dame was found who thought the sage
Would a celestial body deem her,
Who sought to make the Knight her page,
Her wakeful slave, the star-struck dreamer.
But ah! her conquest, boasted loud,
Proved of an absence most provoking,
For ever wrapt within a cloud—
In fact her flame was always smoking !
One day her lily-hand he seized
(A thing he might have thought of sooner):
A thrill of hope the damsel seized,
He'd now descend to thoughts sub-lunar !
But, 'stead of pressing it with lip,
As would have been but right and proper,
Its dainty little finger-tip
He used—as a tobacco-stopper !
The lady screamed—the knight implored:
No ! 'twas an insult nought could wipe out.
His tears she scorned, his gifts restored,
Apd put, for good and all, his pipe out.
The story proves (hi moral's yoke,
If thread so slight has strength to carry)
Either that husbands shouldn't smoke,
Or dreamy smokers shouldn't marry.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON'S TOBACCO-STOPPER.
815
PEEPS AT THE PAPEE.
I'll tell you a story in simple rhymes
Distilled from the prose of the stately Times:
A band of tatterdemalions,
Hungry and homeless, worn and spent,
All sorts and sizes—a regiment
As ragged as e'er was to Coventry sent
Since the days of fat Jack's battalions—
Before a Justice of wisdom deep
Were charged with the crime of going to sleep,
. At least with trying to do so,
On a Surrey common among the geese,
Away from all dwellings that pay police,
And with no more chance of disturbing the peace
Than Adam, or Eobinson Crusoe.
When I read at first this ridiculous charge,
I thought— of course they'll be set at large,
And their booby captors chidden.
I was wrong; for, lo ! the offenders bold !
By the Worthy Magistrate soon were told,
That to sleep on a heath, on the grass, in the cold,
Was a crime by the law forbidden.
He let them off—(it was wise and kind:
Justice, you see, isn't always blind,
As shown in heraldic gildings)—
That once: but gave them a terrible hint,
That if ever again they presumed to dint
The grass with their somnolent bodies' print,
There would be a row in the buildings.
31(3 recollections of a new comedy.
I've told, my story : no moral I draw ;
It lias set me thinking about tlie law—
Its light to arrest and summon
A labouring man on the world thrown loose,
I shall always regard as second-class goose,
While that Magistrate's name will the thought
induce,
Of a. donkey out of the common.
RECOLLECTIONS OE A NEW COMEDY.
[not so good as it ought to be.]
I remember, I remember young Leigh Murray in a wig,
And a dress that well became him, though his hat was
rather big.
I remember Mister Stuart as a peer of high dfegree,
With a star upon his bosom, and a garter at his knee;
I remember they had lots to say, the comedy throughout,
Though I really can't remember what their talk was all
about.
I remember little Keeley as a simple city-calf,
Striving hard to live genteelly, and to make the people
laugh.
I remember he and Buckstone (when to fail was either
known ?)
Both succeeded in their efforts ; but the fun was all their
own.
EE COLLECTIONS OP A NEW COMEDY.
317
I remember Keeley's  catchword "—I remember'd long
ago
How I'd heard such things found fault with in Fitzball as
rather low !
I remember, I remember two extremely pretty girls ;
I remember fiosa Bennett's dimpled cheeks and glossy
curls,
And Miss Vining's snowy shoulders, and her eyes as soft
as dove's!
They came in and out repeatedly, and talked about their
loves.
I remember, I remember that I didn't seem to care
Tor the trouble of discerning who those ladies' lovers were.
I remember "Tom and  Jerry being forcibly recall'd
In a scene in which some watchmen got unmercifully
maul'd.
What with kicks, and thumps, and bruises, 'twas as droll
as one could wish,
Till you thought they'd come to throwing carrots, turnips,
greens, and fish.
I remember that it struck me they'd be introducing soon
Into comedy the characters of clown and pantaloon.
I remember, I remember that the author seem'd to hope
lie was giving "local colouring by quoting lines from
Pope.
I remember lots of "sentiments that met with great
success
In the good old school of "British Tars and "Females
in distress!
I remember there were epigrams and repartees galore;
But I also can remember that I'd heard them all before.
I remember, I remember one Sir Geoffry in a fume
Of mistrust and dark suspicion of—I don't remember
whom.
318 RECOLLECTIONS OP A NEW COMEDY.
I remember "Webster toiling like a porter with, his knot,
Striving hard to interest us in—I don't remember what.
I remember, I remember,  Masks and Paces, and  Tar-
tuffe; 
And in both, I well remember, of his pow'rs we'd better
proof.
I remember Howe, a Grub-street hack—worn, wrinkled,
pale, and lean;
I remember him and Murray in a really telling scene.
I remember Murray's acting, when he imitated Curll,
And his scene with Barry Sullivan (a politician churl).
I remember I applauded here, and so did all the house,
Tor the author show'd some feeling, and the actors play'd
with nous.
I remember, too, soon after, there was some excitement
when
Old Sir GeofFry claim'd his daughter, and we shouted
"Bravo, Ben!
I remember I was gratified when all was said and done,
And I felt convinced the acting would secure the piece  a
run.
I remember feeling grateful, though (while lighting our
cigars)
That I hadnt seen it acted by the Literary Stars !
319
GKLAUCUS:
oe uncommon objects by the sea-shoee.
We have received a communication, under the above
strikingly original heading, from a no less distinguished
pen than that of the renowned Paterfamilias. Though it
is against our rule publicly to notice the voluminous corre-
spondence with which our numerous patrons are so obliging
as to overwhelm us, yet, in the present instance, the prefer-
ence shown to our journal by a writer of such world-
acknowledged eminence is so flattering as to call for
exceptional treatment. We are unable to publish our
esteemed friend's letter at length. In the first place, there
is rather more of it than we should feel justified in obtrud-
ing on the reader's attention. In the second place, its
composition is beset with certain difficulties in the way of
orthography and syntax—characteristic, no doubt, of a
bold, unfettered style, but with which our sub-editor
respectfully, yet firmly, declines grappling. We are re-
duced, therefore, to the expedient of an editorial digest.
Our correspondent's object in writing is to acquaint us,
and the public through our agency, with the particulars of
a startling phenomenon observed by himself and certain
members of his family on the beach of Shrimpington-
super-Mare, on the afternoon of Thursday last, the 6th
instant. It is an occurrence, he says, which he would
scarcely venture to report on the mere evidence of his own
senses. But as his impressions are confirmed by the
united testimony of Mrs. P. (who is not a woman to be
contradicted); of their eldest daughter, Jemima Ellen; of
young Mr. Meezles, the temperance bookseller (engaged
to^the latter); and of three younger branches of the P.
family—named respectively, Charles, Leonora, and Adol-
phus—all J'present on the occasion—our correspondent
320
GLAL'CUS.
considers himself justified in assuming that he had his wits
about him pretty much as usual.
The wind, P. informs us, was Nor'-nor-by-East, or
South—he forgets exactly which. Particular stress is laid
upon this latter fact, our correspondent being anxious to
avoid all possible charge of ambiguity. The tide was,
apparently, on the turn, though our informant will not be
certain that it had yet reached its full elevation: while, on
the other hand, he is prepared to admit that it might
already have receded some inches from the high-water
mark. With the exception of sea-gulls, he noticed nothing
particular in the state of the atmosphere. The days had
shortened considerably during his sojourn on the coast
(dating from the "25th ultimo), with such perceptible
rapidity, indeed, as to call forth remarks from the majority
of inhabitants. But this our correspondent is inclined to
attribute to natural causes. The health of the district,
generally, was of a satisfactory average, and the price of
shrimps as usual.
At precisely ten minutes to three on the afternoon in
question, as our correspondent was seated in company
with the family group already described,  on the damp
but sandy acclivities by which the boundless ocean
is skirted, on that picturesque, yet not wholly economical
portion of the British Isles (such is P.'s poetical de-
scription of coast scenery at Shrimpington), they were
startled by the sudden appearance of a marine monster
rising from the waves immediately in front of them, whose
aspect, P. impressively informs us,  may be more easily
imagined than described. The creature was of gigantic
stature, and might have been said to resemble the human
form, but that its head was of colossal dimensions, perfectly
spherical, and destitute of the conventional ornaments of
nose and mouth. In compensation -of those deficiencies,
it possessed a pair of protruding eyes as large as cheese-
plates, of a dull fish-like expression, devoid of all specula-
tion whatever. A loose, leathery sort of skin covered the
figure. An appendage resembling a Chinese pig-tail hung
UNCOMMON OBJECTS BY THE SEA-SHOBE.
GLAUCUS.
323
from the back of the head, and disappeared in the water
as the creature stood erect. Its chest had the peculiar ap-
pearance of a detached brown-paper parcel carefully corded,
from which, P. observes, there is reason to infer there was
something of importance packed up in it. In justice to
the moral character of the monster, our correspondent is
bound to admit that it appeared more wet than ferocious,
as, on being confronted with the hastily-opened parasol of
Mrs. P. (a woman gifted with remarkable presence of
mind), it immediately fell back into the water, and dis-
appeared as abruptly as it had risen.
Our correspondent justifiably takes great credit to him-
self for the fidelity of his description, considering the short
time that was afforded him for scrutinising the points of
the monster. As the father of a family he felt it his duty
to roll immediately over in the sands, and present the re-
verse of his person as a protection against what seemed
inevitable danger. The heroic conduct of Mrs. P. has
already been alluded to. The behaviour of the younger
branches was less to be commended. Jemima Ellen
screamed and fell into the arms of Mr. Meezles, who, not
being of a powerful build, gave way under the shock.
Adolphus (the youngest—aged 4) endeavoured to burrow
himself in the sand like an eel, and has remained in an
insufferable state of grittiness ever since. Leonora (aged
11) disappeared into a bathing-machine, whence it was
found necessary to redeem her person by the payment of
sixpence to the proprietress. Charley (aged 14, from whom
better things had been expected,) took to ignominious
flight; but, in a measure, redeemed his character by making
a sketch from memory of the incident, which he tremu-
lously watched from the adjacent heights. This valuable
record has been forwarded to our artist for reproduction.
The accompanying wood-cut is the result. Charley's per-
spective and anatomy have been improved on, but the
essential facts remain as in the original. There is artistic
promise about Charley.
Our valued correspondent attempts no definite theory
324-
GLAGCTJS.
with regard to the mysterious apparition. He merely ro
cords facts, and solicits investigation. Was it an Albatross,
or a Merman, or a biped variety of the Sea-serpent family ?
Was it the first attempt at a Trench invasion (by unexplained
submarine process)—happily checked by the prompt cou-
rage of a British matron ? In short, what was it ?
Paterfamilias adds an insignificant postscript to his letter,
recording a weak-minded explanation of the phenomenon
volunteered by a prosaic fisherman. The.latter states that
the marine monster observed by our correspondent was
merely an enterprising diver—Amos Higgins by name—
at present employed in the task of recovering sunken cargo
from the sloop Matilda, reported to have been wrecked on
a neighbouring sand-bar during the the recent equinoctial
gales. He states, that if our friend P. and his party had
not been frightened out of their wits, they would have ob-
served the creature, in a few seconds, to re-ascend from the
waters, and assume human habiliments in a boat that was
anchored at the distance of a few yards from the shore.
We cannot listen to this. We prefer letting the question
stand over till the next meeting of the British Association
for the Advancement of Science.
P. is particularly great at postscripts. He volunteers a
second, explaining his title  Glaucus, &c. It appears
that Mrs. P. is of a literary turn, and reads all the adver-
tisements in the Athenmim. She remembers seeing a work
on sea-weed or lighthouses (she will not be positive which),
by the author of Alton Yeast, Hypatia Locke on the Under-
standing, 8fc., advertised under a similar title. She has-
recommended its adoption in the present instance—being
satisfied that if somewhat obscure it must be respectable.
325
OYER THE BRIDGE AND DOWN THE
STREAM.
The carts go lumbering over tbe Bridge,
Down in tbe furrow, up on tbe ridge;
Mocking tbe rainbow, catching tbe beam,
Tbe flies go capering down the stream.
Tbe Bridge was old when I knew it first,
Its granite keystone ready to burst,
And fall like a sword from a rusted hilt;
Yet old men living bad seen it built!
Tbe Stream was young as it is to-day,
When I cast my fly on that Eirst of May,
With never an ear for tbe clumsy tread
Of tbe bard life toiling above my bead.
I caught no fish with caddis or midge—■
(To earn your food you must cross tbe bridge,)
But I spied a maid like tbe day-star's gleam,
And we gossiped together a-down tbe Stream.
326 OVER THE BRIDGE AND DOWN THE STREAM.
The Bridge was stony and steep and cold,
Away from its gloomy shade we strolled,
Planning a life-long May-day scheme,
With the gnats and butterflies down the Stream!
The sun went down, and the Stream grew black,
We could scarce discover our pathway's track;
There was naught to be done in the twilight's gloam
But to cross the Bridge and go quietly home.
The Bridge was perilous, worn, and steep,
With stones encumbered, with mud knee deep;
But the rough path, lit by starlight's gleam,
Proved walking as pleasant as down the Stream.
Over the troublesome bridge called Life,
We have journeyed together as man and wife.
But with many a glimpse, and more than a dream,
Of the Waters of Happiness down the Stream.
 THE BRIDGE "WAS STONY AND STEEP AND COBD.
32
A PLEA FOR THE OLD TIMES.
suggested by a pictuke by louis haghe.
We are growing too proud of our age and its wonders,
Our telegrams, presses, and calico prints—
Conceit is the very foundation of blunders :
The time stands in need of some chastening hints.
We fancy our thoughts than our fathers' profounder,
Because we can send them by lightning through air—
Believe that the hearts in our bosoms are sounder,
Because we wear shirts at five shillings a pair.
But take an old picture, or rather an old poem—
Here's one of the former; you'll say that's a bull,
As the artist who drew it (I really don't know him,
And therefore can laud him), of years hardly full,
Still lives, and still works; yet the picture's an old one—
Erom my point of view—for it breathes of a time
When heroes and martyrs crowns richer than gold won;
When Hampden was glorious, and Milton sublime.
Just look at the group—(what tradition it's built on,
Or story, I know not, nor very much care)—
A youth (by the way, not unlike the said Milton,
Perhaps John himself) of poetical air,
A swash-buckler warrior tobacco inhaling,
A background of topers in liquor and talk,
A Hebe at top of the cellar-stair railing,
Inscribing a score on her day-book with chalk !
330
A PLEA FOR THE OLD TIMES.
That poet, no doubt, wrote on very bad paper—
His work with vile spelling and grammar was rife;
"Rough printed by hand, not by magic and vapour,
And bought for five pounds, though the toil of a life.
'Twas bound in coarse leather, with no illustrations—
But still 'twas the fruit of a heart and a brain;
Not written to order, to sell at the stations,
Tor boys and old women to read in the train.
The soldier was coarse, ill-conditioned, unletter'd;
His weapons were clumsy, his science but small,
I doubt in his calling if he had been better'd
By Lancaster cannon or conical ball;
His meat was not press'd or preserv'd in tin cases,
But still he could get it; though slender his cares
What the cause he defends, he would spit in their faces
Who hinted desertion on "private affairs.
The topers drink ale from horn measures or pewter,
Or sack, that perchance is not guiltless of lime;
What then ? They are free from deceptions astuter,
The strychnine and quassia of civilised time.
They sit in rude chairs, in a rough room are quarter'd,
Without any fittings of rosewood or glass;
No matter! the drink is not poison'd or water'd,
To pay for rare engines through which it must pass.
The girl cannot write—what a fearful admission!
No doubt never heard that the world is a globe;
In dancing knows scarcely a single position,
Can hardly make pudding, or stitch a coarse robe;
Can neither work slippers nor paint upon satin—
Of crochet or Berlin knows none of the charms;
But I wish half the girls who teach music and Latin
Could show such bright faces, or jolly round arms.
A PLEA FOR THE OLD TIMES.
331
They had not our gas-lights, with wonderful burners
(Then, time was less precious—folks slept in the night),
They had not our schools for the hungriest learners,
They had not our knowledge of wrong and of right;
They had not our critics—we have not their poets,
Their martyrs, their heroes, their captains, and kings ;
They had not our cliques of slaves, cynics, and low wits,
To sneer and pooh-pooh the amendment of things.
Yes, men were then better, and stronger, and greater—
A man was a man, and a spade was a spade ;
They branded the rogue, and beheaded the traitor,
Whatever his family, calling, or grade.
Oh, could we but some of their greatness inherit,
With light on our pathways and books on our shelves,
What might we not do ! if we could, in their spirit,
Think more of our duties and less of ourselves !
THE END.
LONDON 5
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